Astounding!

Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Astounding!

© 2015 Kim Fielding.

Cover Art

© 2015 Paul Richmond.

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63476-220-5

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-221-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905066

First Edition June 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

A
NOTHER
ONE
had arrived. Carter knew it as soon as he unlocked his mailbox and spied the familiar manila envelope. He didn’t even have to glance at the neatly written address, because who the hell submitted stories via snail mail anymore? Nobody except the persistent J. Harper.

Carter slid the mail out of the box. Apart from the new story, he’d received an electric bill marked Second Notice, a depressingly thick credit card bill, a postcard from some politician he’d never heard of, and a shoe catalog addressed to the previous resident, who had died fifteen years ago. She must have had a hell of a footwear habit, because the catalog still appeared frequently.

He resisted the temptation to dump the whole lot into the grubby waste bin near the stairwell, and with an aggrieved sigh, he clutched his little pile of paper and began to climb. The elevator usually worked, but it was slow and reeked of piss. And besides, climbing three flights was just about the only exercise Carter got nowadays, and he was developing a paunch. It wasn’t a good look on him, especially with his usual pallor and the gray hairs that had recently appeared at his temples and in his whiskers. Not to mention the weary desperation that showed clearly in his eyes.

Once upon a time, Carter had trotted up the stairs. Now he trudged, sometimes clutching the handrail along the way. He kept his gaze on his feet.

This afternoon, the long fourth-floor hallway smelled like cabbage. Better than when it reeked of fish or dirty diapers, anyway. Tuesday mornings, Mrs. Thurman slowly pushed a mop across the floor, and then the hallway was bleach-and-lemon scented for a few hours. Those were Carter’s favorite times to journey to and from his apartment. Now, though, there was cabbage.

When he entered his place—jiggling the lock to open it, as always—he didn’t immediately take the mail to the room he referred to as his office. It was supposed to be a bedroom, actually, but he slept in the living room instead, on a futon he rarely bothered to fold back into a couch. He dumped the envelopes and junk mail on the little table near the door and dropped his keys into a chipped ceramic bowl. He hung his coat on a hook, set his cell phone atop the electric bill, and kicked off his shoes. With the sound of the neighbor’s TV droning through the wall, he headed to the kitchen in search of something resembling dinner. But his gaze fell on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s first, and he decided that was good enough. He grabbed an almost-clean glass and padded back to his unmade bed.

He’d just sat down when his phone began to play Blondie. Carter glared and didn’t get up, and after a moment, the music stopped. But then the ringtone played again, and again, and on the fourth round he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Shoulda put the fucking thing on silent,” he grumbled as he retrieved the device.

“You’re interrupting me,” he growled.

“Interrupting what?” As always, Freddy’s voice was calm and quiet, maybe slightly amused.

“Dinner.”

“How’d it go, Carter?”

Carter emitted a sigh that was more like a moan as he sank back onto the futon, still clutching the whiskey bottle. “Went like always. Magazines are a dying medium, they said. They offered to buy the name for a few thousand bucks, I think so they can license it for a movie or something. But they don’t want the baby and won’t invest in it.”

That’s what they’d called the magazine from the very beginning—the baby. It had been born when they were a young couple, their hearts light with hope and optimism. But while Freddy’s career took off like a rocket, their relationship fizzled into friendship and the baby remained stunted and underfed. And now the baby was very close to dying completely.

“I’m sorry,” Freddy said, sounding sincere. “Look, I’ll send you a story for the next issue. Something really good. And I’ll talk it up on social media.”

“Your fans don’t want a short story from you. They want volume six in the Stonesfire Saga. They want HBO to hurry up and show the next goddamn season already.”

“And the next goddamn season is going to be a doozy. They’re doing a few major departures from the books, just to keep everyone on their toes. I’m killing off everyone’s favorite characters. And you should see who they’re wooing to play the Cloud Wizard!” Freddy chuckled. “But the fans will have to wait, and they’ll be happy with a nice little short. I’m thinking of a fresh take on the space opera.”

“There are
no
fresh takes on the space opera,” Carter said miserably. With the phone against his head, he propped the bottle between his knees and unscrewed the cap. He took a healthy swig, just like that. He didn’t need a glass.

“There are, and I’ll find one. And it’ll be enough to keep your head above water for a little while, right?”

“A very little while.” Carter didn’t intend to sound ungrateful. God knew he appreciated the crumbs Freddy continued to throw him long after their personal and professional partnerships had ended. And hell, Freddy had offered plenty of times to give him a loan. But Carter always refused because they both knew he’d never be able to pay it back and because he still retained a molecule of pride and dignity.

After a long pause—long enough for Carter to swallow more whiskey—Freddy cleared his throat. “Car? I know we’ve been through this before, but… maybe it’s time to let the baby go. You’ve given it your best, man. You’ve done great work. But now you could move on. You could—”

“No.” He wasn’t fool enough to believe the magazine had any future. It had been on life support forever, and it was long past time to pull the plug. But all Carter
had
was the fucking magazine and a streak of bitter stubbornness. And his rapidly draining bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Freddy sighed. “I’ll send you something. Give me a week, okay? Ten days, tops. I’ll get you something nice and juicy.”

“Thanks, Freddy.”

“Are you okay, Car? Really okay?”

“I’m fucking peachy.” Carter waved the bottle in a sort of salute.

“Look, Keith and I have been wanting to get out of town for a few days. Let me write the story and then we’ll fly on up and hang out. We can go camping, even.”

“Sure,” Carter replied unenthusiastically. He and Freddy used to love camping, back when they were students. But there was a big difference between sharing a sleeping bag with your boyfriend when you were twenty and sharing a tent with your ex and his husband when you were thirty-seven. Keith was a nice guy, but Carter was tired of playing third wheel. And if he hadn’t already downed several ounces of Old No. 7, he’d probably be resentful at turning into a complete charity case.

“Carter—”

“I gotta go, Freddy. Dinner’s getting cold. Go write me that story, okay?”

“Okay. Take care, Car.”

He sat for a while on his futon, the blanket bunched uncomfortably under his ass, and nursed the booze until he was just buzzed enough to convince himself he didn’t feel like shit. Somehow, at some point, he’d fallen down a hole without even noticing it, and he’d been falling ever since. Pretty soon that last speck of light would be so far away it would disappear entirely. “No white rabbits for me,” he informed the empty room. “It’s an oubliette. And I fall ever closer to oblivion.”

Rising to his feet took almost more effort than he could muster. He left the phone behind but took the bottle and detoured to the little table to collect his sad pile of mail.

The office was dim even after he switched on the light. The floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined two of the walls sagged under books, magazines, and dusty piles of paper. More books lurked in piles on the floor, ready to trip the unwary. Several filing cabinet drawers gaped like hungry birds because he hadn’t bothered to shut them after he fed them last. He cleared a spot on his desk and booted up the computer, the monitor flickering a sickly green that made his temples throb. The entire room smelled of old alcohol, old paper, old dreams.