Asimov's SF, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  But he did leave it.

  Barely had he raised the glasses to his eyes, than a siren sounded and an armored vehicle came howling up. A Chinese captain jumped from it before it had stopped and came at Carl in a run, leveled carbine aimed at him.

  "Hold it!” said Carl. He half-raised his hands. “I'm Architect-in-Chief of this entire road, Dr. Carl Roddard."

  The captain's hostility was not relaxed. Still pointing the weapon, he said, “I don't care who you are, sir, get back in your car!"

  "Hey, I have every right to—"

  "You have no right. Please get back in car fast!"

  Increasingly angry, Carl said, “Lower your fucking gun, will you? I want to speak to your—"

  "This is military area.” He came close, prodding Carl with the muzzle of his gun. “Please return into your car fast and right now."

  Carl did as he was told.

  The captain became less confrontational. Staring down at Carl, he said, “Is radioactivity here. I want see your biometric details. Where is young lady you had earlier?"

  "Locked up by now, I'd guess. Back in Dyarbekir."

  Carl handed over his card for inspection. the captain scrutinized it for several seconds, before processing it through a hand-held checker. He nodded, handed it back. When he spoke again, his tone was more moderate.

  "We have an accident here. The road is down. You must go by temporary road. You will follow this military vehicle along. Do not deviate.” He indicated a car just behind his car.

  "Follow? For how far?"

  The captain managed a rictus of a smile. He slung his carbine over a shoulder. “Not too far. Do not attempt to deviate. Then you get back on the proper Suoyue road. Other people coming here we turn away. You officials are lucky."

  "What, you mean lucky to be nearly fucking shot?"

  "Get on your way, sir. Never lose your temper."

  The captain nodded curtly, and returned to his vehicle. A second vehicle pulled out and signaled Carl should follow. A large red sign on its rear announced LEADER VEHICLE, just so there should be no mistake. Carl followed.

  The leader vehicle led on to an improvised road, which skirted the disaster site in a wide bow. Carl watched guys in radiation suits climbing from the crater. No doubt they checked on the kind of missile that had been fired, on its composition and where it has been manufactured.

  They had to halt. A signal was against them. The driver of the other vehicle came back and had a word with Carl, seeming curious about him.

  Carl said to the newcomer, “We may be witnessing the beginning, not the end, of a crisis. This bunch of terrorists got themselves killed. You can bet others will come along."

  "Just as well you're going on leave, then,” replied the man.

  "What do you know about that?"

  "It's not only oil that travels along this here pipeline.” He added that he had been told Carl would meet a reception when he arrived at the terminal in Mersin.

  The Go signal came through.

  It was a slow ride. Night was coming on. But once they left the site of the nuclear strike behind, the Leader Vehicle brought Carl back to the proper highway. The driver gave him a cheerful wave and departed back the way he had come.

  Ordinary civilian police directed him onto the pipeline road. Once again he was speeding through Turkey westward. Now there were military patrol cars parked or bumping along beside the highway.

  * * * *

  Carl stared out indifferently at the barren landscape. Beggars, ragged men and women, gesticulated to him or simply stood inert, some holding out begging bowls.

  "Fat chance you've got!” Carl exclaimed. Yet Turkey had benefited greatly from joining the EU; of course, that would apply only to the big cities.

  An ambulance was loading a prostrate woman and baby on a stretcher into the rear of the vehicle. Then he had flashed past. The tiny cameo of drama and fate was lost far behind. In no time, they were approaching a well-lit bridge. Together with the pipeline, they crossed the youthful River Firat, once known as the Euphrates.

  In just over three hours, Carl's auto descended to Turkey's southern coastal plain. The waters of the Mediterranean appeared, flat, faintly gleaming. From here on to its terminus at Mersin, the great armored pipeline ran on reinforced stilts, and the two motorways, the eastbound and the westbound, ran together in parallel.

  The newly constructed airport was at Mersin, on the outskirts of the growing city. This was where the great thousand-mile thrust of metal ended. Carl would soon be seeing his ex-wife again; that matter would certainly need some sorting out. Either she would see sense or she wouldn't.

  Although it was midnight, Mersin was still extremely busy, preparing for the moment when the pumping station began operations and Central Asian oil began to pour into waiting Western tankers, to quench the inexhaustible Western thirst for oil and more oil.

  He climbed from the car. He could see an Allied American plane gleaming under searchlights on the runway. The Stars & Stripes were flying. They were symbols of home. An official welcoming party clustered behind the barrier, waiting for him, holding flags and placards. One placard read, “LESSEPS WAS A PIKER COMPARED TO U.” He felt only fatigue, not elation. He had had a job to do. Another job lay ahead.

  As he approached the crowd, a woman called out shrilly, “Come back safe, Carl."

  He gave her a grin. A nice-looking young woman.

  She clutched his arm as he pushed by. Perhaps she sensed his skepticism. “Maybe things will be better when you return."

  He grinned into her smiling face and said, “And by then, if I can quote a friend, ‘The Arabs may be going back to their lousy camels.’”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Copyright © 2005 by Brian Aldiss.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Second Person, Present Tense by Daryl Gregory

  A Novelette

  Daryl Gregory is a 1988 graduate of Clarion whose stories have appeared in F&SF, Amazing, and elsewhere. He lives in State College, Pennsylvania, where he builds web applications for a software company in the morning and writes fiction in coffee shops in the afternoon. His wife is a professor and psychologist, but he tells us she bears no resemblance to the therapist in his first tale for Asimov's.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  If you think, “I breathe,” the “I” is extra. There is no you to say “I.” What we call “I” is just a swinging door which moves when we inhale or when we exhale.

  —Shun Ryu Suzuki

  I used to think the brain was the most important organ in the body, until I realized who was telling me that.

  —Emo Phillips

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  When I enter the office, Dr. S is leaning against the desk, talking earnestly to the dead girl's parents. He isn't happy, but when he looks up he puts on a smile for me. “And here she is,” he says, like a game show host revealing the grand prize. The people in the chairs turn, and Dr. Subramaniam gives me a private, encouraging wink.

  The father stands first, a blotchy, square-faced man with a tight belly he carries like a basketball. As in our previous visits, he is almost frowning, struggling to match his face to his emotions. The mother, though, has already been crying, and her face is wide open: joy, fear, hope, relief. It's way over the top.

  "Oh, Therese,” she says. “Are you ready to come home?"

  Their daughter was named Therese. She died of an overdose almost two years ago, and since then Mitch and Alice Klass have visited this hospital dozens of times, looking for her. They desperately want me to be their daughter, and so in their heads I already am.

  My hand is still on the door handle. “Do I have a choice?” On paper I'm only seventeen years old. I have no money, no credit cards, no job, no car. I own only a handful of clothes. And Robierto, the burliest orderly on the ward, is in the hallway behind me, blocking my escape.

  Therese's mother seems to stop breathing for a moment. She's a slim, narrow-bon
ed woman who seems tall until she stands next to anyone. Mitch raises a hand to her shoulder, then drops it.

  As usual, whenever Alice and Mitch come to visit, I feel like I've walked into the middle of a soap opera and no one's given me my lines. I look directly at Dr. S, and his face is frozen into that professional smile. Several times over the past year he's convinced them to let me stay longer, but they're not listening anymore. They're my legal guardians, and they have Other Plans. Dr. S looks away from me, rubs the side of his nose.

  "That's what I thought,” I say.

  The father scowls. The mother bursts into fresh tears, and she cries all the way out of the building. Dr. Subramaniam watches from the entrance as we drive away, his hands in his pockets. I've never been so angry with him in my life—all two years of it.

  * * * *

  The name of the drug is Zen, or Zombie, or just Z. Thanks to Dr. S I have a pretty good idea of how it killed Therese.

  "Flick your eyes to the left,” he told me one afternoon. “Now glance to the right. Did you see the room blur as your eyes moved?” He waited until I did it again. “No blur. No one sees it."

  This is the kind of thing that gets brain doctors hot and bothered. Not only could no one see the blur, their brains edited it out completely. Skipped over it—left view, then right view, with nothing between—then fiddled with the person's time sense so that it didn't even seem missing.

  The scientists figured out that the brain was editing out shit all the time. They wired up patients and told them to lift one of their fingers, move it any time they wanted. Each time, the brain started the signal traveling toward the finger up to 120 milliseconds before the patient consciously decided to move it. Dr. S said you could see the brain warming up right before the patient consciously thought, now.

  This is weird, but it gets weirder the longer you think about it. And I've been thinking about this a lot.

  The conscious mind—the “I” that's thinking, hey, I'm thirsty, I'll reach for that cold cup of water—hasn't really decided anything. The signal to start moving your hand has already traveled halfway down your arm by the time you even realize you are thirsty. Thought is an afterthought. By the way, the brain says, we've decided to move your arm, so please have the thought to move it.

  The gap is normally 120 milliseconds, max. Zen extends this minutes. Hours.

  If you run into somebody who's on Zen, you won't notice much. The person's brain is still making decisions, and the body still follows orders. You can talk to the them, and they can talk to you. You can tell each other jokes, go out for hamburgers, do homework, have sex.

  But the person isn't conscious. There is no “I” there. You might as well be talking to a computer. And two people on Zen—"you” and “I"—are just puppets talking to puppets.

  * * * *

  It's a little girl's room strewn with teenager. Stuffed animals crowd the shelves and window sills, shoulder to shoulder with stacks of Christian rock CDs and hair brushes and bottles of nail polish. Pin-ups from Teen People are taped to the wall, next to a bulletin board dripping with soccer ribbons and rec league gymnastics medals going back to second grade. Above the desk, a plaque titled “I Promise...” exhorting Christian youth to abstain from premarital sex. And everywhere taped and pinned to the walls, the photos: Therese at Bible camp, Therese on the balance beam, Therese with her arms around her youth group friends. Every morning she could open her eyes to a thousand reminders of who she was, who she'd been, who she was supposed to become.

  I pick up the big stuffed panda that occupies the place of pride on the bed. It looks older than me, and the fur on the face is worn down to the batting. The button eyes hang by white thread—they've been re-sewn, maybe more than once.

  Therese's father sets down the pitifully small bag that contains everything I've taken from the hospital: toiletries, a couple of changes of clothes, and five of Dr. S's books. “I guess old Boo Bear was waiting for you,” he says.

  "Boo W. Bear."

  "Yes, Boo W!” It pleases him that I know this. As if it proves anything. “You know, your mother dusted this room every week. She never doubted that you'd come back."

  I have never been here, and she is not coming back, but already I'm tired of correcting pronouns. “Well, that was nice,” I say.

  "She's had a tough time of it. She knew people were talking, probably holding her responsible—both of us, really. And she was worried about them saying things about you. She couldn't stand them thinking that you were a wild girl."

  "Them?"

  He blinks. “The Church."

  Ah. The Church. The term carried so many feelings and connotations for Therese that months ago I stopped trying to sort them out. The Church was the red-brick building of the Davenport Church of Christ, shafts of dusty light through rows of tall, glazed windows shaped like gravestones. The Church was God and the Holy Ghost (but not Jesus—he was personal, separate somehow). Mostly, though, it was the congregation, dozens and dozens of people who'd known her since before she was born. They loved her, they watched out for her, and they evaluated her every step. It was like having a hundred overprotective parents.

  I almost laugh. “The Church thinks Therese was wild?"

  He scowls, but whether because I've insulted the Church or because I keep referring to his daughter by name, I'm not sure. “Of course not. It's just that you caused a lot of worry.” His voice has assumed a sober tone that's probably never failed to unnerve his daughter. “You know, the Church prayed for you every week."

  "They did?” I do know Therese well enough to be sure this would have mortified her. She was a pray-er, not a pray-ee.

  Therese's father watches my face for the bloom of shame, maybe a few tears. From contrition it should have been one small step to confession. It's hard for me to take any of this seriously.

  I sit down on the bed and sink deep into the mattress. This is not going to work. The double bed takes up most of the room, with only a few feet of open space around it. Where am I going to meditate?

  "Well,” Therese's father says. His voice has softened. Maybe he thinks he's won. “You probably want to get changed,” he says.

  He goes to the door but doesn't leave. I stand by the window, but I can feel him there, waiting. Finally the oddness of this makes me turn around.

  He's staring at the floor, a hand behind his neck. Therese might have been able to intuit his mood, but it's beyond me.

  "We want to help you, Therese. But there's so many things we just don't understand. Who gave you the drugs, why you went off with that boy, why you would—” His hand moves, a stifled gesture that could be anger, or just frustration. “It's just ... hard."

  "I know,” I say. “Me too."

  He shuts the door when he leaves, and I push the panda to the floor and flop onto my back in relief. Poor Mr. Klass. He just wants to know if his daughter fell from grace, or was pushed.

  * * * *

  When I want to freak myself out, “I” think about “me” thinking about having an “I.” The only thing stupider than puppets talking to puppets is a puppet talking to itself.

  Dr. S says that nobody knows what the mind is, or how the brain generates it, and nobody really knows about consciousness. We talked almost every day while I was in the hospital, and after he saw that I was interested in this stuff—how could I not be?—he gave me books and we'd talk about brains and how they cook up thoughts and make decisions.

  "How do I explain this?” he always starts. And then he tries out the metaphors he's working on for his book. My favorite is the Parliament, the Page, and the Queen.

  "The brain isn't one thing, of course,” he told me. “It's millions of firing cells, and those resolve into hundreds of active sites, and so it is with the mind. There are dozens of nodes in the mind, each one trying to out-shout the others. For any decision, the mind erupts with noise, and that triggers ... how do I explain this ... Have you ever seen the British Parliament on C-SPAN?” Of course I had: in a hosp
ital, TV is a constant companion. “These members of the mind's parliament, they're all shouting in chemicals and electrical charges, until enough of the voices are shouting in unison. Ding! That's a ‘thought,’ a ‘decision.’ The Parliament immediately sends a signal to the body to act on the decision, and at the same time it tells the Page to take the news—"

  "Wait, who's the Page?"

  He waves his hand. “That's not important right now.” (Weeks later, in a different discussion, Dr. S will explain that the Page isn't one thing, but a cascade of neural events in the temporal area of the limbic system that meshes the neural map of the new thought with the existing neural map—but by then I know that “neural map” is just another metaphor for another deeply complex thing or process, and that I'll never get to the bottom of this. Dr. S said not to worry about it, that nobody gets to the bottom of it.) “The Page takes the news of the decision to the Queen."

  "All right then, who's the Queen? Consciousness?"

  "Exactly right! The self itself."

  He beamed at me, his attentive student. Talking about this stuff gets Dr. S going like nothing else, but he's oblivious to the way I let the neck of my scrubs fall open when I stretch out on the couch. If only I could have tucked the two hemispheres of my brain into a lace bra.

  "The Page,” he said, “delivers its message to Her Majesty, telling her what the Parliament has decided. The Queen doesn't need to know about all the other arguments that went on, all the other possibilities that were thrown out. She simply needs to know what to announce to her subjects. The Queen tells the parts of the body to act on the decision."

  "Wait, I thought the Parliament had already sent out the signal. You said before that you can see the brain warming up before the self even knows about it."

  "That's the joke. The Queen announces the decision, and she thinks that her subjects are obeying her commands, but in reality, they have already been told what to do. They're already reaching for their glasses of water."

  * * * *

  I pad down to the kitchen in bare feet, wearing Therese's sweatpants and a T-shirt. The shirt is a little tight; Therese, champion dieter and Olympic-level purger, was a bit smaller than me.