Read Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe Online

Authors: Bill Fawcett,J. E. Mooney

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Collections & Anthologies

Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

BOOK: Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe
6.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
SHADOWS OF THE
NEW SUN

Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

Edited by

J. E. MOONEY AND BILL FAWCETT

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK 
NEW YORK
BY GENE WOLFE

FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

THE WIZARD KNIGHT

The Knight

The Wizard

THE BOOK OF THE SHORT SUN

On Blue’s Waters

In Green’s Jungles

Return to the Whorl

THE BOOK OF THE NEW SUN

Shadow & Claw (comprising The Shadow of the Torturer and The Claw of the Conciliator)

Sword & Citadel (comprising The Sword of the Lictor and The Citadel of the Autarch)

THE BOOK OF THE LONG SUN

Litany of the Long Sun 
(comprising Nightside of the Long Sun and Lake of the Long Sun)

Epiphany of the Long Sun 
(comprising Caldé of the Long Sun and Exodus from the Long Sun)

NOVELS

The Fifth Head of Cerberus The Devil in a Forest

Peace

Free Live Free

The Urth of the New Sun

Latro in the Mist 
(comprising Soldier of the Mist and Soldier of Arete)

Soldier of Sidon

There Are Doors

Castleview

Pandora by Holly Hollander Pirate Freedom

An Evil Guest

The Sorcerer’s House

Home Fires

The Land Across (forthcoming)

NOVELLAS

The Death of Doctor Island Seven American Nights

COLLECTIONS

Endangered Species

Storeys from the Old Hotel Castle of Days

The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories

Strange Travelers

Innocents Aboard

Starwater Strains

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

SHADOWS OF THE NEW SUN: STORIES IN HONOR OF GENE WOLFE

Copyright © 2013 by Bill Fawcett & Associates

All rights reserved.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor
® 
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN978-0-7653-3458-9 (hardcover) 

ISBN978-1-4668-1416-5 (e-book)

Tor books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945 extension 5442 or write [email protected].

First Edition: August 2013

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Foreword copyright © 2013 by Jean Rabe.

“Frostfree” copyright © 2013 by Gene Wolfe.

“A Lunar Labyrinth” copyright © 2013 by Neil Gaiman.

“The Island of the Death Doctor” copyright © 2013 by Joe Haldeman.

“A Touch of Rosemary” copyright © 2013 by Timothy Zahn.

“Ashes” copyright © 2013 by Steven Savile.

“Bedding” copyright © 2013 by David Drake.

“. . . And Other Stories” copyright © 2013 by Nancy Kress.

“The Island of Time” copyright © 2013 by Jack Dann.

“The She-Wolf’s Hidden Grin” copyright © 2013 by Michael Swanwick.

“Snowchild” copyright © 2013 by Michael A. Stackpole.

“Tourist Trap” copyright © 2013 by Mike Resnick and Barry Malzberg.

“Epistoleros” copyright © 2013 by Aaron Allston.

“Rhubarb and Beets” copyright © 2013 by Todd McCaffrey.

“Tunes from Limbo, But I Digress” copyright © 2013 by Judi Rohrig.

“In the Shadow of the Gate” copyright © 2013 by William C. Dietz.

“Soldier of Mercy” copyright © 2013 by Marc Aramini.

“The Dreams of the Sea” copyright © 2013 by Jody Lynn Nye.

“The Logs” copyright © 2013 by David Brin.

“Sea of Memory” copyright © 2013 by Gene Wolfe.

Contents

Foreword, J. E. Mooney

Frostfree, Gene Wolfe

A Lunar Labyrinth, Neil Gaiman

The Island of the Death Doctor, Joe Haldeman

A Touch of Rosemary, Timothy Zahn

Ashes, Steven Savile

Bedding, David Drake

. . . And Other Stories, Nancy Kress

The Island of Time, Jack Dann

The She-Wolf’s Hidden Grin, Michael Swanwick

Snowchild, Michael A. Stackpole

Tourist Trap, Mike Resnick and Barry Malzberg

Epistoleros, Aaron Allston

Rhubarb and Beets, Todd McCaffrey

Tunes from Limbo, But I Digress, Judi Rohrig

In the Shadow of the Gate, William C. Dietz

Soldier of Mercy, Marc Aramini

The Dreams of the Sea, Jody Lynn Nye

The Logs, David Brin

Sea of Memory, Gene Wolfe

Foreword

G
ene Wolfe got it wrong.

Completely.

Utterly.

Wrong.

I met Gene a decade ago when the World Horror Convention 
was held in Chicago, and he and Neil Gaiman were guests of honor. I was on a tight deadline, and so allowed myself only one day at the convention. I picked Friday because I wanted to attend a writing panel Gene was hosting. I’d read—and loved—some of his novels, and Chicago was only an hour away.

His session was in one of the hotel’s ballrooms, and there was a sizable crowd. I picked a spot toward the back and pulled out my notebook.

Gene was seated behind a skirted table on a platform, and he looked to be analyzing his audience, bringing to mind the image of a judge holding sway over a courtroom.

He said that he wanted to know where we were—the audience—in terms of writing so he could better offer advice. To that end, he asked everyone who had submitted fiction to a professional market to raise a hand. Well more than a few hands went up. He decided to define it further.

“How many of you have had short stories published?” Some of the hands went down.

“How many of you have written novels?”

Only three hands remained.

“More than one novel?”

At this point my hand was the only one up.

He stabbed his finger in the air in my direction.

“How many novels have you written?” he asked.

“A half-dozen or so,” I replied.

“You!” He stabbed the air again. “You! Why are you here?” I was thoroughly intimidated and regretted not picking another 
panel to attend.

“I thought you could teach me something,” I told him. “You!” He turned the finger so it was like a hook, and he waggled 
it at me. “You! Up here with me. There is nothing I can teach you.”

He proceeded to call it the “Gene and Jean Show,” and I spent the next hour sharing his panel, remaining thoroughly intimidated, but having a fine time.

We ran into each other again at various conventions—Windycon, World Fantasy, and the like. Always he remembered our chance encounter at World Horror in Chicago. Later we’d get together with mutual friends Bill Fawcett and Jody Lynn Nye for dinners. And still later, Gene and I would meet for lunches . . . sometimes for no particular reason, sometimes so he could pass over his dog, Bobby, who would stay at my place while his master was traveling.

My literary hero had become my dear friend. As I type this, Bobby is curled under my desk, his feet twitching and tail wagging as he’s caught up in some marvelous dream. Gene is in Alabama, a guest of honor at Deep South Con.

So I can tell you with all honesty and conviction that Gene Wolfe got it wrong.

Utterly.

Completely.

He said there was nothing he could teach me. But he did—about the craft of writing, but more about the intricacies, complexities, sorrows, and joys of life.

The statement rings true for every single soul with a tale in this book. Despite busy schedules and pressing deadlines, this stellar collection of authors—among them Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker Award winners,
New York Times
bestsellers, and international bestsellers—found time to write a story in honor of Gene Wolfe. In some cases the authors
insisted
they be included, their other obligations be damned.

All because Gene Wolfe got it wrong.

Gene Wolfe taught every one of us—and continues to teach us—a great deal.

We are privileged to be in his debt and in his shadow.

J. E. Mooney,
 Summer 2012
Frostfree

GENE WOLFE

 

R
oy Tabak had a new refrigerator. There could be no doubt of that. It gleamed. It was wider than his old one; it was taller, too. It made everything else in his kitchen look small and a trifle dirty. Brand new, he decided, and styled in a subtly pleasing way nothing in the store was. No doubt he had special-ordered. No doubt it had been delivered, and he had opened the door for the delivery and exchanged a few tired jokes with the men who brought it. When they had gone, he had no doubt wiped it down and waxed it with appliance wax.

Roy Tabak sold refrigerators, and he could remember none of that.

He opened the main compartment. There was food in it, and it looked good. There was beer in it, too, twenty bottles as least. It was not his brand, and the food was not his. What was that green stuff?

Movers, clearly, had been moving furniture and so forth into a new apartment. There had not been room enough in the van for this large refrigerator, so they had made a separate trip for it. They had put it in his apartment by mistake. No doubt they had been amateurs, friends helping some friend move. They had failed to notice that the refrigerator had been full of food and beer.

It was all very simple and convincing, and it would be more simple and convincing after a beer. Still more after six or eight. Aloud, Roy Tabak said, “Hell and damn!”

“If you are unable to find that which you seek,” his new refrigerator said politely, “I may be able to direct you, sir.”

Roy Tabak went into the living room and sat down. How many beers had he had? None at all. He had just gotten home from work. Besides, beer didn’t do that. He took off his suit coat and hung it almost neatly in the hall closet, loosened his tie, then removed it altogether and draped it over the back of a chair. His collar was not tight, but he unbuttoned it anyway. Tight collars could make you hear voices, right?

After much searching, enlivened by some pacing up and down, during which he was careful not to look through his cramped little dining room into his kitchen, the phone book provided the number of the Free Psychiatric Hotline—“Trained Psycholagists on Duty 24/7.” The misspelling of “psychologists” did nothing to increase his confidence, but he dialed the number anyway.

“Free Psychiatric Hotline. How can we help you?”

“It’s not normal to hear voices, is it?”

“That depends. You’re hearing mine right now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t mean like that,” Roy said. “You know what I mean.”

“Voices that accuse you of things?”

“No.”

“Voices that urge you to commit murder?”

“Huh-uh. This voice offered to help me find something in my—I mean in the refrigerator in my kitchen.”

“Ummm.”

“It was very polite. Like a woman’s voice, but like the noise a refrigerator makes when it runs. You know.”

“I wish I did. Is there a woman there with you?”

Roy Tabak winced. “No. No, there’s not.”

“Maybe a neighbor?”

Mrs. Jackson was not at all bad looking; there had been times when he had envied Mr. Jackson. Mrs. Adcock was a bit too old. “No,” he said. “I’m alone.”

“Perhaps someone just dropped in. Someone selling something.”

Dahlia—over in Lingerie—was hotter than hell. Roy said, “I sell things myself. Stoves, refrigerators, trash compactors, microwaves. Stuff like that. I’m the only one in here who sells things.”

“What do the others do?”

“There aren’t any others.”

“I see. How often have you heard the voices?”

“Just one voice, and I’ve only heard it once.”

“Okay. . . . It was probably somebody outside, or else a radio or something. If you hear these voices again, call back.”

Feeling defeated, Roy said, “Sure.”

“Especially if they want you to kill people. Or kill yourself. I’ve been looking through the index, but there’s nothing about finding stuff in the refrigerator, see? So what I need is something that’s here in DUFFY AND STANKY.”

“Uh-huh.” Roy Tabak hung up. It had been a dream. Almost certainly it had been a dream that he had somehow taken for reality. He would call out to the refrigerator, and it would not reply.

A little later, when he felt more secure.

What had happened to his tie? He switched on the TV, winced, and muted the sound. Baseball was never on when he wanted to watch it. Somebody must be in charge of that.

“We single men,” he said, “we like to go out at night. We cruise the bars, and now and then we hook up. You start the game around seven-thirty, and we don’t watch because we know we won’t get to see anything past the fourth inning.”

The TV remained muted. It would be nice, Roy Tabak reflected, if they would build TVs that listened to you.

He returned to the kitchen, half expecting that his old refrigerator would be there. The new refrigerator still gleamed. It had no eyes, no nose, and no mouth, yet it somehow looked quiet. And helpful. It was eager to help. You could see that.

Both his kitchen chairs were narrow, shiny, and much less than comfortable. He pulled one out just the same and sat down on it to study the refrigerator.

The refrigerator studied him back. After five minutes or so, he got it. The freezer door was opaque from outside but transparent from inside, sort of like the security mirrors in the store. The refrigerator’s eyes were behind it. Watching.

He got up, opened the food storage door, and got a beer. It was a SUPER-URB lager, brewed in Al Fashir, New Jersey. He opened it, said, “Here’s to you,” and drank. It was better than his brand.

There were corn chips in the bread box. He opened the bag. “I don’t suppose you have any chip dip?”

“I have three,” his new refrigerator said politely. “Guavacado, whipped kasseri, and fava- bean habas. Which would you prefer?”

Roy Tabak sipped his beer, rose, opened his new refrigerator, and took out the green stuff.

“Ah! The guavacado. Good choice, sir.”

It was in an oddly shaped container so transparent as to be almost invisible. The green paste it held tasted just fine on a corn chip.

“I have a talking refrigerator,” Roy Tabak said. He gulped beer. “Do you know what that proves? It proves that the world is one hell of a lot more complicated than I thought.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Roy scooped up more guavacado dip. “Are you a Kelvinator?”

“No, sir.”

“Mmmm.” He munched a chip. “Whirlpool?”

“No, sir.”

“KitchenAid?”

“No, sir. I am your refrigerator, sir. It might be best to leave it at that.”

“Sure.”

“I am here to help you.” Roy Tabak’s new refrigerator sounded soothing, almost motherly.

He sipped more beer and swallowed. “You’re from the government, right?”

“No, sir. The WSPC, sir.”

“Not the government.”

“No, sir. We are a tax-exempt foundation, sir. In law, I mean.”

“A foundation of refrigerators?” Roy Tabak scooped guavacado dip onto a fresh corn chip.

“No, sir. A foundation of persons. I say we because I am a possession of the Society. Need I explain further?”

Chewing, Roy Tabak nodded.

“Very well. You are familiar with dogs, I hope.”

“I don’t own one,” Roy Tabak told his refrigerator, “but my folks adopted a greyhound named Chester when I was a kid. They said he was too old to race, but he was faster than a million-dollar microwave.”

“Clearly you observed him, sir. Because you did, you must have observed that this Chester employed the pronoun to which you objected when referring to your family and himself. He might have said we are going to the beach, for example.”

“You can’t take dogs to the beach,” Roy Tabak told his new refrigerator. “They’re not allowed.”

The telephone rang.

“Excuse me.” He rose and went into his living room. “Hello.”

“Roy, you dog! Who’s the fat broad?” It was Jerry Pitt from Gourmet Foods.

Roy Tabak tried to remember. That girl he had talked to in the Home Office, had she been fat? Not very, but his Aunt Irene’s daughters were all fat. “Probably a cousin,” he said.

“Sure. Just staying with you until she can get a job. I’ve got it.”

“Wait a minute.” Roy Tabak thought frantically. “I’ve got this new service, see. A—whatchacallum. An answering service. It’s better than an answering machine because mine keeps breaking. You phoned, right? And this girl answered. You probably tried to date her.”

“Roy, Roy, Roy! Come off it. Let’s get real.”

Yeah
, Roy Tabak thought,
wouldn’t I love to!

“I came over to your building, see?” Jerry sounded impatient. “And I rang the bell downstairs and somebody buzzed me in. So I went up to your place. Do I have to keep telling you?”

“Go ahead,” Roy Tabak said. “I’m listening.”

“I knocked and she answered the door. You probably told her not to, but she did it anyway. I said, ‘Where’s Roy?’ And she said you hadn’t come home yet and did I want to come in and wait for you? She said she’d get me a beer or some ice cream. I said, ‘No thanks and have a nice day,’ and I beat it.”

“Listen, Jerry, this is serious.”

“She’s married, huh?”

“There was really a woman in my apartment? You’re not shitting me?”

“Hell, no. You mean you don’t know about her? She was a burglar or something?”

“No, but it’s complicated. What did she look like?”

“Well . . . fat, like I said. Big and really heavy. She wouldn’t be bad looking if she lost a hundred and fifty pounds. Hell, she’s not all that bad now. Blond, blue eyes, sort of a square face, only fat cheeks, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. What else?”

“A white dress and a white apron. Sort of a gag necklace. One of those novelty necklaces. Little bottles, all different colors, strung together. Beer and Pepsi. I remember those.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Roy Tabak said.

“One was champagne—that was the big bottle in the middle. There was a red bottle, too. I think it must’ve been Tabasco sauce.”

Roy felt impatient, but tried not to sound like it. “How old would you say she was?”

“Twenty-five, maybe. She could have been younger, though. Great big chicks look older, you know?”

“Sure. Go on.”

“No rings. I looked for them, you know how you do.”

“Only she wanted you to come in for a beer, and you wouldn’t do it.”

“I got Deedee, you know? Besides, I’d never do a thing like that to you.”

Roy Tabak took a deep breath. “You said, ‘Hi, I’m Jerry Pitt and I’m a friend of Roy’s.’ Something like that?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“But she didn’t tell you her name?”

“Nope.”

“She told you something. What was it?”

“Nothing. She didn’t tell me anything.”

“Jerry, listen to me and listen real good. Are you listening, dumbfuck?”

“Hey, you don’t have to get rough.”

“I’d rather not, Jerry. But I work in Appliances and you work in Gourmet Foods. I’m lifting heavy stuff all day while you’re pushing cookies. What was her name?”

“I’ll tell you, Roy. Honest.”

“You’d better. What was it?”

“She never said her name, only she was wearing one of those little name pins like waitresses have on sometimes.”

“Keep talking, Jerry.”

“Well, I read what was on it. It said Frostfree. All one word. I used to know a guy named Frost once. Was it Ed? Wait a minute . . .”

“Don’t matter. Listen, I’ll call you back.”

“Earl! That was it. Earl Frost.”

“I’ll call you back,” Roy repeated, and hung up.

Returning to the kitchen, he straddled a chrome- and-plastic chair and sat, resting his arms on the back. “Do you still talk?”

“Yes, sir,” replied his new refrigerator.

“Good.” Thoughtfully, Roy Tabak loaded a last corn chip. “You’ve got a little plate on your freezer door. It says ‘Frostfree.’ ”

“Yes, sir. It indicates, correctly, that I need never be defrosted— this even though my freezer remains frigid at all times.”

“I know what it means. Jerry Pitt came over and rang the bell. You buzzed him in.” Roy tapped a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, lit it, and inhaled. His new refrigerator remained silent. At last he said, “Why did you do that?”

“I hoped your caller might be a young woman, sir.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“You wanted some female company?” Roy blew smoke through his nose.

“For you, sir. It is my mission.”

“You want to fix me up.”

“Yes, sir. Precisely.”

More smoke. “That’s a whole lot to take on, for a refrigerator.”

“I’m acutely conscious of it, sir. May I explain? The WSPC has taken an interest in your case.”

Roy ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on the kitchen table. “I’m a case.”

“Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.”

“A mental case.”

“Oh, no, sir!”

“Let’s get back to Jerry. When he came to the door, a girl opened it. That girl was wearing the little plate from your door. She was wearing it, or one just like it. Was she from that outfit you mentioned?”

“The WSPC, sir? Yes, sir, she was—that is to say, I am. I belong the foundation, sir. It is my owner.”

“That was you? You were the one who answered the door?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like another beer, sir?”

“Yeah.” Roy Tabak opened his new refrigerator and took out a longneck; its label read super-urb. “If I drink enough of these, you may start to make sense.”

“I’m a very sensible machine, sir, well designed, solidly built, and useful. I will provide many years of service.”

“What about when you’re a girl? Are you still a sensible girl then?”

“Yes, sir. I am sensible in both forms.”

“You can change shape?”

“Transform, sir. Yes, sir, I can and do. May I explain?”

Roy Tabak nodded.

“I began, sir, as an effort of the appliance industry. You are familiar with the appliance industry.”

Roy nodded again. “Very.”

“It was desired, sir, to create a single appliance which would serve as both a refrigerator and a dishwasher.”

“That’s crazy!”

“No, sir. Only difficult. It was soon realized that my dishwashing mechanism could not be interior, sir. My interior must be kept cold at all times in order to preserve the just-harvested freshness of vegetables, for example.”

BOOK: Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe
6.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

God Hates Us All by Hank Moody, Jonathan Grotenstein
Salvation of the Damned by Theresa Meyers
Salty Dog Talk by Bill Beavis
The Texas Twist by John Vorhaus
Wings (A Black City Novel) by Elizabeth Richards
Seduced in Secret by Shiloh Walker
One Day in Oradour by Helen Watts