The Last Science Fiction Writer

by Allen Steele

  A window-wall behind him opened and a sequence of images appeared upon it. Peet did most of the talking, with Sayrah interrupting now and then. When Jed glanced back, he saw things he didn’t understand—scribbles and bars and strange markings—along with pictures of himself, back when he still had hair and a beard.

  Jed paid little attention to what was going on. Shoulders slumped, he idly played with the ball in his lap. At one point, though, the ball escaped from him. It rolled across the floor until one of the men leaned down and picked it up. He cautiously tossed it back to Jed, and Jed obediently caught it. For some reason, everyone in the room found this amusing, for they laughed out loud. Anger and humiliation surged within him, and he hurled the ball back at the man; it smacked him in the center of his face and he cried out, then he rushed from the room, clutching at his nose as blood seeped from it.

  For the first time since he’d been taken from his village, Jed felt pleasure. Whatever these creatures were, they weren’t gods. They could be hurt, and their blood was no different from his own.

  Once the room was calm again, Sayrah began to speak. As before, Jed had no idea what she was saying, yet he noticed that her voice had risen, more irate than he’d ever heard it before. Glancing back, he saw that the window-wall displayed images of his village. His heart stopped, and for a precious instant he felt…hope? An end to all these days of torture?

  Whatever Sayrah said, it caused Peet to become infuriated. He yelled at Sayrah, pointing first at the window-wall, then at Jed, then at the window-wall again. Sayrah remained calm; she gestured to the window-wall, then picked up a handful of paper from a desk and held it out to Peet. The argument escalated, with several men and women in the audience adding their own opinions. And through all of this, Jed sat still, wondering whether he’d done the right thing by throwing the ball at one of them, and wishing that he was anywhere other than here.

  When it was all over, Peet threw up his hands and walked away. Sayrah went over to Jed, took his hand, and gently led him out of the room. At that moment, although he’d understood none of what had been said, Jed intuitively realized that it was all over.

  They had no more use for him.

  Jed was returned to his room and allowed to sleep. When he woke up, he found clothes laid out for him. Once he was dressed, two men escorted him through a series of tunnels until they arrived at a vast cavern where the monster bird lay asleep. Peet was waiting for him there, and so was Sayrah; they led him up the ramp into the creature’s belly, and had him take a seat in a chair that was as soft as the bed in which he’d slept ever since coming here.

  Sayrah strapped Jed in, then she and Peet took seats on either side of him. The door closed behind them, and after a few minutes the monster bird rumbled and awoke from its slumber. Jed clutched at his chair in fear, then there was a sensation of motion as the bird took flight.

  There was a small window beside his chair. When Jed looked out, he saw the cavern walls disappear, replaced by a night sky in which stars gleamed. This time, though, he knew that what he was seeing wasn’t mere illusion, but something very real. He wasn’t just seeing stars, but indeed among them. Weight left his body; he floated up against the straps, and for a second he felt as if he was falling into the fathomless night.

  He screamed, but then Sayrah took his hand. She spoke soothingly to him, and gradually his panic subsided. Peet said nothing; he pulled a flat pad from his pocket and studied the squiggles upon it, and otherwise ignored Jed.

  The journey took a long time, and after awhile he went to sleep, only to be stirred awake as the monster bird shuddered and quaked. Weight had returned to him; an invisible hand pushed him back in his seat. Nervous, not knowing what to expect, he gazed out the window, and saw something he’d thought he’d never see again: deep blue sky, and far below, high mountains dense with forests.

  Jed laughed, and clapped his hands in recognition. All those sessions at the window-wall hadn’t been lost on him. He knew where he was; he was going home. Sayrah grinned and gave his arm a fond squeeze, while Peet muttered something and looked away from both of them.

  A few minutes later, the monster bird howled and trembled in a brief moment of fury. Through the window, Jed saw familiar mountains rise up around them. There was a sudden jolt beneath his feet, then the creature slowly became still and silent. Sayrah loosened her straps and stood up, then helped Jed out of his seat. With Peet leading the way, she escorted Jed to the door, and waited until it opened and the ramp slowly lowered.

  Jed walked out of the belly of the monster into a village that had changed little since he’d last seen it. The corn was higher; there were one or two new huts and a taste of autumn in the air. Otherwise everything looked much the same. The villagers cowered nearby, frightened of the apparition that had once again swooped down out of the sky. A few of the braver males, however, warily approached the creature, knives and spears in hand, while a young girl anxiously stepped closer, a basket of fresh-cut tomatoes in her arms as an offering.

  Sayrah smiled at Jed, then gave him a gentle push. Her meaning was clear: he was free to go. And indeed, a few of his friends and neighbors seemed to recognize him; although Jed wore strange clothes and no longer had his hair and beard, they knew his face, and already they were beginning to lose their shyness in their delight upon seeing him again.

  Jed was about to rush to them when he happened to glance at Peet. There was no gladness in his face, but only determination. His hand stole into a pocket of his clothes; when it came out again, it held the stick which he’d used to carry Jed away to the stars.

  Jed didn’t hesitate. He lunged at Peet, grabbed him from behind; before he could react, Jed had wrapped his right arm around his shoulders, then grasped his head with his left hand. Peet didn’t even have time to yell before Jed twisted his head; a hollow snap, and Peet went limp within Jed’s arms, his neck broken.

  If he could have done so, Jed would have spared Sayrah’s life. She’d been kind to him when the others hadn’t. Yet she was impaled by the spear someone hurled at her as she ran for the safety of the monster bird. When she went down, the villagers swarmed the creature, wielding knives and torches as they dashed up the ramp, where they found two men cringing within its head.

  Jed paid little attention. He held Sayrah in his arms long after the light faded from her eyes, begging her forgiveness.

  The monster bird burned long into the night, the villagers dancing about its carcass, as a feast was held in honor of Jed’s homecoming. Everyone ate well, and gave thanks to the gods for his deliverance. Yet when Jed was offered Peet’s heart and liver, he refused to take them, or let anyone else consume them. They contained evil, and should only be cast to the dogs. However, he made sure that Sayrah’s body was surrendered to the flames. After all, she’d been his friend; her soul deserved to return to the sky.

  No monster birds invaded the village ever again. For a time, Peet’s skull hung from above the door to Jed’s hut, until he allowed the younger ones to take down, stuff it with straw and wrap it in deerskin, and use for kick-ball. By then, his youthful days of games and mindless sex were in the past; he’d become a tribal elder, the one to which the others came to when they needed words of wisdom. Yet never again did Jed lay out beneath the stars. He always went inside his hut when the sun went down, and didn’t come out again until the morning came around.

  For those who need a moral to this story, let it be this: beware of what you sow, for so you shall reap.

  Or perhaps, even better: you can take the boy out the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.

  HAIL TO THE CHIEF

  It’s a spring morning sometime in the 26th century—no one can know the date for certain; the last calendar has long since dissolved into the muck left behind when the glaciers finally receded—and the President of the United States wakes up in what’s left of the Oval Office.

  Sunlight streams in through battered windows that lost their glass many years ago, ca
using him to snort and scratch at the fleas that crawled upon him from the pile of animal skins he uses as a bed. Rolling over, he opens his eyes to cast a bleary gaze at the sun. He’s tempted to go back to sleep, but his stomach is growling, and besides, there’s affairs of state which must attended.

  So he staggers to his feet and lurches out on the balcony. Beyond the swamp that infests upon what used to be the South Lawn, a lonesome eagle screeches as it circles the broken stump of the Washington Monument. Yawning, he lifts his loin cloth and urinates on the wild roses beneath the balcony. Nothing like that first piss of the day to make a man feel like the commander in chief.

  Having taken care of personal business, the President wanders back inside. The First Lady is still asleep, curled up within her own pile of skins next to the smoldering remains of last night’s fire. “Geddupbich,” he mutters, kicking her in the side. “Gogeddus sumfoo’.”

  “Fugyu. Lemmelone.” She tries to retreat further beneath the squirrel hides, but then he kicks her again. “Awright awright,” she protests, squinting up at him. “Igetcha brek’fus.”

  “Damstrait. Move y’rass.” He watches as she crawls out beneath the covers, and wonders if it’s time to find another mate. Although she’s barely fifteen years old, she’s already given him two children—the first stillborn, the other severely retarded; he doesn’t know it, but she’s his half-sister, since they shared the same father but not the same mother—and she’s no longer quite as attractive as she was when he captured her during a raid upon the Dems. Still, he considers as she shuffles out onto the balcony, she has all her fingers and toes, and not too many scabs. That counts for something.

  While the First Lady answers her morning mail, the President walks across the moth-eaten rug that once bore the emblem of his office to a termite-ridden desk. Within a drawer are his totems of power. A bone knife, nine inches long and honed to a razor-sharp edge. A neck tie—dark blue with red stripes, handmade countless years ago in Italy, now threadbare and bloodstained—which he carefully wraps around his head. And finally, the most holy of holies: a small enamel lapel pin, bearing the faded likeness of an American flag, that he kisses with chapped lips before affixing to his rabbit-skin vest. From beside the desk, he takes his spear, a steel rod with hide wrapped one end, which an archeologist might have identified as having once belonged to the landing gear of the Apollo 11 lunar lander formerly displayed in the National Air and Space Museum.

  The President came to possess these items the old-fashioned way. When he was twenty years old, he challenged the previous President to an election. The incumbent was a Dem, an old man of thirty-five, limbs weakened by scurvy and nearly blind in the left eye, yet nonetheless as dangerous as the alligators that lurk within the shallows of the Potomac. Yet his opponent had a very strong platform, consisting of a wooden club studded with rusty nails. The debate was held in the Mall, with both Dems and Pubs watching from either side; when the old man went down, his challenger allowed him the chance to deliver his closing remarks. They didn’t last long, because by then the President was vomiting blood; the challenger offered rebuttal by cutting his throat, then carving open his chest, tearing out his heart, and devouring it within full view of the electorate. Following this, his party massacred the Dems, sending the survivors fleeing for the sanctity of Capitol Hill. A recount wasn’t necessary.

  Suitably attired, the President takes a moment to regard the faded and water stained portrait hanging lopsided upon the wall. An old, old man, with hair whiter than anyone he’d ever known, wearing dark clothes that looked strange and yet warm. Every morning since he’d won the right to sleep in this place, he’d wondered who this person was. Another President, no doubt, but how had he come here? Had he eaten his enemy’s heart…?

  From somewhere nearby, a faint feminine cry. The First Lady, her voice raised in either pain or delight. “Dammitbich!” The President storms out of the Oval Office, marches down a corridor of the West Wing. “Wachadoindere?”

  He finds her in a nearby room, doubled over a broken couch. The Vice-President has mounted her from behind, his hairy butt trembling as he thrusts himself against her thighs. The President watches for a moment, annoyed by this breach of protocol, before he pulls the knife from his scabbard and, darting forward, shoves the blade deep within the other man’s back. The Vice-President screams; blood gushes from his wound as he falls forward, pinning the First Lady against the couch. She’s still whimpering as the President haul him away from her. “Tolja t’get sumfoo’!” he snaps. “Nawdooit!”

  She scampers away before he can strike her. The Vice-President flails helplessly upon the floor, a crimson froth around his mouth. The President kneels beside him, yanks his hair back to expose his throat. “Yerfired,” he mutters, then he accepts his resignation.

  The rest of the White House staff is awake by then, the various aides and secretaries emerging from the offices and meeting rooms to cautiously peer around the door and through holes in the wall as the President takes what he wants from the Vice-President’s corpse. No one looks at him until he’s gone, then they fall upon the body, quarreling among one another for rights to his belongings.

  The President doesn’t care. He’d never liked the Veep anyway. Lack of party loyalty.

  Breakfast is a rat, skinned and gutted, roasted on skewer and served medium-rare. Fine cuisine, although the President would have preferred squirrel this morning. He takes his morning repast in the Cabinet Room, surrounded by his senior staff picking through the leftovers of last night’s state dinner. Barbequed opossum is pretty good, once you get past the rather oily aftertaste, and the maggots are sort of an appetizer. Mosquitoes and flies purr around them as they eat, and everyone laughs when the Secretary of Transportation breaks a rotted tooth upon a piece of bone.

  A hollow, chopping sound from the room where he killed the Vice-President reminds the President of urgent business. The aides and secretaries will make the best of Veep’s sudden departure, but cabinet-level officials deserve better compensation for their loyalty.

  “Gottagetmofoo’,” he growls, tossing ahead the rat skull from which he has just sucked the brains. “Gottafinsum.” He glances at the Secretary of the Interior. “Yewno?”

  The Secretary of the Interior considers this question for a moment. “Gatahyeggs reelgood, Prez. Gadowntodarivah, luk’roun, fin’sum…”

  “Fugdat.” This from the Secretary of Labor. “Gators hide dernestsbedder.” He spits out a piece of gristle, shakes his head. “Bil’mo bowts, go gatahhuntin’…”

  “Nahway.” The Secretary of Homeland Security farts luxuriously as he leans back against the wall. “Gatahs tacbowts, sink’um. Loosalottaguys…”

  “Fuggum.” Yet the President gets the drift of what he’s saying. They can’t continue to send people out on the river to hunt alligator; the Pubs doesn’t have adequate craft for such an excursion, and the attrition factor is unacceptably high. As a result, quite a few tribesmen have crossed over to join the Dems, if only because they promise more food with less risk. “Goddanudda ideyah?”

  “Hidoo, Prez.” The Secretary of Defense idly pulls some lice from his beard. “Tacdahill.”

  Everyone stares at him in astonishment. “Yewgoddabeshiddinme,” the Secretary of State mutters. “Dahill?”

  “Sho’. Wynod?”

  “Buddeygod…”

  All at once, a loud boom! from somewhere above, an airborne blast that shakes the decrepit building. Startled, everyone cringes, covering their heads as pieces of decayed plaster fall from the ceiling.

  “Whaddahellizzat!” the Secretary of Defense yells.

  “Cheezuz.” The President gazes up at the ceiling, his eyes wide with amazement. “Datwas Cheezuz!”

  “Datwazzunt Cheezuz.” The Secretary of State scowls, shakes his head. “Datwasjusda boomboomding ’gan.”

  The other cabinet members murmur in agreement. From time to time, they’ve heard these mysterious noises. They aren’t caused by thunderstorms, beca
use the weather has almost been calm when they’ve occurred, yet they’ve seen the strange white trails moving across the sky, led by tiny silver dots.

  “No! Nonono!” The President is on his feet. “Boomboomding asine f’m Cheezuz!” He looks down at the others. “Wewuz talkinbout tacing Dems, an’den Cheezuz giffus asine…!”

  “Datwuzzen…”

  In three swift steps, the President is across the room. Grabbing the Secretary of State by his hair, he yanks his head back. Before the cabinet member can react, he feels the razor-sharp blade of the President’s knife at his throat.

  “Datwuz Cheezuz,” the President hisses, his angry eyes boring into his own. “Sayidain’so.”

  The Secretary of State trembles, his forehead suddenly moist with sweat. “Hokay, hokay, prez,” he whispers. “Dadwuz Cheezuz…”

  “Sayidagin!” The knife bites into his skin, drawing a trickle of blood. “Sayidlowda!”

  “Datwuz Cheezuz!” the Secretary yells in desperation, his eyes screwed up in pain. “Prez isrite! Datwuz Cheezuz!”

  “Praysdaload,” the Secretary of Labor quietly offers, his tone conciliatory. “Haymen.”

  “Haymen.” The President stares at the Secretary of State for another moment before he withdraws his knife, then he turns to the others. “Gonnatac da Dems t’day.”

  “T’day?” The Secretary of Homeland Defense looks dubious. “Allahus?”

  “Damstrait.” The President lifts his knife. “Gedalla Pubs t’gedda. Gonnago tadahill. Kigsumass, geddusumfoo’, mebbesum wimmin too…”

  “Hoo-rah!” The Secretary of Defense is all for this. “Geddusum wimmin!”

  “T’day?” Although humiliated, the Secretary of State remains cautious.

  “T’day.” The Prez doesn’t look back at him as bends down to pick up his half-eaten rat. “Can’loose. Cheezuz onourside.”

  And then he finishes his breakfast. No sense in going into mid-term elections on an empty stomach.