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turn back to Caldwell. In the distance, Ildri erupts in flames, dark smoke issuing into the sky. Another spray of lava paints the night. Better than fireworks.
    “Clari, come on!”
    Montgomery tugs me the rest of the way. The others wait for us in the common room, Ildri’s fiery peak lighting up the wall screens.
    “Barca, what’s the composition of the volcanic gasses?”
    She looks up from one of the workstations. “Carbon dioxide is at 25 parts per million and rising.”
    Keston gives a whoop, and Garcia loops her arms around Salus’s waist.
    I nod. It will be enough.
----
    With all the CFCs the volcano belched into the atmosphere, and more eruptions to come triggered by our charges, the eventual warming of Caldwell is assured once the haze effects dissipate. But since the planet’s sulfur-to-water ratio is even lower than Earth’s, the initial cooling will be negligible. Greenhouse gasses will continue to collect in the atmosphere and one day melt the snow.
    It won’t be the planet I know any longer.
    We spend the next three days on board the Magellan , a transport that’s just entered Caldwell’s orbit, debriefing the first wave of engineers and colonists who will monitor the seismic activity and the atmosphere. Then they will supplement the efforts of our converters, first with O 2 -producing bacteria, followed by plants.
    The new commander listens to our reports and thanks us for our efforts. I gladly transfer my responsibility of Caldwell to her. She fiddles with her uniform, smoothing it over a wide belly with a nervous hand as my team files out of the room ahead of me.
    I should tell her it gets better, but if she’s anything like me, she’d prefer my silence instead. After all, we aren’t the first people to insulate our bodies with extra energy for the good of a mission. Or the last. I smile at her and she gives me a startled nod, dropping her hands from her puckered shirt.
    Grant waits for me in front of the shuttle that will take us to the transport. “Ready to go home?”
    “I think so.” His hand finds the small of my back as we walk up the ramp together.
    I am Clarinda Hilliard, creator of worlds. Now I just need to remember how to live in the one I left behind.
    Lauren C. Teffeau was born and raised on the East Coast, educated in the South, employed in the Midwest, and now lives and dreams in the Southwest. Informed by her background in mass communication and information science, she writes both short story and novel-length speculative fiction that explores the unintended consequences of technology and related socio-cultural issues. Her work can also be found in the September 2011 issue of Eclectic Flash and forthcoming The Memory Eater anthology. She blogs about the writing life at http://thebluestockingblog.blogspot.com .

Cartography, and the Death of Shoes
    by A.J. Fitzwater
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    You kill a pair of shoes every six months. Don’t worry; you give them a proper burial, sometimes even a ritual burning.
    You get asked, incredulous and often, “How do you manage to ruin so many pairs of shoes yet stay so big?” Like they don’t see you walking every day of your life, rain or shine. How’s that for a chestnut? Rain, shine, mud, snow, gale that howls down from the mountains or through the gap from the south, light spring breeze, pattering red leaves, pounding heat from the pavement or blanket of pollen that paints the gutters sticky and yellow — you walk through it all.
    You’d rather they didn’t ask how you’re still the size you are. Your legs can take anything — just your metabolism thumbs its nose.
    That doesn’t stop the questions about the shoes or the state of your knees (didn’t you just finish telling them about your strong pins?). They’re fine, by the way. Don’t forget to say thank you for asking — again — or they’ll think you’re rude. Don’t give them any more reason.
    Somewhere in this city there’s a blank spot, in memory and on map. You’ve been