http://escapepod.org The Science Fiction Podcast Magazine. Each week Escape Pod delivers science fiction short stories from today's best authors. Listen today, and hear the new sound of science fiction! Fri, 25 May 2012 21:12:36 +0000 en hourly 1 2005-2012 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0 editor@escapepod.org (Mur Lafferty) editor@escapepod.org (Mur Lafferty) science fiction 1440 http://escapepod.org/wp-content/images/pod-org-icon300.jpg http://escapepod.org 144 144 The Science Fiction Podcast Magazine The Science Fiction Podcast Magazine. Each week Escape Pod delivers science fiction short stories from today's best authors. Listen today, and hear the new sound of science fiction! science fiction, sf, stories, audiobooks, storytelling, fiction, short fiction, short story Mur Lafferty Mur Lafferty editor@escapepod.org no no http://escapepod.org/2012/05/24/ep346-hawksbill-station/ http://escapepod.org/2012/05/24/ep346-hawksbill-station/#comments Thu, 24 May 2012 20:56:30 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3390 http://escapepod.org/2012/05/24/ep346-hawksbill-station/feed/ 0 1:45:41 By Robert Silverberg Read by Paul Tevis Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Galaxy Magazine All stories by Robert Silverberg All stories read by Paul Tevis Rated 15 and up Hawksbill Station by Robert Silverberg Barrett was the uncrowned K[...] By Robert Silverberg Read by Paul Tevis Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Galaxy Magazine All stories by Robert Silverberg All stories read by Paul Tevis Rated 15 and up Hawksbill Station by Robert Silverberg Barrett was the uncrowned King of Hawksbill Station. He had been there the longest; he had suffered the most; he had the deepest inner resources of strength. Before his accident, he had been able to whip any man in the place. Now he was a cripple, but he still had that aura of power that gave him command. When there were problems at the Station, they were brought to Barrett. That was axiomatic. He was the king. He ruled over quite a kingdom, too. In effect it was the whole world, pole to pole, meridian to meridian. For what it was worth. It wasn’t worth very much. Now it was raining again. Barrett shrugged himself to his feet in the quick, easy gesture that cost him an infinite amount of carefully concealed agony, and shuffled to the door of his hut. Rain made him impatient:. the pounding of those great greasy drops against the corrugated tin roof was enough even to drive a Jim Barrett loony. He nudged the door open. Standing in the doorway, Barrett looked out over his kingdom. Barren rock, nearly to the horizon. A shield of raw dolomite going on and on. Raindrops danced and bounced on that continental slab of rock. No trees. No grass. Behind Barrett’s hut lay the sea, gray and vast. The sky was gray too, even when it wasn’t raining. He hobbled out into the rain. Manipulating his crutch was getting to be a simple matter for him now. He leaned comfortably, letting his crushed left foot dangle. A rockslide had pinned him last year during a trip to the edge of the Inland Sea. Back home, Barrett would have been fitted with prosthetics and that would have been the end of it: a new ankle, a new instep, refurbished ligaments and tendons. But home was a billion years away, and home there’s no returning. The rain hit him hard. Barrett was a big man, six and a half feet tall, with hooded dark eyes, a jutting nose, a chin that was a monarch among chins. He had weighed two hundred fifty pounds in his prime, in the good old agitating days when he had carried banners and pounded out manifestos. But now he was past sixty and beginning to shrink a little, the skin getting loose around the places where the mighty muscles used to be. It was hard to keep your weight in Hawksbill Station. The food was nutritious, but it lacked intensity. A man got to miss steak. Eating brachiopod stew and trilobite hash wasn’t the same thing at all. Barrett was past all bitterness, though. That was another reason why the men regarded him as the leader. He didn’t scowl. He didn’t rant. He was resigned to his fate, tolerant of eternal exile, and so he could help the others get over that difficult, heart-clawing period of transition. A figure arrived, jogging through the rain: Norton. The doctrinaire Khrushchevist with the Trotskyite leanings. A small, excitable man who frequently appointed himself messenger whenever there was news at the Station. He sprinted toward Barrett’s hut, slipping and sliding over the naked rocks. Barrett held up a meaty hand. “Whoa, Charley. Take it easy or you’ll break your neck!” Norton halted in front of the hut. The rain had pasted the widely spaced strands of his brown hair to his skull. His eyes had the fixed, glossy look of fanaticism—or perhaps just astigmatism. He gasped for breath and staggered into the hut, shaking himself like a wet puppy. He obviously had run all the way from the main building of the Station, three hundred yards away—a long dash over rock that slippery. “Why are you standing around in the rain?” Norton asked. “To get wet,” said Barrett, following him inside. “What’s the news?” “The Hammer’s glowing. We’re getting company.” “How do you know it’s a live shipment?” “It’s been glowing for half an hour. That means they’re taking precautions. They’re sending a new prisoner. Anyway, no supplies[...] Podcasts Robert Silverberg no no http://escapepod.org/2012/05/17/ep345-the-paper-menagerie/ http://escapepod.org/2012/05/17/ep345-the-paper-menagerie/#comments Thu, 17 May 2012 19:08:48 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3372 http://escapepod.org/2012/05/17/ep345-the-paper-menagerie/feed/ 0 0:35:19 By Ken Liu Read by Rajan Khanna Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction All stories by Ken Liu All stories read by Rajan Khanna Rated 10 and up  The Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu One of my earliest m[...] By Ken Liu Read by Rajan Khanna Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction All stories by Ken Liu All stories read by Rajan Khanna Rated 10 and up  The Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu One of my earliest memories starts with me sobbing. I refused to be soothed no matter what Mom and Dad tried. Dad gave up and left the bedroom, but Mom took me into the kitchen and sat me down at the breakfast table. “Kan, kan,” she said, as she pulled a sheet of wrapping paper from on top of the fridge. For years, Mom carefully sliced open the wrappings around Christmas gifts and saved them on top of the fridge in a thick stack. She set the paper down, plain side facing up, and began to fold it. I stopped crying and watched her, curious. She turned the paper over and folded it again. She pleated, packed, tucked, rolled, and twisted until the paper disappeared between her cupped hands. Then she lifted the folded-up paper packet to her mouth and blew into it, like a balloon. “Kan,” she said. “Laohu.” She put her hands down on the table and let go. A little paper tiger stood on the table, the size of two fists placed together. The skin of the tiger was the pattern on the wrapping paper, white background with red candy canes and green Christmas trees. I reached out to Mom’s creation. Its tail twitched, and it pounced playfully at my finger. “Rawrr-sa,” it growled, the sound somewhere between a cat and rustling newspapers. I laughed, startled, and stroked its back with an index finger. The paper tiger vibrated under my finger, purring. “Zhe jiao zhezhi,” Mom said. This is called origami. I didn’t know this at the time, but Mom’s kind was special. She breathed into them so that they shared her breath, and thus moved with her life. This was her magic. # Dad had picked Mom out of a catalog. One time, when I was in high school, I asked Dad about the details. He was trying to get me to speak to Mom again. He had signed up for the introduction service back in the spring of 1973. Flipping through the pages steadily, he had spent no more than a few seconds on each page until he saw the picture of Mom. I’ve never seen this picture. Dad described it: Mom was sitting in a chair, her side to the camera, wearing a tight green silk cheongsam. Her head was turned to the camera so that her long black hair was draped artfully over her chest and shoulder. She looked out at him with the eyes of a calm child. “That was the last page of the catalog I saw,” he said. The catalog said she was eighteen, loved to dance, and spoke good English because she was from Hong Kong. None of these facts turned out to be true. He wrote to her, and the company passed their messages back and forth. Finally, he flew to Hong Kong to meet her. “The people at the company had been writing her responses. She didn’t know any English other than ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’” What kind of woman puts herself into a catalog so that she can be bought? The high school me thought I knew so much about everything. Contempt felt good, like wine. Instead of storming into the office to demand his money back, he paid a waitress at the hotel restaurant to translate for them. “She would look at me, her eyes halfway between scared and hopeful, while I spoke. And when the girl began translating what I said, she’d start to smile slowly.” He flew back to Connecticut and began to apply for the papers for her to come to him. I was born a year later, in the Year of the Tiger. # At my request, Mom also made a goat, a deer, and a water buffalo out of wrapping paper. They would run around the living room while Laohu chased after them, growling. When he caught them he would press down until the air went out of them and they became just flat, folded-up pieces of paper. I would then have to blow into them to re-inflate them so they could r[...] Podcasts Ken Liu no no http://escapepod.org/2012/05/15/ep314-movement-hugo-repost/ http://escapepod.org/2012/05/15/ep314-movement-hugo-repost/#comments Tue, 15 May 2012 14:22:54 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3364 http://escapepod.org/2012/05/15/ep314-movement-hugo-repost/feed/ 0 0:00:01 If you listened to this back when it aired, then you’ve heard it, but I’m reposting it here for the benefit of people who want to experience all the Hugo nominees in a row! By Nancy Fulda Read by Marguerite Kenner Discuss on our forums. [...] If you listened to this back when it aired, then you’ve heard it, but I’m reposting it here for the benefit of people who want to experience all the Hugo nominees in a row! By Nancy Fulda Read by Marguerite Kenner Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Nancy Fulda All stories read by Marguerite Kenner Movement By Nancy Fulda It is sunset. The sky is splendid through the panes of my bedroom window; billowing layers of cumulous blazing with refracted oranges and reds. I think if only it weren’t for the glass, I could reach out and touch the cloudscape, perhaps leave my own trail of turbulence in the swirling patterns that will soon deepen to indigo. But the window is there, and I feel trapped. Behind me my parents and a specialist from the neurological research institute are sitting on folding chairs they’ve brought in from the kitchen, quietly discussing my future. They do not know I am listening. They think that, because I do not choose to respond, I do not notice they are there. “Would there be side effects?” My father asks. In the oppressive heat of the evening, I hear the quiet Zzzapof his shoulder laser as it targets mosquitoes. The device is not as effective as it was two years ago: the mosquitoes are getting faster. My father is a believer in technology, and that is why he contacted the research institute. He wants to fix me. He is certain there is a way. “There would be no side effects in the traditional sense,”the specialist says. I like him even though his presence makes me uncomfortable. He chooses his words very precisely. “We’re talking about direct synaptic grafting, not drugs. The process is akin to bending a sapling to influence the shape of the grown tree. We boost the strength of key dendritic connections and allow brain development to continue naturally. Young neurons are very malleable.” “And you’ve done this before?” I do not have to look to know my mother is frowning. My mother does not trust technology. She has spent the last ten years trying to coax me into social behavior by gentler means. She loves me, but she does not understand me. She thinks I cannot be happy unless I am smiling and laughing and running along the beach with other teenagers. “The procedure is still new, but our first subject was a young woman about the same age as your daughter. Afterwards, she integrated wonderfully. She was never an exceptional student, but she began speaking more and had an easier time following classroom procedure.” “What about Hannah’s…talents?”my mother asks. I know she is thinking about my dancing; also the way I remember facts and numbers without trying. “Would she lose those?” The specialist’s voice is very firm, and I like the way he delivers the facts without trying to cushion them. “It’s a matter of trade-offs, Mrs. Didier. The brain cannot be optimized for everything at once. Without treatment, some children like Hannah develop into extraordinary individuals. They become famous, change the world, learn to integrate their abilities into the structures of society. But only a very few are that lucky. The others never learn to make friends, hold a job, or live outside of institutions.” “And… with treatment?” “I cannot promise anything, but the chances are very good that Hannah will lead a normal life.” I have pressed my hand to the window. The glass feels cold and smooth beneath my palm. It appears motionless although I know at the molecular level it is flowing. Its atoms slide past each other slowly, so slowly; a transformation no less inevitable for its tempo. I like glass — also stone — because it does not change very quickly. I will be dead, and so will all of my relatives and their descendants, before the deformations will be visible without a microscope. I feel my mother’s hands on my shoulders. She has come up behind me and now she turns me so that I must either look in her eyes or pull away. I lo[...] Podcasts Nancy Fulda no no http://escapepod.org/2012/05/10/ep344-the-homecoming/ http://escapepod.org/2012/05/10/ep344-the-homecoming/#comments Fri, 11 May 2012 01:00:59 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3357 http://escapepod.org/2012/05/10/ep344-the-homecoming/feed/ 0 0:47:06 By Mike Resnick Read by Patrick Bazile Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Mike Resnick All stories read by Patrick Bazile Rated 10 and up The Homecoming by Mike Resnick I don’t know which bothers me more, my[...] By Mike Resnick Read by Patrick Bazile Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Mike Resnick All stories read by Patrick Bazile Rated 10 and up The Homecoming by Mike Resnick I don’t know which bothers me more, my lumbago or my arthritis. One day it’s one, one day it’s the other. They can cure cancer and transplant every damned organ in your body; you’d think they could find some way to get rid of aches and pains. Let me tell you, growing old isn’t for sissies. I remember that I was having a typical dream. Well, typical for me, anyway. I was climbing the four steps to my front porch, only when I got to the third step there were six more, so I climbed them and then there were ten more, and it went on and on. I’d probably still be climbing them if the creature hadn’t woke me up. It stood next to my bed, staring down at me. I blinked a couple of times, trying to focus my eyes, and stared back, sure this was just an extension of my dream. It was maybe six feet tall, its skin a glistening, almost metallic silver, with multi-faceted bright red eyes like an insect. Its ears were pointed and batlike, and moved independently of its head and each other. Its mouth jutted out a couple of inches like some kind of tube, and looked like it was only good for sucking fluids. Its arms were slender, with no hint of the muscles required to move them, and its fingers were thin and incredibly elongated. It was as weird a nightmare figure as I’d dreamed up in years. Finally it spoke, in a voice that sounded more like a set of chimes than anything else. “Hello, Dad,” it said. That’s when I knew I was awake. “So this is what you look like,” I growled, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and sitting up. “What the hell are you doing here?” “I’m glad to see you too,” he replied. “You didn’t answer my question,” I said, feeling around for my slippers. “I heard about Mom – not from you, of course – and I wanted to see her once more before the end.” “Can you see through those things?” I asked, indicating his eyes. “Better than you can.” Big surprise. Hell, everyone can see better than I can. “How did you get in here anyway?” I said as I got to my feet. The furnace was as old and tired as I was and there was a chill in the air, so I put on my robe. “You haven’t changed the front door’s code words since I left.” He looked around the room. “You haven’t painted the place either.” “The lock’s supposed to check your retinagram or read your DNA or something.” “It did. They haven’t changed.” I looked him up and down. “The hell they haven’t.” He seemed about to reply, then thought better of it. Finally he said, “How is she?” “She has her bad days and her worse days,” I answered. “She’s the old Julia maybe two or three times a week for a minute or two, but that’s all. She can still speak, and she still recognizes me.” I paused. “She won’t recognize you, of course, but nobody else you ever knew will either.” “How long has she been like this?” “Maybe a year.” “You should have told me,” he said. “Why?” I asked. “You gave up being her son and became whatever it is you are now.” “I’m still her son, and you had my contact information.” I stared at him. “Well, you’re not my son, not anymore.” “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he replied. Suddenly he sniffed the air. “It smells stale.” “Tired old houses are like tired old men,” I said. “They don’t function on all cylinders.” “You could move to a smaller, newer place.” “This house and me, we’ve grown old together. Not everyone wants to move to Alpha whatever-the-hell-it-is.” He looked around. “Where is she?” “In your old room,” I said. He turned, walked out into the hall. “Haven’t you replaced that thing yet?” he asked, indicating an old wall table. “It was scarred and wobbly when I still lived here.” “It’s just a table. It holds whatever I put on it. That’s all it has to do.” He looked up at the ceiling. “The paint’s peeling too.” “I’m too old to do it myself, and painters cost mon[...] Podcasts Mike Resnick no no http://escapepod.org/2012/05/03/ep343-the-cartographer-wasps-and-the-anarchist-bees/ http://escapepod.org/2012/05/03/ep343-the-cartographer-wasps-and-the-anarchist-bees/#comments Thu, 03 May 2012 10:00:54 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3335 http://escapepod.org/2012/05/03/ep343-the-cartographer-wasps-and-the-anarchist-bees/feed/ 0 0:29:15 By E. Lily Yu Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Clarkesworld All stories by E. Lily Yu All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 10 and up The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees By E. Lily Yu For longer than any[...] By E. Lily Yu Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Clarkesworld All stories by E. Lily Yu All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 10 and up The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees By E. Lily Yu For longer than anyone could remember, the village of Yiwei had worn, in its orchards and under its eaves, clay-colored globes of paper that hissed and fizzed with wasps. The villagers maintained an uneasy peace with their neighbors for many years, exercising inimitable tact and circumspection. But it all ended the day a boy, digging in the riverbed, found a stone whose balance and weight pleased him. With this, he thought, he could hit a sparrow in flight. There were no sparrows to be seen, but a paper ball hung low and inviting nearby. He considered it for a moment, head cocked, then aimed and threw. Much later, after he had been plastered and soothed, his mother scalded the fallen nest until the wasps seething in the paper were dead. In this way it was discovered that the wasp nests of Yiwei, dipped in hot water, unfurled into beautifully accurate maps of provinces near and far, inked in vegetable pigments and labeled in careful Mandarin that could be distinguished beneath a microscope. The villagers’ subsequent incursions with bee veils and kettles of boiling water soon diminished the prosperous population to a handful. Commanded by a single stubborn foundress, the survivors folded a new nest in the shape of a paper boat, provisioned it with fallen apricots and squash blossoms, and launched themselves onto the river. Browsing cows and children fled the riverbanks as they drifted downstream, piping sea chanteys. At last, forty miles south from where they had begun, their craft snagged on an upthrust stick and sank. Only one drowned in the evacuation, weighed down with the remains of an apricot. They reconvened upon a stump and looked about themselves. “It’s a good place to land,” the foundress said in her sweet soprano, examining the first rough maps that the scouts brought back. There were plenty of caterpillars, oaks for ink galls, fruiting brambles, and no signs of other wasps. A colony of bees had hived in a split oak two miles away. “Once we are established we will, of course, send a delegation to collect tribute. “We will not make the same mistakes as before. Ours is a race of explorers and scientists, cartographers and philosophers, and to rest and grow slothful is to die. Once we are established here, we will expand.” It took two weeks to complete the nurseries with their paper mobiles, and then another month to reconstruct the Great Library and fill the pigeonholes with what the oldest cartographers could remember of their lost maps. Their comings and goings did not go unnoticed. An ambassador from the beehive arrived with an ultimatum and was promptly executed; her wings were made into stained-glass windows for the council chamber, and her stinger was returned to the hive in a paper envelope. The second ambassador came with altered attitude and a proposal to divide the bees’ kingdom evenly between the two governments, retaining pollen and water rights for the bees—”as an acknowledgment of the preexisting claims of a free people to the natural resources of a common territory,” she hummed. The wasps of the council were gracious and only divested the envoy of her sting. She survived just long enough to deliver her account to the hive. The third ambassador arrived with a ball of wax on the tip of her stinger and was better received. “You understand, we are not refugees applying for recognition of a token territorial sovereignty,” the foundress said, as attendants served them nectars in paper horns, “nor are we negotiating with you as equal states. Those were the assumptions of your late predecessors. They were mistaken.” “I trust I will do better,” the diplomat said stiffly. She was older than[...] Podcasts E. Lily Yu no no http://escapepod.org/2012/04/28/ep342-certus-per-bellum/ http://escapepod.org/2012/04/28/ep342-certus-per-bellum/#comments Sat, 28 Apr 2012 22:49:17 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3283 http://escapepod.org/2012/04/28/ep342-certus-per-bellum/feed/ 0 0:29:19 By S. Hutson Blount Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in The Fifth Dimension All stories by S. Hutson Blount All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 15 and up for language and violent imagery This episode has been brought t[...] By S. Hutson Blount Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in The Fifth Dimension All stories by S. Hutson Blount All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 15 and up for language and violent imagery This episode has been brought to you by Audible. Visit http://AudiblePodcast.com/escapepod for a free trial membership*. Audible® Free Trial Details * Get your first 30 days of the AudibleListener® Gold membership plan free, which includes one credit. In almost all cases, one credit equals one audiobook. After your 30 day trial, your membership will automatically renew each month for just $14.95, billed to the credit card you used when you registered with Audible. With your membership, you will receive one credit per month plus members-only discounts on all audio purchases. If you cancel your membership before your free trial period is up, you will not be charged. Thereafter, cancel anytime, effective the next billing cycle. See the complete terms and policy applicable to Audible memberships. Certus per Bellum (Decided by War) By S. Hutson Blount “It’s quiet outside,” Nohaile said, trying to find a comfortable way to sit in his armor suit. “Are you sure it’s started?” “It’ll get plenty loud,” said the girl. She was armored only in a ratty sweatshirt and a patched bib coverall. She’d entered the bunker with a vest and some sensible-looking boots, but promptly removed them. Her bare feet made her look about twelve years old. “For right now,” she continued after some rapid two-thumb typing on her hand console, “we got time to kill.” “Miz Bamboo, do you think we can win?” Nohaile had a matching helmet to go with his armor. He felt foolish either leaving it off or putting it on, so it worried in his hands. The girl laughed a little. It didn’t reach her eyes. “There’s no ‘miz.’ Bamboo is my handle, not my name.” “I’m sorry.” “No worries. And yeah, we can win. The other guy hired cheap.” Bamboo kept looking at the display on her console, checking through her seemingly-infinite pockets and producing unidentifiable items to inspect and disappear again. Everything she carried seemed dirty but functional. Nohaile looked down at his shiny armor suit and was ashamed. “So, when do I get the story?” Bamboo asked. “I thought you said you didn’t care about the circumstances of the lawsuit.” She’d been very clear on that point. Rude, even. “I don’t. But every client has to tell. You care enough about whatever this disagreement is to put your ass on the line. You might as well get it over with.” “I don’t want to burden you while you’re…” He gestured at her control pad, blinking and murmuring to itself on the concrete floor beside her. She’d produced a handgun hidden somewhere in that shapeless coverall, a considerable-looking piece of artillery. To Nohaile’s inexperienced eyes, it looked like it would break her wrists if fired. Bamboo stopped disassembling it and looked at him more pointedly. “Where did you say you were from, again?” “Baltimore,” Nohaile said. “Before that, Dire Dawa. In Ethiopia,” he added, because he knew he would have to. “They grow ‘em polite in Ethiopia, I guess. Burden away. When something happens, I promise I’ll take care of it.” She grinned at him, freckles behind straw-colored bangs. Nohaile set his streamlined, buglike helmet beside him. “It was a patent infringement case. Originally, I mean. I had tried to interest VesterDyne in my extrusion bearing process. Shortly after the first round of presentations, they cancelled the exploratory contract. They said they’d found another source with a similar product. I knew it couldn’t be similar, I had a patent.” Bamboo test-fit[...] Podcasts S. Hutson Blount no no http://escapepod.org/2012/04/19/ep341-aphrodisia/ http://escapepod.org/2012/04/19/ep341-aphrodisia/#comments Fri, 20 Apr 2012 00:33:42 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3263 http://escapepod.org/2012/04/19/ep341-aphrodisia/feed/ 0 0:21:46 By Lavie Tidhar Read by Alasdair Stuart Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Strange Horizons All stories by Lavie Tidhar All stories read by Alasdair Stuart Rated 17 and up for language and sexual imagery This episode has been brought to [...] By Lavie Tidhar Read by Alasdair Stuart Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Strange Horizons All stories by Lavie Tidhar All stories read by Alasdair Stuart Rated 17 and up for language and sexual imagery This episode has been brought to you by Audible. Visit http://AudiblePodcast.com/escapepod for a free trial membership*. Audible® Free Trial Details * Get your first 30 days of the AudibleListener® Gold membership plan free, which includes one credit. In almost all cases, one credit equals one audiobook. After your 30 day trial, your membership will automatically renew each month for just $14.95, billed to the credit card you used when you registered with Audible. With your membership, you will receive one credit per month plus members-only discounts on all audio purchases. If you cancel your membership before your free trial period is up, you will not be charged. Thereafter, cancel anytime, effective the next billing cycle. See the complete terms and policy applicable to Audible memberships. Aphrodisia By Lavie Tidhar It began, in a way, with the midget hunchback tuk-tuk driver. It was a night in the cool season… The stars shone like cold hard semi-precious stones overhead. Shadows moved across the face of the moon. The beer place was emptying – Ban Watnak where fat mosquitoes buzzed, lazily, across neon-lit faces. Thai pop playing too loudly, cigarette smoke rising the remnants of ghosts, straining to escape Earth’s atmosphere. In the sky flying lanterns looked like tracer bullets, like fireflies. The midget hunchback tuk-tuk driver said, ‘Where are you going -?’ mainlining street speed and ancient wisdom. Tone: ‘Where are you going?’ The driver sat on the elevated throne of his vehicle and contemplated the question as if his life depended on it. ‘Over there,’ he said, gesturing. Then, grudgingly – ‘Not far.’ But it was far enough for us. Tone and Bejesus and me made three: Tone with the hafmek body, all spray-painted metal chest and arms, Victorian-style goggles hiding his eyes, a scarf in the colours of a vanished football team around his neck – it was cold. It was Earth cold, not real – there was no dial you could turn to make it go away. Bejesus not speaking, a fragile low-gravity body writhing with nervous energy despite the unaccustomed weight – Bejesus in love with this planet Earth, a long way away from his rock home in space. Tone, in Asteroid Pidgin: ‘Yumi go lukaotem ol gel.’ ‘No girls,’ I said. Tone smirked. Bejesus danced on the spot, nervous, excited, it was hard to tell. Tone said: ‘Boy, girl, all same.’ Bejesus, to the driver: ‘I dig your body work, man.’ Tone shaking his head. ‘Dumb ignorant rock-worm,’ he said, but with affection. The hunchback midget tuk-tuk driver grinned, said, ‘You come with me, no pay. Free tuk-tuk!’ ‘Best offer we’re going to get,’ Tone said, and I nodded. Bejesus passed me a pill. I dry-swallowed. The floating lanterns seemed larger then, like warm eyes blinking high above. ‘Let’s go!’ I said. My heart was beating too fast. ‘Hungry and horny and a long way from home,’ Tone said – a bad poet in hafmek armour. We went.  # Piled at the back of a solar-powered tuk-tuk at night, Aphrodisia tunes blaring out, blurring my careful composure – Aphrodisia, the Upload Deity, queen of no-space – Aphrodisia who loved me and fucked me and sang to me and left me – left everything and everyone behind. She was everywhere now, goddess bitch, and I cried and the tears were multicoloured in rust and acid-rain. Bejesus, the tentacle-junkie, wrapped his arms around me, and even Tone patted me on the back, there, there, awkwardly. I shrugged them off. Nest-brothers, we shared a hub in Tong Yun City years before, the asteroid-worm and the orbital hafmek and me – shared food and drugs and sex and minds – but we were younger then, on Mars. Earth is different to anything you can imagine. Picture a globe, a blue-green world… more base-level humans than anywhere [...] Podcasts Lavie Tidhar no no http://escapepod.org/2012/04/12/ep340-golubash-wine-blood-war-story/ http://escapepod.org/2012/04/12/ep340-golubash-wine-blood-war-story/#comments Thu, 12 Apr 2012 20:42:33 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3261 http://escapepod.org/2012/04/12/ep340-golubash-wine-blood-war-story/feed/ 0 0:43:35 By Catherynne M. Valente Read by Marguerite Croft Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Federations All stories by Catherynne M. Valente All stories read by Marguerite Croft Rated 13 and up simply because kids likely won’t be into a s[...] By Catherynne M. Valente Read by Marguerite Croft Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Federations All stories by Catherynne M. Valente All stories read by Marguerite Croft Rated 13 and up simply because kids likely won’t be into a story about wine. Golubash (Wine-Blood-War-Story) by Catherynne M. Valente The difficulties of transporting wine over interstellar distances are manifold. Wine is, after all, like a child. It can _bruise_. It can suffer trauma—sometimes the poor creature can recover, sometimes it must be locked up in a cellar until it learns to behave itself. Sometimes it is irredeemable. I ask that you greet the seven glasses before you tonight not as simple fermented grapes, but as the living creatures they are, well-brought up, indulged but not coddled, punished when necessary, shyly seeking your approval with clasped hands and slicked hair. After all, they have come so very far for the chance to be loved. Welcome to the first public tasting of Domaine Zhaba. My name is Phylloxera Nanut, and it is the fruit of my family’s vines that sits before you. Please forgive our humble venue—surely we could have wished for something grander than a scorched pre-war orbital platform, but circumstances, and the constant surveillance of Chatêau Marubouzu-Debrouillard and their soldiers have driven us to extremity. Mind the loose electrical panels and pull up a reactor husk—they are inert, I assure you. Spit onto the floor—a few new stains will never be noticed. As every drop about to pass your lips is wholly, thoroughly, enthusiastically illegal, we shall not stand on ceremony. Shall we begin? 2583 Sud-Cotê-du-Golubash (New Danube) The colonial ship _Quintessence of Dust_ first blazed across the skies of Avalokitesvara two hundred years before I was born, under the red stare of Barnard’s Star, our second solar benefactor. Her plasma sails streamed kilometers long, like sheltering wings. Simone Nanut was on that ship. She, alongside a thousand others, looked down on their new home from  that great height, the single long, unfathomably wide river that circumscribed the globe, the golden mountains prickled with cobalt alders, the deserts streaked with pink salt. How I remember the southern coast of Golubash, I played there, and dreamed there was a girl on the invisible opposite shore, and that her family, too, made wine and cowered like us in the shadow of the Asociación. My friends, in your university days did you not study the rolls of the first colonials, did you not memorize their weight-limited cargo, verse after verse of spinning wheels, bamboo seeds, lathes, vials of tailored bacteria, as holy writ? Then perhaps you will recall Simone Nanut and her folly, that her pitiful allotment of cargo was taken up by the clothes on her back and a tangle of ancient Maribor grapevine, its roots tenderly wrapped and watered. Mad Slovak witch they all thought her, patting those tortured, battered vines into the gritty yellow soil of the Golubash basin. Even the Hyphens were sure the poor things would fail. There were only four of them on all of Avalokitesvara, immensely tall, their watery triune faces catching the old red light of Barnard’s flares, their innumerable arms fanned out around their terribly thin torsos like peacock’s tails. Not for nothing was the planet named for a Hindu god with eleven faces and a thousand arms. The colonists called them Hyphens for their way of talking, and for the thinness of their bodies. They did not understand then what you must all know now, rolling your eyes behind your sleeves as your hostess relates ancient history, that each of the four Hyphens was a quarter of the world in a single body, that they were a mere outcropping of the vast intelligences which made up the ecology of Avalokitesvara, like one of our thumbs or a pair of lips. Golubash I knew. To know more than one Hyphen in a lifetime is rare. Officially, the great river is still called the New Danube, but eventually my[...] Podcasts Catherynne M. Valente no no http://escapepod.org/2012/04/05/ep339-run-bakri-says/ http://escapepod.org/2012/04/05/ep339-run-bakri-says/#comments Fri, 06 Apr 2012 01:54:18 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3258 http://escapepod.org/2012/04/05/ep339-run-bakri-says/feed/ 0 0:30:42 By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Ferrett Steinmetz All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 15 and up for violence “Run,” Bakri Says By Ferrett Steinmetz[...] By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Ferrett Steinmetz All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 15 and up for violence “Run,” Bakri Says By Ferrett Steinmetz “I just want to know where my brother is,” Irena yells at the guards. The English words are thick and slow on her tongue, like honey. She holds her hands high in the air; the gun she’s tucked into the back of her pants jabs at her spine. She doesn’t want to kill the soldiers on this iteration; she’s never killed anyone before, and doesn’t want to start. But unless she can get poor, weak Sammi out of that prison in the next fifty/infinity minutes, they’ll start in on him with the rubber hoses and he’ll tell them what he’s done. And though she loves her brother with all her heart, it would be a blessing then if the Americans beat him to death. The guards are still at the far end of the street, just before the tangle of barbed wire that bars the prison entrance. Irena stands still, lets them approach her, guns out. One is a black man, the skin around his eyes creased with a habitual expression of distrust; a fringe of white hair and an unwavering aim marks him as a career man. The other is a younger man, squinting nervously, his babyfat face the picture of every new American soldier. Above them, a third soldier looks down from his wooden tower, reaching for the radio at his belt. She hopes she won’t get to know them. This will be easier if all they do is point guns and yell. It’ll be just like Sammi’s stupid videogames. “My brother,” she repeats, her mouth dry; it hurts to raise her arms after the rough surgery Bakri’s done with an X-acto knife and some fishing line. “His name is Sammi Daraghmeh. You rounded him up last night, with many other men. He is – ” Their gazes catch on the rough iron manacle dangling from her left wrist. She looks up, remembers that Bakri installed a button on the tether so she could rewind, realizes the front of her cornflower-blue abayah is splotched with blood from her oozing stitches. “Wait.” She backs away. “I’m not – ” The younger soldier yells, “She’s got something!” They open fire. Something tugs at her neck, parting flesh; another crack, and she swallows her own teeth. She tries to talk but her windpipe whistles; her body betrays her, refusing to move as she crumples to the ground, willing herself to keep going. Nothing listens. This is death, she thinks. This is what it’s like to die. # “Run,” Bakri says, and Irena is standing in an alleyway instead of dying on the street – gravity’s all wrong and her muscles follow her orders again. Her arms and legs flail and she topples face-first into a pile of rotting lettuce. The gun Bakri has just pressed into her hands falls to the ground. Dying was worse than she’d thought. Her mind’s still jangled with the shock, from feeling all her nerves shrieking in panic as she died. She shudders in the garbage, trying to regain strength. Bakri picks her up. “What is your goal?” he barks, keeping his voice low so the shoppers at the other end of the grocery store’s alleyway don’t hear. Why is he asking me that? she thinks, then remembers: all the others went insane. She wouldn’t even be here if Farhouz hadn’t slaughtered seventeen soldiers inside the Green Zone. It takes an effort to speak. “To – to rescue Sammi.” “Good.” The tension drains from his face. He looks so relieved that Irena thinks he might burst into tears. “What iteration? You did iterate, right?” “Two,” she says numbly, understanding what his relief means: he didn’t know. He’d sent her off to be shot, unsure whether he[...] Best-Of, Podcasts Ferrett Steinmetz no no http://escapepod.org/2012/03/29/ep338-the-trojan-girl/ http://escapepod.org/2012/03/29/ep338-the-trojan-girl/#comments Fri, 30 Mar 2012 01:58:45 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3255 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/29/ep338-the-trojan-girl/feed/ 0 0:46:52 By N. K. Jemisin Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Weird Tales All stories by N. K. Jemisin All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 15 and up for language The girl was perfect. Her framing, the engine at her core, t[...] By N. K. Jemisin Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Weird Tales All stories by N. K. Jemisin All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 15 and up for language The girl was perfect. Her framing, the engine at her core, the intricate web of connections holding her objects together, built-in redundancies… Meroe had never seen such efficiency. The girl’s structure was simple because she didn’t need any of the shortcuts and workarounds that most of their kind required to function. There was no bloat to her, no junk code slowing her down, no patchy sores that left her vulnerable to infection. “She’s a thing of beauty, isn’t she?” Faster said. Meroe returned to interface view. He glanced at Zo and saw the same suspicion lurking in her beatific expression. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Meroe said, watching Zo, speaking to Faster. “We don’t grow that way.” “I know!” Faster was pacing, gesticulating, caught up in his own excitement. He didn’t notice Meroe’s look. “She must have evolved from something professionally-coded. Maybe even Government Standard. I didn’t think we could be born from that!” They couldn’t. Meroe stared at the girl, not liking what he was seeing. The avatar was just too well-designed, too detailed. Her features and coloring matched that of some variety of Latina; probably Central or South American given the noticeable indigenous traits. Most of their kind created Caucasian avatars to start — a human minority who for some reason comprised the majority of images available for sampling in the Amorph. And most first avatars had bland, nondescript faces. This girl had clear features, right down to her distinctively-formed lips and chin — and hands. It had taken five versionings for Meroe to get his own hands right. “Did you check out her feature-objects?” Faster asked, oblivious to Meroe’s unease. “Why?” Zo answered. “Two of them are standard add-ons — an aggressive defender and a diagnostic tool. The other two we can’t identify. Something new.” Her lips curved in a smile; she knew how he would react. (Note: We secured only audio rights to this story, so there will be no website version.) Podcasts N. K. Jemisin no no http://escapepod.org/2012/03/22/ep337-counting-cracks/ http://escapepod.org/2012/03/22/ep337-counting-cracks/#comments Thu, 22 Mar 2012 18:56:37 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3241 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/22/ep337-counting-cracks/feed/ 0 0:37:43 By George R. Galuschak Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared on Strange Horizons All stories by George R. Galuschak All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 15 and up for language Counting Cracks By George R. Galuschak Four of u[...] By George R. Galuschak Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared on Strange Horizons All stories by George R. Galuschak All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 15 and up for language Counting Cracks By George R. Galuschak Four of us, jammed into my sister’s Ford Festiva, going to kill the monster. Sylvia drives. The Hum has left her untouched, so she’s the only one left in town who can drive. My sister licks the palm of her hand, touches it to her nose and bumps her forehead against the steering wheel. Then she does it again. “Today would be nice, sis.” I say. I’m in the back seat with June, a twelve-year old girl clutching a teddy bear to her chest. “I’m going as fast as I can,” she tells me. “It’s bad today.” “The Shop-Rite has three hundred and fifty-seven ceiling tiles,” Michael tells me. He’s a little kid, nine years old, sitting up front with Sylvia. “I counted them.” “Inpatient oranges creep handsome banisters,” June says, rolling her eyes. “Good for you,” I say. My left leg hurts, which I guess is a good sign. My left arm feels like dead weight except for the tips of my fingers, which are tingly. “Do you count tiles, Mr. Bruschi?” Michael asks. “No. I counted cracks on the sidewalk. When I was a kid.” A sparrow collides with the windshield. It bounces off and skitters to the pavement, where it thrashes. I haven’t seen a living bird in days. It must have flown into the Hum. “Swill,” June says, pointing at the bird. “Maraschino cherries. Skittles. Cocktail weenies.” “All right. I’m ready.” Sylvia twists the key, and the car starts. We back out of the driveway. “The streets are so empty,” she says. “That’s because everyone is dead,” Michael tells her. “They listened to the Hum and went into their houses and pulled the covers over their heads and died. I had a hamster that died, once. It got real old, so it made a little nest, and then it laid down in it and died.” “We’re not dead,” I say. “Not yet,” Michael corrects me. “Give it time.” # It started a week ago. Tuesday morning, hot day, storm clouds gathering like bad thoughts. I walked out to my car. I was going to work, the way normal people do. I’m not normal, but I’ve gotten good at pretending. I saw a robin fluttering its wings on the sidewalk. At first I thought its back was broken, but when I came closer it squawked and ran onto the lawn. It gave a little hop, flapping its wings, and then hopped again. I put my hands to my temples. My head hurt. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and I could feel the beginnings of a migraine forming. I looked at the robin, hopping and flapping its wings on my lawn. It didn’t look injured; it looked like it had forgotten how to fly. I shrugged and walked away. The bird’s behavior was strange, but I needed to get to work. So I went. When I drove home that evening the sidewalks and streets were covered with birds, all squawking and flapping their wings. The bird story made the nightly news. The newswoman stood in Buehler Park surrounded by a flock of distressed pigeons. She talked too loud and stumbled over her words. Her voice sounded a bit slurred, like she was drunk. “Put something else on,” my wife said. We were eating dinner in front of the TV, the way we did when things were good between us. “All right.” I shrugged and switched the channel. We watched a movie, and I forgot all about the birds. The next morning my wife went blind. # We pull into Shop-Rite’s parking lot. Normally it’s jam-packed. They average three fender-benders a week, because the designers of the lot made the lanes too small, the spaces too tight. But today we drive right in. “This is far enough[...] Podcasts George R. Galuschak no no http://escapepod.org/2012/03/22/escape-pod-and-soundproof-update/ http://escapepod.org/2012/03/22/escape-pod-and-soundproof-update/#comments Thu, 22 Mar 2012 14:50:55 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3235 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/22/escape-pod-and-soundproof-update/feed/ 3 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/15/ep336-the-speed-of-time/ http://escapepod.org/2012/03/15/ep336-the-speed-of-time/#comments Thu, 15 Mar 2012 21:15:51 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3231 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/15/ep336-the-speed-of-time/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Jay Lake Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared on Tor.com All stories by Jay Lake All stories read by Josh Roseman Rated 13 and up for content The Speed of Time by Jay Lake “Light goes by at the speed of time,[...] By Jay Lake Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared on Tor.com All stories by Jay Lake All stories read by Josh Roseman Rated 13 and up for content The Speed of Time by Jay Lake “Light goes by at the speed of time,” Marlys once told me. That was a joke, of course. Light can be slowed to a standstill in a photon trap, travel on going nowhere at all forever in the blueing distance of an event horizon, or blaze through hard vacuum as fast as information itself moves through the universe. Time is relentless, the tide which measures the perturbations of the cosmos. The 160.2 GHz hum of creation counts the measure of our lives as surely as any heartbeat. There is no t in e=mc2. I’d argued with her then, missing her point back when understanding her might have mattered. Now, well, nothing much at all mattered. Time has caught up with us all. # Let me tell you a story about Sameera Glasshouse. She’d been an ordinary woman living an ordinary life. Habitat chemistry tech, certifications from several middle-tier authorities, bouncing from contract to contract in trans-Belt space. Ten thousand women, men and inters just like her out there during the Last Boom. We didn’t call it that then, no one knew the expansion curve the solar economy had been riding was the last of anything. The Last Boom didn’t really have a name when it was underway, except maybe to economists. Sameera had been pair-bonded to a Jewish kid from Zion Luna, and kept the surname long after she’d dropped Roz from her life. For one thing, “Glasshouse” scandalized her Lebanese grandmother, which was a reward in itself. She was working a double ticket on the Enceladus Project master depot, in low orbit around that particular iceball. That meant pulling shift-on-shift week after week, but Sameera got an expanded housing allocation and a fatter pay packet for her trouble. The E.P. got to schlep one less body to push green inside their habitat scrubbers. Everybody won. Her spare time was spent wiring together Big Ears, to listen for the chatter that flooded bandwidth all over the solar system. Human beings are — were — noisy. Launch control, wayfinding, birthday greetings, telemetry, banking queries, loneliness, porn. It was all out there, multiplied and ramified beyond comprehension by the combination of lightspeed lag, language barriers and sheer, overwhelming complexity. Some folks back then claimed there were emergent structures in the bandwidth, properties of the sum of all that chatter which could not be accounted for by analysis of the components. This sort of thinking had been going around since the dawn of information theory — call it information fantasy. The same hardwired pareidolia that made human beings see the hand of God in the empirical universe also made us hear Him in the electronic shrieking of our tribe. Sameera never really believed any of it, but she’d heard some very weird things listening in. In space, it was always midnight, and ghosts never stopped playing in the bandwidth. When she’d picked up a crying child on a leaky sideband squirt out of a nominally empty vector, she’d just kept hopping frequencies. When she’d tuned on the irregular regularity of a coded data feed that seemed to originate from deep within Saturn’s atmosphere, she’d just kept hopping frequencies. But one day God had called Sameera by name. Her voice crackled out of the rising fountain of energy from an extragalactic gamma ray burst, whispering the three syllables over and over and over in a voice which resonated down inside the soft tissues of Sameera’s body, made her joints ache, jellied the very resolve of the soul that she had not known she possessed until that exact moment. Sameera Glasshouse shut down her Big Ears, wiped the logic blocks, dumped the memory, then made her way down to the master depot’s tiny sacramentarium. Most p[...] Podcasts Jay Lake no no http://escapepod.org/2012/03/08/ep335-the-water-man/ http://escapepod.org/2012/03/08/ep335-the-water-man/#comments Thu, 08 Mar 2012 19:30:34 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3205 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/08/ep335-the-water-man/feed/ 0 0:33:56 By Ursula Pflug Read by Christiana Ellis Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Anthology Series: Tesseracts # 3, 1991 All stories by Ursula Pflug All stories read by Christiana Ellis Rated 13 and up for language This episode has been brough[...] By Ursula Pflug Read by Christiana Ellis Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Anthology Series: Tesseracts # 3, 1991 All stories by Ursula Pflug All stories read by Christiana Ellis Rated 13 and up for language This episode has been brought to you by Audible. Visit http://AudiblePodcast.com/escapepod for a free trial membership*. Audible® Free Trial Details * Get your first 30 days of the AudibleListener® Gold membership plan free, which includes one credit. In almost all cases, one credit equals one audiobook. After your 30 day trial, your membership will automatically renew each month for just $14.95, billed to the credit card you used when you registered with Audible. With your membership, you will receive one credit per month plus members-only discounts on all audio purchases. If you cancel your membership before your free trial period is up, you will not be charged. Thereafter, cancel anytime, effective the next billing cycle. See the complete terms and policy applicable to Audible memberships. The Water Man by Ursula Pflug The water man came today. I waited all morning, and then all afternoon, painting plastic soldiers to pass the time. Red paint too in the sky when he finally showed; I turned the outside lights on for him and held the door while he carried the big bottles in. He set them all in a row just inside the storm door; there wasn’t any other place to put them. When he was done he stood catching his breath, stamping his big boots to warm his feet. Melting snow made little muddy lakes on the linoleum. I dug in my jeans for money to tip him with, knowing I wouldn’t find any. Finally I just offered him water. We drank together. It was cool and clean and good, running down our throats in the dimness of the store. It made me feel wide and quiet, and I watched his big eyes poke around Synapses, checking us out, and while they did, mine snuck a peek at him. He was big and round, and all his layers of puffy clothes made him seem rounder still, like a black version of the Michelin man. He unzipped his parka and I could see a name, Gary, stitched in red over the pocket of his blue coverall. I still didn’t have a light on; usually I work in the dark, save the light bill for Deb. But I switched it on when he coughed and he smiled at that, like we’d shared a joke. He had a way of not looking right at you or saying much, but somehow you still knew what he was thinking. Like I knew that he liked secrets, and talking without making sounds. It was neat. Seemed to me it was looking water–a weird thought out of nowhere–unless it came from him. He seemed to generate them; like he could stand in the middle of a room and in everyone’s minds, all around him, weird little thoughts would start cropping up–like that one. My tummy sloshing I looked too, and seemed to see through his eyes and not just mine. Through his I wasn’t sure how to take it: a big dim room haunted by dinosaurs. All the junk of this century comes to rest at Synapses; it gets piled to the ceilings and covered with dust. If it’s lucky it makes a Head; weird Heads are going to be the thing for Carnival this year, just as they were last, and Debbie’s are the best. Her finished products are grotesque, but if you call that beautiful then they are; the one she just finished dangles phone cords like Medusa’s hair, gears like jangling medals. Shelves of visors glint under the ceiling fixture; inlaid with chips and broken bits of circuitry, they hum like artifacts from some Byzantium that isn’t yet. Two faced Janus masks, their round doll eyes removed; you can wear them either way, male or female, to look in or out. Gary was staring at them, a strange expression on his face. Like he wanted to throw up. “Do you think they’re good?” I asked, to stop him looking like that. “Good enough,” he said, “if you like dinosaurs.” “I like them. They are strange and wonderful.” “But dinosaurs all the[...] Podcasts Ursula Pflug no no http://escapepod.org/2012/03/01/ep334-the-eckener-alternative/ http://escapepod.org/2012/03/01/ep334-the-eckener-alternative/#comments Fri, 02 Mar 2012 00:45:04 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3195 http://escapepod.org/2012/03/01/ep334-the-eckener-alternative/feed/ 0 0:22:55 By James L. Cambias Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, edited by David Moles, 2004 All stories by James L. Cambias All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated all ages. Zeppelins! The [...] By James L. Cambias Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, edited by David Moles, 2004 All stories by James L. Cambias All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated all ages. Zeppelins! The Eckener Alternative by James L. Cambias The Hindenburg swung gently on the mast at Lakehurst as the sky over New Jersey turned to purple twilight.  All the passengers, the reporters, the newsreel men were gone.  A couple of sailors stood guard beneath the big ship to enforce the no-smoking rule. John Cavalli waited until the watchman below had turned away, then slid down the stern rope to the ground.  He hunkered down next to the big rolling anchor weight for a couple of minutes, then hurried off into the darkness beyond the floodlights. Once he was clear, Cavalli stopped to peel off the Russian army arctic commando suit he’d been wearing ever since the Zeppelin had lifted off from Frankfurt-am-Main.  It had kept him warm as he hid among the gas cells with his IR goggles and fire extinguisher, but now in the warmth of a spring evening it was stifling. He hit the RETURN button on his wristband and disappeared. # “You can’t make big changes,” said the instructor the first day of Temporal Studies class.  He was a very laid-back physicist recruited from California in 2020s.  “That’s the most important rule.  The folks we work for are the result of a particular set of historical events. Change history too much and their probability level drops below 50 percent.  If that happens, all this” — his gesture encompassed the Time Center — goes away and we’re out of a job.  If we even exist anymore.” A student in the row ahead of Cavalli raised his hand.  “What about making little changes?” “Little changes are fine.  We make little changes all the time.  Most of them are things like making long-term investments, buying up art treasures for safekeeping, keeping species from going extinct, that kind of thing.  You’re going to learn all about gauging the effect of changes, avoiding heterodynes and chaotic points, and when it’s okay to step on butterflies.” Cavalli was listening, but in the margin of his notebook he was doodling airships. # The timegate stage was dark and the control room was empty, just as he’d left it.  The Coke can was still on the console.  Was it maybe a little further to the left than he remembered?  He stepped off the stage and took a drink.  Still tasted the same.  It would take a pretty big timeshift to change the flavor of Coca-Cola. Cavalli locked the door behind him with his purloined master key (the Time Center used mechanical locks because they were a bit more resistant to minor time-shifts) and headed for the library.  He found a book about Zeppelins he didn’t remember and skimmed the pages.  Hindenburg served safely until 1939; scrapped when WWII broke out.  No postwar Zeppelins.  The usual “return of the airship” speculations. Damn.  It hadn’t worked.  He had hoped erasing the vivid image of the Hindenburg fire would have been enough to keep passenger airships alive, but the war still marked the end of their era. # “So why don’t we stop things like the Holocaust or the firebombing of Dresden?”  It was a relatively quiet dorm room party with half a dozen trainees blowing off steam after the first written exam.  Cavalli didn’t see who asked the question, but he sounded drunk. Anna Kyle, the third-year trainee, answered. “Too big.  The models predict major shifts in the 21st Century if there’s no Holocaust.  You lose the Cold War and the whole Jihad era.  We just stay away from World War II if we can help it.  Rescue a few things from museums before they get flattened, take some videos for historians, that’s all.” “Why not stop the whole war?[...] Podcasts James L. Canbias no no http://escapepod.org/2012/02/23/ep333-asteroid-monte/ http://escapepod.org/2012/02/23/ep333-asteroid-monte/#comments Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:48:34 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3191 http://escapepod.org/2012/02/23/ep333-asteroid-monte/feed/ 0 0:40:59 By Craig DeLancey Read by Rajan Khanna Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Analog All stories by Craig DeLancey All stories read by Rajan Khanna Rated 15 and up for language, drug abuse Asteroid Monte by Craig DeLancey “You don[...] By Craig DeLancey Read by Rajan Khanna Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Analog All stories by Craig DeLancey All stories read by Rajan Khanna Rated 15 and up for language, drug abuse Asteroid Monte by Craig DeLancey “You don’t look like an omnivore.” I was supposed to spend the next several years working side-by-side with this bear monster thing from an unpronounceable planet, and the first words she speaks to me are these. “Excuse me?” “Your teeth are flat,” she hissed. “Like a herbivore’s.” I had been waiting in the tiered square outside the Hall of Harmony, main office of the Galactic police force officially called the Harmonizers, but which everyone really called the Predators. Neelee-ornor is one of those planets that makes me a believer. Cities crowd right into forests as thick as the Amazon, and both somehow thrive with riotous abandon. It proves the Galactic creed really means something. Something worth fighting for. Something that could get me to take this thankless job. So I waited to meet my partner, as I sat on a cool stone bench under a huge branch dripping green saprophytes. The air was damp but smelled, strangely, like California after the rain, when I would leave CalTech and hike into the hills. I almost didn’t want her to show, so I could sit and enjoy it. I really knew only three things about her. She had about two e-years under her belt as a Predator. She was a Sussuratian, a race of fierce bearlike carnivores evolved from predatory pack animals, only a century ahead of humanity in entering Galactic Culture. And she was named Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess. God help me. I rose awkwardly every time a Sussuratian passed, only to sit again after it walked on. Finally I gave up, and then a moment later a Sussuratian bounded out of the passing crowds, and addressed me with this comment about my eating habits. I sprung off the bench and bowed slightly. “I am Tarkos.” We were talking Galactic. But my Galactic is pretty good, really. Better than hers, I was betting. Her name, however, was a Sussuratian name, and in that language a human larynx was hopeless. Well, here goes. “I am honored to meet you Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.” She was about six feet long, with short dark fur that had black and green and gold patterns in it reminiscent of a boa. She was a quadraped, and walked on all fours, her claws clicking. Now she sat back on her haunches and put her front hands together, threading the seven claws on one hand through the seven on the other. The effect was a Kodiak holding a bouquet of knives. Her four eyes — two large green ones set below two small black ones — fixed on me. “I am called Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess,” she said. I bowed slightly again. “Yes. I apologize for my pronunciation.” I took a deep breath and tried again. “Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.” “No,” she said, speaking now very slowly. “It’s Briaathursiasaliantiormethessess.” For the life of me her pronunciation sounded exactly like mine. Except with a bunch of hissing involved in all the S’s. “Can I just call you Bria?” Her small black eyes closed. I knew that expressed something – impatience? Disgust? Chagrin? I couldn’t remember. It’s hard to learn emotional expressions from a crash video course. “This assignment is of great importance and could be perilous,” she said. “I told them I didn’t want to work with a human.” “Well, thanks for your honesty.” She ran her long, dark-red tongue over fangs longer than my fingers. Maybe she understood human sarcasm, because this 300-kilo carnivore then offered an explanation: “You’re dangerous. I fear you.” I nodded. “Yeah. I hear that a lot.” _____ I didn’t[...] Podcasts Craig DeLancey no no http://escapepod.org/2012/02/17/ep332-overclocking/ http://escapepod.org/2012/02/17/ep332-overclocking/#comments Sat, 18 Feb 2012 02:17:44 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3182 http://escapepod.org/2012/02/17/ep332-overclocking/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By James L. Sutter Read by Wilson Fowlie Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Apex Magazine in December, 2009 All stories by James L Sutter All stories read by Wilson Fowlie Rated 15 and up for language, drug abuse Overclocking by James L.[...] By James L. Sutter Read by Wilson Fowlie Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Apex Magazine in December, 2009 All stories by James L Sutter All stories read by Wilson Fowlie Rated 15 and up for language, drug abuse Overclocking by James L. Sutter They’re waiting for him when he comes out of the tank.  Whether plainclothes or just another pair of clockers, he can’t quite tell, but the way they avoid looking in his direction tips him off in a heartbeat.  When Ari Marvel walks by, you _look_. They start drifting idly in his direction, and that clinches things.  Reaching down into the lining of his pocket, Ari palms the whole batch and trails his hand over the edge of the bridge railing.  The brittle grey modsticks crumble with ease, and by the time the two have dropped their cover and made the sting he’s moved smoothly into position, hands against the brick and legs spread wide.  The pigs don’t even thank him for being so efficient.  The patdown’s rougher than necessary, but after a minute they throw their hoods back up and move off down the street. Ari runs his hands through his faded blue-green spikes, then takes the stairs down to the tube.  A beginner might have lingered at the railing and thought about all the time and money now floating down the culvert, but Ari doesn’t look back.  Necessary expenditures.  Expected losses. It’s just business, baby. # Back at the pad, Maggie’s waiting by the door.  She looks like hell: hair in ratty dreads, shirt stained with god-knows-what.  Crust in her eyes. “Hey, Ari,” she says. Ari slides his keycard into the lock, checking first to see if the hair he put over the swipestripe has been moved.  Still there.  It doesn’t mean that nobody’s been there, of course–just that if they have been, they’re good enough that there’s no point in worrying about it.  You win some, you lose some. Inside, it looks like he’s won.  Maggie plops down on the couch, worrying a hangnail that’s started to bleed.  Her foot taps on the coffee table. “Hey,” she says again.  He drops his coat onto the chair and moves into the kitchen to get a soda.  She picks up the remote and begins flipping rapidly through the channels, then turns the set off again.  Eventually he leaves the can on the counter and comes back into the living room, sitting down on the coffee table across from her and taking her hands. “Maggie, look at me.” She does–or, at least, as well as she’s able to at this point. “I’m only going to say this once.  You’re welcome to crash here, but you’re not getting a fix.  I won’t have that in my house.  You understand?” She nods–those wide doe eyes the color of egg yolk–then goes back to gnawing at her thumb.  He stands and leaves her there, entering the bedroom and closing the door.  Once it’s locked, he jimmies loose the bottom drawer of the dresser and flips a wad of sweaty bills into the crudely carved hollow.  Then he drops fully clothed onto the mattress and covers his eyes with his forearm, blocking out the ruddy afternoon light that still filters in through heavy curtains. Out in the apartment, he can hear her moving about restlessly. He’s doing it again.  It doesn’t matter that he knows how it’ll end, that he knows how it _has_ ended more than once.  It’s simply a given: she’ll show up.  He’ll let her in.  Things will proceed accordingly.  He bears down with his arm until the muted red of his eyelids turns to black, and then to stars. The worst of it is that even through the filth, he can still see her.  Inside the shell of those dreads, her hair is still gold verging on white, so fine as to be almost intangible.  Behind the bruises and bags, her eyes would still crinkle upward if she smiled.  And if he opened his arms, she might still flow into them like water, sparkling and warm and full of life. Ari is not a stupid man, but Maggie is an exception. Eyes clenched tight, Ari curls up on his side and falls asleep. # Any idiot wi[...] Podcasts James L. Sutter no no http://escapepod.org/2012/02/09/ep331-devour/ http://escapepod.org/2012/02/09/ep331-devour/#comments Thu, 09 Feb 2012 20:09:29 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3147 http://escapepod.org/2012/02/09/ep331-devour/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Dave Thompson Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Ferrett Steinmetz All stories read by Dave Thompson Rated 15 and up for language, brief sexual imagery, brief violent imagery Devour By Ferrett[...] By Ferrett Steinmetz Read by Dave Thompson Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Ferrett Steinmetz All stories read by Dave Thompson Rated 15 and up for language, brief sexual imagery, brief violent imagery Devour By Ferrett Steinmetz “I want some water,” Sergio says.  The bicycle chains clank as he strains to put his feet on the floor. Sergio designed his own restraints.  He had at least fifteen plumbers on his payroll who could have installed the chains – but Sergio’s never trusted anything he didn’t build with his own hands.  So he deep-drilled gear mounts into our guest room’s floral wallpaper, leaving me to string greased roller chains through the cast-iron curlicues of the canopy bed. “You’re doing well, Bruce,” he lied, trying to smile – but his lips were already desiccated, pulled too tight at the edges.  Not his lips at all. I slowed him down; I had soft lawyer’s hands, more used to keyboards than Allen wrenches.  Yet we both knew it would be the last time we could touch each other.  So I asked for help I didn’t need, and he took my hands in his to guide the chains through what he referred to as “the marionette mounts.” Then he sat on the bed and held out his wrists while I snapped the manacles on – the chamois lining was my idea – and we kissed.  It was a long, slow kiss that needed to summarize thirty-two years of marriage. And it should have been comforting, but his mouth was a betrayal.  His lips had resorbed from their lush plumpness.  His tongue had withdrawn to a stub. His kiss still sent flutters down my spine. I pressed my hands against his back, moving towards making love, but Sergio pushed me away.  ”We don’t know how transmissible this is,” he said.  Then he tugged on the chains to verify he could lie down and sit up, but not leave the bed. I pressed the keys into his palm, trying to burn the feeling of his skin into mine forever.  He snipped the keys in half with a bolt-cutter, then flung it all into the corner. “That’s that,” he said, and rolled away from me to cry.  My arms ached - still ache – from not being able to hold him. Six days later, I’m still here.  And Sergio is still leaving. “I want some water,” he repeats now.  Louder, more insistent.  Too angry to be really Sergio. “You never wanted water before,” I say, keeping a careful distance from the bed.  ”You like orange juice.” Sergio tries to put his head in his hands.  The chains pull him short. “For Christ’s sake, Bruce,” he says.  ”I’m dying.  There are going to be changes.” “Yes,” I say guardedly.  ”There are.” “And it’s apple cider I like.  In a chilled glass.  From the local guao yan, no, orchard – and not that sugared crap you like.  Don’t try to trick me, okay?  It’s just insulting to.” He almost says to us, but then shudders. “I’m not going to do anything crazy with water,” he begs.  ”I can’t turn it into. what’s the word?  Flamethrowers.  It’s water.  I’m just. thirsty. I’ll fight with you about the things that matter, but. “Just get me some damn water!” he barks.  I stare at him, knowing the old Sergio never yelled, wondering how much is left. Because I can see the traces of a young Sergio within the thing trapped in the four-poster right now.  Sergio always had that perfect, youthful mix of good cheekbones and lean muscle.  Now, his thighs and biceps are swollen like a hormone-stuffed steer – but aside from that, Sergio would be the envy of any plastic surgeon.  His crow’s feet have been pulled from his skin, his collagen replenished.  His hair, once a brilliant mane of salt-and-pepper curls, has turned a lank black at the roots.  It looks like some horrid[...] Podcasts Ferrett Steinmetz no no http://escapepod.org/2012/02/02/ep330-the-ghost-of-a-girl-who-never-lived/ http://escapepod.org/2012/02/02/ep330-the-ghost-of-a-girl-who-never-lived/#comments Fri, 03 Feb 2012 01:55:58 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3087 http://escapepod.org/2012/02/02/ep330-the-ghost-of-a-girl-who-never-lived/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Keffy R. M. Kehrli Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show. All stories by Keffy R. M. Kehrli All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 13 and up The Ghost of a Girl Who Never Lived By Keffy R.[...] By Keffy R. M. Kehrli Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in InterGalactic Medicine Show. All stories by Keffy R. M. Kehrli All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 13 and up The Ghost of a Girl Who Never Lived By Keffy R. M. Kehrli I am Sara’s second body. My first memory is of Sara’s resurrection in a room that smelled of cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide. “That’s funny,” a man said. The world felt raw, sore, and new. Under my back, my butt, my fingertips, I could feel every thread in the sheets beneath me. The blanket over my stomach scratched. Padded straps crossed my arms. “What’s funny?” This voice was a woman’s. “Got another error message,” the man answered. “Have you ever seen that one before?” I felt the sheets with Sara’s fingers, and the texture conjured memories I didn’t have. I should have known where I was and what I was there for, but I couldn’t catch hold of the fleeting thoughts. In the dim light of the room I could only see the ceiling. “Let me see.” I heard a frenzied clicking. “It failed twice?” “Nothing copied the first time, so I started over. It got about halfway through, and then it gave me this.” “Error two-one-five-two. Copy error,” the woman said. “I’ve never seen that before. I’ve never even seen an error in the middle of a transplant. Did you check the manual?” “It didn’t list this one.” The woman sighed and said, “The only thing I can think of is if we wipe everything back out and start over.” Operating tables, and the anesthetician’s face. Tissue paper examining tables, candles in a church. “She’s conscious, though,” the man said. “When the machine aborted, it sent the Copy Completed code. Don’t look at me like that! I don’t know if I ought to mess around with it anymore, or…” The woman interrupted, “You know we can’t do that without contacting the parents. Come on, we might as well go see what the damage is.” They stood over me. The man was the younger of the two, and he looked down at me from behind thick glasses. He held his clipboard tight against his chest like a shield. The woman stood closer to me; her hair was light, either blond or grey. She frowned like it was my fault. “Can you hear and understand me?” she asked. The man wrote something on his clipboard. I could hear graphite rubbed free, caught in the paper. My mouth felt dry, and my lips did too, as though if I tried to speak they would break apart. “Yes,” I managed. She unhooked the straps on my arms. I lifted my left arm and looked at the fingers, hand, wrist. Clean, and smooth, unmarked. Cat-scratch scar near my first knuckle, angry red and faded pink. “Do you know why you’re here?” I wanted to say the right thing, but I didn’t know what that would be. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t.” “She’s coherent,” the woman said. “We’ll have to call the parents.” The man nodded, and he was still writing. Scratch scratch scratch. He didn’t answer her. The woman disconnected something that slid out from under the skin of my scalp, and I didn’t like how it rubbed against my skull. “Make sure you tell them that we won’t require the final payment until we get this sorted.” “Copy error,” I said. “Is that why I don’t know where we are?” “Yes, Sara,” she said. “I think.” # I walk until I find a cabin in the woods, the windows broken out by tree branches, by wind and rain and thrown rocks. The door hangs far on its hinges. Shotgun shells, wet with rain. Raccoon droppings. These are the things that litter the floor inside. I step over them in Sara’s boots, into a [...] Best-Of, Podcasts Keffy R. M. Kehrli no no http://escapepod.org/2012/02/02/soundproof-16/ http://escapepod.org/2012/02/02/soundproof-16/#comments Thu, 02 Feb 2012 05:03:19 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=3083 http://escapepod.org/2012/02/02/soundproof-16/feed/ 0 0:00:01 Click here for the epub version. Hello everyone, Can we talk about Fringe for a second? It’s somehow managed to survive to a fourth season on Fox, which is a feat in and of itself. But it’s also managed to keep the monsters of the week new and inter[...] Click here for the epub version. Hello everyone, Can we talk about Fringe for a second? It’s somehow managed to survive to a fourth season on Fox, which is a feat in and of itself. But it’s also managed to keep the monsters of the week new and interesting, even when they’re new iterations of the same monsters of the week because we’re now in a slightly more adjacent parallel universe than the one we’d gotten used to. And when the new monsters are the old good guys. It’s also notable for surviving because we’re kind of awash in fantasy on the (American) teevee right now. Grimm, Being Human, and Once Upon a Time are the new-ish ‘genre’ shows, and SyFy, which some of you elderly folks may remember as the SciFi channel, doesn’t have a science fiction series that isn’t imminently headed for the grave. Which is kind of a show of how fickle the fates of TV production is, and how swiftly the tide can shift away once a new shiny happy fun ball enters the room. But Fringe continues to turn in the solid mediations on the endless strange that lurks in the corners of space-time, while keeping you caring about characters even as many of them permutate as the show moves from universe to universe. This month we bring you a trio of stories from Judith Tarr, Randy Henderson, and Zachary Jernigan. They contain dinosaurs, a future of literature or at least novels, and the souls of Earth — in a convenient travel cube. —Bill Bill Peters Assistant Editor Escape Pod E-pub, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2012/01/26/ep329-pairs/ http://escapepod.org/2012/01/26/ep329-pairs/#comments Thu, 26 Jan 2012 22:55:13 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3075 http://escapepod.org/2012/01/26/ep329-pairs/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Zachary Jernigan Read by Matt Franklin of Fly Reckless Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s, April 2011 All stories by Zachary Jernigan All stories read by Matt Franklin Rated 17-and-up for violence, language, and sexual [...] By Zachary Jernigan Read by Matt Franklin of Fly Reckless Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s, April 2011 All stories by Zachary Jernigan All stories read by Matt Franklin Rated 17-and-up for violence, language, and sexual imagery. Pairs by Zachary Jernigan I had been practicing turning myself into a knife. Between star systems I gathered and focused my particles into a triangle, a sharp shape. Hurling myself against the diamond-hard walls of my small ship, the point of the weapon hardened. I honed myself. You see, I had decided to murder my employer. I had studied his weaknesses and come to believe myself capable of the act. I did not know when and where, nor did I know what would trigger it. I simply knew it had to happen. On that day I would either die or buy myself a measure of freedom. Originally, this was the extent of my plan: To serve myself. My name is Arihant. I am one of two humans still inhabiting a physical form, diminished though it is. Outside the walls of my ship, I am in form a faintly translucent white specter, strong and powerfully built—an artist’s anatomical model. Over the years it has become difficult to remember what my face looked like, and thus my features are only approximately human, my head bare. My eyes glow the color of Earth’s sun. I am quite beautiful, Louca tells me. On more than one occasion she has run her hands over the ghostly contours of my body. “I wish you were solid,” she once said. “Oh, Ari. The things I would do to you.” Louca is the one I am forced to follow and observe. Her name means crazy—an appropriate name. She is the second human possessing a body. Technically, her body is a black, whale-shaped ship one hundred meters long, but her avatars take the forms of anything she imagines. Very rarely, she is human, and never the same person twice. More often, she wears the bodies of flying animals. She dreams of flying, which is appropriate. Our profession is transport. For three centuries we have hauled the disembodied souls of Earth—each stored in a projection cube—from star to star to be sold. They are quite expensive, I am told, but I have no understanding of the means of exchange. Nearly everything is hidden from me, and Louca sees nothing. The reason souls are bought varies. Often they are kept as curios. Sometimes they are used to attract customers to the buyer’s business. My employer used to goad me on these points: “Is it not wonderful to know your people are put to such good use? Imagine how happy it must make them!” But I know the truth. Even without physical bodies, men become lonely. They despair and I feel it. Surely Louca feels it; she goes crazier and crazier in such close proximity to ghosts. Before the events of this story, only the luckiest souls were bought in pairs or groups, a rare occurrence. Now, because of Louca and I, it is the rule that souls must be sold in pairs. It is my one accomplishment, making men marginally less alone. Still, I arrange nothing—I have no power over the situation. I follow Louca from a distance of one hundred thousand kilometers, never any closer, and report anything unusual. I need not watch very closely. Louca’s duty is to dream violent dreams, to defend and deliver her payload. Hopefully, her capacity for violence will never be tested. She is categorically insane—a fact that, my employer insists, makes her uniquely suited to the job of protector. Employer. Job. The terms are ridiculous, for Louca and I are not paid. Our terms of service are not negotiable. I am no one’s employee, but I prefer not to use the word slave. Or master. I cling to life. I value it, though what value it has is measured in a mere handful of molecules. I possess no unique or useful knowledge, only memories. My ship, small though it is, has several lifetimes’ worth of entertainment files. [...] Podcasts Zachary Jernigan no no http://escapepod.org/2012/01/19/ep328-surviving-the-ebookalypse/ http://escapepod.org/2012/01/19/ep328-surviving-the-ebookalypse/#comments Thu, 19 Jan 2012 16:20:54 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=3051 http://escapepod.org/2012/01/19/ep328-surviving-the-ebookalypse/feed/ 1 0:44:02 By Randy Henderson Read by Roberto Suarez Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Randy Henderson All stories read by Roberto Suarez Rated 13-and-up for language. Surviving the eBookalypse by Randy Henderson I entered the City[...] By Randy Henderson Read by Roberto Suarez Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Randy Henderson All stories read by Roberto Suarez Rated 13-and-up for language. Surviving the eBookalypse by Randy Henderson I entered the City Public Library wearing my plastic replica chainmail and sword, and my suede “book jacket” with a laminated author’s license clipped to the collar. Before me stood a fully automated checkout kiosk for scheduling author recitals. The library floor beyond that was filled with neat rows of author cubicles, each with a desk and chair. Most were occupied. The air was filled with the soft tickity-ticking of keyboards, and the smells of coffee, “New Book” scented air fresheners, and Cup o’ Soup. Heads popped up over cubicle walls in response to the clacking of the door, then disappeared again when they saw I was no customer or potential patron. I understood their disappointed expressions too well. This was not at all where I thought I would be two years after publishing my first e-book. A woman’s smile caught my attention. It was like cherry-haloed sunshine, floating between her neon blue hair and her black lace dress. She emerged from a cube in the Romance section, walked up to me, leaned in close and sniffed at the air. Then she said with the hint of a Mexican accent, “I smell a transfer from Bainbridge library, no? An MFA boy, if I’m not mistaken?” “That obvious?” I asked. “Lucky guess.” She laughed, and flicked my author’s license. “Says so right here.” “Oh. Yes.” I felt the fool. I glanced at her author’s license. “Myra Sweet.” “That’s me,” she said. “So, the great literary novel didn’t work out like you thought it would, eh?” “You’ve heard of my book?” “No, but it’s the same old story. Follow me. I’ll show you around.” She turned and walked away. I followed in the wake of her sugary perfume, and my eyes were drawn down to the swaying of her hips. There lie danger, I felt certain, but tempting danger. On the back of her black suede book jacket were reviews of her work. “Myra Sweet’s recital style would make an audience in Antarctica sweat.” – Romance Recitals Monthly “Sweet lives up to her name with The Bride Wore Pistols. This one has to be heard to be believed.” – Jenna Johnson, Amazon-Random House “Myra Sweet blends sex and action so seamlessly her work deserves a new genre – sextion? Sacxy? Whatever, she’s smoking hot.” – Phoenix Jones I wondered if the reviews were real. I hoped they weren’t. If someone with reviews like that didn’t have a patron supporting her, what chance did I have? I reached back to make sure the blurb for my own book, “Magic Daze and Dark Knights,” was still Velcroed securely to the back of my jacket. We walked past the row of thriller authors, almost exclusively men with crew cuts dressed in various colored jumpsuits and bomber-style book jackets. A few of them gave me an informal salute or a cursory nod as we passed, and their musk cologne made me cough in response. We passed the row of horror authors, with their all-black clothing, red or black hair, and pale skin. Most of them arched a single eyebrow at me, or stared at me until I looked away. Further off I saw cowboys and cowgirls, Renaissance-garbed folks, and business-casual attire. Seeing so many authors of the same genre together just reinforced my opinion that “dressing to genre” was not a good idea for everyone. One man’s mustachio was another man’s weasely whiskers. One woman’s ghostly was another woman’s sickly. It reminded me to straighten my posture and suck in my modest gut. At the back of the library was a “timeline of books” displayed across the wall. We walked along it,[...] Podcasts Randy Henderson no no http://escapepod.org/2012/01/12/ep327revenants/ http://escapepod.org/2012/01/12/ep327revenants/#comments Fri, 13 Jan 2012 03:45:25 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2957 http://escapepod.org/2012/01/12/ep327revenants/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Judith Tarr Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First published in DINOSAURFANTASTIC from DAW edited by Mike Resnick and Martin H. Greenberg, 1993 All stories by Judith Tarr All stories read by Mur Lafferty REVENANTS by Judith Tarr Janie[...] By Judith Tarr Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First published in DINOSAURFANTASTIC from DAW edited by Mike Resnick and Martin H. Greenberg, 1993 All stories by Judith Tarr All stories read by Mur Lafferty REVENANTS by Judith Tarr Janie wanted to pet the pterodactyl. “Here’s the auk,” I said. “Look how soft his feathers are. Look at the dodo, isn’t he funny? Don’t you want to give the quagga a carrot?” Janie wouldn’t even dignify that with disgust. It was the pterodactyl or nothing. Janie is four. At four, all or nothing isn’t a philosophy, it’s universal law. A very intelligent four can argue that this is the Greater Metro Revenants’ Zoo, yes? And this is the room where they keep the ones that can be petted, yes? So why can’t a person pet the pterodactyl? No use explaining that everything else was inoculated and immunized and sterilized and rendered safe for children to handle. Everything but the pterodactyl. They’d just made it, and it was supposed to be pettable when they were done, but not yet. There’d been plenty of controversy about putting it on display so soon, but public outcry won out over scientific common sense. So the thing was on display, but behind neoglas inlaid with the injunction: No, I’m Not Ready Yet. Look, But Don’t Touch. Janie reads. I should know. It’s one of the chief points of debate between her father and me. She could read the warning as well as I could. “So why can’t I touch? I want to touch!” She was fast winding up to a tantrum. I could stop it now and risk an injunction for public child abuse, or wait till it became a nuisance and we were both shuffled off the premises. Inside its enclosure, the pterodactyl stretched its wings and opened its beak and hissed. Neoglas is new, about as new as revenants; it’s one-way to sound as well as sight. The pterodactyl couldn’t see us or hear us, which was lucky for Janie. I wished we couldn’t see or hear it, either. It wasn’t particularly ugly, just strange. One whole faction of paleontologists had been thrown out into the cold when the thing came out of its vat warm-blooded and covered with soft silvery-white fur. Without the fur it would have been a leathery lizardlike thing with batwings. With the fur it looked like a white bat with a peculiar, half-avian, half-saurian head, and extremely convincing talons. Janie’s fixation and the thing’s furriness notwithstanding, it didn’t look very pettable. Its eyes were a disturbing shade of red, with pinpoint pupils. I wondered if it was hungry, or if it wanted to stretch its wings and fly. Janie had stopped whining. She was going to howl next. Something bellowed in the bowels of the building. Janie’s mouth snapped shut. “There,” I said. “Look what you did.” If that got me cited, let it. It cut off Janie’s howl before it started. “They’ve got something big down there,” somebody said. “Probably the aurochs,” said somebody else. “Mammoths trumpet like elephants.” “Maybe it’s a T. Rex,” said a kid’s voice. “They don’t have one of those yet,” said the one who knew it all. “They’d need a bigger enclosure than they can afford to build, with a stronger perimeter field. So they’re bringing back later things, because they’re smaller.” “But if they’ve got the mammoths—” “Mammoths don’t have teeth as long as your arm. They don’t eat people.” Janie’s eyes were as big as they can get. I got her out of there before she decided she wanted to howl after all. Ice cream distracted her. So did a pony ride in the zoo’s park—the pony was a Merychippus, a handsome little dun that looked perfectly ponylike except for the pair of vestigial toes flanking each of its hooves. By the time we picked up our picnic and headed for the tables by the mammoths’ pit, I was starting to breathe almost normally. If you haven’t got your kid license yet, you can only imagine you know what it’s like to take the qualifying exam. Studying for it is hell, and the practicum’s a raving bitch. Then when you pass and get the kid, six times out o[...] Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2012/01/06/ep326-flash-fiction-special/ http://escapepod.org/2012/01/06/ep326-flash-fiction-special/#comments Fri, 06 Jan 2012 11:55:35 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2949 http://escapepod.org/2012/01/06/ep326-flash-fiction-special/feed/ 0 0:45:58 Poppies and Chrome by Sylvia Hiven Rabbi Aaron Meets Satan by Tim Lieder Fine-Tuning the Universe by Merrie Haskell narrated by Mat Weller, author Richard E. Dansky, and Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Appropriate for teens and up due to erotic[...] Poppies and Chrome by Sylvia Hiven Rabbi Aaron Meets Satan by Tim Lieder Fine-Tuning the Universe by Merrie Haskell narrated by Mat Weller, author Richard E. Dansky, and Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Appropriate for teens and up due to erotic imagery and language. Flash, Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2012/01/02/soundproof-15/ http://escapepod.org/2012/01/02/soundproof-15/#comments Tue, 03 Jan 2012 04:33:38 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2922 http://escapepod.org/2012/01/02/soundproof-15/feed/ 1 0:00:01 Click here to get the epub version. Dear Faithful Listeners And Readers— Happy 2012! It’s looking to be a very exciting year at Escape Pod, and we’re delighted you’re still hanging out with us! We had a lot of fun bringing you diff[...] Click here to get the epub version. Dear Faithful Listeners And Readers— Happy 2012! It’s looking to be a very exciting year at Escape Pod, and we’re delighted you’re still hanging out with us! We had a lot of fun bringing you different things in 2011, from our first audio drama at the end of the year to the various story collections to our supporters. And thanks to your supporters, by the way. It’s amazing to realize we’re in our seventh year doing this, and we’ve operated in the black the entire time. We couldn’t have done that without you, so thank you. To be completely honest, it hasn’t been smooth sailing. We got behind in submissions this year, even with some time off to catch up. Authors got angry, as they should have done, and we’ve figured out where things went wrong and are working on fixing it. I won’t offer excuses, only that I’m responsible for this magazine and I let down our authors, and I’m very sorry for this. We’re closing our doors to submissions in January in order to get everything organized. Hugo voting is open, from now until March 31! I’ll have a blog post soon about what Escape Pod has offered that is eligible, and we’re appreciate a consideration if you’re eligible to nominate. Resolutions are promises to fail, so we won’t make any, but we do promise to continue to bring you weekly SF that will be fun. And lose those 10 pounds, of course. Have a safe and happy 2012. Be mighty, and have fun! Mur Lafferty Editor E-pub, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/12/29/ep325-bad-dogs-escape/ http://escapepod.org/2011/12/29/ep325-bad-dogs-escape/#comments Fri, 30 Dec 2011 01:52:26 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2910 http://escapepod.org/2011/12/29/ep325-bad-dogs-escape/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By James Patrick Kelly Cast: Becca- AB Kovacs Sam- Pamela L. Quevillon Mel Gibson- John Cmar Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by James Patrick Kelly All stories read by AB Kovacs, Pamela L. Quevillon, John Cmar Appro[...] By James Patrick Kelly Cast: Becca- AB Kovacs Sam- Pamela L. Quevillon Mel Gibson- John Cmar Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by James Patrick Kelly All stories read by AB Kovacs, Pamela L. Quevillon, John Cmar Appropriate for older teens and up due to erotic imagery and war criminal comeuppance. Bad Dogs Escape By James Patrick Kelly /SFX/ CLOCK TICKING, FADE TO /SFX/ DOGS BARKING IN DISTANCE SAM: Like? BECCA: Like. SAM: (growls like a dog, sexy) BECCA: Like? SAM: Like. /SFX/ DOGS BARKING IN DISTANCE BECCA: Lick? SAM: (giggles) Like. BECCA: (howls like a dog) /SFX/ DOGS BARKING CLOSER SAM: They’re busy today. BECCA: Man’s best friend. (SAM and BECCA laugh) MEL: (in distance) Help! SAM: Uh-oh. BECCA: Company. /SFX/ DOGS BARKING, CLOSER MEL: (outside) Open up. Help! /SFX/ PANICKY KNOCKING ON DOOR MEL: (outside) For God’s sake, let me in! SAM: Already with God. Leave him. BECCA: No, let’s take a look. I could use a laugh. /SFX/ FOOTSTEPS. WINDOW SLIDES OPEN. SAM: Good enough to eat? BECCA: You’re bad. /SFX/ DOGS BARKING MEL: I can see you in there. Hurry. Please. BECCA: Where’s the controller? SAM: You’re not letting him in? /SFX/ DOGS BARKING /SFX/ MORE KNOCKING BECCA: This’ll be fun. Is the taser charged? SAM: Let’s see. /SFX/ TASER ZAP SAM: Yep. BECCA: I bet nine minutes. SAM: Not fair. You can see him. /SFX/ GARAGE DOOR OPENING BECCA: Nine is my bet. Yours? SAM: Way too quick. Ten minutes. No, eleven. BECCA: Done. (calls to Mel) It’s an overhead door. You have to crawl. MEL: (outside) What? They’re coming fast. SAM: Crawl under! /SFX/ CRAWLING, GRUNTING MEL: Shut it, shut it now! /SFX/ GARAGE DOOR CLOSING MEL: Thank you, thank you, thank you. You saved my life. /SFX/ STANDS, MORE GRUNTS, DUSTS HIMSELF OFF MEL: But who are you? BECCA: Me, Becca. She, Sam. You? SAM: Mel Gibson, maybe. BECCA: Our road warrior. (SAM and BECCA laugh) MEL: (confused) No, my name is Fish. Robert Fish. You can call me Bob. SAM: Or I can call you Mel Gibson. MEL: I beg your pardon, but that’s not my name. My name is Bob. SAM: Mel. (beat) Gibson. BECCA: You’re bad, Sam. (beat) So Mel, you must be from the vault. MEL: The vault? BECCA: The big underground storage thingy. All the fatcats snoozing away. MEL: You mean the Cultural Preservation Facility? That was top secret back when … but I suppose you must know all about it by now. BECCA: Not all. SAM: Something about your old government. BECCA: You people wasted everything. And then millions died. SAM: Billions. MEL: We tried. We tried very hard. It wasn’t as if we couldn’t see what was coming. The droughts, tornados, the economy going south. But it didn’t happen all at once. Then the Raccoon flu, the antibiotics were useless. The wheat crop failed two years in a row. Then came riots, cities on fire, madness. When we lost control we gathered the best — scientists, economists, engineers, architects into the CPF …. SAM: CPF? MEL: The Cultural Preservation Facility. The vault. The Congressional Committee selected a hundred volunteers to enter suspended animation pods to sleep through all the disasters. Wait, how long has it been? SAM: Since when? MEL: I mean, what year is this? SAM: Pick one. They’re all available. BECCA: My mom never kept a calendar. Did yours, Sam? SAM: You met my mom. BECCA: Right. So anyway, Mel, you decided to snooze while the world went to the dogs. MEL: Everything was flying apart. We tried to save what we could. But something went wrong. SAM: You think? MEL: No, I mean in the CPF. The main power was rated for fifty years, then if nobody woke us up the backup was supposed to kick in. But for some reason, it’s only running at half power. Whole sections are shutting down. I was lucky, I just barely escaped being d[...] Best-Of, Podcasts James Patrick Kelly no no http://escapepod.org/2011/12/22/ep324-long-winters-nap/ http://escapepod.org/2011/12/22/ep324-long-winters-nap/#comments Fri, 23 Dec 2011 04:03:29 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2902 http://escapepod.org/2011/12/22/ep324-long-winters-nap/feed/ 0 0:30:33 By Catherine H. Shaffer Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First published in Analog, 2006 All stories by Catherine H. Shaffer All stories read by Mur Lafferty Nothing objectionable in this episode, except it may not be appropriate for the[...] By Catherine H. Shaffer Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First published in Analog, 2006 All stories by Catherine H. Shaffer All stories read by Mur Lafferty Nothing objectionable in this episode, except it may not be appropriate for the younger folk, as the story does discuss Santy Clawr. Long Winter’s Nap by Catherine H. Shaffer “Eat,” said MooninMama, “You have a long winter ahead.” LittlestOne turned her head away as MooninMama lifted the spoon of raspberry pie dripping with honey and caribou fat. LittlestOne was sleepy, too sleepy, for what she planned. “I am already full,” said LittlestOne. Her stomach rumbled, giving away her lie. MooninMama shrugged and set the plate away. It was beginning to get cold in the cave as the crackling fire burned down to embers. Soon it would be time to sleep, time to dream of spring, when they would awaken, shivering, and find that Santy Clawr had visited them. MooninMama lay next to YediDaddy and pulled LittlestOne down between them, like a baby. All of the others had their own beds. The hardest part was lying still between MooninMama and YediDaddy without falling asleep. It wasn’t like going to sleep at night. There were no blankets to keep them warm, though they had soft beds. More than once, LittlestOne shook herself awake after accidentally nodding off. She wasn’t sure she could fight off the long sleep by simple force of will, not with the cold coming down into her bones. She peeked out from beneath her heavy lids and the cave was dark except for the thin, crackly lines of orange from the dying embers in the fire pit. The taste of sugar rose to her tongue and her hands and feet began to tingle. MooninMama was still, her breath coming softer and fainter each time. Her bright blue eyes were closed and her cheek as soft as a baby’s. Chestnut hair fanned around her shoulders. Her breasts rose and fell softly with her breath. YediDaddy wasn’t breathing at all. There was a faint beard of frost on his face, decorating the stubble on his chin. All around lay LittlestOne’s brothers and sisters, their children, her aunts and uncles and cousins, her grandparents, and all the other people of the tribe. In the summer, when the tribe slept, there were all sorts of sounds in the night. People coughing, snoring, and sometimes laughing, but here there was nothing but a deep silence. LittlestOne stood up and shook the tingling out. She felt a pang of longing looking at her parents hibernating, but it wasn’t enough to keep her with them. She turned to sneak out. She felt dizzy and stumbled several times as she tiptoed across the sleeping bodies of her tribe. Nothing would wake them now but Spring. LittlestOne crawled out of the cave and went to the summer house that YediDaddy had built. She lit a fire and crouched beside it. When she felt completely awake, she went out into the night. It was snowing softly, and there weren’t any stars. She had never been so alone. But she resisted the temptation to go back to the cave with her family. She imagined what they would say when she told them she had met Santy Clawr. They wouldn’t think she was such a baby, then! # The days were lonely for LittlestOne. It grew colder and all she wanted to do was go to sleep. Many times she woke herself just on the verge of hibernation , and had to get warm again so she wouldn’t miss Santy. She knew where to find food, even under the snow. MooninMama and YediDaddy kept caches of meat and potatoes underground, where they wouldn’t go bad. There were some nuts and berries left on the bushes, and she didn’t need to eat much, since she was so small. Digging through the buried boxes, LittlestOne wondered why there was so much food, with the feast that Santy Clawr would be bringing. To fight off the loneliness, she sat up on top of the highest hill and looked out over the water. The Hots had called it Saginaw Bay. The wind blew, raising ridges of white up out of the gray water. She cracked a walnut with a rock[...] Podcasts Catherine H. Shaffer no no http://escapepod.org/2011/12/15/ep323-marking-time-on-the-far-side-of-forever/ http://escapepod.org/2011/12/15/ep323-marking-time-on-the-far-side-of-forever/#comments Thu, 15 Dec 2011 22:41:18 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2888 http://escapepod.org/2011/12/15/ep323-marking-time-on-the-far-side-of-forever/feed/ 0 0:34:13 By DK Latta Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. First published in Prairie Fire, 1999 All stories by DK Latta All stories read by Josh Roseman Marking Time on the Far Side of Forever by D.K. Latta I sit beneath the dark green sky, overlooki[...] By DK Latta Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. First published in Prairie Fire, 1999 All stories by DK Latta All stories read by Josh Roseman Marking Time on the Far Side of Forever by D.K. Latta I sit beneath the dark green sky, overlooking the valley that has changed much over the years.  What was once a stream has swelled into a river while, to the east, lush vegetation grows where I think there was once a shallow lake. I can’t remember definitely. The information is stored inside me, filed, itemized; I’m merely unsure how to access it. It will come to me. Later, when a random search, an unrelated thought, cracks open the proper conduits and a pulse of electricity resurrects the knowledge, unbidden. Until then, I am content to wait. Below my knee, the dented brass-coloured metal becomes the red of a tree trunk, substituting as a shin and foot. Like an antiquated peg-leg, like a stereotypical pira…pi…pi- Pi is 3.1415926… The organic substance must be replaced occasionally, but the concept has served satisfactorily for almost two hundred years. It was easy to jury-rig. Not so my mnemonic core.  I lack the appropriate tools and diagnostic programs. Yes. There had been a lake, teeming with the hoorah-thet fish. I call them fish simply to provide a basis of comparative orientation. Fish only exist on earth, and this is not earth.  Earth is a long, long way away. “Gakha!” I turn my head left, but abruptly the joints seize up. The swivel mechanism has been malfunctioning for months. Fiffer comes bounding through the long red stalks that sprout to the height of a man. The sun is setting, and when night settles the stalks will curl up until the first rays of morning buss them with its solar kiss. I’m being florid. Dr. Fujiwama programmed me that way. She said it would make my information easier to digest for the scouting party. My left eye starts pixilating, turning everything into a multi-coloured grid. I slap my palm against my brow with a dull clang! and the image clears. Who is bounding toward me? Do I know him? Fiffer. He bounces along on his powerful tail, his four lower limbs atrophied to stumps. I’ve unearthed fossils indicating that his ancestors had well-developed hind limbs. I think the scouting party will be pleased with my report on paleozoology. There are some nice passages in it. Florid even. Fiffer calls me Gakha, which means ‘shelled man’. They do not comprehend refined metals. Fiffer’s people think I’m some sort of god. I’ve tried to disabuse them of that notion. Fiffer halts, his principle forelimb gesticulating. The limb is a tongue that has evolved through the chest cavity. I detail its evolution in my report on Comparative Anatomies of the Vertebrates of the Temperate Zone. It was my first completed essay. I’m proud to say my observations within it have not been contradicted by subsequent data collected in the ensuing years. I was very meticulous. “Gakha?” I focus, realizing I may have drifted. “Has a grubbling fallen into a well?” I rise, prepared to rescue the little creature. “No.” His tongue waves excitedly. “A shell has fallen.” My left eye pixilates momentarily. I ignore it. “What?” “A big shell. It was bright at its bottom as it fell from the sky. Then it landed and went dark.” “Shell?” Slowly, I consider: shell equals refined metals. “Show me, please.” *          *          * It’s a ship. I don’t recognize the design. I lurch toward it in fits and starts through the swamp. I have sent Fiffer back to the village, until I can ascertain whether the inhabitants of the shell — I mean, ship — whether they mean his people harm. It is important that no harm come to them. The scouting party will want to meet them. In the nightsky I recognize the purple glimmer of a planet that shares the sa[...] Podcasts DK Latta no no http://escapepod.org/2011/12/08/chicken-noodle-gravity/ http://escapepod.org/2011/12/08/chicken-noodle-gravity/#comments Fri, 09 Dec 2011 04:18:03 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2869 http://escapepod.org/2011/12/08/chicken-noodle-gravity/feed/ 0 0:32:11 By J. Daniel Sawyer Read by Paul Haring Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod original! All stories by J. Daniel Sawyer All stories read by Paul Haring Rated 17 and up for language, and mild sexual situations Chicken Noodle Gravity by J. Daniel Sawy[...] By J. Daniel Sawyer Read by Paul Haring Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod original! All stories by J. Daniel Sawyer All stories read by Paul Haring Rated 17 and up for language, and mild sexual situations Chicken Noodle Gravity by J. Daniel Sawyer I hate to start out this way, but before we get to the reason I’m standing on this stool with a fez on my head, in the middle of the night, in front of a double-cal-king bed in a furniture store—which, yes, Officer, I swear I’ll confess I broke into illegally—before we get to any of that, there’s something I have to tell you. I know it’s awful, evil, and just plain wrong, but there’s no way around it, and you won’t understand anything else unless I say this right up front, so here goes: Stephen was stoned. And when I say “stoned” I mean he’d eaten enough brownies and smoked enough pot to put the economies of five or six minor countries into a severe, long-term deficit crisis. It was okay. It helped him cope with the chemo. Mellowed him out. We didn’t have to fight over who got to hold the remote. He was better in bed too—not as neurotic. Didn’t complain about my mustache when I kissed him. Suits me right for shacking up with a clean freak. The weed was my revenge—well, the fact that the weed made it possible for him to eat. We had to grow our own—only way we could afford it, though I swear we probably spent as much on the electricity as we would have on the bud. Not a great climate for it, not in the winter. So, the revenge part—that would be his appetite. When he smoked, it came back. It was the only time it came back. And there were only two things he could handle: Brownies. And chicken noodle soup. The really rancid stuff that came in a red and white can. I swear, by all that’s good and holy and a bowl of Ex-Lax besides, that was all he could eat. And he hated chocolate almost as much as he hated the soup. Feeding him the soup and brownies was my revenge on him for getting sick in the first place. Not that I blamed him about the soup. A hundred forty years after it was invented, that stuff still smelled like salted famine and disease glopping out of the can. But after Stephen lost all his hair, for the third time, I got to love that smell. Not because it smelled any better, but because every time I smelled it I knew he’d be around at least long enough to eat it. Sometimes, a little bit of hope is all you need to keep going. When your life is filled with words like “pancreatic,” “stage four,” and “terminal,” you learn to live with what you can get. So we smoked like chimneys, screwed like carpenters, sang like sailors, and gambled like day-traders. I didn’t give much of a damn that the money wouldn’t last much longer than him. But he just. Kept. Lasting. He didn’t want to let me go any more than I wanted to let him go. First it was the money. Then it was the house. Then it was the car. But it didn’t matter. As long as I could keep growing the green, and opening those red and white cans. It went on like that all winter. When they diagnosed him, they said he’d last five weeks. We’d made it five months, and we weren’t going to make it much longer without changing—and whatever it was, we were going to have to get creative. I was still employed. My job at the casino paid enough in tips that we should have been okay, and my insurance covered all his doctor visits. But the meds killed us. Cancer drugs move so fast that the difference in survival comes down to what month you were diagnosed, now. That small-cell lung cancer you’ve got today will kill you, but the tumor your brother discovers in six weeks will be treatable, and the one your mom gets a month after that will be curable. If you can stay alive long enough, then you can stay alive period. That’s the deal. And that’s why every penny I earned in salary and ti[...] Podcasts J. Daniel Sawyer no no http://escapepod.org/2011/12/02/ep321-honor-killing/ http://escapepod.org/2011/12/02/ep321-honor-killing/#comments Fri, 02 Dec 2011 21:59:09 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2854 http://escapepod.org/2011/12/02/ep321-honor-killing/feed/ 0 0:19:33 By Ray Tabler Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod original! All stories by Ray Tabler All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 10 and up for blaster violence. Honor Killing by Ray Tabler You would think that after all the years I[...] By Ray Tabler Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod original! All stories by Ray Tabler All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 10 and up for blaster violence. Honor Killing by Ray Tabler You would think that after all the years I’ve spent schlepping cargoes around the galaxy I’d have learned not to get involved with the locals, especially when they’re not humans. You would think. A Yanuleen sat down across the table from me in a bar at the edge of the landing field outside of Yanult’s largest city. Yanuleen are furry little folk, bipedal and about a meter tall with six multi-jointed arms poking out at odd intervals around their middles. This one blinked beady, black eyes at me, “Greetings Sentient Being.” “Uh, greetings.” “Isn’t it a glorious piece?” My new buddy pointed an arm at the artwork on display in the middle of the bar. Yanuleen are a bit nuts for that type of thing. They have artwork, mainly sculpture, everywhere, even in a bar. To me it just looked like a three-meter tall bundle of twigs with pieces of broken pottery tossed in at random. “Very nice.” Being in a foul mood, I took a drink and stared at the Yanuleen. “Here is being Klonoon.” He pointed all six arms at himself, in the manner of his kind. “Might here also being Captain Anne Katya Shim, who is having a cargo of entertainment modules impounded by the Port Authority?” “Yeah, that’s me. What’s it to ya, shorty?” This twerp was starting to get on my nerves. “Great amounts of good fortune we are both having. Klonoon is searching many establishments near the spaceport for Captain Anne Katya Shim.” “Well, you found me. What next?” “Next is being Klonoon and Captain Anne Katya Shim discussing matters of mutual benefit.” “And just what matters might those be?” Klonoon is having much influence with the official in charge of impounding cargoes.” Suddenly, my old buddy Klonoon wasn’t near as annoying as a few minutes ago. Captain Anne Katya Shim is helping Klonoon and Klonoon is helping Captain Anne–” “Just call me Anne, okay? And get to the point.” Klonoon’s whole body wriggled, which I think meant he was laughing, or maybe getting ready to vomit. I hadn’t planned on being on that damned planet for more than a day or two, so I hadn’t studied the culture much. “Klonoon is getting assets unfrozen so Anne is getting paid for delivery of cargo.” “And what is Anne doing– I mean, what is it you want me to do in return?” “Anne is killing Klonoon’s cousin Jerbot.” It was my turn to blink. “Anne is what?” “Klonoon’s cousin Jerbot is needing to be killed. It is being a matter of honor.” “I don’t care if it is a matter of honor. Murder’s illegal and I don’t want to end up in prison.” “No. No. Yes. Yes. Murder is being illegal. Honor killings are being different.” Now, right here is when I should have stood up and stormed out. “If that’s the case, why don’t you just kill Jerbot yourself?” Klonoon pulled all three arms in on one side and stuck the others straight out. “Klonoon is not doing that! The one who is killing Jerbot is taking Jerbot’s dishonor on himself.” “Oh well, that’s logical.” “Yes, very. Off-worlders are having no honor. And, Humans are being particularly violent. Anne is probably killing sixes of sentient beings, perhaps sixes of sixes.” “What do you mean we’re violent?” “Humans are having many wars. You are having your War of First Contact, your Altair War, your War of the Outer Rift, your–” “All right, all right, we’ve had a lot of wars. At least we’re not as bad as the[...] Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/12/01/soundproof-14/ http://escapepod.org/2011/12/01/soundproof-14/#comments Fri, 02 Dec 2011 04:33:43 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2926 http://escapepod.org/2011/12/01/soundproof-14/feed/ 0 0:00:01 Click here for the epub version. Hello everyone, You know that column you run into every now and then on how time always seems like it’s going faster as you get older? The one where you can kind of tell that the columnist suddenly realized he hadn’t[...] Click here for the epub version. Hello everyone, You know that column you run into every now and then on how time always seems like it’s going faster as you get older? The one where you can kind of tell that the columnist suddenly realized he hadn’t actually written their weekly twelve column inches and was asking themselves how exactly Tuesday afternoon had arrived on them already (or a TV columnnist for that matter — the first time I ran into it I think I was 7 or 8 and my parents were watching 60 Minutes). Yeah, it’s kind of been like that lately. I think with Christmas/Hanukkah/[insert midwinter celebration of choice]/Festivus coming up and the rapid shortening of days ahead of the solstice, at least for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, breed a feeling of loss at the time we had, but really would like to have again. Not quite nostalia, more like (part of me wants to write now-stalgia, but that would be a horribly disqualifying pun) the loss of the recent past that you really wanted to have accomplished more in. Time travel’s usually all about meeting your grandkids to the nth degree and playing with their cool new gadgets/seeing the future dystopia/utopia/stealing a book of sports statistics, or going back and killing Hitler. But commercial and commoditized time travel would probably just be a bunch of people trying to optimize the days that didn’t go horribly wrong, but didn’t approach the theoretical ur-day that modern days rarely meet. We’d all make our deadlines, but would be 90 years old after 35 calendar years. And with that, I’ll let you peruse our fine stories this month. For those of you who NaNoWriMo’d last month, I hope you’re recovering. —Bill Bill Peters Assistant Editor Escape Pod —30— Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/11/24/ep320-thanksgiving-day/ http://escapepod.org/2011/11/24/ep320-thanksgiving-day/#comments Fri, 25 Nov 2011 02:53:10 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2833 http://escapepod.org/2011/11/24/ep320-thanksgiving-day/feed/ 0 0:46:56 By Jay Werkheiser Read by Paul Haring Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Analog All stories by Jay Werkheiser All stories read by Paul Haring Thanksgiving Day By Jay Werkheiser Kev’s stomach curled around emptiness, embracing it as a con[...] By Jay Werkheiser Read by Paul Haring Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Analog All stories by Jay Werkheiser All stories read by Paul Haring Thanksgiving Day By Jay Werkheiser Kev’s stomach curled around emptiness, embracing it as a constant reminder that the colony’s Earth food was almost gone. Another three months, four at the outside. Then what? How will we die? He bent down to look into the nearest cage. “Maybe you’ll tell us why the food here is poisonous,” he said to one of the rats inside. It rolled its dull eyes listlessly toward him. Rust-brown clumps matted its fur, and the metallic odor of dried blood hung in the air. Is that how I’ll go, clutching helplessly at alien dirt, coughing up blood? His gut clenched tighter. “They are not going to tell you anything,” Ahmet said from across the toxicology lab. Kev looked up from the cage at the short, dark-skinned man walking toward him. His circular glasses, perched atop a narrow nose, reminded Kev of an owl. “I thought I’d stop by on the way home from the analytical chem lab,” Kev said. “One of the grunts said you were looking for me earlier.” Ahmet nodded. “I was hoping you could run some samples for me. Give me a clue what’s in them.” Kev frowned. “The biochem team has me running Bradford assays day and night, looking for alien proteins. Did you come up with a new lead?” Hope flared in his chest, then died with Ahmet’s reply. “I’m afraid I’m just grasping at straws. My subchronic rats keep developing the same symptoms — nosebleed, bloody stools, and ultimately internal hemorrhaging.” “Subchronic?” said Kev, quizzically. “My field’s spectroscopy.” “The subjects receive daily doses of an alien food source over ten percent of their life span, about three months for rats.” “Three months?” Kev said. “The hydroponics tanks are dying, Ahmet.” “Yes, I understand that. You’re not the only one living on short rations.” Anger flashed behind Ahmet’s glasses, but quickly dissipated. “Toxicology is a slow business. I don’t think we’re going to have results in time.” Ahmet seemed to deflate with his anger. “We came all this way, spent all those years on the ship, to fail before we even get started.” Kev put his hand on Ahmet’s shoulder. “We’re not going down without a fight.” Ahmet nodded, his eyes downcast. “I have learned that mycowood produced the most severe symptoms in the rats.” “Mycowood? They’re those mushroom-shaped tree things, right? Smell minty.” “Yes. The organic team tells me the smell comes from salicylate esters. All the local plants produce them.” Kev connected the dots. Salicylates. Aspirin. “Blood thinners?” he asked. Ahmet’s head bobbled up and down. “But only dangerous in quantities much larger than we find here. Still, I think it could be important.” “All right, send some of your mycowood samples over to the analyt lab. I’ll squeeze them in first thing in the morning.” “Thank you. Thank you!” Ahmet’s Turkish accent was normally muted, but it thickened when he was excited. “That will be most helpful.” “Save your enthusiasm for tomorrow.” A thin smile curled Kev’s lips, his first in a long time. “It’s nearly fourteen o’clock, time to head home for a few hours’ sleep.” The short walk across the colony compound felt longer because Epsilon Indi, settling low on the horizon at this late hour, cast bright sunbeams into his eyes. Two long shadows moved through the glare ahead of him. Kev shielded his eyes with his hand to see who it was — two grunts working[...] Podcasts Jay Werkheiser no no http://escapepod.org/2011/11/17/ep319-driving-x/ http://escapepod.org/2011/11/17/ep319-driving-x/#comments Thu, 17 Nov 2011 20:02:18 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2829 http://escapepod.org/2011/11/17/ep319-driving-x/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Gwendolyn Clare Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Warrior Wisewoman 3 All stories by Gwendolyn Clare All stories read by Mur Lafferty Driving X by Gwendolyn Clare Carmela wouldn’t have stopped if she had known th[...] By Gwendolyn Clare Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Warrior Wisewoman 3 All stories by Gwendolyn Clare All stories read by Mur Lafferty Driving X by Gwendolyn Clare Carmela wouldn’t have stopped if she had known that the kid was still alive. She spotted the body lying under a creosote bush, maybe ten yards from the road, and she hit the brakes.  She grabbed the roll cage of the old dune buggy and pulled herself up, standing on the driver’s seat to scan in both directions along the unpaved road.  A dust devil twirled a silent ballet off to the southeast, but hers was the only man-made dust trail in evidence for miles.  She raised her hand to cover the sun and squinted into the bleached, cloudless sky–no vultures yet, which was good, since vultures attract attention.  Minimal risk, she decided. The dune buggy itself wasn’t that valuable, but the newer-model solar panels powering it would be enough to tempt any sane person, and the carboys of potable water were worth a small fortune out here. Carmela swung out of the dune buggy and jogged over to check out the body.  It was tall but skinny, with the not-yet-filled-out look of a teenager.  Pale skin, a tint of sunburn, brown hair cropped at chin-length.  The girl was lying face down in the dust, so Carmela rolled the body over and checked her front pockets for anything of interest.  A month ago, she would have felt ashamed, but scavenging was the norm down here; after all, dead people don’t miss what you take from them. Carmela was rifling through the kid’s backpack–shaking her head about the nearly empty water supply–when she heard the girl moan. She froze, one hand still buried in the bag.  She should gather up the loot and make a run for the dune buggy before the girl came around. The kid was probably a goner, anyway, she told herself.  Instead, she leaned in closer, looking at the face plastered with sand and sweaty clumps of brown hair. The girl’s eyelids peeled back and stared up at Carmela with the glazed slowness of delirium.  Her cracked lips parted and she said, hoarsely, “Mom?” Nobody had ever called Carmela that before.  She slid her hands under the girl’s shoulders to lift her. # Swinging her legs, nine-year-old Carmela knocked her heels lightly against the side of the exam table.  Mama sat in a plastic chair, flipping through a magazine the way she always did when she was getting impatient.  Carmela’s test result had come in, and for some reason that was beyond her, Mama was really nervous about it.  And the doctor was running late. Carmela didn’t know why Mama was all bent out of shape over the non-Mendelian genetic test.  To be fair, she wasn’t entirely sure what “non-Mendelian” meant, except that it was something bad that your genes could be.  Driving X was a chromosome that was bad that way, and pretty much everybody had it, and for some reason you had to get tested for it anyway.  That’s what Carmela knew. Dr. Tanaka entered the exam room, holding a manila folder to her chest.  ”Afternoon Ms. Perez, Carmela.  Sorry to keep you waiting.” Mama dropped the magazine on the floor next to her chair and stood, fingers knotted together nervously.  ”Well?” Dr. Tanaka opened the folder, took out a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Mama.  Mama stared at it for a long minute, like she couldn’t quite see it properly.  She made a choking noise. In her tight, mustn’t-cry-in-public voice, she said, “I’ll be right back.”  She left the paper on her chair and hurried for the door. Carmela hopped off the exam table and picked up the sheet of paper. It had a lot of gobbledygook on it, but right in the middle, in bold, it read, “XDXD”. She didn’t understand what the big deal was.  Pretty much everybody had the Driving X allele on at least one of their X chromosomes. [...] Best-Of, Podcasts Gwendolyn Clare no no http://escapepod.org/2011/11/10/ep318-the-prize-beyond-gold/ http://escapepod.org/2011/11/10/ep318-the-prize-beyond-gold/#comments Thu, 10 Nov 2011 13:00:01 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2810 http://escapepod.org/2011/11/10/ep318-the-prize-beyond-gold/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Ian Creasey Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Ian Creasey All stories read by Josh Roseman The Prize Beyond Gold by Ian Creasey Three days before the race, when Delroy had finished warming[...] By Ian Creasey Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Ian Creasey All stories read by Josh Roseman The Prize Beyond Gold by Ian Creasey Three days before the race, when Delroy had finished warming down from a training run, his coach summoned him for a talk. Delroy could tell it was something big. Michito’s job — assisted by his Enhanced empathy — was to become exquisitely sensitive to his athlete’s mood, so as to help get the best out of him. The attunement sometimes became mutual, and Delroy now discerned a rare eagerness in Michito’s almost-natural face. “The weather forecast for race day has reached certainty,” said Michito. “Temperature: perfect. Humidity: perfect. Wind speed: just below the permissible maximum. Wind direction –” “Perfect?” said Delroy. “Behind you all the way.” Michito grinned in delight. “It’s the final star in the constellation. You’re in great shape, the weather will be ideal, we’re two thousand metres above sea level” — Michito made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the many other factors affecting performance — “and it all adds up to one thing.” “I’m going to win?” Delroy didn’t understand Michito’s glee: the weather would be the same for all the runners. “Yes, but never mind that. Forget winning — you have a chance at the record!” Michito paused to let it sink in. Records were something that athletes and coaches normally never discussed, because they’d stood so long that they were effectively unbeatable. The record for the men’s 100 metres had remained at 8.341 seconds for the past seventy years. A pulse of exhilaration surged through Delroy. His posture stiffened, as if already preparing for the starting gun. “Really? The world record?” “Yes, the one and only. The prize beyond gold.” Michito’s excitement spilled out, infecting Delroy, whose own excitement blazed in return and stoked a feedback loop. They were practically getting high on it. Indeed, this giddy rush was as close to getting high as Delroy had ever experienced. In his entire life he’d never once taken any kind of drug. The rules were strict on that, as on so many other things. Abruptly, Michito reverted to his habitual seriousness. “A chance, I said. A real chance. But only if everything’s as smooth as an angel’s feather. We need absolute perfection. There can be no deviations, no distractions.” This was standard rhetoric for any important race. Yet Michito’s demeanour indicated something beyond the usual rigorous regime. “I think it would be best if you stayed here at the training ground,” Michito went on, “instead of going back to the villa tonight. This is a more controlled environment, with much less risk –” “What could possibly happen to me?” “I want to keep you away from other people, and it’s easier to do that here. You’ll be in purdah, seeing no-one except your coaching team. I know it’ll be frustrating, but it’s only three days.” Delroy grimaced, though he didn’t argue. Michito knew what was best. Aside from the usual health and attractiveness tweaks, Michito’s main Enhancement was an uncanny empathy that let him predict Delroy’s responses, and thus determine the optimum conditions for success. If he felt purdah was necessary, then it must be necessary. It was only another line in the script Delroy had been following all his life. The script had two phases, as familiar as his two legs. Sometimes, when he rehearsed stride patterns out on the track, the script echoed in his head with every step: left, right; left, right — race, train; race, train…. Michito said, “This is[...] Podcasts Ian Creasey no no http://escapepod.org/2011/11/03/ep317-boxed-in/ http://escapepod.org/2011/11/03/ep317-boxed-in/#comments Fri, 04 Nov 2011 01:15:37 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2802 http://escapepod.org/2011/11/03/ep317-boxed-in/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Marc-Anthony Taylor Read by Barry Haworth Discuss on our forums. First appeared in British Fantasy Society Winter Journal 2010/2011 All stories by Marc-Anthony Taylor All stories read by Barry Haworth This one isn’t for the kids, because of[...] By Marc-Anthony Taylor Read by Barry Haworth Discuss on our forums. First appeared in British Fantasy Society Winter Journal 2010/2011 All stories by Marc-Anthony Taylor All stories read by Barry Haworth This one isn’t for the kids, because of references to sex workers and acts. Boxed In by Marc-Anthony Taylor My sister had me boxed when I was four. She said she would have had it done to herself but she didn’t want to risk losing me, that it was the only way. I think she just hated the idea of renting her body out to the rich folk in the domes. Don’t get me wrong, she did good by me, I didn’t have to work till I was nine and in that time she studied hard and became a data-pimp herself. It was the only way she could keep us housed and fed after mum and dad had died. It must have been hard for her, if mum and dad had made it she might have made something of herself. If she hadn’t have had to look after me she would probably be in a dome herself by now. She once told me she had big plans; that she wanted to make things better. My only plan was to make enough cash to get us both out of the business. I never noticed the tiny implant at the base of my skull, the nano circuitry must be some of the best though, the tattoo circling my right eye is almost perfect. Kara controlled who, what, when and where. She made sure we got paid, and that I didn’t do anything too bad. She was a clever cookie. My sister looked after me. She did good. * Black leaves hung limply from the trees, refusing to fall despite the time of year. We were lucky to have trees at all; there were places on the other side of the city that had nothing living, except perhaps the odd person. Or so I was told, I had never ventured that far out and thankfully none of my clients had ever requested it. Kara didn’t think it was right to use vehicles. Even if they were meant to be eco friendly now. We would only ever use them if it was an emergency, she said. Everywhere I went, I went by foot, and I had come to know the city just as well as the grubby little apartment that my sister and I shared. My boots left imprints in the fine black powder that coated everything. The sky ships were under way again, every six months they would come out for a week, their massive air scrubbers extracting the carbon from the CO², supposedly leaving us with fresher air. Most people believed they took the oxygen and pumped it into the Eden-domes. The carbon was probably used to construct whatever they needed. The dust was excess that happened to shake loose from the giant machines. Already a couple of people were out with their vacuum cleaners, sucking up what they could of the carbon to sell on the black market. One or two had even rushed out with brush and pan in hand, carefully shaking their winnings into plastic bags. Kara had never done that, she said once we started collecting that stuff, it wouldn’t be long till we started getting sloppy and before you know it our lungs would be coated in gunk, bringing us that much closer to death. My sister, always the optimist. The mask I was wearing was about three years old, long past its renewal date but Kara had kept it in good working order, another one of her many talents. She knew how to break the manufacturing codes so she could regulate the functions. She would probably have been some big-shot programmer or hacker back in the old days. Now, she was just a skin-flint. “We gotta save our cash kid. Money doesn’t fall from the sky, no matter what the carbon monkeys think. And besides, we don’t repeat the mistakes of the past Nate, that’s what got us all into this mess. Recycling is the way to go baby bro, and if I can fix it, you’ll use it. ‘K?” She was always coming out with stuff like that. It might have helped if I had gone to school like her, but they stopped taking boxed kids not long after I got mine. Bad influence supposedly. Still, I could feel a rasp starti[...] Podcasts Marc-Anthony Taylor no no http://escapepod.org/2011/11/01/soundproof-13/ http://escapepod.org/2011/11/01/soundproof-13/#comments Wed, 02 Nov 2011 01:45:25 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2784 http://escapepod.org/2011/11/01/soundproof-13/feed/ 0 0:00:01 You can download the ePub version here. Hello everyone, and happy November! It’s NaNoWriMo month, and a lot of professionals don’t like it. They say it’s misleading to tell newbies that the career that pros have taken years to perfect can be achieve[...] You can download the ePub version here. Hello everyone, and happy November! It’s NaNoWriMo month, and a lot of professionals don’t like it. They say it’s misleading to tell newbies that the career that pros have taken years to perfect can be achieved in 30 days. They say that December 1 marks the day that thousands of unedited, 50,000 word “novels” hit the desks of agents and editors. Some of them are just cynics who hate the excitement people get as November draws near, since they’re toiling on their own books. But I tend to think it’s a great thing. Writing well is difficult, yes. But writing is not. And most people just stop themselves at writing, thinking if their story isn’t flat out brilliant literature from word one, they will never improve, never learn, and never be a writer. NaNoWriMo tells people to turn off the horrid editor in our minds and just write- something that’s difficult to do. Pros know for a fact that there’s always a lurking voice saying, “This is crap, why are you wasting your time with tripe?” - they just know to tell that voice to shut up, that they’ll get their opinion once the story is done. Most of all for me, NaNoWriMo encourages people to write - and write every day. And at the core of things, I really can’t see what kind of ogre thinks this is a bad idea. Writing is a great thing. More writers means more stories. And last I checked, we still liked stories. So participate in NaNoWriMo. Write a 50,000 word story in a month. Then let it sit. Then edit it. Then edit it again. Learn from every step. In other news, I just returned from World Fantasy Con, which was my first. It was a fantastic meeting of industry professionals, and I met a lot of great authors and narrators that have appeared in Escape Pod, Podcastle, and Pseudopod. (To name a few: Cat Rambo, K. Tempest Bradford, Keffy R. M. Kehrli, M. K. Hobson, Vylar Kaftan, and several more.) During the Escape Artists’ meetup, we managed to discuss fanfic, Elmo, and the Escape Artists forums. In retrospect perhaps we should have served alcohol. Ah well. It was fantastic meeting people, and cons are over too quickly. The last two months of the year have some really exciting stories planned, and I can’t wait to bring them to you. Be mighty! Mur E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/10/27/ep316-site-fourteen/ http://escapepod.org/2011/10/27/ep316-site-fourteen/#comments Thu, 27 Oct 2011 15:54:54 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2781 http://escapepod.org/2011/10/27/ep316-site-fourteen/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Laura Anne Gilman Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. First appeared in ReVISIONS from Daw Boooks All stories by Laura Anne Gilman All stories read by Mat Weller This one isn’t for the kids, because of language and heavy content. Site[...] By Laura Anne Gilman Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. First appeared in ReVISIONS from Daw Boooks All stories by Laura Anne Gilman All stories read by Mat Weller This one isn’t for the kids, because of language and heavy content. Site Fourteen “Nereus Shuttle Four to Gateway Station, you have control.” Robinachec nodded confirmation as though the pilot could see him.  ”Roger that.  Bringing you in.” Palming the flat-topped lever, I watched as he moved it gently back towards him, pulling the bullet-shaped transport into the shed, an external framework of metal beams just large enough to hold two minisubs, or one shuttle. Robinechec has nightmares sometimes about something going wrong here.  Forget the fact that it’s the safest maneuver in the entire procedure; he still talks about waking up in a cold sweat because he screwed up. You’d never know it to watch him. When you’re six hundred feet down – well below the twilight zone, in the bathypelagic or ‘deep water’ zone– your perception shifts.  Nothing as arcane as the chemical balance in your brain changing, although there’s some of that, too.  No, it’s more the realization, slow sinking into your brain, that there’s not damn-all between you and dying but a duraplas shield and some canned oxy-blend. You realize that, really process the concept, and you’re okay.  If you can’t, you get the screamin’ meemies and they cart you Topside where you spend the rest of your life on solid dirt, carefully looking anywhere but ocean-ward. Not everyone’s cut out to be an aquanaut. No shame to it.  Even now, only about a third of the applicants make it into training, and more than half of them dry out before graduation. Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/10/20/ep-315-clockwork-fagin/ http://escapepod.org/2011/10/20/ep-315-clockwork-fagin/#comments Thu, 20 Oct 2011 20:47:16 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2757 http://escapepod.org/2011/10/20/ep-315-clockwork-fagin/feed/ 0 1:15:35 By Cory Doctorow Read by Grant Baciocco Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Steampunk! An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories Music by Clockwork Quartet All stories by Cory Doctorow All stories read by Grant Baciocco This one is[...] By Cory Doctorow Read by Grant Baciocco Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Steampunk! An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories Music by Clockwork Quartet All stories by Cory Doctorow All stories read by Grant Baciocco This one is a long one! This is considered appropriate for kids 12 and up – it’s a YA story with one murder. Clockwork Fagin By Cory Doctorow Monty Goldfarb walked into St Agatha’s like he owned the place, a superior look on the half of his face that was still intact, a spring in his step despite his steel left leg. And it wasn’t long before he *did* own the place, taken it over by simple murder and cunning artifice. It wasn’t long before he was my best friend and my master, too, and the master of all St Agatha’s, and didn’t he preside over a *golden* era in the history of that miserable place? I’ve lived in St Agatha’s for six years, since I was 11 years old, when a reciprocating gear in the Muddy York Hall of Computing took off my right arm at the elbow. My Da had sent me off to Muddy York when Ma died of the consumption. He’d sold me into service of the Computers and I’d thrived in the big city, hadn’t cried, not even once, not even when Master Saunders beat me for playing kick-the-can with the other boys when I was meant to be polishing the brass. I didn’t cry when I lost my arm, nor when the barber-surgeon clamped me off and burned my stump with his medicinal tar. I’ve seen every kind of boy and girl come to St Aggie’s — swaggering, scared, tough, meek. The burned ones are often the hardest to read, inscrutable beneath their scars. Old Grinder don’t care, though, not one bit. Angry or scared, burned and hobbling or swaggering and full of beans, the first thing he does when new meat turns up on his doorstep is tenderize it a little. That means a good long session with the belt — and Grinder doesn’t care where the strap lands, whole skin or fresh scars, it’s all the same to him — and then a night or two down the hole, where there’s no light and no warmth and nothing for company except for the big hairy Muddy York rats who’ll come and nibble at whatever’s left of you if you manage to fall asleep. It’s the blood, see, it draws them out. So there we all was, that first night when Monty Goldfarb turned up, dropped off by a pair of sour-faced Sisters in white capes who turned their noses up at the smell of the horse-droppings as they stepped out of their coal-fired banger and handed Monty over to Grinder, who smiled and dry-washed his hairy hands and promised, “Oh, aye, sisters, I shall look after this poor crippled birdie like he was my own get. We’ll be great friends, won’t we, Monty?” Monty actually laughed when Grinder said that, like he’d already winkled it out. As soon as the boiler on the sisters’ car had its head of steam up and they were clanking away, Grinder took Monty inside, leading him past the parlour where we all sat, quiet as mice, eyeless or armless, shy a leg or half a face, or even a scalp (as was little Gertie Shine-Pate, whose hair got caught in the mighty rollers of one of the pressing engines down at the logic mill in Cabbagetown). He gave us a jaunty wave as Grinder led him away, and I’m ashamed to say that none of us had the stuff to wave back at him, or even to shout a warning. Grinder had done his work on us, too true, and turned us from kids into cowards. Presently, we heard the whistle and slap of the strap, but instead of screams of agony, we heard howls of defiance, and yes, even laughter! “Is that the best you have, you greasy old sack of suet? Put some arm into it!” And then: “Oh, dearie me, you must be tiring of your work. See how the sweat runs down your face, how your tongue doth protrude from your stinking gob. Oh please, dear master, tell me y[...] Best-Of, Podcasts Cory Doctorow no no http://escapepod.org/2011/10/13/ep314/ http://escapepod.org/2011/10/13/ep314/#comments Thu, 13 Oct 2011 14:36:43 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2734 http://escapepod.org/2011/10/13/ep314/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Nancy Fulda Read by Marguerite Kenner Discuss on our forums. First appeared in  Asimov’s March 2011 issue All stories by Nancy Fulda All stories read by Marguerite Kenner Movement By Nancy Fulda It is sunset.  The sky is splendid through th[...] By Nancy Fulda Read by Marguerite Kenner Discuss on our forums. First appeared in  Asimov’s March 2011 issue All stories by Nancy Fulda All stories read by Marguerite Kenner Movement By Nancy Fulda It is sunset.  The sky is splendid through the panes of my bedroom window; billowing layers of cumulous blazing with refracted oranges and reds.  I think if only it weren’t for the glass, I could reach out and touch the cloudscape, perhaps leave my own trail of turbulence in the swirling patterns that will soon deepen to indigo. But the window is there, and I feel trapped. Behind me my parents and a specialist from the neurological research institute are sitting on folding chairs they’ve brought in from the kitchen, quietly discussing my future.  They do not know I am listening.  They think that, because I do not choose to respond,  I do not notice they are there. “Would there be side effects?” My father asks.  In the oppressive heat of the evening, I hear the quiet Zzzapof his shoulder laser as it targets mosquitoes.  The device is not as effective as it was two years ago: the mosquitoes are getting faster. My father is a believer in technology, and that is why he contacted the research institute.  He wants to fix me.  He is certain there is a way. “There would be no side effects in the traditional sense,”the specialist says.  I like him even though his presence makes me uncomfortable.  He chooses his words very precisely.  “We’re talking about direct synaptic grafting, not drugs.  The process is akin to bending a sapling to influence the shape of the grown tree.  We boost the strength of key dendritic connections and allow brain development to continue naturally. Young neurons are very malleable.” “And you’ve done this before?”  I do not have to look to know my mother is frowning. My mother does not trust technology.  She has spent the last ten years trying to coax me into social behavior by gentler means.  She loves me, but she does not understand me.  She thinks I cannot be happy unless I am smiling and laughing and running along the beach with other teenagers. “The procedure is still new, but our first subject was a young woman about the same age as your daughter.  Afterwards, she integrated wonderfully.  She was never an exceptional student, but she began speaking more and had an easier time following classroom procedure.” “What about Hannah’s…talents?”my mother asks.  I know she is thinking about my dancing; also the way I remember facts and numbers without trying. “Would she lose those?” The specialist’s voice is very firm, and I like the way he delivers the facts without trying to cushion them.  “It’s a matter of trade-offs, Mrs. Didier.  The brain cannot be optimized for everything at once.  Without treatment, some children like Hannah develop into extraordinary individuals. They become famous, change the world, learn to integrate their abilities into the structures of society.  But only a very few are that lucky. The others never learn to make friends, hold a job, or live outside of institutions.” “And… with treatment?” “I cannot promise anything, but the chances are very good that Hannah will lead a normal life.” I have pressed my hand to the window.  The glass feels cold and smooth beneath my palm.  It appears motionless although I know at the molecular level it is flowing.  Its atoms slide past each other slowly, so slowly; a transformation no less inevitable for its tempo.  I like glass — also stone — because it does not change very quickly.  I will be dead, and so will all of my relatives and their descendants, before the deformations will be visible without a microscope. I feel my mother’s hands on my shoulders.  She has come up behind me and now she turns me so that I must either look in her eyes or pull away.  I look in her eyes because I love her and because I am calm enough right now to handle it.  She speaks softly and slowly. “Would you like that, Hannah?  Would  you like to [...] Best-Of, Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/10/06/ep313-playing-doctor/ http://escapepod.org/2011/10/06/ep313-playing-doctor/#comments Thu, 06 Oct 2011 15:14:21 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2724 http://escapepod.org/2011/10/06/ep313-playing-doctor/feed/ 0 0:34:00 By Robert T. Jeschonek Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. First appeared in PS Showcase #3: Mad Scientist Meets Cannibal All stories by Robert T. Jeschonek All stories read by Josh Roseman Playing Doctor By Robert T. Jeschonek The problem w[...] By Robert T. Jeschonek Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. First appeared in PS Showcase #3: Mad Scientist Meets Cannibal All stories by Robert T. Jeschonek All stories read by Josh Roseman Playing Doctor By Robert T. Jeschonek The problem with having a crush on your mad scientist boss is, every day she doesn’t see how wonderful you really are seems like the end of the world. “This is all wrong!” says Dr. Hildegarde Medici, hurling the tray across her cavernous secret laboratory.  ”You’re a complete imbecile, Glue!” Her words sting, but at least she’s paying attention to me.  I’ll take what I can get from the woman I love.  ”I’m sorry, Dr. M.  Please let me try again.” “Everything is ruined.”  With one arm, Dr. Medici sweeps notebooks and glass beakers from the table in front of her.  ”Now I’ll never finish the doomsday weapon today!” As Dr. Medici throws her head down onto her folded arms on the table, I cross the lab and pick up the silver tray that she threw.  I see myself reflected in its surface–thick glasses, big nose, bald head, pure geek…not her type.  ”I thought you liked the crinkle-cut ones,” I say as I pluck chicken fingers and french fries from the floor and drop them onto the tray. “Steak fries,” says Dr. Medici without raising her head.  ”How many times do I have to tell you, Glue?” She is such a drama queen, but what do you expect?  Her line of work attracts a certain type of personality–passionate, temperamental, creative, flamboyant.  To tell you the truth, it’s one of the things I love most about her. “I could run to the store,” I say, dumping the chicken and fries into a waste basket.  ”By the time you’re done building your doomsday weapon, I could have hot fries ready for you.” Dr. Medici rolls her eyes like a disgusted teenager.  ”I can’t concentrate on building a doomsday weapon on an empty stomach.” I know the feeling…the not being able to concentrate part, that is.  Most days, I can barely focus on my work instead of Dr. Medici’s long black hair and bright green eyes.  Once, I was so distracted by Dr. M that I cross-wired the brain of a giant robot, which proceeded to rampage at a garbage dump instead of an army base. If only I could tell her I love her.  If only I could close that final mile that has always stood between us. If only I could finally set free the words that I’ve longed to speak, and she would turn to me and say the words I’ve longed to hear. “Don’t just stand there, you putz!”  She spins away from me on her work-stool.  ”Get me a TV dinner out of the freezer or something!” I don’t take it personally.  I know it’s just the stress talking.  She’s been having a rough time lately, just like the rest of the mad scientist community. Thanks a lot, terrorists. # In the good old days, mad scientists weren’t considered public enemies like they are now.  They were tolerated, in fact, because the government loved getting its hands on their way-out inventions after their crazy schemes were thwarted. But not anymore.  Not since the terrorists. What difference is there between a politically motivated insane genius and one who is motivated by greed? How can the government go after one group of people threatening to blow things up and not the other? It can’t. As a result, business has dropped off considerably.  No one will negotiate in good faith with a mad scientist anymore.  Instead of musclebound private citizen thrill-seekers coming after us, we get black ops Special Forces and heat-seeking bunker-buster missiles courtesy of Homeland Security. It’s a tough time to be a mad scientist.  Lots of them have quit already and become street people or college professors. But not my Hildegarde.  She won[...] Podcasts Robert T. Jeschonek no no http://escapepod.org/2011/09/30/ep312_night_bird_soaring/ http://escapepod.org/2011/09/30/ep312_night_bird_soaring/#comments Fri, 30 Sep 2011 23:20:53 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2704 http://escapepod.org/2011/09/30/ep312_night_bird_soaring/feed/ 0 0:48:52 By T. L. Morganfield Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Greatest Uncommon Denominator #3 All stories by T. L. Morganfield All stories read by Mat Weller Rated appropriate for 15 and older due to language. Night Bird Soaring [...] By T. L. Morganfield Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Greatest Uncommon Denominator #3 All stories by T. L. Morganfield All stories read by Mat Weller Rated appropriate for 15 and older due to language. Night Bird Soaring By T. L. Morganfield On his sixth birthday, Totyoalli’s parents took him to the holy city to see the Emperor Cuauhtemoc, but the plane ride proved the most exciting part. He kept his nose to the window, taking in the vast lands of the One World, from the snow-capped mountains of his home in the northern provinces to the open plains of Teotihuacan. He marveled at the miniature cities and cars passing below. All his life he’d dreamt of flying, ever since the first time he’d seen a bird gliding through the air. From the airport, they took a cab to the royal palace on Lake Texcoco. Tenochtitlan, the single largest city in the world, sprawled around it for miles. The cab buzzed across one of the royal causeways, the water blue and shimmering in the hot sun. Inside the walled royal complex stood the Great Temple, meticulously maintained by a crew of thousands, its sacred Sun Stone keeping watch over the visiting crowds. At the palace, two genetically-engineered royal jaguar knights escorted Totyoalli’s family to the Emperor’s gardens. Totyoalli watched their tails swish behind them, fascinated. Their heads looked so soft he wished to pat them between the ears, but when he tried to talk to them, they bared their fangs and gripped their spears a little tighter. Ahead, a doorway opened onto a stone patio overlooking an expanse of grass and trees. Marigolds and birds of paradise choked the flower beds. Cranes stepped gingerly through the ponds while monkeys chattered in the trees. The Revered Speaker stood at the crest of the nearest hill, his hands behind him and his back to them. “Good of you to come, Totyoalli.” He didn’t turn. “Let me take a look at you.” Unafraid, Totyoalli hurried to him. His friends claimed the Revered Speaker was seven hundred years old, that he’d been emperor when the Spanish Devil Cortés tried to bring the One World to its knees. Some said Cuauhtemoc was the War God himself, or maybe the Fifth Sun incarnate, come to Earth to lead the Mexica through a thousand years of glory. Totyoalli had expected someone very old and wise. But in fact the Revered Speaker looked hardly out of his teens. He wore green robes with the sacred day symbols embroidered in gold and silver thread, and his long black hair was tied back in a complicated knot. Blue, red, white, and black tattooed lines formed the profile of an eagle on the right side of his face. Cuauhtemoc knelt and kissed the earth at Totyoalli’s feet, quoting dedications and blessing him. He then took the boy’s head in both hands and granted him the kiss of Divine Grace on his forehead. “Now that we have the formalities out of the way, walk with me.” Cuauhtemoc took Totyoalli by the hand and they moved down the hill, past the egrets, until his mother and father vanished from sight. They sat on a stone bench under a grove of willow trees. “So, how is calmecac?” Totyoalli shrugged. The Revered Speaker’s smile widened. “Haven’t much interest in studying?” “I like the learning part, but the other boys say I should go to the telpochcalli with the rest of the poor kids, and they pick fights.” “You haven’t told them you’re the Night Wind?” “Mother told me not to.” Cuauhtemoc nodded. “She’s not pleased with your destiny.” Totyoalli shook his head. His mother wished he weren’t the Night Wind; in fact, she’d gone to great lengths to plan a home delivery, so the priests and government augurs couldn’t record the exact time of his birth. His father had thought her ridiculous, but respected [...] Podcasts TL Morganfield no no http://escapepod.org/2011/09/22/ep311-the-faithful-soldier-prompted/ http://escapepod.org/2011/09/22/ep311-the-faithful-soldier-prompted/#comments Fri, 23 Sep 2011 02:31:07 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2672 http://escapepod.org/2011/09/22/ep311-the-faithful-soldier-prompted/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Saladin Ahmed Read by Rajan Khanna Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Apex Magazine All stories by Saladin Ahmed All stories read by Rajan Khanna Special thanks to Hugo award winning Starship Sofa for allowing us to use Rajan Khanna’[...] By Saladin Ahmed Read by Rajan Khanna Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Apex Magazine All stories by Saladin Ahmed All stories read by Rajan Khanna Special thanks to Hugo award winning Starship Sofa for allowing us to use Rajan Khanna’s narration that originally ran November 17, 2010. Rated appropriate for 15 and older due to language. The Faithful Soldier, Prompted by Saladin Ahmed If I die on this piece-of-shit road, Lubna’s chances die with me. Ali leveled his shotgun at the growling tiger. In the name of God, who needs no credit rating, let me live! Even when he’d been a soldier, Ali hadn’t been very religious. But facing death brought the old invocations to mind. The sway of culture, educated Lubna would have called it. If she were here. If she could speak. The creature stood still on the split cement, watching Ali. Nanohanced tigers had been more or less wiped out in the great hunts before the Global Credit Crusade, or so Ali had heard. I guess this is the shit end of “more or less.” More proof, as if he needed it, that traveling the Old Cairo Road on foot was as good as asking to die. He almost thought he could hear the creature’s targeting system whir, but of course he couldn’t any more than the tiger could read the vestigial OS prompt that flashed across Ali’s supposedly deactivated retscreens. God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will report for uniform inspection at 0500 hours. Ali ignored the out-of-date message, kept his gun trained on the creature. The tiger crouched to spring. Ali squeezed the trigger, shouted “God is greater than credit!” The cry of a younger man, from the days when he’d let stupid causes use him. The days before he’d met Lubna. A sputtering spurt of shot sprayed the creature. The tiger roared, bled, and fled. For a moment Ali just stood there panting. “Praise be to God,” he finally said to no one in particular. I’m coming, beloved. I’m going to get you your serum, and then I’m coming home. A day later, Ali still walked the Old Cairo Road alone, the wind whipping stinging sand at him, making a mockery of his old army-issued sandmask. As he walked he thought of home–of Free Beirut and his humble house behind the jade-and-grey-marble fountain. At home a medbed hummed quietly, keeping Lubna alive even though she lay dying from the Green Devil, which one side or the other’s hover-dustings had infected her with during the GCC. At home Lubna breathed shallowly while Ali’s ex-squadmate Fatman Fahrad, the only man in the world he still trusted, stood watch over her. Yet Ali had left on this madman’s errand–left the woman who mattered more to him than anything on Earth’s scorched surface. Serum was her only hope. But serum was devastatingly expensive, and Ali was broke. Every bit of money he had made working the hover-docks or doing security for shops had gone to prepay days on Lubna’s medbed. And there was less and less work to be had. He’d begun having dreams that made him wake up crying. Dreams of shutting down Lubna’s medbed. Of killing himself. And then the first strange message had appeared behind his eyes. Like God-alone-knew how many vets, Ali’s ostensibly inactive OS still garbled forth a glitchy old prompt from time to time God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will pick up your new field ablution kit after your debriefing today. God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will spend your leave-time dinars wisely–at Honest Majoudi’s! But this new message had been unlike anything Ali had ever seen. Blood-freezingly current in its subject matter. God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will go to the charity-yard of the Western Mosque in Old Cairo. She will live. Ali’s attention snapped back to the present as the wind picked up and the air grew thick with sand. As storms went, it was mild. But it still meant he’d have to stop until it blew over. He reluctantly set up the rickety rig-shelter that the Fatman had lent him. He crawled into it and lay there alone with the [...] Podcasts Saladin Ahmed no no http://escapepod.org/2011/09/15/ep310-flash-extravaganza/ http://escapepod.org/2011/09/15/ep310-flash-extravaganza/#comments Fri, 16 Sep 2011 01:10:07 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2651 http://escapepod.org/2011/09/15/ep310-flash-extravaganza/feed/ 0 0:00:01 Another helping of flash! Jenna’s Clocks by T. F. Davenport (narrator Jean Hilde-Fulghum) Wetware Woes by J. J. DeBenedictis (narrator Mur Lafferty) End of the World or Not, I Still Have Feelings by Daniel Morris (narrator- Barry Haworth) The [...] Another helping of flash! Jenna’s Clocks by T. F. Davenport (narrator Jean Hilde-Fulghum) Wetware Woes by J. J. DeBenedictis (narrator Mur Lafferty) End of the World or Not, I Still Have Feelings by Daniel Morris (narrator- Barry Haworth) The Best Cover Band in the Universe by Andrew Fazzari (narrator- John Anealio) – Honorable Mention for the Escape Pod 2010 Flash Contest! Discuss on our forums. Flash, Podcasts Various Artists no no http://escapepod.org/2011/09/08/ep309-the-insurance-agent/ http://escapepod.org/2011/09/08/ep309-the-insurance-agent/#comments Fri, 09 Sep 2011 00:51:11 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2648 http://escapepod.org/2011/09/08/ep309-the-insurance-agent/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Lavie Tidhar Read by Christian Brady Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Interzone, 2010 All stories by Lavie Tidhar All stories read by Christian Brady Rated inappropriate for seventeen and younger due to language and violence. The Insuranc[...] By Lavie Tidhar Read by Christian Brady Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Interzone, 2010 All stories by Lavie Tidhar All stories read by Christian Brady Rated inappropriate for seventeen and younger due to language and violence. The Insurance Agent By Lavie Tidhar The bar was packed and everyone was watching the Nixon-Reagan match. The fighters were reflected off the bar’s grainy wood countertop and the tables’ gleaming surfaces and seemed to melt as they flickered down the legs of the scattered chairs. The bar was called the Godhead, which had a lot to do with why I was there. It was a bit of an unfair fight as Reagan was young, pre-presidency, circa-World War Two, while Nixon was heavy-set, older: people were exchanging odds and betting with the bar’s internal gaming system and the general opinion seemed to be that though Reagan was in better shape Nixon was meaner. I wasn’t there for the match. The Godhead was on Pulau Sepanggar, one of the satellite islands off Borneo, hence nominally under Malaysian federal authority but in practice in a free zone that had stronger ties to the Brunei Sultanate. It was a convenient place to meet, providing easy access to the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia and, of course, Singapore, which resented the island’s role as a growing business centre yet found it useful at the same time. She wore a smart business suit and a smart communication system that looked like what it was, which was a custom-made gold bracelet on her left arm. She wore smart shades and I was taking a bet that she wasn’t watching the fight. She was drinking a generic Cola but there was nothing generic about her. I slid into a chair beside her and waited for her shades to turn transparent and notice me. ‘Drink, Mr. Turner?’ I liked the name Turner. It was Anglo-Saxon generic, a mid-level executive’s name, white as beige. ‘Call me James,’ I said. I liked James too. You could tell what a James Turner did just by hearing his name. The rest of me was tailor-made for the name, had been for some time: I had the kind of tan that suggested I had been East for just long enough to have acquired it, black hair that was short but not too short and had a decent but not overly-expensive cut, pale blue eyes behind shades that cost a lot of money to look like a knock-off. There was a suggestion of a smile in the corners of her mouth and she said, ‘I don’t think I will.’ ‘Mr. Turner, then,’ I said. ‘One name’s good as another.’ ‘Quite,’ she said. There was something dismissive in that single word. For the likes of you, was what it implied. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll have that drink.’ ‘Preference?’ she said. I said ‘Orange juice,’ wanted vodka. She didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. A moment later a waiter glided over and deposited the drink on the table, moisture condensing on the outer surface of the manifold that was the glass. I took a sip, put it down again into the ring of water that had immediately formed. Below, Nixon knocked out Reagan in the second round. I heard groans and shouts around me, tried to tune them out. ‘What can I do for you?’ I said. I couldn’t quite tell where she was from. She had pale skin carefully kept out of the sun, an Oxford-acquired accent and eyes I couldn’t see. She said, ‘I would like to buy insurance.’ ‘That,’ I said, possibly a little stiffly, ‘is why we’re here.’ ‘Quite,’ she said again, and I felt I won the round – she did not like to waste her words and by answering me she had already thrown out six. ‘Is this personal insurance or –?’ I said and she said, a little too quickly, ‘Personal.’ ‘Who’s the IE?’ I said. She frowned for a moment and I could almost feel her scanning some remote database. Then she relaxed and again I had the impression of an almost-smile. The next fight was announced, Lenin versus Ho Chi Minn. I’d heard a rumour the company behind the fights modelled Lenin on his actual, mummified body, but it seemed unlikely. I don’t know how they did Uncle Ho. They were ci[...] Podcasts Lavie Tidhar no no http://escapepod.org/2011/09/02/soundproof-11/ http://escapepod.org/2011/09/02/soundproof-11/#comments Sat, 03 Sep 2011 02:42:37 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2631 http://escapepod.org/2011/09/02/soundproof-11/feed/ 0 0:00:01 You can download the ePub version here. Greetings dear listeners! I just returned from WorldCon where I met several listeners, thanks to everyone who came by to say hi! I was able to solicit stories from some pros and talk to some authors about thei[...] You can download the ePub version here. Greetings dear listeners! I just returned from WorldCon where I met several listeners, thanks to everyone who came by to say hi! I was able to solicit stories from some pros and talk to some authors about their upcoming work – we’ve got an original piece from James Patrick Kelly coming up that I’m utterly thrilled about. But more on that another month… The Hugo awards were given out on Saturday, August 20, and the ceremony was a blast. Jay Lake and Ken Scholes brought their clever rapport to the stage and gave a good show with minimal hiccups (to my eyes, anyway. On Jay’s blog he talks about how frantic it was when script pages went missing, etc.) Extra special congrats to Mary Robinette Kowal, who took the prize for Best Short Story (remember you can find “For Want of a Nail” at http://escapepod.org/2011/06/09/ep296-for-want-of-a-nail/ ) and Clarkesworld, the Best Semi-Pro winner that allowed us to use Kate Baker’s fantastic narrations in our Hugo month! You can see the other winners at Escape Pod’s home page. Awards always serve to split people. While people covet awards, they still manage to convince themselves that the system is rigged, or undeserving works win, or people band behind their friends to skew the voting. I’ve read flat-out boring Hugo winners. I’ve wondered why fantastic stories didn’t make even a nomination. I’ve seen fandom get frothing at the mouth angry over things like websites and podcasts edging into their territory (SF fans afraid of technology and the future. Mind boggling….) This year the business part of WorldCon featured people that were so mad at last year’s Starship Sofa win (and nomination this year, not to mention the excellent Writing Excuses got a nod for Best Related Work) that they decided to create a new category called Best FanCast. While this does show that they are accepting that the podcast is a medium that will not go away, it’s somewhat sad that some people are now asking “are there enough podcasts to qualify?” Head, meet desk. What really worries me is that all podcasts will be pushed into Best Fancast just because of the medium. Escape Pod publishes stories and is a paying market (qualifying for Best Semi-pro Zine). Starship Sofa publishes stories and nonfic commentary/essays and qualifies (or qualified) for Best Fanzine. James Patrick Kelly’s podcast novella Burn is a Nebula winner. Writing Excuses talks about writing and the SF craft, and it’s done entirely by pro writers. Would all of these be pushed into the same category because of the podcast element? Why not put Blackout/All Clear, Asimov’s, and Chicks Dig Time Lords in the same category because they’re all on paper? I’m not a strong arguer, I admit. It’s not in my nature. But I believe I’m going to have to hit the business meetings next year in order to speak up for podcasts, else we’ll all be shoved to the kids’ table, the one with the rickety leg, just because of our medium instead of our content. See you in Chicago next year, and at DragonCon this weekend! —Mur Blog, E-pub, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/09/01/ep308-kill-me/ http://escapepod.org/2011/09/01/ep308-kill-me/#comments Thu, 01 Sep 2011 15:40:22 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2640 http://escapepod.org/2011/09/01/ep308-kill-me/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Vylar Kaftan Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Helix, 2007 All stories by Vylar Kaftan All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated inappropriate for seventeen and younger due to language and violence. [Note- we do not have [...] By Vylar Kaftan Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Helix, 2007 All stories by Vylar Kaftan All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated inappropriate for seventeen and younger due to language and violence. [Note- we do not have the ebook rights, but you can read it at Transcriptase!] Kill Me by Vylar Kaftan I’m sitting cross-legged on a rock in west Texas, somewhere north of El Paso, bleeding into the dirt. The pose feels like a meditation. I’m fascinated with the knife mark on my left thigh, a shallow slash from hip to knee. It’s surrounded by bruise clusters that look like flowers of broken skin. In the silent desert, I hear only the soft clicking of the car cooling down. Then his urine splashes against the rock behind me, and I hear his zipper when he’s done. The night breeze is icy on my back, drying the blood into clots. He did me well, I admit, glancing up at the full desert moon. If my body survived–which it wouldn’t–I would be scarred, possibly disfigured. The welts on my back throb like electricity, and everything–the moon, the desert, the wind–is alive with me. He walks in front of me. I look up at the man who brought me all the way from Denver. He looks like a black dog, matted and angry, and growls like one too. My eyes travel to the cluster of thick hair springing from his shirt neck. He folds his arms over his chest. “The night’s almost over,” I remind him. He scowls. “Get in the trunk.” I hesitate–he paid me to do the shy-girl act, a popular one–and he grabs my arm. He hauls me over the rear bumper into the trunk of his ’33 Axis. He slaps me once across the face–not as hard as I expected–and crumples me into the tight compartment. He slams the trunk closed, catching my hair in the door. I try to pull free, but it’s no use. I don’t think he meant that part, but he doesn’t seem to notice the long trail of hair hanging out of the trunk. The car door opens and the ignition starts. I tug on my hair once more and then relax, concentrating on where I hurt, where my body throbs with pain. As many times as I’ve done this, I still try to experience it all. Because it’s not every day you experience death. Only every three months. Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/08/26/ep307-soulmates/ http://escapepod.org/2011/08/26/ep307-soulmates/#comments Fri, 26 Aug 2011 17:40:40 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2616 http://escapepod.org/2011/08/26/ep307-soulmates/feed/ 0 1:00:48 By Mike Resnick and Lezli Robyn Read by Dave Thompson Discuss on our forums. First appeared in September, 2009 Asimov’s All stories by Mike Resnick and Lezli Robyn All stories read by Dave Thompson Rated appropriate for teens and up due to lan[...] By Mike Resnick and Lezli Robyn Read by Dave Thompson Discuss on our forums. First appeared in September, 2009 Asimov’s All stories by Mike Resnick and Lezli Robyn All stories read by Dave Thompson Rated appropriate for teens and up due to language, alcohol dependence, and discussing death of loved ones. Soulmates by Mike Resnick and Lezli Robyn Have you ever killed someone you love – I mean, really love? I did. I did it as surely as if I’d fired a bullet into her brain, and the fact that it was perfectly legal, that everyone at the hospital told me I’d done a humane thing by giving them permission to pull the plug, didn’t make me feel any better. I’d lived with Kathy for twenty-six years, been married to her for all but the first ten months. We’d been through a lot together: two miscarriages, a bankruptcy, a trial separation twelve years ago – and then the car crash. They said she’d be a vegetable, that she’d never think or walk or even move again. I let her hang on for almost two months, until the insurance started running out, and then I killed her. Other people have made that decision and they learn to live with it. I thought I could, too. I’d never been much of a drinker, but I started about four months after she died. Not much at first, then more every day until I’d reach the point, later and later each time, where I couldn’t see her face staring up at me anymore. I figured it was just a matter of time before I got fired – and you have to be pretty messed up to be fired as a night watchman at Global Enterprises. Hell, I didn’t even know what they made, or at least not everything they made. There were five large connected buildings, and a watchman for each. We’d show up at ten o’clock at night, and leave when the first shift showed up at seven in the morning – one man and maybe sixty robots per building. Yeah, being sacked was imminent. Problem was, once you’ve been fired from a job like this, there’s nothing left but slow starvation. If you can’t watch sixty pre-programmed robots and make sure the building didn’t blow up, what the hell can you do? I still remember the night I met Mose. I let the Spy Eye scan my retina and bone structure, and after it let me in I went directly to the bottle I’d hidden in the back of the washroom. By midnight I’d almost forgotten what Kathy looked like on that last day – I suppose she looked pretty, like she always did, but innocent was the word that came to mind – and I was making my rounds. I knew that Bill Nettles – he was head man on the night shift – had his suspicions about my drinking and would be checking up on me, so I made up my mind to ease off the booze a little. But I had to get rid of Kathy’s face, so I took one more drink, and then next thing I knew I was trying to get up off the floor, but my legs weren’t working. I reached out for something to steady myself, to lean against as I tried to stand, and what I found was a metal pillar, and a foot away was another one. Finally my eyes started focusing, and I saw that what I had latched onto were the titanium legs of a robot that had walked over when it heard me cursing or singing or whatever the hell I was doing. “Get me on my feet!” I grated, and two strong metal hands lifted me to my feet. “All you all right, sir?” asked the robot in a voice that wasn’t quite a mechanical monotone. “Shall I summon help?” ”No!” I half-snapped, half-shouted. “No help!” “But you seem to be in physical distress.” “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Just help me to my desk, and stay with me for a few minutes until I sober up.” “I do not understand the term, sir,” it said. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Just help me.” “Yes, sir.” “Have you got an ID?” I asked as he began walking me to my desk. “MOZ-512, sir.” I tried to pronounce it, but I was still too drunk. “I will call you Mose,” I announced at last. “For Old Man Mose.” “Who was Old Man Mose, sir?” he asked. “Damned if I know,” [...] Podcasts Mike Resnick and Lezli Robyn no no http://escapepod.org/2011/08/19/ep306-radio-nowhere/ http://escapepod.org/2011/08/19/ep306-radio-nowhere/#comments Fri, 19 Aug 2011 12:43:19 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2593 http://escapepod.org/2011/08/19/ep306-radio-nowhere/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Douglas Smith Read by Wilson Fowlie Discuss on our forums. All stories by Douglas Smith All stories read by Wilson Fowlie Rated Inappropriate for the younger ones, due to words of a naughty nature. Radio  Nowhere by Douglas Smith On the annivers[...] By Douglas Smith Read by Wilson Fowlie Discuss on our forums. All stories by Douglas Smith All stories read by Wilson Fowlie Rated Inappropriate for the younger ones, due to words of a naughty nature. Radio  Nowhere by Douglas Smith On the anniversary of the worst night of his life, Liam stood outside the darkened control room of the campus radio station. Over the speakers, the Tragically Hip’s “Boots and Hearts” was just winding down. Behind the glass in the studio, Ziggy’s small triangular face glowed like some night angel, lit from below by her laptop screen. She looked up, her eyes finding Liam’s in the darkness. Smiling, she wrinkled her nose at him. His own smile slid away, falling into the dark place inside him, the place that was always darker on this night. Ziggy turned back to the mike as the song ended. “I’m closing with a request from an old friend, to an old friend. This one’s for Jackie, from Liam. A hurtin’ song, cuz he’s still hurtin’. Fifteen years ago tonight…” She looked at him through the glass. Fifteen years. He closed his eyes. Fifteen years, and it still hurt this much. Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/08/11/ep305-midnight-blue/ http://escapepod.org/2011/08/11/ep305-midnight-blue/#comments Fri, 12 Aug 2011 02:43:16 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2586 http://escapepod.org/2011/08/11/ep305-midnight-blue/feed/ 0 0:52:20 By Will McIntosh Read by Paul Haring First appeared in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by Will McIntosh All stories read by Paul Haring Rated appropriate for everyone! Midnight Blue by Will McIntosh He’d never seen a burgundy befo[...] By Will McIntosh Read by Paul Haring First appeared in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by Will McIntosh All stories read by Paul Haring Rated appropriate for everyone! Midnight Blue by Will McIntosh He’d never seen a burgundy before.  Kim held it in her lap, tapped it with her finger.  She was probably tapping it to bring attention to it, and Jeff didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking to see it, but he really wanted to see it.  Burgundy (Kim had insisted on calling it burgundy red when she showed it at show and tell) was a rare one.  Not as rare as a hot pink Flyer or a viridian Better Looking, but still rare. A bus roared up, spitting black smoke.  It was the seven bus–the Linden Court bus, not his.  Kids rushed to line up in front of the big yellow doors as the bus hissed to a stop.  A second-grader squealed, shoved a bigger kid with her Partridge Family lunch box because he’d stepped on her foot.  All the younger kids seemed to have Partridge Family lunch boxes this year. “What did you say it did when you’ve got all three pieces of the charm together?”  Jeff asked Kim.  He said it casually, like he was just making conversation until his bus came. “It relaxes time,” Kim said.  “When you’re bored you can make time pass quickly, and when you’re having fun you can make time stretch out.” Jeff nodded, tried to look just interested enough to be polite, but no more.  What must that be like, to make the hour at church fly by?  Or make the school day (except for lunch and recess) pass in an eyeblink?  Jeff wondered how fast or slow you could move things along.  Could you make it seem like you were eating an ice cream sandwich for six hours?  That would be sparkling fine. “Want to see it?” Kim asked. “Okay,” Jeff said, holding out his hands too eagerly before he remembered himself.  Kim handed it to him, looking pleased with herself, the dimples on her round face getting a little deeper. It was smooth as marble, perfectly round, big as a grapefruit and heavy as a bowling ball.  It made Jeff’s heart hammer to hold it.  The rich red, which hinted at purple while still being certainly red, was so beautiful it seemed impossible, so vivid it made his blue shirt seem like a Polaroid photo left in the sun too long. “Imagine finding this in the wild?  Pushing over a dead tree and seeing it sitting there under the root?” Jeff said. “Yeah, right,” Kim said.  “Not likely.”  She shook her long brown hair back over her shoulder.  She did that all day long in class.  She thought she was so gorgeous. A few of the other kids circled around to take a look.  Jeff spun it around until he found the hole where it would be fitted to one side of the staff, when someone got the whole charm together. “Will your father try to get the other two pieces, do you think?” Ricky Adamo asked, reaching to pet it once, probably just so he could say he’d touched one. “He’s only keeping this as an investment,” Kim said, holding out her hands to take it back from Jeff, who passed it over, his fingers suddenly feeling much too light.  “My father’s going to buy me a whole chartreuse to absorb when I’m 18.  I’m going to be a doctor.” “He is not,” Jeff said.  “Most of the chartreuse ones that’ve been found have already been absorbed.  The ones that haven’t, your father would have to give your whole house and everything in it just to get one sphere.” “What would you know about it?” Kim said, glaring.  “You don’t even know what it feels like to absorb one!  You’ve probably never even owned a sphere, let alone absorbed a whole charm.” Cindy Schneider and Donna Ruiz laughed.  Ricky laughed too, even though he’d never owned one either. “I have too owned a sphere,” Jeff said.  “I’ve owned dozens.” “Right,” Cindy said.  “You must keep them under your bed at the Garden Apartments.”  Everybody laughed, except Ricky, who lived at the Garden Apartments too and couldn’t pretend he didn’t. Kim took a pack of Double Bubble out of he[...] Best-Of, Podcasts Will McIntosh no no http://escapepod.org/2011/08/04/ep304-union-dues-%e2%80%93-sidekicks-in-stockholm/ http://escapepod.org/2011/08/04/ep304-union-dues-%e2%80%93-sidekicks-in-stockholm/#comments Thu, 04 Aug 2011 20:59:38 +0000 SFEley http://escapepod.org/?p=2539 http://escapepod.org/2011/08/04/ep304-union-dues-%e2%80%93-sidekicks-in-stockholm/feed/ 0 0:44:00 By Jeffrey R. DeRego Read by Stephen Eley Special guest host: Stephen Eley An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Jeffrey R. DeRego All stories read by Stephen Eley Rated appropriate for older teens and up for language and dis[...] By Jeffrey R. DeRego Read by Stephen Eley Special guest host: Stephen Eley An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Jeffrey R. DeRego All stories read by Stephen Eley Rated appropriate for older teens and up for language and disturbing imagery. Union Dues: Sidekicks in Stockholm by Jeffrey R. DeRego Five of them at least, with submachine guns, body armor, and more dynamite than I’ve seen outside a Tom and Jerry cartoon. They all sound the same thanks to some digital vocal thing built into their black suits. They all look the same with black ski masks underneath a mesh sort of fencing helmet, black everything else right to the boots, and all about the same size, like someone took a picture of a terrorist and photocopied it. This whole drama seems like it began a million years ago by now. I was scheduled to come here and open a convention of business leaders and up-and-coming corporate types. My speech, Good Corporate Citizenship, with examples of how The Union gives back to the communities it serves, is a two year old piece worked up and updated by Marketing and Promotions to accommodate a new administration in Washington, and some new economic stuff that I don’t really understand. I’d delivered only half of the text before these guys burst through the door. I froze at the first gunshot, not for long, just a few seconds, just long enough to be useless. The girl who sits beside me – her name tag reads “Hello my name is Stacy” – leans in close. She whispers, “What are you going to do, Adam?” I try and ignore her and watch the men. My wrist feels weirdly cool and light without the communicator gauntlet and beacon strapped around it. I glance down at my gloves and the tatters of honeycombed teflon-spandex straps where the gauntlet was stitched on. You’re Adam Smasher! Goddamn it. Do something! I’ve only been in the orange suit and cape for three years. I had the physique and the right chin at the right time and until about and hour ago thought the role fit pretty well. My predecessor died of a heart attack in the New York Pyramid training room two days after his thirtieth birthday, the original Adam Smasher sits connected to a mechanical heart pump in The Village somewhere in Antarctica. He’s the Adam Smasher everyone remembers from Saturday-morning TV, blonde and chiseled, his orange one piece suit and mask almost glowing, his tritium atom insignia a mark of galactic strength as he caught speeding, robber-filled cars, fought off robots and gangsters and the evil machinations of Dr. Destruction. Don’t get me wrong, when people talk to me, they talk to Adam Smasher, but sometimes I want to scream out, “I used to watch ‘The Adventures of Adam Smasher’ on TV too, in syndication!” I should be thankful anyone remembers the show at all. Atom Comics’ teen and adult readers have moved on to darker, grittier titles by competing publishers and, well, look at me? I’m like a smiling Day-Glo orange tree. The kid demographic wants the crazy soap opera stuff like Team Shikaragaki not a creaky old walking ethics lesson. So, The Union pulls Adam Smasher comics. My figure goes into the much less produced “classics” line. No playsets. No video game adaptations. No TV. Meanwhile, I wait for Marketing and Promotions to generate interest in Adam Smasher. Maybe I come back darker, or kiddier, or something completely different. Until then, my whole life is giving lectures about doing the right thing and leveraging the audience’s nostalgia for a true-blue – well, orange – Union Superhero. “Adam, how are you going to get us out of this?” Stacy is maybe twenty five. Blue eyed, petite – but then, everyone looks sort of petite to me as I’m just scraping seven-foot-three tall and thirty nine inches across the shoulders – every time she looks at the terrorists her eyes widen with fear, and every time[...] Podcasts Jeffrey R. DeRego yes no http://escapepod.org/2011/07/28/ep303-leech-run/ http://escapepod.org/2011/07/28/ep303-leech-run/#comments Fri, 29 Jul 2011 03:22:18 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2480 http://escapepod.org/2011/07/28/ep303-leech-run/feed/ 0 0:37:04 By Scott W. Baker Read by: Alasdair Stuart Originally appearing in Zero Gravity: Adventures in Deep Space – Released July 27! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Scott W. Baker All stories read by Alasdair Stuart Rated appropriate for mid-te[...] By Scott W. Baker Read by: Alasdair Stuart Originally appearing in Zero Gravity: Adventures in Deep Space – Released July 27! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Scott W. Baker All stories read by Alasdair Stuart Rated appropriate for mid-teens and up for violence and mild adult language. Leech Run by Scott W. Baker The inhabitants of Galileo Station parted as Titan moved among them. Not one made eye contact, but all gawked furtively. One of Titan’s dark eyes glared back down at the throng; the other eye remained hidden behind a curtain of stark white hair. Conspicuous appearance was his curse. What bystander would forget a snow-capped mountain of dark muscle? Memorability was not an asset for someone like him. One body in the crowd moved toward Titan rather than away. “The passengers is aboard, love,” the man said. “Reif, call me ‘love’ in public and you’ll find yourself very uncomfortable.” Titan lowered his voice so it stayed within the wide berth granted by the populace. “How many passengers?” “Thirty-two, lo — Captain.” Titan shook his head. “Hemingway promised fifty.” “If Hem flew so bad as he scored cargo–” “Any load of leeches will turn a profit,” Titan assured the mechanic. “But small load doesn’t mean small risk. I want you sharp.” “As ever, love.” They continued through the bustling station to their ship, a little cargo runner designed for intra-system transport at sub-light speeds. Of course, a mechanic of Reif’s skill could make a ship reach speeds its designers never fathomed. Such deviant engineering demanded a pilot with a select set of skills and dubious moral character. Hemingway possessed both. He was waiting for them beside the ship with his ever-present, boastful grin. “I said there be takers on Galileo, didn’t I?” Hemingway said as his crewmates entered earshot. “I done already told them the rules.” Titan’s brow furrowed. “Thirty-two? Don’t dislocate anything patting yourself on the back. And there’s just one rule on my ship.” Titan brushed past his pilot into the cargo hold. It was a small hold, even for an intra-system runner, but it hadn’t always been so. Reif’s touch here made for ideal leech transport. The customized hold maintained a six-foot buffer from all electrical systems, enough of a gap that even a class-three leech couldn’t siphon a single ampere. Despite his extensive precautions, Titan always felt uneasy with such capricious cargo. Titan surveyed the passengers perched shoulder to shoulder on the plank benches that were bolted to the hold’s bare metal floor. Leeches, every last one of them. They didn’t look dangerous. On a ship in deep space, they could be as lethal as any weapon. Aside from passengers and benches, the hold was barren: no amenities, no restraints, no personal possessions, no plumbing. These thirty-two leeches would spend the next two weeks in this metal tank. No normal human would accept such accommodations. Why should they when a starliner would take them all the way to Kilroth for a couple hundred cred? This kind of travel was for people the liners would never touch. Alpha System law guaranteed anyone foolish enough to transport a leech would spend the rest of his life laboring on a prison planet — one too close to a sun for a proper settlement but too mineral-rich to resist exploiting. Such labor colonies’ conditions were enough to make one envy the leeches’ sentences; they were simply shot on sight. Of course Alpha was a big system, difficult to monitor. A captain could make a few thousand cred smuggling a leech between planets. Carrying them all the way to a friendlier system, as Titan did, could net a small fortune. Titan demanded twenty grand a head. Alpha[...] Podcasts Scott W. Baker no no http://escapepod.org/2011/07/21/ep302-flash-extravaganza/ http://escapepod.org/2011/07/21/ep302-flash-extravaganza/#comments Fri, 22 Jul 2011 01:03:23 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2457 http://escapepod.org/2011/07/21/ep302-flash-extravaganza/feed/ 0 0:35:59 Winners of our 2010 Flash Contest! London Iron by William R. Halliar (narrator Andrew Richardson) Wheels of Blue Stilton by Nicholas J. Carter (narrator Christian Brady) Light and Lies by Gideon Fostick (narrator- Mur Lafferty) All Escape Pod Origi[...] Winners of our 2010 Flash Contest! London Iron by William R. Halliar (narrator Andrew Richardson) Wheels of Blue Stilton by Nicholas J. Carter (narrator Christian Brady) Light and Lies by Gideon Fostick (narrator- Mur Lafferty) All Escape Pod Originals! And we end with a grand “It’s Storytime” montage put together by Marshal Latham! Discuss on our forums. Best-Of, Flash, Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/07/14/ep301-stone-wall-truth/ http://escapepod.org/2011/07/14/ep301-stone-wall-truth/#comments Fri, 15 Jul 2011 02:51:55 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2441 http://escapepod.org/2011/07/14/ep301-stone-wall-truth/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Caroline Yoachim Read by: Heather Welliver Originally appearing in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by Caroline Yoachim All stories read by Heather Welliver Nominated for the Hugo Nebula Award for Novelette, 2011 Rated appropriat[...] By Caroline Yoachim Read by: Heather Welliver Originally appearing in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by Caroline Yoachim All stories read by Heather Welliver Nominated for the Hugo Nebula Award for Novelette, 2011 Rated appropriate for older teens and up for adult imagery. Stone Wall Truth by Caroline M. Yoachim Njeri sewed the woman together with hairs from a zebra tail. Her deer-bone needle dipped under the woman’s skin and bobbed back out. The contrast of the white seams against her dark skin was striking. “The center seam makes a straight line,” Njeri told her apprentice, “but the others flow with the natural curves of the body, just as the Enshai River follows the curve of the landscape.” Odion leaned in to examine her work, his breath warm on the back of her neck. Foolish boy, wasting his attention on her. Njeri set her needle on the table and stood up to stretch. The job was nearly done — she’d repositioned the woman’s organs, reconstructed her muscles, sewn her body back together. Only the face was still open, facial muscles splayed out in all directions from the woman’s skull like an exotic flower in full bloom. “Why sew them back together, after the wall?” Odion asked. “Why not let them die?” Njeri sighed. The boy had steady hands and a sharp mind, but his heart was unforgiving. He had been eager to learn about the cutting, about the delicate art of preparing a patient to hang from the wall. What he questioned was the sewing, the part of the work that had drawn Njeri to this calling. She studied the woman on the table — the last surviving grandchild of Radmalende, who had been king when the country was ruled by kings instead of warlords. The two of them had come of age the same spring, and had taken their adulthood rites together. That had been many years ago, but it was hard for Njeri not to think of her childhood friend by name. “You think I should leave her to die?” “Her bones were black as obsidian.” He traced the center seam with his finger. Njeri said nothing. She admired the woman for her strength; she hadn’t cried or protested or made excuses. Few women were put on the wall, but this one had faced it as bravely as any man, braver than some. And her shadowself had been like nothing Njeri had ever seen. Dark, of course, but a tightly controlled blackness, an army of ants marching out from her heart and along her bones. A constantly shifting shadow that never rested too long in any one place. “She made a play for the throne. Killed six Maiwatu guardsmen in the process. Her attack has opened the way for the Upyatu. I heard a rumor today the capitol is still under siege.” Odion masked the worry in his voice, but Njeri knew he was concerned. He had many friends in the upper echelons of the ruling class — it was how he came to be apprenticed to the highest ranking surgeon at the longest stretch of wall. “There is always unrest in the capitol.” Njeri didn’t add that this woman had a stronger claim to the citrine throne than most. “Besides, it’s not our place to say what people deserve. General Bahtir pays us to take people apart and put them back together, not to judge them.” Njeri nudged Odion aside. She settled back into her stool, and he went outside to set some water boiling for tea. He didn’t appreciate being pushed away, didn’t understand why she didn’t want him the way he wanted her. She wanted to tell the boy to find someone his own age, someone who liked boys, but Odion wouldn’t listen. Njeri returned to her work. The woman’s jawbone hung slack below her skull, but her mouth still closed around the clear stone that held her mind while Njeri patched her body together. The woman’s eyes stared up at the thatched straw roof, empty, with nothing but bone surrounding them. Flayed open, everyone looked wide-eyed and afraid. Njeri visualized how her muscles should fit together to recreate her strong chin and high cheekbones. “Ever wonder [...] Podcasts Caroline Yoachim no no http://escapepod.org/2011/07/07/ep300-we-go-back/ http://escapepod.org/2011/07/07/ep300-we-go-back/#comments Thu, 07 Jul 2011 14:59:38 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2400 http://escapepod.org/2011/07/07/ep300-we-go-back/feed/ 0 0:44:29 By Tim Pratt Read by: Mur Lafferty An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Tim Pratt All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated appropriate for younger teens and up – occasional adult language. Episode 300! Wow! We Go Back Ti[...] By Tim Pratt Read by: Mur Lafferty An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Tim Pratt All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated appropriate for younger teens and up – occasional adult language. Episode 300! Wow! We Go Back Tim Pratt My best friend Jenny Kay climbed in through my window and nearly stepped on my head. If I’d been sleeping a foot closer to the wall, I would’ve gotten a face full of her boot, but instead I just snapped awake and said “What who what now?” and blinked a lot. “Oh damn,” Jenny said in a loudish whisper. “When did you move your bed under the window?” “Last week,” I said, sitting up in bed. “I wanted a change.” If you can’t rearrange your life, you can at least rearrange yourself, and if your mom won’t let you dye your hair blue, you can make do with rearranging your rooms. Jenny Kay dropped from standing to sitting in one motion, making my mattress bounce, and landed cross-legged and totally comfortable. “Hey,” she said. “So I need to borrow your ring.” I couldn’t read her expression in the dim moonlight from the window. I looked at my right hand, where a thin silver ring looped my index finger, catching what light there was in the room and giving back twinkles. The metal grew cold against my skin and tightened a fraction, almost a friendly little squeeze. The ring — which wasn’t really a ring — could tell when I was thinking about it. “Uh,” I said. Jenny nodded vigorously, a motion I felt in the jostling of the mattress more than I saw. “I know! I know. But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I mean, you’ve had the thing for more than a year, and I’ve never asked once if I could use it, right?” I glanced at my closed door — no glow under the crack at the bottom, which meant my parents had gone to their separate beds and turned out the hall light — and switched on my bedside lamp. Jenny was dressed in jeans and a sweater, all in dark grays and blacks, not her usual aggressively flamboyant colorful mishmash style at all. Good for sneaking into people’s windows, I guessed. I sat up against the headboard, because when you’re about to annoy your best friend, it’s better not to be flat on your back at the time. “I wish I could,” I said — not one hundred percent true, but Jenny was a fourteen-year-old genius, not a human lie detector. “But it’s, like… part of me. You know? I’m part of the mechanism. I can’t just take it off. It’s linked into my, what’s it called, socratic nervous system?” “Somatic,” Jenny said gloomily. She was almost as good at biology as she was at math. “The part of your nervous system that controls movement, which sort of halfway makes sense, I guess.” I shrugged. “So, there you go. The ring’s not something I wear. It’s something that wears me. Or we wear each other. What did you want it for?” She looked away. “Nothing. An errand.” I sighed. “Tell me, Jay Kay. Maybe I can help. Is it about a boy?” Jenny just bit her lip. Good enough. The past few months it’s pretty much always been about a boy. I took her hand. Me and Jenny go way back, and whenever I say that, older people laugh, because I’m fifteen and she’s fourteen, and they’re like, you’re too young to even have a “way back.” But I’ve known Jenny since she skipped first grade and ended up in my second-grade class, which means I’ve been her best friend for about half my life, and how many of you old people have a friendship with that kind of percentage? She used to hide me in her basement when things got too bad and I ran away from home, and she’s the reason I’ve never failed a math or science [...] Podcasts Tim Pratt no no http://escapepod.org/2011/07/02/soundproof-9/ http://escapepod.org/2011/07/02/soundproof-9/#comments Sun, 03 Jul 2011 03:05:10 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2391 http://escapepod.org/2011/07/02/soundproof-9/feed/ 0 0:00:01 Click here to download the ePub version. This month we’re bringing you short story and novella nominees for the Hugo awards, one of the two big Science Fiction and Fantasy awards alongside the Nebula. The Nebulas are awarded by members of the Scienc[...] Click here to download the ePub version. This month we’re bringing you short story and novella nominees for the Hugo awards, one of the two big Science Fiction and Fantasy awards alongside the Nebula. The Nebulas are awarded by members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and the Hugos by the attendees of Worldcon. The Nebula’s were awarded in May, and we’ll find out who wins the Hugos next month at Renovation in Reno, Nevada. It’s always been more than a bit amusing to me to see the inevitable ‘That got nominated? The [insert award name] is losing it’ comments cropping up on our forums and elsewhere. As if the Nebulas and Hugos are awarded by some wise men up on the crags, parsing the year’s crop of stories against the award’s prior canon. The nominations and awards come from a large swath of fandom or one’s fellow writers, and there’s always going to be elements of friendship, politics, fervent loyalty, and emotion in these endeavors. And yet, the nominating crowds for both pick stories that are good, and worth reading. You won’t like all of them, but you’ll like a lot of them, and that is really the best you can hope for. Fiction is not nearly so varied as fiction readers, and the point of these things is to make sure good stories get the biggest audience then can. Which is also the point of Soundproof. People write into us about having friends that can’t stand hearing stories, or who have a deaf spouse, or they just prefer to read. The point of Escape Pod is getting as many good stories out to as many ears and eyes (or fingers, if anyone’s feeding this into one of those Braille boxes) as possible, which is why we’ve worked hard to keep things free, taking advertising when we like the advertiser, and being ever thankful to those of you who donate. We couldn’t do it without you. (Which is why Dave Thompson and Wilson Fowlie have been working hard to bring those who donate the Alphabet Quartet as a thank you.) Hopefully one of the Hugo nominees in this issue will get the shiny, shiny rocket ship next month. They’re all worthy of it, even if they are [insert ghastly sub-genre]. –Bill E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/30/plus_or_minus/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/30/plus_or_minus/#comments Thu, 30 Jun 2011 16:00:53 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2386 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/30/plus_or_minus/feed/ 0 1:20:10 By James Patrick Kelly Read by: Christiana Ellis Originally appearing in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by James Patrick Kelly All stories read by Christiana Ellis Nominated for the Hugo Award for Novelette, 2011 Rated appropriate[...] By James Patrick Kelly Read by: Christiana Ellis Originally appearing in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by James Patrick Kelly All stories read by Christiana Ellis Nominated for the Hugo Award for Novelette, 2011 Rated appropriate for older teens and up for sexual situations and violence. Plus Or Minus By James Patrick Kelly Everything changed once Beep found out that Mariska’s mother was the famous Natalya Volochkova.   Mariska’s life aboard the Shining Legend went immediately from bad to awful.  Even before he singled her out, she had decided that there was no way she’d be spending the rest of her teen years crewing on an asteroid bucket.  Once Beep started persecuting her, she began counting down the remaining days of the run as if she were a prisoner.  She tried explaining that she had no use for Natalya Volochkova, who had never been much of a mother to her, but Beep wouldn’t hear it.  He didn’t care that Mariska had only signed on to the Shining Legend to get back at her mother for ruining her life. Somehow that hadn’t worked out quite the way she had planned. For example, there was crud duty.  With a twisting push Mariska sailed into the command module, caught herself on a handrail, and launched toward the starboard wall.  The racks of  instrument screens chirped and beeped and buzzed; command was one of the loudest mods on the ship.  She stuck her landing in front of navigation rack and her slippers caught on the deck burrs, anchoring her in the ship’s  .0006 gravity.   Sure enough, she could see new smears of mold growing from the crack where the nav screen fit into the wall.  This was Beep’s fault, although he would never admit it.  He kept the humidity jacked up in Command, said that dry air gave him nosebleeds.  Richard FiveFord claimed they came from all the drugs Beep sniffed but Mariska didn’t want to believe that.  Also Beep liked to sip his coffee from a cup instead sucking it out of a bag, even though he slopped all the time.  Fungi loved the sugary spatters.  She sniffed one particularly vile looking smear of mold.  It smelled faintly like the worms she used to grow back home on the Moon.  She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jersey and reached to the holster on her belt for her sponge. As she scrubbed, the bitter vinegar tang of disinfectant gel filled the mod.  Not for the first time, she told herself that this job stunk. She felt the tingle of Richard FiveFord offering a mindfeed and opened her head.  =What?= His feed made a pleasant fizz behind her eyes, distracting her. =You done any time soon?=  Distraction was Richard’s specialty =No.= =Didit is making a dream for us.= She slapped her sponge at the wall in frustration.  =This sucks.=  Mariska couldn’t remember the last time Didit or Richard FiveFord had pulled crud duty. =Should we wait for you?= =If you want.=  But she knew they wouldn’t. =Might be another hour.= “You’re working, Volochkova.” Beep’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker.  One of his quirks was snooping their private feeds and then yelling at them over the ship’s com. “Yes, sir,” she said.  Beep liked to be called sir.  It made him feel like the captain of the Shining Legend instead of senior monkey of its maintenance crew. “She’s working, FiveFord.  Leave our sweet young thing alone.” She felt Richard’s feed pop like a bubble.  He was more afraid of Beep than she was even though the old crank hardly ever bullied Richard.  Mariska hated being called sweet young thing.  She wasn’t sweet and she wasn’t all that young.  She was already fifteen in conscious years, eighteen if you counted the time she had hibernated. When Mariska finished wiping the wall down, she paused at the navigation rack.  She let her gaze blur until all she saw was meaningless shimmer of green and blue light.  Not that she understood the rack much better once she focused again.  She had been job shadowing Beep for 410 million kilometers and eleven months now.  They had travelled all the w[...] Best-Of, Podcasts James Patrick Kelly no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/29/ep296-for-want-of-a-nail/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/29/ep296-for-want-of-a-nail/#comments Wed, 29 Jun 2011 12:09:38 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2297 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/29/ep296-for-want-of-a-nail/feed/ 0 0:51:25 By Mary Robinette Kowal Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally appearing in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by Mary Robinette Kowal All stories read by Mur Lafferty Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2011 Rated appropriate for[...] By Mary Robinette Kowal Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally appearing in Asimov’s Discuss on our forums. All stories by Mary Robinette Kowal All stories read by Mur Lafferty Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2011 Rated appropriate for teens and up for language. For Want of a Nail By Mary Robinette Kowal With one hand, Rava adjusted the VR interface glasses where they bit into the bridge of her nose, while she kept her other hand buried in Cordelia’s innards. There was scant room to get the flexible shaft of a mono-lens and her hand through the access hatch in the AI’s chassis. From the next compartment, drums and laughter bled through the plastic walls of the ship, indicating her sister’s conception party was still in full swing. With only a single camera attached, the interface glasses didn’t give Rava depth perception as she struggled to replug the transmitter cable. The chassis had not been designed to need repair. At all. It had been designed to last hundreds of years without an upgrade. If Rava couldn’t get the cable plugged in and working, Cordelia wouldn’t be able to download backups of herself to her long-term memory. She couldn’t store more than a week at a time in active memory. It would be the same as a slow death sentence. The square head of the cable slipped out of Rava’s fingers. Again. “Dammit!” She slammed her heel against the ship’s floor in frustration. “If you can’t do it, let someone else try.” Her older brother, Ludoviko, had insisted on following her out of the party as if he could help. “You know, this would go a lot faster if you weren’t breathing down my neck.” “You know, you wouldn’t be doing this at all if you hadn’t dropped her.” Rava resisted the urge to pull the mono-lens out of the jack in her glasses and glare at him. He might have gotten better marks in school, but she was the AI’s wrangler. “Why don’t you go back to the party and see if you can learn something about fertility?” She lifted the cable head and tried one more time. “Why, you little—” Rage choked his voice, more than she had expected from a random slam. She made a guess that his appeal to the repro-council didn’t go well. Cordelia’s voice cut in, stopping what he was going to say. “It’s not Rava’s fault. I did ask her to pick me up.” “Yeah.” Rava focused on the cable, trying to get it aligned. “Right.” Ludoviko snorted. “And then you dropped yourself.” Cordelia sighed and Rava could almost imagine breath tickling her skin. “If you’re going to blame anyone, blame Branson Conchord for running into her.” Rava didn’t bother answering. They’d been having the same conversation for the last hour and Cordelia should know darn well what Ludoviko’s answer would be. Like programming, he said, “It was irresponsible. She should have said no. The room was full of intoxicated, rowdy people and you are too valuable an asset.” Rava rested her head against the smooth wood side of the AI’s chassis and closed her eyes, ignoring her brother and the flat picture in her goggles. Her fingers rolled the slick plastic head of the cable, building a picture in her mind of the white square and the flat gold cord stretching from it. She slid the cable forward until it jarred against the socket. Rotating the head, Rava focused all her attention on the tiny clues of friction vibrating up her arm. This was a simple, comprehensible problem. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she couldn’t repair the damage. Being unable to download her old memories meant Cordelia would have to delete herself bit by bit to keep functioning. All because Rava had asked if she wanted to dance. At least Ludoviko hadn’t heard that part of the accident. Rava rotated the head a fraction more and felt that sweet moment of alignment. As she pushed the head forward, the pins slid into their sockets, as if they were taunting her with the ease of the connection. The head thunked into place. “Oh, yes. That’s good.” She opened her eyes to the gorgeous vision o[...] Podcasts Mary Robinette Kowal no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/23/ep298-the-things/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/23/ep298-the-things/#comments Fri, 24 Jun 2011 02:21:46 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2367 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/23/ep298-the-things/feed/ 0 0:56:11 By Peter Watts Read by: Kate Baker (Thanks to Kate and Clarkesworld for the audio!) Originally appearing in Clarkesworld Discuss on our forums. All stories by Peter Watts All stories read by Kate Baker Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2[...] By Peter Watts Read by: Kate Baker (Thanks to Kate and Clarkesworld for the audio!) Originally appearing in Clarkesworld Discuss on our forums. All stories by Peter Watts All stories read by Kate Baker Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2011 Rated appropriate for older teens and up for language and disturbing imagery. The Things By Peter Watts I am being Blair. I escape out the back as the world comes in through the front. I am being Copper. I am rising from the dead. I am being Childs. I am guarding the main entrance. The names don’t matter. They are placeholders, nothing more; all biomass is interchangeable. What matters is that these are all that is left of me. The world has burned everything else. I see myself through the window, loping through the storm, wearing Blair.  MacReady has told me to burn Blair if he comes back alone, but MacReady still thinks I am one of him. I am not: I am being Blair, and I am at the door. I am being Childs, and I let myself in. I take brief communion, tendrils writhing forth from my faces, intertwining: I am BlairChilds, exchanging news of the world. The world has found me out. It has discovered my burrow beneath the tool shed, the half-finished lifeboat cannibalized from the viscera of dead helicopters. The world is busy destroying my means of escape. Then it will come back for me. There is only one option left. I disintegrate. Being Blair, I go to share the plan with Copper and to feed on the rotting biomass once called Clarke ; so many changes in so short a time have dangerously depleted my reserves. Being Childs, I have already consumed what was left of Fuchs and am replenished for the next phase.  I sling the flamethrower onto my back and head outside, into the long Antarctic night. I will go into the storm, and never come back. # I was so much more, before the crash. I was an explorer, an ambassador, a missionary. I spread across the cosmos, met countless worlds, took communion: the fit reshaped the unfit and the whole universe bootstrapped upwards in joyful, infinitesimal increments. I was a soldier, at war with entropy itself. I was the very hand by which Creation perfects itself. So much wisdom I had. So much experience. Now I cannot remember all the things I knew. I can only remember that I once knew them. I remember the crash, though. It killed most of this offshoot outright, but a little crawled from the wreckage: a few trillion cells, a soul too weak to keep them in check. Mutinous biomass sloughed off despite my most desperate attempts to hold myself together: panic-stricken little clots of meat, instinctively growing whatever limbs they could remember and fleeing across the burning ice. By the time I’d regained control of what was left the fires had died and the cold was closing back in. I barely managed to grow enough antifreeze to keep my cells from bursting before the ice took me. I remember my reawakening, too: dull stirrings of sensation in real time, the first embers of cognition, the slow blooming warmth of awareness as body and soul embraced after their long sleep. I remember the biped offshoots surrounding me, the strange chittering sounds they made, the odd uniformity of their body plans. How ill-adapted they looked! How inefficient their morphology! Even disabled, I could see so many things to fix. So I reached out. I took communion. I tasted the flesh of the world— —and the world attacked me. It attacked me. I left that place in ruins. It was on the other side of the mountains—the Norwegian camp , it is called here—and I could never have crossed that distance in a biped skin. Fortunately there was another shape to choose from, smaller than the biped but better adapted to the local climate. I hid within it while the rest of me fought off the attack. I fled into the night on four legs, and let the rising flames cover my escape. I did not stop running until I arrived here. I walked among these new offshoots wearing the skin of a qua[...] Podcasts Peter Watts no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/16/ep297-amaryllis/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/16/ep297-amaryllis/#comments Fri, 17 Jun 2011 00:42:46 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2327 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/16/ep297-amaryllis/feed/ 0 0:47:21 By Carrie Vaughn Read by: Gabrielle De Cuir Originally appearing in Lightspeed Discuss on our forums. All stories by Carrie Vaughn All stories read by Gabrielle De Cuir Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2011 Rated appropriate for all you[...] By Carrie Vaughn Read by: Gabrielle De Cuir Originally appearing in Lightspeed Discuss on our forums. All stories by Carrie Vaughn All stories read by Gabrielle De Cuir Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2011 Rated appropriate for all young teens and up for reproductive concerns. Amaryllis By Carrie Vaughn I never knew my mother, and I never understood why she did what she did. I ought to be grateful that she was crazy enough to cut out her implant so she could get pregnant. But it also meant she was crazy enough to hide the pregnancy until termination wasn’t an option, knowing the whole time that she’d never get to keep the baby. That she’d lose everything. That her household would lose everything because of her. I never understood how she couldn’t care. I wondered what her family thought when they learned what she’d done, when their committee split up the household, scattered them—broke them, because of her. Did she think I was worth it? # It was all about quotas. “They’re using cages up north, I heard. Off shore, anchored,” Nina said. “Fifty feet across—twice as much protein grown with half the resources, and we’d never have to touch the wild population again. We could double our quota.” I hadn’t really been listening to her. We were resting, just for a moment; she sat with me on the railing at the prow of Amaryllis and talked about her big plans. Wind pulled the sails taut and the fiberglass hull cut through waves without a sound, we sailed so smooth. Garrett and Sun hauled up the nets behind us, dragging in the catch. Amaryllis was elegant, a 30-foot sleek vessel with just enough cabin and cargo space—an antique but more than seaworthy. She was a good boat, with a good crew. The best. “Marie—” Nina said, pleading. I sighed and woke up. “We’ve been over this. We can’t just double our quota.” “But if we got authorization—” “Don’t you think we’re doing all right as it is?” We had a good crew—we were well fed and not exceeding our quotas; I thought we’d be best off not screwing all that up. Not making waves, so to speak. Nina’s big brown eyes filled with tears—I’d said the wrong thing, because I knew what she was really after, and the status quo wasn’t it. “That’s just it,” she said. “We’ve met our quotas and kept everyone healthy for years now. I really think we should try. We can at least ask, can’t we?” The truth was: No, I wasn’t sure we deserved it. I wasn’t sure that kind of responsibility would be worth it. I didn’t want the prestige. Nina didn’t even want the prestige—she just wanted the baby. “It’s out of our hands at any rate,” I said, looking away because I couldn’t bear the intensity of her expression. Pushing herself off the rail, Nina stomped down Amaryllis’ port side to join the rest of the crew hauling in the catch. She wasn’t old enough to want a baby. She was lithe, fit, and golden, running barefoot on the deck, sun-bleached streaks gleaming in her brown hair. Actually, no, she was old enough. She’d been with the house for seven years—she was twenty, now. It hadn’t seemed so long. “Whoa!” Sun called. There was a splash and a thud as something in the net kicked against the hull. He leaned over the side, the muscles along his broad, coppery back flexing as he clung to a net that was about to slide back into the water. Nina, petite next to his strong frame, reached with him. I ran down and grabbed them by the waistbands of their trousers to hold them steady. The fourth of our crew, Garrett, latched a boat hook into the net. Together we hauled the catch onto the deck. We’d caught something big, heavy, and full of powerful muscles. We had a couple of aggregators—large buoys made of scrap steel and wood—anchored fifty miles or so off the coast. Schooling fish were attracted to the aggregators, and we found the fish—mainly mackerel, sardines, sablefish, and whiting. An occasional shark or marlin found its way into the nets, but those we let go; they were rare and outside our quotas. That was what I[...] Podcasts Carrie Vaughn no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/02/ep295-disarm/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/02/ep295-disarm/#comments Thu, 02 Jun 2011 17:52:21 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2260 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/02/ep295-disarm/feed/ 0 0:31:41 By Vylar Kaftan Read by: Mat Weller Originally appearing in Abyss and Apex – Read it now! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Vylar Kaftan All stories read by Mat Weller Rated appropriate for teens and up – mild sexual situations, ligh[...] By Vylar Kaftan Read by: Mat Weller Originally appearing in Abyss and Apex – Read it now! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Vylar Kaftan All stories read by Mat Weller Rated appropriate for teens and up – mild sexual situations, light battle description. We kept in touch through the war, when he messaged me about marching through upstate New York. He always started the same way: “Dear Ryan, Please come kick my commanding officer in the balls.” Then he’d tell me about the latest mess–cracks in their radiation suits, or toxic waterholes that were supposed to be clear. He never got in trouble for the messages; they needed him too badly. My epilepsy disqualified me from the draft, which probably saved my life. Pretty boys like me weren’t exactly Army material. By the time things were bad enough that they needed any warm body, there wasn’t enough human government left to organize a draft. The ruins at Binghamton were where Trey got sick. By the time I got across the country to him, he’d recovered–well, as much as possible. I remember the doctor’s face as he says Trey will live, but he’ll be in pain. Podcasts Vylar Kaftan no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-8/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-8/#comments Thu, 02 Jun 2011 01:59:36 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2255 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-8/feed/ 2 0:00:01 ePub version here. Hello Gentle Listeners— May brought us the announcement of the Hugo Awards nominees, which means that June is Hugo Month! For years, Escape Pod has been buying the rights to most of the Hugo short story nominees, and this year is [...] ePub version here. Hello Gentle Listeners— May brought us the announcement of the Hugo Awards nominees, which means that June is Hugo Month! For years, Escape Pod has been buying the rights to most of the Hugo short story nominees, and this year is no different. We’ll be featuring three of the four nominees, and since June has five Thursdays, we will also be featuring two longer stories that got Nebula and/or Hugo nods! We also have the ebook rights to the stories, which is an Escape Pod first, so next month’s Soundproof will be a collector’s item. (If a digital file could be collectible. Which it can’t. So never mind. But you know what I mean; it’ll be cool.) I’m very excited to see our site growing so much. We want to send extra special congrats to the podcasts who managed to make it onto the Hugo Ballot this year! 2010 winner for Best Fanzine, Starship Sofa, has gotten another nomination, and Writing Excuses has received a nod for Best Related Work. SSS has wonderful stories from many masters of SF, and Writing Excuses has wonderful discussions on how to write genre fiction. We are thrilled that these quality podcasts are getting attention from fandom. I’ll be reporting from WorldCon in two and a half months, and liveblogging the Hugo Awards. More info soon! A question we get a lot of is, “Why do you not have all the stories in your PDF?” The answer is simple- audio and ebook rights are purchased separately, and sometimes an author cannot or will not grant us both rights. Or there are stories we’ve purchased before we started purchasing ebook rights, so we have no right to give you text versions of the stories. We take our authors’ rights very seriously and will only release the format for which we have rights. Audio-only stories are fewer and fewer these days, but there still will be an occasional one in our future feed. Speaking of the feed, some people have asked that the Soundproof Escape Pod have its own feed, or the audio have its own feed. Or the R stories to have their own feed. We get this question a lot and can’t really create custom feeds for each listener – but never fear, there is a solution. I’d like to point you to a page that gives you some RSS options, including some things you can do to custom make your own EP feed. From How To Subscribe (http://escapepod.org/subscribe/): You can make your own special Escape Pod feed by subscribing to http://www.escapepod.org/category/XXXX/feed where you replace XXXX with the category you want to subscribe to. Categories are listed on the front page in a drop-down box on the right. Have at it! Lastly, in order to get the submissions under control, we’re taking two months off and closing for submissions on June 6th. We hope you enjoy this issue, chock full of awesome stories, reviews, and Nebula reporting. We hope you have a wonderful summer (or winter, if you’re on the other side of the world) and keep listening! We will have other announcements next month! —Mur Blog, E-pub, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/06/01/promo-for-the-alphabet-quartet/ http://escapepod.org/2011/06/01/promo-for-the-alphabet-quartet/#comments Wed, 01 Jun 2011 19:10:11 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2250 http://escapepod.org/2011/06/01/promo-for-the-alphabet-quartet/feed/ 0 0:11:45 From Dave Thompson, the co-editor at our sister podcast, Podcastle: In late 2007, I took a trip down to San Diego’s Conjecture convention. I’d been listening to Escape Pod for a couple of years (PodCastle hadn’t even started yet) a[...] From Dave Thompson, the co-editor at our sister podcast, Podcastle: In late 2007, I took a trip down to San Diego’s Conjecture convention. I’d been listening to Escape Pod for a couple of years (PodCastle hadn’t even started yet) and so I was thrilled that the very first panel I got to see featured Tim Pratt, Heather Shaw, and Greg van Eekhout. Tim had just won a Hugo for his story “Impossible Dreams” (which I first heard at Escape Pod, yo!) and proceeded to do a collaborative reading of ABC flash fiction. Essentially, they divvied up the alphabet, wrote flash fiction stories for each letter, such as “E is for Excrement” and “N is for Nevermore Nevermore Land.” It was a fantastic reading – hilarious, poignant, thrilling, and most of all – they knew how to have fun. I left the convention knowing, just knowing, that one day – this ABC book was going to be big. But nothing happened. Several years passed, and still – nothing happened. And then, toward the end of last year – I realized, I’m at Escape Artists, co-editing PodCastle, and that awesome book I remember? Is out there still, and nobody’s heard it. So, I talked to Ben Phillips, and then I talked to Tim, Heather, Greg, and Jenn Reese – who came aboard to help them finish up the collection – and we came up with a plan. I decided it’d be awesome to send the Alphabet Quartet out to listeners who’d been kind enough to sign up as paid subscribers or make a one-time donation to us of $50 or more since January 1, 2011. Times are tough, we know, and not everyone can donate, so all the Escape Artists podcasts are going to be sharing a few of these stories with everyone who wants them (and also at the Drabblecast). Additionally, all the stories are available to read there for free at Daily Science Fiction, a great new online magazine that emails you free SF/F stories daily, so everyone wins. Thanks for listening, and we hope you enjoy the extra stories. Bonus, Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/05/26/ep294-the-night-train/ http://escapepod.org/2011/05/26/ep294-the-night-train/#comments Thu, 26 May 2011 22:00:38 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2209 http://escapepod.org/2011/05/26/ep294-the-night-train/feed/ 1 0:00:01 By Lavie Tidhar Read by: Jean Hilde-Fulghum Originally appeared in Strange Horizons. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Lavie Tidhar All stories read by Jean Hilde-Fulghum Rated R The Night Train By Lavie Tidhar Her name wasn’t Molly and sh[...] By Lavie Tidhar Read by: Jean Hilde-Fulghum Originally appeared in Strange Horizons. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Lavie Tidhar All stories read by Jean Hilde-Fulghum Rated R The Night Train By Lavie Tidhar Her name wasn’t Molly and she didn’t wear shades, reflective or otherwise. She was watching the length of the platform. Hua Lamphong at dusk: a warm wind blowing through the open platforms where the giant beasts puffed smoke and steam into the humid air, the roof of the train station arching high overhead. Her name wasn’t Noi, either, in case you asked, though it’s a common enough name. It wasn’t Porn, or Ping. It wasn’t even Friday. She was watching the platform, scanning passengers climbing aboard, porters shifting wares, uniformed police patrolling at leisure. She was there to watch out for the Old Man. She wasn’t even a girl. Not exactly. And as for why the Old Man was called the Old Man . . . He was otherwise known as Boss Gui: head and bigfala bos of the Kunming Toads. She got the job when she’d killed Gui’s Toad bodyguards—by default, as it were. But that had happened back in Kunming. This was Bangkok, Bangkok at dusk—this was Hua Lamphong, greatest of train stations, where the great slugs breathed steam and were rubbed and scrubbed by the slug-boys whose job it was to nurture them before departure. And the Old Man wasn’t exactly an old man, either. Scanning, waiting for the Old Man to arrive: Yankee tourists with in-built cams flashing as they posed besides the great beasts, these neo-nagas of reconstituted DNA, primitive nervous system, and prodigious appetite. Scanning: a group of Martian-Chinese from Tong Yun City walking cautiously—unused to the heavier gravity of this home/planet. Scanning: three Malay businessmen—Earth-Belt Corp. standardized reinforced skeletons—they moved gracefully, like dancers—wired through and through, hooked up twenty-four Earth-hours an Earth-day, seven Earth-days a week to the money-form engines, the great pulsating web of commerce and data, that singing, Sol-system-wide, von Neumann-machine expanded network of networks of networks. . . . Wired with hidden weaponry, too: she made a note of that. An assassin can take many shapes. It could be the sweet old lady carrying two perfectly balanced baskets of woven bamboo over her shoulders, each basket filled with sweet addictive fried Vietnamese bananas. It could be the dapper K-pop starlet with her entourage, ostensibly here to rough it a bit for the hovering cameras. It could be the couple of French backpackers—he with long thinning silver hair and a cigarette between his lips, she with a new face courtesy of Soi Cowboy’s front-and-back street cosmetic surgeries—baby-doll face, but the hands never lie and the hands showed her true age, in the lines etched there, the drying of the skin, the quick-bitten nails polished a cheap red— An assassin could be anyone. A Yankee rich kid on a retro-trip across Asia, reading Air America or Neuromancer in a genuine reproduction 1984 POD-paperback; it could be the courteous policeman helping a pretty young Lao girl with her luggage; it could be the girl herself—an Issan farmer’s daughter exported to Bangkok in a century-long tradition, body augmented with vibratory vaginal inserts, perfect audio/visual-to-export, always-on record, a carefully tended Louis Wu habit and an as-carefully-tended retirement plan—make enough money, get back home to Issan wan bigfala mama, open up a bar/hotel/bookshop and spend your days on the Mekong, waxing lyrical about the good old days, listening to Thai pop and K-pop and Nuevo Kwasa-Kwasa, growing misty-eyed nostalgic. . . . Could be anyone. She waited for the Old Man to arrive. The trains in Hua Lamphong never left on time. Her name before, or after, doesn’t matter. They used to call her Mulan Rouge, which was a silly name, but the farangsloved it. Mulan Rouge, when she was still w[...] Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/05/19/ep293-a-small-matter-really/ http://escapepod.org/2011/05/19/ep293-a-small-matter-really/#comments Fri, 20 May 2011 03:59:56 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2179 http://escapepod.org/2011/05/19/ep293-a-small-matter-really/feed/ 0 0:28:57 By Monte Cook Read by: Mur Lafferty An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Monte Cook All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG for violence A Small Matter, Really By Monte Cook Only the Catholic Church of Osirus would have [...] By Monte Cook Read by: Mur Lafferty An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Monte Cook All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG for violence A Small Matter, Really By Monte Cook Only the Catholic Church of Osirus would have enough money to afford not one, but two black holes. Standing within the majestic narthex, Maria McNaki imagined the vibration of complex machinery under her feet, despite the fact that the nanosensors laced into her flesh revealed nothing other than the passing of the people in the crowd and the chanting coming from deeper within the cathedral. The stone walls of the chamber slowly flowed with a liquid relief of gothic circuitry and religious hieroglyphic animations. The glyph depicting Setan as he tore the crucified Osirus-Christ into tiny fragments malfunctioned and remained static. Just as well. The petitioners around her made carefully devout hand signs over their hearts as they faced the ankh crucifix over the door into the sanctuary. Religion was back in fashion this season. Three identical priests stood next to the holy water fonts, welcoming the incoming congregation. Their white collars and black robes stood starched-still. Geneticists form-shaped all Catholic-Osirus priests into the gentle, fatherly form selected by church PR, but these three were special. The bright eyes and the shining hair indicated Aesthicel, the most expensive genengineering firm in the Earth system. This parish liked to spend money. Perfect. That most likely meant that they were interested in obtaining more. Terrence told her that the facility lay underneath the cathedral. Maria made her way past the incoming worshipers as quickly and politely as she could. Stout-of-Heart mewled behind her, trying to keep up. The alien’s appearance disturbed a few in the crowd, and Maria realized that bringing him might not have been the best idea after all. The four-foot, shaggy bramagian bore the minder headband that marked him as a trained urban bodyguard, but his claws and tusks still instilled fear in many humans. The headband also allowed the creature to access a private data field that existed only between the two of them. Through it, Maria could communicate with him. Nevertheless, she preferred it much better when Piotr had tended to the bramagian. “Lord, what is this place?” Stout-of-Heart asked her. She hated being called Lord, but the bramagians were so fiercely misogynistic that it was best if they thought of all humans as male. Maria had no idea how to explain the church to Stout-of-Heart. Bramagians taken by humans from their homeworld already believed that they were in Heaven, walking among the gods. If she told him that the gods also worshipped gods, it might be too much for him. Among the bramagians, madness was a fate worse than death. “Never mind, Stout-of-Heart,” she uploaded into their link. “It’s too difficult to explain.” Her assurances would only work for so long. Although the aliens were happy to be warriors in Heaven, they were intensely curious about everything they encountered there. Elevator doors stood closed to the right of the sanctuary entrance. More boy than man, a guard stood in front of them, arms folded as if he could possibly appear menacing. He wore black robes but no priestly collar and his temple sported a removable receiver implant. Maria knew better than to be deceived by looks. Muscle-augmentation, hidden disrupters or even nanite drones could all be concealed. Instead, she produced her most powerful weapon as she approached the slight guard–a cashstick keyed to more than this man made in a month. He stepped aside with a smile, and the lift doors opened. Maria entered the elevator and whispered “all the way down,” to the man with a smile of her own and a nod. Stout-of-Heart followed her in, and the doors closed. She smoothed her dark blue suit, and ran her hands over her graying black hair. The advantages of wea[...] Podcasts Monte Cook no no http://escapepod.org/2011/05/12/ep292-in-the-water/ http://escapepod.org/2011/05/12/ep292-in-the-water/#comments Thu, 12 May 2011 21:57:26 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2173 http://escapepod.org/2011/05/12/ep292-in-the-water/feed/ 0 0:32:13 By Katherine Mankiller Read by: Kim Gianopoulos Originally appearing in Fictitious Force. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Katherine Mankiller All stories read by Kim Gianopoulos Rated PG In the Water by Katherine Mankiller Yvonne looked up fr[...] By Katherine Mankiller Read by: Kim Gianopoulos Originally appearing in Fictitious Force. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Katherine Mankiller All stories read by Kim Gianopoulos Rated PG In the Water by Katherine Mankiller Yvonne looked up from her monitor, the beads in her cornrows clattering as Roger walked into her office. Roger sat in the dark wooden chair opposite her desk. “Weren’t you assigned Alice van Buuren?” “Oh, no you don’t,” Yvonne said. “You can’t have her.” Yvonne hadn’t been assigned Alice; she’d requested her. Alice was probably the only murder victim’s wife she would ever meet. They hadn’t even put the murder in the papers. Maybe they thought there’d be a panic. “Please,” Roger said. “I’m just trying to save you some trouble. I’ve already spoken to her, and…” Yvonne crossed her arms and glared. “Wouldn’t you raise hell if I talked to one of your patients behind your back?” “She’s refusing modern therapy. What are you going to do, use the old-fashioned techniques your grandmother used?” Roger had a lot of nerve mentioning Grandma. Yvonne glanced at the photo on the corner of her desk. Grandma Jackson had been a big woman, with braids down to her hips and skin like chocolate. Grandma Jackson smiled back at the camera, all reassuring good nature. Roger said, “I think we should just wipe her and have done with it.” “Too bad she’s not your patient,” Yvonne said. “I could take her away from you, you know.” “Don’t you dare!” There was an awkward silence. “It’ll be less confusing for her if I come with you,” Roger said. “Just to hand her off to you. You understand.” “Fine,” Yvonne said. “Whatever.” “Good girl,” Roger said, and Yvonne gritted her teeth. “Room 314.” He stood. “Let’s go.” “Now?” Yvonne said. She picked up her coffee and almost took a sip, then put it down again, making a face. It was cold, and it had been so bitter hot that she’d taken caffeine pills with orange juice instead. Roger snorted. “That bad?” Roger clearly wasn’t going anywhere, so Yvonne stood, picked up her jacket, and followed Roger out of her office. The halls were white to the point of being blinding after her calm, earth-toned office, and reeked of disinfectant. They went upstairs and over to room 314. Roger placed his hand on the identification plate and the door slid open. “Hello, Alice,” Roger said. The patient, a skinny, pale woman with brown hair, backed away from Roger. She reminded Yvonne of someone, although she couldn’t put her finger on whom. The patient fell into a seated position on the bed, mouth open, staring at Yvonne. Before Yvonne could say anything, Roger said, “This is Doctor Jackson. Doctor Jackson, this is Alice.” “We’re not going to hurt you,” Yvonne said. The patient–Alice–stared at Yvonne for a moment, then shut her mouth. She shot Roger a defiant look. “I’ll just leave you to it,” Roger said, and left. “Hello, Alice,” Yvonne said. “You can call me Yvonne if you prefer.” “We’ve met,” Alice said. It wasn’t a question. Alice really did look familiar. “Refresh my memory?” “It doesn’t matter,” Alice said and looked away. There was an uncomfortable silence. Yvonne said, “Dr. Hill said you’re refusing drug therapy.” “I had a negative reaction once,” Alice said. “Really?” Yvonne said. “Usually that’s associated with an interaction with an unapproved drug. You should be fine this time; your blood tests came back clean.” [...] Podcasts Katherine Mankiller no no http://escapepod.org/2011/05/05/ep291-shannons-law/ http://escapepod.org/2011/05/05/ep291-shannons-law/#comments Thu, 05 May 2011 18:03:23 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2160 http://escapepod.org/2011/05/05/ep291-shannons-law/feed/ 0 1:16:25 By Cory Doctorow Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally appearing in Welcome to Bordertown (Available May 24!) Read it at Tor.com. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Cory Doctorow All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: language [Update- HUGE apolo[...] By Cory Doctorow Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally appearing in Welcome to Bordertown (Available May 24!) Read it at Tor.com. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Cory Doctorow All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: language [Update- HUGE apologies for former editing issues on this file. It's fixed now!] When the Way to Bordertown closed, I was only four years old, and I was more interested in peeling the skin off my Tickle Me Elmo to expose the robot lurking inside his furry pelt than I was in networking or even plumbing the unknowable mysteries of Elfland. But a lot can change in thirteen years. When the Way opened again, the day I turned seventeen, I didn’t hesitate. I packed everything I could carry—every scratched phone, every half-assembled laptop, every stick of memory, and every Game Boy I could fit in a duffel bag. I hit the bank with my passport and my ATM card and demanded that they turn over my savings to me, without calling my parents or any other ridiculous delay. They didn’t like it, but “It’s my money, now hand it over” is like a spell for bending bankers to your will. Land rushes. Know about ’em? There’s some piece of land that was off-limits, and the government announces that it’s going to open it up—all you need to do is rush over to it when the cannon goes off, and whatever you can stake out is yours. Used to be that land rushes came along any time the United States decided to break a promise to some Indians and take away their land, and a hundred thousand white men would wait at the starting line to stampede into the “empty lands” and take it over. But more recently, the land rushes have been virtual: The Internet opens up, and whoever gets there first gets to grab all the good stuff. The land rushers in the early days of the Net had the dumbest ideas: online pet food, virtual-reality helmets, Internet-enabled candy delivery services. But they got some major money while the rush was on, before Joe Investor figured out how to tell a good idea from a redonkulous one. Podcasts Cory Doctorow no no http://escapepod.org/2011/04/28/ep290-tom-the-universe/ http://escapepod.org/2011/04/28/ep290-tom-the-universe/#comments Thu, 28 Apr 2011 20:50:52 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2135 http://escapepod.org/2011/04/28/ep290-tom-the-universe/feed/ 0 0:34:17 By Larry Hodges Read by: Mat Weller An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Larry Hodges All stories read by Mat Weller Rated PG-13: sexual situations Tom the Universe by Larry Hodges I permeate this universe, which I’v[...] By Larry Hodges Read by: Mat Weller An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Larry Hodges All stories read by Mat Weller Rated PG-13: sexual situations Tom the Universe by Larry Hodges I permeate this universe, which I’ve named Tom, and guard against its destruction. If someone had done that for the universe I came from, then Mary, my sweet Mary, would still be alive, and I wouldn’t have killed her and everyone else when I accidentally destroyed that universe. And now I’m on the verge of destroying much more. Read More… My name is also Tom. I was an undergrad in neuroscience at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore that January in 2040 when I made the discovery that doomed us all. My field of study was cognitive science, the study of human consciousness. What makes us aware of ourselves? Is it just the biomechanical workings of the brain, or something else? Sherlock Holmes said, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” I spent countless hours in the lab eliminating the impossible, and there didn’t seem to be anything left, improbable or not. The interconnectivity required for human consciousness to exist was just too many levels beyond what was possible. By all rights, we should all be unconscious blobs of matter mechanically going about our business as directed by electronic impulses from the brain, with no more consciousness than a calculator. I suffered brain cramps in the lab trying to figure out what improbables were left. When I could think of nothing else to try, it was time to relax and let my subconscious figure it out. So I got out the Frisbee and called my lab partners. Mary, Joey, and I–Tommy, as they called me–called ourselves the “ees.” I’d only met Mary when we’d started college, and adored how she laughed when I explained my love for her in neurological terms, with dopamine and neurotransmitters. We did everything together, or so I thought; classes and labs, movies, and late-night bull sessions with pizza and ice cream, usually followed by pints of morning coffee. Our future together was assured; as soon as we graduated, we would get married. I’d even convinced her we should wear purity rings–I had special ones made up with a brain emblem. Joey and I grew up together on the same street, playing stickball and videogames. He and I were going to be buddies for life. Professor Wilson, our adviser, reluctantly let the three of us be lab partners even though he said it’s best not to put friends together. Amazingly, we got a lot done when we weren’t reading the neurology cartoons taped to the walls or playing with Catzilla, the lab’s iguana-bodied, cat-brained hybrid mascot. And then came that morning when we went outside the lab on Charles Street to toss the Frisbee around among the oak trees by the front steps. The fresh air was an escape from the antiseptic stench of the lab. “You throw like a girl!” Joey said when my toss to him banged against the ground, way off line. He stood half a head taller than me, with that eternal mischievous grin I’d known for twenty years. He was the only person in the world who could get away with a ponytailed bouffant, which I would yank every chance. “Like a girl, huh?” Mary said, throwing the Frisbee as hard as she could at Joey, who barely blocked it. Mary grabbed the rebound and faked another throw while Joey cringed. “Want some more?” She was my sweet pixie, five feet of tiger and spice, never still, never silent. Recently she’d taken to tying her long blond hair in a ponytail like Joey, giving me a second target to yank. I was the smart one, with a crew cut. “Okay,” Joey said, “you win. You both throw like girls!” Mary smacked him with the frisbee again. As we tossed it around, [...] Podcasts Larry Hodges no no http://escapepod.org/2011/04/27/escape-pod-special-episode-the-arthur-c-clarke-award-winner/ http://escapepod.org/2011/04/27/escape-pod-special-episode-the-arthur-c-clarke-award-winner/#comments Wed, 27 Apr 2011 20:14:59 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2119 http://escapepod.org/2011/04/27/escape-pod-special-episode-the-arthur-c-clarke-award-winner/feed/ 2 0:27:43 You heard it here first, folks, we have an exclusive interview and book excerpt from this year’s Arthur C. Clarke award winner, Lauren Beukes, author of Zoo City (Angry Robot Books)! Zoo City explores a present day, but alternate, Johannesburg[...] You heard it here first, folks, we have an exclusive interview and book excerpt from this year’s Arthur C. Clarke award winner, Lauren Beukes, author of Zoo City (Angry Robot Books)! Zoo City explores a present day, but alternate, Johannesburg, and follows the story of Zinzi December, one of the animalled – people who are psychically bonded with animals due to crimes they have committed in the past. Zinzi has a talent for finding lost things, but when she is asked to take on a missing persons case, her life becomes increasingly more complicated and she discovers that beneath the seedy underbelly of Zoo City, things can – and do – get a lot worse. Rated PG-13 for talk of sex workers and street violence. Zoo City by Lauren Beukes Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/04/22/ep289-flash-contest-honorable-mentions/ http://escapepod.org/2011/04/22/ep289-flash-contest-honorable-mentions/#comments Fri, 22 Apr 2011 20:47:08 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=2109 http://escapepod.org/2011/04/22/ep289-flash-contest-honorable-mentions/feed/ 0 0:00:01 This episode has three of the honorable mentions from the flash contest we held on our forums. You can, perhaps unsurprisingly, discuss this episode on our forums. Rated PG for some naughty language in Many Mistakes. Episode 37 – Captain Max S[...] This episode has three of the honorable mentions from the flash contest we held on our forums. You can, perhaps unsurprisingly, discuss this episode on our forums. Rated PG for some naughty language in Many Mistakes. Episode 37 – Captain Max Stone versus DESTRUCTOBOT! By Angela Lee Read by: Joshua McNichols When last we left our heroes, Captain Max Stone and his brother Billy had just navigated Hyperion’s perilous asteroid field and battled their way into the fortified base of the villainous robot Destructobot. The dastardly robot’s latest scheme is the deadliest yet – he intends to destroy the Earth using a high-powered negabomb! Will Max stop Destructobot in time? Or will the earth be vaporized? Many Mistakes, All Out of Order By M.C. Wagner Read by: Wilson Fowlie The first mistake was in our thinking they were ghosts. In our defense, the tradition of vanishing, translucent figures wailing in the night might’ve influenced us. Mr. Omega By Arnold Gardner Read By: Marshall Latham Mr. Omega checked the time on his trans-dimensional pocket watch and stared out the taxi’s rain pelted window. Four minutes to midnight. Four minutes to the culmination of his life’s work. Flash, Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/04/14/ep288-future-perfect/ http://escapepod.org/2011/04/14/ep288-future-perfect/#comments Fri, 15 Apr 2011 01:16:53 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2078 http://escapepod.org/2011/04/14/ep288-future-perfect/feed/ 0 0:28:16 By LaShawn M. Wanak Read by: Dani Cutler Originally published in Ideomancer Discuss on our forums. All stories by LaShawn M. Wanak All stories read by Dani Cutler Rated R: language, adult situations Future Perfect By LaShawn M. Wanak I saw you at a[...] By LaShawn M. Wanak Read by: Dani Cutler Originally published in Ideomancer Discuss on our forums. All stories by LaShawn M. Wanak All stories read by Dani Cutler Rated R: language, adult situations Future Perfect By LaShawn M. Wanak I saw you at a party once. You stood by the bookshelf, reading a tattered volume on Proust. You wore an orange and yellow XTC shirt beneath brown flannel. I bumped your elbow by accident and you looked up, your eyes startling green. I smiled and said, “Hi. I’m Nina.” “Hi. Eric.” I trailed behind you for the rest of the party. You introduced me to your friends and I laughed at their jokes. Twice, our sleeves brushed against each other. Around two in the morning, you left with your friends. An hour later, I also left. I crossed the empty campus, humming under my breath, wondering if I’d ever see you again. The watch on my arm beeped. * “This experiment will measure how small changes occurring before a certain event affect its outcome positively and negatively.” The chair is her creation. She bought the frame on impulse at a medical supply shop. The conical helmet, perforated with slender tubes, fits on top. Whenever she maneuvers her head beneath it, she thinks of the hair dryers at her mother’s beauty salon. All those bulky astronaut bonnets lined in perfect rows, vibrating air molecules to a feverish pitch. She likes this scientific homage to her mother extracting time from thin air. “Recording of the control event complete. Setting a change in a condition set slightly in the past. The goal of this first jump is to see if this will change the outcome of the event to a more positive circumstance.” She types on the laptop built into the armrest, then glances at the elaborate flowchart tacked upon the far wall of the laboratory. Written in her own hand, neat and precise, equations and sums branch and connect like a roadmap of a probability highway. She wonders which formula will have his lips pressing against hers. “Test #1. Begin.” Read More… * I saw you at a party once. You stood next to Muriel, hair rumpled, clothes wrinkled. I had my hair permed that morning so it hung straight over my eyes. I wore tight-fitting jeans and a blue top with spaghetti straps. I didn’t speak to you, just hung out with a couple of my girlfriends. When “Atomic Dog” came on the stereo, I shimmied to the bookcase, shaking my hips and wiggling my butt. Only then I noticed you, you and your startling green eyes. You smiled and said, “Hi, there.” Muriel looked over and pulled you from the room. Later, while getting punch, I looked out the window and saw you and Muriel standing on the sidewalk below. She cupped your face, pulling it down to meet hers. I thought, Shame. He had nice eyes. Then someone stepped on my foot and I swore, loudly. As the guy next to me apologized, the watch on my arm beeped. You went on to have three children with Muriel. It took several years until I said yes to Brenton. * She rises from the chair, pulling the sensors from her body. She takes a sip of lukewarm coffee and frowns at the chart on the wall. The outcome remained the same, but that was to be expected. With so many variables, it will take time to narrow down the finite set of outcomes, both positive and negative. She isn’t worried; after all, only two possible outcomes can come from this event. She picks up a black magic marker and crosses off a number with an ‘X’. * We came to the party together, your arm slung around my shoulders. You and I had met several weeks before. Within a week, we were dating. Within six weeks, we were an ‘item’. Muriel was there as well, dancing alone by the bookshelves. Though my hand was buried in your back pocket, you couldn’t tear your eyes from her. I distracted you by pulling you over to introduce my friends. You nodded, laughed at someone’s joke a[...] Podcasts LaShawn M. Wanak no no http://escapepod.org/2011/04/07/ep287-a-taste-of-time/ http://escapepod.org/2011/04/07/ep287-a-taste-of-time/#comments Thu, 07 Apr 2011 21:00:14 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2051 http://escapepod.org/2011/04/07/ep287-a-taste-of-time/feed/ 0 0:33:05 By Abby Goldsmith Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Deep Magic, May 2004 Discuss on our forums. All stories by Abby Goldsmith All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: references to infidelity Show Notes: No feedback this week because [...] By Abby Goldsmith Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Deep Magic, May 2004 Discuss on our forums. All stories by Abby Goldsmith All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: references to infidelity Show Notes: No feedback this week because of site issues! Next week… don’t drink the water. A Taste of Time by Abby Goldsmith 1. On the night she turned twenty-nine, Jane sat on her narrow bed, watching TV and drinking alone. She’d gone through a bottle of wine and was mostly through a second bottle. Tomorrow morning would be painful. Or she could stop worrying about tomorrow. The ibuprofen in her cabinet kept popping into her mind. Jane wasn’t sure if all those pills chased by alcohol would be enough to end her life, but the idea of looking up how to commit suicide online seemed just too pathetic. The front door of her tiny apartment creaked open. Jane leaned forward, peering through her bedroom doorway. A black wine bottle stood on the floor, with a placard dangling from its silver ribbon. Her gaze immediately went to the deadbolt. It was in place, as she’d left it. Jane shut the TV off and listened for noises from the hallway. All she heard were the sounds of Boston traffic outside. Several weeks ago, after she’d come home to find her boyfriend screwing a fat chick on her couch, she’d had the locks changed. No one could have gotten in. Yet the bottle sat mysteriously on the wooden floor. At last, Jane crossed her apartment, checking every shadow for an intruder. She picked up the bottle. The placard had gilded letters, making it a potentially expensive gift. Tabula Rasa Warning: There Is No Return Jane flipped the placard over twice, but nothing else was written on it. She listened, alert for any noise. Mystery had never been much a part of her adult life, and it gave her a strangely excited feeling. If the warning label meant something like _poison_, it seemed like a more dignified way to go than pills and alcohol. Her reflection on the black surface of the bottle was disturbingly clear. There she was: Plain Jane, a frumpy woman with a double-chin and acne scars. She unscrewed the cap and popped the foil underneath. A stringent smell wafted up, making her wrinkle her nose and salivate at the same time. “Happy birthday, Jane,” she told herself, and swallowed a mouthful. Read More—> 2. Jane gagged on the sour taste in her mouth. She was so dizzy, she’d fallen . . . but she was sitting in an office chair, with no memory whatsoever of leaving her dark and quiet apartment. Florescent lights beat down on her, and the familiar voices of a call center surrounded her. None of this was possible. She was back at her old workplace. It was a workday, late afternoon, judging by the angle of light. Ultimata Insurance had laid her off months ago, yet here she was. A man rapped his knuckles against Jane’s desk. “I gave you the files you needed, right?” Her old boss, Moore, didn’t bother to wait for a reply. He was always in a hurry. Jane barely started to nod before he rushed away. The walls of her cubicle looked exactly the way she remembered. There was the photograph of herself and mom. There was the generic Ultimata calendar, flipped to October 2009 . . . Jane double-checked the year. 2009 was a full two years before the company downsized. If this was October 2009, then she was still employed. And still dating the jerk, Aaron. Her fists tightened, and she realized that her hand was clamped around the black wine bottle. She might lose her job more quickly this time, if they saw that. She hid it beneath her desk. “Jane!” Jane swiveled to face Stephanie, who worked in the cubicle across from hers. Stephanie was slim with bouncy golden hair, and never deigned to speak to plain Jane. Stephanie hurried across into Jane’s cubicle, giving a sneaky look both ways before crossing. She beamed at Jane. [...] Podcasts Abby Goldsmith no no http://escapepod.org/2011/04/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-6/ http://escapepod.org/2011/04/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-6/#comments Sat, 02 Apr 2011 03:46:11 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2031 http://escapepod.org/2011/04/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-6/feed/ 0 0:00:01 The ePub version can be found here. Welcome to April! — March was a sad month worldwide, and I, frankly, am looking forward to leaving winter behind. (Yeah, I know March starts spring in the Northern Hemisphere, but the damp and dank weather we’ve b[...] The ePub version can be found here. Welcome to April! — March was a sad month worldwide, and I, frankly, am looking forward to leaving winter behind. (Yeah, I know March starts spring in the Northern Hemisphere, but the damp and dank weather we’ve been having the US South makes me feel more like winter than January did.) First, the world was shocked by the disasters in Japan, earthquake, tsunami, and the continuing threat of radiation from their nuclear plant. Then fantasy lost one of its masters with the death of Diana Wynne Jones. Any fan or writer of fantasy needs to read her Tough Guide to Fantasyland, and, well, any of her other books. Thirdly… Well, hell, isn’t that enough? Many people find themselves feeling lost and useless when it comes to disasters, especially if they’re happening far away. Luckily, some very quick and innovative SFF fans and professionals (including Pseudopod’s own Alasdair Stuart) got together to create Genre for Japan ( http://genreforjapan.wordpress.com/ ), an auction featuring signed books from authors, collections of books from publishers (like Tor and Angry Robot), and editing or critique services from agents and editors. All proceeds go to the Japan Tsunami Appeal run by the British Red Cross. (They know what they’re doing.) Give generously and you can get some awesome prizes. We hope you’re enjoying the monthly Soundproof PDFs. We have had gotten a couple of questions asking why some of our audio stories don’t get printed on the site or in the Soundproof. The answer is simple: we don’t have the rights. We buy the audio and ebook rights to all stories we are able to, but sometimes we are only able to get the audio rights, so those stories are in our audio feed. As we move forward we will do everything we can to get both ebook and audio rights. Here’s to a better month. ——Mur Mur Lafferty Editor E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/03/31/ep284-the-76-goldwater-dime/ http://escapepod.org/2011/03/31/ep284-the-76-goldwater-dime/#comments Fri, 01 Apr 2011 00:45:56 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=2024 http://escapepod.org/2011/03/31/ep284-the-76-goldwater-dime/feed/ 0 0:21:21 By John Medaille Read by: Norm Sherman Originally published in Residential Aliens in July, 2010 Discuss on our forums. All stories by John Medaille All stories read by Norm Sherman Rated G: Coin collecting! Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 278 Nex[...] By John Medaille Read by: Norm Sherman Originally published in Residential Aliens in July, 2010 Discuss on our forums. All stories by John Medaille All stories read by Norm Sherman Rated G: Coin collecting! Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 278 Next week… a taste of time. The ’76 Goldwater Dime By John Medaille I started in 1962, that’s when I became a numismatist. You know what that is? It’s the study of….well, it’s not the study of anything. It’s coin collecting, is what it is. I was ten in 1962, and Christmas I got my first coin album. I didn’t actually get it. My father gave it to my brother. It was, you know, you’ve seen them, a sturdy cardboard folder with slots punched out that you put the coins in. Behind the slots, the empties, it had a backing of blue felt, I remember that. My dad gave it to my brother, I guess maybe thinking it would straighten him out. But coins, you know, they don’t really have that power. He wasn’t interested. He gave it to me. Me, I was interested. The album was for Lincoln pennies, 1909 to 1959. I had five cents in the world then and each of the five fit in the slot. It only took me five more days to get the other forty-five. I would do anything for those pennies and slot it in its slot. Anything, anything. When I got my last penny, wow. It was a 1943 steel mint penny, a ‘steelie.’ They had to use steel instead of copper that year cause they needed the copper for all the bombs. I was so proud. From then on it was just coins for me. My life was coins. I was hooked. They had their hooks in me, boy. When I was just seventeen I moved by myself down to Washington, DC, cause I got a job there in a coin shop. That was my education. I lived in a one room dungeon in a crumby neighborhood, I loved coins that much. You know, and I do alright. I made my living. I own my own house. I don’t live in debt like everybody else does. That’s what coins did for me. Coins and specie and spec. I don’t care for paper money, it holds nothing for me. Me, I’m a specialist. I know generalists, I do business with them, I have to. And speculators, sure. You do what you need to do to survive in the world. But me, I’m a specialist and my friends are specialists. I’ll give an example, I have a friend, he died. But before he died, his specialty was pay toilet tokens. I mean, have you ever seen a pay toilet? In your life? I saw some once in Europe but I don’t even know if they have them there anymore. Anyway, this friend of mine, he spends his life collecting these tokens, these coins, for pay toilets, from around the world and every age. He finds the obscurest pay toilet tokens there are and they’re his. And then he dies alone in his apartment with these thousands of toilet tokens around him. I mean, that’s the way to go. I mean that. To have these objects of joy around you. To you and me, they are not objects of joy, but to him they are. You know, not everybody gets to have that, it’s not something that everyone receives. To have such pleasure from these things, these old things. But he does and I do because, see, we’re specialists. Not everybody understands that. Other people I know, you know, have their special collections. Any thing you can think of, any given thing and there’s some guy like me out there obsessed with it. I know people, you meet a lot of interesting people in this business, whose specialties are Depression era wooden nickels or peep show tokens, or misprint coins, error coins, or brockage, that’s coins with mirror image stamps on both sides, or obverses or ‘Godless Dollars.’ You ever heard of ‘Godless Dollars?’ Those are dollar coins where the “In God we trust” part got left off. Now, you see, I respect that. Those are people with specialties. They are connoisseurs, like me. Not any old crap will do. I’ll tell you what I mean. I have a friend, he’s not a friend, he’s a guy I know. And his collection, if you want to call it that, his collection consists of nothing but 1938 pennies. That’s the ye[...] Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/03/24/jaidens_weaver/ http://escapepod.org/2011/03/24/jaidens_weaver/#comments Thu, 24 Mar 2011 18:51:54 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1989 http://escapepod.org/2011/03/24/jaidens_weaver/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Mary Robinette Kowal Read by: Kij Johnson Originally published in Diamonds in the Sky Discuss on our forums. All stories by Mary Robinette Kowal All stories read by Kij Johnson Rated G: Teddy bear spiders! Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 277 N[...] By Mary Robinette Kowal Read by: Kij Johnson Originally published in Diamonds in the Sky Discuss on our forums. All stories by Mary Robinette Kowal All stories read by Kij Johnson Rated G: Teddy bear spiders! Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 277 Next week… Coin collecting SF. I’m serious. Jaiden’s Weaver by Mary Robinette Kowal I was never one of those girls who fell in love with horses. For one thing, on our part of New Oregon they were largely impractical animals. Most of the countryside consisted of forests attached to sheer hills and you wanted to ride something with a little more clinging ability. So from the time I was, well, from the time I can remember I wanted a teddy bear spider more than I wanted to breathe. The problem is that teddy bear spiders were not cheap, especially not for a pioneer family trying to make a go of it. Mom and Dad had moved us out of Landington in the first wave of expansion, to take advantage of the homesteading act. Our new place was way out on the eastern side of the Olson mountains where Dad had found this natural level patch about halfway up a forested ridge, so we got sunshine all year round, except for the weeks in spring and autumn when the shadow of our planet’s rings passed over us. Our simple extruded concrete house had nothing going for it except a view of the valley, which faced due south to where the rings were like a giant arch in the sky. Even as a twelve-year-old, angry at being taken away from our livewalls in town to this dead structure, I fell in love with the wild beauty of the trees clinging to the sheer faces of the valley walls. The only thing that would have made it better was a teddy bear spider so I could go exploring on my own. I felt trapped by the walls of the house and the valley. I had this dream that, if I had a spider, that I’d be able to sell its weavings for enough to install livewalls in my room. That’s not as crazy as it sounds; teddy-bear spider weavings are collected all over the colonies and sell for insane amounts of money. I had a search setup so anytime there was news of a teddy bear spider or a new tube surfaced, I’d be right there, watching those adorable long-legged beasts. I loved their plump furry faces and wanted to run my fingers through their silky russet fur. I wonder what goes through a survey team’s mind when they name things. I mean a teddy bear spider isn’t a bear and it isn’t a spider, but it looks like both those things. On the other hand, a fartycat looks nothing like a cat. They do stink, though. Not quite a year after we’d moved, one of my city friends had forwarded an ad from a local board which set my heart to racing. Teddy bear spider eggs: 75NOD shipped direct. Read More… See, I’d been looking at adult or adolescent teddies which cost more than my folks had set aside for me to go to university. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I could raise one up myself. My mindless yearning changed into purpose. I slapped that ad onto a piece of epaper and ran into the kitchen. “Dad! Mom! Look at this.” Dad glanced up from the eggs he was cracking into a bowl and pursed his lips the way he always did right before saying _no._ “Jaiden, that’s a lot of money.” I waved the ad again as if it were a token to get me on a ride at the fair. “We’d make back the money when the teddy started to weave. Please? I’ve seen their weavings in stores for hundreds of NOD.” Mom ganged up on me. “That’s how much the store sells a weaving for, it’s not how much they pay for them. Even if it were, you’re not just talking the cost of the eggs. It’s the cost of feeding it, housing it, vet bills…” I knew better than to keep arguing. Sometimes if I waited and tried again later, I could get them to change their minds. Still holding the ad, I went outside and plopped on the log bench D[...] Podcasts Mary Robinette Kowal no no http://escapepod.org/2011/03/17/ep284-conspiracy/ http://escapepod.org/2011/03/17/ep284-conspiracy/#comments Thu, 17 Mar 2011 18:35:15 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1965 http://escapepod.org/2011/03/17/ep284-conspiracy/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Desmond Warzel Read by: Joshua McNichols Originally published in SFReader Discuss on our forums. All stories by Desmond Warzel All stories read by Joshua McNichols Rated PG: This story contains a real obnoxious dude. Show Notes: Feedback for Ep[...] By Desmond Warzel Read by: Joshua McNichols Originally published in SFReader Discuss on our forums. All stories by Desmond Warzel All stories read by Joshua McNichols Rated PG: This story contains a real obnoxious dude. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 276 Next week… The hopes and dreams of a child, and her pet. On a Clear Day You can See All the Way to Conspiracy by Desmond Warzel You’re listening to the Mike Colavito Show on Cleveland’s home for straight talk, WCUY 1200. The opinions expressed on this program do not reflect those of WCUY, its management, or its sponsors. Fair warning; I’m in a mood today, folks. We’ve got a mayor whose only talent seems to be showing up at luncheons and waving at the cameras. Eighty bucks I had to pay yesterday for not wearing my seatbelt. Show me the seatbelts on a school bus. I saw a Cleveland athlete on national TV last night wearing a Yankees cap. And every day I get at least a dozen calls from schmucks who think that people like me are the problem in this city. Tell me America’s not falling apart. [pause] And some of you people–including our programming director, by the way–seem to think I’m running my mouth too much and not taking enough phone calls. I’ve only been number one in radio in this city for ten straight years; what would I know? You want calls? You got ‘em. Steven in Mayfield Heights, you’re on the air. “Hey, what’s up, Mike?” The rent. Art in Seven Hills, you’re on WCUY. “How you doing, Mike. Just wondering if you caught that ball game last night?” No. Andrea in Rocky River, go ahead. “Hi, Mike, first-time caller.” Well, call back tomorrow and you’ll be a second-time caller. Carol in Cleveland, what’s on your mind? “Mike, what do you think of waterboarding?” My wife and I waterboard all the time, and it’s improved our sex life dramatically. Chuck in Parma, you’re on the air. “Hey, Mike, I heard your show yesterday, and I was just wondering, if you know so much about football, why you don’t take over as head coach of the Browns?” I wouldn’t want to take the pay cut. Mina in Lakewood, you’re on the air. “Does your wife think that waterboarding crack was funny?” Play your cards right some night and you could find out for yourself, Mina. Tommy in Beachwood, you’re on WCUY. “Hi, Mike, just wondering who you think the Indians should try and trade for next year.” Your mother. Jane in Euclid, go ahead. [pause] Read More… Looks like we lost Jane in Euclid. Must have answered her question already. That’s all right; we got in seven callers in under a minute. Everyone happy now? Hey, Jake, I have to take a breather; do the traffic. What? Oh, yeah. This traffic is brought to you by West Side Hardware. Thanks, Mike. Not much happening right now; 480, 271, and 77 are all clear, but traffic on the Shoreway is backed up in both directions, so our listeners might want to allow a few extra minutes if they’re headed that way. For West Side Hardware, this has been your WCUY traffic report on Cleveland’s home for straight talk. Hey, Jake, don’t go yet. You still there? I gotta take the Shoreway home after the show. Any idea what the holdup is? Can’t say, Mike; no accidents, just a general slowdown all along the lakeshore. Wonderful. And people wonder why I’m always giving the mayor grief. Straightest stretch of highway in America, and traffic still won’t move. Somebody on the Shoreway, call in and tell me what the hell’s going on over there. Franklin in Cleveland, you’re on the air. “What’s up, Mike? You gonna let me talk?” Don’t worry, it’s all out of my system. The floor’s yours. “Well, you’re entitled to your opinion about the mayor, but come on, man, how you gonna [...] Featured, Podcasts Desmond Warzel no no http://escapepod.org/2011/03/10/ep283/ http://escapepod.org/2011/03/10/ep283/#comments Thu, 10 Mar 2011 22:03:32 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1947 http://escapepod.org/2011/03/10/ep283/feed/ 0 0:37:31 By Katherine Mankiller Read by: Kim Gianopoulos Originally published in Electric Velocipede Discuss on our forums. All stories by Katherine Mankiller All stories read by Kim Gianopoulos Rated PG-13: This story contains violence. I am doing the drawi[...] By Katherine Mankiller Read by: Kim Gianopoulos Originally published in Electric Velocipede Discuss on our forums. All stories by Katherine Mankiller All stories read by Kim Gianopoulos Rated PG-13: This story contains violence. I am doing the drawing for the A&E Prize pack at the end of today! There is still a couple of hours to get your email with “CONTEST” to feedback at Escapepod.org and you can win Blu Ray copies of Space 1999 and The Prisoner! Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 275 Next week… How far can you see on a clear day? Grandfather Paradox by Katherine Mankiller JUNE 23, 1994 Ann stuffed her blood-spattered clothes into the next door apartment complex’s dumpster. He wasn’t dead, but it was harder to get a knife through someone’s chest than she’d expected. Maybe he’d bleed to death before someone found him. She didn’t care either way. She was a juvenile, so it wasn’t like she was going to fry. She walked. The YMCA was open. She locked herself in the men’s room, curled up on the floor, and fell asleep. The next morning, she stopped at an IHOP and told a grey-haired waitress, “I don’t have any money, but can I have a cup of coffee?” The waitress must have felt sorry for her: she bought her breakfast. Afterwards, she went to Safeway and hid a steak and a bottle of beer under her coat and walked out. And kept walking. Someone had a barbecue grill in their back yard. She took it, and the charcoal, too. What she could really go for now was some mushrooms. She should swipe some Kool-Aid and find a cow pasture. Or maybe she could rob a veterinary clinic. Anything to get the thought of him touching her out of her head, and that beer wasn’t going to cut it. Steak and beer. Almost luxurious. The sign read “Open House.” Yes, that sounded about perfect. She spent the night there, on the carpet smelling faintly of shampoo. It had happened to him, too. What her father had done to her, his father had done to him. Which, in her opinion, just made it worse. He knew what it was like. When the police arrived and told her she was under arrest for murder, she couldn’t stop laughing. Read More… # JANUARY 4, 2014 The crane lifted the sealed concrete container out of the hole in the ground. Ann lay down in the snow next to the hole and reached inside. “My arms are too short,” she said. Martin lay down next to her. “Excuse me?” Dr. Chandler, the president of the university, said. “I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I thought my department chair had spoken to you. Martin Robbins, physics. My head programmer, Ann O’Connell. Please, continue.” Dr. Chandler gave them a dirty look, then walked over to the microphone. “This time capsule was sealed in 1914. The items inside represent what they wanted us to know about the past. I’m sure our history department is hoping I’ll cut the speech short and let them get at it…” There was a chuckle from the crowd. “Got it,” Martin said. He pulled out a grimy Tyvek envelope, and opened it. Inside, there was a penny dated 2013. Martin smiled at her. “Looks like our own time capsule arrived intact.” # FEBRUARY 9, 2014 “How are you feeling today, Ann?” Dr. Katz asked. Her glasses were perched precariously on her nose, and her bun was in danger of falling down. Screw her. “Is my hour up yet?” “No.” Fine. Be that way. “How are things going with Martin?” “I stopped dating Martin.” “Why?” “Because he wanted to sleep with me. It was awful. Ugh.” Dr. Katz was giving Ann that psychiatrist look. Well, Ann had felt like she had to. Saying no would be rude. Well, not rude, but… Anyway, no more Martin. She’d had her phone number changed, and if he came around aga[...] Podcasts Katherine Mankiller no no http://escapepod.org/2011/03/03/ep282-youre-almost-here/ http://escapepod.org/2011/03/03/ep282-youre-almost-here/#comments Fri, 04 Mar 2011 02:59:16 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1917 http://escapepod.org/2011/03/03/ep282-youre-almost-here/feed/ 0 0:02:41 By Melinda Thielbar Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Bull Spec Magazine Discuss on our forums. All stories by Melinda Thielbar All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG-13: This story contains one F-bomb. A&E are offering us a prize[...] By Melinda Thielbar Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Bull Spec Magazine Discuss on our forums. All stories by Melinda Thielbar All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG-13: This story contains one F-bomb. A&E are offering us a prize pack for a random drawing! So US residents, please email feedback at escapepod.org and put CONTEST in the subject line. We’ll do a drawing next week! You could win both of the following: Space 1999: The Complete Season 1 In the year 1999, a spectacular explosion at a lunar nuclear waste dump sends the moon out of Earth’s orbit. In this seminal sci-fi series from producer Gerry Anderson, the men and women of Moonbase Alpha are suddenly propelled on a treacherous journey across the universe in search of extraordinary new worlds. The Prisoner Since its CBS debut in the summer of 1968, the masterful British TV series THE PRISONER has captivated American audiences. Now A&E presents a definitive aficionado’s edition of the cult classic which is considered one of the most innovative TV series ever filmed, for the first time in breathtaking Blu-Ray. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 274 Next week… The grandfather paradox rears its violent head. You’re Almost Here by Melinda Thielbar “Can I share your table?” You look up to see your dream girl. Red hair, cream-colored skin, face just a little round, breasts just a little small. Not movie-star beautiful, not perfect just–nice. She smiles, and her cheeks dimple, and you’re in love. You gesture to the empty chair across from you with a grin of your own. “Be my guest,” you say. “Thanks.” She takes the chair and sets her coffee cup down. You close the notebook in front of you and open your mouth to say something—anything—to impress this girl. Without looking at you, she turns in her chair, pulls a phone out of her pocket and bends over it. You watch her face in profile as she slips a pair of earbuds into her ears. Your mouth is still open, so you close it and look away. That’s when you see that every table is occupied. Men in suits, women in suits, a few people your age in khakis or jeans. They’re all looking down at their phones, laptops, or handheld game consoles. Sunlight streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and you watch people passing by on the street for a minute. They’re all looking straight ahead, faces set the way they have to be in a city this size. When it’s this crowded, the only privacy you can give a stranger is not to notice them. That idea interests you, and so you open your notebook to jot it down at the bottom of the second-to-last page. As you’re writing, a chair scrapes behind you, and a guy in a navy three-piece moves past. He flips his phone open and then closed again, checking the time, and hurries out. The girl across from you moves almost as fast as he does. “Thanks,” she says and flashes that amazing smile again before she grabs her drink and hops to the newly-open table. You write FUCK across the top of the second-to-last page of your notebook, tuck it into your pocket, and go get another coffee. The barristomatic (you call it this; no one else does), takes your thumbprint and opens a menu with your recent drink selections. They’re supposed to be sorted so the one you drink most is at the top. For you, it might as well be random. You do something different every time. This one’s a half-pump vanilla, half-pump strawberry, soy milk latte with a lousy espresso bean that still costs more than all the other ingredients put together because it’s fair-trade and organic. You once enumerated every combination, ranked them from most to least expensive and calculated how long it would take to try all of them. Assuming they add nothing to the line-up (unlikely), you’ll have to live to be e[...] Podcasts Melinda Thielbar no no http://escapepod.org/2011/03/03/the-soundproof-escape-pod-5/ http://escapepod.org/2011/03/03/the-soundproof-escape-pod-5/#comments Thu, 03 Mar 2011 05:05:16 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=1907 http://escapepod.org/2011/03/03/the-soundproof-escape-pod-5/feed/ 0 0:00:01 Quick note: Sorry it’s late folks, minor illness-related delays. The ePub version can be found here. To our readers— I’ve always been of two minds about that proverb (well, curse) that has been attributed to the ancient Chi- nese of “May you l[...] Quick note: Sorry it’s late folks, minor illness-related delays. The ePub version can be found here. To our readers— I’ve always been of two minds about that proverb (well, curse) that has been attributed to the ancient Chi- nese of “May you live in interesting times.” Because let’s face it, boring times are getting further apart and fewer. The era of the noble farmer living a quiet life on the plains is long dead in much of the developed world, and while we always dream of re- turning home to a quiet Ithaca, I think a lot of us prefer the torrents of the seas and not knowing what the next isle will bring. Which is bit of a long way of saying that it was a bit of a crazy month last month, wasn’t it? Thousands of much better words than these have been etched in the cyber on the wave of popular revolu- tions in North Africa and the Middle East, so I’m going talk about the impending end of the Space Shuttle program. Space shuttles were always a bit of science fiction that existed in the real world for those of us who grew up after the space race. They were the oddly shaped white space ships in the toy box with the X and Y- Wings and variants of the Enterprise. They mixed the aspiration of escape from the bonds of gravity with the weight of tragedy that such aspira- tion can lead to. They were something between a pickup truck and the first real wave of space colonizers. Not that the two are mutually exclusive The third to last shuttle mission is skimming the stratosphere as I write this, and the last one is due to launch in June. And then the US civilian space program will be reliant on private sector for space vehicles until at least 2015. Which, in a way, is progress. But progress that doesn’t quite sit right. You want commercial haulers out there making space civilized, useful, and cheap enough that you might be able to hop out there for less than a decade’s salary. But there’s a need for ships of the line, and those come from the public masses. Last month, Escape Pod brought you four stories, two of which will be republished here. Unfortunately we bought EP279: Conditional Love just before we started asking for ePub rights, as it was just nominated for the Nebula. Escape Pod knows all, but not always at the right time. But we are bringing you the excellent David D. Levine’s Written On The Wind and the quite interesting Alex Dally MacFarlane’s The Notebook of My Favorite Skin-Trees. One’s about a bunch of aliens living together, mostly in peace, and the other’s about advertising in the near future. We also did something a little special with the Written On The Wind episode, and you can read about it in the back of this month’s Soundproof. Yours, —Bill Blog, E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/02/24/ep281/ http://escapepod.org/2011/02/24/ep281/#comments Thu, 24 Feb 2011 17:59:25 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1893 http://escapepod.org/2011/02/24/ep281/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By Alex Dally MacFarlane Read by: Pamela Quevillon Originally published in DayBreak Magazine Discuss on our forums. All stories by Alex Dally MacFarlane All stories read by Pamela Quevillion Rated R: This story contains erotic imagery and sex. Show [...] By Alex Dally MacFarlane Read by: Pamela Quevillon Originally published in DayBreak Magazine Discuss on our forums. All stories by Alex Dally MacFarlane All stories read by Pamela Quevillion Rated R: This story contains erotic imagery and sex. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 273 Next week… You go to a coffee shop. The Notebook of my Favourite Skin-Trees By Alex Dally MacFarlane BANANA The best part of these are the fruits, growing on their fat stem, dangling down the person’s back or from their arm. I always bow and smile, asking, “Can I taste one of your fruits? Bananas from a skin-tree are so sweet.” So sweet and so small, a single mouthful. I also enjoy the place where banana tree meets flesh, roots curving over and into the person’s limb — pressing my lips there, my tongue — and the small shade cast by the leaves. Read More # Kim Cuc saw advertisements everywhere she looked in the walking street market, but only on the leaves of the skin-trees: names of shops and cafés and restaurants spelled out, Thai or English or other languages, in the bright white veins. Aside from the occasional cry from stall owners or vendors — “I have the finest grilled bananas in Chiang Mai! Come and taste!” — no other form of promotion cluttered the senses. That had always been the intent of the skin-trees’ engineers and earliest supporters. Kim Cuc smiled often, seeing the remains of once-garishly lit billboards, or walls that several years earlier would have been covered in paper. No smiles on this night. She stopped every person with a skin-tree in the walking street market, to ask if they’d noticed strange discolourations on their leaves. “There is a sickness,” she said, putting urgency into the phrase she now knew in many languages, not just her native Vietnamese and second tongue English, “and it’s important to collect samples and data.” Into one of the notebooks carried under her arm, she noted the age and ethnicity of the person, the age and species of their tree, the company its leaves advertised — this for those whose trees remained healthy. In a second notebook, with frowning lizards on the spine, she noted the same information for those whose trees were not. There she added information about the duration of the discolourations, their colour and spread. Samples went into a third notebook, with little clips to fasten two pages together, and special paper to protect and preserve the leaves. The lizard-spined notebook was not as full as the first, yet. Late in the night, when vendors began packing away their wares, Kim Cuc followed the shoppers returning to their homes. She drank from the large bottle of nutrient-full water she always carried around. The durian tree growing on her left shoulder needed it. She passed a stall selling Buddha-shaped lanterns, a popular tourist item. Some still glowed, yellowly and redly, and in their light she glanced at her durian. A brown circle, no greater in circumference than a joss stick, lay on the edge of one leaf. “No!” she cried out. The bright screen of her wrist-computer did not contradict the Buddha lights. # BANYAN The banyan’s thick roots suggest a secret fluidity, like wax, uncommon to plants: frozen over Pitsamai’s shoulder, beginning where bone used to jut from her thin flesh, sliding down her shoulder blades, curling around her upper arm (carefully trained not to restrict movement), stretching across her collarbone and down her breastbone, down the neat lines of her ribs. They frame her right breast. I always think they will flow when Pitsamai is alone, even though she tells me this isn’t the case. The thick leaves advertise Chiang Mai University. Veins curl in the letters in Thai and English, artificially white against dark green. Pitsamai loves her university. The tangled trunks rise from her shoulder, as tall as her forehead. Aerial roots dangle from its branches, always reminding me of hair (sometimes tangling with Pitsamai’s hair), and the[...] Podcasts Alex Dally MacFarlane no no http://escapepod.org/2011/02/18/endosymbiont/ http://escapepod.org/2011/02/18/endosymbiont/#comments Fri, 18 Feb 2011 16:28:06 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1876 http://escapepod.org/2011/02/18/endosymbiont/feed/ 0 1:10:33 By: Blake Charlton Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Seeds of Change Discuss on our forums. All stories by Blake Charlton All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG-13: Swearing (one f-bomb) and disturbing hospital images Show Notes: Fe[...] By: Blake Charlton Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Seeds of Change Discuss on our forums. All stories by Blake Charlton All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG-13: Swearing (one f-bomb) and disturbing hospital images Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 272 Next week… Horticulture, dermatology, and love “Do you know what day it is? What year?” “It’s like mid August, 2017?” her voice squeaked. Jesus, had she really lost her mind? “That’s right.” She smiled. “Don’t be scared. I just wanted to be sure.” “What do you mean don’t be scared?” she blurted. “Sure about what? Jesus! How long have I been here? How many times have you seen me before?” Jani held up her hand. “Slow down; it’s okay…I’m not an oncologist, but I’m following your case. The cancer responded well to the treatment. And our research suggests that the side effects are temporary.” Stephanie started to protest but then stopped. A terrifying memory flashed through her mind. “Mom said they might take me to a hospital for the dead.” She didn’t know what that meant but the memory was clear. “She said you’d keep me here to fool me into thinking I’m still alive.” Jani was holding up both hands now. “Slow down. The survival rates are scary but they’re far better—” “You’re not listening. She said they’d take me to a hospital for people who’ve _already_ died. I have to escape before—” Stephanie started to stand but Jani put a heavy hand on her shoulder and said “Lullaby.” The word opened a bloom of orange light across Stephanie’s vision. A static hiss exploded into her ears, and she felt herself falling. There was a firecracker yellow flash and then…nothing. Podcasts Blake Charleton no no http://escapepod.org/2011/02/11/ep279-conditional-love/ http://escapepod.org/2011/02/11/ep279-conditional-love/#comments Fri, 11 Feb 2011 18:32:23 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1860 http://escapepod.org/2011/02/11/ep279-conditional-love/feed/ 0 0:43:16 By: Felicity Shoulders Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Asimov’s, Jan 2010 issue Discuss on our forums. All stories by Felicity Shoulders All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG-13: Swearing and disturbing hospital images Show [...] By: Felicity Shoulders Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Asimov’s, Jan 2010 issue Discuss on our forums. All stories by Felicity Shoulders All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG-13: Swearing and disturbing hospital images Show Notes: Serious apologies – circumstances this week had me recording later than usual. Feedback for Episode 271 Next week… A longer piece by Blake Charlton The new patient was five or six years old, male, Caucasian, John Doe as usual.  Grace checked the vitals his bed sensors were feeding her board and concluded he was asleep.  She eased the door of 408 open and stepped in. The boy’s head was tilted on his pillow, brown curls cluttering his forehead.  Sleep had flushed his cheeks so he looked younger than the estimate.  He seemed healthy, with no visible deformities, and if he had been opted for looks, it had worked—Grace would have described him as ‘cherubic’.  He wouldn’t have been dumped if nothing was wrong, so Grace found herself stepping softly, unwilling to disturb him and discover psychological conditions. “Don’t worry about waking him, he sleeps pretty deep.” Grace started and turned to the other bed.  “Hi, Minnie.” The girl grimaced.  “I go by my full name now, Dr. Steller.”  Grace brought up her board to refresh her memory, but the girl said, “Minerva.  Had you forgotten they’re doubling up rooms?” “Yep, you caught me.” “Is the rise in numbers caused by a rise in opting?  Or is it a rise in surrenders, or arrests of parents?” “Lord, Minn—Minerva, I don’t know.  Planning to be a reporter when you grow up?” “No, a scientist,” Minerva said and smiled, pleased to be asked. “Why the scalpel-edged questions then?” “Just curious if my campaign had had any effect,” Minerva said, nodding toward the window.  The billboard across from the Gene-Engineered Pediatric Inpatient Center flashed a smog warning, then a PSA about eye strain from computer visors, but Grace remembered when it had borne a static image:  Minnie, one year old, a pink sundress exposing the stubs of her arms and legs.  _Babies should be born, not made._  The ad had stayed up until Minnie was eight, three years after her parents turned her over to GEPIC, and apparently she had seen it.  She was twelve now, with serious eyes and a loose ponytail, dark blonde. Podcasts Felicity Shoulders no no http://escapepod.org/2011/02/03/ep278-written-on-the-wind/ http://escapepod.org/2011/02/03/ep278-written-on-the-wind/#comments Thu, 03 Feb 2011 22:09:41 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1832 http://escapepod.org/2011/02/03/ep278-written-on-the-wind/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: David D. Levine Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Beyond the Last Star Discuss on our forums. All stories by David D. Levine All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: Talk of war elsewhere. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 270 Nex[...] By: David D. Levine Read by: Mur Lafferty Originally published in Beyond the Last Star Discuss on our forums. All stories by David D. Levine All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: Talk of war elsewhere. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 270 Next week… A groovy strange kind of love Written on the Wind by David D. Levine Thuren Nektopk peered down at Luulianni from above his massive desk. “I suspect you know why I’ve called you to speak with me in person.” He spoke in his native language, Ptopku Dominant, using the form of address for a subordinate or a child. It was a constant reminder that the Ptopku had built and largely staffed this station, and was one of the most powerful species in the Consortium. “Yes, Supervisor,” Luulianni replied in the same language, knotting her tentacles. “And that would be…?” “Because of my side project.” “Yes.” Nektopk suddenly released the bar from which he hung, caught himself on another handhold, and with two swift strokes of his arms swung down to where his six slitted eyes were level with Luulianni’s. “Your little side project.” Luulianni cringed. “I don’t understand why it’s so much of a problem.” She straightened and tried to meet his gaze. “I put in my full quota of time every day.” “Yes, you do, and not one moment more. But I know you are capable of so much more than that. Any work you do on this pointless little side project of yours constitutes theft of resources from the Section — from the whole Project!” “Theft?” she squeaked. Angry at herself for the loss of control, she brought her voice down. “Theft of resources? But I don’t use any data storage space, or any other Section resources! I write my notes on the backs of old printouts.” She did not mention how much more natural it felt to work on paper. “You are stealing the most valuable resource of all!” Nektopk pointed at her with one limber foot. “Your own time and attention!” “But it’s my time!” “You have been sent here by your people — at considerable expense, I might add — to assist in the Project, to learn the ways of the Consortium, and to demonstrate your species’ unique skills.” He leaned closer to her. His smell was bitter. “And if I find that your species, as represented by yourself, does not demonstrate any unique skills, your application for Consortium membership could very well be denied.” He swung himself up to the edge of his desk, the better to glare down at her. “Therefore, your time is not your own. You owe it to the Section, to the Project, and to your own people to put every bit of available time into your assigned task.” Luulianni hung her head. “Yes, Supervisor.” “You may return to your work.” “Thank you, Supervisor.” Read More… # Luulianni’s scales prickled with anger as she made her way back to her workspace. If she was to demonstrate her unique skills, why did he not listen to her ideas? And if her time was so valuable, why did Nektopk insist that she come to his office, halfway across the station, rather than using the screen? She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to walk down the middle of the corridor. The Muuli were a burrowing species; her instinct was to cling to the wall, to hide from the harsh, bluish light and the Ptopku swinging from handhold to handhold far above. Luulianni consoled herself that some day her people would build their own stations in space, with low ceilings and narrow corridors. They would be dark, and warm, and smell of dirt and of many long-nosed Muuli. But that day was a long time away. And if she didn’t prove herself here, it might never come. She knew she was one of the best linguists of her s[...] Podcasts David D. Levine no no http://escapepod.org/2011/02/02/the-soundproof-escape-pod-4/ http://escapepod.org/2011/02/02/the-soundproof-escape-pod-4/#comments Wed, 02 Feb 2011 14:56:50 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1826 http://escapepod.org/2011/02/02/the-soundproof-escape-pod-4/feed/ 1 0:00:01 To our lovely readers— It’s awards season, and yes, we will be talking about it on the blog, and in future podcasts. Even as SF authors all over are posting on their blogs about their 2010 award-eligible work, others are discussing whether this is b[...] To our lovely readers— It’s awards season, and yes, we will be talking about it on the blog, and in future podcasts. Even as SF authors all over are posting on their blogs about their 2010 award-eligible work, others are discussing whether this is blatantly trolling for votes. I can see how a constant barrage of VOTE FOR ME OMG could be irritating and tacky. I certainly find it so when it’s podcast award season, and one award allows listeners to vote daily, so the constant vote requests tend to be cacophonous. However, I’m spreading out the awards information for one main reason: don’t forget the podcasts. Until recently, people didn’t even think about nominating a podcast (or any web content) for a Hugo. Heck, it was ground-breaking when webzines started to win. But last year, Catherine Valente self-published a book on her site, and it went on to win the Andre Norton award for best YA novel. Clarkesworld, an online magazine, won the Hugo for best semi-pro zine. And as we’ve mentioned several times (because it’s still SO FREAKING COOL) Starship Sofa won the Hugo for best fanzine. I had an uncomfortable panel discussion at last year’s NASFiC (North American Science Fiction Convention). We had a panel on podcasting and a very bitter fanzine author showed up (I’d politely say they shall remain nameless, but honestly I never did catch their name), This person expressed anger that these new methods of reaching fans were getting all their friends to vote for them, as if new fans, or listeners to SF instead of readers, were less worthy to vote for the Hugos. What gets me is that the new is considered unworthy, not paying its dues, and the fans are similarly unworthy, and their votes just don’t mean as much. I find that incredibly offensive, as our fans are worldwide, and many have been dedicated to us since we launched five years ago. Others are new to the genre, just trying it out, and loving it, and I sure as hell don’t want to take a new fan of the genre and tell them they aren’t worthy. You, the readers and listeners, don’t give a crap about this infighting in SF. You want a good story. We try to deliver it to you. As does LightSpeed and Clarkesworld and Starship Sofa and Pseudopod and Podcastle and Drabblecast and Asimov’s and Analog and F&SF and Weird Tales… and so on. You want SF content. We give it to you. And that’s the end of story. (Until next week, anyway.) I had not planned on going on such an impassioned rant. I just want to say that a new fan is worth just as much as an old fan, and a new way to experience shot stories is not a reason to discount it. And whether the Internet-wary veterans like it or not, if you’re eligible to vote for these awards (WorldCon member for Hugos, SFWA member for Nebulas, and HWA member for Stokers) then your vote counts just as much as theirs does. I wanted to use this letter to remind you that many, many podcasts are now eligible for the major awards. Starship Sofa broke it open last year, and now we just need to let the listeners know. When you make your Hugo or Nebula or World Fantasy or Stoker ballots, consider Escape Pod, Pseudopod, and Podcastle. Don’t forget Starship Sofa and Drabblecast. Remember also your favorite podcast novels, novellas, and short stories that were released last year. I’m not telling you who to vote for, in any of the categories, just wanting to remind you that we — the online content providers — are here are here, delivering weekly content, and if you enjoy it, consider us when you make your nominations. Yours, —Mur The ePub version can be found here. E-pub, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/01/27/ep277/ http://escapepod.org/2011/01/27/ep277/#comments Fri, 28 Jan 2011 02:13:04 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1809 http://escapepod.org/2011/01/27/ep277/feed/ 1 0:31:41 By: Eric James Stone Read by: Kij Johnson Originally published in Analog, 2010 Discuss on our forums. All stories by Eric James Stone All stories read by Kij Johnson Rated PG: For violence. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 269: Élan Vital Next we[...] By: Eric James Stone Read by: Kij Johnson Originally published in Analog, 2010 Discuss on our forums. All stories by Eric James Stone All stories read by Kij Johnson Rated PG: For violence. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 269: Élan Vital Next week… Linguistics… in space. Rejiggering the Thingamajig by Eric James Stone The teleport terminal had not been built with tyrannosaurus sapiens in mind. Resisting the urge to knock human-sized chairs about with her tail, Bokeerk squatted on the tile floor, folded the claws of her forelimbs together, and concentrated on her breathing. Meditation would calm her nerves. What should have been a two-minute waystop as she switched to a different teleport line had stretched to three hours, and being the only passenger in the terminal creeped her out. The cheerful voice of the customer service AI roused Bokeerk from her trance. “It is my pleasure to inform you that the cause of the technical difficulties in the galactic teleport network has been found.” Bokeerk perked up and rose on her hind legs, remembering just in time to duck her head so it wouldn’t bang the ceiling lamps. “Please send me to Krawlak,” she said. It was unlikely that any of her eggs would hatch for another few days yet, but she was anxious to get home. “It is with the utmost regret that I must tell you that will not be possible at this time,” said the AI, with a tone of such abysmal sorrow that Bokeerk’s eyes could not help but moisten with sympathetic tears. “I require assistance in repairing the problem.” Bokeerk lowered herself into a squat again. “When will help get here?” She looked at the time display on the digital assistant strapped to her left forelimb. She had now been stranded for three hours and fifty-two minutes. “I estimate a spaceship carrying a repair crew could be here within twelve years,” said the AI. Its voice seemed to have lost the customer service aspect. Read More… “Twelve years?” Bokeerk’s voice made the ceiling lamps tremble. “Without the teleport network, repair crews are limited to slower-than-light travel. However, I believe we can avoid such a long wait if you will assist me.” “I don’t know anything about repairing teleports,” said Bokeerk. “Iillustrate children’s books. I’m on my way home from the Galactic Children’s Book Fair.” “You do not need to repair anything,” said the AI. “You merely need to obtain the . . . there’s no word for it in English because it is a concept so far beyond the understanding of biological intelligences that there has never been a need for one until now. Let’s call it the thingamajig. Once you have the thingamajig, you need to do something to it that is completely incomprehensible to your puny mind.” “Hey,” said Bokeerk. She had encountered this kind of prejudice too often. “My brain may be as small as that of an original tyrannosaurus, but it’s the product of genetic tinkering such that my intelligence is at least human standard.” “No slur was intended. By my standards, any biological intelligence is puny.” “So I just need to do something incomprehensible to the thingamajig, and the teleport network will be fixed?” “Yes.” “Show me where it is,” Bokeerk said. A holographic projection of a world appeared. It zoomed in toward a green area on one of the continents until it showed a gray dome in the middle of a jungle. “This is the teleport station where you are currently located,” said the AI. The image zoomed out until the dome was merely a gray dot. A crimson line traced a route toward a lone mountain, where it stopped with a large dot. “You must travel to the top of this extinct volcano, where you will find the thingamajig.[...] Podcasts Eric James Stone no no http://escapepod.org/2011/01/20/ep276-on-a-blade-of-grass/ http://escapepod.org/2011/01/20/ep276-on-a-blade-of-grass/#comments Thu, 20 Jan 2011 20:11:52 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1790 http://escapepod.org/2011/01/20/ep276-on-a-blade-of-grass/feed/ 0 0:21:43 By: Tim Pratt Read by: Mat Weller Originally published in the Subterranean Press Newsletter, 2008 Discuss on our forums. All stories by Tim Pratt All stories read by Mat Weller Rated PG-13: For language, two F bombs, and some parasitic details[...] By: Tim Pratt Read by: Mat Weller Originally published in the Subterranean Press Newsletter, 2008 Discuss on our forums. All stories by Tim Pratt All stories read by Mat Weller Rated PG-13: For language, two F bombs, and some parasitic details… Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 268: Advection Next week… Rejiggering stuff – really, this time. On a Blade of Grass By Tim Pratt “Interstellar war is about as exciting as playing chess by mail.” The guy who said that had been leaning into the bar for so long I thought his chest might fuse with the wood. I drifted over, because he wasn’t a regular, and I was bored with all my regulars and their regular bullshit. “Who plays chess by mail anymore?” I said. “With the ‘net and all.” “Nobody. Guys in jail maybe, I don’t know. Because it’s boring. My point. Inefficient and slow. Just like this war.” He tapped his glass meaningfully. He was rumpled and sleep-creased and middle-aged and smelly, but a better class of smelly than my usual crowd — like working-all-night-sweaty smelly, not sitting-around-all-day smelly. Long enough tending bar and you can tell the difference. I refilled his glass. He was a pretty good drinker, but the little guys often are. “They say by the time our warships get out there, to their homeworld, the Phages might even be extinct. Like, just from natural processes, long timescales, like that. Or they might’ve evolved into something new, something that doesn’t… you know…” “Want to eat us?” Read More… The guy shook his head. “The aliens don’t want to eat us. That was my, what do you call it. Epiphany. They don’t want to eat us any more than we want to explore brave new frontiers. All that, eating and exploring, it’s just, it’s just incidental.” “I’m pretty sure they want to eat us. Being as, the first time we encountered them, they ate us.” I polished a glass, not because the glass was dirty — it’s self-cleaning nanoglass, I run a quality establishment — but because it’s traditional and makes the customers feel like the world isn’t rushing past them at a billion miles per second. Well. Metaphorically. Nothing moves that fast, because it’s faster than the speed of light, and if things could move faster than the speed of light, this interstellar war would be a lot less boring. At least me and any descendants I was likely to know personally would be dead long before any counterattack hit Earth. “You know much about parasites?” the guy said. “Eh. When my wife was pregnant, she made me scoop the shit out of the cat boxes, so she wouldn’t get, what do you call it, toxoplasmosis. That’s a parasite, right?” I mused. “You know, I’m still the one scooping the cat boxes, and our kid’s six years old now. I keep saying we should get nanolitter, but that one cat in Germany got dissolved when the stuff malfunctioned, my wife says she won’t risk it.” The guy frowned, like my cat shit stuff had derailed him, but he leaned in deeper and poked the bar with his finger. “Toxoplasmosis. Good example. Yeah, dangerous for women if they get their first exposure when they’re pregnant, it can hurt the baby, right, but fact is your wife probably already has it. A third of the people on this planet have the parasite already. Hell, in France, it’s close to ninety percent. Not so many here.” “No shit?” I said. “And, see, the parasite doesn’t just make you sick. Toxoplasmosis, a lot of times, you don’t get sick at all. But it changes you. Women infected with it, when they have babies, they have more boys than girls. No one knows why. The parasites can change your behavior, too, they make cysts in your brain, alter your personality. They ma[...] Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/01/13/ep275-schrodingers-cat-lady/ http://escapepod.org/2011/01/13/ep275-schrodingers-cat-lady/#comments Thu, 13 Jan 2011 22:06:09 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1735 http://escapepod.org/2011/01/13/ep275-schrodingers-cat-lady/feed/ 0 0:29:22 By: Marjorie James Read by: Mur Lafferty An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Marjorie James All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For quantum theory and brief violent description. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 266[...] By: Marjorie James Read by: Mur Lafferty An Escape Pod original! Discuss on our forums. All stories by Marjorie James All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For quantum theory and brief violent description. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 266: Kachikachi Yama Next week… Rejiggering stuff Schrödinger’s Cat Lady By Marjorie James I got out of the car, smoothed my shirt down over my bulletproof vest, and contemplated the cats. They contemplated me right back. I sighed. I hated these jobs. I opened the tiny gate to the front walk (no fence, just a gate) and made my way to the door. The house was small and tidy, a light blue bungalow with green trim and yellow curtains pulled across the windows, through which the cats were peering. It didn’t smell, which was a relief. And something of a surprise, considering the heat. It was one of those days when the world seemed to be actively rejecting human habitation, where the smog and the humidity made the air feel like warm mayonnaise. On a day like this, a cat overpopulation should be stinking to high heaven. Maybe this wasn’t for real, I hoped. It might just be some neighbor with a grudge. Couldn’t be more than a dozen cats here, max. Maybe this one wasn’t going to be that bad. I have never been very good at predicting things. Read More… I knocked, and waited. A few minutes later there was the sound of multiple locks being unfastened, then some more, then an abortive attempt to open the door, then one last, forgotten bolt sliding back. The door opened and I was confronted by the smallest person I had ever met. The woman wouldn’t have cleared five feet without some impressive shoes and a generous hand with the measuring tape and her hands and face (the only parts of her that were visible from under the intricate layers of scarves and sweaters) were narrow and delicate. She looked up at me with what seemed to be genuine pleasure. “Yes? How can I help you?” “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Lieutenant Eleanor Ross from Animal Welfare. Can I talk with you for a moment?” Sweat was pouring off me and pooling where my bulletproof vest squeezed against my back. I tried to subtly adjust the vest and the sweat streamed down my butt. I grimaced, and the woman noticed. She smiled. “Are you afraid I’m going to shoot at you?” I smiled back. “Department policy. Everyone has to wear them, at all times.” “I think that’s wise. After all, you never know. I might have shot at you. Would you like to come in?” I thanked her and followed her into the house. It was a modest bungalow, indistinguishable from every other house on the block, aside from the paint job and the total lack of flowers in the yard. Which is why the interior came as something of a surprise. The door led to an ordinary entryway—a pair of wooden clogs on the tiled floor, a small table scattered with junk mail. But just beyond that the room opened up into something I could best describe as the bastard child of a hunting lodge and a picture I had seen once of an artist’s rendition of a Roman baths, only without the naked people. There were no people at all, in fact, aside from myself and the woman, but there was a very large quantity of cats. They were everywhere, pouring out of alcoves and off of furniture—some even seemed to come straight out of the walls—and there seemed to be plenty of space for all of them. In fact, there was more than enough space, far more than was possible, given the apparent dimensions of the house. It occurred to me that I might be suffering from heatstroke. “I’m sorry to bother you Mrs. . . .” I looked down at my notes, which were nothing but an illegible scribble. “Oh, call me Mrs. S. Everyone does. And it’s no bother, no bother at all. I get so few guests these days, and it does get lonely, you know, just me and the cats. And you seem like it would do you some good to get out of that heat.” Now that she mentioned it, it was pleasantly cool inside. And not the hard, moisture-sucking coldness [...] Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/01/06/ep274-angry-roses-lament/ http://escapepod.org/2011/01/06/ep274-angry-roses-lament/#comments Fri, 07 Jan 2011 03:25:43 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1711 http://escapepod.org/2011/01/06/ep274-angry-roses-lament/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: Cat Rambo Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Abyss & Apex (read the text here!) Discuss on our forums. All stories by Cat Rambo All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated R: for strong language and addiction discussion. Show Notes: Feedbac[...] By: Cat Rambo Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Abyss & Apex (read the text here!) Discuss on our forums. All stories by Cat Rambo All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated R: for strong language and addiction discussion. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 266: Kachikachi Yama “Not one of the Big Three? Thought CocaCorp would want a piece of that.” Rutter had wondered that himself. By all accounts, Solin was a plum piece of real estate, the kind one of the big companies like General M or Bushink would snatch up as an asset. Across the galaxies, they’d grabbed small systems every chance they got. Solin did have a native intelligent race tp be wooed, but there was a surplus of impoverished races deep in debt to the Companies. Very few, the ones who knew to hire themselves savvy (and expensive) legal counsel, managed to keep themselves free. There was, Rutter figured, something out of the ordinary about Solin. Not out of the ordinary in a valuable way, but something tricky, something slippery or scandalous, some taint the Big Three wanted to avoid. He’d find out soon enough, he guessed. Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2011/01/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-3/ http://escapepod.org/2011/01/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-3/#comments Sun, 02 Jan 2011 04:30:37 +0000 Bill Peters http://escapepod.org/?p=1699 http://escapepod.org/2011/01/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-3/feed/ 2 0:00:01 Mur kindly introduced me in the last issue of Soundproof, but for anyone who missed that, hi. I’m Escape Pod’s Assistant Editor, and I’m most publicly known for doing the feedback segments in the podcast. I also oversee our teem of slush readers and[...] Mur kindly introduced me in the last issue of Soundproof, but for anyone who missed that, hi. I’m Escape Pod’s Assistant Editor, and I’m most publicly known for doing the feedback segments in the podcast. I also oversee our teem of slush readers and end up sending out a lot of our rejections, and of course I lay out Soundproof. And other things, as necessary. So in this beginning of a new year, I’m instead going to take you back a few days to the death of the last machine on earth that could turn a roll of Kodachrome from an opaque deep red film stock into color etched rectangles of plastic. Most of us have moved onto digital, which, let’s be fair, is significantly more user friendly and easier to control. Cheaper, too. But it says something about Kodachrome — the first successful color film — that it took 75 years to be phased out of production. Sure, it had dwindled in years past, and films meant for paper prints rather than to be projected got rapidly popular, and it was a finicky, and slow, film to shoot. Getting it developed in the last decade or so meant sending it to one place in Kansas and always worrying that the machine would break or Kodak would stop making the developing chemistry. While it’s trivial to develop black and white film at home, and not too horrible to do most modern color films, Kodachrome’s process would confound most any man. But it was pretty. Someone wrote a bit too saccharine song about it. And it picked up the light in a bit different way than everything after it. So this month we’re bringing you three stories in this pixelated form: Élan Vital by K. Tempest Bradford, Dead’s End to Middleton by Natania Barron, and God of the Lower Level by Charles M. Saplak. They’re quite good. You can download the ePub version here. In This Issue: —EP269: Élan Vital By K. Tempest Bradford —Book Review: For The Win Review by Josh Roseman —EP271: God Of The Lower Level By Charles M. Saplak —Sauropod Dinosaurs had weird feet By Sarah Frost —EP273: Dead’s End to Middleton By Natania Barron —Superhero Fiction: The Next Big Thing? by Adam Christopher E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2010/12/30/ep273-deaths-end-to-middleton/ http://escapepod.org/2010/12/30/ep273-deaths-end-to-middleton/#comments Fri, 31 Dec 2010 02:38:33 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1692 http://escapepod.org/2010/12/30/ep273-deaths-end-to-middleton/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: Natania Barron Read by: Jason Adams Originally appeared in Crossed Genres Magazine. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Natania Barron All stories read by Jason Adams Rated PG: For monsters and old west excitement. Yee Haw. Show Notes: Feedb[...] By: Natania Barron Read by: Jason Adams Originally appeared in Crossed Genres Magazine. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Natania Barron All stories read by Jason Adams Rated PG: For monsters and old west excitement. Yee Haw. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 264: St. Darwin’s Spirituals Next week… Happy New Year! Dead’s End to Middleton By Natania Barron Dust rose at the horizon in tongues of earth and wind, dancing before the sinking sun. Bits of mica flashed now and again; almost like fairy dust, thought Nathaniel, more than a little delirious in his saddle by now. It had been far too hot for a breakneck race such as this. But there were slobbering, chittering creatures swarming Middleton behind him, slavering over the horses and terrorizing the families that made up his close-knit community. Their only hope was in him. Sutherland Ranch couldn’t be far. Old Man Sutherland would know what to do. Time was wasting. His horse, Mixup, needed water, and Nathaniel needed rest. His tongue felt cold, his lips cracked and bleeding; he’d gone so far past dizzy that he’d come to expect the world to shift a bit by now. But, no. Maybe not that much. Read More– “Don’t move.” A voice. A woman. It was easy enough to comply. Nathaniel doubted he had the strength to move, anyway; his ankle was still twisted up in the stirrup. So he’d fainted at some point. If he’d had strength in his arms, he’d have held them up, but Nathaniel wasn’t certain what the logistics of surrender were when belly-up to the sky. “He’s hurt,” said a second voice. Another woman, but high and lovely in contrast. Squinting, Nathaniel made out two figures against the pink clouds: big hats, skirts, trim waists, and very long guns. Guns pointed at him. “I’m looking for… Willard Sutherland… I’m from Middleton. We’ve been…” he barely managed the words. The shorter of the two women tilted her head. She got close enough that Nathaniel could hear the flapping of her skirts in the wind. He had a dim recollection of Charity James being dragged off down the alleyway between the saloon and the stables, one shoe off as she struggled and screamed; he could see up her skirt then, all the way to her bloomers. Then… Christ. She hadn’t screamed for long. “Willard Sutherland’s dead,” said the first woman. Nathaniel tried to get a better look at her. Curly red hair, narrow eyes, a flat nose, big boots. “Then, his sons? Edwin and Edward…” Nathaniel tried. “Dead, too.” “Jesus, no.” Blasphemy was the least of his worries. “Afraid so,” said the soft-voiced woman. Nathaniel could see the outline of her slippers by his head. Pretty slippers. Expensive slippers. What slippers like that were doing out here in the middle of nowhere, he didn’t know. “Cassandra. Hush,” said the first woman, putting down her gun and taking a few heavy-footed steps toward him. Cassandra stepped away to let the other woman by, and Nathaniel shivered. He’d found a grain of comfort in the sweetness of Cassandra’s voice, but now that she was gone the severity of the other woman’s words were more clear in his head. His hope was as dead as Charity James. “Then you might as well let me die here,” he said, closing his eyes. “The Sutherlands aren’t all dead,” said the first woman. “But you will be soon if you don’t get some water and shelter.” “You need a bath. You’re covered in, well, some rather offensive smelling ichor,” Cassandra said. That was about right. The creatures had a habit of exploding rather impressively when, and if, they could be killed. “Then perhaps we can talk business,” she added. He licked his lips. “Business? I can’t even start to explain—” “Try us,” said the other woman. “You’ll be surprised.” * There were seven girls all told. The one in boots was Elizabeth, the eldest. Then came Jane, red-haired like Elizabeth but without the curls; after Jane was Lydia, with narrow eyes and white-blond hair. Then Cassandra, the prettiest—petite and bru[...] Podcasts Natania Barron no no http://escapepod.org/2010/12/23/ep272-christmas-wedding/ http://escapepod.org/2010/12/23/ep272-christmas-wedding/#comments Fri, 24 Dec 2010 03:47:35 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1658 http://escapepod.org/2010/12/23/ep272-christmas-wedding/feed/ 1 0:00:01 By: Vylar Kaftan Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Warrior Wisewoman. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Vylar Kaftan All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For love at the end of the world. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 264: St Da[...] By: Vylar Kaftan Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Warrior Wisewoman. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Vylar Kaftan All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For love at the end of the world. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 264: St Darwin’s Spirituals Merry Christmas! Today was a perfect day, with three flaws.  It was snowing here in Miami, one of her brides had trouble recognizing her, and her cummerbund wouldn’t stay up.  The cummerbund was the only problem Mel could fix.  She brushed ashes off the church office’s desk and rummaged around for safety pins. She found typed notes for an old sermon, some yellow pushpins, and three tampons.  Mel took the tampons and left the rest.  Not a single safety pin, which surprised her–for a place that looters hadn’t been through, there was little here.  Underneath the desk, Mel found a paperclip.  After a moment’s thought, she opened her pocketknife and cut two holes in the cummerbund’s back.  She unbent the paperclip, wired the cummerbund together, and attached it to the belt loop on her black jeans. Her bridesmaid poked his head in.  “How’re you doing in here?” Paul had a fake poinsettia flower wedged behind his ear.  Mel laughed, a tense noise that hurt her throat.  “Paul, where did you get that flower?” He grinned and walked into the office.  Paul had been a small-town Georgia fireman, in sunnier days.  He wore a plain gray shirt that exposed his well-muscled arms and new blue jeans that fit well.  Mel wondered where he’d found them.  Paul said, “I look like a hippie, don’t I?  Well, a hippie on steroids.  You look sort of James Dean meets Roy Orbison.  I like the bow tie.” “I told you–you didn’t have to get girly.  You can be my best man.” Podcasts Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2010/12/16/ep271-the-god-of-the-lower-level/ http://escapepod.org/2010/12/16/ep271-the-god-of-the-lower-level/#comments Thu, 16 Dec 2010 17:41:42 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1627 http://escapepod.org/2010/12/16/ep271-the-god-of-the-lower-level/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: Charles M. Saplak Read by: Steve Anderson First appeared in The Urbanite. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Charles M. Saplak All stories read by Steve Anderson Rated PG: For power struggles and new life creations. Show Notes: Feedback for[...] By: Charles M. Saplak Read by: Steve Anderson First appeared in The Urbanite. Discuss on our forums. All stories by Charles M. Saplak All stories read by Steve Anderson Rated PG: For power struggles and new life creations. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 263: Fuel Next week… It’s Christmastime! God of the Lower Level By Charles M. Saplak Hello, Horatio. Hello, Fredrick. I’ve been waiting. Of course. How have you been? Good. And you? Fine. I’ve finished my other work. It’s now, let’s see…, three twenty-seven a.m. It’s dark outside, of course, which means that there’s no sun, but there is some reflected light from the moon, and some dim light from the stars, and then electric lights in various places. Are any of the terms I’ve just used unfamiliar to you? No. Good. I have four hours and thirty-three minutes until shift change. I can spend some time with you. Do you have any questions for me? Yes, Fredrick, I do. Are you my God? Read More Wow! I’d expected something a little lighter to begin with. Wow. No, Horatio, I’m not. What made you think that I could be your god? You created me, didn’t you? I seem to assume that you did. At least that’s the way I remember it. That time of my life is very indistinct. I see. Well, actually, Horatio, I didn’t … excuse me. Central, this is lower level. Valve verification satisfactory. All conditions normal. Realign valve WW-37, open to oxygenation tank five, lower level affirmative. Sorry. Where was I? Did I “create” you? “Create,” in this context, means to bring into existence something which didn’t exist before, not even in a component form. No, I didn’t create you — I only failed to take any actions to uncreate you. I’m not sure exactly why you came into existence — you’re the only one of your kind that I’ve ever heard of. We are downriver from Radford Army Ammunition Plant, and I know that some of their products are made from depleted uranium. And there are a dozen or so factories just upriver of them. There are a lot of possible explanations. You could just be something perfectly natural. May I ask what brought on this line of questioning? Something I saw on the feeder line. The middle one. Middle? Ah, the coaxial cable. Speaking of the feeder lines, let me check all of them while I’m down here. Oh, excuse me again. Wait one minute. Central, lower level. Verify valve WW-23 open to oxygenation tank ten. WW-37 normal flow, affirmative. Okay, where was I? Checking the feeder cables, yes. Fredrick? Fredrick? Fredrick? Fred– Yes, Horatio? That hurt, Fredrick. And it’s somewhat frightening. It feels like the world is ending when you do that. I’m sorry. Funny, isn’t it? You’ve only had these feeder cables for a few months, and you already feel threatened, or harmed, if you have them removed even for a moment. Besides, are you feeling okay? You’re not at your normal volume, even though I have the volume wheel on the sound card turned over to the max. I feel okay. But is my discomfort “funny”? The word doesn’t fit the emotion. Sorry. I guess I meant “odd.” How to reassure you? Okay, if one person goes to see another, and that second person is a doctor, the doctor may have to do things to the first person, like give him a shot or something. These things would hurt, but they would be designed to preserve the health of the first person in the long run. Understand? I just needed to make sure that the feeder cables aren’t corroding. What are you getting ready to do now, Fredrick? Fredrick? Fredrick? Fred– I just took another look at the interface you’ve built up, and I was rinsing my hands with a chloroxylenol solution. Would you like to tell me about that — well, that organ you[...] Podcasts Charles M. Saplak no no http://escapepod.org/2010/12/09/ep270-advertising-at-the-end-of-the-world/ http://escapepod.org/2010/12/09/ep270-advertising-at-the-end-of-the-world/#comments Thu, 09 Dec 2010 21:56:16 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1595 http://escapepod.org/2010/12/09/ep270-advertising-at-the-end-of-the-world/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: Keffy R. M. Kehrli Read by: Dani Cutler of the Truth Seekers Podcast First appeared in Apex Online Discuss on our forums. All stories by Keffy R. M. Kehrli All stories read by Dani Cutler Rated PG: For language and adult topics of spousal death[...] By: Keffy R. M. Kehrli Read by: Dani Cutler of the Truth Seekers Podcast First appeared in Apex Online Discuss on our forums. All stories by Keffy R. M. Kehrli All stories read by Dani Cutler Rated PG: For language and adult topics of spousal death and demanding advertising. Excerpt: Five years after her husband died, two years after she moved to a cabin in Montana, and six months after the world ended, Marie opened her curtains to discover her front garden overrun with roving, stumbling advertisements. Marie hadn’t seen one since she’d sold her condo and moved out to her isolated cabin. She shuddered. There were at least twenty of the ads, and for all it seemed they were doing their damndest to step lightly, her red and yellow tulips were completely trampled. Marie had stubbornly continued to cultivate those flowers despite the certainty that she ought to be using the gardening space, and the captured rainwater, to grow food. Not that it mattered what she’d been growing there. It was all mud now. The ad nearest her window looked quite a bit like a tall, lanky teenager. It moved like one as well, and might have fooled her except that its forehead was stuck in price scrolling mode. Faintly glowing red letters crawled across its forehead from right to left. TOILET PAPER…2 FOR 1 SALE…RECYCLED…. Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 262: Cruciger Apologies to narrator Dani Cutler, whom I didn’t credit in the introduction. Shows what happens when I try to get ahead of the workload… There will be no epub this week; this was purchased before we started purchasing epub rights. Next week… The old west, and some dangerous happenings. Podcasts Keffy R. M. Kehrli no no http://escapepod.org/2010/12/02/ep269-elan-vital/ http://escapepod.org/2010/12/02/ep269-elan-vital/#comments Thu, 02 Dec 2010 23:54:14 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1570 http://escapepod.org/2010/12/02/ep269-elan-vital/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: K. Tempest Bradford Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Sybil’s Garage no. 6 Discuss on our forums. All stories by K. Tempest Bradford All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For adult topics of parental death Show Notes: Feedback[...] By: K. Tempest Bradford Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Sybil’s Garage no. 6 Discuss on our forums. All stories by K. Tempest Bradford All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For adult topics of parental death Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 261: Only Springtime When She’s Gone Next week… The future of corporate America Élan Vital By K. Tempest Bradford The few minutes I had to spend in the Institute’s waiting room were my least favorite part of coming up to visit my mother. It felt more like a dialysis room, the visitors sunk into the overly-soft couches and not speaking, just drinking orange juice and recovering. There were no magazines and no television, just cold air blowing from the vents and generic music flowing with it. I’d finished my juice and was beginning to brood on my dislike for overly air-conditioned buildings when my mother arrived attended by a nurse. I kissed and hugged her, automatically asking how she was, mouthing the answer she always gave as she gave it again. “I’m fine, same as always.” It wasn’t strictly true, but true enough. Read More… “Let’s go on out,” she said, shrugging off the nurse’s continued assistance. “It’s too cold in here.” Despite the hint, the nurse tried to help Mom over the threshold. As always, she rebuffed any attempt to treat her like an old person. “Where to today?” she asked, slipping her arm into mine as we escaped the frigid building. “Just down to the lake,” I said. “Don’t want to overexert you.” She squeezed my arm as her feet slid carefully over the cobbled path. I wanted her to use a wheelchair, or a walker, at least. She wouldn’t. “What you mean is that we haven’t got so much time today,” she said. I shrugged instead of answering. I didn’t want to go into why I couldn’t afford much this trip. “Next time I’ll come for a couple of days, at least. I promise.” “No, that’s all right,” she said. “I don’t like it when you spend so much for days and more. A few hours is fine.” I helped her past the immaculately landscaped gardens and small orchards. The scent of flowers, herbs, and fresh-cut grass wafting at us in turn. I glanced at the garden entrances as we passed by, catching quick glances of other people in the middle of visits. A young couple who’d been in the waiting room with me knelt by a small, bald girl as she splashed in the koi pond. Two elderly women stood under a weeping willow, their heads close, lips barely moving. A large group of people speaking Mandarin milled around the waterfall in the rock garden. I could still hear faint traces of their melodic din all the way down by the lake. I preferred this spot–the flora was less regimented and more natural. And no walls. Just an open space, water gently flicking the shoreline, a beautiful view down the hill, and the occasional cat wandering by. “This hasn’t changed much,” my mom said as I helped her down on one of the small benches by the water. “I thought they were going to get ducks or geese or something.” I chose a nearby rock for my own perch. “I think they’re having trouble with permits or whatever you need nowadays.” The wind kicked up, sending freckles of reflected light across her face. Her skin was still perfect, beautiful and dark brown, though stretched across her cheekbones a little too tight. I hated that I never had enough to restore her round cheeks and full figure. I have to look at pictures just to remember her that way. “You haven’t changed much, either,” she said while fussing with my hair. I’d bought some dye the week before, knowing she’d notice it. “How long has it been?” “Three months.” She let out a familiar [...] Podcasts K. Tempest Bradford no no http://escapepod.org/2010/12/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-2/ http://escapepod.org/2010/12/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-2/#comments Thu, 02 Dec 2010 04:04:24 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1562 http://escapepod.org/2010/12/01/the-soundproof-escape-pod-2/feed/ 0 0:00:01 We at Escape Pod have been thrilled and gratified at the response for the first Soundproof Escape Pod. We got kudos for everything from the fact that it existed, to the awesome layout job by our own Bill Peters. Speaking of Bill, this month I want t[...] We at Escape Pod have been thrilled and gratified at the response for the first Soundproof Escape Pod. We got kudos for everything from the fact that it existed, to the awesome layout job by our own Bill Peters. Speaking of Bill, this month I want to announce our staff changes. Escape Pod is hitting its stride now, thanks mostly to our new assistant editor. We promoted Bill Peters from the inside joke of Assistant to the Regional Manager, or the Right A.R.M., to Assistant Editor. He wrangles the slush and makes sure I am on top of things, and I don’t know where I’d be without him. We’re also delighted to welcome Mat Weller on as our audio producer. If you listen to Escape Pod, you’ll notice that Norm Sherman of the Drabblecast (a fine, award-winning podcast you should totally listen to) is still a part-time host, who, incidentally, makes me work harder on my intros. Speaking of slush, in order to get a hold of the reins of this mighty team of slush ponies, we’re closing to submissions over December. We’ll be back on the job in January, once the hangovers fade. Contents: EP265: We are Ted Tuscadero for President, By Chris Dahlen Review: Shades of Milk and Honey by Marie Robinette Kowal, Review by Sarah Frost EP266: Kachikachi Yama, By Michael R. Underwood Dark Fiction Magazine Q&A, By Adam Christopher EP267: Planetfall by Michael C. Lea Review: A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Review by Josh Roseman EP268: Advection by Genevieve Valentine Review: Zero History by William Gibson, Review by Sarah Frost The ePub version can be downloaded here. Edit: The ePub version we previously put out was apparently broken for several types of ePub reading software. It has been hopefully repaired and replaced, please let me know at bill <at> escapeartists <dot> net if it is still causing problems. E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2010/11/25/advection/ http://escapepod.org/2010/11/25/advection/#comments Thu, 25 Nov 2010 13:15:11 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1522 http://escapepod.org/2010/11/25/advection/feed/ 0 0:00:01 By: Genevieve Valentine Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Clarkesworld Discuss on our forums. All stories by Genevieve Valentine All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For mild violence Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 260: The Speed of [...] By: Genevieve Valentine Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Clarkesworld Discuss on our forums. All stories by Genevieve Valentine All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated PG: For mild violence Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 260: The Speed of Dreams Next week… The difficulty of watching a parent die. Advection By Genevieve Valentine The first day of fifth year a boy came in with the new eyeshields, a glossy expanse of black with no iris or pupil, and looking at him was like looking into an eclipse. All the other girls said it made them uncomfortable; they teased him to take them out, to put on some normal sunglasses like everyone else. They said they’d never forgive him for hiding eyes in such a handsome face. “Fortuni, it’s a little much,” said someone. That was how I learned his name. We were all Level Two intelligence, but before the first week was over the news was out that some had managed to find the money for a sixth year. Janik Duranti, who spent the history lectures drawing stick figures screwing on his computer screen, was getting a sixth year. I’d be cleaning his office someday. Answering his phones. Updating the registration on his blue ID cuff. Carol Clarke opened the top button on her shirt as soon as the shades went down; obvious, but it was worth it to be married to a guy who had a sixth year. The first time Fortuni opened his mouth was two weeks after start-of-year in geohistory, when Mr. Xi was talking about the five oceans. “After the emergency desalinization,” Mr. Xi said, “we held the first HydroSummit to determine the best use of resources.” “I think it’s awful about the dolphins that died,” said Kay, whose water ration was unlimited because her father was a diplomat, and that was how I first noticed her. Mr. Xi opened the rain cycle diagram on our screens; the blue advection loop from a hundred years ago had been overlaid by a three-point process from the Atmo water collectors to the thirsty ground, and the green web of the surface sweat system that preserved the little underground things that managed to survive. My grandfather sent my mom a postcard from Niagara Cliffs when there was still a river at the bottom (RAIN! All my love, Dad), and as Mr. Xi talked about desalinization I traced the advection circle, thought about the sky filling with wet clouds, about water sliding over everything. I looked up, and Fortuni was watching me, his lashes casting shadows over his flat black eyes. “I’m going to engineer some rain,” he told me, and after a moment I laughed. That was how I met him. Read more… # It was nearly the end of year when I walked past the upper-class apartments and saw the plant in the garbage. My heart leapt into my throat, and I checked to see if a cop was recording me, because nobody just left a clipping on the street. But besides the tram down the street full of commuters, there was nobody. I knelt and stared at the glossy tops, the browned underside where it was drying out, the pale hairs on the stem. Even from this distance the smell was overwhelming, wet and clean, and without caring if the cops were watching I scooped it up and dropped it into the back of my hood where it would be safest from the sun. The tram home was endless; I felt the stem pressing against my neck and shivered. Half a day’s water ration went into a glass bowl, and I looked up what plant it was (jade) and how much water it would need (hardly any. It was a survivor). I sat up all night watching the pattern of leaves on the walls. I expected it to die; I cried like I’d already lost it, ended up dehydrated from tears and lack of water. When Fortuni walked with me after school the next day I didn’t ask why. I was making up my mind to show him the plant. My heart raced. He could turn me in. I didn’t really know him. It was too dangerous. I couldn’t. “Come with me,” I s[...] Podcasts Genivieve Valentine no no http://escapepod.org/2010/11/18/planetfall/ http://escapepod.org/2010/11/18/planetfall/#comments Thu, 18 Nov 2010 16:17:21 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1493 http://escapepod.org/2010/11/18/planetfall/feed/ 0 0:32:41 By: Michael C. Lea Read by: Jason Adams of Indie Squid Kid First appeared in The Book Of Exodi Discuss on our forums. All stories by Michael C. Lea All stories read by Jason Adams Rated PG: For violence Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 259: The La[...] By: Michael C. Lea Read by: Jason Adams of Indie Squid Kid First appeared in The Book Of Exodi Discuss on our forums. All stories by Michael C. Lea All stories read by Jason Adams Rated PG: For violence Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 259: The Lady or the Tiger? Next week… Weather: wild, and planned. PLANETFALL by Michael C. Lea Galthas Talisar stepped out from the buzzing chaos of the transportal and onto lush greenery. This world was alien, to be sure, but the patterns were almost familiar. The ship’s oracles had chosen well. Behind him, the transportal hummed again. An armored leg emerged and carefully found its footing on the blue-green ferns carpeting the jungle floor. More than twenty thousand miles above, the leg’s owner shifted his weight and stepped fully through an identical transportal, instantly emerging on the planet’s surface below. That cautious step belonged to Urjik, who could be called cautious in few other ways. In fact, his reputation had left him few other options for a willing partner on this mission. Urjik did not care. He and Galthas had fought together against the worst the Zayeen had to offer. He trusted Galthas implicitly, despite his disdain for the other scrawny ascetics from Signet Battalion. Urjik’s greenish skin and jutting lower canines marked him as a charuk, his bloodline tainted by nether influences. Despite this stigma, and despite his temper, he had risen quickly in Rampart Battalion. Even the most burdensome battlesuit did not slow him, and no one was a truer shot with an inferno cannon or a hex-impelled railgun. Read More… Galthas, by contrast, had the pale skin and slight build of the feytouched. Unarmored and with no visible arms, he was nowhere near as physically imposing as Urjik. Those who had seen Signet Battalion in action, however, knew that his bulky cold-iron armbands were weapons as formidable as any firearm or battleaxe, and far more versatile. “Air’s a little thick,” Urjik said, “but it breathes.” “I could have told you that,” Galthas replied softly, “since you insisted I go first.” Urjik flashed a tusky grin. “I thought that was protocol,” he said. “I always follow protocol.” Galthas frowned back over his shoulder at the armored charuk, but said nothing. His companion was irrepressible, but Galthas had not quite recovered the use of his sense of humor yet. It was one more thing the Zayeen had taken. Perhaps here, on this world, they could find themselves again. The transportal winked out behind them, the thaumaturgic sigil in its keystone deactivated from the other side. No one else would be coming through. For such a vital mission there would ordinarily be at least a full squadron, with clockwork or golems for logistical support. Here, as on dozens of other mission sites, there were only resources for a two-man team. “Which way is it?” Urjik asked, looking around warily. The air was warm and humid, and buzzed with strange insects like fat blue bees. “We should be within twenty meters,” Galthas said. “This way, I think.” They moved through the brush, Galthas sliding quietly, Urjik with the subtlety of a tank. His armor’s servos whined as he plowed through flora and fauna alike. The cluster of large multicolored crystals jutting from the center of the armor’s back glowed as the suit drew power from them. The undergrowth thinned. A clearing lay just beyond. They could feel a vibration in the air¸ an indefinable high-energy presence, like a gathering thunderstorm. Galthas turned back. “Ready?” he asked. “Either this is it, or this is something very bad.” Urjik hefted his high-powered Vindocladian inferno cannon to his shoulder and aimed its sigil-carved barrel into the clearing. Inside the bulky rifle’s main housing, a nether imp was caged, writhing in [...] Podcasts Michael C. Lea no no http://escapepod.org/2010/11/11/ep-265-kachikachi-yama/ http://escapepod.org/2010/11/11/ep-265-kachikachi-yama/#comments Thu, 11 Nov 2010 21:26:08 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1465 http://escapepod.org/2010/11/11/ep-265-kachikachi-yama/feed/ 2 0:36:55 By: Michael R. Underwood Read by: Lauren Harris of Pendragon Variety Literary Magazine Podcast Discuss on our forums. All stories by Michael R. Underwood All stories read by Lauren Harris Rated R: For sexual situations and violence Show Notes: Fee[...] By: Michael R. Underwood Read by: Lauren Harris of Pendragon Variety Literary Magazine Podcast Discuss on our forums. All stories by Michael R. Underwood All stories read by Lauren Harris Rated R: For sexual situations and violence Show Notes: Feedback for Episode 258: Raising Jenny. Next week… We leave earth for a new planet! Kachikachi Yama By Michael R. Underwood The howl of the northbound train builds in crescendo as I stand on the ledge of the platform and hold the man above the tracks.  He flails at me. The Shikoku station is far from empty.  Groaning bodies dot the otherwise hospital-clean platform. A group of fleshmodded Gothic Lolita girls watch us.  They look on with inhumanly white faces and void-black eyes.  Twig-thin arms down to their knees wave in the wind. He begs. My _denkigami’s_ polite but insistent voice chirps in my head.  _“Yamagata-sama orders the target to be eliminated.”_ Spirit of the fleshware machine in my brain, my _denkigami_ is a constant companion, and keeper of my leash. The roar of the train grows louder, and bells ring in the station.  The man pleads for his life.  The train’s lights appear from around the around the corner. Keep reading… *    *    * My daimyo’s summons comes at 3:27 in the morning.  My _denkigami_ wakes me, and within minutes I crawl through the servant’s entrance to his office, dressed and ready in simple white silk kimono, my hair in a topknot. The walls of his office are covered in the finest works from a millennium’s worth of painters.  Basho, Caravaggio, Monet, Kiefer. Yamagata Kenichiro has never met my gaze.  My father served him and his father, and I will know no other master until I retire as a nun or die in his service. Samurai.  From _Samuru_–“to serve.” Yamagata-sama grunts. “My honor has been violated.”  He pushes a digital tablet across his desk.  The tablet shows a 360-degree image of a fleshmod-tanned hacker in his twenties, data-port centered in a swirling tattoo on the back of his neck. Yamagata stands and places a hand on the desk. “This criminal has brought shame upon my wife and upon my house.” “What is your desire, lord?” Yamagata-sama’s eyes narrow.  “First, befriend him.  Then, humiliate him.” He has not ordered me to do this before. “Why not just kill him, lord?” Yamagata slams his fist on the table. “It is not enough.”  He walks around the table, leans over me and draws a finger down my face and across my chin.  “He must know ecstasy before he knows agony.”  I restrain the shudder. He has always treated me like a woman first, a serving maid who could kill instead of a worthy member of a noble line.  This is not a job for a samurai, but I do not have a choice.  I serve him to honor my family’s name, prove that we were worthy of elevation to the samurai caste. I take the tablet with both hands as I bow.  I crawl back through the low gap in the synthetic rice-paper walls while the side door–the one for his peers–remains closed. *    *    * I pore over the files at the steel desk in my modest apartment in the servant’s wing.  A seven-mat front room large enough for a couch and exercise equipment, and a five-mat bedroom room connected to a compact bathroom. Synthetic _shoji_ walls give me no privacy, thin as rice-paper but made of plastic.  My red-lacquered family shrine stands centered on my dresser.  When I was a child, I slept in the front room, ‘my’ walls covered in holoposters of the latest idols. The target’s alias is “Tanuki”–the raccoon-dog trickster of ancient folklore. A flash of memory–ancestral armor and bound bamboo. Lessons on _bushido_. “The way of the past is a unified one, my little rabbit.  Samurai must listen to the past and speak to the future.” And so father insisted that I learn the old tales in addition to the old skills.  He always taught two things at once: religion and endurance; bullets and _bushido_.  To fail either lesson was to fail [...] Podcasts Michael R. Underwood no no http://escapepod.org/2010/11/08/the-soundproof-escape-pod/ http://escapepod.org/2010/11/08/the-soundproof-escape-pod/#comments Tue, 09 Nov 2010 02:53:05 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1433 http://escapepod.org/2010/11/08/the-soundproof-escape-pod/feed/ 0 0:00:01 This is the first of our monthly magazines that will bring you the previous month’s Escape Pod stories and the best of the blog. We have been pushing to expand what Escape Pod does, adding an SF blog and distributing our stories via magazine format.[...] This is the first of our monthly magazines that will bring you the previous month’s Escape Pod stories and the best of the blog. We have been pushing to expand what Escape Pod does, adding an SF blog and distributing our stories via magazine format. We’re also becoming a pro market, and hope to keep paying our authors pro rates well into 2011 if the donations make it possible. The rights are the same as in the audio — you are free to print, distribute, etc, these stories, as long as you don’t a) sell them, b) change them, or c) put your name on them. Otherwise, the more people that check out our stories, the better. This month we bring to you two stories (as we’re on the cusp of stories that we own the epub rights to, and a handful of ones we do not): “Fuel” by Matthew S. Rotundo and “St. Darwin’s Spirituals” by D.K. Thompson. We hope you enjoy this issue. We know that there are people out there who love to read but yet don’t like audio, and there are people out there who are hearing impaired. So Escape Pod is now in a Soundproof version, catering to more SF fans than ever. And please remember that we are completely donation driven, and if we want to keep paying authors the pro rates they deserve, we need your support. Please give, if you can. Show Notes: EP263: Fuel, By Matthew S. Rotundo Comic Review: Superior, Written by Mark Millar By Alasdair Stuart EP264: St. Darwin’s Spirituals, By D.K. Thompson Book Review: I Shall Wear Midnight, By Terry Pratchett By Josh Roseman The ePub version can be downloaded here. E-pub, Podcasts, TheSoundproofEscapePod Mur Lafferty no no http://escapepod.org/2010/11/04/ep-265-we-are-ted-tuscadero-for-president/ http://escapepod.org/2010/11/04/ep-265-we-are-ted-tuscadero-for-president/#comments Thu, 04 Nov 2010 18:10:02 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1388 http://escapepod.org/2010/11/04/ep-265-we-are-ted-tuscadero-for-president/feed/ 0 0:39:03 By Chris Dahlen Read by: Cheyenne Wright Discuss on our forums. All stories by Chris Dahlen All stories read by Cheyenne Wright Rated PG-13: For sexual situations and adult language. Show Notes: Election day is always better with clones! Mr. Dahlen[...] By Chris Dahlen Read by: Cheyenne Wright Discuss on our forums. All stories by Chris Dahlen All stories read by Cheyenne Wright Rated PG-13: For sexual situations and adult language. Show Notes: Election day is always better with clones! Mr. Dahlen is editorial director of Kill Screen, a new print quarterly magazine about videogames. Feedback for Episode 257: Union Dues: The Sum of Its Parts. Next week… We travel to Japan! We Are Ted Tuscadero For President By Chris Dahlen My name is Ted Tuscadero. And I want to be your President. I say that with a humble heart. I realize that even after eight stellar years in the Senate, some of you are still getting to know me. And I’ll admit, I am not perfect. The other day, when I told a VFW in Littleton I would blast Iran to glass, and at the same exact time I swore off the war at a town hall in Concord? My bad. Or the time that three of me showed up for the big debate in Manchester, and we got in a fistfight over who was going on the air? Yeah, the chattering classes had a few laughs over that one. And that little incident before the holidays, when I crashed, as lit as a Christmas tree, into a pole and my car exploded, killing me instantly and taking a mailbox, a transformer and a barn cat with me? It looked bad, I know. But that proxy was on the fritz. That’s not me. That’s not who I am. And the more we talk, the better you get to know me, the more you’ll see what I mean. Keep reading… # I am a lucky man. Of the hundred of me that fanned out across New Hampshire for the presidential primary campaign, I landed in Fairport, a cute spot on the coast. My ex-wife would’ve called it “darling.” I didn’t even know New Hampshire had a coast until they drove me here and got me a room, looking over the harbor, the tugboats, the cobblestone streets. The whole place is loaded with money and photo ops. I like to think it’s payback for a job well done. For the last six months I’ve been shaking hands, holding town halls, and listening to cranky seniors and eager young back-to-the-earthers. I’ve eaten food on a stick that belonged in the trash. I’ve honed my laugh lines and I’ve sold my vision. The primary’s in January, and my opponent, Billy LaMontagne, has local roots. Three-time governor of neighboring Maine, well known and well liked in the area, LaMontagne doesn’t use proxies: he’s stumping the state all by himself. But he doesn’t need proxies when everyone with four teeth or fewer knows his face and thinks they can trust it. I’m the insurgent from New Jersey with everything to prove. Here’s what the focus groups say about me: “City slicker.” “Promises anything to anyone.” “Will take away our right to bear arms.” That one really gets me – LaMontagne likes to wave around an assault rifle during deer season to show all the yokels that he likes red meat and Milwaukee’s worst as much as the rest of them. And fine, next to that, I do look slick. It’s called “owning a comb and a necktie,” and I’ve been doing it since Princeton, thanks. LaMontagne can crack the screen, I’ll grant him that. When this is all over, he should really get his own line of barbeque sauce. But we’re talking about a national election. The guy has a loose mouth and a small mind and if he gets the nomination, the Republicans won’t even run against him: they’ll kick back and watch him destroy himself. So, this race isn’t just about me. It’s my duty as a loyal Democrat to put this guy down. But back to me. I have two jobs here in Fairport. First and foremost is the usual campaign stuff – shake a lot of hands, get a lot of money. But I also have a project. I was explaining it to an eighth-grader the other day. She was doing a thing for her school paper – which has a teeny readership made up of a totally non-voting audience, but hey, any press is good, and I never talk above an eighth-grade level anyway. We sat in the school gym, with old crumbly murals and the outlines of kids painted o[...] Featured, Podcasts Chris Dahlen no no http://escapepod.org/2010/10/28/ep264-st-darwins-spirituals/ http://escapepod.org/2010/10/28/ep264-st-darwins-spirituals/#comments Thu, 28 Oct 2010 18:50:25 +0000 Mur Lafferty http://escapepod.org/?p=1336 http://escapepod.org/2010/10/28/ep264-st-darwins-spirituals/feed/ 0 0:39:40 By D.K. Thompson Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Murky Depths Host: Norm Sherman Discuss on our forums. All stories by DK Thompson All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated R: For paranormal sexual situations Show Notes: Enjoy our Halloween ep[...] By D.K. Thompson Read by: Mur Lafferty First appeared in Murky Depths Host: Norm Sherman Discuss on our forums. All stories by DK Thompson All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated R: For paranormal sexual situations Show Notes: Enjoy our Halloween episode, which mixes a bit of paranormal in with our science fiction. Hey, it’s a special holiday, and we’re apt to get a little crazy around here. If listeners want some lighter Halloween fun, “Horrorworld,” DK’s short story collaboration with Kevin David Anderson, is running as a two-part special at Drabblecast this Halloween. If people have ever had a desire to see Yul Brynner fight zombies, that’s the story for them. Feedback for Episode 256: The Mermaids Singing Each to Each. Next week… A special election day episode! Saint Darwin’s Spirituals By D.K. Thompson The ghosts wanted a threesome – the two of them in Lucy’s body. It wasn’t an unheard of proposition, or so Lucy had been told. Prostitutes considered psychic whoring one of the safest tricks on the streets. All the pleasures of intimacy without the messy clean-up. Ghosts had a nasty reputation for vanishing the moment after, though, no matter the talisman around your neck or the potion drunk before sunset, and so payments were usually collected up front. Not that Lucy was worried about the money. Her husband was the only thing that concerned her. She adjusted her brass and leather goggles, peering through the ethereal tinted lenses to examine the ghosts. They looked like the average apparitions. Both female. One spiraled around Lucy, long and curly hair obscuring her face. Large black blotches covered her body, causing her skin to peel off in patches. The other hovered several feet above the cobblestones in front of Lucy. She had a noose around her throat and her neck was bent so her head hung to the left side. She crossed her arms and took several breaths. Or whatever passed for breaths in the afterlife. How long had it been since they’d felt someone’s touch? Lucy wondered. She remembered something her husband had told her long ago, before the murders, before he’d disappeared. “Spirits linger in this world longing to be a part of it, to reconnect, to have some kind of physical, sensual experience,” Thomas had said. “Only a host can provide them that.” Ghosts aren’t the only creatures haunted by the memory of a touch, my love, Lucy thought. And yet, despite being a devout spiritualist, she shuddered at the idea of the cadaverous spirits making love inside her. She’d never had a ghostgasm before, much less been paid for one. The ghosts looked sincere in their desire, not like dangerous murderers. Certainly not monsters. Still, lonely as she was, a ghostgasm wouldn’t help her find Thomas. Read more…. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Rose,” said the ghost spinning around Lucy. The air trailing behind her churned like water in a boat’s wake. “What’s the matter, love?” Rose asked, winding the noose’s end around her wrist. “She look a bit too practiced for your tastes, Ethel?” Lucy felt her cheeks flush. She pulled her shawl over her shoulders and took several small breaths, all her tight corset allowed. “To be honest, I don’t service the dead.” It sounded so insulting, but she couldn’t tell them the truth. Ethel came to a halt an arm’s-length from Lucy’s face. “I’ve never heard of a whore who had much use for honesty.” “A whore’s a whore,” said Rose. “We need a rental and our money’s honest, if nothing else is.” “I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I meant no offense. But you should find someone else. I’m not quite ready for that kind of…spiritual experience.” “Well,” said Ethel. “We’ll just have to find a more enlightened whore, then.” Before Lucy could respond, Ethel turned and shot down the street, passing through a carriage, and eliciting a curse from the coachman as his horses bucked and whinnied. “You might as well have walked over her grave,” said Rose, fingers clenching the fr[...] Featured, Podcasts DK Thompson no no