The Very Best of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Volume 1

by Gordon Van Gelder

  “Is that too tight?” he asked.

  She looked at him with wide eyes. As if he were the ghost.

  “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  She shook her head. Tried to speak, but only produced muffled sounds.

  “I can take that off,” he said, pointing at the duct tape. “But you have to promise me you won’t scream. If you scream, I’ll just put it on, and I won’t take it off again. Though, you should know, ever since Tessie died I have these vivid dreams and nightmares, and I wake up screaming a lot. None of my neighbors has ever done anything about it. Nobody’s called the police to report it, and nobody has even asked me if there’s a problem. That’s how it is amongst the living. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  He picked at the edge of the tape with his fingertips and when he got a good hold of it, he pulled fast. It made a loud ripping sound. She grunted and gasped, tears falling down her cheeks as she licked her lips.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” Alex said. “I just couldn’t think of another way.”

  She began to curse, a string of expletives quickly swallowed by her weeping, until finally she managed to ask, “Alex, what are you doing?”

  He sighed. “I know it’s true, okay? I see the way you are, how tired you get and I know why. I know that you’re a breath-stealer. I want you to understand that I know that about you, and I love you and you don’t have to keep pretending with me, okay?”

  She looked around the room, as if trying to find something to focus on. “Listen, Alex,” she said, “Listen to me. I get tired all the time ’cause I’m sick. I didn’t want to tell you, after what you told me about your wife. I thought it would be too upsetting for you. That’s it. That’s why I get tired all the time.”

  “No,” he said, softly, “you’re a ghost.”

  “I am not dead,” she said, shaking her head so hard that her tears splashed his face. “I am not dead,” she said over and over again, louder and louder until Alex felt forced to tape her mouth shut once more.

  “I know you’re afraid. Love can be frightening. Do you think I’m not scared? Of course I’m scared. Look what happened with Tessie. I know you’re scared too. You’re worried I’ll turn out to be like Ezekiel, but I’m not like him, okay? I’m not going to hurt you. And I even finally figured out that you’re scared ’cause of what happened with your mom. Of course you are. But you have to understand. That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Maybe we’ll have one night together or only one hour, or a minute. I don’t know. I have good genes though. My parents, both of them, are still alive, okay? Even my grandmother only died a few years ago. There’s a good chance I have a lot, and I mean a lot, of breath in me. But if I don’t, don’t you see, I’d rather spend a short time with you, than no time at all?”

  He couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t bear the way she looked at him as if he were a monster when he carried her to the couch. “Are you cold?”

  She just stared at him.

  “Do you want to watch more I Love Lucy? Or a movie?”

  She wouldn’t respond. She could be so stubborn.

  He decided on Annie Hall. “Do you like Woody Allen?” She just stared at him, her eyes filled with accusation. “It’s a love story,” he said, turning away from her to insert the DVD. He turned it on for her, then placed the remote control in her lap, which he realized was a stupid thing to do, since her hands were still tied behind her back, and he was fairly certain that, had her mouth not been taped shut, she’d be giving him that slack-jawed look of hers. She wasn’t making any of this very easy. He picked the dish up off the floor, and the silverware, bringing them into the kitchen, where he washed them and the pots and pans, put aluminum foil on the leftover lasagna and put it into the refrigerator. After he finished sweeping the floor, he sat and watched the movie with her. He forgot about the sad ending. He always thought of it as a romantic comedy, never remembering the sad end. He turned off the TV and said, “I think it’s late enough now. I think we’ll be all right.” She looked at him quizzically.

  First Alex went out to his car and popped the trunk, then he went back inside where he found poor Agatha squirming across the floor. Trying to escape, apparently. He walked past her, got the throw blanket from the couch and laid it on the floor beside her, rolled her into it even as she squirmed and bucked. “Agatha, just try to relax,” he said, but she didn’t. Stubborn, stubborn, she could be so stubborn.

  He threw her over his shoulder. He was not accustomed to carrying much weight and immediately felt the stress, all the way down his back to his knees.

  He shut the apartment door behind him and didn’t worry about locking it. He lived in a safe neighborhood.

  When they got to the car, he put her into the trunk, only then taking the blanket away from her beautiful face. “Don’t worry, it won’t be long,” he said as he closed the hood.

  He looked through his CDs, trying to choose something she would like, just in case the sound carried into the trunk, but he couldn’t figure out what would be appropriate so he finally decided just to drive in silence.

  It took about twenty minutes to get to the beach; it was late, and there was little traffic. Still, the ride gave him an opportunity to reflect on what he was doing. By the time he pulled up next to the pier, he had reassured himself that it was the right thing to do, even though it looked like the wrong thing.

  He’d made a good choice, deciding on this place. He and Tessie used to park here, and he was amazed that it had apparently remained undiscovered by others seeking dark escape.

  When he got out of the car he took a deep breath of the salt air and stood, for a moment, staring at the black waves, listening to their crash and murmur. Then he went around to the back and opened up the trunk. He looked over his shoulder, just to be sure. If someone were to discover him like this, his actions would be misinterpreted. The coast was clear, however. He wanted to carry Agatha in his arms, like a bride. Every time he had pictured it, he had seen it that way, but she was struggling again so he had to throw her over his shoulder where she continued to struggle. Well, she was stubborn, but he was too, that was part of the beauty of it, really. But it made it difficult to walk, and it was windier on the pier, also wet. All in all it was a precarious, unpleasant journey to the end.

  He had prepared a little speech but she struggled against him so hard, like a hooked fish, that all he could manage to say was, “I love you,” barely focusing on the wild expression in her face, the wild eyes, before he threw her in and she sank, and then bobbed up like a cork, only her head above the black waves, those eyes of hers, locked on his, and they remained that way, as he turned away from the edge of the pier and walked down the long plank, feeling lighter, but not in a good way. He felt those eyes, watching him, in the car as he flipped restlessly from station to station, those eyes, watching him, when he returned home, and saw the clutter of their night together, the burned-down candles, the covers to the I Love Lucy and Annie Hall DVDS on the floor, her crazy sweater on the dining room table, those eyes, watching him, and suddenly Alex was cold, so cold his teeth were chattering and he was shivering but sweating besides. The black water rolled over those eyes and closed them and he ran to the bathroom and only just made it in time, throwing up everything he’d eaten, collapsing to the floor, weeping, What have I done? What was I thinking?

  He would have stayed there like that, he determined, until they came for him and carted him away, but after a while he became aware of the foul taste in his mouth. He stood up, rinsed it out, brushed his teeth and tongue, changed out of his clothes, and went to bed, where, after a good deal more crying, and trying to figure out exactly what had happened to his mind, he was amazed to find himself falling into a deep darkness like the water, from which, he expected, he would never rise.

  But then he was lying there, with his eyes closed, somewhere between sleep and waking, and he realized he’d been like this for some time. Though he was fairly certain he had fallen asleep, something
had woken him. In this half state, he’d been listening to the sound he finally recognized as dripping water. He hated it when he didn’t turn the faucet tight. He tried to ignore it, but the dripping persisted. So confused was he that he even thought he felt a splash on his hand and another on his forehead. He opened one eye, then the other.

  She stood there, dripping wet, her hair plastered darkly around her face, her eyes smudged black. “I found a sharp rock at the bottom of the world,” she said and she raised her arms. He thought she was going to strike him, but instead she showed him the cut rope dangling there.

  He nodded. He could not speak.

  She cocked her head, smiled, and said, “Okay, you were right. You were right about everything. Got any room in there?”

  He nodded. She peeled off the wet T-shirt and let it drop to the floor, revealing her small breasts white as the moon, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, wiggling seductively out of the tight wet fabric, taking her panties off at the same time. He saw when she lifted her feet that the rope was no longer around them and she was already transparent below the knees. When she pulled back the covers he smelled the odd odor of saltwater and mud, as if she were both fresh and loamy. He scooted over, but only far enough that when she eased in beside him, he could hold her, wrap her wet cold skin in his arms, knowing that he was offering her everything, everything he had to give, and that she had come to take it.

  “You took a big risk back there,” she said.

  He nodded.

  She pressed her lips against his and he felt himself growing lighter, as if all his life he’d been weighed down by this extra breath, and her lips were cold but they grew warmer and warmer and the heat between them created a steam until she burned him and still, they kissed, all the while Alex thinking, I love you, I love you, I love you, until, finally, he could think it no more, his head was as light as his body, lying beside her, hot flesh to hot flesh, the cinder of his mind could no longer make sense of it, and he hoped, as he fell into a black place like no other he’d ever been in before, that this was really happening, that she was really here, and the suffering he’d felt for so long was finally over.

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  The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate – Ted Chiang

  Ted Chiang has only published a dozen stories over the past two decades, but each of those stories—starting with “Tower of Babylon”—has been evocative and memorable, and they have been enough to mark him as one of the finest writers of his generation. In my eyes, “The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate” is a great example of the kinds of stories that F&SF has published for the last sixty years, and plans to publish for the next sixty... and beyond.

  Mighty Caliph and Commander of the Faithful, I am humbled to be in the splendor of your presence; a man can hope for no greater blessing as long as he lives. The story I have to tell is truly a strange one, and were the entirety to be tattooed at the corner of one’s eye, the marvel of its presentation would not exceed that of the events recounted, for it is a warning to those who would be warned and a lesson to those who would learn.

  My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, and I was born here in Baghdad, City of Peace. My father was a grain merchant, but for much of my life I have worked as a purveyor of fine fabrics, trading in silk from Damascus and linen from Egypt and scarves from Morocco that are embroidered with gold. I was prosperous, but my heart was troubled, and neither the purchase of luxuries nor the giving of alms was able to soothe it. Now I stand before you without a single dirham in my purse, but I am at peace.

  Allah is the beginning of all things, but with Your Majesty’s permission, I begin my story with the day I took a walk through the district of metalsmiths.

  I needed to purchase a gift for a man I had to do business with, and had been told he might appreciate a tray made of silver. After browsing for half an hour, I noticed that one of the largest shops in the market had been taken over by a new merchant. It was a prized location that must have been expensive to acquire, so I entered to peruse its wares.

  Never before had I seen such a marvelous assortment of goods. Near the entrance there was an astrolabe equipped with seven plates inlaid with silver, a water-clock that chimed on the hour, and a nightingale made of brass that sang when the wind blew. Farther inside there were even more ingenious mechanisms, and I stared at them the way a child watches a juggler, when an old man stepped out from a doorway in the back.

  “Welcome to my humble shop, my lord,” he said. “My name is Bashaarat. How may I assist you?”

  “These are remarkable items that you have for sale. I deal with traders from every corner of the world, and yet I have never seen their like. From where, may I ask, did you acquire your merchandise?”

  “I am grateful to you for your kind words,” he said. “Everything you see here was made in my workshop, by myself or by my assistants under my direction.”

  I was impressed that this man could be so well versed in so many arts. I asked him about the various instruments in his shop, and listened to him discourse learnedly about astrology, mathematics, geomancy, and medicine. We spoke for over an hour, and my fascination and respect bloomed like a flower warmed by the dawn, until he mentioned his experiments in alchemy.

  “Alchemy?” I said. This surprised me, for he did not seem the type to make such a sharper’s claim. “You mean you can turn base metal into gold?”

  “I can, my lord, but that is not in fact what most seek from alchemy.”

  “What do most seek, then?”

  “They seek a source of gold that is cheaper than mining ore from the ground. Alchemy does describe a means to make gold, but the procedure is so arduous that, by comparison, digging beneath a mountain is as easy as plucking peaches from a tree.”

  I smiled. “A clever reply. No one could dispute that you are a learned man, but I know better than to credit alchemy.”

  Bashaarat looked at me and considered. “I have recently built something that may change your opinion. You would be the first person I have shown it to. Would you care to see it?”

  “It would be a great pleasure.”

  “Please follow me.” He led me through the doorway in the rear of his shop.

  The next room was a workshop, arrayed with devices whose functions I could not guess—bars of metal wrapped with enough copper thread to reach the horizon, mirrors mounted on a circular slab of granite floating in quicksilver— but Bashaarat walked past these without a glance.

  Instead he led me to a sturdy pedestal, chest high, on which a stout metal hoop was mounted upright. The hoop’s opening was as wide as two outstretched hands, and its rim so thick that it would tax the strongest man to carry. The metal was black as night, but polished to such smoothness that, had it been a different color, it could have served as a mirror. Bashaarat bade me stand so that I looked upon the hoop edgewise, while he stood next to its opening.

  “Please observe,” he said.

  Bashaarat thrust his arm through the hoop from the right side, but it did not extend out from the left. Instead, it was as if his arm were severed at the elbow, and he waved the stump up and down, and then pulled his arm out intact.

  I had not expected to see such a learned man perform a conjuror’s trick, but it was well done, and I applauded politely.

  “Now wait a moment,” he said as he took a step back.

  I waited, and behold, an arm reached out of the hoop from its left side, without a body to hold it up. The sleeve it wore matched Bashaarat’s robe. The arm waved up and down, and then retreated through the hoop until it was gone.

  The first trick I had thought a clever mime, but this one seemed far superior, because the pedestal and hoop were clearly too slender to conceal a person. “Very clever!” I exclaimed.

  “Thank you, but this is not mere sleight of hand. The right side of the hoop precedes the left by several seconds. To pass through the hoop is to cross that duration instantly.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

&nb
sp; “Let me repeat the demonstration.” Again he thrust his arm through the hoop, and his arm disappeared. He smiled, and pulled back and forth as if playing tug-a-rope. Then he pulled his arm out again, and presented his hand to me with the palm open. On it lay a ring I recognized.

  “That is my ring!” I checked my hand, and saw that my ring still lay on my finger. “You have conjured up a duplicate.”

  “No, this is truly your ring. Wait.”

  Again, an arm reached out from the left side. Wishing to discover the mechanism of the trick, I rushed over to grab it by the hand. It was not a false hand, but one fully warm and alive as mine. I pulled on it, and it pulled back. Then, as deft as a pickpocket, the hand slipped the ring from my finger and the arm withdrew into the hoop, vanishing completely.

  “My ring is gone!” I exclaimed.

  “No, my lord,” he said. “Your ring is here.” And he gave me the ring he held. “Forgive me for my game.”

  I replaced it on my finger. “You had the ring before it was taken from me.”

  At that moment an arm reached out, this time from the right side of the hoop. “What is this?” I exclaimed. Again I recognized it as his by the sleeve before it withdrew, but I had not seen him reach in.

  “Recall,” he said, “the right side of the hoop precedes the left.” And he walked over to the left side of the hoop, and thrust his arm through from that side, and again it disappeared.