Category: Short Fiction

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“Go Your Own Way” – forthcoming in Analog

New story klaxon!!!!

My story, Go Your Own Way, is due to be published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, in the January/February 2025 issue.

Analog (originally called Astounding*) has been going since 1930, and has published many of the greats – Heinlein, Asimov, Zelazny, George Martin, and a long list beyond them. I’ve had a lot of stories rejected by Analog, and I’m delighted at last to have snuck under the wire.

The new story is the fourth in my “Way” series. You can read about earlier instalments (and read one of them) here, in the sadly now defunct Intergalactic Medicine Show.

It concerns a young man called Ferdinand, who stumbles on a mechanism for travelling between different versions of reality, between worlds that are subtly or dramatically different from our own, depending on how far you go along a mysterious path called the Way. Eventually tired of wandering, he settles down. But his life is turned upside down when he encounters another version of himself, who proves troublesome in many ways.

More when it’s available.

(*Incidentally, if you’re interested in the story of the so-called Golden Age of SF, check out a marvellous book Astounding, by Alec Nevala-Lee. Highly recommended.)

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New Story: Fundamental Things Apply

It’s always a pleasure to make a sale to a magazine I’ve not published in before. So, I’m delighted that my story ‘Fundamental Things Apply’ is now out in the February/March issue of Utopia SF magazine.

Utopia is available digitally, and you can find it here.

‘Fundamental Things Apply’ features time travel, terminal illness, the recursive and uncontrollable power of grief and – as the title suggests – the movie ‘Casablanca.’

Here’s a taster:

Fundamental Things Apply

Like the rest of the team, Davey Justice had kept his distance after Sarah’s funeral. I heard laughter from rooms I wasn’t in, but a thick silence dropped over the Lab when I was there. Until now.

“Sorry to bother you with this, Rick.” We’d been working at our laptops for the past hour, and he took advantage of a natural break when I got up to get coffee. “The funders visit? The committee are hassling me to sort it.”

“Now’s not a great time.”

“Of course,” Davey said. “I’ve stalled them, but…”

“Not yet.”

“They’ll need a presentation soon, don’t you think?”

“Not yet.”

When I sat again at my screen Davey’s eyes burned the back of my head. The rest of the team didn’t yet know about the full success of the Projector. They knew we were close, but I’d kept the final tests to myself. I couldn’t keep the secret forever, but it was hard to think ahead.

***

I held Sarah’s hand as she died. “I can’t go on without you,” I said.

“You must.” I think that’s what she said, but she could barely speak by now: her words were dry leaves rustling, her hand was parchment stretched over a bundle of sticks.

Her illness struck in what should have been our moment of triumph. One day, we’re looking at the test results that proved our time projector would work. Next day, some very different test results. The doctor projected Sarah’s X-Rays onto the white wall of her office. There was a shadow on the right lung and an archipelago of dark spots on her throat. I stared for a long time, as if I could read a message in the pattern of marks beneath Sarah’s flesh.

When she died, my life stretched ahead like Arctic tundra. I had my work, but without Sarah it meant nothing. I knew how grief worked: it would take time to move forward; I had to work through the emotions. But I couldn’t get past denial, couldn’t shake the feeling that things would be better if I just had the chance to say something more to her. A little more time at her side, to prepare myself to lose her. I guess the idea of using the Projector was always in the back of my mind.

Our Project was based in a Georgian mansion, set in Berkshire parkland, curtained by trees and a high brick wall. As Director, I had unrestricted access and the gate guard nodded me in without remark when I swiped into the Lab in the early hours of the morning.

The Projector worked far beyond our hopes, but it was still experimental. The dogs and rabbits we sent back were unharmed, although I didn’t know whether there were effects on them that I couldn’t yet detect. So using it was risky, but what did I care? The worst possible thing had already happened to me. I switched it on and adjusted the settings. I would do only thirty minutes, and I knew exactly the minutes to choose.

I jumped back seven weeks, a few days before Sarah’s death. The noon sun glared from the concrete sidewalk as I waited across the road from the hospital. I remembered this day, how hot it had been when I briefly left Sarah’s side to get a sandwich.

And there I was now. My seven-week younger self emerged from the hospital, glanced both ways and shuffled into a side street that contained coffee shops and a deli. When I was out of sight, I crossed the road and entered the hospital. One of Sarah’s nurses saw me as I entered her ward. A flicker of a frown crossed her brow, no doubt because she had just seen me leave. But she didn’t speak, and hurried on to her next task.

Sarah had been moved to a private room when it became clear that she was going, and there was no time to transfer her to a hospice. I slipped in and closed the door. It was 12.10. I sat beside the bed and took Sarah’s hand. She gave no sign that she was aware of my presence. The only sounds were the soft ping of her monitors, and the irregular sigh of her breathing. My memory was still too fresh of her breath stuttering and finally ceasing, as if the planets had frozen in the sky. Three days from now.

“If you can hear me,” I whispered. “I’ll be here as long as I can.” There was the faintest pressure on my fingers, as she squeezed my hand with what strength remained to her….

I’d love to know what you think, of this or any other story. Just leave me a comment.

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New Story: Sort Code in Fantasy&Science Fiction Magazine

In the past five years, I think I must have submitted every story I wrote to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Mostly they have been swiftly rejected, but I’ve persevered. F&SF is one of the last ‘legacy’ publications in the field. It started in 1949 and was a key publication in the genre, home to authors such as Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison and James Tiptree, Jr. It serialized classics like Robert Heinlein’s Starship Troopers and Daniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon.

So, I’m thoroughly delighted that F&SF have seen fit to take my latest offering, ‘Sort Code’, which is in the latest edition, out now.

‘Sort Code’ is, in the words of editor Sheree Renee Thomas, an ” unusual love story/time travel/afterlife story.” It features Dickens and Wordsworth, and ends in a version of Lyme Regis in England that Jane Austen didn’t quite envisage.

Here’s a taster, and to read the whole thing (and the many other great stories in the mag), you can check out the magazine’s website, or try other sites like Amazon

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New Story: Twelve Days of Christmas

New story, “Twelve Days of Christmas”, is out now. It’s in a collection called The Astronaut Always Rings Twice, edited by Shannon Allen and JR Campbell, published by Tyche Books.

As the book’s title suggests, it’s a themed collection of science fiction noir stories. So my near-future tale of a compromised private detective on the trail of a missing tech dissident fits right in (although I confess there’s no astronaut in it!).

You can get the book (print or ebook) from various places (check out the link: https://tychebooks.com/astronaut-rings-twice)

Here’s a taster:

Day One

My office was colder than a well-digger’s ass, to quote Tom Waits. Thick snow hid the block across the street, so there was no hope of seeing the college girls on the fourth floor getting ready to go out. Another day wasted.

My feet were on the desk and I held a cup of coffee in both hands. A wind-up radio on the desk was tuned to the cricket from Adelaide, but I wasn’t listening. I checked my bank account online, as I seemed to do every hour. There were no new payments from my mystery benefactor. I needed some work.

As if by magic, footsteps on the stairs were followed by a soft knock on the door.

“It’s open.”

A blonde, thirty-fiveish woman stood there, looking like she would run away again if I said ‘Boo’. Her face was worthy of the angel on the Christmas tree that partly blocked my office door, if it had an angel. There was something sad in her eyes. Of course, there was, why else come to me?

“I’m looking for Mister Hammett.”

“Wow, you found me. Ever thought of work as a private detective?”

“The name is on the door, Mister Hammett.”

“Damn. You make one mistake. Coffee?”

“I like the tree.” She sat opposite me. “You don’t see many these days.”

“It isn’t real. There’s a magnetized steel pole inside the trunk. For reasons you can probably guess.”

I filled a mug with coffee, and put it in front of her on a tray with a packet of powdered milk and two sugar cubes. I know how to treat my guests.

“I need your help,” she said. “It’s about my husband.”

I held up a hand and reached into my desk drawer to pull out the card on which was printed: DON’T SPEAK. PUT PHONE ON TABLE.  I carried the radio over to the window, where I placed it with the speaker pressed against the glass. I tuned to a music station and turned up the volume. I picked up the woman’s phone and peeled off the backing, took out the battery and placed both on the desk between us.

“Now, what can I do for you?”

 “It’s my husband,” she said. “Someone’s kidnapped him.”

(Read more of this story, and the other excellent tales collected in the book)

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Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere

New story klaxon!

It’s a delight to have a new story out today in the UK’s premier science fiction magazine – Scotland’s award-winning Shoreline of Infinity. The story is called “Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere.” It’s about a world transformed by instant travel, but at a subtle but devastating cost to some.

Shoreline has been going for a few years, and has really grown impressively, so I’m pleased to have finally sneaked in. And it’s great to be alongside some super work from other writers including Bo Balder, Monica Louzon, Ken MacLeod, and Heather Valentine.

You can get the magazine in print or digital, and it’s well worth your time. Here’s a taster for my story…

Everywhere is Everywhere and Anywhere Else is Nowhere

Inside the house, male voices belt out the fortieth rendition of “Blessing grant, oh God of nations, on the isles of Fiji”, sung by the bunch of rugby players who ported in with Alex from Malibu. These guys are built like wardrobes, and they’ve drunk western LA county dry. Kelly’s in the garden, working on her fifth large Chardonnay of the afternoon, watching the sun sink into the hills, casting shadows on the river.

When the phone rings, it takes her several seconds to place the sound. She finds the receiver wedged between two cushions of the chesterfield.

“Kelly? It’s Byron.”

“Byron! How are you? Haven’t seen you in…”

Well, how long is it? They kept in touch after college and there was a year when they were an item, but that must be a decade ago. Kelly’s hazy about it now, but didn’t they part on bad terms? Byron called her a sellout for working in PR; she said he was a loser for thinking there was any money in whatever neuroscience dead-end he was mad about that week. 

“Kelly, we need to talk. There’s something…”

“Shores of GOLDEN SAND! And sunshine, happiness, and song! Stand UNITED! We of Fiji. Fame and glory ever!” A conga line of Fijian rugby players sashays down the staircase. Alex is at the front, a bottle of rum in one hand, wearing a pair of shorts as a hat. “Kelly!” he yells. “Come to Fiji. The sun’s coming up.” Kelly shakes her head and points at the phone.

“…important we talk,” Byron says. “People need to -.”

“ONWARD march TOGETHER!” The rugby singers boom louder as they reach the Port room, but the volume shrinks as they go through. “GOD…. Bless…Fiji.”

“I need your help.” Byron’s voice cracks. “I don’t know who to call.”

The house falls silent as the last reveler transmits to Fiji. Kelly hates a quiet house; it swells with empty space for her thoughts to fill.

“Come over, Byron. But be quick. I’ve got a date in Fiji.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone. And don’t use the -.” Kelly clicks off the phone and drops it on the couch.

She waits a whole half hour and Byron doesn’t show. She checks the Port settings maybe a hundred times. Kelly hates hanging around, especially when the floating party’s ported to the other side of the world. It’s dark outside and a Fijian sunrise sounds attractive. She picks up the phone and presses ringback. The call shunts to voicemail and she hangs up.

She changes into swimsuit and sandals. In the Port room she half-expects Byron to flicker in behind the glass door before she can leave, but the cubicle’s dark. She steps inside. The cubicle lights come on and ripple in lilac, and a puff of air on her face makes her blink. When she reopens her eyes, she’s in a different room and she’s got that tingling buzz of her senses dialed up a notch, like a first glass of wine. People say porting stimulates endorphins; it sure works for Kelly. She opens the door and smells the sea. This house has wooden floors, smudged with sand and damp footprints. Outside, a verandah gives onto a beach. As always after a Port, Kelly’s mildly horny and fuzzy, briefly unsure where she is or why she’s here. Down at the shore, people dance around a driftwood fire. A fat sun heaves itself into a salmon sky. Kelly runs to join the party….

Read more in Shoreline of Infinity 31, available here
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‘When I Close My Eyes’ published in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores.

‘When I Close My Eyes’ is out now in the excellent online SF magazine, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores.

The story first appeared in Interzone #271 in 2017. It was at the time my ‘hardest’ SF story yet – with a bereaved astronaut trapped by a rockfall in a cave on Titan, encountering some fragile but peskily well-organised Titanian aliens. (There’s still a ghost in it, though, which I guess means that as SF goes, it isn’t that hard!)

The story has shown some staying power – it was also in the ‘Best of British SF 2017’ from NewCon Press, and was podcast to great effect by Starship Sofa.

The podcast is still available for free, and you can read the text version free at Cosmic Roots. So there’s really no excuse if you have the slightest interest in hydrocarbon weather systems and the remorseless power of grief.

Here’s a taster:

WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES

The rock fall killed me. I just didn’t know how long it would take to die.

I was face down with something heavy on the back of my legs. My visor display was dark. If the suit had lost power, death was already at my elbow.

“Tak, confirm operational.” A soft insect buzzing. “Repeat, confirm operational.”

“[buzz] – [click] – confirm. But I’ve had better days, dude.”

“You and me both. Run full systems check.”

“Running, dude.” Some joker programmed the suit computer with the voice of Keanu Reeves in Point Break, squinting in the sun and waxing his surfboard. Usually it cheered me up.

I chinned the radio switch. “Willis, this is Darlo. Do you read?”

Static.

“Willis. Darlo. There was some kind of cave-in. I still have power. Checking systems. Are you OK?”

More static. I chinned off the radio. Willis should be fine. She stayed in the crawler, after all. It was another poor sap who entered the cave. Me. I tested the movement in my limbs. Both arms were free. I could lift my left leg but the right didn’t budge. I had sensation in it, but something pinned it down, something with some serious mass; with gravity less than a tenth that of Earth, I could expect to shift a sizeable rock unaided. 

“OK, dude, systems check complete.” Tak sounded as businesslike as he ever did; like he’d just spotted a shift in the swell and zipped up his wetsuit. “Batteries seventy-six per cent, oxygen sixty-five. Suit intact. Heater cycling between sixty and ninety, nitrogen scrubber -.”

“Wait, what’s with the heater?” The suit’s heating systems normally ran at around fifty per cent.

“Losing heat fast. Possible radiator vane compromise.”

That figured. The suit had fantastic insulation and in normal use some heat got vented away through tiny metal filaments on the back. If the rockfall had damaged them, the heater would need to compensate.

“So how long have I got?”

“You can lie here for nearly five hours, dude.”

“Yeah, but I plan to get moving.”

“Hey, did I mention that the GPS sensors are damaged and I can’t get a signal from the crawler or the base?”

“Lucky I know the way out. How long have I got with normal motion?”

“Probably four hours, but that heater’s a bummer. Might need to go easy on other power.”

“Is that why we’re lying here in the dark? You didn’t say the lights were damaged.”

“They’re not.”

“Main flash on.”

The beam lit up in front of me. I was face down on a layer of ice. Where my visor touched the surface, the ice fizzed and crawled upwards as if tiny worms were escaping. Probably traces of frozen methane in among the water ice, melting in the slight heat given off by my suit.

I lifted my head, directing the beam horizontally. There was about six feet of icy ground ahead of me, ending at a wall of rubble and ice. I pointed the light higher, but could see no top to the obstruction. So far, so bad. But that way led deeper into the cave. That was where I’d been heading when the cave fell in, and I certainly wasn’t going that way now. I wanted to go back.

I had a simple plan. Walk back through the tunnels to Willis and the crawler and then take it easy with a hot drink while she drove the four miles back to Ligea Base. All I had to do was remove whatever was trapping my legs. And hope the tunnel behind me wasn’t blocked. And hope my power lasted long enough to stop me freezing in the -180C temperature. Simple.

“Tak, main flash off. Save power while I decide what to do.”

The beam cut out and darkness sprang on me from the shadows. My head was still up and I saw her clearly. She sat with her back against the pile of ice and rock, her legs stretched before her and her hands in her lap, as if she were at a picnic. She wore the blue dress with white polka dots that we buried her in. She smiled at me.

“Not here. Dear God.” I lowered my head to the ice. “For Christ’s sake, my eyes are open…”

(To read more, check out Cosmic Roots…)