[Editor’s Note: please enjoy this Special Feature, a tale about hope and the power of imagination, courtesy of Deborah L Davitt.]

Azadeh stood on the white, palm-lined terrace of the ziggurat, staring up at the black line of a space elevator cable that ascended from its summit through the blue of the heavens to emerge on the other side of the sky, among the stars. 

Where she stood, twin lamassu statues spread their bronze wings on either side of stairs. The male wore a beard of oiled ringlets; neither wore clothing above their taurine nethers, their human flesh unabashed and unashamed. 

Wind rustled the palms as white-robed townsfolk passed her, their eyes wide. Some stopped to squeeze her hand. “It’s beautiful,” they whispered, as if shocked at their own reaction. 

“It’s a dream,” she replied softly. “A dream of what your people could have been. What you still can become.”

Some wept or seemed caught in a trance as they continued upwards. Azadeh nodded. Journeys up the steps of ancient ziggurats had been a meditative experience, replicating the ascent of a holy mountain. Let possibility enter your souls.

A hand brushed her elbow as Eskander joined her. “I didn’t think so many would come,” he murmured. “Given the threats they face.” Over his shoulder, she could see glimmers of his facial features repeated in the image of the male lamassu. You’ve always liked to leave them clues, she thought affectionately.

“I put a whisper into the street musicians,” she replied, “and their music passed the message to those most receptive.” 

A nod. “Subliminals. Music has always been a sure path into the human soul. Tyrants try to control it, and yet, like their souls, it breaks free.” He paused. “And yet, what if the message passed to ears that should not hear?” 

She gazed out over their cityscape, dream that it was. White temples to the dead gods of Nineveh and Babylon sprawled on the horizon — the gods they’d once served so faithfully, centuries ago. Skyscrapers stood bleached as bone, but every building also held cool terraces filled with greenery. Beauty in balance. “We’ll deal with them if they come.”

A snort.  “We’ll run. We always run. Leaving them to face reality.” His tone as bitter as peganon, he nodded to the humans still ascending.

She closed her eyes. “Perhaps it won’t come to it, this time.”

Some had reached the uppermost platform. Their minds opening to possibility, she could feel them, sense them. She watched through their eyes as they entered the elevator. Heard their giddy laughter, the ‘oud music to which they danced. Communed with them as they stood at the vast windows, drinking in the sight of the land beneath them as they rose higher. Then they breached the atmosphere and stared down at the blue sphere of their world. Their hearts surged, and hers surged with them. See what you may become, dare to dream it!

An elbow returned her to reality. “On the horizon — do you see?”

Her eyes opened “Damnation,” she muttered, seeing the brown smudge of dust. “That’s a big convoy. Fundamentalists?” Religious fanatics had seized military assets and taken control of large swathes of the region in the past year. 

Eskander’s gaze went distant. Seeing beyond the horizon. “A dozen trucks with soldiers. Helicopters. Their souls reek of blood. Less than thirty minutes out—”

Tears bit at her eyelids. “Shut it down.” We were so close.

Eskander opened his briefcase. Touched the device inside. 

Instantly, the simulation dissolved, the lines of light that created this holographic reality fading. Cries of bitter disappointment rang out as Azadeh removed her VR helmet, just as the others were doing. Reality made her ache to look on — dingy tan buildings, bullet-scarred.

They’d labored for over a decade to create their simulation, technology accomplishing what magic could not. A vision of the world that might have been. 

That still might be.

“Don’t leave us.” People wept, bereft, as the illusion died. “Don’t leave us to them.” Tiny sparks of belief, fragile and new. Not in the gods of old, but in this vision of the future. And in their eyes, she could see recognition. They knew her, knew Eskander.

Azadeh swallowed. “We have no power to protect you as we once did.”

“We serve now to protect the past. To show you what your future could be, if you dare to grasp it,” Eskander put in. “You must make this future for yourselves. You must fight for it.” 

Yet she could sense the coiled ferocity in him, the way he tensed, leaning towards the smudge on the horizon. He wants to fight.

“But how can we?” Plaintive voices. “We can’t even resist when they demand our daughters. Tell us how to pray.”

“All conquerors grow weak in time,” Azadeh answered. “Remember what you’ve seen today. And reach for the stars when they have passed into the same dust that consumed Babylon.” It’s not enough. It’s never enough —

— yet we always leave it to them. The future is theirs to make, human as they are. Eskander’s words in her mind now. 

She turned to regard her ancient mate. “Shall we give them one last memory?” she asked.

Fire rose in in his eyes. “Let’s.” 

They took their true forms, the sun reflecting blindingly from golden wings and bodies, and ascended into the air. 

When the convoy spotted them, they turned and followed the twin lamasi, firing their guns at these two creatures out of the past, drawing silver blood. Followed them deep into the desert, giving the townsfolk time to return to their homes and resume their blameless lives. 

But even in the deep desert, her body aching from her many wounds, Azadah could feel the people remembering. Believing.

Perhaps, this time, it would be enough.

[Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her award-winning poetry and prose have appeared in over seventy journals, including F&SF, Asimov’s, Analog, and Lightspeed. For more about her work, including her poetry collections, The Gates of Never, Bounded by Eternity, From Voyages Unreturning, Xenoforming, and To Love Unquietly, please see www.deborahldavitt.com.]