In blind panic Prince staggered off the road, fell, scrambled up, and ran, holding his glowing arms stiff out in front of him. He tumbled down an embankment and came to his feet, running. He saw that the fires had spread above his elbows and felt the chill margin inching upward. His arms lit the brush around him, as if they were the wavering beams of tinted flashlights. Vines whipped out of the dark, the lengths of a black serpent coiled everywhere, lashed into a frenzy by the purple light. Dead fronds clawed his face with sharp papery fingers. He was so afraid, so empty of everything but fear, that when a palm trunk loomed ahead he ran straight into it, embracing it with his shining arms.
There were hard fragments in his mouth, blood, more blood flowing into his eyes. He spat and probed his mouth, wincing as he touched the torn gums. Three teeth missing, maybe four. He hugged the palm trunk and hauled himself up. This was the grove near his house! He could see the lights of St. Mark’s Key between the trunks, white seas driving in over the reef. Leaning on the palms as he went, he made his way to the water’s edge. The wind-driven rain slashed at his split forehead. Christ! It was swollen big as an onion! The wet sand sucked off one of his tennis shoes, but he left it.
He washed his mouth and his forehead in the stinging salt water, then slogged toward the house, fumbling for his key. Damn! It had been in his shirt. But it was all right. He’d built the house Hawaiian style, with wooden slats on every side to admit the breeze; it would be easy to break in. He could barely see the roof peak against the toiling darkness of the palms and the hills behind, and he banged his shins on the porch. Distant lightning flashed, and he found the stair and spotted the conch shell lying on the top step. He wrapped his hand inside it, punched a head-sized hole in the door slats, and leaned on the door, exhausted by the effort. He was just about to reach in for the latch when the darkness within—visible against the lesser darkness of night as a coil of dead, unshining emptiness—squeezed from the hole like black toothpaste and tried to encircle him.
Prince tottered backward off the porch and landed on his side; he dragged himself away a few feet, stopped, and looked up at the house. The blackness was growing out into the night, encysting him in a thicket of coral branches so dense that he could see between them only glints of the lightning bolts striking down beyond the reef. “Please,” he said, lifting his hand in supplication. And something broke in him, some grimly held thing whose residue was tears. The wind’s howl and the booming reef came as a single ominous vowel, roaring, rising in pitch.
The house seemed to inhale the blackness, to suck it slithering back inside, and for a moment Prince thought it was over. But then violet beams lanced from the open slats, as if the fuming heart of a reactor had been uncovered within. The beach bloomed in livid daylight—a no-man’s -land littered with dead fish, half-buried conchs, rusted cans, and driftwood logs like the broken, corroded limbs of iron statues. Inky palms thrashed and shivered. Rotting coconuts cast shadows on the sand. And then the light swarmed up from the house, scattering into a myriad fiery splinters and settling on palm tops, on the prows of dinghies, on the reef, on tin roofs set among the palms, and on sea grape and cashew trees, where they burned. The ghosts of candles illuminating a sacred shore, haunting the dark interior of a church whose anthem was wind, whose litany was thunder, and upon whose walls feathered shadows leapt and lightnings crawled.
Prince got to his knees, watching, waiting, not really afraid any longer, but gone into fear. Like a sparrow in a serpent’s gaze, he saw everything of his devourer, knew with great clarity that these were the island people, all of them who had ever lived, and that they were possessed of some otherworldly vitality—though whether spirit or alien or both, he could not determine—and that they had taken their accustomed places, their ritual stands. Byrum Waters hovering in the cashew tree he had planted as a boy; John Anderson McCrae flitting above the reef where he and his father had swung lanterns to lure ships in onto the rocks; Maud Price ghosting over the grave of her infant child hidden in the weeds behind a shanty. But then he doubted his knowledge and wondered if they were not telling him this, advising him of the island’s consensus, for he heard the mutter of a vast conversation becoming distinct, outvoicing the wind.
He stood, searching for an avenue of escape, not in the least hopeful of finding one, but choosing to exercise a final option. Everywhere he turned the world pitched and tossed as if troubled by his sight, and only the flickering purple fires held constant. “Oh, my God!” he screamed, almost singing it in an ecstasy of fear, realizing that the precise moment for which they’d gathered had arrived.
As one, from every corner of the shore, they darted into his eyes. Before the cold overcame him, Prince heard island voices in his head. The ranted (“Lessee how you rank with de spirit, now! Boog man!”). They instructed (“Best you not struggle against de spirit. Be more merciful dat way”). They insulted, rambled, and construed illogics. For a few seconds he tried to follow the thread of their discourse, thinking if he could understand and comply, then they might stop. But when he could not understand he clawed his face in frustration. The voices rose to a chorus, to a mob howling separately for his attention, then swelled into a roar greater than the wind’s but equally single-minded and bent on his annihilation. He dropped onto his hands and knees, sensing the beginning of a terrifying dissolution, as if he were being poured out into a shimmering violet-red bowl. And he saw the film of fire coating his chest and arms, saw his own horrid glare reflected on the broken seashells and mucky sand, shifting from violet-red into violet-white and brightening, growing whiter and whiter until it became a white darkness in which he lost all track of being.
The bearded old man wandered into Meachem’s Landing early Sunday morning after the storm. He stopped for a while beside the stone bench in the public square where the sentry, a man even older than himself, was leaning on his deer rifle, asleep. When the voices bubbled up in his thoughts—he pictured his thoughts as a soup with bubbles boiling up and popping, and the voices coming from the pops—and yammered at him (“No, no! Dat ain’t de mon!” “Keep walkin, old fool!”). It was a chorus, a clamor which caused his head to throb; he continued on. The street was littered with palm husks and fronds and broken bottles buried in the mud that showed only their glittering edges. The voices warned him these were sharp and would cut him (“Make it hurtful like dem gashes on your face”), and he stepped around them. He wanted to do what they told him because … It just seemed the way of things.
The glint of a rain-filled pothole caught his eye, and he knelt by it, looking at his reflection. Bits of seaweed clung to his crispy gray hair, and he picked them out, laying them carefully in the mud. The pattern in which they lay seemed familiar. He drew a rectangle around them with his finger and it seemed even more familiar, but the voices told him to forget about it and keep going. One voice advised him to wash his cuts in the pothole. The water smelled bad, however, and other voices warned him away. They grew in number and volume, driving him along the street until he followed their instructions and sat down on the steps of a shanty painted all the colors of the rainbow. Footsteps sounded inside the shanty, and a black bald-headed man wearing shorts came out and stretched himself on the landing.
“Damn!” he said. “Just look what come home to us this mornin. Hey, Lizabeth!”
A pretty woman joined him, yawning, and stopped mid yawn when she saw the old man.
“Oh, Lord! Dat poor creature!”
She went back inside and reappeared shortly carrying a towel and a basin, squatted beside him, and began dabbing at his wounds. It seemed such a kind, a human thing to be so treated, and the old man kissed her soapy fingers.
“De mon a caution!” Lizabeth gave him a playful smack. “I know dass why he in such a state. See de way de skin’s all tore on his forehead dere? Must be he been fighting with de conchs over some other mon’s woman.”
“Could be,” said the bald man. “How bout that? You a fool for the ladies?”
The o
ld man nodded. He heard a chorus of affirming voice. (“Oh, dass it!” “De mon cootin and cootin until he half crazy, den he coot with de wrong woman!” “Must have been grazed with de conch and left for dead.”)
“Lord, yes!” said Lizabeth. “Dis mon goin to trouble all de ladies, goin to be kissin after dem and huggin dem …”
“Can’t you talk?” asked the bald man.
He thought he could, but there were so many voices, so many words to choose from … maybe later. No.
“Well, I guess we’d better get you a name. How bout Bill? I got a good friend up in Boston’s named Bill.”
That suited the old man fine. He liked being associated with the bald man’s good friend.
“Tell you what, Bill.” The bald man reached inside the door and handed him a broom. “You sweep off the steps and pick up what you see needs pickin, and we’ll pass you out some beans and bread after a while. How’s that sound?”
It sounded good, and Bill began sweeping at once, taking meticulous care with each step. The voices died to a murmurous purr in his thoughts. He beat the broom against the pilings and dust fell onto it from the floorboards; he beat it until no more would fall. He was happy to be among people again because … (“Don’t be thinkin bout de back time, mon! Dat all gone.” “You just get on with your clean dere, Bill. Everything goin to work out in de end.” “Dass it, mon! You goin to clean dis whole town before you through!” “Don’t vex with de mon! He doin his work!”) And he was! He picked up everything within fifty feet of the shanty and chased off a ghost crab, smoothing over the delicate slashes its legs made in the sand.
By the time Bill had cleaned for a half hour he felt so at home, so content and enwrapped in his place and purpose, that when the old woman next door came out to toss her slops into the street, he scampered up her stairs, threw his arms around her, and kissed her full on the mouth. Then he stood grinning, at attention with his broom.
Startled at first, the woman put her hands on her hips and looked him up and down, shaking her head in dismay.
“My God,” she said sorrowfully. “Dis de best we can do for dis poor mon? Dis de best thing de island can make of itself?”
Bill didn’t understand. The voices chattered, irritated; they didn’t seem angry at him, though, and he kept on smiling. Once again the woman shook her head and sighed, but after a few seconds Bill’s smile encouraged her to smile in return.
“I guess if dis de worst of it,” she said, “den better must come.” She patted Bill on the shoulder and turned to the door. “Everybody!” she called. “Quickly now! Come see dis lovin soul dat de storm have let fall on Rudy Welcomes’s door!”
JAMES PATRICK KELLY and JOHN KESSEL
Friend
Born in Mineola, New York, James Patrick Kelly now lives in Durham, New Hampshire. Kelly made his first sale in 1975, and has since become a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine; his stories have also appeared in Universe, Galaxy, Amazing, Analog, The Twilight Zone Magazine, and elsewhere. His first solo novel, Planet of Whispers, came out in 1984, and he was also a member of that year’s Nebula Award Jury.
Born in Buffalo, New York, John Kessel now lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, where he is an assistant professor of American literature and creative writing at North Carolina State University. Kessel too made his first sale in 1975, and has since also become a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine; his stories have also appeared in Galileo, New Dimensions, The Twilight Zone Magazine, The Berkley Showcase, and elsewhere, In 1983, Kessel won a Nebula Award for his brilliant novella “Another Orphan,” which was also a Hugo finalist that year. Kessel’s story “Hearts Do Not in Eyes Shine” was in our First Annual Collection.
Together, Kelly and Kessel form a potent collaborative team. They have collaborated on several short stories, and have written a collaborative novel, tentatively entitled The Escapist, upcoming from Bluejay Books.
In the following story of intrigue, romance, and sly social manipulation, set in the claustrophobically close milieu of an interstellar passenger ship in deep space, they prove once again that everyone needs a Friend. The question is—for what?
When I was a Friend I wore a sleek uniform of gray and blue. In those days the collar was styled high and tight at the neck, fastened across the throat with a gold chain. While the uniform was a sign of great power, the chain also had its symbolism. During a starcrossing, a Friend has sole responsibility for the safety of his passengers; no one, not the ship’s crew, its captain, nor even the president of IPT, may interfere. Once the crossing is done, though, every Friend must answer to the corporation that pays him. I loved putting on that uniform.
The Le Corbusier departed Blue, first world of the Farben system, on the nineteenth of Sixmonth, 2251, and was due in Brown orbit on Eightmonth the first. From Brown we would make the ten-month starcrossing to the Sol system and work our way Earthward from Titan. On the insystem hop we had booked our full complement of sixty first-class crossers and about half the second-class space down in the freezers.
I still have the boarding roster for that crossing. Some of the names are familiar; only a few of our trillion-plus citizens are suited by reasons of wealth and temperament to the rigors of a first-class starcrossing. For instance, I had Dr. Fen, the brain specialist; the Roderick Harpers; Brenda Gayfeather, who had tried to vamp me when she was thirteen; the Quills, that most notorious of Cerean group marriages; the journalist Rudi Limin, who later committed one of history’s most spectacular suicides; old Simon Bortl, the Kasrash man; and Ori and her bodyguard. There were also nine members of the Imperial Motessier Dance Company in hop from Blue to Brown. All crammed into the living module, abrading each other like coins in a miser’s fist.
It is the Friend’s job to keep these coins from losing value in transit. He must be a social director, psychologist, and policeman. The insystem hoppers are the easiest—none are with you longer than a month. All you have to do is keep the hoppers from bothering the starcrossers headed for another system. No hitchhiking. Affairs to be terminated cleanly and without repercussions at the next planetfall. Afterward comes the more subtle task of keeping the starcrossers happy—or at least sane—during a voyage that can last anywhere from eight months to two and a half years. For most of that time the ship is cut off from outside communication by its space-time warp. You try to help the crossers cope with problems caused by the isolation, or by claustrophobia, or sexual misadventure, or most often by the universal arrogance of the rich. If a crosser goes out of control you have a last resort: banishment to second-class passage in the freezers. One out of every twenty stiffs does not survive the thaw. God help if you send the commissar down and he doesn’t answer his wake-up call.
There were two others who made that trip. Two old acquaintances, two who were responsible for my great loss. One was Leila Jahiz, at that time the prime dancer with the Motessier. Leila was not a classic beauty; her eyes were too big, her mouth too wide. But she was one of the most striking women I’ve ever known. And she was an exceptional dancer, perhaps the best I’ve ever seen. The other crosser was Phillip Goodson. For citizens of the home system, the name alone will suffice. At that time he was still vice-president of IPT and was returning with a contract to develop an industrial spaceport in Blue orbit. Goodson had been senior Friend when I was in training. Some call him a genius. He is a man of great privilege and no honor. I hated him.
Leila and Goodson met for the first time in the Corbu’s lounge during the orientation mixer. She and I had been reminiscing; I had known her before I became a Friend. Once I had taken a class from her in free-fall dancing. Conversation bubbled out of her without pause, and at least on the subject of the dance she was fascinating. I was dangerously close to forgetting myself in my pleasure at seeing her again.
Goodson split away from his flock of admirers and favored me with a poli
te nod on his way to the refreshment terminal. I watched him punch out the code for Soar. He took three caps from the access bin, broke one under his nose and pocketed the others.
Leila noticed that my attention had wandered. She touched my arm and asked to be introduced.
“Phillip,” I called. “Have a minute?”
“Hello, Jake.” Goodson’s handshake was dry and firm. “It’s been a long time.”
“Phillip, this is Leila Jahiz. Leila is the prime dancer with the Motessier Company.”
“I saw you perform last week at the Festival.” Goodson took Leila’s hand in both of his. “You’re a talent, Leila Jahiz. You make the rest of them look like drunks.”
“Thank you, Phillip.” She leaned forward impulsively and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad you noticed me.”
Goodson rubbed his cheek with his forefinger, then smiled and touched the finger to his lips. “So. What else can I say that you want to hear?”
“You’re on the board of directors of Dance Terra. Tell me about Marl Gustav.”
“You know something about me, then?” His features hardened; he looked like a man preparing to do business. “You haven’t been getting your information from Jake, I hope.”
“I’m a dancer, Phillip. Gustav is the greatest dancer and you know him.”
“Hmm. Marl Gustav is an impossible man. Listens to no one. Tries to quit at least once a year. But as you say, he is very good.”
“We’d better let you go,” I said. “Brenda is watching us as if we were assassins.”
Goodson turned his back to me. “Brenda? She’s harmless. By the way, Jake, she was telling me that you two are old friends.”
“Yes,” I said.
“It’s been nice meeting you, Phillip,” said Leila. “You’re nothing at all like what I expected.”
Year's Best Science Fiction 02 # 1985 Page 60