Future Americas

by John Helfers

  The reporter disappeared, replaced by a photo of Cook, eyes closed, wrapped in a white sheet. ‘‘At this hour our sources are reporting the FBI has located Callie Cook, solving the most extraordinary missing person case in American history.’’

  ‘‘Shit,’’ said Xia.

  ‘‘The senator’s recovery seems to be tied to a dramatic explosion in Santa Monica.’’ The window showed a hotel transforming itself into a pillar of molten orange fire as he leaped from a fifth-story window, the senator in his arms and DJ right behind.

  ‘‘And twenty minutes ago we received this dramatic clip.’’

  Now the window showed Cook sitting in a tent, still wrapped in the sheet. ‘‘So you’re actually telling me that Gregory Tamerind, the richest man in the history of humanity, put together a museum of the bizarre and I was the star attraction?’’

  ‘‘This clip seems to suggest that Gregory Tamerind, the eccentric software pioneer who was the world’s first trillionaire before he died three years ago, was somehow involved in the senator’s abduction. What exactly does it all mean?’’ Miss Zaïre flashed a winning smile. ‘‘We here at CNNFox are working around the clock to—’’

  The window disappeared.

  ‘‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’’ breathed DJ.

  Xia slowly exhaled. And then he glanced at the face. ‘‘Wait a minute,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve seen this guy.’’

  The man named Cliff Vander Hosen sat on a plain wooden bench along the dirt path and closed his eyes, obviously enjoying the shade of the cedars and coastal redwoods, the smell of wild grass. Dappled sunlight mottled his bland face. There was no sound but the gentle music of finches and sparrows and the flapping of an American flag on a pole just visible across the open field that bordered the path.

  ‘‘I’m guessing you’re not really the consulate’s BusinessDevelopment Officer,’’ said Xia, sitting down next to the man.

  ‘‘Indeed, I am,’’ said Vander Hosen. ‘‘Right down to my diplomatic immunity.’’

  DJ stepped out from behind a tree, his Beretta nine mil out and leveled at the man’s chest. Cook trailed behind.

  ‘‘You never should have shown up in Santa Monica,’’ said Xia. ‘‘We compared your image from the crowd photos to the federal database of registered foreign nationals.’’

  The man shrugged. ‘‘No choice. I had to get close enough to her to talk.’’

  ‘‘Now I recognize that accent,’’ Cook said. ‘‘You’re Canadian.’’

  ‘‘Bravo, dear.’’ He opened his watery eyes and looked at her. ‘‘Good to see you again.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ asked DJ.

  The man chuckled. ‘‘Oh, surely you can figure that out.’’ He extended a hand toward Cook. ‘‘Just look at her: Beautiful. Smart. Mysterious. And wait until we leak the Dixie clip. Here only twenty-four hours and she’s already a major political force.’’ He sat back, a smug smile stretched across his round face. ‘‘She’s going to turn your world upside down.’’

  ‘‘You think she’ll speak out against the habitats,’’ said Xia.

  ‘‘And people will listen,’’ said Vander Hosen.

  ‘‘My God,’’ breathed DJ, ‘‘it’ll be the Fifties all over again.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said the man. ‘‘And perhaps our brothers in the western provinces will realize the mistake they made.’’

  Xia’s fists clenched. ‘‘It won’t work.’’

  The man looked up, drew a deep breath. ‘‘I love Griffith Park.’’ He turned to face Xia. ‘‘But it’s not home. I was born in Vancouver,’’ he snarled. ‘‘Do you know what it’s like, Agent Xia? I am a patriot—and so I can never go home.’’

  ‘‘And you think this will fix it,’’ said Xia.

  ‘‘Of course it will,’’ said the man. ‘‘Callie Cook is a tireless warrior for justice. Problem is, warriors for justice cause turmoil. Look at your own history if you don’t believe me. John Brown struck against slavery, and you ended up in a civil war. Martin Luther King fought for equality, and LA burned. Storm clouds are coming, my friends.’’

  ‘‘Is she even the real Callie Cook?’’ asked DJ.

  ‘‘How can you even ask?’’ asked Vander Hosen. ‘‘Your own DNA tests—’’

  ‘‘Couldn’t distinguish between a clone and the real article,’’ snapped DJ.

  Vander Hosen looked at him for a long moment and then he smiled brightly. ‘‘Well, who knows really? Was Anna Anderson really Anastasia? Who cares. But go ahead and make your claim. It will just make her a more compelling figure. We can’t lose.’’

  ‘‘Yes, you can,’’ said Xia. He swallowed and turned to look at Cook. ‘‘If she doesn’t say anything about the habitats.’’

  Cook opened her mouth and then closed it. ‘‘Xia,’’ she said softly.

  Xia closed his eyes.

  ‘‘Listen,’’ she said.

  Xia felt anger vie with despair. ‘‘You see what he’s trying to do, and you’re still going to go along with him?’’

  Cook shook her head. ‘‘America is not the habitats, Xia.’’

  He drew a deep breath. ‘‘When China fell apart and my family came here, no one asked about the color of our skin or what gods we worshiped. Because Americans didn’t do that. But now—’’ He looked away.

  Cook licked her lips. ‘‘Xia.’’ She paused. ‘‘Jason. America isn’t about tempting people you disagree with into exile. It’s about persuading them.’’

  ‘‘You’re a clone grown in a vat in some Toronto gene lab,’’ said Xia bitterly. ‘‘What do you know about America?’’

  Cook stiffened. ‘‘So I’m not human, because I’m not like you? Do you want to exile me now?’’

  Xia’s mouth opened. ‘‘Look, I didn’t mean—’’

  ‘‘Yes, you did,’’ said Cook coldly. ‘‘You think it about me, just like you think it about Grace.’’

  ‘‘I—’’ He looked down at her, at war with himself, his decency contending with his sense of how things ought to be.

  ‘‘You see,’’ said Vander Hosen triumphantly. ‘‘We Canadians play a long game.’’

  ‘‘But not long enough,’’ snapped Cook. ‘‘The Civil War did end slavery. And the Sixties did put us on the road to equality.’’ She glanced at Xia. ‘‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I promise you this, America will emerge stronger.’’

  She looked at the Canadian diplomat, and a tight smile cut across her pretty face. ‘‘And then there will be hell to pay. If I have anything to say about it.’’

  DJ threw his head back and laughed. ‘‘Look out, Vander Hosen. You’ve created a monster.’’

  Vander Hosen’s phone warbled.

  ‘‘I think that
’s your wake-up call,’’ said DJ. ‘‘It turns out you’re no longer welcome in the ol’ U.S. of A. Come on. I’ll help you pack.’’

  Vander Hosen cast an unsure look at Cook, and then he got up and slowly walked down the path, DJ merrily following behind.

  For a moment, Cook watched them go. Then she drew a deep breath and stepped toward Xia, close enough she could smell him, sweat and soap and him. She looked up into those pretty gray-green eyes. She reached out and touched his arm. Her hand was shaking.

  ‘‘Jason, America is not a place or a language or a religion. It’s not even the things we believe today. You showed me that. We may be wrong today. But America is the promise that we’ll do better tomorrow.’’

  He was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, ‘‘Too bad.’’

  ‘‘Too bad, what?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Too bad you were born in Canada. You might have made a halfway decent president.’’

  She leaned into him, and after a moment he took her hand. Together, they watched the flag flapping proudly against the blue summer sky.

  THE LAST ACTOR

  by Mike Resnick and Linda L. Donahue

  Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading short fiction award winner, living or dead, in science fiction history. He is the author of more than fifty novels, almost two hundred stories, and two screenplays, and has edited close to fifty anthologies. He has won five Hugos, a Nebula, and other major awards in the USA, France, Japan, Spain, Croatia and Poland. His work has been translated into twenty-two languages.

  Linda Donahue traveled the world as an Air Force brat, has degrees in computer science and Russian studies, and has taught such varied courses and disciplines as computer science, aviation, tai chi and belly dancing. Her stories have appeared in a number of anthologies, and she is currently working on her first novel.

  THERE WAS A TIME when Hollywood and television came to Broadway for ideas.

  Enrique Rodriguez sighed. There was a time when T. Rex walked the Earth, too.

  He knew what had killed the dinosaurs: the comet. But who could have foreseen that Broadway—or at least the Broadway Enrique cherished—would be brought down not by the economy, not by the fact that it remained a singularly New York institution, not by the public’s attention turning to the wars in Paraguay and Uraguay, but rather by the dumbing down of half a dozen successive generations of Americans. Nor could anyone have predicted that, paradoxically, in an era when no one performed Shakespeare or Shaw, Albee or O’Neal, Williams or Stoppard, when even Neil Simon was beyond the average theatergoer, the Broadway theater would be in better economic health than ever before.

  The problem, concluded Enrique, as he walked to his appointment on 57th Street, was that every actor worth his salt—all three or four of them—wished he could perform today’s hits while wearing a mask, so he would never be associated with the drivel that was packing them in on the Great White Way.

  Enrique finally arrived, ten minutes after he was due, at the fashionable sidewalk café. (After all, stars were expected to be fashionably late.) A waiter had already brought a carafe of distilled water and basket of bread to their table.

  Carlos Mendez and Hector Murdock, the producer-and-writer team, each shook Enrique’s hand. ‘‘Your agent,’’ Carlos said, ‘‘has been singing your praises . . . as have your reviews.’’ At his elbow lay a stack of review clippings from European newspapers. Of course a palm-vid screen could have shown the same information, but clippings were showier and made Carlos appear worldly by suggesting he subscribed to foreign papers.

  ‘‘I know you’ve invited me to discuss your next project,’’ Enrique said, ‘‘I’m an actor, and actors must work—but let me tell you up front that what I’d most love would be to perform in one of the classics.’’

  ‘‘My thoughts precisely,’’ agreed Carlos.

  ‘‘You’re willing?’’ said Enrique, surprised. ‘‘I admire your courage.’’

  ‘‘What has courage got to do with it?’’ replied Carlos.‘‘Almost every show currently on Broadway is a classic. The audiences love them.’’

  ‘‘I’m not talking classic TV sitcoms.’’

  Carlos grimaced. ‘‘I know, I know—but all the best movies have been done and redone up and down Broadway.’’

  ‘‘Think farther back,’’ said Enrique, ‘‘to when actors performed Hamlet and The Iceman Cometh and Pygmalion . Then look at what we have today.’’ His face reflected his contempt, as he named one standing-room-only hit after another. ‘‘Lucy Loves Ricky, Uncle Martian, Jeannie and the Astronaut,

  Ponderosa—The Musical . . . Hell, even the Royal Ballet is producing a version of the original Battle-star Galactica.

  ‘‘What’s your point?’’ said Hector Murdock. ‘‘I wish I’d have thought of Gilligan’s Castaways. It’ll run for ten years.’’

  ‘‘Plays like that don’t run,’’ said Enrique, making no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘‘They crawl on deformed hands and knees.’’

  ‘‘Europe has turned you into a snob,’’ said Hector.

  ‘‘I concur,’’ said Carlos. ‘‘What the hell is your point?’’

  ‘‘My point is that there was a time when Hollywood and television plundered the theater. Now we copy them.’’

  ‘‘So what?’’ said Carlos. ‘‘There are only three original plots in the world. Four at the most.’’

  ‘‘So they stole Macbeth and A Streetcar Named Desire. Now the tables are turned, and we steal from them—but they don’t have any Othellos and Streetcars, so we wind up stealing Dumb and Dumber and Heaven’s Gate and Ace Ventura.’’

  ‘‘My first musical was Dumber and Dumbest,’’ said Carlos. ‘‘It put three kids through college.’’

  ‘‘Didn’t you ever want to produce something proud?’’ demanded Enrique.

  ‘‘I’m proud of filling seats!’’ snapped Carlos. ‘‘That’s something your precious Bard hasn’t been able to do for half a century!’’

  ‘‘But this isn’t a movie, where you go broke if only ten million people buy tickets,’’ persisted Enrique. ‘‘You only have to fill twelve hundred seats a night.

  You can appeal to the best of your audience rather than the laziest!’’ Enrique suddenly became aware that he was shouting, and that everyone at the other tables was staring at him. He lowered his voice and patted the satchel he’d brought along. ‘‘I have some very old scripts—all of them in the public domain.’’ Carlos suddenly looked interested. ‘‘Hector, as a favor to an old friend, look them over. See if they don’t inspire you.’’

  ‘‘But they’re already written,’’ protested Hector.

  ‘‘I spent the morning reading Shakespeare,’’ said Enrique. ‘‘I know the language is too archaic for audiences that have been raised on television and graphic novels, but the concepts are eternal.’’ He paused for a moment. ‘‘A truly talented writer,’’ he continued enticingly, ‘‘could modernize the language and get full credit for making Shakespeare relevant to today’s audiences.’’

  He passed his satchel to Hector, who accep
ted it, holding it as if it were filled with explosives.

  ‘‘I’ll take a look,’’ replied Hector noncommittally. ‘‘We’ll get back to you.’’

  ‘‘That’s all I ask,’’ said Enrique. He stood up, excused himself, and left the café. A moment later he boarded the Third Avenue subway. As the train rattled and lurched, he stared at the dirty faces around him.

  Neither Broadway nor Hollywood were entirely to blame for the population’s plummeting tastes and appetite for stupidity. It was a simple, indisputable fact: moronic was in—brainy was out.

  Even before Enrique was born, values had been shifting. People prized entertainment over education. A new discovery warranted fewer accolades than a new athlete or a new blockbuster film. It had crept up on the country when almost no one was looking. Maybe it started with Gomer Pyle, perhaps with the Beverly Hillbillies, surely decades before Paris Hilton, but suddenly dumb had become the new chic.

  With a heavy heart, Enrique admitted he wasn’t blameless. Like the growing ignorant masses, Broadway’s bright lights had lured him in. He could have studied quantum mechanics, or spent his life searching for a cure to some exotic disease or other, but he longed for thousands of fans whispering his name in awe. Einstein, Newton, Plato, Kant—they all had their share of accomplishments (which almost no one could identify), but none of them had any fan clubs.

  Seeking to reaffirm the survival of any great artistic achievement, Enrique left the subway and walked to the Met—the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A block away from one of the world’s greatest art museums, a painter occupied a street corner, selling canvases set up on easels. These weren’t the usual Elvis on velvet or big-eyed kids or bad rip-offs of pop culture Warhols. They were truly magnificent portraits and landscapes, paintings harkening back to the old masters.

  ‘‘You painted these?’’ asked Enrique, pausing before a portrait of an old woman done in the style of Rembrandt’s heavy brush strokes, yet without sacrificing any of the fine, minute details.