Asimov's SF, April-May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “The bastard's vanished,” she announces.

  Into the wind, he begs, “Turn around.”

  Again, she laughs loudly, nervously. But the hands show no sign of adjusting their course.

  He stands in front of her, making certain that she has no choice but to pay attention. “Maybe we've been fooled,” he says. “Like you fooled the others. Maybe he didn't exist in the first place.”

  “That isn't possible,” she maintains. “I know how it's done, and this wasn't faked.”

  “Someone has a bigger, better trick,” he argues.

  But that thrills her even more. She giggles and begs all of the power out of the engines, and as they slide across the last open water, she screams to be heard. “Then it's a trick worth learning, and that's what I'll ask him first.”

  The land rises and darkens even more, and at the last moment she cuts the engines, allowing their momentum to carry them into shore. Then she shoves aside the silence, asking, “What's your first question going to be?”

  He stares at the woods and the low waves lazily beating against oddly shaped rocks.

  For the first time today, she speaks his name.

  “Troy,” she says.

  Turning toward her, he says, “Kora,” for the final time. Then in despair, he asks, “What kinds of trees are those? Do you know the species?”

  She looks. She says, “No.”

  “Do you hear that bird singing?”

  “It's not in any database,” she gushes.

  “I can't find it either,” he admits. Then he turns forward, and with a shaking voice exclaims, “I don't recognize anything here. None of it! So please! Turn this boat around, please...!”

  * * * *

  But she refuses. Or maybe she tries to turn the wheel but the boat refuses, and because of her pernicious need to appear in control, she tells him, “No,” with a flat, certain voice. Then the bow hits a submerged rock, and she breathes twice, deeply, before saying, “No,” once again.

  The shoreline is built from pale blue stones, crenulated, composed of unrepeating patterns, each slice of the whole rich with minuscule details. Mosses of different colors and endless textures inhabit every crevice. Insects barely bigger than dust motes patrol the ridges and tiny peaks. Sitting on the bow, he focuses his portal-glasses on this slender edge and that nameless pit, and what astonishes him more than his total ignorance of the species is that no piece of the terrain seems the same as any other. Whatever this place, novelty is rich, relentless. Effortless.

  His heart thunders in response, and he trembles, a rich salty sweat pushing out of his panicked body.

  He promises himself not to abandon the boat.

  But she does, in one long sloppy bound, and with an arm sweeping through the air, she says, “Every tree is different. Did you notice?”

  He did, yes. And they aren't just a little bit different, as you'd see in a tropical rainforest. The texture and color of the bark varies, and the design of each tree's leaves is different, and the size and proportions and colors of the flowers that do or don't weigh down their limbs ... well, this is forest seemingly designed by a thousand remote gods, each weaving its own ideal tree from genius and caprice.

  “Are you coming?” she asks.

  Grudgingly, yes. But he takes the trouble to wrap one of the boat's lines around a tall purple thumb of stone.

  “Our man's close,” she promises.

  He agrees, though why that should be is just another puzzle.

  Climbing away from the shoreline, the girlfriend seems full of decisive curiosity. But her courage vanishes at the edge of the mysterious forest. Maybe the oddities piled upon wonders wear her down. Whatever the reason, Kora is the one who acts suddenly unsure. Staring at her feet, she mutters, “I don't know.”

  Neither does he. But he senses an advantage, rare and ripe. “This way,” he declares, pushing into the shadows.

  A flock of birdish creatures flies away, each one dressed in its own florid colors, but screaming with the same panicked voice.

  Novelty proves exhausting. The mind leaps and sputters, trying to digest this unpredictable environment. But at least the terror proves bearable, and with practice even that begins to fade. Never a man to notice odors, he nonetheless finds himself drinking down perfumes and rich earthy odors and lost farts and warning stinks from creatures too scared to show themselves. He walks faster, and then he runs, and she calls to him from behind and then from farther behind, using a plaintive tone that he has never heard before when she begs, “Darling, wait.”

  He slows.

  At a sprint, she collides with his back.

  Then they stand motionless, the island's low summit beneath their feet. Behind them lies their shoreline; ahead wait louder waves. She takes his arm in hers, and together, as one, they push ahead.

  Who would have imagined that ignorance would feel divine and mesmerizing? But of course in a world where AIs are plentiful and databases thorough, the capacity to utterly surprise a person might prove relatively impressive, and enhancing the senses on top of that ... well, this is exactly the kind of magic sure to become the next drug of choice.

  Leaving the trees, passing into the open again, they discover the sun standing at an unexpected angle. Water reaches to the horizon and probably long beyond. This new sea looks deep and smells brackish. But at least one feature is familiar enough to give comfort. Novelty lies everywhere but in the man standing on the beach, his old boots enduring the sweeping waters, hands on hips and no glasses on his face, but a jaunty smile ready to greet whoever emerges from what has to be his private woods.

  Kora offers the name of her favorite candidate, adding, “Sir,” and then, “Hello.”

  The stranger says nothing.

  Troy decides on different tactics. Into the hard wind, he says, “I don't care who you are. But I think you want something from us.”

  The stranger considers speaking but decides otherwise.

  Kora jumps on that possibility. “You want to hire us,” she guesses. “That's why you were at the restaurant. And why you lured us here ... wherever ‘here’ is...”

  “Here,” the stranger says, “is the only place of worth.”

  They are stunned, mute and utterly thrilled.

  “Don't use names,” he continues, his voice a little higher and rather less impressive than his handsome face implied. “You guessed it already, or you didn't. Either way, you've wasted your energies.”

  She grabs her boyfriend's hand, and he squeezes it gratefully.

  “Energy is always limited. Always finite. That's the nature of the universe, and thinking otherwise is to embrace sloth and waste and your imagined importance.”

  They sag against each other, their bodies familiar, reassuring.

  “You have no importance,” the stranger assures.

  Each wants to say otherwise; but nothing left inside them is brazen enough to argue their case.

  “But,” he adds, “you do show me a small measure of promise.”

  Weak smiles surface, and the girlfriend says, “I knew it. You want us.”

  But as those words are offered, the man frowns, shaking his head slowly, the long hair brushing against his broad shoulders.

  “Not ‘us,'” he warns.

  Their hands grip harder, but now they lean away from one another.

  “What I want—what I offer today and only today—is the opportunity to serve, to become one part of the ultimate cause. But my interest extends only to one of you.”

  “Which one?” Troy asks.

  Silence.

  “How do we know which?” he demands.

  The nameless man stares at them for a long while, never blinking. Then after what seems like an interminable delay, he says, “Both of you know precisely who I want.”

  As if being burnt, their shared hands let go.

  Then each turns to face the other, and with a tight happy voice, Kora asks, “What else?”

  “You think there's more?” the s
tranger replies.

  Troy believes it too, yes.

  “Very well,” they hear. “One of you will come with me. But the cost of admission involves leaving the other behind. And when I talk about abandonment, I mean that it will happen in the most profound and eternal way.”

  * * * *

  The girlfriend is a thief, and possibly worse. That has always been part of the attraction and the heart of Troy's deepest worries. There have been days when he believes that he loves her and always will, but she always finds some way to ruin his affections, spoiling his warm feeling. A piece of her is evil. For instance, she will always dismiss the kindness of others. Weakness and charity are the same words to her. How many times has she implied as much? What matters to Kora is Kora. Others exist only to help her, or they are enemies to be outwitted and left crumbled by the road. She is competitive and tenacious and scary, and Troy finds himself remembering cruel suggestions offered casually, as well as queenly pities for the ignorant masses that will never be half as brilliant as she is.

  An awful question poses itself.

  He looks at the girl's face as she drops her gaze. Between them is a gray-blue stone set on top of the other stones, its sharpest edge glinting in the unworldly sun. She looks at the stone. He can guess what she is thinking. “How do I prove that I'm the one?” she asks herself. And in that instant, with remarkably little effort, a difficult decision has been made.

  But he refuses to act.

  Watching her, he wishes for a sign that will tell him that he's wrong, that she is a little less awful than what he fears. But then her right hand flinches, wanting to reach for something, and what choice remains?

  He kneels quickly.

  She says, “Troy.”

  He grabs the stone, slicing open his palm before turning the edge to face her. Then he strikes her, just once and not particularly hard, leaving a narrow neat slice in her forearm. And that's when he hesitates, scared to do anything else. He feels powerless, his mind searching for any thought that will lend resolution. She has always mocked him for his lack of courage, his tentative calculating ways. Memories make him angry, but what helps most is to try and imagine the world she would invent, if allowed. Yes, that's the way to think about it. Disconnected images come to mind—visions of a nightmarish place—and that's how Troy assures himself that this is the right and proper course.

  She stands her ground, numbly staring at the fresh wound.

  Then with a sudden sense of purpose, Troy knocks that wiry little body off its feet and kneels over it, cutting away the throat before she manages to say his name again.

  * * * *

  She bleeds, and bleeds.

  He is panting and sorry, but what else was possible? This is best. In one fashion or another, this kind of ending was inevitable—if not through him, then some other force of Right—and he stands up again and looks at the man in the surf, thrilled to see a narrow smile and an unblinking nod of approval.

  Then the girl sits up and says, “Troy,” despite the gore and the chopped-apart larynx. “Why did you do this?”

  He looks at the dying woman, too astonished to react.

  “I wouldn't have done this to you,” she claims.

  But she would have, wouldn't she?

  “Never,” she promises.

  He drops to his knees.

  Every wound has been healed, or they never were. She stands easily and joins the other man, and the man tells Troy, “This is a bigger place than you've guessed. If you're smart, you can make a respectable life for yourself here.”

  The stolen fishing boat has appeared on the shoreline.

  As Kora steps onboard, Troy shouts out, “You'll come back for me someday. Won't you?”

  She looks at him, her gaze furious. Cold.

  “It's your head,” she reminds him. “You can put whatever thoughts you want inside it.”

  Copyright © 2009 Robert Reed

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  * * *

  Short Story: AN ORDINARY DAY WITH JASON

  by Kate Wilhelm

  Once April finds out the truth about her son, she may never again have...

  Before we were married Vernon told me about the family trait that he feared would be so off-putting that I would tell him to get lost. We were in bed on Sunday night, where we had been most of the time since Friday. We were eating stale popcorn, the only food left in my apartment. On Friday we had planned a dinner out and a movie, but the rain had turned to freezing rain mixed with snow.

  We made the final commitment that weekend. And he told me. It came up in the most innocuous way.

  “Honey,” he said, “did you have an imaginary friend when you were a kid?”

  “Sure. Her name was Doris. She had red hair in pigtails and a lot of freckles. She was dumber than I was.”

  “What happened to her?” he asked.

  “I guess she went where imaginary friends go when they're no longer needed. Out of awareness, out of mind.”

  “Did anyone else ever see her?”

  I helped myself to more popcorn. It really wasn't that bad. “Of course not. What are you getting at?”

  “Humor me,” he said.

  He was leaning on his elbow watching me, strangely serious, considering that both of us were naked, covers drawn up to our chins because the apartment was cold, and a bowl of stale popcorn was balanced on my stomach.

  “Okay. I'm humoring you. No one else ever saw Doris. Now it's your turn. Tell me about your imaginary friend.”

  “One more question first,” he said. “What if someone else had seen her? More than one saw her?”

  I shook my head. “Then she wouldn't have been imaginary. And it would have freaked me out when she went away.”

  He had yet another question. “Did you know Doris was a product of your imagination?”

  I had to stop and think about that. Finally I had to admit that I wasn't sure, but I didn't think so.

  “You said one more question,” I said then. “You're over the limit. Just tell me where you're going with this. Is it something about your imaginary friend?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He took some popcorn, more, I thought, to buy a little time than because he wanted it.

  “Suppose an imaginary friend isn't always a playmate. Not a Calvin and Hobbes situation, or Christopher and Pooh, and not a redheaded Doris. Suppose it's an object.”

  “Okay. A stretch, but I'm supposing. Your friend was a little unusual. Then what?”

  “Suppose it's a staircase,” he said slowly.

  I couldn't help it. I laughed and nearly choked on popcorn, and I upset the bowl. When I could speak, I said, “Your imaginary friend was a staircase?”

  He nodded, and I laughed harder until he had to pound me on the back for fear I would really choke.

  We had to get up, of course. You can't roll around on a bed strewn with buttered popcorn and salt. There was more that came out in bits and pieces that night.

  Vernon had had the ability, or whatever it can be called, to project, conjure, imagine, do something, and make a staircase appear, one that anyone else in the room could also see. It stopped when he was six or seven, the way Doris stopped appearing to me at about that age. His father had done the same thing. Not every generation did it, he said that night, sometimes it skipped, but it always returned, possibly as far back as when the ancestors were leaving the trees and opting for houses with indoor plumbing.

  I didn't believe a word of it. But it came to pass. What a useful phrase, one that should not be discarded or scorned. Jason's first staircase appeared when he was three, while we were still in a New York apartment.

  I was reading a magazine article and Jason was playing with blocks and a truck that he crashed into the blocks over and over with a cry of, “Whoosh!” I glanced up from the magazine when he became still, and there it was, a fully formed staircase, with a banister. Except for the fact that it ended where the wall met the ceiling, it looked exactly the way a staircase would
look in any house with an upstairs.

  I screamed, “Vernon!” and I grabbed Jason and held him against me as hard as I could as I backed away from the apparition all the way to the wall.

  Vernon ran in, looking as frightened as I was. He saw the staircase and said, “We don't have an upstairs.” The staircase vanished.

  Jason reacted to my terror and began to cry, and I was shaking. After Vernon got us both calmed down again, and Jason resumed his play, Vernon said, “Honey, it doesn't do anything. It's just there. All you have to do is say we don't have an upstairs and it's gone.”

  He stayed close to us the rest of the afternoon, but we didn't talk about it until Jason was in bed. “April,” he said earnestly that night, “there's nothing dangerous about it. He doesn't have a psychological problem any more than I did, or than Dad did. He'll outgrow it, exactly the way I did, the way you outgrew Doris.”

  “But it will freak out anyone who suddenly sees a staircase appear,” I said. “And someone will.”

  He shook his head. “It just happens in rooms, in closed-in places, never outside. We'll move to a warmer place where he can spend more time outside. We'll home school him until he outgrows it, and avoid house guests for the next few years. Can you cope with that? Is it asking too much?”

  I had no answer, and he put his arms around me and drew me closer to him. “Honey, Dad's okay, as you well know, and I seem to be okay. No lasting effect, no damage. Just a few somewhat irregular years ahead, and it's over. Please, April, try to see it that way.”

  I had to admit that he was more than okay. He writes elegant articles for magazines like The National Geographic and Archeology Review. Anthropological discoveries, architectural wonders, basket weaving in Bolivia, dances in Tibet, things like that, and they are always well received, as are his photographs. And Dad, his father, is the owner of a prestigious horse breeding farm, his horses prized and ridden by royalty, he boasts. He claims that he made very little money from it, and Vernon explained that it's true, because he has practically an army of workers on the farm, managers, trainers, farm workers, and so on.