Asimov's SF, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  King starts on the flash, flinching at the sound. Sprints out. King in first.

  State course three point two miles of rolling park in the rain, grass, hill, picnic areas, trail, woods. Circles the lake. Sky color of wet sidewalks King runs to school on. Course heavy with cut grass, tree, pollen, goose shit. King retains three trophies for state, going back to junior high.

  King can't keep the sprint up. Not the plan. Needs to get out in front. Set the tone. Gather intelligence. King knows the kids, sees the concerned look of their parents. Want only the best for their precious. Every opportunity. Every luxury. Tear bread crusts from starving orphans if their baby misses a snack.

  King spent a lot of time looking at performance numbers. Watched the knock-offs. Played pickup basketball at Russell Park. Used only left hand. King's a good sport.

  King knows they took older, proven knocks, like boosted EPO and testosterone production. Fits data. Knock-offs unstoppable at long-distance running, other shit ruled by that bitch goddess VO2Max. Almost certainly under WADA limits for college purposes. Small blessing. Careful observation shows extreme punk ass laziness, but they are all still beautifully cut. King suspects they also opted for faster muscle growth, slower muscle atrophy.

  Onto the trail. Narrow, two-wide, path worn bowl-shaped. Tree-lined, no branches. Evergreens, old. Ferns and shit on the sides. Underbrush cleared.

  Mouth already dry. Thirst is familiar, like the soreness in his legs every time he wakes up.

  King's pace inflicts pain. No way parents paid for nerve work. Not worth the expense, the risk. King savors the heaviness in the legs, the burning from calves to quads spreading warmly through the back of the royal ass. Because they don't work, pain is foreign, scary. King's training always painful. It is familiar, comfortable territory.

  Pace is anaerobic, unmaintainable. He slows up, to his normal, punishing race stride. Breath comes in cold gulps.

  Chaos behind. Pack of fifty squeezes onto the path. Out of sight of the officials, the first trips and take-downs cascade into pile ups, tangled limbs.

  Steps close behind King. King glances. Joel. When King had a job, before King dedicated himself entirely to winning this one race, King bagged groceries. Customers included Joel's parents. No GE produce for them. Can't feed that shit to their growing young boy.

  Irony not lost on King.

  King runs down the middle. His path, why not? Joel tries to pass on the right, King moves right. They bump. Joel drops back, goes left, King moves left. They collide again, stick. Struggling against each other, pumping arms. King's elbow into Joel's ribs. Joel coughs hard. Doesn't matter. No cost. Blood over 50 percent red cells or some crazy shit. Oxygen-rich molasses. Need to suffocate him to keep his muscles from getting enough air. Does distract, anger. Joel tries to get his arm free for a straight punch. Awkward. Keeping shoulder to shoulder, King pushes hard off his right foot. Joel stumbles left two steps off the trail. Wide soft whump with crunch of bark as Joel meets pine tree, whole body flat against the trunk. Tree doesn't move.

  King runs on. Will not laugh, waste of oxygen. Keep the pace, listen. Bottom of King's lungs burning. Still not recovering from his lead-out. Sweat cut with rain comes freely down the sides of King's face, runs down the back of his neck.

  John next. Did not stop for Joel on ground. John stays back not ten feet. King can hear his footfalls, his breath.

  One mile check ahead. King slows down to force John up or around. John takes his chance, makes a clumsy trip attempt. King steps high to come down on the errant leg, cleats scraping all down John's calf. John stumbles, recovers, glares. King laughs in John's ear. John elbows King sharp in the ribs. Hurts. King laughs again. Something flips in John's eyes, his jaw clenches, face goes bright red. King widens grin. “That it?” King asks.

  They corner. A race official stands off-trail, in front of a pine wider than he is, ready to call out their time. Camera on stand on King's right. King stays fixed on the timer as if intent on hearing his one mile split, not even letting himself flinch. John's fist comes into the royal ear. The pain spikes, King lets reaction show. King cannot be seen to be flopping, but it must be obvious that it was a real punch. John punches King again. Grazes the back of King's head.

  Past the camera and the timer, his mouth still open, wordless. King and John run past. King puts his body into a forearm to the jaw. John's face gives. John screams. Comes out half-formed, hands up clutching. King trips him and runs on as John skids on his face through the pine needles, sending them flipping into the air.

  That's how you do it.

  King pushes back to race pace.

  Course turns hard right. King chances a look across his shoulder. Beautiful semi-reflective Kentwood colors, Steve and more.

  Course opens up to start mile two. Spaced trees, carpet of cut grass. Bad for King. Can't block the trail. Realizes wet sensation in ear is blood and rain.

  One of King's loyal subjects offered alternate plan. Wait for chopped kids to roll by local shitty apartment complexes to buy pot. Beat shit out of them on principle. Cut their tendons.

  King feels the footsteps behind him grow closer and reconsiders the wisdom of refusing that generous offer.

  Up the hill. Steep, long. Scattered crowd applauds as he approaches. King attacks. Stabbing pain in quads with each lift. Rain and water come with each breath but King's still thirsty, throat scratchy, painful. Keep the legs going. Up and over. Spare a glance back. Field thinning again. Knock-offs come up the hill strong, easily.

  King should not have looked. But worth it to see the pain etched on faces.

  Steep descent at 2.4. Body straight to the slope, a forty-five to gravity. Keep legs churning, feet touching lightly. Hard to do at speed normally. Rain slick grass increases degree of difficulty. King gets the full ten points for style. Impeccable form.

  King paid for this knowledge. Ran the course all summer. In morning dew. In pouring rain. Dry, scorched. While fresh and tired. First thing in the morning, for afternoon practices, at night. Walked it on his off days. Visualized running over and over. King dreamt about the course, woke up and ran it.

  King finishes the hill and starts running again, legs firing pain. His lead is huge. Too large. Spooks the knock-offs. Course falls gently to the shoreline, cattails, algae, lake surface rippling under fat raindrops. Annoyed ducks paddle away from the shore, glaring back. The knock-offs catch King at two five, halfway around the pond.

  Steve runs his Kentwood team the smart way. Two pass him at once, one to each side. Get a little ahead of him, keep him from sprinting past. King boxed, both leaning into him, tangling arms. Steve, others run around the outside.

  Bullshit. They're in pain, but breathing easier than he is, not as flushed. King aware of his soaked, unbreathable piece of shit cheap uniform.

  Bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit.

  At least they're in too much pain to talk.

  King in sixth place. Rage so hot the heavy wet trees should ignite. Sixth. King thinks of it with every desperate breath. Sixth. The pace punishes him. Sixth. Deep pain in the calves, quads, breathing managing only in exhales, stomach clenched in a tight fist.

  Every step a knifing pain up the front of his shins makes King want to scream. Shins never hurt before. King does not yell out, or even slow.

  King will not drop. King will not kneel. King will not finish sixth.

  King's body adds more lies. Tells King to stop or it will fly apart. King concentrates on his quick breath, pushing the exhale out, out, out, throat raw.

  King knows how much air he can push to his muscles, and how fast he can go given that much oxygen. How quickly he can turn his legs over. Skipped school to talk to a university physiology prof. They came up with a theoretical number. If the body didn't lie. Discussed motivation and sports psychology too. Prof kept looking at King like she wanted to say something else. Keeps in touch. They may publish.

  How fast he could run, if? Useless. If King wasn't human, he could run fast
er. If there wasn't gravity, King could jump to the moon. If King had money, he could be knocked too. If he wanted.

  The greatest ultramarathoners, the endurance cyclists, go crazy. See things. Hallucinate demons chasing them. Brain forces the body to respond to imaginary threats, stop bitching about lactic acid buildup. Find the if.

  King's demons are real, and ahead of him.

  If. King had suppressed the number. Better off not thinking about it. Went back to his oracle-designed training programs. Still the if nagged. Kept coming around. Like running five minute miles knowing someone, somewhere, ran one in four.

  King holds on. Keeps the knock-offs in front of him. Pain follows by a half-step. Something hurts up in the left shoulder now, a pull under his pec every other step, it doesn't make sense at all. King thinks of the five runners in front of him. Their calves, perfectly defined, identical through the group, seem to rise easily, flip forward without effort.

  Keep a rhythm. Stay with them. King did ten mile hilly runs around the water reservoir because some program hiding behind an alias told him to. Three miles? Please.

  At two seven the turn back into woods, claustrophobic, denser, older growth at the periphery, between the evergreens the tangle of brush edging the path.

  Steve cranks his head around.

  “You doing all right back there, King?” Steve yells.

  King feels the anger across his shoulders, down his arms. Steve has breath enough to taunt. Fists clench.

  King reaches out and pulls hard on the jersey of the Kentwood laggard. Almost no give at all. Like grabbing the strap on the shopping carts. Convenient. Kentwoodie comes up flat to the ground, drops feet still churning, eyes wide. King would spit on him if he were less careful about breath management.

  The other Woodies hear his cry, turn to look, slowing slightly as they come around. King accelerates, adrenaline flooding his veins, bumps across the left to get in front.

  King trained to manage a pursuit pace for the last four hundred yards in emergencies. His supposed trainer threw intervals, brutal sprint-rest-sprint-rest sets, into his weeks at random. King could chase anything down over four hundred yards. The finish line a half-mile away. Four times the distance. King goes. The knock-offs yell things. Sprint ahead, at King's side, finally gasping as they stay with him. Tears stream from their eyes.

  The five go with him. King keeps sprinting. The pain builds with each breath, a furnace in his lungs. Confused nerves: soft warmth and light-headedness fuzzy on his skin, while pain roars in his ear, pounds at his temples. Each time his feet touch and he strides, he feels the sharp complaint as his body mounts revolution. Shutdown impulses fight with King, eyelids heavy, fatigue clouding vision.

  King in first. As it should be. Righteous. King hopes they will hand him a stack of scholarship offers at the finish line, key to the city, all the trophies he missed out on.

  Two drop immediately, their feet falling out of rhythm and then away. Three left, three hundred yards. Another goes, technique and form sacrificed to keep up, tripping on some piece of turf and tumbling.

  Two. Steve is with King, the other dropping. King expels breath in roar after roar. Steve's gasps carry a little high-pitched sob. Steve can get enough oxygen but not enough will. The corners of King's mouth turn up.

  The last hundred yards complete the circle to the start line, across the wide deep-grassed field, an audience waiting. Steve is weak and undeserving. King is right to destroy him. The teams and the parents stare. Steve comes up a fraction short on his next stride, and King knows he has won. The next stride Steve drops a full inch. The crowds stare. Steve's shoulders slump as he falls out of King's peripheral vision.

  You like that? King, unranked, winner. Loser, loser, loser, usurper and state champion. You want to know whassup, Steve? What is up is you lose.

  King never allowed himself to doubt. But there is unexpected joy. It washes over the pain he ignores as he approaches the chute, unable to even hear Steve's feet.

  Into the chute. King takes the #1 marker from the same guy who fired the starter pistol. Hail to the King, baby. King slows to a jog, heavy legs stomping down. King surveys. Race officials. Girls’ varsity, in their shorts and tops, anxious for the next start. Families. Girl from pep holding a plastic gold crown in her hand. King smiles. May deign to wear it. No one makes any noise. They all look at King mute, immobile.

  King goes from jog to walk. Doubles over, vomits. Stands. Steve approaches the chute. Ten seconds? Fifteen? Steve's face deeply lined, tears coming down freely. The chute official shakes his head, hands Steve the second marker. Steve staggers, about to drop to his knees but stops, standing, blinking, at the end of chute, staring at the race clock.

  King looks at the clock. Impossible time, imfuckingpossible. Imaginary like pi, or e, or the temperature of King's anger. A secret, escaped from the deep of his head and expressed number colon number dot number. King feels laughter bubble up from deep inside his chest for the first time in memory. Start and finish cameras. The race clock is certified. It's real, even though it cannot be real.

  No one talks, applauds, coughs, laughs, yells. Even King's laughter is silent. They are all, the officials, King's subjects having long conceded hope, the high-zip, China-traveling opponents, stunned at the scope of King's victory. Only sound the soft fall of rain over everything.

  A moment of silence for coronation.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Derek Zumsteg

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: THE ICE WAR

  by Stephen Baxter

  "The Ice War” is related to Stephen Baxter's 1993 novel Anti-Ice, which was his first major attempt at alternate history. He recently completed his Time's Tapestry alternate history series for Ace, with the fourth book, Weaver. He tells us he enjoys AH so much that this year he's serving as a judge on the Sidewise Award. Stephen's next project is a two-book sequence of climate and disaster called Flood and Ark; Flood has just come out from Gollancz in the United Kingdom.

  The historians have painted March fifth 1720 as a day of infamy, for that was the day the Ice War was declared upon Britain by monsters from the sky. But my own poor life might have ended that ominous morn even before the war's tremendous events began to unfold.

  As I lay in my narrow bed in that dawn, Fred Partridge's voice drifted up to me from the chill road outside. “Jack Hobbes! I know you are up there, you blackguard. If you're alone in your pit or if you're not, come down and face your justice like a man!” All this to a counterpoint of a hammering on the tavern door by mighty agricultural fists.

  My immediate stratagem was to follow that course that has served me so well throughout my life, that is to hide until the danger had passed. So I burrowed under the coarse sheets, pulling my jerkin tighter around me and my battered old felt hat down upon my ears, for in that spring the cold would freeze the marrow in your bones, and I kept on layers of clothes even during the night. I could guess why Fred was there, but even in that moment of peril I wished I had his daughter in the bed beside me again: full-breasted, empty-headed, sixteen years old, what a bedwarmer Verity had made!

  The banging and shouting went on, and for a moment I thought I might get away with it. But then I heard old Mary, wife of the innkeeper, come to the door and demand of Partridge in querulous tones what he was at, frightening her pigs and splintering her woodwork. The crux of it was she opened the door and old Fred got in, and he lumbered up the stairs, sounding like a great horse loose in the house.

  Well, I sprang out of bed. As I have said I was already dressed, and had only to pull on my woolen overcoat and my boots and I was ready for the road. I glanced around my room one last time, this mean hovel that had been my home for a year. I snatched up my purse and my pocket knife, and my father-in-law's Perspective, stolen by me as I fled Edinburgh in not dissimilar circumstances to this, all that and a bit of bread from last night's supper, which I crammed into the pockets of my coat. I considered my school books and my
heaps of teaching notes, but even if I survived the morn I would not be going back to the Grammar School in Jedburgh. That was that and time to leave, Jack.

  I hurried to the window and snatched back the curtain—and just for a heartbeat, despite my own peril, I was taken aback by the spectacle before me. From my elevation on this first storey I saw the town of Jedburgh set out before me in the dawn. Winter ice lay everywhere, months old and cracked and brown with mud. And the Comet sprawled over a grey dawn sky, that astounding tail sparkling as if flecked with gunpowder. And as I watched I thought I saw a bit of that tail, a sparkling fragment, come loose and slide over the sky.

  But a fleshier peril than any Comet was closing on me, and I was maundering. I fumbled with the window, but it was frozen in its socket, and my heart pounded.

  The door slammed open and Fred Partridge filled the frame, more like one of his bulls than a man. His face was bright with his temper as with the cold, and his grey hair stuck up around his bald pate. “Hobbes, you black-hearted coward!”

  In that moment the window flew up, ice cracking around its frame, and my mood switched to reckless cheer. “That's me, Fred!”

  He strode toward me. He had the biggest hands I have ever seen, even among farmers, and his fists looked like sides of beef. “Stand and take what's coming to you.”

  “Not likely,” says I. And with a skip I got my legs over the window sill and wriggled around so I was dangling down the wall of the house, and then it was a question of a drop of a few feet to the ground. I finished up in the inn's yard, not a pace from old Mary, who stood glaring in her doorway.

  Fred got his head and one huge fist out of the window. “You nimble beggar!”