A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Once you realise the simple truth that motive is irrelevant, it all makes sense. Really, you don’t need a special flash of insight direct from the lips of the Invincible Sun to figure that one out. There is no right and wrong, only good and bad. Faith is good; it’s essential, if you want to survive in a perverse and gratuitously cruel universe. Nihilism is bad; it deprives the world of meaning, so why the hell bother with anything? Anything that can induce people to have faith, have hope, believe that there is meaning, is good. Motive is irrelevant.

  I woke up.

  Later, I figured out that I must’ve banged my head on the gallows frame or the edge of the trap, which made me pass out. I had a lump the size of an egg and a splitting headache. I was lying on a bed. It hurt when I breathed in. There was someone sitting looking down at me. It was Zanipulus.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Awful,” I said. Then I frowned. “Zan?”

  “Hello, Eps.”

  “Sorry,” I said. Talking hurt. “I was expecting someone else.”

  He laughed. “No doubt you were,” he said. “But you’ll have to make do with me. Now then, you’ve probably got a bad head and a hell of a stiff neck, but basically you’re fine. You should be up and about in no time.”

  “You—” I paused. “For God’s—for pity’s sake. What happened?”

  He smiled. “Exactly what we wanted to happen,” he said. “Just for once, everything went according to plan, no balls-ups, no hitches. It was a complete success.”

  I frowned at him. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m still alive.”

  He stared at me; then he burst out laughing. “Eps, you idiot,” he said. “You didn’t seriously believe we actually wanted to kill you? Oh come on. We’re yourfriends.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “We staged your execution,” he said. “We made a martyr of you. Well? Isn’t that what you told Accila you wanted?”

  A martyr’s crown. “I thought—”

  “For crying out loud, Eps.” He was amused, but also a little bit hurt, a little bit angry. “Obviously, when we realised you had issues with the direction we were going in, we knew it was time for you to go your separate way. And, equally obviously, we couldn’t have you wandering off making a nuisance of yourself. So, we thought about it and decided that the best thing would be to stage your death, in public, so everyone could see, so there’d be no chance of you making a comeback and being a pain in the bum for the rest of us. Also, there was a fantastic opportunity to move the business up to the next level, by making you the Church’s first martyr. Which has worked,” he added, “beyond our wildest dreams. Where before we had one thrivingly successful Church, we now have two, in a state of perfect schism, the Orthodox and the Deodatists. Overall attendances are up twenty-one per cent. And,” he added with a grin, “the Deodatists—your lot, I guess; our wholly owned subsidiary—are particularly generous with their donations. At this rate, we should be in a position to retire by the end of the current financial year.” He stopped and frowned. “Hang on,” he said. “Didn’t Accila explain all this to you, the night before the—?”

  Earthquake. I winced. I could see precisely what had happened. In our brief conversation in my cell, I’d so annoyed Accila that he’d flounced off in a huff—intending, no doubt, to come back later and try again when he’d had a chance to simmer down. But then the earthquake happened, I vanished; Accila either neglected to mention to the others that he hadn’t had a chance to fill me in on the plan, or else was ashamed of having flown off the handle and cocked it up, so kept quiet. Bloody fool. Next time I saw him, I’d kick his arse.

  “Of course he did,” I said. “Sorry, I’m being a bit slow. I think I may have banged my head.”

  Zanipulus relaxed and grinned at me. “That’s all right,” he said. “For a moment there, I was really worried. I thought, what must he be thinking of us? He must reckon we’re horrible.”

  “You might have warned me,” I said, “about the hanging thing. It was really convincing. If I hadn’t known—”

  “Oh, that.” He tried not to look smug. “Basically, just a really carefully padded noose and a precisely calculated drop, though there’s a bit more to it than that, obviously. I’ll draw it out for you some day, if you’re interested.”

  “So,” I said. “I’m dead. What now?”

  He shrugged. “Up to you entirely,” he said. “We’ve worked out your share.” He named a figure, which made my head swim. “Accila was all for deducting the money you took from us with all those weird schemes of yours, but the rest of us managed to calm him down, make him see it was ultimately good for business—laying the foundations for the Deodatist schism, that sort of thing—and he came round in the end and he’s fine about it now.” He grinned. “If it’s all right with you, we’ll pay you half now in cash and the balance in instalments over, say, ten years, to save us from liquidity problems. Or if you prefer, we can give you rentcharges, the reversions on Church properties, it’s entirely up to you. After all, we owe you a great deal. We’d never have maintained and increased our rate of exponential growth without you.”

  “Cash and instalments will be just fine,” I told him.

  “Splendid.” He sat up a bit straighter. “So,” he said, “any idea what you’re going to do next? The world, as they say, is your oyster.”

  “I hate oysters.”

  “So you do, I’d forgotten. Any plans? Or are you just going to bugger off to the sun and enjoy yourself?”

  Interesting choice of words. Deliberate? Who gives a shit? Motive is irrelevant. “I think that’s what I’ll do,” I said. “Looking back, I never enjoyed my life particularly much. So I’m hoping my death will be one long giggle.”

  As part of my severance package, I received a one-fifth share in the net profits of Officina Solis Invicti, a wholly-owned trading consortium with interests in, among other things, shipbuilding and arms production. That has proved to be a real slice of luck—heaven-sent, you might say—what with the dreadful wars we’ve been having lately, between the Orthodox empire and the Deodatist Aelians and Vesani. As I write this, Zanipulus is in the process of setting up a chain of arm’s-length offshore subsidiaries so that OSI can open factories in Aelia and the Vesani republic, and we can start selling ships and weapons to both sides. And why not? It’s only fair; last I heard, the Vesani had taken a hell of a beating from the empire, on account of their vastly superior military technology. It wouldn’t do for God to be seen to be taking sides.

  Motive is irrelevant. The war is a terrible thing, but it was coming anyway, it was inevitable; once the empire had sorted out its traditional enemy the Herulians, it was only a matter of time before it picked a fight with the Vesani, the Aelians, anyone else it could find. By having the war now, and over religion rather than trade or boundaries, we limit the damage. It’s highly unlikely that the empire will win, particularly if OSI arms the opposition. Defeat, or a stalemate, will put a limit on imperial expansionism for a century or more. As a result, tens of thousands of soldiers won’t die, millions of civilians won’t be enslaved. History will thank us, I have absolutely no doubt.

  Meanwhile, every trachy I get from OSI, my estates in the Mesoge, my mercantile and other investments, goes to feed the war refugees. I live here among them in the Chrysopolis camp, sharing their bad water and their plain, barely sufficient food, and I have to say, it’s pretty horrible. We live in tents, or shacks built out of scrap packing cases. The refugees are surly and miserable, they yell at me and sometimes throw stones, because they have no idea what I’m doing there. Their idea of hygiene is rudimentary at best. I’ve nearly given up trying to keep them from slaughtering each other over trivial disputes (nearly)—beyond keeping them alive, I can’t say I’ve done very much for them. But there’s so many of them, a hundred, hundred and fifty thousand; all rabid Deodatists. Really, the only thing that keeps them going is their faith, which got them into this dreadful stat
e in the first place and sustains them in the face of the torments of hell. The Invincible Sun, and the glorious example of His true prophet Deodatus, who died for them that they might live; except he didn’t, but I wouldn’t dream of telling them that.

  In fact, I don’t dream of anything. At first, I was bitterly disappointed. I felt I was owed, at the very least, a well-done-my-good-and-faithful-servant, followed by a long overdue explanation and, just possibly, an apology. I’d have liked something, rather than complete and impenetrable silence. But there; they say that up in the Calianna mountains there’s an ancient Velitist monastery whose monks have spent the last two thousand years waiting for their gods to apologise for the Creation. They’re hopeful, so reports say, but they aren’t holding their breath.

  ROCKET SHIP TO HELL

  Jeffrey Ford

  Twelve years ago, I was at the Millennium Worldcon in Philly, and with the exception of the incident I’m about to relate, I only remember three other things about that long weekend.

  1. I recall going to a cocktail party at night in a dinosaur museum.

  2. Somewhere along the line, Michael Swanwick told me I should check out Fritz Leiber’s Our Lady of Darkness.

  3. I remember the walking. The convention center is enormous. I must have walked a hundred miles a day in that place—spacious, empty hallways with columns, rotundas, vestibules. With all the people attending, I couldn’t believe I could trudge for twenty minutes along some dimly lit, marble concourse and never see a soul. I suppose I attended panels and maybe even did a reading, but I can’t conjure one shred of an image of any of that—just the slogging from one distant point to another. Think Kafka’s “An Imperial Message.”

  Somewhere in the middle of the third day, exhausted and confused, not having seen the sun since arriving at my hotel attached to the convention center, I found myself near an exit and seized the opportunity. I plunged into a hot, blue day and the light momentarily blinded me. A few moments later, when I could see again, I noticed there was a bar right across the street from where I’d exited. Unfortunately, the place was packed with fellow con-goers having lunch. I had a hangover from the dinosaur cocktail party the night before, and I needed a drink. Before I moved to Jersey, I’d lived in Philly for a while. I was almost certain that there was a little place called Honey’s a few blocks east and then one south.

  I found it wedged into the middle of a block of grimy storefronts. It was dark inside and air-conditioned, cool relief from the August day. The walls were covered in cheap wood paneling and the floor was a black-and-white checkerboard that must have been laid back in the thirties. There were a few tables and chairs, and the bar was covered in the same splintered wood paneling. There was no mirror behind it or decoration, just rows of bottles of cheap liquor. I took a seat and the young woman behind the bar told me she had forty-ounce Colt 45s as well as the hard stuff. I ordered one. She gave me a forty and a glass.

  Other than the two of us, the place was empty. She looked to be in her early twenties, tall and thin, her hair shaved into a crew cut. The blue-gray T-shirt she wore bore the words Cannibal Ox and The Cold Vein and carried an image of what could have been astronauts with guns. She was busy, wiping things down with a wet rag, adjusting the placement of the bottles, drying glasses.

  “Are you from the neighborhood?” she asked, her back to me.

  “No, I’m in town for a thing at the convention center.”

  “The science fiction show?”

  “That’s it,” I said. “Have you been over there?”

  “I’d like to but I’m working this whole weekend. My daddy’s in the hospital, so I’m filling in for him.”

  “Oh, hope he’s OK.”

  “He’s got the prostate. You know what I mean?” She turned and looked at me.

  “Not yet, but I’m sure someday I will.”

  She laughed, put her rag down, and walked through a door to the left.

  While she was in the back, the front door of the place opened and I heard someone come in. I knew they were headed for the bar because their labored breathing grew closer. A moment later, an old, heavyset guy in a floppy brown suit and white shirt, yellow tie loosened to the point of uselessness, took a seat a few down from me. I looked over and he nodded his big potato head in my direction. He was mostly bald but little squalls of hair erupted here and there across his scalp. His thick glasses were steamed and sweat drenched his jowls.

  “It’s a fuckin oven out there,” he said.

  Trying to avoid a conversation, I just nodded.

  The bartender came back into the bar and, seeing him, asked, “What you want?”

  He stopped gasping for a moment and said, “Gin, straight up, miss. Not a shot, a full glass.”

  She set a glass in front of him and poured right to the rim. Due to past martini experiences, the sight of it made me gag.

  “Seven dollars,” she said. He put two twenties on the bar and thanked her.

  I knew that eventually the guy was going to start a conversation, and although I wasn’t keen on talking to him, at the same time I had no intention of leaving Honey’s until I’d finished a second Colt.

  “You’re at the convention? Right?” he finally said.

  I wasn’t wearing my badge and had a moment of panic over the fact that I could be so easily identified with that to which I belonged. There was no denying it, though. The bartender noticed my hesitation. “How’d you know?” I finally said.

  “I saw you over there, walking the hallways.” His voice was breathy and slightly high-pitched. There was a kind of weird resonance to it.

  “Some hallways. Place is like a labyrinth.”

  “I had to rent one of those scooters,” he said and his laugh turned into a hacking cough.

  “You a fan?”

  “I’m a writer,” I said.

  “Me too,” he confided and took a long drink.

  “Two writers at once,” said the bartender. “That might be a first for Honey’s.”

  “It’s not as auspicious as all that, my dear,” he said. Then he looked at me and asked what I’d published.

  “Last book of a trilogy came out this year,” I said. “I’ve only been at it since ninety-seven.”

  “Live long and prosper,” he said and flashed us the Spock split-finger deal. “My first publications were back in the late sixties.”

  “Novels or stories?” I asked.

  “Always stories,” he said. “I only wrote one novel, and you can’t find that anywhere.”

  “I want to write stories,” said the bartender. “I’m in my last semester at community college and I’m going to Temple to take fiction writing.”

  “Three writers,” said the old guy. He took a drink and smoothed his wispy islands of hair.

  “You like SF?” I asked her.

  “And fantasy,” she said. “I’m taking a lit course this summer. We’re reading Ellison, Butler, Moorcock, Tiptree, Dick.”

  “As long as you lay off that slipstream drivel—the lime Jell-O of subgenres,” he said.

  “That’s next semester,” she said. “Do you guys make a lot of money?”

  We laughed.

  “Money can be made,” said the old guy. “But you can’t make a living now writing stories.”

  I asked his name and he told me, “Cole Werber.” It didn’t ring a bell, but my knowledge of the genre was minimal. I told them my name, and the bartender told us hers was Breelyn.

  “Where’d you publish your early stories?” I asked Werber.

  “Back in the day, all over. Galaxy, Amazing, F&SF, If, and one you don’t hear about now, Venture. I wrote a series of stories about this alien named Pirsute. He lived on the planet Borlox, and he was a kind of vegetable creature—but arms and legs and a head like a human. Skin the consistency of an eggplant, a mop of greenery for hair, a thistle beard, and eyes like cherries. He was a detective. I based him on Poe’s Auguste Dupin. You know, ratiocination, etc. He had a sidekick, who was an orphane
d earth girl with a photographic memory.”

  “I love that kind of shit,” said the bartender.

  “That sounds cool,” I said.

  “Shit may be the operative word,” said Werber. “But my plan was to link all the stories in what we used to call a fix-up and then publish my first novel.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” said Breelyn.

  Werber waved his hand and smiled. “I’m just joking.”

  “How many stories did you have in the series?” I asked.

  “Well, I published the first one in sixty-five and by sixty-nine I had a dozen and a half published.”

  “Eighteen stories in four years? That’s pretty impressive,” I said.

  “Not really, not for the time. Some of those writers back then cranked ’em out a couple a month. I think Silverberg published a hundred by the time he was this young lady’s age. I was twenty when I published the first one.”

  “Did you have a lot of readers?” asked Breelyn.

  “Actually, people liked them. They followed them from magazine to magazine. I’d get a lot of response when I’d go to the conventions.”

  “So then why’d nobody read the novel?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t that novel. The Pirsute novel was never put together. The one nobody read was called Rocket Ship to Hell.”

  “Great title,” I said.

  “Religion meets science,” said Breelyn and made herself a whiskey on the rocks.

  “Maybe not religion,” said Werber, “but the whole thing reeked of mythology. I could tell you folks about it, but it’d take me a little while. It’s a remarkable story, though, no lie. I never really told it to anyone before, but with my health the way it is now there’s not much they could do to me.”