by Various
Dear Jeff:
If you haven’t yet seen Ed’s Book, you will soon, and once you do, I know that any doubts will leave you. For that reason, this letter may be irrelevant. But I still had to write it, if for no other reason than to clarify where I stand in my own mind.
Let’s be clear: You are coming in late to this whole scenario. From the very beginning, I planned Argosy to represent a major shift in the world, a way to change it irrevocably. Every page, every story, every interview, even every typo, has been calculated to produce one certain result: transformation. And that transformation will become apparent upon the publication of your story “Errata.” Your work is the final missing piece that will effectuate the Change.
I know you, like me, believe the world is in a terrible state right now, from the environment to political systems to hypocrisy to “sleepwalking on the tracks,” as Thoreau put it. This has troubled me deeply since I was very young, and the feeling has only gotten worse as I have gotten older. I built a time machine when I was kid just so I could try to go back in time and fix things from the moment they began to break. Of course, that didn’t work. How could it? There would be so many things to fix. No one could do it all. Even if the machine worked.
But now, as an adult, and having talked to Ed and having experienced the Book, my life is committed to this change. For I believe that words can Change the world. I believe that after “Errata” is published, and as the right people in the right combinations read it, you will see a transformation of the world. Like in the old myth I left on your bed: A thaw will come and words will be spoken and heard that have been frozen for years, if not centuries. Like some sort of virus, the world will become a better place. Everything will begin to make sense. There will be some kind of balance again.
For this, I needed you. I needed a final refocus and correction to what had already been done. I needed someone outside of the system, someone who had given up hope, to undertake the final part of the project. For this, I also needed someone so torn out of their normal balance, their normal world, that they could kill if need be.
Because I don’t know when you will read this letter. Because Argosy may need a final sacrifice, like those made by the shamans of old. Perhaps my life is needed to bring this all to fruition. Maybe that’s what it will take. And maybe not.
If it has, and you read this letter after, know that I forgive you, and that you are almost done. All you must do is finish the story and send it to my brother.
I’m telling you: There will be an epiphany. There will be a shift. You will feel it. You just have to wait for it and be patient. And, depending on your timing, either I will be there to experience it too, or I won’t. I am at peace with either future.
Thank you for your time and your efforts.
Your friend,
James Owen
Ever since reading his letter, Jeremy, I’ve been sitting in a chair in the lobby, drinking steadily, becoming more and more numb. Because I’ll be damned if I go to that freezer and remove the mask of the man I’ve killed. But mostly because, regardless of anything else he was, your brother was a nutcase. He was completely and utterly cracked in the head. And I was stupid enough to follow all of his insane directions and thus make it to this point, which once seemed like a plateau on the way up, but now feels like a slide into the deeper depths.
James Owen. Publisher. Author. Entrepreneur. It strikes me that I never really knew him—didn’t know nearly enough about his childhood, his parents, his upbringing, his education, to trust him the way I did, to let him manipulate me this way.
But now that it’s almost time, I must tell you that the most extraordinary calm has come over me. Why? Because I have only one hope left, even though it’s a fool’s hope. Tomorrow, I will hand this entire account over to the toothless Japanese man who—fleeing from horrible crimes of his own devising, no doubt—plays the role of postal worker in these parts. Whether he is competent enough to be trusted, I don’t know. (Although he was reliable enough in handing over the money orders James sent me until about a week ago.)
Hopefully, you will receive and publish this Errata and thus fulfill James’ vision. Hopefully, enough people will read it in the right combinations. And then, hopefully, the world will Change as he, in his twisted and yet idealistic way, believed it would.
In the meantime, I'll wait in this lobby, talking to Juliette. “James promised me,” I will say to her. “James told me the world would Change if I wrote a short story.”
“Who is James?” Juliette will reply. “Do I know him?”
“You may have even met him,” I’ll say.
Here’s your story, James Owen. Now where’s my epiphany?
God help me, some part of me still believes it could happen.
And if it doesn’t, well, then, I’ll just have to put these pearl-handled revolvers to good use, won’t I?
Copyright © 2009 Jeff VanderMeer
* * *
Copyright Acknowledgments
“Errata” includes excerpts of materials from the following short stories:
“Box of Oxen” by Alan Dean Foster. Copyright © 2005 by Alan Dean Foster. Not yet published.
“The Telephone” by Zoran Živković. Copyright © 2005 by Zoran Živković. First published in Argosy #3, edited by James A. Owen (Birmingham: Coppervale International Studio Press, 2005).
“The Gate House” by Marly Youmans. Copyright © 2005 by Marly Youmans. Not yet publisher.
“The Dragons of Manhattan” by John Grant. Copyright © 2005 by John Grant. First published in Argosy #3, edited by James A. Owen (Birmingham: Coppervale International Studio Press, 2005).
“My General” by Carol Emshwiller. Copyright © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First published in Argosy #2, edited by Lou Anders and James A. Owen (Birmingham: Coppervale International Studio Press, 2004).
“The Mystery of the Texas Twister” by Michael Moorcock. Copyright © 2004 by Michael Moorcock. First published in Argosy #1, edited by Lou Anders and James A. Owen (Birmingham: Coppervale International Studio Press, 2004).
“The Carving” by Steve Rasnic Tem. Copyright © 2004 by Steve Rasnic Tem. First published in Argosy #1, edited by Lou Anders and James A. Owen (Birmingham: Coppervale International Studio Press, 2004).
And from the following books and articles:
Sergeev, Mark. “Words of a poet.” WWW Irkustk. 2003. Irkutsk Computer Center. 9 Jan. 2009.
Thubron, Colin. In Siberia. New York: HarperPerennial, 2000.
Crimethink Workers Collective. Days of War, Nights of Love: Crimethink for Beginners. Salem: CrimethInc., 2001.
All actual people mentioned in this story appear with their knowledge and permission.
Books by Jeff Vandermeer
City of Saints and Madmen (Cosmos / Wildside, 2001)
Veniss Underground (Tor UK, 2003)
Shriek: An Afterword (Tor, 2006)
Finch (Underland, 2009)
STORY COLLECTIONS
The Book of Frog (Ministry of Whimsy, 1989)
The Book of Lost Places (Dark Regions, 1996)
The Exchange (Hoegbotton & Sons, 2001)
The Day Dali Died (Prime, 2003)
Secret Life (Golden Gryphon, 2004)
Secret Lives (Wildside, 2006)
ANTHOLOGIES
Leviathan 2 (editor, with Rose Secrest) (Ministry of Whimsy, 1998)
Leviathan 3 (editor, with Forrest Aguirre) (Ministry of Whimsy, 2002)
Best American Fantasy (editor, with Ann VanderMeer) (Prime, 2007)
Best American Fantasy 2 (editor, with Ann VanderMeer) (Prime, 2008)
Album Zutique (editor) (Night Shade, 2003)
The Thackery T. Lambshead Pocket Guide to Eccentric & Discredited Diseases (editor, with Mark Roberts) (Night Shade, 2003)
Mapping the Beast: The Best of Leviathan (editor) (Prime, 2007)
The Surgeon's Tale and Other Stories (editor, with Cat Rambo) (Prime, 2007)
Fast Ships, Black Sails (editor, wit
h Ann VanderMeer) (Night Shade, 2008)
The New Weird (editor, with Ann VanderMeer) (Tachyon, 2008)
Steampunk (editor, with Ann VanderMeer) (Tachyon, 2008)
Last Drink Bird Head: Flash Fiction for Charity (editor, with Ann VanderMeer) (Ministry of Whimsy, 2009)
NONFICTION
Why Should I Cut Your Throat? (MonkeyBrain, 2004)
Booklife: Strategies and Survival Tips for the 21st-Century Writer (Tachyon, 2009)
The Kosher Guide to Imaginary Animals: The Evil Monkey Dialogues (with Ann VanderMeer) (Tachyon, 2010)
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.
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My sword arm is mighty.
I will not falter.
I will not fail.
My sword arm is mighty.
I will not falter.
I will not fail.
My… ass is fucked.
I knew it as sure as I knew my own name: Kit “My Ass Is Fucked” Colbana.
There was no way I was getting out of this, and I knew it. I hadn’t stood much of a chance anyway, but what in the hell was I supposed to do? Just walk away?
Actually…
“Stop,” I muttered. Yeah, walking away might have been the smart thing to do.
But it wasn’t really an option for me. I might not be a pureblood aneira, I might be a mongrel, and I might be a sorry excuse for one of those fabled warrior women—but so what if most of them looked down their pretty noses at me. I didn’t turn my back on people who’d asked me for help. If I died for it, then I died for it.
Mama would be so proud.
The tunnel was dark.
I hated the dark.
Memories of things best forgotten tried to scramble up from the depths of my mind and sink nasty, grimy claws into me, but I pushed them aside. Couldn’t think about that. Not right now, not if I wanted to reach the rat leader’s lair before sundown.
Well before sundown. I knew what was going to happen at sundown, and fear tried to wrap a sweaty, meaty fist around my throat. In a deliberate attempt to block it out, I summoned up one thing guaranteed to knock that fear into place—anger.
The memory of Colleen’s terrified face was just enough to do it.
“It’s Mandy, Kit. She’s with her boyfriend, and I couldn’t talk her out of it. She wants him to change her, buys into all the propaganda and thinks it will fix her.”
Fix her. Ha. You can’t fix a girl with leukemia by giving her a rat bite. Or a wolf bite. Or a cat bite. Most likely, the virus would either kill her or wouldn’t affect her at all. Only six percent of the bitten actually caught the virus. Sex was a more likely way to catch it, and man, I hope she wasn’t planning on getting laid—not with them. Not with the rats. Hell, catching the virus would probably kill her sooner than the leukemia.
If Mandy had been with the wolves or the cats, I wouldn’t worry so much—they were freaky enough, but they had a pretty strict set of rules they followed, and the girl wouldn’t get hurt. Actually, the alphas would probably have her cute little butt escorted right back to Colleen’s house, which was where a fifteen-year-old girl belonged at night.
But the rats—hell. The rat pack was a problem in Orlando. A very big problem. Drugs. Theft. Other unsavory things, but nothing that could be pinned on them. It was all just suspicion at this point. Most of us wanted them gone, but until they broke enough rules, the Assembly would ignore them. Which meant we didn’t have the justification to exterminate the entire pack.
Okay, personally? I thought there was plenty of justification.
Only I wasn’t exactly the best choice for the job. If there were a true aneira around, sure.
But for now, we’d have to wait for the other shapeshifters to get tired of cleaning up the messes the rats made. Either that or…
A whisper of ice danced along my spine.
I shivered and resisted the urge to glance around.
Resisted the urge to see if I was being followed. I’d already killed three lesser rat scouts, and man, oh man, did I hope I could get out of there before that was discovered. Technically I had no legal reason for being down here and no legal reason for killing them, although if this ended up in front of the Assembly, I’d have a good argument.
If I got out of this alive. And that entirely depended on whether I could make it to the lair before the dead bodies were discovered…
The rats liked to rest up before the full moon—and they liked to party hard with pharmaceutical help, so it was possible.
Up ahead, I saw just the faintest lessening of the gloom.
Gripping my sword, I swallowed.
Let them be sleeping… please…
If they weren’t sleeping, I was more than likely going to be dead in another couple of minutes. I’m sorry, Colleen. I tried.
The good news was… if I died, something would finally be done about the rat pack.
Too many people knew where I was going—I’d made damn sure of that, and if I disappeared, if something happened to Mandy… well, the rats were screwed.
I’d put in calls to the liaisons for the wolf and cat packs, as well as some others. My not-so-loving family, for one. They might not adore me, but they’d be madder than hell if I ended up dead and nobody had responded to my request for assistance. I’d also put in calls to others who had a voice in the Assembly.
Basically, I’d spoken to just about anybody who’d be able to rain hell on the rats if I ended up dead. And the alphas of the other packs, too, since by rights, they should have been here. Shifters were territorial bastards and always tried to handle their issues on their own. They damn well should have sent somebody.
Hell, I’d even been counting on it—had been hoping one of them would have the decency to handle it—after all, a human teenager in the rat pack on the night of the full moon was the very definition of not good. They should know this. But my calls had been either ignored or channeled over to voice mail. Why in the hell were alphas and witches and vamps using voice mail?
I reached the end of the tunnel and pressed my back against it.
It was silent, save for the low, soft sounds of people breathing and the occasional snore. Man, was I lucky enough that they were all asleep?
Only the alpha’s most trusted would be allowed in his lair, and Eddie didn’t trust many—didn’t like too many, either.
Ideally, he should have some of his people on guard. The skin between my shoulder blades itched, and this time, I let myself look back down the tunnel—nothing.
Gripping my sword, I eased just the barest bit into the lair. It stank of piss, blood, sex, and sweat.
I wasn’t part rat, and the smell was an assault on my senses—how could they stand it?
Just inside the doorway, with his back pressed against the way, I saw one of the guards. He hadn’t seen me… yet. He wouldn’t, either.
I wasn’t full-blooded aneira, but there was no denying I was at least part aneira. One of a legendary race of skilled assassins.
Why were they legendary? That mighty sword. That “I will not falter, I will not fail” mantra.
And the fact that they could will themselves completely invisible for short periods of time. Long enough to take my blade—an enchanted blade that had been passed from mother to daughter for centuries—and push it inside the rat-shifter’s heart. As I did, I covered his mouth with my hand, muffling his scream.
If anybody woke, they’d see the struggle—the shifter’s body arching up, the few drops of blood smok
ing.
But they wouldn’t see me.
And yes—because that is my luck—somebody woke, although the guard died very, very fast.
I heard the confused “What the fuck?” just as I pulled my smoking blade from the dead man’s chest.
Shifters really weren’t that easy to kill. Not without silver or an enchanted sword. Plus, his being stoned had helped. It also helped that everybody else in the room was sleeping the sleep of the equally stoned.
I couldn’t count on that luck holding, though. I pressed my back against the wall and eased my way around the room as somebody crawled out of the pile of bodies and made his way over to check on the fallen guard. He was tipsy, staggering back and forth, and as he passed by, I caught the pungent stink of Torque coming off him.
Hell, no wonder none of them were stirring, if they were all sleeping off the effects of partying with Torque.
It was a shifter-made drug, designed to keep up with their metabolism. It was like ecstasy and heroin combined—and an overdose of them at that. When humans got their hands on it, it did bad, bad things.
Hell, it did bad, bad things to shifters. They really couldn’t afford to lose control, not when they were so much stronger, so much faster than the humans. But the kind of people who liked to do drugs didn’t care about that.
And the kind of people who’d let a sick, scared fifteen-year-old into the lair of the rat king weren’t going to be all that concerned about what kind of condition her mind was in.
“Hey… bro… Mont, you okay, man? Told you it was a bad idea to do that third one.” The man snorted and giggled as he knelt down by the dead guard. “Eddie is gonna piss if he sees you sleeping. C’mon, you don’t wanna spend the moon in the cage…. Hey. Mont. Wake up…. Mont?”
I heard his voice break. Kind of like a little boy’s.
Guilt clawed at me, but I ignored it. I didn’t like killing, but a couple of dead rat shifters meant nothing compared to Mandy. In my gut, I suspected she would be dead if I didn’t get her out of here. Leukemia had weakened her system so much—the virus would kill her, I knew it.
