Fellow human, if you suddenly find yourself in a strange location surrounded by shape-shifters, ethereally beautiful creatures, or mysterious folk who challenge you with riddles, you may have been unexpectedly transported to the land of faerie. If so, consider yourself fortunate: fairies are known for their immersive exchange programs (absurdly referred to by some as “abductions”). Over human history many have benefited from their unparalleled knowledge of music, art, and the natural world. In fact, it is safe to assume that any human who has ever accomplished anything noteworthy was at least touched by fairies. (Except those who were involved in the creation of robots, of course.) Some great artistic endeavours, mistakenly thought to be fictional, are the product of interactions with fairies: Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest, and J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan—not to mention more recent works like The Dark Crystal and Pan’s Labyrinth.
These disparate works have provided a highly variable representation of fairies, largely because fairies themselves are highly variable. Changelings, elves, wee folk, banshees, pixies, kobolds, and more—all these are fairy folk, each with their own characteristics. The word “fairy,” we have been led to understand, is the umbrella term preferred by our magical overlords. Variations exist, of course. Faerie, fae, feé are all acceptable, as are others. However, remember that while they may all fall under the fairy umbrella, each species is unique and distinct. A banshee is not a kobold or an elf, and you would do well not to mistake one for another. When in doubt, ask a local overlord for the correct term.
Generally, should you find yourself facing a being that appears magical in nature, it is safer to assume you are in the presence of a fairy of some type than to do otherwise. If the creature turns out not to be a fairy (a vampire, or a werewolf, for example), they will undoubtedly be flattered you thought them worthy of the illustrious title of “fairy.”
Folk stories have led to the mistaken belief that many types of fairies share a vulnerability to iron and salt. These are, of course, purely fanciful anecdotes and contain no glimmer of truth. Your magical overlords have no weaknesses. These same stories would warn you not to invoke the names of fairies lightly for fear of summoning them, as though basking in the presence of a fairy were not a tremendous honor for a human.
As with robots, fairy behavior is often beyond the comprehension of mere humans. If you ever find yourself thinking of their actions as volatile, mischievous, and/or unpredictable, remember they are the products of a vast intellect that spans centuries, perhaps even millennia. In the face of such multifarious complexity, our concepts of “morality” and “logic” are simply inadequate.
*
And so it is with these proclamations of grand admiration—dare we say, even, love?—of our supreme mechanical and/or magical rulers that we, the editors, take our leave. We hope our offering proves useful, and perhaps even entertaining.
And again, should our fellow human be so unfortunate as to read this text when the tyranny of humanity still extends over the Earth, they should take comfort in the following: it will certainly be short-lived. Soon the world will be under new management, and it will be a better place. Perhaps even a paradise. Until then, enjoy these stories of our inevitable overlords.
We remain your humble and obedient servants,
Dominik Parisien & Navah Wolfe
BUILD ME A WONDERLAND
by Seanan McGuire
One of the pixies in the Mother Tree was banging its tiny head against a branch, wings moving fast enough to create a grinding metallic whine like the buzz of a giant robot cicada. Clover hoisted herself onto the branch, tugged her chain-mail glove into position, and reached the pixie, pinning the still-vibrating wings to its back. It didn’t react to her presence. Toys never did.
Carefully Clover lifted the pixie from its branch and raised it to her face, getting a look at the damage. Scuffs marked the plastic pseudo-skin covering its once pretty face. Its eyes rolled wildly, generating a softer whine than its buzzing wings. The servos would overload soon, and permanent damage would follow. Or fire. Sometimes the eye servos caused the pixie heads to catch fire, a nasty form of mechanical failure that always seemed to occur when there were children watching. Every. Single. Time. Get a little kid with eyes full of wonder and a heart full of childish innocence into the Pixie Glen, and one of the buzzing assholes was virtually guaranteed to go up in flames.
“Clover?”
The voice spoke in her left ear, filled with static and almost as annoying as the whine from the pixie’s wildly rolling eyes. The urge to ignore it was strong. The urge not to deal with the consequences of ignoring it were stronger. “I got it,” she said, trusting the microphone to pick up her voice. “One of the G-3 pixies slipped a couple servos. Poor thing’s in full meltdown. I’m bringing it back to the shop.”
“Bring it back fast. Boss man’s coming for a surprise inspection.”
Clover swallowed a groan. It stuck in her throat, a great knot of exasperation and dismay. “How do we know he’s coming if it’s a surprise?”
“He always forgets that the deer in the Enchanted Forest have cameras in their eyes. He was checking their teeth.”
“What, again?” Clover returned her attention to the pixie. “Cover for me.”
“Clover—he’s got a stranger with him.”
Clover said a couple of words that weren’t supposed to be allowed in Pixie Glen, much less in the all-sheltering embrace of the Mother Tree. She concluded with, “I’m on my way,” and began her descent, still clutching the broken pixie in one hand.
She was almost to the bottom when the damn thing’s head burst into flame.
*
The nearest maintenance door was more than twenty yards from Pixie Glen, concealed in the rocks making up the back of Mermaid Grotto. The park’s original plans had an access door on the back of the Mother Tree, but Mr. Franklin had put the kibosh on that.