Lightspeed: Edited by John Joseph Adams

LIGHTSPEED & NIGHTMARE Kickstarter graphic. Left side: Bright light blue background with rays (as of light) bursting out from the center. Central image is an open book with a rocket blasting up out of it. Below the book is the LIGHTSPEED magazine wordmark; the word lightspeed is rendered in a orange-to-yellow gradient, with a white outline around it and dropshadow underneath it. Right side: Bright light yellow background with rays (as of light) bursting out from the center. Central image is an open book with a haunted house emerging from it. Below the book is the NIGHTMARE magazine wordmark; the word nightmare is rendered in a dark red to lighter red gradient, with a white outline around it and dropshadow underneath it. Top: the words "LIVE on Kickstarter"

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Fiction

A Brief Public Announcement

No one can deny that the Apollo program of the early 1970s was an embarrassment to our nation: ill-conceived, hostile, and audacious.

Not only did the astronauts fail to bring back the severed head of the Moon King, but every one of them fled within hours of having landed, urinating in their suits as they retreated. The assault on the lunar surface stopped short at the planting of a stiff and garish flag.

And, really, what more could be expected from a soft-bellied nation, fattened on a wealth of oxygen and troughs of soil-grown food? Consider, after all, the mind-boggling distances, the confounding intricacies of orbits and trajectories. Consider the inadequacies of our alloys and plastics, the cramped quarters of our attack ships, the appalling oversights that left every one of the aggressors weaponless. Consider, finally, the pristine surface of the Moon itself, so free of the green wastes our primitive bodies depend upon. It’s a marvel we got as far as we did.

It speaks to our credit that we never attempted to raid that magnificent orb again. Nevertheless, if we are to learn from our mistakes, they must shape us. Having disinterred the bodies of the astronauts and ground their bones over the sewer grates, having scrubbed their dishonored names from our history, we washed our hands and turned our attention to the glorious future. But a great nation cannot ignore its past.

Therefore, on this sober centennial of the Apollo fiasco, we repent the footprints we left there. We regret the insult and the arrogance. We apologize, profoundly, for having inconvenienced the Moon King, who until then had shown us the respect of leaving us in peace.

We thank Him for his liberating fleets. We thank Him for the cleansing regolith which cured our population troubles so mercifully. We thank Him for the order He imposed.

And finally, we, all of us, reject and refute the spurious and vicious lies put forth by the rebels. We vow to expose them, to denounce, hound, and castigate them until their stain on the honor of the Moon has been erased.

Eli Brown

Eli Brown lives with his family in a California oak forest where the squirrels hide acorns in his garden.

His novel, Cinnamon and Gunpowder, about a cook kidnapped  by a female pirate, was a NPR Book Review Staff Pick and a finalist for the California Book Award.

A Yaddo fellow and featured reader at Litquake, Eli earned his MFA from Mills college. A bar in Texas has named a drink the “Cinnamon Gun Powder” in his honor.