Lights in the Deep Read online

  Science Fiction Stories by

  Brad R. Torgersen

  Lights in the Deep

  Collection copyright © 2013 by Brad R. Torgersen

  Introduction 1

  Copyright © 2013 Stanley Schmidt

  Introduction 2

  Copyright © 2013 Mike Resnick

  Introduction 3

  Copyright © 2013 Allan Cole

  “Outbound”

  Copyright © 2010

  (first appearance: Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, November 2010)

  “Gemini 17”

  Copyright © 2011

  (to appear: Jim Baen Memorial Contest anthology, Baen Books, est. publication 2015)

  “The Bullfrog Radio Astronomy Project”

  Copyright © 2011

  (first appearance: Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, October 2011)

  “Exiles of Eden”

  Copyright © 2011

  (first appearance: Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, Issue #22)

  “Footprints” © 2002

  (first appearance: Licton Springs Review, 2002)

  “The Exchange Officers”

  Copyright © 2013

  (first appearance: Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, February-March 2013)

  “On the Growth of Fantasy and the Waning of Science Fiction”

  Copyright © 2012

  (first appearance: Writers of the Future web site)

  “The Chaplain’s Assistant”

  Copyright © 2011

  (first appearance: Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, September 2011)

  “The Chaplain’s Legacy”

  Copyright © 2013

  (first appearance: Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, July-August 2013)

  “Exanastasis”

  Copyright © 2010

  (first appearance: L. Ron Hubbard presents Writers and Illustrators of the Future, vol. XXVI)

  “Ray of Light”

  Copyright © 2011

  (first appearance: Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, December 2011)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-075-8

  Cover art by Bob Eggleton, used with permission

  Book design by RuneWright LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire Inc

  PO Box 1840

  Monument CO 80132

  WordFire Press Digital Edition 2013

  Printed in the USA

  www.wordfire.com

  Electronic Version by Baen Ebooks

  http://www.baen.com

  Dedication:

  To my mother Mona, who gave me love and encouragement when I was a boy.

  To my aunt Elaina, who chipped in money for workshops when I was brand new to publishing.

  To my wife Annie, who supported me with patience and unflagging faith—and believes in me still.

  To my daughter Olivia, who reminds me how beautiful and amazing the world can be when seen through young eyes.

  ***

  Introduction — Stanley Schmidt

  When I read a story that makes a really strong impression on me, I tend to remember not only the story, but where I was and what I was doing when I read it. That doesn’t happen for many stories, but it certainly did with the first one I bought from Brad R. Torgersen.

  I was sitting in the waiting area in the lobby of a big medical center, where my wife was being interviewed for a job. I had come along to give moral support in case it was needed1, and to do some other errands after her interview. At that time I was the editor of Analog Science Fiction and Fact [magazine] and my work schedule was flexible enough to easily accommodate this kind of thing. I worked mostly at home, so I just took along a briefcase full of manuscripts to read during Joyce’s interview.

  These were the last days in which most of our manuscripts came in on paper rather than electronically, so the ones I took to read that day were ones that I was pretty sure I couldn’t just skim, to make sure I could keep busy even if the interview ran long. Mostly that meant they were by old pros who I knew would almost certainly grab my attention and demand a close reading, but there was also one by some guy named Torgersen who I didn’t know at all. All I knew was that I had started to speed-read his story along with a pile of slush2 and found that it wouldn’t let me. I got hooked almost immediately, and put the story aside to read at a time like this, when I needed a small number of manuscripts that I could expect to demand—and reward—my full attention.

  “Outbound” lived up to its initial promise, and then some. It’s obviously an after-the-holocaust story and a coming-of-age story, and those are a dime a dozen—but not this kind. This one had enormous scope in a remarkably compact space, but it also dealt intimately with the impact of its enormous drama on real and likable individuals. And, unlike too many post-apocalypse tales, which have little to offer but depression, this one gave reason for hope even under the most adverse of conditions. I don’t remember much about what was going on in the waiting room around me, except that that’s where I was, but I do know that when Joyce emerged from her interview I was able to announce confidently that I’d just made an important discovery.

  Analog’s readers agreed, resoundingly voting “Outbound” our best novelette of the year in The Analytical Laboratory, our annual reader poll (often just called “Anlab”). But that was only the beginning. Discoveries like that—finding myself thoroughly captivated by a story by an unknown writer—were the biggest kick I ever got out of editing Analog. But what was even better was when such a writer produced not just one memorable story, but a continuing stream of them.

  Brad was like that. In my last couple of years at Analog, I bought several of his stories, and our readers liked them all. There was plenty of diversity in them, and plenty of food for thought. Sometimes military life and religion, which I don’t usually think of as my favorite topics, figured prominently in his tales, and in his hands—perhaps due in part to his personal background—they became thoroughly engaging. What all his stories have in common (or at least a little of it) is riveting portrayal of memorable but “ordinary” people doing extraordinary things under extraordinary circumstances. And he does all of that with admirably rigorous attention to the details of both human nature and hard science. The effect is often rather reminiscent of Robert A. Heinlein, but it is by no means mere imitation of Heinlein.

  I was pleased to get several more of his stories, and to have readers coming up to me at conventions and saying, “How can you improve Analog? Publish more Brad Torgersen!” But he was producing more than we had room for, so his stories started appearing in other venues too—and you’ll find samples of them here.

  I believe the last story I bought from Brad before retiring from Analog was “Ray of Light”—which happens to be the other “bookend” story in this collection. That one not only did well in the Anlab, but was a finalist for science fiction’s two most prestigious awards: the Nebula (given by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Write
rs of America) and the Hugo (given by the World Science Fiction Convention). Yet I think what impressed me most was something I saw at the next year’s Worldcon.

  Worldcon always includes an art show featuring some of the best work by some of the best science fiction illustrators in the world. One of them, that year, was Bob Eggleton’s original painting for the Analog illustrating “Ray of Light.” It was a magnificent piece of art in its own right, which needed no accompanying commentary to command attention from viewers. But Bob had prominently displayed next to the painting a paragraph about how much he had admired the story that inspired it. Not every artist would do that—and not every story would make the artist want to.

  If you look at “Ray of Light” and “Outbound” together, I think you’ll find that not only do they both fit the book’s title very well (though in quite different ways), but they have some other important things in common. I’ll leave it to you to think about what they are. They matter to all of us.

  Meanwhile, I notice that “The Chaplain’s Legacy” is in the latest Analog, which recently came in the mail—and that while I haven’t yet read it, Joyce has. She has the best system I’ve ever seen for deciding how to vote in the Anlab: as soon as she reads a story, she gives it a numerical score, and then lets a computer rank them at the end of the year. I see that she gave “The Chaplain’s Legacy” one of her highest possible ratings—so I know I’ll have to read it soon.

  But I knew that anyway—and you get to read it, along with all the rest, right here in this book. Enjoy!

  * * *

  1 It wasn’t—she got the job.

  2 Unsolicited manuscripts, of which we got so many that most, of necessity, could be given only a quick reading and no detailed feedback.

  ***

  Introduction 2 — Mike Resnick

  So let me tell you a little bit about this remarkable semi-young man named Brad Torgersen.

  The first time I ever met him, or even knew of his existence, was when I handed him a trophy at the 2010 Writers of the Future Pageant. He was wearing a sharp-looking military dress uniform—not the kind jerks who have never been in the military piece together to impress girls (who are rarely impressed)— but a legitimate one with his rank and medals. We spent quite some time visiting that weekend, and he impressed me not only with this intelligence but also with his eagerness to learn everything he could about the field, and I mentally marked him as a talent to watch.

  A few months later I got an assignment for an anthology of military science fiction. I remembered the man and the uniform, and I offered to collaborate with him. He did a powerful first draft, which required some rewriting, and we sold it and enjoyed some very positive reviews.

  A couple of more assignments came in that played to his expertise—let me correct it: this small area of his vast expertise—and again, he did the first draft, I did the rewrite and polish…and one thing that I noted instantly was that each time we collaborated, he needed a lot less polishing than the previous time.

  That learning curve wasn’t apparent only to me. He won Analog’s AnLab poll for the Best Novelette, and not a lot of newcomers pull that off. But far from being content with such favorable notice, it simply served to spur him on. Move the clock ahead to 2012—just two short years after I handed him that trophy—and suddenly everywhere you looked, there was Brad. It seemed like every time you picked up an issue of Analog, he was on the cover. He was nominated for the Nebula Award. And a couple of months later he was up for the Hugo, as well as for science fiction’s “rookie-of-the-year” award, the Campbell.

  Most people would be satisfied with that degree of progress, especially when you consider that writing is not only not Brad’s primary job (he does something incomprehensible with computers), but it’s not even his second job (he does something very comprehensible—and worthwhile—with the Army Reserve.) But Brad thinks and acts like a pro, and that meant that he got [the interest of] a top agent and began preparing not one, but two, novel manuscripts. And he didn’t forget his literary roots, either. He’s sold to a number of different magazines (including mine) and anthologies, but Analog remains his spiritual home, and when long-time editor Stan Schmidt retired, there was Brad, literarily bonding with the new editor and selling him at an even faster rate than he’d sold to Stan.

  If he was just a good (and steadily-improving) writer, that would be enough to merit praise, but he’s also a good and steadily improving husband, father, and friend, whose behavior, wherever he goes and whatever company he’s keeping, is exemplary.

  Every year or so I “adopt” a promising new talent, collaborate with them, buy from them, introduce them to editors and others who can help them. It’s really quite simple: everyone who helped me when I started out is dead or rich or both, so I can’t pay back, and the field has been so good to me that I feel compelled to pay forward. Hugo winner Maureen McHugh (I’ve called her “McHugo” ever since she won one back in 1996) calls these prodigies and protégés “Mike’s Writer Children.” The term seems to have stuck. Brad’s always calling me his “Writer Dad” on Facebook and elsewhere.

  Well, based on the three years I’ve known him, and followed his no-longer-embryonic career, and enjoyed not only his writing but his friendship, he is one Writer Son who has made his Dad proud beyond all expectations.

  Mike

  ***

  Introduction 3 — Allan Cole

  It was with a great deal of pleasure and just a modicum of pride when I learned that a wise editor, of obviously impeccable taste, was publishing Brad Torgersen’s first short story compilation.

  Pleasure, because I have been following Brad’s fast rising star for some time now—realizing with much delight that I’d stumbled upon a young “natural.”

  A modicum of pride, because Brad has named me—and my Sten series—as being one of the authors who influenced him.

  He is an award winning writer, and deservedly so. We all expect to see many more rewards in the coming years.

  I’m only one of many SF veterans who see an exceptionally bright literary future for Brad. And as a reader, I look forward to filling a whole shelf in my library with the works of Brad Torgersen.

  Allan Cole — Boca Raton, Fl. 6/9/13

  ***

  Outbound

  I was eleven years old when the Earth burned.

  I can still remember Papa running into the hotel room on the space station, screaming. What he said, exactly, I can’t recall. But there was fear in his eyes when he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. He did the same with my little sister, Irenka, and then he was back out the door—both of us bouncing across his deltoids like sacks of potatoes.

  Papa didn’t stop for luggage, nor any of our toys.

  Not even my special chair.

  I remember the curved corridor being filled with adults: screaming, fighting, and yelling.

  One of them got in Papa’s path, and Papa literally kicked the man out of the way.

  Papa had never hurt another human being in his whole life.

  Irenka, who was just four, kept calling for Mama. But Mama had been at a conference on the other side of the station, and we didn’t see her anywhere.

  I kept thinking about my chair. If whatever was happening was bad enough for Papa to forget my expensive new chair, then it was really, really bad.

  When we got to the hatch for the ship, there were big people with guns and they wouldn’t let Papa onboard.

  Papa yelled at them. They yelled back.

  I remember Papa slowly putting Irenka and me down on the deck and hugging us both very closely, his big hands stroking the backs of our heads while he spoke.

  “Mirek, you’re the oldest. You have to take care of Irenka. And Irenka, I want you to be good for your brother and do what he says. Because you both have to leave this place and I can’t come with you.”

  The big people with guns moved aside and other people, wearing crew jumpers, came through the hatch and tried to take Irenka and me a
way from Papa.

  Panic gripped me.

  I wouldn’t release him.

  Irenka kicked. I shrieked, because I couldn’t kick.

  We hung onto Papa’s shirt for dear life.

  Ultimately, Papa yelled at us so loudly it made us silent, because we’d never heard Papa say such words to us before, nor in such a loud voice.

  He apologized and kissed us both. We let go of his collar.

  “Remember me,” Papa said when the crewpeople took us away. “Remember your Papa and Mama. We will always love you!”

  • • •

  The ship was crammed with people. Other children, mostly.

  When the heavy banging noises came through the cabin, some of the kids screamed. I knew better, though. We’d undocked from the station because I felt all the gravity go away.

  This was a good thing. No gravity meant I didn’t need my chair.

  The crewpeople who’d taken us away from Papa didn’t even speak to us. They hurriedly found a two-person gee couch, strapped us into it, and moved on.

  Irenka was sniffling and sobbing while I held her hand and looked out the window, perhaps too dazed to really feel what had just happened to our family.

  The big rings of the station rotated beautifully while our ship thrust away from it. The gee from thrusting tugged at my stomach, then shifted ninety degrees. I was being pushed sideways, the view in the window spinning just as the station began to disintegrate. I couldn’t tell what happened, other than that there was a sparkling cloud that seemed to envelope the station for an instant, and then a white flash so brilliant I had to cover my eyes.