All That We See or Seem, page 35
“I’ll make a trip to see you soon.” She ended her message.
And she did intend to keep that promise as well as the promise she’d made to a pair of egolets.
*
Nick welcomed Julia with a big smile and took the bag of corn from her. “Thanks. I’ll soak these for a bit before throwing them on the grill. Go on. Everyone’s in the back.”
Julia hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry—”
She stopped. Words again failed her. In addition to keeping her out of trouble from this latest unexpected escapade, Nick had been completely swamped by the legal needs of the Prince’s freed workers. As soon as the workers had been rescued, calls for their deportation had swelled, as though the shame of slave labor in the heartland could only be assuaged by getting rid of the evidence. But Nick and other lawyers had stepped in, and the district court in Boise issued an emergency stay. The freed workers would have their asylum and compensation cases heard. Isabella had the earliest court date, and Julia wanted to be there to support her. She was also looking forward to introducing her to Sahima, who had lined up jobs for Isabella and the others; she had a feeling Isabella and Sahima would click.
The prosecution of members of Victor’s gang who survived the raid was proceeding apace; she would have to testify in court for that, too. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but she would do it, for those who had died, for Piers and Elli, for Isabella, for Nick, for herself. The stories must be told.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” said Nick. “Peggy and I are both so proud of you. Oh, by the way, Liv thinks you’re like a superhero. Don’t be surprised if she asks to see your cape.”
*
Julia stood in a corner of the backyard awkwardly. One part of the lawn was filled with chairs arranged in small circles, and their occupants talked animatedly as they enjoyed hamburgers and grilled chicken. Kids ran around the other part of the lawn, screaming and laughing. While Nick worked the grill, Peggy walked around, making sure everyone had what they needed.
She hadn’t been to a Fourth of July cookout in years, not since her mother—
“Dad says you saved those people on TV.”
Julia looked down. It was Liv, the Shans’ youngest daughter, a five-year-old.
“I helped,” said Julia, crouching down so that her eyes were level with the little girl’s.
“You’re really cool,” she said.
Julia laughed. “I think you’re really cool too.”
“Dad saves people too.”
“Yes, he does,” Julia said.
“Come by more often,” Liv said. “I want to see you.”
“I’ll try.”
Liv ran off.
Julia looked at her and her three sisters, all crowded around Peggy, who was handing out popsicles. Nick looked on from the grill, a huge grin on his face. A pang of longing hit her so hard that her breath caught.
“Hey!”
She turned around. It was Cailee.
“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to call—”
“It’s okay. After what you’ve been through, you’re entitled to take as much time as you want.”
“Thanks,” she said. After a beat, she added, “If that offer to tutor the kids in computers still stands, I’d like to take you up on it.”
“Anytime.”
Julia stayed at the cookout until the very end, and she helped to clean up.
She even laughed. A lot (for her). She certainly couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so much that she was exactly where she belonged.
*
Twilight.
The woman on the bench in front of her apartment building got up as Julia approached.
She was in her fifties, stylish blond hair, a blue suit that looked hard to wrinkle, expensive.
“Ms. Z, I’d like you to take a walk with me.” There was a steely edge to her voice, and the smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes.
Sensing that it wasn’t the kind of invitation that could be refused, Julia nodded and fell into step next to her.
“You can call me Cynthia.”
Julia was sure the woman’s name was not Cynthia.
As they walked, Cynthia asked about Nick and Peggy and Liv and Cailee, as though they were all her friends. Julia answered politely, also certain that the woman had never met any of them in her life.
They arrived at the rocky, deserted beach.
The woman bent down, sorted through the pebbles at her feet, and found one to her liking. She tossed it into the ocean with a quick flick of the wrist. The rock skipped over the water, bouncing three times before being swallowed up by a large wave.
“Two days ago, a Dassault Falcon 2000 on its way from Moscow to Beijing crashed in Zavkhan Province, Mongolia, at local time six thirty-one in the morning. Everyone on board died, including its owner, who was the only passenger.”
She glanced at Julia, who didn’t react.
“The man went by dozens of names, but we knew him as ‘the Prince.’ He probably would describe himself as a man of taste, of fashion, of wealth and knowledge, somebody who mattered. But a more accurate way to describe him would be a criminal, of a type that is both ancient and modern. Ancient because he was an enslaver, someone who profited by treating human beings as mere things. Modern because of the labor he made his slaves perform: to satisfy our craving for the authentically human.”
“Which federal agency do you work for?”
Cynthia looked at Julia. “I didn’t say I worked for any agency at all. And if I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“Fair enough. There’s no need to play games. I killed him. But I suspect you knew that already.”
“We suspected. But I’m curious: How did you do it?”
“You don’t really expect me to answer that.”
“I do, actually.”
Julia eyed her and, choosing her words very carefully, said, “Somehow, rumors began to circulate that the Prince was going to leak evidence that would bring down the head of the Entoc Group, and then the leaks actually began.”
The Prince’s power was based on knowledge, specifically knowledge of embarrassing facts about those in power, facts that he could prove with evidence. The problem with that kind of power was that it was also very fragile. He had always been careful not to be directly implicated in any disclosures and to structure the leaks in a way that made him indispensable to the survivors.
But a week or so ago, someone began to drop hints that he—the Prince himself, not merely some deniable intermediary—was in the process of disclosing evidence that could bring down Y. K. Rakhmanin, the mercenary leader who had given the Kremlin a lot of headaches in the past. And real evidence began to emerge.
This was quite out of character and foolish of the Prince, seeing as how, at that moment, the Kremlin desperately needed the mercenaries of the Entoc Group for the standoff with China and wasn’t interested in more embarrassing drama.
If you went after a tiger, you’d better kill him; otherwise . . .
“Ah, so that’s why our Prince was panicking, scrambling to different embassies, begging for asylum,” said Cynthia, nodding. “I guess he managed to get out of Russia, but Rakhmanin got to him anyway.”
Julia shrugged noncommittally.
“How did you get ahold of the evidence that was leaked?”
Julia thought about the Prince’s cephaloscripts, the secrets that Elli had worked so hard to steal.
“Let’s just say that I got them from dreams he once shared.”
“Interesting. Again, we suspected but couldn’t be sure.”
Both watched the waves for a while.
“Am I in trouble?” Julia asked.
“I don’t know yet,” said Cynthia. “Tell me, why did you go after the Prince?”
“Because you wouldn’t.”
After the raid on the Craters of the Moon content farm, after she and Isabella had been rescued, after the freed workers had been given shelter, Julia had expected the next logical step: the full weight of the justice system brought to bear on the Prince’s empire of enslavement.
True, the investigators were very interested in all the evidence she had collected. Puck, whose inert form had been left in a storage locker by Victor until he could deal with it, had survived the fire unscathed, and Julia was able to retrieve all the footage it had taken. However, as the days passed, the kind of questions she was being asked told Julia that the authorities were completely uninterested in prosecuting the Prince. Despite everything she had gone through to get the answers, nothing was going to be done.
She didn’t know why, but she refused to let that stand. She was done avoiding trouble, finished with obeying what those in charge wanted.
Locking eyes with Cynthia, Julia asked, “Was the Prince . . . working for you?”
“Oh no.” Cynthia laughed. “I know that some of these agencies you’re thinking of—I know that we have terrible reputations. But I wouldn’t say that the Prince worked for us. He did make a lot of money in China and Russia, and the kind of misinformation he spread in those parts of the world, often as part of factional struggles among the elite, could sometimes be useful to us.”
“So you left him alone to ply his trade,” said Julia.
“An international prosecution of the kind you wanted is not easy. Despite what you may think, we aren’t all-powerful and don’t dictate policy in other countries. I’ll be the first to admit that justice moves slower than we like. We were, however, getting concerned about his more brazen acts of election interference here and the kind of corrosive influence he had on public discourse.”
“You mean he was amplifying propaganda, just not yours.”
“Be cynical if you want, but the truth is we care a great deal about a healthy democracy.”
“You make yourselves sound almost like the good guys.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Cynthia. “You should be grateful.”
“Why?”
“Ask yourself: Would a state senator’s phone call to the FBI have been enough to get the cavalry out to the edge of Craters of the Moon?”
Julia pondered this. Of course. What hadn’t made sense before now did. “Thank you.”
Cynthia nodded. “You mentioned the Prince’s dreams. Do you have them?”
“No,” Julia said, perhaps a little too quickly.
The Prince’s cephaloscripts contained details about his other content farms, as well as some of the secrets he relied on to hold on to his power. Julia had leaked what she could about the other content farms in the hopes that those governments would be embarrassed into action.
She had then asked Hutch to destroy the cephaloscripts. There was no good reason for anyone else to have the blackmail trove that gave the Prince his power.
Cynthia looked at her, a trace of a smile on her face. “No?”
“No.” She forced her breathing to slow as she held Cynthia’s gaze, refusing to look away. “And if you’re as capable as you claim, you’d know I’m telling the truth.”
Cynthia laughed. “We have been observing you, it’s true. And yes, I wish we could have gotten our hands on the data you destroyed. I was just hoping you kept backups.”
“I told you that I don’t like to play games. What do you want from me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We want you to work for us. You’ve proven yourself to have skills we value.”
“And if I say no, you’ll press charges for all the things I’ve done and put me behind bars for a long, long time, maybe the rest of my life. Is that it?”
“We could do things that way,” said Cynthia. “But then we wouldn’t be any better than the Prince, would we? No, you’re free to say no.”
“Then I say no,” said Julia.
“Why? You’re good at it.”
“Why?” For a moment, Julia was at a loss for words. “You think I enjoy having all my possessions go up in flames, watching my friends be murdered, being tortured and enslaved, falling into a nightmare every time I close my eyes? I don’t want anything more to do with international criminals, geopolitics, conspiracies ever again.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” said Cynthia. “You could have stayed home when the Prince warned you. But you didn’t; instead, you went after him.”
“I had no choice.”
“Of course you had choices. You chose to fight and free those people in that terrible place. That kind of courage matters to us, a lot.”
She had done that. But to hear someone else affirm it—she held still until the lump in her throat went away.
“Are you saying people who work for you are idealists?” Her voice shook.
“We are,” said Cynthia, and Julia believed that she was completely sincere. “Every dream needs guardians. You can’t do this if you don’t believe in the American Dream, one hundred percent.”
Freedom, belonging, telling a story about yourself that you love. Dreaming together. Meaning in all that we see or seem.
“You know what’s so great about the American Dream?” Julia looked her in the eye. “No one can be forced to dream a dream they don’t believe in.”
“That’s true.” Cynthia smiled. “For now, Ms. Z, we’ll accept your answer. But this won’t be the last time we talk.”
She turned and walked away.
Julia watched her figure recede into the darkening gloom until it was gone. She began the walk home, thinking she would call Cailee and set up a time next week to go in and see the kids.
EPILOGUE
My name isn’t Elli. Not anymore.
I’m not sorry about any of it except what happened to Piers. I never intended for him to be hurt.
I didn’t know everything the Prince was up to. Some of that was willful ignorance on my part—I didn’t want to think too hard about what my “success” cost; some of that was because he was dreaming with me, and it was always hard to tell which parts of a dream were factual. Let’s just say that I learned enough.
In the search for fame, my art was stolen from me. I was trapped in a story I wanted no part of. No way out. If I had tried to expose him myself, then that would have been all anyone ever thought about me: the Fraud Who Brought Down the Kingpin, the Puppet Who Turned on Her Master, the Creation Who Frankenstein’d Her Creator, the Faust Who Beguiled Mephistopheles, the Girl Who Kicked the Prince in the Nuts.
My name would be forever tied to his. I could live until ninety-nine, and that would still be the only thing anyone cared to know about me. It would be in the first paragraph of my obituary.
None of us deserve that.
If there’s anything at the core of the American Dream, it’s the chance to start over.
I did that. Me.
I left behind some clues, enough to get the Prince if the authorities looked hard enough. Can’t blame a girl for wanting a little revenge. But I vanished.
I knew there was no way he would ever leave me alone unless he watched me die. That was why I sent the postcard. The performance itself wasn’t so hard: diving lessons, a bag of my blood, and the storm was a nice bonus.
Sometimes King Shahrayar gets lost in his own dreams; sometimes Shahrazad gets away.
Like I said, I never meant for Piers to be hurt, and I did love him. But I love my own story more. When you are an artist, people make up stories about you; they expect you to be this little simulacrum they make up in their heads with your face pasted on. But all artists are ultimately just people, and that means we have egos, not mere egolets—we crave liberty, the right to be known on our own terms.
Don’t we all deserve that?
Here I am, a new name, a new look, working on a new piece of art on a warm, sandy beach. There’s the ocean, and I’ll take a swim after lunch.
With each wave, the past is washed away, ready for a new beginning.
Acknowledgments
As with all my books, I’m full of gratitude for all the people in my life who played a role in my journey to find out who was Julia Z:
Friends who gave me invaluable feedback and advice: Dario Ciriello, August Cole, Barbara Hendrick, John Murphy, Bridget Pupillo, Alex Shvartsman, Florina Yezril, Caroline M. Yoachim.
My agents, who believed in me through every turn in the market: Russell Galen, Danny Baror, Heather Baror-Shapiro, Angela Cheng Caplan.
Joe Monti, my editor, who has been my biggest champion and saw that what started as a novella ought to have a bigger canvas.
Everyone at Saga Press/Simon & Schuster, who made a beautiful book and brought it to your hands if you’re in North America: Tim O’Connell, Amanda Mulholland, Alexandre Su, Valerie Shea, Caroline Tew, Cat Boyd, Christine Calella, Savannah Breckenridge, Camryn Johnson, Lewelin Polanco, Chloe Gray, Ella Laytham, Emma Shaw, Steve Attardo.
Everyone at Head of Zeus/Bloomsbury, who also made a beautiful book and brought it to your hands if you’re outside North America: Nicolas Cheetham, Charlie Hiscox, Jessie Price, Amy Wong, Andrew Knowles, Nikky Ward, Vicki Eddison, Dan Groenewald, Karen Dobbs.
As always, my deepest love and gratitude to Lisa, Esther, and Miranda. You make me believe in dreams. (Also, special thanks to Mir, who created a sketch of Julia Z and Puck in Gacha Club, which I used as my character reference while drafting.)
About the Author
KEN LIU is the author of the epic fantasy series The Dandelion Dynasty, as well as short story collections The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories and The Hidden Girl and Other Stories. He has won the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, and other top genre awards around the world for his fiction. A programmer and lawyer, he speaks and consults on futurism, technology history, and sustainable storytelling. You can follow Ken Liu on Bluesky at @kyliu99 or on his Instagram at @kenliu.author.
For more on Julia Z and Ken Liu’s books, sign up for Ken’s mailing list at kenliu.name/mailing-list.
An Invitation from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of book-lovers.
And she did intend to keep that promise as well as the promise she’d made to a pair of egolets.
*
Nick welcomed Julia with a big smile and took the bag of corn from her. “Thanks. I’ll soak these for a bit before throwing them on the grill. Go on. Everyone’s in the back.”
Julia hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry—”
She stopped. Words again failed her. In addition to keeping her out of trouble from this latest unexpected escapade, Nick had been completely swamped by the legal needs of the Prince’s freed workers. As soon as the workers had been rescued, calls for their deportation had swelled, as though the shame of slave labor in the heartland could only be assuaged by getting rid of the evidence. But Nick and other lawyers had stepped in, and the district court in Boise issued an emergency stay. The freed workers would have their asylum and compensation cases heard. Isabella had the earliest court date, and Julia wanted to be there to support her. She was also looking forward to introducing her to Sahima, who had lined up jobs for Isabella and the others; she had a feeling Isabella and Sahima would click.
The prosecution of members of Victor’s gang who survived the raid was proceeding apace; she would have to testify in court for that, too. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but she would do it, for those who had died, for Piers and Elli, for Isabella, for Nick, for herself. The stories must be told.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” said Nick. “Peggy and I are both so proud of you. Oh, by the way, Liv thinks you’re like a superhero. Don’t be surprised if she asks to see your cape.”
*
Julia stood in a corner of the backyard awkwardly. One part of the lawn was filled with chairs arranged in small circles, and their occupants talked animatedly as they enjoyed hamburgers and grilled chicken. Kids ran around the other part of the lawn, screaming and laughing. While Nick worked the grill, Peggy walked around, making sure everyone had what they needed.
She hadn’t been to a Fourth of July cookout in years, not since her mother—
“Dad says you saved those people on TV.”
Julia looked down. It was Liv, the Shans’ youngest daughter, a five-year-old.
“I helped,” said Julia, crouching down so that her eyes were level with the little girl’s.
“You’re really cool,” she said.
Julia laughed. “I think you’re really cool too.”
“Dad saves people too.”
“Yes, he does,” Julia said.
“Come by more often,” Liv said. “I want to see you.”
“I’ll try.”
Liv ran off.
Julia looked at her and her three sisters, all crowded around Peggy, who was handing out popsicles. Nick looked on from the grill, a huge grin on his face. A pang of longing hit her so hard that her breath caught.
“Hey!”
She turned around. It was Cailee.
“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to call—”
“It’s okay. After what you’ve been through, you’re entitled to take as much time as you want.”
“Thanks,” she said. After a beat, she added, “If that offer to tutor the kids in computers still stands, I’d like to take you up on it.”
“Anytime.”
Julia stayed at the cookout until the very end, and she helped to clean up.
She even laughed. A lot (for her). She certainly couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so much that she was exactly where she belonged.
*
Twilight.
The woman on the bench in front of her apartment building got up as Julia approached.
She was in her fifties, stylish blond hair, a blue suit that looked hard to wrinkle, expensive.
“Ms. Z, I’d like you to take a walk with me.” There was a steely edge to her voice, and the smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes.
Sensing that it wasn’t the kind of invitation that could be refused, Julia nodded and fell into step next to her.
“You can call me Cynthia.”
Julia was sure the woman’s name was not Cynthia.
As they walked, Cynthia asked about Nick and Peggy and Liv and Cailee, as though they were all her friends. Julia answered politely, also certain that the woman had never met any of them in her life.
They arrived at the rocky, deserted beach.
The woman bent down, sorted through the pebbles at her feet, and found one to her liking. She tossed it into the ocean with a quick flick of the wrist. The rock skipped over the water, bouncing three times before being swallowed up by a large wave.
“Two days ago, a Dassault Falcon 2000 on its way from Moscow to Beijing crashed in Zavkhan Province, Mongolia, at local time six thirty-one in the morning. Everyone on board died, including its owner, who was the only passenger.”
She glanced at Julia, who didn’t react.
“The man went by dozens of names, but we knew him as ‘the Prince.’ He probably would describe himself as a man of taste, of fashion, of wealth and knowledge, somebody who mattered. But a more accurate way to describe him would be a criminal, of a type that is both ancient and modern. Ancient because he was an enslaver, someone who profited by treating human beings as mere things. Modern because of the labor he made his slaves perform: to satisfy our craving for the authentically human.”
“Which federal agency do you work for?”
Cynthia looked at Julia. “I didn’t say I worked for any agency at all. And if I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“Fair enough. There’s no need to play games. I killed him. But I suspect you knew that already.”
“We suspected. But I’m curious: How did you do it?”
“You don’t really expect me to answer that.”
“I do, actually.”
Julia eyed her and, choosing her words very carefully, said, “Somehow, rumors began to circulate that the Prince was going to leak evidence that would bring down the head of the Entoc Group, and then the leaks actually began.”
The Prince’s power was based on knowledge, specifically knowledge of embarrassing facts about those in power, facts that he could prove with evidence. The problem with that kind of power was that it was also very fragile. He had always been careful not to be directly implicated in any disclosures and to structure the leaks in a way that made him indispensable to the survivors.
But a week or so ago, someone began to drop hints that he—the Prince himself, not merely some deniable intermediary—was in the process of disclosing evidence that could bring down Y. K. Rakhmanin, the mercenary leader who had given the Kremlin a lot of headaches in the past. And real evidence began to emerge.
This was quite out of character and foolish of the Prince, seeing as how, at that moment, the Kremlin desperately needed the mercenaries of the Entoc Group for the standoff with China and wasn’t interested in more embarrassing drama.
If you went after a tiger, you’d better kill him; otherwise . . .
“Ah, so that’s why our Prince was panicking, scrambling to different embassies, begging for asylum,” said Cynthia, nodding. “I guess he managed to get out of Russia, but Rakhmanin got to him anyway.”
Julia shrugged noncommittally.
“How did you get ahold of the evidence that was leaked?”
Julia thought about the Prince’s cephaloscripts, the secrets that Elli had worked so hard to steal.
“Let’s just say that I got them from dreams he once shared.”
“Interesting. Again, we suspected but couldn’t be sure.”
Both watched the waves for a while.
“Am I in trouble?” Julia asked.
“I don’t know yet,” said Cynthia. “Tell me, why did you go after the Prince?”
“Because you wouldn’t.”
After the raid on the Craters of the Moon content farm, after she and Isabella had been rescued, after the freed workers had been given shelter, Julia had expected the next logical step: the full weight of the justice system brought to bear on the Prince’s empire of enslavement.
True, the investigators were very interested in all the evidence she had collected. Puck, whose inert form had been left in a storage locker by Victor until he could deal with it, had survived the fire unscathed, and Julia was able to retrieve all the footage it had taken. However, as the days passed, the kind of questions she was being asked told Julia that the authorities were completely uninterested in prosecuting the Prince. Despite everything she had gone through to get the answers, nothing was going to be done.
She didn’t know why, but she refused to let that stand. She was done avoiding trouble, finished with obeying what those in charge wanted.
Locking eyes with Cynthia, Julia asked, “Was the Prince . . . working for you?”
“Oh no.” Cynthia laughed. “I know that some of these agencies you’re thinking of—I know that we have terrible reputations. But I wouldn’t say that the Prince worked for us. He did make a lot of money in China and Russia, and the kind of misinformation he spread in those parts of the world, often as part of factional struggles among the elite, could sometimes be useful to us.”
“So you left him alone to ply his trade,” said Julia.
“An international prosecution of the kind you wanted is not easy. Despite what you may think, we aren’t all-powerful and don’t dictate policy in other countries. I’ll be the first to admit that justice moves slower than we like. We were, however, getting concerned about his more brazen acts of election interference here and the kind of corrosive influence he had on public discourse.”
“You mean he was amplifying propaganda, just not yours.”
“Be cynical if you want, but the truth is we care a great deal about a healthy democracy.”
“You make yourselves sound almost like the good guys.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Cynthia. “You should be grateful.”
“Why?”
“Ask yourself: Would a state senator’s phone call to the FBI have been enough to get the cavalry out to the edge of Craters of the Moon?”
Julia pondered this. Of course. What hadn’t made sense before now did. “Thank you.”
Cynthia nodded. “You mentioned the Prince’s dreams. Do you have them?”
“No,” Julia said, perhaps a little too quickly.
The Prince’s cephaloscripts contained details about his other content farms, as well as some of the secrets he relied on to hold on to his power. Julia had leaked what she could about the other content farms in the hopes that those governments would be embarrassed into action.
She had then asked Hutch to destroy the cephaloscripts. There was no good reason for anyone else to have the blackmail trove that gave the Prince his power.
Cynthia looked at her, a trace of a smile on her face. “No?”
“No.” She forced her breathing to slow as she held Cynthia’s gaze, refusing to look away. “And if you’re as capable as you claim, you’d know I’m telling the truth.”
Cynthia laughed. “We have been observing you, it’s true. And yes, I wish we could have gotten our hands on the data you destroyed. I was just hoping you kept backups.”
“I told you that I don’t like to play games. What do you want from me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We want you to work for us. You’ve proven yourself to have skills we value.”
“And if I say no, you’ll press charges for all the things I’ve done and put me behind bars for a long, long time, maybe the rest of my life. Is that it?”
“We could do things that way,” said Cynthia. “But then we wouldn’t be any better than the Prince, would we? No, you’re free to say no.”
“Then I say no,” said Julia.
“Why? You’re good at it.”
“Why?” For a moment, Julia was at a loss for words. “You think I enjoy having all my possessions go up in flames, watching my friends be murdered, being tortured and enslaved, falling into a nightmare every time I close my eyes? I don’t want anything more to do with international criminals, geopolitics, conspiracies ever again.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” said Cynthia. “You could have stayed home when the Prince warned you. But you didn’t; instead, you went after him.”
“I had no choice.”
“Of course you had choices. You chose to fight and free those people in that terrible place. That kind of courage matters to us, a lot.”
She had done that. But to hear someone else affirm it—she held still until the lump in her throat went away.
“Are you saying people who work for you are idealists?” Her voice shook.
“We are,” said Cynthia, and Julia believed that she was completely sincere. “Every dream needs guardians. You can’t do this if you don’t believe in the American Dream, one hundred percent.”
Freedom, belonging, telling a story about yourself that you love. Dreaming together. Meaning in all that we see or seem.
“You know what’s so great about the American Dream?” Julia looked her in the eye. “No one can be forced to dream a dream they don’t believe in.”
“That’s true.” Cynthia smiled. “For now, Ms. Z, we’ll accept your answer. But this won’t be the last time we talk.”
She turned and walked away.
Julia watched her figure recede into the darkening gloom until it was gone. She began the walk home, thinking she would call Cailee and set up a time next week to go in and see the kids.
EPILOGUE
My name isn’t Elli. Not anymore.
I’m not sorry about any of it except what happened to Piers. I never intended for him to be hurt.
I didn’t know everything the Prince was up to. Some of that was willful ignorance on my part—I didn’t want to think too hard about what my “success” cost; some of that was because he was dreaming with me, and it was always hard to tell which parts of a dream were factual. Let’s just say that I learned enough.
In the search for fame, my art was stolen from me. I was trapped in a story I wanted no part of. No way out. If I had tried to expose him myself, then that would have been all anyone ever thought about me: the Fraud Who Brought Down the Kingpin, the Puppet Who Turned on Her Master, the Creation Who Frankenstein’d Her Creator, the Faust Who Beguiled Mephistopheles, the Girl Who Kicked the Prince in the Nuts.
My name would be forever tied to his. I could live until ninety-nine, and that would still be the only thing anyone cared to know about me. It would be in the first paragraph of my obituary.
None of us deserve that.
If there’s anything at the core of the American Dream, it’s the chance to start over.
I did that. Me.
I left behind some clues, enough to get the Prince if the authorities looked hard enough. Can’t blame a girl for wanting a little revenge. But I vanished.
I knew there was no way he would ever leave me alone unless he watched me die. That was why I sent the postcard. The performance itself wasn’t so hard: diving lessons, a bag of my blood, and the storm was a nice bonus.
Sometimes King Shahrayar gets lost in his own dreams; sometimes Shahrazad gets away.
Like I said, I never meant for Piers to be hurt, and I did love him. But I love my own story more. When you are an artist, people make up stories about you; they expect you to be this little simulacrum they make up in their heads with your face pasted on. But all artists are ultimately just people, and that means we have egos, not mere egolets—we crave liberty, the right to be known on our own terms.
Don’t we all deserve that?
Here I am, a new name, a new look, working on a new piece of art on a warm, sandy beach. There’s the ocean, and I’ll take a swim after lunch.
With each wave, the past is washed away, ready for a new beginning.
Acknowledgments
As with all my books, I’m full of gratitude for all the people in my life who played a role in my journey to find out who was Julia Z:
Friends who gave me invaluable feedback and advice: Dario Ciriello, August Cole, Barbara Hendrick, John Murphy, Bridget Pupillo, Alex Shvartsman, Florina Yezril, Caroline M. Yoachim.
My agents, who believed in me through every turn in the market: Russell Galen, Danny Baror, Heather Baror-Shapiro, Angela Cheng Caplan.
Joe Monti, my editor, who has been my biggest champion and saw that what started as a novella ought to have a bigger canvas.
Everyone at Saga Press/Simon & Schuster, who made a beautiful book and brought it to your hands if you’re in North America: Tim O’Connell, Amanda Mulholland, Alexandre Su, Valerie Shea, Caroline Tew, Cat Boyd, Christine Calella, Savannah Breckenridge, Camryn Johnson, Lewelin Polanco, Chloe Gray, Ella Laytham, Emma Shaw, Steve Attardo.
Everyone at Head of Zeus/Bloomsbury, who also made a beautiful book and brought it to your hands if you’re outside North America: Nicolas Cheetham, Charlie Hiscox, Jessie Price, Amy Wong, Andrew Knowles, Nikky Ward, Vicki Eddison, Dan Groenewald, Karen Dobbs.
As always, my deepest love and gratitude to Lisa, Esther, and Miranda. You make me believe in dreams. (Also, special thanks to Mir, who created a sketch of Julia Z and Puck in Gacha Club, which I used as my character reference while drafting.)
About the Author
KEN LIU is the author of the epic fantasy series The Dandelion Dynasty, as well as short story collections The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories and The Hidden Girl and Other Stories. He has won the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, and other top genre awards around the world for his fiction. A programmer and lawyer, he speaks and consults on futurism, technology history, and sustainable storytelling. You can follow Ken Liu on Bluesky at @kyliu99 or on his Instagram at @kenliu.author.
For more on Julia Z and Ken Liu’s books, sign up for Ken’s mailing list at kenliu.name/mailing-list.
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