by Ian Creasey
Copyright Information
FIRST CONTACT
Digital Science Fiction Anthology 1
These stories are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination, fictitious, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or aliens, living or dead, would be coincidental and quite remarkable.
First Contact: Digital Science Fiction Anthology 1
Copyright © 2011 by Digital Science Fiction, a division of Gseb Marketing Inc
All rights reserved, including but not limited to the right to reproduce this book in any form, electronic or otherwise. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book or the individual stories contained herein via the Internet or any other means without the express written permission of the Publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Support and respect the authors’ rights.
Published by: Digital Science Fiction, a division of Gseb Marketing Inc 1560 Argus Street, LaSalle, Ontario, Canada – N9J 3H5
President – Michael Wills
Managing Editor – Stephen Helleiner
Production Manager – Craig Ham
First Contact: Digital Science Fiction Anthology 1
Editor – Jessi Hoffman
Cover Art – Emmanuel Xerx Javier
Layout and Design – Master Page Design
“How I Lost Eleven Stone and Found Love” by Ian Creasey
Copyright © 2011 by Ian Creasey.
“Biting a Dead Man’s Hand” by Ed Greenwood
Copyright © 2011 by Ed Greenwood.
“The Caretaker” by Ken Liu
Copyright © 2011 by Ken Liu.
“Masks” by Jennifer R. Povey
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer R. Povey.
“Hera’s Tempest” by Rob Jacobsen.
Copyright © 2011 by Rob Jacobsen.
“Roanoke Nevada” by Edward J. Knight.
Copyright © 2011 by Edward J. Knight.
“Nectar of the Gods” by Jessi Rita Hoffman.
Copyright © 2011 by Jessi Rita Hoffman.
“The Tortoise Parliament” by Kenneth Schneyer.
Copyright © 2011 by Kenneth Schneyer.
“Black Sun” by David Tallerman.
Copyright © 2011 by David Tallerman.
“Pop Quiz” by Curtis James McConnell.
Copyright © 2011 by Curtis James McConnell.
http://digitalsciencefiction.com
First Published, June 2011
(e)ISBN: 978-0-9869484-0-4 (ebk)
ISBN: 978-0-9869484-1-1 (pbk)
Preface
It has been a great pleasure bringing forth this first edition of the Digital Science Fiction monthly anthology. Our choice of the title First Contact was originally intended as a theme, but the rich range of stories received for consideration made it clear that the theme approach was too narrow. So we expanded the topics of the science fiction tales included but kept the title anyway, to represent our introductory anthology edition, since we are a company new in the field of science fiction publishing.
In selecting stories for inclusion, we looked not only for exciting or novel content but for genuine literary quality. We believe the best stories – and the ones that most appeal – not only entertain but offer something extra as well: an aesthetic pleasure, a beauty, or a thought-provoking quality that renders them timeless. We are proud to present the following ten tales as evidence of that superb kind of writing. It was a delight reading through the more than 200 submissions. Being exposed to such talent is a privilege.
I’d like to thank my friend Ed Greenwood for his input and guidance as an author, and for his encouragement. I’d like to thank the editor, Jessi Hoffman, whose experience and dedication to quality took the book way beyond my initial expectations, high though they already were. I am grateful for the dedication of Stephen Helleiner and Craig Ham, my Digital Science Fiction co-partners, who relish science fiction in all its forms and with me make up the troika helming this ship. And I’m grateful to my wife, Leah, whose support, patience, and understanding were invaluable in launching this book.
Digital Science Fiction is a monthly anthology of compelling science fiction short stories from professional writers. It is published each month through popular eBook formats and in traditional print. Our anthologies are directed toward a mature readership. While our home base is Ontario, Canada, our artists, editors, designers, and of course the authors, hail from around the world. More information about us is available at www.digitalsciencefiction.com.
With that, I’d like to thank you for your interest in our book, and invite you to plunge into the ten delightful stories that follow. We look forward to your continuing reading patronage.
Michael Wills
Digital Science Fiction
How I Lost Eleven Stone and Found Love
By Ian Creasey
People always ask me, “Does it hurt?”
I tell them the truth. “No, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
If they’re the mean type – the kind of people who say, “Why don’t you just diet?” – I whistle for Charlie.
Then I say, “Because this is better. Do you want to try it? Don’t worry. He won’t bite. Well, he will. But it won’t hurt.”
That sorts them out. They always shrink back and make some lame excuse. When Charlie starts sniffing them, they run like hell.
Lots of people call him ugly. Don’t be so judgmental, I say. After all, Charlie’s from another planet, and that spotty purple is camouflage at home. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. I’ve never been out there myself. When I was a boy, I dreamed of going into space. I thought being fat wouldn’t matter in zero gravity. I used to imagine myself floating between the stars, moving so easily, so delicately, like I could never do on Earth.
Yeah. The career adviser had a good laugh at that.
I promised myself if I couldn’t go into space, at least I’d get myself a really cool space creature. That’d be one up on Jody Taylor, whose dad had a snake. Not to mention Chipper Dan, who kept spiders for a while, till he got bored with them and left them all in my lunchbox.
My parents wouldn’t let me have a hamster, never mind anything else. But when I moved out – well, they threw me out when I got to twenty-two – that’s when I bought Charlie. He cost a fortune, but it’s easy to save up when you don’t go out much.
His habits took some getting used to, though he’s so friendly I soon got attached to him. He’s a perfect pet, really cheap to keep. And quiet. I’d far rather have Charlie than some horrible dog slobbering everywhere and barking while I’m trying to watch “When Aliens Attack.”
That’s when I usually feed him, when I’m watching TV. I’ll sit down with the remote and some chocolate cookies, or a big bag of crisps, or maybe nuts, and of course some beer or Coke or something ... Anyway, I sit down and Charlie snuggles up to me – those spines are softer than they look – and I don’t even notice when he starts sucking. I just see he’s got his thing in me. His pro ... I can never remember the word.
Yeah, proboscis, that’s it. It doesn’t hurt at all. He pokes it into my belly, or the top of my leg – anywhere really – and then he gets going.
That’s how I lost eleven stone. Sure beats working out. And there’s no doctors sneering at you between
psychobabble. I went from twenty-three stone down to twelve, in less than a year. Charlie didn’t just suck the weight out of me, he kept me company, too. I was pretty lonely back then.
That started to change when I lost weight. I had a bit more confidence to get to know people, and they didn’t laugh at me or beat me up like at school. I started going out more, even watching sports. Everything would have been perfect, if it hadn’t been for Charlie.
He started shedding spines, and he smelled like a blocked drain. I kept having to push him away, because of the smell and the spines on my clothes. But he looked so out of sorts, I was really worried. I had to do something.
It took me a while to find a vet who would see him. Most vets only do Earth animals. That’s a bit prejudiced, don’t you think? They shouldn’t be so judgmental. I don’t see what right they have to turn Charlie away just because he’s purple and spiny and not from round here.
Anyway, I finally found Toric’s place. Turns out he’s the only exotic vet in Liverpool. Looking round the waiting room, I felt like I’d walked into a comic strip. People say Charlie’s ugly, but some of those aliens were out of this world. And their pets were even weirder.
Toric’s one of those silver Bugcats you see on TV yapping about trade and stuff. Almost makes me glad I never got to another planet, if they’re all full of strip-malls like ours. When I saw him, I remembered the tax thing they’re always complaining about – the xeno-tariff – and I wondered how much this was going to set me back. But I couldn’t leave, not with Charlie looking so bad. I hoisted him onto the table, and he just lay there like road-kill, his last few spines all droopy and limp.
I thought Toric would have some beeping gadget that he’d wave over Charlie to find out what was wrong. But he just asked me a few questions. I said I’d had Charlie a year, and I fed him myself, and it was only lately he’d gone off-color.
“Do you feed him as much nowadays?” said Toric. His translator had a posh accent that made him sound like a bad guy in an old film.
“Not since I got down to twelve stone. That’s my ideal weight, you know. He still eats now and then, if I’m pigging out, but I’ve had to shoo him away a lot. I even have to shut the bedroom door.”
“That’s the problem. He’s malnourished.”
“Like, hungry?” I was surprised at this. “The guy who I got him off of said he could go months without feeding.”
“Back home, perhaps – I believe they hibernate through eclipses. Here they need regular meals. You want to be careful about keeping him indoors, otherwise someone might get hurt.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I said. But I saw what he meant. And maybe it explained why Mrs. Bhalla next door kept giving me dirty looks. “What can I do?” I asked.
Toric waved his antennae in a sort of “whatever” gesture.
“The simplest treatment would be to consume more yourself, and feed him frequently until he recovers.”
The perfect solution! I’ve always loved eating. Now I could eat even more, and help Charlie at the same time. I started planning a real nosh-up as I made for the exit.
While I talked to Toric, more people’s pets had arrived in the waiting room. On my way out, I noticed a purple insecty-lizardy thing with brushy spines – just like Charlie. Smaller, but definitely the same kind of critter. I’d never seen anyone else with one before. I stopped to see who owned it.
She was around my age, fairly short, with blonde hair that looked like the “before” in a conditioner advert. Her collar bones poked out above a white blouse that hung loose down to her baggy jeans. Sort of wasted looking is the best way I can put it. Could have been drugs, but I didn’t think so.
You know, eating disorder is a nasty kind of phrase. I mean, “disorder”? It’s practically a sign you’d see on a broken elevator. Just because I love food, does that mean I’m disordered? If someone isn’t peckish very often, is that a disorder? Don’t be so judgmental.
Yet there must be something in it, because we can always spot each other. It was as if she really did have a sign on her, which I could see because I had one, too. She had a look in her eye, a “walling off the world” kind of look that I knew all too well, from the inside. That look, that so familiar look, made me feel like we were crewmates on the “Disorderly Diehards.”
Now, I never used to be much at chatting up girls. They always laughed at me even before I spoke to them. Yeah, call me Big Lardy Fat Arse, why don’t you? Like I hadn’t noticed until you shouted.
I never had a girlfriend when I was fat. Never asked anyone out. And they sure as hell didn’t ask me.
But losing eleven stone helps your confidence. I’d started smiling at women, and sometimes they even smiled back. A smile! If you’re the type who gets laid all the time, you don’t know how much a smile can mean.
Now I was ready to try talking to the girl in the white top. It helped that she was someone like me, with an eating disorder, but obviously I didn’t start by mentioning that. Instead I sat down next to her and said, “That’s a rare critter you’ve got there. How long have you had him – or is it a her? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? I call mine Charlie, but I’m not really sure either way ...”
I stopped, because I was babbling. My face felt red, and I looked at her pet rather than her. Even though Charlie was probably too ill to do much, I kept a tight hold on him. If he attacked the other critter – or tried to mate with it – that might not go down well with the owner.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her give me a polite smile. Our two critters eyed each other up. To my relief, they didn’t fight. I’m fond of Charlie, but if he had screwed up my chance with this woman – no supper for him!
She said, “This is Morna. I’ve had her a few months, but she’s not doing very well at the moment.”
I thought I knew why. Charlie had helped me so much, I could see how a critter like him would suit an anorexic or bulimic, or whatever label they’d stuck on her. But if Charlie couldn’t live off me at twelve stone, no wonder her pet was so small and still. I was pretty sure what Toric would tell her.
I didn’t say so. I’ve heard women can be put off by men who act like they know everything. And apart from that, us “disorder” types don’t appreciate people getting judgmental about our eating habits. Toric might suggest that she eat more, but I certainly wasn’t going to.
Instead I said, “My name’s Stuart, by the way. I live near the spaceport. Had a hell of a time finding this place.”
“I’m Isabel,” she said, in a tone friendly enough to encourage me to keep talking. Her voice was low-pitched, deeper than you’d expect from someone so fragile-looking, and I wondered if she’d had a voice-mod in that fad a few years back.
We chatted a little, with me hampered by trying not to say anything stupid. I knew I had to seize the chance because this could be over any minute, when she got called in to see Toric, so finally I asked if I could call her sometime.
“Sure,” she said.
Yeah! I don’t mind telling you I really went on a binge that night. Pizza and beer, blueberry pie, and chocolate fudge cake. It was for Charlie, too – and he perked up a bit – but mostly it was for me. I had a date!
Well, actually I had a chance to ask for a date. And I worried that it would go wrong, that she might change her mind. But the call went okay, and I arranged to meet her in a few days.
I didn’t take Isabel out to dinner, of course. Instead, I met her in the park, and we made for a bench by the lake. I thought that would be safe, but just as we sat down, a grey-uniformed Nanny-Nurse robot glided by with her toddlers, who started feeding the ducks and geese. The little boy kept shouting, “Greedy goose! Greedy goose!” and “Why’s that one not eating?”
“Perhaps it’s full, dear,” said the Nanny-Nurse. “Come along.”
Isabel looked unhappy. At first I thought the bird feeding had upset her, or that she regretted agreeing to see me, but then she said, “Morna died.”
“I’m so sorry,” I s
aid. I didn’t ask what her critter had died of.
“It was awful. She curled up on my bed, then didn’t move. I slept on the floor for two nights. I mean, with an alien pet you never know if they might just be hibernating or something. But she was so cold. And whenever I touched her – trying to see if she was still alive, begging her to wake up – her spines came off in my hand.”
Isabel started snuffling as she spoke. “I took her to Toric’s again, and he said she was dead. I couldn’t even take her home to bury her. Toric said he had to incinerate the body, because Earth regulations class dead aliens as hazardous waste. So I just stood and watched ... while the flames ...”
She broke into choked little sobs. I did the best I could to comfort her, putting an arm around her bony shoulders while she cried herself out. I didn’t speak, except a sort of wordless rumble of offered sympathy.
After a minute or so, she lifted her head and wiped her eyes, spreading little wet smears of that black stuff – mascara, is it? – women sometimes use on their eyelashes.
She put make-up on for me, I thought.
I saw her try to pull herself together and put on a facing-the-world expression. When she looked at me, I didn’t know what to say. Earlier, I’d practised a few lines in my head – talk about the weather, ask where she worked, all that kind of stuff. But none of it seemed appropriate now.
I asked if she wanted to go home. She shook her head, but got up off the bench. We walked along the waterside. As we strolled, I took her hand in mine. It was small and thin as a child’s.
The sun glittered on the windswept surface of the lake. Whenever we passed geese or ducks waddling over the grass, they quacked and flew to the water.
I waited for Isabel to speak. About halfway round, she started talking about how when she was a little girl, her grandparents took her to a show farm. “The guide said all the animals were ‘retired,’ which apparently meant they wouldn’t be slaughtered like normal. It was the first time I’d heard how animals got killed and eaten, and I started crying. They had to buy me an ice cream to get me to shut up. Then we went to the bird pen, where all the hens and geese were tame, of course, and a big white goose snapped my ice cream cone right out of my hand. So I started crying all over again.”
