Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe Read online

  SHADOWS OF THE

  NEW SUN

  Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

  Edited by

  J. E. MOONEY AND BILL FAWCETT

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  BY GENE WOLFE

  FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

  THE WIZARD KNIGHT

  The Knight

  The Wizard

  THE BOOK OF THE SHORT SUN

  On Blue’s Waters

  In Green’s Jungles

  Return to the Whorl

  THE BOOK OF THE NEW SUN

  Shadow & Claw (comprising The Shadow of the Torturer and The Claw of the Conciliator)

  Sword & Citadel (comprising The Sword of the Lictor and The Citadel of the Autarch)

  THE BOOK OF THE LONG SUN

  Litany of the Long Sun (comprising Nightside of the Long Sun and Lake of the Long Sun)

  Epiphany of the Long Sun (comprising Caldé of the Long Sun and Exodus from the Long Sun)

  NOVELS

  The Fifth Head of Cerberus The Devil in a Forest

  Peace

  Free Live Free

  The Urth of the New Sun

  Latro in the Mist (comprising Soldier of the Mist and Soldier of Arete)

  Soldier of Sidon

  There Are Doors

  Castleview

  Pandora by Holly Hollander Pirate Freedom

  An Evil Guest

  The Sorcerer’s House

  Home Fires

  The Land Across (forthcoming)

  NOVELLAS

  The Death of Doctor Island Seven American Nights

  COLLECTIONS

  Endangered Species

  Storeys from the Old Hotel Castle of Days

  The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories

  Strange Travelers

  Innocents Aboard

  Starwater Strains

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  SHADOWS OF THE NEW SUN: STORIES IN HONOR OF GENE WOLFE

  Copyright © 2013 by Bill Fawcett & Associates

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN978-0-7653-3458-9 (hardcover)

  ISBN978-1-4668-1416-5 (e-book)

  Tor books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945 extension 5442 or write [email protected].

  First Edition: August 2013

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Foreword copyright © 2013 by Jean Rabe.

  “Frostfree” copyright © 2013 by Gene Wolfe.

  “A Lunar Labyrinth” copyright © 2013 by Neil Gaiman.

  “The Island of the Death Doctor” copyright © 2013 by Joe Haldeman.

  “A Touch of Rosemary” copyright © 2013 by Timothy Zahn.

  “Ashes” copyright © 2013 by Steven Savile.

  “Bedding” copyright © 2013 by David Drake.

  “. . . And Other Stories” copyright © 2013 by Nancy Kress.

  “The Island of Time” copyright © 2013 by Jack Dann.

  “The She-Wolf’s Hidden Grin” copyright © 2013 by Michael Swanwick.

  “Snowchild” copyright © 2013 by Michael A. Stackpole.

  “Tourist Trap” copyright © 2013 by Mike Resnick and Barry Malzberg.

  “Epistoleros” copyright © 2013 by Aaron Allston.

  “Rhubarb and Beets” copyright © 2013 by Todd McCaffrey.

  “Tunes from Limbo, But I Digress” copyright © 2013 by Judi Rohrig.

  “In the Shadow of the Gate” copyright © 2013 by William C. Dietz.

  “Soldier of Mercy” copyright © 2013 by Marc Aramini.

  “The Dreams of the Sea” copyright © 2013 by Jody Lynn Nye.

  “The Logs” copyright © 2013 by David Brin.

  “Sea of Memory” copyright © 2013 by Gene Wolfe.

  Contents

  Foreword, J. E. Mooney

  Frostfree, Gene Wolfe

  A Lunar Labyrinth, Neil Gaiman

  The Island of the Death Doctor, Joe Haldeman

  A Touch of Rosemary, Timothy Zahn

  Ashes, Steven Savile

  Bedding, David Drake

  . . . And Other Stories, Nancy Kress

  The Island of Time, Jack Dann

  The She-Wolf’s Hidden Grin, Michael Swanwick

  Snowchild, Michael A. Stackpole

  Tourist Trap, Mike Resnick and Barry Malzberg

  Epistoleros, Aaron Allston

  Rhubarb and Beets, Todd McCaffrey

  Tunes from Limbo, But I Digress, Judi Rohrig

  In the Shadow of the Gate, William C. Dietz

  Soldier of Mercy, Marc Aramini

  The Dreams of the Sea, Jody Lynn Nye

  The Logs, David Brin

  Sea of Memory, Gene Wolfe

  Foreword

  Gene Wolfe got it wrong.

  Completely.

  Utterly.

  Wrong.

  I met Gene a decade ago when the World Horror Convention was held in Chicago, and he and Neil Gaiman were guests of honor. I was on a tight deadline, and so allowed myself only one day at the convention. I picked Friday because I wanted to attend a writing panel Gene was hosting. I’d read—and loved—some of his novels, and Chicago was only an hour away.

  His session was in one of the hotel’s ballrooms, and there was a sizable crowd. I picked a spot toward the back and pulled out my notebook.

  Gene was seated behind a skirted table on a platform, and he looked to be analyzing his audience, bringing to mind the image of a judge holding sway over a courtroom.

  He said that he wanted to know where we were—the audience—in terms of writing so he could better offer advice. To that end, he asked everyone who had submitted fiction to a professional market to raise a hand. Well more than a few hands went up. He decided to define it further.

  “How many of you have had short stories published?” Some of the hands went down.

  “How many of you have written novels?”

  Only three hands remained.

  “More than one novel?”

  At this point my hand was the only one up.

  He stabbed his finger in the air in my direction.

  “How many novels have you written?” he asked.

  “A half-dozen or so,” I replied.

  “You!” He stabbed the air again. “You! Why are you here?” I was thoroughly intimidated and regretted not picking another panel to attend.

  “I thought you could teach me something,” I told him. “You!” He turned the finger so it was like a hook, and he waggled it at me. “You! Up here with me. There is nothing I can teach you.”

  He proceeded to call it the “Gene and Jean Show,” and I spent the next hour sharing his panel, remaining thoroughly intimidated, but having a fine time.

  We ran into each other again at various conventions—Windycon, World Fantasy, and the like. Always he remembered our chance encounter at World Horror in Chicago. Later we’d get together with mutual friends Bill Fawcett and Jody Lynn Nye for dinners. And still later, Gene and I would meet for lunches . . . som
etimes for no particular reason, sometimes so he could pass over his dog, Bobby, who would stay at my place while his master was traveling.

  My literary hero had become my dear friend. As I type this, Bobby is curled under my desk, his feet twitching and tail wagging as he’s caught up in some marvelous dream. Gene is in Alabama, a guest of honor at Deep South Con.

  So I can tell you with all honesty and conviction that Gene Wolfe got it wrong.

  Utterly.

  Completely.

  He said there was nothing he could teach me. But he did—about the craft of writing, but more about the intricacies, complexities, sorrows, and joys of life.

  The statement rings true for every single soul with a tale in this book. Despite busy schedules and pressing deadlines, this stellar collection of authors—among them Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker Award winners, New York Times bestsellers, and international bestsellers—found time to write a story in honor of Gene Wolfe. In some cases the authors insisted they be included, their other obligations be damned.

  All because Gene Wolfe got it wrong.

  Gene Wolfe taught every one of us—and continues to teach us—a great deal.

  We are privileged to be in his debt and in his shadow.

  J. E. Mooney,

  Summer 2012

  Frostfree

  GENE WOLFE

  Roy Tabak had a new refrigerator. There could be no doubt of that. It gleamed. It was wider than his old one; it was taller, too. It made everything else in his kitchen look small and a trifle dirty. Brand new, he decided, and styled in a subtly pleasing way nothing in the store was. No doubt he had special-ordered. No doubt it had been delivered, and he had opened the door for the delivery and exchanged a few tired jokes with the men who brought it. When they had gone, he had no doubt wiped it down and waxed it with appliance wax.

  Roy Tabak sold refrigerators, and he could remember none of that.

  He opened the main compartment. There was food in it, and it looked good. There was beer in it, too, twenty bottles as least. It was not his brand, and the food was not his. What was that green stuff?

  Movers, clearly, had been moving furniture and so forth into a new apartment. There had not been room enough in the van for this large refrigerator, so they had made a separate trip for it. They had put it in his apartment by mistake. No doubt they had been amateurs, friends helping some friend move. They had failed to notice that the refrigerator had been full of food and beer.

  It was all very simple and convincing, and it would be more simple and convincing after a beer. Still more after six or eight. Aloud, Roy Tabak said, “Hell and damn!”

  “If you are unable to find that which you seek,” his new refrigerator said politely, “I may be able to direct you, sir.”

  Roy Tabak went into the living room and sat down. How many beers had he had? None at all. He had just gotten home from work. Besides, beer didn’t do that. He took off his suit coat and hung it almost neatly in the hall closet, loosened his tie, then removed it altogether and draped it over the back of a chair. His collar was not tight, but he unbuttoned it anyway. Tight collars could make you hear voices, right?

  After much searching, enlivened by some pacing up and down, during which he was careful not to look through his cramped little dining room into his kitchen, the phone book provided the number of the Free Psychiatric Hotline—“Trained Psycholagists on Duty 24/7.” The misspelling of “psychologists” did nothing to increase his confidence, but he dialed the number anyway.

  “Free Psychiatric Hotline. How can we help you?”

  “It’s not normal to hear voices, is it?”

  “That depends. You’re hearing mine right now, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t mean like that,” Roy said. “You know what I mean.”

  “Voices that accuse you of things?”

  “No.”

  “Voices that urge you to commit murder?”

  “Huh-uh. This voice offered to help me find something in my—I mean in the refrigerator in my kitchen.”

  “Ummm.”

  “It was very polite. Like a woman’s voice, but like the noise a refrigerator makes when it runs. You know.”

  “I wish I did. Is there a woman there with you?”

  Roy Tabak winced. “No. No, there’s not.”

  “Maybe a neighbor?”

  Mrs. Jackson was not at all bad looking; there had been times when he had envied Mr. Jackson. Mrs. Adcock was a bit too old. “No,” he said. “I’m alone.”

  “Perhaps someone just dropped in. Someone selling something.”

  Dahlia—over in Lingerie—was hotter than hell. Roy said, “I sell things myself. Stoves, refrigerators, trash compactors, microwaves. Stuff like that. I’m the only one in here who sells things.”

  “What do the others do?”

  “There aren’t any others.”

  “I see. How often have you heard the voices?”

  “Just one voice, and I’ve only heard it once.”

  “Okay. . . . It was probably somebody outside, or else a radio or something. If you hear these voices again, call back.”

  Feeling defeated, Roy said, “Sure.”

  “Especially if they want you to kill people. Or kill yourself. I’ve been looking through the index, but there’s nothing about finding stuff in the refrigerator, see? So what I need is something that’s here in DUFFY AND STANKY.”

  “Uh-huh.” Roy Tabak hung up. It had been a dream. Almost certainly it had been a dream that he had somehow taken for reality. He would call out to the refrigerator, and it would not reply.

  A little later, when he felt more secure.

  What had happened to his tie? He switched on the TV, winced, and muted the sound. Baseball was never on when he wanted to watch it. Somebody must be in charge of that.

  “We single men,” he said, “we like to go out at night. We cruise the bars, and now and then we hook up. You start the game around seven-thirty, and we don’t watch because we know we won’t get to see anything past the fourth inning.”

  The TV remained muted. It would be nice, Roy Tabak reflected, if they would build TVs that listened to you.

  He returned to the kitchen, half expecting that his old refrigerator would be there. The new refrigerator still gleamed. It had no eyes, no nose, and no mouth, yet it somehow looked quiet. And helpful. It was eager to help. You could see that.

  Both his kitchen chairs were narrow, shiny, and much less than comfortable. He pulled one out just the same and sat down on it to study the refrigerator.

  The refrigerator studied him back. After five minutes or so, he got it. The freezer door was opaque from outside but transparent from inside, sort of like the security mirrors in the store. The refrigerator’s eyes were behind it. Watching.

  He got up, opened the food storage door, and got a beer. It was a SUPER-URB lager, brewed in Al Fashir, New Jersey. He opened it, said, “Here’s to you,” and drank. It was better than his brand.

  There were corn chips in the bread box. He opened the bag. “I don’t suppose you have any chip dip?”

  “I have three,” his new refrigerator said politely. “Guavacado, whipped kasseri, and fava- bean habas. Which would you prefer?”

  Roy Tabak sipped his beer, rose, opened his new refrigerator, and took out the green stuff.

  “Ah! The guavacado. Good choice, sir.”

  It was in an oddly shaped container so transparent as to be almost invisible. The green paste it held tasted just fine on a corn chip.

  “I have a talking refrigerator,” Roy Tabak said. He gulped beer. “Do you know what that proves? It proves that the world is one hell of a lot more complicated than I thought.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Roy scooped up more guavacado dip. “Are you a Kelvinator?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mmmm.” He munched a chip. “Whirlpool?”

  “No, sir.”

  “KitchenAid?”

  “No, sir. I am your refrigerator, sir. I
t might be best to leave it at that.”

  “Sure.”

  “I am here to help you.” Roy Tabak’s new refrigerator sounded soothing, almost motherly.

  He sipped more beer and swallowed. “You’re from the government, right?”

  “No, sir. The WSPC, sir.”

  “Not the government.”

  “No, sir. We are a tax-exempt foundation, sir. In law, I mean.”

  “A foundation of refrigerators?” Roy Tabak scooped guavacado dip onto a fresh corn chip.

  “No, sir. A foundation of persons. I say we because I am a possession of the Society. Need I explain further?”

  Chewing, Roy Tabak nodded.

  “Very well. You are familiar with dogs, I hope.”

  “I don’t own one,” Roy Tabak told his refrigerator, “but my folks adopted a greyhound named Chester when I was a kid. They said he was too old to race, but he was faster than a million-dollar microwave.”

  “Clearly you observed him, sir. Because you did, you must have observed that this Chester employed the pronoun to which you objected when referring to your family and himself. He might have said we are going to the beach, for example.”

  “You can’t take dogs to the beach,” Roy Tabak told his new refrigerator. “They’re not allowed.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Excuse me.” He rose and went into his living room. “Hello.”

  “Roy, you dog! Who’s the fat broad?” It was Jerry Pitt from Gourmet Foods.

  Roy Tabak tried to remember. That girl he had talked to in the Home Office, had she been fat? Not very, but his Aunt Irene’s daughters were all fat. “Probably a cousin,” he said.

  “Sure. Just staying with you until she can get a job. I’ve got it.”

  “Wait a minute.” Roy Tabak thought frantically. “I’ve got this new service, see. A—whatchacallum. An answering service. It’s better than an answering machine because mine keeps breaking. You phoned, right? And this girl answered. You probably tried to date her.”