Analog SFF, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “It just occurred to me. You said the Earth's core is an inner planet.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then we're like one tiny radio station trying to broadcast to the whole world. And there's an awful lot of noise, isn't there?”

  “Yes. So my signal was drowned out.”

  “What we have to do is target our signals.”

  “Yes, yes. But how?”

  Winston said, “Interference.”

  Jones opened his mouth and closed it again. “Yes, of course. Winston, you're a genius!”

  Phillips said, “What are you talking about? Sound like the physics lessons I slept through at school.”

  “We set up another source, Captain. Another field of explosives. We feed my signal to both of them simultaneously.”

  Tremayne said, “So the seismic waves emanate from two sources at once—”

  “And if we get the timing and position right, the two sound fields will reinforce, just where we want them to. The Magmoids won't be able to miss that!”

  Phillips said, “Ah. I see.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no, but I have to trust you. But what about the practicalities? How far away does this ‘second source’ have to be?”

  Jones said, “Umm—to penetrate deep into the mantle, I'd say two or three hundred miles. Have to be south of here, I suppose.”

  Thelma put in, “How about the military range on Salisbury Plain?”

  Phillips said, “Oh, is that all you want? And how soon do you want this?”

  Jones glanced through the fence at the wreckage of Aldmoor base. “Well, how long can you stay here under the Magmoids’ assaults?”

  Phillips said, “Now we've broken the stand-off I'm thinking of abandoning the base altogether. I don't see how we can withstand another of their ninety-minute strikes.” He glanced at his big army watch. “The next is due at around 0730. Less than an hour—”

  Jones said, “Then that's our deadline.”

  “I'll tell you flat it's impossible. Nationally we're stretched thin—there isn't a chance in hell I could get that through channels in time.”

  Tremayne said, “Channels! Oh, you military types.”

  Winston said, “Then that's that.”

  “Not at all.” Thelma linked her arm through Phillips's and drew him away. “Come on, Captain. We in DS8 have some ‘channels’ of our own to exploit. Let's see what we can sort out.”

  Jones watched them go, grinning. “What an asset she is. And in the meantime we need to set up another signal minefield here—and work out a fresh message. Come on, Tremayne, Winston—there's no time to lose!”

  * * * *

  The hospital tent shook at the latest explosion.

  Hope said, “Christ, that was a near one.”

  Clare looked around, uneasy. “That's the Magmoids. The ninety minutes isn't even up yet. They're getting closer again, aren't they?”

  Buck Grady approached. “Ladies.”

  “Buck. What's happening?”

  “Well, we got everything set up pretty good. Everybody who needs it is getting food, hot drinks, medical attention. Um, we've set up a temporary morgue for the civilians who fell, and the soldiers. And there seem to be no hard feelings. The Geordies and the Yanks are talking about a soccer game—”

  Hope snapped, “Come on, man. We're not kids.”

  Buck hesitated. Then he sat on a canvas stool beside her. “All right. Look, the wider news isn't good. Whatever Doctor Jones's trying doesn't seem to be working. Locally the Magmoid attacks are intensifying, if anything. Won't be much left of the base soon.”

  Clare asked, “What about further afield?”

  “All this volcanism is still going on. There seem to be secondary effects—destabilisations. Volcanoes spouting in Japan and Italy and Africa. Tremors in San Francisco. Like the whole planet's hurting. Listening on the radio, you get the sense it's all sort of unravelling.”

  “My God.”

  Hope said, “Sergeant. Do one thing for us.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take us back to the base.”

  Clare said, “Now, Mrs. Stubbins—”

  “I want to be with the lad.”

  Buck nodded. “Leave it with me.”

  There was another explosion.

  Hope said, “Hold me hand, Clare, eh?”

  * * * *

  Once again a hundred soldiers worked their way out over a patch of cleared ground, implanting small ordinances and improvised junction boxes.

  Phillips hovered at Tremayne's shoulder. “How's it going, Professor?”

  “We're all set. There should be an identical set-up in place on Salisbury Plain in a few minutes. Then Doctor Jones will be ready to talk to the Magmoids again.”

  The ground shuddered to a fresh detonation, deep in the earth. “Well, he'd better make it soon,” Phillips said.

  Godwin, hiding behind a field gun, heard all this. “A machine to talk to the Magmoids. But there is only one voice worth hearing. Mine . . .”

  Jones came bustling up, a fresh paper scrap in his hand. Winston was at his side, looking excited, drawn, over-tired. Jones imagined the boy would sleep for a week—if they all survived the next few minutes and hours.

  And Hope Stubbins was wheeled across the broken ground by a sheepish-looking Buck Grady. Clare and Thelma were at her side. Hope called, “Winston?”

  Winston whirled. “Mum? What are you doing here? It's not safe.”

  Clare said, “Sorry, Winston. I couldn't keep her away.”

  Phillips took a deep sigh. “I suppose it doesn't make things any more worse—or more ridiculous. I'm not looking forward to writing up my report on this night's work, however.”

  At that moment an explosion deep beneath their feet made the ground rise and shudder; Phillips tried not to stagger.

  Jones hefted his key contact. “We're ready, Captain. This gizmo is now rigged via the phone lines to fire the charges down at Salisbury simultaneously with those here.”

  “Well, this had better work, Jones, for we've used up all our ammo, and we'll be reduced to giving these Magmoid chaps frosty stares. All right, lads, let's stand back and do it.”

  They all took deliberate paces back from the firing field.

  Jones said, “My cue, it seems.”

  Thelma said, “First night nerves, Jones?”

  “It will be first night closing if it doesn't work this time.” He consulted his paper and pressed the key—and nothing happened. “The explosives! They're not firing!”

  Buck said, “That last Magmoid attack must have fouled up your connections—there, I can see it, that junction box is screwed.” He handed his rifle to Phillips. “Here, take this. I did some time in the bomb squad.”

  Jones said, “Don't be a fool, man. That's effectively a minefield!”

  But he was already running into the field. “Do you see a choice?” He crouched over the junction box and fiddled with the wires. “Got it—there. Fixed. Easy as pie.” He stepped back. “Looks like my luck is in—” An implanted grenade blew, turning the lower half of his body to a bloody mist.

  Clare screamed. Winston grabbed her and pushed her face against his chest.

  Phillips yelled, “Jones, never mind! You must get on! And make it worthwhile.”

  Jones tapped his key. This time explosions rattled obediently.

  Thelma said, “It's working.”

  Tremayne said, “Yes, but will the wretched beasties respond?”

  A heavy fist slammed into Jones's back. He fell forward—and Godwin grabbed the key contact. “Give that to me, you weakling.”

  “Godwin! No, man!”

  Godwin ran forward, onto the minefield and out of reach. Phillips and his soldiers raised their weapons uncertainly. Godwin clattered the key at random. “Magmoids! I challenge thee on behalf of all humanity—” A rattle of explosions.

  Jones struggled to his feet. “No, no—they'll take the randomness as simply another attack—”
<
br />   Tremayne said, “Something's happening. Around Godwin.”

  It was a kind of rippling in the churned-up dirt, like a converging wave.

  Jones yelled, “Godwin! You don't know what you're doing! Get back, man. Look at the ground!”

  Godwin said, “Hear me! ‘I'll make thee roar that beasts shall tremble at thy din—'”

  A tremendous eruption burst from the ground, engulfing him. Once again Jones was knocked off his feet.

  Thelma staggered through a cloud of dust. “Jones! Jones!”

  Jones stood, winded, and grabbed her. “It's all right. I'm here.”

  “But that explosion—”

  “It was the Magmoids. They destroyed him. They destroyed Godwin! I must have said just enough. Either that or they don't like Shakespeare.”

  Phillips found them. “Jones. The Magmoid attacks are subsiding—”

  But Grendels shrieked, hovering overhead.

  Clare, Tremayne, Winston with his mother, all emerged from the subsiding dust. Clare looked up. “The Grendels. What are they doing?”

  Tremayne said, “I think they're gathering over us.”

  Phillips said grimly, “Not again.” He raised his rifle. “This will do little good, but—”

  Jones cried, “No! No, Captain, it's all right. Look. They are ascending.”

  Winston said, “They're leaving us alone.”

  “Yes, they are, Winston.”

  Tremayne said, “Then let's hope it's for good.”

  * * * *

  7

  1110.

  When they opened the door, the Reiver's Arms was crowded and noisy.

  Jones said, “Well, Thelma, I don't think I've ever been in a British pub at eleven in the morning before.”

  “Don't complain.”

  Phillips came pushing out of the crowd. “Jones, old chap! And Miss Bennet. What are you drinking?”

  Thelma said, “After a night like that I think I could risk a brandy.”

  “Carrot juice for me, Captain Bob. Er, and that bottle of Newcastle Brown on the bar—”

  “That's for Buck Grady. He had a fiancee, in Long Beach. I phoned her.” He handed over their drinks.

  “What selfless heroism he showed. You know, war brings out the best and the worst in us—the cruelty and madness of a man like Godwin, Buck's astonishing laconic courage.”

  “Yes. But ironically the example of men like Grady may be the reason why we humans will never give up war.”

  Thelma raised her glass. “To Sergeant Grady.”

  Tremayne came looming through the crowd, staggering slightly. “Jones, old bean! Quite a night!”

  “You seem merry.”

  Tremayne raised his glass. “This single malt is going down rather well—especially as it's on the house. Look, there's a couple of people who simply must see you.”

  The crowd parted to let through a wheelchair.

  Thelma said, “Mrs. Stubbins!”

  “Hello, Thelma. What do you think of me new wheelchair? Courtesy of the US Army. About time they gave me something back.”

  Winston said, “Oh, Mum—”

  Jones said, “Winston. Quite a night for you—you did rather well.”

  Tremayne said, “He did better than that. You know, after this grisly business I've decided to go back to university life. That's enough of the military for me! Of course I'm going to need a batch of fresh students. Now then, Winston, are you free for the next three or four years?”

  Winston goggled. “Professor—are you serious?”

  “Never more, and I still will be when I'm sober.”

  Thelma said, “Well done, Winston. You deserve it.”

  “It's unbelievable. The start of a whole new life.”

  Clare Baines walked up, in a clean, fresh uniform. “In more ways than one.”

  Jones said, “Constable Clare! I wondered when you'd show up.”

  “Doctor Jones, I've got good news for you. In consideration of the fact that you saved the world, the local constabulary have decided to drop all charges.”

  “Well, how jolly decent of them. But I'm surprised to see you joining in this festival of law-breaking.”

  Thelma said, “I rather think she's blinded by the diamond on her finger, Jones.”

  Jones noticed the ring for the first time. “You don't mean—you and Winston—well, well.”

  Winston said, “After an experience like last night—”

  “You don't have to explain, dear,” Thelma said.

  Jones said, “So, happy endings all round for once. Do you know, Thelma, I rather think that's our cue to leave. Come on, drink up.”

  He led Thelma out into the fresh air, where their Ministry car was waiting. Somewhere a bird was singing. “Look at that huge Northumberland sky,” Jones said. “I do love this part of the world.”

  “It was an extraordinary night, wasn't it, Jones?”

  “One for the memoirs, I'd say. But what an extraordinary time we live in—when we don't know if totalitarianism will triumph over democracy, or command economies will out-perform capitalism—a time of martial madness, when we're probably as close to destroying ourselves utterly as we'll ever be—and yet it's a time when scientists like Frank Drake are making perhaps the most sublime gesture ever dreamed up by the human species.”

  “Before you go, Doctor Jones—” Clare Baines had followed them out.

  “Yes, Clare?”

  “I need you both to sign these bits of paper.”

  Jones took the forms. “What on Earth—this is the Official Secrets Act!”

  “There's a cover story being put together, about an industrial accident in Newcastle that provoked the evacuation.”

  Jones said, “What? But how can you cover up all the volcanism?”

  “Marsh gas.”

  “Marsh gas? Oh please, not marsh gas! If you knew how many of our sightings have been explained away that way, and the files hidden or shredded—”

  Thelma took his arm. “Come on, Jones. Maybe it's better this way. We don't want any awkwardness.”

  “Oh, we can't have that, can we? What a very British disaster in the end!”

  But Clare wasn't listening. She was looking up, into a bright blue sky, where Grendels were swooping and diving in a rosette formation, high above the tranquil land.

  Copyright © 2010 Stephen Baxter

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

  by Don Sakers

  When you look at it, there is considerable overlap between science fiction and, of all things, historical fiction. That shouldn't really come as a surprise; in many important ways, readers come to both fields looking for the same sorts of elements.

  Both sf and historical fiction take the reader to places fundamentally different from the present-day world. In sf it's either the altered world of the future, or literally another world (or universe) altogether; in historical fiction, the different landscapes of the past. Both fields delight in presenting other cultures and unfamiliar societies. Both are often concerned with people involved in far-reaching societal changes. And in both fields, readers respect authors who do their research and provide accuracy.

  Is it any wonder, then, that many readers like both sf and historical fiction? And what could make those readers happier than when the two come together in the same book?

  In general, there are three basic ways that sf and historical fiction fuse. First there's the so-called “future historical,” a book that reads like a historical novel even though it's set firmly in the future. Isaac Asimov's Foundation stories were consciously written as future historicals, and when Frank Herbert's Dune was first published, it was often compared to a historical novel.

  A second fusion of sf and historical is the alternate history story, and if you haven't noticed, alternate histories are all the rage nowadays. Harry Turtledove alone keeps the genre in business, and there are many other fine practitioners.


  That leaves a third way for sf and historical fiction to come together, and that's the venerable time-travel novel. Just about any time-travel story worth its salt has some kind of historical element, unless it's strictly about travel into the future. But some authors have raised the time-travel/historical blend to the level of fine art. Which brings us, happily, to Connie Willis.

  * * * *

  Blackout

  Connie Willis

  Ballantine, 491 pages, $26.00 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-0-553-80319-8

  Series: Oxford Historians 3

  Genre: Trips in Time

  * * * *

  According to her publisher, it's been eight years since Connie Willis last gave us a novel. While that's something like 95 months too long, the wait proves to have been well worth it.

  For those who are not familiar with Willis's Oxford Historians tales, a few words of explanation are in order. In the mid-twenty-first century, Oxford University is the base of a large group of time-traveling historians who spend their time visiting other eras to learn the kind of things historians love to learn; how people lived, what they ate and how they spent their time, how they felt and what they thought. In this, the historians are very like readers of historical fiction.

  To say that the Oxford Historians series has been well received is like saying that the Pacific Ocean is a little damp. Not to put too fine a point on it, but these stories have achieved the status of science fiction classics. The novella that started it all, “Fire Watch” (1982), won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, as did the novel Doomsday Book (1992). To Say Nothing of the Dog (1997) was a Hugo and Locus Award winner, and a Nebula nominee. All three frequently appear on “best science fiction” lists, and in many school districts one or another is on high school recommended reading lists.

  Can Blackout, the newest book in the series, possibly live up to all this?

  Does Saturn have rings?

  Here's the setup. The story primarily focuses on three Oxford historians on missions to three different periods of the World War II era. Polly is playing the part of a shopgirl while observing the behavior of ordinary Londoners during the Blitz. Mike is headed to witness the evacuation of Dunkirk, in which thousands of private boats rescued stranded soldiers across the British Channel. And Eileen is off in the British countryside studying the world of children temporarily evacuated from London.