Lightspeed Magazine - September 2016

by John Joseph Adams [Ed. ]

  Heath stared at the package for a moment. “You should call her back,” Heath said. “Fuck, Aster, she saved your life.”

  He’d give it back to her, probably. I didn’t much care if he didn’t. It was a cold morning outside the café, cold enough to make the scars ache. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess she did at that.”

  He didn’t mention it again. I left.

  © 2009 by Peter M. Ball. Originally published by Twelfth Planet Press. Reprinted by permission of the author.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Peter M. Ball is an Australian writer and arts-worker based in Brisbane. His recent short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, the Gods, Memes, and Monsters anthology, and Eclipse Online. His longer works include the Flotsam series, about an occult hit-man exiled to the Gold Coast, and the novellas Horn and Bleed featuring ex-cop Miriam Aster. When not writing stories, he convenes the biennial GenreCon writers conference, manages the Australian Writers Marketplace for the Queensland Writers Centre, and geeks out about comic books and superhero cartoons. Find him online at www.petermball.com and @petermball.

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  EXCERPT: Everfair (Tor Books)

  Nisi Shawl | 2147 words

  Burgundy, France, July 1889

  Lisette Toutournier sighed. She breathed in again, out, in, the marvelous air smelling of crushed stems, green blood bruised and roused by her progress along this narrow forest path. Her progress, and that of her new mechanical friend. Commencing to walk again, she pushed it along through underbrush and creepers, woodbine and fern giving way before its wheels. Oh, how the insects buzzed about her exposed skin, her face and hands and wrists and ankles, waiting to bite. And the vexing heat bid fair to stifle her as she climbed the hillside slowly—but the scent—intoxicating! And soon, so soon, all this effort would be repaid.

  There! The crest came in sight, the washed-out summer sky showing itself through the beech trees’ old silver trunks. Now her path connected with the road, stony, rutted, but still better suited for riding. She stood a moment admiring the view: the valley, the blurred rows of cultivation curving away smaller and smaller in the bluing distance, the sky pale overhead, the perfect foil for the dark-leaved woods behind her and by her sides. Not far off a redwing sang, cold water trickling uphill.

  She had the way of it now: gripping the rubber molded around the machine’s metal handlebars, she leaned it toward her and swung one skirted leg over the drop frame. Upright again, she walked it a few more steps forward, aiming straight along the lane, the yellow-brown dust bright in the sun. The machine’s glossy paint shone. Within the wheel’s front rim its spokes were a revolving web of intricacy, shadows and light chasing one another. Tiny puffs of dust spurted from beneath the black rubber tires.

  She raised her eyes. The vista opened wider, wider. The road laid itself down before her.

  Up on the creaking leather seat. Legs drawn high, boots searching, scraping, finding their places … and pedal! Push! Feet turning circles like her machine’s wheels, with those wheels. It was, at first, work. She pedaled and steered, wobbling just once and catching herself. Then going faster, faster! Flying! Freedom!

  Saplings, walls, and vines whipped by, flashes of greenbrowngreengrey as Lisette on her machine sped down the road, down the hill. Wind rushed into her face, whistled in her ears, filled her nose, her lungs, tore her hair loose of its pins to stream behind her. She was a wild thing, laughing, jouncing over dry watercourses, hanging on for dear, dear life. Lower, now, and some few trees arched above, alternately blocking the hot glare and exposing her to it coolwarmcoolwarm, currents of sun and shade splashing over her as she careened by. Coasting, at last, spilling all velocity till she and the machine came to rest beside the river.

  The river. The comforting smell and sound of it rushing away. Out on the Yonne’s broad darkness a barge sailed, bound perhaps for Paris, the Seine, the sea beyond, carrying casks of wine and other valuables. Flushed from her ride, Lisette blushed yet more deeply, suddenly conscious of the curious stares of those around her: Mademoiselle Carduner, the schoolmistress; and Monsieur Lutterayne, the chemist, out for a promenade during his dinner hour or on some errand, seizing a chance to vacate his stuffy shop. Flustered, she attempted to restrain her hair into a proper chignon, but at only sixteen and with many pins missing, this was beyond her skill. She began furiously to plait her thick blond curls, and the others moved away.

  At last she was alone on the riverbank with her mechanical friend. She tied her plaits together, though she knew that momentarily they would slither apart. She stroked the machine’s still gleaming handlebars, then leaned to fit her forehead at their center, so. “Dear one,” whispered Lisette. “How can you ever know how much you mean to me? Who would not give all they could, everything they had, in exchange for such happiness as I have found with you?”

  Sans words, the front tire’s black arc responded to her whispers with visions. It preached to her of motion, of travel, of the mysteries dwelling beyond this sleepy, provincial village.

  “Ah, yes, and one day, my dear, one day …” She raised her head and gazed out again at the river, at the barge now nearly gone from view. “One day we shall venture out and see for ourselves what it is the world holds for us.”

  Boma, Congo, December 1889

  Horror.

  The Reverend Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Wilson could think of no other word to sum up what he had experienced on this trip. Even now, alone in the quiet, white-walled room provided him by his host, he heard their cries, he saw their wasted bodies, their eyes bulging large in their thin faces, pulsing with defeat, hopeless as marine creatures stranded on a desolate beach. He smelled them, their sores running with blood and infected matter where chafed by their chains at neck and wrist and waist and ankle. Smelled the sweat of their fear, the fear that made them lift up and carry burdens half their malnourished weight till released by death. Smelled their abundant corpses rotting by the trail in the tropic heat.

  This land was to have been Heaven.

  Restless as ever, he abandoned his seat on the narrow cot to unshutter the room’s one window. A breeze brought some relief from the day’s fierce temperatures. Even up here, on the capital’s plateau, a Pennsylvanian such as himself found the Congo “Free” State’s equatorial climate hard to withstand. But he should not complain.

  Or not on his own behalf.

  A tapping at the door. He opened it on a child of eleven, the household’s primary servant—a boy named Mola, he recalled. “’Soir,” the boy slurred in French. He entered, bearing with him a tray, the meal his master offered in lieu of the repast shared by Boma’s white residents at the hotel near the river below.

  The Reverend Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Wilson would not be welcome at that hotel, for he was not white.

  The dishes on the tray held vegetables, the ever-present manioc, and stewed meat of some sort—probably from a fowl or goat. No doubt this was what Mola himself would sup upon, and Thomas made sure to tender the boy his thanks as effusively as his limited French allowed. When he was alone again he placed the tray beneath his cot, the food untouched. His journey upriver to Stanley Falls and then back here to the port of Boma had entirely wrecked his appetite.

  The wine he also set aside, to aid him later in seeking sleep. He drank instead a gobletful of water from a crystal decanter, then set that on the sill to cool and turned again to his work.

  To the horror.

  At forty a veteran of three wars, Thomas had seen and survived much. Though no more than a child at the American Civil War’s onset, as soon as blacks were allowed to fight he had enlisted and seen action. That must be why his sojourn here in the Congo was affecting him so adversely, he told himself sternly. His reaction was not illness, not pain and anguish, but anger: righteous indignation that the evils of slavery, which he had staked his life to eradicate from the face of the Earth, had sprung up once again. Unprotested and, what was worse, unremarked, they had met him every
where he journeyed in this supposed Utopia.

  A pair of thin pillows lay over his traveling desk, incompletely concealing it. He retrieved it and drew forth the manuscript of his open letter to King Leopold, monarch of this realm and soi-disant benefactor of its benighted native population.

  “Good and great friend,” the salutation read. “I have the honor to submit for your Majesty’s consideration some reflections respecting the Independent State of Congo, based upon a careful study and inspection of the country… .” So far, he had written five pages and not yet named a third of the atrocities he had been forced to witness. The whippings, the murders committed so casually as if a form of sport, innocents dismembered—Thomas’s gorge rose, but he settled nonetheless to his self-appointed task.

  Keeping his intended audience in mind, he aimed for a tone of forthrightness that yet maintained discreet silence on the more repulsive details of what he had discovered. The open letter would be published in his paper, The Commoner, and also as a standalone pamphlet; perhaps in boards as a small book, on the Continent. There he would find support for such an enterprise, translators…

  The light dimmed rapidly, but not till he heard the clattering racket of the steam-driven trolley climbing Boma’s cliffs did Thomas cease his efforts. That noise, he knew, presaged the arrival of his host, the Anglo-Flemish trader Roger Morel. Thomas didn’t trust him, didn’t trust anyone who profited from Leopold’s reign. He packed away his open letter and went to meet the trolley at the platform mere yards from Morel’s villa.

  Four cars comprised the steam train’s entire length. Their iron fuselages had been painted a brilliant yellow with gaudy red, blue, and green trim. This jaunty coloring and the fortuitous semblance of a face in the alignment of their doors and windows lent the cars a charming air much like the illustration in a children’s book. Thomas at first had succumbed to this charm and to the undeniable romance of such a small machine so beautifully built—until his peregrinations brought home to him the human cost involved.

  Beneath the leafy serrations of a grove of palms the cars disgorged themselves of their riders, black-clad white men replacing their hats and stepping carefully down the platform’s wooden stairway. Morel bared his head again in salute to his visitor. Exchanging meaningless pleasantries, the two returned to Morel’s home.

  Mola took his master’s hat and gloves at the door, handing him a glass half-filled with a greenish liquid. Thomas made as if to return to his room, considering his social obligations for the evening met, but Morel would have none of it. “No, no, my friend, I insist,” he said, indicating with his drink the sitting room’s best chair.

  Ensconced perforce on its cushioned mahogany, Thomas accepted from Mola a second glass. He sipped the unknown beverage with his customary suspicion as the boy slipped from the room. It was faintly bitter and contained no alcohol he could detect.

  “So.” His host had assumed a seat on the divan. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands over one knee. “You leave the day after the morrow?”

  “Yes.” There were other colonies to explore, perhaps more truly paradisiacal, more suited to providing his colored brethren a new home. The ship would stop for Accra and Dakar, and he intended to travel from there to Tunis, Cairo—“That is my plan.”

  “I advise you to change it.”

  Thomas looked at Morel inquiringly. His eyes held a warning gleam that overrode Thomas’s mistrust of him. Thomas set the harmless glass down on the side table with a steady enough hand and spoke: “I fail to take your meaning, sir.”

  “Ah. You have no confidence in me. That is well.” Morel nodded as if confirming a pet theory to himself, his chin doubling. “You are being watched. You must leave to night and go—elsewhere. A different route, more direct.”

  A different route? “To where?” No use attempting any further to dissemble.

  “To England.”

  Not home. “Not to America?”

  “In England you will be safe—enough. But this continent—there are large stakes, and the holders of those stakes are at every hand. During supper this evening I overheard enough, my English being supposed more imperfect than it is, to warrant giving you this warning.”

  Morel stood. “As well, I have a—a commission of sorts—If you will allow me to retrieve certain papers I wish you to convey—” He left and returned with a sheaf of documents—bills of lading, figures in long columns, maps. Thomas read them in growing dismay. Here was proof, if such would be needed, of what he had witnessed. Proof and beyond proof … The scope of the problem far exceeded what he had seen with his own eyes. Not thousands but tens of thousands were doomed unless the abominations practiced so freely in the Congo Free State were to cease, and cease now.

  Copyright © 2016 by Nisi Shawl. Excerpted from Everfair by Nisi Shawl. Published by permission of the author and Tor Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nisi Shawl’s collection Filter House was a 2009 James Tiptree, Jr., Award winner; her stories have been published at Strange Horizons, in Asimov’s SF Magazine, and in anthologies including The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and both volumes of the Dark Matter series. She was the 2011 Guest of Honor at the feminist SF convention WisCon and will be a 2014 co-Guest of Honor for the Science Fiction Research Association. She co-authored the renowned Writing the Other: A Practical Approach with Cynthia Ward, and co-edited the nonfiction anthology Strange Matings: Science Fiction, Feminism, African American Voices, and Octavia E. Butler. Shawl’s Belgian Congo steampunk novel Everfair is forthcoming in 2015 from Tor Books. Her website is nisishawl.com.

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  Media Review: SENSE8, Season 1

  Sunil Patel | 1429 words

  The opening credits of Sense8 (2015, streaming on Netflix) effectively convey what sort of show it is. Images from around the world set to calm music that slowly give way to more vibrant scenes of life and love as the music increases in intensity, betraying a hint of darkness. This is the planet Earth and the people who live there, it says as it revels in their beauty. The credits give no indication that Sense8 is a science fiction show, because it’s not concerned with the science fiction of it all: It’s using an SFnal concept for character-focused storytelling. What if you were psychically connected to seven other people around the world? What if you could share their thoughts, their emotions, their dreams? What if you could help each other?

  Suddenly and violently, eight people become sensates, though it takes them some time to understand what has happened. Will Gorski (Brian J. Smith), white cop in Chicago. Lito Rodriguez (Miguel Ángel Silvestre), gay Spanish actor in Mexico City. Riley Blue (Tuppence Middleton), white Icelandic DJ in London. Wolfgang Bogdanow (Max Riemelt), German thief in Berlin. Capheus (Aml Ameen), Kenyan matatu driver in Nairobi. Kala Dandekar (Tina Desai), Indian pharmacist in Mumbai. Sun Bak (Doona Bae), Korean kickboxer in Seoul. Nomi Marks (Jamie Clayton), white trans lesbian hacktivist in San Francisco. It’s rare to see character diversity of this level in television, let alone science fiction. Every one of these characters has a compelling story, and the cast is uniformly excellent. While some characters’ stories do fall into stereotypes—the Indian woman has arranged marriage angst, the Korean woman knows martial arts, the Kenyan man’s plot involves drug traffickers, and so on—the characters themselves are rich and complex. Like Star Wars: The Force Awakens, the show uses these familiar templates to ease the audience into accepting something bold and new. On a personal level, I loved seeing India and Indian characters depicted so accurately on a Western show. I’m one of the few people who actually enjoyed Outsourced, but that show was clearly not filmed in India. Sense8 not only went to India, but consulted with locals to learn more about the culture and how marriages and weddings work (yes, we do sometimes burst into choreographed Bollywood routines, though they’re not nearly so polished and smooth).

  Juggl
ing eight protagonists is no easy task, and J. Michael Straczynski and the Wachowskis struggle in the early episodes to give them all equal weight. At times, there are a couple of characters with no clear plot movement, which can be frustrating, since the overarching plot—a vast conspiracy involving sensates and also scientific hoo-hah that attempts to explain the concept—moves at such a glacial pace that the character stories must be interesting to keep you watching. But Sense8 is a show obviously designed for binge-watching, as it expects you to give it about four episodes right up front to hook you. Slowly but surely, it reveals itself to the characters and the audience as the sensating—like the music of the opening credits—builds in intensity. At first, it’s a simple bleed-through of sounds and images, but it’s when the sensates discover they can communicate with each other and, even better, cede control of their bodies that things really get popping. The first half of the season teaches the audience the visual language of sensating, how it depicts people from different countries conversing as if they’re in the same room or a Korean woman kicking the asses of Kenyan baddies while simultaneously beating up someone in the ring. The second half then weaves that mechanic into the fabric of the storytelling, recognizing that now these characters are never ever truly alone and can call on each other when necessary. Some of the most incredible scenes in the show occur when all eight sensates experience something together; the “What’s Up?” montage at the end of episode four (the moment I think would finally hook a new viewer) is my favorite weirdo sing-along since Magnolia. Episode six has the infamous That Scene, in which the sensates really do come together. There’s a moment at the end of episode ten that is transcendent, unlike anything I have ever seen on television. These strangers become closer than anyone could imagine, sharing their whole selves with each other, mind, body, and soul.

  The sensating mechanic allows the show to tell a truly global story with character connections where you can have amazing action sequences involving multiple people who aren’t even physically there, but also have amazing intimate conversations involving multiple people who aren’t even physically there. Don’t get me wrong, I am here for every exciting car chase and explosion the Wachowskis put onscreen set to Johnny Klimek and Tom Tykwer’s thumping soundtrack, but Sense8 really shines in scenes like Lito and Nomi sitting in a museum bonding over their identity issues. Two people who have never met, never even spoken to each other except in their minds, find common ground in the ways they’ve had to hide who they were, and how hard it is to embrace that, to undo the violence they’ve done to themselves. Though the characters are separated by thousands of miles, the actors are physically together in each space—when Lito opens up, we see them in the museum, and when Nomi opens up, we see them in her home—and that rapport shows. And that chemistry, as shown in the budding romances that feel vaguely incestuous but also perfectly apt: If you can fall in love with someone after sharing their mind, that’s something.