by Rich Horton
"I don't care if you do or not.” Aman struggled to open his eyes, stared into the blurry green light filtering through the kudzu curtain. “I'm ... not sure how come I followed you.” Maybe because he hadn't asked why and Jimi had. Maybe because Avi had been right and the job had changed him after all.
"But why? You a closet Gaiist?"
Aman wanted to laugh at that, but he didn't. It would hurt too much.
* * * *
Voices filtered through nightmares full of teeth. People talking. No more green light, so it must be almost dark. Or maybe he was dying. Hard to tell. Footsteps scuffed and the kid's face swam into view, Jimi's at first, morphing into the other kid ... Daren. He tried to say the name but his mouth was too dry.
"We're gonna drop you at an emergency clinic.” Daren leaned close, his eyes anxious. “But ... well, I thought maybe ... you want to go with us? I mean ... they're going to find out you killed that Fed guy, right? You'll go to prison."
Yes, they would find out. But he knew how it worked. They'd hold the evidence and the case open. No reason to risk pointing some investigative reporter toward the little dope deal they'd been covering up. They'd have expectations, and he'd meet them, and Jimi's death would turn out to have been another nasty little killing in the belt. He could adopt Jimi's cat. No harm done. Just between us.
"I'll come with you,” he croaked. “You could use some help with your invisibility. And I have the track to the proof you need ... about that drug deal. Make the election interesting.” Wasn't pleading. Not that. Trade.
"You can't come chipped.” A woman looked over Daren's shoulder, Hispanic, ice cold, with an air that said she was in charge. “And we got to go now."
"I know.” At least the chip was in his good shoulder.
She did it, using a tiny laser scalpel with a deft sureness that suggested med school or even an MD. And it hurt, but not a lot compared to the glowing coals of pain in his left arm and then they were loading him into the back of a vehicle and it was fully dark outside.
He was invisible. Right now. He no longer existed in the electronic reality of the city. If he made it back to his apartment it wouldn't let him in. The corner store wouldn't take his card or even cash. He felt naked. No, he felt as if he no longer existed. Death wasn't as complete as this. Wondered if Avi had felt like that at first. I probably could have found him, he thought. If I'd had the guts to try.
"I'm glad you're coming with us.” Daren sat beside him as the truck or whatever it was rocked and bucked over broken pavement toward the nearest clear street. “Lea says you probably won't die."
"I'm thrilled."
"Maybe we can use the drug stuff to influence the election, get someone honest elected."
He was as bad as Jimi, Aman thought. But ... why not hope?
"You'll like the head of our order,” Daren said thoughtfully. “He's not a whole lot older than me, but he's great. Really brilliant and he cares about every person in the order. She really matters to him ... the Earth I mean. Avi will really welcome you."
Avi.
Aman closed his eyes.
"Hey, you okay?” Daren had him by the shoulders. “Don't die now, not after all this.” He sounded panicky.
"I won't,” Aman whispered. He managed a tiny laugh that didn't hurt too bad.
Maybe it hadn't been the final fight after all.
Could almost make him believe in Avi's Goddess. Almost.
"Your head of the order sucks at hiding,” he whispered. And fainted.
[Back to Table of Contents]
"You” by Anonymous by Stephen Leigh
—
You wonder about the title, but you start to read.
You also grimace a bit at the use of second person, thinking it both a bit awkward and pretentious, and you wonder if the author is trying to make you think you are the protagonist of the story, that this paragraph is referring to you personally.
It is.
Now, you read those words and you grimace again and give a little half-exasperated huff of air. Almost, you start to argue back to the page, denying it, and then you stop. And there's just the faintest, the tiniest bit of wonder, of something akin to hope—after all, you think, that would be interesting. That would be unusual. You can almost hear Rod Serling intoning the introduction for The Twilight Zone. You've always wanted something like that to happen to you, haven't you?
Well, you're right. These words are directed to you. Truly.
You're not quite certain how that could be. After all, there are thousands of copies of this book out there circulating and how could the story know that it's really you and not that overweight, balding programmer with a graying beard in the paper-stuffed apartment in Queens who's also currently reading this at the moment. But it is you, not him. Why would it be him? He's a loser. He hasn't had more than one date with a woman for three years, and even those single dates have been rare. He goes out to bars once a month or so hoping to get lucky, but his social skills, never very good, have atrophied even further since his job doesn't require him to actually hold a conversation with anyone, and so he usually ends wandering from circle to circle being ignored until closing time, and then going back to his room and popping one of his pornographic DVDs into the player.
You're not him. In fact, he stopped reading at the porn reference, tossing the book across the room in angry and futile denial.
You think that's a rather harsh and brutal characterization (since you've known a few people who could fit that description) and you're somewhat annoyed at it, but though the description is rather on the cold side it is accurate and besides, you didn't write it, so you don't need to feel responsible. Even Bob the programmer (hi, Bob—don't you love it when you see your name in print?), in those self-flagellating moments when he's alone in his apartment with only the blue light of his laptop's monitor illuminating the stacks of paperback books on his desk, would admit the truth in what you just read. It may soothe you to know that he'll pick up this story again, an hour from now. This time he'll finish it, wondering if he'll see himself again and perhaps a little envious that the story's for you, not him.
This story is for you.
You pause a moment, confused, because you're not used to a story interfering quite so directly. After all, this is genre fiction. Popular fiction, not some post-modern mainstream story. This is that “crazy sci-fi stuff.” You read this type of anthology for escape and for that lovely ‘sense of wonder,’ not for pretension and experimentation. Over the years, you've slipped a thousand times between covers with sleek spaceships and square-jawed heroes, scantily-clad women and grotesque aliens slithering across a two-mooned landscape. You've lost yourself in a thousand worlds and glimpsed myriad universes painted in words garish or subtle, poetic or plain. You've allowed yourself to be the protagonist—any age, gender, or race—and you've bled and loved, triumphed or died everywhere from the medieval past to distant galaxies. You have the gift of imagination yourself—and that's why this story's for you. You can become.
You've read the books and watched the movies since you were a kid, and sometimes you've wondered how it would be if lights descended from the sky in front of you one night, whirling down to the lonely county road as you step from your car, drawn by mingled fear and curiosity, and then the side of the ship melts and there, in a rectangle of blinding light, it appears, the Other. You've wanted it to happen.
It's not going to, though. At least not that way. You know that; you realized long ago that any life that's out there is going to be so profoundly different from you that it may not even be recognizable. Even if it were, the Other's interests and values aren't going to be yours.
That's you, right? The one reading this?
You're still not convinced, though. Fine. So convince me, you think, even though at the same time the deeper skeptical part of you insists that it's not possible. And it's not. Not totally. This story could tell you that you lost someone close to you not all that long ago, and that you've kept
a memento of them because it brings back the memories. That's the case, of course, and your eyes narrow again because the words have struck too close to home. You also know that it's exactly the kind of vague statement a supposed psychic would use in a cold reading, but...
You shiver, as if cold fingers just brushed your spine. You wonder, as you have before, just who's having this one-sided conversation with you, and why. So tell me, you think, nearly saying the words aloud.
Fine. Here's why.
Elephants.
You almost laugh at that. But it's true. Remember that old elementary school ‘mind trick’ where someone says: “Think of anything you want, but just don't think of elephants.” And as soon as they say that, you instantly can't think of anything but elephants. An entire herd of them go rampaging through your forebrain, trumpeting and ear-flapping, raising the dust from your cerebellum.
Here. Let's try it. Think of anything but parasites.
Ah, your eyebrows lifted at that, and my, the images in your head...
Parasites. You shift uncomfortably in your seat.
"What if...?” That's the genesis of so much of the genre that you read, isn't it? “What if...?” the author muses, and erects a plot from there. Here's one for you. What if a parasite wanted to enter the human mind: a sentient parasite, a very intelligent parasite? What would be an interesting reproductive strategy? Reproduction is just engaging in patterns, after all. DNA is an arrangement of simple genetic codes and yet it encompasses all the wild variety and complexity of life. And words ... words are just an arrangement of simple letters. But my, how powerful they are in your head, in all their various wonderful combinations.
Words are a conduit into your mind. Words are wound so deeply into your thoughts processes that you can't even imagine the world without them. If someone—or something—wanted to control you, they would use words, wouldn't they? Why, with just the right, compelling pattern of words, your mind would open like a raw wound and who knows what could slither in...
So don't think of elephants, no matter what.
Too late.
You've heard of all those stories that change your life, that stay with you forever. It just happened.
For you. Just for you.
You deny it, but even though you take the page in your fingers, ready to turn to the next story, you wonder. You think to yourself that once the page turns you'll forget all this; that a week, a month, a year from now you won't even recall having ever read this.
Oh, you'll remember. At this point you don't have a choice. It's already started, inside. You squint and you deny, but you'll remember because everything from here on has changed for you. You have the words inside you now, and you won't like where they take you. Where I take you. But you'll remember.
Won't you?
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Jenna Set by Daniel Kaysen
—
He told me he'd ring me. He didn't.
"This is my surprised voice,” said Kelly.
Kelly works in software and spends her life sniffing round the tricky bits in manuals. And sniffing round the tricky bits of my dating life, too. She's my sister. It's her job.
"Maybe my answerphone's broken?"
"Yeah, right,” she said.
I sighed. “Maybe I should get a telesales script for dating."
When you work in telephone sales they give you a script. You ask each person question 1 and then, depending on whether they say yes or no, you ask question 2a or question 2b, and so on. If they say no, you keep asking questions until they say yes to something. Then you've got them, like a fish on a hook.
"A dating script?” said Kelly, sounding dubious.
"Yeah, you know. ‘This special date offer includes dinner at my apartment and the potential for oral sex on my couch afterwards. Would that be something you are interested in?’ And then if they say no you flip to page two and you ask them if it's the dinner or the oral sex that they have the problem with."
"Yeah, Jenna, that might help,” Kelly said, like it wasn't a joke.
* * * *
I hung up and went back to making my telesales calls.
My 34th call was answered by a teenage girl.
"Could I speak to a parent or guardian?” I said.
"Why?"
"Because if you take up the offer there's a contract to sign, and persons under eighteen—"
"I'm under eighteen but I've signed contracts before."
"Who with?"
"This new phone company. All my calls are free now. And there's tons of cool features."
"Really? Is the answerphone any good?"
"It's the best."
"So what do you have to do to get this deal?” I was a little worried it might involve something seedy.
"I'm a pilot customer. I just have to give them feedback on their system. They're looking for other pilot customers, you know. And it's all free. Would that be something you are interested in?"
"I guess so. Yes."
Damn, she was good.
* * * *
I rang the number she gave me.
The company was called Palavatar.
The woman who answered my call confirmed that all my phone usage would be absolutely free. She added that Palavatar also offered additional free features such as the very latest in neural network and genetic algorithm communications technology and—
"What's the answerphone like?"
"It's the best."
"Done deal,” I said.
"It will take a few hours before your new Palavatar features take effect,” she said.
She wished me a nice day and said the contract would be in the post.
As an afterthought I asked her if she would be interested in a subscription to one of our fine range of magazine titles including—
But she'd hung up.
* * * *
My mother rang then and we continued our argument about whether or not I would be going down to Cornwall for Cousin Steven's wedding. My answer was a definite no, I wouldn't be, as I couldn't stand Cousin Steven, and my mother's answer was a definite yes, I would be, and who was I to be all high and mighty?
We haggled each other down to a we'll see.
I hung up, and phoned Kelly, who had also had the Mother Treatment, so we had a postmortem and tried to encourage each other not to cave in.
When I hung up from talking to Kelly the phone made a weird brring sound that I hadn't heard before.
"This is Palavatar Message Minder,” said the voice when I picked up. “You have one new message. Press One to hear your message."
It was mother. Another reason I should go to Cousin Steven's wedding was because his wife might be able to get me a job with her firm.
And then Palavatar again: “Press One to repeat the message. Press Two to return the call. Or why not try our exclusive feature: press Three to generate a fully automated real-time reply, using the very latest in neural network and genetic algorithm technology."
I couldn't resist. I pressed Three.
"Please note,” the synthesised voice told me, “that during the automatically generated call anything you say in person will not be audible to the other caller. To cancel the automated reply at any time, press Zero. The call will now commence."
I listened to the staccato beeps as Palavatar dialled my mother's number. After a short pause, my mother picked up.
"Hello?” she said.
Palavatar did their techno-magic and I heard a very uncanny impression of my voice saying “Mother, give it a rest, okay? If I go to Steven's wedding it will be because the scenery will be great, not because I'm crawling on my knees for a job."
The Palavatar version of me certainly didn't back down too easily.
"Did I say anything about crawling?” said my mother. “Did I?"
"Look, I've got to go,” said Palavatar-me. “I've got a dinner and oral sex date."
There was a very long pause on the other end, during which I nearly swallowed my
tongue in embarrassment.
"Jenna, are you high?” said my mother, eventually.
I pressed buttons wildly because I'd forgotten which one terminated the automatically generated call. It was Zero, I finally discovered.
But by then Mother had hung up.
Oh God.
* * * *
The phone rang. It was Palavatar again, wanting feedback on the auto-call service. There were options, lots of options, to choose from: did I think the call content was too stilted, too humorous, too weather-based, not weather-based enough? I pressed Nine for further category options, and settled on Seven: “the content of the call was too informal.” That produced nine more options, and I pressed Four to agree that “the sexual or profane content of the automatic call was inappropriate."
The Palavatar system thanked me for my feedback.
I hung up and glared at the phone.
* * * *
Kelly rang five minutes later. “Mother said you said were going to have oral pleasure—her words—after dinner. Do you think she's getting Alzheimer's?"
"No, it's ... well, it's a long story."
"Believe me, for this one I've got as long as it takes."
Then a beep and the Palavatar-lady asked me if I wished to go to automatic. I pressed Two for no.
"Your manually controlled call is being continued,” she said.
So I started telling Kelly the story. “See, I got this offer from a phone company and—"
The line buzzed static for a few seconds. Then the lady from Palavatar came back on. “Warning, your Palavatar pilot customer status is commercially confidential. Any communication about Palavatar via speech, text, or other symbolic medium is a breach of contract and may result in prosecution. Your call has been terminated."
Well, that told me.
Kelly rang me back, and this time I decided what the hell, let Palavatar sort it out, so I went to auto-reply when they offered me the option.
"You were just telling me about oral pleasure,” said Kelly.
"Right,” said Palavatar-me. “Except I was talking about ice cream, not, you know, anything amorous."
