The Darfsteller

The Darfsteller

By Walter B. Miller, Jr.

Great Actors Immortalized – that was one of Smithfield's little slogans. But they had discontinued on Mela Stone, the depot clerk had said. Overstocked.

The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the pit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens – even hundreds – of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted – but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition – immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors,, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard's premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, there were the trouper's media, and his art could not outlive them.

Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted – partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic” - could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. There were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.

An actor, the darfsteller. Photo by Elena.

At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he'd hold up the run-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.

“Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”

“Who... D'Uccia?”

“No... well, yeah, D'Uccia, too. He wasn't unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne”.

“Oh... where's your phone?”

“Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”

Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent-mindedness had goofed up her production -

“I've got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone. Boy, you're sure on the ball today, ain't ya – the greasy eight ball.”

Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.

“Than God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a waling zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we're running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”

The Last Oracle

James Rollins

The Last Oracle

September 7, 2:17 a.m., Washington D.C.

Painter hurried down the hall. He didn't meed any more trouble, but he got it.

The entire command bunker was in lockdown mode after the attack. As he had suspected, after the fiery death of Mapplethorpe, the few remaining combatants ghosted away into the night. Painter was determined to find each and every one of them, along with every root and branch that supplied Mapplethorpe with the resources and intelligence to pull off this attack.

In the meantime, Painter had to regain order here.

He had a skeleton team pulled back inside. The injured had been transported to local hospitals. The dead remained where they were. He didn't want anything disturbed until he could bring in his own forensic team. It was a a grim tour of duty here this evening. Though Painter had employed the air scrubbers and ventilation to clear the accelerant, it did nothing to erase the odor of charred flesh.

And on top of resecuring the facility here, he was fielding nonstop calls from every branch of the intelligence agency: both about what had happened here and about the aborted terrorist act at Chernobyl. Painter stonewalled about most of it. He didn't have time for debriefings or to play the political game of who had the bigger dick. The only brief call he took was from a grateful president. Painter used that gratitude to buy him the latitude to put off everyone else.

Another attack threatened.

That was the top priority.

The Last Oracle. Photo by Elena.

And as the latest problem was tied to that matter, he gave it his full and immediate attention. Reaching the medical level, he crossed to one of the private rooms. He entered and found Kat and Lisa flanking a bed.

Sasha lay atop it as Lisa repositioned an EEG lead to the child's temple.

She's sick again? Painter asked.

Something new, Lisa answered. She's not febrile like before.

Kat stood with her arms crossed. Lines of worry etched her forehead. “I was reading to her, trying to get her to sleep after everything that had happened. She was listening. Then suddenly she sat up, turned to ans empty corner of the room, called out the name Pyotr, then went limp and collapsed.”

“Pyotr? Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yuri mentioned Sasha had a twin brother named Pyotr. It must have been a hallucination.”

While they talked, Lisa had retreated to a bank of equipment and began powering them up. Sasha was wired to both an EKG and EEG, monitoring cardiac and neurological activity.

“Is her device active?” Painter asked, nodding to Sasha's TMS unit.

“No,” Lisa answered. “Malcolm checked. He's already come and gone. Off to make some calls. But something's sure active. Her EEG readings are showing massive spiking over the lateral convexity of the temporal lobe. Specifically on the right side, where her implant is located. It's almost as if she's having a temporal lobe seizure. Contrarily her heart rate is low and her blood pressure dropped to her extremities. It's as if all her body's resources are servicing the one organ.”

“Her brain,” Painter said.

“Exactly. Everything else is in shutdown mode.”

Flowers for Algernon

Flowers for Algernon

By Daniel Keyes

July 7. I don't know where the week went. Today's Sunday I know because I can see through my window people going to church. I think I stayed in bed all week but I remember Mrs. Flynn bringing food to me a few times. I keep saying over and over I've got to do something but then I forget or maybe its just easier not to do what I say I'm going to do.

I think of my mother and father a lot these days. I found a picture of them with me taken at a beach. My father has a big ball under his arm and my mother is holding me by the hand. I don't remember them the way they are in the picture. All I remember is my father drunk most of the time and arguing with mom about money.

He never shaved much and he used to scratch my face when he hugged me. My Mother said he died but Coisin Miltie said he heard his dad say that my father ran away with another woman. When I asked my mother she slapped me and said my father was dead. I don't think I ever found out the truth but I don't care much. (He said he was going to take me to see  cows on a farm once but he never did. He never kept his promises...)

July 10. My landlady Mrs. Flynn is very worried about me. She says the way I lay around all day and don't do anything I remind her of her son before she threw him out of the house. She said she doesn't like loafers. If I sick it's one thing, but if I'm a loafer that's another thing and she won't have it. I told her I think I'm sick.

Flowers for Algernon. Photo by Elena.

I try to read a little bit every day, mostly stories, but sometimes I have to read the same thing over and over again because I don't know what it means. And it's hard to write. I know I should look up all the words in the dictionary but its so hard and I'm so tired all the time.

Then I got the idea that I would only use the easy words instead of the long hard ones. That saves time. I put flower on Algernon's grave about once a week. Mrs Flynn thinks I'm cray to put flowers on a mouses grave but I told her that Algernon was special.

July 14. It's Sunday again. I don't have anything to do to keep me busy now because my television set it broke and I don't have any money to get it fixed. (I think I lost this months check from the lab. I don't remember).

I get awful headaches and aspirin doesn't help me much. Mrs Flynn knows I'm really sick and she feels very sorry for me. She's a wonderful woman whenever someone is sick.

July 22. Mrs Flynn called a stranger doctor to see me. She was afraid I was going to die. I told doctor I wasn't too sick and I only forget sometimes. He asked me did I have any friends or relatives and I said no I don't have any. I told him I had a friend called Algernon once but he was a mouse and we used to run races together. He looked at me kind of funny like he thought I was crazy. He smiled when I told him I used to be genius. He talked to me like I was a baby and he winked at Mrs. Flynn. I got mad and chased him out because he was making fun of me the way they all used to.

Algernon. Illustration by Elena.

Mentats of Dune

Mentats of Dune

By Brian Herbert and Kevin Anderson

There is beauty in the eyes of the youth who dreams of a bright future (Wisdom of the Ancients)

Though Caladan was quiet and bucolic, it boasted and impressive Air Patrol Agency. The scattered fishing fleets, the occasional sea storms, and the creatures out in the deep oceans, - all required the locals to be ready to mount a rapid and efficient rescue when necessary.

Vor smiled when he studied the history of the Caladan Air Patrol and their years of service. No one knew that the rescue organization had been established and funded well over a century ago through an anonymous foundation set up by Vorian Atreides. Yes, he still had many ties here.

Though they were still young, his great-great-grandsons Willem and Orry had made themselves important pilots in the Patrol. Both young men had a love of fast and dangerous flying in their blood, but Vor decided this was a much better profession than piloting warships against robot vessels in the Jihad.

After that long, late-night confession and conversation with Shander Atreides, Vor felt relieved. He rarely got a chance to shed so many secrets. Even so, from Shander's raised eyebrows and uncertain chuckle, he wasn't sure the wealthy old fisherman – actually Vor's great-grandson – completely believed him. Shander was aware only that one of the ancestors had been a great war hero, as attested to by the statue in the town square; but that was far back in the days of the Jihad, and the fact meant little to their daily lives. Nevertheless, Shander accepted Vorian's friendship, seeing him as a curiosity and a spinner of tales. Good company overall, regardless of the past.

Mentats of Dune. Illustration by Elena.

In a broader sense, Vor wanted to reconnect with the tapestry of his family, his roots, and to apologize for the aloof way he had treated Leronica and their two sons... generations ago. Although no one on Caladan even remembered the slight, Vor needed to do it for himself.

His openness and candor surprised some on Calada whe heard his story, while others simply assumed he had a wild imagination. Vor didn't mind; he intended to stay on beautiful Caladan for a while – for quite a while, in fact. Willem and Orry were strangers to him, be he could hardly wait to meet them.

On the third day after Vor arrived on Caladan, Shander Attreides offered to meet him for lunch to introduce him to the two young men, who were due back from a long patrol. At the last minutes, Shander had to respond to an insistent customer, some kind of urgent repair order for fishing nets, and so Vor went to the landing-field cafe himself. He had faced greater challenges before.

Walking in, he felt tense but eager to meet Willem and Orry. Vor found the sitting at a table by a window that overlooked the Air Patrol field, where seaplanes took off and landed. He was startled when he caught his first glimpse of the two laughing young men. Even in their flight suits, they looked very much like the twins Estes and Kagin. He caught his breath, felt a pang, and then smiles as he stepped forward. 

The Hell-Bound Train

The Hell-Bound Train

By Robert Bloch

Almost six months went by before Martin met Lillian Gillis. By that time he'd had another promotion and was working inside, in the office. They made him go to night school to learn how to do simple book-keeping, but it meant another fifteen bucks extra a week, and it was nicer working indoors.

And Lillian was a lot of fun. When she told him she'd marry him, Martin was almost sure that the time was now. Except that she was sort of – well, she was a nice girl, and she said the'd have to wait until they were married. Of course, Martin couldn't expect to marry her until he had a little more money saved up, and another raise wold help, too.

That took a year. Martin was patient, because he knew it was going to be worth it. Every time he had any doubts, he took out his watch and looked at it. But he never showed it to Lillian, or anybody else. Most of the other men wore expensive wristwatches and the old silver railroad watch looked just a little cheap.

Martin smiled as he gazed at the stem. Just a few twists and he'd have something none of these other poor working slobs would over have. Permanent satisfaction, with his blushing bride...

Only getting married turned out to be just just the beginning. Sure, it was wonderful, but Lillian told him much better things would be if they could move into a new place and fix it up. Martin wanted decent furniture, a TV set, a nice car.

The Hell-Bound Train. Photo by Elena.

So he started taking night courses and got a promotion to the front office. With the baby coming, he wanted to stick around and see his son arrive. And when it came, he realized he'd have to wait until it got a little older, started to walk and talk and develop a personality of its own.

About this time the company sent him out on the road as a trouble-shooter on some of those other jobs, and now he was eating at those good hotels, living high on the hog and the expense-account. More than once he was tempted to unwind his watch. This was the good life... Of course, it would be even better if he just didn't have to work. Sooner or later, if he could cut in on one of the company deals, he could make a pile and retire. The everything would be ideal.

It happened, but it took time. Marin's son was going to high school before he really got up there into the chips. Martin got a strong hunch that it was now or never, because he wasn't exactly a kid any more.

But right about then he met Sherry Westcott, and she didn't seem to think he was middle-aged at all, in spite of the way he was losing hair and adding stomach. She taught him that a toupee could cover the bald spot and a cummerbund could cover the potgut. In fact, she taught him quite a lot and he so enjoyed learning that he actually took out his watch and prepared to unwind it.