Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

by Bill Fawcett

  I know this is no place to spill my secrets, but with the two people I care about most both in suspended animation, I have no other place to . . . to . . . to what? Rend my heart? Is that emotion even allowed for one in my station?

  Hayward would know. Or Z. But I am no Même. Communication at this juncture would violate protocol.

  Oh, to be able to steal away in some corner of this vessel and . . . touch our lips? A tiny taste is all I’d want. Something to tide me over. Not that you would settle for that, would you? And yet you settled for this bargain. After all these dreary months, I understand what you meant when you said it would be an uncertain hell for me, having you so close and yet so unreachable. But, my dear sweet one, I sustain myself with the vision of the two us . . . more equal? Is that what I desired or was that you? I don’t really remember. Did it matter that much, our age differences?

  Oh, that the Fates could have dealt us a hand like the young lovers. Like Tynan and Threeve. Only you and I will never know the same celebration of their love for we can never yield a child like they are—

  A hot poker couldn’t have burned my hand with any more intensity as I flipped the book away.

  A child? A baby?

  That night as we cuddled together in his bunk, Tynan planted kisses to the palm of my hands again with such a winsome smile. I wanted to bury myself in the folds of him. “My darling,” he whispered like a man drunk on spirits. “My sweet, dear love.”

  And I tried to feel worthy of such unfettered affection.

  Once we had been so close the Admiral felt our electricity. Where had it gone? And why? Because I’d lost our baby?

  It was insane, I know, but I had to unscramble all of these puzzle pieces.

  I left his bunk and walked, stopping at Hayward’s tube.. Tonight, I couldn’t conjure up my china teapot swirling with a warmth of ginger and lemon balm. I wasn’t seeking calm. I needed answers he had withheld from me.

  And . . . I yearned to touch my friend.

  Only I couldn’t wake him.

  Momentarily laying my hand on the edge of Cooney’s tube on my way out, I heard her call. “Mary? Is it you? Have you finally—”

  I waited for her to continue, but it was as if she were clearing her throat and her mind at the same time. Tossing a blanket over her mind to shield herself.

  “Don’t stop,” I said. When she didn’t immediately respond, I slammed my fists atop her tube. “Dammit! Answer me. Why did you think I was Mary? Who is she?”

  She shifted into her haughty military voice. “Sit down, and for once, let me tell you a story.”

  And I slid into the slingseat.

  “Once a time ago, our Earthly ships carried soldiers and weapons to battle the Os for their source of energy. But the men and women who fought those wars had no idea of the cost. Heaven knows there were enough people then. Too many, in fact, so if a few died, well . . . there were plenty more where they came from.

  “Engineers and scientists thought they’d bested the beast known as deep space travel. Oh, sure there were a few glitches here and there, but on the whole they’d slap a piece of chewed gum here and there and pray nothing really bad happened.

  “Only it did.

  “The cognitive capabilities of those soldiers-in- stasis couldn’t be brought back to fully functional levels. Oh, their bodies worked, but their minds had been wiped clean of years and years of training and experience. They were the walking dead. Zombies. Real ones.

  “But desperate men are not above desperate actions, so the government latched on to the easiest solution they could find. There was this trendy pro cess, initially rejected by the government, but whole-hog embraced by the wealthy. Brain transfers. Human brains—complete with memories and personalities—could be successfully scanned, uploaded into storage pods, and then downloaded into a host body with few physical or mental complications. The rich had their loved ones resurrected for as short as a holiday or special occasion like a birthday or wedding, or as long as several months or even years. Naturally, the exorbitant fees varied according to duration or need or whim, but the wealthy had noras. Lots and lots of noras. But when the dwindling energy sources took a dive- bomb hit on the economy, those left with any means at all simply moved on to other less flagrant frivolities.

  “Then the EuropeanUnion’s coffers ran dry just like the NAU’s. All due to energy exploration fiascos and that stupid, stupid war with the Os they never fought to win. And why?

  “Energy.

  “And just when it looked as though the government couldn’t possibly beat their heads to bloody pulps against their lowest- bid walls any longer, a major breakthrough in brain-wave research and chemically induced hypothermia occurred.

  “Well, fire up the booster rockets and load the payload bays!

  “But no, not yet. Before deep space voyages could be tackled again there was one more stumbling block requiring tweaking. An additional sense won solid scientific recognition, and yet proved the nastiest little bugger for successful stasis. No machine could adequately stimulate it, which seems ironic when you think about it.”

  The Admiral’s words flitted through my mind. “Imagination,” I said.

  “Bingo.”

  “And that’s what a Même really does,” I added. “She stimulates the imagination, but uses facts.”

  “Twists them sometimes even. Especially with difficult Tubers,” she said.

  For the first time, my fingers felt warm against her tube, and it yanked me back to the reason I’d crept here in the first place. “Commander Cooney, I—”

  “Call me Z.”

  Z. The Admiral’s friend. I should have put that together at once.

  “This hasn’t worked out very well for you, has it?”

  I didn’t know exactly what she meant.

  “I understand your accident was pretty bad. And even now things aren’t working out like they wanted.”

  “They?”

  “Yeah, the lowest bidders.”

  And while I sat there, Z told me another story. One about impossible choices.

  And the Man in the Moon, sighed The Raggedy Man, Gits!

  So! Sullonsome, you know, Up there by hisse’ f sence creation began! That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me, and holds me and begs me to stay!

  I thumbed through as many books in the Admiral’s library as I could, searching to verify Z’s story. What I found were remembrances of a cabin deep in the woods. Snow so deep and cold, the Admiral noted how their crunching boots echoed empty and forlorn. How it seemed impossible to taste the ginger and lemon balm tea steeped in the six-cup Sheltonian wild violet bone china teapot. And how the crackling fire blushed their skins as they made love one last time before the Domum Ignes would take them far away to a distant place. One lover asleep for the years it would take them to reach the Gates of Johanna; the other aging naturally, which, if they had calculated correctly, would find them at nearly the same age on arrival.

  Sharpening my pencil—using both holes in the orange sharpener, first for the wood, then for the graphite—I poised its long point against the book to begin fixing the pieces of the puzzle together, hoping that in writing it down, I might understand.

  Several months ago, an explosion ripped through part of the galley, severely injuring the Admiral and Threeve. The ship’s doctor and Tynan were left with a conundrum best left to the wisdom of Solomon. The Admiral had incurred irreparable damage to the back and chest, while Threeve suffered severe head trauma. Three days later, the Fates skulked away into the unknown with a spontaneously aborted fetus and his mother who never woke from her coma.

  And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her “Dream.”

  Yes, you see, don’t you? You’ve already read between the lines of these words scratched between the lines of a poet’s mirthful musing.

  Though the Admiral’s brain was downloaded into a Même’s, it wasn’t exactly a success.

  Maybe somewhere, in one of the
lobes, Threeve’s and Admiral Mary’s extraordinarily gifted minds battle it out near their own gates to the future.

  Hayward has yet to slip and call me Mary, but like my friend Z, he knows. Our minds connect daily.

  I do wonder how it must feel for him when I utter the words “Raggedy Man,” because in those niggling moments, I taste the name Mary had whispered into his ear so affectionately. When the snow was outside and two lovers were cozy in.

  It’s easier to curl up beside Tynan now, because I understand what he has endured and yet stands to gain or lose should this conflicted mind remember wholly— I nearly wrote “who I am,” but at this point, who do I root for, Threeve or Mary?

  Yet there is that itch again. As though I could be . . .

  Hoosier writer Judi Rohrig’s own affection for pencils began when all she could do was sniff the wood and nibble on the easer. Later, she scribbled little stories about cowboys and spies. Even later, she penned essays, interviews, newspaper columns, and news while continuing to jot down more twisted tales (but fictional, totally fictional!). Those writings found publication in Masques V, Furry Fantastic, Pandora’s Closet, Spells of the City, Extremes V, Dreaming of Angels, Personal Demons, On Writing Horror, Mystery Scene, and Cemetery Dance. Her short story “Still Crazy After All These Years” has been chosen for All American Horror: Best of the 21st Century, First Decade. The Horror Writers Association honored her with the 2004 Bram Stoker Award for Nonfiction for Hellnotes. Rohrig welcomes friends to her Facebook home at www.facebook.com/judi.rohrig and her blog at www.judirohrig.blogspot.com.

  In the Shadow of the Gate

  WILLIAM C. DIETZ

  There can only be one ending for the book The Shadow of the Torturer, and that is the one Gene Wolfe wrote. But for many years fans have wondered what took place in the brief interval between the end of Shadow and the beginning of The Claw of the Conciliator. Here’s one possibility.

  On Gene Wolfe: I haven’t had the good fortune to meet Gene Wolfe in person, so I only know him through his work. The Claw of the Conciliator was the first Gene Wolfe novel I read. I remember buying it back in the 1980s, based mainly on the cover art. It was only after I got it home and began to read that I realized I was holding something special. So special that I remember describing scenes to my wife, who, being used to such diatribes, nodded and said, “Yes, dear.”

  That was an important time for me because it was during the lead- up to writing my first book (in 1984) and a time when I was paying special attention to the craft of writing. The Claw of the Conciliator hooked me, and I’m still hooked, so it’s a thrill to write a preface to one of my favorite stories.

  Seen from a distance, the wall looked like a snake. A black serpent that squirmed across the land dipping here, rising there, to eventually swallow its own tail somewhere on the far side of Nessus. Most people supposed that the wall had been built to keep people out. Hethor, who had seen such structures on other worlds, knew some were built to keep things in.

  Eventually, as the group got closer, the barrier became a black cliff. A wall so high the top of it was partially obscured by clouds. It was an awesome construct. Or would have seemed so had it not been for the fact that Hethor had seen cities that floated on air, oceans with the capacity to think, and rocks that could sing.

  As the theatrical troupe neared the wall, Dr. Talos was in the lead, along with a beautiful actress named Jolenta, a carnifex named Severian, and a woman named Dorcas. The giant Baldanders followed behind, pushing a huge barrow loaded with props. And finally, in the most humble position of all, was Hethor.

  But contrary to what the others believed, that was the place Hethor preferred, a position from which he could watch without being observed. And, as the troupe joined the stream of traffic that led toward the gate, Hethor took a particular interest in their backs. Especially the executioner’s back. Because it was his job to kill the giver of death. Not to please himself, but on behalf of a woman named Agia. It seemed that Severian had been required to execute her twin brother, and she was after revenge.

  Plus there was the matter of the item contained within the headsman’s sabretache. Something Agia referred to as “a sentimental trinket,” but Hethor suspected was of considerable value, and might mean more to his client than revenging her brother’s death. Ultimately, once the object was cupped in Hethor’s hand, it was he who would decide its fate.

  The role of assassin was beneath him—or had been until recently. Now, having been forced to leave his ship without permission, he was on the surface of a backward planet without the means to support himself. So he had agreed to murder Severian. But how? It was no small thing to kill a professional killer. But if Hethor was to collect the second half of his fee, he would have to find a way. Perhaps the greatest problem was not the man so much as the weapon he carried. A beautiful sword called Terminus Est. By quickening his pace Hethor was able to draw even with Severian. “I will carry your sword, Master.”

  The carnifex turned to frown at him. He had a straight nose, sunken cheeks, and dark hair. He was dressed in a long cloak the color of which was fuligin, a black so black its folds were rendered invisible. “No. Not now or ever.”

  Hector looked down to his dusty boots. “I feel pity for you, Master, seeing you walk with it on your shoulder so. It must be very heavy.”

  Severian’s expression softened. “Thank you, but no, it isn’t as heavy as you might think.”

  Hethor was about to respond when the group rounded the side of a hill and Piteous Gate appeared in the distance. The road led straight to it and was crowded with people, animal-drawn carts, and heavily laden wagons. And that was enough to rouse Dr. Talos. He was a small man with fiery red hair and a quantity of gold teeth. Having seen the wall, and apparently inspired by it, he began to lecture those around him. All of which was quite boring insofar as Hethor was concerned. As for the sword, well, Severian was human. And humans must sleep.

  At that point a man named Jonas appeared. He was mounted on a merychip and spoke to Severian. Hethor knew Jonas, and fell back lest he be recognized. And for that reason he was unable to hear what the men said.

  Fortunately, once the conversation was over, Dr. Talos spoke to Jolenta, and Hethor was close enough to hear. “I think the angel of agony there, and your understudy, will remain with us awhile longer.”

  Hethor took that to mean that instead of returning to the center of Nessus as originally planned, Severian was going to pass through the gate with the rest of them. Hethor felt a stab of fear. He understood the gate better than his companions did. Here was a world without a port . . . a place so backward that it was listed as “primitive” on the charts. Still, it hadn’t always been so. And one didn’t need to look far to find ancient devices still in use. Were the gate’s detectors in working order? Or had they, like so many things on the planet, been allowed to fail? His life could depend on the answer.

  They were very close to the wall by then—and Piteous Gate was straight ahead. Looking into it was like looking into the entrance of a well-lit mine because the wall was extremely thick and honeycombed with corridors, rooms, galleries, hallways, chambers, and chapels. And one could expect those spaces to be thickly populated with men, women, and creatures that possessed features belonging to both. Hethor heard Severian ask about them.

  “They’re soldiers,” Dr. Talos answered. “The Pandours of the Autarch.”

  And there was more, but as Dr. Talos spoke, the man named Jonas guided his merychip in close, forcing Hethor to fall back once again. Should he turn back? And look for other employment? Or follow Severian into the tunnel-like maw? After a moment’s hesitation, the would-be assassin chose option two. The one that would line his pockets with money and, depending on what lay hidden within Severian’s sabretache, could provide him with something of even greater value.

  It was, as Hethor quickly discovered, the wrong decision.

  There was a commotion up ahead as some members of the throng attempted to turn back.
That frightened others, including a Waggoner, who was headed south. The man’s lash flew, the metal tip kissed Dorcas’s cheek, and she uttered a cry of pain. Severian went after the lout. Having been jerked from his seat, the Waggoner fell to the ground, where he was crushed by a succession of heavy wheels.

  No sooner had that horror been realized than Hethor saw the reason for the stampede. At least a dozen beast men were charging straight at him! They had horns, and as one of them opened its mouth Hethor saw teeth that looked like nails and hooks.

  Hethor turned to run, but the beasts were on him in a matter of seconds and quickly bore him away. Hethor struggled and called for help, but to no avail. A door opened and slammed behind them.

  Inside, one wall of the chamber was taken up with windows that looked out onto the chaos outside. A sad-looking collection of what Hethor supposed to be pickpockets, bandits, and other criminals lined another. Most of the dejected prisoners were seated on the floor under the watchful gaze of a horned guard. It was a holding room, then, a place where those who had been sifted out of the passing crowd could be held until soldiers came to fetch them.

  That was when a stern-looking man entered. He wore a tonsure, signifying his rank, and a robe so long that it brushed the floor. The man gave orders in a language that consisted of grunts and growls. The beast men put Hethor down and searched him . . . and there was plenty to find beneath the loose-fitting clothes. A pair of brass knuckles clattered to the floor, quickly followed by a double-edged dagger, two mirrors made of shiny metal, a copper vial that was filled with poison, a square of folded cloth, a crust of moldy bread, and matches in a brass box. One of the beast men uttered a grunt, and the human nodded.

  “Well done. My name is Savek. And you are?”

  “H-H- Hethor.”

  “Well, Hethor, you were brought here because you carry proscribed materials.”

  “Everyone h-h-has a right to defend themselves,” Hethor replied. “And I use the knife to slice bread.”