FSF, January 2009 Read online

  Without waiting for Amos's answer, he started down the steep slope.

  A marine, hatless, wild-haired, raging, charged up the hillside with his bloody bayonet. Amos's musket cracked behind Proctor and the Redcoat dropped, shot through the leg.

  A second marine lunged at him from the right, bayonet extended, and Proctor discharged his own musket point-blank. The other man fell, clutching his eyes, blinded by the discharge. Proctor dropped his weapon and leapt into the road.

  He fell short of Pitcairn's horse, stumbling and falling. A marine with a broken bayonet swung the butt of his musket at him; Proctor rolled out of the way, freeing his hatchet from his belt. When the musket butt came at him a second time, he knocked it aside and rose to his feet.

  The horse snorted, stamping, twisting to kick Proctor, pushing between himself and the marine. Proctor grabbed the bridle with his free hand and swung the hatchet at Pitcairn; his eyes were blurry, wet from the sting of musket smoke.

  Pitcairn caught Proctor's wrist on the downstroke.

  Grappling face-to-face, there was nothing extraordinary about Pitcairn—he smelled of sweat and dust and powder, like anyone else. Proctor dragged him half out of his saddle, tearing at his collar. There, beneath the shirt—a gold coin, hanging from a gold chain. It burned with an unnatural light.

  Proctor tried to rip it free, keeping his feet as the horse spun in a panic. Pitcairn let go of the hatchet and grabbed Proctor's other hand with both his own.

  Fire flowed through Proctor's palm, and he felt the heat race up his arm with every pulse of his blood. He tried one last time to wrench the charm away, and glimpsed the underside of the coin—an angel with a shield, and letters, though he didn't recognize them, just like those his mother wrote on the bowl of water.

  Light flared in the coin, and fire speared up his arm, and then it went dull the same moment that his arm went numb.

  Pitcairn pried the coin from Proctor's hand. The coin was an ordinary coin, with no light at all. “God damn you, what have you done?” Pitcairn snarled.

  A musket fired at close range, striking the horse, which whinnied in fear and stumbled sideways, tearing Pitcairn away from Proctor.

  A fist grabbed Proctor's jacket, yanking him back toward the ditch, and Amos was there, one arm under his elbow, yanking him up the hillside. Someone shoved his musket back into his numb hands. Turning, Proctor saw that Pitcairn's horse was down. The British major was trying to rally his men, but their resolve had shattered. There was no cohesion to their assault up the hillside, only desperation and the roar of fear. Lead whistled overhead, tearing through bark and leaves, and then it was bayonets, and Proctor ran through the trees, from cover to cover, until he was alone, unsure where he was, pausing, back against a boulder, to reload his musket. He stopped in mid-action to wipe his bloody hands—where had that come from?—across his breeches.

  When he peered over the boulder again, he saw that he'd become separated from the other men in his company and the last British stragglers were fleeing toward Lexington. Still numb from breaking Pitcairn's magic charm, he staggered to his feet and back to the road, where, amid the abandoned cases, clothes, and weapons, he found two wounded Redcoats left behind by the routed army. One patched the other's bloody leg, while the second was binding the first one's arm. Seeing Proctor, they flinched, raising their hands.

  "We surrender,” they said.

  "Good for you,” he rasped as he passed them. Thirst sandpapered his throat. He fumbled for his father's tin canteen, and lifted it in unsteady hands, uncapping it.

  Nothing came out. The metal felt cool on his lips but it was dry. He shook it, but nothing. A jagged edge snagged his sleeve. He turned it over—shot had smashed through the bottom of it. He had no idea when.

  And where did that yellow ribbon come from?

  Emily!

  He ran.

  There was Emily's house. His feet pounded across the porch and he beat on the door, calling her name, asking if she was all right. When there was no answer, he ran to the windows and saw sheets tossed hurriedly over the furniture inside. It was shut up tight. Bess and the rest of the household had no doubt packed up and headed for Boston first thing that morning.

  He felt as empty as the house.

  Militia from a dozen towns passed down the road, following the Redcoats’ retreat into Lexington. Proctor mechanically fell in with them. As he marched past the burying ground, he thought that the battle would end where it began, on Lexington Green. The Redcoats could expect no mercy there, not after what they'd done this morning. He glimpsed splashes of red running in the distance.

  This, he told himself, was the scene he'd scryed. His mother had been right in seeing men dead; and he'd been right in seeing a retreat to Boston. With his last reserves, he hurried forward onto the green. The oak tree and belltower and meeting house were framed against the blue sky. Cheers rose ahead, the cheers of the militia assured of victory.

  A cannon shot blasted through the meeting house, busting it to splinters.

  He was halfway across the green when he saw that a full British brigade had come out of Boston to rescue the other soldiers. The retreating Redcoats ran past the defensive lines. They were cheering their salvation.

  The cannons boomed again, raking the pursuing militia. Something hot sheered the edge of Proctor's neck, knocking him off his feet.

  He rolled over, rose, fell down, finally pushed himself to his feet. Blood streamed over his shoulder. He staggered, lost, until a woman in a green dress came and guided him away out of range of the British guns. She tried to bind up his wounds, but he shoved her away and staggered off, saying things incoherent even to himself. He needed to go home. He wanted to talk to his mother about the scrying. He needed to talk to her about the gold medallion. About the way his talent revealed their magic. In a daze, he stumbled in the right direction.

  Somehow his mother knew he was coming. She met him halfway across the fields and guided him inside. His father was propped up in a chair in the corner. There was something Proctor meant to tell him. “Robert Munroe,” he said.

  His father continued to rock, eyes unfocused.

  "He's—” The words choked off in his throat. “What he said, what Munroe said was, he said you were a good man in a fight."

  His mother gently guided him into one of the other chairs. He saw a fresh bowl of water on the table, an empty pitcher, five puddles of wax, and a pile of broken eggshells. “I had to go over to the Ames's,” their neighbors, “for more eggs,” she said, dropping her eyes.

  Proctor stared at the broken shells, thinking if he hadn't scryed, maybe he wouldn't have shot at Pitcairn. Maybe the Redcoats would've held their fire, the way both sides did at the North Bridge in Concord. Maybe the day would've ended peacefully.

  "Mother,” he mumbled. “I did something bad, terrible bad."

  "Hush.” Her voice was as soft and trembling as her hands.

  "I think I've ruined my prospects with Miss Emily."

  She sighed as she wrung out the rag and dipped it in the bowl of fresh water. She wiped the cool cloth over his throat. “Oh, Proctor, if that shot had been two inches the other direction, it would have killed you for certain."

  He folded his hand around hers and pulled it away from his wound. No, there was no undoing what had already been done. “Come now. If it had been two inches the other direction it would have missed me completely."

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  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Generation Dead, by Daniel Waters, Hyperion, 2008, $16.99.

  A good idea can't carry a book, but it can sure give it a great kick-start. Take the premise behind Daniel Waters's first novel, Generation Dead:

  Some teenagers who die aren't staying dead, although they aren't exactly alive, either. The PC term for them is the “living impaired” or “differently biotic,” but the kids at Phoebe Kendall's high school call them zombies.

  Nobody wants to hang out with them. Nobo
dy even wants to be in the same classes or eat next to them in the cafeteria. And because they're officially dead, there are no laws to protect them from parents who kick them out of their homes, or from the people who want to kill them again—this time for good.

  Waters doesn't spend a whole lot of time explaining the phenomenon except for when his characters are speculating about why this is happening. That's a good thing, because intricate explanations often take away the mystery and bog down a good story. Instead, Waters focuses on a few “breathers” and how they interact with the dead kids in their school.

  There's Phoebe, the Goth, who's attracted to Tommy Wil-liams, the leader of the dead kids; her best friend Margi who hates them, but feels guilty for how she rejected her own friend Colette when she came back; Phoebe's next door neighbor Adam who's been crushing on her for years and is trying to understand her sudden interest in the dead kids. And then there's the school bully Pete Martinsburg who just wants to hurt the zombies, maybe because when his girlfriend died, she didn't come back.

  Mix in a few of the dead kids who have no more of an idea as to why they came back either and you have an intricate tangle of relationships that Waters explores to great effect.

  I'm not going to get into what a great metaphor the dead kids are, mostly because you can figure it out for yourself, but also because on some level every teenager feels alienated and messed up. What makes Waters's book so successful is that he explores this element on both personal and societal levels without ever stumbling into a lecturing mode. He simply lets the story do the work and leaves readers to make their own conclusions.

  It also helps that he's such a skilled writer with a great handle on dialogue—from the teenspeak of the living characters to the slower cadences of the dead kids. Put it all together with that initial great idea and you've got a novel that puts a deliciously fresh spin on the coming-of-age novel in a high school setting.

  Oh, and that ending! Didn't see that coming. Talk about a tough lesson in having to assume responsibility.

  Highly recommended.

  * * * *

  Hands of Flame, by C. E. Murphy, Luna, 2008, $14.95.

  This is the third outing for Murphy's lawyer character Margrit Knight and the Old Races she's discovered inhabiting New York City. If you've been following along in the previous books—which you really should do if you want to appreciate the nuances of the character relationships in this book—you won't find a lot new here in terms of the background. This is one of the problems with a series: the new ideas and fresh characters become very familiar as we go from book to book and it takes a good writer to make a new entry something more than “the same, but different."

  I'm happy to report that Murphy pulls it off in Hands of Flame. There are no big surprises like, There's a hidden race of gargoyles that only come to life at night! Or, NYC is riddled with dragons and vampires and djinns (oh my)! But there are lots of little ones that are no less entertaining for their subtlety, and all the big questions and worries you might have had from reading the first couple of books get wrapped up in a satisfying manner.

  I especially appreciate the character growth arc that continues from the previous books. Margrit is still the headstrong lawyer who tackles her problems head-on, but with every conciliation she makes with and for the Old Races, she learns more about herself and her capabilities, truly earning the title she gains among them: the Negotiator. It's also gratifying to see how “timeless” characters—such as her gargoyle lover Alban, the dragon Janx, Daisani the vampire, and especially the selkie Cara—learn and change through their relationships with her.

  While I doubt this book will win Murphy new readers (for reasons discussed above), it will be completely satisfying to those who been following The Negotiator series to date. And if you haven't been doing so, now that all three books are out, it's time you headed down to your local bookstore or library and picked up the first book to try. It's called Heart of Stone, and you won't be disappointed.

  * * * *

  Fantastical Creatures Field Guide, by Aaron Lopresti, Watson Guptill, 2008, $19.95.

  Kudos to Aaron Lopresti for finding a fresh bestiary of fantastical creatures for us to explore. The full title of the book is Fantastical Creatures Field Guide: How to Hunt Them Down and Draw Them Where They Live, but it's not really a how-to book. That section only makes up the last sixteen pages. The bulk of the book takes us from continent to continent on an exploratory journey complete with full color art and sepia ink sketches.

  The art is delightful, charming and imaginative. I like Lopresti's ink work the most—the sketches are lively whether the linework is tight or loose—but the watercolor paintings are skillfully rendered and amusing. Both media highlight what I appreciate most about this book: Lopresti's sense of humor and whimsical imagination, and his ability to so successfully compress it down into two dimensions for us to enjoy.

  Each of the entries has text accompanying the art that gives us anecdotal and “factual” information about the creatures (as well as hilarious National Enquirer-styled “headlines” of news stories), but it's the creatures themselves that are the real draw. We have everything from the Bayou Boogeyman ("Town begins to doubt that a ‘bayou boogeyman’ ate local pig farmer's limb") to Pastry Elves ("Succumbing to greatest weakness, gangs of sweets-obsessed pastry elves strike again. Local Parisian proprietors outraged"); from the Island Terrapin ("Toxic waste believed to be behind popular tourist draw") to Cave Harpies ("High interest rates and the Carter Administration are to blame for creature's reclusiveness").

  Or my favorite: Saber-toothed Jackrabbits ("As rumor of a possible prairie dog posse continue to spread, saber-toothed jackrabbits begin to worry"), though you'll have to read the hilarious text entry to understand that “headline."

  This is a fun book that deserves to be left out on your coffee table for guests to thumb through. I guarantee they'll soon be grinning from ear to ear.

  * * * *

  Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P. O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Books by Chris Moriarty

  Saturn's Children, by Charles Stross, Ace, 2008, $24.95.

  Singularity's Ring, by Paul Melko, Tor, 2008, $24.95.

  Earth Ascendant, by Sean Williams, Ace, 2008, $7.99.

  The whole idea of themed book reviews makes me itchy. And yet ... somehow all the best books that hit my mailbox this month seemed to be poking sticks at the same question:

  What comes after evolution? What happens to our species when the line on the chart goes vertical and the pace of change outstrips our ability to adapt? Or, put another way: What does the seamy underbelly of Singularity look like?

  * * * *

  One of sf's favorite answers to this question has always been The Collective. You know what I'm talking about: the Swarm; the Borg; It; pod people in all their many paper and celluloid iterations (stay tuned for new news about pod people below). Most early sf visions of the collective were cautionary tales—thinly veiled metaphors for fascism, communism, suburbanism, or whatever -ism was the bogeyman of the month. At some point, however, the collective as cautionary tale gave way to an idea of the collective as a natural (perhaps even desirable) future product of human evolution. New Wave Kid that I am, I'm tempted to point to Bruce Sterling's shaper-mechanist stories as the moment when that shift happened. But more likely it was one of those sea changes that sweep through science fiction from time to time, reshaping the imaginary shoreline so gradually and so completely that it takes a concerted effort just to remember the way it used to look.

  This change of attitude was accompanied by a parallel change in the real world scientific discipline that most science fiction writers look to for inspiration, as hardware-oriented electrical engineering metaphors gave way to the CS -inflected jargon of software designers. Some of this is just a case of science fiction mindlessly replicating nifty-sounding scie
nce factoids. (After all, lately all the cool kids and hot ideas do seem to be moving from the electrical engineering building to the computer science building.) But the three authors reviewed this month put real substance behind the jargon. And the essence of that substance is a shift from envisioning human nature as an EE-style hard drive in a bone box to envisioning it as an open-ended design process ... one in which humans can only do their best to stay afloat and catch the cresting wave of evolution.

  * * * *

  Unsurprisingly, Stross's Saturn's Children is the most overtly CS-oriented of this month's books. It begins with the reminiscences of an aging female robot named Freya. Humans built Freya's original “template matriarch” to be an artificial female escort. Then they became inconveniently extinct, leaving Freya and her template sisters with nothing but not-so-fond memories and a “yawning hole in the center of our badly designed lives."

  The post-human solar system is ruled by a new slave-owning caste of robot Aristos who use human-invented “slave chip” technology to control their less fortunate brethren. While the Aristos party on, the Pink Police hunt down and exterminate outbreaks of “pink goo” (biological replicators). Freya isn't sure how she feels about the Pink Police; after all, slavish adoration of humans is coded into the very core of her soul chip. But when an ambitious Aristo faction hatches the idea of growing its own tame human in order to wield the sledgehammer of Asimov's Laws more effectively, she soon realizes that the resurrection of humanity may be a nightmare instead of a romance.

  Saturn's Children is first and foremost a romp: Bruce Sterling meets P. G. Wodehouse in a future full of tongue-in-cheek references to giants of Golden Age space opera. But, as in all of Stross's books, the fun and games play out against a backdrop that flirts with sf's perennial Big Questions. Is Freya merely an appendage of her template mother or a separate and unique being? And if she does possess a self apart from her template, how can she find purpose in a life rendered obsolete by human extinction? By pursuing individual fulfillment? Or by submerging her identity in a larger collective?