A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “But—”

  “We use the hangar from Project Atlas, but that pod of yours was as close as you got to machinery. This AI will get scaled down to infantry-sized models, put into fighter jets, even spacecraft. But giant, walking military robots? Jesus, Skip, what are you, twelve or something, believing that crap?”

  “Still . . .”

  “Come on, Skip. Forget the fighter-jockey crap for one lousy minute and think big picture. Digital Skip is going to be the first person to visit Mars, to see inside the atmosphere of Jupiter. If there are alien life forms outside our solar system, you’re going to be the one to introduce them to humanity. I didn’t drag you into this to make weapons. That’s near-term thinking. That’s funding. That’s holding your nose and doing what’s gotta be done. I needed you because I wanted someone I could trust to be the face of humanity.”

  Face of humanity? Skip Harrison? One day, decades or even centuries down the road, some unmanned probe with his personality would greet humanity’s first alien neighbors. Skip Harrison, a guy who hadn’t been the face of anything since his own wedding album.

  Skip laughed. “You sure you should be cleaning my personal life out of that ‘bot, then?”

  “Yeah . . .” Gus replied warily. “Any reason we shouldn’t?”

  “Hey, without memories of being a happily married man, you might be letting a robotic James T. Kirk loose on the galaxy.”

  SMALL CHANGES OVER LONG PERIODS OF TIME

  K.M. Szpara

  I’m trying to piss against a wall when the vampire bites me. Trying because drunk-me can barely hold a glass, much less maneuver a limp prosthetic cock.

  My attacker holds me like he did on the dance floor, one arm wrapped around my chest, this time digging into my ribs. I struggle against his supernatural strength and the slow constriction of my lungs. Through ragged breaths, I inhale the Old Spice on his thick black hair, where he bows his head to grip my neck.

  The sting of his fangs barely registers and what does shoots straight to my cunt—can’t help it. If I knew he weren’t going to kill me, I’d relish the shock and pain, loss of control. I kind of do, anyway. His venom numbs my neck but I can still feel the strong clamp of his jaw. Like a new piercing, my body screams to reject the intrusion. I want to stay awake—stay pressed between his cold hard body and the cold hard wall. I want him to touch me, reach between my legs. I want to stay alive.

  But the wall discolors; the red bricks spot with gray until they fuzz over and dull. My last thought before passing out is how weirdly validating it is that this cis gay guy targeted me, when I was too scared to even piss inside the bar’s men’s room.

  My phone blares like there’s a Red Alert. I check the alarm. Oh right. I signed up for that Open Life-Drawing class at the community center. At 9:00 a.m. After half-priced vodka night. Optimistic.

  When I sit up, the full weight of my headache settles into my skull. I press a hand against my forehead to ease the pressure, but end up squinting at a dimly lit room. Not any room I’ve slept in before.

  The only light blurs from down a narrow hallway. Windows the size of cinder blocks line the top of each wall, but neatly hemmed black-out curtains fill them and glossy Ikea tchotchkes sit in front of those.

  I’m in a guest room, I assume. At the very least, I’m on a hard futon surrounded by throw pillows and machine-made quilts. I’m still dressed and—I lie back and shove my right hand down the front of my briefs—still packing. Just a little damp from my adventures in peeing outside.

  “You’re alive.” A familiar man leans against the threshold, holding a mug that says “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my evening blood.” on the side. His skin is pale, but not pallid. His pose casual, but precise.

  “Barely,” is all I can think to say. Did we fuck? I don’t usually go home with strangers, much less drunk, much much less with vampires. I have fantasized about it, though. Maybe I finally did.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Hungover.”

  His chuckle resonates in his mouth, not his chest. The young ones react fairly human, still drawing air into useless lungs for huffs and sighs and rolling laughs. This one is clearly making an effort for my sake but is too old to get it right. I give him a seven out of ten.

  I’d feel a little better if I could remember his damn name, though, and I don’t know how to ask without also revealing I don’t know how I ended up in his guest room.

  “It’s Andreas,” he tells me. “And you’re Finley.”

  “O-Okay. I mean, I didn’t—” I trip over explanations of why I forgot his name before reminding myself I still haven’t asked.

  Scenes from last night force themselves on me; I watch them more than remember them. Drunk fumbling, a cold alley wall, and the rigid clamp of a jaw—his jaw, Andreas’s. The mix of pleasure and fear that slices through me isn’t a memory.

  “You bit me,” I say, because he hasn’t danced around mystery, either. My grand accusation comes out as, “You’re not supposed to do that.”

  “I was hungry,” he says, calmly. Like the obvious result of hunger is biting someone.

  “So, go to a blood bank like you’re supposed to.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Yeah, because it doesn’t hurt people.” I pause. “You’re not still hungry, are you?”

  “I’m not going to bite you again, if that’s what you’re asking. I—” This time, he pauses. “—do regret what happened.”

  “Good.” I shake my hand out to stunt the tremor that seizes it. Nausea brews in my gut, dizziness behind my eyelids. I press the heels of my hands against my temples. “You don’t happen to have any Ibuprofen, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And we didn’t fuck, right?”

  “No.”

  “Great, then I’m going to head home—”

  The next second, the futon dips and he’s beside me. He presses a cool hand against my burning forehead. “You’re not hungover,” he says. “You’re dying.”

  His words impact me like news of a foreign tragedy: I know they’re bad but struggle to connect on a personal level.

  “And it’s my fault.” His hand tenses before he pulls it away.

  I flop back onto the futon and stare at the cream-colored ceiling. A fan spins overhead; the moving air ruffles Andreas’s shiny hair, an illusion of life.

  I don’t want to die.

  “You don’t have to.” Andreas replies to my thoughts again.

  I didn’t know vampires could do that.

  “Only the old ones.”

  “Would you let me die in peace?” I shout over the pounding in my skull.

  His shrug is too precise, like his shoulders are tied to a wooden toy’s pull string. Up, down. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Thank you.” I want to cry—try to cry. Before I started testosterone, I’d cry reading Bridge to Terabithia or watching a made-for-TV movie. I liked crying, the catharsis of it, the physical purge of sadness.

  Andreas brings his mug to his lips. The blood doesn’t stain his white teeth; the fangs leave tiny dents in the ceramic where he bites down.

  I should be crying. He’s expecting me to because I’m a warm-bodied, emotionally-invested human being whose tear ducts can’t resist the impulse.

  But they do, at least regarding my own future. Won’t make that Life Drawing class. Won’t ever see my work on a billboard or a book cover. Won’t exhibit, won’t—who knows what else?

  Andreas interrupts my efforts. “Or I could turn you.”

  “Into a vampire? Aren’t we supposed to apply for that?”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” His smile doesn’t wrinkle his old skin.

  The decision between anything and “or death” should be easy. But if I want to eat without killing people—and I will need to eat—I’ll have to register with the Federal Vampire Commission and explain myself and risk getting in trouble and getting Andreas in trouble.

  Maybe he deserves it.
He fucking bit me without permission.

  But vampires who break the law, who feed from un-certified donors, who steal blood bags, or drink without asking first, are put on the Blood Offenders Registry, which is basically a hit list for corrupt cops and stake-wielding bigots. And if they survive that, the second strike is euthanization.

  The system is fucked. No government lackey is going to hear out a gay trans guy who was illegally turned into a vampire. All I know is I don’t want to die before I’ve done anything with my life. Designing in-store signage for Sears does not count. Just ask the half-finished paintings in my living room.

  I run my tongue over the smooth, flat line of my teeth for what I assume will be the last time. “Turn me.”

  The hangover feeling doesn’t go away. Not the spins or the sticky pain of thirst.

  Andreas’s venom curdles any food left in my stomach. He deposits me in the bathroom the instant before I vomit. I clutch the toilet bowl until my knuckles whiten and the whiteness spreads through my hands and I can feel it in my face. Until I can only dry heave.

  My throat stings with stomach acid. “Can I have some water?”

  Andreas presses a sports bottle to my lips. “Swish and spit. Don’t swallow.”

  I bite down on the plastic nozzle and drink until there’s nothing left. My sensitive teeth rip through the thin plastic, tearing up the empty bottle. My canines ache the worst, like I’ve jammed them into ice cream for too long or just had fillings put in. Or both.

  “I told you not to swallow,” Andreas says only moments before I prove him right with another retch.

  “You can’t drink water?” I see vampires drink all the time.

  “No, you can’t drink water. Your body is purging its fluids.”

  “What about after . . .”

  “After you’ve turned? Sure, you can drink water. Might want to wait a couple centuries before putting anything more complex in your body.”

  “Like what, Diet Coke?”

  “No, Diet Coke you can drink after a couple years. I meant your mother’s homemade meatloaf.”

  “Oh.”

  What’s the last thing I ate? A slice of pizza and burnt French fries. Not the last meal I’d have chosen, but King’s was the only place near the bars that served food all night and I was nervous and hungry.

  “Just kidding, your mother will be dead by then.” Andreas sips from his mug. He waits for his words to settle then smiles. “That was a joke.”

  “Thanks.” I imagine her funeral. My dad going home to an empty house. Eating across from an empty seat in the kitchen.

  Still no tears. Maybe it won’t be much of a change becoming a vampire. Andreas doesn’t look like he cares much about anything.

  “Do you want to call her?” he asks.

  “No.” That answer’s easy. She told me she felt like her daughter was dying when I came out. She got over it, eventually, but I don’t want to put her through a literal death after that. “I do need to call the HR department at work, though.”

  “I think they can wait until you’re done vomiting,” Andreas says.

  I push myself to my feet and flush the toilet. He doesn’t understand how this works. I do. “I can’t lose my job on top of all this, okay? When everyone I love is dead—or when they decide they don’t want a vampire in the family—I won’t have a support system. So, where’s my cell?”

  It’s dead, ironically. Andreas plugs it into the wall beside the sink and I spend another hour in the bathroom alternating between ready-to-talk and ready-to-vomit. When my fingers finally steady and I can lift my head long enough to call, HR doesn’t believe me.

  “No, I can’t come in. I was bitten by a vampire. I’m dying!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hall,” says the HR officer, whose name I cannot remember because I’m so, so thirsty. “Like I said, I don’t see an application on file for medical-vampirification, which you’re required to submit ninety days in advance for paid leave. Now—”

  “I couldn’t submit an application because I didn’t know. It just happened.”

  “We can offer you six weeks of unpaid leave, Mr. Hall.”

  “But—”

  “That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I hang up and squeeze my phone in my fist.

  Andreas rests his hand perfectly still on my back. It doesn’t twitch or clench or rub; it just lays there like a paperweight, reminding me of his presence. He wasn’t beside me while I was on the phone but he’s here now, always now. I wish he hadn’t been there in the alley.

  A gross conflicted feeling creeps over my skin. Why am I even here, still?

  Where else am I supposed to go? I’ve already decided against Mom and, now that I’m thinking about it, any other human. A more scrupulous vampire would report me to save their own neck; a less scrupulous one would break mine.

  This is Andreas’s fault.

  “You’re right,” he says. “This is my fault.”

  “I hate when you do that.” Read my mind, I think, because I know he’s still listening.

  “Sorry. It’s centuries of habit, but I can stop.”

  “Good.” Didn’t expect him to say that. “I mean, thanks.”

  We sit in silence for a minute that feels like an eternity. I’m going to have one of those ahead of me: an eternity. Like it’s a tangible thing I can hold in my hands and squeeze. Like a blood-soaked heart I can wring dry.

  “I’ll cover your expenses for the next six weeks.” Andreas leaves before I can pretend to object.

  I don’t die—not yet.

  I unravel myself from the quilted cocoon Andreas wrapped me in. I need air, still. Not much, but enough that my chest rises and falls automatically. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping for a moment’s relief from my perpetual dehydration headache.

  The bathroom rug warms my feet as I sit to pee. No prosthetic is worth fumbling with while my body ejects all its fluids. There’s not much in my bladder, but I ease the pressure. Blood spots the toilet paper I toss into the bowl. I go cold. I dab another square between my legs, hoping I’ve started pissing blood. The other option is not an option.

  And then it is.

  I haven’t menstruated for three years. This shouldn’t be happening. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I bite down on my knuckles, forgetting my growing canines. Blood beads on my punctured fingers when I pull back.

  Andreas doesn’t know what to do with me—not really. I need a doctor. One who can explain my reanimated uterus.

  I clean up and pop on the pair of sunglasses Andreas left on the side table. He hasn’t let me outside, but it’s not like the door’s locked and I’m still human; I won’t spontaneously combust. I assume.

  The thinnest line of light shines between the tiny windows’ blackout curtains: daytime. I’m officially on “unpaid leave.”

  A bottle of sunscreen rests on the front windowsill and I slather the white goop on my face and hands before pulling on a hooded North Face fleece from the closet. To think I expected a cape.

  “I need to see a doctor,” I say.

  The receptionist stares at me over the counter, over cooling coffee, and square computer monitors.

  “I don’t have an appointment with mine, but I’ll see whoever.”

  He nods his head quickly, the rest of him unmoving, like a bobble-head doll.

  “Great. Do I need to fill out a form, or . . .”

  He pushes a blue lined paper across the counter to me. I sniffle and wipe at the cold drip from my nose. Blood stains my sleeve. Dammit.

  “Thanks.” I grab a pen and sit down.

  Four other people share the waiting room. Two read over a pamphlet on lesbian healthcare. One shoots cartoon pigs on her phone. The last just watches me over their acid wash jeans and under their knit hat. They pull their legs up tight against their chest when I pass, never taking their eyes off me. They still watch when I sit beside a corner table, push all the gossip magazines to the side, and try to flatten m
y form out.

  It’s pretty standard.

  Name: Finley Hall

  Legal Name: See above

  Age: Twenty-six

  Gender: FTM/trans male

  Pronouns: He/him

  Species: Human

  Technically, true. I haven’t died yet. Just because I can’t eat Dad’s homemade crab cakes for another couple centuries, doesn’t mean I’m not me, still. I wonder if I can freeze some . . .

  Are you an existing patient at Centre Street Clinic? Yes.

  If yes, who is your primary care physician? Dr. Lisa Perez.

  What is the reason for your clinic visit today?

  I bite the cap of my pen. My teeth hurt, but I can’t stop chewing. And I don’t know what to write—nothing I want to tell the receptionist. I settle for: Bleeding.

  Understatement of the century.

  When I return the form, the receptionist pretends to have been drinking his coffee; he grabs the handle with such force, the black liquid spills over the edge and stains a pile of blue forms.

  The person who was watching me doesn’t stop when I sit back down.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  I relish that edge in my voice. The gritty feel, condescending tone. Andreas never sounds like that. His voice is sea glass, smooth and translucent. Mine is a year of throat-clearing, congestion, and cracking.

  The waiting patient loosens their hold on their knees and raises their chin. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I know.” I wipe at my nose, but there’s nothing.

  “No, I mean on the chair.” They point.

  Fuck.

  My cheeks muster up all the color they can find—hopefully enough to suspend menstruation.

  “It’s okay. I won’t tell or anything.” They motion for me to stand, then toss a magazine over the spot. “The clinic will probably just throw the chair out anyway. No use blaming someone for it.”

  “Thanks.” I want to smile, but the gooey feeling between my legs—knowing that I’m bleeding out and there’s nothing I can do to stop it—stops me.

  I’m halfway to the bathroom when a nurse calls my name. “Finley! Finley Hall?”