http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/itunes-rss/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com Science Fiction & Fantasy Wed, 23 May 2012 01:20:23 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.2 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.2 Science Fiction & Fantasy Lightspeed Magazine no Science Fiction & Fantasy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/plugins/powerpress/rss_default.jpg http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-michael-chabon/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-michael-chabon/#comments Tue, 22 May 2012 10:05:29 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5904 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-michael-chabon/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-melanie-rawn/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-melanie-rawn/#comments Tue, 22 May 2012 10:04:25 +0000 Theodore Quester http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5837 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-melanie-rawn/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mother-of-all-russiya/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mother-of-all-russiya/#comments Tue, 22 May 2012 10:03:26 +0000 Melanie Rawn http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5873 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mother-of-all-russiya/feed/ 1 She paced the stones, her feet separated from the chill by sable-lined slippers. She was cold despite them, cold from her toes to her crown. Perhaps it was the vengeance of the fire, that she had not joined her husband in its embrace. Long ago, Kyiv, 946 She paced the stones, her feet separated from the chill by sable-lined slippers. She was cold despite them, cold from her toes to her crown. Perhaps it was the vengeance of the fire, that she had not joined her husband in its embrace. Long ago, he had decided that he wished to be immolated in the manner of their ancestors. The Christ-folk had gawked and fled, horrified by what they saw as desecration to the body, but when Yvor’s corpse was at last returned to her by the treacherous vassals who had killed him, she had done as he had asked. Better, yes, to send a soul instantly unto the gods, rather than bury the flesh in the ground for the worms to feed upon. She could think of many Drevlianian souls she would see denied the flames and devoured by worms. They were the souls of murderers who had taken a father from his son, a prince from his people. A husband from his wife . . . no, for that she cared not at all. As she passed through the stone corridors, she was vaguely aware of the slaves and warriors and druzhina, her personal attendants, all bowing to her, their Grand Princess. So empty, the obeisances; meant for the woman others had made of her. Daughter of one Grand Prince, wife—widow now—of another, mother of yet a third. A boy of five, she thought, her frozen fingers twisting around each other as she walked unseeingly through her dead husband’s stronghold on her way to she knew not where. A boy of five. She had been twice his age when her father died and Yvor took dead Helgi’s golden earring and golden daughter for his own. They had the jewels now, her husband’s killers: two huge white lumps of pearl and a clot of blood-crimson ruby, the earring handed down since her people had come from the Dane-land to rule over the fractious Rus. The pearls: Tears of Freya. The ruby: a drop of Woden’s Blood. These sanctified the Grand Princes of Kyiv. The Drevlianians had sent back Yvor’s body but kept his symbol of power. Soon they would have more than the symbol. Those who had killed her husband would choose who would next wear the Tears and the Blood. It would not be her son. Or perhaps it would be a son of her body—though certainly not the little boy now playing safely in his chamber. She was no longer young, but she was not yet too old for bearing. And suddenly through the frozen numbness of her fear there came fire’s heat. She would sink her father’s dagger into her own heart before any of the assassins took her to his bed to seed her body with a Grand Prince of Kyiv. Her son, her Sviatoslav, was the Grand Prince. But they had the jewels. They would soon have her. Unless— Grand Princess Olga swore loudly and violently, in words that would have made her father roar with laughter. “Ah, I perceive you have awakened,” murmured a soft, oddly-cadenced voice. Awakened, most certainly; she looked around and found she was in her own chambers, with no idea how she had arrived there. A fire blazed in the hearth, thick carpets softened her steps on the stone floor, and patterned woolen weavings flung bright colors across the walls. She strode to the bed and flung her sable cloak upon it, casting a sideways glance at the strange little man who had spoken from the shadows. After all these years she was still unused to the angle of his eyes and the odd duskiness of his skin. In his youth, in his homeland, had this wizened creature been deemed handsome? Perhaps. She had no way of knowing if all the peoples of Serica looked like Master Cheng. She only felt his strangeness, down to her blood and bones. He was the only man allowed solitary speech with her—but only because he was not wholly a man. “What do you recommend?” she asked bitterly. “They intend that before the summer I shall be either dead or wedded and bedded.” “This is undoubtedly in their minds, Most Gracious One.” He preened himself like a tidy little bird, smoothing the heavily embroidered silk of his sleeves. Lightspeed Magazine no http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-langford/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-langford/#comments Tue, 22 May 2012 10:02:15 +0000 Andrew Liptak http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5833 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-langford/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/different-kinds-of-darkness/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/different-kinds-of-darkness/#comments Tue, 22 May 2012 10:01:50 +0000 David Langford http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5862 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/different-kinds-of-darkness/feed/ 1 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-vernor-vinge/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-vernor-vinge/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 10:05:32 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5905 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-vernor-vinge/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kage-baker/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kage-baker/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 10:04:23 +0000 Jennifer Konieczny http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5836 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kage-baker/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ruby-incomparable/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ruby-incomparable/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 10:03:22 +0000 Kage Baker http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5872 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ruby-incomparable/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-c-c-finlay/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-c-c-finlay/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 10:02:13 +0000 Robyn Lupo http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5832 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-c-c-finlay/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-cross-time-accountants-fail-to-kill-hitler-because-chuck-berry-does-the-twist/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-cross-time-accountants-fail-to-kill-hitler-because-chuck-berry-does-the-twist/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 10:01:47 +0000 C.C. Finlay http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5861 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-cross-time-accountants-fail-to-kill-hitler-because-chuck-berry-does-the-twist/feed/ 0 Mabel blurred through the Doorway and stumbled into a wall. She groped for a fingerhold, anything to prop herself up until the gut-twisting vertigo passed. Every time she experienced the blur it got a little worse. Mabel blurred through the Doorway and stumbled into a wall. She groped for a fingerhold, anything to prop herself up until the gut-twisting vertigo passed. Every time she experienced the blur it got a little worse. All that worse added up to worst because she had made hundreds of auditing trips to the past during her thirty-nine year career in cross-time accounting. One of the reasons her career in the CTA office would soon be over. Except that it was already over the second she made this unauthorized trip. A hand touched her shoulder—she cursed and slapped it away. She needed to orient herself, make sure she had arrived at the right place at the right time. She pressed her forehead against the cool wall, trying squeeze the headache out. Noises throbbed in her head—the babble of voices, musicians sound-checking their equipment, a screech of feedback through a microphone—but she could pick out individual sounds now. That was good. When she opened her eyes it was like trying to see through a sheet of wax paper at shadows that slowly resolved into murky silhouettes. She braced herself for the final wave of nausea that always hit just as the metallic scent of scrubbed oxygen from her own time faded. Her stomach clenched as the odors slammed into her, a potpourri of sweet smoke and stale beer, honest sweat and cheap perfume. She knew enough to keep the nausea manageable—she hadn’t eaten anything more solid than vitamin paste laced with anti-emetics since she got back from her last 20th-century audit. The mix of odors—to be honest, the stench—made her smile. Mabel knew this stench, this place, this time. She was in the Daisy Theatre, Beale Street, Memphis, 1956. She was in the hall behind the stage that led past a restroom and payphone to the rear exit. “Hey, girl, you all right?” asked a voice beside her. “You don’t look so good.” Her mind raced. Maybe it was only a “bouncer.” During this time period they would have had someone watching the back door. It was probably the same guy who’d touched her shoulder a moment ago. “I’m fine,” she said. She staggered away from the wall to end the conversation. He followed her, damn it. Her vision was clearing, enough to see that he was huge. Maybe twice her size. His job was to keep out—or bounce out—people who didn’t belong. She desperately wanted to belong. “Just leave me alone,” she snapped. The adrenalin that shot through her system brought a fresh surge of nausea. Her training kicked in: If you step through a Doorway into a populated room or area, use local period slang to get your point across quickly while you acclimate and shake off the blur. She had practiced the most effective phrases so she could use them without thinking. “I need some space.” “Do you want something to drink? Some water?” “I want you to fuck off right now,” she said. She took a deep breath to calm herself and find her center of gravity. If language didn’t work, she had been trained to use other methods of extrication. Usually an aggressive posture was enough—which was good, because she didn’t think she could take this guy alone, not yet. He laughed at her, and she tensed, but she realized there was no cruelty in it. “Al’right, al’right.” He pointed to a stool by the back door, which was cracked open to let fresh air in—a notion that seemed as foreign and wonderful now as it did the first time Mabel witnessed something like that during an audit. “When you change your mind, you can find me over here,” he said. “Al’right, al’right,” she said, trying to match his pronunciation and cadence. All the hours working with audio never fully prepared you for the period dialect. But she had a good ear and could adapt quickly—it was one of the things that had helped her excel at accounting. “Thanks.” She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Her ears popped from a sudden change in pressure as recycled air rushed into the hall. Someone had just opened a Doorway. Lightspeed Magazine no http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-mikhail-rakhmatullin/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-mikhail-rakhmatullin/#comments Tue, 08 May 2012 10:05:26 +0000 J. T. Glover http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5903 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-mikhail-rakhmatullin/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-catherynne-m-valente-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-catherynne-m-valente-2/#comments Tue, 08 May 2012 10:04:20 +0000 Erin Stocks http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5835 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-catherynne-m-valente-2/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-hole-to-china/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-hole-to-china/#comments Tue, 08 May 2012 10:03:20 +0000 Catherynne M. Valente http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5871 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-hole-to-china/feed/ 1 Tristram was certain she would never have made the attempt had she not heard that it was a thing other children often did. She did so want to be like other children—lolling about like great striped cats, batting at moths with oversized paws, I: An Exceptional Child Tristram was certain she would never have made the attempt had she not heard that it was a thing other children often did. She did so want to be like other children—lolling about like great striped cats, batting at moths with oversized paws, snapping at dust-motes with wet pink jaws. If at times they held still long enough for a mockingbird to alight on their teeth, it was only to fool the poor thing into thinking that for a moment she was tolerated, endured by that tribe of violent, bloody beauties. Her mother had been like that, when she was her age. Her father had been, too—all the pictures of them when they were young seem to have far too much sunlight. And Tristram’s mother always looked at her as a tiger might very well if she found that she had birthed an antelope instead. Certainly the antelope is big and graceful and has very fine horns, but it is not quite what was desired, not quite. In order to escape that perplexed gaze, that constant worry: Where are your stripes? Where are your claws? Why do you not invite your friends over to the house? Why do you never go to school dances? Why do you not try out for the cross-country team? Where is your tail, your paws, your sharp teeth? Tristram did like to watch the big cats of her school, to study them, log their behaviors in the basement library of her heart so that in the evenings when they had all gone, she could take out their manners and learn to imitate them. She was not very good at it yet, but she felt sure that given time she could manage a pantomime of sorts. If a child carries a shovel, for example, adults will laugh among themselves and say that the little one is digging a hole to China. This is what exceptional children do. Children who are imaginative, charmingly illogical, magical in their thinking if somewhat less than gifted in their understanding of geology. Children who have blonde hair and play soccer, children who eat very little and read less. But they would not think this of her, as Tristram was not a dreamy girl, and had a general idea of the anatomy of the planet she stood on—mainly drawn from textbooks, which labeled each layer with garish primary colors. Blue for the crust, yellow for the mantle, red for the core. She liked the mantle best. Yellow was a friendly color, and besides, though she was surely not one of the exceptional children, she knew another meaning for the word “mantle,” and could not help thinking of the warm earth as a thing she could slowly unwind and drape over her pale shoulders like a coat of gold. She was doubtful, of course, that she could dig a little highway, just for herself, all the way to China. But if such a thing could be done, she was utterly certain that the vital thing was beginning in the right place. You could not just leap onto the interstate wherever you liked—you needed an on-ramp. And there are only a finite number of on-ramps. Surely someone’s garden opened up into a land of jade and low fog, of red bowls filled with rice, of handwriting like stalks of grass and silent green places. It might be her garden, it might be her neighbor’s. It was all luck, really. Adults laughed because they knew how fantastically unlikely it was that they had purchased such valuable real estate without knowing it. There were signs, always signs, leading to an on-ramp, with arrows and such, but she could not be sure that the leaves in her garden said: This is the way, or if the bluebells marked an entrance, or if the raspberry brambles which looked so like calligraphy secreted away a path to the other side of the world. If she were like other children, Tristram reasoned, she would have at least tried by now. And so, as if taking an exam that she could not hope to pass, Tristram took her father’s rusty shovel from the garage on a long, violet summer dusk. She went out into the weedy garden, overgrown because she was a lazy girl with no work ethic, and cleared a space under the wide, Lightspeed Magazine no http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-nicola-griffith/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-nicola-griffith/#comments Tue, 08 May 2012 10:02:10 +0000 Robyn Lupo http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5831 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-nicola-griffith/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/song-of-bullfrogs-cry-of-geese/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/song-of-bullfrogs-cry-of-geese/#comments Tue, 08 May 2012 10:01:39 +0000 Nicola Griffith http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5860 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/song-of-bullfrogs-cry-of-geese/feed/ 1 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2012/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2012/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 10:05:01 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5897 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2012/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 10:04:17 +0000 Andrew Liptak http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5834 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-children-of-hamelin/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-children-of-hamelin/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 10:03:14 +0000 Dale Bailey http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5870 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-children-of-hamelin/feed/ 5 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-linda-nagata/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-linda-nagata/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 10:02:03 +0000 Erin Stocks http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5822 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-linda-nagata/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/nightside-on-callisto/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/nightside-on-callisto/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 10:01:25 +0000 Linda Nagata http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5820 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/nightside-on-callisto/feed/ 1 A faint, steady vibration carried through the igloo’s massive ice walls—a vibration that shouldn’t have been there. Jayne heard it in her sleep. Age had not dulled her soldier’s reflexes, honed by decades spent on watch against incursions of the Red. (http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Nightside_on_Callisto_illustration_by_Galen_Dara.jpg)A faint, steady vibration carried through the igloo’s massive ice walls—a vibration that shouldn’t have been there. Jayne heard it in her sleep. Age had not dulled her soldier’s reflexes, honed by decades spent on watch against incursions of the Red. Her eyes snapped open. She held her breath. The vibration hummed in the walls, in the bed frame, in the mattress, perceivable even over Carly’s raspy breathing. Jayne reminded herself that the Red was far, far away, its existence bound to Earth, where it bled through every aspect of life—a relentless tide of information and influence shepherding the thoughts and actions of billions along paths determined by its unknowable goals. Whether the Red was alive, or aware, Jayne couldn’t say, and she had no opinion either on its virtue. She only wanted to keep it out of the Shell Cities. Most of her life had gone to the long defense of their growing union, an association of scattered orbital habitats determined to stay free of the Red. But in retirement, Jayne had found new opportunities. Less than twenty-four hours ago, her team of four had touched down on Callisto, Jupiter’s outermost Galilean moon and the only one that lay beyond the gas giant’s killing radiation belts. A raft of construction equipment had preceded them, including a gang of ten small mechs that had assembled a sprawling igloo in time for them to move in. It was the team’s task to establish a prototype ice-mining station to supply the expansion of the Shell Cities. Maybe the vibration was generated by some new construction activity at the launch rail? Probably that was it. But “probably” never was a sufficient explanation. Jayne slipped out from under the shared blanket, careful not to wake Carly, who’d crawled into bed just an hour ago. Each team member worked a staggered, twelve-hour shift. Jayne had taken the first rotation, and her night was almost through. The air-skin membrane lining the walls and the ceiling sensed her movement and responded with a glimmer of vague gray illumination. Jayne stood up slowly on sleep-stiffened limbs. A century of existence had left her thin and tough and inclined to feel cold, so over a foundation of thermal underwear she added insulated slacks, a pullover of the same material, thin gloves for her hands, and cozy house boots for her feet—one more layer in the cocoon that protected them from the cold and vacuum beyond the igloo’s walls. Jayne knew with utter certainty that they were alone in Jupiter system. The Red could not be here—the lightspeed lag in information flow kept it confined near Earth—and no other expedition had ventured so far in years. So their team was on its own, with no backup if something went wrong—which was why the four of them had been awarded this project: They were each experienced, competent, and expendable. The bedchamber was sealed off from the rest of the igloo by an air-skin lock. Jayne touched the membrane. It felt smooth and hard beneath her gloved hand, but when she swept her fingers across it, the skin lock responded, pulling aside in neat, glassy ripples. Massive blocks of ancient ice made up the igloo’s walls and ceiling, insulating the interior spaces from background radiation, but it was the air-skin that made the igloo habitable. A semi-intelligent, quasi-living tissue, the skin lined every chamber, locking in pressure, and providing heat and fresh air. If perforated, it would self-seal, and its motility allowed it to repair even major tears. Jayne stepped past the plastic-panel door into a central alcove with toilets and showers on either side. Two steps ahead, a lock on the right stood open to the easy room with its cushy inflatable furnishings, food stores, and oven, while on the left, another open lock hooked up to HQ, where the work was done. Jayne heard Berit speaking. She couldn’t make out the words, Lightspeed Magazine no http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-william-gibson/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-william-gibson/#comments Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:05:39 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5533 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-william-gibson/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kim-stanley-robinson/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kim-stanley-robinson/#comments Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:04:23 +0000 Erin Stocks http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5522 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kim-stanley-robinson/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/our-town/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/our-town/#comments Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:03:34 +0000 Kim Stanley Robinson http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5589 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/our-town/feed/ 0 I found my friend Desmond Kean at the northeast corner of the penthouse viewing terrace, assembling a telescope with which to look at the world below. He took a metal cylinder holding a lens and screwed it into the side of the telescope, I found my friend Desmond Kean at the northeast corner of the penthouse viewing terrace, assembling a telescope with which to look at the world below. He took a metal cylinder holding a lens and screwed it into the side of the telescope, then put his e... Lightspeed Magazine no 23:12 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-m-k-hobson/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-m-k-hobson/#comments Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:02:34 +0000 Jennifer Konieczny http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5508 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-m-k-hobson/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/domovoi/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/domovoi/#comments Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:01:58 +0000 M.K. Hobson http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5567 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/domovoi/feed/ 2 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-robin-hobb/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-robin-hobb/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:05:33 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5536 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-robin-hobb/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caroline-m-yoachim/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caroline-m-yoachim/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:04:12 +0000 Robyn Lupo http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5526 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caroline-m-yoachim/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mother-ship/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mother-ship/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:03:13 +0000 Caroline M. Yoachim http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5594 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mother-ship/feed/ 5 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-eric-gregory-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-eric-gregory-2/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:02:27 +0000 Caleb Jordan Schulz http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5504 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-eric-gregory-2/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-sympathy/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-sympathy/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:01:52 +0000 Eric Gregory http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5532 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-sympathy/feed/ 2 The apartment was in his name, and the Accord was in hers. It took Lauren less than a minute to step out one door and into the other. She put her suitcase in the floorboard and her laptop bag in the passenger seat. (http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/LS-Erik-Gregory-lg.jpg) The apartment was in his name, and the Accord was in hers. It took Lauren less than a minute to step out one door and into the other. She put her suitcase in the floorboard and her laptop bag in the passenger seat. Her container garden fit snugly in the back. Lauren had expected some frisson at the threshold, a shiver as she shrunk from a we into an I. Instead, she cracked her knuckles and smiled and rolled down the window. She drove by the seminary, half-listening to You Bet Your Garden and glancing through windows. Inside, men of God slouched in office chairs, staring listlessly at a screen. She didn’t see Ryan, but that was all right; she felt quiet and rich and pleased, as if she’d reached the end of a sad book. She drove on. The phone rang once, around six. Lauren had set it up to send him to a personalized voicemail, which explained that she was gone for good. He didn’t leave a message. Traffic was light. Four hours out, she took a long, twisting exit into a town that was really a truck stop. It was, she thought, a pretty good truck stop, somehow more authentic than a Travel Plaza full of gelato and electronic massage booths. They had showers and barbecue and bitter coffee. In the strip mall across the street, there was a liquor store and a porn shop and a tattoo parlor, none of which seemed to be doing much business. She got a room in a smoky motel beside an empty Hardee’s (the sign still telling her to try a Thickburger), considered checking out the porn shop, and finally decided against. Instead, she sat on the toilet with her laptop and read about the weather in San Francisco, then turned on the TV and watched talking heads on mute, their jowls flushing as the ticker scrolled exposition. Sometime after midnight, the phone beeped: a voicemail. She dismissed it and set an alarm. She kicked off her boots and tugged off her jeans and tank-top, stripped the blanket from the bed and curled up between the yellow sheets. She left the TV on, its pale old faces pouting into the dark. She thought she might go west in the morning, maybe even as west as she could go, and she went to sleep thinking about Alcatraz and Long Beach and fault lines. She woke only once, to the scrape and rattle of something rooting through the trash outside. #### Lauren dropped off her room key in a repurposed mailbox, then walked across the street to the truck stop. The breakfast buffet was better than the last night’s barbecue. French toast sticks, omelets full of garlic and jalapeno, smiling pancakes with enormous chocolate freckles. A young guy in a John Deere hat grinned at her piled-up plate, seemed like he wanted to comment, but only nodded and said, “Ma’am.” Lauren had made it to the last pancake when the girl slid into her booth. She looked about a decade younger than her, hardly out of high school. Thin, short. Frizzy red hair. A shiny bead of a nose piercing. She wore an oversized Tulane hoodie, carried a purse covered with old comic book characters. Her voice was low and rough, much huskier than Lauren expected. “Howdy,” she said. “I’m Madison. Going east.” For a moment, Lauren thought her name was Madison Going East. Then she realized what the girl had asked. She shook her head, wiped chocolate from her lips with the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m headed west.” “Really?” “Sure. California.” “Why?” Lauren shrugged. “See what’s there.” “Nothing out west but the devil and the sun gone down.” Lauren frowned. Speared another chunk of pancake. Madison rested her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and watched Lauren eat. “So, what,” she asked eventually, “you got people?” “I’m sorry?” “Out west. You got people there?” “My sister,” Lauren lied. Madison shook her head like a disappointed teacher. She took a sip of Lauren’s coffee, then put her purse on the table and dug around inside. Lightspeed Magazine no 1:01:58 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-dylan-pierpont/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-dylan-pierpont/#comments Tue, 10 Apr 2012 10:05:55 +0000 J. T. Glover http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5542 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-dylan-pierpont/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karin-lowachee/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karin-lowachee/#comments Tue, 10 Apr 2012 10:04:39 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5518 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karin-lowachee/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/nomad/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/nomad/#comments Tue, 10 Apr 2012 10:03:30 +0000 Karin Lowachee http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5579 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/nomad/feed/ 1 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caitlin-r-kiernan-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caitlin-r-kiernan-2/#comments Tue, 10 Apr 2012 10:02:59 +0000 Theodore Quester http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5513 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caitlin-r-kiernan-2/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-steam-dancer-1896/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-steam-dancer-1896/#comments Tue, 10 Apr 2012 10:01:11 +0000 Caitlín R. Kiernan http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5571 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-steam-dancer-1896/feed/ 2 Missouri Banks lives in the great smoky city at the edge of the mountains, here where the endless yellow prairie laps gently with grassy waves and locust tides at the exposed bones of the world jutting suddenly up towards the western sky. 1. Missouri Banks lives in the great smoky city at the edge of the mountains, here where the endless yellow prairie laps gently with grassy waves and locust tides at the exposed bones of the world jutting suddenly up towards the western sky. She was not born here, but came to the city long ago, when she was still only a small child and her father traveled from town to town in one of Edison’s electric wagons selling his herbs and medicinals, his stinking poultices and elixirs. This is the city where her mother grew suddenly ill with miner’s fever and where all her father’s liniments and ministrations could not restore his wife’s failing health or spare her life. In his grief, he drank a vial of either antimony or arsenic a few days after the funeral, leaving his only daughter and only child to fend for herself. And so, she grew up here, an orphan, one of a thousand or so dispossessed urchins with sooty bare feet and sooty faces, filching coal with sooty hands to stay warm in winter, clothed in rags, and eating what could be found in trash barrels and what could be begged or stolen. But these things are only her past, and she has a bit of paper torn from a lending-library book of old plays which reads What’s past is prologue, which she tacked up on the wall near her dressing mirror in the room she shares with the mechanic. Whenever the weight of Missouri’s past begins to press in upon her, she reads those words aloud to herself, once or twice or however many times is required, and usually it makes her feel at least a little better. It has been years since she was alone and on the streets. She has the mechanic, and he loves her, and most of the time she believes that she loves him, as well. He found her when she was nineteen, living in a shanty on the edge of the colliers’ slum, hiding away in among the spoil piles and the rusting ruin of junked steam shovels and hydraulic pumps and bent bore-drill heads. He was out looking for salvage, and salvage is what he found, finding her when he lifted a broad sheet of corrugated tin, uncovering the squalid burrow where she lay slowly dying on a filthy mattress. She’d been badly bitten during a swarm of red-bellied bloatflies, and now the hungry white maggots were doing their work. It was not an uncommon fate for the likes of Missouri Banks, those caught out in the open during the spring swarms, those without safe houses to hide inside until the voracious flies had come and gone, moving on to bedevil other towns and cities and farms. By the time the mechanic chanced upon her, Missouri’s left leg, along with her right hand and forearm, was gangrenous, seething with the larvae. Her left eye was a pulpy, painful boil, and he carried her to the charity hospital on Arapahoe where he paid the surgeons who meticulously picked out the parasites and sliced away the rotten flesh and finally performed the necessary amputations. Afterwards, the mechanic nursed her back to health, and when she was well enough, he fashioned for her a new leg and a new arm. The eye was entirely beyond his expertise, but he knew a Chinaman in San Francisco who did nothing but eyes and ears, and it happened that the Chinaman owed the mechanic a favor. And in this way was Missouri Banks made whole again, after a fashion, and the mechanic took her as his lover and then as his wife, and they found a better, roomier room in an upscale boarding house near the Seventh Avenue irrigation works. And today, which is the seventh day of July, she settles onto the little bench in front of the dressing-table mirror and reads aloud to herself the shred of paper. “What’s past is prologue,” she says, and then sits looking at her face and the artificial eye and listening to the oppressive drone of cicadas outside the open window. The mechanic has promised that someday he will read her The Tempest by William Shakespeare, which he says is where the line was taken from. She can read it herself, she’s told him, Lightspeed Magazine no 36:14 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2012/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2012/#comments Tue, 03 Apr 2012 10:05:19 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5529 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2012/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-vandana-singh/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-vandana-singh/#comments Tue, 03 Apr 2012 10:04:52 +0000 Caleb Jordan Schulz http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5515 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-vandana-singh/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/ruminations-in-an-alien-tongue/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/ruminations-in-an-alien-tongue/#comments Tue, 03 Apr 2012 10:03:38 +0000 Vandana Singh http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5577 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/ruminations-in-an-alien-tongue/feed/ 3 Sitting on the sun-warmed step at the end of her workday, Birha laid her hand on the dog’s neck and let her mind drift. Like a gyre-moth finding the center of its desire, her mind inevitably spiraled inward to the defining moment of her life. (http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/LS-Vandana-Singh-no-glasses-FINAL.jpg) Birha on the Doorstep Sitting on the sun-warmed step at the end of her workday, Birha laid her hand on the dog’s neck and let her mind drift. Like a gyre-moth finding the center of its desire, her mind inevitably spiraled inward to the defining moment of her life. It must be something to do with growing old, she thought irritably, that all she did was revisit what had happened all those years ago. Yet her irritation subsided before the memory. She could still see it with the shocking clarity of yesterday: the great, closed eyelid set in the enormous alien stronghold, opening in response to her trick. The thick air of the valley, her breath caught in her throat, the orange-and-yellow uniforms of the waiting soldiers. She had gone up the ladder, stepped through the round opening. Darkness, her footsteps echoing in the enormous space, the light she carried casting a small, bobbing pool of illumination. This was the alien stronghold considered invincible by the human conquerors, to which the last denizens of a dying race had crawled in a war she had forgotten when she was young. She had expected to find their broken, decayed bodies, but instead there was a silence like the inside of a temple up in the mountains. Silence, a faint smell of dust, and a picture forever burned into her mind: in the light of her lamp, the missing soldier, thunderstruck before the great mass of machinery in the center. That was the moment when everything changed. For her, and eventually for humankind. She had been young then. “Hah!” she said, a short, sharp sound—an old woman laughing at her foolishness. It felt good to sit here on the doorstep, although now it was turning a little cold. On this world, the sun didn’t set for seven years as counted on the planet where she had been born. She knew she would not live to see another sunset; her bones told her that, and the faint smell in her urine, and her mind, which was falling backward into a void of its own making. But the clouds could not be ignored, nor the yellow dog at her knee, who wanted to go inside. There would be rain, and the trees would open their veined, translucent cups to the sky. There would be gyre-moths emerging from holes in the ground, flying in smooth, ever-smaller circles, at the center of which was a cup of perfumed rain—and there would be furred worms slithering up the branches to find the sweet moth-meat. In the rain under the trees, the air would quiver with blood and desire, and the human companion animals—the dogs and cats and ferrets—would run to their homes lest the sleehawks or a feral arboril catch them for their next meal. Yes, rain was a time of beauty and bloodshed, here at the edge of the great cloud forest, among the ruins of the university that had been her home for most of her life. She got up, noting with a grim satisfaction that, in this universe, old knees creaked. She went in with the dog and shut the door and the windows against the siren-like calls of the foghorn-trees, and put some water on to boil. Rain drummed on the stone walls of her retreat, and she saw through the big window the familiar ruined curve of the university ramparts through a wall of falling water. Sometimes the sight still took her breath away. That high walk with the sheer, misty drop below was where she had first walked with Thirru. #### A Very Short Rumination When I was born my mother named me Birha, which means “separated” or “parted” in an ancient human language. This was because my mother was about to die. #### Difficult Loves Thirru was difficult and strange. He seemed eager to make Birha happy but was like a big, foolish child, unable to do so. A large, plump man, with hair that stood up on end, he liked to clap his hands loudly when he solved a difficult problem, startling everyone. His breath smelled of bitter herbs from the tea he drank all day. Lightspeed Magazine no 50:40 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-marc-laidlaw/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-marc-laidlaw/#comments Tue, 03 Apr 2012 10:02:09 +0000 Erin Stocks http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5506 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-marc-laidlaw/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/forget-you/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/forget-you/#comments Tue, 03 Apr 2012 10:01:39 +0000 Marc Laidlaw http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5564 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/forget-you/feed/ 5 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-r-a-salvatore/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-r-a-salvatore/#comments Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:05:02 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5370 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-r-a-salvatore/feed/ 1 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karen-joy-fowler-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karen-joy-fowler-2/#comments Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:04:16 +0000 John Nakamura Remy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5360 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karen-joy-fowler-2/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/halfway-people/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/halfway-people/#comments Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:03:54 +0000 Karen Joy Fowler http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5397 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/halfway-people/feed/ 1 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-steven-utley/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-steven-utley/#comments Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:02:14 +0000 Steven Utley http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5359 Captain Video and Again, Dangerous Visions. In somewhat less general terms, between the ages of ten and about twenty-eight, I described an arc through Jules Verne (admittedly, a tough go at age ten), H. G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Ray Bradbury, Philip José Farmer, Harlan Ellison, Robert Silverberg, and Barry Malzberg: ontogeny roughly recapitulating phylogeny.]]> http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-steven-utley/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/test-steven-utley/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/test-steven-utley/#comments Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:01:51 +0000 Steven Utley http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5396 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/test-steven-utley/feed/ 2 Something is eating the starship Stephen W. Hawking, chewing it slowly and efficiently to pieces. Hurtling through hyperspace, or merely hanging suspended therein (who can really tell about hyperspace?), the vessel has become entangled with an unknown ... Something is eating the starship Stephen W. Hawking, chewing it slowly and efficiently to pieces. Hurtling through hyperspace, or merely hanging suspended therein (who can really tell about hyperspace?), the vessel has become entangled with an unknown entity that exhibits at least one recognizable attribute: curiosity. Possibly malevolence is one of its attributes as well, but possibly it’s just very clumsy, inclined to break things it’s unused to handling, such as starships and their occupants, like a child destroying a toy while trying to understand how it works—as before, who can really tell? The fact remains: in a theoretically infinite universe theoretically full of possibilities, the ship has had the infinite bad luck to run afoul of some kind of monster, and it is wreaking havoc with us. This, anyway, is what I think. My shipmates have their own ideas about what is going on. None of us denies that something is going on. Soon after the Stephen W. Hawking left normal space on the first manned faster-than-light voyage to the stars, the terrible dreams began, dreams of black tentacles coiling about the ship, reaching into it, touching us in our sleep, dreams of choking darkness. I said nothing about them to my shipmates, even though Systems Engineer Tilford, who shared quarters with me, sometimes woke me up with his thrashing and moaning. Out of respect for his privacy—privacy being at a premium aboard the ship—I said nothing to him. If Commander Bell or First Officer Sutter also suffered from nightmares, neither admitted it. Nevertheless, I could tell by looking at them that they felt as tired as I. Next, things started to go wrong with the ship. The environment and food processing systems broke down. Sewage went untreated, and parts of the ship began to stink intolerably. The food processor dispensed a viscid brown sludge—nutritious, not bad-tasting, but hardly appetizing given its resemblance to the sewage. Training, camaraderie, and shared purpose at first enabled us to take these things in stride, but lack of restful sleep took its toll in due course, and tempers grew short. Commander Bell, always a man difficult to approach, became remote to the point of nonexistence: We scarcely saw him at all. Sutter grew crisp to the point of snappishness. As for Systems Engineer Tilford, whose omnicompetence had won him a berth aboard the Stephen W. Hawking, he could not fix anything and grew increasingly exasperated. “It’s like the source of the trouble is constantly moving around,” he complained to us, “and stays just out of my reach.” #### Sutter discreetly approached me on the bridge during one of my watches. Without preamble, she said, “The commander worries me. He’s failing to command.” “I have to admit,” I had to admit, “that he hasn’t seemed like himself since these problems started.” Commander Bell, tall, lean, hawk-nosed, with dark eyes and close-cropped hair the color of iron filings—a Hollywood casting agent’s idea of a spaceship commander—did not simply look the part, he had lived it. He was already a legend, at least within the hermetic structure of the agency, when he was named commander of this mission. He had first distinguished himself as a pilot aboard close-orbit research ships out around the gas giants, territory with which Sutter and I had had our own harsh experiences. Commander Bell never spoke of it, and wasn’t the kind of person who would have spoken of it even in the absence of agency guidelines about possibly hurtful publicity, but fabulous accounts of his exploits had circulated through the middle and lower echelons. According to one of these stories, it had been Bell’s determination and ability that narrowly averted disaster during the first manned mission to the Jovian moons. Malfunctions had plagued the close-orbiter, compelling him to do some tricky seat-of-the-pants piloting so that the scientific team aboard could finish its work. Lightspeed Magazine no http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-ian-mcdonald/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-ian-mcdonald/#comments Tue, 20 Mar 2012 10:05:58 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5369 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-ian-mcdonald/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-barr-kirtley-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-barr-kirtley-2/#comments Tue, 20 Mar 2012 10:04:29 +0000 Jennifer Konieczny http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5353 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-barr-kirtley-2/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/beauty/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/beauty/#comments Tue, 20 Mar 2012 10:03:31 +0000 David Barr Kirtley http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5393 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/beauty/feed/ 4 Nicole Sanders was beautiful. One night after work, she stopped off at a bar downtown, which is where she met the beast. “Hi,” the beast said, in a gentle voice. “Can I buy you a drink?” (http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/LS_Beast_large-rough.jpg) Nicole Sanders was beautiful. One night after work, she stopped off at a bar downtown, which is where she met the beast. “Hi,” the beast said, in a gentle voice. “Can I buy you a drink?” He was a hulking, hairy creature. His spindly goat legs ended in a pair of cloven hooves. Massive sheep horns poked out of his forehead and curled around his gremlin ears. Instead of hands he had two furry paws. His demon eyes were bloodshot and sad. Nicole studied him. He certainly wasn’t the best-looking guy in the place, but he seemed so hopeful and shy, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Okay,” she said. “A drink would be nice.” He bought two beers and carried them over. “I’m the beast,” he said, sitting down beside her. “I’m Nicole,” she said. He smelled sharp and fiery. “That’s an interesting cologne you’re wearing,” she said. “What is it?” “It’s brimstone,” he said flatly, then added, “It isn’t cologne.” “Oh.” The beast studied his drink. “So what do you do?” she asked. He shrugged. “Telemarketing.” “Do you like it?” “It’s all right.” He gulped some beer. “Actually, I’ve been having some problems with my coworkers.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “Yeah, I mean, things used to be a lot better there, before the whole, you know . . .” He gestured at his appearance. “Oh,” Nicole said. “So it’s . . .” “A spell.” The beast nodded wearily. “Yeah. I actually used to be pretty handsome, if you can believe that.” “So what happened?” He lowered his voice. “I was cursed by an evil sorceress.” He held up his huge paws. “She turned me into this.” Nicole gasped. “That’s horrible.” The beast sighed. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I have some magic talking furniture that keeps me company. It’s enough, most of the time . . . ” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to . . . maybe I should go.” He started to get up. “Wait,” Nicole said. “No. It’s all right, really.” She added, “I’ve never met anyone before who owned any magic talking furniture.” He glanced at her hopefully, then sat back down again. They chatted for a long time, then she walked with him back to his apartment, and he invited her up for a drink. The apartment was small, and kind of a mess. “I should straighten up a bit,” said the beast. “No, it’s fine,” Nicole assured him. She glanced through a doorway into the kitchen. “Where’s the magic furniture?” He lumbered into the living room and turned on his tiny television. “That’s it.” She stared. “That’s just a television.” “It talks,” the beast said weakly. “But . . . that’s not magic at all.” He settled down on the couch and hung his head in his paws. “I know,” he moaned, “I haven’t got any magic furniture. I haven’t got anything.” “Hey,” Nicole said softly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.” #### The beast called her the next day. “I had a good time last night,” he said. “You’re such a good listener.” “It was nice,” Nicole said. It had been a long time since a guy had opened himself up to her like that. “Can I see you again?” he asked. “All right.” They started going out together—to movies, to restaurants, and bars. Her friends didn’t approve. Her best friend Katie said, “I mean really, Nicki. The guy’s a telemarketer. You could do so much better.” But she ignored them. One night Nicole and the beast were relaxing in a local restaurant. Suddenly he gasped. “What?” Nicole said. “That’s her,” he whispered. “The evil sorceress I was telling you about. Over there, by the register.” Nicole sneaked a glance. The woman he’d indicated was in her mid-twenties, attractive, with curly red hair. “She doesn’t look evil,” Nicole said. “She looks pretty normal, actually.” “They always do.” The beast sighed. “They always do.” Nicole dated the beast for a few more months. She began to really like him. Lightspeed Magazine no http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kathleen-ann-goonan/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kathleen-ann-goonan/#comments Tue, 20 Mar 2012 10:02:35 +0000 Christie Yant http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5350 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kathleen-ann-goonan/feed/ 0 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/electric-rains/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/electric-rains/#comments Tue, 20 Mar 2012 10:01:28 +0000 Kathleen Ann Goonan http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=5392 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/electric-rains/feed/ 0 Ella sat by Nana’s body for two days before she pushed it out the window. She had spent the first half-day realizing what death was, the next half-day grieving, the following morning waking and feeling reverent if somewhat nauseated, Ella sat by Nana’s body for two days before she pushed it out the window. She had spent the first half-day realizing what death was, the next half-day grieving, the following morning waking and feeling reverent if somewhat nauseated, and trying to decide what to do. It was three in the morning when she finally did it, and it was almost the season of electric rains. There had been one already, fitful and slight, harbinger of spring and the season of avoidance. Once the weather warmed in Washington, D.C., thunderstorms boiled up almost every evening, preceded by the leaves in the park across the street turning up silver undersides. Ella was twelve, and had grown up knowing that she could not let the rains, or the rare snows, touch her. But Ella had to take Nana home. Besides, she was beginning to smell bad. Night was a good time, the time least likely to rain. In the end it was easy. There was no heat in the old lady’s three-room apartment with the toweringly high ceilings and the hole in the plaster that looked like South America, so she’d not gotten very warm. The old lady had an electrical setup but used it only for cooking and powering a space heater in the most bitterly cold weather, hooking up big sparking clamps, which scared Ella. There were people who kept the grid alive, down by Anacostia. Engineers, and those whom they taught, people who had escaped the first electric rains, like Ella and Nana. By now, the body was very stiff. Ella was not surprised to find that the tiny old lady was not terribly heavy. She wrapped the body in the sheet upon which she had died, which made her easy to pull over the shiny wood floor, through the sitting room with its yellowed lace doilies and once-valuable international knickknacks—the ancient Chinese vase, the intricately carved Vietnamese table, the rug from nineteenth century Baghdad—and managed to lift her to chairs and then push her onto an oval table of shiny hardwood, a table she herself had polished only days before, one of the unending chores the old lady had her do so they could “live with dignity in this shit-eating world.” She shoved the table on its clawed wheels to the window. Grunting, she pushed up the reluctant sash. Paint chips flurried in the moonlit air, and the gust of wind took Ella by surprise: It was warm. That was not good. She leaned out the window; sniffed the air. It smelled too warm, like sudden spring. Perhaps it was. And the stars were obscured by cloud. No matter. She had to do this, and soon. She looked up and down the length of the street, waited until a lone car stopped at the light and then moved past, low, prowling beams of light ahead. She leaned out further, saw a few ragged shapes curled on the sidewalk. She swallowed. The rain people, those who didn’t go down into the Metro but let the rain wash them countless times, could sometimes be normal, harmless. But sometimes . . . She looked back at Nana’s face, her delicately curved nose, her imp-like face overwhelmed by wrinkles, her high lacy collar always kept clean and white. A middle-aged man used to visit, and talked to Nana blusteringly, with wide frantic gestures. He always frowned at the sight of Ella and she knew that the man did not like her being there and couldn’t do a damned thing about it. She didn’t like him much either. “Little bitch,” he called her, the time he had squeezed her back in among Nana’s spicy-musty clothes, but she had kicked him hard and he hadn’t tried it again. She sat down in one of the high-backed chairs and watched Nana for a moment. Then, through the doubled wavy glass of the high windows, she saw a light streak through the heavens. A monitor plane, checking for contagion. Very rare. Nana laughed derisively whenever they saw one. “It won’t be safe in our lifetimes, missy. At least,” her voice gentled, “not in mine.” Ella knew, though, that the light was the spirit of Nana and that it was all right, Lightspeed Magazine no