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  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  May * 59th Year of Publication

  * * * *

  NOVELETS

  IMMORTAL SNAKE by Rachel Pollack

  CIRCLE by George Tucker

  SHORT STORIES

  REUNION by Robert Reed

  REBECCA'S LOCKET by S. L. Gilbow

  FIROOZ AND HIS BROTHER by Alex Jeffers

  THRILLING WONDER STORIES by Albert E. Cowdrey

  TRAITOR by M. Rickert

  DEPARTMENTS

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  BOOKS by Elizabeth Hand

  PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS: MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER ... by Paul Di Filippo

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  FILMS: HERETICAL DUSTUP ... OR SIMPLE DUD? by Kathi Maio

  CURIOSITIES by David Langford

  COVER BY MARK EVANS FOR “IMMORTAL SNAKE”

  GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

  BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

  ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

  KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

  HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

  JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

  CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

  JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 114, No. 5 Whole No. 672, May 2008. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $4.50 per copy. Annual subscription $50.99; $62.99 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2008 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

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  * * * *

  CONTENTS

  Reunion by Robert Reed

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Books by Elizabeth Hand

  Rebecca's Locket by S. L. Gilbow

  Immortal Snake by Rachel Pollack

  Plumage From Pegasus: Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me a Text by Paul Di Filippo

  Firooz and His Brother by Alex Jeffers

  Thrilling Wonder Stories by Albert E. Cowdrey

  Films: HERETICAL DUSTUP ... OR SIMPLE DUD? by Kathi Maio

  Traitor by M. Rickert

  Circle by George Tucker

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  Curiosities: The Stolen March, by Dornford Yates (1926)

  Coming Attractions

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  Reunion by Robert Reed

  Last month, Mr. Reed regaled us with Joe Carroway's epic story in “Five Thrillers.” This month, the new tale from Nebraska's foremost science fiction writer is smaller in scope, but we think you'll like meeting the Twelve and the Ten just as much as you enjoyed “Five Thrillers."

  Eleven years past her last major role, yet Martha L. still looked ready for somebody to feed her her next line. Tiny, tiny sunglasses hovered above that perfect nose and the elegant, upturned chin. To my tastes, her face was the living definition of classical beauty, despite layers of makeup working in tandem with subcutaneous microchines, carefully obscuring the erosions of time. I'd always heard what a lucky actress she was: Martha L.'s projects typically made money, her divorces had been spectacular and timely, and her supporting casts were blessed with talent, but not so much they could ever steal the show. She was shorter than she looked in movies; as they say, high heels and a tall woman's frame helped the illusion of stately elegance. But when I saw her for myself, I finally appreciated just how small the woman was. She looked like a child climbing out of the razor-wagon—a willowy, middle-aged child still able to wear black short-shorts and a simple white shirt that accented her breasts and narrow waist. Despite a pair of thick-soled sandals, she leaped gracefully to the pavement. Then she happened to glance in my direction. The two lenses of her sunglasses were riding on magnetic curtains, hiding those lovely green eyes. I couldn't tell if she saw me or not, but a robust smile emerged. With a single expression, the actress managed to convey a wealth of possible emotions: indifference and passion, as well as an emotional chill and a natural, yet hard-to-define brilliance. She looked poised. She looked ready for anything. But then I noticed her tiny fingers dancing, and I realized that the woman was nervous, even vulnerable. Which made her utterly fetching to me.

  "Easy, tiger,” my date rumbled. “You don't want that."

  "How do you know what I want?” I countered.

  "I don't,” he agreed. “But remember our story: I'm here with the love of my life. Which happens to be you, if I remember it right."

  Kale was a tall gentleman, pleasant of nature and handsome despite those extra thirty pounds around his waist. We'd known each other for a couple years. I'd met him after first becoming interested in his school and old classmates. Subterfuge isn't my talent; right off, I had warned him that I was unabashedly gay and not interested, but thanks for flirting. Then flat out, I asked, “Speaking as one of the famous graduates, what do you think the explanation is?"

  "Dumb-ass raw chance,” he replied.

  "Well, that's been said,” I allowed.

  "What else could it be?” Shrugging those round shoulders, he pointed out, “Besides, I'm not one of them. Some of us didn't get lucky. In fact, more than half of us are just ordinary fools."

  "Out of twenty-three—"

  "There's eleven,” he interrupted. With an ease that hinted at a borderline obsession, he named each success story. Martha Lindergruber was last on his list: “Martha L.,” according to the Actor's Guild. Then with a hard stare, Kale added, “What? You don't like my count?"

  "You're missing somebody,” I warned.

  "Who?"

  "Sarah Younts."

  "Her?” He squinted and shook his head, retrieving everything in his brain about the woman. “Last I heard, she was some kind of clerk or secretary."

  "Where's that?"

  "In Washington DC."

  "She works for the government, Kale."

  "I know that.

  "In Langley, Virginia. Do you know whose offices are in Virginia?"

  "Maybe."

  "The Reformed CIA."

  He refused to be impressed. “So she's a secretary for the spooks. They've got a hundred thousand people in their workforce."

  "Except that's not her job,” I told him.

  He took a moment to accept that possibility. “So what then? Sarah's a spy?"

  "All I know is that your classmate has State Department credentials, and she's been stationed at half-a-dozen different embassies. Always in hot zones, and in every case, big events have happened during her tenure.” I produced an envelope and pulled out the first photograph. “This was taken by a tourist in Indonesia. Ignore the woman in the sundress. In the crowd ... do you see her? This might be Sarah. Or she isn't. But the man on her right was definitely an arms merchant accused of selling bomb-grade pluton
ium, and this is two minutes before the son-of-a-bitch was shot through the heart and head."

  I let him study the image before handing him an enlarged, heavily enhanced version.

  "I haven't seen Sarah for years,” he confessed, handing back the sketchy evidence. Then as he must have done many times in the past, he asked me, “So what do you think the explanation is?"

  "I don't have one. Yet."

  "That's interesting,” he allowed. “From what I've seen, most people like you, ‘the enthusiasts,’ they begin with some half-logical answer that appeals to them. The fascination comes later. It's like a love affair, really. A meeting. A courtship. And then lust. And by lust, I mean that they'll collect any evidence, just so long that it seems to back up their own extraordinary, half-brained claims."

  "Maybe that's true for others,” I warned him. “But I've got different reasons."

  "Such as?"

  For the time being, I brushed the question aside. “A small-town high school in Missouri has a graduating class of twenty-three. And at least twelve of you have made a major impact in the world."

  Kale said nothing.

  "Think of the odds,” I said.

  He was well aware of how unlikely this was, but he had learned to keep his distance. Denying the obvious was important. Just like the other ordinary graduates who couldn't match their famous classmates’ achievements, Kale maintained that dumb chance was responsible. And besides, he was thinking: What rational person would wish for the kind of celebrity that the Golden Eleven had to endure?

  Kale sighed and shook his head.

  Then with the faint trace of a smile—a suspicious smile, but with curious eyes—he asked once more, “What about you?"

  "Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

  "That depends."

  "Patrick Goslick."

  "Dead,” Kale said instantly.

  "I know that."

  "Three years after graduation,” he said. “The poor kid clipped a curb while riding his Harley, and slammed his head into a tree...."

  I showed him a tight little smile.

  "What?"

  I handed over a second envelope and sat silently while he opened it and studied the officious contents. Twice he looked at me—at my face and eyes—before he replaced the birth records and DNA tests and handed the envelope back again.

  "So what's next, miss?"

  "My name's April,” I reminded him.

  "What's next, April?"

  "Assume there is an explanation, and I don't mean dumb-ass raw chance,” I proposed. “Think hard and give me a direction here. Someplace new to look, or some fresh way to think."

  "To make things sensible?"

  "Or even just one good thread that connects the lucky ones."

  "Don't think I haven't tried,” he said.

  "Was there a special day or a specific incident, maybe?"

  "Maybe.” Then Kale shook his head while rolling his skeptical eyes. “But here's the trouble, miss. I mean April. Get as old as I am, and you'll find out. You might feel that you can remember all of your life. Because it's your most precious possession, and why shouldn't you recall it? Maybe you'll even tell yourself that you know exactly what you've done and when you did it. But the sad truth is, none of us remembers more than a little fraction of what has happened to us ... even our best, most blessed days, April ... they are mostly and forever forgotten."

  * * * *

  In the ensuing months and years, what had been a comfortably strange mystery grew, the Internet as well as the old-fashion rumor mills feeding interest in what were now called the Golden Twelve. Sarah Younts's role in national security was soon exposed, forcing her into an abrupt retirement and a seven-figure advance for her life story. Suddenly the world seemed full of people with the time and insane focus to study the lives of a dozen strangers, trying to piece together any workable explanation for what stubbornly refused to be explained. (I was never the only nut-job, and I can't say that fact made me sleep any easier.) Then came word of the thirty-year class reunion, and with that, the story managed to grow even bigger. Against a new set of long odds, each of the twenty-two surviving graduates returned his or her questionnaire, completed in full and including promises to make an appearance at the festivities. One of the Little Ten had bravely offered her home to host the event—a modest ranch-style within sight of the old high school. Access had to be tightly controlled: Three of her classmates were multibillionaires, while two more were major politicians with their eyes on the same White House. There would be roadblocks and prepositioned security systems, and the known crazies would be stopped at the county line, while the official press were stationed in the school cafeteria. Being Kale's date was my ticket in—a bit of luck after a couple years of comfortable friendship. But to make him happy, I had to pay a high cost: I changed my hair and slipped into a nice dress that was without question the most heterosexual thing I'd worn since my own high school experience.

  "Hello, Kale."

  "Hey, Martha."

  Martha L. was standing between the razor-wagon and her date—a big silent gentleman with muscles and a plastic smile, and apparently, no name. She shook Kale's hand and then mine, telling both of us, “It's a lovely evening."

  It was a hundred and three degrees in the shade, with humidity and a fleet of soot-gray helicopters circling just above tree height.

  "It's certainly nice of Carla to invite us,” said the movie actress who had lost two Oscars. “Really, I think this is just the way to do this reunion ... you know ... back in our old haunt. Just us and our families and friends."

  On that optimistic note, the four of us walked to the front door.

  Carla, our hostess, was a large woman in the final throes of a long, celebrity-induced mania. She was thrilled to have us in her house, and in the next breath, she wanted us to leave her house, ushering us into a backyard that had been severely modified for this single occasion. A transparent tent was hung overhead, supported by the best spiderweb modern factories could weave. Portable air conditioners pumped out cool air. Antinoise generators masked the clatter of helicopters, while a round fountain pushed a stream of punch from a wide nipple, the cold red juice recirculating through a basin large enough to serve as a bathtub.

  I couldn't help but notice that the punch resembled blood.

  A tiny table was reserved for the official guest book. Carla insisted that each of us sign in, although her intensity dropped noticeably once Martha Lindergruber had handed the official pen over to Kale.

  I used my time at the book to read names, counting those who hadn't shown quite yet.

  The billionaires were present—three tightly wound, endlessly focused captains of industry standing close together, happily trading whatever kind of stories it was that made their kind grin and laugh in unison. The ex-quarterback, now the first-string color man for the NFL Network, was sitting in a big lawn chair, resting his new knees while sharing football stories with several awestruck teenage boys. But an even bigger crowd of admirers had gathered near the two little bald men—partners from childhood and the designers of three of the top virtual reality games of all time. That made six of the Golden, plus Martha L. It took some doing, but eventually I spotted a mousy lady hiding near the lilacs—the top-selling writer of historical romances in the English-speaking world. A few moments later, the ninth came walking out of the house, wiping his hands on his pants after a trip to the bathroom. The present rumor—a credible rumor, as it happened—was that the gentleman would soon win a Nobel in medicine for his work with life-extension in rhesus monkeys. And if his elixirs succeeded in human trials, he would spend his next century or two enjoying his own well-earned billions.

  Still missing were two politicians, and Sarah Younts.

  But that made perfect sense. In a bit of obvious theater, the junior Senator from Missouri and the five-time Congresswoman from Nevada soon arrived together, arm in arm. No doubt there had been high-level negotiations between their respective camps. It must
have been decided that their best strategy was to pretend an amiable friendship for cameras stationed in the outside world, as well as any audience lurking inside here. And then a few minutes after their arrival, when the applause had fallen away and the evening was settling into a rhythm of idle chatter and determined one-upsmanship, the lifelong spy slipped in quietly through a side gate.

  My plans—as much as I had any—involved approaching the ex-quarterback. But when I stood close to the man, listening to his heroic recounting of his Super Bowl loss, the fellow sounded sloppy and a little too drunk, and in ways you don't usually see in talented athletes, stupid.

  No, I decided, my back-up target was the right one.

  If anything, Sarah was even more forgettable than the mousy little writer. She was average in height and utterly plain, her eyes watery brown and her hair turning to snow without any fight. We made eye contact, and I offered a darling little smile. Sarah assumed that I was nobody. She allowed me to approach, offering a bland, “Nice evening,” before I managed to settle on her right.

  I didn't speak.

  So she introduced herself and asked for my name.

  "April Vermeer,” I said. “Kale brought me."

  Sarah's reaction was an honest, slightly surprised smile. Then she glanced at the pudgy, almost fifty-year-old man, her expression saying something like, “Good for old Kale."

  Old Kale was trying to have a normal conversation with poor worn-out Carla. He was assuring her that the yard was lovely and she was the best hostess ever, and yes, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. But he felt my eyes, and he gave me a quick glance just then, and a wink.

  The poor fellow. In a fit of rare duplicity, I had neglected to tell Kale my plans for this evening.

  "Actually, Kale brought me as a favor,” I mentioned.

  Sarah tipped her head. “A favor? For you?"

  "More for my father,” I said.

  She looked at me, studying my features, the first trace of recognition showing around her wise brown eyes.