Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  “I am.”

  Cole turned back to her great-grandmother. “Annda, please—”

  “You go,” Annda said. Cole straightened and gave me a hard look but she left, and left her cloud of rage behind her.

  “Young man,” Annda said, and I couldn’t help but smile at that. She looked less certain, then. Some people could sense it, that cloak of age. I’ve been told it’s like death reeking off of me, and that was from a man over two-hundred. I’d seen years in the thousands. Not even Aezthena made new Aezthena anymore, not for centuries since the Fractured Wars, though she wouldn’t know that. My face and my body were frozen on my thirty-ninth human year.

  Annda drew her chin up and went on firmly. “Young man. You are from the other side of the Wall. Why have you come to bother me?”

  Again I smiled. Annda could have been a queen in another age. I swept a formal court bow, a bow I had used when I was human king of this world and many others.

  “My lady. I am Barenin Lyr, Registered Kaireyeh Sorter for the Thousand Worlds.” And now a slave, as all Aezthena were, atoning to the humanity some among us had hoped to improve and replace. “May I have your name?”

  “Annda Kelorr,” she said. “You have crossed the Wall, right? With your talk of Kaireyeh and Worlds. Are you an off-worlder?” Her mouth creased like paper and she leaned forward. “Or are you from the cabals?”

  “I am not a Waller.” I stepped closer to her bed but stopped when I sensed from her that I’d come far enough. I could still sense humanity, though I could no longer understand it. “I was sent by your mother. She is anxious to hear of your wellbeing.”

  Annda went very still. Her blue eyes clouded, and I would have liked to peer into her thoughts, but I restrained myself. Times like these belonged to one soul alone.

  When Annda spoke again, her voice came feeble. “My mother is alive?”

  “Your mother is well, and she is young. Will you let me take you to her?”

  And heal the wound.

  Annda propped herself up on both arms and opened her pale lips. Her almond-shaped eyes grew wide. “I cannot pass through the Wall, child, no one can pass through but the infants.”

  “You were wrongly taken.” And few had chosen to become Aezthena, either, but we were, for the continued existence of an aesthetic race which could not repopulate its own. Now for the survival of time and space itself.

  Annda shook her head. “I have accepted what was done. I have my family here.”

  I burst into her mind and she gasped and drew back; no, she had not accepted any of it. She was, in fact, very active in the Wallers themselves. She had indirectly sent twelve children through the Walls, and had gained her family wealth. She had never told them where it came from. They hadn’t had to ask.

  “No misuse of a child is acceptable,” I said. No misuse of a human being.

  “I was not harmed. I had a good family. A good life here.”

  I had been called to this world by hurting Kaireyeh; I had been called to heal a rift, one tear too many in the face of living time. Annda was wounded, her mother was wounded, the Wall Annda had come through was wounded by the crime of it, and the crime continuing.

  I closed my inner eyes and listened to Kaireyeh. There were no words, there seldom were, but I knew what I must do. I knew what I wanted to do, and my purpose and Kaireyeh aligned.

  I blinked beside Annda and grabbed her arm and pushed her with me into the Wall. I did not protect her as I might have.

  Kaireyeh hurts when mothers cry and babes are torn from blood kin and sold for such things as new chips and the latest scarves. Annda screamed and Kaireyeh screamed with her unwilling will, and the Time Wall tore as if skin were tearing and raw muscles now lay exposed and it was wrong. But some wounds needed rebroken to heal. The wound was so deep, so deep; the tear would take centuries to flux out, but the Wallers would be stopped, and maybe the people would heal. Kaireyeh’s deepest wounds were in the souls of the living.

  I tightened my arms around Annda and pushed out to the other side, stumbling and then rolling until I lumped to a stop and lay beside her on the dusty ground. Annda wheezed.

  It was night here now and the air was cool. Night insects chirruped.

  I pushed myself up and pulled Annda to her feet. She did not look at me. Her mouth was set with all the hatred of generations. It was not so infeasible that she, on this world, was from one of my lines.

  “Aezthena,” she spat.

  It was about time someone saw me for what I was.

  Annda pointed to the Time Wall. “You did this to us! You are the reason—”

  “I did not make me what I am. And I did not make you who you are.”

  I reached out for Lorin’s mind; she was not far. It was not possible to be far in this zone. I touched Annda’s arm and blinked us over.

  Lorin stood in her dimly lit study with her hand reaching toward her desk. She looked up at Annda and me and then swayed. Lorin was old. Not so old as Annda, but not so far, either.

  “By the gods,” Lorin whispered.

  Yes, by this one at least.

  “This is Annda,” I said. “This is your daughter.”

  Lorin’s attention shifted to Annda and stayed there. Annda was shaking. I did not touch either of their thoughts.

  I watched as mother reached out to daughter and daughter turned her self away. I watched with my whole self as the Kaireyeh within these two swirled from the gold of wholeness to the black of Void and back again. And back again. And back.

  I felt a tug on my bridge to Aijas Normal and the ship, the Time Walls shifting too fast around me. I blinked back up to the ship and Normal. The stark world of Aezthena white. Not a world I had chosen, or so many others, when their hearts were ripped out, and their blood was toned silver, and all that had mattered was replaced by synthetics. Immortal.

  And yet it was my world now, and like Annda, I lived in it.

  I merged myself with the ship’s sensors and stared down at my old blue and green world. Its fractures and boundaries were unseen and festering like cancer. We had made it this way. Aezthena and human both.

  I felt Kaireyeh willing me to jump the ship and ease my own pain, but I held it back.

  Let me stay. Let me feel for once, for I was once human and I understand.

  Contents of Care Package to Etsath-tachri, Formerly Ryan Andrew Curran (Human English Translated to Sedrayin)(Short story)

  by Holly Heisey

  Originally published by EGM Shorts in November 2015

  In this package:

  1. Three letters. (With our instructions on opening order, per Human dating system.)

  2. One musical instrument, harmonica.

  3. One plastic package containing three toothbrushes.

  4. One tube of toothpaste.

  5. One cloth Earth mammal, bear (unsure of further classification), filled with synthetic material. (We are sorry for the lack of symmetry, the cloth mammal was obviously damaged and repaired at some point. We were told not to modify it.)

  First letter:

  July 18, 2041

  Dear Ryan,

  They told me you'd get this after, so you won't really be reading my words, will you? And you told me yourself you'd forget your own language, though I hope to God you don't forget your planet, and your wife. And your daughter.

  Ryan, how could you? I know this was supposed to be a nice letter to settle you into your new life, to bridge the transition, and God knows you tried to talk me into doing it, too—

  I'm sorry.

  No, I'm not fucking sorry. You left me for another species. Not another woman, Ryan, or even another man. Another fucking species.

  If this is supposed to be the last letter, I guess I should say I love you.

  Are you dead now? Can I mourn you?

  Fuck.

  —Sophie

  Second letter:

  July 19, 2041

  Hey, Bro.

  The Sedrayin consulate people said you'll be trave
lling in a bubble-ship that breaks some sort of theory, and time will move faster for us than it does for you. That's okay, I get that.

  I just wanted to tell you that I support you in this. I don't understand it, and I've asked the pastor what she thinks, if it's even in the Bible. She quoted me some nonsense that had nothing to do with anything, and then just said the best thing I could do was accept you where you're at.

  I like that.

  Because I've always looked up to you, you know? You were so different. I used to make fun of you for sneaking out at night to go and look through your telescope, especially when there were a lot more…ah, entertaining things you could be doing while sneaking out. And you just smiled, and said it made you feel calmer. And maybe I didn't press too hard, because I didn't like when you were so restless. I knew you weren't happy.

  But man, coming out as another species? Bro, I'm still trying to wrap my head around that. I look at the Sedrayin in their enviro suits, with their blue skin and weird—sorry Bro, I still have a hard time, I'll get better—oddly shaped oval eyes, and the way they kind of walk with that forward slant, like they're coming at you with all they've got.

  Dude. You have always walked that way. Oh my God, I never noticed that until now.

  Bro, I guess you look different now.

  Anyhow, I hope you remember me. Meet a hot alien babe and fall in love. Have lots of alien babies. (Whoa, Jenna will have alien siblings???) I’m sorry they couldn’t come with you. Man, I know that’s hard.

  I love you. I hope you're happy, now. And, you know, have fun seeing the stars for real, and living on another planet! Dude, how cool is that!

  —Gabe

  P.S. Oh, I found your harmonica the other day and thought I'd send it along. Maybe that wasn't the best idea, because do you even have lips now? Well, something's gotta blow air.

  Third letter:

  July 20, 2041

  My dear Ryan,

  Oh, I'm sorry. I should call you Etsath-tachri now, right? Yes, I checked the spelling.

  Etsath. I'm sorry I waited until the last minute to write this letter, I almost didn't make it in time, but they held the courier shuttle at the consulate so I could write this.

  I just wanted to say, I love you, son. This is all so new to me, the aliens being here at all—what are there, twenty-something species we've now had contact with? And I saw on the news that there's another ship inbound from outside Jupiter. But honey, it's hard. This isn't the world I grew up in. The world I grew up in was having a hard enough time accepting people like myself and Leanne, but I—we—love you so much that we're changing, too. We're changing the way we look at the world. Or any world, if I think about it.

  We always knew you were special. You spent hours with your science books and games, and you loved your art, though the galleries said it was too symmetrical. I guess that makes sense, now. I won't ever let anyone paint over your mural of the stars in your bedroom.

  I packed some toothbrushes and toothpaste, I know you always forget those.

  I know we've already said our goodbyes. I will miss you like nothing I’ve ever missed before.

  Thank you, son, for being my son. For being born to me. You were the greatest gift the universe could ever give me.

  Be the best damn Sedrayin you can be. Be yourself.

  Love,

  Mom

  P.S. Please forgive Sophie. I’ve talked with Jenna. She misses you, but she said she knows you'll be watching over her in the stars. She wanted to send something, too. She said to hug her teddy bear whenever you’re feeling sad or lonely, and you’ll remember how much she loves her daddy and be happy again. The kids, they are so quick to understand.

  Michael Patrick Hicks

  http://www.michaelpatrickhicks.com

  Revolver(Short story)

  by Michael Patrick Hicks

  Originally published by No Way Home: A Speculative Fiction Anthology

  Cara Stone is a broken woman: penniless, homeless, and hopeless. When the given the chance to appear on television, she jumps at the chance to win a minimum of $5,000 for her family.

  The state-run, crowdfunded series, Revolver, has been established by the nation’s moneyed elite to combat the increasing plight of class warfare.

  There’s never been a Revolver contestant quite like her before. The corporate states of America are hungry for blood, and Cara promises to deliver.

  The price tag on my head was $5,000. Easy money.

  I followed the bald man down a long corridor lined with closed doors and framed black-and-white studio portraits of the station’s newscasters. I turned away from their glossy-print gazes, focusing on the producer’s back. He wore a long-sleeved blue button-down and black khakis that had sharp creases on either side of his legs. Sweat beaded his forehead from the brief moment he’d spent outside to allow me access to the building. The overhead lighting made his shoulder-holstered gun gleam.

  He deliberately kept a few paces ahead of me, and I caught the downdraft of his cologne. He smelled nice. I didn’t. Too much time in the heat, dressed in too many layers, wearing most of the few clothes I had to my name all at once. I didn’t want them to get stolen and find myself fucked over by the winter.

  Not that I was going to live that long.

  “We’re through here, Ms. Stone,” the producer said. I forgot his name. Stevens or Stephenson. Whatever.

  He held the door open for me and tilted his head back, nose up, holding his breath as I walked past. I imagined he worked with a lot of the desperate filth, and wondered how he hadn’t gotten used to it yet. Fuck him. Let him enjoy his false sense of security. Truth was, he was living on the edge between prosperity and desolation, a good two weeks’ notice away from losing everything. Eventually it would happen, and he’d be blindsided by it, same as everyone else.

  “Should I leave you my coat?” I asked.

  His lips curled in a funny, sour sort of twist and he primly shook his head. “You can hang it over there,” he said, pointing to an overly elaborate coat hanger.

  I shook myself free of the carpenter’s coat, and then peeled off two oversized sweaters, down to a dirty, sweat-stained and once-white tank top. I thought about taking off my boots to fuck with him, smirking at the idea of smacking him across the face with a toe-jam-soiled sock. Smug prick.

  Stevens—if that was his name—stood at an end table, next to a fancy bar stool with a thick leather seat. A large wooden box the color of dark walnut was opened on the table. The revolver sat enshrined in plush velvet and he motioned me toward it with an artificial air of ceremony.

  “This is a Remington New Model Army Revolver, first produced in 1858,” he said with a reverential tone. “Fully loaded, six shots, with .44 caliber rounds.”

  I nodded, admiring the gleaming gun metal and polished wooden grip. I sidled up close to Stevens to deliberately invade his personal space. His distaste was apparent, but I’ll give him credit for not moving away. Instead, he breathed shallowly through his mouth, lips slightly parted.

  “It’s a nice gun,” I said. “Why six bullets, though? I’ll only need one.”

  He shrugged. “Dramatic effect. We’ll have you open the cylinder, show it to the cameras. Let the audience know this is for real.” He licked his lips, staring at the firearm as if it were an old lover. “Did you want to hold her?”

  Her, I noticed. Not It. Christ.

  “Sure.”

  He passed it to me with the gentleness he might use to handle a newborn. I’d never held a gun before and the weight was surprising. Even though it was only a few pounds, it seemed heavier. My fingers curled around the handle, and my index finger closed on the trigger. I’d never held a gun before, but this felt surprisingly natural, and a little too easy. I pointed it, away from Stevens, of course, and tracked the room through the sight at the end of the barrel.

  I can do this, I swore to myself.

  After a minute of mustering confidence and expelling doubts, I resettled the gun in its box
and took a deep breath.

  The Remington came from the Open Carry Association for Armed Americans, a “proud sponsor” of the Revolver webcast. OCA3 had a lot of politicians in their pockets—enough to pass mandatory open carry laws for all citizens in virtually all of the red states. Stevens was the third man I’d seen in the broadcast house that carried, and I knew there were plenty more I hadn’t seen, behind all those closed doors and in the studio set.

  As a media employee of a far-right-leaning broadcast, Stevens was considered to be in a high-risk profession; along with police, firefighters, airline pilots, military servicemen and -women, educators, mail delivery, cable and internet service providers, doctors, construction workers, jewelers, librarians…The list seemed endless. OCA3, and their bought-and-paid-for shills across the nation, insisted that “a right ignored is a right lost forever”, and that it was the duty of all ‘real Americans’ to exercise their Second Amendment right and bear arms at all times.

  “Don’t put the gun to your temple,” Stevens said. “You’ll want to put it here, behind your ear.” He pointed to a spot behind his ear lobe, where his skull met his neck. “Give that trigger a nice, long, steady pull and that’ll do ya.”

  “Why there?”

  “We want to avoid any accidents.” He licked his lips, as if he were salivating at the promise of a gun going off. A fucking Pavlov’s dog of the open carry movement. “Don’t want the bullet to glance off the bone of your skull. Had this guy one time, the bullet circled his skull, blew off his scalp but didn’t kill him.”