Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION
THE QUILLS OF HENRY THOMAS, by W. C. Bamberger & Aja Bamberger
THE GIZZARD WIZARD, by Rory Barnes
THE DARKFISHERS, by John Gregory Betancourt
GUINEA PIGS, by Sydney J. Bounds
OUTSIDE LOOKING IN, by Mark E. Burgess
SIEGFRIED, by Victor Cilincă
THE CALLING OF IAM’KENDRON, by Michael R. Collings
EVERGREEN, by Arthur Jean Cox
MOHAMMED’S ANGEL, by Jack Dann
ULTRA EVOLUTION, by John Russell Fearn
MILES TO GO, by Sheila Finch
THE LITTLE FINGER OF THE LEFT HAND, by Mel Gilden
THE NEXT GENERATION, by Ardath Mayhar
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
YONDERING
THE FIRST BORGO PRESS BOOK OF SCIENCE FICTION STORIES
ROBERT REGINALD, EDITOR
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Editing Copyright © 2011 by Robert Reginald
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
A number of these pieces have been previously published, in whole or in part, and are reprinted by permission of their authors, authors’ estates, or agents:
“Introduction,” by Robert Reginald, is published here for the first time. Copyright © 2011 by Robert Reginald.
“The Quills of Henry Thomas,” by W. C. Bamberger and Aja Bamberger, is published here for the first time. Copyright © 2011 by W. C. Bamberger and Aja Bamberger.
“The Gizzard Wizard,” by Rory Barnes, is published here for the first time. Copyright © 2011 by Rory Barnes.
“The Darkfishers,” by John Gregory Betancourt was originally published in Aboriginal Science Fiction, July/August, 1987. Copyright © 1987, 2011 by John Gregory Betancourt.
“Guinea Pigs,” by Sydney J. Bounds was originally published in Fantasy Adventures 13, ed. by Philip Harbottle, Wildside Press, 2008. Copyright © 2008, 2011 by the Estate of Sydney J. Bounds.
“Outside Looking In,” by Mark E. Burgess, is published here for the first time. Copyright © 2011 by Mark E. Burgess.
“Siegfried,” by Victor Cilincă, translated by Petru Iamandi, was originally published in Atlantida #1, 1991. Copyright © 1991 by Victor Cilincă; Copyright © 2011 by Victor Cilincă and Petru Iamandi.
“The Calling of Iam’Kendron,” by Michael R. Collings was originally published in Three Tales of Omne: A Companion to Wordsmith, by Michael R. Collings, Borgo Press, Wildside Press, 2010. Copyright © 2010, 2011 by Michael R. Collings.
“Evergreen,” by Arthur Jean Cox, was originally published in Universe 15, ed. by Terry Carr, Doubleday, 1985. Copyright © 1985, 2011 by Arthur Jean Cox.
“Mohammed’s Angel,” by Jack Dann, was originally published in Overland #196, Spring 2009. Copyright © 2009, 2011 by Jack Dann.
“Ultra Evolution,” by John Russell Fearn, was originally published under the author’s pseudonym, “Polton Cross,” in Startling Stories, January 1948. Copyright © 1948 by John Russell Fearn; Copyright © 2011 by Philip Harbottle.
“Miles to Go,” by Sheila Finch, was originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 2002. Copyright © 2002, 2011 by Sheila Finch.
“The Little Finger of the Left Hand,” by Mel Gilden, was originally published in Bruce Coville’s Alien Visitors, ed. by Bruce Coville, Avon Camelot, 1999. Copyright © 1999, 2011 by Mel Gilden.
“The Next Generation,” by Ardath Mayhar, was originally published in Fantastic Collectibles #117, July 1993. Copyright © 1993, 2011 by Ardath Mayhar.
DEDICATION
To the Memory of Donald A. Wollheim,
Editor Extraordinaire,
and
For Mary, with all my love.
INTRODUCTION
“SUCH A SIMPLE REQUEST”
It seemed like such a simple request. My publisher wanted me to put together two anthologies featuring short stories by authors from my Borgo Press list. One of the books would include science fiction tales, and the other mystery pieces. The volumes would be distributed as near-gratis ebooks on the internet, with inexpensive print-on-demand versions as well, to help publicize some of the good folks who were publishing full-length books with us.
Easy, right? Well, yes and no.
Getting the material wasn’t difficult at all. I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with quality submissions, both reprints and originals. I quickly adopted a policy of only one story per writer per volume—and still they kept coming! In the end, I received sixty-three tales by sixty-six writers—thirty-seven SF and twenty-six crime stories. The total wordage was enormous. But the books had now become too large. So what to do?
“Divide them into more workable pieces,” was the suggestion, and so that’s what I’ve done. One SF volume became three: Yondering, To the Stars—and Beyond, and Once Upon a Future; and the crime book became Whodunit? and More Whodunits, with appropriate linking subtitles.
* * * *
This first anthology in the sequence, Yondering, includes a baker’s dozen of great pieces by fourteen writers. What struck me about this volume—and the others in the set—is the huge variety of themes, styles, and settings for the individual tales. There’s quite literally something here for just about everyone.
In “The Quills of Henry Thomas,” W. C. and Aja Bamberger give us a glimpse of a future in which music is created by DNA computing. “The Gizzard Wizard,” Rory Barnes’s sequel to his marvelous young adult SF novel, Space Junk, reintroduces those delightful characters, Em and Ned, now refugees fleeing a rundown future Earth. John Gregory Betancourt’s imaginative and engaging “The Darkfishers” features a shanghaied Earth colony stranded on the back of a huge crustacean on an ocean world. In “Guinea Pigs,” Sydney J. Bounds portrays a dystopian future in which the corporations dominate the world.
“Outside Looking In,” by Mark E. Burgess, takes the “world in a bottle theme”—and flips it on its head! Victor Cilincă’s “Siegfried” demonstrates quite clearly the danger of taking the “primitive” aliens too lightly. Michael R. Collings’s “The Calling of Iam’Kendron” is a stirring prequel to his classic fantasy novel, Wordsmith. In Arthur Jean Cox’s “Evergreen,” we find that long life is not always what it’s cracked up to be.
Jack Dann depicts, in “Mohammed’s Angel,” an all-too-plausible future in which cultures, sensibilities, and terrorism are inextricably mixed. “Ultra Evolution,” by John Russell Fearn, is a cautionary tale of the advancement of science and the advancement of man—not always a good thing! Sheila Finch’s “Miles to Go” is the moving story of a wheelchair marathoner presented with the choice of getting new legs. Mel Gilden relates mankind’s first encounter with an alien race in “The Little Finger of the Left Hand.” Finally, in Ardath Mayhar’s poignant “The Next Generation,” a nearly extinct human race must decide what its future will be.
—Robert Reginald
13 June 2011
THE QUILLS OF HENRY THOMAS, by W. C. Bamberger & Aja Bamberger
Henry had gone inside, gone inside the antique music and brought out the quills’ cell. Henry only needed the one to create an entire new piece, because musical cells were irrepressible. Henry would start with that single cell and then more cells (his own interest might be musical, but they all behaved the same, didn’t they?) would lock into, echo, mirror, or fractally expand outward from that first compact cell, expand like the interlock of crystals or the links of chain mail until they filled his predetermined compositional space as completely as possible. To crowd strict musical beauty into every audio space was any good composer’s ideal. And Henry Thomas 2018 was starting with a beautiful little twelve-bar cell, one lifted
from Henry Thomas 1928.
Henry remembered the intellectual curiosity he had felt in first-year music history when his audio-lab partner Stachel had found that there had been another musical Henry Thomas, a black blues singer who had recorded almost a century before. That Henry Thomas had been a singer, guitar picker, and had played the quills—a folk panpipe made from stalks of cane, hollowed out and stoppered at one end like a row of cane whistles, all in a rack that held them near his mouth. It was on these quills that Henry Thomas 1928 played the cell that Henry Thomas 2018 had taken out.
The thirty-three note cell was as segmented as a bar graph, symmetrical almost to the point of being sing-song, but melodic enough to carry it off. The only shortcoming was that for all its squarish, boxy beauty the quills’ cell also conveyed an overarching tone of exuberant happiness, one that stubbornly refused to be damped. Henry didn’t care for exuberance himself—he had once owned a hedgehog named Uncle Fester, and Fester’s aloof, spiny attitude had very much been one with his own. While a wisp of emotion might not hurt the work’s chances for a grant (you never knew when a judge might be concealing a reactionary streak), it could mar the kind of austere beauty that was Henry’s musical ideal.
Henry was preparing the cell to be run through a young man’s DNA. Not that the boy would in any way be making any of the compositional decisions. His DNA was leased as a helix processor, a mute tool with no aesthetic input of its own. Henry had already finished the preliminary work, opened the connection to the distant DNA, and set up the necessary algorithms…though, if he was honest with himself, he seemed to be having an off-day. His numbers felt, somehow, “loose,” or as if his grip on them wasn’t as tight as it should have been. And then there was the fact that he had planned all along to transpose the key, lift it a step and a half from A-flat (as on the original 78 shellac) to B, because B in the German notation system was written “H”—a way of slipping himself into the musical process. But as he was preparing to upload the boxy cell into the DNA threshold buffer, inexplicably (because Henry always kept his decisions firm, his ideas tight and certain), he had begun hearing it lower, down a perfect fifth—Henry was quite fond of the word “perfect”—and, surprising himself, had instead specified that its processing would begin in the key of “E.”
* * * *
“Erin? Are you listening?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry,” I mumble, tearing my eyes away from the gliding charcoal box hanging in the upper corner of the common room.
* * * *
It had only been some two dozen years earlier that human DNA’s potential for doing computation had been discovered. Where electronic computer code still used the binary system and ran its information through circuitry, DNA computing represented information in terms of its own chemical units, manipulated and synthesized to perform calculations. For the first twenty years DNA computing had been done in small cultures in test tubes, but the more complex calculations had caused mutations in the DNA, which would throw off results in the same way a flawed chip would do. So, since ’16, taking advantage of the stable nature of cells at higher scales, biocomputations had been done within living bodies.
By way of the same convenient economic coercion that had for decades led the cash-strapped to enroll in medical trials—their bodies transformed into nets to catch any virulent side effects swimming deep in untried drugs—college students were now being paid to be living computers via wireless modems implanted as small rings that pierced their eyebrows. And just in time: it had been only a few months into ’16 when the oddly named virus “markers-off” had declared itself, had overnight swept through and crippled every electronic network big and small, sparing only standalones. Months of effort and virtual head scratching had yet to find a fix for “markers-off,” but it had been for the most part firewalled. Still, there remained the constant fear that electronic computing would never again be truly secure, and so DNA computing had soared in price, was now out of reach to nearly everyone. Henry supposed he should mourn all the music that would now go unwritten—but then he had a fat grant and a fine twelve-bar cell. Worrying was for the little people. That boy’s DNA was his for the next twenty-four hours.
* * * *
I’m not the only one unnerved by the foreign object. The normally large, boisterous crowd of students has been reduced to five or six huddled in the corner. A new feeling of nervousness and paranoia has settled over the campus. It has the entire 41,000-member pupil and faculty population looking over their shoulders and hesitating at every task that requires they log onto their machines.
“Don’t tell me you’re falling for their scare tactics,” Zack snorts, lying back on the sofa with his hands folded back into his wild mop of black hair. He lifts up his feet and slams them down onto the coffee table, as if emphasizing his reclined attitude.
“It doesn’t bother you that we’re currently residing in a slightly more comfortable version of the Panopticon?” I raise an eyebrow, mimicking his position.
* * * *
“Bulldoze Blues?” Someone had been asleep at the switch in Chicago, back in 1928. The word was nowhere in the lyrics. What Henry Thomas 1928 had sung (and why had no one but Henry Thomas 2018 ever marked this?) was, “I’m going where I won’t get the buh-lu–uu-ues.” Apparently, the record company had misunderstood Henry Thomas 1928’s melisma through his black country accent. The only other possibility was that the word had simply come to Thomas himself when he had been asked the name of the song. Could be. Words sometimes came to musicians from nowhere, Henry knew. Just then, for example, the word “panopticon” had risen to the surface, glinted a moment, then sank again. He imagined a “panaudiocon”—a central station to broadcast his music to a captive audience, while not letting anyone ever see him. What composer wouldn’t want that? Stachel sometimes quoted Bentham; maybe that’s what had brought the word to mind. What was it Bentham had said about music? Something sentimental, no doubt. Stachel had no intellectual rigor, he was marked by sentimentality. Where Henry had few musical heroes (late, bracingly cold Reich above all), Stachel listened again and again to “Constantinople” by Christos Hatzis, to works by Sungji Hong, to Heather Schmidt’s “Twelve for Ten”—women and Canadians, for God’s sake! What Bentham had said was something about the music of the theatre being no more musical than that of the office—but the first softens the heart, while the second hardens it.
* * * *
“Why should I care? I didn’t do anything.” As I measure the volume and tone of irritation in his voice, I can’t help but wonder how much of it is simply a show for the cameras.
* * * *
This would be Henry’s first composition realized by way of biomolecular computing, and he was impatient to see how well it would work, to see if it would at last give his music the sheen of lathed perfection that he sought. Electronic computing always seemed to leave a few burrs on the harmonies, a few too-human smudges on the most intricate counterpoint lines. Any minute now he would feed the cell of the quills of Henry Thomas 1928 into the body of the distant young man—Brandon-something; Henry didn’t much care about the processor’s name—and the file that would return would be what Henry’s algorithms skillfully called for: a fugue with all the standard variations: the quill theme inverted, presented retrograde, crab-canon-wise, put through diminution, augmentation, counterpoint—everything Bach had labored over, scratching away with his Federkiel at his desk in the parish house, achieved through some inconsequential boy’s molecules Henry had leased for the day. That was wasteful, yes, but the greedy agency flatly refused to book DNA by the minute.
Henry smiled at the mismatch of time scales: whereas the tens of thousands of bits of musical algorithms and information would ripple through the clueless boy’s DNA and return again almost instantaneously, the source for the quills’ cell had been recorded in June of 1928. As the deadline for his composition was June, the cell was being carried over a nice, even, ninety year-arc. Henry liked the clean neatness of that.
The algorithms Henry wrote, the program that would be hosted by the hired DNA, might even machine away the quills’ cringe-inducing exuberance. He expected that every note, every variation, every modulation would come out faster, cleaner, and purer, more clockwork than Bach himself. And his opinion was that those who traveled to the Thomaskirche in Leipzig to access the closely-guarded shunt that spiraled down through the earth to Bach’s own DNA pool (rumor had it that the pool, sealed in its rectangular wooden box like wine in a cask, was a full inch and a half deep!) did it simply as a show for the cameras that would capture them there.
It was an open, and some thought an ugly, secret among composers that all DNA wasn’t the same. We were all equally human, the public line ran, so our DNA is everywhere equal. But the agencies, using a system of erasable Xs penciled in at the top of the contract, discretely rated the intelligence of the bodies for lease. The best, so the composers’ pipeline had it, was a comfortably bland “7” (an I.Q. of 111 read as binary code). Higher ratings sometimes produced brilliance, but they had also precipitated mental breakdowns in some composers; they somehow stepped out of themselves and never found their way back. This Brandon-something was a 112; nothing to worry about.
* * * *
The news station that’s hijacked every channel on the cable network projects photos of Brandon Spencer’s mug shot, shifting to photos of the brick exterior of the academy, then to the monitoring room of the new surveillance system.
A grid of screens hooked to the drywall flickers through images of the activities of all 41,000 computers on campus. Another strip in the grid displays live feeds from the cameras placed in every interior cavity of the institute. Not a single section of the monitoring room’s surface is left uncovered.
This new visual reminder being broadcast causes a renewal in the slacking tension of the room. Of the few students remaining, some start laughing louder, forcing smiles while trying to casually turn so their backs face the camera, still peering over their shoulders or out of their peripheral vision. Others mutter something about having to meet someone and step outside. The trick, of course, is to not show any emotion until safely out of range of the cameras.
Yondering Page 1
