Asimov's SF, February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He walks down a final sick-green hallway and he can see someone through the glass front doors. On the front step is a girl in black. Flashes of light wink in and out of existence on her pale skin as she turns, her many piercings catching the light. She has tattoos all over. Some of them are interesting up close, but from a distance they make her look dirty. Not that she isn't dirty. Chris sometimes wonders if she ever washes her black hair. The matted dreads always look the same, down to the rusty clips that hold them in place.

  He walks through the first door to the mailbox area, and lets her in.

  "Hey, Chris,” she says.

  "Hey,” he says.

  She walks past him, down the hallway and into the stairwell. He starts after her, but by the time he reaches the stairwell, the door has already closed. So he opens it again, and when he gets into the stairwell, he can hear the door to the other hallway swing shut. He shakes his head. Not for the first time, he wonders how she can be so damn quick without hurrying.

  By the time he gets to his apartment, she's sitting in front of the door. He walks up to open it, but she doesn't get out of the way. He waits for a moment, but she just sits there.

  "Wanna go inside?” he asks.

  She's spaced out, thinking about something.

  "Lanna, let me open the door."

  She sits there, stone-still, staring right through his legs. He nudges her shoulder with his knee, and she finally scoots out of the way. Apparently she wants to finish her thought, though, because she doesn't follow as he enters.

  His feet hit the hardwood floor, and it lets out a creak. Chris hears something rustling in the corner. It looks like a squirrel, only larger, and it is scaling his brick wall. It isn't climbing the wall like a normal squirrel. It is too cautious about picking its footholds. Not that this compromises its speed. It has nearly reached the ceiling.

  Chris looks at it carefully, trying to commit as many details as possible to memory. The last time he saw it, or one that looked a lot like it, it had unscrewed the lid from his peanut butter.

  As the creature reaches the top of the wall, it leaps onto a rafter and perches there for a moment. For the first time, Chris is able to get a look at its hands. They look like squirrel paws. Their tops are furry. Their palms look tough—good for tree-grabbing. The digits end in pointy claws. But there is one strange thing about them. From the inner side of each paw, a curved, white claw protrudes, exactly where thumbs would go ... if squirrels had thumbs. Chris has already stopped thinking of the creature as a squirrel.

  The creature flexes its paws, its bony thumb-claws clacking against its finger-claws. It runs across the rafter and into a hole in the ceiling, leaving a wisp of the brown recluse's web fluttering in its wake.

  Lanna walks in.

  "You missed it again,” says Chris.

  "What?” she asks.

  "That thing. It was here again."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "That big squirrel thing. It ran up the wall, and I think it has thumbs."

  "Oh, the peanut butter thief."

  "Yeah, it has thumbs. Very strange, I think. Well, maybe not thumbs, exactly, but bony things that it can use like thumbs."

  "I don't know why I keep missing it,” she said, shaking her head. “You should get a picture.” Chris gets the idea that she doesn't believe him.

  "Yeah, I should,” he says, and takes a seat in his chair. Lanna goes and sits down on his mattress in the corner. Her black leather bag is studded with pointy metal. Out of it, she pulls her computer and all the strange peripherals she connects it to. There are the goggles and the gloves. The olfactory tube and the earbuds. Strangest of all, though, is the chest strip. She sticks it to her cleavage. When there's some particularly important information coming in, it will tickle or burn her, depending on priority.

  "I can't wait for the day when they can give me all my intel directly through my skull,” she says. “I'm getting tired of lugging all this shit around."

  Chris stares at his canvas while she gets her gear on.

  "They almost followed me here,” she said.

  "Who?"

  "The spooks,” she says.

  "Oh. They still after you?"

  She can tell he doesn't believe her. “Yes,” she says. “They are."

  "Well,” he says. “You're safe here."

  "That's sweet, Chris,” she says. When she smiles, the metal pieces in her cheeks all point outward, like the spikes on a blowfish.

  There is silence as she gets the rest of her gear on. When she is finished suiting up, she begins waving her hands around in the air. No doubt she is as attuned to her other world as she is deaf and mute to this one.

  Chris rises from his chair and goes to get his paints. In a few minutes, he is in a smock. Soon colors are moving across the stretched white.

  * * * *

  In a few hours, Lanna comes to. She's finally starting to feel tired. When she peels her gear off, she is numb in a few places. She'd rub them, but she'd probably scrape her hands on all the metal.

  Chris is sitting in his chair again, looking at the canvas, and Lanna feels a bit sorry for him. It looks like he hasn't moved since she put herself under three hours ago. She goes over to talk to him, but, as she gets closer, she notices that there's color on the canvas. He has actually painted something.

  "Chris!” She skips around to the front of the picture, and lets out a gasp. “It's hideous! What the hell is it?"

  "It's that thing I told you about,” he says. “See the thumbs?"

  "Those don't look like thumbs. They look like bones or something."

  "Yeah, they must not be very developed yet. But I guess they're good enough to open a jar of peanut butter."

  Lanna looks at the face of the creature that Chris has painted. “It really does look smart,” she says. “It looks like it's thinking.” After another moment, she says, “I don't trust it."

  "I dunno,” says Chris. “I kind of like the idea that there's other intelligent life out there."

  "Out there, as in outer space; that idea I like. Out there, as in just outside your apartment, that creeps me out."

  "I don't mind sharing my peanut butter,” says Chris.

  Lanna inspects the painting again. “It looks real. Is it more pixelism?"

  "How do you know it looks real? You've never seen it."

  "Believable I mean. It looks believable."

  "Yeah, its pixelism. The last one, I think."

  "I always liked that style,” says Lanna.

  "I know,” says Chris, and he smiles at her. He always thought that she had good taste in art, even if it didn't transfer over to the world of fashion. She blushes a little when she notices his smile.

  "I have to go in a few minutes,” she says. “I've got a couple of errands to run. But I was wondering if you'd do me a favor first."

  "What?” he asked.

  "I want you to check around outside, just around the outside of the building before I go."

  He thinks about being a kid, and having his dad check for monsters under his bed, in his closet, etc., before bed, and he worries a little about Lanna. Maybe she's been taking too many stimulants. “Yeah, I'll check,” he says. He gets up and walks out the door.

  It is still smoky in the halls, but he takes his time walking anyway. It feels good to have finally painted something again, and he savors the feeling. He thinks that he'll just walk around the building a couple of times, come back, and let her know that everything is safe, but as soon as he steps out the front door, he runs into a suit. The guy is white, bald, and has some kind of weird earbud. It could be a hearing aid, but probably isn't.

  "Hey,” says Chris as he steps onto the concrete. “Are you the new tenant?” he asks, knowing that he is most definitely not.

  "No,” says the bald guy in a suit. “I'm just waiting for a friend."

  "Who?” asks Chris.

  "No one you know,” says the bald guy.

  "I know everyone here,” sa
ys Chris. “I'm the building supervisor."

  So far the bald guy hasn't really been looking at Chris, but suddenly he is. The difference is palpable. “You're not leaving me much room to be vague,” says the bald guy. Obviously, the bald guy does not want him to get into specifics, and, suddenly, Chris is not sure that he wants the bald guy to get into specifics either.

  "Jesus,” says Chris. “I'm just trying to be friendly."

  "I'm not here to be friendly,” says the bald guy. His eyes get a far-off look all of a sudden, and Chris thinks he might be listening to something through his earbud. Then they lose their far off look just as suddenly and focus on Chris. “Nice meeting you,” says the bald guy. He walks away from the step and stands at the curb. A black van comes to a silent stop in front of him. Its sliding door opens, momentarily revealing a small room full of electronics that Lanna would drool over. The bald guy gets in the van with a practiced step, and the door slides noiselessly shut behind him.

  Chris stands and watches the van drive off. Although he's trying to make out the plate, the characters seem blurred, as if he's looking at them through a layer of hot air. When the van has driven out of sight, he walks back inside to his apartment. Lanna is eating a peanut butter sandwich.

  "Spooks, you said?"

  "Yeah, did you see any?"

  "Yeah,” Chris says. “I did."

  "Christ. How long do you think it will be until he's gone?"

  "He's gone,” says Chris. “But I don't know for how long. What the fuck did you do, anyway? Who are these guys?"

  "I told you,” says Lanna. “Spooks. You know ... CIA."

  "Oh,” he says.

  "I don't know why they're after me,” she says. “Maybe that genetic screening database I hacked."

  "Yeah, that could be,” he says. “They probably wouldn't be too happy about that one."

  "Or it could have been that malware I released last year."

  "Yeah,” he says. “Coulda been that too, I guess."

  "I guess I'd better get going,” Lanna says. “See you tomorrow?” For a moment she was a metal blowfish again. How could Chris not smile at that?

  * * * *

  The next day, Chris is sitting across from Rico. They're on the patio of a trendy restaurant. Chris is having a burger with some strange shit on it. They put flimsy, sweet onions on, and some strange cheese. It smells horrible but tastes okay.

  Rico is having a liquid lunch. Chris grimaces every time Rico takes a drink. Two is way too early for nearly undiluted gin.

  Rico's clothes look worn in the right places, like the knees and elbows. He's wearing sunglasses, too, even though it's cloudy.

  "So what is it again?” asks Rico.

  "I dunno what it is,” says Chris. “But it looks a little like a squirrel."

  "I see. I have to say, I don't find it very compelling."

  Chris looks a little bit offended. “Couldn't you see the intelligence in its eyes? What isn't compelling about that?"

  "It just looks like a very strange squirrel, Chris. You got my hopes up over the phone, but that's really all it is.” Rico leans over to take a sip of his martini, and his waxy brown bangs nearly dip into it.

  "It's the next step in squirrels, the next model. It has thumbs, for Christ's sake."

  "My point is it won't sell.” The martini is bottoms up now.

  "You won't even put it in the show?"

  "I can't spare the wall space, man.” A green olive disappears into Rico's thin lipped mouth. His cheeks barely ripple, he chews so delicately.

  Chris shakes his head and takes the last few bites of his burger. He's starting to think maybe the cheese isn't so good after all.

  "Have you got anything a little more abstract?” asks Rico. “I'd love to put something up for you, but pixelism is just very out right now."

  "Nah,” says Chris. “It's the first thing I've done in a while."

  "How have you been making a living?"

  "Temp work mostly.” Chris’ face goes dark.

  "I hope things turn around for you. I wish I could offer you a space at the gallery, but—"

  "You are going to offer me the space,” says Chris with certainty.

  "I told you I can—"

  "I'm calling in that favor,” says Chris.

  Rico just nods. “Do you have some time right now to see the gallery with me and figure out where you want to hang it?"

  "Yeah."

  "All right."

  Neither is talking. Eventually, the waitress comes. Rico pays the check.

  * * * *

  They get to the gallery. It used to be the warehouse of a big cereal manufacturer. There are still two statues of cartoony breakfast mascots standing guard by the doorway. Chris thinks that one's name is Smack and the other is Tyrone the Tiger, but it has been a long time since he watched Saturday morning cartoons. The lock is old, so Rico has to fumble with it a little to get it open. There's an art to it. He almost has to feel out the pins, has to almost pick it with his key before it will unlock. Finally there's a click. “I think you'll like this collection,” Rico says. “There's a lot of innovation here.” He opens the door.

  The inside of the gallery offers a jarring counterpoint to the cereal factory exterior. The walls are all white, and lit by well-placed incandescence. As far as technology has come in two hundred years, there is still no substitute for the soft lighting of a hot tungsten filament.

  Chris gets a look at what's on display, and realizes once more that he and Rico have very different opinions about art. “So, by innovation,” says Chris, “what you really meant was condiments...."

  There are paintings in mustard, paintings in ketchup, paintings in relish. There are sculptures made out of butter surrounded by complex cryogenics. There is a mayonnaise collage. One interesting piece was made by angrily hurling a bowl of lobster bisque at the canvas. Chris stalks among them, through the rows of rooms with white walls, wondering, not for the first time, how these things manage to catch on. He can understand a single maverick taking some condiments to the canvas, or even two giving it a try, but three, or four, or ten, or thirty? How does it happen? Chris thought that maybe it was further proof of the one hundredth monkey effect.

  "What do you think?” asks Rico. “Have you ever seen anything like it?"

  "No,” says Chris honestly. He looks at the price tags. “Does this shit actually sell?"

  Rico looks a little offended. “Of course it does. Do you think I'd hang them in here if they didn't?"

  Chris knows he wouldn't. “So where do I get to hang mine?"

  "That's up to you, old buddy,” says Rico.

  Chris doesn't hesitate. “Move the bisque, and put me there,” he says.

  "Done,” says Rico. “How soon can you have it here?"

  "I'll try to get it here tomorrow. It'll be dry by then."

  "Fair enough,” says Rico. “I'll be here."

  The two shake hands. Chris turns his back on the condiments and goes home. Rico stands there for a time, looking at the bisque, disappointed, because even if moving it will satisfy Chris, it won't satisfy karma.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Chris wakes up to a strange noise. It's a weird popping sound coming from outside his window. He rolls off his mattress and puts on his pants, calculating silently that they'll be good for another two days before he has to wash them. Then he goes to his window and sticks his head out. On the building's brittle yellow lawn, two kids—maybe twelve or thirteen—are firing an air rifle. They're black. One has tight braids, and the other's hair is cut short. They have to pull up their oversized pants every so often, and their huge sleeves make their forearms look deathcamp-thin.

  Curious, Chris heads outside. As he walks down the hallway, his body cuts a swath through thick tobacco smoke. Once he gets outside, he can see that the kids are aiming at the roof. The yellowish brown grass crunches under his bare feet.

  "What are you shooting at?” he asks them.

  "Squirrels,”
says the short haired one.

  Chris shifts his gaze to the roof and sees them. One of them is crouched low, over the body of another. Its paws and bony thumbs are grasping at the body, trying to pull it farther onto the roof and out of the air rifle's line of sight. It chitters loudly. The sound reminds Chris of crying. It strains itself to drag its friend to safety.

  "Stop it,” says Chris.

  "This is his fucking rifle,” says the one with short hair.

  "If you don't listen, it's gonna be my rifle in a second."

  "You take my rifle, and my dad will come after you,” says the kid with the braids.

  Chris grabs the rifle out of the kid's hands. The other one grabs for it, and Chris backhands him across the face. The smack is audible.

  The kid screams. He's not crying, but there are angry tears in his eyes. The other boy is keeping his distance, looking ready. Chris pegs him for the smart one.

  "Don't fuck with those squirrels anymore,” says Chris. He turns to go back inside, and sees Lanna on the front step. She looks concerned. Chris glances at the roof again. Nothing is there. The squirrel-things must have gotten away safely.

  He walks over to the door, opens it, and heads inside. She follows down the smoky hallways.

  "They were shooting at those squirrels,” Chris says.

  "You didn't have to hit him,” says Lanna.

  "He should have listened,” says Chris. “I just asked him to stop shooting at those squirrels."

  "Chris, they're just squirrels,” says Lanna.

  "They have thumbs. I think one of them was crying."

  "I didn't see anything up there,” says Lanna. “I'm starting to worry about you, you know.” Chris shakes his head. They're at his apartment. “Do you want some coffee?” he asks.

  "Sure,” she says, and they go inside.

  Chris makes coffee in his kitchen corner, and Lanna talks about being stalked by spooks. “They're getting more and more daring,” she says. “They don't even care if I see them following me."