ParSec #9: ParSec, #9

By PS Publishing, M. R. Carey, Ian Whates and 9 more

A digital magazine featuring the very best in Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror

The latest fiction from established writers alongside the best new stories from emerging talents and debut authors. On-point articles and regular columns, exploring genre fiction in all its forms. Interviews with leading authors and artists. Insightful and informative book reviews by a carefully selected cadre of reviewers, assessing current titles and imminent releases from publishers big and small.

This is the table of contents for the Issue 8

Introduction – Ian Whates

A Routine Investigation in Downtown Arcadia – M.R. Carey

The World is What You Make of It – E.M. Faulds

A Kiss to Forget Me By – Kai Holmwood

The Plate of Plenty – Barend Nieuwstraten III

Sky Colours – Elana Gomel

The Girl At The Mirage Café – Frank Roger

Square Spaces – Tim Lebbon

A Christmas Dirge – Rhea Rose

Three From Albion – Michael Moorcock

Life in the Fast Lane featuring Donna Scott

In the Weeds  – Anne C. Perry & Jared Shurin

Reviews Section

Andy Hedgewick's Interview with M.R. Carey

• Language: English
• Publisher: PS Publishing
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781803943497

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

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Ian Whates

I RECALL MANY MOONS ago searching the local library for my next books to read—this was long before the advent of the internet, in the days when libraries and bookshops were the sacred guardians of wonder and imagination. I’d graduated from Norse myths and tales of Troy, from Kipling’s The Jungle Book and Jack London’s sagas of rugged frontiersmen and their canine companions; I’d left behind stories of invisible dragons and Cornish witches who had set aside their broomsticks in order to ride these new fangled vacuum cleaners...I’d discovered and relished the YA side of Andre Norton’s work, but wanted my next read to be something more adult, a more grown up fantasy.

The book that caught my eye was a rather garish paperback, the cover depicting centre-stage the corner at which bevelled blue castle walls met (resembling a series of blue sponge fingers standing on end, receding to both sides); above these walls sat what appeared to be a giant peach topped by a thorn (perhaps a bulbous dome?) pointing at a set of teeth emerging from a cloud.

No, I’ve no idea why I picked it up either. But I’m eternally grateful that I did.

The book was Stormbringer by Michael Moorcock. I took it home and read it at a single sitting, mesmerised by Elric, by his sentient sword, by Melniboné, the sleeping dragons and elegant ships...I subsequently worked my way through every Moorcock the library had to offer, resorting to local bookshops to fill in the gaps—my collection still includes some two dozen Moorcock paperbacks from those days, mostly old Mayflower editions.

My eleven/twelve year old self would have been gobsmacked to think that one day he would be privileged enough to publish a new piece by Michael Moorcock. He would also be delighted to know that all these years later the author’s writing remains as impossible-to-put-down as ever and that, if anything, it is even sharper and more gripping.

But I get ahead of myself. This issue’s fiction actually opens with a fantastic story by another Mike for whom I have huge respect both as a person and a writer: M.R. Carey. Mike is best known for his work in comics (notably bringing the series Lucifer into being for DC—subsequently turned into a TV series starring Tom Ellis), the novel and screenplay for the movie The Girl with All the Gifts (for which he won a British Screenwriters Award), and his highly successful Felix Castor series of novels.

For me, however, it is in his short fiction that Mike truly shines—The Girl with All the Gifts started life as the novelette Iphigenia in Aulis, after all. Therefore I had high expectations when Mike delivered A Routine Investigation in Downtown Arcadia, and I’m delighted to say that it does not disappoint in any way. An engrossing tale that centres on solving an impossible murder in a stylised far future, this provides a perfect opening to the issue.

Little did I know when accepting E.M. Faulds’ story that her debut collection Under the Moon would soon be winning a British Fantasy Award. Not that I needed to know, of course. The World is What You Make of It is a beautifully crafted piece of poignant SF that enchanted me from the off.

Next up is A Kiss to Forget Me By, an equally well-crafted tale from Californian author Kai Holmwood. This one is all to do with the power and cost of memory and packs a genuine emotional punch. Hot on its heels comes The Plate of Plenty, a tale of impish trickery and theft in the court of a Chinese nobleman; a story that highlights the class divide when suspicion falls unjustly on an artist of lowly social status. The issue’s fifth fictional offering is from Ukranian-born Elana Gomel; a murder mystery set in a rigidly structured world where colour is key, a case that causes investigator Onyx to question the very nature of her reality. This is immediately followed by The Girl at the Mirage Café, a near-future story in which enhanced reality employed as a marketing tool proves to be an insidious thing, with grave psychological consequences for those who encounter it.

The next two stories are both seasonal ones. I’ve known Tim Lebbon for many years and have long admired his work. Judging the World Fantasy Awards in 2023 reminded me of just how good a writer Tim is. Amongst several hundred books to be considered, Tim’s work stood out in two categories, and he went on the win, deservedly, ‘Best Collection’. When I saw Tim at this year’s Fantasycon in September (at which I was, unaccountably, one of the Guests of Honour), I had no hesitation in commissioning a story from him. Make it seasonal, I requested, and boy, did he. It’s rare to encounter a story that sets a tone so unremittingly only to undermine that tone so deftly. Read it, and you’ll see what I mean.

On the other hand, Rhea Rose’s story A Christmas Dirge arrived via the 2023 open submissions window. I loved it from the first. A deliciously dark and weird tale that slowly reveals its true nature as the reader ventures deeper into the narrative. How could I refuse?

Michael Moorcock’s Three from Albion is a heavily autobiographical piece tinged with the surreal, which provides a fitting transition from the fiction section to the non-fiction.

I’m ever grateful to Jared and Anne for their contributions to ParSec. Their ‘In the Weeds’ column never fails to be thought-provoking and insightful, and in my humble opinion this issue’s is one of their best, taking a critical look at how to market a novel (and how not to). In terms of accomplishment and application, Donna Scott is a veritable human Swiss army knife—she has a finger in so many pies. In ‘Life in the Fast Lane’ Donna touches upon several of these, focussing in particular on her most recent venture, as she established her own publishing imprint.

We have a bumper reviews section this time around—the largest since our debut issue—and I owe a big ‘thank you’ to all who have contributed. Our closing interview is with Mike Carey. This one far exceeds the length of our normal interview, but Mike is such an articulate and fascinating interviewee, while the piece as a whole is so enthralling that I couldn’t ask interviewer Andy Hedgecock to cut a single word from what he sent me.

That’s it: #9 of ParSec. All that remains is for me to wish all our readers a Happy New Year! Here’s to a good 2024.

A ROUTINE INVESTIGATION IN DOWNTOWN ARCADIA

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M. R. Carey

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AFTER DEATH’S SLIGHT ACHE, the womb’s dark and the weightless embrace of nothingness, I was delivered into the garden.

I was extruded via an actuation tube onto the softness of grass and into the warmth of caressing sunlight. Joyful music played, announcing my birth to any who were close enough to hear it. I heard it myself, but only imperfectly. The membrane of the amniotic sac which protected me from harm in my transit from the making chambers to the world above had—by its very nature—a muting effect on sensory stimuli.

Almost immediately, however, the sac began to melt. The milky residue ran over my naked flesh, evaporating in the morning’s gentle heat so quickly that within moments nothing was left except a faint vapour that the sweet breeze carried away.

I roused myself and stood. Purpose. I had purpose again. The fact that I was here meant that there was a job to be done, an investigation to be conducted.

Some few dozen of the garden’s children had seen me arrive. They had been sitting or lying on the grass, breakfasting on fresh fruit or on the bounty of the nearest refreshment unit, listening to the music of the Aeolia trees, watching the dramas and dances in the entertainment bubbles or just talking in low voices as the sun crossed the friendly sky and the day wore on. Some of them drifted over now to welcome me and find out my reason for being there. This was not, after all, the normal way to be born.

Who are you, one woman ventured to ask, and why has Machine sent you here?

My name is Resolution, I told her. I had only just determined this myself. The designation is one that has been shared by many. I discovered their memories in my mind now as I examined and arranged its contents. Whenever the facts of a matter are occluded, Machine extrudes a Resolution in order to make a full appraisal of the situation and arrive at an accurate assessment of the truth.

As we Resolutions share a name, we share also a uniform. A neighbouring actuation tube had already extruded it and I unwrapped it now from its feather-fibre wrappings. The tunic was yellow, the coat and leggings black with yellow bands. The intention, I suppose, was to make me look a little like a stinging insect and therefore to make the residents of the garden treat me with a certain wariness and respect. On the yellow tunic, blending in very pleasingly, was a badge of lustrous gold bearing the single word DETECTIVE.

I unfolded the neat package and dropped the wrappings back into the tube to be recycled. The tube murmured its thanks in a muted but lovely voice, made rich and complex by reinforcing sub-vocals.

As I dressed I took in my surroundings with more determined consideration. The garden was like any other garden, with reclining chairs and couches set at regular intervals between beds of bright flowers and clusters of shade trees. There was a fountain in the centre whose waters, presumably controlled by gravity generators discreetly placed around its rim, performed a delightful and intricate arabesque that broke the sunlight into dazzling rainbows. The space was large enough that three gardeners had been assigned to it. Currently, two of them were collecting fallen fruit from around the base of a spreading apple tree while the third dead-headed roses and peonies with a flex-steel blade at the end of one of its many arms. All three gardeners were in the livery appropriate to their work, the light and dark greens of their metal carapaces making them seem as much a part of the garden as any tree or shrub that was there.

What I did not see was any sign of a problem or conundrum that needed to be resolved.

I fastened my belt and checked that my gun was properly holstered. The tell-tale informed me that it was also fully loaded. Properly uniformed and equipped now, I turned to the woman who had spoken. Has anything happened here recently, I asked her, that stands outside the normal run of events? Something that has troubled you or given any of your companions here concern?

The woman seemed taken aback. She blinked rapidly several times before answering. Drawing on the experience of my predecessors, whose memories were available to me at all times, I concluded that this hesitation and the non-verbal signals that accompanied it were signs of surprise rather than guilt. Before she could answer a man spoke up. Nothing troubles us, he said, spreading his upturned palms to indicate the idyllic space around us. We have everything we could possibly need. The weather is clement and the company is good. Machine sends us gifts or mounts spectacles of light and dance and music for us whenever we are in danger of becoming bored. I really don’t see what there could possibly be to be concerned about.

There is the dead body, though, the woman said.

The man gave a shrug. We don’t even know who that was, he pointed out.

His name was Peotrick, the woman said. I had sex with him once, and so did my sister-cousin Sayso.

That’s true, a second woman confirmed, nodding. I did. It was quite enjoyable.

That’s still nothing to do with us, the man persisted. Resolution asked if anything had caused us trouble or concern. This didn’t.

It made me a little sad, the first woman said, and the second agreed. I liked it better when he was alive, she offered.

Show me the body, I told them.

It’s probably not here anymore, the man said, sounding a little disgruntled at being contradicted in my presence. The servers take away any rubbish we leave. Wouldn’t they also take away...something like that?

That depends, I said. If this is the situation I am meant to clarify, Machine would have told the servers to leave the body where it lay. Please, take me to where you saw it.

I addressed this command to all of them, but it was the woman—the woman who had answered me first—who led me across the garden and along a path at its further end into another identical pleasance, and from there into a small secluded clearing between overhanging trees.

The body lay at the foot of one of these trees. It was the body of a man, approximately thirty years of age with mid-brown hair cropped short. His eyes were brown too, and they stared up into the branches above him as though deep and complex thoughts were revolving in his mind. But this was a misleading impression. His mind had been emptied of all thought at the moment of his death, which had not been either a natural or a peaceful one. The broad rent in his throat had most likely been the wound that killed him but there were several other injuries besides, all of them made with an implement of considerable sharpness wielded by an assailant of considerable strength. All these things were immediately obvious from the depth of the incised wounds. In some instances whatever weapon had been used here had clearly cut through bone as well as flesh.

The woman pointed, as if it were necessary to indicate what it was I should be looking at here. This was Peotrick, she said again. He was very gentle when we coupled. And afterwards he sang me a song about petals and rivers and time. I have happy memories of him, and it makes me sad to see him here like this.

Stay here, I told them all. Don’t move from this spot. If I have to come and find any of you, I will be displeased.

I retraced my steps to the actuator tube from which I’d been disgorged. Next to it was a Stack, a column of white ceramic decorated with the bleeding dove that is Machine’s seal.

Resolution, I said. For Machine.

I hear you, Machine said. I always hear you, my beloved Resolution, wherever you stand and however softly you speak. It wasn’t necessary to come so close.

I know, I acknowledged. The care and consideration with which Machine treats me is in direct proportion to the unpleasantness of the situations whose causes I’m obliged to unravel. Machine, I ask for clarity. The man Peotrick has died. It would seem that he has been slain by another’s hand. Is this the situation I was brought here to investigate?

It is, Machine confirmed. Such a death—a murder, the ancient term was—has implications far beyond its apparent scope. The fear and suspicion it engenders could threaten the well-being of the entire population.

I bowed my head, signifying that I understood and that I obeyed. But I ventured one further question—one that arose, I must assume, from my own fears and suspicions. Machine, how extensive is the entire population at this point?

Has that any relevance to your inquiry, my Resolution?

Not directly, Machine. I only wish to assess the level of threat this as yet unknown killer represents.

Very well then. The human population of the gardens—which is to say the world—currently stands at four thousand, two hundred and seventeen.

A reassuring number, I observed.

Perhaps. It has been higher.

And lower, I ventured.

Oh yes. As you yourself are only too well aware. We must ensure, between us, that those dark times do not come again.

It went without saying that I agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment. I touched the tip of my index finger to my badge—the sign of fealty that Resolution makes to Machine—and came away.

Back in the little glade I parted the murmuring crowd with a gesture and knelt down beside the body to examine it more closely. I counted ten wounds, as follows: one to the throat, four to the torso, one across the left cheek, two each to left and right forearms. These last cuts, the ones delivered to the man’s arms, were almost certainly defence wounds. He had seen his assailant or assailants coming, had deduced their intent and thrown up his hands to ward them off. This had not helped him but had forestalled the attacker’s first intent. Afterward they had hacked at him far beyond what would have been required to kill him. There was a savagery to this excessive butchery that struck me as highly significant. I recorded an observation in the memory nodule we Resolutions call our casebook.

Activating the genetic scanners in my palms and fingertips, I let them glide across Peotrick’s lacerated flesh, first of all to identify the pattern of his own cells’ DNA and then to look for any other patterns that might be present. There were none. Clearly the man had not inflicted these horrendous wounds on himself, but whoever else had been involved had left no trace behind them, at least on the molecular level.

The woman watched me solemnly as I worked, and said nothing. I approved of this silent vigil. It spoke to a seriousness of mind and a due sense that what was happening here was unusual and concerning. Her companions, even now clustering behind her and murmuring among themselves, showed no such sense. One of them blamed Peotrick bitterly for casting such a pall over their day. Another suggested that perhaps he had inflicted these injuries on himself as some kind of prank.

You, I said to the woman, what is your name?

Teeshi, she told me.

Just that? Just Teeshi? In pre-breach times, when my personality was first sampled by Machine and laid down for future use, people had two names at the very least. Both were assigned to them by their parents, but the rules for each were different. The first name might be anything at all, and might be followed by other arbitrary designations, but the last was almost without exception the last name of one or other parent. This was a way of asserting familial or clan identities and was a thing of no little importance.

Again the woman seemed surprised at the question. Just Teeshi, she said. What else should it be?

Belatedly the memories of all the Resolutions who had preceded me confirmed this shift. After the breach and then the coming of Machine there had been no need for last names because parentage was a thing of the past. Even in the strictest sense, the sense of genetic consanguinity, nobody in this place had mothers or fathers. Their genes were woven from proteins mixed and matched for that purpose in the great wombs below us where I myself had only recently been assembled. My question had therefore been a foolish one and I said no more on the subject.

Teeshi, I said instead, do you and your friends have access to weapons?

Um, Teeshi said. I’m not sure. Perhaps?

Perhaps? Perhaps isn’t an answer. Say yes or no.

I can’t, Resolution. I don’t know what weapons are.

They are tools designed to inflict injury, to bludgeon or pierce or abrade the body of another.

Oh. Teeshi’s eyes widened. Then no, we don’t. Why would we ever want such things? And if we did, where would we find them? She frowned in thought, taking her lower lip between her teeth. I suppose... the actuators would deliver them if we asked. If we knew how to describe them. She thought further, and I waited to see what more she would say. None of the others present offered any pertinent information though they kept up a buzz of conversation among themselves, mostly about the wounds on Peotrick’s body and the strangeness of its being in the garden at all.

I think, Teeshi said at last, I might know where weapons are.

The rest of the crowd gasped or cried out, and most of them made a concerted effort to draw away from her. Teeshi did this! another woman cried out. If Teeshi knows where weapons are she must have taken one, brought it here and used it on this poor man. Other voices were raised in agreement. Protect us, Resolution! a man sobbed, tears welling up in his eyes. I don’t want weapons to be used on me!

Calm yourselves, I told them sternly. If Teeshi were the killer, is it logical that she would offer up the one piece of information that was most likely to make me suspect her? On the contrary, she would do her best to hide her knowledge and possibly even pretend to have seen or heard something that pointed towards another’s guilt. I didn’t bother to add that if she had in fact told a lie in my presence my bio-scanners would have detected the physiological signs that usually accompany such a lie, putting me on my guard against her. Such signs aren’t incontrovertible by any means, but they offer a reliable baseline for deduction. In this case I had identified none of them.

I turned to Teeshi again. Show me, I told her, where these weapons are. The rest of you, touch nothing here. Most especially, don’t touch or even go near the body. Leave everything exactly as it is.

The place to which Teeshi took me was quite some distance off, and the way led through more than a dozen gardens very like the first, though some were more extensive. The rest of the crowd kept pace with us to begin with, but one by one they fell away. It seemed their curiosity to discover how Peotrick had been murdered was not great enough to overcome their general indolence. Evidently Teeshi was an outlier in this respect.

I had leisure as we walked to observe the systems around which this place frictionlessly revolved. Robot servers, like the gardeners but liveried in red and gold, laid out food and drink on the tables and refreshment units that stood at