ASIM issue 55 Read online

  The crowd’s excitement is audible; they mutter and murmur among themselves all throughout Ike’s speech. I can’t focus on what he’s saying for the buzz everyone else is making, but I know he’s talking about the history of the treatments. He’s claiming my treatment as a triumph. There are people in the Balmain Street crowd holding up their phones, taking shaky, low-res home videos I know will end up on the ’net.

  At last Ike falls silent, and it’s my turn. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine all the film cameras are zoomed in on my face.

  There’s a hushed silence as I take his place. I relish that: all of those attention-junkies, rendered speechless. It won’t last, of course.

  “I learnt a very valuable lesson, during my treatment,” I begin. They are all still watching, rapt and waiting for my confession. “When there is prejudice and discrimination, silence can kill. Every single one of you already knows what it took me a lifetime to learn: that sometimes it’s just about saying what needs to be said.”

  Some of the crowd are smiling encouragement at me; others are leaning forward, eager for more. None of them are ready for what I need to say.

  “But did it ever occur to any of you that you don’t know how to listen?” I ask.

  Ike’s smile falters; off to my left, tucked in a huddle of med-cos, Vera looks worried and Cecily is glaring at me. I ignore them all.

  “All of you, babbling into the void, trying to fill up the empty spaces of the world. And you label me sick because I don’t share your monsters—because I seek out the very silence you fear. But I will not be cured of myself. Because I understand what you do not: what matters is not how frequently or loudly a person speaks, but what of significance is said,” I say. “And there are more ways to speak than just with words.”

  It’s eerily simple. I pluck at the end of the thread that has been sitting, a tickling reminder of my purpose, just inside the corner of my mouth. One quick twist wraps that thread around the end of my finger, and then I pull.

  Pig helped me tie the thread around the dragonfly’s tail. Now, here, it’s knotted tight around the root of my tongue, and when I pull it draws my tongue out of my mouth, until the webbing underneath scrapes over my teeth. The muscles in the sides of my tongue throb faint protest of their new stretch.

  I don’t hesitate.

  The razor blade was harder to find, but Pig knew how to navigate that world.

  I pinch it tight between the fingers and thumb of my right hand and then, like the dragonfly’s angry bite, it’s just one simple movement, up and swiftly down and across, a scream of pain and a gush of blood.

  The razor bites deep, but not deep enough; I have to push, through the rushing sea of hot crimson salt flooding my mouth and dripping down the back of my throat, making me gag. The pain strobes outward from my jaw, stabbing at the back of my eyes and pricking at the tips of my fingers, while the razor slices apart the fibres tying my tongue to me.

  Until it’s done and I raise my hand, and my tongue is dangling, dead and glistening like a fragment of eel on a hook, from the slowly-twisting twine.

  There’s blood on my chin and tears in my eyes, but it’s all of them who are crying out, and it’s over now and I can rest.

  I’ve given them something to talk about. May they put their own genetic heritage to good use and discuss it for years to come. Talk and talk and talk, and maybe sooner or later they’ll understand what really constitutes speaking, and what silence.

  Last Words

  …The ASIM Hivemind

  Death, ultimately, has a success rate that the Tax Department can only dream about. And though it is, we must presume, fair and indiscriminate in its attentions, its accounting, and its bookkeeping, we at ASIM can’t help but feel that the past few months have been unusually hard on the speculative fiction community. The following are personal responses—nothing so grand as a eulogy, there are others far better placed to offer such—to six deaths that seem both too soon and too shortly spaced.

  * * *

  Sam Youd (16 April 1922—3 February 2012)

  Until a few years ago I hadn’t even heard the name Sam Youd. I knew only of John Christopher, the pseudonym under which Sam wrote his many science fiction novels—or perhaps that should be ‘speculative’ fiction. Sam stayed careful always with respect to detail (despite a prodigious output). He was conscientious in drawing from whatever knowledge was current at the time (compare the aliens of his Tripods trilogy to the less probable Martians of H. G. Wel s). But stil , he clearly saw the science elements of his writing to be a means rather than an end. ‘Relationships are the root of existence,’ Sam once said, ‘scientific extrapolation a pleasant toy.’

  Perhaps this is what drew me at first to Sam’s young adult books, and why he remains a favourite of school librarians across the world. Sam eschewed the fantastic, humorous and escapist elements of spec fic (which hold, of course, their own special place). Instead, he wrote serious, essential y adult novels that al owed youngsters such as myself to immerse themselves in new but startlingly realistic worlds—and as a reader I never felt that I was being patronised or talked down to.

  Sam often wrote about flawed characters (most memorably Luke from the Prince in Waiting trilogy), not heroes in the traditional sense. He opened my wide-blinking eyes to post-apocalyptic fiction that was at once gritty and thoroughly engaging (rather than just sobering or downbeat, as such works so easily can be). Sam was a prolific writer, who under various non-de-plumes and through many different books inspired readers of all ages. For me it was the regressive futures depicted by John Christopher—novels such as Wild Jack and the aforementioned Tripods and Prince in Waiting trilogies. Thank you, Sam, for lighting that path. (JE)

  * * *

  Paul Haines (18 June 1970—5 March 2012)

  I knew Paul, a bit. Which is to say I’d met him a couple of times at conventions. But I’d read him before I met him, and I’d heard of him (through a couple of notably dark stories in the early ASIM canon) before I’d read him. I’d expected Paul’s writing to be bleak, and his persona to be dark and oppressive … but neither of these things were true. Paul could write with sympathy and with passion about the awfullest things, and could drag you willingly into a story you might only later have regretted embarking upon (by which point, as with all of the best horror, it is of course Too Late); and as a person, he was remarkably generous with his time, wonderfully opinionated, and wickedly funny.

  All the time I knew Paul—and I first met him at Conflux in late 2009, although we’d exchanged emails before then—he was dying. It is, in that sense, impossible for me to separate him in my mind from the tragedy of his circumstance, the more so because Paul did what any decent writer does with a demon he or she must confront: he wrote about it. The pages of his livejournal were a searing, illuminating, harrowing exposition of the cruel and ruthless campaign which cancer waged against Paul Haines, and against which he railed. And yet along the way he was still finding time to talk of—to show—the love he felt for his family, and to laugh, on occasion, from within the depths of despair.

  I feel like an impostor writing these words. There are others who knew him far better, others who could tell you so much more about him. But I am glad to have known him, to the extent I did; I am in awe of the fight he put up; and I am bloody thrilled that he stayed around to give us Wives, and ‘The Devil in Mr Pussy’, and so many other wonderful, terrifying, blackly hilarious pieces. (SP)

  * * *

  Ray Bradbury (22 August 1920—5 June 2012)

  I discovered Asimov and Clarke in primary school, but I didn’t read anything by Ray Bradbury until I was at university, a full decade later, in the 1980s. One of my most-prized 21st birthday presents was a two-volume paperback set, in high-contrast red and yellow, of The Stories of Ray Bradbury: I’d encountered novels, before then, which had refused to be put down for such trifles as a good night’s sleep, but this was my first experience with a collection of short stories that exerted such a c
ompulsion. (Indeed, it’s probable that Bradbury-induced fatigue was a factor in a bicycle accident I experienced a few days after my birthday. And then, of course, the first story I read on resuming my reading of the collection was, as fate would have it, ‘The Crowd’.) I still have the two volume (as well as a smattering of other Bradbury paperbacks), and dip into them from time to time. Bradbury’s stories had a quality about them—an eerie, vivid, immersive otherworldliness that I hadn’t found in the other SF authors I’d encountered at that age, and for ‘There Will Come Soft Rains’, ‘The Fog Horn’, and ‘The Lake’ in particular, he remains someone special on my bookshelf. (And although I actually preferred the film over the book, he deserves immortalisation for Fahrenheit 451 if nothing else.) (SP)

  * * *

  Margaret Mahy (21 March 1936—23 July 2012)

  I never plucked up the nerve to talk to Margaret Mahy, but I had the opportunity, once. She was the writer-in-residence at Canterbury University in 1983/1984 when I was studying there, and I attended a talk she gave during which she read out an extract from what, if memory serves, was the manuscript for The Changeover.

  Mahy was one of those figures without which the speculative fiction scene would be—well, now, is—immeasurably poorer. She was emblematic not just as a brilliant, compelling writer but as an example. In much the same way that the recently-departed Sara Douglass demonstrated that it was possible for local Australian fantasy writers to achieve an international reputation, and to take locally-written work to Europe, the States, and beyond, Mahy, with her fantastic/supernatural YA (as well as her totally separate yet equally brilliant writing for younger children) staked a claim, established a path for NZ writers to follow. The Haunting and The Changeover struck a definite chord with me, but the most lasting impression was probably left on me by The Catalogue of the Universe, an utterly beguiling book whose protagonist, Tycho Potter, subsequently inspired a naming event in my family … because we wanted a son like that.

  And Margaret Mahy was not just an excellent example, but an exceptionally active advocate for story. She was a tireless visitor of schools, to the extent that she more-or-less constituted a national resource in New Zealand. It will be fascinating, over the coming decades, to see what her legacy becomes. (SP)

  * * *

  Harry Harrison (12 March 1925—15 August 2012)

  I was drawn to Harry’s work when I read of Deathworld in the revised version of Kingsley Amis’ New Maps of Hell, a seminal work of criticism in the field, and a must for anyone who wants to understand it. Deathworld was Harry’s first published novel, serialised in Astounding in 1960, and it was followed by the classics that established his career. Harry the person was larger than life, so to speak, and he really had been everywhere and done lots of things. He and Joan, his wife, had lived in half a dozen countries and travelled to many more. I first met them in 1984, at Swancon 9, when he offered me a single-malt scotch at eight in the morning, which was eight in the evening for him, and I learned that he knew how to fire a heavy machine-gun. Never refuse a scotch from a machine-gunner.

  He was a great guest, a great person, and a great writer, but mostly known for his comic/adventure/SF series, which I suspect were written because they were guaranteed sellers. There was a different, more concerned and serious writer in him as well, one who could write Make Room, Make Room; West of Eden; and The Hammer and the Cross.

  And he had a great laugh, because he was a great person. I wish I could have been at his wake, in Brighton, where his body was carried from the camper-van he specified to the chapel in a coffin papered with world maps. I think he may just be finding new worlds to enjoy. I hope he enjoys them. (IN)

  * * *

  Neil Armstrong (5 August 1930—25 August 2012)

  I remember the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. My school let us go home to watch it. I went to a friend’s home, where we sat at the TV snacking on condensed milk. In the city, crowds watched on the Myers TVs. I was already a Star Trek fan; for me, this guy and his team mates were doing what SF only dreamed about.

  Neil Armstrong took flying lessons while still at school and got his flying certificate before his driver’s licence! By the time he took that moon walk, he had done a lot of flying and been involved in the space program for years, but he nearly missed out; his astronaut application got in a week after the deadline, but a friend slipped it in with the others and the rest is history.

  Apparently, whatever the press was told later, he was chosen as first moon walker because he didn’t have a big ego, just as Mike Collins got the command module gig because he could be counted on to be alone in space without freaking out.

  I can believe that; none of the Apollo 11 team went to space again, but Mike Collins wrote books (wonderful ones which I used in research for my own spaceflight book) and Buzz Aldrin spent his time promoting private spaceflight. Neil didn’t do any of that. He had made history but didn’t fuss about it. Too late now—he’s going to be in the history books forever.

  Vale, Neil! (SB)

  About the contributors…

  Inna Basman was born in the ex-Soviet State of Georgia in 1950 and worked as an architect in the capital city Tbilisi. She moved to South Australia in 1981 and studied programming when PCs hit Adelaide in the mid 80s. Inna now works with 3D modelling software in graphic design. She has always been passionate about visual art and has embraced computer technology as a medium for artistic expression. Inna lives in Brisbane with her husband and three computers.

  John Birmingham worked for ten years as a feature writer, contributing to magazines like Rolling Stone and Playboy, before publishing He Died With a Felafel in His Hand in 1994. He continues to write magazine features, and won the National Award for Non Fiction in 2002 with Leviathan: An Unauthorised Biography of Sydney. Then he switched to genre writing. Because it’s cooler.

  Sam Blanch has been painting in his own style since early 2004. He completed a BA (Fine Art and Visual Culture) from Curtin University of Technology this year, attending graduation ceremony in Perth in September. Having lived in Sydney for two years in 2001-2002, he returned to his regional Queensland sensibilities. He now lives on a farm at Nanango, to pursue his painting and soak up the quiet, solitude and distinctive landscape. Solo exhibitions: Signs (Youth Arts Queensland Transit Lounge, 2005); Expressions (Kingaroy Shire Council Art Gallery, 2006); Bridges to Elsewhere (Circle Gallery, West End, 2009); Cross a Fake (‘The Tidy’, Alchemix Recording Studio, Woolloongabba, 2010); Journeys of the Mind (Whipbird Café, Coolubunia, 2010).

  Jacob A Boyd lives in Eugene, Oregon, with his wife and two Dobermans. His fiction has appeared in Interzone, Daily Science Fiction, Redstone Science Fiction, and Writers of the Future Volume 28, as well as in many other fine publications online and in print. A complete list of his works, including links, can be found at: http://jacobaboyd.wordpress.com/

  Agatha Christie (1890-1976) was a British writer of crime novels, short stories and plays. Guinness World Records has recognised her as being the best-selling novelist of all time, and in 1955 she was the first recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award. In addition to Christie’s notable achievements as an author of fiction, she wrote a beautiful autobiography detailing her early life and her reflections on a changing world. For more information about Agatha Christie and her writing, please visit http://www.agathachristie.com

  Stephen Gallagher is the author of fourteen novels including Valley of Lights, Down River, The Boat House, and Nightmare, With Angel. His most recent is The Bedlam Detective, from Crown (2012), continuing the exploits of ex-Pinkerton man Sebastian Becker after The Kingdom of Bones (2007). His TV work began with Doctor Who and includes miniseries adaptations of his novels Chimera and Oktober, and the British and American versions of Eleventh Hour. A Stoker and World Fantasy Award nominee, winner of British Fantasy and International Horror Guild Awards for his short fiction, Stephen may be found online at http:// www.stephengallagher.com/

  Michael
John Grist is a British science fiction & fantasy author and ruins explorer who lives in Tokyo, Japan. His stories have been published in Clarkesworld and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, as well as in numerous smaller publications. He typically writes heroic science fiction and epic fantasy with a dark, surreal humour. He also explores and photographs the modern ruined buildings of Japan, known as haikyo, driven by a childhood spent re-enacting the adventures of Indiana Jones and the Goonies in the fields behind his house. You can read some of his stories, and see his ruins photography, on his website at www.michaeljohngrist.com

  Chris Hicks is based in Maryland. He has a writer’s curiosity and explores an eclectic mix of subjects in his poetry, often interpreting those subjects with a MAD sensibility filtered through a poet’s rainy-day window. Readers can find his poems in a variety of publications including A&U Magazine, Witches and Pagans, and Andromeda Spaceways, among others. Chris has also published short stories and comic books. For more information visit: https://sites.google.com/site/writeceh/

  Tom Holt raises pigs, poultry and pedigree Dexter cattle on a microscopic smallholding in the south-west of England, and works a tiny parcel of forestry. His farming and forestry operations are 100% organic and carbon-neutral, but only because he can’t afford the proper gear. Tom Holt writes at night, when everybody else has gone to bed and he can hear himself think. So far, he’s written about thirty novels, the latest of which, Doughnut, is being iced prior to distribution in a colourful assortment of designer boxes.