Asimov's SF, September 2010 (25 page)

"I know your plan,” I said. “Your micromachines—they'll convert the carbon dioxide to oxygen. And when the atmosphere changes, the cities will be grounded. They won't be lighter than air, won't be able to float anymore. You know that, don't you? You want to do it deliberately."

"He can't,” Leah said, “it won't work. The carbon would—” and then she broke off. “Diamond,” she said. “He's going to turn the excess carbon into diamond."

I reached over and picked up a piece of furniture, one of the foamed-diamond tables. It weighed almost nothing.

"Nanomachinery,” I said. “The molecular still you mentioned. You know, somebody once said that the problem with Venus isn't that the surface is too hot. It's just fine up here where the air's as thin as Earth's air. The problem is the surface is just too darn far below sea level.

"But for every ton of atmosphere your molecular machines convert to oxygen, you get a quarter ton of pure carbon. And the atmosphere is a thousand tons per square meter.

I turned to Carlos Fernando, who still hadn't managed to say anything. His silence was as damning as any confession. “Your machines turn that carbon into diamond fibers and build upward from the surface. You're going to build a new surface, aren't you? A completely artificial surface. A platform up to the sweet spot, fifty kilometers above the old rock surface. And the air there will be breathable."

At last Carlos found his voice. “Yeah,” he said. “Dad came up with the machines, but the idea of using them to build a shell around the whole planet—that idea was mine. It's all mine. It's pretty smart, isn't it? Don't you think it's smart?"

"You can't own the sky,” I said, “but you can own the land, can't you? You will have built the land. And all the cities are going to crash. There won't be any dissident cities, because there won't be any cities. You'll own it all. Everybody will have to come to you."

"Yeah,” Carlos said. He was smiling now, a big goofy grin. “Sweet, isn't it?” He must have seen my expression, because he said, “Hey, come on. It's not like they were contributing. Those dissident cities are full of nothing but malcontents and pirates."

Leah's eyes were wide. He turned to her and said, “Hey, why shouldn't I? Give me one reason. They shouldn't even be here. It was all my ancestor's idea, the floating city, and they shoved in. They stole his idea, so now I'm going to shut them down. It'll be better my way."

He turned back to me. “Okay, look. You figured out my plan. That's fine, that's great, no problem, okay? You're smarter than I thought you were, I admit it. Now, just, I need you to promise not to tell anybody, okay?"

I shook my head.

"Oh, go away,” he said. He turned back to Leah. “Dr. Hamakawa,” he said. He got down on one knee, and, staring at the ground, said, “I want you to marry me. Please?"

Leah shook her head, but he was staring at the ground and couldn't see her. “I'm sorry, Carlos,” she said. “I'm sorry."

He was just a kid, in a room surrounded by his toys, trying to talk the adults into seeing things the way he wanted them to. He finally looked up, his eyes filling with tears. “Please,” he said. “I want you to. I'll give you anything. I'll give you whatever you want. You can have everything I own, all of it, the whole planet, everything."

"I'm sorry,” Leah repeated. “I'm sorry."

He reached out and picked up something off the floor—a model of a spaceship—and looked at it, pretending to be suddenly interested in it. Then he put it carefully down on a table, picked up another one, and stood up, not looking at us. He sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand—apparently forgetting he had the ship model in it—trying to do it casually, as if we wouldn't have noticed that he had been crying.

"Okay,” he said. “You can't leave, you know. This guy guessed too much. The plan only works if it's secret, so that the malcontents don't know it's coming, don't prepare for it. You have to stay here. I'll keep you here, I'll—I don't know. Something."

"No,” I said. “It's dangerous for Leah here. Miranda already tried to hire pirates to shoot her down once, when she was out in the sky kayak. We have to leave."

Carlos looked up at me, and with sudden sarcasm said, “Miranda? You're joking. That was me who tipped off the pirates. Me. I thought they'd take you away and keep you. I wish they had."

And then he turned back to Leah. “Please? You'll be the richest person on Venus. You'll be the richest person in the solar system. I'll give it all to you. You'll be able to do anything you want."

"I'm sorry,” Leah repeated. “It's a great offer. But no."

At the other end of the room, Carlos’ bodyguards were quietly entering. He apparently had some way to summon them silently. The room was filling with them, and their guns were drawn, but not yet pointed.

I backed toward the window, and Leah came with me.

The city had rotated a little, and sunlight was now slanting in through the window. I put my sun goggles on.

"Do you trust me?” I said quietly.

"Of course,” Leah said. “I always have."

"Come here."

LINK: READY blinked in the corner of my field of view.

I reached up, casually, and tapped on the side of the left lens. CQ MANTA, I tapped. CQ.

I put my other hand behind me and, hoping I could disguise what I was doing as long as I could, I pushed on the pane, feeling it flex out.

HERE, was the reply.

Push. Push. It was a matter of rhythm. When I found the resonant frequency of the pane, it felt right, it built up, like oscillating a rocking chair, like sex.

I reached out my left hand to hold Leah's hand, and pumped harder on the glass with my right. I was putting my weight into it now, and the panel was bowing visibly with my motion. The window was starting to make a noise, an infrasonic thrum too deep to hear, but you could feel it. On each swing, the pane of the window bowed further outward.

"What are you doing?” Carlos shouted. “Are you crazy?"

The bottom bowed out, and the edge of the pane separated from its frame.

There was a smell of acid and sulfur. The bodyguards ran toward us, but—as I'd hoped—they were hesitant to use their guns, worried that the damaged panel might blow completely out.

The window screeched and jerked, but held, fixed in place by the other joints. The way it was stuck in place left a narrow vertical slit between the window and its frame. I pulled Leah close to me and shoved myself backward, against the glass, sliding along against the bowed pane, pushing it outward to widen the opening as much as I could.

As I fell, I kissed her lightly on the edge of the neck.

She could have broken my grip, could have torn herself free.

But she didn't.

"Hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut,” I whispered, as we fell through the opening and into the void, and then with my last breath of air, I said, “I love you."

She said nothing in return. She was always practical, and knew enough not to try to talk when her next breath would be acid. “I love you too,” I imagined her saying.

With my free hand, I tapped, MANTA

NEED PICK-UP. FAST.

And we fell.

"It wasn't about sex at all,” I said. “That's what I failed to understand.” We were in the manta, covered with slime, but basically unhurt. The pirates had accomplished their miracle, snatched us out of mid-air. We had information they needed, and in exchange they would give us a ride off the planet, back where we belonged, back to the cool and the dark and the emptiness between planets. “It was all about finance. Keeping control of assets."

"Sure it's about sex,” Leah said. “Don't fool yourself. We're humans. It's always about sex. Always. You think that's not a temptation? Molding a kid into just exactly what you want? Of course it's sex. Sex and control. Money? That's just the excuse they tell themselves."

"But you weren't tempted,” I said.

She looked at me long and hard. “Of course I was.” She sighed, and her expression was once again distant, unreadable. “More than you'll ever know."

Copyright © 2010 Geoffrey A. Landis

[Back to Table of Contents]

Art a la Carte

From the moment you pick up the new Collins Design edition of
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
(hardcover, $16.99, 160 pages, ISBN 978-0-06-188657-7), you realize you are holding a high-quality thing of beauty. The sheer heft of this compact book is greater than you expect, betokening its lush, heavy paper stock. And the wraparound art on the embossed dust jacket is eye-popping and freshly revelatory of the true weirdness of this classic. Not an easy accomplishment, given the famous Tenniel Barrier of Excellence and the innumerable folks who have had a whack at illustrating Alice's exploits since Tenniel threw down his gauntlet.

Giving Lewis Carroll his standard props for the eternally interesting text, we have to focus on two creators to explain the allure of this edition. Agnieszka Stachowicz designed the book, carefully interpolating the spot illustrations, placing clever little chapter icons at the tops of pages, chosing where to fit in the full-page and double-page spreads, and fashioning great endpapers. Kudos indeed!

But the bulk of the praise for this volume must go to Camille Rose Garcia, who interprets Carroll's story with verve, wit, ingenuity, and her own distinctive voice. Garcia's art is fey and decadent without being cloying. The publicity material calls it “Goth,” but I'd say “Beardsley-esque.” Her ethereal, humorous style will remind you of the work of Dame Darcy and Melinda Gebbie, Ronald Searle and Tim Burton. (This edition, of course, coincides with the Burton film.) It's a beautiful fit with the well-known Victorian erotic/horrific/surreal/playful story.

Garcia unfailingly chooses the best moments of the plot to illustrate, given that she can't do everything. Her depiction of the Tea Party is both lugubrious and comical, static and action-packed. She has such a fix on the essential qualities of Alice and all the subsidiary characters, bringing out their personalities in dramatic fashion. Moreover, her color palette is at once candy-sweet and acid-bright.

Sometime in the future, critics might very well be calibrating their assessment of Alice art by the Garcia Standard.

To rest one's eager eyes upon a painting by Frank R. Paul (1884-1963) is a form of instant time travel. Seldom does a single artist come to stand for an entire era so succinctly and dramatically as Paul does for the 1920s and 1930s: specifically, the birth, youth, and beginning maturation of science fiction. Inextricably linked with the debut of genre SF, thanks to his hand-in-glove partnership with Hugo Gernsback, Paul and his work at first evoke a campy, nostalgic emotion for yesterday's tomorrows. That is, if you limit yourself to a simpleminded, dismissive glance. But if you get beyond the cursory surface of his work, really place yourself in the edenically naive mindset of one of his contemporary fans and study his techniques and passionate approach to his subject matter, you will gain new respect for, and appreciation of, the man once deemed the dean of all SF illustrators.

Surely no book will aid you in this education more than the recent
From the Pen of Paul
(Shasta-Phoenix, hardcover, $39.95, 128 pages, ISBN 978-0-9800931-1-7). Lovingly assembled by Stephen D. Korshak, with informative essays by the editor, Jerry Weist, Forry Ackerman, and Sam Moskowitz, this volume replicates in sterling color a large percentage of Paul's 200 covers and 1000 interior illos. And the gloriously unfamiliar ones outweigh those overly sampled ones from past surveys.

To study the paintings in toto is to catalog the entirety of SF illustration, all the tropes, symbology, and subject matter still gracing covers today. Aliens and robots, Big Dumb Objects and futuristic tech, heroes and heroines, astronomical vistas and exo-landscapes—Paul was there first, and crystallized much of what we accept today as standard book-cover design and content. Granted, his human figures were a bit stiff and clumsy—is this where satirist Bruce McCall ultimately derives his own style?—but his compositions are always full of frontier energy and glee. Paul always makes you want to read the story that goes with his art.

For fifty dollars per painting—roughly six hundred dollars in today's money, by my calculations—Paul lavished his skills on the nascent field that today earns some folks millions of dollars. You need to have this book: both to honor that dedication, and for your own pleasure.

Ordinary Miracles

Here's what I think is a useful thought experiment to perform in connection with
Interfictions 2: An Anthology of Interstitial Writing
(Small Beer Press, trade paper, $16.00, 296 pages, ISBN 978-1-931520-61-4). Imagine that you reprinted the entire contents selected by editors Delia Sherman and Christopher Barzak, but without any identifying matter as to its origins, and then wrapped it inside covers labeled
Eclipse 3
, or
The
Solaris Book of New Fantasy
, or the January/February issue of
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
, or even
The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories for 2010
. Then you gave this camouflaged book to any literate yet unsuspecting reader. Would the nominated reader, after carefully perusing X number of stories, look up and say, “Wait one darn minute! These hybrid stories are too odd for their genre label! I'm really reading interstitial fiction! Not pure fantasy or pure SF or pure mimetic fiction, as advertised!"

I don't think they would. Because aside from the lowest-common-denominator, utterly cliché-heavy hack stories in each genre, at the top of the scale of good fiction, there is simply no more purity left.

Every story nowadays—or the majority, anyhow—above a certain level of ambition is now by default “interstitial.” It's just a simple reflection of our churned-up postmodern condition. In other words, the battle is over, and chimerical weirdness won. So you are no longer surprised to see Graham Joyce or Junot Diaz (actual winners from 2009) in an O. Henry Award collection.