The Year's Best SF 13 # 1995
Page 57
For Fred is a complete surprise to me. I had never formed a relationship with a clone before. They are service people. They are interchangeable. They wait on us in stores and restaurants. They clip our hair. They perform the menialities we cannot, or prefer not, to assign to machines. How can you tell one joan or jerome from another anyway? And what could you possibly talk about? Nice watering can you have there, kelly. What’s the weather like up there, steve?
But Fred is different. From the start he’s brought me fruit and cakes reputed to fortify tender digestive tracts, sunglasses, soothing skin creams, and a hat with a duckbill visor. He seems genuinely interested in me, even comes down to chat after his shift. I don’t know why he’s so generous. Perhaps he never recovered from the shock of first meeting me, freshly seared and implacably aggrieved. Perhaps he recognizes that I’m the one around here most in need of his protection.
When I was ready to start sleeping with Eleanor again and I needed some of those special thermal condoms, my belt couldn’t locate them on any of the shoppers, not even on the medical supply ones, so I asked Fred. He said he knew of a place and would bring me some. He returned the next day with a whole shopping bag of special pharmaceuticals for the cellular challenged: vitamin supplements, suppositories, plaque-fighting tooth soap, and knee and elbow braces. He brought 20 dozen packages of condoms, and he winked as he stacked them on the table. He brought more stuff he left in the bag.
I reached into the bag. There were bottles of cologne and perfume, sticks of waxy deodorant, air fresheners and odor eaters. “Do I stink?” I said.
“Like cat’s piss, sir. No offense.”
I lifted my hand to my nose, but I couldn’t smell anything. Then I remembered the “stinkers” on the Moon shuttle, and I knew how I smelled. I wondered how Eleanor, during all those months, could have lived with me, eaten with me, and never mentioned it.
There was more in the bag: mouthwash and chewing gum. “My breath stinks too?”
In reply, Fred crossed his eyes and inflated his cheeks.
I thanked him for shopping for me, and especially for his frankness.
“Don’t mention it, sir,” he said. “I’m just glad to see you back in the saddle, if you catch my drift.”
III
Two days ago was Ellen’s first birthday. Unfortunately, Eleanor had to be away in Europe. Still, she arranged a little holo birthday party with her friends. Thirty-some people sat around, mesmerized by the baby, who had recently begun to walk. Only four of us, baby Ellen, a jenny, a russ, and I, were there in realbody. When I arrived and sat down, Ellen made a beeline for my lap. People laughed and said, “Daddy’s girl.”
I had the tundra dream again last night. I walked through the canopy lock right out into the white, frozen, endless tundra. The feeling was one of escape, relief, security.
My doctor gave me a complete physical last week. She said I had reached equilibrium with my condition. This was as good as it would get. Lately, I have been exercising. I have lost a little weight and feel somewhat stronger. But my joints ache something terrible and my doctor says they’ll only get worse. She prescribed an old-time remedy: aspirin.
Fred left us two months ago. He and his wife succeeded in obtaining berths on a new station orbiting Mars. Their contracts are for five years with renewal options. Since arriving there, he’s visited me in holo a couple times, says their best jump pilot is a stinker. And they have a stinker cartographer. Hint, hint.
Last week I finally purchased a personality bud for my belt system. It’s having a rough time with me because I refuse to interact with it. I haven’t even given it a name yet. I can’t think of any suitable one. I call it “Hey, you,” or “You, belt.” Eleanor’s chief of staff has repeated her offer to educate it for me, but I declined. In fact, I told her that if any of them breach its shell even once, I will abort it and start over with a new one.
Today at noon, we had a family crisis. The jenny on duty acquired a nosebleed while her backup was off running an errand. I was in the kitchen when I heard Ellen crying. In the nursery I found a hapless russ holding the kicking and screaming baby. The jenny called from the open bathroom door, “I’m coming. One minute, Ellie, I’m coming.” When Ellen saw me she reached for me with her fat little arms and howled.
“Give her to me,” I ordered the russ. His face reflected his hesitation. “It’s all right,” I said.
“One moment, sir,” he said and tongued for orders. “Okay, here.” He gave me Ellen who wrapped her arms around my neck. “I’ll just go and help Merrilee,” he said, relieved, as he crossed to the bathroom. I sat down and put Ellen on my lap. She looked around, caught her breath, and resumed crying; only this time it was an easy, mournful wail.
“What is it?” I asked her. “What does Ellen want?” I reviewed what little I knew about babies. I felt her forehead, though I knew babies don’t catch sick anymore. And with evercleans, they don’t require constant changing. The remains of lunch sat on the tray, so she’d just eaten. A bellyache? Sleepy? Teething pains? Early on, Ellen was frequently feverish and irritable as her converted body sloughed off the remnants of the little boy chassis she’d overwritten. I wondered why during my year of brooding, I’d never grieved for him. Was it because he never had a soul? Because he never got beyond the purely data stage of recombination? Because he never owned a body? And what about Ellen, did she have her own soul, or did the original one stay through the conversion? And if it did, would it hate us for what we’ve done to its body?
Ellen cried, and the russ stuck his head out the bathroom every few moments to check on us. This angered me. What did they think I was going to do? Drop her? Strangle her? I knew they were watching me, all of them: the chief of staff, the security chief. They might even have awakened Eleanor in Hamburg or Paris where it was after midnight. No doubt they had a contingency plan for anything I might do.
“Don’t worry, Ellie,” I crooned. “Mama will be here in just a minute.”
“Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Eleanor’s sleep-hoarse voice.
Ellen, startled, looked about, and when she didn’t see her mother, bawled louder and more boldly. The jenny, holding a blood-soaked towel to her nose, peeked out of the bathroom.
I bounced Ellen on my knee. “Mama’s coming, Mama’s coming, but in the meantime, Sam’s going to show you a trick. Wanna see a trick? Watch this.” I pulled a strand of hair from my head. The bulb popped as it ignited, and the strand sizzled along its length. Ellen quieted in mid-fuss, and her eyes went wide. The russ burst out of the bathroom and sprinted toward us, but stopped and stared when he saw what I was doing. I said to him, “Take the jenny and leave us.”
“Sorry, sir, I…” The russ paused, then cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, right away.” He escorted the jenny, her head tilted back, from the suite.
“Thank you,” I said to Eleanor.
“I’m here.” We turned and found Eleanor seated next to us in an ornately carved, wooden chair. Ellen squealed with delight, but did not reach for her mother. Already by six months she had been able to distinguish between a holobody and a real one. Eleanor’s eyes were heavy, and her hair mussed. She wore a long silk robe, one I’d never seen before, and her feet were bare. A sliver of jealousy pricked me when I realized she had probably been in bed with a lover. But what of it?
In a sweet voice, filled with the promise of soft hugs, Eleanor told us a story about a kooky caterpillar she’d seen that very day in a park in Paris. She used her hands on her lap to show us how it walked. Baby Ellen leaned back into my lap as she watched, and I found myself rocking her ever so gently. There was a squirrel with a bushy red tail involved in the story, and a lot of grown-up feet wearing very fashionable shoes, but I lost the gist of the story, so caught up was I in the voice that was telling it. El’s voice spoke of an acorn who lost its cap and ladybugs coming to tea, but what it said was, I made you from the finest stuff. You are perfect. I will never let anyone hurt you. I love you always.
“I’m okay,” I said.
El told me about her day. Her voice spoke of schedules and meetings, a leader who lost his head, and diplomats coming to tea, but what it said was, You’re a grown man who is capable of coping. You are important to me. I love it when you tease me and make me want you. It gives me great pleasure and takes me out of myself for a little while. Nothing is perfect, but we try. I will never hurt you. I love you always. Please don’t leave me.
I opened my eyes. Ellen was a warm lump asleep on my lap, fist against cheek, lips slightly parted. I brushed her hair from her forehead with my sausage-like finger and traced the round curve of her cheek and chin. I must have examined her for quite a while, because when I looked up, Eleanor was waiting to catch my expression.
I said, “She has your eyebrows.”
Eleanor laughed a powerful laugh. “Yes, my eyebrows,” she laughed, “poor baby.”
“No, they’re her nicest feature.”
“Yes, well, and what’s happened to yours?”
“Nervous habit,” I said. “I’m working on my chest hair now.”
“In any case, you seem better.”
“Yes, I believe I’ve turned the corner.”
“Good, I’ve been so worried.”
“In fact, I have just now thought of a name for my belt valet.”
“Yes?” she said, relieved, interested.
“Skippy.”
She laughed a belly laugh, “Skippy? Skippy?” Her face was lit with mirthful disbelief.
“Well, he’s young,” I said.
“Very young, apparently.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to teach him how to hold a press conference.” I didn’t know I was going to say that until it was said.
“I see.” Eleanor’s voice hardened. “Thank you for warning me. What will it be about?”
“I’m sorry. That just came out. I guess it’ll be a farewell. And a confession.”
I could see the storm of calculation in Eleanor’s face as her host of advisors whispered into her ear. Had I thrown them a curve? Come up with something unexpected? “What sort of confession?” she said. “What do you have to confess?”
“That I’m seared.”
“That’s not your fault, and no one will want to know anyway.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve got to say it. I want people to know that I’m dying.”
“We’re all dying. Every living thing dies.”
“Some faster than others.”
“Sam, listen to me. I love you.”
I knew that she did, her voice said so. “I love you too, but I don’t belong here anymore.”
“Yes, you do, Sam. This is your home.”
I looked around me at the solid limestone wall, at the oak tree outside the window and the duck pond beyond. “It’s very nice. I could have lived here, once.”
“Sam, don’t decide now. Wait till I return. Let’s discuss it.”
“Too late, I’m afraid.”
She regarded me for several moments and said, “Where will you go?” By her question, I realized she had come to accept my departure, and I felt cheated. I had wanted more of a struggle. I had wanted an argument, enticements, tears, brave denial. But that wouldn’t have been my El, my plan-for-everything Eleanor.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Just tramp around for a while, I guess. See what’s what. Things have changed since the last time I looked.” I stood up and held out the sleeping baby to El, who reached for her before we both remembered El was really in Europe. I placed Ellen in her crib and tucked her in. I kissed her cheek and quickly wiped it, before my kiss could burn her skin.
When I turned, El was standing, arms outstretched. She grazed my chest with her disembodied fingers. “Will you at least wait for me to give you a proper farewell? I can be there in four hours.”
I hadn’t intended to leave right away. I had just come up with the idea, after all. I needed to pack. I needed to arrange travel and accommodations. This could take days. But then I realized I was gone already and that I had everything I’d need: Skippy around my waist, my credit code, and the rotting stink of my body to announce me wherever I went.
She said, “At least stay in touch.” A single tear slid down her face. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Too late for that too, dear El.
* * *
We were out of our minds with joy. Joy in full bloom and out of control, like weeds in our manicured lives.
RADIO WAVES
Michael Swanwick
You may think that your troubles are over once you’re dead, but, as the scary story that follows vividly demonstrates, your problems may really be just beginning …
Michael Swanwick made his debut in 1980, and has gone on to become one of the most popular and respected of all that decade’s new writers. He has several times been a finalist for the Nebula Award, as well as for the World Fantasy Award and for the John W. Campbell Award, and has won the Theodore Sturgeon Award and the Asimov’s Readers Award poll. In 1991, his novel Stations of the Tide won him a Nebula Award as well. His other books include his first novel, In the Drift, which was published in 1985, a novella-length book, Griffin’s Egg, and 1987’s popular novel Vacuum Flowers. His critically acclaimed short fiction has been assembled in Gravity’s Angels and in a collection of his collaborative short work with other writers, Slow Dancing Through Time. His most recent book is a new novel, The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, which was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award and the Arthur C. Clarke Award. He’s had stories in our Second, Third, Fourth, Sixth, Seventh, and Tenth Annual Collections. Swanwick lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Marianne Porter, and their son Sean.
I was walking the telephone wires upside-down, the sky underfoot cold and flat with a few hard bright stars sparsely scattered about it, when I thought how it would take only an instant’s weakness to step off to the side and fall up forever into the night. A kind of wildness entered me then and I began to run.
I made the wires sing. They leapt and bulged above me as I raced past Ricky’s Luncheonette and up the hill. Past the old chocolate factory and the IDI Advertising Display plant. Past the body shops, past A. J. LaCourse Electric Motors-Controls-Parts. Then, where the slope steepened, along the curving snake of rowhouses that went the full quarter mile up to the Ridge. Twice I overtook pedestrians, hunched and bundled, heads doggedly down, out on incomprehensible errands. They didn’t notice me, of course. They never do. The antenna farm was visible from here. I could see the Seven Sisters spangled with red lights, dependent on the earth like stalactites. “Where are you running to, little one?” one tower whispered in a crackling, staticky voice. I think it was Hegemone.
“Fuck off,” I said without slackening my pace, and they all chuckled.
Cars mumbled by. This was ravine country, however built up, and the far side of the road, too steep and rocky for development, was given over to trees and garbage. Hamburger wrappings and white plastic trash bags rustled in their wake. I was running full-out now.
About a block or so from the Ridge, I stumbled and almost fell. I slapped an arm across a telephone pole and just managed to catch myself in time. Aghast at my own carelessness, I hung there, dizzy and alarmed. The ground overhead was black as black, an iron roof, yet somehow was as anxious as a hound to leap upon me, crush me flat, smear me to nothingness. I stared up at it, horrified.
Somebody screamed my name.
I turned. A faint blue figure clung to a television antenna atop a small, stuccoed brick duplex. Charlie’s Widow. She pointed an arm that flickered with silver fire down Ripka Street. I slewed about to see what was coming after me.
It was the Corpsegrinder.
When it saw that I’d spotted it, it put out several more legs, extended a quilled head, and raised a howl that bounced off the Heaviside layer. My nonexistent blood chilled.
&nbs
p; In a panic, I scrambled up and ran toward the Ridge and safety. I had a squat in the old Roxy, and once I was through the wall, the Corpsegrinder would not follow. Why this should be so, I did not know. But you learn the rules if you want to survive.
I ran. In the back of my head I could hear the Seven Sisters clucking and gossiping to each other, radiating television and radio over a few dozen frequencies. Indifferent to my plight.
The Corpsegrinder churned up the wires on a hundred needle-sharp legs. I could feel the ion surge it kicked up pushing against me as I reached the intersection of Ridge and Leverington. Cars were pulling up to the pumps at the Atlantic station. Teenagers stood in front of the A-Plus Mini Market, flicking half-smoked cigarettes into the street, stamping their feet like colts, and waiting for something to happen. I couldn’t help feeling a great longing disdain for them. Every last one worried about grades and drugs and zits, and all the while snugly barricaded within hulking fortresses of flesh.
I was scant yards from home. The Roxy was a big old movie palace, fallen into disrepair and semiconverted to a skateboarding rink which had gone out of business almost immediately. But it had been a wonderful place once, and the terra-cotta trim was still there: ribbons and river-gods, great puffing faces with panpipes, guitars, flowers, wyverns. I crossed the Ridge on a dead telephone wire, spider-web delicate but still usable.
Almost there.
Then the creature was upon me, with a howl of electromagnetic rage that silenced even the Sisters for an instant. It slammed into my side, a storm of razors and diamond-edged fury, hooks and claws extended.
I grabbed at a rusty flange on the side of the Roxy.
Too late! Pain exploded within me, a sheet of white nausea. All in an instant I lost the name of my second daughter, an April morning when the world was new and I was five, a smoky string of all-nighters in Rensselaer Polytech, the jowly grin of Old Whatsisface the German who lived on LaFountain Street, the fresh pain of a sprained ankle out back of a Banana Republic warehouse, fishing off a yellow rubber raft with my old man on Lake Champlain. All gone, these and a thousand things more, sucked away, crushed to nothing, beyond retrieval.