“Nope.” Marie grinned and shook her head. “Wouldn't look good for a mayor to skip town just because she's pregnant.” Her smile faded. “Besides, people might think I'm nothing but trouble. Can't have that, can we?” Embarrassed, Carlos looked away. He started to release her arm, but she pulled him close again. “Forget it. You did what you had to do. If you didn't, I'd be digging ditches now."
“Yeah, well ... like I said, you did better than most people expected.” He glanced back at the settlement. “As for Lars ... that's a whole ‘nother issue."
“Not an issue at all.” Marie gazed out at the channel. “He's got his life now, and I've got mine. So far as I'm concerned, he can go back any time he wants. We'll get along just fine without him."
“Well ... no.” Carlos shook his head. “The amnesty the maggies have offered you doesn't extend to him. They know everything he did ... or at least what you've told us, along with how he tried to hide out in Bridgeton ... and they don't consider him to be—” he searched for the correct phrase “—'sufficiently rehabilitated,’ if I remember it correctly. So he's stuck here, whether he likes it or not."
“All right.” Marie gave an offhand shrug. “Fine. Whatever makes them happy, I can live with it."
“It's a little more complicated than that.” Carlos let go of her arm, tucked his hands in his pockets. “Problem is, you're carrying his child. And Uncle Clark is an old-fashioned sort of guy who seems to think that, no matter what else, his nephew has a right to be a father."
“Like hell, he does.” Feeling a surge of anger, Marie stopped and turned toward him. “Lars knocked me up one night when I was too tired to resist. He..."
“Did he rape you?” Carlos looked her straight in the eye. “Tell the truth."
She hesitated. “Well, no, but..."
“Then there's nothing I can do ... and please, don't ask me to lie on your behalf.” He held up a hand before she could object. “Clark Thompson hasn't given up on his boy, any more than I gave up on you. He wants the best for him, and that includes the prospect of him settling down and raising a family."
“Oh, for the love of..."
“Just listen, please.” Carlos let out his breath. “There's more to this than just you two. Clark has a strong voice on the Council, and it's become even stronger since word came that you and Lars discovered a new source of timber...."
“It wasn't him and me, dammit.” She felt her face becoming warm. “It was Chris Smith's idea. She..."
“Maybe, but she's not around anymore, is she? And the way Clark has put this to the council, this is your settlement. Yours and Lars's.” Again, he raised a hand before she could protest. “He's willing to allocate everything you need ... tools, generators, boats, whatever ... to turn this place into a viable colony as soon as possible. A blank check...."
“But his signature has to be on it.” Marie stared at him. “Right?"
“Right.” Carlos bent down to pick up a piece of driftwood. “But that's just council business. I've also learned that he's already taken steps toward setting up a private company to corner the market on the Great Dakota timber industry. The Thompson Wood Company, with him and Molly in control..."
“Oh, great. That's excellent.” Marie shook her head in disgust. “Coyote's first major corporation. What's next, a stockholder meeting?"
“Probably.” Carlos hurled the stick out into the water. “What do you want? Social collectivism all over again? Maybe Manny Castro would like that, but..."
“Leave Manny out of this.” She absently ran her fingers through her hair. “Look, let me get this straight. Clark is willing to provide support for Riverport..."
“Which is what you want."
“...but he's not going to persuade the Council to give us the stuff we need to do that unless his family has a lock on the timber industry."
“That's correct, yes."
“And for him to do that, he wants...” Marie's voice trailed off as she put everything together. “Oh, god ... Carlos, you can't be saying..."
“You know what I'm saying.” Carlos looked down at the ground, suddenly reluctant to meet her eyes. “Uncle Clark wants what's best for his favorite nephew. A wife, a child, a job..."
“I don't love him!” In frustration, she turned away from him. “He's not the one I want! I...!"
She stopped before she said something she knew she'd regret. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell on bended knees to the beach. “Is there someone else?” Carlos asked, kneeling down beside her. “Who is it? Tell me, please...."
Marie raised her head, looked away. For just a moment, beyond the nearest dune, she caught a glimpse of a figure cloaked in shadows, a single red eye reflecting the light of the setting sun. Then the figure disappeared, a twilight ghost swallowed by the coming night.
“No,” she whispered. “There's no one else."
* * * *
From the diary of Marie Montero: Barbiel 15, c.y. 06
The first keelboat from Liberty arrived today: fifteen people in all, including Clark and Molly Thompson and Lars's brother Garth. And that's just one boat: two more are on the way, sailing out from Bridgeton and making their way around New Florida until they reach Great Dakota. We've made sure that they know to avoid Smith Island. That place belongs to the river horses, and we should all stay away from there.
By the time everyone gets here, Riverport's population will have doubled—no, tripled—in size. Only a couple of months ago, this explosion would've been unimaginable. Maybe even impossible: there was no way we could have supported seventy-two people. But apparently there's quite a few folks in New Florida and Midland who want to take a shot at starting a new colony, especially if there's a chance they'll make a good living working for the Thompson Wood Company.
Now that the Council has formally recognized us, we're getting everything we need: food, livestock, clothing, hardware, building materials, comps, even a couple of electrical generators. I was told that several panes of uncut plate glass are also being shipped out to us, which means we'll be able to finish work on the greenhouse. Such a small thing, really, and yet so necessary. Once the greenhouse is up, we'll be able to feed ourselves through winter.
Lars is happier now that he has his family with him. Our relationship has been pretty much touch and go since he moved in with me. Even though I've told him that he's going back to the tool shed if he starts drinking again, there's been a couple of nights when he's come home with ale on his breath. Decided to look past that as much as I can. He's been nicer to me lately. and he seems to be honestly looking forward to raising a child. We've already decided on names: Hawk if it's a boy, Rain if it's a girl.
Clark insists that we get married, and I think that's pretty much inevitable. I'm still not sure whether I can love Lars, but the baby is coming soon, and he or she is going to need a daddy. Besides, the Thompson Wood Company is going to be a family-owned business. If I want an interest in it, getting hitched to Lars is part of the deal. Carlos and Wendy still don't trust him very much, but they're willing to go along with the plan. It may not be the happiest of marriages, but ... well, we'll see.
Clark and I have talked things over lately, and we've agreed that he's probably better cut out to be mayor than I am. After all, he's had experience with this sort of thing before, and with a baby on the way, the last thing I need to worry about is running a town. We haven't gone public with this yet, but once all the newcomers arrive and get settled in, I'm going to resign and put my support behind him in the special election. Maybe not the most democratic way of doing things, but at least it'll help make sure that Riverport has a strong leader during its first year.
So all is well, or at least as well as it can be. Except for one thing...
* * * *
Manuel Castro had his own cabin, a one-room shack on the far side of town. A handful of New Boston settlers helped him build it, but since then he'd lived alone, becoming increasingly reclusive as new people began to arrive in Riverport. The cabin h
ad no windows, and no furniture save a table, a chair, and a cabinet for his few belongings. The one room was lit by a fish-oil lamp suspended from its rafters, and it wasn't until someone noticed that they didn't see its glow seeping beneath the doorframe one evening that anyone realized the savant had disappeared.
Learning this news the following morning, Marie hurried to his cabin, only to discover it had been stripped bare. Manny hadn't left a note, yet when she questioned several townspeople, she discovered that he'd recently bartered his meager possessions—his chair here, his desk there—in exchange for hand tools and a backpack. The sort of things one might need in order to homestead in the wilderness. That was when she knew where he'd gone.
She didn't tell Lars or anyone else where she was going when she left town by herself. By then it was late autumn; the wind had long since ripped the leaves from the trees, and the first hard freeze had solidified the ground. She bundled herself warmly in the oversized wool serape a couple of friends had woven for her, and filled a waterskin from the town well. Along the way, she found a broken tree limb to use as a staff to help support her weight. In her second trimester, it felt as if she were carrying a heavy sack in her midriff; she made sure that she rested frequently, and drank water whenever she was thirsty.
The path leading into the foothills was just as she'd remembered it, when she and Manny had hiked up Thunder Ridge in the first days of autumn. The season had become colder since then, the sky the color of iron, yet by midday she'd reached the bluff where she and Manny had rested on an afternoon more warm and fair than this. It was here that she found him.
It was almost as if he'd never left this place at all. He sat on a boulder, pad propped upon his knee, using a claw-like finger to etch a picture on its screen. His cowl was pulled up around his face, though, so his blind eye didn't see her coming until her staff made a scraping noise on the bare rock. Then he looked up, and stared at her for a long time.
“Marie,” he said at last. “You shouldn't have come."
“You shouldn't have left.” She clung to the branch with both hands, trying to catch her breath. “Damn it, Manny. Why did you...?"
“Hush.” Putting down his pad, he rose to his feet and walked over to her. “You're pregnant, remember? This can't be good for..."
“I'm fine. Exercise is good for the baby.” Yet she let him take her by the shoulders, ease her to a seat on the ground. “Where do you think you're going? Why didn't you...?"
“So many questions.” The soft rasp from his chest that signified a chuckle. “You know, you've changed quite a bit since we first met. Back then..."
“Shut up and talk to me."
“Which do you want first? Shut up, or...?"
“Never mind.” She glared at him. “Why...?"
“Because I don't belong down there.” His single eye peered at her. “I went with you and Lars because I didn't want to be the resident freak in Liberty. Now Lars is back, and I don't want to be the resident freak in Riverport either."
“Lars is..."
“I know what Lars is, just as I know that I can't compete with him.” He shook his head. “I need to find my own place in the world, even if it means living alone. So I left. Simple solution to a simple problem.” All this came in the same monotone he'd assumed when he'd first met her. “Any more questions? Catch your breath, and..."
“One more, then I'll go home.” She stared at him. “Do you love me?"
“Of course, I love you.” His reply was immediate, without reservation. “You should know that by now, just as you know it'll never work out..."
“Dammit, Manny...!"
“Please ... just listen.” Standing up, he pointed toward the nearby hills. “I'm building a cabin up there. Just for myself, with no one else around. But if you ever need me, that's where I'll be."
She tried hard not to cry, but the tears came anyway. Manny didn't say anything for a moment, then he reached down and, taking her by the shoulders, gently raised her to her feet. “You'll do fine. You've got a family again, and you're no longer an outcast. Everything you've ever wanted is yours for the taking. All you need to do is be strong ... and you've shown that you have more courage than you thought you had."
She started to reply, but found she could think of nothing to say, so instead she put her arms around Manny and laid her head against his chest. She heard no heartbeat within his metallic body, but when he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, the embrace was tender and undeniably human.
They stood that way for a long time until he finally pushed her away. Looking up at him, she was surprised to see a few white flakes upon his cowl; unnoticed by either of them, snow had begun to fall.
“Storm's coming in,” she murmured. “I better get back."
“Yes, you should.” Manny reached down, picked up her walking stick. “Go quickly, before it gets too rough."
Marie nodded as she took the stick from him. There was nothing more to be said, so she turned and started toward the downhill trail. At the edge of the tree line, though, she paused to look back. The snow was falling more swiftly now, making a soft hiss as the wind carried it through the trees.
For a moment, she caught a last glimpse of a black-robed figure walking across the bluff, heading for the dense woodlands. And then he was gone, leaving her to a follow a path that was hers and hers alone.
Copyright © 2007 Allen M. Steele
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* * *
WHERE THE FIRST BACKYARD STARSHIP LIFTED OFF
by Robert Frazier
Velocity Street ran next to the immense parking lot
of an IGA store and beyond that along a stretch
where half the meter poles were decapitated
stood rows of abandoned welfare tenements
a Pentecostal church and a blackened brick hotel
that kept a commons room with faded velvet
wallpaper and Space Cowboy still on the juke
we're talking inner suburbia gone to weeds
streetlights with no more wattage than a bug lamp
yet this was a place that Midwestern kids escaped to
far from potluck socials and the putting by of preserves
far removed from the slow burn of their futures
under the transmission cowling of a combine tractor
they found work at the NASA labs shared apartments
married saved for veneered furniture took a loan
for a second station wage with a trailer hitch
popped out a few kids read up on warp engine science
and talked and talked on weekends about leaving
the Heartland for a place where the universe
whispered its mysteries in a primary hue—Robert Frazier
Copyright © 2007 Robert Frazier
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* * *
A SMALL ROOM IN KOBOLDTOWN
by Michael Swanwick
"I was an unpublished gonnabe writer back in 1977 when the first issue of Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine appeared. Since it came out during a convention that Asimov attended, I joined the little throng that materialized about him in the hallway to get his autograph on the cover. Because I was nobody in particular and rather acutely aware of it, I was last in line. So it was just we two when the convention's guest of honor, a writer who had rocketed up out of nowhere, but whose name I won't mention, passed by, surrounded by sycophants and well wishers. ‘Look at that,’ Asimov said quietly, handing me back my magazine. ‘A year ago, everybody was saying, “Who is So-and-So?” And ten years from now, they're all going to be saying, “Who is Isaac Asimov?” ‘” ‘Oh, bullshit!’ I said reflexively. But Asimov didn't hear me. He was staring off into the future at his oncoming oblivion. “I realized then that if I tiptoed away immediately, I could always claim to be the man who said ‘Bullshit!’ to Isaac Asimov and left him speechless. So I did. “It's been thirty years and in this one respect I proved a better prophet than the mast
er. He isn't forgotten—far from it. Not only are his books still in print, but every month the magazine that bears his name comes out and is read everywhere. I have yet to hear anybody pick it up and ask, ‘Who is Isaac Asimov?’”—Michael Swanwick
The author has just finished writing his latest book, The Dragons of Babel—excerpts from which have been published in Asimov's as “The Word That Sings the Scythe” (October/November 2004), “An Episode of Stardust” (January 2006), “Lord Weary's Empire” (December 2006), and now “A Small Room in Koboldtown.” Michael tells us, “One chapter from the end, my wife Marianne was convinced that it was all going to end miserably, as so many of my stories do. Imagine her surprise when she discovered that it all comes out happily. No, really. An honest-to-gosh happy ending. Honest. I mean it."
That winter, Will le Fey held down a job working for a haint politician named Salem Toussaint. Chiefly, his function was to run errands while looking conspicuously solid. He fetched tax forms for the alderman's constituents, delivered stacks of documents to trollish functionaries, fixed L&I violations, presented boxes of candied john-the-conqueror root to retiring secretaries, absent-mindedly dropped slim envelopes containing twenty-dollar bills on desks. When somebody important died, he brought a white goat to the back door of the Fane of Darkness to be sacrificed to the Nameless Ones. When somebody else's son was drafted or went to prison, he hammered a nail in the nkisi nkonde that Toussaint kept in the office to ensure his safe return. He canvassed voters in haint neighborhoods like Ginny Gall, Beluthahatchie, and Diddy-Wah-Diddy, where the bars were smoky, the music was good, and it was dangerous to smile at the whores. He negotiated the labyrinthine bureaucracies of City Hall. Not everything he did was strictly legal, but none of it was actually criminal. Salem Toussaint didn't trust him enough for that.
One evening, Will was stuffing envelopes with Ghostface while Jimi Begood went over a list of ward-heelers with the alderman, checking those who could be trusted to turn out the troops in the upcoming election and crossing out those who had a history of pocketing the walking-around money and standing idle on election day or, worse, steering the vote the wrong way because they were double-dipping from the opposition. The door between Toussaint's office and the anteroom was open a crack and Will could eavesdrop on their conversation.
Asimov's SF, April-May 2007 Page 11