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Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere

New story klaxon!

It’s a delight to have a new story out today in the UK’s premier science fiction magazine – Scotland’s award-winning Shoreline of Infinity. The story is called “Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere.” It’s about a world transformed by instant travel, but at a subtle but devastating cost to some.

Shoreline has been going for a few years, and has really grown impressively, so I’m pleased to have finally sneaked in. And it’s great to be alongside some super work from other writers including Bo Balder, Monica Louzon, Ken MacLeod, and Heather Valentine.

You can get the magazine in print or digital, and it’s well worth your time. Here’s a taster for my story…

Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere

Inside the house, male voices belt out the fortieth rendition of “Blessing grant, oh God of nations, on the isles of Fiji”, sung by the bunch of rugby players who ported in with Alex from Malibu. These guys are built like wardrobes, and they’ve drunk western LA county dry. Kelly’s in the garden, working on her fifth large Chardonnay of the afternoon, watching the sun sink into the hills, casting shadows on the river.

When the phone rings, it takes her several seconds to place the sound. She finds the receiver wedged between two cushions of the chesterfield.

“Kelly? It’s Byron.”

“Byron! How are you? Haven’t seen you in…”

Well, how long is it? They kept in touch after college and there was a year when they were an item, but that must be a decade ago. Kelly’s hazy about it now, but didn’t they part on bad terms? Byron called her a sellout for working in PR; she said he was a loser for thinking there was any money in whatever neuroscience dead-end he was mad about that week. 

“Kelly, we need to talk. There’s something…”

“Shores of GOLDEN SAND! And sunshine, happiness, and song! Stand UNITED! We of Fiji. Fame and glory ever!” A conga line of Fijian rugby players sashays down the staircase. Alex is at the front, a bottle of rum in one hand, wearing a pair of shorts as a hat. “Kelly!” he yells. “Come to Fiji. The sun’s coming up.” Kelly shakes her head and points at the phone.

“…important we talk,” Byron says. “People need to -.”

“ONWARD march TOGETHER!” The rugby singers boom louder as they reach the Port room, but the volume shrinks as they go through. “GOD…. Bless…Fiji.”

“I need your help.” Byron’s voice cracks. “I don’t know who to call.”

The house falls silent as the last reveler transmits to Fiji. Kelly hates a quiet house; it swells with empty space for her thoughts to fill.

“Come over, Byron. But be quick. I’ve got a date in Fiji.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone. And don’t use the -.” Kelly clicks off the phone and drops it on the couch.

She waits a whole half hour and Byron doesn’t show. She checks the Port settings maybe a hundred times. Kelly hates hanging around, especially when the floating party’s ported to the other side of the world. It’s dark outside and a Fijian sunrise sounds attractive. She picks up the phone and presses ringback. The call shunts to voicemail and she hangs up.

She changes into swimsuit and sandals. In the Port room she half-expects Byron to flicker in behind the glass door before she can leave, but the cubicle’s dark. She steps inside. The cubicle lights come on and ripple in lilac, and a puff of air on her face makes her blink. When she reopens her eyes, she’s in a different room and she’s got that tingling buzz of her senses dialed up a notch, like a first glass of wine. People say porting stimulates endorphins; it sure works for Kelly. She opens the door and smells the sea. This house has wooden floors, smudged with sand and damp footprints. Outside, a verandah gives onto a beach. As always after a Port, Kelly’s mildly horny and fuzzy, briefly unsure where she is or why she’s here. Down at the shore, people dance around a driftwood fire. A fat sun heaves itself into a salmon sky. Kelly runs to join the party….

Read more in Shoreline of Infinity 31, available here
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Fifty-One: New Edition Available in Paperback and e-book

As I mentioned last month, the sad demise of Filles Vertes Publishing left my time-travel adventure, Fifty-One, out of print.

Well, I’m pleased to say it’s now back on sale. Options are:

Amazon: paperback and e-book available here

The book is also available through the Independent Publishing Network, so you should be able to get it through bookstores too.

Finally, you can still snap up one of the remaining signed copies of the first edition, from me or ebay! Details here.

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Fifty-One: Bad News and Good News….

My science fiction novel, Fifty-One, was published in 2018 by US Indie, Filles Vertes Publishing. Sadly, FVP has gone out of business.

This means that Fifty-One is currently unavailable, which of course sucks (but more on that below). That’s the bad news.

As for the good news – it means I am now the lucky owner of the total UK stock of the first edition of Fifty-One. If you don’t have it yet, and want to get your hands on a signed copy of what will obviously one day be a collector’s item (possibly), all you need to do is:

  • for the personal touch, drop me a message (form below).

I’m also planning to reissue the book as a second edition – paperback and ebook. News on that very soon, so watch this space.

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‘When I Close My Eyes’ published in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores.

‘When I Close My Eyes’ is out now in the excellent online SF magazine, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores.

The story first appeared in Interzone #271 in 2017. It was at the time my ‘hardest’ SF story yet – with a bereaved astronaut trapped by a rockfall in a cave on Titan, encountering some fragile but peskily well-organised Titanian aliens. (There’s still a ghost in it, though, which I guess means that as SF goes, it isn’t that hard!)

The story has shown some staying power – it was also in the ‘Best of British SF 2017’ from NewCon Press, and was podcast to great effect by Starship Sofa.

The podcast is still available for free, and you can read the text version free at Cosmic Roots. So there’s really no excuse if you have the slightest interest in hydrocarbon weather systems and the remorseless power of grief.

Here’s a taster:

WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES

The rock fall killed me. I just didn’t know how long it would take to die.

I was face down with something heavy on the back of my legs. My visor display was dark. If the suit had lost power, death was already at my elbow.

“Tak, confirm operational.” A soft insect buzzing. “Repeat, confirm operational.”

“[buzz] – [click] – confirm. But I’ve had better days, dude.”

“You and me both. Run full systems check.”

“Running, dude.” Some joker programmed the suit computer with the voice of Keanu Reeves in Point Break, squinting in the sun and waxing his surfboard. Usually it cheered me up.

I chinned the radio switch. “Willis, this is Darlo. Do you read?”

Static.

“Willis. Darlo. There was some kind of cave-in. I still have power. Checking systems. Are you OK?”

More static. I chinned off the radio. Willis should be fine. She stayed in the crawler, after all. It was another poor sap who entered the cave. Me. I tested the movement in my limbs. Both arms were free. I could lift my left leg but the right didn’t budge. I had sensation in it, but something pinned it down, something with some serious mass; with gravity less than a tenth that of Earth, I could expect to shift a sizeable rock unaided. 

“OK, dude, systems check complete.” Tak sounded as businesslike as he ever did; like he’d just spotted a shift in the swell and zipped up his wetsuit. “Batteries seventy-six per cent, oxygen sixty-five. Suit intact. Heater cycling between sixty and ninety, nitrogen scrubber -.”

“Wait, what’s with the heater?” The suit’s heating systems normally ran at around fifty per cent.

“Losing heat fast. Possible radiator vane compromise.”

That figured. The suit had fantastic insulation and in normal use some heat got vented away through tiny metal filaments on the back. If the rockfall had damaged them, the heater would need to compensate.

“So how long have I got?”

“You can lie here for nearly five hours, dude.”

“Yeah, but I plan to get moving.”

“Hey, did I mention that the GPS sensors are damaged and I can’t get a signal from the crawler or the base?”

“Lucky I know the way out. How long have I got with normal motion?”

“Probably four hours, but that heater’s a bummer. Might need to go easy on other power.”

“Is that why we’re lying here in the dark? You didn’t say the lights were damaged.”

“They’re not.”

“Main flash on.”

The beam lit up in front of me. I was face down on a layer of ice. Where my visor touched the surface, the ice fizzed and crawled upwards as if tiny worms were escaping. Probably traces of frozen methane in among the water ice, melting in the slight heat given off by my suit.

I lifted my head, directing the beam horizontally. There was about six feet of icy ground ahead of me, ending at a wall of rubble and ice. I pointed the light higher, but could see no top to the obstruction. So far, so bad. But that way led deeper into the cave. That was where I’d been heading when the cave fell in, and I certainly wasn’t going that way now. I wanted to go back.

I had a simple plan. Walk back through the tunnels to Willis and the crawler and then take it easy with a hot drink while she drove the four miles back to Ligea Base. All I had to do was remove whatever was trapping my legs. And hope the tunnel behind me wasn’t blocked. And hope my power lasted long enough to stop me freezing in the -180C temperature. Simple.

“Tak, main flash off. Save power while I decide what to do.”

The beam cut out and darkness sprang on me from the shadows. My head was still up and I saw her clearly. She sat with her back against the pile of ice and rock, her legs stretched before her and her hands in her lap, as if she were at a picnic. She wore the blue dress with white polka dots that we buried her in. She smiled at me.

“Not here. Dear God.” I lowered my head to the ice. “For Christ’s sake, my eyes are open…”

(To read more, check out Cosmic Roots…)

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New Story: Bad Moon Falling in Galaxy’s Edge #45

My new story, ‘Bad Moon Falling’ is out now in the latest issue of Galaxy’s Edge magazine. Obviously, like any writer I love any new sale. But the fanboy in me is especially thrilled to be in this publication (which you can get here).

Call me shallow, but I’m always going to get a kick out of my name being on the cover with such SF legends as Robert Silverberg, Mike Resnick, and Katherine Kerr.

Galaxy’s Edge was created by Mike Resnick, one of the unarguable greats of the field, whose short fiction I love (and which I believe earned him more Hugo nominations than anyone else). Sadly, Resnick died earlier this year, but it’s great to see his magazine continuing under new editor, Lezli Robyn.

As for the story, it’s probably the ‘hardest’ SF yet from me, with signals from space that turn out to be from aliens, but not in a good way. Here’s a taster…

 Bad Moon Falling

“Hello, Nick.” Kuldeep had taken ages to pick up. “Do you know how late it is?”

“We need to talk,” I said. “Can I come over?”

“Haven’t we talked enough? I’m not going to change my mind.”

My reflection in the monitor winced. Lines of numbers behind my face made it look like I was projected onto newsprint.

“It’s not about us. I need your advice,” I said. “There’s something wrong with the Moon.”

***

The world’s attention was on the Mars launch. The twenty-four hours a day, wall-to-wall coverage of every detail of the mission looked like continuing for the whole seven months until the crew reached Mars. People were lapping it up.

Not me. The day after Pegasus left the atmosphere, Kuldeep told me to move out; she needed time for herself, to develop other interests. “It’s not you, it’s me,” she said. But it was me who had to go.

I returned to my old room at Jake’s place, but I didn’t spend much time there. I threw myself back into work. If I was going to feel this shit, I might as well get things done.

Most people have forgotten the Ross signals. Fifteen years ago, a series of radio pulses came from the direction of Ross 128, eleven light-years away. The signals caused excitement for awhile—speculation that they might be artificial, from an alien interstellar civilization. The fuss soon died away, when no one could wring any sense from them, but I got a grant two years ago to continue what looked the hopeless task of decoding them. It’s more a hobby than a job now, but I pick it up when I have time. Kuldeep dumping me opened canyons of time.

Maybe you think it’s easy to know whether a signal is just cosmic white noise or contains a message, and to decode it if it does. My background’s in linguistics, and trust me, it’s not easy. You can look for patterns of distribution and frequency, but that only takes you so far. Even a terrestrial language like ancient Egyptian was only cracked when the Rosetta Stone gave us the same text in Greek and hieroglyphics. Some experts say it’s impossible to decipher a message where the underlying language is unrelated to any other.

I was more optimistic than that—I’ve got a knack for puzzling these things out, part science, part instinct. But no one knew if Ross was even a signal. Before I could decipher it, I had to be sure there was a message, and not just a stray blast of stellar noise. I also had to eliminate potential sources closer to home.

That was what led me to the Moon, and the long-forgotten Lunar Seismology Survey.

***

I took the Tube to Kuldeep’s Lab at Imperial College. A couple of her workmates nodded as they passed through Reception, but nobody stopped to chat. They all knew she’d elbowed me. It was obvious how cut up I was, and people don’t like to get close to bad feelings in case your misery rubs off.

Kuldeep appeared and led me to her pod. She poured us coffee and sat behind her desk, looking as gorgeous as the day we met. The sight of her stirred a flood of memories and hollowed out my chest.

She folded her arms. “Okay, I haven’t got long.”

“Like I said on the phone, there’s been huge activity on the far side of the moon.” I pulled the laptop from my bag. “I mean, huge. Too big for the Moon. I’m amazed no one’s picked it up.”

“Maybe they have,” Kuldeep said. “But start from the beginning.”

“Okay, it was when—”

“But keep it short. Chandler not Proust.”

“No need to be rude, Kul.”

“Look, I’ve got a million things to do,” she said. “And no offence, but we weren’t planning to see each other for a while.”

You weren’t, you mean...

(To read more, check out Galaxy’s Edge. While you’re there, subscribe!

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Vincent’s Penny on Podcastle

I’m delighted that Episode 628 of the splendid fantasy podcast Podcastle features my story ‘Vincent’s Penny’.

You can get the podcast here, or wherever you normally get your podcast fix. Subscribe while you’re at it – you’ve got hundreds of back episodes to catch up on.

‘Vincent’s Penny’ was first published in issue 16 of Australian online magazine Dimension 6, in April 2019. You can still get that copy of the magazine, free to download here.

I was pleased with the story in print, but I’ve got to say it gains an extra dimension read by the tall and talented Matt Dovey. This is the third time I’ve had one of my stories interpreted by Matt. Previous outings were both on the Tales to Terrify podcast – for ‘Ravello Steps‘ (May 2019) and ‘Looking After Shaun‘ (July 2018). I thought those were good, but I was bowled over by the way he handled ‘Vincent’s Penny.’ Check out Matt’s website for more of his work.

Here’s a taster of the story. Head over to Podcastle for the rest of it, should the mood take you…

Vincent’s Penny

May 1941

I’m a child this time. Five or six years old.

Fully clothed under a bed, on a wooden floor. I touch a hand to my throat, but there is nothing there. I examine my hands and arms, astonished by the smoothness of the skin. At last, I crawl out from beneath the bed and leave the room.

Light from a jagged hole in the roof, blue sky beyond, streaked with horsetails of cloud.  The floor is dusted with splinters of wood and brick. The window at the end of the hall has daggers of glass clinging to the frame.

Over the banister, more rubble and destruction below. Some of the stairs are broken, but I pick my way downstairs, helped by the fact that I am so light now, in this child’s frame. I could skip across a field of grass and barely disturb the dew. There is a door at the foot of the stairs. I turn the handle and push, but at first it does not move. Maybe the wall has shifted in the raid. I try again, ramming my tiny shoulder against the wood.

The door releases its grip and tumbles me outside.   

The Previous Day

Before they take me out, they put a hood over my head. A hand on my arm guides me down a flight of stairs. On the flat, they shove me forward. Hands pull me to a halt and there is the sound of a car door, before someone pushes down on the top of my head, pressing me inside. As the car engine starts, I hear a loud wailing in the distance.

“Air-raid siren,” I say. “Are you sure we should be going for a drive?”

“No need to worry about Hitler’s bombers,” a familiar voice says. “Nothing he can do to you that’s worse than what Vincent’s got in mind.”

The car gathers speed. The sirens fall away and another sound comes; a strengthening growl high above. I can picture the swollen metal bellies of the Heinkel bombers, stuffed with high explosives. With the motion of the car, I feel the ancient metal disc move on its chain beneath my shirt. Vincent’s penny; maybe it can bring me luck again.

“You can let me go. Who will ever know?”

“Why would we do that?”

“If you let Vincent do this, who will stop him doing worse in the future?”

The car stops, doors open and close. As they lead me away from the car a succession of explosions in the distance makes me flinch. A sound like a giant striding towards us, wading through houses and shops.

The hood is snatched away, revealing a large empty space, an abandoned warehouse. A table and three chairs in the centre of the room.

I know I will never leave this place…

(Continue reading…)