“The ship needs to rest,” I told my people. “It cannot make such a long journey all at once.”
They accepted my explanation. We let the ship rest for a while and wandered the alien landscape. Our feet left deep indentations in the frozen water.
There were people on the next world. Millions of lights illuminated cities so large that their outlines could be seen from space. Was this the world of Beata’s people? We were eager to meet them.
They fired weapons at us before we even landed. Missiles exploded against the sides of the ship but weren’t powerful enough to penetrate the hull. On the ground, war machines rolled toward us from every direction and continued to fire. These people did not see us as long-lost cousins. I asked the ship to carry us away and it complied.
Maintenance and minor repairs are required, the ship blinked at me from the console display.
“It will be all right,” I patted the great mechanical steed. “Take us to Earth and the Creator will see to it that you arrive there safely.”
We hopped across a dozen different worlds.
We swam in shallow lakes under the light of three moons and walked in fields of wild flowers each twice as tall as a man. But every time we landed on a world with other humans, I refused to open up the ship. The encounter on the war planet had made me cautious, and I couldn’t risk the possibility that some bad people might covet our ship and try to take it away.
The ship was asking me for repairs more insistently now, but it was a good and true steed, and it soldiered on despite the fact that I could do nothing to assist it.
That is when we arrived on the world of the purple sun.
The ship landed in an idyllic valley. The purple sun shone above the land of plenty, which burst with a medley of bright colors. Plants swayed gently in the warm breeze. A peaceful, clear spring was lined with trees, their branches weighed down with large, juicy fruit. We explored the valley and the orange grass under our feet felt like the softest blanket.
It was several hours after the landing that strangers emerged from beyond the trees. I was alarmed, but they didn’t appear hostile. They wore soft tunics and looked healthy and beautiful. They spoke in a sing-song language we did not understand, but there was kindness in their eyes and smiles on their faces, and soon we were no longer afraid.
We spent nearly two weeks in the company of the Betawi people, and were beginning to learn their language and customs. I enjoyed our stay as much as the others did, but was also impatient to continue the journey.
“Why should we ever leave?” asked my tribesmen. “This world has everything we could ever hope for.”
“It’s beautiful here,” I said. “But it’s not our home. The Creator awaits us on Earth. Surely this pleasant oasis is another test of our determination, our faith.”
But they wouldn’t listen. Not a single one of them would return with me to the ship. I was shocked at the ease with which the others gave up our quest. I would take any risk, give up anything to reach paradise, but my friends were eager to trade the Creator’s favor for the promise of comfort this planet offered them. I pled and threatened, all to no avail.
I waited for several more weeks, in hope that time would teach them wisdom. But they were genuinely happy on this world, welcomed and loved by the Betawi, and soon doubt began to creep into my own heart.
I couldn’t allow the Deceiver to gain foothold within me again. So I left the others to their new abode, and continued the journey alone.
There are so many stars out there, more than one could count in a lifetime. Which one of them holds my salvation?
I have seen more wonders than I could have ever imagined growing up in the caves of Kemet. I have visited dozens of planets: heavens and hells and everything in between. I delivered my people to the far side of the wilderness. Will the Creator reward me for my faith, my stalwart willingness to press on, or punish me for abandoning them there?
I stroke the brittle surface of the postcard. Mother told me, many times, of the blue and white jewel suspended against the black velvet backdrop of the cosmos. More than anything else in the world, I want to see it for myself.
The Deceiver cannot defeat me. Countless generations of my people subsisted in caves but never lost their faith, or their humanity. Their faith kept them going through the worst of it, and the Creator blessed them and called them home. My faith is stronger yet, and The Creator is kind, and will surely allow me a glimpse of paradise, even if only from the distance.
I watch the stars from the viewport of the ship that is dying around me, and I wait.
This story originally appeared in the Beyond the Sun anthology, edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt.
I wrote this story on a deadline, over the course of just a few days, and while suffering from a bad flu. I find that deadlines really focus me, and often cause me to produce my best work, because there’s no time to second-guess myself and revise the soul out of a story.
This is a Moses-in-space tale. Like Moses, the protagonist is on a religious quest to deliver his often-uncooperative people to the Promised Land. Like Moses, he’s given the glimpse of his goal but not allowed to return there himself, even after he saves his tribesmen. To strengthen this theme, I also named his home planet Kemet, which is the name of ancient Egypt in Egyptian.
WORLDBUILDING
Bob shuffled into his editor’s office with all the confidence of a cat venturing into a kennel.
“Peter,” he nodded.
Peter waved him over. “Come in, come in. Have a seat.”
“I got your message,” said Bob. “What’s the bad news?”
“Why do you presume it’s bad news?” asked Peter.
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” said Bob as he balanced himself on the edge of the chair. “An editor doesn’t summon a writer for an urgent meeting less than a week after a new manuscript has been turned in just to say how much he enjoyed it. So what is it, Peter? Is the publisher culling the herd again? Am I getting dropped?”
“Relax,” said Peter. “It’s nothing like that. I read the book, and it’s mostly good stuff. I wanted to discuss some minor changes that would make the story just a little more realistic.”
Bob settled deeper into the chair. “Realistic how? It’s an adventure yarn with faster-than-light spaceships and laser guns.”
“I get that,” said Peter. “As you know, Bob, space fantasy is hotter than ever. It’s the small stuff, some details in the worldbuilding that could really stand to be fleshed out. Today’s readers are more sophisticated. They want everything to make logical sense.”
“OK, I’ll bite,” said Bob. “What sort of details?”
“Your carnivorous space manatees, for one.”
“What about them?”
“Manatees aren’t carnivores, Bob.”
Bob processed this for a few seconds. “But they’re space manatees,” he declared.
“Then they should eat space algae. Because there aren’t enough hot babes in skimpy space suits available in the space manatee eco-system for them to evolve as predators.”
“I see,” said Bob. He pulled out a notepad and began scribbling furiously. “This is an easy fix. I can change it into a space shark. Which evolved feeding on the space manatees, but won’t turn down an occasional astronaut-sized snack.”
“Fine,” said Peter. “But this brings me to my next point.”
“Space sharks?”
“No. Skimpy space suits. Who in the world would design a space suit for fashion instead of utility?”
“Hey, that one isn’t my fault,” said Bob. “You guys have been putting pictures of anatomically improbable women in skimpy spacesuits on the covers of my books for years. I’m just trying to remain consistent.”
“Touché,” said Peter. “I can’t argue with the fact that sex sells. Or with the head of the art department. Moving on,” he scanned through the notes on his desk. “Ah, yes. There’s also the jungle planet orbiting Epsilon Indi.”
“The one with the pirate base, yes. What’s wrong with it?”
“Aside from the fact that no habitable planet can have just one climate? Epsilon Indi is a K-type star, colder than our sun. And since your jungle planet is described as being,” Peter glanced at his notes, “seventh from its sun, it should by all rights be way too cold to support vegetation of any kind.”
“I see.” Bob craned his neck to glance at his editor’s notes. “How many more of these have you got?”
Peter held up twelve pages of handwritten text.
“Why don’t I take that list home and work on some revisions,” said Bob. “I’m sure I can fix things up by the end of the week.”
“Great,” said Peter and handed over the papers.
“You know,” said Bob as he was getting up, “it occurs to me that if this were a science fiction story, the twist would have had to be that everything in my book is accurate, and that at least one of us is an actual laser-wielding, manatee-hunting space pirate from the jungles of Epsilon Indi Seven.”
Peter chuckled. “Too bad it’s not. That sounds way more exciting than real life.”
“That’s exactly why people buy space operas,” said Bob. He said his goodbyes and left.
Peter looked at his watch; it was almost five. He checked the crystal ball. It predicted heavy magical storms throughout the evening with a slight chance of a dragon attack. Peter groaned, then went over to the broom closet and pulled out his ride.
The commute home was going to be hell.
This story originally appeared in Daily Science Fiction.
A light story intended to make fun of some of the sillier tropes in the space opera genre. Next time you’re watching an installment of the Star Wars franchise and they land on a jungle planet, I bet you’ll remember this little tale.
IN THE WAKE OF THE STORM
I watch fragments of someone else’s life float in several feet of cold water.
The sun shines through the basement window, illuminating the water. Much of it has receded on its own, leaving a high-water line at nearly six feet. What remains is a muddy, wet mess with debris floating on the surface.
There’s a black and white photo within arm’s reach. I set the hose down on the staircase steps, reach down, and scoop it up from the bottom. The paper is too soggy after spending nearly two days in the water. Smiling strangers stare at me for the last time and the photograph comes apart in my hand.
If I could access my magic, I’d drain the water with a wave of my hand, dry out the walls and floors, and kill the mold spores with a mere thought. Instead, I’m forced to do things the hard way.
I lower the hose into the water until it reaches the carpet, and begin to pump. The Shop-Vac is hooked to a portable generator outside, and it sure beats filling a bucket by hand, but this is a home model capable of holding only a few gallons at a time. I empty the container onto the sodden grass in the backyard over and over again.
An old man sits on the plastic chair outside, wrapped in several layers of sweaters and a long coat with a mud-soaked hem. He watches the volunteers scramble to save the lower level of his home. Someone asks him if he has a place to stay. It’ll get very cold tonight and most of Far Rockaway, Queens is still without heat and power. The old man doesn’t respond at first. He stares past us, lost in his thoughts. When the question is repeated, he says he’ll be fine, that he’d been through worse when he was deployed in Korea.
I return downstairs and continue to work. I plow through exhaustion and back pain. Each bucket of water emptied onto the lawn is an offering, a penance, a punishment. Locked away somewhere deep within me there is power enough to avert a hurricane. I should have found a way to reach it, to tame it. But I failed to summon my magic and could do nothing more than watch as the water surge battered the city. Everything that happened, the devastation around me, the old man haunted by a lifetime of memories he lost in the storm, and thousands more like him—all of that is my fault.
I see her for the first time when the new volunteers arrive. I’m dragging garbage bags to the curb when a group of them walk down the beach block, their clothes still clean. I catch a glimpse of her blond curly hair and slight build and, for a brief moment, I think she’s Anne. I am jolted with the shock of it and look closer, study her face, and realize my mistake. She doesn’t even look all that much like Anne , but I can’t stop stealing glances at her.
Information is easy to come by among the volunteers. We talk during smoke breaks and other brief moments of rest, eager for human contact, anxious to push the tragedy around us from the forefront of our minds. Although her group is working further down the block, within a few hours I learn that her name is Tara and she isn’t local. She’s with some nonprofit out of Florida and they travel around the country to assist people after natural disasters. Hurricane Sandy is the first event her group has been dispatched to in the North East.
We call it a day around four in the afternoon. The sun is already setting and it’ll be dark within the hour. Our group is packing up for the day when I hear a commotion down the block.
Two men, one a resident, the other a volunteer from the looks of it, are in each other’s faces. I can’t hear the words, but their anger and frustration are clear enough. I don’t know what caused their argument. Tensions are running high and everyone is on edge. From the body language and facial expressions, it’s likely that things are about to come to blows.
For what must be the hundredth time today, I concentrate as hard as I can and try to summon my spark. Even the tiniest bit of power would be enough to calm their minds, to prevent this small ugliness from piling on to the misery caused by the storm. I search for the spark, but there’s nothing. I walk toward them, hoping to get there quickly enough, hoping that I can figure out some way to diffuse the situation without magic.
Tara gets there first.
She inserts her five-foot frame between the two much larger men without hesitation. She speaks to them, too softly for me to hear, with a half-smile on her face. Her words must be even better than my magic. In the time it takes me to get near, the two men are visibly calmer, almost subdued. I stop a few steps away and watch, fearful of breaking whatever truce Tara had managed to conjure up.
The one I took for a resident looks almost embarrassed. He offers his hand to the other man and they shake. Then he nods to Tara and walks off to his house. The other man heads toward his group of friends. Then there’s just Tara, standing in the middle of the street. She winces and massages her left temple, and just as I’m about to turn back, I feel the tiniest shift in my mind. For the first time in weeks, I feel the spark.
The spark flickers within me like an electrical short, barely there. Not enough to do major magic. Not enough to help with the devastation that surrounds me. But maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to alleviate this one woman’s headache. I exhale, a small puff of breath visible in the rapidly cooling air, concentrate, and reach into her head.
Her mind is closed off, hidden behind mental barriers I’ve never encountered before. She looks up sharply and stares at me. This isn’t supposed to happen. Magic is subtle, unnoticeable to regular people. All they can ever experience directly is the outcome. And yet she notices. Her eyes widen with recognition as she stares into mine. As I come to a realization, I’m certain she does as well.
She and I are the same.
We sit in my car, the engine idling to keep the heat on, and we talk.
Neither of us has ever met another practitioner before. I’ve always known that others were out there. I felt traces of their magic, outcomes of spells good and bad, immense tragedies and uplifting miracles. But never a direct encounter. Never like this.
She tells me about her life in Orlando. An ordinary life, devoid of magic and strangeness. Twenty-two years of normalcy, until the brain tumor.
She tells me about the time spent in hospitals, the difficult and ultimately successful surgery to remove the tumor, and the slow, painful recovery through a haze of steri
le rooms and white lab coats. It was then that she first discovered her abilities, her power to do wondrous things, likely gained through some improbable side effect of the surgery. Plentiful magic, always at her command, letting her work all kinds of miracles, do almost anything, except make her headaches go away.
She tells me about long hours spent in hospital beds, reevaluating her life. How she wanted to use her newfound gift to give something back, to help reduce the suffering of others. About her last visit to New York, after 9/11, her time in New Orleans post-Katrina, her stint abroad in Yuriage, Japan after the 2008 tsunami.
My life isn’t nearly as interesting, but I tell her about it anyway. I tell her about growing up with this power, confused and frightened by it, and never quite in control. One moment I feel like a demigod, strong enough to move mountains, to topple governments, to do almost anything at all, but the next minute it’s gone. My magic is absent when a hurricane bears down on the city that has become my home, on my friends and neighbors. What good is power if it isn’t there when you really need it?
I tell her about Anne. The only person to whom I’ve ever been close enough, trusted enough, to tell about my power. Anne understood. She never asked me to use magic on her behalf, never blamed me when I couldn’t find the spark. We were happy together. And then her mother grew ill. We watched helplessly as cancer ate at her mother’s body, as she wasted away in a matter of months.
I wanted desperately to help her, to save her, to take away even a little of her pain. But the spark had abandoned me. I hadn’t felt its presence in months, and no amount of wishing would bring it back.
Anne was strong. She knew I was trying. She knew I wanted to help. But everyone has their limit, and Anne reached hers in her mother’s final days. She lashed out at me, screaming, accusing me of murder by inaction, demanding that I find a way to summon my power and purge the metastasized cancer cells from her mother’s body.
Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories Page 20