No. No, wait! Over there, talking to Pam, could that be—?
It was. Mike Braeden. God, Don hadn't seen him since high school. But there was no mistaking that broad, round face, with the close-together eyes and the one continuous eyebrow; even wrinkled and sagging, it was still obviously him.
Mike had been in Bill's year, but Don had known him, too. One of only four boys on a block mostly populated by girls, Mike—Mikey, as he'd been known back then, or Mick, as he'd styled himself briefly during his early teens—had been a mainstay of street-hockey games, and had belonged to the same Scout troop that had met here.
"That's Mike Braeden,” Don said to Sarah, pointing. “An old friend."
She smiled indulgently. “Go over and say hello."
He scuttled sideways between two rows of pews. When he got to Mike, Don found he was doing what one does at funerals, sharing a little remembrance of the dearly departed with the next of kin. “Old Bill, he loved his maple syrup,” Mike was saying, and Pam nodded vigorously, as if they'd reached agreement on a nanotech-test-ban treaty. “And none of that fake stuff for him, if you please,” Mike continued. “It had to be the real thing, and—"
And he stopped, frozen, as motionless as Bill himself doubtless was in his silk-lined box. “My ... God,” Mike managed after a few moments. “My God. Sorry, son, you took my breath away. You're the spitting image of Bill.” He narrowed his beady eyes and drew his one eyebrow, now thundercloud gray, into a knot. “Who ... who are you?"
"Mikey,” Don said, “it's me. Don Halifax."
"No, it—” But then he stopped again. “My God, it—you do look like Donny, but..."
"I've had a rollback,” Don said.
"How could you—"
"Someone else paid for it."
"God,” said Mike. “That's amazing. You—you look fabulous."
"Thanks. And thanks for coming. It would have meant a lot to Bill to have you here."
Mike was still staring at him, and Don was feeling very uncomfortable about it. “Little Donny Halifax,” Mike said. “Incredible."
"Mikey, please. I just wanted to say hi."
The other man nodded. “Sorry. It's just that I've never met anyone who's had a rollback."
"Until recently,” said Don, “neither had I. But I don't want to talk about that. You were saying something about Bill's fondness for maple syrup...?"
Mike considered for a moment, clearly warring with himself over whether to ask more questions about what had happened to Don, or to accept the invitation to change the subject. He nodded once, his decision made. “Remember when the old Scout troop used to go up north of Highway Seven each winter and tap some trees? Bill was in heaven!” Mike's face showed that he realized he'd probably chosen not quite the right metaphor under the current circumstances, but that simply gave him an incentive to quickly push on, and soon the topic of Don's rollback was left far behind.
Pam was listening intently, but Don found his eyes scanning the gathering crowd for other familiar faces. Bill had always been more popular than Don—more outgoing, and better at sports. He wondered how many people would come to his own funeral, and—
And, as he looked around the room, his heart sank. None of these people, that was for sure. Not his wife, not his kids, not any of his childhood friends. They'd all be dead long, long before he would. Oh, his grandchildren might yet outlive him; but they weren't here right now, nor, he saw, were their parents. Presumably Carl and Angela were off somewhere else in the church, perhaps busily straightening collars and smoothing dresses on youngsters who had rarely, if ever, had to wear such things before.
In a few minutes, he would present the eulogy, and he'd reach back into his brother's past for anecdotes and revelatory incidents, things that would show what a great guy Bill had been. But at his own eventual funeral, there would be no one who could speak to his childhood or his first adulthood, no one to say anything about the initial eighty or ninety years of his life. Every single thing he'd done to date would be forgotten.
He excused himself from Pam and Mike, who had moved on from Bill's love of maple syrup to extolling his general prudence. “Whenever we were playing street hockey and a car was coming, it was always Bill who first shouted, ‘Car!'” Mike said. “I'll always remember him doing that. ‘Car! Car!’ Why, he..."
Don walked down the aisle, to the front of the church. The hardwood floor was dappled with color, thanks to the stained-glass windows. Sarah was now sitting in the second row, at the far right, looking weary and alone, her cane hanging from the rack that held the hymn books on the back of the pew in front of her.
Don came over and crouched next to her in the aisle. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Sarah smiled. “All right. Tired.” She narrowed her eyes, concerned. “How about you?"
"Holding together,” he said.
"It's nice so many people came."
He scanned the crowd again, part of him wishing it were fewer. He hated speaking in front of groups. An old joke flitted through his brain. The number-one fear of most people is public speaking; the number-two fear is death—meaning, at a funeral, you should feel sorrier for the person giving the eulogy than for the guy in the coffin.
The minister—a short black man of about forty-five, with hair starting to both gray and recede—entered, and soon enough the service was underway. Don tried to relax as he waited to be called upon. Sarah, next to him, held his hand.
The minister had a surprisingly deep voice given his short stature, and he led the assembled group through a few prayers. Don bowed his head during these, but kept his eyes open and stared at the narrow strips of hardwood flooring between his pew and the one in front.
"...and so,” the minister said, all too soon, “we'll now hear a few words from Bill's younger brother, Don."
Oh, Christ, thought Don. But the mistake had been a natural one, and, as he walked to the front of the church, climbing three stairs to get onto the raised platform, he decided not to correct it.
He gripped the sides of the pulpit and looked out at the people who had come to bid farewell to his brother: family, including Bill's own son Alex and the grown children of Susan, Don and Bill's sister who had died back in 2033; a few old friends; some of Bill's coworkers from the United Way; and many people who were strangers to Don but doubtless meant something to Bill.
"My brother,” he said, trotting out the first of the platitudes he'd jotted down on his datacom, which he'd now fished from his suit pocket, “was a good man. A good father, a good husband, and—"
And he stopped cold, not because of his current failings in the category he'd just enumerated, but because of who had just entered at the back of the room, and was now taking a seat in the last row of pews. It had been thirty years since he'd seen his ex-sister-in-law Doreen, but there she was, dressed in black, having come to quietly say good-bye to the man she'd divorced all those years ago. In death, it seemed, all was forgiven.
He looked down at his notes, found his place, and stumbled on. “Bill Halifax worked hard at his job, and even harder at being a father and a citizen. It's not often—"
He faltered again, because he saw what the next words he'd written were, and realized he'd either have to skip them, or else force the minister's error into the light. Screw it, he thought. I never got to say this when Bill was alive. I'll be damned if I don't say it now. “It's not often,” he said, “that an older brother looks up to a younger brother, but I did, all the time."
There were murmurs, and he could see the perplexed faces. He found himself veering from his prepared comments.
"That's right,” he said, gripping the pulpit even harder, needing its support. “I'm Bill's older brother. I was lucky enough to have a rollback.” More murmurs, shared glances. “It was ... it wasn't something I sought out, or even something I wanted, but..."
He stopped that train of thought. “Anyway, I knew Bill his whole life, longer than anyone else"—he paused, then decided to finish his sente
nce with, “in this room,” although “in the world” would have been equally true; everyone else who'd known Bill since birth was long gone, and Mike Braeden hadn't moved onto Windermere until Bill was five.
"Bill didn't make many mistakes,” Don said. “Oh, there were some, including"—and here he tipped his head at Doreen, who seemed to nod in acknowledgement, understanding that he meant things Bill had done in their marriage, not the fact of the marriage itself—"some doozies that he doubtless regretted right up until the end. But, by and large, he got it right. Of course, it didn't hurt that he was sharp as a whip.” He realized he'd mangled the metaphor as soon as he'd said it, but pressed on. “Indeed, some were surprised that he chose to work in the charitable sector, instead of in business, where he could have made a lot more money.” He refrained from glancing now at Pam, refrained from conveying the point that Bill never could have afforded what Don himself had been given. “He could have gone into law, could have been a corporate big shot. But he wanted to make a difference; he wanted to do good. And he did. My brother did."
Don looked out at the crowd again, a sea of black clothes. One or two people were softly crying. His eyes lingered on his children, and his grandchildren—whose children's children he would likely live to see.
"No actuary would say that Bill was shortchanged in quantity, but it's the quality of his life that really stands out.” He paused, wondering how personal he should get, but, hell, this was all personal, and he wanted Sarah, and his children, and maybe even God to hear it. “It looks like I might get damn near"—he faltered, realizing he'd just sworn during a service, then went on—"double the number of years my brother did."
He looked at the coffin, its polished wood gleaming.
"But,” Don continued, “if out of all of that, I can do half as much good, and deserve to be loved half as much as Bill was, then maybe I'll have earned this ... this...” He fell silent, seeking the right word, and, at last, continued: “...this gift that I've been given."
To be concluded.
Copyright (c) 2006 Robert J. Sawyer
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Tom Easton
Strange Birds, Gene Wolfe, DreamHaven Books (912 Lake St., Minneapolis, MN 55408; www.dreamhavenbooks.com), $10.00, 40 pp. (ISBN: none).
Kings of the High Frontier, Victor Koman, Final Frontier Books (www.bereshith.com), $24.95, 576 pp. (ISBN: 0-9665662-0-3).
Variable Star, Robert A. Heinlein and Spider Robinson, Tor, $24.95, 318 pp. (ISBN: 0-765-31312-X).
Wolf Who Rules, Wen Spencer, Baen, $25.00, 356 pp. (ISBN: 1-4165-2055-4).
Quantico, Greg Bear, Madison Park Press, $14.99 (SFBC), 357 pp. (ISBN: 1-58288-217-7).
In the Company of Ogres, A. Lee Martinez, Tor, $13.95, 352 pp. (ISBN: 0-765-31547-5).
The Machine's Child, Kage Baker, Tor, $24.95, 351 pp. (ISBN: 0-765-31551-3).
Out of the Silence, Erle Cox, Capricorn, $18.00, 248 pp. (ISBN: 0-9774757-3-5).
Flashing the Dark, Bruce Boston, Samsdot (order from www.projectpulp.com), $9.95, 102 pp. (ISBN: 1-933556-23-4).
Daughters of Earth: Feminist Science Fiction in the Twentieth Century, Justine Larbalestier, ed., Wesleyan University Press, $24.95 (paper), 397 + xxii pp.
* * * *
My wife and I recently attended Balticon 40, largely in order to say hello to guest of honor Gene Wolfe (an old friend whom we don't see often enough). While there, we picked up a copy of Strange Birds, a limited-edition (1000 copies) chapbook containing two stories Gene wrote in response to the artwork of Lisa Snellings-Clark, who has similarly collaborated with a number of other writers.
"On a Vacant Face a Bruise” tells the tale of Tom, who is drawn to the circus by animal noises, can't get in for lack of money but climbs a tree to watch and is accosted by a strange bird that talks, has little arms under its wings, and wears a fancy shirtfront. Soon, enticed by dolls and animals and birds, Tom is an apprentice lion tamer traveling from world to world, ever more part of the operation, until the circle closes on a note that suggests pain is the point of life. Classic Wolfe, cryptic and evocative. Much less cryptic is “Sob in the Silence,” which tells us of a horror writer who, hosting an old friend and his family, plots awful deeds and gets exactly what he deserves.
Well worth the price, if DreamHaven has any copies left.
* * * *
I also picked up a copy of Victor Koman's Kings of the High Frontier, released as a limited edition way back in 1998 by Final Frontier Books (part of Bereshith Publishing, most of whose titles seem to be horror). They still have copies, which would seem to reflect more on their approach to marketing via the con circuit than on Koman's skills. After all, Koman is a three-time winner (once for this book) of the Prometheus Award for libertarian SF.
Okay, the Prometheus is not exactly a mainstream award. But the SF community has strong libertarian sympathies, and one would think that any tale of independent spaceship builders who view NASA as an obstacle on the path to space would find more readers. This is especially true if one considers Greg Benford's Afterword comment that “We'll probably have a Shuttle blow-up before this decade is out.” He was a few years off, but it did happen within ten years, and since then NASA has not accomplished much. On the other hand, Bert Rutan has done his best to look like a backyard spaceship builder from the SF of the 1950s.
If you remember the dream, if you think we should have people a lot further out by now, if you love Ben Bova's work, then this one's for you.
* * * *
In 1955, Robert A. Heinlein outlined a novel, shoved his notes in a drawer, and forgot about it. If he had written it, it might have been one more of the famous Heinlein Juveniles. But he didn't, and his notes were lost to the world until they turned up among his papers well after his death and Spider Robinson—who tells how it all came about in the Afterword—got the job of turning the notes into the novel Variable Star.
The plotting bears Heinlein's mark. The writing and the sense of humor is distinctly Spider's, enough so that if you expect to read a new Heinlein novel, you will probably be disappointed. But Art Dula, trustee for the Heinlein estate, told Spider “to take his outline and write the best damned Spider Robinson novel you're capable of.” And Spider did that. The novel is easily good enough to occupy a place of honor on any shelf of Spider Robinson books.
Here's the tale: Ganymedean Joel Johnston has been finishing high school on Earth and dating Jinny. College—where he hopes to study music—looms ahead. But Jinny puts the pressure on until he says yes! He wants to marry her, and then it's off to meet Jinny's family, who turn out to be the richest of rich and of course any poor chump who marries into the family will give up all his plans and start studying business. Said poor kid feels pressured and betrayed and immediately cuts and runs, though not before making a good impression on Jinny's seven-year-old cousin. Since he wants to get just as far away as he can, he signs onto a colony ship. He will never see Jinny again! Good riddance! And What have I done? And Waaahhh!
Yeah, the kid's a mess. But with a little help, he starts to grow up and learn who he is and where he's going, which is a good part of the Heinlein Juvenile recipe. There are complications, of course, but they are all adequately if lightly foreshadowed (e.g., as soon as Spider mentions the Fermi Paradox, the Astute Reader knows that aliens will come into the tale at some point).
Buy it. You'll be glad you did, both because it's a good story and because it is unique in the history of the genre.
* * * *
When we last saw Tinker (in Tinker, reviewed here in April 2004), she had been turned into an elf by a besmitten Windwolf, survived capture by the evil oni, and used her genius to tinker up a hyperdimensional monkeywrench to foil the oni's plans to invade Pittsburgh, which thanks to Tinker's dad and his hyperdimensional gate, has been alternating between Earth and Elfhome for a while now. Wen Spencer had come up with an intriguing blend of SF and fantasy, which—combined with her appealing characters—worked very n
icely.
The sequel is Wolf Who Rules. Tinker had saved the day, but Pittsburgh was now stranded on Elfhome, there were still oni lurking in the background, and a mysterious hyperdimensional discontinuity in the Turtle Creek district just might mean the threat of an oni invasion was not over. Tinker is investigating the discontinuity when a dragon attacks her. She survives, but now she is plagued by dreams of Oz that seem to be telling her what to do next. Unfortunately, as is the way of dreams, the instructions are not clear and will take most of the novel to figure out. Meanwhile, Tinker is discovering that the mating habits of elves are not the same as those of humans. She has a glorious husband, but one of her bodyguards is pretty yummy and yes, elves are supposed to be able to play with their bodyguards. Since her body is now elf but her mind is still human, she has some psychological maneuvering to do while she discovers missing family members and the truth about the tengu (half crow, half human), figures out how to save a few astronauts, defeats a dragon, and restores peace to Pittsburgh. And let's not forget to mention the complications of elvish politics.
Spencer's fans will be delighted. Others should pick up a copy of Tinker first; they'll then have a two-volume treat in store.
* * * *
Greg Bear's Quantico is firmly rooted in today's headlines. Have you noticed failures of the FBI to prevent crimes? That's why Congress is intent on dismantling the Bureau. Have you wondered why the government feels it necessary to add Homeland Security on top of NSA, CIA, FBI, etc.? The alphabet soup and turf wars are even worse here. Have you heard that terrorism has increased since 9-11? Oh, boy! Or that you can now buy—on eBay, yet!—the equipment to do a spot of genetic engineering, maybe a nice little plague? That's here too. Along with survivalist, polygamist, religious nuts.
The tale begins as a mysterious fellow delivers samples of deadly powder. It sounds like anthrax. Then there's a truckload of inkjet printers toppled beside the road. In due time, we will learn that the printers are part of a nefarious scheme, but first we must drop by Quantico, the FBI training academy, to meet what may be the last class, including William Griffin, whose agent dad will soon be badly injured when a bust goes bad and a barn blows up (triggered by the aurora, of all things). The barn looks like a staging center for an anthrax attack, complete with printers and a fireworks launcher, but there's nothing but yeast on the premises.
Analog SFF, December 2006 Page 24
