“Get me out of here, Moonie!”
“On it! Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”
Moon Dawdler shoves forward, knocking another pack to the side. He shoves again, and the path opens up, but Mr. Franco is now blocking it. He reaches out meaty hands and grabs my dog by the jaw and gives him a terrible shake. “I said knock it off, you rabid mutt! You’re damaging my plants!”
Moonie’s legs scrabble to get traction to push Mr. Franco out of the way, but he’s a big guy, and they just stand in place like wrestlers locked in mortal combat. Mr. Franco is lobster red and shoving back with all his might. I’m right behind Moonie, gripping my hoses, and there’s no opening and the dome shatters and all the titanium beams and glass sheets pop once and there’s the whoosh that sucks the air from my lungs for the last time and red Keds and blue Nikes and green camo Zens are flying as the music tinkles and the glass sprinkles and the beams bounce across the tiles and smash the desks and the EXIT light screams and I’m skittering across the floor like a broken crab and stinky smoke burns my vision and bam goes my back and I’m pinned to the tiles as my skin crinkles and I stare wide-eyed at sparkly flames as they skitter and roll and dance and hiss and spi—
Moonie’s eyes. They’re sparklies. They’re glowing. He’s calling my name. “Dixie. Dixie. Dixie. I’m here, Chickadee. Path is clear. Come on, get up!”
He lowers his head. I put my hand on it, and he doesn’t feel cold, he feels all warm and loving and soft and furry and the safest thing I’ve ever felt in my life, and I cling to him as he lifts me up and fills my lungs with air.
Mr. Franco is sprawled out like a dead chicken between the palms.
“Oh, no! Moonie! What have you done?”
Moonie looks at the body. “Man’s a fridge, heavy as a Mack truck. Wouldn’t move, but Z found a way. You’re my priority.”
“But what have you done? Is he?”
“Dead? No, but I shoulda’ popped a cap in his, I mean, his momma should be fined for bearing such a bonehead. Any dude with half a chestnut for a brain could tell you were in serious distress. You okay, Chickadee?”
I breathe. I see the exit. It’s not blocked now. My good hand is shaking, but the room is real again, all green and white and smelling like light. “I’m okay. Is he okay?”
“He be trippin’. I gave him a special cocktail: Haldol 5, Ativan 2, and Benadryl 50. Only way to clear your path.”
My chest gets all tight. My voice shakes like my hand. “Moonie, you don’t know what you’ve done.”
Maybe it’s the mist makers, but Moon Dawdler’s eyes look moist, just like a real dog’s. He huffs. “Dixie girl, I do know. With you, I’m always all in. Only way I play. Now let’s go get yo’ mother.”
He bit me! Back home, when a dog bites you, you put him down. End. Of. Story!”
We’re in the factory side of Norden Moonbase. It’s built in one of those huge dead lava tubes that are all over the Moon. This is the base chief’s office for FlashPoint Corp, another 3-D printed pod, but this one is stacked, three stories up, and has a big window that looks over all the stations. I can name some. Waste processing. Water storage. Hydrogen production. Titanium extraction. There’s bright blue flashes down below. Mom says not to look at them. So I’m looking at Mr. Franco, ’cuz he’s a big fat liar.
Mom, Dad, Moonie and me are sitting on one side, Mr. Franco on the other. Two men sit behind the desk. The station chief is one, he’s from India, Mr. Anand, but everyone just calls him the Mayor, because he’s the final word when it comes to this place. Mom says in Sanskrit anand means joy, but he doesn’t look very joyful right now. Nor does the guy in the helix-weave cobalt suit sitting next to him. I’ve never seen him before, but I’ve seen lawyers.
The lawyer speaks. “I’ve reviewed the security camera coverage of said event, but the areca palms block much of the interaction. I’ve heard both submitted testimonies. I have also reviewed a direct recording from the MedGen unit itself.”
Moonie is totally silent except for his whispering sides. We’ve talked. We both are pretty sure how this day is going to go down. We’re knee-deep in scree, Moonie says. I think he meant to say something else. Dad’s biting his lip. Mom’s wringing her hands.
Mom interrupts. “May I comment?”
The Mayor nods. His eyes are bloodshot.
“I sent a halo zip to MedGen.” She taps her tablet, and the glass on the Mayor’s desk lights up. “The units are designed to protect a patient by any means at their disposal, so long as their method of defense does not cause permanent harm to another human. MedGen insists the unit was acting properly within the AI’s human interaction safeties, and you can see the notes from Dr. Varley, director of the AI division, that in his professional opinion the unit acted with extraordinary insight in solving an ethical dilemma, a tribute to MedGen’s algorithms, achieving a solution that relieved the trauma Dixie Wagner experienced from an aggressive individual while at the same time not causing the aggressor permanent harm.”
Mr. Franco slammed his hand down on his chair’s armrest. “Their dog bit me! It dropped me to the ground. I’ve got bruises! I call that harm!”
Mom speaks in her Valkyrie voice. “The unit sedated you, Mr. Franco. It accounted for your weight and measured out a dose any psychiatric doctor would have prescribed for a patient exhibiting your type of aggressive behavior. Be very glad you got the dog’s solution … mine would have been quite different.”
I’m shocked. I’ve never heard Mom speak up for Moon Dawdler before. Mr. Franco is sputtering, but the Mayor holds up his hand.
“I have reviewed the security footage as well. I have heard testimony from both sides, and I commend our young lady Dixie here for being present at this hearing. I have also received advice and guidance from our corporate representative. After careful consideration and with due respect to all parties, the company’s position is as follows:
“First, the contract you signed with FlashPoint clearly states that the Moon is neutral territory under The Outer Space Treaty; therefore FlashPoint corporate law holds jurisdiction over our properties.” The company man nods. For sure he’s their lawyer.
“Mr. Franco believes he suffered harm and was acting within his rights to protect valuable corporate assets, indeed, property deemed essential to portions of the Mars mission.”
Mr. Franco nods his head like a bulldog. “You’re damn right.”
The Mayor scowls at Mr. Franco, and he shuts up quick. “On the other hand, the Wagners believe Mr. Franco showed gross disrespect to their daughter’s needs—his thoughtless and sometimes belligerent actions causing her severe mental distress. After careful review of the evidence, I concur.”
My heart leaps! Moonie is saved!
Mr. Franco turns scalded red, but he keeps his mouth shut as the Mayor stares him down and swipes the face of his desk. A halo document glides over to Mr. Franco. The Mayor continues. “This is a restraining order. Read it. Sign it if you want to keep your job. You are never to be in the same room as Dixie again, or you’re out on the next shuttle.”
I feel so much happiness I can’t even describe it. I’m full of bubbles! Mom is right! Anand does mean joy!
“Now to the Wagners.”
Gulp.
“Corporate is very proud to have Dixie represent those with disabilities on our moon base. She is a wonderful example of triumph over trials, and is a shining symbol of what FlashPoint’s space program is all about.” The lawyer makes a check on the halo device in his palm, looks up at me and smiles.
Okay, I’m beaming again.
“Additionally, Dr. Wagner, Mr. Wagner, you are both valuable employees, receiving numerous commendations from our esteemed guests, and I’ve heard nothing but good about you from all but one”—and he scowls again at Mr. Franco—“of our numerous employees. In short, here at FlashPoint, we call people like you The Right Stuff.
”
Dad calls this kind of talk butter, and now I’m thinking the Mayor is spreading it on thick. I look at Moonie, pat him on the head. His head feels real cold.
“That said, I regret to inform you I have here an order from corporate that the MedGen AI personality known as Mr. Z is to be terminated, replaced by something more suitable for a closed environment such as our own.”
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
Dad stands up, and now he does look like Thor, even without a hammer, because he’s got thunder. “Are you crazy! The dog was protecting our daughter! This jackass blocked the exit and made her relive the most traumatic ex—”
The Mayor gets loud. For a guy as thin as a string bean, he can punch it out too. “Sit down, Mr. Wagner! I am not happy with their decision, but don’t test me!”
Dad stands there, fists bunched. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him mad. I look out the corner of my eyes. Even Mr. Franco looks scared. Finally, Dad sits. Mom starts turning her hands over and under again. I feel sorry for them. For all of them. But mostly for Moon Dawdler. Maybe I start crying, maybe I don’t. I’m not telling.
Six endless days.
Make-Me-A-Wish started this thing, and I figure with all this, maybe I deserve another. I know how it works now. But that’s future. Tomorrow, they put Moonie down. I get sedated so I don’t panic, he goes on autonomous life-support mode, and they jerk out his AI unit and pop in another. I’m done crying. I’ve cried out every tear I’ve got over this past week. I could ask Mom and Dad to take me home, and they’d do it, they’d give up everything again for me, just to make me happy. But it isn’t fair. None of it’s fair, and I’m not going to make it worse.
That AI module. When we were at the hearing, FlashPoint’s lawyer slid me a halo, asked me to check one of the boxes they had approved, and they’d send it right up on the next flight. Right there in front of Moonie, like he wouldn’t even care. Forgive me, but I told him to go to hell. And I meant it.
So FlashPoint is going to kill Mr. Z and stuff DivaDoll or MissPrissy or My Prancing Pony into Moon Dawdler’s head, something more appropriate for their poster girl, something safe for Norden Moonbase. And I’m going to go along with it, because that’s what big girls do: they suck it up into their artificial lungs, and they wait and they wait and they wait for the day they can blow it all back out on them, every stinky breath.
But today, Dad says I can have anything, and I say I want to be alone with my dog on the Darkside. Outside the rover, my suit’s good for six hours in the frigid darkness, and I want most of that. We suit up and go for a drive, and Dad does it, he drops me off on a crater lip, says the comm is open when I’m ready, and drives away where I can’t see him.
Moonie and I sit on a rock, looking up at the stars. You’ve never seen stars like this, never ever, and I like describing things, but this I can’t. It’s too big. It’s too wonderful. God’s out there. He has to be, because it’s bigger and brighter than anything you can imagine. I look up at Him, and I say a prayer for Moonie.
As Moonie puffs me with air some escapes within my helmet and I hear the defroster whir like crazy. I pat Moonie on the head with my glove. He makes a “woof” and I hear it. Not because you can hear sound in space—duh, no air—but because I have a PowaPlayah 4 in my ear complete with 2.5 petabytes. Double duh.
Mom and Dad don’t know it, but nobody is going to put my dog down but me, and I can’t think of any place better to do it than under the light of the Milky Way.
“I love you, Moonie.”
He thumps his tail. “Love you too, Chickadee. You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve been proud to serve. Would do it again, too. Wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Me either.”
Those stars are so bright. I don’t care that my helmet says it’s minus 280 degrees Fahrenheit/minus 173 Celsius, they make me feel warm.
“Ready, Moonie?”
“I was born ready. You mind your p’s and q’s, hear?”
Okay, that almost makes me cry again. Maybe I did have a few tears left, maybe I didn’t. I’m not telling. But I suck it up. “I hear. Loud and clear.”
He cocks his head to the stars. “Then I’m ready. Power to the kitten.”
I lean over to Moonie’s ear and whisper, “Best. Dog. Evah.”
He lifts his tail and wags it one last time.
I say, “Moonie: Go fetch. Access my PowaPlayah’s reboot code.”
“Chickadee, I’m way ahead of ya’. Lightyears.”
“Dump memory. All of it.”
“Girl, that’s shiny. 2.5 blank petabytes. All yours.”
“Enough to store one MedGen brain?”
“One way to find out.”
“Moonie: transfer your core.”
“See you on the flip side.”
“Word.”
We did the math together. I needed four hours and thirty-six minutes alone with my Moon Dawdler. I made Dad promise to leave me alone for five. And Dad keeps his promises.
I scrunch up, tilt my helmet until I see that teaspoon hovering over the Moon. I’ve got dreams, every girl does.
I hug my silent dog and make a wish.
Tips for Embryonic Pros
by Mike Resnick
* * *
Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time award winner for short fiction. He has won five Hugos (from a record thirty-seven Hugo nominations), and has won other top awards in the USA, France, Japan, Croatia, Catalonia, Spain, Poland, and China, and has been shortlisted in England, Italy, and Australia. He is the author of more than seventy-five novels, twenty collections, and 285 stories, and is currently the editor of Galaxy’s Edge magazine and Stellar Guild books. Mike was Guest of Honor at the 2012 Worldcon, was the 2016 recipient of the Writers of the Future Lifetime Achievement Award and has been a Writers of the Future judge since 2010.
Tips for Embryonic Pros
There are dozens of books on how to write, or at least how to write better, including quite a few aimed at science fiction writers, so I thought rather than repeating what they say it might be more useful to write an article on how to sell your science fiction. After all, that’s the name of the game.
So …
Submissions. It’s been said time and again: work on that opening paragraph. And of course it’s true, but once you know the commercial reason, you won’t need any serious encouragement to do so.
And the reason is simply this: the average science fiction magazine gets more than a thousand submissions a month. Break it down: that’s 200 to 250 a week. Break it down further: it’s 40 to 50 a day. That means the average slush reader (let’s dignify him or her and call them First Readers) is reading (and passing on, or rejecting) about half a dozen stories an hour. That’s one every ten minutes, without taking into account coffee breaks, bathroom breaks, cigarette breaks, and anything else that breaks his concentration even for just a minute or two.
Now do you see why the most important thing in your story is the opening paragraph, followed by the opening page? In the simplest of terms: if you haven’t captured the First Reader (or the editor) by then, he’ll never get to page 2. After all, he’s got hundreds of more stories waiting to be read.
Reading aloud. I know you’re careful, I know you realize that typos or even clumsy wordings can put the First Reader in the wrong frame of mind—but you’ve been sitting at your keyboard for hours, staring at your screen. You know there are no typos remaining, so should you send it off?
The answer, of course, is No. It’s a lot easier to write clumsy but error-free sentences than you might think, and over the years I have found that the very best way to give your prose the final polish it needs is to read it aloud. (Not to an audience; an empty room will do just as well.) And you’ll be amazed at how many vague or clumsy or inadequate sentences got through your word processor’s spell-check pro
gram.
Novellas. By definition a short story is anything up to 7,500 words, a novelette is 7,500 to 17,500 words, a novella is 17,500 to 40,000 words, and a novel is anything over 40,000 words (though it’ll be a cold day in hell before you see a 45,000 or 53,000-word novel on the stands.)
I would advise beginners to avoid novellas. Even if you’ve got one you know will be a powerhouse, wait until you’ve got a little name recognition before writing and submitting it.
Why?
Because the average prozine runs maybe seven pieces of fiction an issue. The authors’ names invariably go on the cover, as indeed they should. But the cover also happens to be the magazine’s single most effective selling point, and no editor is going to turn over 40% to 50% of his issue’s pages to an unknown name that, when put on the cover, won’t sell a single extra copy.
Study your market. Example: you wouldn’t submit a delicate fantasy to the 1960s or 1970s Analog. You wouldn’t insert a sex scene and submit it to a magazine where the last dozen issues avoid even a hint of sex. And so on. Which is a roundabout way of saying: read the markets you are submitting to, and try not to break too many of their unwritten rules.
Return address. Okay, this one will sound like I’m talking to kindergartners—and on this particular subject I sometimes feel like I am. The very first rule of submitting your manuscript, whether it’s a 300-word piece of flash fiction or a 300,000-word novel, is to put your address (and these days, make that your e-mail address, since no one submits paper anymore) on the title page.
Simple, right? I mean, why am I wasting time stating the obvious?
The answer is just as simple. I edit Galaxy’s Edge magazine. The past week alone, we received six—count ’em, six—stories with no return addresses. Can’t buy, or even reject, a story if I don’t know where to send the contract or the rejection slip—and if I remember the writer’s name, it is definitely not for the reasons writers hope editors will remember their names.
L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 35 Page 23
