Asimov's SF, April-May 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  That was the first year. The following June, things changed. Allen's reports—because that's what they were, reports and not conversations—became non-stop complaints.

  “The FDA is taking forever to pass my IND application. Forever!"

  I figured out that “IND” meant “initial new drug,” and that it must be a green light for his Lucy research.

  “And Lucy has become impossible. She's hardly ever available when I need her, trotting off to chess tournaments around the world. As if chess mattered as much as my work on her!"

  I remembered the long-ago summer when chess mattered to Allen himself more than anything else in the world.

  “I'm just frustrated by the selfishness and the bureaucracy and the politics."

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And doesn't Lucy understand how important this could be? The incredible potential for improving the world?"

  “Evidently not,” I said, with mean satisfaction that I disliked myself for. To compensate I said, “Allen, why don't you take a break and come out here for dinner some night. Doesn't a break help with scientific thinking? Lead sometimes to real insights?"

  I could feel, even over the phone line, that he'd been on the point of refusal, but my last two sentences stopped him. After a moment he said, “Oh, all right, if you want me to,” so ungraciously that it seemed he was granting me an inconvenient favor. Right then, I knew that the dinner was going to be a disaster.

  And it was, but not as much as it would have been without Karen. She didn't take offense when Allen refused to tour her beloved garden. She said nothing when he tasted things and put them down on the tablecloth, dropped bits of food as he chewed, slobbered on the rim of his glass. She listened patiently to Allen's two-hour monologue, nodding and making encouraging little noises. Toward the end her eyes did glaze a bit, but she never lost her poise and wouldn't let me lose mine, either.

  “It's a disgrace,” Allen ranted, “the FDA is hobbling all productive research with excessive caution for—do you know what would happen if Jenner had needed FDA approval for his vaccines? We'd all still have smallpox, that's what! If Louis Pasteur—"

  “Why don't you play chess with Jeff ?” Karen said when the meal finally finished. “While I clear away here."

  I exhaled in relief. Chess was played in silence. Moreover, Karen would be stuck with cleaning up after Allen's appalling table manners.

  “I'm not interested in chess anymore,” Allen said. “Anyway, I have to get back to the lab. Not that Lucy kept her appointment for tests on ... she's wasting my time in Turkistan or someplace. Bye. Thanks for dinner."

  “Don't invite him again, Jeff,” Lucy said to me after Allen left. “Please."

  “I won't. You were great, sweetheart."

  Later, in bed, I did that thing she likes and I don't, by way of saying thank you. Halfway through, however, Karen pushed me away. “I only like it when you're really here,” she said. “Tonight you're just not focusing on us at all."

  After she went to sleep, I crept out of bed and turned on the computer in my study. The heavy fragrance of Karen's roses drifted through the window screen. Lucy Hartwick was in Turkmenistan, playing in the Chess Olympiad in Ashgabat. Various websites told of her rocketing rise to the top of the chess world. Articles about her all mentioned that she never socialized with her own or any other team, preferred to eat all her meals alone in her hotel room, and never smiled. I studied the accompanying pictures, trying to see what had happened to Lucy's beauty.

  She was still slender and long-legged. The lovely features were still there, although obscured by her habitual pose while studying a chessboard: hunched over from the neck like a turtle, with two fingers in her slightly open mouth. I had seen that pose somewhere before, but I couldn't remember where. It wasn't appealing, but the loss of Lucy's good looks came from something else. Even for a chess player, the concentration on her face was formidable. It wiped out any hint of any other emotion whatsoever. Good poker players do that, too, but not in quite that way. Lucy looked not quite human.

  Or maybe I just thought that because of my complicated feelings about Allen.

  At two A.M. I sneaked back into bed, glad that Karen hadn't woken while I was gone.

  * * * *

  “She's gone!” Allen cried over the phone, a year later. “She's just gone!"

  “Who?” I said, although, of course, I knew. “Allen, I can't talk now, I have a client coming into the office two minutes from now."

  “You have to come down here!"

  “Why?” I had ducked all of Allen's calls ever since that awful dinner, changing my home phone to an unlisted number and letting my secretary turn him away at work. I'd only answered now because I was expecting a call from Karen about the time for our next marriage counseling session. Things weren't as good as they used to be. Not really bad, just clouds blocking what had been a steady marital sunshine. I wanted to dispel those clouds before they turned into major thunderstorms.

  “You have to come,” Allen repeated, and he started to sob.

  Embarrassed, I held the phone away from my ear. Grown men didn't cry like that, not to other men. All at once I realized why Allen wanted me to come to the lab: because he had no other human contact at all.

  “Please, Jeff,” Allen whispered, and I snapped, “Okay!"

  “Mr. Gallagher, your clients are here,” Brittany said at the doorway, and I tried to compose a smile and a good lie.

  And after all that, Lucy Hartwick wasn't even gone. She sat in Allen's lab, hunched over a chessboard with two fingers in her mouth, just as I had seen her a year ago on the Web.

  “What the hell—Allen, you said—"

  Unpredictable as ever, he had calmed down since calling me. Now he handed me a sheaf of print-outs and medical photos. I flashed back suddenly to the first time I'd come to this lab, when Allen had also thrust on me documents I couldn't read. He just didn't learn.

  “Her white matter has shrunk another 75 percent since I saw her last,” Allen said, as though that were supposed to convey something to me.

  “You said Lucy was gone!"

  “She is."

  “She's sitting right there!"

  Allen looked at me. I had the impression that the simple act required enormous effort on his part, like a man trying to drag himself free of a concrete block to which he was chained. He said, “I was always jealous of you, you know."

  It staggered me. My mouth opened but Allen had already moved back to the concrete block. “Just look at these brain scans, 75 percent less white matter in six months! And these neurotransmitter levels, they—"

  “Allen,” I said. Sudden cold had seized my heart. “Stop.” But he babbled on about the caudate nucleus and antibodies attacking the basal ganglia and bi-directional rerouting.

  I walked over to Lucy and lifted her chessboard off the table.

  Immediately she rose and continued playing variations on the board in my arms. I took several steps backward; she followed me, still playing. I hurled the board into the hall, slammed the door, and stood with my back to it. I was six-one and 190 pounds; Lucy wasn't even half that. In fact, she appeared to have lost weight, so that her slimness had turned gaunt.

  She didn't try to fight me. Instead she returned to her table, sat down, and stuck two fingers in her mouth.

  “She's playing in her head, isn't she,” I said to Allen.

  “Yes."

  “What does ‘white matter’ do?"

  “It contains axons that connect neurons in the cerebral cortex to neurons in other parts of the brain, thereby facilitating intercranial communication.” Allen sounded like a textbook.

  “You mean, it lets some parts of the brain talk to other parts?"

  “Well, that's only a crude analogy, but—"

  “It lets different thoughts from different parts of the brain reach each other,” I said, still staring at Lucy. “It makes you aware of more than one thought at a time."

  Static.

 
Allen began a long technical explanation, but I wasn't listening. I remembered now where I'd seen that pose of Lucy's, head pushed forward and two fingers in her mouth, drooling. It had been in an artist's rendering of Queen Elizabeth I in her final days, immobile and unreachable, her mind already gone in advance of her dying body.

  “Lucy's gone,” Allen had said. He knew.

  “Allen, what baseball team did Babe Ruth play for?"

  He babbled on about neurotransmitters.

  “What was Bobby Fischer's favorite opening move?” Silently I begged him, Say e4, damn it.

  He talked about the brain waves of concentrated meditation.

  “Did you know that a tsunami will hit Manhattan tomorrow?"

  He urged overhaul of FDA clinical-trial design.

  I said, as quietly as I could manage, “You have it, too, don't you. You injected yourself with whatever concoction the FDA wouldn't approve, or you took it as a pill, or something. You wanted Lucy's static-free state, like some fucking dryer sheet, and so you gave this to yourself from her. And now neither one of you can switch focus at all.” The call to me had been Allen's last, desperate foray out of his perfect concentration on this project. No—that hadn't been the last.

  I took him firmly by the shoulders. “Allen, what did you mean when you said ‘I was always jealous of you'?"

  He blathered on about MRI results.

  “Allen—please tell me what you meant!"

  But he couldn't. And now I would never know.

  I called the front desk of the research building. I called 911. Then I called Karen, needing to hear her voice, needing to connect with her. But she didn't answer her cell, and the office said she'd left her desk to go home early.

  * * * *

  Both Allen and Lucy were hospitalized briefly, then released. I never heard the diagnosis, although I suspect it involved an “inability to perceive and relate to social interactions” or some such psychobabble. Doesn't play well with others. Runs with scissors. Lucy and Allen demonstrated they could physically care for themselves by doing it, so the hospital let them go. Business professionals, I hear, mind their money for them, order their physical lives. Allen has just published another brilliant paper, and Lucy Hartwick is the first female World Chess Champion.

  Karen said, “They're happy, in their own way. If their single-minded focus on their passions makes them oblivious to anything else—well, so what. Maybe that's the price for genius."

  “Maybe,” I said, glad that she was talking to me at all. There hadn't been much conversation lately. Karen had refused any more marriage counseling and had turned silent, escaping me by working in the garden. Our roses are the envy of the neighborhood. We have Tuscan Sun, Ruffled Cloud, Mister Lincoln, Crown Princess, Golden Zest. English roses, hybrid teas, floribunda, groundcover roses, climbers, shrubs. They glow scarlet, pink, antique apricot, deep gold, delicate coral. Their combined scent nauseates me.

  I remember the exact moment that happened. We were in the garden, Karen kneeling beside a flower bed, a wide hat shading her face from the sun so that I couldn't see her eyes.

  “Karen,” I said, trying to mask my desperation, “Do you still love me?"

  “Hand me that trowel, will you, Jeff ?"

  “Karen! Please! Can we talk about what's happening to us?"

  “The Tahitian Sunsets are going to be glorious this year."

  I stared at her, at the beads of sweat on her upper lip, the graceful arc of her neck, her happy smile.

  Karen clearing away Allen's dinner dishes, picking up his sloppily dropped food. Lucy with two fingers in her mouth, studying her chessboard and then touching the pieces.

  No. Not possible.

  Karen reached for the trowel herself, as if she'd forgotten I was there.

  * * * *

  Lucy Hartwick lost her championship to a Russian named Dmitri Chertov. A geneticist at Stanford made a breakthrough in cancer research so important that it grabbed all headlines for nearly a week. By a coincidence that amused the media, his young daughter won the Scripps Spelling Bee. I looked up the geneticist on the Internet; a year ago he'd attended a scientific conference with Allen. A woman in Oregon, some New Age type, developed the ability to completely control her brain waves through profound meditation. Her husband is a chess grandmaster.

  I walk a lot now, when I'm not cleaning or cooking or shopping. Karen quit her job; she barely leaves the garden even to sleep. I kept my job, although I take fewer clients. As I walk, I think about the ones I do have, mulling over various houses they might like. I watch the August trees begin to tinge with early yellow, ponder overheard snatches of conversation, talk to dogs. My walks get longer and longer, and I notice that I've started to time my speed, to become interested in running shoes, to investigate transcontinental walking routes.

  But I try not to think about walking too much. I observe children at frenetic play during the last of their summer vacation, recall movies I once liked, wonder at the intricacies of quantum physics, anticipate what I'll cook for lunch. Sometimes I sing. I recite the few snatches of poetry I learned as a child, relive great football games, chat with old ladies on their porches, add up how many calories I had for breakfast. Sometimes I even mentally rehearse basic chess openings: the Vienna Game or the Petroff Defense. I let whatever thoughts come that will, accepting them all.

  Listening to the static, because I don't know how much longer I've got.

  Copyright © 2007 Nancy Kress

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  LEAVING FOR THE MALL

  by Roger Dutcher

  “Can I borrow the ship, Daddy?"

  The “smart key” arches

  In perfect trajectory

  Into her waiting hand

  And in his mind

  He sees her

  Blasting off, huge fins

  And red flames

  Of exhaust...

  She laughs

  At his old fashioned

  Rockets with

  Primitive fuels...

  Her old man is so funny;

  And catching the key,

  She's ready to go,

  Already gone

  Leaving no trail behind

  For him to watch

  Or follow.

  —Roger Dutcher

  Copyright © 2007 Roger Dutcher

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  ALWAYS

  by Karen Joy Fowler

  "I've followed Asimov's through three outstanding editors, and wish the magazine well for the next thirty years."—Karen Joy Fowler

  Karen Joy Fowler is the author of four novels and two short story collections. Her first novel, Sarah Canary, won the Commonwealth Award for best first novel by a Californian, Sister Noon was a Pen/Faulkner finalist, and The Jane Austen Book Club, a New York Times bestseller. She won the World Fantasy award for her collection Black Glass and the Nebula for her short story “What I Didn't See.” From 1985 to 1997, we published nine of her perceptive short stories. While it's taken ten years to get her tenth, we hope it won't be so long before we see another one.

  How I Got Here:

  I was seventeen years old when I heard the good news from Wilt Loomis who had it straight from Brother Porter himself. Wilt was so excited he was ready to drive to the city of Always that very night. Back then I just wanted to be anywhere Wilt was. So we packed up.

  Always had two openings and these were going for five thousand apiece, but Wilt had already talked to Brother Porter who said, seeing as it was Wilt, who was good with cars, he'd take twenty-five hundred down and give us another three years to come up with the other twenty-five, and let that money cover us both. You average that five thousand, Wilt told me, over the infinite length of your life and it worked out to almost nothing a year. Not exactly nothing, but as close to nothing as you could get without getting to nothing. It was too good a deal to pass up. They were practically paying us.

  My stepfat
her was drinking again and it looked less and less like I was going to graduate high school. Mother was just as glad to have me out of the house and harm's way. She did give me some advice. You can always tell a cult from a religion, she said, because a cult is just a set of rules that lets certain men get laid.

  And then she told me not to get pregnant, which I could have taken as a shot across the bow, her new way of saying her life would have been so much better without me, but I chose not to. Already I was taking the long view.

  The city of Always was a lively place then—this was back in 1938—part commune and part roadside attraction, set down in the Santa Cruz mountains with the redwoods all around. It used to rain all winter and be damp all summer, too. Slug weather for those big yellow slugs you never saw anywhere but Santa Cruz. Out in the woods it smelled like bay leaves.

  The old Santa Cruz Highway snaked through and the two blocks right on the road were the part open to the public. People would stop there for a soda—Brother Porter used to brag that he'd invented Hawaiian Punch, though the recipe had been stolen by some gang in Fresno who took the credit for it—and to look us over, whisper about us on their way to the beach. We offered penny peep shows for the adults, because Brother Porter said you ought to know what sin was before you abjured it, and a row of wooden Santa Claus statues for the kids. In our heyday we had fourteen gas pumps to take care of all the gawkers.

  Brother Porter founded Always in the early twenties, and most of the other residents were already old when I arrived. That made sense, I guess, that they'd be the ones to feel the urgency, but I didn't expect it and I wasn't pleased. Wilt was twenty-five when we first went to Always. Of course, that too seemed old to me then.

  The bed I got had just been vacated by a thirty-two-year-old woman named Maddie Beckinger. Maddie was real pretty. She'd just filed a suit against Brother Porter alleging that he'd promised to star her in a movie called The Perfect Woman, and when it opened she was supposed to fly to Rome in a replica of TheSpirit of St. Louis, only this plane would be called The Spirit of Love. She said in her suit that she'd always been more interested in being a movie star than in living forever. Who, she asked, was more immortal than Marlene Dietrich? Brother Porter hated it when we got dragged into the courts, but, as I was to learn, it did keep happening. Lawyers are forever, Brother Porter used to say.