SOLARIS RISING
The New Solaris Book of Science Fiction
Edited by Ian Whates
Solaris Books
First published 2011 by Solaris an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN (.epub): 978-1-84997-311-3
ISBN (.mobi): 978-1-84997-312-0
‘Introduction’ © Ian Whates 2011
‘A Smart Well-Mannered Uprising of the Dead’ © Ian McDonald 2011
‘The Incredible Exploding Man’ © Dave Hutchinson 2011
‘Sweet Spots’ © Paul di Filippo 2011
‘The Best Science Fiction of the Year Three’ © Ken MacLeod 2011
‘The One that Got Away’ © Tricia Sullivan 2011
‘Rock Day’ © Stephen Baxter 2011
‘Eluna’ © Stephen Palmer 2011
‘Shall I Tell You the Problem with Time Travel?’ © Adam Roberts 2011
‘The Lives and Deaths of Che Guevara’ © Lavie Tidhar 2011
‘Steel Lake’ © Jack Skillingstead 2011
‘Mooncakes’ © Mike Resnick and Laurie Tom 2011
‘At Play in the Fields’ © Steve Rasnic Tem 2011
‘How We Came Back from Mars’ © Ian Watson 2011
‘You Never Know’ © Pat Cadigan 2011
‘Yestermorrow’ © Richard Salter 2011
‘Dreaming Towers, Silent Mansions’ © Jaine Fenn 2011
‘Eternity’s Children’ © Keith Brooke and Eric Brown 2011
‘For the Ages’ © Alastair Reynolds 2011
‘Return of the Mutant Worms’ © Peter F. Hamilton 2011
The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Designed & typeset by Rebellion Publishing
Cover Art by Pye Parr
CONTENTS
Introduction, Ian Whates
A Smart Well-Mannered Uprising of the Dead, Ian McDonald
The Incredible Exploding Man, Dave Hutchinson
Sweet Spots, Paul di Filippo
The Best Science Fiction of the Year Three, Ken MacLeod
The One that Got Away, Tricia Sullivan
Rock Day, Stephen Baxter
Eluna, Stephen Palmer
Shall I Tell You the Problem with Time Travel? Adam Roberts
The Lives and Deaths of Che Guevara, Lavie Tidhar
Steel Lake, Jack Skillingstead
Mooncakes, Mike Resnick and Laurie Tom
At Play in the Fields, Steve Rasnic Tem
How We Came Back from Mars, Ian Watson
You Never Know, Pat Cadigan
Yestermorrow, Richard Salter
Dreaming Towers, Silent Mansions, Jaine Fenn
Eternity’s Children, Keith Brooke and Eric Brown
For the Ages, Alastair Reynolds
Return of the Mutant Worms, Peter F. Hamilton
INTRODUCTION
IAN WHATES
When Jonathan Oliver approached me with the idea of reviving the Solaris Book of New SF series of anthologies, I was both flattered and thrilled. I still recall how excited I was when the very first in the series came out. The book, compiled and edited by George Mann, boasted a fabulous line-up of authors and proved to contain an equally impressive set of stories. I immediately resolved to try and have something of mine appear in a future volume (an ambition I realised in Vol 3). The opportunity to do justice to the tradition of quality established by George is a challenge that I’ve relished.
I love short stories, both to read and to write. A good short story provides a quick, sharp fix, almost instant gratification when compared to the slow burn of a novel, and its writing requires a skill in world-building and character development which is quite different from that demanded by the longer format, where the writer has so much more scope and time. I thought very carefully before sending out a call for submissions, approaching only authors I knew to be capable of delivering effective work within the strictures of the short story. This meant, inevitably, that I was approaching some of the busiest men and women in the industry. It came as no surprise, therefore, when not all of them were able to participate, which is why at the outset I contacted enough talented wordsmiths to fill two books. Thankfully, many responded with enthusiasm and were able to somehow squeeze the requisite writing time from their schedules. I ended up with enough high quality submissions that I’ve been forced to make a few tough choices, turning away some very good pieces by authors whose work I’ve long admired… But what a great situation for an editor to be in.
Something I should perhaps make clear; I’ve produced a number of themed anthologies in recent years, both through my own NewCon Press and in the Mammoth titles I’ve co-edited with Ian Watson. Just to say upfront that this isn’t one of them. Those readers looking for a theme will, I fear, search in vain.
Science fiction is a very broad church – which perhaps goes some way to explaining why there are so many different interpretations of precisely what the conjunction of those two words means. SF touches on many other literary fields and contains any number of subgenres and tropes. A succinct definition guaranteed to satisfy everyone is nigh on impossible. That is what I wanted to represent with this book. Not highlight one flavour of SF but rather reflect its boundless variety, the energy and imagination that can carry science fiction in so many fascinating and entertaining directions. I don’t claim for one moment that the selection here is definitive. Doubtless some will read Solaris Rising and note the absence of this type of SF or that, which just goes to show how diverse our genre is. No single volume could ever hope to encompass every nuance of the field. My ambition with Solaris Rising is rather to present a piquant tasting platter, a veritable smorgasbord representing some of the very best science fiction around at the moment. Both humour and darkness inhabit the collection, exotic environments cosy up to familiar elements imbued with a novel twist and the strange shadows the known; but above all you will find original thought and story.
Here it is then: Solaris Rising, the revival of The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction (now cunningly rejigged as The New Solaris Book of Science Fiction). I hope you enjoy.
Ian Whates
June 2011
A SMART WELL-MANNERED UPRISING OF THE DEAD
IAN MCDONALD
Ian McDonald lives just outside Belfast and sold his first story back in 1983. In his day job he works in development for Northern Ireland’s largest independent television production company. His most recent book, The Dervish House (Gollancz, Pyr), won the BSFA Award for best novel and the John W Campbell Memorial Award for 2011, as well as being nominated for the Arthur C Clarke Award and the Hugo. He’s into the second volume of his YA(-ish) Everness series, and volume 1, Planesrunner, is out from Pyr in December 2011.
I am Felix Cofie Addy and I am a dead man. I have been a dead man for three years, five months and twelve days. It was the cigarettes. Never start them, you young people. So I am dead, and I am aggrieved. Oh yes, mightily aggrieved. What for are you aggrieved, I hear you think. You’re dead; grievances and agg
ravations are over for you. Pull the red earth over you, sleep. Do not trouble yourself. Why, what do you think we are, us dead men? You think we sit around on our stools all day waiting to become pure and clear as gin? I tell you, the first aggravation is being dead at all. That is the firm foundation on which the other aggravations rest, and they are many. What aggrieves me? FC Maamobi’s atrocious last season. That defending would aggrieve anyone. The price of rice and flour and cooking oil at Maxmart. That aggrieves me. I have heard that children go hungry to school. How will they learn if they are hungry? They need brain food. We are not a hungry nation. We never have been. Yes, that aggrieves me much. The state of the potholes on the Kanda highway: it was more hole than highway even before I became a dead man. The price of diesel at the Shell Station on Nima Road. The fuel for the Maxmart trucks goes up, Maxmart puts its prices up, the City Council can’t afford to fix the potholes. What for? We have oil. We are a wealthy country. We are proud and independent. But what aggrieves me most is you, Minister Raymond Kufuor. We have oil, we have wealth, we have independence and you are the man in charge of it, so tell me Mr Raymond Kufuor, why are there holes in our highways you could lose a pig in? Where is the money, Minister? Tell a dead man that.
Yes yes yes, it’s me, Felix Cofie Addy. Again. What for have you disturbed me from my death? I cannot sleep, my deep bed is full of spiders and on my stool my bones ache as if they are poking through my skin and I itch; the kind of itch you can never reach. Can you not see the wrong of this? I have worked moderately hard and attained some success. I have raised a family and I am content enough as a dead man. Can you then understand how annoying it is to find that I am still aggrieved? Things have not been done. Issues have not been addressed. Questions have not been answered. Just yesterday the Shell Station on Nima Road put five cedis on a litre of gasoline. I may be a dead man, but I know that Akron Kufuor who drives for Excelsior Taxis is having to work an extra two hours a shift to be able to pay for the price rise – and that is when he gets a fare at all. People are cutting back! Holes in the road, holes in the shoes, holes in the children’s clothes. Rice and oil! Yet what do I see with my dead eye but Agriculture Minister Kofi Mensah entertaining the Chinese agricultural delegation at a reception at his own private villa? I would not begrudge a minister of the government of this great country his marble and his swimming pool because both are cooling and necessary in the heat. But a cousin of a cousin tells me that the contract for the catering went to Superb Chefs, owned by, who other than, yes, Minister Kofi Mensah. And cousin’s cousin Abena should know. She works for Superb Chefs. Graft and corruption! See, I’m not afraid to accuse. We are the dead, you cannot touch us and there are many many of us, in our comfortable little houses, on our stools and chairs and at out our tables with the things we loved at our feet. We are many many voices. Yes yes yes.
So, I’m back, and are you glad to see me? Are you? You know, a boy’s got expectations. You come home after six months working up on the sun plants with those Algerians who think they’re better than you a dozen different ways, no beer and less fun, and you expect, well, maybe not a parade, maybe not the whole street turning out with goats and chickens and kids on bikes and the soundsystem and all that, but some kind of welcome. Six months, every Saturday transferring money back here; I like the plasma screen, those are very smart smartphones, and how could I begrudge my own brother that funky little Chinese moped but, people, I am not a sorcerer. This is Azumah, come home from working away, so why do you think he’s some kind of evil necromancer?
So, Dad has started speaking. I can see how that might cause alarm. In all the years he sat in that corner in his chair, smoking like a chimney, I only ever heard him speak three words and that was when FC Maamobi was relegated and those were not pretty words. In fact, on word count alone, he’s said more dead than alive. But it’s not me putting words in his mouth. It’s not me making the dead speak. But it is me getting the looks on the street and down at the Maxmart, and the people leaning close to each other and whispering.
I may have been up on construction in Algeria for six months but I know what’s going on here, I read the news, I keep in touch with family and friends, but you’re the ones closest to it, you’re the ones living it. You’re the ones see the money walking, the funds drying up, the hospitals going unbuilt and the oil people slopping money around like fish in a bucket. I tell you this, it may be big Western companies building those solar plants out in the desert, but sun is never dirty like oil. Do you hear what I’m saying? I’m the least qualified to make Felix Cofie grumble about the state of the nation. And I’m disappointed that everyone thinks it’s me being disrespectful to the dead. After all I’ve done. No, no, I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll redeem my good name. I’m no sorcerer, Azumah Addy is no necromancer.
But d’you know? I’m glad the old man’s doing it.
I am Grace Ahulu and I too am dead. I also have a complaint. I have many complaints, a lot of which have no relevance here. Here’s how I died: my heart stopped on the way to church and down I went in the street with my Bible going up in the air. The cardiac ambulance came but they could do nothing except take me away. It’s a good way to go, it was quick and it only hurt for a moment and I was happy that I was on my way to church. I love it there very much, all my brothers and sisters in Christ.
Now, I can hear what you’re thinking. How can you, a respectable lady washed in the blood and a one-time choir member as well, be with the Lord in heaven and in some terrible pagan Satanic house of demons and unbelievers? Well, if Pastor Nathaniel’s Bible Study is true, we do not go straight to heaven, but only on the Day of Judgement when we are called from our graves and appear before Christ where we see our names written in the Book of Life. Then we are admitted to the realms of glory. Until then we sleep, and if we sleep, we dream – it is as obvious as day. And, if we dream, can we not dream usefully?
So: I am dead in the Lord, but I have a complaint, and it’s this. Since when is it more important that we feed Chinese mouths than our own? Since when do Shanghai children come before our own children? Yet the government is signing over hundreds – no, thousands – of hectares of land, selling off our land, – your land, my land – to Chinese agriculture companies. And they guard these plantations with armed guards, and security cameras, and robot drones. And who are these guards, and who flies the drones, but our own men and boys. They’re carrying guns against their own people! And who works this land, but the very people who were put off it by the big business! The very same land! Oh, I can’t understand that. They work the land, for wages, to buy expensive food they could have grown in their own fields, and sold it, and made money. Where is the logic in that? I suppose the logic is that some Minister gets a kickback, and the money goes all the way down, hand to hand to hand. Shameful! Sinful. I tell you this, it’s worth putting off the imminent hope of heaven to address such wrong on Earth!
(Vision magazine, Issue 27, May 2019)
The Ghost Machine
Obo Quartey is the Maamobi man who built
a heaven – and made a million cedis.
Welcome to the afterlife. Here the deceased live in personalised spirit-houses, each one built to their tastes and characters. They sit on stools, around their heads are photographs of the things they did in life, their work, their friends, their children and grandchildren, their cousins and loved ones, thousands of them. At their feet are the things they loved in life: clothes, bottles of beer, cars, make-up, pictures of footballers or fishing lines or books, guitars or dancing shoes. But most of all, there is money, spirit-money, billions in ghostly afterlife cash. It’s not exactly how we think of heaven. But then it’s not quite hell either. Teshie, the online afterlife where hundreds of thousands – soon to be millions, hopes Obo Quartey, the online afterlife’s director – of memories of the dead are stored – is more like a noisy, overcrowded Unplanned Neighbourhood of a bustling city.
Obo Quartey is terrifyingly young and competent; dressed in
the relaxed yet smart style of the modern digital entrepreneur – an open neck shirt, top label jeans, well-shined hand-made shoes. It’s a very long way from Maamobi, the neighbourhood where he was born (he claims, with pride) in a thunderstorm on the first Friday of the 21st century. But, he insists, not so long. Teshie is still headquartered in the district, in the same area as the computer cafe where local people formed the computer co-operative that gave fourteen year-old Obo his first data-work. Maamobi’s red dirt streets are the soil from which his online empire grew.
“Everyone goes on and on about Moore’s Law.” (This is a so-called ‘law’ of computing that every six months processor power doubles and the cost halves.) “What no one’s thinking about is that the real revolution is in memory. You can get a flash drive the size of your thumb that’s big enough to hold the entire University Library, for the price of a bag of rice. So, here’s this kid tagging these photographs for this white woman in Ohio, but what he’s really thinking is, I’m using one gig on this computer and a tiny corner of my brilliant brain, but down there at my feet is a terabyte of memory, just sitting there, doing nothing. Empty. Well, you know what this country’s like, leave anything empty and someone will move into it.”
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