by Watts, Peter
Blood Type:
An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge
Edited by Robert S. Wilson
All net proceeds of Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge go to support: The Cystic Fibrosis Trust
Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge
Copyright © 2013 by Nightscape Press
This edition of Blood type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge
Copyright © 2013 by Nightscape Press, LLP
Cover illustration and design by Gary McCluskey
Interior layout and design by Robert S. Wilson
Edited by Robert S. Wilson
Introduction by Robert S. Wilson
All rights reserved.
“The Undying” copyright © William F. Nolan 2013 Version new to this volume
“Taxing Youth” copyright © Rebecca L. Brown 2013
“Souls of Stars” copyright © Amelia Mangan 2013
“Evergreen” copyright © Peter Giglio 2013
“Welcome to the Reptile House” copyright © Stephen Graham Jones 2012 First published in Strange Aeons #9
“Accommodation” copyright © Michael R. Collings 2012 First published in The Vampire Megapack by Wildside Press
“A Little Night Music” copyright © Mike Resnick 1991 First published by Dell Publishing Co.
“Predators of Tomorrow” copyright © Michael Kamp 2013
“Mountains of Ice” copyright © Jilly Paddock 2013
“Occupation” copyright © James Ninness 2013
“Orientation Day” copyright © Peter Watts 2013
“The Pilot” copyright © Jason Duke 2013
“Unperished” copyright © S.R. Algernon 2013
“Eudora” copyright © James S. Dorr 2013
“A River of Blood, Carried into the Abyss” copyright © John Palisano 2013
“Better for Burning” copyright © H.E. Roulo 2013
“I Was There...” copyright © Tarl Hoch 2013
“Strays” copyright © Robert S. Wilson 2012
“Damned to Life” copyright © Essel Pratt 2013
“Happy Hour” copyright © G.N. Braun 2013
“Temporary Measures” copyright © Jay Wilburn 2013
“I, Vampire” copyright © David N. Smith and Violet Addison 2013
“Slave Arm” copyright © Laird Barron 2013
“Gods and Devils” copyright © Taylor Grant 2013
“17” copyright © Jonathan Templar 2013
“Chrysalis” copyright © Jason V Brock 2013
“Data Suck” copyright © Benjamin Kane Ethridge 2013
“Sun Hungry” copyright © Tim Waggoner 2013
“Wet Heavens” copyright © Brian Fatah Steele 2013
First Electronic Edition
Nightscape Press, LLP
http://www.nightscapepress.com
Table of Contents:
Type O Negative: An Introduction to Blood Type
The Undying by William F. Nolan
Taxing Youth by Rebecca L. Brown
The Souls of Stars by Amelia Mangan
Evergreen by Peter Giglio
Welcome to the Reptile House by Stephen Graham Jones
Accommodation by Michael R. Collings
A Little Night Music by Mike Resnick
Predators of Tomorrow by Michael Kamp
Mountains of Ice by Jilly Paddock
Occupation by James Ninness
Orientation Day by Peter Watts
The Pilot by Jason Duke
Unperished by S.R. Algernon
Eudora by James S. Dorr
A River of Blood, Carried into the Abyss by John Palisano
Better for Burning by H.E. Roulo
I Was There... by Tarl Hoch
Strays by Robert S. Wilson
Damned to Life by Essel Pratt
Happy Hour by GN Braun
Temporary Measures by Jay Wilburn
I, Vampire by David N. Smith & Violet Addison
Slave Arm by Laird Barron
Gods and Devils by Taylor Grant
17 by Jonathan Templar
Chrysalis by Jason V Brock
Data Suck by Benjamin Kane Ethridge
Sun Hungry by Tim Waggoner
Wet Heavens by Brian Fatah Steele
Acknowledgements
TYPE O NEGATIVE
An Introduction to Blood Type
A while back, I promised a good friend (whose name I will keep private) that I would do a charity anthology to help fight Cystic Fibrosis. Her daughter has the disease and the more she talked about it, the more I realized just how many great things The Cystic Fibrosis Trust was doing to help. It didn’t take a whole lot of connecting the dots from there. At first, the idea to do a vampire anthology was a completely separate one.
At the time, late in the process of co-editing HORROR FOR GOOD: A CHARITABLE ANTHOLOGY, I knew at some point, I wanted to do an anthology on my own. And with having broken into the horror scene initially with my first novel, SHINING IN CRIMSON: EMPIRE OF BLOOD BOOK ONE, a vampire novel, it seemed only a natural choice.
The problems I often see with most vampire fiction out there today is that it lacks either one of two things; originality or that truly dark element that had always—in the past—made up some of the best vampire stories of all time. So, I figured that was a hell of a start. A vampire anthology consisting of only the most original dark stories I could find. I liked the idea a lot... and then life went and sped up, and I was forced to move on to other things.
And then one day the idea came crawling back into my mind and the more I thought about it, I realized that the vampire stories that had made the most significant impact on me were both also technically stories of science fiction. One is more commonly known as a masterpiece of horror and the other is known simply as a work of hard science fiction. Both have made one hell of a mark on their respective genres.
Richard Matheson’s 1956 short novel I AM LEGEND was the first of the two to truly grab me by the throat and well... do what any good dark, original vampire story should. But it did one more thing... It intrigued me with one hell of an interesting scientific concept that, although pretty run of the mill now-a-days, had to have been controversial as all hell still in the ‘50s. I won’t spoil it for those of you so unlucky not to have read it before. And as much as I hope you’ll keep reading this tome of varied dark vampire SF, I have to advise that you put this book down and read that one first!
The other major spark of inspiration for this book has a more personal tie to it. Peter Watts is and shall likely always be my favorite living writer. His novel BLINDSIGHT not only took vampires to a new scientific level but it also turned the concept of what it means to be conscious and how that affects our abilities and accomplishments as a progressive race of beings and turned it on its head. And now that I think about it, both books have a similar theme of humanity not quite being as superior as we petty humans would like to think. But I digress...
I’ve been waiting for years for Peter’s second novel in the BLINDSIGHT universe, the novel he has been referring to as the coming sidequal as opposed to a sequel: ECHOPRAXIA. One of my biggest hopes when I started working on this anthology was that Peter would be willing to contribute something. Not only was he willing, in the spirit of the overall concept of the anthology, he wrote a story called "Orientation Day" based in the BLINDSIGHT universe that ties into his upcoming novel ECHOPRAXI
A! I couldn’t have been more pleased with how this worked out and the fact that Peter so graciously contributed this story.
So there you have the reasons behind why this anthology came into being; I wanted to do a charity anthology to help support The Cystic Fibrosis Trust and I wanted to do an anthology of dark science fiction. The glue that holds the two together was my good friend whose daughter has CF. She is one of the many friends I have today who started out as fans of my own vampire fiction. So, when I thought about the two things I wanted to do, it made perfect sense to put them together and make a science fiction vampire anthology for The Cystic Fibrosis Trust and for my friend. Hence the anthology you’re just about to read.
When first considering stories for this book, I had a much more restrictive criteria for acceptable stories; I wanted stories with more of a hard science fiction core. But as I read through submissions and found some amazingly brilliant science fantasy tales, I started to stretch my original boundaries and in the end I'm glad that I allowed myself to not be too constrictive. And the result, whether you're just about to dig into this entire book or just sample a story or two at random, is a nice mix of various kinds of science fiction and fantasy pieces with the vampire theme or idea used in a multitude of interesting ways. I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed putting it together and that you'll maybe find a few new favorite authors to read further as I have.
Robert S. Wilson
Smyrna, Tennessee
October 27th, 2013
THE UNDYING
William F. Nolan
Blood. My own. Sweet Christ, my own! Seeping along my chest, soaking my white pullover, a spreading patch of dark red. So this is how it finally ends? With the stake being driven in another inch, each blow of the hammer like a thunderclap... closing my eyes in Paris with blood everywhere on the tumultuous streets, tasting it on my cool lips, with the guillotine hissing down, severed heads thumping wicker baskets... King Richard there (was it the Third Crusade?), his battle axe cleaving through the enemy's shoulder, sundering down through muscle, bone, and gristle, and watching the stricken rider topple from the tall back of the sweating gray horse... in Germany's Black Forest, barefoot, my flesh lacerated by thorn and stone, pursued by the shouting villagers, the flames of their torches wavering, flickering through the trees, a strange, surreal glow... gulls above the sunswept English Channel as I lower my head toward the child's white, delicately tender throat, with the warm sweet wine of her blood on my tongue. (So many myths about us. They call us creatures of the night, but many of us do not fear the bright sun. In truth, it cannot harm us, although we often hunt at night... so many myths)... on the high seat of the carriage, pitching and plunging through moonlit Edinburgh, wheels in thunderous clatter over the narrow, cobbled streets, hatless, my cape blown wild behind me as I lash at the straining team... the impossibly pink sands of the beach, with a stout sea wind rattling the palm fronds, the waves blood-colored, sunset staining the edge of horizon sky and the young woman's drugged, open, waiting flesh, and my lips drawn back, the needled penetration, and the lost cry of release... the limo driver's rasping voice above the surging current of Fifth Avenue traffic, recounting the intensity of the police hunt, and my quiet smile there with my back against the cool leather, invincible, the girl's corpse where no one can ever find it, with the puncture marks raw and stark on her skin... the stifling, musky darkness of the cave, the rough grained face of the club against my cupped fingers, the fetid tangle of beard cloaking my face, my lips thick and swollen, the hot roar of the saber-tooth still echo-sharp in my mind, and thinking not of the dead, drained female beside me but of the brute eyes of the beast... the stench of war, of cannon-split corpses, the blue-clad regiment sprawled along the slope, the crackling musket fire in the cool air of Virginia, the stone wall ahead of me in the rushing smoke... the plush gilt of the Vienna opera house, the music rising in a brassy tide and the tall woman beside me in blood-red velvet as I watch the faint heartbeat in the hollow of her arching throat, flushed ivory from the glow of stage lamps... the bitter-smoked train pulling into crowded Istanbul station, the towers of ancient Byzantium rising around me, the heavy leather suitcase bumping my leg, the thick wool suit pressing against my skin, the assignation ahead with the dark-haired little fool who trusts me... the bone-shuddering shock along my right arm as my sword sparks against the upthrust shield, the gaunt Christian falling back under the fury of my attack, the orgasmic scream of the Roman crowd awaiting another death... the long, baked sweep of sun-blazed prairie, suddenly quiet now after the vast drumming of herded buffalo, the young, pinto-mounted Indian girl riding easily beside me, with the flushed red darkness of her skin inviting me, challenging me... standing with Rameses II among the fallen Hittites, with the battle-thirst raging through me like a fever, the sharp odor of spilled blood everywhere, soaking deep into parched Egyptian sands... the reeking London alehouse along the Thames, the almond-eyed whore in my lap, giggling, her breath foul with drink, her blood-rich neck gleaming in the smoky light... the slave girl in Athens, kneeling in the dirt at my booted feet, begging me to spare her wretched life as the pointed tip of my sword elicits a single drop of crimson from her fear-taut throat... at the castle feast, soups spiced with sage and sweet basil, the steaming venison on platters of chased silver, the hearty wines of Auvergne aglow in jeweled flagons, with the Queen facing me across the great table, my eyes on the pale blue tracery of veins above the ruffled lace at her neck... and, at last, here—with all the long centuries behind me, their kaleidoscopic images flickering across my mind—hunted and found, trapped like an animal under a fog-shrouded sun along the soft Pacific shore, in this fateful year of one thousand nine-hundred ninety-two, as the ultimate anvil-ringing stroke of the hammer sends the stake deep into my rioting heart... to a sudden, unending darkness.
The final blood is mine. . .
. . .until the year of two thousand eight hundred and seventy-two—when I am, at last, reborn. . .
William F. Nolan writes mostly in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. Though best known for coauthoring the acclaimed dystopian science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan is the author of more than 2000 pieces (fiction, nonfiction, articles, and books), and has edited twenty-six anthologies in his fifty-plus year career.
Of his numerous awards, there are a few of which he is most proud: being voted a Living Legend in Dark Fantasy by the International Horror Guild in 2002; twice winning the Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America; being awarded the honorary title of Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2006, and receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association in 2010. Nolan resides in Vancouver, WA.
TAXING YOUTH
Rebecca L. Brown
They marketed it as ‘Anti-‘tax’—who wants to be a slave to taxing, the adverts said. Income taxing; council taxing; eotaxins... Even at the time, Anya didn’t find that funny.
At nineteen, she didn’t need some injection or other to help her live forever. She was immortal, just like every other teenager. Seventy years—maybe more—was forever. Longer, even. Seventy years was all the time in the world.
“Is it like botox then?” her mum asked. “Chemical peels and all that?”
“Probably.” Anya didn’t bother to explain. The only kind of plasma her mum cared about was the widescreen kind. The Kings had one and Anya’s parents didn’t.
There are times, her mother had told her, when three inches makes all the difference. When she said it, Anya had almost choked on her coffee.
“Maybe I’ll give it a go. Reckon it’ll perk up an old cow like me?”
“It might.” Or, at least, it couldn’t hurt to try—except the money. Even thinking about the cost made Anya wince.
Designer skincare, her father called it. A waste of money.
They both knew her mum would buy it anyway. She always did.
~
“So what is i
t, some face pack or something?” Anya’s mum peered over her shoulder at the blister pack. Five needle syringes. Each with ‘CCL11-chemokine rec.‘ printed on the side. Each completely filled with the same off-white liquid.
They bought the injections online. A home kit, complete with latex gloves and instructions in twelve different languages.
Anya had already explained what it was twice.
“You do it for me,” her mum said. “I’ll only get it wrong.”
So it was Anya who injected the eotaxin blockers into her mum. Afterwards, that would give her an excuse to blame herself.
~
They withdrew the Anti-’tax from the market just three months later.
Potential side effects, the product recalls claimed. What those side effects were, nobody seemed to know.
“Probably want to keep it to themselves,” Anya’s mother said. “Selfish. Greedy.” She had three unopened packs left and one half empty.
“We could sell them for a fortune,” Anya’s father suggested.
“No chance!” Anya’s mum wasn’t about to sell eternal youth at any price—not now that there was so little of it left.
Eternal youth—a three month supply.