My brain is storm.
* * * *
Much later, when it is dark and Elizabeth is making dinner, I lie on the floor, still licking the smack-bump. It itches. In front of me is the local newspaper which Jake brought and which Elizabeth tossed onto the floor. There is news of local militias, an ad for hen-fresh eggs on Angle Ridge Road, obituaries. I move my head so I can see the next page.
“Mi,” says Arnold. “Kuh.”
I start, as if I've had an electric shock. My tongue pauses. My ears swivel. I turn my head to look at him. I can't help it.
I know that the weird expression on his face is a smile.
* * * *
How would he have known? I told you, his research network was astounding. He could find out anything he wanted to. He worked on many edges. Maybe he had a pod about what I'd done waiting in his library. He might even have tracked down Dr. Lorenzo, held her feet to the coals, forced her to talk.
It doesn't matter now.
* * * *
I am asleep on the couch, but her sudden snort wakes me around one in the morning.
“Ha,” she breathes. Her computer screen glows, the little keys are lit from within. The only other light is from the stove, where the fire flickers with soothing snaps. Arnold snores on the bed.
“U did it,” she breathes. “She made the hack.” Elizabeth starts the download. “Now, we've got them. Every fucking person in the world, no matter what kind of smack they usually get, no matter whose pill they've swallowed. And we've got to get to them first.” She watches the screen, sighs. “Damn, this computer is slow.”
* * * *
It is dawn. I am on the porch. Elizabeth is inside, frantically modifying pods, as she does this time of day. Usually, we go for a long hike and put them in the relay in the woods. It is stupid and dangerous but she says that if she doesn't do this she might as well not be alive anyway.
Today is different, though. Today she has the hack.
Something—something—has me on my feet and drives my memories down to the tips of my paws, crushes them flat with the pure and absolute present.
My barks thunder and I am like an arrow running to the approaching vehicle. I meet it as it rounds the sharp bend at the top of the hill that keeps us hidden and leap to one side.
The soldier is alone in the jeep and surprised by me. There is no door on his jeep and I leap onto him, going for his throat.
He is yelling and I smell the cold metal of his pistol. I am a whirlwind but his other hand reaches the gun and draws. I bite his hand as the pistol goes off.
Elizabeth is on the porch, her shotgun raised. “Get away!” she yells and I know she means me but I cannot, I am a pure and total dog, with only a wisp of human somewhere.
She fires the rifle. He puts the jeep in reverse and flees.
And I know it's time.
“Are you all right?” She runs to me, hugs me. I ignore her. I am chewing, licking, gnawing. “Is it a bullet?”
No; the bullet went somewhere else, and it does not matter. It only makes a small sting, an ache.
She reaches into the bloody hole I gnawed and pulls out the blood-smeared bubble, a standard smack-storing bubble.
“A ... smack?” She is stunned.
YES, I bark.
She stares at me, hard. “What are you?” She kicks me. “Some kind of spy?”
I run to the cabin, up the stairs; she follows. “They'll be coming soon. Arnold! Arnold! We have to leave! And Daisy...”
At the door, she whirls on me, still holding the rifle.
Arnold makes a grunting sound. Moves his arms. Makes a horrified face. I bark! Bark! Bark!
She looks back and forth between us. Arnold begins keening “hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm...”
He can still kind of carry a tune. This is easy. The alphabet tune.
“All right then,” she snaps. “Just one try. A? B? C? D? Oh, this is ridiculous!”
“Hmmmm,” hums Arnold. As always, tears creep down his face. I smell his ocean-openness, coming back. And then, with great difficulty, he roars, “Mi. Mi. MIKE.”
I bark, I dance.
Yes, I say yes with all my dog-tools. I grab Rumble, toss him in the air. It takes a surprising amount of energy.
“MIKE?”
I brace for another kick, but she hugs me and begins to sob. “Mike? Mike! Oh my God.” She steps back, looks at Arnold. “How is this possible? How do you know?” I can see her thinking then, thinking about all the things I'd done as a memory scientist.
I nudge her pocket. The smack.
She pulls out the bloody, protective bubble. Then she grabs a knife, sets the bubble on the table, and carefully slits it open.
Out it falls, the smack that I so carefully, lovingly made.
I cringe back, whine.
“What is it?”
It is something I cannot do, because I am a dog.
But I must. Again, I pick up Rumble, and this time just hold him in my jaws. Then I put him down and lick his face.
“Okay,” she says heavily. “Okay. Something to do with Wendy.” Her shoulders sag. “I'll do it.” Her smile is wan and she is crying. “First. Wendy goes first.”
She puts the smack I made into the sequence that she has prepared. The sequence is prefaced by U's hack. After a minute, the smack is ready. All she has to do is press a key to send it.
On the Allover Station, firing seems to have gotten heavier this morning. I am not sure why the local soldiers haven't come back. Perhaps there is too much disarray. The television says so. The long, grinding, universal violence is creeping upward, always upward.
A deep, low growl shakes the ground. I hear loud cracking sounds. Out the window, I see the tips of trees topple.
“Must be a tank,” says Elizabeth. “The bastards.”
“Tuh,” says Arnold. “Tuh. Gu. Nnnn.” He gestures toward the rifle. He is healing. The smack, I think, might hurry things along. I bark, loudly. Go! Go! Go!
She does it. She makes the smack, biological information now converted into electrical signals, rush down the wires at the speed of light and just as quickly is in the air, relaying, disseminating, smacking.
The tank slowly comes round the bend, ponderously slow, and stops fifty yards from the cabin. A gun on top rotates, adjusts straight at us.
“Fu!” yells Arnold.
And then—
The top opens and three men climb out. They hug each other, they are crying.
The same thing is happening on the Allover Station. A reporter is in some war-torn downtown where suddenly everyone looks around, bewildered. Two men fling down their rifles. The same look, of awful grief, comes over their faces. Tears flow. They grab one another, reel around.
The television reporter is weeping too. “What is going on?” she cries out in a parody of the reporter's false concern. “What is going on? Sir?” She shoves her microphone in someone's face. “Sir? How do you feel?”
“I,” he gasps. “I—oh, my god.” He falls to his knees.
Elizabeth grabs me, hard. “Wendy,” she whispers. “It's Wendy. Oh, God, I remember, oh, my sweet baby.”
All that grief and longing. Now everyone feels it. Everyone feels the loss of just one child.
Just one precious person.
But there is no revenge. No anger. Because this is not just our grief, not just Elizabeth's and mine distilled and refined and full of blame. It is Jolly's: pure, whole love and longing.
That smack, and its heavy burden, and the chemicals it was secreting, are gone. Gone from my blood. Mike is leaving too, ebbing away. It is good. It is as I planned.
I did not plan the bullet. But it doesn't matter. I am, of course, happy.
“My god!” Elizabeth gasps. She just stares at me, then falls and hugs me, hugs me, hugs me. “You GENIUS!” I glimpse for a brief instant a look of horror on her face as she draws back her hand, sticky with blood, before I close my eyes, deeply satisfied.
This exquisite grief, this unwillingne
ss to kill, this respect for all others, may last for years, universally, making loss impossible, removing the numbness that most people live with and leaving them raw and open and kind, unable to hurt another human. Or someone like The Wonderful Wizard of U might hack it quickly, just for fun, and make everything as it was.
I no longer care.
I am a brilliance, like when the sun is on the water and you can't see into it. I am the brilliance of Elizabeth and of Wendy, and then I am golden grains of glad, glad sand, blowing in the wind, free of almost all memory.
All that is left is one little girl, who stands there on the beach.
“Jolly!” she calls, and claps her hands. “Jolly!”
I run to her.
Copyright (c) 2008 Kathleen Ann Goonan
* * * *
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* * *
Short Story: SLIDIN'
by Neal Barrett, Jr.
Readers who have missed Neal Barrett, Jr.'s incredible style and story-telling genius will be glad to see he's back again. In the past, he's graced these pages with tales such as “Perpetuity Blues” (May 1987), “Stairs” (September 1988), “Cush” (November 1993), and the wondrous “Ginny Sweethips’ Flying Circus” (February 1988). His new tale, “Slidin'” shows he's still uncertain about a perfect tomorrow...
Slidin'
“I can see it,” says Ducie, “I can see it, Laureen. I can see it real good!”
“You can't see nothing,” I tell her, “there isn't anything to see, Ducie Jean. Get your pants on and hush!”
It's bad enough your baby sister's hopping ‘round like a frog. Worse still she flat looks like one, ick-warts and all. ‘Course, there's folks look worse than that. I got family it is hue-miliating to call ‘em kin. Like ol’ Jeb-Reb and Ducko Bill. Don't even talk about Grandpa Foot. ‘Least Ducie's got a head, and just one, we can be thankful for that.
“Lau-reen, now leave her be,” says Mattie Mom. “You know Ducie's got real good sight.”
“Maybe so,” I tell her. “But she don't see Dallis, Mom. Not unless she's got bye-noclars in those bug eyes of hers.”
“Don't you say that,” Mattie Mom says, lookin’ round to see if other folks are listening in. Like they weren't more'n two, three hundred people in line, squashed in ahead and behind.
“Shoot, isn't like God didn't shit out Ugly all over Texass, Mom. Isn't anyone here don't look worse than Ducie Jean.”
“Laureen!,” Mom says, turning ‘bout ten shades of red. “How can you say things like that?”
“Don't do any good to lie,” I answer back, watching a girl with six tits, all of ‘em biggern’ mine.
Truth hurts, I say. But don't everything else?
* * * *
We got up early, just before the sun come boiling up mad out of Lousy Anna, sucking up yesterday's sweat, and loosing a wave of morning farts along the line. A whole new stink comes rolling in to greet the day, and I'd gag and throw up, but you got to breathe to do that.
Some retard up front says, “Likely rain be comin’ this afternoon. Kinda cool things off.”
God's dick, I wonder where this bugger's been? Any little kid knows that date in school. It hasn't rained north of Wayco or anywhere near Dallis, Texass, in two-hundred-eighty-three years. Only, this pinhead's expecting pre-cipitation late this afternoon. Crap springs eternal, as Grandpa always says.
* * * *
The afternoon didn't bring rain, but it did get us on past the Trinity Ditch where a river used to be. Everyone stopped, of course, it happens every time. You'd come to a dip in the dunes and there'd be another patch of petrified mud, shrunk up tight with a million little cracks in between. It's those cracks that got to us. Told us we were looking at a place where water used to be, water and trees, critters that aren't even here anymore, the way things were Back When. If you had a drop or two you were saving, you'd forget about later, and, without even thinking, drink it right there.
A couple of kids jumped down and started hopping from one patch of dry to the next, yelling and carrying on. Their daddy jerked ‘em back quick, tanning their hides and giving ‘em Willie-What-For. They were kids, and didn't know better, but the crowd sure did. Most everyone there swept two fingers cross their eyes to keep the devil away. Me too, though I don't believe in much of anything at all. Still, it's not good luck to get water riled up—even if it's where water's been.
Just ‘fore dark we camped outside of Old Ferrus, up on a crest that looked down a pit deep as any you'd care to see.
“See-ment,” said Uncle Jeb. “That's what they was diggin’ for. Way Back When in—”
“—pre-hysterical times,” finished Reb. “They built stuff with it, made con-kreet's, what they—”
“—did,” said Jeb, “skycrappers, silos and such. You go
to—
—any big city
—still partly
—intact
—you're
—gonna see where
—cement's come
—into play most
—ever'where you
—look...”
Anyone tell you two heads is better'n one, they hadn't never listened to Jeb-Reb yakking away, going at it nose to nose, way into the goddamn night. Mattie Mom and me pushed Jeb-Reb's pedal-tater up near the little fire we'd built, and I got supper and water jugs out of my sack. When Jeb-Reb, Ducie, Mattie Mom and Grandpa Foot were settled in, the fire cracklin’ good, I whipped out supper and waved it all around.
“Ta-da!” I said, makin’ a real big show, “we got a treat tonight, folks. Sparrows-on-a-stick!”
“Aaaaah, Oooooh!” everybody said, as I passed the sticks around. Jeb-Reb clapped, one hand missing the other like it always did. Grandpa stomped himself good ‘til he fell over flat.
Sometimes, kids in school make fun of me ‘cause I'm kinda whole and they're not. It don't bother me. I beat ‘em to the ground and they don't say nothing after that. You are what you are, like Mattie Mom says. There's no shame in having extra parts like Uncle Jeb-Reb, or not hardly any like Grandpa Foot.
“You can thank Ducie for supper tonight,” I said. “She brought every one of these babies down Zaaaap! Just like that.”
“We're proud,” said Mattie Mom. “We surely are, Ducie Jean.”
Ducie Jean blushed, a pretty awful shade of green. “I wish Ducko could've been here. He's real partial to bird.”
“Ducie, your brother couldn't come with us, hon,” Mom sighed, like she hadn't told Ducie a million times before. “Ducko don't breathe air like us. It's kinda hard to take him on a trip.”
“Oh,” said Ducie Jean. “I don't guess I knew that.”
“Hard to imagine what else you don't know,” I said.
“Laureen...” Mom gave me that look and I shut up quick. I'm a pretty tough kid, and tall for my age, but when your mother's nine-six you tend to kinda do as you're told.
A hot night breeze set a little wave of sand a'quiver and sent it rattling down the road. You could hear all the other folks up and down the line, talkin’ real low, some of ‘em snoring and rattling in their sleep.
“We'll be gettin’ in late tomorrow night,” Mom told us, when we'd gotten all quiet and settled in our sacks. “Now, you're going to see something not ever'one gets to see, and I expect you to behave and do as you're told. This isn't no ordinary place we're going, I don't have to tell you that. It'd be something to tell your younguns ‘bout. I mean, if you was going to have some, which, God help us, you're not.”
“What's it going to look like, Mom,” said Ducie, “what's it going to look like, huh! Huh!”
When Ducie gets excited, her skin starts sweatin’ and the icks start a'poppin an’ her voice goes ‘Lubbuk! Lubuk!' and Lord help any flies in the nearby vis-inity
of Ducie Jean's tongue. Still, she's my semi-natural sister, and there's nothin’ I can do about that.
“I could tell you,” said Grandpa Foot, “but there's no way describing it, child. Not so's anyone would believe it. You can say it's like this or like that, and not come anyways close either time.”
“That's not a whole lot of help, Grandpa,” I said, the words popping out ‘fore I could make them stop.
I've known Grandpa since I was borned, but every time he opens that ugly big toe the hair stands up on my head.
“Be right careful,” he said. “Be right careful who you're talking to, child. You don't want them dreams coming back. I don't reckon you do.”
Mattie Mom sucked in a breath. Even Ducie Jean got quiet.
“No, sir,” I said. “I surely don't. I spoke when I oughta not to, Grandpa. It won't be happenin’ again.”
“Well, fine,” said Grandpa. “You're a good girl, Laureen. I always said you was.”
* * * *
I didn't sleep good. I had me a dream, all right, but it wasn't wet and nasty like the ones I get from Grandpa Foot. This was a dream I'd had before. There was dark and there was light, and the dark was good, warm and heavy like my blanket on a nice winter night. Then the light come in, all fierce and razor bright, and it gnashed and it slashed, and it swallowed up the dark and all the warm and the good inside. The world changed forever after that, and all the people in it. There was sorrow and sin, madness and blight, and nothing was ever the way it useta been.
That's the dream I had, the one I'd had before, and I never told it to a soul, not even Mattie Mom. If you're different like me, if you're cursed with Symmetry, there's things you'd best be keeping in your head.
* * * *
After we were up and moving, it wasn't more'n an hour or so till we hit OLD THIRTY-FIVE. You could still see the road a'peeking through, where folks had wore the sand away. Ducie found a faded white stripe from Back When. Mom made her cover it quick ‘fore anyone else could get a look. There's plenty of tales ‘bout THIRTY-FIVE. Grandpa called it Death and Dessy-cation, whatever that is. Anyway, religion can rise up and kick you in the ass, and it's best to leave it be.
Asimov's SF, April-May 2008 Page 5