Asimov's SF, September 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “I don't care if the whole polo team was out there! You don't go near the screen cage without an adult—namely me—supervising!"

  Dimitri closed his eyes. There'd been no physical punishment, but the memory of Dad's fury had kept him from going near the screen cage again. He hadn't even asked Dad to bring him here to play. Now he was inside the cage, without even a buddy, trying to save Dad.

  Boy, would he look stupid if Dad was somewhere else altogether. Boy, would he get grounded, probably till he was thirty.

  He pulled the hatch shut behind him and took a slow, deliberate breath, then kicked off toward the pipes. He came in a good five meters below their tops, watching the water above them the whole while.

  Small specks—anything littler than a centimeter—drifted in the water. Dimitri saw the bulk of the nearest intake pipe looming in his peripheral vision as he neared it. He felt forward with his hands, still watching the water above. Suddenly the specks all flew downward and the distant thrum of the filters vibrated through the water.

  Dimitri winced, imagining he felt the draw even though he knew he was well below it. He scrabbled at the pipe, trying to find a handhold, while his hindbrain counted.

  One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee...

  After ten seconds the draw stopped. Dimitri gave a small sigh of relief.

  “You all right?” asked the dispatcher.

  “Yeah."

  “I know this is scary."

  Yeah. Shut up.

  He found a runner rail on the outside of the pipe and clipped an anchor line from his harness to it, then glanced overhead, looking for the number on the pipe. Six. He needed to be one pipe over, and two rows down. Kicking off, he clipped to the next pipe and released the first clip.

  The intakes sucked water again, and this time he forced himself to keep moving. He worked his way back to pipe twenty-seven, doubling his clips until the draw stopped. When he reached twenty-seven he clipped all of the harness's anchors to the two rails he could reach, and began to spider his way up the pipe.

  Two meters from the top the pipe throbbed under him as the draw started again. Unprepared, he let out a small sound.

  “You okay?” asked the dispatcher at once.

  Dimitri closed his eyes. “Yeah."

  “Why don't you drink some water? That might help."

  “Um, okay. Maybe you could talk to me?"

  “Sure. You know the team will be there in just a few more minutes. Nothing to worry about."

  Dimitri lowered the volume until he could barely hear her in the background, and continued to the top of the pipe where the other grappling harness—or rather, the two frayed straps that were left of it—hung dangling. Seeing them made him start breathing fast again, and he muted his com output so the dispatcher wouldn't hear.

  The draw stopped. Dimitri poked his head over the top of the pipe, aiming his lamps down inside.

  Torn harness straps drifted from one of the interior runner rails. A dark shape lay against the next screen, ten meters down.

  Dad. Not moving.

  A lilt of inquiry in the dispatcher's voice caught Dimitri's attention. He pulled his head back from the pipe and took his com output off mute, then raised the input volume.

  “Huh?"

  “I said where was your dad the last time you saw him?"

  “Uh—he went out on his maintenance rounds. They should check the intake pipes at the plant. There was something on the maintenance log."

  The draw started, tugging at him hard, this close. He cringed against the pipe and worked his way down it a bit, hand over hand on the runner rail. His heart was thundering.

  “Okay, they can check that. Don't worry. Just stay calm."

  Dimitri swallowed. “Yeah. Thanks."

  He muted the output again. When the draw stopped, he would have twenty seconds to get to the inside of the pipe and clip his harness to the rails. He unclipped all but two of his leads now, and noticed his hands were shaking.

  He put a hand to the pony bottle to make sure it was still on his belt. The draw stopped and he worked his way up to the top edge of the pipe again. He reached one arm over and clipped the first harness anchor to the inner rail. He'd done two when something dark came at him from the side.

  Turning his head brought his lamps to bear on the dagger-filled maw of a shark.

  “Aahh!"

  He yanked the pony bottle from his belt, grazing his hand on the clip, and shoved it with all his might into the shark's nose. The shark swerved away, into the darkness.

  Dimitri turned, dangling against the pipe, his lamps sweeping wildly as he tried to see the shark. He glimpsed a dark shape not far off, turning, coming around.

  Sobbing, he gripped the slippery sides of the pony bottle, ready to hit the shark again. It came toward him, waggling from side to side, sneering with all those horrible teeth.

  The pipe against him thrummed to life. The shark disappeared, sucked down into another pipe, straight through the screen over its top, which wasn't meant to resist anything as massive as a shark.

  Or a man.

  Dimitri grabbed at the rail as the leads he'd clipped to the inside of the pipe yanked at him. He clung against the rail with one hand and hugged the pony bottle to him with the other, then closed his eyes, gasping as he fought down the panic.

  Stupid. He shouldn't have come out. He was just going to get himself killed along with Dad.

  How the hell had that shark gotten in here?

  Through the open access hatch. Now it was down in another pipe, and another screen had been breached. That was going to cost some money to fix.

  Never mind. Not his problem. He had to get to Dad.

  The draw stopped, and he unclenched his hand from the runner rail. Before he could think about it too much he swung himself over and into the pipe, through the torn screen, and started clipping more of his anchors to the inside rail. He paused to clip the pony bottle to his belt again, then with shaking hands anchored all his leads.

  It actually hurt to unclip the last two from the outside of the pipe. He was going to get sucked down, he knew. The harness should keep him from being pulled down too far, but then, Dad's harness should have kept Dad from going into the pipe at all.

  The dispatcher's voice was a drone in the back of his head as he worked his way downward, clinging to the rail. She sounded pretty excited, but Dimitri didn't have time to calm her down. He shut off the volume completely so he could concentrate.

  Halfway to his dad the draw began. A strap whipped his arm and the suction pulled him from the rail before he could tighten his grip. He dangled in the harness, the straps digging into his back and shoulders, straining against the intense pressure of the intake as he stared at the top of the pipe above him.

  It stopped after what seemed like a whole minute. Gasping, Dimitri regained the runner rails and struggled downward again until he reached the next screen, where his father lay unmoving.

  Dimitri pulled his father onto his side. A glance at the tank gauge showed him that it loomed just over empty. He swapped in the pony bottle and made sure it was delivering, then shook his father by the shoulders.

  “Dad!"

  No response. Dimitri checked the vitals readout on the wrist display of his father's wetsuit. Pulse—slow but there. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't conscious either.

  Draw.

  The pull slammed him into his father, slammed them both into the screen. Dimitri cried out. His leg, which was against the screen, felt like it was going to get mashed right through it. His brain shut down except for the part that kept crazily counting chimpanzees.

  When he got to eleven the draw stopped. There were only supposed to be ten chimpanzees, but probably he wasn't thinking too straight. Maybe adrenaline made you count fast.

  Sobbing, he took his dad's face between his hands. Dad's eyes were closed. Dimitri's hand brushed an unfamiliar shape at the back of the wetsuit.

  A lump. A lump on dad's skull the size of an
oyster.

  Dimitri gave a moan, then scrambled to fasten Dad into the harness with him, using some of the anchor straps. It would put more strain on the rest of the anchors, but he couldn't think of what else to do.

  He started up the runner rails with the five anchors he had left and his father dangling behind him. He was not quite halfway up when the draw started again.

  Prepared this time, he managed to cling to the runner rails at first but the dead weight of his father dragging on him pried his fingers from the rails. The anchor straps snapped taut with a sharp jerk. Dimitri stared helplessly at the clip ends. The clips would hold, but even the heavy duty straps weren't meant to take the load of two people.

  Seven chimpanzee. Eight...

  His teeth were chattering and he clenched them to stop it. When the draw ended he scrambled up the rail as fast as he could, pulling the anchor lines up, clamping them, pull, clamp.

  He'd stopped looking up and was surprised when he reached the top of the pipe. Beams of light were dancing in the water overhead. He started to laugh, then remembered he wasn't out yet.

  He unclipped an anchor, reached over the edge to clip it to the outside, and the draw took him.

  He tried to keep his arm over the edge but the draw was pulling at him, the edge of the pipe cutting into his arm, he couldn't hold it. He tried to shift and lost his grip.

  Down into the pipe again, water pulling at Dad pulling at him pulling at the harness and he could feel it starting to give, then he swung against the side of the pipe, bashing his head.

  Okay, that's what happened.

  His ears were ringing and his head felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. He closed his eyes.

  Nine chimpanzee. Ten.

  He floated, relieved. In a minute the draw would start up again. There was something he ought to be doing, but he couldn't quite remember what. He was just so tired. And anyway, he was drifting up. The harness was pulling him. Maybe they were going up to heaven.

  * * * *

  Dimitri woke into silence. He didn't recognize where he was at first, but after a minute he started to remember and realized he was in the Pacific City med center.

  He sat up. Something beeped. A pretty blonde medic came in the open doorway and smiled.

  “Feeling better?"

  “I guess."

  Actually, now that he thought about it, he was aching all over. He rubbed at one shoulder. The medic checked the array on the wall by the bed, then nodded.

  “You're doing fine. Gave us a slight scare there. You got a pretty good clock on the head."

  “H-how's my dad?"

  She smiled again, softly this time. “Very well, considering. He's right next door. Want to visit him?"

  “Yeah."

  She reached out to help him from the bed. He let her—it was easier than arguing. His head swam a little and he was glad for her supporting arm as they walked to the next room.

  Dad lay unmoving in the darkened room. He hardly looked like he was breathing at all, but the readouts on the array beside him were flickering. The medic leaned over them for a closer look. All Dimitri could look at was Dad.

  Why did he look smaller? Was it all the medical stuff around him? Or just the paleness of his skin?

  The medic brushed against the bed and Dad's eyes flickered open. They fixed on Dimitri and a slight frown creased Dad's forehead.

  Oh, no. He doesn't remember me. He's got a—a concussion or something worse, and he'll never be the same.

  Dimitri swallowed and tried to smile. “H-hi, Dad."

  His father blinked a couple of times. “I understand you saved my life."

  Not knowing what to say, Dimitri gave a half shrug, half nod. “I guess."

  “You came into the screen cage."

  Here it comes.

  Dimitri braced himself and nodded. His father stared flatly at him for an endless minute.

  “What took you so long?"

  Startled, Dimitri opened his mouth, but before he could say anything he was yanked into his dad's arms. It hurt his sore shoulders, but he didn't mind.

  He didn't mind one bit.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Pati Nagle

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  A MEETING OF MINDS

  by Karin L. Frank

  You follow your geodesic.

  I follow mine.

  The fact that we are

  both “freely falling”

  does not mean

  that we agree.

  A little locally

  appropriate acceleration

  is needed

  and even, perhaps,

  a change of inertial frame.

  —Karin L. Frank

  Copyright (c) 2007 Karin L. Frank

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  BY FOOLS LIKE ME

  by Nancy Kress

  Nancy Kress will have three new books out next year: an SF novel from Tor, a collection of short stories from Golden Gryphon Press, and another short novel from Tachyon. In her latest story for us, she takes a chilling look at the fires the future could hold.

  Hope creeps quietly into my bedroom without knocking, peering around the corner of the rough doorjamb. I'm awake; sleep eludes me so easily now. I know from the awful smell that she has been to the beach.

  “Come in, child, I'm not asleep."

  “Grandma, where's Mama and Papa?"

  “Aren't they in the field?” The rains are late this year and water for the crops must be carried in ancient buckets from the spring in the dell.

  “Maybe. I didn't see them. Grandma, I found something."

  “What, child?"

  She gazes at me and bites her lip. I see that this mysterious find bothers her. Such a sensitive child, though sturdy and healthy enough, God knows how.

  “I went to the beach,” she confesses in a rush. “Don't tell Mama! I wanted to dig you some trunter roots because you like them so much, but my shovel went clunk on something hard and I ... I dug it up."

  “Hope,” I reprimand, because the beach is full of dangerous bits of metal and plastic, washed up through the miles of dead algae on the dead water. And if a soot cloud blows in from the west, it will hit the beach first.

  “I'm sorry,” she says, clearly lying, “but, Grandma, it was a metal box and the lock was all rusted and there was something inside and I brought it here."

  “The box?"

  “No, that was too heavy. The ... just wait!"

  No one can recognize most of the bits of rusted metal and twisted plastic from before the Crash. Anything found in a broken metal box should be decayed beyond recognition. I call “Hope! Don't touch anything slimy—” but she is already out of earshot, running from my tiny bedroom with its narrow cot, which is just blankets and pallet on a rope frame to keep me off the hard floor. It doesn't; the old ropes sag too much, just as the thick clay walls don't keep out the heat. But that's my fault. I close the window shutters only when I absolutely have to. Insects and heat are preferable to dark. But I have a door, made of precious and rotting wood, which is more than Hope or her parents have on their sleeping alcoves off the house's only other room. I expect to die in this room.

  Hope returns, carrying a bubble of sleek white plastic that fills her bare arms. The bubble has no seams. No mold sticks to it, no sand. Carefully she lays the thing on my cot.

  Despite myself, I say, “Bring me the big knife and be very careful, it's sharp."

  She gets the knife, carrying it as gingerly as an offering for the altar. The plastic slits more readily than I expected. I peel it back, and we both gasp.

  I am the oldest person on Island by two decades, and I have seen much. Not of the world my father told me about, from before the Crash, but in our world now. I have buried two husbands and five children, survived three great sandstorms and two years where the rains didn't come at all, planted and first-nursed a sacred tree, served six times at the altar. I have seen much, but I h
ave never seen so much preserved sin in one place.

  “What ... Grandma ... what is that?"

  “A book, child. They're all books."

  “Books?” Her voice holds titillated horror. “You mean ... like they made before the Crash? Like they cut down trees to make?"

  “Yes."

  “Trees? Real trees?"

  “Yes.” I lift the top one from the white plastic bubble. Firm thick red cover, like ... dear God, it's made from the skin of some animal. My gorge rises. Hope mustn't know that. The edges of the sin are gold. My father told me about books, but not that they could look like this. I open it.

  “Oh!” Hope cried. “Oh, Grandma!"

  The first slate—no, first page, the word floating up from some childhood conversation—is a picture of trees, but nothing like the pictures children draw on their slates. This picture shows dozens of richly colored trees, crowded together, each with hundreds of healthy, beautifully detailed green leaves. The trees shade a path bordered with glorious flowers. Along the path runs a child wearing far too many wraps, following a large white animal dressed in a wrap and hat and carrying a small metal machine. At the top of the picture, words float on golden clouds: Alice in Wonderland.

  “Grandma! Look at the—Mama's coming!"

  Before I can say anything, Hope grabs the book, shoves it into the white bubble, and thrusts the whole thing under my cot. I feel it slide under my bony ass, past the sag that is my body, and hit the wall. Hope is standing up by the time Gloria crowds into my tiny room.

  “Hope, have you fed the chickens yet?"

  “No, Mama, I—"

  Gloria reaches out and slaps her daughter. “Can't I trust you to do anything?"

  “Please, Gloria, it's my fault. I sent her to see if there's any more mint growing in the dell."

  Gloria scowls. My daughter-in-law is perpetually angry, perpetually exhausted. Before my legs gave out, when I could still do a full day's work, I used to fight back. The Island is no more arid, the see-oh-too no higher, for Gloria than for anyone else. She has borne no more stillborn children than have other women, has endured no fewer soot clouds. But now that she and my son must feed my nearly useless body, I try not to anger her too much, not to be a burden. I weave all day. I twist rope, when there are enough vines to spare for rope. I pretend to be healthier than I am.