Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Interview, Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry, Main Features

Interview with Bruce Boston

by John C. Mannone

Bruce Boston

Bruce Boston is the author of fifty books and chapbooks, including the novels The Guardener’s Tale and Stained Glass Rain. His writing has appeared in countless publications, most visibly in Asimov’s SF Magazine, Amazing Stories, Weird Tales, Realms of Fantasy, The Pedestal Magazine, Science Fiction Age, Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, and The Nebula Awards Showcase. One of the leading genre poets for more than a quarter century, Boston has received the Bram Stoker Award for Poetry Collection, the Asimov’s Readers Award for Poetry, the Rhysling Award of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and the Grandmaster Award of the SFPA. His fiction has received a Pushcart Prize, twice been a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award (novel, short story), and a finalist for the Micro Award (flash fiction).

John: To say you are a prolific writer, as well as being highly accomplished, is an understatement. Click here for a bibliographic summary..

Having read other fine interviews with you, such as John Amen’s in The Pedestal (issue 11, 2002) and Van der Hooft’s in Strange Horizons (June 2007), where you address what speculative poetry is, would you please summarize your thoughts about what it is for our readers who might ask if a speculative poem is just a science fiction or fantasy poem, especially since you helped define the genre?

Bruce: If you are talking absolute categories, the defining characteristic that sets speculative poetry apart from mainstream poetry is that it speculates. Mainstream poetry concerns itself with the everyday world that we inhabit and perceive: personal relationships, observations of people and the city and of nature, social and sometimes political situations, etc. When you encounter an “I” voice in mainstream poetry, it is most often the author of the poem speaking directly to the reader about something in the real world. In contrast, speculative poetry deals more with the imagination: the world as it might be, the nature of reality, why we are here, what the future may hold, the existence of the supernatural, etc. It fashions scenarios of the possible rather than the actual. When you encounter an “I” voice in speculative poetry, it is most often a fictional character speaking, not the poet. Since the real world exists not in terms of absolute categories but of gradations from one category to another, it is not always completely clear whether a poem is speculative or not.

John: I understand that your first passion was fiction. How did you become interested in speculative poetry? And as you write fiction today, what has poetry brought to the table besides the effective use of metaphor and other poetic devices in your fiction.

Bruce: In 1971 I joined a group in Berkeley, California: The Berkeley Poets Cooperative. I already had an interest in poetry from reading poets such as Pound, Eliot, Ginsberg, Poe, and a score of others. And I’d already written some poetry that had been published in Occident, the University of California, Berkeley, literary magazine. Each week the group held an open workshop, so I began writing poems more regularly to contribute to it. My poems were often distinctively different from other in the group. I was writing speculative poetry, though I didn’t yet have at name for it. It was not until the late seventies that I connected with Robert Frazier and his magazine The Anthology of Speculative Poetry, and through Bob the Science Fiction Poetry Association, that I discovered fellow writers who were mining the same imaginative vein that I was in poetry.

Poetry and fiction both employ the medium of language. Anything that enhances one’s language skills is going to enhance both, and seriously practicing the craft of poetry certainly enhances one’s language skills: brevity, the perfect word for the line (or sentence), symbolism, assonance and dissonance, rhythm, flow, etc. I generally read poems aloud at some point while composing them, and for certain passages in fiction, I do the same thing.

John: If there is such a thing as a typical writing day, please share your process with us. If the process is unique each time you write, then could you share the triggers of inspiration?

Bruce: There is no typical writing day unless I am working on something long: a novel, a long story, or a very long poem. Then I write first thing in the morning and try to put in four or five hours at it, sometimes returning to it for another hour or two later in the day. If I am writing shorter poems or flash fictions there is no schedule. I write when the spirit moves me, sometimes not writing for weeks at a time. A thirty-line poem may percolate for days or even months, changing a little and becoming more polished each time I return to it, until I feel it is complete and ready to submit for publication.

John: In a recent and fascinating article posted in The Guardian (http://www.theguardian.com/science/2013/oct/05/daily-rituals-creative-minds-mason-currey), Oliver Burkeman reviews the book “Daily Rituals: How Great Minds Make Time, Find Inspiration And Get To Work” by Mason Currey. We learn six lessons from history’s most creative minds; one of them is the practice of “strategic substance abuse.” I think many of us are familiar with Edgar Allen Poe and his indulgence to alcohol, or Calvin Coleridge, and his to cocaine, when they created some of the finest speculative fiction or poetry in history. And though hardly abusive, I do enjoy a glass or two of dry red wine when I create poetry (or write interviews. LOL). So tell us if your experiences support Currey’s thesis.

Bruce: Very much so, though I think I’d refer to it as “use” rather than “abuse.” I’ve consumed a large quantity and variety of mind-altering substances in my life. When the mind is in an altered state one’s imagination can be stimulated and you are more likely to travel mental byways that lead to ideas and perceptions you would have never experienced otherwise. Thus the ingestion of certain substances can contribute to one’s creativity and imagination, just as your glass or two of wine does for you. However, I believe abuse of such substances is detrimental to both creativity and one’s health. And I don’t write final drafts of either poems or stories in a mind-altered state. That’s where the craft of writing comes in.

John: You close your recent collection, Dark Roads, with “Thirteen Ways of Looking at and through Hashish.” Its clever final lines might elucidate what we’ve talked about in the previous question.

“Tendrils of illumination
Cling to my thoughts,
Trailing in my wake,
Puzzling to those
Whose paths I cross,
Those ever immersed
In the dull endurance
Of their daily tasks,
Without illusions,
Without perception
Of what lies beyond
The stolid borders
Of the everyday,
Insensate and
Unable to travel
In the domains
Of space and time
And consciousness.”

Bruce: Actually, I think the whole twenty-page poem does. But please note that the poem as a whole portrays not only the positive but the negative aspects of mind-altering chemicals.

John: This, of course, is a good segue into your latest collection. I’ve had the pleasure of reading Dark Roads: Selected Long Poems/1971-2012 (Dark Renaissance Press 2013). Thirty one poems span over the 156 pages. Share with us what you’d like your potential readers to know about this fine collection. (And of course, tell us how we can purchase it.)

Bruce: Dark Regions Press published a retrospective collection of my work in 1995 – Sensuous Debris: Selected Poems 1970-1995. Since nearly twenty years had transpired since that book, and more than forty since I began writing speculative poetry, I thought it was time for another retrospective collection covering my entire career as a speculative poet. However, when I began to assemble it I realized that if I included all my own favorites poems along with those readers had single out, I would be looking at a three-hundred-page collection, which seems to me excessive for a book of poetry. Therefore, I first decided to limit the book to long poems, all those fifty lines or over. And next, since I’ve been working more in the horror field than science fiction for the last dozen or so years, I decided to limit it to dark poems.

You can purchase the regular trade paper edition of Dark Roads at Amazon, the signed limited trade paper at Dark Renaissance Books and Dark Regions Press, and the signed, limited hardcover edition at Bad Moon Books, Camelot Books, and Ziesing Books.

John: The illustrations by M. Wayne Miller in Dark Roads are remarkable. Your wife, Marge Simon, is also a notable poet and artist, whose artwork is fascinating, too, and she is quite skilled at ekphrasis—one art form complementing another (a fair way of defining it).

So, in general, how do you collaborate with Marge, and what advice can you give other writers collaborating with their counterparts?

Bruce: Joe Morey at Dark Renaissance Books selected Wayne Miller to illustrate Dark Roads, and I couldn’t have been more pleased, particularly once I saw the work he produced for the book.

Marge and I have collaborated in several different ways and forms. Marge has illustrated several of my collections, which is a kind of collaboration since her art was in response to specific poems. We have also collaborated on cartoons, Marge’s art along with ideas that I came up with or we did together. However, most of our collaborations have been with poetry and flash fiction. This generally happens when Marge is stalled on a piece and I contribute some ideas and lines that get it moving again. Then we pass it back and forth until it feels finished and we are both satisfied with it.

As far as advice for couples or any writers collaborating: 1) If your styles of writing are too disparate, don’t try it; 2) Have a clear idea of what you are trying to accomplish with a particular poem or story, and make sure you agree on it. 3) Never collaborate unless you are both enthusiastic about it.

John: We are delighted to reprint or publish for the first time some of your poems in this issue: “Living in a World Of Giants,” “For Spacers Snarled in the Hair of Comets” (Asimov’s SF Magazine, April 1984 and 1985 Rhysling Award winner), “Visions of the Blue Clone” (Shades Fantastic, 2006), and “The City and the Stars” (The Pedestal Magazine, 2002). Would you care to give the genesis of each of these poems and/or any interesting anecdote concerning them?

Bruce: Not sure about the genesis of each poem, but I can say something about each:

“Living in a World of Giants” – Modern science, despite it’s many wonderful practical achievements that have given us a living standard superior to kings of a hundred years ago, remains totally impotent regarding one important aspect of our daily lives.

“For Spacers Snarled in the Hair of Comets” – This one was written thirty years ago, and I don’t remember what prompted it. It’s a mix of science fiction imagery and surreal imagery. The “spacers” of the title can be interpreted literally as far future space travelers, or metaphorically as anyone who has lost their way and is struggling with life’s complications.

Visions-of-the-Blue-Clone_50 “Visions of the Blue Clone” – This is an ekphrastic poem based on my own art. In some early version of Windows there was a free graphics program included called Picture It. I started playing around with it as a recreation, taking photographs and other images and manipulating and changing them. By taking an old photo of Marge, I created the image below. This consequently inspired the poem, which portrays the aspects of a developing relationship using a biblical metaphor.

“The City and the Stars” – The title of the poem is taken from an early Arthur C. Clarke novel where the last surviving humans live in a huge enclosed arcology on a barren Earth. They have forgotten about the stars completely and lost their aspirations to reach them. I took the same idea and compared it to humans living in a contemporary city. This is one of the poems that stands on the borderline between speculative and mainstream, and it first appeared in a literary magazine, not a speculative publication.

John: What projects do you have on the near and far horizons?

Bruce: For the first time in many years, I’m project-less at the moment. I could put together a retrospective collection of my shorter poems, or an entirely new collection of previously uncollected poems. But the book market is so glutted these days by indie and small press books, and ebooks, often offered for free, that it seems like a fruitless endeavor. Though I will be continuing to submit new poetry and fiction to magazines and anthologies.

John: Thank you

Bruce: Thanks for having me. I hope your readers enjoy the poems.

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry, Main Features, Poetry

Living in a World of Giants

Bruce Boston

living-in-a-world-of-giants

When the Giants come
striding across our borders,
indifferent to our predictions,
immune to the ingenuity
of our finest technologies,
showing no mercy or regret,
we are helpless before them.

The Giant Wind roars
with irresistible force,
crushing trees and houses,
leaving us without power
in the depth of night

The Giant Rain beats
steadily against the land,
swelling rivers beyond
their banks, flooding
our towns and our lives.

Earth, the greatest Giant
of them all, shakes violently,
toppling buildings and skyways,
sending towering mountains
of ocean rushing against
our shores to raze and
decimate entire cities.

Time and again these Giants
rage through our world,
having their way with us,
indifferent to our forecasts,
immune to the gimmicks
of our human technologies,
showing no pity or remorse,
making sure we remember
how circumstantial we are.

Bruce Boston lives in Ocala, Florida, with his wife, writer-artist Marge Simon, and the ghosts of two cats. He is the author of fifty books and chapbooks, including the novels The Guardener’s Tale and Stained Glass Rain. His writing has appeared in countless publications, most visibly in Asimov’s SF Magazine, Amazing Stories, Weird Tales, Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, and The Nebula Awards Showcase. One of the leading genre poets for more than a quarter century, Boston has won the Bram Stoker Award for Poetry, the Asimov’s Readers Award, and the Rhysling Award (SFPA), each a record number of times. He has also received a Pushcart Prize for fiction and the Grandmaster Award of the SFPA. He will be Poet Guest of Honor at the 2013 Bram Stoker Awards/World Horror Con to be held in New Orleans. For more information visit www.bruceboston.com.

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Main Features, Poetry

For Spacers Snarled in the Hair of Comets

Bruce Boston

If you’ve heard the stellar vox humana
the untuned ear takes for static,

if you’ve kissed the burning eyelids
of god and seized upon the moon’s

reflection, disjointed and backwards,
in the choppy ink of some alien sea,

then you know how sleek and fleshy,
how treacherous, the stars can become.

While the universe falls with no boundary,
you and I sit in a cafe of a port city

on a planet whose name we’ve forgotten:
the vacuum is behind us and before us,

the spiced ale is cool and hallucinogenic.
Already the candle sparkles in our plates.

(First appeared in Asimov’s SF Magazine, April 1984, Rhysling Award 1985)

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry, Main Features, Poetry

The City and The Stars

Bruce Boston

The city is there regardless,
enormous in its conceit,
blank as the stare of a beggar,
hard as a skyscraper’s teeth.

The city is full of power.
Claim it with credit or cash.
Electrons racing to midnight.
Engines igniting the past.

The city is always laughing
at those it harbors and shuns.
The city is rich as a bakery,
thin as a trail of blood.

The city is small as an insect,
immense as the life it contains,
adrift in space like a beacon,
devoured by time and decay.

The city is very terrestrial,
dark and light as it comes.
Stars are strictly for backdrop,
eclipsed by the neon suns.

(First appeared in The Pedestal Magazine #11, 2002)

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry, Main Features, Poetry

Visions of the Blue Clone

Bruce Boston

The first of her
came to me on the first night.
She was a woman of mystery
who sang the blues.

The second of her
came to me on the second night.
She had a history
like no other.

The third of her
came to me on the third night.
She was bright and cheery
and full with the fire
that makes life.

The fourth of her
came to me on the fourth night.
The fire was catastrophic.
The blue rains came down
and our wooden ark settled
on a rocky promontory.

The fifth of her
came to me on the fifth night.
We embraced as lovers,
like eagles in an aerie
far above the drenched desert

The sixth of her
came to me on the sixth night.
We entered the star ways
and jaunted faster than light
to her blue sun.

On the seventh night
the six plus one of us rested,
lying between cool sheets
fashioned from the blue
universe of our flesh.

(First appeared in the author’s collection Shades Fantastic, 2006)

Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Introductions, Issue 18, Main Features, Poetry

Introduction to Silver Blade Poetry Issue 18

Welcome to Issue 18. Though there is no Featured Poet in this issue, we still bring a full complement of speculative poems written by six excellent poets, as well as by your poetry editor. We are proud to publish so many established voices in this issue (and we often publish new and emergent ones alongside them). As usual, the poems are ordered according to content and mood, rather than by contributor names.

The opening poem, “The Music of the Stars” by Bruce Boston, is the winner in the 2013 Maryland Regional Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention (see Balticon 47, http://www.balticon.org/) poetry contest. It is a pensive psalm-like homage to the stars. The wonderful chant of that poem sets us up for another invocation, of sorts. “A Prayer on Ganymede” by John Grey, is layered with textures of irony and satire.

There are many ways in which mankind can examine himself. In “Eye for an Eye,” Laura Madeline Wiseman does it through the eyes of Martians. Her pieces are often humorous, but in this case, it is sobering and poignant. (Recently accepted for publication, both of Wiseman’s Martian poems will be available in her chapbook, Stranger Still, and in her full-length book American Galactic.)

Astronomy-related poetry is much more than poetic descriptions of heavenly objects, or the simple wonderment of “Who’s out there?” and of imagined encounters; nor are the sun, the moon, the planets and the stars, also, mere backdrops or clichéd mood settings, though all of these things are worth exploring. Rather, more often in a successful literary poem, astronomy might provide metaphors for the human condition, as we might see in Wiseman’s poem and others, including Dawnell Harrison’s poem, “A Wintry Fever.” It is short, but piercing.

Though we had a wonderful transitioning piece, the contributor could not be contacted, so I will act as the bridge. “Alien Ants Invade the Waffle House” by John C. Mannone, has a little humor as the title might suggest, but there is a serious subtext in this narrative flash poem.

The final two poems are imbued with fantastical elements accented with spiritual tones. “The Elixir” by Sandy Hiortdahl, is a narrative poem in a fine storytelling tradition. (Incidentally, her doctoral dissertation was on Gardner’s Grendel as a reinvention of Beowulf; she even learned Anglo Saxon so she could do it right). And “Milk Witch” by John Zaharick, another narrative poem, which is infused with unusual images, surprises, and literary depth, closes the selection.

Please enjoy this collection of poems (that straddle many aspects of literary speculative poetry), the complementing images, and mp3 voice recordings (when available).

Sincerely,
John C. Mannone
Poetry Editor

The Line-up

1	Bruce Boston	The Music of the Stars (reprint)
2	John Grey	A Prayer on Ganymede
3	Laura Madeline Wiseman	Eye for an Eye
4	Dawnell Harrison	A Wintry Fever
5	John C. Mannone	Alien Ants Invade the Waffle House
6	Sandy Hiortdahl	The Elixir
7	John Zaharick	Milk Witch

Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

Level 7

A breach warning blared from Level 10. Thirty-two minutes later and Goncalves hadn’t heard from Junior on 10 or Iglesias on 9. He reviewed the portals between his level and Level 8. Everything was secure, but the breach in Level 10 concerned him.

His communicator chimed.

“Level 7, Level 8 reporting a breach in portal 1-2-8,” Henry said. “Intruder has cleared and disabled Levels 10 and 9. Recommend you—.” The communication ended.

BANG

Goncalves jumped at the sound. Something hit portal 2-4-3 between Level 7 and, Level 8. He poked at his communicator, fumbling and hitting Level 9. A screech echoed through the halls before he keyed in the correct code.

“Level 8, report! What is the status of the intruder?”

No reply. Goncalves turned away from the mic. He would have to enable the defense protocols on Level 7 and warn Fredricks on 6.

BANG

The portal shook against the attack.

Goncalves began opening the communication line for Level 6. Before he could finish, the communicator crackled and spat:

“Goncalves,” Henry said. His voice was broken and weak from the intruder’s corruption. “Recommend… seal portals to Level 6. Warn them.”

He didn’t waste time replying, and instead began the work of sealing himself in. Nothing would exit Level 7.

The noise continued as Goncalves worked. The intruder dug its way in, focused on portal 2-4-3.

Sealing this one portal would buy him some time, but leave the rest of the portals vulnerable.

It will have to do. The intruder had been on 2-4-3 the entire time. It must be single threaded. That made sense. Devoting all of its energy to one location allowed a smaller package to infiltrate a thicker defense.

He initialized the level 7-side seal on the portal, just as the doorway began to split. Green light poured through the crack. A flash of blue and red sent him flying backwards as the intruder encountered the rising Level 7-side shield.

This one is strong. The shock had disoriented him.

BANG

He jumped up and headed for the Level 6 portals. They must be sealed and the others warned.

“Level 6, this is Level 7 reporting,” Goncalves said.

“Go ahead Level 7,” Fredricks replied.

“Intruder has breached Levels 10 through 8. Breach of Level 7 is imminent. I have initiated Level 7 defense protocols and will begin hard sealing portals 3-0-0 through 3-5-4. Recommend you seal your end and prepare for possible breach.”

“Understood, Level 7. Level 6 is beginning lockdown procedures. Good luck.”

The noise from the Level 8 barrier grew as the intruder’s attack intensified. Goncalves made it halfway, sealing portal 3-2-6 before a bone-jarring explosion ripped through Level 7. The shock knocked him across the corridor, slamming him into the opposite wall.

A monstrous cry echoed through the halls of Level 7 as the intruder broke through the barrier. The thudding of the monster’s footsteps brought Goncalves to his senses. He shook his head and blinked to clear his vision.

There wasn’t enough time to seal the remaining portals. He would have to hold the corridor here, trusting Fredricks to seal the portals from Level 6. He powered up his wrist interface and entered his password. The emergency J-Arc Defense System began its loading procedure.

Level 7 darkened as power was diverted. Goncalves looked in wonder at his left hand: it faded away, exposing a cannon-like hole at the end of his wrist. Blue bolts of energy jumped from the walls, feeding into the interface on his left arm. Data flowed through him as the J-Arc instructions were loaded into his memory. He looked down the way he had come. The hall glowed green as the intruder turned into the Level 6 barrier corridor.

He stood up and ran toward the beast: a massive fury of tangled green and white electricity. He reached his left arm up, sighted down his forearm and relaxed his mind.

The intruder roared when Goncalves charged down the corridor. A green tentacle blasted toward him, accompanying the beast’s cry. Before the green light could reach him, Goncalves stopped. A wave of blue light erupted from his arm, meeting the intruder’s attack like a shield. The shock of the impact numbed his left arm, forcing him to support it with his right.

The last lights blinked out as more and more energy shifted into Goncalves, increasing his available power. He felt the intruder’s attack give. Groaning against the strain, he stepped forward. The light in the corridor — now supplied only by the crackling, spiked green-and-blue energy of the battle — flashed with a blinding strobe effect. Electricity arced away from the joined beams, exploding tiles from the walls and ceiling.

Feeling returned to Goncalves’s left arm, freeing his right to use his wrist interface. He began powering down the shield walls between levels 7 and 6. Each lowered shield increased the flow of energy into his arm, pushing him closer to the intruder. He advanced on the green-and-white monster, himself now ablaze with blue electricity flowing from the walls. He knew his own systems had well exceeded their voltage parameters. He smiled as he met the intruder.

“You have encountered a fatal error,” he said.

A flash of light filled Level 7, then darkness.

*****

Level 6 reporting, platform secure. Intruder has been neutralized at Level 7. Please replace security modules 7 through 10.

Joan smiled at the text on her screen.

Lucky number seven.

Those damn Eastern European virus coders were good. The Green-Worm had been wrecking systems for months, but she had found a way to stop it.

The J-Arc System was a sacrificial module. It isolated and neutralized any threat beyond the capabilities of the standard systems, burning itself out in the process. It was a fail-safe against unknown and powerful new bugs. Joan had designed it herself.

She liked to imagine that this was all a big game they played: the hackers versus the security developers; the space marines versus the aliens. The constant back and forth kept them all happily employed.

Joan looked down at the time on her screen: 8:32pm. She ran her hands through her hair and groaned. Anticipating the evening’s success, she had planned to stay late — but not this late.

Looks like it’s Chinese for dinner again.

She locked her terminal, stood, and stretched.

Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

The Trial of Bernadette Fabrique

Historians in their infinite hindsight love to imagine what it might’ve been like sitting in that courtroom. Nostalgia gives them the opportunity to speculate on the accusations and tearful testimony, discreetly trimming away less passionate portions. Yet that spring lost in a whirlwind of Parisian law deserves to be remembered fully. The entire life of Bernadette Fabrique — not just her trial — deserves to be remembered.

Mlle. Fabrique’s girlhood was spent comfortably, despite what conventional wisdom insists. Her governess wasn’t abusive, her walks through the city were always chaperoned, and her behavior during social events was impeccable. The fact that at sixteen she was kidnapped from her bed by a mutant beast gestated in an undersea laboratory which took her skin and assumed her life, mattered only to the former Bernadette Fabrique. Nobody noticed the difference, and destiny continued its dreamlike course.

When she came of age to be courted, innumerable suitors emerged. All were educated, and none were psychopaths or perverts, no matter what scandals the disreputable newspapers of the time concocted. Among the gentlemen who sought Mlle. Fabrique’s favor, Louis Gagnon came the closest when he invited her to a performance of Massenet’s Manon. It has been speculated that if their dalliance had lasted past intermission, they might one day have married; the fact remains that it didn’t. Perhaps M. Gagnon leaned in for a kiss. He may have said something salacious. What provoked the incident is lost, but none dispute that Mlle. Fabrique responded by shedding her human costume, rising to her full height with fangs bared, and chasing Louis Gagnon through the Opera-Comique until five battalions of police managed to restrain her just as she cornered him on the roof.

What followed became the decade’s greatest miscarriage of justice. Barely allowed to retrieve her skin, Mlle. Fabrique was paraded through the court as a fiend. Women fought to claim seats in the gallery merely for a chance to faint at the sight of the accused. In addition to the Opera-Comique’s extensive damage, charges were brought against Mlle. Fabrique for the injuries suffered by M. Gagnon, despite the fact that she didn’t actually catch him.

The name and record of this young woman would inevitably be ruined no matter what decision the jury returned. How could such a fair beauty return to her roseate life after being described as “A monstrosity without remorse, built by corrupted minds for the explicit purpose of destruction”? Prosecutors chose to dwell on the havoc of a lone incident, ignoring years of demure behavior that preceded it. For the crime of being an independent woman, and also an amphibious, eight-limbed creature, Bernadette Fabrique bore her torment with saintly patience.

And after dozens of witnesses, a prosecution hell-bent on character assassination, and the moving, if superficial testimony of M. Gagnon shortly before he lapsed into a presumably unrelated coma, it’s understandable that the jury was compelled to declare Mlle. Fabrique guilty on all counts. The defendant’s decision to pounce at the jury, sending a packed courtroom fleeing is equally understandable. Obviously, Mlle. Fabrique had no right to bear society’s scorn, nor should she have been held responsible for the carnage that followed the reading of her verdict. Who could blame someone facing execution for tearing the city apart building by building? If anything, it’s astounding that this young woman had the strength to rip through masonry that withstood centuries. Is it so unfair that Paris had to crumble in order to afford Mlle. Fabrique the chance to vent her frustration?

Bernadette Fabrique was a complex person, like countless others who grew up in an era with no tolerance for spirited souls. Her escape and subsequent rampage have yet to overshadow the example she left behind. Louis Gagnon never awoke from his coma, though he must have been remorseful for the part he played in her defamation. The Opera-Comique was rebuilt along with the rest of Paris, and the world moved on.

Strangely enough, Bernadette’s parents claimed that one morning, years after their daughter’s departure, a parcel was left at the front door. Carefully folded inside was Mlle. Fabrique’s skin, pristine and unblemished. The authorities denied ever bringing such a package to the Fabrique estate.

Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

Kuiper Court

“Welcome to the United Worlds Judicature. Kuiper Courts of Health are administered and regulated by the Solarian laws of the Ministry of Health and Longevity. Please note that all our sessions are recorded and may be accessed by the allocated attorneys in your trial.”

I stared quietly at the hologram of the young woman standing in front of me. She didn’t look old enough to be conducting a hearing. She was dressed more like a sales representative than an adjudicator: a sharply ironed white shirt, and a tight grey skirt skimming her knees. Even the golden stripes on her collar failed to convey authority; they were more like stylish accessories on her.

I felt irritated by the Ministry adopting a youthful image in every possible department. A ministry wasn’t supposed to act like an advertising agency; it was an administrative body.

As the holographic lady glowed, the room revealed itself. Its decor was certainly not suited to legal affairs. The only pieces of furniture I could see were a long metal desk like an operating table, and a rigid, uncomfortable-looking metal chair with a short back.

The hologram-lady spoke again, with excellent human intonation. “Please state your full name, along with your title.”

“Doctor—” I said, and stopped. I cleared my throat and started again, trying to sound as authoritative as I could. “Doctor Torren Ronin.”

The hologram-lady’s expression remained flat. I doubted if she realised who I was. Perhaps she hadn’t yet been updated with the latest news. I was quite sure that she was capable of expressing emotions—even half-a-century-old holograms were.

She looked like a recent upgrade—I knew the rule of thumb was the newer the model, the more details. I could see a small scar on her left eyebrow—as if she could ever cut herself—and I could even hear this particular upgrade taking a short breath before she spoke. It was worrying how holograms were becoming more and more human.

Apart from the glow, there weren’t any other obvious giveaways that she wasn’t a real human. Maybe her skin and hair…she was a bit too pallid, and even though she had dark brown hair, it was rather lustreless. Perhaps that’s why all the holograms dressed in shades of grey: if they were to wear vivid colours, their pale features would stand out even more.

“Please state how you would prefer to be addressed,” she said.

“Doctor Ronin,” I replied.

“Doctor Ronin, my name is Sheeran Hund. I’m a Category-M Class-B judiciary conductor. I specialise in handling cases in conjunction with the Human Lifespan Law.”

I recognised the hint of warning in her voice. She was reminding me that she was highly trained in medicine as well as law, so I wouldn’t be able to get away with any medical subterfuge.

“Please look at the white dot on your left for an iris scan, Doctor Ronin.”

I waited for the holographic dot to appear on my left, reminding myself that the Ministry of Health was more concerned about the safety of their systems than speed. When it did finally pop out, I stared at it, as still as the hologram-lady herself.

With an affirmative beep, my iris scan was confirmed.

“Now please direct your wrist towards the same dot for your i-code scan.”

I reached down to my lab coat to unbutton it. My generation didn’t have their i-codes lasered onto their wrists, but rather onto their neck; mine was closer to my collar bone. I was proud of having my i-code where it was—it meant that I was one of the last to be ‘born’ into this world. I wasn’t conceived in a lab with a permission slip issued in my parents’ names. I hadn’t spent the first nine months of my life in a minute incubator. I was born—just like our ancestors had been for all those millennia.

But I was surprised to see that I wasn’t wearing my lab coat as usual. Instead I had apparently put on a white shirt and some grey trousers—which I couldn’t even remember owning. There was no point wasting time pondering any longer. I opened my shirt collar and turned to the holographic dot on my left. A green laser sliced the darkness in two and scanned my i-code.

I knew that my identification had been confirmed after another affirmative beep. The holographic dot vanished into thin air, quicker than it had appeared.

“Thank you, Doctor Ronin,” said Ms Hologram. She walked around the metal table and pulled out the only chair. She sat down. I couldn’t help but wince slightly: seeing holograms moving real objects always disturbed me.

“In accordance with the conditions provided by the Kuiper Courts of Health, you have the right to terminate this session any time you wish. You may do so by pressing the red button on your right armrest. Are you ready to proceed now?”

I nodded.

“Doctor Ronin, today we are here to clarify a fact brought to our attention by HRDS. The Healthcare Reporting and Delivery System has recorded 5.4 per cent of patients requiring emergency-level intervention within 14 days of using your services: that is 17 patients out of the 312 you have seen in the last month. Could you explain this figure, please?”

I was watching Ms Hologram’s left eyebrow. If that cut hadn’t been there, she would have looked flawless. I wondered if this was another strategy developed by the Ministry to make holograms even more human. If they were now including flaws in their design, were we to have uglier, older or crippled holograms soon?

Ms Hologram—or rather, Ms Hund, as they had named her—was probably older than me anyway. She undoubtedly had a longer lifespan than me. I questioned how fair it was on us humans to be questioned, taxed, fined and even arrested by computer software which we’d developed and which lived longer than us.

“Doctor Ronin? Do you have any comments?”

“Ms Hund.” I raised my voice. I was getting annoyed with her impatience. “I completed my medical training at the age of 20. For the last 17 years, I’ve been an active healthcare practitioner, a scientist and a lecturer. I’ve served on four different continents on this planet, always with an A-level achievement score. If you were to download the latest news, you would see my name as one of the winners of the prestigious Cornels Science Prize for Academic Excellence. I have dedicated my life to this cause, and I am planning to pursue the same route for the three remaining years of my life. Now, are you really accusing me of not caring enough for my patients?”

“I apologise, Doctor Ronin. Our concern is not of not caring enough—indeed, it is quite the opposite: we are worried about you caring too much.”

I was puzzled by her words. “What exactly are you trying to say, Ms Hund?”

She placed her fingers on the metal table carefully and looked at them one by one, as if she were counting facts in her head. “Doctor Ronin…’ She paused. ‘A doctor of experience would unquestionably know that some of these patients were to be admitted to the Quarantine Wards. Allow me to show you what I mean.”

A holographic screen appeared on my left, showing the data of one of my patients. Ms Hund read out loud, “R. Conas. Male. Age: 26. Medium level of inherited inclination for substance addiction and a high level of potential mood disorder. Medical history includes: inconsistent cardiovascular activity and a limited lung capacity due to an unspecified birth defect. Medical offences: smoking and livestock consumption. Past treatments have involved intense rehabilitation and Type-2 supplementation on a daily basis. Admitted to the Quarantine Wards four times. Taken into custody twice. Jailed once, because of tobacco possession. He was released on probation and scheduled to see you on a weekly basis. However, you, Doctor…issued this patient a Green Medical Pass after his first visit.”

“I had to,” I said. “Mr Conas’s older sister was due her Last Sleep. She was his only living relative. I issued Mr Conas with a temporary Green Pass for him to visit his sister. Without the pass, he wouldn’t have been able to travel to another Solarian province.”

“Doctor Ronin, I can empathise with your concern for Mr Conas’s circumstances—however, you must be aware of the regulations against such procedures. Solarian Law article 1747 section 1-b specifies that no Green Medical Cards are to be issued to any patient unless that patient has had a clean track record for three months.”

“I’m certainly aware of the Healthcare Law, Ms Hund. In this particular case, there was an exemption clause that covered Mr Conas’ circumstances.”

“May I ask which clause that was?”

“Legislation 79118/5: Mr Conas has less than three months to live.”

Ms Hund rapidly scanned the data which began to flow across the holographic screen on my left. “Our records state that Mr Conas has three years, eleven days and five hours before his Last Sleep.”

“Then you must update your records more often. Mr Conas has a lung defect which will cause his demise earlier.”

“Doctor Ronin, can you please confirm that you have submitted this information to HRDS?”

“I should have done that, Ms Hund, but as you know, we practitioners have the flexibility to report within 7 days if we’re working away from the office—and that’s what I’ve been doing for the last week.”

I took pleasure in watching Ms Hologram express a human emotion for the first time: frustration.

She continued, irritated, “Doctor Ronin, I hope you understand that you cannot use the same excuse for 17 cases.”

“Yes, I do understand that.”

“Well, Doctor, you don’t leave us with any other option. I will have to refer your case to the FYS Judgement Team.”

“Ms Hund,” I snapped, “this case—or any other such case you might bring up—has no link to FYS in any way.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I believe there is enough evidence here to start an FYS investigation. It is a common problem, especially in the medical profession. Dealing with your own kind’s weaknesses and short lifespan from one day to another will almost inevitably affect your own mental state.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Then can you explain why you rejected your own Retirement Plan, Doctor Ronin?”

“That has nothing to do with this case, or FYS.”

“It has a lot to do with FYS, Doctor. It is a fact that 87 per cent of doctors who have been diagnosed with FYS reject their Retirement Plans.”

“I was born on this planet, Ms Hund! Do you know what that means? I was born—conceived—here, and I have spent all my life working on this planet, serving my own race. I would rather lose five years of my life and die here, at home, than meet my end rotting on another planet full of ghostly holograms or mucus-leaking humanoids. You cannot use my personal choice of where I’d like to die as evidence for the existence of a made-up illness. Final Years Syndrome is a disorder invented solely to retire humans who are fed up with handing their own race over to non-existent creatures like you! I refuse to be a part of this screwed-up system—and that is why I rejected my so-called Retirement Plan. It’s we who created you, Ms Hund—and yes, we are the same race who ruined this planet in the process! We don’t have the resources to support ourselves anymore, so what do we do? We put our own race to sleep at the age of 40 so that our children can also enjoy life for 40 years—and, yes, God damn it, we don’t or can’t touch you, because you don’t consume any of our precious resources, because you cost less and serve well! But may I remind you, Ms Hund, you owe your nonexistent existence to humans like me!”

“And I would like to remind you, Doctor Ronin, that my ‘nonexistent existence’ will survive beyond your grandchildren’s existence,” she said, and turned towards the holographic screen floating on my left. “Decision made: In accordance with Human Lifespan Act article 213449 section 8-f, I refer case number 847983 to the FYS Judgement Team—”

The screen was automatically typing everything she said. I heard alarms coming from every corner of the room. A male voice began to bark out a sentence again and again: Soundproofing has been cancelled. Soundproofing has been cancelled. Soundproofing has been cancelled.

I couldn’t bear it any longer. I pressed the red button on my chair.

“Congratulations, Ms Hund,” a male voice called.

I couldn’t see who was talking; my vision was blocked by a bulky headset. When I lifted the headset, I found myself in a completely different room. I looked around to remind myself of where I was; I was at the Simulation Lab. My consciousness had been switched with that of a defendant, so that I could see myself as the prosecutor. This was my second time taking the same test in the same simulator, but being in Doctor Ronin’s skin was a totally different experience. His vision helped me understand why I’d previously failed the test.

“Ms Hund?” called my senior, Mr Rame.

“Yes, Mr Rame. I’m with you,” I said, pulling the electrodes off my chest. I fastened the top two buttons of my shirt and placed the headset back onto its unit.

Mr Rame examined me with his coppery eyes. “You have some remarkable scores here, Ms Hund. You seem not only to experience anger in its human purity, but you also control it rather successfully. Your empathy levels are also worth a mention. However, there is one area that I think needs attention.”

“What is that, Mr Rame?”

He looked down for a moment, and then said, “I assume you know why you were asked to retake this test?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“You understand why you were given one of our most celebrated scientists’ templates as a skin? Doctor Ronin had a huge positive impact on humankind—indeed, some of his methods are still taught in medical institutions today.”

“Yes, sir, I know. I am honoured to have seen the world from such an influential human’s point of view.”

“You have also heard of Doctor Ronin’s notorious pride, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

He paused for a short while, as if contemplating how he should continue. “Your scores are almost impeccable, Ms Hund, but you must be careful when dealing with feelings of pride. It is not one of those positive human emotions that the Ministry accommodates. Your tendency towards pride was also highlighted in your previous result; that’s why you were asked to retake the test with Doctor Ronin’s template. We wanted to see how you handled this challenge.”

“I understand, sir,” I said. I fixed my eyes on a random spot on the floor. I waited quietly for his verdict.

“It’s important to relate to human emotions, Ms Hund, but it’s more important to remember that we’re civil servants with a lot of responsibility on our shoulders. Adopting the dark side of human nature can be highly destructive. Even though you’ve successfully handled a challenging skin in Doctor Ronin’s, I would advise you to be wary of your pride under all circumstances. I assume we understand each other.”

I nodded eagerly. I had detected the friendly tone of his voice.

“I guess I should offer you the first human handshake and welcome you as an official adjudicator for Kuiper Courts of United Worlds Judicature,” he said. “Welcome aboard!”

Published by Associate Editor on June 13, 2013. This item is listed in Issue 18, Main Features, Short Stories

In Excelsis

Department of the Exterior

Deep Space Division

Volunteer Captain’s Log – Supplemental and Psychological

Voice Recording Transcript

CT Satellite – Research

Crew 1/1

Dr. J. Sindhu

Day 224-236 2162

12 August

I am initiating FO-EMA protocol for multiple consecutive missed mandatory transmissions from the planet. No signal at all being received from Canes Turnbull. Log truncated to allow maximum speed of diagnosis and correction.

13 August

It has become clear that there is a significant problem with communication equipment; however I have been unsuccessful thus far in identifying the source of the problem. I am unable to verify the reception of any signal from anywhere on the surface, although I am able to confirm the successful reception and decoding of extra-solar signals when the array is reoriented. Despite the anxiety this causes I am going to rerun the initial test sequences and then attempt a first-hand physical examination of the array. Research logs still meet Mission standard, but they’re starting to lack some of the detail of earlier entries.

14 August

I have personally examined the Ku-band transmitter and photon entanglement transceiver array and the computer system as thoroughly as I am able. I have space-walked without radio contact, despite the insurance ramifications. I have reduced the allocation of energy to heating and have re-rationed all food and water. The current exposure tests have been paused; it is fortunate that this is possible at the current juncture.

15 August

It seems at this point more probable to both Harold and me that there is a problem on the ground. I have activated the distress beacon, set all of the systems to the most efficient levels I can endure, and at this time I anticipate . . . well, [laughter] probably death. I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t comfortable being alone. Wouldn’t have been chosen either, I guess. So I guess I’m not going to let it bother me unduly now.

16 August

The protocols that seemed so exhaustive and formidable back home no longer seem equal to the situation, in terms of gravity. Not gravity, but . . . severity. Mental gravity. The meditation regimen is becoming itself a source of vexation, and more errors have been identified in the research review than previously, making the additional work also frustrating. But what am I to do? It is resumed, anyway, all but the bombardment test, which Harold believes is the only one the minimum power draw will not support. We are lucky. We are not feeling so lucky!

18 August

I have consumed the entirety of the galley’s wine: this is the reason that I have missed a day. I am penitent but also believe this was inevitable. It is all gone now, except for the increased burden on the recycling system, and the last of the headache. Harold is certain that the current sustenance level, although lower than the minimum insurable amounts, will be sufficient for several weeks. I will consider the associated psychological challenges and remedies today.

19 August

There is no response to the distress beacon yet, and I am reasonably certain of isolated death. Humanity is unable or unwilling to contact me, and God is as silent as ever. I will begin to significantly decompose only weeks after my death, due to the low temperature and sealed environment. I anticipate continued indifference from the Lord. It is presumably too much to ask for a dust cloud to abruptly mince the station and myself.

20 August

I will shortly be space-walking blind, as it appears that will allow me to manually check on the dichroic mirror without taking too much of my remaining power. As long as the solar continues to hold I will have time until I run out of food, which I now estimate will be almost two more weeks. At this point I am forced to assume that something catastrophic has happened in or to the Canes Turnbull dome, and that my only hope of rescue is that a previously unscheduled inter-stellar voyage will arrive. Therefore I will also attempt to redeploy the old s-band array, which Harold has never actually used. Harold says he is looking forward to writing the new program. I say it will enable those stranded in the future to more quickly confirm their situation’s hopelessness. Harold says that is being negative.

<recording stops and resumes>

Guess what? The damned dichroic mirror is flawless! I might have believed the instruments. I blame Harold. [laughter]

The residents of CT are almost certainly not in contact because they have suffered. . . a mishap. They are dead. I can see the dome is still there, but that’s all. Not thinking about the people is easy. Well, I mean, I don’t find. . . no. It’s true. I’m long cried out anyway. What’s nagging me now is how far the loss of the labs will push back true mass interstellar shielding. Even if I could solve all the problems in this station’s mandate, colonial launch could be pushed back years. Years. Too long.

21 August

I have exhausted every possibility, and have no significant hope of contact. Trying to resign myself makes me . . . think back. I am thinking a lot about when they died. My love and my baby. Of course that’s why I’m here. I think of them as in – I think of their souls. Sometimes my soul. I am unable to consider rationally the problem of what to do with myself, and so have decided to dose myself with Biphenicylate and jettison my body into space. At least the waiting will be over.

<recording stops and resumes>

The following will be my suicide note: To humanity I leave this station’s work with all hope it will be useful. I hope for the residents of Canus settlement. I carry all of my love with me to my beloved angels.

22 August

It seems that Harold’s capacity to override his own override program is greater than I had been led to believe. I could never have imagined why a few days ago. I am now sitting in the lab eating a sandwich, regretting my hasty suicide note, and trying to decide what to do about it. What to do, I suppose, in general. Harold says ‘the work.’ I do believe the species can survive and make a new home if we can solve these problems. I suspect I have several more hours to think about it before I can walk again. The mental effects of Biphenicylate persist much longer than I had expected. My plan would have worked perfectly if not for Harold’s refusal to open the door.

<recording stops and resumes>

They asked several times during the screening process if I was coming out here to get away from my family’s tragedy. I said ‘partially.’ I said I knew I couldn’t get away. My wife and child and the accident will always be with me. But for a while, it wasn’t as much. Now I feel close to them. As they are now. We are almost all dead people. Except that I have a task.

23 August

Harold refuses to shut off the Q.E. transceiver, and the radio requires almost no power whatsoever, but all other communications equipment has been disarmed and even removed. Power is allocated to preserve essential lab function indefinitely, while maintaining my survival for as long as possible. This is my only option. It will be necessary for the continuance of the research for me to cope with my impending demise rationally. I will die in all likelihood between two and three weeks from now, and my corpse will remain here for some number of months, depending on the reason for my isolation. It is my goal to leave the research in a state in which Harold can continue to collect data after my death, and there is reason to believe that the exposure tests can be mostly completed, even without me. The small influence that the end of my life has on these samples may indeed represent a contribution to the ongoing improvement of humanity’s understanding of our physical reality. If I can reach through the vast emptiness of space far enough to brush the fingers of my fellow beings, then the remainder of my life can join my spirit closer to spirits of all life, and death can be my route to awe. All devotions made by a man, of anything he has, are most holy. Have we not expanded for all our breasts? Weighed down our backs? So verily, with every difficulty there is relief. Therefore, now I am free, I will labour hard, and to my task turn my attention. Mount me on your streamers and let me blow to nothingness with the rest.

24 August

This is anticipated to be the last entry by DRL Jonah Sindhu, Research Volunteer Captain, UNSAS 3401225. I will soon run out of food. The measurements will still be recorded in the appropriate tables, until such time as I am incapable of doing so. Life is short and science is long, but Harold is optimistic. Let us test and examine our ways, and return to the Lord! [laughter]