Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 4: September 2013 (8 page)

Please answer soon as I will get extra credit for your haste.

Earnestly,

Torthan

***

1625. 13 ABR, Asimov V

Dear Mike,

Thank you for your answer. It does seem that since canines are only permitted on Stapledon I, II, and III, and they appear to breed themselves adequately without anyone’s help, the profession of science fiction writer would be best.

There are no other science fiction writers on the known planets, although this does not infer that they do not exist in other dimensions. I would be the first here, which will also give me much esteem and will once and for always restore my family name.

I have been reading the advice you sent me in
I’ve Got This Nifty Idea
and have what I believe to be a Nifty Idea. When I am finished may I submit it to you?

Wonderingly,

Torthan

***

1625.18 ABR, Asimov V

Dear Mr. Resnick,

In the mannerism of formal speaking as you suggest when a new author (myself, Torthan Volbiss!) is making submissions, below you will find my “story”
How the Slime Gods Conquered Terra I
. I am very excited because I have (I believe for the first time in science fiction history!) managed to combine true science and true story-telling!

In keeping with the sample submission you sent, my submission is not simultaneous with anyone in this system. The story length is only 34,295 words. I believe the pace fits with your current system of ideology. Should you decide to publish it, I will be glad to give you the publishing rights, as your mode of monetary exchange is not useful to me here.

My elucidator and I eagerly await your acceptance.

Eagerly,

Torthan Volbiss

***

1625.22 ABR, Asimov IV

Dear Mike,

As you can see I have been demoted an entire planet because of your criticisms! I did not know the science fiction world could be so harsh! You are not equipped to judge my story on a scientific basis, because you have obviously not read Benford II’s
History of the Terran Interdiction
, or Baxter IV’s
Once Slimed, Always Slimed
. If you had, you would realize that I have been accurate to the n’teenth degree! Terra I has been under interdiction for cents!

and is considered uninhabitable by all civilized systems!

I realize now that all your questions about your physique

in the “science fiction” field today were only a pathetic attempt to insert yourself and your arrogant galaxy-view into this timeframe

! To what end! Perhaps you had visions of starring in holovision commercials! It will never happen, you are not educated enough to wipe the footgear of our ‘bots!

If you do not know your own history I cannot explain it to you!

You have used me shamefully and I will explain all of this to the board of reparations before they cull me!

Sincerely (still!),

Torthan Volbiss

***

1625.48 ABR, Asimov III

Dear Mike,

I am in very big trouble because of your continued refusal to make a promotion of my story. As you can see, I have been further demoted because of your insistence that my writing “does not exhibit a deep understanding of human culture.” Now there is talk of demoting me to feline studies. It is impossible, everyone knows felines do not bond in family groups as do canines and sapients. You of all esteemed personages should know this.

I am sorry to tell you that I have filed a brief with the board of castigation which lays the blame for my present position entirely at your lower appendages

.

Your ignorance of Elkhorn’s thesis on the demise of Terra I shows a lack of study habits that was probably inherited from your ancestors. There is no doubt that alligators throve

in the sewers of New York City on Terra I! Or that they mutated into gigantic cold-blooded creatures that infected everything they touched with revolting diseases, the smallest of which was the flaking off of giant patches of derma and their replacement with hardened scales! Or the havoc that was created when the infected race molted while attempting procreation! Or that the giant alligators are still in complete habitation of Terra I, and are disgusting reptilian creatures with no sense of civilized behavior!

(Forgive me if I thumb my nasal passages at your ancestors with this intolerant remark, but we have not shared genus and I do not know your chromatic history.)

This is all well-known to any civilized culture!

If you cannot publish the story yourself, at least you could submit it to
Analog The Magazine Of Science Fiction And Fact
! Once it is accepted, I can return to Asimov V and continue my studies!

I am disappointed in you, Mike. I thought we were allies.

Disappointingly,

Torthan V.

***

1625.5 ABR, Ender I

Dear Mike,

I have decided to terminate interaction for the meantime while I prepare for my judgment

.

I am still hoping you will publish my story in any anthology, or will at least present a datamail I may take to the board which will admit your complete responsibility for this situation. The lack of adequate training I received from you is obviously largely to blame in this humiliation. Although such remedies are rarely considered, my castigants

believe it might be of some help.

Please provide me with a clear, concise description of why you cannot present my chronicle, also explain how you could have prepared me better, and save me!

Mike, I come to you on curled

knee with this request.

Your old friend,

Sincerely,

Tor

***

1625.96 ABR, Penitence II

Dear Mike,

Well, thanks for nothing as you would say, though why anyone would thank another sentient for the absence of anything is non-translatable to me.

I have not been harvested, obviously, since the reviewers determined that I had been led astray by your false promises. It did not hurt that, being totally unfamiliar with your own history, and unwilling to believe a truthful account of that history, you were judged mentally unfit.

Do not ever think of visiting me, as you will be culled the moment you set chroma on any civilized planet. It is in the records now!

Instead, I am sent to Penitence II, which is one pace

up from Penitence I. It is hoped that after many years of study, I may redeem myself enough to return to my Natural History classes, although gratitudes to you, propogation will be out of the question.

Further use of the MicroMac is, of course, not part of the inquiry

any longer. Unfortunately, this means I will not get to read your later work, which I hope is not devastating to your pride.

Of course, I assume that anyone who treats a fellow sapient in the manner you have treated me will embezzle my ideas for his own use, but there is nothing I can do about it from here.

Please do not attempt to contact me as we have nothing to speak about.

Torthan Volbiss

***

1628.93 ABR, Penitence IV

Dear Mike,

I am permitted to hurl this final datamail in order to complete my penitence.

As a portion of my re-education, I am ordered to forge amendments

with those I have behaved uncharitably toward. Unfortunately, since the lectern here has access to all of my datamail records, this includes you. I am therefore remorsing

with willing chambers

to the best of my ability.

I apologize for my remarks about your reptilian ancestry. It was uncalled for, and prejudicial toward the inhabitants of Campbell II.

I am also apologetic for any reference I may have made to the apneate habits of your wive(s). I did not realize that in your backward culture, discussing another being’s bedroom habits might give offense.

I am sorry for stating that you could never star in a holivision commercial. It may be that someday they will be looking for a being of your genotype, whose RNA is not culturally recommended but who is capable of destroying entire lives with his shoddy, unwarranted criticisms. If that is the case, it will certainly star you.

Finally, I am apologetic for thumbing my nasal passages at you. I should have merely expelled my nose in your direction and hoped for the best.

As a last comment, in response to the datamail you kindly provided the court, which stated that I was “about as aware of human emotions as a bullfrog”, and accusing me of “a complete inability to understand human nature, human behavior, or human passion” —- Mike, what in galaxies made you think I was human?

Sincerely,

Torthan Volbiss

Copyright © 2005 by Janis Ian

******************************************

Marina J. Lostetter was a 2013 Writers of the Future finalist, and has recently sold to a number of magazines, including Penumbra and
Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show.

THE PRAYER LADDER

by Marina J. Lostetter

The ladder stretches up and up before me. Into the sky, past the clouds—past the sun, perhaps. I cannot see the top, but I know it ends in Heaven.

Chill winds sweep the ice-covered mountain, and I hunker into my coat of caribou skin. The sleeve of my left arm is too long—Mama meant it to last me another two winters. The other is capped next to the stub of my right elbow.

The sack full of my village’s prayers hangs lightly around my neck. Hundreds of little scrolls fill the burlap, written in hands both illegible and refined.

Once every five years the prayers are carried to Heaven.

Once every five years a citizen leaves and never comes back.

And now it is my turn.

I lay my boot on the first rung. I’ve learned to do everything with one limb that most do with two. I know how to deftly climb a ladder. But this…

It’s a long way to forever.

The ladder is made of something light and flexible—like the bamboo the traveling tradesmen bring. But it is also sturdy. The ladder has stood for a thousand years and will stand for a thousand more.

When the Carrier of Prayers is selected, the entire village gathers on the square outside of the temple. The priest makes sure all of the doors and windows are splayed wide, so that we can see the choosing. He drapes garlands and sprinkles seeds around the fat, golden Idol of Prayer, then touches its stomach and whispers in its ear. After a moment, the idol opens its mouth. The priest reaches in and retrieves a name burned into a small strip of parchment. The gods choose the Carrier, but the priest pulls the name.

And this year, it was me.

“No!” Mama cried. “There’s been a mistake. Not Damien.
Please
.”

It’s not often that the gods choose a child. Though at thirteen, I’m nearly a man. Usually they pick the elderly. Those who are still on their feet, but won’t be for long.

Mama pushed through the throng and into the temple. She stomped up to the priest—invading the holy circle of space around him that no one is ever supposed to breach—and demanded he pull another name.

“You can’t send a child with one arm,” someone in the crowd insisted.

“Yes,” agreed another. “What if he falls? What if our prayers don’t make it?”

“The gods have spoken,” the priest said in his stately tone. His harsh, black eyes stared at Mama without feeling. He had done his job, and she was to be thankful. Her boy had been given a great honor.

I took my place at the altar, next to the priest. The scent of crushed evergreens and scorched offerings permeated the sanctuary. “I can do it,” I declared, ignoring Mama’s sobs.

When we left the temple, she would not meet my gaze.

I’m way up now. Frost-blue Kaneq birds fly below—the gentle kind, with wingspans five times a grown man’s height—but the clouds are still above. With the stump of my arm I can push myself up the rungs, grabbing hold once my fingers are boosted to the right level.

The knot that holds the sack is tight. I will not lose a prayer.

Only half are ever answered. Exactly half. Always good prayers, but typically little ones. People who ask for a good harvest or a safe journey are blessed. Only sometimes do the gods answer a big prayer.

Mama’s prayer when I was little was a big prayer. I was going to die, she says. Horrible fever and rash—something terrible was eating me from inside. Mama prayed for me to live. And I did. All of me, save my right arm.

This morning, after the choosing, we wrote our prayers together. She got out the blessed parchment and the holy ink and we sat at the family table.

I asked her what she was praying for, but she wouldn’t tell me. I told her my prayer and she cried again.

My shoulders feel strong and my legs aren’t tired. And yet, I’ve reached the top.

There’s a trapdoor, just recognizable by a narrow square outline and a silver handle dangling within my reach. Bracing myself between the rails, I knock on the sky.

Bright, white light blurs my vision as the door opens. A thin, silver hand beckons for the sack.

Teetering precariously, I pull the sack over my head. It disappears into the light. Then the hand extends for me. I am to follow all of the great Carriers of the past and ascend to Heaven.

But as I move to take the hand, I slip. My fingers brush past the silver ones and I topple backwards.

I’m falling. Air rushes past as the ground rushes forth.

Down.

Down.

And when I pass through a cloud I realize what my mother prayed for. For my return.

Not like this. She couldn’t have prayed for this.

But, perhaps this means both of our prayers will be answered, and that this is not the end. I repeat mine now, to myself:
Please, make my mama happy
.

A sharp tingle in my stump draws my gaze to the right. A silvery, ethereal forearm and hand have sprouted from my sleeve cap. The fingers flex at my command.

Not even the thick hide of my coat could hinder the growth of a god-limb.

But, what use is a new arm, god or otherwise? Why give me now what I’ve gone all these years without?

Below, the frost-blue Kaneq birds soar in spirited circles, their wings shimmering in the late-day sun.

I don’t need fingers. I need feathers.

The god-arm morphs at my behest. A giant Kaneq wing extends to my right. But, it’s worthless without a mate.

I clutch my left fist. It has been a good hand, a good arm, doing the job of two. But I need something else now.

Change
, I will it.

Change
.

Change!

A silver glimmer engulfs my left side. Blue plumage bursts into existence.

With wings outstretched, I catch the wind and it ferries me home. All the way to Mama.

Original (First) Publication

Copyright © 2013 by Marina J. Lostetter

SMALL PRESS
 

GIANT AUTHORS

WINNER OF THE
HUGO & NEBULA AWARDS

www.PhoenixPick.com

******************************************

Tom Gerencer sold a number of hilarious stories right after completing the science fiction course at Clarion in 1999. Then he took a few years off to start his own business and get married, and this story marks his return to the field. We hope this time he decides to stay.

AMAZINGLAND

by Tom Gerencer

Norm Gallinski got up, fed the cat, clicked through the headlines, and made breakfast. He boiled coffee, burned toast, and his morning grapefruit squirted him in the eye, which is to say it was a morning just like any other, except in one respect:

“I can’t take it anymore,” he said.

In retrospect, what happened next was probably predictable, but hindsight only counts if time runs backwards, and in that case, there’d be funeral cake, and restroom visits would be frightening.

Anyway, as if on cue, the cat stood up on its hind legs.

“Then, my friend,” it said, “you are in luck.”

Gallinski did the usual things people do when their pets address rhetorical asides. He gasped. Goggled. Took three steps back and conked his head off the range hood.

“My God,” he said. “Did you just—”

“I know, I know, but it was necessary,” said the cat. “And really there’s nothing to worry about. In fact I’m just like you. I’m not supernatural or alien. Originally I’m from Saugus.”

“Saugus?”

“About a half mile from the zoo. My friends and I would walk there when we were kids. Take mescaline and jump the fence and throw shit at the ostriches.”

Gallinski gripped the countertop as though he were afraid the cat had come to violate it.

“Granted, I was kidnapped by some theme park operators from the future and pressed into a career in sales, but what are you gonna do? And let me tell you, I understand what you’re going through.”

“You do?”

“Christ, yeah. You think no one else ever lay awake at night and doubted whether his role in society was valuable?”

“But a cat—” Gallinski said.

“A cat, a dog, a monkey, who cares. I know chickens who obsess about quality control standards. Nevermind I said that. First of all, your breakfast table’s wired for sound. No, don’t bother looking for the transmitter. It’s the size of a paramecium. Future tech. They have municipal power plants the size of your thumb. Always getting shoplifted, and falling down the steam grates. But you don’t care about that. What I’m here to tell you is, this is your chance. You ever heard of Amazingland?”

“No,” Gallinski said.

“That’s because it doesn’t exist. Not yet. It won’t be built for another thousand years. But when it is, look out. Any fantasy your heart desires, fully realized in the finest physical, mental, and spiritual details. Amalgams so varied, awe-inspiring and real you’ll swear you were born into them.”

Gallinski wanted to sit down, but he was afraid to go too near the cat, which stood in front of the dinette set.

“The thing is,” the cat went on, “it don’t come cheap. Amazingland needs dollars. And all our future clientele are not enough. And so we look to you. The people of the past.”

It hopped up on the white Formica near Gallinski, making him grip it even tighter. It withdrew a mini-pack of cigarettes from somewhere, removed one, lit it with a tiny lighter, then sucked in and exhaled the smoke.

“How—how—”

“Christ, we don’t have time for this. If you have to know, they transferred my personality to a miniaturized and temporary brain inside this cat. The rest of me is in a coma in a hospital over in Wachusett, but they’ve promised to return me, with benefits, as soon as I’ve fulfilled my quota. Which won’t happen if you don’t stop gibbering. Anyway, we’ve been watching you, and we know you’ve had it with your situation.”

Gallinski couldn’t argue. He’d never wanted to be a car salesman. He’d wanted to be a rock star, or an astronaut. Nobody wore tee-shirts with car salesmen on them, or gushed about their near-death conference calls, or made inspiring 3D films about them with big-name actors and implausible happy endings.

“Guys like you make perfect candidates,” the cat went on. “You see, Amazingland is everything you’ve ever dreamed about. You don’t just ride the rides and have experiences. You change who ‘you’ is. Are. You want to be the Pope? Bam. You’re the Pope. And I don’t just mean you get to wear the robes and funny hat—”

“Mitre?”

“—whatever, and hold the scepter and excommunicate and so on. You really are the Pope. You get all his memories and faith and devotion—or lack thereof, since maybe you choose to be a pope who don’t believe, so you get that inner crisis thing. Or you might decide to be the Buddha or a rocket ship or hummingbird. You ever want to be a hummingbird?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

The cat blew smoke.

“You never tried it yet. Awesome. Awesome. Or you could be a horse. Running with the wind. Rolling on grass. And think of the sex.”