Sunspot Jungle Read online

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  Cover art and design by John Jennings

  SUNSPOT JUNGLE: THE EVER EXPANDING UNIVERSE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION, VOL. 1.

  Copyright © 2018 Rosarium Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any forms or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below:

  Published by Rosarium Publishing

  P.O. Box 544

  Greenbelt, MD 20768-0544

  www.rosariumpublishing.com

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION Bill Campbell

  WALKING AWAKE N.K. Jemisin

  Illustration by Nettrice Gaskins

  THE BLACK BOX Malka Older

  A SONG TRANSMUTED Sarah Pinsker

  WATER Ramez Naam

  UNDERWORLD 101 Mame Bougouma Diene

  THE FAITHFUL SOLDIER, PROMPTED Saladin Ahmed

  Illustration by Razwan Ul-Haq

  BEAUTIFUL CURSE Kristine Ong Muslim

  REAL BOYS Clara Kumagai

  Illustration by Stephani Soejono

  BORN OUT OF FROST Mélanie Fazi

  THE COFFIN-MAKER’S DAUGHTER Angela Slatter

  I MAKE PEOPLE DO BAD THINGS Chesya Burke

  Illustration by John Jennings

  BLOOD DRIVE Jeffrey Ford

  SIX THINGS WE FOUND DURING THE AUTOPSY Kuzhali Manickavel

  PLEASE FEED MOTION Irenosen Okojie

  MADELEINE Amal El-Mohtar

  NOTES FROM LIMINAL SPACES Hiromi Goto

  MEDUSA Christopher Brown

  A UNIVERSAL ELEGY Tang Fei

  LALIBELA Gabriel Teodros

  THE COPPER SCARAB K. Tempest Bradford

  Illustration by Takeia Marie

  THE ARRANGEMENT OF THEIR PARTS Shweta Narayan

  THE APPLAUSE OF OTHERS Corinne Duyvis

  Illustration by Aimée de Jongh

  LACRIMOSA Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Illustration by Liz Mayorga

  THOSE SHADOWS LAUGH Geoff Ryman

  THERE IS NOTHING TO BIND OUR HEARTS TOGETHER Sabrina Huang

  DOUEN CALLING Brandon Mc Ivor

  SPECTRAL EVIDENCE Victor LaValle

  A MODEL APARTMENT Bryan Thao Worra

  Illustration by Vincent Sammy

  WATER IN THE RICE FIELDS UP TO MY KNEES Johary Ravaloson

  Illustration by Avy Jetter

  THE SPOOKY JAPANESE GIRL IS THERE FOR YOU Juan Martinez

  THE EXECUTIONER Jennifer Marie Brissett

  GIRL, I LOVE YOU Nadia Bulkin

  THE CASTAWAY Sergio Gaut vel Hartman

  Illustration by Louis Netter

  A GOOD HOME Karin Lowachee

  HOW TO PISS OFF A FAILED SUPER SOLDIER John Chu

  Illustration by Rafael Desquitado, Jr.

  SUPER DUPER FLY Maurice Broaddus

  RABBITS Csilla Kleinheincz

  A DIFFERENT MISTAKE Eve Shi

  LOST BONDS Margrét Helgadóttir

  Illustration by Mahendra Singh

  THE BONES SHINE THROUGH WITH LIGHT Joyce Chng

  ANA’S TAG William Alexander

  FLUSH Francesco Verso

  NO KISSING THE DOLL UNLESS JIMI HENDRIX IS PLAYING Clifton Gachagua

  Illustration by Ezra Claytan Daniels

  A PINCH OF SALT Hal Duncan

  ESCAPE TO HELL Iheoma Nwachukwu

  THE LADY AND THE POET Walter Tierno

  Illustration by Lars Krantz

  SALVATION Claudia De Bella

  HOW TO REMEMBER TO FORGET TO REMEMBER THE OLD WAR Rose Lemberg

  BOTTLED-UP MESSAGES Basma Abdel Aziz

  ACCEPTION Tessa Kum

  THE DAY IT ALL ENDED Charlie Jane Anders

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND PERMISSIONS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  for Ange

  Introduction

  I wanted to throw a party. On June 17, 2018, Rosarium Publishing turned five years old. Beginnings are hard. Most small businesses never make it to five years. We’ve been exceedingly fortunate, so why not celebrate?

  Of course, it hasn’t been all luck. There has been loads of hard work put in by all those involved with Rosarium, and most importantly, we have had a lot of support from people like you.

  Ever since our first Indiegogo campaign for Mothership: Tales from Afrofuturism and Beyond, we have had incredible amounts of support from the SFF community. Fans and writers made that and subsequent projects possible throughout the years. Professional critics and readers have received our works enthusiastically. Other small publishers (special shout-outs to Gavin Grant, Jacob Weisman, John Edward Lawson, and Neil Clarke) have been incredibly generous with their advice and support from the very beginning. I am eternally grateful for all of it.

  It was in these twin spirits of gratitude and celebration that Sunspot Jungle was born. I simply wanted to give back to the community that has given this crazy idea that is Rosarium so much.

  So, thank you, everybody who have supported us over the years. Thanks to all the writers and artists and small publishers the world round who helped me put it all together. And my biggest thanks go out to all the hardworking translators out there who work diligently to bring all the world’s fantastic literature to the world itself. You are all amazing!

  So, please, everyone, sit back, relax, and enjoy my little, two-volume, 1000-page SFF “mixtape.” There are a lot of beautiful stories floating around this tiny world of ours. Sunspot Jungle is but a small sample. I don’t know if there’s ever been a better time to be a fan of the genre, and the future promises to be one helluva ride. We at Rosarium can’t wait to buckle up beside you and enjoy that ride together.

  Bill Campbell

  Publisher

  Walking Awake

  N.K. Jemisin

  The Master who came for Enri was wearing a relatively young body. Sadie guessed it was maybe fifty years old. It was healthy and in good condition, still handsome. It could last twenty years more, easily.

  Its owner noticed Sadie’s stare and chuckled. “I never let them get past fifty,” the Master said. “You’ll understand when you get there.”

  Sadie quickly lowered her gaze. “Of course, sir.”

  It turned the body’s eyes to examine Enri, who sat very still in his cell. Enri knew, Sadie could see at once. She had never told him—she never told any of the children because she was their caregiver and there was nothing of care in the truth—but Enri had always been more intuitive than most.

  She cleared her throat. “Forgive me, sir, but it’s best if we return to the transfer center. He’ll have to be prepped—”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” the Master said. “Sorry, I just wanted to look him over before my claim was processed. You never know when they’re going to screw up the paperwork.” It smiled.

  Sadie nodded and stepped back, gesturing f
or the Master to precede her away from the cell. As they walked to the elevator they passed two of Sadie’s assistant caregivers, who were distributing the day’s feed to Fourteen Male. Sadie caught Caridad’s eye and signed for them to go and fetch Enri. No ceremony. A ceremony at this point would be cruel.

  Caridad noticed, twitched elaborately, got control of herself and nodded. Olivia, who was deaf, did not look up to catch Sadie’s signing, but Caridad brushed her arm and repeated it. Olivia’s face tightened in annoyance but then smoothed into a compliant mask. Both women headed for cell 47.

  “The children here all seem nicely fit,” the Master commented as they stepped into the elevator. “I got my last body from Southern. Skinny as rails there.”

  “Exercise, sir. We provide a training regimen for those children who want it; most do. We also use a nutrient blend designed to encourage muscle growth.”

  “Ah, yes. Do you think that new one will get above two meters?”

  “He might, sir. I can check the breeder history—”

  “No, no, never mind. I like surprises.” It threw her a wink over one shoulder. When it faced forward again, Sadie found her eyes drawn to the crab-like form half-buried at the nape of the body’s neck. Even as Sadie watched, one of its legs shifted just under the skin, loosening its grip on the tendons there.

  She averted her eyes.

  Caridad and Olivia came down shortly. Enri was between the two women, dressed in the ceremonial clothing: a plain low-necked shirt and pants, both dyed deep red. His eyes locked onto Sadie, despairing, betrayed, before he disappeared through the transfer room’s door.

  “Lovely eyes,” the Master remarked, handing her the completed claim forms. “Can’t wait to wear blue again.”

  Sadie led it into the transfer center. As they passed through the second gate, the airy echoes of the tower gave way to softer, closer acoustics. The center’s receiving room had jewel-toned walls, hardwood floors, and luxuriant furniture upholstered in rich, tasteful brocades. Soft strains of music played over the speakers; incense burned in a censer on the mantle. Many Masters liked to test their new senses after a transfer.

  This Master gave everything a perfunctory glance as it passed through. Off the receiving room was the transfer chamber itself: two long metal tables, a tile floor set with drains, elegant mirror-glass walls which were easy to wash and sterilize. Through the open doorway Sadie could see that Enri had already been strapped to the left table, facedown with arms outstretched. His head was buckled in place on the chin rest, but in the mirrored wall his eyes shifted to Sadie. There was nothing of anticipation in that gaze as there should have been. He knew to be afraid. Sadie looked away and bowed at the door as the Master passed.

  The Master walked toward the right-hand table, removing its shirt and then paused as it noticed the room’s door still open. It turned to her and lifted one of the body’s eyebrows, plainly wanting privacy. Sadie swallowed, painfully aware of the passing seconds, of the danger of displeasing a Master, of Enri’s terrible unwavering stare. She should stay. It was the least she could do after lying to Enri his whole life. She should stay and let his last sight through his own eyes be of someone who loved him and lamented his suffering.

  “Thank you for choosing the Northeast Anthroproduction Facility,” she said to the Master. “At Northeast your satisfaction is always guaranteed.”

  She closed the door and walked away.

  That night Sadie dreamed of Enri.

  This was not unusual. Her dreams had always been dangerously vivid. As a child she had sleepwalked, attacked others in the confusion of waking, heard voices when no one had spoken, bitten through her lip and nearly drowned in blood. Her caregivers sent away for a specialist, who diagnosed her as something called bipolar—a defect of the brain chemistry. At the time she had been distraught over this, but the policies were very clear. No Master would have anything less than a perfect host. They could have sent her to Disposal or the plantations. Instead, Sadie had been given medicines to stabilize her erratic neurotransmitters and then sent to another facility, Northeast, to begin training as a caregiver. She had done well. But though the other symptoms of her defect had eased with adulthood and medication, her dreams were still strong.

  This time she stood in a vast meadow, surrounded by waist-high grass and summer flowers. She had only seen a meadow once, on the journey from her home anthro to caregiver training, and she had never actually walked through it. The ground felt uneven and soft under her feet, and a light breeze rustled the grass around her. Underneath the rustling she thought she could hear snatches of something else—many voices, whispering, though she could not make out the words.

  “Sadie?” Enri, behind her. She turned and stared at him. He was himself, his eyes wide with wonder. Yet she had heard the screams from the transfer room, smelled the blood and bile, seen his body emerge from the room and flash a satisfied smile that no fourteen-year-old boy should ever wear.

  “It is you,” Enri said, staring. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

  It was just a dream. Still, Sadie said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I know.” Enri sobered, and sighed. “I was angry at first. But then I kept thinking: It must be hard for you. You love us, but you give us to them over and over. It’s cruel of them to make you do it.”

  Cruel. Yes. But. “Better than …” She caught herself.

  “Better than being chosen yourself.” Enri looked away. “Yes. It is.” But he came to her, and they walked awhile, listening to the swish of grass around their calves and smelling the strangely clean aroma of the dirt between their toes.

  “I’m glad for this,” Sadie said after a while. Her voice seemed strangely soft; the land here did not echo the way the smooth corridors of the facility did. “To see you. Even if it’s just a dream.”

  Enri spread his hands from his sides as they walked, letting the bobbing heads of flowers tickle his palms. “You told me once that you used to go places when you dreamed. Maybe this is real. Maybe you’re really here with me.”

  “That wasn’t ‘going to places,’ that was sleepwalking. And it was in the real world. Not like this.”

  He nodded, silent for a moment. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted it so much. Maybe that’s why I’m here.” He glanced at her, biting his bottom lip. “Maybe you wanted to see me, too.”

  She had. But she could not bring herself to say so because just thinking it made her hurt all over inside, like shaking apart, and the dream was fragile. Too much of anything would break it; she could feel that instinctively.

  She took his hand, though, the way she had so often when they were alive and alone. His fingers tightened on hers briefly, then relaxed.

  They had reached a hill, which overlooked a landscape that Sadie had never seen before: meadows and hills in a vast expanse broken only occasionally by lone trees, and in the distance a knot of thick variegated green. Was that a … jungle? A forest? What was the difference? She had no idea.

  “The others think I came here because we used to be close,” Enri said a little shyly. “Also because you’re so good at dreaming. It wouldn’t matter, me reaching out for you, if you weren’t meeting me halfway.”

  Others? “What are you talking about?”

  Enri shrugged. It made his shirt—the low-necked smock she’d last seen him wearing—slip back a little, revealing the smooth unblemished flesh of his neck and upper back. “After the pain there’s nothing but the dark inside your head. If you shout, it sounds like a whisper. If you hit yourself, it feels like a pinch. Nothing works right except your thoughts. And all you can think about is how much you want to be free.”

  She had never let herself imagine this. Never, not once. These were the dangerous thoughts, the ones that threatened her ability to keep doing what the Masters wanted or to keep from screaming while she did those things. If she even thought the word free, she usually made hers
elf immediately think about something else. She should not be dreaming about this.

  And yet, like picking at a scab, she could not help asking, “Could you … go to sleep? Or something? Stop thinking, somehow?” Pick, pick. It would be terrible to be trapped so forever with no escape. Pick, pick. She had always thought that taking on a Master meant nothingness. Oblivion. This was worse.

  Enri turned to look at her, and she stopped.

  “You’re not alone in it,” he said. Whispering, all around them both; she was sure of it now. His eyes were huge and blue and unblinking as they watched her. “You’re not the only person trapped in the dark. There’s lots of others in here. With me.”

  “I, I don’t—” She didn’t want to know.

  Pick, pick.

  “Everyone else the Masters have taken.”

  A Master could live for centuries. How many bodies was that? How many other Enris trapped in the silence, existing only as themselves in dreams? Dozens?

  “All of us, from every Master, down all the years that they’ve ruled us.”

  Thousands. Millions.

  “And a few like you, ones without Masters, but who are good at dreaming and want to be free the way we do. No one else can hear us. No one else needs to.”

  Sadie shook her head. “No.” She put out a hand to touch Enri’s shoulder, wondering if this might help her wake up. It felt just as she remembered—bony and soft and almost hot to the touch as if the life inside him was much brighter and stronger than her own. “I, I don’t want to be—” She can’t say the word.

  Pick, pick.

  “We’re all still here. We’re dead, but we’re still here. And—” He hesitated, then ducked his eyes. “The others say you can help us.”

  “No!” She let go of him and stumbled back, shaking inside and out. She could not hear these dangerous thoughts. “I don’t want this!”

  She woke in the dark of her cubicle, her face wet with tears.

  The next day a Master arrived in a woman’s body. The body was not old at all—younger than Sadie, who was forty. Sadie checked the database carefully to make sure the Master had a proper claim.