Futures Near and Far

by Will McIntosh

  The man lunged forward. Diana yanked his arm; he winced extravagantly.

  “What town is this?” Green Arrow asked. The man looked away; Green Arrow tensed his bow a notch.

  “Belt Buckleborough,” the man said.

  Beaners squinted. “What’s its theme?”

  The man looked at Beaners as if he were mentally challenged. “Belt buckles.”

  “Oh,” Beaners said, frowning.

  “What’s the matter?” Green Arrow asked. “Belt buckles must come from somewhere.”

  “But it doesn’t fit with either story we’ve heard about how things began! Do shoes come from some other time or dimension? No. Would people take vacations in a town that made belt buckles? No.”

  “Well, maybe a town decided to make belt buckles to sell to the vacation towns,” Green Arrow suggested.

  “Why not ask our friend?” Diana suggested, nodding toward their captive.

  “What is all this?” Green Arrow demanded. “Where is all of this going?”

  The man looked at his shoes. It appeared that he was not going to tell them, that he would rather take an arrow to the chest.

  Green Arrow jabbed the man in the thigh with his arrow, just deep enough to break the skin.

  The man squealed in pain.

  “Where is it going?”

  “Out, to the world.”

  “Out to the world? Aren’t we in the world?” Diana asked. When the man didn’t respond, Green Arrow brandished the arrow.

  “All right!” The old man held up his free hand to ward off the arrow. He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose. “Shit. Shit, shit,” he hissed. “This is a factory.”

  “Well, obviously,” Beaners said, gesturing toward the boxes. “Tell us where those people are going. Those Spidermen we saw. All the clowns.”

  The man shook his head, his expression a mixture of pity and disgust. “Some of the factories produce belt buckles, some circus performers, some living exhibits for the historic recreation attractions. Historic recreation is very big in the United States. They can’t get enough of it. Clowns sell best in France and the Soviet Confederation.”

  Beaners slapped the man’s face. His white glove (now more brown, after days of wandering and warring) did not result in a crisp slapping sound; it was more of a thump. “You’re purposely explaining this so we don’t understand! Tell us! What are those giant metal pigs under Circus Town?”

  “I’m trying,” the man said. “It’s complicated.” He collected himself. “The mechanical pigs allow Texicorp—the corporation that owns all this—to get around the letter of international law. You’re technically not human if you’re birthed by an animal. Of course, the metal pigs aren’t animals; it has to do with how the law was originally written, and everyone looks the other way and accepts the loophole, because they want their clowns and superheroes and whores.”

  “Superheroes come from pigs as well?” Diana asked. She looked badly shaken.

  “Yes, anything bought and sold has to come from pigs.”

  “So, when clowns disappear from Circus Town…” Beaners struggled to understand. It felt like two giant fingers were pinching his temples.

  “They’re sold to circuses, out in the world,” the man said, nodding as if Beaners was catching on. But he wasn’t, really.

  “When you say ‘out in the world,’ which way is the world from here?” Beaners asked.

  “It’s all around, in every direction, once you get past the factories.”

  “And we’re all the same as belt buckles out there?”

  “Now you’re getting it,” the man said.

  To the extent that Beaners understood this new explanation, it sounded truer than either of the previous ones. There were no supernatural events involved, and it was nasty.

  “Why is all this kept from us?” Beaners asked.

  The man shrugged. “It’s cheaper. You manage yourselves, police yourselves, train yourselves. And there’s the authenticity factor—a superhero wouldn’t be much of an attraction if he didn’t believe he was a genuine superhero.”

  Green Arrow looked at Beaners, his eyes round. “Can he possibly be telling the truth?”

  “Of course I’m telling the truth!” the man interjected. A seam of blood had welled up where Green Arrow poked him.

  “I don’t know,” Beaners said. “I’ve heard so many stories about how the world began that I don’t know what to believe any more.” In his gut, though, Beaners knew it was the truth. The Management woman they had passed on the road to Sextown had said she was from outside. She hadn’t meant outside the towns, she’d meant outside.

  The wind through the tunnel kicked up. Moments later, a transport breezed into view, filled with sleeping clowns. Hundreds of them, stacked two and three to a seat. Beaners watched them pass, dumbfounded.

  “How can that be?” Green Arrow asked. “We sacked Circus Town! The clowns are all free.”

  “You sacked Circus Town?” the man said. “You mean a bunch of superheroes stormed the town and took control of it?”

  “No,” Green Arrow said, “a bunch of knights and clowns took control of it. And the underground.”

  Now the old man looked dumbfounded. “That’s how you got down here unlocked.” He shook his head slowly, absorbing everything, muttering under his breath. “That’s why there are so many of them. Management got wind of it, went in and cleaned house. They’ll have to offer deep discounts to move so much circus stuff at once.”

  “They cleaned house? You mean they got everyone in Circus Town? That fast?” Beaners said, his lips numb.

  “It wouldn’t take long. They’d bubble it over, lock everyone down, send in a crew. Lots of overtime pay, though, on such short notice. They’ll start Circus Town over.”

  Green Arrow set the arrow with the bloody tip back in his quiver. He sighed, shook his head.

  “What now,” Diana whispered, fighting back tears.

  Another transport went by, piled with sleeping elephants.

  “I always knew that any day, any moment, you could be gone,” Green Arrow said, his voice shaking, “but I didn’t understand what that meant.”

  Beaners finally had his answers, although he didn’t like them much. He watched Green Arrow and Diana commune in silence, the old man between them with his head hanging. At least they had each other. For the hundredth time Beaners thought of Roxy. Was there any way she would have him, not as a customer, but as a companion? Beaners didn’t even care if there was sex involved (well, not much, anyway); he just wished he could have more conversations with her. Green Arrow had said that if Beaners answered the age-old question of where people went when they disappeared, he’d be the most famous clown in history. Would that impress Roxy? Maybe. In any case, Beaners realized, he knew what came next.

  “Take this guy’s clothes,” Beaners said to Green Arrow, gesturing at the man. “Then find clothes for Diana, and get outside. Who’ll know you’re superheroes?”

  The old man grunted amusement.

  “What’s so funny?” Green Arrow asked.

  “Who’ll know you’re superheroes? Only every scanner you walk through. Your best chance to survive is to give yourself up to Management.”

  It was Beaners’ turn to laugh. “Oh, sure. Maybe they’ll give us jobs. Us and the belt buckles.” No one laughed. If the circumstances were different, Beaners was sure that crack would have gotten laughs. “I say we go into the preaching business. Let’s go back and tell everyone. Let’s shout it from the rooftops.”

  “Who’ll believe us? What proof do we have?” Green Arrow asked.

  Beaners considered. He pointed to a box of belt buckles. “We’ll take one of those, with the funny markings on it, and,” Beaners pointed at the old man, “we’ll take him.”

  Green Arrow and Diana looked at each other. Diana nodded.

  “You’re making a mistake. There’s no telling how Management will react if you do this,” the man said.

  “I guess we’ll f
ind out,” Beaners said.

  The Perimeter

  A sound like the scrabbling of a hundred fingernails woke Philippa. At first she thought it was part of whatever dream she’d been having, but it grew louder as she came fully awake instead of fading away.

  It was coming from both the closet and the ceiling. She couldn’t imagine what it could be. There were no mice on Cyan, but it was too uneven—too intentional—to be machinery. She pulled the covers to her chest and drew her legs up, her bare feet suddenly feeling exposed. Nothing from the wild was supposed to be able to penetrate the settlement’s perimeter fence, but how many failures and breaches had there been since they’d arrived ten years ago? Twenty at least. More every year.

  The skittering stopped.

  Just as she was beginning to feel relieved, it returned. A sharper sound joined it, of clicking on tile. A prickling dread ran through Philippa as she propped herself onto her elbows to peer into the dark closet. She could see something moving inside but couldn’t make out what it was. What she needed to do was leap off the bed, take two huge steps so her feet spent as little time as possible on the floor, and get out.

  A small, bulbous head squeezed through the crack in the door. Philippa inhaled sharply and screamed for help. The thing stopped short and looked at her, its eyes narrowing. It hissed a warning as Philippa drew her knees to her chest and screamed again, unsure if anyone could hear her.

  Round, intelligent, lidless eyes stared up at her as it emerged. It had so many legs. Philippa clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a terrified squeal.

  It just kept coming, unwinding out of the closet, pressing along the baseboard. The brilliant teal-and-burgundy legs rippled like waves as the thing moved. It had no feet—its legs ended in points.

  Philippa’s breath came in tremulous gasps. She looked around the room for something she could use to kill the thing or drive it away, but there was nothing hard, nothing sharp. Only clothes, framed photos, a half-eaten melon on a plastic plate.

  By the time the thing’s tail (pointing toward the ceiling like a terrier’s) appeared, it was pressed along all four walls. It had to be twenty-five feet long. Its neck stretched horribly as the thing raised its head almost level with her bed. She had to get out of there. Stand on the bed, leap to the floor, one step and use her adrenaline to leap high over the thing and out the door. Slam the door shut, get out of the apartment—

  The thing exploded into movement. It darted under her bed—a long chain snaking crazily, its tail whipping. Philippa pulled herself into a ball, unable to breathe, as a gentle scratching started and the blanket at the bottom of the bed fluttered and danced, and she could feel its pointed feet scrabbling on the sheets. Philippa cried for help in an airy whimper. She was quivering uncontrollably, drenched with sweat and sobbing. She was afraid to move an inch, terrified to look under the blanket. But she had to do something, had to get herself to safety. She lifted the blanket and peered beneath.

  It was everywhere.

  Tears rolled down Philippa’s face. Her lungs refused to accept air as the thing took a ginger step onto her stomach, a pointed leg pressing, threatening to puncture. It was watching her, its three eyes a kaleidoscopic yellow and pink. It took another step. Philippa slid partially upright, ever so gently. The thing gargled, pressed a needlelike foot into her stomach until she felt a painful prick. She froze. The pressure eased.

  Propped on one elbow, she watched it cross her stomach. It slid beneath her—its legs scrabbling against her back like a hundred roaches—and came out the other side. Then it crawled across her stomach again.

  It wound around her a second time. Dozens of needle-sharp legs pressed against her skin, each leaving a slight indentation, threatening to puncture. The legs fidgeted; the sectioned body twitched.

  If she could reach her com in the kitchen, there was a word to call a security emergency. Philippa couldn’t remember it.

  It went around her again, higher this time, feet like thorns puncturing her nightgown, pressing into the soft flesh of her breasts. Her nose was running, but she didn’t dare lift her arm to wipe it.

  Soon there was nothing left of the thing on the sheets; all of it was on her, wrapped around her a dozen times. It tucked its head against her collarbone and looked up at her.

  An inch at a time, Philippa slid out of bed. The thing didn’t protest. She had to get to her com. Barely able to inhale, her breath impeded by the constriction across her chest and stomach, she watched the thing’s face for signs that it noticed her movements, but it only went on looking at her.

  When she felt the cold floor under her feet, the thing opened its long slit of a mouth and gurgled something. She didn’t understand the deep, watery sound that came from it but knew it was a warning.

  “Help me, help me, help me,” she chanted as she crossed the living room and entered the kitchen. She activated her com and said, “Emergency red, emergency red,” the distress phrase coming back to her out of thin air.

  Almost immediately a voice answered, “Emergency red, or do you need a medic? You shouldn’t call emergency red unless—”

  “Emergency red, goddammit!”

  “On the way,” the voice responded.

  Philippa stood in the center of the kitchen, arms extended, whimpering, as various legs on the thing lifted to groom its body. It covered her from waist to chest, and it smelled awful, rotten.

  She heard the front door fly open. The thump of boots filled the hall; then half a dozen people in red security uniforms appeared.

  A thousand points stung Philippa simultaneously. She dropped to her knees, screaming in pain as the creature made a horrible sputtering sound, like an oil-filled tire deflating. It swayed from side to side like a cobra while every single spiny foot squeezed into Philippa.

  “Help me,” she whispered, still holding her arms away from her body as the thing gurgled at the security people.

  The small, dark woman in the lead spread her arms. “Everyone take a step back. Don’t make any threatening movements. Weapons away.” There was rustling and clicking, then silence. “Back out of the room, one at a time. Meisell, you first.”

  When everyone was out, the woman looked at Philippa. “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Philippa.”

  “My name is Melba. Can you tell me what happened in a nice, calm voice?”

  Philippa told her as the creature’s head turned one way and then the other, as if trying to follow the conversation.

  When Philippa finished, Melba asked, “Do you have family we can contact?”

  “What? No, my parents are dead. I have uncles and…” She trailed off. The question had thrown her because it wasn’t what she’d expected to come next. “Jesus, why are you just standing there? Get it off me.”

  Melba shook her head tightly. “Some of the creatures in the wild are extremely bizarre, and I don’t know anything about this one. We could cut off its head and learn that only makes it angry.”

  “Well, find someone who does know about it.”

  Melba held up her hands, urging Philippa to stay calm. “Someone is working on that right now.” Melba lifted her com, requested a medic. Why a medic hadn’t been alerted as soon as the emergency red had been called, Philippa couldn’t guess. “In the meantime, I’m going to have you sedated. We can’t let a medic get close enough to you to deliver the injection, so you’ll have to do it yourself. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” A sedative sounded good to her. She’d never so desperately wanted to be unconscious.

  * * *

  Pain woke Philippa, shredding the thick haze of drugged sleep. When she came to awareness, she found she was already sitting up. A medic, dressed in orange and wearing a mask, was holding vigil over her, hovering uncertainly, keeping her distance in a small room with a low, rounded ceiling. For a few seconds, Philippa couldn’t remember the terrible thing. She knew something awful had happened to her but couldn’t remember what.

  Then she saw the creatur
e peering up at her, and remembered. She made a pitiful, hopeless sound in the back of her throat.

  It was hurting her. Not as badly as when the security people burst into her kitchen, but bad. She stood. The pain stopped. Relief washing over her, she tried to catch her breath. She could only take shallow breaths, and the terror she felt demanded great whooping breaths.

  “I can’t breathe,” Philippa whimpered, looking at the medic, whose mouth was a tight line, her eyes filled with tears.

  The thing pricked Philippa again, and she jolted and cried out. It was less harsh this time; its legs were pressing and easing in a rhythmic motion, not puncturing, and it was only using a few of its legs, all on Philippa’s left side, high on her rib cage. She sat.

  Instantly, the pricking turned to vicious stabbing. Screaming, she leaped to her feet. It stopped.

  Melba burst into the room. “What’s happening? What is it doing to you?” Philippa was too distraught to answer. The rhythmic, focused pricking had started again. It grew more intense, more insistent with each repetition, until it felt like she was being stabbed with a dozen needles. Whimpering, she stepped toward the medic. The medic took a step away reflexively as more feet pricked Philippa, all on her left side.

  “Somebody help me,” Philippa pleaded. She turned toward Melba, looking for help, any kind of help.

  The pain stopped.

  “I can give you more painkiller or a stronger sleep inducer,” the medic offered, looking sympathetic, but also terrified.

  The pain started again, only this time on her right side.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Make it stop. Somebody please make it stop.” She wanted to sit, to sleep, but she was afraid if she did it would sting her again. The pricking was bad, but the stinging was much worse.

  “Philippa, do you want more painkiller?” the medic asked. Philippa turned toward her, and the pain stopped.

  It started up again instantly on her left side. Philippa turned toward Melba, to her left, because last time that had worked. It worked again. Philippa looked down at the little face looking up at her. She almost expected it to nod, but it didn’t; its cold, strange eyes only stared.