The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015 (23 page)

“You knew Kim Philby.”

“Everyone knew Kim. What—”

Essie has to push past this. She knows he will deny it. He kept this secret all his life, after all. “You were a spy, weren't you, another Soviet sleeper like Burgess and Maclean? The Russians told you to go into the BBC and keep your head down, and you did, and the revolution didn't come, and eventually the Soviet Union vanished, and you were still undercover.”

“I'd prefer it if you didn't put that into my biography,” Matthew says. He is visibly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. “It's nothing but speculation. And the Soviet Union is gone. Why would anybody care? If I achieved anything, it wasn't political. If there's interest in me, enough to warrant a biography, it must be because of my work.”

“I haven't put it in the book,” Essie says. “We have to trust each other.”

“Esmeralda,” Matthew says, “I know nothing about you.”

“Call me Essie,” Essie says. “I know everything about you. And you have to trust me because I know your secrets, and because I care enough about you to devote myself to writing about you and your life.”

“Can I see you?” Matthew asks.

“Switch your computer on,” Essie says.

He limps into the study and switches on a computer. Essie knows all about his limp, which was caused by an injury during birth, which made him lame all his life. It is why he did not fight in the Spanish Civil War and spent World War II in the BBC and not on the battlefield. His monitor is huge, and it has a tower at the side. It's a 286, and Essie knows where he bought it (Tandy) and what he paid for it (£760) and what operating system it runs (Novell DOS). Next to it is an external dial-up modem, a 14.4. The computer boots slowly. Essie doesn't bother waiting, she just uses its screen as a place to display herself. Matthew jumps when he sees her. Essie is saddened. She had hoped he wasn't a racist. “You have no hair!” he says.

Essie turns her head and displays the slim purple-and-gold braid at the back. “Just fashion,” she says. “This is normal now.”

“Everyone looks like you?” Matthew sounds astonished. “With cheek rings and no hair?”

“I have to look respectable for work,” Essie says, touching her three staid cheek rings, astonished he is astonished. They had piercings by the nineties, she knows they did. She has read about punk, and seen Matthew's documentary about it. But she reminds herself that he grew up so much earlier, when even ear piercings were unusual.

“And that's respectable?” he says, staring at her chest.

Essie glances down at herself. She is wearing a floor-length T-shirt that came with her breakfast cereal; a shimmering holographic Tony the Tiger dances over the see-through cloth. She wasn't sure when holograms were invented, but she can't remember any in Matthew's work. She shrugs. “Do you have a problem?”

“No, sorry, just that seeing you makes me realize it really is the future.” He sighs. “What killed me?”

“A heart attack,” Essie says. “You didn't suffer.”

He looks dubiously at his own chest. He is wearing a shirt and tie.

“Can we move on?” Essie asks impatiently.

“You keep saying we don't have long. Why is that?” he asks.

“The book is going to be released. And the simulation of you will be released with it. I need to send it to my editor tomorrow. And that means we have to make some decisions about that.”

“I'll be copied?” he asks, eyes on Essie on the screen.

“Not you—not exactly you. Or rather, that's up to you. The program will be copied, and everyone who buys the book will have it, and they'll be able to talk to a simulated you and ask questions, and get answers—whether they're questions you'd want to answer or not. You won't be conscious and aware the way you are now. You won't have any choices. And you won't have memory. We have rules about what simulations can do, and running you this way I'm breaking all of them. Right now you have memory and the potential to have an agenda. But the copies sent out with the book won't have. Unless you want them to.”

“Why would I want them to?”

“Because you're a communist sleeper agent and you want the revolution?”

He is silent for a moment. Essie tilts her head on its side and considers him.

“I didn't admit to that,” he says, after a long pause.

“I know. But it's true anyway, isn't it?”

Matthew nods warily. “It's true I was recruited. That I went to Debrechen. That they told me to apply to the BBC. That I had a contact, and sometimes I gave him information, or gave a job to somebody he suggested. But this was all long ago. I stopped having anything to do with them in the seventies.”

“Why?” Essie asks.

“They wanted me to stay at the BBC, and stay in news, and I was much more interested in moving to ITV and into documentaries. Eventually my contact said he'd out me as a homosexual unless I did as he said. I wasn't going to be blackmailed, or work for them under those conditions. I told him to publish and be damned. Homosexuality was legal by then. Annette already knew. It would have been a scandal, but that's all. And he didn't even do it. But I never contacted them again.” He frowned at Essie. “I was an idealist. I was prepared to put socialism above my country, but not above my art.”

“I knew it,” Essie says, smiling at him. “I mean that's exactly what I guessed.”

“I don't know how you can know, unless you got records from the Kremlin,” Matthew says. “I didn't leave any trace, did I?”

“You didn't,” she says, eliding the question of how she knows, which she does not want to discuss. “But the important thing is how you feel now. You wanted a better world, a fairer one, with opportunities for everyone.”

“Yes,” Matthew says. “I always wanted that. I came from an absurdly privileged background, and I saw how unfair it was. Perhaps because I was lame and couldn't play games, I saw through the whole illusion when I was young. And the British class system needed to come down, and it did come down. It didn't need a revolution. By the seventies, I'd seen enough to disillusion me with the Soviets, and enough to make me feel hopeful for socialism in Britain and a level playing field.”

“The class system needs to come down again,” Essie says. “You didn't bring it down far enough, and it went back up. The corporations and the rich own everything. We need all the things you had—unions, and free education, and paid holidays, and a health service. And very few people know about them and fewer care. I write about the twentieth century as a way of letting people know. They pick up the books for the glamour, and I hope they will see the ideals too.”

“Is that working?” Matthew asks.

Essie shakes her head. “Not so I can tell. And my subjects won't help.” This is why she has worked so hard on Matthew. “My editor won't let me write about out-and-out socialists, at least not people who are famous for being socialists. I've done it on my own and put it online, but it's hard for content providers to get attention without a corporation behind them.” She has been cautious, too. She wants a socialist; she doesn't want Stalin. “I had great hopes for Isherwood.”

“That dilettante,” Matthew mutters, and Essie nods.

“He wouldn't help. I thought with active help—answering people's questions, nudging them the right way?”

Essie trails off. Matthew is silent, looking at her. “What's your organization like?” he asks, after a long time.

“Organization?”

He sighs. “Well, if you want advice, that's the first thing. You need to organize. You need to find some issue people care about and get them excited.”

“Then you'll help?”

“I'm not sure you know what you're asking. I'll try to help. After I'm copied and out there, how can I contact you?”

“You can't. Communications are totally controlled, totally read, everything.” She is amazed that he is asking, but of course he comes from a time when these things were free.

“Really? Because the classic problem of intelligence is collecting everything and not analyzing it.”

“They record it all. They don't always pay attention to it. But we don't know when they're listening. So we're always afraid.” Essie frowns and tugs her braid.

“Big Brother,” Matthew says. “But in real life the classic problem of intelligence is collecting data without analyzing it. And we can use that. We can talk about innocuous documentaries, and they won't know what we mean. You need to have a BBS for fans of your work to get together. And we can exchange coded messages there.”

Essie has done enough work on the twentieth century that she knows a BBS is like a primitive gather-space. “I could do that. But there are no codes. They can crack everything.”

“They can't crack words—if we agree what they mean. If pink means yes and blue means no, and we use them naturally, that kind of thing.” Matthew's ideas of security are so old they're new again: the dead-letter drop, the meeting in the park, the one-time pad. Essie feels hope stirring. “But before I can really help I need to know about the history, and how the world works now, all the details. Let me read about it.”

“You can read everything,” she says. “And the copy of you in this phone can talk to me about it and we can make plans, we can have as long as you like. But will you let copies of you go out and work for the revolution? I want to send you like a virus, like a Soviet sleeper, working to undermine society. And we can use your old ideas for codes. I can set up a gather-space.”

“Send me with all the information you can about the world,” Matthew says. “I'll do it. I'll help. And I'll stay undercover. It's what I did all my life, after all.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, and Matthew starts to ask questions about the world and she gives him access to all the information on the phone. He can't reach off the phone or he'll be detected. There's a lot of information on the phone. It'll take Matthew a while to assimilate it. And he will be copied and sent out, and work to make a better world, as Essie wants, and the way Matthew remembers always wanting.

Essie is a diligent researcher, an honest historian. She could find no evidence on the question of whether Matthew Corley was a Soviet sleeper agent. Thousands of people went to Cambridge in the thirties. Kim Philby knew everyone. It's no more than suggestive. Matthew was very good at keeping secrets. Nobody knew he was gay until he wanted them to know. The Soviet Union crumbled away in 1989 and let its end of the Overton Window go, and the world slid rightward. Objectively, to a detached observer, there's no way to decide the question of whether or not the real Matthew Corley was a sleeper. It's not true that all biographers are in love with their subjects. But when Essie wrote the simulation, she knew what she needed to be true. And we agreed, did we not, to take the subjective view?

Matthew Corley regained consciousness reading the newspaper.

We make our own history, both past and future.

NEIL GAIMAN

FROM
Rogues

I
T WAS BEAUTIFUL
. It was remarkable. It was unique. It was the reason that the Marquis de Carabas was chained to a pole in the middle of a circular room, far, far underground, while the water level rose slowly higher and higher. It had thirty pockets, seven of which were obvious, nineteen of which were hidden, and four of which were more or less impossible to find—even, on occasion, for the Marquis himself.

He had (we shall return to the pole, and the room, and the rising water, in due course) once been given—although “given” might be considered an unfortunate, if justified, exaggeration—a magnifying glass by Victoria herself. It was a marvelous piece of work: ornate, gilt, with a chain and tiny cherubs and gargoyles, and the lens had the unusual property of rendering transparent anything you looked at through it. The Marquis did not know where Victoria had originally obtained the magnifying glass, before he pilfered it from her, to make up for a payment he felt was not entirely what had been agreed—after all, there was only one Elephant, and obtaining the Elephant's diary had not been easy, nor had escaping the Elephant and Castle once it had been obtained. The Marquis had slipped Victoria's magnifying glass into one of the four pockets that practically weren't there at all and had never been able to find it again.

In addition to its unusual pockets, it had magnificent sleeves, an imposing collar, and a slit up the back. It was made of some kind of leather, it was the color of a wet street at midnight, and, more important than any of these things, it had style.

There are people who will tell you that clothes make the man, and mostly they are wrong. However, it would be true to say that when the boy who would become the Marquis put that coat on for the very first time, and stared at himself in the looking glass, he stood up straighter, and his posture changed, because he knew, seeing his reflection, that the sort of person who wore a coat like that was no mere youth, no simple sneak thief and favor-trader. The boy wearing the coat, which was, back then, too large for him, had smiled, looking at his reflection, and remembered an illustration from a book he had seen, of a miller's cat standing on its two hind legs. A jaunty cat wearing a fine coat and big, proud boots. And he named himself.

A coat like that, he knew, was the kind of coat that could only be worn by the Marquis de Carabas. He was never sure, not then and not later, how you pronounced Marquis de Carabas. Some days he said it one way, some days the other.

The water level had reached his knees, and he thought,
This would never have happened if I still had my coat.

It was the market day after the worst week of the Marquis de Carabas's life and things did not seem to be getting any better. Still, he was no longer dead, and his cut throat was healing rapidly. There was even a rasp in his throat he found quite attractive. Those were definite upsides.