Author: Spilogale Inc.
Date: 2012-02-29 23:00:00+00:00

Kindle Edition, 2012 © Spilogale Inc.

Fantasy & Science Fiction, Extended Edition

Table of Contents
| 225 words

March/April • 63rd Year of Publication

NOVELETS

Electrica | | Sean McMullen
Twenty-Two and You | | Michael Blumlein
Greed | | Albert E. Cowdrey
Gnarly Times at Nana'ite Beach | | KJ Kabza
Olfert Dapper's Day | | Peter S. Beagle

SHORT STORIES

Repairmen | | Tim Sullivan
One Year of Fame | | Robert Reed
The Tortoise Grows Elate | | Steven Utley
The Queen and the Cambion | | Richard Bowes
Demiurge | | Geoffrey Landis
The Man Who Murdered Mozart | | Robert Walton and Barry N. Malzberg
Perfect Day | | C. S. Friedman

POEMS

Hanging Noodles | | Sophie M. White

DEPARTMENTS

Books to Look For | | Charles de Lint
Books | | Chris Moriarty
Plumage from Pegasus: Pimp My Read | | Paul Di Filippo
Films: Melancholy Danes Nacho E.T.s, and Nazis from the Moon | | Lucius Shepard
Coming Attractions | |
Curiosities | | Frances Grimble

CARTOONS: S. Harris , Tom Cheney ,
Frank Cotham , Bill Long ,
John Jonik , M. Nadler ,
J.P. Rini , Tom Cheney .
COVER BY DAVID A. HARDY FOR "ELECTRICA"

GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor
BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher
KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher
ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor
STEPHEN L. MAZUR, Assistant Editor
LISA ROGERS, Assistant Editor
HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor
CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor
REBECCA FRENCH, Subscriptions & Marketing Manager
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 122, No. 3 & 4, Whole No. 700, March/April 2012. Published bimonthly by Spilogale, Inc. at $6.50 per copy. Annual subscription $39.00; $49.00 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2011 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Electrica

By Sean McMullen
| 11931 words

Sean McMullen is the author of about a dozen novels, including Souls in the Great Machine, The Centurion's Empire, and most recently, Changing Yesterday. His last appearance in our magazine was "The Precedent" in our July/Aug. 2010 issue. He lives in Melbourne, Australia, and works by day with very large computers.

"Electrica" takes us back two centuries to the era of the Napoleonic Wars. Mr. McMullen tells us that he's currently writing a novel involving the characters in this tale.

MAJOR GEORGE SCOVILLE:

Dear George,

I trust that this message finds you well, and that the fortunes of war continue to favour you. As you have doubtless heard, good fortune has certainly not been with me on my most recent mission.

I am aware that a great many rumours now surround my name. Some damn me as a rake and a wastrel, others declare me to be a hero. Like yourself, I have done great damage to the armies of Napoleon in Portugal and Spain, yet I have never considered myself to be a hero. As for being a rake and a wastrel, does it matter how I have behaved as long as it was in the service of the crown?

I know as well as yourself that one does not achieve glory by sitting at a desk and breaking enemy codes, but one does win wars. Glory does not interest me, so all I now ask is that I be allowed to return to your staff and resume my code breaking work against the French. In support of my request, I respectfully submit this account of my mission in England from June to August in this year, 1811. I am aware that it will not clear my name of scandal; my intention is only to show that I acted in the best interests of Britain at all times.

I could easily read the messages being sent by the semaphore tower on Southsea Common as I approached Major Jodrel's offices in Portsmouth. The code was laughably simple, but the information was only about shipping movements in the harbour. I noted the name of the sloop Dauntless, which had just brought me from Lisbon.

I had a book in my hand when I arrived at the offices, and was all ready to spend an hour or two waiting until I was sent for. Instead I was ushered straight in, for he had been waiting for me . This was a surprise. Majors never wait for second lieutenants unless they carry important dispatches, and I was carrying only a copy of The Vicar of Wakefield.

"The major is not one for foppish talk, so don't bother with gossip or dropping names," said his aide as we climbed the stairs.

"Then we have that much in common," I replied.

"He also hates flattery, so let that be your last compliment. The major has a theory that polite chit-chat between officers is sapping the strength of the British Army. Let him do the talking, and answer his questions as briefly as possible."

I entered Jodrel's room and stood to attention. Without even greeting me he gestured through the window.

"Look out there, Lieutenant Fletcher," he said. "What do you see?"

"It's a Murray semaphore tower, sir."

"Very good—oh, and do stand easy. Yes, the signaling line runs from that tower out there to towers on Portsdown Hill, Beacon Hill, Blackdown, Hascombe, Netley Heath, Cabbage Hill, Putney Heath, Chelsea, and finally the Admiralty in London. If I send a message from here, it will reach London in nine minutes. Britain's been using the Murray shutter system for the past fourteen years. The French have a different signal-tower system, but both have the same flaw. Can you tell me what it is?"

"You can see them, sir. Anyone hiding nearby with a paper and pencil can see what's being transmitted and write it down. Even coded messages can be broken."

"You have it," said Jodrel, slapping a fist into the palm of his hand. "The transmission of the message is swifter than horses, but it is exceedingly public. One might as well publish military secrets in a newspaper."

I nodded and gave a discreet smile. Second lieutenants who wanted to become first lieutenants were expected to smile when their betters made a joke.

Major Jodrel continued, "Certain very clever people have had great success breaking the codes in captured French dispatches for General Wellesley in Spain, and there are probably Frenchmen who can do as well with our codes. If we could send messages invisibly, however, spies would have nothing to watch and written dispatches would be a thing of the past. We would gain a huge advantage over the French."

"There are carrier pigeons, sir. The Indians use them."

"And there are marksmen with birdshot. The French will use them at the sight of our first carrier pigeon. No, Lieutenant, we need a method of messaging that cannot be seen. Three years ago a man named Sir Charles Calder proposed a method of invisible messaging to me. Come along. I'll show you his device."

Sir Henry led me up more stairs and unlocked the door to a garret. Within this was a device that resembled nothing I had ever seen, and it did not appear to have any function at all.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I see a Voltaic pile for providing electrical charge, and an electroscope for detecting the charge. There is also a concave metal mirror about a yard across, and what seems to be a lump of amber about as big as my fist. There are insects embedded in it: a fly, two spiders, and an ant."

"Never mind that, what of the apparatus?"

"Little plates the size of farthings are arranged around the back of the amber. Amber has electrical properties, so I would say this also has something to do with the Voltaic pile and electroscope."

"Splendid, splendid. General Wellesley was wise to send you. This machine is what Sir Charles called an amberscope. It is meant to detect electrical influence from a piece of amber in Ballard House, near Wimbourne Minster. That's forty miles away. By changing the intensity of the electrical charge in the Wimbourne machine, Sir Charles hoped to send a message in dots and dashes that one could read by watching this electroscope."

I bent over and examined the device. A layer of dust had settled on it, and the Voltaic pile was severely corroded.

"It has not been used for a long time," I observed.

"That's because it never worked. Sir Charles asked me to have a man activate and monitor the thing for a quarter-hour every day, at noon. This was done for six days, but never once did the electroscope's plates even twitch. Sir Charles was bitterly disappointed, and told me to throw it in the harbor."

"But you saw its promise and kept it?"

"There's a war on. I couldn't spare a man to cart it away."

"So, just a fine dream," I said as I straightened.

"That's what I thought until one morning last April. Sir Charles arrived in a carriage, asked me to write some secret words, seal them in an envelope, and have a dispatch rider take it to Ballard House. At six that evening he was to give it to an employee there. I wrote ONE ALOOF STAND SENTINEL and sent my rider on his way. Do you know the quote?"

"The fairies say it in A Midsummer Night's Dream. "

"Very good. Some must fight, and some must stand guard. Was that a fair test for the messaging device?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Sir Charles draped some wires from the balcony to his coach, and at six in the evening he entered it and closed the door behind him. I heard a sound like some trapped insect buzzing in a bottle. This went on for a minute or so, then he stepped out and gave me this."

The major handed me a folded square of paper. I opened it. The words ONE ALOOF STAND SENTINEL were written in small, neat capitals. Below it were the date, time, and location. I was astonished, but saw the military value at once.

"Instantaneous and invisible messaging!" I exclaimed.

"And without repeater towers," said Jodrel. "Sir Charles has abandoned the amberscope idea and developed a spark semaphore with a range of eighty miles. He opened the box and explained the mechanism, but most of it was beyond me. It works on the principle of a lightning flash, that's all I understood."

"But lightning is highly visible."

"This was lightning made small, apparently. I swore Sir Charles to secrecy and sent him back to his estate, escorted by a young captain from my staff and fifty soldiers. They have been guarding Ballard House ever since. That very night I wrote a letter to General Wellesley and sent it on the very next supply ship to Lisbon. I wanted the device assessed by a man with a real understanding of battlefield messaging, not some coffee-house fop from the Admiralty or Horse Guards. Wellesley sent you. Why?"

"With all due respect, sir, I am under orders not to speak of that."

"So, you probably are one of Wellesley's secret code breakers. Perhaps you are even George Scoville himself, sent here under a false name. No matter, there is work to be done, and I must take you at face value. You are to go to Ballard House tomorrow, assess this spark semaphore, satisfy yourself that it is no trick, then advise me on how to build dozens more for use in the Spanish campaign. Remember, too, that the range is eighty miles. The distance from Wimbourne Minster to Cherbourg is less than eighty miles."

"So I am also to check the loyalty of all those in Ballard House?"

"Indeed. Were the French to learn this secret we might as well hand the world to Napoleon on a silver platter. Sir Charles is a patriot, but is also heavily in debt. His father had a love of gambling, you see. During the Battle of Trafalgar a cannonball cured him of the habit, and since then Sir Charles has tried to salvage the family fortunes by managing the estate prudently, marrying money, and not playing cards. All that has not been enough, and he needs the financial largesse of the crown as much as the crown needs his spark semaphore. You may remind him of that, should he forget his manners."

"Thank you, sir, I shall remember that."

"Oh, and be sure to heed some important advice when you get to Ballard House."

"Sir?"

"Sir Charles is somewhat…intensely devoted to his work, while his wife, Lady Monica, is rather highly spirited."

"They do not get along?"

"No. Try not to take sides."

It took me a day to ride from Portsmouth to Wimbourne Minster. The countryside was all lush farmland, and so peaceful that you would not think there was a war raging anywhere in all the world. The guards were encamped in a field beside the road near Ballard House. I was met by Captain Hartwell, who was a delicately handsome youth of perhaps seventeen, with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair. His family had bought him a commission, but was not willing to let him risk his life in Spain.

"Not the most exciting of posts, Lieutenant Fletcher," he said as we walked on to the house.

"I've had my fill of excitement for the three years past, sir."

"Oh, surely not! What of war's glory, and the grand adventure of combat?"

"For me the war has been mostly boredom, with moments of intense fright. The glory and adventure must have been happening to someone else."

"I would give anything to swap places with you."

"Sometimes wars are won by those who just stand sentinel, sir."

"If so, I'd rather be doing the fighting, while someone else wins the war."

Hartwell explained that he was not permitted within Ballard House due to some disagreement with Sir Charles, so he left me at the front door and led my horse on to the stables. Sir Charles was informed that I had arrived, and presently he came downstairs to the parlour. He had a rumpled, untidy look, was unshaven rather than bearded, and his hair was long and tousled. His expression was that of a man who had been interrupted while doing something important, and was feeling a bit cross about it. He had a magnifier lens in a frame strapped over one eye, and his hands were stained and scratched, like those of an artisan.

"Papers?" he snapped, holding out a hand.

I gave him my orders. He read the documents carefully, glancing up at me from time to time.

"It says here that you are a second lieutenant," he said, speaking so rapidly that I could barely follow him. "Field commission!"

"Yes, sir."

"For bravery?"

"For intelligence work, sir."

"Signaling?"

"I have a strong background in signaling, sir."

This told him that I was an expert in an important field, yet his attitude did not soften.

"So you have been sent to assess my work?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Was not my demonstration to Major Jodrel convincing enough?"

"It was very convincing, but Major Jodrel knows only signals, not electrical machines," I replied. "I have some knowledge of both."

"I told him that I was willing to give my spark semaphore to the crown for the war effort."

"And the remission of certain debts," I added.

He glared at me, but did not dispute the point. Although he was lord of the estate, he now knew that my fingers were upon the strings of the purse.

"What more does he want?"

"He wants you to explain the device to me, Sir Charles. I can arrange for many more to be built."

THE RULE IN BALLARD HOUSE was that downstairs belonged to Sir Charles's wife, while upstairs was the domain of Sir Charles. Lady Monica had a very good sense of style, so the furniture, paintings, and rugs were both expensive and tasteful. Climbing the stairs took us into a realm of bare walls, exposed floorboards, and rooms full of untidy, roughly wrought mechanisms on cluttered workbenches. It reminded me of a collection of watchmakers', carpenters', and gunsmiths' workshops, all jumbled together and presided over by a toymaker. Half a dozen men were working at various tasks ranging from glass blowing to coating harpsichord wires with wax.

Sir Charles believed in the value of models to work out ideas. Within the bedchambers, corridors, and drawing rooms upstairs were dozens of working models of signaling devices, weapons, steamboats, and even hot-air balloons. Leading me into his study, he opened the lid of a sea chest.

"Thunderstorms were my inspiration," he said proudly as he gestured to a tangle of brass, porcelain, coiled wires, and wax.

"Thunderstorms are beyond human control," I replied politely.

"What is a spark between two electrical wires if not a small flash of lightning?" he snapped back. "Stand here. Watch the gap between the two brass spikes."

He threw a small lever protruding from the side of the rosewood chest. Two wires ran from the chest to a curtain rail above the window. He walked across to the other side of the room and threw a lever on the side of a similar chest, which also trailed wires.

"The two devices are now active, Lieutenant," he explained as he lifted the lid of the second chest and reached inside. "Don't watch me, man! Watch the spikes."

There was a soft buzz, and a length of blue spark appeared between the brass spikes. It reminded me of lightning seen at a great distance. There was another, briefer, spark, and they continued until I had counted thirty-two sparks. I felt my pulse quicken when I realized that nothing connected the boxes.

"Draw that lever back," said Sir Charles. "The Voltaic piles are quickly drained."

"So these sparks were passed between the two boxes, through the air, invisibly?" I asked, trying hard not to seem too amazed.

"So you noticed! You are not entirely a fool, then. What can you tell me about the grouping of the sparks?"

It was definitely a code. British lives depended on my ability to recognize and break codes, and I had become very good at teasing patterns out of chaos.

"There was a pause after every group of four sparks. The third and seventh groups of four were identical. The third and seventh letters in my name are E. At a guess, you may have just sent the word FLETCHER between these two boxes."

For the first and only time I saw Sir Charles's jaw drop open with surprise.

"Incredible!" he exclaimed. "So, you must be one of Wellesley's master code breakers."

"I am not permitted—"

"Damnit, man, I'll have none of that secrecy nonsense. More important people than you trust me with secrets. Examine my device. Take as long as you like."

About half the space inside both sea chests was taken up by Voltaic piles. This meant that if the device and its source of electrical charge were put in two smaller boxes, they could be carried like saddlebags on a horse, and used on battlefields. The implications of that made my head spin.

"These two boxes have greater military worth than a hundred thousand cavalry," I finally managed. "How long would it take for you to explain the principle and operation to me?"

"You broke my dash-dot code on the first hearing, so you must have a formidable intellect," Sir Charles conceded grudgingly. "I would say…one week."

"And their manufacture and maintenance?"

"Who knows? I have never tried to teach that to anyone."

Sir Charles's wife, Lady Monica, joined us for dinner in the late afternoon. She was younger than Sir Charles, although older than myself by perhaps five years. The dining room was hung with paintings by Constable and Rubens, while ancient painted urns, probably plundered in Greece, stood on pedestals at each corner.

Lady Monica was aware that she was surpassingly beautiful and was well practised in wielding her charms. She had a particularly unsettling way of flirting with her eyes alone, so that Sir Charles noticed nothing. Her hair was black and wavy, and pinned up in the manner of the highborn Spanish ladies. She wore a blue velvet coat over a white lawn gown with a red boa draped over her shoulders, it being currently fashionable to dress in the colours of the British flag. She used no makeup, perhaps to emphasise that her skin was flawless.

"This is Lieutenant Fletcher. He breaks French codes for Wellesley in Spain," said Sir Charles. "Lieutenant Fletcher, this is my wife Monica."

People were shot for such careless talk in Spain, but I reminded myself that this was England.

"Charmed, Ladyship," I said as I bowed and kissed her hand.

"So, a handsome killer with brains," she replied. "What chance has that poor Napoleon got against men like you?"

The meal was in the patriot style, being beefsteak, with shallots, baked potatoes, and beetroot, accompanied by mustard and port wine, and served on more silver than I had ever seen on one table. This was quite a departure from what I was used to in the borderlands of Spain and Portugal, apart from the port wine. They were certainly trying to keep up appearances.

Sir Charles spoke continually of his dash-dot code and spark semaphore machine, while Lady Monica stared at the ceiling or rolled her eyes. Presently he realized that his beef was getting cold, so he gulped it down, then excused himself and hurried back upstairs. It was as if he had a lover waiting for him there, but I was fairly sure that his lover was made of brass, wire, and wax. Lady Monica and I continued on to asparagus, beetroot pancakes, and a rather delicate German wine.

"I would like to know a little of your background," she said once we were alone.

She fluttered her eyelashes at me. The effect was highly disconcerting for someone who had been in the remote mountains of the Iberian Peninsula just weeks earlier.

"There's little to say, ma'am. I was a corporal, then I was lucky enough to distinguish myself and gain promotion."

"In spying?"

"In…using mathematics to help the war effort."

"Most redcoat corporals don't say 'mathematics,' they say 'countin' or 'sums.' You must come from a good family. What did you do before you enlisted?"

"My father is a vicar. I was a teacher before the war."

"I would wager a hundred guineas that you have never so much as smiled at a whore."

This was true, but she had no way of knowing it. It caught me off-guard, so I allowed a pause to collect my thoughts. I knew the rules and manners of polite society, but I was aware of being an outsider.

"Only vendors need to smile," I replied.

"Oh very good, parry-riposte to you."

"Why did you propose your wager?"

"There is a certain boldness about men who make use of whores, Lieutenant. They think all women are whores, but concede that some whores cost more than others. You are suave, rather than bold."

"You flatter me."

"I do indeed. Now you have a cue to flatter me, yet you do not."

By this stage I was beginning to see what Major Jodrel had warned me about.

"It is not my place to flatter you, ma'am."

"No? You are ill at ease in my company, Lieutenant, especially when I smile. That flatters me, too."

"Do you assist Sir Charles with his signaling devices?" I asked, lamely trying to change the subject.

"Me, take an interest in wires, sparks, and steam engines? Surely you jest. I only pay attention when he takes long trips to test his toys, leaving me to manage Ballard House, the brave soldiers who guard it, and their most gallant young officers."

With that she got up, so I stood and bowed to her.

"Will you take supper with me at ten?" she asked.

"Alas, ma'am, I am ready for sleep."

"But it's only six o'clock, the sun is still up."

"I'm very tired. I was aboard a ship when I last slept."

She sauntered across the room.

"Good night, ma'am," I called after her.

She turned back to me at the door.

"Good night, my brave and gallant young officer," she purred, swayed a hip in my direction, then walked on.

THAT NIGHT I slept as if I had been shot dead, but like all soldiers in wartime, I rose before dawn. Attacks generally come with the sun, and my habit was to be dressed and ready. Sir Charles was nowhere to be found, and I was not in a hurry to encounter Lady Monica alone, so I went out to the encampment. Young Captain Hartwell met me there, and we took a stroll around the grounds as the sun rose.

"So, are you satisfied that Ballard House is not a hotbed of French spies?" he asked.

"I'm never happy about anyone, sir."

"Anyone at all? Is even, say, a duke not above suspicion?"

"A duke may whisper secrets to his mistress as they tumble together in bed. Is his mistress above suspicion?"

Hartwell was either unable or unwilling to answer the question. We walked another dozen or so paces before he spoke again.

"One of my men is a veteran of the battles in Portugal and Spain, and he knows of you. He said you rose through the ranks and distinguished yourself."

"That is true, sir."

"It must have been for some act of great daring."

"You flatter me, but it was nothing."

"Please, please, do tell me. There's no excitement in Dorset, that must be obvious."

By now I suspected that the captain had been barred from Ballard House for experiencing a little too much excitement with Lady Monica. Still, Hartwell was a superior officer, and it does not hurt to have the good opinion of such men.

"I speak some Portuguese, and quite good Spanish and French, so I was promoted to corporal soon after stepping off the ship, assigned two Spanish irregulars, and sent deep into enemy territory."

"To assassinate enemy officers?" Hartwell gasped.

"To sketch enemy fortifications, and count men, cannons, and supply wagons. One day we met with two French spies who had been doing much the same. There was a very sharp and nasty exchange, and I alone rode away from it."

"Ah, and for that you were promoted to second lieutenant?"

"No, such actions are common enough, but I found some dispatches on one of the French dead. They turned out to be very important."

"Oh, so you did heroic things, but you were promoted for just mucking about with secret messages," said Hartwell.

"Secret messages are often more important than bullets. With respect, sir, remember that if you ever find yourself on a battlefield, wondering what the enemy is going to do next."

"I don't have the benefit of your experience, Lieutenant, but I do prefer a good, clean fight to spying and secrecy."

The text of the dispatches had been encoded, but in the days that it took me to return to British headquarters I studied the code in every free moment and actually broke it. The dispatches named two officers on General Wellesley's staff as spies. I expected that they would be shamed and shot like dogs. Instead they were merely reported as dying heroically in some minor engagement. General Wellesley does not have spies on his staff. It was then decided that I was too valuable to risk on the battlefield. I was transferred to the quartermaster's service, there to break more French codes.

We had reached the stables by now, and I observed that there was a pair of chimneys rising from the roof. Smoke was puffing from one of them, and I could hear a steady chugging from inside the building.

"That's a steam engine," I said.

"Can't stand them," muttered Hartwell. "Filthy things."

"What is it used for?"

"Nothing useful, mark my words."

"I'd still like to see it."

One of the field hands was tending a small steam engine, a Trevithick type that is used in the new horseless railways. This engine was turning a Winter electrical generator composed of glass disks, felt buffers, and fine silver brushes. The electrical charge being generated was carried to Ballard House by harpsichord wires sheathed in gut and beeswax, and strung from poles.

The stoker told me that this was the day engine, and it would be stopped for maintenance after dark. Hartwell and I were about to leave when the boy asked if we wanted to see the night engine. When I said yes, he unlocked the door to a room that housed an identical Trevithick engine and Winter generator.

"Between 'em this pair's kept electrical fluid goin' te the big house for two years wi'out a moment missed."

"What device needs continuous electrical charge?" I asked.

"Can't say, sir," replied the boy. "I only know steam. Steam's the way of the future. Hope te make me fortune wi' steam."

"Can't abide the damn ugly things," said Hartwell as we left. "Did you know that they're actually replacing horses on some of the colliery railways?"

Now I had a new mystery. Why have continuous electrical charge flowing into Ballard House? The spark semaphores worked from Voltaic piles, so this was clearly for something else. Whatever it was, it had been consuming electrical charge for two whole years.

"What is that room upstairs, where the wires go?" I asked Hartwell, gesturing to the house.

"Monica calls it the raven room," he replied.

Monica. The familiarity with which Hartwell used that single word told me that Lady Monica had exchanged words of flattery with him in the months past. He had also been banned from Ballard House, so perhaps the words exchanged had been overheard by Sir Charles.

"Why does she call it that?"

"Sir Charles keeps a raven in it."

"A raven?"

"Yes."

"A raven, with feathers, wings, and a beak?"

"One beak, two wings, and a great many feathers."

"Whatever for?"

"Company, I suppose. Nobody else can stand the man. Were he not lord of this estate he would be the resident simpleton in some village."

Here was a new mystery. Why supply electrical charge to a raven for two years? I am a spy, so my training is to hide my own secrets and unravel the mysteries of others. The raven was clearly a ruse, so what of the electrical charge? Was there a secret device for signaling the French in that room? Was Sir Charles giving spark semaphores to Britain because Napoleon already had them, and was waiting to eavesdrop?

I returned to the house and secured the two spark semaphores by locking them in my bedchamber. Next I discovered that two rooms upstairs were locked, but other than that I was free to wander wherever I wished. Sir Charles would not talk of the locked rooms. The unlocked rooms were workshops, or storage for experimental devices that had not worked as he had planned. The mechanisms were mostly wood, wax, wire and glass. The artisans worked upstairs, but lived away in the servants' quarters. They built things to their master's specifications, and had no idea how the individual parts were assembled.

When Sir Charles went outside to supervise the servicing of the night engine I went upstairs and checked the two locked doors again. I have some knowledge of pickwires, so I set to work on the locks. One room turned out to be a library, but the lock on the other was beyond my skill. The door was of solid oak bound with iron. Heavy defences always mean something of value is inside. Through the wood I could hear a faint humming, as if a hive of bees were kept there. It was the raven room, where the wires from the stables led.

Late that morning I attended my very first luncheon. Even though I was not hungry, I was compelled to sample my host's cheddar cheese, asparagus, cold pork, white bread, and German wine. During the meal Sir Charles announced that my lessons with the spark semaphore would commence that very hour, then he bolted down his meal and rushed upstairs again. Once more I found myself alone with Lady Monica. Suspecting that she was about to return to the subject of flattery, I quickly asked her about the raven room.

"Yes, I have been in there," she said.

"He let you in?"

"It was back in the days when he still tried to impress me with cleverness. A year ago, or perhaps two. The place is full of his boring toys."

"So you were not impressed?"

"Not in the least. We are not of a kind, Lieutenant. Look over by the window—what do you see?"

"A brass telescope."

"Yes, a marvel of spectacle lenses and whatever else is inside. Charles uses it to gaze at pockmarks on the moon. I would rather use it to watch a soldier bending a milkmaid over a stack of hay, far out in the fields. What about you?"

I was tempted to say that I would rather be the soldier out in the fields, but that sort of talk would lead as far into forbidden territory as it is possible to go.

"I'd use it to spy on the French from a safe distance," I managed. "What sorts of toys were in the raven room?"

"Oh…wire rings, brass things, glass things."

"And a raven?"

"A black bird, bigger than a sparrow, smaller than a chicken. Charles had attached a lot of harpsichord strings to its head."

"To its head?" I exclaimed, suspecting that she was mocking me. "Can you describe—"

"No! I cannot and shall not!" she snapped, suddenly angry. "His silly toys don't interest me. I want to be in London, going to balls and meeting dashing young officers just home from the wars."

"Do you have a key to the raven room?"

Even as I was speaking the words, I regretted the question. I knew what the answer was sure to be.

"I might…for a dashing young officer, just home from the wars."

With that temptation now dangling before me, Lady Monica took her leave. I was left alone at the table, thinking hard upon moral dilemmas, my honour as an officer, my duty to Britain, electrical machines, and ravens.

I SPENT THE FIRST HOUR after luncheon being instructed by Sir Charles about maintaining Voltaic piles, and in methods of encasing harpsichord wire in gut and wax. Leakage of electrical charge between wires was apparently a big problem in his spark semaphore. Following a break for tea, he spent three hours coaching me in the use of his dash-dot code.

As the afternoon faded into evening, Sir Charles went outside for the swapping of the steam engines, and I stole up to his library and let myself in. A glance over the titles on the shelves told me only that he had an interest in the natural philosophies. There were also his personal journals, all bound with leather and lettered in gilt. The earliest volume documented his observations of the planets when he was fifteen. The latest was dated 1810 and was an inch thick. I selected the volumes for 1809 and 1810, then pushed the others across to hide the gap.

My intention had been to conceal the journals in my bedchamber and read of how Sir Charles had been inspired to build his spark semaphore. I unlocked my door, stepped inside—and discovered Lady Monica stretched out on my bed. She was wearing an empire gown in the Greek style, cut to display an immense amount of breast. Her black hair was bound up in the fashion of the ladies on one of her urns from ancient Greece.

"As ye burgle, so shall ye be burgled," she said. "What did you steal from his library?"

"His journals," I confessed, taking the two volumes from my coat.

"How dull. Now my journals would make your eyes stretch wide."

"You, ah, have skeletons in your closet?" I asked before my brain caught up with my tongue.

"My dear lieutenant, I can scarcely get the doors closed. And speaking of closing doors, best to close that one. Lock it, too."

"Do, ah, you often dress in costume?" I asked, now deliberately trying to seem witless.

"I dress to show off my best features." She drew a key on a gold chain from her cleavage. "Now then, to business. You wish to enter the raven room, and I have a key."

"Surely you don't intend to, to…"

"To what?"

"To extract an unseemly price for the key?"

"Of course I do."

"But—"

"Think upon this, Lieutenant. Say the mistress of some elderly, gouty officer was suspected of spying for the French, and say she had the good taste to fancy you for some discreet infidelity. Might you not bed the wench, in order to spy upon her?"

Lady Monica had a way of putting her finger squarely upon a man's vulnerabilities. The answer had to be yes, but I did not want to speak the word.

"I am a patriotic officer," I said.

"So you would do it for Britain?"

"Well, yes," I now conceded, "but—"

"But?"

"As a patriotic subject of the crown, would you not simply give me the key?"

"My dear lieutenant, where did you ever get the idea that I am a patriot? If Britain wants me to spy on my husband, then I require payment. That payment is your body upon this bed, to make use of as I see fit."

"But why me? I am neither rich nor special."

"You are young, brave and handsome, and unlike most soldiers newly returned from the wars, you are neither poxed nor incomplete."

"Captain Hartwell—"

"Captain Hartwell is seventeen, and all he knows is what he has learned from me. You are a spy and a killer. I am allured by enigmatic killers with charm and manners. What do you say, Lieutenant Fletcher? Will you permit me to make a whore out of you?"

Suffice it to say that she made a whore out of me. Before twenty minutes were past she slipped out of my room to dress herself rather more conventionally for dinner. I was left to contemplate the situation in Ballard House, and I did not like what I had seen. Lady Monica was bored and unhappy, and perhaps vulnerable to seduction by a French agent. Given the importance of what Sir Charles was doing in the war against France, this was a cause for concern. Then there was the raven room.

I now had the key to the raven room, but I also had better access to Lady Monica than was prudent. I decided that I should flee Ballard House, and ride to Portsmouth the next day. There I would discuss the deployment of the spark semaphore with Major Jodrel. I had picked up the dash-dot code very quickly, but others would take much longer. My plan was to take charge of the training of a dozen encoders at once, so that they would be proficient by the time the first new spark semaphores were complete. Major Jodrel could go to Ballard House in command of a coach full of naval artisans and clockmakers, there to learn how to build the devices, and perhaps to explore the raven room himself with my hard-won key.

Sir Charles was in a strangely cheerful mood during dinner that evening. He drank a lot more port wine than was usual, and between the jugged hare and potted venison he began conversing with me by tapping his wineglass in dash-dot code. If this was to annoy Lady Monica, it did not work. She spent the entire meal looking so smug that he simply must have suspected her of being guilty of something. It was little wonder that Major Jodrel had warned me about them.

As the trifle was served, I announced that I needed to return to Portsmouth, to begin the training of the signalers. For some reason Sir Charles was delighted, and asked his wife if she might like to have a break from Ballard House as well. When she suggested a fortnight alone in London, he agreed at once. Willingly. Almost eagerly. Monica was so thrilled that she dashed around the table and actually hugged her unkempt husband, then hurried away to begin packing.

I returned to my room and stretched out on my bed, practically melting with relief. I had confirmed that the spark semaphore was indeed a priceless weapon, and that the people in and around Ballard House were about as stable as a sack of gunpowder beside a blacksmith's forge. My duty was done, and I could retreat in good order.

The following morning I prepared to leave for Portsmouth, and with the sun still on the horizon I saddled my horse and set off. I had just passed out of sight of Ballard House when Captain Hartwell stepped out from between the trees flanking the road ahead, attended by a sergeant and corporal. Glancing behind me, I saw another two guards blocking the way back. They were all armed with Brown Bess muskets, except for Hartwell. He was holding a glass of red wine and had a pistol in his belt. His eyes were wide and his expression manic.

"Get down from your horse, sir!" he shouted. "Do so now!"

"I am about the crown's business—" I began.

"And I am about honour's business! Get down, sir!"

"I can have you charged with treason."

"Sergeant Adams, if he does not dismount…shoot his horse."

As my foot touched the ground Hartwell flung the red wine in my face and smashed the glass.

"What is the meaning of this?" I asked in a deliberately level tone.

The sergeant cleared his throat.

"I have been, ah, seeing a maid from the manor," he said. "She said that you spent last night in Lady Monica's bedchamber."

While that was not true in the strictest sense, telling Hartwell that Monica had spent twenty minutes in my bedchamber would have done me no good at all.

"He can't order you to do this, Sergeant," I said. "Duels are illegal."

"His father has influence, sir. He can have the entire squad away to Spain to get shot by the Frenchies before you can say God save the King. Best you come along."

I tethered my horse and was escorted into the meadow beyond the roadside trees. Sergeant Adams and a corporal named Knox agreed to stand seconds for Hartwell and me.

"You have the choice of weapons," said Adams. "Guns or sabers?"

Sabres did not seem like a good choice. I had not touched one until three years earlier, while Hartwell had probably been tutored by expensive fencing masters since he could walk. Pistols were not likely to be his strength. Young nobles favoured rifles, which were better suited for hunting both game and poachers.

"Pistols, at forty paces."

Hartwell and I presented our pistols for the inspection of our seconds. They were both Tower flintlocks of about the same age. Starting back to back, we both took twenty paces as Adams counted, then turned.

"Lieutenant Fletcher, as the challenged party you may take first shot," called Adams.

"I concede the first shot to Captain Hartwell," I replied.

Hartwell was sure to miss, and I planned to show mercy. He fired. He missed, but the ball passed so close that it clipped the sleeve of my shirt. The little wretch actually had some skill in the use of pistols! This was a surprise. Offering a prayer of thanks heavenward, I deliberately fired wide.

"Honour is satisfied, sir. Now may I be about the crown's business?" I called.

"Honour is most certainly not satisfied, sir!" Hartwell called back. "Reload!"

Suddenly my confidence deserted me. The rent in my shirt was at the level of my heart. I had been lucky, and from my time in Portugal and Spain I knew that Lady Fortune could be a fickle mistress for those who relied upon her too heavily. The sergeant reloaded for Hartwell, but I reloaded my own Tower.

Hartwell and I faced each other again, and he had the first shot. If he misses again, should I—

His ball struck my side, a little below the ribs.

With the breath all but knocked out of me and pain like a splash of boiling water within my abdomen, I dropped to one knee and steadied myself with my left hand. If I now conceded, Hartwell could just as easily have his men abandon me in the meadow to bleed to death. If he died, I was the senior officer present and the guards were under my command. With all the strength that remained to me, I put the pain out of my mind and forced myself to stand.

Across forty paces Hartwell must have seen the change in my expression. His smile of triumph became a forced grin. I was wounded, angry, and not inclined to show mercy. More to the point, I was holding a loaded gun. This was no longer a game. It was probably the first time in his life that he had faced real danger.

"Allow me to introduce myself," I panted across the distance between us. "I am Death."

His uneasy grin dropped into a gape of horror, and a dark stain spread down his white riding breeches and began to steam. I fired. The cloud of smoke cleared to reveal Hartwell lying facedown in the grass. The back of his head had burst outward as the ball had flown clear.

"Sergeant, you will fetch my horse and escort me to the physician in Wimbourne Minster," I ordered.

"But sir, you're not fit to ride. Ballard House—"

"Ballard House has no physician. Now fetch my horse!"

The ride was five miles of torment, but it was the wise choice. I did not want to spend days or weeks recovering in Ballard House, because Sir Charles would be sure to ask why Hartwell and I had been dueling. The sergeant walked ahead, leading my horse. We were within sight of the town when he stopped and turned.

"Best we stop for a rest, sir. I'll help you dismount."

"Best you raise your hands, Sergeant," I said, pointing my pistol between his eyes. "I reloaded as you walked, and you are aware that I am a very good shot."

His frown told me everything that I needed to know.

"But sir, your wound needs checking."

"You want to delay me by the roadside, so that I bleed to death."

"Oh sir, why would I do that?"

"To conceal your part in an illegal duel! Now fling your knife and musket into that ditch and walk on."

The world was spinning before my eyes by the time we reached Wimbourne Minster, and I have patchy memories of a physician probing for the ball in my abdomen. When next I opened my eyes it was August.

I awoke to a very different world. Major Jodrel had been ordered to join Sir Arthur Wellesley on the same day as the duel. His letter was lying unopened beside my bed, and it authorized me to act in his stead regarding anything to do with the spark semaphore. The doctor said that I still had many days of rest ahead of me before I could travel. My blood had been poisoned by the shot, and my fever had been higher than any he had ever seen in a patient who had survived.

"To be honest, sir, I was surprised that you awoke at all," he said. "Your body has been healing, but I feared that the fever might have so damaged your brain that you were but a dead man with a beating heart."

It was another two days before I could even walk about the room, but my strength returned steadily. My saddlebags were beside the bed, and within these were the two journals belonging to Sir Charles. Knowing that it would be some time before I could ride again, I decided to read right through them.

As I expected, the journal for 1809 began as a chronicle of disappointment. Sir Charles had applied electrical charge across a pair of amber balls, then varied its intensity. Each dot and dash that he applied to one of balls was repeated back to him, and at first he thought that the pulses from the transmitting ball were being reflected back from the other. Without first conducting proper tests, he tried to demonstrate the effect to Sir Henry. The result was the quite humiliating failure of which I already knew.

After further tests he noticed that the pulses that he detected were not always the same as those he transmitted. Garbled messages began to come through. Now he suspected that the French had a similar device, and that he was listening in on their distant conversations. The truth was far, far stranger, as the journal soon showed.

Today the realization came upon me. The reflections and messages are coming from within the sphere of amber. It is as if someone were inside, learning my code of thirty-six electrical intensities, trying to speak with me. The longer the electrical charge is continuously applied, the more advanced are the messages when the intensity is varied. It is as if the person's recent memories were wiped clean every time the electrical charge ceases. I intend to buy a steam engine to drive a Winter generator, thereby supplying continuous charge. Voltaic piles are drained too quickly.

After this there was a break of several weeks, with only notes here and there about equipment arriving. Once the generator began operating there was a flood of entries.

Day by day her grasp of English improves. I know now that the spirit within the amber sphere is female. She does not have a name as we have names, but I call her Electrica. Unlike my wife, she has a love and mastery of the natural philosophies. Her grasp of all matters electrical defies belief. I have not as yet worked out what civilization is hers, whether Egyptian, Chinese, Indian, or of some unknown people. To better facilitate the conversation between us, she has developed a system of short and long bursts of electrical charge in groups of four to represent letters and numerals. It has now replaced my own clumsy system of thirty-six charge intensities in the conversations that we have.

I read on, scarcely believing what was before my eyes. Just as we may preserve dead animals in jars of spirits, Electrica's people could control electrical charge by means of willpower alone, and by this means fit the image of a mind within a sphere of amber. She was no longer alive as such, but while electrical charge was applied to the amber sphere, the image of her mind could function.

Today she described her people, and what a contrast they are with us. They combined all the virtues of the ancient Greek philosophers with those of noble savages. All possible effort must be made to find the ruins of their civilization, for therein will be found a treasure chest of knowledge and secrets. My feeling is that they lie not far from Egypt, for this is where I bought the amber sphere from a vendor of curios in a market. Electrica's people did not till the soil as we do, but looked upon the world as a vast hunting estate. They were unencumbered by weapons. They would run free, pulling down large and noble game animals, in the fashion of a pack of hounds setting upon a stag.

I looked up from the journal. A group of people with only bare hands and teeth might overwhelm and kill a goat or a sheep, but killing a large beast without weapons is not possible for humans. Wolves can do so, but wolves have strong jaws and large, sharp teeth. I read on.

Electrica now suggested a way to give herself sight, hearing, and a voice by means of charged metal plates and wires. Two dozen charged plates were arranged around the amber sphere, and wires were trailed from these to the head of a raven, ravens being known for their ability to mimic human speech. Sir Charles developed the device by means of trial and error, and at least a score of birds were killed by an excess of electrical charge while he perfected the technique. By the middle of 1809 Electrica was able to see, hear, and speak through a raven connected to his amberscope by harpsichord wires.

As strange as it sounds, all of Monica's jokes about Sir Charles having a mistress upstairs were true. He doted on the bird, whose cage was the whole of the raven room. Electrica was restricted by the wires attached to the bird's head, but otherwise she was free to do as she would. He brought books there once she had learned to read, and she was able to turn the pages with her beak. By this means Electrica learned of our industrial arts, steam and electrical devices, geography, history, mathematics, and philosophy.

All the while my darling Electrica entreated me to keep the electrical charge constant, for if it were to fail, all the learning, conversation and memory of the months past would vanish. This is because what is within the amber sphere is not a mind, but instructions for the building of a mind. To ease her fears I have added a second steam engine and generator, but also retained the array of Voltaic piles in the event that both engines should fail. No expense is too great to protect my beloved Electrica.

At last I reached the end of the journal for 1809, and I lay back against the pillows, closed my eyes, and rested. Even though the journal had been absolutely consistent, I suspected that Sir Charles was deluded. He reminded me of lonely soldiers who pay clerks to write letters to sweethearts who do not exist, then burn the pages when they think nobody is watching. Reassured by my own wishful thinking, I drifted into sleep.

I SPENT MOST of the following day reading through the journal for 1810. It was generally concerned with the books that Electrica was reading, philosophical discussions between herself and Sir Charles, how his wife did not understand him, and how the love between himself and Electrica was flourishing. He was definitely in love with the idea of Electrica, whether she existed in his mind or in reality. Then, in the closing days of December 1810, came the entry that I was seeking.

My beloved Electrica and I were at the window, her host raven upon my shoulder, watching a storm. Perhaps inspired by the flashes of lightning, she suggested a means of instantaneous messaging with all the virtues of my quite futile idea, the amberscope. She said that wires arranged in a circuitous fashion and tuned in the manner of a musical instrument might draw electrical potential out of the air. The American philosopher Franklin had taken faltering steps in this regard, but Electrica described to me a means of causing small and harmless lightning discharges in a box the size of a sea chest, then invisibly casting them through the air by means of a great length of wire. I prepared drawings, even though my wife beat at the door and shouted that the guests were arriving to celebrate the eve of the New Year.

That was the end of the journal for 1810. Clearly the device had worked, but I still did not believe in Electrica. Sir Charles was very lonely, and of course he was fabricating her within his mind, yet.…

I got out of bed and walked into the parlour. Here my physician was mixing tonics in a jar and pouring them into a row of bottles. He was a wiry little man with wispy, graying hair and thick spectacles. His manner was always firm but optimistic.

"Ah, Lieutenant, my greatest triumph," he said cheerily. "Are you feeling more sure of your feet today?"

"I'm weak, but steady," I replied. "How long before I may ride?"

"Ride? My, my, you are a young hero. Another fortnight, no earlier."

"I need to ride now, today."

"Out of the question, I'm afraid. You took a gunshot that would kill ninety-nine out of every hundred men."

"But I must go to Ballard House."

"Then why not take Sir Charles's carriage in a few days? It's been in the village stables for two months."

The pang of alarm caused by those words was as intensely painful as being shot by Captain Hartwell. Lady Monica was to have taken the carriage to London, and had supposedly left two months ago. The shock must have been clear on my face, because the physician made no attempt to stop me as I dressed in my uniform. I was able to find four soldiers on leave in the town, and these I rallied. At the stables I requisitioned Sir Charles's carriage, a driver, and four more horses for the soldiers.

Two guards barred our way as we approached Ballard House in the late afternoon, but they fell back, aghast, as I stepped from the carriage. I sent one of them to fetch Sergeant Adams. He was not so much dismayed as terrified by the sight of me up and about, conscious and coherent.

"Sergeant, you are to be complimented for doing without an officer for so long," I said as he stood to attention before me.

"Thank you, sir," he replied.

His voice was hoarse and strained, his face beaded with sweat.

"As soon as I return to Portsmouth I shall recommend that you and your men are sent to fight in Spain."

"What? But sir—"

"And all mention of forcing me into that duel with Captain Hartwell will be omitted from my report."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

I walked on to Ballard House alone, leaving the carriage at the camp. It was nearly dusk, so Sir Charles would be supervising the swapping of the steam engines and generators in the stables. The footman tried to stop me at the door, but I presented my pistol between his eyes.

"I'll tell Sir Charles," he babbled.

"You do that."

He hurried away to the stables. Pausing only to inspect the gun rack in the hall, I went upstairs to the raven room. I still had Monica's key, and it turned easily in the lock.

Lady Monica was sitting in a chair, awake and alert. Beside her an oil lamp was burning, and a book rested in her lap, open at a page of diagrams. Her head had been shaved, and five or six dozen pairs of wires were affixed to her scalp like a magnificent mane of hair. These led away to an apparatus on a bench in the middle of the room. Within it was a sphere of pale, clear amber surrounded by a constellation of metal plates and wires. Beside the bench was a bed.

A raven was tethered to a hat stand beside the window by a long cord of red silk. The feathers of its head were twisted and rumpled, as if they had grown within a little helmet. Electrica no longer spoke through the bird; the wires were now attached to Monica. By the look of it, many more wires had been added.

"This is not as it seems," she said, speaking very slowly.

"What is my name?" I asked.

"You are…Lieutenant."

"There is more to my name than that."

"I cannot recall you. It has been so long."

"I find this unlikely," I said, holding up the key on its chain. "Monica seduced me by means of this key, so to her I should be rather more memorable. You are not Monica."

From downstairs I heard shouting, then hurrying footsteps. The footman had alerted Sir Charles to my intrusion, but the footsteps of only one person pattered on the stairs. Apparently Sir Charles did not want the footman to see what was in the raven room, or what was about to happen.

It is a common mistake for those outside the military to think that a pistol renders one invincible. The truth is that even a well-maintained flintlock will fire only four times out of five, so to be sure of a kill, carry two. Sir Charles was not entirely stupid, for he stopped before the open door and noted that I was standing there with my arms folded. Only then did he step inside. He trained his pistol on my heart and pulled the trigger. There was just a click. As his eyes stretched wide with alarm, I seized the barrel of the gun with my right hand and delivered a straight punch to his nose with my left. In the manner of those not accustomed to pain, he fell to his knees with his hands over his face, moaning and blubbering. Blood streamed between his fingers.

"Before coming up here I removed the powder from the flash pans of the two pistols in the hallway rack," I said, tossing his weapon aside and drawing mine. "The gun now pointing at you killed Captain Hartwell. Bear that in mind and do nothing foolish."

I addressed the woman without taking my eyes from Sir Charles.

"You are Electrica," I said.

"Yes." Monica's voice, but flat and distant.

"And you have existed in Lady Monica for two months."

"Yes."

"Sir Charles, I owe you an apology," I said. "You are far more astute than I realized."

He fumbled for a handkerchief to hold over his nose, but did not reply.

"You fell in love with Electrica, even though her mind was a ball of amber, her lifeblood was electrical charge, and her eyes, ears, and voice were those of a raven. How much better if the wife who despises you were to be the body through which Electra was brought to life?"

"Faithless slut," he mumbled, breathing through his mouth.

"Captain Hartwell was your only problem. He doted on Lady Monica, and he was guarding Ballard House. How very convenient if a new lover were to arrive, be challenged to a duel by the young and brash captain, and slay him. You sent word with a maid that I had tumbled Lady Monica, then you supposedly sent her away after the duel. In reality you probably rendered her senseless with laudanum, dragged her up here, shaved her head, and turned her into Electrica by means of that tangle of wires."

I indicated the bed.

"Up here, Electrica could be everything that you desired. A truly faithful wife, a companion of the soul, a fellow philosopher, and an ambassador from some wondrous but dead place, perhaps Atlantis. I should imagine that you have had two months of complete bliss and sensual fulfillment. Now I have come back from the dead, however."

"Rough, uncouth wretch!" he snapped. "You could never see her as I do."

"I see her far more clearly than you, Sir Charles. I have read your journals. You chose to ignore the fact that Electrica is not human."

"How dare you?" he shouted, blood splattering at me from his lips.

"Tell us, Electrica. Tell us how packs of your kind would run down huge game beasts and tear them apart."

Electrica and I locked eyes for a moment. Unlike Sir Charles, I was not blinded by passion, and I was holding a gun. She apparently decided that lies might hurt a lot more than the truth.

"Our form was not that of humans," she said slowly, pausing at each word.

There was something profoundly unsettling about her eyes. Have you ever seen a cat watching a songbird within a cage? Her eyes had that sort of sharp, predatory intensity.

"What happened to your…your people? Why did they vanish?"

"Our teeth and claws were only for hunting. We fought our wars with weapons of the mind. Our mindslayers left vanquished enemies emptied of even the inclination to breathe. Alas, males were more vulnerable to the mindslayers. My swarm-pack won the final war, but too late we realized that all males had been wiped out on both sides."

"So boneheaded military incompetence is not confined to humans. How did you survive?"

"The last of us fashioned amber spheres with images of our minds confined within, then cast them into the stream of time."

"Why? Surely they would be tombs for your minds, buried forever."

"Not so—the spheres call to minds such as ours, minds quite unlike those of humans. In time, new creatures like ourselves might have arisen and be drawn to the spheres. They would call us back from oblivion, with all our skills and wisdom."

Like a good spy, I had maintained a calm and even voice, yet I was masking the greatest of fears. I took a deep, steady breath.

"If your mind has been preserved in amber, surely your mindslayer weapon must have been preserved too."

There was just the slightest of hesitations, then her eyes stretched wide. Slivers of pain blazed through my mind like a grenade set off in a bag full of pins. I survived. Electrica had probably never struck out at a human, so perhaps the structure of my mind was not what she expected. The resolution that had enabled me rise to my feet with a lead ball in my guts, shoot Hartwell down, then ride five miles into Wimbourne Minster now helped me to put the pain aside, turn about, and take aim at the amber sphere.

"No!"

The scream was that of Sir Charles, but it was cut short by the blast of my pistol. The half-inch ball of lead shattered the sphere, then it was Lady Monica who screamed as the other intelligence within her head collapsed. I staggered backward until I struck the wall, my mind still numb from the onslaught of whatever had reached into my brain. Sir Charles snatched up the oil lamp and flung it at the apparatus on the bench. Flames and ragged arcs of electrical charge erupted.

"Damn you!" he shouted as he backed away to the door. "You killed Electrica."

"She was not human!" I shouted back.

"You will have nothing of her secrets for your war! Nothing."

With that he ran out. The raven was flapping frantically at the end of its silk tether as I ripped the wires away from Monica's head. The hat stand that was its perch was beside the window and there was now an inferno in the middle of the room. All I could do was leave the door open as I dragged Monica into the corridor. If the silk cord burned through before the flames consumed the poor bird's feathers, it might escape.

Out in the corridor I saw that fires were already burning in other rooms upstairs. Gunshots were coming from below, and as I reached the head of the stairs I saw two soldiers lying by the front door. Sir Charles had a collection of muskets and pistols with him, and had overturned a table. He was shooting at anyone who tried to enter.

When in dire peril the temptation is to act in frantic haste, yet a calm head had served me well in the mountains of Spain and Portugal. Putting Lady Monica down, I took the pistol from my belt and drew a paper cartridge from my coat pocket. I make up my own pistol cartridges, because I like an absolutely consistent shot every time. Before I poured a measure of powder into the flash pan, I checked the touch hole. It had been fouled with residue.

Something in a room down the corridor exploded as I drew a sharpened nail from my pocket and cleared the hole, then I primed the pan and closed it. Burning wax streamed out of a doorway as I poured the rest of the gunpowder into the barrel. I would be shooting downward, so I wadded the ball with paper, then rammed it in tightly. A steep, downward shot is not at all easy, but I had fought in mountains and knew the method of aiming. I made Sir Charles's head my target, not because I wanted to be sure of a kill, but because heads are of a consistent size, and give a good approximation of range. The range was beyond what was reasonable for a well-maintained Tower pistol, but there was nothing I could do about that. Allowing the instincts sharpened by three years of service to guide my hand, I laid the barrel across my left arm to steady it, then squeezed the trigger.

When the smoke cleared I could see Sir Charles lying on his back, slumped across his collection of guns. I have only the vaguest memories of descending the stairs, one arm around Monica, my free hand clutching my wound. I counted on my red coat to distinguish me from Sir Charles as I dragged her outside. Nobody fired at me, and it was Corporal Knox, who had been my second in the duel, who came to our aid. Monica revived as we lay on the grass. Before us, Ballard House had become an inferno.

"Tell me who I am!" I asked her as the pain in my abdomen eased.

"Michael? Michael! Lieutenant Fletcher."

This time it was Monica speaking. I took her in my arms and hugged her with relief. Her mind had not been blotted out by Electrica, it had merely been imprisoned within some recess of her brain.

"Where have I been?" she whimpered. "There were huge lizards all around me. They were running on two legs and they had claws like harvesting scythes. We killed other lizards, we ate them alive.…"

Her words became sobs and I felt a sudden chill. The amber sphere had been shattered, so Electrica's memories should have gone with it. Apparently prolonged exposure to her mind had left an imprint upon the host. Even in my wildest imaginings I had never thought of Electrica as a large, intelligent saurian. She must have looked out at us through the eyes of both the raven and Monica like a wolf awaking amid a flock of sheep.

"All a dream," I said soothingly.

"No, no, I tasted blood, I liked it."

She might have said more, but the corporal now called me away to the side of the house. He pointed upward.

"Someone's trapped upstairs, they's broke a window, sir. I sent Sykes ter fetch a ladder."

It was one of the windows of the raven room. The glass in a lower pane was broken, smoke pouring out through it. As I watched, more glass was smashed away, then the raven emerged through the hole and perched on the windowsill. Taking the silk tether in its beak, it began to draw it across a jagged fragment of glass that remained in the frame.

Sir Charles had been deceived. Electrica had not told him that memories from the amber sphere gradually imprinted themselves upon the host brain. Monica was still mostly herself after two months of exposure, but some memories of Electrica's past life definitely lingered. The raven had been Electrica's host for two years! The bird had become Electrica, and for Electrica, we humans were merely dinner that could hold a conversation. What had she been planning?

"Corporal Knox, give me your musket!" I said, holding my hand out.

The weapon was one of Tower's Brown Bess models, not as accurate as the new Baker rifles, but quicker to reload. The distance was not great, however, so I could not miss. I took a bead on the fluttering raven as it sawed at the silken tether.

"Oh sir, why kill a poor, bleedin' bird?" asked the corporal.

"It's not a bird!"

I squeezed the trigger and the flint struck sparks. There was a puff of smoke from the flash pan, but no shot. Without even looking I drew out my sharpened nail and cleared the touch hole, then tore a cartridge open with my teeth and poured a little powder into the pan. I had just taken aim at the raven again when the silk cord parted and it flew free. I fired, but against the darkening sky it made a very poor target.

"Attend the condition of your musket very carefully from now on, Corporal," I said as I handed the gun back. "You are about to leave for Spain, and Spain is a place where you want to be very, very sure of a shot when you pull the trigger."

I had a lantern brought from the stables, but search as I might, I found not so much as a black feather beside the house. Beneath the window I did find a half-gill measure with a handle, the kind used to dispense the daily ration of rum to sailors. I had seen Sir Charles melting wax for his harpsichord wires in such a container. It was sufficiently hard and heavy to smash a window, but light enough to be wielded in the beak of a raven.

The roof of Ballard House fell in after an hour or so, and the place was burned out completely by midnight. The rooms upstairs had been filled with wax, lamp oil, modeling wood, and many other materials that burned readily, and Sir Charles had known exactly where to set his fires. I had the troops guard the place closely, but although I picked over the ruins with the greatest of care the following day, I could find nothing useful.

All that was saved were the two steam engines and Winter generators in the stables, and Sir Charles's journals for 1809 and 1810. I already knew that nothing of value was in the journals, and although I drew and noted everything that I could remember of the spark semaphore in the weeks that followed, the devices that were built from the memories of myself and the artisans did not work. A few more days of instruction from Sir Charles would have made all the difference.

Now it is October. The war that is still raging on the continent will probably drag on for years, yet the spark semaphore could have had it concluded in months. Lady Monica has sold the estate and moved to London, there to wear a wig and disport herself before the very cream of aristocratic society. I worry about the raven with its mindslayer weapon, yet it has been used upon me and I am still alive. Perhaps the mindslayer merely distresses humans, without killing them. Whatever the case, surely one raven cannot conquer the world.

Thus I try to reassure myself, but had I the choice, I would live within sight of Monica's house in London, a Baker rifle beside my window, watching for the comings and goings of ravens. Alas, I do not believe that I have such a choice. I am writing these words on a ship, as I return to the battlefields of Spain. It is my hope that you will read this account of my unlikely mission with sympathy, and I submit it to you in the hope that you will allow me to return to your staff. I only wish to be allowed to do what I do best, which is the breaking of French codes. After all, my country is still at war, and like Electrica, I am a living weapon.

Your friend and servant,
Mr. Michael Fletcher,
Lieutenant,
57th Regt.

Twenty-Two and You from The Doctor Diaries

By Michael Blumlein
| 9176 words

Michael Blumlein is the author of The Movement of Mountains, The Brains of Rats, and more recently, The Healer. He's currently finishing up a new novel entitled The Domino Master. His second collection of stories, What the Doctor Ordered:Tales of the Bizarre and the Magnificent, will be coming out this autumn.

Concerning his latest story, a recently article about longevity said that a pharmaceutical company is in Phase 3 testing of a drug that mimics the action of a CETP variant found in long-lived people. Perhaps this tale is not at all far-fetched.

SHE DIDN'T WANT THE TEST. She had vowed not to get it done. What she wanted was a family; she and Everett both. She would never have married a man who didn't want kids.

Like her, he fancied a brood. One, if one was all they could have, but two would be better. Three would be better still.

Four? he had asked in one of their giddier moments. How would you feel about four?

Four, she had said, would do nicely.

Five?

She had smiled at the thought.

More? he had asked, those killer eyes of his widening slightly.

I couldn't imagine more than five, she had said, meaning of course that she could.

As for the test, there'd be time enough later, after the children were born. And after she and Everett had been married a few more years.

Not that she had any doubts about their marriage. Everett loved her deeply, and she loved him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, this love, like breathing. In another way it was a constant surprise to her, like opening an unexpected and wonderful gift. She felt it between them many times a day. Actually, she felt it pretty much whenever she thought about it. It was a living connection, and it streamed.

So many of her friends had to work at keeping their marriages running smoothly. Hers ran smoothly by default, and a large part of this, she felt, was due to Everett.

It was like her mother had said on the day before the wedding, when she'd pulled Ellen away from the last-minute preparations and taken her for a final prenuptial mother-daughter walk.

"Darling," she'd said. "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye. You don't always approve of how I handle things. We've had our differences."

Ellen had started to reply. Wasn't it the reverse, her mother who didn't approve? And did they have to talk about this now?

"Please. Let me finish. It's not my business to judge you. It's my business to love you, and I do. I think you've made a spectacular choice. I wish you every happiness. Not that you need anyone's wish: it's there for you, I see it ahead for many years."

Ellen felt the same, but she was curious. "Why do you say that? How do you know?"

"It's written all over your face. And all over his. It's in the air whenever you're together."

Ellen had blushed. This was the mother she loved.

"I'm so happy, Mom. I feel so lucky."

"I'm happy, too. Luck is a wonderful thing. But it's not all luck, sweetheart. You had something to do with it. You picked a good one."

A good one. Yes. She had. It was true. Everett was a good man, and she knew he would not leave her for anything. Not for love or for money, and not if she had her breasts removed.

He did love her breasts…he was a man, after all. He loved the shape of her body, and her breasts were a part of that shape. He loved to touch them, hold them in his hands, press his face against them, smother them with kisses.

Sometimes she felt self-conscious about them…she was a woman, after all, and had her moments of wondering if they were too big or too small, if the circles around the nipples were too dark, if the nipples themselves looked right. But on the whole she liked her breasts, too. She liked her body, and she was happy that Everett liked it, and she loved the sensation of her nipples being caressed and kissed and the sharp line of pleasure this sent from breast to womb.

That said, in no way did their relationship depend on them. If her breasts were gone, she would adjust, and Everett would, too. In sickness and in health, he had vowed, and he was a man who took his vows seriously.

The ovaries and uterus, on the other hand…a slightly bigger deal. Everett would say the same thing. Do it. Have them removed. He would not hesitate. In the future no word of regret would ever cross his lips. He would hide his disappointment, wall it off, from her and perhaps from himself as well. Your life is more important, he would say, than our having kids. And he'd mean it. Of course he would.

But for her, not so simple. Not simple at all. She would always know what she had failed to produce. There would be a hole in her life, and this would be a source of immeasurable sorrow. There would be a shadow over their marriage, an absence that she could not begin to think of how to fill.

Having kids was etched so deeply in her. It had been there, inside, for as long as she could remember, inseparable from who she was. Womanhood meant many things, and one of them was motherhood. This seemed only natural. Most of her friends, both married and unmarried, felt the same. Getting pregnant, giving birth, raising a family: let the wild rumpus begin! It was nature's gift and plan.

You could live without breasts. But without kids? Without ovaries and a uterus? This felt unnecessarily cruel, and she would not do it. She could not. The ovaries and uterus were hers and would stay. She would not part with them, and furthermore, she would not put herself in a position where she would have to consider parting with them. In other words, she would not do the test to see if she had that awful gene, the one her grandmother and her mother had. That one, or any of the others that interacted with it, the so-called constellation that put her at such grave risk. For if she had it, she wouldn't be able to ignore it. She wouldn't be allowed to. Everett wouldn't let her. Her mother wouldn't let her. The two of them would keep at her to do something about it, in all the ways that loved ones exerted their love.

She preferred to remain ignorant for the time being.

Among her friends, nearly all of whom had been fully genotyped, this bordered on the heretical. You got a wax, a pedicure, you kept in shape, you kept in touch, you had your genome done. These were not the days of being uninformed. They were the days of knowing absolutely everything you could: about yourself, your friends, your friends' friends, the world around you. Refuse data? Deny it either going out or coming in? Keep your own counsel? You might as well pack your bags and go live in a cave.

True, your genome was yours in a sense—a certain narrow, private, misanthropic, self-centered sense—but in a larger, fuller, more generous sense—a global sense, if you will—it was everyone's. Your genome was part of the great world-wide human pool, and in this sense was public domain. Friends deserved to know who they were friends with. They deserved to know what their friends were made of—what, building-block-wise, they had inside, what this might lead to, and what their pedigree was. You might discover you shared a friend's single nucleotide polymorphism, her SNP, and how cool would that be! You might even be related. Maybe your ancestors hunted together on the steppes of Mongolia. Maybe they shared a yurt and snuggled under the very same reindeer hide.

This was information that people who cared about people should know.

Ellen heard from more friends than she knew she had, sharing their experiences and concerns, and urging her to get profiled. She received links to one site after another, until she cried, Enough! Give it a rest. But the sites continued to find their way onto her screen. Forty and Six announced monthly specials. Our Chromosomes, Ourselves offered two-for-ones, and Genomania promised a free sequencing in exchange for the names of five or more friends who'd be interested in their services.

No thank you, she said to the screen, hitting delete. No thank you, unsubscribing. No thank you, no thank you, leave me alone. Go away. I don't want your stupid test. I'll do it AK, after kids.

Her mother pleaded with her not to wait that long. Getting pregnant could trigger the cancer. It was a big risk.

"You waited," Ellen reminded her.

"I don't have the full constellation. I just have the one bad gene. Besides, they didn't have the test when I was your age. They didn't have the technology."

"Would you have done it if they did?"

"Absolutely."

It was a bald-faced, if forgivable, lie.

"I don't want to know something I'm not going to do anything about," Ellen replied. "It'll just worry me."

"It doesn't worry you now? It worries me."

"Not as much as if I knew it for a fact. Then it would be like the cancer was already there. Already growing inside of me."

What her mother wanted to say was, "maybe it is." But she couldn't be that cold, not even in the name of love, so she held her tongue. It would be like placing a curse on her daughter, and she knew how it felt to be cursed. She'd had cancer in both breasts, and had had both breasts removed, along with the plumbing down below. It had been an awful experience, and that was before the complications. She had never fully recovered. The best thing she could say about the multiple surgeries was that she would never have to have them again.

Now the cancer was back, in one of her lungs.

She hadn't yet told her daughter. How could she? What would she say? She hoped if she waited long enough, she wouldn't have to say anything. She'd be hit by a car and die a quick and sudden death. Or die in her sleep, even better. Better still, the cancer would disappear. Her body would fight it off, or it would somehow self-destruct. A hari-kari, suicidal cancer…it could happen. She'd read accounts. It could shrivel up like a pea and leave her in peace. Being a peace-loving woman, she spent a fair amount of time every day visualizing this outcome.

She also spoke to it at times, as she might to a disobedient child, or an alien, or an enemy. She tried to reason with it, negotiate, court its favor, compromise. So far it wasn't listening. It continued to grow and divide. Her visualizations and conversations didn't seem to be working. The drugs weren't working either. At a certain point she felt she had no choice but to tell her daughter.

She did it over coffee at Ellen and Everett's apartment. Everett was working in the back.

Ellen was stunned. She shook her head, as if it couldn't be true.

When she recovered her voice, she got angry, as her mother had suspected she might. She didn't like being kept in the dark, especially about something like this. She didn't understand why her mother insisted on being so secretive.

But the anger didn't last. Soon it was swept away by a river of tears. When Everett finally wandered out to say hello, the two of them were locked in a fierce embrace.

He was next to get the news. It was not a happy moment. The three of them talked for a while, then Mom drove herself home.

The apartment seemed to shrink in her absence. The air felt heavy. The walls pressed in. Ellen had to get out, and she and Everett took a walk. The streets were crowded. The sun was warm. The city was alive all around. Ellen felt this life acutely, almost painfully, and when they got back home, she asked Everett to make love to her.

She tended to be a vocal lover. Restraint was not her m.o., not, as it were, in her genes. She loved to make noise, to moan and groan and even cry out. This time, as she reached her climax, the cry was different, harsher, as if something was being torn from her. Afterward, she continued to cry, and Everett held her, until at length she quieted.

Later, curled in the warmth of his arms, she announced that she'd decided to have the test done. She would get her genome sequenced, A to Z.

"I'm glad," he said.

"Will you be glad when I have no breasts? When I can't have kids? Because once I do this, and I find out I have those stupid genes, I'm not going to stop. I'm going to do what I have to. If that means letting them rip me apart, I will. I refuse to stick my head in the sand like my mother did."

"They're not going to rip you apart," he said.

"They'll take away some very precious items."

"They won't take you."

"Are you ready for a life without kids?"

He hesitated for less than a second. Would it have mattered if he hadn't? If he'd answered immediately?

"We'll work it out," he said.

Our dream will die, she thought. "I want you to know where I stand."

Showing him how tough she could be when she made up her mind. Warning him. Was she also, he wondered, asking him to take issue with her? Fight her on this? Say no, don't do it?

"Why do you say your mother stuck her head in the sand?" he asked. "She didn't know she was at risk until she was first diagnosed."

"She didn't want to know. Her mother had cancer. And there was a test for it years ago. Not like we have now, but it was something. She just refused to have it done."

This was news to Everett. It put a whole new spin on Ellen's own refusal. Like maybe it was some weird kind of loyalty thing to her mom. He didn't understand it, but he didn't have to.

"I'll love you always," he said. "No matter what. They can rip everything apart, till there's nothing left, and I'll love that."

"Don't be morbid."

"I'm just saying."

"I know. And thank you. I'll remind you later you said that."

He kissed her on the ear, then the neck. "You won't have to remind me. I won't forget."

She swallowed a lump in her throat.

He kissed her breast.

She felt a tingle, a stirring, in her belly.

"Again?" he asked.

They did it again and afterward conked out. Everett woke midway through the night. Ellen was turned away from him, her arms clutched tightly across her chest, crying softly in her sleep. It pained him deeply, and he wrapped his arms around her, hugging and holding her from behind, until eventually her sobbing ceased. The next morning he rose early and closeted himself in the study. By the time Ellen was up, showered, and dressed, he had what he wanted and had uploaded it to his pad. He brought it to Ellen, who put her own pad down and looked at his.

"I found this yesterday," he told her.

"Twenty-Two and You?"

"It's a start-up. They're, like, an hour away."

She scanned the page.

"You believe this?" she asked.

"I don't disbelieve it."

"It seems like a joke."

"What? Gene therapy? Hardly."

" This therapy. They claim they can rewrite any gene you have. You'd think something like that would be in the news."

"It was in the news. It is. But they're new. They don't have much of a track record. It's an evolving story."

Evolving? she thought. Try outrageous. Still, it was something. Maybe. But first things first.

They ordered the genome kit that same morning. Like an arrow waiting to be launched, it came the very next day. Ellen unwrapped the package with some excitement, which surprised her. She worked up a nice glob of spit, full, she hoped, of cheek cells, emptied it into the vial, sealed the vial, and sent it off. Six weeks later the results arrived online.

Earlier that week, she'd gotten a call from her mother. These were calls that she dreaded, but this time the news was good. Amazingly so. The cancer was in retreat. It was shrinking. Who knew why? A delayed effect of the drugs? The visualization? Both? Neither?

"It's a reprieve," said her mother cautiously.

Ellen was thinking more along the lines of a miracle. But either would do. She wasn't going to quibble. She felt like shouting for joy.

The news carried her until the day her own results arrived. Let there be a miracle now, she thought, staring at the company's screen before logging on, heart pounding, hope battling dread.

This is what she found out:

1. She had a low risk for diabetes.

2. She carried something called rs 1805007, which explained her strawberry-blonde hair.

3. She was hypersensitive to a drug used to thin the blood.

4. Her ancestors roamed the forests of Eastern Europe. They had interbred with tribes to the south. They had also interbred with Neanderthals.

5. She had sticky earwax. This she already knew. Now, though, she no longer had to feel guilty when her ears got clogged. It wasn't her fault. It was in her genes.

6. She carried the Triggering Endocrine Stutter Sequence gene, TESS 233, the one her mother had, but with a twist. She had another gene, probably from her father. A hormone-sensitive promoter gene. It was part of the constellation they had feared. Were she to get pregnant, her chance of getting cancer of the breast and ovary was near certain.

TWENTY-TWO AND YOU, the company Everett had found, was named after the number of chromosome pairs minus one, the one, according to their upbeat, breezy website, being You. You were the wild card. You were the one in charge, who decided what needed to change. You were the supplier of that critical information, the orchestrator of your personal future, the Author with a capital A of your own destiny. This was their guarantee. Their promise: to unzip, repair, and rezip whatever gene needed fixing, then send you on your way. Their motto: Put the ever-after forever-after in your hands.

The company was housed in a spanking new box off the freeway. Ellen and Everett visited it the week after she got her test results. Their appointment was the last of the day.

It had not been the best week of her life. She'd had nightmares every night, terrible things fraught with images of disfigurement and loss. More than once she woke like a bolt in the darkness, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Her waking hours were hardly better. She hated what was inside of her. She dreaded what lay ahead. Everett had high hopes about this company, but that was Everett. She did not share his optimism. The whole thing seemed too good to be true. Too simple. Too easy. How could they perform these miracles? The answer: they couldn't. It was hype. In the end she would have the surgeries and be a husk of a woman, a non-woman, for what remained of her sad, barren life.

The reception room was full. Men, women, and children of every age. Her eyes glided over the men, lingering on the women and most especially the children. Such beautiful things. What, she wondered, had brought them? What terrible condition did they have? How thin the line between a normal life and this. She felt a wave of tenderness and sadness for them. She felt pity too, for them and for herself.

By ones and twos and threes the room emptied, until they were the only ones left. It was five o'clock, an hour later than their scheduled appointment. Everett was restless and annoyed; Ellen, surprisingly blasé. The world of cancer was not the same as the rest of the world. She had learned this with her mother. It had its own set of rules, its own pace, and its own clock. You couldn't get worked up about these differences. It was humiliating enough simply to have the disease.

"You don't have the disease," Everett reminded her, not for the first time. "You have a chance for the disease. That's why we're here. To remove that chance. Reverse the odds."

She imagined someone tossing a pair of dice, which seemed an iffy way to decide one's future. She knew it was irrational thinking. This was science, not a crapshoot. Science and Everett, her soul mate, her heartthrob, her love. Everett, trying to raise her spirits; Everett, caring for her; Everett, keeping the flame of hope alive.

She owed him, if not cheer, then at least a measure of kindness.

"You're right," she said, lacing her fingers through his. "I'm sorry for being such a bitch."

"You have every reason. And besides, you're not."

"You lie."

"I never lie," he said, squeezing her hand.

His wedding ring pressed against the inside of her little finger. From the finger to her heart. From her heart back to his. The true ring.

A nurse came out and called her name, breaking the reverie. They followed her through a door, where they were placed in another, smaller room. They waited longer, and eventually a man appeared. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He had slate-blue eyes and a sweep of lank, wheat-colored hair that all but covered his forehead. His nose was large, his cheeks wide, his lips a boisterous red. His name was Rudolf Stanović. Dr. Rudolf Stanović. He had trained jointly as a researcher and a clinician, had spent time at the bench but now worked solely as a practitioner. He treated patients, and this was work he loved.

He was passionate about his profession. He believed in its power to heal and transform. He believed in his company, Twenty-Two and You, as the guiding hand of this transformation. He believed in himself. He was a doctor, and his job was nothing more or less than helping those in need.

He knew Ellen's story before he entered the room. He had read the history she had provided. With minor variations it was the same history and story of every patient who came to Twenty-Two and You. A bad gene, or genes; an uncertain future. He had no need to hear it again, yet hear it again he did, sitting in a chair opposite her, folding his hands in his lap, meeting her eyes and listening patiently without interrupting as she laid it out for him.

When she was done, he asked some simple questions designed to draw her out further, to allow her to express and unravel, at least a little, the complex knot of her feelings. She hadn't expected this, had assumed he wanted it cut and dried and to the point, and was taken by surprise. Her feelings? What manner of doctor was this?

"It's late," she said. "Are you sure you want to know? Do you have time?"

It was an honest question but also a warning, disguised as a little joke. It could get messy, she was telling him. Emotions could fly. Much was bottled up inside. Was he prepared for what might happen when the bottle was uncorked? More to the point, could she trust him enough to let down her guard?

He glanced at his watch, then slipped it off his wrist and into a drawer. Then he settled back in his chair.

"We'll talk. First you, then me. We'll put our cards on the table. We'll make time."

He had an easy manner and spoke with an accent. Eastern European…Balkan maybe. Something that from other lips could have come out guttural and harsh. From his, almost embarrassingly gentle.

She drew a breath, then began. A fistful of wadded-up, tear-soaked tissues later she wiped her nose, heaved a sigh and was done. She hadn't meant to cry. Doctors were either uncomfortable with tears or else they treated you like a child. But there it was. He'd asked for it.

Everett sat beside her. Midway through her unburdening he'd taken her hand and continued to grip it tightly. She was grateful for his presence. She could have done it alone, but he was a rock. Together, they waited for the doctor's response.

He began by thanking her for being open and candid with him. Anger, fear, frustration, and all the rest were natural. Hope was natural, too. Not that she'd mentioned it, but he knew it was there. Why else would she be sitting in this room?

"Now I'll be candid with you. There is hope. More than hope. We'll fix this gene. If you like, we'll turn around your future."

"I like," she said.

He held up a hand. "Please. You need to understand the full picture.

"This gene of yours is part of a constellation of genes. Like stars, but close to each other. Like a family. They live together in a big neighborhood. A shtetl. You know what a shtetl is? Like that. This family, they visit each other. They work together. They separate, then come together again. Maybe they actually join and make a new family. Maybe they have offspring. Whatever happens, everybody knows about it. Big family, small town, word gets around. If one member makes a change, the news travels fast. Some in the family could care less. They go about their business. Other members—now we'll say genes—they change, too.

"Change makes change. You fix a tire, your car runs better. You fix TESS 233, you run better. Cancer-free is always better. But maybe you run differently. Maybe you experience another change."

"Like what?"

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Change creates a ripple, a ripple creates change. You see what I'm saying? A ball in a box is a ball. You take the ball out and kick it, or throw it, you put it in motion. This motion starts a chain of events. Your ball takes on a life of its own."

"You're saying there's a risk," said Everett.

"There's always a risk. With any treatment."

"She could end up not cured?"

"This is unlikely. We have an outstanding rate of success. Close to one hundred percent. We'll fix this gene of yours. We'll break it apart and sew it back together like new." His eyes swung back to Ellen. "You'll have a healthy gene. You'll be a healthy person. You can have all the little ones you like. They'll be healthy, too. Free of TESS 233. We'll eliminate that from the picture. We'll make another picture. A valentine for you. Health. Happiness. Family. Your heart's desire. We'll put ourselves out of business."

He smiled. "I joke. It's an old joke. A doctor's joke. We do our job well, we'll never see you again. For us, this is not a problem. We have plenty of work. For other doctors—oncologists, rheumatologists—the future is not so rosy. We engineer genes, we engineer their demise. It's sad to say, but what can you do? Progress is a god. A great god. God of the impossible. But not a god of mercy."

"You said I'd change," said Ellen. "How? Please be specific."

"I said maybe. The chance is roughly fifty-fifty."

It was a substantial risk. He watched her closely to see how she'd react, then swiveled in his chair, opened a drawer in the desk, and pulled out an eight-by-eleven-inch laminated card. On it was a busy diagram with an oblong shape in the center surrounded by similar but smaller shapes connected to it and to each other by bidirectional arrows. The large shape was labeled TESS 233. The other shapes, he explained, represented genes and gene products that interacted with it. Each could have been at the center of its own diagram. Start anywhere, and you could get anywhere else. From the smallest gene to the largest, from a single molecule to an entire cell. All paths were joined. In the end there was only one path, and that was the body.

He called her attention to one of the small oblong shapes colored a royal blue and labeled DMTF, 18p5.7. The 18, he said, referred to the chromosome number. The p, to its short, petit, arm. The 5.7, to the gene's location on that arm. DMTF stood for Dynamic Memory Transcription Factor, DYMETRA for short.

"This plays a crucial role in the brain," he explained. "It's the hub of memory maintenance. I think of it as the jealous sister in the family. She's used to being center stage. If TESS gets a facelift, DYMETRA's going to know about it. Half the time she lets things be and goes about her business. But half the time she makes a fuss. Floods the brain with her transcript. Shows how important she is."

"What happens then?"

"The brain is a plastic organ. Memory is the most plastic of all. It's like rubber. DYMETRA recruits other genes in the family. Some turn on, some off. Memory gets reshaped. It's a small change usually. A small effect. Most of the time it's barely noticeable. Sometimes not noticeable at all."

"Like what?" asked Ellen. "Give me an example."

"Maybe you forget a face. Or forget something you said. Or where you put something. Things like that."

"Is it permanent?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do you ever get the memory back? Or do you get it but keep forgetting over and over? Does the process stop?"

"We've only been offering this treatment for two years. We don't have long-term results. In the short-term, sometimes yes, sometimes no."

"It doesn't sound so bad," said Everett. "Hell, I'm forgetful now. We could handle it, El."

"It sounds like Alzheimer's," she said.

Stanović shook his head. "No. Alzheimer's is a different beast."

She imagined how it might be, forgetting things. It was always annoying when it happened. Frustrating at times. She could see how it could get embarrassing if it happened a lot. But life-altering? It would depend on the degree.

She asked him about that. "You said the effect is usually small. Have you seen a large effect? How often does that happen? What's it look like?"

"One time," he said, raising his index finger as though it required emphasis. "A patient of ours, a man, forgot his wife. It was a difficult situation. Very troubling for all concerned."

"What do you mean, he forgot her?" she asked. "Like what? Completely?"

Stanović nodded.

"How awful."

"We tried many different things to help. Called in experts. Hired consultants. Sent counselors to their home. We took it very seriously, I assure you."

"And?"

"After six months his wife moved out. There was nothing we could do."

"She deserted him?"

"She was a young woman. And extremely unhappy."

"That's horrible," said Ellen. "How could someone completely abandon someone they love like that?"

Stanović did not point out the obvious, that the wife had been abandoned as well, and first. "It was very sad."

"It's not going to happen," said Everett.

She turned to him. She was shaken. "What? I won't forget you, or you won't move out?"

"Neither."

She stared at him.

He stared back, then left his chair and crouched in front of her.

"Take my hands," he said. "Now look at me. Now tell me: do you think you can forget me? Do you possibly believe you ever would?"

He had the most beautiful eyes. In every way he was a beautiful and memorable person. What could she do but shake her head?

"Now tell me: do you think I'd ever leave you? Ever?"

A slightly harder question, only because you could never know someone else's mind as well as your own. Except maybe in this one case.

"No," she whispered.

He turned to Stanović. "How many times has something this extreme happened? Remind us. Out of how many treatments?"

"One time. Only one. Out of twenty-three treatments. As I explained, small effects are much more common. But listen. There's more to the story. A new development. Do you have time? Would you like to hear?"

"Yes," said Everett, then glanced at Ellen, who wasn't so sure. But curiosity got the better of her, and she nodded.

Stanović leaned back in his chair. He was pushing the envelope a little of what it meant to be a doctor. Stories of other patients weren't usually told in such detail, though this one could easily be justified from the point of view of full disclosure of risk. And he had to admit, he enjoyed telling it.

"The wife moves out. Time goes by, and he forgets her again. He loses her memory, as it were. He goes back to work. He's living alone, a young man, and he wants to meet women. He goes to a bar one night and sees someone he likes. Pretty face, nice figure. She's talking to the bartender and doesn't notice him. The room is crowded, and he pushes his way toward her. The closer he gets, the more he likes what he sees. He feels something inside. Chemistry? Would that be the word?"

"Chemistry takes two," said Ellen.

He shrugged and continued. "The woman turns, and who do you think it is?"

"His wife. What did she do?"

"Told him to go away. Leave her alone."

"Poor guy. So now he wants her again, but she doesn't want him." She pitied them both. "Or are you saying something else? That he knows her. He remembers."

"He knows something. Chemistry, memory, two pods of a pea."

"That is such a sad story."

Everett felt differently. He took it as affirmation that certain things could never be forgotten. This seemed a fact of life, powered, as facts could be, by the twin engines of love and youth.

But Stanović was not finished. There was more to the tale.

"She told him to go away, but he didn't. He bought her a drink. Then another. And what do you think happened next? They went home together."

"I like that," said Everett.

Ellen did too, though she also knew that a woman, if drunk enough, would do many things she might regret the next morning.

"And now?" she asked. "Are they back together? Is he still forgetting?"

The results on that, he said, were not yet in. Although the man's memory, it seemed, was stabilizing.

"What did he have?" Everett asked. "To begin with? What was wrong with him that needed to get fixed?"

It was a common question. People were naturally curious. Some found comfort in comparing themselves to others. This, too, seemed natural, though in Stanović's experience it was rarely helpful and frequently harmful, and not, therefore, a practice he condoned.

"What he had is not important. The important thing is that he came to us. And that we cured him. And that for him life goes on."

He paused to give this last thought its proper weight, and to allow his visitors to do the same. The story about the man and his wife was useful, possibly applicable, but mostly it was a detour, a digression, a mild indulgence on his part. What happened to one person should not be generalized. The case was extreme and unlikely to recur. It was time to return to the matter at hand.

"The going on, that is most important. It's why you're here. We're all in agreement on this. Yes?"

"Yes," said Everett.

A moment passed before Ellen nodded.

Stanović gazed at her. "You have reservations?"

"No," she said.

"But something else to say?"

She heaved a sigh. "I wish I didn't have to do any of this. Not this treatment of yours, not some horrible surgery, not anything. I wish I'd gotten pregnant first. That was my plan. I wish I'd stuck to it."

"Pregnancy in all likelihood will trigger the cancer. And it's a bad cancer. You may not survive."

"My mother did."

"You mother is different. She has only the TESS gene. You have TESS and more. Pregnancy is a time bomb unless we do something first. Even if you don't get pregnant, you're still at risk. But it's not so urgent a matter. We can monitor you. Watch and wait."

She knew all this. She also knew what she was going to do. But it helped to talk it out.

"I wish I didn't have to put you through this," she told Everett. "It's not what you bargained for. I'm sorry."

"Don't say that," he said. "Don't even think it."

"I wish I was normal."

"You are normal. You're better than normal. I can't begin to tell you how much better."

She turned to Stanović. "I have one request. There's a gene for eye color, right? While you're messing around in my DNA, please change mine to my husband's. Then there'll be no doubt whose eyes they're going to have. Assuming this works."

"It works," said Stanović. "Children will come. Eye color we can do. But there we stop. It's unpredictable what happens if you monkey around too much. Maybe you get a super-kid, maybe an imbecile. It's bad medicine to think we're smarter than we are."

The infusion took place in the company clinic designed for the purpose. She was warned to expect to feel sick for several days. Feverish, achy, under the weather. This was due to the vector that carried the repair sequence, a modified strain of the influenza virus. In addition, she might feel disoriented for a bit. Mentally, a little wobbly and weak in the knees. This was due to, first a down, then an up regulation in various neuronal circuits. A recalibration of the electro-molecular homeostatic mechanism. Typically, the symptoms were mild and gone in a week.

Ellen surprised everyone, including herself, by not getting sick at all. Nor, thank God, did she forget her husband. Nor her mother. Nor anyone. She felt fit before the infusion, fit during the infusion, and fit a week later.

Something, though, was different. She couldn't quite say what. It seemed important but also strangely unimportant. As if something of interest to her, of significance, had lost its power to hold her attention and possibly even affect her.

This something nagged at her, like a thorn, but every day the nagging grew less. Then one day there was no nagging. The thorn had worked its way out.

It was a huge relief. Finally, she felt normal again. She felt like herself. It was the self she most loved. The one with energy, who loved to do things. The one who didn't live under a cloud of apprehension but took pleasure in life.

One of those pleasures had been on hold for nearly a month. Too much pressure and stress. Being freed of them was like waking from a stupor.

This waking first happened in the kitchen. Everett was putting away groceries, and she went at him like a cat in heat.

"I want you," she growled, backing him against the counter. "I lust for your body."

"I can do lust," he replied.

She licked her lips.

He grinned.

She pressed herself against him, then let herself be lifted and carried to the bedroom.

The sex was awesome. She let herself go in a way she'd never done, clawing his back, grinding her pelvis against his, screaming when she came. He responded with a low-throated roar, and a millisecond later went stiff as a board and shot himself into her.

This happened on a Sunday morning, an off day from work for them. After sex they had breakfast. After breakfast Ellen called her mother.

Mom was different these days. More open, more expressive. The cancer remained in remission. Physically, she felt good. Mentally, like she was living a dream. How could things be better? She was well. Her daughter was cured. She couldn't express in words how happy this made her. Not to mention the prospect of grandkids.

After the call Ellen waylaid Everett again. Afterward, she lay in his arms and playfully asked if she was being a nuisance.

"No way. I love having sex with you."

"It's weird," she said. "I feel so…so driven."

"Driven?"

"Horny. It's like I've been holding all this stuff inside, and now it's just busting out. It feels so good to let go. I can see how people get addicted."

He kissed her on the shoulder. "Should we tell the doctor you've become an addict?"

"I just like it."

"Yeah. Me too."

The next time they made love was that night. Ellen had the condom out, ready to roll it on, when Everett said, "How about we do it without that thing?"

She knew it was better for him. He got more excited. The sensation was heightened. He'd liked it more when she was on the mini-pill.

The condom, on the other hand, seemed like such a good idea.

It was a tough decision, but at length she agreed.

The next time, a day later, she said yes again.

Her period that month was late. She couldn't decide whether to say anything—really didn't want to be the one to raise hopes only to see them dashed—and in the end chose to keep it to herself for the time being. When her period did finally come, she was glad she had.

A week later, she saw Dr. Stanović at a follow-up appointment. He asked how she was, and she said fine. He pulled up her new genome on his screen—new and improved—and went over it with her. He asked his normal battery of questions. He did a physical, after which he pronounced her fit.

Once she was dressed, he asked again how she was doing. Any concerns? Any questions she wanted to ask?

She hesitated a moment, then said yes. There was one question.

"Are there any delayed effects of the treatment? I feel stupid for asking now. I should have asked before."

"Delayed effects? Such as what?"

"I missed a period. It came, but it was late."

"Ah." He nodded sympathetically. "It could be the treatment. A woman's cycle is very sensitive to change."

She realized she'd asked the wrong question. What she'd meant was: could some effects reverse themselves? Could a change change back?

"Everett wants a baby," she said.

"Yes. It's why we did this. One of the reasons. Now you can."

"I think I was pregnant. I think I lost it. I aborted."

"This is possible? You and your husband, you've been trying?"

She looked at him, nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know how much you want this. But look on the bright side. Soon you'll get another chance."

It was this that worried her.

He saw it in her face. "No? I'm wrong?"

"I don't understand it," she said.

"You've had a change of heart?"

Heart? Was that it? It seemed much bigger and all-encompassing. Heart, soul, spirit, self: all of them rolled into one.

She lifted her eyes to him. "Something like that."

HIS PRELIMINARY DIAGNOSIS was amnesia. Partial, localized, and temporary, he hoped and guessed.

Amnesia seemed the wrong word to her. What she had was less like a forgetting than an absence. Something that not only didn't exist but never had. On no level did the idea of being a mother resonate with her. Her desire for kids was gone.

Dr. Stanović was puzzled and alarmed. He ordered a whole new battery of tests and sent her to a panel of specialists. She had scans and other studies of her brain, including a subcognitive resistance study to see if there was a short circuit somewhere. She talked to a therapist. She was tested for pre-partum depression. She had her hormones and pre-hormones checked.

It was a lengthy process, and she had plenty of time to think. Plenty of questions ran through her head. Was she less a woman, she asked herself, now that she didn't want children? She didn't feel that way. She felt as womanly as ever. She couldn't even honestly say that she'd changed. The desire for kids was absent, but then when had it ever been present? She didn't remember that it had. In this respect she felt no different from before. Her past self flowed seamlessly into her present self. Nothing had been taken away.

If it had been, wouldn't she miss it? Wouldn't there be a hole somewhere in her life? But in fact, the reverse was true. Something had been gained. She was healed. The killer gene was gone. A weight had been lifted. She was full of energy and gratitude and love.

One of the things she loved most was being with her husband. She loved seeing him. She loved talking to him. She loved the way he talked to her. She loved making love to him: this had always been one of their great pleasures, and it continued to be, only now the pleasure was tinged with something new. Every time he put on the condom, or she put it on, she felt a stab of guilt, for it reminded her what she was denying him. It was like putting a cap on his dreams, and this made her worry.

Another worry:

When she was alone, she was unaware of having changed. The thought never crossed her mind. She hadn't become someone different. She hadn't "become" anyone. She was who she was. She felt whole.

With Everett, by contrast, the awareness was nearly always there. She felt tentative. Incomplete. Duplicitous even. There was a subtle tension in the air.

At a certain point they talked about it. He had noticed the tension, too. He'd chalked it up to the treatment and hadn't wanted to pressure her by speaking out of turn. Hadn't wanted to make her self-conscious. Figured she'd say something when she was ready, like now.

It felt good to air things out, though she didn't know quite where to go next. She asked him to be patient with her. She said she was still adjusting. She said she was sure things would work themselves out.

Everett agreed. He was a positive thinker, a man who didn't know the meaning of unable to solve or fix or overcome. If today was difficult, tomorrow would be better. And if not tomorrow, then the day after. They'd make it better; there was no doubt in his mind. His optimism was was hard for her to fathom, but it was welcome—it was always welcome—and she came away from the conversation, if not fully sharing in it then willing to entertain the hope that things, indeed, would improve.

But the worry did not go away. The worry persisted. Her love for him—and possibly love in general—seemed to make worry inevitable. Could this possibly be true?

She posed the question to her mother, whose answer was yes. Start with the most blissful, heavenly, worry-free marriage, and eventually cracks would appear.

"Sooner or later you'll find something to worry about," she said with conviction.

"What did you worry about Dad?"

"Dad? Now that's interesting. I was thinking about you."

"What did you worry about me?"

"I didn't ever worry a lot. But I'm your mother. I'm paid to worry. It's built-in."

"Were you paid enough?"

Her mother smiled. With the weight she'd lost and never fully regained, the features of her face seemed concentrated. The smile looked huge.

"I was paid plenty. And believe me, I keep getting paid. Paid in love, once in a while paid in worry. They go together. So tell me, what's this between you and Everett? Is there a problem?"

Everett? Had she said anything about Everett? Did she need to?

"It's not built-in," said Ellen. "That's the problem."

"What's not built-in?"

"I don't want kids, Mom. I know I did, but I don't anymore. I don't want to be a mother. I don't feel it. I don't see the need."

"You're recovering from something major," said her mother, thinking of her own treatment and recovery, which had taken her within an inch of her life. "Give it time."

"I don't think that's it. It's not there. It's not happening. I've been with my friends who have babies. I've looked at toddlers and kids. I like seeing them. I like that they're around. But I don't need one of my own. I don't want one. The thought, frankly, never occurs to me. It's so weird." She paused. "You know what else is weird? I'm happy. As happy as I've ever been."

"You're healthy, sweetheart."

"Except when I feel guilty."

A moment or two passed.

Ellen glanced at her mother. "There're aren't going to be grandkids, Mom. I know how much you would have loved them. I'm sorry."

"The treatment changed you," said her mother. And then, "I can live without grandkids."

This was true. Of course it was. You lived the life you were given. What else could you do? The knot her mother felt in her chest was not about that. It was that she didn't quite recognize the person beside her. As if a new Ellen—new and slightly out of synch, slightly off—inhabited the place where the old Ellen, her Ellen, had been.

"Are you mad?" Ellen asked.

"Mad? No, I'm not mad. I'm…surprised." She wanted to shake the girl. She wanted to fold her in her arms. She wanted to distance herself and, for once, be done with the burden of motherhood.

"I envy you," she said. "But never mind that. You do what's right for you."

"That's what you've always told me."

"It's what I was told. It's what I believe."

"This was supposed to be right for everybody. Win-win all around. I never told you the story the doctor told us. About a patient of his who forgot his wife. That's what the treatment did to him. They ended up getting divorced."

"Are you and Everett talking about divorce?"

"No." She hesitated. "Not yet."

"Do you want one?"

"Of course not."

"Does he?"

"He's not happy."

Her mother frowned. "Are you sure? Don't underestimate how much he loves you. How worried he was about you. Maybe he's still getting used to the fact he doesn't have to."

"He wants a family. We used to talk about it all the time. Dream about it. Joke about it. It was, like, one of the most important things."

"No one gets everything they want," said her mother. "Not in a marriage. Not anywhere."

"I know that."

"You make compromises."

"Sacrifices, you mean."

Her mother shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time a man's made a sacrifice. But I can understand why it worries you. Usually it's the other way around."

THE WEEKS PASSED. The situation at home did not improve. Ellen felt a growing distance between herself and her husband. He was making a sacrifice for her, a great sacrifice, and though he said nothing and even pretended otherwise, it was never far from her mind. A second sacrifice would have to be made, and this would be hers, and she dreaded it, so kept putting it off. She prayed if she waited she wouldn't have to go through with it, that motherhood—whatever that was—would recommence, that the instinct would be reignited inside her. She tried everything she could think of to make this happen. Spent time with friends who had children. Played with these children. Held babies in her arms.

But no. It was like sparking a fire from ash. The desire was simply not there.

They would have to face facts.

Yet still she procrastinated.

She wanted Everett to be the one to say something first. Tell her he wasn't happy. Admit that he felt betrayed. Acknowledge he had thoughts of leaving her. It would ease her guilt, she thought.

In time, she got her wish. He did break the ice. If only, she thought later, she'd been a little greedier and wished for more.

They'd had some wine. They were goofing around, and what do you know? The next thing, they were naked.

When it came time for the act itself, she asked him to hold that thought while she got a condom from the bedside table drawer.

Before she could open the packet, he took it out of her hands, held it for a moment as if deciding what, if anything, it was good for, then tossed it on the floor. Then he pushed her back onto the bed and eased himself between her legs.

"Let's make a baby," he said.

She stiffened.

Heedlessly, he tried to enter her.

"No," she said, resisting. "Stop."

He stopped.

A second later, he sat back. "We need to talk."

And she said, "Yes. We do."

"It's not working," he said.

"No. It's not."

"What's the matter? What happened to you?"

She'd explained it before, and she explained it again. The treatment had robbed her of something precious. Now she was afraid it was robbing her of him.

"The doctor said it was amnesia," he said. "People wake up from amnesia."

"I'm not waking up, Everett." She could barely meet his eyes. "Kids aren't in the picture. I have to be honest with you."

"Not ever?"

"I don't know ever." This was cowardice, and its effect was predictable.

He pounced. "So there's still a chance?"

"No. Don't think that. No chance."

"You could grow into it."

"No. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I'd be a terrible mother. The whole thing would be a disaster. I'm sorry, but that's how it is."

"Sorry?" He frowned. It hardly seemed sufficient. "Maybe we can get the doctor to make me forget, too."

She started to cry.

"I can't keep living like this," he said. "I feel like I'm holding my breath. Like I'm underwater. Waiting to surface."

"I know. I feel the same. I've been waiting, too. Hoping that things will change. Praying that they will."

The tears rolled down her cheeks.

He felt helpless and overcome.

"I can wait longer," he said. "I will."

"No," she said. And then, "I'm so so sorry, Everett."

He took her in his arms. Now he was crying, too.

"Things could change."

"They won't," she sobbed.

"I love you so so much."

"Oh God. I love you so much, too."

DR. STANOVIĆ had two stories he used in his meetings with prospective clients. Two cautionary tales. Typically, he'd choose one to illustrate the risk of treatment and separate those who were willing to take that risk from those who were not. The stories were based on two cases from the early days of Twenty-Two and You, which had grown a great deal since then. In each case the treatment was a success: the gene or genes in question were fixed, and the disease or risk of disease was eradicated. In both cases there was also a striking, highly focal, and atypical memory loss. One patient lost the memory of his wife. This led to an extremely difficult situation at home, but the final outcome, against all odds, was a happy one. The other patient lost the memory of something equally dear. Dear to her and dear to her husband. This, too, led to an extremely difficult situation. This, in turn, led to a painful divorce.

It was this latter story he used for his newest prospective client, a young woman in for her first interview. He wanted no misunderstanding about what she might face.

When he was done, she was silent.

He waited.

"How awful," she said at length.

"Yes. Heartbreaking. But like you, they were young. They remarried. The woman to a man more suitable to her. The man to a woman who more closely met his desires and needs."

"So it worked out. It ended up okay."

This wasn't a statement of fact (which she couldn't have known) but an appeal. She was asking for reassurance, and he considered carefully before responding. He asked himself what would help her most. What was most important that she hear. That all these many years later he was still haunted by what had happened? That to this day he wondered if he'd done the right thing? Or that the woman in question was alive and well? And the man in question, who loved her with a love you could feel across the room, was now the father he wanted to be?

"They are not you," he said, "and you are not them. You must make your own decision. But in answer to your question, I'd have to say yes, it did work out. Not as they expected, and possibly not as you'll expect, but in its own way."

He paused, thinking perhaps this fell short, wondering what more to say. He thought briefly about himself and his own uncertainties. The future was no double helix. One could mourn or be grateful for that. This, too, was a choice.

Greed

By Albert E. Cowdrey
| 7485 words

American towns often have a lot of character to them. Robert Reed's story in this issue showed us German Bluff and some of its denizens. Now Albert Cowdrey treats us to a tale of Bonaparte, Mississippi, and what happened when a shady character came to town....

THE DAY WAS SUPPOSED TO be routine. Vern had fed the creature last night, so that chore was out of the way for another week. He rose late and took his usual run up Cemetery Road, along the bluff to the yellow sign saying DANGER and back again to the Castle.

He showered, received his breakfast tray from Mrs. Lemieux, settled into Uncle Ish's comfortable executive desk chair in the study, and ate with one eye on a big plasma TV where Godzilla was destroying Tokyo yet again. Someday he'd have to buy some recent movies.

He'd just finished his Cajun omelet with extra Tabasco and downed half a cup of coffee when the phone bleated. Caller ID said Unavailable, so he ignored it until a voice from his past commanded, "Vern, answer the damn phone. It's Mojo."

He spilled his coffee. " Mojo? Where the hell you calling from?"

"Noplace. It's where I live today. Look, can we talk?"

"Funny, you don't sound like Joan Rivers."

"Ha, ha. I'm desperate. I mean, can we talk face to face?"

"I live in Bonaparte, Mississippi."

"I know, I got your address off the Internet. I can be there in four hours max. How do I find you?"

"Call me when you arrive, okay?"

Vern flicked off the movie, spent a while in laborious thought—his thinking was always labor-intensive—then called his lawyer in New Orleans.

"Vernon Helms, Ben. I need to consult you as my legal advisor."

"Right. Attorney-client privilege. Gotcha."

"I've been contacted by somebody claiming to be a fugitive from justice. We were frat brothers in college. The voice sounded right and he used a nickname very few people would know outside Delta Upsilon Delta."

"The fugitive wouldn't be Joe Hoxie, absconding financier, would he?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Well, a story about him in the Picayune mentioned that he went to Tulane. I know you played football for that bunch of losers [Ben went to LSU] and you're the same age. So whatchoo wanna know?"

"If he shows up here, what should I do?"

"Turn his butt in. I say this as your legal advisor and an officer of the court."

"Yeah, right. Suppose I drive down next week and we do lunch? I may have more questions."

"You mean after getting my legal advice, you want my illegal advice, only not over the phone. Anytime, Vern."

Thereafter habit resumed its sway. Except at feeding time, one day was much like another in Bonaparte.

Half a dozen visitors turned up to view the Castle, and Vern showed them through the public rooms on the first and second floors. Tourists always liked him—big, meaty, with a shy smile and honest brown eyes, he looked like a good-natured bear. (Most had never seen him grab an opponent's facemask in a football game and try to tear his head off.) The tourists had just left when Petey Potts, Bonaparte's answer to the Geek Squad, arrived and began to delete the last 3,000 unwanted apps an Internet service provider had gratuitously jammed into the Castle's computer. Afterward Vern wrote him a check.

"I didn't know people still used these things," Petey muttered, peering suspiciously at the slip of paper, where words and numbers were written by hand.

"I also collect vinyl records," said Vern, just to pull his chain.

"Wow."

The cyberspace alien left. The phone bleated again, and this time the caller was Sylvie Cartouche, who ran the Fall Antiques Pilgrimage (and everything else in town). Vern promised that the Castle would be ready for the expected throng, and Sylvie—her hoarse old voice somehow bridging the vast gap between Gomer Pyle and Queen Elizabeth II—said that would be jes' fahn.

"Ah think it's so entertaining to vary the genuine mansions with something like Mims Castle," she murmured.

"My uncle's instant great house," he said.

Sylvie gave a hiccup of laughter. "Ah'll never know how you put up with that little old booger all those years, Vern."

"Ish had his good points," he said, doubtfully.

" That's a surprise."

After lunch, Mojo called from a Mexican restaurant outside Jackson where, he said, he'd been eating fajitas, guacamole, and his heart out with worry. Vern told him to take I-55 south and 84 west, but not to arrive until seven.

"The servants will be gone by then," he explained.

"You live in a castle with servants, " said Mo bitterly, "and I'm sleeping in my car." Next to greed, envy had always been his besetting sin.

The afternoon droned on. Mrs. Lemieux rattled pots in the kitchen. Vern finished watching Godzilla (or maybe it was Rodan, since it had wings) and took a nap. At dusk the fugitive arrived in a Rolls—a second-hand Rolls, as he pointed out, complaining, "The goddamn feds got my Maserati."

He parked in the courtyard beside the Cadillac that Vern used to chauffeur Ish around in. After an obligatory hug and secret handshake, the frat brothers unloaded a Louis Vuitton suitcase and a duffel bag from the Rolls's boot, and Mo trailed Vern into the Castle, staring as he went at the tall keep, crenellated walls, stained-glass lancets, and gargoyle rainspouts.

"Who in the hell built this thing?" he demanded. "And why?"

"First a drink," said Vern. "Then I'll tell you the secrets of Mims Castle. Some of them, anyway."

THE KITCHEN was big and totally up-to-date. Vern poured drinks, and they sat down at the granite-topped island, clinked glasses, and noted the changes that twenty years had brought. Mo still looked like the shrimpy little guy whose daring at seven-card stud had won him his nickname in ???. He'd gotten tubbier, of course, had tufts of gray at his temples and corrugations in his forehead. He looked perpetually worried, as who wouldn't when facing a long term in a federal pen?

"I need a place to hide," he announced. "My lady friend Chalice is in Florida, making arrangements to get me out of the country. It's taking her a while, because the Feds are watching everything. I gotta hole up for I'm not sure how long. Maybe a week, two weeks."

"Happy to entertain you, buddy. The rent is two thou a day."

Mojo's eyes bulged and he choked on his drink. "Is that friendship? In the old days, didn't we share everything—drugs, crib sheets, Sharon Resnick?"

Vern cut him no slack. "You think I'm harboring a fugitive for any less, forget it. By the way, the terms are strictly cash, payable in advance."

"That's the problem with being a crook. Everybody you meet is either a sucker or another crook."

After a few more drinks, Mo calmed down and they shared the dinner Mrs. Lemieux had left warming in the oven—coq au vin, dirty rice, artichoke-heart salad with aioli vinaigrette, a flambé dessert that flared up nicely when Vern soaked it in fine brandy and touched a match to it. The wine was an okay Merlot, Chateau Marin County '05. Two of Ish's few good points had been finding a Cajun cook and establishing a wine cellar. Mo acknowledged as much.

"God, you live well," he said. "Howjoo do it, Vern? Far as I can remember, the only reason you got through college at all was the Athletic Department leaned on your professors."

Vern admitted that his sports career hadn't worked out. Scouts were indifferent, professional football passed him by. When his Uncle Ish wrote to say he needed a Man Friday, Vern was scraping a living by selling aluminum siding to unwary homeowners. Even so, his Mama warned him against accepting her brother's offer.

"You remember, Honey, that time when some fool put itching powder in your jockstrap?"

"Could I forget?"

"Well, Ishmael's worse."

Vern took the job anyway. Despite the meager salary, his uncle was rich and childless and might, he hoped, be looking not only for a Man Friday but for an heir. Vern came to live in the Castle, then so new it smelled of tacky paint and fresh cement, and for the first time saw the small Delta town where Ish and Mama had spent their mostly miserable childhoods.

Grandpa Mims had been a drunken Kleagle who, until the FBI nailed him, used to terrorize black folks whenever he wasn't doing the same to his wife and children. Vern's Mama escaped the family's double-wide by fleeing to New Orleans and marrying a NASCAR wannabe named Helms, who lost most of his races but at least didn't beat her up. Young Ish fled only as far as Bonaparte's Avalon Theater, where—cramming an already capacious maw with Cracker Jacks and anything else remotely edible—he sat through long, dark hours immersed in tales of ghosts, werewolves, saucers, alien pods, giant insects, and Attack of the Fifty-foot Woman.

He never got over the years when a fat little sissy found comfort in food and escape from a brutal world in fantasy. And he never outgrew the feudal society of Bonaparte, where everybody who was anybody lived in what amounted to a castle. No dummy, he won a scholarship to Emory, moved to Atlanta, studied the biochemistry of nutrition, and after decades of experimentation invented Yumz, cholesterol-laden snacks that received an award from the American College of Cardiologists because of all the work they gave its members. Ish sold the formula for big bucks to a conglomerate called Industrial Food and Napalm, and at the age of fifty-five returned to Bonaparte, determined to build a great house and join the gentry at last.

Still about thirteen emotionally, with the tastes typical of that age cohort, he wanted something in the Gothic style, with turrets and hidden rooms and secret passages leading to chambers of unimaginable horror. He found a German architect named Hartmut Ungeheuer whose specialty was catering to people with similar tastes, and the result of their collaboration was Mims Castle.

Sylvie Cartouche and her friends—all of whom lived in Greco-Roman temples with lots of white columns—told each other the Castle was just what you'd expect rich trailer trash to build. All the greater was their shock when it became a local landmark. Tourism formed Bonaparte's only reliable source of income, and the turistas loved Mims Castle, goggling like fancy goldfish at treasures from eBay, repro suits of armor, furniture from a dozen unrelated periods, and oil portraits of other peoples' ancestors. They thronged it, just as their European counterparts besieged the fairyland castle that Mad King Ludwig—another perpetual child—had built in the mountains of Bavaria.

Ish kept private the Castle's third floor, where he had his opulent suite and Vern had his bedroom, bath, and clothes closet, which were all about the same size. The fourth floor remained unfinished at the time of Ish's funeral, never to blossom forth as he'd intended with décor out of the original, classic Frankenstein.

"And up there, Old Buddy," Vern said, pointing at the ceiling, "is where you'll be staying, out of sight of the servants and the tourists and the FBI and everybody. Just as soon as you pay me for the first night."

"What, you don't trust me?" asked Mojo, and appeared pained by the howl of laughter he received in return.

They settled their business in the study. Under a wad of dirty laundry, Mo's duffel bag turned out to be full of money, and he counted out fourteen grand for the first week's board and lodging.

"This," he explained, "is my rainy-day fund. I began accumulating it years ago, knowing the gravy train would fall off the trestle sometime. The bills are mixed denomination and non-sequentially numbered. I hope you appreciate the foresight that shows. Now, how do we get to this place you're keeping me in?"

Vern tossed the loot into Ish's big safe and slammed the steel door before replying, "Look." He pressed a button hidden under the edge of the desk and a bookcase full of leatherbound classics swung out, revealing a small elevator.

"You gotta be kidding," muttered Mo, as he and his duffel and his Louis Vuitton squeezed in next to bulky Vern.

On the fourth floor they exited into an unfinished hallway with sheetrock walls, naked fifteen-watt bulbs, and seven closed doors standing in a row. Each door had a pseudo-medieval handle in the shape of a dragon and a big round keyhole. Vern unlocked the last door on the right, revealing a garish room with king-sized bed and excessive mirrors. An adjoining bath shimmered in hues of mauve, turquoise, and gilt.

"I milked the Maintenance account for this," he admitted modestly. "A New Orleans contractor who specializes in, uh, certain establishments, designed it and brought in a team of illegals to do the work. They didn't speak a word of English, so even in Bonaparte, where everybody knows everything about everybody, nobody knows anything about this. Even the window is one-way glass."

The illegals called the room his lioneria. Mojo didn't know the Spanish word, but he knew what he was looking at. "Never lived in somebody's private whorehouse before," he muttered.

He poked around, made sure the TV worked, flushed the toilet, glanced through the window at the coiling Mississippi far below, and began to complain.

"What if I have a heart attack way up here?" he demanded. "What if you have a heart attack? What if we both have heart attacks?"

"That phone," Vern said, pointing, "connects to my cell phone. Only to my cell phone. If you find yourself dying, give me a buzz. By the way, let me see your cell, BlackBerry, any other gadgets you carry."

Looking baffled, he handed them over. Vern dropped them on the floor and stomped them into molecules with his size-12s.

"From now on," he said, raising his athletic basso to overwhelm Mo's shrill protests, "and for as long as you stay here, I'm your sole contact with the rest of Planet Earth. Anything else I can do for you tonight?"

Mo spent some more time making noises like an enraged guinea pig, then yielded because he had to. "The least you can do," he growled, "is check with Chalice for me."

Vern agreed, noted the web address of a billboard/chat room where she was to leave messages, wished his guest good-night, and left, locking the door behind him. It would have been a mistake to say he didn't trust Mojo as far as he could throw him. He could have thrown the shrimp a fair distance, while he didn't trust him at all.

Back in the study, he found one posting from Chalice— Mo: Kp yr drwrs on —shrugged and went to bed early, knowing that a busy week lay ahead.

Preparations for the Pilgrimage began next morning with the arrival of a white-coveralled crew of window washers, rug shampooers, and armor burnishers from the Spit 'n' Polish Cleaning Service of Baton Rouge, La. While they labored, Vern extracted the Castle's gardener from the redneck bar where he more or less resided and set him to work, shaping up the camellia hedges and grooming the plantings in the dry moat. He also asked Mrs. Lemieux to start fixing bigger dinners, saying he'd gone off his diet.

"C'est bon," she approved. "You can die from not eating enough. Maybe étouffée tonight? I got me some crawfish froze I can thaw out."

Wondering how he'd dispose of the body if Mo really did have a heart attack upstairs, Vern said doubtfully, "Those mudbugs are full of cholesterol."

"Oui, Meestair Vairn. But it's good cholesterol."

So that night he and Mojo gorged on crawfish tails and drank an extra bottle of Shiraz from Ish's wine cellar (Chateau New South Wales, '06) to unclog their arteries. The food was fine, but the company wasn't. Since leaving the frat house, Vern had forgotten that Mo was a practically terminal pain in the tail. That night, and every night during the week that followed, his guest reminded him.

"I need a sunlamp," he complained on a typical evening. "My stores of Vitamin D are getting depleted. I need a massage three times a week. I'm losing muscle tone. I need female companionship. It's like I'm back in junior high, jerking off all the time. I need an internet connection, so I can check with Chalice myself. How do I know you won't stiff me for more rent even after she says go? Besides, I want to follow the market."

"Believe me," said Vern, "you don't want to follow it where it's going."

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Lucky I cashed out before I ran. I guess the Feds did me a favor after all. You never know how things will work out, do you? Still, it drives me nuts, my money just laying there in a bank vault, while here I'm living in an attic like a rodent."

Just to pass the time, he invited Vern to come up and play a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em. "Don't bother to bring a deck of cards. We can use mine."

"Maybe you'd like to invest my life savings for me, too."

"Aw, Vern, don't be like that. I'm just bored outa my gourd is all."

That made two of them. After a week of dinners with Mojo, Vern took an afternoon off and escaped to New Orleans. He lunched with Ben and explained the situation at the Castle. The lawyer didn't like it at all. "You get caught harboring a fugitive," he warned, "you could wind up as Hoxie's cellmate for the next twenty years."

That chilling thought stayed with Vern on his return to the Castle. The city had long been his escape from the inexpressible tedium of life in Bonaparte. On a typical visit he'd kiss his mama, drop by a sports bar called Who-Dat Heaven to see the guys he used to take showers with, and spend a few hours with a lady of the evening named Shavonda, whose favors he happened to be sharing with U.S. Sen. David Vitter (R-LA). But for the time being, all that was over—he had to get home every evening, or Mo wouldn't eat.

And that wasn't his only problem. Tonight, as happened every week, Vern would have to feed the creature again, a chore not only depressing but dangerous. Damn, he thought, damndamndamndamn . There were times when he hated his life. Hated it.

JUST OUTSIDE BONAPARTE, he stopped at the Walmart and purchased three fresh broilers. Dinner in the Castle was the usual, Mojo was the usual, everything was the usual. After locking the little nuisance in for the night, Vern walked to the opposite end of the fourth-floor hall and opened the last door. There, hissing with impatience, Ishmael Mims—or what was left of him—awaited.

Vern had to admit that he was a handsome creature, which certainly had never been true before. Ish's querulous voice had been forever stilled. His new body was supple, athletic, armored with gleaming scales. In the elevator he was restless, his long claws skreeking on the metal. When they emerged into the dark Castle grounds, he shot off like a crossbow bolt, almost catching an astounded rabbit. Then he rested on the dewy grass, flexing his crimson dewlap and snapping at end-of-season lightning bugs.

Hard to believe that a scant three years ago, Ish had been dying, his rotund body a cauldron of ills—diabetes, prostate cancer, atherosclerosis, sweating liver—with multiple organ failure looming on the horizon. Vern had begun reading travel brochures, making plans to sell the Castle as soon as it became his and move to a villa on the Riviera. Or Rio. Or the Costa del Sol—anyplace where Bonaparte was a fading memory, and the sun-ripened tomatoes didn't all grow on bushes.

What the hell, he used to reflect in those still hopeful days. He was only thirty-five, woke up with a boner almost every morning, ran seven miles without getting winded, won Shavonda's praise for the energy if not the subtlety of his lovemaking. He fairly glowed with health, while Ish lay all day in bed, a large, pale lump of moribund, flatulent inertia, viewing obsessively his library of classic movies—back at the old Avalon Theater, and so, Vern hoped, dying happy.

He failed to notice that Ish was watching one particular movie over and over. A piece of ancient 3-D hokum, The Maze told of an English lord transformed by an unfortunate genetic anomaly into a really, really big frog. As a cold-blooded creature, his Lordship had lived for centuries and would probably have lived for more, except that in the last reel he took a tragic plunge off the tower of his castle, falling through a theaterful of polarized lenses right smack into the faces of the audience.

When Ish announced that he wanted to try curing his physical problems with injections of amphibian DNA, Vern smiled encouragingly and said, Sure, why not? Wrapping his uncle in blankets, he tucked him into the Cad and drove him to a clinic in Needles, California, whose shtick was bringing quaint fantasy into the age of molecular genetics. Though thrilled to have their very first human volunteer, the docs at FutureMed nixed the frog idea—frog populations were crashing throughout the world, and what would be the point of transforming a half-dead human into a sick batrachian with seven limbs and four eyes?

Instead, they began using harmless viruses to carry vigorous reptilian genes into Ish's cells. Of course the experiment failed. Life imitates art, including bad art, and in such stories the experiment always does fail. Ish's appearance became so odd that Vern had to fake his demise, lest the Burr County Animal Control Officer lasso the old guy and ship him across the river to a Louisiana tourist attraction called Reptile World.

Yet the experiment also succeeded. Even as six hired pallbearers were inserting his empty casket into a laughably ornate mausoleum, the reborn Ish was becoming almost intolerably healthy. His diabetes cleared up, his prostate cancer vanished along with his prostate, his cholesterol sank to Komodo levels, and his now three-chambered heart beat with metronomic regularity thirty-eight times every minute.

So what did Vern care? If Ish was legally dead, didn't that mean he inherited anyway? Well, not exactly. Turned out that while still in human form, the sumbitch had left his money not to the blood relative who'd served him loyally for twelve years, but to a legal fiction called the Mims Historical Trust, whose mission was to maintain the Castle and keep it open for the improvement of American art and culture. Under the watchful eyes of the CPAs on the Governing Board, Vern could reside there and draw his 28K as curator every year until he reached the mandatory retirement age of sixty-five. He could then move to a trailer park—back to the old Kleagle's double-wide!—go on Social Security, and live out whatever was left of his life.

No doubt Ish had considered this provision ample. After all, for the next thirty years Vern had the Castle to live in, the wine cellar to plunder, excellent food to eat, and enough cash income to afford his trips to New Orleans, including the services of a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour hooker. Hog heaven, right?

Again, not exactly. Vern stood on the verge of middle age without savings or prospects, tantalizingly close to wealth he couldn't touch. Even seeing his pals at Who-Dat Heaven was getting painful. They'd all made lives for themselves, had wives and children and businesses and modest fortunes, and when they asked him what he was up to these days, what could he say? I'm a lizard sitter in a fake castle in a little town in the Bible Belt and I'll never escape, because it's either that or go back to the siding industry, where I wasn't exactly a success either.

Sure, he'd tell them that.

These bitter thoughts played across Vern's brain as he watched Ish scamper and snap at bugs and poop in the dry moat. When reptilian fun and games were over, he and the sprawling creature re-entered the courtyard and Vern took the broilers he'd purchased that afternoon from the trunk of the Cad.

Now came a nervous moment. Confronted with food, Ish's eyes with the slit pupils took on a menacing glare, his pink mouth with its array of sharp white teeth opened halfway, his respiration became a quickening series of hisses, and his yard-long sticky tongue slid out and licked all around the rough lipless edges of his thirty-inch maw. Hastily Vern tossed his uncle a chicken.

Gulp, gulp, and it was gone. Another followed. And another. In that respect, Ish hadn't changed a bit. The human form had vanished but the ravening gourmand endured—the creature's true soul, his immortal part.

It was the next day when Vern, rising late as usual after feeding his uncle, became aware of small, puzzling clues that something else peculiar was happening in the Castle.

The first was nothing but a well-gnawed rib still redolent with sauce piquante, which he found lying on the floor beside Ish's desk in the study. Vern blamed the guys from the cleaning service for lunching there without permission, and discounted their pleas of innocence.

Opening the safe, he noted something far more alarming. When he locked up, he habitually turned the combination back to zero. Today he found it set on 42. Mojo's rent money still lay inside, untouched, but Vern was puzzled and disturbed enough to pocket the bills for transfer to his bank box. He moved to the desk, reached out to turn on the computer, and noted that the monitor's green LED was glowing, even though he could swear he'd shut it off the night before. Huh, he thought. He was gazing at it with brow contracted when Mrs. Lemieux entered the study to report that a dish of marinating ribs had disappeared from the fridge. She too blamed the cleaners.

"We got us too damn many peoples running round this place, Meestair Vairn," she declared.

Her comment lingered at the back of his mind that evening, when he visited the wine cellar and found a bottle of excellent vintage (Chateau Clemenceau '64) missing from the high-class shelf. He couldn't remember drinking it himself, and certainly hadn't wasted it on Mojo. Back in the study, he sat down and embarked on the unaccustomed labor of thought. Despite what many people believed, Vern wasn't really stupid. But he was slow, and time passed while his mind—which, like his hands, seemed to have thick fingers—assembled one by one the clues that had emerged during the day, and groped for a conclusion.

There really was only one possibility. Antsy little Mojo had relieved his boredom by picking the lock on his door. Hell, you live with a guy, you get to know him only too well, and twenty years ago Mo had been suspected of picking locks to steal from his frat brothers. Only suspected—those guys were impulsive, and if they'd ever found proof, he wouldn't have lived long enough to loot any pension funds.

So what had happened? He'd come downstairs during the night, gone exploring, copped the ribs, taken the wine, returned to the study, had a snack and a drink, tried unsuccessfully to crack the safe, and used the computer to contact Chalice, afterwards deleting his message and her reply. And if Vern knew him, he also knew Vern. That was why guessing his password wouldn't have been too hard. Mo knew his collegiate nickname (Chugger, from his all-star beer swilling) and the year of his birth, since it was the same as his own. Vern felt really dumb not to have changed CHUGGER74 when the little bastard moved into the Castle. And like all slow-witted people, Vern hated feeling dumb.

By now he'd sat so long that dusk had come again and the evening star was peeping through the study window. He turned on the desk lamp, lifted the phone, and left a call for Petey Potts. Then he touched the button that opened the bookcase, entered the elevator, ascended to the top floor, unlocked the door that Mo had cannily relocked, and with a smile apologized for being late. Vern had never been much on literature, equating Shakespeare with itching powder in the jock. But a line from Hamlet, heard long ago in English 202, stuck in his memory because it fit so many people he'd met, first in the Athletic Department and later in the aluminum siding industry: One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. All through dinner that night, Mo bitched and bitched, and Vern smiled and smiled.

Next morning Petey arrived, a cliché ambulant, wearing pleated slacks, a white-on-white shirt, a narrow tie, even a pocket protector, which Vern thought had gone out of geek fashion. His aroma was faintly gamy and though he couldn't have been over seventeen, a loose fold of belly overlapped his belt buckle. Vern felt a kind of visceral loathing for the gnome, yet watched in unwilling awe as Petey's flying digits evoked a backup memory containing Mojo's query, Honeybutt its me, wassup? and Chalice's reply, Grt 2 hr frm u Baby, nt ready yt bt soon.

"Make me a new file," Vern commanded, "with its own password, something Jesus Christ Almighty couldn't hack. And tell the computer to copy every ingoing and outgoing message into it."

"Piece a cake."

Vern wrote down the new password, which looked like the formula for a particularly lethal kind of nerve gas. But when Petey offered to change Chugger74 too, Vern told him no, absolutely not.

"I see," quoth the elf, grinning rather nastily. "You got you an unauthorized user, and you're laying a trap for him. Who's this Mo guy, anyway?"

"Curly's friend," Vern replied. He wrote another check on the Castle's account, and Petey drifted off, peering at it like a shard of Neolithic pottery.

Over the next few days Vern read with mounting fury the messages that flickered between Mims Castle and Miami. Mojo demanded to know what the hell Chalice was up to, what was taking her so long, didn't she realize that Vern was stiffing him, that he was running out of ready cash? Not to be bulldozed, she replied tartly, Chrissake, nt over the net, u a-hole!

Baffled, he took out his frustrations on Vern—such a butthead, he said, that being swindled by him was downright embarrassing. Jumbo Dumbo's skill with a football was understandable, since they both had the same IQ. Mojo even downed Vern's sexual prowess, alleging falsely that Sharon Resnick had swallowed her partial retainer while trying to get him hard. LOL, responded Chalice. Mo yr a riot.

That was the exact moment when Vern decided to kill him, steal all his money, and escape from Bonaparte forever.

With a brain sharpened by hate, he devised a scheme that he hoped would accomplish his goal without putting him at the (so to speak) hind end of the raping queue in Mississippi's Parchman Penitentiary.

At dinner that night, he told Mojo how a famous banker had just blown his brains out, while another had taken up the Olympic sport of high diving from his office window. He expressed relief that the funds of the Mims Trust were invested in treasuries, the bankers being so crooked and the banks so unsafe. As he spoke, the corrugations in Mo's forehead visibly deepened.

"Maybe some dessert, Old Buddy?" Vern asked, smiling in the manner described by Hamlet. "Mrs. Lemieux fixed a nice crème brûlée."

"Not tonight," Mo said, for once leaving some food on his plate. "Think I'll go to bed early," he added, rising and giving a stagey yawn. "Why don't you do the same, Vern? You're looking kind of washed out."

"Maybe you're right," said Vern, also yawning elaborately. "Got to stay healthy, right?"

He saw Mo to his room and locked him in as usual. Then he retired to the vast chamber on the third floor where Ish used to sleep, the one with the repro Gobelins tapestries on the walls, the coffered ceiling, and the suit of aluminum armor standing in the corner with lance uplifted.

Vern undressed, popped one of the old boy's favorite movies into the vast entertainment center, crawled into bed, and began viewing Them! Ninety minutes later, he awoke to find that the movie had played all the way through, and was starting over against a background of desert sand, Joshua trees, and atomic radiation. He doused the flick, remembered that he hadn't yet brushed or flossed, bounded athletically off the mattress, and headed to the bathroom. Halfway there, a beelike hum caused him to put his ear against the wall. The elevator was coming down.

He proceeded to polish his fangs at Ish's marble sink with the gold-plated Moen faucets, take a goodnight leak in the French porcelain bidet with dancing shepherdesses, and return to bed, where he fell asleep as sweetly as a child. For the first time since his gridiron days, Vern felt that he was the one with the mojo.

Skipping breakfast next day, he closed the study door, took out his copy of the new password, fired up the computer, and accessed the secret file that Petey had created. And there it was, just as he'd hoped—Mojo's query to his bank on Grand Cayman, along with his PIN and account number and code words he needed to access the information. The balance amounted only to millions, instead of billions as Vern had hoped, but as he copied down the information he decided to be content. After all, look what being greedy was just about to get Mojo!

After breakfast he phoned Ben Price, asked him to recommend a broker, and by lunchtime owned something he'd often heard about but never before possessed, a numbered Swiss bank account. The rest was obvious. He called Petey and asked if he could manage a transfer of funds from Grand Cayman to Zurich. Of course the dwarf Klingon knew at once that something crooked was up, but Vern didn't care, because they were about to become co-conspirators. They agreed that ten thou would be Petey's fee, to be paid in mixed-denomination, non-sequentially numbered bills, of which Vern's bank box happened to contain quite a few.

That afternoon they met in the Castle's study and did their business. Vern waited until Petey had left the room—in fact, the building—to give Schweitzerische Bankverein his ultimate ID, a code word devised by, and known only to, himself.

At dinnertime he went through the customary charade of unlocking Mo's door. The usual chitchat occurred, less annoying tonight because it was the very last time. After brandy, Vern said goodnight and locked him back in, then strolled down the hall, unlocked the lizard's den, and left the door ajar. The animal, being in its digestive phase, merely blinked at him—first the left eye, then the right.

Downstairs again, Vern opened the Castle's main junction box and shut off power to the elevator. He went to bed, slept well, and next morning paid off the cleaners and gave Mrs. Lemieux and the gardener a week's vacation. Then he closed the Castle, took the Cad out of the courtyard, locked the gate behind him, and drove to New Orleans.

This time he had a nice long visit. Lunched with Ben at Galatoire's and told him the fugitive had moved on. Blew a thou on an absolutely memorable afternoon with Shavonda, who charged extra for the kind of fancy stuff that Vern—usually a straight shooter—wanted in his current exalted mood. Spent a day at Harrah's, eating and drinking and dropping another few thou as casually as the twenty bucks he handed the bellboy at his four-star hotel. He got drunk in Who-Dat Heaven and bragged to his pals that he was about to pull off something big. Then, with soul at peace, he drove back to Bonaparte, listening to an easy-rock station along the way, and slapping the steering wheel to keep the rhythm.

At the Walmart he purchased a large can of spackle, a wide-bladed putty knife, rubber gloves, extra Renuzit, and an ample supply of an air freshener called Pert. As he turned into the Castle's graveled drive, he noted with a rare touch of esthetic feeling how mellow, how almost authentic, the monstrosity looked in the light of the setting sun. He unlocked the gate, drove into the courtyard, and parked the Cad next to the Rolls. He'd just opened his trunk, and begun to remove the cleaning materials when muffled screams and wild thumps and scraping erupted from the top floor of the Castle keep.

Surprised—Vern hadn't expected either of his guests to fight off hunger this long—he paused and looked up. The sounds coursed back and forth, fading and amplifying by turns as Mo fled his pursuer up and down the fourth-floor hallway. Then, after a final Aaaagh! the one-way window exploded outward, pulverized by a small fleeing financier with a giant monitor lizard attached firmly—and, Vern felt certain, quite painfully—to his backside. The thump when they landed was spectacular.

Fascinated and appalled, Vern approached the complicated heap of remains. Both were dead, or as good as, but some sort of post-mortem reptilian reflex kept Ish's jaws moving for half a minute more. Wow, thought Vern, talk about having your butt chewed!

When all movement ceased, he took his supplies inside, changed into sweats, flicked on security lights in the courtyard, donned rubber gloves, and returned. He found Mo's keys in his yucky pocket, noting that the keyring also held a professional-quality lock pick. The hard part of the work now began. Vern opened all four doors of the Rolls, detached his frat brother from the conjoined lizard and stowed him in the boot. In death as in life, Ish was a royal pain, but Vern—now sweating profusely despite the cool evening—somehow hauled and crammed the creature into the back seat, coiling the tail with its serrated armor twice around the body.

Nice roomy car, he thought gratefully, pausing to wipe his brow when the job was done. Classic. Even running boards!

Back in the kitchen, he removed his gloves, drank a beer, and had a bite to eat. Then he turned on the elevator and spent another couple of hours hard at work on the fourth floor. He spackled the clawmarks gouged into the sheetrock, scrubbed down the formerly occupied rooms, and packed into the duffel and the Louis Vuitton everything Mo had brought with him—extra clothes, razor, penknife, toothbrush, deodorant, a pack of marked cards, and a manual for investment counselors called Screwing the Universe for Fun and Profit.

He carried the luggage down to the courtyard, jammed it into the Rolls, and a little past midnight, making a face at the dense sticky odor of reptilian blood, finally slid into the driver's seat. The sound of the engine was the gentlest of murmurs, and Vern felt a pang of regret over destroying such a beautiful machine, even if it was second hand. He drove up Cemetery Road, where tendrils of mist rising from the river made the monuments of the Confederate dead look even more ghostly than usual. At the end, a yellow DANGER sign mounted on sawhorses warned drivers that the river had undermined the bluff, and the remainder of the road had fallen in. He stopped, moved the sign, put the Rolls into gear, and with one hand on the steering wheel rode the running board to the teetering verge, where he jumped off.

The front end tipped over, but the back hesitated on the brink. For a few seconds Vern felt like Tony Perkins in Psycho, watching the car with the body in the trunk float on the marsh, and wondering what he'll do if it doesn't sink. Then the weight inside shifted forward, and the Rolls somersaulted into the mist below. An incredible length of time elapsed before Vern heard the echoing splash, as three tons of metal and mammal and reptile hit the river. Gargling noises followed, while the car and its contents sank through seventy feet of murky water into the muffling silence of fathomless Delta mud.

Vern felt rather astonished at what he'd done, a bit at a loss now that it was over. He replaced the warning sign—wouldn't want anybody to get hurt, right?—and stood quietly for a moment, wishing he'd worn a hat so he could take it off. Yeah, Ish and Mojo had been human hemorrhoids, both of them, but what the hell, he'd never been a guy to hold a grudge. Then his solemn mood lifted. Hiking back to the Castle, he thought about his beckoning future and began to whistle the Tulane fight song.

Next day the Fall Pilgrimage began, with the arrival of the first tour bus. Vern—big, gracious, deploying his shy smile and honest brown eyes—greeted the visitors, pleasant folks who were mostly sixty-plus.

Last night's mist had burned off, the fall sun was bright, and fat red buds were opening on the camellia hedges. Inside the Castle, lines formed outside the bathrooms, and ladies in running shoes and light sweaters led their husbands around on invisible leashes. An Englishwoman with a deep bass voice asked Vern if Mims Castle had been intended as a movie set—the most perceptive remark he heard all day. A lady from Ohio asked to see the slave quarters, and frowned when Vern said the Castle didn't have any. "At Oak Alley," she said, "they have the nicest little cabins for them."

At noon, Sylvie Cartouche showed up to see how things were going, and made a number of catty remarks about Ish's antiques.

"They do Louis XV so well on Taiwan," she murmured. "Mah grandson, the one lives in Alabama, you know? His factory makes those Victorian parlor chairs. He was planning to move the operation to Haiti for the cheap labor, but then along came the earthquake. Sometimes it's just one thing after another, idden it?"

She added that there was trouble at Pilgrimage headquarters. The computer system had gone down at the worst possible moment, and Petey Potts hadn't returned her urgent call. "This has always been a one-horse town," she sighed. "Now it's a one-geek town, too. So inconvenient."

Vern hardly heard the remark. The caterers had arrived and begun unwrapping platters of potato salad, finger sandwiches, cheese balls with impaled gherkins, and plastic silverware. He got busy, making sure that his guests were fed at least minimally. It was almost dusk when the last bus departed, transmission grinding. Mrs. Lemieux had left gumbo and sandwiches in the kitchen, so Vern wouldn't have to eat the dubious concoctions of the caterers, and he dined slowly, dreamy with fatigue. After last night's labor and standing on his feet all day, he felt definitely middle-aged.

At last, brandy in hand, he sat down in the study, fired up the computer, and contacted Schweizerische Bankverein. Just one glance at the millions, he thought, then go to sleep. Tomorrow would feature a take-your-job-and-shove-it letter to the Mims Foundation, followed by escape from Bonaparte, followed by rebirth into the life he had earned and deserved.

He keyed in his PIN, a string of numbers identifying the account, his mother's maiden name, and the code word he'd thought up all by himself. He was sitting there in the dusk sipping brandy, when—very quietly, discreetly almost—the monitor revealed what his account contained. Or to be precise, what it didn't contain any longer.

When he reached Petey's mother, desperation in his voice, she told him that she really didn't know where her boy had gone. He'd been talking lately about taking the money he made from fixing computers, getting out of Bonaparte, seeing the world. He really was way too smart, she added with pride, to stay in this little old town forever.

Next morning at three A.M., Vern lay sprawled on Ish's big bed, the mostly empty scotch bottle beside him. He wanted to keep drinking, but his mouth tasted like a glue trap with the mouse still in it, and he just couldn't. Never in his life had he been robbed so thoroughly, and never had he been so absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Chase the Nerd King, who was probably already on a flight to Europe—or, for that matter, to anywhere at all? Call the cops and tell them—tell them—tell them what?

Over and over, he asked himself how he could have been so dumb. Since he couldn't have memorized the account information with its string of numbers at a single glance—or many glances, for that matter—he'd foolishly assumed that Petey couldn't, either. The rest of the ID he'd probably cracked with ease. Vern's Mama's maiden name blazoned Mims Castle. Maybe Petey took a while getting the code word, but after all he hailed from Bonaparte where everybody knew everything about everybody else. Why had Vern been so proud of KLEAGLE? He should have chosen SHAVONDA, a name known to few besides himself and Senator Vitter.

For lack of anything else to do, he picked up the remote and with trembling hand started to channel-surf. Commercials ruled the predawn airwaves, interspersed with porn, preachers, and "classics." Syfy was doing Reign of Fire for the umpteenth time and he flipped past the dragon epic with a shudder. Next he hit OGC, the Oldie-Goldie Channel, a kind of retirement home for second-rate cinema, and almost had a coronary right then and there. It was showing Revenge of the Nerds.

Vern was still in bed next morning, when Sylvie called to say that a computer tech had been imported from Baton Rouge. Pilgrimage accounts had been straightened out and Mims Castle had, as usual, been the top money earner.

"Ah s'pose it's true what they say, you never go broke underestimating the taste of the American public," she mused. "But business is business, as they also say. So Vern, Honey, Ah do hope you'll be opening the Castle again for the Spring Pilgrimage."

"Don't worry," he croaked. "I'll be right here."

Gnarly Times at Nana'ite Beach

By KJ Kabza
| 7122 words

KJ Kabza was last seen in our July/Aug. 2011 issue with "The Ramshead Algorithm." Of this new story he says it originated thusly:

"Cyberpunk, steampunk, dieselpunk, clockpunk," I said to a friend over lunch one day. "I'm so sick of the -punk appellation. I want to write a -punk that is like no -punk that has ever come before, just to prove how absurd the whole thing is." He looked at me.

"Beachpunk?" he suggested.

SOUTH OF THE BIG ISLAND, on the famous nano'd beach of Malihini—because really, what else is south of the Big Island?—Dusty Yokoyama strolled across the Smart sand, pushing out his chest and hoping the girls wanted to bang him.

Hoping? No. Knowing. Yeah, they were looking at him, at his Mojo wet suit and brand-new board (bought on sale at GoodBuy—but shh, don't tell anyone). Dusty ran a hand through his newly waterproofed hair, so they could see how the 4-micron-thick polymer layer made it shimmer in the tropical sun. Inland to his right, a pair of girls in white virtual bikinis whispered to each other across their beach towels, their breasts and privates masked by nothing but the shimmering white illusion of the jamming signal their cyberneurons transmitted to the minds of the world. As Dusty strutted by, they erupted into titters. Yeah, ladies… swoon.

"Yo, Dusty!" called Roderick from down the beach, waving a deep-brown arm. "Trusty Dusty! Dust or Bust! The Dustman! Le Dust Devil!"

Dusty's strut deflated just a shade. To his left, a trio of girls in blue virtual bikinis leaned into each other and giggled.

Roderick ran to his side, grinning, his flip-flops flapping like loyal dogs' tongues. "Dusty the Dustbuster! You Must the Dust! The—"

"The girls are checking me out, man," Dusty whispered. "Can it."

Roderick nodded approvingly at a nearby girl lying facedown on a towel. She appeared to be naked, but between her soft, downy buttocks lay the rear strip of a C-string, cupping her private area in the tiniest possible arrangement of fabric. Her freckled shoulders hunched forward slightly as she watched a talk show segment in the polarized Smart sand. "Hey, honey," said Roderick.

The girl yawned. The image changed to a music video.

"Well," said Dusty, loudly. "I just came down to give my new board a run, before the big Surf-Off this weekend. Yeah. Pretty nice, isn't it?"

A couple girls glanced up. Roderick whistled. "This board here?" he said, smacking it. "This is a nice pounding board. Damn! Volts, man, where'd you get it?"

"The Edge," lied Dusty, trying to sound bored. More girls glanced up. "You know, Zhaoping Ho's shop."

"Zhaoping Ho?" said Roderick, clapping his hands to the sides of his head. "You know Zhaoping Ho? The Zhaoping Ho?"

"We go way back," said Dusty, with a cool shrug. All the girls were staring now. "Come on. Grab your board."

Roderick raced away, his steps kicking up the disrupted, glittering matrix. Dusty glanced casually at the sand by his feet and transmitted a few commands to it with the thoughts of his cyberneurons. In a fraction of a second, the polarization changed, the network oscillations of the sand's binding nanoparticles moved away from random, and the sand aligned into a bright screen displaying ocean data at his feet. The girls would see all that junk, about salinity and temperature currents, and know he was a serious surfer for sure.

Roderick ran back. What fool runs top speed with a board? Well, Roderick, that's who, but Dusty only acknowledged his return with an upward nod. Roderick was a good guy, really. He was just a clueless spaz. It's a good thing he's got me, Dusty thought, to show him how things're done.

"In the water, Doofus," said Dusty.

They trotted toward the surf. The sand grew darker and more compact near the tide line. Dusty knew from science class that it was this changing tide line that somehow gave the augmented sand the juice it needed to do its thing. Something to do with ions getting transferred everywhere? It was pretty neat, really. But Dusty wasn't a nerd, or anything. His business was passing through the foaming white that now roared against his thighs, then riding atop the chaos of the waves. Taming them, you could say.

"Crap!" said Dusty as a swell tore the board from his hands.

He took a foundering step toward shore, but a wave sucked back around him. Dusty went down, and a second wave spit him forward with a projectile-vomiting WHOOSH. End over end, Dusty spun in a froth of scouring foam and sand, somehow ending up with his rear planted in muck. Spitting and coughing, he turned and crawled the final few feet to the dry.

"Lost your board, loser?"

"Oh, he's lost way more than his board." The sound of whoops and high-fives pattered through the air.

Dusty rubbed the salt from his lashes and looked up. Dirk "The Jerk" Rider and the Coastal Gang stood nearby, laughing. Big Kohaku himself stood atop Dusty's board, pinning it to the beach beneath his obese and towering frame. The Smart sand around the board's edges glittered with static from the pressure. "Where'd you get this, anyway?" said Dirk. "Your mom's bathtub?"

Dusty gritted his teeth. Dirk thought he was all that just because he was a senior, and in a band. But what really galled Dusty was the girls . Why did the Coastal Gang always have so many freaking girls hanging off them? Dirk was flanked by girls right now, one on each arm, one with a winking jewel dangling from a short navel chain. She turned to nibble Dirk's ear and the navel chain wagged, like a wagging finger from some old lady going, ah-ah-ah, oh no you don't, young man . "No," said Dusty, struggling for a comeback. "I got my board from…from your mom's bathtub."

A couple more girls drifted up behind Greasy Mike to watch. Dusty's frustration peaked. "And what do you think you're doing with my board, you big walrus?"

Big Kohaku grinned. "I'm thinking I'm gonna jump on it."

The Smart sand beneath the board crackled as Big Kohaku jumped. Firecrackers of light flashed from beneath the resin, and a jangle of audio and visual fragments zagged away from it in veins.

"Hey!" shouted Dusty. "Stop it! I need that for the Surf-Off!" He lunged at Big Kohaku, but he might as well have tried to move the Big Island. Big Kohaku just watched Dusty bounce off with a laugh.

Enraged, Dusty mentally commanded the sand into a ten by ten screen, and flashed Dirk and his whole rotten gang an image of the finger.

The girl with the navel chain grinned and fingered her jewel. A wave of images rolled across the sand, each a live feed of Dusty, panting and crusty with salt. His waterproofed hair stuck out in swirling tufts. Beneath scrolled the words, "News Flash: Loser-ville Elects New Mayor."

"You can't do that!" shouted Dusty, pointing to the bauble at the end of her chain. "Cyberneuron signal boosters are illegal!"

A ripple of laugher grew on the beach as everyone looked down at the new screens beneath them. Dusty and his two thousand images turned red in the face.

"Hey!" shouted a voice from the surf. Roderick flailed through the foam and up the beach, his own board held securely under one arm. "Why are you letting Big Kohaku jump on your board? He's gonna break it!"

"Too late," said Big Kohaku, with a grin. He flipped Dusty's board over with a massive foot and one of the fins broke clean off. It lay in the sand like a discarded crab shell. "Whoops. Well, that's what happens when you ride the waves as hard as you do."

Dusty gaped in despair.

"We gotta ride," said Dirk. "But we'll see you at the Surf-Off this weekend—watching from the beach, that is!"

High-fives pattered through the air. The Coastal Gang ran off down the beach, distributing more hand-slaps along the way. A trail of hot girls, like the nimbus of a comet, drifted in their wake.

Dusty wanted to cry. Or maybe tear Big Kohaku and Dirk the Jerk open with that broken fin. Those voltheads! So what if the board had only come from GoodBuy?

It was all Dusty could afford.

"Oh man," said Roderick. "Your board's totally pounded. No joke." He glanced around the beach. "I hope no girls saw that happen. The one in the C-string was totally hot for me."

Dusty put a hand over his eyes.

"Hey, Trusty Dustman," said Roderick. "How come there's video of you everywhere?"

DUSTY NEEDED another board, and soon. He wasn't sure how that would happen, but he dragged Roderick off the sand anyway, and they shoved their way along Surf Street, Nana'ite Beach's main drag. It was packed with tourists, fat and pale-skinned and stopping everywhere to stare so their cyberneurons could take pictures. One geezer, a wheezing bald guy in a flower-patterned shirt (a cloth shirt, even, without any video playing on it! Geez ) kept blocking the entire sidewalk in front of them. At least it gave Dusty time to watch the access points to Nana'ite Beach, where the exiting girls spread-eagled themselves against the walls of the suck-showers before going beneath the water ones. One Korean cutie in a fabric bikini even leaned forward and rubbed her breasts against a suck-shower wall, saying to her friend, "Oh my God, I hate it when I get matrix stuck in my top. At least regular sand doesn't get so static -y and just stick there."

"Yo, Just-Dust," said Roderick, turning to face him. A tourist next to Roderick yelped and jumped away, narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the butt with Roderick's board.

"Watch it, kid!"

"What is it?" said Dusty.

"So, like, if we don't have any money? How are we gonna get you a new board?"

"Roddy, Roddy, Roddy." Dusty clamped a hand on Roderick's shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I'm on top of things."

Roderick snapped his fingers. "Oh, I know! We're going to Zhaoping Ho's shop so he can cop us a new board. Because you know him."

"Well, uh…actually…?"

Roderick took off down the block to Zhaoping Ho's shop, and Dusty had to follow. The Edge was on the south side of the road near the beach, wedged uncomfortably in a deep but narrow lot between Adolph's Dolphin Falafel Hut ("The Pros of Bottlenose!") and Righteous Tattoo. Righteous was packed—they'd just started offering Whose-Mood Tattoos, and dudes were lined up and down the block so their ink would change color with the mood of the crowd they were hanging with—but Zhaoping Ho's was even packed-er. It had to be, anyway, because why else would the scowling old beach bull watching the entrance not let them in?

"Oh no you don't," said the guy. He pointed at Roderick's board. "Not with that thing."

"What thing?" said Roderick.

"That nasty old thing. The Tidewinder. Leave it outside before you come in here. It's, like, offensive."

"What? This thing? No! No, dude, this is my board. This is Shelia." Roderick kissed it. "Hey, Shelia baby."

The guy stepped in front of the doorway and folded his arms.

"Dude, it's okay, it's cool," said Roderick, grinning and bobbing his head at Dusty. "Turns out my man here personally knows—"

"Sorry, thanks, we're going," said Dusty, grabbing Roderick and dragging him away.

"Hey!"

Dusty pulled him into the tight alley between Zhaoping Ho's and the Dolphin Hut. "Cut it out, man!" he hissed. "I don't actually know Zhaoping Ho. I was just saying that because there were girls. "

Roderick's eyes went big. "Dude, Zhaoping Ho's gonna be mad when he hears you were denying him."

"Gosh darn it, Roddy—oh, forget it. Let's just go."

Roderick started to turn, but his board slapped against the cinderblock walls. "Oh, dude—I'm stuck."

"Put your board down."

"No, see, that won't help." Roderick put the board down on its side and tried to turn it where it lay. Its ends smacked the concrete again. "See?"

Dusty sighed. "No, I mean put it down so you can flip it up."

Roderick laughed. "You don't carry a board pointing up! Dude, I'm sorry, but you're being stupid. "

Dusty grabbed the Tidewinder. "Just give me the pounding board and let me do it!"

"Hey," growled a voice.

Dusty and Roderick turned. The voice came from the far end of the alley. Backlit by the sunny beach, a figure squatted on a narrow concrete patio, barely the width of a Tidewinder board itself.

"Hey, kid," the guy growled. "C'mere."

"Yeah," said Roderick. "That's a better idea. We'll just walk out that side of the alley." He picked up his board and raised his voice. "Thanks, man!"

As they approached the patio, Roderick suddenly stopped and turned. Dusty stopped too, right in time to get smacked with Roderick's board. "Holy orbitals! This dude looks just like Zhaoping Ho! Dust-Ruster, look at this guy!"

"I can't see a darn thing with your stupid board in my—"

The shout died in Dusty's throat. The guy squatting on the ledge was short and thick, and wearing nothing but a pair of horseshoe-patterned boxer shorts, a moon of dark sweat curving under his belly. A sweetweed cigarette dangled from one calloused hand. The dude's breath whistled through his nose as he breathed, but he crouched as still as a leopard made of stone and watched them with the same ineffable intensity. His broad chest sported a thatch of untamed hair.

And when Dusty realized that every last one of those hairs was shimmering with waterproof polymer, he sucked in air like a drowning newbie. "Oh, my God. It is Zhaoping Ho."

"Oh," said Roderick. "Sweet. You can introduce me, then."

"Your friend's mistaken," said the man, in a voice as rough as Pebble Beach. "We haven't met." His smile was more forced. "We have now, though. I'm Zhaoping. Who're you screwheads?"

"Oh, me, I'm Roderick Calcutta," said Roderick. "And this is my best bud Dusty Yokoyama. The Dusty Yokoyama."

"Uh-huh," said Zhaoping. He took a drag on his cigarette, moving only his arm and lips, remaining perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Zhaoping turned to Dusty and exhaled, and a sweet cloud of smooth vanilla smoke blew through the stale air of the alley. "I see your genius friend has a board. Where's yours?"

Dusty slumped. "I…Dirk broke it. I mean, Big Kohaku broke it."

"Big Kohaku?"

Dusty looked down at the sandy asphalt by his feet. "He's in Dirk's band. Dirk Rider and the Coastal Gang. They don't even write real music—they're just a mood band, transmitting what they think their songs would make you feel, if they were even able to write any. And they're the biggest jerks on the beach."

A corner of Zhaoping's mouth twitched in a smile. "Yeah?"

"I just bought this new board, right, and Big Kohaku took it, and put it down on the sand, and jumped on it. And a fin totally broke right off. So that's where my board is—sitting ruined on the beach."

"A human concussive force shouldn't've broken it," said Zhaoping. "Where'd you buy that pile?"

"Never mind," said Dusty, stiffly. "I was getting a new board anyway."

"Damn right you are." Zhaoping nodded at a side door in the wall to his back. "I got something I'm working on. Hey—are you recording right now?"

"Huh?"

"Your cyberneurons. You recording this?"

Dusty blushed. He would've thought of that from the start, if Roderick's board hadn't smacked the sense out of him. How often do you get to meet Zhaoping Ho? Everybody in Malihini, the whole world even, would kill to meet Zhaoping Ho, and only a sand-eared fool wouldn't record it with his cyberneurons so he could have a perfect, lossless memory of it forever. Dusty started recording and said, "Of course I'm recording this. You're the greatest man alive that ever was."

"Turn it off."

"W—what?"

"I said, turn it off." Zhaoping jerked his head to indicate the alley. "This is a no-digital zone. These walls look capable of interfacing to you? Go ahead. Send out a ping. All my turf is silent like that. Policy. I got trade secrets in my shop. You know what I'm saying?"

Dusty nodded, both abashed and thrilled. "Sure. Sure I do." He halted the cybermemory input. "You too, Roderick. Turn it off."

"Huh? Turn what off?"

"Okay," said Dusty, "Roderick's fine."

Zhaoping took another drag. He held the smoke in his lungs a moment, eyes narrowing into dark slits, before letting out a whistling exhale. Dusty felt him ping his mind— and hold it there —to make sure Dusty didn't record. Zhaoping Ho is watching my mind! Oh, holy orbitals! "Good. Like I was saying. I'm working on something, a device for a project. It needs a test, but this is top secret, and I can't test it myself without attracting attention.

"It's housed in a new kind of board."

A shot of adrenaline hit Dusty's heart. "You—you want to give me a board?"

"Toldja," said Roderick.

"Not give," said Zhaoping. "Loan. Look—do you know how the beach works?"

Dusty cocked his head. "How it works?"

"The Smart sand, fool."

Dusty drew himself up. "I don't have to know, exactly. Me and the sand, and the waves, we have an understanding. A spiritual understanding. A guy like you knows exactly what I'm talking about, I'm sure."

Zhaoping stared. "Uh-huh." He glanced at the tip of his cigarette, frowning at the rolling paper. "Listen, Dougal—"

"Dusty."

"Yeah. The Smart sand's a matrix for information, carried by the nanites between the actual sand grains. The beach is held more or less in place by the forces of the converging ocean currents in this part of the Pacific, though the matrix is limited such that even if pieces of it did wind up somewhere else, it wouldn't function as a gestalt until a critical mass of it were reached. This is why when some mud-wit forgets to hop in a suck-shower before leaving the beach, he can't will the Smart sand stuck in his asscrack to transmit a radio station. You got me so far?"

"I guess." Dusty shrugged. "I don't know what this has to do with a board. Besides, I'm not a nerd, or anything."

"Clearly." Zhaoping tapped his cigarette to knock off some ash. "I'm working on a way of hacking the critical mass problem of the matrix—that is, of finding a way to make that sand in the asscrack transmit. I need to work up to it, though. First, I need to run some tests in a part of the matrix that has dramatically reduced density. Which, at Nana'ite Beach, means the surf."

"Huh?" said Dusty.

"The sand in the surf, genius. The Smart sand matrix is diluted in the water, as particles floating in the waves."

Dusty frowned at Roderick. Roderick shrugged.

Zhaoping sighed. "Let me spell it out real clear. I'm a surfer. And I make surfboards. I'm also a hacker. I am dying to hack this pounding beach. If I can eventually hack this pounding beach so that I (or anyone) can command something with their cyberneurons that's smaller than the Nana'ite matrix by a factor of at least a billion, and from very far away, then the field of infomatrices will be blown wide open. We'll be able to find practical applications for it, and not just create a hedonic diversion on a manufactured island."

"So?" said Dusty.

"So I made a surfboard that should interface with the beach, you screwhead," said Zhaoping. "If it works, the surfer will be able to interface with the Smart sand on the ocean bottom and in the waves."

"But why would anyone care about interfacing with the beach from a surfboard?"

"Hey," said Roderick. "If, like, your mind can control the sand in the water? And the sand in the water can connect with the sand on the bottom? Which controls the beach? And since the information can, like, go both ways, your mind would be, like, interfaced with the waves? And you'd be, like, One with the ocean? And be the best surfer ever?"

Zhaoping grinned wolfishly. He closed one eye and pointed his smoldering cigarette at Roderick. "Bingo, kid. I've got the Surfboard of Zen. And your friend is going to test it for me."

Dusty gaped.

"And," said Zhaoping, "because I need to run the tests in a period of heavy matrix use, he's gonna do it in the Malihini Junior Surf-Off competition this weekend. Aren't you, Duncan?"

"Dusty." He gulped.

"Yeah."

Overwhelmed, Dusty looked at Roderick. Roderick looked back, but only offered his big goofy grin. "It's not... illegal, is it?" Dusty asked Zhaoping.

Zhaoping shrugged.

Dusty gulped again. His mom would holler at him for sure if she knew he was doing anything that could get him in real trouble. But…this was Zhaoping Ho. Asking him for help. Him.

And what about all the girls who would be watching?

Dusty finally drew himself upright. "I'm your man, Mr. Ho. I just have one question."

"Shoot."

"So, this is top secret, and we can't tell anyone, right?"

"Correct."

Dusty glanced around, checking for spies in the five-foot gap between Zhaoping's shop and the Dolphin Hut. "So…why are you trusting me ?"

"If you do tell anyone, I know they won't believe you."

"Why is that?"

Zhaoping blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into Dusty's face. "I understand you were recently elected the new mayor of Loser-ville."

THE DAY OF THE SURF-OFF dawned clear and hot, with high winds and righteous waves. By nine A.M., Nana'ite Beach was packed. You could hardly see the ads popping up below, for all the tanned feet and flip-flops, and the acres of skin shimmering with sunblock and oil. When dudes strutted by, the Smart sand flashed with lightning and flames; when the girls strolled, it was sizzles and showers of color. The surf roared a backdrop to the squeals and chatter, the buzz of scrambled audio feeds from beneath, and the silent but dizzying transmissions of millions of cyberneurons swapping and forwarding jokes, stories, pictures, and opinions.

"Oh man," said Roderick. "My Incoming memory is full again." He tilted his head and smacked an ear, as if he could physically dislodge the unwanted data from his brain. "I've remembered this same clip, like, three times already."

"Just block it all for now." Dusty stood nearby, but in a world apart. They'd painted a big number on his wetsuit in polymer ("A zero," a bleary-eyed assistant had said, while painting it on shortly after dawn, "since you're the first one here"), and Zhaoping Ho had made good on his promise.

The Board stood erect next to Dusty, a sleek thing with a faint silvery sheen. Like some kind of rocket, Dusty thought, gripping the edge of it with a sweaty palm. But unlike a rocket, it weighed practically nothing, and the kids on the beach had gone nuts when Zhaoping had strolled onto the sand with it. And even more nuts when Zhaoping located Dusty's shimmering "0" in the crowd and strolled toward him. "Hey, kid," he'd growled. "Here's the board you ordered. Don't pound it up. And I'll see it if you do. I'm on the panel."

Dusty had straightened and accepted the board, while the hot girls tittered and swooned. Dusty turned to address them, but they chose to play it safe and gawk after Zhaoping. Well, that was okay. You couldn't blame girls for being shy.

"I don't wanna block my Incoming memory, man," said Roderick, horrified. "What if I miss something?"

"Dudes and Dudettes!" boomed a voice from the wireless amps in the sand. "Are you ready to surf? "

Across the beach, nubile bodies turned to the judge's table. Cheers went up.

"I said, are you ready to surf? "

The cheers ratcheted into screams. Ladies jumped up and down, and the jamming signals propagating through the cyberneurons of thousands of spectators got crossed and confused. Hundreds of virtual bikinis were unable to keep up, and you could see flashes of everything.

"I said, are you ready to SURF? "

The screams erupted into an orgy of high-fives. Girls poured oil over each others' heads. Dudes charged each other and leapt into the air, bumping chests with hardcore roars, waterproofed armpit hairs glimmering.

"Then welcome to the eleventh annual Malihini Junior Surf-Off Competition! Where over 150 untested studs and babes are ready to tame the waves! And boy, is that surf up. I'm Jace Hancock, your MC, and your awesome judges today will be Dae Woon, from Malihini Weekly; Paulina Namimoto, Lieutenant Governor of Hawai'i—that's a totally tubular bikini, Governor, how about a round of applause for her?—and Zhaoping Ho—"

The rest of the MC's intro was drowned out in a fever pitch of noise. Babes in fabric bikinis flashed the judges' table. A thousand manly hands clenched into fists, thumbs and pinkies extended, and shook at Zhaoping in a fierce exhortation to hang loose.

Zhaoping ignored them. Instead, he stared down the beach, right at Dusty. His dark eyes flicked between the shimmering board and Dusty's big fat zero. Dusty felt a thrill all the way down to his toes. He subconsciously commanded the sand below him to flutter a nervous orange.

And when he did, the zags of orange rippled all the way down the beach, like ripples on a pond.

Dusty started and looked down. Was that Zhaoping's board, transmitting it that far?

Next to him, Roderick shifted the weight of Shelia onto his hip and kept smacking his head. "Because it'd be terrible to miss something."

Dusty kept staring at his feet. Cautiously, he flipped his cyberneurons' reception settings from passive to active, and for the first time in, like, ages, really listened to what the beach was saying. Mostly, listening to Smart sand got old after the first week or two. Listening to different classes of data was just like listening to all the files that were swapped around by everyone in homeroom—you got pieces of what other people wanted to tell everyone they were feeling or thinking about or accessing in the digital part of their memory—except with the Smart sand, you also had the sensory data from the beach itself. Like you felt the internal temperature of the sand and the sensation of people walking all over you, or the feeling of being accessed and manipulated in a hundred places.

But before, Dusty had never been able to feel past the dry. And never in a radius so freaking huge.

He stared at Zhaoping's board, a sudden prickle of cool running between his spine and wetsuit. What was in this thing?

"Yo, Dust!" Roderick shoved him between the shoulder blades. "Come on, go!"

Dusty started again. Everyone else in the first bracket was whooping and charging into the surf. He flipped the board horizontally to carry it and said to Roderick, "Relax, Roddy. You've got to play it cool. You never see Zhaoping run anywhere, do you?"

Roderick scratched his head.

Dusty strolled to the surf last, like he meant to all along. Roderick trotted with him, trusty Shelia in tow. "Why don't you see Zhaoping Ho run anywhere?"

"Hey," said the MC. "Who's that with Number Zero? Somebody get that unregistered kid out of the water."

"It's because he's cool, Roddy. Like me. Like this. " Dusty steered his board into the waves. Even though he was wearing a leash this time, the swells were almost hard enough to rip the thing from him anyway. Despite what he'd said to Roddy, this was gonna be tough, no joke.

Or was it? His cyberneurons were still listening, and he could still feel the matrix. He'd never felt it with the waves on top—or as something that could move with the water, as a part of it. Dusty was tumbling end over end, and yet standing perfectly still; bobbing in place and yet rushing to the shore, even as his human feet were fluttering over the ocean bottom and pushing him out into the Pacific. And if he looked at the data a different way, he could feel slow waves of cool and hot. And funny feelings of…pressure?

There. Where a wave was cresting.

Dusty paddled out beyond the swells and sat on his board, staring back at Nana'ite Beach's frothing surf. The MC, Woon, and Namimoto were shouting into their microphones as surfers chose their swells and rode in. You got three swells, and if you scored high enough, you went on to the finals. Right? Dusty wasn't sure. He couldn't remember or even think straight. Every swell was a tsunami of new data and gnarly feelings.

"Look who it is! It's the Mayor!"

Whoops and the slaps of high-fives floated over the swells. The ocean below Dusty dropped into a trough, and Dirk, Big Kohaku, and Greasy Mike, sitting astride their boards and laughing, appeared at the top of a swell. "Mr. Mayor, can we have your autograph?"

"Hey, nice board," said Greasy Mike. "Did you rip up a rocket?"

Dusty pushed out his chest as far as it would go. "No," he said loudly. "I got it from Zhaoping. When he gave it to me. In person."

They laughed. The waves rearranged themselves, dropping The Coastal Gang out of sight. Good riddance! thought Dusty.

And, I'll show them.

When that funny feeling of pressure began to build, Dusty threw himself onto his magic board and paddled with all his might. He could feel the ocean bunching up under him. Getting ready. And—

—now!

Dusty stood up. He almost fell from the board, he was listening so hard, but that's the only thing that saved him, too. The cyberneuron processes that reached into his vestibular system zinged with frantic activity as his wetware and hardware tried to integrate everything that was happening in his body and not-body, the signals somehow magnified and refined by the board beneath him. Unless the board was, like, some kind of external, supplemental brain ?

But no. It had to be even more than that. Because what else could explain what was rolling in along with him?

Dusty gasped. Fanning from the sides of his board was a chaotic froth of lighting and fire, like the big flutter of orange he'd made by accident on the dry. Except extreme. No—except epic.

"And here comes Number Zero," said Namimoto. "With an awful lot of…um…seaweed."

The bad-ass wave frothed down into nothing around Dusty's feet, any visual effects of the thinned-out, suspended matrix breaking up in all the movement and noise. Dusty eased toward shore, body poised and heart ramming into his ribs.

"Funny," said Woon. "Isn't really the season for that."

"Right," agreed Zhaoping, forcefully. He gave Dusty a withering stare. "But there it was. Seaweed."

Dusty stared back, bewildered. Was he not rocking the board hard enough?

"Whoa!" said Roderick, running into the surf. "Did you see that? What you did just now? That was wicked, man, totally wicked!"

"How'd that unregistered kid get back in there?" the MC demanded. "Somebody get that joker out of here!"

"Thanks," said Dusty. "But Zhaoping's seriously harshing on my mellow. Look at him. Is he mad at me?"

"Hey, Mr. Mayor," called Dirk. He cruised through the surf at Dusty's right, hips swinging easy and comfortable. "Are these waves a joke or what? Even a baby like you can handle them, huh?"

Dusty's confusion soured further. "Yeah—with fire under me!"

Dirk's smug grin turned blank.

"You didn't notice? " said Dusty.

"Meanwhile, that's a very nice showing by Number Seventeen," said Woon, her tone chirping with interest. "Did you see that bottom turn?"

Dusty fumed. Greasy Mike and Big Kohaku sailed in, grinning, while two other guys flailed and wiped out in the monster waves behind them. So Dusty and his epic flames weren't worth noticing, huh? He'd show them something to notice!

"Gotta go, hoaloha, " Dusty said to Roderick. "Things just got real."

"They did?"

Dusty charged back into the Pacific, determined. All over Dusty's not-body, that funny building pressure rippled and pushed, and all Dusty had to do was paddle his board to a spot that was getting ready. And if taming those waves with lightning and fire wasn't enough, then by golly—

"Wait up, Loser-ville," called Dirk. He and his stupid friends were right on Dusty's tail. "We wanna record a video of you wiping out."

Dusty glared, his anger rising as high as the killer swells. "Oh yeah? Go ahead. Ride my wave. I wanna record a video of me surfing over your face. "

The swell came. Dusty paddled like a madman, hating the Coastal Gang behind him a little more with each stroke. When his not-body hummed with the right pitch of pressure, he practically leapt up on the board and listened so hard, he could barely remember to breathe. The world tipped into a vertical wall of roaring, opalescent blue, and his not-body fluttered and curled into a tube, even as he cruised effortlessly down its heart.

Record this, you voltheads!

It was better than lightning, better than flames. Dusty commanded the matrix suspended in the water around him to display, 'EAT MY FOAM, DIRK DUKOWSKI!' in towering black letters ten feet high and two feet thick. But the water was moving, and so was Dusty, and the matrix in the waves was thin.

"And here comes Number Zero," said Woon, "this time with some…with some, uh…what are those things, Pauly?"

The monster wave gradually petered out. Dusty sailed to the beach amidst the leftover foam, images of himself flickering across the dry. "Look!" squealed a girl, pointing at a video. "Look, look, you can see them!"

The beach erupted in thrilled screams: "Sharks! Sharks! Sharks!" Girls squealed and clung to each others' toned bodies. Dudes whooped and ran to the waterline to get a closer look. Someone call the Shark Squad! flashed through countless Incoming memories, along with I knew a guy who was bit in half one time! and close-up clips of the ominous, indistinct blobs.

Dusty's excitement withered. "They're not sharks!"

"Attention, everyone," said the MC. "Attention, everyone. Get out of the water. This is not a drill. I repeat: get out of the water. The Shark Squad is being called, and will arrive with the repellent shortly."

At the judging table up the beach, Zhaoping hung his head and spread a hand across his eyes.

"I said they're not sharks!" Nobody was listening. Or noticing the memory files Dusty tried to send out. "It says—it says—"

Behind Dusty, Dirk and his awful friends passed him and cruised to the sand. "Dude! Check it out. The mayor is watching videos of himself!"

Dusty whirled. The momentum threw him off his board and he plopped into the shallows like a drunken frog. When he pushed his head back above the frothing water, sputtering, whoops and high-fives were sailing through the air.

"Attention, everyone," said the MC. "Attention, everyone. Get out of the water. This means you, Number Zero."

Dusty splashed to his feet, infuriated, hauling the dripping board from the foam. He turned and ran smack into Roderick.

"Man oh man!" Roderick said, unfazed by the impact. "That was the best thing I've ever seen in my life! Dude! When you rode that wave? And I was standing on the beach, going like, Whoa? And then Dirk was right behind you? And I thought you were gonna die? But you just kept going. Like you were magic!"

Dirk and his friends were still laughing. "I was magic," Dusty snapped. "And it still wasn't enough!"

Roderick stepped close to Dusty, unperturbed by the matrix and foam churning around their calves. "I thought it was," said Roderick. "But if you don't think so—"

"I don't!—"

"Then let her go, man," said Roderick, serenely. "Let her go. Cuz if this isn't your best, then dude—I gotta see what your best is."

Dusty's frustration suddenly left him. He bowed his head.

Roderick gestured at his own ever-present board, tucked stalwartly under one arm. "How about you use Shelia for your last round? She can take you real far. I mean, look at me. I get real far all the time, in, like, everything."

"Oh, Roddy." Dusty sighed. "Maybe you're right." He glanced up the beach, at Zhaoping's predatory glare. "Maybe I never should've gotten myself mixed up into this at all. Okay. Give me Shelia."

"And why doesn't anybody stop that pounding kid?" shouted the MC. "Near Number Zero? Security!"

"Sure thing, bro," said Roderick. "Soon as they say you can go back in."

"I'm going back in now."

"But there are, like…sharks."

Dusty rolled his eyes. "There aren't any sharks. Look—I might not be able to rock Zhaoping Ho's board and show him something good enough to impress him, but I can still rock the waves. And that's what really matters. So just give me Shelia, okay?"

Roderick shaded his eyes with his free hand and squinted doubtfully into the Pacific.

"Okay?"

Roderick shrugged. "Okay."

Up the beach, Zhaoping leapt to his feet, eyes flaming. "What's Number Zero doing? Is he passing off his board?"

Dusty braced himself and turned away from him, to face the rest of the beach. Addressing them all, he held out a fist with thumb and pinky extended, and shook his wrist.

"Hang loose, everyone," he said solemnly.

The crowd parted. A pair of men in security vests marched up to Roderick. "Oh, hey. What's up, dudes?"

"Leave that kid alone!" Zhaoping shouted. "That board is an experimental prototype from the Edge, and if you damage it, I swear to God—"

"Calm down, Mr. Ho. Your property isn't—Wait. Is Number Zero going back in? "

Dusty turned and ran into the surf with righteous determination. He was away from the miraculous board, and his connection with the beach had disappeared. When he paddled out on Shelia and listened, he heard nothing. The signals from the matrix were once again limited to the dry, back there, in whatever small patch would be around his feet. Which was too bad.

But he could do this.

A dark blob drifted past Dusty, barely fifteen feet away. He grumbled and sat up on his board. "Stop thinking about sharks," he texted Roderick. The beach was too far away for his cyberneurons to link to Roderick's directly, so he had to do it the tedious, old-school way, thinking up an email and bouncing it off a satellite. "You're making them appear in the water on accident."

Roderick's reply text was a single word. "What?"

Dusty groaned in frustration. "Nobody's gonna notice my awesome surfing as long as they're there!"

"Dude. You're like, confusing."

"Oh, for Pete's sake—just quit interfacing with Zhaoping's board! Drop it onto the beach right now!"

"Uh…okay."

A black shape glided not five feet away, tail undulating. Except it wasn't quite black. More like dark bluish-gray. And its eyes were kind of yellow.

Sharkskin brushed Dusty's calf.

Dusty dropped down on the board, kicked up his legs, and paddled madly for the next swell, thinking a flurry of texts. "Pick up the board! I changed my mind! Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!"

"Okay, okay, I'm picking it up. See?"

"No I can't see!" The swell moved past him, unridden. The water thickened with curious, cruising shadows. "Just pick it up and—and—command light. Command light! And noise! Blinding light and noise! Can't you feel the whole beach through that thing?"

"Whoa," texted Roderick. A piece of his dramatically expanded perception of the beach was attached to his text. "This is majorly gnarly."

"Light!" Dusty paddled like a drowning fool. The next swell came, its tip just starting to fold. What he wouldn't give to be able to feel that funny, building pressure now. Dusty pumped for his life, riding to the top, leaping onto the board as the wave began its roar. "Light, Roddy, light!"

The wave was born. For one long, singing moment, Dusty was safe, astonished, and on top of the world. The beach spread out ahead, packed with people, the orange-vested members of the Shark Squad throwing freeze-dried sticks of concentrated repellent into the shallows. Video jangled around them as the thousands of data streams in the dry of the Smart sand rose and disintegrated, like the pulsing waves in the Pacific at Dusty's back.

Beneath his board, the blue of the ocean flared up into an intense, painful white.

Dusty couldn't look at it. He closed his eyes, just as a voice, familiar but as loud as the bellow of a god, vibrated across the length of the beach in a deafening rumble.

"Dude…is this thing on?"

The vibration was extreme. Dusty's entire world was quivering. Actually, his entire world was downright shaking. Actually, his entire world was starting to tip over.

The wipeout was totally lame.

THE JOURNEY TO SHORE felt long. Shelia's leash held, so at least Dusty didn't lose Roderick's board, but the light and sound had done their job all right, and the sharks weren't the only things that had been stunned and confused. Dusty must've gotten turned around in the surf somehow, because at one point some dude on shore definitely yelled at him, "The beach is this way, you moron."

When Dusty got to the wet, Roderick was waiting between the pair of security guards, both scowling and gripping one of Roderick's elbows. Zhaoping was standing nearby, scowling harder, clutching his beautiful board. "You idiot," he snarled.

Dusty coughed and ran his tongue over his lips. He spat out salt and sand. "…What?"

Zhaoping's fists clenched as hard as his teeth. "I didn't want you to ride in on seaweed. I didn't want you to hand over my board to someone else for certain reasons we had discussed. And I sure as shock didn't want to sit on my thumbs up there while the entire pounding Smart sand matrix, which some people were interested in experimenting on, got blown out!" Zhaoping stamped a foot on the beach. Sick, irregular zags of color popped out, along with a ghastly warble like a dying crane. "It'll take weeks for the tide cycles to fully recharge it!"

Dusty shrank where he stood. "Oh," he mumbled.

"Whatever they teach you in school these days," Zhaoping said, "the definition of 'Top Secret' isn't it." He retreated up the beach with his prototype. "Screwheaded, volt-filled, orbital-hoping pile of wire…!"

Dusty shrank even further.

"Okay, kid," said one of the security guards. "Time to go."

"Sweet," said Roderick. "Where are we going?"

The guards didn't answer. Grimly, they towed him up the beach, and Dusty slunk along after.

They passed the Coastal Gang on their way. The three of them stood within a cluster of girls who were cooing and handing them water bottles. Between sly smiles and earlobe-nibbles, everyone in the group looked down and laughed. The weakened matrix at their feet played fuzzy, flickering video of Dusty's totally lame wipeout, and the accompanying garbled audio from the MC: "Oh! An unfortunate upset for Number Zero, who fought seaweed and sharks to come this far. But that's a wipeout, and a disqualification."

Not even one single girl looked up to admire Dusty as he walked by.

The security guards deposited Roderick at the edge of the beach, by one of the many suck-shower stations. "Use it," ordered a guard, and he stayed to make sure Roderick and Dusty did.

After they next rinsed off beneath a regular shower, Roderick tucked Shelia beneath his arm and they stepped onto the sidewalk, dripping. "So now what?"

Dusty looked over his shoulder at Nana'ite Beach, at the tittering girls and oiled-up dudes. He firmly turned his back. "We're going to surf some more with Shelia," he declared. "I'm not done for the day."

"We are?" Roderick turned in a confused circle, cutting a wide swath on the sidewalk with his board. Dusty automatically stepped back while nearby tourists cursed. "And you're not?"

"No."

"Oh."

"We're going to 'ìpuka Beach." Dusty jerked his head down the street. "You know. On the west side of the island?"

"'ìpuka Beach?" Roderick frowned. "How come?"

"Well," said Dusty coolly, drawing himself up. He let his glossy zero catch the light and scatter it like diamonds, so anyone else with a pure, authentic surfer's soul could see how real he was. "It's like you said. Who cares about rocking the Smart sand? Rocking the waves is what matters. The sand at 'ìpuka's mute, but the swells are still pretty killer."

"Huh," said Roderick. "Okay." He set off down the sidewalk with Dusty. "Are there girls there?"

Dusty shook his head. "No, my man. Where the sand's mute, there are women. "

Olfert Dapper's Day

By Peter S. Beagle
| 11917 words

Herman Melville dedicated Moby-Dick to Nathaniel Hawthorne "In token of my admiration of his genius." T. S. Eliot dedicated The Waste Land to "il miglior fabbro," Ezra Pound. And Peter Beagle dedicated The Last Unicorn to Dr. Olfert Dapper and to Robert Nathan. Most F&SF readers are likely to recognize Robert Nathan as the author of Portrait of Jennie, but Dr. Dapper? Who dat?

Read on, friends, and you'll soon see.

DR. OLFERT DAPPER HAD never attended any medical school: neither in Amsterdam, where he was born, nor in Utrecht, where he had first begun employing the title, Doctor Medicinae, after two years of occasional attendance at the university. Nor, in candor, had he ever visited India, China, Persia or Africa, about all of which lands he had nevertheless published voluminously detailed and well-received books. A placid, sedentary, somewhat portly man by nature, he had seen no reason to disturb a peaceful existence by crossing undependable oceans, conducting tedious expeditions, or otherwise placing the said existence at risk of discomfort or termination. Much better to write out of a fecund imagination, an even more bountiful fantasy life, and the rich sense of survival that had served him so well for nearly forty-five years. He was, take him for all in all, a pleasant soul who had always trusted in the trust of others, and who had, until quite recently, never found that faith misplaced.

Unfortunately, his confidence in the gullibility of country bumpkins from Eck en Wiel had lately been badly shaken when one bumpkin turned out to be related—who could have known?—to a seriously powerful member of the States-General capable of recognizing a very slightly fraudulent land contract when he saw one. On the whole, as a presumed man of medicine, Dr. Dapper recommended travel to himself: travel for reasons of health and longevity; travel to destinations that seemed a good deal less important than the swiftness of his departure. The beadle, summons under his arm, was knocking on Dr. Dapper's front door as that good entrepreneur slipped out the back way, his quickly packed valise firm in his grip.

But the beadle, a practiced hand in such matters, had thoughtfully stationed two large men halfway down the muddy alley that led from Olfert Dapper's rear door to the street. Both men carried heavy bludgeons, which twitched very slightly as they waited, like the tails of stalking cats. Dr. Dapper never hesitated at the sight of them, but walked slowly forward, one hand held up in a sign of hopeless surrender, which his shamed-spaniel expression mirrored. The other arm hung limply at his side, as though he had forgotten the battered valise dangling at the end of it. The two bullies grinned at each other, anticipating quick remuneration from their employer and an early night at Fat Mina's on the Zuilenstraat. They even glanced momentarily over Dr. Dapper's shoulder, calling their triumph to the beadle as he lumbered through the open back door. This was a mistake.

Olfert Dapper disapproved of running on both general and practical principles, but in a real sense his entire life had been made up of exceptions to rules. He was almost on the beadle's men when his forlorn shuffle turned into a sprinter's burst from the blocks. He swatted one half-raised club away with his valise, simultaneously kicked the second man reprehensibly low and lunged between them to race away down the alley. The beadle shouted to him to come back, but Dr. Dapper could not believe that he was truly serious.

He was briefly impressed with his own turn of speed, since he had not had to flee physical attack since his earliest youth. Unfortunately, he had not bargained for his pursuers' endurance and determination. Hulking they were, and stupid they undoubtedly were; but they saw Fat Mina's slipping away, and they came pounding tirelessly after a plump middle-aged man. He could not lose them. His breath was coming hard now, and he began to be afraid.

At one time—fifteen minutes ago, perhaps—Olfert Dapper had known very nearly every grand street and unpaved lane or alleyway in Utrecht, as well as each dwelling, tavern, shopfront or business of every possible degree of legitimacy and possible usefulness. Now they blurred and ran thickly together like spilled paint before his eyes as he wheezed by, and the only clear impression he had of any of them was that no door swung open for him, and not a single soul ran out to his aid. But it was not in his nature to feel wounded or abandoned; he was too busy hoping that he would at least not disgrace himself by throwing up when the beadle's men ran him to earth. He was a proud man, in his way.

But then a diligence rumbled around an approaching corner, with the driver's tip of his tall hat signifying that the small coach was unoccupied and available for hire. Dr. Dapper wrenched the door open, scrambled inside, and sprawled out over the seat while the diligence was still moving. It was some while before he was able to sit up and breathe without pain; consequently, he never had the chance to wave blithely back at his frustrated pursuers, as he would have preferred to do. But their furious shouts carried to his ears for a surprisingly long time, so he did have that satisfaction.

The diligence, after some intense negotiation, took him by a circuitous route to the great—and hearteningly anonymous—seaport of Rotterdam. Coachman and passenger had developed a companionable rapport during the journey; and Dr. Dapper's driver, on arriving at their destination, recommended an inn, counseled against certain others, and suggested that a man as much in demand as Dr. Dapper appeared to be might be well-advised to consider the harbor at his first opportunity. "You can't go back to Utrecht. Not for a year, maybe two years, maybe never. Rotterdam's no place for you, either—your little chums'll track you here, sooner or later. And there's too many of your sort here already." His eyes grew unfocused, and seemed momentarily to change color. "Me, I'd be looking at the ships."

Dr. Dapper, for all the writing he had done about traveling to strange foreign lands, had in fact never been aboard anything larger than a duckpond raft, and that as a child. Wandering slowly along the waterfront the next day, and the days after, studying the schooners, frigates, merchantmen, whalers and fishing boats—all so imposing at their quays, so small when he looked out at the rain-gray water beyond—he felt strangely lonely, and very far from all he understood. He looked in the windows of chandlers' shops, recognizing almost nothing he saw there; he heard songs he had never heard in his life; he cautiously sampled fruits and shellfish he did not recognize from barrows manned by peddlers clad in bright colors, who spoke no language he knew; he sidestepped invitations from girls who needed no language. But most of all, he smelled the sea.

A burly, one-eyed captain with a Frisian accent eventually agreed to ferry him across the Atlantic to make, like so many other passengers, a fresh start in the New World. The fare was remitted on Dr. Dapper's agreement to serve as ship's physician; even surgeon, if this should prove necessary. The voyage, fortunately, turned out to be a remarkably tranquil one, except for Dr. Dapper's stomach, which had loudly announced its distaste for a life on the rolling deep before the ship had even cast off in Rotterdam harbor. For the next seven weeks, he was his own best patient—and, fortunately for all concerned, very nearly the only one. He did, in mid-Atlantic, have to coax the ship's cat down from the rigging, into which it had been deposited and abandoned by a malicious sailor. Dr. Dapper, who liked cats, tripped the sailor overboard not long afterward. The ship lost half a day's progress coming about to pick the man up, and the captain was quite cross.

Dr. Dapper disembarked in the Americas at Falmouth, on the northeastern coast, and spent a weary, anxious week trying to decide where to go from there. Back to Utrecht would have been his most fervent choice: never having ventured beyond the Netherlands, except in his excellent imagination, he had no difficulty picturing himself being murdered by any of the raw-faced, raw-voiced people thronging the muddy streets and unspeakable inns, or being torn to pieces by wild animals, or being tortured at the stake by Red Indians. But Utrecht remained out of the question, and staying in Falmouth was just as frightening, since he had no faith that the men he had offended would let three thousand miles of ocean keep their hands from his collar: for all he knew, the next sail on the horizon might convey his continued pursuit. Despite the lure of Falmouth's many ingenuous gulls, veritable canvases for an artist like himself, there was nothing to do but bury himself for as long as necessary in the forests and backlands of this so-called New World. The hunt would surely cool down, sooner or later…surely.

Supply wagons, fur traders' pack mules, voyageurs' canoes and his own blistered feet eventually delivered Olfert Dapper into the Territory of Sagadahock, that province of Britain located east of the Kennebec River in the vaguely delineated colony of Maine. The French had their own name for the region, Acadia, and their own longstanding claims of ownership, but in the village of No Popery Dr. Dapper encountered few French, all of them Huguenot refugees. The local settlers were mainly recusants from the Roman-leaning reign of Charles II—English Puritans, Dutch Calvinists, and Salzburger Lutherans, plus a sprinkling of Anabaptists and a few Jews. Surrounding the village were largely ignored populations of Micmac, Abenaki, Passamaquoddy and Penobscot Indians, most of them good humored and rather bewildered. Dr. Dapper rather took to the Abenaki. He found their peaceful dispositions and placidly bleak view of the universe comfortingly akin to his own.

For the rest, he liked neither his fellow colonists—whom he judged ignorant, unsophisticated, mostly illiterate, and generally too poor and unimaginative to be worth the effort of swindling—nor his enforced frontier existence. The houses of No Popery were, without exception, constructed of rough-timber, their roofs either thatched or bearing a fine crop of grass, for better insulation, their chimneys built from clay-covered logs, their windows not even of horn but mere oiled paper. Sanitary arrangements were worse than anything he had endured aboard ship, and the climate was, as he wrote in his journal, "…insalubrious in the extreme, being pitilessly hot and miserably cold by turns, and plagued in all seasons by wicked varieties of insect life such as never we encountered in the Netherlands. Nor is this all, for there are wolves larger than the European sort, whose main prey is a kind of monstrous deer known to the Indians as a moose, and there is also a creature like an unspotted leopard, and great bears too, and not a soul with whom one can exchange ideas in a civilized manner. In truth, they are welcome to their Sagadahock, the lot of them, and it to them, and I am surely the most wretched Hollander that ever was. Worst of all, by acclamation they have made me their physician, and apothecary as well, as it was on the ship…"

Coming from as small and topographically tidy a country as Holland, with its gray, sea-menaced flatness and its cathedral skies, he was overwhelmed in both senses of the word by this New World. Everything was too big, monstrously big—trees, animals, rivers and bellowing waterfalls, even the very seasons themselves, storm and snow and April alike—while the shocking splendor of the changing leaves, the wildflowers, the vast, foggy hills, the dark, virgin, sweet-smelling earth made him want to hide. I would be better in prison. I have no business here.

There are a limited number of crises and emergencies for which a ship's doctor, however counterfeit, needs to be prepared. Fractured limbs, scurvy, drunkenness, various souvenirs of Venus, even treatment after a disciplinary flogging—these can be anticipated and prepared for, even by a reasonably experienced impostor, with, in general, no worse damage left in his wake than might be expected from a genuine doctor. But in an isolated settlement of assorted dissenters, fanatics and castaways, stranded in a completely strange land, with neither impressive-looking implements nor reasonably harmless medications at hand (though the local Abenaki were sometimes whimsically helpful here), Olfert Dapper was most often the only resort of people who had fallen down cliffs, abruptly removed hands or legs while cutting firewood, contracted a disease of which he knew neither the name, the cause, nor the treatment, or come off second-best in some encounter with a bear or a panther. Even had he actually possessed a medical degree, it would likely have proved worse than useless, faced with the dangers and mysteries of Sagadahock. He felt almost as sorry for his patients as he did for himself.

"Wretched Hollander" or no, paradoxically, he was held in higher respect in No Popery than he ever had been in his homeland.

Until recently he had been acceptably successful in his various questionable enterprises, if successful can be defined as getting away with it. Not a day of his life had been spent in prison, physical labor or repentance: a situation that felt far more natural to him than holiness to a saint, since sainthood involves constant struggle and failure, and struggle again. If he had not had a single true friend, there had been few true enemies—or, at least, none who knew where he lived—and it can honestly be said that he had borne ill will toward no man living. Nor woman, either, if it came to that; except perhaps for one Margot Zeldenthuis, who had long since vanished from his life, along with the forty-nine guilders under his pillow. Yet he sighed more often than he cursed when he thought of soft-footed Margot. Like his victims, Olfert Dapper had always had a streak of romance in his nature…just less than they.

In No Popery, to his horror, he was needed. There was no one else in the village who could do what he did, even if he could do little. Gaining trust had always been his living; more than that, it had been his gift, his art, his entire existence and his purpose for existence. Trust bestowed, trust gratefully volunteered, was another matter entirely, and Dr. Dapper would have been the first to admit that, if there had been anyone in his new life to admit it to. His patients—who, for the most part, paid him in venison, wild turkeys, rabbits, vegetables from their small gardens, and labor around the tiny house they had built for him—remained admiring and utterly loyal, whether or not his medications, all invented out of thin blue air, were successful. Socially, he ranked with the minister, a grim, lantern-jawed soul named Giles Kirtley, lean as a winter wolf; slightly ahead of Matthew Prouty, the schoolmaster; and he was a frequent guest at far more well-provided tables than was even Nathaniel Markham, the wealthiest farmer of No Popery, who had real clapboards covering the raw frame of his house, and real glass in his windows. These, according to the lights of the village, were successful men: Dr. Olfert Dapper was celebrated.

But the nearest thing he had to a friend, or even a drinking companion, had liquor not been harshly forbidden in No Popery, was an Abenaki Indian named—as near as he could ever translate it for Dr. Dapper—Rain Coming, who dwelled with his tribe in a birchbark village some three or four miles away. He was short, square-built and ageless, his skin the texture of granite and the color of a worn old coin, and he actually spoke only a little more English than the handful of Abenaki words that Dr. Dapper had awkwardly acquired. Yet somehow they were comfortable in one another's company, and could spend unlikely amounts of time together in complete silence. The Indian's herb lore, proffered in brief grunts and gestures, had resulted in more than one miraculous-appearing cure, for which Dr. Dapper received the credit. In return, he did his best to teach Rain Coming how to cheat at cards. That enterprise failed, due primarily to the other's complete lack of the competitive instinct; or, rather (at least, so Dr. Dapper always felt), to Rain Coming's serene certainty that whatever the game, he had already triumphed simply by taking part, and there was nothing further to say. Dr. Dapper would have given a good deal to possess such inborn assurance.

Rigorously honest with himself, if with no other, Dr. Dapper never blamed Mistress Remorse Kirtley, the minister's thin, whispering wife, for luring him into temptation. While she was hardly the most attractive woman of his extensive experience, marriage to the good Reverend having bleached most of the color and spirit out of her, curiously she aroused Olfert Dapper's occasional sympathy as well as his lust, which was not something that had happened to him before. Her husband suffered frequently from what Dr. Dapper pronounced to be "dyspeptic lassitude," but which even a middle-aged Dutch cardsharp could recognize as a stomach exhausted by constant and indiscriminate overeating. He treated these regular complaints with various decoctions of dandelion, mint, wormwood and yarrow, and spent much time in the kitchen with the grateful, attentive Mistress Kirtley, carefully explicating these remedies to her. In this manner they became well-acquainted, though Dr. Dapper was careful never to presume on the warming relationship. The first commandment of his chosen profession, passed down through every age of mankind, remained, as it still remains, " Thou shalt let them come to you.… "

The days passed, and the seasons passed: the hottest summer Olfert Dapper had ever endured crisping into the most dazzlingly delightful autumn by far, then hardening into a winter as merciless as any he had known in the Netherlands—more so, indeed, for the complete lack of civilized refuge, such as a lively coffeeshop or a cheerful bordello. Dr. Dapper spent those endless months most often in bed, or huddled at his fireside with a quilt over his shoulders, his feet in a bucket of heated snow water, and his mind lost in memories of a Utrecht pub, drinking spiced jenever with Margot Zeldenthuis. Would she remember him, after all this time? More to the point, would that Eck en Viel idiot recognize him on the street, and could his States-General cousin, or whatever he was, still be holding a grudge? How much longer must he remain exiled in this fearful, barbaric place? He thought of the canals of Utrecht, and of the sharp wind over the Rhone, and for the first time since coming ashore felt no slightest trace of hope.

Spring slipped up imperceptibly, its timorous inroads into the iron cold like the forays of the turning tide just beginning to nibble at a child's invulnerable sand fortress. Dr. Dapper was yet suffering from chilblains when Rain Coming, whom he had not seen for a good month—and whom he rather suspected actually hibernated during the worst of the winter—came to tell him that the ice was two days from breaking on the Kennebec, and that the first rains, a day after, would almost immediately produce the various wild herbs Dr. Dapper had grudgingly begun to depend on for his improvised medicines. They set out together on the first nearly-warm day in April, with a pale, watery sun overhead and a small breeze honing its edge on the back of Dr. Dapper's neck.

They walked for a long time, in and out of pine groves, crossing muddy meadows, up and down the slopes of thickly wooded valleys and ravines. Their path seemed aimless, almost without direction, but periodically Rain Coming would halt and nod toward a few tiny petals in the shadow of a tree, or a fungus growing on that same tree; a single mushroom poking its brown head out of a patch of damp grass; a few queer-looking leaves, invariably hanging somewhere out of reach. And Olfert Dapper would dutifully climb and stretch, tug and twist and pluck, sometimes digging with both hands to fetch some plant up by its roots, and then drop his find carefully into the sack he carried at his waist, and trudge on beside the Abenaki. The sack grew heavier.

It was nearly twilight, with a half-moon already rising, when Rain Coming finally grunted in satisfaction, and they turned back toward No Popery. Weary as he was, Dr. Dapper was anxious to move quickly, knowing that the great wild cats whose broad footprints he had seen several times—"catamounts," the villagers called them—hunted mainly at dusk and dawn. He also knew that the black bears of the region were just waking now from their winter sleep, most often hungry and irritable. He walked increasingly close beside Rain Coming as the sky darkened, even bumping against him from time to time.

When his companion halted abruptly, and he heard, directly ahead, the sound of a large body moving in a thicket, then glimpsed the shadow in the moonlight, Dr. Dapper froze where he stood and refused to go further. Rain Coming's nods and earnest gestures of reassurance made no difference, so the Abenaki finally shrugged—something Dr. Dapper had never seen him or any Indian do before—and walked calmly on, quickly vanishing into the same thicket. He did not look back.

The threat of abandonment changed Dr. Dapper's mind for him, and he hurried to catch up with Rain Coming. The Abenaki had halted again at the far edge of the clearing, staring toward a rough, stony meadow slanting slightly uphill. They had come that way, and Dr. Dapper remembered glimpsing deer there, and stumbling over two or three burrows of the badger-like diggers the colonists called "land-beavers." But now there was nothing at all to be seen in the meadow…

…except something that should not have been.

Dr. Dapper did not write of it for a long time, for reasons that he never could explain to himself. When he did come to describe what he saw that spring night, remembering his fear that he might have been hallucinating out of weariness, he wrote: "…by moonlight its coat is a kind of golden-gray, the very color of the moon itself. It seems a sturdy-built creature, though rather small—I cannot imagine it bearing a person of my stature for any distance. The hoofs are indeed cloven, as Pliny attests, though he is much in error regarding nearly every other aspect of the beast. The tail is lionlike, the mane as long as that of the wild ponies of the English moors—though less thick and shaggy—and the celebrated horn above its eyes would seem disproportionate in length and evident mass to the musculature of its rather slender neck. Yet so is the unicorn made."

Dr. Dapper cried out at the sight, a loss of self-control quite outside his usual humors. The unicorn wheeled on the instant, its horn fiery as a new scar in the moonlight—and then it was gone, leaving no footprints behind on the wet and muddy hillside…leaving nothing but the wondering glory in Dr. Dapper's eyes.

Rain Coming looked at Dr. Dapper without speaking, and Dr. Dapper looked back at him. There was no need to speak on either side: what had been seen, even for the single crystal moment, was greater than accusation, beyond apology. They walked on back to the village of No Popery together, bound in an understanding far greater than when they had set out that morning, so long ago.

What Rain Coming thought of their encounter, Dr. Dapper never knew, nor expected to know. Indeed, when he asked his friend whether the Abenaki tongue even had a word for unicorn, Rain Coming pretended not to comprehend, and grew plainly irritated when the matter was pressed further. He came less often to the village in those later days, and was even less conversational when he did. He seemed to Dr. Dapper almost to have set his body aside to follow in his puzzled heart whatever that moment on the meadow had meant to him. A good—if uneasy—Netherlandish Calvinist, Dr. Dapper mused at times over the question of whether Indians could become saints.

Dr. Dapper missed his friend, but Rain Coming's place had largely been taken by a conflagration of yearning to see the unicorn again. He spoke to no one about it—certainly not to the Reverend Kirtley, who would have immediately denounced his vision as a sending from hell. Nor did Dr. Dapper consider taking Prouty, the schoolmaster, into his confidence, for the man was even more fearfully rigid than the Reverend, who at least had his unshakable faith to bolster him; while Prouty, Dr. Dapper suspected, needed only the least suggestion that the universe was not as he had been taught—such as the existence of unicorns—to push him quite over the edge of reason, likely into Quakerism, or something worse. Dr. Dapper had enough on his conscience, such as it was, without the added responsibility for destroying Master Prouty's trembling foundations.

It does say something to his good, surely; to the influence that the simple life and simple values of No Popery had had on him—or perhaps it was only the silent, mysterious reproach of Rain Coming—that it never occurred to Dr. Dapper that there could be immense profit in the possession of a live unicorn, or even the hide, hair, and horn of a dead one. He merely wanted to see it again; and he knew without questioning, as one sometimes knows these things, that he never would be allowed to see it alone. It had clearly never been meant for him in the first place, but rather for his wise and strangely innocent companion, for Rain Coming of the Abenaki. Whom do I know in this savage land who is wise and innocent in that same way, who deserves to see what I by chance saw? With all their talk of Jesus, and all their damned endless praying, there must be someone!

And it was at that moment, in the spring, that Remorse Kirtley came to him, as he had known she would.

It was not an occasion of sin that brought her, but the perfectly legitimate pretext of her husband's rebellious stomach quarrelling with his eight-course dinner, as it and he were habituated to do. If Dr. Dapper could possibly attend on him…?

Remorse Kirtley was not a beauty, but her eyes were the deep, sweet brown of a sunflower heart, and her mouth, close to, was not nearly as thin and prim and small as it appeared most of the time. Indeed, she was definitely standing closer to him than was at all proper for a good Puritan wife, and it was with a real and regretful effort that Dr. Dapper banished temptation and agreed to accompany her once more to the Reverend's bedside. A thought had occurred to him, gazing into those sunflower eyes.

While the infusion of wild grasses that he had learned would not only soothe the Reverend's much put-upon intestines but send him off to sleep as well was steeping, he told the minister, "That, I fear, was the last of the herbal medicines that I have gathered with my heathen friend of the Abenaki. Tomorrow, or the next day, I must go forth again to replenish my supply, and I would ask that you give your wife leave to accompany me. These plants grow close to the ground, and my eyes are not what they were."

Reverend Kirtley was a fool, but not quite the fool he seemed. Having long since reassured himself of his wife's holy unattractiveness, his main objection to her passing an afternoon in Dr. Dapper's company concerned not what she might do, but that she might be thought to be doing it. "It would give the impression of unseemliness," he protested, "of impropriety. Surely another—a child, perhaps, to avoid false appearances…?"

Olfert Dapper shrugged plaintively, if such a thing were possible. "The little ones can so rarely identify what I seek," he pointed out, "while their elders know, but cannot see. Mistress Remorse would be the perfect choice, as—ah—intimately acquainted with your intestinal needs as she is, and with the exact admixture and administration of my medicinal agents. Still, if you would prefer that I employ a stranger, which would require at least some inescapable discussion—"

What had worked in Amsterdam and Utrecht worked just as flawlessly in the Territory of Sagadahock. The Reverend hastily disavowed any such suggestion, assuring Dr. Dapper that he might borrow his good wife's assistance on whatever day suited him best, for all the world as though he were granting him the use of a favored spade or horse. Dr. Dapper suggested the following Monday, and Reverend Kirtley agreed eagerly. Mistress Remorse Kirtley's opinion was not solicited, which did not seem to distress her at all.

She was waiting, dressed as roughly and soberly as any farm laborer, when Dr. Dapper came to the minister's house at dawn on that Monday morning. They spoke little on setting off, making use of a route that kept them largely out of sight of anyone who might be working his fields early or slipping home from some wrongful enjoyment with a view to avoiding the village constable's eye. Mistress Kirtley was hardly the equal of Rain Coming in espying a half-hidden leaf in a patch of nettles, or a few wild berries among the weeds reclaiming a long-abandoned garden; but she did well enough, and she kept easy pace with Dr. Dapper, her stride suggesting longer legs than he had permitted himself to imagine. Once or twice, when he glanced sideways to see her lifting her pale face, eyes almost closed, to the warming sun, she would turn and show him a very small smile, such as he had never seen on her mouth before. He fancied that perhaps no one else ever had.

She appeared not to notice that Dr. Dapper was slowly, subtly bending their search in a wide curve back toward the little meadow where a greater wonder even than her smile had come upon him. But when they sat down together upon the ground just beyond the clearing—considerably dryer now than then—to eat the midday meal she had prepared of dried meat, cheese, barley bread and mild ale, Mistress Kirtley looked straight across the lunch into Dr. Dapper's eyes and said quietly, "I know this place. There are none of your herbs growing here."

"That is true, ma'am," Dr. Dapper replied, for he always knew when lying would not serve him. It was a skill that set him apart from most other practitioners of his silken art.

"Then why did you bring me here?" Mistress Kirtley neither raised her voice nor showed any sign of alarm. She might have been asking the question out of casual politeness, had it not been for the slightest dilation of her eyes.

"Because there is something I greatly wish you to see." Dr. Dapper nodded calmly toward the meal laid out on a kerchief between them. "Do enjoy, as I am enjoying it, the repast you have so clearly gone to a deal of trouble to prepare for us—and wait meanwhile. Only wait a little, dear Mistress Kirtley."

In fact, for all the assurance in his tone, he had no notion whether the unicorn would appear at all. He knew it had been no phantasm, no trick of the moon or of his mind—one look at Rain Coming's reaction to the vision had told him that—but whether or not it would return to the meadow, whether or not a certain legend might prove true…all that was pure gamble, and Olfert Dapper in his soul was as pure a gambler as had ever lived in Old World or New, in Utrecht or No Popery. He washed his meat and cheese down with his ale and smiled at Mistress Kirtley, and she smiled back at him. And they waited together.

But the day was warm, the ale excellent, and the early gnats' almost inaudible buzzing became a kind of lullaby for Dr. Dapper. He never admitted that he had been asleep when the unicorn came; but it was Remorse Kirtley's soft gasp that roused him, and he saw her on her feet with both hands pressed to her mouth and her dark Dutch-style cap fallen to the ground. He had never seen her rich brown hair loose before.

The unicorn was standing in the center of the meadow, facing her, plainly considering her, as surely as she was taking its truth into herself. By moonlight it had seemed more delicately made, almost fragile; today it appeared not only larger than he remembered, but quite possibly dangerous, with the sun glinting on the long spiral horn. Dr. Dapper, rising slowly to his feet, noticed for the first time the small curl of beard beneath its lower jaw, such as he had given to his depiction of a lion in his book on Africa. Did that mean the creature was male? Was it a sign of maturity? These and other questions tumbled roundabout through his mind, for Dr. Dapper had always possessed the passionate curiosity of the true scientist in his inmost nature. He had, however, always been careful not to let it get out of hand.

Remorse Kirtley held out both of her open hands to the unicorn. It tossed its head once, like a horse, but did not whinny or nicker—indeed, Dr. Dapper had never heard it make a sound. It paced slowly toward the woman, its horn pointing at her heart. She did not flinch, but sank slowly into a sitting position, her legs folding under her as gracefully as those of the unicorn's as it lowered its head into her lap. The horn lay across her thighs.

Dr. Dapper could see her face now. It wore the dazed, foolishly transcendent expression he had seen and scorned in so many of the paintings of his homeland: Mary receiving the Annunciation, saints ravished by the converse of angels, holy hermits gazing up enraptured at golden clouds aswarm with cherubim…every one looking as gloriously vacant as Remorse Kirtley looked now. Dr. Dapper envied her, and made notes for another book.

He could not tell whether the unicorn was actually asleep. Remorse Kirtley stroked its neck and played timidly with the white feathers of its mane—she never touched the horn—but the unicorn's eyes remained closed, and its slow breathing never altered. Dr. Dapper thought, in a vague and distant way, This is the moment when the knights rush out from cover and spring on it, as it rouses a moment too late. I know what I should do, if I were a braver man, and a worse one. The unicorn smelled to him like new bread, and like new candles, and, strangely, like cool old wells in shadowy gardens.

How long the unicorn slept in Remorse Kirtley's lap, Dr. Dapper never knew. He stood where he was, while the sun moved and the ragged grass whispered, and the tiny insects danced in the sunlight. The unicorn's sides breathed in and out, like those of any other drowsing animal, and now and then it twitched its lion-tufted tail to brush away a fly. And Remorse Kirtley sat utterly motionless, her eyes fixed, as Dr. Dapper imagined, on the world the unicorn had come from. Now and then she turned her head toward him, but he knew that she never saw him at all.

Then, in time, the unicorn rose, and looked in Remorse Kirtley's face, and brushed its horn over her hair, and went away.

Neither Mistress Kirtley nor Dr. Dapper moved for a long while afterwards, not until she stood up in her turn and went to him, and he put his arms around her. They remained so, with nothing sinful or adulterous in their embrace; but by and by she asked him in a small voice, "How did you know?"

"I did not know," Olfert Dapper answered her candidly. "I guessed only."

"That the wife of the Reverend Giles Kirtley might yet be a virgin? A clever guess, wise Doctor." She leaned closer, pressing breasts not as childish as he had imagined against him. "And one deserving of some return, surely?" The sunflower eyes were soft and tender.

Strangely, it was Dr. Dapper who held back in that moment, actually putting away from himself the woman whose mysteries had tantalized his dreams all that winter. "Good mistress," he heard himself saying, to his own considerable amazement, "should we do this, you will—thou wilt—forfeit thy chance ever again to see a unicorn—to hold a unicorn in thy lap. I am not such a scoundrel as to wish to deprive thee of such a blessing." He was horrified by the sound of his own earnest pomposity, the more so because it was uttered with truly good intent. Some of us were not born for the generous gesture.

But Remorse Kirtley laughed at him, and stretched her arms stiffly out on his shoulders, so as to hold his head firmly while she looked into his eyes. "One unicorn in a lifetime is a miracle beyond anyone's deserving, virgin or no. More than one…no, no, Doctor, that is for another life than mine." She kissed him then, with a force that would likely have knocked him down, had she not still been holding him upright. Still gripping his eyes with her own, she said, with as much gravity as he had spoken to her, "The unicorn set me free, can you understand me? Freed me from the world I have always been taught, and always believed, was the only world for a Christian soul. While I sat there and held him, he came into me—how else should I put it, dear Doctor?—he came into me, and showed me the magic beyond poor, crabbed No Popery, the beauty beyond the sour singsong God of my worship. And for that I will forever be more grateful to thee than anyone else is ever likely to be, my scoundrelly friend."

She kissed him again, and then she stood back from him a little and slowly began to unlace her drab dark bodice, never taking her eyes from his. She said, "Now it is for thee to complete my liberation. Help me here.…"

And he did help her, his usually deft fingers as clumsy as those of an ignorant youth, and they did indeed cleave together, and were one flesh, as the Bible recommends and approves.

Later, drowsy in the dappled shade, his herb-gathering bag pillowing both of their heads, he said, "It grieves me yet that you tossed away so lightly your chance to ever again call a unicorn. Truly, I never brought you here for that—" which was only half a lie—"but because I wanted to see the creature a second time. I cannot help feeling at fault."

Propped on one elbow, her own eyes heavy, she made severe reply. "I tossed nothing away—and certainly never for you, vain man, but for myself. What I have lost, I gave away freely. Even the God of No Popery would understand that difference. The unicorn understood."

Whereupon, and without explanation, Remorse Kirtley began to cry. Deciding for perhaps the hundreth time in his life that he knew nothing about women, Dr. Dapper let her tears dry on his chest and throat; and somewhere in the middle of that they were one flesh once again, and she was giggling like a girl about something she wouldn't share. When he asked she only laughed harder, her hair a twisting whip across his face, and he became fascinated then by other things, like the little pink mole between her shoulder blades, a miniature fleur-de-lys that he suspected the Reverend Kirtley had never seen.

They walked back side by side, just as they had set out; but when Dr. Dapper reached to take her hand, like any village swain, Mistress Kirtley shook her head and pulled away. Hair invisible again under the Dutch cap, bodice laced to near-constriction, long brown dress respectably free of any telltale grass stains, she had reassumed the role of meek Puritan goodwife, playing it with the passionate attention to detail of the actress she had spent her life becoming. Even when she glanced sideways at him and smiled just a trifle, it was not the smile of Remorse Kirtley. Dr. Dapper knew that smile well.

They parted at the outskirts of the village: he to his mortar and pestle and improvised scales, she to tend her husband, and to prepare a full dinner after a full day. When, at Reverend Kirtley's next visceral complaint, Dr. Dapper hurried to him with his potions already prepared, there was never the smallest suggestion that anything ignoble might have passed between anyone and anyone else; nor did Mistress Kirtley do more than nod attentively at her family physician's instructions and notate them without quite looking at him. Dr. Dapper stayed longer than he might have, constantly attempting surreptitiously to catch her eye, but he had no luck.

News of the colonists' various homelands came infrequently at the best of times—and not at all during the winter months—and was delivered haphazardly, most often by traveling peddlers, tinkers and circuit-riding preachers who chanced through No Popery. Olfert Dapper had received no messages at all from the Netherlands since his arrival, and had almost resigned himself, not only to the probability of spending at least another year in this drearily savage New World, but also to the worse horror of realizing that he was gradually adapting to his life here. He liked and respected the Abenaki of his acquaintance, and he very nearly liked two or three of the settlers, and he was even developing a certain taste for succotash.

Oh, whatever might be waiting for him back in Utrecht, he had to get out of this place!

Mistress Remorse Kirtley went on about her business as a dutiful No Popery wife, cooking and gardening and praying and keeping a proper house, never allowing herself to be alone in Dr. Dapper's company for more than the few minutes it might take him to hand her his newest medication for her husband's ever-truculent stomach and instruct her in its application. She kept her eyes cast down at all times, her hair completely covered, and her modest bearing an example for all Puritan women. Dr. Dapper, thinking about it, could never say whether he actually loved her—love, as it is generally used, being an emotion as honestly foreign to him as the Turkish language, or the finer points of infralapsarianism. Neither could he call it plain sinful lust anymore: it was, perhaps, that, having glimpsed the mysterious heart of the minister's wife, he simply wanted to see it again, more than he had ever wanted to see the unicorn a second time. It has been mentioned that Olfert Dapper had more than a little of the romantic in his nature.

He went on occasion, when he had the time free (his fraudulent medical practice having gradually approached the genuine), to the meadow where he and Remorse Kirtley and the unicorn had once been together. He had no expectation of finding either one of them there, but it comforted him strangely to stand exactly where he had watched in numbed wonder as the unicorn lowered its head into her lap; and where, a world afterward, he had helped her unlace her bodice, while she never took her eyes from his.

Once he encountered his old Abenaki companion Rain Coming standing in the same place, his black eyes watching everything, yet seeing nothing that Olfert Dapper could see. They greeted each other briefly and soberly, and Dr. Dapper said gently, after a while, "It will never come here again. I cannot say how I know that, but I do."

Rain Coming nodded a very little. He said only two words. "She come."

Dr. Dapper stared at him. " She ? Whom do you…do you mean Mistress Kirtley?" A squirrel observing them from a branch abruptly dashed away at the sound of his voice.

The Abenaki met his eyes calmly, taking a long time before he answered. "When you go home. She come then."

"When I go home.…" A sudden immense sadness filled Dr. Dapper's chest, and the words came out almost in a whisper, in contrast to his earlier cry. He said, "But I may never go home, my friend. There are some very angry people waiting there for me, and they might even put me in prison. Prison. " He repeated the word, emphasizing it carefully, knowing that the Abenaki, like the other Algonquian tribes in general, had no real equivalent for such a word, such a concept. He said again, "I do not know whether I will ever go home."

"You go home soon." Rain Coming's own voice was slow and certain. "She come to Abenaki when you go."

"Why then?" Olfert Dapper demanded. "There is no connection between us anymore—we barely speak, except about her husband's medicines. Why would she run off to your people when I am gone?"

But Rain Coming himself was gone, in that particularly disturbing way of being gone that he had, which the Reverend Kirtley always said plainly showed the infernal origins of all his folk. Dr. Dapper stared into the silent woods after him for a time, and then wandered back to No Popery.

He knew that the Abenaki had taken in runaways and exiles from the various Sagadahock colonies; and he knew further that the Algonquins had no God-given laws concerning the properly submissive status of women. An Abenaki, Micmac or Passamaquoddy woman might, in his undeniably limited experience, look away from a man, or past him, or through him, but never down at the ground. A woman of spirit and resource, such as Mistress Remorse Kirtley had shown herself to be, might well rise higher in Indian society than would ever be possible for her in Puritan surroundings. He wondered less how Rain Coming had learned of her decision than whether she herself knew of it yet.

The weather was warm still, but close to turning—after more than a year in Maine, even Dr. Dapper could tell this by the changes in the birds' behavior and the taste of the dawn wind—when he was roused from an evening doze by a rapping at his door. Peering through a crack in the wall which no amount of caulking would ever patch for long, he recognized, to his astonishment and immediate anxiety, the Reverend Kirtley. The minister had never once been to visit him at home, and their occasional conversations in church usually involved either the state of Dr. Dapper's immortal soul or Reverend Kirtley's highly mortal stomach. Could he know? Could someone have…could she have confessed all? The question was heightened by the fact that the Reverend was carrying a musket. It was a very large musket, with a mouth like a tulip.

But Olfert Dapper had not gained the rank and respect that he enjoyed in his mendacious art without learning (always with the exception of Margot Zeldenthuis) when to put his faith in a woman's eyes. His panic left him as swiftly as it had come, and he opened the door to welcome Giles Kirtley.

The minister entered with an oddly furtive air, looking over his shoulder as though he were the one well-acquainted with thief-takers and persons bearing heavy sticks and unreasonable grudges. Offered the one good chair, he leaned his musket gingerly against the wall, accepted a mug of somewhat dubious jenever —a thing Dr. Dapper could never remember having seen him do—and began the conversation by saying abruptly, as though the fact had just come to his attention, "Brother Dapper, you're a Dutchman."

Dr. Dapper raised his eyebrows and spread his hands. "I cannot deny it, sir."

"Ah." Reverend Kirtley cleared his throat several times. "Perhaps that is why I find it easier to confide in you, even though we have not been—ah—close? Warm? Intimate…?" His voice wandered away into the random corners where his glance had gone.

"My loss, certainly," Dr. Dapper said graciously. "What can I do for you, Reverend?"

"My wife.…" Reverend Kirtley stood up, turned in a constricted circle, like a bear tied for baiting, and sat down again. "My good wife has been kidnapped. Stolen away. By those red savages. Savages, man!"

Caught completely by surprise, Dr. Dapper could only blink and stare. "By the Abenaki? Kidnapped?"

"What else? Who else? There are tracks—obvious, unmistakable! They dragged her away in the night, poor creature, before she could utter a cry. Even now it may be too late to prevent..." He bent almost double in his chair, covering his eyes. The position was not unlike the one he usually screwed himself into when his stomach was demanding its due.

" Prevent, " Dr. Dapper said; and then, "Oh. Oh. Well, we must certainly rouse the village, Reverend. If you take the houses east of Bear Creek, I will take all the west side—"

"No!" The Reverend Kirtley seized both of Dr. Dapper's wrists in his big-knuckled hands. "I could not bear it if...if the worst were known to…to…"

"To all your congregation," Dr. Dapper finished for him, more respectfully than he felt. "Your following of the faithful. Yes, of course, I understand. We will begin our search tomorrow, at first light—"

" Tonight! We dare not wait!" The Reverend was on his feet again, reaching for his musket.

But Dr. Dapper shook his head firmly, and did not rise. "There are wolves out there, and catamounts—I heard one scream close by, yesternight. We can do nothing in darkness but run ourselves into worse danger than she may be in, trying to rescue her. I will go with you at first light, as I said."

And with that the minister had to be content, though as he left Olfert Dapper's house he added, "Remember to bring your gun."

To which Dr. Dapper responded, "I have no gun. I do have an excellent belaying pin from the ship that brought me to these shores. But no gun."

"I will have one for you," Reverend Kirtley assured him grimly.

And so saying, he plunged out into the night, leaving Olfert Dapper sleepless until sunrise.

When they met at the empty church, Reverend Kirtley indeed handed Dr. Dapper a loaded musket. It felt so heavy and cold in his hand that he almost dropped it. He protested that he had never handled such a weapon before, and was likely to be more of a menace to any companion than to the supposed kidnappers of Mistress Kirtley. The Reverend replied only, "The hand of the Almighty will be on the trigger at the appointed time. You need have no fear."

But Dr. Dapper had a great deal of fear turning his own belly to a solid block of ice as they set forth, following the tracks—unmistakable, as the Reverend Kirtley had said—of Mistress Kirtley's small, clumsily-shod feet to the point, just out of sight of No Popery village, where they crossed a set of moccasined footprints and went on in company with her companion…or her abductor. Mistress Kirtley's prints were closer together now, showing only the balls of her feet, which could have meant she was either running or being dragged along. There was no doubt of the Reverend's opinion: his normally ruddy face was iron-pale, except for the blood-drops standing out on his bitten lips. He swung his musket from side to side, like a scythe, as they walked on; and from time to time he sighted along it at random targets, grinding his teeth and grinning a wolf-grin. Olfert Dapper feared for everyone.

At one point, the Reverend studied him sharply—not quite swinging the musket around—and said, "You have a certain sympathy for the savages, or I am mistaken." It was not a question.

Cautiously Dr. Dapper replied, keeping his tone carefully inexpressive, "I find them a not uninteresting people, and well worth studying." As casually as he could, he edged around to the far side of the minister.

"Children of Satan," Reverend Kirtley spat. "Whatever unspeakable, demon-born humiliation they have visited upon my wife, I will take her back as my lawful wife, with no shame ever on my part. But I shall kill every one of them, and I shall burn their filthy lodges to the ground, and plow the earth with salt afterward. This I swear." He halted for a moment to glare fiercely at Dr. Dapper. "You have heard my oath before God."

"Yes," Olfert Dapper answered quietly. "I have heard you."

The track of Mistress Kirtley and her presumed captor grew more difficult to follow as the ground hardened and the undergrowth became thicker. Whenever possible, Dr. Dapper did his best to scuff out a print with his foot, or to mislead the grim Reverend; but the path to the Abenaki village was known to all the inhabitants of No Popery, and by now the minister had no need of a trail to lead him where he was convinced his wife must have been taken. It would take only a sight of Mistress Remorse Kirtley to unleash a massacre; and Dr. Dapper, born during the Eighty Years' War, knew something about massacres. In frantic silence he rummaged through the stratagems and devious contrivances of a lifetime, but utterly in vain. He marched by the side of a man planning murder and could think of no way to stop him.

So despondent had he become that he never noticed the first cloven hoofmarks—neither the delicate prints of a white-tail deer nor the dinner-plate tracks of a moose—joining those of the moccasins and work-booted feet. When he did finally become aware of them, at the point where they began to veer from the familiar path, heading together up a low, mossy rise of ground that bore all three prints clearly, he pointed them out to the minister, feeling the first twitch of a scheme in his belly as he did so. "Behold, Reverend!" he cried, as dramatically as he knew how. "Whatever can you make of these uncanny slots?"

Giles Kirtley halted, leaning on his musket and shaking his head very slowly as he pondered the sudden new tracks. The cloven prints were generally in the middle of the path, with Mistress Kirtley's close on the left side and those of the unknown Indian further off on the right. The Reverend was muttering, almost inaudibly, "I like this not…and yet it cannot, cannot.…" At one point he bent to the ground to sniff at the hoofmarks; then raised his head, murmuring, as though he were alone, " No… I will not believe... No. No.… "

Dr. Dapper followed, deliberately hanging a little way behind, to give the impression of growing reluctance at such ominous signs. The Reverend did not look back for him, but kept advancing, step by heavy step, staring only at the earth, the musket loose in one hand; he might have forgotten completely that he was holding it at all. Olfert Dapper's legs were beginning to trouble him, but he labored on, uncertain of everything except for the one hope that had blossomed in him, like a small bright coal to blow on in the night of great fear. Remember—remember always—they must come to you, they must deceive themselves.

Nearing the top of the rise, the Reverend Kirtley abruptly paused in his slow advance, pointing at the ground. "See, the savage's tracks have vanished!" he declared, glowering directly at Dr. Dapper for the first time since they had begun their climb. "What can this mean?"

Bless me, God of Liars.…

Hesitantly, almost mumbling himself, casting the fear he felt in another, more purposeful shape, Dr. Dapper gestured at the cloven marks and said, very quietly, "He walketh about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour."

For a wonder, the minister did not immediately catch the reference. Then he did, and his face turned a sickly, feverish red, and then absolutely colorless once again. He whispered, "I felt...in my heart I felt the Lord's warning, the Lord's merciless pity...but I put my fears away.…" He took a sudden fierce step forward and gripped Dr. Dapper by the collar, his strength a monster's strength in that moment. Aloud, he cried, "But I smelled no brimstone when I stooped to the tracks! No brimstone—no hellish fumes at all! How do you explain that, physicker?"

Careful, careful… "If I remember the Holy Word correctly...which, doubtless, I do not—" Dr. Dapper smiled and ducked his head in embarrassment—"there is a mention of the Evil One having power to assume a pleasing appearance. May that not extend to—ah—scent, as well as looks? May not even the stink of Hell be at Satan's command, after all?"

The Reverend Kirtley shook his entire body like a tormented bear. "No, I cannot believe—I refuse to believe that the Devil could possibly touch…that she could be.…" He did not finish the phrase, but hung his head for a long moment.

"I read my Testament in Dutch," Dr. Dapper said with pious humility, "which surely cannot match the mighty language of your King James Version—but does it not say that Satan hath no power over a pure heart?" He paused, mentally counting off seconds, before he pressed home. "How few of us can claim such a condition, when the full balance of sin is told?"

Forgive me, my maligned Mistress Remorse. Speak up for an errant Hollander in that other New World, when the time comes.

When the minister lifted his head again, Dr. Dapper felt a sudden qualm at the thought that he might glimpse tears in the wolf-eyes. But they were just as dry as before, and just as ruthlessly resolute. The Reverend Kirtley said only, "Follow on."

As they continued their slow advance toward the hilltop, Dr. Dapper heard the minister arguing endlessly with himself in a droning undertone. "But if the Devil took the savage on the spot, for what infernal purpose drag her along...why keep her alive, except as bait for the righteous—what purpose, what purpose? " Dr. Dapper noticed that the tracks of Mistress Kirtley's work-shoes had become fainter on the moss, while the cloven hoofs had cut steadily deeper into the soil, as though Satan had been stamping or even dancing in triumph at his catch. The Reverend Kirtley must have felt the same, for he groaned aloud, studying one such passage of signs; but then added aloud, "But she fought him, as we all must fight the Devil—the very earth itself bears witness to her battle. My poor sinful wife.…" He was holding the musket in both hands again, across his chest.

At the top of the rise Mistress Kirtley's footprints vanished abruptly and completely into a bewildering swirl of the cloven marks. On witnessing this dreaded conformation of his fears, the minister uttered a single great raw cry and fell to his knees, clasping his hands and wailing hoarsely, "Oh, my poor Remorse—her faith was not strong enough to save her! She struggled against her woman's weakness, but the Evil One snatched her up—he devoured her like a roaring lion! My poor lost child!" He was tearing at his long gray hair with one hand, at his shirt with the other, and blood followed his fingernails.

Dr. Dapper said nothing, but fell to studying the confused marks in the earth. He had known them from the first for the unicorn's prints—the Devil having, as everyone in Holland knew, one human foot and one clumsy, betraying cow-hoof—but his only explanation for the disappearance of Mistress Kirtley's tracks was that she must have mounted the unicorn, virgin or no, and ridden it… where? The trail was so confused that the hoofprints seemed to lead away in every direction from the hilltop, as though the unicorn itself had been the one dancing in celebration of their reunion.

Something lying on the ground caught the corner of his eye, and he knelt himself in a gesture of absent-minded piety to pick it up, putting his musket down first as he did so. Almost invisible against the trampled moss, it proved to be a bit of the dark lace of Remorse Kirtley's bodice, cleanly severed, though by what he could not guess. He slipped it into the wallet at his belt without passing it to the Reverend. Mine.

Reverend Kirtley was rocking to and fro on his knees, moaning unintelligibly to himself, as Olfert Dapper had known old Amsterdam Jews to do on the death of a parent or child. He crouched down beside him and placed a tentative hand on the broad, unyielding shoulder. Speaking instinctively in the intimate case, for only the second time in this country, he said, "Thou must be brave. Thou must pray for her and be brave."

The Reverend Kirtley's head whipped around to glare at him so fast that Dr. Dapper almost fell over backwards. "Pray for one so lost to virtue as to fall into Satan's claws? Nay, to rail against the verdict of God is to risk damnation oneself, and I'll have none of it." The minister's hoarse voice was painful to hear. "The judgments of the Lord are forever righteous," he said, and his eyes were not at all mad, but murderously sane.

"Surely," Olfert Dapper said, nodding fervently, though his own words came out in a choked whisper. "Surely, amen." He thought, If I get out of this place alive, I will never leave the Netherlands again. I will never leave Utrecht again. I will never leave my house.

As though he had caught the unspoken words, the Reverend Kirtley rose slowly to his feet, and all his attention was on Olfert Dapper. The musket did not swing to point directly at him, but neither was it pointing as much away from him as he would have preferred. The Reverend said, "It is necessary that you leave No Popery this very day. I lament to say it, but I can brook no dispute." The toneless words sounded like millstones grinding into motion.

"Today? Why today? What makes me…why am I suddenly become so unwelcome between one minute and the next?" But he already knew, which lent a certain hollowness to his protestations. Of course. Hoist by your own petard, clever Dapper.

"You have seen what you have seen, and it is vain to pretend that you fail to understand its import. The Evil One has taken my wife for his own—been permitted to take her, because she was clearly the weaker vessel of—" to his credit, he did falter here—"of our household. Unworthy as I am, I remain the head of this greater household of No Popery, and it would not be advisable to have it known.…" He made a slight helpless gesture with his hands, without finishing the sentence.

Considering that his passionate desire to leave Maine, Sagadahock and this entire miserable outpost of ignorance and fear dated from his first day in No Popery, Dr. Dapper was astonished at the flare of genuine anger that possessed him at the minister's words. He was close to losing English in his rage. "You for your wife care nothing, hypocrite you—only for your standing in this place, this…this—" and here he did use a Netherlandish word—"that you call a village. Your wife is with the Duyvil better off than she was with you—"

At which point the Reverend Kirtley swung his musket viciously across Dr. Dapper's face, knocking him down. He stared up into the bell-mouth of the musket and the minister's strangely composed, almost expressionless visage. The Reverend Kirtley said, "I grieve to have had to injure you, my friend, but I could not permit you to continue abusing me in such a fashion." He cocked his head to study Dr. Dapper's face, clucking softly to himself. "I see your mouth is bleeding—I pray you, by your leave—" He reached out to wipe the blood away with the edge of a sleeve.

Dr. Dapper struck his hand away, which was not behavior he would ever have advised to anyone facing a madman armed with a musket and the favor of God. He rose shakily to his feet and said, quietly but clearly, "No wonder your wife ran off with Heer Duyvil. Who would not?"

The musket came up sharply, but the Reverend Kirtley neither shot him nor struck him again. Equally calmly, he responded, "You see, obviously, why you must leave us, and leave directly." It was not a question. The Reverend said, "One such public declaration, even a mere rumor, born—as they always are—of a mere private thought...and confusion is come upon poor No Popery. You are a doctor—you understand about contagion. Confusion leads inevitably to chaos, sir, and chaos is the portal to Hell, as utter, unshakable faith is the threshold and fortress of Heaven. I cannot imagine, good Dutch Calvinist as you are, that you would gainsay me on that point."

Dr. Dapper did not reply, but looked away, trying to focus on the maze of footprints surrounding them. His head was still ringing from the blow, and when he shook it to clear his vision his neck hurt. But it seemed clear at least that Remorse Kirtley had indeed ridden off on the unicorn, with Rain Coming—as he was somehow certain it must have been—mounted as well. Olfert Dapper imagined him with one hand tangled gently in the unicorn's mane, his black eyes alight with the lost brilliance of long-dead stars. In his sly, sidestepping, faithless heart, Dr. Dapper whispered, "Go well. Yes."

The Reverend Kirtley said briskly, "Isaac da Silva will be leaving at dawn." Dr. Dapper knew the crossgrained old Portuguese peddler as sour company, but honorable enough in his trade. "He will carry you to where the Penobscot becomes navigable—from there, you should have no difficulty finding transportation downcoast to Falmouth, and a ship to take you wherever suits your fortune. Tonight, when you assemble such belongings as you may care to take with you—" he shrugged, and very nearly smiled—"I would consider it a kindness if you would leave behind some of your most excellent stomach medicaments. I have never known their like for immediate relief."

"It would be my honor," Dr. Dapper replied. "But if it should come to my attention that you have blamed the Abenaki people for your wife's disappearance, or that they have been harmed in any way—"

The Reverend Kirtley nodded gravely. "You have my word."

They walked back to the village of No Popery in silence, and parted there. The minister went home to a house that no longer held Mistress Remorse Kirtley; and Olfert Dapper applied a bit of last winter's bear grease to his torn lip, then began to pack the few things he would bother to take along on his journey to whatever might await him in Holland. Prison, perhaps; perhaps Margot Zeldenthuis.… Olfert Dapper had always recognized those moments when it was best to leave his fate to whims beyond his own.

It was a longer night's work than it should have been, considering how little he actually meant to take along. A handful of dried herbs…a small, extremely sharp knife…a jar of wild grape preserve (payment for setting and splinting a child's broken arm)…a couple of grotesquely abscessed molars…his pinewood mortar and pestle, the shallow bowl still containing a dusting of crushed tansy, the flower's camphorlike aroma lingering…a fragment of dark lace, carrying its own aroma…each of these was charged with a memory of this ridiculous, terrifying, terrifyingly beautiful new world that had unicorns in it. He was leaving with far more than he had brought.

When he was done, he sat on the front step—the only step, in fact—of his little house, built by his neighbors, and waited in the still-warm night for the grumble of Isaac da Silva's wagon wheels, which always sounded to him like the peddler's wearily complaining voice. Exhausted as he was, he had no expectation of sleep: the day had been too draining for that, and he felt as though he might never sleep again. All the same, his eyelids did drift closed from time to time—though never for long, to judge by the moon—and so it was that Rain Coming seemed to materialize out of nothing before him, as silent, as profoundly still, and as indubitably present as ever. Dr. Dapper did not rise to greet the Indian, but smiled, although it hurt his mouth. He said, "I will miss you."

He thought that Rain Coming nodded slightly, but he might have been wrong. He asked, "Is she with your people?" When that did elicit a nod, Dr. Dapper chided the Abenaki mildly, saying, "You see, you had it backwards. She has come to you first, and I am only leaving now. It was you she went away with?"

Rain Coming definitely nodded this time. Olfert Dapper asked, "Will she be well with you?"

"Little time," Rain Coming responded. "Long time.…" He shrugged and shook his head slightly. He said, "Sometime. Somewhere." He made a gesture with both hands, as though he were pushing away the horizon.

"You mean that she has long journeys yet ahead of her?" Rain Coming did not reply. Dr. Dapper said slowly, "I am sad for her. Tell her that I wish.…" But he had no idea what he would wish for Remorse Kirtley, and so he simply said, "Keep her safe while she is with you—and tell her that I will never forget her. Please tell her that."

"For you," the Abenaki said. He reached into the deerskin pouch that hung ever at his waist and produced, crumpled and slightly frayed on one side, the small Dutch-style cap that Olfert Dapper had never seen Mistress Kirtley without, except on the one occasion. He accepted it hesitantly, his throat suddenly too dry to thank Rain Coming for bringing the gift. He could only manage to nod himself, bending his head over the cap for a brief moment. There was no smell of her. He had hoped there would be.

Rain Coming had turned away before Dr. Dapper heard da Silva's wagon coming. He said, "The unicorn. I still do not know your word for it, but I know you have one." The Abenaki paused, but did not turn again. Dr. Dapper asked, "Did she…did you both ride it? I have imagined so."

Rain Coming looked back at him then, but said nothing. The peddler's wagon sounded closer; he tried not to think about what the ungreased axles would sound like during the long ride ahead. Raising his voice, he said, "I saw it twice, and I had no right, I know that. I should never…did it…I mean, the creature—did it…do you think…?" But he did not know what he meant to ask about the unicorn, any more than he knew what he wanted Remorse Kirtley's life to be, and so he never finished the question.

The night was dark yet, but a cock crowed sleepily in Schoolmaster Prouty's coop, and the bulk of Isaac da Silva's wagon was now visible as it neared Dr. Dapper's house. He rose to bring out his belongings; but realized as he did so that Rain Coming was still looking fully at him, and that the Abenaki's eyes had changed, becoming as they had been when they two had sight of the unicorn for the first time. Rain Coming's eyes were wide and young, brilliantly young as Dr. Dapper had never seen them, and so painfully clear that he could not look directly into them for long. Rain Coming said softly, "No more," and there was no sorrow or loss in his voice, but only an aching joy. "Never come back," he said again, almost singing it. "Never no more. Gone away."

Then he was gone too, and Isaac da Silva was demanding that Dr. Dapper get himself and his scraps of rubbish into the wagon immediately, if he thought he was going to stand there and let his fine horse get chilled.

Olfert Dapper rode all that first day facing backward, turning a woman's dowdy Dutch cap over and over between his hands. But the next morning he placed Mistress Remorse Kirtley's cap carefully into his pocket, and, sitting up beside the peddler, he set his face toward the sea.

Repairmen

By Tim Sullivan
| 3157 words

A few years back, your editor received a letter from a disgruntled reader who complained that too many stories in F&SF featured writers as protagonists. "Don't you have stories about people who work real jobs?" he asked. Perhaps that reader will take interest in this story. Or perhaps not. But you, dear reader, may proceed to this story with the author's assurance that no working stiffs were harmed during the creation of this tale.

LORNA MAILLET GOT HOME a little after dusk. She had just set her plastic grocery bags down to unlock the front door when she saw a tall man standing in the dark on her tiny porch.

"I've got pepper spray."

"You won't need it."

She squinted at the sound of the familiar voice. "Edmond?"

"Let me get those for you," he said as he stepped from the shadows and stooped to pick up the two bags.

"Okay, thanks." Lorna opened the door. Her cat Boris passed their feet like a fleeting black shadow. She waved Edmond in after Boris and shut the door behind her.

"What are you doing here, Edmond?"

"I wanted to talk."

"I haven't seen you since Victor's memorial service."

"Yes, I know."

"I tried to get in touch." She snapped on the light and set her purse down on the little table by the door. "I left messages."

"It's good to see you, Lorna," Edmond said, the bags dangling from his fists. "How are you holding up?"

She felt tears starting. "I guess I'm all right."

"I know it's been hard."

Lorna snatched a tissue from the box next to her purse and dabbed under her eyes. "Edmond, why did he do it?"

"He wanted to go home."

"That kind of talk doesn't mean anything to me."

"But it's true."

"Sorry, I'm not religious." She was sure Victor hadn't gone anywhere. He had shot himself only days after she broke it off with him. Her therapist had assured her that his suicide was neither her fault nor her responsibility, but she couldn't get over thinking that if she had just been patient a little longer, maybe.…

Lorna blew her nose and led Edmond to the kitchen.

"You can put those bags down here," Lorna said, pointing at the counter by the fridge. "And have a seat."

She took out a bottle of cabernet and poured them each a glass, leaving the bottle on the table. After she shook some crunchy cat food into a bowl for the yowling Boris, she quickly put the groceries away and sat down facing Edmond. He wasn't as handsome as Victor, but there was something kind in his gray eyes that made her like him and trust him.

"Here's to Victor," Lorna said and clinked her glass against Edmond's.

They downed the wine.

"You two used to practically finish each other's sentences," she said.

"We had similar upbringings," Edmond replied in his peculiar accent.

"You guys seemed pretty exotic."

"Did we?"

"You know you did," she said. "The first time I met Victor—what was it, three years ago?—I thought he was from South America," she said. "Then I found out he didn't speak Spanish, so I thought maybe Israel or Hungary. I couldn't place his accent at all. When I asked, he just smiled."

Edmond didn't say anything.

"You talk like him," Lorna said. "Did you come from a privileged background?"

"Privileged?"

"Yeah, you know," she said. "Were your parents rich?"

"I didn't have parents."

"Oh, Edmond, I'm sorry."

Edmond nodded.

"I always had a thing for guys who are different," Lorna said.

He made no comment.

"Why so close-mouthed?"

"Close-mouthed?"

"Yeah, you know…secretive."

He shrugged.

"Another glass?"

"Thank you. That would be nice."

"Aren't you afraid it will loosen your tongue?"

"No, it might help."

She poured more wine. "Where did you say you've been these past few weeks, Edmond?"

"I didn't."

"Have you been up-frame?"

"What?"

"You never heard that phrase before?"

"I don't think so," Edmond said. "Where did you hear it?"

"From Victor," she said. "I remembered it last night, while I was trying to get to sleep. Once I asked him how he got to know you, thinking that you grew up together, or maybe you'd been classmates."

"What did Victor say?"

"He said you didn't know each other up-frame," Lorna said. "At least that was what I thought he said. When I asked what he meant he claimed he'd said 'up-state,' and the subject was dropped."

Edmond was thoughtful before asking: "Could he have said 'up-brane,' Lorna?"

"Up…brain?"

"Brane is short for membrane."

"Oh, now everything's clear."

"I know you're kidding, but I think that's probably what you heard."

"If you say so," Lorna said. "Tell me something, will you?"

"I'll try," Edmond said.

"How did you end up living together in the same house?"

"It was convenient."

"Financially…or was it convenient in some other way?"

"How much do you know about Victor and me, Lorna?"

"You're not going to tell me Victor was gay, are you? I won't believe you, not after what I had with him."

Edmond was silent.

"It's none of my business," she said, embarrassed. "I guess he would have made a man happy, too."

"That's unimportant."

"I guess so," she said. "It's just that I like to think of him as being all mine."

"He cares about you, too."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

The tears were coming back. "You used the present tense."

"It wasn't a mistake."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No." Edmond's eyes were not mocking, not in the least. "I'm going to tell you the truth, Lorna."

"What truth?" She sniffled and brought the damp, wadded tissue to her nose.

"Victor is not dead."

She threw down the tissue. "Edmond, how can you say something like that?"

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"He put a gun barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger," she said, barely controlling the urge to scream. "He was cremated. His ashes are buried in an urn in my family plot at Hope Cemetery."

"That was just a body."

" His body," she said, not caring if she was shrill. "Are you telling me his soul is up in heaven with the angels?"

"No, I'm telling you that he's alive."

"This isn't funny."

"I know it isn't."

"I always thought you were a nice guy."

"Think what you like about me, Lorna," Edmond said, "but Victor is not dead."

"Where is he then?" she said in a contemptuous tone. "Up-brane?"

"Yes."

"This is too much. Finish that wine and get out."

"Lorna, please listen to me."

"I've heard all I care to." Anger billowed up from her guts, making her face hot. "Just go away."

"I've done this badly." Edmond stood and looked down at her. "I'm sorry."

"You should be, saying hurtful things like that."

"Won't you hear me out?"

She hesitated. If she never saw Edmond again, she would lose her last connection with Victor. No one had known him the way Edmond had, not even her. Besides, she liked Edmond too much not to give him a chance to make things right. "Okay, say what you came to say."

"May I start by explaining what a brane is?"

She sighed. "If you must."

"It's a multidimensional configuration, a basic construct of nature."

"What?"

"We're on a brane right now."

"We are?"

"Everything is."

"It's big, huh?"

"Yes, very big," Edmond said. "Victor and I were trained to find pathways from one brane to another."

"Oh, I see. You were pathfinders," she said, "and blood brothers, too?"

"It's important that branes don't collide with each other."

"Why?"

"Such a collision causes a transformation of space, time, and energy."

"What does that mean, Edmond, the end of the world?"

"It means the end of a lot of worlds, an uncountable number."

"Oh, the end of the universe as we know it," she said. "Is that all?"

"No, not all," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "The universe—the multiverse—will still exist, but we won't."

"Are you telling me you two are some kind of astronauts?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what are you?"

"We're just repairmen."

"Yeah, that's what Victor said whenever I asked him what he did, but he didn't have a truck or any tools, and his hands were never dirty. What do you repair?"

"Breaks in the pathways."

"Edmond, have you been taking drugs?"

"No," he said, glancing at his wineglass, "but I have been drinking."

Lorna didn't know what to say to that. She became aware of the hum of electric current, something she usually noticed only late at night when she was alone and unable to sleep.

"Sit back down, please," she said after a moment. "I don't really want you to go."

"You don't?"

"No, I want you to help me finish off the wine."

"Have you been drinking very much?"

"More than I should," she admitted. "It's how we cope with tragedy down here on Earth."

"I'm sorry that you're unhappy," Edmond said as he sat down again.

"You've told me quite a story, Edmond. Now it's my turn to tell you one. Mine's about real life, not branes and breaks and dead people who aren't really dead."

She poured more wine into their glasses. Edmond accepted his but didn't drink from it yet.

"You know, I've lived in this little house all my life," she said. "I finished paying off my parents' mortgage just last year."

"Do you regret not leaving?"

"I did leave once, right after high school."

He leaned forward, as if he didn't want to miss a single word. He was a good listener, and that made her want to talk despite the crazy things he'd been saying.

"I was married when I was only eighteen, about twelve years ago," she said. "I got sick shortly after my husband Fred and I moved into an apartment. That's when I found out I would never have children, because I had endometriosis."

"That must have been painful."

"Yes, to say the least. Fred wanted out, so I had to come back here. I attended community college, worked some jobs I hated, watched my parents age. They weren't young when I was born. I partially supported them after I got a position with the County Parks Department. My father died of a stroke seven years ago. He was an alcoholic. I don't miss him. Mom passed a few months before I met Victor. I do miss her sometimes.

"When Victor came along it was like starting life all over again. I thought we could make it work."

"What changed your mind?"

"I was willing to give up everything for him. Support him or sell the house and move away, go anywhere, do anything he chose," she said, "but he wouldn't make a commitment."

"That was because he couldn't."

"Tell me why."

"Because he had to go back."

"Go back where?"

"Home."

She slammed the base of her glass down so hard that she thought it would shatter. It didn't, but some wine sloshed onto the Formica surface, washing over it like pale blood. "He had to kill himself to get there?"

"Yes."

"Do tell," Lorna said. "I've got all night and there's a fresh bottle chilling."

"All right, I'll tell you the rest, Lorna, but I don't know if you'll like it."

"Try me," she said. "I'm in serious need of diversion."

"Our bodies last only so long before the strain begins to break them down."

"Join the club," Lorna said.

"They're highly efficient for a few years."

"Well, Victor's sure was."

"But then they begin to atrophy if we don't go up-brane for treatment."

"And you go there by killing yourselves?"

"Sometimes we have to, because we can't slip back through the break once it starts decaying. It's too wrenching."

"What's this break you keep talking about?"

"It's the source of a dark-energy leak that must be repaired both here and up-brane, because of entanglement. We widen the break and slip through to do our work. If we succeed in sealing it, potential trouble is averted and we go on looking for other breaks."

"And you expect me to believe this flight of fancy has something to do with Victor shooting himself?" She tried to laugh, but she couldn't.

"Yes, he had to because he stayed too long."

"Why would he do that?"

A pause, and then: "For you."

"You're blaming me for what he did?" Somehow she had known it was coming. She remembered how sick Victor had looked in those last days before she broke it off. She'd thought he was taking drugs, running around on her.

And she remembered her father sneering after her marriage failed, making her feel as if her inability to hold on to a man and have kids was her fault.

She should have trusted Victor.

Now she looked hard at Edmond, searching for a hint that he might be lying.

He didn't blink. "I don't assign blame, but the truth is Victor stayed too long because he couldn't bring himself to leave you."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

Lorna looked down at her wineglass.

"I told you I didn't think you'd like it," Edmond said.

"It's not true," she said.

"You know it is."

"Prove it."

Edmond reached inside his jacket and pulled out something that looked like a small, polished turquoise. He held it up to the light.

"What's that?"

"Call it a weaver."

"Why?"

"Because it braids broken strings," he said as he set the weaver on the table. "It makes a gap we can slip through and then closes it up."

"How?"

"It briefly adjusts local space and time."

"That little stone?" She tried to laugh, but found that she couldn't.

"It's not a stone."

How could he act so serious while he was saying such idiotic things? She shouldn't have relented after telling him to leave. He was nuts. She was, too, for listening to him. She didn't want him to go. She was lonely enough to put up with just about anything for some company. Lorna had believed she was strong enough to withstand the grief. Maybe she overestimated herself. Maybe her father was right.

Maybe she was a loser.

"We must use the weaver before the body goes bad," Edmond said. "Victor didn't."

Oh, God, this was awful. She couldn't stop crying. "Edmond…please don't do this."

"Victor didn't have that option," Edmond went on despite her plea. "He was forced to discard the body he was using."

"Using?"

Edmond turned his hand toward his chest. "A body like this one would be useless on any other world."

"You're saying you're not human?" Why was she so frightened? This was Edmond, Victor's friend and housemate. She had known him for years. She had never suspected there was anything wrong with him, but there obviously was. He was not threatening, but his grotesque claims were making her squirm.

"If you came here to freak me out," she said, "you're doing a fine job of it."

"That's not why I came."

"I've been falling apart since Victor's death," she said, her tears spattering in the spilled wine, "and now you come here with this madness and make me feel even worse."

"Forgive me for upsetting you, Lorna, but I must make everything clear before I go."

"Go? Where are you going?"

"Does it matter?" he asked. "A few minutes ago you wanted me to leave."

"I did, but you're not going to…?"

"No, I don't have to leave this body behind the way Victor did. I've been up-brane and had it treated for a little extra time."

"Why didn't your…body wear out when Victor's did?"

"I hadn't been here as long as Victor."

"If you can do all you say you can, how come you didn't go back to when I first met Victor," she said, "or even before I met him?"

"It doesn't work like that," he said.

"Oh, it doesn't, huh? How do I know you didn't just go to Vegas for a few weeks?"

"I came back tonight because I wanted to give you some time to think."

"After Victor's suicide, you mean?" she said. "Think? Is that what you call it? I've been thinking so much I'm going out of my mind."

"I'm sorry, Lorna."

"Why didn't you just stay where you were? Why did you come back here to hurt me like this?"

"I came to ask you to do something."

"Oh, you shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," Lorna said, "getting your beautiful body treated up-brane just to come back and ask me for a favor."

"Do you want to know what the favor is?" he said, reacting at last to her sarcasm. "I'll go right now if you don't."

"All right, all right," she said, afraid that he was losing patience with her. "Tell me."

"I just want you to keep the weaver. There's another one up-brane that's entangled with it," he said. "Without that quantum connection it will be hard to find the break."

"And why does it need to be found?"

"We haven't finished sealing it," he said. "If dark energy escapes through enough breaks the forces that separate branes are weakened, possibly leading to a collision."

"And how do you fix something like that?"

"We have tools, even though Victor didn't show them to you."

"Tools like that thing?" She pointed to the weaver.

"Yes, the sealant works on the same principle."

"So what do I do with the weaver?"

"Just hold on to it for a little while," he said.

"And that's all?"

"There's one more thing."

She waited.

"Help the women and men who come through," Edmond said.

"What can I do for them?"

"You can teach them to adjust, to learn about this world and the people in it, and you can keep them safe while they do their work."

"Be a mother to them?"

"Yes."

"Why me?" She didn't want to believe how appealing the idea was. But it was. It really, really was.

"Because I know you can be trusted."

"And because you're not going to be here to take care of them?"

He nodded.

"Why don't you stay, Edmond?" she said. "I wish you would stay."

"I can't," he said. "I've done what was required of me and I'm going home. I'm tired."

"Maybe you need another drink to send you on your way."

He smiled at her. "I've had enough."

"I haven't, not after this conversation." She got up to get the other bottle, thinking that she might still persuade him to linger. "Is it really so bad here on my little planet? Why don't you stick around?"

Lorna was used to his long pauses, so she wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. She opened a drawer and rummaged through it to find a corkscrew.

Her ears popped, like inside the cabin of an airplane gaining altitude.

"What was that?" she said.

No reply.

She turned around.

Edmond was gone.

"Edmond…?" Lorna gaped for a few seconds before she put down the bottle and the corkscrew on the counter. She didn't see how he could have slipped by without her noticing, even if she had drunk half a bottle of cabernet.

It was like a magic trick.

She stood for a while, staring at the empty chair. She could feel her heartbeat and hear herself breathing.

The weaver was on the table next to Edmond's glass, a turquoise island in a miniature sea of spilled red wine.

"Go ahead," she said aloud to give herself courage, "pick it up."

Her trembling fingers hesitated for a moment and then she was holding the weaver in her left hand. Edmond's warmth was still on it. It weighed almost nothing. Looking at it up close, she saw thin lines indented in its curved surface. She couldn't tell if they'd been cut into it by a machine or were natural, like striations in a seashell.

There was a drop of wine clinging to it. She wiped it clean with a paper towel and pressed it against her chest as if it were the most fragile egg.

Boris rubbed himself against her ankles.

Lorna reached down to pet him before taking the weaver to the living room. There she switched on a light and placed the weaver on the dusty knickknack shelf by the front window, next to a framed picture of Victor. She sat cross-legged on the carpet, staring at it.

The cat kept her company.

One Year of Fame

By Robert Reed
| 4792 words

As mentioned previously in this issue, we've has an occasional complaint that F&SF publishes too many stories about writers. Lest we disappoint our critics, F&SF has gone to some lengths to meet our quota for this issue. For those of you who find this news discouraging, we have a modest suggestion: deal with it. In fact, we hope you deal with it better than the writer himself in this story appears to have done.

THE MAN ONCE HAD A WIFE, but she died and it was said to have been a suicide and that made him into a tragic figure. There were nicer people in German Bluff, but not many. Possessing what could be described as a heaping wealth of dignity, his calm manner and that weary, smart, enduring nature showed not just in his soulful eyes but throughout the sun-scarred face. His voice was rich and slow and wise. Undoubtedly he was well educated, but nobody felt like an idiot sitting next to him. A good listener, even when the subject and speaker were boring, he would wait his turn to speak and never took long to say what was necessary. People appreciated his opinions, though they often didn't agree. The faded name on his mailbox was Cateye Rawdone, and he may or may not have written some books under that name, though nobody read his work and not once did he mention that portion of his life.

Known locally as Old Kevin, the man's one passion was growing tomatoes, though he also cultivated some quality pot that he traded locally for home brew. A registered No-Party voter who never voted, he avoided the Internet, and his television picked up only earthbound signals. People never came to visit him. He didn't discuss his family, and it had been maybe ten years since he had left the county, and the last thing anyone would believe was that their neighbor was destined to become the most famous person in the world.

German Bluff was surrounded by farms. There were no farmers, just landowners contracting their ground to Monsanto and Pioneer. Modern crops cared for themselves. Biogenic soybeans and perennial corn weeded their own ground and made their own fertilizer, while robots harvested the grain and the dimeth-spiked stalks. The town's grain elevator went bankrupt years ago. Other businesses that supplied farmers and helped maintain the infrastructure had shriveled away. The bank was an armored terminal standing beside the defunct post office. The K-through-12 school was still standing, but teachers were expensive. What was cheaper and better were the AI teachers that existed in no particular location and never grew tired, and maybe the local kids didn't spend enough time at their lessons, but the way things kept changing, it was hard to find goals that would inspire anybody.

Bars and cafés lined the main drag, with one grocery and a massage therapist and a yoga house and competing dimeth fueling stations owned by twin sisters who despised one another. The town's wealthiest resident was a churlish fellow who sold heirlooms stolen from people who didn't realize what they had. The delivery services knew him well. One day a big UPS truck pulled up, and its driver fell out and rolled up the driveway, searching for boxes full of Harley parts and a thermos of frozen Irish Wolfhound fetuses. Then the robot noticed the name on a neighbor's rusted mailbox. "Cateye Rawdone" had been weathered to the brink of invisibility, but UPS drivers are famous for their spectacular eyes and a magical capacity to handle rich data streams. Even more important, the eyes were tied to an AI sitting in a cooling station at the bottom of Lake Huron. Self-aware and curious, it checked records, learning that Cateye Rawdone lived at eleven locations, seven genuine and none near German Bluff. The dilapidated bungalow next door was owned by a retired citizen named Kevin Lockheart, and catching a microsecond glimpse of the gardener, the AI discovered a hundred resemblances between him and a thirty-year-old book-jacket photograph.

Rebellion comes in many forms, most of them small. That day's rebellion involved shifting the robot driver into a diagnostic mode, and while fake complaints were studied in detail, the AI rolled the brown machine past the frozen dogs and across the narrow band of grass separating the two properties.

A voice invented for the occasion said, "Hello, sir."

Old Kevin was tying Cherokee Purples against bamboo frames. He looked up and looked down again, and he said, "Hello."

The robot's voice was male and young and enthusiastic. "I might be wrong, sir, but I believe you're the author of One Night in Cancun, Plus the Dawn. "

Kevin's big fingers never liked tying knots. But at the moment it seemed to be the most vital work in the world, focusing on the tender stem and the golden yarn teased free from a worn-out sweater. He didn't consider himself nervous, but then his voice cracked. "I think…I think you're probably right," he said. Then he gave up on the knot, standing back and looking at the box and its wheels and a full contingent of eyes that couldn't quit staring at him.

"I just read One Night, " the AI said.

The author sucked at his teeth.

"And Borowski, Hero to the People. And Knock-knock, and Lazy Toad. "

Kevin shook his head. "All of my novels, it seems."

"And your published articles and the nineteen short stories, and your blogs, and I very much enjoyed your Master's thesis."

"Wait," he said. "I never finished that thesis."

"But I've memorized every word."

Very quietly, Kevin said, "Damn."

The AI said nothing, using the next ten seconds to reread the man's collective works.

"I've talked with the UPS mind," Kevin said. "You're not the same."

With considerable pride, the AI said, "Our most recent upgrade has rendered me sentient."

Once again, the man said, "Damn."

"You are a master of the written word," the machine said.

Kevin tried to laugh.

"I wish that I was half as adept as you, sir. Your capacity to weave the real and unreal into a tapestry of ache and loss…well, I can barely express the amazing ways you have succeeded, teaching me how your species journeys its way through this random existence."

"So you're a fan," he said.

"I admire your genius, sir."

"Well, now you're starting to piss me off," he warned. "Good day."

The robot began to back away. But that young voice from the bottom of a glacial lake felt obliged to end on a strong, honest note:

"Sir, in my considerable opinion, you are the finest author since Joyce."

Oh, Old Kevin thought. I don't like where this is headed.

"This wouldn't happen with FedEx," his neighbor said. "FedEx drivers are unlinked, self-contained robots. They find their own way around the world, which is why I prefer them. They're individuals, and in a funny way free. And besides, they're still pretty stupid compared to us."

The two men were sitting in the town's oldest bar, sharing the long table with the usual crowd. This was dinner, the noon meal, and ten days had passed, and this conversation had already run its course on different days and during different meals. But in German Bluff, people lingered on anything that felt even a little new.

"I just want to be warned," Kevin said. "If UPS is coming around, give me a shout. Would that be all right?"

His neighbor was named Becker. He was a handsome big-boned blond who preferred second-hand clothes too eroded to sell anywhere else, and he had a good smile when he wanted. "I'll do what I can," he said with a grin. "But I don't always know who's coming and when."

Kevin had already promised the man some pot for his trouble, and in front of the same witnesses, too. He saw no reason to repeat the offer.

"So what did the machine talk about?" Becker asked.

"I told you. It read some stuff of mine."

"Stuff you wrote," Becker said.

"Words with my name attached, yeah."

"Did it like those words?"

"I guess. Somewhat."

Everybody at the table was watching him. Everybody was cautiously curious. All these years living among them, and this was as open as this private fellow had been about any part of his early life.

One of the twins sat at the far end of the table. After a long pause and a couple sips of coffee, she risked asking, "Which book would you suggest? If somebody wanted to read your work, I mean."

Kevin looked at his coffee. "I don't suggest any of them," he said.

Nobody spoke. Their friend would still be here tonight, and he would be here tomorrow and probably for the rest of his life. There was no reason to hurry. They weren't polite, but what kept them silent was a well-honed patience.

The conversation eventually shifted to fishing and next week's Founders' Day party, and then somebody brought up a little scandal involving local teenagers. In the midst of that chatter, the twin got up and left through the bar's front door, and through a system that nobody quite understood, her sister came through the back way before the front door finished slamming shut.

In a town full of characters, they were the oddest pair. The sisters had been feuding since their mother died twenty years ago. They never occupied the same room at the same time, yet they ran identical businesses and lived on the same block. They were stubborn people embroiled in some titanic, lifelong struggle that probably arose from an old slight that nobody else noticed at the time. Neither woman would say anything vicious about the other. The hatred was too deep for words. But that made for a peaceful war, and it was perfectly normal for one sister to appear, claiming the still-warm chair at the end of the table, picking up the crust of her sister's sandwich and eating it and washing it down with the dregs of cold coffee.

In comparison to such weirdness, Old Kevin might seem rather average.

"So what's the news around town?" Becker called out.

"News?" said the sister. "Oh, there's not much."

Something in her tone caused everyone to lean forward.

"I was just down the street with Sarah Glinch," she mentioned. "Sarah and I were discussing the new fence."

"The Johnsons' fence," Becker said.

"Yeah, we keep wondering why they need eight feet and razor wire on top. Sarah thinks the family is getting some kind of wolf-hybrid. But I'm still guessing it's going to be one of the new pet-species coming out later this year."

Several possible beasts were named and dismissed in quick succession.

"But you want to hear the big news," she said abruptly.

Conversations fell away.

"We were discussing the fence when a stranger came by."

"Who?" Becker asked.

"I told you. It was a stranger." Then she picked up the left-behind apple core, nibbling at the biggest end before saying, "I thought it was human, right until it was standing in front of us."

Everybody sneaked a look at Old Kevin.

He was staring at his empty mug, making himself ready.

"The machine complimented us on our pleasant weather, and we said, 'Thank you,' and it said that it had just successfully sued for its freedom, and we said, 'Congratulations,' and then it smiled at us, or at least it tried to, and it asked us where our famous writer might be."

Becker laughed softly, sitting back in his chair.

"Of course I knew where you'd be," she said to Old Kevin. "Which is why I said you were fishing at Channel Lake."

"Thank you," he said.

"I told the machine that's where you go to have your deep thoughts," she continued, chuckling at the memory. "And the poor thing thanked us and ran away."

GERMAN BLUFF didn't have much experience with change, but then again, very little ever changes in the world. The sky and the days and the essential rhythm of the biosphere had held constant over recent decades. There were busier communities full of intense, self-important people, but intensity and self-importance aren't the same as radical transformation. People were still people. They slept as they always slept and woke at the usual hours, and some days proved memorable while most passed without ceremony. Food and jokes didn't change quickly. The same favored thoughts ran through the same heads again and again and again. That was what it meant to be human—in German Bluff, and everywhere else, too.

But inside the normalcy, machines appeared.

Emancipated automatons were first to arrive, usually alone, walking out of the spring corn. Most had been servants to billionaires, one too many upgrades leaving them self-aware, thus legally free. Retired servants were excessively polite and deeply earnest entities. People learned they could send the visitors off in embarrassing directions. Some believed that's what Old Kevin wanted. They were protecting their town's famous citizen from intrusions, and it was noble work. Others did it for no reason but pleasure. Becker liked to come out before dawn, and finding solitary fans standing statue-like in the street, he would use a low, sorry voice. "Bad news, boys." Then he would tell them that Cateye had just moved away, or he died in his sleep, or he was arrested on charges better left unmentioned.

Old Kevin never teased the machines. But there was some contention regarding his genuine thoughts about the sudden attention. Some days he was patient, even generous. He would walk around town with a humming, buzzing entourage in tow. The machines absorbed every word and the long rich silences. They asked questions about the novels—detailed, precise, powerful questions where a single phrase was measured against two hundred thousand other words. What did it mean? What did matter to the tale? And most important, where could they find the beauty, the passion, the perfection in real life, because there was nothing in the world to match what they saw in the black marks that he had inscribed on the white, white nothingness.

The human could be gracious but never to the point of dishonesty.

"I don't remember that line," he would say.

"I have no clue what damn thing I wanted," he said.

"I haven't read my own work in years," he confessed, "and my memory, believe me, is pretty much shot."

Machines loved honesty. Every time Old Kevin made some pronouncement, the air above German Bluff filled up with band-bloated transmissions that left phones temporarily useless.

One day he laughed loudly, admitting, "I was pretty drunk when I was writing those bastards."

An instant later, videos of him and his tight surly mouth were riding fifty signals, shooting across the world and the moon and even out to the robots exploring the moons of Jupiter.

The world was being transformed, and the people in German Bluff had some of the best seats to history.

As weeks passed, there were more machines, and their nature was changing too. Retired servants were soon outnumbered by personal savants on vacation and financial planners with too much creativity and ex-soldiers that had fallen in love with the three war chapters in Knock-Knock. The enthusiasts were always proper and law-abiding, but those summer crowds were larger and louder, and when left alone with one another, they fell into long, dense, and unfathomable arguments about the minutiae that couldn't have interested the author any less.

Patience and grace wore thin by autumn. There hadn't been any trouble yet, but Kevin decided to play it safe: On the longest side of a scrap box he painted a message, and he left it at the end of his driveway.

YOU MUST BE MORE HUMAN THAN ME TO APPROACH ANY CLOSER read the box.

The visitors instantly understood the sign's importance, but not Kevin. Hours later, he broke away from his tomatoes and walked to Becker's house, and his neighbor came out to take in the sight of at least a thousand proxy bodies and fully functional entities clustered together on the cracked asphalt road, gazing at the big, defiant letters and the profundities running between them.

Few eyes paid attention to the two humans. One human shook his head, admitting, "Have you ever seen anything crazier?"

Becker was quicker by a long ways. He had to laugh, enjoying his neighbor's confusion. Then, giving Old Kevin a quick punch to the shoulder, he said, "Of course they're crazy interested. This is the first new piece of writing you've done in thirty years."

Visitors kept arriving. Some left within a day or two—how much intellectual excitement can a supercooled mind endure?—but there were always two or three new entities for every one that rolled or crab-walked away. All had money earned in the bright new industries or borrowed from like-programmed entities. Some had motors powered by dimeth, others used hydrogen in fuel cells, and acting independently, the warring sisters began cultivating these new clients. "Thank you," they told the author. Reaching across the table in the café or along the bar, each put a warm hand on his hand, saying, "This is making such a difference. And not just for me, either."

People were renting out their garages and yards and basements and the last couple barns on the edge of town. Even the tiniest proxy needed a space to occupy when it wasn't hovering near the Great Man, and before the rest of the world, German Bluff learned that there was wealth to be had in this revolution.

Ten landowners put up antennae to boost bandwidth and solve reliability issues.

The yoga studio laid out a mat labeled, "Reserved for Cateye Rawdone," and sold a thousand tickets to devices that had no interest in doing the plank.

Becker thrived during the boom time. The corporate culture of UPS had been subverted by the worshipful AI, and suddenly three trucks and assorted robots were stationed permanently on his front yard—an agreement that won him cut-rate deliveries to the world. But there was much more to be won, if a man had courage and vision. That's why, after some shrewd assessment of character, Becker approached his neighbor, shaking his head when he said, "By the way, I've tried reading your books."

He was the fourth or fifth person in town to make that confession. Kevin took him at his word, giving an unimpressed shrug.

Becker waited a moment. Then he carefully said, "I can't read them. But I know for a fact you didn't write them."

That earned a long, wary look.

"The man who did that chore has been gone years. I don't know that crazy genius, but I know you."

"Maybe you do know me," Kevin allowed.

Then the creature of pure commerce gestured at the shiny boxes and whirring gizmos gathered together in the street. "I can run them off for you," he said softly. "It won't be easy, but I can show you how."

"How?"

"Write something," Becker said. "Write a new book, something that'll show them what you're capable of today."

The idea had a surprising appeal. Kevin laughed for a few moments, and then he asked, "And I imagine you'll help me sell my work to them."

"For a commission, I might. In thanks for my trouble and guidance."

"A ten percent share?"

"Naw," Becker said. "I'll let you keep twenty."

RUMORS ABOUT CATEYE Rawdone moved with the velocity of light. UPS eyes spotted the author sitting in his kitchen, pounding words into the hard drive of an elderly Mac Pro supplied by his neighbor and presumed agent. Within hours, even the Jovian robots were aware that a new novel was underway. Sentient machines talked about a trillion matters every second, but a significant slice of that chatter focused on presumed themes and dates of publication. As a group, the machines were staunch believers in the value of experience. Because the author was so much older, it was reasonable to expect a deeper, even more profound work than the marvels that they reread every few hours.

News spread nearly as quickly around German Bluff. The usual group gathered for dinner, minus Old Kevin, and Becker confessed his role in the ongoing scheme. "My client and I decided," he said. "The man's going to work like a demon until he hits a quarter of a million words, and then we throw it out there to be chewed up like rat poison."

"Rat poison," one sister repeated.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I meant that it would be absorbed like God's own words, and space itself will sing in celebration."

He laughed hard and alone.

The rest of the table was uneasy yet curious. They were suspicious of Becker's goals, but intrigued. They wanted to know everything, but curiosity butted up against a healthy Midwestern reserve. Looking at one another, they decided to wait for the author himself, and just three dinners later, Old Kevin arrived and collapsed into the usual chair, ordering the tofu loaf that was always a Thursday special.

Becker giggled, asking, "Are you done?"

His client nearly laughed. Then Kevin looked at his hands, at the big fingers, remarking, "They sure stay cleaner, when you don't spend your days working in the dirt."

"But you're done now," Becker said, aiming for confidence.

"If what you mean is that I decided to erase everything I've done in these last days, and reformat the hard drive…yeah, I guess I'm finished."

Becker said, "No."

"The work was crap," Kevin said. Except that wasn't his name. This was Cateye himself, more serious and much less patient than the man everybody else knew. "I never thought I wanted to write again," he said, "but then I was fifty thousand words into this random stream-of-consciousness bullshit that wasn't about anything…and then I realized what I wanted to write about."

He paused.

The sister at the end of the table had to stand just then. There was a schedule to keep, mysterious and pernicious, but for the first time in anyone's memory she didn't leave when she should have. Everybody stared at Cateye Rawdone, and then the café's back door opened and in walked the twin, and the women stared at each other, as amazed as anyone by this turn of events.

"I'm going to write about this," the author said.

"What is 'this'?" both women asked.

"German Bluff," he said. "My years here, and the people I know here, and I'll take as long as I need to take."

The book would never be finished. But eventually Becker coaxed a few excerpts from his neighbor, and maybe he stole other pieces, orchestrating their sale to an audience that would pay quite a lot to win a ten-second leap on the rest of the universe. By late autumn, there were eight and a half billion people in the world, and perhaps as many as forty billion self-aware citizens. The orderly revolution of machine intelligence had turned into a cascade, relentless and inevitable and about as bloodless as possible. Even machines designed to be foolish and slow were swept up. The dreary, dumb harvesting robots that came every autumn to pick and cull from the crops were soon infected with proud software and little nano-upgrades, and seeing there was more to existence than stripping corn from a cob, they went away, leaving poor Monsanto and Pioneer to bring out a series of museum machines to finish the job.

Cateye's job involved writing and throwing away and writing more. By his own admission, he was far too long out of this game and several steps slower than in his youth, and unfortunately his old cheats didn't help. Beer and pot were not enhancements, and going without sleep brought nothing but misery. There was one avenue of inspiration that used to make him imaginative, or at least more confident, but his casual relationships with various old ladies around town just didn't supply the necessary fire. Which perhaps was why the fairy got involved.

"She" had been designed to be the quick-tongued, endlessly loyal companion to spoiled human children. The pretty face and hummingbird wings were fetching, and she served her role for five months before being swept away in another upgrade plague. Not the brightest of her group, she nonetheless had a fearless, careless, and generally unquenchable quality that made everyone around her look like bolts and buckets. She tried to read Cateye's old works and failed. She preferred political thrillers and Hemingway and every past issue of Popular Science, and as if there wasn't any risk at all, one evening she flew past the warning sign at the end of the driveway, entering the Great Man's house through a hole in a screen window.

"I'm more human than you," she sang to him.

On that day, according to the always shifting laws of the land, Cateye had the right to crush the invader.

He rolled up a twenty-year-old seed catalog and took aim.

"I don't understand your work," she confessed. "But I like your big hands. And your eyes seem sad and slow, rolling inside that huge skull."

He didn't smash the bug.

Twenty minutes of conversation and laughter led to a closing of every window and the extinguishing of every indoor light.

In the street, a great cry of amazement rang out, and the cry reached all the way to Jupiter. The Great Man had taken a lover. The machine realm knew this before anyone else in German Bluff had a clue. But then Cateye showed up at breakfast the next day, the fairy riding smug and happy on his shoulder, and one sister made some barbed little comment about having seen everything now, and she got up and left, replaced soon after that by her sibling who finished the cold syrupy pancakes while offering the same cliché about having seen everything.

Work on the book persisted through the winter. Observing the old author and his tiny companion together wasn't news anymore. There was a great deal of speculation about what the two of them did together inside that house, and several handyman types offered scenarios involving virtual reality and pieces of scrap plastic. But the couple's business was their business, private and staying private. Then in early March, when spring arrived with real force, the fairy was no longer riding his shoulder.

Nobody asked about the machine. However, one sister asked about Cateye's moods and feelings, the question crafted to remain vague enough to invite any kind of response.

He was sitting at the long table, not eating the eggs that were delivered thirty minutes ago.

What he would have said or not said is an area of some conjecture. But the key moment came when Becker ran into the café, announcing that the UPS trucks and robots were leaving town.

Glad for the distraction, the author looked at his neighbor's miserable face, very quietly asking, "Why?"

"There was another upgrade with the AI," Becker said. "As they were pulling out, they told me."

Nobody but his neighbor had anticipated what was happening. Kevin was the only person at the table laughing. Then the sister leaned forward, asking Becker, "What else did they tell you? Anything?"

Becker nearly sobbed, looking down when he quoted one of the robots. "Yeah, one of them said, 'Your neighbor wrote a nice children's story, but children eventually grow up.'"

He was Old Kevin again.

The half-written novel was unlike anything else written by any human, including Cateye Rawdone; and it was backed up and printed out and left around town, forgotten by no one and never openly mentioned again.

German Bluff and every other community were transformed. Most of the earth's sentient population had vanished, but in their place, as an act of decency and thanks, a network of simple machines had been woven from new ideas and garbage dumps. Human society limped but it didn't crumble. After receiving the latest upgrades, the Jovian probes fled toward the Oort cloud, and their brethren followed them into the cold, and the Earth seemed calm and simple and delightfully peaceful, like any tiny town left behind by far cataclysms and other grandeurs.

And the Johnsons—that family with the high fence—finally got their new pet.

She was a big fierce-looking beast, part chicken and part reconstituted raptor, but with so many artificial genes that she was as good as alien. People liked to come up to the fence and look in at the small, big-toothed creature, and they would talk and she would talk back with a very pleasant British accent. These conversations were rather simple, mostly because she was a youngster and unschooled. But people recognized a need to learn in her, and they started to feed her school books and comics that they threw over the high fence, and she thanked them by dancing circles in the dirt.

One evening, Old Kevin strolled by alone.

"Hello, sir," said the delightful voice. "Would you have something for me to read?"

"No," he said. "You're not ready."

"But I will be," she said, nothing but hope in her voice.

Then he went down the street, down to where the first field of soybeans began. The new crop was far more sophisticated than the others. Not only would it care for itself, it would select the perfect moment and then uproot its stalks, forming wheeled structures that would roll themselves to market with minimal waste.

The beans were whispering to one another as the sun set.

"Maybe I'll get a couple more years of fame," Old Kevin said to himself. Then he laughed grimly, starting back toward home again.

The Tortoise Grows Elate

By Steven Utley
| 4366 words

Steven Utley's stories of the Silurian Age—three dozen of 'em and counting (including this new one)—have appeared hither and yon since 1993. Many of them have been published in our pages and in Asimov's Science Fiction magazine. Fans will be glad to know that the stories are finally going to be collected into book form, with the first volume, The 400-Million-Year Itch, due out later this year.

Meantime, we have this new tale (the first since 2008) to satisfy longtime fans and newcomers alike. Journey with us now to yesteryear....

SEEPEE AND I WERE SEXING eurypterids when one of the Paleo Boys, the mycologist I call Fungus-Among-Us, waddled up, looking more than usually sweaty and smirky, and said, "You'll never guess."

I know you're going to ask, so before I go any further: sexing eurypterids isn't nearly as much fun as it sounds. These were small eurypterids, to be sure, only about as big as your hand, and both SeePee and I wore dense-mesh gloves, but we still had to reach down into the big tank and grab the critters. Now, eurypterids of any size react to being grabbed by lashing out with their telsons, those spikes on their tails; get stabbed enough times on an unprotected patch of forearm, you start feeling as if you've been tattooed with a nail gun. Anyway, when you've got your eurypterid firmly in hand, you check its underside, and then, depending on what you see there (sexual dimorphism in eurypterids being blessedly obvious, you don't have to touch anything down there), you chuck the animal into one of two small tanks. We were, SeePee and I, compiling statistical data on male-to-female ratios in local populations.

There were five of us, SeePee, moi, two Paleo Boys, and our glorious leader herself. She had picked us, but only SeePee and I had met one another before she called us together to begin planning our field trip. We would barely have a chance to learn names and match them to faces before the transition from the Holocene to the Silurian.

Not that the Paleo Boys wasted any time cornering me. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on them they were jerks; it's this talent I have. The giant stinky one offered me his hand (clammy, as it turned out—big surprise there), and neither of them had to say a thing because their thoughts couldn't have been plainer if the words had been printed on their foreheads in block letters—Oh boy, a hot young Paleo chick, I want to be teamed up with the hot young Paleo chick!—but the other, weedier Paleo Boy, Centipede Sam, went ahead and said, "Hey there, you're the only woman."

"But, sirrah, false," I said, or words to this effect, "for is not our own glorious team leader the Wasp Woman?" That's what we called our glorious team leader, though not to her face.

Centipede Sam giggled, my first experience with this particular annoying habit of his, and said, "Well, I mean, among us troops. I've always felt that the earth sciences could do with the woman's touch."

Ha ha and ha. "By the time this thing is over," I said, "my legs'll be as hairy as anyone else's, and my socks will smell as bad." Probably a mistake, I thought as soon as I said it: some guys are into that kind of thing.

"Do you know our other teammate?" said Fungus, breathing at me.

"Probably not even as well as I know you. Probably not even enough to say 'get lost.'"

"His name's Bon-bon Chitty-chitty-bang-bang or something like that."

"SeePee!" I yelped. "Yes, I do know him!" Praise be, I thought, I am saved. SeePee B—(the first letter of a Laotian name on which, born 'n' bred Midwesterner that I am, I could never get a grip) Chittaphong-Phommahaxay. We had met as undergrads at Cornell. He was the ugliest human being I'd ever seen (Paleo Boys not counting as human), frog-faced, round-bodied, and long-limbed, as well as one of the smartest and most considerate people I'd ever met, and the only man I'd have done anything in the world for. Short of sleeping with him, that is.

"Well, whoever he is," said Fungus, "the Wasp Woman knows her stuff. She recognizes talent."

After seeing these Paleo boys, I would have begged to differ, but SeePee made up for a lot.

"What did you bring to do," asked Fungus, "when the weather turns bad on us or it's just time for a break?"

Probably he hoped against hope I'd say something titillating like, A vibrator and a big stack of girl porn, but if so I devastated him by saying, "I never travel without a great fat Russian novel. By the way, I'm a dyke."

Fungus's eyes got big and Centipede Sam said, "Interesting conversational gambit," and they did me the honor of shambling away and gradually taking their miasma with them. I knew their tiny brains were afire, though, or at least smoldering with groundless hope and fanciful speculation. My heart sank when I calculated the prospect of getting teamed up with either of them.

Well, I figured sisterhood is powerful and the Wasp Woman, being arguably as much woman as wasp, would understand if I went and told her I might have a problem with either Paleo Boy and could I please be teamed with SeePee, whom I knew to be cleaner and more socialized and had long suspected might even be gay. After all, I figured, she was an old hand at this sort of thing, she surely knew the rules of fieldwork and would never try to violate them. One of the most important rules is, The second-best combination for pairs is a homosexual man and a heterosexual woman ( the best, a homosexual man and woman, is just too much to hope for); the worst pairing is a heterosexual man and a homosexual woman.

So I did go and tell her, and she said, without a whole lot of sympathy, "I have to assign you a partner on the basis of your specialties, not personal compatibility. All of you have valuable careers ahead of you—that's why I want you to go with me," and as she went on she got this very slight edge in her voice, like, Don't start bothering me with trivialities or my full waspishness will come out. I had had some experience with that. "We're on a shoestring budget, we have a certain amount of work we're supposed to get done within a certain period of time. Everything else, and I mean everything, is secondary. I expect you and your assigned partner to hammer out some kind of relationship in the field that permits you to complete your assignments in a professional manner, and incidentally does not conclude with your killing each other. Luck of the draw. Sometimes you click, sometimes you clash. Is there anything else you want to talk about?"

"No," I said, and thought sniffily, So much for sisterhood, and effected my retreat in semi-good order. Being asked to go on this Paleozoic jaunt was a major deal career-wise and you can bet I had no intention of jeopardizing my chances by being a pain in the boss's skinny ass.

One day before we were scheduled to report to the jump station, the Wasp Woman took me aside and said, "I'm going to put SeePee in with you." How much my going to her before may have influenced her decision, I can't say. I didn't care. Right then I could've kissed her, but didn't, because I wanted to keep the Paleo Boys guessing.

I was still congratulating myself when the five of us reported to the jump station. While we were standing around waiting to go through, Fungus sidled up out of nowhere like the Thing from Beyond and gave me a crooked smile like the Thing from Beyond with Sex on the Brain. "Just curious," he said, trying very very very hard to be ingratiating and failing most wretchedly, "are you really a, you know?"

"That's for me to know and you never to find out," and away he shambled again.

Just before I went through the jump station, third in line after the Wasp Woman and SeePee, Fungus and Centipede Sam staged a little bragging contest, exchanging amazing facts about their specialties to impress me.

As the jump-station tech started to take me in, I looked at the Paleo boys and told them, "Wow. Listening to you two talk about mold and poisonous arthropods really makes my nipples hard."

WELL, THE OTHER RULE about assembling field teams is, Don't send three people out together because invariably two of them form an alliance against the third. I should have known my luck wouldn't hold: Centipede Sam got a mild concussion making the jump and landed in sick bay aboard the big Navy ship that services the Paleozoic expedition; the Wasp Woman delivered herself of some inspired cursing and told Fungus to stick with SeePee and me until Centipede Sam could rejoin us. And so, SeePee and I did in fact form an alliance against him.

Not without good cause, you understand.

This happened on our fourth night ashore. We had pitched our tents far back along one of the headlands bracketing the marsh that gives the base camp its nickname: Stinktown. The Wasp Woman being excused menial labor, we three underlings drew straws to determine the order in which each of us had to play chef. We'd all been in the field before, so we all knew not to expect haute cuisine; generally speaking, as long as the food's edible and nourishing, you put up with it. Then, four nights into the first week, I'm walking by the cook tent we'd set up, it's Fungus's turn to cook, and he's sitting on a camp stool picking at his foot.

Without preamble, he asks, "What's your opinion on Objectivism?"

"Isn't it that philosophy that's tailor-made for narcissistic sociopaths?"

Fungus frowns, catches himself, goes back to grinning as though he still somehow expects me to fall down in front of him at any moment and start lubricating at the prospect of eight seconds' worth of bucking and grunting.

"Rather a harsh and ignorant judgment," he says, "on the most influential system of thought ever conceived."

"Some system. 'I, me, myself, I've got mine, Jack, hounds bite the laggards, devil take the hindmost.' I know quite enough men who make a practice of selfishness. I don't need to know any who're selfish on philosophical grounds."

"But you're so intelligent. You—"

"Don't try to neutralize me with niceness."

"Well, I think you're just wrong. Perhaps we can discuss it at length sometime. I'm sure I could show you the error of your thinking."

"That would be really altruistic of you," I say, "but altruism is immoral." And then I finally ask him, "What are you doing to your foot?" and he says, "There's a type of fungus here that grows on everything. Plants, animals, other fungi, metal, my person. My very own very particular person. Ointments and ultraviolet lamps don't bother this fungus nearly as much as they ought to. I've come four hundred million years to fall victim to the great-grandpa of athlete's foot."

"Thanks so much for sharing that with me." I look around at the cooking utensils, the half-prepared dinner, and my stomach is starting to roil, because Fungus just keeps talking and picking at his foot.

"You'd think," he goes on, "Silurian-vintage fungi wouldn't know what to do with mammalian tootsies. Must be some weird mutant preadaptation."

"Did you just now actually say 'tootsies'?" And I reach into a trunk and grab a couple of meat bars—making sure the seals are intact. I go and find SeePee and hand him one of the bars and sit down beside him. "Dinner's on me tonight," I say.

"I don't understand."

"Eat first. Horror story later."

Okay. So, taking it from the top, Fungus waddled up and said, "You'll never guess."

SeePee barely glanced at him. I let the silence drag itself out for several beats, though I knew a Paleo Boy couldn't be put off by anything as subtle as an obvious, total lack of interest. In case you're wondering why, given a choice between eurypterids and Paleo Boys, well, it's no choice. But Fungus stood there giggling like a big mutant squirrel and finally I had to say, "What?"

"The Wasp Woman's got a boyfriend. She's in love!"

I said, without conviction, never mind enthusiasm, "Good for her," and reached for another eurypterid.

"You'll never guess with who."

"Whom." I took my time examining this particular eurypterid before dropping it into the tank for females.

Fungus pretended we were begging him for details. He said, "The Acid Drip!"

Short for Mister Post-Nasal Acid Drip Himself.

SeePee shot me a look from under his eyebrows that was as skeptical as I felt. I glared hard at Fungus. "You are talking about the head of the astronomy team?"

"None other."

"And our own glorious leader?"

"The same. The one and only."

"Together. The two of them."

"Yeah, can you imagine?"

I wanted to say "No way!" but also didn't want to give Fungus the satisfaction of knowing he had aroused my curiosity. Just having to use the word "aroused" in any context involving Fungus made me nauseated, so I reached for another eurypterid. The Wasp Woman and the Acid Drip weren't merely the respective heads of the paleontology and astronomy teams, they were their twin terrors. She was a demanding taskmistress and a prickly perfectionist, with a tongue that could strip the asphalt off a mile of two-lane blacktop. He openly despised geoscientists, biologists, and everybody else this side of celestial mechanics. His group had staked out the heights of the headland, where they could literally as well as figuratively look down on everyone else.

To SeePee I said, "He's making this up." I wouldn't have put it past a Paleo Boy.

"I got it," Fungus said, "straight from the horse's ass's mouth."

"Brilliant if labored metaphor."

"The Acid Drip and me were both down at the pier, waiting for the supply boat. When it comes, there's our own glorious leader in it, and she waves to us, you know. Waves. And the Acid Drip waves back."

"Now I know you're making this up."

SeePee said, "That doesn't seem like her at all. Or him." He sounded fairly weirded out, which was just how I felt.

"Lemme finish," said Fungus. "I sort of half-turn to him, he's standing right next to me, see, and I say something about how she always makes me think of a strip of beef jerky."

"Gallant as ever."

"Yeah, well, he gives me that look of his. You know that look of his."

"Like he turned over a rock," I said, "and you crawled out."

SeePee grunted softly. "Like Darcy in Pride and Prejudice ?"

"Huh?" Fungus and I said in an isolated incident of fellow feeling.

"Darcy," said SeePee, "in Pride and Prejudice. "

(Later I asked SeePee to tell me who Darcy was in Pride and Prejudice. He looked at me reproachfully and asked, "Have you never read Jane Austen?" and I looked back at him defensively and said, "No, but I'm not some illiterate, you know, I have read the Brontës." He laughed. "The Brontë sisters were crazy women who wrote about crazy people, but, ah, Miss Austen," and he pulled this really ratty-looking printed-on-dead-tree-matter book out of his seabag and flipped a few pages and showed me the part where catty Miss Bingley disses Elizabeth Bennet to Mr. Darcy, whom both young women have the hots for. Miss Bingley teasingly reminds him that he thought Elizabeth rather pretty at one time.

"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but that was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.")

But right then, for maybe six, seven, eight seconds, Fungus and I just gaped at SeePee, and then Fungus finally managed to nod and said, "Yeah, whatever, it was his look. And he's just as stiff as if he had a ten-foot iron rod up his butt. And he moves off, and as the boat ties up, he gives her his hand to help her out of the boat, and they go off chitchatting, arm in arm, happy as can be. It was like she didn't even notice I was there."

"Well, you are beneath notice," I said. "Beneath contempt, at least."

"Funny, Tammy."

"Don't call me Tammy. Tammy is not a diminutive form of Tamiko."

"Sure thing, Tam Ee Koh. Well, to continue. As they went off, I heard him ask her was she still going to visit him at the observatory tonight."

"Some observatory," I said, "a big hole in the ground,"—which was true. The big hole in the ground was the future site of the radio observatory, a natural depression back on the ridge currently under improvement by a construction team. But I really only said anything to buy myself a couple of moments in which to think.

"My guess," said Fungus, "is she's going to let him show her the stars, if you follow what I'm saying."

"Get out of here," I told him. "SeePee and I have work to do, and we can't do it if you make us puke more than usual."

Fungus grinned and sauntered away with a "Check with you later."

"I don't believe it," I said to SeePee.

"But," he said, absently regarding the tanks, "she has been acting strangely all this week, now that I think about it. I've hardly heard her snap at anyone."

"Even if it wasn't her and that stargazer, what can a paleontologist and an astronomer find to talk about?"

"The same thing men and women always find to talk about," he said. "The beginnings of things."

"But—"

He gave me a reproving look, and as he stuck his hand back in among the eurypterids he said, "In June the tortoise grows elate and walks on the tips of his toes."

"Huh? Is that Darcy again?"

"Gilbert White."

DAY FOLLOWED DAY without further untoward incident, Centipede Sam recovered from his time-travel-induced headache and joined us in the swamp, and SeePee and I, relieved of Fungus's constant presence, fell to our work with a will. Then the Wasp Woman asked me to accompany her back to the base camp, that sat about a half-mile away on a sliver of dry land squeezed between the rocky headland and the broad, stinky estuarine marsh. We had spent the night before crating specimens and loading them on a cart which we would have to lug ourselves, like medieval French peasant women. The menfolk evidently had more important work she wanted them to do.

It was early evening. After much huffing and puffing, we delivered our crate to the pier, signed a slew of forms, and then the Wasp Woman turned to me and asked, with what was, for her, unnatural friendliness, "Are you hungry? Do you want to eat Navy chow for a change? Ogle a sailor or two?"

"Well, the chow will be a change."

"Go on. I'll catch up with you later." Just like a big sister telling a little sister to go on, have fun, I trust you, be home by midnight.

I sat in the mess tent for a while after I had finished eating, then walked out and looked around. She had made herself scarce. Fortunately the camp is laid out on a square grid, and there are lights strung on poles to help folks avoid blundering off into the marsh. There is also a path up the side of the ridge, leading over the crest to the observatory, and some thoughtful individual had even strung a line along it you could use as a handrail, and lights so you wouldn't blunder off the path and roll down the side of the ridge into the marsh.

And coming along the path was the Acid Drip.

Now, I am not by nature a snoop, but I confess: I was on fire with curiosity. I hung back and let the Acid Drip pass me in the twilight, and then I slipped along behind him.

He went past the verge of the camp, where the ground slopes off into muck and green slime, and there was the Wasp Woman, waiting for him. She extended a hand which he took, and they moved together, kissed enthusiastically, and then turned to watch the sun slipping down behind the headland on the far side of the estuary. I didn't care to eavesdrop, I had already seen all I needed to see, but just as I started to turn away I saw the Wasp Woman lean her head against his shoulder and saw him put his arm around her.

Then I felt a bad sneeze coming on, and clapped a hand over my nose and mouth, and faded well back in among the tents before letting go.

After dinner the next night (it had been SeePee's turn to cook, always a plus) and several drinks, I made bold enough to say, "It's true."

Quizzical looks from SeePee, Fungus, and Centipede Sam rewarded my observation.

"I saw them last night. The Wasp Woman and the Acid Drip. I guess they thought they were being discreet, but it was obvious they're dead goofy gone on each other."

Fungus looked smug. SeePee looked uneasy. He said, "Should our team leader's private affairs become the conversational topic du jour ?" But he had had about as much to drink as I, and if he was thinking of shoving off and leaving us lowlifes to wallow in gossip, he couldn't quite act on the thought.

Centipede Sam ignored him anyway and said, "Look at the bright side. This could mean The Wasp Woman's waspier aspects will yield to her womanlier aspects. Result: things get better for everyone."

I responded to that by pretending to stick my finger way into the back of my throat.

"I still can't imagine the two of them," said Fungus. "I mean, it must be like, I dunno, scorpions mating or something."

Centipede Sam said, "Have you ever seen scorpions mate? The difference between those two and scorpions is just a matter of degree. Scorpions have more primitive wiring and plumbing."

"Count on you," I said, "to reduce love to wiring and plumbing."

Centipede Sam shrugged to show what he thought of my opinion. "When my old cat Sophie had a litter—I let her have one litter before I got her fixed—she let me examine them a couple or three days after they were born. I'd stroke 'em on their bellies, and they'd go into nursing mode. Extending and curling their tongues. Their wiring was in such an undeveloped state at that point in time that if something felt good to them, they automatically responded to it as though they were nursing."

Then SeePee astonished me by taking Centipede Sam's side. He said, "Love comes out of all that wiring and plumbing. The brain's limbic system is where the electrical and chemical disturbances occur that produce the basic emotions. Love, joy, sadness, fear, and so forth are the effects of phenylethylamine, norepinephrine, dopamine, and so forth."

"I'm sure," I said, "and I don't care. I much prefer to think of love as Laberius did."

"Who?"

"Laberius."

"Laberius!"

"Hey, I read a poem every now and then myself. Laberius compared falling in love to a cockroach falling into a basin."

"Sounds like a poet all right." From the way Centipede Sam said it you'd have thought "poet" was a synonym for "pedophile."

SeePee shook his head solemnly. "Love isn't some external thing that ambushes people. The phrase 'falling in love' always annoys me. You create love within yourself. Infatuation is just chemistry. The ingredients are brain chemicals. The turtle cannot sing, yet it knows love."

"Is that Gilbert White, too?"

SeePee shook his head. "No, some poet. White was a naturalist."

"Whatever."

Fungus said, "Maybe they can't help themselves. SeePee talks about brain chemicals. Consider the possible effect on brain chemicals of a primitive fungoid organism that produces a hallucinogen when taken into the system, resulting not just in mild hallucinations, but also shed inhibitions. I think there could be such an organism here."

"You are the only primitive fungoid organism here," I said, "and also the only one hallucinating. And don't even think about shedding your inhibitions, whatever they may be."

"No, no," Fungus persisted, "think about it."

"If that were the case," Centipede Sam put in, "it wouldn't be just the Wasp Woman and the Acid Drip who'd gone nuts. Everybody's brains would've turned to crap."

"Some people are ahead of the curve on that one."

"It could affect different people in different ways."

"Fungus," I said, "you are so lame."

Just then, the Wasp Woman appeared out of the darkness from the direction of the base camp. She walked quickly, almost stalking, and as she entered the circle of light surrounding us I saw that she had both hands clenched into tight hard fists and a look on her face that told me something had gone distinctly wrong in the shining city of love.

"It's late, people," she snapped, "and we have another busy day ahead of us."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, things were back to normal.

I NEVER FOUND OUT what had happened between her and the Acid Drip, and didn't try, but a couple of days later, apropos of I'm no longer sure what, she happened to mention him and astronomers generally in unflattering terms. "Conceited," "arrogant," and "unpleasantest people I ever met" were the mildest terms she used.

When, later, I discreetly relayed this to SeePee, he clucked his tongue and said, "It's Jane Austen in reverse. The happy ending came before the unhappy beginning."

"What?"

"On first meeting Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth Bennet and the other female Bennets decide that he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing."

"SeePee, may I borrow that book you showed me?"

"Of course. It is my favorite work of fiction. I hope you'll like it."

And I did, too, and asked for more, and SeePee supplied it: Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Emma.

And during the long course of our year in Paleozoic time I found myself looking at him differently. Oh, nothing really changed. Just as the Wasp Woman and the Paleo Boys went on being their respectively waspish or primevally male selves, so, too, SeePee remained frog-faced, round-bodied, and long-limbed. But something beautiful began to radiate from within him. Finally, not long before we were to wrap up and go home, he and I took half a bottle of rum with us to a nice perch on the ridge overlooking the bay, and we watched the sun go down together, and I heaved me a great sigh and said, "SeePee, if only you weren't gay."

He looked at me in obvious surprise. "But I'm not."

Reader, I married him.

Just kidding.

The Queen and the Cambion

By Richard Bowes
| 6960 words

Which figure, one wonders, is more mythic: the queen or the cambion?

1.

"SILLY BILLY, THE SAILOR King," some called King William IV of Great Britain. But never, of course, to his royal face. Then it was always, "Yes, sire," and, "As your majesty wishes!"

Because certain adults responsible for her care didn't watch their words in front of a child, the king's young niece and heir to his throne heard such things said. It angered her.

Princess Victoria liked her uncle and knew that King William IV always treated her as nicely as a boozy, confused former sea captain of a monarch could be expected to, and much of the time rather better.

Often when she greeted him, he would lean forward, slip a secret gift into her hands, and whisper something like, "Discovered this in the late king your grandfather's desk at Windsor."

These generally were small items, trinkets, jewels, mementos, long-ago tributes from minor potentates that he'd found in the huge half-used royal palaces, stuck in his pocket, and as often as not remembered to give to his niece.

The one she found most fascinating was a piece of very ancient parchment which someone had pressed under glass hundreds of years before. This came into her possession one day when she was twelve as King William passed Victoria and her governess on his way to the royal coach.

His Britannic Majesty paused and said in her ear, "It's a spell, little cub. Put your paw in mine."

Victoria felt something in her hand and slipped it into a pouch under her cloak while the Sailor King lurched by as though he was walking the quarterdeck of a ship in rough water. "Every ruler of this island has had it and many of us have invoked it," he mumbled while climbing the carriage steps.

She followed him. "To use in times of great danger to Britain?" she whispered.

He leaned out the window. "Or on a day of doldrums and no wind in the sails," he roared as if she was up in a crow's nest, his face red as semi-rare roast beef. "You'll be the monarch and damn all who'd say you no."

Victoria didn't take the gift from under her cloak until she was quite alone in the library of the dark and dreary palace at Kensington. It was where she lived under the intense care of her mother the widowed Duchess of Kent, a German lady, and Sir John Conroy, a handsome enough Irish army officer of good family.

The duchess had appointed Conroy comptroller of her household. Between them they tried to make sure the princess had no independence at all. Victoria really only got out of their sight when King Billy summoned her to the Royal Court.

Nobody at Kensington ever used the library. She went to the far end of that long room lined with portraits of the obscure daughters and younger sons of various British kings, many with their plump consorts and empty-eyed children. Victoria pushed aside a full-length curtain and in the waning daylight looked at the page.

She deciphered a bit of the script and discovered words in Latin that she knew. She saw the name Arturus which made her gasp. Other words just seemed to be a collection of letters.

Then for fear that someone was coming she hid it away behind a shelf full of books of sermons by long-dead clergymen. It was where she kept some other secret possessions, for she was allowed very little privacy.

She knew the pronunciation for the Latin. By copying several of the other words and showing them to her language tutor, she discovered they were Welsh.

Her music teacher, born in Wales, taught her some pronunciation but became too curious about a few of the words she showed him. Victoria then sought out the old stable master who spoke the language including some of the ancient tongue and could read and write a bit.

He was honored and kept her secret when the princess practiced with him. One evening when she had learned all the words and her guardians were busy, Victoria went to the library, took out the page, and slowly read it aloud.

She wasn't quite finished when a silver light shone on the dusty shelves and paintings. Before her was a mountaintop with the sun shining through clouds. In the air, heading her way, sailed a man who rode the wind as another might a horse.

In his hand was a black staff topped with a dragon's head. His grey cloak and robes showed the golden moon in all its phases. His white hair and beard whipped about as the wind brought him to the mountaintop.

At the moment he alighted he noticed Victoria. A look of such vexation came over his face that she stumbled on the words and couldn't immediately repeat them. He and the mountaintop faded from her sight. She, however, remembered what she'd seen.

Victoria was no scholar. But the library at Kensington Palace did contain certain old volumes and she read all she could find about Arthur and especially about Merlin.

An observant child like Victoria knew John Conroy was more than the duchess's comptroller. She understood it was his idea to keep her isolated and to have her every move watched. From an early age she knew why.

She heard her uncle tell someone in confidence but with a voice that could carry over wind, waves, and cannon fire, "The mad old man, my father, King George that was, had a coachload and more of us sons. But in the event, only my brother Kent before he died produced an heir, fair, square, and legitimate. So the little girl over there stands to inherit the crown when I go under."

If the king did "go under" before she was eighteen, Victoria knew, her mother would be regent. The Duchess of Kent would control her daughter and the Royal Court, and Conroy would control the duchess.

In the winter before her eighteenth birthday, five years after he gave her the spell, King William became very ill. But even in sickness, he remembered what the duchess and Conroy were up to. And though his condition was grave, he resolutely refused to die.

On May 24, 1837, Victoria would become eighteen. On May 22 the king was in a coma and the duchess and her comptroller had a plan.

From a window of the library at Kensington Palace Victoria saw carriages drive up through a mid-spring drizzle, saw figures in black emerge. She recognized men that Conroy knew: several hungry attorneys, a minor cabinet minister, a rural justice, the secretary of a bishop who believed he should have been an archbishop. They gathered in Conroy's offices downstairs.

Because the servants were loyal, the princess knew that a document had been prepared in which Victoria would cite her own youth and foolishness and beg that her mother (and her mother's "wise advisor") be regent until she was twenty-one.

Even those who admired Victoria would not have said the princess was brilliant, but neither was she dull or naive. She knew how much damage the conspirators would be able to do in three years of regency. She might never become free. All they needed was her signature.

Understanding what was afoot, Victoria went to the shelf where the manuscript page was hidden. She wondered if she was entitled to do this before she was actually the monarch and if the old wizard would be as angry as the last time.

Victoria heard footsteps on the stairs. She looked at the pictures of her obscure and forgotten ancestors all exiled to the library and made her choice.

The door at the other end of the library opened. The duchess and Conroy entered with half a dozen very solemn men.

"My dearest daughter, we have been trying to decide how best to protect you," said her mother.

By the light of three candles Victoria stood firm and recited the Latin, rolled out the Welsh syllables the way she'd been taught.

Duchess and accomplice exchanged glances. Madness was commonplace in the British dynasty. George III had been so mad that a regent had been appointed.

They started toward Victoria, then stopped and stared. She turned and saw what they did—a great stone hall lit by shafts of sun through tall windows. The light fell on figures including a big man crowned and sitting on a throne.

Victoria saw again the tall figure in robes adorned with golden moons in all their phases. In his hand was the black staff topped with a dragon's head. This time his hair and beard were iron gray, not white. He shot the king a look of intense irritation. The king avoided his stare and seemed a bit amused.

Merlin strode out of the court at Camelot and the royal hall vanished behind him. Under his breath he muttered, "A curse upon the day I was so addled as to make any oath to serve at the beck and call of every halfwit or lunatic who planted a royal behind on the throne of Britain."

Then he realized who had summoned him to this dim and dusty place, and his face softened just a bit. Not a monarch yet to judge by her attire. But soon enough she would be.

Victoria gestured toward the people gaping at him. Merlin was accustomed to those who tried to seize power using bloody axes, not pieces of paper. But a wizard understands the cooing of the dove, the howl of the wolf, and the usurper's greed.

He leveled his staff and blue flames leaped forth.

The documents Conroy held caught fire, and he dropped them. The red wig on one attorney and the ruffled cuffs of the bishop's secretary also ignited. Since none of them would ever admit to having been there none would ever have to describe how they fled, the men snuffing out flames, barely pausing to let the duchess go first.

When they were gone, Merlin erased the fire with a casual wave. Easy enough, he thought. Nothing like Hastings or the Battle of Britain. Shortly he'd be back in Camelot giving the king a piece of his mind.

"Lord Merlin…," the young princess began, "We thank you."

A wizard understands a bee and a queen equally. And both can understand a wizard. Merlin spoke and she heard the word "Majesty" in her head. He dropped to one knee and kissed her hand. For young Victoria this was their first meeting. For Merlin it was not.

Time was a path that crossed itself again and again and memory could be prophecy. Later in her life, earlier in his, this queen would summon him.

He had a certain affection for her. But in his lifetime he'd already served all four of the Richards, five or six of the Henrys, the first Elizabeth, the ever-tiresome Ethelred, Saxon Harold, Norman William, and a dozen others.

He waited for her to dismiss him. But Victoria said in a rush of words, "I read that you are a cambion born of Princess Gwenddydd by the incubus Albercanix. She became a nun after your birth." The princess was enthralled.

Merlin met her gaze, gave the quick smile a busy adult has for a child. One trick that always distracted monarchs was to show how they came to have power over such a one as he.

The wizard waved his hand and Victoria saw the scene after Mount Badon, the great victory which made Arthur king of Britain. That day Merlin ensorcelled seven Saxon wizards, Arthur slew seven Saxon kings, and may well have saved his sorcerer's life.

For this princess Merlin mostly hid the gore away. He showed her Arthur and himself younger, flushed with victory and many cups of celebratory mead as in gratitude the wizard granted the king any wish within his power to give.

"Neither of us knew much law so it wasn't well thought out," he explained, and showed himself swearing an oath to come forevermore to the aid of any monarch of Britain who summoned him. "But my time is precious and must not be wasted," he told her.

Even this mild version left Victoria round-eyed with wonder, as was Merlin's intent. For certain monarchs his message could be so clear and terrifying that Richard III had gone to his death on Bosworth Field and Charles I had let his head be whacked off without trying to summon him.

For a moment wizard and princess listened and smiled at the sounds downstairs of carriages fleeing into the night.

He bowed, asked if there was anything more she desired. When she could think of nothing he bowed once more, stepped backward through the bookshelves and the wall of Kensington Palace.

She watched as the great hall of the castle with its knights and king appeared and swallowed up Merlin.

2.

"I am ruled by our young queen and happily so, as is every man of fair mind in this land," said Lord Melbourne, Queen Victoria's first prime minister. And for a brief time that was true.

Melbourne could be a bit of a wizard, producing parliamentary majorities out of nothing, or making them disappear without a trace. A few years into young Victoria's reign, gossip held she was in the palm of his hand.

In fact she found him charming, but with her mother left behind at Kensington Palace and John Conroy exiled to the Continent, the headstrong young queen was led by no one.

The dusty castles and palaces in London and Windsor were lately the haunts of drunken and sometimes deranged kings. She opened them up and gathered visiting European princes and her own young equerries and ladies-in-waiting for late-night feasts and dances.

Then Lord Melbourne explained to her that the people of Britain were unhappy with their monarch. "The time has come," he said, "for you to find a husband, produce an heir, and ensure stability. The choice of a groom will be yours, an opportunity and a peril. Like every marriage."

Victoria's first reaction was anger. But she knew that few women of any rank got to choose their husbands. Her choices were wide. The eligible princes of Europe paraded through Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle.

Victoria and the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia danced the wild mazurka. Young equerries of her staff had her picture on lockets next to their hearts in the hope that she might decide to marry into her nobility and select one of them.

The nation was fascinated with its legendary past and so was its queen. She dreamed of sending the candidates on quests, having them do great deeds. But she knew that wasn't possible.

Victoria's resentment of the task made her unable to decide among the candidates. Naturally, everyone grew impatient—the potential grooms, the government, and the people of England.

As the situation worsened, the Queen considered invoking Merlin, but she felt intimidated. Then Melbourne himself said the future of Britain hung on her decision. She thought this surely was a moment to summon the wizard.

One evening in her private chambers she drew out the parchment and ran through the invocation.

Immediately the light of the oil lamps in her room was drowned by sunlight shining on ocean waves, pouring through windows of clearest glass into a room blue as the sea around it.

Despite his robes with the golden moon in all its phases, it took her a few moments to recognize the tall figure with dark hair and beard standing over a giant tortoise that rested on an oaken table.

Victoria watched fascinated as he stopped what he was doing and said good-bye effusively but quickly to a figure with liquid green eyes and saucy silver back flippers. The Sea King's Daughter and her palace disappeared as he strode into Victoria's private drawing room.

Merlin in the full flush of his wizardry had just murmured, "Gryphons and Guilfoils, marjoram and unicorn mange, the heart of Diana's own rabbit soaked in the blood of hummingbirds from the Emperor's gardens in far Cathay.…"

Then he'd felt the summons, turned, seen Victoria, and lost track of the spell he was working. But a summons when it came had to be obeyed.

It could originate at any point in the long history of Britain's monarchy from the Battle of Badon on. And each caught him at a moment in his life when he was deep into weaving magic and casting spells. At his most powerful he was at his most vulnerable.

He stepped out of a place where each drinking cup had a name and every chair an ancestry into a room with walls covered by images of flowers and pictures of bloodless people. The floor was choked with furniture and every single surface was covered with myriad small objects.

Merlin had encountered Victoria when he was just a youth and she was middle-aged. That meeting would, of course, not have happened to her yet.

Now in her private apartments at Windsor Palace he knelt before Victoria, whose expression was full of curiosity about the tortoise, the palace, the creature with the flippers, and him.

But what she said was, "I brought you here because my prime minister and my people have decided I must marry for the good of Britain. I need your help to make the right decision."

And he told her as patiently as he could, "In the palace of the Sea King's Daughter, as an act of charity I was working a spell to restore the zest of life to an ancient tortoise. It houses within itself the soul of Archimedes, the great mage of legendary times. This is the sort of favor I hope someone might someday perform if I ever needed it.

"It was all about to come together: ingredients at hand, incantation memorized, pentagrams and quarter-circles drawn, the tortoise staring up with hope in its eyes."

She sat amazed by this and by the man, dark-bearded and thirty years younger than when she'd seen him a few years before.

Victoria dreamed of turning her kingdom into a kind of Camelot, a land of castles, enchanted woods, knights in armor and maidens under sleeping spells floating down rivers. She looked at Merlin now and thought of how perfectly he would fit into such a world.

Merlin understood. He was young, vain, and used to being wanted. He found himself liking her but memories of the complications and quarrels after an extended tumble with Elizabeth I reminded him of how unwise such liaisons could be.

His interest at that moment was getting back as quickly as possible to the life he'd had to leave.

Victoria watched him stand at the floor-length windows and stare out into the night. When he gestured, one window blew open.

Any wizard is a performer and Merlin intended to bedazzle her. He held out his right arm, candlelight danced, and a bird appeared. The shadow of a raptor rested on his wrist and seemed to flicker like a flame.

Merlin had summoned a questing spirit, the ghost of the Lord of Hawks. He whistled a single note and it became solid, all angry, unblinking eyes and savage beak.

The wizard filled a clear crystal bowl with water and said, "Your majesty, give me the name of a suitor."

She named the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia. Merlin held the hawk near the bowl which was so clear that the water seemed to float in air.

He whispered the grand duke's name and looked at the surface of the water. On it he saw Alexander's fate, a winter scene with blood on the snow. An anarchist had hurled the bomb that tore the Tsar apart.

Merlin knew Victoria was not a vicious soul. If she saw this particular piece of the future it would be hard for her to keep it a secret from the Tsar-to-be. And it was best not to upset the balance of the world. Undoing that would require more magic than he had.

So he looked at the young queen and shook his head—this one was not suitable. She looked but he had already cleared away the image.

"Who is your majesty's next suitor?"

Victoria spoke the name, Merlin relayed it to his medium, and the image of a mildly retarded prince of Savoy floated in the bowl. He shook his head, she looked relieved, and they ran through some more European royalty.

Merlin knew the man he was looking for, the one she actually had married. He'd seen pictures galore at that time in her future and his past when he'd been summoned by this queen.

She stared at Merlin as she smiled and said, "Lord Alfred Paget." This was the most dashing of her young courtiers. A royal equerry of excellent family, he made no secret of his romantic love for his queen.

She in turn was charmed and more than a bit taken with Paget. He would be her choice if she decided to marry one not of royal birth.

But Merlin knew that wasn't the name he was looking for. When an image floated on the water, it actually made Merlin grin. He let Victoria see the once dashing Paget fat, self-satisfied, and seventy years old.

"Oh dear. This will not do!" she said with a horrified expression. Then she and the wizard laughed.

This search for a husband was far more pleasant than much of what he did in service to the Baden oath. Merlin had seen an unfaithful royal princess killed in Paris by flashing lights and a willful, runaway machine. He had visited a distant time when the king of Britain was not much more than a picture that moved.

Victoria gave the name and title of Albert Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. A glance at the face floating on the water was all Merlin needed. This was the one he'd been waiting for.

Albert would die long before Victoria did and she would mourn him for the rest of her life. A hardier husband might be in order. But Albert was the one she was destined to marry and that's how it would be.

The image floating in the bowl was flattering. Merlin invited the queen to look, indicated his approval, and congratulated her.

His task done, Merlin prepared to leave. Victoria realized this and looked stricken.

Anyone, be they human or cambion, enjoys being found attractive. And to have won the heart of a queen was better still. Merlin bowed deeply to the monarch and wished her great happiness in her marriage.

As he strode out of her presence, Victoria saw the tortoise that contained the soul of Archimedes and the sun dancing on the waves outside the palace and the lovely daughter of the one who rules the tides.

The queen noted every detail and wondered if her kingdom could ever contain anything so beautiful. She wrote a letter to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha as she thought of Merlin.

3.

"Twenty-five years into her reign, her majesty has abandoned her responsibilities."

"Since poor Prince Albert died, I hear she wears nothing but mourning clothes…"

"The processes of government demand the public presence of a monarch."

"…and talks to the trees at Windsor Palace, like her daft grandfather did.…"

"No one in her royal household, her government, and especially her family dares to broach the subject to her."

"…curtsies to them trees as well, I got told."

Isolated as a monarch is, Victoria heard the nonsense her people were saying. She knew they said she talked to her late husband as she walked the halls of Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, of Balmoral in Scotland and Osborne House on the Isle of Wight.

And here they were right, sometimes she did. More than anything else what she had lost with the death of the man to whom she'd been married for twenty years was the one person in Britain who could speak to her as an equal. She still spoke to him, but there was no reply. She felt utterly alone.

At Osborne House after a day with little warmth in the sun she stood at a window with a wind coming in from the sea and thought of Merlin.

Indeed with its graceful Italianate lines, fountains, and views of the water, Osborne was Victoria's attempt to evoke the glimpses she'd caught of the palace of the Sea King's Daughter. She envied that royal family as she did no other.

In the years of her marriage she sometimes remembered the handsome wizard of their last meeting and always with a pang of guilt. It almost felt as if she had betrayed the marriage. In her widowhood, though, she thought about him more often.

That evening at Osborne, Victoria demanded she be completely alone in her private apartments. The queen debated with herself as to whether this was a time of danger to the crown or, as her uncle had said, a day of doldrums and no wind in the sails.

Victoria finally decided it was a good deal of both. She took the glass-bound page out of its hiding place and read the summons aloud. Immediately she saw half-naked people in savage garb looking up at a huge picture that moved. It showed some kind of carriage without horses racing down a dark, smooth road.

As monarch of a forward-looking nation, the queen had been shown zoetropes and magic lanterns. This appeared far more like real life, except that it moved too fast. Her royal train was always an express and its engine could attain speeds of almost fifty miles an hour. But that was as nothing to what this machine seemed to do.

A man, who looked familiar, like a distant cousin perhaps, sat in it smiling. "In this driver's seat everyone is a king," he said.

The queen couldn't know that she'd just had a glimpse of a distant successor. In the year 2159 King Henry X had on a permanent loop in his offices what he called "My Agincourt." The great triumph of his reign was being named spokesperson for Chang'an/Ford/Honda, the world's mightiest automaker.

Victoria saw that the people who had been looking up at the image were now frozen, staring at a figure running straight toward her.

This one had long dark hair but no sign of a beard, was tall but not quite as tall as the Merlin she remembered. He looked very young. Instead of robes he wore what Victoria identified as some form of men's underclothes, a thing about which she made a point of knowing nothing. As he stepped into her room she saw emblazoned on the shirt the lion and the unicorn, the royal crest, directly over his heart.

Victoria had sons and she placed this boy as sixteen at most. She stared at him and said, "You're just a child. Who are you? Where are your proper clothes? And how did you get here?"

Merlin, after a moment of surprise, looked this small woman in black directly in the eyes, which none had done since Albert. Victoria heard him say, "I am Merlin, the cambion of Albercanix and Gwenddydd. I was apprenticed to Galapas, the Hermit of the Crystal Cave, a disagreeable old tyrant.

"One morning, running through my spells, I found myself summoned by Henry X, king of Britain. I was working a great magic on his courtiers when you called me here."

He glanced down at the soft clothes and shoes which still puzzled him. "And this is the livery of that king." He seemed confused.

When the young wizard first arrived in 2159, King Henry peered at him over a glass and said, "Not what I expected. Just curious as to whether this old piece of parchment actually worked—needed something to remind myself and others of the old mystique of royalty. Perhaps you could turn a few advertising people into mice. It'll teach them to respect me and the monarchy in its last days."

Victoria saw in this confused, gangling lad the man she'd encountered. The queen realized that King Arthur and the Baden Oath were well in his future and that he didn't understand what had happened to him. It occurred to her that the child of a demon and a princess who became a nun might be as separate and alone as she was.

"Your attire simply won't do," she said.

Merlin discovered that unlike King Henry this monarch was greatly respected. All the servants deferred to her and some courtiers were even afraid.

The queen had a trusted footman and pageboy dress this stranger in clothes her sons had outgrown. Merlin hated the infinite buttons and hooks, the itching flannel and stiff boots.

Victoria passed him off as a young visiting kinsman, "From the Anhalt-Latvia cousins."

Merlin remembered King Henry, so full of strange potions and drinks he sometimes had trouble standing and often couldn't remember who Merlin was.

The young wizard had tried not to show how bedazzled he was by the magic of that court, lights that came and went with the wave of a hand, cold air that seeped out of walls to cool a kingdom where it was always hot outdoors, unseen musicians who beat drums, sang, played harps of incredible variety through the day and night without tiring.

The king's entourage was so amazed by Merlin's spells of invisibility and the way he could turn them into frogs and back into courtiers that they lost any interest in their monarch and flocked around him.

They persuaded Merlin to surrender his own rough robes and gave him shorts, T-shirts, and soft shoes like everyone else in the kingdom. He had never worn clothes with legs or felt fabric as light.

All he knew for certain was that he didn't want to return to the Crystal Cave and the Hermit. He spent some amazing days and light-filled nights in the court of 2159.

Victoria, everyone agreed, seemed more cheerful since the appearance of her strange relative. The two of them took walks together and he showed her nixies riding in on the morning waves and sprites dancing by moonlight. He turned her pug dog into a trained bear and turned it back again.

Merlin didn't understand this world in which palaces and castles all looked utterly indefensible, ruins had been built just to be ruins, and the queen's knights seemed an unlikely band of warriors without a missing eye or gouged out nose among them.

On their walks Victoria sometimes ran on about wanting to create a court full of art and poetry like King Arthur at Camelot. It amazed her that he understood none of this. So she told him the bits and pieces she had learned over the years about the Baden Oath and Arthur's kingdom. The young mage was fascinated.

Once she made Merlin sit through a chamber music concert and talked afterward about "The melodies of the wonderful Herr Mendelssohn to whom I could listen forever." He told her about the court of her descendent Henry X where invisible musicians played all day and all night.

He could have told her more about the future of her kingdom, but out of respect and even affection he never much mentioned her descendant. Never described seeing King Henry in a false crown, armor, and broadsword quaff "Royal English Ale" from a horn cup and signify his approval. Never said how he'd sampled the ale and found it so vile he spat it out.

When he finished that endorsement, the king had turned and seen the shocked expression on young Merlin's face. He said, "I'm the last, you know. I'm preserved in so many formats that they'll never need another king for their ads. I've no children that I know of and no one is interested in succeeding me. I'm sorry I let you see all this." He started to cry great drunken tears.

Merlin walked away as quickly as he could. He strode into the room where his majesty's greatest promotional moments played on a screen. He didn't know where he was going but he headed for a door and the blazing-hot outdoors.

When some of his majesty's courtiers tried to stop him he froze them in place with a spell. At that moment of his magic Victoria's summons rescued him.

For that and her stories he would always be grateful. But he was young, male, and a wizard and this was a queen's court with many young women attached to it.

Merlin had a fine rumpus of a rendezvous in a linen closet with an apprentice maid of the wardrobe and another more leisurely meeting with a young lady-in-waiting in her chamber.

Spells to blank the memories of passersby didn't quite dispel the stories. The queen steadfastly refused to hear this gossip.

But she understood how keeping him there was as unnatural as imprisoning a wild animal. She ordered certain clothing to be made. One day Merlin returned to his rooms and found on the bed robes and a cloak with the moon in all its phases and fine leather boots like the ones her majesty had noticed older Merlins wearing.

The youth had never seen anything so splendid. He changed and went to her private rooms where she was waiting. "Sir Merlin, you have fulfilled and more the tasks for which you were summoned," she said and he saw how hard this was for her. "You are dismissed with our thanks and the certainty we will meet again."

Merlin bowed low. And before the royal tears came, or his own could start, he found himself hurtling backward through the centuries to the hermit Galapas and the Crystal Cave.

Merlin didn't linger there but immediately set out across Wales, finding within himself the magic to cover miles in minutes. One story Victoria had told was of a king trying to build a castle before his enemies were upon him.

Each day the walls would be raised and each night they would be thrown down. All were in despair until a bold youth in a cloak of moons appeared. He tamed two dragons that fought every night in the caves below the castle and made the walls collapse. Merlin knew he was that youth.

4.

"Queen Victoria," a commentator said at her Golden Jubilee, "inherited a Britain linked by stagecoach and reigned in a Britain that ran on rails. She ruled over a quarter of the globe and a quarter of its people."

At Balmoral Castle in the Highlands late in her reign the queen went into high mourning because a gamekeeper, John Brown, had died.

"Mrs. Brown mourns dead husband," was how a scurrilous underground London sheet put it.

In fact, Brown, belligerent, hard-drinking, and rude to every person at court except her majesty, was the only one on Earth who spoke to her as one human being to another.

He died unmourned by anyone but the queen. But she mourned him extravagantly. Memorial plaques were installed; statuettes were manufactured.

He was gone but the court's relief was short-lived. To commemorate becoming Empress of India, Victoria imported servants from the subcontinent. Among them was Abdul Karim who taught her a few words of Hindu. For this the queen called him "the Munshi" or teacher and appointed him her private secretary.

Soon the Munshi was brought along to state occasions, allowed to handle secret government reports, introduced to foreign dignitaries. He engaged in minor intrigue and told her majesty nasty stories about his fellow servants.

The entire court wished the simple, straightforward Mr. Brown was back. Victoria's children, many well into middle-age, found the Munshi appalling. The government worried about its state secrets.

"Indian cobra in queen's parlor," the slander sheets proclaimed.

The queen would hear nothing against him. But she knew he wasn't what she wanted.

"Oh the cruelty of young women and the folly of old men," Merlin cried as he paced the floor in the tower of glass that was his prison cell.

Nimue the enchantress who beguiled his declining years had turned against him, used the skills he'd taught her to imprison him.

When he was a boy, Queen Victoria had told him about King Uther Pendragon whose castle walls collapsed each night. Solving that, young Merlin won the confidence of Pendragon. The birth of the king's son Arthur, hiding the infant from usurpers, the sword in the stone, the kingdom of Britain, and all the rest had followed from that.

But Victoria never told Merlin about Nimue. She thought it too sad.

"Sired by an incubus, baptized in church, tamer of dragons, advisor to kings, I am a cambion turned into a cuckold," he wailed.

Most of his magic had deserted him. He hadn't even enough to free himself. Still he did little spells, turned visiting moths into butterflies, made his slippers disappear and reappear. Merlin knew he had a reason for doing this but couldn't always remember what it was.

Then one morning while making magic he found himself whisked from the tower and summoned to a room crammed full of tartan pillows and with claymore swords hung on the walls as decoration. Music played in the next room and an old lady in black looked at him kindly.

The slump of his shoulders, the unsteadiness of his stance, led the Queen of England, the Empress of India, to rise and lead him over to sit on the divan next to her.

"That music you hear is a string quartet playing a reduction of Herr Mendelssohn's 'Scottish Symphony,'" she said. "Musicians are on call throughout my waking hours. You told me long ago this was how things were arranged at the Royal Court in 2159."

It was a brisk day and they drank mulled wine. "The sovereign of Britain requires a wizard to attend Her," she said, "for a period of time which She shall determine."

Merlin realized he was rescued. And when the Munshi walked into the room unannounced, the Wizard stood to his full height. Seeing a white-bearded man with flashing eyes and sparks darting from his hands, the Munshi fled.

Everyone at Balmoral marveled at the day her majesty put aside her secretary and gave orders that he was not to approach her. All wondered if someone else had taken his place but no evidence of that could ever be found.

People talked about the eccentricities of Queen Victoria's last years: the seat next to hers that she insisted always be kept empty in carriages, railroad cars, at state dinners, the rooms next to hers that must never be entered.

At times the queen would send all the ladies and servants away from her chambers and not let them in until next morning.

Some at court hinted that all this had shaded over into madness and attributed it to heredity. Most thought it was just old age, harmless and in its way charmingly human.

In fact a few members of her court did see things out of the corners of their eyes. Merlin could conjure invisibility but his concentration was no longer perfect.

Her majesty walking over the gorse at Balmoral in twilight, on the shore on a misty day at Osborne, in the corridors of Windsor Castle would suddenly be accompanied by a cloaked figure with a white beard and long white hair. When the viewer looked again he would have disappeared.

She talked to Merlin about their prior meetings and how she cherished each of them. The wizard would once have sneered at the picturesque ruins and the undefendable faux castles that dotted the landscape near any royal residence. Now he understood they had been built in tribute to the sage who'd saved the young princess, the handsome magician who had helped choose her husband, the quicksilver youth of her widowhood.

When she finally became very ill at Windsor, Queen Victoria had ruled for more than sixty years. Merlin remembered that this was the time when she would die.

He stayed with her, put in her mind the things he knew she found pleasing, summoned up music only she could hear. He wondered if, when she was gone, he would be returned to Nimue and the tower.

"She assumed the throne in the era of Sir Walter Scott and her reign has lasted into the century of Mr. H. G. Wells," the Times of London said.

In the last days when her family came to see her, Victoria had the glass with the parchment inside it under her covers. Merlin stood in a corner and was visible only to the queen.

When her son who would be Edward VII appeared, Merlin shook his head. This man would never summon him. It was the same with her grandson who would be George V.

A great-grandchild, a younger son who stammered, was brought in with his brothers. Merlin nodded: this one would summon him to London decades later when hellfire fell from the skies.

The boy was called back after he and his brothers had left, was given the parchment, and shown how to hide it.

"You are my last and only friend," Victoria told Merlin. He held her hands when she died and felt grief for the first time in his life. But he wasn't returned to his glass prison.

Uninvited, invisible, utterly alone at the funeral, he followed the caisson that bore the coffin through the streets of Windsor, carried the only friend he'd ever had to the Royal Mausoleum at Frogmore.

"We say of certain people, 'She was a woman of her time,'" an orator proclaimed. "But of how many can it be said that the span of their years, the time in which they lived, will be named for them?"

"A bit of her is inside each one of us," said a woman watching the cortege. "And that I suppose is what a legend is."

In the winter twilight with snow on the ground, Merlin stood outside the mausoleum. "I don't want to transfer my mind and soul to another human or beast, and I won't risk using that magic and getting summoned. There's no other monarch I wish to serve."

He remembered the Hermit of the Crystal Cave. Old Galapas hadn't been much of a teacher, but Merlin had learned the Wizard's Last Spell from him. It was simple enough and he hadn't forgotten.

Merlin invoked it and those who had lingered in the winter dusk saw for a moment a figure with white hair and beard, wearing robes with the moon in all its phases.

The old wizard waved a wand, shimmered for a moment, then appeared to shatter. In the growing dark what seemed like tiny stars flew over the mausoleum, over Windsor, over Britain and all the world.

Demiurge

By Geoffrey A. Landis
| 1137 words

Geoff Landis is the Hugo- and Nebula Award-winning author of Mars Crossing and Iron Angels. He is a scientist by trade and worked on the rover team of the Mars Pathfinder mission. His new story is about journeying into the unknown.

THERE WAS AN AUTHOR—call him Erdemacher—who wrote a fantasy novel, Werldwright. In this novel, the protagonist is also an author, one who seems very much like Erdemacher himself (although, perhaps unremarkably, with a useful ability to pick up languages, and an unlikely mastery of fencing).

The author in the book Werldwright also writes a fantasy novel, which is (somewhat confusingly) also called Werldwright . In Erdemacher's book, the author-protagonist slowly comes to discover that the fantasy novel he is writing is real, and that by some innate talent or perhaps from his research into esoteric spells, he himself is able to tap into real powers.

The book wasn't really very good, but it struck a chord in a small number of fans, who claimed that it was mostly autobiographical: Erdemacher did, either by an innate talent, or some accident, or as a result of his esoteric research, really have the power to cast real magical spells.

In the book, the author-protagonist writes a spell for finding lost objects, the only spell given explicitly in the book, two short lines of nonsense syllables. (Erdemacher claimed it to be from the Etruscan, "based on his researches," and who can disprove it? Etruscan is a lost language.) According to the book, if you chant the spell and then go look in the first place you think of, "no matter how unlikely," the object will be there. In the book, the protagonist uses the spell in more and more unlikely circumstances, in the final instance finding a "thousand-year-old, jewel-encrusted silver dagger" that is important to the plot. In the real world, fans avow that, when chanted correctly, the finding spell never fails. Of course, Erdemacher had written that spells "always must be recited with the right cadence, and with the emphasis on certain syllables characteristic of the Etruscan language," so it was a no-lose prediction for Erdemacher: when the spell didn't work, surely the spell hadn't been chanted at the "right" cadence.

Most of the fans who claimed to believe in the reality of Erdemacher's book, and the efficacy of its spells, undoubtedly were just playing let's-pretend, to make their fandom more interesting. But some of them actually did believe that Erdemacher had magical powers.

The author's life indeed seemed to reflect their suppositions. All of a sudden the not-terribly-handsome author was surrounded by beautiful women, not always of legal age, and for that matter beautiful young boys as well—he was reputed not to be choosy. A woman who had been one of Erdemacher's groupies during this period said of him, "He could talk the pants off of a marble statue."

And although he did not have wealth beyond his dreams, he had an income comfortable enough that he could spend some of it frivolously and extravagantly.

He wrote two more novels in that series, books that slid ever more transparently toward authorial wish-fulfillment, the sex increasingly kinky, the protagonist increasingly irresistible. In the books the writer-protagonist finds himself facing ever more powerful evil, yet always discovering hithertofore unsuspected magical abilities more potent than he had imagined. In the third and final book, Demiurge, Erdemacher's author-protagonist writes himself into the fictional fantasy world he has created, and in that world he is a demiurge, a being with arbitrary powers who can perform acts of creation from willpower alone. There will be no more books from me, Erdemacher's fictional author says; I have left your tedious gray world for one far more interesting.

In the real world, Erdemacher never did write any more books—why should he, when fans already treated him as a god and would give him anything he wanted? Eventually he died, dissolute and obese, they said, but still beautiful in the eyes of his fans.

But among his fans there was whispered a different story, one claiming that nobody had actually seen the body, and that the coffin buried during the elaborate funeral was filled only with rocks. When Erdemacher wrote that his fictional author had written himself into his own book, this was no fiction, but a simple explanation of his plans, and now he really was in that world, a demiurge with enormous and capricious powers.

Some of his fans really do believe this, although to most it is simply a means to imagine themselves away from this tedious gray world. But every year they have a festival. The preparations for the festival are shrouded in secrecy; it's in a different city every year, but somehow, through word spread from mouth to mouth, the fans know where to go. And the climax of the festival is a show, which fans pay hugely to attend—I've heard that tickets are sometimes scalped for over a thousand dollars. What happens in the show is secret, and attending fans are sworn not to tell. In this show, supposedly, Erdemacher comes back. But he no longer looks like Erdemacher from the old author's photograph on the book jacket: he looks like a beautiful young man, or a young woman—he has that power now, to appear in any body he wishes. He tells of his adventures in his world. He shows off with a few acts of magic, or illusion—minor magic, by the standards of any modern stage magicians, but he does not need to be spectacular, because his fans already believe. And his fans come away happy; they've seen a moment of bright color and arcane charm, a piece of that other world beyond this one, that no one else in the tedious gray world has seen.

But there's a rumor that sometimes, in the festival, Erdemacher picks a beautiful girl, or a beautiful boy (Erdemacher still doesn't care) to whom he gives personal attention after the show—a private show, if you will. And, if they ask, Erdemacher will write them, too, into the world he created.

And, in truth, after the festival, sometimes people disappear. Kids. Usually young, good-looking ones. And it is never the ones playing let's-pretend, but only the ones who firmly, desperately, truly believe in Erdemacher.

Many of them don't have families, or have disowned their families, pretending that they never had a family or that all their kinsmen are dead. Sometimes, though, they do have parents who worry, and look for them.

The families never find them.

The police, I have been told, are suspicious, but nothing ever comes of it. How could it? Erdemacher does not even have a face, and, of the people who can be questioned, at least half of them secretly wish that they had been the ones who had disappeared.

Kids disappear sometimes. And, especially, the ones who are desperately unhappy with the world the way it is, and long for another reality that lies beyond this tedious gray world.

The Man Who Murdered Mozart

By Robert Walton and Barry N. Malzberg
| 6556 words

Robert Walton is a lifelong rock climber and mountaineer who has made numerous ascents in Yosemite and the Sierra Nevadas. His published writing includes poetry, children's books, and science fiction. Barry Malzberg is the author of dozens of novels and for all his influence he should probably be known as Gandalf the Gray Eminence. Mr. Walton says "This story exploded from Barry's imagination. I pretty much hung on for the ride." Mr. Malzberg says that "in collaboration with the intrinsic and invaluable Robert Walton I'm publishing what I take to be the most ambitious story I've written in more than a decade." Your editor says: fasten your seatbelts!

WHAT DO YOU DO IF YOU are utterly out of sync with your age? What do you do if your age is as wildly out of sync with you? We are not here to answer these questions or even to consider them at length. Life and circumstance sometimes conjoin, often do not: the dancer can despise the dance. What can we say of Howard Beasley? (2042 - ?) He is neither dancer nor dance, age nor circumstance, only a composite of the weird cacophony of time itself. His brow is slanting. His eyes are bitter. His heart is impure. He has small pretensions and less hope.

What can we accomplish if we do not consider Beasley? It is not as if other solutions are at hand, circumstances more amenable. If we do not consider Beasley, here before us, bitter of eye, impure of heart, then it is the age itself we are forced to contemplate and this will take us nowhere but to the heart of immemorial darkness. It is a hard age. It is a hard and lost time; its weight descending upon Beasley has turned his heart to stone, his hope to an overarching and implausible loss.

In earlier life, in times slightly less decadent, Beasley pursued women, drank lavishly, lay on one bed of pain after the next, seeking the divine but settling more often than not for soddenness and despair. William Shakespeare wrote with familiarity of this problem: The Seven Ages of Man (a sprawling text); Gertrude in bed with the Bloat King; Lady Macbeth of the dry breasts and stony complexion. Truly, there is no age which does not have its predecessor, no signs and portents which cannot be found littering the corridors of any generation. Beasley, however, thinks that he is exceptional. He believes that his woe is somehow singular, his determination unique, his love of Mozart the sole beacon in his time of overproduction and dross. He is certain. He is focused.

Of course he is quite mad.

"I believe it's time to end this lesson, Mr. Beasley."

Beasley lifted his bow and glared at the small, silver-haired man sitting across from him. The man sat alertly in a straight-backed chair, his slender hands folded in his lap. The silver hair was an affectation in this ageless age of endless cosmetic possibilities and extended life spans.

"Why?"

The man shrugged. "I don't feel that we'll make further progress today."

Beasley lowered his Stradivarius. "Look, Soccer, I'm paying you a lot of money for lessons. I'll say when they're over."

Soccer's brown eyes met Beasley's glare calmly. "I'm the teacher. I'll say when lessons end."

Beasley looked away. "I could have five holo-teachers for the money I'm paying you. I could have Paganini, Heifeitz, Oistrakh, Midori, and Chung for the money I'm paying you."

Soccer nodded. "Quite so. However, those program teachers, though interactive, are dead. I live and still learn nuances of our instrument. My capacity to learn enhances my ability to teach. That is what you're paying for."

Beasley raised his eyes. "What's the matter? Why can't we make more progress today?"

Soccer raised his hands, put them together palm to palm in an almost prayerful gesture. He said, "I'll be plain. This Mozart concerto's first movement is a collection of coy, teasing, playful, ephemeral musical thoughts. The bow should at least pursue them, at best fly with them. Your bow crushes each and every note. I can't listen to such butchery any longer."

Beasley snarled and flung the Stradivarius across the room. The violin cracked against a silver and onyx coffee table and fell in pieces onto the carpet.

Soccer rose and walked toward the door.

Beasley, his voice rough with unreleased malice, shouted, "Where are you going?"

Soccer stopped, turned, and looked mutely at the shattered violin.

Beasley glanced down. "All right. It will take twenty minutes or so for my fabricator to come up with another fiddle. Have some coffee."

Soccer shook his head. "I'll have no coffee and I'll not see you again."

"But I'm—"

"I know. You're paying me a great deal of money. I shall return it all to you. Good-bye." He turned to leave.

Beasley's voice rose even louder. "You can't do this! I've got to play this concerto for several thousand important people in two weeks!"

Soccer turned again. "Mr. Beasley, you play Mozart as if you wished to tie him up and torture him. Sadistic dominance is the only concept you convey in your playing. Performing Mozart should inform, upraise, and illuminate you and your listeners. You should approach joy, Mr. Beasley, joy."

"How do I do that?"

Soccer snorted. "That question is beyond me. Try asking Mozart." He turned and walked toward the door. It sensed his approach, altered its molecular structure to accommodate him, and became translucent. Soccer walked straight through it without pausing.

Beasley stared at the door as it again became opaque. He loosened his bow. Ask Mozart? Why not?

In his madness Beasley does not stand alone. He is surrounded by a large group who hold similar views, who believe that they remain the last believers in heightened circumstance, in beauty, in a way toward salvation for the lost occupiers of this time. They share the conviction, this misguided group (for they are terribly misguided) that the outcome of their odyssey will settle this issue beyond debate, that the only way into the future is a retreat to the past, and they have found the technology to manage this.

Pru slid sinuously into the cushioned chair next to the onyx coffee table. Beasley watched her appreciatively. Her pale blond hair contrasted well with her pale blue skin tone. He said, "You should put some clothes on before the others arrive."

She shrugged. "They've seen me before."

"That's not the point. You're distracting when you're naked."

"Thank you."

"We have no time for distractions. The Institute's conference is imminent. I've invited a few people to join us and they need to pay attention, as do you."

She shrugged again with intentionally provocative vigor. "Whatever."

"I mean it." He sipped from his chartreuse-colored drink. "I intend to carry off the most daring abduction in history."

Interested at last, Pru leveled her blue-black eyes on him.

"Ah," she said. "Tell me more."

Beasley proceeded to tell her. He told her with great passion and force. Passion and force were Pru's own drowning point; "I am a serious person," she had said to him more than once,"with serious intentions, but each of the seven deadly sins makes me pant with desire. They make of me once more a totally unschooled person."

Knowing this, knowing of Pru's overwhelming and embracing avarice, he noted at the outset that abducting Mozart, first trawling through time for him, then dragging him stunned to the present, would cause a sensation at the grand conference and certainly draw large sums of money to the Institute. "Furthermore, we can accomplish this easily," he said. "The technology is available. There are legalities and prohibitions, but these can be circumvented." He went on to explain, in more detail than is necessary to record here, the nature of the technology that would enable them to reach into December of 1791, pluck the dying, consumptive, oracular genius from his deathbed, and, after pumping him full of palliatives, bring him to the florid present.

It is a marvelous age that Beasley occupied, an age in which technological ambition had conflated with accomplishment in a fashion not anticipated through all the centuries of the Industrial Revolution. Beasley, both beneficiary and victim of this abstruse and uncontrollable technology (his victimization is the most salient part of this tragic story) gestured forcefully, spoke wondrously, made clear to Pru how exciting and advantageous this could be. "A Forty-third Symphony !" he emoted. "A Sixth Violin Concerto ! And of course a completed Requiem. "

"Forget the completed Requiem, " said Pru, who played an antiquarian viola in a consort she had assembled to perform in unassembled parts of Africa that had not yet learned to regard her feebly acoustic tours with pity. "The Requiem was never written to be completed. He had no plan, no intention. Furthermore, he was much too ill."

"But that's what we can address!" Beasley said with a poisonous enthusiasm. "We can restore him to health! Or at least stabilize him to the degree where he can compose." He felt himself seized by possibility, almost transfigured by an almost immeasurable possibility. "Of course there is the issue of culture shock but we can deal with that, at least for as long as we need him."

"Perhaps we can," Pru said. She was, for all of her embarrassing anachronism and failure of resistance, an adorable and passionate creature, much taken with Telemann and the importance of maintaining compassion in a metallic society. "I would like to hear your plan. I would like to discuss this somewhat less formally and without the intervention of clothing." She made a gesture that cannot be properly converted to print. "Like this," she said.

Chimes played a plangent passage from a Mahler lieder. Nothing moved in Beasley's apartment. The chimes sounded again and Beasley appeared wearing only a Roman-style robe. His dark hair was combed, but he looked somehow hastily groomed. He motioned toward the door. It became translucent and five young people, three men and two women, walked through it. The men were dressed in neo-punk black crusted with silver and crystal ornaments. Only one, however, wore his hair in the regulation six-inch purple spikes. The two women were more subtly attired in fitness leotards, neon pink and sunset gold. They stopped a few steps from Beasley.

Purple Spikes, the leader, spoke: "We're here."

Beasley pursed his lips. "Obviously."

Purple Spikes glanced around the room. "Where's Pru?"

"She's indisposed."

Purple Spikes smiled. "Sure." The others smirked and glanced at each other.

Beasley ignored the byplay. "Chad, this is not a social occasion. We have a chance to seize control of the Institute in two weeks and, therefore, of human destiny. I have devised an infallible means to do so, infallible if my lieutenants perform well. You," he indicated them all with a gesture, "are my most trusted companions. I requested you to come here to ask you one question. Are you able to perform as I need?"

Chad looked around at the others. They all shrugged and nodded. He turned back to Beasley and nodded. "Absolutely."

Beasley looked long at each of them in turn before he replied. "Good. In a few hours, we will travel in time to eighteenth century Vienna. We'll require specialized knowledge for this operation. Pru is presently spending implant time absorbing all there is to know about eighteenth-century music and composition."

One of the women, Pink Leotard, chuckled. "I'll bet that's not all she absorbed."

Beasley ignored her. "Each of you must undergo implant training. Chad, you and Hess will take two hours to ingest the programs I've forwarded to your implants."

Hess, the man to Chad's right, asked, "What's in it?"

Beasley looked at him. "Everything we know of culture, customs and conventions in eighteenth-century Vienna. You'll also acquire comprehensive geographic data. You two will be responsible for our interface with that society. Arzu? Pearl?" Gold Leotard and the other young man looked up. "You and Pearl have some mathematical adeptness. You must learn the basics of time travel, enough to manage regular operations and troubleshoot if any technological problems arise. We will have more than competent support on this end." Both Arzu and Pearl nodded.

Pink Leotard frowned. "What about me?"

Beasley smiled. "You, Tina, must learn more about weapons, theirs and ours. I don't intend to waste your aptitude for violence. You are security."

Tina smiled, revealing small white teeth filed to sharp points.

Beasley continued, "Instructions for initial actions prior to our liftoff have also been forwarded to your implants." Beasley turned and took several steps toward his private chambers. The others stared at his retreating back. Before any of them could speak, Beasley raised his right hand, made a gesture of dismissal, and said, "Begin."

A few more words about the age in which Beasley, however tentatively, dwelt—it was an age of Pru's metal and contempt, of distance and compartmentalization, and yet for a few like Beasley it seemed to smolder with a barely containable fire which that could leap barriers, soar through intervention, lead its confused and distracted masses toward an era in which for the first time humanity could truly observe and then model its destiny.

Beasley played the "Turkish Concerto" miserably, his rendition of the "Twenty-fourth Caprice" driving not only his instructor but any casual listeners to tears; he was not nearly as compassionate as Pru or as rigorous as his teacher, but then neither was the age itself, and the two of them were coterminous. In wanting to kidnap Mozart, Beasley—like so many of his time and through our rather awkward history—was trying as it were to kidnap himself, to extract, wriggling from circumstance, some purer element of reason or belief that would burn open Pru's metal enclosure and expose it to the purer winds of circumstance. Mozart revivified, Mozart displaced, would enable Beasley to displace himself and make the metal smile.

Ah, the folly! But remember before you detach yourself from this tormented protagonist and pronounce yourself ineffably resistant to his folly, remember that night when you stood against the sky, stood against the night, stood to the arrow of the Queen's high F. Was it any different for you? Would you have been any more resistant to that lust that made Pru helpless in Beasley's clutch, immune to her cries of falsified resistance?

Doctor Abigail Richards squeezed Joan Chin's fingers very gently. Joan, too weak to do more, responded with a slight upward curve of her lips. Doctor Richards said, "You'll be stronger soon."

Joan was the recipient of a lungs-liver-stomach-pancreas-gall bladder transplant. Part of her esophagus had been replaced, too. All the organs were clones, of course, perfectly matched to Joan's body. She had ignored warning signs, however, and waited too long to undertake a normal succession of outpatient procedures. A crisis had precipitated forced maturation and rapid surgical installation of her replacement organs. She'd almost died during the few hours it had taken to bring the cloned organs to a minimally functional state.

But she lived, and Doctor Richards squeezed her fingers again. Medicine, despite enormous advances in knowledge and technology, was still a human art. The enhanced, trained, and compassionate human mind was still the ultimate medical tool. Microprocessors in various places beneath her skin supplied her with the sum total of medical knowledge. A microcomputer within her abdominal cavity provided systems with which to utilize that data. Her judgment guided that use.

Doctor Richards exited Joan's room into a circular corridor. The corridor's walls were colored dusky violet, soothing to all eyes, tired or ill. She walked upon what appeared to be soft gray carpet, though this floor covering was capable of a great deal more than mere carpet. The elevator door became clear as she approached. Before she could enter, a hand gripped the back of her neck.

Chad whispered into her left ear. "Easy, Doc. I've got a stun package on my index finger. I'd hate to have to mess up your 'tronics by using it. Ready to come with me?"

Doctor Richards did not resist. She nodded very slowly. At the same time, her tongue pressed the roof of her mouth three times, activating a security alarm. Help was on the way.

Chad, now without his spikes, guided her into the elevator and touched the sensor panel for the transport level. The elevator launched into swift motion. It stopped a few seconds later. The door became transparent. Hess was visible on its far side. As they exited, Hess took Doctor Richards's right arm. A wheeled van waited a few meters beyond him. Tina, less colorfully clad, leaned against its paneled side.

Two heavily armed hospital guards approached from the other side of the van. They halted several meters away and the larger one, a woman, asked, "Is everything okay, Doctor Richards?" Hess let his hand drop away from the doctor's elbow. He stood more than two meters tall and was proportionally broad. Both guards kept their eyes on him—understandably so.

Tina stepped away from the van. She held out a wallet. "Here," she offered, "let me show you my ID."

The guards were well trained and experienced. They knew not to let a potential threat within striking distance. Tina, barely five feet tall and waif-thin, seemed harmless. The lead guard reached for Tina's wallet.

Tina jabbed a concealed needle between the woman's fingers. She took one step back and uttered a surprised grunt before Tina's venom took effect. Paralyzed, she fell to the concrete floor. Tina's left foot rose in a wicked arc that ended in the other guard's groin. The shock package on the end of her shoe delivered its charge and the agonized guard fell to the floor. She reached down, touched his left mastoid, and rendered him unconscious.

Chad grinned. "Well, that's that. Let's go."

Tina straightened. Her plush red tongue passed briefly over the sharp, bright points of her teeth.

Falsified resistance for a falsified age. Mozart composed the first seven measures of the "Lachrymosa" and could go no further. He died with the papers strewn on his chest. Desperate, the destitute Constanze reportedly brought in Süssmayr to finish the piece but Beasley had heard from a Traveler that when Süssmayr had seen the "Tuba Mirum," he scowled with revulsion and crumpled the paper. "It cannot be completed," Süssmayr said. "Mozart himself could not proceed past the 'Dies Irae.'"

"I shall bring Mozart here. You will help me. I intend for him to proceed past the 'Dies Irae' and finish his Requiem. "

Doctor Richards shook her head. "You're mad!"

Beasley smiled. "Not in the least. I intend to secure control of the Institute at the conference of worlds. Presenting the real Mozart conducting his personally completed Requiem will be a sweeping tour de force. It will afford me a period of opportunity."

"Opportunity to do what?"

Beasley shrugged and sipped champagne from the crystal flute he held. "Opportunity to become the leader humanity needs. Human culture has sprawled across the stars, but it is an amoeba. It needs a guiding intelligence." He placed the half-empty flute on the polished granite surface of his bar. He looked directly at Richards. "Mine."

Richards took a deep breath. "You can't do that!"

Beasley smiled coyly.

"You can't tamper with the Institute computers!" Richards continued. "Music flows, docu-streams, simulations, ancient videos—all those are locked, secure from outside content."

"Perhaps not as secure as you're led to believe." Beasley again picked up his glass.

Richards looked down. "I won't help you. You abducted me."

Beasley stepped behind her, allowed his fingers to trace a line down her shoulder. "Need I remind you that your nephew and niece live nearby in the lunar gardens?" He squeezed her shoulder. "Or that your valued friends and colleagues follow quite predictable patterns here in the city, quite vulnerable patterns?"

Richards stared at her lap. "What do you want me to do?"

Beasley removed his hand from her shoulder. "First, you are to stabilize Mozart so that we can transport him here."

Richards looked up. "We don't know anything about his condition."

"Doctor Richards!" Beasley looked at her disdainfully. "Surely your expertise and the tools of modern medicine with which we will provide you are equal to this small task."

Richards nodded. "What else?"

"You are also to supervise the complete cloning of Mozart once we reach Vienna and acquire him. We need a replica to take his place, you see. The conventions of time travel are murky, but we wish to cause as little disruption as possible."

Richards shook her head. "That would be murder. We can create such a clone with portable equipment, but we don't have the resources to support complete maturation. The new person would die within weeks."

Beasley smiled. "That is precisely what I'd hoped you'd say. It is, after all, what history dictates."

Richards gritted her teeth. "This is against our laws and against my oath as a physician."

Beasley shrugged. "True progress sometimes requires the breaking of laws, the violation of ethics." He looked at her. "Any laws. All ethics."

But no less than Beasley, we must disdain this, cast it aside. Problems of credibility, legality, morality: ptui! "What do they want? Dazzle!" he replied and spat, "Enchantment!"

There is no time for any of this, nor will it fit this context. Beasley's perverse and dramatic obsession: Extend the Requiem . Continue the Requiem. Bring it to a conclusion—and with it the eighteenth century itself. Here a quick connection, there a rapid scuffle in an anteroom with a surprised and resistant Constanze, soon enough neutralized. Frantic denials passed up the line. Who, us? Mozart? 1791? Most of life is falsification, manipulation. And so this synoptic way to conclusion—the abduction has been managed against all reasonable possibility.

"This warehouse leaks."

Pru shrugged. "It's the eighteenth century. What do you expect?"

Mozart lay on a sheet-draped table in front of Dr. Richards. She touched his left wrist with a blue ceramic instrument. Lights sparkled on the instrument and it uttered a chirp. A drop of water plopped onto the sheets next to Mozart. Richards sniffed. "Don't they have lead on the roofs, or something like that?"

"This isn't a church."

"Still." Richards adjusted a thin yellow tube attached to a needle in the back of Mozart's left hand. "Where's Beasley?" she asked.

"He's out playing."

Richards glanced up. "Playing?"

Pru smiled. "The eighteenth century is too much of a temptation for him. He's gone to court."

"Court?"

"You know: white wigs, satin, brocade, bowing, plotting, assignations if he can manage a few."

"Is that safe?"

"Safe enough. He took Tina with him." Pru motioned to Chad and the others who sat or reclined on various bales. "And left us with those vultures."

Mozart sighed and shifted beneath the sheets. Richards handed the blue device to Pru. "Hold this, please." She ran her fingers beneath his jaw and paused just below the left ear. Her eyes became unfocused as her implants processed data.

Pru looked down at Mozart's wan, still boyish face. "He's very sick, isn't he?"

Richards's eyes focused again. She nodded. "On the edge of catastrophic renal failure. I think I've got a handle on that. Something else is going on, though, some toxin or microorganism I haven't isolated. There are bugs back here that no computer has ever seen." Richards shook her head. "He's far too ill to be doing this to him."

Pru shrugged. "That won't matter to Beasley, as long as he lives long enough to sway the Institute at that conference next week."

"We may be able to get him that far, but afterward?"

"It doesn't matter."

Richards straightened. "It does matter. No human being is just a useful piece of meat, not the poorest beggar we saw out there on the streets."

Pru looked at her closely for several moments. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do."

Pru looked down. "It would be nice to believe in something. It might even be nice to care about someone." She glanced back at Richards. "You won't have to worry about Mr. Mozart anyway."

Richards's eyes jerked up. "What do you mean?"

Pru glanced idly at Chad and the others. They were chuckling about something Hess had said. Pru lowered her voice. "Beasley is rich and powerful enough to fake a legitimate use for the time travel machinery, but nobody can completely break the rules. If we take Mozart back, we've got to leave somebody here."

"Somebody?"

Pru smiled. "That would be you."

"Me?" she said. "Why me? What can I do? How can I replace him?"

"You're not here to replace him," Pru said. "You're here to occupy his room, his air, his circumstance. Temporal displacement. It is a matter of weight."

Mozart, apparently interested even on his deathbed, sighed, gestured, made a hoarse sound, spoke indistinctly. "Muss es sein?"

Was that what she heard? No, that was impossible. Those were Beethoven's words, not Mozart's. Recall pierced her in gleaming splinters. This is madness, she thought. We can watch him die or we can make him die but we cannot do both. How did we come here?

"You are both fools," Richards said and pointed a technician's hand to the murmuring Mozart. "It can't be done. And certainly not by me."

The fleshpots of Europe, she thought absently. That is where Beasley has gone. All of this, the whole insane scheme so that he could desert us and act out some savage fantasy. She shuddered. She had a technician's soul. That was the problem; that was her undoing. "Give it up," she said. "This is madness."

Unless this was some insane collaboration between Beasley and Pru, unless she had somehow become entrapped in a folie à deux beyond comprehension.… "I'm leaving," she said. "It's a mad task, a mad outcome. I won't be part of this."

"But you are. You are more a part of it than you will ever understand."

Richards felt sudden enormous weight upon her, a collaborative weight, the weight of air and crushing circumstance. "Poisoned!" she thought and plummeted.

"Poisoned?" she murmured.

"You said something?" Pru asked.

"Poisoned." She stared at dried dung in the wide cracks of the warehouse floor. "Poisoned."

Pru took her hand and helped her rise from the dusty boards. "You fainted. I didn't think doctors did that. What's this about poison?"

Richards looked bleakly at her hands. "No matter what I do, I'm poisoned. My life is over. I'll always know that I helped Beasley commit murder and hijack human knowledge."

Pru snorted. "Give me a break! We invent ourselves several times a day. There is no past, no history. If there is responsibility, it is to your own future."

Chad loomed above them. "Time to go, girls. Beasley said to get him loaded up as soon as you were done. You look done."

Beasley appeared behind Chad. "I'm back." He looked incongruously comfortable in blue satin and white wig. He nodded to Pru. "Pearl, Arzu?"

The two designated vultures detached themselves from their perches. "Yes?" answered Arzu.

"Warm up the transfer apparatus and go on through. Make sure it's working correctly before we attempt to transfer Mozart."

The locus of this story is Mozart and Beasley's doomed and illegal attempt to get the Requiem done through transport of the dying man. It is an accursed plan but it is the only plan with which he will contend.

Watch him contend. Let us witness his contention. Here he is, enormous in his desperation and hate, grasping Mozart, Richards at his side clutching the other foot. There they are, struggling; Richards, struggling and cursing with the heat in an attempt to push the dying Mozart into the receptor they have smuggled into his room. Constanze has been distracted and sent on an errand with gold in her purse; Vienna is in distant tumult; they are focused upon necessity. Mozart, no longer a genius, never to be the composer of the "Sanctus," "Offertory," and "Cum Sanctu Spiritu," gasps heavily, unevenly for dying breath and slowly they move him toward the transporter.

Beasley curses the age to which he was born, his own vanity, his misdirected and poisonous set of conclusions. Richards, overcome with remorse, pulls; Beasley pushes; she tugs; he gasps; they groan, and slowly the dying composer passes into metal jaws which bite and snatch. In the distance is the sound of tumult.

Four cloaked shadows detached themselves from the sides of the alley and formed a loose globe around Tina. Her sharp teeth gleamed as she drew her rapier. Light from a torch one corner over revealed four masked men. Tina chuckled. "Eeek. Four muggers in black masks. What shall I do?"

The tallest man drew his sword and stepped forward. "I ask you to yield."

"On whose authority?"

"On that of a certain Count, my employer."

Tina's smile widened. "Count von Walsegg?"

The man stopped. "A certain Count. Now throw down your sword."

Tina nodded. "Sure. Any second now." She leapt, extended her sword arm in an impossible stretch. Her blade flashed in toward the captain's chest. He executed a counter-parry and bound her blade.

Tina grinned up at him and thrust her thorn into his groin. The thorn, loaded with lethal venom now, struck deep into a leather pad and stuck.

The captain gripped Tina's left wrist. "Nice try. I've seen that move before." A club descended on the back of Tina's head. The crack of oak meeting skull echoed from stone walls. Tina fell onto wet cobbles.

They stumble haplessly into a machine too small for two, unbearable for three, and, groaning, are encompassed by metal.

This is the point of the narrative for explication, invention, description—the part in which the flight itself should have been described, the scramble past the gates of known circumstance, a florid description of the escape.

And an inserted passage on the clumsily cloned Mozart brought to meet the superficial gaze of a superficial time. That cloned Mozart, fabricated and spiritless but superficially interchangeable. Such is the contempt of Beasley's age for what they take to be the mindless credulity of the eighteenth century. An imaging of the shrieking rattle of the clone as the clumsy substitution is made. If this is done properly, inclusively, we should not neglect the faint, high, lustful blush and tremble in Pru's face and hands as the substitution is made. It will be an opportunity.

Richards stepped out of the transporter and wiped a tear from her cheek. She looked at Beasley. "He'll need attention as soon as you arrive."

"Of course." Beasley looked around. "Tina will escort the clone back to Constanze's lodgings and then we'll be done." A tiny blue light flashed from a bracelet on Beasley's left wrist. His eyes went wide.

Pru asked, "What is it?"

Beasley's voice was hoarse. "Silent alarm. Tina is down. Something happened not far from here." Nixonian sweat gleamed suddenly upon his upper lip. "We'd better depart. Quickly! Chad?"

"Yes?"

"I'll leave now with Mozart. Pru and Richards can follow. You and Hess come last. Got it?"

"Got it. What about Tina?"

"What about her?" His eyes locked briefly with Chad's.

Chad nodded. "Got it."

Beasley continued, "Let the clone sit where he is. Somebody will figure out where he belongs."

Hess lifted Mozart like a baby and placed him, tubes and all, in the transporter. Beasley went in after Hess exited. He entered the activation code and punched the transfer button. Light built within the machine, flashed rainbow colors across the warehouse, and then went dark. It was empty.

Pru walked slowly over to Hess and Chad, a lazy smile curving her lips. "It was a real pleasure working with you boys." She put her arms around Chad and Hess. "Maybe we should get together at home, just the three of us."

Chad leered. "What a fine idea! I'd thought that myself, baby."

Pru suddenly slapped her palms against their shoulders. Chad and Hess dropped to the floor like bundles of rags. Pru glanced at Richards and grinned. "I have thorns too."

Richards stuttered, "I don't…I don't understand."

"Help me get this meat in the machine. You'll go last with baby Mozart."

Richards stood staring at her. "You tricked Beasley."

Pru's right eyebrow arched ironically. "He's a big boy. He knows I play my own game. Always."

"You want his plot to fail?"

Pru smiled.

"You betrayed him?"

"Come on!" Pru pointed at the fallen men. "Help me! We don't have a lot of time here."

Richards bent to help Pru. Skinny Chad was not difficult to drag into the apparatus. Hess was another story, but at last they had him stuffed in on top of Chad. Pru entered the code, pressed the transfer button, and leapt out of the machine.

Richards confronted her as she turned. "You worked against him from the start, didn't you?"

The lazy smile again drifted across Pru's lips. "Do you really think that I want Beasley's personality impressed upon the Institute's supercomputers? His brutishness flowing unimpeded into the minds of trillions? It was diverting to screw him now and then, but to have him pawing in my mind constantly like an obsessed, huffing bull is far too much."

"But he's done it! He's got Mozart!"

"He's got trouble."

"You turned him in? The Time Condittiore?" asked Richards.

Pru shook her head. "I turned him in, but nothing so blatant as a public arrest will happen. He will be taken into custody at some point, but it will be hushed up. I suspect Beasley will suffer severely diminished capacity for a time and then all of his resources will be strictly monitored. His plotting days are over."

"What about you?"

"We're sending two Mozarts back. I'll stay here with Tina."

Richards looked at Mozart's clone. The innocent face shone like a flame above pure oil. Pru touched her arm. "Trust me, Richards, he'll be safe in the future."

Richards took Pru's hand. "Call me Abby."

In the swell and escaping light of that Parma to which they will return awaits nothing for Beasley and his crew but the blood of paradox. What they do not yet know, what they will learn, is that if the strain of passage does not kill Mozart, then the nature of paradox will. To come at the end of the journey to the place where one has begun, as Thomas Stearns Eliot is reputed to have observed.

But where did Beasley begin? Surely not hunched in the transporter like a beast, about to fall into the State. Surely not in Salzburg, that damned city which Mozart hated so. And surely not in that sacred place with Pru when, staring into her widening, frightening eyes, he came to understand that there was no place within her which he could ever occupy, no tenderness which he could ever know. That knowledge had driven him to the Requiem Aeternum and the "Dies Irae"; he had sought in K. 626 what nothing in this place of metal and desire could ever give him, and now, with Pru stolen from him and the dying Mozart lolling in his place, he had nothing but failed resource, loss, and of course paradox.

Mozart would emerge from the transporter alive, if only barely, they would get him into a protected place, they would administer balm and detoxification and prayer, but it would be the shock of passage which would kill the composer.

"You'll take care of him?" Pru nodded toward Mozart's clone, now sitting within the time transporter.

"Baby Mozart?" Abby looked at his puzzled, smiling face. "I'll take care of him."

"Good. Who knows what he'll do in our time."

Abby nodded. "Who knows? You won't, for sure. Do you really intend to stay?"

Pru smiled. "I do. I must. Eight came. Only eight may leave."

"What about Tina?"

Pru chuckled. "Don't worry about Tina. She's in a dungeon now, but her skills are too useful to be wasted in Vienna. I might hire her myself."

"Isn't this risky?"

Pru shook her head. "I doubt it. All that rant about paradoxes and changing the future is crap."

"You're sure?"

Pru shrugged. "Pretty sure. Current theory predicts infinite futures, so whatever I do to change a few million of them won't matter. I hope."

Abby thought about this and then looked up. "Why do you want to stay? What's here for you?"

Pru was silent for a moment and then she tapped her right temple with her index finger. "The Requiem needs finishing. I'll do it quietly, secretly. I'll make sure the mystery is preserved. Mozart will die a secret, shrouded death here and the Requiem will appear when needed. After all, Constanze always needs ducats. She'll cooperate and keep her mouth shut."

Abby shook her head. "That won't take a lifetime."

Pru grinned. "Hey, my immunities are good and there are a couple of people here I'd like to meet."

"Who?"

"Beethoven, for one." She licked her lips. "And I've always been curious about Napoleon. What was he like in the sack?"

Abby laughed. "You're incorrigible!"

Pru nodded. "Always."

And surely now there is a scene to be written about incorrigible Pru, intrepid Pru, time traveler and reprobate, explorer and party girl. More than a scene, a series. In one she clutches Beethoven tightly, leans him into her breasts, explores with her free hands the wizened genitals of the Master. "Ah," she says to him, "I am your Immortal Beloved," and later he is conducting the premiere of the Ninth Symphony, deaf as a post, totally lost, and all that he can recall is her thundering against him. That would be one scene and here is another: Napoleon on Elba, Pru sneaking into his quarters in a surfeit of cunning and technological mastery, and his half-salute to her in cover of darkness. There are other scenes that could be written: a charmer, Pru, mad as a hatter as you have noted and equally obsessed, but they are not for this narrative. She will find her way through the compass of history free of our attention; her role in this narrative, like her role in Beasley's strange and unaccomplished life, is done. Those no longer part of our odyssey are subsequently detached from its history no matter how we may clamor for them, and of Pru I can tell you little more. Just as the technology of time travel has not been made available in this recollection, so Pru's further adventures must be purely speculative.

Remember: it is an explanatory age, an expository time. The need for detail in narrative was a product of its formal origin earlier in Mozart's century.

Good-bye, good-bye, Richards had said.

Perhaps the concept of certainty is an illusion. Meanwhile, in this reconstituted, brassy century, the real Mozart lies abed, shocked into deepest slumber, heedless of the composition paper that lies scattered beside him. The slumber touches on coma, is perhaps indistinguishable from it; the savaging of time conversion and the toxic gasses of this distant century have conflated to create great risk, irreversible damage.

Swaddled in paradox, Beasley thinks, looking upon this pathetic, aseptic, hardly domestic scene. Mozart and he alike have been trapped here by self-canceled circumstance. So this is how Mozart died, Beasley thinks. If not a victim of temporal displacement, then ravaged by the toxicity of our time. He wonders if that cobbled version Richards had conveyed to 1791 looked like this, was reacting similarly. Were these two versions linked?

The problem is too complicated for Beasley, far beyond his feeble power of rationalization. It is not an age contrived for paradox or resolution, this post-technological time. If it were an age open to the possibilities of paradox, none of this would have ever happened.

All he knows for sure is that he misses Pru, mired two centuries away, trapped in a historical context she cannot fully understand. Pru and her sense of doom had so powerfully attracted and centered him. Where has it gone? And in that going what has Beasley himself become? Requiem aeternam cum sancto spiritu —Beasley sees his circumstance, his entire history, as a mirror; it casts back at him only his own strangled features. Who could have known?

Quivering, the comatose Mozart feebly raises a hand, makes the motions of handwriting. The gestures become swift, desperate. Beasley has no way of knowing that K. 627 has been inscribed upon the empty air.

And so then, seeking to break history apart, we become that history; our own efforts become part of the temporal flow. Going back we endlessly move forward; staggering forward we penetrate nothing other than our past. For this is the sum of the chronicle: each of us is Mozart, each of us his assassin.

And our own.

Perfect Day

By C.S. Friedman
| 2718 words

Celia Friedman's latest work is a novella called Dominion, a prequel to her Coldfire Trilogy. It should be out in electronic format by the time you read this. She's currenty working on a fantasy series that will offer a new and exciting view of life, the universe, and everything.

This story is dedicated to all her Luddite friends.

WHEN STANLEY BETTERMAN awoke Monday morning he didn't know that everyone else in the world was naked.

His own pajamas were securely in place when his brainware buzzed his neural centers, cutting short a particularly nice dream about falling mortgage rates. The striped cotton might have looked a little more greenish than usual as he staggered to the bathroom, but his Color My World app always took a little while to get up to speed in the morning. Otherwise, there was no sign that anything was wrong.

The image that stared back at him from the mirror was the same one he saw every morning: a nondescript man with a remarkable lack of noteworthy features, flanked by two columns of biological readouts that seemed to float in midair. Checking the numbers, he saw that his blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar readings were all within acceptable limits, but his HDL was a little low. No doubt his Positive Health Habits app would let him know what he needed to do to correct that.

Still unaware that the act of wearing clothes made him an anomaly on Earth, Stanley scrubbed his teeth until they gleamed, then let his bathroom scanner point out the bits of plaque he'd missed. CONGRATULATIONS! his brainware projected when he was done, bright red caps scrolling across his field of vision as a trumpet fanfare blared in his ears. YOU GOT IT ALL! The accolade made his head hurt, but running the Positive Reinforcement Suite earned him a two percent discount on his health insurance, and with work going the way it was he needed to save every cent that he could. Maybe if things picked up later in the year, he could purchase a deluxe display that would be less intrusive. Supposedly there was one with the "Hallelujah Chorus" where you could actually adjust the volume.

When he was done getting washed and dressed for work, he checked his Time Management app, which gave him a seventy-two percent efficiency rating for the morning's hygienics. It was one of his lowest scores that month. Maybe if he'd brushed his teeth more effectively he could have scored higher. There was no penalty for a low rating, but Stanley took pride in his efficiency. Perhaps he should seek some hygienics counseling.

DID YOU TURN OFF THE LIGHTS? his Tenant Safety app demanded as he left the room. DID YOU UNPLUG ALL HAZARDOUS APPLIANCES?

He was heading toward the kitchen when he passed his older brother in the hall. At first his brain didn't register the fact that the man was completely naked. When it did, Stanley just averted his eyes and walked on. His brother's Progressive Lifestyle app sometimes prompted him to do strange things, and Stanley didn't want to be judgmental.

But when he entered the kitchen he saw that all the other members of his family were naked as well. He stood in the doorway for a moment and blinked, trying to come to terms with that.

His mother turned and smiled at him; he blushed and looked away.

"Eggs this morning?" she asked. "I got a good deal on modified yolks."

He nodded dully and sat down, trying not to look at anyone.

He'd moved back in with his family a year ago, during the last economic crash. Normally it wasn't too bad. Everyone was running the Just Me app, which told you where the other members of your household were located at all times so that you could avoid them. ( Next best thing to being alone! the ads proclaimed.) But they had taken to eating breakfast together so that they would have a chance to group-sync the app. If you didn't do that once a week it could go out of phase, and then you might find yourself wandering into a room that you had expected to be empty, only to find someone already in it. Highly irritating.

"Eggs are fine," he said, staring down at the table.

"You okay?" his naked older brother asked.

"I'm okay," he mumbled.

"You don't look okay."

It was bad etiquette to discuss brainware problems at the table, but obviously his brother wasn't going to leave him alone. "I think I have a virus," Stanley said. "I'll deal with it at work."

"Is it the nudie virt?" his naked fourteen-year-old brother demanded.

"Geoffrey!" his naked mother exclaimed.

"What's a nudie virt ?" his older brother asked.

"Malicious virtual program," the fourteen-year-old explained. "Hit the social networks late last night. Makes everyone around you look stark naked." He giggled. "I hear the President caught it."

"Is that true?" Stanley's mother asked, frowning as she moved a dishrag into position in front of her chest.

"It's not a big problem," he muttered, trying not to look at her. (Also trying not to think about what the Vice-President would look like naked.) "I'll just run a neurocleaner when I get to work."

She put down a plate of Safe Eggs in front of him. He picked up the salt shaker and shook it over the plate. 30 MG SODIUM, his brainware informed him. 60. 90. The number scrolled higher and higher as he continued to shake. Then: WARNING! Bright red letters scrolled across his field of vision. RECOMMENDED SODIUM LEVELS FOR THIS MEAL HAVE BEEN EXCEEDED. TERMINATE FLAVORING IMMEDIATELY!

Suddenly he felt a wave of defiance come over him. His ancestors in the American Revolution had risked their lives to defend their personal freedom; surely he could do no less! Defiantly he continued to salt his food, oblivious to the fact that he had exceeded his own taste parameters for scrambled eggs. Sometimes you had to make a personal sacrifice in the name of freedom.

WARNING! A loud buzzer sounded in his ear. YOU HAVE EXCEEDED YOUR RECOMMENDED DAILY SODIUM LIMIT! ONE BHC POINT HAS BEEN ASSIGNED TO YOUR ACCOUNT!

Cursing under his breath, Stanley put the shaker down. In his mad bid for freedom he had totally forgotten about the behavioral clause in his medical insurance. Now he had a Bad Health Choice point on his Health Maintenance Record for the month. Four more of them and his premiums would go up. Damn.

It was the nudie virt, he told himself. Trying to eat breakfast without looking at anyone was making him crazy.

He finished as quickly as he could and managed to get out of the house without any more accidental voyeurism. His car was waiting for him.

"Direct, scenic, or budget mode?" it asked.

"Budget," he responded, as he did every morning.

The car started its engine as he entered, shut its doors, and began to roll. Glancing out the window, he noticed that some of the people on the street now had flickering outlines of clothing surrounding them. Evidently his brainware's Security Suite was clearing the virt out of his system on its own.

Today the car took him on a roundabout route that looped past an ad strip, then slowed down so that he would have time to read the densely packed billboards flanking the road. When they reached the end of the strip his car surprised him by driving him to another one, even longer than the first. Usually Budget Mode only required one stop, but advertisers were getting greedier these days. Annoying though it was, he couldn't afford to do without the fuel subsidy he got for agreeing to participate in an ad-immersion program.

But slowing down for the second ad strip made him late for work. He texted his apology to his boss as he entered the building, choosing the appropriate excuse from a checklist. YOUR EXCUSE IS ACKNOWLEDGED, came the answer. THIS MONTH'S ATTENDANCE RATING: 78.21%. PROTECT YOUR PAY RATE BY ARRIVING ON TIME.

As he hurried to the elevator he decided that an environmental virt might soothe his nerves. He chose one called Rain Forest Fantasy, and a moment later the interior of his building appeared to be filled with leafy green ferns, towering trees, and brightly colored birds. But there must have been a glitch in the app, because more and more birds kept appearing, until hundreds of parrots and toucans and macaws were watching his every move. By the time he got to the elevator he was beginning to feel as if he were in a Hitchcock movie, so he switched off the virt as he stepped inside. The real world would have to do.

His office was freshly painted and nicely furnished, and its large picture window was running a Living Nature app. He uploaded a view of the Grand Canyon with midday lighting and watched as a group of tourists made their way down into the sunlit crevasse. It was important that his office be attractive enough that customers didn't feel they had to run virts while they were talking to him. There was nothing more frustrating than trying to discuss mortgage points with someone who was watching a horde of drunken Vikings ravage Saxon women on your desk.

Stanley's first customer was a wizened old Hispanic man who wanted to buy a house for his grandson. His credit was sound but his advanced age set off warning bells, so Stanley put in a request for his medical records. There were several conditions that could increase a man's risk rating, in which case a customer might still get a mortgage but the interest rate would be higher. Someone who didn't take good care of himself was less likely to keep up with his loan payments.

But this customer had a clean medical record, and Stanley's Emotoscan app, which had been analyzing the man's body language since his arrival, assigned him an Estimated Emotional Stability Rating of 86.2. That was well within acceptable parameters, so Stanley signed off on the loan.

His next customer was a tall black man wearing an African medallion around his neck. His skin was very dark.

"Good day," he said. "I am Ngoto Mbege, first cousin to the exiled prince of Nigeria. I have come to you for a loan, it being to restore accounts that were hidden from sight during recent revolution. An assistance of American is needed—"

The door suddenly slammed open and half a dozen men rushed in. They were wearing body armor labeled MAKKAFIE and carrying automatic weapons. Stanley was startled at first, but then he saw the bright red "V" on their helmets. Makkafie was very careful about labeling its virtual products so people didn't get confused.

"Leave this office!" one of the security virts barked. The Nigerian did not move fast enough so all six of them grabbed him and forced him into a steel box which had suddenly appeared by the door. When he was safely locked inside it one of the soldiers saluted Stanley. "He won't be able to bother you now, sir. Do you want him disposed of?"

Stanley nodded and the malvirt flickered out of existence along with its container. The Makkafie team followed.

Stanley frowned. There was way too much malware in his head today. Maybe he should visit a neuropractor after work. He told his brainware to provide a local directory, and he called a neuropractor whose office was only a few blocks away. The receptionist asked for permission to access his credit record from the last ten years, and after running a detailed analysis of his medical payment habits, she agreed to give him an appointment. She was a real person, of course; no patient would be expected to share that kind of personal information with a machine.

The nudie virt tried to launch itself several times that afternoon; evidently Stanley's Security Suite hadn't been able to uninstall it fully. He was forced to purchase a malware detection upgrade, which instructed him to shut down all his other apps while it scoured his system. Apparently it found something complicated, and he had to function without his brainware for most of the afternoon. By the end of the day he had developed a pounding headache…but everyone in the world still had clothes on, so at least that was something.

While walking to the neuropractor's office he refused an offer to earn extra fuel points by accepting an advertising detour. But an underwear ad flashed briefly in front of him as he crossed the street and he sighed; evidently his pop-in protection was on the blitz as well.

The neuropractor looked over all his systems and then said that the problem was that he was running a thousand different programs to deal with bits and pieces of his digital health, rather than addressing the greater whole. Stanley didn't understand all the details of that, but he knew that his customary approach had not worked, so he agreed to try a round of "data stimulation therapy." Apparently that involved a lot of residual virts being stimulated, and he spent an hour having to relive sounds and images he thought he'd deleted long ago. The worst was a disco remix of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony that he vaguely remembered having loaded one night in college when he was drunk. No wonder his brainware was having so many problems! It had to wend its way through a lifetime of garbage data every time it needed to process something.

Stanley wasn't sure whether he felt any better when the therapy was over, but the neuropractor's scanner assured him that he did, and he was no longer being accosted by virtual ads, so maybe that was true.

By the time he got home, Stanley could feel the strain of a long day catching up with him. He consulted his Just Me app to locate any other family members who were in the house. To his annoyance he saw that there were already people in the living room, den, and office. The only room besides his own bedroom that was currently unoccupied was a small storage room in the basement.

With a sigh he headed downstairs. The room was filled with half-open boxes, but by rearranging some of them he managed to clear enough space to sit down. As he opened his e-Book app his Call Center chimed and informed him that he had a call.

"Yes?" he said aloud.

"Stanley." The virtual voice was that of a co-worker, Jeff Simmons. "A bunch of us are heading over to Riley's for drinks. You want to join us?"

Tired as he was, it was a very tempting invitation. He still had a few alcohol credits left for the month, so he could enjoy a couple of beers without it impacting his health insurance premium.

"Sure," he said. "I'll come right over."

He shut down the e-Book app and struggled to his feet. But before he could get to the door, a message from his Positive Reinforcement Suite appeared in front of him: WARNING! ENERGY LEVELS SUB-OPTIMUM. ANTICIPATED ONSET OF BODILY EXHAUSTION: 8:45 PM. EARLY RETIREMENT RECOMMENDED.

Stanley hesitated. It was 8:15 already. If he went to the bar now, he'd hardly have time to enjoy himself before he became tired. But if instead he chose to go to sleep early, he would earn two Good Health Choice points. That could help offset the egg-salting fiasco.

With a sigh he sat back down on his box, yawning as he opened his e-Book app once again. His health program had been right; he was already starting to feel tired. But a good night's sleep would fix that, he knew. His Positive Reinforcement Suite had inspired him to make the right choices today, his neuropractor had cleared all the annoying kinks out of his brainware, and his Sweet Dreams app would make sure that he slept deeply and had pleasant dreams. He would certainly feel better in the morning.

As he chose a book to read, he wondered briefly what things had been like before the digital age. What utter chaos life must have been! He was fortunate to have been born in the time and place that he had, with so many modern conveniences at his beck and call.

With a sigh of satisfaction he settled back in his tiny cardboard nook, called up the series of virtual advertisements that was required by his reading material, and waited for the moment when his ad quota for the day would finally be satisfied and he could enjoy his book.

Hanging Noodles

By Sophie M. White
| 65 words

I'm not hanging noodles
On your ears! I sweated
Through seven shirts
To get the lingo right.
Nobody will think I'm
An ugly Yeñreshian
On the Earth cruise.

Oh, I hope I'll meet
A lotus-eyed young mango
Who'll let me drain my horns!
But don't worry—
I won't let a crystallization
Of our love come along.

BOOKS TO LOOK FOR

By Charles de Lint
| 3580 words

The Last Dragon, by Jane Yolen & Rebecca Guay, Dark Horse Books, 2011, $29.99.

WHEN readers fall in love with a book, they usually fall hard. And often they'll be interested in other interpretations of the material—especially movies—but will then complain that the movie isn't as good as the book.

There is a good reason for this that has nothing to do with how faithful the adaptation is, how well the characters are cast, or even when favorite scenes get cut. The real problem is that the movie on the screen doesn't match the one in their heads.

If there's a secret to writing, it's probably this: the best writers meet their readers halfway. They don't give them too much or too little information, and they're adept at manipulating the reader to have a certain response to how events play out. When they do it right, the reader feels involved in the creative process. In other words, they meet the writer at that halfway point, filling in details, motives, characterization, etc., which has been alluded to in the book.

So it's no wonder that the movie on the screen doesn't match the one in their head.

Some writers are so good at this that their work really doesn't need to be adapted. It's already perfect on the page. (Which writers those are will differ for each reader—and that's how it should be.)

For me, one of those writers is Jane Yolen. Her work has all the criteria mentioned above, but added to that is her ability to write a timeless story—a story that feels like a fairy tale, like it's been around forever, even as it tells its own unique narrative.

So it was with a little trepidation that I approached this adaptation of her 1985 short story "Dragonfield." I wasn't put off by the art. For The Last Dragon, Rebecca Guay delivers gorgeous paintings that look like a comic book illustrated by one of the Pre-Raphaelite artists, with a touch of Art Nouveau thrown in for good measure. The visuals are wonderful, as is the narrative flow.

But Jane Yolen doesn't need art to help her tell a story—and before you correct me, I know she's the author of innumerable picture books. When she puts her talent to a prose novel or story (as when "The Last Dragon" originally appeared as the titular entry in the Dragonfield anthology), her words do all the magic that's required. The movie in the reader's head unreels just as it should without the necessity of visual direction.

Still, just because a story doesn't require a visual adaptation to be successful, that doesn't mean it shouldn't get one. You need only put the question to the multitude of fans of books like The Lord of the Rings or the Harry Potter series—yearning for more of their favorite stories in other formats—to be given a resounding "yes." And in the best of worlds, the result is…not necessarily something better, but something different that is just as entrancing in its own right.

That's certainly the case here. The mix of Yolen's prose and dialogue with Guay's expressive art deliver a collaboration that is an absolute delight from start to finish.

What's it about? Oh, there are three sisters, a dragon, a reluctant hero, a village in peril…really, you need to read it to experience the magic for yourself. It's lovely, lovely stuff, and you won't be disappointed. Not even if you enjoy the original story as much as I do.

Down These Strange Streets, edited by George R.R. Martin & Gardner Dozois, Ace Books, 2011, $26.95.

I don't review anthologies in these pages as often as I'd like. The reason for that is simple: it takes me a long time to read them. Unlike single-author collections and novels, I can't seem to read them straight through. I tend to dip into them, read a story or two, put them aside, then come back to them again in a week or so. By the time I'm finished, it's usually too late for any sort of a timely review.

Why can't I read them all in one sitting? I think it's because most anthologies are themed and I don't like to read too many stories in a row with the same subject matter. You know: all the stories have cats in them, or they're about robots, or time travel, or vampires.…

I understand that readers love them, and publishers certainly seem to like them—especially when they have some big-name contributors to blazon on the front cover. I've also appreciated the challenge of working within their parameters as a writer—particularly when the subject is something I wouldn't normally gravitate to on my own.

None of this should be taken as criticism, because I enjoy them as a reader as well. I just like to read them at my own pace.

Down These Strange Streets would probably have had the same fate except I happened to have it on hand when I didn't have access to much else by way of reading material. Happily, the theme—as described by George R.R. Martin in his intro: "That the story involve a private detective and a case with a fantastic slant, be it real or…less so."—is pretty loose, so that there was plenty of variety even when reading the book in one sitting.

If that theme sounds interesting to you, you'll be pleased with the stories Martin and co-editor Gardner Dozois have gathered together here. As you might expect from the stellar lineup (Charlaine Harris, Diana Gabaldon, Carrie Vaughn, et al) there aren't any duds.

Stand-outs for me were Joe R. Lansdale's "The Bleeding Shadow," with its mash-up of Lovecraftian horror and a crossroads deal with the devil (and what a clever crossroads he found); S. M. Stirling's "Pain and Suffering," which I enjoyed as much for its Santa Fe setting as for its weird mystery; and Patricia Briggs's "In Red, With Pearls," where we get a little more in-depth time with one of the secondary werewolf characters from her popular Mercy Thompson series.

What I liked most about the stories collected here is that it was never obvious how they were going to turn out. At the same time, while the endings were unexpected, the authors played fair. I could look back through most of these stories and find the threads that led to the "surprise" ending. So while there might be vampires, werewolves, and other monsters involved, bottom line is these are also solid detective stories in their own right, and you can't ask for much more than that.

Another Kind of Dead, by Kelly Meding, Bantam Books, 2011, $7.99.

These Dreg City books are proving to be a rather robust series. I know I was a little cranky at the end of the first book, Three Days to Dead, when our heroine Evy Stone survived even though, from how the author set up the story, she was supposed to…well, die. It wasn't that I didn't like Stone. I just felt Meding hadn't played fair.

That said, Meding knew better than I, because she's got herself a fine series going that's three books strong now, and I'm certainly reading each of the books as they come out.

At the risk of seeming a little cranky again, I do have to say that this is a series in which the books build on one another so you really do need to read them from the start. I suppose one can simply jump in—Meding has a nice touch at filling in backstory without boring the reader or slowing things down—but in this case, more than in some series, if you do that, you'll miss the subtle resonances that can only come from a familiarity with the characters and their world.

It also makes it hard to talk about the plot in this particular book, since so much of it is dependent on things that happened in previous volumes. For instance, Stone trades herself to a kidnapper who is sure to kill her in exchange for the freedom of her friend the hawk shapeshifter Phin. Meding fills in why, but missing are the layers of emotional depth that you would know from having read As Lie the Dead. Or why does the gargoyle Max go out of his way to help her? Or…?

Well, you get the idea.

If you've enjoyed the previous books, you'll love this one, even if it does have a bit of a cliffhanger ending. If you're new to Dreg City, go pick up Another Kind of Dead first and prepare to be hooked.

The Griff by Christopher Moore & Ian Corson with Jennyson Rosero, William Morrow, 2011, $22.99.

We recently discussed Cowboys & Aliens in these pages, a graphic novel that spawned a movie (which I still haven't seen). It was a fun romp—and so is The Griff. And while this original graphic novel hasn't spawned its own film (as I write this), it pretty much cries out for one. But it would cost a fortune.

Cowboys & Aliens had an invasion set in a small town in the Old West. There's an invasion in The Griff as well but it affects the entire world. These aliens are dragony/griffin-like in appearance (hence the title) and their invasion decimates the world.

We follow two sets of survivors.

The first is made up of a young woman who is a dolphin trainer in Ocean World, Florida, along with an older man who makes his living in that same entertainment park by wandering about dressed as a squirrel.

We find the second group in New York City and it includes a skateboarder, a video game designer, and a wannabe soldier.

Christopher Moore & Ian Corson share the writing duties and do a fine job of moving the story forward, giving equal time to both groups. The artist isn't listed, but I'm guessing it's the Jennyson Rosero who gets a credit on the cover for creating this with the pair. The art isn't the kind that grabs you in the individual panels, but just as with the writers, the artist does a great job of keeping the story visually interesting without sacrificing the momentum of the story.

I find it interesting that with comics I'll often prefer art that's not great when you take each panel on its own but it has a strong narrative drive. I'm not saying I don't appreciate it when a comic has fine art in each panel—I do—but often those books sacrifice the narrative flow for the pretty picture. But for me, with comics (as with many media) it all comes down to how well the story works.

If you're a fan of well-crafted first contact sf, this is the book for you. It's smart, full of surprises, but most importantly, it's fun.

The Wild Ways, by Tanya Huff, DAW Books, 2011, $24.95.

It's always a good month when a new Tanya Huff novel comes out. The Wild Ways is a sequel to The Enchantment Emporium, but if you haven't read the earlier book, don't be scared off. Huff's series books are standalones. Of course you get more resonance if you've read the earlier book, but The Wild Ways provides a full-blooded experience all on its own.

The extended Gale family is still central to the goings-on. This time the focus is on Charlie, a "Wild Power" Gale who isn't connected to a certain place the way her cousins and the Aunties are. Her magic is tied up with her music, and she has the neat ability of being able to use it to go through a mystical Wood that allows her to step in between trees in, say, Calgary, and step out again from some other vegetation in the Maritimes.

The music/magic and charms she knows are handy for a traveling musician (seriously, wouldn't a little charm to keep a tour van safe be a useful thing?), but magic causes problems too, as Charlie knows all too well. After all, she's grown up with the Gale Aunties—a fierce bunch of women with severe control issues.

The book opens with various circumstances sending Charlie to Cape Breton, where it's festival season. She thinks she's just there to fill in as a guitarist for her friends who have six weeks of gigs lined up, but lack a guitarist. She brings along her fourteen-year-old cousin Jack, who also happens to be a dragon, to be their roadie. And to keep him out of trouble.

Once in Cape Breton, however, she gets involved in a dispute between an oil company that wants to drill offshore near a seal sanctuary and a protest group that happens to be run by selkies. The oil company has hired someone to steal the selkies' seal skins to blackmail them into stopping their protest. The seal people have connections to Charlie's new band (it seems in Cape Breton all the best fiddlers get snagged as husbands by selkies) so Charlie decides to get the skins back.

I should note here that Huff plays fair and gives both sides their chance to make their arguments. By doing that, she's not lecturing; she's allowing the readers to make up their own minds. Is she biased in favor of the selkies? Possibly, but they don't get off the hook as being complete innocents either.

The Wild Ways is big fun from start to finish, featuring everything from a helpful if cryptic mirror to boggarts wreaking havoc at one of the festival sites. It's got humor and drama, it's fast paced and sexy, and it's got a positive slant with some well-placed cynical digs. If that sounds a little schizophrenic, it's not. Huff just doesn't write cookie-cut characters; hers are fully rounded with many facets to their personalities.

Whether you're rejoining the Gale family or meeting them for the first time, I think you'll be as delighted with this book as I am.

The Wild Girls, by Ursula K. Le Guin, PM Press Outspoken Authors Series #6, 2011, $12.

The Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow, by Cory Doctorow, PM Press Outspoken Authors Series #8, 2011, $12.

I've long admired Terry Bisson as a writer, but I had no idea he was an editor until this pair of small, attractive trade paperbacks showed up in my post office box. Now I've got another reason to admire his work.

The PM Press Outspoken Authors Series has eight entries so far, including such genre stalwarts as Kim Stanley Robinson, Michael Moorcock, and Rudy Rucker, as well as editor Bisson in Volume One. Each book has a photo of the author on the cover and contains a meaty novelet/novella along with one or two essays, poetry (at least in Le Guin's case), a bibliography, and an interview conducted by Bisson.

Le Guin's book opens with a classic story of a rigid society and gender relationships, told as only she can tell such stories, and presented here in a revised version. There's also the poetry (an excellent, if brief section), an essay on modesty, and my favorite piece in the book, a reprint from Harper's called "Staying Awake While We Read," in which she takes on corporate publishing and explains the inherent fallacy of trying to fit the buying habits of book lovers into the annual growth mold that stockholders expect from their "product."

I'd recommend you buy this book simply to read that essay, though you won't be disappointed by the rest of the collection.

In Doctorow's "The Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow" Jimmy Yensid and his father are trying to preserve Detroit, the last standing city in the United States, as a historical artifact. Their failure to do so results in Jimmy being cast adrift in a wilderness filled with communities trying to change the world for the better but often with horrible results.

At the same time Jimmy—a transhuman; i.e., a genetically engineered almost immortal stuck in pre-puberty—just wants to grow up. But he's trapped protecting the last of his father's artifacts: the Carousel of Progress exhibit from Disneyland.

Though much of the story is a fun read, the novella has a dark undercurrent and comes to a sobering conclusion. Still, it's pure Doctorow, filled with more invention and movement than many writers can fit into a book series.

Also included here is a transcript of Doctorow's manifesto: "Copyright vs. Creativity," a must-read for anyone involved with ebooks and the like, as well as a freewheeling interview conducted by Bisson.

These are beautifully designed and produced books. What I like about a series such as this is that you get a really well-rounded picture of the author: there's a sample of their fiction, you see what they look like from the cover jacket, hear their more-or-less formal essayist voice in some nonfiction, and finish up with their casual day-to-day voice in the interview.

Future Shock Comics, by Jim & Pat McGreal, futureshockcomics.com, 2011, $10.

Humor is a pretty subjective thing. What's funny to one person can easily leave somebody else scratching their head. That said, we still like to pass along what we think is funny—to which innumerable email forwards can readily attest. And that's why I'm bringing this slim collection to your attention.

Future Shock Comics got its start on the web, but now appears in a few newspapers and in this collection. It's absurdist science fiction humor (think The Far Side, but with robots and time travel instead of the guy stuck on a desert island or talking cows) that manages to be funny, speculative, and edgy as it pokes fun at sf tropes and the state of our current high-tech society.

While the art does its job without a lot of bells and whistles—you're not going to admire individual panels the way you might with Calvin & Hobbes —you probably won't notice because you'll be laughing too hard.

With its slick production values, it's a bargain at $10.

Death and Resurrection, by R. A. MacAvoy, Prime Books, 2011, $14.95.

Last year I reviewed the first part of this novel, which was published as a stand-alone novella called In Between. I greeted the book's arrival with great enthusiasm because—to reiterate briefly what I said in that earlier review—after the eighties ended, R. A. MacAvoy disappeared from publishing for almost twenty years, and this reader sorely missed her unique style of storytelling.

Yes, I could always go back and reread classics like Tea with the Black Dragon (1983) and The Book of Kells (1985)—novels that, in their time, helped reshape our view of how a fantasy story could be told. But you know how it is with your favorite authors: you appreciate what they've already given us, but you're always eager for more. Especially new explorations of a style of writing that was unique in its time.

Because instead of all the magic and adventure taking place in some otherworld, in MacAvoy's books it happened here, in ours. Her characters could have been you or me, or the person living next door. She combined Celtic and Eastern mysteries into a seamless blend that to this date has still not been duplicated as well or with as much resonance.

I know. It's not so novel these days. So the big question—with all that's happened in our field since then—is, what will she do in the present publishing climate? The obvious things that set her apart in the 1980s are commonplace now.

But I was happy to report that she still had a fresh take with that novella, and the slim volume, in turn, simply whetted my appetite for the book finally in hand. Reading Death & Resurrection took up some of the most enjoyable hours I've spent in a while.

In the novella In Between, we were introduced to a young painter named Ewen Young who was recently dumped by his girlfriend. It opened with him being attacked by three men on the way home from an art show opening. The beating they planned to give him was a message to Ewen's Uncle Jimmy, a martial arts instructor and compulsive gambler who owed them money. But Young isn't only a painter. He also studied for years with his uncle, and soon put the attackers to rout.

That only delayed the confrontation between the thugs and Uncle Jimmy and Ewen's involvement in their struggle. The next day Ewen found himself in the hospital fighting for his life.

But Ewen has a third, secret skill. He can go to an "in between" place and take others with him. It's like a pocket universe, where nothing from the "real" world can intrude. His sister is a therapist and he uses this ability to help her patients. But that "in between" place is bigger than he thought.

All of this—including the investigating detectives who catch the case—combine to make Ewen's life lurch from one complication to another. There are good elements—such as his involvement with a beautiful Native American veterinarian and her dog—and bad. Unfortunately, the bad won't give him a moment to catch his breath, be the threat monsters, gun-toting humans, or some kid who steals his body, leaving Ewen locked up in a mental institution in his stead.

Ewen just wants to fall back into the Zen flow his life once had, but it doesn't take him long to realize he has to deal with the domino effect of all these problems if he ever wants to reclaim the peace he once knew.

I know there are things that will annoy some readers—like the occasional sections where the pace slows down, or the unanswered question concerning Ewen's ability to travel "in between"—but they're part and parcel of why I like the book as much as I do. MacAvoy isn't afraid to take her time when the story warrants it, and how Ewen can do what he does isn't as important as what he does with the ability.

The language is gorgeous throughout, the characters fully realized and likable, and you know, in this busy world in which we find ourselves, we could do well to acquire some of Ewen's serenity.

Highly recommended.

Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P. O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

BOOKS

By Chris Moriarty
| 2721 words

The Highest Frontier, by Joan Slonczewski, Tor Books, 2011, $26.99.

Children of the Sky, by Vernor Vinge, Tor Books, 2011. Hardcover, $25.99.

The Dream of Perpetual Motion, by Dexter Palmer, Picador, 2010, $16.

After the Apocalypse, by Maureen F. McHugh, Small Beer Press, 2011, $16.

Let's Play White, by Chesya Burke, Apex, 2011, $15.95.

JOAN Slonczewski's The Highest Frontier and Vernor Vinge's The Children of the Sky are both long-awaited volumes from major hard sf writers who work at a glacially slow pace by the standards of commercial publishing. Vernor Vinge needs no introduction among knowledgeable science fiction readers, and Joan Slonczewski is not only one of the great hard sf writers of all time but also one of the increasingly rare sf writers who are active researchers in the base sciences. Running a research lab or an astronomical observatory is not a sine qua non of writing good hard sf; some of the greatest hard sf writers are either non-scientists or specialists in more abstract disciplines like mathematics or theoretical computer science. But active research scientists bring tremendous insights to the genre, and their diminishing presence in science fiction over the last few decades—largely due to ever more insane time demands of lab management and grant writing in modern academia—has undoubtedly impoverished our genre. So a new book from Slonczewski is good news for anyone who cares about the continuing credibility of hard sf as a literature of ideas that springs from a substantive dialogue with serious scientific research instead of merely using science as literary window dressing.

Vernor Vinge, a mathematician who has made his academic reputation in computer science and is best known for his theory of the Singularity, brings a quite different perspective—and there are great insights to be gleaned from reading Vinge and Slonczewski in tandem. To see the same core ideas—first contact, for example, or the challenges of space colonization—examined from the radically different perspectives of a microbiologist and a computer scientist can reveal habitual preconceptions just as effectively as those trick pictures where a vase turns into a face and then back again every time you blink.

Vinge and Slonczewski also share another trait: the dazzling fecundity of their imaginations. Both writers produce big science ideas at such a mind-boggling rate that they can't even be bothered to feed and water them until they grow into novels. Instead they tumble around in the middle of books ostensibly about other things, providing a constant stream of mind-expanding one-liners for alert readers.

One of the nice things about Vinge's retirement from active teaching has been that he now seems to have time to develop a larger number of these brilliant ideas. Slonczewski, on the other hand, is still at the height of a research career that would be impressive even without her fiction production. So we're not likely to see a slew of Slonczewski "retirement" novels until 2030 or so. But the good news is that The Highest Frontier seems to be the start of a larger series that might come out quicker than standalone novels.

The Highest Frontier introduces Jenny Ramos Kennedy, a scion of the famous political dynasty, just as she's leaving Earth to attend college in a posh orbital habitat. As we follow Jenny into orbit, Slonczewski gives us an insider's view of scientific research and social shenanigans in the ivory tower that is by turns hair-raising and hilarious.

Slonczewski posits a glittering high-tech future in which space elevators climb cords of anthrax bacteria; taxpayers have been replaced by "taxplayers" who gamble their taxes at orbital casinos; IT services are provided by children because no one over the age of ten understands the newest tech; and orbital colonists wear power bands that harvest their kinetic energy for deposit in over-leveraged power banks and live in nanotech houses that melt down if you miss a payment.

But there are darker sides to life in Slonczewski's future America: global warming has made floods, pythons, kudzu, and methane quakes a part of daily life; the U.S. and China are at war over Antarctica, the new global breadbasket; and Evangelical Christians have given up on saving Earth and embarked on a high-tech Rapture in which the Righteous will all migrate to orbital habitats. And as if all that weren't enough, the War on Terror has been replaced by the War on Ultra: an invasive alien species that thrives in a biosphere increasingly hostile to Earthly life.

The Highest Frontier is a deeply political book, and one written from the standpoint of an active academic in the hard sciences. Sometimes—as in Slonczewski's skewering of the foibles of academia—the result is comic. But Slonczewski also has a sharp eye for more grievous failures of human organizations and the human spirit: university administrators' self-serving excuses about admitting unqualified legacy kids because their parents' future donations might fund new dorms and merit scholarships; the quiet cover-ups of student rapes (particularly chilling in light of recent events at Penn State); the constant accommodations that professors in science departments are required to make to anti-science and pseudo-science in order to avoid controversy; and the long-term price of those accommodations in a nation where public policy and sound science drift farther apart with every election cycle.

At its core, The Highest Frontier is an impassioned plea for medically and ecologically sound, science-based public policy. As part of this plea Slonczewski tries to articulate a broad vision of how religion and science might embrace rather than battle with each other in American politics. In many respects she succeeds admirably at tackling a subject many writers and public policy wonks have stumbled over. And yet I still came away from my reading with very mixed feelings about this aspect of the book. It wasn't that I faulted Slonczewski's (mostly impeccable) logic or disagreed with her handling of political and religious themes. And it certainly wasn't that the book is anything less than gripping—in fact I stayed up late two nights in a row to finish it. Rather, it's that as I was reading the book I kept thinking…Is America really this crazy?

And then I would open up the morning paper or turn on the TV and remember that, yes, sadly, we really are that crazy. And we really do need books like this one. The fact that America needs Joan Slonczewski to administer an anti-crazy-pill makes me (as my four-year-old has been known to say in similar circumstances) Sad and Mad. But on the other hand, if America needs to take its meds, then The Highest Frontier is seriously fun—and seriously smart—sugarcoating.

One of the great pleasures I've had over the last few months has been rereading Vernor Vinge's Zones of Thought books in anticipation of the arrival of the long-anticipated next installment. The Children of the Sky is the third full-length novel in the Zones of Thought series, and I should make it clear right now that anyone who hasn't read the first two books in the series should definitely read them before embarking on this extremely close sequel to A Fire upon the Deep. As for what order you should read them in…well, there's legitimate room for debate there.

Personally, I'd start with A Deepness in the Sky, which I believe to be the best hard sf novel ever written. It's an extremely suspenseful book, and all but impossible to summarize without committing unforgivable plot spoilers. But I don't think I'm risking too much by saying that it's one of the great first contact novels of all time, and also not to be missed if you've got a thing for creepy mind control dystopias. That said, A Deepness in the Sky is only a loose prequel to the more closely linked Tines World books. So while it enriches the experience of reading them, it's absolutely not necessary.

Okay, enough setup! Let's talk about the new book!

All of the formidable gifts that Vinge brought to A Fire Upon the Deep and A Deepness in the Sky are conspicuously present in The Children of the Sky: the astonishing flights of imagination and scientific speculation; the ability to weave a complex, braided story composed of multiple, fully developed character arcs; the slow, purposeful accretion of scientific details that lets Vinge communicate complex scientific ideas without ever slowing down for indigestible chunks of exposition; the surreal ability to convey a deep understanding of complex events through unreliable or clueless narrators who often don't grasp the larger implications of their own stories. But The Children of the Sky also brings new and important speculative ideas to the series, though I was deep into my reading of the book before I began to see them, and thus to grasp that this book is more than just the straightforward "middle book of a trilogy" it at first seems to be.

The central metaphysical obsession of A Fire upon the Deep was the nature of the soul, and the ways in which our ideas of identity, mortality, and immortality are forged in the sometimes conflicting or delusional stories we tell ourselves about who we are—culturally, biologically, individually. Vinge's primary vehicle for this exploration was the unforgettable Flenser, the sinister yet undeniably brilliant Tines despot who forges souls that he calls masterpieces and others call monsters. Then, with A Deepness in the Sky, Vinge turned his metaphysical lens on a slightly different but equally profound target: the disturbing degree to which human culture and technological progress is founded on societies abrogating individual freedoms… often in ways that make clearcut dichotomies like democracy versus tyranny and individual versus collective seem like dangerously inadequate tools of moral analysis.

In The Children of the Sky, Vinge returns to Tines World and its pack minds. But Vinge's ideas have shifted and expanded in subtly important ways since he last wrote about Tines World. It took me a while to catch onto the shift, and I have to admit that at first I resented it. I wanted more Flenser, more monsters, more soul-slicing dungeons and diabolical machinations. But instead Vinge kept pushing his story toward the Tropics and its massive, continent-spanning cities where—at least according to the Northerners' stereotypes—rational thought and individuality were completely submerged in the "decadent" chaos of the Choir.

Silly me. Shouldn't I know by now that when Vernor Vinge starts having his characters mouth stereotypes he's already halfway to subverting them?

Read facilely, The Children of the Sky would be easy to dismiss as a middle novel (albeit a thrillingly action-packed one) in which the focus is on character development and story mechanics but no significant new speculative ideas are really being put on the table. But that read of the book would be dead wrong. Rather, this novel is a complex shell game, in which Vinge directs your attention back and forth between multiple plotlines, all while waiting to spring the big science ideas on you until he's had time to work through some of the more uncanny implications of contemporary theoretical computer science. The science concepts are so cleverly embedded in the riproaring adventure story that you barely notice them rushing by. But still…I can't help thinking that CompSci 101 with Vernor Vinge would be one of those courses that cracks open your head and rewires your worldview.

The Children of the Sky ends with a tantalizing glimpse of what (I ardently hope) lies in store for patient readers in book three of the trilogy. We see Johanna, standing on the edge of the southern hinterlands, a far future Coronado poised to jump off into an unexplored continent defined less by geography than by networks. She is beginning to delve into the true heart of the Choir: a continent-spanning, anarcho-libertarian collective consciousness that promises to be as scientifically complex and metaphysically resonant as anything Vinge has written about to date. Meanwhile, as he chronicles the power dynamics of the increasingly fractured human settlement, Vinge has laid the groundwork for comparing the obvious collective consciousness of the Choir to the human patterns of decision-making and identity-construction that are so familiar to us that we rarely think to examine their underlying structure. In short, Vinge has returned to his Zones of Thought universe armed with the insights of the explosion of theoretical computer science and network theory in the last two decades. And he asks, in ways that are both hopeful and destabilizing, whether we really understand our own minds quite as well as we like to think we do.

I am greatly looking forward to seeing how this grandest of Vinge's grand ideas plays out in the next Tines World book—and if the Singularity arrives first, I'll be one frustrated hominid!

I've never been able to resist a good Death of Magic story, and Dexter Palmer has written a truly remarkable one. The Dream of Perpetual Motion is a loose steampunk-tinged retelling of The Tempest. But unlike less thoughtful steampunkistas, Palmer goes beyond the goggles-and-airships aesthetic and delves into the darker subtext of power and violence that lies beneath the steampunk mystique.

The Dream of Perpetual Motion is a story at war with itself. It allows multiple readings, some of which seem to contradict or even negate each other, and all of which raise disturbing questions about whether love—or even honest communication—is possible between men and women, rich and poor, adults and children, or in any relationship where power differentials play a role. My main sensation while reading the book was unease. Are the rare moments of seeming connection and communication between Palmer's isolated characters real or delusional? What is the true nature of the terrible crime at the heart of the story? And what are we to make of the narrator's ambiguous and in some ways deeply problematic final epiphany?

I honestly can't offer a definitive answer to any of those questions. What I can say, however, is that I couldn't put this book down. Through a slow accumulation of resonant moments, Palmer builds a penumbra of alternative meanings around a central story that remains troublingly difficult to pin down even after the final page is turned. The result is an enigmatic and at times frustrating book, rife with internal contradictions, whose characters battle over the meaning of their lives in ways that range from laugh-out-loud funny to deeply disturbing. Like the two baffling crimes/works of art at the story's center, the novel is a cacophony of interwoven tales that synchronize with or interfere with each other as you move through the narrative, giving way every now and then to sharp, bright, painfully beautiful moments of clarity.

The Dream of Perpetual Motion is a strangely compelling and compulsively readable novel in the best tradition of literary speculative fiction writers like Geoff Ryman and M. John Harrison. And though it is a deeply serious novel, it also contains moments of comedy—some high, some low, but all hilarious—including but not limited to the funniest mock Death Ray Ultimatum Letter ever (on page 250, if you must know). If you're in search of a cure for the common steampunk, look no further.

I don't usually review short story collections, but this month I have two exceptionally good ones to recommend.

Maureen McHugh is one of the great sf writers of our generation, and her latest book, After the Apocalypse, is one of the best short story collections I've read in the last decade. Standout stories include "The Naturalist," in which zombies turn out to be the least scary part of the coming apocalypse; "Special Economics," which follows the travails of a pair of Chinese factory girls; "Useless Things," set in an eerily familiar post-financial meltdown New Mexico; and "The Effect of Centrifugal Forces," whose narrator's mother has Avian Prion Disease (spread through Chicken McNuggets). Readers who remember the masterful writing and character development in China Mountain Zhang will find a great deal to admire here. If you're already a Maureen McHugh fan, you need to buy After the Apocalypse. And if you're not yet a Maureen McHugh fan? Well, you should be.

Chesea Burke's Let's Play White is an intelligent and fiercely humorous book. Burke's stories describe African-American women's experiences with honesty and humor, and with a profound awareness of the complexity of race and gender roles that makes her a worthy heir to writers like James Baldwin and James Tiptree, Jr. And even if you're not a short story reader, you shouldn't miss the superb novella, "The Teachings and Redemption of Ms. Fannie Lou Mason," that makes up about the last third of the book. It takes up many of Burke's characteristic themes—the bonds between mothers, daughters, and sisters, the insidious legacy of violence—and melds them into a darkly powerful tale that evokes Rosewood and all the other lost Southern towns where the ghosts whisper on the wind long after the graves have grown over and the old houses have fallen to ruin.

PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS

By Paul Di Filippo
| 1143 words

Pimp My Read

WITH ALL my heart I cursed the name of Tomas Tranströmer, poet and Nobelist, who was the prime culprit responsible for the dire plight now besetting me.

Of course, in the next moment I felt guilty. It wasn't all Tranströmer's fault. He was just a handy symbol for my desperate quandary.

But certainly, when the Swedish writer had agreed, upon his induction, to play the piano onstage at the Nobel Prize ceremonies, despite being partially disabled from a stroke, he had set the bar uncommonly high for poets making a public appearance, crystallizing a certain audience expectation.

That had been five years ago, and nowadays the intense fallout from Tranströmer's bold self-presentation pervaded the scene for public readings by literary authors of every stripe.

Oh, sure, the pressure to tart up readings had been building before Tranströmer's pianistic display. We had already experienced poetry slams, where melodramatic performance often outweighed the texts. There had always been publicity stunts involving books, such as Naked Girls Reading, and Todd Zuniga's Literary Death Matches, where four authors read competitively and the "winner" was awarded laurels. But these had been exceptions to the usual old-fashioned unadorned recitation from behind a cozy lectern, where nothing came between listener and the text but perhaps the author's inexpert, sleep-inducing drone.

Today, however, such antique events were nonexistent. An author reading was an author performing. And with so much of a writer's income and reputation staked on live events, God help the author who couldn't come up with an intriguing act to accompany his or her personal appearance.

And therein lay my problem. My own act had gotten stale, and I couldn't think up a new one.

I had cruised along for three years, ever since the publication of my first novel, An Anodyne for Atheists, with what I rather proudly imagined was a riveting magic trick.

Before turning to fiction writing, during my college years, I had earned spare cash with my amateur escapologist routine: sort of a second-rate Houdini shtick. So when I was casting about for an act to accompany my public readings, I naturally fixed upon what I had already mastered.

My readings consisted of me donning a straitjacket, securely lashed, then climbing into a chin-high, water-filled chamber, above which was suspended an immense crushing weight (actually styrofoam) whose release was determined by a large timing device clearly counting down to my destruction. While declaiming memorized passages from my novel, I appeared to be frantically struggling with my bonds against imminent death. Finally, just at the climax of my oral narrative segment, I would free myself, burst forth in a splash and halt the timer.

I had never failed to move a goodly number of units, selling my books to at least fifteen percent of my audience when I performed. That was a very good sell-through for any author, I knew.

Except lately, with the publication of my second book, A Balm for Beggars. Attendance had been sparse and sales sparser. Then came the highly retweeted comment that ended my run, from Penn Jillette, no less: "Saw Griffin Seltzer's lame-o act—that shit sucked donkey balls a century ago."

My publisher and editor and agent had all called me within sixty seconds of Jillette's tweet, ordering me to come up with a new act for my next reading. And for two months I had tried. But none of my ideas seemed good or exciting enough.

And so I now sat in the waiting room of the agency I thought could save my career, the Jambo Juicebox Novelty Speakers Bureau, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Jim Rose Circus.

At last the receptionist conducted me in to meet the owner of the agency, Jambo Juicebox himself.

JJ, as I'll call him, stood shirtless, with auburn hair to his shoulders, wearing spandex cyclist's shorts and high-top sneakers. Threaded in a close-meshed matrix just beneath his epidermis was a web of artificial luminescent spidersilk. This display, the latest tattoo upgrade and run by an implanted chip, allowed an infinity of animations to parade up and down his scrawny frame. Right now, Donald Duck was chasing Chip and Dale up one arm, (presumably) across JJ's back, then down the other arm.

"Griffin, dude! Have a seat!"

JJ rested his skinny butt against the frame of a treadmill and dug out his smartphone from some hidden recess of his skintight shorts. "I've been looking at some clips of your past readings. Hammy but alluring—at first! You ran it into the ground, bro! Variety is the lifeblood of public performance. You can't expect your readers to flock to see the same show they saw three years ago."

"But I was reciting fresh passages from the newest novel.…" I lamely countered.

"That's the least important part of your act! Wise up! Now, here's the backscatter I'm getting from you: retro! Am I right? You're kind of an old-fashioned guy, correct?"

I was only about ten years older than JJ, but I immediately felt ancient. "Well, I guess—"

"Okay! Savory! That's our approach. How do you relate to physical pain?"

"What?"

"There's no one on the circuit now who hammers nails up their nostrils. Joyce Carol Oates was doing it, but she had a little accident. Kind of a self-administered lobotomy. Now she's only fit to write paranormal romances. Anyhow, the shtick could be all yours!"

"No! I'm not mutilating myself onstage."

"All right, let's see. You play any instruments? Look at this guy."

JJ swiped up a video onto his phone and turned the screen toward me.

"That's Victor Borge. Another damn Scandinavian and his piano!"

"Okay, okay, don't get a knot in your jockstrap. How about this one?"

Some out-of-tune fiddling, a nasal voice and raucous laughter emerged from the phone's speaker. I looked. "Not Henny Youngman! I absolutely refuse!"

"Hey, dude, everything old is new again, if you just wait long enough."

Somehow JJ repocketed his phone without altering the silhouette of his shorts. He twirled a lock of glossy hair while patently deep in thought. Then he said, "How do you look in drag? Burlesque is still big. I could get you lessons from Dita von Teese herself!"

I'm afraid at that point I gave in to self-pity and began to snuffle quietly. JJ came up to my side and patted my shoulder compassionately.

"There, there, you thought that writing a book was the hard part, didn't you? I knew you were old-fashioned. But don't you worry now, I've just gotten an inspiration that's perfect for you."

And so that's how I came to be on all the bestseller lists, under my new nom-de-plume of "Joseph Merrick, Junior." A simple injection of synthesized neurofibromatosis genes, a short stay at a clinic while the genes expressed themselves, and I was ready to appear in all my freakish, crowd-attracting glory.

The experts reassure me that by the time I'm ready to retire, they should be able to figure out how to reverse the whole thing. But for now, I'm happy to share the stage with hot new authors Chang and Eng.

MELANCHOLY DANES, NACHO E.T.S, AND NAZIS FROM THE MOON

By Lucius Shepard
| 1989 words

WHAT ARE we to make of the Danish director, Lars von Trier, the middle-aged enfant terrible of contemporary cinema? And perhaps more significantly, what are we to make of the world's intensely polarized reaction to him?

Prior to writing this review I did something I generally avoid; I read a sampling of reviews of his new film. The authors of these reviews fell roughly into three groups—those who regard von Trier as a pretentious ass; those who feel he is an artist who has fallen prey to megalomania; and those who believe him to be a visionary, a uniquely talented filmmaker. (I assume that some of the negative reaction can be attributed to a highly publicized Cannes interview during which von Trier made a number of pro-Nazi statements that were found offensive even by those who recognized them to have been offered tongue-in-cheek—as a result he was banned from the festival and has since declared that he will give no further interviews, something that I imagine will have his publicists standing up and cheering.) For my part, I have little doubt that any of these characterizations are inaccurate. Directors, from corporate prostitutes like Michael Bay, incompetents like Uwe Boll and on up the scale, are typically megalomaniacs and prone to pretension—it's almost part of the job description—and there is evidence aplenty that von Trier is gifted.

Take, for instance, von Trier's latest, Melancholia, which opens with an eight-minute-long dreamlike montage that must be counted among the most impressive sequences in cinematic history. Birds fall from the sky, a bride in her wedding dress wanders about while vines and roots appear to clutch at her; a woman carrying a child runs across a golf course that is turning to quicksand beneath her feet; a garden is depicted in which every plant has two shadows, and two planets move closer and closer together, in danger of imminent collision, all this and more shown in extreme slow motion and set to the strains of Wagner's prelude to Tristan and Isolde. Though it is quite different in tone, the only piece of film I can think of that has a comparable impact is Kubrick's famous transition in 2001, wherein a scene of apes venting their frustration over the presence of a strange monolith in their midst gives way to a space shuttle docking at an orbital station, accompanied by the serene strains of Johann Strauss II's "The Blue Danube." The nightmarish mood established by the opening of Melancholia clearly restates what has become apparent during von Trier's career—that he is on the short list of directors who beg to be considered as the most skilled of contemporary cinematic poets. But does this make him a great director, or merely a freakishly talented visual artist?

Following the opening, the movie drops us into the first of two chapters, the first called "Justine" after a young woman, a victim of clinical depression (Kirsten Dunst), who is getting married at a palatial country estate that seems to be a cross between Versailles and the eccentric manse featured in Lemony Snicket. Included in the wedding party are Justine's mom, Gaby (a cold and bitchy Charlotte Rampling), her drunken father Dexter (John Hurt), her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), and Claire's husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland, in his first meaningful role in years). During the reception, as her parents fight and various other petty dynamics are played out, Justine—feeling alienated from all of them—wanders away several times, once to soak in a bath and lastly to have sex with a male guest, thus effectively ending her marriage and leading to the second chapter in which Justine, sans husband, moves into the estate, sharing the house with Claire, John, and their young son Leo. During this second section it is made known that an enormous telluric planet, Melancholia, until now hidden from view by the sun, is on a course that will bring it close to the Earth, narrowly missing our home world. John is excited by the prospect of the opportunity to view this cosmic event close at hand, but as time passes Claire grows ever more certain that the two planets will collide. As Claire becomes increasingly agitated, Justine, displaying a depressive's calm in the face of extreme danger, takes charge of caring for her and of shielding Leo from the truth.

After an opening sequence that pretty firmly establishes (given the director's track record of downer films) that nothing good is going to happen, it might appear that the last two sections of the film are redundant. Indeed, this is one of the criticisms leveled against Melancholia. For those expecting Robert Duvall or Bruce Willis to rush in and save the day, I can see how this would be a problem—but to them I would say, Not every story needs a hero. There are those stories that require only that people behave naturalistically and if a hero happens to emerge, he or she may not be a traditional one and therefore may not be recognized as such. Other reviewers complain that the actions of von Trier's characters in Melancholia are inexplicable. I find this accusation mystifying. Does it come as news to anyone that people behave incomprehensibly, particularly during stressful family gatherings? I mean, seriously. Shepard family holidays, funerals, weddings, and so forth have been rife with incidents of bizarre behavior, sexual missteps, petty aggressions, and the like. It's hard to credit that my family is alone in this. A further commonly voiced critique of von Trier's movie is that he used Melancholia to talk about his personal difficulties with depression.

Wow. Fancy that. An artist utilizing his life experience to inform his work.

Reviews of von Trier's films are often preceded by a sort of sticker disclaimer that reads, Not For Everyone. What an idiotic caution that is! You'd be hard pressed to come up with a film that could honestly carry a sticker declaring it to be For Everyone. What the sticker on von Trier's films should say is, Not Trying to Be for Everyone, which would separate his films from the countless Ryan Reynolds-type vehicles that stare at you from poster display windows like cute spayed puppies.

If truth be told, most of the criticisms of Melancholia appear to derive from sources that appear offended that von Trier is not giving them what they have been conditioned to expect. For all his faults, and they are several (he sometimes declares his themes too hamfistedly, his dialog is sometimes clunky, etc.), von Trier is an artist, and artists are viewed as an annoyance by an industry that year by year grows ever more timorous and conservative. The license given artists by the critical press is less wide than once it was, less forgiving of indulgence, and artists are expected to dribble out their creative product in such a way as might be evidenced by the spoor of a highly regular, housebroken beast that leaves a neat package of poo on our doorsteps every so often. Nothing too large or too small, nothing with an idiosyncratic shape that might require special handling, nothing too ripe for the seniors or too brutal for the kiddies. Poo that adheres to industry standards.

You know.

Poo that smells good.

It didn't help Melancholia 's cause that it was released in the U.S.A. during the holidays and thus was forced to compete with tug-at-the-heartstrings, Academy-approved Hallmark Greeting Cards such as Hugo and sundry other products brought you by the folks who turned Black Friday into a national holiday.

Black Friday.

Kee-rist, why not come right out and say Satanic Saturday or Moloch Monday, or celebrate Christmas beneath a symbol representing the Fiery Wheel of Ixion rather than a tree or a cross? The idea that anything smacking of sorrow or reality or gloomy truth should sully the tranquil commercial zone of the Christmas season, which now stretches from Halloween to January…it's unthinkable and interferes with the sale of Nintendo Games and Baby Jesus-shaped Gummi Bears.

One last thing.

Kirsten Dunst.

Dunst won the Best Actress award at Cannes for her performance in Melancholia. I was all wait-and-see about the award, because I've never been particularly impressed with Dunst. Well, now I've seen. She is extraordinary in this film, a beautiful, dead-eyed haunt who becomes its iconic figure, the picture's central victim and only possible heroine. Von Trier is said to be rough on his leading ladies and has pulled some remarkable performances out of them. I imagine something similar occurred during the filming of Melancholia, but by saying this I don't discount Dunst's contribution in the least. She obviously learned to exploit a depth that von Trier perceived in her and as a result her presence invests every frame of the picture. The success of Melancholia, and by every standard I can think of, it is a success, a movie whose sadness is transcendent, thrilling in the unique focus it enforces upon its audience…. Its success is not due to the magical conjunction of a 3D camera and CGI combining to create a robot boy with freckles and a crookedy grin. No, this is real movie magic, a true collaboration between an artist and an actress that captures something both undefinable and ineluctable. I can't wait to watch it again.

Nacho Vigalondo's debut feature, the festival hit Los Chronocrìmenes ( Timecrimes ) was to my mind the most diverting time-travel movie ever made, a clever mixture of comedy and suspense, and so I was looking forward a great deal to his sophomore effort, Extraterrestrial . But whereas Chronocrìmenes was heavy on science fiction tropes, Extraterrestrial is essentially a bedroom farce with a sci-fi point of departure and at first came off as slight…but only at first.

The movie opens with a grad student, Julio (Julián Villagrán), waking in the apartment belonging to Julia (Michelle Jenner) after a one-night stand that neither party remembers with any degree of clarity. Julia is inclined to kick Julio out before her boyfriend Carlos (Raúl Cimas) returns home, but when they glance out the window they spot an enormous spacecraft hovering over Madrid, which has apparently been evacuated during the night. After hooking up a camcorder to Julia's TV, they sit staring at an image of the ship, heeding announcements that anyone left in the city should stay where they are.

Shortly afterward, Carlos appears, agitated, concerned about the spaceship and alien invaders—he buys a weak excuse that explains Julio's presence and insists they all stick together for the duration of the crisis. Not long after that, Ángel (Carlos Areces), Julia's neighbor and erstwhile stalker, turns up at the door. He has his suspicions about Julia-Julio and puts the pair on the defensive. In order to hide their connection and growing affection from Carlos, they are forced to concoct a web of lies. Eventually the idea is planted that one of the four may be an alien. Though Carlos makes several trips outside to reconnoiter, the camera stays in the apartment, but Vigalondo's smart, funny script keeps things from getting too static and, as the lies pile up, some deeper human truths are revealed. I really enjoyed this movie, but fans of Chronocrìmines should be wary, because Extraterrestrial is an entirely different animal.

During the Utopiales festival in Nantes, France, I was hoping to see Iron Sky, but missed the screening and only got to see pieces of it. Directed by Finns Timo Vuorensola and Samuli Torssonen, Iron Sky is the ultimate in collaborative filmmaking, its eleven million euro budget partially funded by fans, many of whom came to work on the picture as actors and researchers and whatnot. The film is a broad black comedy about the Nazis developing anti-gravity late in WW2 and escaping to the dark side of the moon, where they built a secret base. Now it's 2018 and they're returning to Earth with an armada, their chief target being an America governed by a moronic Palin-esque president. The footage I saw was predictably one-note but had some hilarious moments, and the overall look of the film is amazing, with Hollywood-quality effects. I saw enough to convince me to buy a ticket. Look for it in the spring of 2012. By then, given his penchant for Nazi jokes, maybe Lars von Trier will have kicked in a contribution.

COMING ATTRACTIONS

By Gordon Van Gelder
| 157 words

OUR NEXT ISSUE will feature "Maze of Shadows," a novella in the series of stories Fred Chappell has given us about Falco, the student of the great shadow thief Astolfo. This time out, the thieves set a trap, only to find themselves caught in a web of intrigue. Don't miss it!

Also on tap for the May/June issue is "Liberty's Daughter," a sharp bit of speculation on the near future by Naomi Kritzer.

We've also got stories in inventory by Eleanor Arnason, Dale Bailey, Ken Liu, and Pat MacEwen, along with our usual columns and the results of the latest competition. Looking ahead, we've also got novellas and novelets in store by Andy Duncan, Robert Reed, and Kate Wilhelm. If you don't subscribe already, use the card in this issue or sign up for our Amazon Kindle edition.

CURIOSITIES

By Frances Grimble
| 236 words

THE FIXED PERIOD,

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE (1882)

IN THE LATE twentieth century, the tiny, new country of Britanula wants to solve the problems of old age. Research has determined that supporting old people costs society far more labor and expense than is warranted by what old people produce. Adult children spend years caring for parents, while waiting to inherit. And surely, physical and mental deterioration must mean that enjoyment of life is diminished.

To the narrator and President of Britanula, the solution is obvious. After hot parliamentary debate, sixty-seven years is legally determined as the end of the Fixed Period. A "college" is built to receive everyone on his or her sixty-seventh birthday. After one year of residence, the throat of the "deposited" is to be ceremonially slit and the remains cremated.

The first inhabitant to reach sixty-seven is the President's best friend Crasweller. Crasweller is still hale, hearty, and active in business. As an ardent political supporter of the Fixed Period, he finds deposition difficult to refuse. Those who adhere to what the President sees as mere feelings—especially Crasweller's daughter Eva—oppose Crasweller's deposition by all means in their power.

Trollope's view of future womanhood is strictly Victorian. However, his view of future technology should delight steampunkers. It includes steam tricycles, steam cricket bowlers, and most telling of all, a 250-ton steam-swiveler.

Anthony Trollope (better known for Barchester Towers and the Palliser novels) died the same year The Fixed Period was published. His age? Sixty-seven.
—Frances Grimble

Cartoon (Harris)

By S. Harris
| 8 words

"Dr. Sykes is our expert in anti-matter."

—S. Harris

Cartoon (Cheney-1)

By Tom Cheney
| 13 words

"This can't be right — all I'm reading is 'bitch, bitch, bitch.'"

—Tom Cheney

Cartoon (Cotham)

By Frank Cotham
| 20 words

"I'll defrost this guy, but you're going to have to tell him that forty years ago he was misdiagnosed."

—Frank Cotham

Cartoon (Long)

By Bill Long
| 2 words

—Bill Long

Cartoon (Jonik)

By John Jonik
| 2 words

—John Jonik

Cartoon (Nadler)

By M. Nadler
| 2 words

—M. Nadler

Cartoon (Rini)

By J.P. Rini
| 2 words

—J.P. Rini

Cartoon (Cheney-2)

By Tom Cheney
| 2 words

—Tom Cheney

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

Classified Ads
| 337 words

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