2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  She regained consciousness. It might have been five seconds or five minutes. Staggering around the shower room, her right shoulder and knee throbbing, she pushed open a window and turned off the hot jets. Then, lurching towards the toilet cubicles, she retched and for the first time in her life she saw the semi-digested remains of her previous meal.

  • • •

  Jayna lay aching and unmoving on her bed. What’s wrong with me? I acted like a child and I nearly killed myself. Remembering the final moments before she collapsed, she saw the white steam clouds and the black halo, which first filled the edges of her vision and then closed down her senses completely. She rewound, and recalled the pounding hot jets and the deep spasms. They seemed to come from nowhere as though a button had been pressed.

  Her bedside companions twitched. She mustered a groan.

  Her head was in a vice and she felt bruised. But she knew she ought to eat something. If she didn’t appear in the canteen she’d have to offer some explanation tomorrow. Or, worse still, her friends would call by her room later.

  • • •

  Approaching the serving hatches a new, slightly-too-sweet aroma hit her, just what she didn’t need. The canteen assistant looked up in her direction and proffered his slowly enunciated, open vowels: “Somethin’ special today. Lemon chicken with spicy noodles.” Confirmed by a new text display.

  “Is this a menu?”

  “Sort of. It’s what we’ve got to do now. Orders from above. We “ad some big toffs down “ere askin’ all sorts of daft questions.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “What food got wasted. If you residents liked some meals better than others. Things like that.”

  “Well we don’t comment on the food, usually.”

  “That’s what I said. But then they wanted to know if any of you lot had said anything at all, y’know, out of the ordinary.” Their eyes fixed, for a moment only. He turned away. “I told them: ‘What yer on about? ’Course no one’s said owt.’”

  “Right,” said Jayna. And she took her tray, feeling the weight pulling through her right arm on her bruised shoulder. Why didn’t he tell them? And why was he letting her know he didn’t tell them? By the time she reached her table she’d decided the explanation was simple. He didn’t like the toffs with the daft questions. He felt no obligation to cooperate. And he must be trying to warn her. Warn?

  “How’s the food?” she said to her companions, hoping to distract attention away from her inflamed face and neck. She was still steaming hot.

  Julie looked up and Jayna was taken aback to see her looking… forlorn? “There’s been another recall, Jayna. Another of our generation.”

  “Not around here,” said Lucas, jumping in.

  “Another?” said Jayna. And with studied calm, “But why?”

  “All I know,” said Lucas, “is that a female was taken out of service as a result of erratic time-keeping at work.”

  “Which was where?” said Jayna.

  “The Institute of Forensic Accountancy near Birmingham. They have links with the Tax Office and I had dealings with them over a particularly complex case of evasion, which—”

  “But, Lucas, what was the cause of her poor time-keeping?” said Jayna.

  “I don’t know. I was simply informed that Nicole had left. My colleagues gleaned a little more information and I overhead them.” Jayna could imagine Lucas straining to listen in, just so he could report back. “Apparently, she’d missed a critical meeting and had also been absent without specific reason on a number of other occasions.”

  “And that merited a recall?” said Harry.

  “They can’t afford to take any risk with a breakthrough model,” said Jayna. “The research and development costs have been astronomical so they’ll want to maintain customer confidence. I suppose the constructor could instigate a general recall but that would damage the brand severely, impact the subsequent uptake of new leases.” The sounds of knives and forks contacting crockery seemed to amplify as Jayna waited for some response.

  Julie raised the question on Jayna’s mind. “Why should this start now? This never happened with the Franks, as far as we know.”

  “I think a general recall will be unavoidable if this carries on,” said Jayna.

  “But maybe it won’t make much difference anyway,” said Harry. “If the Constructor saves our extended knowledge, we could be re-initiated and sent back to work.”

  “If there were a complete recall, it would be a crisis measure aimed at rescuing some market credibility,” said Jayna. The others nodded. She had deftly disguised her own uncertainty. However, she imagined she’d be quite a different person after reinitiation.

  “There’s something else,” said Harry, reluctantly. “More yellow paint, at C3 and C8.”

  • • •

  Having changed into her pajamas, newly laundered, Jayna performed her bedtime rituals. At her small sink, she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, applied face cream, and brushed her hair, all with standard issue kit, all on automatic. The Nicole incident in Birmingham was eating at her and, while her thoughts ricocheted, her background was processing the latest regional crime statistics and flagged up a data snippet within the restricted files. I could leave it for now. It can easily wait till tomorrow… Maybe unwise; that westerly wind… I need to tighten up.

  And so, she focused on a spike in public affray incidents. Jayna held the sides of the sink with both hands and leaned forward as she considered the implications. She knew the authorities ignored a significant level of riot within the organic community out in the enclaves. But the latest figures included five GBH cases committed by organics on their bionic superiors. No such cases in the past nine months. With the back of her hand she brushed a stray hair from the basin edge. She’d seen no media reports; suppressed? If she could clarify the situation, find any indicators… She smacked her hand hard against the basin. She should have detected something awry before now. There was always a telltale within the historical data and she’d been trawling for months. It must be there. Why hadn’t she seen anything?

  The room was now in darkness and she banged her sore knee as she fumbled her way into bed. Lying on her side, she stroked the fresh sheets with the inside of her foot. This small act always soothed her but tonight the ritual’s potency failed.

  When eventually she did fall into sleep, the day’s events crowded her dreams in bizarre juxtapositions. Benjamin and Hester were dining with her in the rest station discussing their tax returns, Hester arguing she shouldn’t have to pay a brass farthing. She kept repeating, “Not a single brass farthing.” Tom carried a tray loaded with mugs of steaming tea and tried desperately to persuade everyone they weren’t poisoned. He was pathetic: “I made them myself.” Then, her stick insects gave birth, somehow, to male nymphs and she fed them honey. Most bizarre of all, Jayna soaped herself in the communal shower with Dave from Archives. At which point, daybreak was announced, not by birdsong but by the clumsy removal of recycling units from below her second floor window.

  Her dreamworld sloughed away and a name, wrapped around an invisible ball—it bounced, bounced, bounced through her mind. Taniyama… Yutaka Taniyama. She stretched and smiled. Yes, he made plenty of mistakes.

  Adam Christopher became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of Empire State (2012), from Angry Robot.

  Visit his website at www.adamchristopher.co.uk.

  * * *

  Novel: Empire State (excerpt)

  Novel: Seven Wonders (excerpt)

  EMPIRE STATE

  (excerpt)

  by Adam Christopher

  First published as Empire State (2012), by Angry Robot

  • • • •

  PART ONE

  THE MEAN STREETS

  Judge Crater, call your office,” said the man with the microphone.

  Everybody laughed.

  ONE

  JEROME GUNNED the accelerator, and turned sharp
left. Rex slid on the bench seat, but grabbed the leather strap dangling over his door fast enough to stop him landing in the driver’s lap. Jerome whistled, knuckles white as they gripped the wheel. Rex looked over his shoulder. He sure as hell hoped Jerome knew where he was going.

  “For cryin’ out loud!” Rex winced as his head met the roof of the car, the thin felt of his hat providing little protection as Jerome pushed two wheels over the curb to dodge oncoming traffic.

  “Complain later, boss. Keep yer head down and hold on.” Jerome’s eyes didn’t leave the road. Rex frowned and hunkered down in the seat, gripping the top edge with both hands as he turned to look out the back. Two crates of green bottles rattled in the back seat under Rex’s nose as Jerome navigated the wet streets as fast as he dared.

  Rex squinted, trying to see through the smattering of rain on the car’s tiny rear window, but the droplets of water seemed to pull the light of the city in, refracting it into a thousand glowing, multicoloured points. The car shuddered against the gutter as Jerome swerved around another obstacle, throwing up a huge steam-like spray of runoff, obscuring the view even more.

  “What’s the deal?” Jerome asked.

  Rex relaxed his grip and turned back around. Jerome was leaning over the wheel, his keen, experienced eyes picking out the path ahead in the downtown traffic. It was late, but New Yorkers had a well-known disregard for the time of day. Jerome was doing a fine job threading the boat-sized Studebaker through the maze of cars, but surely their luck was going to run out. Somehow they’d managed to avoid the police, but they’d be spotted sooner rather than later. Evading one pursuer was possible; add two, three, four cop cars and the odds shortened, and not in their favour.

  “Looks clear,” said Rex. “Think we lost ’em. Nice driving.”

  Jerome allowed one thin hand to unwrap from the steering wheel to tip an invisible hat. His face cracked into a grin so wide all Rex could see was a row of teeth stretching up from the driver’s chin to his ear.

  “How about that, huh? People movin’ in, causin’ trouble. How’s an honest man supposed to make a living in this town, huh, Rex?”

  Rex sighed. “Tell me about it.”

  Jerome laughed and slapped the wheel. He began talking, but Rex tuned it out. His night was not going as planned and his partner’s jabber was the last thing he needed. Rex closed his eyes and rubbed their lids, watching the purple-orange shapes float for a while. Then something flared red across his vision.

  “Jerome!”

  Rex grabbed the wheel and pulled it hard right. The driver returned his attention to the road just in time to see the side of another car slide past, right across their path. Jerome spun the wheel in the opposite direction as Rex let go, negotiating the Studebaker around the rear of the vehicle mostly by good luck. Rex grabbed for the leather strap again as the car slid on its rear wheels.

  There was a rat-a-tat-tat like a jazz drummer practicing a solo on a tin roof, and the rear windshield exploded, filling the car with the hot smell of cordite. Rex ducked instinctively behind the seat, and when he poked his head up to check the rear view again he saw the white car in hot pursuit, two men inside and one perched on the running board on the passenger side. The man raised his tommy gun just for a moment as the car bumped over a pothole, then brought it down again. Rex ducked as a second volley of slugs peppered the car, splitting the Studebaker’s front windshield right in front of him, turning the pane of glass into an opaque spider’s web. The car lurched as Jerome pumped the accelerator and brake in quick succession in the confusion. It was like suddenly driving into a blizzard.

  “Rex!”

  Rex twisted awkwardly in the seat. “Yeah, I got it.” He lay almost flat on his back, and raised his right leg up over the dash. A few kicks and the crumbling windshield popped out, sliding over the hood with the sound of a tortured blackboard.

  “Shit,” muttered Jerome as he bobbed his head down, squinting against the stiff, wet wind. They were in a four-lane street now, which was completely clear ahead in both directions. The white car took the opportunity and revved behind them, headlights sweeping through the cab of the Studebaker as they pulled out and around.

  Rex jerked his head right, in time to see the prow of the other car begin to pull up alongside. The gunner, fortunately, was on the other side, but Rex could see his head and the tommy gun being held aloft as he shifted to get an aim over the white car’s roof.

  “Lose ’em, Jerome!”

  Jerome glanced right, then left, grin transformed into a grimace of concentration.

  “I see it. Hold on.”

  Jerome twisted the wheel and the car bucked left, the rear end swinging out and the left-side wheels lifting as the vehicle attempted a hairpin at high speed. The white car saw and pulled away, but too late, the rear of the Studebaker connecting with the driver’s door just as it jerked away. There was a crunch and the Studebaker bounced roughly but, as the airborne wheels made contact with the road again, traction was regained and Jerome floored it, sending them down the narrower side street with perfect aim.

  “Ah, shit!” said Jerome again, this time raising an arm to protect his eyes. The car was flooded with blue and white light. Rex blinked away purple spots just in time to see the police cordon ahead, but it was too late. He reached for the wheel and pulled again, ignoring Jerome’s protest, but there was nowhere to go. There were police cars on either side of the street, and a temporary wooden barrier ahead. Rex’s rash action caused the automobile to skid around, turning it sideways but maintaining forward motion as Jerome slammed the brakes on. All around them, police and pedestrians alike scattered. There was shouting, a lot of it, then a crack as the wooden boom of the roadblock snapped against the passenger side. The impact was surprisingly solid, throwing Rex across the bench seat and finally tearing Jerome off the steering wheel.

  The Studebaker was large and heavy, and the road was slick. The police barrier hadn’t stolen enough of their momentum. The last thing Rex saw before the car stuck on something and tumbled sideways onto its roof was fireworks over the squat, blunt shape of the half-completed Empire State Building a block ahead of them. He wondered what the occasion was as red, green and blue explosions lit the sky, silhouetting the construction cranes balanced high over the city. He wondered what the building would look like and how tall it would be when it was finished.

  Two more thoughts crossed Rex’s mind before the car stopped and unconsciousness claimed him. Firstly, that he really needed a drink, and secondly, that his night had been going so well before McCabe showed up.

  • • •

  Rex tipped his hat, straightened his tie, and rubbed a thumb over the lapel of his double-breasted jacket. It was his way of showing that he was relaxed and comfortable, that Martin Jeremy’s last statement had made perfect sense and hadn’t thrown him in the slightest. Behind him he heard Jerome crack a knuckle. His junior partner was slightly less careful with hiding his thoughts.

  This was how it worked. Rex was the businessman. Jerome was the muscle. Rex did the deals and listened to his customers. Jerome made the customers change their minds and accept Rex’s terms. Times were tough. The Depression wasn’t just biting into the pockets of ordinary New Yorkers, it was killing people. But in such trying times, Rex was doing just swell. Because in such trying times those ordinary New Yorkers drank, and drank, and drank. Hell, even the government was on Rex’s side, with Prohibition just a way of charging more and more for his product. The bootlegging business was booming and Rex was reaping the rewards. Jerome too. He bought the kid a flash new car, a Studebaker the size of a bus. That kept Jerome happy, but also made sense as a business investment. Not only could they haul liquor in the car’s capacious interior without tipping the police off, it was one of the fastest automobiles money could buy. Rex didn’t drive, but with Jerome at the wheel getaways were easy.

  “Martin, Martin,” said Rex with a smile, placing a hand on the barkeep’s shoulder with just enough pressure to show
the conversation had taken a very serious turn. “You gotta understand, buddy. Me and Jerome here are just trying to make a living. Understand?”

  Martin Jeremy was thin and bald. Standing in the dead backstreet behind his speakeasy the streetlight shone off his pate, damp with a light evening drizzle and a healthy dash of cold sweat.

  Rex licked his lips and watched the barkeep. Something was up, something more than he had let on. He squeezed the man’s shoulder a little harder. Martin flinched, but said nothing.

  Huh. The usual form of quiet intimidation wasn’t working. And Rex hated the next part. Beating on an old man was not something he enjoyed at all. Which was why he got Jerome to do it.

  “Rex, my friend, we have done some good business in the past,” said Martin at last. His voice wavered but with age, not fear. He proudly held his head up, thin jowls swinging under his chin as he spoke. Rex raised an eyebrow.

  “I think you misunderstand, Mr Jeremy. Changing suppliers is not an option. My business supplies the whole of Midtown. Ain’t nobody else in this neighbourhood gonna sell you the goods. So, what’d’ya say we just shake on it and you pay me an extra hundred dollars now for, ah, renegotiation of terms, and we won’t mention it again.” Rex turned to his partner. “Jerome, unload the car.”