Shoreline of Infinity 31, page 1
SHORELINE OF INFINITY 31
Science Fiction Magazine
NOEL CHIDWICK
Contents
Editorial Team
Pull up a Log
Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere
Chris Barnham
Shrink the Mountain
Bo Balder
Second-Hand
Monica Louzon
The Shadow Ministers
Ken MacLeod
The Peter Principle
Lindz McLeod
Cockroach
Heather Valentine
Rescue
Andy McKell
The Park
Adam Marx
Multiverse
Richard Magahiz, Juleigh Howard-Hobson, Sadie Maskery
Luna Press
Q&A with Peter Buck of Elsewhen Press
Teika Marija Smits
Noise and Sparks: Case 3 in the Multiverse of Madness (Or, Everyone, Everywhere, All At Once)
Ruth EJ Booth
Is cyberpunk dead?
Anna Mocikat
Reviews
Shoreline of Infinity 31 - Supplement
Shearing
Brian D. Hinson
myPet
Flash fiction competition for Shoreline of Infinity Readers
Shoreline of Infinity 28 available in print
About Shoreline of Infinity
Back Cover
Issue 31: Summer 2022
Award-winning science fiction magazine
published in Scotland for the Universe.
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ISSN: 2059-2590
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© 2022 Shoreline of Infinity.
Contributors retain copyright of own work.
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Submissions of fiction, art, reviews, poetry, non-fiction are welcomed: visit the website to find out how to submit.
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www.shorelineofinfinity.com
Publisher
Shoreline of Infinity Publications / The New Curiosity Shop
Edinburgh
Scotland
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060622
Cover art: Stref
Editorial Team
Editorial Team
Co-founder, Editor-in-Chief, Editor: Noel Chidwick
Co-founder: Mark Toner
Deputy Editor & Poetry Editor:
Russell Jones
Fiction Editor: Eris Young
Reviews Editor: Ann Landmann
Non-fiction Editor: Pippa Goldschmidt
Art Director: Mark Toner
Marketing & Publicity Editor:
Yasmin Kanaan
Production Editor: James T Harding
Copy-editors: Pippa Goldschmidt, Russell Jones, Iain Maloney, Eris Young, Cat Hellisen
Proof Reader: Yasmin Kanaan
Fiction Consultant: Eric Brown
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First Contact
www.shorelineofinfinity.com
contact@shorelineofinfinity.com
Twitter: @shoreinf
Pull up a Log
Many Multiverses
’sfunny how themes come along in science fiction in waves. In this issue Anna Mocikat asks “is cyberpunk dead?” We could also ask the same question about steampunk – do we pack away our green-glassed goggles in our mahogany dark crates of brass and leather?
Currently, and it’s a topic I thoroughly enjoy, we’re into multiverses and parallel universes. Cinematically we currently have Dr Strange 2, with a classic Marvel cacophony of fight scenes in colliding universes, and Everything Everywhere All at Once which I’m eagerly anticipating. In proper, written-word Science Fiction, Charles Stross has been exploring parallel Earths to great effect in his Merchant Princes series, and neatly side-steps the perils of writing near-future Science Fiction.
Shit, at the moment, the thought that a couple of universes along the shelf there’s a better version of this world — or at least one that doesn’t feel like it’s shooting itself in both feet and barbecuing the results — is worth a few moments of our time.
Ruth EJ Booth takes a keen-eyed wander in this territory in Noise and Sparks. Remember the Covid pandemic? Some folk seem to think it’s over, but only because they want it to be, so they shift themselves into a universe where it is over, apparently, dragging the rest of us behind.
I’m now standing on tippy-toes to see what the next SF theme will be: telepathy, maybe? Anyone care to take on The Chrysalids, bring it up to date?
It’ll need a label: hands up for ‘thinkpunk!’
* * *
Noel Chidwick
Editor-in-Chief
Shoreline of Infinity
June 2022
Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere
Chris Barnham
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 has the French windows open and is 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 didn’t know who else to call.”
The house falls silent as the last reveller 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 is 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 a 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 dialled 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.
* * *
After Fiji, she and Alex port to Tokyo for shopping, before a night in a cabin in the Himalayan foothills. They sit outside in canvas chairs and drink raksi with soda.
“I had a call from Byron. Remember him?”
“That wanker. He came over?” Alex is a silhouette against the star-freckled night.
“No. He called. Like, on the phone.”
“Scared you’d punch him again?”
“I never punched him.” But even as she denies it, Kelly recalls the last time she saw Byron. A London pub, he had a new job and was moving to Leeds. Come with me, he said. Get away from those airheads at the agency. They’re my friends, she shouted, and when he grabbed her arm to stop her leaving, she yanked it free and swung the other to deliver an open-handed whack on the side of his head. She didn’t look back.
“That him on the phone when the Fijians were there?”
“He sounded worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“No idea. He said people needed to know about something. Wanted my help getting the word out.”
“You’re definitely the girl for that.”
“It’s odd he didn’t port in. He said he’d come over, but never turned up.”
“Forget him,” Alex says. “If he doesn’t come, it’s not important. Where shall we go tomorrow?”
Kelly knows he’s right, but it bothers her. What was the research Byron w
I need another port jump. Clear my head.
It’s an odd thought, one she’s never had fully formed before, but it’s been there at the back of her mind, like the desire for a sharpening gin at the end of the day, or the first cigarette in the morning.
After Nepal, they port to Istanbul for breakfast of dark coffee and freshly baked pastries. They spend the afternoon and evening in Sorrento, where Kelly buys a new dress, and they have pizza and iced white wine in a garden overlooking the Bay of Naples. Clouds caress the summit of Vesuvius, giving the illusion of smoke from the volcano’s crater.
They port home late. Kelly’s tired and while Alex unpacks, she drifts through the rooms, touching the backs of chairs, running fingers along tabletops, as if to bring them fully back into reality and clear the fog in her head. She can’t recall where she slept the night before.
The phone’s still on the sofa, red light blinking. Kelly watches it wink at her for several minutes, vaguely conscious of Alex moving around deep in the house. A message? The thought surfaces like a fragment of driftwood from a wreck on the seabed. She picks up the phone.
“It’s me again.” Byron sounds different. He’s outdoors, and behind his voice there’s the grumble of an engine. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Kelly, you can’t tell anyone about this. Some people don’t like my research. I’ll explain when I get there but stay away from the portal.” He sounds worse than before – breathless and distracted. “And Kelly?” He’s not finished, but Kelly’s already thinking about how you delete these messages; no way is Alex hearing this. “I wanted to say I’m sorry how it ended with us.”
It takes her a couple of minutes cack-handed fumbling to junk the voicemail. She walks to the back of the house and watches the cubicle door. No activation light comes on.
* * *
Four days at work pass in a blur, and Kelly gets home early on Thursday to a note from Alex, pinned to the cubicle door: ‘Gone fishing in Maine. Dinner at that place in Dublin?’ Alex does a three-day week, and it’s not unusual for him to start partying when Kelly’s still working. She has papers to deal with, but they’re dull, and she can’t focus on them. Nor does Dublin appeal, with Alex a day ahead on the weekend.
Kelly thinks again about Byron. Despite his messages, he’s not appeared. What’s so urgent that he leaves messages promising to visit, but so unimportant that he never shows? How long would it take him to come over and tell her what’s on his mind? With Alex away, she decides to settle this. She taps her palmer, pulling up contacts. The last address she has for him is in Greenwich. There’s no personal terminal, but a street port’s nearby. She goes to the cubicle and jumps to south-east London.
Refreshed and light-headed, Kelly skips onto the street. It’s years since she’s been here, and back then the streets throbbed with visitors; pubs and cafes hummed all week long. Not now - half the shops are boarded-up; scraps of paper rustle underfoot; tufts of grass sprout between paving stones. Byron’s address is a brick terraced house, front garden cluttered with discarded computer cabinets and cracked monitors. Kelly presses the doorbell, then raps on the wooden door. The door scrapes inward to reveal a woman in a dressing gown.
“Is Byron in?”
“Who wants to know?” The woman looks her up and down.
“I’m a friend. My name’s Kelly.”
“Ah, he mentioned you. The PR lady.” She sketches air quotes with her fingers. “Contacts in the media.”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
“Do you know where I can find him?” Kelly asks. “He said he needed to talk to me.”
“That’s right. He’s gone to see you.”
“That’s what he said. But he never showed up.”
“He’s on his way.”
Kelly studies her face. The woman waits, like a chess player who’s just put her opponent in check.
“I don’t understand,” Kelly says. “I just came from my place. Did he go from another port, and we crossed?”
“Doesn’t use them.”
“He…?”
“Never uses them. He said he talked to you about this,” the woman says. “Some big deal about how he was going to get your help. People needed to know.” Air quotes again.
“Know what?”
“Not to use them.” She shrugs. “I don’t. Never trusted it.”
“I’m sorry,” Kelly says. “Let me get this straight. Byron’s coming to see me?”
“So he said.”
“But he’s not porting?”
“Nope.”
“So how is he…?” Her voice trails off. What even was the word? How is he getting to my place? How is he…travelling?
“How did you get here, love?”
“The public booth down the hill.”
“No, darling. How did you get from the booth to this house?” She glances down at Kelly’s shoes, and back to her face, eyebrows raised.
“He’s…walking?”
“He won’t use the port, like I said.”
Kelly stares at her. Is this a joke? Maybe Byron will appear in a minute and they’ll all laugh, go inside and drink coffee. She and Byron will talk about old times, and this woman – who is she, anyway? His wife? – this woman will turn out to be friendly instead of weird.
“Seriously?” Kelly says at last.
“Seriously.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know, love. Where’d you live?”
“The Cotswolds. Near Bath.”
“Nice,” she says. “So, got to be at least a hundred miles.”
Kelly has no idea how far that is. Does anyone? These days - when it’s as easy to be in Kyoto for tea as it is to go to the corner shop for milk - no one thinks about the spaces in between. Everywhere is just…everywhere. At least, everywhere you’d want to go. Anywhere else is nowhere.
“He left three days ago,” the woman goes on. “Must be important, don’t you think?”
“You’re saying he’s somewhere between here and my place? On some road somewhere?”
“Well, he ain’t got wings, darling.”
Kelly’s not sure what to do next. Go home and wait for Byron to turn up? How long will that take? The momentary sparkle from her port jump has faded and her head feels stuffed with cotton wool.
“Do you want to come in and rest for a bit, love? You look tired.” The woman holds the door open wider. The softness in her tone surprises Kelly.
“No. Thank you,” Kelly says. “I should get back.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Can I ask you something? What happened here?” Kelly gestures down the hill, indicating the rubbish-strewn streets, the formerly bustling town centre.
The woman frowns. “What do you mean?”
“It used to be busy, full of people.” For a moment, Kelly fears she’s angered the woman, casting disrespect on her neighbourhood, but when she speaks it’s clear the frown is a mark of pity, not anger.
“Where’ve you been, darling?” she says. “Isn’t it like this everywhere?”
* * *
The jump home revives her, and she puts on some sweats and sits with a glass of wine in the garden, overlooking the river. Alex messages to say he’s booked a table in Dublin, but she’s got a couple of hours. It’s easy to find an online map showing the road network between here and London. The map’s fifteen years old, but no one’s building any new roads, so it’s accurate enough.
