Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 1 March 2013

by Mike Resnick;Robert J. Sawyer;Kij Johnson;Jack McDevitt;James Patrick Kelly;Nick DiChario;Lou J. Berger;Alex Shvartsman;Stephen Leigh;Robert T. Jeschonek

  “Twenty-one-oh-seven,” I repeated. That was only fifty-six years after the launch of the Pioneer Spirit. I’d been thirty-one when our ship had started its journey; if I’d stayed behind, I might very well have lived to see the real pioneers depart. What had we been thinking, leaving Earth? Had we been running, escaping, getting out, fleeing before the bombs fell? Were we pioneers, or cowards?

  No. No, those were crazy thoughts. We’d left for the same reason that Homo sapiens sapiens had crossed the Strait of Gibraltar. It was what we did as a species. It was why we’d triumphed, and the Neandertals had failed. We needed to see what was on the other side, what was over the next hill, what was orbiting other stars. It was what had given us dominion over the home planet; it was what was going to make us kings of infinite space.

  I turned to Ling. “We can’t stay here,” I said.

  She seemed to mull this over for a bit, then nodded. She looked at Bokket. “We don’t want parades,” she said. “We don’t want statues.” She lifted her eyebrows, as if acknowledging the magnitude of what she was asking for. “We want a new ship, a faster ship.” She looked at me, and I bobbed my head in agreement. She pointed out the window. “A streamlined ship.”

  “What would you do with it?” asked Bokket. “Where would you go?”

  She glanced at me, then looked back at Bokket. “Andromeda.”

  “Andromeda? You mean the Andromeda galaxy? But that’s—” a fractional pause, no doubt while his web link provided the data “—2.2 million light-years away.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But…but it would take over two million years to get there.”

  “Only from Earth’s—excuse me, from Soror’s—point of view,” said Ling. “We could do it in less subjective time than we’ve already been traveling, and, of course, we’d spend all that time in cryogenic freeze.”

  “None of our ships have cryogenic chambers,” Bokket said. “There’s no need for them.”

  “We could transfer the chambers from the Pioneer Spirit.”

  Bokket shook his head. “It would be a one-way trip; you’d never come back.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “Unlike most galaxies, Andromeda is actually moving toward the Milky Way, not away from it. Eventually, the two galaxies will merge, bringing us home.”

  “That’s billions of years in the future.”

  “Thinking small hasn’t done us any good so far,” said Ling.

  Bokket frowned. “I said before that we can afford to support you and your shipmates here on Soror, and that’s true. But starships are expensive. We can’t just give you one.”

  “It’s got to be cheaper than supporting all of us.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You said you honored us. You said you stand on our shoulders. If that’s true, then repay the favor. Give us an opportunity to stand on your shoulders. Let us have a new ship.”

  Bokket sighed; it was clear he felt we really didn’t understand how difficult Ling’s request would be to fulfill. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  ^

  Ling and I spent that evening talking, while blue-and-green Soror spun majestically beneath us. It was our job to jointly make the right decision, not just for ourselves but for the four dozen other members of the Pioneer Spirit’s complement that had entrusted their fate to us. Would they have wanted to be revived here?

  No. No, of course not. They’d left Earth to found a colony; there was no reason to think they would have changed their minds, whatever they might be dreaming. Nobody had an emotional attachment to the idea of Tau Ceti; it just had seemed a logical target star.

  “We could ask for passage back to Earth,” I said.

  “You don’t want that,” said Ling. “And neither, I’m sure, would any of the others.”

  “No, you’re right,” I said. “They’d want us to go on.”

  Ling nodded. “I think so.”

  “Andromeda?” I said, smiling. “Where did that come from?”

  She shrugged. “First thing that popped into my head.”

  “Andromeda,” I repeated, tasting the word some more. I remembered how thrilled I was, at sixteen, out in the California desert, to see that little oval smudge below Cassiopeia for the first time. Another galaxy, another island universe—and half again as big as our own. “Why not?” I fell silent but, after a while, said, “Bokket seems to like you.”

  Ling smiled. “I like him.”

  “Go for it,” I said.

  “What?” She sounded surprised.

  “Go for it, if you like him. I may have to be alone until Helena is revived at our final destination, but you don’t have to be. Even if they do give us a new ship, it’ll surely be a few weeks before they can transfer the cryochambers.”

  Ling rolled her eyes. “Men,” she said, but I knew the idea appealed to her.

  Bokket was right: the Sororian media seemed quite enamored with Ling and me, and not just because of our exotic appearance—my white skin and blue eyes; her dark skin and epicanthic folds; our two strange accents, both so different from the way people of the thirty-third century spoke. They also seemed to be fascinated by, well, by the pioneer spirit.

  When the quarantine was over, we did go down to the planet. The temperature was perhaps a little cooler than I’d have liked, and the air a bit moister—but humans adapt, of course. The architecture in Soror’s capital city of Pax was surprisingly ornate, with lots of domed roofs and intricate carvings. The term “capital city” was an anachronism, though; government was completely decentralized, with all major decisions done by plebiscite—including the decision about whether or not to give us another ship.

  Bokket, Ling, and I were in the central square of Pax, along with Kari Deetal, Soror’s president, waiting for the results of the vote to be announced. Media representatives from all over the Tau Ceti system were present, as well as one from Earth, whose stories were always read 11.9 years after he filed them. Also on hand were perhaps a thousand spectators.

  “My friends,” said Deetal, to the crowd, spreading her arms, “you have all voted, and now let us share in the results.” She tipped her head slightly, and a moment later people in the crowd started clapping and cheering.

  Ling and I turned to Bokket, who was beaming. “What is it?” said Ling. “What decision did they make?”

  Bokket looked surprised. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you don’t have web implants. You’re going to get your ship.”

  Ling closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. My heart was pounding.

  President Deetal gestured toward us. “Dr. MacGregor, Dr. Woo—would you say a few words?”

  We glanced at each other then stood up. “Thank you,” I said looking out at everyone.

  Ling nodded in agreement. “Thank you very much.”

  A reporter called out a question. “What are you going to call your new ship?”

  Ling frowned; I pursed my lips. And then I said, “What else? The Pioneer Spirit II.”

  The crowd erupted again.

  Finally, the fateful day came. Our official boarding of our new starship—the one that would be covered by all the media—wouldn’t happen for another four hours, but Ling and I were nonetheless heading toward the airlock that joined the ship to the station’s outer rim. She wanted to look things over once more, and I wanted to spend a little time just sitting next to Helena’s cryochamber, communing with her.

  And, as we walked, Bokket came running along the curving floor toward us.

  “Ling,” he said, catching his breath. “Toby.”

  I nodded a greeting. Ling looked slightly uncomfortable; she and Bokket had grown close during the last few weeks, but they’d also had their time alone last night to say their goodbyes. I don’t think she’d expected to see him again before we left.

  “I’m sorry to bother you two,” he said. “I know you’re both busy, but…” He seemed quite nervous.

  “Yes?” I said.

  He looked at me, then at L
ing. “Do you have room for another passenger?”

  Ling smiled. “We don’t have passengers. We’re colonists.”

  “Sorry,” said Bokket, smiling back at her. “Do you have room for another colonist?”

  “Well, there are four spare cryochambers, but…” She looked at me.

  “Why not?” I said, shrugging.

  “It’s going to be hard work, you know,” said Ling, turning back to Bokket. “Wherever we end up, it’s going to be rough.”

  Bokket nodded. “I know. And I want to be part of it.”

  Ling knew she didn’t have to be coy around me. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “But—but why?”

  Bokket reached out tentatively, and found Ling’s hand. He squeezed it gently, and she squeezed back. “You’re one reason,” he said.

  “Got a thing for older women, eh?” said Ling. I smiled at that.

  Bokket laughed. “I guess.”

  “You said I was one reason,” said Ling.

  He nodded. “The other reason is—well, it’s this: I don’t want to stand on the shoulders of giants.” He paused, then lifted his own shoulders a little, as if acknowledging that he was giving voice to the sort of thought rarely spoken aloud. “I want to be a giant.”

  They continued to hold hands as we walked down the space station’s long corridor, heading toward the sleek and graceful ship that would take us to our new home.

  Copyright © 2000 by Robert J. Sawyer

  **********

  Kij Johnson won Nebulas in 2010, 2011 and 2012, as well as the 2012 Hugo. Her collection, At the Mouth of the River of Bees, came out in late 2012.

  SCHRÖDINGER’S CATHOUSE

  by Kij Johnson

  Bob is driving down Coney Island Avenue in the rain. His dust-blue Corolla veers a little as he struggles with a small box wrapped in brown paper with no return address. He was going to take it home from the post office and open it there but he got curious at a stoplight and now, even though the light’s changed and he’s splashing toward Brighton Beach in medium traffic, he’s still picking at the tape that holds the top shut. A bus pulls in front of him just as the tape peels free and the box opens.

  Bob looks around. The room in which he has suddenly found himself is large. The walls are covered with vividly flocked paper, fuchsia and crimson in huge swirls that look a little like fractals. He blinks: no, the pattern is dark blue with silver streaks like the lines of electrons made in a cloud chamber. The bar in front of him is polished walnut, ornately carved with what might be figures and might only be abstract designs. No, it’s chrome, cold and smooth under his fingers. Wait a second, he thinks, and he remembers driving his Corolla down Coney Island Avenue in the rain. The box. Bob blinks again: the walls are red and fuchsia again.

  There are people in the room. He sees them reflected in the mirror behind the bar. They drape over wing chairs that are covered in a violent red velvet, or they walk across the layered Oriental rugs in poses of languor. They all wear suggestive clothes or things that might pass for clothes: A lilac corset with lemon-yellow stockings and combat boots. A motorcycle jacket over a cropped polo shirt with a popped collar. A red chain harness over a crisp lace-edged white camisole and pantaloons that appear not to have a crotch. A man’s red union suit with black Mary Janes. There is something unsettling about them all but Bob isn’t sure what it is.

  “Well?” The dark bartender slaps a glass onto the walnut bar in front of Bob.

  “What?” he says, startled. The bar used to be—something else, he thinks. The man snorts impatiently.

  The people reflected in the mirror—what sex are they? Bob turns to look. It’s very hard to tell. The men—the ones dressed somewhat like men, anyway—are rather small and fine-boned, and the women—or the ones dressed in corsets and such—seem fairly large. They lounge on what are now aqua leather couches, move across what is now pale gray carpet.

  “What can I get you?” The bartender doesn’t sound the least curious.

  Bob licks his lips, which are suddenly dry, and turns around. The man now has a blond moustache that curls up at the tips. His skin is very pale.

  “Didn’t you used to be darker?” Bob asks.

  The man snorts. “What’re you drinking?”

  “Gin and—I don’t even know where I’m drinking.”

  Now clean-shaven and dark-skinned, the bartender walks away. “But my drink—” Bob starts.

  The bartender picks up another glass.

  Bob looks down and there is a glass of oily clear fluid on the bar, which is now chrome dully reflecting the blue-and-silver wallpaper. Bob squeezes his eyes shut.

  “I know, it’s strange.” The voice in Bob’s ear is calm and slightly amused. A cool hand touches his wrist. “The first visit is very unsettling. You have to figure out what you know and then you’ll feel better.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Bob says, eyes still closed.

  “There’s always a bar.” The voice sounds as though it’s cataloguing. “There is always a mirror. The seating is always in the same places. It changes, though, which can be upsetting if you’re sitting on it. The beds upstairs—they stay. Well, of course they would. We are a whorehouse. Members of the staff change a bit, but after a few visits you’ll be able to recognize most of us most of the time. It’s not so bad. Open your eyes.”

  “Where am I?” Bob asks.

  “La Boîte.” The voice sounds amused. “C’mon.”

  Bob slits one eye at his drink. The bar is walnut again but his drink is still clear. He picks it up, lifts it to his mouth. The gin is sharp and spicy, ice-cold. He gasps a little and opens his other eye. A mirror: yes. The people are still reflected in it. Or Bob thinks so; they could be different people. The aqua couches with the blue walls; when he blinks, yes, red armchairs again with the flocked wallpaper. Next to the cash register on the bar is a card with the Visa and MasterCard icons on it and in handwriting beneath them: Cash or Charge only—NO Checks! The cash register doesn’t change, he notes.

  “Feel better?”

  Bob does feel better. He takes another drink—still gin, still ice-cold, still a little like open-heart massage—and eyes his reflection. Still Bob. He turns to the person who’s been speaking to him.

  She—if it is a she—is a redhead, with a smooth flat haircut that stops at her strong jaw line. She’s wearing a fur coat, apparently with nothing else. Bob gets glimpses of peach-colored skin and downy blond hairs where the coat falls away from her thigh. In her left ear she wears a single earring, a crystal like a chandelier’s drop. Her? Hot, he thinks, if it’s a woman.

  “I’m Jacky,” she says and holds out her hand. It seems big for a woman’s hand but maybe a little small for a man.

  “Bob,” Bob says. “Um, where exactly am I? You said but I didn’t quite….”

  “La Boîte.” She picks up a stemmed glass filled with something pink. “ ‘The Box.’ Ha ha, right? One of the Boss’s little jokes.”

  “The Boss?”

  “Mr. Schrödinger.” Jacky tilts her head to one side so that her earring hangs away from her face. It’s in her right ear now.

  Bob clenches his eyes shut again. “Jesus Christ.”

  Jacky’s voice continues. “It’s your first time, poor thing. No one’s explained any of this, have they?”

  “Just go away. You’re all some sort of dream.”

  There is a sound that might be a fingernail pushing an ice cube around a lowball glass. “Well, you know about the cat, don’t you? Everyone does. She’s around but we can’t let her into the bar because of health regulations. So,” she says, and she sounds like she’s spelling something out to a slow child. “This. Is. The. Box.”

  Bob maneuvers the glass he still holds to his lips and drains it. Still gin. He glances sidelong at Jacky. Earring in the left ear. Was that where it was last time? The gin is making itself felt. “This is like limbo?”

  Jacky shrugs and the fur slips fetchingly, briefly exposing a smooth
shoulder, broad but still well within range for a woman. “It’s a lot more like a whorehouse. I’m thirsty.”

  Bob leans across the bar and taps the bartender on the shoulder.

  Jacky sips something pink from her full glass.

  “Jesus, how do you guys do that?” Bob asks. “It was empty a second ago.”

  Jacky smirks. “It both was and was not empty. It partook of both states at once.” She holds up her hand as Bob opens his mouth. “I don’t understand it either, so don’t ask me. Look at your glass. Empty or full?”

  Bob looks down. “Empt—No, it’s—” he stops.

  “Don’t think too much. Take a sip.”

  Bob sips. Gin. He gulps. When his eyes have stopped watering, he says, “This is all pretty confusing.”

  “That’s okay. Are you interested in going upstairs?”

  His cock hardens when he thinks of it. But the broad shoulders, the big hands—“Uh, no thanks.”

  She pouts. “Are you sure? If you would prefer someone else, perhaps we can—”

  “No,” Bob says and swallows hard. “No, I like you fine, I like you best of everyone here, you’re very, uh, attractive. But I think my type is more, well, feminine.” The earring has changed places once more, he’s positive of it this time. That long neck…He’s getting hard again and hopes she won’t notice.

  But she slides her hand down his belly, cupping his cock through his jeans in her broad fingers. The pressure makes his heart skip a beat. “I thought you preferred me?”

  It’s getting difficult to think. “Well, what are you?”

  Jacky laughs something that would be a giggle if Bob were a little more sure of her gender, and drops her fur from her shoulders. Her skin is smooth and she is moderately muscled, with small nipples half-erect in the air. Jacky has soft ash-blonde pubic hair, with a small trail of fur leading down from her navel. What Jacky doesn’t have is sexual characteristics: no penis, no breasts, no labia. She’s—Bob’s not certain of that she again—too muscled to look comfortably feminine, too smooth to be really male. “I might be either. It changes.”