ISSUE 47: November 2020

  Lezli Robyn, Editor

  Martin L. Shoemaker, Assistant Editor

  Taylor Morris, Copyeditor

  Shahid Mahmud, Publisher

  Published by Arc Manor/Phoenix Pick

  P.O. Box 10339

  Rockville, MD 20849-0339

  Galaxy’s Edge is published in January, March, May, July, September, and November.

  All material is either copyright © 2020 by Arc Manor LLC, Rockville, MD, or copyright © by the respective authors as indicated within the magazine. All rights reserved.

  This magazine (or any portion of it) may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN: 978-1-64973-075-6

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  FOREIGN LANGUAGE RIGHTS:

  Please refer all inquiries pertaining to foreign language rights to Shahid Mahmud, Arc Manor, P.O. Box 10339, Rockville, MD 20849-0339. Tel: 1-240-645-2214. Fax 1-310-388-8440. Email admin@ArcManor.com.

  www.GalaxysEdge.com

  Contents

  EDITOR’S NOTE by Lezli Robyn

  THE ECOLOGY OF BROKEN PROMISES by Andrea Stewart

  MACHINE LEARNING by Nancy Kress

  A MIDWINTER'S TALE by Michael Swanwick

  LAMPLIGHTER by J. Scott Coatsworth

  QUEEN’S ROBOT SACRIFICE by Mike Resnick & Jean-Claude Dunyach

  NIGHT FOLK by Barb Galler-Smith

  THE MONSTER by Joe Haldeman

  A FARMBOY, A WIZARD AND A DARK LORD WALK INTO A TOWER by Dantzel Cherry

  SAVING SARAH by John Haas

  TO HELL WITH THE STARS by Jack McDevitt

  THE UNTOLD CHRISTMAS CAROL by Larry Hodges

  RECOMMENDED BOOKS by Richard Chwedyk

  A SCIENTISTS NOTEBOOK (column) by Gregory Benford

  LONGHAND (column) by L. Penelope

  MIDNIGHT AT THE WELL OF SOULS (serialization) by Jack L. Chalker

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  by Lezli Robyn

  For readers of ours not living in the United States, you would be right in thinking that Americans appear to be living the prologue chapter of some near-future apocalyptic novel. Sure, the rest of the world is also going through its own kind of hell with the COVID-19 pandemic—well, except for New Zealand, that is—but in the United States the pandemic has hit during the stirrings of great political, civil, and economic upheaval, dividing a once (usually) united country. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot more people have escaped into a good book or a favorite comfort movie to forget the reality of a life that currently appears more alien than fiction.

  This November issue greets our readers with new articles from regular columnists L. Penelope and Gregory Benford, and reviews of the latest and greatest fiction by Richard Chwedyk. We have another Mike Resnick short story for our readers, this time written with celebrated French writer Jean-Claude Dunyach. Nancy Kress also returns to our pages with “Machine Learning,” which tells the tale of a researcher and his partner teaching an AI to train others as depression overtakes the researcher following the loss of his family.

  In “The Ecology of Broken Promises,” Andrea Stewart gifts us a thought-provoking and confronting magical realism story that depicts the journey of a woman grappling with the guilt of all the vows she has broken in her life. If you haven’t yet read Andrea’s debut novel, The Bone Shard Daughter, published by Orbit this past September, you’re missing out! I would not be surprised if we see her name on some award ballots in the coming year.

  We welcome Joe Haldeman back to our magazine, with “The Monster,” and J. Scott Coatsworth will dazzle our readers with “Lamplighter,” about Fen, a member of a fantasy world guild whose selfless attempts to relight a city and find a way to keep his love will spark a revolution. “Night Folk,” by Barb Galler-Smith, also takes part in the absence of daylight, where some aging creatures of the night put aside their walking canes to battle some geriatric hunters. It’s not often that we read about retired supernatural creatures, and this story doesn’t disappoint, flipping well-known tropes in this unexpected read.

  If you are wanting something witty and entertaining, you can’t go wrong with “A Farmboy, a Wizard and a Dark Lord Walk into a Tower” by Dantzel Cherry. And who doesn’t like a time traveling story? William and Tyler travel into the past to save the life of William’s first child in “Saving Sarah,” a science fiction story by newcomer John Haas. With an ending that brought this editor to tears, this piece will show you how far a father will go to protect his child, and remind you that you can’t escape the consequences of your actions.

  With the holiday season upon us, this issue showcases several pieces with a festive flare. “A Midwinter’s Tale” by Michael Swanwick tells a story within a story, about a soldier recalling an incident in his youth when an alien revealed the secret of how their species met. “To Hell with the Stars” is a charming tale by Jack McDevitt about a boy’s dream to travel into space, just like his favorite characters did in the thousand-year-old science fiction novels he loves to read so much. And last, but not least, Larry Hodges returns to the pages of Galaxy’s Edge with “The Untold Christmas Carol,” which explores Tiny Tim’s real origins, and the frustrations the Devil experiences when his hauntings don’t go according to plan.

  Now, more than ever, when the United States is so divided, is the time we should come together to curl up with our family and loved ones in front of a roaring fireplace, sipping hot cocoa or eggnog as we celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas, grateful for surviving the shitstorm that was 2020.

  But before that, on the day this issue is published, the United States’ presidential election will be looming. Vote. Urge others to vote, whether they identify as red or blue. That way, when we ring in the New Year, we can remind ourselves that like the many brave characters of this issue’s science fiction and fantasy stories, we too have the ability to reshape our lives, and the lives of others around us, for the better.

  We can’t be the heroes of our own story if we don’t step up, take a chance. Hold ourselves accountable.

  Andrea Stewart is the daughter of immigrants, and was raised in a number of places across the United States. Her debut epic fantasy, THE BONE SHARD DAUGHTER, is out with Orbit. In addition to writing, she can be found herding cats, looking at birds, and falling down research rabbit holes.

  THE ECOLOGY OF BROKEN PROMISES

  by Andrea Stewart

  The undressing is always the hardest part. Lisa makes sure that it happens in the dark, but even so, no matter how much she contorts and evades, a stray brush of his finger reveals her secrets.

  The man stops, and in that moment, she can’t breathe or even remember his name. All she feels is fear, white and electric as a lightning bolt. His fingers brush the place on her ribs again, lingering over the threads she used to bind the tiny mouth shut. Flesh-colored thread, of course, not that he can see in the dark.

  “Is this the only one?” Jason whispers. That’s right; his name is Jason. His breath tickles her cheek. It smells like mint and alcohol.

  She knows without looking, without touching, that he is blemish-free—just from the way he says those words. He’s young, she supposes. It makes sense.

  “There’s another,” Lisa says. She guides his hand to a second set of stitches on the opposite hip. And one more, though she doesn’t add that aloud. That one, the result of her infidelities, her broken vows, lies on the bottom of her right foot. He doesn’t need to know about it. “Does it bother you?”

  Now she wishes it wasn’t dark, so she could see the expression on his face.

  “No,” he says. “At least you know better now. At least you know what not to ask of other people. What’s too much, too far.”

  He leaves the rest unspoken—that she knows not to ask too much of him—and kisses the juncture between her neck and shoulder. For a moment she hesitates, because she’s accustomed to more. She wants more. But then she leans into his chest, guiding his hands so they do not touch the mouths on her hip and ribs.

  One step, and another, and then they fall onto the bed together, their mouths, the real ones, pressed lip to lip.

  * * *

  He doesn’t call her back.

  Lisa stows the secret phone back between mattress and box spring. The screen showed only the time, nothing more. She should have known the mouths would bother Jason. Maybe he’s talking to his friends right now about sleeping with her, about how it was a one-time thing.

  “She had two extra mouths,” he might say.

  “That’s nothing,” a friend would reply, “I once fucked a girl with five.”

  The mattress squeaks as Lisa’s husband shifts beside her. She glances over, but he’s still asleep. When they bought this bed, they joked about the sexual gymnastics they’d undertake on its wide surface. Now that surface feels like an ocean, his slumping shoulder the mountain of some other continent.

  One mouth mars his shoulder, and Michael never bothered to sew it shut. Its lips probe the empty air, like a baby searching for a teat. He told her, on their twelfth date, how he earned it: a promise to his mother that he’d become a doctor.

&nb
sp; He’d tried, of course, and he’d wept when his MCAT scores were too low, and he told Lisa of the itching and the dread as the mouth grew on his shoulder—a red, patchy rash expanding into a hole to signify his failure; his broken promise.

  Lisa rolls onto her back, staring at the blank expanse of the ceiling, wishing that were her skin. She never told Michael about her mouths, and even when the third one appeared on her foot, he didn’t ask.

  It’s private.

  * * *

  The silence in the car presses on her eardrums, making her tap her foot on the brakes. The tapping fills the air, and Michael sighs. He rests his head against the window, his breath fogging the glass. “Do you have to do that?”

  She stops, reaching for the radio instead. As soon as she turns it on, it blares, the strumming of a guitar magnified a thousand-fold.

  “Fuck, that’s loud!” Michael covers his ears and glances at her, and she reads it on his face: Can’t you do anything right?

  Her chest tightens as she mutters an apology, and she dials the volume down to an acceptable level. She checks his expression the way she checks her mirrors. His lips are pressed together, and she can see the vein throbbing at his temple.

  “Should I turn it off?” she asks.

  He says, just as quickly, “Does it matter what I want?”

  “It matters to me.”

  His gaze goes out the window again. “Really? Are you sure?”

  That shuts her up. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do, to assuage his anger. She’s not sure what caused it in the first place. He couldn’t possibly know about her infidelity; she’s never left a sign. He would never know the reason for the mouth on the sole of her foot.

  When they married, she wouldn’t have dreamed of going outside their marriage, of breaking her vows. Things have changed. Every time they talk, it seems to lead to more fighting. It’s exhausting, and she needs some sort of release. Sometimes, when they’re yelling at one another, Lisa imagines just digging her fingers into his scalp, peeling back skin and flesh and bone to reveal the thoughts beneath.

  She could use that sort of insight.

  “At least your flight is on time,” she says, lamely. It’s all she can manage.

  Michael just grunts a reply.

  When they pull up to the airport, she watches him visibly brightening. He lifts his head, his hands passing over his shirt, his tie. He straightens in his seat; he clears his throat.

  It’s just a business trip, Lisa reminds herself, for what feels like the hundredth time. But she sees his colleague waiting for him just inside the sliding glass doors—her long, supple legs, her white-toothed smile, the perfectly coiffed hair that Lisa smelled in passing once: all ocean breeze and lavender. She’d bet that woman has skin as smooth as a cultured pearl. She’d bet that woman has only ever made small promises, easily kept.

  There haven’t been any new mouths on Michael’s skin; she’s checked. But it won’t be long, Lisa can feel it. Maybe this time Michael will return with an angry welt on his chest—a welt that grows into a pair of lips, a tongue, a gaping orifice that cannot be filled.

  “Have a good trip,” Lisa says as her husband reaches for his bag. “Love you.” Promise you’ll think of me while you’re away. But she doesn’t say it.

  “Love you too,” he says. He doesn’t kiss her or even meet her eyes. The words are hollow, the rote repetition of a parrot.

  As Lisa watches her husband greet his colleague with a smile, all of her mouths ache at once and she feels them straining at their stitches.

  In the next breath, they’re quiet once more.

  * * *

  She stops by a bar on the way home. Sure, it’s only two p.m., but the whole drive and drop-off has her anxiety levels through the roof. Michael would never hit her, would never call her names. But when they’re alone, she feels the tension between them and it’s somehow worse.

  She almost wishes he’d hit her, just to clear the air. Just to give her a good reason.

  Smoke fills the inside of the building; it stinks of beer and tobacco. The soles of her shoes stick to the hardwood floors as she walks. It’s not any place she’s been before. “A Bud Light, please,” she says as she sits on one of the barstools. A couple of regulars occupy other seats. They glance at her and then their gazes stray back to the television. The bartender, a middle-aged woman, nods and grabs a bottle from the fridge.

  “Troubles got you down?” a voice says from behind her.

  Lisa turns and does her best not to gape. A young woman stands behind her, one hand on the back of Lisa’s barstool. She’s lanky and borderline hollow, like a greyhound that’s seen one too many races around the track. Her chestnut hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing a cropped black tank top and jean shorts that reveal not one, not two, but eight mouths. None are sewn shut. The one on the woman’s left shoulder opens, a small pink tongue lolling out. A musky scent hangs around her, like moist soil and rotting wood.

  It’s grotesque.

  “It’s rude to stare, y’know,” the woman says. “Just wanted to know why you’re here. Never seen you here before.”

  The bartender slides the Bud Light in front of Lisa, and she grips it, the coolness of the glass bringing some clarity to her thoughts. She gathers herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Troubles got you down?” the young woman says again.

  Normally, Lisa would just shrug, or tell the young woman it was none of her business, but everything about this encounter has her off balance. “Husband problems,” she says. She takes a swig from the bottle.

  The young woman sits in the barstool next to Lisa. “Imogene,” she says. “That’s my name.”

  “Lisa.”

  “I know all about husband problems,” Imogene says. She points to the mouth on her shoulder, and then to the one next to her belly button. “Two divorces.”

  “You chose to get married again?” Lisa says. She picks at the corner of the bottle label. “You’d think once would be enough.” A lot of people don’t get married at all, but the two Lisa knows who’ve divorced have vowed to never marry again. It’s just not worth the risk.

  Imogene shrugs. Despite her disheveled appearance, her cat-eye eyeliner is perfectly applied. “My mom and dad were married thirty-five years before he kicked it. They were so fucking in love—every day. Always wanted what they had. Always kept hoping for it.” She laughs. “Still hoping for it, really.”

  Lisa doesn’t ask about the other mouths, but Imogene answers anyway. Their lips strain for her finger as she points at them. “Swore I’d be friends with someone forever. Promised to be nice to my homophobic coworker. Made a pact with myself that I would never, ever be so stupid again . . . ” Imogene lets out a long breath, her shoulders caving in on themselves.

  Lisa wraps both hands around the bottle. The scratched surface of the bar chafes her elbows. “Three,” she says.

  Imogene only nods. “Can’t be avoided.”

  “I mean, it can,” Lisa says. “You just have to avoid making promises in the first place.”

  “Sure,” Imogene says, but Lisa feels her sidelong glance. “That’s not worked well for you, it seems.”

  Why is she letting this stranger get under her skin? She shrugs. “Knowing what I have to do and doing them are two different things. I never should have gotten married.”

  “And I never should have lent money to Natalie ’cause she bailed and now I’m short for this upcoming week’s rent. High hopes. We’ve got them. Clink.” Imogene touches an imaginary bottle to Lisa’s. “Life’s a bitch.”

  Lisa smiles for the first time today. Misery does love company. “Sounds like Natalie’s the bitch.”

  Imogene laughs—a husky, throaty sound. “Damn right.”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Lisa says, even as she wonders if Imogene gets drinks by latching onto people, or if Imogene is an alcoholic. But the bartender is standing in front of them and it’s too late to worry about enabling.

  “Same as what she’s having,” Imogene says.

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is okay?” Imogene grips the doorframe as though it’s the only thing holding her upright. Maybe it is.

  “Yes, yes.” Lisa waves her in. The hallway swims before her eyes. Two beers, three shots, some horrible bar food and a cab ride later, it’s nine p.m. She’ll have to go back for the car tomorrow. “Michael’s gone for five days, anyway. Another business trip with his beautiful, perfect coworker.” More bitterness leaks into the words than she intended. It’s the alcohol.