NEVER STOP

Finnish Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories

NEVER STOP

Finnish Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories

Selected by
Emmi Itäranta

Edited by
Saara Henriksson
Anni Nupponen
M. A. Tyrskyluoto

Osuuskumma International

OSUUSKUMMA INTERNATIONAL

Tampere 2017

Never Stop: Finnish Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories

Copyright © 2017 the authors, translators, and Osuuskumma Publishing

www.osuuskumma.fi

info@osuuskumma.fi

Edited by Saara Henriksson, Anni Nupponen, and M.A. Tyrskyluoto

Additional editing and proofreading by Andrew Hindle and M.A.Tyrskyluoto

Cover design by Anu Korpinen

E-book by Kari Välimäki

ISBN 978-952-7215-26-5 Print Edition

ISBN 978-952-7215-27-2 ePub

ISBN 978-952-7215-28-9 ePub + DRM

ISBN 978-952-7215-37-1 Mobi

Index

Front Cover
Foreword: Light from Distant Stars
M. A. Tyrskyluoto: Never Stop
Jussi Katajala: Mare Nostrum
Mikko Rauhala: The Guardian of Kobayashi
Janos Honkonen: The Air Itself Caught Fire
Saara Henriksson: The Whaler’s Wife
J.S. Meresmaa: The Heart That Beats in a Dream
Markus Harju: The Silver Bride
Artemis Kelosaari: The Wings of the Hornet Queen
Maija Haavisto: Josefiina’s Cart of Wonders
Anne Leinonen: Maid of Tuonela
Maria Carole: My Buttercup, My Everything
Anni Nupponen: The Tiniest in the World
Anu Korpinen: Star in the Deep
Magdalena Hai: The Beautiful Boy
Katri Alatalo: A Winter Night’s Tale
The Authors
Back Cover

Foreword: Light from Distant Stars

Whenever someone outside Finland asks me to recommend Finnish speculative fiction, I go through the list of usual suspects whose work I know to be available in a number of languages: Johanna Sinisalo, Leena Krohn, Hannu Rajaniemi, Maria Turtschaninoff, Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen. Then, almost invariably, I find myself adding, “But there are also all these wonderful authors whose work hasn’t been translated. I wish you could read them.”

Finnish fiction has long faced the problem small languages often do. In large markets, particularly the English-speaking world, there has conventionally been limited interest in translated books. The more obscure the original language and culture, the narrower the doorway. This, in my opinion, is a void that could do with being filled. The situation is understandable: when hundreds of thousands of books are written and published in English each year, one could quite happily stay a passionate bookworm for the rest of their lives without ever looking outside this market. Yet there is a wide world beyond, still largely unavailable to those who might wish to expand their understanding of other cultures through literature.

Hence, when I was offered the opportunity to select the short stories for the anthology at hand, I jumped at the chance. Not only am I proud of the rich and quite distinctive (some might say weird) storytelling tradition of my native country, but I believe contemporary Finnish writing includes gems that remain hidden from the world due to the language barrier.

This collection is an attempt at overcoming that barrier. It contains speculative short fiction by fifteen contemporary Finnish authors. Most of them have published numerous novels and short stories; several have won awards; and a few may be just starting their writing careers. What they all have in common is a flair for producing exciting and original work worthy of an international audience.

As is bound to be the case with any such book, the selection contained within these covers is highly subjective. It was clear to me from the beginning that choosing the objectively “best” from the works submitted would be an impossible task. Therefore I set two main criteria that applied not only to the individual stories, but also to the anthology on the whole.

Firstly, I wanted the collection to showcase the diversity and wide range of approaches within contemporary Finnish speculative fiction. Diversity has become something of a catchword in publishing in the recent years, but I do not believe it should be treated as a trend. I simply think it is natural for fiction to be diverse, because fiction is always in some way a reflection of the world in which it is written, and the world is diverse.

Secondly, I wished the reader to see the strength of skilled storytelling alive in Finnish writing today. While written literature has a relatively short history in Finland — the first novel in the Finnish language was not published until 18701 — we have a strong and ancient tradition of oral storytelling closely connected with runonlaulanta, or singing poetry, and folk magic. It is from this background that all contemporary writing emerges.

At the risk of reducing the complexity of these works into something simplistic, or trying to place genre-defying pieces into neat genre slots, the individual stories deserve a short introduction each.

Never Stop by M. A. Tyrskyluoto is a cyberpunk take on a coming-of-age story with dystopian elements, followed by Jussi Katajala’s Mare Nostrum, a fast-paced action thriller that speculates on animal intelligence. The Guardian of Kobayashi (Kobayashin vartija) by Mikko Rauhala tells a classic space travel tale in short form, thus completing the trio that constitutes the portion of this anthology that could most clearly be categorized as science fiction.

Janos Honkonen’s The Air Itself Caught Fire (Itse ilma syttyi tuleen) offers an original take on the dragon motif through the lens of speculative World Ward II history. The Whaler’s Wife (Valaanpyytäjän vaimo) by Saara Henriksson follows the journey of a nineteenth-century woman on a whale hunting trip, meditating on the relationships between humans, civilization and nature.

The Heart That Beats in a Dream (Unet jotka tekevät surulliseksi aamuisin) by J.S. Meresmaa looks at gender equality and sexuality through a blend of steampunk elements and a slice of Finnish alternative history. Markus Harju’s The Silver Bride (Hopeamorsian) draws from Finnish mythology and the Pygmalion myth to produce an epic fantasy story. The Wings of the Hornet Queen (Herhiläiskuningattaren siivet) by Artemis Kelosaari throws us in the middle of an alternative history where no technological enhancement to human body is too extreme for those caught up in merciless naval warfare.

Josefiina’s Cart of Wonders (Josefiinan ihmeellinen vaunu) by Maija Haavisto incorporates steampunk into a story of disability and battling monsters in nineteenth century rural Finland. Anne Leinonen’s feminist fantasy Maid of Tuonela (Lautturin tytär) incorporates ingredients from several mythologies, following the daughter of the ferryman taking the dead into the underworld. In My Buttercup, My Everything (Ruusunnuppuni, rakkaani) by Maria Carole produces an unusual gothic horror romance with darkly comedic undertones.

The Tiniest in the World (Maailman pienin) by Anni Nupponen speaks of seeking one’s place in the world — or rather, the universe — through a progression of many lifetimes and many different forms. Star in the Deep (Tähden hauta) by Anu Korpinen combines a lyrical fairy tale retelling with a brush of Lovecraftian horror. The Beautiful Boy (Kaunis Ululian) by Magdalena Hai blends Asian dragon mythology with steampunk and pirates, while also foregrounding gender roles and expectations linked with them. Finally, A Winter Night’s Tale (Talviyön tarina) by Katri Alatalo uses the imagery and language of fantasy and myth to highlight the importance of storytelling to universal human experience everywhere.

And this is where I hope this anthology will ultimately take you: to contemplate storytelling as something that connects us as human beings. Speculative fiction is a literature of dreams and possibilities. Therefore it is uniquely suited for creating connections where they do not yet exist, expanding the universe of our bodies, minds and hearts.

Speaking of Finnish speculative fiction outside Finland can feel a little like trying to describe a strange constellation to someone who has never seen it in the sky. If you tilt your head and follow the line from Lynx to Polaris and beyond with your gaze, you might be able to observe it. See? There it is, dim and distant, its shape unfamiliar and hard to perceive, perhaps, but fascinating.

These stories invite you to see a glimpse of new lights emerging in the vast sky of international speculative fiction. You may not have expected them, but once they have caught your eye, you will hopefully keep coming back for more.

There is a lot left to explore.

March 2017, Canterbury, UK

Emmi Itäranta

1)

Either The Seven Brothers by Aleksis Kivi, or Ylhäiset ja alhaiset by Karl Jacob Gummerus, depending on the criteria.

M. A. Tyrskyluoto

Never Stop

They said that somewhere in the Holds was a place you could see the sky — the real one, not the billboard fantasy they sold you in the Avenues. Supposedly, if you climbed a specific maintenance tower and squeezed your way past the engine rooms, you could bathe in light that did not come from a glowtube.

So they said.

Bitty had lived in the Holds his entire life, and a sea of gleaming steel pipes was all the sky he had ever seen. He struggled to imagine a world in which the sky could exist: a world governed by powers beyond human control. The sky was rumored to change its skin constantly depending on the time of year and a mystical phenomenon called “weather”. Legend had it that outside the Railpoint Complex, every hour had a different taste.

Life in the Railpoints was managed with machine-aided precision. The temperature never varied, the environment was always constant. The System kept people properly categorized. Everyone was assigned a Registry number in addition to a unique name. Avenites were further distinguished by family names. All identity data, including citizen category information, was logged in the ID chip, a tiny round implant on the forehead in between the eyes. The chip was installed when a child was entered into the Registry, and the chip’s status was constantly monitored by the System.

Bitty’s mother was a staunch supporter of the System. The System was stable, and stability was everything. “Stability breeds safety,” she would say, “and safety breeds satisfaction.”

Bitty suspected his mother mistook acquiescent apathy for contentment. The way she did when Bitty swallowed his disappointment every time she ignored his requests regarding the dinner menu. Like tonight.

Numbly, he kept nodding along as she talked about her day. Something about work. It was always about work with her.

“Maybe fish tomorrow,” he suggested.

“Hmm?”

“Fish,” he said. “I asked for fish.”

“Oh, Bitty.” She frowned. “You know the nutrient content in Benevigor meals is much better. They’re designed for people in our line of work.” She went on to list the many health benefits of food that was designed by professionals, and Bitty held back a sigh.

By her request, he was obligated to visit her every evening for dinner. She picked the meal off the Provisions Office Home Service menu, and a bot delivered it to her suite. Sometimes, he would ask her to order something other than her three favorites, if only to humor him.

She never did.

Bitty wondered whether she would consider his feelings if they were programmed into the System as a variable in an equation. He remembered the career chart she had shared with him, detailing his progress from junior cargo officer to the head of the unit. Beaming, she had congratulated him on reaching his first goal when he had received his current position two years ago. At the same time, he couldn’t think of a single year that she’d remembered his birthday.

Her mouth had stopped moving for a moment. He seized the opportunity to return to the previous topic: “Why can’t we have a bit of variation, though?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Excuse me?”

“Fish,” he elaborated. “It can’t hurt to have fish once, right? Just to shake things up.”

Her nostrils widened in disapproval. “Do you have any idea how many accidents have happened because some fool wanted to ‘shake things up’?”

He gave her a blank look.

“Honestly, Bitty, I don’t know why you’re being so obstructive. Variation is not the way of the System. You know that we have regulations and recommendations for a good reason.” She set her utensils down with a reproving clink. “Have you no respect for the System?”

“It’s not disrespectful to have an opinion, is it?”

“An opinion! Safety is not a matter of opinion, Bitty. You’d be surprised how quickly everything falls apart. People start to disregard the rules, and the next thing you know, lives are in danger!”

“We work in Cargo Control, mother. It’s hardly...”

“We stopped an unauthorized weapons shipment yesterday, Bitty. Can you imagine what would have happened, if people had been careless? I shudder to think where the weapons might have ended up! One missed check, and it could be chaos!”

Bitty’s shoulders slumped. “I only wanted some fish,” he said weakly.

His mother wasn’t listening. “You know what I think? You have too much time on your hands. Maybe you should pick up a few extra shifts.” She collected the utensils and continued to chop through her meal. “The trick is to keep moving, Bitty,” she said. “Don’t stop, Bitty dear. Never stop.”

Bitty was starting to feel sick. This scene always played out the same. He checked the chrono-screen. Close enough.

“Oh, look at the time. And I still have a couple of reports to review! See you tomorrow, mother.” He ignored her comments about an unfinished plate and waste control. He dashed out the door and hurried down the rattling stairs into the dimly-lit maze of concrete and metal.

The Public Hold was little more than a collection of large boxes stacked on top of one another and separated by crisscrossing walkways and tunnels. The Highside sat on top, the Commonway at the bottom. Bitty’s mother lived in the Highside along with other top-performing Holds workers. Bitty’s home was three levels down on the Commonway. His mother had two rooms in her suite, Bitty had only one. The number of rooms — or rather, boxes — you could reserve depended on the size of your family unit. Bitty’s mother had complained when he had wanted his own suite, mostly because it meant that she lost a room off hers.

He had little sympathy. She kept trying to control his life. It was only fair that he had an impact on hers for a change.

Bitty dragged his feet through the downward-sloping tunnel and watched the streaks of blue light that snaked on the ceiling. The glowtubes switched shades punctually twice a day — restful green for Sleeptime, tranquil blue for Waketime. Sometimes the light would flicker. Every evening, Bitty liked to sit at the window and count the irregularities. So far, his best result was ten flutters in one evening.

He had considered starting a journal to record the flickers, but that would require spending credit on a new data brick. Every worker’s suite came with a data console primarily meant for logging time management exceptions such as visits to the Med Stop or sick leave. The System assigned every citizen one data brick for personal use, but there was barely enough memory on the damn thing for a shopping list.

Bitty smiled bitterly at the thought. As if he’d need a shopping list. He had no credit for anything extra, and as for the provisions that were assigned to him based on his work title, all he needed to do was keep his provisions order up-to-date. Bots delivered his items from the Provisions Office to his doorstep at scheduled intervals.

On the heels of this thought, he remembered that prices were going up next month. He would have to check his order. He muttered a curse. He’d probably have to give up his favorite treat: once a week, he liked to have a triple Railburger with onions and extra sauce for lunch. His mother frowned on his plebeian taste, but he insisted that she should be pleased that he enjoyed something so traditional. After all, people had been eating Railburgers for as long as Railpoint Complex had existed.

His mother was less than pleased with his impertinence. She had worked hard to achieve all the benefits she currently enjoyed. She had made a life for herself, she had built a reputation that may yet earn her a position in the offices, where every aspect of life in the Holds was managed. She had even participated in the Population Design program and reproduced, indeed, in a perfectly orderly fashion at the proper time using correctly labeled semen. But Bitty — why, he would never get anywhere with such a disruptive attitude!

It was just as well, Bitty thought as he climbed up the couple of steps to his suite. There was nowhere to go. The Holds were like a giant machine, chewing through the same motions every day. The beggars in the lower Holds moved with macabre synchronicity between the Provisions Office and the Med Stop, while the workers in the upper Holds lumbered from their private suites to their workstations and back again. Frequently, Bitty failed to see the point.

He had tried to explain to his mother how it was all circular, but she scoffed at the notion. “The key is to not stop, Bitty dear,” she kept saying. “Never stop. You’ll see, it’ll start to make sense. Some day, you’ll understand.”

“Some day” seemed farther away every year. Sure, everything moved all the time. The problem was that nothing ever moved forward.

To prove the point if only to himself, Bitty didn’t bother switching on the light. The faint glow from the window was enough to help him go through the familiar motions. Five steps from the door to the wardrobe, out of the dark green coveralls and into the gray pajamas, then three more steps over to the stool by the window. He sat down. From here, he’d have no trouble finding the switch to flip the bed to a horizontal position when he was ready to sleep. Sure, he kept moving, just like his mother kept saying, but it was the same exact routine every night.

Bitty wondered if the Quintian delusion allowed for a more merciful existence. The faith was popular among the destitute; the lower Holds were littered with Quintian altars. Bitty knew very little about the Quintian faith, mainly that it involved supernatural beings like gods and demons and a creature called the devil who supposedly took you if you let your spirit drift too far into the beyond, whatever that meant. In Bitty’s opinion, they seemed to spend all their time in some type of “beyond”. He’d seen a Quintian once, wandering the tunnels, muttering to herself with her eyes glazed over.

He might believe that his mother was right in saying that they were glowpowder addicts, the lot of them, but at least they seemed oblivious to the mind-numbing pointlessness of life. Believing in powers that didn’t exist and praying to beings that didn’t listen — maybe there was comfort in that.

The glowtubes switched to green. With a light sigh, Bitty flicked the switch and listened to the clank that informed him that the bed was ready for sleeping. He turned from the window and crawled in under the covers.

A colorful mass of coveralls coiled like a fat snake in the tunnel. The workers moved in perfect harmony toward their posts — all except for one. A single figure broke formation and stepped into an entryway. A red light flashed near the ceiling to gently warn Bitty against straying from his designated path, but he ignored it and headed down the walkway.

Every morning before work, he took this detour to the Assembly Square, an immense empty hall located between the Med Stop and the Public Hold. The workers normally visited it for official news, such as the Security Corps marshals’ info sessions about new regulations. At other times, only a couple of security bots patrolled the area.

Bitty came this way for the tantalizing holoposter at the center of the plaza. He flexed his fingers as he approached the faintly-glowing disc. Floating in the air above the disc was the text AEF welcomes you! written in large, plump letters. Bitty hopped on, and the holoposter flickered to life. A cheerful message written in neon lettering appeared above him, promoting the Avenues Entrepreneurs’ Fund, which offered grants for start-up businesses. The holo engine hummed and trembled gently under his feet. Around him, the holoposter projected a series of realistic snapshots from different parts of the Avenues.

He might believe that he had been magically transported to paradise.

Bitty moved his foot to scroll through the locations. His favorite was the commercial district — a mosaic of light and color, cluttered with neon signs and smiling people. Digital wallpaper covered every surface, creating a jungle of exotic landscapes interspersed with advertisements and teasers from upcoming holofilms. If you looked long enough, you could make out patterns. Here was fashion, over there was food, and somewhere in between you could buy a Thing or two.

It was important to own Things: knickknacks, trinkets, diverting novelties. The purpose of Things was to give you shape, make you belong a little in every place you visited. Without Things, you might forget who you were and where you’d been.

Bitty supposed that forgetting would be easy for Avenites. They never stayed in one place for long. He’d heard that Avenites spent ninety percent of their time in transit between Railpoints. When they weren’t traveling for business reasons, they were shopping, discovering, and experiencing the delights of the Avenues. The Railpoint Complex consisted of hundreds of unique locations, each teeming with sights to see and activities to enjoy.

So they said.

People in the Holds didn’t travel much. Bitty’s mother had only been to one other Railpoint in her life. She had served as a logistics consultant for an important deal with a big exporter of tea products that had apparently contained some substances classified as drugs. Naturally her most valuable Thing was the space-saving Compactee tea set she had bought during her visit.

Her other Things were nothing more than symbols of her rank and tokens of her achievements. Her precious bronze-enameled chrono-screen was a reward for contributing to the Population Design program. Her gold badge collection was a source of particular pride and occupied a prominent spot on her wall. She had one for every promotion.

She had expected Bitty, too, to hang his first badge on the wall when he got upgraded, but... if Things were truly supposed to tell you who you were, well! Bitty was certainly no piece of metal with numbers scribbled all over. He would rather own no Things at all than build his identity around such an artifact.

Bitty stepped down off the disc. Once upon a time, he had dreamed of moving to the Avenues. After all, with enough credit or connections, anybody could eventually upgrade.

In theory.

Like most people in the Holds, Bitty had neither credit nor connections. He had tried to qualify for an AEF grant a few years back, but it had turned out that in order to write a successful application, you needed to understand Avenues commerce. He wondered how anybody could ever qualify.

Maybe that was the point.

Bitty wasn’t surprised that some people turned to illegal means to get out of the Holds. In the black market down in the lower Holds, you might find an unregulated ID chip mod that would make you pass for an Avenite. Bitty had considered venturing down there once or twice — but the lower Holds were teeming with robbers, rogues, and other scum. He was likely to get killed before he found a mod trader, and besides, any number of things could go wrong with an unregulated installation.

Over time, his romanticized image of the Avenues had faded, anyway. Did the vibrant lights and the busy shops hold any more meaning than the dull concrete world of the Holds? Bitty expected that in their essentials, the Railpoints were the same everywhere. Each one was divided into two levels that were equal only in their failure to provide an escape from the System. The Avenues offered pleasures to those who could afford to pay for them. The Holds were meant for Bitty’s kind, people who had no means forward except the instruments with which they’d been born. Good looks, some talent, or a strong build; any special trait would do for the workers’ guilds.

As he left the Assembly Square, Bitty sacrificed a thought to whether he’d be happier if he was more attractive. It was no secret that beauty helped you to win a position in the offices. Some advanced further to become servants in the Avenues. Maybe it was true what some whispered, that the Avenites treated their servants like Things rather than people, but was it so bad to be a Thing, if it meant you got to live in paradise?

Bitty tried to put the thoughts out of his mind as he entered the Baggage Hold. With his nonexistent passion for work, the best he could hope for was to keep his position in the guild. He climbed up the steps to his workstation. The System registered his ID chip, and the lights on the console switched on automatically.

He worked for the Bagganeers, the guild in charge of the Baggage Hold. They sported dark green coveralls, bore gold badges on their chests, and believed themselves very important indeed. His mother had been a Bagganeer all her life. She was the head of Cargo Control: her team made sure that the labels were correct and every crate went to the right place at the right time. Bitty had joined her on the catwalks above the cargo tracks as soon as he was old enough.

His workstation was located at the midpoint. All the exciting breaches of protocol were caught in the previous checkpoints, leaving him with the monotonous routine of waiting for an anomaly that never happened. His job involved watching a scanner pass over a label and listening for a beep that invariably came before the crate rattled away toward the next checkpoint. It was the same beep every time, the same struggle to stay awake.

That is, until toward the end of his shift, when there was an unexpected blebep-blebep.

Bitty’s eyelids fluttered, he looked up in surprise and confusion. He rubbed his ear, thinking that he must be hearing things.

Blebep-blebep, went the machine again. The console was flashing all kinds of colors he’d never seen before. He gaped at the text rolling down the screen. Little lines pointed at different parts of the crate.

WARNING

DETECTED organic matter

DETECTED unauthorized compounds

removing crate

please alert the authorities

sound alert now?

Organic matter could mean illegal fruits or animals that should have gone through customs. Unauthorized compounds could mean weapons or explosives, which were banned altogether. None of these items should have made it all the way to Bitty’s workstation.

He looked up at the large steel box. It looked no different from the dozens of other crates he had processed that day. It was sitting innocuously on the conveyor, indifferent to the clamps locked around it. The computer would automatically direct it to the exception handling area and place it in a containment unit, where it would remain until the Exceptions Office sent personnel to check it out. Bitty needed only to alert the authorities.

sound alert now?

The question was blinking away at the bottom of the screen. An inviting green circle pulsated around the text. The next crate was already approaching the station. There were ten more crates waiting to be checked and signed off. If he delayed much longer, the system would warn him about holding back the entire processing line, and a notification might be sent up to his supervisor. He should hit the green circle and return to his work. He should let the Exceptions Office take care of the problematic crate.

He should.

He really should.

He checked the label information. The crate was supposed to contain clothes. It had been on its way to the Storage Hold, where it was scheduled to stay for a month. Nobody was likely to miss it for a while, which meant that there would be no queries from the loading area about its whereabouts. He could safely let the crate sit in the exception handling area until his shift was over. He could take a look personally before calling the authorities. He side-eyed the offending crate.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

But... this was a rare opportunity for adventure. He couldn’t let it slip by. He tapped the red icon in the right corner of the screen. The computer produced another bit of text asking if he was sure he wanted to reject the warning. He confirmed his choice. The computer prompted him to initiate safety measures. He should acknowledge and seal the containment unit.

His credentials would be insufficient to access the unit once sealed.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, hit the red icon again, and there, it was done.

crate moved to exception handling area

containment unit number: B1S3-X0556

The log entry finished with a standard note about the dangers of ignoring protocol. The screen dimmed. The system was ready to receive a new batch of uninteresting scan results.

Bitty could barely wait until his shift was over. He kept formulating theories about the contents of the crate. How could something, or, well, anything get past the security checkpoints? Could this be a false alarm, a glitch in the System? That would mean that the folks from data maintenance had been...