by Neil Clarke
Copyright © 2018 by Neil Clarke
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-59780-957-3
Cover illustration by Jacques Leyreloup Cover design by Claudia Noble
Please see page 593 for an extension of this copyright page.
Printed in the United States of America
If you find a bit of yourself in these stories,
this book is for you.
Contents
Title Page
Introduction
Touring with the Alien Carolyn Ives Gilman
Laws of Survival Nancy Kress
At Play in the Fields Steve Rasnic Tem
The Ants of Flanders Robert Reed
Taking Care of God Cixin Liu, translated by Ken Liu
Water Scorpions Rich Larson
The Three Resurrections of Jessica Churchill Kelly Robson
Men Are Trouble James Patrick Kelly
They Shall Salt the Earth with Seeds of Glass Alaya Dawn Johnson
Bits Naomi Kritzer
And Never Mind the Watching Ones Keffy R. M. Kehrli
Dark Heaven Gregory Benford
Nine-Tenths of the Law Molly Tanzer
Five Stages of Grief After the Alien Invasion Caroline M. Yoachim
Time of the Snake A.M. Dellamonica
The Fear Gun Judith Berman
Tendeléo’s Story Ian McDonald
The Choice Paul McAuley
Passage of Earth Michael Swanwick
Reborn Ken Liu
Story of Your Life Ted Chiang
Introduction
Throughout the science fiction landscape, aliens have been used to illustrate our own best and worst traits, but from a distance that makes it more palatable than a closer look in the mirror. They are portrayed as invaders, refugees, saviors, observers, outsiders, opportunists, and sometimes as beings that barely notice our existence. Yet, outside of the stories, the idea that aliens are visiting Earth is pretty much consigned to conspiracy theories and myths. While many governments and private organizations have investigated claims and made contingencies for the possibility, we have no credible evidence to suggest that we have been visited by beings from other worlds.
But how would we react if they did? What would they do? And why are they here?
Our history is littered with examples of how we have treated our own kind in similar situations, and it isn’t always pretty. Will we behave any differently if and when aliens do make contact? Science fiction challenges us to think about those possibilities, often drawing on history in a way that causes us to see things from another perspective. Traversing those paths can evoke multiple emotions, with some tales experienced as entertaining, thoughtful, and sometimes downright terrifying.
For example, one of the most popular tales of alien invasion is War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells. Wells followed in the vein of classic invasion literature of the time, but through the Martians, he created a power that mirrored the attitudes of the British Empire. This allowed him to turn the spotlight on the problems caused by imperialism and social Darwinism, calling into question issues of race, ethnicity, and class in his time. Written sometime between 1895 and 1897, it has never been out of print and has been adapted for several films and other performances, including a famous panic-inducing radio program in 1938. While Wells was not the only one writing about these things, his allegorical approach has actually proven more enduring.
And while invasion stories might be one of the first to come to mind, the science fiction field, both in print and film, have covered a wide spectrum of scenarios that led to aliens being on Earth. For example, “Who Goes There?” by John W. Campbell—the story that inspired the movie The Thing—was about a twenty-million-year-old survivor of a crashed ship that essentially feeds on people. Is it a monster or something just trying to survive? But when Peter Watts chose to tell the tale from “the monster’s” perspective, we see a creature that is trying to help save us from our own isolated minds and become part of something greater. It simply cannot understand why we resist its own sacred communion, and believes it has a responsibility to help us evolve . . .
The movie E.T. provides yet another look at the alien trapped on Earth, but this time centered on an alien who just wants to go home after being mistakenly left behind by an interrupted research expedition. Our government plays the part of the monster in this particular scenario as they try to capture him throughout the film. The heart of the tale is one of a forbidden friendship between children and the alien—who can be seen as childlike itself—and their efforts to help him return to his kind. Another film, District 9, portrays yet another refugee scenario, which plays upon the themes of social segregation and xenophobia and is heavily influenced by the era of South African apartheid. These might be more challenging stories to tell—and sell—had the aliens been replaced with humans, which makes the art that much more poignant in its allegorical connection. It aims for subtle and overt and ultimately succeeds.
Arthur C. Clarke’s novel Childhood’s End—also made into a TV miniseries of the same name—gives us a tale of the alien as potential savior. Here, they come to Earth to help bring about an almost utopian age under their supervision, but in the process, humanity begins to lose its identity and culture. While the aliens’ motivations may be well-meaning and driven by a higher-power, the consequences are significant and frightening. You can’t help but question the trade-off by the end of the book.
Or sometimes the underlying issues are far more simplistic. For example, another take on the “alien as savior” trope is Superman, a refugee alien whose powers grant him the ability to combat the forces of evil; or Doctor Who, a time-traveling alien that acts as a guardian of Earth. Here, the alien hero is a reassuring presence, a role often symbolizing a protective parent-child relationship, and in these specific stories we see that common bond. The alien is something larger than life, able to take on the overwhelming dangers and provide hope and escape where needed.
For others, however, these portrayals have been significantly problematic. Despite being alien, they often appear human, typically representing some of us much more than others. You can see this in the recent decision to have Doctor Who’s latest incarnation be female, which created some controversy, but was also met with high praise or ambivalence from others. Given the alien’s frequent role in demonstrating our own problems, it is not surprising that it should start addressing this one, particularly now. Science fiction has always embraced the unknown, the uncomfortable, and the controversial. There hasn’t been a time when social and political issues haven’t influenced the genre, period. Science fiction is, by nature, a literature that constantly challenges us. The best of those stories become timeless.
In exploring
the often popular first contact theme, this avenue allows the author to illustrate the difficulties two groups can have because of culture, language, and tradition. One of my favorite stories involving this subject closes out this anthology, but for me, the more interesting aspect is what happens after we’ve found each other. I find things really get moving after the diplomats, scientists, and linguists have started the ball rolling and the two societies have to learn to coexist in spite of all our issues.
Ultimately, their journey is our own, whether it be stories of hope, where we find a way to live, work, and love together; or stories of persecution simply for being different. Aliens are the ultimate outsiders, a sentiment to which many of us can can relate.
Maybe someday, one of them will read this book.
Neil Clarke
May 2018
Note: The title of this book is shared by a Peter Gabriel song and a small press science fiction magazine, both of which are significant in their own ways. I admire both, but neither are connected to this anthology.
Carolyn Ives Gilman is a writer of science fiction. Her most recent novel, Dark Orbit, is a space exploration adventure that raises questions about consciousness and perception. Her short fiction has received nominations for both the Nebula and Hugo awards. In her professional life she is a historian who writes nonfiction about North American frontier and Native history, most recently for the National Museum of the American Indian (Smithsonian Institution). She lives in Washington, DC.
Touring with the Alien
Carolyn Ives Gilman
The alien spaceships were beautiful, no one could deny that: towering domes of overlapping, chitinous plates in pearly dawn colors, like reflections on a tranquil sea. They appeared overnight, a dozen incongruous soap-bubble structures scattered across the North American continent. One of them blocked a major interstate in Ohio; another monopolized a stadium parking lot in Tulsa. But most stood in cornfields and forests and deserts where they caused little inconvenience.
Everyone called them spaceships, but from the beginning the experts questioned that name. NORAD had recorded no incoming landing craft, and no mother ship orbited above. That left two main possibilities: they were visitations from an alien race that traveled by some incomprehensibly advanced method; or they were a mutant eruption of Earth’s own tortured ecosystem.
The domes were impervious. Probing radiation bounced off them, as did potshots from locals in the days before the military moved in to cordon off the areas. Attempts to communicate produced no reaction. All the domes did was sit there reflecting the sky in luminous, dreaming colors.
Six months later, the panic had subsided and even CNN had grown weary of reporting breaking news that was just the same old news. Then, entry panels began to open and out walked the translators, one per dome. They were perfectly ordinary-looking human beings who said that they had been abducted as children and had now come back to interpret between their biological race and the people who had adopted them.
Humanity learned surprisingly little from the translators. The aliens had come in peace. They had no demands and no questions. They merely wanted to sit here minding their own business for a while. They wanted to be left alone.
No one believed it.
Avery was visiting her brother when her boss called.
“Say, you’ve still got those security credentials, right?” Frank said.
“Yes . . .” She had gotten the security clearance in order to haul a hush-hush load of nuclear fuel to Nevada, a feat she wasn’t keen on repeating.
“And you’re in D.C.?”
She was actually in northern Virginia, but close enough. “Yeah.”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“Don’t tell me it’s another gig for Those We Dare Not Name.”
He didn’t laugh, which told her it was bad. “Uh . . . no. More like those we can’t name.”
She didn’t get it. “What?”
“Some . . . neighbors. Who live in funny-shaped houses. I can’t say more over the phone.”
She got it then. “Frank! You took a contract from the frigging aliens?”
“Sssh,” he said, as if every phone in America weren’t bugged. “It’s strictly confidential.”
“Jesus,” she breathed out. She had done some crazy things for Frank, but this was over the top. “When, where, what?”
“Leaving tonight. D.C. to St. Louis. A converted tour bus.”
“Tour bus? How many of them are going?”
“Two passengers. One human, one . . . whatever. Will you do it?”
She looked into the immaculate condo living room, where her brother, Blake, and his husband, Jeff, were playing a noisy, fast-paced video game, oblivious to her conversation. She had promised to be at Blake’s concert tomorrow. It meant a lot to him. “Just a second,” she said to Frank.
“I can’t wait,” he said.
“Two seconds.” She muted the phone and walked into the living room. Blake saw her expression and paused the game.
She said, “Would you hate me if I couldn’t be there tomorrow?”
Disappointment, resignation, and wry acceptance crossed his face, as if he hadn’t ever really expected her to keep her promise. “What is it?” he asked.
“A job,” she said. “A really important job. Never mind, I’ll turn it down.”
“No, Ave, don’t worry. There will be other concerts.”
Still, she hesitated. “You sure?” she said. She and Blake had always hung together, like castaways on a hostile sea. They had given each other courage to sail into the wind. To disappoint him felt disloyal.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Now I’ll be sorry if you stay.”
She thumbed the phone on. “Okay, Frank, I’ll do it. This better not get me in trouble.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said. “I’ll email you instructions. Bye.”
From the couch, Jeff said, “Now I know why you want to do it. Because it’s likely to get you in trouble.”
“No, he gave me his word,” Avery said.
“Cowboy Frank? The one who had you drive guns to Nicaragua?”
“That was perfectly legal,” Avery said.
Jeff had a point, as usual. Specialty Shipping did the jobs no reputable company would handle. Ergo, so did Avery.
“What is it this time?” Blake asked.
“I can’t say.” The email had come through; Frank had attached the instructions as if a PDF were more secure than email. She opened and scanned them.
The job had been cleared by the government, but the client was the alien passenger, and she was to take orders only from him, within the law. She scanned the rest of the instructions till she saw the pickup time. “Damn, I’ve got to get going,” she said.
Her brother followed her into the guest room to watch her pack up. He had never understood her nomadic lifestyle, which made his silent support for it all the more generous. She was compelled to wander; he was rooted in this home, this relationship, this warm, supportive community. She was a discarder, using things up and throwing them away; he had created a home that was a visual expression of himself—from the spare, Japanese-style furniture to the Zen colors on the walls. Visiting him was like living inside a beautiful soul. She had no idea how they could have grown up so different. It was as if they were foundlings.
She pulled on her boots and shouldered her backpack. Blake hugged her. “Have a good trip,” he said. “Call me.”
“Will do,” she said, and hit the road again.
The media had called the dome in Rock Creek Park the Mother Ship—but only because of its proximity to the White House, not because it was in any way distinctive. Like the others, it had appeared overnight, sited on a broad, grassy clearing that had been a secluded picnic ground in the urban park. It filled the entire creek valley, cutting off the trails and gre
atly inconveniencing the joggers and bikers.
Avery was unprepared for its scale. Like most people, she had seen the domes only on TV, and the small screen did not do justice to the neck-craning reality. She leaned forward over the wheel and peered out the windshield as she brought the bus to a halt at the last checkpoint. The National Park Police pickup that had escorted her through all the other checkpoints pulled aside.
The appearance of an alien habitat had set off a battle of jurisdictions in Washington. The dome stood on U.S. Park Service property, but D.C. Police controlled all the access streets, and the U.S. Army was tasked with maintaining a perimeter around it. No agency wanted to surrender a particle of authority to the others. And then there was the polite, well-groomed young man who had introduced himself as “Henry,” now sitting in the passenger seat next to her. His neatly pressed suit sported no bulges of weaponry, but she assumed he was CIA.
She now saw method in Frank’s madness at calling her so spur-of-the-moment. Her last-minute arrival had prevented anyone from pulling her aside into a cinderblock room for a “briefing.” Instead, Henry had accompanied her in the bus, chatting informally.
“Say, while you’re on the road . . .”
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“The alien’s my client. I don’t spy on clients.”
He paused a moment, but seemed unruffled. “Not even for your country?”
