A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

  “Bullshit!” I thought maybe I had entered the Twilight Zone. What exactly was he referring to? The Charity Softball Game? Carson’s depression? The price of tea in China, for all I knew? But before I could ask him, he continued. “This,” he held up a Bible. “This,” he swept his arms towards the church walls. “All of it. Fairy tales. Telling stories of dead bodies rising from graves, scaring folks into thinking their going to hell if they jerk-off, talking about some invisible guy in the sky who magically said, ‘Let there be light, let there be a universe, let there be man,’ and it all just—poof—happened like that,” he snapped his fingers. “Give me a fucking break.”

  “You don’t believe?” I said, fairly taken aback at what he said. I mean, I wasn’t really offended, but he was a man of the cloth, after all.

  “See this?” He held up a black and white photo of a smiling young man I did not recognize. “1962. Graduated from Virginia Theological Seminary. Being idealistic, I thought I’d get out there, spread the word, make the world a better place. For many years, I thought that was what I was accomplishing. Then, as the years went by, I realized just how hypocritical most of the people I was preaching to really were. How many of them were having affairs on their spouses, cheating on their taxes, partaking of certain substances, lying through their teeth. But, every Sunday, their asses would be planted in church, heads nodding in agreement at everything I said, every passage of the Bible that I quoted.”

  I removed a mostly empty pack of smokes and matches from my jacket pocket. A stillness enveloped the room. “Sorry Father, force of habit. I am trying to quit.”

  “The closer to sharing a person comes, the closer to God he gets.”

  “Yes, of course, Father,” I uttered and handed him a smoke. Jeez, even my priest was bumming off me.

  “That line works like a charm every time,” he expressed fleeting amusement. From his desk draw, he pulled a lighter and tossed it over. “This works better.” We both lit up. “Mankind has a hell of an ego, if you ask me. We’re a Johnny-come-lately species on this planet, but we think we’re the end-all, be-all. The dinosaurs ruled the Earth long before us—maybe they were the ones made in God’s image? Those aliens said they’ve been coming here for two hundred of our years. Watching us, studying us, collecting data. That’s all we really are—ants in an ant farm, bacteria under a microscope.”

  “Why not do something else?”

  “What the hell else would I do?” the pastor challenged me, taking a long drag on his smoke. “I’m seventy-three. It’s not like anyone is jumping to hire old geezers. Seventy-fuckin’-three. I’m ancient.”

  “But you’re still here,” I gently pointed out.

  “It’s what I do. A shoemaker makes shoes. A baker bakes. A bird shits on cars. I blow hot air on Sunday mornings, shuffle paperwork during the week, listen to people confess when their guilty conscience overtakes them, thinking that forgives them for screwing their fifteen year-old cousin.”

  “Did you tell Carson any of this?”

  For the first time that day, the Pastor cracked a smile, wee as it was. “Heavens no. I explained to him that faith is what resides inside of us, not what is imposed on us from outside forces. Afterlife or no afterlife, God or no God, we should try and serve our fellow man, leave the world a better place than how we found it. Be good caring citizens.”

  I had to chuckle, “In other words, you laid it on real thick.”

  “As thick as the milk shakes at Martha’s.”

  I didn’t see anyplace to put my smoke remains. My ashes, like his, decorated the floor. “Ashtray?” I asked. He took my unfinished smoke and snubbed it out on his desk. Maybe I really was losing the taste for those things. “He hasn’t been himself. He just lays about the house, says there’s no point in going to seminary class, no point in attending church, no point in going on living if there’s no God. He’s got mother worried sick. I wish I could do something to help.”

  “You have spoken with him?”

  “Sure as Jesse Hollander’s a moonshiner. Might as well be talking to my hand. If only there was some way to, to . . .”

  “Make him believe again,” the Pastor read my mind.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Following one last extensive drag on his smoke, the tired pastor snuffed it on out his desk. He fell into the well-cushioned chair, appearing to be deep in thought. Great, I figured, he’ll come up with something. Next I heard was the sound of buzz saws. The bastard wiped out on me. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I just slid out of there, and he woke, that could be more embarrassing to him than if I stayed, if he remembered me being there, that is. I suddenly had a “coughing fit”. Did the trick. He picked up right where he left off. “Will Carson be available this evening?”

  “I’ll make sure of it, Father.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at the house tonight at six.”

  I turned to leave. “And Floyd, about the . . .” he nodded to the smoke butts, “let’s keep that between us.”

  “Sure thing, padre,” I replied. I stood there feeling like I did when me and Bob snuck in a smoke in the high school crapper.

  I pulled up to mother’s house at ten to six. I’m one of those guys who always like to be early. Especially in law enforcement, that’s a good trait to have, being that I often go talk at schools, civic meetings and other shit that makes up my day. I let myself in with my key, as I always did. Until about twelve years ago, no one would even bother to lock their doors. Then there was a rash of break-ins in the business district. We caught the guys—out-of-towners, as I figured—but since then, citizens got in the habit of locking doors.

  “Mother!,” I called out. No answer. She usually hit Cracker Barrel with her friend for Sunday dinner, a tradition since dad died.

  “Carson?” No answer on that either. He never went out to dinner with mother and her friend. With my luck, that night would be the first time. But, it would be a good sign if it was so. I made my way to the back of the house, where his bedroom was. The door was closed. I knocked. “Carson, you in there?” Dead silence. “Damn it!”, I muttered. I carefully pushed open the door to see my brother, laying in bed. “Carson, you deaf?”

  He stared at the ceiling, still as a lawn statue. “Please go, Floyd, now’s not a good time.”

  I was pissed. “Carson, get up. Pastor Williams is coming over to see you. He needs to talk with you.”

  “Please go, Floyd.”

  “Look here, Carson, today I met with Pastor . . .” The doorbell rang. He was early. “Don’t go anywhere.” I went and opened the door. Standing there was the Pastor with a boy who couldn’t have been older than nine, red haired, freckle-faced, a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. “Please, come in, Father, and . . .”

  “This is Larry, Barney Wilson’s kin from over in Bear Creek. I thought he could help Carson’s situation,” Pastor Williams said. “Larry, this is Mr. Platt. He’s a police officer.”

  The youth’s pupils became flashing neon signs to rival those of any casino on the strip in Vegas. “No way! A real cop?” At least some kids still felt that way.

  “I don’t think he’s going to come to us, so we better go to him.” I cleared the path to Carson’s cocoon. “Carson, we have guests,” I announced to unconcerned ears. Son-of-a-bitch. He used to have good manners. “Carson,” I felt my blood pressure rising, “get the wax out of your brain.”

  Pastor stepped forward. “Please, allow me,” he said in his best man-of-God voice. “Carson, this is Larry.”

  “Hi ya’, Mr. Carson,” Larry chirped.

  “Larry,” Pastor Williams continued, “had an accident last year something bad. He was climbing a tree branch and fell. Nearly died. I suppose he could tell you about it more than I can.”

  “That’s the truth, Mr. Carson, right like Mr. Williams tells it,” the boy from central casting bellowed. “My bestest friend, Karl, dared me to climb the biggest tree
in the yard. It was bigger than the biggest animal I ever seen. I made it up about halfway when I lost my grip, and took a spill. Banged my head real bad on a rock. Doctors had to put a steel plate in—for real.” The boy leaned his head in close to his indifferent listener. “Go on, Mister Carson, you can feel it for yourself.” He pointed to a spot in back of his skull.

  “Carson, Larry was kind enough to visit with us,” I said. “It’d be poor manners to not do as he asks.” In aggravation, I grabbed my brother’s hand and put it up to the head metal. We watched him move his fingers a bit over it. It was a good sign, I thought.

  “Larry has something even more important to tell you, Carson,” Pastor Williams interjected.

  “I sure do, Mr. Carson,” Larry said, in the same excited tone. “When I was got to the hospital, I saw doctors and nurses all around me, but it was weird, like I was floating on top of them all. Then I saw this really bright light, but it didn’t hurt my eyes one bit.”

  Upon hearing this, Carson’s eyes cracked open quarter moon. The boy had gotten his attention.

  Larry continued, “I moved through a really long tunnel. Didn’t know where I was. But I wasn’t scared or anything. When I came out that tunnel, right in front of me was Jesus. He was standing there with open arms to give me a hug. He looked jus’ like he did in church.”

  Hearing that, my brother’s eyelids opened full on. I had a feeling where this was going.

  Carson asked, rather weakly, I thought, “Jesus. Really? You hallucinating, boy?”

  “No sir, Mr. Carson. It was really him. I know it.”

  “How can you be sure?” Carson quizzed.

  “ ‘Cause he told me it wasn’t my time. I had to go back. I didn’t want to, but Jesus said he’d always be watching out for me. And when I woken up in the hospital, the doctors told me I been dead and it was nothing short of a miracle that I came back to life.”

  “My Lord,” Carson whispered. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

  “See that!,” I exclaimed. “Never mind what them ugly creatures told. They ain’t so smart after all, are they? There really is Jesus, Heaven, God, all that good stuff.” Man, was Pastor Williams one crafty SOB.

  Pastor spoke up, “Change your mind about Seminary school?”

  “Yes sir,” Carson said, talking so softly we could barely hear him. “I done something real bad.” With his right hand, he gently lifted up a corner of the pillow to reveal a bottle of prescription pills. I’d seen enough of them in my line of profession. I grabbed it and shook it. Empty. Empt-fuckin’-y! I grabbed my phone . . . no, hell, on second thought, I had the squad car right out front, it’d be quicker just to drive him to Jackson Pines Medical Center. They always had a doctor on duty. I lifted him up.

  “Can I be of help,” Pastor Williams asked.

  “I got him,” I said as I hurried out the room. No time for proper goodbyes.

  The following day, Pastor filled me in on what he’d done. Larry’s story was as fake as a three-dollar bill. Oh, the boy’s fall was real, but Pastor had gotten him to add on the Jesus story by promising him a three-scoop ice cream float.

  As for my little brother, the doctor said that if he’d come in to the hospital five minutes later . . . well, let’s just say, Carson would have found out for sure what, if anything, is on the other side. Me, I’m just plum happy to see mother stop worrying.

  ETERNITY IS 20 SECONDS LONG

  Paul Trembling

  Kev adjusted his position in the hammock, just enough to look round.

  Beyond the shade cast by the trees, the beach was ablaze with sunlight. The glare from the white sand would have been painful if it hadn’t been for his sunglasses. Even with them, the flicking pinpoints of light from the sea stabbed sharply into his retina.

  There was still ice in the bucket, though, and the drinks were cold.

  Along the beach, he could see the girl coming back towards him. The bright orange bikini glowed against her tanned skin. She waved.

  He’d promised her a special experience. She didn’t know how special it would be. They would have the time of their lives. A very long time. He waved back.

  Everything was perfect. Now was the moment.

  The device resting on his chest looked like an irregular collection of cylinders, in several different shades of red to purple. The interface unit attached to the side was a crude human intrusion, but necessary. He picked up his PalmPC, linked in to the interface, brought up the programme.

  Took a deep breath and hit go.

  The rush of alien symbols across the screen was as expected—but surely that configuration was wrong? Alarmed, Kev reached a finger to the abort icon . . .

  —DISCONTINUITY—

  “That’s the loop point.”

  Kev adjusted his position in the hammock, just enough to look round.

  Beyond the shade cast by the trees, the beach was ablaze with sunlight. The glare from the white sand would have been painful if it hadn’t been for his sunglasses. Even with them, the flicking pinpoints of light from the sea stabbed sharply into his retina.

  “How come he doesn’t see us?”

  “Different time streams. We weren’t there then.”

  There was still ice in the bucket, though, and the drinks were cold.

  Along the beach, he could see the girl coming back towards him. The bright orange bikini glowed against her tanned skin. She waved.

  “What about the girl?”

  “Outside the field, fortunately. If he’d set it differently, she’d be in there with him.”

  “How big could it have got?”

  “We’re not sure. Perhaps the entire planet.”

  He’d promised her a special experience. She didn’t know how special it would be. They would have the time of their lives. A long time. He waved back.

  “What was he trying to do?”

  “We’re not sure. Extend his holiday, perhaps.”

  Everything was perfect. Now was the moment.

  The device resting on his chest looked like an irregular collection of cylinders, in several different shades of red to purple. The interface unit attached to the side was a crude human intrusion, but necessary.

  “What is that thing?”

  “Temporal field node. Part of a star-drive. Isha’hassat technology.”

  “How did he get hold of it?”

  “That’s being looked into. There’s quite a black market in alien tech, but this is new. The Isha’hassat are upset about it.”

  He picked up his PalmPC, linked in to the interface, brought up the programme.

  Took a deep breath and hit go.

  The rush of alien symbols across the screen was as expected—but surely that configuration was wrong? Alarmed, Kev reached a finger to the abort icon . . .

  —DISCONTINUITY—

  “So what happened?”

  “He set up a self-perpetuating temporal loop.”

  Kev adjusted his position in the hammock, just enough to look round.

  “Can we stop it?”

  “No. The controls are inside the loop. No one from outside can reach them.”

  Beyond the shade cast by the trees, the beach was ablaze with sunlight.

  “So how long does it last?”

  “Twenty seconds. Twenty point two five to be accurate.”

  The glare from the white sand would have been painful if it hadn’t been for his sunglasses. Even with them, the flicking pinpoints of light from the sea stabbed sharply into his retina.

  “No—I meant how long will it last? The time-loop-field thing?”

  “From his point of view, twenty seconds. From ours—eternity.”

  There was still ice in the bucket, though, and the drinks were cold.

  Along the beach, he could see the girl coming back towards him. The bright orange bikini glowed against her tanned skin. She waved.

  “But what happens if the sun explodes—or something like that?”

  “If the sun explodes in five billion yea
rs, will that affect you?”

  He’d promised her a special experience. She didn’t know how special it would be. They would have the time of their lives. A long time. He waved back.

  “No.”

  “And it won’t affect him either. For the same reason. He’s in a different time. Always.”

  Everything was perfect. Now was the moment.

  TIME, AGAIN

  Tim Maly

  Before we met, you showed me your diary.

  I must confess that I am still confused by this sequence of events, as, I imagine, you must be confused by my decision to leave your life so suddenly. I’ve gone over everything in my head time and time again and I can’t shake the feeling that, somehow, everything got mixed up. Though this may seem a flimsy reason to you, it is reason enough for me. I don’t understand, so I’m going to leave.

  Before we met, you showed me your diary and then we were having sex on the wooden floor of your living room. I still remember the way the plants filtered the sunlight and the sound of the tea kettle building up steam. Then our son was at the foot of the bed, asking me where you’d gone.

  “I don’t know,” I told him, “I expect she’ll be back soon.”

  Today I went into your study and found that you’d converted it into a gallery. The first photo of every roll of film we’d ever had developed was there, somewhere. I found that I could date every one, even the ones that hadn’t happened yet. They seemed to go on forever, a jumbled mess of happy memories, each one partially obscured by blinding white light. I knocked over a jar full of tacks but when I went to pick them up I was overcome with vertigo and I had to leave.

  We were making desperate love in your basement when you told me about spacetime. You said that the future is just as real as the past. You told me that just because you aren’t there yet doesn’t mean it isn’t real. You said it was like Baghdad still being real when you’re in London. You talked about personal time and light cones and folding space and I didn’t understand anything except the way that your breasts moved and the way your breath misted in the cold. Then we were on a roller coaster and you were screaming and you said, “This is what it’s going to be like all the time.” A balloon seller lost hold of his wares and they floated majestically into the sky. It was beautiful.