Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  Zack walked calmly to Lulu, the most placid of the lionesses, and put his hand on her head. Henryk and Karoly rushed forward with blasts of CO2to break up Goldie and Fluffy, a fight that didn’t need breaking up because Fluffy had backed off, gashed, and Goldie had again turned his attention to Zack. Zack put his other hand on Fuzzball, the aging but far-from-toothless matriarch, who snarled at Goldie.

  With Zack gazing at him from between two lionesses, a hand on each one’s head, Goldie backed away.

  Zack stared at him steadily, a clear challenge: Fight or submit.

  Goldie roared, feebly. Then he lay on his belly and put his head on the ground.

  And Zack played with Lulu and Fuzzball while Fluffy, not badly hurt, licked her bloody side. He played ball with them. He had Lulu jump through the traditional hoop. He played peek-a-boo with Fuzzball and a chain-mail blanket. Finally he walked to the cage door with the two lionesses, patting them both on their heads as if they’d been kittens. Leisurely he unlocked the cage door, stepped outside, and smiled at Anton, who did not smile back. Only then did Zack look at the sixteen thousand people on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse. Only then did he become aware again of the non-voices, stronger than ever, tugging at the inside of his head.

  In the newly refurbished Skyline Terrace Suite of the MGM Grand, Anne, Gail, and Marissa sat on the veranda, twenty-six stories in the air and almost as big as the suite itself. The terrace was furnished with a sofa, a dining table, and a huge TV. The TV played the Torres-Lucito boxing match at The Wynn, on mute. Below and around the terrace, the Strip glittered and twinkled and shone. From the roller coaster on top of New York-New York came screams of delight.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Marissa said, stirring her club soda with a celery stick.

  “Something,” Anne said. Zack knew that his sister hated Vegas. She’d come to see him, and he’d tried to show her a good time. They’d taken a plane tour to the Grand Canyon, gone to see Cirque du Soleil, eaten lunch at places where the slot machines stayed in discreet alcoves. Gail, meanwhile, had spent all her time in the casinos. She radiated the quiet, non-dazed satisfaction of someone who’d won but not really big.

  Anne was going to say something Zack didn’t want to hear.

  “I went to your show tonight.”

  He drained his drink. “I asked you not to.”

  “Why ever not!” Marissa cried. “It was wonderful! He’s so brave, the way he just goes in there with all those big ol’ cats!”

  Gail’s lean, quick body said: So your girlfriend doesn’t know about you. Still the same old Zack.

  “I know you asked me not to go,” Anne said, “but I needed to see it. It was . . . impressive.”

  “Thanks.” She disapproved, and there was no way she could hide it, even though she was trying. As if she knew what he was thinking, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  Marissa said, puzzled, “What for?”

  No one answered her. Instead, Anne finished her drink, some awful vodka thing loaded with fruit, and blurted, “There’s so much else you could have put your . . . talent to. Aiding law enforcement. Some kind of business office, interpreting people. Even playing poker!”

  Marissa looked at Zack. “I didn’t know you like poker, honey.”

  “I don’t,” Zack said. “Anne, I have a suspended-sentence conviction, remember? No law enforcement. And I’d hate any office job. I’d hate anyoffice. I need to move, get physical.”

  Gail said dryly, “Well, lions are certainly physical. Zack, you’ve got something on your mind. Why don’t you just spit it out?”

  Zack looked at her in surprise. It always startled him when someone else, someone normal, knew what he intended. He said, “Marissa, will you leave us alone for a few minutes? Family stuff.”

  Marissa stuck out her bottom lip. Before she could protest, Gail stood. “Show me the rest of this place, Marissa, will you? It’s so big I think I’d get lost by myself.”

  Marissa looked mutinous, but eagerness to play hostess won out. “Well, the master suite is this way . . .”

  On the TV screen, Jose Torres hit Wayne Luciter a wicked uppercut to the chin.

  Zack said, “You remember that doctor who wanted to give me an MRI way back when I was in your hospital, three and a half years ago? Nor-something? Well, I want it now.”

  Anne said quietly, “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing. Something. It’s like I . . . I’m not sure. But I think there’s more of that integration stuff going on.”

  “Why do you think that? Because you can control those lions so well?”

  “I’m not controlling them. They’re . . . well, okay, maybe I am. Indirectly. But it’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  Zack grimaced. Anne was prepared to wait all night for a good answer, but Zack didn’t have all night. Marissa and Gail passed by the open doorway to the terrace, Marissa saying condescendingly, “And of course we have a whirlpool and—”

  All at once Zack was sick of Marissa. She had a nasty temper, she was interested mainly in his money, and he could only fuck her if he was drunk. Before he knew he was going to, he blurted out, “How is Jazzy?”

  Anne looked startled. Even before she spoke, he knew what she was going to say, and how. “She’s married, Zack. A year after you . . . nearly two years ago. Last I heard, she was expecting a child.”

  And then, in response to what must have been on his face, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it’s fine,” he rasped. “I don’t care, I was just curious, is all.”

  “She—”

  “It doesn’t matter!” He didn’t need Jazzy, he didn’t need anybody. There was a little silence.

  Anne said gently, “You wanted to tell me about the ‘more integration stuff’ going on.”

  All at once, he didn’t want to. And yet this was why he’d paid to bring Anne and Gail out here, wasn’t it? “Nah. Changed my mind.”

  “I don’t think so,” Anne said, but Marissa and Gail had finished their tour and sat back down. Anne—submissive Anne!—said firmly, “Marissa, it was lovely meeting you, but Zack and I need to talk some more. Gail will get you a cab.”

  “Hey!” Marissa said. “Who the hell do you think you are to—”

  “Go, Marissa,” Zack said.

  “Listen, sweetheart, don’t think you can order me around like some—”

  Gail took her elbow, lifted her from her chair, and dragged her off the terrace. Marissa began to shout protests and then obscenities. Gail paid no attention whatsoever, tossing Marissa over her shoulder, “’Night, Annie. See you much later.”

  “Wow,” Zack said, caught somewhere between admiration and resentment. But if he’d tried to manhandle Marissa, it would have had an entirely different meaning. All of a sudden you would have had domestic abuse.

  Anne said, “Talk to me, Zack.”

  Even in the sudden calm, it was harder than he’d anticipated. His throat seemed to close up, and for a second he was afraid of strangling.

  Anne’s body and face said: Trust me.

  When was the last time Zack had trusted someone to hear his fears? He’d never trusted anyone like that, not even Anne. Not even Jazzy. But Anne was the only person who’d been there for him his whole life. She’d been the big sister set above him, the brainy bar he could never reach, the sparring partner he could never touch—but she’d been there.

  “I hear voices,” he said, and after that, it was easier. Anne shifted suddenly and Zack added, “No, not like that, not crazy stuff. I mean, it iscrazy, but they aren’t voices telling me to kill myself or anything. Actually, they aren’t voices at all. They’re a sort of . . . Christ, this is going to sound so stupid . . . they’re like something big. Inside my mind.”

  The alarm rising off her like an odor didn’t let up. “What kind of something big?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I just know it’s there, and it’s getting stronger, and I don’t like it! Mayb
e an MRI can tell what it is and the doctors can get rid of the damn thing.”

  “Is it . . . does it feel like a religious presence?”

  “Religious? You mean, like God or spirits or demons? No.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  “I told you. Something really big. Oh, Christ, Anne, forget it. I don’t need an MRI. I’m doing fine. I mean, look at all this!” He waved his hand vaguely at the terrace, the vaulted ceilings of the suite beyond, Las Vegas. “I’m making more money than you would believe!”

  But she wasn’t impressed, he could tell. Damn it, he’d wanted her to be impressed! That was, he realized, the true reason why he’d brought her out here. To finally impress Anne.

  “I can arrange for an MRI, Zack, and I will. For as soon as possible.” She smiled painfully and put her hand over his. She really cared. So why was what he heard in his brain Anne’s voice from over two years ago, saying, “It’s a long way to fall, Zack.” Why?

  He looked over the terrace railing at the Strip, twenty-six stories below. Down there on a huge marquee his name flashed in gaudy lights. On the TV, Luciter had Torres on the mat, and Torres didn’t get up.

  For the MRI, he had to fly home. Norwood had arranged for time on some sort of super-scanner that, Zack figured, was probably like arranging sparring time at an elite gym. This super scanner, some under-doctor-type told him, paired “functional MRI with connectome imaging, through high-angular diffusion and diffusion spectrum imaging combined with neurocognitive tests.” Show-off prick. Norwood just said they were going to take pictures of how and when different parts of his brain worked, including how it was wired to other parts.

  Zack couldn’t be drunk, he couldn’t be on any junk, he couldn’t be anything but himself and whatever else was inhabiting his head. Zack clenched his fists as the exam table slid into the machine like a slab into a drawer in the morgue.

  “Try to relax,” a tech said from somewhere outside. Yeah, right. Stupid bastard.

  His head was held immobile by a brace. The brace wasn’t painful but he hated it anyway, just for the way it cut his freedom. He wore goggles that could project images in front of his eyes.

  “Ready, Zack?” the tech said. “Please tap your right thumb against each of the fingers on your right hand.”

  Zack did, followed by a lot of other dumb little tasks. Each time, the coils in the machine thumped softly. His head felt slightly warm. Eventually an image flashed on the screen.

  “What do you see, Zack?”

  “A kid’s ball. Red.”

  “Fine. Now what?”

  A house, a campfire, an ice-cream cone, a dog, a car. Zack felt like he was back in kindergarten: C is for car, D is for dog. Zack had brought Browne with him to Anne’s place. A computer, a church, a tree, a table, the seashore. When he’d been eleven, Zack, who couldn’t swim, had nearly drowned in rough surf. A rocket ship, a rose, a book, a refrigerator.

  A boxing ring.

  Now they’re getting to it.

  A cloud, a rosary, a Star of David, a pencil.

  A lion.

  Two lions.

  A statue of Jesus, a sailboat, a pyramid, a starry sky.

  The images started to include videos of people doing things: eating, dancing, singing, praying, walking along the beach, kissing, driving a car, boxing. Animals ran and hunted and slept. Zack waited to see them either humping or tearing apart prey, but there were no images like that. He smiled.

  “What’s funny, Zack?” the tech said, and Zack told him. The tech didn’t reply.

  A building blew up. A speeder was arrested. Two children pushed at each other, their faces angry. Something else blew up, Zack wasn’t exactly sure what. A fire raged in a building. A firefighter carried out a little girl, unhurt. A minister led a congregation in prayer.

  “Hey,” Zack said, “are we almost done?”

  “Just a little longer.”

  It was a lot longer. Anne had told him that the typical imaging lasted about forty-five minutes, but this took hours. By the end, Zack was thoroughly bored. What did describing yet another tree (“Do you know what kind of tree it is, Zack?”) have to do with his non-voices? This was stupid.

  When they finally let him out, he went straight to the nearest bar and got drunk. He thought of looking up Jazzy’s address on his phone and taking a cab to her house, just to see where she lived now, but even drunk, he realized how dumb that was. Instead he took a cab to Anne’s. She’d been waiting up and looked worried, but all she said was, “I walked Browne just fifteen minutes ago, so you don’t have to do that before you go to bed.”

  He thanked her, torn between gratitude and the wish that she didn’t always do everything so fucking right. In bed, with the dog curled against his back, he dreamed that he held Jazzy again, before she pulled away and went into the arms of a dead, bleeding Julian Browne.

  In Dr. Norwood’s office sat Zack, Anne, Norwood, and a Dr. Keller, who looked too young, pretty, and blonde to be what she was. Zack couldn’t remember the term, but it meant a doctor who analyzed and interpreted the scanner results. She looked a little dazed. The room was small, chaotic with computers, piles of printouts, and a lot of equipment Zack couldn’t identify, all interspersed with used coffee cups. One of these was growing greenish mold, which couldn’t be good. Weren’t doctors supposed to be super clean?

  Norwood is going to lean forward, going to clasp his hands on his lap, going to speak—

  “Mr. Murphy, the results of your scan are very interesting. Let me start by telling you what we thought we might see but didn’t, and then what we didn’t expect to see but did.”

  “Okay,” said Zack, unable to think of any other response. The non-voices had been pummeled into silence by two double Scotches.

  “Often when people report sensing a ‘presence’ in their mind, we see increased activity in the temporal lobe, and more than usual wiring to that area of the brain. That correlates with certain kinds of religious experiences, including mysticism and meditation and out-of-body sensations. Neither your responses to religious imagery nor your scan show that.”

  “You mean it isn’t God in my voices. Well, I told you that.”

  Norwood smiled. “So you did. The other usual source of hearing voices is schizophrenia, which doesn’t feature brain-structure abnormalities but does include certain patterns of neural wiring. Your scans don’t show those, either.”

  “So I’m not nuts.”

  “You are not schizophrenic.”

  “They aren’t really voices anyway,” Zack said. “I told you that. They don’t have words. I just call them that . . . because.” Because there wasn’t anything else to call them. He really wanted this conference over, even though he was the one who’d asked for it.

  Dr. Keller spoke for the first time. “What do they seem like, Zack, if not voices?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Presences, like Anne said. Or maybe one really big presence. Only not really. It’s like . . . it’s like everything is there. In my head.”

  Anne said, “Everything? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what I mean! That’s what they’re supposed to tell me! Christ!”

  Norwood said soothingly, “Let’s go on to what your scan does show. We expected to see greater integration among the sensory input areas, the motor areas, and a section of the brain associated with interpreting and responding to people and animals, including the fear centers. We saw that integration, which is what lets you so effectively work with the lions.”

  And with you, Zack didn’t say aloud. The signals coming from everyone practically shouted at him: Norwood’s excited interest, that he was trying and failing to mask; the blonde’s dazed fearfulness; Anne’s concern so strong it was almost despair. Christ, she should lighten up. But none of them were all that different from the big cats. Which was depressing to think about, so he didn’t.

  “Some of your neural profile matches that of highly creative people. Stronger—”


  “Creative? You mean like painters and writers and all them? I don’t create anything.”

  Norwood went on, “Stronger, and more surprising, are other results of the scan. Mr. Murphy, you present a neural profile remarkably like a person who is asleep and dreaming, with—”

  “What the hell! I wasn’t asleep inside that machine!”

  “I know you weren’t. But your connectome and functional data show the pattern of dreams: heightened activity in the oldest parts of the brain, in memory, and in emotion, along with decreased activity in areas governing reason and decision-making. The biggest surprise was how much the scan reflects a dreamlike state usually associated with dealing with internal situations, not external ones. In other words, whatever is going on, and it includes some very unusual neural pathways, you are connecting with something that is inside your mind, like dreams are. But not anything we can name.”

  Anne said, “The unconscious?”

  “In part. But much more than the usual patterns that tap subconscious responses. Somehow the areas of the brain that respond to other people are heavily involved, even when Mr. Murphy is reacting to imagery like trees or rocks or stars.”

  Anne said, “A . . . I almost can’t say this . . . a collective unconscious?”

  The blonde said primly, “That lies outside our purview, Ms. Murphy.”

  Zack demanded, “What is collective unconscious?”

  Norwood smiled. “That’s a good question, Mr. Murphy. But we don’t know the answer, any more than we know what consciousness is. We’re all conscious, we experience the world as ‘I, me,’ but nobody knows how the brain gives rise to that consciousness. It’s the great mystery of neuroscience: What are we experiencing when we think, ‘Cogito ergo sum’?”

  Think what? All at once Zack had enough of this. Talk, talk, talk, that’s all they could offer him. He glared at them, even Anne. “So what does it mean? Can you cure me?”

  Norwood said, “You’re not ill, Mr. Murphy.”