Tag: short stories

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Go Your Own Way – Out Now

No better way to start the new year than to make my debut in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, a magazine that gave birth to so many of the SF stories that inspired me when I was a kid.

“Go Your Own Way” 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. You can also find a free podcast of the very first Way story – “Once There Was a Way” – here on the Starship Sofa site.

The new story 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, and is forced to confront the question of which of them deserves to choose the life they both want.

If you want to read the whole thing you’ll need to buy Analog (and you should!). You can do that here. In the meantime here’s a taster:

“A glowing path of light angles toward me and into the trees behind. A luminous boardwalk of mist hovers a few inches above the ground.

I know where it leads: step on that path and I can go anywhere, across countless universes and infinite variations of this world and all it contains. I thought I would never walk the Way again, but here I am. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m not coming back.

I didn’t say goodbye to Shona. But that’s okay: she won’t even know I’m gone.

###

Picture me two months earlier, after a day at the beach. I’m back at the car when a familiar voice behind me twists my gut in a tight fist.

“Any chance of a ride?”

He’s five yards away; tired and weatherworn, skinnier than I’ve become since I settled. His smile is familiar – equal parts ‘aw shucks’ shyness and the grin of someone who knows a joke you don’t. It’s me: like a twin brother, but I have no siblings.

“Are you on the Way?” I ask.

“Aren’t we all?”

I’m not sure who’s included in that ‘we’; very few people can travel the Way. He must mean the different versions of me, scattered across endless dimensions. That fits – I once walked the path between worlds, and it’s obvious this alternate version of me can too.

“Why are you here?” 

“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“It’s a little overwhelming.”

“I just arrived,” he says. “You know what it’s like; feel I’ve been through a spin cycle. I could do with some food. And some tips on how to get along here.”

A surge of relief – he’s new here, so not the version of me I feared he was – is quickly succeeded by unease: Is he planning to stay?

“Don’t worry, I don’t expect to stick around,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking. Which makes sense: who else would know my mind better?

“Weird, isn’t it?” He’s watching me, reading my thoughts on my face.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you drive us somewhere we can get a drink?” 

We get in the car and I start the engine. “Know any good pubs near here?”

He shrugs. “It’s your universe.”

It’s not, of course, but I don’t say anything….”

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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: 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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New Story: Bad Moon Falling in Galaxy’s Edge #45

My new story, ‘Bad Moon Falling’ is out now in the latest issue of Galaxy’s Edge magazine. Obviously, like any writer I love any new sale. But the fanboy in me is especially thrilled to be in this publication (which you can get here).

Call me shallow, but I’m always going to get a kick out of my name being on the cover with such SF legends as Robert Silverberg, Mike Resnick, and Katherine Kerr.

Galaxy’s Edge was created by Mike Resnick, one of the unarguable greats of the field, whose short fiction I love (and which I believe earned him more Hugo nominations than anyone else). Sadly, Resnick died earlier this year, but it’s great to see his magazine continuing under new editor, Lezli Robyn.

As for the story, it’s probably the ‘hardest’ SF yet from me, with signals from space that turn out to be from aliens, but not in a good way. Here’s a taster…

 Bad Moon Falling

“Hello, Nick.” Kuldeep had taken ages to pick up. “Do you know how late it is?”

“We need to talk,” I said. “Can I come over?”

“Haven’t we talked enough? I’m not going to change my mind.”

My reflection in the monitor winced. Lines of numbers behind my face made it look like I was projected onto newsprint.

“It’s not about us. I need your advice,” I said. “There’s something wrong with the Moon.”

***

The world’s attention was on the Mars launch. The twenty-four hours a day, wall-to-wall coverage of every detail of the mission looked like continuing for the whole seven months until the crew reached Mars. People were lapping it up.

Not me. The day after Pegasus left the atmosphere, Kuldeep told me to move out; she needed time for herself, to develop other interests. “It’s not you, it’s me,” she said. But it was me who had to go.

I returned to my old room at Jake’s place, but I didn’t spend much time there. I threw myself back into work. If I was going to feel this shit, I might as well get things done.

Most people have forgotten the Ross signals. Fifteen years ago, a series of radio pulses came from the direction of Ross 128, eleven light-years away. The signals caused excitement for awhile—speculation that they might be artificial, from an alien interstellar civilization. The fuss soon died away, when no one could wring any sense from them, but I got a grant two years ago to continue what looked the hopeless task of decoding them. It’s more a hobby than a job now, but I pick it up when I have time. Kuldeep dumping me opened canyons of time.

Maybe you think it’s easy to know whether a signal is just cosmic white noise or contains a message, and to decode it if it does. My background’s in linguistics, and trust me, it’s not easy. You can look for patterns of distribution and frequency, but that only takes you so far. Even a terrestrial language like ancient Egyptian was only cracked when the Rosetta Stone gave us the same text in Greek and hieroglyphics. Some experts say it’s impossible to decipher a message where the underlying language is unrelated to any other.

I was more optimistic than that—I’ve got a knack for puzzling these things out, part science, part instinct. But no one knew if Ross was even a signal. Before I could decipher it, I had to be sure there was a message, and not just a stray blast of stellar noise. I also had to eliminate potential sources closer to home.

That was what led me to the Moon, and the long-forgotten Lunar Seismology Survey.

***

I took the Tube to Kuldeep’s Lab at Imperial College. A couple of her workmates nodded as they passed through Reception, but nobody stopped to chat. They all knew she’d elbowed me. It was obvious how cut up I was, and people don’t like to get close to bad feelings in case your misery rubs off.

Kuldeep appeared and led me to her pod. She poured us coffee and sat behind her desk, looking as gorgeous as the day we met. The sight of her stirred a flood of memories and hollowed out my chest.

She folded her arms. “Okay, I haven’t got long.”

“Like I said on the phone, there’s been huge activity on the far side of the moon.” I pulled the laptop from my bag. “I mean, huge. Too big for the Moon. I’m amazed no one’s picked it up.”

“Maybe they have,” Kuldeep said. “But start from the beginning.”

“Okay, it was when—”

“But keep it short. Chandler not Proust.”

“No need to be rude, Kul.”

“Look, I’ve got a million things to do,” she said. “And no offence, but we weren’t planning to see each other for a while.”

You weren’t, you mean...

(To read more, check out Galaxy’s Edge. While you’re there, subscribe!