“No!” Wanda lasered, it was almost a scream.
“It’s the only way,” I said to her.
“Rordy—”
I triggered the antimatter containment separators, and a huge, very-bright flash burned across my few remaining optical sensors. Not from the inside, but the outside. What?
All my systems shut off.
• • •
I opened my eyes.
The sky was deepening to evening, and a small wave of water tumbled across my bare legs as I lay on the sand.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice.
I turned my head, only to see Wanda’s Edenite body.
Memory loop. Must be. I closed my eyes and tried to shut it off, when the woman’s voice said, “Rordy, it’s me.”
I opened my eyes again, and slowly sat up.
“What…happened?”
“I activated my transluminal reactor,” she said.
“Ships that go transluminal that close to a star, don’t come back,” I said.
“We almost didn’t,” she said. “You were torn to shreds, and I wasn’t going to last much longer either. I figured if we had to go out, why not go out with a bang.”
“Die on our feet?” I said.
“Something like that,” Wanda said. She smiled.
“So how did we end up back here?”
“I still had the coordinates for Eden orbit in my transluminal calculator. When I dumped everything I had into the jump, it fried the system, but the transluminal rebound took what was left of both of us and deposited us at one of Eden’s lagrange points. Your ship was pretty messed up. I had to grapple yours to mine, then I soft-landed us both in a crater on one of Eden’s several asteroid moons.”
“The Swarmers will detect the Link and come looking for us,” I said.
“No they won’t. I ordered a one-way core dump into our Edenite bodies. We’re stuck here now, but we’re both in one piece. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” I said. “It’s better than the alternative.”
Many minutes passed, and I waited as the gentle waves lapped quietly against me. Eventually the night sky with all of its stars came into full view. A faint arm of the Milky Way slowly rose over the horizon.
“What do we do now that we’re stuck here?” I asked.
“Rordy, I think you were right. About the Swarmers not destroying Eden as long as they believe there are some of us left in the galaxy to snare. There’s still a chance we can set humanity free some day. Still a chance we can start over, hopefully in a place that’s safe.”
“It’ll take a long time,” I said. “The Edenites can’t even build or launch bottle rockets, much less orbital boosters. We’d have to find a way to communicate without the Link, and industrialize without tipping our hand.”
“Well,” Wanda said, “you were pretty fired up about wanting to get the Edenites out of the stone age. This is your chance.”
I said nothing.
Wanda remained quiet for a time, both of us watching as the side-on disc of the galaxy drifted slowly overhead.
“You were going to say something,” I said quietly.
“What?” she said.
“I was about to blast a path for you through the Swarmer fleet, and you said my name. But I cut you off before you could finish.”
“It was nothing important,” she said.
I didn’t believe her, but I didn’t want to push it. So I beckoned for her to sit with me.
She sat next to me with her chin on her knees. We’d barely known each other before the Earth was destroyed, and had only the briefest of periods to get acquainted before we’d been recorded into our separate ships and sent into battle. Maybe this was an opportunity for us, too long denied?
“Well,” I said, “if we have to be exiled somewhere, this place isn’t too bad.”
“I know,” Wanda said.
“Teaching these people the basics of math, chemistry, physics, engineering—”
“It would be fun to have something to work on,” Wanda said quickly. “Together.”
“Yes it would,” I said. And meant it.
I turned to stare at her dark shape, the faint light of our galaxy shining on the water. There wasn’t really a whole lot to say, so I searched until I found her hand. I squeezed it tightly. She squeezed back: a sensation that suddenly filled me with more true feeling than I’d had in a long, long time.
And together, we began to make our plan.
▼ ▲ ▼ ▲ ▼
To date, this is still the fastest sale I’ve ever made. Approximately 72 minutes from submission to acceptance. And editor Edmund Schubert played such a large part in the story’s evolution—from accepted draft to final publication—that he practically deserves a co-authorship in the byline.
“Exiles of Eden” has been called a “post-human” story, because it deals with a theoretically far-flung future in which humans are all but extinct. I like to think of it as a survival story; something I’ve made myself a reputation for doing. When an overwhelming alien menace obliterates civilization, to what lengths will a few lone survivors go to protect the seemingly last trace of humanity in the known galaxy?
When this story appeared in the electronic pages of Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, it was the fraternal twin of another story, “Guard Dog.” which I’d collaborated with Mike Resnick on. Both stories can trace their roots to a story I originally wrote in 2000 which never saw print. And thank goodness, too. That particular story is part of my proverbial “first million words” of practice, and was as clunky as a garbage can. But it did have some seeds for future fiction. Seeds which I eventually plucked out, planted, watered generously, and saw bear fruit.
“Exiles of Eden” also helped to establish me with another quality editor and another quality short science fiction market, beyond the pages of Analog magazine. I really should put some more work into Edmund’s hands. Provided I can pass muster with Scott M. Roberts and Eric James Stone first. Those two tend to have pretty high standards. Which is good. The higher the bar, the more satisfying the accomplishment.
***
Writer Dad: Mike Resnick
I spent a long time laboring anonymously—without pub-lication—before I broke into the field with my first story sale: a win in the prestigious L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers and Illustrators of the Future Contest. If my ego in my late teens was big enough to make me think that I could be a professional science fiction man, that same ego had been pummeled and punished enough (by the time I was in my mid-thirties) for me to be grateful for any and every scrap of professional success or assistance I could lay my hands on.
Which is why I was both floored and delighted to receive the unexpected tutelage of a man named Mike Resnick.
Who is Mike?
Mike Resnick’s been nominated for more science fiction and fantasy awards than practically any other living science fiction writer. He’s also won more awards than a dozen bestsellers combined. He’s published tens of novels and hundreds of pieces of short fiction. He’s one of the genre’s premier historians. And he’s got a terrific sense of humor.
Basically, Mike’s the kind of writer other writers enjoy being around. Because he’s not only good at what he does, he’s quite amiable too. And he tells amazing stories that seem to span the entire existence of written science fiction, from its origins all the way up to the present—as if Mike’s been there for it all.
Which, in a way, he has.
Like Shelby Foote from Ken Burns’s classic Civil War.
So what could a man like Mike possibly want to do with me?
When I first met Mike I had precisely two story sales under my belt: my Writers of the Future Finalist that won, and my Writers of the Future Finalist that did not win; but was purchased for the pages of Analog by Stan Schmidt.
Not bad, for a brand new kid (adjectives for seniority being relative in the written arts; a “kid” in the field stands a good chance of being somewhere
close to middle age.)
Maybe it was the fact that Mike was arbitrarily assigned to be the Writers of the Future judge who handed me my trophy on the stage? Maybe it was because Mike is a compulsive collaborator who greatly enjoys “paying forward” by helping new and up-and-coming writers any way he can? Maybe it was (as Mike has often told me) because I was wearing my U.S. Army dress blues the night of the big awards ceremony, so that when Mike was later asked to write a military story for a war-themed science fiction anthology, he remembered me, and thought I might be able to bring my military experience to the mix—if we collaborated?
Of course, Mike doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He likes to work with beginners, but he prefers to work with beginners who are also winners. And by the time Mike and I got around to completing our first story together—picture Rocky Balboa and Mickey Goldmill, sweating it out—I’d already sold several more stories to Analog magazine, and had picked up an Analog Analytical Laboratory readers’ choice award for my first Analog publication. A rarity, given the fact that when my story “Outbound” was published, nobody knew who I was, and the story had to win the readership on its own merits. Something I am still proud of to this day.
Mike respects the science fiction digests. Thus I think he trusted my progress. I believe he looked at what I was doing, and he decided that I was the kind of guy who would be worth his effort.
That Mike and I would go on to build a genuine friendship was purely a matter of serendipity.
Not everyone in the genre—or the business—has the kind of personality that meshes with everyone else’s. In fact, there are times when it seems like the genre is filled to overflowing with personalities bound and determined not to mesh.
Mike was never like that.
So while I had managed to brush up against a few professionals who treated me like I’d crawled out from under a rock (you have to love people who pat themselves on the back for being “open minded” and then stick their noses in the air at the first sign of actual difference) Mike was one of the first noteworthy pros in the field to take a look at me, and reach out his hand. As if to say, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid, we’re glad to have you.”
And that’s been precisely Mike’s attitude with me ever since.
I can’t ever hope to repay him for how much he’s helped me. In big and small ways. By opening doors, passing along advice, teaching me craft, giving me caveats and fair warnings about the business, as well as nudging me into professional circles where I might not have had the temerity (or permission) to tread on my own.
I said before that Mike’s a compulsive collaborator who loves to help new people just coming into the field.
I learned that there’s a phrase for such people: Mike’s Writer Children.
Not bound by flesh or blood, we are Mike’s progeny just the same.
Because he has invested in us.
Time. Wisdom. Opportunities.
And a whole lot more.
Mike Resnick has literally welcomed me into his home, where he and his lovely wife Carol have treated me like a son.
I’ve sat in Mike’s basement office with him at four in the morning, watching old recordings of World Science Fiction Convention speeches by some of the lates and the greats in the genre.
I’ve sat on panels with Mike—as both a student and a collaborator.
I’ve walked across the “name bridge” that’s formed when I mention to other professionals—in passing—that Mike knows and has worked with me.
Thus the foundation of my career is one Mike Resnick has largely helped me to construct. And for no apparent reason other than the fact that Mike just likes to help. Because Mike loves science fiction the way a sculptor loves clay or marble. The way a horse racing aficionado adores the track and follows the Triple Crown. The way an outdoorsman loves fly fishing or the autumn hunt.
Mike very much cherishes the field, and is concerned with ensuring that the field continues to be peopled with competent, capable, talented writers who can all keep growing the genre and making it wonderful. Even long after Mike’s gone.
So, in a sense, we are Mike’s legacy. As much as his own works and publications.
And for this reason I am proud to be counted among his kids.
Mike’s selected other Writer Children since he selected me.
I’ve met and become friends with several. They are, without fail, quality people. Like Mike himself.
If the genre tends to be a bit cliquish, I think the circle of Mike Resnick’s Writer Children is just about the best kind of club one could hope to belong to. For the simple fact that being Mike’s Writer Son demands that I keep up my game! Mike’s spent time on me. I want to make sure that Mike never has to regret it. That he never has to look at what I am accomplishing in the field and shake his head, thinking, if only that boy would work harder, make better decisions, maybe take better care of his opportunities….
So far, so good.
Thanks, Mike, for everything.
It’s an honor and a pleasure to have you as my Writer Dad.
***
Footprints
Martha’s little pink boots fought for purchase as she walked slowly across the chilled driveway. Soft motes of white fluff fell silently across the yard, partially obscuring snow-laden trees down by the old two-lane road that linked Martha’s small home with the rest of Eastern Washington. The storm had piled up five inches since dawn, and it looked like there would be many more inches to come before the day was through.
Martha’s mother stood at the open garage, steam pluming from her nostrils and an old snow shovel in her gloved hands. Sweat had beaded on Martha’s mother’s forehead during the half an hour it had taken her to clear a path down the driveway to the blacktop, and strands of hair were stuck to her flushed face.
“Watch your step, Mar. You’ll crack your head open if your feet come out from under you.”
Martha turned back, young brown eyes peering out from under the drawn hood of her pink plastic Powerpuff Girls overcoat. She remembered the previous winter when Dad had stood in the garage, with the same sweat on his forehead and the same shovel in his hand, a smile on his face. This year there was only Mom, and Dad wouldn’t be driving them to the grocery and hardware stores in town like he used to. It had only been three months since Dad had left for Boston on business, and never returned.
“It’s okay Mom,” Martha’s six-year old voice peeped from under her hood, “Dad will catch me if I fall. Dad’s always around us. Grandma told me so.”
An evolution of expressions passed quickly over Martha’s mother’s face: sadness, anger, rage, all of which rapidly drained to be replaced by a soft smile of adoration.
“I’m sure he is, Mar,” Mom said with water brimming on her lower eyelids.
Martha smiled back at her mother, then turned and continued the slow trek across the driveway towards the heaps of whiteness that Mom had recently built at the edges of the cement. Heaped snow was more fun than any sand pile, much softer and more magical. You could even eat it when you got thirsty, its icy coolness rivaling that of any slushee from the gas station in town.
“Let’s hurry up and get going,” Mom said, running a gloved hand across her face to wipe away both sweat and tears. “I’ve got half a mind to get us a snow blower when we’re in town today. We might need it just to get back up to the garage when we get home.”
Martha stayed where she was.
“You can play in the snow when we get back,” Mom said reassuringly in response to Martha’s pouting expression.
Martha considered for a moment, then she took two more quick steps to the edge of the concrete, and planted a foot solidly into the white. She pulled away and admired the imprint of her sole in the soft snow—a relief pattern of ridges.
Her mark of ownership having been properly placed on this front yard of virgin delight, Martha pivoted on a tiny heal and slowly walked back across the driveway and into the garage, silently promising herself she would return t
o that untouched white world and play her tiny butt off.
Mom reached an arm over Martha’s head towards the 1997 Ford and popped the handle on the door, pulling it open. Martha scrambled in….
• • •
…and Mom closed the door behind her. Martha sat quietly in the old Ford, having long since outgrown the various car seats that Mom had purchased over the years. The vinyl dashboard was cracked in several places, the air conditioning was shot, and the heater was stuck on permanent defrost. The truck’s paint was chipped and streaks of rust shown through at the seams in the metal paneling. Hardly a dream car for a teenager, but Martha relished the fact that in a few more months Mom would be buying a new car, and the Ford would belong to Martha.
Snow fell quietly beyond the open mouth of the garage. Water dripped from the blades of the gas-driven plow that had served them faithfully for so many years, and now rested in its customary place after yet another successful clearing of the driveway.
It had been Martha’s job to clear the walk and the driveway, ever since she had grown tall enough to handle the blower. She wondered what it would be like in a few months to be behind the wheel of the old Ford, a newly minted driver’s license in her pocket and the road stretching before her. It would beat the hell out of taking the bus or, on days like these, having Mom drive her all the way in to school.
“You’re ready for that state exam?” Mom asked as she opened her own door to the truck cab, climbed in, and then inserted the keys into the ignition. Mom’s hair was now streaked with strands of gray, and lines were drawn all across her face.
“Yup,” Martha replied. “Studied for two hours after school all last week, and three hours a day over this weekend. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“I hope so,” Mom commented as the engine coughed to life, and they slowly rolled out of the garage and into the gray-white dawn. “Those math scores will get you into the Jump Start program more than anything else will. Instead of your junior year in highschool, you could be a freshman in college next fall.”
Lights in the Deep Page 13
