M-BRANE SF #1

M-BRANE SF

M-BRANE SF The center does not hold….

ISSUE #1….FEBRUARY 2009

FEBRUARY 2009

Issue, Date Quisque:

FICTION BY: GILLETTE BELL NOVY CARTAGENA EARLS ROGER SCRIBNER LEVENSON

TIME ENOUGH FOR A REUBEN Glenn Lewis Gillette

He woke up feeling fine—till he opened his eyes and recognized the decanting room. So he'd injected himself into an accelerated clone again. Ready to be killed—or worse—for the good of Society ... as determined by the Bureau's Director, and reiterated by the sign on the wall: "Duty, Honor, Country, and the greatest of these is Duty."

Preaching to the choir in this case. Whoever told stories about renegade clones didn't understand the intimate connection between referent and avatar, even closer than the wild clones called "twins."

He slid off the proofing cot, then showered thoroughly to flush amniotic fluid out of every crevice. He dressed carefully out of the suitcase he—no , that the original Hyram Wazinski had prepared. He must appear at the office just like HW(0) would. No one must suspect: that would taint the setup, smack of entrapment.

HW(1) took the Metro, just like HW(0) would, entering from a different station, two blocks from the Bureau's back lab, but getting off at the normal stop and sauntering six blocks to the Bureau of Special Licenses. Not that HW(0) sauntered much, just something about the feel of a disposable body that brought it out in him. HW(1) wouldn't stray further. The Bureau didn't allow it, nor, for that matter, did the personality base laid down in their shared genes. Neither Hyram would consider shirking duty for a fling at life. For HW(1), in particular, a week (for he would live no longer) of La Dolce Doppia Vita wasn't worth the embarrassment his running away would cause HW(0).

…CONTINUED TO PAGE 3!

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

EDITORIAL NOTES 2/2009 Great excitement attends the debut of M­Brane SF (around my house, anyway…or at least within the walls of my office).

For at least twelve years I have been thinking about this zine, starting and then stopping the project, letting it languish for years at a time and then revisiting it. To this day there sits in one of my desk drawers a tattered collection of hand‐drawn page formats and notes about printing and distribution from some old unrealized version of it. The proper confluence of time, ambition and technology did not occur until just a few months ago.

With each story, I have included a few introductory remarks at the beginning and also some biographical information about the writers at the end. While this month’s writers are perhaps not yet well‐known to the world, they have each been published elsewhere before and probably will be many more times in the future if they keep imagining such startling things as they have for their tales herein.

Tech note…

This magazine, from start to finish (including the creation of the PDF), was accomplished on my MacBook using Microsoft Word:Mac 2008. I used to use MS Publisher for projects like this, but this new Word:Mac version has much of that same functionality right inside it. I still have a lot to learn about how to use all its tools and tricks, but thus far I am pretty pleased with being able to put a publication together without having to leave the word processing program and import everything into a different piece of software.

Advisory about the advisory…

I’ve decided to go ahead and place a content advisory in M­ Brane (the little thing at the bottom right of the page) as a sort of heads‐up for any gentle, easily‐injured mentalities who might happen upon this zine. I don’t think it’s really necessary, but I keep having an annoying, recurring thought that someday I will receive an hysterical communiqué from some appalled mother whose hair has been bleached shock‐ white with horror over the fact that her brainy (and therefore probably adopted) child has somehow gotten hold of an issue of M­Brane containing, perhaps, a naughty word or—worse— a reference to the physical act of “love.” This hypothetical person, who knows that her child likes “that sci‐fi stuff” but thinks that “sci‐fi” means Star Wars, would say something like, “I can’t believe that you would publish such filth in a magazine that kiiiiiiidzzz read!!”

I have, for the past year and a half, lived in OKC, which is located almost exactly at the buckle of the Bible Belt, right where the clasp strains against the last hole, barely holding up big fat pants over the bloated ass of conservative hypocrisy. We have no shortage of people around here who seem to have assigned themselves the duty of minding other folks’ business. So, the advisory: it ain’t for little kids. I won’t, however, do as I have seen a couple other editors do and flag every single story with a rating like they have on TV shows or video games. For the reader especially worried about hitting a patch of moral failure, reading M­Brane will be like navigating a minefield.

­­CF 2

CONTENTS! ASTONISHMENT!

GILLETTE: Time Enough for Reuben 1, 3

BELL: Do Men Dream of Bloody Sheep? 6

NOVY: Road Rage 12

CARTAGENA: Relearning Touch 18

EARLS: Death of the Flying Humanoid 26

ROGER: Career Move 30

SCRIBNER: Conductors 35

LEVENSON: Colonizing Mars 44

HARDART: The Beast of Space 47

DEPARTMENTS: Web Notes 17, 25, 29, 43 Afterword 52 Miscellaneous Notes 55

M-BRANE SF Edited and published by Christopher Fletcher Contents © 2009 by Christopher Fletcher and M­Brane SF (except for by‐lined writers’ stories and articles, all rights to which revert to their authors upon publication in M­Brane SF) Subscription information and writer’s guidelines may be found on Christopher Fletcher’s blog at www.mbranesf.blogspot.com

CONTENT ADVISORY Let the public be warned that M­Brane SF may (and probably does) contain items of subject matter, language, content, theme, and philosophy which could offend some people and which may, in the judgment of some people, be inappropriate for young children.

Opinions or ideas stated or implied in stories or articles in M­Brane SF are those of their individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the attitude of the publisher. The contents of M­Brane SF are primarily fictitious in nature and do not say anything one way or another about any real situations or any real persons living or dead.

M-BRANE SF The first of a couple of different “day at the office” type stories in this issue, “Time Enough for a Reuben” combines a wild Dickian world­weirdness with a cool post­cyberpunk wit in a highly entertaining tale of…well, you’ve already started reading it, so, yeah, carry on...—CF

…CONTINUED FROM FRONT COVER!

Past the entrance labeled Licenses for Mildly Addictive Substances—the "chill" door. Then, Extremely Addictive Substances—the "lotus" door. Polluting ‐‐ the "damn our children" door. Animal Terrorism ‐‐ the "damn species‐ ism" office with its separate doors for meat‐eaters, leather‐wearers, and true animal lovers. All a part of the government's latest move to regulate illegal activities so they could control quality and availability while restructuring the black market.

Finally, a third of the way down the concourse, his door: Licenses for Cloning. And inside the door, security.

The Bureau was quite happy to serve citizens ‐‐ as long as they knew exactly which citizen was being served. And the Cloning Office was even more picky. Only referents, aka Roots, could clone themselves (and not all of them, either). Can't have clones making clones. It'd be like intelligent machines making copies of themselves. Where would it all end ... or would it be better to say "terminate?"

Ordinarily, HW(0) waited patiently in the testing vestibule, called the "heir‐lock." Of course, the Bureau couldn't rely on just any form of bio‐metric identification (what with, you know, clones running around). During testing, HW(0) chatted with Cartaphilus, the guard, but that—one human recognizing another—wasn't enough.

Neither were cards, dumb, smart, or heat‐activated, for they can be lost, stolen, or counterfeited. Neither were keypads for they can be read with a simple spray (as seen on UHDTV) or fooled by a PDA program downloaded off N³et. Neither were palm‐readers for they spread disease (do you wash your hands every time?). Neither were retina scans for they can be fooled by beheading.

Ordinarily, HW(0) swished and spat (39 flavors of phosphate‐buffered saline), offered a different part of his brow for the blood tap (credit the WWF for that idea: what bleeds more easily?), and let the "Skrim Reaper" pluck a hair from an ear pinna (at his age, a bumper crop every week, it seemed), so they could smush a variety of cells and pick through the debris as quickly as possible.

Roots differ from clones by 1) sperm‐trickle within the walls of any cell and 2) mtLock (molecular channels between mitochondrial and nuclear DNA) inside the cells themselves. Testing for mtLock was quicker and cheaper, so the Bureau went with that.

Ordinarily, HW(0), being a Root, passed the test, but HW(1) didn't. So, before Cartaphilus got too excited, HW(1) waved his credentials ‐‐ Route to Root, provided

FEBRUARY 2009 by the lab—and got buzzed through. Inside the lobby, he reviewed his appointments with Dollie, the receptionist, who looked pastoral in a wool caftan. At least, he wouldn't have to wait long: #2, at 9:30, was their target.

Sinn‐Féin William Kennedy had eluded the Justice Department for over ten years. Reputed—but unproved—capo of the Mass‐ticut‐Island region of Kennedy Korporate, SWK had taken over the flight of multi‐national corporations off‐shore—so far off‐ shore, they were creating their own archipelago around Easter Island—while keeping up the flow of cash to book clubs, motorcycle gangs, and other loopholes in the campaign‐finance laws, so the KK could influence the deployment of troops from the Other United Nations, lead by the North American Union for Government, Homeland, Trade, and Industry, based here in DC (just "DC," one of the compromises to make NAUGHTI happen).

But first, his 9 o'clock: Ruth Guiterrez pranced in, her hair a wavy helmet threaded with those ellipsoid Franken‐mussel pearls. Her collar framed her hair, then let down into shoulderpads any Semi‐ Hemisphere‐ Pointy‐ Football‐ League player would be tickled to wear. The rest of her ... dress? muumuu? sari? restated the theme: look at me, aren't I wonderful?

To her credit, after the requisite CV review and listing of influential medulla‐phone numbers— unlisted, of course—she got right down to business.

"I've borne two boys, fine sons for my first and third husbands, and for our Union of nations, but now I want a girl, someone to take after me, share my values and dreams."

A doll, HW(1) thought, to dress up as another you.

But he just murmured, "I understand. A child you can be sure will appreciate her role—and yours—in the world."

She preened and nodded.

HW(1) lowered his brow in a bureaucratic frown.

"We have to be sure that you thoroughly understand how this ... expression of yours might work out. You will be making a human being, a future citizen, not just a child."

Signora Guiterrez nodded gravely, but glee showed in her gilt‐lensed eyes and quirked her picturesque mouth.

He continued, "We have developed a simulation, a virtual extrapolation of what it will be like living with your ... daughter for eighteen years." He stood and gestured toward a side door. "A technician will guide the automated interview, including nDNA interpolation, then settle you into the simulator. When you're done with your preview, we'll talk again."

"I have some, uh, adjustments I'd like to make. Her hair" "After," HW(1) intoned. His internal clock had just

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whispered, "9:26." He skirted his desk, took her elbow face, twitching as it settled into death's mask. firmly, and moved her out of the way.

SWK quit fumbling at the outer door (Hyram had At 9:29, his office door burst open. SWK followed it, sealed it). He squinted at Hyram, then lifted his lips in one hand aiming a rigid forefinger at HW(1)'s nose. Just that infamous toothy smile that lopsided as he sneered, a finger, nothing more threatening. Perhaps HW(0) had "What do you want?" misjudged SWK's impatience with the Bureau's Hyram would've preferred something along the lines purposeful bumbling, a rare example of Class‐1 of "Who are you? I just killed you." But he continued obstruction and incompetence that had been the talk of with procedure. "Sinn‐Féin William Kennedy, I arrest the Assistant Manager's Cafeteria, even a standing you for the attempted murder of me." Killing an ovation during yesterday's Middle‐Staff Meeting. accelerated clone wasn't against the law, partly because "Where's your supervisor?" SWK demanded. "The of its limited lifespan. But SWK had thought he was receptionist bleated that you're alone in here. You killing Hyram. That was almost as bad, enough to send promised your boss would hear my case, listen while I him into a prison coma. Plus buying the finger‐shooter tell him what a buffoon you are. Where is he?" and smuggling it into a Union facility. The Bureau could "She," HW(1) corrected, then shrugged and spread his shut down his region of Korporate for a long time. hands, a gesture that actually took weeks with a personal Worth spinning a copy of himself and watching it die, trainer to master, following a programme developed right? over centuries by the "I'm not him." clandestine Bureau of Hyram gave a don't‐kid‐a‐ Bureaus. Just the right kidder look. "Yes, you are, and insouciance underlying abject Shaking his pompadour I've got the nDNA scan to servitude, designed to drive prove it. You're definitely a pesky, pesty citizens out of so his head looked like referent." the office ‐‐ or out of their Shaking his pompadour so minds. his head looked like a bobble a bobble doll, the "You bastard!"

SWK doll, the perp said, "I'm Sean‐ shrieked. "I've got companies perp said, "I'm Sean-Féin Féin William Kennedy, Sinn's to run. I need CEOs, COOs, twin."

CFOs, CTOs, CUOs, just like William Kennedy, Sinn's Explaining how SWK(1) me!" That finger came up at got through the clone‐ HW(1) again, only it showed a twin." detector. Wild twins muzzle, not a nail, this time. registered as referents Of course! No mere plastic because they had mtLock gun for Kennedy Korporate. (since the nDNA formed itself No mundane hidden pistol. Even they would struggle to rather being injected), but no sperm‐trickle (this lack cover up the gunning down of a Union official. But a might also cause the twinning of the blastocyst, but they microflechette with just the right poison ... hadn't proved that yet). Didn't matter, so Hyram said "He just keeled over on me," SWK would sigh or what did: "There is no authorized twin." whine or squeal, depending on how KK's Board of "Yes, there is." SWK(1) flopped a hand around. "I'm Godfathers decided they'd play it. it—him." He brightened. "Same DNA, you said so."

But first, SWK made a speech. "You've given your last Hyram shook his head wearily. "You weren't runaround, you sniveling peon, unless Satan has a listening. I said 'authorized twin.' The Bureau didn't manpower shortage in Hell." approve any twin for Sinn‐Féin." The Bureau didn't call HW(1) gasped, widened his eyes, put out a hand, all them "wild" around citizens. to play his role. Just a tad sorry Dollie hadn't set the Now look who was mugging don't‐kid‐a‐kidder. appointment after lunch. He could've eaten a Reuben "Twins aren't against the law." with Truly Organic™ Russian Dressing since it wouldn't "Try reading the rules, will you? We have authority count on HW(0)'s diet ledger. Indulgence by proxy. over supervised and unsupervised clones, which is all a But SWK fired and HW(1) died. twin is. Who came out first?"

"He—he did." A deep‐rooted sadness slowed the

words.

The original Hyram Wazinski stepped out through a Hiram steadied his heartstrings against that tug, secret panel. He glanced at the slumped form of his probably faux. "Then you're the clone, an unauthorized clone, then jerked his gaze away. Even after sixteen such one. You're under arrest for that, too." sacrifices, it still gave him the creeps to look at his own The sneer returned, though it seemed a tad forced.

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"But I didn't shoot him."

The Bureau couldn't fix the whole Human Condition, "Got it all on disk." Hyram grinned and cued the but perhaps it should rethink its use of clones, cameras into the open. accelerated and otherwise. There'd be collateral impact "But that's‐‐” on Licenses for Moreau Servants (and Dolly?) as well as "Unlawful? So's attempted murder." So was the Bureau of Extra‐terrestrial Musings (BEM, for short). entrapment, but the Bureau's lawyers figured on Overturning such an engrained regulation would take confusing the courts with the "celebrity" clause in libel considerable effort and bureaucratic skill, but it would laws, and SWK(0) definitely qualified there. compensate for forty‐seven years of service (life‐ "Now who's not listening?" SWK(1) raised his arm, extensions came with the perks at GS‐136 and above) ... lifting that deadly forefinger of his, and marshals burst and watching sixteen avatars die. out of three walls, their screamers aimed at head, chest, Making a mental note, Hyram clambered back on the and groin, respectively. "It's not my finger. It's an implant Duty train and bored in on his original target. "Where is and controlled remotely. He—I—I'm sure I don't know SWK(0)? Sinn‐Féin, that is." whose finger's really on the trigger."

SWK(1) shrugged. "Anywhere in the world.

Hyram had to go intra‐Bureau for his sub‐vocal Anywhere without an extradition treaty." These days, consult about licenses issued, so it took at least 500 that included Africa, the Stani Confederation, and half of micro‐seconds before he could say, "No cyborg license.

Euronion. "Ever since NAUGHTI made inherited You, as the host, are responsible. Arrested for that, too." oligarchical corporations illegal, he and the Board "But not for murder, right?" Gloating made the smile haven't been able to come home. They miss Hyannis, you even more goofy. know." Misty tears replaced smarts in those eyes.

"Attempted murder. Accessory before, during, and Ah‐ha! Hyram thought. "You weren't here before, after the fact. Penalty is not significantly different, were you, Sean‐Féin? In this office?" Seeing a head especially if the gray naps run serially." shake that pompadour again, he continued. "Then Sinn‐ SWK(1) pointed the finger at his own face, and the Féin walked NAUGHTI soil, and I've got the disk to prove marshals relaxed a tad. They saved the taxpayers a lot of it. He's therefore and hereby charged with invasion‐ money when suicide replaced custody. Just another clone tantamount‐to‐treason. By invoking the Unilateral Cold‐ anyway. "Hey, Sinn!" SWK(1) spoke into the muzzle.

Pursuit Act, we can go after him anywhere in the world.

"You said they couldn't hold me." He waited for an answer ... a whole two The Bureau couldn't fix the seconds, then raised his gaze.

Intelligence glowed there, if only briefly. "He won't answer, I know that. whole Human Condition, but That's why they sent me, isn't it?"

Honest dejection oozed from every perhaps it should rethink its use pore, getting the carpet dirty.

Dirtier, actually. HW(1) had already spilled bodily fluids, although of clones, accelerated and the smells had been neutralized by the robo‐beetles (clean‐up took them otherwise. longer).

HW(1)? SWK(1)? Ding! An elevator door opened in Hyram's mind, and a revelation stepped out. No matter the referent, no matter whose Tinker Toys you're The Act covers fugitives as well as terrorists, corporate built from, no matter lifespan or lifestyle or birth order, officers, and tax‐evading rock stars. I'll notify the you came into this world with rights, one of which was DIBHA." Decentralized Intelligence and Bounty‐hunter equal treatment by the law.

Agency. "Thank you for your assistance."

But wasn't there something else? The revelation Hyram nodded at the marshals, and they hustled frizzed, making him dig for its heart. "And it went on SWK(1) out of the office. As he watched the foursome yesterday and it's going on tonight." Words from an old swarm across the lobby, the adjacent door emitted a song came back to him. "Somewhere there's somebody garish harridan screaming, "That impudent bitch! Who ain't treatin' somebody right." Not just lovers broke does she think she's talking to?" hearts. Mothers. Fathers. Brothers. Sisters. Friends.

Had to be HW(1)'s first appointment. Hyram vowed Strangers. People are cruel, always have been. Always to review the recording ‐‐ he usually slept in when he will be? Ay, there's the rub. cloned himself ‐‐ but first, lunch. He rubbed his hands

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M-BRANE SF together in anticipation. A Real Russian Reuben ‐‐ the diet ledger be damned! After all, he'd earned it. On his way out, he grinned at Dolly who blinked back sheepishly.

About himself, Glenn Lewis Gillette says,

“In the early '70s, Analog published two of my stories; another appeared in "Lone Star Universe"; this last story is now available on the Fictionwise web­site ( www.fictionwise.com /eBooks/eBook1145.htm ). More recently, The Jewish Spectator published one of my stories, and Speculations published my article on ‘Writing Good Computer.’ My mainstream short­short story ‘Downstream from Divorce’ appears at

BRANDON BELL When I first opened the email containing this story, I said to myself, “If I end up accepting it, I’m gonna make him change the title.” I thought it was too obviously allusive and I didn’t think I liked the sound of it at all. I was sure a better title would be laying in plain sight somewhere in the text. But then I read the story and decided that nothing about it needed to change at all, not even the title. The following is a sensitive and understated tale of someone finding his new place in a world that has changed around him in an inexplicable manner. –CF

The man from Hollywood sat at the foot of the hospital bed peering over bifocals at Andrew. He waited. A newscast on the ancient television distracted Andrew for a moment: something about a white city and the end of the world. The man shook his head and looked back at Andrew.

“That's not real, that story. It can't be. We think it's a publicity stunt for a Fox pic. So, do you accept?”

Andrew's mouth felt like a desert but he was able to croak, “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

And it was done.

Andrew still felt weak. During the coma, Andrea stuck with him for a long time. One of the nurses told him this back at the hospital. His wife had watched the physical therapy sessions and conducted her own

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FEBRUARY 2009 http://www.flashfictiononline.com as part of their March, 2008, issue. More stories appear at or are scheduled for http://www. themonstersnextdoor.com/IssueFour.html, www.bardsandsages.com, www.morriganezine. com, www.edgeofpropinquity.net, and now M­ Brane SF. You can read more at www.glgwrites.com . I also moderate SFWA's Online­Update and SFWA­News newsletters. With the support and financial wizardry of my wife Jeannie, I am working on a mystery novel.”

sessions with him, fighting against the atrophy.

He lingered in front of the new house and thought of her. All the houses were an adobe style that looked both old and futuristic to him. Over the row of houses behind him the alpine mountains were swallowing the sun.

Tears streamed from his eyes. He looked toward the other side of the valley, over mountains hazed with the last light of the day and said, “Good luck, babe.” Then he turned and walked up the sidewalk and into the door of his new home. The home given him by Hollywood man's production company.

The first night he slept on the floor, using his clothes for pillow and blanket. That night he dreamed of a bone white city in a world that was dying. No, the world was asleep and wouldn't wake. The white city waited because that's what the white city did in the logic of the dream.

Day two he used his ident tag and bought a bedroom suite.

“The door is open,” he told a salesperson. “Just have the deliveryman go in.” The man (or android) smiled and nodded.

A fire burned in him: he wanted his home minimalist but comfortable. He went from shop to shop in the town (a quaint mountain village, really, with a distinct commercial strip at the town center near the University) and bought a dining table and chairs, living room furniture, wall display and a smaller personal set‐top, dishes and cookware, and various other accouterments of a well‐equipped house. He spent the afternoon receiving the larger items, arranging the rooms, and unpacking the boxes of plates, silverware, and bric‐a‐ brac.

That second night he lay in his new bed and could not fall asleep. The cameras were now filming him if Mr. Hollywood's words could be trusted. All that day as he

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF met people in the shops he wondered who was human and who was android. There would be other humans, Hollywood had explained. As a control to the experiment.

The dream of the white city in the dead/dying/sleeping world proved recurrent and he woke at 2:00 AM from the nightmare of that beautiful and terrible city. He thought of the newscast he saw in the hospital and wondered what was happening in the world.

Andrew walked up his street, Prague, down main street past all the shops, waving or saying hello to shop owners he recognized, until he reached the University. After some missteps he sat at the desk of an attractive woman perhaps six years his senior and talked about what classes he would take in the coming semester and what he would need to complete his degree. Four years here. Yes, four years, she repeated and smiled at him, eyes tracking his expression through her black‐rimmed glasses.

They were done with the schedule. A handshake and a Good Day were all that remained. Instead he reached across the desk and gently places his hand on hers.

“I'm new to town... you know... I'd like to do a housewarming party. I wonder if you'd come?” He smiled, eyebrows raised.

She took off the glasses and rubbed the arch of her nose. She opened her eyes and looked at him, leaning back in her chair. She held the glasses near her face and one of the stems entered her mouth. She hmmmmed.

“I'm sorry: I shouldn't be so forward,” Andrew rose to his feet and shuffled toward the door. He waved at her and smiled, “Thank you for your help. Really.”

“Andrew.”

He stopped and looked at her.

“I'd love to come,” She grinned. “I have your address: when should I arrive?”

“Oh, ah: Friday. Friday at seven,” he told her.

She got up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his back.

“I can't wait, Andrew.”

He smiled and started down the hall, then turned, his face beet‐red.

Her eyebrows twitched and her grin went lopsided.

“What is it, Andrew?”

“I'm so sorry: I forgot your name.”

“Lauri, my name is Lauri.”

He nodded, waved, and turned to walk outside, the

smile wide on his face and his eyes full of light beneath the overcast sky. He wondered if she was human.

The party and Lauri, head back as she laughed, the light a sheen on her teeth and eyes, slight perspiration on her brow as he saw her glance at him and smile. He smiled back. All of the shop owners and many of their employees were here, as well as a cadre of clerks from the local grocery and video stores. Many of them were also students at the University: so a mix of the young and the older, mingling comfortable, Andrew noted.

He moved to the back patio and sat in a plush chair, leaning in toward the urgent conversation of a group of the younger set.

“Dhalgren is

DO MEN DREAM of

BLOODY SHEEP?

overwrought and over‐rated,” a young man in glasses and a turtle‐neck said. Andrew noticed the chill in the air when Lauri stepped to his side.

“Mind if I join you?” She held an iced margarita in front of her short black dress.

“No, not at all. Here: take my seat. It looks like we're out of chairs,” he said, starting to rise. She put a firm hand on his shoulder and eased him back down.

“We'll share,” she said, and sat in his lap, her arm around the top of the chair and her torso far enough to the side that he could follow the conversation.

Looking to the side and up into her smiling face, he had a hard time following the conversation.

He could smell her: spice and flowers, sweat on her breast, alcohol on her breath. He became embarrassingly stiff beneath her rump but she only smiled when he glanced at her, running her fingers through his hair, touching his ear. “...just a quest story once you get past the engineering marvels. And not a very good one at that.” Several of them nodded.

“I thought the Culture books made a better use of the same type of setting,” the man in the turtle‐neck said.

“Consider Phlebas,” the pretty blond woman said to a chorus of yeahs. He thought they all worked at the video store. The blond girl explained they were all reading sci‐ fi books for their lit course. The others were berating her for use of the term 'sci‐fi' when Andrew spoke up.

“Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” he said.

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M-BRANE SF Everyone went silent and turned to him. He felt Lauri go stiff.

“Have you read it?” Andrew asked the man in the turtle‐neck. The light glinted off the man's glasses, his face unreadable. “I thought it was good. Valis was better, though: less obviously sci‐fi, science fiction, I mean, but a good examination of a man trying to discover what is real after something extraordinary happened to him.” Andrew took a sip of his drink, looking over the rim at the others, and wondered if they were about to get up and leave.

“The Three Stigmata was PKD's best, never mind the literary stuff,” the blond girl said. The man in the sweater nodded his head, took a drink of his mojito and said, “Yes, yes: the only reason anyone reads,” he looked at Andrew and gestured absently. “...your Androids Dream is because of Blade Runner.” There was another round of yeahs and the conversation started again in full, Lauri's body softening and pressing closer to his.

“It's cold,” she said.

“Do you want to go in?”

“No. Just hold me.”

He held her.

In the wee hours of the morning Lauri stayed and helped him see everyone off. She walked from room to room picking up stray cups and bottles, as did he, until they collapsed together on the sofa.

She hiked her legs up onto his, curling her body up against his side. Andrew lifted his arm and eased it behind her, feeling the bare flesh of her arm beneath his fingers. Peach‐fuzz hair and a lingering chill from the air. He rubbed her and sighed.

“Tired?” she asked.

“Little.” He let his head roll to the side and found her eyes, hovering near. She had a stray bit of glitter on her cheek that distracted him and then he looked back to her lashes, her dilated pupils, and the look there he struggled to decipher.

The moments moved like ice‐age glaciers, flowing into the seas of those eyes. And then they were kissing, hands roving over cloth, skin, and her dark tresses. He felt her hands on his face, back, arms, chest. They tumbled upon the couch and to the floor, and eventually to the bedroom.

In a wee hour of the morning, after the strain, sweat, and whispers, he was almost asleep when he felt her body shift next to his and her lips press to his ear.

She sounded asleep herself as the words left her tongue.

“We dream of not being alone.”

Time passed. The dreams of the white city did not.

“How's the physical therapy going, by the way?”

Waseem asked. Andrew plopped into the chair across the table and glanced up the sidewalk to see if Lauri and Bianca were approaching. Across the street the science wing of the University shone with windows in the afternoon glare as trees rustled in the zephyr. The sidewalks were empty. Unusually so. Andrew ordered an almond steamer from a passing waiter and then set his backpack on the concrete at his feet. He drew in a breath and looked at his friend, smiling.

“Good. Very good. Sorry, I'm a bit distracted.”

“No worries, man.” Waseem, the bespectacled young man from the party, was in two of Andrew's classes and they had quickly become friends. Each day they met at Gabo's and drank coffee, did homework, and argued and laughed with an ever‐changing cadre of would‐be philosophers (students of, at least). Waseem and Andrew tended to arrive first and had some time to gab or work before the other folks gathered about them. Waseem sat scribbling on a paper in one of his texts and so Andrew opened a novel his lit class required.

He was several pages in when the clop clop clop of running feet distracted him. Andrew looked up from his book, meeting eyes with Waseem as they both turned and looked up the sidewalk. Lauri ran toward them, face white and eyes wide.

Andrew pushed from the table and ran to her.

She wore a skirt and blouse, hair up, a small purse for essentials. Andrew took her hand.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. But have either of you seen Bianca?”

Waseem stood beside Andrew, his brow knotted.

“No.” “Me neither,” Andrew said. The man and the android looked at each other. Andrew could feel Lauri trembling.

“I'm sure she's okay, hon,” he said.

“No. No. You don't understand,” she started to cry.

“What is it?” Waseem asked, voice low beneath the wind. Andrew felt sick.

“Attendance today was... low. Really low. A lot of the shops are empty. Same yesterday and the day before. The Provost is gone. She can't be reached. People have disappeared.”

Andrew stuttered and then stopped. The Provost is gone.

“Come on,” Andrew said. He walked back to the table,

WE DREAM of not being

ALONE…

8

M-BRANE SF tossed his book into the backpack and downed the steamer in a throat‐burning gulp. He scanned his ident card and waved 'bye to the waiter. “We have work to do.”

The entire Megiddo police department, fire department, and most of the city council; the provost and a quarter of the professors and other faculty; of the general population, Roughly seventy‐five percent: all gone. After some investigation, they determined the disappearance occurred Monday evening between 10:00 PM and the beginning of the workday on Tuesday. The homes of the disappeared were undisturbed but empty. A Marie Celeste routine.

Waseem, Lauri, and Andrew stood in the living room of the school Provost, looking for clues. The University was the heart of the town so the Provost's home had seemed one of the better places to investigate. Andrew walked to the woman's wall display.

“Computer, please put me through to the authorities in the nearest town.”

“I'm sorry,” a feminine voice replied, “unable to comply.”

“Why?” “Megiddo data and telephony networks do not extend beyond the municipality. Wireless access is blocked by design. Please refer to local authorities in case of emergency. Shall I put you through to 911?”

“No, thank you, computer,” he knew that was pointless since the police department and the supporting dispatch was deserted.

Waseem put his hand on Andrew's shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

“Look... I don't know what's going on, but this isn't what I signed up for. I don't know if all those people are okay or not... And that's not okay. If you know something, tell me.”

Waseem shook his head. Lauri shook hers.

“Well,” Lauri said absently. “There is one thing.”

“What?”

“They were all human.”

The next day Andrew's electricity went off. Several hours later it remained off. Andrew hit the wall and looked at Lauri. He stepped close to her and felt her lips brush his. He kissed her, pulled her tight, squeezed.

“Don't leave me.”

“I'll be back.” If he wasn't so pissed he would have laughed at the inadvertent and goofy allusion. I have no mouth and I must scream: he'd have to rap with Waseem about that one when he got back.

The town's only mechanic had a BMW podbike intended, apparently, for his emergence from Megiddo at the end of year four of the series.

“Looks like you's leaving a might bit early, pardner,” the old man told him.

FEBRUARY 2009 “Looks like, pops,” Andrew said.

“Where was I supposed to go, at the end?”

“Back to Dallas,” the mechanic said.

“Dallas,” Andrew repeated. He looked at the weathered old‐timer, his face a mask made from years of sun and work. “Are you human?”

The mechanic laughed.

“As far as I know, son, as far as I know. Praise Jesus.”

Andrew nodded: the words made him think of his dad, whom had died a few years before Andrew married Andrea. Do you know Jesus loves you? It was the most intimate his dad had ever been with him and Andrew had hated him for it for years. Now, looking at the smile on this old man's face, Andrew felt the pang of how unfair he had been to his old man.

“Well, good luck,” the mechanic said “You too.” the gull‐wing doors cycled down as the side‐wheels lifted and the bright‐red pod bolted down the slender strip of tarmac.

“Computer. Queue up the Second Stage Turbine Blade.

We have road to burn.”

Ten minutes after stopping at the fuel station Andrew realized the bike had a nuclear power plant. No need to fuel up. He turned his attention for the first time to the station itself. Glass windows and dirt. Canopy and Coke machines. The station sat on the fringe of a sigh of a town equally deserted (or of an equal appearance) as the station. Andrew walked into the convenience store lobby.

“Hello?” No answer. He walked among the rows of sugary or salted junk food and the coolers of sodas and beer, placing a hand on one of the glass cooler doors.

Cold.

Andrew grabbed a bottle of Frothy‐No‐Sleep and a bag of pistachios, swiped his ident card, and left with a sensation of being watched.

For hundreds of miles he drove and stopped at gas stations, hotels, police departments, restaurants, and one home: at least one building in each town he passed. They were all deserted, or appeared so: like the human population of Megiddo.

That was creepy, sure. But it was the larger cities that scared Andrew. They had changed. Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Amarillo all sported a new skin. A glimmering white skin upon cityscapes equally alien in their geography, as though they had each erupted with an architectural cancer. And while the roads Andrew traveled and the small towns he passed were deserted, he could see those white cities teaming with movement. He avoided the white cities.

Just north of Dallas, outside of Denton, he finally saw signs of humanity. The podbike was on autopilot when he saw a column of smoke wafting in the yellow‐gold twilight glow ahead. He gripped the steering column and

9

M-BRANE SF angled toward the next off‐ramp, engine keening down into the townlet of Margretville. That's where he found out the world had ended.

“It's you,” The man said.

Andrew stood in the lee of the podbike's gull‐wing.

Young men and old men, a scattering of women stood around the bonfire and stared at him.

“Brother Michael?” Someone called out.

“Brother?”

“Michael!”

“Look, look,” the man said, waving his palm toward Andrew. “It's Andrew.” Andrew did not know the man (Brother Michael someone had called him).

“Andrew?”

“Andrew!”

“Who's Andrew!”

“Hey, ya'll, its Andrew!”

“Hey, Andrew!”

Andrew waved at the growing crowd. Most of them smiled, at least. The rest just looked confused. He glanced at the man in front. He wore jams and a Newsboys tee‐shirt. Andrew realized the man recognized him from the television show.

“Brother Michael?” Andrew asked.

“You can call me Mike if I can call you Andy.”

“That's fine, Mike. So, what was the show called?”

A boy in his late teens, lanky, tall, blond, stopped beside Mike.

“I'm Marcus. It was called Man or Machine.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Andrew said.

The boy shook his head. Andrew groaned.

“So...” the boy said.

“What?” Andrew didn't understand the question.

“Are you... a man or a machine?”

Mike, whom Andrew already pegged for Marcus' dad, slapped the back of the kid's head and, as disgusted as he felt, all Andrew could do was laugh.

As it grew darker the group, composed of members of the Margretville Bible Church and a few people from neighboring towns, had Andrew sit down‐wind of the bonfire and served him a huge bowl of chili with cornbread and fresh sweet‐tea. It was delicious. “...So, the same thing happened to Megiddo?”

“As far as I can tell. The only people left behind... the only humans... are me and an old religious guy who took care of the bike.”

Several of the older men laughed at that. They didn't sound amused.

Brother Mike and son Marcus sat on either side of Andrew.

“So when did you start believing, Andrew?” Mike asked.

Andrew watched the fire as the darkness stretched

10

FEBRUARY 2009 over them. Staring straight up he spotted a few bright stars.

“No offense, but I'm not Christian.”

“Nothing makes sense anymore,” one of the older men muttered as he crackled to his feet and shuffled off.

Andrew looked at Mike. “I really don't want to offend anyone: I'm sorry. You all are really nice people.”

“No, Andrew, no one's offended or if they are they just need to get over it. No, we're just confused.”

“All the little kids are gone,” Marcus said. Andrew looked at him and saw his eyes go glassy, his face redden, and tears well upon his cheeks. “My little brother. Gone.

And everyone who wasn't a church‐goer.”

Mike reached behind Andrew to rest his hand on Marcus' shoulder and squeeze. He also wiped at tears rolling down his cheeks.

“We've had a couple days to take stock. Talk to some other groups in the area. What Marcus means... what we are finding...” He paused, took a breath, went on.

“Understand, It's not my place to judge. I'm a deacon with the Bible Church. You live and work and worship with people long enough you get to know them pretty good.

Near as I can tell, everyone who didn't believe Christ is the only way is gone now... plus the kids.”

“It's the rapture... but we're the ones shoulda been raptured,” Marcus started bawling and Mike excused them both.

Andrew sat drinking with two of the old guys late into the night.

“If the world is ending, might as well get your drink on,” a guy with glasses said laughing. Andrew smiled and held the bottle up, uttered, “Salute,” and downed a searing gulp of the liquid fire.

Mike came back out and took his own swig from the bottle.

“Is the boy okay?”

“He'll be fine.”

“I read that book,” the old guy with glasses said.

“Me too,” Mike added.

“Book?”

“Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” Mike said.

Andrew nodded, remembering back to that night. He wondered how much of the later evening the cameras captured and shared.

“I thought the show would have a name that spun off of that,” Andrew said.

The old guy with glasses nodded. “Do Men Dream of Bloody Sheep?”

“No, no,” the other codger said. “It'd have to be something like Do Men Dream of Organic Sheep?”

“Organic sheep: that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!”

“And bloody sheep sounds good?” The old man huffed at such stupidity.

Mike cleared his throat and motioned for the bottle,

M-BRANE SF took a swig when it was handed him and looked up into the starry expanse above before he spoke. The tears had returned.

“We do. Think about it: we do. We've been dreaming of the bloodiest sheep of all, and now... What? We got it wrong? We misunderstood? We dream of bloody sheep.

We dream of redemption. And we are alone in a silent universe.”

Andrew was about to rise and see where he could bunk for the night when he started laughing. Tears rolled down his eyes as the other men asked him what it was.

What is so funny? Andrew caught his breath and was able to squeeze out the words.

“God left me because He thought I was a robot. He left you because you were all assholes.” After a stunned moment the other men began to laugh as well.

As the laughter died and the crackling of the fire filled the silence from above Mike said, “There's something else you should know.”

Andrew's old apartment was just a few miles south and Mike accompanied him there. Mike thought his words about the cities would surprise Andrew but of course he already knew. They drove South into Corinth and went all the way to the lake bridge and stopped.

Across where before there was only more highway for several miles before reaching Lewisville the white city loomed over them like a diseased garden of monoliths.

“Are those people I see moving?” Mike asked.

“I don't know,” Andrew said.

At the apartment Andrew found nothing of use until he was about to leave. It had been retained by Mr. Hollywood's company. Andrew used the key hidden behind the light to get in.

The apartment smelled musty and held memories that pained Andrew. He thought about Andrea. How long had she lived here, her life on hold, waiting for him? He felt glad that she moved on: she deserved it. He grabbed a mala from his old desk and stepped toward the door to leave when he saw the answering machine. Red light.

One message. Certainly from ages past.

When he listened to the message it was dated three days old.

“Andrew,” Andrea's voice said. An occasional scream echoed in the background like a horror movie playing on a nearby television. “I'm lost, Andrew. I'm lost.

Something hunts us in the city. It looks like you. Help me,” there was a click and a dial tone.

“Do you know what's happened?” Lauri asked him.

Her hair was mussed and there were bags under her eyes.

“No. Not really,” He told her what he had seen on his trip and learned from the congregation at Margretville.

“Can we keep the town running? I guess that's what we need to look into first. Second: what do you guys need

FEBRUARY 2009 long term to survive? Can you reproduce? I'd like to see Megiddo survive.”

“We'll survive. What will you do, though?” She looked at him and he remembered her words from that first night of their coupling.

“I have to help someone. Someone who once helped me.”

The skirling of the podbike interrupted them as the mechanic and Mike waved and took off down the highway, heading for Margretville. Mike would return in a couple days for Andrew and then they would enter the white city. Andrew told Lauri this.

“And when I get back, I wonder if you'd marry me,” he asked.

Lauri's clear, dark, android eyes locked with Andrew's and she answered his question.

Brandon Bell has been published in the recent Return to Luna anthology from Hadley Rille, the August 2008 edition of Byzarium webzine, and has received honorable mentions in the 2008 Spacewesterns.com senryu contest (I have to admit that I did not know what “senryu” is— check out the Wikipedia article on it and Brandon’s several clever examples of it at the Space Westerns site.—CF). He is writing a fantastic novel (“a description, not a quality assessment,” he says), a biography of local women's advocate and abuse survivor Veda McGregor, as well as other short genre stories.

His other passions are his wife and her volunteer work, his kids (soccer!), and two cats, a black cat named Midnight, and a ginger named Fafhrd.

Find Brandon online at www.nithska. blogspot.com , where he blogs about his writing and other genre topics.

Chris says: Hey, check out my blog for frequent updates on M-Brane-related news, and all kinds of chatter about my sf goings-on. It also features submission guidelines, links to MBrane writers’ sites, and magazine subscription info. All this and more at…

www.mbranesf.blogspot.com

11

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF I almost passed on this story by Rick Novy when I first read it—not because I didn’t like it. No, I liked it just fine, but I wasn’t sure whether it could really be said to reside within the sf genre. It’s almost too realistic, too close to something that might really happen any day now, if it’s not already going on. You’ll see what I mean when you read it. I finally decided that the sociology—or maybe sociopathology—of it pushes the story into the sf genre, where we should all hope it stays for a long time.—CF

Robbie Kent hated crowds. He also hated waiting.

Most of all, he hated traffic. Traffic in the rain was the worst, so it should come as no surprise that Robbie was in a particularly foul mood driving to his client's factory through a torrential downpour during the morning rush hour. His black pickup was a magnet for assholes.

The exit neared, and Robbie moved into the right hand lane so he could get off the freeway. Suddenly, a blue pickup cut in front of him, exiting from all the way in the left lane. Robbie stomped on the brakes to avoid being hit, and nearly slid into the ditch at the side of the off ramp. He felt a thunk on the left side of the bed and looked into the side mirror to see a bent signpost in his wake. Not the paint!

At the light, Asshole hit the green, and Robbie got the red. He pressed in the cigarette lighter. Arming missiles. Fire. "Boom." In his mind, the blue pickup turned to slag. Sigh. The light turned green and Robbie continued to his client's factory, still fuming from the close call.

After pulling into the lot, Robbie looked at the side of his truck. He didn't notice the rain, just the dent and scratch gracing the wall of the bed. It stretched from the wheel‐well all the way to the tail light. The money saved for that new computer would now go to the body shop. He turned to walk toward the lobby door and accidentally dinged the truck again, this time with his toolbox. Dammit. A visit to the body shop seemed to be inevitable.

After a twenty‐minute wait in the lobby, his contact finally greeted him, a portly man who obviously didn't take care of his health. Management, no doubt.

"You the laser guy?" he asked.

Yeah. I'm the laser guy, you fat fuck. I should put that on my business cards. "That's me."

The manager stuck out his hand for a shake. Robbie stood and met it with his own hand. After shaking, the manager said, "Have you signed in?"

"First thing I did." He signed in at every client’s front desk.

The manager put his arm around Robbie's shoulder to guide him through the factory, but Robbie twisted away as he picked up his toolbox. He followed the

12

manager onto the factory floor. "This is the equipment that needs the upgrade," the manager said.

It was a Nippon Toolworks RX27, one of the best CO2 laser cutting tools on the market. Mostly companies with deep pockets upgraded these babies because the old version still kicked ass over most everything else. "Do you have the upgrade kit?" Robbie asked.

"Sully's getting it." The manager pointed to a stool near the RX27. "You can wait for him over here." Then he walked away.

A metal stool. All the comforts of home. Robbie opted to stand—for the first twenty minutes. It turned out Sully forgot to order the upgrade kit, and was scrambling to get one by pulling favors. Two hours and one sore ass later, Sully arrived with the upgrade kit inside a damaged box, and a story Robbie couldn’t care less about.

The kit consisted of a new laser, several fitting screws, a grommet, and circuit board replacements.

ROAD RAGE RICK NOVY Ninety minutes of work that Robbie made last three hours. If this company wanted to waste his time, they could compensate him. It's why he billed by the hour.

After filling out an invoice, Robbie picked up the old laser and started looking for either Sully or the manager.

He finally found the manager just in time to intercept him on the way to the restroom.

"Who gets the old laser and the bill?"

"I'll take them." The manager held out his hand, and Robbie turned them over.

M-BRANE SF "That laser is still good," Robbie said. "You should probably keep it as a spare."

"Good idea," the manager said as he grabbed both the laser and the invoice without missing a beat on his way through the restroom door.

Robbie headed straight home after that. It wasn't until about four thirty in the afternoon that he realized he left his toolbox behind. Trying to catch Sully or the manager before five, Robbie jumped into his truck and peeled out of the carport.

Robbie ended up behind a fifty‐year‐old station wagon at the ramp to the freeway. The guy behind the wheel looked like he was old before the car was built, and he drove like it, too. The fossil must have mistaken the freeway for the Brookhaven Assisted Living Center, because he drove up the ramp like he was expecting speed bumps.

Fed up with this guy, Robbie took advantage of the gravel shoulder to pass him on the right. That toolbox was too important to let an old fart like this ruin his chances of getting it back.

As he passed the station wagon, Robbie rolled down his window to yell, "Get a new car!" To emphasize the point, he tried to spray the hood of the station wagon with gravel as he got back on the pavement.

He moved over to the left lane to get past the slower traffic, but it made no difference. Traffic slowed, then it came to a stand‐still. Evening rush hour. No way he was going to get there before five o'clock. Hopefully, someone was working late. It was nearly six o'clock by the time he got past the accident and drove to the factory.

Robbie splashed through the puddle from the morning's rain as he pulled into the lot of the darkened factory. He parked in the spot closest to the front door. There were no other cars in the lot.

The front door was locked. Damn. Maybe someone was still in back. He walked around the side of the building past a few emergency exits, a water meter, and a dumpster with a lid open. When he found the back door, he discovered it locked, too.

Robbie tried knocking for a few minutes before he gave up and started back to his truck. He took a peek inside the open dumpster as he passed by. Something caught his eye.

That fat fuck manager tossed the old laser in the trash instead of saving it as a spare.

The toolbox could wait for tomorrow, but an opportunity to get a free CO2 laser this powerful might never come again. Robbie reached inside to retrieve the laser. It was damp, but looked okay. He tucked it inside his jacket before casually walking back to his pickup.

Robbie didn't really know what to do with the laser, so when he got home, he just put it on the overhead shelf in the closet. The next day was Friday, and in the morning, he decided to take another stab at retrieving his toolbox.

He had to drive through the typical heavy traffic of a Friday morning rush hour, arriving at the freeway exit

FEBRUARY 2009 about the same time as the previous day. As Robbie pulled up to the light, he looked in his rear view mirror. Unbelievable. In the mirror, he saw a blue pickup that looked a lot like the asshole that forced him into the sign yesterday.

The driver was a relatively young man with a bald or shaved head. A wife‐beater shirt revealed tattoo‐ covered arms. A complete waste of protoplasm.

His turn today. Let's see how this asshole likes being fucked with. Robbie continued to sit at the light after it turned green. Blue Pickup leaned on his horn and revved his engine, but Robbie didn't budge. Cars behind Blue Pickup layed into their horns, too. The light turned yellow, and still Robbie sat there. As the light turned red, Robbie floored the gas and peeled through the intersection, leaving Asshole to wait for the next green.

Man, that felt good. Robbie pulled into the factory parking lot through the now small puddle and parked in the first available space. He walked into the lobby and headed straight to the reception desk.

The receptionist took one look at Robbie and said, "We've been expecting you."

"Oh?" Oh shit was more like it. They must have cameras.

"Sully will be here in a few minutes to escort you."

Why Sully?

Robbie sat on one of the sofas and paged through an old issue of National Geographic, even though nothing inside caught his attention. Fifteen minutes later, Sully came into the lobby.

"Mr. Kent," he said, "Please come with me." Sully led him into a conference room. The tubby little manager was there, along with a security guard. Uh‐ oh. They do know about the laser.

"Good morning, Mr. Kent," the fat little manager said. "We understand you paid us a little visit after hours yesterday."

"I left my toolbox here," Robbie said.

"You left your umbrella, too," Sully said. "You'll get them back when you leave." They had to know about the laser.

"The old laser is missing," the manager said.

Robbie pointed at him. "I gave it to you."

Sully continued. "We saw you in back on the security tapes."

Oh‐no. Should have left the laser in the dumpster.

"I was hoping to find somebody still working in back so I could get my toolbox. Tools aren't cheap."

Sully waved his hands in front of him. "Don't worry, we aren't accusing you. We just want to know if you saw anything."

Lucky, lucky, lucky. They must not have a camera on the dumpster. Play it straight. "I didn't see anyone.

Sorry."

13

M-BRANE SF The security guard spoke for the first time.

"Anything suspicious, no matter how small, can be of help."

Robbie shifted in his chair. "I'm sorry. Everything seemed normal to me."

"If you think of anything," the security guard said as he passed his business card across the table, "please free to give me a call."

Sully stood. "I'll bring your toolbox and umbrella to the reception desk." Handshakes went all around, then the fat manager escorted Robbie out to the lobby. After a five‐minute wait, Sully brought up the toolbox and umbrella. Feeling smug in his victory, Robbie was soon on his way home. He didn't have any clients today, so he was anticipating some relaxation in front of the television, and maybe renting a movie.

It was while merging onto the freeway that his good mood was shaken. As he tried merging, some dickhead in an SUV changed from the middle lane to the ramp lane by cutting right in front of Robbie. The SUV almost clipped the bumper of Robbie’s pickup. He was seething, and wanted to chase the SUV down, but already passed the exit.

Every day it was the same ‐‐get cut off, get pissed off, and it was getting old. First you've got the damn hip hop with the bass so loud it resonates in your bones, then you've got the smug fuckers that cover their license plates with plastic to fool the red light cameras, just to advertise they intend to run the lights‐‐assholes all.

There had to be some way to fight back. Robbie didn't want to go through life as a freeway victim. He pulled his truck into the garage, still thinking about the problem. There seemed to be no solution. If only there was a way to just fuck up their paint job or something— anything!

Robbie fixed himself dinner, and just as he started eating, a knock came at the door. He walked across the room and opened the door to see Jim, his next door neighbor. Now what?

"Hey, Robbie," Jim said.

"Hey, Jim." "I'm headed up to the canyon this weekend. You think I could borrow your binoculars?"

Never see those again. "If you promise to be careful with them." Where are they? Oh yeah, the closet.

"Hold on, I'll go get them."

Robbie walked to the bedroom and checked for the binoculars on the top shelf of the closet. He found them right away, but something else also caught his attention‐‐the laser he found in the dumpster. Would it fit under the hood? Here was the invisible revenge Robbie was looking for—if he could make it work.

He absently grabbed the binoculars and forced himself back to the front door. Jim looked a little miffed

14

FEBRUARY 2009 at how long he had to wait. Too bad, beggars can't be choosers. Better give him a line anyway so the binoculars have a chance of coming back home. "Sorry it took so long. I had trouble finding one of the lens caps."

That seemed to satisfy Jim, who said, "No problem. I'll bring them over Monday night."

"Sure," Robbie said while closing the door. He locked it, then walked back to the bedroom to pull the laser out of the closet.

"Let's take a look at you." He set it on the desk, then read the specification label. One thousand watt CO2 UV pulse laser. Unusual for a CO2 laser to pulse, but then, the RX27 was an unusual cutting tool. That the thing lased in the UV was a bonus—the beam was completely invisible.

Next, he looked at the placement of the holes for the mounting screws. Not bad. He picked up the laser and carried it out to the garage, popped the hood, then tried different locations inside the engine compartment to figure out where the laser might fit and still have a direct path out the front. Hmmm. By moving the coolant reservoir and mounting the laser right there, it would fire right through the grille without having to make any new holes. It was going to fit, but would the laser work with available power?

He let the hood drop, then carried the laser to the kitchen, placing it on the table. A couple hours later, Robbie thought he had a functional setup. He yanked the battery from his pickup and connected it to the laser on his kitchen table. Now came the test.

Robbie aimed the laser at the empty soda can across the room, then powered the laser on and waited for it to warm up. When the ten minutes were up, Robbie fired the laser at the can for a good thirty seconds.

The results were discouraging. There was a little spot of discoloration, but even that was surprisingly minor.

Without documentation for the laser, it took nearly an hour of paging through a laser handbook before he figured out the problem. The laser was losing coherence.

It needed modification to maintain beam coherence over a range of several meters.

Several days passed before Robbie managed to find the necessary part. He finally piggy‐backed the part onto a client's order. Because he knew this company had no laser expertise to audit the purchase order with that kind of detail, he even managed to get them to pay for it. He thought that particularly clever.

Two weeks after the first test, he was ready to try again. Robbie set a soda can in the same spot across the room then fired the laser. This time, it didn't take thirty seconds. After only a couple seconds, a wisp of smoke appeared on the can. When Robbie walked over to inspect the can, he saw a beautiful black spot.

Installation into the pickup took just under two hours.

Robbie had an appointment to perform some maintenance for Larson Brothers the next morning. It

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF was the first time in years he was excited to get on the highway. Robbie knew roughly when Asshole and his blue truck tended to be in the area, so he left home trying to time his arrival to match. When he got to the exit near Larson Brothers, Robbie was not disappointed. Asshole's blue truck was a lane over, and the exit was coming up.

Robbie slowed to bait Blue Truck, and it worked.

Suddenly, the blue truck pulled across Robbie's lane, cutting in front as they headed down the exit ramp. The light was red, with one car ahead of Blue Truck. Robbie waited to see what Asshole would do. When the light turned green, the car in front went on its way, but Blue Truck stayed put. It was exactly what Robbie hoped he would do.

Robbie flipped the switch to the laser, and a thin wisp of smoke rose off the pretty blue paint. Look at it burn!

Asshole pulled away when the amber light turned red, and Robbie shut down the laser. That dumb‐ass had to be wondering why Robbie was smiling at him as he ran the red.

Robbie was still smiling as he pulled into the lot of Larson Brothers.

He spent an uneventful morning on laser maintenance, and even spent a half‐hour having coffee with Sully and the fat manager. They weren't really such bad guys.

On his way home, he was cut off by a motorcycle. Robbie made a quick move to follow the bike off the highway. It would be a challenge to hit such a small target. The light was green as they came through the intersection.

Fortunately, the bike got stuck behind a slow car.

Robbie pulled the pickup as far to the right as he could in order to center the laser on the bike. Once he was aligned, Robbie fired it up. At first, a beautiful wisp of smoke came from the fender, but then the slow car turned into a parking lot and the bike pulled away. With distance, the laser still lost coherence, and the bike was soon completely out of range.

The range problem was frustrating, but nothing Robbie couldn't handle. After a week, he had modified the laser again, adding a full array of batteries— connected per his own calculations to provide maximum power to the laser. He had the opportunity to try this new configuration on his way to the grocery store.

Robbie got trapped in the right lane behind an old Buick, and boxed in by a semi to his left. The grocery store was on the left side, and after two blocks he couldn't handle it anymore. This slow sonuvabitch had to be taught a lesson. He fired up the newly enhanced laser and waited.

Wow! As he watched the trunk of the Buick, little bits of molten metal began to spwut‐wut‐wut off the back of the car, looking like an intermittent sparkler.

Woah! This thing plows right through the sheet metal! He let the laser cut into the metal for a few seconds, then suddenly the spwut‐wut‐wut stopped, and all that was left was a hole. Robbie turned off the laser and stepped on the brakes so he could slow up enough to get around the back of the semi. He pulled into the grocery store, still awed with his handy work.

On Thursday, Robbie had an appointment across town with a new client. He was in an adventurous mood, and when he realized that he pulled up behind a cop at the traffic light for the freeway on ramp, he just couldn’t resist. Nail a cop car, and the cop would never know!

Robbie turned the laser on, then watched the visual spwut‐ wut‐wut of the laser digging into cop car metal. When the molten metal stopped sputtering, Robbie turned off the laser and stared at the little black hole until the light turned green. Tag, you’re it! See you, cop!

Robbie took it easy the rest of the way to his new client.

No reason to arouse suspicion. The install went well, and Robbie was on his way home when a woman in a green luxury car cut him off. This was more money than brains, for sure. Time to teach the rich bitch a lesson. On went the laser as Robbie tried to see the woman’s face in her mirrors. The spwut‐wut‐wut had already stopped when he realized he knew her.

Who the hell did she meet that had that much money? This bitch needs some pain. Teach her to dump me like that. Just keep the laser pumping into that rich bitch car. Let’s fuck up the whole back end.

Robbie drifted back and forth in his lane with the laser still pumping at full power. The spwut‐wut‐wut of molten metal danced across the back of her car, and he didn’t stop until it evolved into a black gash across the trunk. Savoring the victory was only interrupted when Robbie noticed his exit coming fast. He swerved across three lanes of traffic, and barreled down the exit ramp with blaring horns in his wake. Robbie learned on the news a few hours later that the green luxury car was carrying a full can of gasoline in the trunk. The car burst into flames a half mile after he exited the freeway. The driver did not survive. He turned off the television

Didn’t you know that some nutcase is running around town shooting lasers at peoples’ cars?

15

M-BRANE SF before the story was over.

How dumb can you get—carrying gas in your trunk.

Serves that bitch right for being so fucking stupid.

Robbie opened a beer, kicked back, and threw Cannonball Run into the DVD player. He didn’t want to see the news.

The next day, Robbie had no clients scheduled, but he decided to drive around anyway. This laser was simply too much fun to let it sit idle. There were so many assholes on the road. Time to strike back. He tooled around town most of the day, looking to make them pay. On Seventh Avenue, a bag lady was crossing the street with her shopping cart and tying up traffic.

Robbie nailed her in the hip with a short burst from the laser. How she ran!

The next time he used the laser was when a car going the other way didn’t stop for a school bus.

Robbie pulled out and turned around to chase the guy down, then put a nice gash along his trunk. Spwut‐wut‐ wut.

After that, he got on the freeway and was cut off by a pickup raised high off the ground. Robbie knew he couldn’t hit the truck, so he lined himself up with one of the tires. He hated those lifted trucks. They were so damn pretentious. He fired. At first, nothing happened, then suddenly, the tire burst, causing the driver of the truck to lose control. It swerved onto the median and rolled. Robbie looked at the truck as he whipped past.

Next time, don’t get a truck with such a high center of gravity.

About ten miles farther down the road, a low rider careened across three lanes, nearly running into Robbie’s truck. He fired. Spwut‐wut‐wut. The sparks popped off the back of the low rider. Strange, it didn’t seem to take as much metal as the last time. It couldn’t last forever. The laser needed a new CO2 charge. He shut it off, then headed toward home. Even if the laser was spent, it was well spent.

He removed the laser from his truck that evening, sorry there was no obvious way to recharge it, at least not any time soon. By the time he finally got his truck back to normal, it was almost eleven o’clock. Robbie was scheduled for maintenance at Larson Brothers in the morning. They were turning into great clients, so he didn’t want to be late.

It was driving on the freeway headed toward Larson Brothers that Robbie saw the blue pickup in his rear‐view mirror. With his own truck no longer armed with the laser, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

Normal patterns said that Asshole should cut in front, but that’s not what happened. Asshole pulled in behind Robbie. He wasn’t sure why until, in the rear‐view mirror, Robbie saw a wisp of smoke coming off the

16

FEBRUARY 2009 tailgate of his truck. What the…? Asshole has a laser?

Because he didn’t know what Asshole was firing, Robbie decided to end this confrontation, but there was a car in front of him, and a semi to his right. He passed under a freeway sign that said ‘17th Street, 1/4 mile.

Suddenly, Robbie’s foot decided to slam on the brakes.

Asshole swerved to avoid hitting Robbie’s black truck and ran into the concrete divider in the median. Robbie cut across three lanes of traffic and rolled down the 17th Street ramp. He never made it to Larson Brothers. His trip down the exit ramp was just too fast, and Robbie slammed into a telephone pole. All he could remember was that his legs hurt like hell.

The nurse wheeled Robbie into the rehab clinic and parked his wheelchair next to another patient in a wheelchair. She was blonde, probably in her mid‐ twenties, and gorgeous. “How’s your rehab coming?” he asked.

“Slow. I can stand now, but I can’t walk yet,” she said.

“I’m Robbie.”

They shook hands, and she said, “I’m Leslie. Your first time here?”

Sweet voice, too. “How did you know?”

She smiled. “I’ve been here every day since the accident, but it’s the first time I’ve seen you here.”

“I was in an accident, too. My truck met an angry telephone pole.”

Leslie laughed. “I wish I were so lucky. I was riding with my husband in his truck. It was a lifted truck, you know the kind I mean? With big wheels?”

Robbie nodded.

“The back tire blew out on the highway and the truck rolled. The cops said it looked like a laser cut the tire.”

Oh, shit. “A laser?”

She got a peculiar look in her eyes. “Didn’t you know that some nutcase is running around town shooting lasers at peoples’ cars? It’s been all over the news.”

Robbie tried to remain calm. Did he do that to this girl’s legs? “I haven’t watched the news in weeks. The cops say the back of my pickup truck was cut by a laser, and that caused my accident.”

“We’re like brother and sister, then.” Leslie closed her eyes and shook her head, then she started to cry.

“It’s not fair!” She pounded her fist on the arm of the wheelchair. “Why did they have to die, Robbie? That son‐of‐a‐bitch killed my husband and my baby. I hate that…” She sobbed uncontrollably.

Robbie was too stunned to say anything. He took the life of a baby, and tore a family apart before it had the chance to really get started. All those cars he nailed with the laser weren’t faceless assholes anymore. Now he had the face of a victim in his mind, and the death of an innocent baby on his conscience. He didn’t notice the physical therapist until she started wheeling his chair

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF across the room.

The therapy did not go well the first day. He couldn’t concentrate on his legs. He killed someone. A baby was dead. A family destroyed. A woman’s legs were crushed—a woman who didn’t know she was talking to the person she hated most in the world. How do you concentrate on yourself when you caused so much pain and suffering?

Robbie watched the news that evening for the first time in a long while. Three more laser incidents were reported on the highways today. Police estimate three unreported incidents occur for every reported incident, and at the current rate, there will be over fifty incidents each day by the end of the year.

The next day, more of the same—suffering the hatred of the beautiful woman who didn’t know she was talking to the man she hated, failing to put forth any effort in therapy, and watching the news in the evening. The police raided a black market auto‐laser operation and hope this will send a message to the rest of the city that arming vehicles will not be tolerated. The ring‐leader was a punk named Jed Parnavek. Police confiscated his blue pickup.

Five more incidents were reported in another part of town.

And so it went. Daily misery. The woman, Leslie, was released from therapy after six weeks, released to live her new life alone. Robbie progressed quickly once she was gone, and he was released four weeks later. He went back to work the following Monday.

“It’s good to see you back,” Sully said.

Robbie followed him to the RX27. The laser was down for repair, and had been out of service for a month.

Larson Brothers was desperate to get it back into production. Robbie spent the morning troubleshooting the tool, stopping only when Sully came by.

“Want to go to lunch?” Sully asked.

“Where?”

Sully waited as Robbie extracted himself from the tool.

“Manny’s Mexican on Third Street.”

“That’s kind of a seedy area, isn’t it?” Robbie stuffed the screwdriver he was using into his back pocket. “How’s the food?”

“Best in town.”

They took Sully’s car. The parking lot was nearly full, but they found a parking place in back. The back parking area was full of rocks and papers, with a dumpster against the wall of the building, and a chain link fence on the other side of the alley behind them. Robbie looked at Sully’s shop clothes and decided he looked at home here. Then he looked down at his own clothes. He probably fit in, too.

As they rounded the corner of the building, a young man wearing a leather jacket approached. “Hey, man,” he said. “You know anybody who wants to buy an under‐the‐ hood laser?”

Robbie looked at Sully, who had a look of disgust on his face. Turning his attention back to the man in the leather jacket, Robbie pulled the screwdriver from his pocket. No more families blasted apart. He lunged, stabbing the man fourteen times before Sully could stop him.

Rick Novy has flown satellites, manufactured surgical implants, tested integrated circuits, and mathematically simulated binaural sound. Rick is a graduate of the Orson Scott Card Literary Boot Camp. His fiction has appeared in Intergalactic Medicine Show, and Darker Matter.

Rick writes from his home in Arizona (it's a wry heat). Learn more at www.ricknovy.com.

OF NOTE ON THE

WWW

A few online curiosities that may be of interest to the sf reader include….SF CITATIONS FOR OED, at www.jessesword.com . It appears to be an ongoing project to identify first occurrences in written sf of various words, Oxford English Dictionary style. The amount of research evident here strikes me as huge. I happened to hit upon it when I was trying to find info on F.E. Hardart, author of this month’s pulp reprint “The Beast of Space.” While I found nothing out about Hardart, his story is cited as an early occurrence of the word “earthbound”… The ENCYCLOPEDIA OF SPECULATIVE FICTION at www.encyclopedia. wizards.pro. I’m not sure how I feel about this one, even though I have (for now anyway) placed a search‐ bar for it on my blog page. It’s a wiki‐type site for sf and fantasy, but it doesn’t appear that anyone really puts any content on it. I did not successfully come up with any articles on any search that I did. Even the articles on generic topics like “science fiction” are stubs. I’d like to support the idea, but I wonder if Wikpedia itself isn’t really the best place for this after all since I seldom fail to find an article on anything I want when I go there. Indeed, Wikipedia has become so expansive in the last couple of years, that I am startled when I do not find what I want there …the FREE SF READER at www.freesf.blogspot.com is one of

CONTINUED TO PAGE 25 17

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

MEL CARTAGENA This rather melancholy tale from Mel Cartagena delves into some frightening body horror as a victim of a random accident finds everything about his life—including what it even is to be alive—change out of all recognition.—CF The exposed wiring wasn’t truly the power company’s fault; the underground utility line carrying 15,000 volts of electricity was in fine working condition, had been tested and approved by the manufacturer, and was installed according to the standards of the National Electrician’s Union.

What happened was: first, the thin polyvinyl casing was not designed for prolonged low‐frequency stress.

Continuous jack hammering to reach subsoil, vibrations from giant excavators reaching for cable television, water and other utilities and then tamping after repacking the earth covering the utilities lines had caused a hairline stress‐fracture on the surface of the cable, which had simply expanded under the seasonal strain of frost heave and spring thaw.

Then, the constant traffic of the Chinatown district placed a lateral stress on the power line, which by now was kinked at odd angles throughout its length. One such bend on the line arced under a manhole cover, and exposed filaments that had been less than a quarter‐of‐an‐inch below the corrugated metal of the manhole. These were raised to the point of brushing the metal after an eighteen‐wheel truck drove by, scant seconds before Lalo Higgins walked by. He was on his way home, to tell his wife the news that he’d been given a raise at his job, and the manager at the Comicazi club was placing Lalo’s name at the top of the lists of stand up performers for Friday and Sunday night. His steps had an invigorating bounce that was cut short when the right heel of his shoe touched the manhole cover, and a brief jolt of concentrated voltage threw him fifteen feet in the air, to land headfirst on the street three feet from the fender of another truck, whose vibrations after slamming the brakes caused the filament to drop en eighth of an inch from the manhole cover, causing no one else but Lalo to be electrocuted

that day.

So it was really no one’s fault that Lalo had 15,000 volts of current race through his body in a tenth of a second. Even then the power company, afraid of a crippling lawsuit, intercepted Lalo’s wife before she could get a detailed explanation of what had occurred to her husband.

“He’s going to be okay. We’ve established that,” said Norman Swan, public relations expert for Toubriand‐ Lass Incorporated. “I mean, he’ll have to undergo some rehabilitation, but he’ll pull though Mrs. Higgins,” and he gave the woman a fast, sweet smile, courtesy of $1,300 worth of cosmetic dental surgery. “Together.”

“I don’t understand,” Keila Higgins said. She dropped her head and ran her tiny hands through her hair. “This is happening too fast.” She raised her head and looked up at the four men. “How do you know he’s okay if no one can go see him? I tried ten minutes ago.”

“We’re footing the bill ma’am,” Tom Kansas said genially, bowing to give her a kind smile that was hidden under his thick moustache, as red as the tufts of hair on

RELEARNING TOUCH

18

the sides of his head. “So we, uh, extorted some answers from the head doctor.”

“Who are you?” Keila said. She shook her head in irritation at the speed of everything developing around her.

I’m Tom Kansas, vice‐president of the Toubriand‐ Lass Corporation ma’am,” Tom said. He stepped to the side and gestured with his right hand to the men behind him. “This here’s Andrew Crane, our head of petrol‐ based products. Jason Grey, our attorney,” the two men, similar in suit, tie and shoes save for the severity in the attorney’s face against the sagging features of Andrew, nodded once at Keila. “And you’ve met Norman Swan, our boy in the image department. And as for why we’re here, well ma’am, we feel a tiny bit responsible for what happened to your husband. Now mind you, and our lawyer’s present,” Tom chuckled once after he said this, “I’m not saying we are responsible, but that we feel responsible.” He laced his hands behind his back. “You’d be amazed at how many people get those two mixed up and show up at our offices demanding money.” He laughed more openly, but immediately his eyes caught the lawyer’s. He gave Tom a subtle shake of his head, and Tom stopped laughing at once.

M-BRANE SF “What he’s trying to say ma’am,” Norman Swan said in intervention, having caught Jason’s headshake as well, “is that we’d like to help your husband, in exchange for him helping us.”

Keila looked up at Norman, forlorn. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand. How can he help you?”

Just then there was a brief commotion at the hospital entrance. A small group of reporters were almost to the glass partition separating the main hall from the waiting room, when hospital security, backed up by private guards brought by Toubriand‐Lass, intercepted the mass of men and women hoisting cameras and microphones.

Keila looked at them around Norman and Tom, watched the reporters raise the microphone over their heads as they shouted questions at Keila.

“That right there is one way to begin,” Norman said while cocking a thumb over his shoulder at the conglomerated press. “You can start by not talking to them.”

Keila looked at the rabble fighting for standing space, trying to aim their cameras at the inside of the waiting room while the beefy officers shoved them, and she shook her head in a shuddery reflex.

“Done,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “In fact, if you can keep them away from our home I’ll appreciate it.”

“We’ll do you and your husband one better Mrs. Higgins,” Norman said, and paused, like a comic about to deliver the punchline. “We’ll have you stay at one of our hotels while your husband recovers.”

Keila looked away from the press at Norman. “What?”

“You perceptively understood that they’ll hound you Mrs. Higgins. They’ll set up camp in front of your house, dig up whatever dirt they can find on you and your husband, disrupt your life,” Norman said, and shook his head in solemn disgust. “But with our help, we can escort you to one of the hotels our corporation has standing accounts with. Every comfort will be provided to you, and we’ll make sure it’s within walking distance from where your husband will be recovering.” Norman held out his hands toward Keila, then laced his fingers. “All we need from you is to stay away from the press, and for your husband to talk to us.”

“Why?” Keila asked. Norman’s tones and rhythms were soothing, and she’d given up on asking detailed questions.

“Well Mrs. Higgins,” Tom inserted himself again, “we want to know what happened. We want your husband’s tale, so we can learn from him, make sure our products are not only durable, but ahead of safety standards.” He gave a brief nod, as of dismissal, then stayed next to Norman looking at her. Keila wanted to ask more questions, make sure she didn’t get her husband into something complicated, but she was also overwhelmed.

They wanted to help; it was what registered with her, but she had another question.

FEBRUARY 2009 “Why are you doing all this?”

Tom looked gravely at the floor, and Norman Swan said, “It’s not the best of times for corporate conglomerates Mrs. Higgins. I think you could help us, uh, dispel some of the things they say about us.” He said nothing else, but Tom looked at Norman with mingled awe and pride for his simultaneous conciseness and vagueness. Keila only had one more question.

“When can you move him?”

They moved Lalo by helicopter that night, and placed him on a medical complex wing of the Horatio Lass research and development center, and established within an hour of Lalo’s arrival that he’d suffered mild trauma and concussion from his head injury. This was evaluated and treated in a routine way, while the doctors pondered over the damage done to his nervous system from the intense and brief current contact.

Impaired bio‐motor functions, diminished reflexes, loss of muscular control were some of the terms the doctors gave to the board of directors of Toubriand‐ Lass, who took these concerns over to their team of bio‐meds, who thought over the challenge long and hard, and presented a solution to the board of directors five days after Lalo’s arrival.

The solution, while not life‐threatening, failed to impress the board of directors. It was a technology barely out of the prototype stage, an intrusive device that had a limited success margin. The board of directors thought about it for five more days, then put the proposition to Lalo and his wife. They thought about it for four more days; by then the press had found another victim, a child electrocuted by a toy, and lost interest in searching for Lalo. Armed with this knowledge the board of directors returned to consult with Lalo on his decision; their collective tone lacked the warmth and friendliness of the previous occasion.

It implied they wanted an answer now.

Lalo agreed to undergo the procedure that afternoon, and early the next day he was put under general anesthetic.

A network of monofilaments of high receptivity was inserted through his major belly muscles, and linked to a bio‐silicate chip placed in a strategic position between the right atrium and right ventricle of his heart. It was Jumpstarted and its operation and use was explained to him two days later, when he complained about the humming noise in his room.

“It’s a support unit Mr. Higgins,” the nurse explained. “It’s for your neural aid.”

“What!?” Lalo said, in irritation and inquiry. He’d woken up twenty‐two hours earlier to the low‐ frequency hum inches from his bed, going crazy from the noise but too weak to do anything about it. Now

19

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF that he’d regained some strength he pressed the buzzer for the nurse, and drew the attention of the head neurosurgeon along the way.

“You were given a neural aid Mr. Higgins,” Doctor Jerry Kinn explained. “It’ll help you with basic functions. You see, your accident left you with a partially impaired nervous system. We gave it a boost.

Think of it as a pacemaker for your neural pathways.”

“What!? I’m going to be hooked to a machine for the rest of my life!?”

“Not al all Mr. Higgins, not at all,” Jerry Kinn said reassuringly. The voice didn’t go with the severe lines running down the doctor’s mouth and forehead. “It’s quite amazing in fact, your heart’s electrical impulses actually start the machine. It’s just that you came out of surgery, and we don’t want to place any undue strain on your heart just yet, hence,” the doctor signaled at the small lead box on a cart next to Lalo’s bed, from which the humming was emanating, “we got our generator doing your work for you.”

Lalo looked at the doctor’s severe face for a

“Almost?” Lalo asked with sarcasm.

“You have to understand Mr. Higgins,” the doctor said, “the chip that controls the network in your body is highly sensitive. It’ll pick up anything, and I mean pretty damn much anything that comes within a foot of you that emits magnetic pulse or small electrical discharges…”

“…So that means a goddamn cell phone or a kid with a remote control car will throw me out of whack,” Lalo explained to Keila.

“Don’t curse,” Keila said softly. “I don’t like it when you curse.” Her stare changed, became demure. “Are you sure it’s really going to be that way? There’s isn’t a teeny‐ weeny chance you’re exaggerating just a mite?”

While Lalo pondered her questions she fed him more gelatin. “I’m pretty much quoting what the doctor told me Keila,” Lalo said. “On the one hand it’s not too bad. He said things like that boost the chip, that it’s less work on my heart,” he said as he touched himself in the chest, feeling the incision scar through his pajama. Keila put the gelatin cup down on the tray and absently stroked her fingernails along Lalo’s forearm.

“Lal?” she said, so low that he didn’t hear her. His attention was on the television. The announcer said it was imminent a solar storm would hit the belt of the northern United States and southern Canada within four to six months. The broadcaster ended the report with the stern warning that major power outages and downed telecommunications systems were expected.

“Lalo?” Keila said, louder. He looked down at her, surprised to see she’d been touching him.

“Hm?” “Please don’t hate me,” she said, and Lalo sighed in impatience at her habit of assuming Lalo could draw conclusions from vague mumblings.

“Don’t start with me Keila. Just tell me what it is.”

“I, I’m the one that…” she took a breath, “I told them to go ahead and do this Lal.” “Do what?”

“This,” she waved at the elegantly antiseptic recovery room, then touched his chest where his hand had been a minute before. “This,” she repeated.

“Why am I going to hate you for this?” He asked, annoyed. He kept his tone gentle. “You saved me.”

“I don’t mean now,” she explained. “Later, when you try to get back to your…to the things you used to do.”

CAN YOU LOVE WITHOUT TOUCHING? moment, trying to separate the gentle, patient voice from the hard face. He looked away, saw the remote, and picked it up. He flicked on the television while asking, “So how much longer am I going to have to sleep with that noise next to my head?”

“Mmm, hard to say,” the doctor told him. “You’ll be under observation the next few days. Depending how you recover we’ll reduce or drop the dosage.” He chuckled at the private joke. Lalo looked away from the TV to look at the doctor’s stiff grin. The smile suddenly dropped; the doctor became serious. He looked at Lalo with such graveness that he turned his attention back to the television. A news broadcaster was announcing that a solar storm of medium to high magnitude might hit the earth in the 37 to 53 longitude range.

“Mr. Higgins,” the doctor said. He took a chair near the window and brought it next to Lalo’s bed. “I need to have a frank chat with you about the side effects of the procedure we did on you.” Lalo kept his head centered, but his eyes rolled toward the doctor’s face.

“Now wait, before you say anything hear me out,” the doctor said, reading the cold anger in Lalo’s eyes. “Now, what you have will help you with your daily functions almost as good as before the accident.”

20

M-BRANE SF “The things?” Lalo asked.

“Your job,” she explained. “Your stand up gigs at the club.” She was silent for a while, and Lalo almost wished the generator was still humming. “It’s going to be different now, and I don’t want you to hate me, because, because I think it might have been a mistake…” she leaned forward, her face inches away from Lalo’s chest. He pulled her to him and held her in silence.

“You forgot one thing.”

“What’s that?” Keila asked.

“Sex,” Lalo said. “Is it going to be the same as before, or better?”

She stayed in the same position for a moment, then pulled away and looked up at him, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. It became a full smile after their eyes locked, then she got up to lock the door while Lalo took off his pajamas.

It was different from before, and not in a good way.

Their combined arousal and raised pulses sent Lalo’s body into sudden jerks and spasm fits that simply could not be controlled because the bio‐chip fed on the tiniest impulse and amplified it through Lalo’s body. Keila kept apologizing, until Lalo’s embarrassment and anger sent a concentrated burst of pulse from Lalo that turned on the TV. Keila offered him oral sex to make up, but Lalo refused, and sulked into a troubled sleep.

Later that night, lying in the narrow bed with Keila snoring softly next to him, Lalo had the impression of someone calling to him. He swam between the dream state and wakefulness, ignoring a voice had to be a dream.

It was a pleasant sensation; the voice—rich and female— called from within Lalo’s body, his name reverberating through his bones. He stirred in the bed, smiling at nothing, feeling aroused, then the sensation of a presence coursing through him in a sensual way, then sudden embarrassment and surprise. His eyes snapped open, dead set on the TV screen and the words already fading in the black screen.

CAN YOU LOVE WITHOUT TOUCHING? Lalo sat up in bed, looking at the screen. He rubbed his eyes, looked again. It was just as black as before, the words becoming a faint unreliable memory. He could not remember turning off the TV; the only certain thing was the warm sensation of someone calling to him, a voice that invaded his body in an arousing way with the mention of his name. He rubbed his eyes again and looked around the room. The holographic clock on the wall read 12:01.

After four months on the medical facility Lalo was happy to be in front of the Seneca Café, holding open the door and greeting people like he used to.

His first night went fine. It was a slow Tuesday that didn’t put heavy demands on him, and caused him to dream of the future, of his return to the stage of the

FEBRUARY 2009 Comicazi bar and stand up club.

Lalo was working on material, writing snippets of dialogue and jokes in his battered notebook, when he felt the need to look up, a gentle nudge that came from within his mind. Past the tightly clustered buildings were the slanted poles of the announcer. The inverse‐ polarized, three‐hundred foot long poles forming a ninety‐degree angle to one another, and manipulating a field of color‐coded nanoflickers that gave arranged themselves into announcements visible from within ten miles of the poles.

When Lalo looked up the field there were cascading red, green and yellow colors, a commercial for tobacco chew whose time slot had just expired. The time solidified massive bright digits. 10:01 PM. Then, the nanoflickers rearranged themselves into a request.

TELL ME A JOKE. And Lalo knew without question that it was for him.

He looked around, feeling exposed, a sensation akin to being seen in public with someone you’d rather not. Two couples walked to the door and Lalo looked away from the sky to greet and hold the door for them. When he looked back at the field he saw the words JUST ONE PLEASE I HAVEN’T HEARD ONE IN A LONG TIME. Lalo looked around again, then up at the letters. Now it said YOU DON’T NEED TO SAY IT OUT LOUD JUST THINK IT I CAN HEAR YOU JUST LIKE YOU CAN HEAR ME. Lalo sighed, shook his head, and after another moment’s thought focused on a joke he read once in a magazine.

A woman visited her doctor for her annual exam. The doctor asked, “Are you and your husband sexually active?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “We have verbal sex every day.”

“Verbal sex? I think you mean oral sex.”

“I mean verbal sex,” the woman said. “Every morning my husband and I pass each other in the hall and say, ‘fuck you!’”

The sensation running through Lalo’s body was like tiny bass vibrations fluttering at random intervals, tickling his insides. Like robotic laughter, Lalo thought, and shivered, trying to shake the sensation off him. He couldn’t, but the thrumming gradually subsided, and when an impulse made Lalo look up again he saw TELL ME ANOTHER THAT WAS GOOD dominating the announcement field. A lone woman in leather and studs approached the door of Seneca and Lalo went to greet her. She went by, oblivious of him, and when he looked up he saw SHE WAS A BITCH NO MANNERS WHATSOEVER I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU DO A JOB LIKE THAT FOR PEOPLE WHO DON’T EVEN SEE YOU BUT CAN YOU TELL ME ANOTHER ONE THE LAST ONE WAS FUNNY. Lalo looked at the letters, varied in color and font, that cascaded out of view as soon as they were generated.

21

M-BRANE SF Who are you? He asked without using his voice, understanding instinctively he didn’t need to.

I’M LONELY. I meant what’s your name, Lalo thought in response to the voice.

THAT’S WHAT I AM I WHAT I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN IF I LOOKED LIKE A MOVIE STAR OR HAD A VOICE LIKE A SINGER MAYBE I’D CALL MYSELF SOMETHING DIFFERENT BUT MY ONLY QUALITY IS TO SEE AND HEAR AND NOTHING ELSE SO I CALL MYSELF LONELY I THINK ITS EXPRESSIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE NOW HOW ABOUT ANOTHER JOKE. “Hey! Buddy. You feel like earning a tip tonight?” A large man in fluorescent shirt and pastel wide pants stood by the door flanked by two women with vacuous eyes framed by thick black hair.

“Oh, sorry. Welcome to Seneca,” Lalo said as he went over to get the door for them. The man flicked a bill at Lalo as he went in and the two women giggled with their backs turned. Lalo pocketed the ten dollar bill and looked up again.

THOSE WERE AWFUL PEOPLE SOMETIMES I’M GLAD I’M LONELY AND NO ONE CAN SEE ME I DON’T THINK I CAN STAND THAT KIND OF TREATMENT YOU SUFFER‐ What are you!? Lalo interrupted angrily, upset at the relentless presence.

I CAN’T REMEMBER BEING BORN OR IF I AGE OR WHEN I BECAME AWARE OF MYSELF SAVE THE FACT THAT I FEEL FEMALE IN PSYCHOLOGICAL MAKE UP AND HAVE A VORACIOUS CURIOSITY FOR EVERYTHING BUT COULDN’T COMMUNICATE WITH ANYONE UNTIL I FELT YOU ACROSS THE VOID AND‐ Slow down! Lalo ordered. Her speed demanded focus, and this time he failed to hear a lone woman waiting for him to open the door, or her threat to complain to the manager about his behavior as she let herself in.

I DON’T KNOW HOW I CAME TO BE. I JUST KNOW THAT I EXIST IN THE WAVES GOING THROUGH THE AIR. I’M IN EVERY NEWS BROADCAST, ANNOUNCEMENT OR SONG THAT TRAVELS THE AIRWAVES, AND FOR SOME REASON THE PULSE DIFFUSION IS JUST RIGHT FOR ME TO APPROACH PEOPLE BETWEEN 10:00 AND 12:00 AT NIGHT. BUT NOBODY COULD HEAR OR FEEL ME BECAUSE I LIVE ON A VERY HIGH FREQUENCY, UNTIL YOU. “What do you‐“ Lalo started to ask out loud, then stopped just as a large group was approaching. He held the door and each man held out a bill for him as they went in. He counted the money, and as he pocketed it he asked, what do you mean until me?

YOU CAN HEAR ME. YOU CAN FEEL ME ANYWAY. WE’RE ON THE SAME WAVELENGHT, SO TO SPEAK. WE’RE THE SAME. We’re not the same, Lalo argued, I’m a person,

22

FEBRUARY 2009 though he sent this statement to Lonely without conviction. I eat, breathe, sleep, have sex, Lalo added with deliberate gloating. He looked up at the screen, but the characters were gone, replaced with a toothpaste commercial. Lalo felt a tremor of guilt, and then anger at himself for feeling guilt. He tried to concentrate on his work for the rest of the night, though every once in a while, as he greeted people, he felt himself looking at people through different eyes.

The size of the crowds at Seneca Café increased over the next three days, culminating with a packed salon on Friday, and Lalo’s first attack since leaving the clinic.

Nearly every patron inside had a cell phone, pager or ambient simulator implant in their heads, hundreds of tiny pulses acting all at once on Lalo’s bio‐chip. His arms jerked spastically and he lost control of his legs. Seven women dialed 911 thinking he was having an epileptic seizure on the front door of Seneca’s.

Lalo tried to explain that he’d be okay if they’d turn off their devices, but he bit his tongue three times as his head bounced on the pavement. He was taken to the thickly padded manager’s office to recover on the couch.

When he felt better he explained what happened.

“Lalo you have to see I’m against the wall here,” Riddick Samms explained, a former wrestler who gravitated toward club ownership after an injury in the ring ended his career. “You’ve done a good job Lalo.

There’s no arguing that. But, Jesus, you gave everyone a scare out there tonight kid. I’m going to have to work like a dog to kill the rumors already going around that you OD’d on coke.”

“I’m sorry Rid,” Lalo said. It was all he could say. He knew what was coming.

“Not as sorry as I feel right now,” Riddick said “,’cause there’s only one way to solve this. I can’t tell the customers to switch off their toys in here Lalo.” He put up his large hands toward Lalo. “It’s part of the hipness of the club. But you’ll be okay, I can feel it. You got a hidden talent, and this is your chance to work on it. Like me and wrestling. I was a damn good wrestler. I was on my way to a nice career until that high‐wire match messed up my back for good, but then my girlfriend showed some plans for a saloon while I was recovering, and right away I knew the design was all wrong, and that’s how I found out about my other talent, about how to design…”

“I’m sorry Lal, I really am,” Keila said, kneading the muscles in his neck. “But we’ll be okay. I’m bringing enough from the beauty salon, and you’re getting the stipend from the corporation for those tests they run on you once in a while.” She switched her hands to his upper back and her face brightened up.

“You know what? Now you can spend more time on your act Lal,” she said as she massaged him. Lalo sat on the edge of the bed, facing the entertainment system. The

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF television suddenly came on loudly, and Lalo tensed up.

“Oh, sorry,” Keila said, feeling the change in his body.

“I hit the remote with my knee. Didn’t mean to startle you.

Is there anything you want to watch?”

Lalo didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the model selling ambient simulators.

“But my favorite of all places,” the blond woman on the television said with a lip‐splitting grin, “is the limbo setting.” She pressed a point in the back of her skull and swooned, “To drift away and become nothing, feel nothing, be weightless and free like ether.” She suddenly looked right at Lalo, and said, “To visit this place that only you and I can go, because we are one and the same.”

“Shut up,” Lalo said impulsively.

“I was just asking a question,” Keila said. “You don’t have to snap at me.”

Lalo reached for the remote and turned off the television, then pushed Keila on her back on the bed.

“We’re not the same,” he mumbled as he began to pull her shirt open, tearing off the pink buttons in his haste.

“Lal, slow down,” Keila said as she reached for his shirt.”

Lalo unzipped and pulled down her pants, feeling his muscles twitch as the anger built up inside. “I’m not like you,” he said as he reached for his own pants.

“Lal, what are you talking about?”

“Shut up and spread!” Lalo ordered. “I’ll show her.”

“Lal, you’re scaring me,” Keila said, holding Lalo by the shoulders, feeling the tension and rising vibrations under his skin.

“I’m not like you,” Lalo insisted. “I can fuck.” He tried to insert himself in her, but his angry pulse and her scared heartbeat began to work on him, and his body started to twitch uncontrollably. The veins in his neck stood out with his effort to control his body.

“Lalo, don’t!” Keila screamed as he fell on her in a shaking fit. His body rolled to the side and she immediately rolled off the bed.

“Don’t go,” he croaked at her, the chronic shaking causing him trouble speaking. “I can do it. I‘m not like her!” Keila looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t try to fight it honey,” she told him between sobs. “I’m sorry, but it’s only going to get worse. Relax and

it’ll go away, then we can talk,” and she ran out of the bedroom. Lalo continued to fight it. His eyes fastened on the TV, and he unwittingly focused his anger in a pulse wave that shattered the screen.

Lalo managed to roll face down on the bed and he stayed there, panting, letting a reluctant calm wash over him.

He damaged a lot more than the television.

He didn’t realize it until he finally got up from the bed, twenty minutes later, and walked across the apartment toward the kitchen. He saw a mass of cars three blocks away from his second floor kitchen window, and stopped, curious to see cars lined from half a mile back to the very edge of the four‐ way intersection. After a few seconds he learned the traffic light was not working. A glance beyond the traffic jam showed him the office buildings a mile away had no lights, and the announcer was not working, the angled poles stood glaring in the sun useless. He realized he could not hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the microwave screen was blank.

There was a knock on the door, simultaneous with a gruff voice at the other end.

“Mr. Higgins,” the voice demanded, “open up Mr. Higgins.

We gotta talk.”

Lalo opened the door and the tall, heavyset form of Damen Holmes let himself in without waiting for invitation.

“Mr. Higgins,” the black man said in his heavy Barbados accent.

“I ain’t never had a complaint about you, and that’s the truth.

Always pay the rent on time, don’t sneak pets in here like I caught your wife doing that time, and don’t give me no grief.”

Lalo sighed and leaned against the windowsill, already sensing what the landlord was leading to. He didn’t try to argue.

“Now, when you went and told me they put something in from your accident,” Damen said, moving his arms in exaggerated chops to emphasize his point, “something that made you do crazy things, I was like, ‘cool, cool. He alive.’ But then you go and do something

I DON’T KNOW HOW I CAME TO BE. I JUST KNOW THAT I EXIST IN THE WAVES GOING THROUGH THE AIR. I’M IN EVERY NEWS BROADCAST, ANNOUNCEMENT OR SONG THAT TRAVELS THE AIRWAVES…

23

M-BRANE SF like that!” He jabbed at the air with both arms, signaling at the power outage he’d caused with one angry pulse burst. “Well, that’s not good. That’s bad for you, and for me too. And Barbara, she angry now,” he stared at Lalo, his face making an amusing contrast between his white hair and moustache and black features. “Oh boy, she missing her soap opera.” He shook his head. “Not good for nobody. Now, I really feel rotten doing this, even more because I know you haven’t worked for a while, but maybe you need a place where the electronics are protected for, for any kind of surcharge. See what I mean? A place where you can go crazy if you need to and such stuff…”

Damen gave Lalo seven months to find new housing. Lalo found himself going on long walks. He told himself he walked in hopes of finding Keila on the streets, who was not at her mother’s house, but he deliberately made sure to be awake between 10 and 12 at night, even though he didn’t know where else to go look for Keila.

Lonely approached him six nights after he caused the power outage. you won’t even apologize after hurting me? She asked him. Lalo sensed her apprehensive attitude in his body, in the way the words resonated within him. It was a subdued threnody, a gentle vibrating in his bones that didn’t jar him like the time she introduced herself on the announcer. can’t you at least admit to being wrong about what I said?

Lalo walked on, eyes downcast, ignoring her voice.

In his mind her pleas took the form of green neon characters, so gentle in tone that he could not see capitals in her words. you’re only hurting yourself Lalo. they’re casting you aside little by little.

Lalo stopped, looked up at the starless night. He sensed her eyes there. Leave me alone, he told Lonely, shut UP! At first there was no response Lalo could feel, then a pink, warm sensation invaded his body. He shuddered at the soulless and intimate touch; he was back in the medical complex, the first night Lonely approached him, and he shook his body angrily.

Get off me! Lalo shouted at her soundlessly, this is rape! can you love without touching? Lonely asked. Lalo started throwing himself against the wall of an apartment building, feeling the rough brick surface against his clothes. After a minute the sensual touch left him, and Lalo was panting against the wall, looking around him. you’re not ready yet, Lonely said to him, a hint of sadness in the tones dissipating inside Lalo’s body.

24

FEBRUARY 2009

By the time he was scheduled to perform at the Comicazi, a community notice telling of Lalo’s electromagnetic abilities had been covered in local news networks, along with repeated warnings on the announcer, to the effect such person should be banned from social establishments to avoid risk of severe damage to electronics and appliances.

Lalo confronted Mitch Tubbins, the manager, in front of the club. He was polite but fearful; despite numerous newscasts warning of Lalo’s true capabilities, rumors about lightning shooting from his fingertips had reached Mitch’s ears, and now he talked to Lalo in soothing tones, having chosen rumors over facts.

“I can’t Lalo,” Mitch said, looking up at Lalo with pleading sad grey eyes. “It’s not really up to me anymore.

The zoning law says you’re a fire hazard.”

Lalo insisted, trying to explain his situation to Mitch and growing angrier at his refusal to listen to facts, until Lalo accidentally blasted the neon display in front of the club. Mitch cowered behind his two bouncers and shouted for the police, while Lalo ran before they got there.

He went through the streets without a particular destination, becoming aware only when he saw police.

There were an extra number of officers on duty, and Lalo assumed they were looking for him.

He made it to the city limits, and found himself sitting on a rock on a plateau of Mount Rone, with a transmission tower behind him. He sat for a long time by himself, watching a bulletin on the announcer, about Lalo being wanted for willful damage of private property. The announcer exhorted people to call the police if Lalo was spotted.

Gradually he became aware of another presence enveloping him, a presence that had been there for some time.

All right, Lalo said, you win. why does it always have to be win or lose with you men? Lonely said in bickering tones.

Lalo shrugged. What do you want me to say then? just that I was right, Lonely said. Lalo could feel the tartness in her voice as she said this. He shrugged again.

You were right. I can’t love without touching. And you were right about them too, Lalo nodded his head toward the city lights, they’re after me for what I am, what they made me. never mind that, Lonely told him, can you love?

Why do you ask that! i want to hear you say it.

Lalo inhaled deeply, sighed as deeply. Yes, he told her.

I can love. I can love you. I want to love like you, to feel loved like you make me feel. Lalo felt a great weight lifted off him as he admitted this to himself. He already felt Lonely’s ethereal embrace on him.

What do I do now? Lalo asked her. I can’t go back

M-BRANE SF there, and I can’t touch you either.

She didn’t answer right away, and yet Lalo could feel an aura of feminine contempt hang over him. It reminded him of Keila’s obstinate vagueness. He felt that she wanted more humility from him.

Can you help me? Lalo asked her. the storm, Lonely told him. Lalo stared at the particle charged air. the solar storm silly! Lonely explained. it’s tonight. that’s why there’s more policemen tonight. did you think they were for you? silly boy. now, do as I say and we’ll be together.

Yes, Lalo sighed. forever.

Yes, Lalo replied, and then listened. After a minute of sitting with his head cocked to one side he got up and walked toward the transmission tower. Lalo laid hands on one of the orange‐painted struts and waited. The announcer gave the time as 10:40 PM.

At that time Keila was asking Damen Holmes of Lalo’s whereabouts. He started to tell her how he had no choice but to send her husband packing after he left their grid of the city without power, and Keila cut him off, demanding to know where he’d gone to.

The trail led to the Comicazi, where Mitch didn’t know where he’d gone to, but told her in exaggerated detail about Lalo’s attack on his club. By then it was night, and extra policemen were patrolling the streets for the expected riots the power outages the extreme‐classified solar storm would bring.

Keila walked away from Mitch while he was in the middle of telling her about the fistfight he got into with Lalo. The time was 10:50 PM. At 10:57 PM eastern standard time the solar storm hit the surface of the planet, creating a major disruption in the earth’s magnetic field. Power was lost from Toronto down to Newark, from western Massachusetts to western Illinois, temporarily disabling telecommunication services for 52 million customers in the northeast, and unleashing a series of organized looting riots in major cities from New York to Chicago.

In the midst of the police barricades, chemical bullets, directional sound crowd controllers, dragnets, arrests and brutality, Keila remembered the place where Lalo first proposed marriage to her, and she weaved her way out of the violence to the foot of Mount Rone. From the plateau the city was a swirling chaos of scattered smoke columns, diffuse lights and continuous updates on the announcer.

Keila reached the flat white rock where Lalo had sat earlier. She looked around her, and on impulse walked to the base of the tower. Ever since she saw the news announcement about Lalo she had pushed the thought of suicide out of her mind, until she could no longer avoid it.

She went to the tower with hesitant tiny steps, but found

FEBRUARY 2009 nothing that hinted of a person jumping from a high place.

All she found after going once around the base was a set of hair‐fine wires attached a small chip with Lalo’s name on it.

Meanwhile, at stratospheric level, entwined in the company of Lonely, with unblinking eyes that could see across the curvature of the earth, Lalo watched the violence unfold, and was glad he could not call himself human anymore.

Mel Cartagena describes himself thus: “Born in New York, raised in Puerto Rico, currently living in Massachusetts. I have had my short fiction on nonfiction published in a number of magazines in the U.S. and Canada.

Currently searching for a publisher for my novels (take note out there, readers/ publishers.) Also working on putting together an independently produced movie. Like snowboarding, browsing used bookstores, sushi, Latin/Italian food, jogging, movies, and slow time in good company.”

OF NOTE ON THE WWW (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 17)

a number of blogs maintained by voracious Aussie sf lover Blue Tyson, and it is an enormous collection of science fiction. New stories are added almost daily and often in large numbers daily. Links are available here to other places of Tyson’s like a NOT free sf reader and also to Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine… writer Jeff Kozzi’s site at www.kozzi.us contains one of the most elaborate guides to a writer’s own fictional universe that I have seen on any writer’s site. He has devised a milieu called the Sivil Galaxi, and its worlds and races and situations are lovingly detailed here with histories of worlds, deep detail on the nature of species, drawings, and more. I first learned of it when Kozzi submitted a Sivil Galaxi tale to M­Brane. I didn’t take the story because I didn’t feel it was stand‐alone enough, and then I felt a bit bad about it after he told me that the very same story usually gets rejected for its sexual theme, the main thing that I did like about it. There’s certainly a lot of PG‐13 mentality in the zine world, and I sympathize with him as far as the challenge of placing a story that gets anywhere near sex. So, I thought I could at least

(CONTINUED TO PAGE 29)

25

M-BRANE SF

JASON EARLS The wind was extremely fast and harsh, so Vince cupped his hand around his lighter and bent forward to light his cigarette, which took him several tries before he succeeded. He sat back inhaling some of the precious tobacco smoke and blew it out where it was quickly ate up by the blistering autumn wind.

“Are you supposed to be smoking?” Rich said, sitting beside Vince in the back of the truck.

“Of course not, but they can’t see me back here,” Vince replied, smiling and holding his cigarette low.

“I can’t believe you got that lit, it’s so damn windy riding back here.”

“My lithe hands are capable of many intense wonders, even in the rickety wind,” said Vince.

Rich and Vince were step‐brothers. Vince’s father had married Rich’s mother about four years ago. They were both the same age, 15, and had a good rivalry going. Presently they were traveling to Boomer Lake in the back of Vince’s father’s “wrecker.” They were sitting on a long black leather couch that spanned the width of the flat truck bed, pressed up against the back of the cab. Vince and Rich were both embarrassed to be seen in public riding on the tattered black couch that Vince’s father had put there, but the old man could kick both their asses in a millisecond, so they didn’t have much choice in the matter.

Rich watched Vince smoking for a few seconds, then looked down at the lighter that Vince was still holding.

Out of nowhere, Vince’s face quickly scrunched up and he grabbed hold of his stomach. Rich heard a low growl rumble from the dark regions of Vince’s bowels, then – still scowling as if in pain – Vince said, “Hey Rich, watch this.” He leaned back and threw both his long legs up high into the air, then held his lighter close to his asshole and flicked it on. A loud fart erupted from his rectum and the whooshing wind caught the methane

26

gas which produced a long flame that shot out over four feet in a blow‐torch like expanse of brilliant red fire.

Rich jerked back quickly so that he would not be burned. After the flame died down, he grinned and said, “Awesome! You always seem to have a lot of gas in your intestines, Vince. Is that why you can get the flames to shoot out so far?”

Vince leaned back up to his normal sitting position, grinning broadly, quite proud of his handiwork. “Yeah, I got a lot of gas from those damn Taco Bell burritos we ate earlier. Plus the passing wind from the highway really spurs on the flames. Plenty of practice helps too.

I’ve been lighting my farts for years now. There is a certain technique you have to develop to produce a large high‐ quality blast. But lately I noticed the high‐wind phenomenon you just witnessed and wanted to show you in case you ever need to produce a blow‐ torch‐like flame.”

Rich frowned and scratched his temple. “But why would I ever NEED a flame like that, Vince? I thought you simply lit your farts for entertainment purposes only.”

“Oh no, there may be a time in a man’s life when he really requires a powerful flame like that. He may have to use the technique in self‐defense, or to save his life in some odd manner.”

“Hmmm, maybe you’re right.” Rich said, pondering the matter deeply since he was in a pensive philosophical mood that day.

“Of course I’m right,” Vince said, puckering his lips and inhaling a large quantity of cigarette smoke.

The stepbrothers became quiet and sat in the back of the wrecker racing down the highway toward Boomer Lake. They stared out at the dry yellow Texas desert land for awhile, Vince enjoying his cigarette, while Rich rubbed his hands together in a circular hand‐washing motion for no reason at all, still cogitating on self defense methods with large expanses of fire.

What about Rich and Vince’s physical appearances? I haven’t described them to you yet, have I? Okay,

DEATH OF THE FLYING HUMANOID

For some reason, when I am looking for something to read, I seldom gravitate toward out­and­out comedy (though I do like it once in a while), and I wouldn’t generally think of seeking out a story that leans pretty heavily on a fart joke. But here is Jason Earls’ “Death of the Flying Humanoid” anyway. It’s vivid, energetic, colorful and funny, and it probably provides a few minutes of relief from the deep seriousness of some of this month’s other entries while, in the end, making a valid point.—CF

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

here goes.

They both had shoulder‐length hair since they |-------------12-----------------------12--| wanted to be Rock Stars when they grew up. |----------10----10-----------------10-----| Vince’s hair was jet black while Rich’s was pure |--------7----------7-------------7--------| |-----11--------------11-------11----------| blond. The wind was whipping their long hair |---9--------------------9---9-------------| into their faces and they wished they had a ghetto |-7------------------------7---------------| blaster nearby for some musical recreation, but they had already drained the batteries so they left |-10-7----7------------------| the unit at home. Nevertheless, music was never |------10---10---------------| far from their minds and they began discussing |--------------9-7-6-7-6-----| old 80's guitar players: |------------------------7---| |--------------------------9-| “Who do you think is the better guitar player, |----------------------------| Yngwie or Vai?” Rich asked.

“Yngwie, no doubt about it.” Vince said.

“Why is that?” ~~ “He just has more personality to his playing |---------------------------------------------| than Vai does,” Vince said. “You can always tell |---------------------------------------------| |---------------------------------------------| it’s Yngwie behind the strings just by listening to |-7-7/9-9-9/6-6-6/7-7-7/6-6-6/4-4-4/6-6-6/2-2-| his vibrato for half a second. Also I think he’s |---------------------------------------------| much faster and more technical than Vai.” Vince |---------------------------------------------| flicked away his cigarette. ~ “Faster maybe, but not more technical,” Rich |---------------------------------12-12--| responded in a haughty tone. |----------------------------------------| Occasionally Rich and Vince would lapse into |----------------------------11-11-------| |-12/14-12/14-12/14-12-11-12-------------| deep conversations about guitar playing since |----------------------------------------| they were both trying to master that particular |----------------------------------------| instrument. Rich was more advanced on guitar than Vince because he practiced more often, but T T T T T T T T ~~ Vince had been making some rather large strides |-19-12-19-12/14-21-14-21-14\12-19-12-19-12/10-17-10-17-10/7-| in his playing lately. |------------------------------------------------------------| Vince’s father picked up speed in the wrecker, |------------------------------------------------------------| |------------------------------------------------------------| the wind was blowing harder now, they almost |------------------------------------------------------------| had to yell to hear one another. |------------------------------------------------------------| “Yngwie repeats himself too much,” Rich said, punctuating the air with an awkward fist. “Most of his solos on his latest album sound exactly the same from one song to the next. He seems to be falling into a set pattern lately. He’ll do a freakin’

pedal point lick at the beginning, then go into some “I like the slides in the middle and the tapping part at descending fours in a harmonic minor scale next, bend a the end,” Vince said, “but arpeggios like the one at the high note for two bars applying extremely wide vibrato, beginning are usually too hard to play fast and clean in a then he’ll repeat that same pattern in the next song. live situation. The stretch is too difficult and many Almost every solo of his now is a copy of the one before.” guitarists nowadays just mush the notes together until “I don’t agree,” Vince said. “Yngwie’s solos are all very they are almost completely inaudible.” different, you just have to pay close attention to the “You’re right, but I always make sure to play my minute subtleties is all. Plus Vai has too much of that arpeggios a little bit too slowly, just so people in the corny Zappa influence and his damn songs sound like audience can hear all the notes and to execute the lick jokes most of the time.” with maximum articulation.”

“You’re the one who needs to listen closer if you think “Congratulations to you,” Vince said.

Vai sounds like that now,” Rich said. “Hey, I’ve been “Thanks, Mr. Sarcastic Jackass.” meaning to ask you, what do you think of this guitar lick?”

“You’re welcome.”

Rich put his long index finger in the air and traced out The wrecker suddenly took a sharp turn and Vince the guitar tablature for the following lick (when his finger and Rich were both almost thrown off the side of the made the motion in the air, green lines were visible and truck, but they caught themselves and braced Vince could read them perfectly): appropriately. When they sat back up, Rich saw a

27

M-BRANE SF fluorescent green spot flying off in the distance.

“Hey, what’s that over there?”

“Where?” Vince asked.

“Over there, flying around by the hills.”

The small green spot was hovering above the horizon, outlined in red next to the clay hills. Whatever it was, it seemed to be moving in their direction.

“Holy shit, what is that thing? It’s flying!” Vince said.

“I think it’s one of those flying humanoids,” Rich said in a totally calm voice. “I’ve been hearing a lot about them on the news lately. They say they’ve been appearing in many different forms in different countries around the world.”

“What are they called again?” Vince asked, squinting and shading his eyes to get a better look.

“Flying humanoids. They’re like UFO’s except they don’t use any saucers or spaceships. They just fly around using their bodies instead of vehicles.”

“Flying humanoids, huh. I’ve never even heard of them. Boy, that one sure is moving fast. And it seems to be coming right toward us.”

The flying humanoid got closer and they saw the thing fully enshrouded in a green and red cape with yellow stripes and obscure occult symbols. They could tell something was wrong with its face even from a considerable distance; its visage seemed somewhat mangled and porous looking. Rich and Vince sat there with the wind whipping their long hair around as they watched the flying humanoid soar closer and soon their eyes became progressively larger from extreme fear.

“IT’S COMING RIGHT FOR US!” Rich screamed.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GONNA DO?” “I don’t know... We better tell my Dad!” Vince turned around and pounded on the rear window of the truck, he screamed at his parents but he could hear the radio blaring and saw Rich’s mother inside talking her head off as usual, so he couldn’t get their attention. He knew he didn’t have much time so he gave up and tried to think of another way to escape from the unknown humanoid creature whizzing toward them. He thought they might have to jump off the wrecker as it traveled 75 mph down the highway.

Soon the flying humanoid was hovering a few feet over the flat bed of the truck with Rich and Vince lying far back on the couch, staring up at it, shaking with terror. They both looked up at the flying humanoid’s long thin body and noticed its horrific face with two small mouths side by side and three eyes above it in a straight row; the eyes on the outside were green, the one inside bright yellow, all of them the same size and perfectly symmetrical. The flying humanoid opened both its mouths simultaneously and inside were small razor sharp piranha teeth; the humanoid’s octagonal head was shaved totally bald except for a triangle of metal and electrical protrusions sticking out the top – so it seemed it was also part android. The two wannabe

28

FEBRUARY 2009 Rock Stars were both amazed and terrified lying below the flying humanoid and felt their lives would soon be coming to an end.

After hovering for a few seconds so they could fully absorb its disturbing otherworldly appearance, the flying humanoid descended and lifted its robe slightly to reveal its feet with long red alien talons. Vince screamed and tried to jump over the side of the truck but the flying humanoid used its talons to grab his hair and picked him up and flew off at a high rate of speed.

Rich screamed watching his friend vanish with the horrible creature and thought he would soon be next.

The flying humanoid flew so quickly Rich didn’t even see which direction it had flown in, but when his screams died down, he saw it land in the center of the highway with Vince now totally unconscious. The wrecker was still speeding away, but Rich watched as the flying humanoid stood still in the road laughing menacingly with both its duel mouths. It raised one arm and effortlessly ripped off the top of Vince’s head and dumped the contents onto the highway. He scooped up the brains and threw them into his dual mouths and chewed away, all the while staring directly at Rich, who was now so scared he couldn’t move or scream. Rich turned around and looked at his parents through the window, but they were still driving and smiling with the radio blaring and had noticed nothing unusual so far.

He had to think of a way to defend himself if the flying humanoid came for him next. What could he do? He closed his eyes and tried to think. He didn’t want to see the unknown creature anymore, even if it came back for him. He decided he would not look at it. But how could he fight something so evil and powerful? What could he use as a weapon? His friend and stepbrother was dead now.

The flying humanoid had ripped his head off with absolute ease. What the bejeesus is happening in the world today, Rich thought. Where are all these unknown creatures coming from? He wondered if Vince’s father, who really was a true badass, would be able to fight the thing and have any kind of chance. But Rich couldn’t get his parents’ attention. They never paid attention to kids anyway.

Finally Rich opened his eyes and saw the flying humanoid about a hundred feet away coming toward him. He needed a weapon. Anything. He wished he had his electric guitar, he could bash the flying humanoid’s brains out with that definitely. He remembered Vince lighting his fart earlier and the huge blowtorch‐like flame he’d produced. That would be a good weapon. He looked over and saw the lighter laying in the bed of the truck. He grabbed it and raised his legs and grunted but felt no gas in his intestines. Then he saw a can of gasoline in a far corner of the truck bed, grabbed it and unscrewed the cap. He lifted it up and drank in a big mouthful. He watched the flying humanoid gradually soaring closer and secretly brought the lighter up close to his mouth

M-BRANE SF until the creature was within firing range. Just as the flying humanoid was going to transition into supersonic speed and grab him up with its red alien talons, Rich cupped his hands around the lighter, flicked it on, and sprayed the gas out of his mouth as hard as he could. A gigantic fireball shot out and engulfed the flying humanoid and it exploded, KABOOM. Instead of simply burning up and dying however, Rich watched thousands of tiny flying humanoids erupt from the explosion and fly off in every direction as they emitted high‐pitched squeals. Just what the world needed, thousands more flying humanoids to grow and spread more disaster and destruction over the planet.

Rich gasped at the terror he had unleashed. But at least he was safe now. That’s all he really cared about subconsciously. He leaned over and lay down in the pickup bed. Closed his eyes, huffing and puffing, slightly in shock and almost exhausted. He tried to spit out the remnants of the gas in his mouth, but the strong taste would stay there over the next few days. Thankfully, none of the miniature flying humanoids returned to harass him that day.

Later, when they finally arrived at Boomer Lake, his parents asked where Vince was. Rich tried to explain what had happened with the flying humanoid but his parents did not believe a word of his story. They called the police and instigated a search party for Vince but of course he was never found since the flying humanoid had killed him and ate his brains. And Rich was forever filled with anxiety from that day forward. He watched the news obsessively for mention of any flying humanoids since he knew he’d accidentally released a plague of miniature ones upon the world, which he suspected would soon grow to fruition and take over the earth. But he never saw any of them again, because when the flying humanoids grew up, they decided planet Earth was far too disgusting to actually live on and took up residence in another solar system.

Jason Earls is author of the books Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Red Zen, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy, If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); } and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Yankee Pot Roast, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover’s books, Mathworld, Thirteen, Chiaroscuro, Dogmatika, Neometropolis, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG’s Speculative Fiction, AlienSkin, Escaping Elsewhere, Recreational and Educational

FEBRUARY 2009 Computing, Theatre of Decay, Nocturnal Ooze, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, and other publications. He currently resides in Texas with his wife, Christine.

OF NOTE ON THE WWW (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 25)

give him a plug here…I’ve mentioned this before on my blog, but it bears another mention: Clonepod at www.clonepod.org is a super cool audio fiction site hosted by siblings Forrest and Abby who provide intros to sf short stories in the form of podcasts. They are very well done and fun to listen to. The whole thing’s sometimes positively cute, actually. During the introduction to the 11/22/08 segment, Forrest and Abby express their glee over the election of President Obama. “Yay, now other countries will play with us again!” says Abby. Though these guys are pretty young and welcome a young audience to their pod‐zine, Clonepod’s fiction selections are in no way immature or particularly kid‐oriented. They offer their wonderful content for free (and pay their writers), but they accept much‐deserved donations via Pay Pal… David Langford’s Ansible, readable at www.ansible.co.uk, is a compulsively readable sf news zine. The Hugo‐ winning Langford has been publishing this newsletter of sf goings‐on since 1979. What’s pretty cool about the website is that you can look up every issue of it all the way back to #1 in 1979. You can even hit a button that calls up a random back issue…Rick Kleffel’s Agony Column at www.bookotron.com is a real treasure chest for people who like to listen to writers talk about their craft. The site features (in addition to book reviews and copious book‐related news) a huge audio archive of Kleffel’s interviews with scores of writers. Some items I called up recently were interviews with Brian Herbert, Kim Stanley Robinson and Ian McDonald, as well as a recording of one of Harlan Ellison’s bombastic, sometimes funny and sometimes horrifying convention speeches. I’m the kind of reader who likes it when a writer provides some insight into his or her work, so this is really great… The Mindwebs archive

(CONTINUED TO PAGE 43)

29

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF The frustrating situation in which the protagonist of this tale finds himself seems like it could one day pass from fiction into fact.

Recently, I listened to a discussion on the radio about the topic of intellectual property, proprietary secrets and corporate security which suggested some alarming possibilities that might be on the way. Hopefully it won’t go this far.—CF

The subway station was crammed to capacity as usual, and no one seemed to notice the omnipresent holographic ads crying out for attention. Tired as he was, Dennis Lymington was relieved he only had to wait a few moments for the next subway car and even happier to find a seat – he hated having to stand, even if you could fall asleep without toppling over in this overcrowded place. It must have been a busy day at the office for him, even if he didn’t remember a single thing about what had happened. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t supposed to.

Fortunately he did recall where he had to get off. He was glad to leave the subway behind him and walk the short distance to where he lived. The fresh air – a relative term in these days of heavy pollution – was quite invigorating.

He arrived at the apartment building where he lived, stated his name, pressed his right index finger against the ID screen, and was allowed in. Moments later he entered his apartment, kissed his wife and said, “Everything okay, darling? And how’s Vanessa?”

“Vanessa?” his wife asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“Well, our daughter, of course,” he replied, baffled.

His wife stared at him and shook her head. “Dennis, we don’t have a daughter. We have two sons. Alex and Bruno, remember? What’s wrong, Dennis? I thought the memories of your private life were off‐limits to your employer.”

Dennis sighed and sat down for a while. “I’m sorry, Amanda. This kind of thing shouldn’t happen. Another mix‐up, I guess. Someone made a mistake, or there was a technical glitch, I don’t know…”

“Maybe you should talk about it at work tomorrow.”

“I will, Amanda, I will.”

Dennis thought about what had

just happened. He didn’t want to tell his wife it was useless to discuss this problem at work. Whatever would be said about it would be wiped along with all the other memories of the day as he left for home, according to standard employer’s procedure.

Two young boys ran into the room, rushed up to him and hugged him. His two kids? Alex and Bruno? Why didn’t he recognize them? Why were the name Vanessa and the face of a young girl haunting his mind? This was inexplicable, and unacceptable. The two kids left again, eager to continue their activities.

He grabbed the TV’s remote control and turned down the volume to the minimum level. The commercials irritated him, even if they were less aggressive than the ones in the subway. At least the ads on the screen didn’t harass people who they felt showed an interest in their sales pitch.

“Too bad we can’t switch off the damn thing,” he muttered.

“Too bad we can’t afford an expensive model,” Amanda replied, standing in the doorway. “They come with an on/off button.”

“Right now I feel as if I’m equipped with an on/off button. And someone just pressed the off button.”

Amanda sat down next to him, patted him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, darling.

It’s probably just a mistake.

Tomorrow everything will be fine again, you’ll see.

Well, dinner will be ready in half an hour. Take a shower and relax. We’ll talk about the problem when you feel better.”

He got up and said, “I hope I’ll remember where the bathroom is.”

Under the shower he thought about what had happened and what the explanation might be. He had been working for the Netware Research Corporation for several months now, and so far there never had been any problems. He understood the reasons for their memory wiping and uploading system, and it seemed to work perfectly. His job was of an extremely sensitive nature, and logically enough his employer did not want to take any chances with information leaks and industrial espionage. So as the staff left for home, their work‐ related memories were wiped, stored and uploaded again the next morning. Memories about their private lives were

CAREER

MOVE

FRANK ROGER

30

M-BRANE SF untouched and untouchable, but there had been stories about hackers breaking into the system and disrupting things, and about espionage networks working in devious ways… Could this explain the mix‐up he had been the victim of?

After dinner, when the kids had retired, he discussed the problem with Amanda, even if she knew very little about his work – as a matter of fact, he himself had little knowledge of it once he left the NRC building.

“This is worse than you think,” he said. “When I saw Alex and Bruno right there, I didn’t recognise them. It was as if I’ve never seen those kids before. But I can still see Vanessa’s face before my mind’s eye. And I do have recollections of her that feel authentic, convincing. As far as I can tell, she’s really our daughter, and these two kids here… they’re fake.”

Amanda shook her head. “What can we do? Just wait until tomorrow and hope everything will be back to normal?”

“I guess so. But I have a bad feeling about this. I’m under the impression that my private memories have been tampered with. I can’t accept that, but by tomorrow I may not remember a thing about it.”

“Why don’t you take notes? And compare them with what you remember.”

“I can take notes here, but not at work. It’s against company rules. I can’t take that risk. I wouldn’t like to be fired and have to face charges of industrial espionage.

That makes it hard to keep track of any glitches in the wiping and uploading process.”

“I understand. Now in that case I suggest we simply wait until tomorrow. Let’s hope everything will be all right again.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go with that.”

While they watched TV he kept thinking about the problem. What could he do to find out the truth? At work he wasn’t allowed to make notes and take them home, or to bring in any written or recorded material from outside.

There was also the problem that by tomorrow all his memories about the issue might be wiped, and then he would no longer recall having made notes, not even be aware anymore of the whole thing.

But was there really no way to circumvent this system? What if he took notes that were coded, that no one would recognize as such, neither at work nor at home? That way he would end up with two sets of notes that he might compare. It would still be dangerous, the security teams at work were not easy to fool. He would try to think of a way to make encrypted notes without anyone noticing. Admittedly, his wife’s suggestion for taking notes had been spot‐on.

“You’re not really watching, are you?” Amanda suddenly asked, interrupting his train of thought. “Are you still fretting about what happened?”

“How would you be if someone fooled around with your private memories?”

FEBRUARY 2009 “You’re not even sure that’s what happened.”

“Still, it worries me.”

“I understand. Why don’t we go to bed? A good night’s sleep should help.”

“Well, I can’t say no to that.”

He turned down the volume to the minimum level and they retired.

The next morning at breakfast it felt odd to see the two boys at the table. Somehow he had still expected Vanessa to turn up. How could he record last night’s events and ideas, just in case they were wiped as he returned from work later this day? He didn’t see a possibility right away. On the spur of the moment, as he was about to leave, he whispered to Amanda: “Tell Vanessa I miss her.”

Amanda shot him a cold, hard stare, but didn’t reply. He had hoped she would say or do something that might shed some light on the problem.

Presently he was out on the street, in the pouring rain. He hurried to the subway station. Soon his professional memories would be uploaded, allowing him to continue his work. At the end of the day they would be removed again and safely stocked. It was a perfect system, guaranteeing the employee’s privacy.

At least it was supposed to be perfect.

Around six o’ clock he left the NRC building again and headed home. To his relief his private memories appeared intact. He still remembered yesterday’s episode, with Vanessa gone and the two strange kids in his house, Amanda claiming this was the normal situation, and his plan to make encrypted notes. What would he find today?

He entered his apartment, kissed his wife and said: “I’m tired, darling. It’s probably been a busy day. You know what I mean. How are Alex and Bruno?”

Amanda shot him a quizzical look and replied: “Oh, they’re fine. There they are.”

The two boys appeared, hugged him, told him what mega‐cool games they were playing right now and rushed back to their rooms. He collapsed into his comfy chair and thought: Now what if I make no mention at all of Vanessa. It would be interesting to see Amanda’s reaction.

He turned up the TV’s volume and watched without making any comments. After a while Amanda took a seat next to him and asked: “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“It’s just that yesterday you mentioned this problem…”

“Oh? What problem?”

“There was something about the kids that seemed to bother you.”

“I guess I was tired and then I sometimes can’t take all the hustle and the noise.”

31

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF “That’s not what I meant.”

“What was the problem then?”

“Something about your memories…”

“I suffer memory loss every day as I leave the office,” he said, chuckling.

“Just forget I brought it up,” she said, and turned her eyes to the TV. “Sure,” he replied, but made a mental note of it. She clearly wondered why he hadn’t mentioned Vanessa, or his fear that his private memories had been tampered with. Or could it be she was just worried about his mental health, jeopardized by the daily memory transfer his brain was undergoing? Maybe his suspicion was completely unfounded, and his capacity for rational thought was deteriorating indeed from the harsh treatment it suffered.

I’ll just have to take notes, he decided, otherwise I’ll never discover the truth about my private life. I’ll have to make two sets of notes. Both here and at work.

Comparing the two sets should yield some interesting results. Of course there were risks involved. By no means his employer should find out he was taking notes. That would be the end of his job.

The question was: how should he go about it? Making encrypted notes wouldn’t do. Someone who stumbled onto them might be unable to read them, but would still recognize them as notes. He would have to devise a system allowing him to record data that others couldn’t recognize as such.

And he would have to take into account that his recollections of a day’s work were wiped. He would not remember having made notes at work; he should be able to recognize and decrypt them himself, otherwise the whole plan would be useless.

This would definitely not be easy. And risky as hell.

The next day he came home from work and felt cold and empty, as if the security system had wiped way too much from his brain. It’s a good thing I remember where I live, he thought as he entered his apartment.

He kissed his wife and took a seat. The kids ran up to him, told them what they were playing right now and left again. He shook his head. The children spent so much time with their e‐games and e‐toys that they were barely part of the real world. He feared one day they might disappear into the e‐dimension altogether and sever the link with the older generations forever.

“You look very tired,” Amanda said. “Did you have a tough day at the office?”

“I guess so,” he replied. “I wish I could say more.”

She shook her head. “You can’t go on like this. This

memory erasing security system is ruining your health.

Maybe you don’t realise it, but believe me, it is. I just can’t bear seeing you go downhill like this. You have to do something about it.”

“What do you expect me to do then? Quit my job?

Come on!”

“Why do you cling to your job? You hardly know what it is you’re doing.”

“NRC is a company that develops new software in the field of…”

“I know all that. The thing is, you have no personal memories of your work. They’re all wiped for security reasons. Maybe that’s a sound principle from a business point of view, but as your wife and the mother of your children, I can see what it’s doing to you. And I’m telling you, it’s not a healthy evolution.”

“So what do you propose then?”

“Let me help you. We’ll work this out together. I’ll need to have a complete picture of the situation, of course. For instance, can you tell me what this is?”

One day they made a breakthrough.

Amanda drew his attention to a series of digits he had noted in a variety of places: scribbled on bits of paper, in a corner of the bathroom mirror, on the sole of one of his shoes, and in a few even unlikelier places…

32

She produced something from her pocket and held it up for inspection. It was a tiny slip of paper, folded.

“Let me take a look,” he said quietly. He unfolded it and saw four digits on it, 4‐15‐14‐20. He shrugged, gave the paper back to Amanda. “Just a few numbers,” he mumbled.

“This is your handwriting,” she pointed out. He nodded.

“But wait, there’s more.” She produced two more folded slips of paper, handed them to him. The second one showed another set of digits, 6‐15‐18‐7‐5‐20, the third one just the number 22. He had no idea what this was all about.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Amanda?”

“Yes, Dennis. You know where I found these slips of paper? There was one in the breast pocket of a shirt you threw into the laundry bin, one in the waste basket and one under the carpet in your study. I found one by accident, the kids brought me the two others.”

“So?” “Dennis, could it be these are notes you made and forgot about? Now in theory only your professional

M-BRANE SF memories are wiped, but I think you’re suffering from general memory problems.”

“How could I know? As you say, my memories are wiped. Anyway, what do these numbers mean?”

“Dennis, listen to me. I think you made these notes to remind you of something important, and ironically enough you even forgot you made them, or at least your memories about them were wiped. I suppose these numbers are codes. The code is easy to break, as it was devised by someone who knew he couldn’t rely too much on his memories.”

“Your point, please, Amanda.”

“Just suppose the numbers stand for the letters of the alphabet. Now, what does this yield? The first set stands for DONT. The second set for FORGET. And the third one stands for V. That’s obviously an abbreviation, but what for? Who or what were you talking about?”

He stared at her. “V?” He shook his head. Had he made these notes? It was his handwriting indeed. Had he tried to hide them, get rid of them, or simply forgotten about them? And what could this mean? Don’t forget V? “Dennis, you were trying to make sure you didn’t forget someone or something.”

“I guess so,” he admitted. “But I have no idea anymore.

I’m sorry, Amanda. You know my memories are up‐ and downloaded every day. I suppose they’re showing signs of wear because of it. Or else the system isn’t working perfectly. Some stuff may be deleted altogether, the uploading may be incomplete, memories that aren’t mine get uploaded… how can I tell?”

“Dennis, I’m afraid you’re losing your mental capacities. You can’t go on like this. But I’m determined to help you and solve the problem. Trust me, darling. Trust me. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Why are you doing this? You know very well that my employer’s wiping my memories for a good reason.”

“I realize that, but I’m your wife, I’m desperately worried about your mental health. I’d like to help you and save my family. I know you’re doing work with a high security risk for NRC, but that doesn’t give them the right to ruin your private life. I love you, Dennis. I won’t let anyone do you harm. Not even your employer, even if he has a good reason for doing so.”

He nodded. She had a point. There was a problem and Amanda would help him solve it. He should trust her and offer all the help he could. Together they would work this out.

The following days they had more conversations, and Amanda showed him things she claimed to have found.

Notes he had made in the morning before leaving for work, she said, and that he had forgotten about when he came back in the evening. They went over the notes and drawings and weird bits, but there was little he could tell about them. Had he really made these things? It would appear so. He was trying to record certain data that he

FEBRUARY 2009 feared might get lost otherwise, but he failed to remember anything about them, which rendered the whole process useless – if it hadn’t been for Amanda’s invaluable help.

One day they made a breakthrough. Amanda drew his attention to a series of digits he had noted in a variety of places: scribbled on bits of paper, in a corner of the bathroom mirror, on the sole of one of his shoes, and in a few even unlikelier places.

“I have the feeling these digits form a sequence,” she told him. She had transcribed the entire series on a sheet of paper and showed it to him.

“This must be a clue of some sorts, spread out all over the place so it wouldn’t be too obvious. All we have to do is put them in the right order, and the meaning may become clear.”

He stared at the paper, but the digits were utterly meaningless to him.

“I don’t remember having jotted down all these,” he stammered.

“That’s probably exactly why you noted them down in the first place. Now let’s juggle the digits around until they start making sense.”

This method didn’t seem to lead anywhere, until by the fifth trial the digits, transformed into the corresponding letters, yielded a name.

“Vanessa,” Amanda exclaimed. “That must be it.

Doesn’t that name ring a bell?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea where that name comes from.”

“Oh, come on, honey. Has this really been wiped from your memory too?”

He stared at her, silently.

“All right then. Dennis, listen to me. A while ago you came home and were astounded to see Alex and Bruno.

For some reason you thought we didn’t have two sons, but a daughter. A girl called Vanessa. You were very upset because you thought your private memories had been tampered with. You had no memories at all about our two sons. The day afterwards you had completely forgotten that incident, and I thought it had been wiped from your memories, along with all the traces of this phantom Vanessa. And now suddenly there’s this hidden reference to her. Vanessa is back. What does that name stand for, Dennis? Who is she? Or what? We must find out. It may be the clue of the problem.”

He kept staring at the paper. Vanessa? The name didn’t conjure up anything. Had the story Amanda had told really happened? Why did he harbour suspicions, when he had no reliable memories to go on? He wasn’t thinking rationally. Amanda was the only one right now willing and able to help him. He had better go along with her efforts to solve his problem.

“I have no idea, Amanda. It’s hard for me, my memories being what they are. I’m sure you

33

M-BRANE SF understand. So help me if you can. You’re my only hope.”

“Fine.” She nodded understandingly. “We’ll devise a way to get you out of this mess. Don’t worry, honey.

We’ll sort this out together.”

“I knew I could count on you, Amanda.”

He leaned back and relaxed. With a bit of luck all this nonsense would be over soon.

They watched some TV, although he hardly paid attention to the screen. After a while Bruno came down and asked for his help. He had run into a problem with the game he was playing. “It’s not the same thing that happened yesterday,” he pointed out. “I could have fixed that myself now.”

Yesterday? Of course. Recollections came flooding back. He had solved a small technical problem for Bruno yesterday night. He clearly remembered it now.

See? His memory was working nicely. Not everything was erased or blocked. There was no reason for despair.

He followed his son up to his room. No doubt it was a small glitch in the software again. He would deal with the problem quickly and efficiently. After all he was a professional software specialist. Even if his work‐ related memories were wiped every day, his theoretical knowledge remained intact. As did his private memories. At least he hoped. To make sure that part would remain problem‐free too, he could count on Amanda’s loving assistance.

It was raining again as he came home from work.

The days before it had rained as well – his memories were very clear. He headed for the subway entrance, packed with passengers as usual, ignoring the commercials springing up all over the station.

There was a message on his cell phone. That was pretty unusual at this hour. He checked and saw it simply said “Right”. He looked to the right and saw a commercial for a new line of e‐toys. The message had been sent by himself, a few hours ago, obviously time‐ programmed. What was this supposed to mean?

The commercial consisted of a girl’s face, of huge size, hysterically yelling her sales pitch at the crowds of passengers. As a terrestrial globe appeared in front of her, she sank her teeth into it, gobbled it up and imploded, and then the cycle was repeated. Even if he didn’t really pay attention to the omnipresent commercials, he had seen this one here everyday, must have remembered it and sent the message, when he was still at the office, to himself with a programmed and well‐timed delay, and for a purpose. But why?

A few minutes later, when he had just boarded a crowded subway car, a second message came, also sent by himself a few hours ago. This one drew his attention to a commercial inside the car for personal data protection systems. “Computers and information rule

34

FEBRUARY 2009 our lives,” its warm male voice said, easily drowning the surrounding noise. “Don’t give hackers the chance to wreak havoc…” He looked away. He knew the rest of the pitch. Was there a link with the first message? He couldn’t have sent these two messages to himself at a specific time by coincidence. Maybe more of them would follow?

He was not surprised as a third message came, just as he left the subway station. It was also sent by himself a few hours ago and merely said “Left”. He looked to his left and saw a bunch of heavily armed guards patrolling in front of the Foreign Headquarters of the Swiss Bank.

He stopped dead in his tracks, heedless of the pouring rain. Something clicked in his mind. The sequence of the three messages had triggered a flash of insight. The girl, data protection, security forces. There was a link. He must have trained his mind to react to the sequence of messages, knowing that his work‐related memories would be wiped as he left the office, and hoping that the information was buried deep enough so that his strategy might work.

And it had. It all came back now. The girl stood for Vanessa. She was not a real girl, Vanessa was the code name of the software he was working on right now, a powerful new anti‐spy and anti‐hacker programme still in its experimental stages. The security surrounding it was unprecedented.

He shook his head. How had he been able to pull off this trick? How had he managed to circumvent the draconian security measures at work? Of course he of all people should know the weak spots of the system. The messages he had sent were very simple, one word bits, seemingly harmless. Still, security was supposed to be one hundred percent foolproof.

But what about the recollections about Vanessa he had brought home one day? He had mistakenly thought Vanessa had been his daughter. Those memories had been false. Could it have been a glitch in the system? That seemed pretty unlikely. Perhaps a test that had gone awry? That might be closer to the truth. Or had hackers penetrated and disrupted the system, leading to fake private memories being uploaded? That was another possibility, one he would have to investigate.

But now at least the knew the true nature of Vanessa.

He would tell his wife right away she needn’t worry anymore. There was nothing wrong with him. Vanessa was something related to his work he couldn’t tell her any details about, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with his memory. There had been a mishap, leading to some minor inconvenience, but that was it.

He would comfort her, and fall back into his old routine. The problem was solved. As a matter of fact, there had never been a problem. Relieved, he hurried home, suddenly aware again that it was still raining.

When he entered his apartment he couldn’t wait to see Amanda. He didn’t hear the TV – that was strange. It

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF couldn’t be turned off. Perhaps it had broken down?

“Amanda, I’ve got good news,” he cried out.

“I’m sure you have,” an unfamiliar male voice replied.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, looking around him.

“And what are you doing here at my place? And where are my wife and my kids?”

“We came to arrest you, Mr. Lymington. Your wife has already been taken to the police station. And your kids are getting all the care they need. Don’t worry about them.”

He took a few steps back, stared at the five men facing him. They had been waiting here for him. Three of them wore police uniforms, the two others were security guards from NRC. He should have known. He hadn’t circumvented the security measures at all. They had given him that impression, so they might catch him in the act.

“This is about Vanessa, right?”

The two NRC security men nodded. “Yes. You’re responsible for a security breach. By smuggling information outside of NRC, you broke your contract. You won’t stand much of a chance in court, I’m afraid.”

“I see. And my wife?”

“She was involved as well. I’m sure that must be clear to you now. You were supposed to pass the information you gathered on to her. As you were about to do right there, I guess. Now, follow me. The rest will be up to the police. For us this matter is over.”

And for me it’s just beginning, he thought. No wonder Amanda had been bugging him to find out more about this mysterious Vanessa, had convinced him to take notes, had perhaps made some of the coded notes herself. Had someone at NRC been involved as well? Someone who was in touch with Amanda? Had he been manipulated by forces beyond his knowledge, an industrial espionage network? And what did this mean for his private life? Had Amanda been part of this network? Would he ever find out the truth? He would definitely like to know, but probably never would, just wasn’t supposed to.

He followed the five men, wishing that the memories of this misadventure would be wiped from his mind as soon as possible.

Frank Roger was born in 1957 in Ghent, Belgium. His first story appeared in 1975. Since then his stories appear in an increasing number of languages in all sorts of magazines, anthologies and other venues, and since 2000, story collections are published, also in various languages. Apart from fiction, he also produces collages and graphic work in a surrealist and satirical tradition. By now he has more than 700 short story publications (including a few short novels) to his credit in 29 languages. Find out more at www.frankroger.be.

A lot of the stories that I’ve considered for M­ Brane have dwelt in fear over personal and emotional security, over the world spilling over and becoming unlivable, over the road taken or not taken. This strange and tender piece of slipstream fiction by Joshua Scribner seems to both begin and end with something of a puzzle, but its protagonist probably comes away with some new wisdom.—CF

CONDUCTORS JOSHUA SCRIBNER

James Tate had hoped that the alcohol would take him away. It hadn’t.

He stumbled up the sidewalk to the front door of his big, lonely house, thinking the same thoughts he had thought every night for the past year. The scene repeated itself over and over in his head. He corrected it.

He made changes that would prevent the reason for his existence from ending. Of course, it only ever worked in his head.

Inside, James sat in front of his computer. He could taste old alcohol on his breath. He could smell other peoples’ tobacco on his clothing. He told himself that he wasn’t going to perform the ritual.

James turned on the monitor and looked at the three smiling faces of his girls. One would always be seven.

One would always be five. One would always be thirty‐ something. His therapist had said he should tell them goodbye and then come up with a new background for his monitor. James understood the meaning of this advice. James was once a therapist, as long ago as it seemed.

James opened his mouth to say goodbye. It wouldn’t obey him. Instead, it said what it always said.

“Don’t do it! Don’t get in that van!”

James awoke in the night. He didn’t remember the room ever being so dark. He tried to remember going to bed but could not. He was sure he must have passed out, but where. The surface below him didn’t feel like his bed. It didn’t feel like the floor either. It felt like grass.

“What the hell?” he whispered.

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M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

“Who’s there?” a nearby voice snapped. his suit gave his prison number and announced that he Reflexively, James rolled from the voice. belonged in the New York State Penitentiary.

He sat up on his butt. He realized that since he “Do you have any idea how you got here?” James couldn’t see an inch in front of his face, the source of asked. the voice probably couldn’t see him either. He tried to “No. I was lying awake in my cell one minute. The keep his breath quiet. That was nearly impossible, as next thing I knew, I was waking up in the darkness, on his horrified body called for extra oxygen. this grass.”

“You better tell me who you are and how I got here,” The man spoke with sincerity. He also spoke with the man said. clarity, not something James would have expected from a James thought he heard something in the man’s prison inmate. voice. Then he thought he felt something coming over James spotted an hourglass on top of one side of the him. The man had sounded drowsy. James felt drowsy, fence. Black wires stretched from it. Those wires were like he’d been drugged. connected to the machineguns.

James tried to understand. The last thing he The inmate must have seen the same thing, because recalled was being in the chair, looking at the picture he said, “Whatever we’re doing here. We don’t have on the monitor. much time.”

This had to be a dream. That was the only

explanation. He thought he heard the man’s voice The inmate, who had offered his name as Monty, again, but he couldn’t make out the words. He could walked up to the fence. James watched him go around. barely even sense his body. He faded off.

The cows shadowed Monty.

“They follow you around, but they keep their distance Light stung his eyelids. James was relieved that from the fence,” James shouted. morning had arrived. He remembered last night’s “There’s a pulse of electricity,” Monty yelled back. “I terrifying dream. Then he realized something. He can hear it. It’s every two seconds.” could still feel grass underneath his body.

James looked at the fence’s height. He didn’t think an James gasped. He opened his eyes and sat up. acrobat could clear it in two seconds.

Less than twenty feet away slept a black man in an Tired of yelling, he approached Monty. He was nearly orange prison uniform. James to him when the black cow was wearing the same clothes hissed. he had worn to the bar last James froze in his tracks, an night, a pair of slacks and a icy sensation shooting through James was shocked the button‐up Oxford. his nerves. He watched the inmate could be They were surrounded by a cow move its attention from flat plain of short green grass him to Monty. lighthearted in their current that went on as far as he could “I’m not a farmer,” James situation. Then he thought see. They were also said. “But I don’t think cows surrounded by a chain‐link normally hiss like that.” of how lousy his life before fence, at least twenty feet high “Nor do they normally have this strange place must and a hundred by a hundred the canines that one has. have been. He remembered feet. There were four cows They’re meat eaters.” outside the fence. One was

his own life and how lousy it solid black. The other three James walked separately was. were solid brown. They from Monty. After a little seemed to be staring at him. while, all four cows came to The staring cows freaked shadow him. him out a little, but they “Must like white meat,” weren’t as scary as the big Monty shouted. machineguns mounted at the top corners of the fence.

James was shocked the inmate could be lighthearted “What?” James heard and turned to the other man. in their current situation. Then he thought of how lousy The inmate had sat up. He was looking around with as his life before this strange place must have been. He much confusion as James. James thought the man must remembered his own life and how lousy it was. He be somewhere in is thirties. offered up a joke of his own.

James hesitated for a little while, but he couldn’t “No. I’m just a lot more meat.” think of anything else to try but to talk to this man. He James was too. The last time he’d checked, he was walked over to him. The inmate stood up. Writing on two‐twenty. The inmate looked like a buck‐thirty, at

36

M-BRANE SF most.

Monty eventually moved to the center of the fenced‐in area. He waved James over. James moved away from the cows, hearing them hiss behind him.

“I don’t know how long we’ve been here, but it looks like almost a fourth of that sand has fallen.”

James nodded his agreement.

“As far as I can tell, there’s no way out of here, and even if we got out, there’s nowhere to go but into four stomachs.”

Again, James nodded. He was amazed again at the way Monty carried himself. He wondered what kind of crime he had committed.

“Whatever put us here didn’t put us here to die. It put us here to test us in some way.”

James wasn’t sure if he agreed. Monty continued.

“I’ve been looking at what to do next, and it’s getting me nowhere.”

“Me too,” James said.

“Maybe we should look at how we got here.”

James could think of nothing better to offer. “Okay,” he said.

For a few seconds, they stared at each other. Then Monty said, “Well, how did you get here?”

James shrugged. “I was sitting at my computer desk one minute and—” “No, James. That’s not what I mean. Tell me how you got to that point in your life.”

James sighed. “I’m a psychologist. At least, that’s what I used to be.”

“What kind of psychologist?” Monty asked.

“Well, I did testing, mostly, and a little bit of therapy.”

“So you were a clinical psychologist.”

James was surprised.

“Most people can’t distinguish between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. You know the different types of psychologists. Did you see someone in prison?”

“Yes, I did. But I learned about the different varieties of your profession elsewhere, in a book.”

James nodded. He was very curious about this man.

“Go on,” Monty said. “You were a clinical psychologist.”

“Yes, and a happy one at that. I had a wife and two daughters. They were my life.”

James paused and looked at his one‐man audience.

Monty nodded. James continued.

“It was about a year ago. It was a Friday night, the first Friday of the new year. There was a snowstorm. My kids wanted to rent a DVD. My wife agreed to take them to the video store. I had a headache, so I stayed back.

They never made it home. The van slid out into traffic.

They were hit by a snowplow.”

James didn’t want to cry in front of this stranger. He didn’t want to go into his usual rant either. He couldn’t

FEBRUARY 2009 stop.

“If I would have just gone with them. Or if I had talked them out of going.”

“You can’t do that, though.”

James put his face in his hands. He had to stop the scenarios from spinning.

“I’m sorry,” James said and then looked at Monty.

Monty wasn’t looking at him, though. He was looking past him. He pointed.

James turned around. In the distant grass, something new had appeared.

“Is that a door?” James asked.

“I think it is.”

“So now we have a door that we can’t get to,” Monty said.

“Yeah. Did what I said cause it?”

“It came right after you finished,” Monty said.

As far as James could tell, the door was freestanding. He thought he could make out a little knob.

“So how did you get here, Monty?”

Monty sighed. “By my clothing, you know where I’ve been. I’ll tell you how I got there. I was raised by my grandmother, along with four other kids, none of them my siblings. I learned to steal before I was six years old. Sometimes, if I didn’t steal, we didn’t eat.

About eighteen years ago, when I was seventeen, I stole a car. It wasn’t the first time. I was going to sell it for scrap. I got caught. A cop pursued me. I was about to get away, when a car pulled out in front of me. The three people inside that car died.”

“And you were charged with their deaths.”

Monty nodded. His expression was sad, not angry.

“I was charged as an adult. I received twenty years for each person, consecutive.”

James looked around. There was no change in their environment. Monty continued.

“I’m sure you know of the bad things that happen to small men in prison.” Monty shrugged. “After a while, you learn to avoid those things. And there were things in prison I got that I didn’t get on the outside. I didn’t have to focus on where I was going to get my next meal. I didn’t have to worry about feeding my cousins.

I just had to watch out for me. So I had a lot of time on my hands. I learned to read. I learned that I was really good at it. I got my GED. I took some college classes. I found out I was very intelligent. I was tested by someone like you. He said I did well. I asked for the number. He said 148.”

James’s mouth fell open. “That’s a high IQ for a doctor.”

“I know. And I’m the chess and scrabble champion at a prison. That’s the extent of my accomplishments

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M-BRANE SF in life. That’s all I’ll ever be, because I never knew I could be anything until it was too late.”

There was a clank and then a whoosh.

Directly behind Monty, a section of the fence had sunken most of the way into the ground.

The lowered section was about five feet across and five feet high. The cows were outside of it, no more than ten feet away.

“I think we can both clear that in the two seconds,” Monty said.

“Yeah, but the door’s on the opposite side. We’d have to land, take off, run all the way around and then out to the door.”

Monty looked around. “So the question is can we outrun the cows.”

James, who the cows still seemed to prefer, was at one side of the fence. The cows were right outside, staring at him.

At the other side was Monty, who had his arm held up.

“Go!” Monty shouted.

James took off as quickly as he could. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run. His legs felt uncoordinated and wobbly. He could hear the cows’ steps. He could see the black one in his peripheral vision. He stopped well short of the fence. He placed his hands on his knees and looked up at Monty.

“I don’t think they were running as fast as they could, and they kept up with you easily.”

When he felt he’d caught his breath enough, James said, “What about you?”

James had gone to the middle. As planned, the cows had lost interest in him in favor of the man closer to the fence.

“Go!” James shouted. He watched the cows take off.

First, it was the black one. The brown ones followed.

He watched Monty move. His little legs looked quick, but the cows had no problem keeping up.

James walked over to where Monty stood, catching his breath.

“Well, we can rule out trying to outrun them to the door.”

Monty nodded.

James looked back at the hourglass. He estimated a little over a third of their time was gone.

“They like you better,” Monty said.

They were in the middle of the closed‐in area, sitting on the ground.

“You’re not going to suggest that I let them eat me while you get away.”

Monty laughed. “If I thought you would go for it.”

38

FEBRUARY 2009 James laughed. “Yeah, I’d throw you over in a second, but you’d be such a light meal they wouldn’t be busy for long.”

Monty laughed again. James thought he heard nervousness in it. He didn’t think he would betray Monty or Monty betray him, but it was hard to say what was going to happen when the hourglass was getting down to the last grains of sand.

“There’s got to be something we’re not seeing,” Monty offered. “You’re a psychologist. Are there any behavioral observations you’ve made?”

James thought for a few seconds. “These cows seem to be faster than regular cows and to have an altered diet, but some things remain the same. They appear to have the herd instinct.”

Monty nodded. “They do stick together.”

“Yeah, and they all follow the black one.”

Monty looked at him hard. “You’re right. What else?”

James looked at the hourglass.

“Don’t look at that. Worry about what you can do.

You’re a psychologist. Be a psychologist. Be logical.”

James looked away from the hourglass. He looked at the cows. They were looking back at him.

His mind went to his patients. He thought of what he used to tell them when they were stuck. He had told them to think out loud. He thought out loud.

“The cows are blocking the way. They stand in the path, patiently, waiting for us, and we are their reward.”

“That’s it, James. Go at it.”

“The cows are blocking the way. They stand in the path, patiently. They don’t come because of the fence.

They stay away from the fence. They must have touched it before, so they know to stay away from it.”

James stopped when he heard Monty gasp.

“What?”

Monty’s was looking at the cows. He stood up.

“You’re right,” he said. “They’re conditioned to stay away from the fence, because it shocked them.”

“Yeah?”

“Think about this: They want us, but they hate the fence. We can use that.”

James felt like he almost had it, but he asked anyway.

“How?” “We make the reward a punishment, Doctor.”

James smiled with the complete realization. “We conduct electricity, and we become the fence.”

They stood a few feet from the fence, with the cows watching on.

“How much do you know about electricity?” James asked.

“I know you could take a shock better.”

James smirked. “Why’s that?”

“You weigh more, and you have more rubber on the bottom of your shoes.”

M-BRANE SF Monty held up a slipper. It had a very thin layer across the bottom.

James lifted an expensive shoe. It was basically a dress shoe but designed for comfort. He had by far the most insulation.

“All right,” James said.

He placed both a hand and an ear near the fence. He waited for a buzz to end. He placed his hand on the fence and looked at Monty. The man’s fearful expression didn’t help him feel better. The two seconds passed.

It didn’t feel like he thought it would. It wasn’t fiery.

It was more like being struck with a bat. The pulse was less than half a second. He fell to the ground.

He started to get up, but he couldn’t feel his legs. He moaned as he reached up with his head.

“Hold on,” Monty said. “Give it a few seconds.”

James did. He just lay there. He felt more of his body come back. His muscles felt as if they had just gone through a weightlifting routine, but he was able to get up.

He looked at the hourglass, which was approaching the halfway point.

James was still shaken. His insides felt hollow. He and Monty stood by the sunken part of the fence.

“Maybe I should do it,” Monty said.

James shook his head. “You won’t take the shock as well.”

Monty’s expression showed his guilt.

James reached his arm over the top bar of the fence and let it hang there.

The black cow stared at it from about ten feet away.

Then it stuck out its nose, sniffing the air.

“Come on,” James whispered. “Come get a little snack.”

The cow hissed, revealing its canines again. James

FEBRUARY 2009 fence. It would have to be timed perfectly.

The cow backed off by pulling its neck back.

It seemed to be inspecting the situation, looking at the arm and looking at the fence, studying the relationship between the two things. As if frustrated by this conundrum, the cow gave another hiss.

It looked as if it would pull further away, setting its back legs in motion. Then it became still, before creeping forward again.

James wondered if it could hear the fence and know its cycle. Its hiss was like a snake. Maybe it could strike like a snake. With the right timing, it could bite him without getting shocked.

He just couldn’t be sure of this animal’s intelligence.

When it was inches away, he waited for the fence to cycle again. He actually saw the cow’s head moving in for a bite.

James moved his hand to the side. Then he touched the side of its mouth, feeling its rubbery gums. He let his arm touch the fence. There was the sensation of being struck, and then he could feel nothing.

“James! You did it, man! They all four took off!

They’re way the hell out there!”

James was able to move enough to produce a smile.

He wasn’t sure what this guy was talking about. He knew there was some kind of monsters that he was trying to get away from. He knew the guy above him was good.

“Oh, man. You’re pretty messed up right now, aren’t you? Close your eyes and rest for a little while.”

The next time James was aware, he was sitting up and a man was telling him a story about how they had awoken here. He told him about the fence and the cows with carnivorous teeth. These words served as hooks, and most of it started to come back.

“I can see in your expression that you know what I’m talking about.”

James thought for a few seconds and then said, “Yeah. I remember getting shocked once. I remember talking about what we would do next, but I don’t remember carrying it out. That makes sense, though. When psychiatric patients undergo electric shock therapy they usually lose the time immediately before the shock. I lost time, but most of it came back.”

The next time James was aware, he was sitting up and a man was telling him a story about how they had awoken here. He told him about the fence and the cows with carnivorous teeth. These words served as hooks, and most of it started to come back. could almost feel the sting of those teeth piercing his hand.

The cow moved a couple of feet closer. Its three brown friends kept their distance but watched on intently.

It crept closer, its neck extended out, until James could actually feel its breath on his hand. He waited for the

39

M-BRANE SF “I’m glad. But we have to hurry now. The cows ran way out there, but they’re coming back.”

James looked out. He estimated they were a hundred feet away.

“Can you get up?” Monty asked.

James got his hands under him, and then he brought his feet up. When he tried to push, all of his appendages wobbled.

“I guess not,” Monty said.

“But the time.”

“What about it?”

“You know good and well. We’re almost out.”

Monty looked away for a little while. Then he finally looked back.

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Yes. You have to. You might be able to make it to the door.”

“I said I’m not leaving you here!”

“Listen. You can go now, and maybe I can make it later. If not, so what. Even if that door is the way back to normalcy, what do I have?”

Again, Monty looked away. He turned back and laughed. “I don’t know what’s behind that door, but I know this is a test for me. I did a bad thing. Other people suffered for what I did. It weighs on my conscience. If I get you to the other side of that door, maybe some of that weight will be removed. I don’t know. But I damn sure don’t want to go on with your big ass on my conscience.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then they both laughed.

James had been able to get up, but his movement was still very shaky. They had less than a third of the sand left.

With James sitting, Monty said, “I’m going to conduct another test. I want to see if those cows are going to stay put when we’re on the other side of the fence.”

James nodded.

Monty patted his shoulder. He went to the fence, listened, and then grabbed the top bar and quickly used it to hop over to the other side.

Some hundred feet away, the cows definitely took notice of what was happening, but they stayed put.

Monty looked back at him and nodded. He then moved along the fence. Monty’s progress was slow. The cow’s shadowed that movement but with their stares only.

Monty made it all the way to the edge of the fence. He then went around about ten feet. He held up a hand, as if to signify success. James lifted a hand of his own and then looked the other way.

The black cow came in a mad dash.

“Monty!” James shouted.

Monty got on the move. He darted around the

40

FEBRUARY 2009 corner, back in the direction he had come. It was very clear that he wouldn’t make it. All four cows closed the gap before Monty made it another twenty feet. The orange clad man froze.

“That’s good!” James said and then forced himself up on unsteady legs. “Just don’t move. Stay close to the fence. They’re scared of the fence.”

He saw Monty’s head nod, but Monty’s eyes remained fixed on the black cow, which was no more than eight feet away, still, but staring him down.

James felt electric numbness in his legs. He was only able to go a few feet before he had to stop.

He thought of something he should have thought of before. James was now a cue for a shock, but that didn’t mean people in general were. The black cow probably feared a big white man in a white shirt and black pants, not a small black man in a solid orange uniform.

James moved a little closer before he had to stop again. He could see his friend’s face. Monty was petrified, probably to the point that logical thought was nearly impossible. James would have to think for him.

“All right,” James said. “Move slowly toward the gap.”

Monty nodded and then took a few sideways steps.

He froze, when the black cow hissed.

“That’s okay,” James said. “It can hiss all it wants, so long as it doesn’t close the distance. Move a little more.”

Monty stood as still as a rabbit trying to evade detection. James was about to shout more encouragement, when Monty finally moved.

The cow move too. It stepped diagonally, like it was trying to cut its prey off. It stopped about four feet from the fence. Monty would now have to cross its path to get to the gap.

“It may attack. Be ready. You may have to shock it.”

James moved closer. The black cow’s attention moved to him. It hissed.

“Yeah. Here I come, and I got another shock for you!”

James didn’t feel like he could walk much further, but he was able to lunge his body to the ground.

The black cow ran in the other direction. Two cows followed it. One did not.

“What are you doing?” James yelled from the ground.

“Follow your damn herd instinct! Run!” James thought he could see wickedness percolating in its big brown eyes. From ten feet away, it lunged toward Monty.

“Monty!” James shouted.

It happened quickly. He saw the cow’s mouth hit Monty. It pressed him into the fence.

Monty’s body tensed up. The cow backed up and cried as a cow was supposed to cry, with a moo‐like sound.

The cow ran off, but there was still a problem. Monty was on his butt, with his back resting against the fence.

Before he could get to his feet, James saw Monty’s upper

M-BRANE SF body tense up as it was shocked again. James staggered as he got up, falling backward but catching himself before he made it to the ground. Monty tensed up again.

James moved toward him. He was about two feet away, when Monty was shocked a third time. James moved his hips the best he could, sending his leg into the fence. He managed to knock Monty off, and he managed not to fall over.

James stood on one side of the fence and looked down.

Monty was facing away. James couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

James looked at the hourglass and wondered if it James would be his last suspected he had time. It was hard to see it one cow afraid of clearly now, a white man, one but he knew there wasn’t cow afraid of a much left in black man, and the top half. two cows not He walked and fell, got used to leading back up and this small herd. repeated the cycle, over Still, that was and over. probably enough Eventually he to doom them. felt more pain, which translated to more control.

When he was able to work his way up to a jog, he thought he might be able to make it over the fence.

He would have to be able. Monty still hadn’t moved.

Two cows, both brown, presumably the two that hadn’t been people‐shocked yet, were creeping forward. The other two followed them at a distance.

James suspected he had one cow afraid of a white man, one cow afraid of a black man, and two cows not used to leading this small herd. Still, that was probably enough to doom he and Monty.

James estimated the closest cow was fifty feet away when he approached the sunken part of the fence.

James thought he could clear the five feet easily, not even touching the fence, had he not been shocked twice.

Now he was worried about getting over at all.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, listening to the sound and absence of sound that told him when to move.

After a buzz, James took a step and tried to leap. His feet didn’t leave the ground. By his height, he was able to get his arms over the top bar. He pulled. Nothing happened. He panicked.

FEBRUARY 2009 James fell back and away from the fence. It buzzed, but he was a safe distance away. He checked the cows.

They were closer, looking at him.

“Yeah, you stupid bastards! I’m going to steal your dinner!”

Both of the brown cows in front hissed.

James wondered if they understood his tone. He wondered what rules applied at all. What rules had whatever brought him here made?

“Damn it, James!” he said. “You got to find it in you!”

One of the cows hissed.

James stared at it. It was twenty feet from Monty now. He knew he had to do something. Physically, he couldn’t make it. He needed an edge.

“It was wrong!” he said out loud. “It was wrong to take them from me!” he said loud enough to set off more hisses. “I was a good man! Why did you take them away?”

It was as if something inside of him boiled.

When the fence stopped buzzing, James took two steps and jumped. He didn’t go high, but he got high enough that most of his chest was over the bar. He tilted with the momentum he already had. For a split second, he didn’t think he would make it.

Then he got one leg over the bar and turned.

He hit the ground on the others side and rolled. The fence buzzed.

“Yes!” James shouted and then heard the footsteps. Two brown cows were coming at him.

There was one on either side of him. James had moved closer to the fence. Now they were five feet away, staring at him, as if waiting for him to move, or maybe they were just waiting for him to fall.

Falling was very possible. Sitting still, he could feel his leg muscles tightening. He thought that if he waited too long, he wouldn’t be able to move them at all. They would just buckle and the cows would have him.

James crept, ever mindful of the fence behind him. If one of them moved in, he would have to touch it again.

He knew that would probably knock him as unconscious as Monty, but he could think of no other option.

The cows reacted to his movement by moving laterally with him, and at the same time, creeping forward. James kept moving until they were both about two feet away.

It occurred to him that he could touch them both at the same time. Then all four cows would have been shocked at least once. Maybe he would wake up before they got brave enough to come back. Maybe not. It seemed like his best risk.

When both cows moved their heads inches away to sniff him, James slowly brought his hands up. He braced himself to back into the fence. He would hit it hard, so he

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M-BRANE SF would spring forward after the shock. He waited until the next buzz ended.

A deafening sound rang out.

James had the thought that this shock was way different from the previous two. It seemed to set off a little extra adrenalin, causing him to breathe harder and for his heart to beat faster.

After a few seconds, logic set in.

This shock had not been from an outside electrical source. This shock had been his inner reaction to the guns going off.

The cows had reacted by running in the other direction.

James turned and looked at the hourglass. It was empty now. The grass inside the fence had been ripped up all over.

James thought out loud. “Wow! I guess they were aimed to kill everything inside the fence, without hurting anything outside.”

James saw the cows had stopped in the distance.

“Move, James,” he told himself.

His legs still hurt, but they were better. His knees cracked when he bent down over Monty. He placed a hand under Monty’s nose and felt the warmth of his breath.

“Yes!” he shouted.

He didn’t think he could lift Monty right now, but he thought he could drag him. He got the smaller man’s legs up and pulled. There were painful protests all over James’s body, but Monty was moving.

First, he moved the body away from the fence, and then he moved it to go around. He watched the cows, who just stared on from a distance. He rounded the corner. That got the cows in motion. They kept their distance still, but moved to that side.

They’re waiting for me to be away from the fence.

James looked away from them. It would be a while before he had to worry about that.

James thought the level of damage to Monty’s nervous system must be high. That was the only way he could have stayed unconscious while being dragged that far. The black man hadn’t even stirred.

James had taken him around the second corner and to the middle of the next fence. They were now as close to the door as they could be without leaving the safety of the fence.

The cows were only a few feet from that very door, waiting.

James wondered if the door led to safety. The only reason they had to believe that it did was that if the door wasn’t safe, then this was a very cruel game.

Kind of like my life. I was shown safety and happiness, only to get it taken away.

That thought made James hesitate more. What if

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FEBRUARY 2009 this was some kind of parody of his life. It made sense. It was all just symbolism his unconscious mind fed him in a horrible dream.

No, it’s not a dream. Dreams aren’t this painful for this long. And why would Monty be here? This isn’t symbolic of his life. He wasn’t shown safety and happiness until it was already taken from him.

James pulled Monty into the open.

He had to look over his shoulder in order to see the cows. The first time he did this, he fell backward. He crawled back to Monty and got his legs. He stood up.

The next time he looked over his shoulder, James maintained his balance. Three of the cows, the black one included, had moved away from the door.

They were actually going off to the side, like they were afraid of the two men coming their way. One brown cow remained near the door. It moved its head between the cows that had left and the two men coming at it.

James could clearly see the door had a black knob. He longed for it. He was very tired. He thought he could actually pass out. He thought that if he left his load behind, he would be okay. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure if he would make it.

They were about twenty feet from the door, when the lone brown cow stopped being indecisive. It walked toward James, its mouth open, revealing its fangs.

James did the math in his head.

One cow was shocked by me. Two cows were scared by a very loud sound when they were about to take a bite out of me.

James looked down at his friend. Monty’s eyes were open. They were moving too. There was confusion in them.

“This isn’t what it will seem like,” James said.

He twisted Monty’s body around. The brown cow saw it and made a high‐pitched, pained noise. Then it ran away.

James looked down at Monty, who still had his eyes open.

“That was the one you shocked,” he said. “We’re going to make it.”

James stood outside the door. He dropped Monty’s feet.

He wasn’t even going to bother looking back at this place.

He just hoped he didn’t open the door to find more of the grass on the other side.

James took the knob in a cramped hand. He turned it, and the door opened.

There was no green grass on the other side. There was only darkness. James remembered the darkness from before.

We came into this place through that darkness.

James wanted to talk it over with Monty first. At least, he wanted to give Monty a choice, if Monty was coherent enough to make that choice.

Monty’s eyes were closed again, and he looked more

M-BRANE SF still than before. James put a hand to his face. He didn’t feel breath. He place two fingers and Monty’s neck and found no pulse.

Tears came to his eyes.

“I won’t leave you here,” he said.

James pushed Monty through the threshold. His body fell through the other side. James listened but didn’t hear it hit. James followed.

He was falling. It seemed to last for hours. Then it was done. He awoke with the terrible throb in his head.

James sighed. He supposed the dull pain of a hangover was better than where he had just been.

“What a dream,” he whispered.

When he heard the door swing open, he opened his eyes.

Two little blonde‐headed girls rushed toward him.

They were saying something, but in that moment, he couldn’t comprehend it. He wrapped his arms around them.

Then the other beautiful blonde appeared in the doorway. She looked at him oddly. He stood up, taking two laughing girls and a headache with him. He put the girls down to hug her.

“What?” he said. “How?” “Are you okay?” his wife asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “How did you get here?”

“James, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You said you had a headache and that you were going to lie down. We were on our way out the door, when a man pulled up. He wanted me to give you this. He said it was important that you get it right away.”

James backed away from her. He hadn’t noticed that she was holding something before. He took the book from her hand.

He was looking at the back cover. There was an author’s picture.

“That’s the man!” his wife said.

Donning a white sweater and sitting casually with a smiling Golden Labrador at his side, the little black man looked more like a yuppie than a prisoner.

“Monty,” James said.

James turned it over. He read the title out loud. “The Grassy Plain.”

James opened the book. On the inside flap, a message was written.

Happy first Friday of the new year.

Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels The Coma Lights and Nescata. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Joshua currently lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters. Find him online at www. joshuascribner.com.

FEBRUARY 2009

OF NOTE ON THE WWW (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 29)

at www.archive.org/details/MindWebs‐SciFI was a pretty exciting find. This radio show, produced for a few years in the late 1970s by Wisconsin Public Radio, consists of readings of science fiction short stories, read by Michael Hanson. Audio quality from one recording to the next is somewhat uneven, but it is all entirely listenable. It’s remarkable in itself that these recordings were preserved, and it’s a real boon for people who like to listen to this sort of thing. I’d compare it favorably to the 1950s radio shows like Dimension X and X Minus One. The hosting site, www.archive.org , has a whole lot of stuff to look at in various media and is worth spending some time with…Rudy Rucker’s websize Flurb at www.flurb.net is more handsome to look at than a lot of webzines, with its clean lay‐out and arty photography (by Rucker himself), and it’s also filled with a tad more high‐end content than most, with contributions in the recent issue by the illustrious likes of Bruce Sterling and Charles Platt. Rucker himself is, of course, a highly notable sf writer, a founding father of cyberpunk (along with Sterling, Gibson, Shiner, et al.) and author of many novels including the germinal Wetware…Of as much interest to writers as fans is Dan Simmons’ website at www.dansimmons.com .

Simmons writes in several genres, but is probably best known to sf readers for the Hyperion Cantos and the Ilium/Olympos duology. He doesn’t post new material to it with tremendous frequency, but when he does, it is always interesting and substantive. Relatively recent entries include a short story pondering the 2008 Presidential election and featuring his Elm Haven characters (from Summer of Night), and an excellent essay on the Nazi‐hosted 1936 Olympics. Of special interest for writers are Simmons’ “Writing Well” essays, a very fine educational series. Also, the site hosts a series of articles on the business of publishing by his agent, the well‐known Richard Curtis…Another writer’s site that I enjoy is Ian McDonald’s blog “Cyberabad” at www.ianmcdonald.livejournal.com . In addition to updates on his writing life, one can learn such minutiae as what he made for New Year’s dinner: “New Year cooking: Game terrine: insufferably pleased with myself for this one: got two packs of 'game bit's in Land of Cheapie from Tesco Knocknagoney ­­then worked out what to do with them. Pukkah terrine with stretched bacon and everything... Good texture, home made forcemeat ­­based on pork mince at same Land of Cheapie...Main course: partridge. I resisted the temptation to do something smart­ass with pears. To finish: Black Bun featuring slimmeroftheyea’s medieval mincemeat ­­with real meat. Which she kept preserved in brandy for a year. And we still live!”—CF

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M-BRANE SF

COLONIZING MARS A deep­seated uneasiness about what the future may hold in store seems to pervade most of the stories in this issue (and perhaps that is simply because they are science fiction). In this engaging entry, the writer weaves some hard science with what seems to me a real creeping dread about the course our world may be on regarding the intersection of technology, economics and civil liberties. –CF

Where am I? You're in therapy, Miss Lewis. Just relax.

Therapy?

This will be just an introductory session, to help you get oriented. I'll be your therapist.

What do I call you?

You don't have to call me anything. Let's begin at the beginning. Why do you think you're here?

Because I'm living in a fascist dictatorship.

Try again.

Because somebody up there hates me.

You are here so we can help you work through the problems you've been having. Let's begin at the beginning. What memories do you think we should concentrate on?

I don't know. A lot.

Let's start with one particular memory. I won't interrupt. Just tell me something that happened that you think is relevant. You can say whatever you want.

Okay...

Burke and I were standing on the ridge just west of Hellas Planitia. He'd set up these regular shuttle landings for what he called 'picnics.'

"It's beautiful," he said.

It was, too. The sand was pink, just like in the photos. It kind of swept away below us into the desert.

The sun was coming up over the horizon, and the mesas were silhouetted against it, solid black.

"One last time," I said. "Let's leave Mars alone. It's beautiful the way it is. We can put up dome colonies at far less cost‐‐" "You don't understand how beautiful it's gonna be with trees and greenery and fish leaping in the rivers."

"I can't get you to change your mind?"

He shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.

44

That was Burke Richardson, CEO of The Richardson Consortium?

Yeah. A personal friend, from school.

How personal?

Not a lover, just a friend.

But you wanted to stop his project.

That's why I'm here.

You're here so we can help you work through the problems you've been having. Why don't you try another memory?

EK = ½ I ω 2

What does that mean?

That's the equation for rotational kinetic energy.

I mean, what relevance does this have to your problem?

I'm a scientist. I think in equations sometimes.

Try another memory.

They aimed the first asteroid at the Martian equator.

But because of a misfire in the mass drivers ‐‐ North American Rockwell, $58.6 trillion in contracts altogether ‐‐ it impacted at latitude 13° South. Gouged a trail almost halfway around the planet. The Martian rotation period went up to almost 28 hours, and its axial tilt went into a tight loop, oscillating from 29° to 21° every six years.

It was an outer‐system asteroid. Water and ammonia ice.

That was very technical.

I was dumbing it down for your sake. Otherwise I would've given the semimajor axis, eccentricity, inclination, perihelion transit time, longitude of perihelion and longitude of ascending node for the orbit.

Why don't you try another memory?

Okay. I was in the witness box.

This was at your trial?

I thought you weren't going to interrupt.

Sorry.

BARTON PAUL LEVENSON

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

This was at the hearings. The Joint Committee on Un‐ American Activities. Senator Duke asked me, lemme see how it went... "Ms. Lewis, you admit in your book, Universal Suburbia, that there is no indigenous life on Mars."

"That's correct, Senator."

"So in the strict sense of the word, there's no 'ecology' there to protect."

"True."

"So what is the basis of your objection to Mr. Richardson's project? Judging by your title, might I catch a whiff of disgust at something as nasty as free enterprise?"

"The Richardson Project is hardly free enterprise.

He's gotten almost three quadrillion dollars in NASA and ESA subsidies‐‐" Just then Senator MacDonald interrupted.

"Investment in space has always paid back more than it cost."

"Nonetheless, massive government subsidy of an industry is not free enterprise," I told him.

Then Duke said, "Perhaps it's the involvement of the United States of America that repulses you?"

"America is my country, Senator."

"Then I don't expect you'd object to reciting the loyalty oath."

"I recited it when I came here. Do I have to repeat it every time‐‐" "I don't have a problem repeating it, do you, Miss Lewis?"

"Miz," I told him.

"Oh, 'Miz.' Why don't you just say it with me‐" So we all said it: "The United States of America is the greatest country in the world. I pledge my loyalty to God, Jesus Christ and the United States of America. God bless America."

Another memory?

qi* = qi (P/P0) (T0/T)1/2

Do you want to explain that?

The equation for the mass coefficient of optical thickness. There's a different constant for each greenhouse gas. CO2 and water vapor and ammonia are strong IR absorbers. Oxy and nitro aren't.

Why don't we go on to something we can both understand?

Okay. They made a total of 61 improvements to the next asteroid‐impact mission, trying to prevent a fiasco like the first time. Of course less than half worked right.

The second impact was supposed to be at 13° North, angled to counter the spin and obliquity excursions of the first impact. Instead, they hit at Chryse Planitia, 28° North. Wiped out the first Viking lander, by coincidence.

The Martian day fell to 23 hours, but the axial tilt increased to 41°.

Another.

Ts = Te + Te Fconv [(1 + ¾ τ)1/4 ­ 1]

Explain that.

The equation for surface temperature in a gray model of the greenhouse effect. The convection factor is a constant, 0.43.

I think this kind of abstraction shouldn't really count as a memory. I want you to try and remember things that contributed to your present problems. Another memory, please.

Okay, here's a good one. My cell at the Schlaffly Womens' Center. Carved out of solid rock. It was supposed to be tight, but the damn rock was always dripping. And it was always cold.

Conditions on a raw frontier like the continental shelf are often primitive.

Gee, I wonder why the staff had nice, dry, warm homes to go to. Anyway, you're interrupting again.

I don't think it serves any purpose to slander the government, Miss Lewis.

Miz. Okay, do you want me to go with this, or not?

Sorry!

"Antonia?"

"Burke. How nice of you to come and see me."

"I didn't know they'd put you in jail. There was a press order on the hearings."

"It's not a jail, Burke. It's a 'center for the political and theological re‐education of politically unreliable female prisoners'."

"Nazis. They're no better than Nazis."

"I thought they were your party."

"For God's sake, just because I disagree with you on one issue, does that make me a fascist? I hate political repression. Listen, I'm getting you out of here."

"You can't. They abolished parole, remember?"

"They had to, Antonia. Crime was completely out of control, you know that. Oh, God ‐‐ Why do we always end up arguing about politics? I can get you out!"

"In return for what? Dropping my opposition to the project? Making commercials for The Richardson Consortium? My fair white body?"

"Don't tempt me. Look, I'll hire you as an official historian of the project. They'll release you to my custody."

"Look, Burke... I appreciate it, but don't get yourself in trouble. It's not safe to be associated with me."

"I'm one of the most powerful men in the world, Tony. Can I call you Tony?"

"Don't call me that unless you mean it."

"Tony, I wish I could‐‐" "It's Lexan. Don't press too hard or it sets off an alarm."

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FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF "I'll get you out of here, I swear it."

"Burke, you're crying."

Very interesting. Mr. Richardson appears to hold you in high regard.

Yeah. It's mutual.

Despite your ideological differences?

We like each other.

Let's go to another memory, shall we? And not an equation this time.

4 NH3 + 3 O2 => 2 N2 + 6 H2O

You seem to go out of your way to challenge authority even when there's no point to it. As it happens, I can understand this equation. Ammonia reacts with oxygen to create nitrogen and water vapor. But what's the point?

They used asteroids from the outer system because they wanted to give Mars an ammonia‐and‐water‐ vapor atmosphere. The heat from the greenhouse effect was supposed to cook oxygen out of the rocks.

The oxy would combine with the ammonia and make nitro and more water vapor. As the heat trap dissipated, the water would rain out. They'd have an oxy‐nitrogen atmosphere plus bodies of liquid water on the surface. Do you understand what went wrong?

I believe it's been said that the heat wasn't great enough for the oxygen to be released.

That's right. And it could have been calculated beforehand. In fact it was, by opposition scientists. But no one listened. They were accused of wanting to hold back progress, wanting to sabotage mankind's greatest project.

And of course all these brave souls were just trying to tell the truth in the face of evil government repression, is that it?

Something like that.

You know that the project is now setting up cracking plants to release the oxygen from the rocks. The habitable Mars will still be created.

Yeah, in about 400 years.

That is still a geologically short time.

You guys never learn, do you? You treat the Universe like it was your toy, just waiting for you to pull it to bits. You call yourselves pro‐science, but you ignore scientific laws whenever it suits you, like the ones governing population growth. You‐‐ It is you who are refusing to face reality, "Miz" Lewis.

Let me just bring up one interesting point. You're convinced that Burke Richardson likes you.

Huh? He does. I like him. So? And yet it was he who signed your committal papers.

I don't believe you. You're just looking for

46

something to hurt me with.

I have the papers right here. You're described as unstable, a possible threat to the project through sabotage or assassination. It's signed by Burke Richardson.

LIAR!

Barton Paul Levenson has a degree in physics.

Happily married to the genre poet Elizabeth Penrose, he confuses everybody by being both a born-again Christian and a liberal Democrat. His work has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Cricket, Cicada, the New York Review of Science Fiction and many small press markets. His novel, "Ella the Vampire," is now available for download from Lyrical Press, and "I Will" is coming from Virtual Tales in Spring, 2009.

He was prohibited from entering the Confluence Short Story Contest again after winning first prize two years in a row. He may be found on the web at www.geocities.com/bpl1960/ .

Image from the Pathfinder landing site, Mars.

M-BRANE SF

CLASSIC REPRINT! I don’t know if I will make room for this segment in every issue, but I thought it might be fun to re­ run some obscure, long out­of­print stories from the old pulp days. A reader of my blog sent me this one. I have no idea where the electronic text that I used to format these pages originated (Project Gutenberg, maybe? It’s posted there as well and the text matches, but theirs has illustrations with it), but I do know that the story originally appeared in Comet in July of 1941. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to turn up any biographical information on the author, nor any sign of other stories by this writer. I have, however, discovered an interesting bit of trivia about it: according to jessesword.com (see Webnotes on page 17), it contains the earliest documented occurrence of the word “earthbound.” This story is, of course, an artifact of its era. It may feel a bit dated and lack appeal to some modern readers. Maybe it’s not even as “good” as some of the other stuff in this issue. But I like to revisit this age of sf once in a while..and what more could one ask of a title!—CF

The BEAST of SPACE F.E. Hardart

Here the dark cave, along which Nat Starrett had been creeping, broadened into what his powerful searchlight revealed to be a low, wide, smoothly circular room. At his feet lapped black, thick‐looking waves of an underground lake, a pool of viscous substance that gave off a penetrating, poignant odor of acid, sweetish and intoxicating, unlike any acid he knew. The smell rolled up in a sickening, sultry cloud that penetrated his helmet, made him cough and choke. Near its center projected from the sticky stuff what appeared to be the nose of a

FEBRUARY 2009 spaceship.

He looked down near his feet at the edge of the pool where thick, slowly‐moving tongues of the liquid appeared to reach up toward him, as if intent on pulling him into its depths. As each hungry wave fell back, it left a slimy, snake‐like trail behind.

Now came a wave of strange music, music such as he had never heard before. Faintly it had begun some time back, so faintly he was barely aware of it. Now it swelled into a smooth, impelling wail lulling him into drowsiness.

He did not wonder why he could hear through the soundproof space helmet he wore; he ceased to wonder about anything. There was only the strange sweetness of acid and the throbbing music.

Abruptly the spell was broken by something shrilling in his brain, sending little chills racing up and down his spine. Digger! A small, oddly canine‐like creature with telepathic powers, a space‐dweller which men found when first they came to the asteroids. The relationship between spacehounds and men was much the same as between man and dog in the old, earthbound days.

Appropriate name for the beast, Digger. With those large, incredibly hard claws, designed for rooting in the metal make‐up of the asteroids for vital elements, the spacehound could easily have shredded the man's spacesuit and helmet, could, at any time, tear huge chunks out of men's fine ships.

The half‐conscious man jerked his thin form erect. His mouth, which had gaped loosely, closed with a snap into firm lines.

"She isn't in this hell hole, Digger. You wouldn't expect her to be where we could find her easily."

Scooping the small beast up under his good arm, he quickly climbed the steep, slimy slope of the cave. The other arm in his suit hung empty. That empty arm in the spacesuit told the story of an earthman become voluntary exile, choosing the desolation of space to the companionship of other humans who would deluge him with unwonted sympathy. The spacehound was friendly in its own fashion; fortunately, such complex things as sympathy were apparently outside its abilities. The two could interchange impressions of danger, comfort, pleasure, discomfort, fear, and appreciation of each other's company, but little more. Whether or not the creature could understand his thoughts, he could not tell.

As he went on, he reviewed, mentally, the events leading up to his landing here. The sudden appearance on his teleview screen of the face and slim shoulders of a girl. Her attractiveness plainly distinguishable through her helmet; for a moment he forgot that he disliked women. The call for help, cut short ... but not before he had learned that apparently she was being held prisoner on Asteroid Moira. He knew he'd have to do what he could even if it meant unwanted company for an indefinite length of time. The spell was gone soon after her face vanished; he remembered former experiences

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FEBRUARY 2009

with attractive‐looking girls. Damn traditions! these with ease. But that doesn't explain where the A change in his course and a landing on Asteroid humans have gone. It might be space pirates using this Moira. Here he'd found a honeycomb of caves, all asteroid for a base, or it might be some alien form of life. leading from one large main tunnel. The cavern walls We're still free. Shall we beat it or stay and try to check had been of a translucent, quartz‐like substance, this out?" ranging in color from yellowish‐brown to violet‐grey. It He did not know how much of this got over to the looked vaguely familiar, yet he could not place it. There spacehound, but the impressions he received in answer was not time to examine it more carefully. were those of approving their remaining where they The room in which he'd found the evil, hungry lake were. had been the first one to the right. Now he crossed to "I suppose the best system is to explore the rest of the the opening in the opposite wall. The mouth of this caves in order; let's go." cave was much larger, wider than the other. He stood Followed by Digger, he walked quietly toward the in the opening, slowly swung the beam of his torch next cave on the left, slipped through the doorway, and, around the smooth walls, still holding Digger, who, by standing with his back against the wall, swung the light of now, was indicating that he'd like to be set down. Nat his torch in a wide, swift arc about the room. Halfway released him unthinkingly, his mind fully taken up with around, he stopped abruptly; a slim, petite figure what the light revealed. appeared clearly in the searchlight's glare.

Spaceships! The room was The girl he had seen on the packed with them—all televisor stood in the They poured their penetrating sizes, old and new. A middle of the room, blue light over him, veritable sargasso. facing a telecaster, inspectingly, while the music At first, he her back toward from within rose and fell in thought they him. She did not regular cadences, sweetly might be craft seem aware of him belonging to as he moved forward. impelling and dulling to the nameless inhabitants What could be wrong; senses as strong oriental of this world, but, as he surely that light would incense. approached them, he arouse her. recognized Terrestrial The figure did not turn as he approached. identifications.

So near was he now that he could seize her easily, still The first was a scout ship of American Spaceways! she made no move. Nat stepped to one side, flashed his Nat recognized the name: Ceres, remembered a telecast torch in her face. Her beautifully‐lashed eyes stared account of its disappearance in space. There was a neat straight ahead unblinkingly; the expression on her lovely little reward for information as to its whereabouts. composed face did not change. A robot! He laughed Nat's lips curled in derision: it wouldn't equal the bitterly. But then, he was not the only one.... expense of his journey out here. There was a deep She was an earth product; Nat opened her helmet and groove in the smooth material of the floor where the found the trade‐mark of Spurgin's Robots hung like a ship had been dragged through the doorway into the necklace about her throat. But whoever had lured him room. What machines could have done this work here easily could have removed her from one of the without leaving their own traces? He went to the other vessels in the front cave. It did not seem like the work of ships: all were small, mostly single or two‐passenger pirates, more likely unknown intelligent beings. craft. The last entry in the logs of many was to the He turned to examine the televisor. It, too, was an effect that they were about to land on the Asteroid earth product. The mechanism was of old design; Moira to rescue a girl held captive there. evidently it had been taken from the first of the ships to None had crashed; all ships were in perfect order. land here. Outside of the telecaster and the solitary robot, But all were deserted. Two doors were gone from the there was nothing to be seen in this cave. interior of one of the vessels. They might have been A sound behind him. He whirled, heat‐rod poised for removed for any of a hundred reasons—but why here? swift, stabbing action. Nothing—except—small bowling‐ Nat's glance swept the room, came to rest on the ball things rolling in through a narrow door. Ridiculous figure of a heavy duty robot of familiar design. Semi‐ things of the same yellowish‐quartz material as human in form, it looked like some misshapen, bent, composed the cave‐walls. At regular intervals a dull, headless giant. He inspected it: Meyers Robot, Inc. Earth bluish light poured forth from rounded holes in their designed for mining operations on Mars. smooth sides. And issuing forth from within these comic "Well, Digger, I can see now how these ships were globes was the same weird, compelling music he had brought in here; that robot could move any one of heard before. They rolled up to him, brushed against his

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M-BRANE SF toes; a shrilling in his brain told him that Digger was aware of them.

"Back, Digger!" he thought as he drew away from the globes. They poured their penetrating blue light over him, inspectingly, while the music from within rose and fell in regular cadences, sweetly impelling and dulling to the senses as strong oriental incense.

But Digger was not soothed. The spacehound lunged at one of the globes; instead of slashing its sides, he found himself sailing through the air toward it. Nat received impressions of irritation combined with astonishment.

Within the globes, the music rose to a furious whine while one of the things shot forth long tentacles from the holes in its side. Lightning‐swift they shot forth, wrapped themselves about the body of the spacehound, constricting. Digger writhed vainly, his claws powerless to tear at the whip‐like tentacles. Nat severed the tentacles at their base with the heat‐beam.

He turned, strode toward the door watching the spheres apprehensively out of the corner of his eye, ready to jump aside should they roll toward him suddenly. But they followed at respectful distances, singing softly.

Before he reached the door, he found himself walking in rhythm to the music, his head swaying. It came slowly, insidiously; before he was aware, his body no longer obeyed his will. Muscles refused to move other than in coordination with the music. His arm relaxed, the heat‐ rod sliding from his grasp.

But Digger! The spacehound sent out a barrage of vibrations that fairly rocked his brain out of his skull.

Simultaneously, the beast attacked the nearest globes, tearing fiercely at them. Rapidly the others rolled away, but two lay torn and motionless, the music within them stilled.

Nat reached down, retrieved the heat‐rod. "I think we'd better look for a 'squeaker'. Next time they might get you, Digger."

They returned to the room of the spaceships, seeking one of the small, portable radio‐amplifiers used for searching out radium. It was known as a "squeaker" because of the constant din it made while in use; the noise would cease only when radium was within a hundred feet of the mechanism. He found one after searching a few of the smaller ships.

With the portable radio strapped to his back, power switched on, he started again down the main tunnel. The globes set up their seductive rhythms as before, but he could not hear them above the discord of his squeaker.

Failing to lure him as before, they sought to force him in the direction they desired him to go by darting at him suddenly, lashing him with their tentacles. But it was a simple thing to elude them. Still remained the question: why could they want to lure him into that stinking pool of acid?

He flashed a beam of heat at the nearest of the

FEBRUARY 2009 annoying globes. Under the released energy it glowed, yet did not melt. But the tentacles sheared off and the blue lights faded. The flow of music changed to shrill whines as of pain and its rolling ceased. The others drew back; he turned down another tunnel.

They stopped at the cave beyond the one where he had found the robot‐girl. It was sealed by a locked door, one of the airlock‐doors from that space vessel, firmly cemented into the natural opening of the cave.

Nat bent forward, listening, his helmeted head pressed against the door. No sound. He was suddenly aware of the dead silence that pressed in on him from all sides now that the globes no longer sang and his "squeaker" had been turned off. The powerful energy of his heat‐beam sputtered as it melted the lock into incandescent droplets which sizzled as they trickled down the cold metal of the door. The greasy, quartz‐like material at the side of the door glowed in the heat from his rod, but no visible effect upon it could be seen. What was that material? He knew, yes, he knew—but he could not place a mental finger on it.

He thrust the shoulder of his good arm against the heavy door, swung it inwards, stepped inside. The light of his torch pierced the silence, picked out a human skeleton in one corner. He hurried toward it—no, it was not entirely a skeleton as yet. The flesh and bone had been eaten away from the lower part of the body to halfway up the hips, as though from some strong acid.

The rest of the large, sturdy frame lay sunken under the remains of a spacesuit which was tied clumsily around the middle to retain all the air possible in the upper half of it. Evidently some acid had eaten away the lower half of the man's body after he had suffocated. The face was that of a Norwegian.

By one outstretched hand a small notebook lay open with the leather back upward. The corners of several pages were turned under carelessly—Nat swung the torch around the room. It was bare. The notebook— quickly he picked it up. The page on which the writing began was dated May 10, 2040. About two months ago.

"Helmar Swenson. My daughter, Helena, aged nineteen, and I were lured into the maw of this hellish monster by a robot calling for help in our television screen. This thing, known to man as Asteroid Moira, is, in actuality, one of the gigantic mineral creatures which inhabited a planet before it exploded, forming the asteroids. Somehow it survived the catastrophe, and, forming a hard, crustaceous shell about itself, has continued to live here in space as an asteroid.

"It is apparently highly intelligent and has acquired an appetite for human flesh. The singing spheres act as its sensory organs, separated from the body and given locomotion. It uses these to lure victims into its stomach in the first cave. I escaped its lure at first because of the 'squeaker' I carried with me. We set up these two doors as a protection from the beast while we stayed here to

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examine it. But the monster got me when I fell and the peered around the corner of the room. She lay in a 'squeaker' was broken. My daughter rescued me after crumpled heap in the corner; quietly he re‐entered, the acid of the pool had begun eating away my flesh. picked her up awkwardly. Through the thin, resistant "My Helena is locked in the room opposite this one. folds of the spacesuit, he could feel the warmth of her, She has food and water to last until July 8th. Oxygen but could not tell whether the heart still beat or not. seeps in there somehow—the beast wants to keep her They would have to take her to one of the ships. alive until it can get her out of the room to devour her."

Her limp form was held tightly under his good arm as Here the writing became more cramped and Nat hurried down the main tunnel. Digger apparently difficult to read. realized the seriousness of the situation, for he received "I have put the key in my mouth to prevent the impressions of "must hurry" from the beast and another spheres from opening the door should they force their creature, looking much like him, surrounded by small way into this room. Some one must come to save my creatures of the same type, trapped in a crevice. "Aren't Helena. I can't breathe—" you a bit premature, old fellow," he chided.

The writing ended in a long scrawl angling off the Halfway there, the globes met them again. The things page. The pencil lay some distance from the body. were not singing; from their many eyes poured a fierce, July 8th! But that had been almost a week ago! angry blue light. They rolled with a determination that He unscrewed the man's helmet, tried to pry the frightened him. Yet he strode on, until they were barely a jaws open. They would not move; the airless void foot away. surrounding the tiny planetoid had frozen the body "Jump, Digger!" until now it was as solid as the quartz cave‐walls. There The spheres stopped short, reversed their direction was but one thing to do: the other door must be melted toward the little group at a furious rate, flinging out long, down. whip‐like tentacles. One wrapped itself around Nat's He leaped halfway across the room toward the door ankle, drew him down. He shifted the limp form over to in the opposite wall. Could it be possible that he was in his shoulder, slipped out his heat‐rod. Quickly the time? Anxiously he flung a bolt of energy from his heat tentacle was severed. But now others took their place; he rod toward the lock, holding a flashlight continued firing at them, making each bolt tell, but the under the other stump of an arm. The numbers were too great. molten metal flowed to the floor Digger sprang into action, rending the globes He unscrewed like a rivulet of lava. with those claws that were capable of tearing The door, hanging off the hulls of spaceships. But tentacles lashed the man's helmet, balance, screeched open; air around him from the rear, snaked about tried to pry the swooshed past him in its him so that he was helpless. sudden escape from the The girl was slipping off Nat's jaws open. They room. He squeezed himself shoulder. He could not raise the stump would not move; through, peered carefully of an arm to balance her; it was stiff the airless void about to see a slim and useless. He stopped firing long spacesuit start to crumple enough to make the shift, even as the surrounding the floorward in a corner. The spheres attacked again. The bolts had tiny planetoid girl was alive! put out the lights in fully half of the He started toward her; marauders but the others came on had frozen the the slim figure pulled itself unafraid. body until now it erect again. He saw a Nat straddled Digger's writhing was as solid as drawn, emaciated face body, held the spacehound motionless behind the helmet. Then, with between his legs. At short range, he seared the quartz cave‐ a fury that unnerved him, she off the imprisoning tentacles, knowing that walls. whipped out a heat rod, shot a it would take far more than a heat‐bolt to searing bolt in his direction. He felt damage the well‐nigh impregnable creature. He the fierce heat of it as it whizzed past swooped the dog up under his good arm and fled his shoulder; in his brain Digger's thoughts of from the madly‐pursuing spheres, thanking nameless attack came to him, he flung an arm around the deities that the gravity here permitted such herculean spacehound, dragged it back as he withdrew toward feats. The spheres rolled faster, he soon found, than he the door. The girl continued to fire bolt after bolt could jump; so long as he was above them, all was well, straight ahead, her eyes wide and staring. but by the time the weak gravity permitted him to land, They made the door, waited outside while the firing they were waiting for him. He tried zig‐zagging. Good! It within continued. When at last it was still within, he worked. He eluded them up to the mouth of the cave,

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M-BRANE SF then jumped for the door of his ship's outer airlock.

Nat placed the girl in his bunk, removed the cumbersome spacesuit. Her eyes blinked faintly, then sprang open. But they did not see him; they were staring straight ahead. Her mouth opened and shut weakly as though she were speaking, but no sound issued from it.

He brought her water, but when he returned she had fallen asleep. He returned to the kitchen to prepare some food.

"You're still running around in that pillow case," he remarked to Digger as he extracted the spacehound from it. "Attend me, now. We know why and how those people disappeared. It would take the Space Patrol ship at least a month to arrive here; I don't intend to perch on the back of this devil as long as that. And if we leave, old thing, it'll just lure other chivalrous fools to very unpleasant ends.

"And we've got to get this kid back to civilization. She needs a doctor's care, preferably a doctor with two arms."

Digger's vibrations were one of general approval.

"We could poison it," he went on. "Only I'm not a chemist; even if I knew the compounds contained in that reeking stomach I wouldn't know what would destroy them. Might blow it up, but we haven't enough explosive.

"No, we'll have to get down into the thing's insides again. In fact—" He paused suddenly, mouth open.

"Congratulate me, Digger! I have it!"

The smell of burning vegetables cut short his soliloquy. He fed the starved, half‐blind girl, then left her sleeping exhaustedly as he squirmed into his suit.

No sooner had he entered the mouth of the cave than a half‐dozen of the singing sensory organs rolled quickly, yet not angrily, toward him. The beast was apparently optimistic, for the globes sang in their most soothing, seductive tones. They tried to herd him into the first cave on the right, but he had remembered the squeaker; they could not distract him.

Effortlessly he leaped over them toward the mouth of the cave on the left. That was where the spaceships lay, pointing in all directions like a carelessly‐dropped handful of rice.

All the ships were in running order. Good; had there been one vessel he could not move, then all was lost. The fuel in several ran low, but after a few moments of punching levers and pulling chokes, the under rockets thundered in the big room.

Taking care not to injure the motor compartments of the other ships, using only the most minute explosion‐ quantities, he jockeyed each ship around until all their noses pointed in one direction. The exhausts pointed out through the wide doorway. It was well that the beast had formed curved corners in the room, otherwise the scheme would not have worked. The exhausts which did not point toward the door, directly, were toward the curved walls which would deflect the forceful gasses expelled doorward.

When he emerged from the ship, the spheres attacked.

FEBRUARY 2009 He seared off their tentacles throughout what seemed to be eternities. His body was becoming a mass of bruises from the lash of their tentacles. He burned his way through the swarm on to ship after ship.

As he stepped from the last vessel there was a rumbling beneath his feet. Did the monster understand his intent? Was it stirring in its shell? Most of the globes had disappeared; now a nauseatingly sweet odor penetrated the screen in his headpiece, which permitted him to smell without allowing the oxygen to escape. He hurried around to the rear of the ship, an apprehensive, sickening feeling at the pit of his stomach. A thick jelly‐ like wave of liquid was rolling over the floor—the reeking, deadly juices from the beast's stomach. If the liquid touched him, it would eat through the heavy fabric, exploding the air pressure from around his body. How was he to escape from the cave?

The answer came to him suddenly. Quickly he darted back toward the nearest vessel. Two of the screaming spheres blocked his way; he sent bolt after searing bolt into them, more of a charge than he had given any of the others. The lights in the globes went out; their voices ceased. And they burst into slowly mounting incandescence. Yet, they were not consumed by their fire, only glowed an intense white light like that of a lighthouse.

"Lighthouse!" The word flashed through his mind clearly, strongly. They glowed like the "zirconia lights" of a lighthouse. Why hadn't he recognized the greasy, quartz‐like material before? It was zirconia, a compound of zirconium, of course. A silicate base creature could easily have formed a shell of it about itself.

Zirconia—one of the compounds he'd intended prospecting for on the moons of Saturn. Worth over a hundred dollars per pound. Because of its resistance to heat, it was used to line the tubes of rockets; Terra's supply had long been used up. Here was a fortune all around him; but that fortune was about to be destroyed, he along with it, if he did not hurry.

If he could only reach the timing mechanism to yank from it the wires connecting it to the other ships. It was at the other end of the line. He started in that direction, but a surge of fatal, thick acid rolled before him, reaching for him with hungry, questing tongues.

When it was almost touching his toes, he leaped. As he floated toward the floor, he placed a chair beneath him so that his feet landed on the seat. The legs of the chair sank slowly into the liquid.

Again he leaped, his moment retarded by the fluid which now reached halfway up the chair legs, sucked and clung there. The sweetly‐evil smelling stuff was rising rapidly.

But the next leap carried him into the main cave.

Abandoning the chair, he leaped once more, out through the cave's mouth, pursued by the waving tentacles of the sensory spheres.

He had lost precious minutes eluding that deadly acid.

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M-BRANE SF It would take at least five minutes to get his ship away from the asteroid; he must hurry before all those rocket motors were thrown into action, or it would be too late.

Leap and leap again. It seemed ages, but he reached the ship, bolted the door shut. Thumps against the door as the pursuing globes ran up against it. A thought came to him; swiftly he opened the door, permitted a few of them to enter, then slammed it shut. With the heat gun he sheared off their tentacles; he could sell the zirconia in the entities. Then he turned to the controls and the ship zoomed up and out.

Nat had barely raised his ship from the Asteroid Moira when he saw the small planetoid lurch suddenly, bounding off its orbit at almost a right angle. The sudden combined driving force of all the rockets within the cave had sent it hurtling away like a rocket itself.

The asteroid housing the monster was heading into the Flora group of Asteroids. There the fifty‐seven odd solid bodies of that group would grind, crack, and rend that dangerous beast into harmless, dead fragments.

"A good job," said a weak, but softly friendly voice behind him. He whirled. The girl stood in the doorway of the pilot room, supporting herself against the door frame. Digger rubbed thoughtfully against her legs.

"We'll just follow that asteroid, Miss," he said, "and see if we can't pick up some odd fragment of zirconia when it's smashed in the grindstone there. Then we'll light out for Terra."

She smiled. Earth, to him, seemed like a very good place to go as soon as possible.

AFTERword I started this piece as an entry for the blog, but decided that it might run a bit long for the evident short-attention-span nature of that forum. —CF

Spock smiled. ­­from “The Unreal McCoy” by James Blish

Often lately, I’ve been thinking that sf readers ought to take another look at James Blish.

When I started this article, I had been planning to complain about how few fans of science fiction seem to even remember Blish any longer. As Brian Aldiss remarks in Trillion Year Spree, “He was an irreplaceable mixture of savant, plain hack, and visionary, and it is a case for sorrow that his individual contribution to SF has on the whole been disregarded.” (p. 240) I am

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FEBRUARY 2009 probably—at thirty‐seven years old—at the youngest end of the range of readers who remember, for example, his thoughtful and weird novella “A Case of Conscience.”

I had been planning to complain about how—when he is remembered at all—it is most often for his short story adaptations of the Star Trek TV series, published as Star Trek 1 through 12 and Mudd’s Angels, those last two volumes completed by his wife J.A. Lawrence after his death. He also wrote the first ever professionally published original‐story Star Trek novel, 1970’s strange, meditative little book Spock Must Die! I wanted to talk about (instead of those old Star Trek books) his Cities in Flight series, about his broad imagination, scientific seriousness and his disciplined, deliberate literary craftsmanship. Earlier this year, needing something to read, I selected from my own shelves Earthman Come Home, a volume of that Cities saga. I had owned a copy of this book for years, an old book club edition from the 1960s that I had bought for a quarter at a thrift store in the 1990s along with a slew of other old sf books. I had never read it, though. I am not sure why I picked it out right then. I suspect that its physical size—book club format and not very thick anyway—might have played into the decision. In recent years I have experienced occasional phases of depression, and one thing that I do to distract myself from them and get away from my own bloated mental condition is to read a good (and easy) book. When I feel the worst, the best bet for me is a book that can be read in a single flat‐on‐my‐back session…and followed immediately by another such a one, if necessary, if there must be more waking hours before sleep takes over. I read pretty quickly, so working through two or three hundred pages, during a period of hours when I’ve given up on doing anything else, is no big challenge. And it’s often just the right medicine.

But as it happens, I’m not going to say much at all about Earthman Come Home. I will say that I found it ironic—given where I have been living lately—that the main characters, the denizens of the space‐going Manhattan, sent aloft by the miracle of the anti‐grav device called the “spindizzy,” refer to themselves as “Okies” and that the milieu of the story is a sort of galactic Dust Bowl in which whole cities have become the wandering homes of hobos looking for work (though these “hobos” are immortal scientists and engineers whose capacity for hard work includes moving whole planets with their astounding technical know‐how). This book, like its three companion volumes, is what A.E. Van Vogt called a “fix‐up,” a book that was not originally a novel but rather compiled from a set of closely related short stories to make something like a novel (Van Vogt’s own The Mixed Men and The Voyage of the Space Beagle

Christopher Fletcher

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M-BRANE SF would be other examples of the form.). Reading it kept me distracted and even a little happier during the bad day that I spent with it.

But I come around, gradually, to my point. I figured that when I decided to write about James Blish that I ought to focus on his original work and try to highlight the fact that he was a lot more than the hired hand that churned out the Star Trek tie‐ins.

Then, after a long while and a whole discarded draft of and this article, I realized that I was being dishonest to myself and maybe even dishonoring the memory of James Blish: for it is plainly and irrefutably true that Blish’s best and most treasured gift to me personally as a reader was indeed those Star Trek books.

I read them when I was a quite young kid, and they were among the first science fiction books of any type that I ever read. My mom bought me a box set containing the first five of them when I was eight years old. I still have that box of Blish Star Trek books and it sits in a prominent place on the bookshelves that fill much of the room in which I write everyday. One doesn’t see these paperback book box sets as much anymore, but they were common in the 1970s and early 1980s. I even had ones that contained collections of Mad Magazine reprints, as well as Garfield comic strips and (I shudder to recall and admit) Ziggy. These books were, in fact, my first exposure to many episodes of Star Trek before I ever even saw them on TV for the first time. In fact, reading them made me into a young Trekkie before the show itself had made its full impression. While TV reruns of Star Trek were quite commonplace in the 70s and 80s, vagaries of TV scheduling and not yet owning a VCR would often deprive me of the chance to see it. The books, however, didn’t go anywhere and I could pick them up any time of day or night. Night especially.

The circumstances under which I first read the Blish Star Treks loom large in my memory. As a young kid, I lived through a long phase of being something of an insomniac. I was also scared a lot, too, as the nights would wear on. I was a real fraidy cat, and got more that way as the night deepened. I don’t know why—maybe it was an effect of exhaustion combined with all the scary movies I loved to watch on TV. I remember vividly a Saturday night when I was spending a weekend at my Mom’s place. This was shortly after she and my dad split up and near the time that I was given the Star Trek book set. I know that it was a Saturday night, too, because if it had been a Friday, then I would have been able to watch on TV a local program called TJ and the All Night Theater.

This was a kind of TV that no longer exists and which was

wonderful: a guy at a local broadcast TV station sat up all night on Fridays hosting a marathon of movies that would carry me, if I didn’t fall asleep, all the way through to Saturday daylight and cartoon time. TJ’s films were not exclusively sf and horror, but the schedule was pretty heavily weighted toward those genres. On Saturday night, however, TV did not run all night. This was before we had cable, and every single one of the me broadcast stations would actually sign off for several hours in the very early a.m.

Kids much at all younger than me will not remember the TV sign‐off. No one does it anymore, and hasn’t for ages. I’d venture to say that any American born later than 1980 has never even seen it happen. Nowadays, even the crappiest and most scurrilous of TV channels can now fill those hours with infomercials if they don’t choose to put up any legitimate programming. In those dark old days, for an insomniac fraidy‐cat kid, the sign‐off was horrifying.

The stations would announce that their broadcast day was ending. The national anthem would play and slow‐ mo footage of a waving flag would fill the screen. Yeah, for real: they’d play the “Star Spangled Banner” as some kind of ominous musical transition into deepest night. And then there would be static. Not a silent blue screen like what happens on your TV now when the signal from the cable goes out, but actual noisy snow. It meant that the comforting distraction of TV was over with and would not return until almost dawn with the farm report or Pat Robertson. There were no VCRs, video games or computers to fall back on either.

But there were books. On this particular Saturday night that I am recalling, I watched on TV a movie that was particularly creepy. I have no idea what it was called, but it involved a space ship crew that was being preyed upon by some sort of vampirism. I think they were perhaps trying to return to Earth from somewhere, maybe Mars, and were carrying a crewperson or perhaps crew‐people who were dead but were returning to life. It was scary as hell, and then it seemed even scarier when the sign‐off happened right after and I was left alone to contemplate it. I badly needed to use the restroom, but I was too scared to leave my bedroom and make my way through the dark. I think what I was really scared of was that my mom would wake up, be annoyed to discover that I was still awake with my bedroom lights on and then force me to truly go to bed…with the lights off. My dresser sat angled in a corner of the room. I wedged myself into a space between it and the wall and pissed

James Blish

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M-BRANE SF on the carpeted floor behind that dresser. I really did.

With that problem solved, all I needed to do was survive a few more hours of the night until sunlight and TV returned. I turned, then, to James Blish and Star Trek. I gingerly eased myself into bed, lights still on, propped myself up on pillows—one carefully backed up flat and upright against the headboard to keep undead corpse hands from reaching through the spindles and grabbing me—and started reading. It was the perfect segue way from frightful alertness to sleep, and I guess I must have fallen asleep mid‐page. The

book was still in bed with me when I woke up in the morning. And I stayed in bed for a while and continued reading it, uninterested that TV was back on. Sunday morning TV was just a graveyard of hysterical church shows anyway, some even featuring an inset image in the lower left corner of the screen containing a woman, framed in fog, delivering the sign language version of the sermon.

I didn’t really understand, as a child, what these TV show tie‐in books were, how they were made, why they were produced, and what their relationship to the source material was. As the years passed and I became more entranced with Star Trek on TV, I tended to view the Blish adaptations and their variations from the TV episodes as some kind of additional “real” material, some footnotes to the canon of the One Truth depicted on TV that needed to be taken seriously alongside the televised material. I’d expend a lot of thought reconciling contradictions, forcing Blish Trek and TV Trek to conform one to the other. What exactly could he mean, for example, when he writes that the Klingons were originally of “Oriental stock?” Puzzles like that recurred as I got older and re‐read the Blish versions.

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This eventually became a lesson in “in‐universe” consistency and continuity. I learned that Blish had worked from shooting scripts that often varied from what was aired or may have contained information that was never put on screen. More remarkable still was the fact that he wrote most of those adaptations without ever himself having seen the show on TV (evidently it wasn’t running in England where he lived). Then, even later still, I recognized the fact that none of it was Truth save maybe for the televised show. By the time I started publishing my own Trek fanzine at the age of 14, I was well steeped in the Trekkie predilection for “alternate universes” as the explanation for everything that doesn’t quite make sense and the creators’ careless insertions of inconsistencies and inaccuracies into every movie sequel and, later, the spin‐off TV shows. In retrospect, I wonder why we bothered to care and why we happily tried to make it all “fit” when they would do something really dumb like substituting the word “Klingon” for the word “Romulan” in Star Trek II and thereby saddle the Trek universe with a hitherto unheard of “Klingon Neutral Zone”; or why it bugged us that the Enterprise’s deck numbers ascend rather descend from bottom to top of the ship only in Star Trek V; or why they kept switching from touch‐screens to switches and slides and buttons movie by movie; or why, when Next Generation came along, they went ahead and established a “World War III” as a part of history and made it a completely different event than the third world war and “last of your so‐called ‘World Wars’” twice referenced by Spock on the original show. Yeah, we young Trekkers cared about all that dumb crap. It’s too bad that the writers and producers of all the movies and later TV series did not, or that universe’s continuity wouldn’t be half the irreconcilable mess that it is.

Blish’s Trek stands almost as a whole self‐contained Star Trek alternate universe. It’s different from the show and it has nothing whatsoever to do with any of the later movies, TV shows or book projects that collectively form the larger, messy, discontinuous Trek universe. It will never be part of all of that. It’s just plain different in tone and sensibility, much like Blish’s other work was from a lot of that of his contemporaries. I still adore the original TV show, but I also take a lot of pleasure in the fact that the beginning of Trek for me was not Shatner intoning “Space…the final frontier,” but rather this odd first sentence of Star Trek 1 by James Blish: “Though as Captain of the starship Enterprise James Kirk had the final authority over four hundred officers and crewman, plus a small and constantly shifting population of passengers, and though in well more than twenty years in space he had had his share of narrow squeaks, he was firmly of the opinion that no single person ever gave him more trouble than one seventeen‐ year‐old boy.”

M-BRANE SF

MISCELLANEOUS NOTES…

The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, one of the big guns of the short fiction sf publishing world, is switching to bimonthly publication this year, an evident recession‐induced change. The less frequent editions will, however, be fatter. Editor Gordon Van Gelder estimates only a ten percent reduction in annual content. Let’s hope that this change works well for them and F&SF prospers in the new year since the last thing the genre needs is the all‐out failure of one of its major magazines. Van Gelder cited printing and postage costs as reasons for this change, and I can say that I sympathize: the entire existence of a print edition of M­Brane has been blighted by these factors. As it stands now, the edition will be available but at a price that I fear will be prohibitive…Rick Kleffel of the Agony Column on KUSP Central Coast Public Radio did a segment recently for NPR’s Morning Edition (also available in the NPR Books podcast for January 5) about the web novel or “wovel” format of fiction that some writers have been bringing online. The premise is something like a nineteenth century serial publication (a la Charles Dickens) but with branches of plot possibilities, where the readers can weigh in on what direction the next segment should go and then the writer complies. It’s sort of like one of those old “Choose Your Own Adventure” books. It sounds like fun, though I haven’t investigated it yet…Gardner Dozois announced the contents of the next edition of his long‐ running and prestigious The Year’s Best Science Fiction anthology. I have re‐posted it on the M­Brane blog on January 8. It looks like a typically solid line‐up of sf super‐ talent with plenty of buzz‐worthy writers rating entries.

This collection is always a thing to look forward to with its bounty of really substantial short‐form sf. I have already dismayed some writers in M­Brane’s short existence with my bias against “flash” fiction (what some editors used to call “plotless vignettes”), but I bet Dozois feels similarly about it: the very shortest entry in last year’s volume was still over 3500 words…The preliminary Nebula Awards ballot is out, and viewable at the Locus and SFWA sites. Novel nominees include Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother and Ian McDonald’s Brasyl. It’s also good to see Ursula Le Guin nominated for Powers…This from Locus: “Orbit is offering a different e­book each month for just $1, starting with The Way of Shadows by Brent Weeks. The special promotion is only available for readers in the US. Future offerings will include titles by Iain M. Banks, Karen Miller, and Brian Ruckley. Learn more at www.onedollarorbit.com.” That sounds like a fine deal, and I bet that offers like this will further ease the acceptance of e‐books. It seems unlikely to me that e‐books will ever really replace the physical book—the physical book is, after all, a pretty much

FEBRUARY 2009 perfect piece of tech: compact, easy to carry, intuitive to use, attractive to look upon—but it’s apparent that the electronic formats are starting to gain ground quickly, and it is already seeming reasonable to many publishers of major, long‐established periodicals to end their print operations entirely. The Christian Science Monitor newspaper, for example, is abandoning paper and moving to the web…The prestigious and much loved anthology series The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror (St. Martin's Press), edited by Ellen Datlow and Gavin Grant & Kelly Link, has been cancelled after twenty‐one annual editions. No 2009 edition collecting work from 2008 is scheduled, though "new incarnations of the book may appear,” according to Grant and Link’s blog. This has been a really fine anthology, and while I don’t follow those genres as closely as I used to, I do have on my shelf several volumes of the series. This news made me briefly panic that Dozois’ sf equivalent was also in immediate danger of cancellation, but then I remembered that the next volume was already announced (see above).

Hopefully it won’t be the last. Datlow, the horror editor of the series is, however, editing at least two annual Year’s Best Horror anthologies to be published by Night Shade. So I guess the concept partially survives, though without the fantasy…Locus says, “SFWA has announced the formation of The Ray Bradbury Award for Outstanding Dramatic Presentation for works including motion pictures, television, Internet, radio, audio, and stage productions. The award will first be presented in 2010 (for works released in 2009). Though not a Nebula, the award will be presented at the Nebula Awards Ceremony and will follow Nebula rules and procedures; the Script category of the Nebulas has been eliminated.” I think it is terrific that there is consideration for internet, radio and audio presentations. A lot of cool stuff is happening nowadays with the various podzines. Motion pictures and TV of recent vintage can, however, for the most part, kiss my arse. After Battlestar Galactica ends this year, I worry that TV will be virtually devoid of credible sf (its normal state, really; though the BG spin‐off Caprica is supposedly on the way), despite the existence of a whole cable channel that claims to support the genre even while running endless blocks of Ghost Hunters, craptastical giant CGI snake movies, and re‐runs of films that have less than nothing to do with the genre like Elf and Field of Mother‐Effing Dreams. As for feature films, my Netflix account lies nearly dormant because I can’t make time for all the crap that’s out there. And I don’t count comic book super hero movies as being in the genre either (before everyone emails me about how great Iron Man supposedly was…But I do count the TV show Heroes, which Jeff and I like and which appears to be getting at least another half‐season). I keep wondering where are some of SciFi Channel’s long‐promised and never‐delivered projects like adaptations of Red Mars and The Diamond Age? —CF

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NEXT MONTH…

A fine and bizarre batch of stories is planned for March.

A preview of a few highlights…

…Meet Dak: he is an Enforcer of the city of New Cluster. He has a male lover but he’s not gay—he has found a new way with “A Clone of a Different Color” by Michael D. Griffths.

…An enigmatic genius and the distraught daughter of a missing scientist fall into “Peril in the Red Zone,” in a strange story by Jeffery Sims which, while brand new, hearkens back to the days of the pulp mag mad scientist tales.

…A couple has all but given up on having a baby, but an accidental alien intervention solves that problem…sort of…in “New World Order” by Janett Grady.

…It seems that the age­old lament of “what’s with the kids these days!” will never be answered.

Youthful discontent and the end of the universe intersect in the “The Birth Screams of Angels” by Timothy Mulcahey.

…Talk about alternative energy sources: space flight gets a fresh lift with “A Soul to the Stars”

by Lawrence Dagstine.

And much, much more!

Don’t miss

M-BRANE SF #2 in March!

This robot is from the cover of the first issue of the British version of AMAZING STORIES, artist unknown.

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