Category Archives: Writing

Why Your Book Won’t Be an Amazon Success Story

I’m going to be that guy. The one nobody likes at parties. The one who speaks unpleasant truths. If you don’t want to hear unpleasant truths, stop reading.

If you want to be told which self-help books to buy and which things to do and which gurus will illuminate the shining path to fame and fortune, stop reading.

If you want somebody to hold your hand, and nod at all the right moments and ooh and aah about how your writing has come a long way and you’re “almost there,” stop reading.

It doesn’t matter whether you’ve come a long way. It doesn’t matter whether your writing is almost there, is there, or is beyond there. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying or how you’re saying it. You may have written the most poignant 80,000 words in the English language, or you may have another book of cat photos. None of that matters.

Unless you’re a certain type of person saying a certain type of thing in a certain way, none of it matters. And that certain type of person, that certain type of thing, and that certain way changes all the time. Today it’s one thing, tomorrow it will be another.

Statistically speaking, you’re not it.

“But what about all those success stories,” you argue. “I’m always hearing about Amazon success stories. Success, success, success! This book mentioned them and that blog mentioned them and the 12th cousin of my aunt’s best friend’s roommate had one.”

There are two reasons this doesn’t matter.

Most of those stories are part of a very large industry of selling hope to suckers. Any endeavor which appeals to the masses and appears to be accessible to them spawns such an industry. Business, stock picking, sex, dating, how to get a job, how to get into college, and on and on. Thanks to today’s low barrier to entry, self-publishing is the newest kid on that block.

This isn’t a conspiracy, or some evil corporation with a beak-nosed pin-striped CEO, cackling ominously while rubbing his hands. Self-publishing just attracts a lot of people who see an easy way to make money. When there’s a naive, eager audience, a host of opportunists and charlatans purvey snake oil to any sucker willing to pay. They’re predators, plain and simple. Hopefully, I can dissuade you from being prey. Leave that to others. Others unenlightened by my blog. Cynicism may not always be right, but it’s rarely wrong.

Even seemingly reputable characters have become untrustworthy. The traditional publishing industry has grown very narrow and institutional, and life is hard for everyone associated with it. The temptation to go for the easy money, and cast scruples to the winds, is quite strong. Not that denizens of the publishing industry ever were big on scruples. Many individuals from traditionally respectable roles as agents, editors, and publishers find it increasingly difficult to eke out a living or are growing disillusioned with a rapidly deteriorating industry. It is unsurprising that they are bedazzled by the allure of easy money. Unsurprising, and disappointing. This is especially insidious when agents offer paid services which purport to help improve your chances with other agents. The argument is that they know what their kind wants. Anybody see the problem with this? Anybody, anybody, Bueller? It would be like H.R. employees taking money to teach you how to get a job with them. Oh wait, they do. How could THAT possibly go wrong…

I’m not going to delve into the “selling hope to suckers” angle here. That is fodder for a separate post, in which I analyze a number of things which did or did not work for me. For now, I’ll focus on the second reason your book won’t be an Amazon Success Story. Incidentally, I will resist the temptation to assign an acronym to Amazon Success Story. There! I successfully resisted it.

In this post, I’ll assume that ALL those stories you hear are right. Not that they’re 99% bunk or that most actual successes had some outside catalyst you’re unaware of or were the result of survivorship bias (the old coin-flipping problem to those familiar with Malkiel’s book). To paraphrase the timeless wisdom of Goodfellas, if you have to wait in line like everyone else you’re a schnook. If you’re trying what everyone else tries, making the rounds of getting suckered for a little bit here a little bit there, with nothing to show for it — you’re the schnook.

Don’t feel bad, though. No matter how savvy we are in our own neighborhoods, we’re all schnooks outside it. Hopefully, I can help you avoid paying too much to learn how not to be a schnook.

I can’t show you how to be successful, but I can show you to avoid paying to be unsuccessful. But that’s for another post. We’re not going to deal with the outright lies and deception and rubbish here. Those are obvious pitfalls, if enticing. Like pizza.

In this post, we’re going to assume the success stories are real — as some of them surely are. We’re going to deal with something more subtle than false hope. We’re going to discuss the OTHER reason you won’t be successful on Amazon. It’s not obvious, and it can’t be avoided.

But first, I’m going to make a plea: if you’re the author of one of those breathless, caffeinated “how to be a bzillionaire author like me” books or blogs or podcasts … stop it. Please. Just stop it. Unless you’re cynically selling hope to suckers or mass-producing content-free posts as click-bait. In that case, carry on. I don’t approve of what you do, but I’m not going to waste breathe convincing dirtbags not to be dirtbags. However, if you’re even the least bit well-meaning, stop. Maybe you have some highly popular old posts along these lines. Update them. Maybe you’re writing a new series of posts based on what your friend named John Grisham has to say to self-publishing authors. Don’t.

You’re doing everyone a disservice. People will waste money and time and hope. Best to tell them the truth. You may not be that guy. You may be too nice, tactful, maybe even (dare I say) an optimist. I’m not an optimist. I AM that guy. No false hope sold here.

Maybe you’re still reading this and haven’t sky-dived into a volcano or fatally overdosed on Ben & Jerries, or turned to one of those cheerful, caffeinated blogs. Shame on you. There’s special internet groups for people like you. But you’re still here, and I haven’t driven you away. I must be doing something wrong.

If you’re a true dyed in the wool masochist, I’ll now explain why you won’t be successful. It has to do with a tectonic shift in Amazon’s policies.

Over a year ago, I wrote a post titled “Why NOT to use Amazon Ads for your book,” which many people have written me about. Most found it a useful take on Amazon ads, and one of the few articles which doesn’t regurgitate lobotomized praise for the practice.

I stand by that. Subsequent experiments (to be reported in a future post) have shown that Amazon ads perform even worse now. This led me to wonder why. Why did all the long-tailed keywords and the reviews and the ads make no difference. None of us know the precise inner workings of Amazon ads, but there are strong indications of their behavior.

I now will offer my theory for why there are success stories, why it’s tempting to believe they can be emulated, and why they cannot. To do so, let’s review some basic aspects of Amazon’s algorithms.

There are two algorithms we care about:

(1) The promotion algorithm, which ranks your book. It is responsible for placing it in any top 100 lists, determining its visibility in “customers also bought” entries, when and how it appears in searches, and pretty much any other place where organic (i.e. non-paid) placement is involved.

(2) The ad auction algorithm, which determines whether you win a bid for a given ad placement.

The promotion algorithm determines how much free promotion your book gets, and is critical to success. It has only a couple of basic pieces of information to work with: sales and ratings. The algorithm clearly reflects the timing of sales, and is heavily weighted toward the most recent week. It may reflect the source of those sales — to the extent Amazon can track it — but I have seen no evidence of this. As for ratings, all indications are that the number of ratings or reviews weighs far more heavily than the ratings themselves. This is true for consumers too, as long as the average rating is 3+. Below that, bad ratings can hurt. Buyers don’t care what your exact rating is, as long as there isn’t a big red flag. The number of ratings is seen as a sign of legitimacy, that your book isn’t some piece of schlock that only your grandmother and dad would review — but your mom was too ashamed to attach her name to. Anything from a traditional publisher has 100’s to 1000’s of ratings. A self-published work generally benefits from 15+. More is better.

It makes sense that the promotion algorithm can play a role, but why mention an “ad auction algorithm”. Ad placement should depend on your bid, right? Maybe you can tweak the multipliers and bids for different placements or keywords, but the knobs are yours and yours alone. You might very well think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment. Unlike the ever-diplomatic Mr. Urquhart, I’m too guileless to take this tack. I also don’t use Grey Poupon. I can and will comment. You’re wrong. Amazon’s ad algorithm does a lot more behind the scenes. You may be the highest bidder and still lose, and you may be the lowest bidder and win.

As usual, we must look at incentives to understand why things don’t behave as expected. Amazon does not run ads as a non-profit, nor does it get paid a subscription fee to do so. It only makes money from an ad when that ad is clicked, and it only makes money from a sale when the ad results in a conversion. For sellers, the latter is a commission and for authors it’s the 65% or 30% (depending on whether you chose the 35% or 70% royalty rate) adjusted for costs, etc. In either case, they make money from each sale and they make money from each click.

Amazon loses money if your ad wins lots of impressions, but nobody clicks on it. They would have been happier with a lower bid that actually resulted in clicks. If lots of people click on your ad, but few people buy your book, Amazon would have been happier with a lower bid which resulted in more sales. It’s a trade-off, but there are simple ways of computing these things. When you start fresh, Amazon has no history (though perhaps if you have other books, it uses their performance). It assigns you a set of default parameters representing the average performance of books in that genre. As impressions, clicks, and sales accrue, Amazon adjusts your parameters. This could be done through a simple Bayesian update or periodic regressions or some other method.

When a set of authors bids on an ad, Amazon can compute the expected value of each bid. This looks something like P(click|impression)*ebid + P(sale|click)P(click|impression)*pnl, where P(click|impression) is your predicted click-through-rate for that placement, P(sale|click) is your predicted conversion rate for that placement, ebid is the effective bid (I’ll discuss this momentarily), and pnl is the net income Amazon would make from a sale of your book. This is an oversimplification, but gets the basic idea across.

The ebid quantity is your effective bid, what you actually pay if you win the auction. There actually are two effective bids involved. Amazon’s ad auctions are “second-price,” meaning the winning bidder pays only the 2nd highest bid. Suppose there are 5 bids: 1,2,3,4,5. The bidder who bid 5 wins, but only pays 4. There are game theoretic reasons for preferring this type of auction, as it encourages certain desirable behaviors in bidders. In this case, the effective bid (and what Amazon gets paid) is 4. That is no mystery, and is clearly advertised in their auction rules. What isn’t advertised is the other, hidden effective bid. These effective bids may be 3,2,4,2,3, in which case the third bidder wins. What do they actually pay? I’m not sure, but something less than their actual bid of 3.

Apparently, whatever algorithm Amazon uses guarantees that a bidder never will pay more than their actual bid. It somehow combines the two types of effective bids to ensure this. I am not privy to the precise algorithm (and it constantly changes), so I cannot confirm this. However, I have been informed by an individual with intimate knowledge of the subject that Amazon’s approach provably guarantees no bidder will pay more than their actual bid.

Why would Amazon prefer a lower bid, when they could get 4? As mentioned, they only get paid 4 if the ad of the winning bidder (the 5) gets a click. If the ad makes every reader barf or have a seizure or become a politician, there won’t be a lot of clicks. If it’s the most beautiful ad in human history, but the book’s landing page makes potential buyers weep and tear their hair and gnash their teeth, it probably won’t make many sales. In either case, Amazon would do better with another bidder.

Even without knowing the precise formula, one thing is clear. These algorithms are a big problem for anyone who isn’t already a star.

The problem is that those two algorithms play into one another, generating a feedback loop. If you’re already successful, everything works in your favor. But if you start out unattractive to them, you remain that way. You have few quality ad placements, and get few sales, and this suppresses your organic rank. The organic rank factors into many things which affect P(click|impression) and P(sale|click) — such as the number of reviews, etc. Put simply, once they decide you’re a failure, you become a failure, and remain one. You won’t win quality bids, even if you bid high. If you bid high enough to override the suppression, then you’ll pay an exorbitant fee per click, and it will cost a huge amount to reach the point where success compounds.

I am unsure whether there is cross-pollination between works by a given author, but I strongly suspect so. A new work by a top-ranked author probably starts high and is buoyed by this success. This may be why we see a dozen works by the same author (obviously self-published, and sometimes with very few ratings per book) in the top-100 in a genre.

So how do you get out of this hole? There’s only one accessible way for most people: you cheat. And this is where Amazon’s tectonic policy shift comes into play.

There ARE success stories, like the aforementioned top-ranked self-published authors. But there won’t be any more. To understand why, we must turn to hallowed antiquity before Bezos was revealed to be the latest incarnation of Bchkthmorist the Destroyer, and when Amazon brought to mind a place with trees, snakes, and Sean Connery.

There was a time when the nascent self-publishing industry had really begun to boom, but was poorly regulated. The traditional publishers viewed Amazon, Kindle, and self-publishing as a joke. They relied on their incestuous old-boys network of reviewers from the NY Times, New York Review of Books, and pretty much anything else with New York in the name for promotion. 95% of self-published books were about how to self-publish, and authors who DID self-publish (and were savvy) quickly developed ways to game Amazon.

They COULD pump up their search results, get in top-100 lists, and so on. Usually, this involved getting lots of fake reviews and using keyword tricks to optimize search placement. Once in the top list for a genre, it was easy to stay there — though newcomers with more fake reviews and better keyword antics could displace you. The very top was an unstable equilibrium, but the top 500 or 1000 was not. Once up there, it was easy to keep in that range and then occasionally pop into the very top. Like a cauldron of mediocrity, circulating its vile content into view every now and then. Amazon periodically tweaked its algorithms, but authors kept up.

Then something happened. Amazon decided to crack down on fake reviews. This sounds laudable enough. Fake reviews have the word fake in them, and fake always is bad, right?

There were two problems with HOW Amazon went about it. First, they went way overboard. Overnight, it became well-nigh impossible for an author to get a single new review. If the reviewer had one letter in common with your name, lived in the same hemisphere, or also breathed air, they were deemed connected to you and thus biased.

If this had been applied uniformly, there would be nobody in the top 100 — or it would be random, since nobody would have any tricks they could play. This is where the second problem with Amazon’s approach came in. They didn’t remove legacy fake ratings. Those who cheated before the cutoff got to keep their position. In fact, that position now was secure against all newcomers. A gate had slammed down, and they were firmly on the right side of it. Aside from a few people near the boundary they had nothing to fear. Well, almost nothing to fear.

The only way to break into the top echelon, and thus benefit from the self-reinforcing algorithms which stabilize that position, is to rely on external sources of sales. If you have a million twitter followers who buy your book, or a massive non-amazon advertising campaign, you can break in. They YOU would be very difficult to displace.

Once traditional publishers realized that Amazon is the only de facto bookstore left (outside airport/supermarket sales), they took an interest. THEY have no problem getting a top rank, because they run huge advertising campaigns and have huge existing networks. This is why the top 100 lists are an odd mixture of self-published books you never heard of and traditionally published bestsellers. Eventually it only will be the latter.

So. You. Won’t. Break. In. Amazon created an impenetrable aristocracy, and you’re not it. You won’t be it. You can’t be it. If you use Amazon ads or buy into any of the snake oil sales nonsense, you’ll be the schnook bribing a maitre d’ who knows he’ll never let you in.

Most of those success stories (or at least the real ones) are from before the policy change, as are many of the methods being touted. That path is gone. Amazon ads only work for those who don’t need them, and they work very well for them. They won’t work for you. Becoming a success on Amazon is as unlikely as with a traditional publisher. You’ll always hear stories, but they’re either the few who randomly made it, those with hidden external mechanisms of promotion, or those already entrenched at the top.

That’s the sad truth, or at least my take on it. By all means, waste a few dollars trying. I used to be a statistical trader and know better, but I still buy a lottery ticket when the jackpot’s high enough. It’s entertainment. Two dollars to dream for a day. I just don’t expect to win.

Write what you want, revise, work your butt off, and make it perfect. But do it because you want to, because that’s what makes you happy. Don’t do it expecting success, or hoping for success, or even entertaining the remote possibility of success.

The worst reason to write is for other people. Your work won’t be read, and your work won’t make you money. If you accept that and are happy to write anyway, then write all you want. I urge you to do so. It’s what I do.

PACE Sample Chapter

 The following is a sample chapter from my book PACE.

Captain Alex Konarski gazed through the porthole window at the blue mass below. It looked the same as it had for the last nine years. When first informed of the Front, he had half-expected to see a pestilential wall of grey or a glowing force field or some other tell-tale sign. Instead there was nothing, just the same globe that always was there. The same boring old globe.

Konarski remembered the precise time it had taken for her charms to expire. Six months, twelve days. It was the same for every newcomer to the ISS; at first, they gawked at the beauty of Earth and couldn’t shut up about it. Then they did. Konarski always waited a discrete period after each arrival before asking how long it had taken.

Nobody seemed to remember the point at which things changed, they just woke up one day and the magic was gone. How like marriage, he’d laugh, slapping them on the back. By now the joke was well-worn. Of course, it wasn’t just the Earth itself. When somebody new arrived, they acted like a hyperactive puppy, bouncing with delight at each new experience, or perhaps ricocheting was a better choice of word up here.

Once the excitement died down, they discovered it was a job like any other, except that home was a tiny bunk a few feet from where you worked. The tourists had it right: get in and out before the novelty wore off. The ISS basically was a submarine posting with a better view and better toilets.

Earth became something to occasionally note out the corner of one’s eye. Yep, still there. Being so high up almost bred contempt for the tiny ball and its billions of people. This had been less of a problem in the old days, when the ISS sounded like the inside of a factory. But since the upgrade, things were so quiet that one could not help but feel aloof. Aloof was invented for this place. As a general rule, it was hard to hold in high regard any place toward which you flushed your excrement. Well, not quite *toward*.

There was a fun problem in orbital mechanics that Konarski used to stump newbies with. Of course, Alex had learned it in high school, but his colleagues — particularly the Americans — seemed to have spent their formative years doing anything but studying. For some reason, America believed it was better to send jocks into orbit than scientists. Worse even, it made a distinction between the two. Nerds are nerds and jocks are jocks and never the twain shall meet. It was a view that Konarski and most of the older generation of Eastern Europeans found bewildering. But that was the way it was.

So, Alex and his friends gave the newbies the infamous “orbit” problem. If you are working outside the ISS and fling a wrench toward Earth what will happen? Invariably, the response was to the effect that “well, duh, it will fall to Earth”. With carefully practiced condescension, Alex then would inform them that this is not correct. The wrench will rebound and hit the pitcher. It was one of the many vagaries of orbital dynamics, unintuitive but fairly obvious on close reflection.

The victim would argue, debate, complain, declare it an impossibility. Alex patiently would explain the mathematics. It was no mistake. Only after the victim had labored for days over a calculation that any kid should be able to do would they — sometimes — get the answer.

For some reason the first question they asked after accepting the result always was, “How do you flush the toilets?”

“Very carefully,” Alex would answer.

Then everybody had a drink and a good laugh. Yes, shit would fall to earth just as it always had and always would.

The spectrometer indicated that there was some sort of smog developing over Rome. Alex wondered if this would be a repeat of Paris. There had been sporadic fires for weeks after the Front hit that city. Some were attributable to the usual suspects: car crashes as people fled or died, overloads and short-circuits, the chaos of large numbers of people fleeing, probably even arson, not to mention the ordinary incidence of fires in a major city, now with nobody to nip them in the bud. Mostly, though, it just was the unattended failure of humanity’s mechanized residue.

The Front couldn’t eradicate every trace of our existence, but perhaps it would smile gleefully as our detritus burned itself out. Those last embers likely would outlast us, a brief epitaph. Of course, the smaller fires weren’t visible from the station, and Alex only could surmise their existence from the occasional flare up.

The same had occurred everywhere else the Front passed. In most cases there had been a small glow for a day or so and then just the quenching smoke from a spent fire. On the other hand, there was a thick haze over parts of Germany since fires had spread through the coal mines. These probably would burn for years to come, occasionally erupting from the ground without warning. There was no need to speculate on *that*; Konarski’s own grandfather had perished this way many years ago. The mines had been killing people long before there was any Front. But the occasional fireworks aside, cities inside the Zone were cold and dead.

The ISS orbited the Earth approximately once every ninety minutes. This meant that close observation of any given area was limited to a few minutes, after which they must wait until the next pass. During the time between passes, the Front would expand a little over a quarter mile. Nothing remarkable had happened during the hundred passes it took for the Front to traverse Paris. And it wasn’t for another twenty or so that the trouble started.

*Trouble?* Something about the word struck him as callous. It seemed irreverent to call a fire “trouble”, while ignoring the millions of deaths which surely preceded it. Well, the “event”, then. Once it started, the event was evident within a few passes. Alex had noticed something wrong fairly quickly. Instead of a series of small and short-lived flare ups, the blaze simply had grown and grown.

At first he suspected the meltdown of some unadvertised nuclear reactor. But there was no indication of enhanced radiation levels. Of course, it was hard to tell for sure through the smoke plume. By that point it looked like there was a small hurricane over Paris, a hurricane that occasionally flashed red. It really was quite beautiful from his vantage point, but he shuddered to think what it would be like within that mile-high vortex of flame.

It had not ceased for seven days. Some meteorologist explained the effect early on. It was called a firestorm, when countless small fires merge into a monster that generates its own weather, commands its own destiny. It was a good thing there was nobody left for it to kill, though Alex was unsure what effect the fountain of ash would have on the rest of Europe.

In theory there probably were operational video feeds on the ground, but the Central European power grid had failed two months earlier. It had shown surprisingly little resilience, and shrouded most of Europe in darkness. Of course, the relevant machinery lay within the Zone and repairs were impossible.

Konarski wondered how many millions had died prematurely because some engineering firm cut corners years ago. It probably was Ukrainian, that firm. Alex never trusted the Ukrainians. Whatever the cause, the result was that there was no power. And by the time Paris was hit any battery-driven units were long dead. Other than some satellites and the occasional drone, he and his crew were the only ones to see what was happening.

The Paris conflagration eventually had withered and died out, of course. What was of interest now was Rome. The ISS had been asked to keep an eye on the regions within the Zone, gleaning valuable information to help others prepare or, if one were fool enough to hope, understand and dispel the Front altogether. However, the real action always surrounded the Front itself. Especially when it hit a densely-developed area, even if now deserted. But it wasn’t just orders or morbid curiosity that compelled Alex to watch. Where evident, the destruction could be aesthetically beautiful.

Safely beyond the reach of the Front, Alex could watch the end of a world. How many people would have the opportunity to do so? There was a certain pride in knowing he would be among the last, perhaps even *the* last. Once everyone had perished, the crew of the ISS would be alone for a while, left to contemplate the silence. Then their supplies would run out, and they too would die.

Based on the current consumption rate of his six person crew, Alex estimated they could survive for another six years — two years past the Front’s anticipated circumvallation of Earth. Of course, he doubted the process would be an orderly one. Four of the crew members (himself included) came from military backgrounds, one was a woman, and three different countries were represented. Even at the best of times, there was a simmering competitiveness.

Konarski assumed that he would be the first casualty. No other scenario made sense, other than something random in the heat of passion — and such things didn’t require the Front. No, barring any insanity, he would go first. He was the leader and also happened to be bedding the only woman. Who else would somebody bother killing? Of course, with *this* woman, he shuddered to think what would happen to the murderer. Of course, *she* was the one most likely to kill him in the first place.

Obviously, they hadn’t screened for mental health in the Chinese space program. In fact, he guessed that any screening they *did* do was just lip-service to be allowed to join the ISS. But Ying was stunning and endlessly hilarious to talk to, and Alex had nothing to lose.

If the Front hadn’t come along, he would have faced compulsory retirement the following year. Then he would have had the privilege of returning to good old Poland, a living anachronism in a country that shunned any sign of its past. Alex gave it about a year before the bottle would have taken him. Who the fuck wanted to grow old in today’s world? The Front was the best thing that ever happened, as far as he was concerned. It made him special.

Alex would try to protect Ying for as long as he could, but he knew how things would unfold. Perhaps it would be best to kill her first, before anyone got to him. Or maybe he just should suicide the whole crew. It would be the easiest thing in the world, all he really had to do was stop trying to keep everyone alive. Or he actively could space the place and kill everyone at once, a grand ceremonial gesture. But that would be boring.

Besides, part of him wanted to see who *would* be the last man standing. The whole of humanity in one man. The one to turn out the lights, not first but final hand. Humanity would end the way it began, with one man killing another. After all, everybody always was talking about returning to your roots. Alex just was sad they no longer had a gun on board. That *really* would have made things interesting.

These were distant considerations, however; worth planning for, but hardly imminent. At the moment the world remained very much alive, and was counting on them for critical information. Alex wondered if it would be better to be the last man alive or the man who saved the world.

“The savior, you dumb fuck,” part of him screamed. “Nobody will be around to care if you’re the last one alive.” Of course, Poland already was gone. There was no home for him, even the one he wouldn’t have wanted. Maybe he was the last Pole. But how would he change a light bulb?

For some reason, a series of bad Pollack jokes popped into Konarski’s head. There was a time when he would have taken great offense at such jokes, jumped to his country’s defense, maybe even thrown a few obligatory punches. But not now, not after what Poland had become over the last decade, and especially not after how they had behaved toward the end. They could go fuck themselves. And now they had. Or somebody bigger and badder had fucked them, just like had happened through most of their history.

Still, he felt a certain pride. Maybe he would be the start of a new, prouder race of Poles. No, that was just the sort of talk that had made him sick of his country, the reason he was commanding ISS under a Russian flag. Besides, there probably still were plenty of Poles around the world. He wasn’t alone. Yet.

If Alex watched Rome’s demise closely, he couldn’t be accused of exultation or cruel delight. He had watched his home city of Warsaw perish just three days earlier. Of course, it was nearly empty by the time the Front reached it. But he had listened to the broadcasts, the chatter, and he was ashamed of the conduct of his countrymen. They had acted just like the self-absorbed Western pigs he detested.

Ying understood. She was Chinese. When *they* left their old and infirm behind it would be from calculated expedience, not blind selfish panic. The decision would be institutional, not individual. The throng would push and perish and each would look to their own interest, but none would bear the individual moral responsibility. *That* would be absorbed by the State. What else was the State for?

But it turned out that his compatriots no longer thought this way. They had become soft since the fall of communism, soft and scared. When the moment came, they didn’t stand proud and sink with the ship. They scrambled over one another like a bunch of terrified mice, making a horrid mess and spitting on the morals of their homeland and a thousand years of national dignity just to buy a few more precious moments of lives clearly not worth living. They disgusted him. He would die the last true Pole.

In the meantime, he would carry on — his duty now to the species. Part of him felt that if *his* world had perished, so too should all the others. He harbored a certain resentment when he imagined some American scientists discovering the answer just in time to save their own country. It would be *his* data that accomplished this. What right had they to save themselves using *his* data, when his own people had perished. Yet still he sent it. Data that perhaps would one day allow another world to grow from the ashes of his. Maybe this was a sign that there *had* been some small progress over the thousands of years, that he was first and foremost human.

Alex’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice.

“We’re almost over Rome,” Ying whispered, breathing gently into his ear.

“C’mon, I have to record this,” he protested in half-genuine exasperation.

“That’s ok, we’ll just catch the next pass,” she shot back from behind him.

Alex heard some shuffling and felt something strange on his shoulder. What was Ying doing now? He had to focus, dammit. She was the funnest, craziest woman he had known, but sometimes he just wished he could lock her outside the station for a few hours. Yeah, he’d probably ask her to marry him at some point. Maybe soon. After all, living with somebody on the ISS was ten times more difficult than being married. Alex shook his shoulder free of her grip. It would have to wait.

Then he noticed that she wasn’t touching him. She was on the other side of the room, pointing at him with her mouth open. Why was there no sound? Then he was screaming, then he couldn’t scream anymore. Before things grew dark, he saw Ying’s decaying flesh. She still was pointing, almost like a mannequin. His last thought was how disgusting Ying had become, and that he soon would be the same.