Nebula Awards Showcase 2012

One of my earliest memories is of seeing an Apollo launch on television and my parents telling me the rocket was going to the moon, so I’ve been interested in space travel for almost my entire life. I’ve been reading science fiction since shortly after I learned to read, and my dad had a wonderful collection of anthologies and novels that captivated my interest.

While I dabbled in creative writing while studying political science at Brigham Young University, I gave up on it for about a decade until one day I found myself with an overpowering urge to write a novel. I decided that if I was going to get serious about creative writing, I needed to study it. Since then, I’ve attended various creative writing workshops and classes in order to improve my craft.

In 2008, I went to a weekend workshop taught by Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Katherine Rusch, and Sheila Williams. While there, I was supposed to write an entire short story based on the prompt “You are in the center of the sun and can’t get a date.” I failed. What I came up with was incomplete; it just stopped because I ran out of time before the deadline, rather than having a real ending—or a real middle, for that matter. But those who read it encouraged me to finish it, so after I went home I wrote a middle and an end to “That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made.”

Sol Central Station floated amid the fusing hydrogen of the solar core, 400,000 miles under the surface of the Sun, protected only by the thin shell of an energy shield, but that wasn’t why my palm sweat slicked the plastic pulpit of the station’s multidenominational chapel. As a life-long Mormon I had been speaking in church since I was a child, so that didn’t make me nervous, either. But this was my first time speaking when non-humans were in the audience.

The Sol Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had only six human members, including me and the two missionaries, but there were forty-six swale members. As beings made of plasma, swales couldn’t attend church in the chapel, of course, but a ten-foot widescreen monitor across the back wall showed a false-color display of their magnetic force-lines, gathered in clumps of blue and red against the yellow background representing the solar interior. The screen did not give a sense of size, but at two hundred feet in length, the smallest of the swales was almost double the length of a blue whale. From what I’d heard, the largest Mormon swale, Sister Emma, stretched out to almost five hundred feet—but she was nowhere near the twenty-four-mile length of the largest swale in our sun.

“My dear Brothers and Sisters,” I said automatically, then stopped in embarrassment. The traditional greeting didn’t apply to all swale members, as they had three genders. “And Neuters,” I added. I hoped my delay would not be noticeable in the transmission. It would be a disaster if in my first talk as branch president, I alienated a third of the swale population.

A few minutes into my talk on the topic of forgiveness, I paused when a woman in a skinsuit sauntered through the door and down the aisle. The skinsuit was a custom high-fashion one, not standard station issue, with active coloration that showed puffy white clouds floating across the sky on her breasts, and waves lapping against the sandy beach at her hips. She took a seat on the second row and gazed up at me with dark brown eyes.

The ring finger of her left hand was unadorned.

I forced my eyes away from her and looked down at my notes for the talk. While trying to find my place again, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe this woman was an answer to my prayers. The only human female listed in the branch membership records was sixty-four years old and married. As far as I knew, there wasn’t an unmarried Mormon human woman within ninety million miles in any direction, which limited my dating pool rather severely.

Maybe this woman was Mormon, but not on the membership records yet because, like me, she was a recent arrival on Sol Central. It seemed a little unlikely, as a member would probably dress more appropriately for church. Maybe she wasn’t a member but was interested in joining.

By sheer willpower, I managed to focus on my talk enough to finish it coherently. After the closing hymn and prayer, I straightened my tie and stepped down from the podium to introduce myself to the new arrival.

“Hello,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m Harry Malan.” I caught a whiff of her perfume, something that reminded me of strawberries.

Her hand was dry and cool, and I regretted not having wiped my palm on my suit first.

“Dr. Juanita Merced,” she said. “You’re the new leader of this congregation?”

I felt a twinge of disappointment. A member would have asked if I was the branch president. “I am. How can I help you?”

“You can stop interfering with my studies.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes looked at me defiantly.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I have no idea who you are or what studies I might be interfering with.”

“I’m a solcetologist.” I must have given her a blank look, because she added, “I study solcetaceans—the swales.”

“Oh.” I knew there were scientists who objected to what they believed was interference with the culture of the swales, but I had thought that since the legal right to proselytize the swales had been established two years ago, the controversy had been settled. I was obviously wrong. “I regret that you feel your studies are being compromised, Dr. Merced, but the swales are intelligent beings with free will, and I believe they have the right to choose their religious beliefs.”

“You’re introducing instability to a culture that has existed for longer than human civilization,” she said, raising her voice. “They were traveling the stars at least a hundred thousand years before Christ was born. You’re teaching them human myths that have no application for their society.”

The two missionaries, clean-cut young men in dark suits and ties, approached us. “Is there a problem?” asked Elder Beckworth.

“No,” I said. “Dr. Merced, you are free to tell the swales what you have told me: That you believe our teachings are false. But the swales who have joined our church have done so because they believe what we teach, and I ask you to please respect them enough to allow them that choice.”

She glared at me with her beautiful eyes. “You’re saying I don’t respect them? I am not the one who tells them they are sinful creatures who need a human to save them.”

“I’m not here to argue,” I said. “And we are about to have a Sunday school class, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

She spun around and stalked out. I watched her go, unable to deny that my body desired hers, despite our differences. What’s more, intelligence was an attractive trait for me, so I regretted that she opposed me on an intellectual level.

I would not be adding her to my dating pool. Somehow, I doubted that fact would disappoint her.

Elder Beckworth taught the Sunday school class, which was on the topic of chastity. I found myself acutely uncomfortable when he talked about Christ’s teaching “that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.”

Because the Mormon Church has an unpaid, volunteer clergy, my calling as branch president was the result of being sent to Sol Central, not the reason for it. I worked as a funds manager for CitiAmerica, and being stationed here gave me an eight-and-a-half minute head start over Earth-based funds managers when it came to acting on news brought in from other star systems through the interstellar portal at the heart of the Sun.