“What do you mean, no?” She was beginning to piss me off. A blind man could’ve told she was in heat from across the street. A chimpanzee could’ve talked his way into her pants. “What kind of idiot game are you playing now?”
“You know what no means, Donald. You’re not stupid.”
“No, I’m not, and neither are you. We both know the score. Now let me in, goddamnit.”
“Enjoy your present,” she said, and closed the door.
* * *
I found Courtney’s present back in my suite. I was still seething from her treatment of me and stalked into the room, letting the door slam behind me. So that I was standing in near-total darkness. The only light was what little seeped through the draped windows at the far end of the room. I was just reaching for the light switch when there was a motion in the darkness.
’Jackers! I thought, and all in a panic lurched for the light switch, hoping to achieve I don’t know what. Credit-jackers always work in trios, one to torture the security codes out of you, one to phone the numbers out of your accounts and into a fiscal trapdoor, a third to stand guard. Was turning the lights on supposed to make them scurry for darkness, like roaches? Nevertheless, I almost tripped over my own feet in my haste to reach the switch. But of course it was nothing like what I’d feared.
It was a woman.
She stood by the window in a white silk dress that could neither compete with nor distract from her ethereal beauty, her porcelain skin. When the lights came on, she turned toward me, eyes widening, lips parting slightly. Her breasts swayed ever so slightly as she gracefully raised a bare arm to offer me a lily. “Hello, Donald,” she said huskily. “I’m yours for the night.” She was absolutely beautiful.
And dead, of course.
* * *
Not twenty minutes later, I was hammering on Courtney’s door. She came to the door in a Pierre Cardin dressing gown and from the way she was still cinching the sash and the disarray of her hair I gathered she hadn’t been expecting me.
“I’m not alone,” she said.
“I didn’t come here for the dubious pleasures of your fair white body.” I pushed my way into the room. (But couldn’t help remembering that beautiful body of hers, not so exquisite as the dead whore’s, and now the thoughts were inextricably mingled in my head, death and Courtney, sex and corpses, a Gordian knot I might never be able to untangle.)
“You didn’t like my surprise?” She was smiling openly now, amused.
“No, I fucking did not!” I took a step toward her. I was shaking. I couldn’t stop fisting and unfisting my hands.
She fell back a step. But that confident, oddly expectant look didn’t leave her face. “Bruno,” she said lightly. “Would you come in here?”
A motion at the periphery of vision. Bruno stepped out of the shadows of her bedroom. He was a muscular brute, pumped, ripped, and as black as the fighter I’d seen go down earlier that night. He stood behind Courtney, totally naked, with slim hips and wide shoulders and the finest skin I’d ever seen.
And dead.
I saw it all in a flush.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Courtney!” I said, disgusted. “I can’t believe you. That you’d actually . . . That thing’s just an obedient body. There’s nothing there—no passion, no connection, just . . . physical presence.”
Courtney made a kind of chewing motion through her smile, weighing the implications of what she was about to say. Nastiness won.
“We have equity now,” she said.
I lost it then. I stepped forward, raising a hand, and I swear to God I intended to bounce the bitch’s head off the back wall. But she didn’t flinch—she didn’t even look afraid. She merely moved aside, saying, “In the body, Bruno. He has to look good in a business suit.”
A dead fist smashed into my ribs so hard I thought for an instant my heart had stopped. Then Bruno punched me in my stomach. I doubled over, gasping. Two, three, four more blows. I was on the ground now, rolling over, helpless and weeping with rage.
“That’s enough, baby. Now put out the trash.”
Bruno dumped me in the hallway.
I glared up at Courtney through my tears. She was not at all beautiful now. Not in the least. You’re getting older, I wanted to tell her. But instead I heard my voice, angry and astonished, saying, “You . . . you goddamn, fucking necrophile!”
“Cultivate a taste for it,” Courtney said. Oh, she was purring! I doubted she’d ever find life quite this good again. “Half a million Brunos are about to come on the market. You’re going to find it a lot more difficult to pick up living women in not so very long.”
I sent away the dead whore. Then I took a long shower that didn’t really make me feel any better. Naked, I walked into my unlit suite and opened the curtains. For a long time I stared out over the glory and darkness that was Manhattan.
I was afraid, more afraid than I’d ever been in my life.
The slums below me stretched to infinity. They were a vast necropolis, a never-ending city of the dead. I thought of the millions out there who were never going to hold down a job again. I thought of how they must hate me—me and my kind—and how helpless they were before us. And yet. There were so many of them and so few of us. If they were to all rise up at once, they’d be like a tsunami, irresistible. And if there was so much as a spark of life left in them, then that was exactly what they would do.
That was one possibility. There was one other, and that was that nothing would happen. Nothing at all.
God help me, but I didn’t know which one scared me more.
GAME OF THE CENTURY
Robert Reed
Here’s a hard-hitting (literally!) look at the future of one of today’s most popular sports, one that suggests that the past indeed is prologue . . . and that the future is going to be full of very unexpected surprises!
Robert Reed sold his first story in 1986, and quickly established himself as a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Asimov’s Science Fiction, as well as selling many stories to Science Fiction Age, Universe, New Destinies, Tomorrow, Synergy, Starlight, and elsewhere. Reed may be one of the most prolific of today’s young writers, particularly at short fiction lengths, seriously rivaled for that position only by authors such as Stephen Baxter and Brian Stableford. And—also like Baxter and Stableford—he manages to keep up a very high standard of quality while being prolific, something that is not at all easy to do. Reed stories such as “Sister Alice,” “Brother Perfect,” “Decency,” “Savior,” “The Remoras,” “Chrysalis,” “Whiptail,” “The Utility Man,” “Marrow,” “Birth Day,” “Blind,” “The Toad of Heaven,” “Stride,” “The Shape of Everything,” “Guest of Honor,” “Waging Good,” and “Killing the Morrow,” among at least a half-dozen others equally as strong, count as among some of the best short work produced by anyone in the ’80s and ’90s. Nor is he nonprolific as a novelist, having turned out eight novels since the end of the ’80s, including The Lee Shore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The Remarkables, Down the Bright Way, Beyond the Veil of Stars, An Exaltation of Larks, and, most recently. Beneath the Gated Sky. His reputation can only grow as the years go by, and I suspect that he will become one of the big names of the first decade of the new century that lies ahead. Some of the best of his short work was collected in The Dragons of Springplace. His most recent book is Marrow, a novel-length version of his 1997 novella of the same name. Reed lives in Lincoln, Nebraska.
* * *
The window was left open at midnight, January 1, 2041, and three minutes, twenty-one seconds later it was closed again by the decisive, barely legible signature of an elderly Supreme Court justice who reportedly quipped, “I don’t know why I have to. Folks who like screwing sheep are just going to keep at it.”
Probably so.
But the issues were larger than traditional bestiality. Loopholes in some badly drafted legislation had made it perfectly legal to manipulate the human genome in radical ways. Wh
at’s more, said offspring were deemed human in all rights and privileges inside the U.S. of N.A. For two hundred and twelve seconds, couples and single women could legally conceive by any route available to modern science. And while few clinics and fewer top-grade hospitals had interest in the work, there were key exceptions. Some fourteen hundred human eggs were fertilized with tailored sperm, then instantly implanted inside willing mothers. News services that had paid minimal attention to the legislative breakdown took a sudden glaring interest in the nameless, still invisible offspring. The blastulas were dubbed the 1-1-2041s, and everything about their lives became the subject of intense public scrutiny and fascination and self-righteous horror.
Despite computer models and experiments on chimpanzees, there were surprises. Nearly a third of the fetuses were stillborn, or worse. Twenty-nine mothers were killed as a result of their pregnancies. Immunological problems, mostly. But in one case, a healthy woman in her mid-twenties died when her boy, perhaps bothered by the drumming of her heart, reached through her uterine wall and intestines, grabbing and squeezing the offending organ with both of his powerful hands.
Of the nine hundred-plus fetuses who survived, almost 30 percent were mentally impaired or physically frail. Remarkably, others seemed entirely normal, their human genes running roughshod over their more exotic parts. But several hundred of the 1-1-2041s were blessed with perfect health as well as a remarkable stew of talents. Even as newborns, they astonished the researchers who tested their reflexes and their highly tuned senses. The proudest parents released the data to the media, then mixed themselves celebratory cocktails, stepping out onto their porches and balconies to wait for the lucrative offers to start flowing their way.
* * *
Marlboro Jones came with a colorful reputation. His father was a crack dealer shot dead in a dispute over footwear. With his teenage mother, Marlboro had lived at dozens of addresses before her mind failed and she leaped out of their bedroom window to stop the voices, and from there his life was a string of unbroken successes. He had coached, and won, at three different schools. He was currently the youngest head coach of a Top Alliance team. Thirty-six years old, he looked twenty-six, his chiseled features built around the bright, amoral eyes of a squirrel. Marlboro was the kind of handsome that made his charm appealing, and he was charming in a way that made his looks and mannerisms delightfully boyish. A laser mind lurked behind those eyes, yet in most circumstances he preferred playing the cultured hick, knowing how much it improved his odds.
“He’s a fine-lookin’ boy,” the coach drawled. “Fine-lookin’.”
The proud parents stood arm in arm, smiling with a frothy, nervous joy.
“May I?” asked Marlboro. Then without waiting for permission, he yanked the screen off the crib, reached in, and grabbed both bare feet. He tugged once, then again. Harder. “Damn, look at those legs! You’d think this boy’d be scampering around already. Strong as these seem . . .!”
“Well,” said his mother, “he is awfully active.”
“In a good way,” the father cautioned.
“I believe it. I do!” Marlboro grinned, noticing that Mom looked awfully sweet in a tired-of-motherhood way, and it was too bad that he couldn’t make a play for her, too. “Let me tell ya what I’m offering,” he boomed. “A free ride. For the boy here—”
“Alan,” Mom interjected.
“Alan,” the coach repeated. Instantly, with an easy affection. Then he gave her a little wink, saying, “For Alan. A free education and every benefit that I’m allowed to give. Plus the same for your other two kids. Which I’m not supposed to offer. But it’s my school and my scholarships, and I’ll be damned if it’s anybody’s business but yours and mine!”
The parents squeezed one another, then with a nervous voice, the father made himself ask, “What about us?”
The coach didn’t blink.
“What do you want, Mr. Wilde?” Marlboro smiled and said, “Name it.”
“I’m not sure,” the father confessed. “I know that we can’t be too obvious—”
“But we were hoping,” Mom blurted. “I mean, it’s not like we’re wealthy people. And we had to spend most of our savings—”
“On your little Alan. I bet you did.” A huge wink was followed with, “It’ll be taken care of. My school doesn’t have that big college of genetics for nothing.” He looked at the infant again, investing several seconds of hard thought into how they could bend the system just enough. Then he promised, “You’ll be reimbursed for your expenses. Up front. And we’ll put your son on the payroll. Gentlefolks in lab coats’ll come take blood every half-year or so. For a healthy, just-under-the-table fee. How’s that sound?”
The father seemed doubtful. “Will the scientists agree to that?”
“If I want it done,” the coach promised.
“Will they actually use his blood?” The father seemed uneasy. Even a little disgusted. “I don’t like thinking of Alan being some kind of laboratory project.”
Marlboro stared at him for a long moment.
Never blinking.
Then he said, “Sir.” He said, “If you want, they can pass those samples to you, and you can flush them down your own toilet. Is that good enough?”
Nobody spoke.
Then he took a different course, using his most mature voice to tell them, “Alan is a fine, fine boy. But you’ve got to realize something. He’s going to have more than his share of problems. Special kids always do.” Then with a warm smile, Marlboro promised, “I’ll protect him for you. With all my resources and my good country sense, I’ll see that none of those predators out there get their claws in your little Alan.”
Mom said, “That’s good to hear. That’s fine.”
But Father shrugged, asking, “What about you? It’ll be years before Alan can actually play, and you could have left for the pros by then.”
“Never,” Marlboro blurted.
Then he gave the woman his best wink and grin, saying, “You know what kind of talent I’ve been signing up. Do you really think I’d go anywhere else? Ever?”
She turned to her husband, saying, “We’ll sign.”
“But—?”
“No. We’re going to commit.”
Marlboro reconfigured the appropriate contracts, getting everyone’s signature. Then he squeezed one of his recruit’s meaty feet, saying, “See ya later, Alan.”
Wearing an unreadable smile, he stepped out the front door. A hundred or so sports reporters were gathered on the small lawn, and through their cameras, as many as twenty million fans were watching the scene.
They watched Coach Jones smile and say nothing. Then he raised his arms suddenly, high overhead, and screamed those instantly famous words:
“The Wildman’s coming to Tech!”
* * *
There was something about the girl. Perfect strangers thought nothing of coming up to her and asking where she was going to college.
“State,” she would reply. Flat out.
“In what sport?” some inquired. While others, knowing that she played the game on occasion, would guess, “Are you joining the volleyball team?”
“No,” Theresa would tell the latter group. Never patient, but usually polite. “I hate volleyball,” she would explain, not wanting to be confused for one of those glandular, ritualistic girls. And she always told everyone, friends and strangers alike, “I’m going to play quarterback for the football team. For Coach Rickover.”
Knowledgeable people were surprised and puzzled. Some would clear their throats and look up into Theresa’s golden eyes, commenting in an offhand way, “But Rickover doesn’t let women play.”
That was a problem, sure.
Daddy was a proud alumnus of State and a letterman on the famous ’33 squad. When Theresa was born, there was no question about where she was going. In ’41, Rickover was only an assistant coach. Penises weren’t required equipment. The venerable Coach Mannstein had shuffled into her nursery and made his best
offer, then shuffled back out to meet with press and boosters, promising the world that he would still be coaching when that delightfully young lady was calling plays for the best team to ever take any field of play.
But six years later, while enjoying the company of a mostly willing cheerleader, Coach Mannstein felt a searing pain in his head, lost all feeling in his ample body, and died.
Rickover inherited the program.
A religious man driven by a quixotic understanding of the Bible, one of his first official acts was to send a letter to Theresa’s parents, explaining at length why he couldn’t allow their daughter to join his team. “Football,” he wrote, “is nothing but ritualized warfare, and women don’t belong in the trenches. I am sorry. On the other hand, Coach Terry is a personal friend, and I would be more than happy to have him introduce you to our nationally ranked women’s volleyball program.
“Thank you sincerely.”
“Coach.”
The refusal was a crushing blow for Daddy.
For Theresa, it was a ghostly abstraction that she couldn’t connect with those things that she truly knew and understood.
Not that she was a stupid child. Unlike many of her 1-1-2041 peers, her grades were respectably average, and in spatial subjects, like geometry and geography, she excelled. Also unlike her peers, Theresa didn’t have problems with rage or with residual instincts. Dogs and cats didn’t mysteriously vanish in her neighborhood. She was a good person with friends and her genuine admirers. Parents trusted her with their babies. Children she didn’t know liked to beg for rides on her back. Once she was old enough to date, the boys practically lined up. Out of sexual curiosity, in part. But also out of fondness and an odd respect. Some of her boyfriends confided that they preferred her to regular girls. Something about her—and not just a physical something—set them at ease. Made them feel safe. A strange thing for adolescent males to admit. while for Theresa, it was just another circumstance in a life filled with nothing but circumstances.
In football, she always played quarterback. Whether on playground teams, or in the various midget leagues, or on the varsity squad in high school.
Future Sports Page 11