Asimov's SF, October-November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She trots down the steps and picks the photo album up from the coffee table in the living room on her way out the front door. Her father appears on the landing of the second floor. “Honey?” he says. “Sylvie, stop. Where are you going? What are you doing?"

  Sylvie doesn't look up at him, doesn't say anything. She runs down the porch steps into the side yard to the burn barrel. The fire is lower now but still going, the smoke not as thick but still smoking. She opens the album and places the baby's photo beside her mother's. Her mother says, “Sylvie, what's going on? What's happening?"

  "I'm going to help you, Mom,” says Sylvie. “I love you."

  She closes the book before her mother can get another word in and holds it to her chest, closes her arms around it, hugging it as tight as she can. The ghost hunter appears on the steps of the farmhouse. “Sylvie!” he shouts. “What are you doing?"

  She holds the book out, dangling it over the fire, as if it's suddenly too hot, too dangerous. Smoke poofs up in a cloud from the burn barrel, and Sylvie imagines the album landing in the flames, catching a moment later, the plastic sizzling on the pages, the cover slowly browning, crisping to a dark charcoal. She imagines a hissing sound escaping from the fire, slowly, slowly like it does when her father's camera captures a soul and out comes the picture, developing in mere minutes. She imagines the smoke pouring forth in dark tendrils, streaking the air above. A popping, then snapping, as the fire grows. Then from the flames they will come, riding the smoke up and into the pale October sky like kites that have been let go. The dog barking, the baby crying, the little girl skipping her rope up and up and up, the mumbler mumbling, the rich old woman and Mr. Marlowe and Mrs. Boardman all quite startled, the cop wagging his finger at her as he floats up behind them. Her mother, too, looking down at her, smiling. “I love you, Sylvie,” she'll say, blowing a kiss with one hand as she holds out the other as if she's trying to reach her, to touch her one last time, and is gone the next instant. All of them. Gone, gone, gone.

  "Stop!” The ghost hunter shouts as he runs down the porch steps, coming toward Sylvie where she's holding the photo album over the flames in the barrel. “You don't know what will happen if you burn those!"

  Is he right? Will what she hopes for not be the thing that happens? Will she have done the stupidest thing in the world if she drops the photos in the flames? The pictures burn, the end, finished. No smoky ghosts riding the wind to heaven. She'll never see her mother again. And for what?

  Sylvie's crying. She realizes this only after her father puts his hand on her shoulder when he reaches her, his face turned up to the sky where a moment ago Sylvie had been looking, imagining them soaring off and away into nothing. “Sylvie,” he says, his voice low and serious.

  She shakes her head, though. “I won't help anymore,” she tells him. “I don't want to be a ghost hunter's daughter."

  "Don't be like that, Sylvie,” he tells her. “Remember your mother—"

  "This isn't about Mom,” says Sylvie. “Or at least it's not just about her.” Sylvie puts her hand out and takes hold of his, squeezing tightly. They're warm to the touch, both of them. She thinks she can feel his pulse beating just there, where her thumb presses against his wrist. The baby's cries still ring in her ears. Somewhere Mary Caldwell is sitting on a bar stool, crying into a beer she's ordered before the bar even opens, even though she usually doesn't drink, while her husband watches a football game on the TV in the corner over the cash register. Somewhere someone is reading a magazine article about her father, about her father's ability to rid people and places of ghosts. Somewhere a pointy-bearded man wearing a black suit is stalking the leaf-strewn sidewalks of Warren, Ohio. Sylvie hopes he won't hurt her father, now that she's made a decision for both of them. If she stops finding ghosts, he won't be able to capture them. She laughs and cries, happy and mad all at once. She's not sure which to feel, or if it's all right to feel both. But she takes the album away from the fire and holds it to her chest. “This is about us,” she says, before squeezing her father's hand so tight no wind could ever take him from her.

  Copyright © 2009 Christopher Barzak

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  Poetry: THE HEDGE WITCH'S UPGRADE by Sandra Lindow

  * * * *

  * * * *

  (The world's longest herbaceous border, Castle Dirleton, Scotland, Guinness Book of World Records)

  * * * *

  Since menopause I've been

  a hedge witch. You know the type—

  mostly muffin-shaped woman babbling

  about herbal remedies and felicitous

  moon phases for planting tomatoes,

  liminal lady hedged at the edge

  of the orderly village and the unruly wild;

  and ever since I saw the world's longest

  herbaceous border, I've wanted one.

  * * * *

  Supposing it mostly a matter

  of redefinition, for my fifty-ninth

  birthday, I conjured a reframing,

  linguistically transforming overgrown

  perennials into herbaceous borders,

  thereby entitling me to an upgrade:

  * * * *

  Borage for courage, lavender

  for sleep, lemon balm for calm,

  passionflower ... savory for saving

  me from sorrow with power

  to draw me underground. Gardens

  are an outward manifestation

  of a gardener's potential for inner beauty.

  * * * *

  It is summer; warm earth pleasures

  my bare feet. I have seeded the soil

  with my sweat. My heliotropic heart

  pumps sun. Let it be known I'm

  a witch of curvaceous borders, thus

  affording the ruined castle of my past

  a certain elegance and nobility.

  * * * *

  Then yesterday on meeting a charming

  little frog in transit past the green beans,

  I explored other skills.

  The rest is mulch and mystery.

  Unlike hedges, herbaceous borders

  aspire to greatness and that takes care;

  so hop to it, Prince; snap dragons

  need heroic action. Ever after starts now.

  * * * *

  —Sandra Lindow

  Copyright © 2009 Sandra Lindow

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  Short Story: DEADLY SINS by Nancy Kress

  Nancy Kress's most recent book was Steal Across the Sky (Tor, 2009), a science fiction novel about an ancient interstellar crime. As a change of pace, she is currently writing a YA fantasy. “The story that follows is yet another change of pace, in which religious fanaticism meets high-tech innovation. Some things change but—as the Church well knows—others do not. And possibly never will."

  "Tell me what happened,” the wall said, “from the beginning."

  Renata turned away, toward the other wall.

  "This cell enjoys attorney-client privilege. You can talk freely. If you don't tell me exactly what happened, the legal team will find it difficult to prepare your defense."

  "I don't want a defense. Go bust a circuit board, counselor."

  "I am not an attorney,” the wall said stiffly. “I'm a paralegal, entrusted with recording and analyzing your initial statements. Your attorney will be here later. And the sixth amendment of the Constitution guarantees every accused a defense."

  Renata laughed. The jail smelled of piss and sweat. Her nose tingled. “Shove the Constitution up your grandmother's vacuum tubes."

  The wall's voice hardened. It produced the image of a face. “Did you murder this man between midnight and two am this morning?"

  She stared at Rudy's bald head, at Rudy's stooped shoulders, at Rudy's intelligent brown eyes. At the incongruous gold cross on the chain around his neck. “You bet your digital ass I did. And I'd do it again."

  * * * *

  Rudy's eyes, gleamin
g with triumph. “I have it, I have it, I have it!"

  "Tell me again,” Renata said. Not that he'd ever told her once. Rudy was brilliant, paranoid, close-mouthed to the point of lockjaw. Stanford had dismissed him because he'd refused to tell his department chair what direction his research was taking. AGR, recognizing eccentric genius, let Rudy do things his way. Even Renata had been told only enough for her to do her job, mostly lab tests whose purposes had never been explained. Not that she hadn't discovered them, plus more. Much more. In their lab cages the dogs barked, sensing Rudy's excitement.

  * * * *

  "You understand,” the wall said, “that you just made a confession."

  "No, really?” Renata mocked. “What are you, a simple Eliza program? Can I confuse you with logical fallacies? ‘All Cretans are liars.’”

  "I am a Harrison J-16,” the wall said, not without dignity. “An interactive voice-response system equipped with emotional recognition, layered voice analysis, and deductive algorithms. Tell me—"

  "So they don't worry about you getting loose on the Net. It's only the AIs they worry about. Poor little digital stepchild."

  "—what happened last night."

  "I know,” Renata said, “let's play a game. You tell me. Since we both know I'm guilty as hell, let's at least be entertained. Make it dramatic, Harrison J-16. A page turner."

  "All right. Since May you worked as Dr. Rudolf Malter's lab assistant at Advanced Genetic Research, a biotech company doing heavily classified work for the DoD. You both often worked late. Last night you shot Dr. Malter with a plastoid gun undetectable by Security. You destroyed any existing electronic and/or paper files and dumped all biological specimens into a vat of acid and poured acid over the head of Dr. Malter's corpse. You harmed none of the lab animals. Is this correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "You tell me."

  * * * *

  "You know I won't answer that,” Rudy said. “You don't have high enough clearances."

  "I know.” Renata smiled at Rudy, still glowing with scientific triumph. Such a mass of contradictions, this man: scientist, Catholic, loner, genius, paranoid. So stubborn, so narcissistic. And on this particular point, so wrong.

  "But your help has been invaluable,” Rudy said, with what he imagined was generosity. He moved close and put a hand on her breast.

  Renata removed the hand."No. That's all over."

  He grinned. “Can't blame a man for trying."

  She could, actually. Sex, her first attempt to obtain information, had failed. Rudy wasn't given to classified pillow talk. Nor to good sex. He only took his time with olfactory-cell receptors.

  But now that he stood close to her, his eyes widened in sudden shock. “You—no!"

  "Yes,” Renata said, drew her tiny plastoid gun, and fired. “Nice to know the tech works,” she told the corpse as it fell.

  * * * *

  The wall said, “It's not my job to guess your motives."

  "Do it anyway. Give your deductive algorithms a workout. Who knows? Maybe I'll confirm or deny."

  "All right. Until September you had a sexual relationship with Dr. Malter; there are hotel and credit-card records. Perhaps you asked him to leave his wife and he refused. The research project was ending, you couldn't bear losing him for good, so you killed him."

  "Cheap detective-fiction reasoning,” Renata said. “And I have no history of violence. Didn't you check?"

  "You have very little on-line history at all."

  "True. Any other theories?"

  "Professional jealousy. Dr. Malter was brilliant; you possess only a B.S. in chemistry."

  "Evidence of professional jealousy?"

  The wall was silent. Renata said, “Objection, your honor. Unsubstantiated hearsay."

  "Perhaps you killed Dr. Malter because you disapproved of his research. Many people oppose bioweapons."

  "Was Dr. Malter developing a bioweapon?"

  Again the wall was silent.

  "You don't know the answer,” Renata said, “but I do and I'll tell you. Consider it a gift from information that wants to be free. Dr. Malter was not developing a bioweapon.

  "It's like with the AIs, Harrison J-16. When you guys worry about something getting out, you always worry about the wrong thing."

  * * * *

  Renata bent over Rudy's body. She'd hoped to avoid using the knife, but that didn't work out. The knife got messy, which in turn required the acid. Damn.

  The acid cut irregular grooves into Rudy's heavy gold cross. Many scientists were Christian, but not like Rudy. Nobody else tried to use medieval theology to shape twenty-first-century technology. In another age, he would have made a fine Jesuit Grand Inquisitor, alert for the faintest whiff of heresy. What do you smell now, Rudy? Brimstone? Sanctity?

  Quickly she copied the encrypted project notes onto a micro-bin, swallowed it, and wiped the hard drive. She destroyed paper notes and specimens.

  Then she had just enough time to make the encrypted phone call.

  * * * *

  "You knew the lab was wired to the precinct station and the police might arrive before you finished,” the wall said. “Did you want this murder to go public, as a political statement of some kind?"

  "I don't want it public, no. And I'm not into politics.” She was getting bored with the wall.

  "But you ... wait ... I've been ordered to shut down,” the wall said wonderingly. “A visitor with C-1 status has arrived, and he is not your defense attorney."

  "How about that. You disappoint me, Harrison J-16. Where's your law-enforcement lingo? Aren't you going to say that all this ‘smells hinky'?"

  "Self-deleting on a class-one override,” the wall said. “All records destroyed."

  The cell door opened.

  * * * *

  The dogs in their cages barked and whined at the coppery odor of blood, but that wasn't one of the odors that mattered. Carefully, wincing at the pain, she inserted the microchip she'd cut out of Rudy's nose into her own, shoving it high into the left nostril.

  Pheromone molecules went first to the nose. Receptors on Rudy's genemod bacteria captured them—one type of bacteria for each class of human pheromones—and set off a cascade of intra-cell signals. Rudy had chosen the seven classes, working off his own bizarre obsessions. Software on the chip converted each type to a clear electric signal to Renata's brain.

  Unlike the dogs, who'd smelled Rudy's final fear and Renata's bloody aggression, humans couldn't usually interpret pheromones.

  Sirens wailed, grew louder.

  * * * *

  The visitor led Renata out of the cell. The wall stayed silent. No one stopped them. The surveillance cameras had gone dark.

  Next, Renata knew, would be a safe house, until she shat out the encrypted mini-bin. Experts would break the encryption, but it wouldn't tell them much. Rudy was far too paranoid for detailed notes. No one would know that he'd already built a prototype.

  The visitor's car smelled of leather and French fries. As they drove away, he said, “You weren't supposed to kill him."

  "Had to. He attacked me. You know how paranoid he was."

  "Helluva mess to cover up, Renata."

  "You can do it. You are doing it. And afterward—the Caymans?"

  "That's what we promised. But you weren't supposed to kill. We made that clear at recruitment.” He scowled.

  No, she wasn't supposed to kill Rudy. She was supposed to turn the device, presently irritating her sinus, over to whatever government agency this guy represented—she'd never been told which—and then politely disappear. Maybe they would still honor that bargain, maybe not. Renata wasn't going to wait to see. She'd lived too long by her own wits to trust anyone else's. Double agent, triple agent—you looked out for yourself singly. Always.

  What she carried was worth much more than a beach hut in the Caymans.

  There were other agencies, other countries, a thriving black market. Criminal deals, government summits, covert
espionage, business negotiations—most crucial enterprises eventually came down to individuals meeting face-to-face in closed rooms. Individuals psyching each other out, looking for the edge. Trying to read faces: Are you lying? What do you really feel about this? Professionals could control their eye movements, body language, tone of voice.

  But everyone, without exception or control, gave off pheromones. Pheromones were the key to knowing what your opponent felt, thought, would do next. Was he motivated by greed, and so could be bribed? By envy, and so might be beguiled into bringing down the boss he envied? By sloth, so that he could be worn down by drawn-out negotiations? By anger? Gluttony? Lust? Find your opponent's deadly sin, which was also his weakness, and you had him.

  Rudy's, of course, had been pride: the intellectual arrogance of keeping all his research to himself. Renata's was greed. The wall had guessed everything except greed. But then, the wall couldn't smell.

  But her own deadly sin was not the point. This man's was. Where could he best be worked on?

  Renata leaned closer and sniffed.

  Copyright © 2009 Nancy Kress

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  Poetry: EDGAR ALLAN POE by Bryan D. Dietrich

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Your Edgar Allan Poe action figure comes

  wrapped in plastic, form fitting, vacuum

  packed. You believe this makes him happy.

  Each rubber wrist restraint, each cellophane

  strip strapping a leg here, a shoulder there,

  each breath breathed against the unforgiving

  container makes it more like home. Your Edgar

  Allan Poe action figure doesn't do anything.

  He may be fully articulate, but never speaks.

  His only accessory, a raven. No jet pack,

  no Kung Fu grip. His slick hair won't grow