Diverse Energies
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Tobias S. Buckell and Joe Monti
Preface copyright © 2012 by Tobias S. Buckell
“Last Day” copyright © 2012 by Ellen Oh
“Freshee’s Frogurt” copyright © 2011 by Daniel H. Wilson. Excerpted from the novel Robopocalypse, Doubleday, 2011. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.
“Uncertainty Principle” copyright © 2012 by K. Tempest Bradford
“Pattern Recognition” copyright © 2012 by Ken Liu
“Gods of the Dimming Light” copyright © 2012 by Greg van Eekhout
“Next Door” copyright © 2012 by Rahul Kanakia
“Good Girl” copyright © 2012 by Malinda Lo
“A Pocket Full of Dharma” copyright © 1999 by Paolo Bacigalupi; first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Blue Skies” copyright © 2012 by Cindy Pon
“What Arms to Hold Us” copyright © 2012 by Rajan Khanna
“Solitude” copyright © 1994 by Ursula K. Le Guin; first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Afterword copyright © 2012 by Joe Monti
Jacket illustration copyright © 2012 by John Picacio
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
TU BOOKS, an imprint of LEE & LOW BOOKS Inc., 95 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016
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Manufactured in the United States of America by Worzalla Publishing Company, November 2012
Book design by Ben Mautner
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First Edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Diverse energies / edited by Tobias S. Buckell and Joe Monti.
v. cm.
Contents: The last day / by Ellen Oh -- Freeshee's Frogurt / by Daniel H. Wilson -- Uncertainty principle / by K.T. Bradford -- Pattern recognition / by Ken Liu -- Gods of dimming light / by Greg Van Eekhout -- Next door / by Rahul Kanakia -- Good girl / by Malinda Lo -- A pocket full of dharma / by Paolo Bacigalupi -- Blue skies / by Cindy Pon -- What arms to hold / by Rajan Khanna -- Solitude / by Ursula K. Le Guin.
ISBN 978-1-60060-887-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-62014-011-6 (paperback) --
ISBN 978-1-60060-888-9 (e-book)
1. Dystopias--Juvenile fiction. 2. Science fiction, American. 3. Short stories, American. [1. Science fiction. 2. Short stories.] I. Buckell, Tobias S. II. Monti, Joe.
PZ5.D69 2012
[Fic]--dc23
2012016362
To the memory of Leslie Esdaile Banks, who was to be a part of this anthology, and although we only introduced her into the NYC crowd too briefly, she left a room full of boisterous joy in her wake.
And to Stacy, for creating Tu and building a bigger house.
PREFACE
by Tobias S. Buckell
The Last Day
by Ellen Oh
Freshee’s Frogurt
by Daniel H. Wilson
Uncertainty Principle
by K. Tempest Bradford
Pattern Recognition
by Ken Liu
Gods of the Dimming Light
by Greg van Eekhout
Next Door
by Rahul Kanakia
Good Girl
by Malinda Lo
A Pocket Full of Dharma
by Paolo Bacigalupi
Blue Skies
by Cindy Pon
What Arms to Hold Us
by Rajan Khanna
Solitude
by Ursula K. Le Guin
AFTERWORD
by Joe Monti
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
PREVIEW
PREFACE
by Tobias S. Buckell
I grew up in the Caribbean split between two worlds. I was son to a mother born in London, England, and a father who was born on a small island off Grenada. I looked white, but my father had an Afro. Half of my family had a Grenadan dialect, my mom British. Some of my cousins were black. And my other cousins white.
Who was I?
I didn’t struggle much with that where I grew up. In the Caribbean in which I grew up, there were Palestinian and Lebanese immigrants, Indian immigrants with last names such as Singh and Patel, European expats, mixed kids like me, and a wide range of other skin tones and ethnicities.
But the books I read never looked like the world in which I lived. I read like a madman all throughout school, partly because I lived on a boat and we didn’t have television. Books were my entertainment. I loved tales of fantasy, strange lands, strange worlds, strange futures, and adventure.
And over time I came to realize that most of the books I read had only one kind of hero, one kind of face on the cover.
When I moved to America, I realized why. Most politicians had that kind of face. Most actors. Most people in charge of businesses. Most Americans.
And as for my mixed identity: it confused a lot of people. But I’ve never been confused about it. I may fall in between the simple check boxes on a survey or in people’s expectations, but as I traveled around, I found that there were a lot of people just like me.
I write adventures about the future and of future worlds, and they’re populated by a diverse set of characters. Why? It’s the future face of the world. It’s us. All of us. And we all deserve to be seen in the future, having adventures, setting foot on those strange new worlds.
I wanted to see all the sides of my families in stories about the future, from my pale relatives to my dark-skinned ones. I wanted to see the whole human race.
When I had the chance to create an anthology of stories, I wanted to bring that wide angle I grew up with to the page. The result, the futures you hold in this book, are varied. Some are fun, many are grim. But they are all diverse, full of energy, and hopefully they will all let you sample an energetic variety of some amazing authors who today are writing the books I had once hoped to see on the bookshelves when I was young and hungry for more heroes than just the ones I was given.
The wave of the future is not the conquest of the world by a single dogmatic creed but the liberation of the diverse energies of free nations and free men.—John F. Kennedy
The Last Day
by Ellen Oh
Kenji watched his mother’s care-worn hands tremble as she ladled out the morning rice gruel. His five-year-old sister, Tomoko, sat in unnatural stillness, her eyes locked on their mother’s hands as if sheer force of will would keep the precious grains from being spilled.
A sudden commotion outside their apartment made them all jump. Kenji grabbed the wavering bowl from his mother’s hands and placed it in front of Tomoko. His mother didn’t notice the near disaster. All her attention was focused on their front door.
Several wooden sandals clacked across the hallway floor, a shrill, strident voice dominating above all others. His mother shuddered before she faced him in anguish. He recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Mrs. Ueda, chairwoman of the Women’s Brigade, and she could be here for only one reason: to claim another child’s life in the name of the Emperor.
A year had passed since Mrs. Ueda’s last visit to their building. A year si
nce he’d hugged his last brother good-bye.
Within the sudden unnatural quiet of his kitchen, his family was as still as the statues of the guardian of children, Mizuko Jizo, that populated all the cemeteries — now more than ever before. Kenji didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he heard the voice calling out for Mrs. Akita, their neighbor down the hall. He saw the tension deflate from his mother’s shoulders and heard his little sister’s soft, hiccuping sigh.
Their ears were assaulted by the persistent knocking on their neighbor’s door and the loud calls of Mrs. Ueda and her cronies. Tomoko slapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. Kenji’s mother set down the wooden ladle with deliberate care before rising to her feet and shuffling to the door.
Kenji watched as a tendril of steam curled up from a bowl that was not even half full. Swallowing down his hunger, he gave Tomoko a hug and pulled her hands away, motioning her to go ahead and eat. Unfolding himself from the table, he padded over to the door and placed a comforting hand on his mother’s arm. She stared down at him blindly, her face a tragic reflection of the pained horror he felt himself. Moving next to her, he peered out the door and down the hallway, where three women in gray kimonos stood, their backs rigid with righteousness. After several more minutes of furious pounding, the door finally opened to reveal Mrs. Akita’s frightened face.
“Good morning, Akita-san! I’m so proud and honored to announce that your youngest daughter, Michiko, has been selected to enlist in the Imperial Army of the Heavenly Father,” Mrs. Ueda said.
“I’m sure there’s been some kind of mistake.” Mrs. Akita’s voice trembled down the hallway. “My daughter is only fourteen years old! She’s too young to join the army!”
“The Imperial Army never makes mistakes,” Mrs. Ueda responded. “Didn’t you hear the new decree that was issued earlier this week? The conscription age has been lowered to fourteen. Now we can send more of our young men and women to fight for our Heavenly Father and defeat his enemies.”
Kenji heard his mother’s muffled gasp. Her cold fingertips gripped his hand. Only two more years before Mrs. Ueda would come knocking on their door for him, unless the Emperor lowered the conscription age again. And then who would take care of his family? How would they survive?
“You can’t take my only child! I’ve lost my husband and my two oldest to this war already. She’s all I have left!” Mrs. Akita was weeping, trying to bar the women from entering her apartment.
Kenji couldn’t see Mrs. Ueda’s face, but he had no problem imagining the crazed patriotic fever that shone in her eyes. He’d seen it in too many adults. How he hated her — hated them all.
“If your daughter refuses to fight, she will be arrested and executed in the morning.” Mrs. Ueda’s voice was smooth, devoid of all emotion. “Your family will be branded as traitors to the Empire. All your belongings will be confiscated, and you will be homeless on the streets. It is your choice.”
There was no more resistance as the three women pushed past Mrs. Akita, leaving her to weep against the door. From inside the apartment, they could hear Michiko’s frightened cries.
Kenji guided his mother away. It took all his energy not to slam the door. Not to run out into the hallway and punch Mrs. Ueda’s smug face. He knew, like everyone else, that there was no choice.
His mother stood leaning against the kitchen sink, her head bowed low. He hugged her tight, his arms wrapping completely around her frail form. He breathed in the light, sweet fragrance of cherry blossoms that always seemed to cling to her. In the last few years of the never-ending war, he’d seen his beautiful, vibrant mother fade in size, age, and happiness. Each year seemed to reduce her further, her back bowing under the burden of life. It was hard to pinpoint which had been the worst blow, the loss of his father’s ship at sea or the notices received on the same day of his two elder brothers’ glorious deaths in separate battles. He’d been so proud that his brothers had been chosen as Tokkatai. So stupidly proud. Until his mother received their effects in small wooden boxes and their last letters filled with the regret of dreams never fulfilled. They were boys dreaming of becoming men — sixteen and eighteen years old. They died boys who would never become men.
A wave of bitterness threatened to overcome him. How foolish he’d been. They called it the highest honor — to die for your emperor in a suicide attack against the enemy. Only now did Kenji realize that there was no honor in dying.
Swallowing back his bitterness, he finished his meager breakfast and prepared to leave. His mother handed him a small bento box containing his lunch. He untied the wrapping cloth and opened the container even as his mother begged him not to. Inside the small oval tin, he saw two small rice balls wrapped with a sliver of dried seaweed.
Unsurprised, he looked up to catch Tomoko’s glare of hungry resentment before she dropped her gaze. Her small face was narrow, nearly gaunt as she sat staring at the rice balls, hunger pinching her face tight even as her empty breakfast bowl sat before her. Kenji bit back his angry words, knowing his mother meant well.
Taking the larger rice ball, he placed it in a bowl, ignoring the sudden increase of saliva in his mouth — the ever-present demon that ate away at his stomach.
“Kenji,” his mother began.
She faltered under his gaze. Her hand fluttered up to rub the side of her face, accentuating her collarbone and emaciated form.
A desolate fury rose in him as he closed the lid to his bento box, tied it up, and threw it into his bag. Slinging the bag over his head, he ran out the door before he could change his mind.
Outside, the heat of the August sun was already bringing up the early-morning temperatures to a boil. Kenji lowered his dingy gray cap as he peered down the street.
“Almost took off without you,” a husky voice said from behind. “We’re gonna be late to work if we don’t hurry.”
Kenji turned and smiled to see his best friend, Akira Tanaka, standing in the shade of the building next door. He was a sturdy boy only a few months older than Kenji and browned by the summer sun.
“Sorry about that,” Kenji said.
With a nod, Akira took off, with Kenji following close behind.
“Where are we going today?”
“Not too far,” Akira said, breaking into a thudding run.
Kenji kept up but found himself tiring after the seventh block. It was the lack of food. He wished he had even a fraction of Akira’s energy and stamina. But his friend was eating better than most of the others. It was why Kenji had left home earlier and was following him instead of heading to work.
The streets seemed emptier than usual. But then again, it seemed there were fewer and fewer people around. Kenji had memories of streets crowded with people — holding his father’s hand as they stopped at a local street vendor selling roasted sweet potatoes. He could remember the gravelly singing voice of the old vendor as he pulled out hot, dark, purple potatoes from his wood-burning stove. The flesh was soft and sweet, and so delicious. Kenji shook his head, dislodging the memory and returning to the present. No more street vendors selling tasty treats. No more laughing families strolling down to the park.
It took ten minutes to reach Akira’s destination, a small mid-rise apartment building. They entered the dingy lobby area through the unlocked front door and quietly walked up the stairs.
He followed Akira to the third floor and down a narrow hallway. They passed several doors until they reached an end unit. The sounds of apartment living could be heard through the thin, peeling walls — a baby’s cry, the tinny voice of a radio announcer, muffled moans of pain or pleasure. With a quick look around, Akira pulled out a small chisel and shoved the narrow edge into the seam of the door, popping it open with one hard wrench.
Kenji took an involuntary step back, hesitating for only a fraction of a moment before following his friend into the dark apartment. The stench of rotted food and general uncleanliness assaulted him. He pinched his nose tight and tried to keep from ga
gging as he followed Akira into the dirty kitchen. Several days of dishes, teacups, bowls, and pots were stacked all around the sink and countertop. A soggy rug sat in a pool of water that spread from a small icebox in the corner. Akira opened all the lower cabinets, grabbing tins and packages of food.
“Quick, get out your bag,” Akira called out to him. “There’s a small sack of rice that you can have.”
Kenji’s eyes pricked with the burning of tears at his friend’s gesture. He grabbed the sack and felt it was more than half full — at least a kilo of rice left. Securing the twine on the top so not a precious grain would spill, he shoved the rice into his bag. The heavy weight was comforting.
Akira was done with the kitchen, and he moved into the bedroom. Kenji followed cautiously behind him.