Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 5 August 2014 Read online

  MASTHEAD

  R. Leigh Hennig, Editor-in-Chief

  Brooke Johnson, Senior Editor

  Zod, Social

  Nick Lazzaro, Slush Reader

  Lauren Jane Shipley, Slush Reader

  Madison Abshire, Slush Reader

  Robert Davis, Slush Reader

  Nancy Waldman, Slush Reader

  Joseph J. Langan, Slush Reader

  CONTRIBUTORS

  “The Skip”, Copyright ©2014 by Clint Spivey

  “Zip”, Copyright ©2014 by Emma Osborne

  “Going Solo on a Goldilocks”, Copyright ©2014 by Mary Alexandra Agner

  “The Cure”, Copyright ©2014 by William Delman

  “That Place Between Déjà vu and a Memory”, Copyright ©2014 by J. Daniel Batt

  “Mirror of Stars”, Copyright ©2014 by Frank Smith

  “Nestmaker”, Copyright ©2014 by Jared W. Cooper

  “Sanctuary Farm”, Copyright ©2014 by Garrick Fincham

  Cover image courtesy Milan Jaram.

  Bastion Publications

  PO Box 605

  Lynnwood, WA 98064-0605

  Visit us at www.bastionmag.com , on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bastionmag, and on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/bastionsf

  Bastion Science Fiction Magazine publishes original short stories on the first of every month. As a new publication, we’re working hard to build up our readership. We’d appreciate it if you would help us out by letting your friends know about us. Thanks for your support and happy reading.

  Contents

  Editorial

  R. Leigh Hennig

  The Skip

  Clint Spivey

  Zip

  Emma Osborne

  Going Solo on a Goldilocks

  Mary Alexandra Agner

  The Cure

  William Delman

  That Place Between Déjà vu and a Memory

  J. Daniel Batt

  Mirror of Stars

  Frank Smith

  Nestmaker

  Jared W. Cooper

  Sanctuary Farm

  Garrick Fincham

  Editorial

  R. Leigh Hennig

  Slowly, steadily, Bastion marches toward wider recognition and a growing readership. May’s issue, our second, reached the #5 bestseller spot at Weightless Books. But you already knew that. What you might not have known was that the following issue (June) climbed up to the #4 bestseller spot. We have a long way still to go, however. I won’t rest until we can pay professional rates and qualify stories for SFWA membership. And even then, I probably still won’t rest. We’re making progress, and our continued, measurable, meaningful growth means that Bastion isn’t just a flash in the pan.

  We have some very exciting developments in the pipeline for this month. I can’t give away too much right now, but let’s just say that we’re working on a secret project quite unlike anything you’ve seen before. It’s likely that if you follow us on Twitter/Facebook and send us a message/email/tweet with some kind of proof showing the purchase of any of our issues that we’ll share some details with you.

  All that aside however, let’s talk about what’s happening right now, and that is, of course, August’s issue. Clint Spivey’s “The Skip” is a masterful character study in consequences and forgiveness in the face of unthinkable tragedy. Our first military scifi isn’t your typical military scifi. “Zip” by Emma Osborne delivers tense and vivid action but with characters more rich and unique than you’ve seen before, it has what most military scifi’s do not. Remember the fantastic sense of wonder that was instilled in you when you were a youth, reading science fiction for the first time? “Going Solo on a Goldilocks” by Mary Alexandra Agner is that, and more. “The Cure” by William Delman continues our theme of consequences for the stories in this issue and does a fantastic job of tying futuristic wonder and technologies into what makes us all human. J. Daniel Batt’s “That Place Between Déjà vu and a Memory” mixes second and even third chances in with first-time experiences and blurs the line between the two. This is just a charming story that you have to read, perfect for not just young summer love, but for partners who’ve already spent a lifetime together. “Mirror of Stars” by Frank Smith also deals with that sense of wonder I spoke about earlier, combined with a dose of the hard, cold realities of space. Sometimes though, it’s not enough to wonder. Sometimes you need to suffer to find out where you belong. In “Nestmaker” by Jared W. Cooper, you’ll see just what I mean. A mother’s love and a father’s gift might not be enough to survive in hard places that always find new ways to take. Finally, “Sanctuary Farm” by Garrick Fincham is everything good science fiction should be: robots, aliens, Mars, and thoughtful characters with meaningful development and a plot that asks questions.

  Thanks again for your support, and I don’t think you’ll be terribly surprised when you read about our #3 spot in next month’s editorial. That’s enough for now.

  The Skip

  Clint Spivey

  Lauren had been a proper skip jockey for little more than six minutes. She'd seized the controls, the bridge crew and captain dead at her feet, and guided the stricken ferry out of the near-light velocity transit corridor. She saved seventy-eight lives that day. In the following eight minutes, over 19,000 would die.

  Ahead of the shock wave, thrown by the ferry upon departing the corridor, lights shimmered in their thousands, illuminating the vacuum from beneath the clear, nano-weave hemisphere atop Destino Station. Were those faces, watching their death approach through lighted windows? Frantic parents whispering their love to children, who implored with their eternal question of 'why?'

  Destino's myriad lights, like its inhabitants, were soon to be snuffed by the ravenous shock wave blasting towards it. Unable to speak, Lauren reached toward the cockpit window with a trembling hand, and watched Destino die.

  #

  Blurry images fought through Lauren's narrowed eyes. The doorbell's piercing buzzer shrieked as late afternoon sunlight slanted through her blinds at a low angle. Lauren's glass, having fallen, lay unbroken on the floor. Tiny channels of vodka irrigated the gaps between the hardwood planks. The buzzer continued its insistence.

  She rose to a sitting position and paused. Nobody visited Lauren. Her parents, already advanced in age when she began skip jockeying, hadn't lasted long following the disaster. A media frenzy coupled with death threats produced such effects. Her father passed first. Her mother mere weeks later.

  The buzzer sounded a third time. Lauren recovered her glass and reached for a nearby bottle to refill it. Labeled with a bear and unknown Cyrillic script, it matched dozens of others strewn about her spacious living room. Spent shell casings from the slow suicide her cowardice allowed. Did Russia possess stills enough to accomplish that which she lacked the courage to do herself? Room temperature drink in hand, she answered the door.

  He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt. His dark hair was trimmed neat, with an approaching gray frost creeping from the roots. He stood a good head taller than Lauren. Nothing unusual there. Such short stature had served her well in the confines of space vessels. She waited in silence for him to speak.

  "I moved in next door," he said. "We will be neighbors."

  "That's great," Lauren said.

  "I'm Martin," he repeated, his expression unchanged.

  "Great, Martin. It's a nice area."

  He looked past Lauren, into her a
partment, making no effort to conceal his curiosity.

  Whatever remained of her dignity was irritated at such blatant snooping. The scattering of empty bottles plain to see, she revealed her glass from behind the door and took a drink.

  "Like what you see?" she asked. The emotion had passed. Genuine disinterest with this man's judgments took hold. She let the silence drag on, hoping his discomfort was worse.

  "I'm Martin," he repeated. "Martin Reslin."

  "Don't worry about mine," she said. "It's not worth knowing." Still looking him in the eye, she stepped back from the doorway, took a drink of her vodka, and closed the door.

  #

  Lauren stood on her tiny balcony. The lights of the city twinkled in the distance. Beyond, in the forested hills of the Pacific Northwest, there was only black. Her breath fogged in the cold, December air. Watching it wisp away, she was reminded of the last time she saw Captain Deleres. Her corpse had been stored in the ferry's galley freezer. Lauren's breath had fogged then, too. When she said goodbye to the captain after the accident. A fast friendship cut short.

  "You'll make a fine skip pilot one day," Captain Deleres had told her, leaning over Lauren's shoulder on one of her qualifying shifts a few weeks before the accident. "Only three hundred more flight hours on the night watch and you're there," she laughed.

  "I'll love every minute, Ma'am," Lauren said.

  "Please. I left the military years ago. Call me Sasha. You're doing great, by the way."

  "Thanks. You can almost feel the corridor thrumming beneath us. Feel it carrying us along." Lauren turned and looked at the woman standing behind her. "Sorry. It probably sounds silly, doesn't it?"

  "Not at all. It took me months to accept there was a tangible sensation to skipping, no matter how many times they told me in flight school. If you're already day-dreaming about the skip, well, hell, you'll soon be after my job."

  "Sorry, Sasha. No way I'm getting stuck puddle-skipping to Sirius. I mean...no offense."

  Sasha laughed. "None taken. I used to skip missile-frigates so I can understand wanting something a little faster. But that's best left for kids like you. I'm fine out here in the burbs. Besides, my daughter moved to Destino. I've got grandkids barely three days out from Sirius."

  A chill returned Lauren to the past. She was glad her first and only captain had died in the initial accident. It spared the woman the sight of her grandchildren's killer.

  No stars shone from behind the cloudy skies. It was one reason Lauren had settled there. She no longer cared for their light. Pesky reminders of when she used to climb among them, she preferred the clouds.

  #

  "It's called quiche," Martin said the next day, standing in her doorway holding out a sealed tupper container. "It's like an egg pie."

  Lauren didn't care much for clocks, but the horizontal sunlight piercing her blinds implied it was morning.

  "I know what that is," she said, sipping breakfast from a smudged glass.

  "I wasn't sure if you liked meat or not. So half is with chorizo—that's sausage. The other half is with potatoes and onions." His hands remained extended. Only the dish crossed her threshold.

  Lauren placed a hand on her hip and finished her drink. "You'd have better luck trying some of this." She jingled the ice in her empty glass. He'd gotten the hints and turned away in defeat the few times previous she'd refused his food offerings. This day he seemed determined.

  Perhaps it was pity that caused her to fold this time. Lauren didn't know. She jerked the tupper from him with a scowl, angry he'd finally overcome her obstinance. It was warm in her hand.

  "It's fresh." He nodded and left.

  Lauren supposed she was hungry and, moving to her long unused kitchen, cut a slice from the steaming yellow pie. She finished almost half of it in ten minutes. She looked toward the wall separating their apartments, and wondered, not for the first time, about the man on the other side.

  #

  "Three years house arrest," Lauren said. Martin was beside her on her sofa, sitting straight and proper. "I liked it so much I decided to stay." She raised her glass and smiled.

  He'd come by, like clockwork, the day after the quiche. Perhaps the food had caused her to relent. She was unsure if the route to a female heart was similar to a man's, but his sitting beside her offered compelling evidence.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  She looked into her glass. "Something bad."

  "Have you been out at all?"

  Lauren shrugged. "A few times, sure. Doctor's visits. Went shopping once or twice." She looked towards the window. "Not much of a point these days. You can get anything brought to your front door."

  Condensation sweated a ring on the table around his untouched drink. "I know a restaurant," he said. "The food is rumored to be excellent." He stood. "I'll come by tomorrow around six. If you want to join me for dinner, we can go then." He exited without another word.

  She would like to think she'd become accustomed to her self-inflicted solitude. Yet, that day, she'd babbled on without even being prompted. Though she was careful not to mention Destino.

  She refilled her glass and took a long pull. Some hermit she turned out to be. The first desperate, idiot neighbor comes around to chat and she can't shut up.

  #

  While it would be her first date in many years, it wasn't her first since the accident. There had been one other. After it, she'd abandoned the enterprise altogether.

  At the time, dating seemed a good idea. Lauren hadn't achieved her status as a trainee skip pilot at 26 years old through idle hands. Following the accident, and after her house arrest, she'd been determined to rebuild something of a life.

  "So you're a pilot," the man sitting across from Lauren said. He was younger than her by a few years, and despite his smooth cheeks, he'd managed a thin mustache.

  "I used to be," she said, holding her coffee mug with both hands. The bistro was mostly empty. Only a few patrons sat at the tall, round tables.

  "Sweet, sweet," he said. "I've got a pilot's license. I'm rated for air-cars all the way to turbo-props." He gave her a look, that, in a professional setting would qualify as leering.

  She offered a little smile. "Turbo-props. That's great."

  "Maybe we can go up together sometime." He winked. "Or down."

  Lauren looked outside. She couldn't expect her first online dating excursion to be a success. She'd need to narrow the parameters of her profile beyond just pilot.

  As if to ensure their time together was as horrid as possible, her date texted on his ring phone. The bottom of Lauren's coffee cup couldn't appear soon enough.

  "Your profile," she said, attempting to fill the silence, "said you're from—"

  Several young men burst through the door shouting. A camera drone buzzed behind them, recording.

  "Lauren Oaks!" one shouted. "Destroyer of Destino! You're on Fireline Live!"

  She stood and looked to her date, thinking perhaps they'd escape together, or that he'd offer assistance. Instead, he flipped his fingers into some devil horns, and stuck out his tongue.

  "I got her," her date said. "I roped the destroyer."

  Her slap sent him to the floor.

  "Get a picture," another said, draping his arm over her shoulder. She laid him to the floor with a knee to the groin. It didn't matter. They laughed and hooted and the drone caught it all. She pushed past them and ran.

  Later in her apartment, against all better judgment, she searched for the video. Trending on several of the shock-gawker sites, it wasn't hard to find. She hadn't noticed at the time, but the video revealed it. She'd been in tears when she fled.

  #

  Despite that last dating disaster, Lauren accepted Martin's invitation. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, she was a wreck.

  She worried at the napkin with her trembling hand. Every patron suspected it was her. They hid it well, but she knew.

  "The sa
lmon is the recommended dish," Martin said behind his menu. "It's gotten the highest reviews."

  Lauren barely heard him. Every couple hunched close in conversation were discussing her. Whispering about the injustice of her walking the streets free. Plotting their confrontation.

  "Have you decided what you want?" Martin asked, lowering his menu.

  "What?"

  He looked at her without speaking. There was something about the way he watched her. Like he knew something about her that she'd herself not yet discovered.

  "You can relax, you know," he said. "Look around. It's why I chose this restaurant. We're easily the oldest people in here."

  Lauren took another look and saw he was right. Fresh faced twenty-somethings filled every table, absorbed in their own conversations.

  Martin smiled. "If you want anonymity at our age, seek out youth. I doubt most of them even register our presence."

  Lauren's menu shook less than the napkin. "Why don't you get the salmon, and I'll get the sole," she said. "We can try each other’s."

  Martin nodded and smiled.

  #

  "Al-right," the cute sales attendant said, stressing the second part of the word with unnatural enthusiasm. Her young face beamed from Lauren's wall-screen. "I'm Kimber, your associate today. Let's get started, Ms. Oaks."

  "I need a few new outfits," Lauren said. "I haven't been shopping in a while."

  "Then you've come to the right place. La-la's has everything you need. How about this kickin sweater/skirt combo right here?"

  With a wave of the girl's hand, a clip of a strutting model in a bright orange sweater with a silver skirt and black, knee-high boots appeared on the screen.

  "I like the boots," Lauren said. "But the sweater and the skirt...do you have something less...bright?"