Pockmarked Cement  By Kaolin Fire, illustration by Thomas Dodd
Dharma Shankar, Ph.D., is in his field, juggling ears of corn
while the locusts approach. Contentment has settled in his
flesh, with the corn, and there's a warm, orange-brown glow to
the sky behind him, not yet swallowed by the coming swarm. An
orange-brown glow in his belly, a birthing of hope.  The locusts
have been approaching for three days, cutting across the eastern
states without so much as a by-your-leave. Two weeks before
harvest, they rose out of the ground, according to a number of
confused reports—the locusts didn't leave much by way of
witnesses. Entire towns were eaten before anyone outside knew
something was up, nearly half a state before the Air Force
affirmed a cloud of biomechs.  They traced the devastation back
to what looked like an unfinished lot, the pavement riddled with
pockmarks, like eggs that had burst through concrete flesh.
Maybe it was a lab project gone awry. Maybe it was the Ussers,
or the Norkees. Maybe even it w