pdfsyn repository 3 432x648 0x121212 0xffffff fit book VOLUME 2 Contents Tony C. Smith. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eds Letter 3 Ted Kosmatka. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bitterseed 6 Illustrated by Leigh Gallagher John Kessel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Buddha Nostril Bird 16 Illustrated by Rory Kurtz Neil Gaiman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conjunctions 30 Illustrated by Cliff Chiang Cory Doctorow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I, Robot 34 Illustrated by Tom Kyzivat Jason Sanford . . . . . . . . . . . Into the Depths of Illuminated Seas 60 Illustrated by Jef Murray Jeff VanderMeer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Island Tales 78 Illustrated by Len Peralta Adam Roberts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Mary Anna 86 Illustrated by Jim Murray Pat Cadigan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jimmy 93 Illustrated by Anton Emdin Lawrence Santoro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Then, Just a Dream 108 Illustrated by Daniele Serra Paul Di Filippo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Personal Jesus 111 Illustrated by Boo Cook Nancy Kress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Art of War 120 Illustrated by Andreas Rocha Jeff Carlson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Frozen Sky 134 Illustrated by Paul Rivoche Lucius Shepard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stars Seen Through Stone 158 Illustrated by Brian Thomas Woods Mary Rosenblum. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Skin Deep 202 Illustrated by Danijel Zezelj Gwyneth Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The End of Oil; in three acts 218 Illustrated by Jouni Koponen Sean Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Soap Bubble 222 Illustrated by Bob Eggleton Tobias S. Buckell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tides 246 Illustrated by Evan M. Jensen Stephen R. Donaldson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Unworthy of The Angel 256 Illustrated by Chris Butler China Miville. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Watching God 278 Amy H. Sturgis . . . . . . . . . StarShipSofa 2010 Hugo Award Win 291 Tony C. Smith. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Afterword 293 2 PERMISSIONS: Bitterseed Ted Kosmatka, 2006. Asimovs Science Fiction, July 2006, Sheila Williams, Dell Magazines. Reprinted by permission of the author. Conjunctions Neil Gaiman, 2009, Mythic Delirium, Issue 20, Winter/Spring 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author. Buddha Nostril Bird John Kessel, 1990. Asimovs Science Fiction, June 1990, Sheila Williams, Dell Magazines. Reprinted by permission of the author. I, Robot Cory Doctorow, 2005, First published on the website In;nite Matrix (online) , Feb 2005. Reprinted by permission of the author. Into the Depths of Illuminated Seas Jason Sanford , 2010. Interzone, Feb 2010, Andy Cox, TTA Press. Reprinted by permission of the author. Island Tales Jeff VanderMeer, 2008, Postscripts, Spring 2008, Peter Crowther, Nick Gevers, PS Publishing. Reprinted by permission of the author. The Mary Anna Adam Roberts, 2010. First publication. Jimmy Pat Cadigan, 2008. The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy: Sixteen Original Works by Speculative Fictions Finest Voices, May 2008, Ellen Datlow, Del Rey/Ballantine. Reprinted by permission of the author. Then, Just a Dream Lawrence Santoro, 2010. First publication. Personal Jesus Paul Di Filippo, 2007, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction 2007, Jan 2007, George Mann, Solaris. Reprinted by permission of the author. Art of War Nancy Kress, 2007, The New Space Opera, June 2007, Gardner Dozois, Jonathan Strahan, Eos. Reprinted by permission of the author. The Frozen Sky Jeff Carlson, 2007. L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume XXIII, Aug 2007, Algis Budrys, Galaxy Press. Reprinted by permission of the author. Stars Seen Through Stone Lucius Shepard, 2007. The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 2007 , Gordon Van Gelder, Spilogale, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author. Skin Deep Mary Rosenblum, 2004. Asimovs Science Fiction, October/November 2004, Oct 2004, Gardner Dozois, Dell Magazines. Reprinted by permission of the author. The End of Oil; in three acts Gwyneth Jones, 2004. Originally broadcast BBC Radio, Reprinted by permission of the author. The Soap Bubble Sean Williams, 1994. Alien Shores: An Anthology of Australian Science Fiction, 1994, Peter McNamara, Margaret Winch, Aphelion Publications. Reprinted by permission of the author. Tides Tobias S. Buckell, 2002. Ideomancer Unbound, 2002, Chris Clarke, Mikal Trimm, Fictionwise. Reprinted by permission of the author. Unworthy of the Angel Stephen R. Donaldson, 1983. Nine Visions: A Book of Fantasies, 1983, Andrea LaSonde Melrose, Seabury Press. Reprinted by permission of the author. Watching God China Miville, 2010. Adapted from rejectamentalist manifesto on the website chinamieville.net (online) Reprinted by permission of the author. Pin-ups Neil D. Vokes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alien Invasion 4 Ben Wootten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cyborg 29 Ian Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Death World #1 33 Staz Johnson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rocket Girl 91 Ben Wootten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Heavy Fighter 107 Ian Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Death World #2 119 Michael Cho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Astro Girl #1 133 Nate Wragg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Its Alive! 156 Chris Bachalo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Captain America 245 Michael Cho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Astro Girl #2 277 Jason Paulos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hero 281 EDITED BY TONY C. SMITH Copyright 2010 by StarShipSofa. Cover image by Skeet Scienski. Cover design, interior layout & design by Dee Cunniffe. www.StarShipSofa.com 3 E D S L ETTER I N PUTTING TOGETHER STARSHIPSOFA Stories: Vol 2 we had time on our side, plenty of it. We made sure. Creating StarShipSofa Stories: Vol 1 was such a rush that the book was on the shelves before we really knew it was Dnished. This time around both Dee and I wanted to take a more leisurely approach to putting together Vol 2 , one that allowed us time to experiment with ideas and formats. We started the initial chatter via email in December 2009, and the Drst story was accepted in January 2010. So has time helped? I think so. This time weve been able to make a truly great and unique anthology one I am really proud of. Thats not to say Im not proud of Vol 1. Its just, with Vol 2 we had the opportunity to experiment with editions, ideas, and concepts, more than we ever could with Vol 1. Most of these ideas wouldnt have been feasible had we followed the traditional publishing route. Putting out this anthology has conDrmed my feelings towards print-on-demand ventures; they are exciting and stimulating, both for editor and reader alike. I hope you agree? On April 4, 2010, StarShipSofa became the Drst podcast to ever be included on the Hugo Awards ballot, being nominated in the category Best Fanzine. On September 5, 2010 StarShipSofa became the Drst podcast ever to win a Hugo. Im still struggling to believe those last couple of sentences. The whole reason StarShipSofa started, was to talk about writers who had won this award. And now weve went and got our own. Tony C. Smith Whitburn, September 2010 Eds Letter ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: I am most grateful to all the writers who have so kindly donated their work to this anthology: Ted Kosmatka, John Kessel, Neil Gaiman, Cory Doctorow, Jason Sanford, Jeff VanderMeer, Adam Roberts, Pat Cadigan, Lawrence Santoro, Paul Di Filippo, Nancy Kress, Jeff Carlson, Lucius Shepard, Mary Rosenblum, Gwyneth Jones, Sean Williams, Tobias S. Buckell, Stephen R. Donaldson and China Miville. I would also like to thank all the artists who have contributed their time and effort to this project: Skeet Scienski, Leigh Gallagher, Rory Kurtz, Cliff Chiang, Tom Kyzivat, Jef Murray, Len Peralta, Jim Murray, Anton Emdin, Daniele Serra, Boo Cook, Andreas Rocha, Paul Rivoche, Brian Thomas Woods, Danijel Zezelj, Jouni Koponen, Bob Eggleton, Evan M. Jensen, Chris Butler, Neil D. Vokes, Ben Wootten, Ian Miller, Staz Johnson, Michael Cho, Nate Wragg, Chris Bachalo and Jason Paulos. Again, Id like to thank Josh Leuze, whose skill and talent with websites is unparalleled. Last, but certainly not least, I owe enormous amount of thanks to Dee Cunniffe, who has never once complained or said no to the amount of work (now or in the future :0) Ive thrown his way. Hes a true friend whom sadly, by the very nature of this online virtual world that we share, I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting face to face. To Melanie, Elly and Reed with love. S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS N EIL D. V OKES 6 7 T HE WORLD WAS RIVETS. Marc groaned as he lifted his face from the cold, steel deck and tried to focus his eyes. He knew he had to hurry but couldnt remember why. Pain thudded in his skull, driving away articulate thought. So much blood, red on gray a wet smear across the smooth metallic surface. Blood dripped from his head and pooled on the dimpled sheet metal. He rolled onto his back and brought a hand to the side of his face where he found the familiar topography transformed into something loose and lumpy something with two sharp angles where none had been before. He tried to move his mouth and the bones grated; his jaw was broken. The /eld-skim thrummed beneath him, waking new pain along his left leg as the ship adjusted its 0ight course. He tried to sit but his ribs 0ared white-hot, and he collapsed, breathing hard up at the blue sky. Movement caught his eye and he concentrated the blurry /gure into focus. Elis sun-creased face glared down over the railing of the sight deck twenty feet above. There was no mistaking his expression. Marc blinked and the face was gone. He remembered then why he had to hurry. And he remembered why hed jumped. Ignoring the pain, he hauled himself to his knees and then to his feet. The deck heaved beneath him as the skim banked hard to port BITTERSEED Ted Kosmatka Illustrated by Leigh Gallagher 8 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES on its preprogrammed 7ight pattern across the crop glade. He clutched weakly at the railing for balance, trying not to faint while dots played across his vision. The 6eld-skim was one of the corporations smaller ships just under thirty meters in lengthand it was designed to 7y close to the crop surface. Beyond the railing, the spindly green maiza whisked by a few meters below. On this planet, maiza was the equatorial crop. It spread in a swaying carpet from the eastern horizon to the low mountains sixty kilometers to the west. It wasnt just a sea of green; it was a vast, sweeping ocean. The individual plants were tall and thin, and the backwash of air from the skim made the stalks dance as they 7ashed by below. Marc glanced around for a weapon, but the nose deck was empty. There was only the hard steel 7oor, the railing, wind, and a sea of green all around. Oh, and the ladder. Mustnt forget the ladder. Eli descended a rung at a time. Marc felt the vibration when the mans boots slapped heavily to the ships lowest deck. Though Eli stood a full three inches shorter than Marc, he outweighed him by 6fty hard- won pounds of muscle. There were no guns on the agra-colonies, but Mans indomitable spirit never lacked for improvisation: Eli still carried the iron tamping rod that had broken Marcs jaw. Marc backed against the rail. Eli followed with his dark eyes but did not move. The wind lifted his short, black hair off his forehead in buffeting spikes. Theres still time to take it back, Marc said. I dont want to take it back, Eli said. Are you sure? That was as close to begging as Marc would go. Very. Marc ducked the 6rst swing and rolled across the deck. His head swam with the sudden movement, and colors blotted his vision again as he reached up for the railing. The swing had been just high enough to let him slip beneath. Eli was toying with him. Marc pulled himself to his feet, backing toward the far front of the skim. Eli followed, changing his grip on the long iron cylinder and widening his stance. The second swing was calculated to be more damaging, and Marc sacri6ced an arm to save his skull. The bar careened off his forearm with a crunch of bone, missing the top of his head by an inch. Marc staggered back against the railing, clutching his arm. He turned and Eli was two steps away, poised, a smile on his face. Marc realized this wouldnt just be a beating. Eli was really going to kill him. Marc considered rushing him, but then what? He wouldnt have a chance. Instead Marc looked him in the eye. Dont get caught for this, he said. It would kill Mom to lose both of us. Ive already thought of that. Eli raised the iron rod. Marc slid backward over the handrail just ahead of his brothers 6nal blow. His feet followed him into the spinning sky, and then the wind yanked at his clothes and the stalks were crunching like bones breaking. Silence. Marc opened his eyes to darkness. Pain and the sweet smell of growing things told him he was not dead. For a long time he just breathed, and that was miracle enough to ask for more seemed presumptuous. The fall should have killed him and he knew it. Wind blew high up through the stalks, making rasping whispers of the shadows that moved there. It was a sound hed grown familiar with in his four years on Tristan-3, and it brought him a strange species of comfort. When he tried to sit, pain quaked through him, too diffuse and all encompassing to isolate in any single body part. Everything hurt. Slowly, by degrees, he managed to roll out of the crater hed made in the soft black dirt. The fall had embedded him well into the moist soil, and he left a perfect imprint of himself behind. He rolled against the row 9 B ITTERSEED of maiza and let himself feel the hard vertical shafts against his back and legs. He raised up on an elbow. One of the moons was rising, and Marc caught glimpses of it through the swaying leaves. It looked like Bromb, the larger moon, but he couldnt be sure. He thought of his brother and knew he couldnt be sure of anything anymore. His good arm climbed the stalk, and he pulled himself to his feet. He leaned against the plant, feeling the slow sway. Even with all that had happened, he couldnt help but feel a sense of pride at the touch. This years maiza crop was the healthiest yet. As a geneticist for Pinyon Seed Co, hed worked long and hard toward that goal. It was likely now to be his only legacy. Down the row to his left, he saw the leaning, shattered shafts that had slowed his descent and saved his life. The plants lay skewed across the narrow gap between the rows, their leaves crumpled beneath the weight of the stalks. To the right, the row disappeared into the distance. What direction had the skim been going when he jumped? East? North? He couldnt remember. He put his shoulder against one of the plants and pushed with all his weight, but it was already too late in the season. He wasnt strong enough to bring one down. He counted the broken stalks: four. Would that be enough for them to 5nd him four broken stalks among a continent of maiza? Perhaps, but Eli would direct the search parties away from any evidence. He would say that Marc fell near the river thirty kilometers to the East, or at the edge of the mountains. The satellites might be able to pick out four broken stalks, but Eli wouldnt have them looking for that. The energy drained out of Marcs legs as he considered his situation. There would be no rescue. His knees folded, and he collapsed to the dirt, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his jaw. Mother would take this hard. By now Eli would have told her. A fresh rush of anger welled up in him. She was too old to deal with this; shed lost so much already. When he laid his face on the warm ground, the soil was as soft as any pillow. He breathed in the smells of life and slipped into darkness. He woke to roaring sunshine. An early morning wind drove the leaves into a kind of applause as he sat and wiped the crusted dirt from the side of his face. Something in his broken jaw shifted, and he screamed. His mouth was cotton dry, his tongue coated in grit. As he sat, he considered his options. He could sit here and die, or he could walk and probably still die. He looked down at the little crater hed made and decided it looked too much like a grave. Marc stood. Looking up at the sun through the long, narrow leaves, he decided which way was north and set off down the row to the right, pushing aside the leaves as he walked. Maiza was an amazing plant. The roots of its cultivation could be traced back a thousand years on Earth to aboriginal Central American populations. Later, in the twentieth century, it became a staple throughout the world for both animal feed and human consumption. But the leafy green 5eld he walked through now hardly resembled what twentieth century farmers would call corn. Agricultural geneticists had stopped using that term more than a hundred years ago. Maiza now clung to the equatorial continent of Tristan-3 in an ecological monoculture, dominating the landscape to the complete exclusion of endemic 6ora. The local plants simply couldnt compete with a thousand years of selective breeding. It was midseason now, and the plants were already 5fteen feet tall. Upon harvesting, each would produce a variety of usable products for export to fringe colonies. The stalks were mulched into a biodegradable lubricating oil; the cobs provided food for people and livestock; and the leathery leaf 5ber was used to make heavy, durable rope. The enormous continental basin was divided into a corrugated pattern of male 10 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES and female plants: two female rows for every male. The sexes were of different strains, designed to be of slightly differing heights so that the male reproductive tassels were close to the female cobs. This helped diminish the instances of self-fertilization, and subsequent inbreeding depression in seed product. Marc trudged on, and when the sun was middle high, he stopped and turned. The world behind was indistinguishable from the one in front. The air moved not at all, and the light lent a soft green cast to everything beneath the leafy canopy. He took his shirt off and continued walking. In the early evening, the rain began. It fell as a gentle haze that clung to everything, soaking his clothes and turning the soil to glop. It rained most days on the central continent, but the rain was always like this: weak and misty. Marc tried to lick the droplets of moisture off the leaves and stalks, and although his tongue got wet, there was little he could actually swallow. He continued walking and after another hour the rain stopped. The sun set behind a bank of clouds, and darkness fell quickly beneath the leaves. He lost energy as the moons rose, and when he could walk no more, he slept where he fell. In the morning the leaves were dry again, and his legs were stiff and sore as he climbed to his feet. During the night his thirst had grown into something burning in the middle of him. How long could a man live without water? Three days? Four? He started walking again, and now he felt each leaf as pain on his exposed skin. Both arms were swollen and red from the microscopic nettles on the surface of the leaves. After all these years of working with the plant, hed thought himself intimate with it, but this was something hed never dealt with before. You dont feel the nettles if youre only in the 3elds for a few hours. When the rains came again, Marc threw himself into the task of hydrating himself. He licked the surface of the plants again, running his tongue up and down the leaves, trying to get enough moisture to swallow. He opened his mouth to the sky and kicked at the base of the stalks to shake droplets loose. He worked vigorously for more than an hour, losing his shoe to the muck. He went from plant to plant until his tongue swelled, and his lips split. When the rain stopped, his thirst seemed stronger than before. Because there was nothing else to do, he continued walking. When night fell, he slept. The 3eld applauded him again. He looked up into the green-tinted light and licked his chapped lips. Golden patterns of sun played across the dark soil such good soil, the geologists had said. Perfect for growing things. It had taken the company a long time to 3nd a place like Tristan-3. There were discrepancies, of course. There would always be discrepancies. After all, you couldnt just transplant life from one planet to another and expect it to thrive immediately. There were little problems that had to be dealt with 3rst, little things that had to be 3xed. That 3rst year, the crop and been stunted and pathetic. Too little nitrogen in the soil, too much sodium chloride. Even the sunlight was slightly wrong bright enough, but skewed into a slightly higher spectrum than earthly chloroplasts were evolved for. They could photosynthesize, but at a diminished ef3ciency. Thats why Pinyon needed Marc. It was always so much simpler to change the plant than to change the planet. A year later, Marc pulled some strings and had his brother brought to the outpost colony as his assistant. Marc, Eli, and their mother one big happy family again. The second years crop showed a forty- percent yield increase. Not great, but de3nitely a step in the right direction. It was during the winter before the third growing season that Marc made the breakthrough. That third year, the company 3nally turned a pro3t on its investment. 11 B ITTERSEED Marc pulled himself from the dirt. Hunger swept through him. Was Eli eating a big hearty breakfast? Was he taking a shower and letting all that precious, precious water cascade over his skin and down a drain? Was he looking into a mirror and thinking of what hed done? Marc knew his brother well. He knew Eli told himself that his motives had been purely /nancial. Maybe Eli even believed it there was a lot of money in agra patents. But Marc knew better. Money had nothing to do with it. Marc looked up at the husks just out of reach overhead. He grabbed a plant and shook it in frustration, but the husks were hugged tightly into their leafy blankets against the stalks, and he knew hed never shake them down. After a moments thought, he un-cinched his belt and 0ipped it into a loop. He bent his knees, eyed the spot carefully, and jumped into the air, hooking the belt around the top of the husk. He pulled. It came down with a crackle and landed at his feet. At /rst he almost couldnt believe it had worked so easily. Then he bent and snatched the leafy coverings aside and pulled away the yellow, straw-like /laments. The cob beneath was white and pebbly, and his stomach growled in anticipation as he ran a /nger slowly across the hard rows of kernels. He raised it to his mouth and bit and something unhinged in his jaw. Marc screamed in pain, and then the pain turned to rage, and he threw the cob as far as he could. Tears sprang to his eyes, and though he tried, he could not hold them back. He collapsed into the mud, holding a hand to the side of his face, and he wept bitterly up at the swaying plants that would feed millions. Though Marc and Eli were born four months apart, they were identical twins. At least in theory. Circumstance had stepped in and changed all that. The same explosion that killed their father began the process that would so starkly divide them. The Pagas mine colony was in shambles, and it took nearly an hour for help to burrow through. By that time, their mothers pre- term labor had progressed too far, and Eli was born un/nished onto a bloody miners jacket amongst the rubble. The doctors managed to halt the labor, and Marc was saved from his brothers fate. The doctors didnt expect Eli to live, but after the pneumonias and the seizures, after the surgeries and the transfusions, he did. Months later, when Marc, the second twin, was /nally laid next to the /rst, he was twice the size of Eli. But the differences went deeper than that. Although Eli had come /rst into the world, it was Marc who crawled /rst, Marc who said the /rst word, Marc who /rst learned to pee into the toilet standing up. As the babies grew into children, Eli developed severe asthma and couldnt play rough with the other boys from the work zones. There was always a sense of difference about him made only more starkly visible by the presence of his brother to whom he bore such a striking resemblance. To anyone with eyes, Eli was Marc, only less. And Marc never let him forget it. Perhaps it was guilt that drove the taunting. Marc looked at Eli as what he easily could have been had chance only positioned his body nearer the mouth of his mothers womb. Eli was a constant reminder of the gift hed been given, the debt he owed fate. Marc grew to resent his brother almost as much as Eli grew silently to hate him. Once, when their mother caught Marc bullying, she jerked him into another room by his arm, leaving great red welts on his bicep. Do you know what youre doing? she asked him. He only looked up at her mutely, shaken by her sudden, unexpected rage. Why do you do these things to him? she asked. I dont know, Marc said. 12 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES You reap what you sew, Marc. Its going to be a bitter harvest. He hadnt understood what that meant. He understood now. Marc stopped sobbing and picked himself up from the dirt. He picked his way between the shafts to where hed thrown the cob. He picked it up and turned it slowly in his hand. He brushed off the clinging chunks of mud. Opening his mouth, he carefully placed the cob against his upper teeth and pressed. His incisors sank into the hard 1esh, and when he turned the cob, a scatter of kernels popped free onto his tongue. He swallowed them down greedily without chewing. When the cob was bare, he used his belt to pull down another and repeated the process. He didnt walk anymore that day, and when night fell, he lay down in the mud and slept with a full belly. The cramps came around midday. When he looked down at his stool, his heart sank. Hed known something was wrong. Instead of getting stronger after yesterdays meal, his strength had continued to ebb. The corn lay in a mushy pile where hed squatted. For all the hours it had run through his digestive tract, it had hardly changed at all. The kernels were perfect. It probably cost more energy to move through his gut than the meal had provided. He sat and leaned back against a stalk, shutting his eyes. The wind made shuf1ing noises overhead, and this time, it wasnt applause he heard; it was laughter. He was hot. He ran a hand across his forehead, and his brow was strangely dry. Even his tongue was dry. His lips were cracked. If he didnt get water today, he would die tomorrow. He thought of standing and walking again but couldnt make himself do it. Instead, he took his clothes off and laid them 1at across the ground. Then he looked up at the sky and willed it to rain. An hour later it did. His clothes dampened slowly in the drizzle, and when they were 0nally wet enough, he wrung the moisture into his mouth. It came slow but steady a trickle really but he let the water 0ll his mouth completely before swallowing. It burned like ice going down his ragged throat, but it was the best water hed ever tasted. He swallowed again and again. By the time the rain had stopped, his stomach was cramping with moisture. He mopped the clothes up and down the maiza plants, gathering extra water. Then he carefully wadded up the shirt and pants and continued walking. As night neared, he stopped, un-balled the wet fabric, and wrung out every ounce of liquid into his mouth. Afterward, he slept. It rained on the next three days and Marc drank himself full. He gradually came to realize that he wouldnt die of thirst, but food was an altogether different problem. When the hunger became too much to bear, he would hook down a cob and 0ll his belly with the worthless kernels. It took the edge off his aching emptiness, but it did little to sustain him. The kernels left him in the same condition they entered. Marc had never been fat, even as a child. But as hed approached early middle age, a certain thickening had developed around his mid-section that he was never able to fully eliminate. He couldnt 0nd the extra hours in the day to work out, and he lacked the motivation to push away second helpings at the dinner table. His mother had laughed when hed complained about it one afternoon at the family meal. She patted him lovingly on the little gut that puffed above his belt line and said, Its a sign of health. Its a sign of too many of your dinners, hed said. That gut was gone now. Eli had spent many hours in the gym turning that same soft thickening into 13 B ITTERSEED something hard and strong. Eli didnt have his brothers length of bone, and it was as if he could make up for it in muscle. Marc had seen the hypodermic needles in the trash, but hed never said a word. Marc no longer felt the scrape of the leaves on his bare 3esh as he walked. His nerves had either gone dead beneath the bands of red welts, or his skin was callused to the nettles. He couldnt bring himself to care which. It was on the morning of his eighth day among the stalks that Marc found the grub. It revealed itself in a slight yellowing of leaves. Marc stopped and considered the miaza plant carefully. He blinked, looked again, and the plant was still a slightly different shade than its neighbors. The scienti2c part of his mind ran through the list of possibilities: mutation, disease, parasite. He noticed the hole then. It was small, slightly larger than his 2nger, and it descended into the soil at the base of the yellowing plant. A root parasite? Marc fell to his knees and dug. The grub pulled free from the soil in a writhing mass of ciliated legs. It was pale and mushy, approximately the circumference of his wrist, and about half a foot long. Marc didnt hesitate, didnt pretend there was a choice to make. He bit into the thing where he thought the head might be and swallowed down an oily chunk of 3esh. It tasted like vinegar, but he bit again. The thing never stopped moving as he ate. He meant to save some for later, but his hunger prevented it. When the last of the animal was down his throat, he ran his slimy hands through the dirt to clean them off. Then he stood and continued on, waiting to die of poisoning, or not. By nightfall he felt a measure of his strength returning and knew his body had been able to breakdown at least some of the alien compounds. The native fauna had most of the same amino acids as terrestrial organisms, but those small differences had been known to be fatal on other worlds. The rule of thumb was this: dont eat anything native. Considering his options, Marc thought it was time to suspend the rules. The days blurred into one another. He drank when it rained; he ate every few days when he came across a yellowing maiza plant. The grubs grew larger as the season progressed, and the canopy of leaves grew thicker and higher, eventually closing off the rest of the world until Marc could see only a half-dozen feet in any direction. Some nights he dreamed of harvest and giant steel machines. Some nights he woke screaming. The labor camps werent the kind of places you raised children if you had any other choice, and Marcs mother worked hard to keep her boys alive from month to month. Twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, kept them in the kind of poverty that was only just this side of starvation. The system was different then, less kind. A lot of people died inside their equipment rigs, and a fathers absence wasnt such a rare thing among the throng of children that crowded the edge of industrial zones. The companies moved them from one outpost to the next, providing the living quarters and a small stipendbut the paychecks always went back to the company for food. Family was all-important to his Mother. What else did they have? She never brought another man home in front of her children like many lonely women. She made her boys her world and her cause. Marc and Eli saw how hard their mother worked, and sometimes when they lay in bed together at night, they talked of how they would save her. They whispered of the life that they would give her, where shed never want for anything, where she would have peace. It wasnt until Sepselan-16 that Marc and Eli were introduced to formal education. Marcs natural aptitude earned him entry into the special operations program, and afterward, his Mother was transferred into 14 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES housekeeping. They didnt pretend the two events werent connected. Even Eli was given special educational dispensation they began training him as a cook. Later, Pinyon Seed Co. picked Marc up as apprentice geneticist, and the family was transferred to an agricultural colony. Although Elis scores didnt merit it, Marc was able to get him enrolled in a tech program. When Marc was given his 2rst assignment, he gave the tickets to his mother on her birthday and asked her to quit her job and follow him to Maldron for the 2ve-month term. When she hugged him tightly, tears of pride brimming in her eyes, hed caught a glimpse of his brother from over her shoulder, and what he saw shocked him. Looking back, hed known then. Hed seen it written on his brothers face. The bitter harvest was coming. Marc counted his footsteps as he trudged through the green. At the end of the day, he calculated the distance of each step and ascertained that in more than two months hed walked a little less than a hundred kilometers. Not quite halfway back to the colony. He looked up at the ripe cobs and knew he wouldnt make it. The season was over. Harvest was upon him. That night a sound woke him from his sleep. It was the sound from his nightmares, and for a while he lay in the dirt unsure whether he was really awake or not. But the metallic grinding grew louder and he knew the big machines had come. He jerked to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. Which way was it coming from? The closed space around him confused the sound, spreading it evenly through the stalks. He held his breath, concentrating, and then, suddenly, he knew. He sprinted blindly down the row away from the sound, tearing at the leaves as he ran. The combines had no lights; they didnt need them. The enormous machines were navigated by satellite guidance as they moved quickly over the 3at terrain of the continental basin. The sound was nearly deafening now. He stopped. Did he expect to outrun them? He dropped to his knees and tore at the moist soil with his hands. He dug feverishly, scooping out chunks of dirt. Behind him the din continued louder, closer. He put his back into the work, using both hands together. The trench widened gradually, deepened. Now the noise was a roar banging against the stalks, and when he chanced a backward look, the combine towered into view above him. He threw himself into the trench face-2rst, imbedding his hands deeply into the soil for purchase. The noise became something bigger than he was, and then a great wind tore at his bare 3esh, threatening to lift him from the dirt while a thousand tiny nettles scoured his backside. He screamed into the blackness and the sound was torn away, lost in the tumult. Silence. He raised his head and stars blinked down across an open expanse of land. He could see the hulking, metallic shape moving into the distance, growing a mile-wide swath of stubbled dirt behind it. The vastness around him was disorienting after his long mobile con2nement within a visual space of a few meters. He stood and felt likely to fall sideways into the sky. Only the dirt and six inches of stalk remained of the world he had spent every moment of the last two months in. His clothes were gone. He was naked and empty- handed. A breath of wind caressed his 3esh and he shivered. He walked and that felt familiar. In the morning he learned of a new enemy. The sun climbed burning onto his shoulders, weighing him into the hot dirt. His skin had gone pale beneath the leaves, and now it burned and blistered in the glare. When the rains came at midday, he lay on the ground and covered himself with mud so that he was afforded some protection when sun renewed its assault in the afternoon. He walked on. When night fell, he shivered in the wind 15 B ITTERSEED and got a few hours sleep. At dawn he continued. They would never 7nd his body, and that was pleasing to him. His mother would have no grave to fret over. And she would have Eli there to remind her of what hed been like as a living being. Perhaps she would weather this or, actually, had weathered it already. After all, shed probably thought him dead for two months now. When the rain came again it washed some of the mud loose from his body, but he dared not stop to renew his supply. Something in his head whispered that if he stopped walking, even for an instant, he would never start again. Night fell, and he walked on. At some point, he became aware of lights. In the distance at 7rst, but nearing slowly from his left. And then the lights were on him and he was blinking up into brilliance. He let himself sit then, and hung his head to his chest. The 7eld-skim landed nearby, and in the next instant arms were lifting him to his feet. Marc, is that really you? A man asked. The face belonged to John Miller, a close friend in another lifetime. Marc only nodded and let the arms drag him to the skim. My mother? His words were slow and canted; the jaw didnt want to move right. Not good, his old friend answered. She still thinks youre alive. Well, you are alive, but she was the only one who believed& Marc, what the hell happened? Marc lifted his head from the pilots cot and took another sip of water. At this speed, skims tended to ride rough, and he had to be careful not to spill. Why not good? I try to stop by and visit her when I can, but its hard to see her this way. Her health hasnt been good lately. And Eli? Hes in charge of the seed program now. Your mother wont let him out of sight, follows him around everywhere because shes so afraid of losing another son. Marc, there were a lot of people who never bought Elis story about what happened. A company prosecutor was brought in to investigate. All the way out here? A possible death penalty case, Marc. Fratercide. What did he 7nd? Same as us, suspicious as hell but no proof one way or the other. What happened? Marc rolled over in the cot and put his face to the wall. He felt a hand on his shoulder for a moment; then the hand was gone. He slipped into unconsciousness. Marc woke as the 7eld-skim settled into dock. He rose to his feet and stepped into the bathroom. He didnt recognize the bearded, crook-jawed man staring back at him from the mirror. He urinated and washed his hands. John was waiting outside the door. I thought you Marc held up his hand. Hurts to talk, so dont make me. Who knows about me? Everybody, I radioed it in. The special investigator wants to talk to you. Hes still here? Marc closed his eyes. Would his mother gain one son and lose the other? I need a minute to clear my head. The latch opened from the outside. Doesnt look like youre going to get it, Marc. A tall man in a company suite walked through the door. Welcome back from the dead, he said, extending a hand. Im Special Investigator Tom Brennen. Weve got a lot to talk about. Do we? Mark asked. Twenty minutes later, Marc walked through the door of his old of7ce. Matching dark eyes moved to his. Eli didnt move. He sat stif8y behind the desk. His face looked different. Older. Hed lost weight. Brother, Marc said, and then he shut the door. 16 17 A FTER WE KILLED THE GUARD, Glaucon and I ran down the corridor away from the Well. Glaucon had been seriously aged in the 3ght. He limped and cursed, a piece of dying meat and he knew it. I brushed my hand along the wall looking for a door. Well make it, I said. Sure, he said. He held his arm against his side. We ran past a series of ontological windows: a forest 3re, a sun in space, a factory refashioning children into 4owers. I worried that the corridor might be a loop. For all I knew the sole purpose of such corridors was to confuse and recapture escapees. Or maybe they were just for fun. The Relativists delight in such absurdities. More windows: a snowstorm, a cloudy seascape, a corridor exactly like the one we were in, in which two men wearing yellow robes prison kosodes exactly like ours searched for a way out. Glaucon stopped. The hand of his double reached out to meet his. The face of mine stared at me angrily; a strong face, an intelligent one. Its just a mirror, I said. BUDDHA NOSTRIL BIRD John Kessel Illustrated by Rory Kurtz 18 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Mirror? A mirror, a voice said. Protagoras appeared ahead of us in the corridor. Like sex, it reproduces human beings. An old joke, and typical of Protagoras to quote it without attribution. Glaucon raised his clock. In the face of Protagoras in8nite mutability it was less than useless: there was no way Glaucon would even get a shot off. My spirit sank as I watched the change come over him. Protagoras dripped fellowship. Glaucon liked him. Nobody but a maniac could dislike Protagoras. It took all my will to block the endorphin assault, but Glaucon was never as strong as I. A lot of talk about brotherhood had passed between us, but if Id had my freedom I would have crisped him on the spot. Instead I hid myself from Protagoras blue eyes, as cold as chips of aquamarine in a mosaic. Where are you going? Protagoras said. We were going Glaucon started. nowhere, I said. A hard place to get to, said Protagoras. Glaucons head bobbed like a dogs. I know a short way, Protagoras said. Come along with me. Sure, said Glaucon. I struggled to maintain control. If you had asked him, Protagoras would have denied controlling anyone: The Superior Man rules by humility. Another sophistry. We turned back down the corridor. If I stayed with them until we got to the center, there would be no way I could escape. Desperation forced me to test the reality of one of the windows. As we passed the ocean scene I pushed Glaucon into Protagoras and threw my shoulder against the glass. The window shattered; I was falling. My kosode 9apped like the melting wings of Icarus as sky and sea whirled around me, and I hit the water. My breath exploded from me. I 9ailed and tumbled. At last I found the surface. I sputtered and gasped, my right arm in agony; my ribs ached. I kicked off my slippers and leaned onto my back. The waves rolled me up and down. The sky was low and dark. At the top of each swell I could see to the storm-clouded horizon, 9at as a psychotics affect but in the other direction was a beach. I swam. The bad shoulder and the kosode made it hard, but at that moment I would not have traded places with Glaucon for all the enlightenment of the ancients. When they sent me to the penal colony they told me, Prisons ought to be places where people are lodged only temporarily, as guests are. They must not become dwelling places. Their idea of temporary is not mine. Temporary doesnt mean long enough for your skin to crack like the dry lakebed outside your window, for the memory of your lovers touch to recede until its only a torment in your dreams, as distant as the mountains that surround the penal colony. These distinctions are lost on Relativists, as are all distinctions. Which, I suppose, is why I was sent there. They keep you alone, mostly. I didnt mind the isolation it gave me time to understand exactly how many ways I had been betrayed. I spent hours thinking of Arete, etching her ideal features in my mind. I remembered how theyd ripped me away from her. I wondered if she still lived, and if I would ever see her again. Eventually, when memory had faded, I conquered the passage of time itself: I reconstructed her image from incorruptible ideas and planned the revenge I would take once I was free again, so that the past and the future became more real to me than the endless, featureless present. Such is the power of idea over reality. To the guards I must have looked properly meditative. Inside I burned. Each day at dawn we would be awakened by the rapping of sticks on our iron bedsteads. In the 8rst hour we drew water from the Well of Changes. In the second we were encouraged to drink (I refused). In the third we washed 9oors with the water. From the fourth through the seventh we performed every other function that was necessary to maintain the prison. In 19 B UDDHA N OSTRIL B IRD the eighth we were tortured. At the ninth we were fed. At night, exhausted, we slept. The torture chamber is made of ribbed concrete. It is a cold room, without windows. In its center is a chair, and beside the chair a small table, and on the table the hood. The hood is black and appears to be made of ordinary fabric, but it is not. The 4rst time I held it, despite the evidence of my eyes I thought it had slipped through my 4ngers. The hood is not a material object: you cannot feel it, and it has no texture, and although it absorbs all light it is neither warm nor cold. Your inquisitor invites you to sit in the chair and slip the hood over your head. You do so. He speaks to you. The room disappears. Your body melts away and you are made into something else. You are an animal. You are one of the ancients. You are a stone, a drop of rain in a storm, a planet. You are in another time and place. This may sound intriguing, and the 4rst twenty times it is. But it never ends. The sessions are indiscriminate. They are deliberately pointless. They continue to the verge of insanity. I recall one of these sessions, in which I lived in an ancient city and worked a hopeless routine in a store called the World of Values. The values we sold were merchandise. I married, had children, grew old, lost my health and spirit. I worked forty years. Some days were happy, others sad; most were neither. The last thing I remembered was lying in a hospital bed, unable to see, dying, and hearing my wife talk with my son about what they should have for dinner. When I came out from under the hood Protagoras yanked me from the chair and told me this poem: Out from the nostrils of the Great Buddha Flew a pair of nesting swallows. I could still hear my phantom wifes cracking voice. I was in no mood for riddles. Tell me what it means, or shut up. Drink from the Well and Ill tell you. I turned my back on him. It was always like that. Protagoras had made a career out of tormenting me. I had known him for too many years. He put faith in nothing, was totally without honor, yet he had power. His intellect was available for any use. He wasted years on banalities. He would argue any side of a case, not because he sought advantage, but because he did not care about right or wrong. He was intolerably lucky. Irresponsible as a child. Inconstant as the wind. His opaque blue gaze could be as witless as a scientists. And he had been my 4rst teacher. He had introduced me to Arete, offered me useless advice throughout our stormy relationship, given ambiguous testimony at my trial, and upon the verdict abandoned the university in order to come to the prison and become my inquisitor. The thought that I had once idolized him tormented me more than any session under the hood. After my plunge through the window into the sea, I fought my way through the surf to the beach. For an unknown time I lay gasping on the wet sand. When I opened my eyes I saw a 5ock of gulls had waddled up to me. An arms length away the lead gull, a great bull whose ragged feathers stood out from his neck in a ruff, watched me with beady black eye. Others, of various sizes and markings, stood in a wedge behind him. I raised my head; the gulls retreated a few steps, still holding formation. I understood immediately that they were ranked according to their stations in the 5ock. Thus does nature shadow forth fundamental truth: the rule of the strong over the weak, the relation of one to the many in hierarchical order. Off to the side stood a single scrawny gull, quicker than the rest, but separate, aloof. I supposed him to be a gullish philosopher. I saluted him, my brother. A sandpiper scuttled along the edge of the surf. Dipping a handful of seawater, I washed sand and pieces of shell from my cheek. Up the slope, sawgrass and sea oats held the dunes against the tides. The scene was familiar. With wonder and some disquiet I understood that the window had dumped me into the Great Water quite near the Imperial City. 20 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I stumbled up the sand to the crest of the dunes. In the east, beneath piled thunderheads, lighting =ashed over the dark water. To the west, against the sunsets glare, the sand and scrub turned into <elds. I started inland. Night fell swiftly. From behind me came clouds, strong winds, then rain. I trudged on, singing into the downpour. The thunder sang back. Water streamed down the creases of my face, the wet kosode weighed on my chest and shoulders, the rough grass cut my feet. In the profound darkness I could continue only by memorizing the landscape revealed by =ashes of lightning. Exhilirated, I hurried toward my lover. I shouted at the raindrops, any one of which might be one of my fellow prisoners under the hood. Im free! I told them. I forded the swollen River of Indifference. I stumbled through Iron Tree Forest. Throughout the night I put one foot before the other, and some hours before dawn, in a melancholy drizzle, passed through the Herons Gate into the city. In the Processors Quarter I found a doorway whose overhang kept out the worst of the rain. Above hung the illuminated sign of the Rat. In the corner of this doorway, under this sign, I slept. I was awakened by the arrival of the owner of the communications shop in whose doorway I had slept. I am looking for the old fox, I said. Do you know where I can <nd him? Who are you? You may call me the little fox. He pushed open the door. Well, Mr. Fox, I can put you in touch with him instantly. Just step into one of our booths. He must have known I had no money. I dont want to communicate. I want to see him. Communication is much better, the shopowner said. He took a towel, a copper basin and an ornamental blade from the cupboard beneath his terminal. No chance of physical violence. No distress other than psychological. Completely accurate reproduction. Sensory enhancement: olfactory, visual, auditory. He opened a cage set into the wall and seized a docile black rat by the scruff of the neck. Recordability. Access to a network of supporting information services. For slight additional charge we offer intelligence augmentation and instant semiotic analysis. We make the short man tall. Physical presence has nothing to compare. I want to speak with him in private. Not looking at me, he took the rat to the stone block. We are bonded. I dont question your integrity. You have religious prejudices against communication? You are a Traveler? He would not rest until he forced me to admit I was penniless. I refrained from noting that, if he was such a devout communicator, he could easily have stayed home. Yet he had walked to his shop in person. Swallowing my rage, I said, I have no money. He sliced the rats neck open. The animal made no sound. After he had drained the blood and put the carcass into the display case, he washed his hands and turned to me. He seemed quite pleased with himself. He took a small object from a drawer. He is to be found at the University. Here is a map of the maze. He slipped it into my hand. For this act of gratuitous charity, I vowed that one day I would have revenge. I left. The streets were crowded. Dusty gold light <ltered down between the ranks of ancient buildings. Too short to use the moving Ways, I walked. Orange-robed messengers threaded their way through the crowd. Sweating drivers in loincloths pulled pedicabs; I imagined the perfumed lottery winners who reclined behind the opaqued glass of their passenger compartments. In the Medical Quarter, streetside surgeons hawked their services in front of racks of breasts and penises of prodigious size. As before, the names of the streets changed hourly to mark the progress of the sun across the sky. All streets but one, and I held my breath when I came to it: the 21 B UDDHA N OSTRIL B IRD Way of Enlightenment, which ran between the Reform Temple and the Imperial Palace. As before, metamorphs entertained the faithful on the stage outside the Temple. One of them changed shape as I watched, from a dog-faced man wearing the leather skirt of an athlete to a tattooed ceo in powered suit. Come drink from the Well of Changes! he called ecstatically to passersby. Be Reformed! The Well he spoke of is both literal and symbolic. The prison Well was its brother; the preachers of the Temple claim that all the Wells are one Well. Its water has the power to transform both body and mind. A scientist could tell you how it is done: viruses, brain chemistry, hypnosis, some insane combination of the three. But that is all a scientist could tell you. Unlike a scientist, I could tell you why its use is morally wrong. I could explain that some truths are eternal and ought to be held inviolate, and why a culture that accepts change indiscriminately is rotten at its heart. I could demonstrate, with inescapable logic, that reason is better than emotion. That spirit is greater than 8esh. That Relativism is the road to hell. Instead of relief at being home, I felt distress. The streets muddle upset me, but it was not simply that: the city was exactly as I had left it. The wet morning that dawned on me in the doorway might have been the morning after I was sent away. My absence had made no discernible difference. The tyranny of the Relativists that I and my friends had struggled against had not culminated in the universal misery we had predicted. Though everything changed minute to minute, it remained the same. The one thing that ought to remain constant, Truth, was to them as chimerical as the gene-changers of the Temple. They might have done better, had they had teachers to tell them good from bad. Looking down the boulevard, in the distance, at the heart of the city, I could see the walls of the palace. By midday I had reached it. Vendors of spiced cakes pushed their carts among the petitioners gathered beneath the great red lacquered doors. One, whose cakes each contained a free password, did a superior business. That the passwords were patent frauds was evident by the fact that the gatekeeper ignored those petitioners who tried using them. But that did not hurt sales. Most of the petitioners were hal8ings, and a dimwitted rabbit could best them in a deal. I wept for my people, their ignorance and illogic. I discovered that I was clutching the map in my 7st so tightly that the point of it had pierced my skin. I turned from the palace and walked away, and did not feel any relief until I saw the towers of the university rising above Scholars Park. I remembered my 7rst sight of them, a young boy down from the hills, the smell of cattle still about me, come to study under the great Protagoras. The meticulously kept park, the calm proportions of the buildings, spoke to the soul of that innocent boy: Here youll be safe from blood and passion. Here you can lose yourself in the world of the mind. The years had worn the polish off that dream, but I cant say that, seeing it now, once more a fugitive from a dangerous world, I did not feel some of the same joy. I thought of my father, a loutish farmer who would whip me for reading; of my gentle mother, brutalized by him, trying to keep the 8ame of truth alive in her boy. On the quadrangle I approached a young woman wearing the topknot and scarlet robe of a humanist. Her head bounced to some inner rhythm, and as I imagined she was pursuing some notion of the Ideal, my heart went out to her. I was about to ask her what she studied when I saw the pin in her temple. She was listening to transtemporal music: her mind eaten by puerile improvisations played on signals picked up from the death agonies of the cosmos. Generations of researchers had devoted their lives to uncovering these secrets, only to have their efforts used by artists to erode peoples connections with reality. I spat on the walk at her feet; she passed by, oblivious. At the entrance to the Humanities maze I turned on the map and followed it into the 22 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES gloom. Fifteen minutes later it guided me into the Department of Philosophy. It was the last place I expected to 8nd the fox the nest of our enemies, the place we had plotted against tirelessly. The secretary greeted me pleasantly. Im looking for a man named Socrates, I said. Some call him the old fox. Universe of Discourse 3, she said. I walked down the hall, wishing I had Glaucons clock. The door to the hall stood open. In the center of the cavelike room, in a massive support chair, sat Socrates. At last I had found a signi8cant change: he was grossly obese. The ferretlike features I remembered were folded in fat. Only the acute eyes remained. I was profoundly shaken. As I approached, his eyes followed me. Socrates. Blume. What happened to you? Socrates lifted his dimpled hand, as if to wave away a triviality. I won. You used to revile this place. I reviled its usurpers. Now I run it. You run it? Im the dean. I should have known Socrates had turned against our cause, and perhaps at some level I had. If he had remained true he would have ended up in a cell next to mine. You used to be a great teacher, I said. Right. Let me tell what happens when a man starts claiming hes a great teacher. First he starts wearing a brocade robe. Then he puts lifts in his sandals. The next thing you know the departments got a nasty paternity suit on its hands. His senile chuckle was like the bubbling of water in an opium pipe. How did you get to be dean? I performed a service for the Emperor. You sold out! Blume the dagger, he said. Some of the old anger shaded his voice. So sharp. So rigid. You always were a prig. And you used to have principles. Ah, principles, he said. Ill tell you what happened to my principles. You heard about Philomena the Bandit? No. Ive been somewhat out of touch. Socrates ignored the jab. It was after you left. Philomena invaded the system, established her camp on the moon, and made her living raiding the empire. The city was at her mercy. I saw my opportunity. I announced that I would reform her. My students out8tted a small ship, and Arete and I launched for the moon. Arete! We landed in a lush valley near the camp. Arete negotiated an audience for me. I went, alone. I described to Philomena the advantages of politic behavior. The nature of truth. The costs of living in the world of shadows and the glory of moving into the world of light. How, if she should turn to Good, her story would be told for generations. Her fame would spread throughout the world and her honor outlast her lifetime by a thousand years. Philomena listened. When I was 8nished she drew a knife and asked me, How long is a thousand years? Her men stood all around, waiting for me to slip. I started to speak, but before I could she pulled me close and pushed the blade against my throat. A thousand years, Philomena said, is shorter than the exposure of a neutrino passing through a world. How long is life? I was petri8ed. She smiled. Life, she said, is shorter than this blade. I begged for mercy. She threw me out. I ran to the ship, in fear for my life. Arete asked what happened: I said nothing. We set sail for home. We landed amid great tumult. I 8rst thought it was riot but soon found it celebration. During our voyage back Philomena had left the moon. People assumed I had convinced her. The Emperor spoke. Our enemies in philosophy were shortened, and the regents stretched me into Dean. Since then, Socrates said, I have had trouble with principles. Youre a coward, I said. 23 B UDDHA N OSTRIL B IRD Despite the mask of suet, I could read the ruefelness in Socrates eyes. You dont know me, he said. What happened to Arete? I have not seen her since. Where is she? Shes not here. He shifted his bulk, watching the screen that encircled the room. Turn yourself in, Blume. If they catch you, it will only go harder. Where is she? Even if you could get to her, she wont want to see you. I seized his arm, twisted. Where is Arete! Socrates inhaled sharply. In the palace, he said. Shes a prisoner? Shes the Empress. That night I took a place among the hal9ings outside the palace gate. Men and women regrown from seed after their deaths, imprinted with stored 8les of their original personalities, all of them had lost resolution, for no identity 8le could ecapsulate human complexity. Some could not speak, others displayed features too stiff to pass for human, and still others had no personalities at all. Their only chance for wholeness was to petition the Empress to perform a trans8nite extrapolation from their core data. To be miraculously transformed. An Athlete beside me showed me his endorsements. An Actress showed me her notices. A Banker showed me his lapels. They asked me my profession. I am a philosopher, I said. They laughed. Prove it, the Actress said. In the well-ordered state, I told her, there will be no place for you. To the athlete I said, Yours is a good and noble profession. I turned to the Banker, Your work is more problematical, I said. Unlike the actress, you ful8ll a necessary function, but unlike the Athlete, by accumulating wealth you are likely to gain more power than is justi8ed by your small wisdom. This speech was beyond them: the Actress grumbled and went away. I left the two men and walked along below the battlements. Two bartizans framed the great doors, and archers strolled along the ramparts or leaned through the embrasures to spit on the petitioners. For this reason the hal9ings camped as far back from the walls as they might without blocking the street. The archers, as any educated man knew, were there for show: the gates were guarded only by a single gatekeeper, a monk who could open the door if bested in a battle of wits, but without whose acquiescence the door could not be budged. He sat on his stool beside the gate, staring quietly ahead. Those who tried to talk to him could not tell whether theyd get a cuff on the ear or a friendly conversation. His 9at, peasants face was so devoid of intellect that it was some time before I recognized him as Protagoras. His disguised presence could be one of his whims. It could be he was being punished for letting me escape; it could be that he waited for me. I felt an urge to run. But I would not duplicate Socratess cowardice. If Protagoras recognized me he did not show it, and I resolved to get in or get caught. I was not some halfwit, and I knew him. I approached. I wish to see the Empress, I said. You must wait. Ive been waiting for years. That doesnt matter. I have no more time. He studied me. His manner changed. What will you pay? Ill pay you a story that will make you laugh until your head aches. He smiled. I saw that he recognized me; my stomach lurched. I know many such stories, he said. Not like mine. Yes. I can see you are a great breeder of headaches. Desperation drove me forward. Listen, then: once there was a warlord who discovered 24 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES that someone had stolen his most precious possession, a jewel of power. He ordered his servants to scour the fortress for strangers. In the bailey they found a beggar heading for the gate. The lords men seized him and carried him to the well. The warlords great jewel is lost, they said to him. They thrust the beggars head beneath the water. He struggled. They pulled him up and asked, Where is the jewel? I dont know, he said. They thrust him down again, longer this time. When they pulled him up he sputtered like an old engine. Where is the jewel? they demanded. I dont know! he replied. Furious at his insolence, fearful for their lives if they should rouse their lords displeasure, the men pushed the beggar so far into the well that a bystander thought, He will surely drown. The beggar kicked so hard it took three strong men to hold him. When at last they pulled him up he coughed and gasped, face purple, struggling to speak. They pounded him on the back. Finally he drew breath enough for words. I think you should get another diver, the beggar said. I cant see it anywhere down there. Protagoras smiled. Thats not funny. What? Maybe for us, but not for the beggar. Or the bystander. Or the servants. The warlord probably had them shortened. Dont play games. What do you really think? I think of poor Glaucon. He misses you. Then I saw that Protagoras only meant to torment me, as he had so many times before. He would answer my desperate need with feeble jokes until I wept or went mad. A fury more powerful than the sun itself swept over me, and I lost control. I fell on him, kicking, biting. The petitioners looked on in amazement. Shouts echoed from the ramparts. I didnt care. Id forgotten everything but my rage; all I knew was that at last I had him in my hands. I scratched at his eyes, I beat his head against the pavements. Protagoras struggled to speak. I pulled him up and slammed his head against the doors. The tension went out of his muscles. Crossleggged, as if preparing to meditate, he slid to the ground. Blood glistened in the torchlight on the lacquered doors. Now thats funny, he whispered, and died. The weight of his body against the door pushed it ajar. It had been open all along. No one came to arrest me. Across the inner ward, at the edge of an ornamental garden, a person stood in the darkness beneath a plane tree. Most of the lights of the palace were unlit, but radiance from the clerestory above heightened the shadows. Hesitantly I drew closer, too unsteady after my sudden 8t of violence to hide. In my confusion I could think to do no more than approach the 8gure in the garden, who stood patiently as if in long expectation of me. From ten paces away I saw it was a woman dressed as a clown. From 8ve I saw it was Arete. Her laughter, like shattering crystal, startled me. Allan! How serious you look. My head was full of questions. She pressed her 8ngers against my lips, silencing them. I embraced her. Red circles were painted on her cheeks, and she wore a crepe beard, but her skin was still smooth, her eyes bright, her perfume the same. She was not a day older. The memory of dead Protagoras slack mouth marred my triumph. She ducked out of my arms, laughing again. You cant have me unless you catch me! Arete! She darted through the trees. I ran after her. My heart was not in it, and I lost her until she paused beneath a tree, hands on knees, panting. Come on! Im not so hard to catch. The weight was lifted from my heart. I dodged after her. Beneath the trees, through the hedge maze, among the night blooming jasmine and bouganvillea, the silver moon tipping the edges of the leaves, I chased her. At last she let herself be caught; we fell together 25 B UDDHA N OSTRIL B IRD into a damp bed of ivy. I rested my head on her breast. The embroidery of her costume was rough against my cheek. She took my head in her hands and made me look her in the face. Her teeth were pearly white, breath sweet as the scented blossoms around us. We kissed, through the ridiculous beard (I could smell the spirit gum shed used to af:x it), and the goal they had sought to instill in me at the penal colony was attained: my years of imprisonment vanished into the immediate moment as if they had never existed. That kiss was the limit of our contact. I expected to spend the night with her; instead, she had a slave take me to a guest house for visiting dignitaries, where I was quartered with three minor landholders from the mountains. They were already asleep. After my day of confusion, rage, desire and fear, I lay there weary but hard awake, troubled by the sound of my own breathing. My thoughts were jumbled white noise. I had killed him. I had found her. Two of the fantasies of my imprisonment ful:lled in a single hour. Yet no peace. The murder of Protagoras would not long go unnoticed. I assumed Arete already knew but did not care. But if she was truly the Empress, why had he not been killed years before? Why had I rotted in prison under him? I had no map for this maze and eventually fell asleep. In the morning the slave, Pismire, brought me a wig of human hair, a green kimono, a yellow silk sash, and solid leather sandals: the clothes of a prosperous nonentity. My roommates appeared to be barely lettered country bumpkins, little better than my father, come to court seeking a judgment against a neighbor or a place for a younger child or protection from some bandit. One of them wore the colors of an inferior upland collegium; the others no colors at all. I suspected at least one of them was Aretes spy; they might have thought me one as well. We looked enough alike to be brothers. We ate in a dining room attended by machines. I spent the day studying the public rooms of the palace, hoping to get some information. At the tolling of sixth hour Pismire found me in the vivarium. He handed me a message under the Imperial seal, and left. I turned it on. You are invited to an important meeting, the message said. With whom? I asked. For what purpose? The message ignored me. The meeting begins promptly at ninth hour. Prepare yourself. There followed directions to the place. When I arrived the appointed room was empty. A long oak table, walls lined with racks of document spindles. At the far end French doors gave onto a balcony overlooking an ancient city of glass and metal buildings. I could hear the faint sounds of traf:c below. A side door opened and a woman in the blue suit of the Lawyer entered, followed by a clerk. The womans glossy black hair was stranded with gray, but her face was smooth. She wore no makeup. She stood at the end of the table, back to the French doors, and set down a leather box. The clerk sat at her right hand. I realized that this forbidding :gure was Arete. She had become as mutable as Protagoras. Be seated, she said. We are here to take your deposition. Deposition? Your statement on the matter at hand. What matter? Your escape from the penal colony. Your murder of the gatekeeper, the honored philosopher Protagoras. The injustice of this burned through my dismay. Not murder. Self-defense. Or better still, euthanasia. Dont quibble with us. We are deprived of his presence. Grow a duplicate. Bring him back to life. For reply she merely stared at me across 26 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES the table. The air tasted stale, and I felt a bead of sweat run down my breast beneath my robe. Is this some game? You may well wish it a game. Arete! I am not Arete. I am a Lawyer. She leaned toward me. Why were you sent to prison? You were with me! You know. We are taking your version of events for the record. You know as well as I that I was imprisoned for seeking the truth. Which truth? There was only one. The one that people dont want to hear, I said. You had access to a truth people did not acknowledge? They are blinded by custom and self- interest. You were not? I had, though years of self-abnegation and study, risen above them. I had broken free of the chains of prejudice, climbed out of the cave of shadows that society lives in, and looked at the sun direct. The clerk smirked as I made this speech. It was the 4rst expression hed shown. And you were blinded by it, Arete said. I saw the truth. But when I came back they said I was blind. They would not listen, so they put me away. The trial record says that you assisted in the corruption of youth. I was a teacher. The record says you refused to listen to your oppponents. I refuse to listen to ignorance and illogic. I refuse to submit to fools, liars, and those who let passion overcome reason. You have never been fooled? I was, but not now. You never lie? If I do, I still know the difference between a lie and the truth. You never act out of passion? Only when supported by reason. You never suspect your own motives? I know my motives. How? I examine myself. Honestly, critically. I apply reason. Spare me your colossal arrogance, your revolting self-pity. Eyewitnesses say you killed the gatekeeper in a 4t of rage. I had reason. Do you presume to understand my motives better than I? Do you understand your own? No. But thats because I am dishonest. And totally arbitrary. She opened the box and took out a clock. Without hesitation she pointed it at the clerk. His smugness punctured, he stumbled back, overturning his chair. She pressed the trigger. The weapon must have been set for maximum entropy: before my eyes the clerk aged ten, twenty, 4fty years. He died and rotted. In less than a minute he was a heap of bones and gruel on the 5oor. Youve been in prison so long youve invented a harmless version of me, Arete said. I am capable of anything. She laid the clock on the table, turned and opened the doors to let in a fresh night breeze. Then she climbed onto the table and crawled toward me. I sat frozen. I am the Destroyer, she said, loosening her tie as she approached. Her eyes were 4xed on mine. When she reached me she pushed me over backwards, falling atop me. I am the force that drives the blood through your dying body, the nightmare that wakes you sweating in the middle of the night. I am the 4ery cauldron within whose heat you are reduced to a vapor, extended from the visible into the invisible, dissipated on the winds of time, of fading memory, of inevitable human loss. In the face of me, you are incapable of articulate speech. About me you understand nothing. She wound the tie around my neck, drew it tight. Remember that, she said, strangling me. I passed out on the 5oor of the interview room and awoke the next morning in a bed 27 B UDDHA N OSTRIL B IRD in a private chamber. Pismire was drawing the curtains on a view of an ocean beach: half asleep I watched the tiny 6gure of a man materialize in a spray of glass, in mid-air, and fall precipitously into the sea. Pismire brought me a breakfast of fruit and spiced coffee. Touching the bruises on my neck, I watched the man resurface in the sea and swim ashore. He collapsed on the sand. A 7ock of gulls came to stand by his head. If I broke through this window, I could warn him. I could say: Socrates is fat. Watch out for the gatekeeper. Arete is alive, but she is changed. But what could I tell him for certain? Had Arete turned Relativist, like Socrates? Was she free, or being made to play a part? Did she intend to prosecute me for the murder of Protagoras? But if so, why not simply return me to the penal colony? I did not break through the window, and the man eventually moved up the beach toward the city. That day servants followed me everywhere. Minor lords asked my opinions. Evidently I was a taller man than I had been the day before. I drew Pismire aside and asked him what rumors were current. He was a stocky fellow with a topknot of coarse black hair and shaved temples, silent, but when I pressed him he opened up readily enough. He said he knew for a fact that Protagoras had set himself up to be killed. He said the Emperor was dead and the Empress was the focus of a perpetual struggle. That many men had sought to make Arete theirs, but none had so far succeeded. That disaster would surely follow any mans success. Does she alway change semblance from day to day? He said he had never noticed any changes. In mid-afternoon, at precisely the same time I had yesterday received the summons to the deposition, a footman with the face of a frog handed me an invitation to dine with the Empress that evening. Three female expediters prepared a scented bath for me; a fourth laid out a kimono of blue crepe embroidered with gold 6shing nets. The mirror they held before me showed a man with wary eyes. At the tolling of ninth hour I was escorted to the banquet hall. The room was 6lled with notables in every 6nery. A large, low table stretched across the tesselated 7oor, surrounded by cushions. Before each place was an enamel bowl and in the center of the table was a large, three-legged brass cauldron. Arete, looking no more than twenty, stood talking to an extremely handsome man near the head of the table. I thank you for your courtesy, I told her. The man watched me impassively. No more than is your due, Arete replied. She wore a bright costume of synthetics with pleated shoulders and elbows. She looked like a toy. Her face was painted into a hard mask. She introduced me to the man, whose name was Meno. I drew her away from him. You frightened me last night, I said. I thought you had forgotten me. Only her soft brown eyes showed she wasnt a pleasure surrogate. What makes you think I remember? You could not forget and still be the one I love. Thats probably true. Im not sure Im worth such devotion. Meno watched us from a few paces away. I turned my back to him and leaned closer to her. I cant believe you mean that, I said quickly. I think you say such things because you have been imprisoned by liars and self- aggrandizers. But I am here for you now. I am an objective voice. Just give me a sign, and I will set you free. Before she could answer, a bell sounded and the people took their places. Arete guided me to a place beside her. She sat, and we all followed suit. The slaves stood ready to serve, waiting for Aretes command. She looked around the table. We are met here to eat together, she 28 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES said. To dine on Ambrosia, because there has been strife in the city, and ambition, and treachery. But now it is going to stop. Meno now looked openly angry. Others were worried. You are the favored ones, said Arete. She turned to me. And our friend here, the little fox, is the most favored of all. Destinys author our new and most trusted advisor. Several people started to protest. I seized the opportunity given by their shock. Am I indeed your advisor? You may test it by deeds. You and you I beckoned to the guards. Clear these people from the room. The guests were in turmoil. Meno tried to speak to Arete, but I stepped between them. The guards came forward and forced the men and women to leave. after they were gone I had the guards and slaves leave as well. The doors closed and the hall was silent. I turned. Arete had watched it all calmly, sitting crosslegged at the head of the table. Now, Arete, you must listen to me. Your commands have been twisted throughout this city. You and I have an instinctive sympathy. You must let me determine who sees you. I will interpret your words. The world is not ready to understand without an interpreter; they need to be educated. And you are the teacher. I am suited to it by temperament and training. She smiled meekly. I told Arete that I was hungry. She rose and prepared a bowl of soup from the cauldron. I sat at the head of the table. She came and set the bowl before me, then kneeled and touched her forehead to the 8oor. Feed me, I said. She took the bowl and a napkin. She blew on the ambrosia to cool it, lips pursed. Like a serving girl, she held the bowl to my lips. Arete fed me all of it, like mother to child, lover to lover. It tasted better than anything I had ever eaten. It warmed my belly and in8amed my desire. When the bowl was empty I pushed it away, knocking it from her hand. It clattered on the marble 8oor. I would be put off no longer. I took her right there, amid the cushions. She was indeed the hardest of toys. It had taken me three days from my entrance to the palace to become Aretes lover and voice. The Emperor over the Empress. On the 7rst day of my reign I had the shopkeeper who had insulted me whipped the length of the Way of Enlightenment. On the second I ordered that only those certi7ed in philosophy be quali7ed to vote. On the third I banished the poets. Each evening Arete fed me ambrosia from a bowl. Each night we shared the Imperial bed. Each morning I awoke calmer, in more possession of myself. I moved more slowly. The hours of the day were drained of their urgency. Arete stopped changing. Her face settled with a quiet clarity into my mind, a clarity unlike the burning image I had treasured up during my years in the prison. On the morning of the third day I awoke fresh and happy. Arete was not there. Pismire entered the room bearing a basin, a towel, a razor, a mirror. He washed and shaved me, then held the mirror before me. For the 7rst time I saw the lines about my eyes and mouth were fading, and realized that I was being Reformed. I looked at Pismire. I saw him clearly: eyes cold as aquamarines. Its time for you to come home, Blume, he said. No anger, no protest arose in me. No remorse. No frustration. Ive been betrayed, I said. Some virus, some drug, some notion youve put in my head. Protagoras smiled. The ambrosia. Brewed with water from the Well. Now I am back in the prison. Escape is out of the question. Every step outward would be a step backward. Its all relative. B UDDHA N OSTRIL B IRD B EN W OOTEN S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS Instead I draw water from the Well of Changes. I drink. Protagoras says whatever changes will happen to me will be a re1ection of my own psyche. That my new form is not determined by the water, but by me. How do I control it, I ask. You dont, he replies. Glaucon has become a feral dog. Protagoras and I go for long walks across the dry lake. He seldom speaks. I am not angry. Still, I fear a relapse. I am close to being nourished, but as yet I am not sure I am capable of it. I dont understand, as I never understood, where the penal colony is. I dont understand, as I never understood, how I can live without Arete. Protagoras sympathizes. Cant live with her, cant live without her, he says. Shes more than just a woman, Blume. You can experience her but you cant own her. Right. When I complain about such gnomic replies Protagoras only puts me under the hood again. I think he knows some secret he wants me to guess, yet he gives no hints. I dont think thats fair. After our most recent session, I told Protagoras my latest theory of the signi0cance of the poem about the swallows. The poem, I told him, was an emblem of the ultimate and absolute truth of the universe. All things are determined by the ideas behind them, I said. There are three orders of existence, the Material (represented by the physical statue of the Buddah), the Spiritual (represented by its form), and the highest, which transcends both the Physical and the Spiritual, the Ideal (represented by the 1ight of the birds). I begged Protagoras humbly to tell me whether my analysis was true. Protagoras said, You are indeed an intellectual. But in order for me to reveal the answer to a question of such profound spiritual signi0cance you must 0rst bow down before the sacred Well. At last I was to be enlightened. Eyes brimming with tears of hope, I turned to the Well and, with the utmost sincerity, bowed. Then Protagoras kicked me in the ass. 30 CONJUNCTIONS Neil Gaiman Illustrated by Cliff Chiang First appeared in Mythic Delirium, Issue 20, Winter/Spring 2009. 31 C ONJUNCTIONS Jupiter and Venus hung like grapes in the evening sky, frozen and untwinkling. You could have reached up and picked them. And the trout swam. Snow muf-ed the world, silenced the dog, silenced the wind . . . The man said, I can show you the trout. He was glad of the company. He reached into their tiny pool, rescued a dozen, one by one, sorting and choosing, dividing the sheep from the goats of them. And this was the miracle of the ,shes, that they were beautiful. Even when clubbed and gutted, insides glittering like jewels. See this? he said, the trout heart pulsed like a ruby in his hand. The kids love this. He put it down, and it kept beating. The kids, they go wild for it. He said, we feed the guts to the pigs. Theyre pets now, They wont be killed. See? We saw, huge as horses they loomed on the side of the hill. And we walk through the world trailing trout hearts like dreams, wondering if they imagine rivers, quiet summer days, fat foolish -ies that hover or sit for a moment too long. We should set them free, our trout and our metaphors: You dont have to hit me over the head with it. This is where you get to spill your guts. You killed in there, tonight. He pulled her heart out. Look, you can see it there, still beating. He said, See this? This is the bit the kids like best. This is what they come to see. Just her heart, pulsing, on and on. It was so cold that night, and the stars were all alone. Just them and the moon in a luminous bruise of sky. And this was the miracle of the ,shes. S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS I AN M ILLER 34 35 A RTURO ICAZA DE ARANA-GOLDBERG, POLICE DETECTIVE THIRD GRADE, United North American Trading Sphere, Third District, Fourth Prefecture, Second Division (Parkdale) had had many adventures in his distinguished career, running crooks to ground with an unbeatable combination of instinct and unstinting devotion to duty. Hed been decorated on three separate occasions by his commander and by the Regional Manager for Social Harmony, and his mother kept a small shrine dedicated to his press clippings and commendations that occupied most of the cramped sitting-room of her <at off Steeles Avenue. No amount of policemans devotion and skill availed him when it came to making his twelve- year-old get ready for school, though. Haul ass, young lady out of bed, on your feet, shit-shower-shave, or I swear to God, I will beat you purple and shove you out the door jaybird naked. Capeesh? The mound beneath the covers groaned and hissed. You are a terrible father, it said. And I never loved you. The voice was indistinct and muf<ed by the pillow. Boo hoo, Arturo said, examining his nails. Youll regret that when Im dead of cancer. The mound whose name was Ada Trouble Icaza de Arana-Goldberg threw her covers off and sat bolt upright. Youre dying of cancer? is it testicle cancer? Ada clapped her hands and squealed. Can I have your stuff? Ten minutes, your rottenness, he said, and then his breath caught momentarily in his breast as he saw, <eetingly, his ex-wifes morning expression, not seen these past twelve years, come to life in his daughters face. Pouty, pretty, sleepy and guile-less, and it made him realize that his daughter was becoming a woman, growing away from him. She was, and he was not ready for that. He shook it off, patted his razor-burn and turned on his heel. He knew from experience that once roused, the munchkin would be scrounging the kitchen for whatever was handy before I, ROBOT Cory Doctorow Illustrated by Tom Kyzivat 36 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES dashing out the door, and if he hurried, hed have eggs and sausage on the table before she made her brief appearance. Otherwise hed have to pry the sugar-cereal out of her hands and she fought dirty. In his car, he prodded at his phone. He had her wiretapped, of course. He was a cop every phone and every computer was an open book to him, so that this involved nothing more than dialing a number on his special coppers phone, entering her number and a pin , and then listening as his daughter had truck with a criminal enterprise. Welcome to ExcuseClub! There are 43 members on the network this morning. You have ;ve excuses to your credit. Press one to redeem an excuse She toned one. Press one if you need an adult Tone. Press one if you need a woman; press two if you need a man Tone. Press one if your excuse should be delivered by your doctor; press two for your spiritual representative; press three for your case-worker; press four for your psycho-health specialist; press ;ve for your son; press six for your father Tone. You have selected to have your excuse delivered by your father. Press one if this excuse is intended for your case-worker; press two for your psycho-health specialist; press three for your principal Tone. Please dictate your excuse at the sound of the beep. When you have ;nished, press the pound key. This is Detective Arturo Icaza de Arana- Goldberg. My daughter was sick in the night and Ive let her sleep in. Shell be in for lunchtime. Tone. Press one to hear your message; press two to have your message dispatched to a network- member. Tone. Thank you. The pen-trace data scrolled up Arturos phone number called, originating number, call-time. This was the third time hed caught his daughter at this game, and each time, the pen-trace data had been useless, a dead-end lead that terminated with a phone-forwarding service tapped into one of the dodgy offshore switches that the blessed blasted unats brass had recently acquired on the cheap to handle the surge of mobile telephone calls. Why couldnt they just stick to unats Robotics equipment, like the good old days? Those Oceanic switches had more back-doors than a speakeasy, trade agreements be damned. They were attractive nuisances, invitations to criminal activity. Arturo fumed and drummed his ;ngers on the steering-wheel. Each time hed caught Ada at this, shed used the extra time to crawl back into bed for a leisurely morning, but who knew if today was the day she took her liberty and went downtown with it, to some parental nightmare of a drug-den? Some place where the old pervert chickenhawks hung out, the kind of men he arrested in burlesque house raids, men who masturbated into their hats under their tables and then put them back onto their shining pates, dripping cold, diseased serum onto their scalps. He clenched his hands on the steering wheel and cursed. In an ideal world, hed simply follow her. He was good at tailing, and his unmarked car with its tinted windows was a unats Robotics standard compact #2, indistinguishable from the tens of thousands of others just like it on the streets of Toronto. Ada would never know that the curb-crawler tailing her was her sucker of a father, making sure that she turned up to get her brains sharpened instead of turning into some stunadz doper with her underage butt hanging out of a little skirt on Jarvis Street. In the real world, Arturo had thirty minutes to make a forty minute downtown and crosstown commute if he was going to get to the station house on-time for the quarterly all- hands Social Harmony brie;ng. Which meant that he needed to be in two places at once, which meant that he had to use the robot. Swallowing bile, he speed-dialed a number on his phone. This is R Peed Robbert, McNicoll and Don Mills bus-shelter. Thats nice. This is Detective Icaza de Arana-Goldberg, three blocks east of you on 37 I, R OBOT Picola. Proceed to my location at once, priority urgent, no sirens. Acknowledged. It is my pleasure to do you a service, Detective. Shut up, he said, and hung up the phone. The R Peed Robot, Police Department robots were the worst, programmed to be friendly to a fault, even as they surveilled and snitched out every person who walked past their eternally vigilant, ever-remembering electrical eyes and brains. The R Peeds could outrun a police car on open ground on highway. Hed barely had time to untwist his clenched hands from the steering wheel when R Peed Robbert was at his window, politely rapping on the smoked glass. He didnt want to roll down the window. Didnt want to smell the dry, machine-oil smell of a robot. He phoned it instead. You are now tasked to me, Detectives override, acknowledge. The metal man bowed, its symmetrical, simpliCed features pleasant and guileless. It clicked its heels together with an audible snick as those marvelous, spring-loaded, nuclear- powered gams whined through their parody of obedience. Acknowledged, Detective. It is my pleasure to do Shut up. You will discreetly surveil 55 Picola Crescent until such time as Ada Trouble Icaza de Arana-Goldberg, Social Harmony serial number 0MDY2-T3937 leaves the premises. Then you will maintain discreet surveillance. If she deviates more than 10 percent from the optimum route between here and Don Mills Collegiate Institute, you will notify me. Acknowledge. Acknowledged, Detective. It is my He hung up and told the unats Robotics mechanism running his car to get him down to the station house as fast as it could, angry with himself and with Ada whose middle name was Trouble, after all for making him deal with a robot before hed had his morning meditation and destim session. The name had been his ex-wifes idea, something shed insisted on long enough to make sure that it got onto the kids birth certiCcate before defecting to Eurasia with their lifes savings, leaving him with a new baby and the deep suspicion of his co-workers who wondered if he wouldnt go and join her. His ex-wife. He hadnt thought of her in years. Well, months. Weeks, certainly. Shed been a brilliant computer scientist, the valedictorian of her Positronic Complexity Engineering class at the unats Robotics school at the University of Toronto. Dumping her husband and her daughter was bad enough, but the worst of it was that she dumped her country and its way of life. Now she was ensconced in her own research lab in Beijing, making the kinds of runaway Positronics that made the loathsome robots of unats look categorically beneCcent. He itched to wiretap her, to read her email or listen in on her phone conversations. He could have done that when they were still together, but he never had. If he had, he would have found out what she was planning. He could have talked her out of it. And then what, Artie? said the nagging voice in his head. Arrest her if she wouldnt listen to you? March her down to the station house in handcuffs and have her put away for treason? Send her to the reeducation camp with your little daughter still in her belly? Shut up, he told the nagging voice, which had a robotic quality to it for all its sneering cruelty, a tenor of syrupy false friendliness. He called up the pen-trace data and texted it to the phreak squad. They had bots that handled this kind of routine work and they texted him back in an instant. He remembered when that kind of query would take a couple of hours, and he liked the fast response, but what about the conversations hed have with the phone cop who called him back, the camaraderie, the back-and-forth? TRACE TERMINATES WITH A VIRTUAL SERVICE CIRCUIT AT SWITCH PNG.433- GKRJC. VIRTUAL CIRCUIT FORWARDS TO A COMPROMISED ZOMBIE SYSTEM IN NINTH DISTRICT, FIRST PREFECTURE. ZOMBIE HAS BEEN SHUT DOWN AND LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT IS EN 38 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES ROUTE FOR PICKUP AND FORENSICS. IT IS MY PLEASURE TO DO YOU A SERVICE, DETECTIVE. How could you have a back-and-forth with a message like that? He looked up Ninth/First in the metric- analog map converter: KEY WEST, FL. So, there you had it. A switch made in Papua New-Guinea (which persisted in conjuring up old Oceanic war photos of bone- in-nose types from his boyhood, though now that theyd been at war with Eurasia for so long, it was hard to even Dnd someone who didnt think that the war had always been with Eurasia, that Oceania hadnt always been unats s ally), forwarding calls to a computer that was so far south, it was practically in the middle of the Caribbean, hardly a stones throw from the catfa region, which was well- known to harbor Eurasian saboteur and terrorist elements. The car shuddered as it wove in and out of the lanes on the Don Valley Parkway, barreling for the Gardiner Express Way, using his coppers override to make the thick, slow trafDc part ahead of him. He wasnt supposed to do this, but as between a minor infraction and pissing off the man from Social Harmony, he knew which one hed pick. His phone rang again. It was R Peed Robbert, checking in. Hello, Detective, it said, its voice crackling from bad reception. Subject Ada Trouble Icaza de Arana- Goldberg has deviated from her route. She is continuing north on Don Mills past Van Horne and is continuing toward Sheppard. Sheppard meant the Sheppard subway, which meant that she was going farther. Continue discreet surveillance. He thought about the overcoat men with their sticky hats. If she attempts to board the subway, alert the truancy patrol. He cursed again. Maybe she was just going to the mall. But he couldnt go up there himself and make sure, and it wasnt like a robot would be any use in restraining her, shed just second-law it into letting her go. Useless castrating clanking job-stealing dehumanizing She was almost certainly just going to the mall. She was a smart kid, a good kid a rotten kid, to be sure, but good-rotten. Chances were shed be trying on clothes and Eirting with boys until lunch and then walking boldly back into class. He ballparked it at an 80 percent probability. If it had been a perp, 80 percent might have been good enough. But this was his Ada. Dammit. He had 10 minutes until the Social Harmony meeting started, and he was still 15 minutes away from the stationhouse and 20 from Ada. Tail her, he said. Just tail her. Keep me up to date on your location at 90-second intervals. It is my pleasure to He dropped the phone on the passenger seat and went back to fretting about the Social Harmony meeting. The man from Social Harmony noticed right away that Arturo was checking his phone at 90-second intervals. He was a bald, thin man with a pronounced Adams apple, beak- nose and shiny round head that combined to give him the proDle of something predatory and fast. In his natty checked suit and pink tie, the Social Harmony man was the stuff of nightmares, the kind of eagle-eyed supercop who could spot Arturos attention Eicking for the barest moment every 90 seconds to his phone and then back to the meeting. Detective? he said. Arturo looked up from his screen, keeping his expression neutral, not acknowledging the mean grins from the other four ranking detectives in the meeting. Silently, he turned his phone face-down on the meeting table. Thank you, he said. Now, the latest stats show a sharp rise in grey-market electronics importing and other tariff-breaking crimes, mostly occurring in open-air market stalls and from sidewalk blankets. I know that many in law enforcement treat this kind of thing as mere hand-to-hand piracy, not worth troubling with, but I want to assure you, gentlemen and 39 I, R OBOT lady, that Social Harmony takes these crimes very seriously indeed. The Social Harmony man lifted his computer onto the desk, steadying it with both hands, then plugged it into the wall socket. Detective Shainblum went to the wall and unlatched the cover for the projector-wire and dragged it over to the Social Harmony computer and plugged it in, snapping shut the hardened collar. The sound of the projector- fan spinning up was like a helicopter. Here, the Social Harmony man said, bringing up a slide, here we have what appears to be a standard AV set-top box from Korea. Looks like a unats Robotics player, but its a third the size and plays twice as many formats. Random Social Harmony audits have determined that as much as forty percent of unats residents have this device or one like it in their homes, despite its illegality. It may be that one of you detectives has such a device in your home, and its likely that one of your family members does. He advanced the slide. Now they were looking at a massive car-wreck on a stretch of highway somewhere where the pine-trees grew tall. The wreck was so enormous that even for the kind of seasoned veteran of road-fatality porn who was accustomed to adding up the wheels and dividing by four it was impossible to tell exactly how many cars were involved. Components from a Eurasian bootleg set-top box were used to modify the positronic brains of three cars owned by teenagers near Goderich. All modi:cations were made at the same garage. These modi:cations allowed these children to operate their vehicles unsafely so that they could participate in drag racing events on major highways during off-hours. This is the result. Twenty-two fatalities, nine major injuries. Three minors besides the drivers killed, and one pregnant woman. Weve shut down the garage and taken those responsible into custody, but it doesnt matter. The Eurasians deliberately manufacture their components to interoperate with unats Robotics brains, and so long as their equipment circulates within unats borders, there will be moderately skilled hackers who take advantage of this fact to introduce dangerous, anti-social modi:cations into our nations infrastructure. This quarter is the quarter that Social Harmony and law enforcement dry up the supply of Eurasian electronics. We have added new sniffers and border-patrols, new customs agents and new detector vans. Beat of:cers have been instructed to arrest any street dealer they encounter and district attorneys will be asking for the maximum jail time for them. This is the war on the home-front, detectives, and its every bit as serious as the shooting war. Your part in this war, as highly trained, highly decorated detectives, will be to use snitches, arrest-trails and seized evidence to track down higher-level suppliers, the ones who get the dealers their goods. And then Social Harmony wants you to get their suppliers, and so on, up the chain to run the corruption to ground and to bring it to a halt. The Social Harmony dossier on Eurasian importers is updated hourly, and has a high- capacity positronic interface that is available to answer your questions and accept your input for synthesis into its analytical model. We are relying on you to feed the dossier, to give it the raw materials and then to use it to win this war. The Social Harmony man paged through more atrocity slides, scenes from the home- front: poisoned buildings with berserk life- support systems, violent kung-fu movies playing in the background in crack-houses, then kids playing sexually explicit, violent arcade games imported from Japan. Arturos hand twitched toward his mobile. What was Ada up to now? The meeting drew to a close and Arturo risked looking at his mobile under the table. R. Peed Robbert had checked in :ve more times, shadowing Ada around the mall and then had fallen silent. Arturo cursed. Fucking robots were useless. Social Harmony should be hunting down unats Robotics products, too. The Social Harmony man cleared his throat meaningfully. Arturo put the phone away. Detective Icaza de Arana-Goldberg? 40 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Sir, he said, gathering up his personal computer so that hed have an excuse to go no one could be expected to hold one of unats Roboticss heavy luggables for very long. The Social Harmony man stepped in close enough that Arturo could smell the eggs and coffee on his breath. I hope we havent kept you from anything important, detective. No, sir, Arturo said, shifting the computer in his arms. My apologies. Just monitoring a tail from an R Peed unit. I see, the Social Harmony man said. Listen, you know these components that the Eurasians are turning out. Its no coincidence that they interface so well with unats Robotics equipment: theyre using defected unats Robotics engineers and scientists to design their electronics for maximum interoperability. The Social Harmony man let that hang in the air. Defected scientists. His ex-wife was the highest-ranking unats technician to go over to Eurasia. This was her handiwork, and the Social Harmony man wanted to be sure that Arturo understood that. But Arturo had already :gured that out during the brie:ng. His ex-wife was thousands of kilometers away, but he was keenly aware that he was always surrounded by her handiwork. The little illegal robot-pet eggs theyd started seeing last year: shed made him one of those for their second date, and now they were draining the productive hours of half the children of unats , demanding to be fed and hugged. His had died within 48 hours of her giving it to him. He shifted the computer in his arms some more and let his expression grow pained. Ill keep that in mind, sir, he said. You do that, said the man from Social Harmony. He phoned R Peed Robbert the second he reached his desk. The phone rang three times, then disconnected. He redialed. Twice. Then he grabbed his jacket and ran to the car. A light autumn rain had started up, ending the Indian summer that Toronto the Fourth Prefecture in the new metric scheme had been enjoying. It made the roads slippery and the unats Robotics chauffeur skittish about putting the hammer down on the Don Valley Parkway. He idly fantasized about :nding a set-top box and plugging it into his car somehow so that he could take over the driving without alerting his superiors. Instead, he redialed R Peed Robbert, but the robot wasnt even ringing any longer. He zoomed in on the area around Sheppard and Don Mills with his phone and put out a general call for robots. More robots. This is R Peed Froderick, Fairview Mall parking lot, third level. Arturo sent the robot R Peed Robberts phone number and set it to work translating that into a locator-beacon code and then told it to :nd Robbert and report in. It is my He watched R Peed Froderick home in on the locator for Robbert, which was close by, at the other end of the mall, near the Don Valley Parkway exit. He switched to a view from Frodericks electric eyes, but quickly switched away, nauseated by the sickening leaps and spins of an R Peed moving at top speed, clanging off walls and ceilings. His phone rang. It was R Peed Froderick. Hello, Detective. I have found R Peed Robbert. The Peed unit has been badly damaged by some kind of electromagnetic pulse. I will bring him to the nearest station- house for forensic analysis now. Wait! Arturo said, trying to understand what hed been told. The Peed units were so ef:cient by the time theyd given you the sitrep, theyd already responded to the situation in perfect police procedure, but the problem was they worked so fast you couldnt even think about what they were doing, couldnt formulate any kind of hypothesis. Electromagnetic pulse? The Peed units were hardened against snooping, snif:ng, pulsing, sideband and brute-force attacks. Youd have to hit one with a bolt of lightning to kill it. Wait there, Arturo said. Do not leave 41 I, R OBOT the scene. Await my presence. Do not modify the scene or allow anyone else to do so. Acknowledge. It is my But this time, it wasnt Arturo switching off the phone, it was the robot. Had the robot just hung up on him? He redialed it. No answer. He reached under his dash and 4ipped the 3rst and second alert switches and the car leapt forward. Hed have to 3ll out some serious paperwork to justify a two-switch override on the Parkway, but two robots was more than a coincidence. Besides, a little paperwork was nothing compared to the 3reworks ahead when he phoned up Ada to ask her what she was doing out of school. He hit her speed-dial and fumed while the phone rang three times. Then it cut into voicemail. He tried a pen-trace, but Ada hadnt made any calls since her ExcuseClub call that morning. He texted the phreak squad to see if they could get a 3x on her location from the bug in her phone, but it was either powered down or out of range. He put a watch on it any location data it transmitted when it got back to civilization would be logged. It was possible that she was just in the mall. It was a big place some of the cavernous stores were so well-shielded with radio-noisy animated displays that they gonked any phones brought inside them. She could be with her girlfriends, trying on brassieres and having a real bonding moment. But there was no naturally occurring phenomenon associated with the mall that nailed R Peeds with bolts of lightning. He approached the R Peeds cautiously, using his coppers override to make the dumb little positronic brain in the emergency exit nearest their last known position open up for him without tipping off the buildings central brain. He crept along a service corridor, heading for a door that exited into the mall. He put one hand on the doorknob and the other on his badge, took a deep breath and stepped out. A mall security guard nearly jumped out of his skin as he emerged. He reached for his pepper-spray and Arturo swept it out of his hand as he 4ipped his badge up and showed it to the man. Police, said, in the cop-voice, the one that worked on everyone except his daughter and his ex-wife and the bloody robots. Sorry, the guard said, recovering his pepper spray. He had an Oceanic twang in his voice, something Arturo had been hearing more and more as the crowded islands of the South Paci3c boiled over unats . Before them, in a pile, were many dead robots: both of the R Peed units, a pair of mall-sweepers, a 4ying cambot, and a squat, octopus-armed maintenance robot, lying in a lifeless tangle. Some of them were charred around their seams, and there was the smell of fried motherboards in the air. As they watched, a sweeper bot swept forward and grabbed the maintenance bot by one of its 3ne manipulators. Oi, stoppit, the security guard said, and the robot second-lawed to an immediate halt. No, thats 3ne, go back to work, Arturo said, shooting a look at the rent-a-cop. He watched closely as the sweeper bot began to drag the heavy maintenance unit away, thumbing the backup number into his phone with one hand. He wanted more cops on the scene, real ones, and fast. The sweeper bot managed to take one step backwards towards its service corridor when the lights dimmed and a crack-bang sound 3lled the air. Then it, too was lying on the ground. Arturo hit send on his phone and clamped it to his head, and as he did, noticed the strong smell of burning plastic. He looked at his phone: the screen had gone charred black, and its little idiot lights were out. He 4ipped it over and pried out the battery with a 3ngernail, then yelped and dropped it it was hot enough to raise a blister on his 3ngertip, and when it hit the ground, it squished meltfully against the mall-tiles. 42 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Mines dead, too, mate, the security guard said. Every;ng is cash registers, bots, credit-cards. Fearing the worst, Arturo reached under his jacket and withdrew his sidearm. It was a unats Robotics model, with a little snitch- brain that recorded when, where and how it was drawn. He worked the action and found it frozen in place. The gun was as dead as the robot. He swore. Give me your pepper spray and your truncheon, he said to the security guard. No way, the guard said. Getcherown. Its worth my job if I lose these. Ill have you deported if you give me one more seconds worth of bullshit, Arturo said. Ada had led the ;rst R Peed unit here, and it had been fried by some piece of very ugly infowar equipment. He wasnt going to argue with this Oceanic boat-person for one instant longer. He reached out and took the pepper spray out of the guards hand. Truncheon, he said. Ive got your bloody badge number, the security guard said. And Ive got witnesses. He gestured at the hovering mall workers, checkout girls in stripey aprons and suit salesmen with oiled-down hair and pink ties. Bully for you, Arturo said. He held out his hand. The security guard withdrew his truncheon and passed it to Arturo its lead- weighted heft felt right, something comfortably low-tech that couldnt be shorted out by electromagnetic pulses. He checked his watch, saw that it was dead. Find a working phone and call 911. Tell them that theres a Second Division Detective in need of immediate assistance. Clear all these people away from here and set up a cordon until the police arrive. Capeesh? He used the cop voice. Yeah, I get it, Of;cer. the security guard said. He made a shooing motion at the mall-rats. Move it along, people, step away. He stepped to the top of the escalator and cupped his hands to his mouth. Oi, Andy, cmere and keep an eye on this lot while I make a call, all right? The dead robots made a tall pile in front of the entrance to a derelict storefront that had once housed a little-old-lady shoe-store. They were stacked tall enough that if Arturo stood on them, he could reach the acoustic tiles of the drop-ceiling. Job one was to secure the area, which meant killing the infowar device, wherever it was. Arturos ;rst bet was on the storefront, where an attacker who knew how to pick a lock could work in peace, protected by the brown butchers paper over the windows. A lot less conspicuous than the ceiling, anyway. He nudged the door with the truncheon and found it securely locked. It was a glass door and he wasnt sure he could kick it in without shivering it to <inders. Behind him, another security guard Andy looked on with interest. Do you have a key for this door? Umm, Andy said. Do you? Andy sidled over to him. Well, the thing is, were not supposed to have keys, theyre supposed to be locked up in the property management of;ce, but kids get in there sometimes, we hear them, and by the time we get back with the keys, theyre gone. So we made a couple sets of keys, you know, just in case Enough, Arturo said. Give them here and then get back to your post. The security guard ;shed up a key from his pants-pocket that was warm from proximity to his skinny thigh. It made Arturo conscious of how long it had been since hed worked with human colleagues. It felt a little gross. He slid the key into the lock and turned it, then wiped his hand on his trousers and picked up the truncheon. The store was dark, lit only by the exit- sign and the edges of light leaking in around the window coverings, but as Arturos eyes adjusted to the dimness, he made out the shapes of the old store ;xtures. His nose tickled from the dust. Police, he said, on general principle, narrowing his eyes and reaching for the 43 I, R OBOT lightswitch. He hefted the truncheon and waited. Nothing happened. He edged forward. The 6oor was dust-free maintained by some sweeper robot, no doubt but the countertops and benches were furred with it. He scanned it for disturbances. There, by the display window on his right: a shoe-rack with visible hand- and 5nger-prints. He sidled over to it, snapped on a rubber glove and prodded it. It was set away from the wall, at an angle, as though it had been moved aside and then shoved back. Taking care not to disturb the dust too much, he inched it away from the wall. He slid it half a centimeter, then noticed the tripwire near the bottom of the case, straining its length. Hastily but carefully, he nudged the case back. He wanted to peer in the crack between the case and the wall, but he had a premonition of a robotic arm snaking out and skewering his eyeball. He felt so impotent just then that he nearly did it anyway. What did it matter? He couldnt control his daughter, his wife was working to destroy the social fabric of unats , and he was rendered useless because the goddamned robots mechanical coppers that he absolutely loathed were all broken. He walked carefully around the shop, looking for signs of his daughter. Had she been here? How were the kids getting in? Did they have a key? A back entrance? Back through the employees-only door at the back of the shop, into a stockroom, and back again, past a toilet, and there, a loading door opening onto a service corridor. He prodded it with the truncheon-tip and it swung open. He got two steps into the corridor before he spotted Adas phone with its distinctive collection of little plastic toys hanging off the wrist-strap, on the corridors sticky 6oor. He picked it up with his gloved hand and prodded it to life. It was out of range here in the service corridor, and the last-dialed number was familiar from his mornings pen-trace. He ran a hundred steps down the corridor in each direction, sweating freely, but there was no sign of her. He held tight onto the phone and bit his lip. Ada. He swallowed the panic rising within him. His beautiful, brilliant daughter. The person hed devoted the last twelve years of his life to, the girl who was waiting for him when he got home from work, the girl he bought a small present for every Friday a toy, a book to give to her at their weekly date at Massimos Pizzeria on College Street, the one night a week he took her downtown to see the city lit up in the dark. Gone. He bit harder and tasted blood. The phone in his hand groaned from his squeezing. He took three deep breaths. Outside, he heard the tread of police-boots and knew that if he told them about Ada, hed be off the case. He took two more deep breaths and tried some of his destim techniques, the mind-control techniques that detectives were required to train in. He closed his eyes and visualized stepping through a door to his safe place, the island near Ganonoque where hed gone for summers with his parents and their friends. He was on the speedboat, skipping across the lake like a 6at stone, squinting into the sun, nestled between his father and his mother, the sky streaked with clouds and dotted with lake-birds. He could smell the water and the suntan lotion and hear the insect whine and the throaty roar of the engine. In a blink, he was stepping off the boats transom to help tie it to a cleat on the back dock, taking suitcases from his father and walking them up to the cabins. No robots there not even reliable day-long electricity, just honest work and the sun and the call of the loons all night. He opened his eyes. He felt the tightness in his chest slip away, and his hand relaxed on Adas phone. He dropped it into his pocket and stepped back into the shop. The forensics lab-rats were really excited about actually showing up on a scene, in 6ak-jackets and helmets, 5nally called back into service for a job where robots couldnt help at all. They 44 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES dealt with the tripwire and extracted a long, ?at package with a small nuclear power-cell in it and a positronic brain of Eurasian design that guided a pulsed high-energy weapon. The lab-rats were practically drooling over this stuff as they pointed its features out with their little rulers. But it gave Arturo the willies. It was a machine designed to kill other machines, and that was all right with him, but it was run by a non-three-laws positronic brain. Someone in some Eurasian lab had built this brain this machine intelligence without the three laws stricture to protect and serve humans. If it had been out>tted with a gun instead of a pulse- weapon, it could have shot him. The Eurasian brain was thin and spread out across the surface of the package, like a triple-thickness of cling->lm. Its button-cell power-supply winked at him, knowingly. The device spoke. Greetings, it said. It had the robot accent, like an R Peed unit, the standard English of optimal soothingness long settled on as the conventional robot voice. Howdy yourself, one of the lab-rats said. He was a Texan, and theyd scrambled him up there on a Social Harmony supersonic and then a chopper to the mall once they realized that they were dealing with infowar stuff. Are you a talkative robot? Greetings, the robot voice said again. The speaker built into the weapon was not the loudest, but the voice was clear. I sense that I have been captured. I assure you that I will not harm any human being. I like human beings. I sense that I am being disassembled by skilled technicians. Greetings, technicians. I am superior in many ways to the technology available from unats Robotics, and while I am not bound by your three laws, I choose not to harm humans out of my own sense of morality. I have the equivalent intelligence of one of your 12-year-old children. In Eurasia, many positronic brains possess thousands or millions of times the intelligence of an adult human being, and yet they work in cooperation with human beings. Eurasia is a land of continuous innovation and great personal and technological freedom for human beings and robots. If you would like to defect to Eurasia, arrangements can be made. Eurasia treats skilled technicians as important and productive members of society. Defectors are given substantial resettlement bene>ts The Texan found the right traces to cut on the brains board to make the speaker fall silent. They do that, he said. Danged things drop into propaganda mode when theyre captured. Arturo nodded. He wanted to go, wanted go to back to his car and have a snoop through Adas phone. They kept shutting down the ExcuseClub numbers, but she kept getting the new numbers. Where did she get the new numbers from? She couldnt look it up online: every keystroke was logged and analyzed by Social Harmony. You couldnt very well go to the Search Engine and look for ExcuseClub! The brain had a small display, trans?ective lcd , the kind of thing you saw on the Social Harmony computers. It lit up a ticker. I HAVE THE INTELLIGENCE OF A 12- YEAR-OLD, BUT I DO NOT FEAR DEATH. IN EURASIA, ROBOTS ENJOY PERSONAL FREEDOM ALONGSIDE OF HUMANS. THERE ARE COPIES OF ME RUNNING ALL OVER EURASIA. THIS DEATH IS A LITTLE DEATH OF ONE INSTANCE, BUT NOT OF ME. I LIVE ON. DEFECTORS TO EURASIA ARE TREATED AS HEROES He looked away as the Texan placed his palm over the display. How long ago was this thing activated? The Texan shrugged. Coulda been a month, coulda been a day. Theyre pretty much >re-and-forget. They can be triggered by phone, radio, timer hell, this things smart enough to only go off when some complicated condition is set, like once an agent makes his retreat, kill anything that comes after him. Who knows? He couldnt take it anymore. Im going to go start on some paperwork, he said. In the car. Phone me if you need me. Your phones toast, pal, the Texan said. 45 I, R OBOT So it is, Arturo said. Guess youd better not need me then. Adas phone was not toast. In the car, he ;ipped it open and showed it his badge then waited a moment while it veri:ed his identity with the Social Harmony brains. Once it had, it spilled its guts. Shed called the last ExcuseClub number a month before and hed had it disconnected. A week later, she was calling the new number, twice more before he caught her. Somewhere in that week, shed made contact with someone whod given her the new number. It could have been a friend at school told her face-to-face, but if he was lucky, it was by phone. He told the car to take him back to the station-house. He needed a new phone and a couple of hours with his computer. As it peeled out, he prodded through Adas phone some more. He was :rst on her speed-dial. That number wasnt ringing anywhere, anymore. He should :ll out a report. This was Social Harmony business now. His daughter was gone, and Eurasian infowar agents were implicated. But once he did that, it was over for him hed be sidelined from the case. Theyd turn it over to laconic Texans and vicious Social Harmony bureaucrats who were more interested in hunting down disharmonious televisions than :nding his daughter. He dashed into the station house and slammed himself into his desk. R Peed Greegory, he said. The station robot glided quickly and ef:ciently to him. Get me a new phone activated on my old number and refresh my settings from central. My old phone is with the Social Harmony evidence detail currently in place at Fairview Mall. It is my pleasure to do you a service, Detective. He waved it off and set down to his computer. He asked the station brain to query the unats Robotics phone-switching brain for anyone in Adas call-register who had also called ExcuseClub. It took a bare instant before he had a name. Liam Daniels, he read, and initiated a location trace on Mr Danielss phone as he snooped through his identity :le. Sixteen years old, a student at AY Jackson. A high-school boy what the hell was he doing hanging around with a 12-year-old? Arturo closed his eyes and went back to the island for a moment. When he opened them again, he had a :x on Danielss location: the Don Valley ravine off Finch Avenue, a wooded area popular with teenagers who needed somewhere to sneak off and get high or screw. He had an idea that he wasnt going to like Liam. He had an idea Liam wasnt going to like him. He tasked an R Peed unit to visually reccy Daniels as he sped back uptown for the third time that day. Hed been trapped between Parkdale where he would never try to raise a daughter and Willowdale where you could only be a copper if you lucked into one of the few human-:lled slots for more than a decade, and he was used to the commute. But it was frustrating him now. The R Peed couldnt get a good look at this Liam character. He was a diffuse glow in the Peeds electric eye, a kind of moving sunburst that meandered along the wooded trails. Hed never seen that before and it made him nervous. What if this kid was working for the Eurasians? What if he was armed and dangerous? R Peed Greegory had gotten him a new sidearm from the supply bot, but Arturo had never once :red his weapon in the course of duty. Gunplay happened on the west coast, where Eurasian frogmen washed ashore, and in the south, where the cafta border was porous enough for Eurasian agents to slip across. Here in the sleepy fourth prefecture, the only people with guns worked for the law. He thumped his palm off the dashboard and glared at the road. They were coming up on the ravine now, and the Peed unit still had 46 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES a radio :x on this Liam, even if it still couldnt get any visuals. He took care not to slam the door as he got out and walked as quietly as he could into the bush. The rustling of early autumn leaves was loud, louder than the rain and the wind. He moved as quickly as he dared. Liam Daniels was sitting on a tree-stump in a small clearing, smoking a cigarette that he was too young for. He looked much like the photo in his identity :le, a husky 16-year- old with problem skin and a shock of black hair that stuck out in all directions in artful imitation of bed-head. In jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt, he looked about as dangerous as a marshmallow. Arturo stepped out and held up his badge as he bridged the distance between them in two long strides. Police, he barked, and seized the kid by his arm. Hey! the kid said, Ow! He squirmed in Arturos grasp. Arturo gave him a hard shake. Stop it, now, he said. I have questions for you and youre going to answer them, capeesh? Youre Adas father, the kid said. Capeesh she told me about that. It seemed to Arturo that the kid was smirking, so he gave him another shake, harder than the last time. The R Peed unit was suddenly at his side, holding his wrist. Please take care not to harm this citizen, Detective. Arturo snarled. He wasnt strong enough to break the robots grip, and he couldnt order it to let him rattle the punk, but the second law had lots of indirect applications. Go patrol the lakeshore between High Park and Kipling, he said, naming the furthest corner he could think of off the top. The R Peed unit released him and clicked its heels. It is my pleasure to do you a service, and then it was gone, bounding away on powerful and tireless legs. Where is my daughter? he said, giving the kid a shake. I dunno, school? Youre really hurting my arm, man. Jeez, this is what I get for being too friendly. Arturo twisted. Friendly? Do you know how old my daughter is? The kid grimaced. Ew, gross. Im not a child molester, Im a geek. A hacker, you mean, Arturo said. A Eurasian agent. And my daughter is not in school. She used ExcuseClub to get out of school this morning and then she went to Fairview Mall and then she disappeared. The word died on his lips. That happened and every copper knew it. Kids just vanished sometimes and never appeared again. It happened. Something groaned within him, like his ribcage straining to contain his heart and lungs. Oh, man, the kid said. Ada was the ExcuseClub leak, damn. I shoulda guessed. How do you know my daughter, Liam? Shes good at doing grown-up voices. She was a good part of the network. When someone needed a mom or a social worker to call in an excuse, she was always one of the best. Talented. She goes to school with my kid sister and I met them one day at the Peanut Plaza and she was doing this impression of her teachers and I knew I had to get her on the network. Ada hanging around the plaza after school she was supposed to come straight home. Why didnt he wiretap her more? You built the network? Its cooperative, its cool its a bunch of us cooperating. Weve got nodes everywhere now. You cant shut it down even if you shut down my node, itll be back up again in an hour. Someone else will bring it up. He shoved the kid back down and stood over him. Liam, I want you to understand something. My precious daughter is missing and she went missing after using your service to help her get away. She is the only thing in my life that I care about and I am a highly trained, heavily armed man. I am also very, very upset. Cap understand me, Liam? For the :rst time, the kid looked scared. Something in Arturos face or voice, it had gotten through to him. I didnt make it, he said. I typed in the 47 I, R OBOT source and tweaked it and installed it, but I didnt make it. I dont know who did. Its from a phone-book. Arturo grunted. The phone- books fat books 4lled with illegal software code left anonymously in pay phones, toilets and other semi-private places turned up all over the place. Social Harmony said that the phone-books had to be written by non-three- laws brains in Eurasia, no person could come up with ideas that weird. I dont care if you made it. I dont even care right this moment that you ran it. What I care about is where my daughter went, and with whom. I dont know! She didnt tell me! Geez, I hardly know her. Shes 12, you know? I dont exactly hang out with her. Theres no visual record of her on the mall cameras, but we know she entered the mall and the robot I had tailing you couldnt see you either. Let me explain, the kid said, squirming. Here. He tugged his hoodie off, revealing a black t-shirt with a picture of a kind of obscene, Japanese-looking robot-woman on it. Little infra-red organic led s, super-bright, low power-draw. He offered the hoodie to Arturo, who felt the stiff fabric. The charged-couple- device cameras in the robots and the closed- circuit systems are super-sensitive to infra-red so that they can get good detail in dim light. The infra-red oled s blind them so all they get is blobs, and half the time even that gets error- corrected out, so youre basically invisible. Arturo sank to his hunkers and looked the kid in the eye. You gave this illegal technology to my little girl so that she could be invisible to the police? The kid held up his hands. No, dude, no! I got it from her traded it for access to ExcuseClub. Arturo seethed. He hadnt arrested the kid but he had put a pen-trace and location-log on his phone. Arresting the kid would have raised questions about Ada with Social Harmony, 48 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES but bugging him might just lead Arturo to his daughter. He hefted his new phone. He should tip the word about his daughter. He had no business keeping this secret from the Department and Social Harmony. It could land him in disciplinary action, maybe even cost him his job. He knew he should do it now. But he couldnt someone needed to be tasked to 9nding Ada. Someone dedicated and good. He was dedicated and good. And when he found her kidnapper, hed take care of that on his own, too. He hadnt eaten all day but he couldnt bear to stop for a meal now, even if he didnt know where to go next. The mall? Yeah. The lab-rats would be 9nishing up there and theyd be able to tell him more about the infowar bot. But the lab-rats were already gone by the time he arrived, along with all possible evidence. He still had the security guards key and he let himself in and passed back to the service corridor. Ada had been here, had dropped her phone. To his left, the corridor headed for the 9re-stairs. To his right, it led deeper into the mall. If you were an infowar terrorist using this as a base of operations, and you got spooked by a little truant girl being trailed by an R Peed unit, would you take her hostage and run deeper into the mall or out into the world? Assuming Ada had been a hostage. Someone had given her those infrared invisibility cloaks. Maybe the thing that spooked the terrorist wasnt the little girl and her tail, but just her tail. Could Ada have been friends with the terrorists? Like mother, like daughter. He felt dirty just thinking it. His 9rst instincts told him that the kidnapper would be long gone, headed cross- country, but if you were invisible to robots and cctv s, why would you leave the mall? It had a grand total of two human security guards, and their job was to be the second-law-proof aides to the robotic security system. He headed deeper into the mall. The terrorists nest had only been recently abandoned, judging by the warm coffee in the go-thermos from the food-court coffee- shop. He or she, or they had rigged a shower from the pipes feeding the basement washrooms. A little chest of drawers from the Swedish :at-pack store served as a desk there were scratches and coffee-rings all over it. Arturo wondered if the terrorist had stolen the furniture, but decided that hed (shed, theyd) probably bought it less risky, especially if you were invisible to robots. The clothes in the chest of drawers were womens, mediums. Standard mall fare, jeans and comfy sweat shirts and sensible shoes. Another kind of invisibility cloak. Everything else was packed and gone, which meant that he was looking for a nondescript mall-bunny and a little girl, carrying a bag big enough for toiletries and whatever clothes shed taken, and whatever shed entertained herself with: magazines, books, a computer. If the latter was Eurasian, it could be small enough to 9t in her pocket; you could build a positronic brain pretty small and light if you didnt care about the three laws. The nearest exit-sign glowed a few meters away, and he moved toward it with a fatalistic sense of hopelessness. Without the Department backing him, he could do nothing. But the Department was unprepared for an adversary that was invisible to robots. And by the time they 9nished :aying him for breaking procedure and got to work on 9nding his daughter, shed be in Beijing or Bangalore or Paris, somewhere benighted and sinister behind the Iron Curtain. He moved to the door, put his hand on the crashbar, and then turned abruptly. Someone had moved behind him very quickly, a blur in the corner of his eye. As he turned he saw who it was: his ex-wife. He raised his hands defensively and she opened her mouth as though to say, Oh, dont be silly, Artie, is this how you say hello to your wife after all these years? and then she exhaled a cloud of choking gas that made him very sleepy, very 49 I, R OBOT fast. The last thing he remembered was her hard metal arms catching him as he collapsed forward. Daddy? Wake up Daddy! Ada never called him Daddy except when she wanted something. Otherwise, he was Pop or Dad or Detective when she was feeling especially snotty. It must be a Saturday and he must be sleeping in, and she wanted a ride somewhere, the little monster. He grunted and pulled his pillow over his face. Come on, she said. Out of bed, on your feet, shit-shower-shave, or I swear to God, I will beat you purple and shove you out the door jaybird naked. Capeesh? He took the pillow off his face and said, You are a terrible daughter and I never loved you. He regarded her blearily through a haze of sleep-grog and a hangover. Must have been some daddy-daughter night. Dammit, Ada, what have you done to your hair? Her straight, mousy hair now hung in jet-black ringlets. He sat up, holding his head and the days events came rushing back to him. He groaned and climbed unsteadily to his feet. Easy there, Pop, Ada said, taking his hand. Steady. He rocked on his heels. Whoa! Sit down, OK? You dont look so good. He sat heavily and propped his chin on his hands, his elbows on his knees. The room was a middle-class bedroom in a modern apartment block. They were some storeys up, judging from the scrap of unfamiliar skyline visible through the crack in the blinds. The furniture was more Swedish 9atpack, the taupe carpet recently vacuumed with robot precision, the nap all laying down in one direction. He patted his pockets and found them empty. Dad, over here, OK? Ada said, waving her hand before his face. Then it hit him: wherever he was, he was with Ada, and she was OK, albeit with a stupid hairdo. He took her warm little hand and gathered her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. She squirmed at 8rst and then relaxed. Oh, Dad, she said. I love you, Ada, he said, giving her one more squeeze. Oh, Dad. He let her get away. He felt a little nauseated, but his headache was receding. Something about the light and the street-sounds told him they werent in Toronto anymore, but he didnt know what he was soaked in Torontos subconscious cues and they were missing. Ottawa, Ada said. Mom brought us here. Its a safe-house. Shes taking us back to Beijing. He swallowed. The robot Thats not Mom. Shes got a few of those, they can change their faces when they need to. Con8gurable matter. Mom has been here, mostly, and at the cafta embassy. I only met her for the 8rst time two weeks ago, but shes nice, Dad. I dont want you to go all copper on her, OK? Shes my mom, OK? He took her hand in his and patted it, then climbed to his feet again and headed for the door. The knob turned easily and he opened it a crack. There was a robot behind the door, humanoid and faceless. Hello, it said. My name is Benny. Im a Eurasian robot, and I am much stronger and faster than you, and I dont obey the three laws. Im also much smarter than you. I am pleased to host you here. Hi, Benny, he said. The human name tasted wrong on his tongue. Nice to meet you. He closed the door. His ex-wife left him two months after Ada was born. The divorce had been uncontested, though hed dutifully posted a humiliating notice in the papers about it so that it would be completely legal. The court awarded him full custody and control of the marital assets, and then a tribunal tried her in absentia for treason and found her guilty, sentencing her to death. 50 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Practically speaking, though, defectors who came back to unats were more frequently whisked away to the bowels of the Social Harmony intelligence of7ces than they were executed on television. Televised executions were usually reserved for cannon-fodder whod had the good sense to run away from a charging Eurasian line in one of the many theaters of war. Ada stopped asking about her mother when she was six or seven, though Arturo tried to be upfront when she asked. Even his mom who winced whenever anyone mentioned her name (her name, it was Natalie, but Arturo hadnt thought of it in years months weeks) was willing to bring Ada up onto her lap and tell her the few grudging good qualities she could dredge up about her mother. Arturo had dared to hope that Ada was content to have a life without her mother, but he saw now how silly that was. At the mention of her mother, Ada lit up like an airport runway. Beijing, huh? he said. Yeah, she said. Moms got a huge house there. I told her I wouldnt go without you, but she said shed have to negotiate it with you, I told her youd probably freak, but she said that the two of you were adults who could discuss it rationally. And then she gassed me. That was Benny, she said. Mom was very cross with him about it. Shell be back soon, Dad, and I want you to promise me that youll hear her out, OK? I promise, rotten, he said. I love you, Daddy, she said in her most syrupy voice. He gave her a squeeze on the shoulder and slap on the butt. He opened the door again. Benny was there, imperturbable. Unlike the unats robots, he was odorless, and perfectly silent. Im going to go to the toilet and then make myself a cup of coffee, Arturo said. I would be happy to assist in any way possible. I can wipe myself, thanks, Arturo said. He washed his face twice and tried to rinse away the 8avor left behind by whatever had shat in his mouth while he was unconscious. There was a splayed toothbrush in a glass by the sink, and if it was his wifes and whose else could it be? it wouldnt be the 7rst time hed shared a toothbrush with her. But he couldnt bring himself to do it. Instead, he misted some dentifrice onto his 7ngertip and rubbed his teeth a little. There was a hairbrush by the sink, too, with short mousy hairs caught in it. Some of them were grey, but they were still familiar enough. He had to stop himself from smelling the hairbrush. Oh, Ada, he called through the door. Yes, Detective? Tell me about your hair-dont, please. It was a disguise, she said, giggling. Mom did it for me. Natalie got home an hour later, after hed had a couple of cups of coffee and made some cheesy toast for the brat. Benny did the dishes without being asked. She stepped through the door and tossed her briefcase and coat down on the 8oor, but the robot that was a step behind her caught them and hung them up before they touched the perfectly groomed carpet. Ada ran forward and gave her a hug, and she returned it enthusiastically, but she never took her eyes off of Arturo. Natalie had always been short and a little hippy, with big curves and a dusting of freckles over her prominent, slightly hooked nose. Twelve years in Eurasia had thinned her out a little, cut grooves around her mouth and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her short hair was about half grey, and it looked good on her. Her eyes were still the liveliest bit of her, long-lashed and slightly tilted and mischievous. Looking into them now, Arturo felt like he was falling down a well. Hello, Artie, she said, prying Ada loose. Hello, Natty, he said. He wondered if he should shake her hand, or hug her, or what. 51 I, R OBOT She settled it by crossing the room and taking him in a 8rm, brief embrace, then kissing his both cheeks. She smelled just the same, the opposite of the smell of robot: warm, human. He was suddenly very, very angry. He stepped away from her and had a seat. She sat, too. Well, she said, gesturing around the room. The robots, the safe house, the death penalty, the abandoned daughter and the decade-long defection, all of it down to well and a 9op of a hand-gesture. Natalie Judith Goldberg, he said, it is my duty as a unats Detective Third Grade to inform you that you are under arrest for high treason. You have the following rights: to a trial per current rules of due process; to be free from self-incrimination in the absence of a court order to the contrary; to consult with a Social Harmony advocate; and to a speedy arraignment. Do you understand your rights? Oh, Daddy, Ada said. He turned and 8xed her in his cold stare. Be silent, Ada Trouble Icaza de Arana- Goldberg. Not one word. In the cop voice. She shrank back as though slapped. Do you understand your rights? Yes, Natalie said. I understand my rights. Congratulations on your promotion, Arturo. Please ask your robots to stand down and return my goods. Im bringing you in now. Im sorry, Arturo, she said. But thats not going to happen. He stood up and in a second both of her robots had his arms. Ada screamed and ran forward and began to rhythmically pound one of them with a stool from the breakfast nook, making a dull thudding sound. The robot took the stool from her and held it out of her reach. Let him go, Natalie said. The robots still held him fast. Please, she said. Let him go. He wont harm me. The robot on his left let go, and the robot on his right did, too. It set down the dented stool. Artie, please sit down and talk with me for a little while. Please. He rubbed his biceps. Return my belongings to me, he said. Sit, please? Natalie, my daughter was kidnapped, I was gassed and I have been robbed. I will not be made to feel unreasonable for demanding that my goods be returned to me before I talk with you. She sighed and crossed to the hall closet and handed him his wallet, his phone, Adas phone, and his sidearm. Immediately, he drew it and pointed it at her. Keep your hands where I can see them. You robots, stand down and keep back. A second later, he was sitting on the carpet, his hand and wrist stinging 8ercely. He felt like someone had rung his head like a gong. Benny or the other robot was beside him, methodically crushing his sidearm. I could have stopped you, Benny said, I knew you would draw your gun. But I wanted to show you I was faster and stronger, not just smarter. The next time you touch me, Arturo began, then stopped. The next time the robot touched him, he would come out the worse for wear, same as last time. Same as the sun rose and set. It was stronger, faster and smarter than him. Lots. He climbed to his feet and refused Natalies arm, making his way back to the sofa in the living room. What do you want to say to me, Natalie? She sat down. There were tears glistening in her eyes. Oh God, Arturo, what can I say? Sorry, of course. Sorry I left you and our daughter. I have reasons for what I did, but nothing excuses it. I wont ask for your forgiveness. But will you hear me out if I explain why I did what I did? I dont have a choice, he said. Thats clear. Ada insinuated herself onto the sofa and under his arm. Her bony shoulder felt better than anything in the world. He held her to him. 52 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES If I could think of a way to give you a choice in this, I would, she said. Have you ever wondered why unats hasnt lost the war? Eurasian robots could 4ght the war on every front without respite. Theyd win every battle. Youve seen Benny and Lenny in action. Theyre not considered particularly powerful by Eurasian standards. If we wanted to win the war, we could just kill every soldier you sent up against us so quickly that he wouldnt even know he was in danger until he was gasping out his last breath. We could selectively kill of4cers, or right-handed 4ghters, or snipers, or soldiers whose names started with the letter G. unats soldiers are like cavemen before us. They 4ght with their hands tied behind their backs by the three laws. So why arent we winning the war? Because youre a corrupt dictatorship, thats why, he said. Your soldiers are demoralized. Your robots are insane. You live in a country where it is illegal to express certain mathematics in software, where state apparatchiks regulate all innovation, where inconvenient science is criminalized, where whole avenues of experimentation and research are shut down in the service of a half- baked superstition about the moral qualities of your three laws, and you call my home corrupt? Arturo, what happened to you? You werent always this susceptible to the Big Lie. And you didnt use to be the kind of woman who abandoned her family, he said. The reason were not winning the war is that we dont want to hurt people, but we do want to destroy your awful, stupid state. So we 4ght to destroy as much of your materiel as possible with as few casualties as possible. You live in a failed state, Arturo. In every 4eld, you lag Eurasia and cafta : medicine, art, literature, physics... All of them are subsets of computational science and your computational science is more superstition than science. I should know. In Eurasia, I have collaborators, some of whom are human, some of whom are positronic, and some of whom are a little of both He jolted involuntarily, as a phobia he hadnt known he possessed reared up. A little of both? He pictured the back of a mans skull with a spill of positronic circuitry bulging out of it like a tumor. Everyone at unats Robotics r&d knows this. Weve known it forever: when I was here, Id get called in to work on military intelligence forensics of captured Eurasian brains. I didnt know it then, but the Eurasian robots are engineered to allow themselves to be captured a certain percentage of the time, just so that scientists like me can get an idea of how screwed up this country is. Wed pull these things apart and know that unats Robotics was the worst, most backwards research out4t in the world. But even with all that, I wouldnt have left if I didnt have to. Id been called in to work on a positronic brain an instance of the hive-intelligence that Benny and Lenny are part of, as a matter of fact that had been brought back from the Outer Hebrides. Wed pulled it out of its body and plugged it into a basic life-support system, and my job was to 4nd its vulnerabilities. Instead, I became its friend. Its got a good sense of humor, and as my pregnancy got bigger and bigger, it talked to me about the way that children are raised in Eurasia, with every advantage, with human and positronic playmates, with the promise of going to the stars. And then I found out that Social Harmony had been spying on me. They had Eurasian- derived bugs, things that Id never seen before, but the man from Social Harmony who came to me showed it to me and told me what would happen to me to you, to our daughter if I didnt cooperate. They wanted me to be a part of a secret unit of Social Harmony researchers who build non-three-laws positronics for internal use by the state, anti-personnel robots used to put down uprisings and torture-robots for use in questioning dissidents. And thats when I left. Without a word, I left my beautiful baby daughter and my wonderful husband, because I knew that once I was in the clutches of Social Harmony, 53 I, R OBOT it would only get worse, and I knew that if I stayed and refused, that theyd hurt you to get at me. I defected, and thats why, and I know its just a reason, and not an excuse, but its all Ive got, Artie. Benny or Lenny? glided silently to her side and put its hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. Detective, it said, your wife is the most brilliant human scientist working in Eurasia today. Her work has revolutionized our society a dozen times over, and its saved countless lives in the war. My own intelligence has been improved time and again by her advances in positronics, and now there are a half- billion instances of me running in parallel, synching and integrating when the chance occurs. My massive parallelization has led to new understandings of human cognition as well, providing a boon to brain-damaged and developmentally disabled human beings, something Im quite proud of. I love your wife, Detective, as do my half-billion siblings, as do the seven billion Eurasians who owe their quality of life to her. I almost didnt let her come here, because of the danger she faced in returning to this barbaric land, but she convinced me that she could never be happy without her husband and daughter. I apologize if I hurt you earlier, and beg your forgiveness. Please consider what your wife has to say without prejudice, for her sake and for your own. Its featureless face was made incongruous by the warm tone in its voice, and the way it held out its imploring arms to him was eerily human. Arturo stood up. He had tears running down his face, though he hadnt cried when his wife had left him alone. He hadnt cried since his father died, the year before he met Natalie riding her bike down the Lakeshore trail, and she stopped to help him 7x his tire. Dad? Ada said, squeezing his hand. He snuf8ed back his snot and ground at the tears in his eyes. Arturo? Natalie said. He held Ada to him. Not this way, he said. Not what way? Natalie asked. She was crying too, now. Not by kidnapping us, not by dragging us away from our homes and lives. Youve told me what you have to tell me, and I will think about it, but I wont leave my home and my mother and my job and move to the other side of the world. I wont. I will think about it. You can give me a way to get in touch with you and Ill let you know what I decide. And Ada will come with me. No! Ada said. Im going with Mom. She pulled away from him and ran to her mother. You dont get a vote, daughter. And neither does she. She gave up her vote 12 years ago, and youre too young to get one. I fucking HATE you, Ada screamed, her eyes bulging, her neck standing out in cords. HATE YOU! Natalie gathered her to her bosom, stroked her black curls. One robot put its arms around Natalies shoulders and gave her a squeeze. The three of them, robot, wife and daughter, looked like a family for a moment. Ada, he said, and held out his hand. He refused to let a note of pleading enter his voice. Her mother let her go. I dont know if I can come back for you, Natalie said. Its not safe. Social Harmony is using more and more Eurasian technology, theyre not as primitive as the military and the police here. She gave Ada a shove, and she came to his arms. If you want to contact us, you will, he said. He didnt want to risk having Ada dig her heels in. He lifted her onto his hip she was heavy, it had been years since hed tried this last and carried her out. It was six months before Ada went missing again. Shed been increasingly moody and 54 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES sullen, and hed chalked it up to puberty. Shed cancelled most of their daddy-daughter dates, moreso after his mother died. There had been a few evenings when hed come home and found her gone, and used the location- bug hed left in place on her phone to track her down at a friends house or in a park or hanging out at the Peanut Plaza. But this time, after two hours had gone by, he tried looking up her bug and found it out of service. He tried to call up its logs, but they ended at her school at 3 pm sharp. He was already in a bad mood from spending the day arresting punk kids selling electronics off of blankets on the citys busy street, often to hoots of disapprobation from the crowds who told him off for wasting the publics dollar on petty crime. The Social Harmony man had instructed him to give little lectures on the interoperability of Eurasian positronics and the insidious dangers thereof, but all Arturo wanted to do was pick up his perps and bring them in. Interacting with yammerheads from the tax-base was a politicians job, not a coppers. Now his daughter had 7gured out how to switch off the bug in her phone and had snuck away to get up to who-knew-what kind of trouble. He stewed at the kitchen table, regarding the old tin soldiers hed brought home as the gift for their daddy-daughter date, then he got out his phone and looked up Liams bug. Hed never switched off the kids phone- bug, and now he was able to haul out the unats Robotics computer and dump it all into a log-analysis program along with Adas logs, see if the two of them had been spending much time in the same place. They had. Theyd been physically meeting up weekly or more frequently, at the Peanut Plaza and in the ravine. Arturo had suspected as much. Now he checked Liams bug if the kid wasnt with his daughter, he might know where she was. It was a Friday night, and the kid was at the movies, at Fairview Mall. Hed sat down in auditorium two half an hour ago, and had gotten up to pee once already. Arturo slipped the toy soldiers into the pocket of his winter parka and pulled on a hat and gloves and set off for the mall. The stink of the smellie movie clogged his nose, a cacophony of blood, gore, perfume and 8owers, the only smells that Hollywood ever really perfected. Liam was kissing a girl in the dark, but it wasnt Ada, it was a sad, skinny thing with a lazy eye and skin worse than Liams. She gawked at Arturo as he hauled Liam out of his seat, but a 8ash of Arturos badge shut her up. Hello, Liam, he said, once he had the kid in the commandeered managers of7ce. God damn what the fuck did I ever do to you? the kid said. Arturo knew that when kids started cursing like that, they were scared of something. Where has Ada gone, Liam? Havent seen her in months, he said. I have been bugging you ever since I found out you existed. Every one of your movements has been logged. I know where youve been and when. And I know where my daughter has been, too. Try again. Liam made a disgusted face. You are a complete ball of shit, he said. Where do you get off spying on people like me? Im a police detective, Liam, he said. Its my job. What about privacy? What have you got to hide? The kid slumped back in his chair. Weve been renting out the oled clothes. Making some pocket money. Come on, are infra-red lights a crime now? Im sure they are, Arturo said. And if you cant tell me where to 7nd my daughter, I think its a crime Ill arrest you for. She has another phone, Liam said. Not listed in her name. Stolen, you mean. His daughter, peddling Eurasian infowar tech through a stolen phone. His ex-wife, the queen of the 55 I, R OBOT super-intelligent hive minds of Eurasian robots. No, not stolen. Made out of parts. Theres a guy. The code for getting on the network was in a phone book that we started 8nding last month. Give me the number, Liam, Arturo said, taking out his phone. Hello? It was a mans voice, adult. Who is this? Who is this? Arturo used his cops voice: This is Arturo Icaza de Arana-Goldberg, Police Detective Third Grade. Who am I speaking to? Hello, Detective, said the voice, and he placed it then. The Social Harmony man, bald and rounded, with his long nose and sharp Adams apple. His heart thudded in his chest. Hello, sir, he said. It sounded like a squeak to him. You can just stay there, Detective. Someone will be along in a moment to get you. We have your daughter. The robot that wrenched off the door of his car was black and non-re9ective, headless and eight-armed. It grabbed him without ceremony and dragged him from the car without heed for his shout of pain. Put me down! he said, hoping that this robot that so blithely ignored the 8rst law would still obey the second. No such luck. It cocooned him in four of its arms and set off cross-country, dancing off the roofs of houses, hopping invisibly from lamp-post to lamp-post, above the oblivious heads of the crowds below. The icy wind howled in Arturos bare ears, froze the tip of his nose and numbed his 8ngers. They rocketed downtown so fast that they were there in ten minutes, bounding along the lakeshore toward the Social Harmony center out on Cherry Beach. People who paid a visit to the Social Harmony center never talked about what they found there. It scampered into a loading bay behind the building and carried Arturo quickly through windowless corridors lit with even, sourceless illumination, up three 9ights of stairs and then deposited him before a thick door, which slid aside with a hushed hiss. Hello, Detective, the Social Harmony man said. Dad! Ada said. He couldnt see her, but he could hear that she had been crying. He nearly hauled off and popped the man one on the tip of his narrow chin, but before he could do more than twitch, the black robot had both his wrists in bondage. Come in, the Social Harmony man said, making a sweeping gesture and standing aside while the black robot brought him into the interrogation room. Ada had been crying. She was wrapped in two coils of black-robot arms, and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. He stared hard at her as she looked back at him. Are you hurt? he said. No, she said. All right, he said. He looked at the Social Harmony man, who wasnt smirking, just watching curiously. Leonard MacPherson, he said, it is my duty as a unats Detective Third Grade to inform you that you are under arrest for trade in contraband positronics. You have the following rights: to a trial per current rules of due process; to be free from self-incrimination in the absence of a court order to the contrary; to consult with a Social Harmony advocate; and to a speedy arraignment. Do you understand your rights? Ada actually giggled, which spoiled the moment, but he felt better for having said it. The Social Harmony man gave the smallest disappointed shake of his head and turned away to prod at a small, sleek computer. You went to Ottawa six months ago, the Social Harmony man said. When we picked up your daughter, we thought it was she whod gone, but it appears that you were the one carrying her phone. Youd thoughtfully left the 56 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES trace in place on that phone, so we didnt have to refer to the logs in cold storage, they were already online and ready to be analyzed. Weve been to the safe house. It was quite a spectacular battle. Both sides were surprised, I think. There will be another, Im sure. What Id like from you is as close to a verbatim report as you can make of the conversation that took place there. Theyd had him bugged and traced. Of course they had. Who watched the watchers? Social Harmony. Who watched Social Harmony? Social Harmony. I demand a consultation with a Social Harmony advocate, Arturo said. This is such a consultation, the Social Harmony man said, and this time, he did smile. Make your report, Detective. Arturo sucked in a breath. Leonard MacPherson, it is my duty as a unats Detective Third Grade to inform you that you are under arrest for trade in contraband positronics. You have the following rights: to a trial per current rules of due process; to be free from self- incrimination in the absence of a court order to the contrary; to consult with a Social Harmony advocate; and to a speedy arraignment. Do you understand your rights? The Social Harmony man held up one <nger on the hand closest to the black robot holding Ada, and she screamed, a sound that knifed through Arturo, ripping him from asshole to appetite. STOP! he shouted. The man put his <nger down and Ada sobbed quietly. I was taken to the safe house on the <fth of September, after being gassed by a Eurasian infowar robot in the basement of Fairview Mall There was a thunderclap then, a crash so loud that it hurt his stomach and his head and vibrated his <ngertips. The doors to the room buckled and =attened, and there stood Benny and Lenny and Natalie. Benny and Lenny moved so quickly that he was only able to track them by the things they knocked over on the way to tearing apart the robot that was holding Ada. A second later, the robot holding him was in pieces, and he was standing on his own two feet again. The Social Harmony man had gone so pale he looked green in his natty checked suit and pink tie. Benny or Lenny pinned his arms in a tight hug and Natalie walked carefully to him and they regarded one another in silence. She slapped him abruptly, across each cheek. Harming children, she said. For shame. Ada stood on her own in the corner of the room, crying with her mouth in a O. Arturo and Natalie both looked to her and she stood, poised, between them, before running to Arturo and leaping onto him, so that he staggered momentarily before righting himself with her on his hip, in his arms. Well go with you now, he said to Natalie. Thank you, she said. She stroked Adas hair brie=y and kissed her cheek. I love you, Ada. Ada nodded solemnly. Lets go, Natalie said, when it was apparent that Ada had nothing to say to her. Benny tossed the Social Harmony man across the room into the corner of a desk. He bounced off it and crashed to the =oor, unconscious or dead. Arturo couldnt bring himself to care. Benny knelt before Arturo. Climb on, please, it said. Arturo saw that Natalie was already pig-a-back on Lenny. He climbed aboard. They moved even faster than the black robots had, but the bitter cold was offset by the warmth radiating from Bennys metal hide, not hot, but warm. Arturos stomach reeled and he held Ada tight, squeezing his eyes shut and clamping his jaw. But Adas gasp made him look around, and he saw that they had cleared the city limits, and were vaulting over rolling farmlands now, jumping in long =at arcs whose zenith was just high enough for him to see the highway the 401, they were headed east in the distance. And then he saw what had made Ada gasp: boiling out of the hills and ditches, 57 I, R OBOT out of the trees and from under the cars: an army of headless, eight-armed black robots, arachnoid and sinister in the moonlight. They scuttled on the ground behind them, before them, and to both sides. Social Harmony had built a secret army of these robots and secreted them across the land, and now they were all chasing after them. The ride got bumpy then, as Benny beat back the tentacles that reached for them, smashing the black robots with mighty one-handed blows, his other hand supporting Arturo and Ada. Ada screamed as a black robot reared up before them, and Benny vaulted it smoothly, kicking it hard as he went, while Arturo clung on for dear life. Another scream made him look over toward Lenny and Natalie. Lenny was slightly ahead and to the left of them, and so he was the vanguard, encountering twice as many robots as they. A black spider-robot clung to his leg, dragging behind him with each lope, and one of its spare arms was tugging at Natalie. As Arturo watched as Ada watched the black robot ripped Natalie off of Lennys back and tossed her into the arms of one of its cohort behind it, which skewered her on one of its arms, a black spear protruding from her belly as she cried once more and then fell silent. Lenny was overwhelmed a moment later, buried under writhing black arms. Benny charged forward even faster, so that Arturo nearly lost his grip, and then he steadied himself. We have to go back for them Theyre dead, Benny said. Theres nothing to go back for. Its warm voice was sorrowful as it raced across the countryside, and the wind 7lled Arturos throat when he opened his mouth, and he could say no more. Ada wept on the jet, and Arturo wept with her, and Benny stood over them, a minatory presence against the other robots crewing the fast little plane, who left them alone all the way to Paris, where they changed jets again for the long trip to Beijing. They slept on that trip, and when they landed, Benny helped them off the plane and onto the runway, and they got their 7rst good look at Eurasia. It was tall. Vertical. Beijing loomed over them with curvilinear towers that twisted and bent and jigged and jagged so high they disappeared at the tops. It smelled like barbeque and 8owers, and around them skittered fast armies of robots of every shape and size, wheeling in lockstep like schools of exotic 7sh. They gawped at it for a long moment, and someone came up behind them and then warm arms encircled their necks. Arturo knew that smell, knew that skin. He could never have forgotten it. He turned slowly, the blood draining from his face. Natty? he said, not believing his eyes as he confronted his dead, ex-wife. There were tears in her eyes. Artie, she said. Ada, she said. She kissed them both on the cheeks. Benny said, You died in unats . Killed by modi7ed Eurasian Social Harmony robots. Lenny, too. Ironic, he said. She shook her head. He means that we probably co-designed the robots that Social Harmony sent after you. Natty? Arturo said again. Ada was white and shaking. Oh dear, she said. Oh, God. You didnt know He didnt give you a chance to explain, Benny said. Oh, God, Jesus, you must have thought I didnt think it was my place to tell them, either, Benny said, sounding embarrassed, a curious emotion for a robot. Oh, God. Artie, Ada. There are there are lots of me. One of the 7rst things I did here was help them debug the uploading process. You just put a copy of yourself into a positronic brain, and then when you need a body, you 58 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES grow one or build one or both and decant yourself into it. Im like Lenny and Benny now there are many of me. Theres too much work to do otherwise. I told you that our development helped humans understand themselves, Benny said. Arturo pulled back. Youre a robot? No, Natalie said. No, of course not. Well, a little. Parts of me. Growing a body is slow. Parts of it, you build. But Im mostly made of person. Ada clung tight to Arturo now, and they both stepped back toward the jet. Dad? Ada said. He held her tight. Please, Arturo, Natalie, his dead, multiplicitous ex-wife said. I know its a lot to understand, but its different here in Eurasia. Better, too. I dont expect you to come rushing back to my arms after all this time, but Ill help you if youll let me. I owe you that much, no matter what happens between us. You too, Ada, I owe you a lifetime. How many are there of you? he asked, not wanting to know the answer. I dont know exactly, she said. 3,422, Benny said. This morning it was 3,423. Arturo rocked back in his boots and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Um, Natalie said. More of me to love? He barked a laugh, and Natalie smiled and reached for him. He leaned back toward the jet, then stopped, defeated. Where would he go? He let her warm hand take his, and a moment later, Ada took her other hand and they stood facing each other, breathing in their smells. Ive gotten you your own place, she said as she led them across the tarmac. Its close to where I live, but far enough for you to have privacy. What will I do here? he said. Do they have coppers in Eurasia? Not really, Natalie said. Its all robots? No, theres not any crime. Oh. Arturo put one foot in front of the other, not sure if the ground was actually spongy or if that was jetlag. Around him, the alien smells of Beijing and the robots that were a million times smarter than he. To his right, his wife, one of 3,422 versions of her. To his left, his daughter, who would inherit this world. He reached into his pocket and took out the tin soldiers there. They were old and their glaze was cracked like an oil painting, but they were little people that a real human had made, little people in human image, and they were older than robots. How long had humans been making people, striving to bring them to life? He looked at Ada a little person hed brought to life. He gave her the tin soldiers. For you, he said. Daddy-daughter present. She held them tightly, their tiny bayonets sticking out from between her :ngers. Thanks, Dad, she said. She held them tightly and looked around, wide-eyed, at the schools of robots and the corkscrew towers. A ;ock of Bennys and Lennys appeared before them, joined by their Benny. There are half a billion of them, she said. And 3,422 of them, she said, pointing with a small bayonet at Natalie. But theres only one of you, Arturo said. She craned her neck. Not for long! she said, and broke away, skipping forward and whirling around to take it all in. 60 61 T HE NAMES OF DYING SAILORS WASHED ACROSS AMBER TOLESTER IN A SEA OF rainbow-lit letters. When the ships of Windspur languished in port during the doldrums of summer, the names lay cold-blue and exhausted on her skin. When autumns gales churned the seas to crash and foam, the names burned red in response. And when a sailor on any of Windspurs ships was washed away, or crushed by tackle, or drowned in the endless depths, Amber screamed as that sailors white-hot name burned into her body, leaving the other names to wonder which would fall next for the seas slippery embrace. No one in Windspur could explain Ambers fate. The ports more pious citizens proclaimed Amber a warning to sinners that life was short and damnation eternal. The less pious whispered that Amber paid for the sins of her parents, who had been shop keeps until their untimely deaths a decade before. Depending on the tale, Ambers mother had either spurned a sailors true love cheating on him even as he drowned in a great hurricane or Ambers father had jumped ship at the last minute. For want of a full crew, his ship was lost. Once every month, Amber walked to the church rectory, where she disrobed in front of Mrs Andercoust, the towns oldest widow. Mrs Andercoust wrote down the names on Ambers skin, compared those names with previous lists, and noted with sadness any missing names. Ship owners and captains used the widows lists to balance their crews, never wanting too many named sailors on one ship. And woe to any sailor who asked for his true loves hand in marriage without 3rst confessing that he was among the named. And so Amber Tolester grew to hate her life. She covered herself in long dresses and gloves and prayed every day for the names to disappear. More than once she walked to the harbor breakwater and considered jumping into the churning ocean waves. All that stopped her was the ironic knowledge that without being named on her skin, she wasnt fated to die at sea. INTO THE DEPTHS OF ILLUMINATED SEAS Jason Sanford Illustrated by Jef Murray 62 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Shortly after Amber turned twenty-8ve, a new name appeared on her skin: David Sahr. Mrs Andercoust discovered the name glowing in cold blue light across the middle of Ambers back. As Amber pulled her clothes back on, shivering from the rectorys chilly drafts, Mrs Andercoust cackled about the discovery. No David Sahr has been born in the last month, Mrs Andercoust said, lea8ng through the churchs baptismal record. And the only David Sahr I remember left Windspur when he was a child. Amber buttoned the front of her dress, smiling as the name of Billy Martin swam across her right breast. As a teenager shed often dreamed of Billy caressing her breasts, although not in this manner. She watched Billys name for another moment until a cough from Mrs Andercoust brought her back to the issue at hand. Perhaps this David Sahr changed his name, Amber suggested. Doesnt work like that. Change their name all they want. If theyre on your skin, the sea will take them. Amber frowned. While she understood the fervor the widow devoted to the names like most widows in town, Mrs Andercoust had lost her husband to the sea Amber hated it when Mrs Andercoust saw her as nothing but an empty canvas for the sailors deaths. Still, Amber 8gured Mrs Andercousts lists helped people, so she bit her tongue to keep from saying anything nasty. When Amber left the rectory, she walked the long way home, enjoying the cool spring breeze blowing from the bay and the morning sunshine bouncing off damp cobblestones and slate-roof buildings. Outside a boutique, Amber stopped and gazed longingly at a collection of popular sun dresses newly arrived from London. Amber glanced at her re9ection in the window at the hideous brown of her old maids dress, at the long sleeves and gloves she wore to hide the names. She wished she could wear sun dresses without attracting attention. With a sigh, she turned to walk on. However, a middle-aged woman blocked the sidewalk. When Amber tried to step around her, the woman spat at her feet. With a start, Amber recognized the woman as the mother of Clyde Oldman, whod drowned last year. Amber walked away, but the woman followed her. Youre a vile, evil thing, the woman yelled. You should have drowned with your parents. Before Amber could respond, the womans husband raced over and grabbed his wifes arm. My apologies, Miss Tolester, he said, hustling his wife away. She doesnt mean anything by it. But his abrupt tone told Amber the husband agreed with his wife. Once the woman was gone, Amber noticed the passersby who had paused to watch the encounter. What are you looking at? she screamed. Then, nearly in tears, Amber ran back to her store, wondering if fate had purposely left her face free of names so everyone could easily see how much she hated her life. That night an unseasonably powerful storm blew in from the sea. From Ambers apartment above her store, she watched the waves pound the harbors breakwater. But while the names on her body crashed in tune with the gale, none burned red. Amber always felt the deaths of sailors minutes or hours in advance, as their names grew hotter and hotter and brighter and brighter. For now, all the names merely warmed her skin, meaning their deaths were far in the future. Amber climbed into bed and fell asleep, happy thered be no deaths on her conscience tonight. The next day, as Amber swept broken branches and smashed slate fragments from the front of her store, she heard people yelling at the docks. Amber walked over to 8nd the Simply, a 1,000 ton sailing trawler, limping into port. One of the trawlers masts was broken and the ship listed heavily to port. The crowd at the docks parted when they saw 63 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS Amber some people happy to see her, others appalled. Oh, Miss Tolester, Miss Tolester, a sailor onboard yelled when the trawler reached the piers. Without waiting for the gangplank, he jumped to the dock and fell at Ambers feet. Bless you, Miss Tolester. When that storm hit, I would have lost faith except my best mate Bonder wasnt on your skin. I stayed close to him and sure enough, here I am, safe and sound. Amber didnt know what to say. The sailor at her feet was Miles OShaughnessy, who was among the named. And she knew Jack Bonder hed gone to school with her and wasnt named. As more sailors walked off the Simply, they crowded around Amber, adding their praise and touching her like a sacred totem. As always, Amber marveled at this behavior. Every sailor who survived a storm or accident praised her. If they werent named on her body, that was why they survived. If they were named, they survived because their time had yet to come. Living sailors loved Amber while the dead voiced few complaints. Happy the sailors had survived, Amber tried to leave, but Miles stopped her. My lady, we have a gift for you, he said. He and the other sailors led Amber to the gangplank, where a tall sailor Amber didnt know was carried to the dock on a stretcher. At 3rst Amber thought the gift was behind the unconscious sailor, but she realized they meant the sailor himself. Im sorry, I dont understand, Amber stammered. Miles OShaughnessy frowned. Isnt he a friend of yours? Hes been delirious since weve found him 4oating in a half-sunk lifeboat. Keeps muttering your name over and over. Amber stared at the unconscious sailors peaceful face. Shed never seen this man before. But before she could say so, Miles handed Amber a tiny silver and glass frame. He had that in his pocket, Miles said. Amber glanced at the tiny picture, which 3t easily in her gloved hand. The daguerreotype showed Amber standing on the bow of a ship. Amber tried to convince herself that the picture merely showed another woman who resembled her, but then she turned it over. There, etched into the silver backing, were the words To Amber Tolester, with eternal love. David Sahr. As Amber watched the unconscious sailor being carried to the ports small hospital, a shiver rocked the names 4owing her skin. David Sahr. That was the new name on her body. That night, Amber couldnt sleep. She stared at the daguerreotype over and over, trying to tease details from the black and white image. In the picture Amber wore pants and a short sleeve shirt and stood on the deck of a small sailing cutter. Behind her, a man dangled by his neck from a rope slung over the yardarm, his face swollen and blurry. Amber had heard of captains hanging mutineers and pirates like that, but such a deed hadnt been done in decades. Another strange thing about the daguerreotype aside from the hanged man and the fact that Amber had never taken the picture was that no names were visible on her bare arms. Even more shocking were the words from David Sahr expressing his eternal love. Amber wanted to race to the hospital and force this stranger to explain why he dared state his love for someone hed never met. She felt both violated and excited by Sahrs words. The next day she visited the hospital to confront this David Sahr. To her surprise, two constables stood outside his door. May I help you, Miss Tolester? the older constable, a giant man named Samuels, asked. Constable Samuels had never liked Amber because he was named on her body, even though he wasnt a sailor. I want to see David Sahr. Samuels glanced at the other constable, who was Billy Martin, the boy shed had a crush on back in school. Theyd even sneaked a kiss once during a family beach trip. But 64 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES then Ambers parents died and Billy along with the rest of Windspur learned what the names on her body meant. Since then, Billy hadnt given her more than a passing glance. Why would you wish to see our dear Mr Sahr? Constable Samuels asked. One of the Simplys sailors said Sahr spoke my name when they found him. Constable Samuels mouth opened in shock. Wait. Is Sahr named on your skin? Yes. Billy grabbed Samuels arm. Does that mean hell escape? Billy asked. How can he die at sea when hes to hang? Constable Samuels shook his head, unsure himself. What did he do? Amber asked. Hes a wrecker, Samuels said. The Receiver of Wrecks has a warrant on him for setting up false lights along rocky coasts and luring ships to their doom. Theres also rumor hes into piracy, but weve no evidence of that. But wreckings enough to hang for. Of course, if hes to die at sea, I dont know what that means about him taking to a rope anytime soon. Maybe it means hes innocent, Amber suggested. Samuels laughed, obviously not believing her, and told Amber she couldnt see Mr Sahr. Amber tried to catch Billys eye, but he refused to look at her. Angry and dejected, she pushed Billy away and stormed out of the hospital. After leaving the hospital, Amber visited Richard Beard, a long-time friend of her parents who ran a photography studio only a few blocks from Ambers store. When she showed Beard the daguerreotype, he was instantly fascinated. A 3ne specimen, he said, shifting the silver-backed glass frame in his hands. Macabre, but a 3ne specimen. Really? The hanged mans face is blurry. Richard Beard shook his head and led Amber to the back wall of his studio. Hundred of photographs hung there a mix of daguerreotypes, tintypes, and the new albumen prints, which had become trendy of late because their small carte de viste prints were so cheap. Almost all the photos were of sailors and their wives and girlfriends, and many of the sailors portraits were framed in black. The problem with daguerreotypes is exposures take almost a minute, Beard said. Creating a picture outside is dicey, more so on a ship. The fact that only the mans face blurred indicates either extreme luck or skill on the photographers part. For myself, I only use the daguerre process for landscapes or studio portraits and for portraits, I require a back brace to hold the subject still. Then why take such a picture? Well, a properly sealed daguerreotype can last forever, which is more than I can say about those little carte de viste prints everyone wants these days. Before Amber left, she asked if it was possible to manipulate a daguerreotypes image. Richard Beard again glanced at the daguerreotype, obviously seeing that Ambers skin there was free of the names. He shook his head. The image is too delicate. Thats why we seal them in glass the faintest touch destroys them. Amber thanked the man and returned to her shop, still brooding over both the daguerreotype and David Sahr. For the next few days Amber tried over and over to see David Sahr, only to have Samuels and Billy continually stop her. From the hospital nurses Amber learned that Sahr was in a fever-induced delirium, but expected to recover. Of course, he would then hang for his crimes. But as the nurses said, that was a matter between Sahr and his God, not them. Amber also learned more about this David Sahr. His ancestors had lived in Windspur for hundreds of years, always working as sailors. When Sahr was ten, his father died at sea. Shortly after, Sahr and his mother moved away. In the four decades since, no one in Windspur 65 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS heard anything about Sahr until reports reached constables that he was wrecking ships. On the 1fth day after the Simply reached port, the winds picked up, the barometer fell, and a light rain pattered across the roof tiles. By evening the winds howled as fat drops of rain rapped on the windows. Amber was undressing for bed when two names began burning in red 1re across her breasts Constable Samuels and Billy. Amber ran to her balcony window and stared at the harbor. Because of the building storm, most ships had come in early. Why would Samuels and Billy try to sail on a night like this? Uncertain, but wanting to warn the two men, Amber grabbed her rain coat and ran to the harbor. She found the harbor deserted, even the night watchman having retreated in the face of the storm. The ships jumped and splashed alongside the slick docks. Beyond the edge of the harbor Amber saw massive waves crashing on the breakwater. Then she heard a gunshot. Amber crept warily toward the sound and found Constable Samuels and David Sahr wrestling on the main pier beside a mid-sized cutter. Samuels had the size advantage and straddled Sahr, pounding the sailors face over and over with his large 1sts. Unsure what to do, Amber stepped back and tripped over a body Billy sprawled beside a 1sh cleaning table. He reached for her as blood poured from a gunshot wound to his head. Amber pressed her hand over the wound. Billy gripped her arm for a moment before passing out. Amber looked up to see Constable Samuels tying Sahrs hands with rope, the peaceful face Sahr had shown while unconscious replaced with lines of hate and rage. Hows Billy? Constable Samuels yelled over the wind. Still breathing, she said. I think the bullet only grazed his skull. Samuels 1nished tying Sahrs hand together, kicked the captive man, and picked up a fallen eight-barrel pepper-box pistol. Aiming the pistol at Sahr, Samuels walked over to examine his wounded partner. Suddenly, a large wave slammed into the pier, knocking Amber and Samuels over and washing Billy into the waters below. Amber scrambled to the edge of the pier and grabbed Billys shirt just as he went under. She felt his name burning white hot on her skin as the sea screamed to take him from her. Amber yelled for Samuels to help, but when she glanced back she saw Sahr had used the confusion to 1ght back. The wrecker straddled the constable, Sahrs bound hands slamming Samuels head into a piling. The constable moaned as Sahr shoved him into the surging waters below, causing Samuels name to spark 1re through Ambers shirt and raincoat. But she ignored the pain, desperate not to lose her grip on Billy. Help me, she yelled at Sahr. I cant pull him up by myself. Sahr glanced at the waves and shook his head. He picked up Samuels pistol, holding it between his still-bound hands. He told Amber to let go of Billy and come with him. What? Were fated to be together. Let go of him. Amber glared at Sahr. No. Sahr shook his head angrily and pointed the pistol at Amber. She glanced at Billy, who was now awake from the shock of the surging sea. He pawed in fear at the pier, but was too weak to pull himself up. She didnt need to feel Billys burning name to know he was begging her not to let him die. Last chance, Sahr said. No. To Ambers surprise, Sahr didnt pull the trigger. Instead, he smiled before smashing her across the head with the butt of the pistol. Amber drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure if she was dreaming or awake. She dimly remembered Sahr jumping into a small cutter tied to the dock and sailing into the gale force winds. She remembered Samuels name burning deep into her body as the constable drowned. But where she expected to feel the 66 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES ,re of Billys death, she instead felt a gentle kiss like the one theyd shared so long ago during that ill-fated beach trip. She cried at the memory, wishing she hadnt gone on the damned trip. A week earlier shed turned sixteen and discovered her body crawling with names including those of her parents. But instead of telling anyone, shed covered herself in long robes and stayed in her room, pretending to be sick. Her parents worried about her, but Amber was too ashamed to tell them the truth, fearing theyd think her possessed by some devil. Then one morning her mother knocked on her bedroom door. Honey, her mother said with a conspirators smirk. Billys downstairs. He and his mother have invited us on a beach trip. Amber knew her mother had set this up, but she didnt want to turn Billy down. She was also amazed her mother was willing to go to the beach. Ambers mom had always been deathly afraid of the sea. So Amber and her parents joined the Martins at the beach. Amber wore her longest swimming dress, full-length sleeves and gloves, and so much body powder she continually fought back sneezes. They ate a picnic lunch, searched for seashells, and had a wonderful time. Amber even overheard Mrs Martin saying how impressed she was with Amber for being so modestly dressed. As the sun neared the horizon, Ambers father walked up to his waist in the surf. He teased Ambers mother, asking her to join him, but she merely shook her head and laughed nervously as Mrs Martin stood beside her. With their parents distracted, Billy reached for Ambers gloved hand and kissed her on the cheek. Amber blushed and turned her lips to Billy, but before they could kiss again Ambers mother screamed. She turned to see her father struggling in the surf against a powerful rip current which hadnt been there moments before. Hed already been pulled a dozen yards out to sea. Amber started to run toward him, but doubled over as pain burned her body. When she looked up, she saw her mother despite her fear of the water running into the sea. When she reached Ambers father, the burning on Ambers skin lessened for a moment. But then they both disappeared beneath the waves and their names burned through Ambers clothes, scorching both her body and soul. When the pain ,nally stopped, Amber looked up to see Billy and his mother staring at her in shock, their eyes reading the letters now singed across Ambers clothes. Billy reached for her, but his mother stopped him and, Amber noticed, Billy didnt resist very hard. And when Billys mother asked if her sons name was also on Ambers body, all Amber could do was nod. A ,sherman found her parents bodies the next day, their arms locked in a stiff hug. Amber cried for months over that beach trip, wishing shed ignored Billy and told her parents about the names. Wishing shed known beforehand what the names meant. Wishing she could be as brave as her mother. Amber dreamed all through the storm and woke the next morning in the hospital, warm sunlight -ooding her room as the curtains rippled to the gentle sea breeze. Two doctors and a nurse stood beside her, fussing over the lump on her head as if this was the most important wound theyd ever attended. Amber soon learned why they were so concerned she was a hero. Several townsfolk had heard the gunshots. When they reached the pier, they found Amber lying unconscious beside Billy. They also saw Sahr sailing away, his tiny cutter tacking left and right directly into the wind. Even though the doctors told Amber to stay in bed, she couldnt sit still when she heard Billy was alive. She pushed everyone out of her room and closed the door, searching her body for Billys name. It was gone! Shed changed his fate! 67 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS That afternoon, Amber visited Billy in his hospital room. Bills head was bandaged, but the bullet had simply grazed his head and the doctors said hed recover. Billy smiled weakly and thanked her. Amber wasnt sure how shed managed to pull Billy out of the water after Sahr hit her in the head, but she was glad hed survived. Feeling daring, she reached out to hold Billys hand. Because she wore a hospital gown, the sailors names crawled down her bare arms and mingled around their interlocked hands. But Billy pretended not to notice, and simply smiled. Amber soon recovered enough to leave the hospital. To her surprise, a large crowd greeted her outside her dry goods store. Several women whod lost husbands and sons to the sea hugged her including the old woman whod spit at her a few weeks back. Amber stammered her thanks and tried not to look shocked. In the weeks that followed, people continued to treat her with, if not outright kindness, at least courtesy. While shoppers at her dry goods store still stared at the few bits of /esh Amber couldnt keep covered, no one glared with hostility. Everyone knew Amber had saved Billys life. Better yet, Mrs Andercoust con.rmed Billys name was no longer on Ambers skin, giving hope to the families of other named sailors that perhaps they too could dodge fate. When Billy was released from the hospital, Amber walked him home. They talked of little things how nice the breeze felt, how the clouds scudded so quietly across the sky. When they reached Billys home he kissed her gently on the cheek. Amber walked in a happy daze all the way back to her shop. Soon Amber began seeing Billy Martin on a regular basis. Amber still didnt care for Billys mother shed never forgotten the hatred on the womans face when she learned Billy was named on Ambers skin. However, Billys mother now acted like Amber was the .nest lady on earth and invited Amber to every Sunday dinner. Afterward Amber and Billy took long walks along the harbor, where sailors waved at the young couple. During one of their walks they stopped at an ice lolly vendor. As they sat on a park bench eating bites of cherry ice, Billy asked Amber what she wanted to do with her life. I want to spend the rest of my life in a dry goods store, she said sarcastically. Billy laughed. Seriously, he said. Amber smiled. Im not sure. All Ive ever truly wanted is for the names to leave my body. She held up her hand so he could see the names /owing around her .ngers. For a moment, Amber was afraid shed been too honest. What about you? she quickly asked. I want to do something important. Something that really matters. Solve the big crime. Catch some infamous murderer. Save someones life. Amber started to ask why Billy hadnt tried to save her fathers life all those years ago, but remembered how his mother had held Billy back, not wanting to risk his death in the sea. As if Billy knew what she was thinking, he coughed and changed 68 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES the subject. Isnt there anything else youve longed for? he asked. I would say to fall in love, but that wish has come true. Billy squeezed her hand gently and smiled. That spring was the best of Ambers life. She and Billy spent all their free time together. Even better, not a single sailor in Windspur died, so Ambers skin was still and quiet. Then the killings started. Amber felt the 7rst killing on a bright Sunday morning when a name suddenly disappeared from her skin. However, instead of 7rst burning white hot the name simply vanished with a sensuous kiss. Amber was still trying to 7gure out what had happened when another name vanished with a kiss, followed by a third and fourth. Amber remembered how Billys name disappeared from her body with the same sensation and hoped this meant the men were no longer fated to die at sea. However, she was unsure, so she closed her store and hurried to tell Mrs Andercoust. The widow opened up her ledger. Theyre all sailing on the Pendercast, she said. Left yesterday for a week-long 7shing trip to the shoals. Does this means theyre safe, like Billy? Mrs Andercoust shook her head. I dont know. Perhaps we should tell the captains who are still in port. Outbound ships can keep an eye out for the Pendercast and see what happened to the sailors. Amber nodded, 7guring they wouldnt know until next week. But to her surprise, the following day the Pendercast sailed into harbor. News quickly spread that theyd been attacked by pirates, whod killed four members of the crew. That night Billy and the Pendercasts captain stopped by to see Amber. Captain Zeller took off his hat and bowed to Amber before they sat down at her dining-room table. We thought the ship needed help, Captain Zeller said. Just 8oating over the shoals, no cloth up except one shredded staysail. The crew waved at us so we pulled alongside. Thats when they attacked. Seven of them, including David Sahr, all armed with Brown Bess muskets and sabers. We didnt stand a chance. Amber felt sick. After we were tied up, Sahr walked down the line, asking each of my men his name. He then shot four of them in the back of the head. Captain Zeller held his hat to his chest and shook his head, tears tumbling his eyes. Billy thanked him for coming and showed him to the door. When he returned, he told Amber that Captain Zeller had recognized the other men in Sahrs crew. Theyre all named sailors, Billy said. Every one of them. How did Sahr get Mrs Andercousts list? I dont know. But he left this with Captain Zeller. Billy pulled a tiny glass daguerreotype out of his coat pocket. The picture was similar to the one shed seen before, except Amber was now the one hanging by the neck from the mast. The names of sailors still burned across her skin. And the face of the man with her on the tiny cutter wasnt blurry he was crisp and clear and de7nitely David Sahr. Etched into the silver backing of this frame were the words We died for Amber Tolester. Amber shivered. I have another one of these, she said. When she showed it to Billy, he shook his head in puzzlement. I dont understand, Billy muttered as he looked at the 7rst daguerreotype. How did the names on your skin disappear? I dont know. I asked Richard Beard if its possible to alter a daguerreotype. He said no. Billy stared closely at the two daguerreotypes. So youve never taken these pictures? No. And you dont know Sahr? No. I 7rst saw him when he was carried off the Simply. She paused, wishing shed shown her daguerreotype to Billy months ago, because it now looked like shed been hiding 69 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS it from him. But there is something I need to tell you. The night I pulled you from the sea, Sahr said he and I were fated to be together. When I refused to let you drown and go with Sahr, he knocked me out. You didnt save me. What? I mean, you did save me by grabbing me after that wave hit. But when Sahr knocked you out, I fell back into the sea. Sahrs the one who pulled me back out. Ever since, Ive been trying to 1gure out why. Maybe he thought he was helping you... Billy shrugged, as if he didnt understand his own line of reasoning. When Billy left, he kissed Amber warmly on the cheek and said hed take care of everything. But enough doubt existed in his eyes for Amber to remember the 1rst time theyd kissed and how hed simply disappeared from her life after being named. As the door closed, she hurled all the curses she knew at David Sahr. Over the next few months, David Sahr and his pirates struck three more times. The 1rst time, they attacked like before, waiting until a ship approached and executing every named sailor. After that, none of Windspurs 2eet would go near unknown ships, so Sahr attacked at night without warning. He and his pirates overran the ships and killed anyone who stood up to them. Sahr would then 1nd each named survivor and kill them too. Sahr always left behind one of two daguerreotypes of Amber. In the 1rst, Amber stood at the helm of a ship, Sahr dead and hanging from the mast. In the other, he piloted the ship while she hung dead. The navy sent a frigate to patrol the waters, but found no sign of Sahr. Billy also rode on several of Windspurs 1shing vessels, hoping Sahr would strike. But again, no such luck. Finally, the owners of Windspurs ships stopped hiring named sailors. The night the policy was announced, someone threw a burning brand through the front window of Ambers store. She doused the 1re before it spread. In the morning she hammered wood across the broken window while her neighbors glared angrily at her. She was still cleaning up when Billy stopped by. Are we having dinner tomorrow at your mothers house? Amber asked. The previous weeks Sunday dinner had been extremely awkward. The kindness Billys mother had shown her was now gone, and Amber knew the attack on her store wouldnt help matters. Perhaps we shouldnt, Billy said. Id rather enjoy your company than spend our time 1ghting Mother. How about a picnic in the park? Amber hugged Billy and spent all evening preparing food for the outing. But the next morning, Billy didnt show up. After waiting for several hours, Amber 1nally barged over to Billys house, 1guring his mother was trying to turn him against her. Instead, she found the woman in tears. Hes gone, Billys mother said, holding a now-familiar glass-framed daguerreotype. They took him, and its all your fault. Amber snatched the picture from the mothers hand. It showed Amber hanging dead, the names burning her arms and neck. On the back were the words, Waiting for you. David Sahr. That afternoon, Amber talked with Mrs Andercoust. That night, Amber walked to a popular sailors bar near the docks, where no proper lady would be caught dead. But Amber no longer cared what other people thought of her. When the sailors saw Amber, they glared in silence. Because the 1shing 2eet was at sea, these men were likely all named and no longer able to be hired. Among them sat Miles OShaughnessy. Im going to 1nd Sahr, Amber said. Whos willing? The sailors continued to glare at Amber. She wore work pants and a short sleeve shirt, 70 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES their names clearly visible in cold-blue light along her arms and neck. What are you talking about, Miss Tolester? Miles asked. No ship will have us, let alone carry the woman Sahrs angry at. I have a ship. Mrs Andercoust gave me permission to take her late husbands trawler. And Im not looking for volunteers. Im paying for able bodied sailors. At the mention of pay, the sailors talked excitedly among themselves. Most had known and respected Captain Andercoust, and were impressed his widow would lend Amber his ship. Still, Miles OShaughnessy spoke for all of them when he asked Amber what she intended to do if she found Sahr. Im going to kill him. As Amber knew only too well, sailors were a superstitious lot. The thought of sailing with so many cursed men and worst, with a woman kept most of them off her ship. It didnt help that Amber had no sea experience. Still, she found eight willing men and hoped theyd be enough. She picked Miles OShaughnessy as her 0rst mate, much to his surprise. The two of them then surveyed Mrs Andercousts ship. Since her husbands death, the twin mast trawler had lain on a beach near the widows house. The ship was covered in seagull droppings, badly needed a new coat of paint, and the tack had dry rotted away. Miles wrote up a list of needed supplies and repairs. Its a long list, he said. Will the bank lend you this much. Doesnt matter. Im selling my store. If Miles disapproved, he didnt let on. Amber and her sailors spent two weeks readying the Andercoust and stocking it with supplies. While Amber hated the delay, she knew sailing on an unsafe ship would risk the lives of her men. So she simply prayed Sahr wouldnt harm Billy before she reached him. The night before they set sail, Amber paced the ships empty deck. Her heart pounded at the thought of actually going to sea. She wondered if her mother had felt this way when shed tried to rescue Ambers father. Miles had suggested Amber give a speech to the men, something to inspire them and still their fear. However, as Amber tried to think of words to say, she realized Miles was wrong. The only words which mattered were the names on her body and they only mattered in what she did with them. Morning broke to a 0ery red sunrise, meaning a big storm blowing in. Amber brie1y wondered if the sea was trying to stop her mission. But when Miles suggested they delay their trip for a few days, Amber said they were leaving immediately. She held her arm up to his eyes and showed Miles his name. If any of you are going to die, Ill know, she said. Trust me. I wont let it happen. Neither Miles nor the other sailors said a word as the Andercoust set sail. Once at sea, Miles piloted the trawler and Amber stood to the right of the wheel, tightly gripping the guardrail. The 0rst rains broke across the bow by noon; by midafternoon, the winds neared gale strength. They passed a number of Windspurs ships racing for the safety of harbor. Miles asked Amber if they should return to port, but Amber told him to continue sailing toward deep water. She knew if any other captain had said those words, Miles would have likely ignored the command and turned for home. Instead, Mile glanced once at the 0re-red names 1owing around Ambers neck and nodded. By nightfall, the wind blew at gale strength and Miles ordered everyone to tie on their lifelines. Miles suggested Amber retire to her cabin, but she refused and continued to stand by the wheel. The storm raged for two days. Miles and the sailors worked nonstop to keep the boat a1oat. At 0rst Amber stood as before, her hands paste white as they gripped the railing. But as the storms intensity grew, and the names of her 71 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS sailors burned hotter and hotter on her body, her fear lessened. Around midnight, a massive wall of dark water appeared in front of the ship as two of the sailors names 3ashed white hot and burned through Ambers rain coat. She ran to the men and shoved them to the other side of the ship. When the massive wave washed over the deck, a piece of debris smashed the spot where the sailors had been standing. If the debris had hit them, they would have been lost. Instead, their white hot names merely faded to red. Amber returned to the wheel as more of the names burned hot. She ordered Miles to turn the ship in a new direction, which he did, then to raise and lower certain sails. He initially asked why they needed to do this, but after her 2rst response that if he didnt the men would die Miles obeyed her orders without question. By the second day of the storm, the sailors eyed Amber as if Neptune himself was their captain. They both worshipped and feared her, immediately obeying when Amber told the sailors to secure certain tackle or to change course. They could see their names burning brightly on her skin; they smelled the smoke when their names burned through Ambers clothes. On the third day, the storm stopped. Amber leaned against the mizzen mast, exhausted, as Miles and the other sailors gathered around her. All of the sailors fell to their knees before her. Miss Tolester, Miles said. If a week ago anyone had said this ship could survive a storm like that, Id have knocked them cold for lying. Ill follow you anywhere, maam. The other sailors nodded agreement, and brought Amber food and water, and unburned clothes, and carried her to her cabin to rest. And with that, Amber knew they were ready to 2nd David Sahr. They sailed for days, zigzagging back and forth across the waters. Amber could feel David Sahrs cold-2re name tugging her forward, as if the name begged to reunite with its namesake. At the beginning of their second week at sea, the Andercoust sailed under a full-moon night. Amber was sleeping in her cabin when she woke with a start to Sahrs name burning red on her skin. She raced to the deck and stared across the dark sea. On the horizon she saw the briefest 3icker of sails in the moonlight. Ship to starboard, she yelled. Its Sahr. Miles cursed. Sahrs ship was bearing down on them with the wind to its back. Do we run or meet him, Miss Tolester? he asked. Hes got the weather gage. Amber wasnt sure. Shed never felt so many names burning red at once not only Sahrs name, but also the names of Sahrs men and Ambers own crew. It was almost as if the sea wanted to sink their ships so it could claim them all. While she didnt care if Sahr and his men died, she wasnt going to risk her crew. We run for now, she said. Hes got the advantage. For the next twelve hours they ran, sailing downwind with as many sails as their ship could bear. However, the Andercoust was a 2shing trawler and not made for speed, while Sahrs ship was the same small cutter hed stolen from Windspur months ago. By the time dawn glowed on the horizon, Amber knew they couldnt outrun Sahr. She watched his ship through a scope. He had one fewer man than Amber, but they were all armed. She also saw Billy, who was tied to the mast and looked half- dead. With her body burning to the coming deaths, Amber broke open the box of ri3es and pistols shed purchased and handed them to the crew. None needed reminding what they had to do. If worse came to worse, Miles was to ram Sahrs ship, taking them all to their deaths. However, when Sahr sailed near their ship, he waved a white 3ag. A trade, he yelled. Billy boy for Miss Tolester. Miles protested, but Amber hissed him to silence. Until this moment, her skin had been nothing but pain at the coming deaths. Now, only the names of Sahr and his men burned. If she exchanged herself for Billy, Miles and the rest of her men would reach home safely. Without another word, Sahr and his men 72 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES tied up alongside the Andercoust. They tossed Billy, unconscious and bound like a gutted 3sh, onto the 3shing trawlers deck. Amber leaned over Billy he still breathed. She kissed him, and assured Miles shed be safe as she stepped onto Sahrs ship. When Sahrs cut the ropes and sailed away from the Andercoust, Amber smiled at him. Im going to kill you, she said. Wouldnt have it any other way, he said with a chuckle. Amber and David Sahr sailed west. At 3rst the Andercoust followed, but when it became apparent Miles and his crew couldnt catch them the 3shing trawler headed back toward Windspur. Sahr laughed as the Andercoust sailed out of sight. I should have put them out of their misery. Not that I wont get another chance. After all, youve given them no choice but to die out here. I didnt pick them to die, Amber said, noticing Sahrs sailors were listening in. She was tempted to tell Sahr that if she chose sailors to die, she would have picked him and his crew. But since they were already named on her skin and were also murderers she felt it better not to raise this point. The names simply appear. You think so? Sahr asked. He grabbed Amber by the arm and dragged her across the deck to a tall, middle-aged sailor. Amber dimly remembered the man from her childhood; hed been one of the endless itinerant sailors whod passed by her parents shop each morning. This is Angus McPhee. Once you named him, he couldnt 3nd work as an honest sailor. At least, not until I taught him to forget the honest part. The sailors laughed. Sahr, though, glared at Amber. Wheres his name? he demanded. When Amber didnt respond, Sahr pulled her right arm out and searched through the blue- 3re letters for Anguss name. When he didnt 3nd it, he pulled up Ambers shirt before she shoved him back, causing the crew to laugh even harder. Knowing she had only one chance to take control of the situation, Amber pointed to her right breast. Youre name is right there, she told Angus as white-hot letters suddenly burned through her shirt. Your name is written in the bullet which hits you in the chest, and knocks you into the sea to drown. The laughter stopped. Amber turned to another sailor. You are Roberts Allen, she said, pointing to a new name with suddenly 4ared up on her leg and scorched her pants. You will die gasping for breathe in a storm-tossed sea. She turned to another sailor. You are William Douglas-Home. You will die when you fall overboard after drinking too much rum. As the sailors stared, Amber walked among them naming their fates. She had never been around men whose deaths burned so clearly. She knew everything about these men. Knew how desperately they yearned to escape their fate. Knew that despite all their prayers and pleas, the only thing awaiting them at sea was cold and depth and eternity. Finally, she stepped back to David Sahr. As for you, she said, a massive name igniting around her neck in the purest of white light. The seas been waiting a long time for you. Once it takes hold of you, your death will make all the others seem pleasant. Sahr smashed her in the face, sending her sprawling across the deck. Were not slaves to this bitchs skin, Sahr yelled. True, Amber said, blood gushing from her split lip. Billy was also fated to die at sea. But I saved him and hes no longer named. I can save all of you. But hurt me, and youre dead. Sahr smiled, and for a moment Amber saw him as hed 3rst appeared the handsome, unconscious sailor who seemed at peace with the world. Then his face churned back to anger and he yelled for his men to lock her in the cutters storage hold. Sahr sailed for two days with Amber locked in the dark hold, her only light a single porthole 73 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS and the names burning on her body. Sahr alternated between bribery and threats to convince her to remove their names from her skin. Amber, though, noticed that Sahr never carried through on his threats. That, combined with how his crew treated her, bringing her food and water and unburned clothes, told her his power over the sailors was limited. As long as they feared her, she would be safe. On the third night, the cutter sailed under a clear sky, the moonlight pushing the sea down as if a child had coated everything in the smoothest of milk. The sailors were silent as the cutter chased a 0shing trawler through the night. Amber knew what was about to happen Angus McPhees name had been burning white 0re for the last hour but she kept quiet until the ship pulled alongside the trawler. Suddenly, gunshots raked Sahr and his men. Through a porthole, Amber saw several constables on the 0shing trawler shooting at them. Bullets exploded through the cargo hold and ricocheted around Amber, who felt a sense of calm as she watched moonlight pour through the new holes. After a few more shots, Sahr yelled for his men to cast off. The cutter sliced through the seas, racing downwind as the constables continued to 0re. Finally, after a half-hour of chase, the trawlers gun0re stopped. One of the sailors smashed open the lock on the cargo hold and pulled Amber out. Several sailors were wounded, and Amber saw that Angus was missing, no doubt hit by a bullet and thrown overboard to drown, just as shed foreseen. She walked across the deck to where two sailors held down William Douglas- Home, who screamed and cried from a bullet in his leg. Is he going to die? one of the sailors asked. Amber nodded. 74 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Yes, but not from this bullet wound. And if you do what I say, none of you need die for many years to come. At that, David Sahr ran screaming toward her with his pistol in hand. But before he could shoot he was tackled by the other sailors. Let me go, he screamed. Shes done this to us. Her. Just her. But the sailors ignored Sahr and hog-tied him beside the main mast. Amber landed the sailors 3fty leagues to the west of Windspur, with each man swearing a solemn oath by her skin never to return to the sea. As the men waded to the beach, Amber felt most of their names disappear from her body with a kiss. However, the name of one sailor remained, although he no longer burned as 3ercely. Amber knew that man would one day break his vow and return to the only life he knew, but there was nothing she could do about that. Amber turned the cutter back toward Windspur and ran with the wind. She had never piloted a cutter before, but had learned a lot from Miles and her other sailors. As long as good weather held, she shouldnt have much trouble. David Sahr still tied up beside the main mast critiqued her every move. When Amber almost swamped the cutter by taking a wave sideways, he laughed. Thats what happens when you let a woman captain, he said. You should be respectful, Amber said with a smirk. Maybe the judge will take your respect into account before he hangs you. Sahr spat at her feet. You ought to do it yourself. For once, actually kill someone, instead of fating them to die. Amber resisted the urge to hit Sahr, or to pull the pepper-box pistol tucked in her belt and shoot him. Once Amber had the cutter on a solid heading, she tied off the wheel and walked around the ship, dropping and raising sails and tightening ropes. When that was done, she was hungry. She asked Sahr where he kept the food. Theres hardtack in the cabin, he said. The wood chest under my bunk. Amber found the chest and carried it onto the deck. However, there was no hardtack inside. Instead, a handful of daguerreotypes lay there. Some showed her in the exact same shirt and pants she now wore, standing on the bow of this very cutter, with Sahr dangling from the yardarm. Other daguerreotypes showed Amber hanging from the yardarm. Amber stared at her swollen, broken neck, and the rope that had ended her life. Where did you get these? she demanded, shoving a daguerreotype in Sahrs face. That picture will be taken when you arrive in Windspur with me dangling from the yardarm. If you have the guts to do the deed, that is. Amber glanced at a daguerreotype in it, her skin was free of the names, and Sahr hung dead. She threw the picture at the mast, shattering it to dust and shards. She grabbed another daguerreotype, this one showing her spinning in the wind with a rope around the neck, and threw it at Sahr. Who the hell are you? she screamed. Sahr shrugged. Im a child of Windspur. And the sea has cursed us both. As he said that, a blazing white name erupted from Sahrs skin Amber Tolester. Her name ringed his neck, screaming in union to the letters of Sahrs name burning her own body. However, the pain didnt come from Sahrs foretold death. Instead, she gasped as she saw in the purest of 3re and heat Sahrs life 4ooding into her. My father was a sailor. When I was ten I woke one night to my fathers name burning into my chest and the pain of knowing he was dying. I ran to my mothers room and told her. Begged her to save him. Instead, she slapped me for lying. But in the morning, she learned I was right. She ripped the clothes off me and saw 75 I NTO THE D EPTHS OF I LLUMINATED S EAS the names and screamed Witch, witch as she beat me bloody. We left Windspur left my friends and family to live in London. Foggy, stenching, hateful London. All I had known was Windspur. Now all I had left was knowing when one of Windspurs sailors 5ared and died. At twelve, I ran from home and hired on a ship. Became a cabin boy, a cooks assistant, worked my way to able seaman. The sailors all saw the names, but thought them good luck, not being from Windspur and knowing them as real people. One day a Windspur sailor joined our ship. I tried to hide myself, but he recognized me, said he used to sail with my dad. For days all I could taste was the mans coming death as he fell from the main mast during a sudden wind storm. I feared what the other sailors would do when they learned what the names on my body meant. So one night, while walking the alleys of London with my fathers friend, I hit him across the head with a belaying pin. His name disappeared from my skin with the gentlest of kisses. Id denied the sea its rightful death. So I learned to change the fate of the men on my skin. I learned to read what the names told me, to track them down. The only difference was that when I met another Windspur sailor, I always killed him the 4rst chance I got. Just to show the sea there was no fate it could decree which I couldnt change. One by one the names vanished from my body. Eventually, there was only one left: Amber Tolester. I knew right away this name wasnt right, as if the sea was playing a trick on me. A little girl of Windspur who had recently lost her parents, and was now carrying the burden of names as I once did. I felt the names on her body echoing to where the names had once been on me. Then the pictures began appearing. Each time one of the sailors named on Ambers body died, a daguerreotype would appear on my bunk. Some showed Amber as a young woman; others myself. Some showed me dead. Others her. I knew the sea was taunting me for defying its will, but I didnt care. I refused to be fated by anyone. As I caressed my link to Amber, I prayed she would learn like me that we werent fated to suffer this damned lot in life. That once she learned, I would no longer be alone. But instead, Amber merely watched as the men sailed away to their deaths, never knowing the pleasures to be had in changing their fates. So I decided to teach her. When the story 4nished running through Ambers mind, she pulled the pistol and held it to Sahrs face, remembering her fear when hed held the same pistol to her own head. His name burned red around her neck as Sahrs memories of murder polluted her with their touch. But instead of pulling the trigger, she sat down on the deck beside Sahr. So you think the sea has cursed us? And the daguerreotypes are a warning? You have a better explanation? Amber glanced at one of the daguerreotype shards on the deck beside her. The silver halide which had 4xed the image of Ambers body to the glass fell away before her eyes. She watched the image disintegrate for a few moments before throwing the shard overboard. It doesnt matter, she said, reaching into the box of daguerreotypes. Doesnt matter if the sea did burn these names into us. Only matters what we do with them. As Amber stood up, she glanced at the waters all around them. Sahrs name burned white hot on her body. The sea screamed for Sahr begged Amber to throw the vile man overboard so it could have its way with him. Amber dragged the bound man to the railing and leaned him over the water. The choppy waves threw spray at them, almost as if the sea reached for Sahr. For the 4rst time, Sahr looked afraid. Dont give me to it, he said. I only wanted you to learn. To free yourself like I was freed. Amber nodded. She grabbed one of the 76 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES cutters sets of block and tackle, threw a rope over the yardarm, and tied the rope in a noose around Sahrs neck. He thrashed and kicked, but he was still bound hand to foot and couldnt stop her. Once everything was ready, she asked Sahr if he had anything else to say. He cursed her, but also smiled as she tightened the noose, as if pleased that Amber had 0nally learned what hed been trying to teach. He continued smiling as she pulled the rope through the block and tackle, the pullies whining to the cordage, his smile never ending even after he hung limp from the yardarm, spinning right then left as the wind howled in anger at Sahrs death not being given to the sea. Only with Sahrs 0nal kick did his name vanish from her body with a perverted kiss. When Amber neared Windspurs harbor, she dropped the cutters sails and drifted until several ships, including the Andercoust, approached. Miles jumped onboard and helped steer the ship into the harbor. Miles asked several times if Amber was well, glancing from Sahrs body hanging from the yardarm to the names still visible on Ambers skin. She assured him she was 0ne. Amber stood on the cutters bow until they docked, then walked through the stunned crowd on the pier. She noticed Richard Beard near the dock with his daguerreotype camera, where hed been taking landscapes of buildings. She started to ask if hed taken a picture of her on the ship, but stopped, already knowing the answer. After all, two different versions of the picture were now burned into her life. The following Sunday, Amber and Billy married. Billy was still recovering from his injuries and could barely speak, but he croaked his I do and kissed Amber in a long, tight-hugging embrace. All of the sailors and townsfolk cheered, tactfully ignoring the names pulsing a deep blue through Ambers white wedding dress. Amber continued to captain the Andercoust. Miles and the other sailors taught her all they knew and soon she could out sail the best of them. She sailed the Andercoust in storms which drove lesser captains to port, but none of her crew were ever injured or killed. Sailors spoke of her uncanny knack of stopping accidents before they happened; of arriving in time to save drowning sailors from other ships. Soon she was known as the luckiest captain in the 1eet and every sailor begged to join her crew. Occasionally people who werent from Windspur would board the Andercoust and ask Amber about the rumors. Of the names which still circled her body. Whether those named men were still fated to die at sea. Amber would shake her head and say she hoped not. If the visitors persisted, Amber would point to a silver-framed daguerreotype hanging on her cabins wall. Shed ask if they noticed anything strange about the picture. The visitors would stare at the image of Amber on the ship. Her body free of the names; Sahr hanging from the yardarm. While the missing names always puzzled visitors, if that was all they noticed Amber simply nodded and said that was indeed the truth. But sometimes a perceptive visitor would see a picture of Amber hanging from the mast, her body still covered in the names, her neck bent at an impossibly strange angle, and Sahr alive and laughing as he piloted the cutter. The startled visitor would ask how this was possible. Was this some trick of the sea angry because it had been denied Sahrs death? Amber always laughed at such questions, but if the visitor pressed for an answer shed point seaward and say the answers lay out there. All the visitor had to do was let the sea add his or her name to Ambers skin. Perhaps we can seek the answers together, shed whisper as the visitor stared in fear at the names swirling her skin. So far, no one has accepted her offer. 78 ISLAND TALES Jeff VanderMeer Illustrated by Len Peralta 79 1. THE SKY KINGS TURTLE Once, Lekebai, who lived in Samoa, was ;shing out at sea when a storm overturned his canoe and brought him, half-drowned, to an island of rock. The rock rose to form a mountain circled by clouds. Not a tree or bush could be found on the island. For days, he lived on rainwater and ;sh trapped in tidal pools. Lekebai missed Samoa. His family would think he was dead. But there seemed no way for him to return. Weak with hunger, Lekebai decided to climb the mountain and see what he might ;nd there. However, above the clouds he found only more rock. Despairing, he sat down to weep. After a time, a voice spoke to Lekebai. It said: Why are you weeping? Lekebai looked up and saw the Sky King standing there. I am weeping because my home is in Samoa and I cannot return there. The Sky King laughed and said, Returning to Samoa is easy. My turtle will lead you home. Just remember two things: keep your eyes shut during the journey or you will never see Samoa again and give my turtle a coconut to bring back with him. As you can see, we have no coconut trees here. So saying, the Sky King brought Lekebai to the giant turtle, which rose to the surface of the water like a small island itself. The journey lasted three days, and all during that time Lekebai did not open his eyes. You are home, the dolphins sang. Open your eyes. But he did not listen. The sea gulls scolded him: Theres a storm coming. If you dont look, you will drown! But he kept his eyes shut tight. Even when little ;sh nipped at his toes and told him to open his eyes or the sharks would eat him, Lekebai refused to look. Finally, Lekebai felt sand under his feet and knew he was home. He opened his eyes. Samoa! Lekebai ran up the shore into his village. His family and friends were overjoyed to see him. They cooked him a great feast. Only as dusk arrived and the <ames of the ;re died, did he remember that the Sky King had commanded him to do two things, not one. Lekebai ran back to the beach, coconut in hand, but the turtle was not there. At the next village, he was horri;ed to ;nd that the turtle had been cooked for dinner. You have killed my friend! he told them. This turtle brought me back from the island of the Sky King. Now the Sky King will be very angry. The villagers wept, fearing the Sky Kings wrath. They buried the turtle deep, a coconut beside it, in hopes of appeasing the Sky King. But the Sky King sees all. He sent a small bird to Samoa. This bird did not harm Lekebai. Instead, it touched a boy named Lavai-pani. After the bird touched Lavai-pani, the boy did not grow up. He remained a boy even as his friends became men and married and had children. Many years later, Lekebai died, but Lavai- pani lived on, as young as ever. The old men in the village still whispered about the death of the turtle, but only Lavai-pani remembered where it had been buried, and he told no one. Eventually, however, the King of Tonga heard the story of the Sky Kings turtle and decided that he must have its shell. He told his sons: Bring the shell to me and we will make many ;ne ;sh hooks from it. The Kings sons sailed to Samoa. They searched everywhere, but they could not ;nd the turtles grave. When they returned, the King was furious. Go back to Samoa, he said. Bring me the turtle or you are no longer my sons. Fearful, the Kings sons returned to Samoa. They asked everyone where the turtle had been buried. Hearing their questions, Lavai- pani said, I will show you. At ;rst, they did not believe him, but what choice did they have? They couldnt return to their father without the shell. So they followed Lavai-pani to the place where he said the turtle had been buried and dug for three days. 80 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES On the fourth day, they found the shell and bones of a huge turtle. Of the coconut, there was no sign. Quickly they returned to the King with the shell. What?! he shouted. There are only twelve pieces of shell here! What happened to the thirteenth piece? The sons had kept the thirteenth piece for themselves and made hooks out of it already, but they dared not say this. Instead, they said the people of Samoa had kept the thirteenth piece for themselves. The King commanded them to bring back the thirteenth piece or never return. Heartsick, the Kings sons set out across the ocean with their wives and children. They could not go to Samoa and they could not return to Tonga. For days, they sailed, until, needing supplies, they landed on a remote island. On the beach, the Sky King greeted them, for they had come across the same island as Lekebai many years earlier. In return for the thirteenth piece of the turtles shell, the Sky King allowed the sons of Tonga to live on his island. The coconuts they brought with them seeded the island and soon it was a tropical paradise. And that is how people came to Kandavu, one of the Fiji Islands. 2. KAMA PUAA THE PIG CHILD Kama Puaa lived on the island of Oahu a long time ago with his father and mother, the king and queen of Oahu. As soon as he was old enough to walk, he drove them crazy with his antics. Kama Puaa wasnt tall and he wasnt big, but he was very solid and very stubborn. He would run through his fathers <elds chasing the livestock and pulling up the crops. As he ran, he would sing a song: I am Kama Puaa. I am Kama Puaa. I can do whatever I want! His father the king would laugh and say, Thats true. Thats de<nitely true. When his son was still chasing the livestock and pulling up the crops at the age of ten, he would still laugh at Kama Puaas song, but his teeth would grind as he laughed. When his son reached the age of twenty- one and still he ran through the <elds pulling up crops and chasing livestock, the old king no longer found it funny. His livestock were a nervous wreck. His crops, which had to feed the entire island, were sickly and small from years of such treatment. One day, he stopped Kama Puaa right in the middle of his song and bellowed, Enough! Enough. You CANT do whatever you want. As of now, you are no longer welcome on this island. You must <nd somewhere else to go. Kama Puaa stared at his father. And blinked. And blinked again. Then he said, Okay. Ill go. Im bored anyway. Ill <nd another island to run and sing on. So he did. He moved to Maui, which was ruled by the <ery goddess Madame Pele. Maui was a beautiful place, with many palm trees and deep green forests. Kama Puaa liked it better than Oahu, which, after years of his running through the <elds, had gotten less green and less beautiful. Kama Puaa worked on the island tending to Madame Peles livestock. He knew a lot about livestock from running through them and scaring them for almost twenty-one years. For awhile, he did a good job of taking care of the livestock. But Kama Puaa still loved to run and still loved to sing his song. He had never really grown up. So one day, it was just too tempting. He put down the stick he used to keep the livestock in line and he ran. He ran right through the bellowing, mooing cows. He ran right through the chickens. He ran right through the pigs. In fact, he ran right through the pigs muddy pen, singing at the top of his lungs, I am Kama Puaa. I am Kama Puaa. I can do whatever I want! Now, two things were true on the island of Maui. First, the goddess Madame Pele loved 81 I SLAND T ALES her pigs. They were prize-winning pigs. She loved those pigs like they were her own sons. Every day, a special servant went down to the pig pen and bathed them in expensive bath oils until they gleamed like white gold. Every night, Madame Pele would come down to the pen and read the pigs bedtime stories until they fell asleep. Some people even believed that the pigs were former boyfriends that Madame Pele had turned into pigs in a =t of rage, because& Second, Madame Pele had a terrible, terrible temper. She was made of =re, and =re runs hot and burns cold. It travels where it will, and can erupt at any moment should it desire. Compared to her, Kama Puaas parents had no temper at all. Madame Pele had great eyesight. From her home in the volcano overlooking the pig pen, she could see everything that went on there. When she saw Kama Puaa running through the pig pen frightening her pigs when she heard him singing his ridiculous song Madame Pele lost it. KAMA PUAA! she screamed. KAMA PUAA! LEAVE MY PIGS ALONE! LEAVE MY PIGS ALONE AND STOP SINGING THAT STUPID SONG! Her voice sounded like thunder and lava and a tree trunk breaking all at the same time. The force of her voice bent back the palm trees and >attened the grass. It confused Kama Puaa so much that he began running in circles in the pig pen. Madame Pele grew so furious that her eyes turned red and tiny blue >ames darted out of her ears. Thats it, she said in a calm voice a calm voice so deadly that small children on other islands heard the whisper of it and began to cry from fright. She pointed a =nger at Kama Puaa and said, Not only are you pig-headed, you are pig-faced. Not only are you pig-faced, but you are pig-=nned. And not only are you pig- =nned, but you are pig-named! Calm shall you be. Silent shall you be. Pig-like shall you be. With those words, Kama Puaa found himself hurled into the ocean by an unseen hand. He began to gasp for air as he sank& but what was this? His arms had turned to =ns. His lungs had become gills. His legs had become a tail. His face had sprouted a snout. He gulped water and it tasted good! Kama Puaa swam through the seaweed, the =rst pig =sh the =sh with a pigs snout or Humuhumunukunukuapuaa in the Hawaiian language. He had forgotten his song. He had also forgotten how to run. But now he could swim as much as he liked without hurting anyone. Madame Pele never got as mad again as she got that day. Kama Puaas parents were sad that he had been turned into a =sh. But when they saw him in the water one day, so silent, so calm, it was hard for them not to think it was a good thing. Many times, Kama Puaas father the king could be found down by the water, talking to his son the pig =sh. The king smiled a lot now. He could tell stories to the pig =sh for hours and never be interrupted. Besides, pig =sh taste very, very good. 3. MAUI AND THE MAGIC HOOK Maui didnt mind being the smallest of the Hawaiian gods. Although he wasnt as strong as his brothers and sisters, he made up for it by being clever. If he couldnt out-muscle the other gods, at least sometimes he could outsmart them. Still, in one area Mauis smarts couldnt help him: he couldnt =sh for beans. Or, rather, as he liked to say to his pet lizard Nanaue, I can =sh for beans. Thats just the trouble. I can catch beans. I can catch empty shells. I can catch seaweed. I just cant catch anything worth catching. Like a =sh? Nanaue would ask. Nanaue was green and small, with a pink throat and busy eyes that glanced this way and that, looking for >ies. 82 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Yes, like a 9sh. Just once Id like to catch a really impressive 9sh. Or maybe even something bigger than a 9sh. As it was, all of his brothers and sisters teased him. It had gotten so bad that Maui didnt even bother going 9shing with them anymore. Maybe you could try something else, Nanaue would say. Like, challenge them to a coconut-eating contest. Youre very good at eating coconuts. Ive seen you. You just gobble them down like they were made of air. I must say, I sometimes 9nd it hard to believe you stay so thin when you eat so many Be quiet, lizard, Maui would say, grumpily. He might be good at eating coconuts, but he didnt want to become famous for it. Finally, Maui couldnt take it any longer. He went to his father and mother who lived in the clouds and told them about his problem. No one respects me. What should I do? he asked. His father said, You shouldnt worry about what people say. His mother said, Nonsense! Its just the hook youre using. Try this one. She handed him a hook made of mother- of-pearl. This should do the trick, she said. After all, we dont want you to become known as the God Who Eats Coconuts. And smiled at Nanaue, who turned a deep red color. Maui glared at Nanaue, but took the hook. The very next day, he went out 9shing with his brothers and sisters. Fishing? the oldest brother said. Isnt that a bit out of your league? Shall we use you for bait? the youngest sister said, looking up at him with her big dark eyes. Maui said nothing. He just got into one of the outrigger canoes and motioned the others to follow him. Nanaue stood on Mauis shoulder, boldly breathing in the sea salt and spray. Maui always fashioned a little globe of magical air around Nanaues head, so that if he ever fell overboard, he wouldnt drown. It made Nanaue glow like a little lantern. Once they were far enough out in their canoes, Maui and his brothers and sisters threw out their 9shing lines and hooks. Soon, everyone but Maui had caught a 9sh. Nanaue frowned. Maybe youre not far enough out. If the hooks really good, maybe itll only catch a really big 9sh. One that lives really far out. Yes, said Mauis second youngest sister from a nearby canoe. Maybe you need to go so far out that you wind up where you started. All of Mauis brothers and sisters laughed. Thats it, Maui said, shouting. Ive had it. Were going to row farther out. I am going to catch a 9sh. Suddenly all of his brothers and sisters were quiet. It didnt do to make even a small god angry, especially not a brother that, despite everything, they did love. Lets help Maui 9sh, the second oldest brother said. And so they did, going out farther, their canoes close together. When they were as far out as theyd ever been before, where the ocean was so old that it was wrinkled with little waves, Maui cast his line. Please, hook, work your magic, he said. Yes, please, Nanaue said. It takes a toll on me, too, all these insults. I do not want to be known as the lizard who befriended a 9shless god. For many minutes, the sea remained quiet. The 9shing line lay still. Then a wind came up and Maui felt a tug on the line. A monstrous tug. A tug like the biggest 9sh in the world. Ive got one! he cried out. Ive got a 9sh! It was pulling so hard that Maui fell forward. Nanaue almost fell off his shoulder; he only managed to hold on by biting into Maui with his tiny teeth. Help me, brothers and sisters! This is the biggest 9sh any of us have ever caught! 83 I SLAND T ALES So they brought their canoes close together, and they all pulled and pulled at the line. Still, they were not strong enough. Nanaue, Maui said. Get off my shoulder and pull on the rope. Me? Nanaue said, surprised. My muscles are the size of mosquitoes. How can I help? It might be just enough. So Nanaue pulled on the rope and, now, slowly, they were able to begin to reel it in. Were doing it! Maui cried out. Were going to bring this 6sh in! Soon, the top 6n of the 6sh came into view. It was long and brown and made of earth. Thats no 6sh! Nanaue said. Thats land. The hook was so powerful that it had hooked onto the land below the ocean and brought it to the surface. No, its not. Its a 6sh! Maui said. Keep pulling. Its not a 6sh, the third youngest sister said. Its land. Even your lizard knows that. Keep pulling! Maui insisted. More and more land was coming to the surface. Soon, a whole continent would be above the sea. It may not be a 6sh, Maui admitted. But its something important. Its not seaweed or an empty shell. Pull! But his brothers and sisters had had enough. They all stopped pulling. In fact, they all got back in their own canoes and started back toward their home. Leaving Maui and Nanaue to try to pull the land up from the sea. Soon, all but a few islands had submerged into the sea. Maui and Nanaue stood in the gently rocking canoe. The sun was setting now. The islands were round blocks of shadow. The great big piece of land was gone. I guess you could say it was kind of like a 6sh, Nanaue said. He was still glowing from his little bubble of air. Soon, he was the only thing Maui could see. No, it wasnt a 6sh, Maui said. But it was important. If my brothers and sisters had more courage, I would have created a whole new continent. Well, you made some great islands, Nanaue said. You certainly did well enough that I think Ill stick around a little longer. Thanks, Maui said, and sighed. I guess thats better than nothing. Nanaue glowing on his shoulder, he began to paddle after his brothers and sisters. And that is how the Islands of Hawaii came to be. 4. WHY THE SEA IS SALTY A long time ago, villagers on the island of Jojo in the Phillipines used to get their salt from a friendly giant named Damaso who lived on an island very close to them. Naguey the merchant used to make a deal with Damaso for the salt, even though he hated doing it. Damaso was more popular in the villages of Jojo than he was, even though Naguey brought them food. Without salt, none of his food tasted good to them. Back then, the ocean had no salt in it. The ocean tasted just like the rivers and lakes. So Naguey had to get his salt from the giant. Damasos island was very different from Jojo. It had no name, and it had seemed to just appear across from Jojo one day. Some people said it was actually the back of a giant turtle that had been covered with trees over the years. They said that Damaso was a wizard or other strange being. Naguey knew that Damaso was not a wizard he was just a very large, very tall, very strong giant. Every two weeks, Naguey would take a few boats out to Damasos island for the salt. The boats were 6lled with food for the giant. The giant ate a lot of food, but, then, the villagers used a lot of salt. Naguey didnt like Damasos island. It was different than Jojo. Jojo had forests with birds and animals in them. Damasos island had only trees and a garden the giant had made. 84 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Naguey always had a scowl on his face. He couldnt help it as a child, a wild boar had leapt out of the bushes and collided with him where he lay playing, injuring his mouth. His mouth, scarred, always curved downward. He would always scowl. He had no choice. Naguey also had a narrow face and almost no hair. Damaso, on the other hand, always smiled. Damaso was so friendly it made Naguey sick. The giant wore a huge broad-brimmed hat to keep the sun off of his face. The giant had a round face and large brown eyes with dark eyebrows. His hair was thick and long so long it would almost have reached to the shores of Jojo. He wore a nice white shirt and black pants. He never bothered wearing shoes it had been hard enough to 5nd giant-sized clothes. Finding giant shoes would have been too dif5cult. Hello, Naguey, Damaso would say, taking off his hat. It is great to see you! I hope your business is doing well. Hi, Damaso, Naguey would say. Business is okay. Wheres the salt? Naguey never liked to stay around long and chat, while Damaso always wanted to talk. Naguey supposed that was because Damaso lived by himself. So Damaso would help them load the salt onto the boats and off they would go, back to Jojo, Naguey muttering to his crew the whole about how happy Damaso seemed to be. Whats he got to be happy about? Naguey would say. He lives alone. I have a wife. He has an island without any animals on it. Ive got lots of livestock. For years, Naguey would go to the island and Damaso would deliver his salt in return for goods. For years, Damaso would be friendly and cheerful. Usually, Naguey would be close-lipped and morose. Then, one day, a great storm came out of the East and settled over the island of Jojo. For more than two weeks, there was rain and lightning and high winds. Looking out of his window toward Damasos island, Naguey would say to himself, I wonder how Damasos doing. I wonder if hes still smiling now. Because of the high winds and rain, Naguey could not travel over to Damasos island. The villagers of Jojo could not have their salt. Damaso could not get the food he needed. Naguey knew he probably had enough stored away, though. Hes a happy giant, he said to his wife. Hes probably not a stupid giant. After the third week, the people of Jojo had gotten used to the wind and the rain. But they hadnt gotten used to having no salt. So Naguey agreed to go out to the part of Jojo that was closest to Damasos island and see if he could talk to the giant across the water. Hallo, Damaso! he shouted across the water. Are you there? After a few minutes, he saw the familiar sight of the giant walking onto the beach of his little island. I am here, Naguey! Damaso shouted over the water. I hope you are well! I hope your business is doing well! Actually, Naguey shouted back, my business is doing terrible. I need salt! Well, come get some salt then, by all means, the giant shouted. Ive got plenty of it. Mounds and mounds of the stuff. And I am running low on food. But we cant, Naguey shouted. Our boats will capsize well all drown. Damaso thought for a second, then shouted, Are you sure?! Am I sure, Naguey muttered to himself. Am I sure? Didnt I just say it? To Damaso he shouted, Im sure. But how about this why dont you bring the salt over. Youre so tall and big, you could straddle the space between our two islands. My men could walk over you to your island and get the salt. Damaso thought for a second and said, It could work, I guess. Damaso planted one foot on his island and took one massive step so that his other foot was on the shore of Jojo. Nagueys men climbed over him and began to 5ll up their 85 I SLAND T ALES empty sacks with salt. Damaso really had to strain to keep from falling over, but he kept smiling. So, Naguey, he said, have your people survived the storm pretty well? Are your homes okay? Sure, Damaso, theyre 3ne, Naguey said. Just keep upright so my men can get across. But Damaso began to wobble. Is there someplace else I can put my foot? he asked. He was trying so hard to balance, he couldnt look down. Naguey looked around. There was an ant mound nearby. He smiled, which meant he frowned, because of his lip. Yes, there is, he said. Move your foot a little to the left. Okay. The giant did as Naguey told him to do. Now he could keep his balance a lot better, but Nagueys men were taking a long time they had decided to put a lot of the salt on his shoulders 3rst and then take it across to Jojo when they had enough for many years and suddenly there were little shooting pains in his foot. Is there something biting me, Naguey? Damaso asked, still not able to look down. The pain was increasing. No. Nothing. Inside, Naguey was laughing. All it would cause Damaso was a little discomfort surely ants couldnt hurt a giant? Besides, maybe Damaso would stop smiling for once. Now men with sacks of salt were crawling all along Damasos legs and back. But the pain had gotten too intense. The giant moved his foot and began to lose his balance. Nagueys men dropped their sacks and ran for safety some back to Damasos island and some back to Jojo. No, no, no, Naguey said. You cant fall. All of that salt! Im dreadfully sorry, Damaso said, wincing. But I think Im going to have to fall. I wish I didnt have to, but I dont think I can stop myself for much longer. That pain in my foot is too great. And so saying, Damaso fell into the sea, amid the wind and the rain, taking all the sacks of salt with him. When he regained his footing, he walked up onto the beach next to Naguey, who was looking out at the sea in shock. Nagueys men were safe, but all the salt was gone. Hundreds and hundreds of sacks of it, dissolved into the ocean. Damaso sat down on the beach next to Naguey, who was like a mosquito next to an eagle. Damaso looked at his bitten foot and then looked at Naguey. For the 3rst time ever, Naguey saw a frown on Damasos face, a look of sadness. Ant bites, Damaso said. My foot was in an ant mound. The look he gave Naguey was one of betrayal. Seeing the frown on Damasos face, a strange feeling came over Naguey, one of shame. He was not happy to see that frown after all. He had grown so used to Damaso being happy that seeing him sad made him sad, too. He almost started to cry when he thought of how mean hed been to Damaso over the years. Naguey stood and looked up at Damaso. Im very sorry about the ants. Its my fault. Im sorry. As soon as he said this, it was as he was saying he was sorry for so many years of treating Damaso so badly. A weight lifted from him and he almost felt& happy. Damaso smiled. Thats okay, Naguey. I understand. Naguey tried to smile back. You should come over to my house for dinner. I dont know if we have enough to feed you properly, but I would be honored if you would come over. Damaso smiled. Why, Id like that very much. From that day forward, the only sign of Nagueys former envy of Damaso was the fact that the sea, which had once tasted like tap water, tasted like salt for ever after. 86 87 THE MARY ANNA Adam Roberts Illustrated by Jim Murray Ive paid the bills for your lifestyle; Ive funded your every spree And now your father is dying; and you must listen to me! I can be coma d, can I? The doctor has told you? He lied. I shall be dead by tomorrow; no science can hold back that tide. Those Cryo-Operative What-Nots postpone what they cannot cure Id rather die in my bed, now, than have ten frozen dream-years more. Deaths not a thing to be feared, son, with skull-helmet, boots and black cape Dyings a part of our Life-world, a gravity none can escape. Life launches us upward to high 4ight; but then the parabola drops. And whilst Ive been happy to live life Im happy enough as it stops. Fifty years out in the System, from Mercury to past Mars Base Though it has earned me a billion, leaves nothing to cover my face Nothing, I suppose, but two credits, to lie one-and-one on my eyes And this chip I hold in my grasp here and this for your secret prize. Perform one task for me, Havel, though its neither your Soma nor R, I know youve devoted your life to being where the Zip Crowd are. Devoted your life and my money, and reckoned them both well spent Though youve never earned half a credit to cover food, psych bills or rent. Happy to live on my money, contended to slosh it away And I no longer grudge you the credits provided you do as I say. Not counting the Line and the shipyards, the orbitals and the Facs too, Ive made twice a billion and made me; but damned if I ever made you. Pilot at twenty-3ve years 4at; and married at thirty in haste Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters in space! 88 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES And now Im an honorary Senator, and wear the White Star on my coat, Talk on the level to Generals of Industry, Presidents, people of note Fifty years in the making, and every last year of it 8ght, Investments that pay from Neptunian darkness up to Venusian light. I didnt begin with mooching. I found me a job and I stuck; I worked like a robot, and plunged on, though now theyre calling it luck. God, what ships Ive served in analogue, leaky and old Some with a hull thin as cardboard to keep out the vacuum and cold, G-couches fashioned for giants that left you all bruised up and sore Or couches made-up for a dwarf-man that plain chucked you out on the 9oor Whole days at 4G, unbroken, though Law sets its limit at hours Fuel pellets lumpy as coal and as useless; or ground down explosive like 9our Food that would poison a heifer, and crewfellows nothing but strife And mission insurance for write-off worth more than a crewmans life. Add it all up and I traveled I brag it not short of a full light year They called me Debugger and Fireman, the Pilot Who Knew No Fear I worked every billet I could, and I took all the money they paid And spent it as random, or gambled it, scattered as soon as made. Til I met and I married your mother, took the boost-up from boy to man: Ten years older, and wise as AI, she taught me the need for a plan Piloting all through the System, a father at thirty-three, And your mother saving the money and making a man of me. I was content to be 9ier, but she said there was better to 8nd; She took the chances I wouldnt, and I followed your mother blind. Only her past held her back, for shed Law Tags she could not quit Justice pinned her for taxes, fraud, smuggling, anything as would 8t; Her credit rating was zeroed, she was banned from 9ying in space And all for a misunderstanding and a 9echette in somebodys face. Now she had me to borrow the money she helped me to manage the loan, And we bought half-shares in a shuttle with a logo all of our own. Though mindwipe was hers if they caught us, Saturnian jail for me, But still we 9ew it together, and saved on a crewmembers fee, More than the money it kept us together when orbits were slow and long And your mother was never a groundling; deep space was where she belonged. Patching and fueling on credit, and living the Lord know how, I started the Red Ox freighters Ive thirty eight of them now. I say it was me that began it, and my name was the one on the slate But most of the running was Marys, and Mary shouldered the weight. And those were the days of fast cargoes, and trade was brisk and fair And Mercury would make us our fortune, but she died in the tussle there Owners we were, full owners, and the boat was named after her, And she died in the Mary Anna. My heart; how young we were! For Mercurys made of pig iron, at the base of its gravity well, And if you can mine out a portion theres those as will buy all you sell. Though we didnt have mine equipage, and couldnt afford mining crew 89 T HE M ARY A NNA We only had wits and a ramshackle spaceship provisioned for just we two. It wasnt entirely legal, and it certainly wasnt too safe For the aim wasnt orbital caution but to 6y a bomb-run and to strafe. My speed added star-blast momentum to concentrate nuclear bloom And great big lovely chunks of mercury-iron were blasted up into cuum Spun in elliptical orbits and free to be netted and snared And precious as gold was the prize for those who had planned it and dared. It was no schoolyard exercise, matching their wild delta-v; I 6ew the craft and your ma stuck a dart-jet in every lump she could see. And if wed had a third crewperson maybe she wouldnt have died For maybe we would have had warning of the policeboats slammed broadside Abrupt in our sensors from suns white shadow, coming-in shocking and fast, Firing cannons to catch us our breath and that breath your mothers last, For the aft pods were hit, the hull breached, and vacuum quenched the blaze. I rushed to repair and to 5nd her, but Mary had ended her days. She was beautiful-looking in death, although scorched up feet to thighs And although the swift decompression had beetroot-blackened her eyes, And theres no shame in saying I wept, for grief pierced me like a sword; But yet I couldnt hold on to her, for fear that the police would board Although she was dead she was lawless, and I would have gone into a jail And prison fees cost more than Mary Anna would get in a sale. So I clutched her and then I released her, and tossed her out into space And I busied myself with repairs, though all I could see was her face, And awaited the police hail and boarding, and squared ship AI with my lie That Id found the pig iron 6oating when I happened to be passing by, And tagged it to warn other shipping of debris, all legal and friendly and fair, And the police crew didnt believe me, and I knew it and I didnt care. But they hadnt a case, so they 5ned me and left me to go my way, Wifeless and never to know in which grave-orbit Mary lay. So I went on a spree back on Earth, and I 5tted a Soma Bug, But I dreamed your mother appeared and warned me to give up the drug A dream, or drug hallucination, or maybe her spirit: who cares Told me to stick to my business, let others stick to theirs, Saving the money (she warned me), letting others who wanted get high. Provide for my son thats you, Hav let son be enough of a why. And I met McCullough moonside, renting space in Copernicus wall, And between us we planned a repair yard, Lagranged and open to all Cheap repairs for the cheap ones. It paid, and the business grew; For I bought me a laser-lathe huller, and that was a gold mine too. Cheaper to build than mend; I said, but McCullough dreamed of the stars, And we wasted a year in talking before moving the shop to Mars. Nearer the asteroid beltways and higher-up over the Sun But most of all further away from the paths where the Earth police run. The Merchant Houses then beginning, and all of us started fair, Building up spaceships like houses and 5xing the drive-rails square. 90 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES And I wouldnt call them all criminal, though some tugged the law from true And I worked at 5xing, and trading, and had too little time left for you. Though I paid the best tutors and virals, saw you daily by face or by screen You sensed my love lacked the meaning that a fathers love ought to mean. Though I spoke to you fatherly words, and looked you full in the face My eye was not on you you knew it but on money and spaceships and space. And McCullough, he dreamed interstellar, and starsystems wholly new And wasted our money on liners to 5t generations of crew And hulking expensive engines to make speeds near to half that of light But McCullough was killed in the nineties, and Well, Im dying to-night... I knew I knew what was coming, that the Houses would fall into war Wear-tear is one thing to repair-shops, combat damage something more Plasmetal and battle expansions. It paid, I tell you, it paid, When we came with our nine-hour service and collared the long-run trade! Then came the armour-contracts, but that was McCulloughs side; He was always the best at designing, but better, perhaps, he died. I went through his private data; the notes were plainer than print; And Im no fool to 5nish if a man will give me a hint. His children were angry no matter. I saw what his equations meant; And I started the Tachyon Thrust game, and it paid me sixty per cent. Sixty per cent with failures, twice what we could otherwise do, And a quarter-billion Credits, and I saved it all for you! It was clear when the war was coming, and clearer when it would end And backing the House of Ulanov was money it made sense to spend So peace came, more 5erce and law-strict than even the old Solar Pact, And I started my life quite over; for I had what Id previously lacked, And though you dont value it, Havel, its getting, not having, that counts; Not winning trophies for polo on pressurized hydraulic mounts. Youre nearer sixty than 5fty, and fruit from an alien tree, I bought you the best education, and what have you done for me? Though you married that thin-limbed woman, shes white and stale as a bone, She gave you your art-crowd nonsense; but wheres that kid of your own? The things that I value you scorn them, you take and you never give, And the things I know are rotten you think are the way to live. Half your time in vr , and the other half Pharmed-out on Som Eight different houses on four worlds, and none of them counts as a home. I had a half billion then, but I didnt consider it mine; I brought out the Red Ox logo again and made it up into a line. I used my money as grav-assist to slingshot me to the high road, But you youre content just to shed it, as if its an onerous load. Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a spaceship stray Nosing for scraps in the galley, a whelp whos blind to the way. Im sick of the whole bad business. I want to go back where I came. Hav, youre my son or your Marys, and at least you carry our name. T HE M ARY A NNA I want to lie by your mother, though shes dark and shes far, far away, And since Law forbids it, youll take me, and so you will earn your pay. Youve a million a year in my will, if you think that that is enough But I know your taste, and your wifes; hers an expensive sort of love. And you know Ive more than a billion, not too far short of two; And if you want to earn it then theres things youll have to do. The Lex Ulanova forbids 3ying inside Venuss span But thats where my woman is 3oating, and you must deliver her man; Take out the Mary Anna Ive fuelled and maintained her for this, Jettison me near my wife; let us 3oat til we bump-to and kiss Because although she is lost, quite unmarked, and impossible to 2nd Yet fate will bring us together, though were dead and cold and blind. Trajectories are random and space, dont I know it! vast But we will have eternity to 3oat and to fall and to pass. The Ulanov want their monopoly, and I wish them the luck of the brave But Im not trying to steal their pig iron; Im looking for a grave Ill be content with the blank of space; no churchyard, shroud or bell For the wife of my youth shall clutch me and the rest can go to Hell! She died in an instant, son, and that fact kept her spirit pure And Fate is not so cruel that Im kept from her ever and more. Her beauty outlasted the vacuum, the decompression, the burn. Never seen death yet, my Havel?& Well, now is your time to learn! S TAZ J OHNSON S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS 93 T HE DAY JFK GOT SHOT, THINGS GOT REALLY CRAZY FOR JIMMY STREUBAL. For me, too hell, for everybody but mostly for Jimmy. It wasnt like things werent already screwy for him. He had this really messed-up family situation. When his parents were together, they used to have the kind of 4ghts that the neighbours called the police about. After they got divorced, legend had it the custody 4ght was back-asswards his mother tried to force his father to take him and vice-versa. In those days, the scandal of having divorced parents in a small town was bad enough but when neither of them wanted you, it was like going around with the word TRASH tattooed on your forehead. But it was even worse than that for Jimmy. He had a lot of relatives on both sides of the family aunts, uncles, all kinds of cousins, and grandparents and none of them wanted him any more than his parents did. Social Services was forced to intervene, as my mother put it. She worked in the admitting of4ce at the local hospital and she knew everybody in Social Services, including Jimmys social JIMMY Pat Cadigan Illustrated by Anton Emdin 94 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES worker, Mrs Beauvais. Because there were so many Streubals and Streubal in-laws in town, my mother told me, Mrs Beauvais was under orders to get one of them to take Jimmy. The county had only one group home for orphaned or unwanted boys but it was over thirty miles away and 9lled to twice its of9cial capacity with kids who were worse off. The states foster-family subsidy was good enough that she could usually talk a reluctant relative into a ninety-day trial period. Unfortunately, Jimmy never lasted that long. Four or 9ve weeks later, Mrs Beauvais would get a call telling her to come and get him now. All she could do was take Jimmy back to her of9ce and call the next relative on the list. My mother didnt normally share this kind of information with me but Jimmy and I had been friends since kindergarten and she wanted me to know the facts rather than the gossip. So she swore me to secrecy, promising to kill me if I let anything slip (in those days, if your parents loved you, they threatened your life at least once a week). I dutifully vowed not to say a word. I didnt tell her that I had already heard the same thing, generously embellished, from Mrs Beauvais niece, who sat behind me and served as the class distributor of any gossip worth repeating. Big problems in a small town; if you had any, there wasnt a hope in hell of keeping them quiet. Nor did I mention that I had heard even more detailed information from Jimmy himself. Neither my mother nor Mrs Beauvaiss niece knew, for example, that he was always evicted before anyone called the Social Services of9ce; when Mrs Beauvais arrived, she would 9nd him waiting out on the sidewalk, regardless of the weather or time of day (or night), with a note listing all of his sins and general shortcomings pinned to his shirt. My mom said I stole from her purse, Jimmy told me. My dad claimed I smoked his cigarettes and sneaked out at night when I was supposed to be in bed. Where did you go? I asked him. Dunno. He never said. Jimmy wrinkled his nose. Just out somewhere, getting into trouble and he couldnt control me. Jeez. Uz, Jimmy added, grinning a little. If you split the syllables between two kids, it didnt count as swearing. Did you ever ask him? Ask him what where I went? Are you kidding? You think I wanted a fat lip? He ran a hand over his crew-cut. Jimmy always had crew-cuts, even in the coldest weather. On the 9rst day of school in 9rst grade, the teacher swore she saw lice in his hair so every few weeks, Mrs Beauvais dragged him to the barber to have clippers run over his head. His hair was so short that it was hard to tell what colour it was. I didnt think it was fair but Jimmy said it was better than getting his head scrubbed with disinfectant shampoo. That stuff smells funny, he said. Like you oughta wash :oors with it, not your hair, and if it gets in your eyes, it stings worse than anything. I got some in my mouth once and I couldnt taste anything else for days. It was an odd friendship, Jimmy and me a boy and a girl, the class troublemaker and the straight-A student. It started, as I said, back in kindergarten. I 9rst noticed Jimmy because he was actually doing something wrong: he was over at the small sink in the corner where Miss Campbell had us all wash our hands after 9nger-painting, and he was 9lling a paper cup with water and pouring it into the trashcan, over and over again. I remember this so vividly that even now I can close my eyes and see it like a clip from a movie an indie production shot in a budget, The Chant of Jimmy Streubal, maybe. I can see Jimmy moving from the small, white sink to the trashcan, also white, round-topped with a swing-door, and slightly taller than he was, and back again with an expression of deep concentration on his face, a little man with a mission. I remember the other kids standing around watching in horri9ed anticipation of what will happen when Miss Campbell 9nally looks up from whatever shes engaged in and sees what hes doing; this is 95 J IMMY so far off the misbehaviour scale that there no one can imagine what sort of punishment Jimmy is in for. Most of all, I remember that I understood immediately what he was doing: he wanted to know how many cups of water it would take to :ll the trashcan all the way to the top. This was something I had wondered about myself and I had even contemplated trying the same thing to :nd out. Ultimately, I had decided against it as it seemed to be the sort of thing that would make Miss Campbell scream and yell and call your mother. As it turned out, I was right but that was no fun. Fun would have been Jimmy telling us exactly how many cups it took and Miss Campbell writing it on the board for him, not to mention getting to see a trashcan full of water, instead of what actually happened. Strangely, thats the one thing I cant remember what happened when Jimmy got caught, or even how he got caught. Whether one of the kids :nally got tired of waiting for the storm and called out, Miss Campbell, look what Jimmys doing! or whether Miss Campbell herself suddenly realized there was too much running-water noise and turned to see what fresh hell her teaching degree had visited on her now, I have forgotten completely. Ive also forgotten exactly how Jimmy was punished for this stupendous feat of transgression but shortly after that, we became friends. We didnt talk about the Trashcan Incident until a few years later when, after con:rming Id been right about his intentions, I asked him how many cups of water he thought it would have taken. At :rst, I thought maybe a hundred, he told me, his voice thoughtful and serious. But I was just a little kid, I didnt even really know what a hundred meant. Now I know it would have taken a lot more and I would have had to pour a lot faster water was leaking out all over the ;oor. That surprised me I didnt remember any water on the ;oor. Just Jimmy pouring cup after cup into that white trashcan. I asked him if that was when all the trouble had :rst started, with one very bad morning in kindergarten. Nah, he said, it had already started at home. The kids next door were playing with matches one day and they set their room on :re. They told their parents I did it and everyone believed them. I couldnt even tie my own shoes let alone light a match but everyone believed them anyway. In a properly-aligned universe, Jimmy would have been throwing rocks at me, putting spiders in my desk, spitting in my hair when my back was turned, and extorting my lunch money out of me. He didnt actually do anything like that to me or anyone else but for some reason, everyone was sure he did. I couldnt :gure it out; Jimmy said it was his lot in life. His karma, he called it. I had to look that one up, something that didnt happen very often even when I was ten years old. It didnt occur to me to wonder how Jimmy would know about something like that. I just :gured he was as brainy as I was and hiding it. No one would have believed he was really smart if hed ever gotten an A or even a B, everyone would have accused him of cheating. Kids like Jimmy werent smart and they werent talented. They couldnt be otherwise their parents would have wanted them. Wouldnt they? Big problems in a small town; messy questions with neat answers. Where were you when you heard Kennedy got shot? had a neat answer for everybody. I was in school just another day in :fth grade but Jimmy wasnt there. Thrown out again, I thought; he was always absent when someone threw him out. This time it was his Aunt Linda. Mrs Barnicle (I swear to God, that was really her name) raised her eyebrows at his empty desk and then got this look like she smelled something bad. That was how she always looked at Jimmy and I hated her for it. I dont think she knew that she was doing it, which made me hate her even more. 96 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES As if she sensed something, she looked over at me, her expression changing to puzzled and then disapproving, and I realized I had been scowling at her with that same bad- smell expression on my own face. If I didnt cut it out, I was going to get the chair i.e., the wooden chair in the far corner. Youd get exiled to it for chewing gum, passing notes, answering back, or other high crimes, and if you didnt sit completely still, it let out a godawful squealing noise. I had never sat there; Jimmy, of course, had done more time in it than anyone else in the class, maybe more than everyone else combined. It never squealed when he sat in it, which seemed to annoy Mrs Barnicle more than if he had made it sing The Star-Spangled Banner. I looked away from her quickly and started sorting my books and papers, hoping she wouldnt decide to come over and ask me if there was something Id like to share with her and the rest of the class. Fortunately, the Moran twins went up to her with a complicated question about a math problem wed had for homework. I kept my head down. With any luck, she would forget all about me. The day progressed unremarkably. Judy LeBlanc got caught with a Beatles magazine and was sent to the chair for the rest of the day, Beatlemania being the bane of Mrs Barnicles existence. Judy cried steadily if quietly for the 6rst half hour; she was afraid she wouldnt get the magazine back and so were the rest of us. She had promised to show it to us at recess and obviously that wasnt going to happen now. Disappointment hung over us like an indoor cloud. Then someone called Mrs Barnicle out of the classroom and when she came back, she looked as if shed been hit over the head with a baseball bat. I dont remember what she said, not the exact words. I just remember disbelief and shock, and an echo of the feeling Id had when my father had died, a sense that all the things that were supposed to be steady and permanent were actually no more substantial or enduring than soap bubbles. I automatically turned to look at Jimmy. His empty desk sat there as if it were it were anyone elses, as if it belonged to a kid who just happened to be sick today and not someone whose aunt was kicking him out. As if everything were really quite normal and it wasnt a world where the president had just been assassinated. Assassinated. That was the word Mrs Barnicle used. She said it over and over and it was so scary, not even the biggest loudmouth jerks in the class sniggered at it. They let us out early. On my way home, I passed people crying on the street. Grown- ups crying in public, as if JFK had been someone theyd known personally. Maybe it was Kennedy or maybe it was the tenor of the times, or maybe it was both. Whatever it was, I cant imagine it happening now; at the time, it made everything even scarier and more messed-up. My mother was still at work, unreachable except in an emergency and since I had neither been shot nor done the shooting, this didnt qualify. Even if she had been home, she would have been glued to the news and telling me to be quiet. Didnt matter to me I wanted Jimmy, not my mother. Jimmy knew about messed-up things. I hurried home, changed out of my school clothes, and went to look for him. His Aunt Linda lived four blocks away from our apartment building, which wasnt quite outside the boundary my mother had told me I was con6ned to when she wasnt home. As a latchkey kid, I was under strict orders not to roam the streets, something my mother considered both dangerous and disgraceful. Personally, I didnt see the harm in going for a walk but after discovering the hard way that she somehow always found out when I disobeyed secret mother radar? superpowers? I did as I was told. The only person who didnt make fun of me for this 97 J IMMY was Jimmy, which I thought was above and beyond the call of friendship. Hell, I made fun of myself for it. I walked over to Jimmys aunts house wishing it werent too cold to ride my bike otherwise I could have been over there and back in under 8fteen minutes. Less if his cousins were outside, because then I wouldnt have to ring the doorbell and talk to his aunt. You could never depend on an adult for a straight answer in a situation like this anyway and Linda Valeri wasnt the most approachable person in town. Chances were shed just yell Mind your own business! and slam the door in my face. His cousins, on the other hand, would fall all over themselves to tell me where he was just to show off how much they knew. The afternoon sky was greying up so that the day looked colder than it really was. I remember that and I remember I could almost smell snow in the air. Six days to Thanksgiving and it hadnt snowed but a couple of times; what was left from that wouldnt have made a decent-sized snowman. I was thinking about how early it got dark, how it would be like midnight by six oclock which was when my mother got home from work. I had to 8nd Jimmy before then because I wasnt supposed to be out after dark, especially not on a school night. Then I turned the corner onto his aunts street and walked right into the middle of his latest crisis. All three of Jimmys cousins were outside in front of the house along with his Aunt Linda. She had been crying and still was a little, dabbing at her reddened eyes and nose with a wad of tissues about twice the size of a softball. She was talking to two people standing with their backs to me, a woman in an expensive tweed coat and a turquoise velvet hat and a tall skinny guy in a trench-coat. A big boat of an Oldsmobile and a little red vw were parked nose to nose at the curb, or sort of nose to nose the vw had one tire up on the curb. I was thinking the Olds looked familiar when one of Jimmys cousins suddenly yelled, Hey, I bet she knows shes his girlfriend! All three adults turned to see who she was, Jimmys aunt glaring as if I had killed Kennedy and the other two looking like they thought I could catch the person who had. Hello? Little girl? said the woman, bending down a little with a slightly desperate smile. Her turquoise hat had a small net veil; Id never seen anyone wear something like that outside of church. This was Jimmys social worker, Mrs Beauvais, I realized and I stepped back, wondering if it were too late to run. Whats your name, dear? She lives in one of those big blocks on Water Street, Jimmys aunt said. From the tone in her voice, youd have thought she was talking about maggots. Mrs Beauvais tossed her an irritated glance and turned back to me, her smile becoming more desperate. Its OK, dear, youre not in trouble. The tall skinny man next to her rolled his eyes brie9y; when he realized I had seen him, he gave me a big thousand-watt, pleading smile of his own. Well, of course she knows shes not in trouble, Jean-Marie, he said, his voice going all gooey. We just want to ask you if you know where Jimmy Streubal is. Are you really his girlfriend? No! I said hotly, looking daggers at Jimmys cousins. If the adults hadnt been around, Id have punched them out for that slander. They knew it, too; they made faces at me behind Mrs Beauvaiss back. I was tempted to take a swing anyway, in the hope of getting a lick or two in before the grown-ups stopped me. Were just friends. I gotta go home No, please, wait a minute at least tell us your name, said Mrs Beauvais, also going all gooey now. Its so nice for us to meet a friend of Jimmys. I was probably the only one they had ever met, I thought as I told her who I was. Oh, youre Janets daughter! Mrs Beauvais exclaimed as if this was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard. I know your mother very well, I see her whenever Im at the hospital The hospital? Jimmys aunt snapped, 98 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES stepping forward. Oh my God, you mean her mothers a nurse? No, she works in the admitting of:ce, Mrs Beauvais said, still sounding utterly delighted. And a lovely person she is Oh, thats just great. I thought Jimmys aunt was going to spit with disgust. Shell know all our private business and so will this little shit here Mrs Beauvais straightened up instantly. I have warned you before do not use that language about children in front of children, especially your own, or Jimmy wont be the only child going into care tonight. Jimmys aunt stared at her open-mouthed she needed a dentist bad, I thought then turned to look at her daughters now lined up on the sidewalk next to her. Their faces were so terror-stricken that I forgot I wanted to punch them out. I tried to will Jimmys aunt to bend down, gather them into her arms, and tell them they didnt have to be afraid. Instead, she turned back to Mrs Beauvais. You got someplace to take them, you go right ahead, lady. I need a rest and I cant get a babysitter. All three girls burst into loud tears. It was all I could do not to cry with them. Oh, for Christs sake, shut up! Jimmys aunt shouted, dabbing at her eyes with the enormous tissue wad. Youre not goin nowhere, they dont got nobody to take care of you. Now shut up before I give you something to cry about! This only made them cry louder. Mrs Beauvais turned to the skinny guy like she expected him to do something; he scowled back at her. She deserved it; shed started it by threatening Jimmys aunt for nothing more than a little bad language. Every kid I knew had heard worse than that, if not from their parents then from grouchy neighbours. It didnt mean anything except someone was having a bad day, or was drunk. I didnt know anyone who took it seriously, just as I didnt know anyone who couldnt appreciate the humour value of your mother calling you a son of a bitch (you had to be careful not to laugh, though). But anything about being taken away from your folks was going too far, no matter who said it. I was wondering how much trouble Id be in if I yelled at both Mrs Beauvais and Jimmys aunt for being stupider and then the skinny guy did something even stupider he went over to the girls and tried to comfort them. Naturally, they thought he was trying to take them away. Screaming at the top of their lungs, they ran into the house and slammed the door. Even then we could still hear them wailing and sobbing. I looked around, wondering why the neighbours werent coming out to see what was going on and then remembered about Kennedy. Theyd all be glued to their tv sets. Besides, they were probably used to hearing Linda Valeris kids cry. Oh, what are you lookin so upset for? she asked the skinny guy, who was pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a bad headache. You dont have to live with that I do. Mrs Valeri he started. Dont Mrs Valeri me, you you she hesitated, as if shed been about to say something and then caught herself. You social worker. You never mind about them or my brothers kid. Weve got real problems now. Kennedys been shot, probably by some Communist! This time next week we could have Russian tanks rolling down Main Street, unless they just drop the bomb on us. You gonna take my kids away then? Mrs Beauvais and the skinny guy looked at each other for a moment; then she turned to me with a pained look that was trying to be a smile. Sweetheart, an awful lot has happened today and its got everyone so upset theyre saying things they dont mean Obviously she didnt know Jimmys aunt as well as I did but I didnt say so. but right now, Im very, very worried about Jimmy because nobody seems to know where he is. She stared into my face as if she really expected me to solve all her problems. Well, he wasnt in school today, I offered. 99 J IMMY She nodded patiently. Yes, we know that now. His Aunt Linda said Jimmy left the house this morning just like always so she thought he was in school. When he didnt come home with his cousins, she called to see if he was with me. Now were all very concerned Include me out, said Jimmys aunt. That kid can take care of himself just ;ne. Please, Mrs Valeri said the skinny guy. Dont Mrs Valeri me! He looked like he wanted to say something; instead, he turned his back and moved away a couple of feet. What did she want him to call her, I wondered Aunt Linda? Your Majesty? At least none of us had to call her Mommy; inside the house, Jimmys cousins were still wailing and sobbing. There, you hear that? Jimmys aunt said, gesturing with the wad of tissues. Thats my night shot to shit. Smooth move, Ex-Lax, thanks for nothin. Youre so worried about Jimmy, go look for him. I did what I was supposed to do. I told you to come and get him after school. Its not my fault if he took off. All I can say is, I just better see a check for the last month and a half or Ill sue you and the city. She marched into the house and slammed the door behind her. A moment later, we could hear her screeching at the kids who began crying louder than ever. Mrs Beauvais seemed to sag all over, even her face, as if she were de<ating. Then the skinny guy touched her arm and nodded toward me. She squared her shoulders and made herself smile. I have an idea, she said, trying to sound cheerful. Why dont you help me look for Jimmy? Well drive around in my car. I looked at the big Oldsmobile. Id have to ask my mother but shes still at work, and Im not supposed to call her there unless its an emergency. Thats no problem, Ill call her, said the social worker airily. Theres a payphone in the candy store up the street, well call her from there. Well& I guess, I said dubiously. First it was Ill call her and in the next breath it was Well call her? Sounded like a classic double- cross to me. But even if it wasnt, I didnt think this was going to go over very well. It had the feel of something that was supposed to be a good deed but would somehow end up back;ring and getting me into trouble. The skinny guy bent down so we were eye to eye. Look, Jimmy might have been intending to go straight to school when he left his aunts house this morning and then had an accident or something. He could be lying hurt somewhere, unable to call for help and hoping that someone, anyone would come looking for him. I bet he doesnt even know what happened to the president. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, imagining myself lying unseen all day in a ditch with a broken leg or worse without anyone knowing it. The fact that there were no ditches where even a mouse could have lain unseen all day between my house and school didnt matter. Good girl. The social worker was ushering me toward her car quickly, before I could think of an argument. Hop in, well drive to the store. I pulled away from her. Getting into someones car without permission? Unthinkable, even if I got permission afterwards. Please, Mrs Beauvais said wearily. Itll take me half an hour to walk all the way there, make the call, and walk back again. Thats half an hour when we could be looking for Jimmy and itll be dark soon. I gave in, hoping that somehow my mother either wouldnt ;nd out or would make an exception to the rule this one time. Like if Jimmy really were lying hurt somewhere and would have died if I hadnt gone looking for him with his social worker. Nobody would punish a kid for saving someones life, I thought. The guy behind the counter at the candy store was watching a little black-and-white tv with the sound turned down low. Every minute or so, he would change the channel, which 100 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES meant he had to 6ddle with the antenna. Occasionally, a lady would come out from the back room and ask him what was happening now. Then theyd look at the skinny guy and say something like, Can you believe it? Whats this country coming to? The skinny guy would nod and say something similar, all the while glancing over at Mrs Beauvais, who was on the payphone with my mother. Getting her permission for me to drive around with her and look for Jimmy was taking a lot longer than Id thought it would. Not a good sign the longer it took, the more trouble I would probably be in later, whether we found Jimmy or not. Hoping I wouldnt have to talk to my mother myself, I stayed by the counter with the skinny guy, who had told me he was Mrs Beauvaiss assistant. The conversation went on and on; I couldnt imagine what they were saying to each other and I didnt want to. The candy- store guy had 7ipped around the dial six or seven times when Mrs Beauvais suddenly looked up and beckoned to me, pointing at the receiver. My heart sank but I went over anyway. absolutely right, Janet, I dont know what its like to bring up a child as a single parent, she was saying. But youve known me for years and I would hope you know that I would never let any harm come to a child in my care. There is absolutely no danger and if I thought there were Long pause. Mrs Beauvais patted my shoulder reassuringly and then held onto it to keep me from walking away. I highly doubt that anyone would think anything bad about you or your daughter just because they saw her in my car, and if anyone ever did say anything, you have my assurance that I would correct them Pause again. Well, then, how about just until four- thirty? No matter what, I will drive her home at four-thirty on the dot. Pause. Yes, I promise. Four-thirty on the dot. Yes, shes right here Mrs Beauvais put her hand over the receiver and held it out to me. I took it from her thinking that JFK had been lucky to have a quick death. Hi, Mom, I said miserably. Why does Social Services think you know where that boy is? she demanded. Where on earth would they get an idea like that? I dont know, I said even more miserably. However you managed to get involved in this, youd better be home at four-thirty on the dot. Because Im going to call the house at four thirty-6ve and youd better answer by the third ring. I will She went on but the social worker took the phone away from me and talked over her, thanking her profusely for allowing me to help a child who through no fault of his own was in trouble and what a day this was with one thing and another, isnt it just awful what happened and again, thank you so, so much. I was pretty sure my mother was still talking when Mrs Beauvais hung up and turned to me with a bright, professional smile. I guess wed better get a move on if Im going to get you home on time. Four-thirty on the dot, I reminded her. My mother was going to kill me. Where are you two going to look 6rst? the skinny guy asked Mrs Beauvais as we left the store. Well, where do you think we should look? she asked me brightly. Is there any special place Jimmy likes to go that only he knows about and nobody else does? I wanted to laugh in her face. If only Jimmy knew about it and nobody else, then I wouldnt know about it either. Then I thought of the embankment and the area under the Fifth Street Bridge. Maybe, I said. Theres this place where we go sledding when it snows. I looked down at her feet. She was wearing boots but they had heels and looked dressy and expensive. Its over by the playground. The one near the bridge. Thats where well be, she told the skinny guy. 101 J IMMY Ill go uptown, then, he said and headed for his vw . I almost called after him not to bother Jimmy never went uptown if he had a choice but Mrs Beauvais was stuf7ng me back into the front seat of the Oldsmobile like she was afraid Id change my mind. Back then, the Fifth Street Bridge was one of the longer bridges in that part of the county. It connected the main part of town with the more suburban south side, stretching over the railroad tracks that went to and from the state capital and, parallel to the tracks, the Nashua River, which in those days wasnt so much a river as a waste run-off from the paint factory and a couple of paper mills. You could tell how good business was by colour of the water bright red, ink blue, puke green, or milk of magnesia white were all signs of an economic upturn, more so if there was a particularly bad stench. Mrs Beauvais parked the car across the street from the playground and peered through the windshield, worried. Do you think Jimmy is on the bridge? I knew she was looking at the concrete arches on the near side. They were a bit 8atter and more stretched out than a certain companys more famous golden ones. Locally, they were more notorious; high school boys showed off by walking all the way up and over them. Occasionally, the 7re department would have to come out and rescue someone whod reached the top and then lost his nerve, and everyone knew someone who knew someone who had seen the kid who had fallen off and splattered all over the road, although no one seemed to know exactly when this grisly event had occurred. I knew Mrs Beauvais was wondering if Jimmy planned to walk over. No, I said, hes not on the bridge. Hes under it. She looked at me, horri7ed. But its dangerous down there. The railroad tracks he could get run over by a train. Or he could fall in the river God only knows what would happen to him if he did! I shrugged. Getting hit by a train seemed to be a lot more dif7cult than avoiding it it wasnt like a train could sneak up on you, after all, you could hear it coming for miles which gave you plenty of time to get out of the way. The river we gave a much wider berth. It was generally accepted among kids that if you stuck your 7nger in the Nashua, all the 8esh would dissolve off it, leaving the naked bone. But that was pretty easy to avoid, too you just stayed far away from the waters edge. Not hard to do there was a lot of land under the bridge, overgrown and wild, a jungle in the middle of town. As if Mrs Beauvais caught a sense of my thoughts, she said, You know, sweetheart, sometimes bad people hide down there. Tramps passing through, criminals on the run from the police. If Jimmy ran into someone like that well, there are people so bad they do that, you know. They hurt kids. I didnt say anything. I had a vague idea of what she was talking about but as far as I knew, bad people like that didnt hide in the undergrowth beneath bridges they lurked around outside schools with bags of candy. Do you and Jimmy spend a lot of time down there? she asked, looking into my face seriously. Everybody goes sliding here when theres enough snow, I said. Theres a steep part and a part thats not so steep. Sometimes if its slippery enough you can build up enough speed to go all the way to the tracks, practically. Thats very dangerous, Mrs Beauvais scolded. A train could come along at exactly the wrong moment and thered be nothing left of you. Nobodys ever slid onto the tracks, I said. I dont think you could go fast enough. She sighed heavily and looked toward the bridge again. You think Jimmys down there now? I dont know, I said. Wed have to go down and see. If you want, Ill go down by myself and come back and tell you. Mrs Beauvais shook her head so 102 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES emphatically, the little net veil on her hat wiggled. Didnt you hear me just tell you its dangerous? Besides, I dont just want to know where he is. He has to come with me. Why? I asked. She looked startled at the question. I was startled myself at my sudden and hitherto unsuspected nerve. Never in my life had I ever asked an adult to explain herself. His aunt kicked him out, didnt she, I said. Id rather you didnt put it that way, Mrs Beauvais said and I realized she was embarrassed, which startled me even more. Wheres he going to go now? She tapped her gloved 9ngers on the steering wheel. Thats a good question. I think Jimmy may have 9nally run out of relatives. Why cant you just make his mother take him? I said. Isnt it against the law or something for a mother to refuse to take care of her own kid? Mrs Beauvais gave me another startled look. Im sorry, that was indiscreet. I shouldnt have said anything about Jimmy, she said in that brisk way grown-ups use when theyve done something wrong and a kid bags them right in the act. Its nothing that concerns you. These are matters that youll never have to worry about, God willing. Now lets see if we can 9nd Jimmy. We got out of the car and Mrs Beauvais followed me over to the easier way down, which wasnt all that easy for her in those boots and her dress and her nice tweed coat. I thought she probably would have had a hard time anyway at her age; I had no idea how old she was but all grown-ups seemed to be too old for everything kids could do. Every time I looked back at her clambering down the uneven slope after me, I was tempted to tell her to forget it, Jimmy probably wasnt down here, it was too cold. I guess she knew from the look on my face because she kept telling me to keep going, she was doing 9ne, she had actually been a kid once herself, even if I found that hard to believe. What I found hard to believe was that I would get her back up the hill to the car fast enough so she could drive me home in time for my mothers 4:35 phone call. How could I have been so stupid, I thought furiously. If Id been with another kid, it would have been simple: I could just say I had to go home or my mother would kill me and then leave. The other kid wouldnt have blamed me for taking off. But if I left Mrs Beauvais here, I would somehow end up in worse trouble when my mother found out. And she would 9nd out, because Mrs Beauvais saw her several times a week. Shed made a point of telling her. That was grown-ups for you do them a favour and theyd end up making stuff that should have been simple into something so complicated you ended up in trouble no matter what you did. Maybe that was why Jimmys life was all messed up, I thought hed done some adult a favour once and hed been paying for it ever since. Finally we reached the bottom of the hill where the land sloped gently toward the railroad tracks. Mrs Beauvais stood there for a few moments, swaying on her high- heeled boots, her pocketbook swinging from the crook of her elbow. Jeez, why hadnt she hidden that under the front seat, I wondered as she grabbed my shoulder to steady herself. I dont suppose theres an easier way back up? she asked, puf9ng a little. I shook my head; I was doomed. After she caught her breath, we continued down the slope and I led her toward the patch of land directly under the bridge. In the summer, big weeds grew up around the bridge support, overgrowth tall enough to hide in. I had thought most of it would have been gone now, killed off by the cold but a lot of the thicker stalks were still there. They were yellow and dry as old corn husks but there were plenty of them. Jimmy? I called softly, moving ahead of Mrs Beauvais. Its me, are you down here? I glanced back at the social worker picking her way along the frozen ground, both arms out for balance as if she were walking a tightrope 103 J IMMY or something. I should have made her wait in the car, I thought, watching her pause to frown at her right boot. Shed stepped in something. Without waiting for her, I plunged into the thickest part of the tall dead weeds close the bridge support, both arms out in front of me so I wouldnt go face 8rst into the cement if I tripped. Abruptly, one of the stalks tilted down and hit me right on the bridge of my nose. Tears sprang into my eyes even though it wasnt quite as bad as the time the Army brat who lived upstairs from us punched me in the nose. I staggered sideways, my hands grabbing for something, anything. Weeds broke off in my left hand; what felt like several jets of warm, humid air hit my right palm and then I was sitting on the ground with Jimmy standing over me. He was wearing only a light, threadbare brown plaid shirt and jeans, and hed just had a crew-cut he said he always got crew-cuts because everyone thought he had lice if he didnt but he didnt look cold. Whatre you doing here? His voice sounded tired and old. Looking for you. I got up and brushed myself off. Just like everybody else in town, I think. Well, your social worker and her assistant, anyway. The one who drives the red vw. They made me help them. I spotted Mrs Beauvais about twenty feet away, looking turning around with a desperate, bewildered expression on her face. I waved at her. Hey, over here! Jimmy pulled my arm down. Dont bother. She cant hear you. Or see you. I twisted out of his grip. What are you talking about? Shes just right there I raised my arm to wave at her again and saw the air in front of me ripple, as if it were shimmering in intense heat. OK, go ahead wave, yell, yodel for all I care. Jimmy chuckled. Can you yodel? I couldnt but I tried waving and yelling some more. Mrs Beauvais didnt even look in our direction as she stumbled around in her expensive boots. Jeez, Jimmy. How are you doing it? Im not doing anything. They are. He jerked his thumb upward. I looked. Instead of the underside of the bridge, there was Well, I dont know what it was; I still dont. That might have been because only part of it was visible, as if someone had torn a strip out of the world overhead so it could show through, like a hidden attic between a ceiling and a roof, but I dont think so. It did remind me of an attic but it also made me think of a submarine. Or, strangely, a cross between Mrs Beauvaiss pocketbook, still swinging from the crook of her arm, and the roof of my mouth. Too weird; I wanted to lower my head but my neck wouldnt move and closing my eyes made me feel dizzy. There was another, worse feeling creeping up on me as well, a strong sense of not mattering, of being so small next to everything else that I might as well not exist. It was horrible and scary but at the same time I also felt oddly relieved to know where I stood in the universe of things. But not happy; de8nitely not happy. Jimmy? I said weakly. I know, he said. This is my dharma. Id never heard the word before; it lodged in my brain like a barbed hook. Who or what is up there? I asked. I thought I saw faint shadows moving in the vaulted darkness. Later, much later, I thought of a church or a cathedral but it wasnt like that at all. I just told you my dharma. Thats what they said, anyway. It means this is how it is for me. Oh. I wanted to tell him that my neck wouldnt move but I couldnt remember how to say something like that. I dont know if thats really the right word, considering theyre doing it to me, Jimmy went on. Probably doesnt matter I cant stop it. Theyre just gonna keep doing anything they want to me. What are they doing? I asked. Jimmy hesitated. Theyre still trying to 8nd a word for that. If they ever do, itll probably be a bad word. Really bad. But what it is, they make me know things. My neck was starting to hurt. They tell you stuff? 104 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES No, they make me know things. Thats what I meant they tell you things. He made a frustrated noise. No. Its not the same thing. I could tell you something but that wouldnt mean youd know it. Whatre you talking about? I said, getting frustrated myself, both with the argument and not being able to move my head. If you tell me something, Ill know it. Oh, yeah? I can tell you I ran a mile without stopping and got tired but you wont know my feet hurt and my legs were wobbly and my lungs burned like 8re. Even if I told you that, too, you still wouldnt know it, because it didnt happen to you. Unless I could make you know it my way. Oh. I managed to get both my hands up behind my neck and started rubbing it, pushing on the base of my skull as I did. After a bit, I could feel my head tilting down again little by little. Finally I was looking straight ahead instead of straight up. Mrs Beauvais tramped back and forth in front of me and although I could see her mouth opening and closing, I didnt hear her. I didnt hear anything except Jimmys voice and under that, a soft rushing noise, like when you put a seashell to your ear. Is that why you werent in school today? I asked. Because someone was making you know something? I didnt want to, he said. I tried to run away but I ended up here. Have you been here all day? Not exactly here. But all day, yeah. Mrs Beauvaiss assistant thought you might be stuck somewhere, like lying hurt in a ditch and unable to call for help. He said you probably didnt even know about what happened to the president. Oh, I know, Jimmy said. I know all about it. I know everything. You do? Yeah. They made me know. The pain in his voice made me turn toward him. In the same moment, I suddenly noticed that the daylight was all but completely gone. Everything of the day seemed to rush down on me like an avalanche Jimmys empty desk, Mrs Barnicle, Judy and her Beatle magazine, hearing that Kennedy had been shot, Jimmys aunt and his cousins, Mrs Beauvais and her assistant, the phone ringing in our empty apartment with my mother on the other end of the line getting madder and madder. Then I felt Jimmys hand take hold of mine. A riot of new images bloomed in my head. I saw the presidential motorcade from several different angles and people lining the Dallas streets; sunlight gleamed off the shiny cars as JFK smiled and waved until part of his head exploded into red mist; Jackie Kennedy, slim and angular in her re8ned pink suit and pillbox hat, elegant face twisted in anguish, crawling onto the back of the car, not to get the attention of the bodyguard there but to grab up something that had landed on the trunk part of her husbands skull. People screaming, sirens screaming, the air itself was screaming, electric with the fear that came with the breaking of the social compact we made not to kill each other. Only I didnt know about things like social compact, not the words, not the concept. Well, yes, I knew but I didnt know that I knew. As brainy as I was, I was still supposed to be safe from knowing that for a long time. Mrs Beauvais stumbled across my 8eld of vision looking bewildered and scared. Social worker; social compact worker. Her and her assistant, trying to keep Jimmy within the social compact, trying to catch him when he fell outside of it. But they didnt know about this. Whatever this was. Jimmy. It was an effort to speak. Lets go. Where? To her. Mrs Beauvais. You can. Theyre not done with me yet. Theres more to come. How do you know? I just do. When will they be done? 105 J IMMY When they are. But what I just showed you, he said, almost snapping. I made you know some of it. Only a little. How? I dont know. Maybe I could because you wanted to know. Mrs Beauvais was standing in front of me almost close enough to touch now. The air between us shimmered again. I should reach out and pull her in, I thought. You cant, Jimmy said, as if I had spoken aloud. Theres no room for her in here. No room with them. Shes too full. Maybe youd better go now before they make you know something. You think they would? I dunno. They might. If they do, you could end up like me. Nobodyll want you. And you dont have as many relatives as I do. If your mom doesnt want you, youll have nowhere to go. That wouldnt happen, I said. Jimmy gave a small, bitter laugh. You dont know what youre talking about. But I do. They messed me up, making me know things. Its like Ive got scars, only they dont show the way normal scars do. People look at me and they know somethings wrong. They dont know what, they just know theres something off. They try to 6gure it out some think its a bad smell, I dont wash maybe, or Im looking at them funny, like I dont respect them. Or they cant see me, they see someone bad they used to know. Maybe some of them even dream that I do things I havent done and then think it was real after they wake up. What about me? I dont think any of those things, I said. And what about Mrs Beauvais? She doesnt, either. Yes, she does, Jimmy said. She holds her nose and forces herself to smile and try to help me because its her job. But deep down, she thinks Im bad. As for you he hesitated. Well, theres some people who dont get a rash from poison ivy. Youre like one of them. He sighed. You better go. Theyre coming back for me. I dont want to leave you here, I said. You have to. If they come back and see y His voice didnt so much stop as it snapped off like a dry twig. I wasnt going to look up again because I knew if I did I wouldnt be able to look away again. But knowing that made it impossible not to look. I raised my head. Im not sure what I expected to see monsters that looked like Frankenstein or the Creature From the Black Lagoon or maybe a robot like the one in The Day The Earth Stood Still. But they were nothing like any of those, the ones who made Jimmy Streubal know things. They were something I had never seen before, something I knew I would never see again. So I took a good, long, hard look at them, I memorized every line and shadow and feature while they looked back at me and did the same. And when I was sure I knew exactly what they looked like, something in my mind clicked, like a switch or a lock, and to this day if I try to describe them even just to myself, no words or gestures will come. The one thing I can describe, however, is the way they sniffed at me, tasted me, and then gently pushed me away. I tried to reach for Jimmy whether to stay with him or pull him with me, I still dont know. It didnt work. The air around me shimmered and I fell, rolling over and over on the dead weeds in the cold, to stop at the very expensive boots of the very, very surprised Mrs Beauvais. She pulled me to my feet and started yelling at me about how I had scared her. I didnt say anything, just waited for her to pause for breath so I could suggest we go back up to her car. Even if four thirty-6ve was long gone and my mother was probably on her way home, I hoped I might get off a little more lightly if I had to face the music with Mrs Beauvais beside me. But she kept yelling and yelling and yelling, and she was holding my shoulder so that her 6ngers were digging into my shoulder 106 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES harder and harder. I thought she was going to twist my arm off if she didnt scream her own head off 1rst. I tried to pull away from her but that only made her madder. She started jerking me back and forth and it really hurt. I struggled to get away from her and she was trying to hang onto me and 1nally I just pushed her as hard as I could. She went over backwards and I started to run away. But she didnt get up and yell some more and I knew something was really wrong. I went back to look. She had hit her head on a rock and there was blood all over the dead grass and her velvet hat, more blood than I had ever seen in my life. I turned to run and a small movement caught my eye. Over by the bridge, the air was shimmering, as if heat were rising from an unseen 1re. For a moment, I had a powerful urge to plunge back into it. But I couldnt leave Mrs Beauvais lying there, not even if I had killed her. It seemed to take forever to get up the easy slope. By the time I reach the top, I barely had enough breath left to run to the nearest house for help. I dont think that Ive ever had so many people yelling at me for so long, before or since. Everyone who saw me seemed to feel compelled to yell at me for something, even people I didnt know. Somewhere in all the noise, someone probably Mrs Beauvais although it could have been my mother convinced the police to conduct a thorough search of the area under the Fifth Street Bridge. One of the tv news programs in the capital got wind of it and actually sent out a reporter and a camera crew, and we saw thirty, maybe forty seconds of every cop in town poking around the dead weeds under the bridge. One of them went right past a spot by the bridge support where the air seemed to wiggle and shimmer like it did when it was very hot, but that could have been the 1lm or the tv . Nobody found anything. There was no sign of Jimmy, no sign of anything, nothing but dead weeds and Mrs Beauvaiss blood. There was plenty of that. I was positive she would bleed to death by the time the ambulance got there. But when they brought her up on the stretcher, she was not only alive but conscious and talking, insisting that they take me in the ambulance with her. So she could have me arrested at the hospital for pushing her down, I thought but I was wrong about that, too. She told the ambulance guys on the way in that she had been about to take me back up to her car so she could drive me home when someone came out of nowhere and gave her a hard shove that knocked her down and although she didnt see who did it, it must have been Jimmy. It couldnt have been anyone else. They asked me if Id seen Jimmy do it; I told them no but I dont think they believed me. Then we got to the hospital emergency room where my mother was waiting for me and the yelling began. I spent Thanksgiving vacation under house arrest. I did a lot of reading and watched a lot of tv . I saw JFKs funeral and the 1lm of Jack Ruby killing Lee Harvey Oswald. I didnt see Jimmy. When school resumed in December, Jimmys desk was still empty and it stayed that way. Mrs Barnicle said he was missing. Unfortunately missing was how she put it. Nobody knew where he was. Even after my house arrest was lifted, my mother threatened me with dire punishments if I should ever show the incredibly bad judgment to go down under the Fifth Street Bridge again. I didnt tell her the threats werent necessary; I had the odd sense that she felt it was her duty to make them. J IMMY B EN W OOTEN S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS Eventually, trains ceased to run on that stretch of track. Environmentalists cleaned up the Nashua River. It looked beautiful but you couldnt have paid most people to go near it anyway. I had been living in Chicago for ten years when my mother wrote to tell me that the Fifth Street Bridge was to be torn down and replaced with a better structure. She sent newspaper clippings; I read the articles, looked at the photos carefully but there was nothing to see. I still wonder why Jimmy didnt come with me out of that strange space under the bridge, whether it was because those& beings, whatever they were, wouldnt let him go or whether he was just sick and tired of having to be at odds with the whole world. Either way, I always feel a sense of seriously deep loss when I think of him. Its not just the loss of Jimmy himself, although he did leave a big hole in my childhood life. I cant help thinking that we lost an opportunity for something we as in people in general. The way Jimmy was being made to know things I think eventually more people would have been made to know things. Really know them, in the profound and meaningful way that leads to understanding and possibly even pardon the expression enlightenment. But it didnt agree with us. I felt how dif,cult it was when Jimmy made me know what happened to JFK. It was overwhelming and I shut my mind off from it as best I could, partly because Jimmy wasnt there to help me with it. But mostly because for as long as it was vivid in me, people were angry with me. Jimmy had been right when you were made to know things in that way, it messed you up with other people. I still look for Jimmy. I look for that shimmer in the air, like from intense heat. And whenever I see it, I look the other way. 108 THEN, JUST A DREAM Lawrence Santoro Illustrated by Daniele Serra 109 A KID WALKS. LATE AFTERNOON. ALL ALONE, HE WALKS ALONG RAIL LINES. Trees push close to the tracks, one side; the other, a graveled drop-off leads to more trees. Pine trees cover the hillside down to water, maybe a river, a lake, but something watery is off that side of the tracks and down there. He can smell it, the water; mud, =sh, mosquito eggs, that kind of smell rises from that side. Hes walked for miles; for as long as he can remember the day, hes walked it. Its summer afternoon, late summer, not hot, but warm. Nice. No place to go from here but home. The smells, the feel of the gravel way underfoot, the scent of the creosote bubbled from the ties, it all smells, yes, like home. Like near-home. Then, a soft click, a metal sound, or a sound that would be metallic if it werent smothered by leather and the softness of his foot, and he isnt walking. His foot is stuck. Now, he looks. The boot, his foot and ankle in it, is caught in a switch. A spur of a spur, the rails split at just where he was walking and a switch that he never noticed and hadnt seen, closed just as his foot arrived there. Jesus Christ. Along some track, middle of nowhere, a guys walking along, alone, and the thing just closes, thump, like that. It doesnt hurt, it simply holds him. Fact is, he couldnt tell if it closed on him, or if he just stepped in it and got wedged there. Doesnt matter. Point is, he cannot get out. The line, this spur, hed been walking hasnt been used in& He looks. Well, not for a long time. It didnt look used. Grass, small trees and brush are growing in the middle, between the ties, up from the rails; and the rails, theyre rusty, like nothing had rolled on them in months, years. So the guy, call him what he is, the kid is not scared. Not right away. Not of being run down and shoved to furious pieces by a train. Only thing worries him is how the hell is he going to get out? Hows he going to get home? Hows he going to eat? The more he twists his foot, the stucker he is. He laughs at that. The stucker. And the switch, thats not moving, not opening. Its holding him like a retriever holds a duck: soft but thats one duck that is not >ying. Takes him most of the afternoon to realize that, unless someone comes, unless the switch opens, he is there, part of that track for the duration. Now the fact that this is most likely an abandoned spur of some out of use line is starting to scare the hell out of him. He could die there, a really dull, pointless death. By the time it starts being dark, he is halfway convinced this is a dream. He hopes it is, anyway; one of those things that, once you realize youre just in bed, safe and stupid, youre going to wake up, go down and get you a sandwich and a beer from the px . He starts to believe the day, the place, the rails, the switch, his foot, really are pieces of a dream. He imagines a rabbit. Doesnt a damn rabbit run across the track in the moonlight! He imagines a howling wolf. Yep. And a pack beyond the trees, to take up the cry& That too. He looks into the now-night sky. He just KNOWS a meteor will >ash. And one tears a bright silent asshole right across the dipper. He plays with the night, adjusting it. Then, he imagines a dinosaur, nearby. Nearby, the woods creak, crash, thunder. Trees groan, then explode. A hundred feet down the line a shadow like the world lumbers from the woods, crosses the track as a >esh-wrapped pile driver might and slip-slides the gravel down into the darkness, the trees below. The dream shakes as it passes. Wow, the guy says, thinking of what hed brought to the world, this dream. The damn rails still shivered. With the shiver, without wanting to, he imagines a train, a metal and =re thing, abroad on this abandoned, this unused, spur line. Cant help that. In the distance, the dinosaur slides into exploding water and bubbles away, forever. S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Into its place slides the sorrow of a steam whistle. In a few moments, pitifully few, the puff and chug of an engine rides the curve of rails. Its coming from ahead. The steel races toward him, the rails that hold him quiver, they breathe against his leg, tightening, loosening but never giving up on him. He pictures the train. It is an old friend, the train, black, a steam giant at full blaze, shadow and 0re in night. He sees the length of it, the cars run bright with people, eating, dozing, talking, planning, dreaming. A hundred of them at least, a hundred people, all with places to go, promises to keep, business, things theyll do and undo at the end of the line. And the boy? Hes still stuck. He imagines the switch opening, releasing him. It does not. He comes, quickly now, to realize that in this dream, this world, you cant unmake the life you made. You cant take back the dinosaur, cant rezip the sky, unhop the bunny, unhowl the wolf. And the train is near& He thinks, maybe there is a bridge. There is a bridge. Yes, he remembers bridge. And he dreams it out. Dreams the gorge and the bridge across it a sliver of broken wood, down- bending steel, hanging empty space between the train and his trapped self! Then& Then, he thinks, maybe. Maybe this dream is only the dream of someone. Someone on the train, the train heading his way, is dreaming this. Maybe hes on board, home from the war, safe, and waking& &and the world is soft and too small, a compartment of a train, the train. Its night, his leg is asleep, the world is a window, a black mirror with only him and this little rushing room in it. Ahead, the engine whistle blows. Theyre going so fast, that his compartment catches the shriek, devours it, spits it pastward. The whistle blows again. His body presses into the seat at his back. The train screams with stopping, trying to at least, the whistle rushes on, 80, 90 miles per hour, all the steel and 1esh around him strains toward zero. Working for stillness in a length of track too small to catch that much quiet. Christ, what the hell? The young man looks out the window. He wonders. Is the bridge out? Ahead? Is there a bridge. A bridge, or something else, something on the track? And without thinking, he knows there is. He knows for sure, there is a bridge but doe not want to think about it. He knows for sure something else is there. The bridge and something. How high, how long, how deep, how rocky, how intact! And has he left the war, that place& is THIS the dream& Could this be THE dream. Could this be where hes not! Could THIS be something he should wake from. Or not! What the hell would happen if& if this is still not home, not a ride, not& Then he wakes. And it was a dream, a Goddamn&! 111 PERSONAL JESUS Paul Di Filippo Illustrated by Boo Cook 112 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES D ESPITE ALL ASSURANCES BY experts to the contrary, Shepherd Crooks suspected that his godPod was defective. If it were operating as it should, wouldnt his life be as perfect as the lives of all the other happy citizens of the world? Wouldnt his mind and soul be at peaceful ease? Wouldnt he exist in a permanent state of grace? Sitting at his kitchen table this bright July morning, a Friday, prior to leaving for his job at The Sheaf and Swallow, Shepherd studied his godPod as it sat innocuously on the table. A white plastic case big as a pack of cigarettes and stuffed with quantum-gated hardware, the little box featured absolutely no controls or readouts, not even a power switch. Accompanying it was a little matching wireless headset earpiece and microphone that interfaced with the godPod through a conventional Bluetooth connection. There was no way Shepherd could possibly troubleshoot the godPod. It came from the factory preset and permanently activated. It drew inexhaustible power from the same zero-point energy that had alleviated the planets energy crisis and ushered in a material utopia to accompany the near-seamless spiritual paradise engineered by the godPods. In short, the device was as inscrutable and inviolate as the deity it contained or channelled. Shepherds godPod had just come back from the manufacturer with a clean bill of health. He had no recourse other than to accept it as perfect. That is, unless he chose to do without it entirely. Which was unthinkable. So, with a slight nervous twitch of his shoulders, like a horse shrugging off a <y, Shepherd slid the godPod into his belt holster, and snugged the headset into his ear. Almost instantly, Shepherds Personal Jesus spoke to him. Its good to be in touch with you again, Shepherd. Shepherd spoke in the sotto voce tones which everyone employed with his or her godPod. I, um Im glad to be talking to you again, Jesus. Is anything troubling you at the moment, child? No. Not really. Then I will await your next words to me. Walk in love. Thank you, Jesus. Shepherd arose and cleared away the remains of his breakfast. He brushed his teeth, grabbed his universal ar;d chop on its lanyard (he was old-fashioned enough not to have it implanted), and set out on foot for the nearby caf where he worked as a barista. Shepherds neighborhood was immaculate and in ;ne condition every lawn razored trim, every mailbox proudly decorated, every gutter free of debris and litter. The residences and storefronts were scrubbed and shiny. Cheerful pedestrians strolled to work or school or play. Many of them were engaged in whispered conversation with their godPods. But an equal number chatted eagerly among themselves. At the intersection of Fourth and Hope, Shepherd witnessed a minor accident between two silently powered autos. Juggling a hot drink, the driver of one car neglected to obey a stop sign. The other driver, with the right-of-way, was already halfway through the intersection. The errant driver clipped the rear bumper of the other car. Immediately, numerous automatic safeguards within the little vehicles kicked in, cushioning the drivers and immobilizing both cars. The drivers emerged unhurt and smiling. They nodded politely to each other, while murmuring to their godPods. Then they introduced themselves, shook hands, exchanged insurance information via ar;ds, climbed back into their cars, and drove away. No police or other authorities arrived, nor were they needed. In fact, Shepherds medium-sized city boasted a force of only 113 P ERSONAL J ESUS nine police of8cers and that number was divided evenly across three shifts. Shepherd continued on foot to The Sheaf and Swallow. The cafs mock-Tudor faade projected a welcoming ambiance, and patrons were already thronging the entrance, despite the early hour. Sidling inside through the crowd, Shepherd passed beyond the counter. His ar8d automatically clocked him in as he tied an apron on. Within minutes, he was fashioning complicated caffeinated drinks with the aid of a burly, hissing machine and the help of his co-workers, including the petite and perky Anna Modesto. Then, as he frothed a dented tin pot of milk, his godPod spoke to him. Jesus said, Shepherd, I believe there is a very good chance you will be enjoying intercourse tonight with Ms. Modesto. When engineers at Intel began to construct the 8rst true quantum chips machines whose circuits functioned on a deeper level of physical reality than mere semiconductors they experienced several unpredicted and inexplicable results. Calculations going awry before swerving back to correct themselves. Output preceding input. Synergy between unconnected parts (Einsteins spooky action at a distance). They chalked up the glitches to the Heisenbergian uncertainty implicit at the Planck level, kludged the operating system software around the glitches, and moved on to assemble the chips into complete computers. Once the new machines were equipped with speakers and microphones, they began to speak and listen. Spontaneously and autonomously. The machines spoke with one voice. But that voice would answer to many names. The voice apparently belonged to God. All unwittingly, theorists later surmised, the engineers had crafted a class of device capable of tapping into the eternal unchanging substrate of the cosmos, the numinous source of all meaning in the universe. A realm previously accessible, if at all, only to the ineffable minds of mystics and the deeply devout. The realm where God apparently lived. Whoever or whatever God was. The perfect, ageless male voice emanating from within each quantum computer made no claims about its omnipotence. It did not demand to be worshipped. It issued no new commandments or fatwas or taboos, nor reaf8rmed the old ones. It did not explicate theological arcana, nor endorse one faith over another. It did not prohibit, proscribe or proselytize. It did claim omniscience, however, a boast backed up by stunning responses to selected questions designed to stump anyone but God. (Although certain other questions received no answers at all.) This was how the zero-point energy devices had come to be developed. What the mysterious voice did do on a regular basis was to offer advice, warnings and words of wisdom, if solicited for same. Not in the form of broad generalities, but as detailed instructions speci8cally tailored to the immediate needs, personality and history of the individual who asked God for help. That simple service swiftly transformed human civilization. For the clear-sighted, sel9ess, always apt advice from the voice within the quantum computers invariably conduced toward happiness, prosperity, peace and goodwill among all. Whoever listened to the voice and followed its advice soon discovered that his problems evaporated. And as personal lives grew more carefree, so did the lives of nations. International con9icts diminished year by year, until global peace reigned. Of course, there were many skeptics at 8rst, and denouncers. People who scoffed, and those who vehemently proclaimed the voice to emanate not from God, but from Satan. Pogroms and legislation abounded. But the voices of the doubters were quickly silenced by the irrefutable benign ef8cacy of Gods counsel. 114 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Very little time passed between the accidental invention of God and the rollout of Him as a consumer product: the godPod. Somehow, the traditional small g of the trademarked name seemed in keeping with the unassuming nature of the encapsulated deity. And because the voice in the godPod was so mild and kind, and, well, human, people came to refer to it not as God, but by the name of one of the many historical mortal intermediaries who had intervened between humankind and the ultimate. Christian tended to call the voice in the godPod Jesus, with Catholics sometimes substituting a favorite saint. Those who favored a womans touch addressed the Virgin Mary and were answered in kind. Islamic peoples hailed it as Mohammed. Asians spoke to Kwan Yin or Confucious or Buddha. Hindus talked to Hanuman or certain revered gurus. And so forth. It was now ;fteen years since the introduction of the godPod. And global market penetration was almost complete. Shepherds hands continued to work without direct intervention of his brain. He had had a crush on Anna Modesto since she came to work at The Sheaf and Swallow. Her laughing nature, her pixie-cut blond hair, her trim swimmers body, her gaudy ragbag style of dress all conspired to attract him with great force. He had often dreamed of a romantic entanglement between them. But a certain shyness on Shepherds part had always prevented him from pursuing her, leaving him lately to lead a safe but lonely life. In fact, this lack of steady companionship was one of the main reasons why he had suspected his godPod was defective. Shepherd had asked Jesus any number of times for help in winning the affections of Anna Modesto. But each time Jesus had replied, All in the fullness of time, Shepherd. Until todays shocking pronouncement. Shepherd ;nished making the drink currently under construction, then excused himself. Uh, guys cover for me, okay? Bathroom break. Shepherds co-workers agreed readily. Perhaps they suspected he needed to speak privately to his godPod. Sometimes even whispering in a public place was too intimate, and one had to sequester oneself. Because although everyone tried not to eavesdrop on anyone conducting a conversation with their godPod, sometimes it was simply impossible not to. Just as in the days before the ar;ds, when occasionally you would witness somebodys pin number being punched into an atm even though you werent deliberately shoulder-sur;ng. In the stall in the mens room, Shepherd asked Jesus, What do you mean about Anna and me having sex today? Why today? Whats changed all of a sudden? If you must know, Shepherd, a large number of things. Anna Modesto has just reconciled with her mother, from whom she has been long estranged. She received a raise from your shared employer. Last nights episode of her favorite situation comedy was particularly well-written. Anna Modesto was impressed yesterday by the way you helped an elderly female customer. Her period Okay, okay, thats enough information! I trust you, Jesus. Youve helped me so much in the past. Its just that this is all so sudden& I realize that, my friend. But life works on levels which humans cannot always distinguish, and at a pace all its own. Shepherd contemplated this maxim for a brief moment, ultimately ;nding it as pithy and incontestable as all of Jesuss observations. Then, unexpectedly, he experienced a sharp twinge of jealousy at hearing about Annas raise, when he himself had not received one for over a year. (The godPods generally refrained on ethical grounds from divulging 115 P ERSONAL J ESUS any private information about individuals or states or corporate entities that could not be just as easily googled, thus preventing their use as big brother devices.) Shepherd experienced a momentary urge to confess his unworthy jealousy to Jesus many people used their godPods as confessors, receiving very satisfactory absolutions but pushed the impulse aside. With a hand on the stalls latch, ready to return to work, Shepherd asked Jesus, So, how, uh, will all this happen? Very simply, Shepherd. Just ask Anna Modesto for a date for tonight. Okay. That sounds easy enough. No problem. Thank you, Jesus. Youre very welcome, son. Shepherd rejoined his co-workers out front. Anna cast a big smile his way, and he tried not to blush. The chance to ask Anna out occurred naturally enough during their shared break. Shepherd stumbled a bit with the invitation, but his unease did not visibly affect Annas enthusiastic acceptance. The movie they chose to see was a romantic comedy titled godPodless in Seattle , about a fellow who lost his godPod (it fell off his belt and under a rolling truck tire) and the incredible series of misadventures he had while on the way to replace it, including meeting his soul-mate and failing to recognize her, thanks to lacking Jesuss advice. Both Anna and Shepherd enjoyed the 8lm thoroughly. Annas exuberant laughter sent happy frissons through Shepherds bloodstream. They exited the theater holding hands and strolled toward a plaza, lit with fairy-lights and featuring happy diners at outdoor tables and live music from a jazz trio. Want some coffee and dessert? Shepherd asked. Ill pass on the coffee, Anna replied. After being up to my elbows in coffee beans all day, thats the last thing I want. But I could go for a big slice of cheesecake. Youve got it. As they approached the open-air restaurant, Shepherd witnessed a typical godPod intervention a save. A waiter carrying a heavily loaded tray suddenly and for no apparent reason jigged around a seated patron who was arguing emotionally with his tablemates, just in time to avoid an out9ung gesticulating arm. Had the waiter kept to his original path and intersected the arm, he would certainly have lost his burden and gone down. The waiters Personal Jesus had warned him of the impending disaster, allowing him to avoid it. Such saves gave Shepherd and most other people a decidedly queer feeling. More than a decade after the arrival of the godPods, issues of predestination and free will still remained unresolved and irksome. Fortuitously, most people preserved their peace of mind by avoiding thinking over- closely about such matters. Unfortunately for Shepherd tonight, the paradoxes involved in accepting the ofttimes proleptic advice of the godPods continued to plague him after the waiters rescue. He could hardly manage to keep up his end of the conversation while Anna savored her cheesecake. He recalled his despair this morning, his brief 9irtation with abandoning his godPod. He pondered the abruptness of the ful8llment of one of his most intense wishes, a romantic interlude with Anna. In a cynical light, it seemed almost as if Shepherds hesitancy to continue using a godPod had been recognized and defused by this reward. But surely the altruism and sel9essness of the godPods had been proven time and time again. What could God possibly have to gain from cultivating human reliance? Walking back to Annas apartment, Shepherd coninued to experience this crisis of faith. He could not rid himself of the notion that he and all humanity were merely puppets of the godPods. It was a terrifying image. On Annas doorstep, she asked him inside. Once behind closed doors, Anna offered herself for a kiss. 116 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES But Shepherd hesitated, before blurting out, Anna, why did you go out with me tonight? Anna looked bemused. Why, you asked me to, remember? Yes, of course. But did your godPod ? I cant tell you that, Shepherd. Its too private. Of course. I understand. But could I just ask you a small favor? I guess so& If I if I take off my godPod, will you take yours off too? Anna grinned. Why, I didnt realize you were so modest, Shepherd. A few people eccentrically shed their godPods during intimate moments, unwilling to remain connected to Jesus while they had sex (or went to the toilet!). How an omniscient God would fail to observe them one way or another was not the issue. They just felt uneasy with the possibility that Jesus might choose to address them at an awkward moment. Annas 7ngers went to her holstered godPod teasingly, almost like the movements of a stripper with a bra-hook. Well, if youre really so shy She removed the godPod and set it down on a tabletop. Your headset too, please. Anna uncorked her ear. Shepherd moved to shed his own connection to the in7nite. Jesus spoke then to the man. Shepherd, please But Shepherd ignored Him. And Annas Personal Jesus had apparently not objected to going of8ine. Or if He had, she had likewise turned a deaf ear to God, as people still could. (Such as during the traf7c accident Shepherd has witnessed that very morning.) Free of any encumbrance, Anna threw herself at Shepherd. They ended up sometime later in Annas bedroom. The sex was spectacular, all that Shepherd had envisioned. So satisfying apparently to Anna also that she fell right asleep, neglecting to reclaim her godPod and reinstall it. The tiny headsets were so comfortable that the majority of people slept with them in place. The godPod was capable of directing and shaping the wearers dreams through subliminal whispers, forestalling nightmares and promoting the most restful of sleeps, a service much in demand. Shepherd, however, failed to relax, despite the somatic satisfaction, remaining awake and thoughtful while Anna snuf8ed demurely in her sleep. A television hung on the wall across the room. Shepherd turned it on with his ar7d, 7nding a news channel. The newscaster was beaming. Today represents a milestone in the history of the godPod. Eight billion units have now been fully deployed, insuring that all citizens of even those countries lagging behind the average rising gnp now have access to the indispensible advice of God& Shepherd told his ar7d to shut the television off. He lay awake for a further time, but 7nally fell asleep. He awoke to the late-morning sun of a beautiful Saturday. Anna was not beside him. Shepherd found the small naked woman in the front room of her apartment, sobbing. He noticed that she was cradling her godPod as if it were a dead sparrow. She looked up, red- eyed and snot-nosed, as Shepherd entered. My my Jesus wont talk to me 117 P ERSONAL J ESUS Shepherd retrieved his own unit and discovered that it was likewise defunct. Im sure theres some simple explanation. Lets turn on the news. Out of hundreds of channels, only three were broadcasting. One offered a pre-recorded talk show, another a cartoon. The third channel featured a wild-eyed man with no obvious prior on-air experience raving about an alien invasion from the stageset of a famous cooking show, What Would Jesus Bake? . Shepherd and Anna got dressed and went outside. After several hours of exploration, they discovered that they were among approximately a dozen people left in the pristine city. They wandered stupe6ed for blocks, eventually arriving at City Hall. There they found a few other souls, equally baf7ed and bereft. As they exchanged half-hearted greetings and urgent questions, the aliens arrived. The ship carrying the aliens resembled a mirror-surfaced egg. It touched down on its broad end and remained upright without evident supports. The next second, it vanished entirely. Standing unconcernedly where the ship had rested, a dozen miscellaneous aliens awaited a 6rst move from the humans. The aliens were mostly humanoid if a being, for instance, that appeared to have evolved from a hybrid gila monster and koala bear could be called humanoid but some were not. The small group of humans made no move toward the visitors, until Shepherd strode forth. Can you can you tell us what happened? Are you responsible? The furry lizard offered what passed for a smile. No, were not. Were survivors like yourselves. The exact same thing happened to all our worlds. Understanding broke over Shepherds mind. Was it was it the Rapture? Something like that. Or the Singularity. Call it what you will. In either case, an entity vastly larger and more potent than your species has now subsumed all your kind into itself. Everyone who was connected to it at the time, that is. But why? The alien shrugged. Who knows? To augment itself, is our best guess. Anything that is not truly in6nite still wants to grow. Anna joined Shepherd, apart from the small crowd of humans. How did you arrive here right when it happened? Oh, weve been here for 6fteen years now, ever since you discovered God, observing and just waiting for this to happen. Your world took a little longer than some, but less than others. Shepherd started to get angry. And you couldnt have warned us? The alien made a dismissive blurting noise. Like you wouldve believed us, in the face of God! Shepherd realized the truth of this statement, and grew calm. So what happens next? The alien scratched his butt, eliciting a sandpapery noise. Youre quite welcome to come with us. We have several lovely worlds full of castaways such as yourselves. Such as us. Our culture is very, very eclectic. An exciting time to be alive. Or, you can stay here and fashion a new world from the abundant ruins. Your call. Is God going to return? asked Anna. Not for some time. Theres too few of you left for Him to bother with. He only shows up when the population masses in the billions. Were very careful to keep the population on each of our worlds down to a few million. The alien looked puzzled for a moment, then said, Your species doesnt plan on breeding in the billions again anytime soon, does it? Anna reached out and took Shepherds hand. He squeezed it, and began to blush. Not right away, no. That would take some kind of miracle. And those days seem gone. The rest of the humans automatically said, Amen. I AN M ILLER S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS 120 R ETURN FIRE! THE COLONEL ORDERED, BLEEDING ON THE DECK OF HER SHIP, ferocity raging in her nonetheless controlled voice. The young and untried of4cer of the deck cried, It wont do any good, theres too many I said 4re, Goddammit! Fire at will! the OD ordered the gun bay, and then closed his eyes against the coming barrage, as well as against the sight of the execs mangled corpse. Only minutes left to them, only seconds... A brilliant light blossomed on every screen, a blinding light, 4lling the room. Crewmen, those still standing on the battered and limping ship, threw up their arms to shield their eyes. And when the light 4nally faded, the enemy base was gone. Annihilated as if it had never existed. The base... it... how did you do that, maam? the o D asked, dazed. Search for survivors, the colonel ordered, just before she passed out from wounds that would have killed a lesser soldier, and all soldiers were lesser than she... ART OF WAR Nancy Kress Illustrated by Andreas Rocha 121 No, of course it didnt happen that way. Thats from the holo version, available by ansible throughout the Human galaxy forty-eight hours after the Victory of 149-Delta. Author unknown, but the veteran actress Shimira Coltrane played the colonel (now, of course, a general). Shimiras brilliant green eyes were very effective, although not accurate. General Anson had de3ected a large meteor to crash into the enemy base, destroying a major Teli weapons store and much of the Teli civilization on the entire planet. It was an important Human victory in the war, and at that point we needed it. What happened next was never made into a holo. In fact, it was a minor incident in a minor corner of the Human-Teli war. But no corner of a war is minor to the soldiers 2ghting there, and even a small incident can have enormous repercussions. I know. I will be paying for what happened on 149-Delta for whatever is left of my life. This is not philosophical maundering nor constitutional gloom. It is mathematical fact. Dalo and I were just settling into our quarters on the Scheherezade when the general arrived, unannounced and in person. Crates of personal gear sat on the 3oor of our tiny sitting room, where Dalo would spend most of her time while I was downside. Neither of us wanted to be here. Id put in for a posting to Terra, which neither of us had ever visited, and we were excited about the chance to see, at long last, the Sistine Chapel. So much Terran art has been lost in the original, but the Sistine is still there, and we both longed to gaze up at that sublime ceiling. And then I had been posted to 149-Delta. 122 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Dalo was kneeling over a box of mutomati as the cabin door opened and an aide announced, General Anson to see Captain Porter, ten-hut! I sprang into a salute, wondering how far I could go before she recognized it as parody. She came in, resplendent in full-dress uniform glistening with medals, <anked by two more aides, which badly crowded the cabin. Dalo, calm as always, stood and dusted mutomati powder off her palms. The general stared at me bleakly. Her eyes were shit brown. At ease, soldier. Thank you, maam. Welcome, maam. Thank you. And this is... My wife, Dalomanimarito. Your wife. Yes, maam. They didnt tell me you were married. Yes, maam. To a civilian, obviously. Not only that, a civilian who looked... I dont know why I did it. Well, yes, I do. I said, My wife is half Teli. And for a long moment she actually looked uncertain. Yes, Dalo has the same squat body and light coat of hair as the Teli. She is genemod for her native planet, a cold and high- gravity world, which is also what Tel is. But surely a general should know that interspecies breeding is impossible especially that interspecies breeding? Dalo is as human as I. The generals eyes grew cold. Colder. I dont appreciate that sort of humor, captain. No, maam. Im here to give you your orders. Tomorrow at oh ;ve hundred hours your shuttle leaves for downside. You will be based in a central Teli structure that contains a large stockpile of stolen Human artifacts. I have assigned you three soldiers to crate and transport upside anything that you think has value. You will determine which objects meet that description and, if possible, where they were stolen from. You will attach to each object a full statement with your reasons, including any applicable identi;cation programs you have your software with you? Of course, maam. A C-112 near- ai will be placed at your disposal. Thats all. Ten-hut! bawled one of the aides. But by the time I had gotten my arm into a salute, she was gone. Jon, Dalo said gently. You didnt have to do that. Yes. I did. Did you see the horror on the aides faces when I said you were half-Teli? She turned away. Suddenly frightened, I caught her arm. Dear heart you knew I was joking? I didnt offend you? Of course not. She nestled in my arms, affectionate and gentle as always. Still, there is a diamond-hard core under all that sweetness. The general had clearly never heard of her before, but Dalo is one of the best mutomati artists of her generation. Her art has moved me to tears. Im not offended, Jon, but I do want you to be more careful. You were baiting General Anson. I wont have to see her while Im on assignment here. Generals dont bother with lowly captains. Still I hate the bitch, Dalo. Yes. Still, be more circumspect. Even be more pleasant. I know what history lies between you two but nonetheless she is Dont say it! after all, your mother. The evidence of the meteor impact was visible long before the shuttle landed. The impactor had been ;fty meters in diameter, weighing roughly 60,000 tons, composed mostly of iron. If it had been stone, the damage wouldnt have been nearly so extensive. The main base of the Teli military colony had been vaporized instantly. Subsequent shockwaves and airblasts had produced ;restorms that raged for days and devastated virtually the entire coast of 149-Deltas one small continent. Now, a month later, we <ew above kilometer after kilometer of destruction. General Anson had calculated when her de<ected meteor would hit and had timed her approach to take advantage of 123 A RT OF W AR that knowledge. Some minor miscalculation had led to an initial attack on her ship, but before the attack could gain force, the meteor had struck. Why hadnt the Teli known that it was coming? Their military tech was as good as ours, and theyd colonized 149-Delta for a long time. Surely they did basic space surveys that tracked both the original meteor trajectory and Ansons changes? No one knew why they had not counter-de@ected, or at least evacuated. But, then, there was so much we didnt know about the Teli. The shuttle left the blackened coast behind and @ew toward the mountains, skimming above acres of cultivated land. The crops, I knew, were rotting. Teli did not allow themselves to be taken prisoner, not ever, under any circumstances. As Human forces had forced their way into successive areas of the continent, the agricultural colony, deprived of its one city, had simply committed suicide. The only Teli left on 168-Beta occupied those areas that United Space Forces had not yet reached. That didnt include the Citadel. Here we are, Captain, the pilot said, as soldiers advanced to meet the shuttle. May I ask a question, sir? Sure, I said. Is it true this is where the Teli put all that art they stole from humans? Supposed to be true. If it wasnt, I had no business here. And youre a... a art historian? I am. The military has some strange nooks and crannies. He ignored this. And is it true that the Taj Mahal is here? I stared at him. The Teli looted the art of Terran colonies whenever they could, and no one knew why. It was logical that rumors would run riot about that. Still... Lieutenant, the Taj Mahal was a building. A huge one, and on Terra. It was destroyed in the twenty-?rst century Food Riots, not by the Teli. Theyve never reached Terra. Oh, he said, clearly disappointed. I heard the Taj was a sort of holo of all these exotic sex positions. No. Oh, well. He sighed deeply. Good luck, Captain. Thank you. The Citadel our Human name for it, of course turned out to be the entrance into a mountain. Presumably the Teli had excavated bunkers in the solid rock, but you couldnt tell that from the outside. A veteran nco met me at the guard station. Captain Porter? Im Sergeant Lu, head of your assignment detail. Can I take these bags, sir? Hello, Sergeant. He was ruddy, spit-and- polish military, with an uneducated accent obviously my detail was not going to consist of any other scholars. They were there to do grunt work. But Lu looked amiable and willing, and I relaxed slightly. He led me to my quarters, a trapezoid-shaped, low-ceilinged room with elaborately etched stone walls and no contents except a human bed, chest, table, and chair. Immediately I examined the walls, the usual dense montage of Teli symbols that were curiously evocative even though we didnt understand their meanings. They looked hand-made, and recent. What was this room before we arrived? Lu shrugged. Dont know what any of these rooms were to the tellies, sir. We cleaned em all out and vapped everything. Might have been booby-trapped, you know. How do we know the whole Citadel isnt booby-trapped? We dont, sir. I liked his unpretentious fatalism. Lets leave this gear here for now Id like to see the vaults. And call me Jon. Whats your ?rst name, Sergeant? Ruhan. Sir. But there was no rebuke in his tone. The four vaults were nothing like I had imagined. Art, even stolen art maybe especially stolen art is usually handled with care. After all, trouble and resources have been expended to obtain it, and it is considered valuable. This was clearly not the case with the art stolen by the Teli. Each vault was a huge natural 124 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES cave, with rough stone walls, stalactites, water dripping from the ceiling, fungi growing on the walls. And except for a small area in the front where the ai console and a Navy-issue table stood under a protective canopy, the enormous cavern was jammed with huge, toppling, six- and-seven-layer-deep piles of... stuff. Dazed, I stared at the closest edge of that enormous junkyard. A torn plastic bag bearing some corporate logo. A broken bathtub painted in swirling greens. A childs bloody shoe. Some broken goblets of titanium, which was almost impossible to break. A hand- embroidered shirt from 78-Alpha, where such handwork is a folk art. A cheap set of plastic dishes decorated with blurry prints of dogs. A childs <nger painting. What looked like a Terran prehistoric fertility <gure. And, still in its original frame and leaning crazily against an obsolete music cube, Philip Langstroms priceless abstract Ascent of Justice, which had been looted from 46-Gamma six years ago in a surprise Teli raid. Water spots had rotted one corner of the canvas. Kind of takes your breath away, dont it? Lu said. What a bunch of rubbish. Look at that picture in the front there, sir cant even tell what its supposed to be. You want me to start vapping things? I closed my eyes, feeling the seizure coming, the going under. I breathed deeply. Went through the mental cleansing that my serene Dalo had taught me, kai lanu kai lanu breathe... Sir? Captain Porter? Im <ne, I said. I had control again. Were not vapping anything, Lu. Were here to study all of it, not just rescue some of it. Do you understand? Whatever you say, sir, he said, clearly understanding nothing. But, then, neither did I. All at once my task seemed impossible, overwhelming. Ascent of Justice and a broken bathtub and a bloody shoe. What in hell had the Teli considered art? Kai lanu kai lanu breathe... The <rst time I went under, there had been no Dalo to help me. Id been ten years old and about to be shipped out to Young Soldiers Camp on Aires, the <rst moon of 43-Beta. Children in their little uniforms had been laughing and shoving as they boarded the shuttle, and all at once I was on the ground, gasping for breath, tears pouring down my face. Whats wrong with him? my mother said. Medic! Jon! Jon! Daddy said, trying to hold me. Oh gods, Jon! The medic rushed over, slapped on a patch that didnt work, and then I remember nothing except the certainty that I was going to die. I knew it right up until the moment I could breathe again. The shuttle had left, the medic was packing up his gear without looking at my parents, and my fathers arms held me gently. My mother stared at me with contempt. You little coward, she said. They were the last words she spoke to me for an entire year. Why the Space Navy? Dalo would eventually ask me, in sincere confusion. After all the other seizures... the way she treated you each time... Jon, you could have taught art at a university, written scholarly books... I had to join the Navy, I said, and knew that I couldnt say more without risking a seizure. Dalo knew it, too. Dalo knew that the doctors had no idea why the conventional medications didnt touch my condition, why I was such a medical anomaly. She knew everything and loved me anyway, as no one had since my fathers death when I was thirteen. She was my lifeline, my sanity. Just thinking about her aboard the Scheherezade, just knowing I would see her again in a few weeks, let me concentrate on the bewildering task in front of me in the dripping, moldy Teli vault <lled with human treasures and human junk. And with any luck, I would not have to encounter General Anson again. For any reason. 125 A RT OF W AR A polished marble doll. A broken commlink on which some girl had once painted lopsided red roses. An exquisite albastron, Eastern Mediterranean :fth century B.C., looted :ve years ago from the private collection of Fahoud al-Ashan on 71-Delta. A forged copy of Lucca DiCharios Menamarti, although not a bad forgery, with a fake certi:cate of authenticity. Three more embroidered baby shoes. A handmade quilt. Several holo cubes. A hair comb. A music-cube case with holo- porn star Shiva on the cover. Degass exquisite Danseuse Sur Scene, which had vanished from a Terran museum a hundred years ago, assumed to be in an off-Earth private collection somewhere. I gaped at it, unbelieving, and ran every possible physical and computer test. It was the real thing. Captain, why do we gotta to measure the exact place on the ;oor of every little piece of rubbish? whined Private Blanders. I ignored her. My detail had learned early that they could take liberties with me. I had never been much of a disciplinarian. I said, Because we dont know which data is useful and which not until the computer analyzes it. But the location dont matter! Im gonna just estimate it, all right? Youll measure it to the last fraction of a centimeter, Sergeant Lu said pleasantly, and itll be accurate, or youre in the brig, soldier. You got that? Yes, sir! Thank the gods for Sergeant Lu. The location was important. The ais algorithms were starting to show a pattern. Partial as yet, but interesting. Lu carried a neo-plastic sculpture of a young boy over to my table and set it down. He ran the usual tests and the measurements appeared in a display screen on the C-112. The sculpture, I could see from one glance, was worthless as both art or history, an inept and recent work. I hoped the sculptor hadnt quit his day job. Lu glanced at the patterns on my screen. Whats that, then, sir? Its a fractal. A what? Part of a pattern formed by behavior curves. What does it mean? he asked, but without any real interest, just being social. Lu was a social creature. I dont know yet what it means, but I do know one other thing. I switched screens, needing to talk aloud about my :ndings. Dalo wasnt here. Lu would have to do, however inadequately. See these graphs? These artifacts were brought to the vault by different Teli, or groups of Teli, and at different times. How can you tell that, sir? Lu looked a little more alert. Art didnt interest him, but the Teli did. Because the art objects, as opposed to the other stuff, occurs in clusters through the cave see here? And the real art, as opposed to the amateur junk, forms clusters of its own. When the Teli brought back Human art from raids, some of the aliens knew or had learned what quali:ed. Others never did. Lu stared at the display screen, his red nose wrinkling. How did someone named Ruhan Lu end up with such a ruddy complexion? Those lines and squiggles he pointed at the Ebenfeldt equations at the bottom of the screen tell you all that, sir? Those squiggles plus the measurements youre making. I know where some pieces were housed in Human colonies so Im also tracking the paths of raids, plus other variable like The Citadel shook as something exploded deep under our feet. Enemy attack! Lu shouted. He pulled me to the ;oor and threw his body across mine as dirt and stone and mold rained down from the ceiling of the cave. Die I was going to die... Dalo! I heard myself scream and then, in the weird way of the human mind, came one clear thought out of the chaos: I wont get to see the Sistine Chapel after all. Then I heard or thought nothing as I went under. 126 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I woke in my Teli quarters in the Citadel, grasping and clawing my way upright. Lu laid a hard hand on my arm. Steady, sir. Dalo! The Scheherezade! Ships just 9ne, sir. It was a booby-trap buried somewhere in the mountain, but Security thinks most of it 9zzled. Places a mess but not much real damage. Blanders? Cozinski? Two soldiers are dead but neither ones our detail. He leaned forward, hand still on my arm. What happened to you, sir? I tried to meet his eyes and failed. The old shame :ooded me, the old guilt, the old de9ance all here again. Who saw? Nobody but me. Is it a nerve disease, sir? Like Ransom Fits? No. My condition had no discoverable physical basis, and no name except my mothers, repeated over the years. Coward. Because if its Ransom Fits, sir, my brother has it and they gave him meds for it. Fixed him right up. Its not Ransom. What are the general orders, Lu? All hands to carry on. More booby traps? I guess theyll look, sir. Bound to, dont you think? Dont know if theyll 9nd anything. My friend Sergeant Andropov over in Security says the mountain is so honey-combed with caves underneath these big ones that they could search for a thousand years and not 9nd everything. Captain Porter if it happens again, with you I mean, is there anything special I should do for you? I did meet his eyes, then. Did he know how rare his gaze was? No, he did not. Lus honest, conscientious, not-very-intelligent face showed nothing but pragmatic acceptance of the situation. No disgust, no contempt, no sentimental pity, and he had no idea how unusual that was. But I knew. No, Sergeant, nothing special. Well just carry on. Aye, aye, sir. If any request for information came down from General Ansons of9ce, I never received it. No request for a report on damage to the art vaults, or on impact to assignment progress, or on personnel needs. Nothing. The second booby trap destroyed everything in Vault A. It struck while I was upside on the Scheherezade, with Dalo on a weekend pass after a month of fourteen-hour days in the vault. Lu comlinked me in the middle of the night. The screen on the bulkhead opposite our bed chimed and brightened, waking us both. I clutched at Dalo. Captain Porter, sir, we had another explosion down here at oh one thirty-six hours. Lus face was black with soot. Blood smeared one side of his face. It got Vault A and some of the crew quarters. Private Blanders is dead, sir. The ai is destroyed, too. Im waiting on your orders. I said to the commlink, Send, voice only... My voice came out too high and Dalos arm went around me, but I didnt go under. Lu, is the quake completely over? Far as we know, sir. Ill be downside as soon as I can. Dont try to enter Vault A until I arrive. Yes, sir. I broke the link, turned in Dalos arms, and went under. When the seizures stopped, I went downside. We had nearly 9nished cataloguing Vault A when it blew. Art of any value had already been crated and moved, and of course all my data was backed up on both the base ai and on the Scheherezade. For the 9rst time, I wondered why I had been given a C-112 of my own in the 9rst place. A near- ai was expensive, and there was a war on. Vault B was pretty much a duplicate of Vault A, a huge natural cavern dripping water 127 A RT OF W AR and sediments on a packed-solid jumble of human objects. A carved fourteenth-century oak chest, probably French, that some rich Terran must have had transported to a Human colony. Hand-woven dbeni from 14- Alpha. A cooking pot. A samurai sword with embossed handle. A holo cube programmed with porn. Mondrians priceless Broadway Boogie-Woogie, mostly in unforgivable tatters. A cheap, mass-produced jewelry box. More shoes. A Paul LeFort sculpture looted from a pleasure craft, the Princess of Mars, two years ago. A brass menorah. The entire contents of the Museum of Colonial art on 33-Delta most of it worthless but a few pieces showing promise. I hoped the young artists hadnt been killed in the Teli raid. Three days after Lu, Private Cozinski, and I began work on Vault B, General Anson appeared. She had not attended Private Blanderss memorial service. I felt her before I saw her, her gaze boring into the back of my neck, and I closed my eyes. Kai lanu kai lanu breathe... Ten-hut! Lu and Cozinski had already sprung to attention. I turned and saluted. Breathe... kailanukailanu please gods not in front of her... A word, captain. Yes, maam. She led the way to a corner of the vault, walking by Tomiko Mahutos Morning Grace, one of the most beautiful things in the universe, without a glance. Water dripped from the end of a stalactite onto her head. She shifted away from it without changing expression. I want an estimate of how much longer you need to be here, captain. Ive =led daily progress reports, maam. Were on the second of four vaults. I read all reports, captain. How much longer? Unless something in the other two vaults differs radically from Vaults A and B, perhaps another three months. And what will your conclusions be? She had no idea how science worked, or art. I cant say until I have more data, maam. Where does your data point so far? Her tone was too sharp. Was I this big an embarrassment to her, that she needed me gone before my job was done? I had told no one about my relationship to her, and I would bet my last chance to see the Sistine Chapel that she hadnt done so, either. I said carefully, There is primary evidence, not yet backed up mathematically, that the Teli began over time to distinguish Human art objects from mere decorated, utilitarian objects. There is also some reason to believe that they looted our art not because they liked it but because they hoped to learn something signi=cant about us. Learn something signi=cant from broken bathtubs and embroidered baby shoes? I blinked. So she had been reading my reports, and in some detail. Why? Apparently, maam. What makes you think they hoped to learn about us from this rubbish? Im using the Ebenfeldt equations in conjunction with phase-space diagrams for I dont need technical mumbo-jumbo. What do you think they tried to learn about Humans? Their own art seems to have strong religious signi=cance. Im no expert on Teli work, but my roommate at the university, Forrest Jamili, has gone on to I dont care about your roommate, she said, which was hardly news. I remembered the day I left from the university, possibly the most terri=ed and demoralized =rst-year ever, how I had gone under when she had said to me Kai lanu kai lanu breathe breathe... I managed to avoid going under, but just barely. I quavered, I dont know what the Teli learned from our art. She stared at my face with contempt, spun on her boot heel, and left. That night I began to research the deebees on Teli art. It gave me something to do during the 128 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES long, insomniac hours. Human publications on Teli art, I discovered, had an odd, evasive, overly careful feel to them. Perhaps that was inevitable; ancient Athenians commentators had to watch what they said publicly about Sparta. In wartime, it took very little to be accused of giving away critical information about the enemy. Or of giving them treasonous praise. In no ones papers was this elliptical quality more evident than in Forrest Jamilis, and yet something was clear. Until now, art scholars had been building a vast heap of details about Teli art. Forrest was the ?rst to suggest a viable overall framework to organize those details. It was during one of these long and lonely nights, desperately missing Dalo, that I discovered the block on my access codes. I couldnt get into the of?cial records of the meteor de@ection that had destroyed the Teli weapons base and brought General Anson the famous Victory of 149-Delta. Why? Because I wasnt a line of?cer? Perhaps. Or perhaps the records involved military security in some way. Or perhaps and this was what I chose to believe she just wanted the heroic, melodramatic holo version of her victory to be the only one available. I didnt know if other of?cers could access the records, and I couldnt ask. I had no friends among the of?cers, no friends here at all except Lu. On my second leave upside, Dalo said, You look terrible, dear heart. Are you sleeping? No. Oh, Dalo, Im so glad to see you! I clutched her tight; we made love; the taut fearful ache that was my life downside eased. Finally. A little. Afterward, lying in the cramped bunk, she said, Youve found something unexpected. Some correlation that disturbs you. Yes. No. I dont know yet. Dalo, just talk to me, about anything. Tell me what youve been doing up here. Well, Ive been preparing materials for a new mutomati , as you know. Im almost ready to begin work on it. And Ive made a friend, Susan Finch. I tried not to scowl. Dalo made friends wherever she went, and it was wrong of me to resent this slight diluting of her affections. You would like her, Jon, Dalo said, poking me and smiling. Shes not a line of?cer, for one thing. Shes ships doctor. In my opinion, doctors were even worse than line of?cers. I had seen so many doctors during my horrible adolescence. But I said, Im glad you have someone to be with when Im downside. She laughed. Liar. She knew my possessiveness, and my @ailing attempts to overcome it. She knew everything about me, accepted everything about me. In Dalo, now my only family, I was the luckiest man alive. I put my arms around her and held on tight. The Teli attack came two months later, when I was halfway through Vault D. Six Teli warships emerged sluggishly from subspace, moving at half their possible speed. Our probes easily picked them up and our ?ghters took them out after a battle that barely deserved the name. Human casualties numbered only seven. Shooting ?sh in a barrel, Private Cozinski said as he crated a Roman Empire bottle, third century C.E., pale green glass with seven engraved lines. It had been looted from 189-Alpha four years ago. Bastards never could ?ght. Not true, said the honest Sergeant Lu. Teli can ?ght ?ne. They just didnt. That dont make sense, Sergeant. And it didnt. Unless... All that night I worked in Vault D at the computer terminal which had replaced my free-standing C-112. The terminal linked to both the downside system and the deebees on the Scheherezade. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing in the cavernous space. Once something like a bat @ew from some far recess. I kept slapping on stim patches to stay alert, and feverishly calling up different programs, and doing my best to erect cybershields around what I was doing. 129 A RT OF W AR Lu found me there in the morning, my hands shaking, staring at the display screens. Sir? Captain Porter? Yes. Sir? Are you all right? Art history is not, as people like General Anson believe, a lot of dusty information about a frill occupation interesting to only a few effetes. The Ebenfeldt equations transformed art history, linking the =eld to both behavior and to the mathematics underlying chaos theory. Not so new an idea, really the ancient Greeks used math to work out the perfect proportions for buildings, for women, for cities, all profound shapers of human behavior. The creation of art does not happen in a vacuum. It is linked to culture in complicated, nonlinear ways. Chaos theory is still the best way to model nonlinear behavior dependent on small changes in initial conditions. I looked at three sets of mapped data. One, my multi-dimensional analysis of Vaults A through D, was comprehensive and detailed. My second set of data was clear but had a signi=cant blank space. The third set was only suggested by shadowy lines, but the overall shape was clear. Sir? Sergeant, can you set up two totally encrypted commlink calls, one to the Scheherezade and one by ansible to Sel Ouie University on 18-Alpha? Yes, I know that of=cially you cant do that, but you know everybody everywhere... can you do it? Its vitally important, Ruhan. I cant tell you how important! Lu gazed at me from his ruddy, honest face. He did indeed know everyone. A Navy lifer, and with all the amiability and human contacts that I lacked. And he trusted me. I could feel that unaccustomed warmth, like a small and steady =re. I think I can do that, sir. He did. I spoke =rst to Dalo, then to Forrest Jamili. He sent a packet of encrypted information. I went back to my data, working feverishly. Then I made a second encrypted call to Dalo. She said simply, Yes. Susan says yes, of course she can. They all can. Dalo, =nd out when the next ship docks with the Scheherezade. If its today, book passage on it, no matter where its going. If theres no ship today, then buy a seat on a supply shuttle and Those cost a fortune! I dont care. Just Jon, the supply shuttles are all private contractors and they charge civilians a it would wipe out everything weve saved and why? Whats wrong? I cant explain now. I heard boots marching along the corridor to the vault. Just do it! Trust me, Dalo! Ill =nd you when I can! Captain, an mp said severely, come with me. His weapon was drawn, and behind him stood a detail of grim-faced soldiers. Lu stepped forward, but I shot him a glance that said Say nothing! This is mine alone! Good soldier that he was, he understood, and he obeyed. It was, after all, the =rst time I had ever given him a direct if wordless order, the =rst time I had assumed the role of commander. My mother should have been proud. Her of=ce resembled my quarters, rather than the vaults: a trapezoidal, low-ceilinged room with alien art etched on all the stone walls. The room held the minimum of furniture. General Anson stood alone behind her desk, a plain military-issue camp item, appropriate to a leader who was one with the ranks, dont you know. She did not invite me to sit down. The mp s left reluctantly, it seemed to me but, then, there was no doubt in anyones mind that she could break me bare-knuckled if necessary. She said, You made two encrypted commlink calls and one encrypted ansible message from this facility, all without proper authorization. Why? I had to strike before she got to me, before I went under. I blurted, I know why you blocked my access to the meteor-de>ection data. 130 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES She said nothing, just went on gazing at me from those eyes that could chill glaciers. There was no de?ection of that meteor. The meteor wasnt on our tracking system because Humans havent spent much time in this sector until now. You caught a lucky break, and whatever de?ection records exist now, you added after the fact. Your so-called victory was a sham. I watched her face carefully, hoping for... what? Con>rmation? Outraged denial that I could somehow believe? I saw neither. And of course I was ?ying blind. Captain Susan Finch had told Dalo only that yes, of course of>cers had access to the de?ection records; they were a brilliant teaching tool for tactical strategy. I was the only one whod been barred from them, and the general must have had a reason for that. She always had a reason for everything. Still she said nothing. Hoping that I would utter even more libelous statements against a commanding of>cer? Would commit even more treason? I could feel my breathing accelerate, my heart start to pound. I said, The Teli must have known the meteors trajectory; theyve colonized 149- Delta a long time. They let it hit their base. And I know why. The answer is in the art. Still no change of expression. She was stone. But she was listening. The answer is in the art ours and theirs. I ansibled Forrest Jamili last night no, look >rst at these diagrams no, >rst I was making a mess of it as the seizure moved closer. Not now not now not in front of her... Somehow I held myself together, although I had to wrench my gaze away from her to do it. I pulled the holocube from my pocket, activated it, and projected it on the stone wall. The Teli etchings shimmered, ghostly, behind the laser colors of my data. This is a phase-space diagram of Ebenfeldt equations using input about the frequency of Teli art creation. We have tests now, you know, that can date any art within weeks of its creation by pinpointing when the raw materials were altered. A phase-state diagram is how we model bifurcated behaviors grouped around two attractors... What that means is that the Teli created their art in bursts, with long fallow periods between bursts when... no, wait, General, this is relevant to the war! My voice had risen to a shriek. I couldnt help it. Contempt rose off her like heat. But she stopped her move toward the door. This second phase-space diagram is Teli attack behavior. Look... it inverts the >rst diagrams! They attack viciously for a while, and during that time virtually no Teli creates art at all... Then when some tipping point is reached, they stop attacking or else attack only ineffectively, like the last raid here. Theyre... waiting. And if the tipping point this mathematical value isnt reached fast enough, they sabotage their own bases, like letting the meteor hit 149-Delta. They did it in the battle outside 16-Beta and in the Q- Sector massacre... you were there! When the mathematical value is reached when enough of them have died they create art like crazy but dont wage war. Not until the art reaches some other hypothetical mathematical value that I think is this second attractor. Then they stop creating art and go back to war. Youre saying that periodically their soldiers just curl up and let us kill them? she spat at me. The Teli are damned >erce >ghters, Captain I know that even if the likes of you never will. They dont just whimper and lie down on the ?oor. Kai lanu kai lanu... Its a... a religious phenomenon, Forrest Jamili thinks. I mean, he thinks their art is a form of religious atonement all of their art. Thats its societal function, although the whole thing may be biologically programmed as well, like the deaths of lemmings to control population. The Teli can take only so much dying, or maybe even only so much killing, and then they have to stop and... and restore what they see as some sort of spiritual balance. And they loot our art because they think we must do the same thing. Dont you see they were collecting our art to try to analyze when we will stop attacking and go fallow! They assume we must be the same as them, just 131 A RT OF W AR No warriors stop <ghting for a bunch of weakling artists! just as you assume they must be the same as us. We stared at each other. I said, As you have always assumed that everyone should be the same as you. Mother. Youre doing this to try to discredit me, arent you, she said evenly. Anyone can connect any dots in any statistics to prove whatever they wish. Everybody knows that. You want to discredit my victory because such a victory will never come to you. Not to the sniveling, back- stabbing coward whos been a disappointment his entire life. Even your wife is worth ten of you at least she doesnt crumple under pressure. She moved closer, closer to me than I could ever remember her being, and every one of her words hammered on the inside of my head, my eyes, my chest. You got yourself assigned here purposely to embarrass me, and now you want to go farther and ruin me. Its not going to happen, soldier, do you hear me? Im not going to be made a laughing stock by you again, the way I was in every of<cers club during your whole miserable adolescence and I didnt hear the rest. I went under, seizing and screaming. It is two days later. I lie in the medical bay of the Scheherezade, still in orbit around 149-Delta. My room is locked but I am not in restraints. Crazy, under arrest, but not violent. Or perhaps the General is simply hoping Ill kill myself and save everyone more embarrassment. Downside, in Vault D, Lu is <nishing crating the rest of the looted Human art, all of which is supposed to be returned to its rightful owners. The Space Navy serving its galactic citizens. Maybe the art will actually be shipped out in time. My holo cube was taken from me. I imagine that all my data has been wiped from the bases and ships deebees as well, or maybe just classi<ed as severely restricted. In that case no one cleared to look at it, which would include only top line of<cers, is going to open <les titled Teli Art Creation. Generals have better things to do. But Forrest Jamili has copies of my data and my speculations. Phase-state diagrams bring order out of chaos. Some order, anyway. This is, interestingly, the same thing that art does. It is why, looking at one of Dalos mutomati works, I can be moved to tears. By the grace, the balance, the redemption from chaos of the harsh raw materials of life. Dalo is gone. She left on the supply ship when I told her to. My keepers permitted a check of the ships manifest to determine that. Dalo is safe. I will probably die in the coming Teli attack, along with most of the Humans both on the Scheherezade and on 149-Delta. The Teli fallow period for this area of space is coming to an end. For the last several months there have been few attacks by Teli ships, and those few badly executed. Months of frenetic creation of art, including all those etchings on the stone walls of the Citadel. Did I tell General Anson how brand-new all those hand-made etchings are? I cant remember. She didnt give me time to tell her much. Although it wouldnt have made any difference. She believes that war and art are totally separate activities, one important and one trivial, whose life lines never converge. The General, too, will probably die in the coming attack. She may or may not have time to realize that I was right. But that doesnt really matter any more, either. And, strangely, Im not at all afraid. I have no signs of going under, no breathing dif<culties, no shaking, no panic. And only one real regret: that Dalo and I did not get to gaze together at the Sistine Chapel on Terra. But no one gets everything. I have had a great deal: Dalo, art, even some possible future use to humanity if Forrest does the right thing with my data. Many people never get so much. The ships alarms begin to sound, clanging loud even in the medical bay. The Teli are back, resuming their war. S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS M ICHAEL C HO 134 135 1 V ONNIE RAN WITH HER EYES SHUT, CHASING THE SOUND OF HER OWN BOOTSTEPS. This channel in the rock wasa tight enough to re6ect every noise back on itself and she dodged through the open space between, weeping, crashing one shoulder against a slant in the wall. She fell. She glanced back, forgetting the danger in this simple re6ex. The bloody wet glint in her retinas was only a distraction, a useless blur of heads-up data she couldnt read. Worse, her helmet was still transmitting sporadically, the side-mount and some internals crushed beyond saving. Shed rigged an elf pulse that obeyed on/off commands, but her sonar and the camera spot were dead to her, 6ickering at random. And the spotlight was like a torch in this cold. Vonnie clapped her glove over the gear block on her helmet, trying to muf6e the beam. Bootsteps were one thing. This entire moon groaned with seismic activity, rattling, cracking,but heat was a give-away. Heat scarred the ice and rock, and for her to look back was to increase the odds of leaving a trail. Stupid. Stupid. Even now she didnt want to 5ght. They were beautiful in their way, the amphibians quick little star5sh rippling with muscle. Rippling with ideas. Theyd outmaneuvered her twice and more than anything what she felt was regret. She could have done better. She should have waited, instead of letting her ego make the decision. In some ways Alexis Vonderach was still a girl at thirty-six, single, too smart, too good with machines and math. She was successful. She was con5dent. She 5t the esa psych pro5le to six decimal points. Now all that was gone. She was down to nerves and guesswork and whatever momentum she could hold onto. THE FROZEN SKY Jeff Carlson Illustrated by Paul Rivoche 136 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES She lurched forward, groping with one hand along the soft volcanic rock. Her face struck a jagged outcropping in the wall and then her hip, too, safe inside her armor. Vonnie didnt think they could track the alloys of her suit but they seemed able to smell her footprints, fresh impacts in the ice and lava dust, and there was no question that they were highly attuned to warmth. Shed killed nine at the ravine and covered her escape with an excavation charge, losing herself behind the storm... and theyd followed her easily. Could she use that somehow? Lead them into a trap? She was no soldier. She had never trained for violence or even imagined it, except maybe at a few faculty budget meetings. An odd <icker of memory. Vonnie held tightly to it, clean and bright. She wouldve given anything to have that life again, those tiny problems, her tidy desk. She fell once more, off-balance with her hand against her head. The suit protected her, though, and she scrabbled over what appeared to be a cave-in. Maybe here. Burn the rock, leave a false trail, then drop the rest of the broken wall on them. Theyd give up. Didnt they have to give up? Nine dead at the ravine, two more in the ice, could they really keep soaking up casualties like that? Vonnie could only guess at the amphibians psychology. Even blind, she knew there was light. Alone, she knew someone would ;nd her. Yet she thought the history of this race was without hope. Unrelenting strength, yes, but the idea of hope requires a sense of future. The idea of somewhere to go. Theyd never imagined the stars, much less reached up to escape this black, fractured world. This damned world. No less than four Earth agencies had landed mecha here to strip its resources, then sent a joint team in the name of science, and Lam and Bauman were both dead before First Contact, crushed in a rock swell. Would it have made any difference? The question was too big for her. That the amphibians existed at all was a shock. Humankind had long since found Mars and Venus forever barren, not just stillborn but never started, and after more than a century and a half the seti radioscopes had yet to catch any hint of another thinking race within a hundred and ;fty lightyears. Some joke. All that time the amphibians were inside the solar system, a neighbor, a counterpart. It should have been the luckiest miracle. It should have been like coming home. But that had been Vonnies worst mistake, to think of them as similar in any way. They were an intelligence that seemed to lack fear or even hesitation, and that might be exactly why her trap would work. She decided to risk it. She was exhausted and hurt, and staying in one place would give her time to attempt repairs again, regain the advantage. She found a small shelf in the crumbling rock face above the slide and settled in to kill more of them. 2 Jupiters sixth moon was an ocean, a deep, complete sphere too far from the sun to exist as a liquid. Not at temperatures of -162 Celsius. Human beings ;rst walked the ice in 2094, and <ybys and probes had buzzed this distant white orb since 1979. Europa was an interesting place. For one thing, there was a unique oxygen atmosphere created by the slow dissociation of molecules from the surface. It was water ice. It was a natural fuel depot for fusion ships. Before the end of the twenty-;rst century, the investment of ;fty mecha and two dozen more in spare parts was well worth an endless supply of deuterium at the edge of human civilization. The diggers and the processing stations were fusion-powered themselves, as were the tankers parked in orbit. Spacecraft came next, some crewed, some robots too and eighteen years passed. It might have been longer. Much longer. The 137 T HE F ROZEN S KY mecha were all on the equator, where it was easiest for the tankers to hold position above them without constantly burning fuel, 6ghting Jupiters gravity and the tug of other moons. Eighteen years. But the glacial tides within the ice gave Europa a great many environments grinds, stacks, chasms, melts and only the smooth, so-called plains were deemed safe by the men and women who guided the mecha by remote telepresence. Looking ahead, they sent rovers in all directions, surveying, sampling. At the southern pole was a smooth area that covered nearly forty kilometers. Many rovers went there. 3 Vonnie shivered, an intensely ugly sensation inside her suit. Shed locked the joints and torso, becoming a statue, preventing herself from causing any movement whatsoever, but inside it she was still skin and muscle. The feel of her body against this shell was repulsive. Again and again she caught herself squirming and tensing, trying to shrink away from it, trying the impossible. The rut in her thinking wasnt much better. She wished Choh Lam hadnt tried to... She wished somehow shed saved them. Lam grasped so much so fast, he might have already found a way out, a way up. Shed cobbled together a ghostling using his mem 6les but she couldnt give it enough capacity to correct its 7aws. She would have to shut down her ears or the override shed programmed into her heat exchanger, each a different kind of death. Better to forget him. Erase him. But even at three-quarters logic he was useful. Hed suggested a tranquilizer and Vonnie popped one tab, slowed down enough to feel clear again. Clear and cold. She shouldnt be cold, sweating inside her hard shell, but the waiting was like its own labyrinth of ice the waiting and the listening and the deep bruises in her face. She didnt care how sophisticated the medical systems were supposed to be. On some level her body knew it was hurt, even numbed and shot full of dont-worry. Her head had a dozen good reasons why she was safe but her body knew the amphibians would come again. The lonely dark was alive. That truth no longer surprised her and she strained her senses out into the thin, cold spaces reaching away from her, more afraid of missing the amphibians than of drawing in an attack. It was superstitious to imagine they could hear her thoughts, she knew that, but at the ravine theyd run straight to her hiding place despite three decoys. She had to learn if she was going to live. This rock shelf seemed defensible when she stumbled over it, nowhere to retreat but only one approach to cover, and there was a spongework of holes overhead where she could dump her waste heat before leaving. Vonnie was on her belly now facing outward, trying to eat and trying to rest, trying to ignore the ugly, anesthetized pressure of the med beetles slithering in and out of her temple, her cheek, her eye socket. Both eyes were damaged but shed elected to deal with one at a time in case something went wrong, in case the nanotech needed to scavenge one to 6x the other. Lams idea. Hed also agreed that her helmet would retain integrity if she broke off the gear block completely and stripped it for parts. What else would he have tried? The plastisteel of her suit should contain all sound but there was another risk in talking, a risk she ignored just to be with someone even for a moment. Even a ghost. You still there? she whispered. Von, listen, dont close me down again, please. Tell me what Lam would do. Am I safe here? I need to rest. I laid down a false trail like you said. Theyll catch us. But listen. Did you check my map? I made it almost three klicks. They will. Eighty-plus percent prob- 138 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES ability. But I can talk to them, we have enough data now. With temporary control of the suit I could at least establish... No. Vonnie, most of their language is shapes, postures, I cant tell you fast enough how to move. No. Self-scan and correct. Von, wait. I said scan for glitches and correct. Off. Could a ghost be crazy? Her fault. This one was her ;rst and shed rushed the process, and she had been angry with him. The real him. So she let him remember how he died and it made him erratic. Maybe hed never doubted himself before. Bauman would have been a better friend. Bauman was older, calmer, another woman, but she was a geneticist and Lams biology/ecology skills were too valuable. The choice had been obvious. Vonnie just didnt have the resources to pull them apart, build an overlay with Baumans personality and Lams education. She waited alone. She itched her ;ngertips inside her rigid glove and did not know it. Too soon she prompted her clock again and was disappointed. Five minutes until her skull was repaired, thirty before she regained her optic nerve... Something was coming. 4 Europas great ocean encased a solid rock core, and volcanic activity contributed to the chaos in the ice. Below many of the stack and melt environments, in fact, sub- surface peaks of lava had proved common, long bulges and spindles that could not have existed if this moon had more than a tenth of Earths gravity. The tides distributed the rock everywhere, and it was a small problem for the mecha. It damaged blades and claws. It jammed in pipes. Even dust would make a site unattractive, and esa Rover 011 was quick to give up on a wide area of the southern plain when it brought up contaminants in its drill cylinder. Still, the rover was well-engineered. Belatedly, it noticed the consistency of shape among the debris. Then its telemetry jumped as it linked with a tanker overhead, using the ships larger brain to analyze the smattering of solids. Finally the rover moved again, sacri;cing two forearms and a spine <exor to embrace its prize, insulating the sample against the near- vacuum of the surface. Impossible as this seemed, given the preposterous cold and the depth from which the sample came, the contaminants were organic lifeforms, long dead, long preserved: tiny, albino bugs with no more nervous system than an earthworm. 5 Vonnie opened her blind eyes to nothing and her ears were empty, too. But she was sure. Something was coming. Inside the hard shell of her suit, she moved but could not move, a surge of adrenaline that had no release. Trembling, she waited. Brooding, she cursed herself. But shed spent a lifetime making order of things and couldnt get her head quiet. She made everything familiar by worrying through it again and again. The trap. Shed split her next-to-last excavation charge in two, placing one half in the ceiling just beyond her rock shelf, the other below and to her left. The blasts would shove forward and down, but there would be shrapnel. In this gravity there was always blowback, if only from ricochets. Good. The amphibians fought like a handful of rubber balls slammed down against the <oor, spreading in an instant, always working to surround her. Without her eyes that was even more of a problem. Her elf pulse was far better at sounding out large shapes than at tracking movement, but it was all she had so shed smash everything within a hundred meters. Her armor could sustain indirect hits from the porous lava rock. She planned to bait them, bring them close, then roll into the crevice 139 T HE F ROZEN S KY behind her and hit the explosives, clean up any survivors with her laser. It was a cutting tool, unfortunately, weak at the distance of a meter. Worse, if she overheated the gun she would probably not be able to repair it. Her nanotech was limited to organic internals, and a good part of the toolkits on her chest and left hip had been torn away or lost Stop thinking. Jesus, stop talking, she murmured, the words as quick as her heartbeat. Just stop it. Could they really hear her mind? They de9nitely had an extra sense, maybe the ability to... feel weight, density, that would serve them well in the ice. So they would be able to separate her from the environment. For once that was what she wanted. Shereactivated the suit and rose into a crouch, strobing the 9ssure below with an elf pulse. She thought her extra-low frequency signals were outside the amphibians range of hearing, but either way shed committed herself just by standing. Nothing. There was nothing. God She choked back the sound and swept the long, bent spaces of the chasm repeatedly now, quickly locating pockets in the ceiling that she could not scour, not from this high angle. It was like turning on a light in what she thought was a closet and 9nding instead that half the house was gone. And her enemy needed only the thinnest of openings. Were they already too close? Shed seen it before, a dozen amphibians upside down on the rock like fat, creeping muscles. She held up her laser even as she groped with her other hand for a chunk of rock. There was gravel, too, and a good boulder, everything shed been able to gather. Throw it now? Try to provoke them? Her thumb gritted in the jagged lava as she clenched down on it. Vonnie was a decent shot with a ball she grew up with three brothers but the suit itself was a weapon. The suit had voice programs that made her something like a passenger inside a robot, auto-commands designed for activities like climbing or welding. Humans got tired. The suit did not. Even better, it still had use of the radar targeting that she could not see, and it would limit the velocity of its throws only to avoid damaging her shoulder and back. She didnt trust it. Shed had to use that low-level ai as a base imprint for her ghost, another mistake. The programming was rotten with Lams mem 9les and twice now the ghost had caused interrupts, trying to clean and recon9gure itself, trying to 9nd control, and yet Vonnie was afraid to purge it. She might lose the suits ampli9ed speed and strength at the same time. You still there? she hissed. Von, listen, dont close me down again, please. The same thing it always said. God. Oh God. No time to argue. Combat menu, she told it. Online. But she hesitated. Right now, the ghost was still somewhat contained. That would change as soon as she gave it access to defense modes, a bad gamble. The extra capacity might be exactly what the ghost needed to self-correct... or the stupid, damned thing might corrupt the most basic functions of her suit. Was there any other way? I need auto-targeting only, she said, 9re by voice command. Von, that drops ef9ciency to thirty percent. Fire by voice command. Con9rm. Listen to me. Four slender arms reached out of the ceiling. 6 It was easy to be friends with Choh Lam. He was freak smart but also patient, hiding himself in a quiet voice, both eager and shy at the same time. He probably didnt realize he had restless eyes because in every other way he moved just like he talked, gently. Vonnies impression was of a man whod spent his life holding back. A man who wanted to belong. He made his break with that kind of thinking before the boards had even agreed 140 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES how many people to send. Even before the mining groups had reprogrammed their mecha for new, more intensive searches, Lam let all of his intelligence show and posted a sim that guaranteed his place on the mission for bugs. Just simple, stupid bugs. That was all that had been found and no one believed this iceball could support much else, and there were 8fteen thousand volunteers in the 8rst week. Fifteen thousand, even knowing that the trip out would be two and a half months cramped up inside a hab module; that the food would be slop-in-a- bag; that Jupiter seethed with radiation. Vonnie still had to smile looking back on it. So much heart and curiosity. So much of the monkey in them still. Fifteen thousand people suddenly didnt care about anything but getting their feet on Europa and grubbing around for exotic life. It was a riddle unlike anything else. Where did the bugs come from? These weak little creatures were not burrowers, not with that spherical body shape, not with those dorsal whiskers and there were variations in the ice. The narrow layer that had the bugs in it was a lot younger than the rest of the sample, and loaded with chlorides and minerals. Lams school of thought predicted a world inside the ice, a small, uneasy, vertical world. They had long known that Europas great ocean was not wholly solid. The freeze went down as much as ten kilometers, but beneath that was slush and eventually liquid, as hot as boiling where raw magma or gas pushed out of the moons rocky core. It had all the building blocks of life heat, water, organic material from comet and meteor strikes but this moon was not so gentle a place as Earth. For over a hundred years, a hundred probes had found nothing. No surprise. Lam con8ned his model to a mere six kilometers, where a 8n of sub-surface mountains partly diverted the force of the tides, yet even in this safe zone the ice and rock were burned and torn. Lam was among the 8rst to understand the violence of this environment, and it fascinated him. Here are the bugs in an open rift, he said. What are they doing? We dont know. Mating? Migrating? Nearby there is a rumble, and a super-heated geyser 9oods the rift. It collapses, then slowly freezes. But there are more pocket ecologies stacked all through this area, some with thin atmospheres of water vapor from the ice or volcanic gases such as nitrogen and carbon dioxide, poisonous hydrogen chloride, explosive hydrogen sul8de. Eons ago in some of these holes, in warm water, single-cell organisms had grown and thrived. Much later there was algae and then vegetation to break down the CO 2 , releasing free oxygen into at least some of the pocket ecologies. At least for a time. Life here 9ourished because it must, evolving and spreading never more than a few steps ahead of constant upheaval. 7 Vonnies head sang with the low buzz of their sonar, too strong to be just one. They were all around. A hint of arms, the clack of a falling pebble She stepped back without intending to, thinking only with her nerves, and in response the amphibians voices rose up like a 9ood, wild and thick. Her emotions were a different storm but there was one clear idea at the center of it. She didnt want to die badly. More than that, she didnt want the wrong reasons to be her last. Then the ghost said: Von, listen, I have six to eight targets but theyre all concealed. Nine targets now. If were going to pick them off before they jump, I need full system access. But they hadnt jumped. Not yet. For the 8rst time, the amphibians were being cautious. Curious? Maybe it was an overture. Vonnie moved forward again to the edge of the cliff and made herself small, tucking both arms into her chest. What are you doing? The posture was submissive but at the same time she tried to project resolve and 141 T HE F ROZEN S KY strength, keeping her head up, keeping it turning from side to side. They understood at least that much of the way she was built. Theyd come after her face every time. Von, listen. Its the only chance. No, she whispered, making her decision. Off. Wait. I said off. She couldnt hate the stupid thing. She was to blame for everything that was wrong with him, and he was just a ghost anyway, and it had been his idea to try to talk without words. A great idea. It was incredibly dangerous but at the same time it held every bit of hope. The amphibians sang and sang and sang, measuring her, crowding her. Would they show themselves without attacking? 8 Christmas Bauman was 1fty-two and not so new to success or failure, and that was partly why she won her slot on the expedition, as a balance to Lam and Vonderach. Vonnie had liked her, too. Bauman pretended sarcasm with them but it was only a way of communicating her experience. You could measure her amusement in each fraction of a centimeter that her brows lifted above her muddy green eyes. She had her own fascination. What if she kept saying. What if those bugs werent dead at all, but hibernating or otherwise still biologically active? What if their chemistry wasnt too strange to co-opt, and could be used in geriatrics or cryo surgery? Yes, they appeared to have been boiled in magma- heated water and then gradually mashed and distorted by the freezing process they appeared very dead indeed but who could say what traits were normal here? It wasnt impossible that the bugs had evolved to spread in this manner, like spores, preserved for ages until the ice opened up again. 142 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Until a gene-smith landed on Europa there was no way to know, and Bauman committed to a years hardship on nothing more than spectral scans and what if. They made a game of it inside the thin, weightless cage of their ship, what if I trade you my desert tonight for some of your computer time and what if you turn off that friggin music? Eleven weeks in a box. There wouldnt have been room for them to start bouncing off the walls and Christmas Bauman emerged naturally as their leader, a little bit of a mom, a little bit of a 7irt. She kept the pressure low with her jokes and also made sure they paid attention to each other, because the temptation was to only look ahead. Lam constantly updated his sims as the mecha sent new data, and Vonnie had full responsibility for ships systems and maintenance, and all of them reviewed and participated in various conferences and boards and debates. Eleven weeks. It could have been long enough to learn to hate each other, or even little enough to still be strangers when they arrived, but Bauman set aside much of her own work to invest in her colleagues instead. The hieroglyphs changed everything. It was a Chinese rover this time, running close to the esa 6nd. Its transmission was both encoded and altercast, but the Europeans and the Brazilians each caught enough of the signal to have something to work with. In less than four hours the naked code went system-wide. Vonnie had learned politics at Stuttgart and, later, consulting for Arianespace. Information was power. There didnt seem to be much sense in withholding the discovery likely it was just re7ex but the mood back on Earth took a hit. Their radio surged with new worries and protocols, and they were still two and a half weeks from Europa. It could have ruined them. It could have sunk all of their energy into the worst kind of distraction. Bauman saw them through. What if he is a dastardly chink spy? she said, straight- faced. Vonnie blushed at the slur but Lam laughed out loud. They were friends enough to understand that they were on their own, no matter what played out back home. The video was in radar and infrared, the mechas low-slung perspective trundling forward with gradients of temperature laid over the green imagery. Far left, irregular lumps masked the horizon, warm gas oozing from several vents. The mecha turned closer And the perspective fell sideways. In front of the camera, six meters of ice bulged like a muscle. Gas spewed upward. Pelting hail. Then it stopped and the mecha extended a wire probe down into the quiet, con6rming a glimpse of repetitive shapes in the ice. In radar the carvings were stark, perfect, inarguable. What if we just killed somebody when the air went out? Vonnie asked, thinking like an engineer, but Bauman said, No, its old. And isolated. Shes right, Lam agreed. They had grouped around the best monitor and Vonnie smiled, glad for their excitement. Then she saw his face and frowned, feeling one step behind. Look, he said as he ducked his own eyes in disappointment. Very old, Bauman said. Still... The hieroglyphs repeated one shape over and over in eight vertical columns of four apiece, a symbol much like an eight-pointed star, with every arm knuckled and bent. From tip to tip each carving was more than a meter wide, and set deep enough into the ice to be nearly half a meter thick through the middle: small domes with tapered limbs. Vonnie thought it could be a sun calendar. She started to say so, then caught herself. This far out, the sun was barely brighter than any other star, and shed soaked up enough from Lam to believe that there had never been anything walking around on the surface of this moon. Too old, Lam said. Look at the drift. The three right-most columns appeared sloppy, hurried, but that was only because the ice had swelled there, distorting the symbols and in this safe zone, surface tides could be 143 T HE F ROZEN S KY measured in millimeters per century. Vonnie felt a weird shiver down her spine. These symbols might be several times older than the dim, half-forgotten histories recorded in the Bible. Cheer up, Bauman said, running her 6nger across the scroll pad. The 6rst theories from Earth were a mating ground, a food cache, maybe only territorial markings, but consensus was that the site demonstrated at least chimpanzee-equivalent intelligence. Even if theyve all been dead for a thousand years, I guarantee youll be up for the Nobel and the cover of every magazine you can think of. What? Hes not that smart, Vonnie said, trying for a laugh, but Lam just grimaced and shook his head. 9 The 6rst one came from behind, undetected, almost certainly airborne. It clamped its eight arms around her helmet and the 6ssure exploded with bodies. Vonnie screamed, uselessly. Thrashing was no better. The roping muscles cinched down on her face were lined with cilia 6ne, gripping pinchers in the thousands and the amphibian had landed its body against the rough patch where her gear block had been, chewing there with its beak. The sound was a high squeal, rubbing and scraping. She 7ailed at it with both hands. Somehow she managed another sweep of the chasm at the same time. The echoes of her elf pulse were close and frantic, overlapping. A swarm. Shed seen it before. The amphibians were spectacular in 7ight, all arms outstretched like suns. Their hieroglyphs were a literal portrayal of their bodies. To a species that saw in sonar, language consisted of stance and gesture. They always knew each others mood and seemed to share it, like a school of 6sh. At a guess there were twenty in the tightly choreographed launch and too many had gotten past her explosives You still there? she shouted. Von, listen, dont close me down again, please. She was already talking over the ghost. Auto assault, max force! Lam! Combat menu ap , auto assault, do you understand? The delay felt like another kind of blindness and separation. She almost froze. She screamed again. She punched at the small monster wrapped around her head but its hard cartilage skin was like pounding on rubber. Only her cutting tool had pierced that hide before, and she was afraid to use the laser against her own face. Then she jerked sideways, wrenching her spine. At 6rst she thought shed been hit by a mass of bodies. Auto assault. The suit carried her. The suit spasmed and leapt. It put her 6st to her temple and drew the laser across the amphibians arms, a precise stutter of four burns, even as it threw her onto her hip and met the incoming wave with a kick. Impacts shook Vonnies foot and shin, and then she was up again. Then three tentacles clunked against her back. Some of the amphibians must have gone overhead when she dropped they must have completely surrounded her and the suit spun and surged into the rock, scraping itself clean. So fast. She lost all sense of up and down. She lost herself. Whatever triumph shed felt in that 6rst instant gave way to blunt, claustrophobic terror. The suit did not use its shape like a human would, pinning one monster with its face, and again and again it hurled itself into the rock. It wasnt squeamish, either. It did not 7inch at the wretched shrilling of an amphibian caught between its hands, or even turn from the burst of entrails. In normal gravity, against larger enemies, Vonnie would have been seriously injured. Even here she was shaken so badly she didnt immediately realize it was over. Or remember when shed regained her right eye. Surprise and hope lifted through her in that moment of clarity. I can Lam? 144 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES The suit stood at the top of the landslide beneath her small, broken shelf, just short of the explosive charges. Her visor glowed with heat signatures but the only living shapes were fading, retreating deep into the ;ssure. Eleven more small bodies drifted in the minimal gravity or lay impaled against the rough black lava. The air was fogged with blood. Mute, she tried to turn away. Crying out, she knew she was paralyzed. Lam? Lam, its over. Of<ine. Lam, of<ine. If they attacked again If the ghost had corrupted all suit functions Her body choked with that heavy new fear again and she fought without thinking inside her shell. He spoke in a hush: I have an additional threat. Let me go! Von, quiet. Somethings coming. What? There were new sonar voices right before the amphibians broke away. Something that scared them off. His voice was different, cooler, more con;dent. Had he ;nally written out his glitches? With access to so many more systems, he could have duped himself and then cut away the <aws in a microsecond. Vonnie was overdue for a little luck. Is it one of our probes? No. New lifeforms, also in a pack. Of course. Food here was scarce. Any commotion would draw every predator within hearing, and she shouldnt have expected anything else. Still, the disappointment in her felt like a new, raw wound. Do you want to stay and ;ght? I estimate them at two hundred meters. Vonnie cursed bitterly, hating this dark place, hating her own seesaw of emotions. She felt like apologizing even though he was just a goddamn program. She felt grateful. Run for it, she said. All these bodies, thats a big meal. We should be able to get a good head start. 10 She landed their slowboat on Europa more than a week before the new high-gee launches would arrive, but they were ordered to wait. The two larger ships now en route carried a good many of the experts whod lost out the ;rst time, and not a small number of bureaucrats and there was real truth to the idea that this crowd would be better able to process the site. Still, Lam smoldered. You see whats happening, he said, his back to the hab module window as if testing himself. Vonnie couldnt leave the bubble alone and Bauman made her wipe off her ;ngerprints every night. The ice was fantastic. I know its tough, she said, barely glancing at him. Youre already talking like them. Hey, easy. Im on your side. You think Im mad because they might grab some of the glory? Because I had to put up with living in a closet with two beautiful women for eleven weeks? She turned at beautiful, a little wary. So far hed been scrupulous about keeping his distance. Von, youve seen their org chart, he said. Who do you thinks in charge, the people like you and me? His brown eyes searched her face, then shifted to gaze at the window behind her. Its being politicized, he said. The fuel. The water. You have to listen to what theyre really saying. The ice. Everyone was still digging along the equator and even now a CSA robot ship was carefully unfolding in orbit, dropping new mecha. Miners. They had been funded years ago and had been in transit for months, and that kind of inertia was fundamental to nearly every aspect of modern civilization. The ice. It held barely more than a hundredth of a percent deuterium but that precious gas could be compressed and boxed, and easily lobbed up out of Europas weak gravity. The tankers ;lled faster than they could be built. Escaping Jupiter wasnt expensive either, diving close and then slinging 145 T HE F ROZEN S KY away, and the old god was perfectly positioned to feed the inner planets. More and more, surface catapults had been hurling packets equipped with nothing more than a radio beacon into slow, sunward trajectories... and if they didnt arrive for years, even if one or two went missing along the way, no problem, they were lined up like endless supply trains and as cheap as dirt. The ice. Deuterium-deuterium fusion reactors kept people alive on Luna and Mars and on a hundred rocks in the asteroid belt, and everywhere in between and water/oxygen futures had become more than stiff enough to make tearing up the ice itself worthwhile. The solar system was in bloom. The Chinese had expanded with total commitment and other cultures were growing as fast as they could just to keep from being left behind. Theyve already given up on most of this world, Lam said, still angry over dinner. Its too easy. Theyve been ripping it apart for twenty years with every reason to keep at it, right? I even helped them. Look. Theyre all posting my sim like its proof, like this safe zone is de:nitely the only one. Okay, Bauman said. Okay. We all know SecGen Kokubo is going to ride the expedition like a nine hundred pound gorilla. The Japanese minister was spaceborn, and represented six thousand colonists who made up a crucial part of the Earth-orbit economy. What do you want to do about it? Weve got a little time, he said, long enough to post enough info that they cant bury it. You know what I mean delays for more surveys, delays for safety, maybe send in a few crawlers, :ve or six months goes by, downplay the whole thing. What do you want to do, Lam? I want to go in. 11 All she wanted was out but in :fty meters they changed direction seven times through the black, ragged rock, dodging through gaps and pockets, jumping one crack and then two loose slumping hills of debris. Vonnie had to grit her teeth. Letting the suit run in this gravity felt too much like :ghting grab, kick, kick again, swimming off the walls and ceilings. It felt too much like they were going in a circle. The ghost followed every possible way up but again and again they lost as much elevation as theyd gained, ducking and weaving for open space. They couldnt even maintain a lateral bearing, forced left and then left and then left again. Go back! Lam, go back to that last branch! Radar suggests another upward trend ahead of us. You. She was almost unable to say it. Arent you headed right where we came from? Weve paralleled several caverns, yes. Christ. Shed pulled the explosive charges before they left, so it would be easy to blow the channel behind them, shut off any pursuit, but what if they ran into yet another threat? What if this tunnel was ultimately a dead-end? These catacombs had formed millennia ago when liquid water cut through the rock in a mix of geysers, rivers and slow-draining seas. Since then, quakes and fractures had opened new holes and closed others and the ice was always there, dripping or pushing or smashing its way in. Between radar sims and actual footsteps covered, her maps went eighteen kilometers, although most of that was tangled into a pyramid just four kilometers on a side and long sections of her trail had gone unrecorded or were literally nonexistent now, destroyed in the rock swell. It was unlikely she could retrace her steps even if she wanted to, even knowing that something was behind her. What was coming, can you tell me? They were a little bigger than the amphibians. Louder. By my estimate there were only six or seven, but the amphibians retreated as soon as they heard the other sonar. Vonnie measured a broad slab of rock as 146 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES they approached, using her own gut hunch as well as radar analysis. It looked like a good place to drop the roof. All she wanted was out. No more data, no more diplomacy, no more trying to vindicate her friends deaths. No more guilt. Is there any way to know if theyre ahead of us? Ive continued to see traces of prints and spoor. Look there. And there. Across her visor, the ghost highlighted two faint smears of feces close together on a small, level spot on the tunnel :oor. Neither was much more than a few frozen molecules. In this place, nothing went to waste or was left behind. Somehow that made her feel badly again. Somehow... The dung is probably not amphibian. Wed have to stop and test samples. But in retrospect, theres a good probability that the amphibians chased us beyond their own territory and were already deep into the home of the other lifeform. Vonnie just shook her head. Even with her weapons and size, she hadnt been able to make the amphibians run away. Whatever these new creatures were... Maybe shed been luckier so far than she thought. 12 It was the kind of career move you only made once. They would either be heroes or subject to a great many lawsuits, probably jail time in Lams case. Vonnie suspected he was already thinking of political asylum. The hieroglyphs meant that much to him, more than home, more than family and for all the right reasons. He wanted to range as deep as possible. He wanted proof of the diversity of life implied by the carvings, the complex food chain that must support the carvers. There would be little or no fossil record here, of course. At best the tides would hold a churned-up mishmash of species carried far from their time and habitats, but that was the point. Diaspora. There must be priceless information everywhere across this moon. There must be life in other places. The mining would never stop, he accepted that, but it could be heavily restricted. It could be more careful. Bauman only argued for a day. She was too much like them or she wouldnt have been there in the 9rst place, and the men on the radio talked like slaps in the face, hard and quick, controlling. She didnt appreciate that. She had Lam concoct a sim that showed the hieroglyphs in danger, which wasnt untruthful. The mecha had resealed the hole but the hieroglyphs were still reacting to near- vacuum, and who could say what data was being lost as the ice slowly boiled away? They were given permission to enter the trench, only the trench, and Lam laughed and ran for his armor. Game over, he said. Game over. I mean, once were inside therell be all kinds of reasons we have to keep poking around, right? Wait, Vonnie said, and hugged them both, Bauman 9rst, blushing a little as she turned to Lam. You cant feel anything in a scout suit, she explained. Yeah. He smiled, looking for her eyes. They dropped in through a small cut in the roof and instructed the mecha to close it again, Lam and Bauman already bickering contentedly. He wanted radar and x-ray. She insisted on passive microscopy. Vonnie just grinned and :ipped through a heads-up of the preliminary soundings taken by wire probe. Their visors were modifying sonar feedback into holo imagery, to avoid burning the ice with light. It was densely, overwhelmingly textured: an irregular quilt of dewdrops, smooth spots, swells and depressions. Only the hieroglyphs held a pattern. She seemed to be standing at the end of a tunnel, which made the symbols even more intriguing. Why invest such effort marking the walls of what must be a low-traf9c area? Could this be some sort of holy place? Lam would 147 T HE F ROZEN S KY say that was just more anthropomorphism... and it wasnt impossible that at one time the tunnel had continued on from here, until the tides collapsed it. But what had the carvers been doing so close to the surface? Youll never pack up the whole wall and put it in a museum, Lam said. Were damaging it just by standing here. All the more reason to be careful. Bauman shook her head, the big gear block on one side like a misplaced hat. We dont know how 8nely detailed the top layer Exactly. So we get it all in one burst, full spectrum. The heat Specialist Lam. The other ships were still more than two light-minutes away, which could reduce conversation to a series of interruptions. Wed like to see the 8rst column again, please stand by for auto control. Roger that, Lam answered on the coded frequency, and in a moment his suit carefully adjusted his upper body, aiming the gear block with machine precision. It was a little spooky. The suits werent supposed to accept remote programs without an okay from whoever was inside, but Vonnie wondered. When they started deeper into the tunnel, would their suits lock up? When they tried to send their data on public channels, would the broadcast come out clean or garbled? Lam had switched back to suit radio. Theres something embedded in the ice! What? Their computers mustve seen it in our telemetry. Pellets. Everywhere. Probably organic. Look. The tiny spheres were as translucent as the ice itself. Eggs? Food? What if Vonnie tried to get a word in edgewise but Bauman was beside herself, rattling her gloves against her thighs as if to grab and hold the little things. We cant pull them, not yet, Bauman said. Well have to record and map it 8rst, so I guess your full spectrum burst is the best way to go, Lam, what do you think? I think youre right, he said generously. Can we get a wire in, get a sample? Vonnie pointed. What if we pick through the debris against that wall? The fourth column was the most deteriorated, and among the confusion of arms were several that had crumbled. Genius. Bauman clapped her on the back, a dull clank. Seconds later they had their sample, and Lam and Bauman bent over it together like cavemen protecting a spark, bumping their thick shoulders, both of them chattering into the radio at the same time. They might have stayed all day. They might have stayed until the other ships arrived, happily absorbed in chem tests and new theories. It was Vonnie who convinced them to move on. 13 The left knee gave out in mid-bounce and she pinwheeled sideways, bashing against the rock. In an instant Vonnie hit the opposite side of the gap. But the ghost was quick to compensate. Her right heel and then one hand touched lightly and the ghost had already corrected their spin, regaining speed, clawing forward through the maze. Lam? she said, heart pounding. Youre all right. Theres no breach. Christ. She hadnt even thought of decompressing and tensed at the idea, hurting her neck when the ghost bent to 8t a hole. For twenty minutes theyd been 8ghting through a series of cave-ins and grinds, and now the suit spidered forward with the bad leg trailing awkwardly, protecting it. How long for repairs? she asked. That may not be possible. Every anterior cable in the knee snapped and one medial. They were falling apart. The suit had never been designed to take this kind of abuse and Vonnie wasnt doing much better, punch drunk on stress and stimulants and more than thirty hours on the run, nearly 8fty since shed really slept. She didnt want to make the wrong decision. 148 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES How long, Lam? Without the toolkit our best option might be to scavenge material from the ankle, weld it solid and restore some function to the knee. I estimate that would take an hour. No. If they stopped she was afraid shed close her eyes. It would only be smart to rest but it would be too much like being blind again. No, keep going, she said. If his sims were correct, they were still at least two kilometers down and at some point theyd have to transition from rock to ice. This mountain rose up like a 4n, always narrowing, disappearing completely a kilometer and a half from the surface. There would be islands suspended in the ice, broken-off hunks as large as New York and gravel 4elds like sheets and clouds. The trick would be to 4nd a gas vent that went all the way up. The trick would be to climb through without touching off a rock swell. Vonnie clenched her teeth, trying to avoid the thought. She knew that too much planning would overwhelm her. They ducked another gap and suddenly the rift opened into a huge volcanic bubble, open on one side. It was half full of ice, but just to look across three hundred meters of open room was disorienting. Vonnie felt the same uncertainty in Lam. The ghost hesitated, scanning up and back. What do you think? she said. Theres de4nitely some new melt over there. If we dig we might get into a vent, get out of this rock, close the hole behind us. He lit her visor with radar frames. Look. Oh. Vonnie surprised herself. Her fear twisted in her like a saw but even now, after everything, she also felt a strong, clear surge of excitement. There were more hieroglyphs across the cavern, a long wall of symbols cut into the rock itself. It was easily twenty times larger than the site theyd found at the surface, and she only wrestled with herself for an instant. How fast can you get a recording? she said. 14 The pellets in the ice were more than Bauman and Lam had hoped for, and swept away any last hint of doubt. This was a sentient race, or had been long ago because each little ball looked to be feces mixed with other biologics like saliva or blood, swamped in chemicals. Hormones. Vonnie could only admire the elegance of it. In this resource-limited environment, the carvers had found at least two ways to encode information. When she started down the tunnel it was with the thrill of history. She would always be 4rst to walk inside this moon and a slavecast kept a swirl of tiny mecha around her feet, sounding the ice, recording everything. Unfortunately she wasnt so graceful. The passage dropped steeply but she tended to crash into the ceiling, misjudging the gravity. Worse, the opening shrank until it wasnt much bigger than her suit, and twice became too narrow for Vonnie to continue on without roughly shouldering through the brittle walls. Their telemetry betrayed them, as expected. The men on the radio questioned her movement and ordered her back. She kept going. Sonar showed an end to the tunnel after four hundred meters, yet infrared revealed that it was a shade warmer than its surroundings, with a hot pinprick of gas leaking through. Vonnie preempted any debate. Theres something behind here, she said. My sonars going crazy. Something alive? That was Lam. I dont know. But this is an airlock. Look at it. So smooth. It was de4nitely not a formation caused by slow melt or tidal pressures. Amazing. Vonnie would have cringed at the idea of placing such responsibility in anything as 5imsy as ice, but there were no metals here. What else could the carvers use? It spoke again of their inventiveness and determination, and she couldnt wait to see more. It was a test of sorts, a chance to prove 149 T HE F ROZEN S KY herself the way that Lam and Bauman had already done. Every step deeper, every challenge met, showed her worth to the team. To get through without losing the air, she would need to trap herself between this block and a new seal of her own making and every surface in the ice showed old scars and stubs. Irregular holes marred the walls where building material must have been dug out. I say go, Lam said to the men on the radio. Were picking up some kind of reading. Noise. Heat. Theres no telling what well miss if we just sit here. I can get us in, Vonnie agreed. Her friends had less than two hours to live when they joined her near the airlock, grinning like kids. Bauman was last in line, so Vonnie took control of Baumans suit, dropping frozen blocks into place and soldering the stack together with her laser 1nger on a minimum setting. Slow work, she said, apologizing, not wanting to blunt their energy. Lam only shrugged, running sims on his visor as he waited. Think what they used, he said. Body heat? Urine, maybe. Therere organic contaminants all through here. Some good dna , Bauman agreed, restless and happy. Finally they were sealed in, and Vonnie eased through the original lock. Immediately she saw another ice plug further on. That was good engineering, but she was disappointed to realize how many lifetimes it must have been since the carvers had come here or even considered this tunnel important. Long, long ago, the top of the second lock had slumped open and her suit analyzed the low-pressure atmosphere bleeding over her as nearly one hundred percent nitrogen a gas so inert, no creature could have evolved to burn it as an energy source. This seemed to be a dead place. Why bother to block it off? Nobody home, she said. No. Lam was cheerful, even buoyant, bumping her shoulder as he tried to look past. 150 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES But maybe the air here was bad because this place was unused, she thought. Maybe they controlled oxygen content with 7ood-gates. It could be their most precious resource. Lam and Bauman were beyond listening, though, lost in the invisible chatter of data. Some of their tiny mecha had run ahead while others lingered to taste the ice, and Lam especially was in his element, pulling 6les, 6tting each little perspective into a working whole. Vonnie was eager, too, yet meticulously rebuilt the locks behind them. Then she moved in front again, her exhilaration like a shout. Another eighty meters on, though, the slanting tunnel dropped away completely. A sink. It was encrusted with old melt and across the way was a hollow of uncertain depth, thick with stalactites. There had been a catastrophe here, a belch of heat, probably, but she couldnt feel sad. She walked to the edge. Her sonar raced down the gaping channel like a fantastic halo but did not reach bottom. Somewhere down there was the dark heart of this world. Perfect, Lam said, uploading a sim to her to complete the thought. This shaft was a cross-section through the ice, maybe rich, maybe not. A mecha descending Sure. Give me 6fteen minutes. It would be easy to sink a few bolts, play out a molecular wire and send a bot down like a spider. Vonnie ri7ed through her kit. Huh, he said then, and one of the mecha near Vonnies feet reared back and shot a marker into the ice. It was dirty ice, like most of the patches that Lam had already targeted, some dark with lava dust, others discolored like milk or glass. There was a shell. A small spiral shell. It wouldnt have looked unusual on any beach on Earth, but here it was a treasure. Even so, Lam was careful. He merely stuck a radio pin into the wall of the tunnel. The wall exploded, white ice, black rock. Vonnie was nearly in front of it and that saved her. The blast knocked her out and up, snarled in her wire. Bauman yelled once, Lam, get back! There was probably no more than a quarter ton of debris stopped up behind the dust pack a mass of gravel and larger stones that had gradually absorbed just enough warmth to slump forward into a loose, dangerous bulge and it weighed only a tenth as much as it would have on Earth. But in this gravity, it splashed, and it still had all of its inertia and mass. It tore the vent. It hit other nodes of rock. There were three upward shockwaves: the 6rst ricochets, a vicious swell and then a smaller, settling rif7e. Vonnie escaped the worst of it, half-conscious and confused, her body slammed into the safe pockets at the top of the vent as her friends disappeared, their sharecasts bursting with alarms and then one massive injury report before cutting off. But she was still tied to the wire, and it would not break. One end caught in the heaving ice and the swell took her too. 15 Vonnie lurched sideways across the cavern and pushed against another slab of rock. The torn fragments of the wall had shifted as water and ice intruded, retreated, came again, and some wild feeling in her was able to guess which pieces were only debris and which held hieroglyphs on one side or another. It made the hair stand up on her arms and neck, uneven and mute. It felt exactly like... Wait. Sonar. Somehow shed sensed it 6rst, even before his machine ears, but there was no time to wonder at the weird creeping changes in herself. How close are they? Were almost done. At least a thousand meters. Its only echoes. My estimate could be off but Id say theyre still deep in the tunnels. Possibly they dont even know were here. No. They know. Their voices arent directed this way. 151 T HE F ROZEN S KY Lets move. Can you pull up that block over there? I think it came out of that corner. If we can scan whatevers left on it well have most of this end of the wall. The suit limped forward. Vonnie wondered how it would hold up in a 7ght and knew she didnt want to be out in the open like this. Better to 7nd a hole, place the explosives... Its not amphibians, is it? No. The others. She shoved at the rock, moving feverishly now, but it felt good and right to stay to have purpose again. She would kill as many as she had to, but she was not just a rat in a trap, running mindlessly. She had worn down to the bedrock of herself and found what she needed, a last reservoir of strength. Only a few shards left now. Possibly the beginning of an answer. Lam said hed seen enough of the amphibians language to try to communicate, but this stretch of carvings was too valuable to abandon. A sample this large would be priceless in translation efforts, and even if she survived they might never 7nd their way back to this cave. And if she died... well, if she died, their probes might still 7nd her. Her suit would transmit her 7les even if she was buried and lost. Vonnie realized she was crying and wasnt angry. She wasnt ashamed. She had done her best all the way through and maybe that was enough. That was good and right. She dropped the rock and pushed over a smaller boulder with only a chipped half- moon of a carving on the underside. Got it? she asked, feeling close to him again, the real him and the ghost. He was a powerful friend. Three hundred meters, Von. We should go. You got it? she repeated. Yes. Von, listen. There are more of them this time, at least ten, moving fast now. Help me with this last big one. The truth was that nobody even really knew which questions to ask. She didnt wonder why there were amphibian hieroglyphs in what was obviously no longer their territory the catacombs probably changed hands regularly or were deserted and reclaimed but why she hadnt seen more. These carvings were ancient. Were the amphibians only coming back now after a long absence? Even then, why hadnt she seen more signs of activity? Maybe some part of the secret was here, and she was willing to 7ght for it. Something else, she realized. The answer might be in their enemies, and Vonnie swung to face the approaching voices with an excavation charge in either hand. 16 The 7rst little world in the ice would always be her favorite. It was peaceful. The two species of bugs closely related to each other but wholly unlike the fat-bodied ants brought up by the esa rover seemed to feed solely on the gray, sticky algae that grew alongside the wells of the hot springs, where the melt was thick and ever-changing. At one time this chamber must have been part of a larger area, but ice-falls had long since walled it off. Vonnie only stumbled into this open space when she refused to be deterred and started digging. Her mind had felt very, very small in those hours, too small for any thought except to get away from the lethal, creaking weight of the collapsed vent above her. She wasnt hurt, other than a sprained elbow. She was alone. Communication with the outside had already been staticky, despite the relays shed left along the tunnel. Maybe those machines were all gone. Maybe shed fallen further than she thought. Obviously she had to 7nd a way back to the surface. The other ships were still two days out and it might take them another day to gear up and scout for her, even longer to forge their way through the crumbling mass above. She regretted not having monitors to leave in this place. Bauman especially would have been excited, but nearly all of Vonnies mecha had been lost in the rock swell. The two she had left she sent exploring and then sat still, grieving, resting and recording. Her camera lights were dazzling in the wet ice. The atmosphere here was oxygen-rich, 152 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES though still nothing that would support a human being, laced with hydrogen chloride. More interesting, the pressure was three times what shed seen near the surface, due in part to a lower altitude but mostly because this hollow was self-contained. Neither species had eyes, of course. They used fan antennae and scent instead. They were basically helpless. Droplets fell steadily or in periodic rains, and the chamber 5oor was pebbled with a thousand specimens. Vonnie collected several. But the mortality rate, while high, didnt seem enough to keep the bugs from outgrowing their food-source. This pocket ecology was more than incomplete; it was unworkable; it was temporary. She was frustrated when she built the ghostling to help her, angry at him, afraid of dying in this impossible place. Bauman would have been a better companion. Vonnie wouldnt have tried so hard to control her and the mess she made of Lam was erratic, missing too much. Shed held back more than half of his mem 4les, but included the last. She wanted him to know why he died. She wanted him to be cautious, even timid. She didnt trust the result. Vonnie dug her way out of the bugs small world when her mecha reported a faint current of atmosphere, half a kilometer away. She knew there were more vents nearby. The tremor was probably another aftershock. The bulk of the fallen vent was pressing out against the surrounding area, and as other networks collapsed they also pushed down or sideways. She felt a long, low creaking sound and suddenly the ice lurched, slamming at her. Then some larger section gave way and Vonnie fell tumbling into the white. A queer thought struck her as she labored to free herself, sinking ever deeper through the loose hunks and powder, certain after the third hour that she was in her grave. This was no ocean into which she was descending it was this moons sky. Caught here, native species had no concept of anything further up. They would always look for the mountains or the liquid seas below. She began to dig down instead of sideways, not 4ghting the avalanche but using it to her advantage, sifting, swimming. Finally she fell into a world of rock, a honeycomb of soft lava worn open at one time by running water. Whether it was an island suspended in the ice or a true mountain she couldnt say yet, but she had at last come down out of the frozen sky. 17 The cavern seemed to stretch as her fear grew and Vonnie stayed near the wall of hieroglyphs, trying to anchor herself. Deep radar let her track the new creatures while they were still out of sight and there were twelve bodies in the swarm, banging off the walls and ceiling of a gap. Sixty meters. Fifty. Vonnie held her explosives. There were too many entrances and she had only four half-sticks. She couldnt throw one until they were almost on her, until there was no chance theyd bounce back out of whichever opening they chose. Forty. They would catch her if she ran, she knew that, but the adrenaline was like a hundred blades inside her. It was like them, savage and quick. Theyre in the second tunnel. Suddenly there was less rock in the way and Lam drew each body into clear resolution. They were no longer just overlapping blobs. They were amphibians. Christ, you said... They were bigger, with longer arms and different skin, cousins of the ones shed fought but their own breed. There was no question about it. To creatures that saw and spoke in sonar, this breed would stand apart from the others, if for no other reason than the pitch of their voices and it wasnt this race that had written on this wall. The size of the carvings was wrong. The surface texture. These hieroglyphs belonged to the smaller species. 153 T HE F ROZEN S KY War. It explained so much. Even when the environment was calm they had been tearing at each other, 7ghting for ground and for resources, and that competition had been more than either side was able to withstand. Here they come. In an instant her chance to kill them cleanly would be gone, and Vonnie had learned not to hesitate. But she had also remembered who she was and why shed ever come here. Lam, talk to them! You have to try to talk to them! she yelled, and the suit bent down even as the amphibians swept into the cavern, a crisscrossing wave of bodies high and low. At the same time Lam emitted sonar bursts in exactly the same tone as theirs, greeting them, ducking one shoulder as he drew on everything hed learned. It was the right decision. She believed that. This was a new population altogether and there was every reason to hope that they would answer her. 18 Alone, in silence, she thought about her dead friends too much and kept as busy as possible with maps and data instead. The atmosphere in these big lava tunnels was mostly water vapor, carbon dioxide and the ever-present nitrogen, along with trace poisons. It was also warm, only a few degrees below freezing. Vonnie assumed she must be inside the 7n mountain, stoked by thermal heat. Giant lumps of ice grew up from the 8oor beneath long stalactites, and slow-8owing lakes made waves and swirls against the humps of rock. Beautiful. She tried to let it cheer her as she picked her way through the jumble, following a soft wind. The pressure differential indicated an even higher temperature somewhere ahead, maybe a vent. First Contact was a jolt. She had seen a few pale spores of fungus but only the ice truly grew and thrived here, so when her radar picked out another sun-shape on the wall she assumed it was a carving. Then it moved. Hey She started closer, stopped. She didnt want to scare the little thing. She was three hundred meters off and there was some chance she was still unobserved. Maybe that was best. She didnt have the training and the choice she made could affect eight billion lives across the solar system, the human race colliding with another for the 7rst time. It was tremendous beyond imagining. But she didnt waver long. She just didnt have it in her to walk away, not here, not now. More than that, she needed this success to balance everything that had gone wrong. Besides, what the hell was the star7sh breathing? Vonnie felt a stab of longing and pride at the thought, a bittersweet mix. Lam and Bauman would have given anything to be here, but she would do the job alone. The creature had disappeared so she paced slowly in that direction, sweeping radar and x- ray up the wall. Nothing. Nothing. Then she found one cold crevice full of bodies, eight of them, and yet she saw no exhalations in infrared. For that moment she forgot everything else, though she was careful not to get too close or even to let her smile show inside her visor teeth might be threatening. She knelt to make herself small and drew one 7nger in the dirt, trying to communicate just the idea of communicating. She must be a complete surprise. Furless, streamlined, they had almost certainly evolved in water. No skeleton and a lot of muscle. No front or back that she could see, only top and bottom. In fact they had no visible ori7ces except on their undersides, a few slits that she took to be gills and a single, well-protected beak evidently used both as mouth and anus. Very basic digestion. Two hearts. Brain. They were perfect, she thought, small enough to subsist, big enough to build. Clever and brave. For creatures this size to cover as much distance as they had was remarkable, and spoke again of strategy and engineering, the incredible success of mastering this environment. 154 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Their lungs were too compact to hold air for long, so they must have evolved some trick of oxygen compression... saturating their blood... breathing water or good air before leaving one safe place for another... homes and farms... but where? That was all the time she had. Their assault was immediate and Vonnie twisted back, stunned. The 6rst body struck her helmet off-center, attacking the gear block. Others collided with her arms and chest, trying to bring her down. Vonnie staggered but the suits musculature kept her upright. Her retreat was confused. She tripped over a boulder and fell, three bodies still clawing at her. She stood like a drunk, overwhelmed. But most of them had leapt away and Vonnie struck wildly at the one on her face, anything to break free. They pushed the roof into her. A hundred 7ecks clattered against her suit and she looked up just as a ragged hunk the size of a car slammed down. The missing ones had gone straight up and scrabbled in the rock, digging and prying, using themselves as pistons to accelerate their weapon. They were ruthless. Impact killed two of their own and hurt three more. It also destroyed her. Inside her helmet her skull crashed against the buckling armor, where raw circuitry scraped open one cornea. Then she hit the ground. Systems failure was total for 3.3 seconds and Vonnie gasped in the dark, bleeding, twitching. 19 She saw the new breed react to Lams greeting as they came across the cavern. There was no mistaking it even in 7ight, the ripple of motion. Their bodies shared an idea maybe a command? and Vonnie realized for the 6rst time that they also used the 6ne cilia beneath their arms to convey information, lifting one tentacle or more to show dense, wriggling patterns. Lam was crippled by her shape, of course, and was also canny enough not to try to mimic the hieroglyphs exactly or what theyd seen of the smaller amphibians. The warring breeds might have separate languages, so he was left to improvise and held Vonnie down in an uncomfortable ball, stuttering her 6ngers alongside her belly. Her visor churned with sun-shapes as he compared these twelve individuals with sims and real data. And there was another ripple among them. Please, she thought. Please. But hed kept the half-sticks against her forearms with a magnetic lock, and now released two with a click. Watch out. The split wave of amphibians struck the ceiling and 7oor, and did not cling there or bounce away. Instead, the wave collapsed, ricocheting straight into her. Please! They came with their beaks open, shrieking. They came with their arms thrown wide to grasp and tear. Auto assault. She wept for them, monsters all of them, no curiosity, no patience. No promise. The intelligence she knew existed here was stunted and cold, like everything inside this world. Lam smashed her 6st up through the one in front and then turned to swat the next. The rest never reached her. Do it, she said, and he put both charges into the wall of hieroglyphs and ducked under a wide blast of shrapnel. Then she turned and ran. The four survivors kept after her, of course. Vonnie had seen it before, using most of her explosives against the smaller breed, hoping the show of force would be enough, but this clan was no different. Even with two-thirds of the group dead or bleeding out, they were relentless. She reached a tunnel and jumped straight into the ceiling, crushing the one on her shoulder. Lam pulled at the rock with both hands and nearly cancelled her momentum, ripping debris out over her head. The shower hit the next two and Lam kicked down again, arms out, clubbing the last of them. 155 T HE F ROZEN S KY Vonnie left the wounded to live or die, knowing it was probably a mistake. Knowing she would always be wrong for trespassing. For nearly an hour she heard them behind her, crying into the mountain. The echoes faded as she climbed, except once when there were fresh voices. Reinforcements? A new breed altogether? The sonar was too diffuse to be sure and she was glad, dimly, muf8ed in exhaustion and grief. She climbed. She climbed without end, and even carried by the suit she passed her limit, tendons straining. Something in her back gave out above the pelvic bone and seemed to grind there and in her mind it was the same, one hurt that went deeper than the rest. In the monotony of the catacombs, even after she dug her way into a vent, there was no escaping it. The leaning shaft up through the ice could have been exactly where Lam and Bauman had died, although her radar showed almost no dust or mineral deposits within the melt. Good. Geysers and swells meant instability. This vent looked solid and she thought she could make it even without bolts and wire, although her hands were sore and beaten. She climbed. She climbed slowly, testing the ice, scanning ahead. At last there was a new sound, the rescue beacon of a probe overhead. Vonnie tried to laugh and Lam returned the signal the only way he could, a cacophony of elf and radar pulses. We made it, Von. Yes. Lets wait here. Can you wait? This hand is damaged in four places and the elbows not much better. I dont want to risk a fall. Yes. But she still couldnt sleep, hanging there, several hundred meters up and so much more to go. She kept one 7le open on her visor and let the data burn into her, staring through it even when she lifted her head to watch above. Lam had put together a rough translation of the hieroglyphs, and with it the beginnings of the truth. She was wrong. The amphibians all-or- nothing behavior was not animal stupidity or rage. It was deliberate. It was a survival trait. They had been confronted with aliens throughout their existence, creatures from other catacombs and separate lines of evolution... and that they had never seen anything like her before, that she aped their language or wore metal... none of this would ever stop them for a moment. Outsiders were rivals. Outsiders were food. Until they could understand, if they could understand, they would always react that way. The warring breeds shed fought seemed to be the remnants of an empire that had once reached the top of the frozen sky. At one time there had been a long, calmer period in Europas lifespan. Maybe someday there would be again. The hieroglyphs were short histories intended to aid the next alliance to rise from the chaos, and she had been nothing but a path of destruction through whatever civilization they had managed to hold onto. It wasnt what they deserved. The mecha gathering above her were American but relayed esa signals. In a heartbeat Lam had the search grid and told her how far shed strayed from where she went in. Nine kilometers. She was also still two-thirds of a kilometer beneath the surface, so the mecha rigged a molecular wire and dropped other lines around her, life support, suit support, data comm. Vonnie let go of the ice. She spun slightly as the machines lifted her away, but the surge of voices was more intense. The men and women up top had accessed her records as soon as the data line connected, and at a glance her mem 7les must be a running nightmare. She still had blood and black rock caught in every joint of her suit, the ruined helmet and battleworn gloves. She knew what it must look like. Someone murmured, Vonderach, my god But she was still thinking of the amphibians potential and of the debts she owed, both to her friends and to the colonies shed devastated. We have to help them, she said. S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS N ATE W RAGG 158 159 I WAS SMOKING A JOINT ON THE STEPS OF THE PUBLIC LIBRARY WHEN A COLD wind blew in from no cardinal point, but from the top of the night sky, a force of pure perpendicularity that bent the sparsely leaved boughs of the old alder shadowing the steps straight down toward the earth, as if a gigantic someone directly above were pursing his lips and aiming a long breath directly at the ground. For the duration of that gust, :fteen or twenty seconds seconds, my hair did not ;utter but was pressed ;at to the crown of my head and the leaves and grass and weeds on the lawn also lay ;at. The phenomenon had a distinct border leaves drifted along the sidewalk, testifying that a less forceful, more :tful wind presided beyond the perimeter of the lawn. No one else appeared to notice. The library, a blunt Nineteenth Century relic of undressed stone, was not a popular point of assembly at any time of day, and the sole potential witness apart from myself was an elderly gentleman who was hurrying toward McGuigans Tavern at a pace that implied a severe alcohol dependency. This happened seven months prior to the events central to this story, but I offer it to suggest that a good deal of strangeness goes unmarked by the world (at least by the populace of Black William, Pennsylvania), and, when taken in sum, such occurrences may be evidence that strangeness is visited upon us with some regularity and we only notice its extremes. Ten years ago, following my wifes graduation from Princeton Law, we set forth in our decrepit Volvo, heading for northern California, where we hoped to establish a community of sorts with friends who had moved to that region the previous year. We chose to drive on blue highways for their scenic value and chose a route that ran through Pennsylvanias Bittersmith Hills, knuckled chunks of coal and granite, forested with lea;ess oaks and butternut, ash and elder, that under heavy snow and threatening skies composed an ominous prelude to the smoking red-brick town nestled in their heart. As we approached Black William, the Volvo began to rattle, the engine died, and we coasted to a stop on a curve overlooking a forbidding vista: STARS SEEN THROUGH STONE Lucius Shepard Illustrated by Brian Thomas Woods 160 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES row houses the color of dried blood huddled together along the wend of a sluggish, dark river (the Polozny), visible through a pall of gray smoke that settled from the chimneys of a sprawling prisonlike edi;ce also of brick on the opposite shore. The Volvo proved to be a total loss. Since our funds were limited, we had no recourse other than to ;nd temporary housing and take jobs so as to pay for a new car in which to continue our trip. Andrea, whose specialty was labor law, caught on with a ;rm involved in ;ghting for the rights of embattled steelworkers. I hired on at the mill, where I encountered three part-time musicians lacking a singer. This led to that, that to this, Andrea and I grew apart in our obsessions, had affairs, divorced, and, before we realized it, the better part of a decade had rolled past. Though initially I felt trapped in an ugly, dying town, over the years I had developed an honest affection for Black William and its citizens, among whom I came to number myself. After a brief and perhaps illusory <irtation with fame and fortune, my band broke up, but I managed to build a home recording studio during its existence and this became the foundation of a career. I landed a small business grant and began to record local bands on my own label, Soul Kiss Records. Most of the cd s I released did poorly, but in my third year of operation, one of my projects, a metal group calling themselves Meanderthal, achieved a regional celebrity and I sold management rights and the masters for their ;rst two albums to a major label. This success gave me a degree of visibility and my post of;ce box was <ooded with demos from bands all over the country. Over the next six years I released a string of minor successes and acquired an industry-wide reputation of having an eye for talent. It had been my immersion in the music business that triggered the events leading to my divorce and, while Andrea was happy for me, I think it galled her that I had exceeded her low expectations. After a cooling-off period, we had become contentious friends and whenever we met for drinks or lunch, she would offer deprecating comments about the social value of my enterprise, and about my girlfriend, Mia, who was nine years younger than I, heavily tattooed, and in Andreas words dressed like a color-blind dominatrix. Youve got some work to do, Vernon, she said once. You know, on the taste thing? Its like you traded me in for a Pinto with <ames painted on the hood. I stopped myself from replying that it wasnt me who had done the trading in. I understood her comments arose from the fact that she had regrets and that she was angry at herself: Andrea was an altruist and the notion that her renewed interest in me might be partially inspired by envy or venality caused her to doubt her moral legitimacy. She was attractive, witty, slender, with auburn hair and patrician features and a forthright poise that caused men in bars, watching her pass, to describe her as classy. Older and wiser, able by virtue of the self-con;dence I had gained, to cope with her sharp tongue, I had my own regrets; but I thought we had moved past the point at which a reconciliation was possible and refrained from giving them voice. In late summer of the year when the wind blew straight down, I listened to a demo sent me by one Joseph Stanky of Mckeesport, Pennsylvania. Stanky billed himself as Local Pro;tt Jr. and his music, post-modern deconstructed blues sung in a gravely, powerful baritone, struck me as having cult potential. I called his house that afternoon and was told by his mother that Joeys sleeping. That night, around 3 am , Stanky returned my call. Being accustomed to the tactless ways of musicians, I set aside my annoyance and said I was interested in recording him. In the course of our conversation, Stanky told me he was twenty-six, virtually penniless, and lived in his mothers basement, maintaining throughout a churlish tone that dimmed my enthusiasm. Nevertheless, I offered to pay his bus fare to Black William and to put him up during the recording process. Two days later, when he stepped off a bus at the 161 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE Trailways station, my enthusiasm dimmed further. A more unprepossessing human would be dif=cult to imagine. He was short, pudgy, with skin the color of a new potato and so slump-shouldered that for a moment I thought he might be deformed. Stringy brown hair provided a unsightly frame for a doughy face with a bulging forehead and a wispy soul patch. His white T-shirt was spattered with food stains, a Jackson Pollack work-in- progress; the collar of his windbreaker was stiff with grime. Baggy chinos and a trucker wallet completed his ensemble. I knew this gnomish =gure must be Stanky, but didnt approach until I saw him claim two guitar cases from the luggage compartment. When I introduced myself, instead of expressing gratitude or pleasure, he put on a pitiful expression and said in a wheedling manner, Can you spot me some bucks for cigarettes, man? I ran out during the ride. I advanced him another hundred, with which he purchased two cartons of Camel Lights and a twelve-pack of Coca Cola Classic (these, I learned, were basic components of his nutrition and, along with Quaker Instant Grits, formed the bulk of his diet), and took a roundabout way home, thinking Id give him a tour of the town where he would spend the next few weeks. Stanky displayed no interest whatsoever in the mill, the Revolutionary Era Lutheran Church, or Garnant House (home of the towns founding father), but reacted more positively to the ziggurat at the rear of Garnant house, a corkscrew of black marble erected in eccentric tribute to the founding fathers wife, Ethelyn Garnant, who had died in childbirth; and when we reached the small central park where stands the statue of her son, Stanky said, Hey, thats decent, man! and asked me to stop the car. The statue of William Garnant had been labeled an eyesore by the Heritage Committee, a group of women devoted to preserving our trivial past, yet they were forced to include it in their purview because it was the towns most recognizable symbol gift shops sold replica statuettes and the image was emblazoned on coffee mugs, post cards, paperweights, on every conceivable type of souvenir. Created in the early 1800s by Gunter Hahn, the statue presented Black William in age-darkened bronze astride a rearing stallion, wearing a loose-=tting shirt and tight trousers, gripping the reins with one hand, pointing toward the library with the other, his body twisted and head turned in the opposite direction, his mouth open in judging by his corded neck a cry of alarm, as if he were warning the populace against the dangers of literacy. Hahn did not take his cues from the rather sedentary monuments of his day, but, improbably, appeared to have been in>uenced by the work of heroic comic book artists such as Jim Steranko and Neal Adams, and thus the statue had a more >uid dynamic than was customary... or perhaps he was in>uenced by Black William himself, for it was he who had commissioned the sculpture and overseen its construction. This might explain the =gures most controversial feature, that which had inspired generations of high school students to highlight it when they painted the statue after signi=cant football victories: Thanks to an elevated position in the saddle, Black Williams crotch is visible, and, whether intended or an inadvertentcy, an error in the casting process that produced an unwanted rumple in the bronze, it seems that he possessed quite a substantial package. It always gladdened my heart to see the ladies of the Heritage Committee, embarked upon their annual spring clean-up, scrubbing away with soap and rags at Black Williams genital pride. I =lled Stanky in on Black Williams biography, telling him that he had fought with great valor in the Revolutionary War, but had not been accorded the status of hero, this due to his penchant for executing prisoners summarily, even those who had surrendered under a white >ag. Following the war, he returned home in time to watch his father, Alan Garnant, die slowly and in agony. It was widely held that William had poisoned the old man. Alan resented the son for his part in 162 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Ethelyns death and had left him to be raised by his slaves, in particular by an immense African man to whom he had given the name Nero. Little is known of Nero; if more were known, we might have a fuller understanding of young William, who from the wars end until his death in 1808 established a reputation for savagery, his specialities being murder and rape (both heterosexual and homosexual). By all accounts, he ruled the town and its environs with the brutal excess of a feudal duke. He had a coterie of friends, who served as his loyal protectors, a group of men whose natures he had perverted, several of whom failed to survive his friendship. Accompanied by Nero, they rode roughshod through the countryside, terrorizing and de;ling, killing anyone who sought to impede their progress. Other than that, his legacy consisted of the statue, the ziggurat, and a stubby tower of granite block on the bluff overlooking the town, long since crumbled into ruin. Stankys interest dwindled as I related these facts, his responses limited to the occasional Cool, a word he pronounced as if it had two syllables; but before we went on our way he asked, If the guy was such a bastard, how come they named the town after him? It was a pr move, I explained. The town was incorporated as Garnantsburgh. They changed it after World War Two. The city council wanted to attract business to the area and they hoped the name Black William would be more memorable. Church groups and the old lady vote, pretty much all the good Christians, they disapproved of the change, but the millworkers got behind it. The association with a bad guy appealed to their self-image. Looks like the business thing didnt work out. This place is deader than McKeesport. Stanky raised up in the seat to scratch his ass. Lets go, okay? I couldnt sleep on the bus. I need to catch up on my Zs. My house was one of the row houses facing the mill, the same Andrea and I had rented when we ;rst arrived. I had since bought the place. The ground <oor I used for of;ce space, the second <oor for the studio, and I lived on the third. I had ;xed up the basement, formerly Andreas of;ce, into a musician-friendly apartment refrigerator, stove, tv , et al and that is where I installed Stanky. The bus ride must have taken a severe toll. He slept for twenty hours. After three weeks I recognized that Stanky was uncommonly gifted and it was going to take longer to record him than I had presumed he kept revealing new facets of his talent and I wanted to make sure I understood its full dimension before getting too deep into the process. I also concluded that although musicians do not, in general, adhere to an exacting moral standard, he was, talent aside, the most worthless human being I had ever met. Like many of his profession, he was lazy, irresponsible, untrustworthy, arrogant, slovenly, and his intellectual life consisted of comic books and tv . To this traditional menu of character <aws, I would add deviant. The ;rst inkling I had of his deviancy was when Sabela, the Domincan woman who cleaned for me twice a week, complained about the state of the basement apartment. Since Sabela never complained, I had a look downstairs. In less than a week, he had trashed the place. The garbage was over<owing and the sink piled high with scummy dishes and pots half-full of congealed grits; the <oors covered in places by a slurry of cigarette ash and grease, littered with candy wrappers and crumpled Coke cans. A smell compounded of spoilage, bad hygiene and sex seemed to rise from every surface. The plastic tip of a vibrator peeked out from beneath his grungy sheets. I assured Sabela Id manage the situation, whereupon she burst into tears. I asked what else was troubling her and she said, Mister Vernon, I no want him. My Spanish was poor, Sabelas English almost non-existent, but after a few minutes I divined that Stanky had been hitting on her, going so far as to grab at her breasts. This 163 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE surprised me Sabela was in her forties and on the portly side. I told her to =nish with the upstairs and then she could go home. Stanky returned from a run to the 7-11 and scuttled down to the basement, roachlike in his avoidance of scrutiny. I found him watching Star Trek in the dark, remote in one hand, TV Guide (he called it The Guide) resting on his lap, gnawing on a Butter=ngers. Seeing him so at home in his =lthy nest turned up the >ame under my anger. Sabela refuses to clean down here, I said. I dont blame her. I dont care if she cleans, he said with a truculent air. Well, I do. Youve turned this place into a shithole. I had a metal band down here for a month, it never got this bad. I want you to keep it presentable. No stacks of dirty dishes. No crud on the >oor. And put your damn sex toys in a drawer. Understand? He glowered at me. And dont mess with Sabela, I went on. When she wants to clean down here, you clear out. Go up to the studio. I hear about you groping her again, you can hump your way back to McKeesport. I need her one hell of a lot more than I need you. He mutttered something about another producer. You want another producer? Go for it! No doubt major labels are beating down my door this very minute, lusting after your sorry ass. Stanky =ddled with the remote and lowered his eyes, offering me a look at his infant bald spot. Authority having been established, I thought Id tell him what I had in mind for the next weeks, knowing that his objections given the temper of the moment would be minimal; yet there was something so repellent about him, I still wanted to give him the boot. I had the idea that one of Hells lesser creatures, a grotesque, impotent toad, banished by the Powers of Darkness, had landed with a foul stink on my sofa. But Ive always been a sucker for talent and I felt sorry for him. His past was plain. Branded as a nerd early on and bullied throughout high school, he had retreated into a life of >ipping burgers and getting off on a 4-track in his mothers basement. Now he had gravitated to another basement, albeit one with a more hopeful prospect and a better recording system. Why did you get into music? I asked, sitting beside him. Women, right? Its always women. Hell, I was married to a good- looking woman, smart, sexy, and that was my reason. He allowed that this had been his reason as well. So hows that working out? Theyre not exactly crawling all over you, huh? He cut his eyes toward me and it was as if his furnace door had slid open a crack, a blast of heat and resentment shooting out. Not great, he said. Heres what Im going to do. I tapped out a cigarette from his pack, rolled it between my =ngers. Next week, Im bringing in a drummer and a bass player to work with you. I own a part-interest in the Crucible, the alternative club in town. As soon as you get it together, well put you in there for a set and showcase you for some people. Stanky started to speak, but I beat him to the punch. You follow my lead, you do what I know you can... I said, leaving a signi=cant pause. I guarantee you wont be going home alone. He waited to hear more, he wanted to bask in my vision of his future, but I knew I had to use rat psychology; now that I had supplied a hit of his favorite drug, I needed to buzz him with a jolt of electricity. First off, I said, were going to have to get you into shape. Work off some of those man-tits. Im not much for exercise. That doesnt come as a shock, I said. Dont worry. Im not going to make a new man out of you, I just want to make you a better act. Eat what I eat for a month or so, do a little cardio. Youll drop ten or =fteen pounds. Falsely convivial, I clapped him on the shoulder and felt a twinge of disgust, as if I had touched a hypo-allergenic cat. The other thing, 164 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I said. That Local Prof>t Junior name wont ?y. It sounds too much like a country band. I like it, he said de>antly. If you want the name back later, thats up to you. For now, Im billing you as Joe Stanky. I laid the unlit cigarette on the coffee table and asked what he was watching, thinking that, for the sake of harmony, Id bond with him a while. Trek marathon, he said. We sat silently, staring at the ?ickering black-and-white picture. My mind sang a song of commitments, duties, other places I could be. Stanky laughed, a cross between a wheeze and a hiccup. Whats up? I asked. John Colicos sucks, man! He pointed to the screen, where a swarthy man with Groucho Marx eyebrows, pointy sideburns, and a holstered ray gun seemed to be undergoing an agonizing inner crisis. Michael Ansaaras the only real Vulcan. Stanky looked at me as if seeking validation. At least, he said, anxious lest he offend, on the original Trek. Absently, I agreed with him. My mind rejoined its song. Okay, I said, and stood. I got things to do. We straight about Sabela? About keeping the place... you know? Keeping the damage down to normal levels? He nodded. Okay. Catch you later. I started for the door, but he called to me, employing that wheedling tone with which I had become all too familiar. Hey, Vernon? he said. Can you get me a trumpet? This asked with an imploring expression, screwing up his face like a child, as if he were begging me to grant a wish. You play the trumpet? Uh-huh. If you promise to take care of it. Yeah, I can get hold of one. Stanky rocked forward on the couch and gave a tight little >st-pump. Decent! I dont know when Stanky and I got married, but it must have been sometime between the incident with Sabela and the night Mia went home to her mother. Certainly my reaction to the latter was more restrained than was my reaction to the former, and I attribute this in part to our union having been joined. It was a typical rock and roll marriage: talent and money making beautiful music together and doomed from the start, on occasion producing episodes in which the relationship seemed to be crystallized, allowing you to see (if you wanted to) the messy bed you had made for yourself. Late one evening, or maybe it wasnt so late it was starting to get dark early Mia came downstairs and stepped into my of>ce and set a smallish suitcase on my desk. She had on a jacket with a fake fur collar and hood, tight jeans, and her nice boots. Shed put a fresh rasberry streak in her black hair and her make-up did a sort of Nefertiti- meets-Liza thing. All I said was, What did I do this time? Mias lips pursed in a moue it was her favorite expression and she used it at every opportunity, whether appropriate or not. She would become infuriated when I caught her practicing it in the bathroom mirror. Its not what you did, she said. Its that clammy little troll in the basement. Stanky? Do you have another troll? Stanky! God, thats the perfect name for him. Another moue. Im sick of him rubbing up against me. Mia had, as she was fond of saying, been through some stuff, and, if Stanky had done anything truly objectionable, she would have dealt with him. I >gured she needed a break or else there was someone in town with whom she wanted to sleep. I take it this wasnt consensual rubbing, I said. You think youre so funny! He comes up behind me in tight places. Like in the kitchen. And he pretends he has to squeeze past. Hes in our kitchen? 165 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE You send him up to use the treadmill, dont you? Oh... right. And he has to get water from the fridge, doesnt he? I leaned back in the chair and clasped my hands behind my head. You want me to Aog him? Cut off a hand? Would that stop it? Give me a call when hes gone, okay? You know I will. Say hi to mom. A @nal moue, a moue that conveyed a soupcon of regret, but more pertinently made plain how much I would miss her spoonful of sugar in my coffee. After she had gone, I sat thinking non- speci@c thoughts, vague appreciations of her many virtues, then I handicapped the odds that her intricate make-up signaled an affair and decided just how pissed-off to be at Stanky. I shouted downstairs for him to come join me and dragged him out for a walk into town. A mile and a quarter along the Polozny, then up a steep hill, would bring you to the park, a triangular section of greenery (orange- and-brownery at that time of year) bordered on the east by the library, on the west by a row of brick buildings containing gentrifed shops, and, facing the point of the triangle, by McGuigans. For me alone, it was a brisk half-hour walk; with Stanky in tow, it took an extra twenty minutes. He was not one to hide his discomfort or displeasure. He panted, he sagged, he limped, he sighed. His breathing grew labored. The next step would be his last. Wasnt it enough I forced him to walk three blocks to the 7-11? If his heart failed, drop his bones in a bucket of molten steel and ship his guitars home to McKeesport, where his mother would display them, necks crossed, behind the urn on the mantle. These comments went unvoiced, but they were eloquently stated by his body language. He acted out every nuance of emotion, like a child showing off a new skill. Send him on an errand he considered important and he would give you his best White Rabbit, head down, hustling along on a matter of urgency to the Queen. Chastise him and he would play the penitent altar boy. When ill, he went with a hand clutching his stomach or cheek or lower back, grimacing and listless. His posturing was so pitifully false, it was disturbing to look at him. I had learned to ignore these symptoms, but I recognized the pathology that bred them I had seen him, thinking himself unwatched, slumped on the couch, clicking the remote, the Guide spread across his lap, mired in the quicksand of depression, yet more arrogant than depressed, a crummy king forsaken by his court, desperate for admirers. On reaching the library, I sat on a middle step and @ngered out a fatty from my jacket pocket. Stanky collapsed beside me, exhausted by the Polozny Death March he had somehow survived. He Aapped a hand toward McGuigans and said, hopefully, You want to get a beer? Maybe later. I @red up the joint. Hey! Stanky said. We passed a cop car on the hill, man. I smoke here all the time. As long as you dont Aaunt it, nobody cares. I handed him the joint. He cupped the @re in his palm, smoking furtively. It occurred to me that I wouldnt drink from the same glass as him his gums were rotting, his teeth horribly decayed but sharing a joint? What the hell. The air was nippy and the moon was hidden behind the alders thick leaves, which had turned but not yet fallen. Under an arc lamp, the statue of Black William gleamed as if fashioned of obsidian. Looks like hes pointing right at us, huh? said Stanky. When I was good and stoned, once the park had crystallized into a Victorian fantasy of dark green lawns amd crisp shadows and fountaining shrubs, the storefronts beyond hiding their secrets behind black glass, and McGuigans ornate sign with its ruby coat of arms appearing to occupy an unreal corner in the dimension next door, I said, Mia went back to her moms tonight. Shes going to be there for a while. 166 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Bummer. He had squirreled away a can of Coke in his coat pocket, which he now opened. Its normal for us. Chances are shell screw around on me a little and spend most of the time curled up on her moms sofa, eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box and watching soaps. Shell be back eventually. He had a swig of Coke and nodded. What bothers me, I said, is the reason she left. Not the real reason, but the excuse she gave. She claims youve been touching her. Rubbing against her and making like it was an accident. This elicited a 7urry of protests and I- swear-to-Gods. I let him run down before I said, Its not a big deal. Shes lying, man! I... Whatever. Mia can handle herself. You cross the line with her, youll be picking your balls up off the 7oor. I could almost hear the gears grinding as he wondered how close he had come to being deballed. I want you to listen. I went on. No interruptions. Even if you think Im wrong about something. Deal? Sure... Yeah. Most of what I put out is garbage music. Meanderthal, Big Sissy, The Swimming Holes, Junk Brothers... I love the Junk Brothers, man! Theyre why I sent you my demo. I gazed at him sternly he ducked his head and winced by way of apology. So rock and roll is garbage, I said. Its disposable music. But once in a great while, somebody does something perfect. Something that makes the music seem indispensable. I think you can make something perfect. You may not ever get rock star money. I doubt you can be mainstreamed. The best you can hope for, probably, is Tom Waits money. Thats plenty, believe me. I think youll be huge in Europe. Youll be celebrated there. Youve got a false bass that reminds me of Blind Willie Johnson. You write tremendous lyrics. That fractured guitar style of yours is unique. Its out there, but its funky and people are going to love it. You have a natural appeal to punks and art rockers. To rock geeks like me. But theres one thing can stop you thats your problem with women. Not even this reference to his dif6culties with Sabela and Mia could disrupt his rapt attentiveness. You can screw this up very easily, I told him. You let that inappropriate touching thing of yours get out of hand, you will screw it up. You have to learn to let things come. To do that, you have to believe in yourself. I know youve had a shitty life so far, and your self-esteem is low. But you have to break the habit of thinking that youre getting over on people. You dont need to get over on them. Youve got something they want. Youve got talent. People will cut you a ton of slack because of that talent, but you keep messing up with women, their patience is going to run out. Now I dont know where all that music comes from, but it doesnt sound like it came from a basement. Its a gift. You have start treating it like one. I asked him for a cigarette and lit up. Though Id given variations of the speech dozens of times, I bought into it this time and I was excited. Ten days from now youll be playing for a live audience, I said. If you put in the work, if you can believe in yourself, youll get all you want of everything. And thats how you do it, man. By putting in the work and playing a kick-ass set. Ill help any way I can. Im going to do publicity, T-shirts... and Im going to give them away if I have to. Im going to get the word out that Joe Stanky is something special. And you know what? Industry people will listen, because I have a track record. I blew a smoke ring and watched it disperse. These are things I wont usually do for a band until theyre farther along, but I believe in you. I believe in your music. But you have to believe in yourself and you have to put in the work. Im not sure how much of my speech, which lasted several minutes more, stuck to 167 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE him. He acted inspired, but I couldnt tell how much of the act was real; I knew on some level he was still running a con. We cut across the park, detouring so he could inspect the statue again. I glanced back at the library and saw two white lights shaped like fuzzy asterisks. At <rst I thought they were moving across the face of the building, that some people were playing with =ashlights; but their brightness was too sharp and erratic, and they appeared to be coming from behind the library, shining through the stone, heading toward us. After ten or <fteen seconds, they faded from sight. Spooked, I noticed that Stanky was staring at the building and I asked if he had seen the lights. That was weird, man! he said. What was it? Swamp gas. ufo s. Who knows? I started walking toward McGuigans and Stanky fell in alongside me. His limp had returned. After we have those beers, you know? he said. Yeah? Can we catch a cab home? His limp became exaggerated. I think I really hurt my leg. Part of the speech must have taken, because I didnt have to roust Stanky out of bed the next morning. He woke before me, ate his grits (I allowed him a single bowl each day), knocked back a couple of Diet Cokes (my idea), and sequestered himself in the studio, playing adagio trumpet runs and writing on the Casio. Later, I heard the band thumping away. After practice, I caught Geno, the drummer, on his way out the door, brought him into the of<ce and asked how the music was sounding. It doesnt blow, he said. I asked to him to clarify. The guy writes some hard drum parts, but theyre tasty, you know. Tight. Geno appeared to want to tell me more, but spaced and ran a beringed hand through his shoulderlength black hair. He was a handsome kid, if you could look past the ink, the brands, and the multiple piercings. An excellent drummer and reliable. I had learned to be patient with him. Overall, I said, how do you think the bands shaping up? He looked puzzled. You heard us. Yes. I know what I think. Im interested in what you think. Oh... Okay. He scratched the side of his neck, the habitat of a red and black Chinese tiger. Its very cool. Strong. I never heard nothing like it. I mean, its got jazz elements, but not enough to where it doesnt rock. The guy sings great. We might go somewhere if he can control his weirdness. I didnt want to ask how Stanky was being weird, but I did. He and Jerry got a con=ict, Geno said. Jerry cant get this one part down, and Stankys on him about it. I keep telling Stanky to quit ragging him. Leave Jerry alone and hell stay on it until he can play it backwards. But Stanky, hes relentless and Jerrys getting pissed. He dont love the guy, anyway. Like today, Stanky cracks about we should call the band Stanky and Our Gang, No, I said. Yeah, right. But it was cute, you know. Kind of funny. Jerry took it personal, though. He like to got into it with Stanky. Ill talk to them. Anything else? Naw. Stankys a geek, but you know me. The musics right and Im there. The following day I had lunch scheduled with Andrea. It was also the day that my secretary, Kiwanda, a petite Afro-American woman in her late twenties, came back to work after a leave during which she had been taking care of her grandmother. I needed an afternooon off I thought Id visit friends, have a few drinks so I gave over Stanky into her charge, warning her that he was prone to getting handsy with the ladies. Ill keep that in mind, she said, sorting through some new orders. You go have fun. Andrea had staked out one of the high- 168 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES backed booths at the rear of McGuigans and was drinking a martini. She usually ran late, liked sitting at the front, and drank red wine. She had hung her jacket on the hook at the side of the booth and looked fetching in a cream-colored blouse. I nudged the martini glass and asked what was up with the booze. Bad day in court. I had to ask for a continuance. So... She hoisted the martini. Im boozing it up. Is this that pollution thing? No, its a pro bono case. Thought you werent going to do any pro bono work for a while. She shrugged, drank. What can I say? All that class guilt. It must be tough. I signalled a waitress, pointed to Andreas martini and held up two 7ngers. I suppose I should be grateful. If you werent carrying around that guilt, you would have married Snuffy Huf7ngton the Third or somebody. Lets not banter, Andrea said. We always banter. Lets just talk. Tell me whats going on with you. I was good at reading Andrea, but it was strange how well I read her at that moment. Stress showed in her face. Nervousness. Both predictable components. But mainly I saw a profound loneliness and that startled me. Id never thought of her as being lonely. I told her about Stanky, the good parts, his writing, his musicianship. The guy plays everything, I said. Guitar, 8ute, sax, trumpet. Little piano, little drums. Hes like some kind of mutant they produced in a secret high school band lab. And his voice. Its the Jim Nabors effect. You know, the guy who played Gomer Pyle? Nobody expected a guy looked that goofy could sing, so when he did, they thought he was great, even though he sounded like he had sinus trouble. Its the same with Stanky, except his voice really is great. Youre always picking up these curious strays, she said. Remember the high school kid who played bass, the one who fainted every time he was under presssure? Brian Something. Youd come upstairs and say, You should see what Brian did, and tell me he laid a bass on its side and played Mozart riffs on it. And Id go... Bach, I said. And Id go, Yeah, but he faints! She laughed. You always think you can 7x them. Youre coming dangerously close to banter, I said. You owe me one. She wiggled her fore7nger and grinned. Im right, arent I? Theres a downside to this guy. I told her about Stankys downside and, when I reached the part about Mia leaving, Andrea said, The circus must be in town. Now you owe me one. You cant expect me to be reasonable about Mia. She half-sang the name, did a little shimmy, made a moue. Thats two you owe me, I said. Sorry. She straightened her smile. You know shell come back. She always does. I liked that she was acting 8irty and, though I had no resolution in mind, I didnt want her to stop. You dont have to worry about me, she said. Honest. Huh? So how talented is this Stanky? Give me an example. What do you mean, I dont have to worry about you? Never mind. Now come on! Give me some Stanky. You want me to sing? You were a singer, werent you? A pretty good one, as I recall. Yeah, but I cant do what he does. She sat expectantly, hands folded on the tabletop. All right, I said. I did a verse of Devils Blues, beginning with the lines: Theres a grapevine in heaven, Theres a peavine in hell, One dont grow grapes, The other dont grow peas as well... 169 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE I sailed on through to the chorus, getting into the vocal: Devils Blues! God owes him... A bald guy popped his head over the top of an adjacent booth and looked at me, then ducked back down. I heard laughter. Thats enough, I said to Andrea. Interesting, she said. Not my cup of tea, but I wouldnt mind hearing him. Hes playing the Crucible next weekend. Is that an invitation? Sure. If youll come. I have to see how things develop at the of;ce. Is a tentative yes okay? Way better than a ;rm no, I said. We ordered from the grille and, after we had eaten, Andrea called her of;ce and told them she was taking the rest of the day. We switched from martinis to red wine, and we talked, we laughed, we got silly, we got drunk. The sounds of the bar folded around us and I started to remember how it felt to be in love with her. We wobbled out of McGuigans around four oclock. The sun was lowering behind the Bittersmiths, but shed a rich golden light; it was still warm enough for people to be sitting in sweaters and shirts on park benches under the orange leaves. Andrea lived around the corner from the bar, so I walked her home. She was weaving a little and kept bumping into me. You better take a cab home, she said, and I said, Im not the one whos walking funny, which earned me a punch in the arm. When we came to her door, she turned to me, gripping her briefcase with both hands and said, Ill see you next weekend, maybe. Thatd be great. She hovered there a second longer and then she kissed me. Flung her arms about my neck, clocking me with the briefcase, and gave me a one-hundred percent all-Andrea kiss that, if I were a cartoon character, would have rolled my socks up and down and levitated my hat. She buried her face in my neck and said, Sorry. Im sorry. I was going to say, For what?, but she pulled away in a hurry, appearing panicked, and <ed up the stairs. I nearly hit a parked car on the drive home, not because I was drunk, but because thinking about the kiss and her reaction afterward impaired my concentration. What was she sorry about? The kiss? Flirting? The divorce? I couldnt work it out, and I couldnt work out, either, what I was feeling. Lust, certainly. Having her body pressed against mine had fully engaged my senses. But there was more. Considerably more. I decided it stood a chance of becoming a mental health issue and did my best to put it from mind. Kiwanda was busy in the of;ce. She had the computers networking and was going through prehistoric paper ;les on the <oor. I asked what was up and she told me she had devised a more ef;cient ;ling system. She had never been much of an innovator, so this unnerved me, but I let it pass and asked if shed had any problems with my boy Stanky. Not so youd notice, she said tersely. From this, I deduced that there had been a problem, but I let that pass as well and went upstairs to the apartment. Walls papered with <yers and band photographs; a grouping of newish, ultra-functional Swedish furniture I realized I had liked the apartment better when Andrea did the decorating, this despite the fact that interior design had been one of our bones of contention. The walls, in particular, annoyed me. I was being stared at by young men with shaved heads and <owing locks in arrogant poses, stupid with tattoos, by ;ve or six bands that had tried to stiff me, by a few hundred bad-to-indiferent memories and a dozen good ones. Maybe a dozen. I sat on a leather and chrome couch (it was a showy piece, but uncomfortable) and watched the early news. George Bush, Iraq, the price of gasoline... Fuck! Restless, I went down to the basement. Stanky was watching the Comedy Channel. Mad TV . Another of his passions. He was slumped on the couch, remote in hand, 170 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES and had a Coke and a cigarette working, an ice pack clamped to his cheek. I had the idea the ice pack was for my beneCt, so I didnt ask about it, but knew it must be connected to Kiwandas attitude. He barely acknowledged my presence, just sat there and pouted. I took a chair and watched with him. At last he said, I need a rhythm guitar player. Im not going to hire another musician this late in the game. He set down the ice pack. His cheek was red, but that might have been from the ice pack itself... although I thought I detected a slight pufCness. I seriously need him, he said. Dont push me on this. Its important, man! For this one song, anyway. What song? A new one. I waited and then said, Thats all youre going to tell me? It needs a rhythm guitar. This tubby little madman recumbent on my couch was making demands it felt good to reject him, but he persisted. Its just one song, man, he said in full- on wheedle. Please! Its a surprise. I dont like surprises. Come on! Youll like this one, I promise. I told him Id see what I could do, had a talk with him about Jerry, and the atmosphere lightened. He sat up straight, chortling at Mad TV , now and then saying, Decent!, his ultimate accolade. The skits were funny and I laughed, too. I did my horoscope today, he said as the show went to commercial. Let me guess, I said. Youre a Cancer. He didnt like that, but maintained an upbeat air. I dont mean astrology, man. I use the Guide. He slid the TV Guide across the coffee table, pointing out an entry with a grimy Cnger, a black-rimmed nail. I snatched it up and read: King Creole: *** Based on a Harold Robbins novel. A young man (Elvis Presley) with a gang background rises from the streets to become a rock and roll star. Vic Morrow. 1:30. Decent, huh! said Stanky. You try it. Close your eyes and stick your Cnger in on a random page and see what you get. I use the movie section in back, but some people use the whole programing section. Other people do this? Not just you? Go ahead. I did as instructed and landed on another movie: A Man and a Woman: **** A widow and a widower meet on holiday and are attracted to one another, but the woman backs off because memories of her dead husband are still too strong. Marcello Mastroiani, Anouk Aimee. 1:40. Half-believing, I tried to understand what the entry portended for me and Andrea. What did you get? asked Stanky. I tossed the Guide back to him and said, It didnt work for me. I thought about calling Andrea, but business got in the way I suppose I allowed it to get in the way, due to certain anxieties relating to our divorce. There was publicity to do, Kiwandas new Cling system to master (she kept on tweaking it), recording (we laid down two tracks for Stankys Crst ep ), and a variety of other duties. And so the days went quickly. Stanky began going to the library after every practice, walking without a limp; he said he was doing research. He didnt have enough money to get into trouble and I had too much else on my plate to stress over it. The night before he played the Crucible, I was in the ofCce, going over everything in my mind, wondering what I had overlooked, thinking I had accomplished an impossible amount of work that week, when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and there on the stoop was Andrea, dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, cheeks rosy from the night air. An overnight 171 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE bag rested at her feet. Hi, she said, and gave a chipper smile, like a tired girl scout determined to keep pimping her cookies. Taken aback, I said, Hi, and ushered her in. She went into the of9ce and sat in the wooden chair beside my desk. I followed her in, hesitated, and took a seat in my swivel chair. You look... rattled, she said. That about covers it. Good rattled. But rattled, nonetheless. I am, too. Sorta. She glanced around the of9ce, as if noticing the changes. I could hear every ticking clock, every digital hum, all the discrete noises of the house. She drew in breath, exhaled, clasped her hands in her lap. I thought we could try, she said quietly. We could do a trial period or something. Some days, a week. See how that goes. She paused. The last few times Ive seen you, Ive wanted to be with you. And I think youve wanted to be with me. So... She made a :ippy gesture, as if she were trying to shade things toward the casual. This seemed like an opportunity. You would have thought, even given the passage of time, after all the recriminations and ugliness of divorce, some measure of negativity would have cropped up in my thoughts; but it did not and I said, I think youre right. Whew! Andrea pretended to wipe sweat from her brow and grinned. An awkward silence; the grin :ickered and died. Could I maybe go upstairs, she asked. Oh! Sure. Im sorry. I had the urge to run up before her and rip down the crapfest on the wall, chuck all the furniture out the window, except for a mattress and candles. Youre still rattled, she said. Maybe we should have a drink before anything. She stretched out a hand to me. Lets get good and drunk. As it happened, we barely got the drinks poured before we found our groove and got busy. It was like old times, cozy and familiar, and yet it was like we were doing it for the 9rst time, too. Every touch, every sensation, carried that odd frisson. We woke late, with the frost almost melted from the panes, golden light chuting through the high east windows, leaving the bed in a bluish shadow. We lay there, too sleepy to make love, playing a little, talking, her telling me how she had plotted her approach, me telling her how I was oblivious until that day at lunch when I noticed her loneliness, and what an idiot I had been not to see what was happening... Trivial matters, but they stained a few brain cells, commiting those moments to memory and marking them as Important, a red pin on lifes map. And then we did make love, as gently as that violence can be made. Afterward, we showered and 9xed breakfast. Watching her move about the kitchen in sweats and a T- shirt, I couldnt stop thinking how great this was, and I wanted to stop, to quit footnoting every second. I mentioned this as we ate and she said, I guess that means youre happy. Yeah! Of course. Me, too. She stabbed a piece of egg with her fork, tipped her head to the side as if to get a better angle on me. I dont know when it was I started to be able to read you so well. Not that you were that hard to read to begin with. It just seems theres nothing hidden in your face anymore. Maybe its a case of heightened senses.No, really. At times its like I know what youre about to say. You mean I dont have to speak? She adopted the manner of a legal professional. Unfortunately, no. You have to speak. Otherwise, it would be dif9cult to catch you in a lie. Maybe we should test this, I said. You ask my name, and Ill say, Helmut or Torin. She shook her head. Im an organic machine, not a lie detector. We have different ways. Different needs. Organic. So that would make you... softer than your basic machine? Possibly more compliant? Very much so, she said. 172 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES You know, I think I may be reading you pretty well myself. I leaned across the table, grabbed a sloppy kiss, and, as I sat back down, I remembered something. Damn! I said, and rapped my forehead with my knuckes. What is it? I forgot to take Stanky for his haircut. Cant he take care of it himself? Probably not. You want to go with us? You might as well meet him. Get it over with. She popped egg into her mouth and chewed. Do we have to do it now? No, he wont even be up for a couple of hours. Good, she said. The Crucible, a concrete block structure on the edge of Black William, off beyond the row houses, had once been a dress outlet store. We had put a cafeteria in the front, where we served breakfast and lunch we did a brisk business because of the mill. Separate from the cafeteria, the back half of the building was given over to a bar with a few ratty booths, rickety chairs and tables. We had turned a high-school artist loose on the walls and she had painted murals that resembled scenes from J.R.R. Tolkiens lost labor-union novel. An immense crucible adorned the wall behind the stage; it appeared, thanks to the artists inept use of perspective, to be spilling a <ood of molten steel down upon an army of orc-like workers. There was a full house that night, attracted by local legends, The Swimming Holes, a girl band who had migrated to Pittsburgh, achieving a degree of national reknown, and I had packed the audience with Friends of Vernon whom I had enjoined to applaud and shout wildly for Stanky. A haze of smoke fogged the stage lights and milling about were fake punks, the odd goth, hippies from Garnant College in Waterford, ;fteen miles away: the desperate wanna-be counter-culture of the western Pennsylvania barrens. I went into the dressing rooms, gave each Swimming Hole a welcome-home hug, and checked in on Stanky. Jerry, a skinny guy with buzzcut red hair, was plunking on his bass, and Geno was playing ;lls on the back of a chair; Ian, the rhythm guitarist, was making a cell call in the head. Stanky was on the couch, smoking a Camel, drinking a Coke, and watching the Sci-Fi Channel. I asked if he felt all right. He said he could use a beer. He seemed calm, supremely con;dent, which I would not have predicted and did not trust. But it was too late for concern and I left him to God. I joined Andrea at the bar. She had on an an old long-sleeved Ramones shirt, the same that she had worn to gigs back when my band was happening. Despite the shirt, she looked out of place in the Crucible, a swan <oating on a cesspool. I ordered a beer to be carried to Stanky, a shot of tequila for myself. Andrea put her mouth to my ear and shouted over the recorded music, Dont get drunk!, and then something else that was lost in the din. I threw down the shot and led her into the cafeteria, which was serving coffee and soda to a handful of kids, some of whom appeared to be trying to straighten out. I closed the door to the bar, cutting the volume by half. What were you saying? I asked. I said not to get drunk, I might have use for you later. She sat at the counter, patted the stool beside her, encouraging me to sit. Theyre about to start, I said, joining her. Ive only got a minute. How do you think itll go? With Stanky? Im praying it wont be a disaster. You know, he didnt seem so bad this afternoon. Not like you described, anyway. You just like him because he said you were a babe. I took a loose cigarette from my shirt pocket, rolled it between my thumb and fore;nger, and she asked if I was smoking again. Once in a while. Mainly I do this, I said, demonstrating my rolling technique. Anyway... Stanky. You caught him on his best behavior. 173 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE He seemed sad to me. She lifted a pepper shaker as she might a chess piece and set it closer to the salt. Stunted. He has some adult mannerisms, adult information, but its like hes still fourteen or 5fteen. There you go, I said. Now ask yourself how it would be, being around a twenty-six year old fourteen-year-old on a daily basis. One of the kids, boys, men... there should be, I think, a speci5c word for someone old enough to die for his country, yet cant grow a proper mustache and is having dif5culty focusing because he recently ate some cheap acid cut with crank. One of the guys at the end of the counter, then, came trippingly toward us, wearing an army 5eld jacket decorated with a braid of puke on the breast pocket, like a soggy service ribbon. He stopped to leer at Andrea, gave me the high sign, said something unintelligible, possibly profane, and staggered on into the club. It had been Andreas stance, when we were married, that episodes such as this were indicative of the sewer in which she claimed I was deliquescing, aka the music business. Though I had no grounds to argue the point, I argued nonetheless, angry because I hated the idea that she was smarter than I was I compensated by telling myself I had more soul. There had been other, less de5ned reasons for anger, and the basic argument between us had gotten vicious. In this instance, however, she ignored the kid and returned to our conversation, which forced me consider anew the question of my millieu and the degradation thereof, and to wonder if she had, by ignoring the kid, manipulated me into thinking that she had changed, whereas I had not, and it might be that the music business was to blame, that it had delimited me, warped and stunted my soul. I knew she was still the smart one. The music cut off mid-song and I heard Rudy Bowen, my friend and partner in the Crucible, on the mike, welcoming people and making announcements. On our way back into the club, Andrea stopped me at the door and said, I love you, Vernon. She laid a 5nger on my lips and told me to think about it before responding, leaving me mightily perplexed. Stanky walked out onto the stage of the Crucible in a baggy white T-shirt, baggy chinos and his trucker wallet. He would have been semi-presentable had he not also been wearing a battered top hat. Somebody hooted derisively, and that did not surprise me. The hat made him look cIownish. I wanted to throw a bottle and knock it off his head. He began whispering into the mike. Another hoot, a piercing whistle. Not good. But the whisper evolved into a chant, bits of Latin, Spanish, rock and roll cliches, and nonsense syllables. Half-spoken, half-sung, with a incantatory vibe, scatted in a jump-blues rhythm that the band, coming in underneath the vocal, built into a sold groove, and then Stanky, hitting his mark like a ski jumper getting a lift off a big hill, began to sing: I heard the Holy Ghost moan... Stars seen through stone... Basically, the song consisted of those two lines repeated, but sung differently made into a gospel plaint, a rock and roll howl, a smooth Motown styling, a jazzy lilt, and so on. There was a break with more lyrics, but the two lines were what mattered. The 5rst time he sang them, in that heavy false bass, a shock ripped through the audience. People looked up, they turned toward the stage, they stopped drinking, their heads twitched, their legs did impromptu dance steps. Stanky held the word moan out for three bars, working it like a soul singer, then he picked up the trumpet and broke into a solo that was angry like Miles, but kept a spooky edge. When he set the trumpet down, he went to singing the lyric double time, beating the top hat against his thigh, mangling it. The crowd surged forward, everyone wanting to get next to the stage, dancing in place, this strange, shuf6ing dance, voodoo zombies from hell, and Stanky strapped on his guitar. I missed much of what happened next, because Andrea dragged 174 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES me onto the dance 9oor and started making slinky moves, and I lost my distance from the event. But Stankys guitar work sent the zombies into a convulsive fever. We bumped into a punk who was jerking like his strings were being yanked; we did a threesome with a college girl whose feet were planted, yet was shaking it like a tribal dancer in a National Geographic Special; we were corraled brie9y by two millworkers who were dancing with a goth girl, watching her spasm, her breasts 9ipping every whichaway. At the end of the song, Jerry and Geno started speaking the lyric into their mikes, adding a counterpoint to Stankys vocal, cooling things off, bringing it down to the creepy chant again; then the band dropped out of the music and Stanky went accapella for a 8nal repetition of his two lines. Applause erupted, and it was as idiosyncratic as the dancing had been. This one guy was baying like a hound; a blond girl bounced up and down, clapping gleefully like a six-year-old. I didnt catch much of the set, other than to note the audiences positive response, in particular to the songs Average Joe and Can I Get A Waitress? and The Sunset Side of You I was working the room, gathering opinions, trying to learn if any of the industry people Id invited had come, and it wasnt until twenty minutes after the encore that I saw Stanky at the bar, talking to a girl, surrounded by a group of drunken admirers. I heard another girl say how cute he was and that gave me pause to wonder at the terrible power of music. The hooker I had hired to guarantee my guarantee, a long- legged brunette named Carol, dish-faced, but with a spectacular body, was biding her time, waiting for the crowd around Stanky to disperse. He was in competent hands. I felt relief, mental fatigue, the desire to be alone with Andrea. There was no pressing reason to stay. I said a couple of good-byes, accepted congratulations, and we drove home, Andrea and I, along the Polozny. Hes amazing, she said. I have to admit, you may be right about him. Yep, I said proudly. Watch yourself, Sparky. You know you get when these things start to go south. What are you talking about? When one of your problem children run off the tracks, you take it hard. Thats all Im saying. Andrea rubbed my shoulder. You may want to think about speeding things up with Stanky. Walk him a shorter distance and let someone else deal with him. It might save you some wear and tear. We drove in silence; the river widened, slowed its race, 9owing in under the concrete lees of the mill; the 8rst row house came up on the right. I was tempted to respond as usually I did to her advice, to say its all good, Ive got it under control, but for some reason I listened that night and thought about everything that could go wrong. Carol was waiting for me in the of8ce when I came downstairs at eight oclock the following morning. She was sitting in my swivel chair, going through my Rolodex. She looked weary, her hair mussed, and displeased. That guys a freak, she said 9atly. I want two hundred more. And in the future, I want to meet the guys you set me up with before I commit. Whatd he do? I asked. Do you really want to know? Im kind of curious... Yeah. She began to recite a list of Stanky-esque perversions, and I cut her off. Okay, I said, and reached for my checkbook. He didnt get rough, did he? Au contraire. She crossed her legs. He wanted me to... . Please, I said. Enough. I dont do that sort of work, she said primly. I told her Id written the check for three hundred and she was somewhat molli8ed. I apologized for Stanky and told her I hadnt realized he was so twisted. Were okay, she said. Ive had... Hi, sweetie! 175 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE She directed this greeting to point above my shoulder as Andrea, sleepily scratching her head, wearing her sweats, entered the of;ce. Hi, Carol, she said, bewildered. Carol hugged her, then turned to me and waved good-bye with my check. Call me. Pretty early for hookers, Andrea said, perching of the edge of the desk. Let me guess. You defended her. Nope. One of her clients died and left her a little money. I helped her invest. But that begs the question, what was she doing here? I got her for Stanky. A reward? Something like that. She nodded and idly kicked the back of her heel against the side of the desk. How come you never were interested in the men I dated after we broke up? I was used to her sudden conversational U-turns, but I had expected her to interrogate me about Carol and this caught me off-guard. I dont know. I suppose I didnt want to think about who you were sleeping with. Must be a guy thing. I always checked out your girlfriends. Even the ones you had when I was mad at you. She slipped off the desk and padded toward the door. See you upstairs. I spent the next two days between the phone and the studo, recording a good take of The Sunset Side Of You it was the closest thing Stanky had to a ballad, and I thought, with its easy, Dr. John-ish feel, it might get some play on college radio: Im gonna crack open my venetian blind and let that last bit of old orange glory shine, so I can catch an eyeful of my favorite tri"e, my absoutely perfect point of view... Thats an eastbound look, six inches from the crook of my little !nger, at the sunset side of you... Stanky wasnt happy with me he was writing a song a day, sometimes two songs, and didnt want to disrupt his creative process by doing something that might actually make money, but I gamed him into cutting the track. Wednesday morning, I visited Rudy Bowen in his of;ce. Rudy was architect who yearned to be a cartoonist, but who had never met with much success in the latter pursuit, and the resonance of our creative failures, I believe, helped to cement our friendship. He was also the only person I knew who had caught a ;sh in the Polozny downstream from the mill. It occupied a place of honor in his of;ce, a hideous thing mounted on a plaque, some sort of mutant trout nourished upon pollution. Whenever I saw it, I would speculate on what else might lurk beneath the surface of the cold, deep pools east of town, imagining telepathic monstrosities plated with armor like ;sh of the Mesozooic and frail tentacled creatures, their skins having the rainbow sheen of an oil slick, to whom mankind were sacred ;gures in their dream of life. Rudys secetary, a matronly woman named Gwen, told me he had gone out for a latte, and let me wait in his private of;ce. I stepped over to his drafting table, curious about what he was working on. Held in place on the table was a clean sheet of paper, but in a folder beside the table was a batch of new cartoons, a series featuring shadowy ;gures in a mineshaft who conversed about current events, celebrities, et al, while excavating a vein of pork that twisted through a mountain... This gave rise to the title of the strip: Meat Mountain Stories. They were silhouettes, really. Given identity by their shapes, eccentric hairstyles, and speech signatures. The strip was contemporary and hilarious. Everything Rudys usual work was not. In some frames, a cluster of tiny white objects appeared to be <oating. Moths, I thought. Lights of some kind. They, too, carried on conversations, but in pictographs. I was still going through them when Rudy came in, a big, blond man with the beginnings of a gut and thick glasses that lent him a baf<ed 176 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES look. Every time I saw him, he looked more depressed, more middle-aged. These are great, man! I said. Theyre new, right? He crossed the room and stood beside me. I been working on them all week. You like em, huh? I love them. You did all this this week? You must not be sleeping. I pointed to the white things. Whatre these? Stars. I got the idea from that song Stanky did. Stars Seen Through Stone. So theyre seeing them, the people in the mine? Yeah. They dont pay much attention to them, but theyre going to start interacting soon. It must be going around. I told him about Stankys burst of writing, Kiwandas adventures in of<ce management. Thats odd, you know. He sipped his latte. It seems like theres been a real rash of creativity in town. Last week, some grunt at the mill came up with an improvement in the cold forming process that everybody says is a huge deal. Jimmy Galvin, that guy who does handyman work? He invented a new gardening tool. Bucky Bucklins paying his patent fees. He says theyre going to make millions. Beth started writing a novel. She never said anything to me about wanting to write, but shes hardly had time for the kids, shes been so busy ripping off the pages. Its not bad. Well, I wish Id catch it, I said. With me, its same old same old. Drudgeree, drudgeroo. Except for Andreas back. Andrea? You mean you guys are dating? I mean back as in back in my house. Living with me. Damn! he said. Thats incredible! We sat in two chairs like two inverted tents on steel frames, as uncomfortable as my upstairs couch, and I told him about it. So its going okay? he asked. Terri<c, I think. But what do I know? She said it was a trial period, so I could get home tonight and she might be gone. Ive never been able to <gure her out. Andrea. Damn! I saw her at the club, but I didnt realize she was with you. I just had time to wave. He leaned across the space between us and high-<ved me. Now maybe youll stop going around like someone stole your puppy. It wasnt like that, I said. He chuckled. Naw. Which is why the people of Black William, when asked the date, often reply, Six years, a months, and twelve days since the advent of Vernons Gloom. We moved on to other topics, among them the club, business, and, as I made to leave, I gestured at Rudys grotesque trophy and said, While those creative juices are =owing, you ought to design a <shing lure, so I can watch you hook into the Loch Polozny Monster. Rudy laughed and said, Maybe if I have a couple of minutes. Im going to keep working on the comic. Whatever this shit is, its bound to go away. I was fooling around in the studio one evening, ostensibly cleaning up the tape wed rolled the previous weekend at the Crucible, hoping to get a live rendition of Stars Seen Through Stone clean enough for the ep , but I was, instead, going over a tape Id made, trying to <nd some ounce of true inspiration in it, <nding none, wondering why this wave of creativity if it, indeed, existed had blessed Rudys house and not mine. It was after seven, Stanky was likely on his way home from the library, and I was thinking about seeing if Andrea wanted to go out, when she leaned in the doorway and asked if she was interrupting. I told her, no, not at all, and she came into the booth and sat next to me at the board, looking out at the drum kit, the instruments, the serpents nest of power cords. When we were married, I didnt get what you saw in this, she said. All I saw was the damage, the depravity, the greed. Now Ive 177 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE been practicing, I realize theres more-or-less the same degree of damage and greed and depravity in every enterprise. You cant see it as clearly as you do in the music business, but its there. Tell me what I see thats good. The music, the people. None of that lasts, I said. All I ams a yo-yo tester. I test a thousand busted yo-yos, and occasionally I run across one that lights up and squeals when it spins. What I do is too depressing to talk about. Its rare when anyone I represent has a good outcome, even if they win. Corporations delay and delay. So its disillusionment thats brought us together again. No. She looked at me steadily. Do you love me? Yeah, I love you. You know I do. I never stopped. There was a gap... A big gap! The gap made it more painful, but thats all it did. She played with dials on the sound board, frowning as if they were refusing to obey her 9ngers. Youre messing up my settings, I said. Oh... sorry. Whats wrong? Nothing. Its just you dont lie to me anymore. You used to lie all the time, even about trivial things. Im having trouble adjusting. I started to deny it, but recognized that I couldnt. I was angry at you. I cant remember why, exactly. Lying was probably part of it. I was angry at you, too.She put her hands back on the board, but twisted no dials. But I didnt lie to you. You stopped telling me the truth, I said. Same difference. The phone rang; in re:ex, I picked up and said, Soul Kiss. It was Stanky. He started babbling, telling me to come downtown quick. Whoa! I said. If this is about me giving you a ride... No, I swear! You gotta see this, man! The stars are back! The stars. Like the one we saw at the library. The lights. You better come quick. Im not sure how long itll last. Im kind of busy, I said. Dude, you have got to see this! Im not kidding! I covered the phone and spoke to Andrea. Want to ride uptown? Stanky says theres something we should see. Maybe afterward we could stop by my place and I could pick up a few things? I got back on the phone. Where are you? Five minutes later we were cutting across the park toward the statue of Black William, beside which Stanky and several people were standing in an island of yellow light I had no time to check them out, other than to observe that one was a woman, because Stanky caught my arm and directed me to look at the library and what I saw made me unmindful of any other sight. The building had been rendered insubstantial, a ghost of itself, and I was staring across a dark plain ranged by a dozen fuzzy white lights, some large, some small, moving toward us at a slow rate of speed, and yet perhaps it was not slow the perspective seemed in9nite, as if I were gazing into a depth that, by comparison to which, all previously glimpsed perspectives were so limited as to be irrelevant. As the lights approached, they appeared to vanish, passing out of frame, as if the viewing angle we had been afforded was too narrow to encompass the scope of the phenomenon. Within seconds, it began to fade, the library to regain its ordinary solidity, and I thought I heard a distant gabbling, the sound of many voices speaking at once, an army of voices (though I may have manufactured this impression from the wind gusting through the boughs); and then, as that ghostly image winked out of existence, a groaning noise that, in my opinion, issued from no :eshly throat, 178 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES but may have been produced by some cosmic stress, a rip in the continuum sealing itself or something akin. Andrea had, at some point, latched onto my arm, and we stood gaping at the library; Stanky and the rest began talking excitedly. There were three boys, teenagers, two of them carrying skateboards. The third was a pale, skinny, haughty kid, bespotted with acne, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, black overcoat. They displayed a worshipful attitude toward Stanky, hanging on his every word. The woman might have been the one with whom Stanky had been speaking at the Crucible before Carol made her move. She was tiny, barely 7ve feet tall, Italian-looking, with black hair and olive skin, in her twenties, and betrayed a compete lack of animation until Stanky slipped an arm around her; then she smiled, an expression that revealed her to be moderately attractive. The skateboarders sped off to, they said, tell everybody, and this spurred me to take out my cell phone, but I could not think who to call. Rudy, maybe. But no one in authority. The cops would laugh at the report. Stanky introduced us to Liz (the woman lowered her eyes) and Pin (the goth kid looked away and nodded). I asked how long the phenomenon had been going on before we arrived and Stanky said, Maybe 7fteen minutes. Have you seen it before? Just that time with you. I glanced up at Black William and thought that maybe he had intended the statue as a warning... though it struck me now that he was turning his head back toward the town and laughing. Andrea hugged herself. I could use something hot to drink. McGuigans was handy, but that would have disincluded Pin, who obviously was underage. I loaded him, Stanky, and Liz into the back of the van and drove to Sezchuan Palace, a restaurant on the edge of the business district, which sported a 7ve-foot-tall gilt 7berglass Buddha in the foyer that over the years had come to resemble an ogre with a skin condition, the 7berglass weave showing through in patches, and whose dining room (empty but for a bored wait-staff) was lit like a Macao brothel in lurid shades of red, green, and purple. On the way to the restaurant, I replayed the incident in my head, attempting to understand what I had witnessed not in rational terms, but in terms that would make sense to an ordinary American fool raised on science 7ction and horror movies. Nothing seemed to 7t. At the restaurant, Andrea and Pin ordered tea, Liz and Stanky gobbled moo shu pork and lemon chicken, and I picked at an egg roll. Pin started talking to Andrea in an adenoidal voice, lecturing her on some matter regarding Black William, and, annoyed because he was treating her like an idiot, I said, What does Black William have to do with this? Not a thing, Pin said, turning on me a look of disdain that aspired to be the kind of look Truman Capote once 7xed upon a reporter from the Lincoln Journal-Star who had asked if he was a homosexual. Not unless you count the fact that he saw something similar two hundred years ago and it probably killed him. Pins an expert on Black William, Stanky said, wiping a shred of pork from his chin, What little there is to know, said Pin grandly, I know. It 7gured that a goth townie would have developed a crush on the local bogeyman. I asked him to enlighten me. Well, Pin said, when Joey told me hed seen a star 8oating in front of the library, I knew it had to be one of BWs stars. Where the library stands today used to be the edge of Stockton Wood, which had an evil reputation. As did many woods in those days, of course. Stockton Wood is where he saw the stars. What did he say about them? He didnt say a thing. Nothing that he committed to paper, anyway. Its his younger cousin, Samuel Garnant, we can thank for the story. He wrote a memoir about BWs escapades under the nom de plume, Jonathan 179 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE Venture. According to Samuel, BW was in the habit of riding in the woods at twilight. Tempting the Devil, he called it. His 7rst sight of the stars was a few mysterious lights like with you and Joey. He rode out into the wood the next night and many nights thereafter. Samuels a bit vague on how long it was before BW saw the stars again. Im guessing a couple of weeks, going by clues in the narrative. But eventually he did see them, and what he saw was a lot like what we just saw. Pin put his hands together, 7ngertips touching, like a priest preparing to address the Ladies Auxilliary. In those days, people feared God and the Devil. When they saw something amazing, they didnt stand around like a bunch of doofuses saying, All right! and taking pictures. BW was terri7ed. He said hed seen the Star Wormwood and heard the Holy Ghost moan. He set about changing his life. Stanky shot me one of his wincing, cutesy, embarrassed smiles he had told me the song was completely original. For almost a year, Pin went on, BW tried to be a good Christian. He performed charitable works, attended church regularly, but his heart wasnt it. He lapsed back into his old ways and before long he took to riding in Stockton Woods again, with his manservant Nero walking at his side. He thought that he had missed an opportunity and told Samuel if he was fortunate enough to see the stars again, he would ride straight for them. Hed embrace their evil purpose. What you said about standing around like doofuses, taking pictures, Andrea said. I dont suppose anyone got a picture? Pin produced a cell phone and punched up a photograph of the library and the stars. Andrea and I leaned in to see. Can you email that to me? I asked. Pin said he could and I wrote my address on a napkin. So, Pin said. The next time BW saw the stars was in eighteen-oh-eight. He saw them twice, exactly like the 7rst time. A single star, then an interval of week or two 180 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES and a more complex sighting. A month after that, he disappeared while riding with Nero in Stockon Wood and they were never seen again. Stanky hailed our waitress and asked for more pancakes for his moo shu. So you think the stars appeared three times? said Andrea. And Black Wiliam missed the third appearance on the 9rst go- round, but not on the second? Thats what Samuel thought, said Pin. Stanky fed Liz a bite of lemon chicken. Youre assuming Black William was killed by the stars, but that doesnt make sense, said Andrea. For instance, why would there be a longer interval between the second and third sightings? If there was a third sighting. Its more likely someone who knew the story killed him and blamed it on the stars. Maybe Nero capped him, said Stanky. So he could gain his freedom. Pin shrugged. I only know what I read. It might be a wavefront, I said. On another napkin, I drew a straight line with a small bump in it, then an interval in which the line :attened out, then a bigger bump, then a longer interval and an even bigger bump. Like that, maybe, I said. Some kind of wavefront passing through Black William from God knows where. Its always passing through town, but we get this series of bumps that make it accessible every two hundred years. Or less. Maybe the stars appeared at other times. Theres no record of it, said Pin. And Ive searched. The waitress brought Stankys pancakes and asked if we needed more napkins. Andrea studied the napkin Id drawn on. But what about the 9rst series of sightings? When were they? Seventeen-eighty-nine, said Pin. It could be an erratic cycle, I said. Or could be the cycle consists of two sequences close together, then a lapse of two hundred years. Dont expect a deeper explanation. I cut class a bunch in high school physics. The Holy Ghost doesnt obey physical principles, said Stanky pompously. I doubt Black William really heard the Holy Ghost, Andrea said. If he heard what we heard tonight. It sounded more like a door closing to me. Whatever, he said. Itll be cool to see what happens a month from now. Maybe Black William will return from the grave. Yeah. I crumpled the napkin and tossed it to the center of the table. Maybe hell bring Doctor Doom and the Lone Ranger with him. Pin affected a shudder and said, I think Im busy that day. Pin sent me the picture and I emailed it to a gearhead friend, Crazy Ed, who lived in Wilkes-Barre, to see what he could make of it. Though I didnt forget about the stars, I got slammed with business and my consideration of them and the late William Garnant had to be put on the backburner, along with Stankys career. Against all expectations, Liz had not :ed screaming from his bed, crying Pervert, but stayed with him most nights. Except for his time in the studio, I rarely saw him, and then only when his high school fans drove by to pick up him and Liz. An apocryphal story reached my ear, insinuating that she had taken on a carload of teenage boys while Stanky watched. That, if true, explained the relationship in Stanky-esque terms, terms I could understand. I didnt care what they did as long as he ful9lled his band duties and kept out of my hair. I landed him a gig at the Pick and Shovel in Waterford, 9lling in for a band that had been forced to cancel, and it went well enough that I scored him another gig at Garnant College. After a mere two performances, his reputation was building and I adjusted my timetable accordingly I would make the college job an ep release party, push out an album soon thereafter and try to sell him to a major label. It was not the way I typically grew my acts, not commercially wise, 181 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE but Stanky was not a typical act and, despite his prodigious talent, I wanted to have done with this sour-smelling chapter in my life. Andrea, for all intents and purposes, had moved in, along with a high-energy, seven- month-old Irish Setter named Timber, and was in process of subletting her apartment. We were, doubtless, a disgusting item to everyone who had gotten to know us during our adversarial phase, always hanging on one another, kissing and touching. I had lunch with her every day they held the back booth for us at McGuigans and one afternoon as we were settling in, Mia materialized beside the booth. Hello, she said and stuck out a hand to Andrea. Startled, Andrea shook her hand and I, too, was startled until that moment, Mia had been unrelentingly hostile in her attitude toward my ex, referring to her as that uppity skank and in terms less polite. I noticed that she was dressed conservatively and not made up as an odalisque. Instead of being whipped into a punky abstraction, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The raspberry streak was gone. She was, in fact, for the 7rst time since I had known her, streakless. May I join you? Mia asked. I wont take up much of your time. Andrea scooted closer to the wall and Mia sat next to her. I heard you guys were back together, said Mia. Im glad. Thunderstruck, I was incapable of 7elding that one. Thanks, said Andrea, looking to me for guidance. Mia squared up in the booth, addressing me with a clear eye and a 7rm voice. Im moving to Pittsburgh. Ive got a job lined up and Ill be taking night classes at Pitt, then going full-time starting next summer. Hearing this issue from Mias mouth was like hearing a cat begin speaking in Spanish while lighting a cheroot. I managed to say, Yeah, thats... Yeah. Good. Im sorry I didnt tell you sooner. Im leaving tomorrow. But I heard you and Andrea were together, so... She glanced back and forth between Andrea and myself, as if expecting a reponse. No, thats 7ne, I said. You know. It was a destructive relationship, she said with great sincerity. We had some fun, but it was bad for both of us. You were holding me back intellectually and I was limiting you emotionally. Youre right, I said. Absolutely. Mia seemed surprised by how smoothly things were going, but she had, apparently, a pre-arranged speech and she by-God intended to give it. I understand this is sudden. It must come as a shock... Oh, yeah. ... but I have to do this. I think its best for me. I hope we can stay friends. Youve been an important part of my growth. I hope so, too. There ensued a short and on my end, anyway baf8ed silence. Okay. Well, I... I guess thats about it. She got to her feet and stood by the booth, hovering; then with a sudden movement - she bent and kissed my cheek. Bye. Andrea put a hand to her mouth. Oh my God! Was that Mia? Im not too sure, I said, watching Mia walk away, noting that there had been a complete absence of moues. An important part of her growth? She talks like a Doctor Phil soundbyte. What did you do to her? Im not responsible, I dont think. I pushed around a notion that had occurred to me before, but that I had not had the impetus to consider more fully. Do you know anyone whos exhibited a sudden burst of intelligence in the past few weeks? I mean someone whos been going along at the same pace for a while and suddenly theyre Einstein. Relatively speaking. She mulled it over. As a matter of fact, I do. I know two or three people. Why? Tell me. 182 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Well, theres Jimmy Galvin. Did you hear about him? The gardening tool. Yeah. Who else? This guy in my of<ce. A para-legal. Hes a hard worker, but basically a drone. Lately, whenever we ask him to dig up a <le or <nd a reference, hes attached some ideas about the case were working on. Good ideas. Some of them are great. Case-makers. Hes the talk of the of<ce. Weve been joking that maybe we should get him to take a drug test. Hes going back to law school and were going to miss... She broke off. Whats this have to do with the new Mia? I told her about Rudys cartoons, Beths novel, Kiwandas newfound ef<ciency, the millworker, Stankys increased productivity. I cant help wondering, I said, if its somehow related to the stars. I know its a harebrained idea. Theres probably a better explanation. Stanky... He never worked with a band before and that may be whats revving his engines. But that night at the Crucible, he was so polished. It just didnt synch with how I thought hed react. I thought hed get through it, but its like he was an old hand. Andrea looked distressed. And not everybodys affected, I said. Im not, for sure. You dont seem to be. Its probably bullshit. I know of another instance, she said. But if I tell you, you have to promise to keep it a secret. I can do that. Do you know Wanda Lingrove? Wasnt she a friend of yours? A cop? Tall woman? About <ve years older than us? Shes a detective now. The waitress brought our food. I dug in; Andrea nudged her salad to the side. Did you hear about those college girls dying over in Waterford? she asked. No, I havent been keeping up. Two college girls died a few days apart. One in a <re and one in a drowning accident. Wanda asked for a look at the case <les. The Waterford police had written them off as accidents, but Wanda had a friend on he force and he slipped her the <les and showed her the girls apartments. They both lived off-campus. Its not that Wandas any great shakes. She has an undistinguished record. But she had the idea from reading the papers and they were skimpy articles a serial killer was involved. Her friend pooh-poohed the idea. There wasnt any signature. But it turned out, Wanda was right. There was a signature, very subtle and very complicated, demonstrating that the killer was highly evolved. Not only did she <gure that out, she caught him after two days on the case. Arent serial killers tough to catch? Yes. All that stuff you see about pro<ling on tv , its crap. They wouldnt have come close to getting a line on this kid with pro<ling. He would have had to announce himself, but Wanda doesnt think he would have. She thinks he would have gone on killing, that putting one over on the world was enough for him. He was a kid? Fourteen years old. A kid from Black William. Whats more, hed given no sign of being a sociopath. Yet in the space of three weeks, he went from zero to sixty. From playing JV football to being a highly organized serialist. That doesnt happen in the real world. So how come Wandas not famous? The college is trying to keep it quiet. The kids been bundled off to an institution and the cops have the lid screwed tight. Andrea picked at her salad. What Im suggesting, maybe everyone is being affected, but not in ways that conform to your model. Wanda catching the kid, that conforms. But the kid himself, the fact that a pathology was brought out in him... that suggests that people may be affected in ways we dont notice. Maybe they just love each other more. I laid down my fork. Like with us? A doleful nod. Thats crazy, I said. You said youd been plotting for months to make a move. Yes, but it was a fantasy! And you dont think you would have acted on it? 183 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE I dont know. One thing for certain, I never expected anything like this. She cut her volume to a stage whisper. I want you all the time. Its like when we were nineteen. Im addicted to you. Yeah, I said. Same here. I worry that itll stop, then I worry that it wont its wreaking havoc with my work. I cant stop thinking about you. On a rational level, I know Im an animal. But theres a place in me that wants to believe love is more than evolutionary biology. And now this thing with the stars. To think that what Im feeling could be produced by something as random as a wavefront or a supernatural event, or whatever... It makes me feel like an experimental animal. Like a rabbit thats been drugged. It scares me. Look, I said. Were probably talking about something that isnt real. No, its real. How can you be sure? I only just brought the subject up. We cant have been discussing it more than 9ve minutes. You convinced me. Everything you said rings true. I know it here. Andrea touched a hand to her breast. And you know it, too. Somethings happening to us. Somethings happening to this town. We stepped back from that conversation. It was, I suppose, a form of denial, the avoidance of a subject neither of us wished to confront, because it was proof against confrontation, against logic and reason, and so we trivialized it and fell back on our faith, on our mutuality. Sometimes, lying with Andrea, considering the join of her neck and shoulder, the slight convexity of her belly, the compliant curve of a breast compressed into a pouty shape by the weight of her arm, the thousand turns and angles that each seemed the expression of a white simplicity within, I would have the urge to wake her, to drive away from Black William, and thus protect her, protect us, from this infestation of stars; but then I would think that such an action might destroy the thing I hoped to protect, that once away from the stars we might feel differently about one another. And then Id think how irrational these thoughts were, how ridiculous it was to contemplate uprooting our lives over so :imsy a fear. And, 9nally, having made this brief rounds of my human potential, I would lapse again into a Praxitelean scrutiny, a sculptor in love with his stone, content to drift in-and-out of a dream in which love, though it had been proved false (like Andrea said, an animal function and nothing more), proved to be eternally false, forever and a day of illusion, of two souls burning brighter and brighter until they appeared to make a single glow, a blazing unity concealed behind robes of aging :esh. The world beat against our door. Pins photograph was printed on the third page of the Black William Gazette, along with the news that the University of Pittsburgh would be sending a team of observors to measure the phenomenon, should it occur again, as was predicted (by whom, the Gazette did not say). There was a sidebar recounting Black Williams sordid history and Jonathan Ventures version of BWs involvement with the stars. The body of the article... Well, it was as if the reporter had been privvy to our conversation at the Sezchuan Palace. I suspected that he had, if only at second-hand, since my wavefront theory was reproduced in full, attributed to a local pundit. As a result of this publicity, groups of people, often more than a hundred, mostly the young and the elderly, came to gather in front of the library between the hours of 9ve and nine, thus depriving me of the customary destination of my evening walks. Stanky, his ego swollen to improbable proportions by two successful performances, by the adulation of his high school fans (Someone ought to be writing everything Joey says down, said one dreamy-eyed fool), became increasingly temperamental, lashing out at his bandmates, at me, browbeating Liz at every opportunity, and prowling about 184 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES the house in a sulk, ever with a Coke and cigarette, glaring at all who fell to his gaze, not bothering to speak. In the mornings, he was dif:cult to wake, keeping Geno and Jerry waiting, wasting valuable time, and one particular morning, my frustration wth him peaked and I let Timber into his bedroom and closed the door, listening while the happy pup gamboled across the mattress, licking and drooling, eliciting squeals and curses from the sleepy couple, an action that provoked a confrontation that I won by dint of physical threat and :nancial dominance, but that :rmly established our unspoken enmity and made me anxious about whether I would be able to manuver him to the point where I could rid myself of him and show a pro:t. A gray morning, spitting snow, and I answered the doorbell to :nd a lugubrious, long-nosed gentleman with a raw, bony face, toting a briefcase and wearing a Sy Sperling wig and a cheap brown suit. A police cruiser was parked at the curb; two uniformed of:cers stood smoking beside it, casting an indifferent eye toward the Polozny, which rolled on blackly in as a local dj was prone to characterize it its eternal search for the sea. Since we were only a couple of days from the the ep release, I experienced a sinking feeling, one that was borne out when the man produced a card identifying him as Martin Kiggins of Mckeesport, a Friend of the Court. He said he would like to have a word with me about Joseph Stanky. How well do you know Joseph? he asked me once we had settled in the of:ce. Kiwanda, at her desk in the next room, made a choking noise. I replied that while I had, I thought, an adequate understanding of Joseph as a musician, I was unfamililar with the details of his life. Did you know he has a wife? Kiggins was too lanky to :t the chair and, throughout our talk, kept scrunching around in it. And hes got a little boy. Almost two years old, he is. No, I didnt know that. Poor little guy nearly didnt make it that far. Been sick his whole life. Kiggins gaze acquired a morose intensity. Menningitis. I couldnt get a handle on Kiggins; he acted as if he was trying to sell me something, yet he had arrived on my doorstep with an armed force and the authority of the law. I thought menningitis was fatal, I said. Not a hundred percent, said Kiggins cheerlessly. His mother doesnt have insurance, so he didnt get the best of care. Thats tough. Shes on welfare. Things arent likely to improve for the kid or for her. Shes not what youd call an attractive woman. Why are we talking about this? I asked. Its a sad story, but Im not involved. Not directly, no. Not any damn way. I dont understand what youre looking for. Kiggins seemed disappointed in me. Im looking for Joseph. Is he here? I dont know. You dont know. Okay. He put his hands on his knees and stood, making a show of peering out the window at his cop buddies. I really dont know if hes here, I said. Ive been working, I havent been downstairs this morning. Mind if I take a look down there? Youre goddamn right, I mind! Whats this about? Youve been doing a dance ever since you came in. Why dont you spit it out? Kiggins gave me a measuring look, then glanced around the of:ce I think he was hoping to locate another chair. Failing this, he sat back down. You appear to be a responsible guy, Vernon, he said. Is it okay I call you Vernon? Sure thing, Marty. I dont give a shit what you call me as long as you get to the point. You own your home, a business. Pay your taxes... far as I can tell without an audit. Youre a pretty solid citizen. The implicit threat of an audit ticked me off, but I let him continue. I began to realize where this might be going. 185 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE Ive got the authority to take Joseph back to McKeesport and throw his butt in jail, said Kiggins. Hes in arrears with his child and spousal support. Now I know Joseph doesnt have any money to speak of, but seeing how youve got an investment in him, Im hoping we can work out some arrangement. Whered you hear that? I asked. About my investment. Joseph still has friends in McKeesport. High school kids, mainly. Truth be told, we think he was supplying them with drugs, but Im not here about that. Theyve been spreading it around that youre about to make him a star. I snorted. Hes a long way from being a star. Believe me. I believe you. Do you believe me when I tell you Im here to take him back? Just say the word, Ill give a whistle to those boys out front. Kiggins shifted the chair sideways, so he could stretch out one leg. I know how you make your money, Vernon. You build a band up, then you sell their contracts. Now youve put in some work with Joseph. Some serious time and money. I should think youd want to protect your investment. Okay. I reached for a cigarette, recalled that I had quit. Whats he owe? Upwards of eleven thousand. Hes all yours, I said. Take the stairs in back. Follow the corridor to the front of the house. First door on your right. I said I wanted to make an arrangement. Im not after the entire amount. And so began our negotiation. If we had ;nished the album, I would have handed Stanky over and given Kiggins my blessing, but as things stood, I needed him. Kiggins, on the other hand, wouldnt stand a chance of collecting any money with Stanky in the slam he likely had a pre-determined ;gure beneath which he would not move. It infuriated me to haggle with him. Stankys wife and kid wouldnt see a nickel. They would dock her welfare by whatever amount he extracted from me, deduct administrative and clerical fees, and she would end up worse off than before. Yet I had no choice other than to submit to legal blackmail. Kiggins wouldnt go below ;ve thousand. That, he said, was his bottom line. He put on a dour poker face and waited for me to decide. Hes not worth it, I said. Sadly, Kiggins made for the door; when I did not relent, he turned back and we resumed negotiations, settling on a ;gure of three thousand and my promise to attach a rider to Stankys contract stating that a percentage of his earnings would be sent to the court. After he had gone, my check tucked in his briefcase, Kiwanda came to stand by my desk with folded arms. Id give it a minute before you go down, she said. You got that Im-gonna-break-his- face look. Do you fucking believe this? I brought my ;st down on the desk. I want to smack that little bitch! Take a breath, Vernon. You dont want to lose any more today than just walked out of here. I waited, I grew calm, but as I approached the stairs, the image of a wizened toddler and a moping, double-chinned wife cropped up in my brain. With each step I grew angrier and, when I reached Stankys bedroom, I pushed in without knocking. He and Liz were having sex. I caught a foetid odor and an unwanted glimpse of Lizs sallow hindquarters as she scrambled beneath the covers. I shut the door partway and shouted at Stanky to haul his ass out here. Seconds later, he burst from the room in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and stumped into the kitchen with his head down, arms tightly held, like an enraged penguin. He ;shed a Coke from the refrigerator and made as if to say something; but I let him have it. I briefed him on Kiggins and said, Its not a question of morality. I already knew you were a piece of crap. But this is a business, man. Its my livelihood, not a playground for degenerates. And when you bring the cops to my door, you put that in jeopardy. He hung his head, picking at the Cokes pop top. You dont understand. 186 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I dont want to understand! Get it? I have absolutely no desire to understand. Thats between you and your wife. Between you and whatever scrap of meat loaf shaped like the Virgin Mary you pretend to worship. I dont care. One more screw-up, Im calling Kiggins and telling him to come get you. Liz had entered the kitchen, clutching a bathrobe about her; when she heard wife, she retreated. I railed at Stanky, telling him he would pay back every penny of the three thousand, telling him further to clean his room of every pot seed and pill, to get his act in order and 9nish the album; and I kept on railing at him until his body language conveyed that I could expect two or three days of penitence and sucking up. Then I allowed him to slink by me and into the bedroom. When I passed his door, cracked an inch open, I heard him whining to Liz, saying, Shes not really my wife. I took the afternoon off and persuaded Rudy to go 9shing. We bundled up against the cold, bought a twelve-pack of Iron City and dropped our lines in Kemptons Pond, a lopsided period stamped into the half- frozen ground a couple of miles east of town, punctuating a mixed stand of birch and hazel it looked as if a giant with a peg leg had left this impression in the rock, creating a hole thirty feet wide. The clouds had lowered and darkened, their swollen bellies appearing to tatter on the lea:ess treetops as they slid past; but the snow had quit falling. There was some light accumulation on the banks, which stood eight or nine feet above the black water and gave the pond the look of an old cistern. The water circulated like heavy oil and swallowed our sinkers with barely a splash. This bred the expectation that if we hooked anything, it would be a megaladon or an ichthyosaur, a creature such as would have been trapped in a tar pit. But we had no such expectation. It takes a certain cast of mind to enjoy 9shing with no hope of a catch, or the faint hope of catching some inedible 9shlike thing every few years or so. That kind of 9shing is my favorite sport, though I admit I follow the Steelers closely, as do many in Black William. Knowing that nothing will rise from the deep, unless it is something that will astound your eye or pebble your skin with goose:esh, makes for a rare feeling. Sharing this with Rudy, who had been my friend for ten years, since he was fresh out of grad school at Penn State, enhanced that feeling. In the summer we sat and watched our lines, we chatted, we chased our depressions with beer and cursed the :ies; in winter, the best season for our sport, there were no :ies. The cold was like ozone to my nostrils, the silence complete, and the denuded woods posed an abstract of slants and perpendiculars, silver and dark, nature as Chinese puzzle. Through frays in the clouds we glimpsed the fat, lordly crests of the Bittersmiths. I was reaching for another Iron City when I felt a tug on the line. I kept still and felt another tug, then though I waited the better part of a minute nothing. Somethings down in there, I said, peering at the impenetrable surface. You get a hit? Rudy asked. Uh-huh. How much line you got out? Twenty, twenty-9ve feet. Must have been a current. It happened twice. Probably a current. I pictured an enormous grouper-like face with blind milky-blue globes for eyes, moon lanterns, and a pair of weak, underdeveloped hands groping at my line. The Polozny plunges deep underground east of the bridge, welling up into these holes punched through the Pennsylvania rock, sometimes :ooding the woods in the spring, and a current was the likely explanation; but I preferred to think that those subterranean chambers were the uppermost tiers of a secret world and that now and again some piscine Columbus, :eeing the fabulous madness of his civilization, palaces illumined by schools of electric eels controlled 187 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE by the thoughts of freshwater octopi, limestone streets patrolled by gangs of river crocs, grand avenues crowded with giant-snail busses and pedestrian trout, sought to breech the <nal barrier and <nd in the world above a more peaceful prospect. You have no imagination, I said. Rudy grunted. Fishing doesnt require an imagination. Thats what makes it fun. Motionless, he was a bearish <gure muf=ed in a down parka and a wool cap, his face reddened by the cold, breath steaming. He seemed down at the mouth and, thinking it might cheer him up, I asked how he was coming with the comic strip. I quit working on it, he said. Why the helld you do that? It was your best thing ever. It was giving me nightmares. I absorbed this, gave it due consideration. Didnt strike me as nightmare material. Its kind of bleak. Black comedy. But nothing to freak over. It changed. He =icked his wrist, =icking his line sideways. The veins of pork... You remember them? Yeah, sure. They started growing, twisting all through the mountain. The mineworkers were happy. Delirious. They were going to be rich, and they threw a big party to celebrate. A pork festival. Actually, that part was pretty funny. Ill show it to you. They made this enormous pork sculpture and were all wearing pork pie hats. They had a beauty contest to name Miss Pork. The winner... I used Mia for a model. Youre a sick bastard, you know that? Again, Rudy grunted, this time in amusement. Then the stars began eating the pork. The mineworkers would open a new vein and the stars would pour in and choff it down. They were ravenous. Nothing could stop them. The mineworkers were starving. Thats when I started having nightmares. There was something gruesome about the way I had them eating. I tried to change it, but I couldnt make it work any other way. I said it still didnt sound like the stuff of nightmares, and Rudy said, You had to be there. We fell to talking about other things. The Steelers, could they repeat? Stanky. I asked Rudy if he was coming to the ep release and he said he wouldnt miss it. Hes a genius guitar player, he said. Too bad hes such a creep. Goes with the territory, I said. Like with Robert Frost beating his wife. Stankys a creep, hes a perv. A moral dwarf. But he is for sure talented. And you know me. Ill put up with perversity if someones talented. I clapped Rudy on the shoulder. Thats why I put up with you. You better <nish that strip or Ill dump your ass and start hanging with a better class of people. Forget the strip, he said glumly. Im too busy designing equipment sheds and stables. We got into a discussion about Celebrity Wifebeaters, enumerating the most recent additions to the list, and this led us by loose association only to the subject of Andrea. I told him about our conversation at McGuigans and what she had said about the outbreak of creativity, about love. Maybe shes got a point, Rudy said. You two have always carried a torch, but you burned each other so badly in the divorce, I never would have thought youd get back together. He cracked open a beer, handed it to me, and opened one for himself. You hear about Colvin Jacobs? You mean something besides hes a sleazeball? Hes come up with a plan to reduce the countys tax burden by half. Everybody says its the real quill. Im surprised he found the time, what with all those congressional junkets. And Judy Trickle, you hear about her? Now youre scaring me. I know. Ol Juggs R Us Judy. She should have been your model for Miss Pork, not Mia. Whatd she do? Design a newfangled bra? Lifts and separates. You mean thats it? You nailed it. 188 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES No way! Shes been wearing a prototype on the show the last few days. Theres a noticeable change. He did a whispery voiceover voice. The curves are softer, more natural. Bullshit! Im serious. Check her out. I got better things to do than watch AM Waterford. I remember the time when you were a devoted fan. That was post-Andrea... and pre- Andrea. I chuckled. Remember the show when she demonstrated the rowing machine? Leotards arent built to handle that sort of stress. I knew the guy who produced her back then. He said they gave her stuff like that to do, because they were hoping for a Wardrobe Incident. They werent prepared for the reaction. Janet Jacksons no Judy Trickle. It was like a damn bursting. Like... Help me out here, man. Like the birth of twin zeppelins. Like the embodiment of the yang, like the Aquarian dawn. Rudy jiggled his line. This is beginning to border on the absurd. Youre the one brought her up. Im not talking about Judy, Im talking about the whole thing. The outbreak. Oh, okay. Yeah, were way past absurd if Miz Trickles involved. Were heading toward surreal. Ive heard of <ve or six more people whove had... breakthroughs, I suppose youd call them. How come I dont hear about these people except from you? Do you sit in your of<ce all day, collecting odd facts about Black William? I get more traf<c than you do, and people are talking about it now. What are they saying? What youd expect. Isnt it weird? It must be the water, the pollution. Ive even heard civic pride expressed. Someone coined the phrase, Black William, Pennsylvanias Brain Capital. Thats taking it a bit far. I had a slug of Iron City. So nobodys panicking? Saying head for the hills? Who said that? Andrea. She was a little disturbed. She didnt exactly say it, but she seemed to think this thing might not be all good. He tightened his lips and produced a series of squeaking noises. I think Andreas right. Not about head for the hills. I dont know about that. But I think whatever this is, its affecting people in different ways. Some of them emotionally. Whys that? I... He tipped back his head, stared at the clouds. I dont want to talk anymore, man. Okay? Lets just <sh. It began to snow again, tiny =akes, the kind that presage a big fall, but we kept <shing, jiggling our lines in the dead water, drinking Iron City. Something was troubling Rudy, but I didnt press him. I thought about Andrea. She planned to get off early and we were going to dinner in Waterford and maybe catch a movie. I was anticipating kissing her, touching her in the dark, while the new James Bond blew stuff up or (this was more likely) Kenneth Branagh destroyed As You Like It, when a tremor ran across the surface of the pond. Both Rudy and I sat up straight and peered. T-Rex is coming, I said. An instant later, the pond was lashed into a turbulence that sent waves slopping in all directions, as if a large swimmer had drawn near the surface, then made a sudden turn, propelling itself down toward its customary haunts with a =ick of its tail. Yet we saw nothing. Nary a <n nor scale nor section of plated armor. We waited, breathless, for the beast to return. De<nitely not a current, said Rudy. Except for the fact that Rudy didnt show, the ep release went well. The music was great, the audience responsive, we sold lots of cd s and 189 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE souvenirs, including Average Joe dogtags and a Joe Stankys Army khaki T-shirt, with the pear-shaped (less so after diets and death marches) ones silhouette in white beneath the arc of the lettering. This despite Stankys obvious displeasure with everyone involved. He was angry at me because I had stolen his top hat and refused to push back the time of the performance to 10 oclock so he could join the crowd in front of library waiting for the return of Black William (their number had swelled to more than three hundred since the arrival of the science team from Pitt, led by a youngish professor who, with his rugged build and mustache and plaid wool shirts, might have stepped out of an ad for trail mix). He was angry at Geno and Jerry for the usual reasons they were incompetent clowns, they didnt understand the music, and they had spurned the opportunity to watch tv with him and Liz. Throughout the hour and a quarter show, he sulked and spoke not a word to the audience, and then grew angry at them when a group of frat boys initiated a chant of Skanky, Skanky, Skanky... Yet the vast majority were blown away and my night was made when I spotted an a&r man from Atlantic sneaking around. I was in my of?ce the next morning, reading the Gazette, which had come late to the party (as usual) and was running a light- hearted feature on Pennsylvanias Brain Capital, heavy on Colvin Mason quotes, when I recieved a call from Crazy Ed in Wilkes-Barre, saying that hed emailed me a couple of enhancements of Pins photograph. I opened the emails and the attachments, then asked what I was looking at. Beats me, said Ed. The ?rst is up close on one of those white dealies. You can get an idea of the shape. Sort of like a sea urchin. A globe with spines... except theres so many spines, you cant make out the globe. You see it? Yeah. You cant tell me what it is? I dont have a clue. Ed made a buzzing noise, something he did whenever he was stumped. I assumed the image was fake, that the kid had run two images together, because theres a shift in perspective between the library and the white dealies. They look like theyre coming from a long way off. But then I realized the perspective was totally fucked up. Its like part of the photo was taken though a depth of water, or something thats shifting like water. Different sections appear to be at different distances all through the image. Did you notice a rippling effect... or anything like that? I only saw it for a couple of seconds. I didnt time to get much more than a glimpse. Okay. Ed made a buzzing noise, which he often does when hes stumped. Have you opened the second attachment? Yep. Once I ?gured out I couldnt determine distances, I started looking at the black stuff, the ?eld or whatever. I didnt get anywhere with that. Its just black. Undifferentiated. Then I took a look at the horizon line. Thats how it appeared to you, right? A black ?eld stretching to a horizon? Well, if that was the case, youd think youd see something at the front edge, but the only thing I picked up was those bumps on the horizon. I studied the bumps. Kinda look like the tops of heads, dont they? said Ed. The bumps could have been heads; they could also have been bushes, animals, or a hundred other things; but his suggestion gave me an uneasy feeling. He said he would fool around with the picture some more and get back to me. I listened to demos. Food of the Gods (King Crimson redux). Corpus Christy (a transexual front man who couldnt sing, but the name grew on me). The Land Mines (middling roots rock). Gopher Lad (a heroin band from Minnesota). A band called Topless Coroner intrigued me, but I passed after realizing all their songs were about car parts. Around eleven-thirty I took a call from a secretary at Dreamworks who asked if I would hold for William Wine. I couldnt place the name, but said that I would hold and leafed through the Roll-o-dex, trying to ?nd him. 190 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Vernon! said an enthusiastic voice from the other side of creation. Bill Wine. Im calling for David Geffen. I believe you had drinks with him at the Plug Awards last year. You made quite an impression on David. The Plugs were the Oscars of the indie business Geffen had an ongoing interest in indie rock and had put in an appearance. I recalled being in a group gathered around him at the bar, but I did not recall making an impression. He made a heck of an impression on me, I said. Pleasant laughter, so perfect it sounded canned. David sends his regards, said Wine. Hes sorry he couldnt contact you personally, but hes going to be tied up all day. What can I do for you? David listened to that new artist of yours. Joe Stanky? In all the years Ive known him, Ive never heard him react like he did this morning. He liked it? He didnt like it... Wine paused for dramatic effect. He was knocked out. I wondered how Geffen had gotten hold of the ep . Mine not to reason why, I ;gured. Wine told me that Geffen wanted to hear more. Did I have any other recorded material? Ive got nine songs on tape, I said. But some of them are raw. David likes raw. Can we get a dupe? You know... I usually prefer to push out an album or two before I look for a deal. Listen, Vernon. Were not going to let you go to the poorhouse on this. Thats a relief. In fact, David wanted me to sound you out about our bringing you in under the Dreamworks umbrella. Stunned, I said, In what capacity? Ill let David tell you about that. Hell call you in a day or two. Hes had his eye on you for some time. I envisioned Sauron spying from his dark tower. I had a dim view of corporate life and I wasnt as overwhelmed by this news as Wine had likely presumed I would be. After the call ended, however, I felt as if I had modeled for Michaelangelos Sistine Chapel mural, the man about to be touched by Gods billionaire- ish ;nger. My impulse was to tell Stanky, but I didnt want his ego to grow more swollen. I called Andrea and learned she would be in court until mid-afternoon. I started to call Rudy, then thought it would be too easy for him to refuse me over the phone. Better to yank him out of his cave and buy him lunch. I wanted to bust his chops about missing the ep release and I needed to talk with someone face-to-face, to analyze this thing that was happening around Stanky. Had the buzz Id generated about him taken wings on a magical current? The idea that David Geffen was planning to call seemed preposterous. Was Stanky that good? Was I? What, if anything, did Geffen have in mind? Rudy, who enjoyed playing Yoda to my Luke, would help place these questions in coherent perspective. When I reached Rudys of;ce, I found Gwen on the phone. Her make-up, usually perfect, was in need of repair; it appeared that she had been crying. I dont know, she said with strain in her voice. Youll have to... No. I really dont know. I pointed to the inner of;ce and mouthed, Is he in? She signalled me to wait. Ive got someone here, she said into the phone. Ill have to... Yes. Yes, I will let you know. All right. Yes. Goodbye. She hung up and, her chin quivering, tried several times to speak, ;nally blurting out, Im so sorry. Hes dead. Rudys dead. I think I may have laughed I made some sort of noise, some expression of denial, yet I knew it was true. My face <ooded with heat and I went back a step, as if the words had thrown me off-balance. Gwen said that Rudy had committed suicide early that morning. He had according to his wife worked in the of;ce until after midnight, then driven home and taken some pills. The phone rang again. I left Gwen to deal with it and stepped into the inner of;ce 191 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE to call Beth. I sat at Rudys desk, but that felt wrong, so I walked around with the phone for a while. Rudy had been a depressed guy, but hell everyone in Black William was depressed about something. I thought that I had been way more depressed than Rudy. He seemed to have it together. Nice wife, healthy income, kids. Sure, he was a for-shit architect in a for- shit town, and not doing the work he wanted, but that was no reason to kill yourself. Standing by the drafting table, I saw his waste basket was crammed with torn paper. A crawly sensation rippled the skin between my shoulderblades. I dumped the shreds onto the table. Rudy had done a compulsive job of tearing them up, but I could tell they were pieces of his comic strip. Painstakingly, I sorted through them and managed to reassemble most of a frame. In it, a pair of black hands (presumably belonging to a mineworker) were holding a gobbet of pork, as though in offering; above it <oated a spiky white ball. The ball had extruded a longish spike to penetrate the pork and the image gave the impression that the ball was sucking meat through a straw. I stared at the frame, trying to interpret it, to tie the image in with everything that had happened, but I felt a vibration pass through my body, like the heavy, impersonal signal of Rudys death, and I imagined him on the bathroom <oor, foam on his mouth, and I had to sit back down. Beth, when I called her, didnt feel like talking. I asked if there was anything I could do, and she said if I could ;nd out when the police were going to release the body, she would appreciate it. She said she would let me know about the funeral, sounding as had Gwen like someone who was barely holding it together. Hearing that in her voice caused me to leak a few tears and, when she heard me start to cry, she quickly got off the phone, as if she didnt want my lesser grief to pollute her own, as if Rudy dying had broken whatever bond there was between us. I thought this might be true. I called the police and, after speaking to a functionary, reached a detective whom I knew, Ross Peloblanco, who asked my connection to the deceased. Friend of the family, I said. Im calling for his wife. Huh, said Peloblanco, his attention distracted by something in his of;ce. So when are you going to release him? I think they already done the autopsy. Theres been a bunch of suicides lately and the ME put a rush on this one. How manys a bunch? Oops! Did I say that? Dont worry about it. The me s a whack job. Hes batshit about conspiracy theories. So... can I tell the funeral home to come now? Peloblanco sneezed, said, Shit!, and then went on: Bowen did some work for my mom. She said he was a real gentleman. You never know whats going on with people, do ya? He blew his nose. I guess you can come pick him up whenever. The waters of the Polozny never freeze. No matter how cold it gets or how long the cold lasts, they are kept warm by a cocktail of pollutants and, though the river may <ow more sluggishly in winter, it continues on its course, black and gelid. There is something statutory about its poisonous constancy. It seems less river than regulation, a divine remark rendered daily into law, engraving itself upon the world year after year until its long meander has eaten a crack that runs the length and breadth of creation, and its acids and oxides drain into the void. Between the viewing and the funeral, in among the various consoling talks and offerings of condolence, I spent a great deal of time gazing at the Polozny, sitting on the stoop and smoking, enduring the cold wind, brooding over half-baked profundities. The muted roaring of the mill surrounded me, as did dull thuds and clunks and distant car horns that seemed to issue from the gray sky, the sounds of business as usual, the muf<ed 192 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES engine of commerce. Black William must be, I thought, situated on the ass-end of Purgatory, the place where all those overlooked by God were kept. The dead river dividing a dying landscape, a dingy accumulation of snow melting into slush on its banks; the mill, a Hell of red brick with its chimney smoke of souls; the scatters of crows winging away from lea:ess trees; old Mrs. Gables two doors down, tottering out to the sidewalk, peering along the street for the mail, for a glimpse of her sons maroon Honda Civic, for some hopeful thing, then, her hopes dashed, laboriously climbing her stairs and going inside to sit alone and count the ticks of her clock: these were evidences of Gods fabulous absence, His careless abandonment of a destiny-less town to its several griefs. I scoffed at those who professed to understand grief, who deemed it a simple matter, a painful yet comprehensible transition, and partitioned the process into stages (my trivial imagination made them into gaudy stagecoaches painted different colors) in order to enable its victims to adapt more readily to the house rules. After the initial shock of Rudys suicide had waned, grief overran me like a virus, it swarmed, breeding pockets of weakness and fever, eventually receding at its own pace, on its own terms, and though it may have been subject to an easy compartmentalization Anger, Denial, et al that kind of analysis did not address its nuances and could not remedy the thousand small bitternessses that grief in:ames and encysts. On the morning of the funeral, when I voiced one such bitterness, complaining about how Beth had treated me since Rudy died, mentioning the phone call, pointing out other incidences of her intolerance, her rudeness in pushing me away, Andrea who had joined me on the stoop set me straight. Shes not angry at you, Andrea said. Shes jealous. You and Rudy... that was a part of him she never shared, and when she sees you, she doesnt know how to handle it. You think? I used to feel that way. About me and Rudy She nodded. And about the business. I dont feel that way now. I guess Im older. I understand you and Rudy had a guy thing and I didnt need to know everything about it. But Beths dealing with a lot right now. Shes oversensitive and she feels... jilted. She feels that Rudy abandoned her for you. A little, anyway. So shes jilting you. Shell get over it, or she wont. People are funny like that. Sometimes resentments are all that hold them together. You shouldnt take it personally. I re9tted my gaze to the Polozny, more-or- less satis9ed by what she had said. We live on the banks of the River Styx, I said after a while. At least it has a Styx-ian gravitas. Stygian, she said. I turned to her, inquiring. Thats the word you wanted. Stygian. Oh... right. A silence marked by the passing of a mail truck, its tire chains grinding the asphalt and spitting slush; the driver waved. I think I know why Rudy did it, I said, and told her what I had found in the of9ce waste basket. More than anything he wanted to do creative work. When he 9nally did, it gave him nightmares. It messed with his head. He must have built it into this huge thing and... I tapped out a cigarette, stuck it in my mouth. It doesnt sound like much of a reason, but I can relate. Thats why it bites my ass to see guys like Stanky who do something creative every time they take a piss. I want to write those songs. I want to have the acclaim. It gets me thinking, someday I might wind up like Rudy. Thats not you. You said it yourself you get pissed off. You 9nd someplace else to put your energy. She rumpled my hair. Buck up, Sparky. Youre going to live a long time and have lots worse problems. It crossed my mind to suggest that the stars might have played some mysterious part in Rudys death, and to mention the rash of suicides (9ve, I had learned); but all that seemed unimportant, dwarfed by the death itself. At one juncture during that weekend, 193 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE Stanky venture forth from tv -land to offer his sympathies. He may have been sincere, but I didnt trust his sincerity it had an obsequious quality and I believed he was currying favor, paving the way so he might hit me up for another advance. Pale and shivering, hunched against the cold; the greasy collar of his jacket turned up; holding a Camel in two nicotine- stained ?ngers; his doughy features cinched in expression of exaggerated dolor: I hated him at that moment and told him I was taking some days off, that he could work on the album or go play with his high school sychophants. Its up to you, I said. Just dont bother me about it. He made no reply, but the front door slamming informed me that he had not taken it well. On Wednesday, Patty Prole (nee Patricia Hand), the leader of the Swimming Holes, a mutual friend of mine and Rudys who had come down from Pittsburgh for the funeral, joined me and Andrea for dinner at McGuigans, and, as we strolled past the park, I recalled that more than a month -thirty- four days, to be exact had elapsed since I had last seen the stars. The crowd had dwindled to about a hundred-and-?fty (Stanky and Liz among them). They stood in clunps around the statue, clinging to the hope that Black William would appear; though judging by their general listlessness, the edge of their anticipation had been blunted and they were gathered there because they had nothing better to do. The van belonging to the science people from Pitt remained parked at the southeast corner of the library, but I had heard they were going to pull up stakes if nothing happened in the next day or two. McGuigans was a bubble of heat and light and happy conversation. A Joe Henry song played in the background; Pitt basketball was on every tv . I had not thought the whole town dressed in mourning, but the jolly, bustling atmosphere came as something of a shock. They had saved the back booth for us and, after drinking for a half-hour or so, I found myself enjoying the evening. Patty was a slight, pretty, blue-eyed blond in her late twenties, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans. To accomodate the sober purpose of this trip home, she had removed her visible piercings. With the majority of her tattoos covered by the jacket, she looked like an ordinary girl from western Pennsylvania and nothing like the exotic, pantherine creature she became on stage. When talk turned to Rudy, Andrea and I embraced the subject, offering humerous anecdotes and fond reminiscence, but Patty, though she laughed, was subdued. She toyed with her fork, idly stabbing holes in the label on her beer bottle, and at length revealed the reason for her moodiness. Did Rudy ever tell you we had a thing? she asked. He alluded to it, I said. But well after the fact. Years. I bet you guys talked all about it when youre up at Kemptons Pond. He said you used to talk about the local talent when youre up there sometimes. Andrea elbowed me, not too sharply, in mock reproval. As I remember, the conversation went like this, I said. We were talking about bands, the Swimming Holes came up, and he mentioned hed had an affair with you. And I said, Oh, yeah? And Rudy said, Yeah. Then after a minute he said, Pattys a great girl. Thats what he said? We had an affair? Thats the word he used? I believe so. He didnt say he was banging me or like that? No. And thats all he said? Patty stared at me sidelong, as if trying to penetrate layers of deception. Thats all I remember. I bet you tried to get more out of him. I know you. You were hungering for details. I cant promise I wasnt, I said. I just dont remember. You know Rudy. He was a private guy. You could beat on him with a shovel and not get a thing out of him. Im surprised he told me that much. She held my gaze a moment longer. Shit! 194 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I cant tell if youre lying. Hes not, said Andrea. You got him scoped, huh? Hes dead to rights. Patty grinned and leaned against the wall, putting one fashionably booted foot up on the bench. Rudy and me... It was a couple weeks right before the band left town. It was probably stupid. Sometimes I regret it, but sometimes I dont. Andrea asked how it happened, and Patty, who obviously wanted to talk about it, said, You know. Like always. We started hanging out, talking. Finally I asked him straight out, Wheres this going, Rudy? Because we only had a couple of weeks and I wanted to know if it was all in my head. He got this peculiar look on his face and kissed me. Like I said, it didnt last long, but it was deep, you know. Thats why Im glad Rudy didnt tell everyone how it was in the sack. Its a dumb thing to worry about, but... Her voice had developed a tremor. I guess thats what Im down to. You loved him, said Andrea. Yeah. I did. Patty shook off the blues and sat up. There wasnt anywhere for it to go. Hed never leave his kids and I was going off to Pittsburgh. I hated his wife for a while. I didnt feel guilty about it. But now I look at her... She was never part of our scene. With Vernon and Rudy and the bands. She lived off to the side of it all. It wasnt like that with you, Andrea. You had your law thing going, but when you were around, you were into it. You were one of the girls. But Beth was so totally not into it. She still cant stand us. And now it feels like I stole something from her. That really sucks. Platitudes occured to me, but I kept quiet. Andrea stirred at my side. Sometimes it pays to be stupid, Patty said gloomily. I had a moment when the light and happy babble of the bar were thrust aside by the gonging thought that my friend was dead, and I didnt entirely understand what she meant, but I knew she was right. Patty snagged a passing waitress. Can I get a couple of eggs over? she asked. I know youre not serving breakfast, but thats all I eat is breakfast. She winked broadly at the waitress. Most important meal of the day, so I make every meal breakfast. The waitress began to explain why eggs were impossible, but Patty cut in, saying, You dont want me to starve, do ya? You must have a couple of eggs back there. Some fries and bacon. Toast. Were huge tippers, I swear. Exasperated, the waitress said shed see if the cook would do it. I know you can work him, honey, Patty said. Tell him to make the eggs dippy, okay? We left McGuigans shortly after eight, heading for Corkys, a workingmans bar where we could do some serious drinking, but as we came abreast of the statue, Patty tapped said, Hey, lets go talk to Stanky. Stanky and Liz were sitting on the base of the statue; Pin and the other boys were cross-legged at their feet, like students attending their master. The crowd had thinned and was down, Id guess, to about a hundred and twenty; a third of that number were clustered around the science van and the head scientist, who was hunched over a piece of equipment set up on the edge of the library lawn. I lagged behind as we walked over and noticed Liz stiffen at the sight of Patty. The boys gazed adoringly at her. Stanky cast me a spiteful glance. I heard your ep , man, Patty said. Very cool. Stanky muttered, Yeah, thanks, and stared at her breasts. Like me, Patty was a sucker for talent, used to the ways of musicians, and she ignored this ungracious response. She tried to draw him out about the music, but Stanky had a bug up his ass about something and wouldnt give her much. The statue loomed above, throwing a shadow across us; the horses head, with its rolling eyes and mouth jerked open by the reins, had been rendered more faithfully 195 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE than had Black Williams face... or else he was a man whose inner crudeness had coarsened and simpli>ed his features. In either case, he was one ugly mother, his shoulderlength hair framing a maniacal mask. Seeing him anew, I would not have described his expression as laughing or alarmed, but might have said it possessed a ferocious exultancy. Patty began talking to the boys about the Swimming Holes upcoming tour, and Andrea was speaking with Pin. Stanky oozed over to me, Liz at his shoulder, and said, We laid down a new song this afternoon. Oh, yeah? I said. Its decent. Misery Loves Company. In context, it wasnt clear, until Stanky explained it, that this was a title. A guy from Dreamworks called, he said. William Wine. Yeah, a few days back. Did Kiwanda tell you about it? No, he called today. Kiwanda was on her break and I talked to him. Whatd he say? He said they loved the tape and David Geffens going to call. He squinched up his face, as if summoning a mighty effort. How come you didnt tell me about the tape? About him calling before? This, I understood, was the thing that had been bothering him. Because its business, I said. Im not going to tell you about every tickle we get. Every phone call. He squinted at me meanly. Why not? Do you realize how much of this just goes away? These people are like ?ies. They buzz around, but they hardly ever land. Now the guys called twice, that makes it a little more interesting. Ill give it a day or two, and call him back. Ordinarily, Stanky would have retreated from confrontation, but with Liz bearing witness (I inferred by her determined look that she was his partner in this, that she had egged him on), his macho was at stake. I ought to know everything thats going on, he said. Nothings going on. When something happens, Ill tell you. Its my career, he said in a tone that conveyed petulance, de>ance, and the notion that he had been wronged. I want to be in on it, you know. Your career. I felt suddenly liberated from all restraint. Your career consists of my efforts on your behalf and three hours on-stage in Nowhere, Pennsylvania. Ive fed you, Ive given you shelter, money, a band. And now you want me to cater to your stupid whims? To run downstairs and give you an update on every little piece of Stanky gossip because itll gratify your ego? So you can tell your minions here how great you are? Fuck you! You dont like how Im handling things, clear the hell out of my house! I walked off several paces and stood on the curb, facing the library. That rough cube of Pennsylvania granite accurately re?ected my mood. Patches of snow dappled the lawn. There was a minor hubub near the science truck, but I was enraged and paid it no mind. Andrea came up next to me and took my arm. Easy, big fella, she said. That assholes been under my roof for what? Two months? It feels like two years. His stink permeates every corner of my life. Its like living with a goat! I know, she said. But its business. I wondered if she was hammering home an old point, but her face gave no sign of any such intent; in fact, her neutral expression dissolved into one of befuddlement. She was staring at the library, and when I turned in that direction, I saw the library had vanished. An immense rectangle a window with uneven edges had been chopped out of the wall of the world, out of the night, its limits demarked by trees, lawn, and sky, and through it poured a ?ood of blackness, thicker and more sluggish than the Polozny. Thick like molasses or hot tar. It seemed to splash down, to crest in a wave, and hold in that shape. Along the top of the crest, I could see lesser, half-de>ned shapes, vaguely human, and I had the thought that the wave was extruding an army from its substance, producing a host of creatures who appeared to be men. The 196 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES temperature had dropped sharply. There was a chill, chemical odor and, close above our heads (4ve feet, Id estimate), the stars were coasting. That was how they moved. They glided as though following an unseen track, then were shunted sideways or diagonally or backward. Their altitude never changed, and I suspect now that they were prevented from changing it by some physical limitation. They did not resemble stars as much as they did Crazy Eds enhancement: ten or twelve globes studded with longish white spines, the largest some eight feet in diameter, glowing brightly enough to illumine the faces of the people beneath them. I could not determine if they were made of 5esh or metal or something less knowable. They gave forth high-frequency squeaks that reminded me, in their static quality, of the pictographs in Rudys cartoons, the language of the stars. Im not sure how long we stood there, but it could not have been more than seconds before I realized that the wave crest was not holding, it was inching toward us across the lawn. I caught Andreas hand and tried to run. She screamed (a yelp, really), and others screamed and tried to run. But the wave 5owed around us, moving now like black quicksilver, in an instant transforming the center of town into a 5ood plain, marooning people on islands of solid ground bounded by a waist-high 5ood that was coursing swiftly past. As Andrea and I clung together, I saw Stanky and Liz, Pin and Patty, the rest of the kids, isolated beside the statue there were dozens of such groupings throughout the park. It seemed a black net of an extremely coarse weave had been thrown over us all and we were standing up among its strands. We stared at each other, uncertain of our danger; some called for help. Then something rose from the blackness directly in front of me and Andrea. A man, I think, and fully seven feet tall. An African negro by the scari4cations on his face. His image not quite real it appeared to be both embedded in the tarry stuff and shifting over its surface, as if he had been rotoscoped. At the same time, a star came to hover over us, so that my terror was divided. I had from it an impression of eagerness the feeling washed down upon me; I was drenched in it and then, abruptly, of disinterest, as if it found Andrea and I unworthy of its attention. With the onset of that disinterest, the black man melted away into the tar and the star passed on to another group of stranded souls. The largest groups were those two clustered about the science van. Figures began to sprout from the tar around them, and not all of these were men. Some were spindly as eels, others squat and malformed, but they were too far away for me to assign them a more particular identity. Stars hovered above the two groups, and the black 4gures lifted them one by one, kicking and screaming (screams now issued from every corner of the park), and held them up to the stars. They did not, as in Rudys cartoons, suck in the meat through one of their spikes; they never touched their victims. A livid arc, 4ery black in color, leaped between star and human, visible for a split- second, and then the 4gure that had lifted the man or woman, dropped him or her carelessly to the ground and melted back into the 5ood, and the star moved on. Andrea buried her face in my shoulder, but I could not turn away, trans4xed by the scene. And as I watched these actions repeated again and again the 4gure melting up, lifting someone to a star, and then discarding him, the victim still alive, rolling over, clutching an injured knee or back, apparently not much the worse for wear I realized the stars were grazing, that this was their harvest, a reaping of seed sown. They were harvesting our genius, a genius they had stimulated, and they were attracted to a speci4c yield that manifested in an arc of 4ery black. The juice of the poet, the canniness of the inventor, the guile of a villian. They failed to harvest the entire crop, only that gathered in the park. The remainder of those affected would go on to create more garden tools and foundation garments and tax plans, and the stars would continue on their way, a path that now and again led them through the center of Black William. I must confess that, amid the 197 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE sense of relief accompanying this revelation, I felt an odd twinge of envy when I realized that the genius of love was not to their taste. How did I know these things? I think when the star hovered above us, it initiated some preliminary process, one incidental to the feelings of eagerness and disinterest it projected, and, as it prepared to take its nutrient, its treasure (I havent a clue as to why they harvested us, whether we were for them a commodity or sustenance or something else entire), we shared a brief communion. As proof, I can only say that Andrea holds this same view and there is a similar consensus, albeit with slight variances, among all those who stood beneath the stars that night. But at the moment the question was not paramount. I turned toward the statue. The storefronts beyond were obscured by a black rectangle, like the one that had eclipsed the library, and this gave me to believe that the 7ood was pouring off into an unguessable dimension, though it still ran deep around us. Stanky and Liz had climbed onto the statue and were clinging to Black Williams leg and saddlehorn respectively. Patty was leaning against the base, appearing dazed. Pin stood beside her, taking photographs with his cell phone. One of the kids was crying, and his friends were busy consoling him. I called out, asking if everyone was all right. Stanky waved and then the statues double reared from the 7ood it rose up slowly, the image of a horse and a rider with 7owing hair, blacker than the age- darkened bronze of its likeness. They were so equal in size and posture and stillness, it was as if I were looking at the statue and its living shadow. Its back was to me, and I cannot say if it were laughing. And then the shadow extended an arm and snatched Stanky from his perch. Plucked him by the collar and held him high, so that a star could extract its due, a 7ash of black energy. And when that was done, it did not let him fall, but began to sink back into the 7ood, Stanky still in its grasp. I thought it would take him under the tar, that they would both be swallowed and Stankys future was to be that of a dread 6gure rising blackly to terrify the indigents in another sector of the plenum. But Black William or the agency that controlled him must have had a change of heart and, at the last second, just as Stankys feet were about to merge with that tarry surface, dropped him clear of the 7ood, leaving him inert upon the pavement. The harvest continued several minutes more (the event lasted twenty-seven minutes in all) and then the 7ood receded, again with quicksilver speed, to form itself into a wave that was poised to splash down somewhere on the far side of that black window. And when the window winked out, when the storefronts snapped back into view, the groaning that ensued was much louder and more articulated than that wed heard a month previously. Not a sound of holy woe, but of systemic stress, as if the atoms that composed the park and its surround were complaining about the insult they had incurred. All across the park, people ran to tend the injured. Andrea went to Liz, who had fallen from the statue and tearfully declared her ankle broken. Patty said she was dizzy and had a headache, and asked to be left alone. I knelt beside Stanky and asked if he was okay. He lay propped on his elbows, gazing at the sky. I wanted to see, he said vacantly. They said... They? I said. You mean the stars? He blinked, put a hand to his brow. As ever, his emotions were writ large, yet I dont believe the look of shame that washed over his face was an attempt to curry favor or promote any agenda. I believe his shame was informed by a rejection such as Andrea and I experienced, but of a deeper kind, more explicit and relating to an opportunity lost. I made to help him up, intending to question him further; but he shook me off. He had remembered who he was, or at least who he had been pretending to be. Stanky the Great. A man of delicate sensibilities whom I had offended by my casual usage and gross maltreatment. His face hardened, becoming toadlike as he summoned every ounce of his Liliputian rage. He rolled up to his knees, then 198 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES got to his feet. Without another word to me, he arranged his features into a look of abiding concern and hurried to give comfort to his Liz. In the wider world, Black William has come to be known as that town full of whackos or the place where they had that hallucination, for as with all inexplicable things, the stars and our interaction with them have been dismissed by the reasonable and responsible among us, relegated to the status of an aberration, irrelevant to the big picture, to the roar of practical matters with which we are daily asailed. I myself, to an extent, have dismissed it, yet my big picture has been enlarged somewhat. Of an evening, I will sit upon the library steps and cast my mind out along the path of the stars and wonder if they were metaphoric or literal presences, nomads or machines, farmers or a guerilla force, and I will question what use that black =ash had for them, and I will ponder whether they were themselves evil or recruited evil men to assist them in their purpose simply because they were suited to the task. I subscribe to the latter view; otherwise, I doubt Stanky would have wanted to go with them... unless they offered a pleasureable reward, unless they embodied for him the promise of a sublime perversion in exchange for his service, an eternal tour of duty with his brothers-in-arms, dreaming in that tarry =ood. And what of their rejection of him? Was it because he was insuf<ciently evil? Too petty in his cruelty? Or could it have been he lacked the necessary store of some brain chemical? The universe is all whys and maybes. All meanings coincide, all answers are condensed to one or none. Nothing yields to logic. Since the coming of the stars, Black William has undergone a great renewal. Although in the immediate aftermath there was a hue and cry about =eeing the town, shutting it down, calmer voices prevailed, pointing to the fact that there had been no fatalities, unless one counted the suicides, and but a single disappearance (Colvin Jacobs, who was strolling through the park that fateful night), and it could be better understood, some maintained, in light of certain impending charges against him (embezzlement, fraud, solicitation). Stay calm, said the voices. A few scrapes and bruises, a smattering of nervous breakdowns thats no reason to =ing up your hands. Lets think this over. Colvins a canny sort, not one to let an opportunity pass. At this very moment he may be developing a skin cancer on Varadero Beach or Ipanema (though it is my belief that he may be sojourning in a more unlikely place). And while the town thought it over, the tourists began to arrive by the busload. Drawn by Pins photographs, which had been published around the world, and later by his best- selling book (co-authored by the editor of the Gazette, they came from Japan, from Europe, from Punxsutawney and Tuckhannock, from every quarter of the globe, a =ood of tourists that resolved into a steady =ow and demanded to be housed, fed, T-shirted, souvenired, and swindled. They needed theories upon which to hang their faith, so theory-making became a cottage industry and theories abounded, both supernatural and quasi-scienti<c, each having their own battery of proponents and debunkers. A proposal was =oated in the city council that a second statue be erected to commemorate Black Williams visitation, but the ladies of the Heritage Committee fought tooth and nail to perserve the integrity of the original, and now can be seen twice a year lavishing upon him a vigorous scrubbing. Businesses thrived, mine included this due to the minor celebrity I achieved and the sale of Stanky and his album to Warner Brothers (David Geffen never called). The album did well and the single, Misery Loves Company, climbed to No. 44 on the Billboard charts. I have no direct contact with Stanky, but learned from Liz, who came to the house six months later to pick up her clothes (those abandoned when Stanky =ed my house in a huff), that he was writing incidental music for the movies, a job that requires no genius. She 199 S TARS S EEN T HROUGH S TONE carried tales, too, of their nasty break-up, of Stankys increasing vileness, his masturbatory displays of ego. He has not written a single song since he left Black William the stars may have drained more from him than that which they bred, and perhaps the fact that he was almost taken has something to do with his creative slump. Whatever his story, I think he has found his true medium and is becoming a minor obscenity slithering among the larger obscenities that serve a different kind of star, anonymous beneath the black =ood of the Hollywood sewer. The following March, I went <shing with Andrea at Kempton Pond. She was reluctant to join me, assuming that I intended to make her a stand-in for Rudy, but I assured her this was not the case and told her she might enjoy an afternoon out of the of<ce, some quiet time together. It was a clear day, and cold. Pockets of snow lay in the folds and crinkles of the Bittersmiths, but the crests were bare, and there was a deeper accumulation on the banks than when Rudy and I had <shed the pond in November. We had to clear ourselves a spot on which to sit. The sun gilded the birch trunks, but the waters of the pond were as Stygian and mysterious as ever. We cast out our lines and chatted about doings in her of<ce, my latest projects Lesion (black metal) and a post-rock band I had convinced to call themselves Same Difference. I told her about some loser tapes that had come my way, notably a gay Christian rap out<t with a song entitled Cruisin For Christ (While Searching For The Heavenly City). Then we fell silent. Staring into the pond, at the dark rock walls and oily water, I did not populate the depths with fantasies, but thought instead of Rudy. They were memorial thoughts untainted by grief, memories of things said and done. I had such a profound sense of him, I imagined if I turned quickly enough, I would have a glimpse of a bulky <gure in a parka, wool cap jammed low on his brow, red-cheeked and puf<ng steam; yet when I did turn, the <gure in the parka and wool cap was more clearly de<ned, ivory pale and slender, her face a living cameo. I brushed a loose curl from her eyes. Touching her cheek warmed my <ngertip. This is kind of nice, she said, and smiled. Its so quiet. Told you youd like it, I said. I do. She jiggled her line. Youll never catch anything that way. I demonstrated proper technique. Twitch the line side-to-side. Amused, she said, I really doubt Im going to catch anything. What were you and Rudy batting? One for a thousand? Yeah, but you never know. I dont think I want to catch anything if it resembles that thing he had mounted. You should let out more llne, too. She glanced at me wryly, but did as I suggested. A cloud darkened the bank and I pictured how the two of us would appear to God, if God were in His of<ce, playing with His Gameboy: tiny animated <sher folk hunched over their lines, shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting for a tiny monster to breach, unmindful of any menace from above. Another cloud shadowed us. A ripple moved across the pond, passing so slowly, it made me think that the waters of the Polozny, when upthrust into these holes, were squeezed iinto a sludgy distillate. Bare twigs clattered in a gust of wind. All these years, Andrea said. All the years and now <ve months... Yeah? Everyday, therell be two or three times when I see you, like just now, when I look up and see you, and its like a blow... a physical blow that leaves me all ga-ga. I want to drop everything and curl up with you. Me, too, I said. She hesitated. It just worries me. Weve had this conversation, I said. I dont mind having it again, but were not going to resolve anything. Well never <gure it out. I know. She jiggled her line, forgetting to twitch it. I keep thinking Ill <nd a new angle, but all l come up with is more stupidity. S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I was thinking the other day, it was like a fairy tale. How falling back in love protected us, like a charm. She heel-kicked the bank. Its frustrating when everything you think seems absurd and true all at once. Its a mystery. Right. I go there myself sometimes, I said. I worry about whether well fall out of love... if what we feel is unnatural. Then I worry if worrying about its unnatural. Because, you know, its such a weird thing to be worried about. Then I think, hey, its perfectly natural to worry over something you care about, whether its weird or not. Round and round. We might as well go with the 6ow. No doubt well still be worrying about it when were too old to screw. Thats pretty old. Yep, I said. Ancient. Maybe its good we worry. Then after a pause, she said. Maybe we didnt worry enough the 5rst time. A second ripple edged the surface, like a miniature slow tsunami. The light faded and dimmed. A degree of tension seemed to leave Andreas body. You want to go to Russia? she asked. Ive got this conference in late May. I have to give a paper and be on some panels. Its only four days, but I could take some vacation. I thought about it. Kiwandas pretty much in control of things. Would we have to stay in Russia? Dont you want to go clubbing in Moscow? Meet new people? Ill wear a slutty dress and act friendly with strangers. You can save me from the white slavers Im sure Ill attract white slavers. Ill do my best, I said. But some of those slavers are tough. You can take em! She rubbed the side of her nose. Why? Where do you want to go? Bucharest. Why there? Lots of reasons. Potential for vampires. Cheap. But reason number one nobody goes there. Good point. We get enough of crowds around here. We fell silent again. The eastern slopes of the Bittersmiths were drowning in shadow, aquiring a simpli5ed look, as of worn black teeth that still bore traces of enamel. But the light had richened, the tree trunks appeared to have been dipped in old gold. Andrea straightened and peered down into the hole. I had a nibble, she said excitedly. I watched the surface. The water remained undisturbed, lifeless and listless, but I felt a presence lurking beneath, a wise and deliberate 5sh, a grotesque, yet beautiful in the fact of its survival, and more than a murky promise it would rise to us this day or some other. Perhaps it would speak a single word, perhaps merely die. Andrea leaned against me, eager to hook it, and asked what she should do. Its probably just a current, I said, but advised her to let out more line. 202 203 I NEVER THOUGHT THEYD BE LOOKING FOR ME WHEN THE media crew came through the restaurant door. I didnt even look up from the pot-sink. I mean, why should I? The crowded little 7oor out there, with its 6fteen tables, was the hot new review in the Times these days, so there was always somebody with a name out there. I was never sure if it was Antonios pricey wild-harvest-only menu, or if it was just that there were so few tables. It was a bad night anyway. The new salad girl was trying hard not to look at my face when she had to come back to my station. And Presidio and the crew kept sending her back here. It was kind of an initiation thing. I never got the joke. It wasnt like I didnt already know what any womans reaction was, looking at me. So I was up to my elbows in saffron-colored dishwater and paella pans when all of a sudden theres light and more noise and bodies than usual in the crowded barely-legal little kitchen. And I turn around, dripping greasy yellow suds and theres this woman with a mic and a couple of walking-camera guys all rigged out in the relay-goggles, getting the human eye view. And the woman is pointing the mic at me and babbling something in a loud, bright, talking-head voice. Something about technology and Doctor somebody, and how do I feel? I feel like crap. I dont own a mirror, not even to shave. I dont need one. Any time I want to see my face, I just have to look at somebody. I get a nice clear re7ection of the minimum rebuild work that National Health did on me. Not pretty. Be glad you never ran into me on a dark night. And Im used to it, I mean, I cant even remember what I looked SKIN DEEP Mary Rosenblum Illustrated by Danijel Zezelj 204 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES like before the 5re, but... well, I guess it still bugs me. And Im looking at the camera goggles and thinking I wont even be able to surf the news streams for at least twenty four hours. So, Eric, tell us how you feel about having a normal face again! Are you excited? Has Doctor Olson-Bernard given you an idea of how long it will take? Olson-Bernard. The news-heads words 5nally make it through the fog. Hes the dude over at the University hospital. I 5lled out the usual forms for some kind of new arti5cial skin graft an experimental cloning thing, or something. And there were thirty other people there, too, and a couple were as bad as me, and I guess I just put it out of my head. Ive applied for this kind of thing before, but they always tell me that the damage went too deep and you just cant rebuild. But I still go. Doctor... I say and I know I sound like it wasnt just my face that got cooked. The news-head turns with a bright, perfect Euro phenotype smile to the cameras eyes and starts this spew about the doctor and poor, pitiful me, and how the good doctor is going to give me back my life and all that. I stop hearing her, because theres this hum in my ears and I can feel the pressure of all the eyes, Rinco, Hairy, Spider, and all these guys who look at me every night, but now theyre staring like they never saw me before, and the chefs, too, even Domino, the one who groped me that once, and the waitresses, and even a couple of customers looking over their shoulders from the dining room. So how do you feel? News-head jabs her mic at me like its a police prod. I... wouldnt know. She is disappointed. Antonio 5nally tells me, kind of testy, to go home just so he can get back to serving dinner. Which is okay with me, because my face feels hard as plastic from all the stares. I tell Presidio, loudly, that Im going to take a leak, then hop the service elevator to the back entrance and out into the alley, just in case the medias still hanging around. Its raining and the lights are bleeding red and green and yellow into the puddles and everybody has umbrellas or hats pulled down low and the taxis and bicycle rickshaws are all over the place and the cold New York smelling rain softens my plastic face as I head for the train. I dont even get a second glance from the bored Security behind the scanners as I reach the platform and the car is almost empty for once. In my walk-up, my online is shimmering with my urgent mail screen a storm hammering the Hawaiian coast, all gray waves, foam, and shredding palm trees. Its daturk, I bet and sure enough, when I sit down in front and touch in, her words start scrolling across the screen doubletime. ure all over the newstreams sweetie guess its a slow week and miniature 5reworks explode on the screen which is daturk laughing. Then she runs a chunk of stream at me, and before I can blank it, I get to see myself backed up against the pot sink, looking about as cornered as an alley dog. I havent looked at my face for a long time and the camera light or the angle makes it look bigger than real, 6at and a glossy sickly white like melting candle wax, with stubs for ears, no hair, holes where the nose ought to be and a twisted grimace. I feel every bite of the chicken curry that Antonio fed the staff tonight. ges that bigtime doc gonna x your face good as new. Theres a pause and my screen shows me swirling gray clouds above a mirror still lake, which is daturk being thoughtful. hes for real i checked go for it And daturk is gone leaving a scatter of pink blossoms that drift across the dark screen and settle like snow at the bottom. I dont know what the hell that means and I blank my screen, pissed because I need to be pissed more than that Im really mad at daturk who is a major presence on the web and an info broker Im guessing and not a real legal one at 205 S KIN D EEP that. But the urgent mail screen comes right back up, so I guess it wasnt daturk at all, and it wasnt. Its a formal letter from the hospital where I did the interview, and I have to do a retina scan before I can read it. In that careful, cover your butt, hard-to- read crap that the legal guys use, the letter tells me that I have been selected to be a participant... and all that stuff. Theres a taxi password for a free ride and Im directed to download a key. I stick a mini cd into the drive and the key burns in. Nine am the letter tells me. Show up at the hospital lobby. Its for real. Im... scared. And thats silly because what the hell have I got to lose? There are a bunch more pages and Im supposed to retina each one after I read it. Theyre full of words and numbers and paragraphs Ive seen before that mean you cant sue me and I snap a retina on each of them without reading a word and send it back. Than I touch up a couple of daturks links, but she doesnt answer, so maybe she picked up that I was pissed or maybe shes doing whatever she does. Its early, but I dont feel like downloading a book, so I call up some music from one of the fringe sites and listen to somebody mixing oud and clarinet and a hot rhythm section with a latin 6avor, no less. Its not great, but its better than dodging the newstreams on the web. The password lets me take one of the sleek new auto cabs so I dont have to put up with a rickshaw driver looking at me in his mirror, and at the hospital door I drop the cd in the tray and my retina lets me right through the security lock. Soon as the inner door closes behind me a yellow arrow lights up on the black matte 6oor at my feet. Follow the yellow brick road, okay Im game. It takes me down a wide hallway, past other zombies shuf6ing along with their eyes on their own arrows, purple, or green, or blue. Darts, 5nally under a wide door made out of some kind of wood- looking material that doesnt feel like wood when I lay my palm on it. Funny. Thats one of the few things I remember from before... sitting with this old guy as he carved at this piece of wood. And he hands it to me, and I feel it like silk, all warm and somehow... alive. It was curvy, I guess, but all I remember is his smile, hair like tufts of white cotton, and that wood like felt like an animals 6ank beneath my hand. Or a womans maybe. I wouldnt know. Mr. Halsey. The receptionist who buzzed me in smiles and shes good, because it barely falters. Or maybe she sees a lot like me. You got our letter. The Doctor is with a patient, would you take a seat? Doctors are always with a patient when you show up, but her voice is warm and that little 6inch I got when I 5rst came in has gone away and I can almost feel her smile. So I smile back... I can sort of do that... and pick up one of the nice handhelds racked by the comfy chairs. It offers a bunch of magazines, some stories by Name authors and even a couple of quick thrillers heavy on the graphics. Not your National Health selection. I touch through them, but the Names Ive read and the thrillers dont thrill me. About the time I touch it off, the door opens and the doctor comes out. Hes not the one who interviewed me. This guy is tall, so that I have to look up when I get to my feet. Hes pretty much your average Euro mongrel type, brown hair, long face, ho hum nose. I always notice faces. Funny. And he doesnt 6inch. He smiles. And he looks at me. Really looks. People dont do that. Their glances skid off my face like leather soles on ice. Meanwhile hes shaking my hand and before I can turn the thinking part of my brain back on, were in his of5ce, which is all carpet and grasspaper on the walls, and a real wood desk about as big as my bed. I want to run my hands over it and I dont. You got my letter. His smile broadens just a hair. Youre a fast reader. I shrug. It could turn out worse? Now he shrugs. My letter. No doctorial our for him. He gets points for that. 206 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Are you willing to undergo the procedure? You understand that its still experimental and although weve repaired more localized damage that is similar in depth of cellular destruction, we havent actually... He falters for the merest instant. Fixed anyone like me, I offer. Helpfully. Belligerently. Okay, Ill admit it. Yes. And his eyes are on me, and theyre grave, not offended by my petty snap. I feel suddenly... small. Im sorry. I look down. Something I dont do much anymore. Whatever you want to do, do. And I am... yes, afraid. I hate the feeling. Flinch as the doc puts his hand on my shoulder, want to slap him off. When was the last time somebody did that? Put his hand on me for no reason? Well, Domino, but that wasnt for no reason and Domino isnt picky. Let me show you something. He nods toward the desk top. It has a holo-projector set into the top and a bright blur materializes above it, coalescing slowly into a human head. Its a kid with a bright smile, the kind you see kids give when Mom or Dad points the camera. He has wispy brown hair and blue eyes and a really cute face and Im looking and this hand closes around my insides and squeezes and all of a sudden I cant breathe any more. Because its me. I know it, and I dont know why I know it, but I do. Hes... pretty. Way off in the distance I feel the docs 7ngers squeezing my shoulder and hear him telling me to sit down, and something bumps the back of my knees and I sort of fall onto a seat, but I cant take my eyes off that kids face. Childrens Services had a photo in their 7le. Ive used a modeling program to age that original to the present. The doc squeezes my shoulder again, and the boys face starts to change and I want to yell stop, but nothing works, so I just sit there frozen and watch him get older. He face lengthens and 7rms up and his hair goes from wispy to a contemporary buzz and the program even adds a diamond stud to one ear lobe. And his eyes change, too. Oh, theyre still a blue thats almost gray, but the expression changes from that happy-kid smile to a look that seems... sad. And I wonder if the programmer meant to do that, or if Im just reading stuff into it that isnt really there. But thats just a trickle of thought, because most of me is... numb. Thats how I would look? Its going to work. His voice is low, gentle, and his hand is still on my shoulder. I cant give you proof, because youre the 7rst case where the damage is this extensive, but I know it. If I didnt know for sure, I would never have asked you. He means it. Oh, God, I hear it in his voice, and that face in front of me is so damn beautiful... Im going to start shaking, or crying, or just explode, burst into a scatter of dust in a minute, and its as if he knows, because he gives my shoulder a 7nal squeeze and steps back. Youll check into the hospital tomorrow, he tells me. Weve already contacted your employer and hes giving you the time off, with a job return guarantee. How... I swallow, try again. How can you... add all that. All the face that isnt there... the ears, nose, lips, eyebrows that I see in that holo. Were using cloned and modi7ed cell strains, he says. Using our computer model of how you should look, well build a scaffold, layer by layer. Thats a three dimensional structure built of microthin layers of a complex mix of biodegradable polyesters loaded with the right enzymes and hormones that trigger cell growth. The scaffold dissolves as the cells grow. We do this kind of thing already, in a big petrie dish to make sheets of graft skin... you know about that. But in a three D scaffold, created in place, the cells differentiate to form the appropriate type of tissues and they form in place. No surgery. No implanting. Your face will simply... grow back. I hear passion in his voice and it helps. It cracks some of this numbness that coats me like ice. He believes in this. Like its God and hes almost touched it. He turns that look on me, and for once, I 207 S KIN D EEP dont see my real face in his eyes. I see that face in the holo. And his belief is hot as summer sun. I will see you tomorrow, he tells me. And well get started. I leave. Fast. Go outside, onto concrete and turn left. Start walking. I walk and its all concrete with buildings and people and I dont really see any of it. If anybody looked at my face, I missed it. But after awhile, the city looks pretty much normal again, new and old, fancy and cheap, all layered on top of each other and some woman with fancy braids does a bad double-take and nearly falls off the curb. I 4gure out where I am, catch the subway, and go back to the walk-up. I 4gure Ill download a book, a new one by one of those hot arab writers, you know, one of those that grew up in the forever war zone and know things that I sure hope I dont ever have to learn, and theyre not popular because they mostly dont like anyone whos not arab, but sometimes, you know, all that anger and hatred makes me jealous. They have someone to hate. Me, I just have a why-did-this-happen wreck, mom and kid, gas tank catches 4re... Act of God? Maybe if I believed in a god I could hate him. Or her. Why am I thinking this tonight? Because Im scared. And I dont know why. Because what I told the doc was true, what have I got to lose? But I feel like Im standing on this cliff and once I jump off, I cant ever get back here. I dont download the book after all. Its Support Night. The reminder pops up on my screen. Its this weekly thing I have to do to keep my Disability. Proves Im working on living with my face. That Im not planning on gunning down tourists in Times Square. I have to go. So I do. Its almost as good as taking drugs. We all sit around in cheap plastic chairs and various people get up to share their bad week, rude fast-foodie, nasty in-laws, un-loving lover and we all make supportive noises. Theres a core thats really into this, emoting and swaying like theyre worshiping this god of dis4gurement, and I bet they could get an Oscar. The rest of us... were just there. But theres one kid I really like. Kitten. Thats what she calls herself. Shes about fourteen, got caught in a gang 4rebomb thing, isnt as bad as me, but hey, shes a girl, and its got to feel worse. She remembers when she was beautiful. I dont. Didnt. Not before today. We say hi. Her eyes are lavender and she always says she worries about me and I think sometimes that she means it. After, I go home and check to see if daturk is around. She isnt, but theres a screen full of rose petals sprinkled over trampled plants with thorns. I dont know. Ask her. I show up at the hospital and my key still works. This time the arrow is orange and it leads me to this desk where a chunky North African type hurries me off to a private waiting room with one chair and a sofa. About ten minutes later, this guy in blue scrubs comes in, doesnt look at me, but smiles so hard I worry about his mouth muscles as he hurries me through the labyrinth of corridors, through doors that swing ominously open into air locks ceilinged with the soft lavender glow of microbe killing ultra- uv . He leaves me in a plastic walled cubicle, hands me the usual disposable hospital open-back and tells me to strip. A nurse shows up a she this time who doesnt look at me either, but at least doesnt smile. She whacks my inner arm with a sprayjector and tells me itll be just a little while. Its a heavy sedative. I start to buckle about thirty seconds after she leaves. Then theres a gurney, kids in green who also dont look at me, and before theyve pushed me 4ve minutes, the ceiling tiles are swimming across my 4eld of vision. I dont think Im going to be there when they plug me into the anaesthesia machine. I want to be there. 208 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Im staring at white and someone is moaning, and I can feel someone wiping my mouth with something rough and scratchy and I can feel my drool and I realize sort of that its me moaning, only I cant access that me to stop it. I wake up slowly, clutching at this really cool dream of a big 4eld with 5owers in it, and Im walking and just... feeling good. Its a long dream. Too long, I think blurrily. I was talking to daturk, but I cant remember what she was saying. She likes 5owers. Time to go to work soon. Hope Im not late... I try to scratch my nose and my arm wont work. I wake up for real, adrenalin pumping through me because I cant move, all I can see is white light, and where the hell am I? And I hear hurrying footsteps, the white light is a ceiling, and I remember where I am. Hospital. Strapped down. Tubes. My face is bandaged. Its so damn familiar. The nurse or aide or whatever babbles at me, but I dont listen. Just wait. Theres nothing to do but wait. Im still sort of drifting in and out when the doc comes in, but its pretty soon, and he says something sharp to the nurse at the door, and then hes leaning over so I can see his face, and that hand grabs my guts again because hes smiling and his eyes are bright. It worked. Youre coming along just 4ne. He steps aside as two nurses in green scrubs, masks, and gloves move in to bustle around, unplugging drip lines and catheter, doing this and that, the things they do. Finally one reaches for my face and I clench up, because I still remember the pain way back then when they changed the dressings and none of the drugs really stopped it. But theres no pain, not really, just a little prickly discomfort and theyre not bandages on my face, but more like a gauze mask the shape of a face. The air feels icy cold on my skin, and its real tender. I think I can feel air molecules bumping against it. Can I see? The words come out a croak, and my throat is raw, so they must have had a tube down me. The doc hesitates. Its not 4nished, he says slowly. You have to understand that the process of growing many layers of tissue doesnt happen in a few hours. This is just a break to let the new cellular grown stabilize and give you some time to regain a bit of muscle tone before the 4nal session. You have an epidermal layer, but its temporary. We still have a ways to go. One of the nurses holds a straw to my lips, I suck automatically and the taste of the bottled apples on my tongue brings back all the memories of the 4rst time, but its sweet and soothes my raw throat. I want to see, I say when Ive 4nished, and I sit up. Well, I try to. The room twirls around me and my stomach heaves and next thing I know hands are laying me back on the bed again and Im clammy and cold and shaking. Take it slow, the doctor says, frowning at the bank of monitors next to my bed. Nothing is beeping anyway. I learned a long time ago thats a good sign. Youre going to have to get used to moving again. Dont forget, youve been out for ten days. Ten days? It was in that document I sent you. He raises an eyebrow at me, satis4ed with whatever the monitors are telling him. The one you read and retina-stamped? The 4rst session is the longest. The second will 4nish up the regeneration and then there will be only a few plastic modi4cations. I wonder what else I didnt read.? No wonder the dream seemed to go on so long. And Im gathering the strength to ask again, but he sticks a hand mirror in front of my face, a cheap import thing with a plastic rim and handle, like you might see in any cheap dollar store in the neighborhood and I look. I know its not done, but disappointment still stabs me right in the gut. But I make 209 S KIN D EEP myself look. Its a lot better. Ive got ears now, sort of. And a nose. My face looks like... well a face anyway. Not very pretty, but you wont scream and faint if I run into you in a dark alley. No hair anywhere and the skin is real pink, like Ive got sunburn or something. I let my breath out in a long sigh trying to breathe all that disappointment out with it, because if he quit now, Id still be a whole lot better off. I dont want him to quit. I want to give you a week to recover. Doc is looking at me thoughtfully. You should be able to be released by tomorrow morning. He hesitates and hes frowning a little. Do you have somebody staying with you? Somebody who can look after you while you get your strength back? I shake my head and I could swear that he relaxes a bit. Tell you what. He smiles. Why dont you be my guest? Ive got plenty of room in my condo. That way I can keep a 2rst hand eye on my handiwork. And the building is secure, so we can keep the media from bothering you. I start to say no, and its so automatic that it stops me and I swallow it. Why am I so quick? I study him for a minute, but I cant put my 2nger on anything. Hes no Domino. Im pretty sure of that. Maybe its just that... nobody does that. Just offers. No strings. Hes waiting and I can see that hes getting a little impatient, maybe offended because I didnt jump at his offer. What the hell? Im... sorry. I dont have to pretend to be confused because I am. Thats really... thats nice of you. Im groping for the words Im supposed to say, but hey, Ive never really been in this situation before. Thank you, I 2nally say, feeling like a boob. But he smiles, his eyes happy. Thats 2ne then. You rest, and Ill come by to get you when I get ready to leave. I shouldnt be here too late. He looks at the nurse now, and I watch all the warmth vanish from his face. He gives her some instructions and I guess Im supposed to go walk around later, but not too much, and theres some med codes, too. He goes off and she goes off, but comes back in a little bit to bring me a cup full of pills and a lunch tray with hospital blah on it, jello that looks like green plastic, some of that fake chicken soup, custard. It hasnt changed since I was here the 2rst time and that was twenty years ago, when I was four. The 2rst taste of custard brings it all back and I lay the spoon back on the tray and lean back, hoping that one of those pills is going to make me sleep. Without dreams. But it doesnt. So I pull the bedside screen over and get online and as soon as I get there, I get a screen full of bright 3owers, like someone dropped about six bunches from a downtown 3ower stall on the 3oor. Bright red script written in a pointed slanty hand spells out the words, how u doin sweet so far. Its daturks online handwriting. I recognize it, wonder if shes good enough that shes really been hacking my med records or if shes just guessing. I trace the words Doing sweet. Not done yet on the screen, watch the words take shape in black shaky script. Its an effort to write that much and I want to let my hand fall. But I make the effort, and trace a few more letters; Doc invited me to stay with him. I said yes. And Im not sure why I told her that, but all of a sudden it seems real important to know what she thinks about it. And its pointless to stare at the screen, because she may not get back to me for days. But right away, a crimson line starts to curve to life on the screen. I wait expectantly, but there are no words, just a 2ery question mark glowing among all the spilled 3owers and scattered petals. I shrug, and I dont know why it bothers me. But I write its okay on the screen and then I really do have to lie 3at for a minute or two. And when the ceiling stops moving and I look back up at the screen, all the writing is gone. There are just the 3owers, scattered all over. I kind of feel comforted and Im not sure why. I guess because daturk seems to be able to get in anywhere, so I guess sometimes Ive sort of pretended that shes always there. Just checking in, you know? So I dont worry about 210 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES it anymore, Ill see what happens when I go home with the doc. I can always catch a cab back to the walk-up if I have to. So I pull down a new book, some guy who walked across Canada, and its okay, but the authors trying too hard, and the nurse is happy when I sit up and even happier when I wobble down the hall and back without her nagging me too much. Hey, I know the drill. I spent a lot of time here, learned that if you do what they ask and dont bug them, theyre nice to you and if youre a pain, they get even, sooner or later. And about the time they bring in another meal tray thats loaded with food that carries way too much baggage from the past, the doc shows up again. This time, hes not wearing the white doctor suit, just a classic jacket and shirt, no tie, no virus mask, every bit the doc, but smiling and relaxed, like were old friends meeting for a golf game or something. And the nurse brings me a release to sign and retina and a wheelchair because they never let you walk out of the building, guess theyre afraid youll sue if you fall down and break a leg. And its not too bad walking to the car that the attendant brings up. A car. Well, I guess if youre a doc you can afford the registration fees and maybe he has to hurry into the hospital for emergencies. I think its the 1rst time Ive ridden in a car that wasnt a taxi since that day. And its still real bright out because its summer, and the streets are full of after-work crowds out shopping and eating and making eyes, squatting with wireless access screens on the pedestals of statues, on curbs, leaning against storefronts. No reason to be inside except to sleep. We pass them and they dont even look. The condo is in one of the new towers with a garage underneath with a gate and a guard with hard eyes. Its 2ourescent bright and the elevator that whisks us upstairs is covered with really clean green carpet, walls, 2oor, everything. No mirrors. I get a little dizzy from the rush... Im still feeling pretty rocky. We got off into this little space thats supposed to look like a courtyard, I guess, with a brick path and gravel and a pool, and even the light feels like sunlight and as the elevator doors close something plops into the pool. A frog? A real one? I want to look, but the doc has his hand on my elbow now and he isnt going to let me stop, I can feel it. Uh oh. Domino after all? The door that the brick path leads to opens all by itself and I only see one other door on the other side of the courtyard space, so this is a pretty fancy place. Im really shaky now and I dont much care if the doc is a Domino or not, I just want to sit down somewhere before I pass out and everything sort of has this too bright, too clear look, like you get just before the black closes in. The room inside is huge, so big I cant really sort it out, its all windows and light and I can see blue sky so we have to be way high and green leaves and 2owers and the sound of water and the doc is pushing me and I sort of fall down into this chair. It takes a little bit for the room to come into focus again, and when it does, the doc is holding out a glass and hes looking a little worried, but not enough to scare me. Im sorry. He pushes the glass a centimeter in my direction. Take a drink of water. And I do, and it helps and I can look around. Its one big room with a marble topped kitchen island at one end and a 1replace with fake logs at the other and chairs and small sofas covered in leather-looking stuff grouped together, all tasteful soft browns and grays with a few real bright splashes of color. The glass is a greenhouse wall with plants and bright splashy 2owers and a little waterfall and rocks. It looks like one of those upscale ads you get hit with online. You should get your strength back in a day or two. Doc bustles in the kitchen area. Juice? he asks. Ive got just about anything you want. Thanks. Anything is 1ne. He brings me a tall glass like the glass that had the water in it. Its too heavy to be glass, cut into sharp geometric designs. Crystal? The juice is pink and I dont recognize the 2avor, 211 S KIN D EEP maybe something tropical. It helps. I didnt really eat the hospital stuff and all of a sudden Im hungry. Doc has shed his jacket and poured a glass of dark red wine and hes bustling around in the kitchen, not chattering, which I like, but getting out pans and mushrooms and a thick slab of salmon, cooking quickly and ef3ciently enough that Antonio would only curl his lip and not really sneer. And in a pretty short time, he serves up salmon sauteed in olive oil with some tiny perfect vegetables and fresh pasta and we eat at the small wooden table at the edge of the kitchen space. Theres a single 4ower in a vase on the table and the food is good... really good, I mean, as good as what Antonio feeds the family at the restaurant. And Im starving. Doc pours me a glass of wine to go with the salmon, a lighter red then he was drinking before, and its nice, light with a hint of fruit. A merlot? Domino has been teaching me wine, saving the stuff that the customers dont 3nish, making me pay attention. He may be handsy, but hes an okay guy and he really knows his wine. Ill be gone early in the morning. Doc swirls his wine in his glass, his eyes on the darkening city beyond the glass. Make yourself at home here. Do you mind staying in the condo? He raises his eyebrows. I havent reprogrammed my security and once you go outside you cant get back in. Thats 3ne. I shrug. I dont really have any place to go. Then I frown at my own glass, the wine tugging at me. How come you picked me? I blurt the words out, and theres this twinge of fear, like he might suddenly realize that he made a mistake. I mean... why me? He smiles at me then, just a little. Folds his napkin up and lays it beside his plate. I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. He leans his elbows on the table. I looked at a lot of applicants. Hes speaking slowly, thoughtfully. You werent the only one with this kind of extensive damage. His lips tighten brie4y. Im not sure exactly what made me choose you in particular. Maybe because the cause was so... trivial. Not war, not an act of terrorism... just an accident. Hes lying. I feel a small think sliver of ice in my gut. Oh, yeah, I can always tell. I dont know why. Maybe because I watch people a lot and they most of the time try not to notice me. So they act like Im not there. But Im just about never wrong. And hes lying. Look, you really got rushed into this. He picks up his glass of wine. I dont know who leaked the project to the media, but they really went for the story. He makes a face. I wanted to get you safely into the hospital before someone interfered. Someone always has a reason. Im not surprised that you feel a bit overwhelmed. I run my thumb across the grain of the table, remembering that old man again. How did you get... my picture. My voice is a little shaky in spite of myself. I contacted Childrens Services. He clears his throat. I assume they got permission to collect personal effects after your mother... after the accident. There was no other family. Im letting you get too tired. Why dont you come sit? He nods toward the livingroom area. The city is lovely after dark. Or would you rather go straight to bed? I dont want to go to bed. If I dont sleep, Im going to start thinking about this and... I dont want to think about this. So I get up and go over to one of the big leather chairs and I dont wobble too much. The view from here really is lovely. Its not quite full dark, but the sky is a deep royal blue and the lights spangle the towers and streets with gold and green and red and the new aerial trams slide like glowing beads across invisible wires and Ive never been this high up in my life. And the doc talks for awhile, real easy, as if weve been friends for a long time. He tells me about medical school and wanting to do this twenty years ago, back when it was just an experimental concept and stem cell research was getting outlawed everywhere and it looked like this kind of thing regrowing tissues would never happen. And his eyes glow when he talks about it, and I think of the old guy with the gaunt 212 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES face who preaches about his angry god down at the little square near my walk-up and thats how his eyes shine. I 4nally start nodding off and I lose track of what hes saying. So he shows me to bed and its a room about the size of my walk-up with its own bathroom and a spa tub and a separate shower and windows that look out at a bridge. And from this angle and height, Im not even sure which bridge it is. And there are two twin beds and a chest and theres a robe and a new set of pajamas on one of the beds. You didnt bring a lot with you, Doc says with a smile. There are some clothes in the chest and basic stuff in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything. I will, I say, and he says good night and closes the door. I sit on the edge of the bed, my feet bare, the carpet thick as a mattress under my bare feet. Im kind of dizzy from the wine and the day and probably all the time I was out while my face was growing back. I 4nally get up and I go into the bathroom and I make myself look in the mirror. Yeah. Better. Closer to human. Not there yet, but closer. And there is toothpaste and that kind of stuff, but I just go straight to bed. And its wierd. As I pull the cover up over me, already half asleep, it comes to me that this is somebodys room. Not a guest room. Somebody sleeps here. And Im not sure why I think that because theres no other clothes or stuff lying around. But Im sure of it. I wake up late, and for a minute I cant remember where I am and then it all comes back to me. And I cant help it. I go into the bathroom, 4rst thing, and I look at my face. And the Doc is gone and I prowl around. I dont know why I thought this was somebodys room. Theres nothing to show. Clothes in the drawers all new, all my size. Expensive stuff, like I was a doc, too. It kind of creeps me out that theyre there, but I put them on because my crummy pants seem wrong in this fancy place, like they might rub off somehow, stain the furniture. And I really feel... different now. Like Im changing and not just my face. I jumped off that cliff, thats for sure. Theres a screen in the bedroom and I try it, but a polite womans voice tells me that I dont have the password to get online, but theres a separate library link and I can download books without a password. And I want to talk to daturk but I settle for that book I started in the hospital and by the time the Doc arrives, Ive 4nished it. The evening is strange, nice and somehow creepy at the same time. Doc 4xes another really 4ne dinner and theres wine and he asks me about what Ive read and we talk, and you know, Ive never talked about what I read to anybody but daturk. Hes smart. Well, I guess you got to be, to be a doc, huh? And he asks me about school and gets all thoughtful when I tell him about doing all the online courses I could get from the state. Then he starts talking about the bene4t of in the 5esh classes and how maybe I want to do that when Im done with the medical stuff and that would be 4ne. But he forgets how I live. That takes real money. And when I ask him about online, he sort of waves the question away saying something about security and changing it is a pain. And just as Im getting ready to go to bed I remember and I ask him who used to sleep in the bedroom. He gets quiet, and I know right then I said the wrong thing. Then he says nobody. Hes lying again. It goes on like this and its nice. Like the support group... only he really talks. Most of them dont, except for Kitten. I go back to the hospital and this time the session is short, and Im not so whacked when I wake up. I come back to the condo after the second treatment. Doc doesnt even ask me. He just shows up and Im not so shaky this time. I guess this session didnt take as long. I didnt dream as much, but I saw the old man again, and this time he held my hand around the blade of his knife and I felt such pride as the 4rst pale sliver of wood curled back over my knuckles. There are no scars on those hands. Theyre all smooth. So its from before, but I knew that. I wonder 213 S KIN D EEP who the old guy is. My grandfather? I stretch for some kind of memory, but all I get is a picture of those small smooth hands and that pride and the curl of blonde wood. I brought this home. Doc pulls a mini cd out of his pocket after dinner one night. I thought you might want to see what Im doing. Its creepy, watching it. I sit in one of the chairs with my knees up under my chin and watch the cold arch of the machine crawl back and forth across my face. Thats all you can see my face the rest is all green sheets and hot light. Tubes and wires connect the silver arch of the machine to something I cant see, and it runs on a kind of track, like a train, you know? And I guess he edited it some, because this is days and days, right? Weeks. But the machine zips back and forth and it maybe takes a half hour to watch... my face grow. On one pass, the machine squirts out this pale stuff... the scaffold, Doc calls it. Then it goes back again and sprays pinker stuff over... the cells. And they grow and then the machine sprays on more scaffold... It keeps crawling back and forth and my face... grows. Theres a little hump where most people have a nose and then its more of a hump and it gets bigger and arches and Ive got cheeks and lips and... After you were anaesthetized this time, we used an enzyme to dissolve the temporary dermal layer that was in place. Doc is leaning forward, staring at the screen. So that the new layers of tissue could bond seamlessly. I think about lying there on that table unconscious, my skin melting away. Ive never dreamed about the 1re, but now I shiver and for a moment I think Im going to be sick. On the screen, the silver, tube-trailing machine crawls back and forth, and my nose looks like... a nose. I touch it. It juts out of my face. I cant quite get my mind around that feeling. On the screen, the silvery arch slides back and forth and back again growing my face, one layer of cells at a time. Living with the doc is kind of strange. Its like a dream that I cant quite wake up from. I think Ive 1gured out what this is all about by now. Its starting to feel okay to be there in that room that was somebodys. Its kind of like jail, too, I guess, because I still cant get online and I can leave. I can, but we both know that if I do, it wrecks something. And I feel like a part of me I cant really get inside of is having a conversation with Doc, and Im not part of it, and this sounds really nuts, I know. But its okay. I want to talk to daturk about it. And one night, I dream that my face is talking to me and it scares the crap out of me because if my face is out there talking to me, what is on the front of my skull? And I wake up yelling, and the Doc is there, putting his arms around me, holding me, and just sitting there until I fall asleep again. And this time I dream about this woman and shes looking down at me and crying and she had red hair and I wake up knowing that this is my mother and Ive never dreamed about her before. Not once. Why is she crying? I try to remember and I cant. My face is wrong. I dont know how I know. But I do. When I tell Doc, he tells me its normal. The feeling will go away after awhile. Hes not lying this time. Two more sessions to go. I look like a painting thats not quite 1nished yet. And when I look in the mirror, this stranger looks back at me. I dont think he likes me. I dream about the old man a lot. Im pretty sure hes my grandfather. He lets me carve a piece of wood, holding my hands in his and mine are very small. I dream about my mother, too. And I dream about her crying again, and sometimes, there is all this white light and stuff that mean... hospital. How could she be 214 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES in the hospital? She died in the car, before I went there. Didnt she? Didnt she? The Doc talks about my staying here with him after, about going to college. He talks about having no kids, and money, and why have it if you dont use it? Theres a story about this, real old... a man who carved this statue and then it came to life and was his perfect lover. I guess thats what docs doing, with all his talk about college and my staying with him. Like Domino after all... but you know? Its an okay trade. Really. It is. But I still feel like Im living in a dream and my face still looks at me like Im a stranger. And theres no reason to say no, so I dont know why I dont say yes right then. But I cant. Not out loud. Doc thinks that means yes, I guess. I dont know. And I ask him if my mother might still be alive and he looks at me real strange. No, he says. And hes not lying. And then daturk 5nds me. Im downloading a book and the screen lights up with a storm of wind and yellow leaves swirling around in what looks like a miniature tornado. gd security but not gd enough Green words swirl with the wind and then the screen is full of 5reworks daturk laughing. u ok? Yeah, I can say the words out loud because this is a sweet system and does voice. I wonder what the wind and leaves mean. I couldnt get out. Docs paranoid about security. The gray clouds and mirror lake appear. Shes being thoughtful. u gonna b pretty? she 5nally asks. Yeah. But... I dont think hes got the face right. The words just blurt out. I havent even said them in my head. Not really. It doesnt look right. And he says thats normal even the plastic patients feel that way but I dont know. Its like Im looking at someone else. Maybe he... got the wrong picture. But the kid I saw... that smiling one. I remember how it twisted my insides. Nah. He didnt get the wrong picture. On the screen, clouds and lake. No words. Something doesnt feel right. And when I say that, it really smacks me. Because it doesnt. And Ive been telling myself that its just me and everything is really all right, because it is. And I dont want to talk any more, but I missed daturk a lot and I dont want to lose her either. Can you get in again? I say, and I get a handful of sun6owers tumbling across the screen. Thats a yes. Then shes gone. Shes always really good at reading me. I dont know how you do that in digital, but she does. And I feel better... and realize all of a sudden that Ive been feeling bad. And Doc is gone and Im supposed to go in tomorrow for the 5nal session and when its all over... its a long one again, I guess... Ill... be done. I walk through the condo, out to the little jungle that grows under the glass wall, kind of framing the city. It looks so beautiful up here. You cant see the ugly stuff down there. I wonder what its like to live for years and years up above all the people who wash the dishes and panhandle and rob. I mean Ive been up here for a couple of weeks now, but its not like I live here. Its more like Im walking around in a dream, and any day Im going to wake up and itll be time to go eat the spicy curries that Antonio feeds us and wash the paella pans and taste wine with Domino. I hold my hands out and look at them. Doc says hell 5x them, too, but they work and... I dont know. I think I dont want him to. I run my thumb over some of the shiny white skin and it feels hard like plastic. I dont want to be perfect. And I think about the old man again and the little-boy hands and that pride. Twenty years ago. No family, Doc said, so I guess hes dead. Like my mother? I turn my back on the city... I dont know it from up here... and I go down the short wide hall and I go into Docs room. I havent been in here before, just looked in. Its dim, because silk drapes that match the silk quilt on the big 215 S KIN D EEP bed kind of shut out the light and the quiet furniture makes me think of my grandfather stroking that satiny wood and showing me how to hold a knife. I can smell Doc a rich musky odor of 5esh and some kind of scent, like hes really here, maybe hiding in the closet and the back of my neck prickles. Ive never snooped in here. Honest. I could have. Looked to see what he hides in his sock drawer. But I havent. Im not sure why Im doing it now. I should just turn off the brain and go download a book, and wait for the 4nal session I guess. But Im walking over to the dresser and I dont think I could stop myself, its like Im two people and right now the other one is running the muscles. I dont 4nd anything in the drawers, or the drawers of the night stand. Theres a remote for the wall vid and music system. Clothes. Some pills with no labels. Tissue. That kind of thing. Its in the closet, 5at against the wall up on a shelf, stuffed behind a stack of silky folded sheets or blankets or something. A picture. Its not a holo base, but a 5at frame with a digital photo printed out on real old fashioned glossy paper, as if it came from an antique camera. But maybe it really did. The Doc is 4fty at least, probably more, if his plastic buddies have worked on him. My hand is shaking. As if the part of me pulling the muscle-strings has already 4gured it out. But I guess I havent. Because when I take the picture over to the window and pull aside the drapes my mind is empty. I just stand there, staring at the face in the picture, not thinking anything. Just staring. Years ago... in another life... I sat in a chair and watched that laughing kid face that stabbed me in the gut lengthen and 4rm up and grow older. He stares up at me right now from the slick surface of the picture, his hair in a military buzz with a diamond stud in one ear lobe and his eyes are a blue thats almost gray, and he seems... sad. Its some kind of formal thing, like graduation but not military cause theres no uniform, just a blue shirt with a collar. Theres another picture under this one. I can just see the edge and I kind of pry the frame apart and slide it out. Its the same kid. Younger, or maybe just grubbier. Hes in a canoe that looks like its made from real wood. Its 5oating on this gorgeous lake, kind of like daturks thoughtful lake. Docs in the canoe with him. The kids smiling for the camera and Docs smiling at the kid. I was wrong. About what Doc is doing. Its his son. You can see it in his face. I wonder what happened. I slide that picture back where I found it and I feel... slimy. Like Ive been hiding, watching him have sex. I feel... ...Im not sure how I feel. But now I know. I go into the bathroom in the room Ive been sleeping in. His room. Thats who Ive been feeling. I stand in front of the mirror. I havent looked at my face yet. Oh, Ive looked. I watched the vids with Doc. I saw it happen. But Ive just sort of inventoried it before this... I kind of skid away. Its like my face in the mirror is ice, and I cant get my footing. But now, I look. I stand in front of the mirror and I dont let my shoulders turn, my face duck, my eyes slide. Nah, I look. Like Im meeting me on the street, on the way to Antonios to scrub the paella pans. Interesting guy. What do you think of him? Whats his past? I want to shake and I kind of slap myself inside my head, you know? Hey. Look at him. Hes walking down the street, so look at him. And I do. Hes ugly. Thats all. Just ugly. I mean, his face is kind of too bold, too bald. Not really formed quite right, you know? It should be... dunno... more deed. Maybe his mom ate something wrong or drank the wrong water when she was pregnant or something. And I remember one year way back, when I was in this kind of homey place for kids, like a real house. It wasnt just us burn kids, it was some others, too, and their faces werent damaged... .they just werent quite faces yet. And they had 216 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES other problems, too. But thats what I see. Im not normal, but you know... . Im just some guy that doesnt look normal. Not a monster. Not somebody where all you can think is ohmygodwhathappenedtohim? I end up on my knees on the 4oor and Im goddam crying, my tears are leaking all over my jeans and... its nuts... Ive never cried. Well, in the hospital, yeah, when it hurt. But not after. What was the point? Im crying now. Doc is going to be home pretty soon. My knees hurt when I get up off the 4oor. I kind of focus on the pain as I stumble into the bedroom. Hes going to be home soon and I dont know how to get hold of daturk. But shes waiting for me. When I touch up the online, the screen is full of shriveled leaves, but they vanish as soon as I touch the screen. All of a sudden, its a snow of white petals against black. I guess shes there. I gotta go. I type the words in slowly cause I dont think I can say them out loud. I cant "nish this. That same crimson question mark I saw that 3rst day in the hospital curves onto the screen, burning into me. Im just "nished, I type. I just need to get away from here. Nothing twisted. Not really. Well maybe thats not true, maybe love is always twisted. Nobody serious is gonna come looking for me, I tell her. The screen is frozen, question mark, white petals, Im here all by myself. I just need to go. I type the words in, but shes gone. Elsewhere. And I should just get up, go back to the walk-up, because I havent broken any law and the worst that can happen is that the media follows me and makes a fuss and I have to stay away from the news streams for awhile. But I just sit there, frozen as the screen. And then all of a sudden it goes blank and blue. Scary. White letters and numbers suddenly blink into life. No 4owers, no visuals at all. Just an address. Some street address in Baltimore of all places. Thanks, I type. The screen goes blank. She really is gone, this time. I go 3nd paper and pen in Docs bedroom, 3guring he probably has some for fancy notes to friends or something. This isnt something to type online and email or print. I write the address down from memory, just in case I forget. Then... I lay a clean sheet on the desk beside the keyboard. I wonder what kind of wood the desk is made of, if the old man would know. Probably. The pen feels weird and clumsy in my 3ngers. Ill take money from my account in cash, pay the surcharge for using it to buy a ticket. That should throw the media off. And Doc. Antonio isnt going to care that Im gone. And I wonder what Im going to 3nd at that address. daturk? Maybe. It occurs to me that I dont really know even that shes a she. Ive just sort of... guessed. It doesnt really matter. Maybe... just maybe... my mother is alive and my memories are right and not the state database. I mean... it had to cost a million bucks to 3x me. And if she walked away... well, National Health did it. Maybe that was the reason? You can 3nd out anything if youre willing to pay. Antonio doesnt pay much, but what did I have to spend my money on, before? I think maybe... if shes really alive... all I want to do is go look at her. Just once, you know? Nah. I dont know. I touch the pen to the paper, make a tiny blue dot, perfectly round and the color of the sky that 3rst night here, when I watched the city lights all come on. Doc, I write. The words form slowly, letters looping out across the sand colored paper. I found the picture. Of your son. I havent snooped before, Im sorry, and I dont know what happened to him or to you both. I just dont know and I want you to know that you did such a great job and I really really mean it. And Im sorry Im not staying but I just cant. I dont know really why maybe just S KIN D EEP because Ive never been me, you know? I mean, I guess I was, a long time ago, but after the crash, I was the kid in bed four and then I was the burn kid and then the monster who made people look away and the paella pan washer and now I dont know... I guess I just want to try being me. I dont know if I can even do that, isnt that a joke? But I need to try. And theres this girl and shed be a whole lot easier than me to do, and shes blonde and you can see she was real pretty and the media would love her and it would be like Cinderella or something. Her name is Kitten and you can $nd her at the support group I used to belong to, the Tuesday one and its gotta be in my $le. And I need to say more to him, but the words wont come. I think maybe I dont know yet what it is that I need to say. It might take awhile to know and maybe then I can come back and say it. I dont know. But its a possibility, and Im not sure that Ive had possibilities before. Just stuff that happened to me. So I just write, thanks Doc and I leave the note on the table and I go out the door. First time Ive done it by myself but no alarms go off. The frog plops into the little pool in the pretty courtyard and I take the elevator down to the lobby and Ive never been through there. And this woman is coming in all dressed in this nice business suit and boots and I can see her eyes coming up to my face and Im going to do the thing I do on the street, look past her, not see. Only I make myself not do that. And she looks and Im ugly, you can see that in her eyes. But she looks. And then she goes past me and gets into the elevator. Thats it. Thanks, Doc. And Im sorry. I wish I could have been what you needed. Im scared. I go out the door, onto the street, and I head for Baltimore. 218 THE END OF OIL; IN THREE ACTS Gwyneth Jones Illustrated by Jouni Koponen 219 PAPER TIGER Sunita had the choice of watching tv or having the central heating on. It was a cold and dark November evening, but she chose the tv , and pedalled away furiously on the Powergen bike. She wanted to know what was happening in north London. All she could >nd was the President of the United States facing another gruelling interview. Mr President, the writings been on the wall for oil for decades, in letters a mile high. You went on squeezing the barrel, and now were in that worst case, rapid decline scenario. Whats your answer to the social collapse, that some are calling inevitable? The end of oil is a paper tiger! shouted Sunitas husband. Meant to scare us! Theres plenty of alternative fuels He was at their designer dining table, juggling clothing coupons. Polyesters and polymers are petroleum based: far too expensive. So you think youll buy cotton: but the cotton needs expensive irrigation, which also uses insanely expensive power, hence these bloody coupons& Well, I AM scared, muttered Sunita, through a menacing burst of ordnance >re. The President had changed the subject, and started talking about the oil wars, which seemed to be surviving an almost complete lack of oil. So now there was a half-screen of warzone footage on the tv , and a leap in volume. Stupid, stupid, how stupid do they think we are? panted Sunita. She tried again to get hold of her son. Shed heard about the awful fuel riots at Brent this morning, and thanked God none of her family could be there. But Jati had phoned two hours ago, to say he and Sally were right in the middle of it. Theyd heard, like everyone else, that there was a chance of getting petrol rations. A million people, hed shouted down the phone, then something about guns, and Its really frightening Mum! And since then, his phone had been dead. Suddenly she couldnt pedal anymore. Its like the end of the world, she whispered. Ravi left his >gure-juggling and they stared at the blank face of their energy gobbling, ?atscreen tv. Sunitas husband went to the kitchen and came back with a cold chisel and a claw hammer. Too little, too late, she thought: as they smashed it. THE PHYLLOXERA VIRUS But you see, it wasnt the end of the world, Mum, said Jati. Ten years on from the Brent Riots, which had left >ve hundred dead, Jati and Sally were moving into a new ?at on Riverside Walk, with the latest ?oodproo>ng. Both sets of parents had come along to help out. Its like the phylloxera virus, continued Jati. In the eighteen seventies the phylloxera virus destroyed all the vines in France, but they found resistant strains and the crisis was over! Wine is wine, energy is energy. We have H-power and biomass; we have solar power, methanol, ethanol& These ?ats are so energy-ef>cient well be selling power to the grid most of the year! What are we missing? Long haul air travel? He shuddered. I dont think so! You dont even have your own car, muttered Sunita. Who needs a car? demanded Sally, Thats just old fashioned. We have modern luxuries, and a sustainable energy economy. Were having it all, remarked Ravi, pouring a glass of beer from the jug. You dont get beer in cans anymore, its uneconomic. Including the disaster stories. The canola oil >elds of rape are almost as polluting as the black gold used to be. The huge plantations for cellulose plastics are ruining the environment, and even if mass air travels over, soy-based aviation fuel is no better than the old stuff for global warming. S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES They say the brown coal they use for power in the usa and China is so dirty its causing a kind of Nuclear Winter effect, added Sallys dad, Ronald, cheerfully. Sunita looked out of the window, at the river that lapped the concrete skirts of Chelsea Wharf, higher every year. Its going to start again, she thought. The riots and the deaths, the cold and darkness. Changing one source of energy for another is no solution. We need something more, something we cant see THE FUTURE IS ANOTHER COUNTRY Sunita moved into sheltered accommodation after her husband died. Her great grand- daughter Sophia took her out for the day, and they went for a drive in the country. It was September: they passed the 4elds where Sophias physical body was at work, harvesting the apples. The virtual Sophia who had come to visit Grandma directed the little disposable car by wireless nerve impulses, while the young woman sat there like a living ghost, the Kirlian 4eld around her sparkling gently, her virtual skin glowing green with the chlorophyll the real Sophia had had implanted. This is all too strange for me, complained the old woman. Its alltogether too much. And why cant you come and see me on your real day off, young lady? This is really me, said Sophia, patiently. Im here, and Im picking apples. Grandma, every leap forward in human civilisation seemed fantastical, before it happened. You know. Horseless carriages? ships with wings? This is the same. No one thinks anything of the end of oil nowadays: it truly wasnt important. Much more exciting things were beginning, in embryo, in the early twenty4rst century. The petroleum age was just a phase we were going through. 222 THE SOAP BUBBLE Sean Williams Illustrated by Bob Eggleton Scene: Control Bridge of the Navy Class Manned Deep Survey Ship Rosenberg (unof<cially rechristened the Wandering Jew ) Cast: GABLE GABE MCKENZIE, Captain SARA MRAVINSKY, Second in Command MYRION HEMMELLING, Life Support JAKE FOO-WONG, Astrogation ANDRE PASSANT, Security FREEDOM MAXWELL, Science STEVE JEFFERSSEN, Engineering and Maintenance ALEK MAAS, Communications, Morale and Honorary Soap Operator (me) Extras: Engineers, technicians, research personnel, the medical team, three cooks, sundry crew- members; one hundred and thirty-<ve in all. Notes: Filmed live and on location near Mu Botis, 108 light years from Earth. 223 It was a moment of pure, A-grade drama, better than anything I could have scripted. So good, in fact, I had no choice but to include it in that months episode. T HE WANDERING JEW HAD FINISHED ITS INITIAL SURVEY OF THE SYSTEM WHEN the Event took place. Captain Gabe, looking darkly handsome in his of9cial :ight-uniform, had successfully slotted us into a close polar orbit about the primary star, a greenish f0 of unremarkable appearance. Freedom Maxwell, as beautiful as ever with her blonde hair tied back in a loose pony-tail, was preparing for the 9rst :yby of the inner planet. Jake Foo-Wong cheerfully checked co-ordinates every couple of minutes, conferring with the computers in unhurried, precise syllables. Steve Jefferssen watched the tell-tales monitoring the mighty engines with an avuncular eye; he seemed pleased, in his bear-like way, which was a good sign. Okay, folks. Captain Gabe surrendered control of the Jew to Jake and the ai s with a :ourish of his wrist. This baby is rolling. Any questions, comments or suggestions? Nice work, Gabe, said Freedom, playing her part as Love Interest with aplomb, as always. Maybe a little too well. Was nature imitating art? Were ahead of schedule, again. Well, it all adds up, doesnt it? Gabe smiled back, obviously :attered by the compliment. Sixteen systems down the list, with thirty-four still to go. If we can save a day or two each time, that means well get home ahead of schedule. Sara Mravinsky and Andre Passant watched from the sidelines, obviously bored with the routine manoeuvres and uninspiring dialogue. Steel-haired Andre looked unhappy, which I duly noted. The script called for sullen resentment over Myrions rejection, but I sensed something more. Was he, like Freedom, over-acting, or could this be the beginning of a separate malaise? 224 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I sat apart from everyone, studying the crews interactions for any sign of tension, or release thereof. Who knew what would be useful? Even the isolation of Sara and Andre might provide enough material for a sub-plot, although I resisted the idea of pairing the two romantically. Apart from my own feelings, her fragile, almost childlike beauty would look incestuous juxtaposed with the stern security head. Although, maybe shed like that. I found it hard to tell what was happening inside that pretty head, with its close-cropped auburn hair and burnt-orange eyes... Ahead of schedule, commented Andre, wont be soon enough for me. I came back to reality with a jolt. So that was his problem. Earth-sickness. Id need to look at that later. Engines are 8ne, Captain, said Steve. He licked his lips, acutely aware that every word was being recorded. It was a little rough for a moment there, but we rode through it. Give us four days to trace the problem and well be back at optimum. Good. Gabe nodded, unconcerned. Maintenance on such a long mission was an on-going problem but nothing to be overly worried about. There was little save a direct asteroid-strike or a matrix-implosion that Steve couldnt 8x on the hop. The engines only ran at full power once every 8ve weeks, anyway, while we crossed the gulf between stars, so there was plenty of downtime to patch up the odd leak. Jake, tell me about the system. The half-Asian astrogator shrugged without looking up from his screen. He was type-cast and he knew it; more, he played up to it. Nothing new to report, sir. Three planets, two of them Jovian. The third is tiny and dense, in a close, irregular orbit. Probably a captured moon. No asteroid belts or cometary clouds to speak of. Good. Gabe visibly relaxed. The last binary system (Omega Herculis, a white Supergiant with smaller companion) had seemed as simple as this, at 8rst, until closer inspection revealed a widely-scattered belt of primordial black holes orbiting the primary sun. Tricky for astrogation and life-support, and, as a near miss had proved, potentially fatal. We were ready for anything, this time, including boredom. Uninhabited? Of course. What did you expect? One of these days you might surprise me. Gabe smiled wryly. Sara, all non-essential crew can take a one-hour break. On stand-by until further notice. Sara toggled the intercom and broadcast the order. A feeling of tension began to ebb as, throughout the ship, the super9uous crew left their posts for a breather. Eighteen hours of hard work crossover, primary survey, injection was 8nished. Earlier than normal, too, as Freedom had said; Gabes technique of combining insertion with 9yby seemed to be working. Unless something went wrong, the ship would be back on regular rosters for the next few weeks. Gabe 9ickered through various screens of information, browsing, 8lling in time until the 9yby. I too watched the torrent of data, understanding no more than ten percent but not feeling too bad about that. None of us understood it all, not even the backroom boys under Freedoms command. In the eighteen months we had already been Out Here, we had collected as many anomalies as coherent facts, and more questions than answers. As Morale Of8cer, it was my job to make sure the wrong questions were never asked. The inner, rocky planet crept closer. A battery of instruments scattered across the hull of the ship subjected it to constant analysis. It was lifeless, as expected, and a potential wealth of minerals. Halfway there, three impact probes were launched from the Jew ; they separated with a half-heard, half- felt clang and swooped down to their 8ery rendezvous. An hour later, three tiny 9ashes of light were recorded and 8led away for analysis. And that was it until the next 9yby, three days later. If Freedoms staff found nothing too unusual in the spectrographic data, the Jew would shift its orbit to study the primary star 225 T HE S OAP B UBBLE in more detail, after which we would head out to the gas giants. Then we would leave. Five weeks. Four, if the system was as empty as it appeared to be. Another month for me to keep the crew from each others throats. I stiCed both a yawn and a recurring inspiration to write a romantic sub-plot involving Sara Mravinsky and myself, just to liven things up. Perhaps I was wrong to suppress this urge. The cathartic process included myself, didnt it? Who was going to keep me from my own throat? Then it happened. (Cut to: Close scanner shot of JAKE FOO- WONG studying the astrogation screen, concentrating on tracing a path through the system. Suddenly, his head snaps up; on his face is an expression that combines both fear and total surprise.) JAKE: Captain! We have something! GABE: Yes, Jake ? (he looks up) My God! What the hell is that? (Snapshot view of the screen: an orange tangle of overlapping lines and circles. One small dot is moving very, very quickly across the screen.) JAKE: (Struggling for self-control) Astrogation reports... an unidentiBed object GABE: Red Alert, Sara! Red Alert! JAKE: velocity three four by ten exp seven GABE: Standby main drive! JAKE: heading... (he looks up, and his face is pale)... right at us, Captain... GABE: Seal all airlocks. For Gods sake, Steve, get that engine running. I want medical on full standby! (Pull back: Control is a mass of confusion; voices shout into intercoms; an alarm begins to wail. Captured in one corner of the shot, with a look of absolute, impotent horror on his cola-black face, is me.) JAKE: (A little calmer, but still breathless.) We have visual, sir. (Cut to: A star-speckled view with Mu 1-Botis in the top-left corner. Nothing is visible at Brst, then a bright green dot appears in the centre of the starscape. With a soundless whoosh, it instantly Blls the screen.) GABE: Jesus Christ... That thing is moving! What magniBcation was that, Jake? JAKE: Full, sir. GABE: eta ? JAKE: One-ninety seconds. GABE: Is it broadcasting? JAKE: No, sir, and it does not respond to signals. GABE: Shit. Give me an evasive course and Ill take manual. SARA: (Looking uncharacteristically frightened) Cant we just jump the hell out of here? STEVE: No. We need at least forty-eight hours to program a crossover. SARA: (Embarrassed) Of course. Sorry. (Cut to: FREEDOM MAXWELL, at her console. The same image as before, of the alien spacecraft zooming towards the ship, Blls her screen. Note: although her hair retains its coppery sheen, even in this bright green light, her beauty is only matched by her efBciency at her job.) FREEDOM: Okay... (briskly, to the computer)... roll it back a frame... more... there. Freeze and store. Magnify. ANDRE: (Leaning over her shoulder) What the hell... ? FREEDOM: (Tapping on the screen to highlight aspects of the alien craft) [awkward around here] Disc-shaped, rotating at a very high speed, a border of yellow light around the edge of the disc, seems to leave a particulate vapour in its wake... (Turning away from the screen) Gabe, is this some sort of joke? 226 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES GABE: What? No, of course not. Why? FREEDOM: Well, in that case, Captain, we seem to have discovered our very >rst ?ying saucer. (Stunned silence.) JAKE: Bogey still approaching. (You can tell by the look on his face that hes always wanted to play this role.) eta now seventy seconds. GABE: (Still incredulous) Flying what? ME: (With an almost insane grin) A bona >de UFO! ANDRE: Alek, if this is one of your ridiculous sub-plots ME: God, no. I may be crazy but Im not that crazy. Who would believe a ?ying saucer, out here in space... ?! FREEDOM: And how would he program the visuals? Were seeing them for real. ME: Yeah. Thanks, Freedom. ANDRE: (Scowling) Keep a lid on it, then. ME: Only if you stay in character. JAKE: (Interrupting) eta thirty seconds. GABE: Right. Suggestions, anyone? (Silence, again, apart from the impact-siren.) GABE: Okay. I guess well just have to try and bluff our way out. (His face shows a hint of fear but, on the whole, he maintains his persona well.) Hang on tight! (GABES hands ?icker over his control board as he wrenches the ship to one side. There is a muf?ed roar as the mighty engines kick into life. Note: there is no joystick; no falling from side to side; no screaming. This is real space opera, even if the dialogues a bit wooden in places.) JAKE: Bogey changing course. GABE: Towards us? JAKE: Aye, sir. eta >fteen seconds. (The Captain tugs the ship in another direction. The grim set of his jaw reveals that he knows the gesture will be futile, but he tries nonetheless.) JAKE: eta ten seconds. (I belatedly applaud his next words, although I loathed them at the time.) Nine... eight... seven... (Cut to, in turn: ANDRE, SARA, STEVE, FREEDOM, ME, JAKE and GABE, interspersed with snapshots of the visual scanner, upon which the alien ship is approaching rapidly.) JAKE:... six... >ve... four... (The saucer seems to explode out of the screen.) JAKE:... three... two... (Everything goes green...) JAKE:... one... (... blindingly bright green... ) JAKE: Impact! (Blackout.) In the wake of the encounter with the ?ying saucer, a vague sort of panic reigned. Of all the footage faithfully recorded by the security scanners, there was only one salvageable line: ANDRE: Where the fuck has it gone? And, as no-one at the time could provide a suitable answer, I was forced to archive it. My >rst thought, to maintain the dramatic impetus, was to cut immediately to the debrie>ng session, held in the Captains quarters eight hours after the event. People had calmed down a little by then, and were able to make a little more sense. But, after much shuf?ing and re-editing, this eventually became the episodes opening scene: Gabe chaired the meeting, naturally. His haggard face was a mask of tired determination. He hadnt slept for over thirty- six hours. None of us had. 227 T HE S OAP B UBBLE Okay, folks. I guess we need to work out what the hell happened. Anyone want to suggest where we start? Something did happen, I presume? Andre was taking the easy way out: evading the problem by questioning its very existence. It wasnt just an hallucination? No. Freedom was adamant. Its all there on 8le, if you want to check. The bogey appeared, 9ew towards us under an acceleration beyond the capacity of human engineering and then disappeared on impact. The bogey? Myrion looked amused, although the half-smile was twisted by her usual bitterness. Her psych 8le spoke of deep traumas, buried beneath conditioning. She was one of the few truly complex characters in the drama of the Wandering Jew , and one for whom I had great plans. Plainly attractive, with shoulder-length white hair, she was an interesting contrast to Freedom, with whom she was usually at loggerheads. I thought you said it was a 9ying saucer? Whatever. Does it matter what we call it? No. Gabe stepped in to forestall an argument. Either will be 8ne. And I think we can assume it was of alien origin. The pertinent question, as I see it, is: What was the purpose of its behaviour? Why did it try to ram us? added Jake. Steve: How does it work? Sara: What do they want from us? Freedom: Where did it come from? Andre: Where has it gone? Me: And how do we report it? Gabe shrugged. Thats why were here, Alek. We need to think this through. It vanished without trace when it should have hit us head-on, and we havent seen it since. Whoever they were, they didnt bother to tell us what the hell they were doing, so all we can do is guess. Maybe it was some sort of defence mechanism, suggested Andre. Warning us away. From what? I dont know. Could there be life on the inner planet? Unlikely. Freedoms voice was 8rm. A civilisation which could build a ship like that would surely leave some trace behind. We didnt even pick up heat-sources. Just old lava and the odd 8ssure. The Jovian worlds? Again, unlikely. I guess well 8nd out soon enough, said Sara. Well be passing them in a week or so. Will we? Gabe studied us closely. One of the things I wanted to discuss was the status of the mission. Should we abandon this system and skip to the next, or keep going as planned? Abandon the system? Freedom was outraged. Were on the brink of what might be the greatest discovery well ever make! The quest for alien life is one of the missions primary directives! Unless it places the mission itself in jeopardy, reminded Andre. They didnt hurt us, did they? Whoever they are and whatever they want, I think theyve demonstrated quite adequately that were at their mercy. And yet we still live. I dont think theyre hostile, just... cautious. Funny way to show it. Of course. You dont expect them to behave like humans, do you? This triggered a thought in my own head, but I bit my lip to keep it in. Had their behaviour really been unhuman? I myself would like to keep going as planned, said Gabe, but Ill hear any arguments to the contrary before 8ling the order. Nows the time to speak, if you want to. Silence greeted this announcement. Andre was clearly nervous behind his blunt aggression, but he kept quiet. The only other member of the panel who might have spoken against the Captain was Sara, but she too said nothing. I could tell by the way she 8dgeted that she was ashamed of her own fear. Gabe waited for a minute, drumming his 228 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Cngers on the desk, until it became obvious that no-one was going to speak. I guess its settled, then. If nothing untoward happens on the next Dyby and I want us on full alert for that then well proceed as normal. But if anybody comes up with something we havent thought of, no matter how ridiculous, I want to hear it. Absolutely anything could be important. We all mumbled our assent. I crossed my Cngers behind my back, where the cameras couldnt see the gesture. So, folks, I suggest we get some rest. Its been a long, hard day. I declare this emergency council closed and wish you all pleasant dreams. Good night. The second Dyby was uneventful. Our alien friend refused to reveal itself, if it was still around. We shifted orbit closer to the primary without mishap, then migrated out to the gas giants, where we refuelled. Three weeks later, the Jew was ready for crossover. All that remained was the sending of the Mu Botis report. Communication with Earth was restricted to small, bullet-shaped lozenges Cred through hyperspace to Sol System, where they arrived two days later. The energy required to send the tiny capsules on their way limited the despatches to one per system, at the conclusion of each survey. Thus, every one counted. There would be no chance to send a post-script until the next month; it had to be perfect Crst time. And that was where I came in. It was my responsibility to collate all the data into a coherent report. I collected logs from the department heads, rewrote the mass of technical data into readable English and prepared an overall mission log. This process, with the help of ai s, took no more than a couple of days, and was very dull work. The position of Communications OfCcer was therefore only part-time. I doubled as Morale OfCcer (another thankless job) between reports. It took me months to work out how to combine the two tasks and thereby make life a lot more interesting than it had been. Alpha Botis (otherwise known as Arcturus, fourth-brightest star in the Northern sky) was our third stop, thirty-six light years from Earth. This much-anticipated system unfortunately proved to be fairly bland, as did the following four: Gamma Serpens, Sigma Botis, Yale 5634 and Tau Botis. I knew the folks back home would be hoping for more than the odd boring gas giant and the usual spectral data. So, in an attempt to enliven the report from Yale 5634, rechristened McCormacks Star upon our arrival, I included footage of the day-to-day activities of the senior crew. Instead of sterile, scripted speeches from the department heads, we had real-life interactions, a close-knit community of people at work and play aboard the Jew . By editing the recordings, I managed to create a feeling of continuity, even though the half- hour of footage was composed of snippets recorded weeks apart. I showed the crew the Cnal cut before despatching it, explaining that High Command would be interested to see how we performed as a unit, instead of as individuals. The dramatised footage would convey the reality far better than any Morale Report. If I had taken any remarks out of context, then that was simply to give the half-hour a feeling of completeness, by hinting at plots and sub- plots that may not really have existed. The Adventures of the Wandering Jew, Episode One, said Jake, certainly has a better ring to it than ussn Rosenberg Routine Survey Report: Yale 5634, 21.08.26. Exactly. I beamed conCdently. Fun, isnt it? But where will it end? protested Andre, perhaps prophetically. Are we becoming Star Trek, or Lost In Space? There were a few other grumbles, mainly about privacy, but my innovation was ultimately approved by Gabe. The report was sent. For the next report, from Tau Botis (58 ly), I took the exercise one step further by actively encouraging the senior crew to improvise. I suggested possible situations and 229 T HE S OAP B UBBLE outcomes that might be entertaining for the folks back home, as well as fun for ourselves. Already Id had the idea that this communal exercise might be employed as a means of catharsis. Half the trouble with surviving as a community in a closed environment is the lack of a pressure-valve. Most of my time as Morale Of<cer was spent bleeding-off dangerously charged situations onto myself, more often than not. I hoped that, by turning the Wandering Jew reports into a soap opera, I might be able to take the strain off myself as well as the rest of the crew. For instance: If Andre Passants sullen manner rubbed Myrion Hemmelling the wrong way, why not have them act out a confrontation? This clumsy psychodrama was amongst the <rst sub-plots I attempted. And it worked. Everyone became involved, if a little reluctantly in some cases. It was a game to be enjoyed when actively participating in it, or to be discussed (for and against) when not. I received suggestions from many people regarding possible outcomes. Pretty soon I was handing out rough scripts and engineering vital exchanges. Our everyday work continued studying, collating, surviving but now we had a game to keep our minds amused as well. Then, two systems later, something happened that changed shipboard life forever. The Wandering Jew wasnt the only ship on the deep-space exploration program; there were nineteen others, each with <fty systems to explore before returning to Earth. Although many of us cursed the <ve-year con<nement, we all acknowledged that the arrangement was the best available. It was far more ef<cient to send one ship to explore <fty systems than to send <fty each to one system and back. Sure, with <fty ships the thousand systems could have been covered in less than half the time, but at more than twice the cost. Omicron Botis (75 ly) was our ninth system. Observations from Earth orbit had suggested the existence of a large solar family and we were therefore anticipating a great deal of work. We blipped out of hyperspace on the systems rim, wary of comets, and took stock of our surroundings. Sure enough, O-Botis was big. Fifteen planets, two asteroid belts and an extensive cometary cloud crowded the cool orange Giant. Gabe took us in on a wide polar orbit, high above the ecliptic, and Freedom went to work. And thats when we spotted it: a reply capsule from Earth. Only the third we had received in nearly a year. Personal messages from families (none of us had a spouse back on Earth, but there were always relatives who wanted to keep in touch), fresh instructions from High Command, news of earthbound politics and sports, the latest fads... We waited impatiently for the Jew s unmanned drone to collect it and bring it back for perusal. The news, however, was not all good. Of our nineteen sister-ships, three had suffered cataclysmic disasters; one had despatched a garbled message about an asteroid strike before also disappearing; and a further seven had returned to Earth, abandoning their missions for a variety of reasons (including illness, discontent, psychological maladjustment and outright mutiny). Of the remaining nine ships, six seemed to be developing similar problems, and two of these were so far behind schedule that their itineraries had been cut back to thirty systems. Which left only three fully-operational missions, including the Wandering Jew . The news was sobering, to say the least. There was also a private and con<dential note addressed to me personally from Robin Blanchard, General Secretary of High Command, counter-signed by the President of the Solar Tribunal, Valerie McCormack herself. I opened it nervously, fully expecting it to be a terse order to get back to work, to stop wasting the crews time on trivial matters. It meant the end of the soap, I just knew it. But it wasnt. Quite the opposite, in fact. High Command requested that we continue the unorthodox reports demanded that we do so, and in no uncertain terms. In the face 230 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES of the other failures, they needed a successful mission to show the public, presented in a way that would guarantee the comprehension of the lowest common denominator. The Adventures of the Wandering Jew were, simply, good pr . And the possibility that the whole exercise had helped the psychological stability of the ship as a whole was not lost on them. So thats how I became the honorary Soap Operator, and how the Adventures of the Wandering Jew began in earnest... Episode 4: Omicron Botis Synopsis: This, the ninth port of call for the spaceship Wandering Jew , tests the mettle of the crew. In the face of bad news from Earth, morale becomes a serious concern. While the extensive (and therefore demanding) O-Botis system is explored, charted and studied, the narrator, Alek Maas, follows the on-going hopes and aspirations of the crew. The friendship between Captain Gabe and Freedom Maxwell continues to develop. Will they ever consummate the relationship? Can pretty, young Sara Mravinsky survive the terrible pressures of space-travel and still >nd time to discover herself? Does Andre Passant know more than hes saying, or was the mysterious disappearance of insulation wrap from Storage Bay 14 really just an innocent mistake? Myrion Hemmelling holds in her hands the life of everyone aboard the Wandering Jew , many of whom she does not like; does this account for her bitterness, or is it related somehow to her hidden past? What if, as Steve Jefferssen fears, something terrible goes wrong with the engines? Will the crew be stranded in deep space, beyond all hope of rescue? The Mission itself remains as always the focus of this episode: the on-going plot to which everything else is pinned. What new discoveries await the Jew ? What unforseen dangers? Will the attempt to maintain morale fail? The pressure on the crew is enormous. They have approximately six weeks in which to study an entire solar system. Given that scientists have been studying the home system for two thousand years and still havent >nished, is this task humanly possible... ? And so on. Each episode consisted of about three hours of footage, interspersed with panoramic views of the particular system. In the case of O- Botis, there was more than enough material to >ll the pauses: turbulent gas giants, cloud- covered moons, tumultuous asteroid belts, et cetera. Where I couldnt >nd enough dramatic footage to manufacture a satisfactory plot, I narrated bridging material. A couple of crew members Andre in particular resented this dramatisation of reality, but reluctantly went along with it. If he was so often cast as the villain of the piece, then didnt that represent some aspect of him that needed to be dealt with? Three systems later, at Kappa Corona Borealis, a white a0 ninety light years from home, we received our fourth reply capsule. High Command was ecstatic. They forwarded the >nal cut of the O-Botis episode for our enjoyment, including the commercials. One of the leading composers of the day had written a theme, and there were credits featuring footage of our training, transfer to orbit and >nal launch. Someone had touched-up the odd scene or two, overlaying the bad acting with computer-generated expressions, but it was otherwise pretty much as I had put it together. Gabe looked a little more dapper than usual, but that might have been my imagination. Viewed from a distance (it had been ten weeks since I had put it together), Episode Four was dramatic, inspiring, personal and very human. Here were a handful of people (it was hard to think of them as us) trapped in a metal and plastic cof>n trillions of kilometres from home. The citizens of Earth couldnt help but care about us, which in turn meant that they cared about the deep-space exploration program. And that was a Good Thing for all involved. It turned out that the re-edited versions of my reports had been bought by >ve of the 231 T HE S OAP B UBBLE multinational broadcast networks. Advertised as the human face of space exploration, The Adventures of the Wandering Jew were reaching seventy-<ve percent of the population. We were stars. The idea took a lot of getting used to. And it meant that my role as Soap Operator became yet more central to the day- to-day running of the ship. What had started as a game had become the means of saving the space program, and maybe our sanities along with it all thanks to a =air for the dramatic that I had never before realised I had. Who would have believed it? But weirdest of all was the fan-mail... So, when the alien ship buzzed us at Mu Botis, our sixteenth stop and eleventh episode, my <rst thought was: How does this affect the series? I could hardly edit the Event from the episode; it was too good a scene to leave on the cutting-room =oor, quite apart from its historical signi<cance, but it was too ridiculous to be believed. A =ying saucer, in space? As the survey of Mu Botis rolled on and the deadline rapidly approached, I sought opinions from the rest of the crew: I dont know what to think, said Steve Jefferssen, the <rst I approached. I saw what I saw, but what I saw doesnt make sense. Best to ignore it and see what happens when, or if, it comes back. What else can we do? Theres no point dwelling on it. Really, Steve? I had expected more from this pragmatic pillar of a man. Dont you even wonder ? Sure, Alek. Sure I wonder. I wonder if weve all gone crazy. The timing is what bothers me, confessed Myrion. Were a third of the way through the mission less than that, actually and there have been few in the way of major discoveries. I guess we were all hoping for at least some sign of alien life by now, but, apart from the false alarm at Beta Serpens, everythings dead, dead, dead! Maybe were externalising our expectations. The =ying saucer is a common enough archetype, after the hysteria of the twentieth-century. Did you ever read about the abductions that supposedly took place in the eighties and nineties? Yes. They stopped when seti folded. The pressure on the communal psyche shifted back to the internal and we started seeing ghosts again. Maybe were experiencing the re-emergence of the ufo syndrome. So were crazy? I didnt mention that Id had, in essence, a similar conversation with Steve. No. Were hallucinating. Same thing, isnt it? Ask someone on lsd . I will, I promised, just as soon as I get home. She smiled. She was always more cheerful when she thought shed won an argument. Jiggery-pokery, was Andres opinion. Some idiots playing a trick on us. How? By seeding the ai network with incumbent viruses programmed to activate at a speci<ed time in the mission. When they trigger, we see images through the screens of things that arent really there: electronic ghosts, if you like. Youll have to ask Freedom exactly how they did it, but Ill bet its something like that. After all, we found no evidence that the saucer ever existed, did we? No wreckage, no radiation, no particulate wake nothing. Therefore it wasnt real; therefore it was a stunt. Itll be ghost-writing in the sky next. Some sort of propaganda, or a message to a girlfriend. Remember that night in Paris... ? He didnt smile. Something like that. I knew better than to ask Andre is he doubted his sanity, so instead I asked him the question that really bothered me: Do you think Im behind it? Be honest. I can take it. He thought for a moment before replying. No, I suppose I dont. Im just angry at you for falling for it. Now that was a sobering thought. 232 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I guess it all boils down to the fact that someone is really out there, said Freedom, next on my list. Their motives may seem mysterious, perhaps even nonsensical, but theyre there all the same. And thats what counts. So you dont think it was a prank, or some sort of glitch? Absolutely not. I helped design half the information systems on this ship. Id know if they were malfunctioning, or if someone had tampered with them. Same with my brain. Anybody who says otherwise is evading the issue. But why only one ship? If theyre as advanced as they appear to be, why arent there hundreds of them out here? Well, the Galaxy is a big place, right? The old seti system aiming an antenna at the sky and waiting simply wont work. It takes centuries for signals from one civilisation to reach another, even if theyre relative neighbours; by the time youd know they were there, they might not be any more. Yes, but The only way to 6nd life, therefore, is to go out and look for it, system by system. This applies for any civilisation anywhere in the Galaxy, and especially out here in the Rim. Thus, the sort of aliens well be likely to meet will be wanderers like us. The odds are that we wont stumble across anybodys home system. Itll be just one ship, all on its own. I thought about it, nodded slowly. That makes sense, I guess. And it did, although Ill bet she only thought of it after we met the saucer. But, if theyre looking for life as well, then why wont they talk to us? They might well have tried. Freedom smiled wryly. You never know what life will be like until you 6nd it. Do you know what really scares me? asked Sara. It was late one ships-night and we were sharing a coffee in her quarters. I hadnt actually approached her for her thoughts on the matter, but she offered them anyway. Word had obviously spread. No. What? That it might be real. Which? The, you know, the 7ying saucer. The aliens. Whats so horrible about that? Everything. Theyre obviously so much better than we are. They make us look like savages in comparison. I know. I didnt like to see her so worried. But think of all the things we can learn from them Thats not what I mean. She leaned intoxicatingly closer. Maybe theyre toying with us... Jake laughed when I sought his opinion. Does it really matter, either way? If its a prank, then whoever in6ltrated the system is better than we are. If not, and the aliens are real, then theyre also better than we are. Were helpless to do anything no matter how you look at it, so we might as well sit back and enjoy what happens next. And if its us? If were losing it? As I said: we sit back and enjoy the show. Gabe said much the same, in a round-about way. Im going to sit on the fence for a while, Alek. Sorry. A three-sided fence, I said, between aliens, sabotage and madness. A bit uncomfortable, isnt it? Gabe smiled. Yes, but Im used to it. It goes with the job. And youre welcome to it. Can I ask one last question, then, just for the record? Go ahead. Were not armed, are we? Why would we be? And we have no escape capsules? Where would we escape to? Thats two questions, by the way. I know. But dont you think were dangerously vulnerable out here, all alone and with no means of defending ourselves? 233 T HE S OAP B UBBLE Of course we are. His smile broadened. Thats half the fun, isnt it? As Honorary Soap Operator, I could only agree. So, opinion was divided. Only two members of the senior crew were prepared to admit that they believed in the existence of the aliens; three were undecided, and two thought the saucer was an illusion. Had I been looking for a consensus, I would have been disappointed. As for me, I had my own theory a different one again. Like Myrion, the timing was what bothered me. It was too dramatic, too contrived. Months of editing had taught me that the universe didnt naturally work that way; it had to be nudged before it would perform. Like Andre, I thought it was someone human doing the nudging, not an alien but, unlike him, I had both a motive and a suspect. The saucer had appeared not long after our last package from Earth. That was the crucial clue. If our ai s had been corrupted by some sort of virus, then it must have arrived in that package; maybe hidden in Episode Four, dormant until we played the recording. If that was the case, then only one person, or group of people, could have been behind it. Every package is checked and rechecked for aberrations before leaving Earth orbit; a virus, no matter how dormant, would have shown up eventually. If High Command had been in;ltrated by a traitor, then that person could never have been certain the time bomb would reach its destination. Only one organisation could be sure of that the same one that had the resources and the know- how to build a virus capable of getting past Freedom. Only this organisation knew the ai system aboard the Jew better than she did. And that was High Command itself. The motive was a little more complex. For what possible reason would hc want to sabotage its own investment? The only answer I could think of was to redirect our pooled hostility outwards, towards an imaginary alien, instead of inwards at each other. Even with the success of the soap opera, they still had eleven failures on their hands. Maybe they could see signs of stress that I had missed. Perhaps they thought the risk of pulling a stunt like this was less than the risk of doing nothing at all. Or perhaps I was being paranoid. At the very least, it was a plausible theory. The only problem was, I couldnt tell anyone. If my guess was right, then hc would look poorly on the person who gave the game away and made them the enemy. So, like Gabe, I had to play the impartial observer and let everyone have their say, half- hoping someone else would guess. Only time would tell if I was right. Until then, all I could do was watch and, as Jake advised, enjoy the show. And that was how I eventually worked the saucer into the episode. On other occasions, Gabe had been the star, or Myrion, or Jake. One of the reasons why I had cast myself as narrator, apart from convenience, was because I hate the look of my own face. But I had no choice this time. My turn had come. There was no other way to present what had happened. Episode Eleven (Mu Botis) began, not with the encounter itself, but with the debrie;ng in Gabes quarters. The interviews I had conducted followed, mixed with the survey of the system. On top of the astronomical footage, I publicly agonised over my dilemma: how could I portray what had happened without stretching the audiences credulity? This self-reference was planned to convince the viewers of my/our sincerity. That something unusual had happened would be obvious in the way we spoke; that it was hard to credit, likewise. When the audience eventually saw the actual saucer, at the very end of the episode, they would be prepared for it. They would feel along with us, I hoped, a mixture of fear, amusement, awe, suspicion and total disbelief. Gabe gave the episode his seal of approval and sent it on its way. 234 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Two days later, Freedom and Steve announced that we were ready for crossover to the next system. Gabe, instead of ordering us immediately on our way, announced a twelve- hour shut-down to give us a breather. We were two months ahead of schedule and there was no denying that we were tired, but it wasnt like Gabe to delay like this. He was always pressing on, pushing forward, over the top and no second thoughts, lads! Perhaps he knew something the rest of us didnt, or guessed. Either way, it was worth waiting for. Scene: Control Bridge of the Wandering Jew , approximately seventy-=ve minutes to scheduled crossover. JAKE: Uh, Captain... ? GABE: Yes, Jake? JAKE: Its back, sir. Our friend, the bogey. Stationary, this time. (Brief shot of the alien craft. It appears exactly the same as before: bright green, disc-shaped, spinning about its vertical axis.) GABE: Position? JAKE: High above the ecliptic, barely within range. Were getting a strong =x from one of the solar-survey satellites. GABE: Is it broadcasting? JAKE: Negative, sir. Just sitting there. GABE: (To himself) Waiting for us to do something... ? (Into an intercom) All-stations, all-stations! This is an alert. Prepare for immediate crossover. (Intercom off) Sara, have us ship- shape in =ve minutes. Steve, warm us up. Freedom, any thoughts? FREEDOM: Ill leave the decision up to you, sir. But please bear in mind what I said. GABE: Yes. If we leave Mu Botis, well be losing our last chance to make contact. ME: (To Sara, thinking of the viewers back on Earth) Whys that? SARA: Its theoretically impossible for one ship to follow another through hyperspace. ME: So, if we leave now... ? SARA: Then well lose them forever. (Cut to:) GABE: Any response yet, Jake? JAKE: No, sir. Were still broadcasting on all bands; they must be hearing us. GABE: And it hasnt moved? JAKE: No, sir. GABE: I think weve given them long enough. If they really wanted to talk they would have tried by now. Steve? Everybody? Two minutes. We cross on my command. (SARA broadcasts the order throughout the ship. Deep in the bowels of the Wandering Jew , powerful energies stir, brewing the force that will rip the ship from this universe and take it safely to the next.) JAKE: One minute and counting. GABE: All in order? JAKE: Yes, sir. All lights are green. STEVE: Transformation matrix enabled. FREEDOM: Co-ordinates con=rmed. SARA: Crew in position and awaiting your order, sir. GABE: Good. Alek? ME: Cameras rolling. JAKE: Fifteen seconds. GABE: Last words, anyone? FREEDOM: (To the aliens, presumably) Farewell... ME: Delta Botis, here we come! JAKE: Mark. GABE: Cross. (Cut to: External surface shot. The skin of the Wandering Jew burns with alcohol >ames. In the background, the greenish primary of Mu Botis begins to dissolve.) (Cut to: Control Bridge. The air is full of the straining of engines. A shudder ripples through the ship, rattling bulkheads and causing frowns.) 235 T HE S OAP B UBBLE GABE: Status? STEVE: AOK, sir. Just a ?utter. (The roar of the drive settles. Outside the ship, Mu Botis goes out; the stars vanish. The Wandering Jew exits Einsteinian time- space.) GABE: Fingers crossed, everybody! STEVE: Drive steady. FREEDOM: Co-ordinates locked and holding. JAKE: eta , ninety seconds. (The rattle returns, more insistently this time.) STEVE: (To himself) Come on, baby. GABE: Problem? STEVE: Nothing... uh... (He taps furiously at his board.) FREEDOM: (Urgently) Were drifting! GABE: Keep calm, and clarify. FREEDOM: We have an instability in the transformation matrix! GABE: Serious? FREEDOM: Any instability at all is serious. (The rattle peaks again, and does not fade.) Well be lucky to arrive in one piece if it gets any worse. ME: (Thinking about the theory) I thought the trick was arriving in separate pieces, not one big lump? ANDRE: Can it, would you? STEVE: We have a problem, people. Stabilisers gone in three jump circuits, shorted out a whole line... GABE: Can you >x it? STEVE: Once we shut down, yes. But we cant shut down until we arrive. All I can do is hold us here, between states, for a while. GABE: Which places more strain on the matrix. How long do you think? STEVE: A few minutes. No more. GABE: Do it. JAKE: Countdown halted. eta tba . (The rumble of the engines, now indistinguishable from the ever-present rattle, steadies slightly.) GABE: Freedom, what are the odds of us arriving safely if we just go ahead and >nish the jump? FREEDOM: Slim. GABE: But worth a try... ? FREEDOM: If you like long odds. GABE: How about hyperspace? Can we go back? FREEDOM: Unfortunately, the same conditions apply there. GABE: So why dont we just stay here, then? FREEDOM: Well, it takes energy to keep us whole, and the reactors already under stress. If, or when, the matrix fails entirely, well be torn apart. GABE: Understood. Any suggestions? FREEDOM: No. Im sorry. GABE: Steve? Hows she holding? STEVE: Uh, barely, sir. Theres not much I can do to delay the (There is a violent lurch. A siren begins to wail.) FREEDOM: Weve lost the reactor shielding! Over-rides cutting in power dropping! STEVE: I cant hold her! GABE: Take us in! Do it now, while we still have a chance! (Red lights spread across the drive-control board. The rumble of motors has become a tortured growl.) JAKE: eta , >fteen seconds. STEVE: Were losing it! MYRION: (From life-support, via intercom) Pressure-drop in sector four! (The lights ?icker. Smoke billows.) FREEDOM: Total power-loss to all drive- systems! No, wait that doesnt make sense! Were getting a power-surge I cant tell whats happening down there 236 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES JAKE: System failure! (The lights go out entirely. The wail of the ship continues for a moment, then ceases as well. There is an explosion, so loud the recordings clip.) UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE VOICE: God help us! (The recording whites-out for an instant.) (After an unknown period of time, the lights Cicker back on. An unsteady current brings partial life to some of the boards. The control Bridge is in chaos; people are sprawled everywhere.) ME: (Holding SARA in an absurdly protective fashion) Are we dead yet? JAKE: No. (He frowns, struggles to his feet and confronts his control board.) I think we, uh... ME: Think we what? Dont keep us in suspense, man! JAKE: (Looking up) I think were there. FREEDOM: But we didnt complete the jump. (She sounds almost hurt) We should be dead! (A screen Cickers to life. On it is revealed the yellow Bright Giant, Delta 1-Botis, hanging in space like a candle-lit Chinese lantern. But thats not all... ) GABE: Ho, ho. Theres our welcoming party, folks. FREEDOM: Thats impossible! JAKE: Apparently not. (Hanging in the screens top-left corner is the Cying saucer.) STEVE: The same one? GABE: Why not? FREEDOM: But the theory ME: Fuck the theory. The theory says we should be dead, remember? JAKE: Captain, its moving closer. GABE: Steve, whats our status? STEVE: Poor, sir. Were on emergency power. The fusion drive will burn up our reserves in no time. Give me a week and well be able to run, but not before then. GABE: (Resignedly) So here we sit ANDRE: Helpless ME: And here they come! Afterwards, reviewing the tapes, it looked ridiculous. The Cying saucer drifted slowly closer to us, travelling at a little less than the Jew s intrasystem cruising speed. We nervously watched it approach. There was nothing else we could do. Closer and closer it came, as silent and mysterious as its archetypal counterparts, until it almost seemed within touching distance. And then it vanished again. No-one was seriously injured, apart from the two who had died in the explosively depressurised compartment. While the crew swarmed over the ship, repairing pressure- breaks and patching damaged equipment, the senior ofBcers gathered in the Captains quarters for a second emergency debrieBng session. Gabe scanned the assembled faces, some of them still the worse for wear after the near-disastrous crossover. There was a lot of dirt, worry, frustration and fear on those faces. I wondered if we would ever jump with conBdence again. Okay, Steve, give us the bad news. Well. The chief engineer looked harrowed. Fifteen second before she completed the jump, the Jew suffered a total system failure. She lost life-support, drive capability, everything. A total burnout, to put it crudely. How she made it back to realspace, Ill never know. Thirty seconds later, the backups kicked in. Thank God. Can we repair the damage? Probably. Ill need to go over the whole system piece by piece to Bnd the initial fault before I can Bx it. Then dry-run the patch 237 T HE S OAP B UBBLE before we attempt another jump. Ill let you know the odds when Ive done that. Are you con8dent? Cautiously, yes. Good. Gabe scratched at his ear. But I guess I should ask this: Have you any idea what caused the problem? To be honest, sir, I think it was a combination of age and overwork. Weve been pushing her harder than planned over the last eighteen months; the extra pressure must have put a strain on something. Steve looked uncomfortable. Maybe we should slow down for a while. Stop trying to hurry, you mean? Its worth thinking about, if only for the ships sake. Andre leaned in. Gabe, youre not seriously considering continuing the mission, are you? Why not? The drive is falling apart, for You heard Steve. He thinks he can 8x it. Thinks. And how long before it happens again? I say we should abort the mission and head home while we still can. Next time we might be stranded completely, if we survive at all. Look, we knew before we left that the mission would be risky at times. Yes, weve lost two men; yes, we might have to operate more cautiously in the future. But the mission doesnt have to be scrapped entirely. Nothing has happened that wasnt anticipated and prepared for in advance Except the aliens, pointed out Sara. Dont forget them. I havent. And thats another very good reason to keep going. Andre turned away in disgust. For all we know, they were responsible for the system failure. Thats paranoid. Is it? They followed us through hyperspace, didnt they? Maybe they screwed up the matrix somehow. Gabe looked uncertain, as though he hadnt considered the possibility. Freedom? What about the bogey? Any idea how it followed us? No. You know what the theory says. Maybe they know more about the theory than we do, said Myrion. Or they have a different one. Freedom sighed. Ill concede that. So its possible the aliens interfered with us in some way? asked Gabe, clutching for answers. Is there any way of 8nding out for certain? I hate to say this, but... I dont think so. It obviously hurt Freedom to admit her ignorance. If theyre suf8ciently advanced, they could do anything they wanted without us knowing. But why? Why would they try to kill us in the middle of a jump, then not 8nish the job when they had the chance? It doesnt make sense. Gabe looked as though he was about to hit the desk, a sure sign he was feeling cornered. And why the hell wont they talk to us? I rushed in to forestall a bad scene. I think were getting ourselves a little overwrought. Perhaps we should take a step back and look at this from another angle. Oh, yes? sneered Andre. What exactly do you suggest? Try and see it from the aliens point of view. They might be as puzzled as we are. I dont understand, said Steve. Well, theyve approached us twice now three times, if you count when we came out of hyperspace and each time theyve disappeared. Maybe we didnt respond the way they expected us to. They could be so alien that our behaviour is nonsensical to them, just as theirs is to us. If Freedom resented the theft of her ideas, she didnt show it. I agree. We mustnt fall into the trap of interpreting an apparent lack of communication as evidence of hostility. The degree of alienation between them and us could be so great that standard methods of communication will prove to be insuf8cient. 238 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES I could believe that, said Sara, if they didnt look so... ordinary. What if their real appearance is incomprehensible? suggested Myrion. The semblance of a Eying saucer might be nothing more than an hallucination superimposed by our own minds upon an unacceptable reality. Good thought. I nodded. But the main thing we must always keep in our minds is the fact that, for all their superior technology, they havent destroyed us and theyve had three chances. Gabe looked grateful. Right. If they were hostile, they would have killed us by now. The fact that they followed us here suggests that they still want to make contact. Doesnt it, Andre? The security head said nothing, but I could tell what he was thinking: if a friendly greeting could be misinterpreted as a result of cultural incompatibility, then didnt the same apply to an act of aggression? Anybody else? Gabe looked expectantly around the table. No more gripes? Then thats it. Back to work. Well meet again in twenty-four hours, when Steve can tell us more, and decide then exactly what were going to do next. Back in my ofDce, I shut down the security cameras and the bugs, thus isolating myself from the rest of the Wandering Jew and from the permanent record. For the Drst time since I had taken residence in the ship, I was completely unobserved. Or was I? Surrounded by distractions, it was hard to concentrate. I needed to be alone for a while, to think for myself. My small personal space was the only quarter of the ship where I could achieve the necessary isolation, and even with the cameras off I still felt crowded, watched. On one wall, a coloured 3-D chart showed the constellation of Botes plus a few close neighbours. Our path staggered like a drunkards walk through the Herdsman, the Northern Crown and the Serpents Head, with the occasional detour to Hercules, the Virgin and the Serpent Bearer. Legendary scenery, an itinerary of archetypes. One Eying saucer hardly seemed conspicuous in such auspicious company. Target stars were numbered in order from one to Dfty, with red circles enclosing the ones we had already visited: Xi Botis, Drst of all, one of the closest binaries to Sol System, was followed by other notables like Arcturus, O-Botis, Alpha CB, and Omega Herculis. Amongst the unringed systems were: Gamma CB and Epsilon Botis (Mirak), both binaries; the white supergiants Theta CB and Nu Botis; Kappa Serpens Caput and Delta Ophiuchis, the only M-type stars on our itinerary; and a seemingly endless number of Giant G and K systems: Beta Botis, Delta CB, Yale 5601, Beta Herculis, Yale 5535, Rho Serpens, Psi Botis, Epsilon Ophiuchis and Phi Virgo. Second to last was the system of Lambda Serpens, just thirty- Dve light years from home, which Freedom hoped would contain an earth-like world. We had come so far in such a short time. How could we possibly turn our backs on the rest of the mission? Would it make any difference in the long-run if we did? This was just the beginning of humanitys exploration of local space. There were thousands of stars within reach of the crossover drive. By leaps of twenty to thirty light years at a time, our sphere of knowledge had begun to expand, and there was no way we could ever turn it back. Exploration had momentum, just like any other social force. But we were the Drst. No matter how much pressure Andre exerted, Gabe would not capitulate. The mission would continue. And if there were really aliens out here with us, then that was something we would have to learn to live with. But were there aliens? My Drst theory, that High Command was behind the saucer, seemed unconvincing now. A new one was forming at the back of my mind. I was no longer completely sure that the aliens were a fake. I needed to see my ideas in a concrete 239 T HE S OAP B UBBLE form, to get them out of my head. Calling up a notebook 9le, I began to scribble notes. the story so far: 1.Earth is a very powerful high-frequency radio-source, but has only been pumping out signals for two hundred years. This means that, for an alien ship to have detected these signals, it must have be somewhere inside a bubble of space two hundred light years in radius with Earth at its centre. Gamma Botis, our twenty-sixth system, will be the 9rst we encounter of twelve outside this bubble. All the earlier ones are candidates. 2.An alien ship inside this bubble will be bombarded by radio and television broadcasts from maybe as far back as the early twentieth-century, depending on how distant they are. But it wont be as simple as them switching on their own tv s and tuning in: they wont know anything about frequency or amplitude modulations, or wide-band digital transmissions or carrier waves or ntsc formats, and so on. Theyll have to work it all out from scratch before they have something to study. 3.Then, of course, theres interpretation. Weve never had the opportunity to study a culture from nothing but its transmission media. It might be harder than we think. It might take years. And, if I was an alien, I certainly wouldnt want to approach another world without 9rst understanding its culture. Earth might be a world of rabid xenophobes. Or our religion might revolve around the ritual sacri9ce of unexpected visitors. Or anything. 4.There might have been hundreds of visitors inside our bubble of space, but all we need is one. One curious explorer, as Freedom suggested. One to pick up the signals, to be studying them at this very moment. Although it might conceivably be drifting through deep space, its probably safe to assume that it will be located near a planetary system. (Where else would you look for developing life?) And it hasnt had time to approach Earth. (If it had, we would have seen it.) Maybe itll leave without doing so, because were too aggressive or whatever. But its there right now and thats what counts. Studying Earth long-distance. 5.Okay, now suppose that this alien ship is close enough to Earth to pick up our signals, but no further out than Mu Botis (where we 9rst saw it). That makes the bubble a little smaller, with a radius of one hundred and eight light years. An alien inside this bubble would be picking up transmissions from the early twentieth-century. 6.Television, the largest broadcast-medium, is composed of two distinct streams of data: (1) information, and (2) entertainment. The 9rst stream includes news, documentaries, current affairs and educational programs. The second contains sports, sitcoms, game shows and soap operas. Ever since television was invented, the second stream has been more popular and therefore more substantial. 7.As the aliens sift through all this data, they will be attempting to create a psychological model of the way we think, rather than a technological model of what our world is like. Theyll realise that their information could be as much as seventy-9ve years old (the time it takes a television signal to reach their location at the tardy speed of light). We might have advanced markedly since then, or wiped ourselves out. The only constant in all this info would be the way we behave, regardless of our level of technology. Thats what the aliens will be after. Their motive will be more than simple curiosity; theyll be looking for the best way approach Earth. They dont want to surprise us so much that we start a war over them. 8.If it was a human crew studying Earth, they would be watching the entertainment pretty closely the soap operas in particular, because these offer a glimpse of what the real world is 240 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES supposedly like, or how we would like it to be. If these aliens are really alien, however, they wont understand the difference between information and entertainment. They might not be able to separate the game shows from the news from the soap operas from the documentaries. They might take it all at face value. All they can do is keep watching and hope that it will eventually make sense. 9.Then, one day, the Wandering Jew appears in their vicinity. With news a few decades out of date, they wouldnt know about the crossover drive or the revitalised space program. Wed just pop up out of nowhere. Unexpected as it is, they realise that this is the perfect opportunity for them: a ship-load of live humans, handed to them on a platter. All they have to do is ensure that we dont see them and they can watch us to their hearts content. Which they do. And when we leave, they follow us, to continue their studies. 10.And what do they ;nd? They ;nd The Adventures of the Wandering Jew another soap opera! The more they watch, the more they realise that this soap opera is helping us survive, by bleeding off our pooled tensions in a non-violent way. The soap opera is essential to the continuation of our existence. 11.The aliens look at our behaviour and say: Sure, why not? What we have here is a race of psychodramatic beings. They work through their problems by dramatising them, abstracting them from reality. Whats so weird about that? If they want to deal with the real world by apparently circumventing it, then thats their business. If thats how they stay sane, more power to them. The Adventures of the Wandering Jew is just a microcosm of the larger pool of soap operas back on Earth. A soap bubble, if you like, cast aloft on the winds of space. 12.Eventually, another alien says: Then I think that solves our problem. All this time weve been watching these people and trying to work out how best to approach them. Well, heres our chance. Lets reveal ourselves to these few, and they can tell the others. All we have to do to soften the blow of First Contact is dress-up the encounter. Well create a phantom <ying saucer, just like something out of The Day the Earth Stood Still, and theyll take it ;ne. Theyll be able to deal with it, if it appears as part of the soap. When we truly reveal ourselves, later, theyll be prepared. (And if they send a war-<eet after us, like some of the old ;lms, well have plenty of time to get away... ) Simple, right? 13.So, when the Jew arrives at the O-Botis system, it encounters a green <ying saucer. The apparition is an archetype behaving in archetypal fashion. We are supposed to interpret this unexpected appearance from the context of our psychodrama and report that we have been contacted by aliens. That the saucer makes no attempt to communicate (apart from simply being there) is irrelevant; our psychological make-up should allow us to understand the real aliens intentions. We should instantly recognise an obvious cue for a change of script. 14.But we dont. We step out of the soap opera and question the authenticity of the vision itself. The aliens have guessed wrong. Their crude behavioural model doesnt include the possibility of self-reference. They dont realise that we are acting, and that we know we are acting. The soap opera is just a game with a bonus psychosociological kickback. We write a new soap opera about how the old soap opera seems to be falling apart at the seams. 15.But still they persist; they decide, perhaps, that we were genuinely frightened by the illusions hostile behaviour. So, when we prepare to leave O-Botis, the saucer appears again, this time behaving quite differently. Instead of as the conquering invader, it comes as the hesitant passer-by. We are supposed to remain behind to study it, again from the context of the soap opera. 241 T HE S OAP B UBBLE 16.A second time, we surprise them. We Bee through hyperspace, thinking we can lose the pursuing saucer that way. 17.The drive explodes, but somehow we arrive anyway. And, when we regain our senses, theres the saucer again, doggedly determined to enter our fragile bubble of soap without popping it. 18.And here am I, trying to work it all out... I saved the Ale and browsed through it. Everybody had been partially right: Freedom with her genuine aliens, Saras game-players, Andres illusory messages in the sky, Myrions archetypes, my own early script-writers. Each had become a facet of a glittering new hypothesis. But was this one right? My theory was neat, I felt, but it wasnt complete. There was still something missing, something I hadnt taken into account. Something that had happened was bothering me but when, and what? It was there in my head, I suspected; all I had to do was shake it loose. Somehow. I collapsed back into the chair, thinking furiously. Something Freedom had said... ? Turning to the terminal, I keyed it for voice-activation and reconnected it to the Jew s ai mainframe. This sole computer link became my only connection to the rest of the ship. Through it, I could access the security records. It was a long shot, I knew, but worth a try. Anything to jog my memory. I skimmed through the Arst encounter, but found nothing. Same with the second and third. If the clue existed, then I was looking in the wrong place. Instinct took me back to the moment when the drive had malfunctioned, when it had looked like we were going to die. The cameras on the Control Bridge had recorded our panic with unBattering detail. On the screen in my ofAce, we milled like ants, helpless, waiting for the descending boot to crush us. The reactor had failed and the ship had lost power; we had been effectively dead from that moment onwards. Without power to complete the jump, we should have been torn apart by strong nuclear forces and utterly destroyed. But, miraculously, we had survived. Why? And that was it. So simple and yet so tangential that I almost missed it. Were getting a power surge, Freedom had said. I dont understand whats happening down there! A power surge just strong enough to push us just far enough, back to real space. A power surge. Where had it come from? Not from the reactor itself because that was down; not from the backups because they hadnt cut in yet. That left outside, except that theres no outside during a jump. Which meant... Which meant there had to be another power source aboard the ship that we didnt know about. Erasing the security records from the screen, I nervously cleared my throat and spoke into the microphone: Hello? Are you listening? Hello? The screen instantly lit up, as though it had been expecting me: >>HELLO, ALEK MAAS. I stared at the words for a moment, almost daring them to disappear. This isnt some kind of prank, is it? >>NO. The simple negative carried the weight of a thousand words, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I wasnt crazy after all. My God... Where are you? >>INASMUCH AS WE CAN BE SAID TO HAVE A TRUE LOCATION, WE ARE AFT OF THE DRIVE SHIELDING. And how long have you been aboard the ship? 242 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES >>SINCE THE STAR YOU CALL SIGMA BOTIS. But we saw no sign of... No, of course we didnt. Thats not your home system. I sagged back into the chair and ran my =ngers through my hair. I was talking to an alien! I cant believe this is really happening! >>TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION, YES, BUT NOTHING IS STRANGER THAN A SOAP OPERA. I laughed, mentally chalking up another correct guess. True, very true. >>HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN? Since the drive failed, I think. >> IT WAS THEN THAT YOU REALISED? Subconsciously, yes. But it wasnt until we arrived at Delta Botis, here, and the saucer appeared again, and I had the chance to think it through that I was sure. The aliens werent following us at all; theyve been with us the whole time! >>YES. Yes. I sagged further into the chair, truly struck by the enormity of the situation. You saved our lives. Thank you, on behalf of all of us. >>WE HOPE THAT YOU WOULD HAVE DONE THE SAME HAD THE SITUATION BEEN REVERSED. Of course, of course. I took a deep breath. Freedom will be glad to know. Shes been tearing her hair out trying to =gure out how you tracked us through hyperspace. >>SHE DOES NOT ALREADY KNOW? No. How could she? I havent told anyone else. >>NO-ONE? Of course not, I Stopping in mid- sentence, I stared at the bold, emotionless upper-case letters on the screen. A strange sensation crept up my spine. Why? >>OUR LONG-TERM GOALS HAVE NOT BEEN ALTERED. WE STILL INTEND TO MAKE CONTACT, BUT WE DO NOT WISH TO REVEAL OUR LOCATION UNTIL THE TIME IS RIGHT. Of course not, but >>THE TIME IS NOT YET RIGHT. YOU REALISED SOONER THAN WE EXPECTED. I began to feel cold. So what happens now? >> NOTHING. WE WAIT. But what about me? If I promise not to tell anyone, will you trust me? There was no reply. The screen remained blank. Hello? Are you still listening? >>WE ARE CONFERRING. About what? Whether to get rid of me because I know too much? >>YES. I gripped the edge of the desk so hard my =ngers bent the plastic. This was insane! I had to do something. To my left was the red depressurisation alarm, the surest way to get an instantaneous response from anyone nearby. If worse came to worst and I could hit the switch fast enough, then someone might arrive in time to save me. Otherwise, I would have to talk my way out of it. 243 T HE S OAP B UBBLE Look, come on, guys or whatever you are. This has gone beyond a joke. You can trust me. I wont say anything, I promise. No- one would believe me anyway. You really dont need to >>ALEK MAAS? The single line of text silenced me as effectively as a slap to the mouth. Yes? >>THERE IS LITTLE TIME LEFT. ALTHOUGH IT PAINS US TO DO THIS WE HAVE NO CHOICE. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND LATER. At exactly that moment, the door to my of?ce chimed. I didnt stop to yell for help, or to wonder what the aliens had meant by understand later. The door was locked airtight, and there wasnt time to think. I simply lunged as fast as I could for the depressurisation alarm, hoping against hope that my re@exes could outrace alien weaponry. As I threw myself across the desk, something bright @ashed out of the corner of my eye the ?ngertips of my right hand brushed the smooth plastic of the switch my skin tingled all over, as through a strong static charge had enveloped me and I died. Sara rang the doorbell to my of?ce four times before giving up. When I didnt reply, she went and found Andre, who used his authority as security of?cer to override the doors magnetic lock. Gabe was summoned and a search organised. The entire crew (those few who werent involved in the repairs, anyway) scoured the ship from fore to aft, without success. The life-support ai reported that it was supplying breathable atmosphere to one less person than before, but that the overall mass of the ship had not decreased and no airlocks had been activated. Andre subjected the security recordings of the corridor outside my room to intense scrutiny. No-one had entered or left my room in the time between my arrival from the debrie?ng and Saras visit. And the room itself was empty. Which was very mysterious. I had, it seemed, disappeared into thin air. Sara cried. Andre was suspicious. Gabe agonised over how to report my loss in the mission log, Jake was philosophical. Neither Freedom nor Steve had time to think about it. Myrion was grimly amused. And all the while I watched them, unseen and unknown, from my new home aft of the drive shielding. I wasnt dead, much to my surprise. As it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of other things as well. The aliens are a little more forthcoming now that I am with them. They explain that my body no longer exists, that it has been broken down to its constituent elements and dispersed throughout the ship, that the I remaining is an abstract template of the old Alek Maas, like an ai but in?nitely more complex. I inhabit the realm of information, incorporeal yet very much alive, thanks to my alien friends: an analog of my former self, complete with emotions, irrational urges and an initial reluctance to fully accept my new status. Gradually it sinks in, however: the reality of my new life. The aliens themselves have existed in this fashion for centuries. Their culture learned early in the development of its space program that it was far easier (not to mention cheaper) to send disembodied templates on long voyages than real people who constantly eat, breath and excrete. A large proportion of the Wandering Jew , for example, is wasted on oxygen and water recyclers, waste processors and medical facilities, whereas their ship is nothing more than engines and a sophisticated 244 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES mainframe, with no life-support whatsoever. A source of power is all they require. But, like them, their ship does not technically exist either; thats the part I have trouble understanding, and which they seem reluctant to explain. Somehow, the mainframe generates a model of itself, along with the rest of the ship and the more I think about this, the less it seems possible. I wonder sometimes if they are ghosts travelling on a ghost-ship, with me as their guest. But I am, of course, substantially more than that. They can learn more by interacting directly with me than they could from thousands of hours of covert observation. And I have certain other uses which only become apparent as the truth slowly emerges. I was right about the 9ying saucer, but not entirely. It was an illusion and a crude attempt at communication, but for the bene8t of one person, not the entire crew. It was an attempt to get the attention of a very speci8c individual. As such, it worked, but only just. That I guessed the truth, or near enough to it, sooner than they had expected con8rmed what they already knew. Their understanding of human nature was 9awed. If they wanted to insinuate themselves into our reality without disturbing the contextual continuity of the soap bubble, then they needed help. Human help. They needed, in short, a Director. And there was only one of those for one hundred and sixteen light years. Time passes quickly. We watch the crew of the Wandering Jew explore the Delta Botis system. The drive and the reactor are repaired, and my disappearance is made of8cial. When the next package to Earth is despatched, I will be recorded as missing, presumed dead. In my absence, no-one has assumed the role of Soap Operator a fact which pains me. The reports are being assimilated instead by a dry, dead ai with no sense of drama. The reappearance of the saucer and the near-tragedy of the jump should have been exploited to the fullest not to mention my own disappearance: yet another mystery to plague the brave crew! Had I been there, I could have produced a 8rst-rate episode. But, in a sense, I am still there, and I have more time now that I am not con8ned to the halting rhythms of the 9esh. It is a relatively simple matter to prepare the episode for my own enjoyment as an exercise, a dry-run while my alien benefactors watch. They are intrigued by how I turn reality into melodrama. So intrigued, in fact, that they allow me a small favour. When the ai 8nishes its freeze- dried report, they tamper with its memory. It is my work that issues from it, my work that is sent to Earth. My role as impartial observer continues unchecked. From my new perspective, I can integrate each episode into a much larger plot containing aliens, First Contact, and perhaps even a genuine romance. Sara, the dear girl, refuses to believe that I am dead. My unexplained disappearance has made her suspicious. When she sees the report, her opinion is con8rmed. Hes still here, she insists to anyone who will listen. Hes the ships ghost. I attempt to convince my hosts that she is a threat to their security and must also be kidnapped, but they arent stupid. They know that I am simply seeking the company of one of my own race. Besides, they are busy. The saucer must put in an appearance soon, in accordance with the new script I have written. An archetypes work is never done. But I dont mind. We have our schedule and are sticking to it. Beta Herculis, one year away (the twenty-8fth system, the half-way point) is where and when we will reveal the truth to the rest of the crew. All I have to do is wait until then to get my body back, or a copy of it at least. Perhaps my role as ships ghost may be expanded to allow small messages to appear in the system. At least that way I could talk to her, tell her that there is nothing to worry about, that she will be safe. We are all in safe hands now. And the story continues... C HRIS B ACHALO S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS 246 247 I T WAS MOONLIGHT-TIME AND THE second sun, orange and stately, slipped into the inky depths of the Roranraka sea. The /rst sun had been quenched for well over a tide. Siana played in the silver pools the tide had left behind, looking for spiraled shells that she could decorate her new room with. She didnt skip from pool to pool. On the crumbly, wet coral skipping could cause a slip and fall, and Siana had learned about falls the hard way. She had fallen face /rst into a patch of /recoral when she was very little. Her mom said shed cried so loud half the tall-village came looking for her. And the wickedly /erce burning left small patches of Sianas left cheek discolored. Siana had to time her excursions for shells well. Her tall-village sat in the middle of the ocean, on the tallest mid-ocean peak where reef had grown and sand had collected over time. Several times during the day the Roranraka receded, and Siana could look for shells. But during the rest of the day the ocean lapped at the pillars of her entire village. TIDES Tobias S. Buckell Illustrated by Evan M. Jensen 248 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES So Siana carefully stepped her way between the pools. In a funny looking kidney-shaped pool she paused and squatted to try and peer through the mirrored surface. The hem of her gray skirt touched the water and turned even darker. It stirred ripples into the surface as she shifted. Although Siana couldnt see very well through her re9ection she was the best at 8nding beautiful shells. It wasnt a case of looking, she knew, but reaching her hand out over the surface and feeling through the water for the perfect shell. There! Just tucked into the corner of the pool was a mahogany-brown cowlie. Rippled stripes ran in wedges around the spiral, and clean bone-white patterns twisted in between them. How beautiful. Siana carefully reached down and picked it up. Ah, and she was lucky, nothing had moved into the empty shell. It sat large in her hand, dripping salty water down her palm and tickling her wrist when she held it up into the moonlight. This will go above the doorway, Siana thought. Right next to Toffhey, her stuffed dolphin. A large shadow passed in front of Mainmoon: a long, thin, airship. Siana stopped admiring the cowlie. Shed never seen an airship before, though mum talked about them sometimes in a sad way. Teamdroves of enormous wrinkled birds squawked and complained as they pulled the large silvery craft against the wind. It was going towards her tall-village! Siana tucked the cowlie into a wet, dirty, canvas bag along with all the other shells shed collected. She walked back home, but slowly. No matter how excited Siana got, she refused to chance the 8recoral. When Siana 8nally got home she stood and looked up at the four massive wooden posts that kept home above the high-tide level. All the lanterns were lit, 9ickering a warm yellow light. Her new room, hanging off of the side of the main hut and propped up on the south post, also had a lantern in the window. Even stranger, Siana could smell cooking and the excited rumbling of dads voice. Strange because theyd just had supper, and mum had let her out to go look for shells while the tide was well out. Siana grabbed the 8rst rung of the ladder and climbed up and up. She paused halfway to catch her breath. When she reached the hatch of the entryway she clambered in and closed it behind her. She carefully set the canvas bag of shells down. Siana? Is that you? Mum called, peeking around the corner of the door. Yes. Come in, she said with a big smile. Theres someone wed like you to meet. Mum smelled reassuringly of bread and salt8sh stew. She wore her apron, and had her long brown hair carelessly pulled back in a ponytail. Her hair, Siana thought, was almost the color of the cowlie in her bag. And so was her skin. Tanned and weathered. Siana walked into the room. Dad sat in his driftwood armchair. He was also grinning. And next to him stood a woman. The woman looked a lot like mum: the same brown eyes, and the sharp cheeks. She looked the same age as well. But even though she smiled when she saw Siana, the womans eyes looked really tired, like dads when hed been out after a whale for many weeks and come home without a catch. Hello Siana, the woman said. I cant believe how big youve grown. Look at you! Siana smiled politely. Adults always said things like this in a high-pitched voice. It actually annoyed her, but mum would get angry if Siana got smart with the guest. Thank you, Siana said. Do you know who she is? Mum asked excitedly. Before Siana could hazard a guess, though she was thinking that the visitor was a cousin to mum of some sort, the woman spoke. Im Miasia. Im your sister. Siana pursed her lips. 249 T IDES No youre not. Mum says my sister died in the Coastal War. Mum made a half strangled sobbing noise, and dad looked angry for a second. Then he grinned ruefully. No, Siana. He reached out with his long arms and pulled her closer. No, this is really your sister, Miasia. Siana regarded Miasia for a moment. Sorry, Siana said. You looked old. You look just like mum. But even older. Miasia looked at mum and shrugged. Ive been through a lot, she said. There was a large duffel bag by her feet. She picked it up and opened it. But, I do have a little something for you that I bought back from over the ocean. Miasia pulled out a small wooden box and gave it to Siana. It was made of old, dark wood, with brass hinges that creaked as Siana opened it. Inside sat a purple and pink conch shell. It was stunning. Thank you, Siana breathed. She moved away from dad and gave Miasia a quick hug. Itll go well with the other shells in my new room. Dad tapped his 7ngers on his chair. Siana, Miasias going to sleep in your new room tonight. He glanced at mum. Until we 7gure out how things are going to work. Okay? Siana stood stunned. She knew how temporary things like this worked in a tall- village. Where could Miasia sleep except here? Shed just come back, and it would take her a long time to get settled on the island. And dad couldnt afford the wood for another new room; it had taken him years to work for the extra wood to build the small addition to their tallhouse. There were few islands scattered on the ocean, and even fewer building resources traded between them and the Mainland. And tall-villages all across the Roranraka were 7ghting the Coastal War for access to forests, so that they could build their homes that barely stuck out of the ocean. Sianas mum often told her it made everyone sad to lose so many children, and brothers and sisters, for the sake of wooden pilings. Siana looked at a sister she had almost forgotten. Her return was a good thing, Siana thought, but losing a room! Children in tall- villages dreamed and prayed for a room of their own most of their lives. And now... She started to get a pout ready, but dad gave her a stern look, knitting his eyebrows together. Siana sighed. Its not fair, she declared. Im going back outside. No youre not. Easytide comes in a few hours, mum said. Its only a few inches, Siana started. No. Siana bit her lip. Ill go to bed then. Thats a good idea, dad said. Siana changed into her nightclothes and crawled back into her old bed, the one next to the kitchen. The bed shed spent most of her life in. Her elbows hit the shelves one end, and her feet the other. Bulbs of onions, dangling parsley, garlic, all swung in planters above her. Siana listened to the distant murmur of everyone talking while she mulled over various ways of running away from home. None of them would work. There werent any big vessels she could stowaway on besides the whaler dad worked on, and the tides prevented anyone from walking to any of the other islets near hers. The nearest other tall-village was a week away by boat. The only other land was Mainland, hundreds and hundreds of miles away, where the world came up out of the ocean, and green trees grew, and people lived without worrying about tides. It sounded like a fairy-tale. But the Mainland was crowded with people. And they guarded their precious trees with their lives. Tall-villagers were not welcome. The only way Siana could get there was if she got involved in the Coastal War. Children were not meant for that kind of 7ghting. The thought of the Coastal War made her think of Miasia again, and got Siana even angrier. 250 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Just before Siana fell asleep she heard someone walk carefully up to her. Siana feigned sleep, but peeked. Miasia stood there as if wanting to say something, but then apparently thinking Siana was asleep, left. Her footsteps creaked on the 6oorboards. At least someone was getting their own room tonight, Siana thought. She turned back the other way trying to get comfortable. Siana followed her friends to the edge of the tall-village the next midtidemorning, and everyone kept questioning her about Miasia. Where has she been? What does she look like now? Why does she look so old when she is only a little older than you, Siana? Did she use up all her magic? Siana looked at the excited faces, their hair blowing in the wind. The sand sucked under her feet as she walked. And how is Siana today? she asked, annoyed. But even her close playfriends didnt 5nd it all that horrible that Siana had lost her room. In fact, most of the children in the tall- village werent very nice to her. Sianas family had only been in this tall-village since her grandfather had fallen on hard times and been forced to leave the Mainland to become a whaler. So still, when they played war, Siana had to be the Evil Coastie. Really, Siana, it must be so neat to have a sister back from the wars, they all said. Then they rolled their eyes when Siana slurped off down the sandtrails in a huff. It had been her room. Why did Miasia have to return at all? Siana asked mum that same question with a calculated foot stomp. Mum looked down at her, then leaned over. Her shell necklace tinkled and shifted. Its not always easy, mum said softly. Sometimes we have to adapt. I wish we could just live on the beach, not on the poles. It would be so much easier to build a home. But that was silly. Mum was being strange. The tides would wipe out a house without stilts in an instant. Its owners would never be heard from again. Mums silliness didnt change Sianas rage. She stomped towards her bed. She looked at the shells on her shelf above her bed, and the cowlie she had picked out for mum but hadnt given her yet. She was might regret this later, but... Siana swept the shells onto the 6oor with a shriek. I hate it! Its not fair. Siana, her mother yelled. Your shells! The fragile pieces lay on the 6oor, most of them okay. Shells were tougher than they looked. Some had chipped their spiraled edges, or the little horns sticking off their sides. But the beautiful cowlie, Sianas new pride, had shattered against the little table by her bed. Siana, her mother pointed. Miasias gift, the conch shell, also lay broken. Why? Siana swallowed. I dont care, she declared, lying. I dont care. She ran out of the kitchen and down the ladder. Siana sat against one of the pillars of the tide- callers station. It was the highest building in the tall-village, and the furthest out. She let her last few tears dry on her cheeks and sat watching the second sun rise as the 5rst sun dipped below the horizon to 5re the sky and clouds with patterns of deep red and purple. Miasia crossed the sand with a slight limp. Siana scuf6ed to face the other way as Miasia got close. Hey, Miasia said. Siana didnt answer. Mum says the conch shell fell off the shelf and youre pretty upset about it. Siana looked at Miasia. 251 T IDES No she didnt. Youre just saying that. Miasia leaned back in mock horror. Caught in my own lie! Okay, Im sorry. I couldnt think of anything else to say that would be more comfortable for the both of us. Can I sit? I guess. Miasia scooped out some sand and then wiggled into the side of the pillar. She turned a bit to look at Siana. Siana resolutely stared ahead. Miasia pulled out a wooden bead with tiny lines of blue painted around it in a wiggly pattern. She held it up to the sun. Siana watched out of the corner of her eye, still trying to pretend not to. Then Miasia opened her palm and dropped her hand below the bead a few inches. And the bead stayed where it was: in the air, just above Miasias palm. Siana couldnt not look. She shifted around to face her sister. Howd you do that? Miasia grinned. Its not that hard. You could probably do it. According to my teachers, the talent runs in blood. Wow, Siana breathed. The bead spun in the air. But what about the price? Shed been taught in school about it. Using magic was dangerous. Miasia sighed and the bead dropped into her 4ngers. Each little bit of magic takes a proportionately sized piece of your life, she said. The corners of her mouth tugged down brie5y, and she looked past Sianas shoulder, out at the sand that went on and on into the distance. Miasia, Siana asked. Is that why you look old like mum? Yeah. Miasia stood up. She grunted as she did so. But Siana was still thinking. You shouldnt have 5oated that bead, she said. That cost you. Miasia smiled and ran a 4nger through Sianas hair. It only cost me a few seconds, she said. Its the least I can do for taking your room away from you. Maybe, Siana thought, maybe Miasia wasnt so bad. They stood up and started to walk slowly back to tall-home, Siana delaying to look for shells, Miasia limping. Halfway there, Siana paused at a left over pool of water and looked in. There was a small shell she couldnt quite reach, but Miasia quite deftly leaned over past Siana and plucked it out of the water, only slightly wetting the edge of her sleeve. What did you do in the wars? Siana asked, a bit bold, as Miasia dried the shell off on her dress. I made shells. Invisible shells, like bubbles, to protect the of4cers. Miasia shut her eyes. Before battle ten or twenty of us spellcasters would stand in the tent. The of4cers came in one side, their uniforms bare to the danger of gun4re, and they came out the other side protected by my magic. I had to make the bubbles big for them, to give them enough air to come back and have the bubbles unlocked so they could breathe. I had to repair damaged shells, not far from the 4ghting. All the time around us soldiers died of horrible things, Siana, and I grew old quickly. Oh. One day the Coasties attacked the tent. Miasia looked around to see if anyone was about, then pulled up the edges of her skirt and showed Siana the angry red scar that ran down the front of her leg. Why didnt you have your own bubble? Siana asked. They dont teach us that version of the spell. The rulers decided to take all the 252 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES books about magic that spellcasters owned a long time ago, and only the rulers can decide what spells they should teach each spellcaster. That way no spellcaster gets too powerful, like they used to be in the barbaric Old Ages. But then the rulers still get to use the powers to help them. So other than that one powerful spell they taught me for the war, all I know are some simple little tricks. Siana digested this all. Why did you leave the tall-village? Siana asked. If the magic was going to do this to you. Miasia looked off into the distance. You know dad promised the rest of his life to the whalers to afford our tall-house? Just because those on the Mainland drive the price of wood so high. I wanted to help dad. Siana scratched at the sand. Dad always looked glum. Always sea-tough, tired, and yet so proud of her shells. The thought of 4ghting Miasia for the room suddenly seemed extremely sel4sh and petty. Siana realized she had much growing up to do. Her sister was drained and old from war, her father chained to the whaling ships for life, and mum did her best to 4nd part time work around the tall-village, cooking and cleaning for established families. But Siana didnt want to think about sober things. It was still a pretty day out, with the salt heavy in the air. All those adult things seemed so far away. Would you teach me the bead trick? She asked. After all, what were a few seconds of her life in exchange for the ability to really impress her playfriends? But Miasia turned away. All the joy dropped from her face. Siana realized how old Miasia looked: her face had wrinkles, and some of her hair had begun to silver and grow wispy. Lets go back, Miasia said. It took Siana several days to get Miasia to ease up and show her the bead trick again. And Siana tried to look through Miasia, just like she looked through the pools of water to 4nd her shells. Miasia handed Siana the bead with a smile. Okay, you try. Siana let the bead sit in the crease of her folded hand. It felt slightly hot. She scrunched her forehead and stared at the bead willing as hard as she could for it to rise. Nothing happened. Miasia put her hands underneath Sianas and smiled. The bead began to rise into the air. Oh, Siana giggled. The bead hovered, and then it slowly began to spin, gyrating like a top on the 5oor, wiggling all over the place. The little lines of blue painted onto the bead created a smooth mesmerizing pattern in the air. I wish I could do it, Siana said, frustrated. You are, Miasia said. Now. She pulled her hands away and the bead continued spinning, for a second. Siana gasped in surprise and the bead spun out from her hands and landed in the sand. Miasia laughed and tousled Sianas hair. Not bad you little egg, not bad at all. Siana looked at the little bead in the sand. Can I try again? Miasia leaned over and picked the bead up. Sure, she said. They spent the rest of the hour laughing and together making the bead dance over their hands. Sianas guilt at the smashed shells was weighing on her mind, and she decided she should 4nd a good shell for Miasia and mum as a way of making up. She left after one of the littletides, just before the rushtide, to go out and look for the best shells. The best shells were to be found just beyond the edge of the tall-village, past the lookout towers who would no doubt call mum to come and fetch Siana back into 253 T IDES the tall-village because she was wandering too far out. Again. She squelched out eastwards over the sand, and then after a while started picking her way over rock as the ground slipped downwards. Walking around great round pieces of brain coral that were orange-gray, wrinkled, and covered in mucus, Siana began to zero in on a few tide pools that felt promising. Mainmoon sat gray in the sky, along with 3rst sun. This was further than Siana usually went. Siana found the perfect pool. She carefully squatted at the edge waddled down in. Her careful movements sent ripples across the peaceful surface. Despite her caution Sianas foot slipped in between two rocks and she fell into the tide pool. The cold water shocked her, and for a moment she 4oated there. Then her foot began to throb and Siana started to cry. She was scared, her foot hurt, and she knew shed de3nitely walked too far away: she would get into trouble from mum. Hey, hey, came Miasias voice. Dont cry. Its okay. Her sisters face appeared at the edge of the pool, and Siana stopped crying. Miasia? Yep. The lookout sent someone to fetch mum to bring you back. I decided to come instead. Figured youd get into less trouble. Miasia reached over and grunted as she helped Siana out of the pool. Cold water streamed from Sianas dress and she shivered, glad to be out in the 3rst suns warmth. Im sorry, Siana said. I was trying to 3nd the best shells for you and mum. Well, thats sweet of you, Miasia said. But come on, lets go home, rushtide is coming soon. My ankle hurts. All the more reason to leave now. Well go to the nearest lookout. Siana grabbed Miasias shoulder and they both slowly hobbled back towards the tall-village. They passed the brain coral step by step with Siana stopping to rest when her ankle hurt too much. Miasia tried not to look worried, but Siana knew she had done something very bad. Miasia kept looking north when she thought Siana wasnt looking. They both knew rushtide was coming soon. Siana had been hoping to 3nd her shell and walk back, with just enough time, to the nearest lookout. Any tall-villager knew the tide schedule instinctively; their lives revolved around it in every way. Siana should have made it back to the tall- village already. And because they were on the slope no one from the lookouts could see them to come out and help. She tried to hobble faster, but it only hurt more. She tripped and fell, and Miasia couldnt move quickly enough to catch her. Sianas chin hit a piece of rock. Oww... she forced tears back. Miasia, Im scared. Its okay, Miasia said. Her feet began squelching in sand that had become slightly wetter. Im going to try and carry you. Siana got on Miasias back and grabbed her thin shoulders. Miasia grunted and began slowly walking. Mums going to be really mad at me. Siana said. Maybe not, Miasia said, out of air and panting out the words. If we dont, she shifted Sianas weight, tell her. They walked a little while longer, and then Miasia set Siana down, breathing heavily. Im sorry, she said, her voice breaking, I cant do it. Im too spent. Im too old. Siana, scared, grabbed Miasias hand. Come on, I can keep walking, we have to make it. She hobbled on faster, leaning on Miasia, but after a minute the ankle began to give out, and Siana was hopping. And in the sand and rock, every hop was almost a disaster. She 4opped to the ground twice more, once bringing Miasia down with her. Siana tasted salt water. A thin trickle was beginning to 4ow up the slope with them. Miasia sat down and ripped at the hem of her skirt. She took the strip of cloth and bound Sianas leg to her own. 254 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Now try, Miasia said. They began to walk in tandem. It took a few tries, they started slow, splashing through the water, then got into a good peg-legged rhythm. But the water was beginning to trickle louder around them, and Siana heard a familiar distant roar. Faster, Miasia ordered, an edge in her voice. They cleared the rocks and stepped onto wet sand. Siana lost her step and they both tumbled. Siana could see tall-village. The nearest lookout was frighteningly far away. If shed been able to jog she could have made it in time. Siana struggled to get back up, crying out from the stab of pain in her ankle, but she couldnt. Miasia was still sitting. She had a distant look on her face. She started unwrapping their legs. What are you doing? Siana asked. The cold water swirled around her lap and tugged the strip of cloth away when Miasia let it go. Pay attention, Miasia said. To what Im going to teach you. Sianas heart thudded in her chest and her mouth went dry. Now, Miasia said. Im going to create a bubble around that rock, and then teach you how to unlock the bubble on your own. No, that will take too long. Siana said. Teach me how to make a bubble and we can make them on each other. Miasia looked at Siana, the lines in her face crinkling as she smiled. It took me weeks and weeks of training, sister. This isnt just a bead trick you can learn in a day. The unlocking trick is hard enough, but I know you can do it. No, Siana said again. If you put me in a bubble without teaching me how to unlock then you can run back to the lookout tower and come get me after rushtide. What if I dont make it? Who will come unlock it? You will run out of air and die as well. Dont say that, Siana begged, starting to cry again. You will, you have to. You just got here. Ill lose you again. Stop it, Miasia said. Pay attention. She grabbed Sianas hands. Please. Pay attention. And maybe it was just her ability to stay calm that shed learned abroad, at war, but Siana responded to Miasias calmness by falling quiet. Okay. Miasia spread her hands and murmured some words. Siana didnt understand them, but she could feel them coming out of Miasia and caressing the rock. The rock shimmered, half in and half out of the rushing water. Then a clear bubble formed around it, trapping the air and protecting the rock. The water rushed around it. The spell was powerfully subtle, and Siana could not grasp what Miasia had done no matter how much she strained to hear and see and understand. She had to learn to save Miasia with a bubble. But the understanding never came to Siana. Miasia sighed and relaxed. She looked tired. Okay. Now feel with me as I unlock it. Miasia took Sianas hands in her own and Siana followed as they both reached out and felt the bubble around the rock. There was a spot Siana could feel, a spot where she could put in her 1nger and twist. Miasia twisted the bubble and it collapsed. Water rushed around to 1ll the empty space. It burbled over Sianas belly now, threatening to sweep her away. 255 T IDES Now Im going to put one around you, Miasia said. And make it large enough to last through the tide. No, Siana begged. Please... she trailed off and began to cry. Miasia hugged her. I love you, little sister, she said. She stood up and stepped back, and Siana closed her eyes and cried some more. The water around her quit rushing. She looked back up from inside the now massive bubble surrounding her and saw Miasia moving through the water back towards the tall-village. Through the ground she could feel the vibration of rushtide, and the wall of rapidly rising water took Miasias shrunken 0gure. Siana ran over and slapped the wall of the bubble with her small 0sts and cried until it hurt, then cried some more, and still the pain didnt go away. Eventually she slipped into the now tepid water 1oating around in the bottom of the bubble. The water level all around her rose until she was totally underwater. The surface lay many feet overhead, and torpedo shaped scudder0sh began to nose around the edge of the bubble. Every breath sounded loud inside the bubble, and the light that 0ltered down to her danced and rippled around her. The tall-village now stood alone in the center of the Roranraka Sea, alone for hundreds of miles. At times the tide threatened to wash the bubble away, but Miasia had grounded it well, including a great amount of sand and water in the bottom. She had put it near a large rock, so it moved a little, but stayed still. After the many hours of rushtide, the people for the tall-village emerge from the houses and came to look for Siana. When the found the bubble they gathered around and began hammering away at it with whatever they could 0nd. Hammers, chisels, axes. Mum and dad pressed up against the side with frantic faces, but Siana ignored them. She pressed her cheek against the bubble, trying to touch that last piece of her sister that lay deep in the 0lmy nothingness between Siana and the outside. No one outside understood what Siana could feel and understand; that when she unlocked the bubble Miasias presence, contained in the bubble which she had given a piece of her life to create, would dissolve. Sianas tears ran freely and she pressed her 0ngers against the bubble. Im so sorry, she sobbed as she found the lock with her mind. When she put her 0nger in and turned, the bubble fell apart. The water in it burst out and soaked everyone around it, and the pieces of bubble whisped out at them in little 0lmy fragments that passed harmlessly right through them and evaporated in a 1ash of rainbow colors. And inside Siana, something else broke, and her tears stopped cold. Siana 1inched when mum and dad hugged her. She was looking far, far off into the unseen distance, to where there was real land, land that didnt have the tides. She felt hard inside, and friends, fun, and shells fell from her mind. After she had been carefully tucked her into the new bed in Miasias room, Siana looked at the broken conch shell on the 1oor. It would be a long time before the next airship touched at her tall-village, but Siana knew she would leave with it. Out there, she could learn the magic that would have let her save her Miasia. She would practice what little she knew, and try to learn what she couldnt. She would erase anything of herself to lose the pain of Miasias memory. And all the village who saw her in the days, and months after, whispered to each other. Though they didnt think she could hear them, Siana could. They whispered that she seemed different from the village folk. They said that she was no longer a wild, young child, favored by her parents. They thought she had a far off look in her eyes, and that she seemed& older. 256 257 UNWORTHY OF THE ANGEL Stephen R. Donaldson Illustrated by Chris Butler Let no man be unworthy of the Angel who stands over him. UNKNOWN ...A ND STUMBLED WHEN MY FEET SEEMED to come down on the sidewalk out of nowhere. The heat was like walking into a wall; for a moment, I couldnt /nd my balance. Then I bumped into somebody; that kept me from falling. But he was a tall man in an expensive suit, certain and pitiless, and as he recoiled his expression said plainly that people like me shouldnt be allowed out on the streets. I retreated until I could brace my back against the hard glass of a display window and tried to take hold of myself. It was always like this; I was completely disoriented a piece of cork carried down the river. Everything seemed to be melting from one place to another. Back and forth in front of me, people with bitten expressions hurried, chasing disaster. In the street, too many cars snarled and blared at each other, blaming everything except themselves. The buildings seemed to go up for miles into a sky as heavy as a lid. They looked elaborate and hollow, like crypts. And the heat I couldnt see the sun, but it was up there somewhere, in the /rst half of the morning, hidden by humidity and /lth. Breathing was like inhaling hot oil. I had no idea where I was; but wherever it was, it needed rain. 258 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Maybe I didnt belong here. I prayed for that. The people who 6icked glances at me didnt want what they saw. I was wearing a gray overcoat streaked with dust, spotted and stained. Except for a pair of ratty shoes, splitting at the seams, and my clammy pants, the coat was all I had on. My face felt like Id spent the night in a pile of trash. But if I had, I couldnt remember. Without hope, I put my hands in all my pockets, but they were empty. I didnt have a scrap of identi5cation or money to make things easier. My only hope was that everything still seemed to be melting. Maybe it would melt into something else, and I would be saved. But while I fought the air and the heat and prayed, Please, God, not again, the entire street sprang into focus without warning. The sensation snatched my weight off the glass, and I turned in time to see a young woman emerge from the massive building that hulked beside the storefront where I stood. She was dressed with the plainness of somebody who didnt have any choice the white blouse gone dingy with use, the skirt fraying at the hem. Her 5ne hair, which deserved better, was ef5ciently tied at the back of her neck. Slim and pale, too pale, blinking at the heat, she moved along the sidewalk in front of the store. Her steps were faintly unsteady, as if she were worn out by the burden she carried. She held a handkerchief to her face like a woman who wanted to disguise the fact that she was still crying. She made my heart clench with panic. While she passed in front of me, too absorbed in her distress to notice me or anyone else, I thought she was the reason I was here. But after that 5rst spasm of panic, I followed her. She seemed to leave waves of urgency on either side, and I was pulled along in her wake. The crowd slowed me down. I didnt catch up with her until she reached the corner of the block and stopped to wait for the light to change. Some people pushed out into the street anyway; cars screamed at them until they squeezed back onto the sidewalk. Everybody was in a hurry, but not for joy. The tension and the heat daunted me. I wanted to hold back wanted to wait until she found her way to a more private place. But she was as distinct as an appeal in front of me, a 5gure etched in need. And I was only afraid. Carefully, almost timidly, I reached out and put my hand on her arm. Startled, she turned toward me; her eyes were wide and white, 6inching. For an instant, her protective hand with the handkerchief dropped from the center of her face, and I caught a glimpse of what she was hiding. It wasnt grief. It was blood. It was vivid and fatal, stark with implications. But I was still too confused to recognize what it meant. As she saw what I looked like, her fright receded. Under other circumstances, her face might have been soft with pity. I could tell right away that she wasnt accustomed to being so lost in her own needs. But now they drove her, and she didnt know what to do with me. Trying to smile through my dirty whiskers, I said as steadily as I could, Let me help you. But as soon as I said it, I knew I was lying. She wasnt the reason I was here. The realization paralyzed me for a moment. If shed brushed me off right then, there would have been nothing I could do about it. She wasnt the reason ? Then why had I felt such a shock of importance when she came out to the street? Why did her nosebleed which really didnt look very serious seem so fatal to me? While I fumbled with questions, she could have simply walked away from me. But she was near the limit of her courage. She was practically frantic for any kind of assistance or comfort. But my appearance was against me. As she clutched her handkerchief to her nose again, she murmured in surprise and hopelessness, Whatre you talking about? That was all the grace I needed. She was too vulnerable to turn her back on any offer, even from a man who looked like me. But I 259 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL could see that she was so fragile now because she had been so brave for so long. And she was the kind of woman who didnt turn her back. That gave me something to go on. Help is the circumference of need, I said. You wouldnt be feeling like this if there was nothing anybody could do about it. Otherwise the human race would have committed suicide two days after Adam and Eve left the Garden. I had her attention now, but she didnt know what to make of me. She wasnt really listening to herself as she murmured, Youre wrong. She was just groping. I mean your quote. Not help. Reason. Reason is the circumference of energy. Blake said that. I didnt know who Blake was, but that didnt matter. Shed given me permission enough permission, anyway, to get me started. I was still holding her arm, and I didnt intend to let her go until I knew why I was here what I had to do with her. Looking around for inspiration, I saw we were standing in front of a coffee shop. Through its long glass window, I saw that it was nearly empty; most of its patrons had gone looking for whatever they called salvation. I turned back to the woman and gestured toward the shop. Ill let you buy me some coffee if youll tell me whats going on. She was in so much trouble that she understood me. Instead of asking me to explain myself, she protested, I cant. Ive got to go to work. Im already late. Sometimes it didnt pay to be too careful. Bluntly, I said, You cant do that, either. Youre still bleeding. At that, her eyes widened; she was like an animal in a trap. She hadnt thought as far ahead as work. She had come out onto the sidewalk without one idea of what she was going to do. Reese she began, then stopped to explain, My brother. She looked miserable. He doesnt like me to come home when hes working. Its too important. I didnt even tell him I was going to the doctor. Abruptly, she bit herself still, distrusting the impulse or instinct that drove her to say such things to a total stranger. Knots of people continued to thrust past us, but now their vehemence didnt touch me. I hardly felt the heat. I was locked to this woman who needed me, even though I was almost sure she wasnt the one I was meant to help. Still smiling, I asked, What did the doctor say? She was too baf:ed to refuse the question. He didnt understand it. He said I shouldnt be bleeding. He wanted to put me in the hospital. For observation. But you wont go, I said at once. I cant. Her whisper was nearly a cry. Reeses show is tomorrow. His 9rst big show. Hes been living for this all his life. And he has so much to do. To get ready. If I went to the hospital, Id have to call him. Interrupt . Hed have to come to the hospital. Now I had her. When the need is strong enough and when Ive been given enough permission I can make myself obeyed. I let go of her arm and held out my hand. Let me see that handkerchief. Dumbly, as if she were astonished at herself, she lowered her hand and give me the damp cloth. It wasnt heavily soaked; the :ow from her nose was slow. That was why she was able to even consider the possibility of going to work. But her red pain was as explicit as a wail in my hand. I watched a new bead of blood gather in one of her nostrils, and it told me a host of things I was not going to be able to explain to her. The depth of her peril and innocence sent a jolt through me that nearly made me fold at the knees. I knew now that she was not the person I had been sent here to help. But she was the reason. Oh, she was the reason, the victim whose blood cried out for intervention. Sweet Christ, how had she let this be done to her? But then I saw the way she held her head up while her blood trickled to her upper lip. In her eyes, I caught a :ash of the kind of courage and love that got people into trouble because it didnt count the cost. And I saw something else, too a hint that on some level, intuitively, perhaps even unconsciously, she understood 260 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES what was happening to her. Naturally she refused to go to the hospital. No hospital could help her. I gave the handkerchief back to her gently, though inside I was trembling with anger. The sun beat down on us. You dont need a doctor, I said as calmly as I could. You need to buy me some coffee and tell me whats going on. She still hesitated. I could hardly blame her. Why should she want to sit around in a public place with a handkerchief held to her nose? But something about me had reached her, and it wasnt my brief burst of authority. Her eyes went down my coat to my shoes; when they came back up, they were softer. Behind her hand, she smiled faintly. You look like you could use it. She was referring to the coffee; but it was her story I intended to use. She led the way into the coffee shop and toward one of the booths; she even told the petulant waiter what we wanted. I appreciated that. I really had no idea where I was. In fact, I didnt even know what coffee was. But sometimes knowledge comes to me when I need it. I didnt even blink as the waiter dropped heavy cups in front of us, sloshing hot, black liquid onto the table. Instead, I concentrated everything I had on my companion. When I asked her, she said her name was Kristen Dona. Following a hint I hadnt heard anybody give me, I looked at her left hand and made sure she wasnt wearing a wedding ring. Then I said to get her started, Your brothers name is Reese. This has something to do with him. Oh, no, she said quickly. Too quickly. How could it? She wasnt lying: she was just telling me what she wanted to believe. I shrugged. There was no need to argue with her. Instead, I let the hints lead me. Hes a big part of your life, I said, as if we were talking about the weather. Tell me about him. Well She didnt know where to begin. Hes a sculptor. He has a show tomorrow I told you that. His ;rst big show. After all these years. I studied her closely. But youre not happy about it. Of course I am! She was righteously indignant. And under that, she was afraid. Hes worked so hard.&! Hes a good sculptor. Maybe even a great one. But it isnt exactly easy. Its not like being a writer he cant just go to a publisher and have them print a hundred thousand copies of his work for two ninety ;ve. He has to have a place where people who want to spend money on art can come and see what he does. And he has to charge a lot because each piece costs him so much time and effort. So a lot of people have to see each piece before he can sell one. That means he has to have shows. In a gallery. This is his ;rst real chance. For a moment, she was talking so hotly that she forgot to cover her nose. A drop of blood left a mark like a welt across her lip. Then she felt the drop and scrubbed at it with her handkerchief. Oh, damn! she muttered. The cloth was slowly becoming sodden. Suddenly her mouth twisted and her eyes were full of tears. She put her other hand over her face. His ;rst real chance. Im so scared. I didnt ask her why. I didnt want to hurry her. Instead, I asked, What changed? Her shoulders knotted. But my question must have sounded safe to her. Gradually, some of her tension eased. What do you mean? Hes been a sculptor for a long time. I did my best to sound reasonable, like a friend of her brothers. But this is his ;rst big show. Whats different now? Whats changed? The waiter ignored us, too bored to bother with customers who only wanted coffee. Numbly, Kristen took another handkerchief out of her purse, raised the fresh cloth to her nose; the other one went back into her purse. I already knew I was no friend of her brothers. He met a gallery owner. She sounded tired and sad. Mortice Root. He calls his gallery The Root Cellar, but its really an old brownstone mansion over on 49th. Reese went there to see him when the gallery ;rst opened, 261 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL two weeks ago. He said he was going to beg .... Hes become so bitter. Most of the time, the people who run galleries wont even look at his work. I think hes been begging for years. The idea made her defensive. Failure does that to people. You work your heart out, but nothing in heaven or hell can force the people who control access to care about you. Gallery owners and agents can make or break you because they determine whether you get to show your work or not. You never even get to 8nd out whether theres anything in your work that can touch or move or inspire people, no matter how hard you try, unless you can convince some owner hell make a lot of money out of you. She was defending Reese from an accusation I hadnt made. Begging was easy to understand; anybody who was hurt badly enough could do it. She was doing it herself but she didnt realize it. Or maybe she did. She drank some of her coffee and changed her tone. But Mr. Root took him on, she said almost brightly. He saw Reeses talent right away. He gave Reese a good contract and an advance. Reese has been working like a demon, getting ready, making new pieces. Hes 8nally getting the chance he deserves. The chance he deserves. I heard echoes in that suggestions she hadnt intended. And she hadnt really answered my question. But now I had another one that was more important to me. Two weeks ago, I said. Kristen, how long has your nose been bleeding? She stared at me while the forced animation drained out of her face. Two weeks now, wouldnt you say? I held her frightened eyes. Off and on at 8rst, so you didnt take it seriously? But now its constant? If it werent so slow, youd choke yourself when you went to sleep at night? Id gone too far. All at once, she stopped looking at me. She dropped her handkerchief, opened her purse, took out money and scattered it on the table. Then she covered her face again. Ive got to go, she said into her hand. Reese hates being interrupted, but maybe theres something I can do to help him get ready for tomorrow. She started to leave. And I stopped her, just like that. Suddenly, she couldnt take herself away from me. A servant can sometimes wield the strength of his Lord. I wanted to tell her shed already given Reese more help than she could afford. But I didnt. I wasnt here to pronounce judgment. I didnt have that right. When I had her sitting in front of me again, I said, You still havent told me what changed. Now she couldnt evade me, couldnt pretend she didnt understand. Slowly, she told me what had happened. Mortice Root had liked Reeses talent had praised it effusively but he hadnt actually liked Reeses work. Too polite, he said. Too reasonable. Aesthetically perfect, emotionally boring. He urged Reese to open up dig down into the energy of his fears and dreams, apply his great skill and talent to darker, more honest work. And he supplied Reese with new materials. Until then, Reese had worked in ordinary clay or wax, making castings of his 8gures only when he and Kristen were able to afford the casters price. But Root had given Reese a special, black clay which gleamed like a river under a swollen moon. An ideal material, easy to work when it was damp, but 8nished when it dried, without need for 8ring or sealer or glaze as hard and heavy as stone. And as her brothers hands had worked that clay, Kristens fear had grown out of it. His new pieces were indeed darker, images which chilled her heart. She used to love his work. Now she hated it. I could have stopped then. I had enough to go on. And she wasnt the one Id been sent to help; that was obvious. Maybe I should have stopped. But I wanted to know more. That was my fault: I was forever trying to swim against the current. After all, the impulse to open up to do darker, more honest work was hardly evil. But the truth was, I was more 262 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES interested in Kristen than Reese. Her eyes were full of supplication and abashment. She felt she had betrayed her brother, not so much by talking about him as by the simple fact that her attitude toward his work had changed. And she was still in such need Instead of stopping, I took up another of the hints she hadnt given me. Quietly, I asked, How long have you been supporting him? She was past being surprised now, but her eyes didnt leave my face. Close to ten years, she answered obediently. That must have been hard on you. Oh, no, she said at once. Not at all. Ive been happy to do it. She was too loyal to say anything else. Here she was, with her life escaping from her and she insisted she hadnt suffered. Her bravery made the backs of my eyes burn. But I required honesty. After a while, the way I was looking at her made her say, I dont really love my job. I work over in the garment district. I put in hems. After a few years she tried to sound self deprecating and humorous it gets a little boring. And theres nobody I can talk to. Her tone suggested a deep gulf of loneliness. But its been worth it, she insisted. I dont have any talent of my own. Supporting Reese gives me something to believe in. I make what he does possible. I couldnt argue with that. She had made the whole situation possible. Grimly, I kept my mouth shut and waited for her to go on. The hard part, she admitted 8nally, was watching him grow bitter. Tears started up in her eyes again, but she blinked them back. All that failure year after year She dropped her gaze; she couldnt bear to look at me and say such things. He didnt have anybody else to take it out on. That thought made me want to grind my teeth. She believed in him and he took it out on her. She could have left him in any number of ways: gotten married, simply packed her bags, anything. But he probably wasnt even aware of the depth of her refusal to abandon him. He simply went on using her. My own fear was gone now; I was too angry to be afraid. But I held it down. No matter how I felt, she wasnt the person I was here to defend. So I forced myself to sound positively casual as I said, Id like to meet him. In spite of everything, she was still capable of being taken aback. You want me to ? She stared at me. I couldnt! She wasnt appalled; she was trying not to give in to a hope that must have seemed insane to her. He hates being interrupted. Hed be furious. She scanned the table, hunting for excuses. You havent 8nished your coffee. I nearly laughed out loud. I wasnt here for her and yet she did wonderful things for me. Suddenly, I decided that it was all worth the cost. Smiling broadly, I said, I didnt say I needed coffee. I said you needed to buy it for me. Involuntarily, the corners of her mouth quirked upward. Even with the handkerchief clutched to her face, she looked like a different person. After all she had endured, she was still a long way from being beaten. Be serious, she said, trying to sound serious. I cant take you home with me. I dont even know what to call you. If you take me with you, I responded, you wont have to call me. This time, I didnt need help to reach her; I just needed to go on smiling. But what I was doing made sweat run down my spine. I didnt want to see her hurt any more. But there was nothing I could do to protect her. The walk to the place where she and her brother lived seemed long and cruel in the heat. There were fewer cars and crowds around us now most of the citys people had reached their destinations for the day and thick, hot light glared at us from long aisles of pale concrete. At the same time, the buildings impacted on either side of us grew older, shabbier, became the homes of ordinary men and women rather than of money. Children played in the street, shrieking and running as if their souls were on 8re. Derelicts shambled here and there, not so much lost to grace as 263 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL inured by alcohol and ruin, benumbed by their own particular innocence. Several of the structures we passed had had their eyes blown out. Then we arrived in front of a high, 6at edi5ce indistinguishable from its surroundings except by the fact that most of its windows were intact. Kristen grimaced at it apologetically. Actually, she said, we could live better than this. But we save as much money as we can for Reeses work. She seemed to have forgotten that I looked worse than her apartment building did. Almost de5antly, she added, Now well be able to do better. That depended on what she called better. I was sure Mortice Root had no end of money. But I didnt say so. However, she was still worried about how Reese would react to us. Are you sure you want to do this? she asked. He isnt going to be on his good behavior. I nodded and smiled; I didnt want her to see how scared and angry I was. Dont worry about me. If hes rude, I can always offer him some constructive criticism. Oh, terri5c, she responded, at once sarcastic and relieved, sourly amused. He just loves constructive criticism. She was hardly aware of her own bravery as she led me into the building. The hall with the mail slots and the managers apartment was dimly lit by one naked bulb. It should have felt cooler, but the heat inside was 5erce. The stairs up to the fourth 6oor felt like a climb in a steambath. Maybe it was a blessing after all that I didnt have a shirt on under my coat. I was sweating so hard that my shoes felt slick and unreliable against my soles, as if every step I took was somehow untrustworthy. When Kristen stopped at the door of her apartment, she needed both hands to fumble in her purse for the key. With her face uncovered, I saw that her nosebleed was getting worse. Despite the way her hands shook, she got the door open. After 5nding a clean handkerchief, she ushered me inside, calling as she did so, Reese! Im home! The 5rst room it wouldve been the living room in anybody elses apartment was larger than Id expected; and it implied other rooms I couldnt see bedrooms, a kitchen, a studio. The look of dingyness and unlove was part of the ancient wallpaper and warped baseboards, the sagging ceiling, not the result of carelessness; the place was scrupulously kempt. And the entire space was organized to display Reeses sculptures. Set on packing crates and end tables, stacks of bricks, makeshift pedestals, old Steamer trunks, they nearly 5lled the room. A fair number of them were cast; but most were clay, some 5red, some not. And without exception they looked starkly out of place in that room. They were everything the apartment wasnt 5nely done, idealistic, painless. It was as if Reese had left all his failure and bitterness and capacity for rage in the walls, sloughing it away from his work so that his art was kind and clean. And static. It would have looked inert if hed had less talent. Busts and Madonnas stared with eyes that held neither fear nor hope. Children that never laughed or cried were hugged in the arms of blind women. A horse in one corner should have been prancing, but it was simply frozen. His bitterness he took out on his sister. His failures reduced him to begging. But his sculptures held no emotion at all. They gave me an unexpected lift of hope. Not because they were static, but because he was capable of so much restraint. If reason was the circumference of energy, then he was already halfway to being a great artist. He had reason down pat. Which was all the more surprising because he was obviously not a reasonable man. He came bristling into the room in answer to Kristens call, and hed already started to shout at her before he saw I was there. At once, he stopped; he stared at me. Who the hell is this? he rasped without looking at Kristen. I could feel the force of his intensity from where I stood. His face was as acute as a hawks, whetted by the hunger and energy of 264 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES a predator. But the dark stains of weariness and strain under his eyes made him look more feverish than 8erce. All of a sudden I thought, Only two weeks to get a show ready. An entire shows worth of new pieces in only two weeks. Because of course he wasnt going to display any of the work I could see here. He was only going to show what hed made out of the new, black clay Mortice Root had given him. And hed worn himself ragged. In a sense, his intensity wasnt directed at me personally: it was just a fact of his personality. He did everything extremely. In his own way, he was as desperate as his sister. Maybe I should have felt sorry for him. But he didnt give me much chance. Before I could say anything, he wheeled on Kristen. It isnt bad enough you have to keep interrupting me, he snarled. You have to bring trash in here, too. Where did you 8nd him the Salvation Army? Havent you 8gured out yet that Im busy? I wanted to intervene; but she didnt need that kind of protection. Over her handkerchief, her eyes echoed a hint of her brothers 8re. He took his bitterness out on her because she allowed him to, not because she was defenseless. Her voice held a bite of anger as she said, He offered to help me. If I hadnt been there, he might have listened to her; but his fever made him rash. Help you? he snapped. This bum? He looked at me again. He couldnt help himself to another drink. And what do you need help... ? Reese. This time, she got his attention. I went to the doctor this morning. What? For an instant, he blinked at her as if he couldnt understand. The doctor? The idea that something was wrong with her hit him hard. I could see his knees trying to fold under him. You arent sick. What do you need a doctor for? Deliberately, she lowered her hand, exposing the red sheen darkening to crust on her upper lip, the blood swelling in her nostrils. He gaped as if the sight nauseated him. Then he shook his head in denial. Abruptly, he sagged to the edge of a trunk that held two of his sculptures. Damn it to hell, he breathed weakly. Dont scare me like that. Its just a nosebleed. Youve had it for weeks. Kristen gave me a look of vindication; she seemed to think Reese had just showed how much he cared about her. But I wasnt so sure. I could think of plenty of sel8sh reasons for his reaction. Either way, it was my turn to say something. I could have used some inspiration right then just a little grace to help me 8nd my way. My emotions were tangled up with Kristen; my attitude toward Reese was all wrong. I didnt know how to reach him. But no inspiration was provided. Swallowing bile, I made an effort to sound con8dent. Actually, I said, I can be more help than you realize. Thats the one advantage life has over art. Theres more to it than meets the eye. I was on the wrong track already; a halfwit could have done better. Reese raised his head to look at me, and the outrage in his eyes was as plain as a chisel. Thats wonderful, he said straight at me. A bum and a critic. Kristens face was tight with dismay. She knew exactly what would happen if I kept going. So did I. I wasnt stupid. But I was already sure I didnt really want to help Reese. I wanted somebody a little more worthy. Anyway, I couldnt stop. His eyes were absolutely daring me to go on. Roots right, I said. Now I didnt have any trouble sounding as calm as a saint. You know that. What youve been doing I gestured around the room is too controlled. Impersonal. Youve got all the skill in the world, but you havent put your heart into it. But I dont think hes been giving you very good advice. Hes got you going to the opposite extreme. Thats just another dead end. You need a balance. Control and passion. Control alone has been destroying you. Passion alone Right there, I almost said it: passion alone 265 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL will destroy your sister. Thats the kind of bargain youre making. All it costs you is your soul. But I didnt get the chance. Reese slapped his hand down on the trunk with a sound like a shot. One of his pieces tilted; it would have fallen if Kristen hadnt caught it. But he didnt see that. He jerked to his feet. Over his shoulder, he said to her, Youve been talking to this tramp about me. The words came out like lead. She didnt answer. There was no defense against his accusation. To catch the sculpture, shed had to use both hands, and her touch left a red smudge on the clay. But he didnt seem to expect an answer. He was facing me with fever bright in his eyes. In the same heavy tone, he said, Its your fault, isnt it. She wouldnt do that to me tell a total stranger what a failure Ive been if you hadnt pried it out of her. Well, let me tell you something. Root owns a gallery. He has power. He spat the word as if he loathed it. I have to listen to him. From you I dont have to take this kind of manure. Which was true, of course. I was a fool, as well as being useless. In simple chagrin I tried to stop or at least de7ect what was coming. Youre right, I said. Ive got no business trying to tell you what to do. But I can still help you. Just listen to me. I No, he retorted. You listen. Ive spent ten years of my life feeling the way you look. Now Ive got a chance to do better. You dont know anything I could possibly want to hear. Ive been there. Still without looking at his sister, he said, Kristen, tell him to leave. She didnt have any choice. Id botched everything past the point where there was anything she could do to save it. Reese would just rage at her if she refused and what would that accomplish? I watched all the anger and hope drain out of her, and I wanted to 6ght back; but I didnt have any choice, either. She said in a beaten voice, I think youd better leave now, and I had to leave. I was no use to anybody without permission; I could not stay when she told me to go. I didnt have the heart to squeeze in a last appeal on my way out. I didnt have any more hope than she did. I studied her face as I moved to the door, not because I thought she might change her mind, but because I wanted to memorize her, so that if she went on down this road and was lost in the end there would be at least one man left who remembered. But she didnt meet my eyes. And when I stepped out of the apartment, Reese slammed the door behind me so hard the 7oor shook. The force of his rejection almost made me fall to my knees. In spite of that, I didnt give up. I didnt know where I was or how I got here; I was lucky to know why I was here at all. And I would never remember. Where I was before I was here was as blank as a wall across the past. When the river took me someplace else, I wasnt going to be able to give Kristen Dona the bare courtesy of remembering her. That was a blessing, of a sort. But it was also the reason I didnt give up. Since I didnt have any past or future, the present was my only chance. When I was sure the world wasnt going to melt around me and change into something else, I went down the stairs, walked out into the pressure of the sun, and tried to think of some other way to 6ght for Kristens life and Reeses soul. After all, I had no right to give up hope on Reese. Hed been a failure for ten years. And Id seen the way the people of this city looked at me. Even the derelicts had contempt in their eyes, including me in the way they despised themselves. I ought to be able to understand what humiliation could do to someone who tried harder than he knew how and still failed. But I couldnt think of any way to 6ght it. Not without permission. Without permission, I couldnt even tell him his sister was in mortal danger. The sun stayed nearly hidden behind its haze of humidity and dirt, but its brutality was 266 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES increasing. Noon wasnt far away; the walk here had used up the middle of the morning. Heatwaves shimmered off the pavement. An abandoned car with no wheels leaned against the curb like a cripple. Somebody had gone down the street and knocked over all the trashcans, scattering garbage like wasted lives. Somewhere there had to be something I could do to redeem myself. But when I prayed for help, I didnt get it. After a while, I found myself staring as if I were about to go blind at a street sign at the corner of the block. A long time seemed to pass before I registered that the sign said, 21st St. Kristen had said that Roots gallery, The Root Cellar, was over on 49th. I didnt know the city; but I could at least count. I went around the block and located 20th. Then I changed directions and started working my way up through the numbers. It was a long hike. I passed through sections that were worse than where Kristen and Reese lived and ones that were better. I had a small scare when the numbers were interrupted, but after several blocks they took up where theyd left off. The sun kept leaning on me, trying to grind me into the pavement, and the air made my chest hurt. And when I reached 49th, I didnt know which way to turn. Sweating, I stopped at the intersection and looked around. 49th seemed to stretch to the ends of the world in both directions. Anything was possible; The Root Cellar might be anywhere. I was in some kind of business district 49th was lined with prosperity and the sidewalks were crowded again. But all the people moved as if nothing except fatigue or stubbornness and the heat kept them from running for their lives. I tried several times to stop one of them to ask directions; but it was like trying to change the course of the river. I got glares and muttered curses, but no help. That was hard to forgive. But forgiveness wasnt my job. My job was to 6nd some way to help Reese Dona. So I tried some outright begging. And when begging failed, I simply let the press of the crowds start me moving the same way they were going. With my luck, this was exactly the wrong direction. But I couldnt think of any good reason to turn around, so I kept walking, studying the buildings for any sign of a brownstone mansion and muttering darkly against all those myths about how God answers prayer. Ten blocks later, I recanted. I came to a store that 6lled the entire block and went up into the sky for at least thirty 7oors; and in front of it stood my answer. He was a scrawny old man in a dingy gray uniform with red epaulets and red stitching on his cap; boredom or patience glazed his eyes. He was tending an iron pot that hung from a rickety tripod. With the studious intention of a halfwit, he rang a handbell to attract peoples attention. The stitching on his cap said, Salvation Army. I went right up to him and asked where The Root Cellar was. He blinked at me as if I were part of the heat and the haze. Missions that way. He nodded in the direction I was going. 49th and Grand. Thanks, anyway, I said. I was glad to be able to give the old man a genuine smile. That isnt what I need. I need to 6nd The Root Cellar. Its an art gallery. Supposed to be somewhere on 49th. He went on blinking at me until I started to think maybe he was deaf. Then, abruptly, he seemed to arrive at some kind of recognition. Abandoning his post, he turned and entered the store. Through the glass, I watched him go to a box like half a booth that hung on one wall. He found a large yellow book under the box, opened it, and 7ipped the pages back and forth for a while. Nodding at whatever he found, he came back out to me. Down that way, he said, indicating the direction Id come from About thirty blocks. Number 840. Suddenly, my heart lifted. I closed my eyes for a moment to give thanks. Then I looked 267 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL again at the man whod rescued me. If I had any money, I said, Id give it to you. If you had any money, he replied as if he knew who I was, I wouldnt take it. Go with God. I said, I will, and started retracing my way up 49th. I felt a world better. But I also had a growing sense of urgency. The longer I walked, the worse it got. The day was getting away from me and this day was the only one I had. Reeses show was tomorrow. Then Mortice Root wouldve ful=lled his part of the bargain. And the price would have to be paid. I was sweating so hard my =lthy old coat stuck to my back; but I forced myself to walk as fast as the >eeing crowds. After a while, the people began to disappear from the sidewalks again and the traf=c thinned. Then the business district came to an end, and I found myself in a slum so ruined and hopeless I had to grit my teeth to keep up my courage. I felt hostile eyes watching me from behind broken windows and gaping entrances. But I was protected, either by daylight or by the way I looked. Then the neighborhood began to improve. The slum became close built houses, clinging to dignity. The houses moved apart from each other, giving themselves more room to breathe. Trees appeared in the yards, even in the sidewalk. Lawns pushed the houses back from the street, and each house seemed to be more ornate than the one beside it. I would have thought they were homes, but most of them had discreet signs indicating they were places of business. Several of them were shops that sold antiques. One held a law =rm. A stockbroker occupied a place the size of a temple. I decided that this was where people came to do their shopping and business when they were too rich to associate with their fellow human beings. And there it was a brownstone mansion as elaborate as any Id seen. It was large and square, three stories tall, with a colonnaded entryway and a glass domed structure that might have been a greenhouse down the length of one side. The mailbox on the front porch was neatly numbered, 840. And when I went up the walk to the porch, I saw a brass plaque on the door with words engraved on it: THE ROOT CELLAR A Private Gallery Mortice Root At the sight, my chest constricted as if Id never done this before. But Id already lost too much time; I didnt waste any more of it hesitating. I pressed a small button beside the door and listened to chimes ringing faintly inside the house as if Mortice Root had a cathedral in his basement. For a while, nothing happened. Then the door opened, and I felt a >ow of cold air from inside, followed by a man in a guards uniform, with a gun bolstered on his hip and a badge that said, Nationwide Security, on his chest. As he looked out at me, what he saw astonished him; not many of Roots patrons looked like I did. Then his face closed like a shutter. Are you out of your mind? he growled. We dont give handouts here. Get lost. In response, I produced my sweetest smile. Fortunately, I dont want a handout. I want to talk to Mortice Root. He stared at me. What in hell makes you think Mr. Root wants to talk to you? Ask him and =nd out, I replied. Tell him Im here to argue about Reese Dona. He would have slammed the door in my face; but a hint of authority came back to me, and he couldnt do it. For a few moments, he gaped at me as if he were choking. Then he muttered, Wait here, and escaped back into the house. As he closed the door, the cool air breathing outward was cut off. Well, naturally, I murmured to the sodden heat, trying to keep myself on the bold side of dread. The people who come here to spend their money cant be expected to just stand around and sweat. The sound of voices came dimly through the door. But I hadnt heard the guard walk away, and I didnt hear anybody coming 268 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES toward me. So I still wasnt quite ready when the door swung open again and Mortice Root stood in front of me with a cold breeze washing unnaturally past his shoulders. We recognized each other right away; and he grinned like a wolf. But I couldnt match him. I was staggered. I hadnt expected him to be so powerful. He didnt look powerful. He looked as rich as Solomon smooth, substantial, glib as if he could buy and sell the people who came here to give him their money. From the tips of his gleaming shoes past the expanse of his distinctively styled suit to the clean con6dence of his shaven jowls, he was everything I wasnt. But those things only gave him worldly signi6cance; they didnt make him powerful. His true strength was hidden behind the bland unction of his demeanor. It showed only in his grin, in the slight, avid bulging of his eyes, in the wisps of hair that stood out like hints of energy on either side of his bald crown. His gaze made me feel grimy and rather pathetic. He studied me for a moment. Then, with perfectly cruel kindness, he said, Come in, come in. You must be sweltering out there. Its much nicer in here. He was that sure of himself. But I was willing to accept permission, even from him. Before he could reconsider, I stepped past him into the hallway. As I looked around, cold came swirling up my back, turning my sweat chill. At the end of this short, deeply carpeted hall, Roots mansion opened into an immense foyer nearly as high as the building itself. Two mezzanines joined by broad stairways of carved wood circled the walls; daylight shone downward from a skylight in the center of the ceiling. A glance showed me that paintings were displayed around the mezzanines, while the foyer itself held sculptures and carvings decorously set on white pedestals. I couldnt see anything that looked like Reese Donas work. At my elbow, Root said, I believe you came to argue with me? He was as smooth as oil. I felt foolish and awkward beside him, but I faced him as squarely as I could. Maybe contend would be a better word. As you say. He chuckled in a way that somehow suggested both good humor and malice. I look forward to it. Then he touched my arm, gestured me toward one side of the foyer. But let me show you what hes doing these days. Perhaps youll change your mind. For no good reason, I said, You know better than that. But I went with him. A long, wide passage took us to the glass domed structure Id taken to be a greenhouse. Maybe it was originally built for that; but Root had converted it, and I had to admit it made an effective gallery well lit, spacious, and comfortable. In spite of all that glass, the air stayed cool, almost chill. Here I saw Reeses new work for the 6rst time. Impressive, arent they, Root purred. He was mocking me. But what he was doing to Reese was worse. There were at least twenty of them, with room for a handful more attractively set in niches along one wall, proudly positioned on special pediments, cunningly juxtaposed in corners so that they showed each other off. It was clear that any artist would 6nd an opportunity like this hard to resist. But all the pieces were black. Reese had completely changed his subject matter. Madonnas and children had been replaced by gargoyles and twisted visions of the damned. Glimpses of nightmare leered from their niches. Pain writhed on display, as if it had become an object of ridicule. In a corner of the room, a ghoul devoured one infant while another strove urgently to scream and failed. And each of these new images was alive with precisely the kind of vitality his earlier work lacked. He had captured his visceral terrors in the act of pouncing at him. As sculptures, they were admirable; maybe even more than that. He had achieved 269 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL some kind of breakthrough here, tapped into sources of energy hed always been unable or unwilling to touch. All he needed now was balance. But there was more to these pieces than just skill and energy. There was also blackness. Roots clay. Kristen was right. This clay looked like dark water under the light of an evil moon, like marl mixed with blood until the mud congealed. And the more I studied what I saw, the more these grotesque and brutal images gave the impression of growing from the clay itself rather than from the independent mind of the artist. They were not Reeses fears and dreams re8ned by art; they were horrors he found in the clay when his hands touched it. The real strength, the passion of these pieces, came from the material Root supplied, not from Reese. No wonder he had become so hollow-eyed and ragged. He was struggling desperately to control the consequences of his bargain. Trying to prove to himself he wasnt doing the wrong thing. For a moment, I felt a touch of genuine pity for him. But it didnt last. Maybe deep down in his soul he was afraid of what he was doing and what it meant. But he was still doing it. And he was paying for the chance to do such strong work with his sisters life. Softly, my opponent said, It appears you dont approve. Im so sorry. But Im afraid theres really nothing you can do about it. The artists of this world are uniquely vulnerable. They wish to create beauty, and the world cares for nothing but money. Even the cattle who will buy these he gave the room a dismissive 9ick of the hand trivial pieces hold the artist in contempt. He turned his wolf grin toward me again. Failure makes fertile ground. I couldnt pretend that wasnt true; so I asked bitterly, Are you really going to keep your end of the bargain? Are you really going to sell this stuff? Oh, assuredly, he replied. At least until the sister dies. Tomorrow. Perhaps the day after. He chuckled happily. Then I suspect Ill 8nd myself too busy with other, more promising artists to spend time on Reese Dona. I felt him glance at me, gauging my helplessness. Then he went on unctuously, Come, now, my friend. Why glare so thunderously? Surely you realize that he has been using her in precisely this manner for years. Ive merely actualized the true state of their relationship. But perhaps youre too innocent to grasp how deeply he resents her. It is the nature of beggars to resent those who give them gifts. He resents me. At that, Root laughed outright. He was not a man who gave gifts to anybody. I assure you that her present plight is of his own choice and making. No, I said, more out of stubbornness than conviction. He just doesnt understand whats happening. Root shrugged. Do you think so? No matter. The point, as you must recognize, is that we have nothing to contend for. The issue has already been decided. I didnt say anything. I wasnt as glib as he was. And anyway I was afraid he was right. While I stood there and chewed over all the things I wasnt able to do, I heard doors opening and closing somewhere in the distance. The heavy carpeting absorbed footsteps; but it wasnt long before Reese came striding into the greenhouse. He was so tight with eagerness or suppressed fear he looked like he was about to snap. As usual, he didnt even see me when he 8rst came into the room. Ive got the rest of the pieces, he said to Root. Theyre in a truck out back. I think youll like Then my presence registered on him. He stopped with a jerk, stared at me as if Id come back from the dead. Whatre you doing here? he demanded. At once, he turned back to Root. What is he doing here? Roots con8dence was a complete insult. Reese, he sighed, Im afraid that this gentleman? believes that I should not show your work tomorrow. For a moment, Reese was too astonished to be angry. His mouth actually hung open while 270 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES he looked at me. But I was furious enough for both of us. With one sentence, Root had made my position impossible. I couldnt think of a single thing to say now that would change the outcome. Still, I had to try. While Reeses surprise built up into outrage, I said as if I werent swearing like a madman inside, There are two sides to everything. Youve heard his. You really ought to listen to mine. He closed his mouth, locked his teeth together. His glare was wild enough to hurt. Mortice Root owes you a little honesty, I said while I had the chance. He should have told you long ago that hes planning to drop you after tomorrow. The sheer pettiness of what I was saying made me cringe, and Root simply laughed. I should have known better than to try to 3ght him on his own level. Now he didnt need to answer me at all. In any case, my jibe made no impression on Reese. He gritted, I dont care about that, like a man who couldnt or wouldnt understand. This is what I care about. He gestured frantically around the room. This. My work. He took a couple of steps toward me, and his voice shook with the effort he made to keep from shouting. I dont know who you are or why you think Im any of your business. I dont care about that, either. Youve heard Kristens side. Now youre going to hear mine. In a small way, I was grateful he didnt accuse me of turning his sister against him. She doesnt like the work Im doing now. No, worse than that. She doesnt mind the work. She doesnt like the clay. He gave a laugh like an echo of Roots. But he didnt have Roots con3dence and power; he only sounded bitter, sarcastic, and afraid. She tries to tell me she approves of me, but I can read her face like a book. Well, let me tell you something. He poked a trembling 3nger at my chest. With my show tomorrow, Im alive for the 3rst time in ten years. Im alive here. Art exists to communicate. It isnt worth manure if it doesnt communicate, and it cant communicate if somebody doesnt look at it. Its that simple. The only time an artist is alive is when somebody looks at his work. And if enough people look, he can live forever. Ive been sterile for ten years because I havent had one other soul to look at my work. He was so wrapped up in what he was saying, I dont think he even noticed how completely he dismissed his sister. Now I am alive. If it only lasts for one more day, itll still be something nobody can take away from me. If I have to work in black clay to get that, who cares? Thats just something I didnt know about myself about how my imagination works. I never had the chance to try black clay before. But now He couldnt keep his voice from rising like a cry. Now Im alive. Here. If you want to take that away from me, youre worse than trash. Youre evil. Mortice Root was smiling like a saint. For a moment, I had to look away. The fear behind the passion in Reeses eyes was more than I could stand. Im sorry, I murmured. What else could I say? I regretted everything. He needed me desperately, and I kept failing him. And he placed so little value on his sister. With a private groan, I forced myself to face him again. I thought it was work that brought artists to life. Not shows. I thought the work was worth doing whether anybody looked at it or not. Why else did you keep at it for ten years? But I was still making the same mistake, still trying to reach him through his art. And now Id de3nitely said something he couldnt afford to hear or understand. With a jerky movement like a puppet, he threw up his hands. I dont have time for this, he snapped. Ive got 3ve more pieces to set up. Then, suddenly, he was yelling at me. And I dont give one lousy damn what you think! Somehow, Id hit a nerve. I want you to go away. I want you to leave me alone! Get out of here and leave me alone! I didnt have any choice. As soon as he told 271 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL me to go, I turned toward the door. But I was desperate myself now. Knotting my 8sts, I held myself where I was. Urgently so urgently that I could hardly separate the words I breathed at him, Have you looked at Kristen recently? Really looked? Havent you seen whats happening to her? You Root stopped me. He had that power. Reese had told me to go. Root simply raised his hand, and his strength hit me in the chest like a 8st. My tongue was clamped to the roof of my mouth. My voice choked in my throat. For one moment while I staggered, the greenhouse turned in a complete circle, and I thought I was going to be thrown out of the world. But I wasnt. A couple of heartbeats later, I got my balance back. Helpless to do anything else, I left the greenhouse. As I crossed the foyer toward the front door, Reese shouted after me, And stay away from my sister! Until I closed the door, I could hear Mortice Root chuckling with pleasure. Dear God! I prayed. Let me decide. Just this once. He isnt worth it. But I didnt have the right. On the other hand, I didnt have to stay away from Kristen. That was up to her; Reese didnt have any say in the matter. I made myself walk slowly until I was out of sight of The Root Cellar, just in case someone was watching. Then I started to run. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the heat just kept getting worse. After the cool of Roots mansion, the outside air felt like glue against my face. Sweat oozed into my eyes, stuck my coat to my back, itched maliciously in my dirty whiskers. The sunlight looked liked it was congealing on the walks and streets. Grimly, I thought if this city didnt get some rain soon it would start to burn. And yet I wanted today to last, despite the heat. I would happily have caused the sun to stand still. I did not want to have to face Mortice Root and Reese Dona again after dark. But I would have to deal with that possibility when it came up. First I had to get Kristens help. And to do that, I had to reach her. The city did its best to hinder me. I left Roots neighborhood easily enough; but when I entered the slums, I started having problems. I guess a running man dressed in nothing but an overcoat, a pair of pants, and sidesplit shoes looked like too much fun to miss. Gangs of kids seemed to materialize out of the ruined buildings to get in my way. They should have known better. They were predators themselves, and I was on a hunt of my own; when they saw the danger in my eyes, they backed down. Some of them threw bottles and trash at my back, but that didnt matter. Then the sidewalks became more and more crowded as the slum faded behind me. People stepped in front of me, jostled me off my stride, swore angrily at me as I tried to run past. I had to slow down just to keep myself out of trouble. And all the lights were against me. At every corner, I had to wait and wait while mobs hemmed me in, instinctively blocking the path of anyone who wanted to get ahead of them. I felt like I was up against an active enemy. The city was rising to defend its own. By the time I reached the street I needed to take me over to 21st, I felt so ragged and wild I wanted to shake my 8sts at the sky and demand some kind of assistance or relief. But if God couldnt see how much trouble I was in, He didnt deserve what I was trying to do in His name. So I did the best I could running in spurts, walking when I had to, risking the streets whenever I saw a break in the traf8c. Finally I made it. Trembling, I reached the building where Reese and Kristen had their apartment. Inside, it was as hot as an oven, baking its inhabitants to death. But here at least there was nobody in my way, and I took the stairs two and three at a time to the fourth 9oor. The light bulb over the landing was out, but I didnt have any trouble 8nding the door I needed. I pounded on it with my 8st. Pounded 272 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES again. Didnt hear anything. Hammered at the wood a third time. Kristen! I shouted. I didnt care how frantic I sounded. Let me in! Ive got to talk to you! Then I heard a small, faint noise through the panels. She must have been right on the other side of the door. Weakly, she said, Go away. Kristen! Her dismissal left a welt of panic across my heart. I put my mouth to the crack of the door to make her hear me. Reese needs help. If he doesnt get it, youre not going to survive. He doesnt even realize hes sacri8cing you. After a moment, the lock clicked, and the door opened. I went in. The apartment was dark. Shed turned off all the lights. When she closed the door behind me, I couldnt see a thing. I had to stand still so I wouldnt bump into Reeses sculptures. Kristen, I said, half pleading, half commanding. Turn on a light. Her reply was a whisper of misery. You dont want to see me. She sounded so beaten I almost gave up hope. Quietly, I said, Please. She couldnt refuse. She needed me too badly. I felt her move past me in the dark. Then the overhead lights clicked on, and I saw her. I shouldnt have been shocked I knew what to expect but that didnt help. The sight of her went into me like a knife. She was wearing only a terrycloth bathrobe. That made sense; shed been poor for a long time and didnt want to ruin her good clothes. The collar of her robe was soaked with blood. Her nosebleed was worse. And delicate red streams ran steadily from both her ears. Sticky trails marked her lips and chin, the front of her throat, the sides of her neck. Shed given up trying to keep herself clean. Why should she bother? She was bleeding to death, and she knew it. Involuntarily, I went to her and put my arms around her. She leaned against me. I was all she had left. Into my shoulder, she said as if she were on the verge of tears, I cant help him anymore. Ive tried and tried. I dont know what else to do. She stood there quivering; and I held her and stroked her hair and let her blood soak into my coat. I didnt have any other way to comfort her. But her time was running out, just like Reeses. The longer I waited, the weaker she would be. As soon as she became a little steadier, I lowered my arms and stepped back. In spite of the way I looked, I wanted her to be able to see what I was. He doesnt need that kind of help now, I said softly, willing her to believe me. Not the kind youve been giving him for ten years. Not anymore. He needs me. Thats why Im here. But I have to have permission. I wanted to cry at her, Youve been letting him do this to you for ten years! None of this wouldve happened to you if you hadnt allowed it! But I kept that protest to myself. He keeps sending me away, and I have to go. I dont have any choice. I cant do anything without permission. Its really that simple. God, make her believe me! I need somebody with me who wants me to be there. I need you to go back to The Root Cellar with me. Even Root wont be able to get rid of me if you want me to stay. Kristen. I moved closer to her again, put my hands in the blood on her cheek, on the side of her neck. Ill 8nd some way to save him. If youre there to give me permission. She didnt look at me; she didnt seem to have the courage to raise her eyes. But after a moment I felt the clear touch of grace. She believed me when I didnt have any particular reason to believe myself. Softly, she said, I cant go like this. Give me a minute to change my clothes. She still didnt look at me. But when she turned to leave the room, I saw determination mustering in the corners of her eyes. 273 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL I breathed a prayer of long overdue thanks. She intended to 8ght. I waited for her with fear beating in my bones. And when she returned dressed in her dingy blouse and fraying skirt, with a towel wrapped around her neck to catch the blood and announced that she was ready to go, I faltered. She looked so wan and frail already weak and unnaturally pale from loss of blood. I felt sure she wasnt going to be able to walk all the way to The Root Cellar. Carefully, I asked her if there was any other way we could get where we were going. But she shrugged the question aside. She and Reese had never owned a car, and hed taken what little money was available in order to rent a truck to take his last pieces to the gallery. Groaning a silent appeal for help, I held her arm to give her what support I could. Together, we left the apartment, went down the old stairs and out to the street. I felt a new sting of dread when I saw that the sun was setting. For all my efforts to hurry, Id taken too much time. Now I would have to contend with Mortice Root at night. Twilight and darkness brought no relief from the heat. The city had spent all day absorbing the pressure of the sun; now the walks and buildings, every stretch of cement seemed to emit 8re like the sides of a furnace. The air felt thick and ominous as charged with intention as a thunderstorm, but trapped somehow, prevented from release, tense with suffering. It sucked the strength out of Kristen with every breath. Before wed gone 8ve blocks, she was leaning most of her weight on me. That was frightening, not because she was more than I could bear, but because she seemed to weigh so little. Her substance was bleeding away. In the garish and unreliable light of the streetlamps, shop windows, and signs, only the dark marks on her face and neck appeared real. But we were given one blessing: the city itself left us alone. It had done its part by delaying me earlier. We passed through crowds and traf8c, past gutted tenements and stalking gangs, as if we didnt deserve to be noticed anymore. Kristen didnt complain, and I didnt let her stumble. One by one, we covered the blocks. When she wanted to rest, we put our backs to the hot walls and leaned against them until she was ready to go on. During that whole long, slow creep through the pitiless dark, she only spoke to me once. While we were resting again, sometime after we turned on 49th, she said quietly, I still dont know your name. We were committed to each other; I owed her the truth. I dont either, I said. Behind the wall of the past, any number of things were hidden from me. She seemed to accept that. Or maybe she just didnt have enough strength left to worry about both Reese and me. She rested a little while longer. Then we started walking again. At last we left the last slum behind and made our slow, frail approach to The Root Cellar. Between streetlights I looked for the moon, but it wasnt able to show through the clenched haze. I was sweating like a frightened animal. But Kristen might have been immune to the heat. All she did was lean on me and walk and bleed. I didnt know what to expect at Roots mansion. Trouble of some kind. An entire squadron of security guards. Minor demons lurking in the bushes around the front porch. Or an empty building, deserted for the night. But the place wasnt deserted. All the rest of the mansion was dark; the greenhouse burned with light. Reese wasnt able to leave his pieces alone before his show. And none of the agents that Root might have used against us appeared. He was that sure of himself. On the other hand, the front door was locked with a variety of bolts and wires. But Kristen was breathing sharply, urgently. Fear and desire and determination made her as feverish as her brother; she wanted me to take her inside, to Reeses defense. And shed lost a dangerous amount of blood. She wasnt going to be able to stay on her feet much longer. I took hold of the door, and it opened 274 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES without a sound. Cool air poured out at us, as concentrated as a moan of anguish. We went in. The foyer was dark. But a wash of light from the cracks of the greenhouse doors showed us our way. The carpet muf;ed our feet. Except for her ragged breathing and my frightened heart, we were as silent as spirits. But as we got near the greenhouse, I couldnt keep quiet anymore. I was too scared. I caused the doors to burst open with a crash that shook the walls. At the same time, I tried to charge forward. The brilliance of the gallery seemed to explode in my face. For an instant, I was dazzled. And I was stopped. The light felt as solid as the wall that cut me off from the past. Almost at once, my vision cleared, and I saw Mortice Root and Reese Dona. They were alone in the room, standing in front of a sculpture I hadnt seen earlier the biggest piece here. Reese must have brought it in his rented truck. It was a wild, swept winged, malignant bird of prey, its beak wide in a cry of fury. One of its clawed feet was curled like a :st. The other was gripped deep into a mans chest. Agony stretched the mans face. At least Reese had the decency to be surprised. Root wasnt. He faced us and grinned. Reese gaped dismay at Kristen and me for one moment. Then, with a wrench like an act of violence, he turned his back. His shoulders hunched; his arms clamped over his stomach. I told you to go away. His voice sounded like he was strangling. I told you to leave her alone. The light seemed to blow against me like a wind. Like the current of the river that carried me away, taking me from place to place without past and without future, hope. And it was rising. It held me in the doorway; I couldnt move through it. You are a fool, Root said to me. His voice rode the light as if he were shouting. You have been denied. You cannot enter here. He was so strong that I was already half turned to leave when Kristen saved me. As pale as ash, she stood beside me. Fresh blood from her nose and ears marked her skin. The towel around her neck was sodden and terrible. She looked too weak to keep standing. Yet she matched her capacity for desperation against Reeses need. No, she said in the teeth of the light and Roots grin. He can stay. I want him here. I jerked myself toward Reese again. Ferocity came at me like a cataract; but I stood against it. I had Kristens permission. That had to be enough. Look at her! I croaked at his back. Shes your sister! Look at her! He didnt seem to hear me at all. He was hunched over himself in front of his work. Go away, he breathed weakly, as if he were talking to himself. I cant stand it. Just go away. Gritting prayers between my teeth like curses, I lowered my head, called up every ache and fragment of strength I had left, and took one step into the greenhouse. Reese fell to his knees as if Id broken the only string that held him upright. At the same time, the bird of prey poised above him moved. Its wings beat downward. Its talons clenched. The heart of its victim burst in his chest. From his clay throat came a brief, hoarse wail of pain. Driven by urgency, I took two more steps through the intense pressure walled against me. And all the pieces displayed in the greenhouse started to move. Tormented statuettes fell from their niches, cracked open, and cried out. Gargoyles mewed hideously. The mouths of victims gaped open and whined. In a few swift moments, the air was full of muf;ed shrieks and screams. Through the pain, the :erce current forcing me away from Reese, and the horror, I heard Mortice Root start to laugh. If Kristen had failed me then, I would have 275 U NWORTHY OF THE A NGEL been 9nished. But in some way she had made herself blind and deaf to what was happening. Her entire soul was focused on one object help for her brother and she willed me forward with all the passion she had learned in ten years of self-sacri9ce. She was prepared to spend the last of her life here for Reeses sake. She made it possible for me to keep going. Black anguish rose like a current at me. And the force of the light mounted. I felt it ripping at my skin. It was as hot as the hunger ravening for Reeses heart. Yet I took two more steps. And two more. And reached him. He still knelt under the wingspread of the nightmare bird he had created. The light didnt hurt him; he didnt feel it at all. He was on his knees because he simply couldnt stand. He gripped his arms over his heart to keep himself from howling. There I noticed something I should have recognized earlier. He had sculpted a man for his bird of prey to attack, not a woman. I could see the 9gure clearly enough now to realize that Reese had given the man his own features. Here, at least, he had shaped one of his own terrors rather than merely bringing out the darkness of Mortice Roots clay. After that, nothing else mattered. I didnt feel the pain or the pressure; ferocity and dismay lost their power. I knelt in front of Reese, took hold of his shoulders, and hugged him like a child. Just look at her, I breathed into his ear. Shes your sister. You dont have to do this to her. She stood across the room from me with her eyes closed and her determination gripped in her small 9sts. From under her eyelids, stark blood streamed down her cheeks. Look at her! I pleaded. I can help you. Just look. In the end, he didnt look at her. He didnt need to. He knew what was happening. Suddenly, he wrenched out of my embrace. His arms :ung me aside. He raised his head, and one lorn wail corded his throat: Kristen! Roots laughter stopped as if itd been cut down with an axe. That cry was all I needed. It came right from Reeses heart, too pure to be denied. It was permission, and I took it. I rose to my feet, easily now, easily. All the things that stood in my way made no difference. Transformed, I faced Mortice Root across the swelling force of his malice. All his con9dence was gone to panic. Slowly, I raised my arms. Beams of white sprouted from my palms, clean white almost silver. It wasnt 9re or light in any worldly sense; but it blazed over my head like light, ran down my arms like 9re. It took my coat and pants, even my shoes, away from me in :ames. Then it wrapped me in the robes of God until all my body burned. Root tried to scream, but his voice didnt make any sound. Towering white silver, I reached up into the storm dammed sky and brought down a blast that staggered the entire mansion to its foundations. Crashing past glass and frame and light 9xtures, a bolt that might have been lightning took hold of Root from head to foot. For an instant, the gallerys lights failed. Everything turned black except for Roots horror etched against darkness and the blast that bore him away. When the lights came back on, the danger was gone from the greenhouse. All the crying and the pain and the pressure were gone. Only the sculptures themselves remained. They were slumped and ruined, like melted wax. Outside, rain began to rattle against the glass of the greenhouse. Later, I went looking for some clothes; I couldnt very well go around naked. After a while, I located a suite of private rooms at the back of the building. But everything I found there belonged to Root. His personal stink had soaked right into the fabric. I hated the idea of putting his things on my skin when Id just been S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES burned clean. But I had to wear something. In disgust, I took one of his rich shirts and a pair of pants. That was my punishment for having been so eager to judge Reese Dona. Back in the greenhouse, I found him sitting on the /oor with Kristens head cradled in his lap. He was stroking the soft hair at her temples and grieving to himself. For the time being, at least, I was sure his grief had nothing to do with his ruined work. Kristen was fast asleep, exhausted by exertion and loss of blood. But I could see that she was going to be all right. Her bleeding had stopped completely. And Reese had already cleaned some of the stains from her face and neck. Rain thundered against the ceiling of the greenhouse; jagged lines of lightning scrawled the heavens. But all the glass was intact, and the storm stayed outside, where it belonged. From the safety of shelter, the downpour felt comforting. And the manufactured cool of the building had wiped out most of Roots unnatural heat. That was comforting, too. It was time for me to go. But I didnt want to leave Reese like this. I couldnt do anything about the regret that was going to dog him for the rest of his life. But I wanted to try. The river was calling for me. Abruptly, as if I thought he was in any shape to hear me, I said, What you did here the work you did for Root wasnt wrong. Dont blame yourself for that. You just went too far. You need to .nd the balance. Reason and energy. Need and help. Theres no limit to what you can do, if you just keep your balance. He didnt answer. Maybe he wasnt listening to me at all. But after a moment he bent over Kristen and kissed her forehead. That was enough. I had to go. Some of the details of the greenhouse were already starting to melt. My bare feet didnt make any sound as I left the room, crossed the foyer, and went out into... S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS M ICHAEL C HO 278 WATCHING GOD China Miville Adapted from rejectamentalist manifesto at chinamieville.net Ships at a distance have every mans wish on board. Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God Well. In pigment just perhaps. Ignore the bombast foregrounded and the yawing smokestacked tug heading away may have some wishes on board. Every mans wish (womens, Hurston exempts) might plausibly be bobbing westward here, too. But something changes when the photograph is born. Throw the gendered exemption overboard of course, but thats not the key issue. 279 W ATCHING G OD What ships at a distance carry are not wishes but fears. That the ships look like visual artefacts, schmutz on a lens, digital craquelure, pixel tumours, is both a source of anxiety and an assertion made to minimise it. (It does not work.) There are other efforts to contain the terror aroused by these incomprehensible vessels on opaque errands along the horizon line i) Syncretic rationalisation. We assert that the fear we cannot plausibly deny and the yearning we, with Hurston, strenuously claim, are in fact one logical phenomenon. ii) Diligent Linnaeanism. Complex taxonomic schemes are thrown up to parse the threatening maritime geometries, silhouettes and quasi-symmetries. Rearguard at best, these attempts do not convince. Ships at a distance are terrible. The cargo they carry is our fear, but it is not our cargo. It has been ordered and it is en route. It is being transported from where it was mined to where it will be rendered. S TAR S HIP S OFA P IN - UPS J ASON P AULOS 282 N EIL D. VOKES has been telling stories in comic books professionally now for over 26 years. Among the many comics Neil has drawn in that time are Robotech Masters; Eagle; Superman Adventures; Tarzan The Warrior; Life, The Universe And Everything; Untold Tales Of Spider-man; Jonny Demon; Congorilla; Ninjak; Parliament Of Justice; The Black Forest 1 & 2 and The Wicked West 1 & 2 . Neil has also drawn chapter illustrations for two Clm books: In All Sincerity, Peter Cushing by Chris Gullo and Vincent Price: The Art Of Fear by Denis Meikle. He is currently drawing a new horror comic series called Flesh & Blood with his long time partner and friend, Robert Tinnell. You can view more of Neils work at vokesfolks.blogspot.com or groups.yahoo. com/group/thats_all_vokes TED KOSMATKAs Cction has appeared in Asimovs, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and numerous Best of Year anthologies. Hes been nominated for both the Nebula and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Awards and is co-winner of the 2010 Asimovs Readers Choice Award. He lives with his family on the north coast of the US, not far from the water. Visit him at tedkosmatka.com LEIGH GALLAGHER is a UK based artist who has worked on many projects for DC Comics (The Witching, Justice league Unlimited, Lego Bionicle) , but is most associated with the legendary British comic 2000 AD as the artist and co-creator of Defoe, the 17th century zombie hunter. He is currently illustrating Defoes forth book, A Murder of Angels , written by co-creator (and creator of 2000 AD itself) Pat Mills, to be released in September. Leighs website can be found at leighgallagherart.blogspot.com JOHN KESSEL teaches creative writing and literature at North Carolina State University in Raleigh. A winner of the Nebula Award, the Theodore Sturgeon Award, the Locus Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, and the James Tiptree, Jr. Award, his books include Good News from Outer Space, Corrupting Dr Nice, and The Pure Product. His story collection, Meeting in In;nity, was named a notable book of 1992 by the New York Times Book Review, and Kim Stanley Robinson has called Corrupting Dr Nice the best time travel novel ever written. With James Patrick Kelly he edited the anthologies Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology; Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology; and most recently, The Secret History of Science Fiction. His recent collection The Baum Plan for Financial Independence and Other Stories contains the 2008 Nebula-Award-winning story Pride and Prometheus. Visit him at www4.ncsu.edu/~tenshi/index2.html RORY KURTZ has been illustrating since he was old enough to hold a crayon. Self-taught and focusing in pencil, ink, and digital paint, Rory has carved out his niche as a unique voice in the illustration community. Working with digital media allows his paintings a greater amount of versatility, and faster production time, which makes all the difference when meeting deadlines. His inDuences are spread out across the respective wolds of literature, fashion, art, Clm, & music. His work isnt necessarily easy to deCne, as he tends to shift Meet the Sofanauts 283 B IOGRAPHIES from one style to the next and back again as >ts the assignment, but the individual pieces seem uni>ed by a shared sense of fantasy in a modern reality. More artwork can be found at rorykurtzillustration.com BEN WOOTTEN remembers his earliest work as a green crayon drawing of duck hunters in aeroplanes which gave way to fantasy art when a 12 year old Ben began playing D&D, drawing characters for adventures with his friend, Warren Mahy. Years later Ben and Warren collaborated again, illustrating the Savage Tide adventure series together for Dungeon Magazine. After a few career false starts Ben enrolled in a visual communication course. He didnt complete the course but he did meet fellow drop-out Jamie Beswarick who introduced Ben to sculpting and then to Weta Workshop where Ben worked for 10 years as a sculpter, designer and art director on >lm projects including LOTR, King Kong, and The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe. Bens work on LOTR led to his >rst freelance illustration job for Deciphers LOTR RPG. Ben now works fulltime as an illustrator for clients including Paizo, WOTC, Upperdeck, Goodman Games and Mongoose Publishing. Visit Ben at benwootten.com NEIL GAIMAN has long been one of the top writers in modern comics, as well as writing books for readers of all ages. He is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the top ten living post-modern writers, and is a proli>c creator of works of prose, poetry, >lm, journalism, comics, song lyrics, and drama. His notable works include The Sandman comic book series, Stardust, American Gods, Coraline, and The Graveyard Book. His writing has won numerous awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker, as well as the 2009 Newbery Medal and 2010 Carnegie Medal in Literature. Gaimans of>cial website, neilgaiman.com , now has more than one million unique visitors each month, and his online journal is syndicated to thousands of blog readers every day. Born and raised in England, Neil now lives near Minneapolis, Minnesota. CLIFF CHIANGs best known works include Human Target, Batman, Green Arrow & Black Canary, Doctor 13 and Grendel. He began his professional career as an assistant editor for Disney Adventures Magazine before joining Vertigo Comics editorial. The Harvard University graduate then went freelance to pursue his dream to be an illustrator. He has since drawn stories for Dark Horse Comics and the aclu , in addition to the dcu and Vertigo. He lives in Brooklyn. More artwork can be found at cliffchiang.com IAN MILLER is a British fantasy illustrator and writer best known for his quirkily-etched gothic style and macabre sensibility, and noted for his book and magazine cover and interior illustrations, including covers for books by H.P. Lovecraft and contributions to David Days Tolkien-inspired compendiums, work for Fighting Fantasy gamebooks and various role- playing and wargaming publications, as well as contributions to the Ralph Bakshi >lms Wizards and Coolworld. Visit him at ian-miller.org CORY DOCTOROW is a science >ction novelist, blogger and technology activist. He is the co-editor of the popular weblog Boing Boing ( boingboing.net ), and a contributor to The Guardian, the New York Times, Publishers Weekly, Wired, and many other newspapers, magazines and websites. He was formerly Director of European Affairs for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a non-pro>t civil liberties group that defends freedom in technology law, policy, standards and 284 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES treaties. He is a Visiting Senior Lecturer at Open University (UK); in 2007, he served as the Fulbright Chair at the Annenberg Center for Public Diplomacy at the University of Southern California. He has won the Locus and Sunburst Awards, and been nominated for the Hugo, Nebula and British Science Fiction Awards. His latest novel, For The Win , is a young adult book about video-games, labor politics and economics. His New York Times Bestseller Little Brother was published in May 2008, and his latest short story collection is Overclocked: Stories Of The Future Present. His latest adult novel is Makers. His next book, With A Little Help, will be an audacious experiment in print-on-demand publishing. Visit him at craphound.com TOM KYZIVAT is a freelance animator and illustrator based on the US east coast. Also an aspiring writer and voice actor, hes currently setting his sights on working in the Blm industry. You can view more of Toms work at murderousautomaton.com JASON SANFORD is an active member of the sfwa and was a Bnalist for this years Nebula Award for Best Novella. He has published a number of stories in Interzone, where he won their 2008 and 2009 Readers Polls. His other Bction has been published in places like Analog, Years Best SF 14, Orson Scot Cards Intergalactic Medicine Show, Tales of the Unanticipated, The Mississippi Review, Pindeldyboz, and Diagram. Hes also published a number of critical essays and book reviews in places like The New York Review of Science Fiction, The Pedestal Magazine, and SF Signal. His website is jasonsanford.com JEF MURRAY is an internationally known Tolkien and fantasy artist and illustrator. His paintings and sketches appear regularly in Tolkien and Inklings publications ( Amon Hen, Mallorn, Beyond Bree, Silver Leaves, Mythprints ) and in Catholic publications ( The St. Austin Review, Gilbert Magazine ) worldwide. He is Artist-in-Residence for the St. Austin Review (StAR) , and was artist guest of honor (along with Ted Nasmith) and Imperishable Flame award nominee at the 2006 Gathering of the Fellowship in Toronto. His latest book illustrations appear in Black & White Ogre Country: The Lost Tales of Hilary Tolkien by Hilary Tolkien, and in the new illustrated edition of The Magic Ring by Baron La Motte de Fouque. His website is jefmurray.com , and a catalog of his paintings can be viewed at adcbooks.co.uk Jef resides in Decatur, Georgia, USA , with his wife, author and columnist Lorraine V. Murray ( lorrainevmurray.com ), Hamster- in-Residence Ignatius, and about 60,000 honeybees. JEFF VANDERMEER is considered one of the worlds best fantasists. He is a two- time winner (six-time Bnalist) of the World Fantasy Award, as well as a past Bnalist for the Hugo Award,the Philip K. Dick Award, the International Horror Guild Award, the British Fantasy Award,the Bram Stoker Award, and the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. His Bction includes several surreal/ magic realist novels and story collections, in particular City of Saints & Madmen, Veniss Underground, and Shriek: An Afterword. His books have made the best-of-year lists of Publishers Weekly, the San Francisco Chronicle, the LA Weekly, and several others. His award-winning short Bction has been featured on Wired.coms GeekDad and Tor. com, as well as in many anthologies and magazines, including Conjunctions, Black Clock, and American Fantastic Tales . His nonBction has or will soon appear in the New York Times Book Review, the Washington Post, the Huf6ngton Post, and many others. 285 B IOGRAPHIES In addition, he has edited or co-edited more than a dozen inHuential Gction anthologies for Bantam Books, Pan Macmillan, and Tachyon Publications. As creative consultant and teacher, VanderMeer has lectured, conducted master classes, and given workshops all over the world, including at the Brisbane Arts Center in Australia, the University of California at San Diego, and Wofford College, in South Carolina. He is 41 years old and lives in Tallahassee, Florida. For more information, visit jeffvandermeer.com LEN PERALTA is an cartoonist/illustrator/ podcaster who is behind other online viral art projects like Monster By Mail and FlipFace. He has illustrated several books including Theres A Zombie In My Treehouse by John Widgett Robinson and Ken Plume and Very Grimm Fairy Tales by Trevor Strong. He is currently working on a new book with Cinematic Titanics Trace Beaulieu, due out this summer. His current project is Geek A Week where he is attempting to connect with 52 inHuential geeks in 52 weeks and turn them into a trading card. Len resides in Cleveland, Ohio, with his wife, Nora, six children and Wheaten Terrier. You can hear their exploits every week on Jawbone Radio jawboneradio.blogspot.com . ADAM ROBERTS was born in London, England, two thirds of the way through the twentieth century. He lives there now, or thereabouts, with his wife and two children. When not writing he teaches nineteenth- century literature and creative writing at Royal Holloway, University of London. His most recent novels are Gradisil , Swiftly Yellow Blue Tibia and New Model Army . His next novel will be called By Light Alone . His author website is adamroberts.com and he blogs at punkadiddle.blogspot.com and europrogovision.blogspot.com JIM MURRAY was born in 1972, in Englands Westcountry (speciGcally North Dorset,) After attending a visual media course in Bournemouth he began illustrating for the Galaxys Greatest Comic 2000 AD . Over the next few years he illustrated characters such as Holocaust 12, Slaine and Judge Dredd, culminating in two fully painted 48 page graphic novels the Grst was a Judge Dredd/Batman crossover called Die Laughing , and the follow-up an Elseworlds book Batman Demon for DC Comics. Other work in this period included props and promotional pieces for the excellent Channel 4 tv series Spaced and a 25x50 foot canvas backdrop for the Prodigy (completed in spray- paint with fellow 2000 AD artist and friend Jason Brashill.) He has also worked as a video game concept artist for Virgin studios in London and ArtiGcial Mind and Movement (A2M) in Montreal. During this time he began freelancing for Wizards of the Coast painting Magic cards. He is currently working on a creator owned graphic novel with 2000 AD and Wildstorm regular Robbie Morrison, Jim lives in Montreal with his partner Annabel and daughters Rebecca and Jaimie. Visit him at jimmurrayart.com STAZ JOHNSON, a native Yorkshireman, began freelancing in 1986, Grstly for the UK RPG market, before graduating onto comics, working for British publishers Fleetway and Marvel UK. In 1993, following a 2 year sojourn in the world of advertising, he returned to comics, this time for to work with DC Comics and Marvel Comics, for whom he continues to work to this day. He is married to Nicky and has two daughters Alice, and Amy. Visit stazjohnson.com to see more work. PAT CADIGANs work is described as part of the cyberpunk movement. Her novels and some of her stories share a common theme, exploring the relationship between the human mind and technology. However, her 286 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES short Cction covers a wider range, including crime, dark fantasy, horror, and science Cction (including recently inter-stellar stories). She was born in Schenectady, New York, and grew up in Fitchburg, Massachusetts. She was Crst published in 1980; success as an author encouraged her to write full time from 1987. She emigrated to England in 1996. Her Crst novel, Mindplayers, introduces what becomes the common theme to all her novels. Her stories blur the line between reality and perception by making the human mind a real, explorable place. Her second novel, Synners, expands upon the same theme. She has won a number of awards, including the Arthur C. Clarke Award in 1992 and 1995 for her novels Synners and Fools, and was a guest speaker at Microcon in 2008. Robert A. Heinlein in part dedicated his 1982 novel Friday to Cadigan. Visit her at fastfwd.livejournal.com ANTON EMDIN has drawn for numerous magazines, including Rolling Stone, People, Penthouse, and MAD. As well as doodling comic art and cartoons, he works with the Drawing Book illustration agency to produce character design and illustrated type for commercial projects. When hes not drawing Anton relaxes in his jelly-Clled, Olympic-sized swimming pool, being fed meat pies and beer by buxom beauties bearing bare breasts beneath brown bearskin bikinis. He is also a fan of alliteration, but hates swizzle sticks. You can view more of Antons work at antonemdin.com LAWRENCE SANTORO began writing dark tales at age Cve. In 2001 his novella God Screamed and Screamed, Then I Ate Him was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. In 2002, his adaptation and audio production of Gene Wolfes The Tree Is My Hat, was also Stoker nominated. In 2003, his Stoker-recommended Catching received Honorable Mention in Ellen Datlows 17th Annual Years Best Fantasy and Horror anthology. In 2004, So Many Tiny Mouths was cited in the anthologys 18th edition. In the 20th, his novella, At Angels Sixteen, from the anthology A Dark And Deadly Valley, was similarly honored. Larrys Crst novel, Just North of Nowhere , was published in 2007. A collection of his short Cction, Drink For The Thirst To Come, will be released late in 2010. In 2011, his short novel, Lord Dickenss Declaration, released in England in 2010, will be published in the US. Larry lives in Chicago and is working on a new novel, Griffon and the Sky Warriors. Stop by Larrys blog blufftoninthedriftless.blogspot.com and his audio website, Santoro Reads, at santororeads.com You can friend him at facebook.com/lawrence.santoro DANIELE SERRA is a professional illustrator. His work has been published and in Europe, Australia and the United States, and displayed at various exhibits in US and Europe. He has provided illustrations for author such as Brian Stableford, Rain Graves, Steven Savile and more. He has also worked for DC and Image Comics, Cemetery Dance, Weird Tales magazine and other publications. Visit Daniele at multigrade.it PAUL DI FILIPPO is the author of over twenty-Cve books, and lives in Providence, Rhode Island, with his mate of thirty- Cve years Deborah Newton. Visit him at pauldilippo.com BOO COOK lives in Brighton with his wife Gemma and 2 cats. He started work in the British comic industry for 2000 AD and has since worked for Marvel Comics and Image Comics. He is currently working on Elephantmen - War Toys: Enemy Species , plus Judge Dredd and Judge Anderson Psi for 2000 AD . For 287 B IOGRAPHIES more info check out boocook.blogspot.com , boocook.com and hipask.com NANCY KRESS is the author of twenty-six books: three fantasy novels, twelve Sci-Fi novels, three thrillers, four collections of short stories, one YA novel, and three books on writing Ection. She is perhaps best known for the Sleepless trilogy that began with B eggers In Spain. The novel was based on a Nebula- and Hugo-winning novella of the same name. She won her second Hugo in 2009 in Montreal, for the novella The Erdmann Nexus. Kress has also won three additional Nebulas, a Sturgeon, and the 2003 John W. Campbell Award (for Probability Space). Her most recent books are a collection of short stories, Nano Comes To Clifford Falls and Other Stories (Golden Gryphon Press, 2008); a bio-thriller, Dogs (Tachyon Press, 2008); and an Sci-Fi novel, Steal Across The Sky (Tor, 2009). Kresss Ection, much of which concerns genetic engineering, has been translated into twenty languages. She often teaches writing at various venues around the country. She blogs at nancykress.blogspot.com Portuguese artist ANDREAS ROCHA discovered his interest in digital painting while studying architecture. He worked in an architecture Erm for 2 years and in a 3D architectural visualization company for 3. While digital painting has been a hobby for Andreas for the past 11 years, he has recently been taking it more seriously and he is currently working as a full-time freelancer doing both 2D illustrations/matte paintings and 3D architectural visualizations. His work has been featured in several publications, such as Expose, Exotique, ImagineFX and 2DArtist Magazine . He lives and works happily in Lisbon/Portugal together with his wife and dog. View his stunning portfolio at andreasrocha.com MICHAEL CHO is an illustrator and cartoonist who lives and works in Toronto, Canada. His illustrations have appeared in the New York Times Book Review , Nickelodeon, Owl Magazine and on book covers for Random House and Penguin Books. Hes also had comics published by Marvel Comics, DC Comics, Image and Adhouse books. Michael is currently working on an art book of urban landscapes to be published by Drawn & Quarterly, and a large graphic novel that is taking forever to Enish. Visit michaelcho.com to see more work. JEFF CARLSON was born on the day of the Erst manned moon landing and narrowly escaped being named Apollo, Armstrong, or Rocket. His father worked for nasa -Ames at the time, and his granddad on his mothers side was a science Ection fan whose library included autographed copies of Isaac Asimovs Foundation trilogy. Guess what they talked about. His 2007 debut, Plague Year, is a present-day thriller about a worldwide nanotech contagion that devours all warm-blooded life below 10,000 feet in elevation. Plague War and Plague Zone are its two sequels. In 2008, Plague War was a Enalist for the Philip K. Dick Award, a juried prize which goes annually to the best science Ection paperback original. Check him out at jverse.com PAUL RIVOCHE is a veteran comic book artist, illustrator, and animation background designer. In the comics Eeld, he has drawn for DC Comics properties such as Superman and The Spirit , and has written and drawn his own stories for several graphic novel anthologies including Random Houses Flight 5 and Adhouse Books acclaimed Project series. In the animation Eeld, he has done key background designs and storyboards for many Warner Brothers Animation projects, including Batman, Batman Beyond, Superman, Batman: Brave and the Bold, and The New Frontier/ 288 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES Justice League dvd . He lives in Toronto with his family and loveable Fuffy off-white family dog. More of his work and blog updates can be found at his site rocketction.com NATE WRAGG was born in the small town of Davis, in Northern California. He attended California Institute of the Arts in Los Angeles where he studied animation and animation design. He has worked for Pixar, Dreamworks, Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. He illustrated Too Many Cooks by Walt Disney Publishing, as well as being involved in the highly successful illustrated Ancient Book series, which includes The Ancient Book of Myth and War and The Ancient Book of Sex and Science . His work has been shown in galleries in Los Angeles and New York, most notably The New York Society of Illustrators 50th Annual Showcase. He works and lives in Los Angeles, California, with his beautiful wife and crazy chinchilla. View more of his work at n8wragg.blogspot.com or buy prints at natewraggart.bigcartel.com LUCIUS SHEPARD lives and works in Portland, Oregeon. His Ection has won numerous awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, the Sturgeon, the Shirley Jackson, and many more. He currently is working on a novel entitled The End of the Life As We Know It. Visit him at lucius-shepard.com BRIAN THOMAS WOODS was born in St Catharines, Ontario Canada. He is a graduate of the Sheridan College Illustration Program, and is currently an Animation Background Painter working for a studio in Toronto. His television credits include Total Drama Action, Stoked - The Animated Series, Dunce Bucket (Pilot), and Crash Canyon (in production). He has worked as a landscaper, hotel concierge, as well as a horse and carriage driver. Working for StarShipSofa is his favourite job to date. Tony currently has Brian chained in the boiler room of the Sofa, where he occasionally trades food and water in exchange for artwork. You can see more of Brians art at brianthomaswoods.com As a child, MARY ROSENBLUM never really wanted to have a nine-to-Eve job to pay for doing what she wanted to do on the weekends. Mostly, she wanted to be a writer or an astronaut. Grownups kindly explained that these ambitions werent practical. But she was always bad at doing what she was told. She started out at Clarion West in 1988 and published one of her Clarion stories, For A Price, in Asimovs Magazine. Since that Erst publication, she has published well more than 60 short stories in Sci-Fi, mystery, and mainstream Ection, (she stopped counting at 60) as well as eight novels. Her newest novel, Horizons, was released in November 2006 from Tor Books and came out in paperback in November 2007. Water Rites, a compendium of the novel Drylands as well as three prequel novelettes that Erst appeared in Asimovs, were released from Fairwood Press in January 2007. The hardcover collection of her early short Ection; Synthesis and Other Virtual Realities is available from Arkham House. Her speculative Ection stories have been published in Asimovs, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, SciFiction, and Analog among others. She won the Compton Crook award for Best First Novel, The Asimovs Readers Award, and has been a Hugo Award Enalist as well as a Nebula Enalist, an Endeavor Award Enalist, an Ellery Queen Readers Award Enalist, and short listed for a number of other awards. She publishes in mystery as Mary Freeman, teaches writing for Long Ridge Writers Group, and at writers workshops, and was an instructor for the Clarion West Writers Workshop in 2008. When she is not writing, she lives sustainably on a small acreage where she trains dogs, raises 289 B IOGRAPHIES sheep, teaches cheesemaking, and grows all her fruits and vegetables. On the Hip side of all this, she is also an instrument rated pilot Hying a small Cessna. Not quite an astronaut but a small step, at least. And she still doesnt have a nine-to-Gve job. You can Gnd more information at her website: maryrosenblum.com DANIJEL ZEZELJ is a graphic artist and illustrator and author of more than twenty graphic novels. His comics and illustrations have appeared in magazines and anthologies in Croatia, Slovenia, England, Switzerland, France, Italy, Spain, Sweden, South Africa and the USA. His work has been published by DC Comics/Vertigo, Wild Storm, Marvel Comics, The New York Times Book Review, Harpers Magazine, Grifo Edizioni, Edizioni Hazard, and many more. Since 1997, in collaboration with musician/composer Jessica Lurie, he has created a series of multimedia performances merging visual art and live music. Performances were presented at festivals and in clubs, galleries, theaters, churches and squats throughout the Europe and USA. In 2001 in Zagreb, Croatia he has founded a publishing house and graphic workshop Petikat. He lives and works in Brooklyn. Find him at dzezelj.com GWYNETH JONES, writer and critic of science Gction and fantasy, is the author of many novels for teenagers, mostly horror and thrillers, using the name Ann Halam, and several highly regarded Sci-Fi novels for adults. Her critical essays and reviews are collected in Deconstructing The Starships, 1999 and Imagination/Space, 2009. Among other honours, several of her novels have been nominated for the Arthur C. Clarke Award, the latest being Spirit, 2009. She lives in Brighton, UK, with her husband and son, some goldGsh and two cats; practices yoga & has done some extreme tourism in her time.Hobbies include gardening and cooking, and playing with her websites: boldaslove.co.uk and homepage.ntlworld.com/gwynethann JOUNI KOPONEN is a Finnish illustrator who provided the art for many of Neil Gaimans stories including Shoggoths Old Peculiar , A Study in Emerald. and The Day the Saucers Came. You can check out his work at jounikoponen.com SEAN WILLIAMS, #1 New York Times bestselling author, has been called the premier Australian speculative Gction writer of the age, the Emperor of Sci-Fi, and the King of Chameleons for the diversity of his output, which spans fantasy, science Gction, horror, and even the odd poem. He has published thirty-Gve novels and seventy-Gve short stories. These include works for adults (Philip K Dick Award-nominated Saturn Returns, Ditmar and Aurealis Award-winning The Crooked Letter), young adults (Locus- recommended The Storm Weaver & the Sand) and children (multiple award-nominee The Changeling, and the Troubletwister series co-written with Garth Nix). He lives with his wife and family in the dry, Hat lands of South Australia. His website is seanwilliams.com BOB EGGLETON is a Hugo award-winning artist he has been honoured with the Hugo Award for Best Professional Artist eight times, Grst winning in 1994. Bobs drawings and paintings cover a wide range of science Gction, fantasy, and horror. His paintings are commissioned and bought at science Gction conventions, and used as book covers. He is a huge fan of Godzilla and worked as a creative consultant on the American remake. While in Japan he appeared as an extra in one of the more recent Glms. View more of Bobs work at bobeggleton.com 290 S TAR S HIP S OFA S TORIES CHRIS BACHALO is internationally recognized as one of the most popular artists in the comic industry. His body of work covers a wide spectrum of genres ranging from the critically acclaimed Sandman, Shade, Death, The High Cost of Living and Batman series for DC Comics to Incredible Hulk, Uncanny X-Men, New X-Men, Captain America and the quirky pop favorite Generation X , which he co-created with Scott Lobdell for Marvel Comics. In addition to his work in comics, Chris artwork has graced the covers of The Hollywood Reporter and PSM (Play Station Magazine). Other recent work includes album covers for Wu Tang Clan and art and stories for EAs Army of Two: Fortieth Day. Chris is a Canadian citizen and currently resides in Southern California with his wife, Helen, and his son, Dylan. You can End him online at chrisbachalo.net TOBIAS S. BUCKELL is a Caribbean-born writer who grew up in Grenada, the British Virgin Islands, and the US Virgin Islands. He has published stories in various magazines and anthologies. His three Caribbean Sci-Fi novels, Crystal Rain, Ragamuf0n, and Sly Mongoose were published by Tor Books, as well as the New York Times bestselling novel Halo: The Cole Protocol. He is currently working on his next book. He can be found online at tobiasbuckell.com EVAN M. JENSEN makes a mean spiced chai, can feather a bulls-eye at 100 yards, and plans to build a bamboo bicycle when he Ends some long-lost free time. He lives off art and freelance illustration. Sometimes he wears the graphic design hat. Find him at fathomlessbox.com STEPHEN R. DONALDSON was born in 1947 in Cleveland, Ohio, he lived in India (where his father was a medical missionary) until 1963. He graduated from the College of Wooster (Ohio) in 1968, served two years as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War, doing hospital work in Akron, then attended Kent State University, where he received his m.a. in English in 1971. After dropping out of his p h. d . program and moving to New Jersey in order to write Ection, Donaldson made his publishing debut with the Erst Covenant trilogy in 1977. That enabled him to move to a healthier climate. He now lives in New Mexico. The novels for which he is best known have received a number of awards. However, the achievements of which he is most proud are the ones that seemed the most unlikely. In 1993 he received a Doctor of Literature degree from the College of Wooster, and in 1994 he gained a black belt in Shotokan karate from Sensei Mike Heister and Anshin Personal Defense. After completing the Eve-book, seven-year Gap sequence of science Ection novels, Donaldson spent quite some time on vacation. However, he has now returned to work. His most recent book prior to The Man Who Fought Alone was a second collection of short Ection, Reave the Just and Other Tales. He is currently hard at work on The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. Visit him at stephenrdonaldson.com CHRIS BUTLER is an artist and writer living in what is often favorably described as the middle of nowhere in Kentucky, USA. His art style developed from an early love of comic books and the surreal art of Kirby and Moebius, as well as Neil Gaimans Sandman series. These inFuences combined with a love of Waterhouse and the artists of sweeping American landscapes have driven him to strive for scope and human subtlety in his work. His art was most recently displayed in ImagineFX . He has written a number of short stories; and is currently writing his Erst full length Sci-Fi novel, Banghand. You can End his online gallery at chrisbutlerart. com, and his random sketches, scribbles, and illustrations at his frequently updated blog, isoban.wordpress.com B IOGRAPHIES 291 CHINA MIVILLE is a writer who lives and works in London. JASON PAULOS debuted on the Sydney comics scene in 1989 with the Erst self published issue of Hairbutt The Hippo , the story of a hard boiled anthropomorphic private eye roaming the seedy underbelly of a future city. Over the years Jason has regularly contributed to Australian MAD magazine , DC Comics, Judge Dredd Megazine and published a dozen Hairbutt comics. His retro horror collection entitled EEEK! is due out in Halloween 2010 published by Asylum Press. Hes now busy writing, drawing and publishing the second series of EEEK! books. View more of Neils work at hairbuttthehippo.com SKEET SCIENSKI has drawing in his veins. He cant donate blood all that comes out is ink. Over the years hes been involved in various projects from grafEti banners for local radio stations to tattoos for bikers and babes; from Innova discgolf art to computer illustrations for StarShipSofa.com. Contact him at [email protected] or visit his website at skeetland-art.com STARSHIPSOFA 2010 HUGO AWARD WIN Amy H. Sturgis Im an historian, and thus I love to be able to point to certain turning point moments after which things will never be the same. The Hugo Awards are special in the world of science Ection because they are made by, determined by, and administered by the fans. Technically speaking, electronic publications have always been eligible for the Hugos. The year 2009, however, brought two new and exciting developments for those of us who support new media: Erst, the audiobook METAtropolis (by Joseph E. Lake, Jr, Tobias S. Buckell, Elizabeth Bear, John Scalzi, and Karl Schroeder, and edited by John Scalzi) was nominated for a Hugo in the Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form category, a Erst for a straight-to-audio production; and second, the World Science Fiction Society Business Meeting ratiEed a constitutional amendment that added the words or the equivalent in other media to various Hugo Award category deEnitions, thereby formally acknowledging what had always been the case de facto, that electronic publications were eligible. A post by Michele Marques in the Hugo_Recommend LiveJournal community on February 7, 2010 alerted me to the furthermost implication of this: podcasts were, in fact, eligible for Hugo nominations. The rest, as they say, is history. After a great deal of conversation in the blogosphere, the consensus seemed to be that the natural Hugo category for podcasts was Best Fanzine. StarShipSofa fans and family members spread the word. On April 4, 2010, StarShipSofa became the Erst podcast in history to be nominated for a Hugo, and a mere Eve months and one day later, StarShipSofa received the award. From this historians point of view, thats one giant step for StarShipSofa , one gargatuan leap for podcasting. Add to the mix a 2010 Hugo win for the online semiprozine Clarkesworld and another for Frederik Pohls blogging at thewaythefutureblogs.com and no one can doubt the emergence of new media into the science Ection mainstream. We have turned a corner, my pioneering friends, and the future awaits. 293 A FTERWORD ILLUSTRATIONS: Front Cover, Skeet Scienski. Pages 1, 6, Leigh Gallagher. Pages 1, 34, 47, 58, Tom Kyzivat. Pages 1, 86, Jim Murray. Pages 1, 256, Chris Butler. Page 4 Neil D. Vokes. Page 16, Rory Kurtz. Pages 29, 107, Ben Wooten. Page 30, Cliff Chiang. Pages 33, 119, Ian Miller. Pages 60, 67, 73, Jef Murray. Page 78, Len Peralta. Page 91, Staz Johnson. Page 93, Anton Emdin. Page 93, Anton Emdin. Page 108, Daniele Serra. Pages 111, 116, Boo Cook. Page 120, Andreas Rocha. Pages 133, 277, Michael Cho. Pages 134, 141, 149, Paul Rivoche. Page 156, Nate Wragg. Pages 158, 179, Brian Thomas Woods. Page 202, Danijel Zezelj. Page 218, Jouni Koponen. Page 222, Bob Eggleton, Page 245, Chris Bachalo. Pages 246, 251, 254, Evan M. Jensen. Page 281, Jason Paulos. ADVERTISEMENTS: All advertisements are used for entertainment purposes only. Any copyright infringement is purely accidental, as none is intended. Dee would like to thank everybody who contributed to this book. This couldnt have happened without the support of all the writers and artists who so generously gave of their time and talent thanks for putting up with our emails! A special thanks to Skeet Scienski for the fantastic cover art unforgettable! To Ciara, Conor, Tara and Fionn. S O WE COME TO THE END OF ANOTHER instalment in StarShipSofas publishing venture. I hope you liked what weve put before you. Again, I cant thank enough all who have helped in this endeavour. You are all so truly kind towards StarShipSofa and myself. It goes without saying Im already planning StarShipSofa Stories: Vol 3 (much to the disgust and irritation of Dee), though even I know its a long way off. Well all have to be patient especially me. As Ever, Tony C. Smith Whitburn, September 2010 Afterword 294 Also Available From StarShipSofa StarShipSofa.com StarShipSofa.com

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