Escape Pod, page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
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Copyright
Dedication
Foreword by Serah Eley
CITIZENS OF ELSEWHEN
Kameron Hurley
REPORT OF DR. HOLLOWMAS ON THE INCIDENT AT JACKRABBIT FIVE
T. Kingfisher
A PRINCESS OF NIGH-SPACE
Tim Pratt
AN ADVANCED READER’S PICTURE BOOK OF COMPARATIVE COGNITION
Ken Liu
TIGER LAWYER GETS IT RIGHT
Sarah Gailey
FOURTH NAIL
Mur Lafferty
ALIEN ANIMAL ENCOUNTERS
John Scalzi
A CONSIDERATION OF TREES
Beth Cato
CITY OF REFUGE
Maurice Broaddus
JAIDEN’S WEAVER
Mary Robinette Kowal
THE MACHINE THAT WOULD REWILD HUMANITY
Tobias Buckell
CLOCKWORK FAGIN
Cory Doctorow
SPACESHIP OCTOBER
Greg van Eekhout
LIONS AND TIGERS AND GIRLFRIENDS
Tina Connolly
GIVE ME CORNBREAD OR GIVE ME DEATH
N.K. Jemisin
Acknowledgements
About the Editors
About the Contributors
ESCAPE POD
THE SCIENCE FICTION ANTHOLOGY
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New Fears: New Horror Stories by Masters of the Genre
New Fears 2: Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre
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Rogues
Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse
Wastelands 2: More Stories of the Apocalypse
Wastelands: The New Apocalypse
Wonderland
ESCAPE POD
THE SCIENCE FICTION ANTHOLOGY
EDITED BY
MUR LAFFERTY & S.B. DIVYA
TITAN BOOKS
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Escape Pod: The Science Fiction Anthology
Print edition ISBN: 9781789095012
E-book edition ISBN: 9781789095029
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: October 2020
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Foreword © Serah Eley 2020
Citizens of Elsewhen © Kameron Hurley 2018. Originally published on Patreon.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
Report of Dr. Hollowmas on the Incident at Jackrabbit Five © T. Kingfisher 2020
A Princess of Nigh-Space © Tim Pratt 2020
An Advanced Reader’s Picture Book of Comparative Cognition © Ken Liu 2016.
Originally published in The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Tiger Lawyer Gets It Right © Sarah Gailey 2020
Fourth Nail © Mur Lafferty 2020
Alien Animal Encounters © John Scalzi 2001. Originally published in Strange
Horizons. Reprinted by permission of the author.
A Consideration of Trees © Beth Cato 2020
City of Refuge © Maurice Broaddus 2020
Jaiden’s Weaver © Mary Robinette Kowal 2009. Originally published in Diamonds in the Sky: An Original Anthology of Astronomy Science Fiction edited by Mike Brotherton. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The Machine That Would Rewild Humanity © Tobias Buckell 2020
Clockwork Fagin © Cory Doctorow 2012. Originally published in Steampunk! edited by Kelly Link and Gavin J. Grant. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Spaceship October © Greg van Eekhout 2020
Lions and Tigers and Girlfriends © Tina Connolly 2020
Give Me Cornbread or Give Me Death © N.K. Jemisin 2019. Originally published in A People’s Future of the United States, edited by Victor LaValle and John Joseph Adams. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The authors assert their moral rights to be identified as the author of their work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ESCAPE POD
THE SCIENCE FICTION ANTHOLOGY
TO SERAH ELEY AND EVERYONE WHO SUPPORTED ESCAPE POD
OVER THE PAST FIFTEEN YEARS. ONE GOT US STARTED,
AND THE OTHERS KEPT US GOING.
FOREWORD
I have a “thing about” story. Here is a story about that.
In 2005 I was a guy named Steve, living a very different life than I am today. Things were good. I had a wife and an infant son, a house in the suburbs, a dog named after a Final Fantasy character—all the markers of mainstream American success. Of course, I thought I was weird. I had weird geeky friends (by my standards of the time) and did weird geeky stuff like role-playing and writing science fiction. I was even romantic in weird geeky ways: when my wife and I went to bed at night, I’d read to her. Neal Stephenson, Vernor Vinge, Terry Pratchett, whatever I thought was fun.
I know, I know. I was young and innocent, okay? Or at least innocent. I was a cis straight white guy who truly thought I knew what weird was, because I read science fiction. “Adorable” is the word that comes to mind now, but I was just making the same mistake almost everyone makes: I believed the world of my own experience was a representative sampling.
Early that year, I read on a geek news site about a nascent internet fad called “podcasts.” People were making all sorts of audio and pushing it out on blog feeds. I went looking and found dozens of these things—and some of them were good! One of my favorites was a freewheeling romp of personality called Geek Fu Action Grip by Mur Lafferty. She talked about everything: her childhood, her media obsessions, drinks she invented based on her crush on Keanu Reeves… Her openness and wit helped me realize how accessible and how personal podcasting could be. I wanted to be like her and the other pioneers I was enjoying. I wanted to make something.
I spent a few days pondering fresh ideas. Some were clever, some were quirky, none excited me for long. The top candidate was a political podcast from an AI who was cynical about humans. That might have worked, but I feared becoming even more cynical myself if I succeeded. The obvious truth finally hit me in bed one evening, as I was reading a Harry Potter novel to Anna. I was already making audio entertainment—I was doing it right that second! I’d been producing it for an audience of one, but I could expand that with a bit of work.
Podcast fiction was already an established art form; several excellent authors had been narrating their own novels for months. I hadn’t heard of anyone reading other people’s work, though. Short fiction seemed like a practical fit for the medium, and I had friends who’d run science fiction webzines, so that felt like a familiar model. Most of all, I’d been a writer long enough to hold one value sacred: Writers get paid.
That was the origin of Escape Pod. I hit up friends in my writing group for the first few stories, shoving a contract and $20 at them whether they wanted it or not. I did the site design myself and commissioned a logo from another friend, Douglas Triggs, for a case of his favorite ginger ale. (The name of the podcast was the only spec I gave him; the gorgeous starscape with the exploding spaceship was all his idea.) I had once been to a Rasputina concert and been blown away by the opening band, a bunch of Alabamans wearing kabuki masks thrashing out monster-movie surf rock. I emailed Daikaiju and explained my project in a few hundred words; they replied with a dozen words of permission to use their music.
I bought the wrong microphone and the wrong amplifier, made other exciting technical mistakes, and spent six weeks recording the first story (“Imperial” by Jonathon Sullivan) over and over, never satisfied with my own delivery. I finally realized that if I demanded perfection before I started, I was never going to have a podcast at all. I put the first episode online the next day, announced it on the Yahoo! email list that was the focal point of 2005’s podcast community, and dropped a couple of lines to some SF mar ket listings. Then I got to work on the second episode. I’d bought just over a month’s worth of content, so I resolved to try at least that long before deciding if I’d failed. I’d had fun either way, so it wasn’t time wasted.
One week later I had just over a hundred downloads, which was a blockbuster success for a new podcast of that era. And a British fellow named Salim Fadhley had already donated $5 from the site’s PayPal link. (Sal was a hardcore indie arts advocate who went on to help me in countless ways, and I’m grateful for his friendship.) Story submissions started to trickle in by the second week, and enough were worth buying that I began to think this might be sustainable. I started to reach out to other podcasters to narrate stories I didn’t think I could read well—especially those with women protagonists—and found out that community collaboration like that was the best possible networking.
The next few years were a gradual ascent towards Real Professional Success that would have terrified me if I’d known any of it at the start. I formed an actual business, Escape Artists Inc., to get all of those donations and story payments out of my personal checkbook. I printed up bookmarks to give out at conventions, sat on panels as a guest, and schmoozed at industry parties. Eventually we hosted some of those parties. We launched a second podcast for horror stories, PseudoPod, and later a third for fantasy, PodCastle. We bought a fancy machine that burned and printed labels on CDs in bulk and sold podcast collections as gifts. I found out the hard way that my ADHD brain is really bad at business, so I roped another podcasting friend, Paul Haring, into taking on the accounting and management. I nearly broke his sanity and am amazed that he still talks to me.
Success was quite fun and interesting, but one of my bad-at-business signs was that the audience numbers and the dollars never felt fully real to me. I was aware of them as facts but didn’t know what to do with them. People felt real to me, and I shared words with a lot of fascinating people—listeners and podcasters and writers. My world grew a little with each new connection. Most of those people gave me at least a few moments of pleasure; some became core to my life; a very few were abhorrent to me. But I never met or heard from a boring person. I used to think boring people existed; I don’t any more.
Hey! Wake up! This is the really important part. The bridge to the chorus. Everything I have said so far is true, but it didn’t happen to me. Steve Eley of 2005 and Serah Eley of today are not the same person. Yes, sure, I started with his body, but we have completely different stories. Telling his Escape Pod story in first person has been feeling increasingly awkward, so I’m going to drop the pretense and speak for myself.
Steve was paying lip service to a philosophy of “Story” long before he started his podcast. He had a whole spiel about the human need for mythology, about our rapidly changing society, the role of science fiction as the literature of change, the vitality of short fiction as the purest expression of ideas, et cetera. Becoming an editor and speaking at cons gave him chances to talk about these ideas, to polish them to a fine gleam, to be a Voice of Authority™.
This was both good and bad for him as a person, but he did get good at performing it, and he believed everything he said.
I have a different opinion of his “Story” theories. I think that, for the most part, they’re rarefied bullshit of the sort that white men who edit SF have been spouting at least since Campbell, if not earlier. Steve had exactly one principle that delivered real value to the genre through his editing, and he expressed it best in two words at the end of every episode: “Have Fun.” He got that totally right. Everything else, he made too complicated.
Story isn’t some grand capital-S ideal to be dissected or worshipped. Story is basic. It’s the essence of all human experience. Our senses take in an overwhelming amount of data, but we only care about the parts that we can attach to mental models of causes leading to effects. Those are stories. We all live in the same physical world, but experience it differently depending on the stories we believe. Our own identities are just contiguous chains of memories: a story about ourselves that we tell ourselves and others. Steve’s self-story started soon after he was born in 1974. Mine started in 2013 (and is spectacular, but way beyond the scope of this foreword). That’s how I know we’re different people.
Every meaningful experience is a story. Every memorable interaction with someone is a story, and often involves the telling of other stories. No story that means something to us is ever boring; boredom just means we stopped paying attention. That’s why Steve stopped believing in boring people. His philosophy had nothing to do with it; he just found out that he really liked paying attention to people.
True stories and fictional stories work the same way in our minds. There are no fundamental differences; we can only tell them apart by context. That fact has plusses and minuses, some of which have become screamingly relevant in today’s world. But one of the plusses is that fiction has as much power to expand our inner worlds as truth. Cataclysmic fiction can teach us things with none of the risk and mess of a real apocalypse. Fantastic fiction can make us feel way more interesting than stodgy physical reality wants to allow. And so on. That you’re reading a science fiction anthology means I’m preaching to the choir.
“Expanding worlds,” though—that’s the theme that keeps coming back. When good fiction, direct experience, and other people all have the same effect, something interesting must be happening. Something real. I’m writing this in the summer of 2020: the year of coronavirus; of Black Lives Matter; of rising American fascism. These are revolutionary times. Through my own weirdass transgender lesbian lens, the revolution looks like people with small worlds trying desperately to hold fast to their power and relevance, cowering before a tidal wave of larger, more colorful worlds. That sense of revolution is strong in this anthology, too, because Mur and Divya know very well what worlds they’re living in and what they’re doing.
Steve started to feel burnout in 2010. He’d been putting up an episode every week for five years, almost without fail, while working a full-time job and being a family man and having multiple polyamorous relationships. He also went to cons and played games and goofed off a lot. I have no idea how he did it. The funny thing is that he felt unproductive and irresponsible the entire time, and was never fully convinced he was good at Escape Pod. But he knew he’d made something people cared about, and he was smart enough to leave his company with people who cared about that. I honestly believe that Alasdair Stuart is the most clueful man in the industry today, and that Mur and Divya have made Steve’s little hobby project into one of the strongest, most diverse, and most important voices in modern science fiction.
This book is an extension of that work. Some of the authors and stories are familiar, but the style of others is often a significant departure, because what works in audio and what’s possible in prose aren’t always the same. The energy here runs up and down a tension line between provocative and fun, but there’s one common thread in every piece: a yearning, palpable sense of humanity. These are revolutionary times, after all, and Mur and Divya know what they’re fighting for.
It’s customary here to say a few words on each piece. I’ll do my best to avoid spoilers, but if you want a fully clean slate, my feelings won’t be hurt if you skip on to the first story.
• Kameron Hurley’s “Citizens of Elsewhen” is about midwives, and a poignant morality tale about the balance between present and future.
• T. Kingfisher’s “Report of Dr. Hollowmas on the Incident at Jackrabbit Five” is also about midwives, but with a different tone. It’s one of the funniest SF midwifery stories I’ve ever read, and certainly the funniest involving a goat.
• Tim Pratt’s “A Princess of Nigh-Space” starts with a familiar fantastic trope, and then doesn’t invert it so much as overruns it with a flanking maneuver.
• Ken Liu’s “An Advanced Reader’s Picture Book of Comparative Cognition” is beautiful, grand in scale, and at the same time deeply personal. Some of these alien races are going to haunt me for a while.
• I shouldn’t claim favorites, but Sarah Gailey’s “Tiger Lawyer Gets It Right” is my favorite. All I can say is that there’s a tiger in it. That’s enough.
