Future Science Fiction Digest, Issue 17: Future Science Fiction Digest, #17

By Alex Shvartsman, Han Song, H. Pueyo and 3 more

Contains science fiction stories from across the globe!

The Language of Insects by H. Pueyo (Argentina/Brazil)
Seven Deadliest Inventions of the New Era; an Itemization by Uchechukwu Nwaka (Nigeria)
Let Us Get Writing by Han Song (China), translated by Nathan Faries
Great-Granny Bethany's Memories of Space by Renan Bernardo (Brazil)
Max Loves the Internet by Rodrigo Culagovski (Chile)

• Language: English
• Publisher: UFO Publishing
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215082485

Alex Shvartsman

Alex Shvartsman is the award-winning author of Kakistocracy, The Middling Affliction, and Eridani's Crown fantasy novels as well as over 120 short stories. His translations from Russian have been published at Reactor, Clarkesworld, F&SF, Asimov's, Analog, and many other venues. He's also translated for TV, film, and video games. His latest release is the Lovecraftian humor picture book, Dreidel of Dread: The Very Cthulhu Hanukkah.

Book preview

Future Science Fiction Digest, Issue 17

FUTURE SCIENCE FICTION DIGEST, ISSUE 17

EDITED BY ALEX SHVARTSMAN UCHECHUKWU NWAKA H. PUEYO HAN SONG RENAN BERNARDO RODRIGO CULAGOVSKI

UFO Publishing

CONTENTS

Foreword

The Language of Insects

Seven Deadliest Inventions of the New Era; An Itemization

Let Us Keep Writing

Great-Granny Bethany’s Memories Of Space

Max Loves the Internet

FOREWORD

Alex Shvartsman

All good things must come to an end.

Now that our seventeenth issue has been published, I'm stepping down as editor-in-chief of Future SF, and the magazine will most likely go on hiatus unless another brave and foolhardy editor steps up to take over the considerable workload of running a magazine.

I'm very proud of what Future SF has accomplished. We've published stories that have gone on to be nominated for awards and been reprinted in Year’s Best volumes. More importantly, we've had the privilege of featuring great fiction from across the globe, to showcase the fact that excellent, thoughtful science fiction is not an exclusive domain of the Anglosphere. We also managed to last five years, which is far longer than the average life of an internet semiprozine.

So why am I stepping down now? Frankly, I can't handle the workload. Between a full-time job, my own writing, my translation work, and some freelance consulting gigs, the weight of all my responsibilities has put considerable stress on me. It has become a rat race, a struggle to keep up with everything. And whenever I couldn't keep up, it was my own writing that has suffered by getting kicked to the back of the line. As I write this introduction, it has been months since I've had the time and headspace to write any fiction at all. I enjoy editorial work, but I'm a writer first and foremost, and I must reduce my overall workload in order to protect that. I will still edit an occasional anthology, but my primary focus (health permitting) in the near future is going to be on writing.

I'm deeply thankful to the Future Affairs Administration, who have been wonderful partners and friends and without whom Future SF simply wouldn't have existed. Also, to our team of associate editors, and especially Tarryn Thomas, who has been our copy editor and taken on a lot of additional tasks to help the magazine run smoothly.

This issue is a great example of exactly what I envisioned for the magazine when it was being launched. A range of voices and tones, telling science fiction stories from across three continents. I'm proud of it, as I'm proud of so much my team has accomplished with the magazine.

One more time, and with utmost sincerity: happy reading!

THE LANGUAGE OF INSECTS

H. Pueyo

Red was the color of the land, but it was not the red they were used to, vibrant and iridescent, unraveling every shade of the spectrum: scarlet and crimson, carmine and vermilion, garnet, coral, maroon. It was magma, the blood of mammals, the fruits and the flowers, the crystals that formed in caves. Yet the iron oxide that painted this planet red turned it dull and pale, and all they could see as they descended were its sandy plains.

The three of them held their breath, watching their little spacecraft land.

The only sound they heard was the howling wind, blowing copper-colored dust in the desert. Despite the distance from the polar ice caps, the temperature was freezing cold, and the spacecraft readjusted its radiator to keep a pleasant, tropical heat inside the deck.

Mango was the first to hurry to a porthole. Are the signs of life close to us? Can we see them?

Approximately three kilometers from here, answered Kinnabari.

Galena looked at the control panel. She had turned off the autopilot at their request, when they found signals of activity on the red planet, but she was unsure if it had been wise to do so without warning home. Mango insisted that the command center would never allow them to land with such a tiny shuttle, and Kinnabari agreed: they would tell us to leave that to specialized teams.

We should show that we come in peace, suggested Mango, her high-pitched voice speaking faster than normal. They might not understand, but they will know that we are attempting contact. I can think of a few things—

"We agreed on looking, not interacting, Galena interrupted, clenching her jaw. When Mango looked at her, puzzled, she added: Concerned yet excited. Apprehensively curious. Fear of disobeying orders plus the thrill of doing it."

Surprisingly, I agree with Mango, said Kinnabari. The planet is barren despite the presence of ice, and it harbors no life outside of what the motherboard registered.

Think how you would feel if we returned without even seeing their faces. Mango stepped on the grass that covered the floor, approaching Galena with curiosity. They might be extremely far from home. Nothing will happen to us. And if we take appropriate care, nothing will happen to them either. Right, Kinnabari?

Yes.

Galena thought of everything that could go wrong: what the command center might say if they found out, what could be the likely punishment. Still, a smaller part of her reminded her that, if anyone could communicate with a new species, that person was Mango. That was why they were there, wasn’t it? To ensure such a talented linguist would arrive safely.

A bubbling feeling began in the middle of her chest, a slow-boiling euphoria, special and exhilarating, and she wanted to say yes, it’s our only chance, yes, before I regret it, yes. The feeling continued even as Galena’s instincts told her to recompose herself, and she looked at their expectant eyes.

The majority always decides, she said. But don’t blame me if something goes wrong.

A beeping sound echoed in the hall.

Rosa Monteiro pressed the button next to the hatch, balancing a basket of vegetables against her hip and holding a jar of honey with her other hand. The bees buzzed behind her as the main computer continued to beep, announcing a new call.

For the past thirty days, the research center of Ippios had been empty except for her. The base had been built on the red planet with three modules to accommodate up to twenty scientists at a time, but the buildings would remain empty until she completed the trial phase. Emptier now that all communication with the orbiter had been interrupted because of the last dust storm, but Rosa had been trained to withstand the isolation.

After all, it was only for a limited period of time.

Computer, accept the call.

A series of ear-piercing screeching and clacking sounds came from the speakers, and Rosa winced, dropping the vegetables on the floor. The basket rolled around her feet as she stared at the screen, speechless, carrots, tomatoes and lettuce scattered everywhere as the noise continued.

She tried to call the orbiter, but it was just as silent as before.

Rosa nibbled her lower lip. The sender’s signal came from the surface, somewhere between three to five kilometers from where she was. She tapped the rover’s camera, enhancing it on the screen. Outside the day was pale and orange, and the little machine moved up a small dune.

Computer, log a new message for the orbiter, said Rosa, leaving the bee veil aside and scooping the vegetables scattered on the floor. I received an unknown audio from nearby. Investigating. End message.

She continued watching the rover. Ippios had been chosen for its almost uncanny similarity to Mars, but if she were on Mars, she could have blamed the activity on a number of rovers and helicopters. There should be nothing on the surface of Ippios she had not yet seen, either in the training that preceded the mission or on the cameras.

Only now there was.

Rosa squinted, seeing a dark spot on the sand. It was something flat, moving swiftly toward the rover. Its form and locomotion reminded her of a Devonian chasmataspid, with its segmented body and six pairs of appendages. Rosa dropped on the chair, covering her mouth. The creature approached the rover, and, when it did, Rosa realized it was no creature, but a finely built machine.

The mechanical chasmataspid stopped. It had two lateral eyes that might have worked as cameras, plus seven other simple eyes like a horseshoe crab. Its strong and slick carapace did not accumulate as much dust as the