Collected Stories

by Lewis Shiner

  “Maybe I’d better have that drink,” she said. Campbell signaled the waiter.

  “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live here,” he said. “To see this every day.”

  “You get used to it,” she said. “I mean, it’s still unbearably beautiful sometimes, but you have your work, and your life goes on. You know?”

  “Yes,” Campbell said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  She let Campbell walk her home. Her loneliness and vulnerability were like a heavy perfume, so strong it repelled him at the same time that it pulled him irresistibly toward her.

  She stopped at the doorway of her cabin, another geodesic. This one sat high on the hill, buried in a grove of palms and bougainvilleas. The sexual tension was so strong that Campbell could feel his shirtfront trembling.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice rough. “You’re very easy to talk to.”

  He could have turned away then, but he couldn’t seem to unravel himself. He put his arms around her, and her mouth bumped against his, awkwardly. Then her lips began to move and her tongue flicked out eagerly. She got the door open without moving away from him, and they nearly fell into the house.

  He pushed himself up on extended arms and watched her moving beneath him. The moonlight through the trees was green and watery, falling in slow waves across the bed. Her breasts swayed heavily as she arched and twisted her back, the breath bubbling in her throat. Her eyes were clenched tight, and her legs wrapped around his and held them, like a long forked tail.

  Before dawn he slid out from under her limp right arm and got into his clothes. She was still asleep as he let himself out.

  He’d meant to go back to his cabin, but instead he found himself climbing to the top of the island’s rocky spine to wait for the sun to come up.

  He hadn’t even showered. Kimberly’s perfume and musk clung to his hands and crotch like sexual stigmata. It was Campbell’s first infidelity in eighteen years of marriage, a final, irreversible act.

  He knew most of the jargon. Mid-life crisis and all that. He’d probably seen Kimberly at the bar some other night and not consciously remembered her, projected her face onto a fantasy with obvious Freudian water/rebirth connotations.

  In the dim, fractionated light of the sunrise, the lagoon was gray, the line of the barrier reef a darker smudge broken by whitecaps that curved like scales on the skin of the ocean. Dry palm fronds rustled in the breeze, and the island birds began to chirp and stutter themselves awake. A shadow broke from one of the huts on the beach below and climbed toward the road, weighted down with a large suitcase and a flight bag. Above her, in the asphalt lot at the top of the stairs, a taxi coasted silently to a stop and doused its lights.

  If he had run, he could have reached her and maybe could even have stopped her, but the hazy impulse never became strong enough to reach his legs. Instead, he sat until the sun was hot on his neck and his eyes were dazzled into blindness by the white sand and water.

  On the north side of the island, facing the mainland, the village of Espejo sprawled in the mud for the use of the resort and the company. A dirt track ran down the middle of it, oily water standing in the ruts. The cinder-block houses on concrete piers and the Fords rusting in the yards reminded Campbell of an American suburb in the fifties, warped by nightmare.

  The locals who worked in the company’s kitchens and swept the company’s floors lived here, and their kids scuffled in alleys that smelled of rotting fish or lay in the shade and threw rocks at three-legged dogs. An old woman sold Saint Francis flour-sack shirts from ropes tied between pilings of her house. Under an awning of corrugated green plastic, bananas lay in heaps and flies swarmed over haunches of beef. At the end of the main street was a farmacia with a faded yellow Kodak sign that promised One Day Service.

  Campbell blinked and found his way to the back, where a ten-year-old boy was reading La Novela Policiaca. The boy set the comic on the counter and said, “Yes, sir?”

  “How soon can you develop these?” Campbell shoved the cartridge toward him.

  “¿Mande?”

  Campbell gripped the edge of the counter. “Ready today?” he asked slowly.

  “Tomorrow. This time.”

  Campbell took a twenty out of his wallet and held it face down on the scarred wood. “This afternoon?”

  “Momentito.” The boy tapped something out on a computer terminal at his right hand. The dry clatter of the keys filled Campbell with distaste. “Tonight, okay?” the boy said. “A las seis.” He touched the dial of his watch and said, “Six.”

  “All right,” Campbell said. For another five dollars he bought a pint of Canadian Club, and then he went back onto the street. He felt like a sheet of weakly colored glass, as if the sun shone clear through him. He was a fool, of course, to be taking this kind of chance with the film, but he needed that picture. He had to know.

  He anchored the boat as close as possible to where it had been the night before. He had two fresh tanks and about half the bottle of whiskey left. It was barely noon, the sun a white ball of fire in the sky.

  Diving drunk and alone was against every rule anyone had ever tried to teach him, but the idea of a simple, clean death by drowning seemed ludicrous to Campbell, not even worth consideration. Fate obviously had something more convoluted in mind for him.

  His diving jeans and sweatshirt, still damp and salty from the night before, were suffocating him. He got into his tank as quickly as he could and rolled over the side.

  The cool water revived him, washed him clean. He purged the air from his vest and dropped straight to the bottom. Dulled by whiskey and lack of sleep, he floundered for a moment in the sand before he could get his buoyancy neutral.

  At the edge of the drop-off he hesitated, then swam to his right, following the edge of the cliff. His physical condition made him burn air faster than he wanted to; going deeper would only make it worse.

  The bright red of a Coke can winked at him from a coral head. He crushed it and stuck it in his belt, suddenly furious with the company and its casual rape of the island, with himself for letting them manipulate him, with Beth for leaving him, with the entire world and the human race. He kicked hard, driving himself through swarms of jack and blue tang, hardly noticing the twisted, brilliantly colored landscape that moved beneath him.

  Some of the drunkenness burned off in his first burst of energy, and he gradually slowed, wondering what he possibly could hope to accomplish. It was useless, he thought. He was chasing a phantom. But he didn’t turn back.

  He was still swimming when he hit the net.

  It was nearly invisible, a web of monofilament in one-foot squares, strong enough to hold a shark or a school of porpoises. He tested it with the serrated edge of his diver’s knife, with no luck. He was close to the west end of the island, where the company kept their research facility. The net followed the line of the reef as far down as he could see and extended out into the open water.

  She was real, he thought. They built this to keep her in. But how did she get past it?

  When he’d last seen her she’d been heading down. Campbell checked his seaview gauge, saw that he had less than five hundred pounds of air left. Enough to take him down to a hundred feet or so and right back up. The sensible thing to do was to return to the boat and bring a fresh tank back with him.

  He went down anyway.

  He could see the fine wires glinting as he swam past them. They seemed bonded to the coral itself, by some process he could not even imagine. He kept his eyes moving between the depth gauge and the edge of the net. Much deeper than a hundred feet and he would have to worry about decompression as well as an empty tank.

  At 100 feet he tripped his reserve lever. Three hundred pounds and counting. All the reds had disappeared from the coral, leaving only blues and purples. The water was noticeably darker, colder, and each breath seemed to roar into his lungs like a geyser. Ten more feet, he told himself, and at 125 he saw the rip in the net.

&nbs
p; He snagged his backpack on the monofilament and had to back off and try again, fighting panic. He could already feel the constriction in his lungs again, as if he were trying to breathe with a sheet of plastic over his mouth. He’d seen tanks that had been sucked so dry that the sides caved in. They found them on divers trapped in rockslides and tangled in fishing line.

  His tank slipped free and he was through, following his bubbles upward. The tiny knot of air in his lungs expanded as the pressure around him let up, but not enough to kill his need to breathe. He pulled the last of the air out of the tank and forced himself to keep exhaling, forcing the nitrogen out of his tissues.

  At fifty feet he slowed and angled toward a wall of coral, turned the corner, and swam into a sheltered lagoon.

  For a few endless seconds he forgot that he had no air.

  The entire floor of the lagoon was laid out in squares of greenery: kelp, mosses, and something that looked like giant cabbage. A school of red snappers circled past him, herded by a metal box with a blinking light on the end of one long antenna. Submarines with spindly mechanical arms worked on the ocean floor, thinning the vegetation and darkening the water with chemicals. Two or three dolphins were swimming side by side with human divers, and they seemed to be talking to each other.

  His lungs straining, Campbell turned his back on them and kicked for the surface, trying to stay as close to the rocks as he could. He wanted to stop for a minute at ten feet, to give at least a nod to decompression, but it wasn’t possible. His air was gone.

  He broke the surface less than a hundred feet from a concrete dock. Behind him was a row of marker buoys that traced the line of the net all the way out to sea and around the far side of the lagoon.

  The dock lay deserted and steaming in the sun. Without a fresh tank, Campbell had no chance of getting out the way he’d come in. If he swam out on the surface, he’d be as conspicuous as a drowning man. He had to find another tank or another way out.

  Hiding his gear under a sheet of plastic, he crossed the hot concrete slab to the building behind it, a wide, low warehouse full of wooden crates. A rack of diving gear was built into the left-hand wall. Campbell was starting for it when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Hey, you! Hold it!”

  Campbell ducked behind a wall of crates, saw a tiled hallway opening into the back of the building, and ran for it. He didn’t get more than three or four steps before a uniformed guard stepped out and pointed a .38 at his chest.

  “You can leave him with me.”

  “Are you sure, Dr. Kimberly?”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ll call you if there’s any trouble.”

  Campbell collapsed in a plastic chair across from her desk. The office was strictly functional—waterproof and mildew-resistant. A long window behind Kimberly’s head showed the lagoon and the row of marker buoys.

  “How much did you see?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I saw what looked like farms. Some machinery.”

  She slid a photograph across the desk to him. It showed a creature with a woman’s breasts and the tail of a fish. The face was close enough to Kimberly’s to be her sister.

  Or her clone’s.

  Campbell suddenly realized the amount of trouble he was in.

  “The boy at the farmacia works for us,” Kimberly said.

  Campbell nodded. Of course he did. Where else would he get a computer? “You can have the picture,” Campbell said, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. “And the negative.”

  “Let’s be realistic,” she said, tapping the keys of her CRT and studying the screen. “Even if we let you keep your job, I don’t see how we could hold your marriage together. And then you have two kids to put through college...” She shook her head. “Your brain is full of hot information. There are too many people who would pay to have it, and there are just too many ways you can be manipulated. You’re not much of a risk, Mister Campbell.” She radiated hurt and betrayal, and he wanted to slink away from her in shame.

  She got up and looked out the window. “We’re building the future here,” she said. “A future we couldn’t even imagine fifteen years ago. And that’s just too valuable to let one person screw up. Plentiful food, cheap energy, access to a computer net for the price of a TV set, a whole new form of government—”

  “I’ve seen your future,” Campbell said. “Your boats have killed the reef for over a mile around the hotel. Your Coke cans are lying all over the coral bed. Your marriages don’t last and your kids are on drugs and your TV is garbage. I’ll pass.”

  “Did you see that boy in the drugstore? He’s learning calculus on that computer, and his parents can’t even read and write. We’re testing a vaccine on human subjects that will probably prevent leukemia. We’ve got laser surgery and transplant techniques that are revolutionary. Literally.”

  “Is that where she came from?” Campbell asked, pointing to the photograph.

  Kimberly’s voice dropped. “It’s synergistic, don’t you see? To do the transplants we had to be able to clone cells from the donor. To clone cells we had to have laser manipulation of the genes...”

  “They cloned your cells? Just for practice?”

  She nodded slowly. “Something happened. She grew, but she stopped developing, kept her embryonic form from the waist down. There was nothing we could do except ... make the best of it.”

  Campbell took a longer look at the picture. No, not the romantic myth he had first imagined. The tail was waxy looking in the harsh light of the strobe, the fins more clearly undeveloped legs. He stared at the photo in queasy fascination. “You could have let her die.”

  “No. She was mine. I don’t have much, and I wouldn’t give her up.” Kimberly’s fists clenched at her sides. “She’s not unhappy, she knows who I am. In her own way I suppose she cares for me.” She paused, looking at the floor. “I’m a lonely woman, Campbell. But of course you know that.”

  Campbell’s throat was dry. “What about me?” he rasped, and managed to swallow. “Am I going to die?”

  “No,” she said. “Not you either....”

  Campbell swam for the fence. His memories were cloudy and he had trouble focusing his thoughts, but he could visualize the gap in the net and the open ocean beyond it. He kicked down easily to 120 feet, the water cool and comforting on his naked skin. Then he was through, drifting gently away from the noise and stink of the island, toward some primal vision of peace and timelessness.

  His gills rippled smoothly as he swam.

  Flagstaff

  It was not yet noon when they pulled into the motel. Rain in the early morning had rinsed the air and left it fresh and cool, tasting of the fall to come. Lee’s father set the handbrake but left the engine running as he got out, boots crunching in the gravel.

  Lee crawled halfway over the front seat to look at the dashboard clock. He crossed the fingers on both hands, daring to hope that the day’s driving was already over, that they would not have to try motel after motel. Lee had a good feeling about this one. Its wooden siding was the color of milk chocolate, and the air through his open window tickled his nose with the green scent of pines and junipers. There was even a pool, though in truth it was too cold to think about swimming.

  A white-haired lady opened cabin seven for Lee’s father, and a few seconds later Lee heard a toilet flush, followed by a repeated clacking as his father tested the lock on the front door. Finally he came out nodding and then stood for a moment in the watery sunshine, long-sleeved khaki shirt buttoned to the throat, hands in the pockets of his pleated trousers, looking into the distance.

  Lee tried to smile at his mother, who seemed oblivious.

  They locked their suitcases in the room and drove back into town. Lee’s father was whistling now, his right arm up on the seat back, his left elbow propped in the window, as if he were another man entirely from the one who’d been driving with fierce concentration since dawn. “So,” he said to Lee’s mother, “what do you think? Nice pl
ace, huh?”

  She smiled bravely. “Very nice.”

  “There’s a Rexall,” Lee said. “With a fountain. Can we? Can we?”

  His father sighed. “I suppose so.”

  They parked and Lee ran ahead. Hand-lettered signs in the drug store window advertised typing paper, Alka-Seltzer, cold cream. The sweet smell of frying meat hung in the air inside. Lee spun himself around and around on his chrome and red vinyl stool while his father read the menu. “Stop that,” his father said, and Lee faced the counter, sitting on his hands to help himself keep still. When it was his turn Lee ordered a hamburger and a chocolate milkshake and then asked, “Can I look around?”

  His father seemed to be studying himself in the long mirror behind the fountain. “Go,” he said.

  On a wire spin rack Lee found a Jules Verne he’d never seen before, a movie tie-in edition of Master of the World with Vincent Price on the cover. He stashed the book behind a stack of Moonrakers and moved on to the toy aisle. The cramped space was filled with Duncan yo-yos, Whammo Slip’N’Slides, and Mattel cap pistols. On the bottom shelf Lee found a Wiffle Ball and orange plastic bat that filled him with a longing he thought might overwhelm him.

  He went back to the lunch counter and wolfed his food, then sat with his arms wrapped around his narrow chest, trying to gauge his father’s mood while struggling with his own impatience, hope, and fear. His father ate slowly, drank a second cup of coffee, and smoked a cigarette while Lee’s mother applied a fresh coat of lipstick. Finally Lee’s father stood up with the check and started for the register by the front door. Lee tugged at his father’s pants leg and showed him the book. His father glanced at it and nodded. “Okay.”

  He seemed distracted in a mild, pleasant way, so Lee pressed his advantage. “Look,” he said, and showed his father the bat and ball.