Asimov's SF, September 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The orphidnet was teeming with helpful AI agents. They resembled flexible umbrellas patterned with eyes. After telling Jil what Mr. Kim thought a logoman was, the smart umbrellas began helping her design one. The AIs twisted themselves into diverse shapes, modeling possible Yoon Shoon logoman designs. Jil picked the versions she liked; the other agents contorted themselves into variations of the chosen shapes; Jil picked again; and so on. In a few minutes she'd evolved a lovable logoman that she decided to call Happy Shoon. Happy Shoon was a mix resembling a smiling athletic shoe, a dog with a floppy tongue, and a two-toothed Korean baby.

  The orphidnet agents instantiated Happy Shoon by loading his mesh onto a handy lump of Craigor's piezoplastic—and right away Happy Shoon began hopping and rolling around deck. Jil snapped out of the orphidnet to be all there for this. Bixie tossed a wooden block; Happy Shoon bounced over to retrieve it, his motions clownish enough to send the kids into gales of laughter.

  Although it was getting late, nobody felt like going to sleep. Momotaro and Bixie started playing hide and seek with Happy Shoon, and a virtual version of Chu showed up to join them.

  Moving around the deck rearranging things in the dark, Craigor watched the kids play. “The orphidnet is a locative planetary brain,” Craigor told Jil. “My possessions are embodied thoughts.” He paused, watching the orphidnet AIs. “The orphidnet doesn't have to be alienating. You can use it as a way to pay very close attention to the world. Its whole strength is that it's based on physical reality."

  While Craigor talked, Jil had made two more plastic Happy Shoon figures. And she launched a bunch of virtual Happy Shoons onto the net. Some of them stuck around to play hide and seek with Bixie, Momotaro, the plastic Happy Shoons, and Chu.

  Craigor loved feeling the real and the unreal swirling around him. After a bit, virtual Chu went away, replaced by Ond in the orphidnet. Ond had a favor to ask.

  “What?” said Craigor.

  “Can I come back there with Chu?” asked Ond. “Physically? I'm not safe in town. Everyone knows where I am all the time. They want to lynch me."

  “What about Nektar?” asked Craigor.

  “She—she left me for another man. She hates me for the orphids."

  “Poor Ond,” interjected Jil, who was listening in as well. “The orphids aren't all bad."

  “Can you please send the dinghy now?” said Ond. “We're almost at the Alviso dock. I'm being followed, but don't worry, I'll leave the boat before there's any danger to you. Chu and I just need a minute to catch our breath. And then we'll go—someplace else."

  “I'm loving the orphidnet,” said Craigor. “I have this sense of resonance and enrichment."

  “You're not seeing the flaming angels?” asked Ond. “From a parallel world?"

  An odd, unsettling question, that. As Craigor waited for the dinghy to return with Ond and Chu, he indeed started noticing shiny humanoid shapes. One second they'd be perched in the rigging of the boat, and the next they'd be lurking amid the cluttered boxes on the deck.

  “They're like those things you think you see out of the corner of your eye,” Craigor said to Jil. “And when you turn your head, nothing's there. Are you getting that too?"

  “I see them,” said little Bixie, peering across the water at the dinghy coming in. “I see the angels following Chu's little boat."

  “They built our world,” said Craigor, the words jumping unbidden into his head. “Oh, that's creepy. They told me to say that."

  “We built their world,” shot back Jil, quick as a knife. “I said that. Don't let them get to you, Craigor.” She had a quick mental image of two sheets of reality moving through each other; each of the parallel planes sparking the other with a flood of light.

  “Chu calls the angels’ world the Mirrorworld,” said Bixie. “He messaged me a magic spell for going there.” Bixie stood on tiptoe and called out to Chu in the dinghy. “Try and catch me, Chu!"

  The air flickered and Bixie disappeared.

  14.

  “She's in the Mirrorworld!” shouted Chu, climbing aboard the boat. “I have to go help her!"

  “What. Are. You. Talking about!” said Jil, grabbing the boy and shaking him. “What did you do to her?"

  “Back off,” said Ond, coming to his son's defense. He pried Jil's hands from Chu, who slid down to sit limply on the deck.

  “The angels live in the Mirrorworld,” said Chu, looking up at them. “They've always been coming here, but now we can see them better—thanks to the orphids. I found out how to teleport a person to the Mirrorworld. I didn't mean for Bixie to—"

  “How?” said Craigor grimly. “Tell us how!"

  “The orphidnet AIs and I did a timing channel attack on the disappearing cuttlefish,” began Chu. “And—"

  “More of your nonsense about cuttlefish?” snapped Jil, towering over him. “Where's Bixie, damn you!"

  “Hysteria isn't going to help,” said Ond. “Chu already gave me a link to the teleportation code. It looks like blue spaghetti and it sounds like chimes. I'll message the link to you right now, Jil. Got it? All right then. Now let Chu finish telling us how the code works."

  “The angels stop thinking about themselves for a second,” said Chu, looking very small and uncomfortable amidst the grown-ups’ legs. “And then they concentrate on the code and—"

  Chu disappeared too.

  “You stay here, Craigor,” said Jil. “Take care of Momotaro. And Ond, you come with me. This is all your fault, you know. You ruined the world and now I've lost my little girl. People are right to want to lynch you."

  As if echoing Jil's words, some people began yelling for Ond from the shore. An outboard motor sputtered and roared into life. Spotlights lit the water.

  “Yes, I'll come to the Mirrorworld,” said Ond. “That was my plan anyway. To hide there with Chu."

  “So, okay then, Doctor Ubergeek,” said Jil, relenting a bit. “We space out and we slam the code? Like meditating before doing a line of pseudocoke, huh?"

  Jil began trying to make the jump. She could see the tangled blue spaghetti and hear the ringing of the chimes. But she remained stubbornly aboard the Merz Boat.

  “We have to let go of our internal monologues,” suggested Ond. “Focus on the spaces between our thoughts."

  Normally, that wouldn't be all that hard for Jil, but just now, sick with worry about Bixie, it was tough. Desperately casting about, she thought of the Zen koan where the teacher holds up a stick and says, “If you call this a mere stick, you deny its Buddha nature. If you don't call it a stick, you're lying. What do you call it? Quick!"

  Jil broke the stick. She was neither here nor there, neither now nor then, not inside, not out. The chiming blue spaghetti buried her and—hello!

  She was in the Mirrorworld, with Chu and Ond beside her, floating amidst gauzy white mist. Yes, the place looked like heaven, with mounds and castles of clouds and pyramidal rays of light, but the three of them were the only angels here. Had they died? Where were the Mirrorworlders? And where was Bixie?

  Over and over Jil called her daughter's name until finally—

  “I'm right here,” came the sweet voice from a cute, puffy cloud directly overhead. A moan of relief escaped Jil; she stretched up her arms and Bixie dropped into her embrace.

  “It's fun here,” said Bixie, nestling on Jil's shoulder, just the right size. “I can fly. I'm glad you came, Mommy. I was lonely."

  “I want to take you home now,” said Jil, hoping this was possible. The orphids on Jil's skin were inactive, if they were still present at all. Certainly the links to Earth's orphidnet weren't working here. So how would she access that magic blue spaghetti code?

  Anxiously Jil regarded Ond and Chu. They were peering down through a hole in the clouds at a landscape not all that far below them.

  “Hi, Bixie,” said Chu, glancing over at them. He favored Bixie with one of his rare smiles.

  “Can we go back?” Jil asked Chu.

  “Probably,” said Chu. “
I know the code by heart now. I simplified it. The blue spaghetti pattern was just a special kind of knot.” He rummaged in his pants pocket and found a piece of string. “I can make the knot. It'll take a minute."

  Leaning over the gap in the clouds, Jil saw a town something like San Jose, California, as if seen from an airplane heading in for a landing. The south San Francisco Bay geography was the same, but the city sprawl was gone. Grassy paths had replaced the freeways; the buildings were organic shapes like giant sea shells and thick-trunked trees. And, although it was hard to be sure from up here, in their home world the “angel” Mirrorworlders looked to be regular people in colorful clothes.

  “I'm thinking they have a completely different style of technology from us,” mused Ond. “Genomics and psionics instead of mechanics and electronics. I bet they grow their houses from seeds, and that they're in telepathic contact with each other. We'll fly down and check it all out, Chu."

  “Won't they chase after us?” asked Chu. His fingers were weaving his piece of string into an intricate Celtic-style knot.

  “Symmetry indicates that we'll be the ones who look like angels in the Mirrorworld,” said Ond. “Glowing, hovering, hard to see. We'll haunt the locals, we'll make some heavy appearances. First of all we pay back that Mirrorworlder who was poking you, Chu. Teach her some religion! We'll get concessions, make some live-and-let-live deals. I figure to spend a few years here—till things back home calm down. Will you keep me company, son?"

  “Okay,” said Chu, slowly. “But I'll miss the orphidnet a lot. I liked being so smart. I liked the beezies.” Clasping the partly knotted string, he held his fingers up close to his eyes. “Our skin-orphids aren't doing anything anymore."

  “Fine structure constant!” exclaimed Ond. “A different value here. Good-bye electronics; farewell, molecular quantum computers."

  “Boring,” said Chu.

  “Hey, but we're angels now,” said Ond. “Angels kick butt."

  “Maybe,” said Chu, working one end of the string over and under a series of loops. “But we mustn't listen too much if the Mirrorworlders ask us things. They might decohere us and flip us back to Earth."

  “We're good at not listening,” said Ond, patting his son's shoulder. “We're geeks."

  “Can Bixie and I go home now?” said Jil. “Craigor and Momotaro will be worried sick."

  “I hope you're not angry about the orphids covering Earth,” said Ond. “Maybe they were a mistake. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

  “Oh, don't beat yourself up,” said Jil, feeling pity for the awkward man and his odd son. “We'll all adjust. People never really change. Is your magic knot ready, Chu?"

  “Ready,” said Chu, delicately tying together the two loose ends of his intricately woven loop of string. “Stare at this as if it were the blue spaghetti. And feel it with your fingers. That'll take the place of the chimes."

  “Me first,” said Bixie.

  Chu smiled, holding out his knot for her to touch.

  “See you later."

  Copyright © 2006 Rudy Rucker

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  ON BOOKS

  by Paul Di Filippo

  Introduction

  As I write these words, 2005 is drawing to a close, and I'm contemplating an enormous pile of wonderful small-press books, so far left unreviewed. But as you read these words, 2006 is well underway. Yet are these offerings, up to a year old, irrelevant and out-of-date? Hardly! They're all still available, and worthy of your consideration, as they begin what will hopefully be long satisfying shelf lives for their writers and readers alike.

  Longtime, observant readers of this column will note that starting with this installment, I've abandoned printing the snailmail addresses of the publishers. Nearly every one has an online presence, making your job and mine much easier.

  Faces Behind the Books

  Before moving into the actual reviews, I'd like to talk a minute about the editors at the small presses who produce your favorite reading material. It looks like the Hugo Awards have chosen to split out magazine editors and book editors into two separate award categories. And while Big Names like David Hartwell at Tor or Lou Anders at Pyr come readily to mind as candidates for the new prize, those who labor at smaller scales should not be neglected for their fine work.

  I'd mention, just off the top of my head:

  Sean Wallace, Juha Lindroos, and John Betancourt at Wildside/Prime/ Cosmos.

  Gary Turner and Marty Halpern at Golden Gryphon.

  Patrick and Honna Swenson at Fairwood Press.

  Deborah Layne, Jay Lake, and Forrest Aguirre at Wheatland.

  Pete Crowther and Nick Gevers at PS Publishing.

  Jacob Weisman at Tachyon.

  Chris Roberson at Monkey Brains.

  Gavin Grant and Kelly Link at Small Beer.

  Jean-Marc Lofficier and Randy Lofficier at Black Coat.

  And, last but certainly not least, Jason Williams at Night Shade.

  The next time you enjoy a small press title, take a moment to annotate the editor's name, and then think about them when the Hugo preliminary ballots roll around!

  Sequential Art

  In science, a failed experiment indicates a lousy thesis. But in the arts, crashing and burning might also be a sign of being ahead of the times. Such was the case with Barry Windsor-Smith and his anthology series called Storyteller. This oversized, deluxe “comic” ran for nine issues in the late 1990s, and consisted of an episode each of three ongoing series in every issue. The storytelling was impeccable, the presentation marvelous. But lack of publicity, a slightly higher price-point, and inertia and timidity among comics-readers doomed the book to extinction.

  However, thanks to Fantagraphics, we will now see the entire contents of Storyteller reassembled and reprinted in a format befitting their magnificence. The first volume, 2003's Young Gods & Friends (hardcover, $29.95, unpaginated, ISBN 1-56097-491-5), collected all the strips concerning a group of wayward deities whose most charming and scary member was the bumptious Princess Adastra. The second volume, The Freebooters (hardcover, $29.95, unpaginated, ISBN 1-56097-662-4), is sword-and sorcery centering around a gone-to-seed barbarian named Axus. The third volume, The Paradoxman, is SF, and due out this year.

  Windsor-Smith is artist and scripter here, and he excels at both tasks. His art displays a unique, masterful style that nonetheless echoes both fine-art influences such as Art Nouveau and the pre-Raphaelites, and fellow comics geniuses such as Winsor McKay and Walt Simonson. (Young Gods is dedicated to Jack Kirby, for instance, probably as a nod to Kirby's “Fourth World” creations.) Having devised three separate troupes of vivid characters (who cross over into each other's universe at certain points), Windsor-Smith turns them loose and follows them in dreamy, meandering, but always intriguing fashion (much the way that Bradbury once dictated that plot should consist of “following a character's footprints in the snow"). The dialogue is charming and insouciant, the imagery is gorgeous, and the combination is like inhabiting a dreamscape blending E.R. Eddison, Robert E. Howard, and Thorne Smith.

  These volumes are also filled with generous ancillary material, including never-before-seen strips and insights into Windsor-Smith's creative process. So while we can lament that Windsor-Smith never got to complete these three sagas as envisioned, we can glory anew in what he did achieve.

  Perhaps you recall me raving about Lewis Trondheim's Astronauts of the Future (2004). Now comes more from the French artist-writer, this time in collaboration with Joann Sfar; both books are from publisher NBM. Dungeon Volume 1: Duck Heart (trade paper, $14.95, unpaginated, ISBN 1-56163-401-8) and Dungeon Volume 2: The Barbarian Princess (trade paper, $14.95, unpaginated, ISBN 1-56163-421-2) both tell the story of the eponymous Keep, a place run by a money-grubbing, selfish avian businessman and designed solely to fleece adventurers of all their worldly goods, while killing them in the process. The place is inhabited by an assorted cast of wizards and monsters an
d functionaries, but most importantly by our two heroes: Herbert, a duck-turned-warrior, and Marvin, a bipedal, vegetarian dragon.

  From this précis, I think you can see that the setup is comedic in nature, and Trondheim and Sfar score innumerable laughs. Their dialogue is laden with Marx Brothers non-sequiturs ("Wait for what? For you to be less stupid?"), their simple yet clever and detailed artwork perfectly captures sight gags and emotions alike, and their plotting is manic. The whole series reminds me of Sergio Aragones's classic Groo, and deserves a place on the shelf of any lover of sword-and-sorcery or parody or both.

  The rudely but accurately titled F*ck Off and Die (Savoy Books, hardcover, £30.00, 160 pages, ISBN 0-86130-113-7) is the latest bilious, cathartic blast from writer David Britton and artist Kris Guido. Stuffed to overflowing with B&W and color strips, this volume (with a blazing introduction by Alan Moore) features Britton's infamous troupe of characters: Meng and Ecker, Lord Horror, and La Squab. The latter is the true star of this volume. A foul-mouthed, violent, pre-pubescent girl, she mirrors, inspires, and parodies the current crop of media tartlets. Britton uses his cast to comment on politics, sex, and art, as well as the general sad state of humanity. His vituperation is scabrous but funny. What more can you say of someone whose idea of a book review of, say, Martin Amis, is to simply explode Amis's head? As for Guido's art, it reminds me more and more of that of S. Clay Wilson, with pages and scenes that alternate between meth-freak enjambed intensity and clean-lined iconography.

  Miscellaneous Titles

  Suzette Haden Elgin's The Science Fiction Poetry Handbook (Sam's Dot Publishing, trade paper, $11.95, 125 pages, ISBN 1-930847-81-5) fills a unique niche in the field, and does so admirably. While there are plenty of books for the aspiring writer of SF/F/H prose, there are few I've seen for poets who wish to deal in the fantastic. Elgin's book is a fine introduction to the rigors—and joys—of poetry creation and marketing, with a pronounced slant toward what makes SF verses special. The chapters progress clearly and logically, giving plenty of specific examples (from Elgin's own poems). Just when you're sated with theory, practicality takes over, and vice versa. The tone is warm and encouraging, not lofty and dismissive of beginner's efforts. The les-sons taught here would be valuable for any dealer in words, not just those who rank their output in stanzas.