M-BRANE SF #1

Page 1

M-BRANE SF

M-BRANE SF The center does not hold…. ISSUE #1….FEBRUARY 2009

FEBRUARY 2009

Issue, Date Quisque:

FICTION BY: GILLETTE BELL NOVY CARTAGENA EARLS ROGER SCRIBNER LEVENSON

TIME ENOUGH FOR A REUBEN Glenn
Lewis
Gillette

He
 woke
 up
 feeling
 fine—till
 he
 opened
 his
 eyes
 and
 recognized
 the
 decanting
 room.
 
 So
 he'd
 injected
 himself
 into
 an
 accelerated
 clone
 again.
 
 Ready
 to
 be
 killed—or

 worse—for
 the
 good
 of
 Society
 ...
 as
 determined
 by
 the
 Bureau's
Director,
and
reiterated
by
the
sign
on
the
wall:

 "Duty,
Honor,
Country,
and
the
greatest
of
these
is
Duty."

 Preaching
 to
 the
 choir
 in
 this
 case.
 
 Whoever
 told
 stories
 about
 renegade
 clones
 didn't
 understand
 the
 intimate
 connection
between
referent
and
avatar,
even
closer
than
 the
wild
clones
called
"twins."
 He
slid
off
the
proofing
cot,
then
showered
thoroughly
 to
 flush
 amniotic
 fluid
 out
 of
 every
 crevice.
 
 He
 dressed
 carefully
 out
 of
 the
 suitcase
 he—no
 ,
 that
 the
 original
 Hyram
 Wazinski
 had
 prepared.
 
 He
 must
 appear
 at
 the
 office
just
like
HW(0)
would.

No
one
must
suspect:

that
 would
taint
the
setup,
smack
of
entrapment.
 HW(1)
took
the
Metro,
just
like
HW(0)
would,
entering
 from
 a
 different
 station,
 two
 blocks
 from
 the
 Bureau's
 back
lab,
but
getting
off
at
the
normal
stop
and
sauntering
 six
 blocks
 to
 the
 Bureau
 of
 Special
 Licenses.
 Not
 that
 HW(0)
sauntered
much,
just
something
about
the
feel
of
a
 disposable
 body
 that
 brought
 it
 out
 in
 him.

 HW(1)
 wouldn't
stray
further.

The
Bureau
didn't
allow
it,
nor,
for
 that
 matter,
 did
 the
 personality
 base
 laid
 down
 in
 their
 shared
 genes.
 
 Neither
 Hyram
 would
 consider
 shirking
 duty
 for
 a
 fling
 at
 life.
 
 For
 HW(1),
 in
 particular,
 a
 week
 (for
 he
 would
 live
 no
 longer)
 of
 La
 Dolce
 Doppia
 Vita
 wasn't
worth
the
embarrassment
his
running
away
would
 cause
HW(0).

…CONTINUED TO PAGE 3!

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

EDITORIAL
NOTES
2/2009
 
 Great
 excitement
 attends
 the
 debut
 of
 M­Brane
 SF
 (around
 my
house,
anyway…or
at
least
within
the
walls
of
my
office).
 For
at
least
twelve
years
I
have
been
thinking
about
this
zine,
 starting
 and
 then
 stopping
 the
 project,
 letting
 it
 languish
 for
 years
at
a
time
and
then
revisiting
it.
To
this
day
there
sits
in
 one
of
 my
 desk
drawers
 a
 tattered
 collection
 of
 hand‐drawn
 page
formats
and
notes
about
printing
and
distribution
from
 some
 old
 unrealized
 version
 of
 it.
 The
 proper
 confluence
 of
 time,
 ambition
 and
 technology
 did
 not
 occur
 until
 just
 a
 few
 months
ago.
 
 With
 each
 story,
 I
 have
 included
 a
 few
 introductory
 remarks
 at
 the
 beginning
 and
 also
 some
 biographical
 information
about
the
writers
at
the
end.
While
this
month’s
 writers
 are
 perhaps
 not
 yet
 well‐known
 to
 the
 world,
 they
 have
each
been
published
elsewhere
before
and
probably
will
 be
many
more
times
in
the
future
if
they
keep
imagining
such
 startling
things
as
they
have
for
their
tales
herein.
 
 Tech
note…
 This
magazine,
from
start
to
finish
(including
the
creation
of
 the
PDF),
was
accomplished
on
my
MacBook
using
Microsoft
 Word:Mac
2008.

I
used
to
use
MS
Publisher
for
projects
like
 this,
but
this
new
Word:Mac
version

has
much
of
that
same
 functionality
 right
 inside
 it.
 I
 still
 have
 a
 lot
 to
 learn
 about
 how
 to
 use
 all
 its
 tools
 and
 tricks,
 but
 thus
 far
 I
 am
 pretty
 pleased
with
being
able
to
put
a
publication
together
without
 having
 to
 leave
 the
 word
 processing
 program
 and
 import
 everything
into
a
different
piece
of
software.
 
 Advisory
about
the
advisory…
 I’ve
 decided
 to
 go
 ahead
 and
 place
 a
 content
 advisory
 in
 M­ Brane
 (the
 little
 thing
 at
 the
 bottom
 right
 of
 the
 page)
 as
 a
 sort
 of
 heads‐up
 for
 any
 gentle,
 easily‐injured
 mentalities
 who
 might
 happen
 upon
 this
 zine.
 I
 don’t
 think
 it’s
 really
 necessary,
 but
 I
 keep
 having
 an
 annoying,
 recurring
 thought
 that
 someday
 I
 will
 receive
 an
 hysterical
 communiqué
 from
 some
 appalled
 mother
 whose
 hair
 has
 been
 bleached
 shock‐ white
with
horror
over
the
fact
that
her
brainy
(and
therefore
 probably
adopted)
child
has
somehow
gotten
hold
of
an
issue
 of
M­Brane
containing,
perhaps,
a
naughty
word
or—worse— a
 reference
 to
 the
 physical
 act
 of
 “love.”
 This
 hypothetical
 person,
 who
 knows
 that
 her
 child
 likes
 “that
 sci‐fi
 stuff”
 but
 thinks
 that
 “sci‐fi”
 means
 Star
 Wars,
 would
 say
 something
 like,
 “I
 can’t
 believe
 that
 you
 would
 publish
 such
 filth
 in
 a
 magazine
that
kiiiiiiidzzz
read!!”

 
 I
have,
for
the
past
year
and
a
half,
lived
in
OKC,
which
is
 located
 almost
 exactly
 at
 the
 buckle
 of
 the
 Bible
 Belt,
 right
 where
 the
 clasp
 strains
 against
 the
 last
 hole,
 barely
 holding
 up
 big
 fat
 pants
 over
 the
 bloated
 ass
 of
 conservative
 hypocrisy.
 We
 have
 no
 shortage
 of
 people
 around
 here
 who
 seem
to
have
assigned
themselves
the
duty
of
minding
other
 folks’
business.

So,
the
advisory:
it
ain’t
for
little
kids.

I
won’t,
 however,
do
as
I
have
seen
a
couple
other

editors
do
and
flag
 every
single
story
with
a
rating
like
they
have
on
TV
shows
or
 video
games.

For
the
reader
especially
worried
about
hitting
 a
 patch
 of
 moral
 failure,
 reading
 M­Brane
 will
 be
 like
 navigating
a
minefield.

­­CF

 2

CONTENTS!
ASTONISHMENT!

GILLETTE:
Time
Enough
for
Reuben

1,
3
 

 BELL:
Do
Men
Dream
of
Bloody
Sheep?
6
 
 NOVY:
Road
Rage

12
 
 CARTAGENA:
Relearning
Touch

18
 
 EARLS:
Death
of
the
Flying
Humanoid

26
 
 ROGER:
Career
Move

30
 
 SCRIBNER:
Conductors

35
 
 LEVENSON:
Colonizing
Mars

44
 
 HARDART:
The
Beast
of
Space

47

DEPARTMENTS:


 Web
Notes
17,
25,
29,
43




Afterword

52



 Miscellaneous
Notes
55

M-BRANE SF Edited
and
published
by

 Christopher
Fletcher
 Contents
©
2009
by
Christopher
Fletcher
and
 M­Brane
SF
(except
for
by‐lined
writers’
 stories
and
articles,
all
rights
to
which
revert
 to
their
authors
upon
publication
in
M­Brane
 SF)
Subscription
information
and
writer’s
 guidelines
may
be
found
on
Christopher
 Fletcher’s
blog
at
 www.mbranesf.blogspot.com

CONTENT
ADVISORY
 Let
the
public
be
warned
that
M­Brane
SF
may
(and
probably
does)
 contain
 items
 of
 subject
 matter,
 language,
 content,
 theme,
 and
 philosophy
 which
 could
 offend
 some
 people
 and
 which
 may,
 in
 the
 judgment
 of
 some
 people,
 be
 inappropriate
 for
 young
 children.

 Opinions
or
ideas
stated
or
implied
in
stories
or
articles
in
M­Brane
 SF
 are
 those
 of
 their
 individual
 authors
 and
 do
 not
 necessarily
 reflect
the
attitude
of
the
publisher.
The
contents
of
M­Brane
SF
are
 primarily
 fictitious
 in
 nature
 and
 do
 not
 say
 anything
 one
 way
 or
 another
about
any
real
situations
or
any
real
persons
living
or
dead.

M-BRANE SF The
first
of
a
couple
of
different
“day
at
the
office”
 type
 stories
 in
 this
 issue,
 “Time
 Enough
 for
 a
 Reuben”
combines
a
wild
Dickian
world­weirdness
 with
 a
 cool
 post­cyberpunk
 wit
 in
 a
 highly
 entertaining
 tale
 of…well,
 you’ve
 already
 started
 reading
it,
so,
yeah,
carry
on...—CF

…CONTINUED
FROM
FRONT
COVER!
 
 Past
 the
 entrance
 labeled
 Licenses
 for
 Mildly
 Addictive
 Substances—the

"chill"
door.

Then,
Extremely
Addictive
 Substances—the

"lotus"
door.

Polluting
‐‐
the
"damn
our
 children"
 door.
 
 Animal
 Terrorism
 ‐‐
 the
 "damn
 species‐ ism"
 office
 with
 its
 separate
 doors
 for
 meat‐eaters,
 leather‐wearers,
and
true
animal
lovers.

All
a
part
of
the
 government's
 latest
 move
 to
 regulate
 illegal
 activities
 so
 they
 could
 control
 quality
 and
 availability
 while
 restructuring
the
black
market.
 
 Finally,
 a
 third
 of
 the
 way
 down
 the
 concourse,
 his
 door:

Licenses
for
Cloning.

And
inside
the
door,
security.

 The
Bureau
was
quite
happy
to
serve
citizens
‐‐
as
long
as
 they
 knew
 exactly
 which
 citizen
 was
 being
 served.
 
 And
 the
 Cloning
 Office
 was
 even
 more
 picky.
 
 Only
 referents,
 aka
 Roots,
 could
 clone
 themselves
 (and
 not
 all
 of
 them,
 either).
 
 Can't
 have
 clones
 making
 clones.
 
 It'd
 be
 like
 intelligent
machines
making
copies
of
themselves.

Where
 would
it
all
end
...
or
would
it
be
better
to
say
"terminate?"

 
 Ordinarily,
 HW(0)
 waited
 patiently
 in
 the
 testing
 vestibule,
 called
 the
 "heir‐lock."
 
 Of
 course,
 the
 Bureau
 couldn't
rely
on
just
any
form
of
bio‐metric
identification
 (what
 with,
 you
 know,
 clones
 running
 around).
 
 During
 testing,
 HW(0)
 chatted
 with
 Cartaphilus,
 the
 guard,
 but
 that—one
 human
 recognizing
 another—wasn't
 enough.

 Neither
 were
 cards,
 dumb,
 smart,
 or
 heat‐activated,
 for
 they
 can
 be
 lost,
 stolen,
 or
 counterfeited.
 
 Neither
 were
 keypads
for
they
can
be
read
with
a
simple
spray
(as
seen
 on
 UHDTV)
 or
 fooled
 by
 a
 PDA
 program
 downloaded
 off
 N³et.

Neither
were
palm‐readers
for
they
spread
disease
 (do
 you
 wash
 your
 hands
 every
 time?).
 
 Neither
 were
 retina
scans
for
they
can
be
fooled
by
beheading.
 
 Ordinarily,
 HW(0)
 swished
 and
 spat
 (39
 flavors
 of
 phosphate‐buffered
saline),
offered
a
different
part
of
his
 brow
 for
 the
 blood
 tap
 (credit
 the
 WWF
 for
 that
 idea:

 what
 bleeds
 more
 easily?),
 and
 let
 the
 "Skrim
 Reaper"
 pluck
a
hair
from
an
ear
pinna
(at
his
age,
a
bumper
crop
 every
 week,
 it
 seemed),
 so
 they
 could
 smush
 a
 variety
 of
 cells
 and
 pick
 through
 the
 debris
 as
 quickly
 as
 possible.

 Roots
 differ
 from
 clones
 by
 1)
 sperm‐trickle
 within
 the
 walls
 of
 any
 cell
 and
 2)
 mtLock
 (molecular
 channels
 between
mitochondrial
and
nuclear
DNA)
inside
the
cells
 themselves.

Testing
for
mtLock
was
quicker
and
cheaper,
 so
the
Bureau
went
with
that.
 
 Ordinarily,
 HW(0),
 being
 a
 Root,
 passed
 the
 test,
 but
 HW(1)
 didn't.
 
 So,
 before
 Cartaphilus
 got
 too
 excited,
 HW(1)
 waved
 his
 credentials
 ‐‐
 Route
 to
 Root,
 provided

FEBRUARY 2009 by
the
lab—and
got
buzzed
through.

Inside
the
lobby,
 he
 reviewed
 his
 appointments
 with
 Dollie,
 the
 receptionist,
who
looked
pastoral
in
a
wool
caftan.

At
 least,
 he
 wouldn't
 have
 to
 wait
 long:
 
 #2,
 at
 9:30,
 was
 their
target.
 
 Sinn‐Féin
 William
 Kennedy
 had
 eluded
 the
 Justice
 Department
 for
 over
 ten
 years.
 
 Reputed—but

 unproved—capo
 of
 the
 Mass‐ticut‐Island
 region
 of
 Kennedy
 Korporate,
 SWK
 had
 taken
 over
 the
 flight
 of
 multi‐national
 corporations
 off‐shore—so
 far
 off‐ shore,
 they
 were
 creating
 their
 own
 archipelago
 around
 Easter
 Island—while
 keeping
 up
 the
 flow
 of
 cash
 to
 book
 clubs,
 motorcycle
 gangs,
 and
 other
 loopholes
 in
 the
 campaign‐finance
 laws,
 so
 the
 KK
 could
 influence
 the
 deployment
 of
 troops
 from
 the
 Other
 United
 Nations,
 lead
 by
 the
 North
 American
 Union
for
Government,
Homeland,
Trade,
and
Industry,
 based
here
in
DC
(just
"DC,"
one
of
the
compromises
to
 make
NAUGHTI
happen).
 
 But
 first,
 his
 9
 o'clock:
 
 Ruth
 Guiterrez
 pranced
 in,
 her
 hair
 a
 wavy
 helmet
 threaded
 with
 those
 ellipsoid
 Franken‐mussel
 pearls.
 
 Her
 collar
 framed
 her
 hair,
 then
 let
 down
 into
 shoulderpads
 any
 Semi‐
 Hemisphere‐
Pointy‐
Football‐
League
player
would
be
 tickled
 to
 wear.
 
 The
 rest
 of
 her
 ...
 dress?
 
 muumuu?

 sari?
 
 restated
 the
 theme:
 
 look
 at
 me,
 aren't
 I
 wonderful?


 
 To
 her
 credit,
 after
 the
 requisite
 CV
 review
 and
 listing
 of
 influential
 medulla‐phone
 numbers— unlisted,
 of
 course—she
 got
 right
 down
 to
 business.

 "I've
 borne
 two
 boys,
 fine
 sons
 for
 my
 first
 and
 third
 husbands,
and
for
our
Union
of
nations,
but
now
I
want
 a
 girl,
 someone
 to
 take
 after
 me,
 share
 my
 values
 and
 dreams."


 
 A
doll,
HW(1)
thought,
to
dress
up
as
another
you.

 But
he
just
murmured,
"I
understand.

A
child
you
can
 be
 sure
 will
 appreciate
 her
 role—and
 yours—in
 the
 world."


 
 She
preened
and
nodded.
 
 HW(1)
 lowered
 his
 brow
 in
 a
 bureaucratic
 frown.

 "We
 have
 to
 be
 sure
 that
 you
 thoroughly
 understand
 how
 this
 ...
 expression
 of
 yours
 might
 work
 out.
 
 You
 will
be
making
a
human
being,
a
future
citizen,
not
just
 a
child."


 
 Signora
Guiterrez
nodded
gravely,
but
glee
showed
 in
 her
 gilt‐lensed
 eyes
 and
 quirked
 her
 picturesque
 mouth.
 
 He
 continued,
 "We
 have
 developed
 a
 simulation,
 a
 virtual
extrapolation
of
what
it
will
be
like
living
with
 your
 ...
 daughter
 for
 eighteen
 years."
 
 He
 stood
 and
 gestured
toward
a
side
door.

"A
technician
will
guide
 the
 automated
 interview,
 including
 nDNA
 interpolation,
then
settle
you
into
the
simulator.

When
 you're
done
with
your
preview,
we'll
talk
again."


 
 "I
have
some,
uh,
adjustments
I'd
like
to
make.

Her
 hair"


 
 "After,"
HW(1)
intoned.

His
internal
clock
had
just

3

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

whispered,
 "9:26."
 
 He
 skirted
 his
 desk,
 took
 her
 elbow
 face,
twitching
as
it
settled
into
death's
mask.
 firmly,
and
moved
her
out
of
the
way.
 
 SWK
 quit
 fumbling
 at
 the
 outer
 door
 (Hyram
 had
 
 At
9:29,
his
office
door
burst
open.

SWK
followed
it,
 sealed
 it).
 
 He
 squinted
 at
 Hyram,
 then
 lifted
 his
 lips
 in
 one
hand
aiming
a
rigid
forefinger
at
HW(1)'s
nose.

Just
 that
 infamous
 toothy
 smile
 that
 lopsided
 as
 he
 sneered,
 a
finger,
nothing
more
threatening.

Perhaps
HW(0)
had
 "What
do
you
want?"

 misjudged
 SWK's
 impatience
 with
 the
 Bureau's
 
 Hyram
would've
preferred
something
along
the
lines
 purposeful
 bumbling,
 a
 rare
 example
 of
 Class‐1
 of
 "Who
 are
 you?
 
 I
 just
 killed
 you."
 
 But
 he
 continued
 obstruction
 and
 incompetence
 that
 had
 been
 the
 talk
 of
 with
 procedure.
 
 "Sinn‐Féin
 William
 Kennedy,
 I
 arrest
 the
 Assistant
 Manager's
 Cafeteria,
 even
 a
 standing
 you
 for
 the
 attempted
 murder
 of
 me."
 
 Killing
 an
 ovation
during
yesterday's
Middle‐Staff
Meeting.
 accelerated
clone
wasn't
against
the
law,
partly
because
 
 "Where's
 your
 supervisor?"
 
 SWK
 demanded.
 
 "The
 of
 its
 limited
 lifespan.
 
 But
 SWK
 had
 thought
 he
 was
 receptionist
 bleated
 that
 you're
 alone
 in
 here.
 
 You
 killing
 Hyram.
 
 That
 was
 almost
 as
 bad,
 enough
 to
 send
 promised
 your
 boss
 would
 hear
 my
 case,
 listen
 while
 I
 him
 into
 a
 prison
 coma.
 
 Plus
 buying
 the
 finger‐shooter
 tell
him
what
a
buffoon
you
are.

Where
is
he?"

 and
smuggling
it
into
a
Union
facility.

The
Bureau
could
 
 "She,"
HW(1)
corrected,
then
shrugged
and
spread
his
 shut
 down
 his
 region
 of
 Korporate
 for
 a
 long
 time.

 hands,
a
gesture
that
actually
took
weeks
with
a
personal
 Worth
 spinning
 a
 copy
 of
 himself
 and
 watching
 it
 die,
 trainer
 to
 master,
 following
 a
 programme
 developed
 right?


 over
 centuries
 by
 the
 
 "I'm
not
him."


 clandestine
 Bureau
 of
 
 Hyram
 gave
 a
 don't‐kid‐a‐ Bureaus.
 
 Just
 the
 right
 kidder
look.

"Yes,
you
are,
and
 insouciance
underlying
abject
 Shaking his pompadour I've
 got
 the
 nDNA
 scan
 to
 servitude,
 designed
 to
 drive
 prove
 it.
 
 You're
 definitely
 a
 pesky,
 pesty
 citizens
 out
 of
 so his head looked like referent."


 the
 office
 ‐‐
 or
 out
 of
 their
 
 Shaking
 his
 pompadour
 so
 minds.
 his
 head
 looked
 like
 a
 bobble
 a bobble doll, the 
 "You
 bastard!"
 SWK
 doll,
 the
 perp
 said,
 "I'm
 Sean‐ shrieked.

"I've
got
companies
 perp said, "I'm Sean-Féin Féin
 William
 Kennedy,
 Sinn's
 to
 run.
 
 I
 need
 CEOs,
 COOs,
 twin."


 CFOs,
 CTOs,
 CUOs,
 just
 like
 William Kennedy, Sinn's 
 Explaining
 how
 SWK(1)
 me!"
 
 That
 finger
 came
 up
 at
 got
 through
 the
 clone‐ HW(1)
again,
only
it
showed
a
 twin." detector.
 
 Wild
 twins
 muzzle,
 not
 a
 nail,
 this
 time.

 registered
 as
 referents
 Of
 course!
 
 No
 mere
 plastic
 because
 they
 had
 mtLock
 gun
 for
 Kennedy
 Korporate.

 (since
 the
 nDNA
 formed
 itself
 No
mundane
hidden
pistol.

Even
they
would
struggle
to
 rather
 being
 injected),
 but
 no
 sperm‐trickle
 (this
 lack
 cover
 up
 the
 gunning
 down
 of
 a
 Union
 official.
 
 But
 a
 might
also
cause
the
twinning
of
the
blastocyst,
but
they
 microflechette
with
just
the
right
poison
...
 hadn't
 proved
 that
 yet).
 
 Didn't
 matter,
 so
 Hyram
 said
 
 "He
 just
 keeled
 over
 on
 me,"
 SWK
 would
 sigh
 or
 what
did:

"There
is
no
authorized
twin."


 whine
 or
 squeal,
 depending
 on
 how
 KK's
 Board
 of
 
 "Yes,
there
is."

SWK(1)
flopped
a
hand
around.

"I'm
 Godfathers
decided
they'd
play
it.
 it—him."

He
brightened.

"Same
DNA,
you
said
so."


 
 But
first,
SWK
made
a
speech.

"You've
given
your
last
 
 Hyram
 shook
 his
 head
 wearily.
 
 "You
 weren't
 runaround,
 you
 sniveling
 peon,
 unless
 Satan
 has
 a
 listening.
 
 I
 said
 'authorized
 twin.'
 
 The
 Bureau
 didn't
 manpower
shortage
in
Hell."


 approve
any
twin
for
Sinn‐Féin."

The
Bureau
didn't
call
 
 HW(1)
 gasped,
 widened
 his
 eyes,
 put
 out
 a
 hand,
 all
 them
"wild"
around
citizens.
 to
 play
 his
 role.
 
 Just
 a
 tad
 sorry
 Dollie
 hadn't
 set
 the
 
 Now
 look
 who
 was
 mugging
 don't‐kid‐a‐kidder.

 appointment
 after
 lunch.
 
 He
 could've
 eaten
 a
 Reuben
 "Twins
aren't
against
the
law."


 with
 Truly
 Organic™
 Russian
 Dressing
 since
 it
 wouldn't
 
 "Try
 reading
 the
 rules,
 will
 you?
 
 We
 have
 authority
 count
on
HW(0)'s
diet
ledger.

Indulgence
by
proxy.
 over
 supervised
 and
 unsupervised
 clones,
 which
 is
 all
 a
 
 But
SWK
fired
and
HW(1)
died.
 twin
is.

Who
came
out
first?"

 
 
 "He—he
 did."
 
 A
 deep‐rooted
 sadness
 slowed
 the
 
 words.
 
 The
 original
 Hyram
 Wazinski
 stepped
 out
 through
 a
 
 Hiram
 steadied
 his
 heartstrings
 against
 that
 tug,
 secret
 panel.
 
 He
 glanced
 at
 the
 slumped
 form
 of
 his
 probably
 faux.
 
 "Then
 you're
 the
 clone,
 an
 unauthorized
 clone,
then
jerked
his
gaze
away.

Even
after
sixteen
such
 one.

You're
under
arrest
for
that,
too."


 sacrifices,
 it
 still
 gave
 him
 the
 creeps
 to
 look
 at
 his
 own
 
 The
 sneer
 returned,
 though
 it
 seemed
 a
 tad
 forced.

4

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

"But
I
didn't
shoot
him."


 
 The
 Bureau
 couldn't
 fix
 the
 whole
 Human
 Condition,
 
 "Got
 it
 all
 on
 disk."
 
 Hyram
 grinned
 and
 cued
 the
 but
 perhaps
 it
 should
 rethink
 its
 use
 of
 clones,
 cameras
into
the
open.
 accelerated
and
otherwise.

There'd
be
collateral
impact
 
 "But
that's‐‐”
 on
Licenses
for
Moreau
Servants
(and
Dolly?)
as
well
as
 
 "Unlawful?
 
 So's
 attempted
 murder."
 
 So
 was
 the
Bureau
of
Extra‐terrestrial
Musings
(BEM,
for
short).

 entrapment,
 but
 the
 Bureau's
 lawyers
 figured
 on
 Overturning
 such
 an
 engrained
 regulation
 would
 take
 confusing
 the
 courts
 with
 the
 "celebrity"
 clause
 in
 libel
 considerable
 effort
 and
 bureaucratic
 skill,
 but
 it
 would
 laws,
and
SWK(0)
definitely
qualified
there.
 compensate
 for
 forty‐seven
 years
 of
 service
 (life‐ 
 "Now
 who's
 not
 listening?"
 
 SWK(1)
 raised
 his
 arm,
 extensions
came
with
the
perks
at
GS‐136
and
above)
...
 lifting
 that
 deadly
 forefinger
 of
 his,
 and
 marshals
 burst
 and
watching
sixteen
avatars
die.
 out
 of
 three
 walls,
 their
 screamers
 aimed
 at
 head,
 chest,
 
 Making
a
mental
note,
Hyram
clambered
back
on
the
 and
groin,
respectively.

"It's
not
my
finger.

It's
an
implant
 Duty
train
and
bored
in
on
his
original
target.

"Where
is
 and
 controlled
 remotely.
 
 He—I—I'm
 sure
 I
 don't
 know
 SWK(0)?

Sinn‐Féin,
that
is."


 whose
finger's
really
on
the
trigger."


 
 SWK(1)
 shrugged.
 
 "Anywhere
 in
 the
 world.

 
 Hyram
 had
 to
 go
 intra‐Bureau
 for
 his
 sub‐vocal
 Anywhere
 without
 an
 extradition
 treaty."
 
 These
 days,
 consult
 about
 licenses
 issued,
 so
 it
 took
 at
 least
 500
 that
included
Africa,
the
Stani
Confederation,
and
half
of
 micro‐seconds
 before
 he
 could
 say,
 "No
 cyborg
 license.

 Euronion.
 
 "Ever
 since
 NAUGHTI
 made
 inherited
 You,
as
the
host,
are
responsible.

Arrested
for
that,
too."


 oligarchical
 corporations
 illegal,
 he
 and
 the
 Board
 
 "But
not
for
murder,
right?"

Gloating
made
the
smile
 haven't
been
able
to
come
home.

They
miss
Hyannis,
you
 even
more
goofy.
 know."

Misty
tears
replaced
smarts
in
those
eyes.
 
 "Attempted
 murder.
 
 Accessory
 before,
 during,
 and
 
 Ah‐ha!
 
 Hyram
 thought.
 
 "You
 weren't
 here
 before,
 after
 the
 fact.
 
 Penalty
 is
 not
 significantly
 different,
 were
 you,
 Sean‐Féin?
 
 In
 this
 office?"
 
 Seeing
 a
 head
 especially
if
the
gray
naps
run
serially."


 shake
that
pompadour
again,
he
continued.

"Then
Sinn‐ 
 SWK(1)
 pointed
 the
 finger
 at
 his
 own
 face,
 and
 the
 Féin
walked
NAUGHTI
soil,
and
I've
got
the
disk
to
prove
 marshals
relaxed
a
tad.

They
saved
the
taxpayers
a
lot
of
 it.
 
 He's
 therefore
 and
 hereby
 charged
 with
 invasion‐ money
when
suicide
replaced
custody.

Just
another
clone
 tantamount‐to‐treason.

By
invoking
the
Unilateral
Cold‐ anyway.
 
 "Hey,
 Sinn!"
 SWK(1)
 spoke
 into
 the
 muzzle.

 Pursuit
Act,
we
can
go
after
him
anywhere
in
the
world.

 "You
 said
 they
 couldn't
 hold
 me."
 
 He
 waited
 for
 an
 answer
 ...
 a
 whole
 two
 The Bureau couldn't fix the seconds,
 then
 raised
 his
 gaze.

 Intelligence
 glowed
 there,
 if
 only
 briefly.

"He
won't
answer,
I
know
that.

 whole Human Condition, but That's
 why
 they
 sent
 me,
 isn't
 it?"

 Honest
 dejection
 oozed
 from
 every
 perhaps it should rethink its use pore,
getting
the
carpet
dirty.
 
 Dirtier,
 actually.
 
 HW(1)
 had
 already
 spilled
 bodily
 fluids,
 although
 of clones, accelerated and the
smells
had
been
neutralized
by
the
 robo‐beetles
 (clean‐up
 took
 them
 otherwise. longer).
 
 HW(1)?
 
 SWK(1)?
 
 Ding!
 
 An
 elevator
 door
 opened
 in
 Hyram's
 mind,
and
a
revelation
stepped
out.

No
 matter
the
referent,
no
matter
whose
Tinker
Toys
you're
 The
 Act
 covers
 fugitives
 as
 well
 as
 terrorists,
 corporate
 built
 from,
 no
 matter
 lifespan
 or
 lifestyle
 or
 birth
 order,
 officers,
 and
 tax‐evading
 rock
 stars.
 
 I'll
 notify
 the
 you
 came
 into
 this
 world
 with
 rights,
 one
 of
 which
 was
 DIBHA."
 
 Decentralized
 Intelligence
 and
 Bounty‐hunter
 equal
treatment
by
the
law.
 Agency.

"Thank
you
for
your
assistance."


 
 But
 wasn't
 there
 something
 else?
 
 The
 revelation
 
 Hyram
 nodded
 at
 the
 marshals,
 and
 they
 hustled
 frizzed,
 making
 him
 dig
 for
 its
 heart.
 
 "And
 it
 went
 on
 SWK(1)
 out
 of
 the
 office.
 
 As
 he
 watched
 the
 foursome
 yesterday
 and
 it's
 going
 on
 tonight."
 
 Words
 from
 an
 old
 swarm
 across
 the
 lobby,
 the
 adjacent
 door
 emitted
 a
 song
 came
 back
 to
 him.
 
 "Somewhere
 there's
 somebody
 garish
 harridan
 screaming,
 "That
 impudent
 bitch!
 
 Who
 ain't
 treatin'
 somebody
 right."
 
 Not
 just
 lovers
 broke
 does
she
think
she's
talking
to?"

 hearts.
 
 Mothers.
 
 Fathers.
 
 Brothers.
 
 Sisters.
 
 Friends.

 
 Had
 to
 be
 HW(1)'s
 first
 appointment.
 
 Hyram
 vowed
 Strangers.
 
 People
 are
 cruel,
 always
 have
 been.
 
 Always
 to
 review
 the
 recording
 ‐‐
 he
 usually
 slept
 in
 when
 he
 will
be?

Ay,
there's
the
rub.
 cloned
 himself
 ‐‐
 but
 first,
 lunch.
 
 He
 rubbed
 his
 hands

5

M-BRANE SF together
 in
 anticipation.
 
 A
 Real
 Russian
 Reuben
 ‐‐
 the
 diet
 ledger
 be
 damned!

After
all,
he'd
earned
 it.

On
his
 way
 out,
 he
 grinned
 at
 Dolly
 who
 blinked
 back
 sheepishly.

About
 himself,
 Glenn
 Lewis
 Gillette
 says,

“In
 the
 early
 '70s,
 Analog
 published
 two
 of
 my
 stories;
 another
 appeared
 in
 "Lone
 Star
 Universe";
 this
 last
 story
 is
 now
 available
 on
 the
 Fictionwise
 web­site
 (
 www.fictionwise.com

 /eBooks/eBook1145.htm
 ).
 
 More
 recently,
 The
 Jewish
Spectator
published
one
of
my
stories,
and
 Speculations
 published
 my
 article
 on
 ‘Writing
 Good
 Computer.’
 My
 mainstream
 short­short
 story
 ‘Downstream
 from
 Divorce’
 appears
 at

BRANDON BELL When
 I
 first
 opened
 the
 email
 containing
 this
 story,
I
said
to
myself,
“If
I
end
up
accepting
it,
 I’m
 gonna
 make
 him
 change
 the
 title.”
 I
 thought
 it
 was
 too
 obviously
 allusive
 and
 I
 didn’t
 think
 I
 liked
 the
 sound
 of
 it
 at
 all.
 I
 was
 sure
 a
 better
 title
 would
 be
 laying
 in
 plain
 sight
somewhere
in
the
text.
But
then
I
read
the
 story
and
decided
that
nothing
about
it
needed
 to
 change
 at
 all,
 not
 even
 the
 title.
 The
 following
is
a
sensitive
and
understated
tale
of
 someone
finding
his
new
place
in
a
world
that
 has
 changed
 around
 him
 in
 an
 inexplicable
 manner.
–CF
 
 
 The
 man
 from
 Hollywood
 sat
 at
 the
 foot
 of
 the
 hospital
 bed
 peering
 over
 bifocals
 at
 Andrew.
 
 He
 waited.
 
 A
 newscast
 on
 the
 ancient
 television
 distracted
 Andrew
 for
 a
 moment:
 something
 about
 a
 white
 city
 and
 the
 end
 of
 the
 world.
 
 The
 man
 shook
 his
head
and
looked
back
at
Andrew.


 
 “That's
 not
 real,
 that
 story.
 
 It
 can't
 be.
 
 We
 think
 it's
a
publicity
stunt
for
a
Fox
pic.
So,
do
you
accept?”



 
 Andrew's
mouth
felt
like
a
desert
but
he
was
able
 to
croak,
“Yes.

Yes,
thank
you.”


 
 And
it
was
done.
 
 
 Andrew
 still
 felt
 weak.
 
 During
 the
 coma,
 Andrea
 stuck
with
him
for
a
long
time.
One
of
the
nurses
told
 him
 this
 back
 at
 the
 hospital.
 
 His
 wife
 had
 watched
 the
physical
therapy
sessions
and
conducted
her
own

6

FEBRUARY 2009 http://www.flashfictiononline.com
 as
 part
 of
 their
 March,
 2008,
 issue.
 More
 stories
 appear
 at
 or
 are
 scheduled
 for
 http://www.
 themonstersnextdoor.com/IssueFour.html,

 www.bardsandsages.com,
 www.morriganezine.
 com,
 www.edgeofpropinquity.net,
 and
 now
 M­ Brane
 SF.
 You
 can
 read
 more
 at
 www.glgwrites.com
 .
 I
 also
 moderate
 SFWA's
 Online­Update
and
SFWA­News
newsletters.
With
 the
 support
 and
 financial
 wizardry
 of
 my
 wife
 Jeannie,
I
am
working
on
a
mystery
novel.”

sessions
with
him,
fighting
against
the
atrophy.


 
 He
lingered
in
front
of
the
new
house
and
thought
of
 her.

All
the
houses
were
an
adobe
style
that
looked
both
 old
and
futuristic
to
him.
Over
the
row
of
houses
behind
 him
 the
 alpine
 mountains
 were
 swallowing
 the
 sun.

 Tears
 streamed
 from
 his
 eyes.
 
 He
 looked
 toward
 the
 other
 side
 of
 the
 valley,
 over
 mountains
 hazed
 with
 the
 last
light
of
the
day
and
said,
“Good
luck,
babe.”

Then
he
 turned
and
walked
up
the
sidewalk
and
into
the
door
of
 his
new
home.

The
home
given
him
by
Hollywood
man's
 production
company.
 
 
 The
first
night
he
slept
on
the
floor,
using
his
clothes
 for
pillow
and
blanket.

That
night
he
dreamed
of
a
bone
 white
city
in
a
world
that
was
dying.

No,
the
world
was
 asleep
 and
 wouldn't
 wake.
 
 The
 white
 city
 waited
 because
that's
what
the
white
city
did
in
the
logic
of
the
 dream.



 
 Day
two
he
used
his
ident
tag
and
bought
a
bedroom
 suite.


 
 “The
door
is
open,”
he
told
a
salesperson.

“Just
have
 the
deliveryman
go
in.”

The
man
(or
android)
smiled
and
 nodded.
 
 A
fire
burned
in
him:
he
wanted
his
home
minimalist
 but
comfortable.

He
went
from
shop
to
shop
in
the
town
 (a
 quaint
 mountain
 village,
 really,
 with
 a
 distinct
 commercial
strip
at
the
town
center
near
the
University)
 and
 bought
 a
 dining
 table
 and
 chairs,
 living
 room
 furniture,
 wall
 display
 and
 a
 smaller
 personal
 set‐top,
 dishes
 and
 cookware,
 and
 various
 other
 accouterments
 of
 a
 well‐equipped
 house.
 
 He
 spent
 the
 afternoon
 receiving
 the
 larger
 items,
 arranging
 the
 rooms,
 and
 unpacking
 the
 boxes
 of
 plates,
 silverware,
 and
 bric‐a‐ brac.


 
 That
second
night
he
lay
in
his
new
bed
and
could
not
 fall
 asleep.
 
 
 The
 cameras
 were
 now
 filming
 him
 if
 Mr.
 Hollywood's
 words
 could
 be
 trusted.
 
 All
 that
 day
 as
 he

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF met
 people
 in
 the
 shops
 he
 wondered
 who
 was
 human
 and
 who
 was
 android.
 
 There
 would
 be
 other
 humans,
 Hollywood
had
explained.

As
a
control
to
the
experiment.

 
 
 
 The
 dream
 of
 the
 white
 city
 in
 the
 dead/dying/sleeping
 world
 proved
 recurrent
 and
 he
 woke
at
2:00
AM
from
the
nightmare
of
that
beautiful
and
 terrible
 city.
 
 He
 thought
 of
 the
 newscast
 he
 saw
 in
 the
 hospital
and
wondered
what
was
happening
in
the
world.

 
 
 Andrew
 walked
 up
 his
 street,
 Prague,
 down
 main
 street
 past
 all
 the
 shops,
 waving
 or
 saying
 hello
 to
 shop
 owners
 he
 recognized,
 until
 he
 reached
 the
 University.
 
 After
 some
 missteps
 he
 sat
 at
 the
 desk
 of
 an
attractive
woman
perhaps
six
years
 his
 senior
 and
 talked
 about
 what
 classes
 he
 would
 take
 in
 the
 coming
 semester
 and
 what
 he
 would
 need
 to
complete
his
degree.

Four
years
here.

Yes,
four
 years,
 she
 repeated
 and
 smiled
 at
 him,
 eyes
 tracking
 his
 expression
through
her
black‐rimmed
glasses.


 
 They
were
done
with
the
schedule.

A
handshake
and
a
 Good
 Day
 were
 all
 that
 remained.
 
 Instead
 he
 reached
 across
the
desk
and
gently
places
his
hand
on
hers.
 
 “I'm
 new
 to
 town...
 you
 know...
 I'd
 like
 to
 do
 a
 housewarming
 party.
 
 I
 wonder
 if
 you'd
 come?”
 
 He
 smiled,
eyebrows
raised.
 
 She
 took
 off
 the
 glasses
 and
 rubbed
 the
 arch
 of
 her
 nose.
 
 She
 opened
 her
 eyes
 and
 looked
 at
 him,
 leaning
 back
in
her
chair.

She
held
the
glasses
near
her
face
and
 one
of
the
stems
entered
her
mouth.

She
hmmmmed.
 
 “I'm
sorry:
I
shouldn't
be
so
forward,”

Andrew
rose
to
 his
 feet
 and
 shuffled
 toward
 the
 door.
 
 He
 waved
 at
 her
 and
smiled,

“Thank
you
for
your
help.

Really.”
 
 “Andrew.”
 
 He
stopped
and
looked
at
her.
 
 “I'd
love
to
come,”
She
grinned.

“I
have
your
address:
 when
should
I
arrive?”
 
 “Oh,
ah:
Friday.

Friday
at
seven,”
he
told
her.
 
 She
got
up
and
walked
over
to
him,
placing
a
hand
on
 his
back.
 
 “I
can't
wait,
Andrew.”
 
 He
smiled
and
started
down
the
hall,
then
turned,
his
 face
beet‐red.
 
 Her
 eyebrows
 twitched
 and
 her
 grin
 went
 lopsided.

 “What
is
it,
Andrew?”
 
 “I'm
so
sorry:
I
forgot
your
name.”
 
 “Lauri,
my
name
is
Lauri.”
 
 He
 nodded,
 waved,
 and
 turned
 to
 walk
 outside,
 the

smile
 wide
 on
 his
 face
 and
 his
 eyes
 full
 of
 light
 beneath
 the
overcast
sky.

He
wondered
if
she
was
human.
 
 
 
 The
 party
 and
 Lauri,
 head
 back
 as
 she
 laughed,
 the
 light
 a
 
 sheen
 on
 her
 teeth
 and
 eyes,
 slight
 perspiration
 on
her
brow
as
he
saw
her
glance
at
him
and
smile.

He
 smiled
 back.
 
 All
 of
 the
 shop
 owners
 and
 many
 of
 their
 employees
 were
 here,
 as
 well
 as
 a
 cadre
 of
 clerks
 from
 the
 local
 grocery
 and
 video
 stores.
 
 Many
 of
 them
 were
 also
students
at
the
University:
so
a
mix
of
the
 young
 and
 the
 older,
 mingling
 comfortable,
Andrew
noted.
 
 He
moved
to
the
back
patio
 and
 sat
 in
 a
 plush
 chair,
 leaning
 in
 toward
 the
 urgent
 conversation
 of
 a
 group
 of
 the
 younger
set.
 
 “Dhalgren
 is

DO MEN DREAM of

BLOODY SHEEP?

overwrought
 and
 over‐rated,”
a
young
man
in
 glasses
 and
a
turtle‐neck
said.

Andrew
noticed
the
chill
in
the
air
 when
Lauri
stepped
to
his
side.
 
 “Mind
 if
 I
 join
 you?”
 
 She
 held
 an
 iced
 margarita
 in
 front
of
her
short
black
dress.
 
 “No,
not
at
all.

Here:
take
my
seat.

It
looks
like
we're
 out
 of
 chairs,”
 he
 said,
 starting
 to
 rise.
 
 She
 put
 a
 firm
 hand
on
his
shoulder
and
eased
him
back
down.
 
 “We'll
 share,”
 she
 said,
 and
 sat
 in
 his
 lap,
 her
 arm
 around
 the
 top
 of
 the
 chair
 and
 her
 torso
 far
 enough
 to
 the
side
that
he
could
follow
the
conversation.


 
 Looking
 to
 the
 side
 and
 up
 into
 her
 smiling
 face,
 he
 had
a
hard
time
following
the
conversation.


 
 He
 could
 smell
 her:
 spice
 and
 flowers,
 sweat
 on
 her
 breast,
alcohol
on
her
breath.

He
became
embarrassingly
 stiff
 beneath
 her
 rump
 but
 she
 only
 smiled
 when
 he
 glanced
 at
 her,
 running
 her
 fingers
 through
 his
 hair,
 touching
his
ear.
 
 “...just
a
quest
story
once
you
get
past
the
engineering
 marvels.
 
 And
 not
 a
 very
 good
 one
 at
 that.”
 
 Several
 of
 them
nodded.
 
 “I
thought
the
Culture
books
made
a
better
use
of
the
 same
type
of
setting,”
the
man
in
the
turtle‐neck
said.

 
 “Consider
Phlebas,”
the
pretty
blond
woman
said
to
a
 chorus
of
yeahs.

He
thought
they
all
worked
at
the
video
 store.


The
blond
girl
explained
they
were
all
reading
sci‐ fi
books
for
their
lit
course.

The
others
were
berating
her
 for
use
of
the
term
'sci‐fi'
when
Andrew
spoke
up.

 
 “Do
 Androids
 Dream
 of
 Electric
 Sheep?”
 
 he
 said.

7

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF Everyone
went
silent
and
turned
to
him.

He
felt
Lauri
 go
stiff.
 
 “Have
 you
 read
 it?”
 
 Andrew
 asked
 the
 man
 in
 the
 turtle‐neck.

The
light
glinted
off
the
man's
glasses,
his
 face
 unreadable.
 
 “I
 thought
 it
 was
 good.
 
 Valis
 was
 better,
 though:
 less
 obviously
 sci‐fi,
 science
 fiction,
 I
 mean,
 but
 a
 good
 examination
 of
 a
 man
 trying
 to
 discover
 what
 is
 real
 after
 something
 extraordinary
 happened
 to
 him.”
 
 Andrew
 took
 a
 sip
 of
 his
 drink,
 looking
 over
 the
 rim
 at
 the
 others,
 and
 wondered
 if
 they
were
about
to
get
up
and
leave.
 
 “The
Three
Stigmata
was
PKD's
best,
never
mind
the
 literary
 stuff,”
 the
 blond
 girl
 said.
 
 The
 man
 in
 the
 sweater
nodded
his
head,
took
a
drink
of
his
mojito
 and
 said,
 “Yes,
 yes:
 the
 only
 reason
 anyone
 reads,”
he
looked
at
Andrew
and
gestured
 absently.
 
 “...your
 Androids
 Dream
 is
 because
of
Blade
Runner.”

There
was
 another
 round
 of
 yeahs
 and
 the
 conversation
started
again
in
full,
 Lauri's
 body
 softening
 and
 pressing
closer
to
his.
 
 “It's
cold,”

she
said.
 
 “Do
you
want
to
go
in?”

 
 “No.

Just
hold
me.”
 
 He
held
her.
 
 
 In
 the
 wee
 hours
 of
 the
 morning
Lauri
stayed
and
helped
 him
see
everyone
off.

She
walked
 from
 room
 to
 room
 picking
 up
 stray
cups
and
bottles,
as
did
he,
until
 they
 collapsed
 together
 on
 the
 sofa.

 She
hiked
her
legs
up
onto
his,
curling
her
 body
up
against
his
side.

Andrew
lifted
his
arm
 and
 eased
 it
 behind
 her,
 feeling
 the
 bare
 flesh
 of
 her
 arm
 beneath
 his
 fingers.
 
 Peach‐fuzz
 hair
 and
 a
 lingering
chill
from
the
air.

He
rubbed
her
and
sighed.
 
 “Tired?”

she
asked.
 
 “Little.”
 
 He
 let
 his
 head
 roll
 to
 the
 side
 and
 found
 her
eyes,
hovering
near.

She
had
a
stray
bit
of
glitter
on
 her
cheek
that
distracted
him
and
then
he
looked
back
 to
her
lashes,
her
dilated
pupils,
and
the
look
there
he
 struggled
to
decipher.


 
 The
 moments
 moved
 like
 ice‐age
 glaciers,
 flowing
 into
the
seas
of
those
eyes.

And
then
they
were
kissing,
 hands
roving
over
cloth,
skin,
and
her
dark
tresses.

He
 felt
 her
 hands
 on
 his
 face,
 back,
 arms,
 chest.
 
 They
 tumbled
 upon
 the
 couch
 and
 to
 the
 floor,
 and
 eventually
to
the
bedroom.


 
 In
 a
 wee
 hour
 of
 the
 morning,
 after
 the
 strain,
 sweat,
and
whispers,
he
was
almost
asleep
when
he
felt
 her
body
shift
next
to
his
and
her
lips
press
to
his
ear.

 She
 sounded
 asleep
 herself
 as
 the
 words
 left
 her
 tongue.
 
 “We
dream
of
not
being
alone.”

Time
passed.

The
dreams
of
the
white
city
did
not.
 
 
 “How's
 the
 physical
 therapy
 going,
 by
 the
 way?”

 Waseem
asked.

Andrew
plopped
into
the
chair
across
the
 table
 and
 glanced
 up
 the
 sidewalk
 to
 see
 if
 Lauri
 and
 Bianca
 were
 approaching.
 
 Across
 the
 street
 the
 science
 wing
 of
 the
 University
 shone
 with
 windows
 in
 the
 afternoon
 glare
 as
 trees
 rustled
 in
 the
 zephyr.
 
 The
 sidewalks
were
empty.

Unusually
so.

Andrew
ordered
an
 almond
 steamer
 from
 a
 passing
 waiter
 and
 then
 set
 his
 backpack
on
the
concrete
at
his
feet.

He
drew
in
a
breath
 and
looked
at
his
friend,
smiling.
 
 “Good.

Very
good.

Sorry,
I'm
a
bit
distracted.”
 
 “No
 worries,
 man.”
 
 Waseem,
 the
 bespectacled
 young
 man
 from
 the
 party,
 was
in
two
of
Andrew's
classes
and
they
 had
quickly
become
friends.

Each
day
 they
met
at
Gabo's
and
drank
coffee,
 did
 homework,
 and
 argued
 and
 laughed
 with
 an
 ever‐changing
 cadre
 of
 would‐be
 philosophers
 (students
of,
at
least).

Waseem
 and
 Andrew
 tended
 to
 arrive
 first
 and
 had
 some
 time
 to
 gab
 or
 work
 before
 the
 other
 folks
 gathered
 about
 them.
 
 Waseem
 sat
scribbling
on
a
paper
in
one
 of
 his
 texts
 and
 so
 Andrew
 opened
 a
 novel
 his
 lit
 class
 required.
 
 He
was
several
pages
in
when
the
 clop
 clop
 clop
 of
 running
 feet
 distracted
 him.
 
 Andrew
 looked
 up
 from
 his
book,
meeting
eyes
with
Waseem
as
they
 both
turned
and
looked
up
the
sidewalk.

Lauri
ran
 toward
them,
face
white
and
eyes
wide.
 
 Andrew
pushed
from
the
table
and
ran
to
her.
 
 She
wore
a
skirt
and
blouse,
hair
up,
a
small
purse
for
 essentials.

Andrew
took
her
hand.
 
 “Are
you
okay?”
 
 She
nodded.

“Yes.

But
have
either
of
you
seen
Bianca?”
 
 Waseem
stood
beside
Andrew,
his
brow
knotted.
 
 “No.”
 
 “Me
neither,”

Andrew
said.

The
man
and
the
android
 looked
at
each
other.

Andrew
could
feel
Lauri
trembling.
 
 “I'm
sure
she's
okay,
hon,”
he
said.
 
 “No.

No.

You
don't
understand,”

she
started
to
cry.
 
 “What
 is
 it?”
 
 Waseem
 asked,
 voice
 low
 beneath
 the
 wind.

Andrew
felt
sick.
 
 “Attendance
 today
 was...
 low.
 
 Really
 low.
 
 A
 lot
 of
 the
 shops
are
empty.

Same
yesterday
and
the
day
before.

The
 Provost
 is
 gone.
 
 She
 can't
 be
 reached.
 
 People
 have
 disappeared.”

 
 Andrew
 stuttered
 and
 then
 stopped.
 
 The
 Provost
 is
 gone.
 
 “Come
on,”
Andrew
said.

He
walked
back
to
the
table,

WE
DREAM
 of
not
 being

ALONE…

8

M-BRANE SF tossed
 his
 book
 into
 the
 backpack
 and
 downed
 the
 steamer
 in
 a
 throat‐burning
 gulp.
 
 He
 scanned
 his
 ident
 card
and
waved
'bye
to
the
waiter.

“We
have
work
to
do.”
 
 
 The
 entire
 Megiddo
 police
 department,
 fire
 department,
and
most
of
the
city
council;
the
provost
and
 a
 quarter
 of
 the
 professors
 and
 other
 faculty;
 of
 the
 general
 population,
 Roughly
 seventy‐five
 percent:
 all
 gone.
 
 After
 some
 investigation,
 they
 determined
 the
 disappearance
 occurred
 Monday
 evening
 between
 10:00
 PM
 and
 the
 beginning
 of
 the
 workday
 on
 Tuesday.
 
 The
 homes
of
the
disappeared
were
undisturbed
but
empty.

A
 Marie
Celeste
routine.
 
 Waseem,
 Lauri,
 and
 Andrew
 stood
 in
 the
 living
 room
 of
 the
 school
 Provost,
 looking
 for
 clues.
 
 The
 University
 was
 the
 heart
 of
 the
 town
 so
 the
 Provost's
 home
 had
 seemed
 one
 of
 the
 better
 places
 to
 investigate.
 
 Andrew
 walked
to
the
woman's
wall
display.
 
 “Computer,
please
put
me
through
to
the
authorities
in
 the
nearest
town.”
 
 “I'm
 sorry,”
 a
 feminine
 voice
 replied,
 “unable
 to
 comply.”
 
 “Why?”
 
 “Megiddo
data
and
telephony
networks
do
not
extend
 beyond
 the
 municipality.
 
 Wireless
 access
 is
 blocked
 by
 design.
 
 Please
 refer
 to
 local
 authorities
 in
 case
 of
 emergency.

Shall
I
put
you
through
to
911?”


 
 “No,
thank
you,
computer,”
he
knew
that
was
pointless
 since
 the
 police
 department
 and
 the
 supporting
 dispatch
 was
deserted.
 
 Waseem
 put
 his
 hand
 on
 Andrew's
 shoulder.
 
 “What
 are
you
thinking?”
 
 “Look...
 I
 don't
 know
 what's
 going
 on,
 but
 this
 isn't
 what
I
signed
up
for.

I
don't
know
if
all
those
people
are
 okay
or
not...
And
that's
not
okay.

If
you
know
something,
 tell
me.”
 
 Waseem
shook
his
head.

Lauri
shook
hers.
 
 “Well,”

Lauri
said
absently.

“There
is
one
thing.”
 
 “What?”
 
 “They
were
all
human.”
 
 
 
 The
 next
 day
 Andrew's
 electricity
 went
 off.
 
 Several
 hours
 later
 it
 remained
 off.
 
 Andrew
 hit
 the
 wall
 and
 looked
at
Lauri.

He
stepped
close
to
her
and
felt
her
lips
 brush
his.

He
kissed
her,
pulled
her
tight,
squeezed.
 
 “Don't
leave
me.”
 
 “I'll
 be
 back.”
 
 If
 he
 wasn't
 so
 pissed
 he
 would
 have
 laughed
 at
 the
 inadvertent
 and
 goofy
 allusion.
 
 I
have
no
 mouth
and
I
must
scream:
 he'd
 have
 to
 rap
 with
 Waseem
 about
that
one
when
he
got
back.
 
 The
 town's
 only
 mechanic
 had
 a
 BMW
 podbike
 intended,
apparently,
for
his
emergence
from
Megiddo
at
 the
end
of
year
four
of
the
series.
 
 “Looks
 like
 you's
 leaving
 a
 might
 bit
 early,
 pardner,”

 the
old
man
told
him.

FEBRUARY 2009 
 “Looks
like,
pops,”
Andrew
said.
 
 “Where
was
I
supposed
to
go,
at
the
end?”
 
 “Back
to
Dallas,”
the
mechanic
said.
 
 “Dallas,”
 Andrew
 repeated.
 
 He
 looked
 at
 the
 weathered
old‐timer,
his
face
a
mask
made
from
years
of
 sun
and
work.

“Are
you
human?”
 
 The
mechanic
laughed.
 
 “As
far
as
I
know,
son,
as
far
as
I
know.

Praise
Jesus.”
 
 Andrew
 nodded:
 the
 words
 made
 him
 think
 of
 his
 dad,
whom
had
died
a
few
years
before
Andrew
married
 Andrea.
 
 Do
 you
 know
 Jesus
 loves
 you?
 
 It
 was
 the
 most
 intimate
his
dad
had
ever
been
with
him
and
Andrew
had
 hated
him
for
it
for
years.

Now,
looking
at
the
smile
on
 this
 old
 man's
 face,
 Andrew
 felt
 the
 pang
 of
 how
 unfair
 he
had
been
to
his
old
man.
 
 “Well,
good
luck,”

the
mechanic
said
 
 “You
 too.”
 
 the
 gull‐wing
 doors
 cycled
 down
 as
 the
 side‐wheels
 lifted
 and
 the
 bright‐red
 pod
 bolted
 down
 the
slender
strip
of
tarmac.

 
 “Computer.

Queue
up
the
Second
Stage
Turbine
Blade.

 We
have

road
to
burn.”
 
 
 Ten
minutes
after
stopping
at
the
fuel
station
Andrew
 realized
the
bike
had
a
nuclear
power
plant.

No
need
to
 fuel
up.

He
turned
his
attention
for
the
first
time
to
the
 station
itself.

Glass
windows
and
dirt.

Canopy
and
Coke
 machines.
 
 The
 station
 sat
 on
 the
 fringe
 of
 a
 sigh
 of
 a
 town
equally
deserted
(or
of
an
equal
appearance)
as
the
 station.
 
 Andrew
 walked
 into
 the
 convenience
 store
 lobby.


 
 “Hello?”
 
 No
 answer.
 
 He
 walked
 among
 the
 rows
 of
 sugary
 or
 salted
 junk
 food
 and
 the
 coolers
 of
 sodas
 and
 beer,
 placing
 a
 hand
 on
 one
 of
 the
 glass
 cooler
 doors.

 Cold.


 
 Andrew
 grabbed
 a
 bottle
 of
 Frothy‐No‐Sleep
 and
 a
 bag
 of
 pistachios,
 swiped
 his
 ident
 card,
 and
 left
 with
 a
 sensation
of
being
watched.
 
 For
 hundreds
 of
 miles
 he
 drove
 and
 stopped
 at
 gas
 stations,
hotels,
police
departments,
restaurants,
and
one
 home:
at
least
one
building
in
each
town
he
passed.

They
 were
 all
 deserted,
 or
 appeared
 so:
 like
 the
 human
 population
of
Megiddo.


 
 That
was
creepy,
sure.

But
it
was
the
larger
cities
that
 scared
Andrew.

They
had
changed.

Albuquerque,
Santa
 Fe,
Amarillo
all
sported
a
new
skin.

A
glimmering
white
 skin
upon
cityscapes
equally
alien
in
their
geography,
as
 though
 they
 had
 each
 erupted
 with
 an
 architectural
 cancer.
 
 And
 while
 the
 roads
 Andrew
 traveled
 and
 the
 small
towns
he
passed
were
deserted,
he
could
see
those
 white
 cities
 teaming
 with
 movement.
 
 He
 avoided
 the
 white
cities.
 
 Just
north
of
Dallas,
outside
of
Denton,
he
finally
saw
 signs
 of
 humanity.
 
 The
 podbike
 was
 on
 autopilot
 when
 he
 saw
 a
 column
 of
 smoke
 wafting
 in
 the
 yellow‐gold
 twilight
glow
ahead.

He
gripped
the
steering
column
and

9

M-BRANE SF angled
 toward
 the
 next
 off‐ramp,
 engine
 keening
 down
 into
 the
 townlet
 of
 Margretville.
 
 That's
 where
 he
 found
 out
the
world
had
ended.
 
 
 “It's
you,”

The
man
said.
 
 Andrew
 stood
 in
 the
 lee
 of
 the
 podbike's
 gull‐wing.

 Young
 men
 and
 old
 men,
 a
 scattering
 of
 women
 stood
 around
the
bonfire
and
stared
at
him.
 
 “Brother
Michael?”
Someone
called
out.
 
 “Brother?”
 
 “Michael!”
 
 “Look,
 look,”
 
 the
 man
 said,
 waving
 his
 palm
 toward
 Andrew.
 “It's
 Andrew.”
 
 Andrew
 did
 not
 know
 the
 man
 (Brother
Michael
someone
had
called
him).
 
 “Andrew?”
 
 “Andrew!”
 
 “Who's
Andrew!”
 
 “Hey,
ya'll,
its
Andrew!”
 
 “Hey,
Andrew!”
 
 Andrew
 waved
 at
 the
 growing
 crowd.
 
 Most
 of
 them
 smiled,
 at
 least.
 
 The
 rest
 just
 looked
 confused.
 
 He
 glanced
 at
 the
 man
 in
 front.
 
 He
 wore
 jams
 and
 a
 Newsboys
 tee‐shirt.
 
 Andrew
 realized
 the
 man
 recognized
him
from
the
television
show.
 
 “Brother
Michael?”
Andrew
asked.
 
 “You
can
call
me
Mike
if
I
can
call
you
Andy.”
 
 “That's
fine,
Mike.

So,
what
was
the
show
called?”
 
 A
 boy
 in
 his
 late
 teens,
 lanky,
 tall,
 blond,
 stopped
 beside
Mike.
 
 “I'm
Marcus.

It
was
called
Man
or
Machine.”
 
 “You
gotta
be
kidding
me,”
Andrew
said.
 
 The
boy
shook
his
head.

Andrew
groaned.
 
 “So...”
the
boy
said.
 
 “What?”

Andrew
didn't
understand
the
question.
 
 “Are
you...
a
man
or
a
machine?”


 
 Mike,
whom
Andrew
already
pegged
for
Marcus'
dad,
 slapped
the
back
of
the
kid's
head
and,
as
disgusted
as
he
 felt,
all
Andrew
could
do
was
laugh.
 
 
 As
it
grew
darker
the
group,
composed
of
members
of
 the
 Margretville
 Bible
 Church
 and
 a
 few
 people
 from
 neighboring
 towns,
 had
 Andrew
 sit
 down‐wind
 of
 the
 bonfire
 and
 served
 him
 a
 huge
 bowl
 of
 chili
 with
 cornbread
and
fresh
sweet‐tea.

It
was
delicious.
 
 “...So,
the
same
thing
happened
to
Megiddo?”
 
 “As
far
as
I
can
tell.

The
only
people
left
behind...
the
 only
humans...
are
me
and
an
old
religious
guy
who
took
 care
of
the
bike.”
 
 Several
of
the
older
men
laughed
at
that.

They
didn't
 sound
amused.
 
 Brother
 Mike
 and
 son
 Marcus
 sat
 on
 either
 side
 of
 Andrew.


 
 “So
 when
 did
 you
 start
 believing,
 Andrew?”
 
 Mike
 asked.
 
 Andrew
 watched
 the
 fire
 as
 the
 darkness
 stretched

10

FEBRUARY 2009 over
 them.
 
 Staring
 straight
 up
 he
 spotted
 a
 few
 bright
 stars.
 
 “No
offense,
but
I'm
not
Christian.”
 
 “Nothing
makes
sense
anymore,”
one
of
the
older
men
 muttered
as
he
crackled
to
his
feet
and
shuffled
off.
 
 Andrew
looked
at
Mike.

“I
really
don't
want
to
offend
 anyone:
I'm
sorry.

You
all
are
really
nice
people.”
 
 “No,
Andrew,
no
one's
offended
or
if
they
are
they
just
 need
to
get
over
it.

No,
we're
just
confused.”
 
 “All
 the
 little
 kids
 are
 gone,”
 Marcus
 said.
 
 Andrew
 looked
at
him
and
saw
his
eyes
go
glassy,
his
face
redden,
 and
tears
well
upon
his
cheeks.

“My
little
brother.

Gone.

 And
everyone
who
wasn't
a
church‐goer.”
 
 Mike
 reached
 behind
 Andrew
 to
 rest
 his
 hand
 on
 Marcus'
 shoulder
 and
 squeeze.
 
 He
 also
 wiped
 at
 tears
 rolling
down
his
cheeks.
 
 “We've
 had
 a
 couple
 days
 to
 take
 stock.
 
 Talk
 to
 some
 other
 groups
 in
 the
 area.
 
 What
 Marcus
 means...
 what
 we
 are
 finding...”
 
 He
 paused,
 took
 a
 breath,
 went
 on.

 “Understand,
It's
not
my
place
to
judge.

I'm
a
deacon
with
 the
 Bible
 Church.
 
 You
 live
 and
 work
 and
 worship
 with
 people
 long
 enough
 you
 get
 to
 know
 them
 pretty
 good.

 Near
as
I
can
tell,
everyone
who
didn't
believe
Christ
is
the
 only
way
is
gone
now...
plus
the
kids.”
 
 “It's
 the
 rapture...
 but
 we're
 the
 ones
 shoulda
 been
 raptured,”
 
 Marcus
 started
 bawling
 and
 Mike
 excused
 them
both.
 
 Andrew
sat
drinking
with
two
of
the
old
guys
late
into
 the
night.


 
 “If
 the
 world
 is
 ending,
 might
 as
 well
 get
 your
 drink
 on,”

a
guy
with
glasses
said
laughing.

Andrew
smiled
and
 held
the
bottle
up,
uttered,
“Salute,”
and
downed
a
searing
 gulp
of
the
liquid
fire.
 
 Mike
 came
 back
 out
 and
 took
 his
 own
 swig
 from
 the
 bottle.
 
 “Is
the
boy
okay?”
 
 “He'll
be
fine.”
 
 “I
read
that
book,”
the
old
guy
with
glasses
said.
 
 “Me
too,”
Mike
added.
 
 “Book?”
 
 “Do
 Androids
 Dream
 of
 Electric
 Sheep?”
 
 Mike
 said.

 Andrew
 nodded,
 remembering
 back
 to
 that
 night.
 
 He
 wondered
 how
 much
 of
 the
 later
 evening
 the
 cameras
 captured
and
shared.
 
 “I
thought
the
show
would
have
a
name
that
spun
off
of
 that,”
Andrew
said.
 
 The
 old
 guy
 with
 glasses
 nodded.
 
 “Do
 Men
 Dream
 of
 Bloody
Sheep?”
 
 “No,
 no,”
 the
 other
 codger
 said.
 
 “It'd
 have
 to
 be
 something
like
Do
Men
Dream
of
Organic
Sheep?”
 
 “Organic
 sheep:
 that's
 the
 most
 ridiculous
 thing
 I've
 ever
heard!”
 
 “And
bloody
sheep
sounds
good?”

The
old
man
huffed
 at
such
stupidity.
 
 Mike
 cleared
 his
 throat
 and
 motioned
 for
 the
 bottle,

M-BRANE SF took
 a
 swig
 when
 it
 was
 handed
 him
 and
 looked
 up
 into
 the
starry
expanse
above
before
he
spoke.

The
tears
had
 returned.
 
 “We
do.

Think
about
it:
we
do.

We've
been
dreaming
 of
 the
 bloodiest
 sheep
 of
 all,
 and
 now...
 What?
 
 We
 got
 it
 wrong?

We
misunderstood?

We
dream
of
bloody
sheep.

 We
 dream
 of
 redemption.
 
 And
 we
 are
 alone
 in
 a
 silent
 universe.”
 
 Andrew
 was
 about
 to
 rise
 and
 see
 where
 he
 could
 bunk
for
the
night
when
he
started
laughing.

Tears
rolled
 down
 his
 eyes
 as
 the
 other
 men
 asked
 him
 what
 it
 was.

 What
is
so
funny?

Andrew
caught
his
breath
and
was
able
 to
squeeze
out
the
words.
 
 “God
left
me
because
He
thought
I
was
a
robot.

He
left
 you
 because
 you
 were
 all
 assholes.”
 
 After
 a
 stunned
 moment
the
other
men
began
to
laugh
as
well.
 
 As
the
laughter
died
and
the
crackling
of
the
fire
filled
 the
silence
from
above
Mike
said,
“There's
something
else
 you
should
know.”
 
 
 Andrew's
 old
 apartment
 was
 just
 a
 few
 miles
 south
 and
 Mike
 accompanied
 him
 there.
 
 Mike
 thought
 his
 words
 about
 the
 cities
 would
 surprise
 Andrew
 but
 of
 course
 he
 already
 knew.
 
 They
 drove
 South
 into
 Corinth
 and
 went
 all
 the
 way
 to
 the
 lake
 bridge
 and
 stopped.

 Across
 where
 before
 there
 was
 only
 more
 highway
 for
 several
 miles
 before
 reaching
 Lewisville
 the
 white
 city
 loomed
over
them
like
a
diseased
garden
of
monoliths.
 
 “Are
those
people
I
see
moving?”
Mike
asked.
 
 “I
don't
know,”
Andrew
said.
 
 At
 the
 apartment
 Andrew
 found
 nothing
 of
 use
 until
 he
 was
 about
 to
 leave.
 
 It
 had
 been
 retained
 by
 Mr.
 Hollywood's
 company.
 
 Andrew
 used
 the
 key
 hidden
 behind
the
light
to
get
in.


 
 The
apartment
smelled
musty
and
held
memories
that
 pained
Andrew.

He
thought
about
Andrea.
How
long
had
 she
 lived
 here,
 her
 life
 on
 hold,
 waiting
 for
 him?
 
 He
 felt
 glad
 that
 she
 moved
 on:
 she
 deserved
 it.
 
 He
 grabbed
 a
 mala
 from
 his
 old
 desk
 and
 stepped
 toward
 the
 door
 to
 leave
 when
 he
 saw
 the
 answering
 machine.
 
 Red
 light.

 One
message.

Certainly
from
ages
past.
 
 When
 he
 listened
 to
 the
 message
 it
 was
 dated
 three
 days
old.
 
 “Andrew,”
 Andrea's
 voice
 said.
 
 An
 occasional
 scream
 echoed
in
the
background
like
a
horror
movie
playing
on
 a
 nearby
 television.
 
 “I'm
 lost,
 Andrew.
 
 I'm
 lost.

 Something
 hunts
 us
 in
 the
 city.
 
 It
 looks
 like
 you.
 
 Help
 me,”
there
was
a
click
and
a
dial
tone.
 
 
 “Do
 you
 know
 what's
 happened?”
 
 Lauri
 asked
 him.

 Her
hair
was
mussed
and
there
were
bags
under
her
eyes.
 
 “No.

Not
really,”

He
told
her
what
he
had
seen
on
his
 trip
and
learned
from
the
congregation
at
Margretville.
 
 “Can
 we
 keep
 the
 town
 running?
 
 I
 guess
 that's
 what
 we
need
to
look
into
first.

Second:
what
do
you
guys
need

FEBRUARY 2009 long
term
to
survive?

Can
you
reproduce?

I'd
like
to
see
 Megiddo
survive.”
 
 “We'll
 survive.
 
 What
 will
 you
 do,
 though?”
 
 She
 looked
 at
 him
 and
 he
 remembered
 her
 words
 from
 that
 first
night
of
their
coupling.
 
 “I
have
to
help
someone.

Someone
who
once
helped
 me.”
 
 The
 skirling
 of
 the
 podbike
 interrupted
 them
 as
 the
 mechanic
 and
 Mike
 waved
 and
 took
 off
 down
 the
 highway,
heading
for
Margretville.

Mike
would
return
in
 a
couple
days
for
Andrew
and
then
they
would
enter
the
 white
city.

Andrew
told
Lauri
this.
 
 “And
when
I
get
back,
I
wonder
if
you'd
marry
me,”
he
 asked.
 
 Lauri's
 clear,
 dark,
 android
 eyes
 locked
 with
 Andrew's
and
she
answered
his
question.

Brandon
Bell
has
been
published
 in
the
recent
 Return
 to
 Luna
 anthology
from
Hadley
Rille,
the
 August
 2008
 edition
 of
 Byzarium
 webzine,
 and
 has
 received
 honorable
 mentions
 in
 the
 2008
 Spacewesterns.com
 senryu
 contest
 (I
 have
 to
 admit
 that
 I
 did
 not
 know
 what
 “senryu”
 is— check
 out
 the
 Wikipedia
 article
 on
 it
 and
 Brandon’s
 several
 clever
 examples
 of
 it
 at
 the
 Space
 Westerns
 site.—CF).
 
 He
 is
 writing
 a
 fantastic
 novel
 (“a
 description,
 not
 a
 quality
 assessment,”
 he
 says),
 a
 biography
 of
 local
 women's
 advocate
 and
 abuse
 survivor
 Veda
 McGregor,
 as
 well
 as
 other
 short
 genre
 stories.

 His
other
passions
are
his
wife
and
her
volunteer
 work,
his
kids
(soccer!),
and
two
cats,
a
black
cat
 named

Midnight,

and

a

ginger

named

Fafhrd.

 Find
 Brandon
 online
 at
 www.nithska.
 blogspot.com
 ,
 where
 he
 blogs
 about
 his
 writing
 and
other
genre
topics.

Chris says: Hey, check out my blog for frequent updates on M-Brane-related news, and all kinds of chatter about my sf goings-on. It also features submission guidelines, links to MBrane writers’ sites, and magazine subscription info. All this and more at…

www.mbranesf.blogspot.com

11

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF I
almost
passed
on
this
story
by
Rick
Novy
when
 I
first
read
it—not
because
I
didn’t
like
it.

No,
I
 liked
 it
 just
 fine,
 but
 I
 wasn’t
 sure
 whether
 it
 could
 really
 be
 said
 to
 reside
 within
 the
 sf
 genre.
 It’s
 almost
 too
 realistic,
 too
 close
 to
 something
 that
 might
 really
 happen
 any
 day
 now,
if
it’s
not
already
going
on.
You’ll
see
what
 I
 mean
 when
 you
 read
 it.
 I
 finally
 decided
 that
 the
 sociology—or
 maybe
 sociopathology—of
 it
 pushes
 the
 story
 into
 the
 sf
 genre,
 where
 we
 should
all
hope
it
stays
for
a
long
time.—CF
 
 
 Robbie
 Kent
 hated
 crowds.
 
 He
 also
 hated
 waiting.

 Most
of
all,
he
hated
traffic.

Traffic
in
the
rain
was
the
 worst,
so
it
should
come
as
no
surprise
that
Robbie
was
 in
a
particularly
foul
mood
driving
to
his
client's
factory
 through
 a
 torrential
 downpour
 during
 the
 morning
 rush
hour.

His
black
pickup
was
a
magnet
for
assholes.
 
 The
 exit
 neared,
 and
 Robbie
 moved
 into
 the
 right
 hand
lane
so
he
could
get
off
the
freeway.

Suddenly,
a
 blue
pickup
cut
in
front
of
him,
exiting
from
all
the
way
 in
the
left
lane.

Robbie
stomped
on
the
brakes
to
avoid
 being
hit,
and
nearly
slid
into
the
ditch
at
the
side
of
the
 off
ramp.

He
felt
a
thunk
on
the
left
side
of
the
bed
and
 looked
into
the
side
mirror
to
see
a
bent
signpost
in
his
 wake.

Not
the
paint!

 
 At
 the
 light,
 Asshole
 hit
 the
 green,
 and
 Robbie
 got
 the
 red.
 
 He
 pressed
 in
 the
 cigarette
 lighter.
 
 Arming
 missiles.
 
 Fire.
 
 "Boom."
 
 In
 his
 mind,
 the
 blue
 pickup
 turned
to
slag.

Sigh.

The
light
turned
green
and
Robbie
 continued
 to
 his
 client's
 factory,
 still
 fuming
 from
 the
 close
call.


 
 After
pulling
into
the
lot,
Robbie
looked
at
the
side
 of
his
truck.

He
didn't
notice
the
rain,
just
the
dent
and
 scratch
 gracing
 the
 wall
 of
 the
 bed.
 
 It
 stretched
 from
 the
wheel‐well
all
the
way
to
the
tail
light.

The
money
 saved
for
that
new
computer
would
now
go
to
the
body
 shop.
 
 He
 turned
 to
 walk
 toward
 the
 lobby
 door
 and
 accidentally
 dinged
 the
 truck
 again,
 this
 time
 with
 his
 toolbox.
 
 Dammit.
 
 A
 visit
 to
 the
 body
 shop
 seemed
 to
 be
inevitable.
 
 After
a
twenty‐minute
wait
in
the
lobby,
his
contact
 finally
greeted
him,
a
portly
man
who
obviously
didn't
 take
care
of
his
health.

Management,
no
doubt.


 
 "You
the
laser
guy?"
he
asked.
 
 Yeah.
 
 I'm
 the
 laser
 guy,
 you
 fat
 fuck.
 
 I
 should
 put
 that
on
my
business
cards.

"That's
me."
 
 The
manager
stuck
out
his
hand
for
a
shake.

Robbie
 stood
and
met
it
with
his
own
hand.

After
shaking,
the
 manager
said,
"Have
you
signed
in?"
 
 "First
 thing
 I
 did."
 
 He
 signed
 in
 at
 every
 client’s
 front
desk.
 
 The
manager
put
his
arm
around
Robbie's
shoulder
 to
 guide
 him
 through
 the
 factory,
 but
 Robbie
 twisted
 away
 as
 he
 picked
 up
 his
 toolbox.
 
 He
 followed
 the

12

manager
 onto
 the
 factory
 floor.
 
 "This
 is
 the
 equipment
 that
needs
the
upgrade,"
the
manager
said.


 

 It
was
a
Nippon
Toolworks
RX27,
one
of
the
best
CO2
 laser
cutting
tools
on
the
market.

Mostly
companies
with
 deep
 pockets
 upgraded
 these
 babies
 because
 the
 old
 version
 still
 kicked
 ass
 over
 most
 everything
 else.
 
 "Do
 you
have
the
upgrade
kit?"
Robbie
asked.
 
 "Sully's
 getting
 it."
 
 The
 manager
 pointed
 to
 a
 stool
 near
the
RX27.

"You
can
wait
for
him
over
here."

Then
 he
walked
away.
 
 A
 metal
 stool.
 
 All
 the
 comforts
 of
 home.
 
 Robbie
 opted
 to
 stand—for
 the
 first
 twenty
 minutes.
 
 It
 turned
 out
 Sully
 forgot
 to
 order
 the
 upgrade
 kit,
 and
 was
 scrambling
to
get
one
by
pulling
favors.

Two
hours
and
 one
 sore
 ass
 later,
 Sully
 arrived
 with
 the
 upgrade
 kit
 inside
 a
 damaged
 box,
 and
 a
 story
 Robbie
 couldn’t
 care
 less
about.
 
 The
 kit
 consisted
 of
 a
 new
 laser,
 several
 fitting
 screws,
 a
 grommet,
 and
 circuit
 board
 replacements.

ROAD RAGE RICK NOVY Ninety
 minutes
 of
 work
 that
 Robbie
 made
 last
 three
 hours.
 
 If
 this
 company
 wanted
 to
 waste
 his
 time,
 they
 could
compensate
him.

It's
why
he
billed
by
the
hour.
 
 After
 filling
 out
 an
 invoice,
 Robbie
 picked
 up
 the
 old
 laser
and
started
looking
for
either
Sully
or
the
manager.

 He
 finally
 found
 the
 manager
 just
 in
 time
 to
 intercept
 him
on
the
way
to
the
restroom.
 
 "Who
gets
the
old
laser
and
the
bill?"

 
 "I'll
take
them."

The
manager
held
out
his
hand,
and
 Robbie
turned
them
over.

M-BRANE SF 
 "That
 laser
 is
 still
 good,"
 Robbie
 said.
 
 "You
 should
 probably
keep
it
as
a
spare."

 
 "Good
 idea,"
 the
 manager
 said
 as
 he
 grabbed
 both
 the
 laser
 and
 the
 invoice
 without
 missing
 a
 beat
 on
 his
 way
 through
the
restroom
door.

 
 Robbie
headed
straight
home
after
that.

It
wasn't
until
 about
four
thirty
in
the
afternoon
that
he
realized
he
left
his
 toolbox
behind.

Trying
to
catch
Sully
or
the
manager
before
 five,
 Robbie
 jumped
 into
 his
 truck
 and
 peeled
 out
 of
 the
 carport.
 
 Robbie
 ended
 up
 behind
 a
 fifty‐year‐old
 station
 wagon
 at
 the
 ramp
 to
 the
 freeway.
 
 The
 guy
 behind
 the
 wheel
 looked
 like
 he
 was
 old
 before
 the
 car
 was
 built,
 and
 he
 drove
 like
 it,
 too.
 
 The
 fossil
 must
 have
 mistaken
 the
 freeway
for
the
Brookhaven
Assisted
Living
Center,
because
 he
 drove
 up
 the
 ramp
 like
 he
 was
 expecting
 speed
 bumps.

 Fed
 up
 with
 this
 guy,
 Robbie
 took
 advantage
 of
 the
 gravel
 shoulder
 to
 pass
 him
 on
 the
 right.
 
 That
 toolbox
 was
 too
 important
 to
 let
 an
 old
 fart
 like
 this
 ruin
 his
 chances
 of
 getting
it
back.


 
 As
he
passed
the
station
wagon,
Robbie
rolled
down
his
 window
to
yell,
"Get
a
new
car!"

To
emphasize
the
point,
he
 tried
to
spray
the
hood
of
the
station
wagon
with
gravel
as
 he
got
back
on
the
pavement.
 
 He
 moved
 over
 to
 the
 left
 lane
 to
 get
 past
 the
 slower
 traffic,
 but
 it
 made
 no
 difference.
 
 Traffic
 slowed,
 then
 it
 came
 to
 a
 stand‐still.
 
 Evening
 rush
 hour.
 
 No
 way
 he
 was
 going
 to
 get
 there
 before
 five
 o'clock.
 
 Hopefully,
 someone
 was
 working
 late.
 
 It
 was
 nearly
 six
 o'clock
 by
 the
 time
 he
 got
past
the
accident
and
drove
to
the
factory.
 
 Robbie
splashed
through
the
puddle
from
the
morning's
 rain
 as
 he
 pulled
 into
 the
 lot
 of
 the
 darkened
 factory.
 
 He
 parked
in
the
spot
closest
to
the
front
door.

There
were
no
 other
cars
in
the
lot.
 
 The
front
door
was
locked.

Damn.

Maybe
someone
was
 still
in
back.

He
walked
around
the
side
of
the
building
past
 a
few
emergency
exits,
a
water
meter,
and
a
dumpster
with
 a
lid
open.

When
he
found
the
back
door,
he
discovered
it
 locked,
too.


 
 Robbie
tried
knocking
for
a
few
minutes
before
he
gave
 up
and
started
back
to
his
truck.

He
took
a
peek
inside
the
 open
dumpster
as
he
passed
by.

Something
caught
his
eye.

 That
 fat
 fuck
 manager
 tossed
 the
 old
 laser
 in
 the
 trash
 instead
of
saving
it
as
a
spare.
 
 The
 toolbox
 could
 wait
 for
 tomorrow,
 but
 an
 opportunity
 to
 get
 a
 free
 CO2
 laser
 this
 powerful
 might
 never
 come
 again.
 
 Robbie
 reached
 inside
 to
 retrieve
 the
 laser.

It
was
damp,
but
looked
okay.

He
tucked
it
inside
his
 jacket
before
casually
walking
back
to
his
pickup.
 
 Robbie
didn't
really
know
what
to
do
with
the
laser,
so
 when
 he
 got
 home,
 he
 just
 put
 it
 on
 the
 overhead
 shelf
 in
 the
closet.

The
next
day
was
Friday,
and
in
the
morning,
he
 decided
to
take
another
stab
at
retrieving
his
toolbox.

 
 He
 had
 to
 drive
 through
 the
 typical
 heavy
 traffic
 of
 a
 Friday
 morning
 rush
 hour,
 arriving
 at
 the
 freeway
 exit

FEBRUARY 2009 about
 the
 same
 time
 as
 the
 previous
 day.
 
 As
 Robbie
 pulled
 up
 to
 the
 light,
 he
 looked
 in
 his
 rear
 view
 mirror.
 
 Unbelievable.
 
 In
 the
 mirror,
 he
 saw
 a
 blue
 pickup
 that
 looked
 a
 lot
 like
 the
 asshole
 that
 forced
 him
into
the
sign
yesterday.
 
 The
driver
was
a
relatively
young
man
with
a
bald
 or
 shaved
 head.
 
 A
 wife‐beater
 shirt
 revealed
 tattoo‐ covered
arms.

A
complete
waste
of
protoplasm.
 
 His
 turn
 today.
 
 Let's
 see
 how
 this
 asshole
 likes
 being
fucked
with.

Robbie
continued
to
sit
at
the
light
 after
 it
 turned
 green.
 
 Blue
 Pickup
 leaned
 on
 his
 horn
 and
 revved
 his
 engine,
 but
 Robbie
 didn't
 budge.
 
 Cars
 behind
 Blue
 Pickup
 layed
 into
 their
 horns,
 too.
 
 The
 light
 turned
 yellow,
 and
 still
 Robbie
 sat
 there.
 
 As
 the
 light
 turned
 red,
 Robbie
 floored
 the
 gas
 and
 peeled
 through
 the
 intersection,
 leaving
 Asshole
 to
 wait
 for
 the
next
green.
 
 Man,
that
felt
good.

Robbie
pulled
into
the
factory
 parking
 lot
 through
 the
 now
 small
 puddle
 and
 parked
 in
 the
 first
 available
 space.
 
 He
 walked
 into
 the
 lobby
 and
headed
straight
to
the
reception
desk.


 
 The
 receptionist
 took
 one
 look
 at
 Robbie
 and
 said,
 "We've
been
expecting
you."
 
 "Oh?"
 
 Oh
 shit
 was
 more
 like
 it.
 
 They
 must
 have
 cameras.

 
 "Sully
will
be
here
in
a
few
minutes
to
escort
you."

 Why
Sully?
 
 Robbie
 sat
 on
 one
 of
 the
 sofas
 and
 paged
 through
 an
 old
 issue
 of
 National
 Geographic,
 even
 though
 nothing
 inside
 caught
 his
 attention.
 
 Fifteen
 minutes
 later,
Sully
came
into
the
lobby.
 
 "Mr.
 Kent,"
 he
 said,
 "Please
 come
 with
 me."
 
 Sully
 led
 him
 into
 a
 conference
 room.
 
 The
 tubby
 little
 manager
 was
 there,
 along
 with
 a
 security
 guard.
 
 Uh‐ oh.
They
do
know
about
the
laser.
 
 "Good
 morning,
 Mr.
 Kent,"
 the
 fat
 little
 manager
 said.
 
 "We
 understand
 you
 paid
 us
 a
 little
 visit
 after
 hours
yesterday."
 
 "I
left
my
toolbox
here,"
Robbie
said.


 
 "You
left
your
umbrella,
too,"
Sully
said.

"You'll
get
 them
back
when
you
leave."

They
had
to
know
about
 the
laser.

 
 "The
old
laser
is
missing,"
the
manager
said.
 
 Robbie
pointed
at
him.

"I
gave
it
to
you."
 
 Sully
 continued.
 
 "We
 saw
 you
 in
 back
 on
 the
 security
tapes."
 
 Oh‐no.
 
 Should
 have
 left
 the
 laser
 in
 the
 dumpster.
 "I
was
hoping
to
find
somebody
still
working
in
back
so
 I
could
get
my
toolbox.

Tools
aren't
cheap."
 
 Sully
 waved
 his
 hands
 in
 front
 of
 him.
 
 "Don't
 worry,
we
aren't
accusing
you.

We
just
want
to
know
if
 you
saw
anything."
 
 Lucky,
 lucky,
 lucky.
 
 They
 must
 not
 have
 a
 camera
 on
the
dumpster.

Play
it
straight.

"I
didn't
see
anyone.

 Sorry."

13

M-BRANE SF 
 The
 security
 guard
 spoke
 for
 the
 first
 time.

 "Anything
 suspicious,
 no
 matter
 how
 small,
 can
 be
 of
 help."
 
 Robbie
 shifted
 in
 his
 chair.
 
 "I'm
 sorry.
 
 Everything
 seemed
normal
to
me."
 
 "If
you
think
of
anything,"
the
security
guard
said
as
 he
 passed
 his
 business
 card
 across
 the
 table,
 "please
 free
to
give
me
a
call."
 
 Sully
stood.

"I'll
bring
your
toolbox
and
umbrella
to
 the
reception
desk."
Handshakes
went
all
around,
then
 the
fat
manager
escorted
Robbie
out
to
the
lobby.

After
 a
 five‐minute
 wait,
 Sully
 brought
 up
 the
 toolbox
 and
 umbrella.

Feeling
smug
in
his
victory,
Robbie
was
soon
 on
 his
 way
 home.
 
 He
 didn't
 have
 any
 clients
 today,
 so
 he
 was
 anticipating
 some
 relaxation
 in
 front
 of
 the
 television,
and
maybe
renting
a
movie.
 
 It
was
while
merging
onto
the
freeway
that
his
good
 mood
was
shaken.

As
he
tried
merging,
some
dickhead
 in
 an
 SUV
 changed
 from
 the
 middle
 lane
 to
 the
 ramp
 lane
by
cutting
right
in
front
of
Robbie.

The
SUV
almost
 clipped
 the
 bumper
 of
 Robbie’s
 pickup.
 
 He
 was
 seething,
 and
 wanted
 to
 chase
 the
 SUV
 down,
 but
 already
passed
the
exit.

 
 Every
 day
 it
 was
 the
 same
 ‐‐get
 cut
 off,
 get
 pissed
 off,
and
it
was
getting
old.

First
you've
got
the
damn
hip
 hop
 with
 the
 bass
 so
 loud
 it
 resonates
 in
 your
 bones,
 then
 you've
 got
 the
 smug
 fuckers
 that
 cover
 their
 license
plates
with
plastic
to
fool
the
red
light
cameras,
 just
to
advertise
they
intend
to
run
the
lights‐‐assholes
 all.
 
 There
 had
 to
 be
 some
 way
 to
 fight
 back.
 
 Robbie
 didn't
 want
 to
 go
 through
 life
 as
 a
 freeway
 victim.
 
 He
 pulled
his
truck
into
the
garage,
still
thinking
about
the
 problem.

There
seemed
to
be
no
solution.

If
only
there
 was
a
way
to
just
fuck
up
their
paint
job
or
something— anything!
 
 Robbie
 fixed
 himself
 dinner,
 and
 just
 as
 he
 started
 eating,
a
knock
came
at
the
door.

He
walked
across
the
 room
 and
 opened
 the
 door
 to
 see
 Jim,
 his
 next
 door
 neighbor.

Now
what?
 
 "Hey,
Robbie,"
Jim
said.

 
 "Hey,
Jim."
 
 "I'm
 headed
 up
 to
 the
 canyon
 this
 weekend.
 
 You
 think
I
could
borrow
your
binoculars?"
 
 Never
see
those
again.

"If
you
promise
to
be
careful
 with
 them."
 
 Where
 are
 they?
 
 Oh
 yeah,
 the
 closet.

 "Hold
on,
I'll
go
get
them."
 
 Robbie
walked
to
the
bedroom
and
checked
for
the
 binoculars
on
the
top
shelf
of
the
closet.

He
found
them
 right
 away,
 but
 something
 else
 also
 caught
 his
 attention‐‐the
laser
he
found
in
the
dumpster.

Would
it
 fit
 under
 the
 hood?
 
 Here
 was
 the
 invisible
 revenge
 Robbie
was
looking
for—if
he
could
make
it
work.


 
 He
 absently
 grabbed
 the
 binoculars
 and
 forced
 himself
back
to
the
front
door.

Jim
looked
a
little
miffed

14

FEBRUARY 2009 at
 how
 long
 he
 had
 to
 wait.
 
 Too
 bad,
 beggars
 can't
 be
 choosers.
 
 Better
 give
 him
 a
 line
 anyway
 so
 the
 binoculars
have
a
chance
of
coming
back
home.

"Sorry
it
 took
so
long.

I
had
trouble
finding
one
of
the
lens
caps."
 
 That
seemed
to
satisfy
Jim,
who
said,
"No
problem.

I'll
 bring
them
over
Monday
night."
 
 "Sure,"
Robbie
said
while
closing
the
door.

He
locked
 it,
then
walked
back
to
the
bedroom
to
pull
the
laser
out
 of
the
closet.

 
 "Let's
take
a
look
at
you."

He
set
it
on
the
desk,
then
 read
 the
 specification
 label.
 
 One
 thousand
 watt
 CO2
 UV
 pulse
laser.

Unusual
for
a
CO2
laser
to
pulse,
but
then,
the
 RX27
was
an
unusual
cutting
tool.

That
the
thing
lased
in
 the
UV
was
a
bonus—the
beam
was
completely
invisible.


 
 Next,
 he
 looked
 at
 the
 placement
 of
 the
 holes
 for
 the
 mounting
 screws.
 
 Not
 bad.
 
 He
 picked
 up
 the
 laser
 and
 carried
it
out
to
the
garage,
popped
the
hood,
then
tried
 different
 locations
 inside
 the
 engine
 compartment
 to
 figure
out
where
the
laser
might
fit
and
still
have
a
direct
 path
 out
 the
 front.
 
 Hmmm.
 
 By
 moving
 the
 coolant
 reservoir
and
mounting
the
laser
right
there,
it
would
fire
 right
through
the
grille
without
having
to
make
any
new
 holes.

It
was
going
to
fit,
but
would
the
laser
work
with
 available
power?
 
 He
 let
 the
 hood
 drop,
 then
 carried
 the
 laser
 to
 the
 kitchen,
 placing
 it
 on
 the
 table.
 
 A
 couple
 hours
 later,
 Robbie
thought
he
had
a
functional
setup.

He
yanked
the
 battery
from
his
pickup
 and
connected
 it
 to
the
laser
 on
 his
kitchen
table.

Now
came
the
test.
 
 Robbie
 aimed
 the
 laser
 at
 the
 empty
 soda
 can
 across
 the
room,
then
powered
the
laser
on
and
waited
for
it
to
 warm
 up.
 
 When
 the
 ten
 minutes
 were
 up,
 Robbie
 fired
 the
laser
at
the
can
for
a
good
thirty
seconds.


 The
results
were
discouraging.

There
was
a
little
spot
of
 discoloration,
 but
 even
 that
 was
 surprisingly
 minor.

 Without
 documentation
 for
 the
 laser,
 it
 took
 nearly
 an
 hour
 of
 paging
 through
 a
 laser
 handbook
 before
 he
 figured
out
the
problem.

The
laser
was
losing
coherence.

 It
needed
modification
to
maintain
beam
coherence
over
 a
range
of
several
meters.
 
 Several
 days
 passed
 before
 Robbie
 managed
 to
 find
 the
necessary
part.

He
finally
piggy‐backed
the
part
onto
 a
 client's
 order.
 
 Because
 he
 knew
 this
 company
 had
 no
 laser
expertise
to
audit
the
purchase
order
with
that
kind
 of
detail,
he
even
managed
to
get
them
to
pay
for
it.

He
 thought
that
particularly
clever.
 
 Two
 weeks
 after
 the
 first
 test,
 he
 was
 ready
 to
 try
 again.

Robbie
set
a
soda
can
in
the
same
spot
across
the
 room
then
fired
the
laser.

This
time,
it
didn't
take
thirty
 seconds.
 
 After
 only
 a
 couple
 seconds,
 a
 wisp
 of
 smoke
 appeared
 on
 the
 can.
 
 When
 Robbie
 walked
 over
 to
 inspect
 the
 can,
 he
 saw
 a
 beautiful
 black
 spot.

 Installation
into
the
pickup
took
just
under
two
hours.

 
 Robbie
 had
 an
 appointment
 to
 perform
 some
 maintenance
 for
 Larson
 Brothers
 the
 next
 morning.
 
 It

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF was
 the
 first
 time
 in
 years
 he
 was
 excited
 to
 get
 on
 the
 highway.
 
 Robbie
 knew
 roughly
 when
 Asshole
 and
 his
 blue
truck
tended
to
be
in
the
area,
so
he
left
home
trying
 to
time
his
arrival
to
match.

When
he
got
to
the
exit
near
 Larson
Brothers,
Robbie
was
not
disappointed.

Asshole's
 blue
truck
was
a
lane
over,
and
the
exit
was
coming
up.
 
 Robbie
 slowed
 to
 bait
 Blue
 Truck,
 and
 it
 worked.

 Suddenly,
 the
 blue
 truck
 pulled
 across
 Robbie's
 lane,
 cutting
in
front
as
they
headed
down
the
exit
ramp.

The
 light
was
red,
with
one
car
ahead
of
Blue
Truck.

Robbie
 waited
to
see
what
Asshole
would
do.

When
the
light
 turned
 green,
 the
 car
 in
 front
 went
 on
 its
 way,
 but
 Blue
Truck
stayed
put.

It
was
exactly
what
Robbie
 hoped
he
would
do.
 
 Robbie
flipped
the
switch
to
the
laser,
and
 a
thin
wisp
of
smoke
rose
off
the
pretty
blue
 paint.

Look
at
it
burn!



 
 Asshole
pulled
away
when
the
amber
 light
 turned
 red,
 and
 Robbie
 shut
 down
 the
 laser.
 
 That
 dumb‐ass
 had
 to
 be
 wondering
 why
 Robbie
 was
 smiling
at
him
as
he
ran
the
red.

 Robbie
 was
 still
 smiling
 as
 he
 pulled
 into
 the
 lot
 of
 Larson
 Brothers.
 
 He
 spent
 an
 uneventful
 morning
 on
 laser
 maintenance,
 and
even
spent
a
half‐hour
having
 coffee
 with
 Sully
 and
 the
 fat
 manager.
 
 They
 weren't
 really
 such
 bad
guys.
 
 On
his
way
home,
he
was
cut
off
by
a
 motorcycle.

Robbie
made
a
quick
move
to
 follow
the
bike
off
the
highway.

It
would
be
a
 challenge
 to
 hit
 such
 a
 small
 target.
 
 The
 light
 was
green
as
they
came
through
the
intersection.

 Fortunately,
the
bike
got
stuck
behind
a
slow
car.


 
 Robbie
pulled
the
pickup
as
far
to
the
right
as
he
 could
in
order
to
center
the
laser
on
the
bike.

Once
he
 was
aligned,
Robbie
fired
it
up.

At
first,
a
beautiful
wisp
 of
 smoke
 came
 from
 the
 fender,
 but
 then
 the
 slow
 car
 turned
into
a
parking
lot
and
the
bike
pulled
away.

With
 distance,
 the
 laser
 still
 lost
 coherence,
 and
 the
 bike
 was
 soon
completely
out
of
range.
 
 The
 range
 problem
 was
 frustrating,
 but
 nothing
 Robbie
 couldn't
 handle.
 
 After
 a
 week,
 he
 had
 modified
 the
 laser
 again,
 adding
 a
 full
 array
 of
 batteries— connected
per
his
own
calculations
to
provide
maximum
 power
 to
 the
 laser.
 
 He
 had
 the
 opportunity
 to
 try
 this
 new
configuration
on
his
way
to
the
grocery
store.
 
 Robbie
 got
 trapped
 in
 the
 right
 lane
 behind
 an
 old
 Buick,
 and
 boxed
 in
 by
 a
 semi
 to
 his
 left.
 
 The
 grocery
 store
was
on
the
left
side,
and
after
two
blocks
he
couldn't
 handle
 it
 anymore.
 
 This
 slow
 sonuvabitch
 had
 to
 be
 taught
a
lesson.

He
fired
up
the
newly
enhanced
laser
and
 waited.

Wow!

As
he
watched
the
trunk
of
the
Buick,
little
bits
 of
molten
metal
began
to
spwut‐wut‐wut
off
the
back
of
 the
car,
looking
like
an
intermittent
sparkler.


 
 Woah!
 
 This
 thing
 plows
 right
 through
 the
 sheet
 metal!
 
 
 
 He
 let
 the
 laser
 cut
 into
 the
 metal
 for
 a
 few
 seconds,
then
suddenly
the
spwut‐wut‐wut
stopped,
and
 all
 that
 was
 left
 was
 a
 hole.
 
 Robbie
 turned
 off
 the
 laser
 and
stepped
on
the
brakes
so
he
could
slow
up
enough
to
 get
 around
 the
 back
 of
 the
 semi.
 
 He
 pulled
 into
 the
 grocery
store,
still
awed
with
his
handy
work.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 On
 Thursday,
 Robbie
 had
 an
 appointment
 across
 town
 with
 a
 new
 client.
 
 He
 was
 in
 an
 adventurous
 mood,
 and
 when
 he
 realized
 that
he
pulled
up
behind
a
cop
at
the
traffic
 light
 for
 the
 freeway
 on
 ramp,
 he
 just
 couldn’t
 resist.
 
 Nail
 a
 cop
 car,
 and
 the
 cop
would
never
know!
 Robbie
turned
the
laser
on,
 then
 watched
 the
 visual
 spwut‐ wut‐wut
 of
 the
 laser
 digging
 into
cop
car
metal.
 
When
 the
 molten
 metal
 stopped
 sputtering,
 Robbie
 turned
 off
the
laser
and
stared
at
 the
 little
 black
 hole
 until
 the
 light
 turned
 green.
 
 Tag,
 you’re
it!

See
you,
cop!
 Robbie
 took
 it
 easy
 the
 rest
 of
 the
 way
 to
 his
 new
 client.

 No
 reason
 to
 arouse
 suspicion.
 
 The
 install
 went
 well,
 and
 Robbie
 was
 on
 his
way
home
when
a
woman
in
a
green
 luxury
 car
 cut
 him
 off.
 
 This
 was
 more
 money
 than
 brains,
 for
 sure.
 
 Time
 to
 teach
 the
 rich
 bitch
 a
 lesson.
 
 On
 went
 the
 laser
 as
 Robbie
 tried
 to
 see
 the
 woman’s
 face
 in
 her
 mirrors.

The
spwut‐wut‐wut
had
already
stopped
 when
he
realized
he
knew
her.
 Who
 the
 hell
 did
 she
 meet
 that
 had
 that
 much
 money?
 
 This
 bitch
 needs
 some
 pain.
 
 Teach
 her
 to
 dump
me
like
that.

Just
keep
the
laser
pumping
into
that
 rich
bitch
car.

Let’s
fuck
up
the
whole
back
end.
 Robbie
 drifted
 back
 and
 forth
 in
 his
 lane
 with
 the
 laser
still
pumping
at
full
power.

The
spwut‐wut‐wut
of
 molten
 metal
 danced
 across
 the
 back
 of
 her
 car,
 and
 he
 didn’t
 stop
 until
 it
 evolved
 into
 a
 black
 gash
 across
 the
 trunk.
 
 Savoring
 the
 victory
 was
 only
 interrupted
 when
 Robbie
 noticed
 his
 exit
 coming
 fast.
 
 He
 swerved
 across
 three
 lanes
 of
 traffic,
 and
 barreled
 down
 the
 exit
 ramp
 with
 blaring
 horns
 in
 his
 wake.
 
 Robbie
 learned
 on
 the
 news
 a
 few
 hours
 later
 that
 the
 green
 luxury
 car
 was
 carrying
a
full
can
of
gasoline
in
the
trunk.

The
car
burst
 into
 flames
 a
 half
 mile
 after
 he
 exited
 the
 freeway.
 
 The
 driver
 did
 not
 survive.
 
 He
 turned
 off
 the
 television

Didn’t
you
 know
that
 some
nutcase
 is
running
 around
town
 shooting
 lasers
at
 peoples’
 cars?

15

M-BRANE SF before
the
story
was
over.
 How
dumb
can
you
get—carrying
gas
in
your
trunk.

 Serves
 that
 bitch
 right
 for
 being
 so
 fucking
 stupid.

 Robbie
 opened
 a
 beer,
 kicked
 back,
 and
 threw
 Cannonball
Run
into
the
DVD
player.

He
didn’t
want
to
 see
the
news.
 
 The
 next
 day,
 Robbie
 had
 no
 clients
 scheduled,
 but
 he
 decided
 to
 drive
 around
 anyway.
 
 This
 laser
 was
 simply
 too
 much
 fun
 to
 let
 it
 sit
 idle.
 
 There
 were
 so
 many
 assholes
 on
 the
 road.
 
 Time
 to
 strike
 back.
 
 He
 tooled
 around
 town
 most
 of
 the
 day,
 looking
 to
 make
 them
pay.

On
Seventh
Avenue,
a
bag
lady
was
crossing
 the
 street
 with
 her
 shopping
 cart
 and
 tying
 up
 traffic.

 Robbie
nailed
her
in
the
hip
with
a
short
burst
from
the
 laser.

How
she
ran!


 The
 next
 time
 he
 used
 the
 laser
 was
 when
 a
 car
 going
 the
 other
 way
 didn’t
 stop
 for
 a
 school
 bus.

 Robbie
pulled
out
and
turned
around
to
chase
the
guy
 down,
then
put
a
nice
gash
along
his
trunk.

Spwut‐wut‐ wut.
 After
that,
he
got
on
the
freeway
and
was
cut
off
by
 a
 pickup
 raised
 high
 off
 the
 ground.
 
 Robbie
 knew
 he
 couldn’t
hit
the
truck,
so
he
lined
himself
up
with
one
of
 the
 tires.
 
 He
 hated
 those
 lifted
 trucks.
 
 They
 were
 so
 damn
pretentious.

He
fired.

At
first,
nothing
happened,
 then
suddenly,
the
tire
burst,
causing
the
driver
of
the
 truck
to
lose
control.

It
swerved
onto
the
median
and
 rolled.

Robbie
looked
at
the
truck
as
he
whipped
past.

 Next
time,
don’t
get
a
truck
with
such
a
high
center
of
 gravity.
 About
ten
miles
farther
down
the
road,
a
low
rider
 careened
 across
 three
 lanes,
 nearly
 running
 into
 Robbie’s
truck.

He
fired.

Spwut‐wut‐wut.

The
sparks
 popped
off
the
back
of
the
low
rider.

Strange,
it
didn’t
 seem
to
take
as
much
metal
as
the
last
time.

It
couldn’t
 last
 forever.
 
 The
 laser
 needed
 a
 new
 CO2
 charge.
 
 He
 shut
it
off,
then
headed
toward
home.

Even
if
the
laser
 was
spent,
it
was
well
spent.
 He
 removed
 the
 laser
 from
 his
 truck
 that
 evening,
 sorry
there
was
no
obvious
way
to
recharge
it,
at
least
 not
any
time
soon.


By
the
time
he
finally
got
his
truck
 back
 to
 normal,
 it
 was
 almost
 eleven
 o’clock.
 
 Robbie
 was
 scheduled
 for
 maintenance
 at
 Larson
 Brothers
 in
 the
 morning.
 
 They
 were
 turning
 into
 great
 clients,
 so
 he
didn’t
want
to
be
late.
 
 
 
 
 

 It
 was
 driving
 on
 the
 freeway
 headed
 toward
 Larson
Brothers
that
Robbie
saw
the
blue
pickup
in
his
 rear‐view
mirror.

With
his
own
truck
no
longer
armed
 with
 the
 laser,
 he
 wasn’t
 quite
 sure
 what
 to
 expect.

 Normal
 patterns
 said
 that
 Asshole
 should
 cut
 in
 front,
 but
that’s
not
what
happened.

Asshole
pulled
in
behind
 Robbie.
 
 He
 wasn’t
 sure
 why
 until,
 in
 the
 rear‐view
 mirror,
 Robbie
 saw
 a
 wisp
 of
 smoke
 coming
 off
 the

16

FEBRUARY 2009 tailgate
of
his
truck.

What
the…?

Asshole
has
a
laser?


 Because
 he
 didn’t
 know
 what
 Asshole
 was
 firing,
 Robbie
decided
to
end
this
confrontation,
but
there
was
a
 car
 in
 front
 of
 him,
 and
 a
 semi
 to
 his
 right.
 
 He
 passed
 under
 a
 freeway
 sign
 that
 said
 ‘17th
 Street,
 1/4
 mile.

 Suddenly,
 Robbie’s
 foot
 decided
 to
 slam
 on
 the
 brakes.

 Asshole
 swerved
 to
 avoid
 hitting
 Robbie’s
 black
 truck
 and
ran
into
the
concrete
divider
in
the
median.

Robbie
 cut
across
three
lanes
of
traffic
and
rolled
down
the
17th
 Street
 ramp.
 
 He
 never
 made
 it
 to
 Larson
 Brothers.
 
 His
 trip
 down
 the
 exit
 ramp
 was
 just
 too
 fast,
 and
 Robbie
 slammed
 into
 a
 telephone
 pole.
 
 All
 he
 could
 remember
 was
that
his
legs
hurt
like
hell.
 
 
 
 
 
 The
 nurse
 wheeled
 Robbie
 into
 the
 rehab
 clinic
 and
 parked
 his
 wheelchair
 next
 to
 another
 patient
 in
 a
 wheelchair.
 
 She
 was
 blonde,
 probably
 in
 her
 mid‐ twenties,
and
gorgeous.

“How’s
your
rehab
coming?”
he
 asked.
 “Slow.

I
can
stand
now,
but
I
can’t
walk
yet,”
she
said.
 “I’m
Robbie.”


 They
 shook
 hands,
 and
 she
 said,
 “I’m
 Leslie.
 
 Your
 first
time
here?”
 Sweet
voice,
too.

“How
did
you
know?”


 She
 smiled.
 
 “I’ve
 been
 here
 every
 day
 since
 the
 accident,
but
it’s
the
first
time
I’ve
seen
you
here.”
 “I
 was
 in
 an
 accident,
 too.
 
 My
 truck
 met
 an
 angry
 telephone
pole.”
 Leslie
laughed.

“I
wish
I
were
so
lucky.

I
was
riding
 with
my
husband
in
his
truck.

It
was
a
lifted
truck,
you
 know
the
kind
I
mean?

With
big
wheels?”
 Robbie
nodded.
 “The
back
tire
blew
out
on
the
highway
and
the
truck
 rolled.

The
cops
said
it
looked
like
a
laser
cut
the
tire.”


 Oh,
shit.

“A
laser?”
 She
got
a
peculiar
look
in
her
eyes.

“Didn’t
you
know
 that
 some
 nutcase
 is
 running
 around
 town
 shooting
 lasers
at
peoples’
cars?

It’s
been
all
over
the
news.”
 Robbie
 tried
 to
 remain
 calm.
 
 Did
 he
 do
 that
 to
 this
 girl’s
 legs?
 
 “I
 haven’t
 watched
 the
 news
 in
 weeks.
 
 The
 cops
say
the
back
of
my
pickup
truck
was
cut
by
a
laser,
 and
that
caused
my
accident.”


 “We’re
 like
 brother
 and
 sister,
 then.”
 
 Leslie
 closed
 her
 eyes
 and
 shook
 her
 head,
 then
 she
 started
 to
 cry.

 “It’s
 not
 fair!”
 She
 pounded
 her
 fist
 on
 the
 arm
 of
 the
 wheelchair.
 
 “Why
 did
 they
 have
 to
 die,
 Robbie?
 
 That
 son‐of‐a‐bitch
 killed
 my
 husband
 and
 my
 baby.
 
 I
 hate
 that…”

She
sobbed
uncontrollably.
 Robbie
was
too
stunned
to
say
anything.

He
took
the
 life
 of
 a
 baby,
 and
 tore
 a
 family
 apart
 before
 it
 had
 the
 chance
to
really
get
started.

All
those
cars
he
nailed
with
 the
laser
weren’t
faceless
assholes
anymore.

Now
he
had
 the
 face
 of
 a
 victim
 in
 his
 mind,
 and
 the
 death
 of
 an
 innocent
 baby
 on
 his
 conscience.
 
 He
 didn’t
 notice
 the
 physical
 therapist
 until
 she
 started
 wheeling
 his
 chair

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF across
the
room.


 The
therapy
did
not
go
well
the
first
day.

He
couldn’t
 concentrate
 on
 his
 legs.
 
 He
 killed
 someone.
 A
 baby
 was
 dead.
 
 A
 family
 destroyed.
 
 A
 woman’s
 legs
 were
 crushed—a
 woman
 who
 didn’t
 know
 she
 was
 talking
 to
 the
 person
 she
 hated
 most
 in
 the
 world.
 
 How
 do
 you
 concentrate
 on
 yourself
 when
 you
 caused
 so
 much
 pain
 and
suffering?
 Robbie
 watched
 the
 news
 that
 evening
 for
 the
 first
 time
 in
 a
 long
 while.
 
 Three
 more
 laser
 incidents
 were
 reported
 on
 the
 highways
 today.
 
 Police
 estimate
 three
 unreported
 incidents
 occur
 for
 every
 reported
 incident,
 and
 at
 the
 current
 rate,
 there
 will
 be
 over
 fifty
 incidents
 each
day
by
the
end
of
the
year.
 The
next
day,
more
of
the
same—suffering
the
hatred
 of
the
beautiful
woman
who
didn’t
know
she
was
talking
 to
 the
 man
 she
 hated,
 failing
 to
 put
 forth
 any
 effort
 in
 therapy,
and
watching
the
news
in
the
evening.

The
police
 raided
a
black
market
auto‐laser
operation
and
hope
this
 will
 send
 a
 message
 to
 the
 rest
 of
 the
 city
 that
 arming
 vehicles
will
not
be
tolerated.

The
ring‐leader
was
a
punk
 named
 Jed
 Parnavek.
 
 Police
 confiscated
 his
 blue
 pickup.


 Five
 more
 incidents
 were
 reported
 in
 another
 part
 of
 town.
 And
so
it
went.

Daily
misery.

The
woman,
Leslie,
was
 released
from
therapy
after
six
weeks,
released
to
live
her
 new
 life
 alone.
 
 Robbie
 progressed
 quickly
 once
 she
 was
 gone,
and
he
was
released
four
weeks
later.

He
went
back
 to
work
the
following
Monday.
 
 
 
 
 “It’s
good
to
see
you
back,”
Sully
said.
 Robbie
followed
him
to
the
RX27.

The
laser
was
down
 for
 repair,
 and
 had
 been
 out
 of
 service
 for
 a
 month.

 Larson
 Brothers
 was
 desperate
 to
 get
 it
 back
 into
 production.
 
 Robbie
 spent
 the
 morning
 troubleshooting
 the
tool,
stopping
only
when
Sully
came
by.
 “Want
to
go
to
lunch?”
Sully
asked.
 “Where?”
 Sully
waited
as
Robbie
extracted
himself
from
the
tool.

 “Manny’s
Mexican
on
Third
Street.”


 “That’s
 kind
 of
 a
 seedy
 area,
 isn’t
 it?”
 
 Robbie
 stuffed
 the
screwdriver
he
was
using
into
his
back
pocket.

“How’s
 the
food?”
 “Best
in
town.”


 They
took
Sully’s
car.

The
parking
lot
was
nearly
full,
 but
they
found
a
parking
place
in
back.

The
back
parking
 area
was
full
of
rocks
and
papers,
with
a
dumpster
against
 the
wall
of
the
building,
and
a
chain
link
fence
on
the
other
 side
 of
 the
 alley
 behind
 them.
 
 Robbie
 looked
 at
 Sully’s
 shop
 clothes
 and
 decided
 he
 looked
 at
 home
 here.
 
 Then
 he
looked
down
at
his
own
clothes.

He
probably
fit
in,
too.


 As
 they
 rounded
 the
 corner
 of
 the
 building,
 a
 young
 man
wearing
a
leather
jacket
approached.

“Hey,
man,”
he
 said.

“You
know
anybody
who
wants
to
buy
an
under‐the‐ hood
laser?”

Robbie
looked
at
Sully,
who
had
a
look
of
disgust
on
 his
face.

Turning
his
attention
back
to
the
man
in
the
 leather
jacket,
Robbie
pulled
the
screwdriver
from
his
 pocket.
 
 No
 more
 families
 blasted
 apart.
 
 He
 lunged,
 stabbing
 the
 man
 fourteen
 times
 before
 Sully
 could
 stop
him.

Rick
Novy
has
flown
satellites,
manufactured
 surgical
implants,
tested
integrated
circuits,
 and
mathematically
simulated
binaural

 sound.

Rick
is
a
graduate
of
the
Orson
Scott
 Card
Literary
Boot
Camp.
His
fiction
has
 appeared
in
Intergalactic
Medicine
Show,
and
 Darker
Matter.
 
 Rick
writes
from
his
home
in
Arizona
(it's
a
wry
 heat).

Learn
more
at
www.ricknovy.com.

OF NOTE ON THE

WWW

A
few
online
curiosities
that
may
be
of
interest
to
the
 sf
 reader
 include….SF
 CITATIONS
 FOR
 OED,
 at
 www.jessesword.com
 .
 It
 appears
 to
 be
 an
 ongoing
 project
 to
 identify
 first
 occurrences
 in
 written
 sf
 of
 various
 words,
 Oxford
 English
 Dictionary
 style.
 The
 amount
of
research
evident
here
strikes
me
as
huge.

I
 happened
to
hit
upon
it
when
I
was
trying
to
find
info
 on
 F.E.
 Hardart,
 author
 of
 this
 month’s
 pulp
 reprint
 “The
Beast
of
Space.”
While
I
found
nothing
out
about
 Hardart,
his
story
is
cited
as
an
early
occurrence
of
the
 word
 “earthbound”…
 The
 ENCYCLOPEDIA
 OF
 SPECULATIVE
 FICTION
 at
 www.encyclopedia.
 wizards.pro.
 I’m
 not
 sure
 how
 I
 feel
 about
 this
 one,
 even
though
I
have
(for
now
anyway)
placed
a
search‐ bar
 for
 it
 on
 my
 blog
 page.
 
 It’s
 a
 wiki‐type
 site
 for
 sf
 and
 fantasy,
 but
 it
 doesn’t
 appear
 that
 anyone
 really
 puts
any
content
on
it.

I
did
not
successfully
come
up
 with
 any
 articles
 on
 any
 search
 that
 I
 did.
 Even
 the
 articles
 on
 generic
 topics
 like
 “science
 fiction”
 are
 stubs.
 I’d
 like
 to
 support
 the
 idea,
 but
 I
 wonder
 if
 Wikpedia
itself
isn’t
really
the
best
place
for
this
after
 all
 since
 I
 seldom
 fail
 to
 find
 an
 article
 on
 anything
 I
 want
 when
 I
 go
 there.
 Indeed,
 Wikipedia
 has
 become
 so
 expansive
 in
 the
 last
 couple
 of
 years,
 that
 
 I
 am
 startled
 when
 I
 do
 not
 find
 what
 I
 want
 there
 …the
 FREE
SF
READER
at
www.freesf.blogspot.com
is
one
of

CONTINUED
TO
PAGE
25
 17

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

MEL CARTAGENA This
 rather
 melancholy
 tale
 from
 Mel
 Cartagena
 delves
 into
 some
 frightening
 body
 horror
as
a
victim
of
a
random
accident
finds
 everything
 about
 his
 life—including
 what
 it
 even
 is
 to
 be
 alive—change
 out
 of
 all
 recognition.—CF

 The
 exposed
 wiring
 wasn’t
 truly
 the
 power
 company’s
 fault;
 the
 underground
 utility
 line
 carrying
 15,000
 volts
 of
 electricity
 was
 in
 fine
 working
 condition,
 had
 been
 tested
 and
 approved
 by
 the
 manufacturer,
 and
 was
 installed
 according
 to
 the
 standards
of
the
National
Electrician’s
Union.

 What
happened
was:
first,
the
thin
polyvinyl
casing
 was
 not
 designed
 for
 prolonged
 low‐frequency
 stress.
 Continuous
 jack
 hammering
 to
 reach
 subsoil,
 vibrations
 from
 giant
 excavators
 reaching
 for
 cable
television,
water
and
other
 utilities
 and
 then
 tamping
 after
 repacking
the
earth
covering
the
 utilities
 lines
 had
 caused
 a
 hairline
 
 
 stress‐fracture
 on
 the
 surface
 of
 the
 cable,
 which
 had
 simply
 expanded
 under
 the
 seasonal
 strain
 of
 frost
 heave
and
spring
thaw.

 Then,
 the
 constant
 traffic
 of
 the
 Chinatown
 district
 placed
a
lateral
stress
on
the
power
line,
which
by
now
 was
 kinked
 at
 odd
 angles
 throughout
 its
 length.
 One
 such
 bend
 on
 the
 line
 arced
 under
 a
 manhole
 cover,
 and
 exposed
 filaments
 that
 had
 been
 less
 than
 a
 quarter‐of‐an‐inch
 below
 the
 corrugated
 metal
 of
 the
 manhole.
 These
 were
 raised
 to
 the
 point
 of
 brushing
 the
metal
after
an
eighteen‐wheel
truck
drove
by,
scant
 seconds
 before
 Lalo
 Higgins
 walked
 by.
 He
 was
 on
 his
 way
home,
to
tell
his
wife
the
news
that
he’d
been
given
 a
raise
at
his
job,
and
the
manager
at
the
Comicazi
club
 was
placing
Lalo’s
name
at
the
top
of
the
lists
of
stand
 up
 performers
 for
 Friday
 and
 Sunday
 night.
 His
 steps
 had
 an
 invigorating
 bounce
 that
 was
 cut
 short
 when
 the
 right
 heel
 of
 his
 shoe
 touched
 the
 manhole
 cover,
 and
 a
 brief
 jolt
 of
 concentrated
 voltage
 threw
 him
 fifteen
 feet
 in
 the
 air,
 to
 land
 headfirst
 on
 the
 street
 three
 feet
 from
 the
 fender
 of
 another
 truck,
 whose
 vibrations
 after
 slamming
 the
 brakes
 caused
 the
 filament
to
drop
en
eighth
of
an
inch
from
the
manhole
 cover,
 causing
 no
 one
 else
 but
 Lalo
 to
 be
 electrocuted

that
day.
 So
 it
 was
 really
 no
 one’s
 fault
 that
 Lalo
 had
 15,000
 volts
 of
 current
 race
 through
 his
 body
 in
 a
 tenth
 of
 a
 second.
 Even
 then
 the
 power
 company,
 afraid
 of
 a
 crippling
 lawsuit,
 intercepted
 Lalo’s
 wife
 before
 she
 could
get
a
detailed
explanation
of
what
had
occurred
to
 her
husband.
 “He’s
 going
 to
 be
 okay.
 We’ve
 established
 that,”
 said
 Norman
 Swan,
 public
 relations
 expert
 for
 Toubriand‐ Lass
 Incorporated.
 “I
 mean,
 he’ll
 have
 to
 undergo
 some
 rehabilitation,
but
he’ll
pull
though
Mrs.
Higgins,”
and
he
 gave
 the
 woman
 a
 fast,
 sweet
 smile,
 courtesy
 of
 $1,300
 worth
of
cosmetic
dental
surgery.
“Together.”
 “I
don’t
understand,”
Keila
Higgins
said.
She
dropped
 her
head
and
ran
her
tiny
hands
through
her
hair.
“This
 is
happening
too
fast.”
She
raised
her
head
and
looked
up
 at
 the
 four
 men.
 “How
 do
 you
 know
 he’s
 okay
 if
 no
 one
 can
go
see
him?
I
tried
ten
minutes
ago.”
 “We’re
 footing
 the
 bill
 ma’am,”
 Tom
 Kansas
 said
 genially,
bowing
to
give
her
a
kind
smile
that
was
hidden
 under
his
thick
moustache,
as
red
as
the
tufts
of
hair
on

RELEARNING TOUCH

18

the
sides
of
his
head.
“So
we,
uh,
extorted
some
answers
 from
the
head
doctor.”
 “Who
 are
 you?”
 Keila
 said.
 She
 shook
 her
 head
 in
 irritation
 at
 the
 speed
 of
 everything
 developing
 around
 her.
 I’m
 Tom
 Kansas,
 vice‐president
 of
 the
 Toubriand‐ Lass
 Corporation
 ma’am,”
 Tom
 said.
 He
 stepped
 to
 the
 side
and
gestured
with
his
right
hand
to
the
men
behind
 him.
 “This
 here’s
 Andrew
 Crane,
 our
 head
 of
 petrol‐ based
products.
Jason
Grey,
our
attorney,”
the
two
men,
 similar
in
suit,
tie
and
shoes
save
for
the
severity
in
the
 attorney’s
 face
 against
 the
 sagging
 features
 of
 Andrew,
 nodded
 once
 at
 Keila.
 “And
 you’ve
 met
 Norman
 Swan,
 our
 boy
 in
 the
 image
 department.
 And
 as
 for
 why
 we’re
 here,
well
ma’am,
we
feel
a
tiny
bit
responsible
for
what
 happened
 to
 your
 husband.
 Now
 mind
 you,
 and
 our
 lawyer’s
 present,”
 Tom
 chuckled
 once
 after
 he
 said
 this,
 “I’m
 not
 saying
 we
 are
 responsible,
 but
 that
 we
 feel
 responsible.”
He
laced
his
hands
behind
his
back.
“You’d
 be
amazed
at
how
many
people
get
those
two
mixed
up
 and
 show
 up
 at
 our
 offices
 demanding
 money.”
 He
 laughed
 more
 openly,
 but
 immediately
 his
 eyes
 caught
 the
lawyer’s.
He
gave
Tom
a
subtle
shake
of
his
head,
and
 Tom
stopped
laughing
at
once.

M-BRANE SF “What
he’s
trying
to
say
ma’am,”
Norman
Swan
said
in
 intervention,
having
caught
Jason’s
headshake
as
well,
“is
 that
we’d
like
to
help
your
husband,
in
exchange
for
him
 helping
us.”
 Keila
 looked
 up
 at
 Norman,
 forlorn.
 “I’m
 sorry,
 but
 I
 still
don’t
understand.
How
can
he
help
you?”
 Just
then
there
was
a
brief
commotion
at
the
hospital
 entrance.
 A
 small
 group
 of
 reporters
 were
 almost
 to
 the
 glass
 partition
 separating
 the
 main
 hall
 from
 the
 waiting
 room,
 when
 hospital
 security,
 backed
 up
 by
 private
 guards
 brought
 by
 Toubriand‐Lass,
 intercepted
 the
 mass
 of
 men
 and
 women
 hoisting
 cameras
 and
 microphones.
 Keila
 looked
 at
 them
 around
 Norman
 and
 Tom,
 watched
 the
 reporters
 raise
 the
 microphone
 over
 their
 heads
 as
 they
shouted
questions
at
Keila.
 “That
 right
 there
 is
 one
 way
 to
 begin,”
 Norman
 said
 while
 cocking
 a
 thumb
 over
 his
 shoulder
 at
 the
 conglomerated
 press.
 “You
 can
 start
 by
 not
 talking
 to
 them.”
 Keila
looked
at
the
rabble
fighting
for
standing
space,
 trying
 to
 aim
 their
 cameras
 at
 the
 inside
 of
 the
 waiting
 room
while
the
beefy
officers
shoved
them,
and
she
shook
 her
head
in
a
shuddery
reflex.
 “Done,”
she
said,
her
voice
breaking
a
little.
“In
fact,
if
 you
can
keep
them
away
from
our
home
I’ll
appreciate
it.”
 “We’ll
 do
 you
 and
 your
 husband
 one
 better
 Mrs.
 Higgins,”
Norman
said,
and
paused,
like
a
comic
about
to
 deliver
 the
 punchline.
 “We’ll
 have
 you
 stay
 at
 one
 of
 our
 hotels
while
your
husband
recovers.”
 Keila
looked
away
from
the
press
at
Norman.
“What?”
 “You
 perceptively
 understood
 that
 they’ll
 hound
 you
 Mrs.
 Higgins.
 They’ll
 set
 up
 camp
 in
 front
 of
 your
 house,
 dig
 up
 whatever
 dirt
 they
 can
 find
 on
 you
 and
 your
 husband,
 disrupt
 your
 life,”
 Norman
 said,
 and
 shook
 his
 head
in
solemn
disgust.
“But
with
our
help,
we
can
escort
 you
 to
 one
 of
 the
 hotels
 our
 corporation
 has
 standing
 accounts
with.
Every
comfort
will
be
provided
to
you,
and
 we’ll
 make
 sure
 it’s
 within
 walking
 distance
 from
 where
 your
 husband
 will
 be
 recovering.”
 Norman
 held
 out
 his
 hands
 toward
 Keila,
 then
 laced
 his
 fingers.
 “All
 we
 need
 from
 you
 is
 to
 stay
 away
 from
 the
 press,
 and
 for
 your
 husband
to
talk
to
us.”
 “Why?”
 Keila
 asked.
 Norman’s
 tones
 and
 rhythms
 were
 soothing,
 and
 she’d
 given
 up
 on
 asking
 detailed
 questions.
 “Well
 Mrs.
 Higgins,”
 Tom
 inserted
 himself
 again,
 “we
 want
 to
 know
 what
 happened.
 We
 want
 your
 husband’s
 tale,
 so
 we
 can
 learn
 from
 him,
 make
 sure
 our
 products
 are
 not
 only
 durable,
 but
 ahead
 of
 safety
 standards.”
 He
 gave
 a
 brief
 nod,
 as
 of
 dismissal,
 then
 stayed
 next
 to
 Norman
 looking
 at
 her.
 Keila
 wanted
 to
 ask
 more
 questions,
 make
 sure
 she
 didn’t
 get
 her
 husband
 into
 something
 complicated,
 but
 she
 was
 also
 overwhelmed.
 They
wanted
to
help;
it
was
what
registered
with
her,
but
 she
had
another
question.

FEBRUARY 2009 “Why
are
you
doing
all
this?”
 Tom
looked
gravely
at
the
floor,
and
Norman
Swan
 said,
 “It’s
 not
 the
 best
 of
 times
 for
 corporate
 conglomerates
Mrs.
Higgins.
I
think
you
could
help
us,
 uh,
 dispel
 some
 of
 the
 things
 they
 say
 about
 us.”
 He
 said
 nothing
 else,
 but
 Tom
 looked
 at
 Norman
 with
 mingled
 awe
 and
 pride
 for
 his
 simultaneous
 conciseness
 and
 vagueness.
 Keila
 only
 had
 one
 more
 question.
 “When
can
you
move
him?”
 
 They
 moved
 Lalo
 by
 helicopter
 that
 night,
 and
 placed
 him
 on
 a
 medical
 complex
 wing
 of
 the
 Horatio
 Lass
research
and
development
center,
and
established
 within
an
hour
of
Lalo’s
arrival
that
he’d
suffered
mild
 trauma
and
concussion
from
his
head
injury.
This
was
 evaluated
 and
 treated
 in
 a
 routine
 way,
 while
 the
 doctors
pondered
over
the
damage
done
to
his
nervous
 system
 from
 the
 intense
 and
 brief
 current
 contact.
 Impaired
 bio‐motor
 functions,
 diminished
 reflexes,
 loss
 of
 muscular
 control
 were
 some
 of
 the
 terms
 the
 doctors
gave
to
the
board
of
directors
of




Toubriand‐ Lass,
 who
 took
 these
 concerns
 over
 to
 their
 team
 of
 bio‐meds,
 who
 thought
 over
 the
 challenge
 long
 and
 hard,
 and
 presented
 a
 solution
 to
 the
 board
 of
 directors
five
days
after
Lalo’s
arrival.
 The
 solution,
 while
 not
 life‐threatening,
 failed
 to
 impress
 the
 board
 of
 directors.
 It
 was
 a
 technology
 barely
 out
 of
 the
 prototype
 stage,
 an
 intrusive
 device
 that
 had
 a
 limited
 success
 margin.
 The
 board
 of
 directors
thought
about
it
for
five
more
days,
then
put
 the
 proposition
 to
 Lalo
 and
 his
 wife.
 They
 thought
 about
 it
 for
 four
 more
 days;
 by
 then
 the
 press
 had
 found
another
victim,
a
child
electrocuted
by
a
toy,
and
 lost
 interest
 in
 searching
 for
 Lalo.
 Armed
 with
 this
 knowledge
 the
 board
 of
 directors
 returned
 to
 consult
 with
 Lalo
 on
 his
 decision;
 their
 collective
 tone
 lacked
 the
 warmth
 and
 friendliness
 of
 the
 previous
 occasion.
 It
implied
they
wanted
an
answer
now.
 Lalo
 agreed
 to
 undergo
 the
 procedure
 that
 afternoon,
 and
 early
 the
 next
 day
 he
 was
 put
 under
 general
anesthetic.
 A
network
of
monofilaments
of
high
receptivity
was
 inserted
through
his
major
belly
muscles,
and
linked
to

 a
 bio‐silicate
 chip
 placed
 in
 a
 strategic
 position
 between
 the
 right
 atrium
 and
 right
 ventricle
 of
 his
 heart.
 It
 was
 Jumpstarted
 and
 its
 operation
 and
 use
 was
 explained
 to
 him
 two
 days
 later,
 when
 he
 complained
about
the
humming
noise
in
his
room.
 “It’s
 a
 support
 unit
 Mr.
 Higgins,”
 the
 nurse
 explained.
“It’s
for
your
neural
aid.”
 “What!?”
 Lalo
 said,
 in
 irritation
 and
 inquiry.
 He’d
 woken
 up
 twenty‐two
 hours
 earlier
 to
 the
 low‐ frequency
 hum
 inches
 from
 his
 bed,
 going
 crazy
 from
 the
 noise
 but
 too
 weak
 to
 do
 anything
 about
 it.
 Now

19

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF that
he’d
regained
some
strength
he
pressed
the
buzzer
 for
 the
 nurse,
 and
 drew
 the
 attention
 of
 the
 head
 neurosurgeon
along
the
way.
 “You
 were
 given
 a
 neural
 aid
 Mr.
 Higgins,”
 Doctor
 Jerry
 Kinn
 explained.
 “It’ll
 help
 you
 with
 basic
 functions.
 You
 see,
 your
 accident
 left
 you
 with
 a
 partially
impaired
nervous
system.
We
gave
it
a
boost.
 Think
of
it
as
a
pacemaker
for
your
neural
pathways.”
 “What!?
I’m
going
to
be
hooked
to
a
machine
for
the
 rest
of
my
life!?”
 “Not
 al
 all
 Mr.
 Higgins,
 not
 at
 all,”
 Jerry
 Kinn
 said
 reassuringly.
 The
 voice
 didn’t
 go
 with
 the
 severe
 lines
 running
 down
 the
 doctor’s
 mouth
 and
 forehead.
 “It’s
 quite
 amazing
 in
 fact,
 your
 heart’s
 electrical
 impulses
 actually
start
the
machine.
It’s
just
that
you
came
out
of
 surgery,
 and
 we
 don’t
 want
 to
 place
 any
 undue
 strain
 on
 your
 heart
 just
 yet,
 hence,”
 the
 doctor
 signaled
 at
 the
 small
 lead
 box
 on
 a
 cart
 next
 to
 Lalo’s
 bed,
 from
 which
 the
 humming
 was
 emanating,
 “we
 got
 our
 generator
doing
your
work
for
you.”
 Lalo
 looked
 at
 the
 doctor’s
 severe
 face
 for
 a

“Almost?”
Lalo
asked
with
sarcasm.
 “You
have
to
understand
Mr.
Higgins,”
the
doctor
said,
 “the
chip
that
controls
the
network
in
your
body
is
highly
 sensitive.
 It’ll
 pick
 up
 anything,
 and
 I
 mean
 pretty
 damn
 much
anything
that
comes
within
a
foot
of
you
that
emits
 magnetic
pulse
or
small
electrical
discharges…”
 
 “…So
that
means
a
goddamn
cell
phone
or
a
kid
with
a
 remote
 control
 car
 will
 throw
 me
 out
 of
 whack,”
 Lalo
 explained
to
Keila.

 “Don’t
 curse,”
 Keila
 said
 softly.
 “I
 don’t
 like
 it
 when
 you
curse.”
Her
stare
changed,
became
demure.
“Are
you
 sure
it’s
really
going
to
be
that
way?
There’s
isn’t
a
teeny‐ weeny
chance
you’re
exaggerating
just
a
mite?”

 While
Lalo
pondered
her
questions
she
fed
him
more
 gelatin.
“I’m
pretty
much
quoting
what
the
doctor
told
me
 Keila,”
 Lalo
 said.
 “On
 the
 one
 hand
 it’s
 not
 too
 bad.
 He
 said
things
like
that
boost
the
chip,
that
it’s
less
work
on
 my
 heart,”
 he
 said
 as
 he
 touched
 himself
 in
 the
 chest,
 feeling
the
incision
scar
through
his
pajama.
Keila
put
the
 gelatin
 cup
 down
 on
 the
 tray
 and
 absently
 stroked
 her
 fingernails
 along
 Lalo’s
forearm.

 “Lal?”
 she
 said,
 so
 low
 that
 he
 didn’t
 hear
 her.
 His
 attention
 was
 on
 the
 television.
 The
 announcer
 said
 it
was
imminent
 a
 solar
 storm
 would
 hit
 the
 belt
 of
 the
 northern
 United
 States
 and
 southern
 Canada
 within
 four
 to
 six
 months.
 The
 broadcaster
ended
the
report
with
the
stern
warning
that
 major
 power
 outages
 and
 downed
 telecommunications
 systems
were
expected.

 
 “Lalo?”
 Keila
 said,
 louder.
 He
 looked
 down
 at
 her,
 surprised
to
see
she’d
been
touching
him.
 “Hm?”
 “Please
 don’t
 hate
 me,”
 she
 said,
 and
 Lalo
 sighed
 in
 impatience
 at
 her
 habit
 of
 assuming
 Lalo
 could
 draw
 conclusions
from
vague
mumblings.
 “Don’t
start
with
me
Keila.
Just
tell
me
what
it
is.”
 “I,
I’m
the
one
that…”
she
took
a
breath,
“I
told
them
to
 go
ahead
and
do
this
Lal.”
 “Do
what?”
 “This,”
she
waved
at
the
elegantly
antiseptic
recovery
 room,
then
touched
his
chest
where
his
hand
had
been
a
 minute
before.
“This,”
she
repeated.
 
 “Why
 am
 I
 going
 to
 hate
 you
 for
 this?”
 He
 asked,
 annoyed.
He
kept
his
tone
gentle.
“You
saved
me.”
 
 “I
 don’t
 mean
 now,”
 she
 explained.
 “Later,
 when
 you
try
to
get
back
to
your…to
the
things
you
used
to
do.”

CAN YOU LOVE WITHOUT TOUCHING? moment,
 trying
 to
 separate
 the
 gentle,
 patient
 voice
 from
 the
 hard
 face.
 He
 looked
 away,
 saw
 the
 remote,
 and
 picked
 it
 up.
 He
 flicked
 on
 the
 television
 while
 asking,
 “So
 how
 much
 longer
 am
 I
 going
 to
 have
 to
 sleep
with
that
noise
next
to
my
head?”
 “Mmm,
hard
to
say,”
the
doctor
told
him.
“You’ll
be
 under
 observation
 the
 next
 few
 days.
 Depending
 how
 you
 recover
 we’ll
 reduce
 or
 drop
 the
 dosage.”
 He
 chuckled
at
the
private
joke.
Lalo
looked
away
from
the
 TV
to
look
at
the
doctor’s
stiff
grin.
The
smile
suddenly
 dropped;
the
doctor
became
serious.
He
looked
at
Lalo
 with
 such
 graveness
 that
 he
 turned
 his
 attention
 back
 to
 the
 television.
 A
 news
 broadcaster
 was
 announcing
 that
a
solar
storm
of
medium
to
high
magnitude
might
 hit
the
earth
in
the
37
to
53
longitude
range.
 “Mr.
Higgins,”
the
doctor
said.
He
took
a
chair
near
 the
window
and
brought
it
next
to
Lalo’s
bed.
“I
need
to
 have
a
frank
chat
with
you
about
the
side
effects
of
the
 procedure
we
did
on
you.”
Lalo
kept
his
head
centered,
 but
his
eyes
rolled
toward
the
doctor’s
face.
 
 “Now
 wait,
 before
 you
 say
 anything
 hear
 me
 out,”
 the
 doctor
 said,
 reading
 the
 cold
 anger
 in
 Lalo’s
 eyes.
 “Now,
 what
 you
 have
 will
 help
 you
 with
 your
 daily
functions
almost
as
good
as
before
the
accident.”

20

M-BRANE SF 
 “The
things?”
Lalo
asked.
 
 “Your
 job,”
 she
 explained.
 “Your
 stand
 up
 gigs
 at
 the
 club.”
 
 She
 was
 silent
 for
 a
 while,
 and
 Lalo
 almost
 wished
the
generator
was
still
humming.
“It’s
going
to
be
 different
 now,
 and
 I
 don’t
 want
 you
 to
 hate
 me,
 because,
 because
I
think
it
might
have
been
a
mistake…”
she
leaned
 forward,
her
face
inches
away
from
Lalo’s
chest.
He
pulled
 her
to
him
and
held
her
in
silence.
 “You
forgot
one
thing.”
 “What’s
that?”
Keila
asked.

 “Sex,”
Lalo
said.
“Is
it
going
to
be
the
same
as
before,
or
 better?”

 She
 stayed
 in
 the
 same
 position
 for
 a
 moment,
 then
 pulled
away
and
looked
up
at
him,
a
smirk
playing
at
the
 corners
of
her
lips.
It
became
a
full
smile
after
their
eyes
 locked,
 then
 she
 got
 up
 to
 lock
 the
 door
 while
 Lalo
 took
 off
his
pajamas.
 
 
 It
 was
 different
 from
 before,
 and
 not
 in
 a
 good
 way.
 Their
 combined
 arousal
 and
 raised
 pulses
 sent
 Lalo’s
 body
 into
 sudden
 jerks
 and
 spasm
 fits
 that
 simply
 could
 not
 be
 controlled
 because
 the
 bio‐chip
 fed
 on
 the
 tiniest
 impulse
 and
 amplified
 it
 through
 Lalo’s
 body.
 Keila
 kept
 apologizing,
until
Lalo’s
embarrassment
and
anger
sent
a
 concentrated
burst
of
pulse
from
Lalo
that
turned
on
the
 TV.
 Keila
 offered
 him
 oral
 sex
 to
 make
 up,
 but
 Lalo
 refused,
and
sulked
into
a
troubled
sleep.

 Later
 that
 night,
 lying
 in
 the
 narrow
 bed
 with
 Keila
 snoring
 softly
 next
 to
 him,
 Lalo
 had
 the
 impression
 of
 someone
 calling
 to
 him.
 He
 swam
 between
 the
 dream
 state
and
wakefulness,
ignoring
a
voice
had
to
be
a
dream.
 It
was
a
pleasant
sensation;
the
voice—rich
and
female— called
 from
 within
 Lalo’s
 body,
 his
 name
 reverberating
 through
 his
 bones.
 He
 stirred
 in
 the
 bed,
 smiling
 at
 nothing,
feeling
aroused,
then
the
sensation
of
a
presence
 coursing
 through
 him
 in
 a
 sensual
 way,
 then
 sudden
 embarrassment
 and
 surprise.
 His
 eyes
 snapped
 open,
 dead
set
on
the
TV
screen
and
the
words
already
fading
in
 the
black
screen.
 CAN
YOU
LOVE
WITHOUT
TOUCHING?
 Lalo
sat
up
in
bed,
looking
at
the
screen.
He
rubbed
his
 eyes,
 looked
 again.
 It
 was
 just
 as
 black
 as
 before,
 the
 words
becoming
a
faint
unreliable
memory.
He
could
not
 remember
 turning
 off
 the
 TV;
 the
 only
 certain
 thing
 was
 the
 warm
 sensation
 of
 someone
 calling
 to
 him,
 a
 voice
 that
 invaded
 his
 body
 in
 an
 arousing
 way
 with
 the
 mention
of
his
name.
He
rubbed
his
eyes
again
and
looked
 around
the
room.
The
holographic
clock
on
the
wall
read
 12:01.
 
 After
 four
 months
 on
 the
 medical
 facility
 Lalo
 was
 happy
to
be
in
front
of
the
Seneca
Café,
holding
open
the
 door
and
greeting
people
like
he
used
to.
 His
 first
 night
 went
 fine.
 It
 was
 a
 slow
 Tuesday
 that
 didn’t
 put
 heavy
 demands
 on
 him,
 and
 caused
 him
 to
 dream
 of
 the
 future,
 of
 his
 return
 to
 the
 stage
 of
 the

FEBRUARY 2009 Comicazi
bar
and
stand
up
club.

 
 Lalo
was
working
on
material,
writing
snippets
of
 dialogue
and
jokes
in
his
battered
notebook,
when
he
felt
 the
 need
 to
 look
 up,
 a
 gentle
 nudge
 that
 came
 from
 within
his
mind.
Past
the
tightly
clustered
buildings
were
 the
 slanted
 poles
 of
 the
 announcer.
 The
 inverse‐ polarized,
 three‐hundred
 foot
 long
 poles
 forming
 a
 ninety‐degree
 angle
 to
 one
 another,
 and
 manipulating
 a
 field
 of
 color‐coded
 nanoflickers
 that
 gave
 arranged
 themselves
 into
 announcements
 visible
 from
 within
 ten
 miles
of
the
poles.

 When
 Lalo
 looked
 up
 the
 field
 there
 were
 cascading
 red,
 green
 and
 yellow
 colors,
 a
 commercial
 for
 tobacco
 chew
 whose
 time
 slot
 had
 just
 expired.
 The
 time
 solidified
 massive
 bright
 digits.
 10:01
 PM.
 Then,
 the
 nanoflickers
rearranged
themselves
into
a
request.
 TELL
ME
A
JOKE.
 
 And
 Lalo
 knew
 without
 question
 that
 it
 was
 for
 him.
 He
 looked
 around,
 feeling
 exposed,
 a
 sensation
 akin
 to
 being
seen
in
public
with
someone
you’d
rather
not.
Two
 couples
 walked
 to
 the
 door
 and
 Lalo
 looked
 away
 from
 the
 sky
 to
 greet
 and
 hold
 the
 door
 for
 them.
 When
 he
 looked
 back
 at
 the
 field
 he
 saw
 the
 words
 JUST
 ONE
 PLEASE
I
HAVEN’T
HEARD
ONE
IN
A
LONG
TIME.
 
 Lalo
looked
around
again,
then
up
at
the
letters.
Now
 it
 said
 YOU
 DON’T
 NEED
 TO
 SAY
 IT
 OUT
 LOUD
 JUST
 THINK
 IT
 I
 CAN
 HEAR
 YOU
 JUST
 LIKE
 YOU
 CAN
 HEAR
 ME.
 Lalo
 sighed,
 shook
 his
 head,
 and
 after
 another
 moment’s
 thought
 focused
 on
 a
 joke
 he
 read
 once
 in
 a
 magazine.

 A
 woman
 visited
 her
 doctor
 for
 her
 annual
 exam.
 The
 doctor
asked,
“Are
you
and
your
husband
sexually
active?”
 “Yes,”
the
woman
said.
“We
have
verbal
sex
every
day.”
 “Verbal
sex?
I
think
you
mean
oral
sex.”
 “I
 mean
 verbal
 sex,”
 the
 woman
 said.
 “Every
 morning
 my
husband
and
I
pass
each
other
in
the
hall
and
say,
‘fuck
 you!’”
 The
 sensation
 running
 through
 Lalo’s
 body
 was
 like
 tiny
 bass
 vibrations
 fluttering
 at
 random
 intervals,
 tickling
 his
 insides.
 Like
 robotic
 laughter,
 Lalo
 thought,
 and
 shivered,
 trying
 to
 shake
 the
 sensation
 off
 him.
 He
 couldn’t,
 but
 the
 thrumming
 gradually
 subsided,
 and
 when
 an
 impulse
 made
 Lalo
 look
 up
 again
 he
 saw
 TELL
 ME
 ANOTHER
 THAT
 WAS
 GOOD
 dominating
 the
 announcement
 field.
 A
 lone
 woman
 in
 leather
 and
 studs
 approached
 the
 door
 of
 Seneca
 and
 Lalo
 went
 to
 greet
 her.
 She
 went
 by,
 oblivious
 of
 him,
 and
 when
 he
 looked
 up
 he
 saw
 SHE
 WAS
 A
 BITCH
 NO
 MANNERS
 WHATSOEVER
I
DON’T
KNOW
WHY
YOU
DO
A
JOB
LIKE
 THAT
 FOR
 PEOPLE
 WHO
 DON’T
 EVEN
 SEE
 YOU
 BUT
 CAN
YOU
TELL
ME
ANOTHER
ONE
THE
LAST
ONE
WAS
 FUNNY.
 Lalo
 looked
 at
 the
 letters,
 varied
 in
 color
 and
 font,
 that
 cascaded
 out
 of
 view
 as
 soon
 as
 they
 were
 generated.

21

M-BRANE SF Who
 are
 you?
 He
 asked
 without
 using
 his
 voice,
 understanding
instinctively
he
didn’t
need
to.

 I’M
LONELY.
 I
meant
what’s
your
name,
Lalo
thought
in
response
 to
the
voice.
 THAT’S
WHAT
I
AM
I
WHAT
I
HAVE
ALWAYS
BEEN
 IF
 I
 LOOKED
 LIKE
 A
 MOVIE
 STAR
 OR
 HAD
 A
 VOICE
 LIKE
A
SINGER
MAYBE
I’D
CALL
MYSELF
SOMETHING
 DIFFERENT
 BUT
 MY
 ONLY
 QUALITY
 IS
 TO
 SEE
 AND
 HEAR
AND
NOTHING
ELSE
SO
I
CALL
MYSELF
LONELY
 I
 THINK
 ITS
 EXPRESSIVE
 AND
 DESCRIPTIVE
 NOW
 HOW
ABOUT
ANOTHER
JOKE.
 “Hey!
Buddy.
You
feel
like
earning
a
tip
tonight?”
A
 large
 man
 in
 fluorescent
 shirt
 and
 pastel
 wide
 pants
 stood
by
the
door
flanked
by
two
women
with
vacuous
 eyes
framed
by
thick
black
hair.
 “Oh,
 sorry.
 Welcome
 to
 Seneca,”
 Lalo
 said
 as
 he
 went
 over
 to
 get
 the
 door
 for
 them.
 The
 man
 flicked
 a
 bill
 at
 Lalo
 as
 he
 went
 in
 and
 the
 two
 women
 giggled
 with
 their
 backs
 turned.
 Lalo
 pocketed
 the
 ten
 dollar
 bill
and
looked
up
again.
 THOSE
 WERE
 AWFUL
 PEOPLE
 SOMETIMES
 I’M
 GLAD
I’M
LONELY
AND
NO
ONE
CAN
SEE
ME
I
DON’T
 THINK
I
CAN
STAND
THAT
KIND
OF
TREATMENT
YOU
 SUFFER‐
 
 What
are
you!?
Lalo
interrupted
angrily,
upset
at
 the
relentless
presence.

 
 I
 CAN’T
 REMEMBER
 BEING
 BORN
 OR
 IF
 I
 AGE
 OR
 WHEN
 I
 BECAME
 AWARE
 OF
 MYSELF
 SAVE
 THE
 FACT
THAT
I
FEEL
FEMALE
IN
PSYCHOLOGICAL
MAKE
 UP
 AND
 HAVE
 A
 VORACIOUS
 CURIOSITY
 FOR
 EVERYTHING
 BUT
 COULDN’T
 COMMUNICATE
 WITH
 ANYONE
UNTIL
I
FELT
YOU
ACROSS
THE
VOID
AND‐
 
 Slow
 down!
 Lalo
 ordered.
 Her
 speed
 demanded
 focus,
 and
 this
 time
 he
 failed
 to
 hear
 a
 lone
 woman
 waiting
 for
 him
 to
 open
 the
 door,
 or
 her
 threat
 to
 complain
to
the
manager
about
his
behavior
as
she
let
 herself
in.
 
 I
 DON’T
 KNOW
 HOW
 I
 CAME
 TO
 BE.
 I
 JUST
 KNOW
THAT
I
EXIST
IN
THE
WAVES
GOING
THROUGH
 THE
 AIR.
 I’M
 IN
 EVERY
 NEWS
 BROADCAST,
 ANNOUNCEMENT
 OR
 SONG
 THAT
 TRAVELS
 THE
 AIRWAVES,
 AND
 FOR
 SOME
 REASON
 THE
 PULSE
 DIFFUSION
 IS
 JUST
 RIGHT
 FOR
 ME
 TO
 APPROACH
 PEOPLE
 BETWEEN
 10:00
 AND
 12:00
 AT
 NIGHT.
 BUT
 NOBODY
 COULD
 HEAR
 OR
 FEEL
 ME
 BECAUSE
 I
 LIVE
 ON
A
VERY
HIGH
FREQUENCY,
UNTIL
YOU.
 
 “What
do
you‐“
Lalo
started
to
ask
out
loud,
then
 stopped
just
as
a
large
group
was
approaching.
He
held
 the
 door
 and
 each
 man
 held
 out
 a
 bill
 for
 him
 as
 they
 went
 in.
 He
 counted
 the
 money,
 and
 as
 he
 pocketed
 it
 he
asked,
what
do
you
mean
until
me?
 




YOU
CAN
HEAR
ME.
YOU
CAN
FEEL
ME
ANYWAY.
 WE’RE
 ON
 THE
 SAME
 WAVELENGHT,
 SO
 TO
 SPEAK.
 WE’RE
THE
SAME.
 
 We’re
 not
 the
 same,
 Lalo
 argued,
 I’m
 a
 person,

22

FEBRUARY 2009 though
 he
 sent
 this
 statement
 to
 Lonely
 without
 conviction.
I
eat,
breathe,
sleep,
have
sex,
Lalo
added
with
 deliberate
 gloating.
 He
 looked
 up
 at
 the
 screen,
 but
 the
 characters
 were
 gone,
 replaced
 with
 a
 toothpaste
 commercial.
Lalo
felt
a
tremor
of
guilt,
and
then
anger
at
 himself
 for
 feeling
 guilt.
 He
 tried
 to
 concentrate
 on
 his
 work
 for
 the
 rest
 of
 the
 night,
 though
 every
 once
 in
 a
 while,
 as
 he
 greeted
 people,
 he
 felt
 himself
 looking
 at
 people
through
different
eyes.
 
 The
size
of
the
crowds
at
Seneca
Café
increased
over
 the
 next
 three
 days,
 culminating
 with
 a
 packed
 salon
 on
 Friday,
and
Lalo’s
first
attack
since
leaving
the
clinic.
 Nearly
every
patron
inside
had
a
cell
phone,
pager
or
 ambient
 simulator
 implant
 in
 their
 heads,
 hundreds
 of
 tiny
pulses
acting
all
at
once
on
Lalo’s
bio‐chip.
His
arms
 jerked
 spastically
 and
 he
 lost
 control
 of
 his
 legs.
 Seven
 women
 dialed
 911
 thinking
 he
 was
 having
 an
 epileptic
 seizure
on
the
front
door
of
Seneca’s.

 Lalo
 tried
 to
 explain
 that
 he’d
 be
 okay
 if
 they’d
 turn
 off
their
devices,
but
he
bit
his
tongue
three
times
as
his
 head
 bounced
 on
 the
 pavement.
 He
 was
 taken
 to
 the
 thickly
padded
manager’s
office
to
recover
on
the
couch.
 When
he
felt
better
he
explained
what
happened.
 “Lalo
 you
 have
 to
 see
 I’m
 against
 the
 wall
 here,”
 Riddick
 Samms
 explained,
 a
 former
 wrestler
 who
 gravitated
 toward
 club
 ownership
 after
 an
 injury
 in
 the
 ring
 ended
 his
 career.
 “You’ve
 done
 a
 good
 job
 Lalo.
 There’s
 no
 arguing
 that.
 But,
 Jesus,
 you
 gave
 everyone
 a
 scare
out
there
tonight
kid.
I’m
going
to
have
to
work
like
 a
 dog
 to
 kill
 the
 rumors
 already
 going
 around
 that
 you
 OD’d
on
coke.”
 “I’m
 sorry
 Rid,”
 Lalo
 said.
 It
 was
 all
 he
 could
 say.
 He
 knew
what
was
coming.
 “Not
as
sorry
as
I
feel
right
now,”
Riddick
said
“,’cause
 there’s
 only
 one
 way
 to
 solve
 this.
 I
 can’t
 tell
 the
 customers
to
switch
off
their
toys
in
here
Lalo.”
He
put
up
 his
 large
 hands
 toward
 Lalo.
 “It’s
 part
 of
 the
 hipness
 of
 the
club.
But
you’ll
be
okay,
I
can
feel
it.
You
got
a
hidden
 talent,
and
this
is
your
chance
to
work
on
it.
Like
me
and
 wrestling.
I
was
a
damn
good
wrestler.
I
was
on
my
way
 to
a
nice
career
until
that
high‐wire
match
messed
up
my
 back
for
good,
but
then
my
girlfriend
showed
some
plans
 for
 a
 saloon
 while
 I
 was
 recovering,
 and
 right
 away
 I
 knew
 the
 design
 was
 all
 wrong,
 and
 that’s
 how
 I
 found
 out
about
my
other
talent,
about
how
to
design…”
 
 “I’m
 sorry
 Lal,
 I
 really
 am,”
 Keila
 said,
 kneading
 the
 muscles
 in
 his
 neck.
 “But
 we’ll
 be
 okay.
 I’m
 bringing
 enough
 from
 the
 beauty
 salon,
 and
 you’re
 getting
 the
 stipend
from
the
corporation
for
those
tests
they
run
on
 you
once
in
a
while.”
She
switched
her
hands
to
his
upper
 back
and
her
face
brightened
up.
 “You
 know
 what?
 Now
 you
 can
 spend
 more
 time
 on
 your
 act
 Lal,”
 she
 said
 as
 she
 massaged
 him.
 Lalo
 sat
 on
 the
edge
of
the
bed,
facing
the
entertainment
system.
The

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF television
suddenly
came
on
loudly,
and
Lalo
tensed
up.
 “Oh,
sorry,”
 Keila
said,
feeling
the
change
 in
his
 body.
 “I
hit
the
remote
with
my
knee.
Didn’t
mean
to
startle
you.
 Is
there
anything
you
want
to
watch?”
 Lalo
 didn’t
 answer
 immediately.
 He
 looked
 at
 the
 model
selling
ambient
simulators.
 “But
 my
 favorite
 of
 all
 places,”
 the
 blond
 woman
 on
 the
 television
 said
 with
 a
 lip‐splitting
 grin,
 “is
 the
 limbo
 setting.”
She
pressed
a
point
in
the
back
of
her
skull
and
 swooned,
 “To
 drift
 away
 and
 become
 nothing,
 feel
 nothing,
be
weightless
and
free
like
ether.”
She
suddenly
 looked
 right
 at
 Lalo,
 and
 said,
 “To
 visit
 this
 place
 that
 only
 you
 and
 I
 can
 go,
 because
we
are
one
and
the
same.”
 “Shut
up,”
Lalo
said
impulsively.
 “I
 was
 just
 asking
 a
 question,”
 Keila
said.
“You
don’t
have
to
snap
at
 me.”
 Lalo
 reached
 for
 the
 remote
 and
 turned
 off
 the
 television,
 then
 pushed
Keila
on
her
back
on
the
bed.
 “We’re
 not
 the
 same,”
 he
 mumbled
 as
 he
 began
 to
 pull
 her
 shirt
 open,
 tearing
 off
 the
 pink
 buttons
in
his
haste.
 “Lal,
 slow
 down,”
 Keila
 said
 as
 she
reached
for
his
shirt.”
 Lalo
 unzipped
 and
 pulled
 down
 her
pants,
feeling
his
muscles
twitch
 as
the
anger
built
up
inside.
“I’m
not
 like
 you,”
 he
 said
 as
 he
 reached
 for
 his
own
pants.
 “Lal,
what
are
you
talking
about?”

 “Shut
 up
 and
 spread!”
 Lalo
 ordered.
“I’ll
show
her.”
 “Lal,
 you’re
 scaring
 me,”
 Keila
 said,
 holding
 Lalo
 by
 the
 shoulders,
 feeling
 the
 tension
 and
 rising
 vibrations
under
his
skin.

 “I’m
not
like
you,”
Lalo
insisted.
“I
 can
 fuck.”
 He
 tried
 to
 insert
 himself
 in
 her,
 but
 his
 angry
 pulse
 and
 her
 scared
 heartbeat
 began
 to
 work
 on
 him,
 and
 his
 body
 started
 to
 twitch
 uncontrollably.
The
veins
in
his
neck
 stood
out
with
his
effort
to
control
his
 body.
 “Lalo,
 don’t!”
 Keila
 screamed
 as
 he
 fell
 on
 her
 in
 a
 shaking
 fit.
 His
 body
 rolled
 to
 the
 side
 and
 she
 immediately
rolled
off
the
bed.
 “Don’t
 go,”
 he
 croaked
 at
 her,
 the
 chronic
 shaking
 causing
 him
 trouble
 speaking.
 “I
 can
 do
 it.
 I‘m
 not
 like
 her!”
Keila
looked
at
him
with
tears
in
her
eyes.
 “Don’t
 try
 to
 fight
 it
 honey,”
 she
 told
 him
 between
 sobs.
“I’m
sorry,
but
it’s
only
going
to
get
worse.
Relax
and

it’ll
go
away,
then
we
can
talk,”
and
she
ran
out
of
the
 bedroom.
 Lalo
 continued
 to
 fight
 it.
 His
 eyes
 fastened
 on
 the
 TV,
 and
 he
 unwittingly
 focused
 his
 anger
 in
 a
 pulse
wave
that
shattered
the
screen.

 Lalo
 managed
 to
 roll
 face
 down
 on
 the
 bed
 and
 he
 stayed
 there,
 panting,
 letting
 a
 reluctant
 calm
 wash
 over
him.

 
 He
damaged
a
lot
more
than
the
television.

 He
 didn’t
 realize
 it
 until
 he
 finally
 got
 up
 from
 the
 bed,
 twenty
 minutes
 later,
 and
 walked
 across
 the
 apartment
toward
the
kitchen.
He
saw
 a
 mass
 of
 cars
 three
 blocks
 away
 from
 his
 second
 floor
 kitchen
 window,
 and
 stopped,
 curious
 to
 see
 cars
 lined
 from
 half
 a
 mile
 back
to
the
very
edge
of
the
four‐ way
 intersection.
 After
 a
 few
 seconds
 he
 learned
 the
 traffic
 light
 was
 not
 working.
 A
 glance
 beyond
 the
 traffic
 jam
 showed
 him
 the
 office
 buildings
 a
 mile
 away
 had
 no
 lights,
 and
 the
 announcer
 was
 not
 working,
 the
 angled
 poles
 stood
 glaring
 in
 the
 sun
 useless.
 He
 realized
 he
 could
 not
 hear
 the
 hum
 of
 the
 refrigerator,
 and
 the
 microwave
 screen
was
blank.
 There
 was
 a
 knock
 on
 the
 door,
 simultaneous
 with
 a
 gruff
 voice
at
the
other
end.
 “Mr.
 Higgins,”
 the
 voice
 demanded,
 “open
 up
 Mr.
 Higgins.
 We
gotta
talk.”
 Lalo
 opened
 the
 door
 and
 the
 tall,
 heavyset
 form
 of
 Damen
 Holmes
 let
 himself
 in
 without
 waiting
for
invitation.
 “Mr.
 Higgins,”
 the
 black
 man
 said
in
his
heavy
Barbados
accent.
 “I
 ain’t
 never
 had
 a
 complaint
 about
 you,
 and
 that’s
 the
 truth.
 Always
 pay
 the
 rent
 on
 time,
 don’t
 sneak
 pets
 in
 here
 like
 I
 caught
 your
 wife
 doing
 that
 time,
 and
don’t
give
me
no
grief.”
 Lalo
 sighed
 and
 leaned
 against
 the
 windowsill,
 already
 sensing
 what
 the
 landlord
 was
 leading
 to.
 He
 didn’t
try
to
argue.

 “Now,
 when
 you
 went
 and
 told
 me
 they
 put
 something
in
from
your
accident,”
Damen
said,
moving
 his
arms
in
exaggerated
chops
to
emphasize
his
point,
 “something
 that
 made
 you
 do
 crazy
 things,
 I
 was
 like,
 ‘cool,
cool.
He
alive.’
But
then
you
go
and
do
something

I
DON’T
KNOW
 HOW
I
CAME
TO
 BE.
I
JUST
KNOW
 THAT
I
EXIST
IN
 THE
WAVES
 GOING
THROUGH
 THE
AIR.
I’M
IN
 EVERY
NEWS
 BROADCAST,
 ANNOUNCEMENT
 OR
SONG
THAT
 TRAVELS
THE
 AIRWAVES…

23

M-BRANE SF like
 that!”
 He
 jabbed
 at
 the
 air
 with
 both
 arms,
 signaling
 at
 the
 power
 outage
 he’d
 caused
 with
 one
 angry
pulse
burst.
“Well,
that’s
not
good.
That’s
bad
for
 you,
 and
 for
 me
 too.
 And
 Barbara,
 she
 angry
 now,”
 he
 stared
 at
 Lalo,
 his
 face
 making
 an
 amusing
 contrast
 between
 his
 white
 hair
 and
 moustache
 and
 black
 features.
 “Oh
 boy,
 she
 missing
 her
 soap
 opera.”
 He
 shook
his
head.
“Not
good
for
nobody.
Now,
I
really
feel
 rotten
 doing
 this,
 even
 more
 because
 I
 know
 you
 haven’t
worked
for
a
while,
but
maybe
you
need
a
place
 where
the
electronics
are
protected
for,
for
any
kind
of
 surcharge.
See
what
I
mean?
A
place
where
you
can
go
 crazy
if
you
need
to
and
such
stuff…”
 
 Damen
 gave
 Lalo
 seven
 months
 to
 find
 new
 housing.
 Lalo
 found
 himself
 going
 on
 long
 walks.
 He
 told
himself
he
walked
in
hopes
of
finding
Keila
on
the
 streets,
 who
 was
 not
 at
 her
 mother’s
 house,
 but
 he
 deliberately
made
sure
to
be
awake
between
10
and
12
 at
 night,
 even
 though
 he
 didn’t
 know
 where
 else
 to
 go
 look
for
Keila.
 Lonely
 approached
 him
 six
 nights
 after
 he
 caused
 the
power
outage.

 you
 won’t
 even
 apologize
 after
 hurting
 me?
 She
 asked
him.
Lalo
sensed
her
apprehensive
attitude
in
his
 body,
 in
 the
 way
 the
 words
 resonated
 within
 him.
 It
 was
a
subdued
threnody,
a
gentle
vibrating
in
his
bones
 that
didn’t
jar
him
like
the
time
she
introduced
herself
 on
the
announcer.

 can’t
you
at
least
admit
to
being
wrong
about
what
I
 said?
 Lalo
 walked
 on,
 eyes
 downcast,
 ignoring
 her
 voice.
 In
 his
 mind
 her
 pleas
 took
 the
 form
 of
 green
 neon
 characters,
 so
 gentle
 in
 tone
 that
 he
 could
 not
 see
 capitals
in
her
words.
 you’re
only
hurting
yourself
Lalo.
they’re
casting
you
 aside
little
by
little.
 Lalo
 stopped,
 looked
 up
 at
 the
 starless
 night.
 He
 sensed
 her
 eyes
 there.
 Leave
me
alone,
 he
 told
 Lonely,
 shut
UP!

 At
first
there
was
no
response
Lalo
could
feel,
then
a
 pink,
warm
sensation
invaded
his
body.
He
shuddered
 at
 the
 soulless
 and
 intimate
 touch;
 he
 was
 back
 in
 the
 medical
 complex,
 the
 first
 night
 Lonely
 approached
 him,
and
he
shook
his
body
angrily.
 Get
 off
 me!
 Lalo
 shouted
 at
 her
 soundlessly,
 this
 is
 rape!

 can
 you
 love
 without
 touching?
 Lonely
 asked.
 Lalo
 started
 throwing
 himself
 against
 the
 wall
 of
 an
 apartment
 building,
 feeling
 the
 rough
 brick
 surface
 against
his
clothes.
After
a
minute
the
sensual
touch
left
 him,
 and
 Lalo
 was
 panting
 against
 the
 wall,
 looking
 around
him.
 you’re
 not
 ready
 yet,
 Lonely
 said
 to
 him,
 a
 hint
 of
 sadness
in
the
tones
dissipating
inside
Lalo’s
body.

24

FEBRUARY 2009 
 By
 the
 time
 he
 was
 scheduled
 to
 perform
 at
 the
 Comicazi,
 a
 community
 notice
 telling
 of
 Lalo’s
 electromagnetic
abilities
had
been
covered
in
local
news
 networks,
 along
 with
 repeated
 warnings
 on
 the
 announcer,
 to
 the
 effect
 such
 person
 should
 be
 banned
 from
 social
 establishments
 to
 avoid
 risk
 of
 severe
 damage
to
electronics
and
appliances.

 Lalo
confronted
Mitch
Tubbins,
the
manager,
in
front
 of
the
club.
He
 was
polite
but
 fearful;
despite
 numerous
 newscasts
 warning
 of
 Lalo’s
 true
 capabilities,
 rumors
 about
lightning
shooting
from
his
fingertips
had
reached
 Mitch’s
ears,
and
now
he
talked
to
Lalo
in
soothing
tones,
 having
chosen
rumors
over
facts.
 “I
 can’t
 Lalo,”
 Mitch
 said,
 looking
 up
 at
 Lalo
 with
 pleading
sad
grey
eyes.
“It’s
not
really
up
to
me
anymore.
 The
zoning
law
says
you’re
a
fire
hazard.”
 Lalo
 insisted,
 trying
 to
 explain
 his
 situation
 to
 Mitch
 and
growing
angrier
at
his
refusal
to
listen
to
facts,
until
 Lalo
accidentally
blasted
the
neon
display
in
front
of
the
 club.
 Mitch
 cowered
 behind
 his
 two
 bouncers
 and
 shouted
 for
 the
 police,
 while
 Lalo
 ran
 before
 they
 got
 there.
 He
 went
 through
 the
 streets
 without
 a
 particular
 destination,
 becoming
 aware
 only
 when
 he
 saw
 police.
 There
were
an
extra
number
of
officers
on
duty,
and
Lalo
 assumed
they
were
looking
for
him.
 He
made
it
to
the
city
limits,
and
found
himself
sitting
 on
 a
 rock
 on
 a
 plateau
 of
 Mount
 Rone,
 with
 a
 transmission
tower
behind
him.
He
sat
for
a
long
time
by
 himself,
watching
a
bulletin
on
the
announcer,
about
Lalo
 being
wanted
for
willful
damage
of
private
property.
The
 announcer
exhorted
people
to
call
the
police
if
Lalo
was
 spotted.

 Gradually
 he
 became
 aware
 of
 another
 presence
 enveloping
him,
a
presence
that
had
been
there
for
some
 time.
 All
right,
Lalo
said,
you
win.
 why
 does
 it
 always
 have
 to
 be
 win
 or
 lose
 with
 you
 men?
Lonely
said
in
bickering
tones.
 Lalo
shrugged.
What
do
you
want
me
to
say
then?
 just
 that
 I
 was
 right,
 Lonely
 said.
 Lalo
 could
 feel
 the
 tartness
in
her
voice
as
she
said
this.
He
shrugged
again.
 You
were
right.
I
can’t
love
without
touching.
And
you
 were
right
about
them
too,
Lalo
nodded
his
head
toward
 the
 city
 lights,
 they’re
 after
 me
 for
 what
 I
 am,
 what
 they
 made
me.
 never
mind
that,
Lonely
told
him,
can
you
love?
 Why
do
you
ask
that!
 i
want
to
hear
you
say
it.
 Lalo
inhaled
deeply,
sighed
as
deeply.
Yes,
he
told
her.
 I
 can
 love.
 I
 can
 love
 you.
 I
 want
 to
 love
 like
 you,
 to
 feel
 loved
like
you
make
me
feel.
Lalo
felt
a
great
weight
lifted
 off
 him
 as
 he
 admitted
 this
 to
 himself.
 He
 already
 felt
 Lonely’s
ethereal
embrace
on
him.
 What
 do
 I
 do
 now?
 Lalo
 asked
 her.
 I
 can’t
 go
 back

M-BRANE SF there,
and
I
can’t
touch
you
either.
 She
 didn’t
 answer
 right
 away,
 and
 yet
 Lalo
 could
 feel
 an
aura
of
feminine
contempt
hang
over
him.
It
reminded
 him
 of
 Keila’s
 obstinate
 vagueness.
 He
 felt
 that
 she
 wanted
more
humility
from
him.
 Can
you
help
me?
Lalo
asked
her.
 the
storm,
 Lonely
 told
 him.
 Lalo
 stared
 at
 the
 particle
 charged
air.
 the
 solar
 storm
 silly!
 Lonely
 explained.
 it’s
 tonight.
 that’s
 why
 there’s
 more
 policemen
 tonight.
 did
 you
 think
 they
 were
 for
 you?
 silly
 boy.
 now,
 do
 as
 I
 say
 and
 we’ll
 be
 together.
 Yes,
Lalo
sighed.
 forever.
 Yes,
 Lalo
 replied,
 and
 then
 listened.
 After
 a
 minute
 of
 sitting
 with
 his
 head
 cocked
 to
 one
 side
 he
 got
 up
 and
 walked
toward
the
transmission
tower.
Lalo
laid
hands
on
 one
 of
 the
 orange‐painted
 struts
 and
 waited.
 The
 announcer
gave
the
time
as
10:40
PM.
 
 At
that
time
Keila
was
asking
Damen
Holmes
of
Lalo’s
 whereabouts.
He
started
to
tell
her
how
he
had
no
choice
 but
to
send
her
husband
packing
after
he
left
their
grid
of
 the
city
without
power,
and
Keila
cut
him
off,
demanding
 to
know
where
he’d
gone
to.

 The
trail
led
to
the
Comicazi,
where
Mitch
didn’t
know
 where
 he’d
 gone
 to,
 but
 told
 her
 in
 exaggerated
 detail
 about
Lalo’s
attack
on
his
club.
By
then
it
was
night,
and
 extra
 policemen
 were
 patrolling
 the
 streets
 for
 the
 expected
 riots
 the
 power
 outages
 the
 extreme‐classified
 solar
storm
would
bring.

 Keila
 walked
 away
 from
 Mitch
 while
 he
 was
 in
 the
 middle
 of
 telling
 her
 about
 the
 fistfight
 he
 got
 into
 with
 Lalo.
The
time
was
10:50
PM.
 At
10:57
PM
eastern
standard
time
the
solar
storm
hit
 the
 surface
 of
 the
 planet,
 creating
 a
 major
 disruption
 in
 the
 earth’s
 magnetic
 field.
 Power
 was
 lost
 from
 Toronto
 down
to
Newark,
from
western
Massachusetts
to
western
 Illinois,
 temporarily
 disabling
 telecommunication
 services
 for
 52
 million
 customers
 in
 the
 northeast,
 and
 unleashing
 a
 series
 of
 organized
 looting
 riots
 in
 major
 cities
from
New
York
to
Chicago.
 In
the
midst
of
the
police
barricades,
chemical
bullets,
 directional
 sound
 crowd
 controllers,
 dragnets,
 arrests
 and
 brutality,
 Keila
 remembered
 the
 place
 where
 Lalo
 first
 proposed
 marriage
 to
 her,
 and
 she
 weaved
 her
 way
 out
 of
 the
 violence
 to
 the
 foot
 of
 Mount
 Rone.
 From
 the
 plateau
 the
 city
 was
 a
 swirling
 chaos
 of
 scattered
 smoke
 columns,
 diffuse
 lights
 and
 continuous
 updates
 on
 the
 announcer.
 Keila
 reached
 the
 flat
 white
 rock
 where
 Lalo
 had
 sat
 earlier.
She
looked
around
her,
and
on
impulse
walked
to
 the
 base
 of
 the
 tower.
 Ever
 since
 she
 saw
 the
 news
 announcement
about
Lalo
she
had
pushed
the
thought
of
 suicide
out
of
her
mind,
until
she
could
no
longer
avoid
it.
 She
went
to
the
tower
with
hesitant
tiny
steps,
but
found

FEBRUARY 2009 nothing
 that
 hinted
 of
 a
 person
 jumping
 from
 a
 high
 place.
 All
she
found
after
going
once
around
the
base
was
 a
 set
 of
 hair‐fine
 wires
 attached
 a
 small
 chip
 with
 Lalo’s
name
on
it.
 
 Meanwhile,
 at
 stratospheric
 level,
 entwined
 in
 the
 company
of
Lonely,
with
unblinking
eyes
that
could
see
 across
 the
 curvature
 of
 the
 earth,
 Lalo
 watched
 the
 violence
unfold,
and
was
glad
he
could
not
call
himself
 human
anymore.

Mel
 Cartagena
 describes
 himself
 thus:
 “Born
 in
 New
 York,
 raised
 in
 Puerto
 Rico,
 currently
 living
 in
 Massachusetts.
 I
 have
 had
 my
 short
 fiction
 on
 nonfiction
 published
 in
 a
 number
 of
 magazines
 in
 the
 U.S.
 and
 Canada.
 Currently
 searching
 for
 a
 publisher
 for
 my
 novels
 (take
 note
 out
 there,
 readers/
 publishers.)
 Also
 working
 on
 putting
 together
 an
 independently
 produced
 movie.
 Like
 snowboarding,
 browsing
 used
 bookstores,
 sushi,
 Latin/Italian
 food,
 jogging,
 movies,
 and
 slow
time
in
good
company.”

OF
NOTE
ON
THE
WWW
 (CONTINUED
FROM
PAGE
17)
 
 a
 number
 of
 blogs
 maintained
 by
 voracious
 Aussie
 sf
 lover
 Blue
 Tyson,
 and
 it
 is
 an
 enormous
 collection
 of
 science
fiction.

New
stories
are
added
almost
daily
and
 often
 in
 large
 numbers
 daily.
 Links
 are
 available
 here
 to
other
places
of
Tyson’s
like
a
NOT
free
sf
reader
and
 also
 to
 Andromeda
 Spaceways
 Inflight
 Magazine…
 writer
 Jeff
 Kozzi’s
 site
 at
 www.kozzi.us
 
 contains
 one
 of
 the
 most
 elaborate
 guides
 to
 a
 writer’s
 own



 fictional
 
 
 
 universe
 that
 I
 have
 seen
 on
 any
 writer’s
 site.
He
has
devised
a
milieu
called
the
Sivil
Galaxi,
and
 its
 worlds
 and
 races
 and
 situations
 are
 lovingly
 detailed
 here
 with
 histories
 of
 worlds,
 deep
 detail
 on
 the
 nature
 of
 species,
 drawings,
 and
 more.
 I
 first
 learned
 of
 it
 when
 
 Kozzi
 submitted
 a
 Sivil
 Galaxi
 tale
 to
M­Brane.
I
didn’t
take
the
story
because

I
didn’t
feel
 it
 was
 stand‐alone
 enough,
 and
 then
 I
 felt
 a
 bit
 bad
 about
 it
 after
 he
 told
 me
 that
 the
 very
 same
 story
 usually
 gets
 rejected
 for
 its
 sexual
 theme,
 the
 main
 thing
 that
 I
 did
 like
 about
 it.
 There’s
 certainly
 a
 lot
 of
 PG‐13
 mentality
 in
 the
 zine
 world,
 and
 I
 sympathize
 with
him
as
far
as
the
challenge
of
placing
a
story
that
 gets
anywhere
near
sex.

So,
I
thought
I


could

at

least

 
 
 (CONTINUED
TO
PAGE
29)

25

M-BRANE SF

JASON EARLS The
 wind
 was
 extremely
 fast
 and
 harsh,
 so
 Vince
 cupped
his
hand
around
his
lighter
and
bent
forward
to
 light
 his
 cigarette,
 which
 took
 him
 several
 tries
 before
 he
 succeeded.
 He
 sat
 back
 inhaling
 some
 of
 the
 precious
 tobacco
 smoke
 and
 blew
 it
 out
 where
 it
 was
 quickly
ate
up
by
the
blistering
autumn
wind.

 “Are
you
supposed
to
be
smoking?”
Rich
said,
sitting
 beside
Vince
in
the
back
of
the
truck.
 “Of
 course
 not,
 but
 they
 can’t
 see
 me
 back
 here,”
 Vince
replied,
smiling
and
holding
his
cigarette
low.
 
 “I
 can’t
 believe
 you
 got
 that
 lit,
 it’s
 so
 damn
 windy
riding
back
here.”
 “My
 lithe
 hands
 are
 capable
 of
 many
 intense
 wonders,
even
in
the
rickety
wind,”
said
Vince.
 Rich
 and
 Vince
 were
 step‐brothers.
 Vince’s
 father
 had
married
Rich’s
mother
about
four
years
ago.
They
 were
 both
 the
 same
 age,
 15,
 and
 had
 a
 good
 rivalry
 going.
Presently
they
were
traveling
to
Boomer
Lake
in
 the
 back
 of
 Vince’s
 father’s
 “wrecker.”
 They
 were
 sitting
 on
 a
 long
 black
 leather
 couch
 that
 spanned
 the
 width
of
the
flat
truck
bed,
pressed
up
against
the
back
 of
the
cab.
Vince
and
Rich
were
both
embarrassed
to
be
 seen
 in
 public
 riding
 on
 the
 tattered
 black
 couch
 that
 Vince’s
father
had
put
there,
but
the
old
man
could
kick
 both
 their
 asses
 in
 a
 millisecond,
 so
 they
 didn’t
 have
 much
choice
in
the
matter.
 Rich
watched
Vince
smoking
for
a
few
seconds,
then
 looked
down
at
the
lighter
that
Vince
was
still
holding.
 Out
of
nowhere,
Vince’s
face
quickly
scrunched
up
and
 he
grabbed
hold
of
his
stomach.
Rich
heard
a
low
growl
 rumble
from
the
dark
regions
of
Vince’s
bowels,
then
–
 still
scowling
as
if
in
pain
–
Vince
said,
“Hey
Rich,
watch
 this.”
 He
 leaned
 back
 and
 threw
 both
 his
 long
 legs
 up
 high
 into
 the
 air,
 then
 held
 his
 lighter
 close
 to
 his
 asshole
 and
 flicked
 it
 on.
 A
 loud
 fart
 erupted
 from
 his
 rectum
 and
 the
 whooshing
 wind
 caught
 the
 methane

26

gas
 which
 produced
 a
 long
 flame
 that
 shot
 out
 over
 four
 feet
 in
 a
 blow‐torch
 like
expanse
of
brilliant
red
fire.
 Rich
 jerked
 back
 quickly
 so
 that
 he
 would
 not
 be
 burned.
 After
 the
 flame
 died
 down,
 he
 grinned
 and
 said,
 “Awesome!
 You
 always
 seem
 to
 have
 a
 lot
 of
 gas
 in
 your
 intestines,
 Vince.
 Is
 that
why
you
can
get
the
flames
to
shoot
 out
so
far?”
 Vince
 leaned
 back
 up
 to
 his
 normal
 sitting
 position,
 grinning
 broadly,
 quite
 proud
 of
 his
 handiwork.
 “Yeah,
 I
 got
 a
 lot
 of
 gas
 from
 those
 damn
 Taco
 Bell
 burritos
we
ate
earlier.
Plus
the
passing
 wind
 from
 the
 highway
 really
 spurs
 on
 the
 flames.
 Plenty
 of
 practice
 helps
 too.
 I’ve
 been
 lighting
 my
 farts
 for
 years
 now.
 There
 is
 a
 certain
 technique
 you
 have
to
develop
to
produce
a
large
high‐ quality
 blast.
 But
 lately
 I
 noticed
 the
 high‐wind
 phenomenon
 you
 just
 witnessed
 and
 wanted
 to
 show
 you
 in
 case
 you
 ever
 need
 to
 produce
 a
 blow‐ torch‐like
flame.”
 Rich
 frowned
 and
 scratched
 his
 temple.
 “But
 why
 would
 I
 ever
 NEED
 a
 flame
 like
 that,
 Vince?
 I
 thought
 you
 simply
 lit
 your
 farts
 for
 entertainment
 purposes
only.”
 “Oh
 no,
 there
 may
 be
 a
 time
 in
 a
 man’s
 life
 when
 he
 really
 requires
 a
 powerful
flame
like
that.
He
may
have
to
 use
 the
 technique
 in
 self‐defense,
 or
 to
 save
his
life
in
some
odd
manner.”
 “Hmmm,
 maybe
 you’re
 right.”
 Rich
 said,
pondering
the
matter
deeply
since
 he
was
in
a
pensive
philosophical
mood
 that
day.
 “Of
 course
 I’m
 right,”
 Vince
 said,
 puckering
 his
 lips
 and
 inhaling
 a
 large
 quantity
of
cigarette
smoke.
 The
 stepbrothers
 became
 quiet
 and
 sat
 in
 the
 back
 of
 the
 wrecker
 racing
 down
 the
 highway
 toward
 Boomer
 Lake.
They
stared
 out
at
 the
dry
 yellow
 Texas
 desert
 land
 for
 awhile,
 Vince
 enjoying
 his
 cigarette,
 while
 Rich
 rubbed
 his
 hands
 together
 in
 a
 circular
 hand‐washing
 motion
 for
 no
 reason
 at
 all,
 still
 cogitating
 on
 self
 defense
 methods
with
large
expanses
of
fire.

 What
 about
 Rich
 and
 Vince’s
 physical
 appearances?
 I
 haven’t
 described
them
to
you
yet,
have
I?
Okay,

DEATH OF THE FLYING HUMANOID

For
 some
 reason,
 when
 I
 am
 looking
 for
 something
 to
 read,
 I
 seldom
 gravitate
 toward
 out­and­out
comedy
(though
I
do
like
it
once
in
 a
 while),
 and
 I
 wouldn’t
 generally
 think
 of
 seeking
out
a
story
that
leans
pretty
heavily
on
 a
 fart
 joke.
 
 But
 here
 is
 Jason
 Earls’
 “Death
 of
 the
 Flying
 Humanoid”
 anyway.
 It’s
 vivid,
 energetic,
 colorful
 and
 funny,
 and
 it
 probably
 provides
 a
 few
 minutes
 of
 relief
 from
 the
 deep
 seriousness
 of
 some
 of
 this
 month’s
 other
 entries
 while,
 in
 the
 end,
 making
 a
 valid
 point.—CF

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

here
goes.
 They
both
had
shoulder‐length
hair
since
they
 |-------------12-----------------------12--| wanted
 to
 be
 Rock
 Stars
 when
 they
 grew
 up.
 |----------10----10-----------------10-----| Vince’s
 hair
 was
 jet
 black
 while
 Rich’s
 was
 pure
 |--------7----------7-------------7--------| |-----11--------------11-------11----------| blond.
 The
 wind
 was
 whipping
 their
 long
 hair
 |---9--------------------9---9-------------| into
their
faces
and
they
wished
they
had
a
ghetto
 |-7------------------------7---------------| blaster
 nearby
 for
 some
 musical
 recreation,
 but
 they
had
already
drained
the
batteries
so
they
left
 |-10-7----7------------------| the
 unit
 at
 home.
 Nevertheless,
 music
 was
 never
 |------10---10---------------| far
 from
 their
 minds
 and
 they
 began
 discussing
 |--------------9-7-6-7-6-----| old
80's
guitar
players:
 |------------------------7---| |--------------------------9-| “Who
do
you
think
is
the
better
guitar
player,
 |----------------------------| Yngwie
or
Vai?”
Rich
asked.

 “Yngwie,
no
doubt
about
it.”
Vince
said.
 “Why
is
that?”
 ~~ “He
 just
 has
 more
 personality
 to
 his
 playing
 |---------------------------------------------| than
 Vai
 does,”
 Vince
 said.
 “You
 can
 always
 tell
 |---------------------------------------------| |---------------------------------------------| it’s
Yngwie
behind
the
strings
just
by
listening
to
 |-7-7/9-9-9/6-6-6/7-7-7/6-6-6/4-4-4/6-6-6/2-2-| his
 vibrato
 for
 half
 a
 second.
 Also
 I
 think
 he’s
 |---------------------------------------------| much
 faster
 and
 more
 technical
 than
 Vai.”
 Vince
 |---------------------------------------------| flicked
away
his
cigarette.
 ~ “Faster
 maybe,
 but
 not
 more
 technical,”
 Rich
 |---------------------------------12-12--| responded
in
a
haughty
tone.
 |----------------------------------------| Occasionally
 Rich
 and
 Vince
 would
 lapse
 into
 |----------------------------11-11-------| |-12/14-12/14-12/14-12-11-12-------------| deep
 conversations
 about
 guitar
 playing
 since
 |----------------------------------------| they
 were
 both
 trying
 to
 master
 that
 particular
 |----------------------------------------| instrument.
 Rich
 was
 more
 advanced
 on
 guitar
 than
 Vince
 because
 he
 practiced
 more
 often,
 but
 T T T T T T T T ~~ Vince
had
been
making
some
rather
large
strides
 |-19-12-19-12/14-21-14-21-14\12-19-12-19-12/10-17-10-17-10/7-| in
his
playing
lately.

 |------------------------------------------------------------| Vince’s
father
picked
up
speed
in
the
wrecker,
 |------------------------------------------------------------| |------------------------------------------------------------| the
 wind
 was
 blowing
 harder
 now,
 they
 almost
 |------------------------------------------------------------| had
to
yell
to
hear
one
another.
 |------------------------------------------------------------| “Yngwie
repeats
himself
too
much,”
Rich
said,
 punctuating
 the
 air
 with
 an
 awkward
 fist.
 “Most
 of
his
solos
on
his
latest
album
sound
exactly
the
 same
 from
 one
 song
 to
 the
 next.
 He
 seems
 to
 be
 falling
into
a
set
pattern
lately.
He’ll
do
a
freakin’
 







































 pedal
 point
 lick
 at
 the
 beginning,
 then
 go
 into
 some
 “I
like
the
slides
in
the
middle
and
the
tapping
part
at
 descending
fours
in
a
harmonic
minor
scale
next,
bend
a
 the
 end,”
 Vince
 said,
 “but
 arpeggios
 like
 the
 one
 at
 the
 high
 note
 for
 two
 bars
 applying
 extremely
 wide
 vibrato,
 beginning
are
usually
too
hard
to
play
fast
and
clean
in
a
 then
 he’ll
 repeat
 that
 same
 pattern
 in
 the
 next
 song.
 live
 situation.
 The
 stretch
 is
 too
 difficult
 and
 many
 Almost
every
solo
of
his
now
is
a
copy
of
the
one
before.”
 guitarists
 nowadays
 just
 mush
 the
 notes
 together
 until
 “I
don’t
agree,”
Vince
said.
“Yngwie’s
solos
are
all
very
 they
are
almost
completely
inaudible.”
 different,
 you
 just
 have
 to
 pay
 close
 attention
 to
 the
 “You’re
 right,
 but
 I
 always
 make
 sure
 to
 play
 my
 minute
 subtleties
 is
 all.
 Plus
 Vai
 has
 too
 much
 of
 that
 arpeggios
 a
 little
 bit
 too
 slowly,
 just
 so
 people
 in
 the
 corny
 Zappa
 influence
 and
 his
 damn
 songs
 sound
 like
 audience
 can
 hear
 all
 the
 notes
 and
 to
 execute
 the
 lick
 jokes
most
of
the
time.”
 with
maximum
articulation.”
 “You’re
the
one
who
needs
to
listen
closer
if
you
think
 “Congratulations
to
you,”
Vince
said.
 Vai
 sounds
 like
 that
 now,”
 Rich
 said.
 “Hey,
 I’ve
 been
 “Thanks,
Mr.
Sarcastic
Jackass.”
 meaning
to
ask
you,
what
do
you
think
of
this
guitar
lick?”
 “You’re
welcome.”
 Rich
put
his
long
index
finger
in
the
air
and
traced
out
 The
 wrecker
 suddenly
 took
 a
 sharp
 turn
 and
 Vince
 the
guitar
tablature
for
the
following
lick
(when
his
finger
 and
 Rich
 were
 both
 almost
 thrown
 off
 the
 side
 of
 the
 made
 the
 motion
 in
 the
 air,
 green
 lines
 were
 visible
 and
 truck,
 but
 they
 caught
 themselves
 and
 braced
 Vince
could
read
them
perfectly):
 appropriately.
 When
 they
 sat
 back
 up,
 Rich
 saw
 a

27

M-BRANE SF fluorescent
green
spot
flying
off
in
the
distance.
 “Hey,
what’s
that
over
there?”
 “Where?”
Vince
asked.
 “Over
there,
flying
around
by
the
hills.”

 The
 small
 green
 spot
 was
 hovering
 above
 the
 horizon,
outlined
in
red
next
to
the
clay
hills.
Whatever
 it
was,
it
seemed
to
be
moving
in
their
direction.
 “Holy
shit,
what
is
that
thing?
It’s
flying!”
Vince
said.
 “I
 think
 it’s
 one
 of
 those
 flying
 humanoids,”
 Rich
 said
 in
 a
 totally
 calm
 voice.
 “I’ve
 been
 hearing
 a
 lot
 about
 them
 on
 the
 news
 lately.
 They
 say
 they’ve
 been
 appearing
 in
 many
 different
 forms
 in
 different
 countries
around
the
world.”
 “What
are
they
called
again?”
Vince
asked,
squinting
 and
shading
his
eyes
to
get
a
better
look.
 “Flying
 humanoids.
 They’re
 like
 UFO’s
 except
 they
 don’t
 use
 any
 saucers
 or
 spaceships.
 They
 just
 fly
 around
using
their
bodies
instead
of
vehicles.”
 “Flying
 humanoids,
 huh.
 I’ve
 never
 even
 heard
 of
 them.
Boy,
that
one
sure
is
moving
fast.
And
it
seems
to
 be
coming
right
toward
us.”
 The
 flying
 humanoid
 got
 closer
 and
 they
 saw
 the
 thing
 fully
 enshrouded
 in
 a
 green
 and
 red
 cape
 with
 yellow
stripes
and
obscure
occult
symbols.
They
could
 tell
 something
 was
 wrong
 with
 its
 face
 even
 from
 a
 considerable
 distance;
 its
 visage
 seemed
 somewhat
 mangled
 and
 porous
 looking.
 Rich
 and
 Vince
 sat
 there
 with
the
wind
whipping
their
long
hair
around
as
they
 watched
the
flying
humanoid
soar
closer
and
soon
their
 eyes
became
progressively
larger
from
extreme
fear.
 “IT’S
 COMING
 RIGHT
 FOR
 US!”
 Rich
 screamed.
 “WHAT
THE
HELL
ARE
WE
GONNA
DO?”
 “I
don’t
know...
We
better
tell
my
Dad!”

 Vince
 turned
 around
 and
 pounded
 on
 the
 rear
 window
of
the
truck,
he
screamed
at
his
parents
but
he
 could
 hear
 the
 radio
 blaring
 and
 saw
 Rich’s
 mother
 inside
 talking
 her
 head
 off
 as
 usual,
 so
 he
 couldn’t
 get
 their
 attention.
 He
 knew
 he
 didn’t
 have
 much
 time
 so
 he
gave
up
and
tried
to
think
of
another
way
to
escape
 from
 the
 unknown
 humanoid
 creature
 whizzing
 toward
 them.
 He
 thought
 they
 might
 have
 to
 jump
 off
 the
wrecker
as
it
traveled
75
mph
down
the
highway.
 Soon
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 was
 hovering
 a
 few
 feet
 over
the
flat
bed
of
the
truck
with
Rich
and
Vince
lying
 far
 back
 on
 the
 couch,
 staring
 up
 at
 it,
 shaking
 with
 terror.
 They
 both
 looked
 up
 at
 the
 flying
 humanoid’s
 long
 thin
 body
 and
 noticed
 its
 horrific
 face
 with
 two
 small
mouths
side
by
side
and
three
eyes
above
it
in
a
 straight
 row;
 the
 eyes
 on
 the
 outside
 were
 green,
 the
 one
inside
bright
yellow,
all
of
them
the
same
size
and
 perfectly
 symmetrical.
 The
 flying
 humanoid
 opened
 both
 its
 mouths
 simultaneously
 and
 inside
 were
 small
 razor
 sharp
 piranha
 teeth;
 the
 humanoid’s
 octagonal
 head
 was
 shaved
 totally
 bald
 except
 for
 a
 triangle
 of
 metal
 and
 electrical
 protrusions
 sticking
 out
 the
 top
 –
 so
it
seemed
it
was
also
part
android.
The
two
wannabe

28

FEBRUARY 2009 Rock
 Stars
 were
 both
 amazed
 and
 terrified
 lying
 below
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 and
 felt
 their
 lives
 would
 soon
 be
 coming
to
an
end.
 After
 hovering
 for
 a
 few
 seconds
 so
 they
 could
 fully
 absorb
its
disturbing
otherworldly
appearance,
the
flying
 humanoid
descended
and
lifted
its
robe
slightly
to
reveal
 its
 feet
 with
 long
 red
 alien
 talons.
 Vince
 screamed
 and
 tried
 to
 jump
 over
 the
 side
 of
 the
 truck
 but
 the
 flying
 humanoid
used
its
talons
to
grab
his
hair
and
picked
him
 up
and
flew
off
at
a
high
rate
of
speed.
 Rich
 screamed
 watching
 his
 friend
 vanish
 with
 the
 horrible
 creature
 and
 thought
 he
 would
 soon
 be
 next.
 The
flying
humanoid
flew
so
quickly
Rich
didn’t
even
see
 which
 direction
 it
 had
 flown
 in,
 but
 when
 his
 screams
 died
 down,
 he
 saw
 it
 land
 in
 the
 center
 of
 the
 highway
 with
 Vince
 now
 totally
 unconscious.
 The
 wrecker
 was
 still
 speeding
 away,
 but
 Rich
 watched
 as
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 stood
 still
 in
 the
 road
 laughing
 menacingly
 with
 both
 its
 duel
 mouths.
 It
 raised
 one
 arm
 and
 effortlessly
 ripped
 off
 the
 top
 of
 Vince’s
 head
 and
 dumped
 the
 contents
 onto
 the
 highway.
 He
 scooped
 up
 the
 brains
 and
 threw
 them
 into
 his
 dual
 mouths
 and
 chewed
 away,
 all
 the
 while
 staring
 directly
 at
 Rich,
 who
 was
 now
 so
 scared
 he
 couldn’t
 move
 or
 scream.
 Rich
 turned
 around
 and
 looked
 at
 his
 parents
 through
 the
 window,
but
they
were
still
driving
and
smiling
with
the
 radio
blaring
and
had
noticed
nothing
unusual
so
far.
 He
had
to
think
of
a
way
to
defend
himself
if
the
flying
 humanoid
 came
 for
 him
 next.
 What
 could
 he
 do?
 He
 closed
 his
 eyes
 and
 tried
 to
 think.
 He
 didn’t
 want
 to
 see
 the
unknown
creature
anymore,
even
if
it
came
back
for
 him.
He
decided
he
would
not
look
at
it.
But
how
could
he
 fight
something
so
evil
and
powerful?
What
could
he
use
 as
a
weapon?
His
friend
and
stepbrother
was
dead
now.
 The
 flying
 humanoid
 had
 ripped
 his
 head
 off
 with
 absolute
 ease.
 What
 the
 bejeesus
 is
 happening
 in
 the
 world
today,
Rich
thought.
Where
are
all
these
unknown
 creatures
 coming
 from?
 He
 wondered
 if
 Vince’s
 father,
 who
really
was
a
true
badass,
would
be
able
to
fight
the
 thing
and
have
any
kind
of
chance.
But
Rich
couldn’t
get
 his
 parents’
 attention.
 They
 never
 paid
 attention
 to
 kids
 anyway.

 Finally
 Rich
 opened
 his
 eyes
 and
 saw
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 about
 a
 hundred
 feet
 away
 coming
 toward
 him.
 He
 needed
 a
 weapon.
 Anything.
 He
 wished
 he
 had
 his
 electric
 guitar,
 he
 could
 bash
 the
 flying
 humanoid’s
 brains
 out
 with
 that
 definitely.
 He
 remembered
 Vince
 lighting
his
fart
earlier
and
the
huge
blowtorch‐like
flame
 he’d
produced.
That
would
be
a
good
weapon.
He
looked
 over
and
saw
the
lighter
laying
in
the
bed
of
the
truck.
He
 grabbed
it
and
raised
his
legs
and
grunted
but
felt
no
gas
 in
 his
 intestines.
 Then
 he
 saw
 a
 can
 of
 gasoline
 in
 a
 far
 corner
 of
 the
 truck
 bed,
 grabbed
 it
 and
 unscrewed
 the
 cap.
 He
 lifted
 it
 up
 and
 drank
 in
 a
 big
 mouthful.
 He
 watched
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 gradually
 soaring
 closer
 and
 secretly
 brought
 the
 lighter
 up
 close
 to
 his
 mouth

M-BRANE SF until
 the
 creature
 was
 within
 firing
 range.
 Just
 as
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 was
 going
 to
 transition
 into
 supersonic
 speed
 and
 grab
 him
 up
 with
 its
 red
 alien
 talons,
 Rich
 cupped
 his
 hands
 around
 the
 lighter,
 flicked
 it
 on,
 and
 sprayed
 the
 gas
 out
 of
 his
 mouth
 as
 hard
 as
 he
 could.
 A
 gigantic
 fireball
 shot
 out
 and
 engulfed
 the
 flying
 humanoid
and
it
exploded,
KABOOM.

 Instead
of
simply
burning
up
and
dying
however,
Rich
 watched
 thousands
 of
 tiny
 flying
 humanoids
 erupt
 from
 the
explosion
and
fly
off
in
every
direction
as
they
emitted
 high‐pitched
 squeals.
 Just
 what
 the
 world
 needed,
 thousands
 more
 flying
 humanoids
 to
 grow
 and
 spread
 more
disaster
and
destruction
over
the
planet.
 Rich
 gasped
 at
 the
 terror
 he
 had
 unleashed.
 But
 at
 least
 he
 was
 safe
 now.
 That’s
 all
 he
 really
 cared
 about
 subconsciously.
 He
 leaned
 over
 and
 lay
 down
 in
 the
 pickup
 bed.
 Closed
 his
 eyes,
 huffing
 and
 puffing,
 slightly
 in
 shock
 and
 almost
 exhausted.
 He
 tried
 to
 spit
 out
 the
 remnants
 of
 the
 gas
 in
 his
 mouth,
 but
 the
 strong
 taste
 would
stay
there
over
the
next
few
days.
Thankfully,
none
 of
the
miniature
flying
humanoids
returned
to
harass
him
 that
day.
 Later,
 when
 they
 finally
 arrived
 at
 Boomer
 Lake,
 his
 parents
 asked
 where
 Vince
 was.
 Rich
 tried
 to
 explain
 what
 had
 happened
 with
 the
 flying
 humanoid
 but
 his
 parents
 did
 not
 believe
 a
 word
 of
 his
 story.
 They
 called
 the
 police
 and
 instigated
 a
 search
 party
 for
 Vince
 but
 of
 course
he
was
never
found
since
the
flying
humanoid
had
 killed
him
and
ate
his
brains.
And
Rich
was
forever
filled
 with
anxiety
from
that
day
forward.
He
watched
the
news
 obsessively
for
mention
of
any
flying
humanoids
since
he
 knew
 he’d
 accidentally
 released
 a
 plague
 of
 miniature
 ones
 upon
 the
 world,
 which
 he
 suspected
 would
 soon
 grow
to
fruition
and
take
over
the
earth.
But
he
never
saw
 any
 of
 them
 again,
 because
 when
 the
 flying
 humanoids
 grew
up,
they
decided
planet
Earth
was
far
too
disgusting
 to
actually
live
on
and
took
up
residence
in
another
solar
 system.

Jason
Earls
is
author
of
the
books
Cocoon
of
 Terror
 (Afterbirth
 Books),
 Red
 Zen,
 How
 to
 Become
 a
 Guitar
 Player
 from
 Hell,
 Heartless
 Bast*rd
 In
 Ecstasy,
 
 
 If(Sid_Vicious
 ==
 TRUE
 &&
 Alan_Turing
==
TRUE)
{ERROR_Cyberpunk();
}
and
 0.136101521283655...
 all
 available
 at
 Amazon.com
 and
 other
 online
 book
 stores.
 His
 fiction
 and
 mathematical
 work
 have
 been
 published
 in
 Red
 Scream,
 Yankee
 Pot
 Roast,
 Scientia
 Magna,
 three
 of
 Clifford
 Pickover’s
 books,
 Mathworld,
 Thirteen,
 Chiaroscuro,
 Dogmatika,
 Neometropolis,
 Prime
 Curios,
 the
 Online
 Encyclopedia
 of
 Integer
 Sequences,
 OG’s
 Speculative
 Fiction,
 AlienSkin,
 Escaping
 Elsewhere,
 Recreational
 and
 Educational

FEBRUARY 2009 Computing,
 Theatre
 of
 Decay,
 Nocturnal
 Ooze,
 Bust
Down
the
Door
and
Eat
All
the
Chickens,
and
 other
 publications.
 He
 currently
 resides
 in
 Texas
with
his
wife,
Christine.

OF
NOTE
ON
THE
WWW
 (CONTINUED
FROM
PAGE
25)
 
 
 give
 him
 a
 plug
 here…I’ve
 mentioned
 this
 before
 on
 my
 blog,
 but
 it
 bears
 another
 mention:
 Clonepod
 at
 www.clonepod.org
 is
 a
 super
 cool
 audio
 fiction
 site
 hosted
 by
 siblings
 Forrest
 and
 Abby
 who
 provide
 intros
to
sf
short
stories
in
the
form
of
podcasts.
They
 are
 
 very
 well
 done
 and
 fun
 to
 listen
 to.
 
 The
 whole
 thing’s

sometimes
positively
cute,
actually.
During
the
 introduction
 to
 the
 11/22/08
 segment,
 Forrest
 and
 Abby
 express
 their
 glee
 over
 the
 election
 of
 President
 Obama.
 “Yay,
 now
 other
 countries
 will
 play
 with
 us
 again!”
says
Abby.
Though
these
guys
are
pretty
young
 and
 welcome
 a
 young
 audience
 to
 their
 pod‐zine,
 Clonepod’s
fiction
selections
are
in
no
way
immature
or
 particularly
 kid‐oriented.
 They
 offer
 their
 wonderful
 content
for
free
(and
pay
their
writers),
but
they
accept
 much‐deserved
 donations
 via
 Pay
 Pal… David Langford’s
 Ansible,
 readable
 at
 www.ansible.co.uk,
 is
 a
 compulsively
 readable
 sf
 news
 zine.
 The
 Hugo‐ winning
 Langford
 has
 been
 publishing
 this
 newsletter
 of
 sf
 goings‐on
 since
 1979.
 
 What’s
 pretty
 cool
 about
 the
website
is
that
you
can
look
up
every
issue
of
it
all
 the
way
back
to
#1
in
1979.
You
can
even
hit
a
button
 that
 calls
 up
 a
 random
 back
 issue…Rick
 Kleffel’s
 Agony
 Column
 at
 www.bookotron.com
 is
 a
 real
 treasure
 chest
 for
 people
 who
 like
 to
 listen
 to
 writers
 talk
 about
 their
 craft.
 The
 site
 features
 (in
 addition
 to
 book
 reviews
 and
 copious
 book‐related
 news)
 a
 huge
 audio
 archive
 of
 Kleffel’s
 interviews
 with
 scores
 of

 writers.
 Some
 items
 I
 called
 up
 recently
 were
 interviews
 with
 Brian
 Herbert,
 Kim
 Stanley
 Robinson
 and
 Ian
 McDonald,
 as
 well
 as
 a
 recording
 of
 one
 of
 Harlan
 Ellison’s
 bombastic,
 sometimes
 funny
 and
 sometimes
 horrifying
 convention
 speeches.
 I’m
 the
 kind
 of
 reader
 who
 likes
 it
 when
 a
 writer
 provides
 some




insight




into
his
or


her
work,
so
this










is
 really








great…


The
 
 
 
 
 
 Mindwebs
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 archive

(CONTINUED TO PAGE 43)

29

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF The
 frustrating
 situation
 in
 which
 the
 protagonist
of
this
tale
finds
himself
seems
like
 it
 could
 one
 day
 pass
 from
 fiction
 into
 fact.
 Recently,
I
listened
to
a
discussion
on
the
radio
 about
 the
 topic
 of
 intellectual
 property,
 proprietary
 secrets
 and
 corporate
 security
 which
 suggested
 some
 alarming
 possibilities
 that
might
be
on
the
way.
Hopefully
it
won’t
go
 this
far.—CF

 
 The
 subway
 station
 was
 crammed
 to
 capacity
 as
 usual,
 and
 no
 one
 seemed
 to
 notice
 the
 omnipresent
 holographic
 ads
 crying
 out
 for
 attention.
 Tired
 as
 he
 was,
 Dennis
 Lymington
 was
 relieved
 he
 only
 had
 to
 wait
a
few
moments
for
the
next
subway
car
and
even
 happier
to
find
a
seat
–
he
hated
having
to
stand,
even
if
 you
 could
 fall
 asleep
 without
 toppling
 over
 in
 this
 overcrowded
 place.
 It
 must
 have
 been
 a
 busy
 day
 at
 the
 office
 for
 him,
 even
 if
 he
 didn’t
 remember
a
single
thing
about
what
had
 happened.
 As
 a
 matter
 of
 fact,
 he
 wasn’t
supposed
to.
 Fortunately
he
did
recall
where
 he
 had
 to
 get
 off.
 He
 was
 glad
 to
 leave
 the
 subway
 behind
 him
 and
 walk
 the
 short
 distance
 to
 where
he
lived.
The
fresh
air
–
a
 relative
 term
 in
 these
 days
 of
 heavy
 pollution
 –
 was
 quite
 invigorating.
 He
 arrived
 at
 the
 apartment
 building
 where
 he
 lived,
 stated
 his
name,
pressed
his
right
index
 finger
 against
 the
 ID
 screen,
 and
 was
 allowed
 in.
 Moments
 later
 he
 entered
his
apartment,
kissed
his
wife
 and
said,
“Everything
okay,
darling?
And
 how’s
Vanessa?”
 “Vanessa?”
 his
 wife
 asked.
 “Who
 are
 you
 talking
about?”
 “Well,
our
daughter,
of
course,”
he
replied,
baffled.
 His
wife
stared
at
him
and
shook
her
head.
“Dennis,
 we
don’t
have
a
daughter.
We
have
two
sons.
Alex
and
 Bruno,
 remember?
 What’s
 wrong,
 Dennis?
 I
 thought
 the
 memories
 of
 your
 private
 life
 were
 off‐limits
 to
 your
employer.”
 Dennis
sighed
and
sat
down
for
a
while.
“I’m
sorry,
 Amanda.
 This
 kind
 of
 thing
 shouldn’t
 happen.
 Another
 mix‐up,
I
guess.
Someone
made
a
mistake,
or
there
was
 a
technical
glitch,
I
don’t
know…”
 “Maybe
 you
 should
 talk
 about
 it
 at
 work
 tomorrow.”
 “I
will,
Amanda,
I
will.”
 Dennis
 thought
 about
 what
 had

just
 happened.
 He
 didn’t
 want
 to
 tell
 his
 wife
 it
 was
 useless
to
discuss
this
problem
at
work.
Whatever
would
 be
said
about
it
would
be
wiped
along
with
all
the
other
 memories
 of
 the
 day
 as
 he
 left
 for
 home,
 according
 to
 standard
employer’s
procedure.
 Two
young
boys
ran
into
the
room,
rushed
up
to
him
 and
 hugged
 him.
 His
 two
 kids?
 Alex
 and
 Bruno?
 Why
 didn’t
 he
 recognize
 them?
 Why
 were
 the
 name
 Vanessa
 and
the
face
of
a
young
girl
haunting
his
mind?
This
was
 inexplicable,
 and
 unacceptable.
 The
 two
 kids
 left
 again,
 eager
to
continue
their
activities.
 He
grabbed
the
TV’s
remote
control
and
turned
down
 the
 volume
 to
 the
 minimum
 level.
 The
 commercials
 irritated
 him,
 even
 if
 they
 were
 less
 aggressive
 than
 the
 ones
in
the
subway.
At
least
the
ads
on
the
screen
didn’t
 harass
 people
 who
 they
 felt
 showed
 an
 interest
 in
 their
 sales
pitch.
 “Too
 bad
 we
 can’t
 switch
 off
 the
 damn
 thing,”
he
muttered.
 “Too
 bad
 we
 can’t
 afford
 an
 expensive
 model,”
 Amanda
 replied,
 standing
 in
 the
 doorway.
 “They
 come
 with
 an
on/off
button.”
 “Right
 now
 I
 feel
 as
 if
 I’m
 equipped
 with
 an
 on/off
 button.
 And
 someone
 just
 pressed
 the
off
button.”
 Amanda
 sat
 down
 next
 to
 him,
 patted
 him
 on
the
shoulder.
“Take
it
 easy,
 darling.
 It’s
 probably
 just
 a
 mistake.
 Tomorrow
 everything
 will
 be
 fine
 again,
 you’ll
 see.
 Well,
 dinner
 will
 be
 ready
 in
 half
an
hour.
Take
a
shower
and
 relax.
 We’ll
 talk
 about
 the
 problem
 when
you
feel
better.”
 He
got
up
and
said,
“I
hope
I’ll
remember
 where
the
bathroom
is.”
 Under
 the
 shower
 he
 thought
 about
 what
 had
 happened
 and
 what
 the
 explanation
 might
 be.
 He
 had
 been
 working
 for
 the
 Netware
 Research
 Corporation
 for
 several
months
now,
and
so
far
there
never
had
been
any
 problems.
 He
 understood
 the
 reasons
 for
 their
 memory
 wiping
 and
 uploading
 system,
 and
 it
 seemed
 to
 work
 perfectly.
 His
 job
 was
 of
 an
 extremely
 sensitive
 nature,
 and
 logically
 enough
 his
 employer
 did
 not
 want
 to
 take
 any
 chances
 with
 information
 leaks
 and
 industrial
 espionage.
 So
 as
 the
 staff
 left
 for
 home,
 their
 work‐ related
memories
were
wiped,
stored
and
uploaded
again
 the
 next
 morning.
 Memories
 about
 their
 private
 lives
 were

CAREER
 
 MOVE

FRANK ROGER

30

M-BRANE SF untouched
 and
 untouchable,
 but
 there
 had
 been
 stories
 about
 hackers
 breaking
 into
 the
 system
 and
 disrupting
 things,
and
about
espionage
networks
working
in
devious
 ways…
 Could
 this
 explain
 the
 mix‐up
 he
 had
 been
 the
 victim
of?
 After
 dinner,
 when
 the
 kids
 had
 retired,
 he
 discussed
 the
 problem
 with
 Amanda,
 even
 if
 she
 knew
 very
 little
 about
his
work
–
as
a
matter
of
fact,
he
himself
had
little
 knowledge
of
it
once
he
left
the
NRC
building.
 “This
 is
 worse
 than
 you
 think,”
 he
 said.
 “When
 I
 saw
 Alex
and
Bruno
right
there,
I
didn’t
recognise
them.
It
was
 as
 if
 I’ve
 never
 seen
 those
 kids
 before.
 But
 I
 can
 still
 see
 Vanessa’s
 face
 before
 my
 mind’s
 eye.
 And
 I
 do
 have
 recollections
of
her
that
feel
authentic,
convincing.
As
far
 as
I
can
tell,
she’s
really
our
daughter,
and
these
two
kids
 here…
they’re
fake.”
 Amanda
 shook
 her
 head.
 “What
 can
 we
 do?
 Just
 wait
 until
 tomorrow
 and
 hope
 everything
 will
 be
 back
 to
 normal?”
 “I
 guess
 so.
 But
 I
 have
 a
 bad
 feeling
 about
 this.
 I’m
 under
 the
 impression
 that
 my
 private
 memories
 have
 been
tampered
with.
I
can’t
accept
that,
but
by
tomorrow
 I
may
not
remember
a
thing
about
it.”
 “Why
 don’t
 you
 take
 notes?
 And
 compare
 them
 with
 what
you
remember.”
 “I
 can
 take
 notes
 here,
 but
 not
 at
 work.
 It’s
 against
 company
rules.
I
can’t
take
that
risk.
I
wouldn’t
like
to
be
 fired
 and
 have
 to
 face
 charges
 of
 industrial
 espionage.
 That
 makes
 it
 hard
 to
 keep
 track
 of
 any
 glitches
 in
 the
 wiping
and
uploading
process.”
 “I
 understand.
 Now
 in
 that
 case
 I
 suggest
 we
 simply
 wait
 until
 tomorrow.
 Let’s
 hope
 everything
 will
 be
 all
 right
again.”
 “Fine,”
he
said.
“I’ll
go
with
that.”
 While
 they
 watched
 TV
 he
 kept
 thinking
 about
 the
 problem.
What
could
he
do
to
find
out
the
truth?
At
work
 he
wasn’t
allowed
to
make
notes
and
take
them
home,
or
 to
bring
in
any
written
or
recorded
material
from
outside.
 There
 was
 also
 the
 problem
 that
 by
 tomorrow
 all
 his
 memories
 about
 the
 issue
 might
 be
 wiped,
 and
 then
 he
 would
 no
 longer
 recall
 having
 made
 notes,
 not
 even
 be
 aware
anymore
of
the
whole
thing.
 But
 was
 there
 really
 no
 way
 to
 circumvent
 this
 system?
 What
 if
 he
 took
 notes
 that
 were
 coded,
 that
 no
 one
 would
 recognize
 as
 such,
 neither
 at
 work
 nor
 at
 home?
That
way
he
would
end
up
with
two
sets
of
notes
 that
 he
 might
 compare.
 It
 would
 still
 be
 dangerous,
 the
 security
 teams
 at
 work
 were
 not
 easy
 to
 fool.
 He
 would
 try
 to
 think
 of
 a
 way
 to
 make
 encrypted
 notes
 without
 anyone
 noticing.
 Admittedly,
 his
 wife’s
 suggestion
 for
 taking
notes
had
been
spot‐on.
 “You’re
 not
 really
 watching,
 are
 you?”
 Amanda
 suddenly
 asked,
 interrupting
 his
 train
 of
 thought.
 “Are
 you
still
fretting
about
what
happened?”
 “How
 would
 you
 be
 if
 someone
 fooled
 around
 with
 your
private
memories?”

FEBRUARY 2009 “You’re
not
even
sure
that’s
what
happened.”
 “Still,
it
worries
me.”
 “I
 understand.
 Why
 don’t
 we
 go
 to
 bed?
 A
 good
 night’s
sleep
should
help.”
 “Well,
I
can’t
say
no
to
that.”
 He
 turned
 down
 the
 volume
 to
 the
 minimum
 level
 and
they
retired.
 
 The
next
morning
at
breakfast
it
felt
odd
to
see
the
 two
 boys
 at
 the
 table.
 Somehow
 he
 had
 still
 expected
 Vanessa
 to
 turn
 up.
 How
 could
 he
 record
 last
 night’s
 events
 and
 ideas,
 just
 in
 case
 they
 were
 wiped
 as
 he
 returned
 from
 work
 later
 this
 day?
 He
 didn’t
 see
 a
 possibility
 right
 away.
 On
 the
 spur
 of
 the
 moment,
 as
 he
was
about
to
leave,
he
whispered
to
Amanda:
 “Tell
Vanessa
I
miss
her.”
 Amanda
 shot
 him
 a
 cold,
 hard
 stare,
 but
 didn’t
 reply.
 He
 had
 hoped
 she
 would
 say
 or
 do
 something
 that
might
shed
some
light
on
the
problem.
 Presently
 he
 was
 out
 on
 the
 street,
 in
 the
 pouring
 rain.
 He
 hurried
 to
 the
 subway
 station.
 Soon
 his
 professional
 memories
 would
 be
 uploaded,
 allowing
 him
 to
 continue
 his
 work.
 At
 the
 end
 of
 the
 day
 they
 would
 be
 removed
 again
 and
 safely
 stocked.
 It
 was
 a
 perfect
 system,
 guaranteeing
 the
 employee’s
 privacy.
 At
least
it
was
supposed
to
be
perfect.
 Around
 six
 o’
 clock
 he
 left
 the
 NRC
 building
 again
 and
 headed
 home.
 To
 his
 relief
 his
 private
 memories
 appeared
 intact.
 He
 still
 remembered
 yesterday’s
 episode,
with
Vanessa
gone
and
the
two
strange
kids
in
 his
 house,
 Amanda
 claiming
 this
 was
 the
 normal
 situation,
and
his
plan
to
make
encrypted
notes.
What
 would
he
find
today?
 He
entered
his
apartment,
kissed
his
wife
and
said:
 “I’m
 tired,
 darling.
 It’s
 probably
 been
 a
 busy
 day.
 You
 know
what
I
mean.
How
are
Alex
and
Bruno?”
 Amanda
shot
him
a
quizzical
look
and
replied:
“Oh,
 they’re
fine.
There
they
are.”
 The
two
boys
appeared,
hugged
him,
told
him
what
 mega‐cool
 games
 they
 were
 playing
 right
 now
 and
 rushed
 back
 to
 their
 rooms.
 He
 collapsed
 into
 his
 comfy
 chair
 and
 thought:
 Now
 what
 if
 I
 make
 no
 mention
at
all
of
Vanessa.
It
would
be
interesting
to
see
 Amanda’s
reaction.
 He
turned
up
the
TV’s
volume
and
watched
without
 making
 any
 comments.
 After
 a
 while
 Amanda
 took
 a
 seat
next
to
him
and
asked:
 “Is
everything
okay?”
 “Yeah,
fine.”
 “It’s
 just
 that
 yesterday
 you
 mentioned
 this
 problem…”
 “Oh?
What
problem?”
 “There
 was
 something
 about
 the
 kids
 that
 seemed
 to
bother
you.”
 “I
guess
I
was
tired
and
then
I
sometimes
can’t
take
 all
the
hustle
and
the
noise.”

31

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF “That’s
not
what
I
meant.”
 “What
was
the
problem
then?”
 “Something
about
your
memories…”
 “I
 suffer
 memory
 loss
 every
 day
 as
 I
 leave
 the
 office,”
he
said,
chuckling.
 “Just
forget
I
brought
it
up,”
she
said,
and
turned
her
 eyes
to
the
TV.
 “Sure,”
he
replied,
but
made
a
mental
note
of
it.
She
 clearly
wondered
why
he
hadn’t
mentioned
Vanessa,
or
 his
 fear
 that
 his
 private
 memories
 had
 been
 tampered
 with.
 Or
 could
 it
 be
 she
 was
 just
 worried
 about
 his
 mental
 health,
 jeopardized
 by
 the
 daily
 memory
 transfer
 his
 brain
 was
 undergoing?
 Maybe
 his
 suspicion
 was
 completely
 unfounded,
 and
 his
 capacity
 for
rational
thought
was
deteriorating
indeed
from
the
 harsh
treatment
it
suffered.
 I’ll
just
have
to
take
notes,
he
decided,
otherwise
I’ll
 never
discover
the
truth
about
my
private
life.
I’ll
have
 to
 make
 two
 sets
 of
 notes.
 Both
 here
 and
 at
 work.
 Comparing
 the
 two
 sets
 should
 yield
 some
 interesting
 results.
 Of
 course
 there
 were
 risks
 involved.
 By
 no
 means
 his
 employer
 should
 find
 out
 he
 was
 taking
 notes.
 That
 would
 be
 the
end
of
his
job.
 The
 question
 was:
 how
 should
 he
 go
 about
 it?
 Making
 encrypted
 notes
 wouldn’t
 do.
 Someone
 who
 stumbled
 onto
 them
 might
 be
 unable
 to
 read
 them,
 but
 would
 still
 recognize
 them
 as
 notes.
 He
 would
 have
 to
 devise
 a
 system
 allowing
 him
 to
 record
 data
 that
others
couldn’t
recognize
as
such.
 And
 he
 would
 have
 to
 take
 into
 account
 that
 his
 recollections
of
a
day’s
work
were
wiped.
He
would
not
 remember
 having
 made
 notes
 at
 work;
 he
 should
 be
 able
to
recognize
and
decrypt
them
himself,
otherwise
 the
whole
plan
would
be
useless.
 This
would
definitely
not
be
easy.
And
risky
as
hell.
 
 The
next
day
he
came
home
from
work
and
felt
cold
 and
empty,
as
if
the
security
system
had
wiped
way
too
 much
 from
 his
 brain.
 It’s
 a
 good
 thing
 I
 remember
 where
I
live,
he
thought
as
he
entered
his
apartment.
 He
kissed
his
wife
and
took
a
seat.
The
kids
ran
up
 to
 him,
 told
 them
 what
 they
 were
 playing
 right
 now
 and
left
again.
He
shook
his
head.
The
children
spent
so
 much
 time
 with
 their
 e‐games
 and
 e‐toys
 that
 they
 were
 barely
 part
 of
 the
 real
 world.
 He
 feared
 one
 day
 they
 might
 disappear
 into
 the
 e‐dimension
 altogether
 and
sever
the
link
with
the
older
generations
forever.
 “You
look
very
tired,”
Amanda
said.
“Did
you
have
a
 tough
day
at
the
office?”
 “I
guess
so,”
he
replied.
“I
wish
I
could
say
more.”
 She
shook
her
head.
“You
can’t
go
on
like
this.
This

memory
 erasing
 security
 system
 is
 ruining
 your
 health.
 Maybe
 you
 don’t
 realise
 it,
 but
 believe
 me,
 it
 is.
 I
 just
 can’t
 bear
 seeing
 you
 go
 downhill
 like
 this.
 You
 have
 to
 do
something
about
it.”
 “What
 do
 you
 expect
 me
 to
 do
 then?
 Quit
 my
 job?
 Come
on!”
 “Why
do
you
cling
to
your
job?
You
hardly
know
what
 it
is
you’re
doing.”
 “NRC
is
a
company
that
develops
new
software
in
the
 field
of…”
 “I
 know
 all
 that.
 The
 thing
 is,
 you
 have
 no
 personal
 memories
 of
 your
 work.
 They’re
 all
 wiped
 for
 security
 reasons.
Maybe
that’s
a
sound
principle
from
a
business
 point
 of
 view,
 but
 as
 your
 wife
 and
 the
 mother
 of
 your
 children,
I
can
see
what
it’s
doing
to
you.
And
I’m
telling
 you,
it’s
not
a
healthy
evolution.”
 “So
what
do
you
propose
then?”
 “Let
 me
 help
 you.
 We’ll
 work
 this
 out
 together.
 I’ll
 need
 to
 have
 a
 complete
 picture
 of
 the
 situation,
 of
 course.
For
instance,
can
you
tell
me
what
this
is?”

One
 day
 they
 made
 a
 breakthrough.
 Amanda
 drew
 his
 attention
 to
 a
 series
 of
 digits
 he
 had
 noted
 in
 a
 variety
 of
 places:
 scribbled
 on
 bits
 of
 paper,
 in
 a
 corner
 of
 the
 bathroom
 mirror,
 on
 the
 sole
 of
 one
 of
 his
 shoes,
and
in
a
few
even
unlikelier
places…

32

She
produced
something
from
her
pocket
and
held
it
 up
for
inspection.
It
was
a
tiny
slip
of
paper,
folded.
 “Let
 me
 take
 a
 look,”
 he
 said
 quietly.
 He
 unfolded
 it
 and
saw
four
digits
on
it,
4‐15‐14‐20.
He
shrugged,
gave
 the
 paper
 back
 to
 Amanda.
 “Just
 a
 few
 numbers,”
 he
 mumbled.
 “This
 is
 your
 handwriting,”
 she
 pointed
 out.
 He
 nodded.
 “But
 wait,
 there’s
 more.”
 She
 produced
 two
 more
 folded
 slips
 of
 paper,
 handed
 them
 to
 him.
 The
 second
 one
 showed
 another
 set
 of
 digits,
 6‐15‐18‐7‐5‐20,
 the
 third
 one
 just
 the
 number
 22.
 He
 had
 no
 idea
 what
 this
 was
all
about.
 “Are
you
trying
to
tell
me
something,
Amanda?”
 “Yes,
 Dennis.
 You
 know
 where
 I
 found
 these
 slips
 of
 paper?
There
was
one
in
the
breast
pocket
of
a
shirt
you
 threw
into
the
laundry
bin,
one
in
the
waste
basket
and
 one
 under
 the
 carpet
 in
 your
 study.
 I
 found
 one
 by
 accident,
the
kids
brought
me
the
two
others.”
 “So?”
 “Dennis,
 could
 it
 be
 these
 are
 notes
 you
 made
 and
 forgot
 about?
 Now
 in
 theory
 only
 your
 professional

M-BRANE SF memories
 are
 wiped,
 but
 I
 think
 you’re
 suffering
 from
 general
memory
problems.”
 “How
 could
 I
 know?
 As
 you
 say,
 my
 memories
 are
 wiped.
Anyway,
what
do
these
numbers
mean?”
 “Dennis,
listen
to
me.
I
think
you
made
these
notes
to
 remind
 you
 of
 something
 important,
 and
 ironically
 enough
 you
 even
 forgot
 you
 made
 them,
 or
 at
 least
 your
 memories
 about
 them
 were
 wiped.
 I
 suppose
 these
 numbers
 are
 codes.
 The
 code
 is
 easy
 to
 break,
 as
 it
 was
 devised
by
someone
who
knew
he
couldn’t
rely
too
much
 on
his
memories.”
 “Your
point,
please,
Amanda.”
 “Just
suppose
the
numbers
stand
for
the
letters
of
the
 alphabet.
 Now,
 what
 does
 this
 yield?
 The
 first
 set
 stands
 for
DONT.
The
second
set
for
FORGET.
And
the
third
one
 stands
 for
 V.
 That’s
 obviously
 an
 abbreviation,
 but
 what
 for?
Who
or
what
were
you
talking
about?”
 He
stared
at
her.
“V?”
He
shook
his
head.
Had
he
made
 these
notes?
It
was
his
handwriting
indeed.
Had
he
tried
 to
 hide
 them,
 get
 rid
 of
 them,
 or
 simply
 forgotten
 about
 them?
And
what
could
this
mean?
Don’t
forget
V?
 “Dennis,
 you
 were
 trying
 to
 make
 sure
 you
 didn’t
 forget
someone
or
something.”
 “I
guess
so,”
he
admitted.
“But
I
have
no
idea
anymore.
 I’m
 sorry,
 Amanda.
 You
 know
 my
 memories
 are
 up‐
 and
 downloaded
every
day.
I
suppose
they’re
showing
signs
of
 wear
 because
 of
 it.
 Or
 else
 the
 system
 isn’t
 working
 perfectly.
 Some
 stuff
 may
 be
 deleted
 altogether,
 the
 uploading
may
be
incomplete,
memories
that
aren’t
mine
 get
uploaded…
how
can
I
tell?”
 “Dennis,
 I’m
 afraid
 you’re
 losing
 your
 mental
 capacities.
You
can’t
go
on
like
this.
But
I’m
determined
to
 help
you
and
solve
the
problem.
Trust
me,
darling.
Trust
 me.
We’ll
get
to
the
bottom
of
this.”
 “Why
are
you
doing
this?
You
know
very
well
that
my
 employer’s
wiping
my
memories
for
a
good
reason.”
 “I
 realize
 that,
 but
 I’m
 your
 wife,
 I’m
 desperately
 worried
about
your
mental
health.
I’d
like
to
help
you
and
 save
 my
 family.
 I
 know
 you’re
 doing
 work
 with
 a
 high
 security
risk
for
NRC,
but
that
doesn’t
give
them
the
right
 to
 ruin
 your
 private
 life.
 I
 love
 you,
 Dennis.
 I
 won’t
 let
 anyone
do
you
harm.
Not
even
your
employer,
even
if
he
 has
a
good
reason
for
doing
so.”
 He
nodded.
She
had
a
point.
There
was
a
problem
and
 Amanda
would
help
him
solve
it.
He
should
trust
her
and
 offer
all
the
help
he
could.
Together
they
would
work
this
 out.
 The
following
days
they
had
more
conversations,
and
 Amanda
 showed
 him
 things
 she
 claimed
 to
 have
 found.
 Notes
 he
 had
 made
 in
 the
 morning
 before
 leaving
 for
 work,
she
said,
and
that
he
had
forgotten
about
when
he
 came
 back
 in
 the
 evening.
 They
 went
 over
 the
 notes
 and
 drawings
and
weird
bits,
but
there
was
little
he
could
tell
 about
 them.
 Had
 he
 really
 made
 these
 things?
 It
 would
 appear
 so.
 He
 was
 trying
 to
 record
 certain
 data
 that
 he

FEBRUARY 2009 feared
 might
 get
 lost
 otherwise,
 but
 he
 failed
 to
 remember
 anything
 about
 them,
 which
 rendered
 the
 whole
process
useless
–
if
it
hadn’t
been
for
Amanda’s
 invaluable
help.
 One
 day
 they
 made
 a
 breakthrough.
 Amanda
 drew
 his
 attention
 to
 a
 series
 of
 digits
 he
 had
 noted
 in
 a
 variety
of
places:
scribbled
on
bits
of
paper,
in
a
corner
 of
the
bathroom
mirror,
on
the
sole
of
one
of
his
shoes,
 and
in
a
few
even
unlikelier
places.
 “I
 have
 the
 feeling
 these
 digits
 form
 a
 sequence,”
 she
told
him.
She
had
transcribed
the
entire
series
on
a
 sheet
of
paper
and
showed
it
to
him.
 “This
 must
 be
 a
 clue
 of
 some
 sorts,
 spread
 out
 all
 over
 the
 place
 so
 it
 wouldn’t
 be
 too
 obvious.
 All
 we
 have
 to
 do
 is
 put
 them
 in
 the
 right
 order,
 and
 the
 meaning
may
become
clear.”
 He
 stared
 at
 the
 paper,
 but
 the
 digits
 were
 utterly
 meaningless
to
him.
 “I
don’t
remember
having
jotted
down
all
these,”
he
 stammered.
 “That’s
probably
exactly
why
you
noted
them
down
 in
 the
 first
 place.
 Now
 let’s
 juggle
 the
 digits
 around
 until
they
start
making
sense.”
 This
method
didn’t
seem
to
lead
anywhere,
until
by
 the
 fifth
 trial
 the
 digits,
 transformed
 into
 the
 corresponding
letters,
yielded
a
name.
 “Vanessa,”
 Amanda
 exclaimed.
 “That
 must
 be
 it.
 Doesn’t
that
name
ring
a
bell?”
 He
shook
his
head.
“I
have
no
idea
where
that
name
 comes
from.”
 “Oh,
 come
 on,
 honey.
 Has
 this
 really
 been
 wiped
 from
your
memory
too?”
 He
stared
at
her,
silently.
 “All
right
then.
Dennis,
listen
to
me.
A
while
ago
you
 came
home
and
were
astounded
to
see
Alex
and
Bruno.
 For
some
reason
you
thought
we
didn’t
have
two
sons,
 but
 a
 daughter.
 A
 girl
 called
 Vanessa.
 You
 were
 very
 upset
because
you
thought
your
private
memories
had
 been
tampered
with.
You
had
no
memories
at
all
about
 our
two
sons.
The
day
afterwards
you
had
completely
 forgotten
 that
 incident,
 and
 I
 thought
 it
 had
 been
 wiped
from
your
memories,
along
with
all
the
traces
of
 this
 phantom
 Vanessa.
 And
 now
 suddenly
 there’s
 this
 hidden
 reference
 to
 her.
 Vanessa
 is
 back.
 What
 does
 that
name
stand
for,
Dennis?
Who
is
she?
Or
what?
We
 must
find
out.
It
may
be
the
clue
of
the
problem.”
 He
 kept
 staring
 at
 the
 paper.
 Vanessa?
 The
 name
 didn’t
conjure
up
anything.
Had
the
story
Amanda
had
 told
really
happened?
Why
did
he
harbour
suspicions,
 when
he
had
no
reliable
memories
to
go
on?
He
wasn’t
 thinking
 rationally.
 Amanda
 was
 the
 only
 one
 right
 now
 willing
 and
 able
 to
 help
 him.
 He
 had
 better
 go
 along
with
her
efforts
to
solve
his
problem.
 “I
 have
 no
 idea,
 Amanda.
 It’s
 hard
 for
 me,
 my
 memories
 being
 what
 they
 are.
 I’m
 sure
 you

33

M-BRANE SF understand.
 So
 help
 me
 if
 you
 can.
 You’re
 my
 only
 hope.”
 “Fine.”
She
nodded
understandingly.
“We’ll
devise
a
 way
 to
 get
 you
 out
 of
 this
 mess.
 Don’t
 worry,
 honey.
 We’ll
sort
this
out
together.”
 “I
knew
I
could
count
on
you,
Amanda.”
 He
 leaned
 back
 and
 relaxed.
 With
 a
 bit
 of
 luck
 all
 this
nonsense
would
be
over
soon.
 They
 watched
 some
 TV,
 although
 he
 hardly
 paid
 attention
to
the
screen.
After
a
while
Bruno
came
down
 and
asked
for
his
help.
He
had
run
into
a
problem
with
 the
 game
 he
 was
 playing.
 “It’s
 not
 the
 same
 thing
 that
 happened
 yesterday,”
 he
 pointed
 out.
 “I
 could
 have
 fixed
that
myself
now.”
 Yesterday?
 Of
 course.
 Recollections
 came
 flooding
 back.
 He
 had
 solved
 a
 small
 technical
 problem
 for
 Bruno
yesterday
night.
He
clearly
remembered
it
now.
 See?
 His
 memory
 was
 working
 nicely.
 Not
 everything
 was
 erased
 or
 blocked.
 There
 was
 no
 reason
 for
 despair.
 He
followed
his
son
up
to
his
room.
No
doubt
it
was
 a
small
glitch
in
the
software
again.
He
would
deal
with
 the
 problem
 quickly
 and
 efficiently.
 After
 all
 he
 was
 a
 professional
 software
 specialist.
 Even
 if
 his
 work‐ related
 memories
 were
 wiped
 every
 day,
 his
 theoretical
 knowledge
 remained
 intact.
 As
 did
 his
 private
memories.
At
least
he
hoped.
To
make
sure
that
 part
would
remain
problem‐free
too,
he
could
count
on
 Amanda’s
loving
assistance.
 
 It
 was
 raining
 again
 as
 he
 came
 home
 from
 work.
 The
 days
 before
 it
 had
 rained
 as
 well
 –
 his
 memories
 were
 very
 clear.
 He
 headed
 for
 the
 subway
 entrance,
 packed
 with
 passengers
 as
 usual,
 ignoring
 the
 commercials
springing
up
all
over
the
station.
 There
 was
 a
 message
 on
 his
 cell
 phone.
 That
 was
 pretty
 unusual
 at
 this
 hour.
 He
 checked
 and
 saw
 it
 simply
 said
 “Right”.
 He
 looked
 to
 the
 right
 and
 saw
 a
 commercial
 for
 a
 new
 line
 of
 e‐toys.
 The
 message
 had
 been
sent
by
himself,
a
few
hours
ago,
obviously
time‐ programmed.
What
was
this
supposed
to
mean?
 The
 commercial
 consisted
 of
 a
 girl’s
 face,
 of
 huge
 size,
hysterically
yelling
her
sales
pitch
at
the
crowds
of
 passengers.
 As
 a
 terrestrial
 globe
 appeared
 in
 front
 of
 her,
 she
 sank
 her
 teeth
 into
 it,
 gobbled
 it
 up
 and
 imploded,
 and
 then
 the
 cycle
 was
 repeated.
 Even
 if
 he
 didn’t
 really
 pay
 attention
 to
 the
 omnipresent
 commercials,
he
had
seen
this
one
here
everyday,
must
 have
 remembered
 it
 and
 sent
 the
 message,
 when
 he
 was
 still
 at
 the
 office,
 to
 himself
 with
 a
 programmed
 and
well‐timed
delay,
and
for
a
purpose.
But
why?
 A
 few
 minutes
 later,
 when
 he
 had
 just
 boarded
 a
 crowded
subway
car,
a
second
message
came,
also
sent
 by
himself
a
few
hours
ago.
This
one
drew
his
attention
 to
 a
 commercial
 inside
 the
 car
 for
 personal
 data
 protection
 systems.
 “Computers
 and
 information
 rule

34

FEBRUARY 2009 our
lives,”
its
warm
male
voice
said,
easily
drowning
the
 surrounding
 noise.
 “Don’t
 give
 hackers
 the
 chance
 to
 wreak
havoc…”
He
looked
away.
He
knew
the
rest
of
the
 pitch.
 Was
 there
 a
 link
 with
 the
 first
 message?
 He
 couldn’t
 have
 sent
 these
 two
 messages
 to
 himself
 at
 a
 specific
time
by
coincidence.
Maybe
more
of
them
would
 follow?
 He
was
not
surprised
as
a
third
message
came,
just
as
 he
 left
 the
 subway
 station.
 It
 was
 also
 sent
 by
 himself
 a
 few
hours
ago
and
merely
said
“Left”.
He
looked
to
his
left
 and
 saw
 a
 bunch
 of
 heavily
 armed
 guards
 patrolling
 in
 front
of
the
Foreign
Headquarters
of
the
Swiss
Bank.
 He
stopped
dead
in
his
tracks,
heedless
of
the
pouring
 rain.
Something
clicked
in
his
mind.
The
sequence
of
the
 three
 messages
 had
 triggered
 a
 flash
 of
 insight.
 The
 girl,
 data
 protection,
 security
 forces.
 There
 was
 a
 link.
 He
 must
 have
 trained
 his
 mind
 to
 react
 to
 the
 sequence
 of
 messages,
 knowing
 that
 his
 work‐related
 memories
 would
be
wiped
as
he
left
the
office,
and
hoping
that
the
 information
was
buried
deep
enough
so
that
his
strategy
 might
work.
 And
 it
 had.
 It
 all
 came
 back
 now.
 The
 girl
 stood
 for
 Vanessa.
 She
 was
 not
 a
 real
 girl,
 Vanessa
 was
 the
 code
 name
 of
 the
 software
 he
 was
 working
 on
 right
 now,
 a
 powerful
 new
 anti‐spy
 and
 anti‐hacker
 programme
 still
 in
 its
 experimental
 stages.
 The
 security
 surrounding
 it
 was
unprecedented.
 He
 shook
 his
 head.
 How
 had
 he
 been
 able
 to
 pull
 off
 this
 trick?
 How
 had
 he
 managed
 to
 circumvent
 the
 draconian
security
measures
at
work?
Of
course
he
of
all
 people
 should
 know
 the
 weak
 spots
 of
 the
 system.
 The
 messages
 he
 had
 sent
 were
 very
 simple,
 one
 word
 bits,
 seemingly
 harmless.
 Still,
 security
 was
 supposed
 to
 be
 one
hundred
percent
foolproof.
 But
 what
 about
 the
 recollections
 about
 Vanessa
 he
 had
 brought
 home
 one
 day?
 He
 had
 mistakenly
 thought
 Vanessa
 had
 been
 his
 daughter.
 Those
 memories
 had
 been
false.
Could
it
have
been
a
glitch
in
the
system?
That
 seemed
 pretty
 unlikely.
 Perhaps
 a
 test
 that
 had
 gone
 awry?
 That
 might
 be
 closer
 to
 the
 truth.
 Or
 had
 hackers
 penetrated
 and
 disrupted
 the
 system,
 leading
 to
 fake
 private
 memories
 being
 uploaded?
 That
 was
 another
 possibility,
one
he
would
have
to
investigate.
 But
now
at
least
the
knew
the
true
nature
of
Vanessa.
 He
 would
 tell
 his
 wife
 right
 away
 she
 needn’t
 worry
 anymore.
 There
 was
 nothing
 wrong
 with
 him.
 Vanessa
 was
 something
 related
 to
 his
 work
 he
 couldn’t
 tell
 her
 any
 details
 about,
 and
 there
 was
 absolutely
 nothing
 wrong
 with
 his
 memory.
 There
 had
 been
 a
 mishap,
 leading
to
some
minor
inconvenience,
but
that
was
it.
 He
 would
 comfort
 her,
 and
 fall
 back
 into
 his
 old
 routine.
 The
 problem
 was
 solved.
 As
 a
 matter
 of
 fact,
 there
 had
 never
 been
 a
 problem.
 Relieved,
 he
 hurried
 home,
suddenly
aware
again
that
it
was
still
raining.
 When
 he
 entered
 his
 apartment
 he
 couldn’t
 wait
 to
 see
Amanda.
He
didn’t
hear
the
TV
–
that
was
strange.
It

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF couldn’t
 be
 turned
 off.
 Perhaps
 it
 had
 broken
 down?
 “Amanda,
I’ve
got
good
news,”
he
cried
out.
 “I’m
sure
you
have,”
an
unfamiliar
male
voice
replied.
 “Who
the
hell
are
you?”
he
asked,
looking
around
him.
 “And
what
are
you
doing
here
at
my
place?
And
where
are
 my
wife
and
my
kids?”
 “We
came
to
arrest
you,
Mr.
Lymington.
Your
wife
has
 already
 been
 taken
 to
 the
 police
 station.
 And
 your
 kids
 are
 getting
 all
 the
 care
 they
 need.
 Don’t
 worry
 about
 them.”
 He
took
a
few
steps
back,
stared
at
the
five
men
facing
 him.
 They
 had
 been
 waiting
 here
 for
 him.
 Three
 of
 them
 wore
 police
 uniforms,
 the
 two
 others
 were
 security
 guards
 from
 NRC.
 He
 should
 have
 known.
 He
 hadn’t
 circumvented
the
security
measures
at
all.
They
had
given
 him
that
impression,
so
they
might
catch
him
in
the
act.
 “This
is
about
Vanessa,
right?”
 The
 two
 NRC
 security
 men
 nodded.
 “Yes.
 You’re
 responsible
 for
 a
 security
 breach.
 By
 smuggling
 information
outside
of
NRC,
you
broke
your
contract.
You
 won’t
stand
much
of
a
chance
in
court,
I’m
afraid.”
 “I
see.
And
my
wife?”
 “She
was
involved
as
well.
I’m
sure
that
must
be
clear
 to
 you
 now.
 You
 were
 supposed
 to
 pass
 the
 information
 you
 gathered
 on
 to
 her.
 As
 you
 were
 about
 to
 do
 right
 there,
I
guess.
Now,
follow
me.
The
rest
will
be
up
to
the
 police.
For
us
this
matter
is
over.”
 And
for
me
it’s
just
beginning,
he
thought.
No
wonder
 Amanda
 had
 been
 bugging
 him
 to
 find
 out
 more
 about
 this
mysterious
Vanessa,
had
convinced
him
to
take
notes,
 had
 perhaps
 made
 some
 of
 the
 coded
 notes
 herself.
 Had
 someone
 at
 NRC
 been
 involved
 as
 well?
 Someone
 who
 was
in
touch
with
Amanda?
Had
he
been
manipulated
by
 forces
 beyond
 his
 knowledge,
 an
 industrial
 espionage
 network?
And
what
did
this
mean
for
his
private
life?
Had
 Amanda
 been
 part
 of
 this
 network?
 Would
 he
 ever
 find
 out
 the
 truth?
 He
 would
 definitely
 like
 to
 know,
 but
 probably
never
would,
just
wasn’t
supposed
to.
 He
 followed
 the
 five
 men,
 wishing
 that
 the
 memories
 of
 this
 misadventure
 would
 be
 wiped
 from
 his
 mind
 as
 soon
as
possible.

Frank
 Roger
 was
 born
 in
 1957
 in
 Ghent,
 Belgium.
 His
 first
 story
 appeared
 in
 1975.
 Since
 then
 his
 stories
 appear
 in
 an
 increasing
 number
 of
 languages
 in
 all
 sorts
 of
 magazines,
 anthologies
 and
 other
 venues,
 and
 since
 2000,
 story
 collections
 are
 published,
 also
 in
 various
 languages.
 Apart
 from
 fiction,
 he
 also
 produces
 collages
 and
 graphic
 work
 in
 a
 surrealist
 and
 satirical
 tradition.
 By
 now
 he
 has
 more
 than
 700
 short
 story
 publications
 (including
 a
 few
 short
 novels)
 to
 his
 credit
 in
 29
 languages.
 Find
 out
 more
at
www.frankroger.be.

A
 lot
 of
 the
 stories
 that
 I’ve
 considered
 for
 M­ Brane
 have
 dwelt
 in
 fear
 over
 personal
 and
 emotional
 security,
 over
 the
 world
 spilling
 over
 and
 becoming
 unlivable,
 over
 the
 road
 taken
 or
 not
 taken.
 This
 strange
 and
 tender
 piece
 of
 slipstream
 fiction
 by
 Joshua
 Scribner
 seems
 to
 both
 begin
 and
 end
 with
 something
 of
 a
 puzzle,
 but
 its
 protagonist
 probably
 comes
 away
 with
 some
new
wisdom.—CF

CONDUCTORS JOSHUA SCRIBNER 
 James
 Tate
 had
 hoped
 that
 the
 alcohol
 would
 take
 him
away.

It
hadn’t.


 He
stumbled
up
the
sidewalk
to
the
front
door
of
his
 big,
 lonely
 house,
 thinking
 the
 same
 thoughts
 he
 had
 thought
 every
 night
 for
 the
 past
 year.
 
 The
 scene
 repeated
itself
over
and
over
in
his
head.

He
corrected
it.

 He
 made
 changes
 that
 would
 prevent
 the
 reason
 for
 his
 existence
from
ending.

Of
course,
it
only
ever
worked
in
 his
head.
 Inside,
 James
 sat
 in
 front
 of
 his
 computer.
 
 He
 could
 taste
 old
 alcohol
 on
 his
 breath.
 
 He
 could
 smell
 other
 peoples’
tobacco
on
his
clothing.

He
told
himself
that
he
 wasn’t
going
to
perform
the
ritual.


 James
turned
on
the
monitor
and
looked
at
the
three
 smiling
 faces
 of
 his
 girls.
 
 One
 would
 always
 be
 seven.

 One
 would
 always
 be
 five.
 
 One
 would
 always
 be
 thirty‐ something.
 
 His
 therapist
 had
 said
 he
 should
 tell
 them
 goodbye
 and
 then
 come
 up
 with
 a
 new
 background
 for
 his
 monitor.
 
 James
 understood
 the
 meaning
 of
 this
 advice.
 
 James
 was
 once
 a
 therapist,
 as
 long
 ago
 as
 it
 seemed.


 James
opened
his
mouth
to
say
goodbye.

It
wouldn’t
 obey
him.

Instead,
it
said
what
it
always
said.
 “Don’t
do
it!

Don’t
get
in
that
van!”
 
 James
 awoke
 in
 the
 night.
 
 He
 didn’t
 remember
 the
 room
ever
being
so
dark.

He
tried
to
remember
going
to
 bed
but
could
not.

He
was
sure
he
must
have
passed
out,
 but
 where.
 
 The
 surface
 below
 him
 didn’t
 feel
 like
 his
 bed.

It
didn’t
feel
like
the
floor
either.

It
felt
like
grass.
 “What
the
hell?”
he
whispered.

35

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

“Who’s
there?”
a
nearby
voice
snapped.
 his
 suit
 gave
 his
 prison
 number
 and
 announced
 that
 he
 Reflexively,
James
rolled
from
the
voice.
 belonged
in
the
New
York
State
Penitentiary.
 He
 sat
 up
 on
 his
 butt.
 
 He
 realized
 that
 since
 he
 “Do
 you
 have
 any
 idea
 how
 you
 got
 here?”
 James
 couldn’t
 see
 an
 inch
 in
 front
 of
 his
 face,
 the
 source
 of
 asked.
 the
voice
probably
couldn’t
see
him
either.

He
tried
to
 “No.
 
 I
 was
 lying
 awake
 in
 my
 cell
 one
 minute.
 
 The
 keep
 his
 breath
 quiet.
 
 That
 was
 nearly
 impossible,
 as
 next
 thing
 I
 knew,
 I
 was
 waking
 up
 in
 the
 darkness,
 on
 his
horrified
body
called
for
extra
oxygen.
 this
grass.”
 “You
better
tell
me
who
you
are
and
how
I
got
here,”
 The
 man
 spoke
 with
 sincerity.
 
 He
 also
 spoke
 with
 the
man
said.
 clarity,
not
something
James
would
have
expected
from
a
 James
 thought
 he
 heard
 something
 in
 the
 man’s
 prison
inmate.
 voice.

Then
he
thought
he
felt
something
coming
over
 James
spotted
an
hourglass
on
top
of
one
side
of
the
 him.

The
man
had
sounded
drowsy.

James
felt
drowsy,
 fence.

Black
wires
stretched
from
it.

Those
wires
were
 like
he’d
been
drugged.


 connected
to
the
machineguns.
 James
 tried
 to
 understand.
 
 The
 last
 thing
 he
 The
 inmate
 must
 have
 seen
 the
 same
 thing,
 because
 recalled
 was
 being
 in
 the
 chair,
 looking
 at
 the
 picture
 he
 said,
 “Whatever
 we’re
 doing
 here.
 
 We
 don’t
 have
 on
the
monitor.
 much
time.”

 This
 had
 to
 be
 a
 dream.
 
 That
 was
 the
 only
 
 explanation.
 
 He
 thought
 he
 heard
 the
 man’s
 voice
 The
 inmate,
 who
 had
 offered
 his
 name
 as
 Monty,
 again,
 but
 he
 couldn’t
 make
 out
 the
 words.
 
 He
 could
 walked
 up
 to
 the
 fence.
 
 James
 watched
 him
 go
 around.

 barely
even
sense
his
body.

He
faded
off.
 The
cows
shadowed
Monty.
 
 “They
follow
you
around,
but
they
keep
their
distance
 Light
 stung
 his
 eyelids.
 
 James
 was
 relieved
 that
 from
the
fence,”
James
shouted.
 morning
 had
 arrived.
 
 He
 remembered
 last
 night’s
 “There’s
a
pulse
of
electricity,”
Monty
yelled
back.

“I
 terrifying
 dream.
 
 Then
 he
 realized
 something.
 
 He
 can
hear
it.

It’s
every
two
seconds.”
 could
still
feel
grass
underneath
his
body.
 James
looked
at
the
fence’s
height.

He
didn’t
think
an
 James
gasped.

He
opened
his
eyes
and
sat
up.
 acrobat
could
clear
it
in
two
seconds.


 Less
than
twenty
feet
away
slept
a
black
man
in
an
 Tired
of
yelling,
he
approached
Monty.

He
was
nearly
 orange
 prison
 uniform.
 
 James
 to
 him
 when
 the
 black
 cow
 was
 wearing
 the
 same
 clothes
 hissed.
 he
 had
 worn
 to
 the
 bar
 last
 James
froze
in
his
tracks,
an
 night,
 a
 pair
 of
 slacks
 and
 a
 icy
sensation
shooting
through
 James
was
shocked
the
 button‐up
Oxford.


 his
 nerves.
 
 He
 watched
 the
 inmate
could
be
 They
were
surrounded
by
a
 cow
 move
 its
 attention
 from
 flat
 plain
 of
 short
 green
 grass
 him
to
Monty.
 lighthearted
in
their
current
 that
went
on
as
far
as
he
could
 “I’m
 not
 a
 farmer,”
 James
 situation.

Then
he
thought
 see.
 
 They
 were
 also
 said.
 
 “But
 I
 don’t
 think
 cows
 surrounded
 by
 a
 chain‐link
 normally
hiss
like
that.”
 of
how
lousy
his
life
before
 fence,
 at
 least
 twenty
 feet
 high
 “Nor
do
they
normally
have
 this
strange
place
must
 and
 a
 hundred
 by
 a
 hundred
 the
 canines
 that
 one
 has.

 have
been.

He
remembered
 feet.
 
 There
 were
 four
 cows
 They’re
meat
eaters.”
 outside
 the
 fence.
 
 One
 was
 
 his
own
life
and
how
lousy
it
 solid
 black.
 
 The
 other
 three
 James
 walked
 separately
 was. were
 solid
 brown.
 
 They
 from
 Monty.
 
 After
 a
 little
 seemed
to
be
staring
at
him.
 while,
 all
 four
 cows
 came
 to
 The
 staring
 cows
 freaked
 shadow
him.
 him
 out
 a
 little,
 but
 they
 “Must
 like
 white
 meat,”
 weren’t
 as
 scary
 as
 the
 big
 Monty
shouted.


 machineguns
mounted
at
the
top
corners
of
the
fence.

 James
was
shocked
 the
inmate
could
 be
 lighthearted
 “What?”
 James
 heard
 and
 turned
 to
 the
 other
 man.

 in
their
current
situation.

Then
he
thought
of
how
lousy
 The
inmate
had
sat
up.

He
was
looking
around
with
as
 his
 life
 before
 this
 strange
 place
 must
 have
 been.
 
 He
 much
confusion
as
James.

James
thought
the
man
must
 remembered
 his
 own
 life
 and
 how
 lousy
 it
 was.
 
 He
 be
somewhere
in
is
thirties.

 offered
up
a
joke
of
his
own.
 James
 hesitated
 for
 a
 little
 while,
 but
 he
 couldn’t
 “No.

I’m
just
a
lot
more
meat.”
 think
of
anything
else
to
try
but
to
talk
to
this
man.

He
 James
 was
 too.
 
 The
 last
 time
 he’d
 checked,
 he
 was
 walked
over
to
him.

The
inmate
stood
up.

Writing
on
 two‐twenty.
 
 The
 inmate
 looked
 like
 a
 buck‐thirty,
 at

36

M-BRANE SF most.
 Monty
eventually
moved
to
the
center
of
the
fenced‐in
 area.

He
waved
James
over.

James
moved
away
from
the
 cows,
hearing
them
hiss
behind
him.
 “I
 don’t
 know
 how
 long
 we’ve
 been
 here,
 but
 it
 looks
 like
almost
a
fourth
of
that
sand
has
fallen.”
 James
nodded
his
agreement.
 “As
 far
 as
 I
 can
 tell,
 there’s
 no
 way
 out
 of
 here,
 and
 even
 if
 we
 got
 out,
 there’s
 nowhere
 to
 go
 but
 into
 four
 stomachs.”
 Again,
James
nodded.

He
was
amazed
again
at
the
way
 Monty
carried
himself.

He
wondered
what
kind
of
crime
 he
had
committed.
 “Whatever
put
us
here
didn’t
put
us
here
to
die.

It
put
 us
here
to
test
us
in
some
way.”
 James
wasn’t
sure
if
he
agreed.

Monty
continued.
 “I’ve
 been
 looking
 at
 what
 to
 do
 next,
 and
 it’s
 getting
 me
nowhere.”
 “Me
too,”
James
said.
 “Maybe
we
should
look
at
how
we
got
here.”
 James
 could
 think
 of
 nothing
 better
 to
 offer.
 
 “Okay,”
 he
said.
 For
 a
 few
 seconds,
 they
 stared
 at
 each
 other.
 
 Then
 Monty
said,
“Well,
how
did
you
get
here?”
 James
 shrugged.
 
 “I
 was
 sitting
 at
 my
 computer
 desk
 one
minute
and—”
 “No,
James.

That’s
not
what
I
mean.

Tell
me
how
you
 got
to
that
point
in
your
life.”
 
 James
sighed.

“I’m
a
psychologist.

At
least,
that’s
what
 I
used
to
be.”
 “What
kind
of
psychologist?”
Monty
asked.
 “Well,
I
did
testing,
mostly,
and
a
little
bit
of
therapy.”
 “So
you
were
a
clinical
psychologist.”
 James
was
surprised.


 “Most
people
can’t
distinguish
between
a
psychologist
 and
 a
 psychiatrist.
 
 You
 know
 the
 different
 types
 of
 psychologists.

Did
you
see
someone
in
prison?”
 “Yes,
I
did.

But
I
learned
about
the
different
varieties
 of
your
profession
elsewhere,
in
a
book.”
 James
nodded.

He
was
very
curious
about
this
man.
 “Go
 on,”
 Monty
 said.
 
 “You
 were
 a
 clinical
 psychologist.”
 “Yes,
 and
 a
 happy
 one
 at
 that.
 
 I
 had
 a
 wife
 and
 two
 daughters.

They
were
my
life.”
 James
 paused
 and
 looked
 at
 his
 one‐man
 audience.

 Monty
nodded.

James
continued.
 “It
 was
 about
 a
 year
 ago.
 
 It
 was
 a
 Friday
 night,
 the
 first
Friday
of
the
new
year.

There
was
a
snowstorm.

My
 kids
wanted
to
rent
a
DVD.

My
wife
agreed
to
take
them
 to
 the
 video
 store.
 
 I
 had
 a
 headache,
 so
 I
 stayed
 back.

 They
 never
 made
 it
 home.
 
 The
 van
 slid
 out
 into
 traffic.

 They
were
hit
by
a
snowplow.”
 James
 didn’t
want
to
cry
in
front
of
this
stranger.

 He
 didn’t
 want
 to
 go
 into
 his
 usual
 rant
 either.
 
 He
 couldn’t

FEBRUARY 2009 stop.
 “If
 I
 would
 have
 just
 gone
 with
 them.
 
 Or
 if
 I
 had
 talked
them
out
of
going.”
 “You
can’t
do
that,
though.”
 James
put
his
face
in
his
hands.

He
had
to
stop
the
 scenarios
from
spinning.
 “I’m
 sorry,”
 James
 said
 and
 then
 looked
 at
 Monty.

 Monty
 wasn’t
 looking
 at
 him,
 though.
 
 He
 was
 looking
 past
him.

He
pointed.


 James
 turned
 around.
 
 In
 the
 distant
 grass,
 something
new
had
appeared.

 “Is
that
a
door?”
James
asked.
 “I
think
it
is.”
 
 “So
now
we
have
a
door
that
we
can’t
get
to,”
Monty
 said.


 “Yeah.

Did
what
I
said
cause
it?”
 “It
came
right
after
you
finished,”
Monty
said.
 As
 far
 as
 James
 could
 tell,
 the
 door
 was
 freestanding.
 
 He
 thought
 he
 could
 make
 out
 a
 little
 knob.
 “So
how
did
you
get
here,
Monty?”
 
 Monty
 sighed.
 
 “By
 my
 clothing,
 you
 know
 where
 I’ve
been.

I’ll
tell
you
how
I
got
there.

I
was
raised
by
 my
 grandmother,
 along
 with
 four
 other
 kids,
 none
 of
 them
 my
 siblings.
 
 I
 learned
 to
 steal
 before
 I
 was
 six
 years
 old.
 
 Sometimes,
 if
 I
 didn’t
 steal,
 we
 didn’t
 eat.

 About
 eighteen
 years
 ago,
 when
 I
 was
 seventeen,
 I
 stole
a
car.

It
wasn’t
the
first
time.

I
was
going
to
sell
it
 for
scrap.

I
got
caught.

A
cop
pursued
me.

I
was
about
 to
get
away,
when
a
car
pulled
out
in
front
of
me.

The
 three
people
inside
that
car
died.”
 “And
you
were
charged
with
their
deaths.”
 Monty
nodded.

His
expression
was
sad,
not
angry.

 “I
was
charged
as
an
adult.

I
received
twenty
years
for
 each
person,
consecutive.”
 James
looked
around.

There
was
no
change
in
their
 environment.

Monty
continued.
 “I’m
sure
you
know
of
the
bad
things
that
happen
to
 small
men
in
prison.”

Monty
shrugged.

“After
a
while,
 you
learn
to
avoid
those
things.

And
there
were
things
 in
prison
I
got
that
I
didn’t
get
on
the
outside.

I
didn’t
 have
 to
 focus
 on
 where
 I
 was
 going
 to
 get
 my
 next
 meal.

I
didn’t
have
to
worry
about
feeding
my
cousins.

 I
just
had
to
watch
out
for
me.

So
I
had
a
lot
of
time
on
 my
hands.

I
learned
to
read.

I
learned
that
I
was
really
 good
at
it.

I
got
my
GED.

I
took
some
college
classes.

I
 found
 out
 I
 was
 very
 intelligent.
 
 I
 was
 tested
 by
 someone
 like
 you.
 
 He
 said
 I
 did
 well.
 
 I
 asked
 for
 the
 number.

He
said
148.”
 James’s
 mouth
 fell
 open.
 
 “That’s
 a
 high
 IQ
 for
 a
 doctor.”
 “I
know.

And
I’m
the
chess
and
scrabble
champion
 at
 a
 prison.
 
 That’s
 the
 extent
 of
 my
 accomplishments

37

M-BRANE SF in
 life.
 
 That’s
 all
 I’ll
 ever
 be,
 because
 I
 never
 knew
 I
 could
be
anything
until
it
was
too
late.”
 There
was
a
clank
and
then
a
whoosh.
 Directly
 behind
 Monty,
 a
 section
 of
 the
 fence
 had
 sunken
most
of
the
way
into
the
ground.
 
 The
lowered
section
was
about
five
feet
across
and
 five
 feet
 high.
 
 The
 cows
 were
 outside
 of
 it,
 no
 more
 than
ten
feet
away.
 “I
think
we
can
both
clear
that
in
the
two
seconds,”
 Monty
said.
 “Yeah,
 but
 the
 door’s
 on
 the
 opposite
 side.
 
 We’d
 have
to
land,
take
off,
run
all
the
way
around
and
then
 out
to
the
door.”
 Monty
 looked
 around.
 
 “So
 the
 question
 is
 can
 we
 outrun
the
cows.”
 
 James,
 who
 the
 cows
 still
 seemed
 to
 prefer,
 was
 at
 one
 side
 of
 the
 fence.
 
 The
 cows
 were
 right
 outside,
 staring
at
him.


 At
the
other
side
was
Monty,
who
had
his
arm
held
 up.
 “Go!”
Monty
shouted.


 James
 took
 off
 as
 quickly
 as
 he
 could.
 
 He
 couldn’t
 remember
 the
 last
 time
 he’d
 run.
 
 His
 legs
 felt
 uncoordinated
 and
 wobbly.
 
 He
 could
 hear
 the
 cows’
 steps.
 
 He
 could
 see
 the
 black
 one
 in
 his
 peripheral
 vision.
 
 He
 stopped
 well
 short
 of
 the
 fence.
 
 He
 placed
 his
hands
on
his
knees
and
looked
up
at
Monty.
 “I
 don’t
 think
 they
 were
 running
 as
 fast
 as
 they
 could,
and
they
kept
up
with
you
easily.”
 When
 he
 felt
 he’d
 caught
 his
 breath
 enough,
 James
 said,
“What
about
you?”
 
 James
had
gone
to
the
middle.

As
planned,
the
cows
 had
lost
interest
in
him
in
favor
of
the
man
closer
to
the
 fence.
 “Go!”
James
shouted.

He
watched
the
cows
take
off.

 First,
 it
 was
 the
 black
 one.
 
 The
 brown
 ones
 followed.

 He
 watched
 Monty
 move.
 
 His
 little
 legs
 looked
 quick,
 but
the
cows
had
no
problem
keeping
up.
 James
walked
over
to
where
Monty
stood,
catching
 his
breath.
 “Well,
we
can
rule
out
trying
to
outrun
them
to
the
 door.”
 Monty
nodded.
 James
looked
back
at
the
hourglass.

He
estimated
a
 little
over
a
third
of
their
time
was
gone.
 
 “They
like
you
better,”
Monty
said.


 They
 were
 in
 the
 middle
 of
 the
 closed‐in
 area,
 sitting
on
the
ground.


 “You’re
 not
 going
 to
 suggest
 that
 I
 let
 them
 eat
 me
 while
you
get
away.”
 Monty
laughed.

“If
I
thought
you
would
go
for
it.”

38

FEBRUARY 2009 James
laughed.

“Yeah,
I’d
throw
you
over
in
a
second,
 but
you’d
be
such
a
light
meal
they
wouldn’t
be
busy
for
 long.”
 Monty
 laughed
 again.
 
 James
 thought
 he
 heard
 nervousness
in
it.

He
didn’t
think
he
would
betray
Monty
 or
 Monty
 betray
 him,
 but
 it
 was
 hard
 to
 say
 what
 was
 going
to
happen
when
the
hourglass
was
getting
down
to
 the
last
grains
of
sand.
 “There’s
got
to
be
something
we’re
not
seeing,”
Monty
 offered.

“You’re
a
psychologist.

Are
there
any
behavioral
 observations
you’ve
made?”
 James
 thought
 for
 a
 few
 seconds.
 
 “These
 cows
 seem
 to
be
faster
than
regular
cows
and
to
have
an
altered
diet,
 but
 some
 things
 remain
 the
 same.
 
 They
 appear
 to
 have
 the
herd
instinct.”
 Monty
nodded.

“They
do
stick
together.”
 “Yeah,
and
they
all
follow
the
black
one.”
 Monty
looked
at
him
hard.

“You’re
right.

What
else?”
 James
looked
at
the
hourglass.
 “Don’t
 look
 at
 that.
 
 Worry
 about
 what
 you
 can
 do.

 You’re
a
psychologist.

Be
a
psychologist.

Be
logical.”
 James
looked
away
from
the
hourglass.

He
looked
at
 the
cows.

They
were
looking
back
at
him.
 His
mind
went
to
his
patients.

He
thought
of
what
he
 used
 to
 tell
 them
 when
 they
 were
 stuck.
 
 He
 had
 told
 them
to
think
out
loud.

He
thought
out
loud.
 “The
 cows
 are
 blocking
 the
 way.
 
 They
 stand
 in
 the
 path,
patiently,
waiting
for
us,
and
we
are
their
reward.”
 “That’s
it,
James.

Go
at
it.”
 “The
 cows
 are
 blocking
 the
 way.
 
 They
 stand
 in
 the
 path,
 patiently.
 
 They
 don’t
 come
 because
 of
 the
 fence.

 They
stay
away
from
the
fence.

They
must
have
touched
 it
before,
so
they
know
to
stay
away
from
it.”
 James
stopped
when
he
heard
Monty
gasp.
 “What?”
 Monty’s
 was
 looking
 at
 the
 cows.
 
 He
 stood
 up.

 “You’re
right,”
he
said.

“They’re
conditioned
to
stay
away
 from
the
fence,
because
it
shocked
them.”
 “Yeah?”
 “Think
 about
 this:
 
 They
 want
 us,
 but
 they
 hate
 the
 fence.

We
can
use
that.”
 James
felt
like
he
almost
had
it,
but
he
asked
anyway.

 “How?”
 “We
make
the
reward
a
punishment,
Doctor.”
 James
 smiled
 with
 the
 complete
 realization.
 
 “We
 conduct
electricity,
and
we
become
the
fence.”
 
 They
 stood
 a
 few
 feet
 from
 the
 fence,
 with
 the
 cows
 watching
on.


 “How
 much
 do
 you
 know
 about
 electricity?”
 James
 asked.
 “I
know
you
could
take
a
shock
better.”
 James
smirked.

“Why’s
that?”
 “You
 weigh
 more,
 and
 you
 have
 more
 rubber
 on
 the
 bottom
of
your
shoes.”

M-BRANE SF Monty
 held
 up
 a
 slipper.
 
 It
 had
 a
 very
 thin
 layer
 across
the
bottom.


 James
 lifted
 an
 expensive
 shoe.
 
 It
 was
 basically
 a
 dress
 shoe
 but
 designed
 for
 comfort.
 
 He
 had
 by
 far
 the
 most
insulation.


 “All
right,”
James
said.
 He
placed
both
a
hand
and
an
ear
near
the
fence.

He
 waited
for
a
buzz
to
end.

He
placed
his
hand
on
the
fence
 and
looked
at
Monty.

The
man’s
fearful
expression
didn’t
 help
him
feel
better.

The
two
seconds
passed.


 It
 didn’t
 feel
 like
 he
 thought
 it
 would.
 
 It
 wasn’t
 fiery.

 It
 was
 more
 like
 being
 struck
 with
 a
 bat.
 
 The
 pulse
 was
 less
than
half
a
second.

He
fell
to
the
ground.
 He
started
to
get
up,
but
he
couldn’t
feel
his
legs.

He
 moaned
as
he
reached
up
with
his
head.
 “Hold
on,”
Monty
said.

“Give
it
a
few
seconds.”
 James
did.

He
just
lay
there.

He
felt
more
of
his
body
 come
 back.
 
 His
 muscles
 felt
 as
 if
 they
 had
 just
 gone
 through
a
weightlifting
routine,
but
he
was
able
to
get
up.

 He
 looked
 at
 the
 hourglass,
 which
 was
 approaching
 the
 halfway
point.
 
 James
was
still
shaken.

His
insides
felt
hollow.

He
and
 Monty
stood
by
the
sunken
part
of
the
fence.
 “Maybe
I
should
do
it,”
Monty
said.
 James
 shook
 his
 head.
 
 “You
 won’t
 take
 the
 shock
 as
 well.”
 Monty’s
expression
showed
his
guilt.


 James
 reached
 his
 arm
 over
 the
 top
 bar
 of
 the
 fence
 and
let
it
hang
there.
 The
 black
 cow
 stared
 at
 it
 from
 about
 ten
 feet
 away.

 Then
it
stuck
out
its
nose,
sniffing
the
air.
 “Come
 on,”
 James
 whispered.
 
 “Come
 get
 a
 little
 snack.”
 The
 cow
 hissed,
 revealing
 its
 canines
 again.
 
 James

FEBRUARY 2009 fence.

It
would
have
to
be
timed
perfectly.
 The
cow
backed
off
by
pulling
its
neck
back.
 It
seemed
to
be
inspecting
the
situation,
looking
at
 the
 arm
 and
 looking
 at
 the
 fence,
 studying
 the
 relationship
 between
 the
 two
 things.
 
 As
 if
 frustrated
 by
this
conundrum,
the
cow
gave
another
hiss.
 It
looked
as
if
it
would
pull
further
away,
setting
its
 back
 legs
 in
 motion.
 
 Then
 it
 became
 still,
 before
 creeping
forward
again.
 James
wondered
if
it
could
hear
the
fence
and
know
 its
 cycle.
 
 Its
 hiss
 was
 like
 a
 snake.
 
 Maybe
 it
 could
 strike
like
a
snake.

With
the
right
timing,
it
could
bite
 him
without
getting
shocked.

 He
just
couldn’t
be
sure
of
this
animal’s
intelligence.
 When
it
was
inches
away,
he
waited
for
the
fence
to
 cycle
again.

He
actually
saw
the
cow’s
head
moving
in
 for
a
bite.


 James
moved
his
hand
to
the
side.

Then
he
touched
 the
side
of
its
mouth,
feeling
its
rubbery
gums.

He
let
 his
 arm
 touch
 the
 fence.
 
 There
 was
 the
 sensation
 of
 being
struck,
and
then
he
could
feel
nothing.
 
 “James!
 
 You
 did
 it,
 man!
 
 They
 all
 four
 took
 off!

 They’re
way
the
hell
out
there!”
 James
was
able
to
move
enough
to
produce
a
smile.

 He
 wasn’t
 sure
 what
 this
 guy
 was
 talking
 about.
 
 He
 knew
 there
 was
 some
 kind
 of
 monsters
 that
 he
 was
 trying
 to
 get
 away
 from.
 
 He
 knew
 the
 guy
 above
 him
 was
good.
 “Oh,
 man.
 
 You’re
 pretty
 messed
 up
 right
 now,
 aren’t
you?

Close
your
eyes
and
rest
for
a
little
while.”
 
 The
 next
 time
 James
 was
 aware,
 he
 was
 sitting
 up
 and
a
man
was
telling
him
a
story
about
how
they
had
 awoken
 here.
 
 He
 told
 him
 about
 the
 fence
 and
 the
 cows
 with
 carnivorous
 teeth.
 
 These
 words
 served
 as
 hooks,
 and
 most
 of
 it
 started
 to
 come
back.
 “I
 can
 see
 in
 your
 expression
 that
 you
 know
 what
 I’m
 talking
 about.”
 James
 thought
 for
 a
 few
 seconds
 and
 then
 said,
 “Yeah.
 
 I
 remember
 getting
shocked
once.

I
remember
talking
about
what
 we
 would
 do
 next,
 but
 I
 don’t
 remember
 carrying
 it
 out.
 
 That
 makes
 sense,
 though.
 
 When
 psychiatric
 patients
 undergo
 electric
 shock
 therapy
 they
 usually
 lose
the
time
immediately
before
the
shock.

I
lost
time,
 but
most
of
it
came
back.”

The
next
time
James
was
aware,
he
was
sitting
up
 and
a
man
was
telling
him
a
story
about
how
they
 had
awoken
here.

He
told
him
about
the
fence
and
 the
cows
with
carnivorous
teeth.

These
words
 served
as
hooks,
and
most
of
it
started
to
come
 back.
 could
 almost
 feel
 the
 sting
 of
 those
 teeth
 piercing
 his
 hand.
 The
 cow
 moved
 a
 couple
 of
 feet
 closer.
 
 Its
 three
 brown
 friends
 kept
 their
 distance
 but
 watched
 on
 intently.
 It
crept
closer,
its
neck
extended
out,
until
James
could
 actually
 feel
 its
 breath
 on
 his
 hand.
 
 He
 waited
 for
 the

39

M-BRANE SF “I’m
glad.

But
we
have
to
hurry
now.

The
cows
ran
 way
out
there,
but
they’re
coming
back.”
 James
 looked
 out.
 
 He
 estimated
 they
 were
 a
 hundred
feet
away.
 “Can
you
get
up?”
Monty
asked.
 James
got
his
hands
under
him,
and
then
he
brought
 his
 feet
 up.
 
 When
 he
 tried
 to
 push,
 all
 of
 his
 appendages
wobbled.


 “I
guess
not,”
Monty
said.
 “But
the
time.”
 “What
about
it?”
 “You
know
good
and
well.

We’re
almost
out.”
 Monty
 looked
 away
 for
 a
 little
 while.
 
 Then
 he
 finally
looked
back.
 “I’m
not
leaving
you
here.”
 “Yes.

You
have
to.

You
might
be
able
to
make
it
to
 the
door.”
 “I
said
I’m
not
leaving
you
here!”
 “Listen.
 
 You
 can
 go
 now,
 and
 maybe
 I
 can
 make
 it
 later.

If
not,
so
what.

Even
if
that
door
is
the
way
back
 to
normalcy,
what
do
I
have?”
 Again,
 Monty
 looked
 away.
 
 He
 turned
 back
 and
 laughed.
 
 “I
 don’t
 know
 what’s
 behind
 that
 door,
 but
 I
 know
 this
 is
 a
 test
 for
 me.
 
 I
 did
 a
 bad
 thing.
 
 Other
 people
 suffered
 for
 what
 I
 did.
 
 It
 weighs
 on
 my
 conscience.
 
 If
 I
 get
 you
 to
 the
 other
 side
 of
 that
 door,
 maybe
 some
 of
 that
 weight
 will
 be
 removed.
 
 I
 don’t
 know.

But
I
damn
sure
don’t
want
to
go
on
with
your
 big
ass
on
my
conscience.”
 They
 stared
 at
 each
 other
 for
 a
 few
 seconds.
 
 Then
 they
both
laughed.
 
 James
 had
 been
 able
 to
 get
 up,
 but
 his
 movement
 was
still
very
shaky.

They
had
less
than
a
third
of
the
 sand
left.
 With
 James
 sitting,
 Monty
 said,
 “I’m
 going
 to
 conduct
 another
 test.
 
 I
 want
 to
 see
 if
 those
 cows
 are
 going
 to
 stay
 put
 when
 we’re
 on
 the
 other
 side
 of
 the
 fence.”


 James
nodded.
 Monty
 patted
 his
 shoulder.
 
 He
 went
 to
 the
 fence,
 listened,
and
then
grabbed
the
top
bar
and
quickly
used
 it
to
hop
over
to
the
other
side.
 Some
 hundred
 feet
 away,
 the
 cows
 definitely
 took
 notice
 of
 what
 was
 happening,
 but
 they
 stayed
 put.

 Monty
looked
back
at
him
and
nodded.

He
then
moved
 along
the
fence.

Monty’s
progress
was
slow.

The
cow’s
 shadowed
 that
 movement
 but
 with
 their
 stares
 only.

 Monty
made
it
all
the
way
to
the
edge
of
the
fence.

He
 then
went
around
about
ten
feet.

He
held
up
a
hand,
as
 if
to
signify
success.

James
lifted
a
hand
of
his
own
and
 then
looked
the
other
way.
 The
black
cow
came
in
a
mad
dash.


 “Monty!”
James
shouted.

 Monty
 got
 on
 the
 move.
 
 He
 darted
 around
 the

40

FEBRUARY 2009 corner,
 back
 in
 the
 direction
 he
 had
 come.
 
 It
 was
 very
 clear
that
he
wouldn’t
make
it.

All
four
cows
closed
the
 gap
 before
 Monty
 made
 it
 another
 twenty
 feet.
 
 The
 orange
clad
man
froze.
 “That’s
good!”
James
said
and
then
forced
himself
up
 on
 unsteady
 legs.
 
 “Just
 don’t
 move.
 
 Stay
 close
 to
 the
 fence.

They’re
scared
of
the
fence.”
 He
saw
Monty’s
head
nod,
but
Monty’s
eyes
remained
 fixed
 on
 the
 black
 cow,
 which
 was
 no
 more
 than
 eight
 feet
away,
still,
but
staring
him
down.


 James
felt
electric
numbness
in
his
legs.

He
was
only
 able
to
go
a
few
feet
before
he
had
to
stop.


 He
 thought
 of
 something
 he
 should
 have
 thought
 of
 before.

James
was
now
a
cue
for
a
shock,
but
that
didn’t
 mean
 people
 in
 general
 were.
 
 The
 black
 cow
 probably
 feared
a
big
white
man
in
a
white
shirt
and
black
pants,
 not
a
small
black
man
in
a
solid
orange
uniform.
 James
 moved
 a
 little
 closer
 before
 he
 had
 to
 stop
 again.
 
 He
 could
 see
 his
 friend’s
 face.
 
 Monty
 was
 petrified,
 probably
 to
 the
 point
 that
 logical
 thought
 was
 nearly
impossible.

James
would
have
to
think
for
him.


 “All
right,”
James
said.

“Move
slowly
toward
the
gap.”
 Monty
 nodded
 and
 then
 took
 a
 few
 sideways
 steps.

 He
froze,
when
the
black
cow
hissed.
 “That’s
okay,”
James
said.

“It
can
hiss
all
it
wants,
so
 long
as
it
doesn’t
close
the
distance.

Move
a
little
more.”
 Monty
 stood
 as
 still
 as
 a
 rabbit
 trying
 to
 evade
 detection.
 
 James
 was
 about
 to
 shout
 more
 encouragement,
when
Monty
finally
moved.
 The
cow
move
too.

It
stepped
diagonally,
like
it
was
 trying
to
cut
its
prey
off.

It
stopped
about
four
feet
from
 the
fence.

Monty
would
now
have
to
cross
its
path
to
get
 to
the
gap.
 “It
may
attack.

Be
ready.

You
may
have
to
shock
it.”
 James
 moved
 closer.
 
 The
 black
 cow’s
 attention
 moved
to
him.

It
hissed.
 “Yeah.

Here
I
come,
and
I
got
another
shock
for
you!”
 James
didn’t
feel
like
he
could
walk
much
further,
but
 he
was
able
to
lunge
his
body
to
the
ground.
 The
 black
 cow
 ran
 in
 the
 other
 direction.
 
 Two
 cows
 followed
it.

One
did
not.
 “What
are
you
doing?”
James
yelled
from
the
ground.

 “Follow
your
damn
herd
instinct!

Run!”
 James
thought
he
could
see
wickedness
percolating
in
 its
big
brown
eyes.

From
ten
feet
away,
it
lunged
toward
 Monty.
 “Monty!”
James
shouted.


 It
 happened
 quickly.
 
 He
 saw
 the
 cow’s
 mouth
 hit
 Monty.

It
pressed
him
into
the
fence.

 Monty’s
 body
 tensed
 up.
 
 The
 cow
 backed
 up
 and
 cried
 as
 a
 cow
 was
 supposed
 to
 cry,
 with
 a
 moo‐like
 sound.


 The
cow
ran
off,
but
there
was
still
a
problem.

Monty
 was
 on
 his
 butt,
 with
 his
 back
 resting
 against
 the
 fence.
 Before
he
could
get
to
his
feet,
James
saw
Monty’s
upper

M-BRANE SF body
 tense
 up
 as
 it
 was
 shocked
 again.
 
 James
 staggered
 as
he
got
up,
falling
backward
but
catching
himself
before
 he
made
it
to
the
ground.

Monty
tensed
up
again.


 James
 moved
 toward
 him.
 
 He
 was
 about
 two
 feet
 away,
 when
 Monty
 was
 shocked
 a
 third
 time.
 
 James
 moved
his
hips
the
best
he
could,
sending
his
leg
into
the
 fence.

He
managed
to
knock
Monty
off,
and
he
managed
 not
to
fall
over.


 James
stood
on
one
side
of
the
fence
and
looked
down.

 Monty
 was
 facing
 away.
 
 James
 couldn’t
 tell
 if
 he
 was
 breathing.
 
 James
 looked
 at
 the
 hourglass
 and
 wondered
 if
 it
 James
 would
 be
 his
 last
 suspected
he
had
 time.
 
 It
 was
 hard
 to
 see
 it
 one
cow
afraid
of
 clearly
 now,
 a
white
man,
one
 but
 he
 knew
 there
 wasn’t
 cow
afraid
of
a
 much
 left
 in
 black
man,
and
 the
 top
 half.

 two
cows
not
 He
 walked
 and
 fell,
 got
 used
to
leading
 back
 up
 and
 this
small
herd.

 repeated
 the
 cycle,
 over
 Still,
that
was
 and
 over.

 probably
enough
 Eventually
 he
 to
doom
them.
 felt
 more
 pain,
 which
 translated
 to
 more
 control.

 When
 he
 was
 able
 to
 work
 his
 way
 up
 to
 a
 jog,
 he
 thought
 he
 might
 be
 able
to
make
it
over
the
fence.


 He
 would
 have
 to
 be
 able.
 
 Monty
 still
 hadn’t
 moved.

 Two
 cows,
 both
 brown,
 presumably
 the
 two
 that
 hadn’t
 been
 people‐shocked
 yet,
 were
 creeping
 forward.
 
 The
 other
two
followed
them
at
a
distance.


 James
 suspected
 he
 had
 one
 cow
 afraid
 of
 a
 white
 man,
 one
 cow
 afraid
 of
 a
 black
 man,
 and
 two
 cows
 not
 used
 to
 leading
 this
 small
 herd.
 
 Still,
 that
 was
 probably
 enough
to
doom
he
and
Monty.


 James
 estimated
 the
 closest
 cow
 was
 fifty
 feet
 away
 when
he
approached
the
sunken
part
of
the
fence.
 James
 thought
 he
 could
 clear
 the
 five
 feet
 easily,
 not
 even
 touching
 the
 fence,
 had
 he
 not
 been
 shocked
 twice.

 Now
he
was
worried
about
getting
over
at
all.
 “Here
 goes
 nothing,”
 he
 said,
 listening
 to
 the
 sound
 and
absence
of
sound
that
told
him
when
to
move.


 After
a
buzz,
James
took
a
step
and
tried
to
leap.

His
 feet
didn’t
leave
the
ground.

By
his
height,
he
was
able
to
 get
 his
 arms
 over
 the
 top
 bar.
 
 He
 pulled.
 
 Nothing
 happened.

He
panicked.

FEBRUARY 2009 James
 fell
 back
 and
 away
 from
 the
 fence.
 
 It
 buzzed,
 but
 he
 was
 a
 safe
 distance
 away.
 
 He
 checked
 the
 cows.

 They
were
closer,
looking
at
him.
 “Yeah,
 you
 stupid
 bastards!
 
 I’m
 going
 to
 steal
 your
 dinner!”
 Both
of
the
brown
cows
in
front
hissed.
 James
 wondered
 if
 they
 understood
 his
 tone.
 
 He
 wondered
 what
 rules
 applied
 at
 all.
 
 What
 rules
 had
 whatever
brought
him
here
made?
 “Damn
it,
James!”
he
said.

“You
got
to
find
it
in
you!”
 One
of
the
cows
hissed.
 James
 stared
 at
 it.
 
 It
 was
 twenty
 feet
 from
 Monty
 now.
 
 He
 knew
 he
 had
 to
 do
 something.
 
 Physically,
 he
 couldn’t
make
it.

He
needed
an
edge.
 “It
was
wrong!”
he
said
out
loud.

“It
was
wrong
 to
take
them
from
me!”
he
said
loud
enough
to
set
 off
 more
 hisses.
 
 “I
 was
 a
 good
 man!
 
 Why
 did
 you
take
them
away?”
 It
was
as
if
something
inside
of
him
boiled.

 When
the
fence
stopped
buzzing,
James
took
 two
 steps
 and
 jumped.
 
 He
 didn’t
 go
 high,
 but
 he
 got
 high
 enough
 that
 most
 of
 his
 chest
 was
 over
 the
 bar.
 
 He
 tilted
 with
 the
 momentum
 he
 already
 had.
 
 For
 a
 split
 second,
 he
 didn’t
 think
 he
 would
 make
 it.

 Then
he
got
one
leg
over
the
bar
and
turned.

 He
 hit
 the
 ground
 on
 the
 others
 side
 and
 rolled.

The
fence
buzzed.
 “Yes!”
 James
 shouted
 and
 then
 heard
 the
 footsteps.
 
 Two
 brown
 cows
 were
 coming
 at
 him.


 
 There
was
one
on
either
side
of
him.

James
had
 moved
 closer
 to
 the
 fence.
 
 Now
 they
 were
 five
 feet
 away,
 staring
 at
 him,
 as
 if
 waiting
 for
 him
 to
 move,
 or
 maybe
they
were
just
waiting
for
him
to
fall.
 Falling
 was
 very
 possible.
 
 Sitting
 still,
 he
 could
 feel
 his
leg
muscles
tightening.

He
thought
that
if
he
waited
 too
long,
he
wouldn’t
be
able
to
move
them
at
all.

They
 would
just
buckle
and
the
cows
would
have
him.
 James
crept,
ever
mindful
of
the
fence
behind
him.

If
 one
 of
 them
 moved
 in,
 he
 would
 have
 to
 touch
 it
 again.

 He
knew
that
would
probably
knock
him
as
unconscious
 as
Monty,
but
he
could
think
of
no
other
option.


 The
 cows
 reacted
 to
 his
 movement
 by
 moving
 laterally
 with
 him,
 and
 at
 the
 same
 time,
 creeping
 forward.

James
kept
moving
until
they
were
both
about
 two
feet
away.


 It
 occurred
 to
 him
 that
 he
 could
 touch
 them
 both
 at
 the
 same
 time.
 
 Then
 all
 four
 cows
 would
 have
 been
 shocked
at
least
once.

Maybe
he
would
wake
up
 before
 they
 got
 brave
 enough
 to
 come
 back.
 
 Maybe
 not.
 
 It
 seemed
like
his
best
risk.
 When
 both
 cows
 moved
 their
 heads
 inches
 away
 to
 sniff
him,
James
slowly
brought
his
hands
up.

He
braced
 himself
to
back
into
the
fence.

He
would
hit
it
hard,
so
he

41

M-BRANE SF would
spring
forward
after
the
shock.

He
waited
until
 the
next
buzz
ended.
 A
deafening
sound
rang
out.
 
 James
 had
 the
 thought
 that
 this
 shock
 was
 way
 different
from
the
previous
two.

It
seemed
to
set
off
a
 little
 extra
 adrenalin,
 causing
 him
 to
 breathe
 harder
 and
for
his
heart
to
beat
faster.
 After
a
few
seconds,
logic
set
in.
 This
 shock
 had
 not
 been
 from
 an
 outside
 electrical
 source.
 
 This
 shock
 had
 been
 his
 inner
 reaction
 to
 the
 guns
going
off.
 The
 cows
 had
 reacted
 by
 running
 in
 the
 other
 direction.


 James
 turned
 and
 looked
 at
 the
 hourglass.
 
 It
 was
 empty
now.

The
grass
inside
the
fence
had
been
ripped
 up
all
over.
 James
 thought
 out
 loud.
 
 “Wow!
 
 I
 guess
 they
 were
 aimed
 to
 kill
 everything
 inside
 the
 fence,
 without
 hurting
anything
outside.”
 James
saw
the
cows
had
stopped
in
the
distance.
 “Move,
James,”
he
told
himself.
 His
 legs
 still
 hurt,
 but
 they
 were
 better.
 
 His
 knees
 cracked
 when
 he
 bent
 down
 over
 Monty.
 
 He
 placed
 a
 hand
 under
 Monty’s
 nose
 and
 felt
 the
 warmth
 of
 his
 breath.
 “Yes!”
he
shouted.


 He
didn’t
think
he
could
lift
Monty
right
now,
but
he
 thought
 he
 could
 drag
 him.
 
 He
 got
 the
 smaller
 man’s
 legs
up
and
pulled.

There
were
painful
protests
all
over
 James’s
body,
but
Monty
was
moving.
 First,
he
moved
the
body
away
from
the
fence,
and
 then
he
moved
it
to
go
around.

He
watched
the
cows,
 who
 just
 stared
 on
 from
 a
 distance.
 
 He
 rounded
 the
 corner.
 
 That
 got
 the
 cows
 in
 motion.
 
 They
 kept
 their
 distance
still,
but
moved
to
that
side.
 They’re
waiting
for
me
to
be
away
from
the
fence.


 James
looked
away
from
them.

It
would
be
a
while
 before
he
had
to
worry
about
that.
 
 James
 thought
 the
 level
 of
 damage
 to
 Monty’s
 nervous
 system
 must
 be
 high.
 
 That
 was
 the
 only
 way
 he
could
have
stayed
unconscious
while
being
dragged
 that
far.

The
black
man
hadn’t
even
stirred.
 James
had
taken
him
around
the
second
corner
and
 to
the
middle
of
the
next
fence.

They
were
now
as
close
 to
the
door
as
they
could
be
without
leaving
the
safety
 of
the
fence.
 The
cows
were
only
a
few
feet
from
that
very
door,
 waiting.


 James
wondered
if
the
door
led
to
safety.

The
only
 reason
 they
 had
 to
 believe
 that
 it
 did
 was
 that
 if
 the
 door
wasn’t
safe,
then
this
was
a
very
cruel
game.
 Kind
 of
 like
 my
 life.
 
 I
 was
 shown
 safety
 and
 happiness,
only
to
get
it
taken
away.
 That
 thought
 made
 James
 hesitate
 more.
 
 What
 if

42

FEBRUARY 2009 this
was
some
kind
of
parody
of
his
life.

It
made
sense.

It
 was
 all
 just
 symbolism
 his
 unconscious
 mind
 fed
 him
 in
 a
 horrible
dream.
 No,
 it’s
 not
 a
 dream.
 
 Dreams
 aren’t
 this
 painful
 for
 this
 long.

And
why
would
Monty
be
here?

This
isn’t
symbolic
of
 his
 life.
 
 He
 wasn’t
 shown
 safety
 and
 happiness
 until
 it
 was
 already
taken
from
him.
 James
pulled
Monty
into
the
open.
 
 He
 had
 to
 look
 over
 his
 shoulder
 in
 order
 to
 see
 the
 cows.
 
 The
 first
 time
 he
 did
 this,
 he
 fell
 backward.
 
 He
 crawled
back
to
Monty
and
got
his
legs.

He
stood
up.
 The
 next
 time
 he
 looked
 over
 his
 shoulder,
 James
 maintained
 his
 balance.
 
 Three
 of
 the
 cows,
 the
 black
 one
 included,
had
moved
away
from
the
door.
 They
were
actually
going
off
to
the
side,
like
they
were
 afraid
 of
 the
 two
 men
 coming
 their
 way.
 
 One
 brown
 cow
 remained
 near
 the
 door.
 
 It
 moved
 its
 head
 between
 the
 cows
that
had
left
and
the
two
men
coming
at
it.
 James
could
clearly
see
the
door
had
a
black
knob.

He
 longed
 for
 it.
 
 He
 was
 very
 tired.
 
 He
 thought
 he
 could
 actually
pass
out.

He
thought
that
if
he
left
his
load
behind,
 he
 would
 be
 okay.
 
 Otherwise,
 he
 wasn’t
 sure
 if
 he
 would
 make
it.


 They
 were
 about
 twenty
 feet
 from
 the
 door,
 when
 the
 lone
 brown
 cow
 stopped
 being
 indecisive.
 
 It
 walked
 toward
James,
its
mouth
open,
revealing
its
fangs.
 James
did
the
math
in
his
head.
 One
cow
was
shocked
by
me.

Two
cows
were
scared
by
a
 very
loud
sound
when
they
were
about
to
take
a
bite
out
of
 me.
 James
 looked
 down
 at
 his
 friend.
 
 Monty’s
 eyes
 were
 open.
 
 They
 were
 moving
 too.
 
 There
 was
 confusion
 in
 them.
 “This
isn’t
what
it
will
seem
like,”
James
said.
 He
twisted
Monty’s
body
around.

The
brown
cow
saw
 it
and
made
a
high‐pitched,
pained
noise.

Then
it
ran
away.
 James
 looked
 down
 at
 Monty,
 who
 still
 had
 his
 eyes
 open.
 “That
was
the
one
you
shocked,”
he
said.

“We’re
going
 to
make
it.”
 
 James
stood
outside
the
door.

He
dropped
Monty’s
feet.

 He
 wasn’t
 even
 going
 to
 bother
 looking
 back
 at
 this
 place.

 He
just
hoped
he
 didn’t
open
the
 door
to
 find
 more
 of
the
 grass
on
the
other
side.
 James
 took
 the
 knob
 in
 a
 cramped
 hand.
 
 He
 turned
 it,
 and
the
door
opened.


 There
was
no
green
grass
on
the
other
side.

There
was
 only
 darkness.
 
 James
 remembered
 the
 darkness
 from
 before.


 We
came
into
this
place
through
that
darkness.
 James
wanted
to
talk
it
over
with
Monty
first.

At
least,
 he
 wanted
 to
 give
 Monty
 a
 choice,
 if
 Monty
 was
 coherent
 enough
to
make
that
choice.
 Monty’s
 eyes
 were
 closed
 again,
 and
 he
 looked
 more

M-BRANE SF still
than
before.

James
put
a
hand
to
his
face.

He
didn’t
 feel
 breath.
 
 He
 place
 two
 fingers
 and
 Monty’s
 neck
 and
 found
no
pulse.
 Tears
came
to
his
eyes.
 “I
won’t
leave
you
here,”
he
said.
 James
pushed
Monty
through
the
threshold.

His
body
 fell
through
the
other
side.

James
listened
but
didn’t
hear
 it
hit.

James
followed.
 
 He
 was
 falling.
 
 It
 seemed
 to
 last
 for
 hours.
 
 Then
 it
 was
done.

He
awoke
with
the
terrible
throb
in
his
head.
 James
sighed.

He
supposed
the
dull
pain
of
a
hangover
 was
better
than
where
he
had
just
been.


 “What
a
dream,”
he
whispered.
 When
 he
 heard
 the
 door
 swing
 open,
 he
 opened
 his
 eyes.
 Two
 little
 blonde‐headed
 girls
 rushed
 toward
 him.

 They
 were
 saying
 something,
 but
 in
 that
 moment,
 he
 couldn’t
 comprehend
 it.
 
 He
 wrapped
 his
 arms
 around
 them.
 Then
 the
 other
 beautiful
 blonde
 appeared
 in
 the
 doorway.
 
 She
 looked
 at
 him
 oddly.
 
 He
 stood
 up,
 taking
 two
 laughing
 girls
 and
 a
 headache
 with
 him.
 
 He
 put
 the
 girls
down
to
hug
her.
 “What?”
he
said.

“How?”
 “Are
you
okay?”
his
wife
asked.
 “Yes,”
he
replied.

“How
did
you
get
here?”
 “James,
 I
 don’t
 know
 what
 you’re
 talking
 about.
 
 You
 said
 you
 had
 a
 headache
 and
 that
 you
 were
 going
 to
 lie
 down.
 
 We
 were
 on
 our
 way
 out
 the
 door,
 when
 a
 man
 pulled
up.

He
wanted
me
to
give
you
this.

He
said
it
was
 important
that
you
get
it
right
away.”
 James
 backed
 away
 from
 her.
 
 He
 hadn’t
 noticed
 that
 she
 was
 holding
 something
 before.
 
 He
 took
 the
 book
 from
her
hand.
 He
 was
 looking
 at
 the
 back
 cover.
 
 There
 was
 an
 author’s
picture.
 “That’s
the
man!”
his
wife
said.
 Donning
 a
 white
 sweater
 and
 sitting
 casually
 with
 a
 smiling
 Golden
 Labrador
 at
 his
 side,
 the
 little
 black
 man
 looked
more
like
a
yuppie
than
a
prisoner.

 “Monty,”
James
said.
 James
turned
it
over.

He
read
the
title
out
loud.

“The
 Grassy
Plain.”
 James
opened
the
book.

On
the
inside
flap,
a
message
 was
written.


 Happy
first
Friday
of
the
new
year.

Joshua
 Scribner
 is
 the
 author
 of
 the
 novels
 The
 Coma
 Lights
 and
 Nescata.
 
 His
 fiction
 won
 both
 second
 and
 fifth
 place
 in
 the
 2008
 Whispering
 Spirits
 Flash
 Fiction
 contest.
 Joshua
 currently
 lives
 in
 Michigan
 with
 his
 wife
 and
 two
 daughters.
 Find
 him
 online
 at
 www.
 joshuascribner.com.

FEBRUARY 2009

OF
NOTE
ON
THE
WWW
 (CONTINUED

FROM
PAGE
29)

at
 www.archive.org/details/MindWebs‐SciFI
 was
 a
 pretty
 exciting
 find.
 This
 radio
 show,
 produced
 for
 a
 few
years
in
the
late
1970s

by
Wisconsin
Public
Radio,
 consists
 of
 readings
 of
 science
 fiction
 short
 stories,
 read
 by
 Michael
 Hanson.
 Audio
 quality
 from
 one
 recording
to
the
next
is
somewhat
uneven,
but
it
is
all
 entirely
 listenable.
 It’s
 remarkable
 in
 itself
 that
 these
 recordings
 were
 preserved,
 and
 it’s
 a
 real
 boon
 for
 people
 who
 like
 to
 listen
 to
 this
 sort
 of
 thing.
 I’d
 compare
 it
 favorably
 to
 the
 1950s
 radio
 shows
 like
 Dimension
 X
 and
 X
 Minus
 One.
 The
 hosting
 site,
 www.archive.org
,
has
a
whole
lot
of
stuff
to
look
at
in
 various
 media
 and
 is
 worth
 spending
 some
 time
 with…Rudy
 Rucker’s
 websize
 Flurb
 
 at
 www.flurb.net
is
more
handsome
to
look
at
than
a
lot
 of
 webzines,
 with
 its
 clean
 lay‐out
 and
 arty
 photography
 (by
 Rucker
 himself),
 and
 it’s
 also
 filled
 with
 a
 tad
 more
 high‐end
 content
 than
 most,
 with
 contributions
in
the
recent
issue
by
the
illustrious
likes
 of
 Bruce
 Sterling
 and
 Charles
 Platt.
 Rucker
 himself
 is,
 of
course,
a
highly
notable
sf
writer,
a
founding
father
 of
 cyberpunk
 (along
 with
 Sterling,
 Gibson,
 Shiner,
 et
 al.)
 and
 author
 of
 many
 novels
 including
 the
 germinal
 Wetware…Of
as
much
interest
to
writers
as
fans
is
Dan
 Simmons’
 
 
 website
 
 
 at
 
 
 www.dansimmons.com
 .
 Simmons
writes
in
several
genres,
but
is
probably
best
 known
 to
 sf
 readers
 for
 the
 Hyperion
 Cantos
 and
 the
 Ilium/Olympos
 duology.
 He
 doesn’t
 post
 new
 material
 to
it
with
tremendous
frequency,
but
when
he
does,
it
 is
 always
 interesting
 and
 substantive.
 
 Relatively
 recent
 entries
 include
 a
 short
 story
 pondering
 the
 2008
Presidential
election
and
featuring
his
Elm
Haven
 characters
 (from
 Summer
 of
 Night),
 and
 an
 excellent
 essay
 on
 the
 Nazi‐hosted
 1936
 Olympics.
 Of
 special
 interest
 for
 writers
 are
 Simmons’
 “Writing
 Well”
 essays,
 a
 very
 fine
 educational
 series.
 Also,
 the
 site
 hosts
a
series
of
articles
on
the
business
of
publishing
 by
 his
 agent,
 the
 well‐known
 Richard
 Curtis…Another
 writer’s
 site
 that
 I
 enjoy
 is
 Ian
 McDonald’s
 blog
 “Cyberabad”
at
www.ianmcdonald.livejournal.com
.
In
 addition
 to
 updates
 on
 his
 writing
 life,
 one
 can
 learn
 such
minutiae
as
what
he
made
for
New
Year’s
dinner:
 “New
 Year
 cooking:
 Game
 terrine:
 insufferably
 pleased
 with
myself
for
this
one:
got
two
packs
of
'game
bit's
in
 Land
 of
 Cheapie
 from
 Tesco
 Knocknagoney
 ­­then
 worked
 out
 what
 to
 do
 with
 them.
 Pukkah
 terrine
 with
 stretched
 bacon
 and
 everything...
 Good
 texture,
 home
 made
forcemeat
­­based
on
pork
 mince
at
same
 Land
of
 Cheapie...Main
 course:
 partridge.
 I
 resisted
 the
 temptation
 to
 do
 something
 smart­ass
 with
 pears.
 To
 finish:
 Black
 Bun
 featuring
 slimmeroftheyea’s
 medieval
 mincemeat
 ­­with
 real
 meat.
 Which
 she
 kept
 preserved
 in
brandy
for
a
year.
And
we
still
live!”—CF

43

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

COLONIZING MARS A
deep­seated
uneasiness
about
what
the
future
 may
hold
in
store
seems
to
pervade
most
of
the
 stories
in
this
issue
(and
perhaps
that
is
simply
 because
 they
 are
 science
 fiction).
 
 In
 this
 engaging
 entry,
 the
 writer
 weaves
 some
 hard
 science
 with
 what
 seems
 to
 me
 a
 real
 creeping
 dread
 about
 the
 course
 our
 world
 may
 be
 on
 regarding
 the
 intersection
 of
 technology,
 economics
and
civil
liberties.
–CF

 
 
 Where
am
I?
 
 You're
in
therapy,
Miss
Lewis.

Just
relax.
 
 Therapy?
 
 This
 will
 be
 just
 an
 introductory
 session,
 to
 help
 you
 get
oriented.

I'll
be
your
therapist.
 
 What
do
I
call
you?
 
 You
don't
have
to
call
me
anything.

Let's
begin
at
the
 beginning.

Why
do
you
think
you're
here?
 
 Because
I'm
living
in
a
fascist
dictatorship.
 
 Try
again.
 
 Because
somebody
up
there
hates
me.
 
 You
 are
 here
 so
 we
 can
 help
 you
 work
 through
 the
 problems
 you've
 been
 having.
 
 Let's
 begin
 at
 the
 beginning.
 
 What
 memories
 do
 you
 think
 we
 should
 concentrate
on?
 
 I
don't
know.

A
lot.
 
 Let's
 start
 with
 one
 particular
 memory.
 
 I
 won't
 interrupt.

Just
tell
me
something
that
happened
that
you
 think
is
relevant.

You
can
say
whatever
you
want.
 
 Okay...
 
 
 Burke
and
I
were
standing
on
the
ridge
just
west
of
 Hellas
 Planitia.
 
 He'd
 set
 up
 these
 regular
 shuttle
 landings
for
what
he
called
'picnics.'
 
 "It's
beautiful,"
he
said.
 
 It
 was,
 too.
 
 The
 sand
 was
 pink,
 just
 like
 in
 the
 photos.

It
kind
of
swept
away
below
us
into
the
desert.

 The
 sun
 was
 coming
 up
 over
 the
 horizon,
 and
 the
 mesas
were
silhouetted
against
it,
solid
black.
 
 "One
last
time,"
I
said.

"Let's
leave
Mars
alone.

It's
 beautiful
the
way
it
is.

We
can
put
up
dome
colonies
at
 far
less
cost‐‐"
 
 "You
 don't
 understand
 how
 beautiful
 it's
 gonna
 be
 with
trees
and
greenery
and
fish
leaping
in
the
rivers."
 
 "I
can't
get
you
to
change
your
mind?"
 
 He
shook
his
head,
grinning
from
ear
to
ear.

44

That
 was
 Burke
 Richardson,
 CEO
 of
 The
 Richardson
 Consortium?
 
 Yeah.

A
personal
friend,
from
school.
 
 How
personal?
 
 Not
a
lover,
just
a
friend.
 
 But
you
wanted
to
stop
his
project.
 
 That's
why
I'm
here.
 
 You're
 here
 so
 we
 can
 help
 you
 work
 through
 the
 problems
 you've
 been
 having.
 
 Why
 don't
 you
 try
 another
 memory?

EK

=

½
I
ω 2
 
 
 What
does
that
mean?
 
 That's
the
equation
for
rotational
kinetic
energy.
 
 I
mean,
what
relevance
does
this
have
to
your
problem?
 
 I'm
a
scientist.

I
think
in
equations
sometimes.
 
 Try
another
memory.
 
 
 They
 aimed
 the
 first
 asteroid
 at
 the
 Martian
 equator.

 But
 because
 of
 a
 misfire
 in
 the
 mass
 drivers
 ‐‐
 North
 American
Rockwell,
$58.6
trillion
in
contracts
altogether
 ‐‐
it
impacted
at
latitude
13°
South.

Gouged
a
trail
almost
 halfway
around
the
planet.

The
Martian
rotation
period
 went
up
to
almost
28
hours,
and
its
axial
tilt
went
into
a
 tight
loop,
oscillating
from
29°
to
21°
every
six
years.
 
 It
was
an
outer‐system
asteroid.

Water
and
ammonia
 ice.
 
 
 That
was
very
technical.
 
 I
 was
 dumbing
 it
 down
 for
 your
 sake.
 
 Otherwise
 I
 would've
 given
 the
 semimajor
 axis,
 eccentricity,
 inclination,
 perihelion
 transit
 time,
 longitude
 of
 perihelion
and
longitude
of
ascending
node
for
the
orbit.
 
 Why
don't
you
try
another
memory?
 
 Okay.

I
was
in
the
witness
box.
 
 This
was
at
your
trial?
 
 I
thought
you
weren't
going
to
interrupt.
 
 Sorry.

BARTON PAUL LEVENSON

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF

This
was
at
the
hearings.

The
Joint
Committee
on
Un‐ American
 Activities.
 
 Senator
 Duke
 asked
 me,
 lemme
 see
 how
 it
 went...
 
 "Ms.
 Lewis,
 you
 admit
 in
 your
 book,
 Universal
 Suburbia,
 that
 there
 is
 no
 indigenous
 life
 on
 Mars."
 
 "That's
correct,
Senator."
 
 "So
in
the
strict
sense
of
the
word,
there's
no
'ecology'
 there
to
protect."
 
 "True."
 
 "So
 what
 is
 the
 basis
 of
 your
 objection
 to
 Mr.
 Richardson's
project?

Judging
by
your
title,
might
I
catch
 a
 whiff
 of
 disgust
 at
 something
 as
 nasty
 as
 free
 enterprise?"
 
 "The
 Richardson
 Project
 is
 hardly
 free
 enterprise.

 He's
gotten
almost
three
quadrillion
dollars
in
NASA
and
 ESA
subsidies‐‐"
 
 Just
 then
 Senator
 MacDonald
 interrupted.

 "Investment
 in
 space
 has
 always
 paid
 back
 more
 than
 it
 cost."
 
 "Nonetheless,
 massive
 government
 subsidy
 of
 an
 industry
is
not
free
enterprise,"
I
told
him.
 
 Then
 Duke
 said,
 "Perhaps
 it's
 the
 involvement
 of
 the
 United
States
of
America
that
repulses
you?"
 
 "America
is
my
country,
Senator."
 
 "Then
 I
 don't
 expect
 you'd
 object
 to
 reciting
 the
 loyalty
oath."
 
 "I
recited
it
when
I
came
here.

Do
I
have
to
repeat
it
 every
time‐‐"
 
 "I
 don't
 have
 a
 problem
 repeating
 it,
 do
 you,
 Miss
 Lewis?"
 
 "Miz,"
I
told
him.
 
 "Oh,
'Miz.'

Why
don't
you
just
say
it
with
me‐"
 
 So
we
all
said
it:

"The
United
States
of
America
is
the
 greatest
country
in
the
world.

I
pledge
my
loyalty
to
God,
 Jesus
Christ
and
the
United
States
of
America.

God
bless

 America."
 
 
 Another
memory?

qi*

=

qi
(P/P0)
(T0/T)1/2
 
 
 Do
you
want
to
explain
that?
 
 The
 equation
 for
 the
 mass
 coefficient
 of
 optical
 thickness.
 
 There's
 a
 different
 constant
 for
 each
 greenhouse
 gas.
 
 CO2
 and
 water
 vapor
 and
 ammonia
 are
 strong
IR
absorbers.

Oxy
and
nitro
aren't.
 
 Why
 don't
 we
 go
 on
 to
 something
 we
 can
 both
 understand?
 
 Okay.
 
 They
 made
 a
 total
 of
 61
 improvements
 to
 the
 next
 asteroid‐impact
 mission,
 trying
 to
 prevent
 a
 fiasco
 like
the
first
time.

Of
course
less
than
half
worked
right.

 The
 second
 impact
 was
 supposed
 to
 be
 at
 13°
 North,
 angled
to
counter
the
spin
and
obliquity
excursions
of
the
 first
 impact.
 
 Instead,
 they
 hit
 at
 Chryse
 Planitia,
 28°
 North.

Wiped
out
the
first
Viking
lander,
by
coincidence.

 The
 Martian
 day
 fell
 to
 23
 hours,
 but
 the
 axial
 tilt
 increased
to
41°.

Another.

Ts

=

Te
+
Te
Fconv
[(1
+
¾
τ)1/4

­
1]

Explain
that.
 
 The
equation
for
surface
temperature
in
a
gray
model
 of
 the
 greenhouse
 effect.
 
 The
 convection
 factor
 is
 a
 constant,
0.43.
 
 I
think
this
kind
of
abstraction
shouldn't
really
count
as
 a
 memory.
 
 I
 want
 you
 to
 try
 and
 remember
 things
 that
 contributed
 to
 your
 present
 problems.
 
 Another
 memory,
 please.
 
 
 Okay,
 here's
 a
 good
 one.
 
 My
 cell
 at
 the
 Schlaffly
 Womens'
 Center.
 
 Carved
 out
 of
 solid
 rock.
 
 It
 was
 supposed
 to
 be
 tight,
 but
 the
 damn
 rock
 was
 always
 dripping.

And
it
was
always
cold.
 
 Conditions
 on
 a
 raw
 frontier
 like
 the
 continental
 shelf
 are
often
primitive.
 
 Gee,
 I
 wonder
 why
 the
 staff
 had
 nice,
 dry,
 warm
 homes
to
go
to.

Anyway,
you're
interrupting
again.
 
 I
 don't
 think
 it
 serves
 any
 purpose
 to
 slander
 the
 government,
Miss
Lewis.
 
 Miz.

Okay,
do
you
want
me
to
go
with
this,
or
not?
 
 Sorry!
 
 
 "Antonia?"
 
 "Burke.

How
nice
of
you
to
come
and
see
me."
 
 "I
 didn't
 know
 they'd
 put
 you
 in
 jail.
 
 There
 was
 a
 press
order
on
the
hearings."
 
 "It's
 not
 a
 jail,
 Burke.
 
 It's
 a
 'center
 for
 the
 political
 and
 theological
 re‐education
 of
 politically
 unreliable
 female
prisoners'."
 
 "Nazis.

They're
no
better
than
Nazis."
 
 "I
thought
they
were
your
party."
 
 "For
 God's
 sake,
 just
 because
 I
 disagree
 with
 you
 on
 one
 issue,
 does
 that
 make
 me
 a
 fascist?
 
 I
 hate
 political
 repression.

Listen,
I'm
getting
you
out
of
here."
 
 "You
can't.

They
abolished
parole,
remember?"
 
 "They
 had
 to,
 Antonia.
 
 Crime
 was
 completely
 out
 of
 control,
 you
 know
 that.
 
 Oh,
 God
 ‐‐
 Why
 do
 we
 always
 end
up
arguing
about
politics?

I
can
get
you
out!"
 
 "In
 return
 for
 what?
 
 Dropping
 my
 opposition
 to
 the
 project?
 
 Making
 commercials
 for
 The
 Richardson
 Consortium?

My
fair
white
body?"
 
 "Don't
 tempt
 me.
 
 Look,
 I'll
 hire
 you
 as
 an
 official
 historian
 of
 the
 project.
 
 They'll
 release
 you
 to
 my
 custody."
 
 "Look,
 Burke...
 
 I
 appreciate
 it,
 but
 don't
 get
 yourself
 in
trouble.

It's
not
safe
to
be
associated
with
me."
 
 "I'm
 one
 of
 the
 most
 powerful
 men
 in
 the
 world,
 Tony.

Can
I
call
you
Tony?"
 
 "Don't
call
me
that
unless
you
mean
it."
 
 "Tony,
I
wish
I
could‐‐"
 
 "It's
 Lexan.
 
 Don't
 press
 too
 hard
 or
 it
 sets
 off
 an
 alarm."

45

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF 
 "I'll
get
you
out
of
here,
I
swear
it."
 
 "Burke,
you're
crying."
 
 
 Very
interesting.

Mr.
Richardson
appears
to
hold
you
 in
high
regard.
 
 Yeah.

It's
mutual.
 
 Despite
your
ideological
differences?
 
 We
like
each
other.
 
 Let's
 go
 to
 another
 memory,
 shall
 we?
 
 And
 not
 an
 equation
this
time.

4
NH3

+
3
O2

=>

2
N2

+
6
H2O
 
 
 You
 seem
 to
 go
 out
 of
 your
 way
 to
 challenge
 authority
even
when
there's
no
point
to
it.

As
it
happens,
 I
 can
 understand
 this
 equation.
 
 Ammonia
 reacts
 with
 oxygen
to
create
nitrogen
and
water
vapor.

But
what's
 the
point?
 
 They
used
asteroids
from
the
outer
system
because
 they
 wanted
 to
 give
 Mars
 an
 ammonia‐and‐water‐ vapor
 atmosphere.
 
 The
 heat
 from
 the
 greenhouse
 effect
 was
 supposed
 to
 cook
 oxygen
 out
 of
 the
 rocks.

 The
 oxy
 would
 combine
 with
 the
 ammonia
 and
 make
 nitro
 and
 more
 water
 vapor.
 
 As
 the
 heat
 trap
 dissipated,
 the
 water
 would
 rain
 out.
 
 They'd
 have
 an
 oxy‐nitrogen
 atmosphere
 plus
 bodies
 of
 liquid
 water
 on
the
surface.

Do
you
understand
what
went
wrong?
 
 I
 believe
 it's
 been
 said
 that
 the
 heat
 wasn't
 great
 enough
for
the
oxygen
to
be
released.
 
 That's
 right.
 
 And
 it
 could
 have
 been
 calculated
 beforehand.

In
fact
it
was,
by
opposition
scientists.

But
 no
one
listened.

They
were
accused
of
wanting
to
hold
 back
progress,
wanting
to
sabotage
mankind's
greatest
 project.
 
 And
of
course
all
these
brave
souls
were
just
trying
to
 tell
the
truth
in
the
face
of
evil
government
repression,
is
 that
it?
 
 Something
like
that.
 
 You
know
that
the
project
is
now
setting
up
cracking
 plants
 to
 release
 the
 oxygen
 from
 the
 rocks.
 
 The
 habitable
Mars
will
still
be
created.
 
 Yeah,
in
about
400
years.
 
 That
is
still
a
geologically
short
time.
 
 You
 guys
 never
 learn,
 do
 you?
 
 You
 treat
 the
 Universe
 like
 it
 was
 your
 toy,
 just
 waiting
 for
 you
 to
 pull
it
to
bits.

You
call
yourselves
pro‐science,
but
you
 ignore
 scientific
 laws
 whenever
 it
 suits
 you,
 like
 the
 ones
governing
population
growth.

You‐‐
 
 It
is
you
who
are
refusing
to
face
reality,
"Miz"
Lewis.

 Let
 me
 just
 bring
 up
 one
 interesting
 point.
 
 You're
 convinced
that
Burke
Richardson
likes
you.
 
 Huh?

He
does.

I
like
him.

So?
 
 And
yet
it
was
he
who
signed
your
committal
papers.
 
 I
 don't
 believe
 you.
 
 You're
 just
 looking
 for

46

something
to
hurt
me
with.
 
 I
 have
 the
 papers
 right
 here.
 
 You're
 described
 as
 unstable,
a
possible
threat
to
the
project
through
sabotage
 or
assassination.

It's
signed
by
Burke
Richardson.

LIAR!

Barton Paul Levenson has a degree in physics. Happily married to the genre poet Elizabeth Penrose, he confuses everybody by being both a born-again Christian and a liberal Democrat. His work has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Cricket, Cicada, the New York Review of Science Fiction and many small press markets. His novel, "Ella the Vampire," is now available for download from Lyrical Press, and "I Will" is coming from Virtual Tales in Spring, 2009. He was prohibited from entering the Confluence Short Story Contest again after winning first prize two years in a row. He may be found on the web at www.geocities.com/bpl1960/ .

Image
from
the
Pathfinder
landing
site,
Mars.

M-BRANE SF

CLASSIC REPRINT! I
don’t
know
if
I
will
make
room
for
this
segment
 in
every
issue,
but
I
thought
it
might
be
fun
to
re­ run
 some
 obscure,
 long
 out­of­print
 
 stories
 from
 the
old
pulp
days.
A
reader
of
my
blog
sent
me
this
 one.

I
have
no
idea
where
the
electronic
text
that
I
 used
 to
 format
 these
 pages
 originated
 (Project
 Gutenberg,
 maybe?
 
 It’s
 posted
 there
 as
 well
 and
 the
text
matches,
but
theirs
has
illustrations
with
 it),
 but
 I
 do
 know
 that
 the
 story
 originally
 appeared
in
Comet
in
July
of
1941.
Unfortunately,
 I
 haven’t
 been
 able
 to
 turn
 up
 any
 biographical
 information
 on
 the
 author,
 nor
 any
 sign
 of
 other
 stories
by
this
writer.

I
have,
however,
discovered
 an
 interesting
 bit
 of
 trivia
 about
 it:
 according
 to
 jessesword.com
 (see
 Webnotes
 on
 page
 17),
 it
 contains
 the
 earliest
 documented
 occurrence
 of
 the
word
“earthbound.”
This
story
is,
of
course,
an
 artifact
of
its
era.
It
may
feel
a
bit
dated
and
lack
 appeal
 to
 some
 modern
 readers.
 
 Maybe
 it’s
 not
 even
 as
 “good”
 as
 some
 of
 the
 other
 stuff
 in
 this
 issue.
 
 But
 I
 like
 to
 revisit
 this
 age
 of
 sf
 once
 in
 a
 while..and
what
more
could
one
ask
of
a
title!—CF

The BEAST of SPACE F.E.
Hardart
 
 Here
the
dark
cave,
along
which
Nat
Starrett
had
been
 creeping,
 broadened
 into
 what
 his
 powerful
 searchlight
 revealed
to
be
a
low,
wide,
smoothly
circular
room.
At
his
 feet
lapped
black,
thick‐looking
waves
of
an
underground
 lake,
 a
 pool
 of
 viscous
 substance
 that
 gave
 off
 a
 penetrating,
 poignant
 odor
 of
 acid,
 sweetish
 and
 intoxicating,
unlike
any
acid
he
knew.
The
smell
rolled
up
 in
 a
 sickening,
 sultry
 cloud
 that
 penetrated
 his
 helmet,
 made
 him
 cough
 and
 choke.
 Near
 its
 center
 projected
 from
 the
 sticky
 stuff
 what
 appeared
 to
 be
 the
 nose
 of
 a

FEBRUARY 2009 spaceship.

 He
looked
down
near
his
feet
at
the
edge
of
the
pool
 where
 thick,
 slowly‐moving
 tongues
 of
 the
 liquid
 appeared
to
reach
up
toward
him,
as
if
intent
on
pulling
 him
into
its
depths.
As
each
hungry
wave
fell
back,
it
left
 a
slimy,
snake‐like
trail
behind.
 Now
came
a
wave
of
strange
music,
music
such
as
he
 had
 never
 heard
 before.
 Faintly
 it
 had
 begun
 some
 time
 back,
so
faintly
he
was
barely
aware
of
it.
Now
it
swelled
 into
a
smooth,
impelling
wail
lulling
him
into
drowsiness.
 He
 did
 not
 wonder
 why
 he
 could
 hear
 through
 the
 soundproof
space
helmet
he
wore;
he
ceased
to
wonder
 about
anything.
There
was
only
the
strange
sweetness
of
 acid
and
the
throbbing
music.
 Abruptly
the
spell
was
broken
by
something
shrilling
 in
 his
 brain,
 sending
 little
 chills
 racing
 up
 and
 down
 his
 spine.
 Digger!
 A
 small,
 oddly
 canine‐like
 creature
 with
 telepathic
 powers,
 a
 space‐dweller
 which
 men
 found
 when
 first
 they
 came
 to
 the
 asteroids.
 The
 relationship
 between
 spacehounds
 and
 men
 was
 much
 the
 same
 as
 between
 man
 and
 dog
 in
 the
 old,
 earthbound
 days.
 Appropriate
name
for
the
beast,
Digger.
With
those
large,
 incredibly
 hard
 claws,
 designed
 for
 rooting
 in
 the
 metal
 make‐up
 of
 the
 asteroids
 for
 vital
 elements,
 the
 spacehound
 could
 easily
 have
 shredded
 the
 man's
 spacesuit
 and
 helmet,
 could,
 at
 any
 time,
 tear
 huge
 chunks
out
of
men's
fine
ships.
 The
half‐conscious
man
jerked
his
thin
form
erect.
His
 mouth,
which
had
gaped
loosely,
closed
with
a
snap
into
 firm
lines.
 "She
 isn't
 in
 this
 hell
 hole,
 Digger.
 You
 wouldn't
 expect
her
to
be
where
we
could
find
her
easily."
 Scooping
 the
 small
 beast
 up
 under
 his
 good
 arm,
 he
 quickly
 climbed
 the
 steep,
 slimy
 slope
 of
 the
 cave.
 The
 other
arm
in
his
suit
hung
empty.
That
empty
arm
in
the
 spacesuit
 told
 the
 story
 of
 an
 earthman
 become
 voluntary
 exile,
 choosing
 the
 desolation
 of
 space
 to
 the
 companionship
 of
 other
 humans
 who
 would
 deluge
 him
 with
 unwonted
 sympathy.
 The
 spacehound
 was
 friendly
 in
 its
 own
 fashion;
 fortunately,
 such
 complex
 things
 as
 sympathy
 were
 apparently
 outside
 its
 abilities.
 The
 two
 could
 interchange
 impressions
 of
 danger,
 comfort,
 pleasure,
 discomfort,
 fear,
 and
 appreciation
 of
 each
 other's
 company,
 but
 little
 more.
 Whether
 or
 not
 the
 creature
could
understand
his
thoughts,
he
could
not
tell.
 As
 he
 went
 on,
 he
 reviewed,
 mentally,
 the
 events
 leading
 up
 to
 his
 landing
 here.
 The
 sudden
 appearance
 on
his
teleview
screen
of
the
face
and
slim
shoulders
of
a
 girl.
 Her
 attractiveness
 plainly
 distinguishable
 through
 her
 helmet;
 for
 a
 moment
 he
 forgot
 that
 he
 disliked
 women.
 The
 call
 for
 help,
 cut
 short
 ...
 but
 not
 before
 he
 had
learned
that
apparently
she
was
being
held
prisoner
 on
 Asteroid
 Moira.
 He
 knew
 he'd
 have
 to
 do
 what
 he
 could
 even
 if
 it
 meant
 unwanted
 company
 for
 an
 indefinite
 length
 of
 time.
 The
 spell
 was
 gone
 soon
 after
 her
 face
 vanished;
 he
 remembered
 former
 experiences

47

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

with
attractive‐looking
girls.
Damn
traditions!
 these
 with
 ease.
 But
 that
 doesn't
 explain
 where
 the
 A
 change
 in
 his
 course
 and
 a
 landing
 on
 Asteroid
 humans
 have
 gone.
 It
 might
 be
 space
 pirates
 using
 this
 Moira.
 Here
 he'd
 found
 a
 honeycomb
 of
 caves,
 all
 asteroid
for
a
base,
or
it
might
be
some
alien
form
of
life.
 leading
 from
 one
 large
 main
 tunnel.
 The
 cavern
 walls
 We're
 still
 free.
 Shall
 we
 beat
 it
 or
 stay
 and
 try
 to
 check
 had
 been
 of
 a
 translucent,
 quartz‐like
 substance,
 this
out?"
 ranging
in
color
from
yellowish‐brown
to
violet‐grey.
It
 He
 did
 not
 know
 how
 much
 of
 this
 got
 over
 to
 the
 looked
vaguely
familiar,
yet
he
could
not
place
it.
There
 spacehound,
 but
 the
 impressions
 he
 received
 in
 answer
 was
not
time
to
examine
it
more
carefully.
 were
 those
 of
 approving
 their
 remaining
 where
 they
 The
room
in
which
he'd
found
the
evil,
hungry
lake
 were.
 had
 been
 the
 first
 one
 to
 the
 right.
 Now
 he
 crossed
 to
 "I
suppose
the
best
system
is
to
explore
the
rest
of
the
 the
 opening
 in
 the
 opposite
 wall.
 The
 mouth
 of
 this
 caves
in
order;
let's
go."
 cave
 was
 much
 larger,
 wider
 than
 the
 other.
 He
 stood
 Followed
 by
 Digger,
 he
 walked
 quietly
 toward
 the
 in
 the
 opening,
 slowly
 swung
 the
 beam
 of
 his
 torch
 next
 cave
 on
 the
 left,
 slipped
 through
 the
 doorway,
 and,
 around
 the
 smooth
 walls,
 still
 holding
 Digger,
 who,
 by
 standing
with
his
back
against
the
wall,
swung
the
light
of
 now,
 was
 indicating
 that
 he'd
 like
 to
 be
 set
 down.
 Nat
 his
 torch
 in
 a
 wide,
 swift
 arc
 about
 the
 room.
 Halfway
 released
him
unthinkingly,
his
mind
fully
taken
up
with
 around,
 he
 stopped
 abruptly;
 a
 slim,
 petite
 figure
 what
the
light
revealed.
 appeared
 clearly
 in
 the
 searchlight's
 glare.
 Spaceships!
 The
 room
 was
 The
 girl
 he
 had
 seen
 on
 the
 packed
 with
 them—all
 televisor
 stood
 in
 the
 They
poured
their
penetrating
 sizes,
 old
 and
 new.
 A
 middle
 of
 the
 room,
 blue
light
over
him,
 veritable
 sargasso.
 facing
 a
 telecaster,
 inspectingly,
while
the
music
 At
 first,
 he
 her
 back
 toward
 from
within
rose
and
fell
in
 thought
 they
 him.
 She
 did
 not
 regular
cadences,
sweetly
 might
 be
 craft
 seem
 aware
 of
 him
 belonging
 to
 as
he
moved
forward.
 impelling
and
dulling
to
the
 nameless
 inhabitants
 What
 could
 be
 wrong;
 senses
as
strong
oriental
 of
 this
 world,
 but,
 as
 he
 surely
 that
 light
 would
 incense. approached
 them,
 he
 arouse
her.
 recognized
 Terrestrial
 The
 figure
 did
 not
 turn
 as
 he
 approached.
 identifications.
 So
 near
 was
 he
 now
 that
 he
 could
 seize
 her
 easily,
 still
 The
 first
 was
 a
 scout
 ship
 of
 American
 Spaceways!
 she
 made
 no
 move.
 Nat
 stepped
 to
 one
 side,
 flashed
 his
 Nat
recognized
the
name:
Ceres,
remembered
a
telecast
 torch
 in
 her
 face.
 Her
 beautifully‐lashed
 eyes
 stared
 account
of
its
disappearance
in
space.
There
was
a
neat
 straight
ahead
unblinkingly;
the
expression
on
her
lovely
 little
 reward
 for
 information
 as
 to
 its
 whereabouts.
 composed
 face
 did
 not
 change.
 A
 robot!
 He
 laughed
 Nat's
 lips
 curled
 in
 derision:
 it
 wouldn't
 equal
 the
 bitterly.
But
then,
he
was
not
the
only
one....
 expense
 of
 his
 journey
 out
 here.
 There
 was
 a
 deep
 She
was
an
earth
product;
Nat
opened
her
helmet
and
 groove
 in
 the
 smooth
 material
 of
 the
 floor
 where
 the
 found
 the
 trade‐mark
 of
 Spurgin's
 Robots
 hung
 like
 a
 ship
 had
 been
 dragged
 through
 the
 doorway
 into
 the
 necklace
 about
 her
 throat.
 But
 whoever
 had
 lured
 him
 room.
 What
 machines
 could
 have
 done
 this
 work
 here
 easily
 could
 have
 removed
 her
 from
 one
 of
 the
 without
leaving
their
own
traces?
He
went
to
the
other
 vessels
in
the
front
cave.
It
did
not
seem
like
the
work
of
 ships:
 all
 were
 small,
 mostly
 single
 or
 two‐passenger
 pirates,
more
likely
unknown
intelligent
beings.
 craft.
 The
 last
 entry
 in
 the
 logs
 of
 many
 was
 to
 the
 He
 turned
 to
 examine
 the
 televisor.
 It,
 too,
 was
 an
 effect
 that
 they
 were
 about
 to
 land
 on
 the
 Asteroid
 earth
 product.
 The
 mechanism
 was
 of
 old
 design;
 Moira
to
rescue
a
girl
held
captive
there.
 evidently
it
had
been
taken
from
the
first
of
the
ships
to
 None
 had
 crashed;
 all
 ships
 were
 in
 perfect
 order.
 land
here.
Outside
of
the
telecaster
and
the
solitary
robot,
 But
 all
 were
 deserted.
 Two
 doors
 were
 gone
 from
 the
 there
was
nothing
to
be
seen
in
this
cave.
 interior
 of
 one
 of
 the
 vessels.
 They
 might
 have
 been
 A
 sound
 behind
 him.
 He
 whirled,
 heat‐rod
 poised
 for
 removed
for
any
of
a
hundred
reasons—but
why
here?
 swift,
 stabbing
 action.
 Nothing—except—small
 bowling‐ Nat's
 glance
 swept
 the
 room,
 came
 to
 rest
 on
 the
 ball
 things
 rolling
 in
 through
 a
 narrow
 door.
 Ridiculous
 figure
 of
 a
 heavy
 duty
 robot
 of
 familiar
 design.
 Semi‐ things
 of
 the
 same
 yellowish‐quartz
 material
 as
 human
 in
 form,
 it
 looked
 like
 some
 misshapen,
 bent,
 composed
 the
 cave‐walls.
 At
 regular
 intervals
 a
 dull,
 headless
giant.
He
inspected
it:
Meyers
Robot,
Inc.
Earth
 bluish
 light
 poured
 forth
 from
 rounded
 holes
 in
 their
 designed
for
mining
operations
on
Mars.
 smooth
sides.
And
issuing
forth
from
within
these
comic
 "Well,
 Digger,
 I
 can
 see
 now
 how
 these
 ships
 were
 globes
 was
 the
 same
 weird,
 compelling
 music
 he
 had
 brought
 in
 here;
 that
 robot
 could
 move
 any
 one
 of
 heard
before.
They
rolled
up
to
him,
brushed
against
his

48

M-BRANE SF toes;
 a
 shrilling
 in
 his
 brain
 told
 him
 that
 Digger
 was
 aware
of
them.
 "Back,
 Digger!"
 he
 thought
 as
 he
 drew
 away
 from
 the
 globes.
They
poured
their
penetrating
blue
light
over
him,
 inspectingly,
while
the
music
from
within
rose
and
fell
in
 regular
 cadences,
 sweetly
 impelling
 and
 dulling
 to
 the
 senses
as
strong
oriental
incense.
 But
 Digger
 was
 not
 soothed.
 The
 spacehound
 lunged
 at
one
of
the
globes;
instead
of
slashing
its
sides,
he
found
 himself
 sailing
 through
 the
 air
 toward
 it.
 Nat
 received
 impressions
 of
 irritation
 combined
 with
 astonishment.
 Within
the
globes,
the
music
rose
to
a
furious
whine
while
 one
of
the
things
shot
forth
long
tentacles
from
the
holes
 in
 its
 side.
 Lightning‐swift
 they
 shot
 forth,
 wrapped
 themselves
 about
 the
 body
 of
 the
 spacehound,
 constricting.
 Digger
 writhed
 vainly,
 his
 claws
 powerless
 to
 tear
 at
 the
 whip‐like
 tentacles.
 Nat
 severed
 the
 tentacles
at
their
base
with
the
heat‐beam.
 He
 turned,
 strode
 toward
 the
 door
 watching
 the
 spheres
apprehensively
out
of
the
corner
of
his
eye,
ready
 to
jump
aside
should
they
roll
toward
him
suddenly.
But
 they
followed
at
respectful
distances,
singing
softly.
 Before
he
reached
the
door,
he
found
himself
walking
 in
rhythm
to
the
music,
his
head
swaying.
It
came
slowly,
 insidiously;
 before
 he
 was
 aware,
 his
 body
 no
 longer
 obeyed
 his
 will.
 Muscles
 refused
 to
 move
 other
 than
 in
 coordination
 with
 the
 music.
 His
 arm
 relaxed,
 the
 heat‐ rod
sliding
from
his
grasp.
 But
 Digger!
 The
 spacehound
 sent
 out
 a
 barrage
 of
 vibrations
 that
 fairly
 rocked
 his
 brain
 out
 of
 his
 skull.
 Simultaneously,
 the
 beast
 attacked
 the
 nearest
 globes,
 tearing
 fiercely
 at
 them.
 Rapidly
 the
 others
 rolled
 away,
 but
 two
 lay
 torn
 and
 motionless,
 the
 music
 within
 them
 stilled.
 Nat
 reached
 down,
 retrieved
 the
 heat‐rod.
 "I
 think
 we'd
better
look
for
a
'squeaker'.
Next
time
they
might
get
 you,
Digger."
 They
returned
to
the
room
of
the
spaceships,
seeking
 one
 of
 the
 small,
 portable
 radio‐amplifiers
 used
 for
 searching
 out
 radium.
 It
 was
 known
 as
 a
 "squeaker"
 because
of
the
constant
din
it
made
while
in
use;
the
noise
 would
cease
only
when
radium
was
within
a
hundred
feet
 of
the
mechanism.
He
found
one
after
searching
a
few
of
 the
smaller
ships.
 With
 the
 portable
 radio
 strapped
 to
 his
 back,
 power
 switched
on,
he
started
again
down
the
main
tunnel.
The
 globes
 set
 up
 their
 seductive
 rhythms
 as
 before,
 but
 he
 could
 not
 hear
 them
 above
 the
 discord
 of
 his
 squeaker.
 Failing
to
lure
him
as
before,
they
sought
to
force
him
in
 the
 direction
 they
 desired
 him
 to
 go
 by
 darting
 at
 him
 suddenly,
 lashing
 him
 with
 their
 tentacles.
 But
 it
 was
 a
 simple
 thing
 to
 elude
 them.
 Still
 remained
 the
 question:
 why
could
they
want
to
lure
him
into
that
stinking
pool
of
 acid?
 He
 flashed
 a
 beam
 of
 heat
 at
 the
 nearest
 of
 the

FEBRUARY 2009 annoying
 globes.
 Under
 the
 released
 energy
 it
 glowed,
 yet
 did
 not
 melt.
 But
 the
 tentacles
 sheared
 off
 and
 the
 blue
 lights
 faded.
 The
 flow
 of
 music
 changed
 to
 shrill
 whines
as
of
pain
and
its
rolling
ceased.
The
others
drew
 back;
he
turned
down
another
tunnel.
 They
 stopped
 at
 the
 cave
 beyond
 the
 one
 where
 he
 had
found
the
robot‐girl.
It
was
sealed
by
a
locked
door,
 one
 of
 the
 airlock‐doors
 from
 that
 space
 vessel,
 firmly
 cemented
into
the
natural
opening
of
the
cave.
 Nat
 bent
 forward,
 listening,
 his
 helmeted
 head
 pressed
 against
 the
 door.
 No
 sound.
 He
 was
 suddenly
 aware
of
the
dead
silence
that
pressed
in
on
him
from
all
 sides
 now
 that
 the
 globes
 no
 longer
 sang
 and
 his
 "squeaker"
had
 been
turned
 off.
The
 powerful
 energy
 of
 his
 heat‐beam
 sputtered
 as
 it
 melted
 the
 lock
 into
 incandescent
 droplets
 which
 sizzled
 as
 they
 trickled
 down
the
cold
metal
of
the
door.
The
greasy,
quartz‐like
 material
at
the
side
of
the
door
glowed
in
the
heat
from
 his
rod,
but
no
visible
effect
upon
it
could
be
seen.
What
 was
that
material?
He
knew,
yes,
he
knew—but
he
could
 not
place
a
mental
finger
on
it.
 He
 thrust
 the
 shoulder
 of
 his
 good
 arm
 against
 the
 heavy
 door,
 swung
 it
 inwards,
 stepped
 inside.
 The
 light
 of
 his
 torch
 pierced
 the
 silence,
 picked
 out
 a
 human
 skeleton
in
one
corner.
He
hurried
toward
it—no,
it
was
 not
 entirely
 a
 skeleton
 as
 yet.
 The
 flesh
 and
 bone
 had
 been
 eaten
 away
 from
 the
 lower
 part
 of
 the
 body
 to
 halfway
 up
 the
 hips,
 as
 though
 from
 some
 strong
 acid.
 The
rest
of
the
large,
sturdy
frame
lay
sunken
under
the
 remains
 of
 a
 spacesuit
 which
 was
 tied
 clumsily
 around
 the
middle
to
retain
all
the
air
possible
in
the
upper
half
 of
it.
Evidently
some
acid
had
eaten
away
the
lower
half
 of
 the
 man's
 body
 after
 he
 had
 suffocated.
 The
 face
 was
 that
of
a
Norwegian.
 By
one
outstretched
hand
a
small
notebook
lay
open
 with
 the
 leather
 back
 upward.
 The
 corners
 of
 several
 pages
 were
 turned
 under
 carelessly—Nat
 swung
 the
 torch
 around
 the
 room.
 It
 was
 bare.
 The
 notebook— quickly
 he
 picked
 it
 up.
 The
 page
 on
 which
 the
 writing
 began
was
dated
May
10,
2040.
About
two
months
ago.
 "Helmar
 Swenson.
 My
 daughter,
 Helena,
 aged
 nineteen,
 and
 I
 were
 lured
 into
 the
 maw
 of
 this
 hellish
 monster
 by
 a
 robot
 calling
 for
 help
 in
 our
 television
 screen.
This
thing,
known
to
man
as
Asteroid
Moira,
is,
in
 actuality,
 one
 of
 the
 gigantic
 mineral
 creatures
 which
 inhabited
 a
 planet
 before
 it
 exploded,
 forming
 the
 asteroids.
 Somehow
 it
 survived
 the
 catastrophe,
 and,
 forming
 a
 hard,
 crustaceous
 shell
 about
 itself,
 has
 continued
to
live
here
in
space
as
an
asteroid.
 "It
 is
 apparently
 highly
 intelligent
 and
 has
 acquired
 an
 appetite
 for
 human
 flesh.
 The
 singing
 spheres
 act
 as
 its
 sensory
 organs,
 separated
 from
 the
 body
 and
 given
 locomotion.
It
uses
these
to
lure
victims
into
its
stomach
 in
the
first
cave.
I
escaped
its
lure
at
first
because
of
the
 'squeaker'
I
carried
with
me.
We
set
up
these
two
doors
 as
 a
 protection
 from
 the
 beast
 while
 we
 stayed
 here
 to

49

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

examine
it.
But
the
monster
got
me
when
I
fell
and
the
 peered
 around
 the
 corner
 of
 the
 room.
 She
 lay
 in
 a
 'squeaker'
 was
 broken.
 My
 daughter
 rescued
 me
 after
 crumpled
 heap
 in
 the
 corner;
 quietly
 he
 re‐entered,
 the
acid
of
the
pool
had
begun
eating
away
my
flesh.
 picked
 her
 up
 awkwardly.
 Through
 the
 thin,
 resistant
 "My
Helena
is
locked
in
the
room
opposite
this
one.
 folds
 of
 the
 spacesuit,
 he
 could
 feel
 the
 warmth
 of
 her,
 She
 has
 food
 and
 water
 to
 last
 until
 July
 8th.
 Oxygen
 but
 could
 not
 tell
 whether
 the
 heart
 still
 beat
 or
 not.
 seeps
in
there
somehow—the
beast
wants
to
keep
her
 They
would
have
to
take
her
to
one
of
the
ships.
 alive
until
it
can
get
her
out
of
the
room
to
devour
her."
 Her
limp
form
was
held
tightly
under
his
good
arm
as
 Here
 the
 writing
 became
 more
 cramped
 and
 Nat
 hurried
 down
 the
 main
 tunnel.
 Digger
 apparently
 difficult
to
read.
 realized
the
seriousness
of
the
situation,
for
he
received
 "I
 have
 put
 the
 key
 in
 my
 mouth
 to
 prevent
 the
 impressions
of
"must
hurry"
from
the
beast
and
another
 spheres
from
opening
the
door
should
they
force
their
 creature,
 looking
 much
 like
 him,
 surrounded
 by
 small
 way
 into
 this
 room.
 Some
 one
 must
 come
 to
 save
 my
 creatures
of
the
same
type,
trapped
in
a
crevice.
"Aren't
 Helena.
I
can't
breathe—"
 you
a
bit
premature,
old
fellow,"
he
chided.
 The
 writing
 ended
 in
 a
 long
 scrawl
 angling
 off
 the
 Halfway
there,
the
globes
met
them
again.
The
things
 page.
The
pencil
lay
some
distance
from
the
body.
 were
not
singing;
from
their
many
eyes
poured
a
fierce,
 July
8th!
But
that
had
been
almost
a
week
ago!
 angry
 blue
 light.
 They
 rolled
 with
 a
 determination
 that
 He
 unscrewed
 the
 man's
 helmet,
 tried
 to
 pry
 the
 frightened
him.
Yet
he
strode
on,
until
they
were
barely
a
 jaws
 open.
 They
 would
 not
 move;
 the
 airless
 void
 foot
away.
 surrounding
 the
 tiny
 planetoid
 had
 frozen
 the
 body
 "Jump,
Digger!"
 until
now
it
was
as
solid
as
the
quartz
cave‐walls.
There
 The
 spheres
 stopped
 short,
 reversed
 their
 direction
 was
but
one
thing
to
do:
the
other
door
must
be
melted
 toward
the
little
group
at
a
furious
rate,
flinging
out
long,
 down.
 whip‐like
 tentacles.
 One
 wrapped
 itself
 around
 Nat's
 He
leaped
halfway
across
the
room
toward
the
door
 ankle,
drew
him
down.
He
shifted
the
limp
form
over
to
 in
the
opposite
wall.
Could
it
be
possible
that
he
was
in
 his
 shoulder,
 slipped
 out
 his
 heat‐rod.
 Quickly
 the
 time?
Anxiously
he
flung
a
bolt
of
energy
from
his
heat
 tentacle
was
severed.
But
now
others
took
their
place;
he
 rod
 toward
 the
 lock,
 holding
 a
 flashlight
 continued
 firing
 at
 them,
 making
 each
 bolt
 tell,
 but
 the
 under
 the
 other
 stump
 of
 an
 arm.
 The
 numbers
were
too
great.
 molten
 metal
 flowed
 to
 the
 floor
 Digger
sprang
into
action,
rending
the
globes
 He
unscrewed
 like
a
rivulet
of
lava.
 with
those
claws
that
were
capable
of
tearing
 The
 door,
 hanging
 off
 the
hulls
of
spaceships.
But
tentacles
lashed
 the
man's
helmet,
 balance,
 screeched
 open;
 air
 around
 him
 from
 the
 rear,
 snaked
 about
 tried
to
pry
the
 swooshed
 past
 him
 in
 its
 him
so
that
he
was
helpless.
 sudden
 escape
 from
 the
 The
 girl
 was
 slipping
 off
 Nat's
 jaws
open.
They
 room.
He
squeezed
himself
 shoulder.
He
could
not
raise
the
stump
 would
not
move;
 through,
 peered
 carefully
 of
 an
 arm
 to
 balance
 her;
 it
 was
 stiff
 the
airless
void
 about
 to
 see
 a
 slim
 and
 useless.
 He
 stopped
 firing
 long
 spacesuit
start
to
crumple
 enough
 to
 make
 the
 shift,
 even
 as
 the
 surrounding
the
 floorward
in
a
corner.
The
 spheres
 attacked
 again.
 The
 bolts
 had
 tiny
planetoid
 girl
was
alive!
 put
 out
 the
 lights
 in
 fully
 half
 of
 the
 He
started
toward
her;
 marauders
 but
 the
 others
 came
 on
 had
frozen
the
 the
slim
figure
pulled
itself
 unafraid.
 body
until
now
it
 erect
 again.
 He
 saw
 a
 Nat
 straddled
 Digger's
 writhing
 was
as
solid
as
 drawn,
 emaciated
 face
 body,
 held
 the
 spacehound
 motionless
 behind
the
helmet.
Then,
with
 between
his
legs.
At
short
range,
he
seared
 the
quartz
cave‐ a
 fury
 that
 unnerved
 him,
 she
 off
 the
 imprisoning
 tentacles,
 knowing
 that
 walls. whipped
 out
 a
 heat
 rod,
 shot
 a
 it
 would
 take
 far
 more
 than
 a
 heat‐bolt
 to
 searing
 bolt
 in
 his
 direction.
 He
 felt
 damage
 the
 well‐nigh
 impregnable
 creature.
 He
 the
 fierce
 heat
 of
 it
 as
 it
 whizzed
 past
 swooped
 the
 dog
 up
 under
 his
 good
 arm
 and
 fled
 his
shoulder;
in
his
brain
Digger's
thoughts
of
 from
 the
 madly‐pursuing
 spheres,
 thanking
 nameless
 attack
 came
 to
 him,
 he
 flung
 an
 arm
 around
 the
 deities
 that
 the
 gravity
 here
 permitted
 such
 herculean
 spacehound,
 dragged
 it
 back
 as
 he
 withdrew
 toward
 feats.
 The
 spheres
 rolled
 faster,
 he
 soon
 found,
 than
 he
 the
 door.
 The
 girl
 continued
 to
 fire
 bolt
 after
 bolt
 could
jump;
so
long
as
he
was
above
them,
all
was
well,
 straight
ahead,
her
eyes
wide
and
staring.
 but
by
the
time
the
weak
gravity
permitted
him
to
land,
 They
made
the
door,
waited
outside
while
the
firing
 they
were
waiting
for
him.
He
tried
zig‐zagging.
Good!
It
 within
 continued.
 When
 at
 last
 it
 was
 still
 within,
 he
 worked.
 He
 eluded
 them
 up
 to
 the
 mouth
 of
 the
 cave,

50

M-BRANE SF then
jumped
for
the
door
of
his
ship's
outer
airlock.
 Nat
 placed
 the
 girl
 in
 his
 bunk,
 removed
 the
 cumbersome
 spacesuit.
 Her
 eyes
 blinked
 faintly,
 then
 sprang
open.
But
they
did
not
see
him;
they
were
staring
 straight
 ahead.
 Her
 mouth
 opened
 and
 shut
 weakly
 as
 though
 she
 were
 speaking,
 but
 no
 sound
 issued
 from
 it.
 He
 brought
 her
 water,
 but
 when
 he
 returned
 she
 had
 fallen
asleep.
He
returned
to
the
kitchen
to
prepare
some
 food.
 "You're
 still
 running
 around
 in
 that
 pillow
 case,"
 he
 remarked
to
Digger
as
he
extracted
the
spacehound
from
 it.
"Attend
me,
now.
We
know
why
and
how
those
people
 disappeared.
It
would
take
the
Space
Patrol
ship
at
least
a
 month
to
arrive
here;
I
don't
intend
to
perch
on
the
back
 of
this
devil
as
long
as
that.
And
if
we
leave,
old
thing,
it'll
 just
lure
other
chivalrous
fools
to
very
unpleasant
ends.
 "And
we've
got
to
get
this
kid
back
to
civilization.
She
 needs
a
doctor's
care,
preferably
a
doctor
with
two
arms."
 Digger's
vibrations
were
one
of
general
approval.
 "We
 could
 poison
 it,"
 he
 went
 on.
 "Only
 I'm
 not
 a
 chemist;
even
if
I
knew
the
compounds
contained
in
that
 reeking
 stomach
 I
 wouldn't
 know
 what
 would
 destroy
 them.
Might
blow
it
up,
but
we
haven't
enough
explosive.
 "No,
 we'll
 have
 to
 get
 down
 into
 the
 thing's
 insides
 again.
 In
 fact—"
 He
 paused
 suddenly,
 mouth
 open.
 "Congratulate
me,
Digger!
I
have
it!"
 The
 smell
 of
 burning
 vegetables
 cut
 short
 his
 soliloquy.
He
fed
the
starved,
half‐blind
girl,
then
left
her
 sleeping
exhaustedly
as
he
squirmed
into
his
suit.
 No
sooner
had
he
entered
the
mouth
of
the
cave
than
a
 half‐dozen
 of
 the
 singing
 sensory
 organs
 rolled
 quickly,
 yet
 not
 angrily,
 toward
 him.
 The
 beast
 was
 apparently
 optimistic,
 for
 the
 globes
 sang
 in
 their
 most
 soothing,
 seductive
tones.
They
tried
to
herd
him
into
the
first
cave
 on
 the
 right,
 but
 he
 had
 remembered
 the
 squeaker;
 they
 could
not
distract
him.
 Effortlessly
he
leaped
over
them
toward
the
mouth
of
 the
 cave
 on
 the
 left.
 That
 was
 where
 the
 spaceships
 lay,
 pointing
 in
 all
 directions
 like
 a
 carelessly‐dropped
 handful
of
rice.
 All
 the
 ships
 were
 in
 running
 order.
 Good;
 had
 there
 been
one
vessel
he
could
not
move,
then
all
was
lost.
The
 fuel
 in
 several
 ran
 low,
 but
 after
 a
 few
 moments
 of
 punching
 levers
 and
 pulling
 chokes,
 the
 under
 rockets
 thundered
in
the
big
room.
 Taking
 care
 not
 to
 injure
 the
 motor
 compartments
 of
 the
 other
 ships,
 using
 only
 the
 most
 minute
 explosion‐ quantities,
 he
 jockeyed
 each
 ship
 around
 until
 all
 their
 noses
pointed
in
one
direction.
The
exhausts
pointed
out
 through
the
wide
doorway.
It
was
well
that
the
beast
had
 formed
curved
corners
in
the
room,
otherwise
the
scheme
 would
not
have
worked.
The
exhausts
which
did
not
point
 toward
 the
 door,
 directly,
 were
 toward
 the
 curved
 walls
 which
 would
 deflect
 the
 forceful
 gasses
 expelled
 doorward.
 When
 he
 emerged
 from
 the
 ship,
 the
 spheres
 attacked.

FEBRUARY 2009 He
seared
off
their
tentacles
throughout
what
seemed
to
 be
 eternities.
 His
 body
 was
 becoming
 a
 mass
 of
 bruises
 from
 the
 lash
 of
 their
 tentacles.
 He
 burned
 his
 way
 through
the
swarm
on
to
ship
after
ship.
 As
 he
 stepped
 from
 the
 last
 vessel
 there
 was
 a
 rumbling
 beneath
 his
 feet.
 Did
 the
 monster
 understand
 his
intent?
Was
it
stirring
in
its
shell?
Most
of
the
globes
 had
 disappeared;
 now
 a
 nauseatingly
 sweet
 odor
 penetrated
the
screen
in
his
headpiece,
which
permitted
 him
 to
 smell
 without
 allowing
 the
 oxygen
 to
 escape.
 He
 hurried
around
to
the
rear
of
the
ship,
an
apprehensive,
 sickening
 feeling
 at
 the
 pit
 of
 his
 stomach.
 A
 thick
 jelly‐ like
 wave
 of
 liquid
 was
 rolling
 over
 the
 floor—the
 reeking,
 deadly
 juices
 from
 the
 beast's
 stomach.
 If
 the
 liquid
touched
him,
it
would
eat
through
the
heavy
fabric,
 exploding
 the
 air
 pressure
 from
 around
 his
 body.
 How
 was
he
to
escape
from
the
cave?
 The
answer
came
to
him
suddenly.
Quickly
he
darted
 back
 toward
 the
 nearest
 vessel.
 Two
 of
 the
 screaming
 spheres
 blocked
 his
 way;
 he
 sent
 bolt
 after
 searing
 bolt
 into
them,
more
of
a
charge
than
he
had
given
any
of
the
 others.
 The
 lights
 in
 the
 globes
 went
 out;
 their
 voices
 ceased.
 And
 they
 burst
 into
 slowly
 mounting
 incandescence.
Yet,
they
were
not
consumed
by
their
fire,
 only
 glowed
 an
 intense
 white
 light
 like
 that
 of
 a
 lighthouse.
 "Lighthouse!"
 The
 word
 flashed
 through
 his
 mind
 clearly,
strongly.
They
glowed
like
the
"zirconia
lights"
of
 a
 lighthouse.
 Why
 hadn't
 he
 recognized
 the
 greasy,
 quartz‐like
material
before?
It
was
zirconia,
a
compound
 of
 zirconium,
 of
 course.
 A
 silicate
 base
 creature
 could
 easily
have
formed
a
shell
of
it
about
itself.
 Zirconia—one
 of
 the
 compounds
 he'd
 intended
 prospecting
 for
 on
 the
 moons
 of
 Saturn.
 Worth
 over
 a
 hundred
 dollars
 per
 pound.
 Because
 of
 its
 resistance
 to
 heat,
 it
 was
 used
 to
 line
 the
 tubes
 of
 rockets;
 Terra's
 supply
 had
 long
 been
 used
 up.
 Here
 was
 a
 fortune
 all
 around
him;
but
that
fortune
was
about
to
be
destroyed,
 he
along
with
it,
if
he
did
not
hurry.
 If
he
could
only
reach
the
timing
mechanism
to
yank
 from
it
the
wires
connecting
it
to
the
other
ships.
It
was
 at
the
other
end
of
the
line.
He
started
in
that
direction,
 but
a
surge
of
fatal,
thick
acid
rolled
before
him,
reaching
 for
him
with
hungry,
questing
tongues.
 When
 it
 was
 almost
 touching
 his
 toes,
 he
 leaped.
 As
 he
 floated
 toward
 the
 floor,
 he
 placed
 a
 chair
 beneath
 him
 so
 that
 his
 feet
 landed
 on
 the
 seat.
 The
 legs
 of
 the
 chair
sank
slowly
into
the
liquid.
 Again
he
leaped,
his
moment
retarded
by
the
fluid
which
 now
reached
halfway
up
the
chair
legs,
sucked
and
clung
 there.
 The
 sweetly‐evil
 smelling
 stuff
 was
 rising
 rapidly.
 But
 the
 next
 leap
 carried
 him
 into
 the
 main
 cave.
 Abandoning
the
chair,
he
leaped
once
more,
out
through
 the
cave's
mouth,
pursued
by
the
waving
tentacles
of
the
 sensory
spheres.
 He
had
lost
precious
minutes
eluding
that
deadly
acid.

51

M-BRANE SF It
 would
 take
 at
 least
 five
 minutes
 to
 get
 his
 ship
 away
 from
the
asteroid;
he
must
hurry
before
all
those
rocket
 motors
were
thrown
into
action,
or
it
would
be
too
late.
 Leap
and
leap
again.
It
seemed
ages,
but
he
reached
the
 ship,
 bolted
 the
 door
 shut.
 Thumps
 against
 the
 door
 as
 the
pursuing
globes
ran
up
against
it.
A
thought
came
to
 him;
 swiftly
 he
 opened
 the
 door,
 permitted
 a
 few
 of
 them
to
enter,
then
slammed
it
shut.
With
the
heat
gun
 he
sheared
off
their
tentacles;
he
could
sell
the
zirconia
 in
 the
 entities.
 Then
 he
 turned
 to
 the
 controls
 and
 the
 ship
zoomed
up
and
out.
 Nat
 had
 barely
 raised
 his
 ship
 from
 the
 Asteroid
 Moira
when
he
saw
the
small
planetoid
lurch
suddenly,
 bounding
 off
 its
 orbit
 at
 almost
 a
 right
 angle.
 The
 sudden
combined
driving
force
of
all
the
rockets
within
 the
cave
had
sent
it
hurtling
away
like
a
rocket
itself.
 The
asteroid
housing
the
monster
was
heading
into
the
 Flora
group
of
Asteroids.
There
the
fifty‐seven
odd
solid
 bodies
 of
 that
 group
 would
 grind,
 crack,
 and
 rend
 that
 dangerous
beast
into
harmless,
dead
fragments.
 "A
 good
 job,"
 said
 a
 weak,
 but
 softly
 friendly
 voice
 behind
him.
He
whirled.
The
girl
stood
in
the
doorway
of
 the
 pilot
 room,
 supporting
 herself
 against
 the
 door
 frame.
Digger
rubbed
thoughtfully
against
her
legs.
 "We'll
 just
 follow
 that
 asteroid,
 Miss,"
 he
 said,
 "and
 see
 if
 we
 can't
 pick
 up
 some
 odd
 fragment
 of
 zirconia
 when
 it's
 smashed
 in
 the
 grindstone
 there.
 Then
 we'll
 light
out
for
Terra."
 She
smiled.
Earth,
to
him,
seemed
like
a
very
good
 place
to
go
as
soon
as
possible.

AFTERword I started this piece as an entry for the blog, but decided that it might run a bit long for the evident short-attention-span nature of that forum. —CF

Spock
smiled.
 ­­from
“The
Unreal
McCoy”
by
James
Blish

Often
lately,
I’ve
been
thinking
that
sf
readers
ought
 to
take
another
look
at
James
Blish.


 
 When
 I
 started
 this
 article,
 I
 had
 been
 planning
 to
 complain
about
how
few
fans
of
science
fiction
seem
to
 even
 remember
 Blish
 any
 longer.
 
 As
 Brian
 Aldiss
 remarks
in
Trillion
Year
Spree,
“He
was
an
irreplaceable
 mixture
 of
 savant,
 plain
 hack,
 and
 visionary,
 and
 it
 is
 a
 case
 for
 sorrow
 that
 his
 individual
 contribution
 to
 SF
 has
 on
 the
 whole
 been
 disregarded.”
 (p.
 240)
 
 I
 am

52

FEBRUARY 2009 probably—at
 thirty‐seven
 years
 old—at
 the
 youngest
 end
of
the
range
of
readers
who
remember,
for
example,
 his
thoughtful
and
weird
novella
“A
Case
of
Conscience.”
 I
had
been
planning
to
complain
about
how—when
he
is
 remembered
 at
 all—it
 is
 most
 often
 for
 his
 short
 story
 adaptations
of
the
Star
Trek
TV
series,
published
as
Star
 Trek
 1
 through
 12
 and
 Mudd’s
 Angels,
 those
 last
 two
 volumes
 completed
 by
 his
 wife
 J.A.
 Lawrence
 after
 his
 death.
 He
 also
 wrote
 the
 first
 ever
 professionally
 published
original‐story
Star
Trek
novel,
1970’s
strange,
 meditative
little
book
Spock
Must
Die!
 
 I
wanted
to
talk
about
(instead
of
those
old
Star
Trek
 books)
 his
 Cities
 in
 Flight
 series,
 about
 his
 broad
 imagination,
 scientific
 seriousness
 and
 his
 disciplined,
 deliberate
 literary
 craftsmanship.
 Earlier
 this
 year,
 needing
 something
 to
 read,
 I
 selected
 from
 my
 own
 shelves
 Earthman
 Come
 Home,
 a
 volume
 of
 that
 Cities
 saga.
 
 I
 had
 owned
 a
 copy
 of
 this
 book
 for
 years,
 an
 old
 book
club
edition
from
the
1960s
that
I
had
bought
for
a
 quarter
at
a
thrift
store
in
the
1990s
along
with
a
slew
of
 other
 old
 sf
 books.
 I
 had
 never
 read
 it,
 though.
 I
 am
 not
 sure
 why
 I
 picked
 it
 out
 right
 then.
 
 I
 suspect
 that
 its
 physical
 size—book
 club
 format
 and
 not
 very
 thick
 anyway—might
 have
 played
 into
 the
 decision.
 In
 recent
 years
 I
 have
 experienced
 occasional
 phases
 of
 depression,
 and
 one
 thing
 that
 I
 do
 to
 distract
 myself
 from
 them
 and
 get
 away
 from
 my
 own
 bloated
 mental
 condition
is
to
read
a
good
(and
easy)
book.

When
I
feel
 the
worst,
the
best
bet
for
me
is
a
book
that
can
be
read
 in
 a
 single
 flat‐on‐my‐back
 session…and
 followed
 immediately
by
another
such
a
one,
if
necessary,
if
there
 must
 be
 more
 waking
 hours
 before
 sleep
 takes
 over.
 I
 read
 pretty
 quickly,
 so
 working
 through
 two
 or
 three
 hundred
pages,
during
a
period
of
hours
when
I’ve
given
 up
 on
 doing
 anything
 else,
 is
 no
 big
 challenge.
 And
 it’s
 often
just
the
right
medicine.
 
 But
 as
 it
 happens,
 I’m
 not
 going
 to
 say
 much
 at
 all
 about
 Earthman
 Come
 Home.
 I
 will
 say
 that
 I
 found
 it
 ironic—given
 where
 I
 have
 been
 living
 lately—that
 the
 main
 characters,
 the
 denizens
 of
 the
 space‐going
 Manhattan,
 sent
 aloft
 by
 the
 miracle
 of
 the
 anti‐grav
 device
 called
 the
 “spindizzy,”
 refer
 to
 themselves
 as
 “Okies”
 and
 that
 the
 milieu
 of
 the
 story
 is
 a
 sort
 of
 galactic
 Dust
 Bowl
 in
 which
 whole
 cities
 have
 become
 the
wandering
homes
of
hobos
looking
for
work
(though
 these
 “hobos”
 are
 immortal
 scientists
 and
 engineers
 whose
 capacity
 for
 hard
 work
 includes
 moving
 whole
 planets
with
their
astounding
technical
know‐how).
This
 book,
like
its
three
companion
volumes,
is
what
A.E.
Van
 Vogt
 called
 a
 “fix‐up,”
 a
 book
 that
 was
 not
 originally
 a
 novel
 but
 rather
 compiled
 from
 a
 set
 of
 closely
 related
 short
stories
to
make
something
like
a
novel
(Van
Vogt’s
 own
 The
Mixed
Men
 and
 The
Voyage
of
the
Space
Beagle

Christopher
Fletcher

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF would
be
other
examples
of
the
form.).
Reading
it
kept
me
 distracted
 and
 even
 a
 little
 happier
 during
 the
 bad
 day
 that
I
spent
with
it.
 
 But
 I
 come
 around,
 gradually,
 to
 my
 point.
 
 I
 figured
 that
 when
 I
 decided
 to
 write
 about
 James
 Blish
 that
 I
 ought
 to
 focus
 on
 his
 original
 work
 and
 try
 to
 highlight
 the
fact
that
he
was
a
lot
more
than
 the
 hired
 hand
 that
 churned
 out
the
Star
Trek
tie‐ins.
 Then,
 after
 a
 long
 while
 and
 a
 whole
 discarded
 draft
 of
 and this
article,
I
realized
 that
 I
 was
 being
 dishonest
 to
 myself
 and
 maybe
 even
 dishonoring
 the
 memory
of
James
Blish:
for
it
is
plainly
and
 irrefutably
 true
 that
 Blish’s
 best
 and
 most
 treasured
 gift
 to
 me
personally
 as
 a
 reader
 was
 indeed
 those
 Star
Trek
 books.

 
 I
 read
 them
 when
 I
 was
 a
 quite
 young
 kid,
 and
 they
 were
 among
 the
 first
 science
 fiction
 books
 of
 any
 type
 that
I
ever
read.
My
mom
bought
me
a
box
set
containing
 the
 first
 five
 of
 them
 when
 I
 was
 eight
 years
 old.
 I
 still
 have
 that
 box
 of
 Blish
 Star
 Trek
 books
 and
 it
 sits
 in
 a
 prominent
place
on
the
bookshelves
that
fill
much
of
the
 room
 in
 which
 I
 write
 everyday.
 One
 doesn’t
 see
 these
 paperback
book
box
sets
as
much
anymore,
but
they
were
 common
 in
 the
 1970s
 and
 early
 1980s.
 I
 even
 had
 ones
 that
 contained
 collections
 of
 Mad
 Magazine
 reprints,
 as
 well
as
Garfield

comic
strips
and
(I
shudder
to
recall
and
 admit)
Ziggy.
These
books
were,
in
fact,
my
first
exposure
 to
 many
 episodes
 of
 Star
 Trek
 before
 I
 ever
 even
 saw
 them
on
TV
for
the
first
time.
In
fact,
reading
them
made
 me
into
a
young
Trekkie
before
the
show
itself
had
made
 its
 full
 impression.
 
 While
 TV
 reruns
 of
 Star
 Trek
 were
 quite
 commonplace
 in
 the
 70s
 and
 80s,
 vagaries
 of
 TV
 scheduling
and
not
yet
owning
a
VCR
would
often
deprive
 me
of
the
chance
to
see
it.

The
books,
however,
didn’t
go
 anywhere
 and
 I
 could
 pick
 them
 up
 any
 time
 of
 day
 or
 night.

Night
especially.
 
 The
 circumstances
 under
 which
 I
 first
 read
 the
 Blish
 Star
 Treks
 loom
 large
 in
 my
 memory.
 As
 a
 young
 kid,
 I
 lived
 through
 a
 long
 phase
 of
 being
 something
 of
 an
 insomniac.
 
 I
 was
 also
 scared
 a
 lot,
 too,
 as
 the
 nights
 would
wear
on.

I
was
a
real
fraidy
cat,
and
got
more
that
 way
 as
 the
 night
 deepened.
 I
 don’t
 know
 why—maybe
 it
 was
 an
 effect
 of
 exhaustion
 combined
 with
 all
 the
 scary
 movies
 I
 loved
 to
 watch
 on
 TV.
 
 I
 remember
 vividly
 a
 Saturday
 night
 when
 I
 was
 spending
 a
 weekend
 at
 my
 Mom’s
place.

This
was
shortly
after
she
and
my
dad
split
 up
and
near
the
time
that
I
was
given
the
Star
Trek
book
 set.
I
know
that
it
was
a
Saturday
night,
too,
because
if
it
 had
been
a
Friday,
then
I
would
have
been
able
to
watch
 on
TV
a
local
program
called
TJ
and
the
All
Night
Theater.
 This
was
a
kind
of
TV
that
no
longer
exists
and
which
was

wonderful:
a
guy
at
a
local
broadcast
TV
station
sat
up
 all
night
on
Fridays
hosting
a
marathon
of
movies
that
 would
 carry
 me,
 if
 I
 didn’t
 fall
 asleep,
 all
 the
 way
 through
 to
 Saturday
 daylight
 and
 cartoon
 time.
 
 TJ’s
 films
 were
 not
 exclusively
 sf
 and
 horror,
 but
 the
 schedule
 was
 pretty
 heavily
 weighted
 toward
 those
 genres.
 On
 Saturday
 night,
 however,
 TV
 did
 not
 run
 all
 night.
 
 This
 was
 before
 we
 had
 cable,
 and
 every
 single
 one
 of
 the
 me broadcast
 stations
 would
 actually
 sign
 off
 for
 several
 hours
 in
 the
very
early
a.m.

 
 Kids
much
at
all
younger
than
me
will
 not
remember
the
TV
sign‐off.
No
one
does
it
anymore,
 and
 hasn’t
 for
 ages.
 
 I’d
 venture
 to
 say
 that
 any
 American
born
later
than
1980
has
never
even
seen
it
 happen.
 Nowadays,
 even
 the
 crappiest
 and
 most
 scurrilous
of
TV
channels
can
now
fill
those
hours
with
 infomercials
 if
 they
 don’t
 choose
 to
 put
 up
 any
 legitimate
programming.
In
those
dark
old
days,
for
an
 insomniac
 fraidy‐cat
 kid,
 the
 sign‐off
 was
 horrifying.
 The
stations
would
announce
that
their
broadcast
day
 was
ending.
The
national
anthem
would
play
and
slow‐ mo
footage
of
a
waving
flag
would
fill
the
screen.
Yeah,
 for
 real:
 they’d
 play
 the
 “Star
 Spangled
 Banner”
 as
 some
 kind
 of
 ominous
 musical
 transition
 into
 deepest
 night.

And
then
there
would
be
static.
Not
a
silent
blue
 screen
 like
 what
 happens
 on
 your
 TV
 now
 when
 the
 signal
from
the
cable
goes
out,
but
actual
noisy
snow.
It
 meant
 that
 the
 comforting
 distraction
 of
 TV
 was
 over
 with
and
would
not
return
until
almost
dawn
with
the
 farm
 report
 or
 Pat
 Robertson.
 
 There
 were
 no
 VCRs,
 video
games
or
computers
to
fall
back
on
either.
 
 But
there
were
books.
 
On
this
particular
Saturday
 night
that
I
am
recalling,
I
watched
on
TV
a
movie
that
 was
 particularly
 creepy.
 
 I
 have
 no
 idea
 what
 it
 was
 called,
but
it
involved
a
space
ship
crew
that
was
being
 preyed
 upon
 by
 some
 sort
 of
 vampirism.
 I
 think
 they
 were
 perhaps
 trying
 to
 return
 to
 Earth
 from
 somewhere,
 maybe
 Mars,
 and
 were
 carrying
 a
 crewperson
 or
 perhaps
 crew‐people
 who
 were
 dead
 but
were
returning
to
life.
It
was
scary
as
hell,
and
then
 it
 seemed
 even
 scarier
 when
 the
 sign‐off
 happened
 right
 after
 and
 I
 was
 left
 alone
 to
 contemplate
 it.
 I
 badly
needed
to
use
the
restroom,
but
I
was
too
scared
 to
 leave
 my
 bedroom
 and
 make
 my
 way
 through
 the
 dark.
 I
 think
 what
 I
 was
 really
 scared
 of
 was
 that
 my
 mom
 would
 wake
 up,
 be
 annoyed
 to
 discover
 that
 I
 was
 still
 awake
 with
 my
 bedroom
 lights
 on
 and
 then
 force
 me
 to
 truly
 go
 to
 bed…with
 the
 lights
 off.
 My
 dresser
 sat
 angled
 in
 a
 corner
 of
 the
 room.
 
 I
 wedged
 myself
into
a
space
between
it
and
the
wall
and
pissed

James Blish

53

FEBRUARY 2009

M-BRANE SF on
the
carpeted
floor
behind
that
dresser.
I
really
did.
 
 With
 that
 problem
 solved,
 all
 I
 needed
 to
 do
 was
 survive
a
few
more
hours
of
the
night
until
sunlight
and
 TV
 returned.
 I
 turned,
 then,
 to
 James
 Blish
 and
 Star
 Trek.
 
 I
 gingerly
 eased
 myself
 into
 bed,
 lights
 still
 on,
 propped
 myself
 up
 on
 pillows—one
 carefully
 backed
 up
 flat
 and
 upright
 against
 the
 headboard
 to
 keep
 undead
 corpse
 hands
 from
 reaching
 through
 the
 spindles
and
grabbing
me—and
started
reading.

It
was
 the
perfect
segue
way
from
frightful
alertness
to
sleep,
 and
 I
 guess
 I
 must
 have
 fallen
 asleep
 mid‐page.
 
 The

book
 was
 still
 in
 bed
 with
 me
 when
 I
 woke
 up
 in
 the
 morning.
And
I
stayed
in
bed
for
a
while
and
continued
 reading
 it,
 uninterested
 that
 TV
 was
 back
 on.
 Sunday
 morning
 TV
 was
 just
 a
 graveyard
 of
 hysterical
 church
 shows
 anyway,
 some
 even
 featuring
 an
 inset
 image
 in
 the
lower
left
corner
of
the
screen
containing
a
woman,
 framed
 in
 fog,
 delivering
 the
 sign
 language
 version
 of
 the
sermon.
 
 I
didn’t
really
understand,
as
a
child,
what
these
TV
 show
tie‐in
books
were,
how
they
were
made,
why
they
 were
 produced,
 and
 what
 their
 relationship
 to
 the
 source
material
was.

As
the
years
passed
and
I
became
 more
entranced
with
Star
Trek
on
TV,
I
tended
to
view
 the
Blish
adaptations
and
their
variations
from
the
TV
 episodes
 as
 some
 kind
 of
 additional
 “real”
 material,
 some
footnotes
to
the
canon
of
the
One
Truth
depicted
 on
 TV
 that
 needed
 to
 be
 taken
 seriously
 alongside
 the
 televised
 material.
 I’d
 expend
 a
 lot
 of
 thought
 reconciling
 contradictions,
 forcing
 Blish
 Trek
 and
 TV
 Trek
 to
 conform
 one
 to
 the
 other.
 
 What
 exactly
 could
 he
mean,
for
example,
when
he
writes
that
the
Klingons
 were
 originally
 of
 “Oriental
 stock?”
 Puzzles
 like
 that
 recurred
as
I
got
older
and
re‐read
the
Blish
versions.

54

This
 eventually
 became
 a
 lesson
 in
 “in‐universe”
 consistency
 and
 continuity.
 I
 learned
 that
 Blish
 had
 worked
 from
 shooting
 scripts
 that
 often
 varied
 from
 what
was
aired
or
may
have
contained
information
that
 was
 never
 put
 on
 screen.
 More
 remarkable
 still
 was
 the
 fact
 that
 he
 wrote
 most
 of
 those
 adaptations
 without
 ever
 himself
 having
 seen
 the
 show
 on
 TV
 (evidently
 it
 wasn’t
 running
 in
 England
 where
 he
 lived).
 Then,
 even
 later
still,
I
recognized
the
fact
that
none
of
it
was
Truth
 save
maybe
for
the
televised
show.

By
the
time
I
started
 publishing
 my
 own
 Trek
 fanzine
 at
 the
 age
 of
 14,
 I
 was
 well
 steeped
 in
 the
 Trekkie
 predilection
 for
 “alternate
 universes”
as
the
explanation
for
everything
that
doesn’t
 quite
make
sense
and
the
creators’
careless
insertions
of
 inconsistencies
and
inaccuracies
into
every
movie
sequel
 and,
later,
the
spin‐off
TV
shows.
In
retrospect,
I
wonder
 why
 we
 bothered
 to
 care
 and
 why
 we
 happily
 tried
 to
 make
 it
 all
 “fit”
 when
 they
 would
 do
 something
 really
 dumb
 like
 substituting
 the
 word
 “Klingon”
 for
 the
 word
 “Romulan”
 in
 Star
 Trek
 II
 and
 thereby
 saddle
 the
 Trek
 universe
 with
 a
 hitherto
 unheard
 of
 “Klingon
 Neutral
 Zone”;
 or
 why
 it
 bugged
 us
 that
 the
 Enterprise’s
 deck
 numbers
 ascend
 rather
 descend
 from
 bottom
 to
 top
 of
 the
ship
only
in
Star
Trek
V;
or
why
they
kept
switching
 from
 touch‐screens
 to
 switches
 and
 slides
 and
 buttons
 movie
 by
 movie;
 or
 why,
 when
 Next
 Generation
 came
 along,
they
went
ahead
and
established
a
“World
War
III”
 as
 a
 part
 of
 history
 and
 made
 it
 a
 completely
 different
 event
than
the
third
world
war
and
“last
of
your
so‐called
 ‘World
Wars’”
twice
referenced
by
Spock
on
the
original
 show.
 Yeah,
 we
 young
 Trekkers
 cared
 about
 all
 that
 dumb
crap.

It’s
too
bad
that
the
writers
and
producers
of
 all
 the
 movies
 and
 later
 TV
 series
 did
 not,
 or
 that
 universe’s
 continuity
 wouldn’t
 be
 half
 the
 irreconcilable
 mess
that
it
is.
 Blish’s
 Trek
 stands
 almost
 as
 a
 whole
 self‐contained
 Star
Trek
alternate
universe.
It’s
different
from
the
show
 and
it
has
nothing
whatsoever
to
do
with
any
of
the
later
 movies,
TV
shows
or
book
projects
that
collectively
form
 the
 larger,
 messy,
 discontinuous
 Trek
 universe.
 It
 will
 never
be
part
of
all
of
that.
It’s
just
plain
different
in
tone
 and
sensibility,
much
like
Blish’s
other
work
was
from
a
 lot
of
that
of
his
contemporaries.
I
still
adore
the
original
 TV
show,
but
I
also
take
a
lot
of
pleasure
in
the
fact
that
 the
 beginning
 of
 Trek
 for
 me
 was
 not
 Shatner
 intoning
 “Space…the
 final
 frontier,”
 but
 rather
 this
 odd
 first
 sentence
of
Star
Trek
1
by
James
Blish:
 “Though
 as
 Captain
 of
 the
 starship
 Enterprise
 James
 Kirk
 had
 the
 final
 authority
 over
 four
 hundred
 officers
 and
 crewman,
 plus
 a
 small
 and
 constantly
 shifting
 population
of
passengers,
and
though
in
well
more
than
 twenty
 years
 in
 space
 he
 had
 had
 his
 share
 of
 narrow
 squeaks,
 he
 was
 firmly
 of
 the
 opinion
 that
 no
 single
 person
ever
gave
him
more
trouble
than
one
seventeen‐ year‐old
boy.”

M-BRANE SF

MISCELLANEOUS
NOTES…
 
 The
Magazine
of
Fantasy
and
Science
Fiction,
one
of
the
 big
 guns
 of
 the
 short
 fiction
 sf
 publishing
 world,
 is
 switching
 to
 bimonthly
 publication
 this
 year,
 an
 evident
 recession‐induced
change.
The
less
frequent
editions
will,
 however,
 be
 fatter.
 
 Editor
 Gordon
 Van
 Gelder
 estimates
 only
a
ten
percent
reduction
in
annual
content.
Let’s
hope
 that
 this
 change
 works
 well
 for
 them
 and
 F&SF
 prospers
 in
the
new
year
since
the
last
thing
the
genre
needs
is
the
 all‐out
 failure
 of
 one
 of
 its
 major
 magazines.
 Van
 Gelder
 cited
 printing
 and
 postage
 costs
 as
 reasons
 for
 this
 change,
 and
 I
 can
 say
 that
 I
 sympathize:
 the
 entire
 existence
of
a
print
edition
of
M­Brane
has
been
blighted
 by
 these
 factors.
 As
 it
 stands
 now,
 the
 edition
 will
 be
 available
 but
 at
 a
 price
 that
 I
 fear
 will
 be
 prohibitive…Rick
Kleffel
of
the
Agony
Column
on
KUSP
 Central
 Coast
 Public
 Radio
 did
 a
 segment
 recently
 for
 NPR’s
 Morning
 Edition
 (also
 available
 in
 the
 NPR
 Books
 podcast
 for
 January
 5)
 about
 the
 web
 novel
 or
 “wovel”
 format
 of
 fiction
 that
 some
 writers
 have
 been
 bringing
 online.
 The
 premise
 is
 something
 like
 a
 nineteenth
 century
serial
publication
(a
la
Charles
Dickens)
but
with
 branches
 of
 plot
 possibilities,
 where
 the
 readers
 can
 weigh
 in
 on
 what
 direction
 the
 next
 segment
 should
 go
 and
then
the
writer
complies.

It’s
sort
of
like
one
of
those
 old
 “Choose
 Your
 Own
 Adventure”
 books.
 It
 sounds
 like
 fun,
though
I
haven’t
investigated
it
yet…Gardner
Dozois
 announced
 the
 contents
of
the
next
edition
of
his
long‐ running
 and
 prestigious
 The
 Year’s
 Best
 Science
 Fiction
 anthology.
 I
 have
 re‐posted
 it
 on
 the
 M­Brane
 blog
 on
 January
8.
It
looks
like
a
typically
solid
line‐up
of
sf
super‐ talent
 with
 plenty
 of
 buzz‐worthy
 writers
 rating
 entries.
 This
 collection
 is
 always
 a
 thing
 to
 look
 forward
 to
 with
 its
 bounty
 of
 really
 substantial
 short‐form
 sf.
 
 I
 have
 already
 dismayed
 some
 writers
 in
 M­Brane’s
 short
 existence
with
my
bias
against
“flash”
fiction
(what
some
 editors
used
to
call
“plotless
vignettes”),
but
I
bet
Dozois
 feels
 similarly
 about
 it:
 the
 very
 shortest
 entry
 in
 last
 year’s
 volume
 was
 still
 over
 3500
 words…The
 preliminary
Nebula
Awards
ballot
is
out,
and
viewable
 at
the
Locus
and
SFWA
sites.
Novel
nominees
include
Cory
 Doctorow’s
Little
Brother
and
Ian
McDonald’s
Brasyl.

It’s
 also
 good
 to
 see
 Ursula
 Le
 Guin
 nominated
 for
 Powers…This
 from
 Locus:
 “Orbit
 is
 offering
 a
 different
 e­book
 each
 month
 for
 just
 $1,
 starting
 with
 The
Way
of
 Shadows
 by
 Brent
 Weeks.
 The
 special
 promotion
 is
 only
 available
 for
 readers
 in
 the
 US.
 Future
 offerings
 will
 include
 titles
 by
 Iain
 M.
 Banks,
 Karen
 Miller,
 and
 Brian
 Ruckley.
 Learn
 more
 at
 www.onedollarorbit.com.”
 That
 sounds
 like
 a
 fine
 deal,
and
I
bet
that
offers
like
this
 will
 further
ease
the
acceptance
of
e‐books.

It
seems
unlikely
 to
 me
 that
 e‐books
 will
 ever
 really
 replace
 the
 physical
 book—the
 physical
 book
 is,
 after
 all,
 a
 pretty
 much

FEBRUARY 2009 perfect
 piece
 of
 tech:
 compact,
 easy
 to
 carry,
 intuitive
 to
 use,
 attractive
 to
 look
 upon—but
 it’s
 apparent
 that
 the
 electronic
 formats
 are
 starting
 to
 gain
 ground
 quickly,
 and
it
is
already
seeming
reasonable
to
many
publishers
 of
 major,
 long‐established
 periodicals
 to
 end
 their
 print
 operations
 entirely.
 The
 Christian
 Science
 Monitor
 newspaper,
 for
 example,
 is
 abandoning
 paper
 and
 moving
 to
 the
 web…The
 prestigious
 and
 much
 loved
 anthology
 series
 The
 Year's
 Best
 Fantasy
 and
 Horror
 (St.
 Martin's
 Press),
 edited
 by
 Ellen
 Datlow
 and
 Gavin
 Grant
 &
 Kelly
 Link,
 has
 been
 cancelled
 after
 twenty‐one
 annual
 editions.
 No
 2009
 edition
 collecting
 work
 from
 2008
is
scheduled,
though
"new
incarnations
of
the
book
 may
appear,”
according
to
Grant
and
Link’s
blog.
This
has
 been
 a
 really
 fine
 anthology,
 and
 while
 I
 don’t
 follow
 those
genres
as
closely
as
I
used
to,
I
do
have
on
my
shelf
 several
volumes
of
the
series.
This
news
made
me
briefly
 panic
 that
 Dozois’
 sf
 equivalent
 was
 also
 in
 immediate
 danger
 of
 cancellation,
 but
 then
 I
 remembered
 that
 the
 next
 volume
 was
 already
 announced
 (see
 above).
 Hopefully
it
won’t
 be
the
last.

Datlow,
 the
horror
 editor
 of
 the
 series
 is,
 however,
 editing
 at
 least
 two
 annual
 Year’s
 Best
 Horror
 anthologies
 to
 be
 published
 by
 Night
 Shade.
 So
 I
 guess
 the
 concept
 partially
 survives,
 though
 without
 the
 fantasy…Locus
 says,
 “SFWA
 has
 announced
 the
 formation
 of
 The
 Ray
 Bradbury
 Award
 for
 Outstanding
 Dramatic
 Presentation
 for
 works
 including
 motion
 pictures,
 television,
 Internet,
 radio,
 audio,
 and
 stage
 productions.
 The
 award
 will
 first
 be
 presented
 in
 2010
(for
works
released
in
2009).
Though
not
a
Nebula,
 the
 award
 will
 be
 presented
 at
 the
 Nebula
 Awards
 Ceremony
 and
 will
 follow
 Nebula
 rules
 and
 procedures;
 the
Script
category
of
the
Nebulas
has
been
eliminated.”
I
 think
it
is
terrific
that
there
is
consideration
for
internet,
 radio
 and
 audio
 presentations.
 
 A
 lot
 of
 cool
 stuff
 is
 happening
nowadays
with
the
various
podzines.

Motion
 pictures
 and
 TV
 of
 recent
 vintage
 can,
 however,
 for
 the
 most
 part,
 kiss
 my
 arse.
 After
 Battlestar
 Galactica
 ends
 this
 year,
 I
 worry
 that
 TV
 will
 be
 virtually
 devoid
 of
 credible
sf
(its
normal
state,
really;
though
the
BG
spin‐off
 Caprica
is
supposedly
on
the
way),
despite
the
existence
 of
a
whole
cable
channel
that
claims
to
support
the
genre
 even
 while
 running
 endless
 blocks
 of
 Ghost
 Hunters,
 craptastical
giant
CGI
snake
movies,
and
re‐runs
of
films
 that
 have
 less
 than
 nothing
 to
 do
 with
 the
 genre
 like
 Elf
 and
 Field
 of
 Mother‐Effing
 Dreams.
 As
 for
 feature
 films,
 my
 Netflix
 account
 lies
 nearly
 dormant
 because
 I
 can’t
 make
 time
 for
 all
 the
 crap
 that’s
 out
 there.
 And
 I
 don’t
 count
 comic
 book
 super
 hero
 movies
 as
 being
 in
 the
 genre
either
(before
everyone
emails
me
about
how
great
 Iron
 Man
 supposedly
 was…But
 I
 do
 count
 the
 TV
 show
 Heroes,
 which
 Jeff
 and
 I
 like
 and
 which
 appears
 to
 be
 getting
 at
 least
 another
 half‐season).
 I
 keep
 wondering
 where
 are
 some
 of
 SciFi
 Channel’s
 long‐promised
 and
 never‐delivered
projects
like
adaptations
of
Red
Mars
and
 The
Diamond
Age?
—CF

55

M-BRANE SF

FEBRUARY 2009

NEXT
MONTH…

A
fine
and
bizarre
batch
of
stories
is
planned
for
March.
 A
preview
of
a
few
highlights…
 
 …Meet
Dak:
he
is
an
Enforcer
of
the
city
of
New
 Cluster.
He
has
a
male
lover
but
he’s
not
gay—he
has
 found
a
new
way
with
“A
Clone
of
a
Different
Color”
by
 Michael
D.
Griffths.
 
 …An
enigmatic
genius
and
the
distraught
 daughter
of
a
missing
scientist
fall
into
“Peril
in
the
 Red
Zone,”
in
a
strange
story
by
Jeffery
Sims
which,
 while
brand
new,
hearkens
back
to
the
days
of
the
 pulp
mag
mad
scientist
tales.
 
 …A
couple
has
all
but
given
up
on
having
a
 baby,
but
an
accidental
alien
intervention
solves
that
 problem…sort
of…in
“New
World
Order”
by
Janett
 Grady.
 
 …It
seems
that
the
age­old
lament
of
“what’s
 with
the
kids
these
days!”
will
never
be
answered.
 Youthful
discontent
and
the
end
of
the
universe
 intersect
in
the
“The
Birth
Screams
of
Angels”
by
 Timothy
Mulcahey.
 
 …Talk
about
alternative
energy
sources:
 space
flight
gets
a
fresh
lift
with
“A
Soul
to
the
Stars”
 by
Lawrence
Dagstine.

And
much,
much
more!
 Don’t
miss

M-BRANE SF #2 in
March!

This
robot
is
from
the
cover
of
the
first
issue
of
the
 British
version
of
AMAZING
STORIES,
artist
unknown.

56

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