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    Almost All the Way Home From the Stars: Science Fiction Short Stories
    Almost All the Way Home From the Stars: Science Fiction Short Stories
    Almost All the Way Home From the Stars: Science Fiction Short Stories
    Ebook131 pages2 hours

    Almost All the Way Home From the Stars: Science Fiction Short Stories

    By Ruth Nestvold and Jay Lake

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    About this ebook

    Near future dystopia, colonies in space, galactic empires: this collection has it all! "Almost All the Way Home From the Stars" is a collection of seven science fiction short stories by award winning writers Jay Lake and Ruth Nestvold. The settings range from galactic empires on distant worlds, to a dystopia in the near future warped by fundamentalism, to an alternate US where slavery was never abolished. Here a sampling:

    "Rivers of Eden": In a world transformed by a virus affecting faith, one lone scientist wants to set loose a cure for fanaticism.

    "The Big Ice": On Hutchinson's World, Vega and Mox are trying to unravel the mystery of the Big Ice -- until the family responsibilities Vega has been trying to escape come back to haunt her.

    "The Canadian Who Came Almost All the Way Home From the Stars": An NSA agent is assigned to look after a Canadian scientist whose husband has left Earth to visit the stars -- and the strange dimple in the lake that she is watching, waiting for his return.

    The five stories in this collection have been previously published in various online and print markets, including Gardner Dozois' Year's Best Science Fiction.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRed Dragon Books
    Release dateMay 15, 2013
    ISBN9781497754737
    Almost All the Way Home From the Stars: Science Fiction Short Stories
    Author

    Ruth Nestvold

    A former assistant professor of English in the picturesque town of Freiburg on the edge of the Black Forest, Ruth Nestvold has given up theory for imagination. The university career has been replaced by a small software localization business, and the Black Forest by the parrots of Bad Cannstatt, where she lives with her fantasy, her family, her books and no cats in a house with a turret. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous markets, including Asimov's, F&SF, Baen's Universe, Strange Horizons, Scifiction, and Gardner Dozois's Year's Best Science Fiction. Her fiction has been nominated for the Nebula, Tiptree, and Sturgeon Awards. In 2007, the Italian translation of her novella "Looking Through Lace" won the "Premio Italia" award for best international work. Her novel Flamme und Harfe appeared in translation with the German imprint of Random House, Penhaligon, in 2009 and has since been translated into Dutch and Italian.

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      Book preview

      Almost All the Way Home From the Stars - Ruth Nestvold

      ALMOST ALL THE WAY HOME FROM THE STARS

      A Short Story Collection

      by

      Jay Lake and Ruth Nestvold

      Copyright for the collection 2013 by Joseph E. Lake & Ruth Nestvold

      Cover by Britta Mack and Ruth Nestvold

      Cover images by isoga and Alex Mit, licensed through Shutterstock

      First Electronic Edition 2013

      Red Dragon Books

      * * * *

      The Rivers of Eden

      Gleaming monitors displayed DNA recombinance in false-color animation. Adenine, thymine, cytosine and guanine. There was a hypnotic, mechanistic elegance to the rippling strands.

      The four-fold dance flows like the rivers of Eden, said Dr. Sarahbeth Mitchell, her head bowed as was proper.

      Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates. Elder Joe McNally's voice resonated with a deep East Texas accent. Each rising from the wellspring of existence. Each flowing into the ocean of life. His fleshy lips slipped into a smile not echoed in the droopy folds around his pale eyes. Not unlike faith itself.

      Not unlike faith itself, she repeated.

      To hell with faith and to hell with McNally. At least she had her work — including the work she concealed from her sponsors. She had often wondered about the wisdom of her decision to join the Davidites in order to avoid the Caliphate, but soon, very soon, her work would make them both history.

      The Elder clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels in a imitation of reflectiveness. Have you ever wondered why we have both faith and free will, Miss Mitchell?

      That was a joke — the only free will left in the world was distributed among those immune to or uninfected by the Tawhid plague. Not to mention that McNally was totally uninterested in the free will of others: his project, dancing there on the screens in front of them, was a new plague, one that would reimprint the temporal lobes, sabotaging the Establishment in favor of the message of Christianity. A complex problem, on a par with the Tawhid plague itself, with the added difficulty of improving the meme-bombs so that they launched imperatives rather than suggestions. McNally's plague of faith was to be reinforced with strong social messages, calling Christians from their underground bunkers and remote compounds in a holy tide of arms controlled by McNally himself.

      And making the whole world like this hell where she dwelled, this fundamentalist enclave on the fringes of the New Islamic World Order.

      As a simple woman, it is not given to me to think on questions of religious philosophy, she said.

      McNally chuckled. His shiny black shoes moved out of her line of vision as he began to pace the lab. I didn't mean the masses out there, you know — I meant those like you and me, the ones who can still make decisions. The ones who can change the course of the world.

      I would not presume, Elder. But of course she would. There were plagues and there were plagues, and McNally wasn't the only one who wanted one from her. Her progressive contacts in the Islamic underground outside the compound wanted a plague that attacked the temporal lobes and rewrote the mental software of faith back to a simulacrum of old-fashioned religious free will. Undoing the biological chains of the Tawhid plague and undermining the Establishment, but retaining the power and virtues of faith.

      Sarahbeth had other plans. Her plague would do away with them all — the Davidites, the Caliphate, the world as a reflection of God's word. If He existed, surely He had not meant His creation to come to this. Then let people find faith in the light of reason, if it was there to be found. Sarahbeth doubted that very much.

      She had developed a modified coronavirus sufficiently distinct from the wild versions to avoid existing immunities, then built on some of the original Lebanese programming from the Tawhid plague for her own work. She had over two thousand strains, all tested in high-resolution emulation of the human body and brain.

      Now she needed a human test subject.

      The sound of McNally's footsteps stopped behind her as he laid his meaty hands on her shoulders in a gesture which could be interpreted as friendly, but which she knew was not. With our free will, we are the ones who can act as God's agents, he murmured close to her ear.

      Sarahbeth forced herself not to squirm. In faith, Elder.

      On the monitors, gene sequences continued to flow in twinned spiraling streams, the four rivers of Eden transforming into a wavering, particolored snake.

      All this Eden needed now was an apple.

      ***

      Norman Patenaude watched eagerly through the window as Dr. Sarahbeth Mitchell walked across the square of the former Baylor University campus. Her head was meekly lowered as befitted a modest woman, her dark skirt swinging around her calves. She was easily twice his age, but there were few women in the compound as pretty.

      Luckily, he was saved from the sinful thoughts teasing him by the ring of the duty phone at his elbow.

      Sons of David, Norman said in English — God's language. It's a great day in the firm hand of the Lord. Then, in Arabic, "How may I serve you, God willing?"

      "Praise be his name," responded the caller, also in Arabic. Norman felt his stomach tighten, in a different way than it had at the sight of Dr. Mitchell. The Davidites were tolerated by the Emirate of Texas and Oklahoma, but that did not change the fact that Norman's parents had been killed during the Establishment Wars, fighting the Muslims in the Battle of Baton Rouge.

      The caller switched to English. Hello Norman. How's the God business today? It was Billy Mahmoud Finnegail, director of security for the Emirate in Waco. The Caliphate might tolerate the Christian enclaves, but they kept close tabs on them nonetheless.

      Same as ever, Norman said.

      We've had some reports of interesting activity among the Davidites, Billy said casually. Does the phrase 'Rivers of Eden' mean anything to you?

      If he waited too long before answering, he would give himself away. No, sir. Bearing false witness was a sin, even unto the enemies of the Lord; nonetheless, he deliberately paused for consideration, as he had been trained during his three years with the Security Deacon before he joined Elder McNally's personal service. I mean, Genesis 2, I guess. Like in the Koran too. Now pause for puzzlement. Should it mean something? He was innocent of incorrect thought or wrongdoing.

      Billy laughed. "I was asking you, Norman. Peace."

      ***

      Sarahbeth sat alone in the unmarried women's refectory, eating a Granny Smith. The crisp flesh of the apple melted on her tongue with a bracing sourness laced with sweet, making her smile. It was almost midnight, and most of the chairs were stacked on the tables. Food banks blinked and hummed along one wall, and the lights were already dimmed.

      Another bite, and she found the pip she'd been looking for. A hair-fine filament curled from one end. Sarahbeth dug it out of the apple and slipped it into the mesh covering her hair, tucking back a stray strand in case anyone was watching from the shadows of the refectory.

      The familiar current pulsed from her hairnet into her cerebral cortex, gold-bearing complex organic molecules embedded in her glial cells serving as an antenna. The template for the engineered molecules had originally been deposited there by a transient virus. The signal was picked up and routed by the pirate neural chain to a bioprocessor the size of a rice grain, itself a carefully engineered growth-limited cancer introduced by yet another virus. The bioprocessor assembled the signal into sensory inputs, which were then injected into her Wernicke's area and the corresponding regions of her visual cortex.

      My friend, said her handler, an anonymous woman who always wore a burqa. The garb made Sarahbeth want to shudder, but her handlers were able to manipulate her flow of supplies, and so she played along with their wishes. And when it came right down to it, the burqa was less threatening than the hair net and the long skirts she was forced to wear here in McNally's tiny empire.

      The language the woman spoke seemed to be English, though with the symbolics of preprocessed speech, that wouldn't have to be the case. Sarahbeth used to fear embedded programming, having her brain hacked, but once she realized that McNally hacked her consciousness on a daily basis without benefit of cutting edge biotech, it had become the lesser of two evils.

      Her handler continued. We have grown concerned about your recent reticence. Inbound resource shipments suggest that matters will soon be resolved. This cannot be tolerated without authorization. If you do not contact us, extreme measures will be taken. In four days, seek an orange with three scars on one end.

      The woman flickered and was gone, subsumed into the shadows of the refectory.

      Sarahbeth stared at the spot where the image had disappeared. Somehow, her handlers had noticed that she was not playing entirely by their rules, probably by doing pattern analysis on the biologicals coming into the compound. Lately, Elder McNally had been stocking up on culture bases, preparing to go from experimental development to full-scale production. He had clever men responsible for burying the details of her work in a flood of random orders for related genetic feedstock, chemicals, and equipment.

      Apparently not clever enough.

      Her contacts wanted their plague, and soon. But what would they do if they didn't get it?

      She was almost ready; she could promise without delivering, and by the time her own plague hit the streets, it wouldn't matter anymore.

      Sarahbeth pulled

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