Mildred was following the stream, but it became a waterfall ahead and she would have to think of something else.
The stout man was still making his way downward as directly as possible, obviously convinced it was the fastest way and no more dangerous than any other.
The black man was being logical, like Mildred, Lottie admitted. He watched the shadows and continued in a southeasterly direction, tackling the hurdles as he came to them, methodically, without haste. Ahead of him, invisible to him, but clearly visible to the floating cameras and the audience, were a mother bear and two cubs in a field of blueberries.
Things would pick up again in an hour or so, Lottie knew. Butcher came back. “You have time for a quick shower,” Lottie said. He was beginning to smell.
“Shut up.” Butcher sprawled in the recliner, his feet bare.
Lottie tried not to see his thick toes, grimy with warehouse dust. She got up and went to the kitchen for a bag, and started to throw the garbage into it. The cans clattered.
“Knock it off, will ya!” Butcher yelled. He stretched to see around her. He was watching the blond braid her hair. Lottie threw another can into the bag.
9 P.M. SATURDAY
Butcher sat on the edge of the chair, biting a fingernail. “See that?” he breathed. “You see it?” He was shiny with perspiration.
Lottie nodded, watching the white dots move on the aerial map, watching the blue dot moving, stopping for a long time, moving again. Clyde and the bears were approaching each other minute by minute, and Clyde knew now that there was something ahead of him.
“You see that?” Butcher cried out hoarsely.
“Just be still, will you?” Lottie said through her teeth. The black man was sniffing the air.
“You can smell a goddam lousy bear a country mile!” Butcher said. “He knows.”
“For God’s sake, shut up!”
“Yeah, he knows all right,” Butcher said softly. “Mother bear, cubs . . . she’ll tear him apart.”
“Shut up! Shut up!”
Clyde began to back away. He took half a dozen steps, then turned and ran. The bear stood up; behind her the cubs tumbled in play. She turned her head in a listening attitude. She growled and dropped to four feet and began to amble in the direction Clyde had taken. They were about an eighth of a mile apart. Any second she would be able to see him.
Clyde ran faster, heading for thick trees. Past the trees was a cliff he had skirted earlier.
“Saw a cave or something up there,” Butcher muttered. “Betcha. Heading for a cave.”
Lottie pressed her hands hard over her ears. The bear was closing the gap; the cubs followed erratically, and now and again the mother bear paused to glance at them and growl softly. Clyde began to climb the face of the cliff. The bear came into view and saw him. She ran. Clyde was out of her reach; she began to climb, and rocks were loosened by her great body. When one of the cubs bawled, she let go and half slid, half fell back to the bottom. Standing on her hind legs, she growled at the man above her. She was nine feet tall. She shook her great head from side to side another moment, then turned and waddled back toward the blueberries, trailed by her two cubs.
“Smart bastard,” Butcher muttered. “Good thinking. Knew he couldn’t outrun a bear. Good thinking.”
Lottie went to the bathroom. She had smelled the bear, she thought. If he had only shut up a minute! She was certain she had smelled the bear. Her hands were trembling.
The phone was ringing when she returned to the living room. She answered, watching the screen. Clyde looked shaken, the first time he had been rattled since the beginning.
“Yeah,” she said into the phone. “He’s here.” She put the receiver down. “Your sister.”
“She can’t come over,” Butcher said ominously. “Not unless she’s drowned that brat.”
“Funny,” Lottie said, scowling. Corinne should have enough consideration not to make an issue of it week after week.
“Yeah,” Butcher was saying into the phone. “I know it’s tough on a floor set, but what the hell, get the old man to buy a wall unit. What’s he planning to do, take it with him?” He listened. “Like I said, you know how it is. I say okay, then Lottie gives me hell. Know what I mean? I mean, it ain’t worth it. You know?” Presently he banged the receiver down.
“Frank’s out of town?”
He didn’t answer, settled himself down into his chair and reached for his beer.
“He’s in a fancy hotel lobby where they got a unit screen the size of a barn and she’s got that lousy little portable . . .”
“Just drop it, will ya? She’s the one that wanted the kid, remember. She’s bawling her head off but she’s not coming over. So drop it!”
“Yeah, and she’ll be mad at me for a week, and it takes two to make a kid.”
“Jesus Christ!” Butcher got up and went into the kitchen. The refrigerator door banged. “Where’s the beer?”
“Under the sink.”
“Jesus! Whyn’t you put it in the refrigerator?”
“There wasn’t enough room for it all. If you’ve gone through all the cold beers, you don’t need any more!”
He slammed the refrigerator door again and came back with a can of beer. When he pulled it open, warm beer spewed halfway across the room. Lottie knew he had done it to make her mad. She ignored him and watched Mildred worm her way down into her sleeping bag. Mildred had the best chance of winning, she thought. She checked her position on the aerial map. All the lights were closer to the trucks now, but there wasn’t anything of real importance between Mildred and the goal. She had chosen right every time.
“Ten bucks on yellow,” Butcher said suddenly.
“You gotta be kidding! He’s going to break his fat neck before he gets out of there!”
“Okay, ten bucks.” He slapped ten dollars down on the table, between the TV dinner trays and the coffee pot.
“Throw it away,” Lottie said, matching it. “Red.”
“The fat lady?”
“Anybody who smells like you better not go around insulting someone who at least takes time out to have a shower now and then!” Lottie cried and swept past him to the kitchen. She and Mildred were about the same size. “And why don’t you get off your butt and clean up some of that mess! All I do every weekend is clear away garbage!”
“I don’t give a shit if it reaches the ceiling!”
Lottie brought a bag and swept trash into it. When she got near Butcher, she held her nose.
6 A.M. SUNDAY
Lottie sat up. “What happened?” she cried. The red beeper was on. “How long’s it been on?”
“Half an hour. Hell, I don’t know.”
Butcher was sitting tensely on the side of the recliner, gripping it with both hands. Eddie was in a tree, clutching the trunk. Below him, dogs were tearing apart his backpack, and another dog was leaping repeatedly at him.
“Idiot!” Lottie cried. “Why didn’t he hang up his stuff like the others?”
Butcher made a noise at her, and she shook her head, watching. The dogs had smelled food, and they would search for it, tearing up everything they found. She smiled grimly. They might keep Mr. Fat Neck up there all day, and even if he got down, he’d have nothing to eat.
That’s what did them in, she thought. Week after week it was the same. They forgot the little things and lost. She leaned back and ran her hand through her hair. It was standing out all over her head.
Two of the dogs began to fight over a scrap of something and the leaping dog jumped into the battle with them. Presently they all ran away, three of them chasing the fourth.
“Throw away your money,” Lottie said gaily, and started around Butcher. He swept out his hand and pushed her down again and left the room without a backward look. It didn’t matter who won, she thought, shaken by the push. That twenty and twenty more would have to go to the finance company to pay off the loan for the wall unit. Butcher knew that; he shouldn’t get so hot about a little joke.<
br />
1 P.M. SUNDAY
“This place looks like a pigpen,” Butcher growled. “You going to clear some of this junk away?” He was carrying a sandwich in one hand, beer in the other; the table was littered with breakfast remains, leftover snacks from the morning and the night before.
Lottie didn’t look at him. “Clear it yourself.”
“I’ll clear it.” He put his sandwich down on the arm of his chair and swept a spot clean, knocking over glasses and cups.
“Pick that up!” Lottie screamed. “I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after you every damn weekend! All you do is stuff and guzzle and expect me to pick up and clean up.”
“Damn right.”
Lottie snatched up the beer can he had put on the table and threw it at him. The beer streamed out over the table, chair, over his legs. Butcher threw down the sandwich and grabbed at her. She dodged and backed away from the table into the center of the room. Butcher followed, his hands clenched.
“You touch me again, I’ll break your arm!”
“Bitch!” He dived for her and she caught his arm, twisted it savagely and threw him to one side.
He hauled himself up to a crouch and glared at her with hatred. “I’ll fix you,” he muttered. “I’ll fix you!”
Lottie laughed. He charged again, this time knocked her backward and they crashed to the floor together and rolled, pummeling each other.
The red beeper sounded and they pulled apart, not looking at each other, and took their seats before the screen.
“It’s the fat lady,” Butcher said malevolently. “I hope the bitch kills herself.”
Mildred had fallen into the stream and was struggling in waist-high water to regain her footing. The current was very swift, all white water here. She slipped and went under. Lottie held her breath until she appeared again, downstream, retching, clutching at a boulder. Inch by inch she drew herself to it and clung there trying to get her breath back. She looked about desperately; she was very white. Abruptly she launched herself into the current, swimming strongly, fighting to get to the shore as she was swept down the river.
Andy’s voice was soft as he said, “That water is forty-eight degrees, ladies and gentlemen! Forty-eight! Dr. Lederman, how long can a person be immersed in water that cold?”
“Not long, Andy. Not long at all.” The doctor looked worried too. “Ten minutes at the most, I’d say.”
“That water is reducing her body heat second by second,” Andy said solemnly. “When it is low enough to produce unconsciousness . . .”
Mildred was pulled under again; when she appeared this time, she was much closer to shore. She caught a rock and held on. Now she could stand up, and presently she dragged herself rock by rock, boulder by boulder, to the shore. She was shaking hard, her teeth chattering. She began to build a fire. She could hardly open her waterproof matchbox. Finally she had a blaze and she began to strip. Her backpack, Andy reminded the audience, had been lost when she fell into the water. She had only what she had on her back, and if she wanted to continue after the sun set and the cold evening began, she had to dry her things thoroughly.
“She’s got nerve,” Butcher said grudgingly.
Lottie nodded. She was weak. She got up, skirted Butcher, and went to the kitchen for a bag. As she cleaned the table, every now and then she glanced at the naked woman by her fire. Steam was rising off her wet clothes.
10 P.M. SUNDAY
Lottie had moved Butcher’s chair to the far side of the table the last time he had left it. His beard was thick and coarse, and he still wore the clothes he had put on to go to work Friday morning. Lottie’s stomach hurt. Every weekend she got constipated.
The game was between Mildred and Clyde now. He was in good shape, still had his glasses and his backpack. He was farther from his truck than Mildred was from hers, but she had eaten nothing that afternoon and was limping badly. Her boots must have shrunk, or else she had not waited for them to get completely dry. Her face twisted with pain when she moved.
The girl was still posing in the high meadow, now against a tall tree, now among the wild flowers. Often a frown crossed her face and surreptitiously she scratched. Ticks, Butcher said. Probably full of them.
Eddie was wandering in a daze. He looked empty, and was walking in great aimless circles. Some of them cracked like that, Lottie knew. It had happened before, sometimes to the strongest one of all. They’d slap him right in a hospital and no one would hear anything about him again for a long time, if ever. She didn’t waste pity on him.
She would win, Lottie knew. She had studied every kind of wilderness they used and she’d know what to do and how to do it. She was strong, and not afraid of noises. She found herself nodding and stopped, glanced quickly at Butcher to see if he had noticed. He was watching Clyde.
“Smart,” Butcher said, his eyes narrowed. “That sonabitch’s been saving himself for the home stretch. Look at him.” Clyde started to lope, easily, as if aware the TV truck was dead ahead.
Now the screen was divided into three parts, the two finalists, Mildred and Clyde, side by side, and above them a large aerial view that showed their red and blue dots as they approached the trucks.
“It’s fixed!” Lottie cried, outraged when Clyde pulled ahead of Mildred. “I hope he falls down and breaks his back!”
“Smart,” Butcher said over and over, nodding, and Lottie knew he was imagining himself there, just as she had done. She felt a chill. He glanced at her and for a moment their eyes held—naked, scheming. They broke away simultaneously.
Mildred limped forward until it was evident each step was torture. Finally she sobbed, sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands.
Clyde ran on. It would take an act of God now to stop him. He reached the truck at twelve minutes before midnight.
For a long time neither Lottie nor Butcher moved. Neither spoke. Butcher had turned the audio off as soon as Clyde reached the truck, and now there were the usual after-game recaps, the congratulations, the helicopter liftouts of the other contestants.
Butcher sighed. “One of the better shows,” he said. He was hoarse.
“Yeah. About the best yet.”
“Yeah.” He sighed again and stood up. “Honey, don’t bother with all this junk now. I’m going to take a shower, and then I’ll help you clean up, okay?”
“It’s not that bad,” she said. “I’ll be done by the time you’re finished. Want a sandwich, doughnut?”
“I don’t think so. Be right out.” He left. When he came back, shaved, clean, his wet hair brushed down smoothly, the room was neat again, the dishes washed and put away.
“Let’s go to bed, honey,” he said, and put his arm lightly about her shoulders. “You look beat.”
“I am.” She slipped her arm about his waist. “We both lost.”
“Yeah, I know. Next week.”
She nodded. Next week. It was the best money they ever spent, she thought, undressing. Best thing they ever bought, even if it would take them fifteen years to pay it off. She yawned and slipped into bed. They held hands as they drifted off to sleep.
STROBOSCOPIC
Alastair Reynolds
Alastair Reynolds is a frequent contributor to Interzone, and has also sold to Asimov’s Science Fiction, Spectrum SF, and elsewhere. His first novel, Revelation Space, was widely hailed as one of the major SF books of the year; it was quickly followed by Chasm City, Redemption Ark, Absolution Gap, and Century Rain, all big books that were big sellers as well, establishing Reynolds as one of the best and most popular new SF writers to enter the field in many years. His other books include a novella collection, Diamond Dogs, Turquoise Days. His most recent book is a new novel, Pushing Ice. Coming up are two new collections, Galactic North and Zima Blue and Other Stories. A professional scientist with a PhD in astronomy, he comes from Wales, but lives in the Netherlands, where he works for the European Space Agency.
Here’s a taut, inventive, and fast-paced story that speculates that the
newish realm of computer game design will eventually merge with the field of daredevil exhibitions of the jump-over-a-canyon-on-a-rocket sled sort, to produce a sport where everything can change in the blink of an eye—sometimes with fatal results.
“OPEN THE BOX.”
I wasn’t making a suggestion. Just in case the tone of my voice didn’t make that clear, I backed up my words with an antique but functional blunderbuss; something won in a gaming tournament half a lifetime earlier. We stood in the airlock of my yacht, currently orbiting Venus: me, my wife, and two employees of Icehammer Games.
Between us was a gray box the size of a child’s coffin.
“After all this time,” said the closest man, his face hidden behind a mirrored gold visor on a rococo white helmet. “Still don’t trust us?”
“First rule of complex systems,” I said. “You can’t tell friends from enemies.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nozomi.”
But even as he spoke, White knelt down and fiddled with the latches on the lid of the box. It opened with a gasp of air, revealing a mass of translucent protective sheeting wadded around something very cold. After passing the blunderbuss to Risa, I reached in and lifted out the package, feeling its bulk.
“What is it?
“An element of a new game,” said the other man, Black. “Something called Stroboscopic.”
I carried the package to a workbench. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s hush-hush,” Black said. “Company hopes to have it up and running in a few months. Rumor is it’s unlike anything else in Tycho.”
I pulled back the last layer of wadding.
It was an animal packed in ice; some kind of hardshelled arthropod; like a cross between a scorpion and a crab—all segmented exoskeletal plates and multijointed limbs terminating in various specialized and nasty-looking appendages. The dark carapace was mottled with patches of dirty white, sparkling with tiny reflections. Elsewhere it shone like polished turtleshell. There were ferocious mouth parts but nothing I recognized as an eye, or any kind of sensory organ at all.
Wild Cards: Inside Straight Page 7