Praise for Daryl Gregory’s Unpossible:
"Unpossible is Gregory’s first collection. The stories are all quite short, with no time wasted on lumpy exposition or treacly morals, but each one carries all the grim weight and peculiar beauty of his novels, simmered down to a deceptively sweet syrup that goes down easy and then twists in your guts. They poke at complex, difficult notions, not so much trying to answer questions as trying to figure out how to begin asking them ... These are not comfortable stories, which is a good part of what makes them worth reading."
—Publisher’s Weekly
"Daryl Gregory has emerged as one of the most consistently interesting and yet least predicatable writers of the last decade ... A writer of startling depth and sensitivity, whose understanding of the delicate machinations of the heart trumps his need for superheroes, or even for neurology."
—Gary K. Wolfe, Locus
"Daryl Gregory has found ways to explore the human mind and spirit—for good, bad, or any of the strange places between such absolutes—that seem very much his own in his first collection."
—Faren Miller, Locus
"Facts do not begin to describe Daryl. Not describe him, not contain him, not constrain him. Both in person and in his fiction Daryl breaks the paltry bonds of fact. They cannot hold him ... Read these stories for their human truths, for their inventiveness, for their verve. Most of all, read them for your own pleasure."
—Nancy Kress
"Gregory’s short fiction displays certain central obsessions—a keen understanding of cognitive sciences; an interest in families and questions of relationships and maturity; and an obsession with popular culture."
—Chris Roberson
Also by Daryl Gregory
Pandemonium
The Devil’s Alphabet
Raising Stony Mayhall
UNPOSSIBLE
And Other Stories
UNPOSSIBLE
DARYL GREGORY
FAIRWOOD PRESS
Bonney Lake, WA
UNPOSSIBLE
A Fairwood Press Book
November 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Daryl Gregory
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Fairwood Press
21528 104th Street Court East
Bonney Lake, WA 98391
www.fairwoodpress.com
Front cover illustration & design by
Antonello Silverini
Book Design by Patrick Swenson
ISBN13: 978-1-933846-30-9
First Fairwood Press Edition: November 2011
Printed in the United States of America
Ebook conversion by:
Hydra House
www.hydrahouse.com
For Gary Delafield and Andrew Tisbert
Publication History
"Second Person, Present Tense" first appeared in Asimov’s (Sept 2005)
"Unpossible" first appeared in F&SF (Oct 2007)
"Damascus" first appeared in F&SF (Sept 2005)
"The Illustrated Biography of Lord Grimm" first appeared in Eclipse 3 (Nov 2009)
"Gardening at Night" first appeared in F&SF (April 2006)
"Glass" first appeared in Technology Review (Nov/Dec 2008)
"What We Take When We Take What We Need" first appeared in Subterranean (Spring 2010)
"Digital" appears here for the first time
"Persistence" appears here for the first time
"Message from the Bubblegum Factory" first appeared in Masked (2010)
"Free, and Clear" first appeared in F&SF (Feb 2004)
"Dead Horse Point" first appeared in Asimov’s (Aug 2007)
"In the Wheels" first appeared in F&SF (Aug 1990)
"The Continuing Adventures of Rocket Boy" first appeared in F&SF (July 2004)
Contents
Introduction by Nancy Kress
Second Person, Present Tense
Unpossible
Damascus
The Illustrated Biography of Lord Grimm
Gardening at Night
Petit Mal #1: Glass
What We Take When We Take What We Need
Petit Mal #2: Digital
Message from the Bubblegum Factory
Free, and Clear
Dead Horse Point
In the Wheels
Petit Mal #3: Persistence
The Continuing Adventures of Rocket Boy
Story Notes
Daryl Gregory:
Facts and Obsessions
by Nancy Kress
Here are the facts: Daryl Gregory’s first story appeared in 1990 in the magazine Fantasy & Science Fiction. He has since published three novels, Pandemonium in 2008, The Devil’s Alphabet in 2009, and Raising Stony Mayhall in 2011. In addition, over a dozen stories have come out in various magazines and anthologies. Daryl lives with his wife Kathy and two children in State College, Pennsylvania.
The problem is that facts do not begin to describe Daryl. Not describe him, not contain him, not constrain him. Both in person and in his fiction Daryl breaks the paltry bonds of fact. They cannot hold him. In person he is exuberant, tireless, eager, one of the last guys in the convention bar and the first to propose another expedition. A former theater major, he is a terrific performer, reading his fiction aloud with verve and animation. If you ever get a chance to hear him read, do so.
In his writing, however, exuberance takes a different turn. Because he is such a good writer, Daryl has all that intensity under control. The result is a cast of characters with a wide range of personalities but one similar quality: When they want something, they want it with every fiber of their fictional souls. What they want differs radically from story to story; as a writer Daryl has a wide range. Sometimes his characters achieve what they want, sometimes they don’t, sometimes they do but wish they hadn’t. But always that longing is there, sharp as pain.
What do his protagonists long for? The usual things: love, glory, adventure, power, to go home again. However, a list like that says nothing about the actual stories, since the list is the same for anything ever written. What matters are a particular author’s characters, relationships among characters, obsessions.
Superheroes are an obsession of Daryl’s. Many of the stories in this collection are about superheroes with powers beyond the human, although none are the simplistic good-or-evil beings of comic books and movies. Daryl doesn’t do simplistic. His Lord Grimm, Soliton, Teresa (aka Lady Justice), Multiplex Man—all have complicated relationships to those around them. In one of my favorite stories, the hilarious and wistful "Unpossible," fictional heroes don’t even exist—maybe—but still retain their power to shape our emotional lives. In "The Continuing Adventures of Rocket Boy," which is at once moving and shocking, the longing for superheroes both destroys and liberates the story’s characters.
Another of Daryl’s obsessions is the limits of the human brain. He explores how much extension is possible for our powers of concentration ("Dead Horse Point"), for our powers of empathy ("Glass"), for our powers of religious vision ("Damascus"). The disturbing "Damascus," another favorite of mine, also deals with another human ability: self-deception.
Whatever a particular story’s theme, however, it is always played out in the context of complicated human relationships. Brother and sister, hero and sidekick, mentor and disciple. Daryl is particularly strong on father-son relationships. That fertile subject, with all its complexities of love and rivalry and control, gives birth to "In the Wheels," "The Continuing Adventures of Rocket Boy," and "What We Take When We Take What We N
eed," the latter closely tied to his novel The Devil’s Alphabet.
None of these stories is set on a space station or an alien planet. This comes off as not a constraint but as an enrichment, freeing the author to concentrate on that sufficiently exotic creature, homo sapiens, in all his sometimes-exotic longing. Doing this fully requires the tropes of both science fiction and fantasy, and Daryl blends them freely, unconstrained by fact. That’s because these stories have something else in mind besides the facts, something much more important: truth.
Read these stories for their human truths, for their inventiveness, for their verve. Most of all, read them for your own pleasure. Enjoy.
Second Person, Present Tense
If you think, "I breathe," the "I" is extra. There is no you to say "I." What we call "I" is just a swinging door which moves when we inhale or when we exhale.
—Shun Ryu Suzuki
I used to think the brain was the most important organ in the body, until I realized who was telling me that.
—Emo Phillips
When I enter the office, Dr. S is leaning against the desk, talking earnestly to the dead girl’s parents. He isn’t happy, but when he looks up he puts on a smile for me. "And here she is," he says, like a game show host revealing the grand prize. The people in the chairs turn, and Dr. Subramaniam gives me a private, encouraging wink.
The father stands first, a blotchy, square-faced man with a round, tight belly he carries like a basketball. As in our previous visits, he is almost frowning, struggling to match his face to his emotions. The mother, though, has already been crying, and her face is wide open: joy, fear, hope, relief. It’s way over the top.
"Oh, Therese," she says. "Are you ready to come home?"
Their daughter was named Therese. She died of an overdose almost two years ago, and since then Mitch and Alice Klass have visited this hospital dozens of times, looking for her. They desperately want me to be their daughter, and so in their heads I already am.
My hand is still on the door handle. "Do I have a choice?" On paper I’m only seventeen years old. I have no money, no credit cards, no job, no car. I own only a handful of clothes. And Robierto, the burliest orderly on the ward, is in the hallway behind me, blocking my escape.
Therese’s mother seems to stop breathing for a moment. She’s a slim, narrow-boned woman who seems tall until she stands next to anyone. Mitch raises a hand to her shoulder, then drops it.
As usual whenever Alice and Mitch come to visit, I feel like I’ve walked into the middle of a soap opera and no one’s given me my lines. I look directly at Dr. S, and his face is frozen into that professional smile. Several times over the past year he’s convinced them to let me stay longer, but they’re not listening anymore. They’re my legal guardians, and they have Other Plans. Dr. S looks away from me, rubs the side of his nose.
"That’s what I thought," I say.
The father scowls. The mother bursts into fresh tears, and she cries all the way out of the building. Dr. Subramaniam watches from the entrance as we drive away, his hands in his pockets. I’ve never been so angry with him in my life—all two years of it.
The name of the drug is Zen, or Zombie, or just Z. Thanks to Dr. S I have a pretty good idea of how it killed Therese.
"Flick your eyes to the left," he told me one afternoon. "Now glance to the right. Did you see the room blur as your eyes moved?" He waited until I did it again. "No blur. No one sees it."
This is the kind of thing that gets brain doctors hot and bothered. Not only could no one see the blur, their brains edited it out completely. Skipped over it—left view, then right view, with nothing between—then fiddled with the person’s time sense so that it didn’t even seem missing.
The scientists figured out that the brain was editing out shit all the time. They wired up patients and told them to lift one of their fingers, move it any time they wanted. Each time, the brain started the signal traveling toward the finger up to 300 milliseconds before the patient consciously decided to move it. Dr. S said you could see the brain warming up right before the patient consciously thought, now.
This is weird, but it gets weirder the longer you think about it. And I’ve been thinking about this a lot.
The conscious mind—the "I" that’s thinking, hey, I’m thirsty, I’ll reach for that cold cup of water—hasn’t really decided anything. The signal to start moving your hand has already traveled halfway down your arm by the time you even realize you are thirsty. Thought is an afterthought. By the way, the brain says, we’ve decided to move your arm, so please have the thought to move it.
The gap is normally 300 milliseconds, max. Zen extends this minutes. Hours.
If you run into somebody who’s on Zen, you won’t notice much. The person’s brain is still making decisions, and the body is still follows orders. You can talk to them, and they can talk to you. You can tell each other jokes, go out for hamburgers, do homework, have sex.
But the person isn’t conscious. There is no "I" there. You might as well be talking to a computer. And two people on Zen—"you" and "I"—are just puppets talking to puppets.
It’s a little girl’s room strewn with teenager. Stuffed animals crowd the shelves and window sills, shoulder to shoulder with stacks of Christian rock CDs and hair brushes and bottles of nail polish. Pin-ups from Teen People are tacked to the wall, next to a bulletin board dripping with soccer ribbons and rec league gymnastic medals going back to second grade. Above the desk, a plaque titled "I Promise ... " exhorts Christian youth to abstain from premarital sex. And everywhere taped and pinned to the walls, the photos: Therese at Bible camp, Therese on the balance beam, Therese with her arms around her youth group friends. Every morning she could open her eyes to a thousand reminders of who she was, who she’d been, who she was supposed to become.
I pick up the big stuffed panda that occupies the pride of place on the bed. It looks older than me, and the fur on the face is worn down to the batting. The button eyes hang by white thread—they’ve been re-sewn, more than once.
Therese’s father sets down the pitifully small bag that contains everything I’ve taken from the hospital: toiletries, a couple changes of clothes, and five of Dr. S’s books. "I guess old Boo Bear was waiting for you," he says.
"Boo W. Bear."
"Yes, Boo W!" It pleases him that I know this. As if it proves anything. "You know, your mother dusted this room every week. She never doubted that you’d come back."
I have never been here, and she is not coming back, but already I’m tired of correcting pronouns. "Well, that was nice," I say.
"She’s had a tough time of it. She knew people were talking, probably holding her responsible—both of us, really. And she was worried about them saying things about you. She couldn’t stand them thinking that you were a wild girl."
"Them?"
He blinks. "The Church."
Ah. The Church. The term carried so many feelings and connotations for Therese that months ago I stopped trying to sort them out. The Church was the red-brick building of the Davenport Church of Christ, and shafts of dusty light through rows of tall, glazed windows shaped like gravestones. The Church was God and the Holy Ghost (but not Jesus—he was personal, separate somehow). Mostly, though, it was the congregation, dozens and dozens of people who’d known her since before she was born. They loved her, they watched out for her, and they evaluated her every step. It was like having a hundred overprotective parents.
I almost laugh. "The Church thinks Therese was wild?"
He scowls, but whether because I’ve insulted the Church or because I keep referring to his daughter by name, I’m not sure. "Of course, not. It’s just that you caused a lot of worry." His voice has assumed a sober tone that’s probably never failed to unnerve his daughter. "You know, the church prayed for you every week."
"They did?" I do know Therese well enough to be sure this would have mortified her. She was a pray-er, not a pray-ee.
Therese’s father watches my face for th
e bloom of shame, maybe a few tears. From contrition it should be one small step to confession. It’s hard for me to take any of this seriously.
I sit down on the bed and sink deep into the mattress. This is not going to work. The double bed takes up most of the room, with only a few feet of open space around it. Where am I going to meditate?
"Well," Therese’s father says. His voice has softened. Maybe he thinks he’s won. "You probably want to get changed," he says.
He goes to the door but doesn’t leave. I go to the window, but I can feel him there, waiting. Finally the oddness of this makes me turn around.
He’s staring at the floor, a hand behind his neck. Therese might have been able to intuit his mood, but it’s beyond me.
"We want to help you, Therese. But there’s so many things we just don’t understand. Who gave you the drugs, why you went off with that boy, why you would—" His hand moves, a stifled gesture that could be anger, or merely frustration. "It’s just ... hard."
"I know," I say. "Me too."
He shuts the door when he leaves, and I push the panda to the floor and flop onto my back in relief. Poor Mr. Klass. He just wants to know if his daughter fell from grace, or was pushed.
When I want to freak myself out, "I" think about "me" thinking about having an "I." The only thing stupider than puppets talking to puppets is a puppet talking to itself.
Dr. S says that nobody knows what the mind is, or how the brain generates it, and nobody really knows about consciousness. We talked almost every day while I was in the hospital, and after he saw that I was interested in this stuff—how could I not be—he gave me books and we’d talk about brains and how they cook up thoughts and make decisions.
"How do I explain this," he always starts. And then he tries out the metaphors he’s working on for his book. My favorite is the Parliament, the Page, and the Queen.
Unpossible Page 1