FSF, January-February 2010

Spilogale, Inc.
www.fsfmag.com

Copyright ©2009 by Spilogale, Inc.

NOVELLAS
GHOSTS DOING THE ORANGE DANCE by Paul Park
NOVELETS
THE LONG RETREAT by Robert Reed
WRITERS OF THE FUTURE by Charles Oberndorf
NANOSFERATU by Dean Whitlock
CITY OF THE DOG by John Langan
SHORT STORIES
BAIT by Robin Aurelian
SONGWOOD by Marc Laidlaw
THE SECRET LIVES OF FAIRY TALES by Steven Popkes
THE LATE NIGHT TRAIN by Kate Wilhelm
DEPARTMENTS
BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint
BOOKS by Chris Moriarty
FILMS: A PAIR OF NINES by Lucius Shepard
COMING ATTRACTIONS
CURIOSITIES by John Eggeling
Cartoon: Arthur Masear
COVER BY KRISTIN KEST FOR “GHOSTS DOING THE ORANGE DANCE”
GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor
BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher
ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor
KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher
HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor
JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor
CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 118, No. 1 & 2, Whole No. 687, January/February 2010. Published bimonthly by Spilogale, Inc. at $6.50 per copy. Annual subscription $39.00; $49.00 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2009 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Novelet: THE LONG RETREAT by Robert Reed

Department: BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

Department: BOOKS by Chris Moriarty

Short Story: BAIT by Robin Aurelian

Novelet: WRITERS OF THE FUTURE by Charles Oberndorf

Short Story: SONGWOOD by Marc Laidlaw

Novella: GHOSTS DOING THE ORANGE DANCE: (THE PARKE FAMILY SCRAPBOOK NUMBER IV) by Paul Park

Short Story: THE SECRET LIVES OF FAIRY TALES by Steven Popkes

Short Story: THE LATE NIGHT TRAIN by Kate Wilhelm

Department: FILMS: A PAIR OF NINES by Lucius Shepard

Novelet: NANOSFERATU by Dean Whitlock

Novelet: CITY OF THE DOG by John Langan

Department: FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

Department: CURIOSITIES: THE TRIUNEVERSE: A SCIENTIFIC ROMANCE, by R. A. Kennedy (dated 1962, but actually 1912)

Department: COMING ATTRACTIONS

Robert Reed jokes that “I adore good thought problems. When my daughter wakes me from a perfectly good sleep, I'll say, ‘Leave me alone, honey. Daddy's working on a thought problem.’ Then I'll ask myself important questions, like: What if every sofa in the world grew six inches longer? What if cats made agreeable pillows, instead of people being disagreeable pillows for cats? And what if there was a world so large that you never needed to stop running away from your problems?”
Perhaps this new story grew out of that last thought problem. But probably not.

The beach is made of white sand and fine black mud, but the blood is what catches the eye—red and clotted, the largest splotches connected to severed limbs and the soggy, deflated remains of other men's vitals. Immune to the carnage, our Emperor walks slowly down to the water and half-falls, half-sits, and then slumps forward, fighting to catch His breath. Moments such as these are rare and ruled by exhaustion. Soldiers wearing our colors died at this place, yet no one asks about the units involved or the names of lost officers. All that matters is this delicious opportunity to do very little. If the great man rests, His court is free to do the same. Even the busiest of us sit while accomplishing our work, conferring quietly, using yesterday's maps and each other's friable memories to determine what our next step should be, assuming that we ever possess enough energy to move again.

Only the best ideas are presented to the Emperor. Or rather, to His long-serving assistant.

I am that man, officious and loyal Lieutenant Castor.

In sober, fearful voices, staff officers inform me that fleeing east along the lakeshore is impossible. Last night our enemies surrounded Jicktown, and even though reports claim that the redoubts are holding, we know better. Trapped men always lie, hoping for salvation. Our scarce, badly equipped reinforcements have been dispatched to places less doomed. Most pushed west, marshaling for a weak counterattack. But great fires are now burning in the west, columns of dense black smoke rising high up in the morning air. When the breeze allows, we can smell the new ash and hear the soft cough of enemy howitzers. Yet despite such bleak evidence, several officers insist that following our doomed legions is the only viable route. These are generals and high colonels, and I am nothing compared to them. Yet they speak in imploring tones, hoping I will listen, praying that this lowly lieutenant will agree with their assessments. Because no decision has value if the Emperor decides otherwise, and that is why my superiors treat me as special, hoping my voice will find a skillful way to offer up these urgent, critical opinions for His judgment.

Better than anyone, I understand the great man.

Perhaps better than He knows Himself, say the whispers and long, openly envious looks.

I finally stand and go to Him, saying, “Sire,” while bending low. “Perhaps we should strike out toward Illig."

The Emperor will always be handsome, but little sleep and a miserable diet have degraded His chiseled features. Like all of us, He needs hot water and soap. But His situation is worse than simple filth. I smell urine. I smell feces. Not for the first time, I wonder about His health. He has been demanding privacy and a toilet, which is odd considering how little there is to eat. It occurs to me that our leader must have soiled Himself: a small problem with obvious solutions. I could approach any officer, demanding clothes for our master. To the man, they would fight for the privilege of serving Him. Yet I decide to ignore the stink. The Emperor is also a creature of supreme dignity, and what leader, no matter how dire the circumstances, accepts spare underwear from His people?

These are my thoughts when He looks up suddenly, as if hearing my thoughts.

We are a miserable lot. But despite every deprivation, the great man is aware enough to ask, “What about the Owl Division?"

"Our Owls or theirs, Sire?"

Both armies like to name their crack formations after admirable predators. But we lost our Owls, as he reminds me. “They were broken last week,” He says, leaning near enough that I can see every white whisker as well as the artful scar inflicted in an adolescent knife fight. “Right now, their Owls are just past that foul smoke, pushing between Gothemburg and Illig. But if we hurry, we might just slide past unnoticed. If we leave right now."

How does He know this? I haven't seen any trustworthy intelligence to support that claim. But as I remind myself, no one else has access to every dispatch, including those too terrible to share.

"If we leave now?” I ask doubtfully.

A soft, sorry laugh leaks out of Him. “No, now is too late. Our moment just slipped past, unnoticed. Sorry."

As the war worsens, His humor sharpens.

On my own initiative, I say, “Perhaps we should steer north again. Slip past the slower troops and back into the Dale Grand?"

He dismisses that idea with a single deep grunt.

My knees ache. I sit directly on the beach, glancing at the nearest officers. Then one of them—a girlish young fellow with yellow-white hair, chimes in, “We could strike out across the lake, maybe."

The idea isn't new. Each of us has considered the possibility, and for endless fine reasons dismissed it out of hand.

But the great man straightens His back, smiling now.

"Yes,” He announces. “Exactly."

Because the question must be asked, I blurt out, “But how do we do this? We'll need quite a few boats and enough fuel, if everyone is to come."

How many boats? How many drums of diesel? Even as I deny the possibility, my methodical nature spells out the enormous, probably insolvable difficulties with this kind of undertaking. We have been traveling for months now with trucks and lighter vehicles, and our feet still enjoy clomping about in worthy boots. To become a navy here, on a whim, seems like the wildest dream.

Then the girlish man says, “I know a little bay, very close."

Only our Emperor considers this unexpected source of hope. No one else is desperate enough.

"A bay, you say?"

"Yes, Your Highness.” The man kneels and bends forward, kissing blood and mud. “I grew up not far from here. That bay has a big village, and the village has always made its living fishing these waters. These are thrifty people, and pragmatic. Exactly the sort to hide away fuel in tight times and keep their strong little boats in good repair."

"How little are the boats?” I ask.

The fellow blinks and says, “Pardon?"

Our leader has a deep, irresistible voice known across the world. “Suppose we acquire everything that floats. How many boats, and how many of us will be able to slide off across that water today?"

The officer calculates, or at least pretends to. “Seven boats, I would guess."

He must be exaggerating.

"We can take maybe eight people per vessel, plus pilots."

This news devastates. There are more than a hundred of us in the Emperor's court, and we have been this way for a very long time. Despite casualties and constant illness, our group has endured, additions matching losses, a small but robust gathering of talents serving as the center of our glorious if badly damaged nation.

The great man stands. Never as tall as I imagine, He is impressive nonetheless. Swaying slightly, not quite certain about His balance, He speaks with a secure, robust voice. “That's what we will do,” He announces. “Act on my orders this moment, and spare nothing to make me glad."

I want nothing as much as His praise and a flash of that admiring grin. Even when I know the prospects are lousy, I want to believe that He will pat me on a shoulder and thank me for my selfless service.

But it is the youngster, this upstart, who begs for that coveted pat.

"Every boat, every drop of fuel,” the Emperor demands. Speaking to His new favorite, He orders, “Whatever method is best to achieve these prizes. If patriotism fails, chop off heads. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Take who you need and add three tough bodies, just to be safe.” Then He turns, teasing me with a half-wink and adding, “You'll remain beside me, Castor."

I want to cry, and I'm not certain why.

After glancing across the flat oily water, He asks, “How many islands do we have to choose from, Lieutenant?"

Many, I have heard. But I confess that I have no idea of the count.

And with a deep laugh, He says, “Perfect, son. Just perfect!"

One of the old map boxes, sealed for years and laboriously carried to this nameless place, is cracked open and its contents are pulled free, the most useful maps unfolded and scattered on small tables. Places that I have never seen fill the enormous sheets of paper. Islands beckon. The largest splotches of gray are substantial and usually quite distant. The smallest dots are nameless, riding on the white lake water without towns and little hope of habitable quarters. But there are several land masses not too far offshore, some with vaguely familiar names and little cities that intrigue Him and then His staff. Distances are measured, travel times estimated. We feel busy as well as important, and that is when the war intervenes. One of the Long-Arm guns has been fired—a gigantic cannon that was dragged in pieces to a hillside, then assembled and loaded in an operation that takes a thousand men several busy days. The weapon is malevolent and loathed because of it. No warning roar cuts through the air, no sense of impending doom. All at once, an enormous shell explodes above the beach perhaps a quarter league to the east, many tons of explosive turning to noise and hot gas, driving steel balls across the muck and smoke-infused water.

Four men fling themselves over our leader's body.

I am first on top and untouched by the steel, and jubilant because of it.

It is a brief, bracing terror, and as often happens in moments like this, what follows is peace and a sense of renewed security. Most likely, this was a random shot. And even if the enemy knows our location, we are safe for the time being. The Long-Arm is inaccurate and very slow to fire—an instrument of terror designed by engineers and touted by pudgy generals sitting in distant quarters. If this is their best means to kill us, then we might as well drop our trousers and wave our bare asses at the fangless bastards.