“Oh no,” fretted Norton. “Physical regimen of take years to produce, very demanding. Eat only corndogs, amphetamines—”
“The round-eyed kid,” interrupted Sam’s Big. “What’s he doing there?”
Norton waved his hand, his kaleidoscope darkening. “Very poor performer, the American. Is worst of bunch—”
“An American? I thought this was some exclusive Jap cult.”
“Is significant achievement,” admitted Norton. “First foreigner ever to rise to any prominence, devotion of many hard ministrations, cleaning toilet with toothbrush … but cannot be compared with native talent. Is hothead, over expressive, where calls for control, devotion, conformity to tradition—”
“He sticks out like a sore thumb,” agreed Sam’s Big, thinking hard. “Uh, yeah. That’s the one we want. What’s his name?”
“Oh no!” pleaded Tokyo Norton. “Cannot have ‘one’! Ento is performance en masse—”
“We can’t use the group thing. But we might be able to do something with this American kid. What’s his name?”
“No, please no. Integrity of ancient ways; I protest!” Norton took an egg-shaped rubber napkin out of his pocket and rolled it around his forehead to absorb his sweat. “Not for cheap bastardisation did bring Ento to new world!”
“It’s not Ento we want,” said Sam’s Big. “All that shmaltzy ‘In the Ghetto’ stuff; it’s hopeless. We’re just after a few of the moves, the style, especially the way that American kid manifests it … what’s his name?”
“Lucky Davey,” sighed Norton. He pushed the obloid end of the rubber napkin into his ear, his kaleidoscope flaring green. The gazebo settled down to earth behind the Alleyway. Tokyo Norton cleared the dressing room of all the Ento stars except Lucky Davey, then ushered Sam’s Big in. Davey sat at a mirror daubing at his pancake. Sam’s Big came up behind him, smoking a stogie and flicking the ash into a hovering holographic ashtray, and met the kid’s eyes in the mirror. Norton hung on the perimeter, fretting as he watched Sam’s Big’s ashes fluttering through the projection to scatter on the floor.
“I am an Ento performer,” said Lucky Davey, his eyes flaring defiantly. “Steeped in the traditions of ‘Elvis’ impersonation. I don’t know if you understand what that means, Misters Big.”
“Serious ancient ritual bunkum, I gather. Make no mistake, Davey, we’re full of admiration. You’ve risen to the top on their terms. But the point’s made; now why not see if you can make it on the big stage? You’re an American, Davey.”
“This is surely the degrading crass sell-out opportunity I was carefully steeled to resist in my long training,” said Davey. He was stripping off the white jumpsuit and changing into his street clothes: a leather Thneed and a pair of fishnet earmuffs. “Certainly then if you admire my discipline you must understand how I will be quite able to resist the flickering of your devil’s-tongue in my ear, yes?”
“This is no sell-out,” said Sam’s Big, flexing its anger. Sam’s Big knew when to bring on the effects. “We’re talking Art, son. Taking what you picked up from the ancient masters and building on it, creating something new. That’s assuming you’ve got more to offer the world than devotion, of course. Maybe we guessed wrong…” Sam’s Big turned to leave the dressing room.
“Wait, Misters Big.”
Sam’s Big turned back, all smiles, and pocketed the cigar. The phantom ashtray vanished. Sam’s Big unlatched their goosedown briefcase, which, when opened, played the theme song from the Kinesthetic Tonight! program. It was full of unsigned contracts, enticingly perfumed, and attractively backlit from within the briefcase. Tokyo Norton shook his head sorrowfully. The floor was covered with ashes.
* * *
Three weeks later, in a high-security rehearsal bubble at the bottom of the Atlantic, the cans were filling with bungled performance tape. They were scraping away to that essential core, the glimmer Sam’s Big had discerned the first night out, but the kid had a lot to unlearn.
“Drop the formalism,” said Sam’s Big for the hundredth time. “Stick with the crouch move, and that big leering wink, but make it your own. Make it like you feel it, like it’s from inside.”
They’d lightened up his make-up, lost him a little weight, clipped the sideburns, generally emphasised his youth and vitality. It wasn’t enough. The kid was like a withered old Japanese monk in his heart. He was tending to the fundamentally rude gestures of Ento drama like a gardener shaping a bonsai. Sam’s Big wanted to see the kid rebel.
It was the songs, they knew. “The American Trilogy,” “Hawaiian Wedding Song,” “It’s Now or Never/O Sole Mio,” “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Old soupy Jap stuff, too heavy on the heartstrings. The kid needed something punchier, something to wrap those smouldering looks around, something that gave all that funny hip motion a reason for being.
Soon, soon. Sam’s Big had its handpicked songwriting subroutine busy at work on some titles he’d suggested: “Don’t Shit Me,” “Hot Nervous Wire,” “Baby Let’s Die,” “Warning: Contaminated,” “Drug Test Man,” and “Mystery Fuck.”
Sam’s Big took a sip from a tube of Big Man, a cigar-flavored soft drink, and smiled among themselves. They’d get it right soon enough.
THE TERRITORY
Bradley Denton
Alternate History stories don’t necessarily have to be concerned with big, sweeping changes in the fate of nations. They can also deal with small private changes in one person’s life that may alter that life forever … as in the eloquent story that follows, which takes us to the turbulent and dangerous days of the American Civil War in Bloody Kansas. It is a compassionate tale of redemption and revenge, and one man’s struggle to reconcile the two.
A relatively new writer, Bradley Denton was born in 1958, grew up in Kansas, and received an M.A. in creative writing from the University of Kansas. He sold his first story in 1984, and soon became a regular contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, as well as selling work to Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Pulphouse, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1985, and in 1988 his story “The Calvin Coolidge Home for Dead Comedians” was on both the Hugo and Nebula final ballots. His first novel, Wrack and Roll, was published in 1986, and he won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award in 1992 for Buddy Holly Is Alive and Well on Ganymede. His most recent novel is Blackburn. He lives outside of Austin, Texas.
Sam came awake and sat up choking. His chest was as tight as if wrapped in steel cables, and his heart was trying to hammer its way out. He gulped a breath and coughed. The air in the abandoned barn was thick with dust. There was just enough light for him to see the swirling motes.
A few feet away, the skinny form of Fletcher Taylor groaned and rose on one elbow. “What the hell’s wrong?” he asked.
“Shut the hell up,” the man on the other side of Taylor said.
“You go to hell,” Taylor snapped.
“Go to hell yourself.”
“Let me sleep, or I’ll send you all to hell,” another man said.
“The hell you will.”
“The hell I won’t.”
Taylor shook a finger at Sam. “See all the hell you’ve raised?”
Sam put on the new slouch hat that Taylor had given him, pulled on his boots, and stood, picking up the leather saddlebags he’d been using as a pillow. “I’m sorry as hell,” he said, and left the barn, trying not to kick more than four or five of the other men on his way out.
The light was better outside, but the sun had not yet risen. Sam closed his left nostril with a finger and blew through his right, then closed his right nostril and blew through his left, trying to clear his head of dust. The ground was dry. The thunderheads that had formed the night before had rolled by without dropping enough rain to fill a teacup. He could have slept outside, in clean air, and been fine. As it was, his head ached. This wasn’t the first night he had spent in a barn or corn crib since leaving the river, but he still wasn’t
used to it. At three months shy of twenty-eight, he feared that he was already too old for this kind of life.
Most of the camp was still asleep, but a few men were building fires and boiling chicory. One of them gestured to Sam to come on over, but Sam shook his head and pointed at the sycamore grove that served as the camp latrine. The other man nodded.
Sam went into the trees, and within twenty steps the smells of chicory and smoke were overwhelmed by the smell caused by two hundred men all doing their business in the same spot over the course of a week. It was even worse than usual this morning, because the leaders of other guerrilla bands had brought some of their own men into camp the day before. But at least Sam had the grove to himself for now.
When he had finished his business, he continued eastward through the grove until the stench faded and the trees thinned. Then he sat down with his back against the bole of a sycamore and opened one of his saddlebags. He removed his Colt Navy revolver and laid it on the ground beside him, then took out a pen, a bottle of ink, and the deerhide pouch that held his journal. He slid the notebook from the pouch and flipped pages until he reached a blank sheet, then opened the ink bottle, dipped his pen, and began to write.
Tuesday, August 11, 1863:
I have had the same dream again, or I should say, another variation thereof. This time when I reached the dead man, I discovered that his face was that of my brother Henry. Then I awoke with the thought that it was my fault that Henry was on board the Pennsylvania when she blew, which in turn led to the thought that I was an idiot to ask a young and unsure physician to give him morphine.
But I would have been on the Pennsylvania as well had it not been for the malice of a certain William Brown, perhaps the only man caught in that storm of metal, wood, and steam who received what he deserved. As for the morphine, Dr. Peyton himself instructed me to ask the night doctor to give Henry an eighth of a grain should he become restless. If the doctor administered too much, the fault was his, not mine.
I see by my words that I have become hard. But five years have passed since that night in Memphis, and I have seen enough in those years that the hours I spent at Henry’s deathbed do not seem so horrific now—or, at least, they do not seem so during my waking hours.
A pistol shot rang out back at camp and was followed by the shouted curses of men angry at having been awakened. Someone had killed a rat or squirrel, and might soon wish that he’d let the creature live to gnaw another day. These once-gentle Missouri farmboys had become as mean as bobcats. They generally saved their bullets for Bluebellies, but didn’t mind using their fists and boots on each other.
The dream seems more pertinent, Sam continued, on those nights when the man’s face is that of Orion. Orion was as intolerable a scold as any embittered crone, and a Republican crone at that—but he was my brother, and it might have been in my power to save him.
Sam paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. He looked up from the paper and stared at the brightening eastern sky until his eyes stung. Then he dipped the pen and resumed writing.
It is as fresh and awful in my memory as if it had happened not two years ago, but two days ago.
I could have fought the Red Legs, as Orion and our companions tried to do. I had a Smith & Wesson seven-shooter. If I had used it, I would have either preserved Orion’s life, or fallen beside him. Either result would have been honorable.
But I faltered. When the moment came, I chose to surrender, and handed over my pistol—which one of the Red Legs laughed at, saying he was glad I had not fired the weapon, for to be struck with a ball from its barrel might give one a nasty welt.
Then, as if to prove his point, he turned it on the driver, and on the conductor, and on Mr. Bemis, and on my brother.
As Orion lay dying, the Red Leg attempted to shoot me as well. But the pistol misfired, and I ran. Two of the Red Legs caught me and took my watch, but then let me go, saying that killing a Missourian the likes of me would not be so advantageous to their cause as letting me live.
I continued to run like the coward I had already proven myself to be.
Sam paused again. His hand was shaking, and he didn’t think he would be able to read the jagged scrawl of what he had just written. But he would always know what the words said.
He rubbed his forehead with his wrist, then turned the notebook page and dipped his pen.
I could not have saved Henry. But Orion would be alive today, safe in Nevada Territory, had I been a man. And I would be there with him instead of here at Blue Springs; I would be thriving in the mountains of the West instead of sweltering in the chaos of Western Missouri.
I have remained in Missouri to pay for my sin, but in two years have had no success in doing so. Perhaps now that I have come to Jackson County and fallen in with the Colonel’s band, my luck will change.
When this war began, I served with my own county’s guerrilla band, the Marion Rangers, for three weeks. But there the actual need for bush-whacking was about as substantial as an owl’s vocabulary. That was before I had crossed the state, entered Kansas, and encountered the Red Legs. That was before I had seen my brother shot down as if he were a straw target.
I have not had a letter from Mother, Pamela, or Mollie in several weeks, although I have written to each of them as often as I can. I do not know whether this means that they have disowned me, or whether their letters are not reaching Independence. I intend to go up to investigate once this coming business is completed, assuming that it does not complete me in the process.
Sam laid the journal on the ground and wiped his ink-stained fingers on the grass. Then he peered into the ink bottle and saw that it was almost empty. He decided not to buy more until he was sure he would live long enough to use it.
The sun had risen and was a steady heat on Sam’s face. The day was going to be hot. Another shot rang out back at camp, and this time it was followed by yips and hollers. The boys were up and eager.
Sam slid his journal into its pouch, then returned it and the other items to the saddlebag. He stood, stretched, and walked back to Colonel Quantrill’s camp.
* * *
As he emerged from the sycamores, Sam saw fifty or sixty of his fellow bushwhackers clustered before Quantrill’s tent. The tent was open, and the gathered men, although keeping a respectful distance, were trying to see and hear what was going on inside. Fletcher Taylor was standing at the rear of the cluster, scratching his sparse beard.
“Morning, Fletch,” Sam said as he approached. “Sleep well?”
Taylor gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “Rotten, thanks to you.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
“Be quiet. I’m trying to hear.”
“Hear what?”
“You know damn well what. The Colonel’s planning a raid. Most of the boys are betting it’ll be Kansas City, but my money’s on Lawrence.”
Sam nodded. “The story I hear is that the Colonel’s wanted to teach Jim Lane and Lawrence a lesson ever since he lived there himself.”
A man standing in front of Taylor turned to look at them. “I’d like to teach Jim Lane a lesson too,” he said, “but I’m not crazy and neither’s the Colonel. Lawrence is forty miles inside the border, and the Bluebellies are likely to be as thick as flies on a dead possum. It’d be like putting our pistols to our own heads.”
“Maybe,” Sam said.
The man raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, maybe? You know something I don’t?”
Sam shrugged and said nothing. Two nights before, in a dream, he had seen Colonel Quantrill surrounded by a halo of fire, riding into Lawrence before a band of shooting, shouting men. He had known the town was Lawrence because all of its inhabitants had looked like the caricatures he had seen of Senator Jim Lane and had worn red pants. Sam had learned to trust his dreams when they were as clear as that. Several days before the Pennsylvania had exploded, a dream had shown him Henry lying in a coffin; and before he and Orion had left St. Joseph, a dream had shown him Orion lying dead
in the dust. But it wouldn’t do to talk of his dreams with the other bushwhackers. Most of them seemed to think that Sam Clemens was odd enough as it was, hoarding perfectly good ass-wiping paper just so he could write on it.
“Well, you’re wrong,” the man said, taking Sam’s shrug as a statement. “Kansas City’s got it coming just as bad, and there’s places for a man to hide when he’s done.”
Taylor looked thoughtful. “I see your point,” he said. “Calling on Senator Lane would be one thing, but coming home from the visit might be something else.”
Sam stayed quiet. It didn’t matter what the others thought now. They would mold bullets and make cartridges until they were told where to shoot them, and they’d be just as happy to shoot them in Lawrence as anywhere else—happier, since most of the jayhawkers and Red Legs who had robbed them, burned them out of their homes, killed their brothers, and humiliated their women had either hailed from Lawrence or pledged their allegiance to Jim Lane. And if Quantrill could pull several guerrilla bands together under his command, he would have enough men both to raid Lawrence and to whip the Federals on the way there and back.
Captain George Todd emerged from the tent and squinted in the sunlight. He was a tall, blond, square-jawed man whom some of the men worshipped even more than they did Quantrill. He was wearing a blue jacket he’d taken from a dead Union lieutenant.
“Hey, cap’n, where we going?” someone called out.
Todd gave the men a stern look. “I doubt we’ll be going anywhere if you boys keep standing around like sick sheep when there’s guns to be cleaned and bridles to be mended.”
The men groaned, but began to disperse.
“Fletch Taylor!” Todd yelled. “Wherever you are, get your ass in here!” He turned and went back into the tent.
Sam nudged Taylor. “Now, what would a fine leader of men like George Todd be wanting with a lowdown thief like you?” he asked.
Taylor sneered. “Well, he told me to keep my eyes open for Yankee spies,” he said, “so I reckon he’ll be wanting me to give him your name.” He started for the tent.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection Page 65