Lightspeed Magazine
Issue 21, February 2012
Table of Contents
Editorial, February 2012 by John Joseph Adams
“Hands Up! Who Wants to Die?”—Lucius Shepard (ebook-exclusive novella)
Interview: Daniel H. Wilson
Interview: Chuck Palahniuk
Artist Gallery: David Wyatt
Artist Spotlight: David Wyatt
“Her Words Like Hunting Vixens Spring”—Brooke Bolander (fantasy)
“The Mermaid and the Mortal Thing”—Chris Willrich (fantasy)
“The Gravedigger of Konstan Spring”—Genevieve Valentine (fantasy)
“Not Our Brother”—Robert Silverberg (fantasy)
“War 3.01”—Keith Brooke (SF)
“Dark Sanctuary”—Gregory Benford (SF)
“Craters”—Kristine Kathryn Rusch (SF)
“Harry and Marlowe and the Talisman of the Cult of Egil”—Carrie Vaughn (SF)
Author Spotlight: Lucius Shepard (ebook-exclusive)
Author Spotlight: Brooke Bolander
Author Spotlight: Chris Willrich
Author Spotlight: Genevieve Valentine
Author Spotlight: Robert Silverberg
Author Spotlight: Keith Brooke
Author Spotlight: Gregory Benford
Author Spotlight: Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Author Spotlight: Carrie Vaughn
Coming Attractions
© 2012, Lightspeed Magazine
Cover Art and artist gallery images by David Wyatt.
Ebook design by Neil Clarke.
www.lightspeedmagazine.com
Editorial, February 2012
John Joseph Adams
Welcome to issue twenty-one of Lightspeed!
Before we get to our issue’s contents this month, a few Lightspeed announcements/reminders. First, I just wanted to remind you that in addition to our subscriptions offered via Weightless Books, you can now subscribe to Lightspeed via Amazon.com; subscribers will have every issue of Lightspeed delivered automatically to their Kindle library (whether it’s an actual Kindle or one of the Kindle apps).
Second, we are also now pleased to announce another subscription option … for those with deep pockets and a generous spirit: lifetime subscriptions! By purchasing a lifetime subscription to Lightspeed, you’ll get a subscription that never ends … or, rather, a subscription that will last at least as long as the subscriber—or Lightspeed—does! You’ll receive, via email, every issue of Lightspeed as soon as it’s available (which will often be several days ahead of regular subscribers), and you’ll get it in both epub and mobi format (so your subscription will be equally compatible with Kindle and iPad and Nook, and most other ereaders). Lifetime subscriptions are a great way to support the magazine, and ensure you never miss an issue. They cost $500, and you can purchase them directly from Lightspeed.
Visit www.lightspeedmagazine.com/subscribe to learn more about all of our subscription options.
And lastly, I wanted to point out that there are several ways you can sign up to be notified of new Lightspeed content:
Newsletter: lightspeedmagazine.com/newsletter
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In other news, award season is officially in full swing. Hugo and Nebula nominations are now both open.
Active and Associate members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America may submit nominations for the Nebula Awards; nominations close February 15. For more information, visit SFWA’s How to Vote page.
Anyone who has an attending or supporting membership of this year’s Worldcon (Chicon 7) as of January 31, and all members of last year’s Worldcon (Renovation), may nominate works for the Hugo Awards; nominations close March 31. If you didn’t attend or support Renovation, and you don’t plan to attend Chicon 7, you can still nominate by purchasing a supporting membership. For more information, visit Chicon 7’s nomination page.
As I mentioned, the Nebulas are for science fiction/fantasy professionals only; the Hugos, however, are open to any fan, and I would encourage any of you reading this to seriously consider voting and participating in the process. If you’re attending Worldcon (or attended last year’s), you have voting privileges—use them! Even if you haven’t read a hundred novels or surveyed the entire field of short fiction (and even if you want to nominate things other than Lightspeed!); if everyone nominates material they feel is worthy, then the best stuff will still rise to the top.
Also, ebook readers have even less of an excuse for not voting these days, thanks to the fabulous Hugo Voter Packet that’s distributed to members every year. All attending and supporting members of Worldcon now receive a packet containing most of the works nominated for the current year’s awards. Meaning, although you may have to pay $50 for a supporting membership, you’ll get far more than $50 worth of ebooks in exchange for that, plus you get the right to have some say in what wins the field’s most prestigious award. So, come on, gang—let’s get out there and vote!
If you’d like to vote for Lightspeed (and/or Fantasy) material from 2011, I’ve got a post on my personal blog with a list of eligible works, sorting them into their proper categories, and including a list of those eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer: http://tinyurl.com/2011Hugos-Nebulas.
Now that we’ve got all that out of the way, here’s what we’ve got on tap this month:
We have original fantasy by new writer Brooke Bolander (“Her Words Like Hunting Vixens Spring”) and Fantasy-favorite Genevieve Valentine (“The Gravedigger of Konstan Spring”), and fantasy reprints by Chris Willrich (“The Mermaid and the Mortal Thing”) and the legendary Robert Silverberg (“Not Our Brother”). Plus, we have original science fiction by Keith Brooke (“War 3.01”) and bestselling author Carrie Vaughn (“Harry and Marlowe and the Talisman of the Cult of Egil”), plus SF reprints by award-winning authors Gregory Benford (“Dark Sanctuary”) and Kristine Kathryn Rusch (“Craters”). All that plus our artist showcase, our usual assortment of author spotlights, and feature interviews with bestselling authors Chuck Palahniuk and Daniel H. Wilson.
And, for our ebook readers, our ebook-exclusive novella this month is the dark, brutal tour de force “Hands Up! Who Wants to Die?” by Lucius Shepard.
This issue is sponsored by Orbit Books. This month, look for The Troupe, a tale of gothic intrigue set during the Vaudeville era by Robert Jackson Bennett, available in bookstores everywhere. You can find more from Orbit—including digital short fiction and monthly ebook deals—at www.orbitbooks.net.
It’s another great issue, so be sure to check it out. And while you’re at it, tell a friend about Lightspeed. Thanks for reading!
John Joseph Adams, in addition to serving as editor of Lightspeed Magazine, is the bestselling editor of many anthologies, such as Under the Moons of Mars: New Adventures on Barsoom, Brave New Worlds, Wastelands, The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, By Blood We Live, Federations, The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and The Way of the Wizard. He is a two-time finalist for the Hugo Award and three-time finalist for the World Fantasy Award. Forthcoming anthologies include: Armored (April, Baen), Epic (Fall 2012, Tachyon), and The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination (2013, Tor). John is also the co-host of The Geek’s Guide to t
he Galaxy podcast. Find him on Twitter @johnjosephadams.
Hands Up! Who Wants to Die?
Lucius Shepherd
Shit happens, like they say. You know how it goes. The cops are looking at you for every nickel-and-dime robbery they can’t solve, and the landlady hates your guts for no reason except she’s a good Christian hater, and everything in the world is part of a clock you got to punch or else you’ll be docked or fined or sentenced to listen to some ex-doper who thinks he has attained self-mastery explain your behavior as if the reasons you’re a loser are a mystery that requires illumination. Otherwise it’s been a kicked dog of a week. The boss man’s had you stocking the refrigerator sections of the food mart, leaving you alone in the freezer while he sits and swaps Marine Corps stories with the guy supposed to be your helper, so you come off work half froze, looking for something to douse the meanness you’re feeling, which could be a chore since you’re a piss and a holler from being broke and New Smyrna Beach ain’t exactly Vegas. Well, turns out to be your lucky night. Along about eight o’clock you wind up with a crew of rejects in a beach shack belongs to this fat old biker, snorting greasy homemade speed, swilling grape juice and vodka, with a windblown rain raising jazz beats from the tarpaper roof like brushes on cymbals. There’s a woman with big brown eyes and punky peroxided hair who’s a notch on the plain side of pretty, but she’s got one of those black girl butts sometimes get stuck onto a white girl, and it’s clear she’s come down with the same feeling as you, so when the rain lets up and she says how she’s got an itch to sneak onto the government property down the beach and check out what’s there, when everybody tells her it ain’t nothing but sand fleas and Spanish bayonet, you say, Hell I’ll go with you. Ten minutes later you’re helping her jump down from a hurricane fence, risking a felony bust for a better view of those white panties gleaming against the strip of tanned skin that’s showing between her jeans and her tank top. She falls into you, gives you a kiss and a half, and before you can wrap her up, she scoots off into the dark and you go stumbling after.
It don’t take more than that to get shit started.
—Hey, I shouted. Come on back here!
She glanced at me over her shoulder, her grin shining under a moon fresh out of hiding, then she skipped off behind some scrub palmetto. I was trying to recall her name as I ran, then a frond whacked me in the face and I slipped to a knee in the soft sand. I spotted her moving along a rise, framed by low stars. Hell you going, girl? I said, coming up beside her.
She slapped at a skeeter on her neck and said, Lookit there.
The land was all dips and rises, an old dune top gone nappy with shrubs and beach grass, but down below was a scooped-out circular area, wide and deep enough to bury a mini-mall in. Dead center of it stood a ranch house with cream-colored block walls and a composite roof and glass doors. It was a giant banana, I couldn’t have been more startled.
—I heard about there was a house here, she said. But I swear I didn’t believe it!
We scrambled down the slope and tromped around the house, peering in windows. Some rooms were empty, others were partly furnished, and though I wouldn’t have figured on it, the sliding door at the back was unlocked. I shoved it open and she put her hands over her head and got to snapping her fingers and hip-shaked across the threshold. A big leather sofa stood by its lonesome in the middle of the room. She struck a pose beside it, skinned off her jeans and showed me what I wanted. Wasn’t long before we were sweating all over each other, grunting and huffing like hogs in a hurry, our teeth clicking together when we kissed. The cushions got so slippery, we slid off onto the floor afterward and lay twisted together. The moon came pale through the flyspecked glass, but it wasn’t sufficient to light the corners of the room.
—God, I could use something to drink, she said. I know there can’t be nothing in the kitchen.
My carpenter’s pants were puddled at the end of the couch. I undid the flap pockets and hauled out two wine coolers. What you want? I asked. Tropical Strawberry or Mango Surprise?
—I can’t believe you carrying ‘round wine coolers in your pocket.
—I hooked ‘em off a truck when I was coming outa work.
We unscrewed the caps, clinked our bottles and drank.
—My name’s Leeli, she said, sticking out her hand. I’m sorry but I forget yours.
—Maceo.
—That a family name? It’s so unusual!
—It’s for some guitar player my mama liked.
—Well, it’s real unusual.
She seemed to be expecting me to take a turn, so I asked what a house was doing out there setting in a hole.
—Beats me. Government bought up all the land ‘round here years ago. To keep people away from the Cape … ‘cause of the rockets, y’know? But I never knew nothing was here. My ex, his friend runs a helicopter tourist ride? I guess he saw it once.
—Maybe they opened it up for development, I said. And this here’s the model home.
—Y’know, I bet you’re right! She gave me a proud mama look, like my-ain’t-you-smart!
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I went to loving her up again. She started running hot and came astride me, but before she could settle herself, she let out a shriek and crawled over top the couch. I rolled my eyes back to see what had spooked her, said “Shit … Jesus!” and next thing I was hunkered behind the couch with Leeli, my heart banging in my chest.
Two men and a woman were hanging by the glass doors, nailing us with a six-eyed stare as clear in its negativity as a No Trespassing sign. The men were young, both a shade under six feet, dressed in slacks and T-shirts. A blond and a baldy. They had the look of fitness sissies, like they might have pumped some iron and run a few laps, but never put the results to any spirited use. The woman wore cut-offs and an oversized denim shirt and carried a bulky tote bag. She was fortyish and big-boned, with wavy dark hair, and her body had a sexy looseness that would still draw its share of eye traffic. Her face was full of bad days and wrong turns, the lines cutting her forehead and dragging down her mouth making it seem older than the rest of her. Way the men tucked themselves in at her shoulders, you could tell she was queen of the hive.
Leeli clutched at my arm, breathing fast. Nobody said nothing. Finally I came out from behind the couch and tossed Leeli her panties. I stepped into my pants and feeling more confident with my junk covered, I said, Have yourself a show, did ya?
—Have yourself a show? the blond man said, mocking me, and the baldy sniggered like a kid who’d seen his first dirty picture.
I pulled on my shirt. Y’know this here’s government property? Y’all be in deep shit, I turn your asses in.
—You saying you the government? The woman’s voice was a contralto drawl made me think of a dollop of honey hanging off the lip of a jar. You the first government man I seen got jailhouse ink on his arms. She turned to Leeli, who was tugging the tank top down over her breasts. How’s about you, sweetcheeks? You in the government, too?
Leeli snatched up her jeans. You got no more right being here than we do!
The woman sniffed explosively, like a cat sneezing, and the bald man said, You can’t get much more government than we are. Government’s like mommy and daddy to us.
Leeli piped up, Well, whyn’t you show us your ID?
The flow of feeling in the room was running high, like everyone was waiting for a direction to fly off in.
—Screw this, said the woman. We was just going for a drink. Y’all wanna come?
I was about to say we’d do our own drinking, but Leeli said, It’s Margarita Night over the Dixieland!, and soon everybody was saying stuff like, Looked like you was gonna fall out and God you scared the hell outa me and telling their names and their stories. Though he didn’t seem up to the job, the blond man, Carl, was the woman’s husband. Her name was Ava and she owned a club in Boynton Beach where the bald man, Squire, worked as a bartender. I knew a kid name of Squire back in high school who was accused o
f having sex with a neighbor’s collie. Much as I would have enjoyed bringing this up, I kept it to myself.
We piled out through the glass doors, both Carl and Squire heading toward the water. Fuck you think you going? I asked.
—Ava got her four-by-four parked down on the beach, Squire said.
I was staring at Ava and Leeli, who were still back at the glass doors. Leeli had her head down and Ava was talking. Something didn’t sit right about the way they were together.
—Government don’t care what goes on at the house no more, Squire said, apparently thinking I was off onto another track. We been partying here for years.
You know that kid’s toy ball you can bounce and instead of coming straight back to your hand, it goes dribbling off along the floor or kicks off to the side? My expectations of the weekend had taken just that sort of wrong-angled bounce. After Leeli and I broke in the leather couch, I assumed we’d be heading over to my place, maybe coming up for air sometime Sunday. A shitkicker bar had for sure not been part of the plan.
The Dixieland was down on A1A, a concrete block eyesore with a neon sign on the roof that spelled the name in red and blue letters, except for the N was missing, which might have accounted for the gay boys who occasionally dropped in and left real quick. All the waitresses were decked out in Rebel caps and there were Confederate flags laminated on the table tops. The Friday night crowd was men in cowboy hats who had never set a horse and women with flakes of mascara clinging to their lashes and skirts so short you could see the tattooed butterflies, roses, hummingbirds and such advertising their little treasures whenever they hopped up onto a barstool. Some country & western goatboy was howling on the jukebox about the world owed him a living, while a few couples dragged around the dance floor, Ava and Leeli among them. Their relationship appeared to be deepening.
Carl fell in love with a digital beer display behind the bar that showed a bikini girl waterskiing. I was coming to understand the boy must have some empty rooms in his attic. He stood gawking at the thing like he was stoned on Jesus love. That left Squire and me alone at a table, sucking on our margaritas. Shaving his head probably hadn’t done for Squire what he hoped. It made his face resemble a cream pie somebody drew a man-in-the moon face on, but he tried to sell the look as being the front door into the world of a badass individual with secrets you would want to know. It was kinda pathetic. He threw a couple of insults my way and when that didn’t get a rise, he went on about how tight he was with Carl and Ava, how they’d been partying for two months solid, saying me and Leeli needed to get on board the party train, they’d sure show us a time.
Lightspeed Magazine Issue 21 Page 1