Clarkesworld: Year Four

by Kij Johnson

  “I can help him.”

  “Can you make him young, like you?”

  Her hair had gone gray at the edges, lost the magnificent black that had glistened in the sun like her goth lipstick all those years ago. God, how could I have been so selfish? I could have given her some of what I had.

  But I liked her better touched by pain and age and staying part of my past. Like the act of saving them didn’t.

  I hadn’t known that until that very moment, when I suddenly hated myself for the wrinkles around her eyes and the way her shoulders bent in a little bit even though she was only fifty-seven like me. “I’ll bring you some, too. I can get some of the best nano-meds available.” Hell, I’d designed some of them, but Mona wouldn’t understand that. “I can get creams that will erase the wrinkles from your hands.”

  She sighed. “Why don’t you just leave us?”

  Because then I would have no single happy place. “Because I need my father. I need to know how he’s doing.”

  “I can tell you from here.”

  My throat felt thick. “I’ll be back in a week.” I turned away before she could see the inexplicable tears in my eyes. By then I flew back and forth, and it was a relief to focus down on the gauges in my head, flying manual until I got close enough to Seattle airspace that the feds grabbed the steering from me and there was nothing to do but look down at the forest and the green resort playgrounds of Cle Elum below me and to try not to think too hard about my dad or about Mona Alvarez and her sons.

  I had moved into a condo on Alki Beach, and I had a view all the way to Canada. For two days after I returned, the J-pod whales cavorted offshore, great elongated yin and yang symbols rising and falling through the waters of Puget Sound.

  The night before I went back for Mona and my father, I watched the boardwalk below me. People walked dogs and rollerbladed and bicycled and a few of the chemical-sick walked inside of big rolling bubbles like the hamster I’d had when I was a kid. Even nano-medicine and the clever delivery of genetically matched and married designer solutions couldn’t save everyone.

  I wish I could say that I felt sorry for the people in the bubbles, and I suppose in some distant way I did. But nothing bad had ever happened to me. I didn’t get sick. I’d never married or divorced. I had nice dates sometimes, and excellent season tickets for Seattle Arts and Lectures.

  I flew Mona back with my father. We tried to take Blue, but the dog balked at getting in the car, and raced away, lost in the apple trees in no time. Mona looked sick and said, “We should wait.”

  I glanced at my father’s peaceful face. He had never cried when his dogs died or left, and now he had a small smile, and I had the fleeting thought that maybe he was proud of Blue for choosing the farm and the sheep and the brown-skinned boys. “Will your sons care for the dog?”

  “Their children love him.”

  So we arrived back in West Seattle, me and Mona and my father.

  I got busy crafting medicine to fix my father. These things didn’t take long—time moved fast in the vast cloud of data I had security rights for. I crunched my father’s DNA and RNA and proteins and the specifics of his blood in no time, and told the computers what to do while I set all of us out a quiet dinner on the biggest of the decks. Mona commented on the salty scent of Puget Sound and watched the fast little ferries zip back and forth in the water and refused to meet my eyes.

  Dad simply stared at the water.

  “He needs a dog,” she said.

  “I know.” I queried from right there, sending a bot out to look. It reported fairly fast. “I’ll be right back. Can you watch him?”

  She looked startled.

  An hour later I picked Nanny up at Sea-Tac, a middle-aged golden retriever, service-trained, a dog with no job since most every disease except the worst allergies to modernity could be fixed.

  Mona looked awed almost to fear when I showed up with the dog, but she smiled and uncovered the dinner I’d left waiting.

  Nanny and Dad were immediately enchanted with each other, her love for him the same as every other dog’s in his life, cemented the minute she smelled him. I didn’t understand, but if it had been any other way, I would have believed him lost.

  The drugs I designed for him didn’t work. It happens that way sometimes. Not often. But some minds can’t accept the changes we can make. In the very old, it can kill them. Dad was too strong to die, although Mona looked at me one day, after they had been with me long enough that the wrinkles around her eyes had lost depth but not so long that they had left her face entirely. “You changed him. He’s worse.”

  I might have. How would I know?

  But I do know I lost my anchor in the world. Nothing in my life had been my singularity. I hadn’t crossed into a new humanity like he prophesied over and over. I hadn’t left him behind.

  Instead, he left me behind. He recognized Nanny every day, and she him. But he never again called me Paul, or told me how I would step beyond him.

  About the Author

  Brenda Cooper writes science fiction and fantasy novels and short stories. Her most recent novel is The Creative Fire, which came out in November, 2012 from Pyr. The sequel, The Diamond Deep, will be available in late 2013. Brenda is also a technology professional and a futurist.

  Brenda lives in the Pacific Northwest in a household with three people, three dogs, more than three computers, and only one TV in it.

  See her website at www.brenda-cooper.com.

  Beach Blanket Spaceship

  Sandra McDonald

  Bells ring, the bright sweet sound of freedom, the fantastic summer upon us, and we burst out of the high school with a rousing rendition of the song “Endless Waves” from the classic 1964 movie “Life’s a Beach.” We pile into our convoy of jalopies and woody wagons, the guys bare-chested or wearing Hawaiian shirts, the gals in hot pants and bikini tops, and roll down the road to the golden coast with Danny leading the way. Danny, with his dashing good looks and honey voice, always leads the way. Riding shotgun in Danny’s yellow jeep is Colonel Frank Merullo, United States Air Force. He’s wearing his full NASA spacesuit, including boots, gloves and a closed helmet with reflective shielding. He doesn’t sing along with the gang.

  Violet Blue adjusts her fur-trimmed bikini and drapes her arms around his neck. “Let go and hang loose, Pops! The fun’s just beginning.”

  Her boyfriend Skipper slaps Merullo on the back. “He’ll be fine once he catches his first wave.”

  Danny throws Merullo a dazzling smile, but he’s too busy belting out the chorus to say anything.

  The Southern California cliffs give way to pristine beach and the limitless blue Pacific. We dump our bags at the beach house and carry our boards over the dunes. The gals claim their territory and break out the baby oil. Most of the guys paddle toward the swells, searching for the perfect wave. Above Colonel Merullo’s head, five seagulls whirl and twirl and call out to each other.

  “Do you think he’ll come around?” Bonnie asks Danny from their blanket at the center of the action. Bonnie is lovely as always, her hair fixed in a perfect flip and her creamy complexion untouched by the sun. Everyone knows she and Danny will soon marry and settle down to a blissful adult life in the prosperous suburbs. She stares at Merullo, her lips turned in a frown.

  “Give the man some time.” Danny gives her a chaste kiss, grabs his board, and jogs to Merullo. “Come on, Daddy-O! Surf’s up!”

  Merullo opens his helmet faceplate. He is a middle-aged man with a pasty complexion and reddened cheeks. He says, “This isn’t right. I didn’t authorize this Vee-Reel.”

  Danny pats his shoulder. “Whatever that is, you’re hanging with us now.”

  “Is Dr. Naguchi here? Lieutenant Jenny?” Merullo scans the shoreline. “If this is the crew’s idea of a joke—”

  “Couldn’t say,” Danny replies. He sprints on down to the water and throws his lean, smooth body into the rolling Pacific. Out at the lineup, Skipper and the others bob in place
and wait for the water to rise.

  Merullo says, “Computer, exit program,” but nothing happens. He tries again. The beach remains firmly in place. The ship’s inflight entertainment system is obviously malfunctioning, but the failsafe will engage in sixty minutes. Until then, he’ll have to put up with the surf and sand and silly teenage antics. Lieutenant Jenny will be amused at this virtual misadventure.

  The weather is always fine at this beach. Beneath the radiant sun, every blanket is shared by a handsome guy and his pretty girl. Lonely singles don’t fit the script. The sandscape is painted with surfers, weightlifters, recording artists, loony biker gangs, foreign spies, unscrupulous businessmen and stray comic icons of yore, like Buster Keaton.

  “None of this is real,” Merullo tells Bonnie at the counter of the snack shack. He removes his helmet entirely, revealing short brown hair that has gone thin at the dome. “A computer is beaming ultrasonic pulses at my brain, creating this illusion. You’re all data constructs based on old movies pulled out of a database.”

  “Really?” Bonnie lifts a tray of hot dogs and French fries. Her bright pink lipstick perfectly matches her sandals and headband. “Are you sure about that?”

  Over in the volleyball pit, guest star Dee Ann Lawrence is belting out “Don’t Be Fooled by Love,” a song that once made the Billboard top twenty. She’s singing it to Lunkhead, who is the tallest, dumbest of us all. He has a crush on a girl who claims to be a mermaid. No one else has met this creature from the sea.

  Merullo says, “Your character was played by Becky Clark, America’s sweetheart. Danny was played by Tommy Suede, a teenage heartthrob. They made a dozen of these movies, but they died a long time ago.”

  Violet offers Merullo her soda. “How about something cold to drink? The sun’s real hot today.”

  “That drink’s not real, either.” Merullo checks the chronometer built into the sleeve of his spacesuit. “In a minute or so, these pulses will stop and you’ll cease to exist. I’ll wake up in the real world, on my ship. In a flight couch.”

  The five seagulls squawk and cry from atop the roof of the snack shack. Out in the water, Danny and Skipper have caught an eight-footer and are riding it in with their arms outstretched for balance. Their smiles are as wide as the horizon.

  “You’re still here,” Violet says to Merullo.

  Bonnie shifts her tray of food. “Danny’s lunch is getting cold.”

  Merullo doesn’t move out of her way. “Vee-Reel time is sometimes off from ship’s time by a minute or two. It won’t be long now.”

  Violet sips at her soda. Skipper and Danny wade ashore and slap each other on the back. Danny looks for Bonnie, but Skipper has eyes only for Danny. Admiration shines in his expression, as well as something deeper.

  Merullo taps the chronometer. “Any second now.”

  “Good luck with that,” Bonnie says. She and Violet return to their blankets and boyfriends. Danny wraps his arms around Bonnie’s waist and tugs her close.

  “How’s the colonel doing?” he asks.

  “Still clinging,” Bonnie says.

  Skipper tries to hug Violet, but she squirms free and reaches for her transistor radio. Skipper says, “He’ll catch on soon enough. Right, Danny?”

  “Sure thing.” Danny pops a non-existent French fry into his mouth. “Give him awhile. The world is a hard habit to break.”

  Even when the sun sets, the beach party rolls on. The guys shrug into jackets and the gals slip into cocktail dresses. We all gather at Sammy’s Pavilion to sip non-alcoholic drinks at tables set around the dance floor. The evening’s entertainment will consist of a rock’n'roll band or lip-synching actresses or Little Stevie Wonder. Danny might get up and croon a love ballad. Bonnie might join him in a sweet duet. Afterward some of us will walk the moonlit beach or cuddle in secluded coves. Up in the beach house, there will be pillow fights and risqué sleepwear and the trading of double entendres, but nowhere will there be any sex. It doesn’t fit our image.

  Skipper has had a romantic misunderstanding with Violet. Lunkhead’s mermaid girlfriend has flippered her way back into the sea, leaving him bereft. The two of them meander down to the high tide mark and build a fire. Merullo sits with them.

  “I’m sure my crew is working to get me out of here,” he says. “They’ll have realized something is wrong by now.”

  Lunkhead leans back and crosses his hairy ankles. “Where’s this spaceship of yours going, anyway?”

  “To Triton. It’s a moon of Neptune. But even with the new propulsion drive, it’s several years away.” Merullo wedges coconuts into the sand to illustrate the distance between the planets. His bulky spacesuit makes the task difficult. “We’re in cold sleep most of the trip, but during the first month and last months of the mission we’re awake and can use the ship’s entertainment options. Lieutenant Sanchez built a Vee-Reel around Busby Berkeley musicals. Lieutenant Umbo’s is based on World War II movies. Dr. Naguchi likes anime. Lieutenant Jenny created this one.”

  Lunkhead has a goofy grin on his face. “Lieutenant Jenny. Sounds like a dreamboat.”

  Merullo’s expression is troubled. “Mark Jenny. He’s my co-pilot.”

  “Ohhhhhh.” Lunkhead’s grin disappears. “Nevermind.”

  Skipper plucks at the strings of his guitar. Melancholy notes float toward the stars. “What’s your Vee-Reel, Pops?”

  “I don’t remember,” Merullo says. It bothers him, that. He should know. “I don’t think I usually play them.”

  Lunkhead asks, “But you like this one, don’t you? Sun and sand. Letting go and hanging loose. What could be better?”

  “Sharing it with the one you love.” Skipper strums a soft chord. His eyes are dark and unreadable. “So why go blasting off into outer space, anyway?”

  Merullo brightens a little. “Eighteen months ago, a comet smacked into Triton. Soon afterward, Voyager 20 did a flyby and detected a strong but irregular radio signal in the Leviathan Patera. Our mission was originally geared to catalog prospects for expanding human colonization beyond Mars, but now we’re also going to investigate the possibility of extraterrestrial intelligence.”

  Lunkhead gapes. “Aliens? Little green men with antennas sticking out of their heads?”

  “Hey, everyone,” Bonnie says, as she and Danny emerge from the shadows and approach the group. Her lipstick is slightly smeared, and her red chiffon scarf flutters in the breeze.

  Danny crouches by the fire to warm his hands. “What’s shaking?”

  Skipper’s gaze slips right past Bonnie to focus on Danny. “We’re all some kind of computer program on a spaceship hurtling through space. Colonel Merullo here is the only one who’s really alive. And there might be aliens on Mars.”

  “Neptune,” Lunkhead says.

  “Triton,” Merullo corrects.

  “Sounds wild,” Danny says, but something in his voice is just a little too casual, and Merullo wonders if he knows more than he’s letting on.

  But that’s ridiculous, he thinks. Vee-Reel characters have no hidden agendas. They ask him if he wants to come sleep in the beach house for the night, but Merullo declines. The program will surely terminate by then. He leans back in the sand, trying not to worry about his spaceship, his crew, their mission. His dreams are full of stars and blackness. That too is ridiculous. Real people stuck in Vee-Reels do not dream.

  Surf’s up. Five seagulls skim the receding tide, hungry for breakfast.

  “Something’s wrong.” Merullo stands over Violet’s blanket, his voice tight with worry. “I have to get out of this. I’m the commander of this mission, my crew need me—”

  Violet holds up a bottle of baby oil. “Will you put some of this on my back?”

  He tries, but his gloved hands are too clumsy.

  She sighs. “Come on, Pops. It’s time to ditch these space duds.”

  Violet brings him up to the beach house, which has already emptied out for the morning. She picks through a pile of wrinkled clothes and pulls o
ut some his size. In the bathroom, Merullo eases out of the spacesuit and scratches at his newly exposed, pasty-white skin. The denim shorts are too baggy. The T-shirt smells like the sweat and musk of other men. He takes a deep breath.

  From the doorframe, Violet says, “You don’t like girls much, do you?”

  Merullo flushes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She gives him a humorless smile. “Sure you do. Skipper’s that way, too. He keeps promising to change. But I don’t think it’s something you can change, like your haircut or the way you dress. Do you?”

  He busies himself by hanging the spacesuit up on a rope that stretches over the bathtub. “I wouldn’t know. Things like that aren’t allowed in the Space Corps.”

  Violet rolls her eyes. “You’re not in the Space Corps right now. You’re in a Vee-Reel. Or so you say.”

  She brings him back to her blanket. Merullo tries not to stare at the guys in the volleyball pit as they leap in the air or dive for the ball. Violet watches the strong, lithe bodies with her eyes shaded by sunglasses. He thinks that he could tell her about himself, that Vee-Reels are often the repositories of hopes and secrets, but this isn’t his program. It belongs to Mark Jenny.

  Lunkhead bops on by. “Kowabunga, Colonel! Come ride the curl!”

  “You should go,” Violet says. “Clears your mind.”

  Merullo wades into the water, but it is cold and deep and he prefers dry land.

  Later, a straight-laced reporter drops in to conduct an in-depth report about The Mind of Today’s Teenager. A rich heiress falls in love with Danny and tries to whisk him away to Greece on her yacht. A drag race goes awry, a bikini contest turns ugly, and Lunkhead trades places with a British rock star who could be his long-lost twin. Life on the beach is wacky that way. The Vee-Reel refuses to disengage.

  “Even if the crew can’t turn off the system, all they have to do is pull the power on the unit,” Merullo tells Danny. He scratches at his sunburned chest. He took off the T-shirt somewhere but can’t remember where. “Mark knows the ship’s specs backward and forward. But what if he’s not awake? What if all of us are stuck in the entertainment system, or something wrong with the ship itself—”