Eclipse One Read online

  ECLIPSE ONE

  Jonathan Strahan

  Copyright © 2007 by Jonathan Strahan

  This edition of Eclipse One © 2007 by Night Shade Books

  Jacket art © 2007 by Michael Whelan

  Jacket design by Michael Fusco

  Interior layout and design by Jeremy Lassen

  "Introduction" © 2007 Jonathan Strahan.

  "The Last and Only or, Mr. Moscowitz Becomes French" © 2007 by Peter S. Beagle.

  "The Transformation of Targ" © 2007 by Paul Brandon and Jack Dann.

  "Toother" © 2007 by Terry Dowling.

  "Unique Chicken Goes in Reverse" © 2007 by Andy Duncan.

  "The Drowned Life" © 2007 by Jeffrey Ford.

  "Electric Rains" © 2007 by Kathleen Ann Goonan.

  "Up the Fire Road" © 2007 by Eileen Gunn.

  "In the Forest of the Queen" © 2007 by Gwyneth Jones.

  "Mrs. Zeno's Paradox" © 2007 by Ellen Klages.

  "She-Creatures" © 2007 by Margo Lanagan.

  "The Lost Boy: A Reporter at Large" © 2007 by Maureen F. McHugh.

  "Bad Luck, Trouble, Death, and Vampire Sex" © 2007 by Garth Nix.

  "Larissa Miusov" © 2007 by Lucius Shepard.

  "The Lustration" © 2007 by Bruce Sterling.

  "Quartermaster Returns" © 2007 by Ysabeau S. Wilce.

  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-59780-117-1

  Night Shade Books

  Please visit us on the web at

  http://www.nightshadebooks.com

  For Justin Ackroyd, dear friend, fearless book

  supplier, and tireless supporter of my work.

  Acknowledgements

  This book grew out of a crazy conversation with Jason Williams. His faith and support made it possible. It then developed with contributions from my friend and anthology guru Jack Dann, and my science fiction mentor Charles N. Brown. It was made a reality by an incredibly talented group of authors who sent me some amazing stories. They dealt with crazy deadlines, insane turnarounds, and came through time and again. I couldn't be more grateful. Above all, though, I have to acknowledge my three angels, Marianne, Jessica and Sophie , who make every day an adventure and fill it with joy.

  Other books edited by Jonathan Strahan:

  The New Space Opera (with Gardner Dozois)

  The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume One

  Best Short Novels: 2007

  Eidolon 1 (with Jeremy G. Byrne)

  Fantasy: The Very Best of 2005

  Science Fiction: The Very Best of 2005

  Best Short Novels: 2006

  Best Short Novels: 2005

  Fantasy: Best of 2004 (with Karen Haber)

  Science Fiction: Best of 2004 (with Karen Haber)

  Best Short Novels: 2004

  The Locus Awards: Thirty Years of the Best in Fantasy and Science Fiction (with Charles N. Brown)

  Science Fiction: Best of 2003 (with Karen Haber)

  The Year's Best Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy

  Volume: 2 (with Jeremy G. Byrne)

  The Year's Best Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy

  Volume: 1 (with Jeremy G. Byrne)

  INTRODUCTION

  This is a good time for the short story in genre circles. Not maybe in business terms—we're yet to develop a twenty-first century business model that allows writers to make a living writing short fiction—but in artistic terms, it's extraordinary. Whether in anthologies like this one, or in magazines or on websites, short stories are being published in staggering numbers. Thousands each year, millions of words, and in amongst this torrent of content is some extraordinary work.

  Over the past several years I've been reading through that torrent to compile my year's best annuals (most recently The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year), and as I've done so I've become more and more excited about the idea of publishing my own original anthology series, a series that would be a sort of counterweight to my year's best work. It took me a while, though, to figure out what that series would be like. A number of anthologies are being published at the moment that follow a theme, support a manifesto, or attempt to hark back to some grand moment in the history of science fiction and fantasy; anthologies that, no matter how good they may be, have some stated purpose beyond simply delivering a selection of great stories. That wasn't what I wanted to do.

  When I began to sketch out what evolved into the book you're now holding, my intentions were clear. As I've written elsewhere, as an editor I have been greatly influenced by the work of the late, great Terry Carr who was, alongside Damon Knight, one of the best anthologists ever to work in science fiction. Through the 1970s and 1980s he edited two of the great SF anthology series: his Best SF of the Year and Universe. Universe was a truly exceptional anthology series which first appeared in 1971 and ran for seventeen volumes. It collected a broad variety of stories written by some of the best short story writers the field has seen, including Robert Silverberg, Harlan Ellison, R. A. Lafferty, and Gene Wolfe, including some of the best loved stories of the past thirty years. Each volume was short, tightly edited, and yet had a real variety to it. That was something I wanted to emulate: variety without sprawl, respected, well-known writers, and exciting newcomers, and both science fiction and fantasy.

  That's why, in the beginning, I was going to call this series Universe. It seemed like a fitting tribute and an appropriate statement of intent. But then some time passed and I accepted that I'm not Terry Carr, that his tastes aren't necessarily mine, and that this isn't 1975, it's 2007. A different time calls for a slightly different approach and for a new name. So, last year my publisher and I put out a call to readers: give us a new name that would fit a series of anthologies that would contain great new science fiction and fantasy stories, something new, something resonant, something interesting. The suggestions poured in. Many were odd or dissonant in some way, some almost fit, but none were quite right. Some were too science fictional, some too fantastical, and some just didn't suggest much at all. And then, when I was ready to give up, Interzone editor Jetse de Vries suggested Eclipse. Some people who've heard it since think it suggests something exclusively science fictional, or that something must be being "eclipsed." I've been told it's negative, because it's either blocking something or being blocked by something. That wasn't what occurred to me, though, when I heard it.

  An eclipse is a rare and unusual event. If you look at photos of the sun taken during a lunar eclipse you'll see a strange, dark, eldritch thing. The eclipsed sun becomes a weird, black, negative image of itself, and the landscapes it shines down upon are equally transformed. It seemed to me that wonderful things could happen under the strange skies of an eclipse. I was also struck by the fact that eclipses happen regularly. It seemed a perfect metaphor for a new science fiction/fantasy anthology series: a book published regularly that was filled with stories where strange and wonderful things happen, where reality was eclipsed for a little while with something magical and new. And as time passed and the stories for Eclipse 1 began to arrive, it has seemed more and more appropriate.

  So, with thanks to Jetse, welcome to the first volume of Eclipse. This is not a science fiction anthology. Nor is it a fantasy anthology. It's both and it's more. It's a space where you can encounter rocket ships and ray guns, zombies and zeppelins: pretty much anything you can imagine. Most of all, it's somewhere you will find great stories. It does not have an agenda or a plan. There is no test of genre purity that it can pass or fail. There's only the test that every reader applies to any work that they encounter—is it good fiction or not?—and I hope we'll pass that one every time.

  Every anthology is a community. Before you move on to the stories, I'd like to thank a few people. This book wou
ldn't exist without the extraordinary support of Jason Williams, Jeremy Lassen, and the entire Night Shade posse. I'd especially like to thank Marty Halpern for his heroic copyediting and Michael Fusco for his wonderful cover design. I'd also like to thank all of the contributors for their patience, support, and the wonderful stories that you're about to encounter. The path from proposal to publication was a particularly rocky one, and I could never have made it without them. I'd also like to thank my anthology guru and pal, Jack Dann, and my wife, Marianne, who have been there for every difficult moment I went through getting us here. And, last of all, I'd like to thank you for picking up this book and taking it home. I hope this is just the start of a beautiful friendship.

  Jonathan Strahan

  Perth, Western Australia

  July 2007

  UNIQUE CHICKEN GOES IN REVERSE

  Andy Duncan

  Father Leggett stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the three narrow stories of gray brick that was 207 East Charlton Street. Compared to the other edifices on Lafayette Square—the Colonial Dames fountain, the Low house, the Turner mansion, the cathedral of course—this house was decidedly ordinary, a reminder that even Savannah had buildings that did only what they needed to do, and nothing more.

  He looked again at the note the secretary at St. John the Baptist had left on his desk. Wreathed in cigarette smoke, Miss Ingrid fielded dozens of telephone calls in an eight-hour day, none of which were for her, and while she always managed to correctly record addresses and phone numbers on her nicotine-colored note paper, the rest of the message always emerged from her smudged No. 1 pencils as four or five words that seemed relevant at the time but had no apparent grammatical connection, so that reading a stack of Miss Ingrid's messages back to back gave one a deepening sense of mystery and alarm, like intercepted signal fragments from a trawler during a hurricane. This note read:

  OCONNORS

  MARY

  PRIEST?

  CHICKEN!

  And then the address. Pressed for more information, Miss Ingrid had shrieked with laughter and said, "Lord, Father, that was two hours ago! Why don't you ask me an easy one sometime?" The phone rang, and she snatched it up with a wink. "It's a great day at St. John the Baptist. Ingrid speaking."

  Surely, Father Leggett thought as he trotted up the front steps, I wasn't expected to bring a chicken?

  The bell was inaudible, but the door was opened immediately by an attractive but austere woman with dark eyebrows. Father Leggett was sure his sidewalk dithering had been patiently observed.

  "Hello, Father. Please come in. Thank you for coming. I'm Regina O'Connor."

  She ushered him into a surprisingly large, bright living room. Hauling himself up from the settee was a rumpled little man in shirtsleeves and high-waisted pants who moved slowly and painfully, as if he were much larger.

  "Welcome, Father. Edward O'Connor, Dixie Realty and Construction."

  "Mr. O'Connor. Mrs. O'Connor. I'm Father Leggett, assistant at St. John for—oh, my goodness, two months now. Still haven't met half my flock, at least. Bishop keeps me hopping. Pleased to meet you now, though." You're babbling, he told himself.

  In the act of shaking hands, Mr. O'Connor lurched sideways with a wince, nearly falling. "Sorry, Father. Bit of arthritis in my knee."

  "No need to apologize for the body's frailties, Mr. O'Connor. Why, we would all be apologizing all the time, like Alphonse and Gaston." He chuckled as the O'Connors, apparently not readers of the comics supplement, stared at him. "Ahem. I received a message at the church, something involving . . ." The O'Connors didn't step into the pause to help him. "Involving Mary?"

  "We'd like for you to talk to her, Father," said Mrs. O'Connor. "She's in the back yard, playing. Please, follow me."

  The back of the house was much shabbier than the front, and the yard was a bare dirt patch bounded on three sides by a high wooden fence of mismatched planks. More brick walls were visible through the gaps. In one corner of the yard was a large chicken coop enclosed by a smaller, more impromptu wire fence, the sort unrolled from a barrel-sized spool at the hardware store and affixed to posts with bent nails. Several dozen chickens roosted, strutted, pecked. Father Leggett's nose wrinkled automatically. He liked chickens when they were fried, baked or, with dumplings, boiled, but he always disliked chickens at their earlier, pre-kitchen stage, as creatures. He conceded them a role in God's creation purely for their utility to man. Father Leggett tended to respect things on the basis of their demonstrated intelligence, and on that universal ladder chickens tended to roost rather low. A farmer once told him that hundreds of chickens could drown during a single rainstorm because they kept gawking at the clouds with their beaks open until they filled with water like jugs. Or maybe that was geese. Father Leggett, who grew up in Baltimore, never liked geese, either.

  Lying face up and spread-eagled in the dirt of the yard like a little crime victim was a grimy child in denim overalls, with bobbed hair and a pursed mouth too small even for her nutlike head, most of which was clenched in a frown that was thunderous even from twenty feet away. She gave no sign of acknowledgment as the three adults approached, Mr. O'Connor slightly dragging his right foot. Did this constitute playing, wondered Father Leggett, who had scarcely more experience with children than with poultry.

  "Mary," said Mrs. O'Connor as her shadow fell across the girl. "This is Father Leggett, from St. John the Baptist. Father Leggett, this is Mary, our best and only. She's in first grade at St. Vincent's."

  "Ah, one of Sister Consolata's charges. How old are you, Mary?"

  Still lying in the dirt, Mary thrashed her arms and legs, as if making snow angels, but said nothing. Dust clouds rose.

  Her father said, "Mary, don't be rude. Answer Father's question."

  "I just did," said Mary, packing the utterance with at least six syllables. Her voice was surprisingly deep. She did her horizontal jumping jacks again, counting off this time. "One. Two. Three. Five."

  "You skipped four," Father Leggett said.

  "You would, too," Mary said. "Four was hell."

  "Mary."

  This one word from her mother, recited in a flat tone free of judgment, was enough to make the child scramble to her feet. "I'm sorry, Mother and Father and Father, and I beg the Lord's forgiveness." To Father Leggett's surprise, she even curtsied in no particular direction—whether to him or to the Lord, he couldn't tell.

  "And well you might, young lady," Mr. O'Connor began, but Mrs. O'Connor, without even raising her voice, easily drowned him out by saying simultaneously:

  "Mary, why don't you show Father Leggett your chicken?"

  "Yes, Mother." She skipped over to the chicken yard, stood on tiptoe to unlatch the gate, and waded into the squawking riot of beaks and feathers. Father Leggett wondered how she could tell one chicken from all the rest. He caught himself holding his breath, his hands clenched into fists.

  "Spirited child," he said.

  "Yes," said Mrs. O'Connor. Her unexpected smile was dazzling.

  Mary relatched the gate and trotted over with a truly extraordinary chicken beneath one arm. Its feathers stuck out in all directions, as if it had survived a hurricane. It struggled not at all, but seemed content with, or resigned to, Mary's attentions. The child's ruddy face showed renewed determination, and her mouth looked ever more like the dent a thumb leaves on a bad tomato.

  "What an odd-looking specimen," said Father Leggett, silently meaning both of them.

  "It's frizzled," Mary said. "That means its feathers grew in backward. It has a hard old time of it, this one."

  She set the chicken down and held up a pudgy, soiled index finger. The chicken stared at the digit, rapt. The child took one step toward the bird, which took one corresponding step back. The child stepped forward again, and the bird retreated another step, still focused on her finger—its topmost joint slightly crooked, its nail gnawed to the quick. Third step, fourth step, fifth step. The chicken walked backward as if hypnotized, its steps
both deliberate and without volition, like the plod of a marionette in unskilled hands.

  "Remarkable. And what's your chicken's name, my child?"

  She flung down a handful of seed and said, "Jesus Christ."

  Father Leggett sucked in a breath. Behind him, Mrs. O'Connor coughed. Father Leggett tugged at his earlobe, an old habit. "What did you say, young lady?"

  "Jesus Christ," she repeated, in the same dispassionate voice in which she had said, "Mary O'Connor." Then she rushed the chicken, which skittered around the yard as Mary chased it, chanting in a singsong, "Jesus Christ Jesus Christ Jesus Christ."

  Father Leggett looked at her parents. Mr. O'Connor arched his eyebrows and shrugged. Mrs. O'Connor, arms folded, nodded her head once. She looked grimly satisfied. Father Leggett turned back to see chicken and child engaged in a staring contest. The chicken stood, a-quiver; Mary, in a squat, was still.

  "Now, Mary," Father Leggett said. "Why would you go and give a frizzled chicken the name of our Lord and Savior?"

  "It's the best name," replied Mary, not breaking eye contact with the chicken. "Sister Consolata says the name of Jesus is to be cherished above all others."

  "Well, yes, but—"

  The hypnotic bond between child and chicken seemed to break, and Mary began to skip around the yard, raising dust with each stomp of her surprisingly large feet. "And he's different from all the other chickens, and the other chickens peck him but he never pecks back, and he spends a lot of his time looking up in the air, praying, and in Matthew Jesus says he's a chicken, and if I get a stomachache or an earache or a sore throat, I come out here and play with him and it gets all better just like the lame man beside the well."

  Father Leggett turned in mute appeal to the child's parents. Mr. O'Connor cleared his throat.

  "We haven't been able to talk her out of it, Father."

  "So we thought we'd call an expert," finished Mrs. O'Connor.