Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 (4 page)

It was even the right size for a Heeban, just bigger than my spread hand. The... eggplant, whatever... had the right sheen to its skin, and the same boneless, dense appearance as the gas giant-dwelling species I'd spent most of a year with, some four years ago now. The Heeban had a great appreciation for calm. I'd liked them, especially my security counterpart, who'd been about my relative age and had been amused by the proceedings. We'd traded jokes about our respective charges—one-liners about airbags and drifting conversations—that had actually translated, which didn't happen very often in the greater galaxy. I hadn't talked to ¡Fíver in almost a year. I owed my friend a message.

The others were staring again. Mim was already five bites into her meal, and she looked guiltily at the greenish flesh stabbed on her fork.

"I'm sorry," I said and pushed away from the table. "You all finish, I'll just take a walk."

I went up the grassy hill behind the farm to watch the sunset. A slow, planetary sunset, not the blazing f lash of light I'd see in orbit. The heat of it stung my still toasted cheeks. Which sunset did I like better? I couldn't decide. The sky went on forever here, and I couldn't control it, and I realized, only two weeks on now, I missed the
Raja Ampat.
Captain Song had been right.

Zelda found me maybe half an hour later. Long enough to scarf down eggplant without me looking at them like they were murderers. She brought a blanket with her, and a thermos of hot cocoa with two cups. We sprawled out on the blanket, watched the last of the sunset, the moons glowing with its ref lected light, and the f irst of the stars coming out. There were a lot of them. Ariana's star was coreward, so the sky was crowded, thick bands of stars, blues and whites and red, roiling in tangles. I looked up and saw a thousand civilizations, each vying for their little stake in the world. And I had to go back to the middle of it.

Zelda and the farm were on the outside, watching contentedly. They'd still be here, years or decades from now. I could look into any sky and think of them.

"You're not going to stay, are you?" Zelda said, after a long stretch of quiet.

"No."

"Is it because of the eggplant? Was it that totally offensive?"

"No," I said, chuckling. Everyone on the ship was going to laugh hysterically at the eggplant story.

"Are you happy?"

I turned to look at Zelda and said, unambiguously, so that my sister would not mistake the meaning for some otherworldly euphemism, "Yes."

"I don't understand you."

Likewise, I might have said, but didn't because it didn't matter. I playfully shoved my sister's shoulder and said, "And I will never, ever understand what you see in goats. They
stink."

Zelda shrugged. "You have to put up with some shit to get the really great cheese."

I laughed because it was the most absurd and true thing I'd ever heard in my life.

"You'll come visit again, yeah?" Zelda said, in a small voice that made her sound like she was twelve once more, and we were back home in the city and wondering how we were going to get out of there.

We'd done it. We'd really done it, and when it came time for me to take a break, I didn't go back to the city and the collective that had raised me. I came here.

"Of course I will," I said. "This is home."

Paul Di Filippo has been publishing stories since his first appearance in 1977. He lives in Providence, Rhode Island, Howard P. Lovecraft's old burg, with his mate of thirty-seven years, Deborah Newton. His non-fiction shows up regularly in
The Barnes & Noble Review,
and
Locus Online,
as well as this magazine. His new collection,
Wikiworld and Other Imaginary Latitudes,
will debut from Chizine Press in early 2013. Collaborating fairly frequently with Rudy Rucker, he always defers in matters of gonzo ribofunk to his elder partner.

Rudy Rucker is a writer, a mathematician, and a former computer science professor. He received Philip K. Dick awards for his cyberpunk novels
Software
and
Wetware,
now available in the Ware Tetralogy. His fantasy California novel of the afterlife,
Jim and the Flims,
appeared in 2011, as did his autobiography,
Nested Scrolls,
which received the Emperor Norton Award. Rudy recently published a 1950's alien invasion tale called
The Turing Chronicles,
and his current novel in progress is
The Big Aha.
The author's mastery of "gnarly transrealism" can be seen in full force in the delectable...

"Lifter," said Bengt, looking up from his computer tablet. "It's right near us tonight. My friend Olala has been messaging me about it. He always knows the deep underground stuff. Lifter is this unmarked transient chrome diner? It's been drifting around Boston for a few weeks. Let's run over there and eat." With a slight effort Bengt arose from the collapsed cushions of their whipped old couch.

"You're talking about a hipster food truck?" asked Cammy, glancing up from her own screen at the kitchen table. "For our big evening out?" She brushed back her dark hair with one hand. It was a gesture that Bengt loved.

"Well, you know Olala," said Bengt. "He's a countercountercountercultural obscu

rationist. He's never even told me where he's from. Maybe Lifter is retro instead of hipster. Hearty fare for working folks who aren't afraid to say I love you."

"I'm not hearty," said Cammy, her pretty face a dusky oval in the apartment's fading light. "I'm a sarcastic social parasite,
verdad?"

"Oh, that's just your web persona," said Bengt. "Your career. But I know the real Cammy, you little slyboots. At least you
have
a career. By the way, Olala says Lifter is cheap. I figure they scour the planet for the rock-bottom ingredients. Thailand, Turkistan, Tunisia. Non-locavore and proud of it."

"I'm supposed to eat swill standing on the street? The cut-rate slop spotting my sadly eager evening-wear?"

"We'll be sitting at a nice table," said Bengt. "The Lifter diner is a giant tractor-trailer truck where you go inside. Come on now, Cammy. It'll be a kick."

There wasn't anyone outside the unmarked Lifter truck. Bengt had to pound on the side of the silver trailer to get in. At the head of three folding steps, the entrance was a shiny chrome rectangle that spun on its center axis—like a rudimentary revolving door. As Cammy passed through, the door caught up with her and tapped her butt. Like it was taking her measure. Looking back from the inside, she found herself completely unable to see the lines of the door against the wall. A one-way entrance.

"Tonight specials bean pork, duck plum, or both in combo," said a chef, barely taller than the waist-high sill of the kitchen's window. "My name Barb." The woman wore a green T-shirt, a maroon apron, and a dangling twinkly necklace. Even though she looked like an aging white schoolteacher, her accent was something like Filipino. Odd. "We got ice-cream too," added Barb, waving a two-tined fork. "What you preferring?" "Falafel with mint tea?" said Cammy. "No problemo. Mister?" "The pork duck combo," said Bengt. "And a pistachio milkshake?" "No problemo," repeated the cook. "Sit. Relax. No charge for first visit Lifter. You pay later, pay a lot." She laughed. "Sweet," said Bengt uncertainly. The truck's interior was dimly lit, with mirrored walls that made it hard to judge the space's size. An exit sign glowed on the far wall. The tables were reasonably sized, the chairs quite normal. The other diners were reassuringly random, some in pairs, some alone. Not down-and-outers, and not excessively hip. A few of them seemed somehow ecstatic. Slumped in their chairs.

"You think Lifter is religious?" asked Cammy as she and Bengt took their seats. "Free food is like a church shelter or a Krishna picnic."

"Could be some kind of promo," said Bengt. "I couldn't find any info about Lifter on the web at all. I just have those messages from Olala. He uses a special encryption that he and his buddies made up. Jah-code."

With an unsettling nimbleness, Barb the cook wriggled across the room, apron f lapping. Bringing their plates. A thick stew for Bengt, and a very presentable pita with falafel balls for Cammy. Cammy watched as her husband tasted his meaty porridge.

"Awesome," mumpfed Bengt, mouth full. His spoon was already ladling up his second bite.

Cammy bit into her falafel. The pita dough was light and soft. The crisp fried garbanzo balls were nestled in creamy hummus, slathered with cucumbers in yogurt, and streaked with a rich red hot sauce. And the tea was a revelation. It was as if Cammy had never really had mint tea before. They ate in silence, savoring the meal. "Unspeakably toothsome," said Cammy when she finished. "Good call, Bengt. I'm surprised this place isn't completely full. And with a huge line around the block."

"It's hard to find Lifter," said Bengt, siphoning up the last of his pale green milk-shake. "Olala says the truck moves around all the time. Very weird."

"I like being in on a secret," said Cammy. "Maybe I shouldn't even try to post about this place." She paused, considering. "But, nah. If I post, I'll be breaking fresh news. Good for my numbers. In fact—" She drew out her ever present smart phone, captured some video of the dimly glittering space, and added a few keystrokes. And then she frowned. "Damn. It uploaded, but not to the right site. It's on something called Wiggleweb? What's that supposed to—"

Just then the music started, a sweet reggae dub tape, played very loud; a bass line was running an insinuating melody over the percussive double-strums of a guitar. A seriously fat white guy hopped onto a tiny stage near the exit sign. He was pale as dough, shorthaired and clean-shaven, attired in nerdly sweatshirt and khakis. He wore a dangly glowing necklace like that of Barb the cook.

Wobbling to the beat, the man began singing authentic reggae. In the break after the first song he introduced himself, delivering his words in a zestful Jamaican patois. "A man named Majek Wobble made me Churchill Breakspeare, ya know. I and I
rastafarize
you."

During the next song, Churchill stepped down from the stage and began trucking from table to table. His smoothly f lowing voice had no need of a microphone. Some of the other guests seemed already to know him.

During the next break, the singer paused by Bengt. "I surely see you again. The cut of your jib so fine." "I'm Bengt and this is Cammy. You're a great singer." "Irie," said the doughy Churchill. Bengt's attention was caught by Churchill's necklace. It was a loose string adorned by luminous scraps—shimmering rods, glittering lumps, patterned scrolls, tufts of threads. He'd never seen anything like it before. It was garish and...

"Hypnotic," murmured Cammy, fascinated by the necklace as well. She looked up at Churchill, almost at a loss for words. "I don't, ah, understand your business model?"

"We feed our people high and tall," said Churchill Breakspeare. "And down the line, we reap." He called out toward the corner kitchen. "Our guests want toothy treats, Sistah Barb!" "How do you manage that accent?" asked Cammy. "It's uncanny." "You'll learn before you know," said Churchill, patting his peculiar necklace. "Like Majek Wobble."

Barb the cook was at their table again, bubbling with equivocal laughter. The dessert plates glowed with—luminous pudding. Dark shapes lurked within.

"Living food," said Churchill. "Grow your glow." He swept the little Barb into his plump arms and the two of them began skanking around the room, with Churchill's voice lilting in another island song. By now some of the other guests had left, and the remaining ones seemed zonked.

The effects of the dessert were dizzying and hard to recall. Bengt's sense of it was that he and Cammy lounged in their Lifter chairs for quite a long time, feeling ambitious, expansive and proud of themselves. At some point they decided to go home—and this wasn't entirely easy.

All of the other guests had disappeared. Churchill and Barb were huddled in the corner kitchen, perhaps preparing the next day's food. By now Cammy and Bengt didn't feel like any further interactions with their vaguely disturbing hosts.

"The exit sign," Bengt said, pointing. He and Cammy walked there holding hands—as if making their way through a frightening forest. The dim Lifter space seemed more cavernous than before. The empty tables and chairs were like toy furniture
from a dollhouse. Small f littery shapes darted around the room's edges, never directly in view, visible only from the corners of one's eyes.

No actual door could be seen beneath the glowing exit sign. But when Cammy instinctively pressed herself to the wall, a narrow rectangle opened and she tumbled through—Bengt heard her cursing at her rough landing on the street.

Bengt pressed himself against the wall too, and he could feel the material beginning to thin. But at the last moment one of the room's rapid peripheral shapes sped close and nipped his left ear. He felt more than heard the sound of the punch—a juicy crunch of cartilage. He began screaming.

The wall opened up a rectangle just wide enough for Bengt to squeeze through. On his way out, he heard Churchill Breakspeare's voice echoing from within the Lifter trailer. "Harvest party tomorrow." Bengt and Cammy made their way home through the shady back streets of Boston and conked out on their bed without even talking. The experience had been so disorienting that Bengt didn't think to check on what had happened to his ear until the next morning. And then it was Cammy who pointed it out.

"Oh god, they tagged you. It's a yellow-green disk with weird runic symbols on it. I'd call the color chartreuse? High visibility. Like something you'd see on a wild animal from an endangered species."

Bengt fingered the oddly slick tag, took a look in the mirror. Kind of cool. Like a high-hole earring, but it didn't have a removable back. Tentatively, he tugged at it. The gaudy tag resisted, inf licting pain proportional to any pressure. He relented.

"Well, it's no weirder than half the jewelry you see on the street," he said defensively. "Urban primitive. Maybe it's like some kinda Lifter customer loyalty card? Latest tech, I bet! Favored status, bargains galore! I guess Churchill dug me."

Cammy looked at Bengt as if she were inspecting a pickled specimen at a carnival freakshow, a jar in a medical teratology museum. "Or maybe he picked up on what a pushover you are. You're the guy who gives money to those just-need-f ive-dollars-tocatch-a-bus-back-home street scammers. Are you saying it doesn't bother you—being microchipped like a three-toed sloth?"

"Not one whit," blathered Bengt. He still felt a little giddy from that magical pudding dessert. "Not if it means free delicious grub like we had last night. How is this any more humiliating than food stamps? Being unemployed, I've gotta cut corners, gotta manage the ol' nonexistent cash flow."

"Listen, we're getting by fine with my video blogs and sock-puppet reviews and on-line ads. I told you not to worry. We're married. I'll take care of you."

"Yeah, okay, but I'm ashamed. I still can't believe that my Brown University bachelor's degree in semiotics with a minor in French isn't good for anything! And meanwhile my student loans are as big as an elephant's balls, and they're not getting any smaller."

"You'll get your chance, Bengt," said Cammy, patting his cheek. "I still believe in you. But now I've got to get cranking on the edits for my new instructional video. "You could afford a fugu?" "I'm not using a real one. Just a sand dab. Looks the same on the video. I never did f ind that video I tried to upload last night, by the way. And there's no sign of a Wiggleweb. I guess that weird food made us kind of high." "A lot of questions," said Bengt. "Why don't you go see your pal Olala?" suggested Cammy. "A visit to his cave always cheers you up. Find out what's the deal with Lifter. And ask him about that silly tag in your ear. And while you're at it, maybe you and your old pal can do some
career networking?" A giggle escaped Cammy. "He might know of a job deconstructing old issues of
Paris Match
magazine."

Bengt felt miffed by Cammy's slight upon his chosen field. "Johnny Hallyday is a king, Cammy, and don't forget it! You've heard me singing his songs. His wife Sylvie Vartan was the
Blondie
of the yé-yé era. That's too dated? How about pop philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy, his heavily cosmeticized wife Arielle Dombasle, and his billionaire mistress Daphne Guinness?
Paris Match
has a great tag line for Lévy.
God is dead, but my hair is perfect.
The dude puts the I in triangle, to lift a phrase." "I and I," said Cammy gaily. "Leave me to my faux fugu, oh dog-tagged sage." Olala Ogallala lived in a conceptual art project. He and some of his layabout computer hacker buddies had, by studying snitched blueprints, discovered a sealed-off, oddly non-Euclidean, empty windowless space in the upper reaches of a local mall. They'd covertly broken through into the concrete chamber, then furnished it by stealthily trucking in cast-off furniture via the attached parking garage. Tapping into the mall's electricity and water completed their homesteading. And waste management consisted of a reeking chemical toilet. But Olala's pals had soon tired of the inconveniently situated playroom, leaving the industrial-strength burrow to its lone eccentric tenant.

Having conf irmed via jah-coded message that Olala was accepting callers, Bengt essayed the twisted path to the man's living quarters. Up oil-strewn ramps, dodging departing and arriving carloads of consumers, through toxic exhaust fumes, past the deliberately misangled video cameras, around an insulation-foam-slathered pillar. Lift aside a draped piece of tarp camouf laged to look just like the wall, and bingobango, home sweet home!