Asimov's SF, January 2012 (16 page)

Just as he distinctly recalled the hollowing ache of being friendless back then.

Or, almost friendless.

Certainly he'd been Friendless. You couldn't get ‘planted before you were sixteen. This town brought back the earliest portions of his life.

He engaged with no one as he made his way through the hamlet. Socweb scores registered within the standard broadcast radius, mostly, it seemed, from young adults wanting to flaunt their numbers. Among them were a few whose scores were so polished and commanding that they must be professional Friends. Daric didn't employ his Privacy. Let them see; let them all see what a miserable score he had.

He headed to the beach.

It was pebbly and gobbed with foam, peppered with bits of shell and roped with kelp. The sea sloshed gray and black. Its immensity was tireless. The wind had a chill, but it didn't seem to be singling him out.

Daric stood and stared outward from the shore.

What happened then happened in stages that he wasn't immediately conscious of. He had no memory of setting down his bag. He merely found himself unburdened, the bag flopped over on the sand beside him. Then his feet were bare. Then his toes were awash. The sky had changed, and a deep green had come to the waves. Then his pant legs were cuffed high, with no memory in his fingers of rolling them up, and the muscular water was dragging on his calves.

"It's a big ocean, friend. If you're going to do that, I'd appreciate if you did it on some other beach."

Daric turned. It was the first fully conscious movement he'd made in what, he realized abruptly, might well have been hours. Twilight was approaching. He was stiff with the cold.

He squinted at the uniformed figure. A man's voice, cowboy-laconic, casually sarcastic; but there was a tension there. This man was concerned about Daric, because it was his job to be so.

Daric saw where he'd left his bag, his shoes, his socks. The tide hadn't come in toward him; rather, he had moved out into the water. Now, uncertain how he had gotten here, he trudged back onto the shore.

A light, open-air vehicle was parked behind the man in the vaguely forest ranger-type uniform. He wore sunglasses and had a fringe of beard. And Daric recognized him. Here, then, was the ultimate memory prompt. Emotions wheeled in Daric. He hadn't felt anything this keenly since that final scene with Maddox at the coffeehouse.

Daric suddenly realized that Maddox Colburn hadn't entered his thoughts since he'd arrived in town. And while he had been here on the beach, virtually no thoughts had stirred in his head.

The uniformed man slowly removed his sunglasses. He gazed intently at Daric. “You,” he said softly, the sarcasm gone, “can't possibly be who I think you just might be. Can you? Are you . . . ?"

He was right. Billy Scorza was entirely correct. This wasn't possible, and it could not be. Until, after a moment's consideration, it was and it could. Billy too had been born here. So he hadn't ever left. So what? People didn't automatically relocate themselves upon adulthood. Maybe Billy had found the beach town a good fit for his grown-up self.

The uniform, though. That gave Daric a little difficulty. He looked for some past clue, some forecasting from their youth. Billy had been a school crossing guard. The faculty assigned the task to the students. But was that enough of a precursor to—to
this?
The badge, the green nylon jacket, the Environmental Watch shoulder patch.

"Oh, Christ, Daric . . . it is you.” Billy sagged and actually staggered back a step toward his dune buggy.

"Yes, it's me. And you're you."

"I'm me,” Billy agreed, even as he shook his head. “Goddamnit, Daric, I was watching you for forty minutes."

Gulls cried behind Daric. He asked with sincere curiosity, “Forty minutes? What was I doing?"

Billy's jaw tightened under the beard. “You don't know?"

"I'm . . . not sure."

"If you don't know, I'll tell you. If you do know and you're bullshitting me, you don't need to. There isn't a whole lot I can do. I'm not exactly a cop."

This was, Daric realized belatedly, a Conversation. He hadn't yet thought of this as a social interaction, but of course it was. Therefore, he should apprise himself of the score. Only Billy Scorza didn't have one.

But Daric said, “Well, tell me, then."

So Billy described the stages of Daric's progress toward and into the water, filling in the actual movements for him. Daric still felt stunned by the appearance of this—of all people,
this
—individual, but he was nearly as astounded by the absence of a field from Billy. No socialweb score. No emission of any kind, not even the discernable blank that was a Privacy.

Daric said, “I don't know why I was standing out in the water.” His calves were goosefleshed.

"Okay,” Billy said, neutrally. The professional concern remained. But perhaps there was something beneath that. He coughed a laugh and added, “I can't believe you're here."

"I decided to come back.” Not quite true; he couldn't remember at any point during his journey when he had made the explicit decision to come here. It was more like the destination had simply risen into his mind as a default.

"Well, I'm . . . glad.” The bearded jaw shifted, and teeth appeared in an uncertain grin.

Daric shared that uncertainty, yet he, too, was moved to smile. The two of them were alone on the beach, in the assembling dusk.

They had been friends. Billy Scorza had, in fact, been Daric Dandry's only friend. They had shared youthful familiarities, traded secrets, hatched plans, gossiped, lied, bragged. Billy had seen through Daric's debilitating awkwardness, a social ineptitude that had kept him from forming relationships with any of their other, less patient schoolmates. Billy had perceived something worthy in Daric.

The friendship had lasted through much of their youth. Then the girl had come between them and it had ended with ugly emotional pyrotechnics. Daric had never spoken to Billy again.

But he spoke now.

"I lost everything, Billy. My whole life just collapsed. I'm destitute. I've got nowhere to live. Maybe I do know why I was out in the water."

They were standing a few strides apart. Behind was the gargle of the waves. Billy's eyes moistened. He swiped at a tear with a quick neat movement.

"Christ, Daric. If things're that bad, well, you're
here
. Right? I mean, you're back. And I could, that is, I can . . . “ Billy had always been the polished one, suave even as a boy. Why he had taken pity on Daric, who inhabited a dank and bleak world quite apart from Billy's, Daric had never known. But now, here on this beach, it was Billy who was stammering and clumsy.

Daric ended it. He stepped forward and laid his hand on Billy's shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. Billy had offered to help; the details could wait. Right now a couch to sleep on would cover all Daric's needs.

The grin came again, showing through the beard, bearing the memories of all the good and precious times that they had shared; that they had eventually squandered; and now might get back again, in some distinct but familiar adult form.

They started together toward Billy's official beach-combing vehicle.

As he was gathering his bag and shoes, Daric found himself asking, “What ever happened to Kimberly Chin?” And he was stunned again, this time by how the old pain came back, that childish hurt, that terrible sense of betrayal; and yet he immediately recognized the pain's obsolescence, knew that the hurt didn't matter anymore. He added, “You didn't marry her, did you?"

Billy stopped, his boot crunching in the sand. For an awful instant Daric thought he'd committed his worst error, an ultimate inept blurting that proved he had no business interacting with people.

But Billy said with a note of incredulity, “Marry Kimmy? Oh, come on. Don't be an idiot. Marry my junior high girlfriend? No.” He stepped toward the buggy again, adding, “She's still living here, though. She's an attorney now. You should go say hello after we get you settled in."

In the vehicle Billy waited while Daric brushed sand off his feet and began rolling on his socks. He wondered why his subconscious had insisted he remove his footwear first if he really had meant to just keep going further and further out into the water.

Daric paused and looked at Billy, really seeing him now. “Can I ask you something?” Daric's voice sounded timid to his own ears, as of one broaching a delicate matter.

With a note of that sarcasm from earlier, Billy said, “Why you can't read me?"

"Why can't I read you?” It wasn't, Daric knew, unheard of for someone over sixteen not to have a ‘plant. They weren't mandatory, after all, though the innate cultural pressure to get ‘planted was enormous. But you were just as likely to find someone who didn't own a phone. The absence was highly unusual, even bizarre.

Billy said, “I had a motorcycle. Maybe a year after you'd left for college. I flipped it over on Hingle Drive, banged up my skull but good. It scrambled my ‘plant, and the doctors removed it. Told me I could be replanted in six months. When that time came around, though, I'd gotten used to being without it."

Daric pulled on his shoes and settled back into his seat. It occurred to him how unlike Maddox Billy was. Maddox, who had been Daric's best Friend for so long, had never missed an opportunity to bolster Daric's ego, to agree wholeheartedly with him about any and every issue, to praise Daric's “profound” insights, which were really just sophistries. None of Daric's Friends had ever tempered his views or convictions. He had never been allowed to grow.

Billy was also different from the older man Daric had met while hitchhiking, who, though he had engaged with him, had been confrontational and disagreeable. This, with Billy, was different. It didn't yet feel like that old friendship the two of them had once shared. But it might, one day. Or it might evolve into something better, now that Daric could participate in the relationship as an adult who could be challenged, contradicted, even teased.

"Then,” Daric said at last, “I'll have to get used to you being without a ‘plant, too."

Billy hit the ignition and the buggy hummed, and they left the ocean behind.

Copyright © 2011 Eric Del Carlo

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FEBRUARY ISSUE

February being the traditional month of romance, we start the issue off with a novellette by
Rudy Rucker
and
Eileen Gunn
that treats us to the zany courtship of a lovely Southern California woman and her plugged-in and technologically turned-on “Hive Mind Man.” In “Murder Born,”
Robert Reed's
latest novella, an utterly engrossing mystery tale is blended with a remarkable idea. It's a future where murder victims may be returned to their families, but the price is high and mistakes happen.

ALSO IN FEBRUARY

Elsewhere in the issue,
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
brings us an exciting thriller about the eerie “Voodoo Project"; the Golden Age of Science Fiction isn't quite what it used to be in
Bruce McAllister
and
Barry Malzberg's
“Going Home"; new author
D. Thomas Minton
takes us on a spiritual voyage across time and space and offers us some “Observations on a Clock"; and prolific new author
Ken Liu
lands a group of diverse humans on a distant planet where they encounter a curious alien lifeform and experience the challenge of pulling a new comunity together. By the end of the tale, you'll know who “The People of Pele” really are.

OUR EXCITING FEATURES

While taking the Ouroboros by the tail (in a manner of speaking),
Robert Silverberg
reveals the joy of “Rereading Eddison” in his Reflections column. We'll also have
Peter Heck's
“On Books,” plus an array of poetry and other features you're sure to enjoy. Look for our February issue on sale at newsstands on December 20, 2011. Or you can subscribe to
Asimov's
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COMING SOON

new stories by
Carol Emshwiller, Robert Reed, Tom Purdom, Benjamin Crowell, Kit Reed, Ekaterina Sedia, Joel Richards, Derek Kansken, David Ira Cleary, Bruce McAllister, Leah Cypess
, and many others!

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Elizabeth Bear is the author of over a dozen novels and seventy short stories. Her most recent science fiction novel is
Grail
(Spectra, 2010). She is a Hugo- and Sturgeon Award-winning author for stories that were first published in
Asimov's.
Elizabeth returns to our pages with a murder mystery set in a stunningly rendered future India. The author would like to acknowledge the tremendous research assistance provided for this story by Asha Shipman and Kali Basu.

Police Sub-Inspector Ferron crouched over the object she assumed was the decedent, her hands sheathed in areactin, her elbows resting on uniformed knees. The body (presumed) lay in the middle of a jewel-toned rug like a flabby pink Klein bottle, its once-moist surfaces crusting in air. The rug was still fresh beneath it, fronds only a little dented by the weight and no sign of the browning that could indicate an improperly pheromone-treated object had been in contact with them for over twenty-four hours. Meandering brownish trails led out around the bodylike object; a good deal of the blood had already been assimilated by the rug, but enough remained that Ferron could pick out the outline of delicate paw-pads and the brush-marks of long hair.

Ferron was going to be late visiting her mother after work tonight.

She looked up at Senior Constable Indrapramit and said tiredly, “So these are the mortal remains of Dexter Coffin?"

Indrapramit put his chin on his thumbs, fingers interlaced thoughtfully before lips that had dried and cracked in the summer heat. “We won't know for sure until the DNA comes back.” One knee-tall spit-shined boot wrapped in a sterile bootie prodded forward, failing to come within fifteen centimeters of the corpse. Was he jumpy? Or just being careful about contamination?