They came in when I was half finished with the omelet. Went all night by the look and sound of them, but I didn’t check their faces for broken hearts. Made me nervous but I thought, well, they’re tired; who’s going to notice this old lady? Nobody.
Wrong again. I became visible to them right after they got their retinas shot. Seventeen-year-old boy with tattooed cheeks and a forked tongue leaned forward and hissed like a snake.
“Sssssssinner.”
The other four with him perked right up. “Where?” “Whose?” “In here?”
“Rock ’n’ roll ssssssinner.”
The lady identified me. She bore much resemblance to nobody at all, and if she had a heart it wasn’t even sprained a little. With a sinner, she was probably Madame Magnifica “Gina,” she said, with all confidence.
My left eye tic’d. Oh, please. Feta cheese on my knees. What the hell, I thought, I’ll nod, they’ll nod, I’ll eat, I’ll go. And then somebody whispered the word, reward.
I dropped my fork and ran.
Safe enough, I figured. Were they all going to chase me before they got their Greek breakfasts? No, they were not. They sent the lady after me.
She was much the younger, and she tackled me in the middle of a crosswalk when the light changed. A car hopped over us, its undercarriage just ruffling the top of her hard copper hair.
“Just come back and finish your omelet. Or we’ll buy you another.”
“No.”
She yanked me up and pulled me out of the street. “Come on.” People were staring, but Tremont’s full of theaters. You see that here, live theater; you can still get it. She put a bring-along on my wrist and brought me along, back to the breakfast bar, where they’d sold the rest of my omelet at a discount to a bum. The lady and her group made room for me among themselves and brought me another cup of coffee.
“How can you eat and drink with a forked tongue?” I asked Tattooed Cheeks. He showed me. A little appliance underneath, like a zipper. The Featherweight to the left of the big boy on the lady’s other side leaned over and frowned at me.
“Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t turn you in for Man-O-War’s reward.”
I shook my head. “I’m through. This sinner’s been absolved.”
“You’re legally bound by contract,” said the lady. “But we could c’noodle something. Buy Man-O-War out, sue on your behalf for nonfulfillment. We’re Misbegotten. Oley.” She pointed at herself. “Pidge.” That was the silent type next to her. “Percy.” The big boy. “Krait.” Mr. Tongue. “Gus.” Featherweight. “We’ll take care of you.”
I shook my head again. “If you’re going to turn me in, turn me in and collect. The credit ought to buy you the best sinner ever there was.”
“We can be good to you.”
“I don’t have it anymore. It’s gone. All my rock ’n’ roll sins have been forgiven.”
“Untrue,” said the big boy. Automatically, I started to picture on him and shut it down hard. “Man-O-War would have thrown you out if it were gone. You wouldn’t have to run.”
“I didn’t want to tell him. Leave me alone. I just want to go and sin no more, see? Play with yourselves, I’m not helping.” I grabbed the counter with both hands and held on. So what were they going to do, pop me one and carry me off?
As a matter of fact, they did.
In the beginning, I thought, and the echo effect was stupendous. In the beginning . . . the beginning . . . the beginning.
In the beginning, the sinner was not human. I know because I’m old enough to remember.
They were all there, little more than phantoms. Misbegotten. Where do they get those names? I’m old enough to remember. Oingo-Boingo and Bow-Wow-Wow. Forty, did I say? Oooh, just a little past . . . a little close to a lot. Old rockers never die, they just keep rocking on. I never saw The Who; Moon was dead before I was born. But I remember, barely old enough to stand, rocking in my mother’s arms while thousands screamed and clapped and danced in their seats. Start me up . . . if you start me up, I’ll never stop . . . 763 Strings did a rendition for elevator and dentist’s office, I remember that, too. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
They hung on the memories, pulling more from me, turning me inside out. Are you experienced? On a record of my father’s because he’d died too, before my parents even met, and nobody else ever dared ask that question. Are you experienced? . . . Well, I am.
(Well, I am.)
Five against one and I couldn’t push them away. Only, can you call it rape when you know you’re going to like it? Well, if I couldn’t get away, then I’d give them the ride of their lives. Jerkin’ Crocus didn’t kill me but she sure came near . . .
The big boy faded in first, big and wild and too much badass to him. I reached out, held him tight, showing him. The beat from the night in the rain, I gave it to him, fed it to his heart and made him live it. Then came the lady, putting down the bass theme. She jittered, but mostly in the right places.
Now the Krait, and he was slithering around the sound, in and out. Never mind the tattooed cheeks, he wasn’t just flash for the fools. He knew; you wouldn’t have thought it, but he knew.
Featherweight and the silent type, melody and first harmony. Bad. Featherweight was a disaster, didn’t know where to go or what to do when he got there, but he was pitching ahead like the S.S. Suicide.
Christ. If they had to rape me, couldn’t they have provided someone upright? The other four kept on, refusing to lose it, and I would have to make the best of it for all of us. Derivative, unoriginal-Featherweight did not rock. It was a crime, but all I could do was take them and shake them. Rock gods in the hands of an angry sinner.
They were never better. Small change getting a glimpse of what it was like to be big bucks. Hadn’t been for Featherweight, they might have gotten all the way there. More groups now than ever there was, all of them sure that if they just got the right sinner with them, they’d rock the moon down out of the sky.
We maybe vibrated it a little before we were done. Poor old Featherweight.
I gave them better than they deserved, and they knew that too. So when I begged out, they showed me respect at last and went. Their techies were gentle with me, taking the plugs from my head, my poor old throbbing abused brokenhearted sinning head, and covered up the sockets. I had to sleep and they let me. I hear the man say, “That’s a take, righteously. We’ll rush it into distribution. Where in hell, did you find that sinner?”
“Synthesizer,” I muttered, already asleep. “The actual word, my boy, is synthesizer.”
Crazy old dreams. I was back with Man-O-War in the big CA, leaving him again, and it was mostly as it happened, but you know dreams. His living room was half outdoors, half indoors, the walls all busted out. You know dreams; I didn’t think it was strange.
Man-O-War was mostly undressed, like he’d forgotten to finish. Oh, that never happened. Man-O-War forget a sequin or a bead? He loved to act it out, just like the Krait.
“No more,” I was saying, and he was saying, “But you don’t know anything else, you shitting?” Nobody in the big CA kids, they all shit; loose juice.
“Your contract goes another two and I get the option, I always get the option. And you love it, Gina, you know that, you’re no good without it.”
And then it was flashback time and I was in the pod with all my sockets plugged, rocking Man-O-War through the wires, giving him the meat and bone that made him Man-O-War and the machines picking it up, sound and vision, so all the tube babies all around the world could play it on their screens whenever they wanted. Forget the road, forget the shows, too much trouble, and it wasn’t like the tapes, not as exciting, even with the biggest FX, lasers, spaceships, explosions, no good. And the tapes weren’t as good as the stuff in the head, rock ’n’ roll visions straight from the brain. No hours of setup and hours more doctoring in the lab. But you had to get everyone in the group dreaming the same way. You needed a synthesis, and for that you got a synthesizer
, not the old kind, the musical instrument, but something—somebody—to channel your group through, to bump up their tube-fed little souls, to rock them and roll them the way they couldn’t do themselves. And anyone could be a rock ’n’ roll hero then. Anyone!
In the end, they didn’t have to play instruments unless they really wanted to, and why bother? Let the synthesizer take their imaginings and boost them up to Mount Olympus.
Synthesizer. Synner. Sinner.
Not just anyone can do that, sin for rock ’n’ roll. I can.
But it’s not the same as jumping all night to some bar band nobody knows yet . . . Man-O-War and his blown-out living room came back, and he said, “You rocked the walls right out of my house. I’ll never let you go.”
And I said, “I’m gone.”
Then I was out, going fast at first because. I thought he’d be hot behind me. But I must have lost him and then somebody grabbed my ankle.
Featherweight had a tray, he was Mr. Nursie-Angel-of-Mercy. Nudged the foot of the bed with his knee, and it sat me up slow. She rises from the grave, you can’t keep a good sinner down.
“Here.” He set the tray over my lap, pulled up a chair. Some kind of thick soup in a bowl he’d given me, with veg wafers to break up and put in. “Thought you’d want something soft and easy.” He put his left foot up on his right leg and had a good look at it. “I never been rocked like that before.”
“You don’t have it, no matter who rocks you ever in this world. Cut and run, go into management. The big Big Money’s in management.”
He snacked on his thumbnail. “Can you always tell?”
“If the Stones came back tomorrow, you couldn’t even tap your toes.”
“What if you took my place?”
“I’m a sinner, not a clown. You can’t sin and do the dance. It’s been tried.”
“You could do it. If anyone could.”
“No.”
His stringy cornsilk fell over his face and he tossed it back. “Eat your soup. They want to go again shortly.”
“No.” I touched my lower lip, thickened to sausage size. “I won’t sin for Man-O-War and I won’t sin for you. You want to pop me one again, go to. Shake a socket loose, give me aphasia.”
So he left and came back with a whole bunch of them, techies and do-kids, and they poured the soup down my throat and gave me a poke and carried me out to the pod so I could make Misbegotten this year’s firestorm.
I knew as soon as the first tape got out, Man-O-War would pick up the scent. They were already starting the machine to get me away from him. And they kept me good in the room—where their old sinner had done penance, the lady told me. Their sinner came to see me, too. I thought, poison dripping from his fangs, death threats. But he was just a guy about my age with a lot of hair to hide his sockets (I never bothered, didn’t care if they showed). Just came to pay his respects, how’d I ever learn to rock the way I did?
Fool.
They kept me good in the room; drinks when I wanted them and a poke to get sober again, a poke for vitamins, a poke to lose the bad dreams. Poke; poke, pig in a poke. I had tracks like the old B&O, and they didn’t even know what I meant by that. They lost Featherweight, got themselves someone a little more righteous, someone who could go with it and work out, sixteen-year-old snip girl with a face like a praying mantis. But she rocked and they rocked and we all rocked until Man-O-War came to take me home. Strutted into my room in full plumage with his hair all fanned out (hiding the sockets) and said, “Did you want to press charges, Gina darling?”
Well, they fought it out over my bed. When Misbegotten said I was theirs now, Man-O-War smiled and said, “Yeah, and I bought you. You’re all mine now, you and your sinner. My sinner.” That was truth. Man-O-War had his conglomerate start to buy Misbegotten right after the first tape came out. Deal all done by the time we’d finished the third one, and they never knew. Conglomerates buy and sell all the time. Everybody was in trouble but Man-O-War. And me, he said. He made them all leave and sat down on my bed to re-lay claim to me.
“Gina.” Ever see honey poured over the edge of a sawtooth blade? Every hear it? He couldn’t sing without hurting someone bad and he couldn’t dance, but inside, he rocked. If I rocked him.
“I don’t want to be a sinner, not for you or anyone.”
“It’ll all look different when I get you back to Cee-Ay.”
“I want to go to a cheesy bar and boogie my brains till they leak out the sockets.”
“No more, darling. That was why you came here, wasn’t it? But all the bars are gone and all the bands. Last call was years ago; it’s all up here now. All up here.” He tapped his temple. “You’re an old lady, no matter how much I spend keeping your bod young. And don’t I give you everything? And didn’t you say I had it?”
“It’s not the same. It wasn’t meant to be put on a tube for people to watch.”
“But it’s not as though rock ’n’ roll is dead, lover.”
“You’re killing it.”
“Not me. You’re trying to bury it alive. But I’ll keep you going for a long, long time.”
“I’ll get away again. You’ll either rock ’n’ roll on your own or give it up, but you won’t be taking it out of me any more. This ain’t my way, it ain’t my time. Like the man said, ‘I don’t live today.’ ”
Man-O-War grinned. “And like the other man said, ‘Rock ’n’ roll never forgets.’ ”
He called in his do-kids and took me home.
Pat Cadigan sold her first professional science fiction story in 1980 and became a full-time writer in 1987. She is the author of fifteen books, including two nonfiction books on the making of Lost in Space and The Mummy, one young adult novel, and the two Arthur C. Clarke Award-winning novels: Synners and Fools. (The genesis of Synners can be found in “Rock On.”) She has lectured at universities, literary festivals, and cultural gatherings around the world, including M.I.T. in Cambridge, Massachusetts, PopTech in Camden, Maine, Utopiales in France, and Argonauts of the Noosphere in Rimini, Italy. She can be found on Facebook and Pinterest, tweets as @cadigan, and lives in North London with her husband, the Original Chris Fowler. Most of her books are available electronically via SF Gateway, the ambitious electronic publishing program from Gollancz.
Arise
Poppy Z. Brite
Nightfall in Gabon, and the bush was the darkest thing Cobb had ever seen. It rambled along the edge of the little beachside town and stretched away into the West African hills. If you stood at the edge of the bush and looked out at night, you could see dozens of little fires flickering in the distance, giving off less illumination than lighters in a darkened stadium, accentuating the blackness more than relieving it. These were not the fires of poachers (for there was nothing left to kill nearby), but of straggling nomads on their way into or out of town.
Cobb sat in the tin-sided bar as he did most nights, drinking African beer lightly chilled by the bar’s refrigerator. This was to Cobb’s taste, for he had once been an Englishman. Now he was a citizen of nowhere on earth. He drank his beer and rolled his fat cigars of African ganja and fixed his rust-colored eyes on the TV set in the corner, and it was very seldom anyone spoke to him. This, too, was as he preferred it.
When the police came by, Cobb would give them money to go away. When the television broke, Cobb paid for a new one. Though everyone in the town knew this man was very rich, no one cared whether he was alive, dead, or famous. The only conceivable reason he could have come here was to be left alone, and so he was.
He watched the television, mostly American cop shows and softcore porn from France. When the news came on, he ignored it. He had seen coverage of war, every kind of natural and man-made disaster, the assassination of one American and countless African presidents, the dissolution of the same Soviet Union he’d once written a satirical song about. But he never reacted to anything he saw on the TV.
Tonight, he saw a thing that made him react.
It began with the
music: a few bars of a song by the Kydds, one of the really huge hits, one of Matty’s. That was familiar enough, you couldn’t watch TV or listen to the radio anywhere on earth without hearing the Kydds, and Cobb ignored it. Then the reporter’s voice broke in: “Dead at forty-five, Eric Matthew, founding member and driving force behind the most successful pop group of all time . . . ”
Cobb looked up. Matty’s face filled the screen, an old picture. That girly smile, those fuck-me eyes that hid a will of steel. Then the screen switched to a picture of the four of them in concert, 1969, all long stringy hair and, Jesus Christ, velvet suits.
“ . . . suicide at his New York apartment. Eric Matthew is the second member of the Kydds to die; guitarist and singer Terry Cobb was killed in a plane crash in 1985. All the details coming up on CNN.”
Cobb didn’t go to the bar for a week, but stayed in his house drinking whiskey. On the eighth day, a young African showed up at his door with a Federal Express box addressed to William Van Duyk, the name that had appeared on Cobb’s passport for the past ten years.
The box was heavy, ten or twelve pounds at least. The return addressee was someone or something called Gallagher, Gallagher, Campbell on the Upper West Side of New York. Cobb found a knife and opened the box. Inside was a cream-colored envelope and a heavy plastic bag full of what looked like coarse sand.
He stuck a long forefinger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. A key fell out, and he let it lie on the floor for now. Inside the envelope were some folded sheets of creamy paper. “Terry,” the first line read—
Cobb dropped the paper. No one had addressed him by that name in over a decade.
His hand shaking a little, he picked up the letter. “Terry,” he read again, and this time he realized it was Matty’s handwriting. He knew that neat schoolboy script well enough, had seen plenty of first-draft lyrics and signatures on contracts and bossy notes in that same hand. Matty knew where he was—had known where he was. Had known all this time. It was like one of the morbid jokes Cobb had always collected: Matty had known he wasn’t dead, and now Matty was dead.
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