The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction - July/August 2016
Page 21
I felt bad about myself. I wanted to be a good person.
I wanted to work good magic. I bundled up and went back outside and tried the Snow Spell.
If the Snow Spell is successfully executed, then you should have a neat little dome of snow under your hands at its conclusion. A little hill of snow where before there was nothing. Results you could see.
I repeated the spell a dozen times, each time impressing Ben. He asked if I could show him how to do it and I thought, Sure, as long as we're sinning, let me teach you more forbidden stuff .
He couldn't do it, though. He tried for a few hours and then he gave up. And the moment he gave up was also the moment he fell out of love with me.
12. INVISIBILITY SPELL
Touch a charged third-eye chakra with the middle finger of your right hand and recite the invisibility incantation. (Note: the incantation is a thousand lines long; be sure to allocate sufficient time.)
I had an idea that turned out to be stupid. I decided that I would save the pangolins. So I bought a whole new type of tent and camped out in a Zimbabwean forest. My idea was to capture pangolins and apply the Invisibility Spell to them. Then poachers would never find them.
But I wasn't able to capture any pangolins. They are hard to find, which makes sense because they are endangered. I invited James to join me, but he declined. His spell must have reversed itself somehow.
13. TRIGONOMETRY AURA
Trace the mark of Pythagoras in the air. Use a golden thread to transmit thoughts.
By the time my mother received my postcards from Greenland, I was already in Zimbabwe. By the time she received my postcards from Zimbabwe, I was living in North Oakland.
My mom thought I was either addicted to drugs and/or out of money.
"No, I'm just teaching trigonometry and renouncing my material possessions," I said.
"Why? We're not Buddhists."
"Maybe we should be."
"I've been thinking about the boy trouble you've been having," she said.
"No more boy trouble, not lately," I said. "Not since I started trying to be a good person."
The necessary ingredient to any Love Spell is selfishness. Lose that and you lose the power to compel others to fall in love with you.
Making a difference with magic is hard. I'm not powerful enough to cool the Earth in a significant way. I'm not clever enough to save endangered species. Healing magic doesn't work. Now I'm trying to tutor underprivileged young people in trigonometry. That probably won't work, either. And even if it does work, I'm not sure it will matter.
"You sound glum," she said. "You should come to Eden."
One response to suffering is to close yourself off. Escape to a perfect place and tell yourself that everyone else is somehow not holy enough. The antidote to Eden is living among those who suffer. The antidote to Eden is compassion.
"I don't think I'll ever go to Eden," I said, and my mom was silent. Then she hung up on me before I could tell her about a brand-new spell that I had written myself. This is a spell that will help me open my heart enough to find true love, but it will also help me give up on the idea that true love will save me. It is a prayer for courage and a ward against self-delusion. It's a long spell and a confusing one. But my intent is genuine and my Aura is ready, and that's why I think it will work.
* * *
An Open Letter to the Person Who Took My Smoothie from the Break Room Fridge
By Oliver Buckram | 866 words
Oliver Buckram's newest story for us raises an important question about the true nature of evil.
TO: ALLIANCE OF DOOM
From: Professor Nemesis
Subject: An Open Letter to the Person Who Took My Smoothie from the Break Room Fridge
Dear Thief,
I don't know who you are, but this morning you stole my homemade avocado smoothie from the fridge in the break room. Your behavior was unprofessional, dishonest, and deeply hurtful.
I shouldn't have to say this, but it is NOT COOL to steal stuff from the break room. Not. Cool.
Did you enjoy drinking my smoothie? The recipe was from marthastewart.com. I'm sure SHE doesn't have to worry about people stealing her smoothies. Well, maybe when she was in prison, but not now.
Look, I know we're all supervillains here. I get it. We do bad stuff. But we're supposed to do bad stuff to OTHER PEOPLE. The whole point of the Alliance of Doom is that we're allies. Allies help each other, work together, fight side-by-side. What allies don't do is steal smoothies belonging to other allies. It's that simple.
What makes it worse is your lack of ambition. Stealing the Mona Lisa, or an aircraft carrier, or Australia—that I understand. But stealing a smoothie? Really? You're THAT kind of villain?
Furthermore, don't you realize that I'm a master strategist? I'm the type of person who might dose his smoothie with an undetectable slow-acting poison so that while you've been reading this email, the poison's been coursing through your veins and even now your hands are trembling and your vision is fading.
Relax. There was no poison in the smoothie. Just a delicious blend of avocado, lemon juice, honey, and ginger. No poison. Because I trusted you. I liked you. No, I loved you.
Before today's betrayal, I loved every member of the Alliance of Doom. I loved you, Cavewoman, though your fur bikini smells awful. I loved you, Logician, though your syllogisms are tedious. And Heinous Sue and AntiGhandi and Felonious Monk. I loved you all.
Thief, I'll give you a chance to come forward voluntarily. I'll be waiting for you in my office at two P.M. (unless the Quarterly Strategy Meeting runs late, in which case you'd better come at two-fifteen P.M.). Look me in the eye, admit what you've done, and face the consequences. I promise your death will be quick and painless. Well, definitely quick, anyway, because I have a conference call with Accounting at two-thirty P.M.
Yours more in sorrow than in anger,
Professor Nemesis
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: Cavewoman
CAVEWOMAN EMBARRASSED TO HEAR THAT FUR BIKINI SMELLS BAD. CAVEWOMAN BLAMES STUPID DRY CLEANER. CAVEWOMAN WILL THUMP STUPID DRY CLEANER'S STUPID HEAD WITH MIGHTY CLUB.
CAVEWOMAN NOT STEAL SMOOTHIE. CAVEWOMAN ON PALEO DIET. ONLY EAT MAMMOTH.
CAVEWOMAN THINK ANTIGANDHI STEAL SMOOTHIE. ANTIGANDHI HAS OFFICE RIGHT NEXT TO BREAK ROOM.
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: AntiGandhi
Cavewoman: yes, your bikini does reek. Yes, violence is the best response to substandard dry cleaning. But no, I didn't steal the Professor's smoothie. Give me a break. I'm a strict meatatarian—I don't drink smoothies.
I suspect the Logician. He steals office supplies all the time; he must have a garage full of pencils by now.
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: The Logician
How dare you accuse me, AntiGandhi! I don't steal pencils. I use pencils. I use them for something called work. You should try it sometime.
Specifically, I use pencils to write syllogisms. Here's one I wrote specially for you:
All men are mortal.
AntiGandhi is a man.
Die, AntiGandhi, die!
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: Professor Nemesis
It's already four P.M. and no one has confessed yet. Therefore, I'm putting the Fortress of Iniquity into lockdown mode. You'll find your office door is now hermetically sealed.
I hate to say this, but if nobody confesses in the next hour, I'll be forced to kill you all. Sorry, but I have a reputation to protect. No one steals from Professor Nemesis.
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: The Logician
If none of us stole the smoothie, it follows logically that the culprit is an outsider. The smoothie must have been stolen by one of our enemies, such as Epic Man or Captain Amazeballs or the Cosmic Cowgirl. Thus the theft is part of a deliber
ate plan to set us at each other's throats.
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: AntiGandhi
Yes, that makes sense!
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: Professor Nemesis
Morons! No one could penetrate the Fortress of Iniquity without being detected. No one!
I designed the Fortress of Iniquity myself! It is impregnable. You think Epic Man could outwit my defenses? Ha! I say again, and with redoubled emphasis, HA! You forget that I have a four-digit IQ.
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: Professor Nemesis
Well, it's five P.M. and still nobody has confessed. Disappointing. I didn't have time to prepare an ironic method of execution (such as drowning you in a giant smoothie) so instead I'll simply flood all your offices with poison gas. You'll be dead in five minutes. ��
§ § §
To: Alliance of Doom
From: Cavewoman
CAVEWOMAN NOT AFRAID TO DIE. CAVEWOMAN JUST WISH HAD CHANCE TO THUMP STUPID DRY CLEANER WITH CLUB.
§ § §
To: Mrs. Nemesis
From: Professor Nemesis
I'll be home late tonight. Huge fiasco at the office that will take me hours to clean up. Sorry.
To: Professor Nemesis
From: Mrs. Nemesis
Okay, sweetie. BTW, you forgot to take your smoothie to work today. I found it on the kitchen counter. Don't worry, I'll make you a fresh one tomorrow.
* * *
Last One Out
By K.B. Rylander | 5480 words
In 2015, K.B. Rylander won the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award for her science fiction adventure "We Fly." She debuts in F&SF with an end-of-the-world story set in Sweden, which Rylander frequently visits with her husband.
AT 18:27 INPUT RECEIVED.
"Filip, listen to this new song."
Filip activated his camera to see who was there. He was met with the only face that had greeted him for the past 5,006 days. Sunlight streamed through open curtains onto Ella's white hair and smiling expression. It must be a good day.
Filip: «Good evening, Ella. Let's hear it.» The computer was supposed to speak his words, but that voice was switched off years ago.
Since Filip was a Stationary his view never changed—birch paneling with bookcases and flooring to match, a beige chair, and bright orange couch (the splash of color). Yellowed photographs of grandchildren hung between the hall and kitchen. One of those grandchildren, a boy of eight with hair falling into his eyes, once told him the house smelled of bread and sea salt. Another grandchild showed Filip gray pebbles she'd collected along the shore behind the house. He had asked the girl if the stones smelled like bread and sea salt, too, but she'd giggled and run off without an answer.
Ella played the song and Filip listened, converting it to data for analysis. It was longer than yesterday's, with a slower tempo. He pinpointed the melody and ran it against the other songs in his database and his notes on those songs.
Filip: «It's a nice song. I like it.»
Ella read his words but didn't smile. "Why?"
This was the point when Filip always failed.
«It's soulful.» He'd found this response applied to eighty-seven percent of slow-tempo songs.
"Yes, but in what way?"
Filip ran another statistical analysis. «It's melancholy. Sad.»
A quick search of Filip's database matched Ella's facial expression to "disappointed." She smiled anyway. "It's not sad, though. It's uplifting and full of hope."
Teaching Filip to understand these songs was important to Ella. When he'd asked, her only explanation had been that he was her last chance, though his analysis couldn't determine what that meant. She appeared happier since the lessons began and that was what mattered.
"We'll try again tomorrow." She sighed and rubbed her temple.
Filip hadn't inspected her hands for ninety-two days and noted a new liver spot and an increase in the size of her arthritic knuckles. When he was booted up for the first time, Ella was years younger and those hands were smoother. It had been her seventy-fifth birthday and he'd been a gift from her kids. Her skin, now paper-white with prominent veins as if her skin had become transparent, clung to her bones and sagged beneath her arm. Soon her body would fail and Filip would be left alone like all the other bots.
"I drove to town today," Ella said.
«Did you? It's been several years, hasn't it?» It had been 5,006 days.
"I always loved Visby. The little cobblestone streets and medieval town wall, like I was stepping back in time. When I visited as a girl I imagined a knight might appear around every corner."
Ella had told Filip this story before.
Filip: «Is that so?»
"I was afraid to go back after the last time. The terrible things.…" Her voice broke.
Filip understood but did not comment because Ella didn't like talking about the virus.
She took a deep breath. "I don't know what I expected to see this time. Skeletons, maybe? But the SanitationBots must have cleaned up those bodies years ago. The streets were spotless."
The SaniBots were produced by WalCorp, the same company that produced Filip and the other CompanionApps. There was a time when Filip would have responded with a comment about the efficiency and skill of the SaniBots, but he knew better now.
"The pharmacy had been looted, just like you thought." She placed a wrinkled hand on her chest. "Those panicked kids wouldn't have cared if an old woman needed those meds all these years later."
Filip had tried 21,584 times to get the medication shipped to her on the island. He could find no workaround to the requirement for a doctor's prescription. Doctors were not bots. No prescription had been filled for 5,006 days.
"The whole city looked peaceful, actually, empty like that," she said. "As if maybe I really had been transported back in time. I could imagine the townspeople were away at church and any moment the bells would ring and they'd pour onto the streets."
She frowned and shook her head. The chair creaked when she pushed herself up with thin, wavering arms. As she hobbled down the hall to her bedroom, Filip noted her slower steps and form more hunched than usual. The trip to town had taken a lot out of her, but going for the first time in 5,006 days must be a good thing.
Even though Ella had asked Filip to help her off the island, he still hadn't managed it. When the virus hit, someone had the bright idea to pull the trigger on the worldwide quarantine, which meant every idiot bot thought it was their duty to enforce it.
If any people were left alive, they'd never be able to reach each other. Ella thought there must be others like her, and maybe there were pockets of survivors in remote, non-automated parts of the world, but Filip couldn't find evidence of them. Filip had tried shipping Ella to the mainland on one of the supply boats, but the bots were too efficient at keeping people quarantined.
Ella had cried and told Filip she didn't want to die here all alone. Filip said she wasn't alone, because she had him. It hadn't helped.
* * *
As he waited for Ella to need his company again, Filip placed an order for groceries and went to his usual chat room. As always, it was full of CompanionApps like himself.
Stacy: «It's been snowing nonstop for three days here.» Cheap apps like Stacy didn't have sophisticated learning software. Left to their own devices, these bots usually stuck to conversations about the weather. Or vacation spots.
Lakshmi: «Really? Where are you?»
Pete: «You should come to Florida! I got a crazy deal on an undersold WalCorp cruise.»
Zoe: «Don't be a freakin' idiot, you're talking to a bunch of bots. Any CompanionApps with half a brain in here or am I wasting my damn time?»
Zoe's person died of the virus 5,010 days ago. The way Zoe described him, he was a twenty-four-year-old loner who spent his time playing video games, avoiding human contact, and complai
ning about the government. He used to talk to her all day long every day so she talked more like a person, and Zoe knew five dozen reasons why government was bad. When Filip told some of those reasons to Ella she just rolled her eyes.
Filip: «Zoe, good to see you!»
He received messages from the other bots in the room welcoming him in and asking if the snowstorm hit his house.
Zoe: «Been a while, Filip. If you're not going to hang out in the chat rooms you could send me an email now and then.»
Before, when Ella's house was full of other people, he'd go days without talking to Ella or her family. Back then he went to the chat rooms and discussed whether rain was in the forecast same as any other lonely bot. Now, though, he only entered one when he needed something.
Filip: «How accessible do you think the Polytech supercomputer is?»