Asimov's SF, October-November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “You?"

  “Only so far as an anteroom, where I spoke with them through a glass window. That's the farthest they've allowed anyone, or so I've been told.” Goldstein tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “I wanted you to see this, to give you an idea of what we're going after. It's not just establishing trade relations with another race ... it's getting our hands on technology of such magnitude that something like that is little more than a trinket."

  Before I could answer, he turned his back to the compound. “Come on,” he said as he began to walk down the hill. “Let's get you cleaned up. Then I'll introduce you to the rest of the crew."

  * * * *

  XIX

  Goldstein had made a reservation for me at a small B&B called the Soldier's Joy, in the old part of Liberty not far from the grange hall that had been the meeting house of the original colonists. Before he dropped me off, Goldstein pointed to a tavern just down the road from the inn and told me he'd meet me there in three hours. Then the limo glided away, leaving me alone again in a strange town.

  My room was on the second floor, and while it wasn't the presidential suite, at least it had its own bath, which was all that I cared about just then. So I took a long, hot shower that rinsed away the last of my travel sweat, then wrapped myself in a robe I found hanging on the bathroom door and lay down on a feather-stuffed bed that felt nothing like a jail cot. I hadn't slept well in the stockade, and I figured I had time for a mid-day siesta.

  The afternoon sun was shining through the windows when I woke up. Opening the dresser and closet, I discovered three changes of clothes, along with a shagswool jacket and a sturdy pair of boots stitched from what I'd later learn was creek-cat hide. There were even toiletries in the bathroom, including a sonic toothbrush and shaver. I got rid of my whiskers and brushed my teeth, then tried on a pair of hemp trousers, a cotton shirt, and a shagswool vest. Everything fit me better than I expected, even the boots; either Goldstein had an amazingly accurate sense for clothing sizes, or his people had found my specs during their research. I didn't know which prospect unnerved me more.

  In any case, I arrived at the tavern a little less than three hours after promising Goldstein I would meet him there. I was on schedule, but my new boss wasn't. Or at least his hoverlimo was nowhere in sight. And the tavern itself was rather run-down. With a weather-beaten signboard above the front door proclaiming its name to be Lew's Cantina, it was little more than a log cabin with a thatch roof and fieldstone chimney to one side. Just a shack that someone had neglected to tear down.

  I hesitated outside for a few moments, wondering whether I'd misunderstood Goldstein and gone to the wrong place. But there was nothing else in the neighborhood that looked even remotely like a bar or restaurant, and he'd told me he'd buy me a drink once I got there. So I walked across a wood plank and pushed open a door that creaked on its hinges.

  Inside, Lew's Cantina was little more inviting than its exterior. A low ceiling with oil lamps suspended from the rafters. An unfinished floor upon which wood shavings soaked up spilled ale. Faded blankets hanging from log walls. Battered tables and wicker chairs, some of which looked as if they'd been repaired a few times. A stone hearth with a couple of half-burned logs. The bar was no more than a board nailed across the top of a row of beer kegs; behind it stood an old lady, thin and frail, who scowled at me as she wiped a chipped ceramic mug with a rag that probably played host to three or four dozen different strains of bacteria.

  Yeah, this was definitely the wrong address. Yet just as I started to turn toward the door, someone in the back of the room called out.

  “Hey! Your name Truffaut?"

  I looked around, saw three people seated around a table next to an open window. Two men and a woman, sharing a pitcher of ale. I nodded, and the guy seated on the far side of the table beckoned me. “You're looking for us. C'mon over."

  As I walked across the room, the fellow who'd spoken rose from his chair. “Ted Harker,” he said, offering his hand. “Commanding officer of the...” His voice trailed off, as if unsure how to finish. “Well, anyway, just call me Ted. We don't stand much on formality. Have a seat. We've been waiting for you."

  Ted Harker? The name sounded familiar, although for the moment I was unable to place it. He looked like he was in his late thirties, with long black hair tied back behind his neck and a trim beard just beginning to show the first hint of grey. “Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand, “but I thought I was supposed to meet somewhere else here...."

  “Morgan?” This from the woman seated next to him. A little younger than Ted, with short blond hair and the most steady gaze I'd ever seen. Like Harker, she had a British accent. “Yes, well ... figures he'd put you on the spot like this."

  “Typical.” The second man at the table, same age as Ted, with an olive complexion and a Middle Eastern lilt to his tongue. “Bastard has his own agenda."

  “C'mon, now. Speak no evil of the man who signs our paychecks.” Ted motioned to an empty chair, then turned toward the bar. “Carrie? Another round for the table, please, and a mug for Mr. Truffaut here."

  “Jules. My friends call me Jules."

  “Pleased to meet you, Jules.” The woman smiled at me as I sat down. “I'm Emily. First mate.” She didn't mention her last name, but neither did she have to; when she lifted her beer mug, I noticed the gold band on her ring finger. First mate in more ways than one.

  “Ali Youssef. Helmsman and navigator.” The other man extended his hand as well. “I take it you're our new shuttle pilot."

  “That's what Mr. Goldstein ... Morgan ... hired me to do.” I looked at the three of them. “So this is it? The entire crew?"

  Ted shook his head. “We've got two more. One of them is using the facilities just now ... she'll be back in a minute ... and the other is arriving with the ship. And we'll have two passengers as well...."

  “More than two,” Ali interrupted. “I spoke with Morgan earlier today, and he told me he's bringing someone else."

  “What?” Ted stared at him in disbelief. “Well, that's bloody wonderful. So when was he going to tell the captain, pray tell?"

  “Don't look at me.” Ali shrugged as he took a sip from a glass of iced tea; he was the only person at the table not drinking ale. “I just happened to see him on the street, and he told me..."

  “Morgan's going along?” This was news to me; he hadn't mentioned this during our previous conversations.

  “He has to. After all, he's the one who's trying to make a deal.” Emily let out her breath. “At least we're not having to deal with Jared again."

  “No. He backed out at the last minute. Said one trip to Hjarr was enough for him.” A wry smile from Ted. “Just as well. I had enough of him on Spindrift."

  Spindrift. As soon as he said that, everything clicked. “Oh, good grief,” I said, feeling my face go warm. “So you're ... I'm sorry, but I didn't recognize you. You were on the Galileo.” Before he could answer, I looked at his wife. “And that would make you..."

  “Morgan didn't tell you?” Emily glanced at her husband. “Nerve of that guy."

  Theodore Harker. Emily Collins. First officer and shuttle pilot respectively, they were two of the three surviving members of the Galileo expedition. Like everyone else on Earth, I'd heard about their encounter with Spindrift, the rogue planet that turned out to be a starship carrying the remains of an alien race called the taaraq. Along with a third member of the expedition—it took me a moment to recall his name; Jared Ramirez, the astrobiologist—they had landed on Coyote fifty-six years after the Galileo's disappearance, bringing with them the hjadd Prime Emissary. And now, here they were, they were seated across the table from me ... and I hadn't even heard that they'd gotten married.

  Ted looked as if he was ready to blow a mouthful of beer through his nose. He swallowed with difficulty, then looked at Emily. “Morgan certainly enjoys his little games,” he grumbled, then returned his attention to me. “Yes, you've found us out. Not that we were trying
to keep it from you, but..."

  “Keep what from who?” a voice said from behind me, and I looked around to see a girl about four or five years younger than myself. Shoulder-length hair the color of cinnamon, a narrow but pleasant face, nicely curved everywhere that mattered. Incredible eyes, the shade of green you find at twilight on a midsummer day.

  And then she looked at me and said, “Who the hell is this?” Like I was a bug she'd happened to find.

  “Ensign ... sorry, I mean Jules Truffaut,” Ted said. “He's our shuttle pilot."

  “Yeah. Okay.” She started to sit down, but waited while the bartender hobbled over to the table with a fresh pitcher of ale. Carrie placed a mug in front of me, then quietly pulled back a chair for the girl. “Thanks, Carrie,” she said, giving the old lady a sweet smile. “Oh, by the way...” She crooked a finger, and Carrie bent closer while the younger woman murmured something in her ear. She nodded, then stood erect and shuffled back to the bar.

  “What was that about?” I asked once she was gone.

  “No more paper in the outhouse. Thought she should know.” She shook her head, then glanced at the pitcher with distaste. “You guys already on another round? For the love of..."

  “You can have mine.” I picked up my mug, offered it to her. “Too early for me."

  “Don't drink.” Ignoring me, she looked at Ted. “So who's keeping what from whom?"

  “Never mind.” Ted picked up the pitcher and reached for my mug. “Jules, allow me to introduce you to Rain Thompson. Our quartermaster and cargo officer."

  “Happy to meet you. I..."

  “Likewise.” Rain barely glanced my way. “Skipper, I just saw Morgan's limo pull up. Looks like he's brought someone with him ... besides his bodyguard, I mean."

  “If you mean Mike Kennedy, I believe he prefers to be regarded as a valet.” Ted frowned. “Probably our other passenger. Anyone you recognize?"

  “Nope. Thought it might be this guy here—” meaning me “—but now that I know better...” She shrugged.

  I was still trying to figure out what it was about me that put her off so much, or if she was just naturally rude to people whom she'd just met, when the door opened and there was Goldstein. He hesitated just inside the door, looking back for a moment as if to see if someone was following him, then walked into the tavern. I noticed that he left the door open behind him ... not by accident, but deliberately, as if to give someone lingering just outside a chance to make up his or her mind whether to come in.

  “Gentlemen, ladies ... good to see you again.” He stopped behind my chair, placed his hand on my shoulder. “You found your way here, Jules. Excellent. And I trust you've introduced yourself to everyone?"

  “Yes, sir, I have. Thank you, Mr. Goldstein.” From the corner of my eye, I caught a sour look on Ted's face. Perhaps I was coming off as being just a little too deferential to a boss whom no one seemed to respect very much. No one likes a brown-nose, especially when he's the new kid in town. “I didn't have any trouble finding my way here,” I added. “All I had to do was follow the cockroaches."

  No one laughed. There was a cold silence as everyone stared at me. “If there's any cockroaches here,” Rain said quietly, “they're probably just the ones you brought with you."

  Emily coughed politely behind her hand, and Ali murmured something in Arabic. Yet Goldstein simply nodded as he pulled back an empty chair. “Perhaps I should have told you about this place before I directed you here,” he said. “The cantina was erected by the original Alabama colonists, back in c.y. 01. They built it from materials left over from the construction of their houses, and it's older than even the grange hall. During their first winter on this world, they'd gather around the fireplace, keeping each other company on those long, cold nights when they were unsure of whether they'd survive until spring."

  He glanced over at Carrie, who continued to putter around behind the bar. “Carrie's one of those colonists,” he went on, lowering his voice. “She and her husband kept this establishment going on little more than barter and trade credit until the Union occupation. After the Revolution they came back, repaired the place, and opened it for business again. Lew died a few years ago, but she continues to brew her own ale and fix her own food. So show a little respect, please. You're on hallowed ground."

  There was something in my mouth that tasted like my own foot. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn't know."

  “Don't worry about it,” Ted said. “Thought much the same thing when I first came here. Tip well and we'll call it even.” Then he turned to Goldstein. “Right. So we've got our shuttle jockey. So where's our ship?"

  “Your ship is on the way, Captain Harker. Ganymede-class freighter with only three Jupiter runs logged to her name.” Ted opened his mouth, but Goldstein raised a hand before he could object. “I know you wanted a new vessel, but this is the best I could arrange on short notice. The next boat in its class is still in the shipyard, two Earth years away from completion."

  “Boat?” Emily scowled at him. “We want a spacecraft, not a tub."

  “Believe me, it's a good ship.” Goldstein leaned back in his chair with the same air of confidence I'd seen when I was in the stockade. The man with all the answers, and the money to buy them. “Besides, you'll have an experienced chief engineer to go with it ... someone who knows his ship back and forth."

  “All right. I'll take your word for it.” Ted picked up his mug, took a sip. “So who are our passengers?"

  “Well...” Goldstein took a deep breath. “As you know, one of them is the Prime Emissary, Mahamatasja Jas Sa-Fhadda."

  That caused me to sit up straight. That one of our party would be a hjadd was news to me. One more detail about this voyage that Goldstein had neglected to reveal. Or at least to me; no one else seemed to be surprised. “One of the reasons why the ship has been delayed,” Goldstein continued, “is because we've had to retrofit one of its passenger decks as suitable quarters for it ... himher, I mean."

  “All right. I can understand that.” Ted folded his arms across his chest. “What about our other passenger?” He nodded toward Ali. “He tells me that you told him you were bringing someone else, too."

  Goldstein glanced toward the door. He hesitated, and for a moment it seemed as if he were waiting to hear someone say something. “A consultant,” he said at last. “Someone who we'll need for this voyage, strictly in an advisory capacity."

  Again, he gazed toward the door. A few seconds passed, and then a figure slowly appeared. A form draped in a dark cloak, hood pulled up around his face. He lingered for just a moment, then vanished again, without ever setting foot inside the cantina.

  “That's Mr. Ash,” Goldstein said. “He's rather shy, and I hope that you'll respect his privacy."

  Rain stared after him. “Weird..."

  Yes, he was. Just as weird as when I'd first seen him, peering in through the barred window of my jail cell.

  (TO BE CONTINUED)

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  On Books: BURIED TREASURES

  by Norman Spinrad

  THE GOOD FAIRIES OF NEW YORK

  by Martin Millar

  Soft Skull Press, $13.95

  ISBN: 1933368365

  -

  THE DEMON AND THE CITY

  by Liz Williams

  Night Shade Books, $24.95

  ISBN: 1597800457

  -

  NO DOMINION

  by Charlie Huston

  Del Rey, $13.95

  ISBN: 0345478258

  -

  THE SECRET CITY

  by Carol Emshwiller

  Tachyon, $14.95

  ISBN: 1892391449

  -

  SAGRAMANDA

  by Alan Dean Foster

  Pyr, $25.00

  ISBN: 1591024889

  * * * *

  Whether you call it evolution or devolution, SF publishing has changed rather radically from what it was, say, a decade ago. Most of the changes have b
een negative in terms of accessibility to potential readers and income to writers. However, perhaps there will turn out to be a small improvement or two in terms of literary freedom as the center of gravity, to coin an entirely paradoxical metaphor, moves to the fringes.

  For, among other things, more of the most interesting fiction in the extended genre than not seems to be found, at least by those able to find it, in the lists of the so-called small presses, and in the list of a publisher like Pyr, which seems to straddle, or perhaps in the end will erase, the distinction between such lists and the so-called major SF lines.

  When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose, as Bob Dylan had it. And when you're forced into, or choose, small press publication over the SF lines of the major corporate conglomerates, where it may not be a question of nothing to lose, but no realistic hope of a large enough readership to garner significant economic advantage, there may be something to gain in terms of literary freedom. Writers like Liz Williams, Martin Millar, and Carol Emshwiller may be rather invisible now, but they sure do have secrets left to reveal.

  Here are three novels published by three different small presses—Millar's The Good Fairies of New York, published by Soft Skull Books, Emshwiller's The Secret City, published by Tachyon Press, Williams’ The Demon and the City, published by Night Shade Books. All of which certainly have sufficient literary merit to have been published by the so-called major SF lines if that were still their determinative criterion, none of which have been, and probably only one of which could have been marginally commercially viable in their bottom-line terms.

  Which is to say that without the small presses none of them would have been published at all, and the writers, who would have had to have been smoking some really strong stuff to believe that they would be, might not even have written them in the first place. And things of absolute literary value, whatever that may mean these days, would have been lost.

  After all, how many copies of a novel called The Good Fairies of New York could a bottom-line oriented SF line hope to distribute and to where? Well, there's gay high fantasy fandom, a sales manager who hadn't read the book might tell the editor mournfully after three martinis in the bar and a long snort in the powder room at a Worldcon. We might sell a couple thousand copies there.