geefourdotalpha—Clive Tern

Beachcomber—Mark Toner

SF Caledonia—Monica Burns

Gay Hunter—James Leslie Mitchell (Lewsi Grassic Gibbon)

Interviews: Ken MacLeod and Tricia Sullivan

Noise and Sparks 1: Carrying Glass—Ruth EJ Booth

Reviews

Multiverse

Parabolic Puzzles

Become a Friend of Shoreline

Back Cover

Pull up a Log

It’s the Shoreline of Infinity Summer Special! Spread the tartan blanket on the beach, trowel on the factor fifty, and crack open the magazine with your sticky ice-cream covered paws.

To take your mind off the sand in the sandwiches we have a wicker-basket hamper stuffed with fine stories from writers all over the world—just take a look at the contents page over there. We have two interviews this issue with Ken MacLeod and Tricia Sullivan, and we’re joined by writer Ruth EJ Booth for her first column.

SF Caledonia features another Scottish writer who is not known for his science fiction. Lewis Grassic Gibbon, known for his more famous work of Sunset Song, the first part of his A Scots Quair trilogy, wrote an SF novel called Gay Hunter. Gay Hunter is the the female protagonist who travels in time to a post-apocalytpic future. Monica Burns, our Scottish SF archaeologist tells us more.

We’ve loads of reviews, and now we’re publishing those we can’t squeeze into the printed version on our website.

While we relax in our deck-chair looking out to the far distance, munching on what we hope is a sausage roll, we contemplate that Shoreline of Infinity is a year old. We take this opportunity to thank all those who have wished us well, supported us, encouraged us, spread the word about us and bought and read the magazine. And it’s Mark and my chance to especially thank those brave and enthusiastic souls who came forward to help and are now absorbed into the making of the magazine: Russell, Monica and Iain in particular.

Finally, it’s the writers, the poets and the artists who contribute who should take a low, sweeping bow: keep the stories coming, folks.

So, gentle reader, let’s join the Beachcomber toasting something interesting on the drift-wood fire. We’d love to hear your thoughts and ideas on the magazine as we head into our second year, so email us, tweet, post on Facebook or write a letter. Smoke signals might work too.

Noel Chidwick

Editor

June 2016

Well Enough Alone

Holly Schofield

Art: Andrea Alemanno

Lindsay gripped the armrest as the car sped through the busy streets, centimeters from the other vehicles. The wrap-around front windshield increased visibility but made for a disconcerting ride. She double-checked her smartcane was resting against her leg and closed her eyes, wishing she knew where she was going and why.

“It’s all right, Mother.” Marta said, putting down her cup of water with a clatter. She leant over from the driver’s seat. Lindsay kept her eyes firmly shut as Marta placed one hand around her shoulder and the other over the broken minder bracelet Lindsay wore on her wrist.

“That hurts! And keep at least one hand on the wheel.” The roads got more dangerous every year. Everyone knew that.

Marta’s laugh held a dark note and the grip on Lindsay’s shoulders tightened. “It’s all right, Mother, there is no steering wheel. The car drives itself, remember? It’s that new kind. I bought it last week.”

“Don’t speak to me as if I were a child.” Lindsay opened her eyes and hunched away from Marta. There was something she was supposed to remember. What could it be?

Thoughts flitted through her mind faster and faster lately—she couldn’t hold them anymore than she could a rabble of butterflies. The blocky head of her cane vibrated and the light on the top began blinking. She touched her glasses, zooming in on the tiny embedded screen: It’s almost time to let go. Glowing red letters, and in the font that indicated high priority.

Let go of what? Marta? The armrest? Her life? She chuckled at the thought, earning a tilted head from Marta. Maybe it was time to end it all, if her short-term memory was so terrible that she didn’t know where they were going. She could just open a door and fling herself out into the street. Of course, that would be horrible for Marta. She should probably try to think of a tidier way.

Industrial buildings flicked by. They were way out at the edge of town, which must be why they’d driven the car, instead of taking the transit. The brown stucco building back there on the corner: wasn’t that where she worked? Memories of electronics-strewn tables and coffee pots and laughter. A cup of coffee would taste good right about now. Too bad her cane didn’t have a built-in thermos—she seemed to recall it had practically everything else.

“We’re here, Mother. Grab my arm while the seat helps you out.” The car door gaped and Marta leaned in. Lindsay hadn’t noticed the car pull over, hadn’t seen Marta come around to the curbside.

“I don’t need help. I know where I work. On the fourth floor. I have a large blue mug and the cream is on the lowest shelf of the fridge.”

Marta rubbed the line between her eyebrows and pressed a button on the door controls. Poor girl, she had always been an impatient child. And when had she started having those dark circles under her eyes?

The seat swivelled and began to tilt outward, practically dumping Lindsay on the curb. She grabbed her cane in panic, a small “oh” escaping her lips, and then Marta’s hand was guiding her up and out, all the while talking, something about someone’s retirement decades ago. Who had retired? Lindsay struggled to focus as she put her hand in the cane’s ergonomic grip and steadied herself on the sidewalk.

Marta was already off on another topic. “The clinic, Mother. For your appointment. To get your minder fixed.”

Before she could make sense of that, Marta tugged at her elbow. Lindsay allowed herself to be guided through an unfamiliar white door.

In the tiny equipment-filled back room, the technician helped her into a grey-and-yellow armchair. Sporting an sensible-looking brush cut, she looked competent but young enough to be in high school. Lindsay studied the various diplomas that filled one wall. She’d been in many of these types of rooms the past few years. An active life filled with career achievements, outings, and parties had somehow become endless rounds of tech shops, doctors’ offices, and dental clinics.

“We’ll have it fixed in no time and back to keeping an eye on your mom,” the tech said, head down beside her, tapping in a security code, then unlocking the minder from her wrist.

Marta, seated by the wall, said, “Can you set it to maximum protection as well? There have been some incidents lately.”

Lindsay rubbed where the minder had chafed. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Or me.” Her voice was gruff and rude. When had she become so angry-sounding?

The tech nodded and turned away to her workbench, sliding a large scope along a ceiling track and positioning the flexible head over the small silver wristband, now clamped to a stand. The business end of the scope looked solid enough to bash in a person’s skull, if they swung it toward themself hard enough. Lindsay had read something about that recently—a blow to either the back of the head or the temple could kill but a forehead hit gave a chance of survival. She tried to tuck that into her long-term memory.

“How did this get so crushed? I see parallel cuts in it, like it was pinched somehow.” The tech looked up, puzzled, over to where Marta sat.

“No one knows,” Marta said and crossed her arms, the way she always did when she was uncertain of her answer.

“I...” Lindsay said but stopped when they both looked at her. It suddenly didn’t seem wise to tell them about trekking all the way across the yard to Marta’s neighbor’s garage yesterday. She hadn’t been able to squeeze the tin snips tight enough to do any damage. Finally, she’d managed to place the minder in the workbench’s manual vice and turn the handle enough times to damage the screen and chip before the neighbor had come out and led her home. Well, not home. Marta’s house, where she now lived. The house back on Aubrey Street had been her home. The honeysuckle over the trellis had been a glory, all orange flowers and lovely scent. She should probably trim that when she got home, it had a tendency to dangle tendrils into people’s hair.

“Not in stock?” Marta was standing next to Lindsay’s chair, frowning, and they were in some kind of diagnostic lab. A very young, very short-haired woman sat next to Lindsay, measuring her wrist with a gauge held in a manicured, efficient-looking hand.