The Best From Fantasy & Science Fiction Part 16

The captain glares at me and b.a.l.l.s his meaty hands into fists. I tense in expectation of blows which do not fall. Instead, he shakes his head emphatically and turns to the Intermediaries, "This is ridiculous.

Thoroughly ridiculous."

"Captain-"

He silences me with an imperious gesture. "Who do these Sreen think they ore?"

"The true and indisputable masters of the universe," the Intermediaries pipe in one high but full-toned voice, "the lords of Creation."

"I want to see them," the captain insists.

"You must return to your s.h.i.+p," they insist, "and obey the will of the Sreen."

"Like h.e.l.l! Like b.l.o.o.d.y G.o.d-d.a.m.ned h.e.l.l! Where are they? What makes them think they have the right, the right, to claim the whole d.a.m.ned universe for themselves?" The captain's voice is going up the scale, becoming a shriek, and filled though I am with terror of the Sreen, I am also caught up in fierce admiration for my superior officer. He may be a suicidal fool to refuse to accept the situation, but there is pa.s.sion in his foolishness, and it is an infectious pa.s.sion. "How dare they treat us this way? What do they mean, ordering us to go home and stay there because they own the universe?"

He takes a step toward the door. The Intermediaries move to block his path. With an inarticulate screech, he ploughs through them, swatting them aside with the backs of his hands, kicking them out ofhis way with his heavy-booted feet. The Intermediaries break easily, and it occurs to me then that they are probably as disposable a commodity among the Sreen as tissue paper is among human beings. One Intermediary is left limping along after the captain. Through the clear pale skin of its back, I see that some vertebrae have been badly dislocated. The thing nevertheless succeeds in overtaking the captain and wrapping its appendages around his calf, bleating all the while, "No, no, you must abide by the edict, even as every other inferior species has, you must abide. . . ." The captain is having trouble disentangling himself, and so I go to him. Together, we tear the Intermediary loose. The captain flings it aside, and it bounces off the great portal, spins across the polished floor, lies crushed and unmoving.

Side by side, we pause directly before the door. My teeth, I suddenly realize, are chattering with fear. "Captain," I say as my resolve begins to disintegrate, "why are we doing this?"

"The nature of the beast," he mutters, almost sadly, and smacks the palm of his gloved hand against the portal. "Sreen!" he yells. "Come out, Sreen!"

And we wait "If we don't make it home from this," I say at length, "if they never hear from us back on Earth, never know what became of their stars.h.i.+p-"

"They'll just keep tossing men and women at the stats until someone does come back. Sreen or no Sreen." The captain strikes the door again, with the edge of his fist this time. "Sreen!" A bellow which, curiously, does not echo in the vast antechamber. "Sreen! SREEN!"

The door starts to swing back on noiseless hinges, and a breath of cold, unbelievably cold air touches our faces. The door swings open. The door swings open. The door swings open forever before we finally see into the next chamber.

"Oh my G.o.d," I whisper to the captain, "oh, oh my G.o.d."

They are t.i.tans, they are the true and indisputable masters of the universe, the lords of Creation, and they are unhappy with us. They speak, and theirs is a voice that shatters mountains. "WHO ARE.

YOU?".

The captain's lips draw back over his teeth in a mirthless grin as he plants his fists on his hips, throws back his head, thrusts out his jaw. "Who wants to know?"

Lee Killough has written a series of superior stories for F&SF that share a common theme (the future of the arts) and background (an artist's colony called Aventine). The tales are completely separate ent.i.ties and may be enjoyed on their own. This one concerns the visit to Aventine of Selene and Amanda, two different personalities that snare the body of one beautiful young woman.

A House Divided

LEE KILLOUGH.

Amanda Gail and Selene Randall came to Aventine during the autumn hiatus, when the last of the summer residents had gone back to jobs in the city or followed the sun south, and the winter influx of skiers and skaters was still some weeks away. Aventine scarcely noticed them, and if my current cohab had not gone off through the Diana Mountain Stargate on some interstellar artists' junket, they might never have been more than clients to me, either. There are nights I cannot sleep for wis.h.i.+ng she had chosen another realty agent or come some other season. I was alone, though, in the boredom of autumn when Amanda walked into my office with her seeds of tragedy and elected me gardener.

"Matthew Gordon?" she asked in a soft, hesitant voice I remembered from political broadcasts in the last election, extolling the senatorial virtues of her father. "I'm Amanda Gail. I wired you about renting a cabin?"

I nodded. "I have your wire."

Her pictures, though, did not do her justice. Not only was I surprised to find her taller than Iexpected, fully as tall as I was, but no media camera had ever captured the glow that shone out through her otherwise rather plain face, giving her the look of a Renaissance Madonna and adding nostalgic charm to her loose topknot of copper hair and high-waisted Regency-style dress.

"How many will be in your party?" I asked.

Eyes with the warm brilliance of goldstone looked at me through her lashes. "I'm alone."

I nodded again, at the same time wondering how Amanda Gail could ever, really, consider herself alone. The acrimonious divorce of former Olympic runner Margot Randall and Senator Charles Christopher Gail had traumatically divided not only Amanda's childhood but her very psyche. Five years ago, when Margot Randall died hi a hovercraft accident and Amanda moved to Was.h.i.+ngton full-time, it emerged that for most of her childhood, Amanda Selene Gail had been two personalities, Amanda Gail and another calling herself Selene Randall. The revelation, and their decision to remain dissociated, had made them the darlings of the gossip columns.

"Senator Moran told me I could live here in privacy. Is that true?" Amanda asked.

"Yes. Aventine has too many rich and famous residents to care about another celebrity, and as we have no hotels or public transportation and the cabletrain from Gateside is the only way in, aside from private aircraft on private landing fields, we manage to discourage most reporters and curiosity seekers."

She smiled. "Wonderful."

That smile was remarkable. It turned the light hi her to dazzling incandescence.

"My runabout is outside. IT! show you what I have available."

I was carrying a long list of rentals, owned by summer people who authorized whiter leasing to pay for the upkeep on their property. They were all over Aventine, from a few apartments down near the shopping square to cabins in the woods and along the sh.o.r.es of both the Lunamere and Heliomere. I explained the choices to Amanda as I handed her into the runabout and unplugged the car from its charger. The Lunamere's main attraction in winter was that it froze over, making sixteen kilometers of ice for skating. The Heliomere was fed by hot springs and, at thirty-five degrees C, was suitable for year-round swimming.

"I'm no swimmer but I prefer hot water to ice," Amanda said.

I drove her up to a little A-frame at No. 43 Apollo on the lower sh.o.r.e of the Heliomere. It was a good size for a single person, with a deck all around and steps down to the beach in back. Amanda admired the white expanse of the beach, which would have gratified the city council. They had once spent a good deal importing all those tons of sand from some distant world on the stargate system to cover the razor flint nature originally laid there.

What brought another of those incredible smiles was the interior. Not only did the carpeting continue up the walls, but as she walked from the kitchen, across the lounge area to the fireplace, and turned to look up at the sleeping loft, each place her feet touched a patch changed color to a pale, clear yellow.

She stared, then laughed and ran her hands along the back of a chair. It, too, changed color, to a pattern of pastel greens and yellows.

"PolySensitives," she said. "I haven't seen any of these since I was a little girt." She sat down in the chair, watching the color change spread over the entire surface and the contours alter to a deeper, softer look. "How fun."

Unfortunately the polys were not always fun. The terrestrial and extraterrestrial psychosensitive materials that were supposed to enable the poly furnis.h.i.+ngs to match their owner's personality and moods became so neurotic when exposed to a large number of users or households where emotion ran hot that they developed shapes and colors whose effect on humans ranged from mildly annoying to violently nauseating. Polys were appropriate for Amanda, though. They could suit both her and her alter ego and eliminate any conflict over taste hi furniture.

Amanda said, "I think this will be fine. Where do I sign the lease?"

That brought her alter to mind. "Will Selene be signing, too?"

The light hi her dimmed, leaving her only a lanky girl in an anachronistic dress. She pulled at a copper lock dangling down over her temple. "There's no need. The courts won't recognize us as separate people. What one does is legally binding on the other."I was dismayed by the effect the question had on her. I forced heartiness into my voice. "Then let's drive back to the office and sign. Yon can move in today."

Driving down the mountain, I pointed out the villas and estates of some of our celebrity citizens: actress Lillith Manners, novelist Forrest Jakovich, and our extraterrestrial, Gepbhal Gepbhanna. I was finally rewarded by seeing the light come back on in her. At the office I explained that the owner of No.

43 would only let the cabin until May. Was that all right with her?

"I hope m be gone before then. I'm just on holiday until I decide what to do with my life."

I raised my brows. "You've given up being hostess for your father?"

She lowered her eyes. "My father remarried last month. He doesn't need me any longer. But a woman of twenty-six ought to be leaving home anyway."

"I'm surprised there's any problem what to do. Your dancing has already won critical acclaim."

The light in her dimmed. "Selene is the dancer. I don't know anything about it."

"But if she knows-" I began, then, as her light went out entirely, said, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you. I was just carious. . . ."

"Everyone is." Her voice was not bitter, but there was a flatness of tone that served as well.

I brought the subject back to business. "If you come to May and aren't ready to leave, I'll find you another cabin."

She tugged at the lock of hair over her temple again. "By that time, it will be Selene's decision."

My curiosity reared up again. The gossip columnists speculated a great deal about how Amanda and Selene managed their dual existence, but because neither personality gave interviews on the subject, it had to remain only speculation. The custody decision, however, was public knowledge. January to June had gone to Margot Randall, July to December to the Senator. It sounded like the alters might still divide their year that way. But rather than distress Amanda further by asking about it, I bit my tongue and hurried out to get the lease from my secretary.

While Caro typed in the blanks, I wondered at the difference between Amanda Gall's att.i.tude toward Selene and that portrayed by the columnists. They made it sound like kinky fun. Over the past several years there had been a rush to the a.n.a.lysts' couches by people hoping to find another personality or two living inside their heads with them. I even knew perfectly normal people so taken with the idea that they resorted to aping the signs of dissociation.

Amanda was still very quiet when I took the lease in to her. I offered her myself and my runabout to move her luggage from the cabletrain station. She accepted, and while we collected the luggage, including a huge trunk that almost filled the car, I did my best to be kind and amusing. Finally, she started glowing again. I left her with the key, my telephone number, and a warning that, since the cabins on either side of her for some distance were empty, she should keep her doors locked. I also promised to call her the next day to see if she needed anything.

"Not too early, please?" she said. "I like to sleep late."

"Why don't I come over at noon? We'll have lunch somewhere and I can show you the sights."

She smiled. "That sounds lovely."

I lived on the Heliomere myself, just a kilometer away from Amanda's cabin. I don't sleep late, and the next morning while I was taking my wake-up walk along the beach, I saw no reason not to pa.s.s her cabin. I could take a brief look to make sure everything was all right, then come back for her at noon as agreed. I was enjoying the frosty bite of the air in my nose and throat and the surreal effect of the steam rising off the dawn-pink Heliomere when I saw Amanda running up the beach toward me, her hair flying long and loose around her.

My initial spasm of panic pa.s.sed as I realized she was wearing an exercise jacket and shorts and only jogging, not running. She saw me about the same moment. She spun around as though to run away, then shrugged and waited for me to catch up.

"I thought you like to sleep late," I said.

She started walking. "Mandy does."

I almost missed the next step turning to stare at her. "You're Selene?"

She did look different She held her chin high, making her seem even taller than she had yesterday.Her eye contact was direct rather than through her lashes, and the color of her eyes themselves was less goldstone than the feral warmth of topaz. Too, despite her slow walk beside me, she radiated energy so electric it fairly raised the hair on my arm nearest her. Even her voice was changed-higher, firm, rapid.

"Are you in command today, then?" I asked.

"No." She shook her hair back over her shoulders. "I don't take over officially until January. I just come early to exercise."

I raised my brows. "That's dedication."

"Trial's necessity. Without daily practice I'll tighten up and my elevations will fall."

"Elevations?"

Without breaking stride, she kicked high over her head and grinned at me. "Elevations." Then she stopped and turned to face me. "I'll have to ask you for a favor. Mandy doesn't know about my practice sessions. Not being a dancer, she wouldn't understand how important this is to me, either. She'd just be upset knowing I was here out of my time. So when you take her to lunch today, please don't mention you saw me."

I frowned. "If you know I'm taking her to lunch, how is it she doesn't know what you're doing?"

"I'm continuously aware; she's only conscious when she's out."

That hardly seemed fan' to me. As though she read my mind, Selene said, "I didn't plan it; it just works out that way."

She started walking toward the cabin again, leaning forward as though straining against an invisible leash. I could almost hear the crackle of contained energy within her.

"You won't tell her, will you?" she asked anxiously.

I thought about it a minute. There seemed to be no harm in Selene being here. "No, I won't tell her."

She sighed in relief. "Gordy, you're a friend. Well meet again."

The leash broke. She bounded away down the sand. As though that were not release enough, she flung herself into a succession of cartwheels and forward flips. She went around a curve of the beach and out of sight, still cartwheeling. By the time I reached the curve, she had disappeared.

At noon Amanda was waiting for me out on her deck. She came down the steps toward the runabout with a regal grace so unlike Selene's bridled energy it was hard to believe they possessed the same body.

"Good morning, Mr. Gordon." She smiled, leaving me breathless. "Where are we going?"

"To a cafe called The Gallery."

Its main attraction, aside from being one of the two cafes open this month, was that while we waited for our order we could walk around the cafe looking at the paintings and sculpture on exhibition by local artists.

"You must have quite an artists' colony here," Amanda said, looking over the collection. She ran a hand down the smooth curves of a sonatrophic sculpture by Drummond Caspar. The trope leaned toward the sound of her voice.

"We do. Between them and our celebrity citizens, shopkeepers and simple businessmen like me are a minority group. Aventine is really a village with a large population."

"Then what are the sights you mentioned?"

"The most unique collection of architecture in the world."

Her goldstone eyes widened in disbelief. "Architecture?"

I grinned. "I, somewhat naturally, am a connoisseur of buildings, and I promise you, Miss Gail, that nowhere else will you find such a free exercise of idiosyncrasies in home design."

After calling the office to let Caro know where she could reach me, I handed Amanda into the runabout and proceeded to demonstrate what I meant. The sultan's palaces, Greek temples, antebellum mansions, and Norman castles I bypa.s.sed with the contempt such common tawdries deserved. Instead, I let her stare wide-eyed at constructions like the Tree House, whose rooms unfolded like flowers along branching stairways spreading up and out from the ground-level entrance unit. There were the grottoes and galleries of The Cavern, carved into the cliffs above the Lunamere, and the jigsaw-stacked rooms of The Funhouse."It's marvelous," Amanda said. "And people actually live in them?"

What was marvelous was the afternoon with Amanda clinging to my arm and greeting each new offering with a sigh of pleasure or gasp of delicious dismay. In the course of it she stopped calling me Mr.

Gordon, too, and began saying Matthew. I would have preferred Matt, but when I brought that up she dropped her eyes and said: "If you don't mind, I prefer some formality. As my father says, this modern rush to intimacy promotes s.e.x but prevents conversation and understanding."

I did not feel ready to dispute Senator Gail. "Then I take it you don't want me to call you Mandy?"

"No!" Her vehemence startled me. She quickly lowered her voice and went on: "My friends call me Amanda,"

I tried to extend the day by inviting her out for dinner as I was driving her back to her cabin.

She declined with a smile. "I really should finish unpacking."