of related short stories set in the same story world as the novel.
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Mike Resnick, one of the most successful science fiction and
fantasy storyyellers working today brings us our next tale, the
fable of a boy and a dragon. We’ve all heard the story of the boy
who cried, “wolf,” but maybe not the one about the dragon who
cried, “boy” or …
T H E B O Y W H O Y E L L E D “ D R A G O N ”
( A F a b l e )
By Mike Resnick
You’ve all heard the story about the boy who yelled “Wolf!”
Teachers and parents have been using it to teach children a
lesson for centuries now. It’s become a part of our culture.
Everybody knows about the boy who yelled “Wolf,” just as they
know about the three blind mice and the little Dutch boy who put
his finger in the dike and the day Michael Jordan scored 63 points
in a playoff game.
But would you like to know the real story?
*
It began a long, long time ago, in a mythical land to the north
and west which, for a lack of a better term, we shall call The
Mythical Land To The North And West.
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Now, this Land was the home of exceptionally brave warriors
and beautiful damsels (and occasionally they were the same
person, since beautiful damsels were pretty assertive back then).
Each young boy and girl was taught all the arts of warfare, and
were soon adept with sword, mace, lance, bow and arrow,
dagger, and the off-putting snide remark. They were schooled in
horsemanship, camouflage, and military strategy. They learned
eye-gouging, ear-biting, kidney-punching, and—since they were
destined to become knights and ladies—gentility.
So successful was their training that before long enemy
armies were afraid to attack them. Within the borders of the Land
justice was so swift that there was not a single criminal left. It
would have been a very peaceful and idyllic kingdom indeed—
except for the dragons.
You see, the Land was surrounded by hundreds of huge, red-
eyed, razor-toothed, fire-breathing dragons, covered with thick
scaly skin and armed with vicious-looking claws, and just as 50
years ago a Maasai warrior became a man by slaying a lion with
his spear, and today you are hailed as an adult when you can
break through Microsoft’s firewall, back in the days we are
talking about a boy or girl would be recognized as a young man
or woman only after slaying a dragon.
Okay, you’ve got enough background now, so it’s time
introduce Sir Meldrake of the Shining Armor. Well, that’s the
way he envisioned himself, and that’s the name he planned to
take once he had slain a dragon and found someone who could
actually make a suit of shining armor, but for the moment he was
just plain Melvin, tall, gangly, a little underweight, shy around
damsels, more worried about pimples than mortal wounds
received in glorious battle. His number had come up in the draft,
and it was his turn to sally forth and slay a dragon.
He climbed into his older brother’s hand-me-down armor,
took out the garbage, kissed his mother good-by (but only after
he made sure none of his friends were watching and snickering),
climbed aboard the family horse, and armed with lance, sword,
mace, and a desire to show Mary Lu Penworthy that he was
everything she said he wasn’t, he set off to slay a dragon, bring
back both ears and the tail (or whatever it was one brought back
to prove he had been victorious), and become a knight rather than
a skinny teen-aged boy who couldn’t get a date for the prom.
Soon the city was far behind him, and before long he had
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crossed the border of the Land itself, and was now in unknown
territory. He hummed a little song of battle to keep his spirits up,
but he was tone-deaf and his humming annoyed his horse, so
finally he fell silent, scanning the harsh, rocky landscape for
dragons. He found himself wishing he had paid a little more
attention in biology class, so he would know what dragons ate
when they weren’t eating people, and where they slept (if indeed
they slept at all), and especially what kind of terrain they liked to
hide in when preparing to ambush young men who suddenly
wished they were back home in bed looking at naughty
illuminated manuscripts beneath the covers.
At night he found a cozy cave and, lighting a fire to keep
warm and ward off anything that might want to annoy him—like,
for example, a pride of dragons (or did they come in flocks, or
perhaps gaggles?)—he sang himself to sleep, which kept his
spirits up but almost drove his horse to distraction.
When morning came he peeked out of the cave, just to be
certain that nothing lay in wait for him. Then he peeked again, to
be doubly certain. Then he thought about Mary Lu Penworthy
and decided the mole on her chin that had seemed charming only
two days ago was really rather ugly in the cold light of day, and
hardly worth slaying a dragon for. The same could be said for
her eyes (not blue enough), her lips (not rosy red enough), and
her nose (which seemed to exist solely to keep her eyes from
bumping into each other).
One by one he considered every young lady of his
acquaintance. This one was too tall, that one too short, this one
too loud, that one too quiet, and to his surprise he decided that
none of them were really worth risking his life in mortal combat
with a dragon. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he
couldn’t come up with a single reason to seek out a dragon. It
was a silly custom, and when he returned to the Land, which he
planned to do the moment his horse calmed down and stopped
looking at him as if he might burst into song again, he would seek
out the Council of Elders and suggest that in the future the rite of
passage to adulthood should consist of slaying a chipmunk. They
were certainly more numerous, and what purpose was served by
slaying a dragon anyway?
His mind made up, Melvin climbed atop his steed and turned
him for home—and found his way barred by a huge dragon, 20
feet high at the shoulder, with little beady eyes, thin streams of
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smoke flowing out of his nostrils, claws the size of butcher
knives, and a serious case of halitosis.
“Why have you come to my kingdom?” demanded the
dragon.
“I didn’t know dragons could talk,” said Melvin, surprised.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent,” said the dragon, “but I
/> could probably fill a very thick book with what you don’t know
about dragons.”
“Yes, I suppose you could,” admitted Melvin. He didn’t quite
know what to say next, so he finally blurted: “By the way, my
name is Sir Meldrake of the Shining Armor.”
“Are you quite sure?” asked the dragon. “No offense, but you
look rather rusty to me.”
“My own armor’s in the shop getting dry-cleaned,” said
Melvin, starting to feel rather silly.
“Oh. Well, that explains it,” said the dragon charitably. “And
since we’re doing introductions, my name is Horace. Spelled H-
O-R-A-C-E, and not to be mistaken for Horus the Egyptian god.”
“That’s a strange name for a dragon,” said Melvin.
“Just how many dragons do you know on a first-name basis?”
asked Horace.
“Counting you, one,” admitted Melvin. “Just out of curiosity,
how many men have you encountered?”
“The downstate returns aren’t all in yet, but so far, rounded
off, it comes to one.” Horace paused uneasily. “What do we do
now?”
“I don’t know,” said Melvin. “I suppose we battle to the
death.”
“We do?” said the dragon, surprised. “Why?”
“Those are the ground rules. You meet a dragon, you slay
him.”
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard!” protested Horace. “I
meet dragons all the time, and I’ve never slain one. In fact, I plan
to marry one when I’m an adult, and sire twenty or thirty
thousand little hatchlings.”
“Had you someone in mind?” asked Melvin, interested in
spite of himself.
“Nancy Jo Billingsworth,” said the dragon with a sigh. “The
most beautiful 17 tons of wings and scales I’ve ever seen.” He
looked at Melvin. “How about you? Have you picked out your
lady yet—always assuming you survive our battle to the death?”
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“I’m playing the field at the moment,” said Melvin.
“So you can’t get a date either,” said Horace knowingly.
“It’s these darned zits,” said Melvin, trying not to whine.
“Take off your helmet and let me get a good look at you,”
said Horace.
“You’ll be disgusted,” said Melvin. “Everyone is.”
“Try me,” said the dragon.
Melvin removed his helmet.
“God, I would kill for zits like those!” said Horace fervently.
“You would?” said Melvin. “Why?”
“Look at this hideous smooth skin on my face,” said Horace,
holding back a little whimper of self-loathing. “Let’s be honest.
Nancy Jo Billingsworth winces every time she looks at me. She’d
die before she’d go out with me.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” said Melvin sympathetically.
“It’s not just my face,” said Horace, a tear rolling down his
smooth green cheek. “It’s me. Whenever we choose up sides for
basketball, I’m always the last one picked. When it’s Girls’
Choice at the dance, I’m the only one who’s never asked.”
“They won’t even let me in the locker room,” Melvin chimed
in. “They say I’m just wasting space. And the girls draw straws
in the cafeteria, and the loser has to sit next to me.”
Before long the young man and the young dragon were
pouring out their hearts to each other, and because no one had
ever listened before, they continued until twilight.
“Well, we might as well get on with it,” said Horace when
they had finished their litany of misery.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Melvin unenthusiastically.
“I want you to know that if you win, I won’t hold it against
you,” said the dragon. “No one will miss me anyway. I haven’t
got a friend in the world.”
“That’s not true,” protested Melvin. “I like you.”
Horace’s homely green face lit up. “You do?”
Melvin nodded. “Yes, I do.” He paused thoughtfully. “You
know, I’ve never had a real friend before. It seems a shame that
one of us has to kill the other.”
“I know,” said the dragon. “Still, rules are rules.”
Suddenly Melvin stood up decisively. “Who says so?”
Horace looked around, confused. “I think I just did.”
“Well, I’m going to break the rules. You’re my only friend,
and I’m not going to kill you.”
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“You’re my only friend, and I’m not going to kill you either.”
Horace paused, as if considering what to do next. “Let’s kill the
horse. At least we’ll have something to eat.”
Melvin shook his head. “I need him to get home.”
“I kind of thought we’d stay out here and be friends forever,”
said Horace in hurt tones.
“Oh, we’ll be friends forever,” promised Melvin. “And as my
first act of friendship, I’m going to save your life.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Horace. “But don’t be
so sure I wouldn’t have killed you instead.”
“I’m not talking about me,” said Melvin. “But every week a
new candidate is chosen to go forth and slay a dragon, and next
week it’s Spike Armstrong’s turn.”
“Who is Spike Armstrong?” asked Horace.
“He’s everything I’m not,” said Melvin bitterly. “He’s the
captain of every sports team, he’s the most handsome boy in the
Land, and even though he has the brains of a newt all the
cheerleaders fight to sit near him in the cafeteria.”
“I dislike him already,” said Horace.
“Anyway, if he finds you, he’ll kill you,” concluded Melvin.
“So you’re going to fight him in my place?” asked Horace.
“I call that exceptionally decent of you, Melvin. I’ll always honor
your memory and put flowers on your grave.”
“No, I’m not going to fight him,” replied Melvin. “I wouldn’t
fare any better against him than you would. But any time I know
he’s sallying forth in your direction, I’ll go to the far side of the
city and tell everybody that a dragon is approaching, and Spike
will immediately head off in that direction and you’ll be safe.”
“That’s a splendid idea!” enthused Horace. “And whenever
Thunderfire goes out hunting for a man to eat, I’ll do the same
thing to him.”
“Thunderfire?” repeated Melvin.
Horace grimaced. “Females swoon over him. He’s got lumps
the size of baseballs all over his face, and his flame shoots out
ten feet, and he just struts around like he owns the place. But I’ll
see to it that he never finds you.”
“You know,” said Melvin, “I like having a friend.”
“Me too,” said Horace. “My mother says one should always
seek out new experiences.”
Their ruses worked. Spike Armstrong never did slay Horace,
and Thunderfire never did eat Melvin. As for Melvin and Horace,
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they continued to sneak away and meet every Saturday afternoon
except when it was raining, and although neither of them ever
did become king or marry the damsel of their dreams, they each
had a friend they could trust and confide in, which in many ways
is better than being a king or marrying a dream.
And that is the story of the boy who yelled “Dragon!”
Of course, when dragons sit around the campfire at night, or
tuck their children into bed, they tell the story of the dragon who
yelled “Boy!”
Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award
winner, living or dead, for short science fiction. He is the winner
of five Hugos from a record 37 nominations, a Nebula, and other
major awards in the United States, France, Spain, Japan,
Croatia, Catalonia, and Poland, and has been short-listed for
major awards in England, Italy, and Australia. He is the author
of 76 novels, 275 stories, and 3 screenplays, and is the Hugo-
nominated editor of 42 anthologies. His work has been
translated into 26 languages. He was the Guest of Honor at the
2012 Worldcon and can be found online as @ResnickMike on
Twitter or at www. mikeresnick.com .
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In the war torn future of our next tale, families gather for the
annual celebration of their Independence Day and to mourn the
loss of far too many youths on a colony that was once designed
to be a “model society.” Rex is someone whose duty is to perform
functions in hard vacuum, well-educated and even-tempered
even in crisis. Not a lover nor a fighter, instead he’s part of a
special class known as …
N E W T S
By Kevin J. Anderson
During what should have been the ring colony’s Independence
Day celebration, the mood in the family habitat was somber. Rex
Hollings stared through the viewing window toward the pastel
clouds of Saturn. Thanks to the mellowing influence of his
implant, he wore a placid smile, aware of and yet immune to the
misery and dread all around him. The others were incapable of
being so stable in a time of crisis.
Rex admired the planet’s gentle beauty. The majestic ring
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