Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #213 Read online

  Some of the biggest pulls of the Worldcon, however, are household names for Interzone readers. Most panels during the weekend had to turn up their microphones to fight against the howls of laughter coming out of any room containing George Takei, as he spun yet more anecdotes about life on and off the Enterprise. David Brin, Charles Stross, Robert Charles Wilson, Pat Cadigan and Paul Cornell packed out some of the most highly anticipated readings and discussions, and the publishing houses were strongly represented by Del Rey, Tor, Baen and Pyr unveiling their forthcoming titles. One thing agreed on by all writers and publishers was that manga and anime are now firmly established as global art forms. As put by Betsy Mitchell, Vice President and Editor-in-Chief at Del Rey, “Del Rey's manga program started in 2004 with four series licensed through the Japanese publishers, Kodansha, and all four took off incredibly well. In the first year we had a million books in print, so we were just ecstatic! Since manga has become such a huge phenomenon in the States and since so much of it appeals to teenage girls, there is a new market now for original English language comics for the female market. Some of these lines will be popular, others won't, but I think [the comic book industry] is never going to go back to the way it was before. It's never going to be just a guys-only superhero playground again."

  The fans attending Nippon 2007 came from not just the USA and Japan but also as far afield as the UK, Australia, Sweden and Russia, and the biggest draws were naturally enough the guests of honour. Artists Michael Whelan and Yoshitaka Amano were the stars of the art shows, but there was a wealth of fresh talent on display. David Brin dominated panels with his flowery off-the-cuff quips, and surprised just about everyone with an origami interpretation of the Uplift series (you had to be there). The Japanese guest of honour was Sakyo Komatsu, known generally as the Godfather of Japanese SF, his most famous work being the apocalyptic near-future novel Nihon Chimbotsu (Japan Sinks). The ‘70s film adaptation was remade in 2006 by Tokusatsu studios with an all-star Japanese cast and Roland Emmerich-style SFX, but predictably glossed over the social themes and issues raised in the original novel.

  For those interested, it might be worth hunting down a copy of the Komatsu-approved 2006 spoof movie Nihon Igai Zembu Chimbotsu (Everywhere Except Japan Sinks), a parody in which most countries in the world are destroyed, and an untouched but uptight Japan has to deal with massive waves of foreign refugees. Now there's dystopia for you! The frail and dignified Komatsu, now seventy-six, had several short stories interpreted in the Saturday afternoon reading by bilingual Rakugo storyteller Sayoko Shirotani.

  Which leaves us with the Hugo Awards themselves. George Takei hosted the evening with a meticulously scripted performance, and the biggest awards went to Vernor Vinge (Novel—Rainbows End), Robert Reed (Novella—'A Billion Eves'), Ian McDonald (Novelette—'The Djinn's Wife'), Tim Pratt (Short Story—'Impossible Dreams'), Pan's Labyrinth (Dramatic Presentation—Long Form) and Doctor Who's Girl in the Fireplace (Dramatic Presentation—Short Form). Naomi Novik, who won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer for her novels in the highly acclaimed Temeraire series, came on stage to accept the prize in full kimono. “It took two people forty-five minutes to dress me in it,” she said afterwards. “It was a fantastic experience, but it's not designed for a Western chair!"

  For this aging Brit reviewer, it was heart-warming to see Doctor Who win the Dramatic Presentation Short Form Award for the second year running. Writer Steven Moffat was seen afterwards ecstatically gate-crashing every party in the Hotel, along with Paul Cornell, who was celebrating not only being tipped to win next year's Hugo for Human Nature/Family of Blood, but also taking over the writing of the ongoing series Excalibur from Marvel Comics.

  Now it would be nice to end with a round up of new, innovative SF writers, but one thing that all the guests agreed on was that a lack of translators means new names are slow to appear in English. As author Pat Cadigan says, “The problem is—like everywhere, really—there is a real dearth of translators. They get ours, but we only get a fraction of that back, because translating is as creative a process as the actual writing—you have to be pretty good to convey the spirit of the story as well as the translated words, and that is a very creative, and intellectual thing to do."

  One name trying to rectify that situation is the top-notch Kurodahan Press, making themselves known to Worldcon attendees through the stall in the dealers’ room. Kurodahan have released Speculative Japan, an anthology covering three decades of innovative science fiction from writers mainly unknown to Western readers, along with a number of essays. Watch out for an in-depth feature on Kurodahan Press in a forthcoming issue of Black Static. Meanwhile, their website is www.kurodahan.com. And so, what memories do we take away from our whistle-stop tour of Japan and all its marvels of science fiction and science fact?

  "The subways."

  "The vending machines."

  "The cosplay."

  "The politeness."

  "The ferris wheels."

  "The computerized toilets,” says Jay Lake, author of Mainspring. “This is the first time I've ever seen a toilet with a shock and fire hazard warning on it."

  Copyright © 2007 John Paul Catton

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  METAL DRAGON YEAR—Chris Roberson

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  Illustrated by Kenn Brown

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  Chris's forthcoming novels The Dragon's Nine Sons (Solaris) and Iron Jaw & Hummingbird (Viking) are both part of the Celestial Empire sequence, as is the work in progress Three Unbroken, a novel for Solaris that will be serialised online.

  * * * *

  Yusuf Ounaminou cast his gaze over the figures chalked on the slate before him for the hundredth time, looking for something that simply wasn't there. He wanted to weed out any final flaws in their calculations but, so far, had found none. All around him the Fujian shipyard bustled with activity, distant hammering rising about the low rumble of voices from all corners, the air laced with the ozone scent of electricity.

  "Everything is going well, Foreman Ounaminou,” said Hsiao Junlong, standing patiently at his side. “We are less than a day behind schedule and, considering the strain under which we labor, I have to consider that a resounding success."

  Yusuf smiled and glanced over at the man beside him. A Han, he was overfed, running to corpulent, with thinning hair and a lopsided smile that revealed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth, but Hsiao possessed one of the finest technical minds Yusuf had ever encountered. Yusuf counted himself lucky to have the man as one of his chief subordinates, and could think of no one better qualified to oversee the final preflight checks for the Tiankong One launch.

  "My only concern,” Hsiao went on, “is the speed of the rocket at launch versus its thrust. In all the simulations we have gotten back from the Imperial House of Calculation, the rocket takes a longer time to pick up initial speed than a rocket-propelled aircraft, due to its larger mass."

  "Yes,” Yusuf said, standing straight and rubbing the bridge of his nose, wearily, “but it doesn't matter how fast the rocket is when it starts the journey, just that it reaches escape velocity at the appropriate point. The Arab horse speeds fast, but short, while the camel plods slowly, but it goes by day and night. Constant acceleration is the key, but a quick burst of speed at launch."

  Hsiao nodded, and looked at the figures chalked on the slate. “Fair enough. But still, I wonder whether the gains of having less mass in the later stages, by producing more acceleration in the early stages, might not make the additional expenditure of propellant at launch worth the initial cost."

  "You revisit old ground, Hsaio.” Yusuf smiled, and crossed his arms over his chest. “There was an alternative design I originally considered, when we first worked on the Huixing project. I don't believe I ever showed it to you, did I? It would have meant for a much more massive first stage, to punch the rocket into escape velocity almost with the initial thrust, before the first stage even fell away a
nd the second stage rockets fired. But the expenditure of fuel necessary in such an approach made for an inefficient design, even considering the mass savings in the latter stages."

  Hsiao shrugged. It was all academic at this point, anyway. They had so few days left until launch, that any but the most minor of alterations to the rocket design were out of the question.

  Over the crackling loudspeakers came an ululating sound, the voice of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from atop the shipyard mosque, for the noon zuhr observances.

  "Well, back to work,” Hsiao said with a smile, giving a small wave. “I'll update you on the final fuel tests when you get back."

  Yusuf nodded, and started across the gantry towards the exit.

  Since the days of the Yongle emperor's Treasure Fleet, whose storied admiral Ma had been of the faith, a significant percentage of those who served in the Imperial Navy were Muslim. To save on time lost shuttling the faithful to and from prayer services, five times daily, in generations past a mosque had been constructed on the grounds of the Fujian shipyards—a modest structure, to say the least, but sufficient for the needs of the faithful.

  Stepping out into the midday sun, Yusuf walked to an empty stretch of pavement in the narrow shadow of the launch scaffolding, the towering spire of the Tiankong rocket looming overhead. He faced west, towards Mecca, unrolled his mat, and began his bowing, feeling guilty that his present thoughts were still on the fuel trials, and not on the verses he was reciting. “O Allah, our Lord, all praise belongs to You."

  It had been just over two years since the successful launch of the first Huixing unmanned probe into orbit, almost a year since the launch of a monkey into orbit aboard Huixing Four, and the newly formed Ministry of Celestial Excursion had been demanding regular reports on their progress on putting human pilots into orbit ever since. The year of Metal Dragon, the thirty-second year of the Xuantong emperor's reign, had just begun, and Foreman Ounaminou's orders were clear: launch human taikonauts into orbit and return them safely to Earth by the year's end, or else.

  Yusuf completed the final sitting position, the midday prayers nearly complete. “O Allah, I bear witness that what Muhammad taught is true. And that the Garden is true. And that the Fire is true. And that the Hour is coming, there is no doubt."

  From high overhead came a popping noise, and Yusuf looked up just in time to see the tip of the rocket explode, high overhead, sending out a huge plume of orange and white flame, billowing noxious black smoke against the clear blue sky.

  * * * *

  Yusuf had left behind his home in Tangier when he'd been just twelve years old, moving to Cairo and Al-Azhar University, where he'd studied law from a master of the Maliki madhab, as well as engineering and aeronautics.

  When he had arrived in Cairo he already spoke both Arabic and Tamazigth, the native language of Morocco's Imazighen which, as an Amazigh, he'd been required by tradition to learn; at university, though, he also learned the Official Speech of the Middle Kingdom, the language of empire.

  By the time he had departed Cairo on his hajj pilgrimage, traveling to the sacred cities of Medina and Mecca, Yusuf had mastered both the laws of god that governed man, and the laws which governed the flight of bodies through space. He had wanted nothing more than to become a pilot and take to the skies himself; unfortunately, following the War Against the Mexica, the ownership and operation of aircraft had been forbidden to all but the servants of the Dragon Throne. Once he had completed his hajj, then, and had followed in the footsteps of the prophet, Yusuf planned to journey on to the Middle Kingdom, to the offices of the Imperial Navy of the Air.

  Many long years had passed, and the closest he'd ever come to realizing his dream of flight was as a passenger in imperial cargo craft, while he spent his days using his knowledge of aeronautical engineering to build aircraft, and then rockets, to carry others beyond the bounds of Earth. All the while, Yusuf had remained on the ground, praying.

  * * * *

  It was late evening before Yusuf left the shipyards. An investigation was already underway, but the little that was known so far was that Hsiao and four other members of the ground crew had been killed in the explosion, along with all three taikonauts—Deng, Loong, and Wei. Eight men dead, and along with them the Taikong One launch.

  Taikong Two, which had originally been scheduled for early the following year, was in the final stages of construction, but its crew had not yet even been selected from among the potential pool of taikonaut candidates.

  When Yusuf had radioed to the Northern Capital the unhappy news of the explosion, his only response from the Ministry of Celestial Excursion had been that, despite the tragedy, Yusuf was still expected to meet his mission goals by the year's end. Taikong Two was to be pulled forward, and launched before the end of Metal Dragon year.

  It was almost time for the isha, evening prayers, when Yusuf arrived home. He opened his door, slipped off his shoes, and began to step inside, when a voice called from the shadows outside.

  "As-salam alaikum."

  Yusuf turned, startled, but sighed with relief when a familiar face entered the pool of light spilling out from the open door—a Khalifahn, broad-nosed and ruddy-skinned, thick black hair completely hidden from view by the folds of his turban.

  "Wa alaikum as-salam,” Yusuf responded with a smile. “It is good to see you, Abdul-aziz bin Kitsepawit."

  "And you, Yusuf Ounaminou.” Abdul-aziz bin Kitsepawit stepped closer, and embraced Yusuf like a brother. “Now, my friend,” Abdul-aziz continued, speaking in his heavily-accented Official Speech, “I heard about an explosion at the shipyards today, and worried that you might have been injured in the blast."

  "No, I am fine.” Yusuf stepped back, holding Abdul-aziz's elbows at arms’ length. “I was outside, and a considerable distance away, when the explosion happened."

  "And the launch?” Abdul-aziz asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Is it in jeopardy?"

  "You might say that,” Yusuf answered, his tone grim. “Taikong One is dead. It died with those eight men in the fire."

  "But you've put so much of yourself into the project.” Adbul-aziz shook his head, sadly. “I should know,” he added with a wry smile, “I've heard you complain about it often enough, these past years."

  Yusuf placed a companionly hand on his friend's shoulder. “And I thank you for endless encouragement and support, my good friend. I'm not sure what I would have done without you."

  "Come,” Abdul-aziz said, stepping towards the doorway, his arm around Yusuf's shoulders, “let us play a game of go, yes? Perhaps that will take your mind off your troubles, if only for a brief while."

  "No.” Yusuf shook his head. “I'm afraid I'm much too exhausted to concentrate on a game tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps? If you come early enough, I can arrange for Shui to prepare us an evening meal to share. Another dish from Khalifah, perhaps, to remind you of home."

  "That would be splendid, Yusuf. A pleasant evening to you. Masalama."

  "Masalama, my friend."

  With that, Abdul-aziz disappeared back into the shadows of the night, and Yusuf closed the door behind him.

  * * * *

  Yusuf's wife, Lin Shui, was waiting inside for him.

  "My mother is asleep, and I have already put our son to bed, husband,” Shui said, after they had exchanged their greetings, “but the boy is waiting up for his father to come and read to him.” She paused, and read the worry writ large on Yusuf's face. “Go to him, and I will be waiting for you in our bed."

  Yusuf smiled, lingered as he kissed his wife, there by the entry, and then went down the hall to his son's room.

  "Ma?” Yusuf said, slipping through the narrow doorway into the small room. “You are awake?"

  "Yes, father,” the boy said, sitting up on his low cot, rubbing his tired eyes. “I'm not sleepy at all."

  Yusuf smiled, and sat on the cot's edge. “Of course not. A son of mine, tired at this hour? Unthinkable."

  The boy tried
unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, and then grinned sheepishly at his father.

  "And what shall we read tonight, Ma?” Yusuf said, clapping his hands lightly.

  "We started that fable about the lamp two days ago, remember?"

  "Ah, I remember now.” Yusuf nodded, smiling, as though he had actually forgotten. “Shall we continue it, then, or move on to a treatise on the aerodynamics of lift bodies?"

  "Noooo, father,” the boy said, rolling his eyes and sticking out his tongue. “The boy and the lamp, please."

  Yusuf shrugged, broadly, and then reached over to the shelf set into the bedside table. He pulled out the slender volume, glancing at the cover. 'Ala al-Din and the Magic Lamp, written by the Francais fantasist Antoine Galland.

  "Shall we begin?” Yusuf asked, but the boy had already settled back onto the cot, pulling the sheets up to his chin, ready to listen. Yusuf smiled, and flipped through the pages, looking for their place. “Very well. Now, where were we...?"

  * * * *

  That night, Yusuf dreamt of Mecca. But not Mecca as it had been when he'd gone on his second hajj, ten years ago, nor as it had appeared in photographs in news reports in recent years, after the bombing attack by an elite battalion of the Mexic Dominion's Eagle Knights, but as he'd seen it when he first traveled on the sacred pilgrimage, when he left Cairo, and traveled to the holy cities of Medina and Mecca.

  When he woke, in the small hours of the morning, he could still feel the sense of community that he'd experienced circling the Kaaba in the circumambulation, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of his brethren from around the world, faithful Muslims from Africa, Arabia, Choson, Nippon, Espana, even far Khalifah on the other side of the world. Shi'ites and Sunnis, side by side, praying to the same god, following in the footsteps of the Prophet. He'd had a sense of euphoria that lasted throughout Dhul Hijjah, the month of hajj, a sense that he and his brothers and sisters of the faith spread across the whole of the Earth, the world made one through their peaceful devotions. A euphoria that did not dissipate until weeks later, when he arrived in the Middle Kingdom, and presented himself at the offices of the Imperial Navy of the Air. A low ranking bureaucrat, who could not pass the examinations necessary to rise to a more prestigious posting, sat across a broad table from Yusuf and explained to him, in no uncertain words, why he would never pilot an aircraft. It took that crushing blow to drive the joy from Yusuf's heart. But had it ever really returned?