Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  Then it was time to hunt for switches.

  Human beings never stop generating sense memories tied to a moment of precise emotion. You remember that song that makes you think of your first lover? How about the smell of your first new car? If you have a passion for, say, horse racing, how many sounds, sights, and smells go with that, and how do they make you feel? We’re constantly creating new switches, but the most reliable ones are generated between the ages of four and nine. That’s when we lock in the scent of our mother’s hair, or the roughness of grampa’s beard, or the sound of a favorite lullaby, or the smell of sawdust as daddy works on a project, or, well, dozens of others. I spent my time looking and sniffing around that area of Mr. Washington’s life.

  He was thirty-one years old, straight, white, originally from New Jersey, and had spent the springs and summers on a farm in Iowa (returning to the usual, “Around here we pronounce it Ohio. Ha ha ha”). He’d majored in business at Kansas State, where he’d also lettered in track, doing the high and low hurdles and anchoring the four by four. I made a note of his college nickname. He was a smart runner; he loved the strategy of racing, as well as the thrill of pushing his body to its limits. The smell of fresh-cut hay made him feel safe; long, slow sunrises woke him up faster than coffee; the taste of salted and buttered corn-on-the-cob right from the field, thrown into boiling water for not more than four minutes, gave him a pleasure almost erotic in its intensity. And here was an odd one: in all of my long life, until now, I had never realized that, on hot nights in the summer, you can sometimes hear corn growing. I mean, literally, actually hear it. Did you know that? Peter Washington did, and he loved that sound.

  I put it in the bag, and continued.

  More of the same—things in his life that meant something emotionally: triggers. Those of us who work with them call them switches. They weren’t hard to find—not when just about any information that is coded in symbol and transmitted from anyone to anyone can make its way into the Garden. It isn’t hard, it’s just tedious.

  I became aware that I was hungry. There are plenty of things to eat in the Garden, but none of them provide nutrition, or do anything about real-world hunger. I decided I was done and opened my eyes.

  I’d spent four hours in the Garden. No wonder I was hungry. After taking care of other biological necessities, I checked the refrigerator and the freezer, and decided that frozen pizza did not sound attractive. After careful consideration for about three seconds, I called my favorite Chinese place that delivered and arranged to have Mongolian beef, hot & sour soup, pot stickers, and chicken fried rice brought to my doorstep. That would take care of food now and later and into tomorrow. Problem solved. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you get good at solving problems. Almost as good as you get at creating them.

  The Pirates game was due to start in a couple of hours, so I set it up to record, feeling all proud of myself for not having forgotten. I checked my email, and Ren had replied with a bunch of cute things and sexual innuendo and in-jokes that are none of your business.

  I seeded what I’d done so far, leaving it as an urn in the atrium, then logged onto the board and put in a pointer to it in the “Meddlework—in Progress” forum. The food showed up, and I ate the soup, the pot-stickers, and a third of the Mongolian Beef. I put the rest in the refrigerator, taking a moment to smile at its door, which a year ago had opened toward the wall. This was better.

  Then I made myself comfortable in my chair, and it was back to the Garden to sort through the switches to figure out which of them might actually be useful. A good number had potential and I discarded the rest. Not that they actually went anywhere except out of my awareness; once something is in the Garden, it’s there forever.

  The next tricky part involved figuring out when and where to approach Washington. For convenience, I’d left his general information as a silver sconce on the wall of the atrium. I put a torch in it and twisted it to lock it in place, and the memories became my own.

  He had tomorrow off, it being the Fourth of July. There’d been email about a gathering with some co-workers to watch fireworks at Knickerbocker Park in Providence. That should do nicely, if I could snag him before he joined up with them; if I had to separate him, it’d be tricky. His friends showing up at the wrong time could blow the whole deal. But the outdoor location gave me some advantages. On the other hand, it can be harder to control things outdoors, especially in crowds. Tough call. Could I predict where he’d be? Or, failing that, could I control it?

  My mind drifted. Washington. Funny name, especially on Independence Day. I hadn’t known General Washington. I’d seen him in camp, and listened to him, but I’d never known him. Or if I had, I’ve forgotten. I knew Tom Paine—I’d even meddled with him, in spite of the group screaming at me. Those memories were hazy. I knew that particular Second had died in the winter of ’77-78, but I couldn’t recall how. And then my next Second had, of course, already been a volunteer, because if you’re going to meddle with Tom Paine over the objections of half the Incrementalists, you’d better be ready to put your body where your switches are.

  That Second survived the war, though it cost me a hand; I remember that much clearly. I could go back and graze the seed of losing it, but that wouldn’t be any fun at all. I know that during the Revolutionary War I called myself Carter. I didn’t start going by Phil until the Civil War, which knocked all the emotional power of the Revolutionary War right out of my head. I mean, those memories are still there, but going through the Civil War was like no other experience. To this day, when I need an example or a metaphor, the Civil War is the first thing that comes to mind.

  I was with Sherman when Cleburn held us off at Tunnel Hill at the north end of Missionary Ridge, and I took a minié-ball in the eye and it took me longer to die than you’d think, but when I came back out of stub I learned that we’d carried the day, and my next Second was in the Army of the James and nine months later we marched right into fucking Richmond with the fucking flag, and I watched it being raised with the band playing the Star Spangled Fucking Banner, thank you very much. That memory still chokes me up, even after all this time.

  So many memories. After a while, you know, you don’t even try to keep them straight, and sometimes you realize that the image in your head of running in terror from a Civil War skirmish was actually something that happened in Gaul 1900 years ago. Now that is a strange feeling.

  And yet, really, very little of my time has been spent as a soldier. I’ve never liked being a soldier. I’ve never liked fighting. It just isn’t what I’m good at. I was drafted during World War II and sent to Europe, and I suppose you could say I saw some combat, but I never fired my carbine, and no one ever shot at me as far as I know. My keenest memory of that war is when it was over and we thought they were going to send us to invade Russia. We put together some demonstrations, though World War II historians like to forget about those. I don’t know if they did any good, but we were never sent in, and then that asshole Patton was killed by a truck driven by a guy named Thompson, who shouldn’t be blamed for it. All the witnesses agree it was a fluke accident. That’s the last time I used meddlework to take a human life, and Patton deserved it but Thompson didn’t. I wish I hadn’t done it. I never seeded any of that until now. I’m sorry, Jimmy.

  One thing about the Garden: if you spend a long time there at once, it’s hard to stay focused; the memories are just all around you, and even if you don’t specifically graze, sometimes they sneak in.

  Christ. Not my fault the guy’s name was Washington.

  Okay, Phil: Stay with it. What’s he like—this Washington, the one in the here and now? He’s patient, methodical, careful. He drinks top-shelf rum, and it is possible he could be induced to drink it to excess, if that would do any good. Have to be careful not to get the poor bastard a DUI if I do that, though.

  Hmmm. But he is methodical. He’ll arrive early, to try to get a good spot for him and his buddies. They will be expecting him to do
that. I will almost certainly have a few minutes with him alone. A few minutes is all I need. Just a few minutes to work what Ren had once called magic, and gone before his friends got there and interrupted it with God knows what results. Unpredictability in the middle of meddlework is not a good thing. A few memories of unpleasant results of that demanded attention, and I told them to shut up and let me work.

  I selected the switches I’d actually use, and considered how I was going to set them up. Finding him in the park I could do—any preparation to the park itself that would require exact knowledge of where he’d be was out of the question.

  By the time I’d completed the plan, I was mentally exhausted, though physically still fine. I opened my eyes, letting the Garden dissolve. I thought about a nap, but then realized that most stores would be closed tomorrow, so any errands would need to be run today. While my resolve was still firm, I put on my cap and walked out of the house.

  It was about a hundred and five degrees outside, but it was a dry heat, so it felt like a hundred and four. In spite of the reflector, the inside of my Prius was not pleasant. I turned on the a/c and went back inside while it did its job. I drank some water, because that’s what you do when you’re about to set off into an environment in which man was not intended to survive. Funny, I remember adobe houses, and times when finding shade, or a sudden cool breeze, or a cloud felt like salvation. But now I’m used to air conditioning, and I don’t really remember how I managed to live through the 2000 years—not to mention the previous 38,000 my Primary has been around—before it was invented. Anyway, this is better. While the car cooled, I phoned some liquor stores, and managed to find one not too far away that had what I needed.

  By then I figured the car was cool enough. I got in and headed out. An In and Out Burger off the 15 tempted me briefly, but I had leftover Chinese waiting for me, so I was virtuous. It was a short trip, and I came back thirty-five dollars poorer, but with a bottle of Ron Diplomático Reserva Exclusiva. I opened it and poured some into a hip flask. By that time, it was already getting dark, which meant the Pirates game was over. I heated up the rest of the Mongolian beef and watched the game, fast-forwarding through the commercials. It was exactly my kind of game—a nail-biter, finally won by McCutchen’s walk-off home run. Gotta love a good ball game. Somewhere, deep, deep inside of me, I’m sure a guy named Chuck Purcell was pleased.

  Okay, enough fucking around, Phil. You have meddlework to do tomorrow; let’s get ready.

  I opened up my oversized hall cupboard and checked through it. I keep a lot of things there: various oils, scents, and the raw materials for more. I had fresh-cut grass, but I didn’t have any fresh-cut hay. I made a mental note to acquire some; that’s a pretty common switch. I dug around some more. Finding things in the Garden is easier. Eventually, I came up with some sweet william, and spent a couple of hours making perfume (not that hard, it just takes distilled water, a scent, and a lot of care), then diluting it. Usually, with switches, less is more. On a hunch, I also put together the smell of an old diesel engine: a combination of diesel and burning motor oil.

  I cut a couple of 1-inch squares out of a sponge, and poured tiny amounts of scent into each. A casual hand into a pocket, a squeeze, and they’d be on my hand.

  So much for the smells.

  Not much I could do with visuals out in a park.

  I reviewed the sound options, sighed, and downloaded what I needed onto my iPhone.

  I called it done. I stretched, loosening up my back, hips and shoulders. I made sure everything was in a nice pile on top of my cap so I wouldn’t forget anything. Then I checked the TV listings and grumbled. Last year over the Fourth of July weekend there’d been a “Shadow Unit” marathon, but I’d had no time to watch it. This year I had time, but I could only choose among “NCIS” or “Dallas” or a sci-fi show that I’d already seen a dozen times. I’d have liked to curl up next to Ren and watch something mindless, but it wasn’t any fun by myself. I went to bed.

  The Fourth of July in Las Vegas was only in the mid-80’s when I got up, and my swamp cooler was handling it like a champ. Shower, shave, coffee, check the boards, set up to record the game. I had time to head to The Palms and play some poker, but decided not to—I wanted my mind sharp for the meddlework. I had fried rice for breakfast and went over the approach I’d take, the switches, the delivery. I put on my pants with the big, loose pockets, so I could drive and walk without accidentally squeezing the sponges. It made me look a bit like a dork, but only a bit.

  By mid-afternoon, it had clouded over, and it looked like we might get rain. I hoped that didn’t mean Pete was going to cancel. I went into the bathroom and put on a bit of make-up so I could pass for ten years younger, then went to the entryway where there is a small table opposite my painting of “Dog Painting Coolidges Playing Poker.” From the table I put the flask in one back pocket, the iPhone in another, the sponge with the sweet william in my left-hand pocket, the other perfume in my right. There I was, ready to meddle. The air around me smelled cleaner, the outlines of objects a bit sharper. It’s funny how having all of my switches ready to use on the Focus is, itself, a switch for me. I was no longer nervous; I was ready.

  I put on my cap, picked up my keys, and headed out the door.

  I got onto the 15, taking it north to 95, which took me most of the way to Providence—a “gated community” that had generously opened itself up so us poor and disadvantaged types could enjoy fireworks at their park. I wondered if they’d spray it down once we left. The drive took about forty minutes, which still got me there early. I studied the clouds. Rain would dampen things. Even if the fireworks weren’t cancelled, there is an emotional difference between watching fireworks on a nice night, and getting wet while you watch. And if everything you’re doing is based on emotional subtleties, you can find yourself in trouble just from a bit of rain.

  I watched the sky.

  It wasn’t hard finding the park. From what I could tell, it was a nice park: they had a dog area that made me miss Susi, which made me miss Ren; they had a baseball diamond that was, at present, occupied with fireworks preparations; they had a lot of what I’m sure they called “natural terrain;” they had a picnic area; and they had a parking lot that was filling up fast. I was looking around for a good vantage point from which to see as much of the lot as possible, when a light green 2011 Acura pulled up. And there he was.

  How many of these had I done? Certainly it was in the tens of thousands. And still, my heart still gives a flutter when I first set eyes on the Focus. I was about to meddle with him, to change him, to alter him. If I messed up, not only would the project fail, but I’d leave him worse instead of better. If that sort of thing didn’t matter to me, I couldn’t have been the sort of person who’d have been recruited to do this work in the first place; I’d have been a shoemaker in Judea, lived a life, and died.

  In exchange for the possibilities of immortality, you get the possibility of fucking things up, and having to live with that the rest of your lives. Yeah, it’s a good trade; but never think we don’t care.

  He got out, stretched, and removed a lawn chair, a blanket, and a cooler from his trunk. He still looked in pretty good shape—tall and sort of lanky; a bit like me, now that I think of it. But my hair is longer.

  The lawn chair had a sort of ribbon on it, so he could haul it over his shoulder, put the blanket over the other shoulder, and use both hands for the cooler. That’s the sort of guy he was. He set off, and I followed him. He was wearing dark blue shorts, a sleeveless white T-shirt, and a hat that made me think of Colonel Blake on MASH. It was not, let us say, his usual outfit.

  There was a big field between the parking lot and the baseball diamond, and he found a spot in it as close to the diamond as they were letting people. I walked up to him as he was spreading out the blanket, put a somewhat puzzled, hesitant look on my face, and said, “Slippy?”

  His head whipped around—pleased, then confused. “I—”

  “P
hil,” I said, smiling and extending my hand. “Kansas State. I’m a track fan. Saw all of your meets. We never met, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  He took my hand, smiling. His handshake was strong, and I liked it that he didn’t pretend to know me. “You live in Vegas?” he asked me.

  “I do. Near Arville and Trop. You?”

  “Right here in Providence.”

  “Nice!” I said. “You must be doing well.”

  “I worked for Wachovia. Wells Fargo now.”

  “Ah. That’s gotta keep you busy.”

  “Reminds me of the Las Vegas cocktail waitress joke. You know it?”

  “Too many cocktail waitresses,” I said.

  He grinned, and I put my hand in my back pocket and turned on my iPhone. It was soft. So soft, you could hardly hear it: John Denver singing “Rocky Mountain High.” The hardest part of this job is when you have to deal with things like that. But one man’s slap is another man’s switch; what can you do?

  “Beer?” he said.

  “Love one.”

  He opened the cooler and got me out a Coors Light. I popped it, held it up like I was toasting him, and drank. The things I do for the world that the world will never know.

  The temperature had crept up a bit, but was still a quite tolerable 90 or so. Meanwhile, the place was filling up, and his friends might be along any minute.

  I got out my hip flask and held it out for him. “Like rum?” I said.

  “If it’s good,” he said, but accepted it. He tasted, and a delighted grin came over his face. I had some too, to be sociable. I’m not a rum guy, but it was better than the Coors. I handed it back to him, and, while he drank, I put my free hand in my pocket. I squeezed the sponge with the sweet william perfume, and casually wiped my hand on my shirt.