Asimov's SF, April/May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  It's illegal to threaten the president, but it ain't illegal to think about strangling him, is it? Is this thing on? *tap* *tap*

  There were other things in the woods too. Ghosts of the settlers, long dead. The old Indians were so dead they didn't even have ghosts, except for when we'd fire up the machines. Always at night to avoid brownouts and power outages. But the feds always wanted more. Not better, just more. More results, more miles of tape, more pallets worth of punch cards, so many results nobody could hope to read them all, to assign thoughts to thinkers, before all our equipment went obsolete.

  * * * *

  Paraskevi almost never thought of me, even though I loved her. That's how I ended up involved in the events of November 9. I was at Stony Brook, in the basement of the brand new building, the one far away from G-Quad, my pants all muddy and wet. In the woods, she called out to me with her mind. I had to go to her. Andoni tried his English. “Is far?” he asked.

  GEORGE!

  Paraskevi shook her head no in the Greek way; a sharp nod and a click of the tongue. “Not far, but in circles,” she said, waving her arms around. “Kalo, kalo, it's okay."

  "Don't associate with the yifti, they're dirty. You'll turn into one. They'll rob you blind. Be kind to them, but don't be friends. Worse than mavro, they are.” Whatever happened to that $500? It was so much back then . . . “Oh they give tips, eh? What did they say for tomorrow's races, Georgi?"

  "Yifti, eh?” Andoni said. He clutched his bag, tightly, then let out a stream of nervous-sounding Greek Paraskevi barely understood. Gypsies and America and finally the punctuation of so many sentences: Katalaves? You understand. No, she didn't. She even thought in

  It is far. Why does America smell like this?

  Then they stopped in a clearing. Andoni had to tie his shoes and had to urinate as well. He knew the words toilet and please and didn't point at his crotch, but he did go into his bag and dig out his bottle of ouzo to drink even as he started to piss.

  What was that poem about miles of walking? I hate school; I wish I could just drop out and just work at the store. It's so friggin’ cold; my glasses are gonna fog up again the second I get back home. I always forget that they fog up until I walk into a warm room again. I wonder what Tommy is up to? I wonder if this Andoni guy can tell that I'm not looking at him on purpose . . .

  . . .

  this guy will make a great husband for someone, yah

  Lose some gain some!

  Then, gunfire and seventy-two columns of punch cards punched hard. Fight or flight, or in this case, a freeze.

  hehehe

  * * * *

  Immigration prowled the docks whenever a ship came in. Too many marriage licenses being issued too quickly. Some complaints from the spoiled richie-rich brats up on the hills of Belle Terre. But it was still only Port Jefferson and the pier wasn't that busy, so the INS only had a couple of guys working the beat. They were go-getters, or has-beens, and that night they trudged right after Paraskevi and her three new boys, following them in to the old woods between downtown and the highway. Paraskevi knew the land like she her knew her own face—where the tree lines stopped and into which backyards she could spill without a dog barking or an automatic backyard security light flipping on. Where the little streams would crack under the weight of two men but not one. Where the disused rail spurs and the fairly active Long Island Railroad tracks lay. Where the sandpit and the semi-secret Fairchild HQ was. The INS stooges didn't know anything at all, except how to crack branches under their feet, wave flashlights and badges and guns, threaten and bully.

  Like I knew her face. Oh, her face.

  Meatloaf, is there a more perfect dish in all the . . .

  If they didn't want me to fire my sidearm, they wouldn't have issued me one. We have rules in this country. Get in line, like everyone else. And the defense contractors; what if one of these guys gets a job there and is a Commie? If they didn't want me to fire my sidearm, they wouldn't have issued me one. If they didn't want me to fire my sidearm, they wouldn't have issued me one. If they didn't want me to fire my sidearm, they wouldn't have issued me one.

  From what I was able to piece together from the punch cards and the frantic whirls and pulses on the screens of the supercomputer: The sheriff got a call about Jimmy the mavro hanging out in the marina, by one of the houseboats owned by one of the people made a little too nervous by a Negro. The two immigration officers happened to be in the sheriff's office at the time, getting some coffee and playing penny poker. They knew Jimmy worked at the restaurant. They knew about Paraskevi's grandmother, and decided to check it out. There was a boat in the harbor, after all. Not quite a tanker, they'd never fit, but a decent-sized ship capable of transatlantic. They went to the Lobster House, which was just beginning to get its dinner crowd in, and saw that the only waitresses on duty looked and decided that Paraskevi was a person of interest. A waitress who doesn't serve burgers and fries is as interesting as a dog that doesn't bark.

  normal

  * * * *

  It was still a bit light in the sky, and she was easy to spot on the edge of the woods. She was dark, had the long hair and boy's jeans. She wouldn't stop. She ran hard. They went barreling after her. They opened fire. She fell. It wasn't Paraskevi, it was one of the yifti kids, a twelve-year-old girl too shy to even think her own name, even as she died.

  Paraskevi heard the gunshot and thought my name.

  LENA

  I know I know Iknow mama don't be mad IknowImsorryIknowIknow owow my shirt so wet owow itwillbeokay I can sew it havetogohometomama ImsorryImsorry

  It was no coincidence that I was monitoring her thoughts at the time. It was even part of the experimental protocol.

  That's what her brother said to call her, anyway.

  Parapsychological research never fetishized the idea of the double-blind study, and you know what they say about computer science: “Any field with the word ‘science’ in its name isn't one.” But she thought my name, at the moment I happened to be there, in the lab, to receive it. I knew it was her, as I'd been observing her for weeks—yes, that's fine. There's a hypothesis in parapsychology, the hypothesis of Directional Intention—I was able to read the cards and know it was Paraskevi, know that that screamed my name in her head—because of my intention, directed toward her. The machines would have picked it up anyway, of course, but it would have been lost amidst all the grocery lists and frantic burning desire for new shoes or a warm kiss or the pain of a scar to finally fade. If another researcher had been on duty that evening, none of what happened next would have ever happened, because could have only been read in that instant, by me.

  GEORGE!

  Stupid backfiring carscarcar . . . no!

  GUN!

  I had to know what was going on, and I had the means. The college had an agreement with LILCO. All the power we needed, whenever we needed it. In return—well, what they got in return is beyond my pay grade, but as LILCO is long gone they didn't get much out of it. Something about predicting power outages during hurricane season.

  and all Stelyo's preferred stock along with it. Good, that fucker . . .

  Yeah, and speaking of power outages, where were you when the lights went out?

  * * * *

  Paraskevi couldn't tell that the lights had gone out, not out in the woods. There was a different feel in the air, a different feel to the air. A streak of ozone; a tingle on the skin. A few horns honked in the distance, but that could just be the usual evening traffic up the long twisting road of Main Street. It was twilight, but the streetlamps of town hadn't yet started to burn orange. Something was different, but she didn't know what. There was gunfire, there was immigration. She could only think one word: Georgi!

  "Pame!" she said to Andoni, because she didn't know how to tell him what she really needed them to do. Run, run in different directions. “I'll wait here!” she said, but then she said "Pame!"—let's go—so they followed her into a clearing.

  "Comrade,” she sai
d. “It behooves y'all to hit the road. The devil!"

  Two men in suits, one with a pistol in his hand, his knuckles and face both white as flour, the other taller and huffing, stumbled into the clearing. “INS,” the taller one said. “Hands up."

  Andoni looked to Paraskevi. She put her hands up, her chest out. He followed suit, sacks and suitcase hit the ground. The sky turned purple.

  "Who did you shoot?” Paraskevi asked.

  "No talking,” said the man without the gun. “You're under—” he stopped talking. The sky sizzled.

  * * * *

  I can't believe I shot that girl. God, god, she's dead. We can't call for help, we can't. I'll be—

  Donaldson's so fucked. I should have shot him myself. Let these people go, arrest that motherfucker for murder at least. No, can't do that. I need someone to have my back. I've done so many bad things. The drugs, the girl from Colombia, she was so tight. Don's got a wife, kids. They need him. Why did I even get out of bed

  Oh God oh God. Get the bottle. Get smoke. Think in Greek!

  Kyrie eleison. Kyrie eleison Kyrie eleison Kyrie eleison Kyrie eleison Kyrie eleison

  Paraskevi saw it first. Usually, it takes a sensitive, someone attuned to the “vibe,” like the hippies used to say. The girl, Lena, bleached white, smaller than even short, squad Andoni. A little more than like ball lightning in human form, she walked through them all.

  Lost lost. Never be buried. Lost lost. Never be buried . . .

  Paraskevi, my girl, she was so tough back then. That's how we grew ‘em. No shrinking violets back then, no big-haired bimbos. She dove to the ground, grabbed a bottle of ouzo by the neck and swung it against a tree in a single wide arc from the sack it was in to Donaldson's face. Donaldson raised his hands and then his partner grabbed the gun so he wouldn't shoot. Paraskevi took a cigarette from her apron pocket, lit it, and after a puff held the lit cherry up to Donaldson's Metaxa-soaked face. “Don't shoot,” she said. “Might spark."

  Andoni fell back, crossing himself and twitching. It was hard to breathe for a few moments, or it probably was anyway. I remember the feeling from the lab experiments. Hair on end, sinuses tingling; the face of the ghost like an old brown negative held up to the sun and blazing. Poor Lena.

  I always felt like a homing pigeon, head buzzing from unseen stimuli—it's a primitive thing, to see a ghost.

  You know, I gave her brothers a reel of 1” tape—the recording of the output. She's on there somewhere. Like ashes in an urn, but with a little charge of magnetism. Software with no hardware left to play her on.

  * * * *

  The ghost wandered out of the woods and faded. Paraskevi looked at the other INS agent, his hand still clenched around Donaldson's gun. “Thanks. Do you want to put a ghost in your report?"

  "Not a murder either,” he said.

  The woods were black. The whole East Coast was dark, except for my little lab in the basement of the college.

  * * * *

  That's what these cards and reels mean to me, okay? A dead girl, her ghost made from static electricity, secret government psi experiments, my crazy family of scofflaws and badasses, an inappropriate attraction to my cousin, and the big blackout of 1965. She thought of me once. I have proof. She lives in Florida now. Two kids, nice husband. A xeni. At first we thought she did it on purpose but he's a nice guy. Jeff, the blond one.

  You think I care whether you believe it or not? I know what happened. I'm the only one who knows. Even Paraskevi, your Aunt Friday, only knows about . . .

  So that's why I keep these old cases around. I'm still looking for an auction, eBay or something, that might sell one of the old machines, so I can read these results. I see the whole story spread out before me, but to prove it to anyone else I'd need a computer antique enough to handle a dead medium.

  Ask Andoni. You've seen him around. Your father's friend—you used to play with his daughter Kelly. Yeah, same guy. He was illegal. A lot of people owe yiayia a lot around here. That's why he wears the mati all the time—because he saw a ghost. Why he crosses himself when your father talks about going down to the track, or OTB.

  * * * *

  Heh, there's a pun in there somewhere—a dead

  Don't call them yifti anymore. They settled. Got houses. Just mind your business about certain things. Immigration tried to deport the family because they were going to sue, but in the end I think we all managed to get them married quick, or prove they were born here. You don't even know who, or what, has been born here. Lots of secrets, you understand? Not just these.

  This stuff won't be classified forever. The truth will come out one day. You know the feds are still reading our minds. I'm sure that they're a lot better at it now too, with the Muslims and 9/11. Hell, your iPhone is a million times smarter than my old Cray.

  I bet those guys just knew to think in Arabic or Farsi.

  Are you listening?

  Can you hear me?

  Aren't you paying attention any more?

  Katalaves? Did you hire another Greek? If so, help me . . . you know how it is.

  Copyright © 2011 Nick Mamatas

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: CLOCKWORKS by William Preston

  William Preston's previous story, “Helping Them Take the Old Man Down” (March 2010), was a homage to a pulp hero. The author says the tale “was meant as a one-shot adventure, but months later, more stories about this character came to me, delving into his past and future, forming a larger narrative arc. This prequel is the first of several planned tales, each with a different idea at the center."

  1. Faces

  The force of that first light makes me twist away, sinking my face into the pillow.

  A man says, “I'll dim that.” His voice isn't loud, but it rumbles and penetrates the darkness. I feel him step away and return. “That should be better."

  I don't know this pillow, this bed, the man, or my situation, and something tugs the top of my forehead. I put a hand there and find gauze, tape. I'm caught, but unable to think through what that means.

  "Try again,” he suggests.

  Warily, I labor to turn back and open my eyes.

  Looking serious but not severe, my captor appears above me, his squarish, close-shorn head blocking much of the light. “You'll feel out of sorts.” His mouth barely opens; his voice might be in my brain. “Give yourself another minute before you try to get up."

  I see what he means when I disregard this suggestion and the light splinters. My legs seem weightless and my elbows quaver, failing to push me up. With the slightest pressure, his hand restrains me. The white shirtsleeve is rolled to mid-forearm, and I see the strength in the bronze muscles. Were I to resist, I'd be easily subdued.

  "Slow your breathing,” he counsels.

  Heeding him helps. My body assumes its dimensions; the room comes into focus and the light, a single throbbing globe on the ceiling, loses its glare. A dresser, this bed, a wardrobe: all gray metal and unremarkable. No window.

  I'm conscious of his enormous hand still on my shoulder, not holding me down, but applying pressure and warmth. That's when I recognize him—not visually, but from the stories, stories not believed until . . . but that's unclear. And now he has me. The stone avenger. The golden knight. The man himself.

  "Do you know the year?"

  "Nineteen sixty- . . . two."

  "Do you know where you are?"

  ". . . Chicago?"

  "Do you know who you are?” he asks.

  "Simon Lukic,” I say, though the answer seems wrong or only half-true, as if I were answering on behalf of someone else. And I know another name that claims me: Doctor Blacklight.

  "What's your last memory?"

  I clench eyes my shut and see a dark apartment. Silhouetted, a large figure steps from the direction of the window; I back into another man at the door. “You were there. You came for me,” I say, though the “me” behind that statement feels questionable, an idea rather than a person. My eyes f
lutter open. “What did you do?"

  "I brought you here. I operated. And I hope I fixed you."

  * * * *

  A film of sorts plays in my mind, a jumble of scenes: thin men in gray stand shivering on cement; a sink's sides run red as water chatters down the drain; an apartment ceiling seems to bear down, an enormous crack in the plaster; my hand places a slide atop a microscope's black stage. “I can't think right,” I say.

  His eyes narrow, scrutinize.

  I touch the bandage on my head. “What was the . . . the nature of the operation?"

  "I repaired your brain. You have choice now."

  "Choice?"

  "What do you remember?"

  More memories—incomplete but sufficient—empty my chest. I look at the blanket. “Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing. I don't remember anything.” I prepare a face to present him, but I can't meet his gaze, taking in instead the broad forehead, the thin lips. “What's happened to me?” I bend my arm over my eyes and seek shelter in the dark. It's wrong to lie. A terrible thing. But only now do I feel what wrong means, as my deeds multiply with each moment of awareness and stretch back over a lifetime.

  What I mistake for a cough becomes crying.

  I haven't cried since I was a child, and then only from frustration. What wracks me now isn't like that. My breath comes in gasps, pulling me up from the pillow, and wretched sounds heave up from within me, from my shoulders, from behind my eyes, awful sounds that shame me more, but I can't hold them in and I can't stop the sobbing. It's like drowning. But the ocean is inside me. I'm coughing it out and choking as if the taste of air were unfamiliar.

  "This will pass,” he says, but clearly his confidence is unfounded.

  Spasms of crying grip me, and I sit up to catch my breath. Over a basin sporting a single handle, there's a mirror, and I'm compelled toward it. My legs don't support me well, so I lunge to grab the basin, then fall. I steady myself before I look.