Puss in D.C. and Other Stories

by Pamela Sargent

  “Until what?” Matt interrupted.

  “Until we get to someplace where we can find out what’s going on or until the lights come back on, but if you want my opinion, I don’t think they’re coming back on any time soon. And if anybody doesn’t have any rope, we can use sheets or something else, tie them to the rope. We can just keep going and if anybody changes their mind, they can belay themselves back home.”

  A giggle escaped Lydia. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but could not stop laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Olaf asked.

  “You’re getting hysterical,” Matt said; Lydia felt his breath on her face.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” She cleared her throat. “We’d look awfully silly if everything suddenly went back to normal, standing around out there in a line hanging on to a rope.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Olaf said, “but I’d rather do something instead of just sit around waiting for National Access to get its shit together. Anyway, this feels like a whole lot more than just National Access.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely more than that,” Gretchen added. “National recess,” she muttered.

  “Light that doesn’t show you anything,” Olaf said, “everything so black you can’t see a damn thing, and I’ve never heard it so quiet outside. It’s like we’re…like we’re…” He seemed to be struggling for words.

  “It’s like we’re completely cut off from certain wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum,” Matt said, “among other things.”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking anyway,” Matt said. Lydia heard the fear in his voice as he shifted his weight on the sofa. “Cellphones not working, radios not picking up anything, the cold, the thing with lights—” His voice trailed off. Lydia thought of the match she had struck in the kitchen.

  “Whatever it is,” Olaf said, “I figure we can go back to my house, get my wife and son, and belay down to the Blooms’ house.”

  “What about your next door neighbors?” Gretchen asked.

  “The Murrays? They flew out yesterday to visit his mother in Atlanta. Lucky for them, I guess.”

  “Unless this is affecting everybody,” Matt said. “Everywhere.”

  Lydia let that sink in. A worldwide catastrophe, she thought. What if they were trapped in this darkness forever? She swallowed hard. They could get out of here with Olaf. If something had really gone wrong, they would be better off in a group, She was pretty sure they had some rope in the garage to tie to Olaf’s, and she could throw in a couple of old sheets she had been meaning to tear up for rags.

  “Well, what about it?” Olaf said. “I gotta get back to Vicky and Lars. Vicky has a thing about the dark.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Gretchen said. “Can’t give you more rope, though. There isn’t any rope in my car.”

  “What about you?” Olaf said, and Lydia knew that he was referring to her and Matt.

  “Think I’ve got some rope in the garage,” Matt said.

  “Think you can find it?” Olaf asked.

  “Yeah. Just have to go through our kitchen and the laundry room, and it should be right next to the door.” Matt brushed against her as he stood up. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  “Don’t get lost,” Olaf said.

  “Don’t worry,” Matt replied, his voice farther away. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  “This blackout,” Gretchen said in a low voice. “It’s giving me the willies.”

  “You can say that again,” Olaf said, also keeping his voice low. “I gotta tell you, before I came over, Vicky tried to light a candle, just so we could have a little bit of light, and—” Somebody emitted a loud sniff. “It wasn’t working.”

  Lydia said, “The same thing happened to me.” She tried to repress the fear uncoiling inside her. “Your wife struck a match, but all she got was a small flame, a bit of light that didn’t illuminate anything else. I lit a match earlier, in the kitchen, and it didn’t give off any light at all except for this tiny flame.”

  “Know what I’m thinking?” Gretchen said. “I’m thinking of something Ernst Mach once said.”

  “Who?” Olaf said.

  “He was a physicist,” Lydia murmured. “I’m a reference librarian,” she continued by way of explanation. “That’s how I know things like that.”

  “Ernst Mach once said that gravity might be our experience of some large motion of the universe as a whole.” Gretchen paused. “So in that case, light might be affected if there was any change in that motion.”

  Lydia said, “Maybe the change is in us.”

  “What do you mean?” Gretchen asked.

  “Paul Valery once speculated that our universe is the plan of a deep symmetry, one that’s somehow present in the inner structure of our minds.”

  “Who the hell is Paul Valery?” Olaf asked.

  “He was a French poet and philosopher,” Lydia replied. “Wrote that in his Cahiers—uh, his notebooks.” That was yet another piece of knowledge she had acquired that now had no function except to feed her fears.

  Gretchen and Olaf were silent. Lydia strained to hear something in the silence, but the darkness seemed to have muffled sound as effectively as it had doused light. The air seemed thicker, too, as if a fog had formed around her.

  Space was not empty. Their human senses deluded them into thinking space was empty when in fact it was full. Space and time were constructs of the human mind, and now their minds were failing them. Everything outside them was as it had always been; it was just that they could no longer impose their mental constructs on it.

  She was imagining things again, being too suggestible. She pressed her hands together, trying to warm her fingers against the cold.

  “Thought he said he’d be back in a second,” Olaf said. The words came from him slowly, and the pitch of his voice was even lower.

  Lydia longed to call out to Matt, but restrained herself. She suddenly feared that if she opened her mouth to say anything, she would start screaming. She sat back, struggling to calm herself. Whatever was happening, there had to be somebody, somewhere, who was already trying to get help to anyone trapped in this darkness.

  “Found the rope.” She could barely hear Matt’s voice. “And a couple of long cords, too.” He had to be talking about the electrical cords he used with his clippers when he pruned the hedge. “Must be at least thirty or forty feet in all.” He sounded closer now. “But—”

  Lydia took a breath. The air had taken on substance; she felt as though she were inhaling a soft, cool mist.

  “But what?” Olaf said, his voice now a bass.

  “I’m not…going with…you,” Matt replied in a baritone.

  Another long silence ensued. “You’re not…going with me?”

  “We’re…staying…here,” Matt said.

  That was like Matt, speaking for her as well as himself. Lydia wanted to object, but there was no point in arguing with him, and also no reason why she could not leave with the others and without him.

  “You…sure?” Olaf asked.

  Lydia stretched out her arms and hit an obstacle. “Matt?” she said. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  She felt around and touched something that felt like coiled cord. “Give me the rope.”

  “What?”

  “Give me the rope.” A long moment passed before the coil was thrust into her hands. She got up, working hard to stand, struggling with the weight of the rope. “Olaf?”

  “Over here.” By the sound of his voice, he was still near the door. She moved toward him, bumped into the coffee table, stepped back, then crept toward the entrance. Something suddenly slammed against her arm. “Sorry,” Olaf said.

  “Here’s the rope.” She held out the coil; the invisible man relieved
her of its weight.

  “Thanks,” Olaf said in an even deeper bass voice. “Now I’m heading outside. Got the end of my rope tied to the railing around your front steps.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Gretchen’s voice, nearly as deep as Olaf’s, was closer. There was the sound of the door opening. Lydia stood still, uncertain, searching the darkness for some sign of light.

  “Lydia,” Matt called out.

  “Are you coming?” Olaf asked. She hesitated. “Well?”

  “I can’t leave Matt,” she said at last.

  “You there, Miz Duhamel?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Grab my arm. Okay, I’m gonna take the steps real slow.” Lydia heard the dull thud of a foot on the steps; a long time passed before she heard another. For a moment, she thought she glimpsed the shimmering of a soft glow in the sky, and then it was gone.

  She backed inside and struggled to push the massive door shut, surprised at how much effort it took.

  “Lydia?” Matt said.

  She shuffled slowly toward him. The cold air was congealing around her. She struggled across the room, wondering why Matt seemed so far away. “Matt?” The thickened air flowed into her mouth and into her lungs. “Matt?”

  “Lydia?” His voice was as deep as Olaf’s had been. “Are…you…still here?”

  “Yes.” She tried to swim toward him, but the air was beginning to jell around her arms and legs. She thought of Olaf and Gretchen and wondered if they were still towing themselves toward Olaf’s house along the rope or were already trapped outside on the steps.

  “I’m…glad…you…stayed.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but was already embedded in the thick, frigid darkness; motion was frozen.

  She wanted to say it, but the words escaped her.

  “Matt,” she whispered, and her voice was as deep as his had been.

  Her hand clawed through the solidifying darkness and clutched his as everything stopped.

  Afterword to “The True Darkness”

  “The True Darkness” was the second story of mine to be inspired by a power failure. The first, “The Old Darkness,” was written in the early 1980s by candlelight during a blackout, but this one came after a series of power failures in our neighborhood, caused by a combination of aging infrastructure and unusually severe storms. There’s nothing like a power failure, especially one that goes on for a while (hours, days, or even longer than that) to remind those of us who are fortunate enough to live in a technological society of our own fragility and vulnerability.

  One of my favorite comments about “The True Darkness” came from an online reviewer who pointed out that the story admirably passes the Bechdel test. In case you’re unfamiliar with this notion, the Bechdel test, named after cartoonist Alison Bechdel (who first became known for her comic strip Dykes To Watch Out For), asks if a movie or other work of fiction has at least two female characters who talk to each other about something other than a man. I wasn’t thinking of the Bechdel test when I wrote the story, but it’s surprising how many fictional narratives—movies are the most egregious offenders, but not the only ones—fail the test.

  ABOUT PAMELA SARGENT

  Pamela Sargent has won the Nebula and Locus Awards, been a finalist for the Hugo Award, Theodore Sturgeon Award, and Sidewise Award, and was honored in 2012 with the Pilgrim Award, given for lifetime achievement in science fiction and fantasy scholarship, by the Science Fiction Research Association.

  She is the author of the science fiction novels Cloned Lives, The Sudden Star, Watchstar, The Golden Space, The Alien Upstairs, Alien Child, The Shore of Women, and Venus of Dreams, as well as the alternative history Climb the Wind. Ruler of the Sky, her historical novel about Genghis Khan, was a bestseller in Germany and Spain. She also edited the Women of Wonder anthologies, the first collections of science fiction by women.

  Her young adult novel Earthseed, selected as a Best Book for Young Adults by the American Library Association, was followed by Farseed and Seed Seeker. Earthseed is in development by Paramount Pictures, with Melissa Rosenberg, scriptwriter for all five “Twilight” films, set to write and produce through her Tall Girls Productions. Her latest novel is the forthcoming Season of the Cats from Wildside Press.

  Her short fiction has appeared in magazines and anthologies including The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s SF Magazine, New Worlds, World Literature Today, Amazing Stories, Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone Magazine, Universe, Nature, and Polyphony. Her short story “The Shrine” was produced for the syndicated TV anthology series Tales from the Darkside, recently re-released on DVD. Her work is available in electronic editions from Open Road Media (www.openroadmedia.com) and Gollancz’s SF Gateway (www.sfgateway.com) as well as Wildside Press (www.wildsidepress.com).

  Michael Moorcock has said about her writing: “If you have not read Pamela Sargent, then you should make it your business to do so at once. She is in many ways a pioneer, both as a novelist and as a short story writer.… She is one of the best.”

  Pamela Sargent lives in Albany, New York and her website can be found at www.pamelasargent.com.

  ALSO BY PAMELA SARGENT

  Novels

  Cloned Lives

  The Sudden Star

  The Golden Space

  The Alien Upstairs

  The Shore of Women

  Alien Child

  Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

  Climb the Wind: A Novel of Another America

  The Watchstar Trilogy:

  Watchstar

  Eye of the Comet

  Homesmind

  The Venus Trilogy:

  Venus of Dreams

  Venus of Shadows

  Child of Venus

  The Seed Trilogy:

  Earthseed

  Farseed

  Seed Seeker

  Short Fiction COLLECTIONS

  Starshadows

  The Best of Pamela Sargent

  Behind the Eyes of Dreamers

  The Mountain Cage and Other Stories

  Eye of Flame and Other Fantasies

  Thumbprints

  Dream of Venus and Other Stories

  Nonfiction

  Firebrands: The Heroines of Science Fiction and Fantasy (with Ron Miller)

  Star Trek Novels (with George Zebrowski)

  A Fury Scorned (The Next Generation)

  Heart of the Sun (The Original Series)

  Across the Universe ((The Original Series)

  Garth of Izar (The Original Series)

  ABOUT ELEANOR ARNASON

  Eleanor Arnason has published six novels and more than forty works of short fiction, all science fiction or fantasy. She won the James Tiptree, Jr. Award and the Mythopoeic Award for her novel A Woman of the Iron People. Her most recent book publication is Hidden Folk, a collection of fantasies based on Icelandic literature and folklore.