A lossless file contains all its original data, compressed to allow for full reconstruction. But a lossless life is a life unlived, with nothing to reconstruct. Without loss, there is no living—only bare existence. Agony and ecstasy: two poles of human experience. And everything in between… where does it go. In Katherine Martin’s debut novella, a person can donate it all to AnTech, where it will be seeded among the company’s android products. Our augmented narrator spends his work days performing this process; he is what is known as a Transferrant. But he too has lived…and lost. Data is gone: fragmented, corrupted, degraded—the remaining files disoriented between the covers of this slim volume. His wife is gone, his cat is missing. He doesn’t quite know who he is anymore—severed from the imprint of his early years by the neural implant required for his job, he is now being divested of everything that held meaning afterwards.

Mr. Transferrant’s wife, Jun, is adrift. Or is she. She may be missing what she gave away, or what’s been taken, or perhaps: what was never there. At the core of these jumbled files lies the concept of a trade of equal value. An eye for an eye. Pain for art. A donation but with a catch: something in return. Surrendering your collected self for freedom from unbearable loneliness. But it seems like wishful thinking to believe that you will somehow ‘live on’ as useful fragments embedded in AnTech’s products. It sounds more like a corporate trap for the ones who’ve reached the end of the line—a commodified alternative to suicide.

The increasing digitalization of our lives gradually erases the line between our memories and our data. Apps remind us of past times—our personal history algorithmically selected and packaged as special moments shoved in front of our faces, unbidden and unwanted. On this day, 10 years ago. Is it really me? I don’t think it’s a lossless file, so… Your memory is unreliable—your devices know you better than you know yourself. Our apps perform the recollective labor of our damaged, eroded minds. At least, that is what we are not so subtly being taught to believe.

The implication is that the AnTechs of the world will one day soon convince us that our bodies, our lives, are of less value than the data that has been mined from them. So, why continue in this inexorable march toward death? We can relieve you of all that existential pain. Why not avoid future suffering by making that donation? We will take your cognitive capital and reinvest it where it will yield immeasurable returns. For your part, it will be a selfless act, a truly philanthropic gesture: an investment in a future of posthuman perfection! Don’t you want to be one small part of that future? Don’t you??

Published by Calamari Archive, 2026 (available through Asterism)

We are all awaiting catastrophe. Though our minds may not accept it, we feel it in our bones: the end of our modern way of life is coming. When will it happen? How will it arrive? Will we live through it, or will we all be instantly obliterated? In Ivy Grimes’s novella, disaster comes by way of solar storms that disrupt the electrical grid and drain all the batteries, stripping society of its modern technological conveniences. Luckily for Grimes’s narrator Jane, though, she is visiting her grandmother in the woods at the time, so she is not trapped in the city where she lives. Grandma is a special person, though Jane is still learning exactly how special. The two squabble over typical intergenerational differences, but also over Grandma’s vague but persistent expectations for Jane, who bristles in response. They are both stubborn and contrary, but it’s obvious that a strong bond ties them together.

The story revolves around a small group of neighbors who share resources and offer mutual aid in the wake of the disaster. In addition, though, each household carries its own emotional baggage, which spills open and seeps into the community. Tragedy and dark secrets intermingle. While Grandma looms large, she is often in the background, tending to esoteric duties; however, the sense pervades that she knows most of what goes on and exerts influence over much of it.

With deft subtlety, Grimes weaves supernatural elements into the narrative. Inspired by Russian and Alpine folklore, she cleverly introduces threads from specific tales and pagan myths. As Jane narrates, we feel her experience of moving with one foot in contemporary ‘reality’, while her other foot struggles to find its balance in the world beyond. For Jane, like Grandma, is also special. She has a role to play in a crucial transitory process, should she choose to accept it. We all know catastrophe brings death, and the one in this book is no different. There is a lot of death, but people learn to cope, often in surprising ways. Grimes also has a knack for humor, which tempers the book’s darker themes. It’s a story that, while it seems to exist outside of time, is very much relevant to our present.

Note: Thank you to Violet Lichen Books for sending me a review copy.