Laughter at the Academy
Copyright © 2019 by Seanan McGuire.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket and interior illustrations
Copyright © 2019 by Carla McNeil.
All rights reserved.
Print version interior design
Copyright © 2019 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Click here for individual story
copyright information.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-929-9
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
subterraneanpress.com
Manufactured in the United States of America
This book is for every editor who ever took
a chance on me, and every reader who trusted me
to show them what the lightning’s for.
Most of all, this book is for all those fools who laughed at me in the academy. I may not be raising the dead yet, but I still know where my shovel is.
Contents:
Introduction
Laughter at the Academy:
A Field Study in the Genesis of Schizotypal
Creative Genius Personality Disorder (SCGPD)
Lost
The Tolling of Pavlov’s Bells
Uncle Sam
Crystal Halloway and the Forgotten Passage
Emeralds to Emeralds, Dust to Dust
Homecoming
Frontier ABCs: The Life and Times
of Charity Smith, Schoolteacher
We Are All Misfit Toys in the Aftermath of the Velveteen War
The Lambs
Each to Each
Bring About the Halloween Eternal!!!
Office Memos
Lady Antheia’s Guide to Horticultural Warfare
Driving Jenny Home
There Is No Place for Sorrow in the Kingdom of the Cold
In Skeleton Leaves
Please Accept My Most Profound Apologies for
What Is About to Happen (But You Started It)
Threnody for Little Girl, With Tuna, at the End of the World
From A to Z in the Book of Changes
#connollyhouse #weshouldntbehere
Down, Deep Down, Below the Waves
Introduction
This is very exciting for me.
I’ve always been one of those people who devours every scrap of text in a short story collection: the introduction, the errata, the acknowledgments, everything. I want to know it all. I’ve swooned over Tiptree, curled up with King, and burbled happily to myself over Wyndham, and for me, part of that enjoyment was always in the little glimpses their collections gave me into who they were as authors and as human beings.
This is where, by format, I should offer up some extended metaphor, like “follow me into the forest” or “let’s go walking in the fields together, you and I,” but my metaphors are in my fiction, and tend to be pretty weird. Under the circumstances, I’m way more interested in the facts of the matter. Fact: this is my first single author short story collection. (For the pedantic among us, yes, there has been a collection of work published under my other name, Mira Grant, but that isn’t the same.) All these stories take place outside my pre-existing universes—so no Fighting Pumpkins, no October Daye, no Velveteen. They are quick glimpses of another room, with a door that will close in short order.
Fact: all these stories were originally published between 2009 and 2017. This isn’t everything from that time period, just the pieces I felt made the best contiguous whole. They span the length of my career so far. This is the first time many of them have been reprinted, making this the most convenient way for new readers to get a taste of what I do. I’ve done some light editing to the earlier stories, mostly so I don’t cringe when I see someone holding a copy of this book, but they are, on the whole, as they were first released.
If this is your first time reading many of these stories, welcome. I hope you’ll enjoy them. I’ve included little introductions to ease you in and give you an idea of what’s in store for you; these can be skipped if you prefer to go in as unprepared as possible. I am still a fanfic girl at heart, and I believe in tagging things: these introductions include basic content warnings, although there’s always the chance I won’t think to flag something you might have issues with, so tread lightly.
If these are old familiar friends to you, welcome. I hope I’ve chosen the stories you would have wanted to see, and if not, I hope you’ll look at the pieces that might not have made your list with fresh eyes. It’s possible that they’ll surprise you. This isn’t necessarily “the best of,” but it’s the pieces I love most, that I’m most eager to share.
This is all very exciting for me.
I hope it’s exciting for you, too.
Laughter at the Academy:
A Field Study in the Genesis of Schizotypal
Creative Genius Personality Disorder (SCGPD)
Our title story!
“Laughter at the Academy” was written for the anthology The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, edited by John Joseph Adams. He had originally invited me to contribute a story, which was a huge, huge honor, and I had been forced to politely decline due to other deadlines. Then, a week before the anthology closed, he contacted me again: there had been a withdrawal, and he was hoping my passion for weird science meant I might have something he could use. I didn’t, but I had a song called “What a Woman’s For” that was practically screaming for expansion. This time, I didn’t tell him no.
(This anthology was the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership. You’ll see his name a lot in these introductions.)
This story is my love letter to the misunderstood and much maligned mad scientist trope. It contains ableist language and a lot of corpses. Most of the scientists are named after friends of mine, because I am a dangerous person to love. Special thanks to Shaenon Garrity and Kate Secor, for continuing to speak to me. “What a Woman’s For” won the 2010 Pegasus Award for Best Mad Science Song. I am nothing if not consistent.
Upon consideration, we must agree that the greatest danger of the so-called “creative genius” is its flexibility. While the stereotypes of Doctors Frankenstein and Moreau exist for good reason, there is more to the CG-afflicted than mere biology. So much more. The time has come, ladies and gentlemen, for us to redefine what it means to be scientists…and what it means to be afraid.
—from the keynote speech delivered to the 10th Annual World Conference on the Prevention of Creative Genius by Professor Elizabeth Midkiff-Cavanaugh (deceased).
0.
The world’s best research has always been done in the field. Anyone who tells you different is lying, or trying to hide something. Ask anyone who’s seen my work. My results speak for themselves.
IGNORANCE IS THE ONLY TRUE SIN; SUPPRESSION OF KNOWLEDGE IS THE ONLY TRUE CRIME. IGNITE THE BIOSPHERE. LET THE REVOLUTION BEGIN.
—graffiti found in the ruins of MIT. Author unknown.
1.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long, Miss—?”
“Marlowe. It’s all right. Now it’s my turn to hope you don’t mind, but I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and did the dishes that were in the sink. I know it was an imposition. I simply don’t know what to do with myself when I don’t have anything to do with my hands.”
“Mind? Why, no, I don’t mind at all. Thank you. I’ve been meaning to do those dishes for…well, let’s just say the dishes aren’t the first chore to come to mind when I have time to tidy around here.”
“No thanks needed. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with things like this. Isn’t that why you’re ad
vertising for an assistant? So that you’ll have someone to take care of the mundane chores, and free you to handle the things that matter? The important things?”
“Yes, Miss Marlowe. That’s exactly right. If you’ll come with me, I’d like to discuss the job a bit further.”
“Why, Doctor Frieburg, it would be an honor.”
Schizotypal Creative Genius Personality Disorder (SCGPD) was recognized in the 1930s by a Presidential commission convened following the destruction of the Washington Monument. Those brave, august men, half of whom were probably mad in their own right, decided the label of “mad scientist” created a self-fulfilling prophecy, one which, by naming individuals as “mad,” made their madness a foregone conclusion…
—excerpt from The History of Creative Genius in America, by Professor Paul Hauser (missing, presumed dead).
2.
Sunrise cast its bloody light across the lab, illuminating the devastation without judgment or mercy. Electrical fires burned deep inside the wreckage, forcing rescue personnel to add gas masks to their standard-issue gloves and reinforced boots. Many of them were secretly grateful for the extra protection, no matter how uncomfortable it was. It was never wise to breathe unfiltered air near a confirmed SCGPD outbreak site, and doing it while something was on fire was just signing up for an interesting new mutation.
“Sarge, I think you should come and take a look at this.”
Sergeant John Secor rose from his examination of a smoldering desk and picked his way through the shattered ceiling tiles and broken sheetrock to his squad mate. After six years on the Mad Science Cleanup Patrol—not that anyone official would be so gauche as to use the name; they called it the Special Science Response Unit, like having a polite title would change the nature of the job—he was growing numb to the horrors that greeted him with every incident. Perversions of every natural law, horrific mockeries of humanity, impossible distortions of the fabric of reality…they were everyday occurrences, verging on the blessedly mundane.
The bodies were another matter. This one still looked human, lacking visible mutations or half-rejected cybernetic implants. If not for the bloodstains on his lab coat and the unnatural bend in his neck, the man sprawled on what was once the laboratory floor would have looked like any other research technician. One more scientist dreaming of a better world for all mankind.
“Poor bastard,” muttered John, crouching to study the body’s visible injuries. He didn’t touch it. The scene was already compromised beyond recovery, but the risk of infection remained if one or more of the local madmen had been working with pathogens.
“We have an identity. It’s Dr. Charles Frieburg.”
“What was his field?”
The attending officer tapped the screen of his tablet. Then: “Particle physics. He was a faculty member at the local university until last year, when he received a grant to pursue private research. There are no flags on his file. He showed no signs of SCGPD.”
“But this is a confirmed incident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Poor bastard,” John repeated, and stood. “Something drove him over the edge.”
“Shall I call the medical team to remove the body?”
“Yes, and keep sifting. If he had any staff working with him, they probably didn’t make it clear of the blast.”
One of the most controversial aspects of the SCGPD diagnosis lies in the conflict of nature versus nurture. Are mad scientists born, destined to crack under the pressure of their own minds? Or are they made, shaped by the world around them until they are driven to create even to the point of destruction? Can SCGPD be cured, or is it a scourge mankind is destined to suffer forever? And if it is inevitable, if the nature of this madness is part of our very genetic code, is it somehow necessary for our ongoing evolution?
—from “Development of the Creative Genius: Nature v. Nurture,” by Doctor Aubrey Powell (diagnosed SCGPD, trial pending). Published in Psychology Journal, volume 32, issue 8.
3.
“I am so sorry about the delay. I got wrapped up in my research, and, well…”
“There’s no need to apologize, Doctor. Believe me, I understand the attraction of finishing a job before dealing with mundane things—like hiring a lab assistant.”
“I admit, Miss Frieburg, I was a little surprised to receive your résumé. I don’t want to keep you here under false pretenses; we’re not hiring research staff right now.”
“I’m not here for a research position.”
“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you here for?”
“If I may be frank, Doctor, your lab is a mess. Your equipment is well-maintained, but your filing is a disaster, and from the glance I took inside your refrigerator, your existing staff is in a state of constant danger from E. coli or worse. You don’t need more research staffers. You need an office manager. Someone who can take care of the mundane, while you focus on the extraordinary.”
“And you think you’re the appropriate person for the job?”
“Doctor Bellavia, I think once I’ve been here for a little while, you won’t be able to imagine operating this lab without me.”
The number of incidents involving seemingly-latent SCGPD sufferers has risen precipitously in recent years. Many root causes have been proposed for this phenomenon, but we are no closer to identifying the trigger—if, in fact, there is a single trigger—than we were when the first incidents occurred. Whatever is causing these good men to lose their minds, we are neither positioned nor prepared to defend against it.
—report to the City Council by Captain Jovan Watkins of the Special Science Response Unit (deceased)
4.
The destruction of Dr. Rand Bellavia’s lab made the news, not only in upstate New York, but throughout the country. His work in recombinant genetics had been hailed as a triumph of the stable mind for years, proving that a researcher who had not succumbed to the lure of jumper cables and evil plans could still push the frontiers of science. There had even been rumors that he might find a treatment for the biological causes of SCGPD, allowing for the rehabilitation of the hundreds of brilliant minds locked in endless war with their own inner demons. He was a poster child for science as a force for good…at least until the tentacles started bursting from the windows.
“Another one,” muttered Sergeant Secor, staring at the photo of Dr. Bellavia’s face gracing the latest issue of Time. The headline, “Science: Is Progress Worth the Price?” seemed unnecessarily sensationalist. Then again, when had the media ever dealt fairly with the victims of mad science? “If it bleeds, it leads” was the only commandment of the news.
This one sure as hell bled. What it didn’t do was make sense. Dr. Bellavia had been a pillar of his community. He’d displayed none of the classic signs of the latent mad scientist. He’d had friends, family, a healthy social life; he’d left his lab more than once a month. He’d been tested every year for signs of SCGPD, and every test had come back clean. This should never have happened.
But it had—and Dr. Bellavia wasn’t the first. John started thumbing through the incident report for what felt like the hundredth time. Everything looked normal. The shipping manifests showed the items and amounts to be expected for a medium-sized genetics lab. The staff list was up-to-date, and matched the list of casualties provided by the coroner’s office perfectly.
Almost perfectly.
Frowning, John dug through the papers on his desk until he found the coroner’s report. The staff list was one name longer. They’d recovered a lot of bodies from the wreckage. DNA were required to identify many of the researchers, in some cases because multiple individuals had been twisted into a single grotesquerie. The report stated that all analysis was completed, and there were no more foreign DNA strains in need of identification…and there was still one name missing. The office manager, Dora Frieburg.
Five minutes on the computer introduced two disturbing new facts to the case. There were no records of an individual named �
�Dora Frieburg” anywhere in the Special Sciences database, which meant she’d never been tested for SCGPD, and that she hadn’t graduated from any known Master’s program. In fact, the only hits for the name “Frieburg” came from the incident report on the destruction of Doctor Charles Frieburg’s lab eight months earlier, in central Minnesota. His lab had been rather more thoroughly devastated, and they never did quite get the coroner’s report and the staff lists to match…
And the office manager, Cathy Marlowe, was among the missing.
The office seemed suddenly colder. John bent over his keyboard and continued to type.
The only certainty we have when dealing with this insidious disease is that it will not be, and cannot be, truly defeated. It is the monster in us all, waiting for the opportunity to open the final door between the human mind and madness. Keeping that door guarded is our duty and our burden, as scientists, for to allow the lock to be broken is to lose everything that makes us moral, that keeps us honest…that makes us men.
—from the keynote speech delivered to the 10th Annual World Conference on the Prevention of Creative Genius by Professor Midkiff-Cavanaugh (deceased).
5.
“Professor Raymond, I have that shipment you requested. I’m afraid the delivery man didn’t leave an invoice, so I can’t be sure everything is here. Would you like me to assist with the unpacking process?”
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