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    Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 121 (June 2020): Lightspeed Magazine, #121
    Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 121 (June 2020): Lightspeed Magazine, #121
    Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 121 (June 2020): Lightspeed Magazine, #121
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    Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 121 (June 2020): Lightspeed Magazine, #121

    By John Joseph Adams

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    About this ebook

    LIGHTSPEED is an online science fiction and fantasy magazine. In its pages, you will find science fiction: from near-future, sociological soft SF, to far-future, star-spanning hard SF--and fantasy: from epic fantasy, sword-and-sorcery, and contemporary urban tales, to magical realism, science-fantasy, and folktales.

    Welcome to LIGHTSPEED's 121st issue! We're kicking off our tenth year with an original fantasy short from Julianna Baggott, "The Postictal State of Divine Love," which blends myths of vampirism with the pain of living with someone with a chronic illness. The story is the inspiration for our cover art from Reiko Murakami. Ben Peek brings us our second piece of original fantasy in "Refuge," another deep dive into the way history disappears into myth-this time in an all-too-believable secondary world. We also have fantasy reprints by Megan Arkenberg ("Danae") and Ken Liu ("What I Assume You Shall Assume"). Our science fiction originals begin with a cunning solution to a tricky problem: how to best age and market fine Scotch. Find out how in Marie Vibbert's new "Single Malt Spacecraft." In our other SF short, Em North has crafted a terrifying alien invasion in her story "Real Animals." Our reprints this month come from Tochi Onyebuchi ("Still Life with Hammers, a Broom, and a Brick Stacker") and Matthew Kressel ("The Marsh of Camarina"). Our nonfiction team brings you our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with our book and media review columns. Our feature interview is with Jessica Cluess. Our e-book exclusive excerpt is from Alaya Dawn Johnson's new novel TROUBLE THE SAINTS.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Joseph Adams
    Release dateJun 1, 2020
    ISBN9781386438663
    Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 121 (June 2020): Lightspeed Magazine, #121
    Author

    John Joseph Adams

    John Joseph Adams is the series editor of The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy and the editor of the Hugo Award–winning Lightspeed, and of more than forty anthologies, including Lost Worlds & Mythological Kingdoms, The Far Reaches, and Out There Screaming (coedited with Jordan Peele).

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      Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 121 (June 2020) - John Joseph Adams

      sword_rocketLightspeed Magazine

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Issue 121, June 2020

      FROM THE EDITOR

      Editorial: June 2020

      SCIENCE FICTION

      Still Life with Hammers, a Broom, and a Brick Stacker

      Tochi Onyebuchi

      Single Malt Spacecraft

      Marie Vibbert

      The Marsh of Camarina

      Matthew Kressel

      Real Animals

      Em North

      FANTASY

      The Postictal State of Divine Love

      Julianna Baggott

      Danaë

      Megan Arkenberg

      Refuge

      Ben Peek

      What I Assume You Shall Assume

      Ken Liu

      EXCERPTS

      Trouble the Saints

      Alaya Dawn Johnson

      NONFICTION

      Book Reviews, June 2020

      Arley Sorg

      Media Review: June 2020

      JY Yang

      Interview: Jessica Cluess

      Christian A. Coleman

      AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

      Julianna Baggott

      Marie Vibbert

      Ben Peek

      Em North

      MISCELLANY

      Coming Attractions

      Stay Connected

      Subscriptions and Ebooks

      Support Us on Patreon, or How to Become a Dragonrider or Space Wizard

      About the Lightspeed Team

      Also Edited by John Joseph Adams

      © 2020 Lightspeed Magazine

      Cover by Reiko Murakami

      www.lightspeedmagazine.com

      From_the_EditorCHOSEN ONES

      Editorial: June 2020

      John Joseph Adams | 221 words

      Welcome to Lightspeed’s 121st issue!

      We’re kicking off our tenth year with an original fantasy short from Julianna Baggott, The Postictal State of Divine Love, which blends myths of vampirism with the pain of living with someone with a chronic illness. The story is the inspiration for our cover art from Reiko Murakami.

      Ben Peek brings us our second piece of original fantasy in Refuge, another deep dive into the way history disappears into myth—this time in an all-too-believable secondary world. We also have fantasy reprints by Megan Arkenberg (Danaë) and Ken Liu (What I Assume You Shall Assume).

      Our science fiction originals begin with a cunning solution to a tricky problem: how to best age and market fine Scotch. Find out how in Marie Vibbert’s new Single Malt Spacecraft. In our other SF short, Em North has crafted a terrifying alien invasion in her story Real Animals. Our reprints this month come from Tochi Onyebuchi (Still Life with Hammers, a Broom, and a Brick Stacker) and Matthew Kressel (The Marsh of Camarina).

      Our nonfiction team brings you our usual assortment of author spotlights, along with our book and media review columns. Our feature interview is with Jessica Cluess. Our e-book exclusive excerpt is from Alaya Dawn Johnson’s new novel Trouble the Saints.

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      John Joseph Adams is the editor of John Joseph Adams Books, a science fiction and fantasy imprint from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. He is also the series editor of Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy, as well as the bestselling editor of more than thirty anthologies, including Wastelands and The Living Dead. Recent books include Cosmic Powers, What the #@&% Is That?, Operation Arcana, Press Start to Play, Loosed Upon the World, and The Apocalypse Triptych. Called the reigning king of the anthology world by Barnes & Noble, John is a two-time winner of the Hugo Award (for which he has been a finalist twelve times) and an eight-time World Fantasy Award finalist. John is also the editor and publisher of the digital magazines Lightspeed and Nightmare, and is a producer for WIRED’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast. He also served as a judge for the 2015 National Book Award. Find him online at johnjosephadams.com and @johnjosephadams.

      Science_FictionJohn Joseph Adams Books

      Still Life with Hammers, a Broom, and a Brick Stacker

      Tochi Onyebuchi | 4396 words

      Linc tucked down the bill of his worn Red Sox cap and closed his eyes against the sweat stinging them. The truck, lifting carpets of ash and dust into the air like someone spreading a bedsheet, provided the morning’s only sound. But Linc thought he could maybe hear the wreckers up ahead, monstrous, steel-tooth jaws spreading open to dump another load of bricks on the growing pile. In the shadows cast by the leaning, crumbling apartment towers stood black girls and a few jaundiced snow bunnies in leather, neon-colored short skirts, hips kinked to one side while the stone wall supported their lewd poses. The other men in the back of the truck with Linc, leaned over the side of the flatbed and whistled.

      Them trackmarks get me a discount? one shouted.

      I’m just tryna put one in ya, guh!

      Love bites, Mami, and so do I.

      I get paid next Friday!

      They laughed and it sounded like thunder, joyous, irresponsible laughter and even as Linc gripped the handle of his hammer, he couldn’t help smiling. He wanted to get at least a little bit of sleep before they got to the worksite, but the heat was just a few dozen degrees past sleepy, so why not holler at a few whores to pass the time?

      At least it wasn’t raining; at least it wasn’t cold enough to aggravate his busted knuckles and the smashed fingers and toes that belonged to any number of kids in various angles of repose in the flatbed. None of them looked up at the red-blue sky threaded with knife-scar clouds and the Colony hovering like a pitted moon overhead.

      The whores vanished behind a corner, and the young men retreated to their seats. Hunger hung around them like an odor. Linc knew the work would be the best thing to happen to them. Otherwise, they’d be out there just like he was before rehab, letting hunger compel him to destroy the very things he needed.

      We pickin’ up Ace? one of the youths asked. He had his hammer draped across his chest, his head propped against the rickety back of the flatbed, his hat brim low over his eyes.

      No one answered.

      We pickin’ him up or what?

      Linc stirred, then rapped loudly on the back window. When nothing happened, he rapped again, hard enough to crack the plexi-glas. The driver’s side window creaked downward and a leather-skinned black man with a lazy eye, the ratty remains of a cigar in his false teeth and a straw hat on his head, leaned out on his elbow.

      You gon’ break my goddamn winda poundin’ like that.

      Linc leaned over to be heard over the rumbling through the abandoned roads by the old Ivy Quarter. Yo, Bishop, we pickin’ up Ace today?

      Whatchu think? Bishop spat back. His cigar clung to his teeth. His place comin’ up right now. And with that, Bishop retreated. The window only went halfway up after that.

      They drove out of the old Ivy Quarter and the dilapidated houses got smaller, their lean more pronounced. The broken windows with their crumbling frames like Bishop’s droopy eye watched them pass. The houses here on the outskirts of that neighborhood looked no different, but out front, piled up on the sidewalk were mattresses, some with blood stains like large copper half dollars on them, children’s clothes mixed in with dirty linens, ants swarming over half-empty bags of fast food, old radios that looked like they’d only recently stopped working.

      When they got to Ace’s spot, a slouching duplex that used to be painted blue and yellow once upon a time, there was five-oh out front and a couple people that looked maybe like social workers. The County Sheriff was there, a large metal sphere with arms like a spider, one sporting a small caliber pistol. On its front, a display of a white man’s mustachioed face. Remote policing. The cops were likely partially cyberized, their essential parts replaceable; hence their stomping around irradiated wasteland. But the social workers looked flesh-and-blood enough. One of them looked like she might boot all over her jeans.

      Nobody in the truck bed stirred. The chalky dust on their overalls and their jeans and their boots didn’t even budge. But they all watched silently the man they’d worked with being dressed down like a bitch in front of his family. Linc wanted to spit but had run out of saliva.

      The front door hung open, and inside, Ace could be seen sitting down in his living room couch, his arms around his two kids, boy and a girl, relaxed but protecting them from the officer who, hand leisurely to his weapon, stood over them. Static-y blue and white from the TV flashed on the eviction cop’s back.

      Linc couldn’t hear what was being said, but Ace, from where he sat, raised his voice. The officer never raised his, but eventually Ace shot up from his seat and screamed, "This some bullshit!"

      Ace stomped out before the cop could make it look like he was being escorted, waited for the cop and made like he was standing his ground. You ain’t got no right. You see this neighborhood? You see it? We the last family on the block. Ain’t no one livin’ here. So what goddamn difference it make if me and my family make a life here, huh? What difference do it make?

      The cop raised his non-gun hand, inches from Ace’s chest. Sir, leave the immediate premises or you will be arrested.

      The social workers walked the children and Ace’s wife out onto the sidewalk and already movers had materialized to start offloading the family’s furniture. The TV blared. Do you have a place where you can stay? the social worker asked Ace’s wife.

      No, she said back. She seemed too tired to be annoyed or upset that their life was being brought out into the street like so much trash. We ain’t heard from his family in a couple years.

      The social worker’s face half-crinkled in sorrow. There are some shelters further out. Fairfield and a few more further down the rail line. Our office can furnish you and your family with rail tickets.

      Ace’s wife had stopped looking at the social worker as she droned on, looked instead at the growing pile of furniture and appliances, some of them already rusting from exposure to the poisoned air, some of them already growing rusted blood blisters. Her son, six years old in overalls like the ones Ace wore to work, scurried back inside where his bowl of cereal waited on the table for him. The sight of the kid with his cereal, riveted on the TV while the movers emptied his house, reminded Linc of his own dad who, at the same age as that kid, had come home from school to see all their shit on the sidewalk, an eviction notice stapled to their front door. He hadn’t told Linc about it much, but Jake told him one afternoon when they were skipping stones off the Long Wharf that dad, as a kid, had spent the following two months living in a truck with his dad, their grandfather.

      Bishop turned in his seat. The engine had been idling.

      Ace’s wife held their infant daughter at her hip.

      The officer said good luck to Ace and turned away, the silent but ever-watchful sheriff hovering like a pet bird over his shoulder.

      We ain’t dead, Ace shouted.

      Linc could barely hear him over the engine Bishop had now started revving, getting the car ready to peel off.

      "You can’t talk about us like we dead. We right here! See this here? This still a family! Ain’t gonna break that! Good luck to you, Officer!"

      The rest of Ace’s words were lost in the smoke that billowed from the tailpipe. Bishop shifted into gear and the truck bumped along before shuddering off. No one in the truckbed had moved. Anybody walking by would’ve thought they were sleeping.

      Guess Ace ain’t comin’ to work today, Jayceon said, arm propped beneath his neck, head bumping softly against the back of the truck bed. Linc heard implied violence in the kid’s voice and wondered what would happen if Bishop spun the car around and caught up with that officer.

      • • • •

      The site was so fresh, the chalk and plaster and asbestos so thick in the air, that Linc thought if they’d gotten there a couple minutes earlier, the building might’ve fallen right on top of them. A couple of the men had once-white hospital masks they tucked over their noses and mouths. A few pulled up their bandannas, so did some of the women and other on-sighters who came in off the street, all chalky overalls and scratched up Timberland boots.

      The stackers gravitated to their own fiefdoms, the slower ones pushed out to some of the isolated corners while the denizens of Bishop’s truck, among the first responders, got their pick of the waste.

      That there’s twenty bucks, Jayceon said, indicating with his hammer a mound of rubble.

      Kendrick hopped over a ledge, dust rising in clouds upon his landing. I’m standin’ in about two days’ pay rightchea.

      Linc walked past Jayceon who shot back at Kendrick, You standin’ in a pile o’ bats is what you standin’ in.

      They went back and forth a few times, Mercedes interjecting with her own putdowns, but before long, everyone was working. Dig, clean, sort, build. Linc flipped his hammer so that the flat claw pointed at the ground. Wide stance, he swung around in sweeping strokes, raking through the rubble, and when he found a brick, he flipped his hammer and, with one swift blow, dashed away the mortar that had clung to it. A quick glance, and it went into his pile. More sweeping, more hammering to clear away the detritus. A couple stackers had shorter handles on their hammers and had to stoop further than was healthy, hands that much closer to the wires, nails, broken piping, panes of glass. With each strike, mortar dust erupted, shards shooting in all directions. Grit settled on their clothes, filled their pores, turned the sweat on their brow into streams of mud that tracked the bandannas over their mouths like tearstains.

      Rodney, who moved like a ballet dancer around his war-stiffened leg, had about five hundred bricks. He danced in the middle of his pallet, building his stack around him in the shape of an L. Before long, he had nine layers up, alternating the directions of the bricks on each layer so that the whole thing wouldn’t topple.

      How old is you, Bishop? Mercedes shouted, surrounded by her own stacks.

      Eighty-two next Monday.

      Coulda swore you was at least eighty-five last week.

      Hah! Bugs shouted from his pile of brick and ash. Bishop, you been stackin’ for least forty-fifty years, that right?

      Fifty-six years, Bishop said around his cigar, working in smooth, slow, efficient motions. Once his body got stooped to a particular angle, it stayed that way for the entirety of his run. Lord’s help, I just might retire soon.

      That right, Bishop? Kendrick sang.

      Yep. Get me a nice white horse and set out for Rancho Cooooooocamunga. At which everyone, including Bishop, roared with mirth.

      You do that, we might miss you, Bishop. Wyatt this time, athletic build coated in a sheen of muddy sweat where his muscled limbs showed beneath his workshirt. Who gon’ preach to the congregation here when you gone?

      The Lord provides, Bishop said. Then again, beneath his breath, to himself, The Lord provides.

      Linc was close enough to hear it between the clink his hammer made when it broke the mortar off a brick.

      • • • •

      The sun silhouettes them. Seen from above, they are ants. Black and brown ants with baseball caps or worn fedoras shielding their faces. Clouds of dust erupt with each blow of the hammer and chalk clings to them in their search for New Haven Heavies, those pitted off-white bricks that, when stacked on square wooden skids or pallets, will get shipped to the local transporter and then shot up, packaged and shrink-wrapped, to the Colony where they will build houses that look just like the ones on Earth used to look. The bricks won’t be irradiated when they arrive the way they’re irradiated now. Space will cleanse them, deepen their off-whiteness, and by the time they get to the docking station, they will be pretty and pitted and just the right kind of almost-dirty.

      A brick in one hand, a hammer in the other.

      When one gets too close to the other, the second, without raising his head, will shout, son of a bitch or step off or we got a problem, nigga? and the first will either retreat with an apology and a muttered epithet or he’ll say get it like the Red Cross, nigga and the two will fight in the dirt, punching each other in the ribs or pinning one guy to the ground and smashing his face with a bat until the blood and the mortar meld together and one of them is still and groaning on his mound of debris and the other stands over him, chest heaving, bloody, broken brick in his hand, finishes his skid and takes a smoke break, having lost the energy to work for the rest of the day.

      The cheering subsides and one of the older stackers helps carry the defeated man out of the arena. Enterprising stackers take over his skid, divide the proceeds, add to their own.

      Heard your old lady won’t gi’ you back your Frank Ocean records, one of them guffaws while some of the others shoot up in the remnants of the half-demolished building. Heard she changed the locks on your ass. They vanish into the shadows and sometimes an hour passes before they’re seen again, smooth and swerving and smiling, sometimes two.

      One stacker challenges another to a race, see who can build a skid the fastest.

      Sometimes, on a really hot day, motivation will evaporate. If one of them sits down for maybe an hour, he can’t get back up again. They all have to wait for the wreckers to finish with the building and in the pause between batterings, Timeica will light up a Newport and tell Mercedes about how there used to be a big market for Haven Heavies in the South when they wanted to replace all them wooden plantations with clean, white brick that looked just the right shade of old. Bishop will verify, mention his grand-pappy or great grand-pappy, and when the building is no longer there to shade them, after they’ve watched it crumble and covered their faces to the dust clouds, they resume their work, a roving part of the landscape like ants or beetles or butterflies.

      • • • •

      Linc fished a pack of Newports out of his shirt pocket and lit one up. Jayceon followed suit. From East Rock, a ridge grown craggy with poisoned air and sunrays devoid of nutrition, they watched the skyline. Smoke from dumpsters columned into the air, leaned and pitched with the wind. Cracks spread like thick-knuckled fingers through Orange Street, turning the bike lane into a makeshift mountain trail.

      The university at the center of the Ivy Quarter jutted like a middle finger amongst the glass-and-steel high rises, made orange by the sunrise and the venom in the air. The whole place looked contaminated, but Linc appreciated how quiet that made it.

      Somewhere in the distance, a shuttle shot off into

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