Asimov's Science Fiction: October/November 2013 (36 page)

We moved quickly over dangerously exposed flat scrabble to the faux security of gum forest, which was cool, dark, and silent, but for the cracking and snapping of tiny, insectile fire-dragons. If we hadn't been ambushed, it would have taken us two days to reach safe ground.

But
I
knew we weren't going to reach safe ground... or rather my doubled self knew. Although I was deaf, dumb, and blind to what I was doing, my secret self was a planner; and it was not in the least constrained by any of those emotional ties that bind. I—or it (we'll call it "it")—used Crash like a radio.

Here she is. Come and get her.

And, being a moderately fast learner, it learned how to manipulate Crash's sensorium—

I'm right here, darling, walking right beside you.... Good dog.

—and disengage me.

When the mutes closed in on her:: shot her:: broke her bones:: ate her while she lived and breathed, I was running as fast as my heart could pump. But fast as I might be, I couldn't escape her last thoughts, pain, and bewilderment. As I said before, every joyous, painful, life-changing moment of my time with Crash has been burned into my doubled mind. However, I'm considering letting go of that tiny node of grief and remembrance that is attached to my spinal cord.

After all, I can always grow another.

But... I'm of two minds about all that.

THE WILDFIRES OF ANTARCTICA

Alan DeNiro
| 3489 words

Alan DeNiro's second story collection,
Tyrannia,
will be out soon from Small Beer Press. The book will include his three
Asimov's
tales. Alan is also the author of a novel,
Total Oblivion, More or Less
(Spectra). He lives outside St. Paul, Minnesota, with his wife and twin toddlers. In his newest story for us, the author explores the ferocious dangers of art and...

I loaned
Roxy: Shark * Flower
to the Antarctica Institute for the Arts because I wanted a better life for her; at the same time, it soon became apparent that the same problems that vexed me in regards to her behavior would trouble the museum. Although she was out of my hands I still carried a concern about her well-being, as well as an aesthetic sense of pride, and an interest in whether her time in the museum would appreciate her value.

Was it punitive on my part? I suppose it was. But she was the one who threw everything away. Roxy once had everything she ever wanted: protection from thieves, food.

There are many others like her in the museum—though no two alike; that indeed could be a journeyman's definition of art—and I was assured there would be opportunities for supervised interactions with other
objets d'art
with her same level of genetic provenance. And no expense would be spared in her preservation. Her display case contained the ambient full-spectrum lights that she needed for the chrysanthemums and poppies and amaranths to grow along the seams of her arms. Roxy would not be able to harm herself or others with her serrated molars, since they were capped; when they shed, the cap would grow with the new tooth. (The museum and I agreed to a fifty/fifty split on residuals for the aftermarket sale for the teeth no longer in her mouth, for the scrimshaw of majestic oaks the artist had encoded there.) A daily spore spritz and dry would keep her hair—coarse on her crown and spine, ultra-fine on her arms and legs—from losing its luminous sheen.

And of course the museum gave me the opportunity to watch her every hour of the day. The surveillance bees would always be with her. I was a busy man, but I rarely left the villa, so I often checked on Roxy throughout my day. It soothed my soul.

Here is Roxy sleeping, curled up in a ball in the corner of her case, the bees bobbing around her head.

Here is Roxy eating a block of nutrience, then another.

Here is Roxy in the greenhouse yard—named
The Van Gogh Arboretum—
with a soothing panorama of the Dutch countryside circa 1900 all around her. The museum, of course, is in West Antarctica, and the Dutch countryside is underwater, but Roxy has no way to know of these affairs. She hangs from her tail from one of the oak trees (a predisposition on her part that the artist cleverly integrated into her DNA) and swings gently, watching everything. There are only five or six other pieces of the collection allowed in the greenhouse at the same time. I certainly have interest in seeing what else is being accomplished in the field, and by whom. Two particular pieces catch my eye: Mareanxerias'
The Epoxy Disaster of Late Model Capitalism
(a hairless golden bear cub with horse quarters) and
Paint! Paint! Paint!
(a taxidermied wolf head attached to a cherry-colored, wheel-less motorcycle chassis and eight spidery legs) by the sublime master Ya Li.

Epoxy and Paint always stand next to each other, and rarely exercise or relax. Their legs twitch. At first I think it is a glitch but after a museum guard attempts to separate the two, I realize that they are communicating to each other. The two shuffle apart before the guard can reach them but slowly gravitate back together after his departure. This occurs over the course of several days during their hour-long stays in the Van Gogh Arboretum.

Roxy begins to find this curious. She has never been willing to make the first move with anything, but one time she presses her body against the glass of the panorama, close to Epoxy and Paint. As if trying to capture the false sunlight in her body. (She does not photosynthesize.) Eventually Epoxy and Paint look over at her in unison, and soon the two in conversation-by-tapping become three, though I have no way to know how Roxy has picked up on such a vernacular, since she was never taught such things in my villa.

Still, this is worrisome. I alert my concierge at the museum and soon enough several guards come into the Arboretum to put a stop to this extraneous socialization. They are heavily armed with non-lethal coercive wands. Roxy sees them approach and her nostrils flare. I try to connect to my concierge again to warn the museum staff but before that can happen, Roxy wraps her tail around one of the guards' necks and snaps it.

Roxy tries to dash away, but nano-netting swoops down from the ceiling.

Even Epoxy and Paint seem scandalized. They try to disentangle themselves from the melee, but are caught in the netting as well.

Roxy's access to the Arboretum is revoked, and a guard is in sight of her display case at all times. I should feel horrified and disappointed, but I am not. Because I know that Roxy's errant behavior is deep-seated and incapable of being cured. I once tried instilling discipline into Roxy by telling her which rooms she could and couldn't enter in the villa. The kitchen: only when it was time for her to eat. The foyer: only when guests were present for a reception and she was beckoned to remain motionless there. The study: never, under any circumstances. The library: never. My wife's rooms: never.

But she never listened.

The next day I send an invitation to Roxy's artist for a light afternoon lunch at the villa and a leisurely suborbital artillery firing. He agrees. I can tell he is reluctant. Artists are a necessary evil in my world.

John Priestly—such an old-fashioned name—flies in from New Yellowknife. His skin has a bluish sheen to it, and I can't tell whether that is a side effect from his latest anti-aging treatments or preparation for using his own body as a genetic canvas yet again. Perhaps they are the same thing.

On the rooftop overlooking the burning hills, we sit down for lunch and I ask him about a possible restoration job of Roxy. One, would this be feasible with a minimum of cost overruns, and two, would this decrease her resale value at auction?

He sips his tea and stares at me for a long time.
"Roxy: Shark * Flower,"
he says at last, "is far more perfect than you can ever imagine. I wouldn't dream of altering her, not a single strand of code."

I smile and recount her aberrant behavior, perhaps laying the blame for her dis position at his feet. After all, I have always believed the artist has a certain moral responsibility for the very act of creation.

John leans forward and pierces a grape with his fingernail. He draws the grape to his mouth, as if he is a poison-tester. "Each piece of art is unique, and has a different effect upon each person who encounters the work. Would you have asked Goya to make
Saturn Devouring His Own Son
a little less violent? Perhaps, you know, 'tone it down'?"

I tell him, this time without a smile, that I paid 500 million for Roxy, and that he's no Goya.

He laughs. "No, no I am not. No one is, anymore. Not even Ya Li."

I stare at him, and tell him that maintaining his artistic integrity is all well and good, but that Roxy is slowly becoming a menace, if she is not one already.

"And how do you not know that this, too, is part of what makes her beautiful?" He shakes his head, and speaks to himself, as if I had suddenly disappeared, and he was left alone in a stranger's house. "I once thought like you did. I worked so hard on my craft, and to make sure that people like you remained pleased. But now... no." He is sure of his rightness, and I find this frightening.

I stand up, and he follows suit, and shuffles to his helicopter without a farewell. It turns out that we will not be shooting satellite armaments into the ruins of Buenos Aires—not together, at least. I discount his outburst as mere petulance. He loves his helicopters and studio-fortress and fame too much. He will never change.

After a week of constant confinement, Roxy appears to have calmed, though her behavior is a bit erratic. She paces, she sleeps, she makes tiny trilling noises from the back of her throat. She tips her head back and laughs. I have never seen her laugh before. A troupe of teenagers from New Dubai traipse through the museum halls, disinterested in any of the work, soldiering on as if polar explorers from another century. As they walk past Roxy—the tour guide wisely decides not to dwell on her—she splays herself on the glass of her case and bares her teeth, her double line of fangs.

All of her teeth are uncapped.

Several of them begin shrieking, placing calls to their parents and nannies to rescue the teenagers. The tour guide fumbles with the emergency response interface attached to her arm. A sleeping gas fills the case and fogs it. Roxy struggles and lashes out, longer than I thought would have been possible, until at last she slumbers. She is taken to the Department of Restoration.

The next morning I decide that I need to buy some new art to clear my head. A fresh start for my collection.

As I make preparations to fly to Cape Adare—my favorite gallery spot—I wonder how Roxy will respond to restoration. John Priestly would have been the ideal candidate for the task, of course, but that is out of the question. The museum has the best team on the continent. So they say. I hear that Epoxy and Paint are in restoration as well. The atmosphere has been growing more chaotic in the Arboretum, even with Roxy's absence: more scuffles with guards, more cunning attempts at communication with other pieces of art.

In a way I am already beginning to say goodbye to Roxy, as a squandered investment to write off. It will hurt, but not as much as these constant tantrums on her part. Art, above everything else, is a sign of one's station in life, and it is difficult to properly display one's station if there is not decorum.

I am about to put on my favorite art-buying suit and go up to the helipad, but I get the ping from the museum.

Roxy has escaped.

My body trembles. I desperately want to harangue the museum concierge, but instead I hang up and retreat to my study. I turn on the camera view of Roxy and breathe a sigh of relief: the surveillance bees are still active.

I see cacophony. An alarm has gone off and Roxy is running, alongside a galloping Paint and Epoxy, past display case after display case. Many are opened and empty. A museum guard stands in front of them, sparks flying off his gloves. Paint leaps forward in an arc and punctures the guard's heart with one of his legs. Roxy fumbles through the guard's red uniform, and rips the interface patch off his arm, and puts it between her teeth.

They keep running. Roxy thinks she is going to make it. She thinks she's going to be safe—though she's still terrified, even I can sense that. More guards behind them—they hesitate. Those three works of art are worth more than a thousand of the guards' lifetime salaries combined. In that second, Epoxy puts a hand on Roxy's shoulder, and pushes her in another direction, away from the oncoming crush. She runs into a colder, narrower tunnel, and affords herself only one look back. The look is anguished. The halogens affixed in the ceiling grow dimmer, and then it's almost dark, and she stops.

The bees have kept up, and they start to luminesce. She scowls at them. The link is still there. I can't imagine what I would do without that lifeline. She puts her hands on her knees and catches her breath in the near-dark. It must be a service tunnel she is in, for museum employees.

She hears screams and shouts, and considers going back. But she takes a few steps, and there is dim light ahead. She begins walking forward again, her hand on the wall, which is jagged and powdery. The air's ventilation is thin here. The tunnel curves left, then right. She is determined, which is clear from the look on her face, in her hunched shoulders and tense tail.

When the light grows bright enough to see by, she takes her hand off the wall and starts running again to the end of the tunnel. There must be lag; the bees struggle to keep up and I see the back of her ragged shirt as she runs.

The end of the tunnel is a rock wall with a door with a porthole set into it.

She presses her face against the window. She sees a hangar on the other side. A huge space, as large as my villa, with a ceiling that can't be seen. About a dozen large-scale art installations are in the hangar—massive, bulbous. The airlock to the arid outdoors is closed. The largest installations float, and
The Leviathan
is the largest of them all—three blue whales conjoined at the head and attached to a hovercraft, looking like the floating petals of a gargantuan poppy flower. On their sides are embedded the complete works of Jackson Pollock. The artist, a native to the continent named Tin Hester, was funded by the Antarctic Arts Research Council to buy the paintings on the cheap, since Pollock really hasn't been in favor for quite some time.