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Decision Point (ARC)

Page 30

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt


  of related short stories set in the same story world as the novel.

  Find

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  as

  @KateCorcino

  or

  at

  www.KateCorcino.com.

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  Decision Points

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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.

  Decision Points

  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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