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    One Step Beyond: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy
    One Step Beyond: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy
    One Step Beyond: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy
    Ebook135 pages2 hours

    One Step Beyond: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy

    By Vaughan Stanger, Jaine Fenn, Sue Oke and

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    About this ebook

    An anthology of stories from the long-running One Step Beyond writers' group, including tales from all corners of the speculative fiction genre. All profits from the sale of this anthology will go to English PEN, a charitable network defending and promoting freedom of expression around the world.

    Includes stories from Vaughan Stanger, Jaine Fenn, Mike Lewis, Alys Sterling, Liz Holliday, Heather Lindsley, Sue Oke and Mark Bilsborough. Edited by Vaughn Stanger. Cover illustration by Tony Hughes.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTower Of Chaos Press
    Release dateNov 17, 2016
    ISBN9781370352913
    One Step Beyond: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy
    Author

    Vaughan Stanger

    Until recently, Vaughan Stanger worked as a research manager at a British engineering company. From 1997 to 2011, he wrote science fiction and fantasy stories in his spare time, effectively setting himself homework. The results of this head-scratching were published in Nature Futures, Interzone, Postscripts, Daily Science Fiction and Music for Another World, to name but a few. Translations of his stories have appeared in nine languages.In January 2012 Vaughan became a full-time writer. Currently he's busy writing an SF novel. The head-scratching has got worse if anything. There are also some new stories in the works, plus further e-book compilations of his previously published stories to come.

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      One Step Beyond - Vaughan Stanger

      Foreword by Liz Holliday

      Back in 1997, I was one of the people running the Milford SF Writers’ Conference, which is for professional writers. These days, Milford is thriving – there’s a waiting list every year, as I understand it. Back then, it was struggling a bit: it was hard to find enough writers to make it viable.

      I was also in the middle of launching Odyssey, a semi-professional science fiction and fantasy magazine. I absolutely loved editing – I loved finding good stories in the slush pile, and working with newer writers to make their stories better. I wanted a way to do more of that, and do it faster – if only so there were more writers available to come to Milford!

      And I had been to Clarion in 1989. It was very clear to me that I didn’t have the resources to start a British or European version of Clarion . . . but I hit on the idea of a one week residential workshop.

      I already had the perfect location – The Bowden Close Hotel, near Torquay in Devon, then home to Milford. Next, I needed a name. I was sick of gurus and teachers and writing programmes offering the world in return for huge amounts of money. I reckoned all I could expect to do in a week was help people move on a little bit. Thus, ‘One Step Beyond’ became both the name and the USP of the workshop.

      So, in the autumn of 1998, I turned up at the Bowden Close with my laptop on my shoulder and a pair of extraordinarily cute kittens in a travel basket. And so did seven eager writers.

      I had a plan for the week, combining the best of Milford and Clarion. I’d asked them all to read the novel Brother Termite, by Patricia Anthony, just so I’d know we had one existing text in common. In the morning, I’d talk about some aspect of writing (viewpoint, for instance, or world building), using Brother Termite as an example. Then we’d have a break, and after that we’d critique a story one of the group had written. At some point, I’d set an exercise or two to solidify what we’d discussed. In the afternoon, they’d work on those and their own writing; I’d also nab them one at a time to talk about their work – strengths, weaknesses, what to do next. The evenings would be social events, because one of my hopes was that they’d bond and stay in contact after the workshop.

      It worked. Sort of. For one thing, they pretty much all hated Brother Termite as much as I’d loved it, so I gave up referencing it (that was fine – they were a well-read bunch and we found other works in common).

      But mostly, they proceeded to run me ragged, frankly. I say that in the nicest way possible, but there was no stopping them.

      The details have blurred over time, thank heaven. Mostly, I remember talking to them a LOT more than I ever intended, because they simply wouldn’t let me stop! I remember the chaos my kittens, Tia and Kai, occasionally caused. (I know for sure that certain people sometimes paid more attention to them than to me while I was talking! But in the kits’ defence, they also broke the tension a bit during the critiquing sessions.) I remember how hard the Hills – the couple who ran the Bowden Close – worked to give us everything we needed, including allowing me to plug in my modem (remember those?) to their office phone, and to use their printer. I know I planned silly parlour games for the evenings (then a popular feature of Milford) but that these quite often went west because my lovely students wanted me to talk more about writing! I also have a vague recollection of suggesting a sightseeing trip one afternoon – then a regular feature of Milford – and being voted down in favour of more writing time, though I might be misremembering! And I recall I set a limerick competition on the last day, with a prize that was worth ‘millions of pounds, or one pound, or nothing at all’ (it was a lottery ticket, and that phrasing was inspired by Joe Haldeman’s story ‘A Tangled Web’), which Sion won . . .

      Fast forward to 2015 . . . and I got my wish. Several of the One Step Beyond participants ended up going to Milford. Some still do. But I got far more than I could have ever hoped. Most of them have gone on to publish professionally. Better than that, some of them started a writers’ group that continues to this day – and it has expanded to include several other very fine writers. (They even let me join, though these days I’m concentrating more on trying to break into screenwriting and very rarely make it.)

      Would I do it again? In a heartbeat, if enough people wanted me to (though I no longer have quite the same cachet since I’m not editing a magazine any more . . . though I’d do that again in a heartbeat too, if I could find a way of funding it). All I need is a venue. And some eager going-to-be writers willing to run me ragged . . .

      A Mirror to Life

      Jaine Fenn

      Syl wiped the vomit from her chin. The face in the mirror had her own gray-green eyes, sharp chin and broad forehead, but the hair was wispy gray, the skin wrinkled and loose. Though she had been prepared for the difference in years, for a moment she felt cheated. Her youth had been taken from her.

      She reached for the water in the jug. It trickled through her fingers. She tried again, more slowly, cupping her palm. The water stayed there at first, but when she lifted her hand to her face it slid away and dribbled down the front of the homespun robe.

      So this was gravity. It was worse than she had imagined.

      ~

      The girl floats near the center of the spherical room, curled into a fetal ball. She is naked and her eyes are closed. A heavy wire trails from the thin metal band clamped round her temples and disappears into the padded wall.

      ~

      Syl had trained in a room with a sticky floor to get used to the concepts of ‘up’ and ‘down’, but real gravity was very different. Her flesh pulled on her bones, and every movement was resisted by the all-pervasive, invisible force.

      She forced herself to let go of the wash-stand, turned carefully, and walked into the living room; it was a sparse cube, with white walls, a low wooden ceiling and minimal furniture. On a table next to a pile of cushions were red and yellow flowers in a vase. (Vase: container for displaying flowers. So many names to remember!) Syl crouched down, her knee joints popping, and touched the flowers. The petals were soft as skin.

      She jumped as a sharp rap resounded through the room. The vase tipped, spilling water and flowers across the table.

      The noise came again. It was someone knocking on the door.

      A woman’s voice called out. ‘Petra? Are you all right?’

      She tried to speak, but only managed a harsh croak.

      ‘I’m coming in.’ The room was flooded with golden light. Sunlight. Light from Earth’s sun.

      The figure in the doorway was almost drowned by the glare until she stepped into the room and resolved into a mature woman with shoulder length black hair and skin peppered with brown marks. (Freckles: a reaction of pale skinned people to sunlight.) Her face was thin, with heavy brows and a large mouth. She wore a brown smock dress and sandals. ‘We were worried.’ The woman’s gaze fell on the flowers and water covering the table. Syl recognized her as Marie Vittoria-Jonson, Petra’s lover, and (Tutor had said) probably Syl’s biggest challenge. ‘Why didn’t you answer the door? Is everything all right?’

      Syl had practiced this encounter many times in sim, but she had hoped for more time to orientate herself before playing it out for real. ‘Marie. I don’t feel well.’ She stuttered. The half-familiar sound of Petra’s voice confused her.

      ‘Shit, Petra. I left you to sleep as long as I could, but I’m really worried. You look awful.’ She turned.

      ‘The virus. I . . .’ She let herself fall back onto the cushions. Behind Marie, through the open door, she glimpsed brown earth, green hills, blue sky.

      Marie bent down and put her arms around her. ‘Please, what is it?’

      Syl flinched at the contact, felt Marie stiffen, and forced herself to relax. After the initial shock, being touched felt good. Without looking up she said, ‘I’ve forgotten . . .’

      ‘Forgotten what, love?’

      ‘Everything.’

      ~

      The young woman stirs. Eyes dart behind closed lids, fingers twitch. Hidden microphones pick up a low animal moan. Her eyes flick open, her head snaps back, and she screams. She lets go of her legs and scrabbles in the empty air. The screaming turns to retching, and she vomits explosively. She flails and pukes for ten minutes, then hangs still. She appears unconscious, except for her gray-green eyes, which are open and staring.

      ~

      Marie listened in silence while Syl explained how she had woken up this morning in a state of confusion. How she remembered some things, but others had just gone. How she was scared, so scared, of losing everything. As Syl spoke the well-rehearsed lines she felt her voice getting stronger, but she fought to keep the quaver, for effect.

      When she finished, Marie said, ‘I had no idea the virus was so advanced. I’m sorry. What can I do for you?’

      ‘Will you help me remember, Marie?’

      ‘Of course.’

      Objective One – win Marie’s trust. Achieved, remarkably easily. These dirtsiders were not so paranoid after all.

      ‘Tell you what, Petra love. You sit tight and rest here while I clear up, then we can go to the cantina. OK?’

      ‘Yes, I’d

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