Asimov's SF, July 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He looks up at you. The reds of his eyes are showing, the skin underneath them lymphy and bagged. “Why you are so bad to me,” he says.

  "I'm not bad,” you say.

  "You know what happen [] [],” he says, “You don't help stop. You blame me."

  "I don't know what to stop, Dad,” you say. You're sinking again. You sink lower, catching your head in your arms, entirely exhausted.

  There are things you've got to do now. You're too tired to do them. You've got to call the school and ask them for another packet, have them send it to your high school or your mom's workplace. They'll say, “Why?” maybe, and you will tell them a lie. Or maybe you'll say, “None of your fucking business!” and slam the phone down and then they'll un-admit you. Maybe it's all your father's fault that you are yellow trash and you will stay that way forever, but there must have been some way things could have been better. A way that is lost now. Plenty of people deal with plenty of things and they don't turn out trash.

  He reaches into the briefcase and takes out the envelope again. This time he opens it and pulls out the letter to show you. He hands you the letter. It's nice. A seal's been punched into the paper, and someone is congratulating you. You barely read it.

  "That's fine,” you say, and slide it back to him.

  The letter's not the thing. I told you, Grace. This story ends well, so never you worry; you don't need the fucking letter anyway. You're in, you're in, and no one can tell you that you're not. Don't cry please.

  He says, “You study law, or medicine. If you study law you can do English too in undergrad [] []."

  "Uh huh.” A wailing rises up in your head.

  Your father talks about getting an apartment—or, hey, even a house, because he'll have money to burn—near the campus, where he can visit you every day. And there comes a moment when you almost wish it could be true, all these delusions of his—houses and money and college degrees for anyone who wants sthose things so badly that they've dreamed themselves onto the streets and into homeless shelters.

  "We can get cat or dog,” he says. “[] [which do you want?] [] [] cat is cleaner."

  "I hate cats,” you say. This is the worst. A pet. Something he could very nearly have. But he will never, ever have a pet.

  []? [What?]” he says.

  "I like cats."

  "Ca-li-co,” he says, “[] [those are the prettiest].” How does he know that word?

  Forget a wife, and kids, and a life to keep warm and solvent—I can't even imagine this man taking care of a pet. Suddenly I laugh. It surprises even me, but you get pissed off. You shake your head. That's enough, you think, no more looking. No more judging. Suddenly you lift a fist and punch the side of your head with a loud, inorganic-sounding thock. Inside your skull clangs and aches. It surprises even me. Get out, get out, you think. Go away.

  Doing something crazy in front of someone crazy is interesting; you wonder, how will they explain this? Your father is staring at you with wide eyes, and you know he's not getting up to help you. He's figuring out how this all fits into the connected flow charts and diagrams and blueprints and toppling spires in his constructed world. Someone's gotten to his daughter. Someone's put poison into her drinking water and made her go crazy. His daughter is not his daughter.

  "Dad,” you say, “When you hear the Information Center, do you—"

  But you interrupt by hitting yourself again. Go away go away GO AWAY. This time it takes. With a shock, I realize that it's my turn to feel, and what I feel is this: me and everything else receding into a rapidly shrinking circle, a tiny angry pupil.

  The corridor's closing; I'm an ant up a vacuum cleaner.

  * * * *

  Then I come to, and it's just me, all me—alone in my fancy house, chair tipped back onto the floor. There's a broken glass beside me. I want to see how it ends. But I think I know how it ends. I think it's you who doesn't, Grace. My back is killing me. I get up from the floor; I stumble to the kitchen and palm some pills down my throat and drink cold water from the dispenser.

  I look at the clock on the wall.

  Only minutes have passed for me, just a few of them, but for you, oh you, Grace, for you it's been years and years and years.

  Copyright © 2010 Alice Sola Kim

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Poetry: THE GEARS OF NEW AUGUST by Bruce Boston & Todd Hanks

  * * * *

  * * * *

  One of his purple calves

  had worked through the fence

  and strayed too close

  to a flesh-eating tree.

  —

  Already half-consumed,

  its limp hindquarters

  hung from the serrated pod.

  The old man leaned heavily

  —

  on the rock corner post,

  while the steady rays

  of the encroaching suns

  seemed to rake the air

  —

  like nails on a washboard.

  His face resembled the barn

  he'd built the first year,

  now weather-brown and worn.

  —

  His eyes were dim pools,

  flakes of dried mucus

  at the corners like clouds

  that never left the horizon.

  —

  Summer had rusted out

  in the gears of New August,

  the engine of the seasons

  stalled in an alien drought.

  —

  In another month he would

  reap his bitter harvest

  and await the supply ship,

  with little to offer.

  —

  He glanced up expectantly

  as the wind began to shift,

  but it only bogged down

  and bucked like an old

  —

  pick-up he could still

  remember driving through

  the green hills of Earth,

  dreaming of the stars.

  —

  Copyright © Bruce Boston & Todd Hanks

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: HAGGLE CHIPS by Tom Purdom

  Tom Purdom tells us he “continues to pursue the life of your typical, run-of-the-mill science fiction writer/music critic. I attend two to three concerts per week and three or four science fiction events per month and write about the poignancy of Brahms’ piano trios one day and the economics of interstellar commerce the next.” Readers can find out more about Tom at his website, www.philart.net/tompurdom.

  It was a very civilized highjack. Janip was riding over the wilderness in a small airship, en route to his first meeting with his customer, and the attack began when a flock of flying creatures rose out of the leaf tops and drove straight for the ship. Janip knew something was happening as soon as he realized he was looking at birds. There were no natural birds on Conalia.

  The birds ended their drive in a suicide attack on both propellers. The airship came to a halt. Two birds with absurdly exaggerated wingspans descended from some vantage point in the sky and hovered about five hundred meters from the starboard windows—well beyond the range of any weapons Janip might be carrying. Their wings measured a good ten meters, tip to tip, and they were both carrying small two-handed creatures with brain-machine links fastened to their heads. They banked downward as soon as they had given him a good look and disappeared under the gondola.

  "I have encountered a difficulty,” the airship said. “I believe I am under attack. I have signaled for help."

  Janip settled into his seat and transmitted messages to two addresses. He was the only passenger in the gondola. His customer had chartered the ship just for him—an extravagance that indicated he could have negotiated a higher price when they had haggled over the merchandise he was carrying.

  The ship quivered. It floated upward for a second and stopped. The birds’ passengers had obviously attached contacts to the bottom of the gondola. The ship's control system was
trying to gain altitude while it fought a silent battle with an electronic invasion.

  The gondola trembled again. The two oversized birds flapped into view, one on each side.

  "Good afternoon,” the ship said. “Your ship is now descending. The two riders positioned on the gondola are both armed. They can enter the passenger area at any time and administer a pacifier. Or you can indicate you are willing to follow instructions. The choice is up to you."

  Janip glanced out the window and verified the leaves were getting closer. A wash of enforced calm settled over his emotions. He had experimented with uncontrolled passion when he had been in his twenties but he had installed a full suite of neurological emotional controls when that bit of youthful probing had reached its predestined end.

  "You will not encounter resistance,” Janip said. “I can see you've taken control of the situation."

  The gondola brushed against wide dark leaves. There were no real trees on Conalia. The tallest organisms on the planet were essentially giant soft-bodied plants. The ship pushed them aside as it descended and hovered a couple of meters above the ground. The rear hatch swung open. A ladder extended.

  "If you will please descend,” the ship said, “it will save us the trouble of boarding."

  A man and a woman stepped into view as he backed out of the hatch. They both had functional, sparsely utilitarian brain-machine links on their heads and swivel-mounted laser-electric stunners in their hands. Sighting glasses hid their eyes. They escorted him to an all-terrain vehicle with oversized wheels and Janip entered the first stage of his captivity.

  * * * *

  His captors drove him to a compound on the river. They ushered him into a large, lightly furnished room and left him alone for three days.

  They didn't tell him why he had been kidnapped, but it didn't take him long to figure it out. His communications implant still worked and they didn't try to jam it. The face of his account manager at Kaltuji Merchant Bank hovered in front of him minutes after the door clicked shut. Margelina had been the second person he had contacted when the attack had begun.

  "You're in the compound established by the Taranazzu Cultivators,” Margelina said. “I think we can assume this has something to do with their dispute with your customer."

  Janip scowled. “I thought the Taranazzu Cultivators were supposed to be non-violent."

  "They are, ideologically. We're just as surprised by this as you are."

  "I checked out that squabble when I started negotiating with my customer. Elisette's the party who looks like she might consider a little kidnapping."

  "Elisette is already attempting to initiate negotiations. In the meantime, I can advise you we can let you have full access to our communications system, with all security mechanisms functioning. You can continue to conduct all your normal business and social activities, just as you have been. The only restriction will be items that can be used to help you escape. We have to maintain a neutral stance in all disputes. It's the only way we can keep secure communications open in this kind of situation."

  "Can I assume my jailers will let me maintain communications unless you advise them I've violated the agreement?"

  "We're working on that now. But I have to advise you we will immediately terminate your communications account if we discover you've violated the agreement."

  "I'd be very surprised if you didn't, Margelina."

  * * * *

  The top politician in the compound's social structure visited Janip late in the morning of the fourth day. The politician's constituents referred to him as their primary facilitator—without capitals. He was a large man whose clothes flowed over swellings and indentations that indicated his muscles had received the maximum enhancement he could impose on them.

  Janip had held several discussions with his customer and she had given him her take on the primary facilitator. “Sivmati's settled into a very nice arrangement,” Elisette had argued. “They're supposed to be egalitarian and non-competitive but you don't have to examine their accounts to see he gets an extra share of everything. He became a convert about a year after they established the compound. And gradually wormed his way to the top."

  Elisette didn't have to tell Janip she shared his attitude toward politicians. People like Sivmati didn't build. They didn't create. They didn't trade. They just worked their way up hierarchies.

  The dispute between Elisette and the Taranazzu Cultivators was a conflict over hydroelectric power. Elisette controlled the biggest hydroelectric plant currently functioning on the planet. She and three of her friends had occupied the waterfall at Belita Lake when they arrived on Conalia and invested twenty standard years in the construction of the plant.

  "We have no desire to harm you or anyone else,” Sivmati assured him. “Or cause you the slightest inconvenience. The only person you should blame for this is Elisette. We settled here, by the rapids, because we innocently assumed the planet could use a second power source on this river. Nothing we have done should cause your client any loss of income. The new dam she is building upstream from us is deliberately designed to interfere with the flow of the river and negate our own efforts. It has no other purpose. She is building it because she wants to monopolize the energy potential of the biggest river in this area of the planet."

  "Elisette doesn't need me,” Janip said. “You have eight people on Conalia who can give her a perfectly good set of new eyes."

  "But not as good as the eyes you're selling her. We know Elisette. We've been coping with her since we inaugurated our settlement. She's the kind who demands the best. Nothing else will do."

  "And what are you going to do if she turns out to be more stubborn than you think?"

  "We know she is going blind. We know she needs your services. We think you will be our guest for a year at worst. In the meantime you will be given whatever you need to carry on your business from here. And the full freedom to enjoy all the hospitality we can offer you."

  Sivmati smiled. “This is a very pleasant place. We have every amenity. I hardly ever leave it myself."

  * * * *

  It was a pleasant place. The Cultivators served the life-giving, nurturing Power postulated by the Taranazzu sect and their expressions of devotion included a healthy round of mandatory feasting and dancing.

  The central tenet of the Taranazzu belief system was a rigid acceptance of everything mankind had learned about the physical universe. The theory that a single all- powerful god ruled the universe had become indefensible, in their view, as soon as human beings had discovered they were the products of the heartless process of evolution through natural selection. No loving god could have inflicted so much pain on his creation.

  There must, therefore, be several Powers, the Taranazzu founders had argued. We don't know what these Powers are. It's possible we can't know. They may be superior beings, like the families of gods our ancestors imagined. They may be natural forces inherent in the structure of the universe. We must accept our ignorance. But we can choose the Powers we will serve.

  The sexual mores of the settlement had their attractions, too. Janip got his first look at their system while he was eating his second dinner in the communal hall. The six people sitting near an ornamental fountain became involved in a discussion that kept attracting glances from the other tables. An outburst from one of the participants brought an immediate response. Two people hurried toward the commotion. A woman bent over a man who was glaring across the table. A man crouched beside the woman who was receiving the glare and nodded rhythmically as he talked to her.

  The Cultivators had adopted a modified version of a sexual pattern developed by terrestrial primates called bonobos. Bonobo females used sex to regulate social behavior. The Cultivators felt both sexes should shoulder the responsibility. Touches and soothing words calmed the two diners. The dining hall had two small side rooms that could have been put to use if the situation had required a more extensive response.

  As a “guest” Janip was a prime candi
date for emotional regulation. Two women had invited him to join their table when he entered the hall. A third joined them a few minutes later.

  The primary facilitator received his share of regulating, too. Janip wasn't surprised to learn that Sivmati had purchased the maximum sexual enhancement available on Conalia.

  * * * *

  Elisette was a large, big-boned woman who liked to wear bright colors. She had started scheming as soon as she heard about the kidnapping. As Janip had assumed she would.

  "We can discuss anything we want,” Elisette said. “Correct?"

  "That's my understanding of my agreement with the bank,” Janip said. “I'd love to have a well-written program that would totally disrupt the Cultivators’ security system, if you happen to have one handy. We can talk about the possibility all day. But don't transmit the program over this channel."

  "And what will they do if we violate their rules?"

  "I'll be barred from all contact with the planetary banking system."

  "They can enforce that? They can make every bank on the planet follow their orders?"

  "Against a lone visiting trader? Who's done something every bank on the planet would object to if he did it to them? My bank may be overestimating its influence, Elisette. But I'd rather not run a test."

  Elisette shrugged. “There's a basic conflict between the general thrust of the Cultivators’ ideology and the fact that they've kidnapped you and taken you prisoner. There must be a few people in that compound who feel our friend Sivmati isn't quite as pure as he should be."

  "I've been watching for attitudes like that. Sivmati doesn't seem to think there's any conflict. He feels they're just defending themselves—that you're building your new dam so you can force them off the river and control the whole length of it. So far he doesn't seem to be running into any serious opposition."

  "And what do you think? “

  "I'm a trader, Elisette. You and I have a deal. He's interfering with a legitimate business transaction."

  "That's what I want to hear. We'll get you out of there, Janip. I'm not the only one working on this. The whole business community in Kaltuji is seething. They all know they can't let a bunch of religious fanatics get away with this kind of barbarism."