Stars: The Anthology

by Janis Ian

  Hey Greg it's me

  Greg's voice was deep and tinny, under the two guitars: "HELLO, AMARANTH. WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN US IN THE STAIRMASTER'S REALM?"

  I typed in, I guess

  "GREAT," he whispered.

  I typed: What's it really like?

  "IT'S REALLY GREAT."

  I typed: Want to talk to Billy?

  "BILLY WHO?"

  "I don't want to talk to him anyway," Billy said. "It's late."

  We logged off, which was all right with me. I let Billy get to third base on his bed, under the poster girls. He was so proud he walked me home. Sneaking in was easy, since my father and what's her-name go to bed right after Seinfeld.

  ~~~~~

  My father waited until 3:30 the next day before he came to the jail to take me "home." I guess he thought it was like school. He took me out the side door. He even brought a coat to throw over my head to protect me against the reporters, of which there weren't any.

  It was understood that I wasn't supposed to go out. I said, where would I go? I told him I wanted to do some homework. He believed that, even though I hadn't been to school since the week before. As soon as he left, I logged onto the internet and typed in the URL, which I remembered even though I wasn't supposed to have seen it.

  http://stairmaster.die

  I hit RETURN. Nothing happened. No welcome, no stairs. After a while there was a BEEP and a box came up.

  File not found

  I tried a search under kevork, under death, under stairmaster. I got lots of sites but none of them were right. No Stairmaster's Realm. No Billy.

  Then I remembered the music. I looked under my desk for my CDs but they were all gone. No Toxic Waste, no Hard Hate, not even Sperm Dogs or Hole. My father had thrown them away! Luckily, there was a box of my mother's old CDs in my closet, with her broken guitar. Bob Dylan, Janis Ian, Joan Baez, Laura Nyro, soft rock. The Beatles. It wasn't the right music but on a hunch I kept sticking them in and popping them out until I got one that worked.

  One guitar but the same four chords, over and over, and there they were: the golden stairs with the red rug.

  There were the outline couples, hand in hand.

  Welcome to the Stairmaster's Realm

  Enter User Name

  None of the outlines looked familiar. But then how familiar did Billy look to me? I typed in my secret name, Amaranth.

  Enter Password

  I typed in kevork and one of the couples in the background moved. I clicked on the boy’s face and it was Billy, wearing a suit and tie, just like in his newspaper picture. There was the string. My heart was pounding as I heard his voice, all tinny and small: "HELLO, AMARANTH, HOW ARE YOU?"

  I didn't make it. They cut me down

  "IT'S REALLY GREAT HERE."

  They put me in jail

  "ARE YOU PLANNING TO JOIN US HERE IN THE STAIRMASTER'S REALM?"

  I guess. But how?

  "Eleanor? Amaranth!?" My father was knocking at the door.

  Help

  "COME DANCE WITH ME."

  I'm like, huh? But it wasn't Billy, it was the record. And my father at the door, banging and shuffling around.

  "Amaranth? Who are you talking to? I thought you were doing homework. Your mother has fixed a nice dinner, to welcome you home. Your favorite, macaroni and cheese."

  Macaroni? I thought, hitting PAUSE. Don't think so!

  ~~~~~

  The kids at school call the corner where the cool kids hang out, Marlboro Country. I waited there, with one black string on my wrist and another on my neck, pretending to inhale. Billy appeared and said, "Now do you believe?"

  I always believed, I said. But I told him I didn't understand how the music thing worked.

  "It's interactive," he said, as if that explained anything. "You have to go in twos, you have to have the right music—"

  Hard Hate, I nodded.

  "'Stairway to Hell.' That's the way we got it from Greg, and he got it from Colorado. Now I'm next in line but the question is, who gets to go with me. Not everybody is willing to go all the way."

  I'm like, Like your girl friend?

  "She doesn't get it. She thinks they are dead. She doesn't understand that there is eternal life and that they will live forever in a place without rules. There aren't many who are willing to go all the way."

  Is this a proposal?

  He didn't get it but that's OK. There's lots of things boys don't get. That night I let him go all the way in his father's Volvo. The next night he picked me up at Kwik Pik and took me to the old roller rink on the north side of town, and you know the rest.

  ~~~~~

  May I be excused? I asked politely, getting up from the table. Homework, you know.

  My father beamed like a fool. I ran back to my room. The stairs were still on the screen, and my mom's music was still playing: soft rock, like before. The same four chords as "Stairway" but not electric. It was spooky.

  You have been disconnected.

  I logged back on, same music, soft rock, and when the chords started repeating I knew I was there. But this time I couldn't get the outline figures to move. I clicked on Billy. His face came up but he wouldn't say anything. He looked dead. I clicked on he girl outline next to him but no face came up. It was spooky, but it made me feel better.

  I knew that spot was saved for me.

  I put the computer to sleep and crawled under the covers until I heard my father and my latest mom go to bed. As I passed their bedroom I could hear them talking, or rather, him talking and her listening. "Tomorrow," he was saying, "She will go back to school and see the shrink twice a week," etcetera, etcetera.

  I'm like, Sure. As silent as a cat, I went down to the kitchen and got a plastic bag and a flashlight, checked the batteries, and let myself out, clicking the door shut softly behind me.

  The garage at Billy's was open. I sneaked in and went down to his room. It was just like the last time I had seen it. There were the girls on the wall. The guitar in the corner was wood, like my mother's before I broke it. The computer was on, but asleep. It was covered with a white sheet, like a veil, or rather a shroud.

  I didn't need the flashlight after all. Hard Hate was still in the computer's CD slot. I popped it out, then popped it back in, thinking, why not? There was no one awake, probably no one home. It was better than "my" house.

  While the two-guitar intro was playing I typed in the URL and hit RETURN. Again it was like the CD was stuck, playing the same four chords over and over. Yes! There were the stairs and the welcome logo. I tried to log on but all I got was

  incorrect user name.

  I tried Billy since it was his computer, and it worked. I pulled the plastic bag over my head and hit RETURN. All the legs started to move. When I clicked on Billy, he looked confused in his suit and tie.

  "HELLO, BILLY," he said. His voice sounded whispery under the music.

  It’s me, Amaranth, I typed in. I can't breathe. I thought he would like that.

  "THAT’S NICE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN US IN THE STAIRMASTER'S REALM?"

  I can't breathe

  "IT'S REALLY GREAT," he said. The guitars were getting louder and louder.

  I can't breathe

  My body kept wanting to breathe, even if I didn't. I touched Billy's face on the screen. I couldn't find his hands.

  "I'M FINE," he said. "IT'S REALLY GREAT HERE, BILLY."

  I sucked the plastic into my mouth, like a dentist's thing, and all of a sudden there I was, on the steps. I was running down, I had made it through. The music was gone but I could hear the scraping of my shoes, some new kind of shoes. Leather on stone.

  What happened to the rugs? I was on concrete stairs. No gold, no bannisters. The walls were gray, rough and cold. It was like the stairs at the airport parking lot. Suddenly I felt very sad, thinking of my poor fat body laying there like an empty house. I was at the airport when he told me my mother died.

  I stopped. I tried to turn around but I couldn’t. I could hear
voices down the stairs.

  I yelled, BILLY! But it didn't come out as a yell. It came out as a whisper. I must have taken another step down or turned a corner, because he was right there beside me. I was sitting on a landing.

  BILLY, I whispered. WE MADE IT. I reached for his hand but it wasn't exactly there, not so you could hold it.

  "WHO IS IT?" he said.

  AMARANTH

  "AMARANTH WHO?"

  JUST AMARANTH, I said.

  "WELCOME TO THE STAIRMASTER'S REALM."

  You don't cry when you’re dead, even when somebody hurts your feelings. It's just like when you’re alive. I looked around. So this was it.

  I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE NICER, I said. Sort of said.

  "WE ALL DID. WHY ARE YOU PULLING AT YOUR FACE?"

  I hated the way my skin felt. WHERE'S THE RUG AND THE … THE BANNISTER?

  "IT DOESN'T LOOK AS NICE FROM THIS SIDE."

  WHERE'S THE MUSIC?

  "IT DOESN'T LOOK AS NICE FROM THIS SIDE."

  I tried to turn around but I couldn't. "WE GO DOWN BUT NOT UP," some girl said. I hadn't noticed her before. She was sitting two steps down, trying to light a cigarette. The matches wouldn’t work.

  WHAT ABOUT THE NO RULES?

  "IT'S NOT A RULE," said Billy. "IT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS."

  I'm like, WHATEVER. There were other girls on the steps below. Some boys too. They were just sitting. They were not in couples at all. I tried to look up the stairs but I couldn't.

  WHAT HAPPENS NOW?

  "NOTHING," said Billy. I sat down beside him. The concrete steps were cold. I was wearing a sort of dress with no back, like a hospital gown.

  NOTHING? We sat there for a long time.

  NOTHING.

  We sat there for a long time.

  ~~~~~

  Come dance with me.

  I'm like, What’s that?

  "WE'RE FINE," said Billy. "HOW ARE YOU?"

  CAN YOU HEAR THAT? I asked. I could hear music, but not Hard Hate. The same four chords, though. How long had I been sitting here, on these concrete steps? It seemed like forever. My hands and butt were cold.

  I stood up. The music was louder. I looked behind me, up. The steps led around a corner that went two ways at once. It was weird. No rug, no gold.

  "WE DON'T GO UP," said Billy. He was holding my hand but my hand was still cold.

  Come dance with me.

  I JUST WANT TO SEE

  "SHE DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING," said some girl.

  I went up one step. Billy's hand slipped through mine. Around a corner, there was a girl. Sort of a girl. She was young like a girl but old like a teacher at the same time. It was weird. She was singing and I knew the song. It was one of the folky songs my mother had left behind. Soft rock. I suddenly wondered: had she intended to leave them for me?

  WELCOME TO THE STAIRMASTER'S REALM, I said. I sounded exactly like Billy. It was not really my real voice.

  Come dance with me, she said, and I took another step. She was holding Billy's guitar.

  I'm like, THAT'S BILLY'S. Plus, she was too old to be there. This was our place.

  I don't think so, she said. It's my place too. I come here when I sing this one song. I've been coming here for years.

  LIKE HARD HATE.

  I don't have to kill myself, she said. Sometimes I die on stage. She laughed. That's a joke. Every time I sing this song, I find myself here. Back here. I know this place well. I have known this place for years.

  THIS IS HELL.

  She's like, Think I don't know that? It's only for kids but we singers get to come and go. At least I get to play my old D-18. She knocked on the guitar, like knocking on a door.

  Music makes space, she said. And since the universe includes every space, every new space is a new universe. No matter how small.

  IT'S REALLY GREAT HERE, I said.

  She just shook her head. She held out her hand but still played the guitar at the same time, a neat trick. Come dance with me.

  I followed her up the stairs. One step, two. It felt weird. I'm like, WHERE ARE WE GOING?

  I'm not going anywhere. She laughed. Song's over, hear that thunder? I'm outa here, girl. She handed me the guitar and I knocked on it, like knocking on a door. Then she was gone and I heard sirens, pulling me like a rope. I dropped the guitar, but not on purpose. It made a big noise on the steps. "She's still breathing," somebody said.

  ~~~~~

  I opened my eyes. It was the same black woman as before. A woman was standing behind her with tired sad kind troubled eyes. "Mother?"

  "Oh honey, no, I'm Billy's mother. Was Billy's mother. Now what have you done?"

  It was weird; she was holding my hand. I closed my eyes and looked for Billy, but he was gone. It was all gone: the steps, the guitar, the girl singer. It was all gone and the weird thing was, I was sort of glad.

  "Here, kid." It was the black cop in the crummy suit. He offered me a Marlboro. "Your dad's on his way."

  "Hooray," I said, and I let him light it with his Lakers lighter, even though I don't smoke. And then, for some reason, maybe because he was trying so hard to be nice, I started to cry.

  (Back to TOC)

  The Scent of Trumpets, the Voices of Smoke

  Tad Williams

  There was a girl, her name was Joan

  She heard voices in the air

  saying "You are not alone

  "All is well. I am here."

  ~ from Joan by Janis Ian

  I am met in the garish Tempix lobby by my "Timeviser"—an artless construction that makes me long for the sensible abbreviations and acronyms of GovHub. She is a plump young woman with an enthusiastic manner, her hair styled in an unbecoming back-thrust.

  "You must be M. Aibek." Her own name, she announces (although I did not ask) is Gutrun. Her handclasp is over-long and she stares at me as though I am a much-reported but seldom seen species. At first I think it must be my general dishevelment that has caused her reaction—the long Hydra-S project has left me pale as tank fungus, face blotchy and eyes sunken, thin as a dying breath. In fact, it is the termination of that excruciating, frustrating four-month operation that has brought me to this place, given me this unusual but nevertheless powerful need for a change, to experience something other than the usual white-lights-and-serenity circuit while my body is being cleansed and rebuilt from the cellular level up at the government’s ResRehab facility.

  As we traverse the short distance to the appointment bay, she chattering about various displays on the walls, I realize there is a simpler explanation for her excessive interest in my person: my former bond-mate Suvinha Chahar-Bose works here at Tempix—may even be this woman’s supervisor. Could Suvinha have told her something about me? I despise gossip, and have always done my best to avoid being its subject. When she took early leave from our contract Suvinha was in an emotionally heightened state, and she is thus likely to have made untrue claims, although my conduct toward her never violated even the slightest word of our agreement. Still, it irritates me more than I like to admit to think this wide-hipped, talkative young woman may think she knows something about me. It goes against every particle of a Manipulator’s training. We do not insert ourselves. We do not allow ourselves to be drawn in. We are subtle to the point of invisibility.

  I suppose that for those reasons it might seem strange to this Gutrun that I have chosen this particular excursion, but I work hard for my government, and thus I work hard on behalf of all citizens, including her. Do I need to justify my recreation choices to private-sector functionaries?

  She explains that she has found, in her words, "just what I need" for my "little vacation". I try to form a polite smile, but it is precisely to experience a life in which I am not impeded at every turn by attention-seekers and condescending obstructionists like this Gutrun person that I have asked Tempix Corporation to find me an antidote, if only for a short while. I am tired of subtlety, for the endless games of what Suvinha once called my "Trust No Human, Especially Your
self" profession. Suddenly a chance to experience the fierce excitements of the ancient Era of Kings, of a setting in which power could be wielded openly and honestly by one person, instead of by the countless quiet manipulations of government operatives like myself, seems very appealing.

  True power, swift and pure! It will be like breathing fresh air after months in a dank, windowless cell.

  Gutrun says that the destination she has selected is a monarchy in the Terran European Middle Ages, so-called. There was no era of kings as such, she informs me: different cultures moved in and out of monarchy at different times. This kingdom will be the old mid-European country known as France. And I will be the king, she assures me.

  The self-indulgence of the lobby is fortunately not mirrored in the working areas of Tempix. Behind the loud façade hides the same cool aesthetic that marks virtually any modern operation. The men and women who pass by in the wide, blue-carpeted hallway nod politely to Gutrun as we pass, but show no interest in me at all. I am reassured. In some circles, because of the important but low-profile nature of our work, Manipulators exercise a morbid fascination for the public. I wish only to be a customer, to be treated in the manner of all others, efficiently, anonymously. My trip, at least within its bounds, should provide as much notoriety and attention as I can tolerate. I am not Suvinha: I do not enjoy talking about my work to outsiders.

  As we pass more Tempix employees, I cannot help wondering if Suvinha—my bond-mate who will now never be wife—began as one of these low-level functionaries. She is a hard-minded woman; I can easily imagine her knifing her way upward through schools of softer, gentler fish, swimming toward the levels of light. Did she make her way there by pure effort, or did she graduate from an academy into a prepared slot? I never asked her.

  In the appointment bay I am introduced to three sober young technicians whose names slide gracefully from my mind. I ask if the correct arrangements have been made with ResRehab and they assure me that the bureau’s employees will be on the premises to escort my body within minutes after my mind has been connected to the Tempix system. When I have no further questions they seem puzzled, a little uneasy.

  "But you’re a new customer," one of them says. "Don’t you have any concerns? Aren’t you curious about what’s going to happen to you?"