"No. No, you weren't."
"You couldn't have known,” I say. Blacks veins crowd inward from the edge of my vision, and my head and fingers feel shockingly cold.
My body lies submerged in an icy dampness. I barely feel—though I do feel—his hand clasp mine. My consciousness flickers and my one regret, strange for all I should regret, is how I won't live to contemplate the sky rich with stars. Black bands stream inward, but I hold his hand and feel myself enmeshed in something larger than my frail body, larger than this room and this city, enfolded in some pattern I'll never understand. “Hold on,” the big man says, and then his golden face goes dark.
* * * *
6. Weight
Uncle Simon, Birdy's children call me. The girl is five, the boy three. Babysitting has become a way of remembering my own childhood, which was, after a fashion, happy. The circumstances, in any case, were happy, though my way of seeing cost me any binding love of family or feelings of joy. I barely knew those people, and then they were gone.
I work in Birdy's office at his private practice in Minnetonka. The normalcy of the neighborhood, the orderliness of its ordinariness, disturbs me nearly as much as my memories of the Soviet prisons. Birdy dislikes it too, having grown up in the countryside, but says to give it time.
Those voices were like a conversation with a companion who had little to say. I did most of the talking. As it turns out, they were listening.
Maybe the first breathings of those voices were only me, but later, they were something else, and my already diminished will slid into a hole. Much of my memory of that time remains enshrouded.
Theories have been expounded: Perhaps I inhaled some of those carbon tubes and they lodged themselves in my brain—at least, that's Birdy's hypothesis. The big man's view is less scientific. He believes I'm just “susceptible.” And here I'd thought myself so single-minded. He once said to me, “A man who hears only one voice isn't sane either."
They still come, the voices. Not every day, but often enough that I can't let down my guard. I'm still figuring out who the person is that inhabits this body, but I'm insisting that there will be only the one. The old self cannot return, and no alien others will take its place.
* * * *
On his most recent visit, we meet in the screened back porch at Birdy's house and watch squirrels compete with birds at the feeders in the yard. The Birdwells’ children sit on either of the big man's feet and hold his calves.
"So the voices won't ever go away?” I ask.
"Likely not. Consider them . . . a temptation."
"A temptation."
"Everyone has them.” Left leg first, where the girl holds on, he straightens his leg, then drops it fast and lifts the other, giving the boy a ride. He speeds up, slows down, surprising the children, making them squeal.
"Even you?” I ask. “Tempted."
"Of course."
"So what's your weakness? What tempts you?"
He answers immediately. “Pride. The belief that I can do the Work on my own.” He bounces his legs like pistons, then grabs the children. He stands abruptly, hoisting them high. He puts his massive head between theirs and they kiss him.
I've asked him what he thinks was planned. Was the rift meant for something to come through? Had it all been a plan to attack him?
"Perhaps our stopping you in New York changed their plans,” he says. “The focus shifted to me. Or it didn't. But unless they try again, we'll never know. Life is full of mysteries."
"Some are terrifying."
"Yes, they are."
* * * *
Several times a day, I slide up my pant leg and study the machinery. Fine work, work worthy of the man, or of any human artificer. Often, I fall into a trance, thinking of the more complex and profound mechanisms ranging through my body that make possible the observing mind and pondering soul. One could study these arrangements into eternity. And so they fall away from us the harder we look.
Then I return to seeing my leg, this memento of my time with the man himself. We are made of mean materials. Carbon. Water. Animated, we move about, we blunder about. We strive.
Though I'm in better health now than ever in my life, I'm still not a man the uninformed observer would consider strong. Yet neither would a stranger guess what I've lived through. My impairment barely slows me down.
It is not more than I can bear.
Copyright © 2011 William Preston
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Short Story: THE HOMECOMING by Mike Resnick
Mike Resnick is the winner of five Hugos from a record thirty-four nominations, most of which have appeared in Asimov's. His current books are The Buntline Special and Blasphemy, and The Doctor and the Kid will be out later this year. Mike has been announced as the Guest of Honor at the 2012 Worldcon in Chicago. In his latest tale for Asimov's, Mike takes a candid look at family relationships and notes how difficult it sometimes is for parents and children to find common ground, and just how painful and frought can be . . .
I don't know which bothers me more, my lumbago or my arthritis. One day it's one, one day it's the other. They can cure cancer and transplant every damned organ in your body; you'd think they could find some way to get rid of aches and pains. Let me tell you, growing old isn't for sissies.
I remember that I was having a typical dream. Well, typical for me, anyway. I was climbing the four steps to my front porch, only when I got to the third step there were six more, so I climbed them and then there were ten more, and it went on and on. I'd probably still be climbing them if the creature hadn't woke me up.
It stood next to my bed, staring down at me. I blinked a couple of times, trying to focus my eyes, and stared back, sure this was just an extension of my dream.
It was maybe six feet tall, its skin a glistening, almost metallic silver, with multi-faceted bright red eyes like an insect. Its ears were pointed and batlike, and moved independently of its head and each other. Its mouth jutted out a couple of inches like some kind of tube, and looked like it was only good for sucking fluids. Its arms were slender, with no hint of the muscles required to move them, and its fingers were thin and incredibly elongated. It was as weird a nightmare figure as I'd dreamed up in years.
Finally it spoke, in a voice that sounded more like a set of chimes than anything else.
"Hello, Dad,” it said.
That's when I knew I was awake.
"So this is what you look like,” I growled, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and sitting up. “What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm glad to see you too,” he replied.
"You didn't answer my question,” I said, feeling around for my slippers.
"I heard about Mom—not from you, of course—and I wanted to see her once more before the end."
"Can you see through those things?” I asked, indicating his eyes.
"Better than you can."
Big surprise. Hell, everyone can see better than I can.
"How did you get in here anyway?” I said as I got to my feet. The furnace was as old and tired as I was and there was a chill in the air, so I put on my robe.
"You haven't changed the front door's code words since I left.” He looked around the room. “You haven't painted the place either."
"The lock's supposed to check your retinagram or read your DNA or something."
"It did. They haven't changed."
I looked him up and down. “The hell they haven't."
He seemed about to reply, then thought better of it. Finally he said, “How is she?"
"She has her bad days and her worse days,” I answered. “She's the old Julia maybe two or three times a week for a minute or two, but that's all. She can still speak, and she still recognizes me.” I paused. “She won't recognize you, of course, but nobody else you ever knew will either."
"How long has she been like this?"
"Maybe a year."
"You should have told me,” he said.
"Why?”
I asked. “You gave up being her son and became whatever it is you are now."
"I'm still her son, and you had my contact information."
I stared at him. “Well, you're not my son, not anymore."
"I'm sorry you feel that way,” he replied. Suddenly he sniffed the air. “It smells stale."
"Tired old houses are like tired old men,” I said. “They don't function on all cylinders."
"You could move to a smaller, newer place."
"This house and me, we've grown old together. Not everyone wants to move to Alpha whatever-the-hell-it-is."
He looked around. “Where is she?"
"In your old room,” I said.
He turned, walked out into the hall. “Haven't you replaced that thing yet?” he asked, indicating an old wall table. “It was scarred and wobbly when I still lived here."
"It's just a table. It holds whatever I put on it. That's all it has to do."
He looked up at the ceiling. “The paint's peeling too."
"I'm too old to do it myself, and painters cost money. I'm living on a fixed income."
He didn't reply to that, but walked down the hall and was fiddling with the door handle when I joined him.
"It's locked,” he said.
"Sometimes she gets up and goes out for a walk, and then can't remember how to get back home.” I grimaced. “I can probably keep her here another few months, but then she's going to have to move into a special care facility."
I uttered the code word and the door opened.
Julia was propped up on her pillows, staring at a blank holoscreen across the room, unmindful of a lock of gray hair that had worked its way loose and obscured her left eye's vision. The channel she was on had finished broadcasting for the night, but it didn't make any difference to her. She was content watching the flickering gray cube.
I ordered the bed lamp to turn on and gently pinned her hair back up. Now that the room was illuminated, I could see our son staring at it. The holographs of him when he played on the high school basketball team were still on the wall, as well as the one of him in his tux at the prom, and his trophy for winning the science contest remained atop the dresser, though it needed dusting. Just above it was his framed diploma from college. Lining the walls were other photos and holographs, from when he was still a baby until a month before he'd undergone what Julia always referred to as his Change. I could see his face twitching as he looked around at the memorabilia of his youth, and I felt like I could almost read his thoughts: They've turned the damned place into a shrine. Which I suppose we had—but to what he had been, not to what he was now. And I'd moved her in here because she was comforted by things from the past, even things she could no longer name.
"Hello, Jordan,” said Julia, smiling at me. “How are you?"
"I'm fine, Julia. Do you mind if I turn off the holo?"
"I was enjoying it,” she said. “How are you?"
I ordered the screen to deactivate.
"Is it August yet?” she asked.
"No, Julia,” I said patiently. “It's February, just like it was yesterday."
"Oh,” she said, frowning. “I thought it might be August.” Then a friendly smile. “How are you?"
Suddenly our son stepped forward. “Hello, Mother."
She stared at him and smiled. “You are really quite beautiful."
He reached out and took her hand with those incredibly long, stick-like fingers before I could stop him.
"I've missed you, Mother,” he said. He seemed like he was choked with emotion, but I couldn't tell, because his voice never changed from those musical chimes. It was so unlike a human voice that I don't know how we were able to understand him, but somehow we did.
"It is Halloween already?” asked Julia. “Are you dressed for a party?"
"No, Mother. This is the way I look."
"Well, I think you're beautiful.” She stopped and frowned. “Do I know you?"
He smiled, sadly I thought. “You did once. I am your son."
She was silent for a moment, and I knew she was trying to remember. “I think I had a little boy once, but I can't recall his name."
"My name is Philip."
"Philip . . . Philip . . .” she repeated. Finally she shook her head. “No, I think it was Jordan."
"Jordan is your husband,” said Philip. “I'm your son."
"I think I had a little boy once,” she said. Her face went blank for a moment. Then: “Is it Halloween already?"
"No,” he said gently. “I'll let you go back to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
"That will be fine,” she said. “Do I know you?"
"I'm your son,” he said.
"I'm sure I had a son a long time ago,” she said. “How are you?"
I could see a crystal tear run down his silver cheek. He tenderly laid her hand on the bed and stepped back. I activated the holoscreen, found a station that was still transmitting, killed the sound, and left her staring happily at it as I followed Philip out into the hall, locking the door behind me.
We walked to the cluttered kitchen, with its ancient appliances and the three cracked tiles on the floor. (Each of us had been responsible for one of them.) I found the room homey and comforting, but I saw him looking at a burn spot on a counter that had been there since he'd accidentally made it as a kid and for just an instant I felt guilty about never having fixed it.
"You should have told me about her,” he said when he'd gotten his emotions under control.
"You shouldn't have left, or become whatever it is that you are."
"Damn it, she's my mother!” The chimes were louder; I assumed he was yelling or snapping.
"There was nothing you could have done.” I ordered the refrigerator door to open and pulled out a beer. “You want one before you go back to wherever the hell you came from?” I thought about it and frowned. “Can you drink human drinks?"
He didn't answer, but walked over and grabbed a beer. I could see that his mouth wouldn't be able to accommodate the container, so I just watched and waited for him to ask for a glass, or maybe a bowl. He knew I was staring at him, but it didn't seem to bother him. Instead something—not a tongue, and not quite a straw—slid out of his mouth, and when it was a few inches long he inserted it into the top of the container. He swallowed a few seconds later, and I knew he was somehow getting the beer into his mouth.
He set the container down and stared at an old pennant I had stuck on the wall when he was a little boy.
"You're still a Pythons fan,” he observed.
"Always."
"How are they doing?” There was a time when he actually cared, but that was many years ago.
"They haven't had a decent quarterback since Christ was a corporal,” I answered.
"But you root for them anyway."
"You don't stop rooting for a team just because they've fallen on hard times."
"A team, or a parent,” he said. I didn't know how to reply to that, so I remained silent, and after a moment he spoke again. “I know there are medications for Alzheimer's. I assume you've tried them?"
"There are all kinds of senile dementias. They call them all Alzheimer's, but they aren't. They haven't yet found out how to cure the one she's got."
"There are specialists on other worlds. Maybe one of them could have done something."
"You're the space traveler,” I said bitterly. “Where were you when she might have been cured?"
He stared at me. I stared back, determined not to look away first.
"Why are you so angry at me? I know you cared for me once. I've never hurt you, I never took a penny from you once I got out of college, I never—"
"You deserted us,” I said. “You deserted your mother, you deserted me, you deserted your planet, you even deserted your species. That poor woman down the hall can't remember the name of her son, but she can remember that people only look like you at Halloween."
"It's my job, damn it!"
"There are thousands of exobiologi
sts right here on Earth!” I snapped. “I only know of one who turned into a silver-skinned monster with red eyes."
"I was offered an opportunity that has been afforded very few men and women,” he replied. “I took it.” Even with the chimes he couldn't keep the resentment out of his voice. “Most fathers would have been proud."
I stared at him for a moment, amazed that he still didn't understand. “I'm supposed to be proud that you became a thing that hasn't got a trace of humanity left in him?” I said at last.
He stared right back through those multi-faceted insect eyes. “You really believe there is nothing human left of me?” he asked curiously.
"Look in a mirror,” I told him.
"Don't I remember you telling me back when I was a boy that you should never judge a book by its cover?"
"That's right."
"Well?” he said.
"I just saw one of your pages slide out and suck up the beer."
He sighed deeply, to the delicate tinkling of chimes. “Would you have been happier if I couldn't drink it?"
I seriously considered it for a minute. “No, that wouldn't have made me happier,” I told him when I'd formulated my answer in terms even he could understand. “You know what would have made me happier? Grandchildren. A son who visited us for Christmas. A son I could leave the house to now that it's finally paid off. I never asked you to follow in my footsteps, attend my college, go into my business, even live in this town. Would expecting you to want to be a normal human being be so goddamned wrong for a father?"
"No, it wouldn't,” he admitted. Then: “For better or worse you've lived your life. I have the right to live mine."
I shook my head. “Your life ended eleven years ago. You're living some alien creature's life now."
He cocked his head to one side and studied me curiously. It seemed almost birdlike. “Which bothers you more—that I left Earth, or that I became what I am?"
"Six of one, a half dozen of the other. You knew you were the center of your mother's life, but you left her and went to the far end of the galaxy."
"Not quite the far end,” he said, and I couldn't tell from the chimes whether that was sarcastic or sardonic or simply a straight answer. “And my mother wouldn't have wanted me to stay here when I wanted to be out there."
Asimov's SF, April/May 2011 Page 15