by Libba Bray
Miriam took out the piece of paper from her pocket. She read it. She dropped it to the floor.
“It’s the man you loved, isn’t it?” said Andy.
“No.”
And she reached out again, stroked the face again. This time Andy could see it wasn’t done with affection, but with professional enquiry. “I must have worked on this,” she said. “Look at the man’s face. There was a rip here, from the neck, up to the forehead, look, it took out one of his eyes. I worked on this, I recognize my handiwork. I put his face back together.”
And now that he was looking closely, Andy could see she was quite right. The work had been subtle, and so delicately done, but an expert could see the threads that bound the cheek flaps together.
“What I’d written down, it wasn’t a memory,” said Miriam. “It was an instruction for repair. I never knew this man. I never loved him, and he never loved me. All I ever did was to stitch his face up.”
She ran.
By the time Andy caught up with her she was back at her studio. She was painting. Each stroke of her brush was so considered, was so small, you’d have thought that not a single one could have made the slightest difference—but their sum total was extraordinary. On the canvas she had created a demon. And the oils she’d chosen were perfect, they seemed to blend in with the background as if the demon had always been part of 1660; and its eyes bulged, and saliva was dripping from its mouth, its horns were caught in mid-quiver; it looked at the complacent folly of the seventeenth century with naked hunger. And it hung over the shoulders of King Charles II as he celebrated the restoration of the Crown, the spikes of its tail only an inch away from the Merry Monarch’s face, if Charles just turned his head a fraction to the right his eye would get punctured. And the demon’s presence seemed artistically right, it was an ironic comment upon fame and success and the paucity of Man’s achievements—yes, the King was on his throne, but time would move on, and the human race would fall, and nobody could stop it, or nobody would, at any rate; and all of this, even this little slice of long past history, all would be swept away.
“It’s beautiful,” said Andy. “At painting, you’re. Well. Really good.” It sounded quite inadequate. And had Andy not known better, he’d have thought the demon in the picture rolled its eyes.
“I know,” said Miriam. But she wouldn’t look at him.
They didn’t know when the Curator came to visit. Only that another missive was sent one day, and it said that his inspection had been carried out, and that he was well pleased with his subjects.
They hoped that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.
The Curator’s final missive was simple, and straight to the point. He said that he thought the work of the gallery was important, but that the art on display wasn’t; there was only one significant year in world history, the year of his irrevocable triumph over creation, all the bits beforehand he now realized were just a dull protracted preamble before the main event.
He wanted to display 2038. And only 2038. 2038 was big enough, 2038 could fill the entire gallery on its own. All the other years could now be disposed of.
There were jobs going at the gallery, and everyone queued for them, man, woman and child. And this time everyone was a winner, they all got jobs—really, there was so much work to do! The chatter and laughter of a billion souls in gainful employment filled the rooms, and it looked so strange to Andy and to Miriam, that at last the art they had preserved had an audience. They squeezed in, the gallery was packed to capacity—and yes, everyone would stare at the pictures on show, and perhaps in wonder, they’d never seen anything so splendid in all their lives—or maybe they had, maybe they’d lived the exact moments they were ogling, but if so it was long forgotten now, everything was forgotten. They’d stare at the pictures, every single one, and they’d allow a beat of appreciation, of awe—and then they’d tear them down from the walls.
And there were demons too, supervising the operation. So that’s what they looked like, and, do you know, they looked just like us! Except for the hair, of course, their long lustrous hair.
The people would rip down the years, and take them outside, and throw them on to the fire. They’d burn all they’d ever been, all they’d experienced. And over the cries of excitement of the mob you’d have thought you could have heard the years scream.
And once they’d destroyed all that had been on view in the public gallery, the people made their way down to the vaults. Miriam stood in her studio, guarding 1660 with a sharpened paintbrush. “You can’t have this one.” And a demon came forward from the crowd, just a little chap, really, and so unassuming, and he punched her once in the face, and her nose broke, and he punched her hard on the head, and she fell to the ground. She didn’t give them any trouble after that.
Andy found her there. She wasn’t unconscious as he first thought; she simply hadn’t found a reason to get up yet.
“This is all because of you,” she said. “You made me fall in love with you, and it drew attention. This is all because of us.”
And in spite of that, or because of it, he gave her a smile. And held out his hand for her. And she found her reason.
They went through the back corridors, past the hidden annexes and cubbyholes, all the way to his studio. 1574 was still draped over it, higgledy-piggeldy, January and December were trailing loose along the ground. Andy had never managed to learn even a fraction of the order Miriam had insisted upon, and for all that her life’s work was in ruins, she couldn’t help but tut. But seeing 1574 like that, less an old master, more a pet, it was suddenly homely and small, not a proper year, a year in progress—it was a hobby project that Andy liked to tinker on, it had none of the grandeur that the Curator was trying to stamp on and destroy. And for the first time, Miriam surprised herself, she felt a stab of affection for the old thing.
“We can save 1574,” he told her.
And she knew it was worthless. That had the Curator sent his thugs to take 1574 from the beginning, she’d have given it up without a second thought. An unnecessary year—but now she helped Andy without a word, he took one corner and she the other, and together they rolled it up. And because it was so unnecessary, it rolled up very small indeed, and Andy was able to put it in his pocket.
No one stopped them on the way to the elevator. There was nowhere to go but up. And there was nothing up there. Not any more.
Andy pulled the grille doors closed. He pressed the highest button that there was, one so high that it didn’t even fit upon the panel with all the other buttons, it had to have a panel all of its own. It hadn’t been pressed for such a long time, there wasn’t much give in it, and when it finally yielded to Andy’s finger it did so with a clunk.
The elevator didn’t move for a few seconds. “Come on,” said Andy, and kicked it.
The lift doors opened out on to the Earth. And there was no air, there was no light, there was no dark. There was no time, time had been stripped out and taken down to the art galleries long ago, time had been frittered away then burned.
“We can’t stay here,” said Miriam. “I love you. I’d love you anywhere. But this isn’t anywhere, I can’t be with you here.”
But Andy took 1574 out from his pocket. And holding out one end of the scroll, he flung out the other as far as he could. And the year unrolled and flew off into the distance. And when it had unrolled all that it could, after it had sped over the crags that had once been continents and oceans, when the far end of it could be seen flying back at him from the opposite direction, Andy caught hold of it, and tugged it flat, and fixed the end of December to the beginning of January. And it lay across the earth, all the lumps and bumps, and yet it was still a perfect fit.
“This won’t last. He’ll come and get us in the end,” said Miriam.
“He will. But not for another four hundred and fifty years.” And then Andy kissed her, straight on to the mouth. He hadn’t remembered that’s how you were supposed to do it, but suddenly it just seemed so log
ical. And they kissed like that for a while, one mouth welded to the other, as the Middle Ages settled and stilled around them.
They’d bask for a bit in August if they wanted the sun; then, to cool down, they’d pop over to February and dip their toes in the chill. And if they wanted to be alone, away from all the kings and sultans and soldiers and peasants and peoples set upon their paths of religious intolerance, then they’d hide in November—and November on the Juan Fernandez Islands, just before Juan Fernandez himself arrived on the scene. They spent a lot of time there. Alone was good.
They practiced making love. If the mouth on mouth thing had been inspired, it was the tongue in mouth development that was the real breakthrough. They kissed a lot, and each time they did they both felt deep within the stirrings of dormant memories—that if they just kept at it, with diligence and labor, then they’d work out the next step of sex eventually.
“I love you,” Andy would tell her, and “I love you,” Miriam would reply. And they both wrote these facts down, privately, on pieces of paper, and kept them in their pockets always.
Miriam’s nose healed. It didn’t quite set straight, but Andy preferred it the new way; the very sight of its off-center kink as it came up at him would set his heart racing faster. And the bruise where she’d been struck at last faded too. In its place there grew a single, shiny, blonde hair. Miriam felt it pop out of her skull one day and squealed with delight.
“It’s all coming back,” she said to Andy. “Everything’s going to be all right again.”
And Andy had seen enough of history to know that one lone random hair didn’t necessarily mean much. But he laughed indulgently as she combed it into position, and she laughed at his laughter, and then they both forgot what they’d been laughing at in the first place—but that was all right, that they were happy was all that mattered. And then they started the kissing again, and all they knew and heard and felt was each other, and they ignored the stick figure demon chattering and giggling above their heads.
The Onset of a Paranormal Romance
Bruce Sterling
After discovering planetary wireless broadband, Bruce Sterling united his time between Turin, Belgrade and Austin. He also began writing some design fiction and architecture fiction, as well as science fiction. However, this daring departure from the routine made no particular difference to anybody. Sterling then started hanging out with Augmented Reality people, and serving as a guest curator for European electronic arts festivals. These eccentricities also provoked no particular remark. Sterling went on a Croatian literary yacht tour and lived for a month in Brazil. These pleasant interludes had little practical consequence. After teaching in Switzerland and Holland, Sterling realized that all his European students lived more or less in this manner, and that nobody was surprised about much of any of that any more. So, he decided to sit still and get a little writing done, and this story was part of that effort. Prior to this he had written ten novels and four short story collections. His most recent books are novel The Caryatids, major career retrospective Ascendancies: The Best of Bruce Sterling, and new collection Global High-Tech.
Lover A: The Haunted Hotel
Gavin squeezed glare from his jet-lagged eyes and stared into the sea. “Capri is Paradise.”
His sister wiped at her runny mascara. “I guess it’s OK. But I’ve seen better.”
“Check out those giant rocks, down in the breakers over there. They’re awesome.”
The little Capri park was perched on a cliff top, like a bursting flower-basket in scarlet, violet and orange. Beneath them, an ocean vista in peacock-blue. Eliza was dressed all in black. Long black sleeves, a long black skirt, and black eyeliner-out-to-here. Black lipstick. Black combat boots.
Eliza plucked her black iPhone from her black laced bodice. “Those are the Faraglione Rocks down there.”
“Wikipedia,” Gavin nodded. “Wikipedia on wireless broadband. Wow, what a handy service that is.”
“I keep telling you that iPhones rule the universe! You gotta get an iPhone right away, Gav!”
Gavin smiled as he shook his head. He used a solid, dependable Blackberry.
Eliza squinted at her screen from under her droopy black hat brim. “A Roman Emperor built this place. He built this garden that we’re standing in, right now. The great Emperor, Augustus Caesar. Two thousand years ago.”
“Oh yeah, Italian life is all about emperors,” nodded Gavin. “Aren’t you glad I brought you over here?” He stretched his arms out and spun a little in the dazzling sunshine.
Gavin did a lot of his business in Italy—but with his little sister at his side, the charm of Italy touched him where he felt it. The past and future wheeled around them as they stood here. Past and future, future and past, all clean and winged and airy, like two island seagulls.
Or, maybe that swooning sensation was jet lag. Gavin dropped his arms and staggered.
That plummeting, swooning sensation had seized the core of his body. He couldn’t make it stop.
Yeah, that feeling was jet-lag, all right.
A chattering crowd of tourists brushed by him, trampling the garden paths. Sweaty, sunburned foreigners, in flowered shirts and shorts. Other tourists rambled in clusters past the marble fountains and the rust-specked iron benches.
These foreign tourists were the native livestock of Capri. Like sacred cattle, they roamed wherever they pleased. Some took a stony walkway that zigzagged down to sea-level, like the tortured path of a video game. Others rambled uphill, into long green ridges dotted with white vacation villas.
Down in that foamy, sun-sparkling surf, the Faraglione Rocks beckoned to Gavin. Unearthly, primeval, majestic towers. Like the ghosts of a past life, or the figments of a future life. The regrets of a past life that haunted the promises of a future life... anyway, a different life.
“I wonder,” said Gavin, “I really wonder, how many people, for how many centuries, have looked at those giant towers. Those huge stone pillars, just wading out there in that beautiful blue ocean. There must have been millions of us looking at them. Just, billions of human eyeballs.”
“Aw come on, Google gets a billion eyeballs every day.” Eliza tucked her iPhone away. “Gav, look at me now. I’m gonna stare at your big rocks there like nobody else ever did!”
Eliza lifted her sharp chin. She pulled in a breath and threw her narrow shoulders back. Eliza had the serious, bone-deep glumness that only seventeen-year-old girls could achieve.
Then Eliza glared at the ancient rocks. With a burning, churning fit of teenage rage. As if she could crack them to bits with the force of her will.
Gavin watched his little sister in bemusement. Why did Eliza always do things like this? What was she trying to prove? That witchy, sullen, kill-the-world thing, that Goth Chick business...
Where did this weird expression come from? Somebody should look like that. A ferocious look belonged on somebody’s face. A Gothic girl.... But not a modern Gothic girl.... An ancient Gothic girl!
A Gothic princess in the garden of a Roman Emperor!
Gavin grinned. Yes! Right! Of course! The Gothic girl, and the Gothic girl!
Gavin felt blessed by this sudden flash of insight. Gavin was a techno-futurist and venture capitalist. He worked on budgets, statistics, and market buzz. Sometimes, though, a deep insight hit him, a burst of smarts when he just nailed it. This was one of those pleasant moments.
Once, yes, there had been a different Gothic girl—an ancient Gothic girl, standing right here. Standing in this very garden, on this very spot. A living human being, from the distant past. Not a ghost, not a figment of imagination. Not a phantom, not even a futurist’s hunch. A teenage Goth princess who was as real as any other human being. So real that Gavin could practically smell her reek of pagan patchouli.
And she was a ticked-off Gothic barbarian princess, glaring at those towers of Capri. As if she could destroy the Emperor’s favorite rocks, just by resenting them.
Because she had pl
enty to be upset about, this Gothic princess. Ancient Goths and ancient Romans had a very rough and intimate relationship. Very human, very “love-hate.” You could bet that this Gothic princess of Capri would love to topple the Emperor’s rocks. Not because it was the rocks’ fault. Because of who she was.
A sea-breeze hissed up the cliffside and lifted Eliza’s hair in coal-black tufts and wings. Suddenly, she looked up at him, and she was not angry at all. She smiled at him. She was happy.
The beauty of the world had made her happy. Gavin sensed the great importance of what was happening. He could feel that, even if he couldn’t put words around it. This was a transition of some kind. A major trend, taking off. A cycle, returning. The past is a future that has already happened.
What a pretty smile Eliza had. As pretty as any Capri garden full of flowers. Up to this very moment in her life, Eliza... Well, Eliza had just been his kid sister, her usual slouching, petulant self. But they were far away from Seattle. Far from their parents, far from all the aching pressures of their lives, nine time zones distant...
A trip to Capri was good for her. Eliza was feeling happier already. Something joyful had broken loose in her dark little soul, now that she was free. Some more genuine Elizabeth Tremaine was slipping out of her shell.
Eliza looked so grown-up to him, suddenly. She’d jumped years in an instant. Maybe this was the last day in his life when Eliza would be his “kid sister.” Someone he could treat as a child.
Gavin placed both his hands on the cold iron railing of the overlook. “Eliza, I want to tell you something,” he said. “When I was seventeen—just like you are now—I made some big decisions about my life.”