Across the Spectrum

by Nagle, Pati

  “The ‘real world.’ Now we define the ‘real world’ as doing whatever you have to. But things will change again. The economy will come back, and then survival will depend on knowing something about legit business.”

  The boy giggled. “You want to take me on as a student, teach me something about business, old man?”

  “Maybe.” My answer surprised me. Something about this kid appealed to me, who knows why? I did want to teach him something.

  “About stocks and bonds and all that crap?”

  “More about survival,” I said.

  “Oh, right. You took a little martial arts once, you think you know better than me how to get by. I live on the street, mister. I grew up there. I know all about surviving.”

  “And when things change? When survival’s about more than pointing a gun at somebody and taking what he’s got?”

  “I’m a street warrior, pop. There’s always going to be a place for warriors.”

  “You’re no warrior. You don’t know the first thing about being a warrior. You’re just another punk who thinks he’s tough. All your ideas come from gang leaders, bad movies, and video games like Street Fighter VIII.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Nobody talks to me like that.”

  “Shut up and sit down.”

  He surprised both of us by obeying.

  “Real warriors don’t kill anyone unless they have to,” I said. “Not like you punks that kill people just for fun.” I could tell by the look he gave me that it sounded hokey to him, but I plowed on anyway. “Take Enya Sensei now. She knew a fair amount about guns, did some target shooting, could use both handguns and rifles. But she didn’t think going around with a gun strapped to your waist made you a warrior.

  “She told me one time, ‘You depend on guns too much. There’s going to be a time when you’re relying on one, and it won’t be the right weapon.’

  “I said, ‘Guns are the weapon of our time. I love Aikido, but for self defense, guns are the answer.’

  “She gave me kind of a sad look then. ‘Guns are just another tool, and ultimately no tool is ever the answer.’”

  I hesitated a moment. “You know, Enya Sensei didn’t actually give advice very often. I should have paid more attention when she did.”

  “What do you mean? That kind of firepower gives you real respect out there. Everybody wants a gun like that Uzi.”

  “The more fools they. Enya Sensei had it right. Firepower won’t keep you alive out there.”

  He clearly didn’t believe any of this, but I’d made him curious. “What does, then?”

  “What you do. How you act. The way you carry yourself. Being willing to die, but not giving up. And timing. Timing is critical.”

  “That the kind of bullshit your Sensei taught?”

  I ignored the insult. “Yeah, that and one other thing: change when the situation changes.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Take me. Ten years ago I lived in a penthouse over on Seventh Street—right in the heart of the happening art district. I dated beautiful women, ate in the best restaurants, had my suits tailor-made.

  “Then the crash came, and everything changed. But I didn’t want to change with it. I’d invested most of my money in the market, but I had a little in bank accounts. Instead of cutting my losses, abandoning the rich man lifestyle, I threw good money after bad, trying to get back on top. And ended up in a cardboard box on a steam grate three blocks from the White House.”

  He reached over for the whisky, poured another healthy shot. I didn’t know how he could chug the stuff; I still nursed my original glass.

  “I didn’t adapt, didn’t change with the times, don’t you see?” I said. “Being on the streets after years in the penthouse really threw my timing. Money had defined my whole life, both making it and spending it. Once I didn’t have any, I didn’t know how to act.

  “That Uzi was the only thing I had. I clung to it like a toddler to his blankie. I treated it like an amulet of good luck, like garlic and a silver cross for warding off vampires. And I did a few other things with it.

  “I’m not going to tell you everything. A man’s entitled to keep some of his ugly truth to himself. I will tell you this: if you get desperate enough, you’ll end up doing things you hate yourself for.”

  “Yeah.” He scrunched his face up, like he had a picture in his mind he preferred not to see.

  I wondered what he had done to survive. I didn’t ask. “So I found myself on the street, and I still didn’t change. Kept trying to act the big shot, which didn’t work very well. I ran scared most of the time, terrified somebody might kill me, terrified I’d have to keep living like a bum.

  “One night I found myself in this alley, surrounded by these young punks—dudes about your age. One guy—he had a machete—sniggered when I pointed the Uzi at him. It scared me. Even if I didn’t impress him, the gun should have. ‘Bet you ain’t got no bullets in that thing,’ he said.

  “I didn’t, of course. After the crash, ammo disappeared even faster than food. I’d been out for a month. I was shaking so bad he could probably see the gun jiggle. I stared at the rusty machete and thought about begging. I’d have given them anything they wanted, if I’d had anything they wanted.”

  The kid nodded. He knew that kind of fear.

  “But I didn’t. I didn’t have a damn thing. I knew I was dead. And somehow, that freed me from the fear. A little voice whispered in my head, said ‘Man, if you’re going to die anyway, what have you got to lose?’

  “Machete guy gave this evil grin, and pulled the machete up like a sword. He cut straight down at my head. And at the right moment, I moved a little to the side and toward him and slammed him in the solar plexus with the butt of the Uzi. He stumbled. I made a little turn, grabbed the hilt of the machete, and threw him into a brick wall. He slumped to the ground, lay there. Now I had the machete. I shoved the gun into my waistband, looked at the others.

  “The second guy—the one with a knife—just stood there, looking scared, but the third one came running at me swinging a two-by-four at my head. And I just stepped off the line again. Only since I had the machete, I sliced him across the abdomen when I did it. He screamed, dropped the board, and grabbed his stomach, tried to hold himself together.

  “Man, the punk with the knife scaled a fence in nothing flat. I backed out of the alley, left the two of them there. I don’t know if they lived or not.”

  The kid had straightened up in the chair while I told the story. He set his glass on the table, and didn’t pour another drink. He tried to look tough, but I could almost smell his fear.

  “You’ve got a lot more style than those punks. More sense, too. You know how to adapt. You spent the evening staking me out, but when I invited you in, you came in, shared a bottle with an old man. Figured to soften me up before you pulled that knife out from under your shirt.”

  His hand went to it immediately—a reflex. He stared at me wide-eyed.

  “What, you didn’t think I noticed it? I saw it when we first met. I’d be willing to bet you know a few tricks with it, too.”

  He hesitated. His hand held the knife hilt, but he didn’t pull it out. His eyes cut toward the door, back at me.

  “Go ahead, son, make your move. You got to have a lot of quick on me. I’m probably old enough to be your granddaddy. It ought to be worth the risk. I get good heat in this basement, and winter’s not far off. And you could end up with the gun. It’s a nice gun.”

  He looked like a cat caught in a corner by a dog. Half of him wanted to run; the other half wondered what would happen if he swiped his claws across my nose, and jumped up on my back.

  “Just don’t forget you’re taking a risk. I might have found some ammo for the Uzi. And even if I haven’t, I’m willing to bet my life I can take that knife away from you.”

  He vaulted out of the chair sideways, toward the door, away from me. Got there in about two seconds, then wasted fifteen or twenty trying to get all th
e locks undone. If I’d wanted to shoot him, I’d have had all the time in the world.

  But I didn’t want to shoot him. I said, “Sure you have to be going? All right, then. Come back another time.”

  Maybe he would. Maybe after a couple of days he’d tell himself he was nuts to be scared of an old guy like me, and he’d come back to kill me.

  Or maybe he’d come back to listen.

  Of Mist, and Grass, and Sand

  Vonda N. McIntyre

  The characters in “Of Mist, and Grass, and Sand” came back to me and insisted on my continuing their story, in the novel Dreamsnake. Terry Carr rejected the story for Universe before I ever sent it to him. He had seen an early draft at Clarion West 1972 and asked to see it when it was finished, but changed his mind. Then he reprinted it in Best of the Year. Go figger. This story won the Nebula Award and was nominated for the Hugo.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  The little boy was frightened. Gently, Snake touched his hot forehead. Behind her, three adults stood close together, watching, suspicious, afraid to show their concern with more than narrow lines around their eyes. They feared Snake as much as they feared their only child’s death. In the dimness of the tent, the strange blue glow of the lantern gave no reassurance.

  The child watched with eyes so dark the pupils were not visible, so dull that Snake herself feared for his life. She stroked his hair. It was long, and very pale, dry and irregular for several inches near the scalp, a striking color against his dark skin. Had Snake been with these people months ago, she would have known the child was growing ill.

  “Bring my case, please,” Snake said.

  The child’s parents started at her soft voice. Perhaps they had expected the screech of a bright jay, or the hissing of a shining serpent. This was the first time Snake had spoken in their presence. She had only watched, when the three of them had come to observe her from a distance and whisper about her occupation and her youth; she had only listened, and then nodded, when finally they came to ask her help. Perhaps they had thought she was mute.

  The fair-haired younger man lifted her leather case. He held the satchel away from his body, leaning to hand it to her, breathing shallowly with nostrils flared against the faint smell of musk in the dry desert air. Snake had almost accustomed herself to the kind of uneasiness he showed; she had already seen it often.

  When Snake reached out, the young man jerked back and dropped the case. Snake lunged and barely caught it, gently set it on the felt floor, and glanced at him with reproach. His partners came forward and touched him to ease his fear. “He was bitten once,” the dark and handsome woman said. “He almost died.” Her tone was not of apology, but of justification.

  “I’m sorry,” the younger man said. “It’s—” He gestured toward her; he was trembling, but trying visibly to control himself. Snake glanced to her shoulder, where she had been unconsciously aware of the slight weight and movement. A tiny serpent, thin as the finger of a baby, slid himself around her neck to show his narrow head below her short black curls. He probed the air with his trident tongue, in a leisurely manner, out, up and down, in, to savor the taste of the smells. “It’s only Grass,” Snake said. “He can’t hurt you.” If he were bigger, he might be frightening: his color was pale green, but the scales around his mouth were red, as if he had just feasted as a mammal eats, by tearing. He was, in fact, much neater.

  The child whimpered. He cut off the sound of pain; perhaps he had been told that Snake, too, would be offended by crying. She only felt sorry that his people refused themselves such a simple way of easing fear. She turned from the adults, regretting their terror of her but unwilling to spend the time it would take to persuade them to trust her. “It’s all right,” she said to the little boy. “Grass is smooth, and dry, and soft, and if I left him to guard you, even death could not reach your bedside.” Grass poured himself into her narrow, dirty hand, and she extended him toward the child. “Gently.” He reached out and touched the sleek scales with one fingertip. Snake could sense the effort of even such a simple motion, yet the boy almost smiled.

  “What are you called?”

  He looked quickly toward his parents, and finally they nodded.

  “Stavin,” he whispered. He had no breath or strength for speaking.

  “I am Snake, Stavin, and in a little while, in the morning, I must hurt you. You may feel a quick pain, and your body will ache for several days, but you’ll be better afterward.”

  He stared at her solemnly. Snake saw that though he understood and feared what she might do, he was less afraid than if she had lied to him. The pain must have increased greatly as his illness became more apparent, but it seemed that others had only reassured him, and hoped the disease would disappear or kill him quickly.

  Snake put Grass on the boy’s pillow and pulled her case nearer. The adults still could only fear her; they had had neither time nor reason to discover any trust. The woman of the partnership was old enough that they might never have another child unless they partnered again, and Snake could tell by their eyes, their covert touching, their concern, that they loved this one very much. They must, to come to Snake in this country.

  Sluggish, Sand slid out of the case, moving his head, moving his tongue, smelling, tasting, detecting the warmths of bodies.

  “Is that—?” The eldest partner’s voice was low and wise, but terrified, and Sand sensed the fear. He drew back into striking position and sounded his rattle softly. Snake stroked her hand along the floor, letting the vibrations distract him, then moved her hand up and extended her arm. The diamondback relaxed and wrapped his body around and around her wrist to form black and tan bracelets.

  “No,” she said. “Your child is too ill for Sand to help. I know it’s hard, but please try to be calm. This is a fearful thing for you, but it is all I can do.”

  She had to annoy Mist to make her come out. Snake rapped on the bag, and finally poked her twice. Snake felt the vibration of sliding scales, and suddenly the albino cobra flung herself into the tent. She moved quickly, yet there seemed to be no end to her. She reared back and up. Her breath rushed out in a hiss. Her head rose well over a meter above the floor. She flared her wide hood. Behind her, the adults gasped, as if physically assaulted by the gaze of the tan spectacle design on the back of Mist’s hood. Snake ignored the people and spoke to the great cobra, focusing her attention by her words.

  “Furious creature, lie down. It’s time to earn thy dinner. Speak to this child and touch him. He is called Stavin.”

  Slowly, Mist relaxed her hood and allowed Snake to touch her. Snake grasped her firmly behind the head and held her so she looked at Stavin. The cobra’s silver eyes picked up the blue of the lamplight.

  “Stavin,” Snake said, “Mist will only meet you now. I promise that this time she will touch you gently.”

  Still, Stavin shivered when Mist touched his thin chest. Snake did not release the serpent’s head, but allowed her body to slide against the boy’s. The cobra was four times longer than Stavin was tall. She curved herself in stark white loops across his swollen abdomen, extending herself, forcing her head toward the boy’s face, straining against Snake’s hands. Mist met Stavin’s frightened stare with the gaze of lidless eyes. Snake allowed her a little closer.

  Mist nicked out her tongue to taste the child.

  The younger man made a small, cut-off, frightened sound. Stavin flinched at it, and Mist drew back, opening her mouth, exposing her fangs, audibly thrusting her breath through her throat. Snake sat back on her heels, letting out her own breath. Sometimes, in other places, the kinfolk could stay while she worked.

  “You must leave,” she said gently. “It’s dangerous to frighten Mist.”

  “I won’t—”

  “I’m sorry. You must wait outside.”

  Perhaps the fair-haired youngest partner, perhaps even Stavin’s mother, would have made the indefensible objections and asked the answerable questions, but the white-haired man turned them and took thei
r hands and led them away.

  “I need a small animal,” Snake said as he lifted the tent flap. “It must have fur, and it must be alive.”

  “One will be found,” he said, and the three parents went into the glowing night. Snake could hear their footsteps in the sand outside.

  Snake supported Mist in her lap and soothed her. The cobra wrapped herself around Snake’s waist, taking in her warmth. Hunger made the cobra even more nervous than usual, and she was hungry, as was Snake. Coming across the black-sand desert, they had found sufficient water, but Snake’s traps had been unsuccessful. The season was summer, the weather was hot, and many of the furry tidbits Sand and Mist preferred were estivating. Since she had brought them into the desert, away from home, Snake had begun a fast as well.

  She saw with regret that Stavin was more frightened now. “I’m sorry to send your parents away,” she said. “They can come back soon.”

  His eyes glistened, but he held back the tears. “They said to do what you told me.”

  “I would have you cry, if you are able,” Snake said. “It isn’t such a terrible thing.” But Stavin seemed not to understand, and Snake did not press him; she thought his people must teach themselves to resist a difficult land by refusing to cry, refusing to mourn, refusing to laugh. They denied themselves grief, and allowed themselves little joy, but they survived.

  Mist had calmed to sullenness. Snake unwrapped her from her waist and placed the serpent on the pallet next to Stavin. As the cobra moved, Snake guided her head, feeling the tension of the striking-muscles. “She will touch you with her tongue,” she told Stavin. “It might tickle, but it will not hurt. She smells with it, as you do with your nose.”

  “With her tongue?”

  Snake nodded, smiling, and Mist flicked out her tongue to caress Stavin’s cheek. Stavin did not flinch; he watched, his child’s delight in knowledge briefly overcoming pain. He lay perfectly still as Mist’s long tongue brushed his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. “She tastes the sickness,” Snake said. Mist stopped fighting the restraint of her grasp, and drew back her head. Snake sat on her heels and released the cobra, who spiraled up her arm and laid herself across her shoulders.