Heiresses of Russ 2014
The Year’s Best Lesbian Speculative Fiction
•
Melissa Scott and Steve Berman
Copyright Melissa Scott and Steve Berman 2014
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords.com
all rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in 2014 by Lethe Press, Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • [email protected]
isbn: 978-1-59021-460-2 / 1-59021-460-9 (library binding)
isbn: 978-1-59021-293-6 / 1-59021-293-2 (paperback)
isbn: 978-1-59021-461-9 / 1-59021-461-7 (e-book)
Credits for first publication appear on at the end, which constitute an extension of this copyright page.
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
Cover and interior design: Alex Jeffers.
Cover art: Niki Smith.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Melissa Scott
The Gold Mask’s Menagerie
Chanté McCoy
Counting Down the Seconds
Lexy Wealleans
The Other Bridge
Alex Jeffers
Love Over Glass, Skin Under Glass
Penny Stirling
Hungry
Robert E. Stutts
Liquid Loyalty
Redfern Jon Barrett
Her Infinite Variety
Sacchi Green
The Coffinmaker’s Love
Alberto Yáñez
Terminal City
Zoë Blade
The Bride in Furs
Layla Lawlor
Your Figure Will Assume Beautiful Outlines
Claire Humphrey
Blood, Stone, Water
A.J. Fitzwater
Vector
Benjanun Sriduangkaew
Of Selkies, Disco Balls, and Anna Plane
Cat Rambo
Selected Program Notes from the Retro- spective Exhibition of Theresa Rosenberg Latimer
Kenneth Schneyer
Difference of Opinion
Meda Kahn
Boat in Shadows, Crossing
Tori Truslow
The Raven and Her Victory
Tansy Rayner Roberts
Introduction
Melissa Scott
When publisher Steve Berman asked me if I’d be interested in editing Heiresses of Russ 2014: The Year’s Best Lesbian Speculative Fiction, I was excited, honored, and a little intimidated. It was only after I said yes that I realized that the collection would also mark the 30th anniversary of the publication of my first novel (The Game Beyond, if you’re curious), and as I read through the many fine stories submitted for consideration, it increasingly dawned on me that I had also lived through an extraordinary change in the field.
Thirty years ago, could an anthology like this have been published? Yes, there was Kindred Spirits: An Anthology of Gay and Lesbian Science Fiction. It even featured Joanna Russ‘s astonishing “When It Changed,” but that story had appeared in Dangerous Visions a decade earlier... The next queer spec fic anthology, Worlds Apart, would not release for another two years. There were specialty LGBT presses, like Naiad Press and Alyson Publications, and there were lesbian stories being written in the spec fic world, but the two didn’t often connect. A few lesbian presses went so far as to dismiss SF/F as inescapably patriarchal—the genre itself was considered unredeemable—and in general lesbian presses and the lesbian community preferred mysteries; within the SF/F community, the general consensus was that few fans were interested in reading about lesbian duelists or space explorers, and a minority of book and magazine editors were actively hostile to queer themes. Whether this lack of representation held back lesbian speculative fiction or simply forced the its authors to work harder to find an outlet for their fiction is a moot point; it would take another a decade for both niche and mainstream SF presses to see the merits of those stories. Alyson released Swords of the Rainbow; a series of anthologies called Bending the Landscape, edited by Stephen Pagel and Nicola Griffith, covered first fantasy in 1997, then science-fiction the following year, and finally horror in 2002. (The publisher of this book, Lethe Press had only been born the prior year.)
And now in the 21st century there are so many more of us, a wide range of voices—multi-national, multi-gendered, multi-ethnic, multi-cultured—instead of a handful of people who were told in no uncertain terms that they were destroying their career by writing for dykes and faggots. If I remember that voices and stories were lost because some writers quite literally couldn’t afford to speak, I can take comfort that the risks are less these days.
So we have new books from new publishers by so many new authors. And so many stories! Decades ago, I searched long and hard to find any weird tale prominently featuring women I could relate to, but always had to worry that, if I did, the story would (a) use “lesbian” as a shorthand for “evil” and/or (b) kill one half of the couple because “everyone knew” lesbians did not deserve, couldn’t possibly have, even a heteronormative happy ending. I admit that when I started reading for this collection, I braced myself for at least a few such, but, to my delight, there were none. (My late partner and I used to watch Dr. Who together because it was — in its first incarnation — a reliable refuge from the compulsory heterosexual romance of most other SF shows, and there was no hope of seeing a queer character anywhere anyway. I don’t think either one of us would have believed that I would be able to read an entire year’s worth of lesbian stories without being made to feel inferior, the butt of a joke, or merely set dressing.) Not that some stories from 2013 lacked lesbian antagonists (usually to lesbian protagonists) but their opposition wasn’t defined by their sexuality. There were unhappy endings, but not because the characters were queer. Instead, I discovered fully-rounded character who were queer, who had complex lives and inhabited worlds where their choices, if not always wise, were generally comprehensible.
Of course, some things hadn’t changed. There’s still a great deal more lesbian fantasy than science fiction, though I refuse to believe it is because the latter genre is “male-oriented.” Fantasy is by far the more popular of the subgenres across the board; it’s no surprise that these stories reflect that. And unhappy love stories outnumber happy ones about five to one. I trust — I hope — this says more about the need for conflict in a story than the expectations of writers or readers…
Perhaps the greatest evolution brought in the last three decades is that no one story has to carry the burden of speaking for or to “all lesbians.” No one story is the story, the one true path; I promise that there is room for many different stories, many voices, and that you, as reader, will find in this collection eighteen possibilities, eighteen different and fascinating visions of what “lesbian” might be. These are stories that speak to our lives now, and will again when we pick this book up years later; they are stories to be shared with partners and friends, to be devoured and to be savored slowly. And thirty years from now, and more, they will have laid the foundations for yet more advances in the field, because, though we have come a long way, each year like this proves that we will go farther still.
•
The Gold Mask’s Menagerie
Chanté McCoy
I fell in love over a latte. No, not at first sight, although the leggy brunette caught my eye.
But, before the clock ticked off another thirty minutes, my heart was hers, whether she wanted it or not.
My attraction wasn’t all about the looks. Guys sometimes latch onto those details too fast, forgetting the important stuff. With her, it was the book engrossing her attention (intelligent), the words of appreciation to the waiter (kind), the casual not fashion-obsessed dress (classy yet not indulgent), the peace sign at her throat (hippy cool), and the muscular yet elegant standard poodle stretched out by her feet (ooh rah!).
When I could pull my eyes from her—hidden behind sunglasses, of course—I honed in on the dog. I love dogs, having a definite simpatico with them. I’m no dog whisperer or any crap like that. I know them. And I, like anyone else, tend to have favorite breeds. If you’ve been in the head of few, you’d get my meaning.
Let’s just say that fluffy lap dogs appeal to some people more than do the larger work breeds. Evidently, the gal and I shared a taste for the big guys. Intelligent, strong, and loyal. Sure wouldn’t say that about my mother’s Yorkie, even though he’s a sweet little guy.
Having concluded the stars (aka breed choice) practically fated us to be together, I should have introduced myself and learned my soul mate’s name. I know, but being me, that didn’t happen. I’m not exactly an eye-turner myself, being rather pale, frail, and all ways bland on the surface. So, I’m shy. Fearful of rejection.
Whatever. Not the end of the world. I have other methods.
I lay my head on the table, closing my eyes. To all onlookers, I appeared to be napping at my sidewalk table. Soon, I brushed against the dog’s mind. I went gently, coaxing it to share space. I only wanted to use the animal’s senses, not take over its consciousness. Reassured, it stopped resisting.
The girl sensed its initial distress. “Are you okay, Brigitte?”
I/Brigitte almost piddled. Fortunately, despite the shock, “we” maintained bladder control. Because here’s the deal: Brigitte is my name too. I swear. At least my middle name. My first is Barbara, although my family calls me B.B. at my insistence. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been like all pumped about it, but the coincidence sealed the deal. I thought, totally meant to be.
I took over a little more and set Brigitte’s tail to wagging. Being a tall dog, I nudged a hand and put my head on her lap. Oh, she smelled good. She scratched my ears, and I was in dog heaven.
My timing wasn’t so amazing, though. The server brought her bill, and she immediately dug into her purse, ready to go. I put my front paws up on the table to see better, but, to my disappointment, she pulled out cash. No credit card. No way to glean her name. Then she pulled me down with a reprimand for my brass and tugged at my leash. So much for my master plan.
I panicked, glancing at my slumped body. It lay out in the open, comatose and vulnerable, and I had seconds to make a choice, while it was in view. If I jumped back, I’d be disoriented for a moment, figuring out who I was, what I was, and where the hell I was, and I still had my own tab to cover. Meanwhile, the mystery woman was walking away, about to turn a corner, disappearing maybe forever? Argh!
So, I did what any love sick puppy would do. I tagged along. Thank god Brigitte’s owner made it to her house in twenty minutes. Plus I learned three things along the way.
One, she has a big heart.
Half-way there, on the edge of a small neighborhood park, some asshole was finger-stabbing a smaller, teenaged boy. The bruiser looked older and had at least a fifty-pound advantage.
“Come on, you chicken shit,” the big guy said.
Looked like he was intimidating the crap out of the boy. We stopped. The bully paused too. He tossed his head back and winked at my brunette. Maybe he thought she was impressed.
She wasn’t. Though smaller too by comparison, she walked toward him. I sensed her heart rapidly beating and smelled the adrenaline oozing from her pores.
“Leave him alone.”
“Say what?” The convict-in-training puffed up, menacing her in turn.
Funny how he backed off when I bared my teeth. He’d have to go through me first to get to her, and guess who had the winning odds? Not him.
“Why don’t you mind your own business, you…”
I clipped his words, lunging at him and growling my damnedest. I think, despite lack of a translator, he understood the words coming out of my mouth. Let’s just say I cussed like a salty dog. You know, like a sailor, though I know plenty on land who can hold their own with a rich vocabulary.
The bullied kid took off while dipshit admired my pearly whites. We left soon after, the poor girl shaking a bit and muttering under her breath.
Two, I got her address.
She lived in a brick rambler, only a couple miles from my home by way the crow flies.
Three, a phone call en route answered my biggest question.
She had a boyfriend. Damn.
I had more questions but needed to get back to my body before someone thought to call an ambulance, despite the bright red medical alert bracelet declaring I had narcolepsy. Then I’d be screwed not knowing where my body was. I spied a sparrow in a nearby oak and switched. Fortunately, back at the café, no one was paying my shell much mind.
Despite the disorientation and mental fatigue, I returned to her brick home that night. It took three switches to arrive: a bird, an ant to creep in, and then Brigitte. Mammalian brains are the best for me. Insect brains the worst. That’s not a criticism of arthropods. Their central nervous systems are beautifully evolved for such a small scale, but rigidly structured, and it’s hard to track what’s going on in the larger world when a blade of grass seems monumental.
Once again in Brigitte, I realized the boyfriend was present.
“Give it a break, Anya…”
Finally! A name.
“…I had to go through that crap too when growing up. It’s practically a rite of passage,” he finished.
“Oh, so you’re saying bullying is okay, practically expected? Like the kid might have been deprived a learning experience without that ass, Bruce Helmsley, threatening him to do whatever?”
“Well, I…”
“That guy was after my little brother last year too.”
“Well, that…”
“And let me guess. You enjoyed your own little rite of passage.”
“Well, honestly, I wanted to knock the guy’s teeth out. But it’s pretty standard fare. What do you want me to do about it?”
Anya stared at him, apparently in thought.
He held up his hands defensively. “Look, I’m not going knocking on the guy’s door. Of course, if he touches you, then I’ll kick the shit out of him.”
I doubted it. Anya seemed unconvinced too, her head tilted sideways as she looked at him.
He laughed nervously. “Besides, you can hold your own. You’ve been taking taekwondo for years, right? Hope you didn’t waste your money.”
So much for chivalry, I thought.
Anya seemed to be thinking about it too. She went quiet. After a few minutes of awkward silence, she spoke up. “Sean, it’s getting late. You should go home.”
He looked surprised. I laughed, but it came out a bark. At least he didn’t argue. Just grabbed a jacket and left.
I was all happy to have her to myself. I walked over, hoping for another head scratch, but she was distracted. She paced for a while, frowning and twisting her dark hair into knots, before pulling out the phone book and slamming it on the kitchen table. She thumbed through the middle section of the white pages, ran her finger down a page, and underlined an address. I jumped up to look again and set it to memory. An address for Mr. Helmsley.
“Brigitte, what are you doing? Get down!”
Then she wandered off to her bedroom, so full of lovely Anya smells, and pulled down a box from the closet. Rummaging, she extracted something that flashed a shiny gold sheen and tossed it on the bed. Being a dog with canine synapses, I wasn’t too quick on the take. I just sat there, happily panting and unquestioning, as she changed into bl
ack yoga pants and a matching top, pulled her hair into a pony tail, and, picked up the shiny thingie on the bed. As I watched, entranced, she molded a gold eye mask á la Mardi Gras to her face and tied it on. OMG. Totally sexy. I just figured that Anya had a creative side life, and I looked forward to the evening entertainment as long as it didn’t involve Sean in some fifty shades of sex play. Hey, I’m no saint.
When she started punching at the air and muttering under her breath, exuding anxiety, I realized something bigger was going down. My ears perked up. This was no cosplay.
“Rites of passage, my ass,” she said. “I’ll show that bastard right from wrong.” Or was she doing a little word play there on “rite”? Man, she was growing on me.
She took one last glance at the hallway entry mirror, inhaled deeply, and opened the door. I tried to follow, but her leg blocked me. “Stay.”
I would be damned if I’d do so. I quickly nosed down a beetle, switched, and escaped under the door. I was losing time. Obviously, I couldn’t go far or fast on quarter-inch legs. Five minutes passed before I eyed another animal. I’d hoped for a dog or cat, even a bird, but a squirrel came into sight first. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Anya was looking for trouble, and I intended to be by her side. At least I had an address.
Anya was in showdown mode when I arrived. Somehow, she was in the house. I suspect it was by invite, not covert Ninja style, since the door was open. A good sign: the guy was an idiot. Did he fail to see the mask? Or did he only see tits? Please, come in and kick my ass.
She stood in a rear foot stance, her hands balled into fists. The bully from the park stood before her, with folded arms and an amused look.
“…again, then I’m coming back,” she said, finishing some speech she must have rehearsed on the way.
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