Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois

by Gardner R. Dozois

  In the confusion, Mary has somehow succeeded in breaking free of Sam, and has been hanging from Josh’s back, clawing at his face and screaming, although without really managing to slow him down much. Now he shakes himself free and hits her heavily across the face, knocking her to the floor, but I step forward and put a stop to it. I’ve heard the stories, and I know that some squads in some states would go on to gang-rape Mary at this point, supposedly to “teach her a lesson” or “put the fear of God into her,” and I suspect that Josh and maybe Arnie would like nothing better than to do just that, but that’s not what we’re here for. We’re not here to punish or chastise, but to do the much more difficult work of redemption. We’re here to salvage Mary’s life, not destroy it. I won’t have that sort of thing on my missions, I just won’t stand for it. Josh and I lock eyes for a minute, and I know he’s just itching to haul open that fly of his, and that what he wants to put into her is not the fear of God, but at last he subsides, grumbling, and steps away. Josh is a weak reed, and he and one or two of the others are not without imperfections of their own, but sometimes you have to use what tools come to hand in order to get the job done.

  Mary’s sprawled on the floor, sobbing brokenly, and I feel another wave of sympathy for her. Her grief and bereavement are real for her at this moment, however misplaced they are, however much better she’ll feel later on, when she finally has a chance to think things through.

  “You feel bad now, I know,” I tell her, “but really you have no problems anymore, if you’d only see it the right way. Your problems have been wiped away. You have a clean slate now. You can start your life over, fresh . . .”

  She starts shrieking half-coherent obscenities at us at this point, without bothering to rise from the floor. Her hair is wild and disarrayed, her shirt torn open in the struggle, one naked breast peeking out—I can see some of the boys eyeing her, and I figure I’d better get them out of here before they all get ideas.

  As I herd them to the door, she gets up to her knees, swaying, and begins to shout, “I hope they come for you someday, Martha Gibbs! Do you hear me? I hope they come for you!”

  We leave her tugging hopelessly at the body of her husband, yanking at it and shaking it as if she could shake the life back into it. Of course, only the Lord can do that, and, in this case, He’s certainly not going to bother.

  She doesn’t thank us, of course. They never do.

  Outside, the wind has picked up, and the trees are lashing their branches as though they’re in pain. Smoky clouds rush by the moon, then swallow it entirely. Josh, still sullen and sulking from not getting his fun, forces himself rudely into the front seat next to me, Sam’s usual place, and when I tell him to get in the back where he belongs, he leans insolently against me and says, “You know, Martha, your own Henry has been drinking quite a bit lately, down to the Tavern nights . . .” We lock eyes again, but I back him down and make him get out and climb into the back of the truck. You have to use a firm hand with these boys sometimes, if you want to keep them in control. I can still hear Josh muttering to himself back there, although he’s smart enough not to use any swear words in front of me.

  The rest of them climb in to the truck, and I clash it into gear, and we take off. I’m tired and drained, but happy with the knowledge of a job well done—although I feel a pang when I think that my old friendship with Mary may not recover for quite a while, if it ever does. People ought to be grateful to you for clarifying their lives and putting them back on the proper road—but the sad truth is, they seldom are. You accept that as the price of a sincere Intervention, that they’re going to resent you for it and have ill-feelings toward you thereafter, unfair as it is. You accept that this can be the end of a friendship or make cordial neighborhood relations difficult. But you do what you have to do in order to make a real difference in their lives.

  Before we go home, we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, and pick up a box of assorted for the boys. My treat, of course, but even that doesn’t seem to placate Josh, and he’s still sulking even as he munches his jelly doughnut. Well, he’ll get over it.

  On the way home, after I drop everyone off, I roll down the window and let the cold night wind blow hard into my face, and, after a while, I begin to feel better about Mary. After all, she brought it on herself. If there’s one sure thing in this life, it’s that, sooner or later, you get what you deserve.

  What’s that old saying? It’s one that certainly applies here. I try and try to call it to mind, and finally, just as I pull into my own driveway and shut off the engine, I remember.

  What goes around, comes around.

  The Visible Man

  Introduction to The Visible Man

  In this story, Gardner Dozois expertly deploys a science fiction storytelling technique that goes all the way back to the granddaddy of us all, H.G. Wells.

  Take the world as we know it, perhaps pushed a little way into the future—and drop in a single, simple what-if change. Push that change as far as you can: what kind of world results? Now add a little pinch of Hollywood: who, in your twisted world, has a problem? Where there is a problem, there is a story—and if you’re lucky it’s a story that becomes a rattling page-turner, just as Gardner gives us here.

  What gives this particular story a special flavor for science fiction connoisseurs is that in deriving his idea Gardner has neatly inverted one of the genre’s classic notions, that of the invisible man.

  Invisibility is another of Wells’ great gifts to his successors, dating from his The Invisible Man: A Grotesque Romance (1897). The Invisible Man is the story of Griffin, an over-reaching, amoral scientist who begins a series of experiments into physical invisibility, dreaming of power. But his gift doesn’t do him much good. He confronts a series of unforeseen obstacles which render his ambitions absurd: he is invisible but any clothes aren’t, so he is forced to go naked; he is still subject to weather, collisions and assaults, the attention of dogs, hunger . . . Finally he is hunted down and killed; in an eerie final scene, his corpse becomes visible as life recedes.

  Wells wasn’t the first writer to come up with the notion of invisibility. The idea goes at least as far back as the tale of the Ring of Gyges, told in Plato’s The Republic, in which Gyges, a shepherd, stumbles on a magic invisibility ring and, like Wells’ anti-hero, is immediately corrupted by power.

  Invisibility has been explored by the generations of writers who followed Wells. But, unlike some of Wells’ other classic notions, it is not the most resonant sfnal trope. For one thing, as Griffin’s story shows, invisibility isn’t actually much use. Subsequent exploitations of the theme have often descended into absurdity—witness Abbott and Costello Meet the Invisible Man (1951), and the US tv series of the 1970s starring David McCallum and his skin-colored face mask. Also invisibility gives us logical problems. Wells himself pointed out—in a letter to Arnold Bennett a month after publication—that an invisible man, with transparent retinae, must be blind. (And besides, as Jorge Luis Borges pointed out in an essay in 1946, with transparent eyelids how could Griffin ever sleep?)

  And how could you achieve invisibility?

  In Profiles of the Future (1962), Arthur C. Clarke pointed out that there are billions of complex chemicals in Griffin’s body, all of which would have to be reworked to become invisible; and besides, many of life’s biochemical reactions would be thrown out of kilter if the molecules taking part in them were made transparent.

  Maybe that’s why the Wellsian idea of objective invisibility has tended to go out of style; rather we more often encounter subjective invisibility—caused by camouflage, drugs and hypnotism, social pressures, psychological distortions. And the psychological aspects of invisibility are undoubtedly fascinating. In Robert Silverberg’s “To See the Invisible Man” (1963) criminals are isolated by other people who simply refuse to see them. Chris Priest’s The Glamour (1984) is a typically multilayered take on subjective invisibility, with the central idea being connected to memory loss, and a final ambigu
ity as to whether the invisibility is ‘real’ or not.

  In this story, Gardner finds another inversion. It is an echo of another classic tale of Wells’, “The Country of the Blind” (1904): what if you were the only visible man in a country of the invisible? Where would you hide?

  The story is superbly told, with a killer closing twist. And it is full of a core element of the myth of invisibility—an arc that stretches from Wells to the movie Predator (1987)—the horror of the unseen hunter: “Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of [Griffin], and in a moment had seized the town. ‘The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!’ . . .”

  Stephen Baxter

  The Visible Man

  George Rowan’s only chance of escape came to him like a benediction, sudden and unlooked for, on the road between Newburyport and Boston.

  They were on old Route 1, the Newburyport Turnpike, and there was not another car in sight. The fully automated Route 95 guideway was just a few miles west of here, running almost parallel to Route 1, but for reasons of his own the sheriff had preferred to take the old secondary road, even though he had to drive the car himself and couldn’t possibly get up to guideway speeds. Perhaps he simply enjoyed manual driving. Perhaps it was some old State regulation, now solidified into tradition, that prohibited the transportation of prisoners on automated roads. Perhaps it was just some more of the expected psychological torture, taking the slowest possible route so that Rowan would have time to build up a greater charge of fear and dreadful anticipation for what awaited him in Boston.

  For Rowan, the trip had already become interminable. His memory of the jail in Newburyport, of his crime, of his hasty trial, of his past life—all had become hazy and indistinct. It seemed as if he had been riding forever, on the road, going to Boston for the execution of his sentence. Only that was real and vivid: the slight swaying motion of the car, the seat upholstery sticking uncomfortably to his sweat-soaked back, the ridged rubber mat under his feet. The countryside they drove through was flat and empty, trees, meadows, cultivated fields, little streams, sometimes a boarded-up gas station or a long-abandoned roadside stand. The sky was a flat, washed-out blue, and the sunlight was thick and dusty. Occasionally they would bump over a pothole or a stretch of frost-buckled pavement—the State didn’t spend much anymore to keep up the secondary roads. The car’s electric engine made no sound at all, and the interior of the car was close and hot with the windows rolled up.

  Rowan found himself reluctantly watching the little motions of the steering wheel, apparently turning all by itself, driverless. That made him shiver.

  He knew intellectually, of course, that he was sitting on the front seat between the sheriff and the deputy, but he couldn’t see them. He could hear them breathing, and occasionally the deputy’s arm would brush against his own, but, for Rowan, they were invisible.

  He knew why they were invisible, but that didn’t make it any less spooky. When the State’s analysis computers had gone down into his mind and found the memories that proved him guilty, they had also, as a matter of course, implanted a very deep and very specific hypnotic injunction: from now on, George Rowan would not be able to see any other living creature. Apparently the injunction had not included trees and other kinds of vegetation, but it had covered animals and birds and people. He assumed that when he “saw” through invisible people—as he now “saw” the portions of the car that should have been blocked from sight by the sheriff’s body—it was because his subconscious mind was extrapolating, creating a logical extension of the view from other visual data in order to comply with the spirit of the injunction. Nothing must be allowed to spoil the illusion. Nor could Rowan break it, although he knew what it was and how it had been created. It was too strong, and planted too deep. He was “blind” in a special and insidious way.

  There were a number of apparently sound reasons for doing this to convicted criminals. It made it almost impossible for a prisoner to escape or to resist his captors, for one thing, and the State psychologists also claimed that the resultant sense of supernatural isolation would engender an identity crisis in the prisoner, and so help contribute to his rehabilitation. Totally “blinding” the prisoners would accomplish both objectives in a more logical way. But the State administrators had been growing increasingly perverse over the years, and they chose the cruelest way. How much more terrible a thing this was than total blindness—to make the victim live in a sunlit empty world, haunted by ghosts and voices, pushed and punished by unseen forces, never knowing who was with him or what they were about to do to him. So the State men inflicted this on prisoners because it was cruel and they enjoyed it, just as they would enjoy torturing Rowan in Boston, driving him insane again and again in the name of psychological rehabilitation.

  At that moment, past Topsfield but not yet up to the Putnamville Reservoir, their right front tire blew out.

  They went into a terrifying spin. The world dissolved into a whirling blur, and bursts of sunlight jabbed Rowan’s face like a strobe light as they spun. The car hit the guardrail, spun out into the middle of the road again, spun back to hit the guardrail a second time. In the midst of the roar and the clatter and impact, Rowan had time to think that it would be better for him if he was killed in the crash, and time to realize that in spite of everything he did not want to die. Then the car was spinning out into the road, spinning back again. This time there was no guardrail to catch it. The car went careening off the road, fishtailing and losing momentum as it plowed through the deep soft loam of the shoulder, and dived into a shallow ditch.

  The dashboard leaped up and whammed into Rowan, but he managed to catch the blow on his arms and shoulders; the impact beat him black-and-blue, but did no lasting damage. In the same instant as he was hitting the dashboard, he saw the windshield above the driver’s seat star and shatter, and the invisible deputy was thrown heavily against him. The car recoiled from the impact, slid a foot or two sideways, and canted to the left. Everything was still for a heartbeat, and then the car groaned and settled, canting over even more. The noise of the springs died away.

  There was a strangely peaceful silence.

  The car was resting head down at a forty-five-degree angle, listing badly to the left but not quite turned all the way over on its side. Rowan took a deep, shaky breath and decided that he was alive. The sheriff might not be. He was still invisible to Rowan, but it was obvious that he had been thrown partially through the windshield. Rowan had ended up leaning against the sheriff’s hip, and if his hips were at a level with the steering wheel then the rest of his body had to be protruding through the windshield. And there was blood on the glass. From the feel of it, the deputy seemed to be slumped over with his head almost in Rowan’s lap, stirring feebly, stunned but still alive. No conscious cogitation went on in Rowan’s mind, but as the deputy pushed against him and tried to sit up, Rowan raised his manacled hands and smashed them down on what he hoped was the deputy’s head. The first blow hit something soft, and the deputy began struggling weakly, but the second blow hit bone. The deputy stopped fighting. Rowan struck him again, and he stopped moving at all.

  Rowan sat quietly for a second, his breath hissing harshly in his throat, and then patted the deputy with his hands until he touched a jingly metal object. As he lifted it away from the deputy, it became visible for him, and yes, it was a key ring. He used one of the keys to unlock his handcuffs, and spent another few seconds searching the deputy for a gun; he didn’t find one, and decided that he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He climbed over the deputy, rolled the side window down, and pulled himself up out of the car.

  He jumped down to the ground, lost his footing on the grassy slope, and went to his knees. For a moment, he remained kneeling, blinking in the raw hot sunlight, dirt under his fingers. Everything had happened too fast; only now, this instant with the sun in his face, did it become real for him—he was outside, he was free, he had a chance. Hope and terror exploded inside Rowan. He rose into a crouch, scanning
his surroundings with a sudden feral intensity. Then he scrambled up the incline. At the top of the slope he paused only long enough to make sure no cars were coming before he dashed across the road and slid down into another ditch in an avalanche of dust and scree. A man-high expanse of grass and wildflowers stretched away from the road on this side. It closed over Rowan like the sea.

  At first, he ran flat-out, fast as he could go, the high grass whipping around him, wild with fear and exhilaration. He kept running until his breath was gone and he was staggering rather than sprinting, and then a root snagged his foot and the ground reached up to catch him, smack, like an outfielder catching a fly ball. He lay spread-eagled, flat on his face against the damp earth, gasping for air while everything seemed slowly to spin, the resin-smelling grass tickling his nose, tiny furtive insects scampering invisibly across his hands. When he could breathe again, he found that some of his panic had also gone. He sat up. He’d been leaving a trail like a goddamned elephant; he’d have to start being a little slyer. If he trampled the grass and left a flattened wake behind him, it would be like a giant arrow pointing the way he had gone. He wouldn’t last an hour that way before the cops ran him down. He set off at a diagonal to his former path, picking his way with care, forcing himself to be slow. This way, perhaps he had a chance. More than he’d had a while ago, at least.

  Rowan reached a stand of scrub woods and pushed his pace up to a fast trot, taking a few more headers as the terrain got rougher. Every time the tree branches moved in the wind all the patterns of light and darkness would flow and reform, and he kept mistaking shadow for ground. Once he dropped four feet down a concealed embankment. He kept up the pace. If he broke an ankle he was finished, but he couldn’t afford to slow down either. They’d almost certainly catch him if they fielded a search party anytime soon. But Route 1 was infrequently patrolled—that was in his favor, and the Boston people wouldn’t miss the sheriff for a while yet. If only he could get even an hour’s lead—