Going Interstellar (collection)

It would all be sorted out at the command level, no doubt. In any case, there wasn’t a damn thing Tie Dye could do now.

Link guided her into the vacuum elevator, and Isabet grasped the knack of traversing the layered decks in an instant. As they floated downward, he pointed out the level where the cubbies were. “We’ll find a free one for you.” He promised a tour of the gallery and the laboratories before they reached the lowest level, where he deposited her in the hydroponics area. “You can watch the ship leave from here,” he said, pointing to an observation window.

Her nerves still on fire from her near-miss, she watched the North America pull back from the habitat and revolve in preparation for its return to Earth. She leaned against the chilly plexiglass and imagined Tie Dye standing impotently near the space window to watch Starhold disappear as the ship revolved and prepared to get under way. She started to grin.

Were Skunk or Ginger or Happy Feet watching in wonder as the ship’s positronic reactors fired and the ship began to vibrate? Did they look around, asking about Isabet, or did they know she was stranded on the habitat? Just in case, she waved her arm in farewell. She kissed her hand to the ship for good measure.

Yep, she was stuck here. For the duration. Twelve months, at least. Helluva way to score a vacation.

She laughed aloud as the North America’s rockets bloomed, driving it away toward Earth.

When she had seen enough, she turned from the window, and stepped out into the ship. With a deft twist of her feet and her hands, she shot upward toward the gallery level. She would ask Link for work to do, find some way to be of use. Maybe in the kitchens, or maybe she could work on redesigning the crawler. It didn’t matter. She’d meet some other people, get to know the place, this first step on the path to the stars.

She was going to feel right at home.

TWENTY LIGHTS TO “THE LAND OF SNOW” Excerpts from The ComputerLogs of Our Reluctant Dalai Lama Michael Bishop

The first thing most American readers will have to do when reading Twenty Lights to “The Land of Snow” is put aside their preconceived notions of what the crew and culture of an interstellar spacecraft must emulate—western culture. And with the current pace of space exploration in the West, new notions of how it might actually happen are certainly worth considering.

Awards? Michael Bishop has them: two Nebulas, four Locus Awards, and multiple Hugo nominations. Did we mention that he also writes award-winning poetry? Mysteries? And that he has edited several science fiction anthologies? And, yes, he was an English teacher….

* * *

Years in transit: 82 out of 106?

Computer Logs of the Dalai Lama-to-Be, age 7

AboardKalachakra, I open my eyes again in Amdo Bay. Sleep still pops in me, yowling like a really hurt cat. I look sidelong out of my foggy eggshell. Many ghosts crowd near to see me leave the bear sleep that everybody in a strut-ship sometimes dreams in. Why have all these somnacicles up-phased to become ship-haunters? Why do so many crowd the grave-cave of my Greta-snooze?

“Greta Bryn”—that’s my mama’s voice—“can you hear me, kiddo?”

Yes I can. I have no deafness after I up-phase. Asleep even, I hear Mama talk in her dreams, and cosmic rays crackle off Kalachakra’s plasma shield out in front (to keep us all from going dead), and the crackle from Earth across the reaching oceans of farthest space.

“Greta Bryn?”

She sounds like Atlanta, Daddy says. To me she sounds like Mama, which I want her to play-act now. She keeps bunnies, minks, guineas, and many other tiny crits down along our sci-tech cylinder in Kham Bay. But hearing her doesn’t pulley me into sit-up pose. To get there, I stretch my soft parts and my bones.

“Easy, baby,” Mama says.

A man in white unhooks me. A woman pinches me at the wrist so I won’t twist the fuel tube or pulse counter. They’ve already shot me in the heart, to stir its beating. Now I sit and look around, clearer. Daddy stands near, showing his crumply face.

“Hey, Gee Bee,” he says, but doesn’t grab my hand.