Galaxy’s Edge Magazine: Issue 53, November 2021: Galaxy's Edge

By Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Mike Resnick and Z.T. Bright

A Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy
 

ISSUE 53: November 2021

Lezli Robyn, Editor

Taylor Morris, Copyeditor

Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

 

Stories by Z.T. Bright, Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki, Mike Resnick Alex Shvartsman, Tami Veldura, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Fulvio Gatti, Dave Wolverton, Dhew

Jean Marie Ward Interviews Charlaine Harris

 

Serialization: Over the Wine Dark Sea by Harry Turtledove

 

Columns by: Gregory Benford, L. Penelope

 

Recommended Books: Richard Chwedyk

 

Galaxy's Edge is a bi-monthly magazine published by Phoenix Pick, the science fiction and fantasy imprint of Arc Manor, an award winning independent press based in Maryland. Each issue of the magazine has a mix of new and old stories, a serialization of a novel, columns by L. Penelope and Gregory Benford, and book recommendations by Richard Chwydyk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shahid Mahmud
• Release date: Oct 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649731128

Book preview

ISSUE 53: November 2021

Lezli Robyn, Editor

Taylor Morris, Copyeditor

Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

Published by Arc Manor/Phoenix Pick

P.O. Box 10339

Rockville, MD 20849-0339

Galaxy’s Edge is published in January, March, May, July, September, and November.

All material is either copyright © 2021 by Arc Manor LLC, Rockville, MD, or copyright © by the respective authors as indicated within the magazine. All rights reserved.

This magazine (or any portion of it) may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Please check our website for submission guidelines.

ISBN: 978-1-64973-112-8

SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION:

Paper and digital subscriptions are available. Please visit our home page: www.GalaxysEdge.com

ADVERTISING:

Advertising is available in all editions of the magazine. Please contact [e-mail].

FOREIGN LANGUAGE RIGHTS:

Please refer all inquiries pertaining to foreign language rights to Shahid Mahmud, Arc Manor, P.O. Box 10339, Rockville, MD 20849-0339. Tel: [phone]. Fax [phone]. Email [e-mail].

www.GalaxysEdge.com

Contents

EDITOR’S NOTE by Lezli Robyn

GALAXY’S EDGE INTRODUCES THE 2021 WINNER OF THE MIKE RESNICK MEMORIAL AWARD by Lezli Robyn

THE MEASURE OF A MOTHER’S LOVE by Z.T. Bright

O2 ARENA by Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki

WINTER SOLSTICE by Mike Resnick

THE GOING RATE by Alex Shvartsman

TO HEAVEN AND BACK AGAIN by Tami Veldura

SUBSTITUTIONS by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

WHO SMILES LAST by Fulvio Gatti

MY FAVOURITE CHRISTMAS by Dave Wolverton

YANG FENG PRESENTS: THE ALGORITHM OF EVERYTHING by Dhew

GALAXY’S EDGE INTERVIEWS CHARLAINE HARRIS by Jean Marie Ward

RECOMMENDED BOOKS by Richard Chwedyk

THE SCIENTIST’S NOTEBOOK by Gregory Benford

LONGHAND by L.Penelope

OVER THE WINE-DARK SEA (Part Six) by Harry Turtledove

EDITOR’S NOTE

by Lezli Robyn

I am writing this editorial while sitting in the gorgeous Hotel Roosevelt in Hollywood, which is filled with art deco splendor and the geeky people that form part of my community. I had just spent a delightful morning talking to the Writer’s of the Future finalists about what it takes to start your career in the publishing industry, alongside other speakers such as Jody Lynn Nye, Nancy Kress, and Larry Niven. Mike Resnick had been a regular judge for the contest, and had often found new writer children amongst its finalists. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of coming full circle when I spoke to the fledgling authors in my capacity as editor for Galaxy’s Edge, trying to fill the large shoes that Mike had left for me in his passing.

This issue I am absolutely thrilled to be publishing the winning story of The Mike Resnick Memorial Award for Best Science Fiction Short Story by a New Author. This year was the inaugural award and we had some phenomenal entries, with Z.T. Bright taking home the gorgeous winner’s trophy for his evocative short story, The Measure of a Mother’s Love. Lucas Carroll-Garrett was first runner up with Hive at a Dead Star, and the second runner up position went to New Zealander, Christopher Henckel, for Echoes of Gliese.

We had the pleasure of meeting and spending time with Lucas, and the two other finalists, Torion Oey and Shirley Song, at Dragon Con during the Labor Day weekend in Atlanta, where I had the joy of handing the three authors contracts to purchase their stories for Galaxy’s Edge! I had always intended to publish the winner in our magazine, but I had not expected to be blown away by all our finalists. As new writers in this field, their stories really showcased their talent, so in future issues you will be able to read their notable entries. I hope you will love them just as much as the Galaxy’s Edge publishing team and our astute judges—Bill Fawcett, Jody Lynn Nye, Lois McMaster Bujold, Nancy Kress and Sheree Renée Thomas. We cannot thank the judges enough for their participation and expertise—for one of the most enduring legacies of Mike Resnick, other than his lasting fiction, is to continue to discover and nurture new talent in the industry.

Z.T. Bright’s short story tells the poignant tale of a Chinese woman living on an Orbital Station off-planet, who, when dealing with the potential loss of a second child—an alien foundling she had discovered during her last visit to the Earth’s surface—has to learn the meaning and importance of sacrifice. Italian author, Fulvio Gatto, gifts us with the fascinating story of an autistic’s man’s scientific creation that ends up improving his life—if profoundly changing it—for the better. And Alex Shvartsman (whose upcoming novel, The Middling Affliction, will soon be published by this magazine’s sister imprint, Caezik SF & Fantasy) delights us with the utterly charming lesson-in-the-form-of-a-story, about being careful what you wish for—especially when summoning a demon in The Going Rate. I dare you not to laugh. Let me just say one word: wildflowers!

Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki’s novelette, the thought-provoking O2 Arena will show you the lengths you would go to in order to save the one you love, even in a dystopian future Nigeria. It will explore how your actions will change you, for better or for worse. This piece of fiction is a riveting confluence of personal experience and fantasy, and when you read his biography in the magazine, you will see how accomplished this young man has become in a relatively short time period. I haven’t specifically counted his award nominations this year alone (he has already won several of them!), but just know it is many. He has been nominated for almost every major award the field has to offer this year.

Once again, we are privileged to include Chinese editor Yang Feng’s story recommendation, the English translation of Dhew’s The Algorithym of Everything, as well as Tami Veldura’s To Heaven and Back Again (which I would love to write more about, but I am running out of words)! Then we round out the fiction in this issue with some reprints that will get you in the mood for the upcoming festive season. Mike Resnick’s Winter Solstice is one of his daughter’s favorite pieces and it will wriggle its way into your heart. And Substitutions by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and My Favorite Christmas by Dave Wolverton will help you explore the fantastical side to the season. (Kris’s story in particular was the first story of hers I read, and it has stuck with me ever since.)

Along with our regular columnists, L. Penelope and Gregory Benford, and reviewer, Richard Chwedyk, I couldn’t be more excited to announce that Jean Marie Ward interviewed the incomparable Charlaine Harris this issue. Not only are her words inspiring and insightful, but I can’t think of a better way to end this editorial then to say that the honor of being able to publish words by such wonderful authors makes my job as editor such an unbridled joy.

GALAXY’S EDGE INTRODUCES THE 2021 WINNER OF THE MIKE RESNICK MEMORIAL AWARD

(for Best Science Fiction Short Story by a New Author)

by Lezli Robyn

When I first read The Measure of a Mother’s Love, I noted the goosebumps on my arms upon finishing it and realized that if this fledgling author is this good at the very beginning of their career—can already write such sparse yet impacting prose at a such a polished level—then I can’t wait to read what they write when they hone their craft. To put it simply, the story is gracefully poignant.

To honor Mike Resnick’s memory and his well-known propensity to pay it forward and help authors jumpstart their careers with surer footing, our judges were asked not only to pick their five favorite pieces, but to provide feedback to the authors—constructive criticism as well as praise—so the writer could also walk away from this experience with some new tools in their career-building kit. To say the positive response to this story was unanimous is an understatement. One judge noted, I really liked the protagonist in this tale—her characterization and interiority were convincing and very well written. Another wrote, This is a beautifully written, moving tale with clear, spare prose and characters we care about and admire. Very well done, as the various threads come together quite skillfully. And if that wasn’t encouragement enough, another judge told the author, You clearly have talent. Keep writing.

These responses are at the very heart of why the award was created. To show new authors their worth and the impact they can create if they apply themselves and stick at it. Bill Fawcett, Jody Lynn Nye, Lois McMaster Bujold, Nancy Kress and Sherée Renee Thomas didn’t agree to judging duties because they particularly like critiquing stories, but because they recognize the positive impact feedback from people of their notable experience and talent can have on those just starting their career.

As someone with the privilege of working behind the scenes of this inaugural award (and the editor with the pleasure of being able to buy the winning story for Galaxy’s Edge), one of the biggest takeaways I have from this entire experience is witnessing the positive impact on all the finalists, not just the winner. How the recognition of their talents helps bolster the foundation of their careers. I can’t help but think this would make Mike Resnick so happy, if he had have been here to witness it, and I’m proud to open this issue of the magazine with Z.T. Bright’s winning story.

Z.T. Bright lives with his wife along the Wasatch Mountains in Utah. They have four kids, three ducks, two dogs, and one cat (yes, it’s as loud as it sounds). When not writing, he can be found reading, or enjoying the majestic natural beauty of the American Mountain West.

THE MEASURE OF A MOTHER’S LOVE

by Z.T. Bright

My pod on the Chinese national orbiting station is decorated to look identical to my home back in Guangdong Province. The only exception is that the view from my window looks out over the entirety of China, rather than my garden and my late son’s tomb. It’s not really a window, actually, but a large video screen in disguise. It spins with the rest of the pod which provides the simulation of gravity without the dizzying effect of perspective.

My pod on the Chinese national orbiting station is decorated to look identical to my home back in Guangdong Province. The only exception is that the view from my window looks out over the entirety of China, rather than my garden and my late son’s tomb. It’s not really a window, actually, but a large video screen in disguise. It spins with the rest of the pod which provides the simulation of gravity without the dizzying effect of perspective. It’s also not nearly as spacious. Just a small kitchen, a modular couch-bed, and a bathroom. But it’s all that Zhu and I need.

Zhu, my extraterrestrial son, reclines on the windowsill in silence. He’s similar in form to a mantis, but more round and about the size and color of an American football. He’s not really a he—his kind don’t have genders like we do—but he chose the name of my son, Zhuang, so I think of him that way. He stares at Earth, tracing its curvature with a pencil-like foreleg, tapping distractedly with the firm shell of his exoskeleton.

Tink. Tink, tink.

Every morning I sit with my notebook and pen, relics from my days on Earth, waiting for Zhu to say something. He always says such interesting things, mostly about how strange humans are, and I write as much of them down as I can. I wish I’d done that with my first son.

But today, Zhu is quiet. He’s never this quiet. It worries me.

Would you like to help me make qingtuan later? I say, hoping to prompt him. He loves qingtuan.

He doesn’t respond.

You are going to come with me tomorrow, right? I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since our last trip.

The Global Reclamation Organization allows everyone one day on Earth per year. Part of the united global effort to reverse human damage to the planet and keep future human impact as low as possible. They say that in the future people may be able to live on-planet again. I, like many, take my one day during the festival of Qingming. Traditionally, we sweep the tombs of our loved ones, honor their memories, and burn incense.

Zhu still does not speak.

In an attempt to brush off my concern, I begin to prepare the qingtuan—a traditional Chinese dumpling eaten during Qingming—since it seems I won’t get anything out of Zhu this morning. For a time, I hear only boiling water and the rhythm of my knife as I chop spinach.

Zhu speaks into my mind as I drop the spinach into the boiling water. Yes, Mei. I will go with you to Earth.

Though I’ve raised him from a larva these last five years, and I think of him as my son, he still does not refer to me as his mother. I try not to let it bother me, but it does. I can tell that something about his tone seems off—I’m his mother, after all—but I force myself to be glad that he’s finally said something. I strain the spinach and boil its vibrant green juice as I knead glutinous rice dough.

It will be good to celebrate the first day of Qingming at the tomb as a family.

* * *

Zhuang, my human son, was only fifteen when the government mandated construction of the orbitals. It wasn’t a surprise. The effects of global warming on the planet were no longer debated. Sea levels rising had displaced millions. Those same warming waters set off a ripple effect of aquatic species extinction that had reduced the availability of a significant number of human and animal food sources. With hurricanes, wildfires, not to mention the inability to control carbon emissions and the massive spike in related mortality rates—how could we save both our species and our planet?

Most governments had already implemented reproductive limitations. Now Earth was to become a protected nature preserve of sorts in the hopes that the removal of humans from the global footprint could reverse at least some of the major damage over the next few generations—potentially save the planet before humanity had triggered a mass extinction event from which there would have been no return.

The nations of the world set a ten-year deadline to get their first ships into orbit, sparing no expenses. They wouldn’t get everyone up within that time frame, but it would be a start, and it would continue on a schedule.

Ten years felt like a long time. Zhuang would still have time at home before university, and even then, he’d go to school close by. And surely it would take decades, or more, to get everyone to orbit. He’d be able to experience a normal childhood before everything changed.

But the day after the orbital announcement, I found him packing his bags.

What do you think you are doing? I asked.

Mother, they need as much help as possible with the construction of the ships.

You are only a child! You have school! I am ashamed to say I did not control my temper very well.

Are there not more important things than school?

Not for a fifteen-year-old boy!

Mother, we are talking about our planet.

I couldn’t admit it at the time, but I remember thinking how mature he seemed in that moment. Kneeling next to a black duffel bag with a folded T-shirt in his hands, he stared at me without passion. Our argument had not riled him. He was completely confident in his decision.

Any further arguments about him being too young to leave died before they reached my lips. I tried emotional guilt. So, you are going to leave me here? All alone?

He stood, stepping over his bag, and enveloped me in his long, wiry arms. What is it Father used to tell me? ‘The measure of our sacrifice is the measure of our love?’ I sacrifice for you. For China. For Earth, he said as I sobbed into his chest.

That would only be the first time he’d quote those words to me.

* * *

As I prepare to leave my pod and head for the shuttle, I place Zhu in my travel bag. He still has not given me permission to tell anyone else about him. As far as I know, he’s the only one of his kind on Earth. He thinks so too.

I strap the bag to my back and descend the ladder from the pod bay and into the zero-gravity corridor that leads to the shuttle bay. I grab one of the moving handles and it gently tows me down the corridor.

Zhu is still not as talkative as normal, but at least he’ll answer my questions. I don’t quite understand his explanation of how the intimate nature of conversing telepathically somehow impresses the meaning of his words into my mind, to translate them from his native tongue, but he assures me that I wouldn’t be able to comprehend the squeaks and clicks he’d make if he spoke out loud.

While he can speak into my mind, I have to vocalize out loud to him. Since there is no one near us to hear, I feel comfortable speaking to him. No one wants to be called crazy for seemingly talking to themselves. Are you excited, Zhu?

I’m nervous.

Nervous? Have you ever been nervous to go to Earth?

No.

Have you ever been nervous about anything?

No.

Then what are you nervous about?

He doesn’t answer right away, and I can’t press him as I’ve arrived at the shuttle. Attendants help me off the moving handle, slow my momentum, and bring me to a stop at the shuttle door. I use the handrails to guide myself inside and into a personal seat-pod. I secure my bag in the under-seat compartment, fasten my waist and chest straps, and pull the helmet down over my head.

After the hissing of the pressure regulation, Zhu speaks into my mind. Mei, I’m nervous because I have started to build my cocoon.

My heart drops into my stomach, and not because the shuttle has started its descent. Zhu’s cocoon will prepare him to travel spacetime in search of a new home for his species. I am about to lose another child.

* * *

Zhuang didn’t visit often from Shenzhen where one of the orbitals was being constructed. He said they hardly had any time off at all, working about fourteen hours every day. But he did visit every Qingming.

We would prepare qingtuan together and visit his father’s tomb. Then we would enjoy the pleasant spring weather together for a day, though the skies became grayer, more murky, each year. We would walk and talk, trying to fit a whole year of conversation into a single day. As much as I wished we weren’t apart, these full days together were my fondest memories with him.

But on year nine, one year before the orbitals were to be completed, I noticed he was having trouble keeping up with me. At first, I was proud that I was so physically fit as I aged. Then I realized he was sick. We spent the rest of that day together in the hospital.

He was diagnosed with COPD, given a personal ventilator—they were becoming more and more common—and given the all-clear to return to work. I begged him to stay. He’d done honorable work on the ship for so long. He deserved to stay home and get healthy.

Of course, he would not think of it.

The measure of our sacrifice is the measure of our love.

* * *

The bus taking us to my village is nearly empty, so I can speak quietly to Zhu. Vibrant afternoon sun shines through the windows. I hold the bag on my lap and open it, revealing Zhu. He’s wrapped himself in a type of film, almost like the film of a gourd seed as it dries. He’s told me about this process. About how this moment might someday come. But I had been hopeful he’d choose to stay. If not to summon more of his kind to Earth, then to stay with me for himself.

After all, with humanity moving to the orbitals, could there be a better location for an alien species to settle? From what Zhu had told me, his species developed their technology to work in harmony with nature, and they actively improve the conditions of any world they settle on. I had no doubt they could help humanity undo so much of the damage we’d done to our planet. Unfortunately, they only move to planets where the dominant species accepts them—and their interstellar secrets—without reservations.

Why won’t he stay? Can’t his people at least try to work with human leaders? Apparently I am not enough for him. Not a good enough mother to convince him to stay. Tears slide freely off my nose and chin.

Please be careful with your tears, Mei. If the cocoon gets wet, I will need to begin the process over again. It may take days.

I sniffle, wipe my nose with my sleeve, and nod. Okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that I hoped you’d stay.

I hoped I would too. This is not about you, Mei. It is about your planet. About your people. My kind will need to cohabitate with another intelligent species, as I have with you. We are not physically capable of surviving on our own, especially with the wildlife of Earth. Do you really think humanity would accept us? Nurture us? Be grateful for the truths about the universe we can share? Or would they use us? Subject us to tests? Fear that we would usurp them?

He’d previously explained that he believed his previous foster species had been dying off quickly due to an incurable disease. He didn’t remember everything after this jump through spacetime, but this was his mission: to test other planets and intelligent lifeforms. I wasn’t chosen specifically. It was just random chance we found each other. Though, he does say they are drawn to strong emotion in a sentient species when they choose a new world. Something about it increasing the success of the future bond between the two species.

My grief must have been an emotional lodestone for him.

Zhu, have I not cared for you? Nurtured you?

Of course you have. But your people are quick to anger. Quick to violence. They have a long history of not accepting those who are different from themselves.

I can’t argue those points, but I want to. We are trying to mend our ways. That must count for something. We’ve even created orbital living stations to protect the planet from future harm.

After you nearly destroyed it.

Don’t talk to me about humanity as a whole. I’m human, and I treated you well! I can feel heat rising under my collar and I cut my retort short, understanding that I’m making his point for him.

He doesn’t respond. I zip up the bag to protect him from my tears. Aside from my sniffles, we spend the rest of the bus ride in silence.

* * *

Zhuang didn’t visit for Qingming on the tenth year. He called me to say he’d be coming back in the summer with our boarding passes. He could barely get the words out between coughing fits. Each cough squeezed my heart in a vise.

When he finally came home, I thought I’d be happy to see him, but he looked worse than he sounded. He was too pale, too thin. I made him tea and spoiled him with drunken shrimp and har gow—his favorite foods—for days. Maybe he just needed some rest and a mother’s loving care after ten hard years.

In fact, he seemed to improve. He needed to wear his ventilator nearly all of the time, but he did have more energy. It almost seemed as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders. I let him sleep as much as he needed.

After a week, it was time. We watched the orbital launch into space, each of the 157 segments of the orbital launching individually. The suspense was painful. If any of those pieces didn’t make it, the whole attempt would have been a failure. Some countries had already experienced failures, most notably the United States.

But our Shenzhen ship, China’s first, launched each segment successfully. I was just happy to have the suspense over with and let out a long sigh of relief. I looked to Zhuang, his eyes glued to the television, tears of joy streaming down his face and onto his respirator