The Mammoth Book Of Science Fiction

by Mike Ashley (Editor)

  The wife rose and said, “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Sure,” said her husband. “Go on.”

  The boy watched her disappear into a tiny room, the door shut and locked. Then her husband told their projections, “Go on back. First room on the right.”

  The projections giggled and began to walk arm-in-arm.

  “And don’t wait for us!”

  The man had a coarse laugh, almost embarrassing to hear.

  Mr Yates sat motionless. He stared at his desk and the cup, even after the husband asked, “How busy are you?”

  The boy said, “We’ve been rather busy,” to fill the silence.

  He was thinking about the women. He imagined them naked, and he couldn’t help but hold his breath, imagining how they would feel and what the younger one must be doing now. That room’s door had been left open; he wished he could see around the corner. He thought he heard little gasps, and for an instant, no longer, he saw the smooth teasing shape of a bare leg, shaved and shining under the fluorescent lights.

  The husband stared at him. After a moment he laughed, asking, “Hey, why don’t you join us? You don’t look busy now.”

  The boy blinked and shuddered.

  The man turned. “What do you think, Yates? Let the boy have some fun for a change, why don’t you?”

  Mr Yates narrowed his eyes, perplexed and then astonished by the request. Then with a quiet, scalding voice, he said, “Shut up.”

  The woman emerged from the bathroom, water running behind her.

  “Hey, it’s a joke, for Christ’s sake.” The man shook his head, telling everyone, “Just a joke.”

  “What did you say?” asked his wife.

  “Just get on with it,” said Mr Yates. “You’re on the clock.”

  The wife looked at the boy, somehow understanding. Then she informed her husband, “You’re sick –”

  “A stupid joke!”

  The boy said nothing.

  The husband asked, “How long’s it been, kid?”

  “Shut up!”

  The shout startled everyone, including Mr Yates. He had shouted, almost rising from behind his desk. His face was full of blood and emotion, dark eyes glaring, big hands closed into fists.

  “Hey, all right,” said the husband. “Sorry.”

  Mr Yates said nothing else.

  The boy felt embarrassed for him, and saddened.

  “Come on,” coaxed the wife. “Let’s get this over with . . .”

  And the husband, following her to the makeshift bedroom, said, “ ‘Let’s get this over with’? What kind of attitude is that? Christ Almighty, what’s the matter with you?”

  More liquor was poured into the cup, then Yates placed the bottle back into its deep drawer. “You need to get up front,” said the thick voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man rose, using his arms to steady himself. The boy thought to sniff at the air, searching for the tell-tale stink of alcohol. Yet he couldn’t decide what he was smelling, if anything. How odd.

  Mr Yates opened the door.

  “I hope business stays good,” the boy said gamely.

  The door swung shut, and from behind it came a bitter, “Yeah, right.” All the emotion and life were wrung out of that tired voice.

  The boy walked across the sunny room, pausing at a window. Outside, waiting patiently beside the street, was the first Mr Bennett. It had been a little longer than an hour, the boy realized. He saw the glistening of fictional sweat and the strong quick breaths following great exertion. He admired the vibrancy of the figure, the day obviously uncomfortable . . . and he felt a momentary ache, wondering about the real Mr Bennett struggling through such awful weather . . .

  A second figure arrived a few minutes later, speaking to the first one while gasping. What was he saying? Both examined their watches, then they shook each other’s hands, congratulating themselves.

  A third image appeared a little later. The oldest of the projections – Mr Bennett when he was sixty – showed up next, badly winded but otherwise strong. He removed his shirt and wiped himself, sweat continuing to pour out of him. Again the figures congratulated each other, shaking hands, rubbing the oldest man’s bright gray hair.

  The pudgy Mr Bennett walked the last blocks, on the verge of collapse. Two others shuffled toward him and took him under the arms, light lifting light, and the boy saw the alarming whiteness of the fat puffy face and the trembling of the weak legs.

  Where was the real Mr Bennett?

  He worried, feeling responsible for some part of this game. What if something had gone wrong? He activated the intercom with a wave of his hand, saying, “There might be a problem. Sir?”

  There was no response. Not even a grunt.

  The boy turned and started for the workshop. Only he couldn’t bring himself to push at the door, standing back from it with both hands raised; and it burst open, the red-faced owner asking him, “What’s the matter? What happened?”

  The boy turned and saw no one beside the street. “They were there,” he began. “Where did they go?”

  “They’ve extinguished!”

  Could they have? He looked again, recalling that “extinguished” meant two possibilities. The electronics had been dislodged from Mr. Bennett, or he was dead. Mere unconsciousness didn’t extinguish projections. But if they had extinguished, he thought, shouldn’t the holo projectors be floating in the bright sunshine?

  Mr Yates ran as if for the first time in years, charging outdoors. Too late the boy thought to follow him. The door had swung closed . . . and besides, shouldn’t someone remain here? In case of a phone call . . .

  Mr Yates stopped at the street, hands shielding his eyes from the glare. After a moment he cupped the hands around his mouth and shouted at someone or something, hands muddying the words.

  A cluster of Mr Bennetts walked into view. Mr Yates kept shouting at them. Even when they were close, he roared, panic mixed with rage. “What the fuck were you thinking? At your age! In this goddamn furnace! You die and your family sues me blind . . . damn you, you bastard . . .”

  The real Mr Bennett was surrounded by projections.

  Mr Yates opened the door, letting everyone inside. “Idiot. Trying to kill yourself –!”

  “I got tired and walked,” said the old man, his voice firm and angry. He wiped his face with his shirt, saying with some dignity, “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

  “Crazy shit!”

  “No,” said the old man, “I’m not the crazy one here.”

  Nobody spoke for a long moment.

  Then the boy said, “It was nice of you to go back and find him.”

  He meant the projections. They nodded simultaneously, with identical motions; and the fastest one said, “It was my idea.”

  The two men scarcely noticed the conversation. They were staring at the floor beneath each other’s feet, faces working, both of them wrestling with their tempers and conflicting emotions.

  Finally Mr Bennett reached for his sweatband, removing it and the silvery band beneath it.

  “Sorry to worry you,” he told Mr Yates.

  The projections softened and vanished without complaint.

  “I wasn’t trying to worry anyone,” the old man promised.

  “But you did.” Mr Yates rocked on his feet, his balance uneven. He looked very much like a man drunk and accustomed to being drunk. The boy knew the symptoms, having seen them in his father.

  “Go home,” Mr Yates growled.

  The holo projectors were floating head-high, humming softly.

  Mr Bennett nodded and said, “All right.” He set the metal band on the glass countertop, then looked at the boy for a long moment. He was shaking his head, ready to say something. But instead he merely turned and went outdoors, waving his hands in the air as if trying to brush away tensions and anything else that he might remember.

  Mr Yates started for the workshop, and the boy slipped after him. He was through the door before i
t closed, and the man turned, surprised and then angry. But he couldn’t speak before the boy told him, “He’s an important customer. You can’t lose him. I’m sorry, sir, but you’re making an awful mistake”.

  “Shut up.” Mr Yates lifted a hand, closing it and opening it, then putting it down again. “Just shut up.”

  “Sir,” said the boy, “I know I shouldn’t say anything. But I just think if you –”

  “Had a better attitude? Tried to be optimistic and friendly?” He glared at his employee with an intense, indecipherable expression. Both hands lifted, and he laid them on his face, pulling hard while making a low harsh sobbing noise that seemed to linger. “You don’t know anything about me. What do you know?”

  He was right. The man was a virtual stranger.

  “The neighborhood slides, but you wait. You keep thinking it’s going to turn around, but then it’s too late and you can’t afford to pull out and start again. And the business keeps drying up. Year after year.”

  The boy didn’t speak or move.

  “There’s the chains. House of Self. Mirror, Inc. Fancy places with their fancy mannequins . . . costing fortunes, but they get by through volume. They’ve got all the whistles and bells.”

  Yates retreated to his desk and broke the seal on a fresh bottle, halfway filling his coffee cup while the boy lingered nearby. He watched the man drinking, twin rivulets of liquor running down his chin; then he wiped his face with a hand and wiped the hand against his shirt, saying, “You don’t know shit. I’ve lost bigger clients than old Bennett. A whole lot bigger. Don’t ever, ever tell me what’s important.”

  The boy made a low sound.

  “Anyway, Bennett’ll be back. Next year, like clock-work.” Yates forced a laugh, saying, “If he doesn’t blow an artery first . . .”

  “Maybe this isn’t a good location,” the boy allowed, “but if you were to clean up around here –”

  “– And clean myself up too? And act optimistic? Like you?” The man didn’t quite look at the boy’s face, glaring at a point directly beside it. “That’s what you were going to say.”

  He did seem to be reading the boy’s thoughts, yes, and the boy felt naive and foolish. And young. Just eighteen, he reminded himself.

  There was a noise from the tiny back room. He had forgotten the other clients . . .

  Mr Yates poured another drink.

  “Success,” said the boy, “takes sacrifice and discipline.”

  Laughing, Mr Yates shook his head. His silver band glittered under the fluorescent lights. “So that’s the secret, huh?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “I never get tired of you, kid.”

  What did he mean?

  “You’re bright, and you’ll go far. Believe me.”

  Why did the words bother him so much?

  “You sure will go places.” Mr. Yates nodded and turned away, drinking and then setting the cup down. It nearly tipped and spilled. “A smart kid, and popular at school. I bet you’re saving for college. Getting ready to conquer the world and all that . . .”

  “Sir?”

  The man was staring at the banks of machinery.

  “Sir? I’m glad that you’ve given me this chance. And I certainly wish you well in the future. I do.” He paused, then said, “But I think it would be best if I left. If I resigned. I hope this won’t be too much of an inconvenience for you.”

  The man was laughing, then the laugh broke down into hard coughs.

  “I’m very sorry.” The boy turned and walked down the hallway, stopping at the swinging door. He lifted a hand and made himself push, using all of his strength. The door refused to move. He thought he could feel the worn slick wood under his fingers. It was locked, he decided. Who locked it? He turned and started to say, “Could you please –?”

  Mr Yates was touching the silver band on his head, a syrupy voice asking, “Who the hell is going to work as cheap as you?”

  “Sir?”

  “But hey,” said the man, “if you’ve got to quit . . .”

  The boy shivered, unable to understand why. He felt perspiration on his face, cold and salty; and like Mr Yates, he wiped his face with a hand and then dried the hand on his shirt . . . watching the man pull at the band . . . thinking what . . . what . . . ?

  The owner, a gruff sloppy-voiced man named Mr Yates, took him into a small back room and had him sit on a small bed. He believed he could feel the bed. He believed he was a new employee. Mr Yates plugged a digital into a little television. “Now watch,” he grumbled. Mr Yates was in the digital – a younger version of him – and he spoke to the long-ago camera, showing less weight and more hair and acting quite different. Not so gruff, certainly. And his voice was smoother, dressed up in a steady, almost gentle smile.

  The boy was to work the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. There might be customers after dark, Mr Yates promised. Customers who would use this room. The flesh-and-blood man said, “Remind me to change the sheets. It smells like a whorehouse in here.”

  “I don’t smell anything,” the boy interjected.

  Mr Yates stared at the young man on the screen.

  “I could change these sheets, sir.”

  “I doubt it.” He shook his head. “No, just go up front. Greet people and set up accounts, then help me if I need you. Soon as you get through this introductory crap.”

  Which seemed familiar, the boy thought.

  Mr Yates left; the digital quit. The boy walked out into the workshop, finding the owner drinking from a coffee cup. “I’m ready to begin, sir.”

  The man nodded and rose to his feet. For an instant it looked as if he would fall. Should I catch him? thought the boy. Is he ill?

  Yet Mr Yates managed to open the swinging door for him – a nice gesture – and he left the boy in charge of the counter, already trusting him. Taking his station, the boy was alert and eager, watching the sporadic traffic and the glare of the lowering sun. What was the date? For a moment he couldn’t recall, then he found it displayed on the register. It was Spring, he realized. Yet it appeared quite hot outside . . . and for a moment he was trying to recall coming here. Did he drive here? He couldn’t remember being outdoors, yet he must have been and he just wasn’t thinking . . . probably nervous, what with the new job . . . and the questions dissolved away, leaving him with a slight sense of unease.

  Eventually an old flitter turned into the parking lot, two figures emerging from the driver’s side. It was a woman and a little girl, the girl wearing a summery dress. She was a projection, he realized. A very good image, sharp and colorful. The woman held the door for her younger self, and the girl skipped into the room, giggling and saying, “Hello, there. We just came from the park.”

  “You did?”

  “And had a wonderful time,” said the woman.

  “Yes, yes! We did!”

  “I held the ice cream cone for her,” the woman reported. “She said it tasted like vanilla –”

  “It was good.”

  “– but of course she wasn’t really licking it.”

  “Yes, I did,” the girl protested.

  “Yes, you did,” said the woman. “I’m teasing, dear.”

  “I’m glad you had a good time,” the boy told them. He began to search for the account, the keyboard responding to his opaque fingertips. “We want everyone to enjoy themselves. Absolutely.”

  “Well, thank you,” said the woman. “For helping to convince me –”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “You know, you are a nice person. All day long I kept thinking that really you’re . . . well, a lovely young man. I can tell.”

  “Ma’am?”

  The woman blinked, aware that something was wrong.

  “I just started working here,” the boy explained. “Are you confusing me with another clerk?”

  “Perhaps.” She nodded, becoming amused and then curious. Then she asked, “Where is Mr Yates?”

  “In the back. Shall I call
him?”

  “No, I’ll find him.” She glanced at the girl, asking, “Can you stay with this nice young man? For a minute?”

  “Hurry back,” the girl implored.

  “Oh, I will.”

  The boy and girl spoke for a few moments. The girl described the park – a lagoon sprinkled with toy boats; a flower garden with the “hugest” flowers she’d ever seen. Then the woman, Susan Markle, returned and looked at them for a long interval, finally saying, “Will you follow me, please? Something is wrong.”

  The owner had fallen asleep with his face down on the desktop. He had spilled coffee, papers soaked and darkened; and he snored with a calm, wet sound.

  “The poor man,” the woman said, sounding sad and a little angry.

  The boy was embarrassed for Mr Yates.

  Ms Markle sighed and asked, “Do you know me at all?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “We’ve never met?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Mr Yates is a good friend of mine,” she assured him. “A close friend. Do you know how to use this equipment?”

  He had just learned, he explained. But he felt confident.

  “Because this is what we’ll do.” Her face smiled, and her little hands fondled the silver bands both her and Yates were wearing. “I know how it is to have a lousy day.”

  She was speaking to Mr Yates.

  “You’re not so awful,” she told him, “and you can’t fool me.”

  The little girl played with her new friend – a nine year-old version of the owner – chasing him through the workshop and the back rooms. Ms Markle had turned the CLOSED sign on the front door, locking it. She said it was all right. Mr Yates would approve, and besides, how could he work in his current condition?

  The boy had done most of the work himself. Ms Markle had volunteered to position the holo projectors, but setting parameters was his job. The nine year-old boy was easy. (A good thing the man was already wearing the electronics.) The teenage version of Ms Markle was second. She was a slender girl, almost pretty. Why she was needed the boy didn’t understand, but Ms. Markle asked him to speak with her, to keep her company. And they discovered common ground, exchanging school stories and the like. The boy admitted that he wanted to open his own place someday; it was a booming technology full of potential. He found himself boasting about his merits – his optimism and drive – and the young Ms Markle never made a negative sound. She didn’t even tease him. Nodding, she seemed to absorb everything he said; and sometimes, for moments, it was as if she was a real person. He forgot her origin, some part of him accepting her as a new friend.