Collected Short Fiction, page 207
Camera pans left to a man leaning out of a wrecked police cruiser, aiming a rifle directly at the lens.
Jolene:
“Excuse me, I’m not from around here. Where am I?”
Man:
“This is 14th Street. What are you doing here?”
Jolene:
“Trying to get to a safe place.”
Man [still aiming rifle]:
“Yeah? Any luck?”
Jolene:
“You tell me.”
Man:
“OK, but first turn off that fuckin’ camera—”
Cut to low vantage point, looking up from about waist level at what could almost be a standard street scene B.Z. (Before Zombies) Many storefronts are open and people are out on the sidewalks but there is no motor vehicle traffic and many armed people obviously on patrol, talking into radios from time to time.
Jolene:
“Is that – is that guy selling pretzels?”
Camera swings to standard street-vendor cart.
Woman [later identified as “Claudia”]:
“You like pretzels?”
Jolene:
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
Claudia:
“Five bucks.”
Jolene:
“You guys use money?”
Claudia:
“What else would we use?”
Jolene:
“I don’t know. Barter?”
Claudia:
“The rest of the country uses money and it’s still out there.”
Jolene:
“Have you heard anything? Like from the government or—”
Claudia:
“The web’s still up. If the web’s still up, the good old US of A must still be in business.”
Camera turns to look down road again. A small boy on a red tricycle pedals directly toward the camera, which is at the level of his nose. Just before he would have hit, it lifts, swings briefly to give a view of the pavement; rustling noises drown out any other sound briefly before camera returns to the same point as before.
Claudia:
“. . . suggest they keep 14th Street pedestrian-only after this is over. We all kinda like it.”
Jolene:
“It’s, uh, almost cozy. Not what I was expecting when I saw all those buses and everything piled up.”
Claudia:
“Oh, yeah? What did you think?”
Jolene:
“Honestly? It looked kinda Mad Max to me. No offense intended.”
Claudia:
“None taken. It can get kinda Mad Max for troublemakers. More than kinda.”
Jolene:
“What do you call troublemakers?”
Claudia:
“Zombie lunch.”
Jolene [nervous laugh]
“I mean—”
Claudia:
“I know what you meant. Anybody who breaks the law is a troublemaker. This is a crime-free zone. No looting, no violence, no breaking the perimeter, stay out of any zone you’re not authorized for, observe the curfew, do your assigned job.”
Jolene:
“What assigned job?”
Claudia:
“We’ve got to clean our own streets, collect our own trash, keep the generators going, produce food, keep an accurate head count, and make sure the perimeter’s secure. Among other things. So whaddaya think – you want to stay?”
Jolene:
“I, uh . . . no, not really.”
Claudia:
“I didn’t think so. How much money you got on you?”
Jolene:
“What?”
Claudia:
“How much money you got on you?”
Jolene:
“I don’t know – I’m not sure I’ve got any – well, not much—”
Claudia:
“Whatever you’ve got’ll be fine. Hey, we don’t let people in here for free and we sure as hell don’t let them out for free, either.”
[Coins clink and paper rustles]
Claudia:
“Good. If you need any more yourself, try further uptown on Fifth Avenue. Just be careful not to get too far east. Plenty of zombies from the Queens cemeteries made it across the bridges before the Army blew them—”
[END FILE]
JolLindBlm06-16.rtf
Stupid fucking camera battery went flat and I didn’t notice for most of a day. At least I got most of Mad Max Goes to Manhattan. Jesus Christ. How the fuck did they get themselves organized so fast? Who are they, some kind of militia? I really wonder. Tax protestors and white supremacists are alive and well everywhere and I remember hearing about some group in upstate New York a while back. Except I didn’t see any swastikas or white pride shit. I don’t know. They all just gave me the creeps. There was something off.
Or it could just be me. I’m off. I sure feel off. Maybe it’s just because I keep breaking into people’s apartments to find a place to sleep. Last night, I found a place that had already been broken into and picked clean. I bedded down in the closet. All night, I could hear gunfire and sirens in the distance – it would wake me up but I was too bone-weary to get and investigate, even if I’d wanted to. I mean, sirens would seem to indicate there’s some kind of organized, official authority working somewhere. Or it might only be people playing with sirens.
[END FILE]
[Transcript of Videofile_Jolene1.mp4 06-17]
Sound of helicopter. Camera sweeps across gray sky back and forth till it finds the helicopter.
Private Jolene Lindbloom:
“Holy shit, it’s really there! Hey! Hey! Down here, down here!”
Camera set down at ground level; looking at flat tire of parked car.
Jolene (slightly distant):
“Down here! Look down here, you son of a bitch! Down here! Look at me! No, no no – don’t fly away, goddammit! Goddammit!”
Camera picked up, aimed at helicopter growing smaller in the distance as the sound fades.
Jolene:
“Shit. I shoulda been in uniform.”
Cut to low POV near ground, along side of building, looking down sidestreet; camera zooms in and refocuses on a man with a very large machete. Four people are lying on the ground, hands and feet tightly bound. The man with the machete is standing over a fifth, one foot on the person’s chest, machete raised, obviously about to behead him.
Jolene:
“Aw, Shit—”
Camera set on ground; falls over onto side. Rustling noise then sound of gunshot, very loud and very close. The man with the machete falls over.
Jolene:
“Stay down. Stay down, you son of a bitch—”
Cut to man lying on his back on the street; chest wound. He is dying. Camera pans to the bound people, struggling. They are all zombies. They haven’t been dead for very long but close up there is no mistaking them for living people.
Man [with an effort]:
“Really . . . fucked up, didn’t you . . . lady.”
Jolene:
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
Man:
“Now you’re . . . gonna . . . haveta do it.”
Jolene:
“I—”
Man [crying]:
“Put down that fucking camera and do it! Me, included!”
Camera set down on ground; man’s bloody chest heaving up and down
Man:
“OK, use both hands, bring it down . . . hard as you can . . .”
Chopping sound, scrape of metal on pavement.
Man:
“One down . . . five . . . to go.”
Another chopping sound.
Jolene:
[Wordless gagging noise]
Man:
“Again! You gotta . . . all the way through.”
Sound of metal hitting pavement, following by retching.
Man:
“Don’t stop! Don’t!”
Chopping noise, then metal on pavement. Coughing.
A fourth chopping noise, following by shrieking.
Jolene:
“He got loose!”
Man [in terrible pain]:
“Never mind that! Get his fucking head all the way off!”
Jolene:
[Hollering wordlessly; three chopping sounds]
Man:
“OK, you got it done. One more and you can go.”
Jolene [crying]:
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
Man:
“Hey, you owe me . . . your fault! Come on, I’m suffering! Get ’er done, lady! Get ’er done! Get ’er—”
Jolene screams.
Chopping sound; man’s body goes limp.
[END OF FILE]
[Transcript of Videofile_Jolene1a.mp4 06-17]
Camera on Jolene’s face in semi-dark; bright lights in various colors from somewhere behind camera shine on her.
Private Jolene Lindbloom:
“I almost deleted that. I fucked up so bad. I made it here and crashed out and I was gonna delete it when I woke up. But then I saw this.”
Camera picked up and turned around. Looking out a restaurant window onto Times Square. Many of the lights are still on. Only one of the giant video screens is lit up; it’s showing Videofile1.mp4, the plane in the Hudson. This is near the end of the video.
Jolene:
“I don’t know who’s doing it. I don’t know how they’re doing it. Or why. Maybe because if it’s filmed, it’s gotta be shown.”
Videofile1.mp4 ends. Screen goes blank white for a few seconds, then words form in black capitals:
1 HOUR AND 45 MINUTES LEFT TO EVACUATE. IF YOU ARE READING THIS AT ANY LOCATION BELOW 50TH STREET, IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU TO LEAVE MANHATTAN BEFORE ZERO HOUR. YOU SHOULD GO TO ONE OF THESE HIGHLIGHTED AREAS ON FIFTH AVENUE:
[a line drawing of Manhattan appears showing the traffic grid, with only 5th Avenue and certain intersections identified]
ANY LIVING THING AT THESE POINTS WILL NOT SUFFER.
IF YOU ARE ABOVE 110TH STREET, YOU HAVE PLENTY OF TIME TO REACH ONE OF THE CHECKPOINTS WHERE YOU CAN BOARD TRANSPORT AND BE TAKEN TO A SAFE PLACE.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BRING WEAPONS OR ANYTHING THAT COULD BE A WEAPON WITH YOU. YOU WILL BE SUBJECT TO A PHYSICAL EXAMINATION. ALL THOSE WHO REFUSE WILL BE EJECTED AND REFUSED TRANSPORT. ANYONE WITH AN OPEN WOUND OR A WOUND THAT HAS RECENTLY HEALED WILL BE SUBJECT TO FURTHER EXAMINATION BEFORE APPROVED FOR TRANSPORT.
Screen goes blank white again. Then more black letters appear:
ACTUALLY, THERE’S NOT THAT MUCH ROOM ANY MORE AND YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO END UP DEAD ANYWAY. SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL STAY HERE AND DIE.
Blank screen again; then a video of the Triboro Bridge blowing up in slow motion, with bodies flying everywhere.
Jolene:
“That message appears after every video. I don’t know if it’s true – if the Army’s gone to Plan B and they’re about to bomb Manhattan – or if someone’s just having a sick laugh. Or rather, I’m pretty sure the Army’s going to bomb Manhattan. I just don’t know if there’s actually any time left to get out of New York or not.”
Camera pans down to the street below the screen. Many figures are roaming aimlessly around.
Jolene:
“They were here when I woke up. I don’t know if it’s me they smelled or whether there are other live people here, too. Maybe. But I’m so tired. And so tired of being so tired.”
Camera set down on table, still aimed at crowd in Times Square.
Jolene [slightly distant]:
“I don’t think I dreamed about the sarge after all. I think I saw it. OK, right under the chin.”
Gunshot.
Camera continues to run for 45 minutes until battery dies.
[END FILE]
Note attached to package:
[signature illegible]
Tony-
You’re right.
We might as well.
Tell the pilots to
saddle up.
2011
Picking Up the Pieces
Pat Cadigan has twice won the Arthur C. Clarke Award for her novels Synners and Fools and has been nominated many times for just about every other award. Although primarily known as a science fiction writer (and as one of the original cyberpunks), she also writes fantasy and horror, which can be found in her collections Patterns, Dirty Work, and Home by the Sea. Her work has been translated into many languages, including Polish, Russian, Italian, French, Spanish, German, Portuguese, Czech, and Japanese (also Pirate and Swedish Chef via Google, which doesn’t count as official publication, but she gets a kick out of it anyway). The author of fifteen books, including two nonfiction titles and one young adult novel, she currently has two new novels in progress.
She lives in gritty, urban North London with her husband, the Original Chris Fowler, and her son, Rob, and their minder, Miss Kitty Calgary, Queen of the Cats.
I don’t think I’ve ever quite forgiven 1989. It was one of those years when everything started looking up.
OK, not everything. But even after Tiananmen Square, the developments in Eastern Europe were enough to make a person think the world was actually becoming a better place.
All right, then, just me. I wondered. I was thirty-six—theoretically old enough to know better but young enough to drop everything and fly halfway around the world for my crazy sister Quinn.
Dammit, everything goes to hell around that girl, my father used to grumble. Actually, it was more like chaos, which, now that I think of it, was hell for my father, a man who envisioned his daughters as swans and instead got—well, us. And Quinn, in that order. The first four (of which I was the last) made his head spin. Then when I was sixteen, Quinn arrived, unintended, unpredicted, unexpected, and made everything spin. My sister, the thrill ride. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, she’ll probably come back as a Tilt-a-Whirl. Or a Wild Octopus.
Maybe a rocket, seeing as how she was born the day after the first moon landing. But it would have to be a rocket that never came down: She wasn’t manic-depressive; there was no depression, just manic and more manic. Although to be honest, it wasn’t mania in the clinical sense, just high energy and no brakes. Two separate therapists diagnosed her as a borderline personality. I had to look that one up. Some things seemed to fit, some didn’t, and the rest I wasn’t sure about, but it all sounded pretty bad.
In the end, I decided the diagnosis creeped me out, not my sister. Quinn could be frivolous and silly, the grasshopper to everyone else’s ant; she could be self-centered and even insensitive, with the attention span of a gnat and poor impulse control, but she had never been mean or spiteful. Most of the time she was good-natured, slow to anger, and quick to kiss and make up. And more than anything else, generous.
My mother never missed a chance to point out Quinn’s good qualities. There’s no malice in her. She’s got a good heart. She never goes out of her way to hurt anyone. She’d give you the shirt off her back. What my mother didn’t mention, however, was that when Quinn ran out of shirts, she’d expect you to volunteer yours. Her tendency to presume wasn’t as attractive as her thick, curly black hair or her silvery gray eyes or her smile, features that could usually persuade the susceptible to overlook her flaws.
It didn’t always work to her advantage, of course. Because she was a child, she had a hard time telling the difference between excitement and trouble. I’m not sure she even knew there was a difference. Because there’s no malice in her, my mother said. Because she’s got a good heart.
In November of 1989, Quinn went to Berlin with her good heart, which had been captured by a tall, rangy blond man with blue eyes, cheekbones like the white cliffs of Dover, and snake hips. It was a package that would have held my attention even without the German accent. With it, everything he said sounded exotic and even a bit mysterious, at least to my tin American ear. Especially after a few glasses of red wine.
And very good red wine it was, too, a French Bordeaux that actually tasted as good as the label looked. He brought two bottles when he and Quinn turned up at our parents’ house for the annual your-father-won’t-celebrate-his-birthday dinner in early September. Only Kath, Lisa, and I were not-celebrating with our parents. Our oldest sister, Marie, and her wife were stuck in Toronto seeing their twins through chicken pox, and as far as any of us knew, Quinn was traveling—the family euphemism for that period beginning with the last time anyone had heard from her and ending when she finally called one or more of us to say she was OK and hint she needed a small loan. Unpredicted and unexpected again. Surprise, everybody, and oh, hey, meet Martin.
The not-a-birthday dinner immediately turned into the Quinn Show, with special guest. Quinn was bubbly, vivacious, and entertaining, Martin was personable, witty, and utterly covet-worthy, and everyone enjoyed themselves. Though Kath, Lisa, and I sneaked commiserating looks at each other even as we did; sometimes it was hard not to feel drab around our baby sister.
But if we felt drab next to Quinn, we were positively lackluster compared to Martin. Originally from East Berlin, he was barely more than a toddler when his parents had given him over to some trusted friends who had smuggled him through the Berlin Wall and taken him to live with them in London. Since then, he had heard precious little of his family: All he had was a blurry photo of his parents with the two younger sisters and a brother he had never met. My mother teared up. This embarrassed Martin, who apologized. Quinn, however, sat back with a faint smile, and I knew she was pleased to have brought us someone to prick our social conscience—very much a Quinn thing to do.
She and Martin didn’t stay long after that. “And there they go,” Kath sighed as we stood on the front steps watching Martin’s sports car pull out of the driveway. “Back to life among those more beautiful and exciting than us.” Her gaze swiveled to Lisa, the grammar Nazi of the family.
For once, Lisa wasn’t taking the bait. “What color do you suppose the sky is on that planet?” she asked wistfully.
“Dunno,” I said. “Our eyes are probably too ordinary to see it.”
“Don’t be silly, Jean.” Kath elbowed me. “It’ll be gold lamé. With real gold.”
“Girls.” Mom was right on cue. “There’s no malice in her. She’s got a good heart.”
Dad gave a small hmph. “I hope this Martin doesn’t break it.”
My sisters and I looked at each other, knowing immediately he would.
Jolene:
“Excuse me, I’m not from around here. Where am I?”
Man:
“This is 14th Street. What are you doing here?”
Jolene:
“Trying to get to a safe place.”
Man [still aiming rifle]:
“Yeah? Any luck?”
Jolene:
“You tell me.”
Man:
“OK, but first turn off that fuckin’ camera—”
Cut to low vantage point, looking up from about waist level at what could almost be a standard street scene B.Z. (Before Zombies) Many storefronts are open and people are out on the sidewalks but there is no motor vehicle traffic and many armed people obviously on patrol, talking into radios from time to time.
Jolene:
“Is that – is that guy selling pretzels?”
Camera swings to standard street-vendor cart.
Woman [later identified as “Claudia”]:
“You like pretzels?”
Jolene:
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
Claudia:
“Five bucks.”
Jolene:
“You guys use money?”
Claudia:
“What else would we use?”
Jolene:
“I don’t know. Barter?”
Claudia:
“The rest of the country uses money and it’s still out there.”
Jolene:
“Have you heard anything? Like from the government or—”
Claudia:
“The web’s still up. If the web’s still up, the good old US of A must still be in business.”
Camera turns to look down road again. A small boy on a red tricycle pedals directly toward the camera, which is at the level of his nose. Just before he would have hit, it lifts, swings briefly to give a view of the pavement; rustling noises drown out any other sound briefly before camera returns to the same point as before.
Claudia:
“. . . suggest they keep 14th Street pedestrian-only after this is over. We all kinda like it.”
Jolene:
“It’s, uh, almost cozy. Not what I was expecting when I saw all those buses and everything piled up.”
Claudia:
“Oh, yeah? What did you think?”
Jolene:
“Honestly? It looked kinda Mad Max to me. No offense intended.”
Claudia:
“None taken. It can get kinda Mad Max for troublemakers. More than kinda.”
Jolene:
“What do you call troublemakers?”
Claudia:
“Zombie lunch.”
Jolene [nervous laugh]
“I mean—”
Claudia:
“I know what you meant. Anybody who breaks the law is a troublemaker. This is a crime-free zone. No looting, no violence, no breaking the perimeter, stay out of any zone you’re not authorized for, observe the curfew, do your assigned job.”
Jolene:
“What assigned job?”
Claudia:
“We’ve got to clean our own streets, collect our own trash, keep the generators going, produce food, keep an accurate head count, and make sure the perimeter’s secure. Among other things. So whaddaya think – you want to stay?”
Jolene:
“I, uh . . . no, not really.”
Claudia:
“I didn’t think so. How much money you got on you?”
Jolene:
“What?”
Claudia:
“How much money you got on you?”
Jolene:
“I don’t know – I’m not sure I’ve got any – well, not much—”
Claudia:
“Whatever you’ve got’ll be fine. Hey, we don’t let people in here for free and we sure as hell don’t let them out for free, either.”
[Coins clink and paper rustles]
Claudia:
“Good. If you need any more yourself, try further uptown on Fifth Avenue. Just be careful not to get too far east. Plenty of zombies from the Queens cemeteries made it across the bridges before the Army blew them—”
[END FILE]
JolLindBlm06-16.rtf
Stupid fucking camera battery went flat and I didn’t notice for most of a day. At least I got most of Mad Max Goes to Manhattan. Jesus Christ. How the fuck did they get themselves organized so fast? Who are they, some kind of militia? I really wonder. Tax protestors and white supremacists are alive and well everywhere and I remember hearing about some group in upstate New York a while back. Except I didn’t see any swastikas or white pride shit. I don’t know. They all just gave me the creeps. There was something off.
Or it could just be me. I’m off. I sure feel off. Maybe it’s just because I keep breaking into people’s apartments to find a place to sleep. Last night, I found a place that had already been broken into and picked clean. I bedded down in the closet. All night, I could hear gunfire and sirens in the distance – it would wake me up but I was too bone-weary to get and investigate, even if I’d wanted to. I mean, sirens would seem to indicate there’s some kind of organized, official authority working somewhere. Or it might only be people playing with sirens.
[END FILE]
[Transcript of Videofile_Jolene1.mp4 06-17]
Sound of helicopter. Camera sweeps across gray sky back and forth till it finds the helicopter.
Private Jolene Lindbloom:
“Holy shit, it’s really there! Hey! Hey! Down here, down here!”
Camera set down at ground level; looking at flat tire of parked car.
Jolene (slightly distant):
“Down here! Look down here, you son of a bitch! Down here! Look at me! No, no no – don’t fly away, goddammit! Goddammit!”
Camera picked up, aimed at helicopter growing smaller in the distance as the sound fades.
Jolene:
“Shit. I shoulda been in uniform.”
Cut to low POV near ground, along side of building, looking down sidestreet; camera zooms in and refocuses on a man with a very large machete. Four people are lying on the ground, hands and feet tightly bound. The man with the machete is standing over a fifth, one foot on the person’s chest, machete raised, obviously about to behead him.
Jolene:
“Aw, Shit—”
Camera set on ground; falls over onto side. Rustling noise then sound of gunshot, very loud and very close. The man with the machete falls over.
Jolene:
“Stay down. Stay down, you son of a bitch—”
Cut to man lying on his back on the street; chest wound. He is dying. Camera pans to the bound people, struggling. They are all zombies. They haven’t been dead for very long but close up there is no mistaking them for living people.
Man [with an effort]:
“Really . . . fucked up, didn’t you . . . lady.”
Jolene:
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
Man:
“Now you’re . . . gonna . . . haveta do it.”
Jolene:
“I—”
Man [crying]:
“Put down that fucking camera and do it! Me, included!”
Camera set down on ground; man’s bloody chest heaving up and down
Man:
“OK, use both hands, bring it down . . . hard as you can . . .”
Chopping sound, scrape of metal on pavement.
Man:
“One down . . . five . . . to go.”
Another chopping sound.
Jolene:
[Wordless gagging noise]
Man:
“Again! You gotta . . . all the way through.”
Sound of metal hitting pavement, following by retching.
Man:
“Don’t stop! Don’t!”
Chopping noise, then metal on pavement. Coughing.
A fourth chopping noise, following by shrieking.
Jolene:
“He got loose!”
Man [in terrible pain]:
“Never mind that! Get his fucking head all the way off!”
Jolene:
[Hollering wordlessly; three chopping sounds]
Man:
“OK, you got it done. One more and you can go.”
Jolene [crying]:
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
Man:
“Hey, you owe me . . . your fault! Come on, I’m suffering! Get ’er done, lady! Get ’er done! Get ’er—”
Jolene screams.
Chopping sound; man’s body goes limp.
[END OF FILE]
[Transcript of Videofile_Jolene1a.mp4 06-17]
Camera on Jolene’s face in semi-dark; bright lights in various colors from somewhere behind camera shine on her.
Private Jolene Lindbloom:
“I almost deleted that. I fucked up so bad. I made it here and crashed out and I was gonna delete it when I woke up. But then I saw this.”
Camera picked up and turned around. Looking out a restaurant window onto Times Square. Many of the lights are still on. Only one of the giant video screens is lit up; it’s showing Videofile1.mp4, the plane in the Hudson. This is near the end of the video.
Jolene:
“I don’t know who’s doing it. I don’t know how they’re doing it. Or why. Maybe because if it’s filmed, it’s gotta be shown.”
Videofile1.mp4 ends. Screen goes blank white for a few seconds, then words form in black capitals:
1 HOUR AND 45 MINUTES LEFT TO EVACUATE. IF YOU ARE READING THIS AT ANY LOCATION BELOW 50TH STREET, IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU TO LEAVE MANHATTAN BEFORE ZERO HOUR. YOU SHOULD GO TO ONE OF THESE HIGHLIGHTED AREAS ON FIFTH AVENUE:
[a line drawing of Manhattan appears showing the traffic grid, with only 5th Avenue and certain intersections identified]
ANY LIVING THING AT THESE POINTS WILL NOT SUFFER.
IF YOU ARE ABOVE 110TH STREET, YOU HAVE PLENTY OF TIME TO REACH ONE OF THE CHECKPOINTS WHERE YOU CAN BOARD TRANSPORT AND BE TAKEN TO A SAFE PLACE.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BRING WEAPONS OR ANYTHING THAT COULD BE A WEAPON WITH YOU. YOU WILL BE SUBJECT TO A PHYSICAL EXAMINATION. ALL THOSE WHO REFUSE WILL BE EJECTED AND REFUSED TRANSPORT. ANYONE WITH AN OPEN WOUND OR A WOUND THAT HAS RECENTLY HEALED WILL BE SUBJECT TO FURTHER EXAMINATION BEFORE APPROVED FOR TRANSPORT.
Screen goes blank white again. Then more black letters appear:
ACTUALLY, THERE’S NOT THAT MUCH ROOM ANY MORE AND YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO END UP DEAD ANYWAY. SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL STAY HERE AND DIE.
Blank screen again; then a video of the Triboro Bridge blowing up in slow motion, with bodies flying everywhere.
Jolene:
“That message appears after every video. I don’t know if it’s true – if the Army’s gone to Plan B and they’re about to bomb Manhattan – or if someone’s just having a sick laugh. Or rather, I’m pretty sure the Army’s going to bomb Manhattan. I just don’t know if there’s actually any time left to get out of New York or not.”
Camera pans down to the street below the screen. Many figures are roaming aimlessly around.
Jolene:
“They were here when I woke up. I don’t know if it’s me they smelled or whether there are other live people here, too. Maybe. But I’m so tired. And so tired of being so tired.”
Camera set down on table, still aimed at crowd in Times Square.
Jolene [slightly distant]:
“I don’t think I dreamed about the sarge after all. I think I saw it. OK, right under the chin.”
Gunshot.
Camera continues to run for 45 minutes until battery dies.
[END FILE]
Note attached to package:
[signature illegible]
Tony-
You’re right.
We might as well.
Tell the pilots to
saddle up.
2011
Picking Up the Pieces
Pat Cadigan has twice won the Arthur C. Clarke Award for her novels Synners and Fools and has been nominated many times for just about every other award. Although primarily known as a science fiction writer (and as one of the original cyberpunks), she also writes fantasy and horror, which can be found in her collections Patterns, Dirty Work, and Home by the Sea. Her work has been translated into many languages, including Polish, Russian, Italian, French, Spanish, German, Portuguese, Czech, and Japanese (also Pirate and Swedish Chef via Google, which doesn’t count as official publication, but she gets a kick out of it anyway). The author of fifteen books, including two nonfiction titles and one young adult novel, she currently has two new novels in progress.
She lives in gritty, urban North London with her husband, the Original Chris Fowler, and her son, Rob, and their minder, Miss Kitty Calgary, Queen of the Cats.
I don’t think I’ve ever quite forgiven 1989. It was one of those years when everything started looking up.
OK, not everything. But even after Tiananmen Square, the developments in Eastern Europe were enough to make a person think the world was actually becoming a better place.
All right, then, just me. I wondered. I was thirty-six—theoretically old enough to know better but young enough to drop everything and fly halfway around the world for my crazy sister Quinn.
Dammit, everything goes to hell around that girl, my father used to grumble. Actually, it was more like chaos, which, now that I think of it, was hell for my father, a man who envisioned his daughters as swans and instead got—well, us. And Quinn, in that order. The first four (of which I was the last) made his head spin. Then when I was sixteen, Quinn arrived, unintended, unpredicted, unexpected, and made everything spin. My sister, the thrill ride. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, she’ll probably come back as a Tilt-a-Whirl. Or a Wild Octopus.
Maybe a rocket, seeing as how she was born the day after the first moon landing. But it would have to be a rocket that never came down: She wasn’t manic-depressive; there was no depression, just manic and more manic. Although to be honest, it wasn’t mania in the clinical sense, just high energy and no brakes. Two separate therapists diagnosed her as a borderline personality. I had to look that one up. Some things seemed to fit, some didn’t, and the rest I wasn’t sure about, but it all sounded pretty bad.
In the end, I decided the diagnosis creeped me out, not my sister. Quinn could be frivolous and silly, the grasshopper to everyone else’s ant; she could be self-centered and even insensitive, with the attention span of a gnat and poor impulse control, but she had never been mean or spiteful. Most of the time she was good-natured, slow to anger, and quick to kiss and make up. And more than anything else, generous.
My mother never missed a chance to point out Quinn’s good qualities. There’s no malice in her. She’s got a good heart. She never goes out of her way to hurt anyone. She’d give you the shirt off her back. What my mother didn’t mention, however, was that when Quinn ran out of shirts, she’d expect you to volunteer yours. Her tendency to presume wasn’t as attractive as her thick, curly black hair or her silvery gray eyes or her smile, features that could usually persuade the susceptible to overlook her flaws.
It didn’t always work to her advantage, of course. Because she was a child, she had a hard time telling the difference between excitement and trouble. I’m not sure she even knew there was a difference. Because there’s no malice in her, my mother said. Because she’s got a good heart.
In November of 1989, Quinn went to Berlin with her good heart, which had been captured by a tall, rangy blond man with blue eyes, cheekbones like the white cliffs of Dover, and snake hips. It was a package that would have held my attention even without the German accent. With it, everything he said sounded exotic and even a bit mysterious, at least to my tin American ear. Especially after a few glasses of red wine.
And very good red wine it was, too, a French Bordeaux that actually tasted as good as the label looked. He brought two bottles when he and Quinn turned up at our parents’ house for the annual your-father-won’t-celebrate-his-birthday dinner in early September. Only Kath, Lisa, and I were not-celebrating with our parents. Our oldest sister, Marie, and her wife were stuck in Toronto seeing their twins through chicken pox, and as far as any of us knew, Quinn was traveling—the family euphemism for that period beginning with the last time anyone had heard from her and ending when she finally called one or more of us to say she was OK and hint she needed a small loan. Unpredicted and unexpected again. Surprise, everybody, and oh, hey, meet Martin.
The not-a-birthday dinner immediately turned into the Quinn Show, with special guest. Quinn was bubbly, vivacious, and entertaining, Martin was personable, witty, and utterly covet-worthy, and everyone enjoyed themselves. Though Kath, Lisa, and I sneaked commiserating looks at each other even as we did; sometimes it was hard not to feel drab around our baby sister.
But if we felt drab next to Quinn, we were positively lackluster compared to Martin. Originally from East Berlin, he was barely more than a toddler when his parents had given him over to some trusted friends who had smuggled him through the Berlin Wall and taken him to live with them in London. Since then, he had heard precious little of his family: All he had was a blurry photo of his parents with the two younger sisters and a brother he had never met. My mother teared up. This embarrassed Martin, who apologized. Quinn, however, sat back with a faint smile, and I knew she was pleased to have brought us someone to prick our social conscience—very much a Quinn thing to do.
She and Martin didn’t stay long after that. “And there they go,” Kath sighed as we stood on the front steps watching Martin’s sports car pull out of the driveway. “Back to life among those more beautiful and exciting than us.” Her gaze swiveled to Lisa, the grammar Nazi of the family.
For once, Lisa wasn’t taking the bait. “What color do you suppose the sky is on that planet?” she asked wistfully.
“Dunno,” I said. “Our eyes are probably too ordinary to see it.”
“Don’t be silly, Jean.” Kath elbowed me. “It’ll be gold lamé. With real gold.”
“Girls.” Mom was right on cue. “There’s no malice in her. She’s got a good heart.”
Dad gave a small hmph. “I hope this Martin doesn’t break it.”
My sisters and I looked at each other, knowing immediately he would.
