Asimov's SF, September 2011 by Dell Magazine Authors

Author:Dell Magazine Authors
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Dell Magazines

Poetry: STONE ROACH by Fiona Moore

* * * *

* * * *

How many millennia

Have you endured

To be here at this moment:

—

Dragging your winter legs

And your slow antennae

Across the grey doorstep

—

Pulling yourself grimly

Through landscapes of brisk feet

Scintillating poison and sharp cold

—

Determined to outlast

Prettier, cleverer species

And to be there

—

When the red orb

Palely visible on the horizon

Fades out entirely

—Fiona Moore

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Short Story: GRANDMA SAID by R. Neube

Coping with plague and other aspects of a difficult life on a frontier planet, one young man learns that the best way to survive may be to follow what . . .

Grandma drew me aside at the funeral of her third husband. She leaned against my ear. A mix of garlic and mouthwash washed over me.

"I'll tell you a secret, but don't ever tell anyone. Promise?"

"Sure thing, Grandma."

"Germs can't survive laughter. As long as you're laughing, disease'll leave you alone."

Grandma, of course, died in a hovercraft crash while driving her best friend to Bingo. Laughter meant nothing when a boulder crashed through the windshield at two hundred klicks an hour.

But her advice was never far from my thoughts, especially at the age of sixteen when I became a plague cleanser.

We parked in front of a burrow as Meade made its daily dash across the face of the sun. The cloud of ice surrounding the moon twinkled like a million diamonds.

My boss double-checked my envirsuit, adding a layer of duct tape across the palms of my gloves.

Grace Lungren's voice was a static song over the suit's radio. “Low bid gloves. The palms always tear at the worst time. What do you do when your suit is compromised?"

I knuckled the spray tank next to me. “Stop whatever I'm doing and spray myself. Then I immediately return to the hover, decontaminate in the airlock, and only then do I repair my suit."

Grace nodded.

My boss was an old hand. She had become a plague cleanser during the first outbreak of cholly fever in ‘51.

"Never worry what you may contaminate along the way. Take care of yourself first. Afterwards you can fret about the spores you may have spread."

As an apprentice cleanser, I lugged the equipment, from the spray tanks of disinfectant to the body bags. Grace was petite, yet her short legs scurried her into the burrow before I could reach the sidewalk. My boss waited inside the burrow's airlock.

"Which apartment?” she asked.

"Nine. I didn't think cholly struck in the winter."

"Probably a latent case. A few spores were hiding in the vic's lungs. Immune system gets whacked by the flu or too much gin and voila, they start feeding on lung tissue. Bang, a few spores become a fungal army.

"Lucky, as far as your training goes. One real cleansing is worth a hundred drills."

I chuckled, mindful of Grandma's advice. “Haven't I already endured a few hundred drills?"

"You'll suffer hundreds more before plague season kicks into high gear this summer. You'll rue you didn't get a restaurant job."

My parents wanted me to sling burgers like my high school peers.

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