FSF Magazine, June 2007 Read online

  Glenys streaked past him, one arm high displaying his ID, shouting something Jamal couldn't make out.

  The black chopper reappeared overhead and circled the gate. He caught the glint of a gun muzzle through the open hatch. No! he thought. They don't understand!

  The small crowd surged toward the guards, shouting, the banner dipping up and down. Now he was close enough to read its hand-lettered message: Rights for the Disabled. The barrier had not had time to come all the way down after the limousine went through. And the alien stopped suddenly just inside the gate, holding his arms out wide as if to embrace the little crowd.

  One of the gate guards went down under the protestors who clambered over him to get inside. With his last burst of energy, Jamal leaped forward in a futile attempt to reach the alien. He collided with a burly man who knocked him down and fell on top of him. His head smacked against the concrete, and for a moment his vision blurred and he went deaf. His arm flared with pain.

  Then sound returned and he became aware of a female voice saying over and over. “I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for you to get hurt!"

  He looked up into the panic-stricken face of Wang's intern kneeling beside him. Her short red hair curled damply over the collar of her pink raincoat.

  "I told my sister this morning—we share everything with each other,” Corinne said, tears streaming down her face. “But I didn't mean for this to happen. I don't want to lose my job."

  He tried to pat her shoulder reassuringly but his muscles wouldn't obey him. He felt woozy, his eyes not focusing properly as he stared past her at Aldo Glenys.

  Glenys had his gun drawn.

  He saw a flash and heard the crack that split the air.

  * * * *

  The room was dark, cold, smelling of rubber and antiseptic. Jamal heard something humming quietly to itself in the silence.

  One arm was in a cast from shoulder to wrist, and his ribs were taped up. He became aware of an intravenous shunt on the back of his free hand.

  "You were very lucky,” Aldo Glenys's voice said in the darkness. “You have a concussion, but you could've been killed."

  "The alien?"

  "Gone."

  He made an attempt to sit up and groaned as pain flared in his ribs. “You killed him?"

  "By the time we got it sorted out, he wasn't to be found."

  "Disappeared? Like he suddenly appeared? Dammit, Glenys! Give it to me straight."

  "Lie still. You have a couple of cracked ribs as well as a broken arm. The official word is there was no one here to disappear. A false rumor set the disabled rights activists off. A misunderstanding, no basis to it!"

  "We killed him and his friends took the body."

  Glenys gazed at him for a moment. “I'm not confirming any part of that. But you have a more immediate problem. Wang's not about to forgive you for letting this opportunity get away. He went out on a limb with the Agency by bringing you in. The Secretary of Defense advised more traditional methods of interrogation."

  He thought of Corinne in the pink raincoat, a rain of tears on her cheeks. “What happened to Wang's intern?"

  "I believe the young lady has resigned."

  "It wasn't her fault. That demonstration—"

  "The demonstration had nothing to do with it. We get them all the time."

  "So then?"

  Glenys shrugged.

  "What's your role in this, Glenys?"

  "I didn't shoot him, if that's what you're thinking."

  But you would've, given the chance. Jamal lay back, feeling defeated. He hadn't asked for any of this, but being in, he'd wanted a better, less ambiguous outcome. “I did the best any linguist could."

  "Not good enough. We're going to have to do better."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Time for a new specialty,” Glenys said. “We're going to need Xenolinguists next time."

  "You really believe there'll be a next time?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Not if we keep shooting the messenger."

  It had seemed so easy before he met his first alien. He'd been showing off when he speculated about universal language as part of his dissertation, never expecting to have the opportunity to test his hypothesis. And he still hadn't tested human ability to crack an alien language. Maybe communication wasn't possible.

  Light streamed through the door as a nurse entered with a tray, and he shut his eyes against the painful brightness. She turned on the room lights, making it worse.

  "Glad you're awake, Mr. Lenana,” she said. “Got to take your meds now."

  "Morphine would be good."

  She ignored this and handed him two pills and a small paper cup of water, waited to see him take them, then left.

  "Wang can't prevent me from writing up a paper on the problem,” he said when the door closed behind the nurse.

  "Nothing happened here. No journal will take it. You'll be just another blog nutcase."

  "This was still a free society last time I checked, bro."

  Glenys stood up and retrieved a raincoat from the back of his chair. “I think you'll find you've come to a dead end."

  "I don't accept that!"

  "Don't sweat it. Better that you put your skills into the needs of the future."

  He could neither trust Glenys nor bring himself to distrust him. He suspected there was a lot more depth to the man than his agency training alone would suggest.

  "Aldo—” he began.

  "I've decided to retire from the Agency. Going home to Switzerland."

  "Giving up,” he said harshly. “Well, I don't give up! When I get out of here, first thing I'm going to do is finish climbing Kilimanjaro. Can't let not finishing things become a habit. Then I'll test your hypothesis about publishing a paper."

  "Do that,” Glenys said. “And when you're ready to admit it's useless, come and see me. I've put my card on your table. Forget what happened here, Jamal. We'll talk about how to prepare to handle the next visitors—whenever they show up. We may not get off so easily next time."

  After Glenys had gone, he lay staring at the ceiling, thinking it over. Even if he personally never saw another alien in his life, he knew humanity's long isolation was over. Someone had to be prepared to deal with the aliens who would surely come.

  And who better than himself to figure out how to prepare—What was Aldo's term?—Xenolinguists. Awkward word. But given the way languages evolved, it would probably be simplified before too long.

  Even there, he thought as the painkillers started to take hold, the future began with one word.

  —For Denaire

  * * * *

  Coming Attractions

  This issue marked the start of our current editor's eleventh year at the helm and our thanks go out to the bloggers who have been saying such nice things about the magazine this year. While it might be excessive to “proclaim a new Golden Age,” we do think that if you've enjoyed the magazine thus far this year, you'll like what's ahead.

  Next month we'll go to the Pennsylvania town of Black William, where an independent record producer contends with the new act he has signed up and with the strange ... just what are they?...things sighted near the town library. “Stars Seen Through Stone” by Lucius Shepard is a contemporary novella that we think you're going to love.

  The rest of the issue hasn't been finalized yet, so you'll have to wait to see whether the new stories by Lawrence C. Connolly, P. E. Cunningham, and Ray Vukcevich run next month or not.

  We can, however, promise that we'll soon have a new novella by Albert Cowdrey for you, and “The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate” by Ted Chiang is due to run in the September issue. We also have stories by John Kessel, Robert Silverberg, and Michael Swanwick in the offing. If you've been meaning to subscribe, do so now so you won't miss any of the goodies we have in store for you.

  Lázaro y Antonio by Marta Randall

  In our January issue this year, Marta Randall made her return to our pages with a tale of magic rea
lism. Now she takes us into space—specifically, one little nook of it known as the Curve....

  It starts

  Sure Lázaro was broke, but he still wasn't interested in rolling drunks, not even rich belligerent Academy chilito drunks. This one had shown up last night with some pendejo brotherhood, too many to take on, but tonight he was alone and still a dick so Lázaro had no qualms about holding Antonio's new foxleather jacket while Antonio whacked the guy's fright-coifed blond head, just precisely so. The kid fell into the alley, all bonelessness and fat, and Antonio had his wallet out and popped his com and wasted the chip, all within thirty seconds. Lázaro observed with admiration: it was always a pleasure to watch a master at work. A couple of minutes after the kid had stepped into the alley to take a leak, Antonio and Lázaro strolled out together, Antonio wriggling his shoulders a little to seat the jacket and smoothing back his black hair. Lázaro admired that, too.

  The Curve was quiet for a Friday night. Paychecks had come out last week and would come again next week, but those who had money tonight were not the kind to waste it on the bars and bitches in the Port's seedy arc. The solid citizens were all at home Northside, with their families and their big screens and their hot dinners. The chilito wasn't an exception, he was a tourist, which was why Antonio felt free to relieve him of his cash and com. Tourists were warned to stay away from the Curve, warned that the spaceport cops wouldn't protect them once they left the port by the Southside gate. There was always someone who couldn't resist the challenge. The ones who could take care of themselves had a good time and no harm done, but dicks like this one were easy pickings.

  "So, how much he had?” Lázaro asked.

  Antonio shrugged. “Dunno, bro. We get to Celia's, I'll tell you. Not gonna paw it out here. What, you some kinda tard?"

  "Hell no,” Lázaro said, but his outrage was faked. He was some kinda tard and he usually admitted it. It made life easier.

  Celia's was almost empty. Two old birds sat at the bar, staring into their glasses and not saying much. Krumholz, who owned Celia's, was in a generous mood and had cranked up the sound so everyone could enjoy his beloved ancient techno. Lázaro didn't like it because he couldn't follow the melodies, but Krumholz was always good for a drink and a place to hang out for a few hours without being hassled. Now Lázaro followed Antonio to a booth near the back. Krumholz came over and slapped at the table with his rag.

  "You guys freeloadin’ again?” he demanded.

  "No, man, we got scratch,” Antonio said with lazy confidence. “I wanna beer, and another for my ‘ssociate."

  Krumholz snorted but went back to the bar. Antonio waited until he came back with the drinks, collected a five, and left. Each took a ritual sip of beer before Antonio slid the wallet onto the table. The two men regarded it with approval. It was a nice one, made of some fine-grained leather, probably real, tanned a pleasant light brown with fancy designs burned into it along the edges and a complicated glyph on the front. Most tourists just used paper folds from the change houses: no thumbs allowed on the Curve. This guy either traveled a lot or wanted people to think he did. Lázaro tapped the wallet and, when Antonio didn't object, touched it again.

  "Whazzat?” he said.

  "It's the, what you call it, the picto for some fancy-ass school off near the Hub.” Antonio used one fingernail to flip the wallet open. Sheaves of plastic decorated the insides under the lip of the billfold. Here's the thing about plastic and chips: a chip's this bitty thing and kinda private, but plastic, hell, you can flash that around and impress everyone you can get to look at you. Antonio snorted. Lázaro knew that Antonio had plenty of plastic himself and wasn't dazzled by this lot.

  When Antonio opened the billfold, he cursed with surprise and jerked his hand back.

  "Yeah? What?” Lázaro whispered, leaning away from the table.

  Antonio lifted the lip of the billfold again and started sliding out the bills. There were a lot of them, more than either man had ever seen in one place. Lázaro whistled under his breath.

  "Hijo de la madre, man,” he breathed. “You think they're real?"

  Antonio dropped a napkin over them. “How'n hell do I know?” he muttered, and stuck his fingers in the billfold again. This time he brought out scraps of paper. Sales receipts, tickets, notes in a language neither man recognized. The last one held a series of numbers. Lázaro squinted at the paper and muttered the numbers. “One one two three five eight one three two one three four five five eight nine.” He looked up. “Mean anythin’ to you?"

  Antonio shook his head.

  Lázaro thought for a long moment. The numbers were almost familiar, like voices so far away that you can't understand them. He shook his own head. “You gonna gimme some of the cash, man? I mean, I held your coat and all."

  "Sure, what you take me for?” Antonio's fingers got busy under the napkin. He brought his hand out, palm down, and slid it over to Lázaro. The money moved from Antonio's palm to Lázaro's with the ease of long practice. Lázaro peeked at the bills and grinned and put them in his pocket, the inside one right over his hip.

  A few minutes later they finished their drinks. Antonio palmed the bills and plastic into his jacket pocket and left the paper scraps on the table. When his back was turned, Lázaro scooped them up and tucked them away. He didn't know why.

  At the corner, before they parted, Antonio dropped the wallet into a trash mouth. The mouth gargled for a second, flashed, and the wallet was gone. Then they hit each other's shoulders in farewell and went their separate ways.

  * * * *

  One one two three five eight

  Lázaro sat at the table in his squat and counted over the bills again. There were enough to last for a couple of months, if he was careful, didn't binge, made his food instead of buying it—hell, he could even pay his rent ahead and still have some cash left over for a new jacket, maybe foxleather like Antonio's. It was getting cold out there.

  Or he could blow the whole thing in a week, roistering along the Curve like any other fool with a pocket full of cash and enough whiskey and drugs in him to make sure that he didn't have a care in the world, or didn't recognize them. He grinned, thinking about that and about the cathouse above Papa Carlisle's. It didn't matter that he'd spend a week in lockup, jonesing until the last of the drugs washed out of him and left him back in the pale beige world with nothing in his pockets and not even the memories of the drunk to sustain him. A good drunk was its own reward.

  He had piled the paper scraps beside the money and now he went through them again. The lettering looked like it ought to be familiar but it just barely wasn't, like something seen through wavy glass. The only numbers were on the scrap that he had read. They were hand-written and strung together to form one long chain. The next numbers in the sequence were 144233 but Lázaro didn't know why he knew that. It felt like how it felt when old garbage came up from the back of his brain, stuff he'd rather not have, from a life that he couldn't remember. He pushed the paper around with his forefinger. Too many numbers to be a passkey. Maybe some form of ID or an account number. He could pay for time on public access and search, but he wouldn't get anything useful although he didn't know why he knew that.

  He pondered this as he broke off some soup and nuked it. This being the first day of his current riches, he had determined to stretch it out as long as he could before he fell, as he knew he inevitably would, into the delirium of the Curve. It bothered him that the number sequence wasn't just gibberish, it bothered him that he couldn't let it go. He pushed the numbers out of his head and thought about the plastic Antonio had palmed but wouldn't use. Plastic was trash but it caused trouble. Antonio knew what to do with it; by now the plastic was probably out-system somewhere, making mischief in places that Antonio and Lázaro and even the drunk kid had never been.

  The soup was pretty good. He dunked the heel of a bread loaf into it and counted out the bills again. One one two three five eight one three ... maybe the numbers didn't mean anything alone but po
inted to something else. Like, maybe, the next numbers in the sequence. Or pointed to a pattern. Images grew into his consciousness, patterns starting and growing and turning on themselves to the rhythm of almost but not quite 1.618 from the zero square where you started to the one square to the two square to the three square to the five square to the eight square and on and on through the matrices of the Continuum, each square turning into itself to the next square in a dance folding and doubling until you reach, you reach, you reach....

  Damn, Lázaro thought. He grabbed up the paper scraps and shoved them into his ancient trash mouth. Nothing happened. He hit it on the side and finally it grunted and flashed, and the papers whooshed into gray ash and disappeared. Lázaro returned to the table, grabbed another hunk of stale bread, and slammed it into the soup. Drops of broth scattered over the table, balling up in the accumulated dust.

  Screw all of it. He'd spend the money on the biggest, loudest, longest drunk anybody in the Curve had ever had. Yeah. As soon as he cooped out a bit so he'd be fresh and ready for action. He could start at Papa Carlisle's and work his way up one side of the Curve and down the other, and end up at Papa's again but upstairs this time. Or he could start upstairs at Papa's and snag him a honey and have some company up and down the Curve. Yeah. Yeah, that.

  He pushed the soup bowl aside, where it settled against a growing collection of crusted plates and crawling green food wrappers, and rolled onto his shelf. Tomorrow. Early. Up one side and down the other. That would make all this damned clarity go away.

  * * * *

  Domes, bubbles, and arcs

  First, the Port dome's not really a dome, it's an annulus but everybody calls it a “dome” so what the hell. The top's open and the sides only come up about a thousand meters because the designers figured that was enough but of course it wasn't. So the ships go in and the ships come out, and the gas and garbage spills into the Port and down the outsides, too, like this thick crap soup. The Port dome's about half a klick thick and inside are offices and subways and hotels and all the stuff you need to run a good respectable Port, but it isn't enough space. It never is. You'd think they could've figured that out but they never do.