Shoreline of Infinity 31, page 8
“I’m sorry we didn’t talk more. I’m sorry that you’re not still here. I think you’d have liked them. Marlowe would have annoyed you with all their questions, Leighton would have talked to you about cheap crime novels, Herzog would have asked to see your knives.”
“I’ll miss you,” I murmur, “and… thank you. I hope I loved you when I knew you, as much as I love your memory.”
Marlowe, Leighton, and Herzog are waiting when I come back out with the books.
“We welcome you, writer, to our ensemble, our family,” Marlowe says, standing straight. A little formal for the three of us, but what should I expect from a playwright? “When each of us joined this caravan, we took on the name of a great artist. We would like to give you your name.” They hold a book towards me. Homage to Catalonia, not the Orwell I would expect. “We would give you the name Orwell, after the memoirist. May the legacy of your own story be as great as his.”
I realise the irony. I try not to laugh. I used to want to be like him, with that electric masculinity, that sense of moral purpose to my work. I know how he judged people like me, too soft, too weak, too queer.
For all Orwell’s influence, the world still fell apart. His legacy could not stop his words from being used to build exactly the future he was trying to prevent. And for all his unkind words for people like us, here he is. He survives as what we make of the parts of him we wish to keep.
In a hundred years or more, I don’t know what will survive of me. But neither did Alex Leighton. What should it matter what strangers remember of me in the world after this, when I am here, and I matter now?
“Thank you,” I say.
Carrion eaters and cockroaches, crawling over this dead world’s bones. But I want to leave, from my decay, the chance for something new to grow.
Heather Valentine is a queer speculative fiction writer based in Glasgow, Scotland. Her interests include knitting, fantasy RPGs and vintage horror films. She has previously had stories published in magazines and anthologies including We Were Always Here: A Queer Words Anthology, LampLight Magazine, and Unspeakable: A Queer Gothic Anthology.
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Art: Stephen Daly
Rescue
Andy McKell
Rescue is a story taken from Galaxies and Fantasies, an eclectic collection of tales from Andy McKell. The collection crosses genres from mythology to cosmology, fairytale to space opera, surrealism to hyper-reality. It is published by Elsewhen Press, featured in this issue with a Q&A with its founder Peter Buck.
“Can anyone hear me? Is anybody out there?”
I listen to the static crackling in my helmet’s headphones. All I’ve heard in three days is that damned static, and my comms batteries won’t hold out much longer. I’ve salvaged as many batteries as I could, but they aren’t designed to last for long and the ship’s main comms systems are trashed.
“Hello? Anyone out there?”
Anyway, battery life isn’t the issue. The breath of life is.
I look around the wreckage of my spacecraft. Broken hull plates lie around amid the scattered, shattered pieces of equipment and the splayed bodies of my crew, my shipmates.
It hurts me to look at them, even after three days.
Their screams replay in my head over and over, until they cut off as vacuum filled the ship.
We’d taken a hit from the aliens when we crossed the front line carrying urgent battle command data to the fleet commander.
It took out our engines and life support and... And most of my shipmates. The survivors struggled into spacesuits as the air hurricaned past us, carrying crewmembers out the gaping holes in the hull.
The pilot crash-landed on this damned asteroid. Better than drifting sunward and slowly burning up, I guess. She did fine, real fine. Nearly made it. Till we brushed a ridge and the hull ripped open.
That was the end. The ship was finished and...
And so were the rest of the crew.
I’d looked for survivors in the sections of the wreckage I could access. There were none – just the broken bodies of my friends. I scavenged their air: the air that should have kept them alive. It felt like I was stealing from them, the ones I’d worked and fought alongside. Grave-robbing from friends who’d not even had the dignity of a funeral. I hated myself. I tried not to look too closely at the mangled bodies as I detached their life support kits. I cannibalized the air tanks and my stomach churned with every act of desecration.
There’d been enough air to last me three days. Those three days are almost over.
“Can anyone hear me? Is anybody out there? 3-X-1 calling for help.”
No reply. I’ve been calling for three days. It’s about time to make my decision.
I take out my energy pistol and check it over, fumbling it in my suit’s thick gauntlets. Yeah, my finger fits into the trigger guard, designed for use while suited-up.
I stare down at it; the barrel glistening in a shaft of harsh starlight. A beautiful tool that saves lives or ends them.
The decision’s mine to take. The life’s mine. I’m not gonna suffocate to death. I’m gonna choose the way I go, and this way’s quick. I’ve made peace with my life.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the life behind me and the task ahead. I raise my pistol, touch the muzzle to my helmet’s face plate, hoping the blast melts it fast.
Will I have to watch it melt or will it be instant?
This isn’t the way it was supposed to be, to end. I’m staring at the muzzle. It’s shaking. I grab it with both hands. It steadies. A little.
It’s time.
Now or never.
I can’t do it. But I must. My racing heartbeats burn up the time I have left.
What’s that? I jerk my head around. I’d heard something.
Static in my ears. And something else. Something muffled, rhythmical. I don’t care right now what the hell it is as long as it makes me hold off squeezing the trigger.
Am I fading? Or is it the batteries, already? Doesn’t matter. I have to do it.
The sound takes on a shape. Words? I listen hard, my eyes still fixed on the pistol.
“3-X-1, are you receiving me?” A female voice: delicious, warm, enticing.
Oh, the joy of hearing a voice after these long days and just in time, just before... My faceplate fogs as my breathing intensifies. I push those thoughts down and holster my sidearm. I yell into the mic. “Hello! Receiving you. Identify yourself.”
“Search and Rescue here, looking for combat survivors. State your condition.” I hear a quaver of emotion in her voice. She must be real pleased to find me alive.
“Sole survivor. Short of air. Come quick.”
“We’ve detected your suit’s emergency beacon. Estimated travel time, three hours. Can you hold on?”
Can I hold on? I have to, somehow. “Damn right, I can.” I laugh. I laugh from joy and relief, or maybe insanity. “Listen, we’re a courier ship. We got hit in the battle. Carrying urgent data. Can you get here–”
“3-X-1, we have your location. Shut down your comms and suit beacon to save battery and avoid detection by the enemy.” It’s an order.
I understand her unspoken suggestion that I should save air by not talking so much. I laugh again. She’s right. She’s right, and she’s coming to save me and I will love her for the rest of my life.
I shut down the power and lie back, trying to breathe slow. Up above and all around me out there shine the stars the great empires are fighting over: stars that people were dying for. Dammit, they’re just points of light.
Kaltans versus Humans. Humans versus Kaltans. Smooth skin, scaly skin. Scaly skin, smooth skin. What’s the real difference? Living creatures. Starfarers. Explorers with families and loved ones.
But they slaughtered my loved ones.
That’s enough to hate them, enough to volunteer to slaughter them and their loved ones.
Who knows how it started? I don’t know. I don’t care. Help’s coming and her voice was the sweetest thing I ever heard.
My thoughts drift. I wonder what she looks like. She’d be an officer, standing tall and commanding. I wonder what her name is.
Oh no! A cold shudder runs through me. She’d given no call-sign.
What if she’s the enemy? They’ll blast me from out in space when they find me.
No, wait. I’d said I was a courier. The enemy’ll want the data. I have to destroy it but the consoles are dead and I can’t get to the data center. I’d need cutting equipment. I have none.
Ignoring her orders, I switch on my comms. “Hello, Search and Rescue craft? Identify yourself.”
“Calm down, 3-X-1. My call sign is Syrex-12. My name is Nartana, from the Astalan system.”
It sounds like the right kind of accent. But... “Astalan is behind enemy lines, Nartana.”
“Yes.” She pauses, then continues, speaking slowly. “I was away at cadet training when they came.” Another pause, a longer one. “I lost my family. I don’t want to talk about it.” She sounds genuinely broken up. I want to reach out to her but have no idea what to say.
“Save energy and air.” She cuts me off with a click.
I understand. There is one difference between the two sides. The enemy is merciless. Planets destroyed, mass slaughter, torture, slavery... Evil, evil, evil!
I force myself to calm down, to use less air.
She wouldn’t want to talk about it if she was telling the truth. And she sounded genuine.
But if she lied I’d brought the enemy here. They’ll take the data. I check my pistol again.
I drift off...
I dreamed about my own family, the lakeside house, the laughter and games and love...
Dreams turn to fears as I wake. If anything happens to my family, if the enemy takes our planet, how will I cope?
Friend or foe? Who had I invited to my deathbed scene?
I’d been brought up to trust. The war wrecked that. Was I a trusting kid or a combat veteran? Both. Neither.
I can do nothing but wait with suspicion and hope battling each other, a war boiling in my thoughts. What do I know for certain? I run the question through my mind a thousand times. I don’t know enough. Can I trust her?
Part of me pictures Nartana and me getting together and... I’d comfort her and thank her... And together...
Another part of me pictures alien horrors laughing as they stomp over my dead body to reach the data core.
The hours tick by. My worries continue to drain my soul.
A great shuddering of the floor wakes me from sleep. They must have landed nearby. I check my air gauge. No wonder I’d dozed off: I have so little air left. They’re just in time – if they are who they said.
I lie still. I’d strapped myself down behind some wreckage so I didn’t drift off into space. Huh! Makes no difference where I die, not really.
I wait until I see beams of light approaching. Their helmet torches bob and sway as the landing party make their ungainly way over the rough terrain and wreckage in almost-zero gravity.
They’re here! It’s time. Time to find out if I’m to be saved or slaughtered.
Friend or foe? Scaly or smooth? Kaltan or Human?
I draw my sidearm, almost fumbling it again in those clumsy gauntlets.
Woozy. Light-headed. Anoxia: shortage of oxygen. Move faster, people! Let me see you!
The first to arrive bends low to squeeze past a low-hanging sheet of hull plate. I aim and say a quiet prayer.
The spacesuit design’s familiar. One of ours!
The arrival straightens. I see a face lit by the suit helmet’s interior lights. She is beautiful: perfect face, perfect eyes, just... Perfect! And not the enemy.
Her face holds no expression. “3-X-1, you can put the weapon down.”
I know that voice. Yes, it is Nartana! I cry with relief and holster my pistol. I will love her for the rest of my life. Just like I dreamed about, we’ll get together and...
Another shape appears behind her. Bulky, tall. Too bulky, too tall. I feel a rush of fear. It lifts its head. I see its illuminated face through the visor and that alien spacesuit design.
“You damned traitor!” I scrabble for my sidearm but fumble it. Damned gauntlets! The pistol slips away into the wreckage.
“My family is hostage. I had no choice.” Her voice quavers, her eyes are wet. “I am so sorry.”
I look at her, at those four, beautiful faceted eyes set in a perfect scaly skin.
I look at her companion and shudder at the sight of those revolting liquid eyes set in a pink face.
The Human raises its weapon. I start to beg...
An energy bolt hits me, ripping me apart, and—
Andy was abducted by pulp Sci-Fi magazines and seduced by Noir in his teens. He worked in marketing, franchising, and computing before launching a web design company. Various anthologies feature his multi-genre stories and more novels are in development. He hopes you enjoy the story.
Cover: Alison Buck
The Park
Adam Marx
After publishing two stories in Issue 30, here is the third and final story from the winners of the XR Wordsmith’s Solarpunk Storytelling Competition held on the behalf of Extinction Rebellion. Find out more at www.solarpunkstorytelling.com
We look forward to seeing more stories in Shoreline of Infinity which explore the optimistic view of the direction of humanity – don’t let the dystopian do all the drama!
General submissions open in September – details are on
www.shorelineofinfinity.com
The child’s face was cold, with a coating of frost and an icicle hanging off the end of her chin.
The sun glinted off her forehead in fits and starts as it peeked through the clouds, but it was too little to warm her.
It was January, after all, and it had been a cloudy winter.
Jules always cut through the park on her way to work, but she liked it best this time of year. She liked the way the sun made the patches of snow seem to be illuminated from below in the early morning burst of colour. She liked the way her breath misted out and up into the sky, a sign of life in the still and frozen world. Few people were out walking, meaning she had it more or less to herself.
The centrepiece of the park was the statue. The statue of the little girl. Violent hunks of metal jutting out in different directions burst through the ground, as if the earth itself had lashed out in anger.
And in the middle: the girl. The girl with the pleading look and the outstretched hand begging for it to stop. It. All of it.
The statue had been installed in the dark of night nearly two decades earlier, placed by a group of parents of lost children. Lost them to floods. Lost them to fires. Lost them to asthma attacks. Lost them to bad water, bad storms, bad drivers who didn’t see the children playing.
Lost them to the rush of society, unwilling to pause, to stop, to see what it was doing. The authorities said they’d remove the statue by the end of the week.
But then people started coming.
The first one came around lunchtime, leaving a photo of her son, age five. He’d been swept away in the flood waters following a hurricane a couple of years earlier. Later, another, bringing flowers and a child’s teddy. Then more. And more.
There was the old man who left a photo of a family of five and a bulbous piece of mangled glass and stone. He’d lost his son, daughter-in-law, and three grandchildren when fires swept through their town out west. They’d been in their car trying to escape when the fires suddenly changed direction and overtook them. The glass was all that was left, the melted remains of an ornament he’d given them for the dashboard of their car. Something for them to remember him by, and which now served to remind him of them.
He’d come when he saw the memorial on the news. As did so many others.
When city workers finally arrived to remove the statue three days later, the crowd had grown, as had the remembrances. Photos, flowers, toys, cards, young and old, they all stretched out from the statue in a swirl of grief. Assembly and assemblage, alone and together.
Jules had been a little girl, just four at the time, but she remembered the moment. Television crews had begun camping out the day before, speaking with people who’d tell their stories of why they were there, who they’d lost, how far they’d travelled to see. To meet. To share. To mourn.
A hiss started in the back, a din rising as the workers tried to make their way through the crowd with their tools. Then, about two-thirds of the way through, one of the workers stumbled, knocking over a photo in a frame, shattering the glass and tearing the photo inside.
The man the worker had stepped around shouted, “NO!” and put his arm around his partner as they both began to weep.
The crowd, squeezing in tight, had turned and was now facing the workers. Wanting to avoid an altercation, the workers apologised and began backing away. Then one stopped and reached into his pocket, taking out a wallet. He removed a photo and set it among a nearby collection. Nodding at a family next to him, he turned back to face the statue, his eyes red.
Jules’ own parents had made the pilgrimage down to the site. Her twin sister had been killed six months prior when hit by a car while riding her bike. Jules herself had been injured in the accident and had only recently returned home from the hospital. The community had been complaining for years about how dangerous the road was and the lack of space for pedestrians and for children to play. Yet not even the death of Jules’ sister had seemed to be enough to spur action.
The city government realised after the failed removal attempt that destroying the statue and memorials would make for bad optics, particularly with an election weeks away. During a visit to the site, the mayor, flanked by council members, announced that the statue would not be destroyed, but rather would stay through the end of the year before being transferred to another location.
