LUNA STATION QUARTERLY
Issue 018
Luna Station Press
•
New Jersey
Luna Station Quarterly
Issue 018
March 1st, 2014
Editor
Jennifer Lyn Parsons
Assistant Editors
Megan Kaleita
Andi Marquette
Cheryl Ruggiero
Iona Sharma
Editorial Assistant
Danielle Perry
lunastationquarterly.com
Luna Station Quarterly is publishes short fiction on March 1st, June 1st, September 1st, and December 1st.
For more information and submission guidelines, please visit our website at lunastationquarterly.com
Contents
Editorial Jennifer Lyn Parsons
The Sacrifice Robin L. Martinez
The Matron Sandra Wickham
Tunbi Chikodili Emelumadu
Tourist Attraction Nina Shepardson
Yellow Eyes Natasha Leullier
Revision Penelope Schenk
Place of Plentiful Water Molly N. Moss and Shereen Marie Jensen
Ladgarda Christine Rains
Forget About Me, I Am NO ONE Megan Neumann
Gretel Nancy O’Toole
Editorial
Jennifer Lyn Parsons
Women are angry and that’s great.
We’re all up in arms about fanboys, the gender divide, insensitive convention organizers, society at large holding us down and holding us back. It’s brilliant watching women of all ages and backgrounds have a voice and band together in various groups, however temporary, to take a stand for their rights to equal treatment on all levels.
This is half of why I created Luna Station Quarterly in the first place. I wanted to provide a voice for the wonderful women writers of speculative fiction, be it sword and sandals, high concept sci-fi, or anywhere in between.
But there is the other half that drove me forward and made me want to build this magazine, and its parent press. I wanted to celebrate women writers as much as defend them. This is a component of our communities that seems to be lost in the arguing at times.
This time around, I want use this forum to put out a request.
When possible, accentuate the positive. Show how awesome we are as women, as writers, and that the former does not always have to precede the latter. Do great work, read great stories, support the women in your life in those subtle ways that get lost amongst the sturm und drang of the battle for equality.
Perhaps its the idea that this is all couched in terms used for war that bothers me and makes me turn my thoughts toward supporting rather than fighting.
I’m a peacenik when at all possible. I would rather uplift then knock down. Do I want equality among the genders? Of course I do. Do I admit that sometimes we need to scream to be heard? Yup. But I also know that once we get everyone’s attention, we’re going to need to show that we’re more than the yelling.
I love Lightspeed’s Women Destory Science Fiction issue and supported its Kickstarter. I’m a charter member of the Geek Girls Book Club, which was born out of similar righteous anger. But I also run this little literary magazine. Every quarter I quietly send out creative, engaging stories into the world by an array of diverse and talented women.
Its genesis, too, was an attempt to fill a void and show that women can do this stuff, and brilliantly to boot. At the end of the day, though, LSQ retains its focus on great stories, and we do publish amazing ones at that. The fact that they all happen to be written by women, but that you don’t have to be female to enjoy them, just proves the point I’ve been trying to make all along.
If there is a time and a purpose for everything, then I stand behind those who are at the front lines and cheer them on. But when they need a respite and a remembrance of why they are fighting? I’ll be right here, with stories to share that will lift them and, hopefully, those they fight so that maybe tomorrow’s battles will go a little easier on everyone and we can get one step closer to that wonderful dream of peace and equality.
The Sacrifice
Robin L. Martinez
Sci-fi/fantasy author Robin L. Martinez lives in Oklahoma with her children, husband, and crazy little dog.
Icy winds seep in around the edges of my cell’s one window. I rise from the wooden bench with a hiss of pain and limp over to the barred opening. The bleak white sky casts no shadow on the walls or ground outside. Every line of the New Jordan spaceport is so clear my eyes feel lacerated by the sharp angles. If I had not already had an aching head, the harsh light would have done the job. I’ve never been able to walk outside on Terados without thick, tinted lenses. During summer the sun’s reflection off the rocky white terrain is apt to fry your eyeballs, and the brief winters bring snow blindness. And those are the only two seasons.
Why the hell did we want this godforsaken planet anyway?
Friends and acquaintances have asked me this question hundreds of times. While the official platitude – it’s convenient as a port-of-call between New Earth and the Helios Union’s business hub on Phedras – might satisfy politicians’ wives, those civilians with any tenacity would suspect it was not the whole truth. And the sharper ones would know only something rare and precious would motivate Union leaders to pour money and manpower into this pitiless hunk of rock.
My damaged legs shake, threaten to give out, but I cling to the ridged sill and try to see more of the port. Across from my window and to the left stands a long, low storage building constructed of the white stone everything else is made from. Beyond the storage building runs a razor wire fence and fifty yards beyond that lies the airfield and boarding pads. My lips part in surprise when I catch sight of a line of Draykell hobbling towards a shuttle emblazoned with the Helios Union’s logo: a double helix surrounding a vertical line of circles. A gauntlet of armed Crim soldiers stands on either side of the Draykell parade. I strain to see if I recognize any of the prisoners, but can only discern the generic shapes of their gangling bodies.
In general, the Draykell look like a combination of bird and lizard, with a tiny bit of human anatomy thrown into the mix: long legs, much like those of an ostrich I saw once in a digipic, three-toed, clawed feet. A flexible tail extends out from their hips. Their torsos, from navel to neck, resemble a human’s. The females have small, almost childlike breasts while the males’ chests are smooth. Twin ridges of muscle run up their backs on either side of their spines. Muscular arms extend to their knees and end in four-fingered hands. One of the fingers acts as a clawed opposable thumb. Glittering scales tile their long necks. A Draykell head resembles a horse’s with a long face and sculpted cheeks. Thick lashes encircle their wide, forward setting eyes. Their noses are a smooth convex arc proceeding directly from their foreheads and ending above a thin-lipped mouth. Draykells only grow hair during the winter. It forms a thick, white carpet all over their bodies and insulates them from the subzero temperatures to which Terados succumbs each year. Beneath the hair, their skin is an iridescent grey and has the extraordinary ability to change pigment depending on the Draykells’ physical surroundings. Terados does not have a vast array of life forms, nothing to the ecosystems once found on Old Earth, but its predators are like nothing we humans have ever encountered: intelligent, voracious, and adaptable. The Draykell are the perfect foil for these killing machines with their arsenal of defense mechanisms and their own high intelligence. Still, many of them die, ground between the teeth of monsters.
The last of the prisoners boards the shuttle, followed by their red-armored escort.
Unable to stand any longer, I collapse o
nto the bench, panting. Sweat breaks out on my naked skin. When a stray draft hits the moisture, I break out in cold rash. I close my eyes and shiver. A thousand ways to die on this shithole planet, with freezing being the kindest. I’ve heard freezing to death is warm and peaceful as the world drifts away. I long for that death, for a slow slide into unconsciousness. But that’s not how this will end for me.
I touch my broken face with experimental fingers: shattered nose, lower lip torn in half, one eye swollen shut, dried blood trailing from one ear. My fingers travel over my scalp where crusted patches indicate the enthusiasm of the technician who sheared my hair before the implant scan. A few broken ribs squeeze against my lungs. Huge, black bruises cover my legs from hip to heel. The Crims don’t take half measures when it comes to interrogation. Or maybe I got special treatment. They stopped short of killing me, though. They won’t let me die. Not yet. When the Crims strip-searched me and found the identification tag in the lining of my pants they had no choice but to inform my father of my presence. They wouldn’t kill me until he commanded it. At least, not intentionally. But the Crimson Army is no stranger to overzealous measures.
A creak of hinges brings my head up. Without thinking, I put one arm across my bare breasts and the other flattens over my crotch. The ridiculousness of the gesture dawns on me and I relax both my arms onto my lap. A guard peers at me through the observation slot in the top half of the door. His red faceplate obscures his features, but I feel the weight of baleful eyes. “Time for your blue bath,” he sings and turns to nod at someone down the hall. Recessed spigots in the walls and ceiling hiss a moment before they begin to spray the room with cutting jets of blue powder. I cover my face and cough as I’m enclosed in the noxious cloud. I slide along the bench, positioning my body between two of the spigots to avoid the bruising force of the spray, but the powder still burns as it wafts over me. The sensation of it settling into my various open wounds resembles that of a lit match against my skin. Several minutes later, they shut off the spigots, though blue dust still chokes the room. I hear the whir of hydraulic fans sucking the excess powder from the room. Soon all that remains is a thin layer coating my skin. Pain tremors grip my body, make my teeth chatter.
The electronic locks on the door buzz and the guard steps in followed by two of his fellows. They are all dressed in full armor. The red plate glows in the overhead lights. “There, now you’re sweet and clean,” one of them says as the other two grab my arms. They kick my feet apart, almost causing me to fall, and spread like a lobster. The guard not restraining me runs practiced eyes over my body, looking for the telltale discoloration in the powder indicating a sub-cutaneous weapon. Then, he lays his hands on me. Checks behind my ears and in its whorls, in my armpits, bellybutton, the valley of each finger and toe. I have to stick my tongue between my teeth to keep from gritting them; splay my fingers to prevent them curling into fists, as he runs his gauntleted fingers under the rim of breasts, into the cleft of my buttocks, and even into my labia. Not yet, T.J., I chant silently. Notyetnotyetnotyetnotyetnotyet.
He steps back and nods to his companions, who then release me. I hang in the air like a deflated balloon until one of them nudges back onto the bench. “Go get a suit,” the examiner orders. One of the guards steps from the cell, closing it with a clang. I can feel the eyes of the other two Crims boring into me from behind their faceplates. Again that ridiculous urge to cover up comes over me. I fight it, not wanting to appear weaker than I already do. “You’re scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
I look up at the guard who examined me. “And my father?”
“We’ve contacted General Tykus, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s in orbit, on parade with the Prime Minister, and not likely to abandon his duties to visit a traitor.”
“You never know,” I say, shrugging. The motion makes me wince as it pulls up my broken ribs farther than they want to go.
The return of the third guard saves me from hearing a nasty reply. He has a bundle of grey fabric tucked under one arm. He tosses it into my lap.
“Get dressed. Get your beauty sleep. You want to look your best for tomorrow.” He waggles his steel-clad fingers at me in a mocking wave as the three of them leave. After they’ve gone, I shake out the bundle. It’s a skin-tight prison suit. Shock buttons run along the seams. Each time a suit is given to a prisoner, the shock buttons are programmed with the allowable coordinates that prisoner is permitted to traverse. Should said prisoner wander outside those coordinates, the buttons are tripped and begin to deliver paralyzing electrical pulses. If no one deactivates the buttons in time, the shocks can be fatal. The fabric of the suit is designed to resist tearing. I stick my feet through the neck and inch the suit over my blackened legs and then up my body. The contortions needed to get my arms into the sleeves leave me panting and grunting in pain. But I feel warmer once I’m encased in the dark grey fabric.
Moments tick by. Eventually, eyelids drooping, I ease my torso against the wall. I don’t sleep, though I am exhausted. Instead, I think of my father, of the last time I saw him.
We were having dinner in his apartment in the spaceport headquarters. The quiet slide of our flatware was the only sound in the sparsely furnished room. My father’s suit of red armor stood in one corner on a rack, polished and shining, like new blood. I set my fork and knife down on the glass tabletop and swallowed the bite of food in my mouth. “Father, I have something to tell you.”
He too put down his implements. He wiped his mouth, and took a sip of wine. His silver eyes fixed on me, waiting.
“I’ve decided to resign my commission. I intend to surrender my armor tomorrow morning.”
“I see,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his massive hands across his flat belly. “Any particular reason, Thayet?”
Pressing my fingertips into the glass, I tried to organize my thoughts. I had gone over this speech a hundred times during the preceding week, trying to make it sound compelling and level-headed enough for him to understand, for him to respect. “You know I went on a reconnaissance detail last week?”
He nodded.
“You know it did not go as planned.”
Another nod.
I took a deep breath, trying to shore up my courage. I exhaled and said, “That day, when we came across the Draykell commune and Captain Fraco ordered us to attack, I watched another soldier decapitate a screaming Draykell toddler.” I pause, swallowing down the bile. The chaos caused by my fellow soldiers, whipped into a crazed state by Fraco, had made the sight of a boy sitting in the dirt in front of his burning house – his mother dead beside him – wrench at my heart. I had begun to walk towards him, to offer protection or comfort – I can’t remember what my intentions had been – when Nico, one of my best friends from basic training, had swept between me and the child and brought his blade down to bite through the frail neck. For an instant, the child’s sobs had climbed in pitch and intensity and then they fell silent, lost in a burble of blood. Nico had looked at me, his faceplate raised to reveal his huge grin. “Hey, T.J., that’s thirty-two for me! Draper’s gonna be pissed I’m beating him.” He had run off into another fray, leaving me to stand and stare at the tiny headless body.
“The Council has admonished Fraco, Thayet.” My father’s voice is smooth and practised, like an oiled hinge. “He had no right to attack that settlement. None of the soldiers who participated are responsible for following Fraco’s commands.”
“But that’s the point, Father: we are responsible,” I argued. “We’re human beings, adults, who know right from wrong. Until that day I’d convinced myself I was right to join the Crims, that I belonged there. But it… it isn’t true.”
He bowed his head, face thoughtful and still. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone native, like your mother.”
I give him a sharp look. We don’t talk about my mother. Haven’t since her death of a fever she contracted while working in a Draykell clinic when I was nine. He imposed the moratorium. I grew up wanting
to know about her but afraid to ask. Afraid to hurt him, or of being brushed away. I learned bits and pieces from friends of my parents and from old newscasts. “At least she died doing what she felt was right.”
He nodded. “She did. But just because she thought it was right didn’t make it true. And no one knows better than I what a good woman your mother was. But she had a weakness for misery and it led to her death. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”
I kept my eyes on my plate, trying to recapture the threads of conviction. Into the silence, my father sighed. “What would you have us do, Thayet? The Union and all its citizens were on the brink of decimation when we came to Terados. I watched children, babies, dying of the Grey Plague; stood witness to hundreds of mothers holding their dead sons and daughters as they wept and cursed our leaders for not saving them.” He leaned over the table, one arm shooting forward and back like a ball and cup game. “You mourn for one dead Draykell child while I mourn for the thousands who died without hope or help in the ships as we searched for a cure to the Plague. And then we found it, here. A chance to watch new children grow and live and heal the wounds we had suffered. Is that not worth a few lives? A few sullied consciences?”
“But we’ve no right to sacrifice Draykell lives for our salvation, Father. What about their mourning? Their wounds?”
He collapsed back into his chair and covered his eyes with his hand. His next words sounded as though he were pulling them from somewhere deep in his soul. “When we discovered the Draykell held the key to the Grey Plague vaccine, we asked for their help. They refused. Don’t let the death of one child, tragic as it may seem, destroy your belief in the Union, or romanticize your view of the Draykell. They were willing to let us rot to death on our ships, Thayet. We took what we had to, to survive.”
“And everything we’ve done since then? Are we still justified in taking what we want?”
Luna Station Quarterly - Issue 018 Page 1
