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The Very Best of Barry N Malzberg

Page 48

by Barry N. Malzberg


  Stan Montana plodded on.

  He plodded on, that is all. That is what the Montanas do. In the junkshops and the small arenas, in medieval or real time, they go on and on. Their living is a kind of dying to us, but what do they know? They do not grasp any of this. They think little of themselves less of their needs or destination, do not after a while even consider those who hire them, they know nothing either of that tropism which unfurls them like pennants wearily in the night. They pay that tropism as little regard as primal Mommy and Daddy did to the watcher beyond the window. In his insensibility, say it and be done, Stanley Montana was unconquerable. That is the burning heart of this chronicle. One cannot destroy that which was never born or (choose your vision of demolition) that which has been hammered to silt. How does one vanquish a nullity? This is a mathematical conundrum to puzzle Xeno. Like Caliban, another refugee who had learned speech and the only good of it to curse, Montana went here and there, flagged spaceships, curled into the engine rooms with the press gangs, knew captains and kings and the lower spaces, went around and about in the eternities of Louisiana Toy’s imprisonment, plodded through and around and beyond purpose and at last — through means which we will elide the question of exposition — confronted the Possessors in that small jeweled cave at the furthest point of the finite, that cave which they had taken to be utterly secret, unapproachable.

  How did he do it? How did he not do it? That is the essential mystery … for he had moved beyond paradox to that point where nullity and confrontation were the same. Some of this has to do with the curvature of space but more with the wretched anchorage of the heart.

  Inside his garments, the holograph twinkled, then made sullen noises as Stan Montana entered the cave and confronted the astonished Possessors. Amazed,they leaped toward their weapons, but they were unprepared for consciousness and quickly they were cut down by the conventional weaponry of Stanley Montana, devoid of incantation or cleverness. They were, ultimately, that vulnerable. They fell away and Stanley Montana moved beyond their fallen bodies, looked behind the stones to see the lady herself waiting. She had been crouched there, apprehending it all, broadcasting this (as she had broadcast everything, the flickering transceivers picking up this astonishing moment. Oh, they had been hard with her.

  The Possessors had been hard with Louisiana Toy but no harder than she with herself, trapped by remorse, blocked in her own passageway. She had laid down her lovely life and spirit again and again until at last that spirit, broken, had seemed to rush from her in a dying exhalation. But as Stan Montana could now see, that was only part of her spirit, the rest had remained, clinging to the walls of what looked at him in that cave and it was this spirit, now rebounding to her flesh,which seized Lady Louisiana Toy with awful force and turned her on Stan Montana, then past him to the Possessors who keyed to the awful confrontation in the cave had gathered, those that remained around and about her.

  Now! she said, now! Her thoughts were projected as speech, speech had become codified only to a great desire and at last, come to some consciousness in this space Stanley Montana heard it. “Now!” he shouted, carrying forward, “now it is our time, our turn!” and the clumsy weapon which he had carried through all the passageways of his great and storming quest was in his hand, it was a revolver, and he fired this antique weapon — a point ninety-eight if you will, a Dramatii welded from the backs of the beasts of the Drunk Worlds — just as his predecessors in myths too old to be available to him had fired. The Dramatii trembled and flayed him and the stunned Possessors collapsed, all of them fell there in the view of the transceivers and the transmitting Louisiana Toy.

  They collapsed, too sophisticated and smart by far to be able to deal with that which had no interior at all, too smart to know that dumb is the only way to get through the universe, they fell and fell and Stan Montana tossed the weapon high and away. Lady Louisiana Toy was upon him then, clung to Stan Montana tightly and because of her great gift, a gift which makes possible the emergence of this chronicle at the same time that it doomed the chronicle and all who witnessed it to the ages of descent which so quickly followed — the brief and flickering moments between them were opened to all of the tearful galaxies who had watched through all the millennia for the supraprojectivity of a moment like this. Cries like the origin of all cries came from Louisiana Toy, sounds came from Stan Montana which the detective could neither describe nor locate, and then the two of them held one another in terrible and clinging embrace under the merciless attention of the billion suns. “Oh. yes,” Louisiana Toy murmured, “I knew that I would be spared, I knew that you would come, I waited and waited, but I always knew that you would be here.”

  “Madre,” said Stanley Montana. “Madre de Dios. Maman. Ah Pieta.” The dead Possessors around them, the acres of the dead oozing and blinking in their appalled truncation caught them with blood, welded them ever tighter With the gouts of their extinguishing. “Ala, Madre,” Stanely Montana said. “Mommy.” He held her then, ever more tightly, uncaring of the celestial breakup which then began.

  The celestial breakup began. The collapse began. The implosion commenced at that moment. The slow and long-awaited dismantling of time and space previously intimated in so many sources but only known at this moment began … but of this we are not entitled to speak, not in these chronicles which are limited to the hard and crucial joining amplified through the billions of transceivers. “Madre,” Stanley Montana said. He grafted himself upon the lady. “Ah, Maman.”

  Thus was the mystery Solved.

  Thus was the spirit of our strange and tentative quest, the arc of our passage so tenderly and terrifically revealed. Of the implosion which followed and followed and whose seizures are with us yet we need neither write nor speak, broadcast nor think. It goes on. It goes on and on. Louisiana Toy and Stanley Montana, drifting through the rings of that inferno, clasped to one another now and for the ages to come, drifting, and falling, falling like a dead body falls. Thus, then, the tale of the capture and the salvation of the Lady Louisiana Toy, the ascension of Stanley Montana, and the fate of all the suns. There is less on the record. There is little left on the record. The record is still being compiled. The time and the constancy are yet unrevealed; wait and watch as to morning, to morning.

  Here, Paolo. There Francesca. Everywhere the ninth circle of light.

  Acknowledgments

  “A Galaxy Called Rome,” The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; July, 1975

  “Agony Column,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; December, 1971

  “Final War,” The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; April, 1968

  “The Wooden Grenade,” as “The Sense of the Fire” in Escapade; July, 1967

  “Anderson,” Amazing Science Fiction Stories; June, 1982

  “As Between Generations,” Fantastic; October, 1970

  “Death to the Keeper,” The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; August, 1968

  “State of the Art,” Dimensions IV, ed. Robert Silverberg, 1974

  “The Only Thing You Learn,” Universe 3, eds. Robert Silverberg & Karen Haber, Bantam, 1992

  “Leviticus: In the Ark,” Epoch, ed. Robert Silverberg & Roger Elwood, Berkley, 1975

  “Police Actions,” Full Spectrum 3, eds. Aronica / Mitchell / McCarthy, Bantam, 1991

  “Report to Headquarters,” New Dimensions V, ed. Robert Silverberg, Doubleday, 1975

  “The Shores of Suitability,” Omni; June 1982

  “Hop Skip Jump,” Omni; November, 1988

  “To Mark the Times We Had,” Omni; April, 1984

  “What I Did to Blunt the Alien Invasion,” Omni; April, 1991

  “Shiva,” Science Fiction Age, May, 1999

  “Rocket City,” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine; September, 1982

  “Tap-Dancing Down the Highways and Byways of Life, etc.,” The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; July, 1986

  “Coursing,” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine; June, 1982


  “Blair House,” The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; March, 1982

  “Quartermain,” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine; January, 1985

  “Playback,” Universe 1, eds. Robert Silverberg & Karen Haber, Doubleday, 1990

  “Corridors,” Engines of the Night, Barry N. Malzberg, Doubleday, 1982

  “Icons,” Omni; March, 1981

  “Something from the Seventies,” The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; April, 1993

  “Le Croix,” Their Immortal Hearts, ed. Bruce McAllister, West Coast Poetry Review 1980

  “The Men’s Support Group,” Polyphony 3, Wheatland Press, 2003

  “Out from Ganymede,” New Dimensions II, ed. Robert Silverberg, Doubleday, 1972

  “Kingfish,” Alternate Presidents, ed. Mike Resnick, Tor, 1992

  “Morning Light,” Cold Shocks, ed. Tim Sullivan, Avon, 1991

  “The Men Inside,” New Dimensions II, ed. Robert Silverberg, Doubleday, 1972

  “Standing Orders,” Journeys to the Twilight Zone, ed. Carol Serling, DAW, 1993

  “Most Politely, Most Politely,” Universe 2, eds. Robert Silverberg & Karen Haber, Bantam, 1991

  “Moishe in Excelsis,” Deals with the Devil, eds. Resnick / Estleman/Greenberg, DAW, 1994

  “Heliotrope Bouquet Murder Case,” Nonstop Science Fiction Magazine; vol. 1, #3, 1997

  “Lady Louisiana Toy,” More Whatdunits, ed. Mike Resnick, DAW, 1993

  BARRY N. MALZBERG is the author of more than 50 books and more than 250 short stories, won the first John W. Campbell Memorial Award for the Year’s Best Science Fiction, two Locus Awards, and has been a nominee for both Hugo and Nebula Awards. He was born in Brooklyn and now lives across the Hudson River in Teaneck, New Jersey.

  JOSEPH WRZOS, a retired educator, now a freelance writer/editor, has edited both Amazing Stories and Fantastic (in the 1960s); The Best of Amazing (Doubleday & Co., 1967); completed August Derleth’s SF anthology, New Horizons (Arkham House, 1998); edited In Lovecraft’s Shadow : The Cthulhu Mythos Stories of August Derleth (Mycroft & Moran, 1998); co-edited (with Peter Ruber) Night Creatures, a collection of Seabury Quinn’s horror fiction (Ash-Tree Press, 2003); and, most recently, has edited Hannes Bok : A Life in Illustration, a sumptuous art volume issued by Centipede Press in 2012. Currently, he divides his leisure hours copy-editing for both Sanctum Books and Centipede Press.

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