Crenshaw ... Animus ... swung the MG around, grinning to himself, firing back, shouting directions to the driver. But the machine gun stopped firing—before it had reached the end of its belt. He looked down ... and saw the shells were glowing.
Sixteen-millimeter shells, glowing—about to explode in his face.
He climbed frantically out, shouting a warning to the others, leaping free—not quite too late, this time. The ammunition exploded just behind him, bullets and pieces of the Humvee's roof flying, whirring shrapnel, whining through the air above him as he hit the ground, rolling.
He was instantly up, and sending a mental message to Adversary, his primate body shaking...
As he abandoned it. Let the body fall, its brain shattered inwardly in the process, switching off the heart as he went.
He hovered over the corpse in his lightbody as the men who'd survived the explosion in the Humvee crawled confusedly out...
He flew upward, before they saw his lightbody, and extended his senses. And found the psychic trail, this time, a moment before it would have dissipated.
Adversary—abandon your host and follow! I've caught them!
Up, up, through a thin, translucent layer of cloud, and another, up to where the sky became indigo with its rarity—and here they caught her.
A female of their kind: her light-patterns inverted. They hovered to either side of her, blocking her escape, and demanded an explanation.
"I have tried to be of help to this species of primates, these many cycles," she said. “War is part of their condition. But you move them to greater and greater heights of confrontation. You'll destroy them, in time. You'll push for the ultimate war."
"Oh, and will we?" Adversary said, in radiant outrage. “And what of it? They are feeble, stupid, evanescent little animals. There are countless such species—most destroy themselves. They themselves wipe out ant colonies. It is much the same."
"Is it?" She emanated gentle disagreement. “They are deeper than you have allowed yourself to see. They have a degree of sentience. I have tried to entangle you with them; so that you feel life as they do. Your self-involvement, your male immaturity prevents it; I've tried other means to discourage you, get you to move on to another world. Now I will go to the Sourceworld Committee, and we will let it decide."
"Why put us through that bureaucratic tedium?" Animus asked, flaring angrily. "The primates are low creatures; they accumulate bits and gimcracks in their dens, like the packrats they try to drive from their attics—that accumulation is the vector of their lives. They scribble a bit, and mark on walls. But they are simple-minded, temporary little things. Lower predators, with little feeling. You are wasting your sympathy on creatures who live so briefly they are gone before you've fully felt your concern!"
"They have enormous evolutionary potential," she said, glimmering patiently. “And they are marvelous animals even now. A fascinating species. We cannot allow you to encourage their extinction when we're only now really beginning to study them."
"You know what she is, Animus?" Adversary said, disgusted. “She's one of these ‘animal rights’ types!"
"So that's it!" Animus said, with a purple displeasure. “Animal rights! What about my rights? What about Animus Rights? What of the rights of a Conflict Artist to experience Deep Competition? My art, my drama—this is what gives meaning to the lives of these animals, these primates we use, if they have any meaning at all!"
"We'll let the Committee decide..."
* * * *
Mountains of Western Pakistan, 2023
Sprague was tired of using the killflyers. Remote control killing was unsatisfying—the other soldiers didn't seem to mind. They had been raised on videogames. Sitting in the Army's trailers, controlling the drones with computer interface, was natural to them. The only difference from videogames was that real-life guerrillas died this way.
But Sprague wanted direct confrontation. Face to face. In person.
Confrontation. Yes. With Adversary...
He climbed out of the hydrogen-cell Humvee, and set out alone, across the rocky hillside, laser rifle in hand, the exhilaration building in him, as he came to full emergence...
There would be no interference from the female called “Anima” this time. The Committee had compromised. He and Adversary could continue, here, if they didn't push certain buttons. This was a valuable wildlife habitat, after all.
And the ultimate primate war could yet come—Animus and Adversary could still take part in that. The new rule was, the primates must be allowed to bring it on themselves.
It would be glorious, when it happened. And he was sure it would. The primates could be relied upon.
There—a glint of sunlight from a scope, up the hillside. It was Adversary, laying for him.
He would drop back, lure him into the valley, and burn away one of Adversary's limbs. But he wouldn't kill him right away. No. He would give him a chance to fight on.
Animus wanted to make this one last.
Copyright © 2009 John Shirley
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Short Story: ANGIE'S ERRAND
by Nick Wolven
After stints in publishing, e-commerce, and secondary education, Nick Wolven currently works for Barnard College Library. In his spare time he takes random night classes and joins rock-n-roll bands. His second story for Asimov's takes a look at the fall of Western civilization—and ponders what our greatest loss will be.
At six-thirty in the morning, when the black-throated warblers had begun to sing in the rhododendrons and the light in the windows had gone from gray to yellow, Angie woke the children and assembled them on the screened-in porch. It was a cool day, a breeze was blowing, and the screens, just beginning to separate at the corners from their frames, were slashed with swaths of moisture from a shower of early-morning rain. The children stood in a row on the wet nylon carpeting, fidgeting with excitement even as they yawned and rubbed the sleep-sand from their eyes. Today, according to the old calendar, spotty with mildew, that hung in the kitchen beside the dormant refrigerator, was the second Wednesday of the month—a special day, a critical day, a ritualistic day. Today they were going to town.
“All right,” Angie said, bending down to straighten the collar of Emily's jacket. “Remember what I told you last night? When we get to town, Tom's in charge. He's going to pull the wagon, and he's going to do the shopping. Emily, you're going to look after Maya. And Maya, you're going to behave. Right?”
“Yes!” Maya brayed, her fists behind her back. She had learned to speak only six months ago and shot her words out as though blowing a trumpet.
Emily fidgeted as Angie adjusted her jacket. “Where are you going?” she asked, for the hundredth time in twenty-four hours.
Angie bit her lip and ran her hands down her sides, smoothing the creases of her sundress. “I told you, Emily. I've got a special errand to run.”
“What special errand?” Emily demanded.
“It's a surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
Angie closed her eyes and pinched the palm of her left hand, as she always did when Emily got on her nerves. Tom came to her rescue.
“Shut up, Emily. Angie knows what she's doing.” He nodded at Angie like a miniature soldier, painfully mature in his grimy golf shirt and threadbare jeans.
“That's right,” Angie said. “You don't want to spoil it.” At the word spoil a sob rose in her throat. She swallowed it hastily, releasing Emily's collar. “Come on, let's get the shoes.”
* * * *
They retrieved the shoes from the moldy hall closet: leather boots for Angie, sneakers for Tom and Emily, a special pair of Mom's running shoes stuffed with extra socks for Maya. Down the steps to the flagstone path, down the driveway to the road, along the road to the highway. Angie hung back and studied her family. They were scrawny, bug-bitten, their shoes were already wearing out, but today, invigorated by the trip to town, they looked almost
as they had before the Crisis. They had the beautiful haughtiness of healthy children—that conviction of entitlement to a happy life.
By the two big oak trees and the path to the blueberry patch, they passed Mom's grave. Emily wanted to pick Black-Eyed Susans and spread them around the wood marker, but Angie hurried them past. Already, the familiar thoughts assailed her. You're not like Mom. You don't have what it takes. And the excuses: Things are different now. The world is wrecked. Being a mother is a lot harder than it used to be.
Early that morning before waking the children she had taken a full bath and washed her hair. The sheer waste of it made her stomach knot, but afterward her blonde hair fell in feathery masses that softened the severity of her starved cheeks. Thank god she was only twenty-two. In the master bedroom, Mom's makeup case sat, undisturbed for a year, in the top dresser drawer. When she took it out, the brass clasp released a dense smell of wooden confinement, the aroma of relics and holy artifacts. The tubes and containers, lined in front of the mirror, shone with a prognosticative aspect like beads and polished bones.
A whine intruded on her thoughts. “Angie?”
“Yes, Emily?”
“Why are you all dressed up?” Emily bumped her leg as they walked.
Angie rolled her eyes. “I told you, Emily, it's a surprise. Stop fussing.” But there was only one proven method to get Emily to stop fussing. “Why don't we play the Remember Game?”
Emily bounced in circles, nearly falling. “Yes! Yes!”
“How much can you remember about Mom, today?”
“A lot!” Emily began her usual litany, a strange mix of sentimental fabulation and surprisingly acute observations. “She was pretty. And the boys liked her. And she was smart. And she never wore nail polish, and she always had a hangnail.” Tom offered periodic corrections. “She did wear nail polish once. For a date.” Maya interrupted now and then to assert loudly, “I remember Mom!” A true ritual: everyone had a part to play. It began to seem that Mom had died not a year ago, but decades in the past, and that her death itself had been not an ugly accident but a touching achievement like the completion of a painting. It was wonderful how the gathered details drove her further and further into the distance, as though the catalyzing memories were a propellant fueling her trip to some remote cheerful place.
If it hadn't been for the Remember Game, Angie didn't know how she would have kept the family going. But this time she interrupted the routine.
“Emily, that's great. Awesome. But hey guys, how about something else this time? How much do you remember about Dad?”
Emily abruptly fell silent.
“Come on,” Angie coaxed. “You can remember something. It was only two years ago.”
“Dad was dumb,” Emily said.
“When Mom divorced him,” Tom said, “he just went away. He didn't even try to see us.”
“But you must remember something about him, right?” Angie looked eagerly from one scowling face to another. “Right? Weren't there some nice things about him?”
“No,” Emily said.
“Dad was pretty lame,” Tom agreed. “All he did was work. He was a pretty crappy cook, too.”
“I don't remember Dad,” Emily said. “I remember Mom.” And then, realizing she had been deceived: “Angie! I want the surprise.”
“Later,” Angie said, struggling to conceal her disappointment. “For the last time, Emily, I'll show you later.”
* * * *
They reached Buckley just before noon. It had never been a big town, and now its core, a plaza of granite bricks, bordered by brick stores and tenements, was surrounded by rings of derelict buildings: crooked two-story houses like witches’ cottages shedding ribbons of vinyl siding and surrounded by moats of crushed glass. No bombs had fallen in this woodsy corner of Connecticut; there had been no riots, no pogroms, no purges. But with the prop of civilization removed, life had declined quickly through attrition. Many people had moved to the coast.
Today the plaza was choked with activity. By the old clapboard hotel, men in plaid shirts unloaded big trailer trucks from Torrington. The goods they passed down ended up at wooden stalls and tables, each with its mob of shouting figures and raised fists. Angie lined the children up by the municipal parking lot, where bicycles clustered like massacred insects among horses who urinated torrentially into the tangle of wheels.
“Here's a shopping list. Maya, your job is to ride in the wagon and make sure nothing falls over. Emily, you're responsible for inspecting the supplies. Tom, you're in charge. If anything happens, if anyone makes you uncomfortable, go to Bill's Grocery. I'll meet you there later.”
“And bring the surprise?” Emily squealed.
Angie looked over her shoulder at the bustle of the market, the sweating masses of humanity, the brawny men in plaid shirts heaving sacks of produce on their strong shoulders.
“Yes,” she said with a wince. “And bring the surprise.”
* * * *
Toskie's had once been a local coffee shop, a quiet place to read in the afternoons or have a conversation over pretentious jazz played live by college kids. Now it was a taphouse that did heavy business on market days in moonshine and fried potatoes. Angie forced her way through knots of men who had managed to stay fat even in these lean times, holding her breath against body odor and boozy exhalations, wriggling to escape sly fingers and damp palms. She pressed her stomach to the aluminum counter behind which the barmaid bustled and panted. “Is Derrick in?”
“To the back!”
In the kitchen a battery-powered radio shrieked old love songs over the tuneless carillon of ringing crockery. Derrick stood with his arms in soapy water, his jet hair slick with steam. Angie's stomach clenched painfully, but there was no turning back: he had already seen her.
“Angela!” Derrick always used her full name. It was one reason she had turned down his advances so many times in the past—a petty reason, of course, but things had been different in high school. The habit, along with his tucked-in button shirts, his loafers, his slicked-back hair, his membership in the Future Business Leaders of America club, had been fatal symptoms of uptightness. How could anyone have fun with a boyfriend so polite? Angie grimaced recalling the way she had thought back then. She liked to imagine she had always been the same, even while the world went to pieces around her.
“You in town for the market? Where are the kids?” Derrick greeted her in his customary way, gripping her arm gently at the elbow—a gesture both unpleasantly intimate and unnervingly devoid of affection. “I bet Maya's been picking up a lot of new words. How's Tom doing?”
She lifted her eyes to his square, handsome face. “The kids are fine. They're doing some shopping by themselves today.”
“That's good. Teach them some independence. That's important, these days.”
Independence. It was one of Derrick's watchwords. In the old days it had meant Republican values, small business and welfare reform and meritocracy. Now it meant skinning deer at the age of eight and salvaging cars.
She ran her fingers through her hair, already limp from the steam. “How've you been, Derry? Still thinking of rebuilding the school?”
“No, that plan's on hold. It was moving along for a while. I had a majority of the council behind it, but a couple of things came up...” He ran on about his jobs, his plans, while she studied his tall body, slim from cutting wood, his confident eyes, his broad shoulders, carefully adding these observations to a vision she had formed over weeks within herself. Only when he said, “Well, it's great to see you, but I better get back to work,” did she muster the strength to quaver, “Derry?”
He had already turned away, but at the urgency in her voice he faced her squarely. They looked at each other awkwardly through the steam. She pressed on, dismayed to find that her teeth were chattering. “Derry, do you ever think about high school?”
“Not too much. No time for it.”
“But you remember what it was like?”
“
Sure. At least, I suppose I do.”
“You remember Katie's Fourth of July barbecue? Junior year?” She pushed the words out so quickly she ran low on breath. “That walk we took afterward?”
He looked away. The steamy air swirled between them, misting his features. Memories coalesced out of the vapor like visions in a crystal ball: throngs of young faces drunk on Smirnoff Ice, bottles and crushed ice in a blue recycling bin, paper lanterns strung on a clothesline, vinyl-sided bi-levels ringing a cul-de-sac like the megaliths of a henge. She had gotten drunk for the first time that night, and time had grown wonderfully liquid. All the cramped insecurities of her past rinsed away, happiness washed back upon her from a glorious future, and Derrick was standing next to her under the Chinese lanterns talking about Venezuela and the cost of oil. He had always been politically aware.
Then the conversation changed, Venezuela dropped away, and he was talking about her hair, her smile, the bracelet she had inherited from her grandmother. He touched her shoulder and they left the party and walked around the cul-de-sac while he filled the night with words. Under a streetlight she put a stop to his talk, pressed herself against him and turned up her face. She could tell he was disturbed by her boldness but she needed to stop the flow of words; there were too many words between them already, words complicated things ... The kiss lasted a long time and its energy drew his fingers into her hair, so that afterward she remembered not the feel of his lips but sweet shivers that arced like the arms of a tiara across her scalp.
She heard herself whispering about private places, a bedroom in Katie's house, locking the door.
Then he was pushing her back. And the torrent of words had started up again, fluent, practiced, horribly reasonable. Derrick was disappointed in her. He knew what kind of a girl she was, and she was a marrying kind of girl. He had picked her out a long time ago; he knew just how things would be. The words arranged themselves around her like bricks: the prom, college, two children—a cell of words from which she had to escape at all costs.
Steam curled between them, obscuring a past that, in this world, was as irrelevant as a fantasy. Derrick turned from her and sunk his arms to the elbows in soapy water.
Asimov's SF, December 2009 Page 8