New Ceres Nights

By Twelfth Planet Press

New Ceres, a planet in the outer colonies, embraced the Age of Enlightenment nearly 200 years ago and refused to let go. Refugees & opportunists come to New Ceres in search of new lives, escaping the conflicts of the interstellar war.

... presents 13 exciting stories of rebellion, debauchery, decadence, subterfuge & murder set against the backdrop of powdered wigs, coffee houses, duels and balls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twelfth Planet Press
• Release date: Oct 23, 2009
• ISBN: 9780980484120

Twelfth Planet Press

Twelfth Planet Press is part of the changing face of Australian publishing.Blending print and electronic formats, Twelfth Planet Press aims to foster, develop and promote quality speculative fiction writing in fresh, exciting projects.

Book preview

New Ceres Nights

edited by Alisa Krasnostein and Tehani Wessely

First published in Australia in April 2009 by Twelfth Planet Press

Smashwords Edition 2009

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Amendments to the e-edition: in the print collection, all stories are illustrated.

If you like New Ceres Nights, you might also enjoy the following Twelfth Planet Press publications on Smashwords…

Angel Rising, a New Ceres Novella - Dirk Flinthart: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4765

Siren Beat - Tansy Rayner Roberts: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4764

Horn - Peter M Ball: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4763

This anthology © Alisa Krasnostein and Tehani Wessely

Introduction © Dirk Flinthart and Tansy Rayner Roberts

Cover illustration by Dion Hamill

Internal illustrations by Richard Bartrop, Eleanor Clarke and Daryl Lindquist

Design and layout by Tehani Wessely

All stories © 2009 by their respective authors, printed with permission of the authors

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Title: New Ceres nights / editors, Alisa Krasnostein and Tehani Wessely.

ISBN: 9780980484120 (pbk.)

9780980484137 (hbk.)

Other Authors/Contributors:

Krasnostein, Alisa.

Wessely, Tehani.

Dewey Number: A823.308762

The editors would like to thank the New Ceres Board for the time and effort put into maintaining the worldbuilding aspect of this anthology, and Gillian Pollack for the original idea. We would also like to acknowledge the generous assistance given by Cat Sparks, Joanne Anderton, Stuart Barrow, Jason Fischer, Sarah Parker, Simon Petrie and Alexandra Pierce in the production of this book.

Alisa and Tehani would also like to thank their family and friends for their support and encouragement in chasing dreams.

Contents

Introduction

Debutante Dirk Flinthart

The Widow’s Seven Candles Thoraiya Dyer

Code Duello J.C. Hay

Murder in Laochan Aliette de Bodard

Tontine Mary Kaaron Warren

Fair Trade Stephen Dedman

A Troublesome Day for Jacky Midnight Matthew Farrer

Prosperine When It Sizzles Tansy Rayner Roberts

Candle to the Devil Sue Isle

Blessed Are The Dead That The Rain Falls Upon Martin Livings

The Sharp Shooter Sylvia Kelso

Smuggler’s Moon Lee Battersby

The Piece of Ice in Miss Windermere’s Heart Angela Slatter

Glossary

About The Contributors

Introduction

The origin of New Ceres, not yet lost in the mists of time, was as a shared world which used all the benefits of online communities to grow and develop through the minds of not only as many writers who wished to be involved, but also artists, readers, fans and detail-freaks. Early issues of the webzine not only featured fiction but also ‘nonfiction’ about the world and environs. New Ceres is a shared creation of historians, philosophers, game designers and scientists, as well as writers of that rather odd literature sometimes referred to as ‘scientifiction’.

Some of the aims behind New Ceres have already been fulfilled; the Creative Commons license has allowed writers to pick up other people’s characters and inventions for the world, remix them, and present them anew. There has been marvelous experimentation and collaboration thus far, with only one thing missing — a chance to hold a piece of New Ceres in your hot little hands, turn the gilt-edged vellum pages, inhale the musty scent of eighteenth century book, gaze upon the woodcuts of crinolines in space…

Okay, possibly the pages aren’t gilt-edged vellum. But they are most definitely packed with some of the most interesting, genre-crossing, gender bending, sexy, smart and spacey crinoline wearing scientifiction I have read in years. More importantly, these stories serve to develop and reveal new corners of New Ceres never seen before. One of the best parts about being one of the writers involved from the very beginning of New Ceres is that I can see tiny fragments of things I have invented or helped to invent taken up by other authors and turned into the weird, the wonderful and the downright strange.

This book has brought many new writers to the world of New Ceres who will, I hope, see their own creations thoroughly appropriated, messed with, torn apart and put back together in future publications as the world continues to grow in new and surprising ways. That’s what we’re all here for.

Tansy Rayner Roberts

New Ceres Board

I turned up on the New Ceres scene a little later than Tansy, attracted by the collaborative nature of the project. There’s a special challenge for a writer working in a shared milieu. In my head, it feels a bit like playing a complex video game: you’re focused on achieving your goals while simultaneously dodging and weaving and ducking to avoid the hazards thrown up by the game, and by other players. In the case of New Ceres, the ‘other players’ weren’t just writers creating stories; I had to be cognizant of a whole range of material brought to the game by dozens of other people.

Another element that interested me then, as now, was the on-line nature of the original project. I’ve watched the ‘Net grow from its earliest stirrings in university computer-labs around the planet into the paradigm-shattering, ubiquitous web of information we see today, and I don’t think we’re close to the final version yet. When New Ceres cropped up, offering a persistent, complex, unique and original venue for SF creativity on dozens of levels at once, I thought: yes — this could well be part of the shape of things to come.

I still think so. Sure, the thing you’re holding in your hand right now is a venerable, tried-and-trusted technology. But the age of paper is passing. You only have to sample the current wave of innovation on the ‘Net to realize that the future lies with texts that are mutable, mashable, shareable, and most of all, social.

We’ll always have stories, sure. But already, stories have become more like portals or gateways than simple, closed texts. You can see it in fan-fiction, in writers blogging to their fans, in discussion forums and MUDS and games derived from movies derived from books, and a host of similar constructions. New Ceres is already part of the way there, having gone from an online creation to paper novella, and now to paperback anthology. It has slipped between genres, touching Steampunk, SF/Romance, Cyberpunk, and even the venerable Detective/Mystery.

The thing you’re holding in your hand right now is full of life, and fun, and wonder, and I’m proud and delighted by my small part in it — but it’s only a start. When you finish the last page of the last story, you’ve only just begun.

The doors are open. It’s a new world out there.

Dirk Flinthart

New Ceres Board

Debutante

Dirk Flinthart

Celestine’s kidnapping worked right up to the point where her kidnapper poked her with an antique ballpoint pen and said he’d stuck her full of nano-dissassemblers.

Until then, she’d been a bit afraid, or at least wary. Even if he was cute, he’d been waving a flintlock around, and the way he threw her guard out of the coach suggested he was a tough customer. Celestine knew the drill. She’d been brought up with it. Cooperate. Keep it easy. Daddy can afford the ransom.

Except Mister Cute-But-Dumb Coleridge didn’t want a ransom. He wanted Celestine to smuggle him through security at Hylden House so he could confront her father with details of some sort of plot to take over New Ceres. And to get what he wanted, he poked Celestine with a pen and left an ink-dot on her forearm. Why were the cute ones always dumb, or crazy, or both? Bad enough she had to flit halfway across the known universe, from cosmopolitan, vibrant, fashionable Earth to rustic, backwards, boring New Ceres. Worse, Sir Roger Mayhew — Celestine’s father, and the Governor of New Ceres — had engineered a win for the anti-tech idiots, and written New Ceres permanently into the Eighteenth Century.

Suddenly, even her hairdryer was illegal, and she’d had to smuggle it out of the spaceport at New Prosperine. And then to be kidnapped by an amateur?

No, I have no idea what Daddy will want with him, she snapped at the guard captain on gate duty. It was Ronnie Talbot, who’d had a five-star crush on her since forever, back when they were in school together. He looked pretty good in the blue coat and black tricorn, but his leggings were all wrinkled and saggy. No artificial fabrics in the Eighteenth Century, of course. Stick him in a secure cell until Daddy’s done with this big meeting of his. Oh, and make sure he’s got some paper to draw on, since he likes his pen so much. She made a face at the man who’d tried to kidnap her; Coleridge, if that really was his name. "I knew it was a pen, stupid. Earth education, remember? And nano-dissassemblers? Ha! Physics 201, Old Oxford: at the nano-scale, the laws of physics get in the way of each other. You can’t make complex nano-machinery like that. Next time, try infecting me with a ‘disease that only you can cure’, or something." She waved a sardonic bye-bye, just a little flip of her fingers as Coleridge was hauled away by two burly guardsmen.

Shall I escort you to your father, Selly? Talbot looked at her hopefully. Celestine tried not to wince at the schoolyard nickname. She’d forgotten all about it in four years on Earth.

I prefer Celestine, Ronnie, she said. And I think I can find my father by myself. I managed to cross umpteen zillion light years on my own to get here, didn’t I? And I only got kidnapped once.

Well — Hylden House is rather large, said Talbot, glancing back over his shoulder. It was, too — a ludicrous monster of a thing with turrets and three floors and gardens and a courtyard and enough wings to practically take flight.

It was Sir Trevor Ponsonby’s idea of an eighteenth century English manor; fat Ponsonby who owned banks and controlled half the shipping on New Ceres. He was Sir Roger’s right hand man, and one of the main architects of the Eighteenth Century thing. Ponsonby loved dressing up in the ornate clothes and wigs that went with the era, even though most of his money was offworld and very definitely modern. Privately, Celestine thought he looked like a transvestite pervert, and his big, gaudy house was all about compensating for something else a little undersized…

No, I’ll be fine, Ronnie, she said. Besides, they need you down here. Daddy’s got his big secret meeting going on. You and the lads have to be here so idiots like Mister Ballpoint don’t burst in and … do whatever it is people like that do when they get close to Governors. She put her arms around Ronnie to give him a quick cuddle. Not that he’d get much fun out of that, with all the layers of eighteenth century clothing they both wore. Another good reason to like Earth, where you could dress up pretty much however you liked, and nobody would dream of arresting you for it. Then, with a last glance at Ronnie’s dishevelled tights — were codpieces authentic Eighteenth Century? — she said goodbye, flipped her hair saucily, and lifted her voluminous skirts so she could dart up the wide marble steps into Hylden House proper.

Twenty minutes or so later — if you could trust a clunky eighteenth century fobwatch the size of a brick — Celestine found herself wishing she’d listened to Ronnie. It wasn’t just that Hylden House was an enormous maze of a place. It was the sultry heat of the summer day, and the eight layers of ridiculous underpants and the crinoline and the whalebone and the silk and the chambray and the underskirts and the overskirts and the bodice-thingy and the jacket-thingy and whatever that other thing was with the lace edges, and the shapeless woolly thing under it. She could hardly walk, let alone navigate the stinking hot corridors of a stupidly huge house designed for show, not comfort. By the time she finally burst into the ornate library on the top floor at the back, she was sweating like an entire piggery.

I can’t believe you’ve even made air conditioning illegal, she snapped, as Sir Roger and a bunch of over-dressed types looked up from a big conference table covered in papers. Not a compad in sight. Idiots. I’m sure they had air conditioning in the Eighteenth Century.

Twentieth, Celestine, said Sir Roger mildly. I see you made it safely back from Earth. Welcome home, dear.

Welcome home my arse, Dad. She stalked across the room, her footsteps clacking on the intricate parquetry. You insisted I had to come back. And for what? Some kind of … antique dance club thing? What is a ‘debutante ball’ anyway? I asked the PlanetWeb — you remember that useful little thing? — but I’m not sure I believe the answer I got.

Celestine, said her father, we’re recreating more than just the lack of technology here on New Ceres. We’re recreating a way of life, a set of ideals that sparked some of the highest dreams and achievements of our species. You would do well to learn how to play your part.

She rolled her eyes. Why not the Stone Age, Dad? I’m sure they had dreams and ideals too. Honestly! Four years local time I’ve been gone, and you’ve managed to turn a perfectly decent world into some kind of … some kind of retro theme park!

Sir Roger glanced at the others, most of whom were at least trying to conceal their amusement. If you’ll excuse us for a little while, gentlemen. We were due for a break in any case. I haven’t seen my daughter in some time, after all.

Dutifully, the men — and yes, of course, they were all men — filed out of the room, all except for one, the most irritatingly overdressed, bewigged and bejewelled of the lot.

Ponsonby. The fat slug. He loitered, pretending to study the view from the window as the others shuffled out, then placed a podgy hand on Sir Roger’s shoulder. Sir Roger, he said. If you’ll just give me a moment. The questions regarding human rights, and the definition of slavery—

Her father’s face hardened. I’ve told you a hundred times, Ponsonby. Slavery was outlawed in England by 1772. In the Nipponese empire, it was gone nearly two hundred years earlier. I don’t care what the offworld banks say. Our definitions are quite clear, and we will have none of what they’re peddling. What is the point of throwing off the technical trappings of the modern system if you don’t discard the evils of that system as well?

Celestine rolled her eyes. She’d heard this sort of thing from her father often enough. If Ponsonby got him wound up, she’d never get a word in. Best to cut in while she could. Yah, she drawled. "That’s what he said. The man who kidnapped me on the way here, I mean."

That got their attention. Ponsonby’s prissy, lip-sticked mouth flapped, while her father’s bushy eyebrows got together in the middle of his forehead like they were planning to breed or something. Enjoying the moment, Celestine dropped into an overstuffed chair and fanned herself with two or three layers of skirt. Probably Ponsonby could see glimpses of the outermost layer of her underwear. Like she could care. Oh, you didn’t hear about that? she went on. Huh. Most likely because you got rid of all the telecomz. Funny how news doesn’t travel when you do that.

Kidnapped, said Sir Roger. Are you serious? By whom?

By whom? Celestine mocked his careful enunciation.

By some lunatic with an antique ballpoint pen. And didn’t he have a story! Classic paranoid schizophrenic, she said.

Score one for Psych 101. He wanted me to smuggle him into Hylden House to prevent a coup, so he said. See, there’s a cargo ship of sick refugees in orbit, only it’s not a cargo ship, it’s a disguised Star-class Battlewing. And they’ve got droptroops, and they’re waiting on a signal to land right here and seize the Government, which Coleridge the Crazy Pen Guy said is mostly here right now. She paused, savouring their thunderstruck expressions. It gets better. Our hero neutralized the Battlewing with a military-grade EMP-flash he just happened to have on his yacht, so he was coming here to arrest the man behind the coup. She shrugged. Like I was going to believe him. I mean, it’s not like he showed me any parchments. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oops! I never can keep my antiques straight. I guess I meant papers." A world of sarcasm went into that last word.

Coup, said Sir Roger. He said — Coleridge? His hand crept out, seized a silk rope hanging against the wall, and jerked it twice, sharply. I need to know more. Ponsonby: have you heard anything?

Ponsonby blinked. "Me? I — why, I knew about the refugees, of course. Everyone knows about them. They’ve got Ebola Sirius aboard, and of course, their facilities are better than ours, medically. We don’t have isolation for that many, so they’re restricted to orbit until further notice. But … a

Battlewing? And a coup? Do you know anything about this Coleridge? He pressed a hand against his ample belly, and winced. My apologies. A little bit of indigestion, I think. Too much coffee."

I know somewhat of him, Sir Roger looked grim. Enough to know there’s more to this than meets the eye. I’ll have him brought here for interrogation.

I’d rather not, said Ponsonby. He patted his gut again. It strikes me he could be dangerous. And your daughter is here.

That will be remedied, said Sir Roger.

Fine, Ponsonby replied, turning to Celestine, and holding out his hand. It looked soft, limp and sweaty. I shall escort her to the tea rooms. No doubt you’re hungry after the trip?

I want you here for the interrogation, Ponsonby, Sir Roger said. There was a hard edge to his voice. Celestine frowned. Was there something here she was missing?

It’s fine, Dad, really, she said. The gate guards put him away. I was never really in any danger. Other than the flintlock, she amended silently. Would the nanocarbide weave in her corsetry stop an antique bullet?

Ponsonby put his hands on his hips, but he did not look back at Sir Roger. And I don’t want to be here, he said. I hate this kind of thing. I’ll read the analysis afterwards.

Something infinitely sad happened deep inside Sir Roger. Celestine saw it in her father’s eyes. It’s true, isn’t it, Ponsonby? Coleridge said there was something wrong at the top. I thought the man was paranoid — but it was you, wasn’t it?

Ponsonby’s eyes narrowed, and he slipped a hand into his silk brocade jacket. Celestine’s belly flip-flopped and her face turned cold. The fat slug had something under there! As he wheeled to face her father, she scrabbled desperately among the folds of her clothing, trying to find the only thing she could think of that might help.

All right, Roger, Ponsonby said, rounding on Celestine’s father. Fine. Yes, the coup is mine. There is a Battlewing. It’s here with a mercenary company because I hired it. Oh, and I assure you that your man Coleridge most certainly did not disable it. I know this for a fact, because I’ve just sent the ‘go’ code for the drop, and received the acknowledgement. The troops will be on the ground within forty minutes, I should say, and all personnel in this area will be rounded up. Then I’ll have a long chat with everyone and in very short order, New Ceres will have a new Government, consisting of people who are prepared to live in the Twenty-seventh Century, not the Eighteenth. We’ll keep the clothes and the games, of course. But all the tiresome technological restrictions and petty morality? I think not. His hand emerged from under his jacket, holding a small, nasty-looking gun. So that’s really all there is to it. All we have to do is sit quietly for the next little while and everything will be fine. He wiped his forehead, and sighed. Oh, dear. You have no idea how satisfying that was. Honestly, you are the most painful man in the entire universe, and I’ve been dying to tell you so for ages. I feel ever so much better now!

Celestine saw her chance. She took a deep breath. Drop that gun, she snapped, doing her best impression of Zelda Zhang, Hitter For Hire. Unless you want to see what this thing will do to an unshielded torso.

Ponsonby and her father both turned at once. The fat man stared at her in amazement. What thing? Are you planning to shoot me with — what is that, anyway? He moved to bring his weapon to bear, but Celestine lowered her hairdryer so the bell-mouth was pointed straight at his crotch, and he stopped.

It’s a thermal projector, she snarled, taking a twohanded grip on it. Guns always looked scarier like that in the immersies.

A heat gun? But that’s silly! He wasn’t bringing his pistol to bear, though. It couldn’t possibly hold enough energy for more than one, maybe two shots.

That’s right, said Celestine. Normally it’s a hairdryer. That’s how you get it through spaceport security. But this one is a defensive model with an emergency overload setting. One shot. Maybe two. How many do you think I’ll need to poach your eggs?

Poach my… Oh! Ponsonby shot a look at Sir Roger.

That’s what an Earth education gets you, Mayhew. Then he swung the gun until it pointed squarely at Celestine.

Suddenly it looked a whole lot bigger. Now what, girl? said the fat man.

Now it’s my turn, came a voice from the doorway, and Coleridge sauntered into the room. He was still cute, Celestine noticed, with that whole curling-dark-hair-falling-to-broadshoulders thing working for him. But he was also still crazy, because he was carrying a bullwhip. How had he gotten here anyway? Weren’t those guards good for anything?

Aww, for— Ponsonby started to turn, but Celestine lifted her hairdryer.

Heat gun! she reminded him.

You later, the fat man growled, and shifted the pistol to cover Coleridge. But in the instant Celestine had kept his attention, Coleridge had moved. The whip snapped out, taking Ponsonby around the throat. Even as he raised the weapon, something … happened. Sparks jumped from the shiny metal buckles of Ponsonby’s shoes. His eyes rolled up into his head and his entire body spasmed horribly. In his clenching fist, the little gun coughed once, twice, three times, smashing a mirror, blowing a hole in the ceiling, and annihilating an ugly plaster lamp. He collapsed to the floor, still twitching, and a wisp of smoke or steam came from his open mouth.

You didn’t shoot him, Coleridge observed. He flicked the whip loose, and re-coiled it.

Celestine tried not to retch. Nobody retched in the immersies. But then, the smell of burned hair and human shit wasn’t as overpowering in the immersies either. She gulped, and looked away from the corpse. I borrowed your pen trick. It’s only a hairdryer. I smuggled it in. I’ve got a solar recharge unit for it. She gulped again. You — you totally killed Ponsonby! With a whip! You’re even crazier than I thought! She tasted bile, and swallowed hard. I … don’t feel so good.

Coleridge looked at her for a moment, his dark eyes piercing. You did well. Then he turned his attention to Sir Roger. My attack with the yacht failed. I barely escaped. The only option left for stopping the coup was to come here. Unfortunately, I had no proof of who was behind it, so I used your daughter to deliver a message that the traitor couldn’t possibly ignore. He glanced down at the steaming corpse. I told you not to trust him, didn’t I?

You did, Sir Roger wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. And I didn’t believe you. I thought Ponsonby was— He stopped. I thought you were paranoid. It’s an occupational hazard with your … sort, after all.

Celestine’s head spun. I’m going to go and get someone, Dad, she said.

Stay, said Coleridge, his voice dangerously low. You told me in the coach, when you thought I was a madman, that you would be the first Lady Governor of this planet. Stay, and see what that means, Celestine Mayhew.

He was scary when he talked like that. Celestine glanced at her father. He nodded, so she put her hairdryer back under her skirts, and tried to look like she was learning something. On the floor, Ponsonby steamed a bit more, and Celestine swallowed again.

Coleridge didn’t seem to care. He glared at Sir Roger. I said there would be a price for your dream of a new Enlightenment. But you thought Ponsonby and his ilk could simply be appeased. He shook his head. Eight hundred years since the first Enlightenment taught us to dream of freedom, and still his kind own everything, rule over everyone. They’re not people you can appease. They’re predators. The only way you can escape them is to stop acting like prey.

Sir Roger looked down at Ponsonby. And now he’s going to win anyway, from beyond the grave. A Battlewing full of mercenary drop-troops. No doubt Mettelsohn will step into Ponsonby’s shoes. And our troops…

"Your troops will melt like a