Lights in the Deep (2 page)

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 away 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.

When I could see again, the station was gone, and the gee pressing me into my seat was so strong I had a hard time breathing.

Irenka’s sobbing had quieted to a whimper and she gripped my hand so hard I thought her little tendons would snap.

Our ship was moving. Fast.

The Earth’s night side was covered with huge splotches that glowed dull red, like a giant, angry rash.

Occasionally, flashes could be seen through the massive, roiling clouds.

An adult, clad in a spacesuit and with a helmet under his arm, shuffled past our couch. I tapped him on the arm and pointed out the window.

“What’s going on?”

The man paused just long enough to lean over us and look outside.

“Orbital stuff’s been hit,” he said in American English. “Now they’re using antimatter warheads in-atmosphere. Jesus almighty….”

The man bolted aft while I kept looking out.

Somewhere down there, I knew my cousins and grandparents were in trouble. The smoky clouds were too thick for me to see the continents clearly, but I looked for Europe anyway. Poland was by the sea, and I thought that, maybe being near the sea, it wouldn’t be so bad.

Until I saw the day-side limb come up, and wherever the glowing splotches touched the ocean, the water exploded into hurricanes of white vapor.

The angry splotches also expanded visibly, like the sped-up films in school that show how mold grows in petri dishes.

Then, the ship rolled over and I could see nothing more, the additional gee shoving me back into my seat.

I looked away from the window to see Irenka slumped against me, exhausted and eyes closing.

Her little breaths became regular and gentle, and before long I also felt my eyes close, and then there were only memories of Mama and Papa, gone forever.

• • •

Irenka woke up crying, and the adults in crewpeople jumpers had to come and get her and take her to the bathroom. When they brought her back she was in night pants and nothing else. They said she’d had an accident, and her clothes wouldn’t be clean for an hour. My sister’s eyes were puffy and wide and she now looked at everything as if it might bite her.

I asked if it was okay if she sat in my lap, and after some conversation, they told me yes, as long as we both stayed buckled in together. Being unbuckled in zero gee would be dangerous. But I already knew that.

Irenka snuggled into my lap, the night pants making a gentle crackling sound. I had us both buckled up and I wrapped my arms around her.

I put my head back and closed my eyes, hoping for additional rest. I felt more tired than I’d ever felt in my life.

“I want Mama,” Irenka said in a low voice.

I opened my eyes and looked down into her small face.

“I want Mama too,” I said. “But I think Mama and Papa aren’t alive anymore.”

My sister stiffened and began to whimper again, burying her face in my chest.

I hugged her tightly, feeling the lump move into my throat. I wasn’t sure who I felt sorrier for: my little sister, myself, or my parents.

I fought back the swell of grief and tried to stay calm. I could still feel Papa’s hand on my head when he looked me in the eye and told me to take care of Irenka—because he’d known Mama and he wouldn’t be around to do it anymore. Papa had looked resigned when he’d said those words to me. Resigned, and yet full of dignity. While the other adults on the station had panicked, he’d made sure Irenka and I were safe.

Now, my sister needed me to be the strong one. And I needed me to be strong for us both.

I swallowed thickly and let my tears be silent tears while I gently stroked Irenka’s golden hair.

An hour later, an adult appeared near our seat. She was older than many of the other adults we’d seen onboard, with short hair that was going gray. She seemed motherly and smiled at my sister and me, patting our shoulders.

“Do you speak TransCom?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Can you please tell me your names and ages?”

“Miroslaw Jaworski. This is my sister, Irenka. I’m eleven, she’s four.”

The kindly crewperson noted our names on her PDA.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t let Papa come onboard. He’s dead now.”

The woman’s mouth sank to a frown.

“I am sorry, honey. The captain wouldn’t let us bring any more adults than we already had. The ship was full.”

Her words were small comfort. But I worked to remain strong. Something told me that my childhood had suffered an abrupt ending, and the sooner I acted like a man, the better.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Ummm…did you watch the news these past few months?”

“No.”

“There was…they…no, maybe it’s better if I don’t explain it. Honey, someone started a war. A very terrible war.”

“Why?”

The woman paused, her eyes un-focusing and her frowned lips beginning to tremble.

“I have damn no idea,” she whispered.

Then the woman seemed to remember who she was speaking to, apologized for cursing, and went back to recording information. She took down where we’d lived, the names of extended family, what we liked to eat, if we had any favorite videos we liked to watch, and if we had anything special the adults on the ship would need to know.

“I don’t have my chair,” I said.

“Pardon me?”

“On the ground, I can’t move without my chair.”

I pantomimed using the little joystick that commanded my electric chair, without which I couldn’t move except to drag myself across the floor with my arms.

“You’re a paraplegic?”

“Yes.”

The woman’s lips quivered again, and she reflexively reached out and stroked a lock of hair off my forehead.

“I’m OK,” I said. “When there is no gee, I don’t need legs. It’s one of the reasons Mama was at the conference. She thought she’d get a job with one of the settlements in the asteroids, where I’d probably never have to worry about a chair again.”

“Of course. I’ll pass it on to the captain. Can you handle your sister, or should I see if one of us can take her?”

“I want Mirek,” Irenka said, not looking at the woman and reflexively wrapping her arms so tightly across mine, I think there was nothing more that needed to be said.

The woman stood up, her special shoes gripping the floor, and affectionately stroked my hair one more time.

“If you need any help, press the blue button on the seat in front of you. My name is Elaine, and I am one of the crew. Otherwise, the screen below the button is a computer you can use to look at shows or play games.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But what I really want to know is, where are we going?”

“We’re not sure. The captain has to decide. The war didn’t happen only at Earth.”

• • •

Our ship was a common interplanetary liner. The kind that are so common, they don’t have names, just numbers. The captain did his best to inform us of what was going on, but I don’t think he was used to talking to kids, so I had to keep asking Elaine to explain it to me. She said that the captain had decided to take us to Jupiter, where we might find other refugees at the Jovian space settlements.

There was near-constant thrust because we had to go as fast as we could to get away from the war satellites that were still hunting between Earth and the moon.

This meant I had to spend the first half of the trip on the couch to which Irenka and me were assigned, which would have been fine except that I needed Elaine’s help whenever I had to go to the lavatory. Some of the younger teenagers laughed and called me a baby when Elaine carried me up and down the aisle. I could handle that. You don’t live life as a child cripple and not get used to the fact that a lot of other kids are always mean.