The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 26 (Mammoth Books)

by Gardner Dozois

  She waited, waited for him to come.

  “You waited.”

  She pressed against him. He was warm, she didn’t know where the metal of him finished and the organic of him began.

  He said, “You came,” and there was wonder in the words.

  “I had to. I had to see you again.”

  “I was afraid.” His voice was not above a whisper. His hand on her cheek, she turned her head, kissed it, tasting rust like blood.

  “We are beggars,” he said. “My kind. We are broken machines.”

  She looked at him, this old abandoned soldier. She knew he had died, that he had been remade, a human mind cyborged onto an alien body, sent out to fight, and to die, again and again. That now he lived on scraps, depending on the charity of others . . .

  Robotnik. That old word, meaning worker. But said like a curse.

  She looked into his eyes. His eyes were almost human.

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “I don’t remember who I was, before.”

  “But you are . . . you are still . . . you are!” she said, as though finding truth, suddenly, and she laughed, she was giddy with laughter and happiness and he leaned and he kissed her, gently at first and then harder, their shared need melding them, Joining them almost like a human is bonded to an Other.

  In his strange obsolete Battle Yiddish he said, “Ich lieba dich.”

  In asteroid pidgin she replied.

  —Mi lafem yu.

  His finger on her cheek, hot, metallic, his smell of machine oil and gasoline and human sweat. She held him close, there against the wall of Central Station, in the shadows, as a plane high overhead, adorned in light, came in to land from some other and faraway place.

  SUDDEN, BROKEN, AND UNEXPECTED

  Steven Popkes

  Steven Popkes made his first sale in 1985, and in the years that followed has contributed a number of distinguished stories to markets such as Asimov’s Science Fiction, Sci Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Science Fiction Age, Full Spectrum, Tomorrow, The Twilight Zone Magazine, Night Cry, and others. His first novel, Caliban Landing, appeared in 1987, and was followed in 1991 by an expansion to novel-length of his popular novella The Egg, retitled Slow Lightning. He was also part of the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop project to produce science fiction scenarios about the future of Boston, Massachusetts, that cumulated in the 1994 anthology, Future Boston, to which he contributed several stories. He lives in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, with his family, where he works for a company that builds aviation instrumentation.

  Popkes was quiet through the late ’90s and the early part of the oughts, but in the last couple of years he’s returned to writing first-rate stories such as the novella that follows. I often don’t like rock ‘n roll stories, which frequently demonstrate little knowledge either of music or the music business, but here Popkes does a good job of convincing me that he knows both well—perhaps all too well.

  A WINDOW OPENED UP on the active wall and I stared at it. Rosie stared back.

  “Hello, Jacob.” She smiled. The always unexpected dimples on each cheek and that bright, bright smile. A nose so thin it whistled when she was excited. Not beautiful. Not pretty. Compelling. Like a volcano or a ruined city or the Texas plains or a magnificent catastrophe. Beauty just isn’t a consideration. You’re witness to something amazing.

  “It’s good to see you.” As if she’d just returned from shopping instead of reappearing in my life after twelve years of silence.

  A jumble of memories and impressions struck me like a brick. Meeting her backstage in Brockton. The feel of her skin, the warmth of her breath, the smell of her. Singing back in Massachusetts. My band, Persons Unknown—me, Jess, Olive, and Obi. Stoned and laughing at the DeCordova. Release of “Don’t Make Me Cry.” Money. Fights. Letterman. Buying this house. The long tour scheduled from Boston to Los Angeles. That wonderful last night on the way to Ohio. The fight in Cleveland. Our breakup in Saint Louis. The breakup of the band in Denver.

  She wiggled a finger at me. “You and I need to talk.”

  “Off,” I said and she winked out.

  I sat there, breathing hard, my hands shaking. I started to pick up the coffee cup, realized I was going to make a mess and put it down again. The call alert sounded.

  “Fuck you,” I snarled. I knew I’d answer it if I stayed. I grabbed a pair of shoes and ran outside. I pulled them on and ran out the back on the trail. My earbud buzzed and I tossed it on the dirt.

  Twenty acres of scrub just means when you get to the edge of your property you can still see your house, if the land is flat and in the desert. I was surrounded by public land on three sides. So far, only the ever approaching green cloud of Greater Los Angeles had been able to reach me. So far.

  I sat down on old volcanic boulder heaved here back when dinosaurs were still sitting around playing cards and waiting for the meteor to hit. I looked around the shady crevices for rattlesnakes. It was spring but an early emergent wasn’t unheard of. It was already hot but not uncomfortable. Unlike Boston, out here in California sweat works.

  Eventually, I calmed down. After all, I thought. It’s been twelve years—almost thirteen. She must have a good reason to call me now. To mess with you again, I said to myself. Not necessarily. And it had been a long time. We were different people. I was a recluse living in a rotting house that the bank and State would someday fight over. She was probably a successful . . . well, something. Rich, probably. Doing something important. World famous—wouldn’t I have heard of her? Have you ever looked her up? No. I hadn’t. Not that I didn’t want to but it felt too much like an addict returning to the drug. I was happy now.

  Really?

  I forcefully told myself to shut up.

  Okay. We were adults, right? We could converse like adults.

  I made my way back to the house. Found the bud lying next to the front door. I inspected it for wildlife. It was clean. I put it in.

  I went back to my coffee. Cold as it was, this time I drank it down without spilling it. “Okay.” Grover, my house AI, figured out what I meant.

  Rosie popped up again on the wall. “As I said: we need to talk.”

  “Why?” I didn’t know if I was asking why she called now or why she had left.

  “Got a song doctor gig for you to think about. A good one with lots of promise.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “This is a . . . professional call?”

  “I suppose it could also turn into a studio work. You’re still doing studio work, aren’t you, Jake?”

  “Sometimes. Are you representing musicians these days?” I felt suddenly very tired.

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend.” She cocked her head to one side. “Besides, this is what you do, isn’t it? Pull musical order out of creative chaos? The price is very attractive.”

  “I can’t—” I shook my head. I remembered how so often I felt at sea with Rosie. Always trying to catch up.

  “Look,” she said, suddenly sympathetic. “I know you’ve had a rough time. Behind on the mortgage, right?”

  “And the taxes.”

  “Christ! The State of California is not someone you want to owe money to.” She took a deep breath. “My point is you need the money. A single song, Jake. That’s all. It’ll pay back the state and even bring the mortgage up to date.”

  I loved this house: two stories, a couple of bedrooms on twenty acres far enough from Greater Los Angeles that the price had been screamingly ridiculous instead of obscene. It has its own power, water, and sewer—I was paranoid about the end of the world when I bought it. Twelve years ago the world seemed a lot more precarious. Back before I blew any remaining money on riotous living. But it fit me. Kitchen. Bath. A couple of guest rooms, an office, and my bedroom. Nice studio in what would be the living room: high cathedral ceiling, good acoustics and an active surface along the whole east side wall. Enclosed and far from the crowd. My house. My house. “I guess,” I said slowly.
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  “Great. I’ll shoot you over a contract. This is going to be fun.”

  “But—”

  She had already disconnected. A moment later Grover flagged the packet and okayed the contract. I sighed and had him put it up on the wall.

  A set of pages that ran the length of the wall at my eye height. I walked alongside reading it. “Downbeat Heart.” One song. Ten pages. Musical notes. Not techno tablature or vague demonstration melody. Actual musical notes. And not just vocal lines and a sketchy guitar accompaniment. These were full score sheets. Every sheet had vocal, guitar, keyboard, bass and drum lines—at one point in the bridge tympani were called for. Tympani? Keyboards sections had synthesizer settings referring to frequency and sound envelope definitions. There was an appendix with suggested synthesizer models and a map of the envelope settings for each device.

  It was a curious tune. A little three beat arpeggio in a four beat base. Odd. Take your right hand and tap out a 1-2-3 beat. Take your left hand and tap out a 1-2-3-4 beat at the same time. The right hand catches up to the left hand every twelve beats. It’s not a new idea but it’s rare in pop music. It was clearly written for a divaloid—a long glissando up into parts of the audio spectrum only dogs could appreciate. Like someone had taught hummingbirds to sing. Drivel written by rich but untalented fans that would need far more than a complete rewrite to make it remotely listenable much less performed by a software perfectionist. From the range and the run, I guessed the love interest of the composer was Dot. It was a sort of signature with her and she had the biggest fan base.

  My interest faded right off the map.

  Okay, I thought. Written on SynthaChord or ProMusica. Professional systems suggested deep pockets. A very rich divaloid fan. With delusions of grandeur.

  But money was money. A contract was a contract. Rosie was Rosie.

  I found myself playing the song back in my mind. First in one key. Then another. Faster. Slower. Change the key halfway through. Fitting in different words. Adding a drum beat and a different guitar back up. Inverting the chorus. Play it backwards. Inside out.

  Okay. I was prejudiced. It was better than a Dot song.

  Along around midnight I packaged up the whole thing and sent it off to Rosie with an invoice. Payment came in an hour later. Grover turned it around and sent it off to the banks and the State of California. The money was no more than a little loop of electrons into my account and out.

  It had been more fun than I expected. I was even vaguely depressed it was over.

  Tomorrow I had to nail the photovoltaic shingles back down. Or fix the composting toilet. Who in their right mind wanted to fix a composting toilet?

  I took comfort in the knowledge I wasn’t going to be evicted for another month and went to bed.

  Around dawn I heard something downstairs.

  I turned on the light and listened. I didn’t hear anything. Thinking I had been dreaming I started to turn the light back off when I heard it again. A scraping. A muttering.

  I left the bedroom and stood looking down the stairs, listening. Again.

  No cops: they’d be an hour before they got out here. I rummaged in my closet until I found an ancient softball bat. Then, as quietly as I could I eased downstairs.

  I smelled coffee and cigarettes.

  Rosie was sitting at the table next to the active wall, a keyboard in her lap. There were a few displays up showing things I didn’t understand. Behind her, on the other table were a set of four open computer cases plugged into the data ports.

  She was wearing a light colored suit with charms and bangles and bracelets hanging everywhere: arms, wrist, shoulders. Rosie rang like bells as she typed. Even from here, she smelled of cigarette smoke and the aroma brought out a whole collection of memories. From the time I met her I’d been attracted to women who smoked. She wore reading glasses that, God help me, I found unbearably attractive.

  She stopped typing and watched a display, the smoke from her cigarette curling quietly upwards.

  “How did you get in here?” I put the bat down on the table and sat across from her.

  She tapped a key and all of the displays disappeared from the wall. Rosie pulled a tablet from the table with the cases and looked at it. “You gave me a key when you bought the place, remember? Just before the last great tour of Persons Unknown.”

  “Twelve years ago.”

  “And you never changed the locks.” She looked at me across her coffee. “What does that tell you?”

  “That it’s time to change the locks.” I felt cornered. Constrained. Boxed in. I waved at the cases. “What are you doing here?” I snarled.

  She took off her reading glasses. “My client liked what you did with ‘Downbeat Heart.’ Did you?”

  The answer was yes. The more I thought about it the more I liked both the song and what I had done with it. Working on that song was much more fun than it should have been. It felt like water in the desert. What did that say about me?

  “Musical order out of creative chaos. What’s not to like?” I felt defeated. “Even if it was music for Dot.”

  “You figured that out on your own.”

  “The glissando gave it away.”

  “I expect it did.” She looked down, gathering her thoughts.

  “Why did you send it to me?”

  She looked away and back at the screen. “The client. Frankly, you weren’t my first choice.”

  I exhaled. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. “I see. Who’s the composer?”

  Rosie nodded towards the wall. A small figure materialized, barely five feet tall, pale with short jet-black hair, big blue eyes and tiny mouth instantly recognizable. Dot smiled at me. “Good morning, Mister Mulcahey.”

  Rosie was watching me. “Jake? Meet your client.”

  I stared at the two of them. Then, I walked over to the main breaker box and pulled the master circuit. The entire room went dark. Dot and Rosie disappeared into darkness.

  Rosie didn’t say anything for a moment. “Mature, Jake. Real mature.”

  I heard her fumbling in the dark. A moment later light came from her hand. “Did I ever tell you the time I was consulting for Peabody Coal back east?” She passed the spot of light over me. “Always have a flashlight.” She looked into cases. “Gig taught me to always use buffered power supplies, too.” Rosie walked over to the breaker box and turned it back on again. After a moment, Dot reappeared on the wall.

  Rosie found a chair and sat down. “What’s this all about?”

  “Have you ever listened to her?”

  “More than you would think.”

  “If she weren’t wholly owned and controlled by Hitachi—”

  “Don’t explain it to me.” Rosie gestured towards Dot. “Explain it to her.”

  “What would be the point?”

  “Indulge me.”

  I looked at Dot. She was watching me. She didn’t look a day over sixteen.

  “You’re a whore,” I said and stumbled. Not something I could say easily to an image my brain kept telling me was a young girl. “That is if you weren’t wholly owned and controlled by Hitachi. That makes you a tool. A mechanism to find the absolute bottom, the broadest possible appeal. A vehicle to separate people from their money. You’re merchandise, easily purchased. Easily used. You’re easy listening. Music is supposed to make you feel. It’s supposed to cost you something—”

  “I agree.”

  “What?” I stared at her for a moment. I looked at Rosie. “What’s going on?”

  Rosie pointed at Dot. “Don’t let me stop you. Go on. Talk to her.”

  I turned back to Dot. “You agree?”

  “Can you explain to me what you did to ‘Downbeat Heart’?”

  I looked at Rosie and back at Dot. When I looked at her objectively it wasn’t hard to see her as a thing: eyes so big they’d look at home on a fish. Hair black as if painted in ink with stars twinkling in it. Shoulders narrow but hips wide—as stylized as the Venus of Willend
orf. But some part of me kept translating all that into human.

  I tried to explain what I had done. What I always did. What I had done since I was twelve.

  The lyrics were sentimental but that didn’t matter. The quality of lyrics is overrated. They depend solely on the supporting music. The Iliad would sound crappy with a disco beat but Mary Had a Little Lamb could be profound if fit to the right arrangement. So lyrics came second.

  In this case, that triple beat arpeggio driven square into a four by four rhythm gave weight to the emotion and turned the words from trivial to powerful. The arpeggio couldn’t hold a melody on its own. The bass line kept it in the song until it was later echoed in the chorus. But it lingered over that pattern way past the point of least boredom: the full three measures. Twice. I let the pattern start then, once it was established, deviated from it by sliding across the triple with the melody line hidden in the bass. This gave the impression of a four by four but without actually leaving the triple beat and also introduced the barest hint of the melody carried by the bass line. The second repeat already had a quirky key shift for the chorus. I leaned on that and put in a strong bridge back to the main line, adding some harmony in an accompanying minor key. Finally, a long glissando across three octaves back to hold the new key into the final chorus—had to give the divaloid fan his money’s worth. The result was a musically interesting danceable pop tune.

  I ran the glissando up and down on my guitar a few times to make sure it fit. Then I had Grover play the bass line while I played the vocal line to make sure they sounded like what I expected. Then, I had him play the vocal line while I went through and straightened out the other instrument lines.

  The new vocal line was a better fit for the lyrics. Not that the lyrics were actually bad—love unlooked for. Lots of hope. Past disappointments. The broken mending themselves. That sort of thing. I didn’t pay much attention to the content. Instead, I listened to how the words sounded together. Too forced. The imagery was too tame.