Then she launches the paper airplane, and it flies and flies and flies, dwindling as it travels an impossible distance, until it finally disappears into the bright blue sky.
N. K. Jemisin is a New York City author. Although she has written novels since childhood (to varying degrees of success), she began writing short stories in 2002 after attending the Viable Paradise writing workshop. Thereafter she joined the BostonArea SF Writers Group (now BRAWLers), until 2007 when she moved to New York. She is currently a member of the Altered Fluid writing group.
Jemisin’s short fiction has been published in a variety of print, online, and audio markets, including Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, Postscripts, and Jim Baen’s Universe. She was the first recipient of the Speculative Literature Foundation’s Gulliver Travel Research Grant, which was awarded for her short story sample “L’Alchimista.” This story and “Cloud Dragon Skies” received Honorable Mentions in two editions of The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, and her short story “Playing Nice With God’s Bowling Ball” received an Honorable Mention in The Year’s Best Science Fiction. Her short story “Cloud Dragon Skies” was also on the Carl Brandon Society’s “Recommended” shortlist for the Parallax Award. This story, “Non-Zero Probabilities,” also appeared on the 2010 Hugo Awards Ballot. Her first novel, The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, was published by Orbit Books. It is the first of a trilogy, and has received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Library Journal. A full bibliography of her work can be found at nkjemisin.com.
GOING DEEP
James Patrick Kelly
FROM THE AUTHOR: “Going Deep” marked my twenty-fifth appearance in the June issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. Although this streak started entirely by chance, in time it became a centerpiece of my career: most of my Nebula nominees were children of June. I am eternally grateful to the three editors who published these stories, Shawna McCarthy, Gardner Dozois, and Sheila Williams. However, all things must pass, and “Going Deep” is my last June story — for now, at least. Thanks much to my friends and colleagues for the honor of ending my run with a nomination.
MARISKA SHIVERED WHEN she realized that her room had been tapping at the dreamfeed for several minutes. “The Earth is up,” it murmured in its gentle singing accent. “Daddy Al is up and I am always up. Now Mariska gets up.”
Mariska groaned, determined not to allow her room in. Recently she had been dreaming her own dreams of Jak and his long fingers and the fuzz on his chin and the way her throat tightened when she brushed up against him. But this was one of her room’s feeds, one of the best ones, one she had been having as long as she could remember. In it, she was in space, but she wasn’t on the moon and she wasn’t wearing her hardsuit. There were stars every way she turned. Of course, she’d seen stars through the visor of her helmet but these were always different. Not a scatter of light but a swarm. And they all were singing their names, calling to her to come to them. She could just make out the closest ones: Alpha Centauri. Barnard’s. Wolf. Lalande. Luyten. Sirius.
“The Earth is up, Daddy Al is up, and I am always up,” her room insisted. “Now Mariska gets up.” If she didn’t wake soon, it would have to sound the gong.
“Slag it.” She rolled over, awake and grumpy. Her room had been getting on her last nerve recently When she had been a little girl, she had roused at its whisper, but in the last few weeks it had begun nagging her to wake up. She knew it loved her and was only worried about her going deep, but she was breathing regularly and her heartbeat was probably in the high sixties. It monitored her, so it had to know she was just sleeping.
She thought this was all about Al. He was getting nervous; so her room was nervous.
“Dobroye utro,” said Feodor Bear. “Good morn-ing Mar-i-ska.” The ancient toy robot stood up on its shelf, wobbled, and then sat down abruptly. It was over a century old and, in Mariska’s opinion, needed to be put out of its misery.
“Good morning, dear Mariska,” said her room. “Today is Friday, June 15, 2159. You are expected today in Hydroponics and at the Muoi swimming pool. This Sunday is Father’s Day.”
“I know, I know.” She stuck her foot out from underneath the covers and wiggled her toes in the cool air. Her room began to bring the temperature up from sleeping to waking levels.
“I could help you find something for Daddy Al, if you’d like.” Her room painted Buycenter icons on the wall. “We haven’t shopped together in a while.”
“Maybe later.” Sometimes she felt guilty that she wasn’t spending enough time with her room, but its persona kept treating her like a baby. Still calling him Daddy Al, for example; it was embarrassing. And she would get to all her expectations eventually. What choice did she have?
The door slid aside a hand’s width and Al peered through the opening.
“Rise and shine, Mariska.” His smile was a crack on a worried face. “Pancakes for breakfast,” he said. “But only if you get up now.” He blew a kiss that she ducked away from.
“I’m shining already,” she grumbled. “Your own little star.”
As she stepped through the cleanser, she wondered what to do about him. She knew exactly what was going on. The Gorshkov had just returned from exploring the Delta Pavonis system, which meant they’d probably be hearing soon from Natalya Volochkova. And Mariska had just turned thirteen; in another year she’d be able to vote, sign contracts, get married. This was the way the world worked: now that she was almost an adult, it was time for Al to go crazy. All her friends’ parents had. The symptoms were hard to ignore: embarrassing questions like where was she going? and who was she going with? and who else would be there? He said he trusted her but she knew he’d slap a trace on her if he thought he could get away with it. But what was the point? This was the moon. There were security cams over every safety hatch. How much trouble could she get into? Walk out an airlock without a suit? She wasn’t suicidal — or dumb. Have sex and get pregnant? She was patched — when she finally jumped a boy, pregnancy wouldn’t be an issue. Crash from some toxic feed? She was young — she’d get over it.
The fact that she loved Al’s strawberry pancakes did nothing to improve her mood at breakfast. He was unusually quiet, which meant he was working his courage up for some stupid fathering talk. Something in the news? She brought her gossip feed up on the tabletop to see what was going on. The scrape of his knife on the plate as she scanned headlines made her want to shriek. Why did he have to use her favorite food as a bribe so that he could pester her?
“You heard about that boy from Penrose High?” he said at last. “The one in that band you used to like… No Exit? Final Exit?”
“You’re talking about Last Exit to Nowhere?” That gossip was so old it had curled around the edges and blown away. “Deltron Cleen?”
“That’s him.” He stabbed one last pancake scrap and pushed it into a pool of syrup. “They say he was at a party a couple of weeks ago and opened his head to everyone there; I forget how many mindfeeds he accepted.”
“So?” She couldn’t believe he was pushing Deltron Cleen at her.