The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2016 (19 page)

Excellent! I can't wait to get started!

We don't blame you! But just so that you're completely informed in accordance with federal law, here are a few examples of the kinds of questions that come to us from hosts of Daydreamers by Proxy, before and after the installation procedure.

Q:
My family doctor has advised me against installing the Daydreamer by Proxy, saying that there's a risk in “unnecessarily drilling holes along your spine, then permanently attaching a genetically engineered parasite to vertebrae C7-T12 that'll have access to both your spinal cord and your brain.” He is being rather unreasonable about the whole thing. What can I say to him to convince him that this isn't nearly the problem he thinks it is?

A:
Bwa-ha! The “parasite,” as your self-interested family practitioner calls it, is perfectly safe. And if anything were to go wrong (which it won't: in the past forty installation procedures there has not been a single death), the extensive health coverage provided by Geneertech (health coverage that you would be hard-pressed to equal by moving to another company, that you'd have to do without if you were for some reason fired for non-performance) would ensure that in the event of an irreversible paralysis-induced paraplegia, you would be well taken care of. You can undertake the procedure without fear, whether that fear is of the non-negligible chance of the loss of motor control or the facility of speech, or of a job market that is notoriously unfriendly to people like yourself, who are no longer fresh out of college, easy to train, and ready to take on the world.

Q:
As of late I have developed a certain rapport with a colleague who has also chosen to host a Daydreamer by Proxy. Though I would not call this love, or even lust—recent events seem to have inexplicably robbed me of the capability to feel such emotions—we do share a certain affinity for the tasks at hand, and during our prescribed off-task conversational periods, we have found that we both enjoy the films of Carl Theodor Dreyer. And our Daydreamers seem to get along as well—when they come within close proximity, they emit a certain keening chitter—
Chee-chee-cha? Chee-chee-chee-cha!
—and I can feel the legs of my Daydreamer clutching at my spine, producing shivers that are now the closest thing I can feel to erotic stimulation.

I am considering asking this woman to accompany me to a double feature of
The Passion of Joan of Arc
and
Vampyr
at the local drive-in. Now that I have a Daydreamer by Proxy, are the forms indicated in Standard Operational Procedure Three for managerial permission for interoffice liaisons sufficient, or must I fill out additional forms as well?

A:
Good question! You don't need to fill out any additional forms besides those mentioned in SOP-3. However, you'll want to read the pamphlet entitled “Mating Procedures for Daydreamers by Proxy” before you hit the town with your new companion. And remember that Daydreamers by Proxy, whether living or dead, eggs produced by Daydreamers by Proxy, offspring that hatch from such eggs, and the genome sequence of the Daydreamer by Proxy are the property of Geneertech; theft of company property will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Go get 'em, tiger!

Q:
After six months hosting the Daydreamer by Proxy, I'm discovering some side effects other than the expected slight weight loss, constant hunger, and occasionally unreliable memory. For one thing, according to my wife, the Daydreamer's face is beginning to physically resemble mine: its eye color has changed from pink to brown, and its cute little Fu Manchu mustache has fallen off. “Now it does that little thing with its mouth that you do, when you're thinking hard,” my wife says. “It's kind of cute.”

In addition, it has begun to speak on occasion—its voice sounds like a poor imitation of mine, as if its throat is lined with gravel. No one would mistake its speech for my own, but it is somewhat embarrassing when I am deeply engaged in a task in my workspace and the Daydreamer suddenly blurts out, “Taste this foie gras! Taste it!” or “Chicken: standing on sixteen,” or “Aw, yeah, back that on up over here, baby.”

Also, the Daydreamer by Proxy is seducing my wife. Though we have marital difficulties that are proving insurmountable, my wife and I still sleep in the same bed out of long habit. However, I sleep on my side with my back to her, which leaves the Daydreamer facing her. Recently I awoke in the middle of the night to hear the Daydreamer's raspy whisper. “Do you remember our first time?” it said. “We packed a picnic basket with decadent delicacies, broke into the abandoned opera house, and ascended to the darkened stage. Oh, at first we tried to practice restraint and decorum, but in the end we couldn't help ourselves: the feast ended with us smearing marmalade all over our faces and dousing each other's bodies with anisette. And then: the second, shameful feast that followed. Do you remember?” My wife stifled a giggle. “Yes, the shame, the shame,” she whispered back. “Make me feel it again!” The Daydreamer's legs contracted tightly in my back, hard enough to make my feet kick. My wife has never giggled like that for me! And we have never even been inside an opera house: opera gives me hives! Our first kiss was in the linen aisle of a Wal-Mart! What on earth is going on here? What is to be done?

A:
Relax: this is normal.

RACHEL SWIRSKY

FROM
Lightspeed Magazine

B
EGIN AT THE BEGINNING:

His many hats. Felt derbies in charcoal and camel and black. Sporting caps and straw boaters. Gibuses covered in corded silk for nights at the theatre. Domed bowlers with dashingly narrow brims. The ratty purple silk top hat, banded with russet brocade, that he keeps by his bedside.

The march hare, each foreleg as strong as an ox's, bucking and hopping and twitching his whiskers. Here, there, somewhere else, leading his hatter a merry dance between tables. Rogering by the mahogany slipper chair. Knocking by the marble bust of the Queen of Hearts. Upending rose-patterned porcelain so that it smashes on the grass, white and pink fragments scattering like brittle leaves.

Fur, soft and lush. Warmth like spring. That prey-quick heartbeat, thump-thump, thump-thump.

As he pushes into that plush passage, the hatter finds himself wondering what kind of hat might be made from the pelt of a hare. He imagines stretching out this glorious fur to be pulled until only the finest hare wool remains. He would brush it with long, liquid strokes of mercury nitrate, that crystalline solution which drove him mad long ago.

A pair they were:

The hatter, twitching and tottering. His muscles no longer obeying his mind.

The hare, biting and buckling. Wild as any animal in spring.

Intemperate, the both of them. Foolish, feral, barmy, off their heads. Imprudent. 'Round the bend. Daft.

Spent.

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

How I wonder where you're at!

Up above the world you fly,

like a tea tray in the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle, little Hare!

I have caught you in my snare!

Hop on down my bunny trail;

I could use a piece of tail!

Twinkle, twinkle, Hatter dear!

While some men may find you queer,

You are just my kind of chap!

Stick your feather in my cap!

The girl in the blue dress has been gone a measureless while. Her brief, uncivil interruption left its mark like a tea stain on the tablecloth. Abrasive as she was, the chit, she was the most interesting thing to happen in a while.

The caucus races are over. The white rabbit has been bustling about. The caterpillar has grown even more insufferable than usual. Of late, a strange pig has been spotted wandering the woods, in search of pepper.

The girl ought to cut her hair. Also, she's much too large, or much too small, or at any rate, definitely the wrong size. She demonstrates no aptitude for recital or croquet, and she never did show a proper appreciation for tea.

But interesting, briefly, yes. Though insufficiently mad.

It is never polite to go out-of-doors without a hat. One's hat should remain on one's head no matter the extremity. Even if the rest of one's clothing should happen to be removed by some improbable whim of the weather, such as a particularly dexterous gale with a penchant for buttons, one must be sure to hold one's hat fixedly on one's head.

The hatter is a poor man. He has no hats of his own. Those he keeps on his head or in his house are merely inventory, soon to be shuffled away when a purchaser is found.

The hatter sits by his hare, the animal's head lying in his lap so that he may stroke his long, satin ears. The dormouse has gone, seeking less tumultuous environs in which to nap. All is quiet but for the sound of cheshires hunting in the woods, all absent stalking and sudden teeth.

“Thank God for tea!” says the hatter by way of initial venture. “What would the world do without tea? I am glad I was not born before tea.”

The words once belonged to Sydney Smith, but they're the hatter's now. He and the hare have taken to speaking entirely in quotations as one of the many diversions that occupy their endless tea time.

The hare seems unmoved by the hatter's adoring exclamation. He stares morosely into his teacup. “ 'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious,” he says sadly, “for tea and coffee leave us much more serious.”

The hatter takes affront. “There is a great deal of fine poetry and sentiment in a chest of tea!”

The hare gives a delicate, prudish sniff. “Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.”

“Tea tempers the spirit,” answers the hatter, “and harmonizes the mind.”

The hare, all conciliatory now, hops to his feet. He takes his lover's hand in his paw and tugs him toward the tea tables. “If you are cold,” he says with lingering sweetness, “tea will warm you.”

March hares make better lovers than white rabbits. Ask Mary Ann. She'll tell you the same.

Q: Why is a raven like a writing desk?

A: Because they both have quills.

Q: Why is a vain woman like a hatter?

A: Because they both love their hare.

Q: Why is tea time like eternity?

A: One begins with tea and the other ends with it.

Let us be clear about this:

When the Queen of Hearts accused the hatter of murdering Time, she was telling the truth.

Did the hatter kill Time? Yes. Is that the reason why the hatter and the hare are forever caught in this interminable tea time hour? It is.

But is a soldier in the wrong when he dispatches an enemy of the empire? Is a father guilty when, in protecting his daughter from highwaymen, he resorts to his rifle?

No. A man should not be excoriated for self-defense.

Time provoked the hatter. No man can question it.

Tell the truth—have you not felt the indignities of Time? The way he rushes when you wish to linger with a lover, but dwells stagnantly on the endless sprawl of an agonizing wait? Have you no gray hairs? No twinges? No creaking joints?

Admit it. Time has provoked you, too.

A hatter should never be forced to construct hats at the behest of a deck of cards.

So many hats.

Hats for winning and hats for losing. Hats for playing Old Maid and Old Bachelor and Our Birds and Dr. Busby. Rain hats for days when shuffling threatens to leave anyone exposed. Debut hats for when the pack is first opened, and funeral hats for when everyone has become too wrinkled to go on.

Hats, always red and black, black and red. The hatter tried to give them vibrant yellows and restful blues, verdant greens and shimmering purples. When that failed to appeal, he offered hues only slightly off-true. Why not wear a scarlet bonnet or a crimson coronet with wired vermillion lace? A gray bowler, perhaps? A silver derby?

Certainly not,
the cards replied, clutching their hearts and diamonds, brandishing their clubs and spades.
We want red and black and nothing more. Black, true black, as black as respectable ladies in mourning. Red, proper red, as red as the first summer roses (and we will not tolerate facetious remarks about roses that bloom in other colors).

We like what we like and we want what we want, and if you will not provide it, then we will be forced to take our custom elsewhere, and then how will you earn your tea?

Who would not go mad from monotony as much as mercury? Day after day, an endless scape of red and black, black and red, black, black, red, red, black, red, black, red, black. Pulling, carroting, mixing, carding, weighing, bowling, basoning, planking, blocking, dyeing, stiffing, steaming, lining. Dawn to dusk, only seeing the sun at tea time, that brief six o'clock break for Ceylon and cucumber sandwiches.

In nature, even rabbits do not have sex like proverbial rabbits, and so by extension, logic dictates that hares do not have sex like proverbial hares.

The tea party, however, is not nature. The march hare wears a pocket watch and a striped Arlington waistcoat and a cravat. His crimson wool frock coat is double-breasted with a pointed front. He sips Earl Grey from a rounded pot that faces his host, using a moustache cup to spare his fur.

Gentlemen do not importune ladies with unseemly urges, but neither the hatter nor the hare are gentlemen (or, for that matter, ladies). So once their verve is replenished by the restorative properties of Darjeeling, the two mad creatures return to their lustful adventures.

Now, you may find yourself overcome by distaste—or even disbelief—that a tea party, no matter how protracted, could eventually degrade into the kind of scene best left for a bawd house. But have you ever found yourself trapped in a single afternoon for a ceaseless, innumerable progression of what would be hours if Time were alive to account for them?