The table was set for five, one place setting built from light. The President took his seat, and Stefan was across from him, scrolling through the comppad in search of new questions. Most of these came from his social studies teacher—a small, handsome Nigerian woman who didn't know Yancy. Why do we keep our open border policy? He didn't dare ask it. Instead he coughed, then inquired, “How are your cats, Mr. President?”
Both of them seemed happy with the new topic. “Fine, thank you.” Another wink and grin. “The jaguars are fat, and the cheetah is going to have triplets.”
Miniature breeds. Declawed and conditioned to be pets.
They spoke for a couple minutes about preserving rare species, Stefan mentioning his hope to someday work in that field. Then Mom burst into the room with her completed salad, and Yancy followed with some bean concoction, making a second trip for the burgers. Somewhere en route he shouted, “Candace!” and she appeared an instant later, making her entrance with a giggle and a bounce.
If anything, her boobs were even bigger. And the room's holo projectors changed her skin, making it coffee-colored.
Mom saw the clothes and her color, then gave a shocked little groan. But she didn't dare say anything with the President here. Yancy entered the little room, paused and grimace…then almost smiled, glancing at their guest with the oddest expression.
Why wasn't he saying anything?
The President glanced at Candace, for half a second. Then he looked straight ahead, eyes locked on Stefan. Big, worried eyes. And his projection feigned a slow sigh.
With her brown boobs spilling out, Candace sat beside President Perez.
Mom glared at her, then at Yancy. But Yancy just shook his head, as if warning her to say nothing.
Seven burgers were on the plate. The real ones were juicy; the one built from light resembled a hard lump of charcoal.
Stefan realized that he was growing accustomed to being ashamed.
Candace took nothing but a small helping of salad, giggling and looking at their guest with the same goofy flirtatious face that she used on her infinite boyfriends. “Hey, are you having a good time?”
“Mr. President,” Stefan added.
His sister glared at him, snapping, “I know that.”
“I'm having a fine time.” The apparition never quite looked at her, using his spoon to build a mound of phantom beans on the phantom plate. “You have a lovely home.”
Mom said, “Thank you.”
Candace giggled, like an idiot.
But she wasn't stupid, her brother wanted to say. To shout.
Yancy was preparing two burgers, slipping them into their pouches of bread and adding pickles, mustard and sugar corn. Then after a first oversized bite, he grinned, telling the house computer to give them scenery. “Mount Rushmore,” he demanded. “The original.”
Squidskin re-created the four-headed landmark. Presidents Barker and Yarbarro were notably absent.
The current President was staring at his plate. For the first time, he acted remote. Detached. A bite of his charred burger revealed its raw red interior, blood flowing as if from an open wound. After a long pause, he looked at Stefan again, and with a certain hopefulness asked, “What's your next question, please?”
Candace squealed, “Let me ask it!”
She shot to her feet, reaching over the table, her boobs fighting for the privilege of bursting out of her shirt. Before Stefan could react, she'd stolen his compad, reading the first question aloud.
“Why do we keep our open border policy?”
The pause was enormous, silence coming from every direction at once. Mom stared at Yancy, pleading with her eyes. Everyone else studied the President, wondering how he would respond. Except he didn't. It was Yancy who spoke first, in a voice almost mild. Almost.
“I don't think it matters,” he replied. “I think if we want to do some good, we've got to turn the flow back the other direction. If you know what I mean.”
“I think we do,” said President Perez.
“Fifty years of inviting strangers into our house. Fifty idiotic years of making room, making jobs, making allowances…and always making due with less and less. That's what the great Barker gave us. Her and her damned open border bullshit!”
Stefan felt sick. Chilled.
Mom began, “Now Yancy—”
“My grandfather owned an acreage, Mr. President. He ate meat three times a day, lived in a big house, and worked hard until he was told to go half-time, some know-nothing refugee given the other half of his job, and his paycheck…!”
“Employment readjustments.” Their guest nodded, shrugged. “That's a euphemism, I know. There were problems. Injustices. But think of the times, Mr. Thatcher. Our government was under enormous pressures, yet we managed to carry things off—”
“Some know-nothing refugee!” Yancy repeated, his face red as uncooked meat. “And your party took his home, his land, needing the room for a stack of apartment buildings.”
Stefan tried not to listen. He was building a careful daydream where he had a different family, and he was sitting with the President, everyone working to make his visit productive, and fun.
Yancy pointed at the old Rushmore. “A great nation built it—”
“An individual built it,” the President interrupted. “Then his grateful nation embraced it.”
“A free nation!”
“And underpopulated, speaking relatively.”
Pursing his heavy pink lips, Yancy declared, “We should have let you people starve. That's what I think.” He took a huge breath, held it, then added, “You weren't our responsibility, and we should have shut our borders. Nothing in. Not you. Not a rat. Not so much as a goddamn fly…That's my opinion…!”
President Perez stared at his own clean plate. Eyes narrowed. the contemplative face showed a tiny grin, then he looked up at Yancy, eyes carved from cold black stone.
With a razored voice, he said, “First of all, sir, I'm a third-generation U.S. citizen. And second of all, I believe that you're an extraordinarily frightened man.” A pause, a quiet sigh. “To speak that way, your entire life must be torn with uncertainty. And probably some deep, deep sense of failure, I would guess.”
Stefan sat motionless, in shock.
“As for your opinions on national policy, Mr. Thatcher…well, let me just say this. These are the reasons why I believe you're full of shit.”
The rebuke was steady, determined, and very nearly irresistible.
President Perez spoke calmly about war and famine, a desperate United Nations, and the obligations of wealthy people. He named treaties, reciting key passages word-for-word. Then he attacked the very idea of closing the borders, listing the physical difficulties and the economic costs. “Of course it might have worked. We could have survived. An enclave of privilege and waste, and eventually there would have been plagues and a lot of quiet hunger on the outside. We'd be left with our big strong fences, and beyond them…a dead world, spent and useless to us, and to the dead.” A brief pause, then he spoke with a delicate sorrowful voice, asking, “Are you really the kind of man who could live lightly with himself, knowing that billions perished…in part because you deserved a larger dining room…?”
Yancy had never looked so tired. Of those at the table, he seemed to be the one composed of light and illusion.
The President smiled at everyone, then focused on Stefan. “Let's move on, I think. What's your next question?”
The boy tried to read his comppad, but his brain wouldn't work.
“Perhaps you can ask me, ‘What do you think about this hallmark evening?”’
“What do you think?” Stefan muttered.
“It should revolutionize our government, which isn't any surprise. Our government was born from a string of revolutions.” He waited for the boy's eyes, then continued. “I love this nation. If you want me angry, say otherwise. But the truth is that we are diverse and too often divided. My hope is that tonight's revolution will strengt
hen us. Judging by these events, I'd guess that it will make us at least more honest.”
Yancy gave a low sound. Not an angry sound, not anything.
“Perhaps I should leave.” The President rose to his feet. “I know we've got another half hour scheduled—”
“No, please stay!” Mom blurted.
“Don't go,” begged Candace, reaching for his dreadlocks.
Mom turned on her. At last. “Young lady, I want you out of those clothes—”
“Why?”
“—and drain those breasts. You're not fooling anyone here!”
Candace did her ritual pout, complete with the mournful groan and the teary run to the basement.
Mom apologized to their guest, more than once. Then she told Yancy, “You can help Stefan clear the table, please. I will show our President the rest of my house.”
Stefan worked fast. Scraps went into the recyke system; dishes were loaded in the sonic washer. Through the kitchen window, he saw the Grand Canyon passing into night, its blurry, imperfect edges more appropriate in the ruddy half-light. And it occurred to him that he was happy with this view, even if it wasn't real. Happier than he'd feel on any ordinary plot of real ground, surely.
His stepfather did no work. He just stood in the middle of the room, his face impossible to read.
Stefan left him to set the controls. Mom and the President were in the front room, looking outside. Or at least their eyes were pointed at the lone window. With a soft, vaguely conspiring tone, the President said, “It's not my place to give advice. Friends can. Counselors and ministers should. But not someone like me, I'm sorry.”
“I know,” his mother whispered. “It's just…I don't know…I just wish he would do something awful. To me, of course. Just to make the choice simple.”
What choice? And who was she talking about?
“But really, he only sounds heartless.” She tried to touch their guest, then thought better of it. “In five years, Yankee hasn't lifted his hand once in anger. Not to the kids, or me. And you're right, I think. About him being scared, I mean…”
Stefan listened to every word.
“When you come next month,” Mom inquired, “will you remember what's happened here?”
President Perez shook his head. His face was in profile, like on a coin. “No, I won't. Your computer has to erase my personality, by law. And you really don't have room enough to hold me. Sorry.”
“I guess not,” Mom allowed.
They looked outside, watching an airtaxi riding its cable past the window. The building across the street mirrored theirs, houses stacked on houses, each one small and efficient, and lightweight, each house possessing its own yard and the same solitary window facing the maelstrom that was a city of barely five million.
Several Presidents were visible.
They waved at each other, laughing with a gentle, comfortable humor.
Then their President turned, spotting the boy at the other end of the little room, and he smiled at Stefan with all of his original charm and warmth, nothing else seeming to matter.
Mom turned and shouted, “Are you spying on us?”
“I wasn't,” he lied. “No, ma'am.”
The President said, “I think he just came looking for us.” Then he added, “Dessert. I feel like a little dessert, if I might be so bold.”
Mom wasn't sure what to say, if anything.
“Perhaps something that looks delicious, please. In the kitchen. I very much liked your kitchen.”
They gathered again, a truce called.
Candace was dressed as if ready for school, looking younger and flatter, and embarrassed. Yancy had reacquired a portion of his old certainty, but not enough to offer any opinions. Mom seemed wary, particularly of Stefan. What had he heard while eavesdropping? Then the President asked for more questions, looking straight at Yancy, nothing angry or malicious in his dark face.
Crossing his arms, Yancy said nothing.
But Stefan thought of a question. “What about the future?” It wasn't from his comppad's list; it was an inspiration. “Mr. President? How will the world change?”
“Ah! You want a prediction!”
Stefan made sure that the comppad was recording.
President Perez took a playful stab at the layered sundae, then spoke casually, with an easy authority.
“What I'm going to tell you is a secret,” he said. “But not a big one, as secrets go.”
Everyone was listening. Even Yancy leaned closer.
“Since the century began, every President has had an advisory council, a team of gifted thinkers. They know the sciences. They see trends. They're experts in new technologies, history and human nature. We pay them substantial fees to build intelligent, coherent visions of tomorrow. And do you know what? In eighty years, without exception, none of their futures have come true.” He shook his head, laughing quietly. “Predicted inventions usually appear, but never on schedule. And the more important changes come without warning, ruining every one of their assessments.” A pause, then he added, “My presence here, for instance. Not one expert predicted today. I know because I checked the records myself. No one ever thought that a President could sit in half a billion kitchens at once, eating luscious desserts that will never put a gram on his waist.”
Yancy growled, asking, “Then why do you pay the bastards?”
“Habit?” The President shrugged his shoulders. “Or maybe because nothing they predict comes true, and I find that instructive. All these possible futures, and I don't need to worry about any of them.”
A long, puzzled silence.
“Anyway,” said the President, “my point is this: Now that we've got this technology, every prediction seems to include it. In fact, my experts are claiming that in fifty years, give or take, all of us will spend our days floating in warm goo, wired into the swollen Net. Minimal food. No need for houses or transportation. Maximum efficiency for a world suddenly much less crowded.” He gazed at Stefan, asking, “Now does that sound like an appealing future?”
The boy shook his head. “No, sir.”
“It sounds awful,” Mom barked.
Candace said, “Ugh.”
Then Yancy said, “It'll never happen. No.”
“Exactly,” said their guest. “It's almost guaranteed not to come true, if the pattern holds.” He took a last little bite of his sundae, then rose. “You asked for a prediction, son. Well, here it is. Your life will be an unending surprise. If you're lucky, the surprises will be sweet and come daily, and that's the best any of us can hope for. I think.”
The silence was relaxed. Contemplative.
Then the President gestured at the projected clock high above their stove. “Time to leave, I'm afraid. Walk me out?”
He was speaking to Stefan.
Hopping off his stool, the boy hugged himself and nodded. “Sure, Mr. President. Sure.”
The Grand Canyon was dark, the desert sky clear and dry. But the genuine air was humid, more like Indiana than Arizona. There were always little clues to tell you where you were. Stefan knew that even the best systems fell short of being real.
In a low, hopeful voice, he said, “You'll come back in a month. Won't you, sir?”
“Undoubtedly.” Another smile. “And thank you very much. You were a wonderful host.”
What else? “I hope you had a good time, sir.”
A pause, then he said, “It was perfect. Perfect.”
Stefan nodded, trying to match that smile.
Then the image gave a faint, “Good-bye,” and vanished. He suddenly just wasn't there.
Stefan stared at the horizon for a long moment, then turned and saw that the house was whole again. Their computer had enough power to add color and all the fancy touches. Under the desert sky, it looked tall and noble, and he could see the people sitting inside, talking now. Just talking. Nobody too angry or too sad, or anything. And it occurred to Stefan, as he walked up toward them, that people were just like the house, small in
side all their clothes and words and big thoughts.
People were never what they appeared to be, and it had always been that way. And always would be.
The Spear of the Sun
DAVID LANGFORD
David Langford is a physicist and science fiction fan, who has won many Hugo Awards both for his monthly fanzine, Ansible (also excerpted as a monthly column in Interzone, and online: http://www.dcs.gla.ac.uk/SF-archives/Ansible/) and as Best Fan Writer. He is the most famous humorous writer in the SF fan world today. His fan writings have been collected in Let's Hear It for the Deaf Man (Langford is deaf). He is also the author of several books of nonfiction and a hard-science fiction novel, The Space Eater. His occasional professional short stories (as opposed to the parodies he publishes in fanzines) are usually witty but entirely serious hard SF. This story is something of a departure for him, though not in its wit. It is an outrageous alternate universe story in which the distinguished writer G. K. Chesterton, a contemporary of H. G. Wells, who is most famous for his Catholic writings and his mystery fiction (the Father Brown series) but who also wrote fantasy (The Man Who Was Thursday) and SF (The Napoleon of Notting Hill) is the founder of genre SF. It was published (with especially wonderful illustrations, I might add) in Interzone. Interzone has done a number of alternate universe stories in the mode of, and/or featuring the characters of, the founders of SF such as Wells and Verne, by many writers including Brian Stableford, Kim Newman, and Stephen Baxter over the past few years.
Since its inception in 1925, the most famous shared-world series in G. K. Chesterton's Science Fiction Magazine has always been the adventures of that much-loved interplanetary sleuth Father (later in the chronology, Monsignor) Brown. There is no need to list the long roll-call of those who have taken part—Hilaire Belloc, Graham Greene, Jorge Luis Borges, Kurt Scheer, Clark Dalton, R. A. Lafferty, Gene Wolfe, and Robert Lionel Fanthorpe being just a few of the illustrious contributors1, not to mention the bright talents emerging from the splendid GKC Presents Catholic Writers of the Future anthologies. And we are always glad to welcome fresh participants. Here, therefore, is the first of GKSFM's eagerly awaited new series “The Fractals of Father Brown,” penned by SF Achievement (“Gilbert”) Award-winner David Langford…
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