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    Forever Magazine Issue 8: Forever Magazine, #8
    Forever Magazine Issue 8: Forever Magazine, #8
    Forever Magazine Issue 8: Forever Magazine, #8
    Ebook132 pages2 hours

    Forever Magazine Issue 8: Forever Magazine, #8

    By Neil Clarke, Mary Rosenblum, Maureen F. McHugh and

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    About this ebook

    Forever is a new monthly science fiction magazine that features previously published stories you might have missed. Each issue will feature a novella, a brief interview with the novella's author, two short stories, and cover art by Ron Guyatt. Edited by the Hugo and World Fantasy Award winning editor of Clarkesworld Magazine, Neil Clarke.

    Our eighth issue features a novella by Mary Rosenblum ("Gas Fish"), a novelette by Maureen F. McHugh and David B. Kisor ("Whispers"), and a short story by A.M. Dellamonica ("A Slow Day at the Gallery"), and a short interview with Mary Rosenblum.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWyrm Publishing
    Release dateSep 5, 2015
    ISBN9781890464622
    Forever Magazine Issue 8: Forever Magazine, #8
    Author

    Neil Clarke

    Neil Clarke (neil-clarke.com) is the multi-award-winning editor of Clarkesworld Magazine and over a dozen anthologies. A eleven-time finalist and the 2022/2023 winner of the Hugo Award for Best Editor Short Form, he is also the three-time winner of the Chesley Award for Best Art Director. In 2019, Clarke received the SFWA Kate Wilhelm Solstice Award for distinguished contributions to the science fiction and fantasy community. He currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons

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      Book preview

      Forever Magazine Issue 8 - Neil Clarke

      Forever Magazine

      Issue 8

      © Wyrm Publishing, 2015

      wyrmpublishing.com

      forever-magazine.com

      Table of Contents

      Introduction

      by Neil Clarke

      Gas Fish

      a novella by Mary Rosenblum

      A Few Words with Mary Rosenblum

      Whispers

      a novelette by Maureen F. McHugh and David B. Kisor

      A Slow Day at the Gallery

      a short story by A.M. Dellamonica

      About the Artist and Authors

      Introduction

      Neil Clarke

      Welcome to the eighth issue of Forever Magazine!

      I spent a few days last month at Worldcon in Spokane, Washington and ran into some of our readers and authors. It was nice to be back among fellow science fiction fans. I often feel a bit isolated from that community here in the small NJ town I live in, so I try to make the most of every moment. I always return mentally energized and physically exhausted.

      A lot happened at Worldcon and I wish I had the time or energy to write it all up. As far as Forever is concerned, it was an opportunity to line up some stories for future issues. On a more personal level, it planted the seeds for a number of interesting projects that I hope to be able to share with you soon. After the Hugo Awards (yes, I’m deliberately not talking about them), I discovered that I would have been a close 2nd in nominations for Best Editor Short Form if all that controversial stuff didn’t happen. All I have to say about that is a quick thank you to everyone that saw fit to nominate me. It means a lot, even when you aren’t a nominee.

      As always, thanks for reading! If you enjoy the issue, please consider posting a review on Amazon, B&N, or any of the other places that sell Forever! Until next month . . .

      -Neil

      Gas Fish

      Mary Rosenblum

      Actually, I am glad that you decided to investigate us. Jovan’s director, Sandra Li, was trying hard to be polite. Considering your reputation, Mr. Kraj, a clean bill of health from you should be worth quite a bit.

      You make me sound like a witch hunter. Anton smiled. I only report facts.

      The facts can by slanted to suggest fallacies.

      That’s so. Anton refused to be annoyed. You could say that I report the truth rather than facts. The truth is not always factual. He turned away to lean his elbows on the deck rail, sweeping the cluster of beach houses and the dock below with a long slow stare. The microcameras mounted on his headband rig were synched to a tiny implant on his eyelid. Online participants would see what he saw—neat cottages and pristine white sand dotted with a few beach towels and sunbathers.

      He had taken Elliot to a diving resort every summer—a small private place on a cove like this one. During that last horrible year, he had paid to have the hospital run scuba virtuals designed for the paralyzed. So that Elliot could dive as much as he wanted. Anton unclenched his teeth. Your research facility has all the ambience of an upscale resort, he said mildly.

      "This was a resort. Li flushed. You’re too well informed not to know that the property was donated to Jovan Corporation. Or have you already condemned us, Mr. Kraj?

      Why should I condemn you? Call me Anton, he said as she turned away without speaking. Her reserve had finally cracked. Pleased, Anton followed her across the deck and down the weathered wooden stairs. Dry facts didn’t sell well. Participants wanted drama, emotional displays, enticing visuals. If your facility is everything you say it is, then you have no worries. He smiled at her. A tip had suggested that Jovan was not on the up and up. He had his top informant working on that hint. Bogus science was big business—and the cost was sometimes . . . human. My participants are curious about you, he said.

      Participants. Li stopped abruptly and looked back at him. Your audience does not participate. They only wish to be entertained. That is all that matters. Her gaze focused on his headband. I suppose you’ll use all this? she asked bitterly.

      If it fits. Anton smiled gently. Whatever you may wish to believe, Ms. Li, I have never slanted my stories against an innocent party.

      Who appointed you judge? she snapped.

      My son. The words caught him by surprise, and he focused quickly on the blue horizon, panning for stock background. Perhaps it was the sea that brought Elliot back so sharply—they had been diving when the symptoms had manifested. Anton shook his head, angry at himself. Li’s narrowed eyes suggested that she had noticed his reaction. I simply report the facts, he said harshly. Why Jupiter? Why should we spend time and lots of money to send a probe into its atmosphere? We can’t live there. Mining anything from that hellhole would be impossibly expensive. Why not invest our resources in the Mars terraforming project?

      I think we are facing a crisis, she said softly. We must choose whether to spend our precious resources on expanding our current environment or leap into the unknown and deal with what we find there. Perhaps this a test of evolution. If we cannot evolve, we will be trapped here forever—on Earth, on whatever replicas of Earth we can create on Mars or the orbital platforms. To evolve, we must look beyond ourselves.

      To Jupiter?

      It is a first step. Her eyes were luminous in the hazy afternoon light. "We may find nothing, but we need to look. If we lose that sense of wonder, that burning need to go and find out that has taken us this far—we’re through, at a dead end, at . . .  She caught her breath and blushed. Well, your participants should like that bit of melodrama. She leaned her face into a retinal scanner set into the wall beside the door. We need to move on. I have a meeting at four. The actual Jupiter probe is being constructed in another building. That’s our next stop. This is our simulation lab."

      Anton followed her into a small antechamber, thinking that he had just caught a glimpse of the real Sandra Li. Idealist, he thought. And naive. Pale green coveralls hung on the walls above pairs of plastic boots. A second door let them into a cavernous building.

      What exactly do you simulate in here? he asked. Floor, walls, and ceiling were painted a soft pastel yellow. The rear half of the building was nothing but a large diving pool with ladders at each end, and a squat electric crane. Its boom stuck out over the water. The air was cool and humid, thick with sea smell.

      A ten foot long, vaguely whale-shaped model stood in the middle of the floor between the diving pool and the entrance. It had blue plastic skin, a thick stubby tail and two pairs of oversized fins along its sides. Elliot would have been fascinated, Anton thought, and then pushed the thought out of his head. That’s your probe? Anton focused on it, thinking ugly. A big fish?

      It’s a scale model of the probe. Li nodded. This is where our prototype trains for the conditions he is likely to encounter once he has been deployed. He will be swimming in a gaseous sea of ammoniated water vapor and tremendous turbulence. Fish are excellent models, so we use a combination of virtual simulation and actual subsea training.

      He? Anton raised his eyebrows.

      A bit of anthropomorphism. Li smiled primly. We recovered the core of our AI system from the first probe, but this time we overlaid with a simulated human personality shell.

      Your last probe failed rather immediately, didn’t it?

      We underestimated the extent of the turbulence it encountered. Li scowled at his innocent tone. We have a much better knowledge of conditions, thanks to the information it sent us. This system is experimental. but so far our tests indicate that the combination is much more successful than an unenhanced AI at making fast and effective decisions in unexpected situations of crisis.

      It’s a very expensive system, Anton murmured.

      Jonah is very creative.

      Jonah? Anton studied the whale-shape for his participants. Pun intended, right? Is this him?

      I’m him. A boyish tenor came from the direction of the empty pool. But yeah, I guess you could say I got swallowed by a whale. Or a robot tuna, anyway. There was a grin to his tone.

      That voice raised the hairs on Anton’s neck. He turned—automatic reflexes making it a slow pan so that he didn’t dizzy his participants. That voice . . . A large silvery fish-shape floated in the pool. It looked something like the prototype, but smaller and a bit more streamlined.

      Jonah, this is Mr. Kraj. Li smiled at the fish. How did the tests go?

      Fine, of course. You’re Kraj, the docu-dramatist? The voice brightened. Cool. I always wanted to be famous. You wanted publicity, right Sandy? You got the biggest.

      Publicity, Li muttered under her breath. Not a trial.

      Coincidence, Anton told himself numbly. He was hearing something that wasn’t there. You . . . you’re using a child’s personality to operate a million-dollar probe?

      I’m no kid. What’s your problem, mister? The silvery fish rose in the water to point a blunt, blind snout at Anton. You think I can’t can do it? You ought to see how I handle an updraft storm.

      Jonah, easy. Li sounded grimly amused. He doesn’t know how good you are.

      Elliot’s voice. The fish was speaking with Elliot’s voice. Anton clung to the mask of a professional smile. Pitch, syntax, word choice—all Elliot. You think I can’t do it? Elliot had said that once—those very words. On their first deep dive together.

      Coincidence, Anton told himself. Elliot was dead. Elliot had been dead for nearly a decade—long enough for Anton to forget, to remember wrong.

      Bullshit, all of the above. Except for the stark truth of his son’s death.

      Mr. Kraj? Li touched his elbow. "Is something wrong?’

      No. Anton blinked. Nothing. He had been staring at a blank patch of wall like an amateur—so much for using this bit of visual. I . . . I apologize. Endit, he subvocalized, instructing his biointerface to turn off record mode. Only then did he force himself to look at the mechanical fish. I’m sure that you’re very good, he said. Perhaps you can talk to me some more. Although he didn’t want to hear his son’s voice coming from this . . . artifact. But why would they program evasion into their AI? This . . . thing might spill facts that Li and her bunch would not.

      "I don’t know

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