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Saturday, March 3, 2018

Candle in a Cosmic Wind

Candle in a Cosmic Wind


By Joseph Manzione

When the war began, she had been in an American wing command bunker in the missile fields northwest of Omaha. She was a major in the R.V.S.N, the Soviet Strategic Rocket Forces, and her own rocket regimental complex, a group of RS-21 launchers outside of Novosibirsk, already had been dismantled under the detailed provisions of U.N. Resolution 242. The Ministry of Defense could think of no better qualifications nor more sensitive postings for professional orphans like Avdotya, so she and thousands of others – R.V.S.N. technicians, P.V.O. – Strany officers, political commissars, boom-boom submariners and more – were sent to the United States to observe comparable American disarmament under the 242 plan. The American officers at Omaha had tolerated her, just as she had politely ignored Stockwell and Belinda Nhu the ear before. The Americans deactivated systems according to a meticulously negotiated schedule, while Avdotya and four comrades, and a very serious team of U.N. observers from Senegal, simply watched, day after day.

Until Ben Kimball had slammed down the blue phone on his desk in the operations center, pointed a pistol in Avdotya`s face, and given a launch-sequence order to the remaining Peackeeper II missile crews on line. In the ensuing shouting and confusion, the reporter from Izvestia – a KGB operative – garroted a young American guard and grabbed her automatic weapon. The Senegalese died quickly, as did the reporter and three American technicians, but Avdotya and her two remaining comrades managed to break out through a light cordon of bewildered guards. Not knowing what to do, they ran through endless corridors pursued by the Americans, and Avdotya lost the P.V.O. Strany Pilot first, and later the boy from the embassy. She had taken to the airducts then, and eventually found herself outside the main generator bunker and the underground fuels and stockpiles depot. She killed three guards and managed to barricade herself in that section before they found her, but by then the short war was almost over, and circumstances had changed. The generation of power in a protected environment was paramount, and she controlled supplies, machines, and computers. Despite the desperate efforts of the surviving Americans in the weeks that followed, they were not able to flush her out.

Candle in a Cosmic Wind. Picture by Elena.

Above ground, the world appeared to die very quickly. Avodtya resigned herself to a life spent in a safe cage; there was enough of everything to sustain her body, but her emotional suffering was unavoidable. By the third years, however, the permafrost reached far below the bunker and the huge fuel tanks embedded in the earth around it. Inside the tanks the heating elements could no longer cope with the extreme temperatures, and the fuel slowly congealed into a molasses-like gel that could not be pumped. She foresaw these consequences, and though she could do nothing about them, she took steps to make a temporary escape. She selected a huge all-terrain diesel tractor, building in heating systems, generators and charging circuits, insulated armor and meshed treads. She stowed food and water in the trunk, and a vast amount of fuel in electrically-heated tanks. Two weeks before she was ready, the main generator shut down, and she fought the encroaching frost with portable burners. She barely managed it, but she was already dead.

The days of her life were counted by the fuel gauges on the trucks instrument panels.

(Excerpt from The Year’s Best Science Fiction, Fifth Annual Collection, edited by Gardner Dozois. St. Martin’s Press, 1988.)

The Faithful Companion at Forty

The Faithful Companion at Forty

By Kern Joy Fowler


Does he hear me? About like always. “I figured it out,” he says. “It’s a combination of biofeedback and the mantra “home”. I’ve been working and working on it. I could always leave, you know, that was never the problem, but I could never arrive. Something outside me stopped to say something, but I’m too pissed. He goes on. “Am I getting too theoretical for you? Because I’m about to get more so. Try to stay with me. The key word is displacement.” He says this like he’s shivering. “I couldn’t get back because there was no room for me there. The only way back is through an exchange. Someone else has to come forward.”

He pauses again and this pause goes on and on. Finally I grunt. A redskin sound. Noncommittal.

His voice is severe. “This is too important for you to miss just because you’re sulking about god knows what, pilgrim,” he says. “This is travel through space and time.”

“This is baloney,” I tell him. I’m uncharacteristically blunt, blunter ahan I ever was during the primal-scream-return-to-the womb period. If noboy’s listening, what does it matter?

“Displacement,” he repeats and his voice is all still and important. “Ask yourself, buddy, what happened to the buffalo?”

The Faifulth Companion at Forty. Photo by Elena

I don’t believe I’ve heard him correctly. “Say what?

“Return with me,” he says and then he’s gone for good and this time he hasn’t hung up the phone; this time I can still hear the William Tell Overture repeating the hoofbeat part. There’s a noise out front so I go to the door, and damned if I don’t have a buffalo, shuffling around on my ornamental strawberries, looking surprised. “You call this grass?” it asks me. It looks up and down the street, more and more alarmed. “Where’s the plains, man?” Where’s the railroad?”

So I’m happy for him. Really I am.

(Excerpt from The Year’s Best Science Fiction, Fifth Annual Collection, edited by Gardner Dozois. St. Martin’s Press, 1988.)

The Cambist and Lord Iron

The Cambist and Lord Iron: A Fairy Tale of Economics

By Daniel Abraham


(The Year’s Best Phantasy and Horror, 2008)

Lord Iron opened his hand in a motion of deference. Olaf cleared his throat.

“Wealth,” he said, “is not a measure of money. It is a measure of well-being. Of happiness, if you will. Wealth is not traded, but rather is generated by trade. If you have a piece of art that I wish to own and I have money that you would prefer to the artwork, we trade. Each of us has something he prefers to the thing he gave away; otherwise, we would not have agreed on the trade. We are both better off. You see? Wealth is generated. »

« I believe I can follow you so far, » Lord Iron said. “Certainly I can agree that a flat wallet is no quarantor of contentment.”

“Very well. I considered your problem for the better part of the day. I confess I came near to despairing; there is good data from which to work. But then I found my error. I assumed that your soul, my lord, was valuable. Clearly it is not.”

Lord Iron coughed out something akin to laugh, shock in his expression. Olaf raised a hand, palm out, asking that he not interrupt.

Zombie Boy. Why would Satan bother to buy your soul? He has rights to it already. Photograph by Megan Jorgensen (Elena)

“You are renowned for your practice of evil. This very evening, walking through your house, I have seen things for which I can imagine no proper penance. Why would Satan bother to buy your soul? He has rights to it already.”

“He does,” Lord Iron said, staring into the middle distance.

“And so I saw,” Olaf said. “You aren’t seeking to sell a soul. You are hoping to buy one.”

Lord Iron sighed and looked at his hands. He seemed smaller now. Not a supernatural being, but a man driven by human fears and passions to acts that could only goad him on to worse and worse actions. A man like any other, but with the wealth to magnify his error into the scale of legend.

“You are correct, boy,” he said. “The angels wouldn’t have my soul if I drenched it in honey. I have… treated it poorly. It’s left me weary and sick. I am a waste of flesh. I know that. If there is no way to become a better man than this, I suspect the best path is to become a corpse.”

“I understand, my lord. Here is the answer to your question: the price of a soul is a life of humility and service.”

“Ah, is that all,” Lord Iron said, as if the cambist had suggested that he pull down the stars with his fingers.

“And as it happens,” Olaf went on, “I have one such with which I would be willing to part.”

Lord Iron met his gaze, began to laugh, and then went silent.

“Here,” Olaf said, “is what I propose…”

Vampires in the Lemon Grove

Vampires in the Lemon Grove

By Karen Russell


In October, the men and women of Sorento harvest the primofiore, or « first fruit,» the most succulent lemons; in March, the yellow bianchetti ripen, followed in June by the green verdelli. In every season you can find me sitting at my bench, watching them fall. Only one or two lemons tumble from the branches each hour, but I’ve been sitting here so long their falling seems contiguous, close as raindrops. My wife has no patience for this sort of meditation. “Jesus Christ, Clyde,” she said. “You need a hobby. »

Most people mistake me for a small, kindly Italian grandfather, a nonno. I have an old nonno’s coloring., the dark walnut stain peculiar to Southern Italians, a tan that won’t fade until I die (which I never will). I wear a neat periwinkle shirt, a canvas sunhat, black suspenders that sag at my chest. My loafers are battered but always polished. The few visitors to the lemon grove who notice me smile blankly into my raisin face and catch the whiff of some sort of tragedy; they whisper that I am a widower, or an old man who survived the children. They never guess that I am a vampire.

Vampire in the Lemon Grove. Photo : Elena

San Francisca’s Lemon Grove, where I spend my days and nights, what part of a Jesuit convent in the 1800s. Now it’s privately owned by the Alberty family, the prices are excessive, and the locals know to buy their lemons elsewhere. In summers a teenage girl named Fila manages a wooden stall at the back of the grove. She’s painfully thin, with heavy black bangs. I can tell by the careful way she saves the best lemons for me, slyly kicking them under my bench, that she knows I am a monster. Sometimes she’ll smile vacantly in my direction, but she never gives me any trouble. And because of her benevolent indifference to me, I feel a swell of love for the girl.

Fila makes the lemonade and monitors the hot dog machine, watching the meat rotate on wire spits. I’m fascinated by this machine. The Italian name for it translates as “carousel of beef”. Who would have guessed at such a device two hundred years ago? Back then we were all preoccupied with visions of apocalypse; Santa Francisca, the foundress of this very grove, googles out her eyes while dictating premonitions of fire. What a shame, I often think that she foresaw only the end times, never hot dogs.

A sign posted just outside the grove reads: Cigarette Pie. Hot dogs. Granite Drinks. Santa Francisca’s Limonata – The most refreshing drank on the planet.

Holiday

Holiday

By M. Rickert


« You hungry? » I pick up the half-full bag of Doritos on the coffee table in front of the couch and extend it toward her. She shakes her head. “Wanna watch a movie?” I asked. She just stands there, staing at me, squinting slightly, looking like she just might start crying, as though I have awoken her from some dream about Barbie dolls and Christmas and a perfect life, into this reality of being murdered and stuck, for eternity, at age six, tap dancing forever. I look through my DVD collection, Kill Bill (1 and 2), Seven Samurai, The Shining, Howard Stern’s Private Parts (severely underrated and underappreciated, by the way), City of Women, My Architect Wild Weather Caught on Tape (a gift from an old girlfriend) and the Wet Women of California, which, swear to God, I had forgotten all about. None of it exactly seems like the sort of thing to watch with a six-year-old murdered kid, so instead I turn on the TV and settle on the cooking channel, but I guess it wasn’t the right choice because next thing I know, I’m sitting along watching this chick with a giant smile, pouring liquid over hamburger meat. “Hey,” I say to the air, “Come back, we don’t have to watch this.” But of course no one answers and no one appears. I pick up one of the DVDs, and put it in, just to get rid of the headache I feel coming on. In two seconds, I’m watching naked big-breasted women dive into the ocean, roll on the sand, and frolic with the waves and each other. I drink my warm beer and start to play with myself until I get the creepy feeling that maybe she’s still in the room. I take my hand out of my pants, flick off the DVD, and turn over, my face pressed against the couch.

Holiday. Photo by Elena

The next day I go to the library. There’s a whole shelf devoted just to her. I page through the books and look at all the pictures. Yep, it’s her all right. I don’t check out the books, just in case she comes back. I don’t want her to see them and get scared or anything. I don’t know why she’s coming to see me, but I want her to come back. When I read about how her father found her, wrapped in a blanket, as though someone was worried she would be cold, but with that rope around her neck, and all the rest, I feel like something inside me wakes up, and it’s not a completely disturbing feeling. I spend the whole day at the library and when I leave I’m tired, and hungry, but before I do anything else, I go to Wal-Mart and buy the boxed collection of Shirley Temple DVDs. They were her favorite. Next time she comes, I’m going to be prepared. Sarah Vehler, who was in my brother’s class in high school, is the checkout prepared. She’s gained about five hundred pounds since then and I barely recognize her, but she recognizes me just fine. “I didn’t know you have kids,” she says. What am I supposed to do, tell her I’ve got a ghost? Instead, I just shrug. Maybe that was a mistake. I don’t know. This was all new territory for me. I tried to do what was right.