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    Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 177
    Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 177
    Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 177
    Ebook216 pages2 hours

    Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 177

    By Neil Clarke, Nancy Kress, Robert Reed and

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    About this ebook

    Clarkesworld is a Hugo and World Fantasy Award-winning science fiction and fantasy magazine. Each month we bring you a mix of fiction, articles, interviews and art. Our June 2021 issue (#177) contains:

    • Original fiction by Nancy Kress ("Little Animals"), Robert Reed ("Poubelle"), Suzanne Palmer ("Bots of the Lost Ark"), Jiang Bo ("Face Changing"), Yukimi Ogawa ("The Shroud for the Mourners"), K.W. Colyard ("Our Fate, Told in Photons"), and Cristina Jurado ("Embracing the Movement").
    • Non-fiction includes an article by Carrie Sessarego and interviews with Cassandra Khaw and Alyssa Winans, and an editorial by Neil Clarke.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWyrm Publishing
    Release dateJul 3, 2021
    ISBN9781642360844
    Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 177
    Author

    Neil Clarke

    Neil Clarke (neil-clarke.com) is the multi-award-winning editor of Clarkesworld Magazine and over a dozen anthologies. A eleven-time finalist and the 2022/2023 winner of the Hugo Award for Best Editor Short Form, he is also the three-time winner of the Chesley Award for Best Art Director. In 2019, Clarke received the SFWA Kate Wilhelm Solstice Award for distinguished contributions to the science fiction and fantasy community. He currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons.

    Read more from Neil Clarke

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      Book preview

      Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 177 - Neil Clarke

      Clarkesworld Magazine

      Issue 177

      Table of Contents

      Little Animals

      by Nancy Kress

      Poubelle

      by Robert Reed

      Bots of the Lost Ark

      by Suzanne Palmer

      Face Changing

      by Jiang Bo

      The Shroud for the Mourners

      by Yukimi Ogawa

      Our Fate, Told in Photons

      by K.W. Colyard

      Embracing the Movement

      by Cristina Jurado

      Fungi in Fiction

      by Carrie Sessarego

      Undoing Good Women: A Conversation with Cassandra Khaw

      by Arley Sorg

      A Wider Range of Freedom: A Conversation with Alyssa Winans

      by Arley Sorg

      Editor’s Desk: What Do You Want?

      by Neil Clarke

      Companion

      Art by Derek Stenning

      *

      © Clarkesworld Magazine, 2021

      www.clarkesworldmagazine.com

      Little Animals

      Nancy Kress

      1.

      I’ve got a signal, Cora said. Elena, come look!

      I rushed to Cora’s bank of computers. For six long, working-into-the-evening days, we’d gotten only the faintest of quantum signals, nothing usable. Our grant only gave us three weeks on the TU Delft equipment. Cora complained that Americans somehow seem to never get as much quantum-tech time as anybody else, which wasn’t fair . . . but, then, what didn’t Cora complain about?

      I said, Can you lock onto the signal? Is it strong enough?

      Yes! And—oh my gods you won’t believe this—the subject is looking into a mirror!

      I didn’t know how she could tell that; the image on her screen was so watery and shifting it looked as if it were melting. Frantically Cora worked the amplifying equipment, her fingers flying over keys and buttons. If she couldn’t bring the image into sharper focus within the next few seconds, we’d lose this subject, too.

      The portrait emerged. Cora breathed, The clothing is right, wool, simple cut . . . Come on, you fucker, focus! And then, Be Vermeer!

      It wasn’t. The image sharpening on the screen was a plain-faced, middle-aged woman in an unadorned gray gown laced up the front, no trimming on the round neck of her chemise, who stood pulling her hair into a tight bun. As the shimmering image approached maximum resolution, she set a white cap with lappets on her head.

      Cora froze the picture, locking in the contact, and pounded her fist on the small table holding her coffee. The coffee cup jumped with each blow. Fuck, fuck, fuck! It’s not him!

      We’d been looking for Johannes Vermeer anywhere in mid-seventeenth century. It wasn’t that much of a long shot; Vermeer never left Delft and creative people put out the strongest signals. Unfortunately, that sometimes led to those who lived with creatives. Two other postdocs in my year, based at Great Neck on Long Island, New York, had locked onto F. Scott Fitzgerald’s gardener, who had never exchanged a single word with either Scott or Zelda and whose memories consisted largely of plant blight.

      I said to Cora, Maybe it’s someone in Vermeer’s household? Catharina?

      Dressed like that? Don’t be stupid! And look at the time indicator—1687! Vermeer was already dead. Oh, just shoot me now.

      She didn’t apologize for that remark. Probably she didn’t even see that she should. Disappointment always turned Cora nasty.

      She said, "Now we’re stuck with this, and from her clothing she’s a nonentity, neither servant nor creator. Well, get Jan."

      I already pinged him. No apology for her nastiness; there never was.

      An initial signal, the only one with a time indicator, locked the equipment onto a subject. Otherwise, signals would not be reliable, or reliably accessed. Too many researchers never found anyone during their grant time; we could not afford to risk letting this subject go and starting again.

      Jan de Knuyt appeared in the doorway. An historian of seventeenth-century Europe, he spoke five languages plus Latin. His doctorate was granted last year, and while he searched for a university position, he aided whatever visiting brain researchers had been fortunate enough to gain time on TU Delft’s superb equipment. Slightly built, shy, and occasionally awkward, he had an excellent reputation as a thorough researcher.

      Jan smiled at me and said in his careful English with its Dutch accent, Whom have you locked?

      God knows, Cora said. Anything you can tell us from the scan . . . it’s not fair! She’s probably nobody!

      Jan studied the image frozen on Elena’s screen. Yes and no. She is not a creative, but she may be rewarding.

      I blurted, You recognize her?

      I do. She is Maria van Leeuwenhoek, the daughter of Antonj van Leeuwenhoek.

      Are you sure? Cora said.

      Yes. There is only one known sketch of her, by the artist who made some of the drawings of Leeuwenhoek’s ‘little animals.’ Leeuwenhoek himself couldn’t draw, you know. His second wife was sickly, and so Maria ran the household and occasionally assisted her father as he founded the science of microbiology.

      Jan smiled at me. Elena, you may receive some quite interesting experiences.

      The pairing of an engineer with a receiver is an art, not a science. I didn’t like Cora, and Cora didn’t like much of anybody, but I appreciated her skill. Cross-temporal brain research, too, is as much an art as a science, although not in Cora’s view. She was interested in equipment, results, and ambitious publication.

      For two centuries scientists have known that the brain exudes an electromagnetic field, and for nearly a century, that it operates on entangled quantum effects. The Chen equations upended brain research when the brilliant researcher Luuk Meijer showed that in conjunction with tachyons, the equations implied the theoretical possibility of entangling brains separated by centuries—but only in certain suggestible persons with certain brain-activity patterns. Ten years later, engineers at Technische Universiteit Delft had created the equipment, however imperfectly, and the Netherlands became the center of world research into Meijer entanglements.

      Nothing about a Meijer entanglement is certain.

      The subject is usually, but not always, a creative person, someone whose mind is as much concerned with what does not exist as with what does (Fitzgerald’s gardener wrote poetry, badly). The receiver must be a sensitive and suggestible personality and is usually, but not always, a borderline depressive. Memories drawn from the subject are usually, but not always, emotional recollections that made strong impressions on him or her. Memories are, usually but not always, clear enough to make sense of. The receiver can usually, but not always, remember the experiences copied from the subject’s mind and usually, but not always, sort them out from the receiver’s own life experiences: Did this happen to the subject or did it happen to me? Borderline depressives with intensive training and good real-world memories are best at this. No one knows why.

      I am a strongly suggestible, borderline depressive with a good memory and superb training.

      And unlike Cora or Jan or the professors in my very expensive education, I am beginning to think the entire process is unjust to everyone, in every time.

      The UT Delft campus, rebuilt in the Brutalist style decades ago when it was moved out of city, is a charmless collection of rectangular buildings in a charmless suburb. I had insisted on living in the old city, and not with Cora. I paid for my tiny apartment, expensive but worth it, by borrowing against the coming inheritance from my father. Just getting off the Hyper-Loop at Market Square lifted my heart. Against the sunset, Nieuwe Kerk’s magnificent bell tower stood shadowed over its lower third, golden above. Built in the fourteenth century, the cathedral housed the tombs of kings, queens, and princes of the House of Orange—and whose imagination would not be fired by that?

      Maria van Leeuwenhoek, going to market for her father, would have seen Nieuwe Kerk every day.

      As I hurried over a stone bridge spanning a canal, the tower carillon chimed a quarter to nine. I couldn’t be late with my phone call to Layla. She didn’t endure any deviation from routine as well as she had before . . .

      Just before.

      In the seclusion of my apartment, I poured a glass of scotch (Dutch courage—and where did that phrase come from? Jan would know.). I gulped a healthy mouthful and said to the wall screen, Phone Layla McCarthy. A second later the face of my beautiful younger sister appeared on the screen.

      Noon in California. Layla stood in glaring sunlight in our dead father’s bedroom. Chaos surrounded her: packing boxes, clothing, items pulled from closets or drawers, rug rolled into a haphazard cylinder, paintings pulled from walls. But today Layla seemed able to cope, unlike yesterday. She was out of her bathrobe; her hair was combed; her gaze met mine; no dead look in her eyes. She even managed a faint smile.

      Morning, Ellie. This probably doesn’t look like progress, but it is. Those boxes there— she pointed —go to the Salvation Army. That big box is trash. The art I’m going to have appraised.

      You’re doing a wonderful job, I said, as apprehension was replaced by guilt. I should be there helping Layla sort through our father’s things, put the house on the market, meet with the estate lawyer. On the other hand, maybe all this activity was good for Layla, taking her out of herself. I could still see tension in the way her body held itself, the tension that never really left her, but compared to yesterday’s monochrome lethargy, Layla looked okay.

      Oh, God, please let her be okay. Not like—say it, Elena, if only to yourself—not like Daddy.

      She said, How’s it going in Delft?

      Another good sign: interest in someone else.

      We locked onto a subject. Not, however, Vermeer.

      I told her about the lock, but only until I could see her interest drift away. It didn’t take long. We talked then about the house: who might buy it, what they might pay, what needed to be done before it went on the market, and who needed to be hired to do it. Layla didn’t talk long, but she did talk, and when she ended the call, I poured away the rest of my Scotch. I didn’t need it. Layla was functional, at least for the moment, and I could concentrate on tomorrow in the lab.

      The rest of the evening, I studied the file Jan sent me about Maria van Leeuwenhoek. Born in 1656, she was the only survivor of the six children Leeuwenhoek fathered with two wives. Maria’s mother died when Maria was eleven. She acquired a stepmother, Cornelia, in 1671, the same year that Leeuwenhoek began making microscopes, which put him on the path to discovering the astonishing worlds of his microscopic animalcules.

      Cornelia went into a deep depression after the death of her infant son and some authorities thought she left Leeuwenhoek’s home to live with her sister’s family. Maria assumed the running of the modest household. She may also have assisted her father with his work. She never married, never left his house. She buried Leeuwenhoek when he died, at age ninety, and sent some microscopes that her father had willed to the Royal Society of London For Improving Natural Knowledge. When Maria was eighty-three, she arranged to have a monument set up on his grave. Jan had translated into English the short inscription, although my immersive language training in Dutch could probably have caught the gist of the epitaph. Birth and death dates, membership in the Royal Society, and a poem by someone named Huibert Corneliszoon Poot, urging visitors to have reverence for Leeuwenhoek’s great age and wondrous merit. Maria was buried beside him, but without any poem; mere daughters didn’t get poems. She was ninety-five.

      And that was it—all the verifiable information that history had on Maria van Leeuwenhoek.

      Still, I was glad of Jan’s file. If you’re going to invade someone’s mind, it’s good to know whatever you can about who she might be.

      First contact with a subject is exciting and fearful both: an explorer’s voyage into a new world. I was experienced enough as a receiver to know my mind would not disappear irretrievably into the subject’s mind (it has happened). But Maria and I would become locked, and every time Cora hooked up the electrodes implanted in my brain to her complex equipment, it was Maria’s memories I would explore. She would, of course, never know I was there. Unlike the explorers to the New World during the Dutch golden age, I would alter nothing, an invisible presence.

      And her presence in my mind? Sometimes a Meijer Entanglement was sharp and yielded clear images and words. Other times, not so much. A researcher in Copenhagen had managed to lock onto Werner Heisenberg during his famous World War II visit to the Jewish physicist Niels Bohr, Heisenberg’s former mentor, in Nazi-occupied Denmark. However, the entanglement had yielded only the vaguest images and no dialogue at all. All the receiver had gotten was Heisenberg’s strong emotion of urgency—but about what? That Bohr should save his own life by joining the Nazi bomb effort? That he should try to get out of occupied Denmark if he still could? Historians of science reached epic heights of frustration over that one.

      Ready? Cora said to me.

      I lay on a cot, hooked to computers that included state-of-the-art deep-image reconstruction equipment, technology that had existed for fifty years but recently taken a punctuated-evolution leap. It would translate my brain waves into AI-enhanced images, but it could not capture words. Immediately after the session, I would record whatever was said by and to Maria, assuming the words were clear enough and my immersive training in Dutch extensive enough. Jan would help with that. I glimpsed him entering the room and standing respectfully at the back, behind the physician mandatory for all first contacts.

      I closed my eyes and said, Ready.

      The lab went away, and another room took its place, a room of wide-planked wooden floors, small-mullioned windows behind partially closed shutters, candles burning in wall sconces. Maria’s—now my—memories were shifty, not yet sharp.

      A woman lies on a curtained bed; she is clearly dead. Other people stand on the far side of the bed, although not Leuwenhoek himself. A tsunami of childish grief swells through my mind as I become accustomed to being Maria and move deeper into her/our memory.

      I kneel and touch the dead woman’s face. Mutter!

      Someone pulls me to my feet and gently leads me from the room and down a narrow hallway to Father’s workroom. Father sits reading a book. He looks up as I tell him that Mother is dead.

      The memory wavered again; I still hadn’t completely settled into Maria’s mind. Leeuwenhoek’s reply to her was too complicated for me to catch all of it, but I saw the brief and perfunctory look of sorrow on his face. And as he held up the book and babbled on, I heard a word in unexpected English.

      Then, abruptly, I was fully there.

      Anger rises in me, anger I must not show Father. I bow my head and back out from the room.

      Maria dissolved in my mind. I was myself again, the entanglement collapsed.

      I sat up even before the doctor could check my vitals or Cora disconnect my implants. I couldn’t get all the Dutch when Leeuwenhoek was speaking. But I think he said he was sorry that Maria’s mother—he did not say ‘my wife’—had died, but most of what he said pertained to a book he’d been reading. And he said a word in English. ‘Microphagia.’

      Jan’s eyes widened. Yes? You are sure? Microphagia?

      I’m sure. What is that?

      Cora said, We need to record the dialogue before Elena forgets it!

      I won’t forget it, I said.

      Jan said, "You were in 1666, the year Barbara van Leeuwenhoek died. The year before, Robert Hooke published Micrographia, the first book about items viewed through a microscope. It is speculated that the book was what started Leeuwenhoek thinking about how to build a much better microscope. But Leeuwenhoek couldn’t read English, so perhaps at this time he merely studied the pictures? Could you tell?"

      No.

      Cora said, Record the damn dialogue!

      We did. Afterward, Jan said quietly, You are distressed. Because Leeuwenhoek was more interested in the book than in his wife’s death.

      Or his daughter, I said. She was eleven years old!

      Yes, Jan said, and in his voice I heard the empathy that had been missing from Leeuwenhoek. In all contemporary accounts Leeuwenhoek is portrayed as unemotional, even cold. His work mattered supremely to him.

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