Nebula Awards Showcase 2013

by Catherine Asaro

  As you yank off a sock, Kerry suddenly pulls away and says, “Do you have any . . . I mean, because I don’t, not with me. . . .”

  You don’t either, but right at this instant you’re not really up for a Philosophical Dialogue. “I’ll get some tomorrow,” you say, and you reach for Kerry’s shoulder.

  “Wait.” Kerry eyes you reappraisingly.

  If you say, “Just this one time,” go to section 160.

  If you offer an apologetic smile and sigh, and then, deliberately but gently, you put the sock back onto its foot, go to section 144.

  144

  You listen to the morning’s birdsongs. Kerry’s dorm is on the edge of campus, by the arboretum, so mornings are louder here than in your room. There’s one bird who keeps hitting this little arpeggio with a syncopation on the last note that you’re trying to memorize, so you can try it out later on guitar.

  You’re also trying to memorize how Kerry looks asleep. Just because you think that will make a good memory.

  Eventually the alarm buzzes, and you two have to get out of bed.

  A little later, you face each other over breakfast trays. (The first time you shared breakfast, you discovered that you both like oatmeal—with raisins, and definitely no brown sugar—and that neither of you can stand breakfast sausage.)

  Kerry asks, “Figure it out yet?”

  You’ve been teaching Kerry some basic music theory, and in return you’re learning about set theory. Last night Kerry gave you a challenge: Suppose you’re given some arbitrary sets. It doesn’t matter how many or what’s in them. Maybe one contains all the even numbers, while another contains red fire trucks, and a third includes the contents of your pants pockets on the morning of your fourteenth birthday. Whatever. Now prove that, without having to know exactly what’s in each set, there is some other set that has at least one element in common with each of the given sets—but which isn’t simply the union of all of them, as if you’d dumped all of the original sets into one big bag.

  You did, in fact, figure this out, last night while you were brushing your teeth. But then the two of you got distracted by other, more entertaining, challenges.

  “All right,” you say. “I pick one element from each of the sets you give me. My new set is defined as the set containing precisely those elements. Ta-dah.”

  Orange juice in hand, Kerry nods. “Very good.”

  You grin, but Kerry’s not finished.

  “So who gave you permission to pick an element from each of those sets? There’s nothing in the basic rules of set theory—the axioms—that says you can do that.”

  You frown. “Of course you can. It’s obvious.”

  Kerry raises an eyebrow.

  “Fine,” you say. “I choose the smallest element in each set—that’s well-defined, right?”

  “What if one of the sets consists of all fractions bigger than zero? What’s the smallest fraction?” Kerry reaches for your toast, which you’ve been neglecting.

  Annoyed, you start to offer a counterproposal. But you catch yourself as you see its flaw. Which suggests a different solution—but no, that doesn’t work, either. . . .

  Finally Kerry says, “It does seem natural that you should be able to pick elements out of sets. But it turns out that there’s no way to prove that you can do that, in general, based on the axioms of set theory. Most mathematicians agree with you that it should be allowed, though, so they add a new rule that specifically says you can do it. The Axiom of Choice.”

  Now you’re annoyed again. “Then why didn’t you tell me that up front? If this Axiom of Choice is simply one of the rules, why are we even discussing it?”

  Kerry leans forward, one elbow skidding almost into a puddle of spilled coffee. “It’s not one of the rules. Not one of the most basic, defining ones, anyway. You can build up a complete, self-consistent system of mathematics that doesn’t include the Axiom of Choice. If you add it in, you end up with a slightly different system. One that includes a lot of new, interesting results, most of which feel right. So most mathematicians are fine with proofs that depend on the Axiom of Choice.”

  You glance at your watch. You’ll both be late for class if you don’t pick up your trays and get going. But a corner of Kerry’s argument looks loose to you.

  “So,” you say, “you can do math either with this axiom or without it?”

  “Right.” Kerry stands up.

  You remain in your seat. “Then, each mathematician has to choose whether or not to use the Axiom of Choice.”

  Kerry pauses and stares at you.

  And then, slowly, Kerry nods, and slides the two trays in your direction. As if presenting you an award.

  “I guess,” says Kerry, “that says something about the rules of the higher system. The one in which we live.”

  If you stack both trays and carry them away, go to section 147.

  If you push back Kerry’s tray and grumble about hypocritical mathematicians, go to section 170.

  147

  That night, after you get under the covers, Kerry approaches the bed, naked.

  “Tonight,” says Kerry, “I want you to lie completely still. Got it? Now pay attention. Here’s my hand. And here’s my mouth. And here—” Kerry takes a step back, so you can get a really good look, “—is the rest of me.”

  Kerry draws out the moment.

  “Choose.”

  If

  502

  “Okay, that’s ten minutes.”

  You open your eyes to a circle of people sitting in plastic chairs, in a bright room with pale blue walls.

  “So,” says the guy with shoes. “Who wants to share something from their experience?”

  If after a few seconds you raise your hand, go to section 511.

  If it strikes you that group is bullshit, go to section 550.

  550

  One of the counselors is standing in your room, looking Very Serious.

  “We can’t do this without you,” she says. She’s in her forties, you guess, her dark hair braided and wrapped up on top of her head. You’ve decided that the lilt in her voice comes from Jamaica.

  You lie completely still.

  She sighs. “You only get to keep your bed if you’re an active participant in ward activities. Do you understand me? If you’re going to stay here, then you have to get yourself up and out of this room, and interact with the others.”

  She waits for you to respond. As if it matters what you might say.

  Again she sighs. “At least come to the common room for lunch.”

  If the idea of lunch finally gives you a reason to get out of bed, go to section 557.

  If you’re finally recognizing that you’re not the one making the decisions in your life, go to section 601.

  601

  Somebody has started a fire with some old campaign signs from a dumpster, and you join the others huddling around it. The bridge’s supports block most of the wind, and after a while, for the first time today, you stop shivering.

  “Nice hat,” says a big guy, meaningfully.

  Somebody at the hospital gave it to you when they kicked you out. It’s the warmest thing you’re wearing, stuffed with fleece, and with furry earflaps.

  If you kick the guy in the nuts and run, go to section 615.

  If you stand there waiting to see what the higher system is going to make you do next, go to section 620.

  620

  You’re standing in line at the mission, leaning against the counter to take some weight off your feet. A lady asks whether you’d like brown sugar on your oatmeal.

  If you shake your head and keep shuffling down the line, go to section 634.

  If you stand there, waiting, until finally somebody drops a clump of brown sugar onto your oatmeal and shoves you ahead, go to section 652.

  652

  Your sign isn’t working at all today. You glance down to your lap and notice that you’re holding the sign with your good hand. Dumb.

  A brown leather walle
t drops onto the cracked sidewalk, right in front of you. The guy who must have dropped it is sauntering away, oblivious, eating one of those big pretzels.

  Even without leaning closer, you can see a lot of bills in there. Probably cards, too—you could maybe sell those cards.

  If you pick up the wallet and stick it inside your coat, go to section 664.

  If you just sit there, and eventually somebody else notices the wallet and grabs it, go to section 701.

  701

  The sky is full of fluffy clouds today. You’ve got a good view, except for some tree branches. You must have slept on a park bench last night, since that’s where you find yourself now. You can’t recall the details, though.

  If you’re just going to lie there all day, go to section 701.

  If eventually you get so bored that you sit up, go to section 702.

  702

  At first it’s really early in the morning and you’ve got this part of the park to yourself. But soon a thickening parade of office workers marches past your bench. Some of them glance your way for a second, and then lift their coffee or their phone to block the view.

  If you ask one of them what they think they’re staring at, go to section 708.

  If all you do is wait to see what’s going to happen next, go to section 721.

  721

  There aren’t as many office workers now, but between the kids and the joggers and the drunks there’s still a sort of parade.

  If you lie back down on the bench, go to section 724.

  If your fist punches somebody in the shoulder for no reason, go to section 801.

  801

  “Ow!” says the woman who had just sat herself beside you on the bench. “What was that for?”

  You’re staring at your fist.

  “No reason,” you say.

  “Yeah?” She squints at you for a few seconds.

  Then she punches your arm. Pretty hard, actually.

  “Hey!”

  “So,” she says, “if we’re done with that, I have a proposition for you.”

  You give her a closer look. Mid-thirties. Dressed like a lot of women you used to know, in a long crinkly black skirt and a brightly striped top from Peru or Mexico or someplace like that. Hair falling in waves to the base of her neck.

  Redhead.

  She continues, “Community House—maybe you’ve heard of us? One of our residents got himself kicked out last night, so this is your lucky day. You get a bedroom to yourself, and three meals. Only two rules: You don’t do anything illegal in the house, and you don’t piss off everybody else.”

  You narrow your eyes. “So why are you choosing me?”

  She nods toward your still-clenched fist.

  “No reason,” she says. “Now come on.” She stands and begins walking away.

  If you’re fine with her making the decisions, go to section 808.

  If you lie back down on the bench, go to section 815.

  808

  Your third afternoon at Community House, Irene—the redhead—invites you to come along with everybody to a movie.

  In your mind you see a dark room full of people all sitting still, watching and listening. Your arms tighten up, and then you start shaking all over.

  After a minute Irene says that maybe you should just stay here today.

  If you insist on joining the outing, go to section 815.

  If you’re fine with Irene making the decisions, go to section 822.

  822

  A couple evenings later you and a few others are in the living room watching TV. When the show ends, Irene gets up and turns off the set. Nobody objects.

  “I’m going to read awhile,” she says. She crosses the room toward an armchair, pausing at the stereo to start up a CD.

  The drums kick things off, and then comes the bass. A bottleneck guitar eases into some Delta blues.

  You get shaky, and stand to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” she tells you, looking concerned. She turns off the CD. She glances around the room at the others. “I think I need some tea. Come on.”

  You follow her to the unoccupied kitchen. She runs water into the kettle. Not looking at you, she says, “Music. It’s a problem?”

  You don’t feel entirely steady, so you slide into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.

  She lights a burner and sets down the kettle. “Especially guitar.”

  You let out the breath you’ve apparently been holding. “I used to play.”

  She pulls out the adjacent chair and sits. “And then your hands got messed up.”

  You nod. Though you don’t know whether she’s watching, because you’re staring at your lap, where your hands are holding each other. As well as they can.

  You’ve had this conversation enough times, back when you were in the hospital, to know that next she’ll ask how that makes you feel. And then you’ll be having a Therapeutic Dialogue.

  You wait, but for several seconds she doesn’t speak.

  “That,” she finally says, “truly sucks.”

  A minute later the kettle starts whistling, and she stands. You hear her open a cabinet.

  “Damn. We’re out of green. Chamomile okay?”

  If you wait silently for your tea and then carefully pick it up with your right hand, go to section 831.

  If you look up and say, “Sure. Thanks,” go to section 845.

  845

  A week later there’s a trip to an art gallery.

  You go along.

  If, when you’re standing in a crowded room where everybody is attentively staring at the same big painting, your heart starts hammering and you have to leave, go to section 859.

  If you don’t leave, go to section 870.

  870

  You’ve been at Community House for three months now. Sometimes you help Irene or the other staff with grocery shopping. Often with cooking. Lately you’ve been able to sit still while CDs play, and a few nights ago you realized that your right hand was fingerpicking along with an old Ry Cooder track. (Though at that realization you did have to leave the room, and for a couple of hours it felt like all the fingers you don’t have anymore were spasming in boiling water.)

  But what surprises you the most, what truly astounds you, is that some of the other residents lately have been asking if they can talk with you. Have been asking your opinions about their stuff. As if it matters what you say.

  This afternoon you’re sitting at the kitchen table with Irene, stuffing fundraising envelopes. The sun is warm on the back of your neck. Through a screen, birds arpeggiate.

  “I’m going to a concert next week,” she says. “Some Canadian folksinger.” She positions a stamp at an envelope’s corner, presses it down with her thumb. “Come with me?”

  “Sure,” you say. “Thanks.”

  If you lift a fundraising letter from the pile and fold it precisely into thirds, giving the task absolutely all your attention and thinking hard about nothing else at all, go to section 884.

  If there’s no way you’re going to let her drag you to that concert, go to section 896.

  896

  Could be worse, you think, sitting in the darkened room. The guy’s guitar playing is rudimentary, but his lyrics actually make sense. And he’s got an interesting, gravelly voice that he keeps sending out on surprising trajectories. It twists and soars until, sooner or later, it always ends up crashing back home.

  Irene is working her usual nonchalance. But you’ve noticed her glancing your way every minute or two. You consider telling her that she can relax, that you’re doing fine. Then you feel the singer’s diminished chord echoed on your left hand’s own phantom fretboard, and you think maybe you’d better wait a bit and see what develops.

  Now he’s introducing his next song, explaining that it’s about a man sailing away on a long expedition, leaving the woman he loves to await his return. “Couple months ago,” he says, “a guy came backstage after a show, looking really sad. And he told me how his girlfri
end was about to leave for Europe for a year, and so he had to ask me about the traveler in my song: 'Did he come back?’ And I told him, 'Of course he came back! This isn’t a blues song!’ He seemed reassured.”

  Everybody chuckles. Then, just as he leans forward and is about to start playing, you hear a soft voice.

  “Sometimes they don’t come back.”

  Two rows behind you sits a woman whose face you can’t quite make out in the darkness. You can’t be sure the comment came from her. But you think it’s Lisa Muroni. Paul’s wife, widow.

  If you sink down into your seat and hope that Lisa doesn’t recognize you, go to section 898.

  If you sit up and try to pay attention to the singer, figuring that somehow you owe that to Paul, go to section 901.

  901

  You’re sitting on the curb outside the club, watching cars and pedestrians. Two songs after the break you told Irene that you needed some air, but that she should stay for the final few tunes. After considering you for a few seconds, she nodded.

  You’re thinking about people who go away. About the ones who never come back.

  And about the ones who do. Even if it takes them a long, long time.

  The show lets out. Irene lowers herself to the curb by your side, and helps you watch traffic. She passes you her open can of ginger ale. You take a sip and pass it back.

  After a while there are no more pedestrians and not many cars. Irene stands.

  “Let’s go back to the House,” she says.

  You look up at her.

  And ask, “What if I don’t?”

  For a few seconds she squints at you.

  And then, slowly, she nods. She hands you the empty soda can, as if presenting you an award.

  “I guess that would be for you to find out.”

  You reach out your left hand and take the can between your thumb and middle finger. The can wobbles in your uncertain grip, catching a glint from a nearby streetlamp. And in that glint, for just a second, your life takes a step back so you can get a really good look.