Copyright
Copyright © 2003 by Brian Thomsen and Tekno Books
All rights reserved.
WARNER BOOKS
Hachette Book Group
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Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: June 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56261-4
HOLIDAY CLASSICS OF OTHER WORLDS AND TIMES . . .
A YULETIDE UNIVERSE
“Nicholas Was” by Neil Gaiman: “Nicholas was older than sin and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.”
“Miracle” by Connie Willis: “I’m the Spirit of Christmas Present . . . not Christmas Present. Christmas Present—Barbie dolls, ugly ties, cheese logs . . .”
“Icicle Music” by Michael Bishop: Not all holiday memories are welcome ones—and neither are all ghosts of Christmas Past . . .
“A Kidnapped Santa Claus” by L. Frank Baum: “The Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy . . .”
“Santa Claus vs. S.P.I.D.E.R.” by Harlan Ellison: Kris Kringle is bringing peace and happiness to the world—even if that means he has to take out every politician in America to do it!
“How Santa Claus Came to Simpson’s Bar” by Bret Harte: “Bedraggled, ragged, unshaven, and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson’s Bar and fell fainting on the first threshold . . .”
“The Yattering and Jack” by Clive Barker: Deck the halls with demonic evil, falalalala lala lala . . .
. . . and many more.
Edited by Brian M. Thomsen
The American Fantasy Tradition
Shadows of Blue and Grey: The Civil War Writings of Ambrose Bierce
Oceans of Magic (with Martin H. Greenberg)
Anthologies available from Warner Aspect
Futures: Four Novels by Peter F. Hamilton, Stephen Baxter, Paul McAuley, and Ian McDonald
A Dragon-Lover’s Treasury of the Fantastic edited by Margaret Weis
A Quest-Lover’s Treasury of the Fantastic edited by Margaret Weis
For Arthur E. Thomsen, my father,
the man most responsible for this volume both directly and indirectly.
—BMT
Contents
Copyright
Santa Shorts
Nicholas Was . . .
Cyber-Claus
Holiday
Santa Substitututes
Nackles
Santa Claus vs. S.P.I.D.E.R.
O Come Little Children . . .
It’s a Wonderful Miracle on 34th Street’s Christmas Carol
Variations on the Holiday Theme
The Yattering and Jack
Icicle Music
Miracle
A Foreigner’s Christmas in China
Household Words; Or, The Powers-That-Be
Classic Tales of Christmas Science Fiction, Fantasy and Whimsy
A Kidnapped Santa Claus
How Santa Claus Came to Simpson’s Bar
A Proper Santa Claus
The Plot Against Santa Claus
And in Closing . . .
Editor’s Note
Copyrights and Permissions
About the Contributors
Yuletide Greetings!
* * *
Deck the Halls and stuff the stockings!
Relax and enjoy some holiday cheer.
Santa’s on board with disguises galore
It’s a Yuletide Universe time of year.
So trim the tree with tinsel fresh from Connie’s tinseltown memories
While Clive has your favorite goose cooked
’Tis the season to be jolly
Read on and have a dickens of a time.
—Brian Thomsen
Santa Shorts
As every kid knows, big things sometimes come in small packages. (Just ask any parent who has had to assemble a multi-part toy on Christmas Eve only to find that it was never going to fit back in the box it came out of.)
Likewise these short shorts.
The Gaiman originated as a Christmas card for Neil’s friends and acquaintances while the Gibson first appeared as a newspaper column.
No matter what the circumstances of their “nativity,” all three are wonderful literary stocking stuffers.
* * *
Nicholas Was . . .
Neil Gaiman
* * *
Older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.
The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.
Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time.
He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.
Ho.
Ho.
Ho.
Cyber-Claus
William Gibson
* * *
In the night of 12/24/07, though sensors woven through the very fabric of the house had thus far registered a complete absence of sentient bio-activity, I found myself abruptly summoned from a rare, genuine, and very expensively induced example of that most priceless of states, sleep.
Even as I hurriedly dressed, I knew that dozens of telepresent armed-response drones would already be sweeping in from the District, skimming mere inches above the chill surface of the Potomac. Vicious tri-lobed aeroforms that they were, they resembled nothing more than the Martian war machines of George Pal’s 1953 epic, The War of the Worlds.
And while, from somewhere far above, now, came that sound, that persistent clatter, as though gunships disgorged whole platoons of iron-shod mercenaries, I could only wonder: who? Was it my estranged wife, the Lady Betsy-Jayne Motel-6 Hyatt, Chief Eco-trustee of the Free Duchy of Wyoming? Or was it Cleatus “Mainframe” Sinyard himself, president of the United States and perpetual co-chairman of the Concerned Smart People’s Northern Hemisphere Co-prosperity Sphere?
“You’re mumbling again, big guy,” said Memory, shivering into hallucinatorily clear focus on the rumpled sheets, her thighs warm and golden against the Royal Stewart flannel. She adjusted the nosecones of her chrome bustier. “Also, you’re on the verge of a major fashion crime.”
I froze, the starched white tails of an Elmore of Shinjuku evening shirt, half-tucked into the waistband of a favorite pair of lovingly mended calfskin jodhpurs. She was right. Pearl buttons scattered like a flock of minuscule flying saucers as I tore myself out of the offending Elmore. I swiftly chose a classic Gap T-shirt and a Ralph Lauren overshirt in shotgun-distressed ochre corduroy. The Gap T’s double-knit liquid crystal began to cycle sluggishly in response to body-heat, displaying crudely animated loops of once-famous televangelists of the previous century, their pallid flanks streaked with the sweat of illicit sexual exertion. Now that literally everything was digital, History and Image were no more than Silly Putty in the hands of anyone with a BFA and a backer in Singapore. But that was just the nature of Postmodernity, and, frankly, it suited me right down to the ground.
“Visitors upstairs, chief,” she reminded me pointlessly, causing me to regret not having invested in that last chip-upgrade. “Like on the roof.”
“How many?” And this was Samsung-Sears’s idea of an expert system?
“Seventeen, assuming we’re talking bipeds.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That Ninte
ndo-Dow micropore sensor-skin you had ’em stretch over the RealistiSlate? After those Colombian bush ninjas from the Slunk Cartel tried to get in through the toilet-ventilators? Well, that stuff’s registering, like, hooves. Tiny ones. Unless this is some kinda major Jersey Devil infestation, I make it eight quadrupeds—plus one definite biped.”
“It can’t be Sinyard then.” I holstered a 3mm Honda and pocketed half a dozen spare ampules of gel. “He’d never come alone.”
“So maybe that’s the good news, but I gotta tell you, this guy weighs in at close to one-forty kilos. And wears size eleven-and-a-half boots. As an expert system, I’d advise you to use the Mossad & Wesson bullpup, the one with the subsonic witness-protection nozzles—” She broke off, as if listening to something only she could hear. “Uh-oh,” she said, “I think he’s coming down the chimney . . .”
Holiday
Richard Christian Matheson
* * *
It was sunset. The inn was settling into night and vacationers wandered up from the beach, tired and sunburned. It was very hot in Bermuda—like a desert with an azure sea seeping from one side.
The waiter brought my drink and I rested my feet on the patio wall overlooking the ocean. As the sea churned easily, wearily from its day, a man sat down next to me. His hair was white and there wasn’t much of it. His skin was fair, almost pink, cheeks sunburned and high. About sixty to seventy, I figured.
“Mind?” he asked, half-finished drink in hand.
“I could use the company.” He seemed harmless enough.
He settled down into the chaise, and together we watched the waves spreading over the sand and retreating. Birds with long, thin legs sprinted awkwardly over the sand and eventually lifted skyward.
“Flyin’s a hell of a thing,” he observed, after a long sip.
“I can’t do it,” I agreed, and he smiled.
“Where you from?” he asked, eyes sizing me.
“Los Angeles. Just down for some sun and free time.” A waiter in penguin-proper sidled over and the man ordered us another round.
“My treat,” he offered. “Makes me feel good.”
I nodded thanks as he winked paternally.
“What’s your name?” he asked, taking another swallow.
“Karl,” I answered, ready for trouble. The way I saw it, paternal winkers always made trouble for you one way or another.
“Pretty nice,” he appraised its sound. “Karl . . . yeah, pretty damn nice.”
“Thanks,” I said, growing less than fascinated with the exchange. I decided not to ask his name. Why wave the red cape.
“Say, Karl, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
No objection, so he went ahead.
“What did you get for Christmas last year?”
I swallowed a mouthful of ice after crushing it to bits.
“What?” I was starting to feel the liquor.
“For Christmas . . . what did you get?”
“You serious?” He was looking a bit sloshy himself, wiping his mouth with one hand, thoughtfully, drunkenly.
He gestured away my stinginess and I nodded unenthusiastically.
“Power saw from the wife, shirts and a record from the kids, binoculars from the folks, and a wine-making kit from the people in my department.” I tinkled the ice around in my glass. “Oh, and this magazine I subscribe to, Realtors Life, sent me a barometer with an escrow chart. Helps you figure percentages.”
The other round arrived and he paid the waiter. Tipped him good.
He sighed as he mumbled through my recitation of gifts. “What was the record?” he asked.
“Music from Hatari. Horrible stuff. Oboes imitating rhinos, you know?”
He nodded and swallowed half his new drink with a liquidy gobble. We didn’t say anything else for a few minutes. Some of the inn workers came by, and lit the tiki torches and we watched them. Bugs were flying around, drawn to the glow. We swatted one or two.
“I love it down here,” he said, voice blurry. “Just wish the hell I had the time to get away more often.”
He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. “But in distribution . . . who has time to vacation?”
How the hell did I know? I sold condos and houses and made deals for closing costs and termite inspections. Dullest stuff in the world. Distribution was for pamphlets dropped from helicopters, as far as I could tell.
“Yeah,” I answered, being polite. Why get a paternal winker mad if it could be avoided?
The sea was glowing from a butter-colored moon, and the man shifted in the chaise.
“How’d you like the power saw?” he asked.
“Not bad. Blades were pot metal, though. Break like icicles.” Nosy guy.
“Yeah, I know the one.” He reached a hand out to mine. We were both woozy. “I like you,” he said. Drunks always said that, in my experience.
“I like you, too,” I said. “But I didn’t catch the name.” When they stick their hands out, you have to ask.
He winked at me as our hands met, under that butter-moon.
“Santa,” he whispered, leaning in close, breath like a scythe.
I looked at him with a half-smile.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Santa,” he repeated, nodding happily.
“As in Claus?”
“Well, of course. What else?”
I tried to not look any different. Why upset him?
“Sorry,” I said.
He pulled back and yawned.
“Yeah, well . . . anyhow, I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning. Have to get back to my place up north. Me and the wife have tons of work.” He laughed a little; a tiny, drunken, aren’t-things-ironic laugh. “Christ, it’s already bloody May. Practically no time to do anything. Glad we had a chance to shoot the breeze, though.”
He stretched and yawned again, spilling some of his drink onto the patio where just he and I sat, the warm breezes blowing.
“Oh,” I said, watching him from the corner of my eye. The insane look different, my father once told me. Just look closely and you can see it.
“Anyhow, you have a nice trip back to . . .”
“Los Angeles,” I reminded him, finishing off my drink.
“Right,” he nodded. “Say, care for another drink? I can have the waiter get you another . . . just say the word.”
I declined the offer. Don’t get indebted to nuts. Another piece of advice. That one from my mother.
He turned to go.
“Hey, by the way, Karl . . .”
Yes, Santa? I couldn’t bring the words to my mouth.
“Yes?” I said.
“Sorry about all that junk you got. I just can’t seem to get those little bastards of mine to turn out any decent work. But I’ll try and drop off something this year you’ll like.”
I must have smirked.
“Need an address?” I asked. I was smirking for sure.
He stopped dead in his tracks, looking hurt.
“Address? You putting me on?” His eyes were still twinkling, but they looked a little miffed. “I’m Santa Claus. I know where you live.”
He stared at me and I stared back. Hard to know what to say at a moment like that.
“Tell me something,” I said. “How come when I was eight, you didn’t bring me that autographed picture of Joe DiMaggio I asked for? I wrote to you and everything.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Well, sometimes it doesn’t go the way I’d like,” he managed, looking away in what seemed like troubled thought.
“Oh,” I said, “sorry. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
He nodded, seeming to accept the apology, though obviously put off. I suddenly felt awful.
“Forget it,” he said quietly. “It’s not your fault. I probably shouldn’t be so candid about things.”
His voice sounded vulnerable and a little sad.
“The wife keeps telling me to keep my big mouth closed. People just don’t like to hear about what I d
o for a living.” He shrugged. “Scares them or something . . . I don’t completely understand it myself.”
I looked into his moist, open eyes.
“How come no beard?” I asked.
He rubbed at his cheeks with a rough hand.
“Shave it off when I come down here. Only way to get any decent sun. But I get a burn every damn time.”
As I watched him from the corner of my eye, he sighed and grabbed at his fat stomach, tucking his shirt in. “Gotta lose some weight . . . you don’t know any good diets do you? But no fad things . . . something that’ll work.”
I shook my head no, feeling kind of sorry for him. Nuts, but sweet, I figured.
“Hey, sure you don’t want to stay for another round?” I asked. No harm in my asking, I thought.
He smiled, glad we were getting along again.
“Nah . . . I should get back and get some sleep. Leaving in the morning, Karl.”
I stood up to see him off.
“Well, nice meeting you, Santa.”
That time it felt good.
“Same here, Karl,” he said. “And like I said before, don’t worry about this year.” He winked at me, “I’ll see to it you get something really nice; something you’ll like.”
I looked at him and smiled. “Thanks.”
“Don’t stay out too late, Karl,” he said, and in a couple of seconds he was gone, tottering back to his room.
Well, I sat out there until midnight and thought a lot about Santa. His twinkling eyes and his fat stomach and his thin silver hair.
He sure did look like Santa Claus.
But, I mean really, truthfully, honestly, what was I supposed to think?
The man was clearly on a permanent holiday upstairs. No dial tone.
So, for another twenty minutes or so I watched the black Caribbean hissing over coral and finished off another drink.
Somehow, I finally made it back to my bungalow and thought for a little while in the dark. Sure, Santa Claus had looked like Santa Claus. But if looks were all it took, a lot of people could be a lot of people they weren’t. The world would be crazy. Out of control.
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