Mothership

  “The Last of Its Kind” copyright © 2013 by Kawika Guillermo

  “Bludgeon” copyright © 2013 by Thaddeus Howze

  “The Farming of Gods” coyright © 2013 by Ibi Zoboi

  “The Hungry Earth” copyright © 2013 by Carmen Maria Machado

  “The Homecoming” copyright © 2013 by Chinelo Onwualu

  “Waking the God of the Mountain” copyright © 2013 by Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

  “Culling the Herd” copyright © 2013 by C. Renee Stephens

  “Dances with Ghosts” copyright © 2013 by Joseph Bruchac

  “Othello Pop” copyright © 2013 by Andaiye Reeves

  “The Parrot’s Tale” copyright © 2013 by Anil Menon

  “Angels + Cannibals Unite” copyright © 2013 by Greg Tate

  “A Fine Specimen” copyright © 2013 by Lisa Allen-Agostini

  “The Buzzing” copyright © 2013 Katherena Vermette

  Mothership: Tales from Afrofuturism and Beyond

  Copyright © 2013 by Rosarium Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Rosarium Publishing

  P.O. Box 691, College Park, MD 20741

  www.rosariumpublishing.com

  International Standard Bok Number: 978-0-9891411-4-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915518

  Acknowledgment for permission to reprint the following:

  “I Left My Heart in Skaftafell” by Victor LaValle. A previous version of this story originally appeared in Daedalus, Vol. 133, No. 4, Fall 2004. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Too Many Yesterdays, Not Enough Tomorrows” by N.K. Jemisin. First published in Ideomancer, Vol. 3, Issue 9, December 2004. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Skin Dragons Talk” by Ernest Hogan. First published in Science Fiction Age, March 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Ernest Hogan. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Half-Wall” by Rabih Alameddine. First published in Ploughshares, Spring 2011. Copyright © Rabih Alameddine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Unathi Battles the Black Hairballs” by Lauren Beukes. First published in Home Away: 24 Hours, 24 Cities, 24 Writers (Zebra Press, South Africa, April 2010). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Amma” by Charles R. Saunders. First published in Beyond the Fields We Know, Fall 1978. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Voyeur” by Ran Walker. First published in Frightmares: A Fistful of Horror (ed. Stan Swanson), Dark Moon Press, 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Randolph Walker Jr. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Life-pod” by Vandana Singh. First published in Foundation: The International Review of Science Fiction, Issue 100, August 2007. Copyright © 2007 by Vandana Singh. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Four Eyes” by Tobias Buckell. First published in New Voices in Science Fiction (ed. Mike Resnick), DAW, 2003. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Death Collector” by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. First published in AE—The Canadian Science Fiction Review, February 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Bio-Anger” by Kiini Ibura Salaam. First published in Ancient, Ancient: Short Fiction by Kiini Ibura Salaam (Aqueduct Press, 2012). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Runner of n-Vamana” by Indrapramit Das. Copyright © 2013 by Indrapramit Das. First published in Bloodchildren: Stories by the Octavia E. Butler Scholars (ed. Nisi Shawl), January 2013. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “In the Belly of the Crocodile” by Minister Faust. First Published in Griots (eds. Milton Davis, Charles R. Saunders), MVmedia, 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Live and Let Live” by Linda D. Addison. First published in How to Recognize a Demon Has Become Your Friend. Copyright © 2011 by Linda D. Addison. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Pavilion of Frozen Women” by S.P. Somtow. First published in Cold Shocks (ed. Tim Sullivan), 1991. Copyright © 1991 by Somtow Sucharitkul. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Un Aperitivo Col Diavolo” by Darius James. First published in German in The Gold Collection: Neue Weihnachtsgeschichten (eds. Karsten Kredel, Jörn Morisse), Suhrkemp Verlag, 2007. First published in English in Paraphilia Magazine, Issue 4, 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “A Brief History of Nonduality Studies” by Sofia Samatar. First published in Expanded Horizons, Issue 36, August 2012. Copyright © Sofia Samatar. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Protected Entity” by Daniel José Older. First published in Salsa Nocturna: Stories by Daniel José Older (Crossed Genres Publications, 2012). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Northern Lights” by Eden Robinson. First published in The Fiddlehead, Issue 253, August 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Aphotic Ghost” by Carlos Hernandez. First published in Bewere the Night: Tales of Shapeshifters and Werecreatures (ed. Ekaterina Sedia), Prime, 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Pillar” by Farnoosh Moshiri. First published in The Crazy Dervish and the Pomegranate Tree (Black Heron Press, 2004). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Between Islands” by Jaymee Goh. First published in Expanded Horizons, Issue 19, June 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Fées des Dents” by George S. Walker. A previous version of this story originally appeared in Electric Spec, Vol. 5, Issue 3, August 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Taken” by Tenea D. Johnson. First published in Whispers in the Night: Dark Dreams III (ed. Brandon Massey), Dafina, 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Monstro” by Junot Díaz. First published in The New Yorker, Copyright © 2012 by Junot Díaz. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Good Boy” by Nisi Shawl. First published in Filter House (Aqueduct Press, 2008). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Contents

  Bill Campbell and Edward Austin Hall Introduction

  Victor LaValle I Left My Heart in Skaftafell

  N.K. Jemisin Too Many Yesterdays, Not Enough Tomorrows

  Ernest Hogan Skin Dragons Talk

  Kawika Guillermo The Last of Its Kind

  Thaddeus Howze Bludgeon

  Ibi Zoboi The Farming of Gods

  Carmen Maria Machado The Hungry Earth

  Rabih Alameddine The Half-Wall

  Lauren Beukes Unathi Battles the Black Hairballs

  Charles R. Saunders Amma

  Chinelo Onwualu The Homecoming

  Ran Walker The Voyeur

  Vandana Singh Life-pod

  Tobias Buckell Four Eyes

  Silvia Moreno-Garcia The Death Collector

  Kiini Ibura Salaam Bio-Anger

  Indrapramit Das The Runner of n-Vamana

  Minister Faust In the Belly of the Crocodile

  Linda D. Addison Live and Let Live

  S.P. Somtow The Pavilion of Frozen Women

  Rochita Loenen-Ruiz Waking the God of the Mountain

  C. Renee Stephens Culling the Herd

  Joseph Bruchac Dances with Ghosts

  Darius James Un Aperitivo Col Diavolo

  Andaiye Reeves Othello Pop

  Sofia Samatar A Brief History of Nonduality Studies

  Daniel José Older Protected Entity

  Anil Menon The Parrot’s Tale

  Eden Robinson Northern Lights

  Tade Thompson One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sunlight

  Carlos Hernandez The Aphotic Ghost

  Farnoosh Moshiri The Pillar

  Greg Tate Angels + Cannibals Unite

  Lisa Allen-Agostin
i A Fine Specimen

  Jaymee Goh Between Islands

  George S. Walker Fées des Dents

  Tenea D. Johnson The Taken

  Katherena Vermette The Buzzing

  Junot Díaz Monstro

  Nisi Shawl Good Boy

  About the Authors

  Introduction

  “When we look up at the night sky, space is black as far as the eye can see. Yet, when we read novels about it or watch something on TV or in the movie theater, it is white beyond all comprehension.”

  That was the thought that launched the collection you hold in your hands. It happened this past December while I was, oddly enough, looking up at the night sky. I’d just finished watching an SF movie and had gone outside, mentally ranting about what I’d just seen. It was a tired and familiar rant, and I was tired of ranting it. Yet, there I was.

  It went something like this…

  Mainstream, American corporate culture “white washes” all culture—past, present, and future—giving people the false impression that America has been, is, and always will be the “White Man’s Country.” For example, people have no clue that the Revolutionary army was, at times, 16% black and fully integrated. They have no idea that the “Wild West” was 25% African-American. Watching movies of late gives one the impression that the Civil Rights movement was a battle between crusty, old white folks and bright-eyed, determined white girls. And, in the magical hands of Martin Scorsese (in Gangs of New York), over 100 black corpses disappeared and this country’s largest race riot ended up having nothing to do with race at all.

  Hollywood executives tell us that no one wants to see movies or watch TV shows focusing on people of color, though we make up almost 30% of their domestic market and the vast majority of their foreign one. Once you take out Denzel Washington, Will Smith, and Morgan Freeman’s narration, people of color are nearly invisible.

  Science fiction often implies that racism will be dead in the future. At least, they never really address it so we can only assume it will be. We can also assume that it’s dead because a melanin-devouring plague (Schuylerosis?) either killed all people of color or that same plague killed all the melanin on the planet, leaving only a handful of affable sidekicks in its wake. Because, if racism were truly dead, roughly 6 out of every 7 cast members would be people of color as opposed to, say, 2 out of every 15.

  So, that’s the rant. That’s one of my problems with popular culture. Hopefully, Mothership is part of the solution. After all, as this collection exemplifies, there are a lot of creative people out there doing quality work who are more than ready and are exceptionally qualified to give this culture some much needed … color.

  I thank them all for helping to make Mothership possible. This anthology would not have happened without them. As always, I thank my family and friends for their support. I thank Edward Austin Hall, John Jennings, Kyra Baker, and my brother Gerald Mohamed for all readily jumping aboard the Mothership and helping it fly.

  Bill Campbell

  Only after the Sci-Fi Channel rebranded itself as Syfy did I finally understand a connection I had long sensed between science fiction and blackness. My own physical ambiguity in a racial sense—people of almost every ethnicity you can think of have wondered (or decided) what I am—taught me the truism that others “like” you when they presume you are like them. The confusion I fostered in white folk and black folk as I grew up in Mobile, Alabama, during the 1960s and ’70s helped make me a writer by letting me know that few people outside my kin perceived me as “like them.”

  Fine. Be that way.

  I retreated into science fiction, read way too much of it, studied its history, and met its creators. I read that the New York Times reputedly banned the reviewing of fantasy or science fiction in its weekday pages—the same New York Times that employed book critic Anatole Broyard, another racially ambiguous American of black ancestry, under the impression that he was … well, something other than what he was.

  In certain precincts, always, if a work of art is good—i.e., if a critic likes it—it cannot be science fiction. Excuse me, sci-fi. Um, sorry, I meant syfy. Similarly, years ago a white bigot whom I had just met revealed himself amid our affable conversation after I identified myself as black. He said, “You’re not black!” I laughed and walked away from him.

  When Bill Campbell invited me to be part of this project, with its open-arms, fantasticated-tales-by-and/or-for-and/or-about-people-of-color approach, I knew the book I had been waiting a lifetime to assemble lay ahead of me. And now here it is.

  Edward Austin Hall

  Edward Austin Hall wishes to thank his parents, Gwendolyn Mae Balasco and First Lieutenant Leander Arnold Hall. He also extends heartfelt gratitude to the following for their invaluable assistance and support in the making of this book: Nisi Shawl, Kit Reed, Gerald Page, Nicola Griffith, and Pearl Cleage.

  Special Acknowledgment of Support

  During July and August of 2013, a crowdfunding campaign was conducted to raise money to support the authors contributing to the Mothership anthology. This thirty-day campaign was very successful, thanks to a generous outpouring of support. Over 650 people helped fund the Mothership campaign, raising over $15,000. It was all due to thousands of people spreading the word through Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, Tumblr, posting, pinning, and shouting from the rooftops. We thank them all. We especially thank Tananarive Due, Ann and Jeff VanderMeer, and Ekaterina Sedia for being such incredible advocates for the project. Our infinite gratitude goes out to Troy Bernier and Bart R. Leib, whose last-minute advice was truly invaluable. We also thank the generous funders listed below. This project could not have been done without you.

  Special supporters of Mothership: Galen Bodenhausen, Mark Bould, Nancy Braden-Parker, Mike Brown, Nicholas Butta, Sean Case, Sarah Kaili Chamizo, Wendy Dean, Davy De Vuysdere, Daylanne English, Anthony Francis, Pamela Genise, Peggy J. Hailey, Nick Harkaway, Andrew Hatchell, Joyce Hatton, Najah Jackson, Josetta Jones, Kari Kanto, Cynthia Lapp, Jon Lasser, Frances Liddell, Andrew Martin, John Massier, Parris McBride-Martin, Akilah McIntyre, Wendy Nicodemus, Terri Onstad, Beverly Perez, Kavita Philip, Kevin Roberts, Zefyr Scott, Jeffrey L. Shannon, Michael Shean, Ward Smith, Allison Walters, Brandelyn Wiser, David Wohlreich.

  I Left My Heart in Skaftafell

  Victor LaValle

  He was meek, homicidal, wore a long scarf tied once around his neck as must have been the style for trolls that year. I never saw him board the bus, but it may have been in Varmahlid, though I can’t be sure since I slept so much as I traveled through Iceland.

  I was there at the end of summer, August. Most folks in their twenties had already tramped cross-country in July so I found myself with the elderly wanderers. August was for the old-heads, and me. On wilderness trails I passed couples catching their breath and rubbing each other’s knees through their waterproof pants. The Germans regarded me with tacky detachment, snubbing me while wearing bright red boots and brighter orange parkas. They seemed ridiculous and yet they looked down on me. I tried not to feel hurt by their disdain, told myself being excluded by them was like being kicked out of clown college, but you can guess how much it really bothered me.

  Also, I had the amazing misfortune of sitting behind French people on every plane and bus. Minutes into a ride a woman or man brazenly checked that yes, there was, undeniably, someone back there, then slid the chair so far back I had a headrest against my gullet. Even when I asked, slapped, tapped, or pushed the seat, these folks only gave that stare the French invented to paralyze the dumb.

  Luckily, the Icelanders liked me, even though I was an American. Because I was shy. Firm, polite, and quiet, a perfect personality for these reserved northern Europeans. Many times I was told so. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” one woman in a candy shop said to me, “but I explained to my co-worker that here, finally, is an American who isn’t boring. Being loud and asking so many boring questions!”

  Most Icelanders used English skillfully, but it was
a quirk of speech that they said “boring” when they meant “frustrating.” Like, “this knot in my shoe is so boring!” Or, “I can’t reach my girlfriend, this connection is boring!”

  So this was me: an American, not boring, black, and alone in Iceland.

  Being both a troll and a smoker he had little lousy teeth. When his mouth opened it was hard to distinguish them from his lips. Everything fed into a general maw. Once, he lit up right on the bus as we left Akureyri, so the driver stopped, walked down the aisle, and explained that those were the old ways and he could no longer smoke everywhere he pleased. I sat farther back, but we all heard the warning. There were thirty-one of us riding the bus, mostly couples. No one else was going alone but me and the monster.

  By the way, this whole time let’s not talk about the Africans. They had no allegiance to me of course. Why should they? The white folks weren’t hugging each other in Caucasian familyhood—still fuck those Africans, and I mean that from the bottom of my soul. In Reykjavik I went bonkers trying to get a little love from any one of them. Nothing. Not even the faintest soul-brother nod. May they all enjoy another hundred years of despotic rule.

  When I say “troll” it probably implies a certain size. We hear “troll” and think “dwarf,” but out here trolls were enormous, according to reports. In a town called Vik there are three spires said to be trolls who were caught in sunlight and transformed to stone as they tried to drag a ship ashore. They’re six stories high.

  My troll was man-sized. He wore one beige sweater the whole time, though he paid his bills from a fold of green and purple cash kept tied in a big red handkerchief. Whenever I got off the bus, he got off the bus. It didn’t take long to notice the pattern. I’d see him walking around towns at night, moving with a predatory hunch, hands in his pockets and holding out the sides of his jacket as he moved so that, when the wind got in there, the fabric expanded and he seemed to grow wings.

  I didn’t come to Iceland to fuck Icelandic women nor to spin in the flash clubs of Reykjavik. Iceland was my destination because for me there was nowhere else to go. The rest of the world was only getting hotter and, much to the shame of my sub-Saharan ancestors, I was a black man who hated warm weather. So I came to Iceland for the cold, but that wasn’t the only thing that brought me.