Asimov's SF, June 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Father Jansen bowed his head. “I'm afraid so. The laboratory on Earth confirmed it."

  “My boy, my boy,” Henry said, pulling against his captors, trying to move toward José. “Why did you bring these monsters into my garden? Why?"

  José swallowed. Trident's Disease had been around since the Stepdock first came into use, a neurological disorder that struck the elderly, and over a period of ten years caused madness and eventually death. A small percentage were genetically predisposed to get it if they used the Stepdocks, which was why a genetic sample was now required before anyone could use the system. But that was now. In the early days no one knew about Trident's, and someone like Henry would have used the instantaneous transportation devices in ignorance of their possible side effects.

  Korin pulled a handheld out of his robe and pointed it at Henry. “There is a match,” he said, turning and walking back along the path, his red robe billowing behind him. “Bring him."

  The robots followed, dragging Henry along with them. The old man was beginning to thrash about again.

  “Please, boy! Don't let the monsters take me!"

  “What is his crime?” Father Jansen called after Korin. “You must tell me his crime!"

  But Korin didn't break stride and José heard the glass door open. The robots carried the screaming gardener out of his sanctuary. Father Jansen made a move to follow, and José grabbed his arm.

  “Don't make it worse, Father,” he said. “Henry was once part of the Resistance, a man known as Tiger Thomas. There's nothing we can do."

  Father Jansen jerked his arm away, his face flushed. “Impossible! Not the Henry I know!"

  “I'm afraid the evidence is there."

  Father Jansen shook his head. “Even if it is true, even if it is ... look at him. Just look at him. What's the point in taking him now? He doesn't even remember what he's done. Hasn't he suffered enough?"

  José didn't know what to say, and he didn't want Korin to leave him behind. “I'm sorry,” he said, hurrying after the Bal'ani.

  When he stepped into the building, he heard Henry's distant screaming echoing off the stone walls. As he ran, he passed dozens of orphans who were gathered at the doorways, their eyes wide and fearful. He wished he could say something to comfort them, but there was no time.

  The door to his pod was already closing when José reached it, and he dived inside. All the seats were occupied, so he squatted in the middle, catching his breath. There wasn't much space, knees pressing up against him on all sides.

  “He's come to rescue me!” Henry shouted. The robot next to him pinned him against the seat. Henry struggled to no avail.

  “You may stay if you wish,” Korin said to José. “I believe the situation is causing you emotional distress."

  “I'm fine,” José snapped, and instructed the pod to take them to the landing port.

  The pod rose up on its wheels and rumbled back down the street. José glanced through the back window and saw Father Jansen at the curb, dozens of children gathered around him, faces forlorn. “José!” Henry cried. “See, see? I do remember. I remember lots of things. I remember the time you came to my garden and you were crying. Do you remember? You said you hated Regence. You were quite upset, oh so many tears. Yes, that was you. I remember it perfectly."

  “Please, Henry,” José said. “Just be quiet. We'll be at the landing port soon."

  “Oh, Henry, is it?” the old man said, looking hurt. “You didn't used to call me Henry. You called me something else. It was a word of your world. What was it? I can't ... No...” He started crying. “So many words, lost."

  Valda, José thought. But he wouldn't say the word aloud. He had to be strong. It wasn't his fault that Henry had gotten into this situation.

  “What a quaint sentimental display,” Korin said, stroking the metal sheathing surrounding his fangs. “On our world we sometimes observe your theatrical presentations so we might better understand your peculiar emotional defects, but it is so much more vivid when seeing them in person."

  José said nothing. Henry started humming again, and José realized it wasn't one song but parts of many jumbled together. They were all songs of Regence, songs Henry sang to the children sick in the infirmary. He had sung them to José more than once.

  As the pod wound its way through the desolate streets, José agonized about what was happening. The old man might have been guilty of a crime, or he might have been a hero—it all depended on your point of view—but, whatever the case, it would do no good punishing him now. He was nothing but a shell of who he used to be.

  And yet, even if José could do something, was he willing to sacrifice his career, maybe even his life, to help Henry?

  He had a future. Even Henry—if he had all of his faculties intact—would have told him not to sacrifice himself. Hadn't the old man said as much on the day of José's graduation? There are times when a man of conscience must do what's in his own interest, even if it is not in the interest of his people, though it pains him greatly. José realized now that Henry had probably been trying to console himself for abandoning the Resistance. If he had done what was right for himself, why shouldn't José?

  But, as the pod came to an abrupt halt, José still felt as if he was making a mistake. Abandoning the Resistance and abandoning an old mentor were not at all the same. The robots carried the gardener out of the pod and around the terminal, Korin following. José's eyes tinted, but he did not raise his hood. Since Henry wore none, he did not feel he should, either. Henry's feet barely touched the ground, stirring up the dust. When the Agent's ominous ship came into view, Henry whimpered.

  “Your presence is no longer required,” Korin said, looking at José. “Thank you for your assistance. I assume you will send along my authorization card when you have a chance to process it."

  The Bal'ani's thank you only made José feel worse. And as he stopped on the sun-baked ground, so bright that it was like a mirror, he realized he could no longer pretend he was doing the right thing. It did not matter that it was the law. It did not matter that, if he acted, his ambitions would turn to dust. He sensed that if he did not act, that if he did nothing now, when it mattered most, his very self would be lost.

  And Korin's mention of the authorization card gave him a flash of inspiration.

  “I'm afraid I can't let you take him just yet,” José said.

  Korin, who had already walked a dozen paces away, stopped and turned. José noticed for the first time that the Bal'ani's robe was the same color as human blood.

  “Excuse me?"

  With Korin's hideousness completely exposed under the glare of the sun, the word norslim again jumped into José's mind. This time he did not force it away. Yes, the Agent was a norslim. It had nothing to do with his appearance and everything to do with what he represented. He was also granza. José would not deny either of these things, but neither would he fear them.

  “Is there something wrong with your hearing?” he said, smiling.

  “I heard you perfectly, Constable,” Korin said curtly. “What I don't understand is what kind of game you are playing."

  “It is no game,” José said. Despite his pounding heart, he walked toward the Bal'ani. “And unless you want to commit a serious violation of Unity law, I would suggest you tell your minions to take Henry no further."

  Korin stared at José for another beat, his eyes full of wrath, then turned and ordered his robots to stop. They froze, about to step onto the landing elevator. Only Henry, who was screaming and flailing, showed any movement. Korin looked back at José .

  “Explain yourself,” he said. “And I warn you, if I find that you are attempting to—"

  “Spare me your warnings,” José said, producing the Bal'ani's authorization card from his jacket. “You see, sir, your authorization card has not been processed. We are but a poor world with few resources, and we have no equipment that can process such a modern card. We, of course, will obtain that equipment, but it will take some time."
>
  “This is bureaucratic nonsense!” Korin cried. “You know as well as I that my card will check out!"

  “Oh?” José said. “You have some information I am not privy to, sir? I'm afraid I must follow the law, and the law clearly states that your authorization card must be cleared before you can act on behalf of the Unity Defense. Unless, of course, you wish to violate the law...."

  Korin fumed silently, his face twitching as if he were about to burst. There was a moment when José thought Korin was going to dispense with the law and kill José on the spot, but, after a few seconds, Korin signaled his sentries to return.

  “You realize you are only delaying the inevitable,” he said. “Once I clear this matter up with your superiors, I shall return and apprehend Thomas."

  José nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, taking his time, realizing that despite the danger, he was truly enjoying watching the Bal'ani squirm. “Are you worried a man with Trident's might be a flight risk? Or are you afraid he'll die before you get a chance to convict him?” And what he thought, but didn't say, was: who knew what would happen between now and then? It was entirely possible that when the Agent returned, Henry would be missing. It was also more than likely that if he was missing, he would not be found.

  Korin shook his head, ordered the robots to leave Henry, then turned and walked toward his ship. He didn't go far without offering one parting shot.

  “You are throwing away your future for a traitor,” he said.

  To this, José said nothing. He watched the Agent and his robots ride the elevator into their black ship. It was quite possible Korin was right. It may have been the greatest thing he had ever done, or it may have been the worst.

  “The monsters are leaving,” Henry said, his head bobbing. “They are leaving, José. Watch them go."

  Standing side by side as the ship lifted into the sky, that was exactly what they did. They watched as the hand of death soon became a tiny black dot, something small, something insignificant, until it was gone altogether, leaving the sky once again a perfect canvas of cobalt. José knew there was much to do before the Agents returned—communiqués to send to reporters, complaints to file with the appropriate authorities. He would make very certain that the Agents would be under heavy scrutiny when they returned. None of it would probably help José's future, but it would help spare Regence from the worst of the Agents’ wrath.

  But that was tomorrow's work.

  When the dust cleared, José took his old mentor by the arm and led him back toward the pod.

  “Let's get you home, Valda,” he said. “Your garden needs you."

  Copyright © 2006 Scott William Carter

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  * * *

  Growing Old the Mythic Way

  by Jane Yolen

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Green/Man Grown Old

  Wrists veined like leaves,

  Hair the color of flowers gone by,

  He bends with every passing wind.

  He can no longer lie with a lover,

  Nor dance inside the storm.

  Too much hails hurts his hide.

  The swollen river makes his right ankle seize up.

  He is always thirsty, even in the rain.

  Yet he does not complain.

  He does not complain.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Last Unicorn

  Others, like foxes, go to ground,

  But the last unicorn, whitened,

  Faded the color of old sheets hung

  On the trailer park line,

  Goes to the edge of the ocean.

  The tops of the waves are as white as he.

  Brothers, he thinks, sisters,

  And plunges in, not so much a death

  As a transfiguration.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  At Last, The Little Mermaid

  She no longer remembers the knives in her feet,

  Or the one in her hand, so close to his throat

  It might have pricked him without her meaning to.

  She no longer remembers the curse

  Or the cure or the painful interstices.

  All she remembers is foam, the bubbles rising,

  And the songs of angels,

  So like the murmuration of the sea.

  * * * *

  Jack, the Giant, and All After

  Two old men, playing chess, in a house of old men.

  As they play, a harp keeps them company.

  They share a history, though neither can recall it.

  One so large, his memories are all of sky.

  The other so small, he thinks all day of earth.

  Two old friends, sharing a game, whose complicated rules

  Are the only thing they can agree upon.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Troll Under Bridge

  It is almost dawn and the troll under the bridge

  Gets to his knees, crawls out through the thin water

  To the river bank. He is too old to catch billygoats,

  Too old to threaten children at their play.

  But he is not too old for one last thing:

  To stay out and watch the sun rise

  For the first time in his life—and the last.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Fairies in a Ring

  One more turn, dear friends, one more,

  And then we will be gone.

  No one believes in us you see,

  And all they want is lawn.

  —Jane Yolen

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Copyright © 2006 Jane Yolen

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  * * *

  Eight Episodes

  by Robert Reed

  Robert Reed's collection of short stories, The Cuckoo's Boys, was recently released by Golden Gryphon Press. It contains several tales that were originally published in Asimov's. In his latest story, he synopsizes a peculiar, and, at times, disquieting TV series that consists of...

  With minimal fanfare and next to no audience, Invasion of a Small World debuted in the summer of 2016, and after a brief and disappointing run, the series was deservedly shelved.

  One glaring problem was its production values: Computer animation had reached a plateau where reality was an easy illusion, spectacle was the industry norm, and difficult tricks like flowing water and human faces were beginning to approximate what was real. Yet the show's standards were barely adequate, even from an upstart Web network operating with limited capital and too many hours of programming to fill. The landscapes and interior shots would have been considered state-of-the-art at the turn of the century, but not in its premiere year. The characters were inflicted with inexpressive faces and stiff-limbed motions, while their voices were equally unconvincing, employing amateur actors or some cut-rate audio-synthesis software. With few exceptions, the dialogue was sloppy, cluttered with pauses and clumsy phrasing, key statements often cut off in mid-sentence. Most critics decided that the series’ creators were striving for a real-life mood. But that was purely an interpretation. Press kits were never made available, and no interviews were granted with anyone directly involved in the production, leaving industry watchers entirely to their own devices—another problem that served to cripple Invasion.

  Other factors contributed to the tiny audience. One issue that couldn't be discussed openly was the racial makeup of the cast. Success in the lucrative North American market meant using characters of obvious European extraction. Yet the series’ leading man was an Indian astronomer working at a fictional college set in, of all places, South Africa. With an unpronounceable name and thick a
ccent, Dr. Smith—as his few fans dubbed him—was a pudgy, prickly creation with a weakness for loud shirts and deep belches. His wife was a homely apparition who understood nothing about his world-shaking work, while his children, in direct contrast to virtually every other youngster inhabiting popular entertainment, were dim-witted creatures offering nothing that was particularly clever or charming.

  A paucity of drama was another obvious weakness. The premiere episode involved a routine day in Dr. Smith's life. Eighteen hours of unexceptional behavior was compressed to fifty-three minutes of unexceptional behavior. Judging by appearances, the parent network inserted commercial breaks at random points. The series’ pivotal event was barely noticed by the early viewers: One of Dr. Smith's graduate students was working with Permian-age rock samples, searching for key isotopes deposited by ancient supernovae. The student asked her professor about a difficult piece of lab equipment. As always, the dialogue was dense and graceless, explaining almost nothing to the uninitiated. Genuine scientists—some of the series’ most unapologetic fans—liked to point out that the instruments and principles were genuine, though the nomenclature was shamelessly contrived. Fourteen seconds of broadcast time introduced a young graduate student named Mary—a mixed-race woman who by no measure could be considered attractive. She was shown asking Dr. Smith for help with the problematic instrument, and he responded with a wave of a pudgy hand and a muttered, “Later.” Following ads for tiny cars and a powerful asthma medicine, the astronomer ordered his student to come to his office and lock the door behind her. What happened next was only implied. But afterwards Dr. Smith was seen sitting with his back to his desk and his belt unfastened, and the quick-eyed viewer saw Mary's tiny breasts vanish under a bra and baggy shirt. Some people have interpreted her expression as pain, emotional or otherwise. Others have argued that her face was so poorly rendered that it was impossible to fix any emotion to her, then or later. And where good writers would have used dialogue to spell out the importance of the moment, bad writers decided to ignore the entire interpersonal plotline. With a casual voice, Mary mentioned to her advisor/lover that she had found something strange in the Permian stone.