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    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 46 September 2020: Galaxy's Edge, #46
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 46 September 2020: Galaxy's Edge, #46
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 46 September 2020: Galaxy's Edge, #46
    Ebook294 pages5 hours

    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 46 September 2020: Galaxy's Edge, #46

    By Michael Swanwick, Nancy Kress and Walter Jon Williams

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    A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy
     

    ISSUE 46: September 2020

     

    Lezli Robyn, Editor

    Martin Shoemaker, Assistant Editor

    Taylor Morris, Copyeditor

    Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

     

    Stories by: Errick A. Nunnally, Mike Resnick, K. A. Teryna (translation by Alex Shvartsman), Nancy Kress, Edward M. Lerner, Michael Swanwick, Marina J. Lostetter, Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

     

    Serialization: Midnight at the Well of Souls by Jack L. Chalker

     

    Columns by: Gregory Benford, L. Penelope

     

    Recommended Books: Richard Chwedyk

     

    Interview: Lezli Robyn interviews Walter Jon Williams

     

    Galaxy's Edge is a bi-monthly magazine published by Phoenix Pick, the science fiction and fantasy imprint of Arc Manor, an award winning independent press based in Maryland. Each issue of the magazine has a mix of new and old stories, a serialization of a novel, columns by L. Penelope and Gregory Benford, book recommendations by Richard Chwydyk  and an interview conducted by Joy Ward.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPhoenix Pick
    Release dateAug 31, 2020
    ISBN9781649730688
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 46 September 2020: Galaxy's Edge, #46

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      Book preview

      Galaxy’s Edge Magazine - Michael Swanwick

      ISSUE 46: September 2020

      Lezli Robyn, Editor

      Martin L. Shoemaker, Assistant Editor

      Taylor Morris, Copyeditor

      Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

      Published by Arc Manor/Phoenix Pick

      P.O. Box 10339

      Rockville, MD 20849-0339

      Galaxy’s Edge is published in January, March, May, July, September, and November.

      All material is either copyright © 2020 by Arc Manor LLC, Rockville, MD, or copyright © by the respective authors as indicated within the magazine. All rights reserved.

      This magazine (or any portion of it) may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

      ISBN: 978-1-64973-068-8

      SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION:

      Paper and digital subscriptions are available. Please visit our home page: www.GalaxysEdge.com

      ADVERTISING:

      Advertising is available in all editions of the magazine. Please contact advert@GalaxysEdge.com.

      FOREIGN LANGUAGE RIGHTS:

      Please refer all inquiries pertaining to foreign language rights to Shahid Mahmud, Arc Manor, P.O. Box 10339, Rockville, MD 20849-0339. Tel: 1-240-645-2214. Fax 1-310-388-8440. Email admin@ArcManor.com.

      www.GalaxysEdge.com

      Contents

      EDITOR’S NOTE by Lezli Robyn

      THE BONE KITE by Errick A. Nunnally

      THE LAST DOG by Mike Resnick

      NO ONE EVER LEAVES PORT HENRI by K. A. Teryna (Translated by Alex Shvartsman)

      EVERY HOUR OF LIGHT AND DARK by Nancy Kress

      A CASE OF IDENTITY by Edward M. Lerner

      TRICERATOPS SUMMER by Michael Swanwick

      THINGS THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST by Marina J. Lostetter

      PLEASING THE PARALLELS by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

      THE GALAXY’S EDGE INTERVIEW: WALTER JON WILLIAMS by Lezli Robyn

      BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS by Richard Chwedyk

      THE SCIENTIST’S NOTEBOOK by Gregory Benford

      LOST AND FOUND: FANTASY MAPS by L. Penelope

      MIDNIGHT AT THE WELL OF SOULS (serialization) by Jack L. Chalker

      EDITOR’S NOTE

      by Lezli Robyn

      It’s summer where the Galaxy’s Edge team live, but instead of flinging ourselves into the ocean to cool down or attending cookouts with our family and friends, we’re (mostly) sitting at home in isolation on our computers, watching COVID-19 cases soar in detailed graphs. So much of the world has opened up again, including the United States, while we have watched this virus take the lives of those around us. We would like to send heartfelt condolences to those in our science fiction and fantasy family who have lost loved ones to this nasty virus, and we hope that our fiction helps distract you from the almost-apocalyptic reality of our current day-to-day life.

      Alvaro Zinos-Amaro gifted this editor with an incredibly evocative science fiction take of the toll an incurable disease can take on the family members of the inflicted. While Pleasing the Parallels is evocative and bittersweet, it is also a welcome celebration of life, and a story that will stick with you a long time after you have finished reading it.

      I’m privileged to introduce our readers to K. A. Teryna, a brilliant Russian author who wrote the chilling tale of a father fighting to save his son from becoming the next king of his Caribbean island. Why wouldn’t he want his son to ascend the throne? Well, as with all well-written dark fantasy stories, the reader will discover there is more to that honor than meets the eye. No One Ever Leaves Port Henri was translated by frequent, and beloved, contributor to this magazine, Alex Shvartsman, and is a brilliant introduction to an exciting international author. Marina J. Lostetter also shows us the importance of being able to choose your own fate, with a short science fiction piece so beautiful, so evocative, I had tears coursing down my cheeks by the time I reached the end. And, believe me, given the visuals of the story, that was most fitting.

      Our reprint stories this issue include The Last Dog, by Mike Resnick, which his wife, Carol Resnick, says is one of the most moving short pieces he has ever written, and I couldn’t agree more. Michael Swanwick is also in this issue with Triceratops Summer, about an accident at a physics institute which unleashes a herd of dinosaurs into the modern world. There’s an ominous, unexplained deadline looming, and one local knows the truth . . .

      We welcome Nancy Kress back to the pages of Galaxy’s Edge with Every Hour of Light and Dark, set on a post-apocalyptic lunar base. A time travel team steals art treasures from the pre-contamination past, trading them for forgeries. And in Edward M. Lerner’s unexpectedly sensitive and nuanced piece, A Case of Identity, a sentient A.I. is asked by a young human woman to find another A.I., the boyfriend who has ghosted her.

      Our columnists return with some more thought-provoking essays on topics of science and what makes fiction more compelling, with L. Penelope discussing the merits of including maps in your fantasy novels, and Gregory Benford examining whether the economics of space travel can make space opera fiction plausible or possible in its current form, or through extrapolation.

      Richard Chwedyk offers insight as to the best fiction to be read this summer in his latest book review selections. And I had the pleasure of interviewing Walter Jon Williams about his life and career as an author, enjoying discovering that he had written his first four hundred–plus page novel at the age of thirteen (!!!), amongst other interesting details. I always find it fascinating when we are able to pull back the curtain and discover what really makes authors tick, and this interview is particularly enlightening.

      And lastly, I would love to introduce our readers to a new-to-us author, Errick Nunnally, whose incredibly creative and magical fantasy story, The Bone Kite, literally chilled me to the core as well as moved me with such nostalgic tenderness. Jessica wakes up to discover she is trapped within her daughter’s dream, except the physical world around her is beautifully constructed from the abstract and imperfect drawings of a child with a vivid imagination. Can Jessica save her daughter when the dream evolves to become every mother’s nightmare?

      While we live in such unsettled times, the importance of family, and loved ones, is especially significant. If there is one element many of the stories in this issue have in common, it is the resilience of humans, especially when fighting to protect those they love. By the time the next issue comes out in November, the next presidential election will be upon us in the United States, with voters deciding the next four years of our fate. But for now, hold your loved ones close, enjoy precious summer moments with your family or friends, and remember you do have a voice. Authors learn to use their voices through the artistic formation of words on the written page, but we also need to go out and vote. We can only shape the world outside of our own personal sphere by making the effort.

      Be the hero or heroine of your own story. Your efforts will shape the world your children inherit.

      Errick Nunnally was raised in Boston, served in the USMC, and graduated from art school. He has published three novels, Blood for the Sun, All the Dead Men, and Lightning Wears a Red Cape, and several stories in anthologies and magazines. Visit erricknunnally.us to learn more about his work.

      THE BONE KITE

      by Errick A. Nunnally

      Jessica rolled over, half asleep. Her elbow struck something solid, where her husband should have been. She massaged her elbow and rolled over. Her hands swept along a warm, smooth surface. She frowned.

      Dinner had been good, the wine had been great, and once their daughter had gone to sleep, the sex had been magic. All of this culminated in a sleep so deep that now she felt as if she were clawing to wakefulness through a veil of cotton.

      What the hell? She swore under her breath and reached to turn on her light. Its glow barely penetrated the fog.

      Fog?

      She turned back to her husband’s side of the bed. He lay enveloped within a clear rhomboid-like prism, similar to Lucite. She recoiled, her heart slamming in her ribcage. She slowly reached out, hesitant to touch the invasive material, and ran her hands over the warm surface again.

      Her stomach turned and convulsed, her skin went cold. She worked her jaw until she ground out, Jeff, and slammed her palm against the unyielding substance. Jeff!

      Jessica stared at her husband, suspended, motionless . . . Wait—not motionless. His chest rose and fell. She could make that out, at least, through the clear prison encasing him. She laid an ear on the rhomboid, listening past the blood thundering through her own body. Jeff’s strange prison felt warm against her ear.

      There’s a heartbeat.

      Relief tingled across her body and her shoulders relaxed. This madness felt like a nightmare. Something so surreal it was as if she’d stepped into one of Jeff’s stories, an author’s bizarre imagination spilled across reality. Nothing in her accounting background had prepared her for this. The corrupted world around her required an effort to process.

      Alive, she sighed, but . . . 

      Her daughter’s name speared her thoughts, Allana.

      Pulse hammering again, Jessica swung her legs over the side of the bed, freezing just before her feet touched the cotton-like substance she’d mistaken for fog.

      What the hell is this?

      Her eyes took in the room. Everything was different, sketchy. Literally sketched. It was as if the room was roughly drawn, like thick pencil on paper. The walls, the windows, nightstands—everything but the bed had a surreal quality to its form. Even the space between objects seemed wrong. Fearing for her sanity, she struggled with her desire to look up, to verify there was a ceiling. When she did, she saw the same cotton-like substance hovering overhead and a feeling of vertigo made her sway.

      Beneath her dangling feet, she could make out objects in the thick fog. She reached down and felt resistance against her hand before her fingers met the floor underneath the fog.

      I have to do this, she thought and heaved herself out of bed. Her bare feet made little noise as she made her way out of her room and down the hallway to their daughter’s bedroom, moving as fast as the clouded environment would allow. A night-light served as the sole illumination. It had been transformed into a warm, glowing orb, suspended just above the fog and snug against the wall. As she made her way to the doorway, the fog dragged against her skin, a bizarre resistance akin to slogging through thick mud under water.

      She leaned through her daughter’s door and felt the emotional punch of loss, a hole driven through her core. Allana wasn’t there . . .

      The bathroom.

      Jessica spun and high-stepped to the bathroom, evading the pull of the fog.

      Empty.

      Fear and sorrow pulled at her heart, the scream she felt in her throat came out as a whimper. Allana? she called out. No reply.

      Sounds drifted in from outside. A warbling voice echoed, sometimes singing, sometimes talking, all incoherent. She felt the icy tendrils of shock creeping through her body and the walls began to dim, shadows pulled closer.

      The walls.

      Why is this familiar? She sniffed, denying any premature grief, and traced a finger along the sketched, paper walls. Then she ran her palm roughly under her eyes, smearing tears, remembering her daughter’s drawings. From the corner of her eye she saw vague, sketched footprints. Childlike renderings of feet traced a path from Allana’s bed, circled the room, went up the wall, and to the window.

      Jessica scrambled over and peered out. Suspended in the air, like bits of paper frozen in the wind, footprints stepped down to the street below. All around her, the neighborhood was vague in definition. The streetlights were mere sticks with glowing dots on top, the pitched roofs a jagged repetition of angles. Cutting the night sky, a massive rainbow, impossible and flat, bent to the horizon. Movement caught her eye and she watched with growing horror as a figure came into view. It skipped and danced, singing to itself as its impossible, stick-like legs carried it along. Jessica watched and listened, her hands covering her mouth. It was a sort of potato shape and color, its face taking up more than half of its lumpy upper body. Two gelatinous orbs twitched in place of eyes. As it sang, a terrifying caricature of joy spread across its face beneath sparse and wiry hair. It stopped with a jerk and turned to look up at the window.

      Jessica ducked and shuffled backward before creeping forward to peek. The thing looked at the house for long seconds. Then it returned to singing its song. As it skipped away, Jessica recognized the word it was crooning over and over: Allaaaaaaahnaaaaa!

      A nagging realization pushed her back to her bedroom where she circled the bed to open her husband’s nightstand. He still lay there, trapped. She touched the substance entrapping him again before focusing on the task at hand and rooting through the top drawer. Inside, she found Jeff’s Moleskin. Full of notes and sketches, it was something that Jeff always had at hand and scribbled in at odd moments. Jessica had gotten used to the behavior early in their marriage, an unsurprising price to pay for marrying an artist.

      Flipping through the pages, she found the note she was looking for. Jeff kept notes on his own creative ideas, as well as some of the more interesting things their daughter had said when she was much younger. The one she was looking at was from age five. Jeff had written a couple of words, Eliot, portrait, 5. Next to it, Allana had drawn a pencil sketch of her childhood friend, a grotesque interpretation from her mind using awkward hands. It looked like the creature that Jessica had seen on the street. Other pages contained portraits of her and Jeff, recognizable only by the wiry interpretation of her loc’d hair.

      She tossed the book on the bed and began pulling on clothes. Manic adrenaline drove her twitchy movements. She chose athletic gear and tried to remember the last time she’d needed to run with purpose. Snatching up the book, she shoved a small flashlight into her sweatshirt, along with the notebook. Her gaze shifted to her phone. She scooped it up, but it turned out to be nothing but a high-tech paperweight. No signal, just a bright screen of incoherent shapes. A bit of dull metal caught her eye. Jeff carried a folding knife and it sat with the other things he typically stowed in his pockets. She grabbed the knife and took a final look at her immobilized husband. It was time to find their daughter—she had no other options.

      I’ll find her, Jeff. And I’ll be back.

      * * *

      At the end of the hall, she found the stairs were flat, like a sheet of paper with lines drawn on it to represent stairs. Testing it with one foot, she didn’t feel safe sliding down the paper. Jessica tensed in frustration and went back into Allana’s room. The floating footprints remained. The window, she now realized, was nothing, just an empty space in the wall, a child’s conception of glass. Despite that, there was a cool surface barring her way. She struggled with the geometry of grabbing the bottom of the window frame and managed to slide it up and open. She ducked, stuck one leg out, and paused, terrified. Love and trust guided her foot to the first, tiny floating footprint.

      Better this than falling through paper stairs to God-knows-what.

      The footprint sagged a bit, but sprang back when she took her weight off. Jessica looked down at the lawn.

      It’s only fifteen feet or so, she told herself. C’mon, Jess. Her scalp tightened at the thought of falling even a relatively short drop.

      She tested it again, feeling the resistance, and levered herself farther out the window to trace her daughter’s footsteps. Her back struggled with the effort to balance on the sketchy sole cutouts, and she fought back feelings of vertigo. At the bottom, the lawn, she realized, was actually a set-piece of oversized Easter grass. Everything had the surreal appearance of diorama objects hundreds of times their normal size. The footprints went into the street and pointed the direction the potato-head thing had gone.

      The prints were so small. Jessica placed her foot next to one, knowing it was her daughter’s, but trying to understand why it was so much smaller. Allana wore the same size shoes as Jessica now. Whenever Jessica dreamed of her daughter, however, Allana was small, still a young child. She’d grown so much since then. In the present, waking world, Allana tested her autonomy, worked to get her bearings as a twelve-year old.

      Far down the street, Jessica heard the thing singing again, warbling Allana’s name. With one hand to steady the book, she jogged in the same direction, an absurd idea forming in her mind. The creature came into sight and she slowed to a fast walk, being careful not to make too much noise. She grasped the knife in her pocket and called out, Elliot!

      The creature stopped on a dime and turned. Yes? Its voice sounded so young and slurred the s sound, making it into an approximation of sh. The same way Elliot used to do. It trotted toward her.

      Jessica clutched the knife and suppressed a shiver despite the very comfortable temperature. This world smelled like plastic, sugar, milk, and occasionally cinnamon. As Elliot approached, however, the smell turned to something akin to the collective scent of a daycare. Fresh diapers and lotion, juice boxes and dried snacks. And its appearance—his appearance—made the smallest, most primitive part of her brain scream with terror. It was a physical configuration that was impossible for anything alive, as all child-drawn stick figures were.

      Hi! it yelled gleefully. Hi, Miss Jessica!

      Jessica choked back her rising bile. Hello . . .Elliot, how are you?

      Good. He fidgeted, tracing one stick-foot on the ground.

      Elliot, I need to ask you, where’s Allana?

      He hopped up and down on impossibly skinny legs, an excited grin splitting his lumpy head. She’s down here. I’m lookin’ for her to play! He pointed in the direction her prints indicated she had gone.

      Jessica’s skin crawled whenever Elliot moved, and the misshapen thing wouldn’t stop moving. The boy was nothing but a drawing, a child’s illustration given form and substance and life. Though she was now immersed in a world of such impossibility, Jessica shuddered with revulsion at the overwhelming evidence. The horror she felt at the sight of this childish interpretation brought to life paled in comparison to her desire to be reunited with her daughter.

      Would it be okay if I walked with you, Elliot? she asked, pushing aside her fear and tattered sanity.

      Okay! He started off again, singing his Allana song, bright and happy.

      Under the scritching sounds Elliot’s legs made as they bounded off the asphalt, Jessica could hear something else. Static? No. More like a million echoes of Elliot’s footfalls.

      The air had congealed into something sweet and familiar. She could smell grape jam and peanut butter. Elliot stopped, but began dancing from one leg to the other. He wanted to go forward, but something appeared to be making him nervous. Jessica shuddered. She held the folded knife in clenched fingers as different sounds came closer, surrounding them. The cloying sweet smell raked the inside of her nose and she felt something scuttle across her toe.

      Elliot screamed.

      * * *

      The jump was instinctual, as was the yelp. Jessica twitched back a step as her spine tingled with Elliot’s childlike screams of pain and terror. His voice clawed at her ears, set her instincts on fire, but the ants were everywhere on him. They scrambled up Jessica’s legs, the size of pine cones, leaving sticky trails of sweetness. Jet black, the creatures were secreting the fermented sweetness of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich forgotten in the bottom of a backpack, soggy and molded. The ants pinched at her clothes, her skin.

      Jessica brushed at her legs, pushing the ants off in rapid sweeps. Elliot, brush them off, run!

      No, no, no! Elliot wailed and turned, stumbling, his skin inflamed and splotchy. The ants crawled into his huge maw and he tumbled to the ground.

      The gurgling sounds coming from Elliot’s throat pushed Jessica to the edge of panic. The boy was allergic to peanuts—the real Elliot, out in the real world. She glanced back at her home, then forward, at the little footprints marching off into the distance.

      Without much more thought, she sprinted, her feet alternating between sliding on the viscous death of crushed ants or sticking in the

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