Asimov's SF, July 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  When the rain came again, it washed some of the mud loose from his body, but he dared not stop to renew his supply. Something deep inside whispered that if he stopped walking, even for an instant, he would never start again. Night fell, and he walked on.

  At some point, he became aware of lights. In the distance at first, but nearing slowly from his left. And then the lights were on him and he was blinking up into brilliance. He let himself sit then, and hung his head to his chest. The field-skim landed nearby, and in the next instant arms were lifting him to his feet.

  “Marc, is that really you?” a man asked.

  The face belonged to John Miller, a close friend in another lifetime.

  Marc only nodded and let the arms drag him to the skim.

  * * * *

  “My mother?” His words were slow and canted; the jaw didn't want to move right.

  “Not good,” his old friend answered. “She still thinks you're alive. Well, you are alive, but she was the only one who ... Marc, what the hell happened?"

  Marc lifted his head from the pilot's cot and took another sip of water. At this speed, skims tended to ride rough, and he had to be careful not to spill. “Why not good?"

  “I try to stop by and visit her when I can, but it's hard to see her this way. Her health hasn't been good lately."

  “And Eli?"

  “He's in charge of the seed program now. Your mother won't let him out of sight, follows him around everywhere because she's so afraid of losing another son. Marc, there were a lot of people who never bought Eli's story about what happened. A company prosecutor was brought in to investigate."

  “All the way out here?"

  “A possible death-penalty case, Marc. Fratricide."

  “What did he find?"

  “Same as us, fishy as hell but no proof. What happened?"

  Marc rolled over in the cot and put his face to the wall. He felt a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then the hand was gone. He slipped into unconsciousness.

  Marc woke as the field-skim settled into dock. He rose to his feet and stepped into the bathroom. He didn't recognize the bearded, crook-jawed man staring back at him from the mirror. He urinated and washed his hands. John was waiting outside the door.

  “I thought you—

  Marc held up his hand. “Hurts to talk, so don't make me. Who knows about me?"

  “Everybody. I radioed it in. The special investigator wants to talk to you."

  “He's still here?” Would Mother really be relieved to gain one son and lose the other? “I need a minute to clear my head."

  The latch opened from the outside.

  “Doesn't look like you're going to get it, Marc."

  A tall man in a company suit walked through the door. “Welcome back from the dead,” he said, extending a hand. “I'm Special Investigator Tom Brennen. We've got a lot to talk about."

  “Do we?” Mark asked.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Marc walked down the hall to his old office. He paused at the door. He pushed it open. He stepped inside.

  Matching dark eyes moved to his.

  “Brother,” Marc said, and then he shut the door.

  Eli didn't move. He sat stiffly behind the desk. His face looked different. Older. He'd lost weight. The last few months had taken a toll on him, too.

  Eli opened the desk drawer and stuck his hand inside. “I've been waiting for you,” he said. He pulled out a white envelope and tossed it on the desk.

  “What is it?"

  “Some days a confession. Others, a suicide note."

  “Which is it today?” Marc picked the envelope off the desk.

  “Today? I don't know, brother. The day isn't over yet."

  Marc looked down at the envelope in his hands but didn't open it.

  From out in the hall he heard a shout. A woman's shout of joy, his mother screaming his name. His mother was coming down the hall.

  Marc looked at his brother, ripped the envelope in half, and tossed it in the trash.

  Copyright 2006 Ted Kosmatka

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  * * *

  SCIENCE FICTION SUDOKU CONTEST RESULTS

  Our March 2006 issue of Asimov's featured our first Science Fiction Sudoku puzzles and an accompanying contest. The response was overwhelmingly positive. My thanks to everyone who entered the contest as well as to all those who sent in letters about the puzzles. I appreciated all the suggestions and comments. The huge response most certainly justifies a regular Sudoku feature. As promised, I'll be sure to fit it in around the fiction, so the feature may not show up in every issue.

  Choosing the winners from so many wonderful entries was difficult indeed. First place goes to two men who came up with the same fiendish idea. Both Dominic J. Vitacco and Lyle Wiedeman received autographed copies of Allen M. Steele's Coyote Frontier for their award-winning entries. The puzzle appears below.

  This SF Sudoku puzzle is solved using the letters AEHILNRST. Place a letter into each box so that each row across, each column down, and each small nine-box square within the larger diagram (there are nine of these) will contain each of these letters. No letter will appear more than once in any row, column, or smaller nine-box square. The solution is determined through logic and the process of elimination. Beneath the puzzle is a set of twenty blanks. Rearrange the following letters for a famous SF title: A,A,E,E,E,E,H,I,L,L,N,R,S,S,S,S,T,T,T, and T. The answers for the Sudoku puzzle and the anagram can be found following the SF Conventional Calendarlater in this issue. The solution to each puzzle is independent of the other. I've inverted the answer to the anagram so that you don't come upon it by accident.

  Science Fiction Sudoku Winners: Tying five-ways for second place were Phil Baringer, Lee Martin, John N. Marx, Rebecca Mayr, and Ruhan Zhao. These contestants received signed copies of Jack McDevitt's Seeker. Thanks are also due to the authors; their editor, Ginjer Buchanan; and Ace Books for helping out with the prizes. Ruth Crabtree, James Goreham, Sheryl Kolar, Rebecca Mayr, and Lyle Wiedeman all received honorable mentions. The second-place and honorable mention puzzles will be published with attributions in upcoming issues of Asimov's.

  * * * *

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  * * *

  IMPOSSIBLE DREAMS

  by Tim Pratt

  Tim Pratt's stories have been published in Best American Short Stories, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and other places. His first novel, The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl (Bantam Spectra), appeared in 2005, and his next collection, Hart & Boot & Other Stories, will be out later this year from Nightshade Books. Tim co-edits a little literary ‘zine called Flytrap with his wife, Heather Shaw. They live in Oakland, California. In his new story for Asimov's, he takes a fresh look at that mysterious little shop we'd all like to find once again, and offers us a tantalizing glimpse of some...

  Pete was walking home from the revival movie house, where he'd caught an evening showing of To Have and Have Not, when he first saw the video store.

  He stopped on the sidewalk, head cocked, frowning at the narrow store squeezed between a kitschy gift shop and a bakery. He stepped toward the door, peered inside, and saw old movie posters on the walls, racks of DVDs and VHS tapes, and a big screen TV against one wall. The lettering on the door read “Impossible Dreams Video,” and the smudges on the glass suggested it had been in business for a while.

  Except it hadn't been. Pete knew every video store in the county, from the big chains to the tiny place staffed by film students up by the University to the little porno shop downtown that sometimes sold classic Italian horror flicks and bootleg Asian movies. He'd never even heard of this place, and he walked this way at least twice a week. Pete believed in movies like other people believed in God, and he couldn't understand how he'd overlooked a store just three blocks from his own apartment. He pushed open the door, and a bell rang. The shop was small, just three aisles of DVDs and a wall of VHS tapes, fluorescent lights and ancient blue industrial c
arpet, and there were no customers. The clerk said “Let me know if you need any help,” and he nodded, barely noticing her beyond the fact that she was female, somewhere south of thirty, and had short pale hair that stuck up like the fluff on a baby chick.

  Pete headed toward the classics section. He was a cinematic omnivore, but you could judge a video store by the quality of its classics shelf the same way you could judge a civilization by the state of its prisons. He looked along the row of familiar titles—and stopped at a DVD turned face-out, with a foil “New Release” sticker on the front.

  Pete picked it up with trembling hands. The box purported to be the director's cut of The Magnificent Ambersons by Orson Welles.

  “Is this a joke?” he said, holding up the box, almost angry.

  “What?” the clerk said.

  He approached her, brandishing the box, and he could tell by her arched eyebrows and guarded posture that she thought he was going to be a problem. “Sorry,” he said. “This says it's the director's cut of The Magnificent Ambersons, with the missing footage restored."

  “Yeah,” she said, brightening. “That came out a few weeks ago. You didn't know? Before, you could only get the original theatrical version, the one the studio butchered—"

  “But the missing footage,” he interrupted, “it was lost, destroyed, and the only record of the last fifty minutes was the continuity notes from the production."

  She frowned. “Well, yeah, the footage was lost, and everyone assumed it was destroyed, but they found the film last year in the back corner of some warehouse."

  How had this news passed Pete by? The forums he visited online should have been buzzing with this information, a film buff's wet dream. “How did they find the footage?"

  “It's an interesting story, actually. Welles talks about it on the commentary track. I mean, it's a little scattered, but the guy's in his nineties, what do you expect? He—"

  “You're mistaken,” Pete said. “Unless Welles is speaking from beyond the grave. He died in the 1980s."

  She opened her mouth, closed it, then smiled falsely. Pete could practically hear her repeating mental customer service mantras: the customer is always right, even when he's wrong. “Sure, whatever you say. Do you want to rent the DVD?"

  “Yeah,” he said. “But I don't have an account here."

  “You local? We just need a phone number and ID, and some proof of address."

  “I think I've got my last pay stub,” Pete said, rooting through his wallet and passing over his papers. She gave him a form to fill out, then typed his information into her computer. While she worked he said, “Look, I don't mean to be a jerk, it's just—I'd know. I know a lot about movies."

  “You don't have to believe me,” she said, tapping the DVD case with her finger. “Total's $3.18."

  He took out his wallet again, but though it bulged with unsorted receipts and scraps of paper with notes to himself, there was no cash. “Take a credit card?"

  She grimaced. “There's a five buck minimum on credit card purchases, sorry—house rules."

  “I'll get a couple of other movies,” he said.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 10:00.

  “I know you're about to close, I'll hurry,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Sure."

  He went to the Sci-Fi shelf—and had another shock. I, Robot was there, but not the forgettable action movie with Will Smith—this was older, and the credits said “written by Harlan Ellison.” But Ellison's adaptation of the Isaac Asimov book had never been produced, though it had been published in book form. “Must be some bootleg student production,” he muttered, and he didn't recognize the name of the production company. But—but—it said “winner of the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay.” That had to be a student director's little joke, straight-facedly absurd box copy, as if this were a film from some alternate reality. Worth watching, certainly, though again, he couldn't imagine how he'd never heard of this. Maybe it had been done by someone local. He took it to the counter and offered his credit card.

  She looked at the card dubiously. “Visa? Sorry, we only take Weber and FosterCard."

  Pete stared at her, and took back the card she held out to him. “This is a major credit card,” he said, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “I've never even heard of—"

  Shrugging, she looked at the clock again, more pointedly this time. “Sorry, I don't make the rules."

  He had to see these movies. In matters of film—new film! strange film!—Pete had little patience, though in other areas of his life he was easygoing to a fault. But movies mattered. “Please, I live right around the corner, just let me go grab some cash and come back, ten minutes, please?"

  Her lips were set in a hard line. He gestured at The Magnificent Ambersons. “I just want to see it, as it was meant to be seen. You're into movies, right? You understand."

  Her expression softened. “Okay. Ten minutes, but that's it. I want to get home, too."

  Pete thanked her profusely and all but ran out of the store. He did run when he got outside, three mostly uphill blocks to his apartment in a stucco duplex, fumbling the keys and cursing, finally getting into his sock drawer where he kept a slim roll of emergency cash. He raced back to Impossible Dreams, breathing so hard he could feel every exhalation burning through his body, a stitch of pain in his side. Pete hadn't run, really run, since gym class in high school, a decade earlier.

  He reached the bakery, and the gift shop, but there was no door to Impossible Dreams Video between them—there was no between at all. The stores stood side by side, without even an alleyway dividing them.

  Pete put his hand against the brick wall. He tried to convince himself he was on the wrong block, that he'd gotten turned around while running, but he knew it wasn't true. He walked back home, slowly, and when he got to his apartment, he went into his living room, with its floor-to-ceiling metal shelves of tapes and DVDs. He took a disc down and loaded it into his high-end, region-free player, then took his remote in hand and turned on the vast plasma flat-screen TV. The surround-sound speakers hummed to life, and Pete sank into the exquisitely contoured leather chair in the center of the room. Pete owned a rusty four-door Honda with two hundred thousand miles on the engine, he lived mostly on cheap macaroni-and-cheese, and he saved money on toilet paper by stealing rolls from the bathrooms in the University's Admissions Office, where he worked. He lived simply in almost every way, so that he could live extravagantly in the world of film.

  He pressed play. Pete owned the entire Twilight Zone television series on DVD, and now the narrator's eminently reasonable voice spoke from the speakers, introducing the tale of a man who finds a dusty little magic shop, full of wonders.

  As he watched, Pete began to nod his head, and whispered, “Yes."

  * * * *

  Pete checked in the morning; he checked at lunch; he checked after leaving his job in the Admissions Office in the evening; but Impossible Dreams did not reappear. He grabbed dinner at a little sandwich shop, then paced up and down the few blocks at the far end of the commercial street near his apartment. At 8:30 he leaned against a light pole, and stared at the place where Impossible Dreams had been. He'd arrived at, what, 9:45 last night? But who knew if time had anything to do with the miraculous video store's manifestation? What if it had been a one-time only appearance?

  Around 8:45, the door was suddenly there. Pete had blinked, that was all, but between blinkings, something had happened, and the store was present again.

  Pete shivered, a strange exultation filling him, and he wondered if this was how people who witnessed miraculous healings or bleeding statues felt. He took a deep breath and went into the store.

  The same clerk was there, and she glared at him. “I waited for you last night."

  “I'm sorry,” Pete said, trying not to stare at her. Did she know this was a shop of wonders? She certainly didn't act as though she did. He thought she was of the miracle, not outside it, and to her, a world w
ith The Magnificent Ambersons complete and uncut was nothing special. “I couldn't find any cash at home, but I brought plenty tonight."

  “I held the videos for you,” she said. “You really should see the Welles, it'll change your whole opinion of his career."

  “That's really nice of you. I'm going to browse a little, maybe pick up a few things."

  “Take your time. It's been really slow tonight, even for a Tuesday."

  Pete's curiosity about her—the proprietor (or at least clerk) of a magic shop!—warred with his desire to ransack the shelves. “You always work by yourself ?"

  “Mostly, except on weekends. There really should be two clerks here, but my boss is losing money like crazy, with people downloading movies online, getting DVDs by mail order, all that stuff.” She shook her head.

  Pete nodded. He got movies online and in the mail, too, but there was something to be said for the instant gratification of renting something from the store, without waiting for mail or download. “Sorry to hear that. This seems like a great store. Are you here every night?"

  She leaned on the counter and sighed. “Lately, yeah. I'm working as much as I can, double shifts some days. I need the money. I can't even afford to eat lately, beyond like an apple at lunch time and noodles for dinner. My roommate bailed on me, and I've had to pay twice the usual rent while I look for a new roommate, it sucks. I just—ah, sorry, I didn't mean to dump all over you."

  “No, it's fine,” Pete said. While she spoke, he was able to look straight at her openly, and he'd noticed that, in addition to being a purveyor of miracles, she was pretty, in a frayed-at-the-edges ex-punk sort of way. Not his type at all—except that she obviously loved movies.

  “Browse on,” she said, and opened a heavy textbook on the counter.

  Pete didn't need any more encouragement than that. Last night he'd developed a theory, and everything he saw now supported it. He thought this store belonged to some parallel universe, a world much like his own, but with subtle changes, like different names for the major credit cards. But even small differences could lead to huge divergences when it came to movies. Every film depended on so many variables—a director's capricious enthusiasm, a studio's faith in a script, a big star's availability, which starlet a producer happened to be sleeping with—any of those factors could irrevocably alter the course of a film, and Hollywood history was littered with the corpses of films that almost got made. Here, in this world, some of them were made, and Pete would go without sleeping for a week, if necessary, to see as many as possible.