Asimov's SF, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The Altairi ignored him. “We had begun to think we had erred in our assessment of your world,” the one who'd spoken before said to me, and the one next to her? him? said, “We doubted your species was fully sentient."

  “I know,” I said. “I doubt it myself sometimes."

  “We also doubted you understood the concept of accord,” the one on the other end said, and turned and glared pointedly at Calvin's wrists.

  “I think you'd better unhandcuff Mr. Ledbetter,” I said to Dr. Morthman.

  “Of course, of course,” he said, motioning to the police officer. “Explain to them it was all a little misunderstanding,” he whispered to me, and the Altairi turned to glare at him and then at the police officer.

  When Calvin was out of the handcuffs, the one on the end said, “As the men of old, we are with gladness to be proved wrong."

  So are we, I thought. “We're delighted to welcome you to our planet,” I said.

  “Now if you'll accompany me back to DU,” Dr. Morthman cut in, “we'll arrange for you to go to Washington to meet with the president and—"

  The Altairi began to glare again. Oh, no, I thought, and looked frantically at Calvin.

  “We have not yet finished greeting the delegation, Dr. Morthman,” Calvin said. He turned to the Altairi. “We would like to sing you the rest of our greeting songs."

  “We wish to hear them,” the Altairi in the center said, and the six of them immediately turned, walked back up the aisle, and sat down.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you sat down, too,” I said to Dr. Morthman and the FBI agents.

  “Can some of you share your music with them?” Calvin said to the people in the last row. “And help them find the right place?"

  “I have no intention of singing with witches and homo—” Reverend Thresher said indignantly, and the Altairi all turned to glare at him. He sat down, and an elderly man in a yarmulke handed him his music.

  “What do we do about the words to the ‘Hallelujah Chorus'?” Calvin whispered to me, and the Altairi stood up and walked back down the aisle to us.

  “There is no need to alter your joyful songs. We wish to hear them with the native words,” the one in the center said.

  “We have a great interest in your planet's myths and superstitions,” the one on the end said, “the child in the manger, the lighting of the Kwanzaa menorah, the bringing of toys and teeth to children. We are eager to learn more."

  “We have many questions,” the next one in line said. “If the child was born in a desert land, then how can King Herod have taken the children on a sleigh ride?"

  “Sleigh ride?” Dr. Morthman said, and Calvin looked inquiringly at me.

  “'All children young to sleigh,'” I whispered.

  “Also, if holly is jolly, then why does it bark?” the one on the other end said. “And, Mr. Ledbetter, is Ms. Yates your girlfriend?"

  “There will be time for questions, negotiations, and gifts when the greetings have been completed,” the second Altairus on the left, the one who hadn't said anything up till then, said, and I realized he must be the leader. Or the choir director, I thought. When he spoke, the Altairi instantly formed themselves into pairs, walked back up the aisle, and sat down.

  I picked up Calvin's baton and handed it to him. “What do you think we should sing first?” he asked me.

  “All I want for Christmas is you,” I said.

  “Really? I was thinking maybe we should start with ‘Angels We Have Heard on High’ or—"

  “That wasn't a song title,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said and turned to the Altairi. “The answer to your question is yes."

  “These are tidings of great joy,” the one in the center said.

  “There shall be many mistletoeings,” the one on the end added. The second Altairus on the left glared at them.

  “I think we'd better sing,” I said, and squeezed into the first row, between Reverend McIntyre and an African-American woman in a turban and dashiki.

  Calvin stepped onto the podium. “The Hallelujah Chorus,” Calvin said, and there was a shuffling of pages as people found their music. The woman next to me held out her music to me so we could share and whispered, “It's considered proper etiquette to stand up for this. In honor of King George the Third. He's supposed to have stood up the first time he heard it."

  “Actually,” Reverend McIntyre whispered to me, “he may merely have been startled out of a sound sleep, but rising out of respect and admiration is still an appropriate response."

  I nodded. Calvin raised his baton, and the entire auditorium, except for the Altairi, rose as one and began to sing. And if I'd thought Adeste Fideles sounded wonderful, the “Hallelujah Chorus” was absolutely breathtaking, and suddenly all those lyrics about glorious songs of old and anthems sweet and repeating the sounding joy suddenly made sense. “And the whole world give back the song,” I thought, “which now the angels sing.” And apparently the Altairi were as overwhelmed by the music as I was. After the fifth “Hallelujah!” they rose into the air like they'd done before. And rose. And rose, till they floated giddily just below the high domed ceiling.

  I knew just how they felt.

  * * * *

  It was definitely a communications breakthrough. The Altairi haven't stopped talking since the All-City Sing, though we're not actually much farther along than we were before. They're much better at asking questions than answering them. They did finally tell us where they came from—the star Alsafi in the constellation Draco. But since the meaning of Altair is “the flying one” (and Alsafi means “cooking tripod") everyone still calls them the Altairi.

  They also told us why they turned up at Calvin's apartment and kept following me ("We glimpsed interesting possibilities of accord between you and Mr. Ledbetter") and explained, more or less, how their spaceship works, which the Air Force has found extremely interesting. But we still don't know why they came here. Or what they want. The only thing they've told us specifically was that they wanted to have Dr. Morthman and Reverend Thresher removed from the commission, and to have Dr. Wakamura put in charge. It turns out they like being squirted, at least as much as they like anything we do. They still glare.

  So does Aunt Judith. She called me the day after the All-Community Sing to tell me she'd seen me on CNN and thought I'd done a nice job saving the planet, but what on earth was I wearing? Didn't I know one was supposed to dress up for a concert? I told her everything that had happened was all thanks to her, and she glared at me (I could feel it, even over the phone) and hung up.

  But she must not be too mad. When she heard I was engaged, she called my sister Tracy and told her she expected to be invited to the wedding shower. My mother is cleaning like mad.

  I wonder if the Altairi will give us a fish slice. Or a birthday card with a dollar in it. Or faster-than-light travel.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Connie Willis.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Short Story: THE LONESOME PLANET TRAVELERS’ ADVISORY

  by Tim McDaniel

  Tim McDaniel updates us with the following: “I lived a quiet, simple life, teaching ESL and collecting plastic dinosaurs—until my story, “Teachers’ Lounge,” came out in Asimov's last August. Since then, it's been an unending nightmare of dodging paparazzi and fending off groupies. Well, I guess I can live with it.” While we may be able to survive magazines plastered with telephotos of Tim on the beach, we may not be able to survive interstellar travel without...

  Here is the latest update, brought to you by the Lonesome Planet Travelers’ Advisory Board, as certified by the Local Group. Those of you who—like us—have been here awhile may find little new here, but remember it's our task to set the newcomers straight. Things are a little different here than you may be used to back home.

  * * * *

  Stealth

  * Keep your blurifiers on at all times—you never know who is carrying a camera these days. Some of these people
even have cameras in their phones, although our researchers have yet to determine why.

  * Having said that, buzzing Air Force jets and installations is fine—they never tell anyone what they see, as per our agreement.

  * Finally, I know the big head/almond eye masks are a pain, but please, people, keep them on. If they saw our real faces ... well, let's just say it would engender a really negative reaction. How negative? Remember the robot rebellions of the Lost Arm? Like that.

  * * * *

  Relaxation

  * Mutilations. Okay, we've all been there. Fun is fun, but there have to be some rules. Cows, now, are okay to mutilate—we all know we can't resist those lips, those genitals! One of my podsisters does things with a cow's genitals that are only legal in the Lesser Magellenic Cloud. That's right—the Lesser!

  * Off limits, however, are dogs (of course), pandas (still), giraffes (again), three-toed sloths (for obvious reasons), and adolescent beluga whales (don't ask).

  * * * *

  Playmates

  * Of course, now and then we just have to abduct a local. Again, the Advisory Group is not one to stand in the way of tradition. Please remember, however, that only some of the locals are eligible for abduction. Stick to the smaller northern continent, and remember that people in poor, country neighborhoods make the best abductees. The rule of thumbs: “If you live in a trailer, it's okay to nail yah.” Don't take anyone from a gated community, and if you take a public figure, such as a politician or pop star, do not send them home again afterwards. Instead, consider replacing them with a symboid or replimonster.

  * What's okay to stick where? Inserts are fine, but make them small. Nasal passages and teeth are the most popular places, but why not get creative? The natives have several other interesting cavities! Unfortunately, some few of the natives have discovered that wearing tinfoil hats blocks some of our control-rays, so check out the penetrating power of your transmitter before spending a lot on fancy inserts.

  * Now, as to what may be done with abductees. Exams are fine, and sexual practices are expected. Eating or collecting trophies, however, is frowned upon.

  * Just a reminder: It's fun to give the abductees a little lost time—a mystery to occupy their thoughts.

  * Please don't bother the Men in Black—remember, they're on our side. If they weren't covering our tracks, things would be a lot more complicated than they are already. Ditto the big fast food chains—which are, incidentally, another great source for the nether parts of cows.

  * * * *

  Health

  * A warning: Don't drink the water that is made available for public consumption in certain parts of the planet. It very well may contain fluoride. More than one visitor has come home with enflamed gums, swollen pulgassods, and an awkward gait after sipping a local beverage. And stay away from Dr Pepper unless you have a private place and an open-minded partner handy.

  * Vaccinations may be a pain in the asses, but they are required for anyone who expects to come into close contact with the natives. Slime-based lifeforms, as always, may use suppositories in lieu of injected vaccines.

  * * * *

  Monoliths

  * With the ratification of the Concord of C57D, construction of pranks such as Stonehenge, black transforming monoliths, and pyramids of the types placed in Egypt, Mexico, and Atlantis are now tightly regulated. Unfortunately, at present only those travelers with expensive legal counsel and copious amounts of patience should consider such activities.

  I hope these guidelines will help you make the most of your visit here. This planet can be a wonderful vacation spot, but we all must keep in mind that we are only visitors here. Take nothing but memories and cow genitals, and leave nothing but confused natives and enigmatic patterns in croplands. And let's keep those crop circle messages clean, by the way. It's just common courtesy.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Tim McDaniel

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Poetry: CLASSICS OF FANTASY: ‘A CHRISTMAS CAROL'

  by Jack O'Brien

  That well-respected litterateur, Ebenezer Scrooge,

  Liked to get to the nub of things quickly.

  “Cut every word you can,” he told his cringing students

  At the Counting-House Writer's Workshop,

  “And then keep on cutting ‘til you bleed!"

  He was a minimalist nonpareil.

  —

  So: One Christmas Eve, in what might have been a dream,

  Or possibly an extended recursive passage,

  He was visited by three didactic ghosts

  Who presented two allegories and a dumbshow

  Proving the past bad, the present worse,

  The future worst of all.

  —

  Come morning, he blearily raised his head

  From the pillow of his keyboard,

  To confront the perfectly predictable plot twist of Christmas.

  Now the afflatus of Joyce dwelt in his heart,

  A windy and all-embracing verbosity

  Quite contrary to his metafictional theoretics.

  —

  But did his writing change? Hell, no!

  No child-exploiting industrialist held on to his discredited principles

  More tight-fistedly than did E. Scrooge.

  “Sentiment has no place in literature,” he said.

  And “There is a difference yet

  Between Art and mere entertainment."

  —

  Scrooge went on to write fewer novels than Pynchon

  To less popular acclaim than Gaddis.

  The critics said various things,

  All of which he loathed.

  At last, he died and

  (as he himself would have put it)

  Not a word too soon.

  —Jack O'Brien

  Copyright (c) 2007 Jack O'Brien

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Short Story: STRANGERS ON A BUS

  by Jack Skillingstead

  Jack Skillingstead tells us that “The current offering represents my thirteenth appearance in the pages of Asimov's, the first having occurred in June 2003. I feel very lucky indeed.” Luck, and possibly something stronger, may determine the fate of two people who meet as...

  A single passenger boarded the Greyhound in Idaho Falls: A young man in blue jeans, black T-shirt and leather jacket. Freya Hoepner, who was sitting beside one of the few unoccupied seats, glanced at him then looked down at the page of the book she wasn't reading. The words lay in meaningless order under her gaze. In her mind she heard other words, recently snarled at her: Bitch, and: I'm done with you, and: Leave the fucking cat.

  For once in her life, she wanted to be alone.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?"

  She looked up. He wasn't so young after all, maybe forty. The man hadn't shaved in a couple of days, and there were dark discolorations under his eyes. But he was otherwise attractive, in a lost man-boy way that appealed to Freya despite her recent experience. She shrugged one shoulder and looked back at the meaningless page. The man sat beside her, invading the bubble into which she had retreated since leaving Seattle that morning.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “A book."

  “Is it good?"

  “It seems to be crap,” Freya said.

  Air brakes hissed, as if exasperated, and the bus lurched out of the station.

  * * * *

  Heading south on I-15, Freya watched a wound open in the western sky. She was thinking about her cat, Mr. Pickwick. The cab had arrived, and Freya had stood in the alley behind the apartment building, holding her small suitcase in one hand and a cat treat in the other. She had called Picky's name over and over, tearfully, knees bent, hand outstretched. She had just wanted to say goodbye. Then Roger slapped the treat out of her hand and said, “Forget the fucking cat.” Mr. Pickwick had been the last good thing she lost in Seattle, coming after her pride.

&nb
sp; “Personally,” said the man sitting beside her on the bus, “I prefer the classics."

  “Excuse me?"

  “Twain, Shakespeare, Tolstoy. Dickens. Over crap, I mean. Have you read Dickens?"

  “Yes."

  “No kidding? You never run into people who read real books. Hardly ever."

  “I'm a teacher,” Freya said.

  “Where do you teach?"

  “Nowhere. I quit. But I used to teach junior high school in Phoenix."

  “Why'd you quit?"

  Because I'm a fool, she thought.

  “I suppose I was tired of it,” she said.

  “Eh. What's your favorite Dickens?"

  Freya shrugged one shoulder again, not really wanting the conversation to continue.

  “Mine's David Copperfield,” the man said.

  “Everybody says that,” Freya said. “Or Oliver Twist."

  “So what's yours? Pickwick Papers, I bet."

  “God, no. Our Mutual Friend. Pickwick isn't even a novel."

  “It isn't?"

  “Look, I don't want to be rude, but—"

  “It's okay if you don't feel like talking. I don't usually talk so much myself. It's interesting to look at people, though. Look at people I don't know and try to figure them out. Have you ever done that? My name's Neil, by the way."

  “Freya,” Freya said.

  “That's unusual. I like that name. Hey, see that guy?"

  Neil inclined his head toward her and dropped his voice. He pointed at a bald-headed, beefy man across the aisle, reading a magazine. Neil pointed in a funny way, his elbow tucked against his ribs, index finger slightly crooked, as if he were trying to point without pointing. Freya looked briefly at the bald-headed man. A gold ring glinted dully against his earlobe.

  “If you had to make up something about him, what would it be?” Neil asked.

  Freya wasn't in the mood. She drummed her fingers on the open page of the book, shook her head.

  “A kid would probably make up a story about him being a professional wrestler,” Neil said, “or maybe a genie, if the kid was young enough. But a grown-up would more likely think he's a biker, or a truck driver. Something like that. Of course he might also be a salesman, or a bee keeper, or an unemployed aerospace engineer. Something that goes against his appearance type. Not that it would matter what anybody made up, right? Since you'd never know him, he might as well be what you make up about him. In your mind there'd be no difference whether he was a broker or a genie. It's all the same. When you're thinking about him he's in your world. Do you know what I mean?"