Darkness. Silence.
At first, Kleisterman was aware of a sense of enclosure, was aware of the feel of the metal under his back, could even stir a little, move his fingers impatiently. But then his skin began to prickle over every inch of his body, as feathery probes made contact with his nerve endings, and, as the prickling began to fade, with it went all other sensation. He could no longer feel his body, no longer move; no longer wanted to move. He didn’t have a body anymore. There was nothing. Not even darkness, not even silence. Nothing. Nonexistence.
Kleisterman floated in the void, waiting for the torment to begin.
This kind of machine had many names—simulator, dream machine, iron maiden, imager, shadow box. It fed coded impulses through the subject’s nerves, directly into the brain. With it, the operator could make the subject experience anything. Pain, of course. Any amount of pain. With a simulator, you could torture someone to death again and again, for years of subjective time, without doing them any actual physical harm—not much comfort for the subject in that, though, since to them the experience would be indistinguishable from objective reality. Of course, the most expert operators scorned this sort of thing as hopelessly crude, lacking in all finesse. Not artistic. Pain was only one key that could be played. There were many others. The subject had no secrets, and, with access to the subject’s deepest longings and most hidden fears, the skilled operator, the artisan, the clever craftsman, could devise cunning scenarios much more effective than pain.
Kleisterman had been such an operator, one of the best, admired by his colleagues for his subtlety and ingenuity and skill. He had clandestinely “processed” thousands of subjects for his multinational, and had never felt a qualm, until suddenly one day, for no particular reason, he began to sicken. After Donaldson, Ramaswamy, and Kole, three especially difficult and unpleasant jobs, he had sickened further, and, for the first time in his life, began to have difficulty sleeping and, when he did sleep, began to have unquiet dreams. Then Melissa had somehow become the target of corporate malice, and had been sent to him for his ministrations. By rights, he should have declined the job, since he knew Melissa, and had even had a brief affair with her once, years before. But he had had his professional pride. He did not turn down the job. And somewhere deep in her mind, he had found himself, an ennobled and idealized version of himself as he had never been, and he realized that while for him their affair had been unimportant, for her it had been much more intensely charged—that, in fact, she had loved him deeply, and still did.
This discovery brought out the very worst in him, and in a fever of sick excitement, he created scenario after scenario for her, life after life, each scenario working some variation on the theme of her love for him; and each time, “his” treatment of her in the scenario became worse, his betrayal of her uglier and more humiliating, the pain and shame and anguish he visited on her more severe. He turned the universe against her in grotesque ways, too, so that in one life she died in a car wreck on the way to her own wedding, and in another life she died slowly and messily of cancer, and in another she was hideously disfigured in a fire, and in another she had a stroke and lingered on for years as a semi-aware paralytic in a squalid nursing home, and so on. Each life began to color the next, not with specific memories of other existences, but with a dark emotional residue, an unspoken, instinctual conviction that life was drab and bitter and harsh, with nothing to look forward to but defeat and misery and pain, that the dice were stacked hopelessly against you—as, in fact, they were. Then, tiring of subtlety, irresistibly tempted to put aside his own aesthetic precepts, he began to hit her, in the scenarios—at first just slapping her around in drunken rages, then beating her severely enough to put her in the hospital. Then, in one scenario, he picked up a knife.
Several lifetimes subjective later, the heart in her physical body finally gave out, and she died in a way that was no more real to her than the dozens of times she’d died before, but which put her at last beyond his reach. He had been dismayed to discover that in the deepest recesses of her mind, below the fear and hate and bitterness and grief, she loved him still, even at the last. He switched off the machine, and he awoke, as from a fever dream, as though he had been possessed by a demon of perversity that had only now been exorcised, to find himself alone in his soundproofed cubicle with the simulator and Melissa’s cooling body. He betrayed the corporation on his next assignment, freeing the subject rather than “processing” him, and from then on he had been on the run. He had found that he could successfully hide from the multinational. Hiding from himself had proved more difficult.
Light exploded in his head. It took a second for his vision to adjust, and to realize that the patch over his left eye had been removed. Dr. Au leaned in over him again, filling his field of vision like a god, and this time Kleisterman felt the painful yank of tape against his skin as Dr. Au ripped the other eye patch free. More light. Kleisterman blinked, disoriented and confused. He was out of the machine. Dr. Au was tugging at him, getting him to sit up. Dr. Au was saying something, but it was a blare of noise, harsh and hurtful to the ears. He pawed at Kleisterman again, and Kleisterman shook him off. Kleisterman sat, head down, on the edge of the metal bench until his senses readjusted to the world again, and his mind cleared. His skin prickled as sensation returned.
Dr. Au tugged at Kleisterman’s arm. “A red security flag came up on your credit account,” Dr. Au said. His voice was anxious, and his face was pinched with fear. “There was a security probe; I barely avoided it. You must leave. I want you out of here right away.”
Kleisterman stared at him. “But you agreed—” he said thickly.
“I want nothing to do with you, Mr. Ramirez,” Dr. Au said apprehensively. “Here, take your clothes, get dressed. You have some very ruthless forces opposed to you, Mr. Ramirez. I want nothing to do with them, either. No trouble. Leave now. Take your business elsewhere.”
Slowly, Kleisterman dressed, manipulating the clothes with stiff, clumsy fingers while Dr. Au hovered anxiously. The office was filled with watery grey light that seemed painfully bright after the darkness inside the simulator. Dust motes danced in suspension in the light, and a fly hopped along the adobe edge of the open window before darting outside again. A dog was barking out there somewhere, a flat, faraway sound, and a warm breeze puffed in for a second to ruffle his hair and bring him the smell of pine and juniper. He was perceiving every smallest detail with exquisite clarity.
Kleisterman pushed wordlessly by Dr. Au, walked through the outer office and out into the dusty hallway beyond. The floor was scuffed, grime between the tiles, and there were peeling water stains on the ceiling. A smell of cooking food came up the stairwell. This is real, Kleisterman told himself fiercely. This is real, this is really happening, this is the real world. The multinational boys aren’t subtle enough for this; they wouldn’t be satisfied with just denying me solace. Letting me go on. They’re not that subtle.
Are they? Are they?
Kleisterman went down the narrow stairs. He dragged his fist against the rough adobe wall until his knuckles bled, but he couldn’t convince himself that any of it was real.
Golden Apples of the Sun
Introduction to Golden Apples of the Sun
First of all, starting a story with a pun is not fair. Because the reader is unprepared for the pun. Sometimes the reader misses the pun for days, maybe weeks, maybe years afterward. A titular pun, after all, becomes plain only in hindsight.
Michael Swanwick takes full credit for that pun, but I have my doubts. You see, in all the years I’ve known Michael (and I must say now that I don’t know him well), I’ve never heard him pun.
So I figure he had to be under the influence. Not of alcohol or any illegal drug—but of Dozois.
Let me explain the Dozois influence, if I can. It’s rather alarming at first, especially to newer writers who expect established pros to be—well—courteous, neat and quiet. I don’t know where new writers get that image. I kn
ow dozens, maybe hundreds, of professional writers and none of them are courteous, neat or quiet. Sometimes they pretend to be, but that’s a different story.
I admit I have been under the influence. I have made rude jokes, sparred verbally with all sorts of inappropriate people, and made horrible puns. (I did, however, get my pun training as a journalist. I was armed when I walked into the Dozois camp the first time.)
Even though I’ve been under the influence, I’ve managed to retain some decorum. I have never, for example, stuck a used lollipop up my nose. (Yes, there are people whose stories you have probably read who did that, one sober (we’re always sober it seems—which should frighten you even more) night in Providence, Rhode Island.) I have never touched Gardner’s knob, although I did hold him down while another woman not his wife searched him for it. (And it was a doorknob, people. Take your minds out of the gutter.)
But I must confess that I have, with Gardner’s help, scared waiters so badly they quit in the middle of serving our meal. I have asked other sf writers strange questions like: if your body parts can sing, what would their favorite songs be? I have even discussed UFO-inspired anal probes in an online chat, something I never would have done if Dozois weren’t influencing me from Philadelphia, almost an entire continent away.
Why do I tell you all of this in a serious volume dedicated to Gardner’s work? Because, in addition to being one of our very best writers, Gardner is also one of our very best instigators. Not just of mayhem at conventions although, since we live on different sides of the country, that’s mostly where we see each other so that’s where I’m certain he does these things. But he commits instigations of a collaborative nature.
Without Dozois, I contend, there would have been no pun in the title of “Golden Apples of the Sun.” There would have been no computer salesman in the land of Faerie, and there would not have been that wonderful image of Titania in a bar in Jersey.
Now, Michael Swanwick and Jack Dann can hold their own against the Instigator Dozois. I would contend that Jack is probably as big an instigator as Gardner, only Jack’s methods are a lot more subtle. Michael can elevate any free-ranging discussion, whether we’re talking about conjugating Latin verbs (don’t ask) or building a dinosaur from scratch. So yes, they’re a good match for the Instigator Dozois.
But that doesn’t make them immune.
I’ve never seen the three of them perform a brain-storming. The idea scares me, if the truth be told. I think there could be enough talent and free-flowing creativity in the room to be dangerous. An innocent bystander might get hurt.
(And I can just hear Gardner’s rejoinder: Well, then, Kris. If innocent bystanders get hurt, you’ll have nothing to worry about.)
Gardner’s solo stories are usually serious. They’re powerful, literate examinations of our world and times, often with a sf premise. He doesn’t write enough of them (dammit, Dozois—start typing now!), but when he does, the world should sit up and notice.
As serious as Gardner’s solo stories usually are, his collaborations reflect the madcap Gardner that his friends know. The man who can wield a pun with the force of a dagger. The man who can devastate entire rooms with a single quip. The man who can scare waiters with a high-pitched giggle.
That man demurely says he “unifies” the collaborative stories he writes with Jack and Michael. Unifies. Sure. Maybe after he’s added something sufficiently goofy. Maybe after he’s invented his own Spenserian dialect.
Yeah, right. Dozois unifies—and instigates. Read Michael Swanwick’s account of how this story came to be in Gardner’s wonderful collection of collaborative stories, Slow Dancing Through Time. See whose comment started the cascade of ideas that led to this marvelous story.
I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t Mr. Swanwick or Mr. Dann.
I tell you: Dozois is an instigator. And your first clue should be that pun in the title. Courtesy (wink, wink) of Michael Swanwick.
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Golden Apples of the Sun
by Gardner Dozois, Jack Dann,
and Michael Swanwick
Few of the folk in Faerie would have anything to do with the computer salesman. He worked himself up and down one narrow, twisting street after another, until his feet throbbed and his arms ached from lugging the sample cases, and it seemed like days had passed rather than hours, and still he had not made a single sale. Barry Levingston considered himself a first-class salesman, one of the best, and he wasn’t used to this kind of failure. It discouraged and frustrated him, and as the afternoon wore endlessly on—there was something funny about the way time passed here in Faerie; the hazy, bronze-colored Fairyland sun had hardly moved at all across the smoky amber sky since he’d arrived, although it should certainly be evening by now—he could feel himself beginning to lose that easy confidence and unshakable self-esteem that are the successful salesman’s most essential stock-in-trade. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t really his fault. He was working under severe restrictions, after all. The product was new and unfamiliar to this particular market, and he was going “cold sell.” There had been no telephone solicitation programs to develop leads, no ad campaigns, not so much as a demographic study of the market potential. Still, his total lack of success was depressing.
The village that he’d been trudging through all day was built on and around three steep, hive-like hills, with one street rising from the roofs of the street below. The houses were piled chockablock atop each other, like clusters of grapes, making it almost impossible to even find—much less get to—many of the upper-story doorways. Sometimes the eaves grew out over the street, turning them into long, dark tunnels. And sometimes the streets ran up sloping housesides and across rooftops, only to come to a sudden and frightening stop at a sheer drop of five or six stories, the street beginning again as abruptly on the far side of the gap. From the highest streets and stairs you could see a vista of the surrounding countryside: a hazy golden-brown expanse of orchards and forests and fields, and, on the far horizon, blue with distance, the jagged, snow-capped peaks of a mighty mountain range—except that the mountains didn’t always seem to be in the same direction from one moment to the next; sometimes they were to the west, then to the north, or east, or south; sometimes they seemed much closer or farther away; sometimes they weren’t there at all.
Barry found all this unsettling. In fact, he found the whole place unsettling. Why go on with this, then? he asked himself. He certainly wasn’t making any headway. Maybe it was because he overtowered most of the fairyfolk—maybe they were sensitive about being so short, and so tall people annoyed them. Maybe they just didn’t like humans; humans smelled bad to them, or something. Whatever it was, he hadn’t gotten more than three words of his spiel out of his mouth all day. Some of them had even slammed doors in his face—something he had almost forgotten could happen to a salesman.
Throw in the towel, then, he thought. But . . . no, he couldn’t give up. Not yet. Barry sighed, and massaged his stomach, feeling the acid twinges in his gut that he knew presaged a savage attack of indigestion later on. This was virgin territory, a literally untouched route. Gold waiting to be mined. And the Fairy Queen had given this territory to him . . .
Doggedly, he plodded up to the next house, which looked something like a gigantic acorn, complete with a thatched cap and a crazily twisted chimney for the stem. He knocked on a round wooden door.
A plump, freckled fairy woman answered. She was about the size of an earthly two-year-old, but a transparent gown seemingly woven of spidersilk made it plain that she was no child. She hovered a few inches above the doorsill on rapidly beating hummingbird wings.
“Aye?” she said sweetly, smiling at him, and Barry immediately felt his old confidence return. But he didn’t permit himself to become excited. That was the quickest way to lose a sale.
“Hello,” he said smoothly. “I’m from Newtech Computer Systems, and we’ve been authorized by Queen Titania, the Fairy Queen herself to offer a free
installation of our new home computer system—”
“That wot I not of,” the fairy said.
“Don’t you even know what a computer is?” Barry asked, dismayed, breaking off his spiel.
“Aye, I fear me, ‘tis even so,” she replied, frowning prettily. “In sooth, I know not. Belike you’ll tell me of ‘t, fair sir.”
Barry began talking feverishly, meanwhile unsnapping his sample case and letting it fall open to display the computer within. “—balance your household accounts,” he babbled. “Lets you organize your recipes, keep in touch with the stock market. You can generate full-color graphics, charts, graphs . . .”
The fairy frowned again, less sympathetically. She reached her hand toward the computer, but didn’t quite touch it. “Has the smell of metal on’t,” she murmured. “Most chill and adamant.” She shook her head. “Nay, sirrah, ‘twill not serve. ‘Tis a thing mechanical, a clockwork, meet for carillons and orreries. Those of us born within the Ring need not your engines philosophic, nor need we toil and swink as mortals do at such petty tasks an you have named. Then wherefore should I buy, who neither strive nor moil?”
“But you can play games on it!” Barry said desperately, knowing that he was losing her. “You can play Donkey Kong! You can play Pac-Man! Everybody likes to play PacMan—”
Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois Page 17
