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    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 23, November 2016: Galaxy's Edge, #23
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 23, November 2016: Galaxy's Edge, #23
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 23, November 2016: Galaxy's Edge, #23
    Ebook285 pages4 hours

    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 23, November 2016: Galaxy's Edge, #23

    By Mercedes Lackey, L. E. Modesitt, Jr. and Laura Resnick

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    About this ebook

    A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy

    ISSUE 23: November 2016

    Mike Resnick, Editor

    Jean Rabe, Assistant Editor

    Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

    Stories by: Brian Trent, Ron Collins, Mercedes Lackey, Eric Cline, Rebecca Birch, L. E. Modesitt, Jr., Jay O'Connell, Laura Resnick, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, David A. Kilman, Leena Likitalo

    Serialization: The Long Tomorrow by Leigh Brackett

    Columns by: Barry Malzberg, Gregory Benford

    Recommended Books: Jody Lynn Nye and Bill Fawcett

    Interview: Joy Ward interviews Harry Turtledove

    Galaxy's Edge is a Hugo-nominated bi-monthly magazine published by Phoenix Pick, the science fiction and fantasy imprint of Arc Manor, an award winning independent press based in Maryland. Each issue of the magazine has a mix of new and old stories, a serialization of a novel, columns by Barry Malzberg and Gregory Benford, book recommendations by Jody Lynn Nye and Bill Fawcett and an interview conducted by Joy Ward.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPhoenix Pick
    Release dateOct 30, 2016
    ISBN9781612423289
    Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 23, November 2016: Galaxy's Edge, #23
    Author

    Mercedes Lackey

    Mercedes entered this world on June 24, 1950, in Chicago, had a normal childhood and graduated from Purdue University in 1972. During the late 70's she worked as an artist's model and then went into the computer programming field, ending up with American Airlines in Tulsa, Oklahoma. In addition to her fantasy writing, she has written lyrics for and recorded nearly fifty songs for Firebird Arts & Music, a small recording company specializing in science fiction folk music. Also known as Misty Lackey.

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      Book preview

      Galaxy’s Edge Magazine - Mercedes Lackey

      ISSUE 23: NOVEMBER 2016

      Mike Resnick, Editor

      Jean Rabe, Assistant Editor

      Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

      Published by Arc Manor/Phoenix Pick

      P.O. Box 10339

      Rockville, MD 20849-0339

      Galaxy’s Edge is published in January, March, May, July, September, and November.

      Galaxy’s Edge is an invitation-only magazine. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. Unsolicited manuscripts will be disposed of or mailed back to the sender (unopened) at our discretion.

      All material is either copyright © 2016 by Arc Manor LLC, Rockville, MD, or copyright © by the respective authors as indicated within the magazine. All rights reserved.

      This magazine (or any portion of it) may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

      ISBN: 978-1-61242-327-2 (Print)

      SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION:

      Paper and digital subscriptions are available. Please visit www.GalaxysEdge.com.

      ADVERTISING:

      Advertising is available in all editions of the magazine. Please contact advert@GalaxysEdge.com.

      FOREIGN LANGUAGE RIGHTS:

      Please refer all inquiries pertaining to foreign language rights to Spectrum Literary Agency, 320 Central Park West, Suite 1-D, New York, NY 10025. Phone: 1-212-362-4323. Fax 1-212-362-4562

      CONTENTS

      THE EDITOR’S WORD by Mike Resnick

      BREAKING NEWS INVOLVING SPACE PIRATES by Brian Trent

      TEN THINGS by Ron Collins

      DEVIL WENT DOWN TO GEORGIA by Mercedes Lackey

      SNEAK ATTACK by Eric Cline

      SONGS IN THE KEY OF CHAMOMILE by Rebecca Birch

      ASTRALIS by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

      UPSOLD by Jay O'Connell

      ACHILLES PIQUANT AND THE ELSINORE VACILLATION by Laura Resnick

      THE OBSERVER by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

      TIME AND NOT SPACE by David A. Kilman

      THE GIRLS WE LOST by Leena Likitalo

      RECOMMENDED BOOKS by Bill Fawcett and Jody Lynn Nye

      A SCIENTIST'S NOTEBOOK by Gregory Benford

      FROM THE HEART'S BASEMENT by Barry N. Malzberg

      THE GALAXY'S EDGE INTERVIEW: Joy Ward interviews Harry Turtledove

      THE LONG TOMORROW (CONCLUSION) by Leigh Brackett

      THE EDITOR’S WORD

      by Mike Resnick

      Welcome to the 23rd issue of Galaxy’s Edge. This issue features new and newer writers Brian Trent, Rebecca Birch, Eric Cline, Ron Collins, Leena Likitalo, David A. Kilman, Jay O’Connell, and a not-quite-new one in Laura Resnick. We’ve also got reprints from old friends Mercedes Lackey, Kevin J. Anderson, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and L. E. Modesitt, Jr. And of course we have our regular columns featuring Bill Fawcett and Jody Lynn Nye on Recommended Books, Gregory Benford on Science, and Barry N. Malzberg on Literary Matters. Finally, we’ve got our Joy Ward interview, this issue with Hugo winner and bestseller Harry Turtledove.

      The man credited with creating the field of science fiction, Hugo Gernsback (for whom our highest award, the Hugo, is named) originally dubbed it scientifiction, and claimed that its highest purpose was to interest young boys in the wonders of science. Young girls were presumably too busy playing with their dolls for such heady matter.

      That turned out to be the worst prediction ever made.

      The first few women to specialize in science fiction felt compelled to hide their gender. Catherine L. Moore, the brilliant creator of Northwest Smith and Jirel of Joiry, became C. L. Moore (though in truth that was to hide her identity, not her gender, from her pulp-hating employer); and Alice Mary Norton, one of the most influential authors in the field’s history, became Andre Norton (and when she used another pseudonym, it was Andrew North.)

      Some writing is too good to die, and Audible.com has made Moore’s Black God’s Kiss and Norton’s Star Born available to a new generation of fans.

      Eventually science fiction, which was not always as forward-looking as it was supposed to be, caught up with the rest of the world, and one major female writer after another began appearing regularly (often bought by one major female editor after another).

      Probably the most popular of them over the years was Anne McCaffrey, whose Dragonriders of Pern series of novels thrilled literally millions of readers.

      A major figure on the science fiction scene has been five-time Hugo winner Ursula K. Le Guin, author of a handful of classics, including The Left Hand of Darkness and the popular Earthsea trilogy.

      Nebula winner Catherine Asaro, former astronomer, former ballerina, and former president of the Science Fiction Writers of America, has been knocking ’em dead for the past decade or two with her Skolian Empire series and others.

      And then there’s Lois McMaster Bujold, who surpassed the immortal Robert A. Heinlein by winning her fifth Hugo for best novel, and is the creator of the Miles Vorkosigan novels, surely among the most popular of the past couple of decades.

      Kristine Kathryn Rusch, the only person to win Hugos both as a writer and an editor, hit it big with her exciting Retrieval Artist series as well as other titles.

      The late Octavia Butler became the first major African-American woman to excel in science fiction, and is perhaps best remembered by her brilliant Kindred.

      And then there is the remarkable Connie Willis, winner of more Hugos than anyone of either gender (and to prove it’s no fluke, she is also the winner of more Nebulas than anyone in history). You couldn’t find much better introductions to her work than Even the Queen and The Last of the Winnebagos.

      Hugo Gernsback may well be spinning in his grave. As for the rest of us, we’re hoping that the new definition of science fiction isn’t that it was created to interest girls in the category while boys were too busy playing baseball.

      Brian Trent, a Writers of the Future finalist, has sold stories to Apex, Daily Science Fiction, Escape Pod, and Cosmos. This is his second appearance in Galaxy’s Edge.

      BREAKING NEWS INVOLVING

      SPACE PIRATES

      by Brian Trent

      An hour ago, Sagacious Bay Police Department officials confirmed that AztecSky CFO Bradley Winterfig’s private vault—long-championed to be the most secure in the solar system— has indeed been cracked by persons unknown. According to the statement viewable \here, several items from Winterfig’s personal collection were vandalized or stolen outright, making this the first known high-profile heist in Osirian history. The investigation appears to be proceeding swiftly, as Sagacious Bay police are at this very moment bringing a person of interest to the scene of the crime.

      * * *

      The colony soldiers were also the colony police, an arrangement Jolene Fort had never cared for on other worlds. She especially didn’t like it now, as she was forcibly escorted from Olena’s Oyster Bar and into the SBPD hovercar, then flown up to a docking ring on the local space elevator. Already pining for the oysters she hadn’t had a chance to sample, Fort endured the low-g climb as a newscopter drone continually buzzed them, shining its bright lights onto the windows trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious passenger. The hovercar crawled up the S-E’s cable, changed tracks, and continued ascending to the private vault of Bradley Winterfig.

      The man himself was already there, sitting on the ceiling.

      Jolene Fort! Winterfig boomed as she crossed the threshold of the airlock.

      I am, she said awkwardly, staring in astonishment at the man above her. Winterfig was the largest specimen of humanity she had ever seen, and that included Martian trogs and deepworld pit-fighters. He was a massive golem of flesh, clad in a flexmetal suit-jacket and ruby-studded tie. By contrast, Jolene was tall, slender, ebony-skinned, and wearing simple cargo pants and a pale, sleeveless top.

      An SBPD officer escorted her up along the wall to where the massive man awaited. A skylight interrupted the otherwise unmarred ceiling; presumably, it was constructed of reinforced glasstic, because Jolene could see the blackness of space and Osiris’ single, ringed moon.

      Sit down, please, the officer said, the holobadge displaying from her crisp black uniform as PRVT CIPRIANO. Jolene complied, adopting a Lotus-style posture across from the vault’s famous owner. The skylight formed a glassy pyramid between them.

      How did you do it? Winterfig demanded, glowering out at her. How did you rob my vault?

      Jolene raised an eyebrow. I didn’t rob your vault.

      You, ma’am, are a space pirate!

      Was a pirate, Fort said with a sigh. That was a long time ago. I gave up on all that before I left Sol system. She gazed around the vault, craning her neck to take it all in. This is nice, Bradley.

      It was, she had to admit, very nice.

      The walls were plastered with paintings, garlanded with holocubes, and hung with rare artifacts ranging from scraps of Ashokan rockships to Martian war glass. The suits of armor ran from feudal Japanese samurai to modern IPC praetorian. There were bone masks and diamond visors. Arrowheads and buckeyballs. There were suspension discs containing vellum scrolls and ancient video game cartridges. It represented a mind-bending variety, though Jolene began to wonder if this wasn’t so much a diverse historical museum as a mad hoarder’s closet.

      The mad hoarder addressed the cop. Where did you find her?

      "At Olena’s Oyster Bar."

      Did she come quietly?

      No, replied Officer Cipriano. She kept complaining that she hadn’t sampled the oysters yet.

      Fort shrugged. They take thirty years to reach peak maturity. I’d rather not wait until the next time they’re in season.

      Winterfig leaned forward, rubbing his huge hands. Jolene Fort, I’m going to ask you plain: How did you break into my vault? Where are the companions who helped you? And what have you done with the stolen treasures?

      Fort blinked her surprise. Stolen treasures? How would you even know in all this mess?

      Inventory! the man shouted, and a classical podium grew out of the pewter-colored ceiling. The microfab arranged itself into a scroll that flowered open. A lengthy list of items appeared in black text on the surface, but several displayed in alarmingly scarlet font.

      You and your companions stole the following items, the man said, and began to read.

      * * *

      Winterfig’s collection is considered to be the largest private art collection in IPCnet, rivaling museums outside of Sol. While the full extent of his collection is not known, those pieces he has revealed in holo-tours cover approximately six thousand years of recorded history, from as far back as the Assyrian Empire to as recent as the Partisan War. Winterfig has declined to reveal precisely what items were stolen or damaged in the heist, except that they were rare artworks . . .

      * * *

      Jolene Fort patiently listened to the astounding list of missing artifacts. You know, she said in the pause that followed, You could have just emailed that list to me planetside, Bradley, and asked if I knew anything.

      I shall pay handsomely for the return of these items, Winterfig said, ignoring this.

      Not that I couldn’t use the money, but I haven’t the foggiest idea where they are.

      You’re a space pirate!

      Jolene shook her head, realizing that even across decades and light years and new identities, she was apparently destined to have the same conversation; a Moebius strip of karmic causality with only the merest of provincial variations. "I was a pirate, sure. People change, Bradley. I’m now a respectable member of society."

      Winterfig blasted out a sound that might have been a laugh in the more brutish periods of human history. Respectable! Ha! I spit on your ‘respectable’ reputation!

      Fort shrugged and said, somewhat defensively, "Well, some people like me."

      How did your cohorts break in?

      I don’t have ‘cohorts’ anymore. She looked thoughtfully at some of the debris that floated in the air around them, and at the chunks of terracotta littering the floor and walls. It looked like the aftermath of an explosion, as opposed to the disheveled detritus from a heist. Were there any breaches? she asked.

      Winterfig jabbed a finger at the skylight pyramid between them. "This skylight was shattered, before the blister membrane healed over the damage. But my vault . . . AI confirmed that the skylight was shattered outwards. Meaning that your thieving band escaped this way, but they didn’t enter this way!"

      Is that a Martian mummy? Fort asked, squinting at a desiccated body in a tattered spacesuit. I know someone who would be very interested in learning you have illegal redworld artifacts here.

      For a large fellow, Winterfig moved with impressive speed. One of his hands thrust out to seize her by the shirt. Are you threatening me, you out-system scum?

      Officer Cipriano separated them. Let’s keep our hands off the suspect, okay?

      "Suspect! Ha! I spit on that! She’s a known space pirate."

      Fort asked, Don’t you have cameras in here, Bradley? Maybe they could shed some light on what happened.

      Winterfig touched the microfab podium again. Its surface lit and displayed a time-stamped video of the vault interior. The video began to play.

      In the video, a large terracotta statue of an ancient warlord stood below them, where none existed now.

      Fort watched the unchanging video for about a minute, and then asked, Is anything going to happen?

      It already happened! Winterfig rewound the recording, and then slowed its progression to a frame-by-frame advancement. In one frame, something like a ghostly insect crawled over the camera-lens; at regular speed, it hadn’t been visible.

      Winterfig pulled something from his shirt pocket. There, on his palm, was a glassy insect.

      An airhound, the man boomed. Fitted with camera and display-jack. Somehow it got inside my vault, made a visual sweep of the environment, and then positioned itself over my cameras with a static image, fooling the AI into thinking nothing was happening while the burglars were able to go about their business undetected.

      Clever. Fort stood and began to pace around the ceiling, passing through a cloud of hovering debris that clinked against her clothing. I think it’s pretty obvious how the burglars got in. They smuggled themselves inside the terracotta warlord statue.

      Impossible! Winterfig screamed, waving his arms around in fury, scattering floating rocks in every direction. That statue was brought here a month ago.

      Fort held out her hands as if trying to reason with a thick-headed child. So? Did you never hear of suspended animation?

      Officer Cipriano interrupted, Are you suggesting that the thieves smuggled themselves into a statue, then waited a month to dispatch the airhound and break out? Why would they do that?

      Fort rubbed her chin. Last month was Mr. Winterfig’s birthday, and it was heavily publicized that he celebrated right here, in his vault, entertaining various glitterati for several days. You received a lot of gifts from various sycophants, and I’m guessing one of those gifts was that statue. When he said nothing, she nodded. That’s what I thought. Your parties are known to last for weeks, so the thieves would have had to wait it out. Their suspension capsules waited inside the statue, likely with a simple monitoring array that would awaken them once a certain period of inactivity suggested the coast was clear. Only then would they have dispatched the airhound, cracked open the statue from the inside, and gone to work.

      The officer frowned. You seem to know an awful lot about this.

      Jolene smiled bleakly. "When I was a pirate, I used that technique myself. Allegedly, it would have worked to get aboard the Prometheus Industries Jovian Spin Tower on Olympus Mons. Hey, Bradley—"

      It’s Mister Winterfig!

      "You said that some things were stolen . . . and some things were vandalized. I’ve just explained how your statue was destroyed. Was that all?"

      No, that wasn’t all. He pointed to an immense, violet-hued painting glowing faintly on the wall directly across from them. It depicted some kind of exotic landscape, rendered in extremely thick, bulging layers of radiant purples, indigos, and dusky violets. Jolene imagined it might have been beautiful at one time, but someone had indeed ruined it: the center of the painting had been gouged out, leaving an empty crater and a messy splatter-effect around the absence.

      The thieves ruined this painting! Winterfig protested. It was priceless! It was beautiful! It was—

      Illegal, Jolene said, nodding.

      Officer Cipriano blinked in confusion. Illegal? Why?

      The former space pirate swallowed uncomfortably. Because it’s a Grelk painting, she said softly.

      * * *

      Winterfig himself has come under criticism over the years, with several museums and historians charging that historical artifacts are not for furnishing one man’s private den. Several watchdog organizations have accused him of shady dealings, including the illegal procurement of artifacts through smuggler channels. There have even been persistent rumors that Winterfig is a key figure in the bio-art blackmarket, trading in works made from rare and alien species such as those found on the DeGuzman comet cluster native to Ra System.

      * * *

      Do you have any water? Jolene Fort asked, rubbing her throat. Damn me, it’s dry in here.

      Winterfig gave a withering glare. Of course it’s dry. Moisture is the enemy of art.

      "I thought you were the enemy of art."

      "What was that?"

      Jolene Fort turned to the police officer. Some water, please? Seriously, it’s the least you can do after denying me those oysters.

      Don’t give her anything to drink until she’s cooperated, Winterfig decreed.

      Officer Cipriano flushed angrily. "Mr. Winterfig, I don’t take orders from you. Besides, she does seem to be cooperating. And she’s right; it is very dry in here." The cop removed a small canteen from a utility pocket on her uniform, and handed it to Fort.

      Fort unscrewed the cap and took a deep swig of the bottle. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she opened her mouth, and a warbling tentacle of water emerged. In the low gravity, it formed a shivering glob in the air that slowly crept towards the far wall.

      Winterfig screamed. He tore off his flex-metal suit jacket and captured the small globule, stuffing it like a magic ball into an expensive sleeve.

      Fort gave a sheepish smile. "Ok, I think I know what happened, Bradley. But first, can you tell me exactly when the skylight shattered?"

      11:16 p.m. last night. Blister containment snapped shut over it within ten seconds.

      Fort turned to Officer Cipriano. Can you cross-reference that time with local spaceflight-traffic coming down the space elevator?

      The cop frowned. I can, but if you’re suggesting the thieves leaped through the skylight to land on a descending ship, that’s ridiculous. Breaking that skylight resulted in explosive decompression. It wouldn’t be like making a skydive—the thieves would have been blown out into the atmosphere.

      "I’m willing to bet that the skylight was broken outwards the very instant a ship with very bright lights was coming down for a landing."

      I spit on what you think, Jolene Fort! Winterfig stomped.

      Officer Cipriano touched her ear. After a moment, she said with some astonishment, Confirmed! A cargo shuttle came within sight of the vault around 11:16 p.m. last night. And that shuttle is in a repairbay right now, because according to the flight crew they collided with some unverified debris. Apparently, something smashed into their landing lights and blew apart one of the wingrotors.

      Fort allowed herself a small smile. I’d say the ‘unverified debris’ hitting the ship were the very thieves you’re looking for. I think when the skylight shattered, they were blown out into the sky by the decompression and got sliced and diced on impact with the rotors.

      Winterfig shook his bushy head. You’re saying they committed suicide? Why would they do that?

      "I don’t think it was their choice. They didn’t shatter the skylight, but they were blown outside when it did shatter."

      Then who the hell shattered the skylight?

      Fort pointed. See that Grelk painting? You can always tell a Grelk painting, because of its uniquely scintillating shade of purple.

      I know more about Grelk paintings than a pirate like you would ever—

      Do you know what they’re made of?

      Winterfig closed his massive mouth. No.

      Fort’s eyes grew wide. You have artwork but don’t know its history?

      The police offer interrupted, obviously warming to the discussion. Perhaps you could tell us, Jolene?

      The former space pirate nodded and began walking along the ceiling, then down the wall, to where the immense painting stood. I’m from Earth originally, she said, And on Earth, there once was a shade of paint known as ‘mummy brown.’ This was a dark pigment derived from a very particular organic component. Specifically, it was achieved by grinding up old Egyptian mummies—ancient dead people—for use by artists. Fort squinted at the glowing canvas. "Well, Grelk paintings are also made with a unique color, known as ‘Grelk purple,’ and that’s because they’re

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