http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/itunes-rss/ Lightspeed Magazine » Lightspeed Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com Science Fiction & Fantasy Tue, 19 May 2015 22:39:42 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=4.2.2 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=4.2.2 Science Fiction & Fantasy Lightspeed Magazine no Science Fiction & Fantasy Lightspeed Magazine » Lightspeed Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/plugins/powerpress/rss_default.jpg http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com Book Reviews: May 2015 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-may-2015/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-may-2015/#comments Tue, 19 May 2015 10:05:57 +0000 Sunil Patel http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14481 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-may-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: R.C. Loenen-Ruiz http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-r-c-loenen-ruiz/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-r-c-loenen-ruiz/#comments Tue, 19 May 2015 10:04:12 +0000 Patrick J Stephens http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14469 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-r-c-loenen-ruiz/feed/ 0 Breaking the Spell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/breaking-the-spell/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/breaking-the-spell/#comments Tue, 19 May 2015 10:03:36 +0000 R.C. Loenen-Ruiz http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14506 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/breaking-the-spell/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Seanan McGuire http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-seanan-mcguire-4/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-seanan-mcguire-4/#comments Tue, 19 May 2015 10:02:57 +0000 Lee Hallison http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14459 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-seanan-mcguire-4/feed/ 0 The Myth of Rain http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-myth-of-rain/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-myth-of-rain/#comments Tue, 19 May 2015 10:01:20 +0000 Seanan McGuire http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14493 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-myth-of-rain/feed/ 0 Female spotted owls have a call that doesn’t sound like it should come from a bird of prey. It’s high-pitched and unrealistic, like a squeaky toy that’s being squeezed just a little bit too hard. Lots of people who hear them in the woods don’t even rea... Female spotted owls have a call that doesn’t sound like it should come from a bird of prey. It’s high-pitched and unrealistic, like a squeaky toy that’s being squeezed just a little bit too hard. Lots of people who hear them in the woods don’t even rea... Lightspeed Magazine no 39:52 Interview: James Morrow http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-james-morrow/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-james-morrow/#comments Tue, 12 May 2015 10:05:57 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14480 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-james-morrow/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Helena Bell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-helena-bell/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-helena-bell/#comments Tue, 12 May 2015 10:04:10 +0000 Laurel Amberdine http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14468 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-helena-bell/feed/ 0 Mouth http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mouth/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mouth/#comments Tue, 12 May 2015 10:03:34 +0000 Helena Bell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14505 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/mouth/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Annie Bellet http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-annie-bellet/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-annie-bellet/#comments Tue, 12 May 2015 10:02:55 +0000 Robyn Lupo http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14458 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-annie-bellet/feed/ 0 Goodnight Earth http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/goodnight-earth/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/goodnight-earth/#comments Tue, 12 May 2015 10:01:18 +0000 Annie Bellet http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14492 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/goodnight-earth/feed/ 0 Karron leaned over the rail of her boat, the Tarik, and watched the meteor shower from its reflection in the river below. The bright streaks of light looked like underwater fireflies and the Ring more like a soft blue disk, Karron leaned over the rail of her boat, the Tarik, and watched the meteor shower from its reflection in the river below. The bright streaks of light looked like underwater fireflies and the Ring more like a soft blue disk, a monochromatic rainbow that ruled their lives in constant reminder of how broken the world was. “Water, water, everywhere,” she murmured to herself, the words half-forgotten, something she’d read in the Covenant Archive a world — and a lifetime — ago. In their case implanted at the top of her spine, her nanos stirred with the memory. The Tarik rode low in the Missip river as it tacked up the shoreline. She was a smaller boat, fifty feet and built with a shallow draft for sailing rivers and canals. Usually she carried only Karron and Ishim, and whatever cargo they’d bartered for, bought, or stolen. The ship wasn’t equipped to handle six people on board. Karron glanced at their passengers where they huddled on makeshift beds around the steam stack toward the aft of the ship. A man and woman, who had provided what were probably fake names, and two kids. A week ago now they’d appeared on a small dock upriver from Looston, asking about getting around the Covenant checkpoints between Looston and Ria, a good two-week journey if they did it straight. No papers for the kids, the woman, Jill, said. Plausible enough story, and their Covenant coin would spend all along the river. The thirty gallons of pure water they’d offered as bonus had decided it. Karron and Ishim would smuggle the four up to Ria, where Nolan, the man, said his parents and jobs were waiting. In the pale earthlight coming off the Ring, Karron could almost make out the little family’s faces. The adults appeared asleep under their blankets, but the two kids were awake, their dark eyes glinting. Oni, the boy, was supposedly seven years old, and his sister, Bee, was four. They were well behaved, the two kids. Creepily so. Quiet as fish lurking in the rocks, and as nimble as Button, the ship’s cat. Karron bit her lip and glanced to the fore where Ishim stood keeping the ship steering smoothly through the dark water. She hadn’t told him her suspicions about the children. Her thoughts were impossible, and she knew as well as he that even if she was right about what they were, there was nothing she nor Ishim could or would do about it. She’d always been too curious. Her instructors at the Academy had always said so in varying tones of annoyance or amusement. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought, turning over the phrase in her mind, a phrase from the old times, before the Ring, before the sky broke and war came to the world. “Satisfaction brought it back,” she whispered. She had to know. Creeping over the deck — the shush of wind in the mainsail and the lap of water against the hull covering any sound she might have made — Karron approached the sleeping passengers. She brought her finger to her lips and saw both children nod. The adults to either side of them didn’t move, apparently asleep. She knelt in front of Oni and reached for his head. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to breathe as she slid her hand around the back of his neck and felt the base of his skull. The hard knot was there, distinct and familiar beneath her trembling fingers. Oni reached up and touched her arm. Karron bent her head and let him feel her own knot for himself. Bee’s tiny hand replaced Oni’s. “Not your aunt and uncle,” Karron whispered, her mouth moving but hardly any sound coming from her throat. The kids would hear her, if they were like she was. “No,” Oni whispered back. “Help us?” “How?” “Kill them. They are going to sell us.” She shook her head. “Not my problem,” she whispered. “You are like us,” the boy said. Beside him, Jill stirred, and all three of them froze until she settled again. “Not anymore,” Karron lied. For a long moment they sat in silence, watching one another. Then Karron crept away, Lightspeed Magazine no 36:42 Editorial, May 2015 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2015/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2015/#comments Tue, 05 May 2015 10:05:43 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14479 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Merrie Haskell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-merrie-haskell/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-merrie-haskell/#comments Tue, 05 May 2015 10:04:07 +0000 Lee Hallison http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14467 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-merrie-haskell/feed/ 0 Sun’s East, Moon’s West http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/suns-east-moons-west/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/suns-east-moons-west/#comments Tue, 05 May 2015 10:03:32 +0000 Merrie Haskell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14504 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/suns-east-moons-west/feed/ 0 I shot the sparrow because I was starving. Though truthfully, I was aiming at a pheasant; the silver snow and the silver birches played tricks with the light, and as if by magic, pheasant turned into sparrow. When I saw what my arrow had done, I shot the sparrow because I was starving. Though truthfully, I was aiming at a pheasant; the silver snow and the silver birches played tricks with the light, and as if by magic, pheasant turned into sparrow. When I saw what my arrow had done, I cried with empty eyes, too dry to make tears. The sparrow wouldn’t amount to a mouthful of grotty bones — and even a starving woman knows songbirds are sacred to at least one goddess. My knees plowed into the snow beside the small creature. “How, how, how?” I fretted. “How did you become a sparrow, pheasant?” The bird did not answer, but when I reached to remove the arrow piercing its body, the accusatory glare of a beadish eye stopped me. A trickle of blood slid from its nares, and the bright eye closed. “Do not be dead!” I cried. “I would give anything for you not to be dead.” And while the breath-mist of this rash statement still hung in the air, a bear-god waddled out of the forest, lumbering and large. The bear-god said: “The sparrow will not die, if you live as my wife for a year and a day.” I licked my lips, tasting the clear, salty snot that comes of crying, and said, “I already have a husband.” The bear-god regarded me with placid eyes. “And I already have a wife.” I stared at him, the dying sparrow lying in a bloody lump between us, struggling to breathe. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, anything.” “Remove your arrow,” said the bear-god. When I had done so, he lapped the sparrow into his mouth with his ribbony pink tongue, closing strangely mobile lips over his teeth. We stood silent in the forest, staring at each other. I watched him closely, making sure he did not chew or swallow; he did not. Soon enough, a muffled cheeping emerged from the bear-god’s muzzle, and the corner of a beak protruded from his lips. The sparrow lived. I pressed my hands together in an attitude of supplication. “At the end of your year and a day,” I said, “if you had any armor lying around to spare, I would appreciate it if you loaned it to me.” “If you wish.” The sparrow burst from the bear-god when he spoke, fluttering up in a rush of wings to circle our heads. But instead of flying off, the sparrow landed on my shoulder to pluck out my hair, strand by strand. “Ow!” I waved the bird away, and he moved off to a tree branch, where its glare bit as sharp as its beak. The bear-god rumbled, a noise which could be interpreted as a sign of humor or an imitation of thunder. “Why are you laughing?” I asked crossly. “Sparrows have a petty but exacting sense of vengeance,” he said. “I admire it. Come now. Away to my castle.” “Is it far?” “Terribly far,” he said gravely. “Perhaps you should ride on my back.” I obliged him, and spent the uncomfortable journey staring at the silver-tipped fur between the bear-god’s ears. • • • • “Why did you shoot the sparrow?” the bear-god asked after a time. “I was hungry. Am hungry.” “Desperately hungry, I should think,” the bear-god said, and turned aside to dig in the snow until he uncovered a patch of wintergreen. “You’ll have to gather your own berries. There aren’t many . . .” I gobbled the berries gratefully as we moved on. I was by no means sated, and when we reached the great under-mountain castle, the bear carried me straight to a banquet hall set with six and seventy dishes. I sat down eagerly and ate and ate and ate, then promptly threw up all that I’d eaten. The bear-god summoned servants — swift and invisible servants — and they covered the evidence of my orgy of eating with a bit of cloth, and replaced the rich dishes on the table with plain barley broth and toast. “I can’t imagine what you need a wife for with this many magical servants around,” I said, sipping at the broth. “Well, Lissa, I need a wife for several reasons,” the bear-god said. I nodded. “To rub my ears in the morning,” he said, flexing one claw as though counting with it. “I can do that.” “To balance my accounts every week,” he said, extending a second claw. “Uh . . .” Lightspeed Magazine no 57:19 Author Spotlight: C.C. Finlay http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-c-c-finlay-3/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-c-c-finlay-3/#comments Tue, 05 May 2015 10:02:59 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14460 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-c-c-finlay-3/feed/ 0 Time Bomb Time http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/time-bomb-time/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/time-bomb-time/#comments Tue, 05 May 2015 10:01:15 +0000 C.C. Finlay http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14491 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/time-bomb-time/feed/ 0 Artist Showcase: Elena Bespalova http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-elena-bespalova/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-elena-bespalova/#comments Tue, 28 Apr 2015 10:05:56 +0000 Henry Lien http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14294 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-elena-bespalova/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Dale Bailey http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey-2/#comments Tue, 28 Apr 2015 10:04:41 +0000 Patrick J Stephens http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14288 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey-2/feed/ 0 The Ministry of the Eye http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ministry-of-the-eye/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ministry-of-the-eye/#comments Tue, 28 Apr 2015 10:03:53 +0000 Dale Bailey http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14325 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ministry-of-the-eye/feed/ 0 Mornings were queues and cigarettes. Queues for the underground turnstiles and queues for the train, queues for stale bagels and queues for lukewarm coffee at the kiosk outside the station. By the time he queued up at the west gate of the pit, Mornings were queues and cigarettes. Queues for the underground turnstiles and queues for the train, queues for stale bagels and queues for lukewarm coffee at the kiosk outside the station. By the time he queued up at the west gate of the pit, Alexa... Lightspeed Magazine no 1:28:53 Author Spotlight: John Barnes http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-john-barnes/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-john-barnes/#comments Tue, 28 Apr 2015 10:02:51 +0000 Robyn Lupo http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14276 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-john-barnes/feed/ 0 The Birds and the Bees and the Gasoline Trees http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-birds-and-the-bees-and-the-gasoline-trees/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-birds-and-the-bees-and-the-gasoline-trees/#comments Tue, 28 Apr 2015 10:01:08 +0000 John Barnes http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14312 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-birds-and-the-bees-and-the-gasoline-trees/feed/ 0 Book Reviews: April 2015 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-april-2015/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-april-2015/#comments Tue, 21 Apr 2015 10:05:50 +0000 Andrew Liptak http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14299 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-april-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Ken Liu http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-ken-liu-10/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-ken-liu-10/#comments Tue, 21 Apr 2015 10:04:40 +0000 Christie Yant http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14287 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-ken-liu-10/feed/ 0 The Ussuri Bear http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ussuri-bear/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ussuri-bear/#comments Tue, 21 Apr 2015 10:03:51 +0000 Ken Liu http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14324 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-ussuri-bear/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Jason Gurley http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-jason-gurley/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-jason-gurley/#comments Tue, 21 Apr 2015 10:02:49 +0000 Jude Griffin http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14275 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-jason-gurley/feed/ 0 Quiet Town http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/quiet-town/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/quiet-town/#comments Tue, 21 Apr 2015 10:01:06 +0000 Jason Gurley http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14311 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/quiet-town/feed/ 0 She was in the laundry room, bent over a basket of Benjamin’s muddy trousers and grass-stained T-shirts and particularly odorous socks, when a rap sounded on the screen door. She didn’t hear at first; she’d noticed, bent over there, a cluster of webbed, She was in the laundry room, bent over a basket of Benjamin’s muddy trousers and grass-stained T-shirts and particularly odorous socks, when a rap sounded on the screen door. She didn’t hear at first; she’d noticed, bent over there, a cluster of webbed, purplish veins just below her thigh, beside her knee. She didn’t like seeing them there. They were like a slow-moving car wreck, those veins, a little darker, a little more severe each time she looked. They bothered her. The front porch creaked, and the screen door rattled on its hinges as the knock came again. Bev eased up to standing, still clutching a mound of laundry against her middle. She pinned the clothes with one hand, and with the other, looped the hair out of her eyes. “Yeah?” she called over her shoulder. “Me,” the answer came. Bev took in a long breath, let it fill up her lungs and raise her voice to a tone one might reasonably mistake for pleasant. “Come on in, Ezze,” she hollered. “Coffee cake on the table, you want some.” The screen door complained a bit, and not for the first time Bev made a mental note to oil the damn thing. But she knew she’d forget between now and the next time Ezze hobbled over. The door banged shut, followed by the scuff of the dining chair being pulled out, the expulsion of breath as Ezze dropped, too heavily, onto it. The chair wouldn’t take such abuse forever. Bev sometimes wished it would give out, and then felt guilty for thinking such things. Beneath her gravel and bluster, Ezze was just lonely. Bev stuffed the clothes into the wash and spun the old machine up. It rocked agreeably, knocking with a small clatter into the dryer beside it. Bev leaned against the wall, just for a second, just to take a few breaths before going in to the kitchen. The back door was open, its own screen door shut. Gray light spilled through the window, leaked through the uneven gaps in the doorjamb. She could see the pale, lumbering clouds that scraped the tops of the houses around hers. Most of those houses were empty now. Just me and Benji, Bev thought. From the kitchen, a smacking sound, the clink of a serving knife against the platter. Just me and Benji and Ezze, Bev corrected. She didn’t like the wind out there today. The Aparicios had left laundry on the line when they moved out — in a hurry, like everybody these past few weeks — and almost all of it was scattered around the neighborhood now, T-shirts and pantyhose and thermal underwear caught up in bare tree branches, soaked and plastered in gutters. Almost all of it, except for the heavy quilt, heavier now from all the rain, that dragged the laundry line low. The wind caught even that, lifted it nearly horizontal, a cheerful, soggy flag. “A bit dry, dear,” came Ezze’s voice. Bev turned away from the screen door. Cold air breathed around it, pushing through the gaps, and Bev shivered. But she left the inner door open for Benjamin, and went into the kitchen. “How’s the hip?” Bev asked, ignoring Ezze’s comment. Ezze groaned theatrically. “I’d give anything for a new one,” she said. “But who’s got money for that?” Her gray cane rested against the table beside her, tipped up on two of its four stubby feet. The rubber nubs on the end of each were damp and clumped with gray earth and grit. Bev sighed and picked up the cane and carried it onto the porch. Ezze didn’t say anything. Bev cranked the spigot attached to the house. It choked and sputtered, coughing up a weak stream. Bev rinsed the cane, then propped it against the house, and went back inside. Ezze regarded her irritably as Bev spritzed a paper towel with Windex, then wiped up the mud the cane had left behind. “That’s for windows, dear,” Ezze said, watching Bev from beneath her glasses. Bev didn’t say anything, just balled up the towel and dropped it into the wastebasket. The plastic lid swung twice, stopped. “That’s why it’s called Windex,” Ezze went on. “Windows. Windex. Lightspeed Magazine no 23:18 Interview: Chris Williams http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-chris-williams/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-chris-williams/#comments Tue, 14 Apr 2015 10:05:27 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14298 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-chris-williams/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Joseph Allen Hill http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-joseph-allen-hill/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-joseph-allen-hill/#comments Tue, 14 Apr 2015 10:04:37 +0000 Lee Hallison http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14286 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-joseph-allen-hill/feed/ 0 We’ll Be Together Forever http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/well-be-together-forever/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/well-be-together-forever/#comments Tue, 14 Apr 2015 10:03:48 +0000 Joseph Allen Hill http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14323 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/well-be-together-forever/feed/ 0 Audrey took her dinner quietly, without words beyond the obligatories (please, thank you, no, work was fine), and I obliged her the silence. We just ate, together but not together, in that way that you do when there are too many things to say. Audrey took her dinner quietly, without words beyond the obligatories (please, thank you, no, work was fine), and I obliged her the silence. We just ate, together but not together, in that way that you do when there are too many things to say. The meal in question was on the bad side of decent, days-old stir-fried noodles from the Japanese place down the street from her apartment, reheated and reconstituted into a slimy Pan-Asian gruel with the addition of fish sauce, soy sauce, sriracha, curry powder, chili powder, and neglect. I thought it was on the bad side of decent, at least. She pushed the noodle slurry around her plate with her fork, picking out the vegetable bits for inspection and wrinkling her nose like the vegetable bits had farted and then piling a heap of noodle slurry onto the fork along with the vegetable bits and then shoving the loaded fork into her mouth and then making a show of chewing, chewing, chewing and then swallowing it all in a cowish gulp. They were her leftovers, but they seemed to be making her very unhappy. She was making an expression that I lacked the perspicacity to put name to, and it seemed to cover more and more of her face with each bite I took. “You can’t just expect me to make food for you whenever you want,” she said. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve never asked you to just make food for me,” I said. “When you come over here, it’s just expected that I’m the one who’s making the food. You invite yourself over whenever you want, and suddenly I’m the fucking Barefoot Contessa.” “I think you’ll need a lot more butter if you want to be the Barefoot Contessa. Like, gallons. Have you read one of those cookbooks? I experienced coronary distress just looking at the table of contents.” “That’s not funny. I’m trying to have a serious discussion about boundaries.” “Do you want me to make food for you? Whatever. Next time, I’ll come over and make you a chicken nissoi or some shit.” “That’s not what I’m asking, Anthony. You’re not listening.” She was articulating all her consonants very precisely, as if she were trying to teach me English as a second language. I hated when she did that. It was like she was summoning the spirit of her ancestors to put the negro in his place. I know she didn’t mean it that way, but it was difficult to ignore the subtext. I was always fond of close readings, perhaps overly so when it came to relationships. “Sometimes, I just want very badly for you to not be so . . . you.” I recognized the look on her face then: spoilt revenge. She wanted me to say the food was gross, so she could say I should’ve brought my own food. That I hadn’t was killing her. I tried not to smile. It was petty, I know, but seeing her impotent anger was far more delicious than the noodles with which she had meant to undo me. I didn’t say anything after that. There was no point. This was a proxy argument. The real argument was about us moving in together. I had been passive-aggressively suggesting it was time for the past two months, and she hadn’t reacted well. She had a lot of blah blah about independence and boundaries and whatever. I just thought it was time. Two years is a long time to be with someone without moving in. Friends of ours who hadn’t been together when we met were married now. People were starting to talk. We’d had dozens of proxy arguments since I started pulling on the thread, thunderous screaming matches and sighful pout-offs both. We’d made up every time, but the rancor was starting to wear on us. The things you say stick around even after the anger is gone, half-forgotten, half-obsessed over, condensed into hateful little mnemonics, know-you-thinks and remember-you-saids haunting every future argument and frosting every past remembrance, splinters in the mind’s eye. The petty revenge and the vengeful pettiness followed naturally from there. I finished first, as I had chosen to eat like a reasonable human adult. I was still hungry, Lightspeed Magazine no 36:46 Author Spotlight: Carolyn Ives Gilman http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-carolyn-ives-gilman/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-carolyn-ives-gilman/#comments Tue, 14 Apr 2015 10:02:37 +0000 Patrick J Stephens http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14274 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-carolyn-ives-gilman/feed/ 0 The Invisible Hand Rolls the Dice http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-invisible-hand-rolls-the-dice/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-invisible-hand-rolls-the-dice/#comments Tue, 14 Apr 2015 10:01:53 +0000 Carolyn Ives Gilman http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14335 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-invisible-hand-rolls-the-dice/feed/ 0 Editorial, April 2015 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2015/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2015/#comments Tue, 07 Apr 2015 10:05:25 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14297 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Sonya Taaffe http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sonya-taaffe/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sonya-taaffe/#comments Tue, 07 Apr 2015 10:04:36 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14285 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sonya-taaffe/feed/ 0 A Wolf in Iceland Is the Child of a Lie http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-wolf-in-iceland-is-the-child-of-a-lie/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-wolf-in-iceland-is-the-child-of-a-lie/#comments Tue, 07 Apr 2015 10:03:45 +0000 Sonya Taaffe http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14322 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-wolf-in-iceland-is-the-child-of-a-lie/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Kat Howard http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kat-howard-6/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kat-howard-6/#comments Tue, 07 Apr 2015 10:02:10 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14277 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kat-howard-6/feed/ 0 The Universe, Sung in Stars http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-universe-sung-in-stars/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-universe-sung-in-stars/#comments Tue, 07 Apr 2015 10:01:03 +0000 Kat Howard http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14310 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-universe-sung-in-stars/feed/ 0 There is music in the stars. The stars, the planets, the asteroids, the galaxies. Everything that is flung, whirling in orbit through space and time. We dwell inside an enormous, ever-changing symphony, and each of the many universes sings a song of it... (http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/Howard_575x442.jpg) There is music in the stars. The stars, the planets, the asteroids, the galaxies. Everything that is flung, whirling in orbit through space and time. We dwell inside an enormous, ever-changing symphony, and each of the many universes sings a song of its own. I replicate them. I make clockwork universes, astraria and orreries, planets and stars and galaxies made microcosm and set ticking in orbit. Gears of bronze and iron and titanium, planets of marble and stars of precious faceted stones, diamonds that twinkle in the light. Each orbit in perfect harmonic distance so that the piece performs the music of the spheres. It’s a different kind of beauty from that of the living universes, one artificial and made in miniature, but the songs are no less real for it, and the beauty no less true. There’s a joy, too, in making things precise. The music of a universe, like the music of a symphony, will never be perfect. There will be dropped notes, missed rests, accidental sharps or flats. They are living things, and so they are flawed. Orreries are mechanical. If I do my work properly, there is no unexpected variance in their song. I had just finished setting a rhodolite in the turning rose of a nebula when Carina walked into my workshop. She had a universe spinning around her as well — stars blinked in the darkness of her hair — but hers was living. “It’s beautiful,” I said, picking up my loupe so I could examine it more closely. Pocket universes weren’t as rare as they used to be, but I had never seen one in resonance with a guardian before. I walked an orbit around Carina. A comet flamed through the wildness of her curls, then flashed and died, bright echoes of its passing sparking like inverse shadows in the darkness. “You should talk to them, Vera,” she said. “They’re always looking for qualified guardians, and you’ve kept that star going longer than anyone expected.” My hand went to the nape of my neck, where a white dwarf cooled. I only wore it outside when I was working. Potential customers were fascinated by it. “I don’t think it will last much longer.” It was becoming more and more atonal, which was usually an indication of imminent death. “All the more reason to see if you can be approved for a universe.” A galaxy whirled like a halo at the back of Carina’s head, and I could hear its resonance. “I’ll put in a recommendation for you.” “Thank you,” I said. • • • • I unwound the star from my hair when I got home that night, rolling it from palm to palm, watching the pattern of shadows made as its light shone through my skin. The discovery of the pocket universes had proved the Titius-Bode law — all orbital systems of the pocket universes had stable and self-correcting orbital resonances with each other. In those resonances was the music of the spheres, and in those resonances, my calling. The discovery had been dismissed as ridiculous at first — singing universes were impossible to take seriously as proper science. But then the pocket universes started dying. In some cases, they would collapse in on themselves almost as soon as they were born. So the pocket universes, and the salvageable pieces of the dying ones, were assigned guardians. Someone to ground the resonance until they were stable, or to help ease the passing of the dying stars. Someone to play them music until their own songs were known. That last was the key. Without music, the pocket universes could not survive on their own. I had built a musical universe for my dying star. A rotating cylinder inside a clockwork box that plucked a series of steel teeth I had etched with constellations. I had, as much as I could, calculated backwards, based on the white dwarf. I had considered its probable orbit and origins, and designed the music box to play the song of the dying star’s universe. Hearing it, I hoped, Lightspeed Magazine no 19:47 Artist Showcase: Wylie Beckert http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-wylie-beckert/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-wylie-beckert/#comments Tue, 24 Mar 2015 10:05:07 +0000 Henry Lien http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14090 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-wylie-beckert/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Vajra Chandrasekera http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-vajra-chandrasekera/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-vajra-chandrasekera/#comments Tue, 24 Mar 2015 10:04:47 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14085 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-vajra-chandrasekera/feed/ 0 Documentary http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/documentary/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/documentary/#comments Tue, 24 Mar 2015 10:03:14 +0000 Vajra Chandrasekera http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14128 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/documentary/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Ursula K. LeGuin http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-ursula-k-leguin-2/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-ursula-k-leguin-2/#comments Tue, 24 Mar 2015 10:02:05 +0000 Liz Argall http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14062 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-ursula-k-leguin-2/feed/ 0 The New Atlantis http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-new-atlantis/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-new-atlantis/#comments Tue, 24 Mar 2015 10:01:16 +0000 Ursula K. Le Guin http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14114 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-new-atlantis/feed/ 0 Coming back from my Wilderness Week, I sat by an odd sort of man in the bus. For a long time we didn’t talk; I was mending stockings and he was reading. Then the bus broke down a few miles outside Gresham. Boiler trouble, Coming back from my Wilderness Week, I sat by an odd sort of man in the bus. For a long time we didn’t talk; I was mending stockings and he was reading. Then the bus broke down a few miles outside Gresham. Boiler trouble, the way it generally is when the driver insists on trying to go over thirty. It was a Supersonic Superscenic Deluxe Longdistance coal-burner, with Home Comfort, that means a toilet, and the seats were pretty comfortable, at least those that hadn’t yet worked loose from their bolts, so everybody waited inside the bus; besides, it was raining. We began talking, the way people do when there’s a breakdown and a wait. He held up his pamphlet and tapped it — he was a dry-looking man with a schoolteacherish way of using his hands — and said, “This is interesting. I’ve been reading that a new continent is rising from the depths of the sea.” The blue stockings were hopeless. You have to have something besides holes to darn onto. “Which sea?” “They’re not sure yet. Most specialists think the Atlantic. But there’s evidence it may be happening in the Pacific, too.” “Won’t the oceans get a little crowded?” I said, not taking it seriously. I was a bit snappish, because of the breakdown and because those blue stockings had been good warm ones. He tapped the pamphlet again and shook his head, quite serious. “No,” he said. “The old continents are sinking, to make room for the new. You can see that that is happening.” You certainly can. Manhattan Island is now under eleven feet of water at low tide, and there are oyster beds in Ghirardelli Square. “I thought that was because the oceans are rising from polar melt.” He shook his head again. “That is a factor. Due to the greenhouse effect of pollution, indeed Antarctica may become inhabitable. But climatic factors will not explain the emergence of the new — or, possibly, very old — continents in the Atlantic and Pacific.” He went on explaining about continental drift, but I liked the idea of inhabiting Antarctica and daydreamed about it for a while. I thought of it as very empty, very quiet, all white and blue, with a faint golden glow northward from the unrising sun behind the long peak of Mount Erebus. There were a few people there; they were very quiet, too, and wore white tie and tails. Some of them carried oboes and violas. Southward the white land went up in a long silence toward the Pole. Just the opposite, in fact, of the Mount Hood Wilderness Area. It had been a tiresome vacation: The other women in the dormitory were all right, but it was macaroni for breakfast, and there were so many organized sports. I had looked forward to the hike up to the National Forest Preserve, the largest forest left in the United States, but the trees didn’t look at all the way they do in the postcards and brochures and Federal Beautification Bureau advertisements. They were spindly, and they all had little signs on saying which union they had been planted by. There were actually a lot more green picnic tables and cement Men’s and Women’s than there were trees. There was an electrified fence all around the forest to keep out unauthorized persons. The forest ranger talked about mountain jays, “bold little robbers,” he said, “who will come and snatch the sandwich from your very hand,” but I didn’t see any. Perhaps because that was the weekly Watch Those Surplus Calories! Day for all the women, and so we didn’t have any sandwiches. If I’d seen a mountain jay, I might have snatched the sandwich from his very hand, who knows. Anyhow, it was an exhausting week, and I wished I’d stayed home and practiced, even though I’d have lost a week’s pay because staying home and practicing the viola doesn’t count as planned implementation of recreational leisure as defined by the Federal Union of Unions. When I came back from my Antarctican expedition, the man was reading again, and I got a look at his pamphlet; and that was the odd part of it. Lightspeed Magazine no 1:22:02 Book Reviews: March 2015 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-march-2015/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-march-2015/#comments Tue, 17 Mar 2015 10:05:30 +0000 Amal El-Mohtar http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14094 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/book-reviews-march-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Naomi Kritzer http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-naomi-kritzer/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-naomi-kritzer/#comments Tue, 17 Mar 2015 10:04:46 +0000 Laurel Amberdine http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14084 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-naomi-kritzer/feed/ 0 The Good Son http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-good-son/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-good-son/#comments Tue, 17 Mar 2015 10:03:13 +0000 Naomi Kritzer http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14127 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-good-son/feed/ 0 Hot Rods http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/hot-rods/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/hot-rods/#comments Tue, 17 Mar 2015 10:01:13 +0000 Cat Sparks http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14113 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/hot-rods/feed/ 0 The winds blow pretty regular across the dried-up lake. Traction's good — when luck's on your side you can reach three hundred KPH or faster. Harper watches the hot rods race on thick white salt so pure and bright the satellites use it for colour calib... The winds blow pretty regular across the dried-up lake. Traction's good — when luck's on your side you can reach three hundred KPH or faster. Harper watches the hot rods race on thick white salt so pure and bright the satellites use it for colour calibration. Harper doesn't care about souped-up hot rods. Throwdowns, throwbacks, who can go the longest, fastest, hardest. But there's not much else to do in Terina Flat. She used to want to be a journalist, back when such professions still existed. Back when the paper that employed you didn't own you. Back when paper still meant paper. Back before the world clocked up past three degrees and warming. Back when everybody clamoured for Aussie coal and wheat and sheep. The sheep all died when the topsoil blew away in a dust cloud stretching almost five hundred ks. Ships still come for the uranium. Other countries bring their own land with them. Embassies, fenced off and private, no one in or out without a pass. Cross the wire and they get to shoot you dead. Harper thinks about her boyfriend Lachie Groom as the racers pick up speed. The future plans they've made between them. How they're gonna get the hell out of Terina, score work permits for Sydney or Melbourne. They say white maids and pool boys are in high demand in the walled suburban enclaves. Only Lachie couldn't wait. Said they needed the money now, not later. The racers purpose-build their dry lake cars from whatever they can scavenge. Racers used to care about the look, these days it's all about the speed. There's nothing new, no paint to tart things up. No juice to run on except for home-strained bio-D. You need the real stuff for start up and shut down. The racers pool their meagre cash, score black market diesel from a guy who hauls it in by camel train. She can hear them coming before she sees them, kicking up thick clouds of salty dust. The pitch drops dramatically as they pass; she takes a good long look as the cars smudge the horizon. Hot rods, classics and jalopies, streamliners and old belly tankers, all the side windows and gaps taped firm against the salt. It gets into everything: your clothes, your hair, your skin. Nothing lives or grows upon it. No plants, no insects, not a single blade of grass. The short racecourse is five k long, the long one near to twelve. King of the short run is Cracker Jack, Lachie's cousin — plain Cracker to his mates. Obsessed with Dodges. Today's pride and joy is a 1968 Dodge Charger, automatic, gauges still intact. Purpose built for the super speedway, veteran of Daytona and Darlington. He loves those cars like nothing else alive. Spends everything he has on keeping them moving. Harper has come to envy the racing regulars: Bing Reh, Lucas Clayton, Scarlett Ottico. Others. There's enough on the salt flats to keep them focused. Enough to get them out of bed in the morning. Cracker nods at Harper; she throws him half a smile. Checks out his sweat-slicked, salt-encrusted arms. "I'll take you out there," he says, wiping his forehead. No need to specify where out there. She knows he's talking about the American Base — and Lachie. She doesn't say no but he gauges her expression. "After sundown. The others don't have to know." Unfortunately, in towns like Terina Flat, everyone knows everybody else's business. "Was a stupid plan," she tells him. "We never should have . . ." Cracker dusts salt flecks off his arms. "It was a fucken' awesome plan. 'Bout time we got a look behind that wire. Found out what all the bullshit is about." She shrugs. Her and Lachie's "plan" had sounded simple. Just two people trying to keep in touch. Inching around a Base commandment that seems much harsher than it ought to be. Cracker tried to talk Lachie out of taking the job at all. Too late. By then, Base medics had tested his blood, piss, and spit. He'd signed away his rights on the dotted line. Lachie's been gone almost a week — the full week if you're counting Sunday, Lightspeed Magazine no 1:00:42 Author Spotlight: Cat Sparks http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-cat-sparks/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-cat-sparks/#comments Tue, 17 Mar 2015 10:01:03 +0000 Lee Hallison http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14061 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-cat-sparks/feed/ 0 Interview: Patrick Rothfuss http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-patrick-rothfuss/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-patrick-rothfuss/#comments Tue, 10 Mar 2015 10:05:25 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14095 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/interview-patrick-rothfuss/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Matthew Hughes http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-matthew-hughes-10/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-matthew-hughes-10/#comments Tue, 10 Mar 2015 10:04:45 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14083 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-matthew-hughes-10/feed/ 0 A Face of Black Iron http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-face-of-black-iron/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-face-of-black-iron/#comments Tue, 10 Mar 2015 10:03:11 +0000 Matthew Hughes http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14126 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/a-face-of-black-iron/feed/ 0 Diomedo Obron and the Archon Filidor passed the evening and much of the night in the latter’s study, discussing the next day’s journey into the wastes of Barran and the expected confrontation with whatever survivor of the Nineteenth Aeon wizards’ cabal... Previously on The Kaslo Chronicles: An ancient evil, lurking in another dimension through all the aeons since magic last ruled the universe, is striking out at Erm Kaslo, former hardboiled confidential operative (op) turned wizard’s henchman, and his employer, the proto-thaumaturge Diomedo Obron. Now the two, along with the mysterious Archon Filidor of Old Earth, must re-enter the Seventh Plane, discover what awaits them there, and try to destroy it before it destroys them. To read the other stories in the series, visit lightspeedmagazine.com/kaslo (http://lightspeedmagazine.com/kaslo). Diomedo Obron and the Archon Filidor passed the evening and much of the night in the latter’s study, discussing the next day’s journey into the wastes of Barran and the expected confrontation with whatever survivor of the Nineteenth Aeon wizards’ cabal still lurked in the Seventh Plane. Erm Kaslo struggled to try to understand the concepts the two thaumaturges threw onto the table — sometimes literally, as the Archon’s integrator, Old Confustible, rendered their ideas in diagrams, mathematical formulae, and even in three-dimensional models whose planes and curves mutated into shapes that caused the op’s brain to overheat. Eventually, he went back down the corridor to the landing outside the palace, where the dragon Saunterance — formerly Obron’s space yacht — squatted, wings folded, beside the shining dome of Testroni’s Impervious Conveyance that had brought them here from Novo Bantry. Kaslo had no experience of reading the body language of dragons, but he sensed that Saunterance was at ease with the circumstances in which it found itself — but peace of mind was so far from Kaslo’s grasp that he could not even see a path toward it. “What is it like for you?” he asked the dragon. “To be so changed?” The creature spoke as it would have when it was a ship’s integrator, so that its voice seemed to emanate from the air beside the man’s ear. “I am not so changed,” it said. “Before, I was a core connected to the systems of a spaceship. My function was to travel. Now I am a mind enclosed in a body that performs much the same function.” “Are you content?” The dragon’s features momentarily formed an almost human expression. “I suppose I am,” it said. “It is not a question I am disposed to ask myself.” “You are fortunate,” said Kaslo. “You retain your function as well as the ability to perform it. I, however . . .” He finished the thought in a sigh. “Obron values you,” Saunterance said. “You may have more worth than you allot yourself.” “I used to know my worth to an exact measure,” Kaslo said. “And it was considerable. Now — ” “Now you are in the business of rediscovering it, using a different set of calibrations,” said the dragon. “Why don’t you wait and see what turns up in you?” It wasn’t bad advice, Kaslo thought, especially from a dragon. He bid Saunterance a good night and found his bunk in the Conveyance. He expected to lie awake, but instead fell quickly into a dreamless sleep. He was awakened by the sounds of voices, footsteps, and the movement of bulky objects, and came out of his cabin into the vessel’s common area to find it being loaded with cabinets and chests by men and women in green and black livery. Filidor was supervising the business, with advice from Obron. Kaslo’s employer turned as the op entered. “I was telling the Archon,” he said, “about how your spring-gun shot a nouble into one of the preyns and destroyed it utterly.” “True,” said Kaslo. Filidor said, “How large a missile will it take?” When Kaslo made a circle with finger and thumb, the hole about the size of a child’s marble, the Archon said, “I was hoping for something larger.” He put two hands together, the space between them the dimension of a fist-sized ball. “No one ever had a need for a spring-gun of that caliber,” the op said. “Too bad,” said the Archon. “It might have been useful.” Lightspeed Magazine no 57:00 Author Spotlight: Michael Blumlein http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-michael-blumlein/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-michael-blumlein/#comments Tue, 10 Mar 2015 10:02:00 +0000 Patrick J Stephens http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14060 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-michael-blumlein/feed/ 0 The Brains of Rats http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-brains-of-rats/ http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-brains-of-rats/#comments Tue, 10 Mar 2015 10:01:11 +0000 Michael Blumlein http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/?p=14112 http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-brains-of-rats/feed/ 0