21st Century Science Fiction: The New Science Fiction Writers of the New Century Read online

  TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

  SCIENCE FICTION

  Edited by

  DAVID G. HARTWELL and

  PATRICK NIELSEN HAYDEN

  Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the US by Tor®, a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC., 2013

  First published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013

  Copyright © David G. Hartwell and Patrick Nielsen Hayden, 2013 (unless otherwise stated)

  The right of David G. Hartwell and Patrick Nielsen Hayden to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-242-2 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-438-9 (ebook)

  Printed and bound in the UK

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Cover design: mark-cavanagh.co.uk; Cover photo: Shutterstock

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “The Education of Junior Number 12” copyright © 2011 by Madeline Ashby

  “Strood” copyright © 2004 by Neal Asher

  “The Gambler” copyright © 2008 by Paolo Bacigalupi

  “Plotters and Shooters” copyright © 2007 by Kage Baker

  “The Waters of Meribah” copyright © 2003 by Tony Ballantyne

  “Tideline” copyright © 2007 by Elizabeth Bear. First published in Asimov’s, June 2007.

  “Toy Planes” copyright © 2005 by Tobias S. Buckell

  “Balancing Accounts” copyright © 2008 by James L. Cambias

  “Savant Songs” copyright © 2004 by Brenda Cooper. First published in Analog.

  “One of Our Bastards Is Missing” copyright © 2009 by Paul Cornell

  “Chicken Little” copyright © 2010 by Craphound, Ltd.

  “Erosion” copyright © 2009 by Ian Creasey

  “Second Person, Present Tense” copyright © 2005 by Daryl Gregory

  “Third Day Lights” copyright © 2005 by Alaya Dawn Johnson

  “The Prophet of Flores” copyright © 2007 by Ted Kosmatka

  “Evil Robot Monkey” copyright © 2008 by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “A Vector Alphabet of Interstellar Travel” copyright © 2011 by Yoon Ha Lee

  “Tk’Tk’Tk” copyright © 2006 by David D. Levine

  “The Calculus Plague” copyright © 2009 by Marissa Lingen

  “The Algorithms for Love” copyright © 2004 by Ken Liu

  “Finisterra” copyright © 2007 by David Moles

  “The Albian Message” copyright © 2005 by Oliver Morton

  “His Master’s Voice” copyright © 2008 by Hannu Rajaniemi

  “Bread and Bombs” copyright © 2003 by Mary Rickert

  “The Tale of the Wicked” copyright © 2009 by John Scalzi

  “To Hie from Far Cilenia” copyright © 2010 by Karl Schroeder

  “Infinities” copyright © 2009 by Vandana Singh

  “Rogue Farm” copyright © 2003 by Charles Stross.

  “Eros, Philia, Agape” copyright © 2009 by Rachel Swirsky

  “How to Become a Mars Overlord” copyright © 2010 by Catherynne M. Valente

  “The Nearest Thing” copyright © 2011 by Genevieve Valentine

  “Escape to Other Worlds with Science Fiction” copyright © 2009 by Jo Walton

  “The Island” copyright © 2009 by Peter Watts

  “Ikiryoh” copyright © 2005 by Liz Williams

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  INFINITIES • Vandana Singh

  ROGUE FARM • Charles Stross

  THE GAMBLER • Paolo Bacigalupi

  STROOD • Neal Asher

  EROS, PHILIA, AGAPE • Rachel Swirsky

  THE TALE OF THE WICKED • John Scalzi

  BREAD AND BOMBS • M. Rickert

  THE WATERS OF MERIBAH • Tony Ballantyne

  TK’TK’TK • David D. Levine

  THE NEAREST THING • Genevieve Valentine

  EROSION • Ian Creasey

  THE CALCULUS PLAGUE • Marissa Lingen

  ONE OF OUR BASTARDS IS MISSING • Paul Cornell

  TIDELINE • Elizabeth Bear

  FINISTERRA • David Moles

  EVIL ROBOT MONKEY • Mary Robinette Kowal

  THE EDUCATION OF JUNIOR NUMBER 12 • Madeline Ashby

  TOY PLANES • Tobias S. Buckell

  THE ALGORITHMS FOR LOVE • Ken Liu

  THE ALBIAN MESSAGE • Oliver Morton

  TO HIE FROM FAR CILENIA • Karl Schroeder

  SAVANT SONGS • Brenda Cooper

  IKIRYOH • Liz Williams

  THE PROPHET OF FLORES • Ted Kosmatka

  HOW TO BECOME A MARS OVERLORD • Catherynne M. Valente

  SECOND PERSON, PRESENT TENSE • Daryl Gregory

  THIRD DAY LIGHTS • Alaya Dawn Johnson

  BALANCING ACCOUNTS • James L. Cambias

  A VECTOR ALPHABET OF INTERSTELLAR TRAVEL • Yoon Ha Lee

  HIS MASTER’S VOICE • Hannu Rajaniemi

  PLOTTERS AND SHOOTERS • Kage Baker

  THE ISLAND • Peter Watts

  ESCAPE TO OTHER WORLDS WITH SCIENCE FICTION • Jo Walton

  CHICKEN LITTLE • Cory Doctorow

  PREFACE

  You hold in your hands an anthology of stories by what we believe are some of the best science fiction writers that came to prominence since the twentieth century changed into the twenty-first. That phrase “came to prominence” explains our approach. Many writers publish their first work long before they come to general attention. William Gibson exploded into the consciousness of science fiction, and then the world, with Neuromancer in 1984, but he had been publishing short fiction for years before that. Likewise, there are writers in this volume whose first stories appeared as early as the 1980s, but nobody in this book came to wide notice before 2000.

  The idea of an anthology showcasing the SF voices of the new century seemed like a natural project for the two of us. Our tastes are not identical, but we can fairly well agree on good writers and good stories. And we are both students of the history of SF without holding all the same opinions about it. Neither of us is especially interested in being genre policemen, dictating what is and isn’t proper SF. And yet, both of us emerge from the core SF audience of the twentieth century—the SF subculture, professional and fannish, that emerged from the earnest and urgent desire to defend and encourage quality SF in the face of a dominant culture that seemed to hold it in contempt. Decades later, many of the battles of those days have been won. Others have become irrelevant. One of the interesting things about the stories presented here is that they were written in a world in which SF,
far from being marginal, is a firmly established part of the cultural landscape.

  This took a long time, longer than we wanted. We had hoped to finish the book in 2010 and publish it in 2011 or 2012. But perhaps the wait has made it a better book, because we had more time to think it through. We are even more confident about our choices than we were three years ago. And we are reasonably certain that you will find much to enjoy, engage with, and argue over in the pages that follow.

  —D.G.H. & P.N.H.

  TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY SCIENCE FICTION

  VANDANA SINGH Born and raised in New Delhi, Vandana Singh now lives near Boston, where she teaches physics at a small state college. Her SF stories have been appearing in print since 2002. She has written of herself that “being a card-carrying alien writing science fiction is an interesting experience; my distance from my native shores necessarily affects what and how I write.”

  “Infinities” first appeared in her collection The Woman Who Thought She Was a Planet, published in India in 2008. Many of her stories are set in India, or in futures influenced by the traditional figures of Indian literature. She says, “Physics is a way of viewing the world, and it is one of my most important lenses. One of the most exciting things about science is that it reveals the subtext of the physical world. In other words, surface reality isn’t all there is; the world is full of hidden stories, connections, patterns, and the scientific as well as the literary and psychological aspects of this multi-textured reality are, to me, fascinating.” In this story about a man who loves mathematics, Singh manages to convey something quite rare, in our genre or out of it—an authentic sense of what paradigm-shattering mathematical insight feels like from the inside. She does so without flinching from the fact that, on the other side of eureka, the world remains the world.

  INFINITIES

  An equation means nothing to me unless it expresses a thought of God.

  —SRINIVASA RAMANUJAN, Indian mathematician (1887–1920)

  Abdul Karim is his name. He is a small, thin man, precise to the point of affectation in his appearance and manner. He walks very straight; there is gray in his hair and in his short, pointed beard. When he goes out of the house to buy vegetables, people on the street greet him respectfully. “Salaam, Master sahib,” they say, or “Namaste, Master Sahib,” according to the religion of the speaker. They know him as the mathematics master at the municipal school. He has been there so long that he sees the faces of his former students everywhere: the autorickshaw driver Ramdas who refuses to charge him, the man who sells paan from a shack at the street corner, with whom he has an account, who never reminds him when his payment is late—his name is Imran and he goes to the mosque far more regularly than Abdul Karim.

  They all know him, the kindly mathematics master, but he has his secrets. They know he lives in the old yellow house, where the plaster is flaking off in chunks to reveal the underlying brick. The windows of the house are hung with faded curtains that flutter tremulously in the breeze, giving passersby an occasional glimpse of his genteel poverty—the threadbare covers on the sofa, the wooden furniture as gaunt and lean and resigned as the rest of the house, waiting to fall into dust. The house is built in the old-fashioned way about a courtyard, which is paved with brick except for a circular omission where a great litchi tree grows. There is a high wall around the courtyard, and one door in it that leads to the patch of wilderness that was once a vegetable garden. But the hands that tended it—his mother’s hands—are no longer able to do more than hold a mouthful of rice between the tips of the fingers, tremblingly conveyed to the mouth. The mother sits nodding in the sun in the courtyard while the son goes about the house, dusting and cleaning as fastidiously as a woman. The master has two sons—one is in distant America, married to a gori bibi, a white woman—how unimaginable! He never comes home and writes only a few times a year. The wife writes cheery letters in English that the master reads carefully with finger under each word. She talks about his grandsons, about baseball (a form of cricket, apparently), about their plans to visit, which never materialize. Her letters are as incomprehensible to him as the thought that there might be aliens on Mars, but he senses a kindness, a reaching out, among the foreign words. His mother has refused to have anything to do with that woman.

  The other son has gone into business in Mumbai. He comes home rarely, but when he does he brings with him expensive things—a television set, an air-conditioner. The TV is draped reverently with an embroidered white cloth and dusted every day but the master can’t bring himself to turn it on. There is too much trouble in the world. The air-conditioner gives him asthma so he never turns it on, even in the searing heat of summer. His son is a mystery to him—his mother dotes on the boy but the master can’t help fearing that this young man has become a stranger, that he is involved in some shady business. The son always has a cell phone with him and is always calling nameless friends in Mumbai, bursting into cheery laughter, dropping his voice to a whisper, walking up and down the pathetically clean drawing-room as he speaks. Although he would never admit it to anybody other than Allah, Abdul Karim has the distinct impression that his son is waiting for him to die. He is always relieved when his son leaves.

  Still, these are domestic worries. What father does not worry about his children? Nobody would be particularly surprised to know that the quiet, kindly master of mathematics shares them also. What they don’t know is that he has a secret, an obsession, a passion that makes him different from them all. It is because of this, perhaps, that he seems always to be looking at something just beyond their field of vision, that he seems a little lost in the cruel, mundane world in which they live.

  He wants to see infinity.

  It is not strange for a mathematics master to be obsessed with numbers. But for Abdul Karim, numbers are the stepping stones, rungs in the ladder that will take him (Inshallah!) from the prosaic ugliness of the world to infinity.

  When he was a child he used to see things from the corners of his eyes. Shapes moving at the very edge of his field of vision. Haven’t we all felt that there was someone to our left or right, darting away when we turned our heads? In his childhood he had thought they were farishte, angelic beings keeping a watch over him. And he had felt secure, loved, nurtured by a great, benign, invisible presence.

  One day he asked his mother:

  “Why don’t the farishte stay and talk to me? Why do they run away when I turn my head?”

  Inexplicably to the child he had been, this innocent question led to visits to the Hakim. Abdul Karim had always been frightened of the Hakim’s shop, the walls of which were lined from top to bottom with old clocks. The clocks ticked and hummed and whirred while tea came in chipped glasses and there were questions about spirits and possessions, and bitter herbs were dispensed in antique bottles that looked as though they contained djinns. An amulet was given to the boy to wear around his neck; there were verses from the Qur’an he was to recite every day. The boy he had been sat at the edge of the worn velvet seat and trembled; after two weeks of treatment, when his mother asked him about the farishte, he had said:

  “They’re gone.”

  That was a lie.

  My theory stands as firm as a rock; every arrow directed against it will quickly return to the archer. How do I know this? Because I have studied it from all sides for many years; because I have examined all objections which have ever been made against the infinite numbers; and above all because I have followed its roots, so to speak, to the first infallible cause of all created things.

  —GEORG CANTOR, German mathematician (1845–1918)

  In a finite world, Abdul Karim ponders infinity. He has met infinities of various kinds in mathematics. If mathematics is the language of Nature, then it follows that there are infinities in the physical world around us as well. They confound us because we are such limited things. Our lives, our science, our religions are all smaller than the cosmos. Is the cosmos infinite? Perhaps. As far as we are concerned, it might as well be.
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  In mathematics there is the sequence of natural numbers, walking like small, determined soldiers into infinity. But there are less obvious infinities as well, as Abdul Karim knows. Draw a straight line, mark zero on one end and the number one at the other. How many numbers between zero and one? If you start counting now, you’ll still be counting when the universe ends, and you’ll be nowhere near one. In your journey from one end to the other you’ll encounter the rational numbers and the irrational numbers, most notably the transcendentals. The transcendental numbers are the most intriguing—you can’t generate them from integers by division, or by solving simple equations. Yet in the simple number line there are nearly impenetrable thickets of them; they are the densest, most numerous of all numbers. It is only when you take certain ratios like the circumference of a circle to its diameter, or add an infinite number of terms in a series, or negotiate the countless steps of infinite continued fractions, do these transcendental numbers emerge. The most famous of these is, of course, pi, 3.14159 . . . , where there is an infinity of non-repeating numbers after the decimal point. The transcendentals! Theirs is a universe richer in infinities than we can imagine.

  In finiteness—in that little stick of a number line—there is infinity. What a deep and beautiful concept, thinks Abdul Karim! Perhaps there are infinities in us too, universes of them.

  The prime numbers are another category that capture his imagination. The atoms of integer arithmetic, the select few that generate all other integers, as the letters of an alphabet generate all words. There are an infinite number of primes, as befits what he thinks of as God’s alphabet . . .

  How ineffably mysterious the primes are! They seem to occur at random in the sequence of numbers: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 . . . There is no way to predict the next number in the sequence without actually testing it. No formula that generates all the primes. And yet, there is a mysterious regularity in these numbers that has eluded the greatest mathematicians of the world. Glimpsed by Riemann, but as yet unproven, there are hints of order so deep, so profound, that it is as yet beyond us.