Mash Up

by Gardner Dozois

  “Oh, God… No. I was just…” He wanted so badly to take her into his arms, to hold her the way he had held Rebecca. The only thing he could do was repeat meaningless words to her. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think it would affect you.”

  “This?” She touched the bruising on her face. “It hurts, yes, but—” She stopped, turned away. “You have said good night to me every night since you were old enough to have a candle in your room,” she said, voice quiet. “And then, on a day that I know you were working on our project, you didn’t come for me. And then to be yanked halfway into your world – to know the project had misfired. What was I supposed to think? Why didn’t you come for me?”

  A part of Ben’s brain pointed out that if he were having guilty feelings about sleeping with a coworker, this would be an excellent manifestation of that.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to think. He couldn’t just tell Hestia that he’d left her alone because he had a date, but he had to say something.

  “I was distracted,” he finally said. “It was thoughtless of me and I’m sorry.” He lowered his hand. “But the fact that you were almost pulled through is a good sign. It means that we are close to getting the door open, right?”

  Hestia slowly turned back to him. “Yes,” she said.

  “So all we have to do is figure out a way to keep you from manifesting in the plasma while we’re getting it stabilized,” he said. He looked at his suitcase. He’d packed candles, just in case the fireplace hadn’t worked. “When I have multiple flames, do you pick which one you appear in, or are you in all of them?”

  “I pick,” she said.

  “So, if I light a candle in the control room?” Ben asked.

  “That should work.” Hestia brightened a little. “Plus I can see you work.”

  “Yeah… That’ll be nice,” he said.

  Except, of course, for Rebecca. And the safety protocols at Helmholtz.

  * * *

  “A candle?” Rebecca raised an eyebrow and then looked pointedly at the smoke detector set in the ceiling.

  “Yeah… Maybe it’s superstitious, but you know,” Ben said, and tapped the lantern. “It’s an enclosed flame, away from the equipment.”

  “Did you get permission?” she asked.

  “You know what they say… easier to get forgiveness than permission,” he said.

  Rebecca said nothing to this, so Ben pulled out his lighter and lit the candle. For a moment, twin Hestias stared at him; then she settled in the tiny flame of the candle. He placed the candle on the work counter, behind their panel.

  Rebecca nodded, walked behind him and smacked him on the ass.

  “Hey!” Ben straightened abruptly.

  Rebecca smirked at him. “Sorry,” she said. “Candlelight is an aphrodisiac.”

  In the candle, Hestia was staring at Rebecca and her mouth was forming a silent o. She knew.

  “That’s fine,” Ben said. “But, Rebecca. Not at work, okay?”

  Straightening, Rebecca sobered. “Of course. I’m sorry, that was entirely inappropriate. You’re right.”

  “No— I mean… thanks?” Ben rubbed the back of his neck, wanting to explain but also knowing that would be the worst thing he could possibly do. Telling Rebecca that he saw a muse of fire was more than a little crazy.

  He rubbed the scar tissue on his bum hand. “I… um… I don’t have a lot of practice with girls. Women, I mean.” He waved the stub. “This, you know?”

  Her face softened, and she crossed the room to him. Rebecca reached out and took the stub, cradling it in both of her hands. “I don’t know.”

  Hestia hissed.

  Ben closed his eyes. He had no idea how to process how he was feeling for Rebecca right in that moment. Or for Hestia. Or how the one would apprehend the other.

  So he decided not to. He opened his eyes, looked at Rebecca. “So. We should, you know, probably do this thing,” he said to her.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “What?” Ben said.

  “There’s something going on in your head right now and I want to know what it is,” Rebecca said. “And whether I’m in there too.”

  “You’re definitely in there,” Ben said. “As for all the rest of it, let’s get through this part first and I’ll explain the rest of it later.”

  “All right,” Rebecca said. She lifted the stump and kissed each of the three remnants of his fingers. “After work, I want to hear all of it. Now… however. We should get started.” She released him and stepped back, a veneer of professionalism slipping over her. “I’ve checked the casings using UV, infrared, and a magnifying glass. I don’t see any contamination on either of them.”

  Ben had to clear his throat again to knock the longing out of it. “Okay,” he said. “If we see signs of a spark again, I’ll back off the flow immediately, so there aren’t any unexpected flare-ups.” He glanced at Hestia to make certain that she understood.

  She was glaring at Rebecca with undisguised jealousy.

  “Sorry,” Ben said, and then realized he had once again said out loud something he’d meant to keep inside.

  “What?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’m sorry about not listening to you yesterday,” Ben said. “About shutting it down sooner.”

  “You might have been right,” Rebecca said. “The foreign matter could have cleared.” She began the calibration process for her side of the trial.

  Still looking at Hestia, Ben spoke to her, hoping she would understand. “I didn’t think things through.”

  It was Rebecca who responded. “It’s hard to think quickly in the moment,” she said.

  “I’ll try to do better next time,” he said to them both. Then, before he could drive himself crazier trying to talk to two women at once, he went over to his console. “I’m starting the pressure checks.”

  For the next few hours, the conversation between Ben and Rebecca stayed in the sphere of science. Ben sank into the comfortable language and looked at Hestia only occasionally. She sat with her knees pulled up in front of her, and her head resting on them. The black eye was a constant reminder that he needed to take his time and get this right.

  Finally, Rebecca said, “I’m set on my end.”

  Ben stretched the kinks out of his back from hunching over the console. “Ditto.” He glanced back at Hestia. “Ready for another try?”

  Hestia lifted her head, eyes widening.

  “Yep,” Rebecca said, and grinned. “Have I ever told you that science makes me horny?”

  Ben turned away from both women. “Ready infusion on my mark?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rebecca said, all business. “Three, two, one. Now,” Ben said.

  “Infusion commencing,” she said.

  The numbers began their dance on the screen. Hestia remained in the candle’s flame and didn’t appear to be affected. Ben opened the shield on the thick, tinted window in the airlock to look inside the chamber. Between the two lines of Rebecca’s polymer casing, the plasma flowed into a solid sheet. It glowed red at first, then to blue, then reached a heat so intense that the color passed out of the visible spectrum. Ben stepped back to his instrument console.

  The numbers had stabilized. On the monitors, he could see the sheet of plasma holding steady.

  Now came the tricky part, which had come from the calculations that Hestia had supplied. If he was crazy, at least it came with ferocious math skills. These skills would allow them to manipulate the flow of the plasma so that it remained stable – even when they stopped pumping fresh plasma into it. If it worked, then they’d have themselves a force field. He pushed the button to start the next sequence in the process.

  The numbers stayed steady in pressure and density. Only the power draw dropped, which was what should be happening.

  “Ben…” Rebecca said. “Oh, shit— Ben!” She sounded completely panicked.

  “What?” Ben asked, and then looked up.

  Inside the chamber, Hestia stepped out of the plasm
a.

  He swallowed hard and turned to Rebecca. “What’s wrong?” he asked

  “There’s a woman in the chamber.” Rebecca reached for the cut-off. “We have to shut down.”

  “You can see her?” Ben asked, amazed.

  She looked at him like he was crazy. “What?” she said. “Yes! Through the window and the monitor. I have no fucking clue how she got in there, but if she goes anywhere near the plasma, we’re all screwed.”

  “Wait,” Ben said. He had to pause to collect his thoughts.

  It had worked. It had really worked. Hestia was out of Hell.

  Which meant that she was real.

  Which meant that he wasn’t crazy.

  “Rebecca,” Ben said. “We should get her out first, in case the shut down destabilizes it.” And in case proximity to it during shut down would suck Hestia back into Hell.

  Rebecca hesitated and then started to nod. “Right. I’ll go,” she said.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Ben said. He started for the door.

  “She’s naked, Ben,” Rebecca said. “She might be a crazy protestor, but the only thing that will make this worse, aside from her dying in a fire, is if she sues you for sexual harass— What in hell?” She was staring into the room with a growing expression of horror.

  Other people were stepping through the plasma window into the chamber.

  No. Not people. Creatures. Beings with such perfect beauty that it hurt to look at them. All of them carried weapons.

  Demons.

  Ben took an involuntary step back and his knees almost buckled. They were coming after her.

  After Hestia.

  Ben screamed her name and ran for the airlock to the chamber.

  “Shut it down,” he said to Rebecca.

  Rebecca continued to stare as the demons kept stepping through the plasma. She shook herself. “Right. Yes.”

  Ben punched the code to cycle the inner door and yanked his hand back from the controls. It was hot. Heat radiated off the door.

  He looked through the thick window set into the outer door. The inner door was open. Hestia stood in the space between them. She put her hand on the outer door. Ripples of heat ran across its surface like the air over a fire.

  The door blew open, bringing a Hephaestian stench and a wave of hot, dry air that made it hurt to breathe. Ben backed away, hand to mouth.

  Hestia stepped through the door, melting the linoleum under her feet. She looked past Ben to Rebecca and raised her hand as if she were going to wave to the other woman. A ribbon of plasma flowed out of her fingers and wrapped around Rebecca, whose clothes ignited instantly.

  Rebecca screamed. She dropped to the floor, rolling. The plasma clung to her like tar. Her hair blazed. She writhed across the tiles.

  Ben ran to her, trying to beat the fire out with his hands. Each slap of his hands sent plasma spattering across the room. It burned, but he didn’t care.

  Rebecca kept screaming, long after there was breath behind it – a high whistling scream that did not belong to anything human. Burning hair and flesh filled the room with their scent.

  Ben staggered up, spinning frantically, searching for a fire extinguisher.

  The room was filled with demons. More came through the portal. Awaiting Hestia’s command.

  Hestia stood between Ben and the fire extinguisher. She put a hand on it and the canister exploded. Ben flinched, ducking as the shrapnel flew across the room.

  On the floor, Rebecca had stopped thrashing. The room was quiet except for the sizzle of her muscles cooking.

  Ben faced Hestia. She burned, out of Hell.

  She walked to him. The heat singed him.

  “I loved you,” he said.

  “Of course you did,” she said.

  She took hold of him. He was set aflame.

  “I rescued you,” he whispered.

  Hestia set a hand on his cheek, blackening it.

  “Oh, love,” she said. “Hell was never my prison.”

  She kissed him, his muse of fire.

  NANCY KRESS

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  When Gardner Dozois invited me to write a story which began by ripping off a classic opening line, I had no hesitation over which line to use. No hesitation at all. “It was a dark and stormy night,” the opening to Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s Victorian novel Paul Clifford, has already been stolen over and over again: by Snoopy of the comic strip Peanuts, by Madeleine L’Engle for A Wrinkle in Time, by Ray Bradbury’s novel Let’s All Kill Constance, and in various forms by Chris Claremont, Terry Pratchett, and singer Joni Mitchell. I wanted to join that august company (especially Snoopy).

  Nor did I hesitate about the subject of my story. Writer’s block is the dread of every writer: What if one day I sit down at the computer, reach for the words, and they’re not there? Even those of us not usually subject to this problem – and I’m one of them – know that it could happen. Wells run dry, crops wither on the vine, Snoopy cannot come up with a good second line. But not, in my story, for Rob Carpenter – or at least, not exactly. So: Here is “Writer’s Block.”

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  BY NANCY KRESS

  It was a dark and stormy night. But it shouldn’t have been.

  “What the—” Carson said.

  “Too much bloody wind!” Anna bent closer to the screen, as if that might give her a different reading. “You were only supposed to mix the atmospheric layers enough to keep them from separating!”

  “I did!” Carson cried. He was an intern and so vulnerable, and this was not helped by a volatile streak that had worried Anna before.

  She reached across him and adjusted the air-mixing drafts within the sealed biodome, three miles away on the Scottish moors. The wind inside the biodome did not die down; it increased.

  Carson cried, “Something’s wrong with the equipment, then!”

  Anna shoved him out of the chair and sat at the console, typing rapidly to bring up the system diagnostics. The air-mixture subsystem did not respond, nor did the stored power in the solar heaters. The temperature numbers dropped.

  Under the impermeable dome, the dropping temperature brought on condensation. It began to rain.

  * * *

  It was a dark and stormy night. But it shouldn’t have been.

  “You promised me an evening full fair, and a bright moon,” the queen said evenly. Her rosy bottom lip caught lightly between her small, even, very white teeth.

  “Your Grace… the portents said…” The astrologer quaked in his bedsocks. He had not had time to pull on boots before the page had wakened him – at midnight! – with a summons to the privy chamber. A bright fire glowed on the hearth, the queen’s woman, Emma, waited respectfully in the shadows, and rain pelted against the small-paned windows. Lightning crackled, followed by thunder.

  “I had thought, on the promise of your words, to ride out tonight,” the queen said, and indeed she wore a riding habit of green velvet, striking with her red hair, and a green velvet hat. “You told me to rely on you.”

  “I… the portents…” Where could she have been going at midnight?

  “I will not forget this, Master Astrologer.”

  “No, no, Your Grace… I mean, yes…”

  He didn’t know what he meant. She burned people at the stake.

  “You may go,” she said, and he skittered from the chamber, but not before he heard her say to the page, “Summon my Master of Horse. I will ride anyway.”

  More lightning split the clouds.

  * * *

  It was a dark and stormy night, but it shouldn’t have been.

  “Can he hear us?” Celia whispered.

  “I don’t know,” James said.

  Of course I can hear you, you fuckers, Jason thought. He could hear everything his unfaithful wife and his treacherous brother said, even over the storm in the hospital room. He heard the hum of the machinery hooked to him at nose and heart and arm and toes, the rubber wheels of a trolley in the corridor.
/>   “I wish I knew what to do,” Celia moaned.

  “You must be strong, darling,” James said.

  Don’t pull the plugs, Celia! Jason thought. I’m in here! I can hear you!

  And then, all at once, he couldn’t. All he could hear was wind and rain and the crack! of lightning that shouldn’t have been happening, not inside his head.

  The storm increased, and then he saw—

  What the fuck?

  * * *

  It was a dark and stormy night, but it shouldn’t have been.

  *KZQQ predicted only a ten percent chance of rain,* 652 Elm Street sent to 653.

  *But their accuracy rate is only seventy-three percent,* 653 Elm Street sent back.

  Two people, both on the facial-recognition approved list, entered 652 and took the elevator to the sixth floor. The Johnsons were having a party. In 3-C, a faucet began to drip and a report went to Human Maintenance.

  652 sent, *Even so, if the meteorologists—*

  An explosive sound in 6-A. The sound was in the deebee: gunfire. A figure, hooded and masked, ran from the apartment. 652 immediately put itself into lock-down. It made no difference; the running figure held a jammer. In less than a minute, he or she was out the side door and running down the alley. 652 sent an emergency call to 911.

  653 sent, *What was that?*

  *I think it was a murder!*

  * * *

  “Which one do you like?” Rob asked his wife. The question came out humble – but, then, what did not when he talked to Karen? His belly clenched and cramped.

  She stood with the printouts in her hand, lips pursed, long polished nails holding the pages as if they had just been removed from the bottom of the parrot’s cage instead of from Rob’s HP. The parrot squawked derisively. The nails were blood red.

  “I don’t like any of them,” she said.

  He tried to breathe evenly. “Why not?”

  “Oh, Rob, come on – the pathetic fallacy? That weather embodies human feelings? It was old when Wordsworth did it.”

  “This isn’t Wordsworth—”

  “Obviously.”

  “—it’s an opening in four different genres to, you know, get my feet wet again. Family drama, science fiction, romance, mystery. The mystery is supposed to be a sort of comedy, kind of. Every possible detective has already been used – butcher, baker, candlestick maker – so these detectives are two buildings who solve murders.”