2014 Campbellian Anthology Page 2

  Short Story: “I’m the Lady of Good Times, She Said” ••••

  Short Story: “The Slipway Grey” ••••

  Michael J. Martinez

  Novel: The Daedalus Incident (excerpt) ••••

  Kate Maruyama

  Novel: Harrowgate (excerpt) ••••

  Samuel Marzioli

  Short Story: “A House in the Woods” ••••

  Short Story: “Midnight Visitors” ••••

  Short Story: “Burning Men” ••••

  Michael Matheson

  Short Story: “The Many Lives of the Xun Long” ••••

  Short Story: “Weary, Bone Deep” ••••

  Short Story: “The Last Summer” ••••

  Rich Matrunick

  Short Story: “Barren Sky” ••••

  Tim Maughan

  Novelette: “Limited Edition”

  Short Story: “Zero Hours” ••••

  Short Story: “Collision Detection” ••••

  Clint Morey

  Novel: The Outer Rims (excerpt) ••••

  John P. Murphy

  Flash: “Tumbleweeds and Indelicate Questions” ••••

  Flash: “At the Old Folks Home at the End of the World” ••••

  E.C. Myers

  Novel: Fair Coin (excerpt)

  Ramez Naam

  Novel: Nexus (excerpt) ••••

  Chrome Oxide

  Short Story: “Cop for a Day” ••••

  Shannon Peavey

  Novelette: “Scavengers” ••••

  Short Story: “Ghosts in the Walls” ••••

  Gary B. Phillips

  Short Story: “The Lady Electric” ••••

  Flash: “Enteral Feeding” ••••

  Trina Marie Phillips

  Novelette: “The War of Peace” ••••

  Sarah Pinsker

  Novelette: “In Joy, Knowing the Abyss Behind” ••••

  Jay Posey

  Novel: Three (excerpt) ••••

  Richard Ellis Preston, Jr.

  Novel: The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin: Romulus Buckle & the City of the Founders (excerpt) ••••

  Lissa Price

  Novel: Starters (excerpt)

  Short Story: “Portrait of a Spore”

  Dan Rabarts

  Short Story: “Waking the Taniwha” ••••

  Short Story: “The Crooked Mile” ••••

  Adam Rakunas

  Novelette: “Oh Give Me a Home” ••••

  Melanie Rees

  Flash: “Seven Sins”

  Short Story: “Virtually Human”

  Short Story: “The Dragon”

  Christopher Reynaga

  Novelette: “The Grande Complication” ••••

  Novelette: “Say Goodbye to the Little Girl Tree” ••••

  Anthony Ryan

  Novel: Blood Song: A Raven’s Shadow Novel (excerpt)

  Carlie St. George

  Short Story: “This Villain You Must Create” ••••

  Marcus Sakey

  Novel: Brilliance (excerpt) ••••

  Sofia Samatar

  Novel: A Stranger in Olondria (Being the Complete Memoirs of the Mystic, Jevick of Tyom) (excerpt) ••••

  Short Story: “Honey Bear”

  Short Story: “Selkie Stories Are for Losers” ••••

  Holly Schofield

  Short Story: “Graveyard Shift” ••••

  Short Story: “Hurry Up and Wait” ••••

  Erik B. Scott

  Flash: “The Exterminator” ••••

  Jason Sheehan

  Novel: A Private Little War (excerpt) ••••

  Frances Silversmith

  Short Story: “Online War” ••••

  Flash: “Finally Free” ••••

  Flash: “Were” ••••

  Jeremy Sim

  Short Story: “Fleep” ••••

  Short Story: “Addressing the Manticore” ••••

  Short Story: “Skybreak” ••••

  Stephen Sottong

  Novelette: “Planetary Scouts” ••••

  Flash: “Friends” ••••

  Benjanun Sriduangkaew

  Short Story: “Annex” ••••

  Short Story: “Vector” ••••

  Short Story: “Paya-nak” ••••

  John E. O. Stevens

  Short Story: “The Scorn of the Peregrinator”

  Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam

  Short Story: “The Wanderers” ••••

  Short Story: “The Siren” ••••

  Poem: “The Ferryman” ••••

  Tim Susman

  Short Story: “Erzulie Dantor”

  Flash: “Diamonds Are Forever” ••••

  Flash: “Goldeneye” ••••

  Bogi Takács

  Short Story: “Recordings of a More Personal Nature” ••••

  Flash: “The Tiny English-Hungarian Phrasebook for Visiting Extraterrestrials” ••••

  Short Story: “Mouse Choirs of the Old Mátra” ••••

  Grace Tang

  Flash: “Ghost in the Machine”

  Flash: “White Lies”

  Flash: “Man’s Best Friend”

  Brian Trent

  Short Story: “Sparg” ••••

  Short Story: “War Hero” ••••

  Short Story: “The Nightmare Lights of Mars” ••••

  Sabrina Vourvoulias

  Short Story: “Collateral Memory” ••••

  Gerald Warfield

  Novelette: “Spores of the Volcano” ••••

  Short Story: “Pageant for a Crazy Man” ••••

  Darusha Wehm

  Short Story: “The Care and Feeding of Mammalian Bipeds, V. 2.1”

  Short Story: “Modern Love”

  Short Story: “I Open My Eyes”

  Django Wexler

  Novelette: “The Penitent Damned” ••••

  Novel: The Thousand Names (excerpt) ••••

  John Zaharick

  Short Story: “Dysmorphic” ••••

  Short Story: “Ghost Gardening” ••••

  Short Story: “After the Kaiju Attack” ••••

  A LITTLE OVER a year ago, a small group of us had a crazy idea. “What if,” we said, “there was a way everyone eligible for the Campbell could publicize their work at the same time, so that readers might have some idea of who we are?”

  Now, I don’t recall every name who was part of the original discussion (I could check, but that would be work, and I’m plumb tuckered out after assembling this tome), although at some point I volunteered to oversee an anthology if the others would all agree to participate. That first volume had a very respectable showing, with 43 writers represented by a combined total of roughly 350,000 words.

  What a difference a year makes! The volume you now hold in your hands is considerably larger, and includes a multitude of works from 111 contributors, spanning more than 860,000 words. (Should anyone be curious, that exceeds the combined total in George R. R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords and A Dance with Dragons, which are—so far, at least!—the two longest volumes from A Song of Ice and Fire.)

  It is big. It is very big. And judging from this year’s response, next year’s volume will likely be larger.

  Now, any standard anthology introduction might interrupt itself at this point with some self-assured bluster about how much you, the reader, will enjoy every smidgen of the contents.

  You won’t. There will be some stories in this volume that you dislike, perhaps even strongly, and that’s okay. Every writer whose work is represented herein still accomplished something remarkable in attaining a specific level of publication, and by doing so earned a plac
e within these pages. I encourage you to investigate each and every one, but I make no promise about how you’ll feel about the stories that landed them here, or the works they elected to share.

  Here’s a secret: You don’t have to read this entire anthology for it to serve a purpose and be valuable to you. You’re allowed to skip around.

  So you’ve already spotted the next Adams, Butler, or Cherryh? Try the next Xue, Yolen, or Zelazny… or anything in between.

  A story lost you along the way, or did something you’ve already seen too many times? Try a different story, or a different excerpt, or even a different writer.

  There are a lot of words in this volume. I can’t tell you where to focus your attention; by agreeing to play host, I also agreed to remain impartial. That doesn’t mean I don’t have favorites (I do), but it means I ask you to decide upon your own.

  Here’s another secret: If you do read every word in this anthology, and investigate all the links for those currently known to be eligible, you’ll probably discover a new favorite. At least one. And if you do—if you, as a reader, connect with even a single new writer—then I will feel very, very good about this year’s installment of the Annual Campbellian Anthology.

  Now, go make a friend. Your writers are waiting.

  — M. David Blake, 27 January 2014

  Original 2013 introduction:

  WHY DOES THE John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer matter so much, anyway? It’s not as though we’ve ever had any shortage of new ones, after all. Writers are somewhat akin to coat hangers, in that you can always find one hanging around (and whatever they’re wearing is likely to be rumpled, which only adds to the illusion). If you aren’t a writer, the odds are good that you at least know a writer, or you know someone who thinks of her/himself as a writer, or who is nurturing the brilliant idea for a story that s/he’ll write someday.

  Here’s my hypothesis, which might be completely wrong, although it entertains me: John W. Campbell was a writer, but he was also an editor. He had all sorts of personal flaws, to be sure… but there was one thing that he did, perhaps more effectively than any before him ever managed. John W. Campbell discovered new writers.

  For a new writer, there’s nothing quite like the rush of that first acceptance letter. I know this from experience. So does everyone within this volume, and the writers whose stories you are about to read are all new enough for that memory to be fresh in their minds. It is the first outside validation many of us received, once we’d moved beyond the immediate circle of friends and family who could be counted upon as supportive readers. And until that first acceptance arrived, many of us secretly tormented ourselves with doubt about whether we were “real” writers, or merely pretenders.

  Writers can be very creative in coming up with reasons they haven’t been published.

  Having experienced both sides of the equation though, I’ve learned that there is another feeling that might be even better.

  It is an unbelievably powerful rush to be the editor who pulls an unassuming submission out of the slush pile, and realize that you have to be the one to accept the story, before you even finish it. When you’ve made such a discovery, as an editor, you yearn for more stories from that writer… because you can’t wait to learn whether s/he was just a shooting star, or a comet set to blaze across the sky for generations to come. And you hope with all your might for the comet.

  The John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer is different from the Hugo, or the Nebula, or the Locus Award, or any other recognition that singles out the written works themselves.

  It is different from the Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award, or the Author Emeritus, or any award that looks back at a writer’s distinguished career.

  The John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer is the single recognition in our field that allows everyone to experience the editorial thrill of searching for a comet. You get to look at all the sparkles in the sky, and gamble on the future.

  — M. David Blake, 1 February 2013

  What You Should Do Now: If you plan to nominate anyone—regardless of whether or not that individual chose to participate in the 2014 Campbellian Anthology—as a recipient of the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, please visit www.loncon3.org/memberships and purchase at least a “Supporting” membership. Doing so before will allow you to nominate for both the Campbell and Hugo Awards (if you register before 31 January 2014), receive the 2014 Hugo Voter Packet, and vote on the final ballot.

  Please Note (from the website): “Members of Loncon 3 who have an Attending, Young Adult Attending or Supporting membership by 31 January 2014 are eligible to nominate for the Hugo Awards and the Retro-Hugos. Equivalent members of LoneStarCon 3 (the 2013 Worldcon) and Sasquan (the 2015 Worldcon) at that date are also eligible to nominate.”

  Unless you are a member of one of those conventions by 31 January 2014, you will not be allowed to nominate… but you will still be allowed to enjoy the 2014 Campbellian Anthology.

  Ania Ahlborn became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of Seed (2012), from 47North.

  Visit her website at www.aniaahlborn.com.

  * * *

  Novel: Seed (excerpt)

  SEED

  (excerpt)

  by Ania Ahlborn

  First published as Seed (2012), by 47North

  • • • •

  Chapter One

  THE SATURN’S engine rattled like a penny in an old tin can. The car was a junker—its headlights pale and off-kilter. It was a temporary fix that had become a permanent mode of transportation. Jack had insisted that when they had the cash they’d buy themselves a pair of fancy wheels—a ride that had that new-car scent. And then Abby broke her arm. Charlie got bronchitis. Aimee needed a tooth filled. Years passed; that secondhand Saturn became their lifeline, but Jack refused to lose hope. He collected loose change in one of Aimee’s old Mason jars, squirreled away an extra dollar here and there. He worked extra hours at the boat shop, sweating through Southern summers that buzzed with the soothing hum of locusts. Now, after all that effort, they were only a month away from finally reaching that distant goal, and the idea of that shitcan Saturn rusting in the Louisiana bayou was enough to make Jack smirk as the engine rattled and coughed. The humor of it trumped the migraine that was blooming behind his eyes, creeping along the inside of his skull, growing with each reflective flash of broken yellow line.

  It would take them an hour to get back home. Live Oak was a blip on the map—a place you drove past and thought, Oh, how quaint, before blowing through without a second thought. It was the kind of place people ran from, the kind of place that was heavy with dark secrets and strange people—strange because they stayed there, somehow having found a way to survive in a nowhere town. But Jack loved Louisiana, from the bridges that stretched over swampland, to the long gray moss that hung from ancient trees like a tangle of witch’s hair. Most averted their eyes, avoiding the dilapidated houses that skirted the everglades and sank into the marshland—swallowed by a quagmire that could only exist in the South. Jack never looked away. Those skeleton-houses drew him in.

  Aimee dozed in the passenger seat as they sped down a rural road. She and ten-year-old Abby had the infant gene—they fell asleep as soon as the car was in motion, lulled into dreaming as if by magic. His gaze jumped to the rearview mirror. Charlie sat next to her sister, tucked into her car seat, humming a tune the Pizza-Rama rock band had played on a loop—a torturous two hours for any adult, no matter how much that adult loved his kids. She was inspecting the high-bounce ball she’d won with a stack of game tickets. That little ball proved she wasn’t a baby anymore. She was six, and she could hold her own in a game of skeeball. Nobody would catch her on the baby rides.

  Charlie never slept in the car, not even when she was a newborn. With Abby, all it took was a quick drive around the block, but driving only made Charlie restless. Jack often wondered whether there was something spiritual that tied Ch
arlie to their house, something that called her back if she strayed too far after dark.

  Reaching the turnoff, he steered the car onto the road that would take them home. They passed Live Oak’s single grocery store—conveniently closed at eight on the dot, seven days a week. They sped by an old gas station—the kind that required cash and had a tired attendant working the register—and a blinking stoplight, hanging heavy on its overhead power line, swaying in the breeze. The highlight was Bijou, a little diner that served the best red beans and rice in all of Louisiana. That place, in Jack’s opinion, was a national treasure. It survived off passersby and a handful of unfortunate truckers—the ones who were forced off the freeway and into the sticks for a random delivery. Jack was determined to single-handedly keep it in business until the day he died.

  Live Oak was so small that the roads in and out were darker than pitch, and the Saturn’s yellowed headlights didn’t offer much in the way of illumination. It was a murky drive, one that Jack took two or three times a month, most times in the dead of night, sometimes in the pouring rain—trips that were made with the band, miles ticked away on the odometer in the name of a youthful dream: play music, make money, be happy, do what you love. Tonight the sky was clear, the stars were out and burning bright for the birthday girl. And yet, despite the stars, it seemed darker than ever, like someone had reached into the sky and turned off the moon.

  Jack furrowed his eyebrows against the throb at his temples and backed off the gas. He couldn’t see more than twenty feet ahead of him, and the blind spot in his right eye was blooming like a supernova. He flipped on the high beams, and for a moment he could see the road as clear as day.

  The headlights flickered once.

  Flickered twice.

  The last thing he saw was a pair of animal eyes, reflecting bright silver and wide in the darkness. The headlights went out.

  Jerking the wheel was an instinct. Jack’s mind wasn’t focused on whether the car would fly off the road, but whether those eyes belonged to a human rather than an animal. The trees along the side of the road housed occasional stragglers, and the idea of killing a man outweighed the impulse to keep the wheel pointed straight ahead.