Eriophora , an ironic oxymoron at best. There may one day be failure, but there is no finish line. We go on forever, crawling across the universe like ants, dragging your goddamned superhighway behind us.
I still have so much to learn.
At least my son is here to teach me.
JOHN KESSEL
EVENTS PRECEDING THE HELVETICAN RENAISSANCE
Born in Buffalo, New York, John Kessel now lives with his family in Raleigh, North Carolina, where he is a professor of American Literature and the director of the Creative Writing program at North Carolina State University. Kessel made his first sale in 1975. His first solo novel, Good News from Outer Space , was released in 1988 to wide critical acclaim, but before that he had made his mark on the genre primarily as a writer of highly imaginative, finely crafted short stories, many of which have been assembled in collections such as Meeting in Infinity and The Pure Product . He won a Nebula Award in 1983 for his novella Another Orphan , which was also a Hugo finalist that year, and has been released as an individual book. His story âBuffaloâ won the Theodore Sturgeon Award in 1991, and his novella Stories for Men won the prestigious James Tiptree Jr. Memorial Award in 2003. His other books include the novels Corrupting Dr. Nice, Freedom Beach (written in collaboration with James Patrick Kelly), Ninety Percent of Everything (written in collaboration with James Patrick Kelly and Jonathan Lethem), and an anthology of stories from the famous Sycamore Hill Writers Workshop (which he also helps to run), called Intersections , coedited by Mark L. Van Name and Richard Butner. His most recent books are two anthologies coedited with James Patrick Kelly, Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology and Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology , and a new collection, The Baum Plan For Financial Independence and Other Stories .
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W hen my mind cleared, I found myself in the street. A god spoke to me then: The boulevard to the spaceport runs straight up the mountain. And you must run straight up the boulevard .
The air was full of wily spirits, and moving fast in the Imperial City was a crime. But what is man to disobey the voice of a god? So I ran. The pavement vibrated with the thunder of the great engines of the Caslonian Empire. Behind me the curators of the Imperial Archives must by now have discovered the mareâs nest I had made of their defenses, and perhaps had already realized that something was missing.
Above the plateau the sky was streaked with clouds, through which shot violet gravity beams carrying ships down from and up to planetary orbit. Just outside the gate to the spaceport a family in ragsâhusband, wife, two childrenâused a net of knotted cords to catch fish from the sewers. Ignoring them, prosperous citizens in embroidered robes passed among the shops of the port bazaar, purchasing duty-free wares, recharging their concubines, seeking a meal before departure. Slower, now .
I slowed my pace. I became indistinguishable from them, moving smoothly among the travelers.
To the Caslonian eye, I was calm, self-possessed; within me, rage and joy contended. I had in my possession the means to redeem my people. I tried not to think, only to act, but now that my mind was rekindled, it raced. Certainly it would go better for me if I left the planet before anyone understood what I had stolen. Yet I was very hungry, and the aroma of food from the restaurants along the way enticed me. It would be foolishness itself to stop here.
Enter the restaurant , I was told. So I stepped into the most elegant of the establishments.
The maître âd greeted me. âWould the master like a table, or would he prefer to dine at the bar?â
âThe bar,â I said.
âStep this way.â There was no hint of the illicit about his manner, though something about it implied indulgence. He was proud to offer me this experience that few could afford.
He seated me at the
I still have so much to learn.
At least my son is here to teach me.
JOHN KESSEL
EVENTS PRECEDING THE HELVETICAN RENAISSANCE
Born in Buffalo, New York, John Kessel now lives with his family in Raleigh, North Carolina, where he is a professor of American Literature and the director of the Creative Writing program at North Carolina State University. Kessel made his first sale in 1975. His first solo novel, Good News from Outer Space , was released in 1988 to wide critical acclaim, but before that he had made his mark on the genre primarily as a writer of highly imaginative, finely crafted short stories, many of which have been assembled in collections such as Meeting in Infinity and The Pure Product . He won a Nebula Award in 1983 for his novella Another Orphan , which was also a Hugo finalist that year, and has been released as an individual book. His story âBuffaloâ won the Theodore Sturgeon Award in 1991, and his novella Stories for Men won the prestigious James Tiptree Jr. Memorial Award in 2003. His other books include the novels Corrupting Dr. Nice, Freedom Beach (written in collaboration with James Patrick Kelly), Ninety Percent of Everything (written in collaboration with James Patrick Kelly and Jonathan Lethem), and an anthology of stories from the famous Sycamore Hill Writers Workshop (which he also helps to run), called Intersections , coedited by Mark L. Van Name and Richard Butner. His most recent books are two anthologies coedited with James Patrick Kelly, Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology and Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology , and a new collection, The Baum Plan For Financial Independence and Other Stories .
Â
W hen my mind cleared, I found myself in the street. A god spoke to me then: The boulevard to the spaceport runs straight up the mountain. And you must run straight up the boulevard .
The air was full of wily spirits, and moving fast in the Imperial City was a crime. But what is man to disobey the voice of a god? So I ran. The pavement vibrated with the thunder of the great engines of the Caslonian Empire. Behind me the curators of the Imperial Archives must by now have discovered the mareâs nest I had made of their defenses, and perhaps had already realized that something was missing.
Above the plateau the sky was streaked with clouds, through which shot violet gravity beams carrying ships down from and up to planetary orbit. Just outside the gate to the spaceport a family in ragsâhusband, wife, two childrenâused a net of knotted cords to catch fish from the sewers. Ignoring them, prosperous citizens in embroidered robes passed among the shops of the port bazaar, purchasing duty-free wares, recharging their concubines, seeking a meal before departure. Slower, now .
I slowed my pace. I became indistinguishable from them, moving smoothly among the travelers.
To the Caslonian eye, I was calm, self-possessed; within me, rage and joy contended. I had in my possession the means to redeem my people. I tried not to think, only to act, but now that my mind was rekindled, it raced. Certainly it would go better for me if I left the planet before anyone understood what I had stolen. Yet I was very hungry, and the aroma of food from the restaurants along the way enticed me. It would be foolishness itself to stop here.
Enter the restaurant , I was told. So I stepped into the most elegant of the establishments.
The maître âd greeted me. âWould the master like a table, or would he prefer to dine at the bar?â
âThe bar,â I said.
âStep this way.â There was no hint of the illicit about his manner, though something about it implied indulgence. He was proud to offer me this experience that few could afford.
He seated me at the
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