** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- ====================================================================== November 1989 Circulation: 431 Volume I, Issue 3 ====================================================================== Contents Etc... .................................................. Jim McCabe Editorial Final Memories .................................. Keith C. Vaglienti -------------- Fiction Hampton Cafe ........................................... Garry Frank ------------ Fiction Winds ............................................ Daniel Appelquist ----- Fiction Fundamentally Switzerland ....................... Barbara Weitbrecht ------------------------- Fiction ****************************************************************** * * * ATHENE, Copyright 1989 By Jim McCabe * * This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge * * under the condition that it is left in its entirety. * * The individual works within are the sole property of their * * respective authors, and no further use of these works is * * permitted without their explicit consent. * * Athene is published quasi-monthly * * by Jim McCabe, MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET. * * This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe * * using the Xedit System Product Editor. * * * ****************************************************************** Etc... Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET ====================================================================== First, I want to thank everyone for waiting the extra week for this month's issue of Athene. I normally try to get the magazine out during the first weekend of the month, but school and work forced me to delay it by a week this time. I'm confidant that December's issue will be on time, even though it is only a couple weeks away. Since the last issue, I polled the readers of the plain text edition of Athene for their opinion of the magazine's appearance. From that response, that version of Athene will no longer have justified paragraphs. It makes it easier to read on a display terminal, and it also makes it easier on those people who reformat Athene for their own printers. Thanks to everyone who responded! Getting feedback from the readers is a great experience, and I encourage you to contact me if you have coments relating to any aspect of Athene. I'd like to make this magazine as responsive to *your* needs as possible. In fact, I'm looking for a new logo, and I am open to suggestions from the readers. Here we are in issue three, and yet two of this month's stories were submitted back before issue one! In fact, "Final Memories" and "Fundamentally Switzerland" were the first two stories Athene ever received. I want to thank Keith and Barbara for their great stories and patience. We also have an interesting story from the driving force behind Quanta, Dan Appelquist. "Winds" has a unique narrative style that forces us to consider how we would react in extremem circumstances. "I considered first person but it wasn't powerful enough," Dan says. "The reader could still say ''I'd never do anything like that.'' With the second person narration style, the narrator is telling *you* that *you're* doing these things and that way you're forced to think about it more, and doubt whether you couldn't be like that too." Also, after last month's excellent story "Solitaire," Garry Frank gives us yet another good one with "Hampton Cafe." With these stories, I think that this issue was well worth the wait. Thanks again, -- Jim Final Memories By Keith C. Vaglienti CCASTKV@GITNVE2.GATECH.EDU ====================================================================== I am tired and I hurt. What's the saying? Mother come take me home? Strange that I should die now when I am just coming to terms with what I am. Still, I do not think I would mind dying if only it didn't hurt so much. * * * Overhead I can feel the moon calling to me as I stretch my stiff limbs. I did not sleep well last night. The hunger seemed to gnaw at my bones and kept me from having a proper rest. I must do something to satisfy my curse but not yet, not yet. I finger my crucifix ruefully. He who visited this damnation on me was destroyed by merely being in the same room as one but it seems to have no power over me. In truth I obtained this one in the hopes that it would kill me but such was not my fate. Perhaps it is because I have never been what mortals believe. I feel the beginnings of despair and know I must seek the night and find release. I let change sweep over me and when it is done I bound up and out through the basement window. At the sight of the moon a keen howl wells up in my throat but I hold it back. This is neither the place nor the time. It is but a short run to where my love lies buried, murdered by the foul creature that took me. Ah my love, you were the fortunate one. Surely death can not be worse than what I must endure but endure it I must. Though I have tried to take what little there is of my life, it resists most hardily. Neither sunlight nor holy signs nor running water seem capable of destroying me and I cannot bring myself to employ more drastic measures. Surely this is Hell, to abhor one's self but not be able to do anything about it. Now my love I must leave. The hunger grows too strong and I fear the pain of it might make me hurt someone. I head for the park. Not too long ago I caught a pair of rabbits there. Perhaps tonight I shall have similar luck. I hear them first; the soft padding of tennis shoes and the sharp click of high heels. Then I scent them, one has a decidedly masculine smell while from the other wafts the delicate scent of some perfume. Before I see them I know what to expect; two kids, probably from the local college, out on a date, going for a romantic stroll by moonlight in the park. In short, fresh blood for the likes of me. My pulse quickens with the thought of the hot, rich, red liquid coursing down my throat. I catch myself as I begin to edge forward. If I am not careful my instincts will get the better of me. It would be so easy, the humans never take any real precautions against such as I and they are easier to catch than the animals which are my normal fare but no, I will not give in to the hunger, I cannot. I hate what I am but I have to live with it and with myself. And so I ease myself back into the shadows as the humans come round a hedge. I was right, just a couple of college kids out to have a good time. Silently I wish them luck for I envy them their innocence. Then I see the wino that is no wino. He wears the ragged clothes of a street bum. In one arm he cradles a bottle of Muscatel, of which he reeks. A battered hat shields his face from the street lights, hiding it in shadow. A good enough disguise to fool a human but not enough to trick my senses. Silently I laugh, where is the smell of old vomit and urine that normally accompany such as you? You cannot fool me, old friend, for you and I are brothers. I see the gleam of hunger in your shadowed eyes, the glistening tip of your tongue as you moisten your lips in anticipation. I know what you are feeling so intimately for I too just felt it. But you are one of the weak ones or worse, one of the ones that glories in such things as what we are. He has been lying on the bench so still that the couple has not noticed him. Maybe they think he is asleep. Maybe they were so wrapped up in each other that they didn't see him. Whatever the case, they know he is there now as he lurches to his feet, hands reaching out to grab and hold. The boy, brave in his ignorance, shoves the girl back and moves between her and the wino. Undaunted the wino lashes out, his hand a blur, to smash aside the boy with inhuman strength. The lad lies still where he falls, unconscious, possibly dead. Now the wino glides toward the girl, relishing the terror which holds her paralyzed. He opens his mouth in a leer and she screams at the sight of his fangs. I am the wind as, on shadow silent paws, I rush past her to hurl myself at the wino. My jaws snap at his throat but it is no longer there as he becomes mist. Then it is another wolf that faces me. We circle each other warily for a moment. I stop between him and the girl. He hungrily eyes the boy, then changes again; this time his shape flows into that of a bat, and he flies away. I consider pursuing the abomination but, no I must help the humans. ``Good boy,'' comes the girl's voice. I turn to face her. She smells of fear but she is unwilling to leave the boy. She moves slowly towards him, trying not to spook me. She is brave like the boy. I change and it catches her by surprise. Before she can remember the legends, I trap her eyes with my own. I remake history. When I am done she remembers nothing of what has happened. I release her and turn to examine the boy. He still lives. With rest he will recover. I hear the sound of running feet. People coming to investigate the girl's screams. I stand and nod at the girl, then fade into the night. It is late and I still haven't eaten. I must do something soon or the hunger will consume me. But for now I am satisfied. I am nosferatu and I am human. * * * A lot of people are afraid of death but I am not. I came to realize early on that death is inevitable; nothing lives forever. Perhaps I shall see my love when I die. I hope so. * * * ``I love the night.'' Lynn laughs and her eyes seem to sparkle in the moonlight. ``I don't know why. It just seems like the darkness sets my spirit free. I feel like I'm bursting with energy. I want to run and jump and shout for joy.'' Suddenly I am serious. ``Lately I feel that way a lot. Whenever I'm with you.'' ``You've been watching too many old movies,'' jibes Lynn as she gives my hand a squeeze. I grimace and moan, ``The lady doth wound me deeply. I confess my love and she laughs at me.'' ``Pardon me, kind sir. How may I make amends?'' ``If you would dance with me it might ease the pain some small degree.'' Lynn laughs, ``Here on the sidewalk? With no music?'' ``Of course not,'' I exclaim. ``What do you take me for? A fool? No, don't answer that. I mean on yonder hill in the faery ring that crowns it. There we can dance to the strains of an elvish band.'' ``Has anyone ever told you that you're strange?'' ``Of course, many a time. I'll have you know that I work very hard to make people think I'm strange.'' We are young and in love. The night is full of silver magic. Our waltz is interrupted by a dog's howl. Lynn shivers so I pull her close. From behind me comes a growling sound and Lynn suddenly stiffens. I turn to find myself facing a wolf. Once more it growls and then it takes a step forward. Pushing Lynn behind me I say, ``Just stay calm and don't make any sudden moves.'' The wolf's muscles seem to bunch and then it leaps upon me. Startled I fall backwards. My head strikes something cold and hard. Unfriendly blackness consumes me. The last thing I hear is Lynn screaming. * * * When I awoke Lynn was dead, her throat torn away, and I was a vampire. I begin to laugh but it only makes the pain worse so I stop. Funny how the past always returns to haunt you. As if my life was not already more horrid than I can bear. The kids in the park reminded me so much of Lynn and myself that I had to track down their attacker and destroy him as I did the other. I never thought I'd die doing so. For a moment I gather my strength and then once more pull on the wooden shaft which pins me to the wall like an insect. It is to no avail. I look down at the pile of dust which is my murderer. He made the mistake of coming close to taunt me. He never expected one of his own kind to be carrying holy water. Still, his is the last laugh. His death was relatively swift and less painful than mine. Outside the window the day grows brighter. I have to smile. My last sight will be sunrise. The first light of morning touches me. It seems to soothe me as a numbness radiates through my body from its gentle caress. The air grows hazy with sparkling motes of dust. Is my body crumbling away into nothing? I can't feel anything. About me the world dissolves. Who's there? I can feel your presence. Lynn? Lynn... Hampton Cafe By Garry Frank CSTGLFPC@UIAMVS.BITNET Copyright 1989 Garry Frank / Failsafe Productions ====================================================================== He was a small man, no taller than a boy of fourteen, but he carried himself with an air of contentment and virility that made him hard to forget. I do not know his name, and I do not ever wish to. I met him for the first and only time in a small cafe near Hampton, a place I would often escape to when I needed to be alone. Hampton was peaceful, and the cafe even more so. It was not uncommon for me to spend hours of my time sipping coffee and twiddling my spoon in a small, deserted booth in the south corner. It was a special place to me, a place I could go to be thoughtful or dreamy. Or in this case, sorrowful. I had gone to Hampton on the afternoon of October 12, 1981, two days after the death of my brother, Matthew. I had gone to the funeral almost completely alone, since he and I were the last remaining members of our family, having been the only sons of a man who was an only child. That man, my father, had attained his own date of mourning in the cafe some years earlier. I invited none of my friends, not even Matthew's, and I wonder sometimes if I hadn't intentionally avoided informing everyone but a small handful of people about his death. I do not like to cause any more grief in the world than I have to. I am not obsessed with death. I think that I may have been the only person at the funeral who truly accepted the concept of Matthew being dead, and the peace that such a thing should bring. All the same, this acceptance did not stifle my need to escape to the cafe, to my special table, sip coffee, and think. The waitress gave me no more attention than she would give any other patron and did not recognize me. Nor did she make the connection between my face and the particular table at which I was seated, the same table I had always selected for almost six years now. The coffee was black and strong, and I had to mix several packets of sugar with it to make it tolerable. It cooled in the stagnant cafe atmosphere, and when the steam had completely departed, it revealed the old man, standing less than seven feet from my table, staring at my coffee. He was wearing an old but intact gray two piece suit. His stature was wide, and his shoulders broad, but he still had an aura of humility about him that I could not explain. His face gave away his age, which was in the mid-seventies, I imagine, and it was clean-shaven, yet haggard, like the face of a man who has lost interest in appearance. His shoes were clean, an extremely odd thing to notice at that point, I know. My acute sense of observation sometimes gets the best of me. Covering his short, brownish-gray hair was a short-brimmed hat of almost the same color. His eyes were like dark chips of ice, yet when he stared at me through the clearing steam, feelings of care and compassion swamped over me. "May I sit down?" His voice was clear and soft. It took me a little by surprise. "Yes, please do." I found myself saying before thinking about what I might be getting into. He shuffled himself into the booth, sitting across from me, nearer to the window. "Cold." He said, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, "That coffee looks quite good." I paused for a second. The man did not have the appearance of a man stricken by poverty. "Would you like some?" I was full willing to by him a cup of his own, if not to give him mine, which I seemed to had lost the taste for. "No." He shrugged. "No, no, no... I am not in need of favors. I am simply making small talk." I nodded, confused. I had an urge to simply come out and ask him what it was that he wanted. "Cold, yes. Quite cold. Very difficult times." I frowned. "Do I know you from somewhere?" "Only indirectly... In passing, so to speak. I was a good friend of your brothers." I accepted this in good faith, not taking the time to stop and weed out the oddities of his story. "I see." "Very good friend indeed. I understand you are now all that is left of the family line." "Yes, you could say that." I thought back briefly on what the old man had said. Was a good friend, he used the word was, and I had never seen this man before in my life. I had only told six people about the death, only one of which was a good friend of Matthew's, and this man was not one of them. The obituaries, I thought to myself, he just read about it in the papers. I came up with the comeback myself: there hasn't been an obituary report yet. A clerical error had caused the local newspaper to report the death two weeks after the event itself, so where, thought I, did he find out? Again, I came to my own rescue, there must have been other reports. Other articles in the news. This man had just been paying acute attention. Perhaps he was a consistent member of the church where the service was held, and saw it written in the schedule pamphlet. He was, after all, a good friend of Matthew's. So why wasn't he at the funeral..? "Such a pity. His demise, I mean. That is, after all, the reason you are here, is it not?" "I'm sorry?" "You have come here to grieve, so to speak." My eyes were locked open. He continued to speak with remarkable calmness. "Do not be frightened. I am here as a friend." My throat was getting slightly dry, and it clicked as I swallowed. I was genuinely intrigued, if not scared. "Look, I'm sorry, but I've never seen you before in my life, and I knew most of Matthew's close friends." "Are you saying that I'm not who I say I am?" "I'm saying that you haven't said who you are at all. Now please, my good man, state your business or leave me in peace." "I have a message." I couldn't move. "A message?" "From Matthew." It was then that all time seemed to stop in the Hampton Cafe. I found myself mesmerized by this old man, held in some kind of imaginary, supernatural grip. I began to breathe quickly, then stifled it, to conceal my fear. "I don't understand." "I have a message from Matthew." "Are you in charge of his will?" He chuckled. "No. No, not at all. This is not something that he wanted to say to you. This is something that he wants to say." There it was again. Has a message. Wants to say. The fear of this man, of the unknown crept up slowly from my heart. "Would you like to hear it?" I paused. "Yes." I whispered. For the next few seconds, a startling change came over the old man's face, a change that I will describe only once, something which I have never been able to satisfactorily explain since. For the brief moment when the old man relayed his message, his eyes changed. His eyes and mouth took on a new form, perhaps only in my mind, perhaps not. His eyes turned dark brown, and they somehow glistened differently, with youthfulness. The eyes portrayed a different mind, and the mind that was behind them was a mind that I did and still could recognize at a moment's glance. It was Matthew. For a brief instant, the old man's eyes became Matthew's. He said: "Thank you, Jonathan. For all you have given me. Please forgive the shortcomings of my youth, the pain of our days growing up, for someday you will be with me, and together we will be happy." Then his eyes faded, and the man sat back in his cushioned seat. "He thought you should know that before you went on living." The old man slid to the end of the seat, and moved to stand up. "Wait." I croaked silently. He seemed to take no notice. He stood, and walked toward the exit of the cafe. Just before he opened the door, he stopped, and I got up enough strength to ask: "Who are you?" He nodded and stepped out the door. I sat in my own sweat for a long time, not knowing what to make of what I had just experienced. I have not told anyone about my periodic expeditions to the cafe until just now. Not even Matthew. If this was some elaborate joke, how did he know to come here? Had he been shadowing me since the funeral? Where did he get his information? Breaking the spell, I stood up violently and stepped toward the exit, just as he had done seconds ago. I threw open the door, and stepped out into the parking lot. The wind was cold, and I had left my jacket in the cafe, so I stood there, shivering, looking earnestly for a trace of the old man. I found none. There had been only one automobile in the lot, and it was mine. The only possible directions he could have gone walking (I heard no motor) were well within sighting distances. It was as though he had just vanished. Several explanations came to me later, ranging from the abstract (I had merely lost track of time, and he had walked many blocks during my spell) to the common (he had escaped on bicycle) to the silly (he was hidden under my car). Since none struck me at the time, I resigned myself to re-enter the cafe and sit once again at my booth. I pondered the events which I now chronicle, then paid for my coffee and left. It has been many years since my encounter with the old man at the Hampton Cafe, and I am still as speechless about it as I was back then. What happened, you ask. I do not honestly know. Some elaborate prank? There had been too much detail which would have required so much research and money that the prank would have been worthless without a punch line, so to speak. And I have not been bothered by laughing co-workers since. Was this old man somehow a messenger from wherever Matthew is now? I do not know. I am not even sure if I believe that myself, and I was the one who recognized his eyes. Did the event change my life, do you ask? I only wish it had. I still find myself as much of an agnostic as I was many years ago. I still have no answers. The only change it brought about in my personal philosophy is not one of conviction in the afterlife, or in Heaven and Hell. The change is acceptance that there are many things in this life which we cannot explain. I accepted this with the same calm frame of mind with which I accepted Matthew's death: There are things in this world which defy logical explanation. There is so much we don't understand. I am convinced of that. There is so much about this world that we do not understand. So now what? I visited the cafe a total of three times after the incident. Once for the birth of my son, once for the death of my wife, and once for the end of World War III. Very few events other than these have influenced my life. I enjoy my life, but I am not afraid of losing it. The dingy cafe four miles to the East of the small Missouri town of Hampton is still standing. So am I. --------------------------------------------------- Garry is a Broadcasting and Film major attending the University of Iowa. He is an aspiring screenwriter and an accomplished playwright, with three of his full-length plays having been produced by the West Side Players, an alternative theatre organization at Iowa. He writes short fiction in his spare time, and watches too many movies. Garry's other interests include reading, skiing, acting, "splitting atoms and graduating." --------------------------------------------------- Winds By Daniel Appelquist da1n@andrew.cmu.edu Copyright 1989 Daniel Appelquist ====================================================================== Your name is Phil Miller. The time is 21:34 on October 27, 2050. You are packing a state of the art Phased Plasma Pistol, a real beauty. You can feel its cold metal pushing up against the skin of your left side through the tight fitting radiation-proof cover-all. Feeling the piece there gives you a sense of security, a feeling that armies would fall under your fire. The fact that you are on massive amounts of speed, of course, does wonders for your sense of euphoria. On the opposite side of your body, there is another object that makes you feel good. Although not as large as the pistol, you can still feel it's weight. It is a small iron bar, a one day pass into the free-neutral city. The city lies four hundred kilometers to the southwest of the base you are stationed at. Right now, you're driving down a fairly straight road, bounded on both sides by seemingly endless planes of glass-like residue, the only telltale that there ever was a fusion explosion here. The sight is familiar to you, so you do not contemplate how this area will be barren for millennia to come, nor of how you are only able to pass here due do the heavy shielding of your '20 Chevy Sunblazer. Your mind doesn't flicker back, even for a second to the millions who died when the great city that once stood here was annihilated completely. The speedometer reads 207 km/hr. A respectable speed, but you'd like to go faster. Your left hand planted firmly on the wheel, you toggle the velocity switch a few times until the green counter rises to 265. Normally, you wouldn't be able to control the car at this speed, but the increased awareness and strength provided by the drug does a lot to help. The base won't notice a few patches missing from the barracks supply station. You think back, only for a moment, to all your poor compatriots who don't have a friend in the supply division; who can only experience what you're experiencing now while in action. Your thoughts quickly turn to contempt. "Fuck 'em!" you mutter venomously under your breath. You raise the velocity to 296. Now, through the leaded glass of your windshield, you can see the towers and lights of the free-neutral city, and also something else of interest. Perched ominously over the lighted city is the hulking form of the carnival zeppelin. The zeppelin, now dark, will shine tonight with the intensity of the sun. Even at this distance you can feel the members of the psycho-symphony tuning their instruments. Nothing mind effecting now, but later... later... You reach back behind your neck, flick a switch on your brain implant, and the disturbances cease. It wouldn't do any good to have distractions now, not when every movement of the wheel is life or death. No.. As good as the carnival psycho-symphony is, you decide to forgo tonight's performance. You have some other entertainment in mind. The towers are closer now, as is the looming hulk of the zeppelin. A blinking radar dish icon on your dash tells you that you're about to enter into a speed patrolled area. Regretfully, you thumb the revert-legal button on the wheel and your speed drops down to 150. Even in your drugged state, you realize that the pistol pressed tightly against your armpit won't save your from the automatic guns that are the city's defenses. You've seen city defenses in action before. You're not about to let that happen to you; not when you've got so much to do. As you pull your vehicle in through the ramparts, your level of excitement rises. You can feel the blood course through your veins faster and faster, driven by your racing heartbeat. You are in a field; a broad, green, gently sloping field; the kind they had before the terror. You are a child. The grass is thick, although not overgrown. Small portions of it break off and stick to your feet as you run through it. The sweet smell of flowers is near. You don't know which ones. It doesn't matter, the smell is good. As you run across the field, you start to bound, your bare feet contacting with the ground, then your entire body raising into the air with each stride. How easy it is. And how futile. "Your pass sir? This is the last request I shall make. I repeat my assertion that I am prepared to use deadly force unless identification is certified." The voice of the gate computer brings you back from your reverie. You remove the iron bar from your right vest pocket and insert it into the slot next to the window. You're amazed that you were able to negotiate the car to its present position. You try, in vain to recapture your vision, but it is forgotten. You can think now only of the carnival's delights. No doubt there will be mutant death wrestling, perhaps a few burnings of recently seized technocrats, and certainly there will be the famed sex-slaves. You reach down into your left hip pocket and finger the coinage therein. There is enough. The light in front of you flashes green, and the gate opens. The auto-control of your car is engaged, removing you from the loop. At a creeping pace which angers you even more than the tone of that gate computer, you are drawn into the spacious parking lot of the city. When you finally stop and get out, a female voice gently reminds you "remember where you parked, please." Your hand instinctively moves to your gun, eagerly anticipating. It is only when the weapon is half drawn do you realize that the voice's source is the PA located at the top of a high pole some thirty meters from you. "Remember where you parked, please" she states again, softly. Fighting your nature, you sheathe the pistol, but the swirling energy in your blood stream remains undiminished. You must consummate your feelings; soon. You enter the winding walkways of the free-neutral city, walking at what you consider to be a slow pace, so as not to broadcast your condition. Still, you seem to be passing out most of the other walkers. Perhaps it is the subliminal advertising boards hung above the pubs, or perhaps you were simply too excited to notice it before, but you suddenly feel parched beyond belief. You must have a drink. The noisiest, most garishly colored bar attracts your attention and you enter, anticipating the cool feeling of liquid passing down your throat. The place is crowded, hiding for the moment your conspicuousness; the wide open eyes and red lips that are the mark of a soldier. You look towards the bar, and she is there. Just the same as she was all of those years ago, at the first carnival. There is no thought in your mind as to how she is here, or why she doesn't recognize you when you sit down next to her and offer her a drink. Your increased awareness does not extend to your inner being, and so the illusion lives on. "I'd be much obliged, stranger. Ooooh.. Are you a soldier? How interesting! You must be very strong. And very wealthy, no? I'm sure you have some coinage on you, eh?" "I'll have a bourbon and soda, and a beer for the lady," you state impassively at the bartender. "Coming right up, sir," he says as he turns around, revealing the series of raised switches on the back of his neck. A deserter, no doubt. You hate deserters, but you suffer him to live as long as he doesn't give you any lip. "Do you live here, or are you part of the carnival?" you ask politely, even though she is obviously of the latter persuasion. Her scant, ornate clothing and wealth of hair, a commodity for which other less fortunate women would kill, give her away clearly. "I'm a carnie worker... I'm, uh.. off for the day though." You don't hear her. You're too busy looking her up and down. Her body has some inconsequential differences to how you remember her, but all in all she appears the same. Large breasts heaving with the effort she must take to breathe this thickened air. Eyes dilated by depressants or pleasure heighteners. Smooth skin unblemished by even a single spot or bump. She's been modified, as they all have. It goes without saying. She is too perfect, just as she always has been. You've run into a section of the field where the grass is taller, thicker, more easily concealing. Some of the long strands have a dry seed pod at the top, waiting to be blown away by the wind, to propagate, to spawn, to swarm. Bees buzz around you now, but you've had your shots, so they don't come within a few feet of your heaving body. You ran hard and fast, and now your friends won't find you; for sure they won't, and then you'll win. You'll prove yourself superior. You squat down to provide yourself even more protection than before. Waiting, anticipating the moment you hope will never come, when your questing friends will come upon you with a shout and you will taste your defeat. As you walk out of the bar with her, your excitement reaches a peak level. You start walking faster, faster, until she can barely keep up with you. "Why are you walking so fast? What's the hurry, honey?" You still don't hear her. To you, she has become a non-person; an object. As you pass a deserted alleyway between two towering buildings, you push her in with all of your weight, following close behind. As her crumpling form hits the wet ground, you reach up, to your left side, grasping your pistol, pulling it out of its carefully fitted holster, aiming it for her crying eyes, now turned full force on you and filled with a fear unequaled by any opponent you have ever met in battle. There is only time for her to scream a plaintive "Why?" How dare she? Why indeed? Doesn't she know? Doesn't she remember? With only a grim hate in your mind, you pull the trigger. The only evidence is a clean hole directly in the center of her forehead. You always were a good shot. Kneeling over her dead form, you plant a kiss tenderly on her stiffening lips. "I loved you." Are the words yours? You don't know. You only feel the deep satisfaction that came from the kill. You raise your head to see the tops of the buildings and the huge hulking form of the zeppelin overhead, blotting out the stars, the sky. Soon the lights of the zeppelin will brighten the streets of the city. You take out a small phial, remove a new patch and apply it eagerly, discarding the old one. Already you can feel the excitement course through your veins, just as you can hear the blood rushing there even now, pumped by a renewed purpose. By now your drugged mind has almost forgotten the existence of the corpse beneath your feet. You must find her again, and kill her, and again. You will kill again tonight. * * * The time was twenty years ago. You were a trainee. Seventeen years old, a mere boy. But even then you had been carrying a weapon when you rode into the city, a distant city, with your friends from the academy. Indeed, the academy required that all personnel on leave carry a firearm at all times. One never knew what scavenging scum one might find in the wildernesses of the wasted world. That city had been much like this one. Smaller, perhaps, but still much like this one. You remember seeing first the defense towers, and then the radiation dome that that city had required, being in an area of much higher risk, and of course there was the zeppelin. You remember sitting in awe in the main concourse of the city with thousands of others as the psycho-symphony played through their set, the effects of the performance sending waves of strange, undefinable sensation though your body. "Better than sex," you had remarked to one of your friends afterward. Well, perhaps, perhaps not. Of course, you had been a virgin at the time, so the use of the expression had been more comical than anything else. She was at the city. Her name was Juliana. She told you she was not a prostitute of the carnival, merely a worker for it. Her job was mostly in setting up the carnival, and so she had some time off, time she usually spent in whatever city the carnival was in, looking around, experiencing. She was young, and not unpretty, although not of the caliber required for the prostitutes and sex-slaves but to you she was perfect. What you and her shared that night was greater than any pleasure you have since had. You shared tenderness, you exposed your soul to her, and she to you. And for the first time in your life, you believed yourself to be happy. You cared for her, damn it! You cared for her in the few weeks that you were together. You spent most of your time with her and when the call to return to the academy for classes and training came, you disobeyed it. And then it had come. A subtle change in the way she acted towards you, the way she spoke to you. Almost unnoticeable, but you noticed it. You felt her love for you deteriorate step by step, while you tried to wish away the hour you knew would come, tried to tell yourself it was just a passing phase. You remember the moment when you came back to the apartment she was renting. She told you that night that she had loved another man. A man of the carnival. The carnival was leaving, and so was she. She didn't want to see you any more. She was a wanderer, she didn't want to stay put for any length of time. Many other things were said, many more excuses. All you could think of was how she had used you, how horribly insensitive she was to you, how much you had given to her and how she was now repaying you, with her brutal farewell. You remember running back to the academy, to lick your wounds, to nurse your hate. They reaccepted you. No reason was grave enough to give up a potential soldier. And a soldier was what they got. The image of her in your mind is skewed now, distorted, enhanced by the images of other, lesser women. Women with expressions of blind terror frozen into their faces, just like the woman you even now leave in the alley. In a very real way, all of those women are and were Juliana. All of them. * * * The field has turned a deep auburn color now. Still the grass is thick, but many of the strands are dry and brittle. Now as you run back towards the school the strands break under your feet, sometimes causing pain. The sky, formerly a deep shade of blue, now appears gray. Huge black clouds move fast and silently over the darkened land. Strong winds have begun to blow in from the south. Already you can feel the first drops of the storm impacting on top of your tousled mop of hair. The other children are already there, waiting for you, calling to you, calling from safety, along with the worried teachers. "Hurry up, Phil!" they shout plaintively. "The storm's coming! Get inside quick!" Or maybe the voices come from inside. The schoolhouse seems so very far away. You walk several meters down the street from where the opening to the alleyway lies when the lights come on. From above, from the huge form of the zeppelin, there is light; a bright white light, a magical light. You try to look up, but the zeppelin is too bright to look at directly. Like the sun. Like the truth. It leaves a shadow on your vision that never seems to completely clear. You feel a slight brushing against your mind, a signal that the Psycho-Symphony has started its epic concert. Still, you make no move to cut out your shield. You've seen her now. There she is! Walking out of that residence! This time you'll have her. This time she can't escape your savage passions. Now another woman lies dead in a thirty-fourth floor hallway, slumped against one wall. This is the third for this night, and still it is the first ever. Again, the look of crazed terror on her face. Again, the clean burn-hole bisecting her frontal lobe perfectly. The effect is enhanced by the bright light streaming down through the picture window from the zeppelin, giving all objects in sight a day-glow luminescence. Still, you love her. Skulking out of the residence, pistol still hot from the last shot, you glimpse, out of the corner of your eye, an ambulance drone carrying another one of this night's victims along with several other corpses you don't recognize. It appears you aren't the only one who's been busy this night. Far from it. It's the way it always is at carnival time. Some corner of your mind reaches out to these other murderers, leaving a trail of dead flesh just as you do. You feel, somehow, that you are all kin, a brotherhood. But this feeling is soon wiped clean from your mind by the all-pervasiveness of the new dose of the drug. You must kill again, for only in killing can your passions be consummated. Your carnal excitement reaches a fever pitch. Not thinking of your own safety, only of your purpose, you reach for your pistol, tooking out across the crowded square for a target; any target. "Phil? Phil Miller?" The voice shatters your concentration like a brick thrown through a plate-glass window. You turn, hand still gripping the pistol in its shoulder holster. At first, you can't make out who or what... and then there she is. "It's Juliana. You do remember me, don't you? I know it's been a long time, but when I saw your name come up on the city pass list, I just had to go looking for you. You all right?" You're not. You're frozen in stark terror. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your pupils dilate. It can't be! Your grip on the pistol is greater than ever. "You OK Phil? Oh dear! I seem to have given you quite a shock! Maybe I should have left well enough alone... Want to sit down or something?" If you hear her at all, it is merely as a shadow, as all of those other women were merely shadows of this goddess that stands before you now. Juliana, how could I profane you so? The words only appear in your head, but to you they are real. You pull the pistol slowly out of its holster. The storm is raging full force now. Rain batters at the schoolhouse windows and roof, propagating waves of sound that reverberate throughout the cinderblock classrooms. As much as you tell yourself that the building will stand under this punishment, and as much as the teachers reassure you, you can't help thinking that the world is on the verge of collapse. The wars in Asia and Africa seem to grow nearer every day. The blockades in South America are causing more and more controversy. The government, torn apart and dominated by huge corporations, holds no answer, no hope. Somewhere in your mind, you realize that most of your thoughts now are in retrospect, looking back on that day with the point of view of someone who's been through it, but the image is still real. The blinding flash far on the horizon. The rush for the underground shelters. The horrible, horrible noise. These are real memories, no phantoms. The death. Only the death is unreal. It could not be realized by even the oldest, wisest minds, and certainly it could not be realized by a child. "Phil, no! no!" She rushes at you but it is too late. Your enhanced motor functions bring your pistol to bear on your target with deadly accuracy, and in a split second, the weapon is fired, muzzle pointed squarely at your own forehead. Seemingly in slow motion, you see the plasma bolt come racing towards you. Your last coherent vision is of Juliana's eyes, older eyes, wiser eyes, open eyes. Crying eyes. Crying for you or crying for the world that has come to this; for mankind? Still, the savage winds of the shock wave blow over the small school house, a harbinger of an ever darkening future. --------------------------------------------------- Dan Appelquist is a Cognitive Science major at Carnegie Mellon University. He also takes classes in film studies in an attempt to broaden his horizons. In his spare time, he VP's the KGB, publishes his own magazine (Quanta), takes care of his kitten Emma, and reads newsgroups of questionable merit. He wrote "Winds" after the breakup of a previous relationship. "If it sounds a bit depressing," Dan says, it is because he was "going through a LIVING HELL!" --------------------------------------------------- Fundamentally Switzerland By Barbara Weitbrecht IRMSS100@SIVM.BITNET ====================================================================== The black dress was not dirty, but Margaret dropped it down the cleaning chute as soon as she removed it. She climbed into the bathtub and soaked, water as hot as she could stand. At last she drained the tub, wrapped herself in her warmest bathrobe and made a pot of tea. When it was poured and steaming she opened her purse and took out the funeral program. The cover was a tasteful photograph of stars over a quiet sea and a few lines from "home is the sailor." Inside was the order of service, a list of hymns, a short biography and a recent publicity photograph. Nothing in it seemed to have anything to do with Paul. There was no mention of suicide. The telephone was ringing. Margaret crumpled the program and dropped it in the waste chute. She picked up the receiver before the third ring. "Yes?" she said. "Oh, Andrea, hello!" She looked across the room at the calendar, where a date three weeks ahead was circled in black. "Yes, it was a lovely service .... Your roses were beautiful .... I thought so too .... No, I went alone. I'm sorry you couldn't get back in time. How is Japan?" A longer pause. "No, I suppose they didn't. It happened on Wednesday. He was working on his new novel. The machine was still on when they found him. He shot himself through the head. He hadn't even taken off his harness." Margaret was surprised how calmly she could relate this. "No, he didn't leave a note. There was no clue in the tape. No one knows why he did it." Damn him, Margaret thought. I always hated his gun collection. And his war books-- "It was a new Constantin Falcon adventure. Something about gold and white slavery in the banana republics. He was on the second draft." She stiffened. "I wouldn't know, Andrea. I suppose you could contact his attorney." Now she relaxed again, speaking as one professional to another. "Yes, I'll have it in the rough tape by the end of the month .... No, I can work on it. I lost a few days, of course .... No, I'm fine now. In fact, the work should do me good." She smiled at the reply. "Yes, Andrea .... No, Andrea .... I'll see you later, Andrea. Goodbye." Damn the bastard for killing himself, she thought, and the tears finally came. Why the hell should it hurt so much? It's been over a year since we split up. We just meet at authors' parties, chat over drinks. It's all so fucking civilized. She cinched her robe tighter, picked up her tea and walked to the study. The composing machine took up nearly half the room. It was the one she had used for 23 years, bulky with banks of flickering lights and trembling meters. She had to be half technician to operate it. But the new machines were less sensitive-- She was starting self-hypnosis as she sat and pulled on the receiving harness. She pasted the pickups over the acupuncture meridians, tightened the headband, clipped the ground wires to her earposts. She smiled at her reflection in the window, strapped and metal-studded and umbilical-wired like a character in one of her space fantasies. She was adjusting knobs, choosing the tape. She recited her mantras for this novel, entering the mood. "Fundamentally Switzerland. So small against the immensity. The high proud terror of the snows." She settled into the chair and played the familiar switches, advancing the tape to the roughed-in chapter. "Margot flees to the pass. The pass -- the "col" -- is haven. Escape from Italy. Switzerland. Premonition of the final terror." Should I record from the start? She decided to view for a while, as if she were audience. Now, belted and strapped like a spaceman she descends, counting downward through the three stages of sleep. She has reached eyelid catalepsy, she drains her arm of feeling, then fills it with light. Far away as in a dream she feels it levitate. When it reaches her face it drops and she enters the story. Blue sky, cloudless and cold, dark with high altitudes. Featureless--a sudden pain at the sun, overexposed--drops back to blue and below, mountains. These are white mountains, sharp ice edges against the void. A sudden cold, as if wind blows from the ice. In the cold a subtle undertone, a terror, a premonition or a nostalgia. Margaret, surprised, decides that last mood flicker must be removed. This novel has nothing to do with nostalgia. The view drops from ice to rock, then down dark forest slopes. Below is the road, two lanes, old blacktop, white dashed line. It clings to the mountain in vertiginous switchbacks, fades into blue haze far below. On the road two cars crawl about two turns apart, as if linked by invisible string. We descend rapidly toward the red Chevy convertible, white leather top open, a starlike reflection off the paint. A glance behind at the gray Mercedes, sharklike, implacable. Now we are in the car, a disembodied viewer in the passenger seat. Margot, who is driving, looks over her shoulder at the Mercedes two turns below. Fear flickers about her mouth. She controls the shudder, tries to get more speed from the red convertible. The car skids on a tight turn. A quick glance at the blue depths below, a shudder of fear. We pass an Italian mile-post. It is sixty-five kilometers to the Swiss border. Margot's mouth silently forms the words "sixty-five kilometers." She looks up toward the col. (Segue here--pass, col, Ramuz, Switzerland.) Our gaze follows hers. We know that the top of the pass is the Swiss border and safety. Our gaze lingers on the far snowfields after Margot's has returned to the road. The cold returns, now mixed with Margot's fear. (Is the nostalgia still there?) Margaret decides to take control. Far away, in a dream of flickering lights and trembling needles, her wired hand moves to a switch, presses it. Tape reels revolve silently. The mountains heave, then stabilize. The landscape is the same. But now she is creating it, wandering invisible in circuits of brainlike complexity half a mile below the publishing house. She feels the potent joy of creation. Margaret sharpens a mountain peak. She defines the line of the road where it crosses the snowfields, gray on white. With the landscape in order she turns to her heroine. Now that they are recording, Margot is aware of Margaret's presence. But she does not turn yet, still in character. "The woman menaced." Very good, thinks Margaret, studying her expression. Just the right touch of brave resolve over the fear. Margot reaches back and touches her hair where it is held by the clip, an almost unconscious gesture of vanity or bravado. She glances back at the gray Mercedes. It is no closer. "Good morning." says Margaret. Margot relaxes and smiles. "Good morning, Margaret. Are you all right?" Margaret frowns, says "Well enough. Why do you ask?" Margot looks at her strangely. "Andrea was here this morning. She left a note for you in the glove compartment." Margaret finds it: Great feel to the last chapter. Keep up the good work We're all pulling for you, kid. Love, Andrea. Margaret smiles. "Did you read this?" Margot nods. "Someone I once loved has killed himself. Paul Constant. He was a composer too." "He created Constantin Falcon, didn't he?" "Of course you remember him. I had forgotten our joint story." Margaret blushed. "I had always sort of hoped we could do another. That one was very popular." "Well, I enjoyed it." Margaret stares at her character. My god, she acts so real sometimes. She remembers their first and only collaboration. In the first delights of mutual lust, they had created New Orleans brothels, unspoiled Pacific islands, mad gallops over the Arabian desert under the lurid moon. When they finally settled on a plot they had edited out all the sex scenes and left only the romance. The emotional undertones had required more skillful, professional editing before Andrea would release it. "We are NOT a porno house!" she stated, tapping her pencil. ("I'll write her into my next as Queen Victoria," Paul had whispered.) "I'm glad Andrea dropped in. Margot, let's try to finish up the chase to the pass today. I think we can keep the main action and views we blocked in last week, and work on emotions." Margot frowned. "I still think the action is a little weak. Maybe we could leave it open for improv, see what turns up. We can always use the backup tape if it doesn't work." "Well, it is a little trite. Why not?" Margaret trusts the part of herself that has created Margot, that is Margot. Paul always kept the Falcon on a tight leash, a wooden puppet. ("Hell, woman! All the people want is action! The other stuff is all literature." Half ironically, half meaning it.) Margot returns to the script, squeezing every ounce of power from the red convertible. Vertiginous views, spraying gravel, the smell of hot brakes. Margot's fear, more insistent, a hint of her thoughts. A memory image--golden sunset, Claude handing her the white packet by the Grand Canal. "They'll kill for this, love," he had said. Now they are trying. The road again, the pass still far away, white on blue. Near panic, then control. The high snows brood over all, fundamentally Switzerland. Margaret notices the mountains sagging. That's a hazard of full recording, not depending on the tape. Your attention wanders, things change. Stream of consciousness takes over. Objects have emotional undertones. It can save a tired story or ruin it. She plumps the mountains up again, but the peaks seem softer, as if the ice were melting. Another turn. The scream of tires on gravel echoes the silent scream in Margot's head. Good effect. We'll keep it. She hears Margot gasp. The gray Mercedes has crept up a hundred yards. There is now barely a switchback between them. Too early! thinks Margaret. But let it be, maybe it will tighten the pacing. Margot pulls ahead slowly, regains the lost space. Another turn, a skid near the edge. Too close--we made it! Relief, then remembering, the fear again. The road turns up a glacial valley and the ground becomes nearly level. Dense forest blocks their view. "The car is boiling over," says Margot. "That's not in the script." "It's doing it anyway." The gauge needle is well into the red zone. Margaret tries to will it down. "I suppose the radiator would have boiled if we had been driving this hard," she says. "Damn it, I keep forgetting about old cars. Margot, I'm going to make a fork in the road ahead. Take the left road. I'll get the Mercedes to take the wrong fork." It is hackneyed, but she doesn't know what else to do. Margot can't flee on foot in this country. Nor can she have a shoot-out with the men in the gray Mercedes. That can't come until the end, five chapters away, in a speedboat on Lake Constance. "Maybe there can be a small dirt road over a different pass, known only to local farmers...?" (Trite! You're getting old, Margaret!) Or maybe I should give Margot a better car. It would mean retaping most of the chapter, but we could salvage a lot-- The intersecting road appears. The tires squeal as Margot swings suddenly to the left, a quick decision. Good touch, thinks Margaret. Maybe this will work out after all. "There's a gas station ahead," says Margot. "I'm stopping." There is, indeed, a small building with a sign that says PETROL, red letters on white. Is that right? Margaret wonders. She changes the word to GAZOLIN, then ESSENCE, but it still looks wrong. I'll research it later, she decides. She pulls out her notebook (and far away a second tape revolves.) Ask A. re: "gas" Ital. Switz., ca. 1967. Photos? Margot pulls up beside the pumps. The mechanic lifts the hood and begins spraying water on the erupting radiator. "Won't that crack the engine block?" Margot smiles. "Trust me. Let's go in and have a cup of coffee." Margaret notices the little restaurant beside the gas station. The white neon sign in the window spells CAFE ANTARCTICA. (Antarctica?!) "Why not? I need time to think." The two women sit near the window. Outside, trees sway in the wind from the pass. Above them the mountains look soft and vulnerable, like ice cream. In the station lot, the mechanic is doing something to their engine with a large wrench. Margaret hooks her arm over the back of the chair and looks around the cafe. "Don't they heat this place?" Her breath fogs the air. The walls are brushed steel, the white linoleum floor spotless as a hospital. On the tabletop, which is a mirror, are a transparent vase and one white rose. The sign in the window, seen from the rear, is reflected around it in puddles of white light. CAFE ANTARCTICA, reversed and inverted. Why Antarctica? All that goddamn snow. I'm freezing. What's my subconscious up to today? Margaret shivers, hugs herself. Margot silently offers her a sweater. The waitress has come. Expressionless, white as a nurse, eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. Her hair flames bright as a rainbow, a shaggy cut dyed orange, blue and golden. "Two coffees, one black, one with cream." It is Margot who orders. Margaret stares at their reflections in the table top. Her heroine, dark and slim, smooths her immaculate hair. Margaret's own image is large and blondish, visibly middle-aged. She feels worn out. Her shoulders ache. She cannot find her comb. She tries to recapture the mood of the novel, repeats her mantras. "Fundamentally Switzerland. Facing the immensity alone. Riding like a falcon above fear. Death in the high proud snows." When she reopens her eyes the coffee has come. Horribly, it comes in clear glass mugs. The steam rises above the cups and sinks into the depths of the mirrored table. The reflections of the ceiling lights look like stars. She sips slowly. Calm. Be calm. You are in control. This your world, your self. Fundamentally-- Outside, the mountains roll past in stately progression like waves on a peaceful sea. The trees sway in the wind like seaweed. Warped reflections from the ice fields dancing on the walls are like the surface of water seen from beneath. As a drowning man might see it. Once again the cold washes over her, and with it the strange nostalgia. She knows what it is now. It is depression, nostalgia for sleep. So this is what I had in mind, Margaret thinks. I had thought this novel would be fundamentally Switzerland. I wanted high proud mountains over pastures, domesticated immensity. Images taken from the novelist Ramuz: cows climbing to fragile summer meadows, the threat of avalanche, fear overcome by stolid courage. Margot, exhausted by her pursuit from Italy, would meet this hardy courage and make it her own. But instead it is becoming Antarctica. I hate Antarctica. The snow there is dead snow. It has been there since before there were men. The horror of frozen mountains under strange stars. Green witch-lights dancing in the night that lasts all winter. Blank white silence or wind howling in the dark. The sleep of a land with no hope of waking. What the hell, perhaps I should scrap the whole thing and make an adventure story. One man alone on a snowfield with solitude and death. Wolves howl under the northern lights. He's already eaten all the sled dogs. Death by freezing. They say it feels warm, sinking down to sleep. I wonder how Paul-- Goddamn it, I know depression when I see it. Occupational hazard. Snap out of it! You're just tired, babe. Mistake to work today. Take the week off and fly to Hawaii. Or maybe-- The cafe door opens. The young man who enters is, even before introductions, unmistakably a reporter. He tips his hat back on his sandy hair, shakes out his plaid sport coat. "Wind's rising!" he announces. "Are you Margaret Norris?" Where'd I get him? Margaret wonders. He looks like something from a 'forties film. "Sorry, ma'am. Of course I know who you are. I came here to meet you. But you're probably wondering if I'm real or something you improv'ed." He extends his hand. "Joe Jackson from the Chronicle. We're doing a feature on famous composers and I thought it would be great to do an interview on-line, as it were..." "How the hell did you get into my novel?" He smiles and pulls up a chair. "Coffee, black!" he shouts over his shoulder. "Oh, I have literary ambitions myself. Taking a composing class out at City College. I've done a little computer stuff before and -- well, I just hacked my way into your account. Hope you don't mind." His coffee has arrived. "Thanks, miss. Great hair. You see, ma'am, I've always been sort of a fan of yours. And I thought, Joe, this is your chance of a lifetime. You can actually be IN a Margaret Norris. See the master in action. Will you do an interview?" He's real all right. I couldn't possibly have invented this. "All right," she agrees. "But frankly I'm having a lousy day. Just keep it short. And don't ever do this again, or I'll call the cops." "Thanks, Ms. Norris!" Relieved. Not a bad kid, just a bit of a nerd. He turns on his tape recorder and sets it on the mirror among the mugs. Q. Ms. Norris, a lot of our viewers have asked us, and frankly I'm curious too. How do you put a dream on a disk? A. That's a good question. You need an engineer to answer it for you. But basically, and I'm probably getting some of this wrong, the dream is never really on the disk. There's too much data. The disk just holds the addresses of the real images, which are stored in a very large computer owned by the publishing house. That's why you pay per viewing. You're using computer time. Q. Where do you get ideas for all your novels? A. Well, I read a lot. Before composing machines became so common I wanted to be a writer. The Margot Noel series is based on the spy and adventure novels of fifty years ago, which is when they are set. Beyond that, it's hard to describe how it happens. I work from dreams, sometimes, or waking fantasies. This novel started with a few isolated phrases. "The high snows of fear" was one, and of course that became the title. "Snow" was also slang for cocaine, which is the pivot of the plot. (...and the adventure genre tied me closer to Paul, let me be Margot, just as he as the Falcon. But the rest of him was a bitter, balding little man who drank too much and collected guns. Who shot himself through the head three days ago. Just as the rest of me is a middle-aged writer manquee'. We never forgave each other that.) Q. Do you base your characters on real people? They seem so real. A. I don't think you can make them real unless they are really part of yourself at some level. Actually, after a while characters seem to take on a life of their own. It's not just practice. They are partly stored in the computer. They get more interesting as you work with them. Q. Sounds spooky! Aren't you ever afraid they'll take over? A. Well, that's a common plot for horror fantasy, but it just doesn't happen. The composing computer is incredibly complex, but it doesn't create. It's more like a magic mirror from a fairy tale, that shows you your greatest hopes and fears. (...as if that were any less dangerous. And here I am in a blue funk with my mountains melting. Damn, but it's cold here.) "Thanks for the interview, Ms. Norris. Say, I was wondering... but it's an awfully big favor." "What?" "Well, like I said, I'm studying to be a composer. And I noticed you're having a little trouble with the scenery today. Mind if I fix it up a little bit?" Margaret sighs. "Be my guest. I've given up on taping today anyway." Beyond the window the mountains are boiling like clouds. The reporter stares at them. A snap like a shutter, and they freeze into postcard outlines, with the Matterhorn dead center. "Greetings from Zermatt" half visible in the lower right-hand corner. Outside, the mechanic has been replacing parts in their engine. There are red and yellow rubber things and coiled black hoses. He slams the hood down and walks away. "Honestly, I don't think the Matterhorn is visible from here." He shrugs. "It's Switzerland. They'll never notice. Well, thanks again. Ciao!" He climbs into his Porsche and starts the motor. Reporter, car and postcard mountains vanish in an almost audible click. Logout, tape off, power down. God, I feel awful, Margaret thinks. I'll have to erase the whole chapter, start over from the backup tape or even from Venice. "Margot dear," she says, "I really don't feel like working today. Shall we take a few days off and start over? Maybe where you leave Claude in Venice." Margot pats her hand. "No problem. But we've come so far today, perhaps we should walk through to the pass scene, just to get the feel of it." Margaret hesitates, then agrees. A rehearsal will make it easier later. If only the mountains would stop heaving. "Stop," she whispers, and they freeze back into mountains. But they are wrong mountains, more like bedpillows. She sits while Margot pays the bill, fighting down feelings that come in waves, a wave of nausea, of memories of Paul, of cold, of weariness, that terrible nostalgia for sleep. "I'm so tired," she says. "We'll be done soon." They leave the empty cafe. Their car is waiting for them. Margot takes the wheel again. Margaret lies back in the seat. She closes her eyes. Remember Switzerland. Fundamentally.... On the road again in the alpine air, Margaret finds she can think more clearly. The mountains are almost certainly proper mountains. They show no tendency to shift. Perhaps the break at the gas station was what the plot needs. A break from the panic. What to use in place of the reporter? No matter, this is just a rehearsal. They will drive to the top of the pass and walk through the scene there. Then Margaret will go home and take a hot bath. A clean flannel nightgown lies across the bed, with clean sheets. In a distant dream Margaret senses her body waiting patiently at the composing machine, strapped and studded like a space explorer. She smiles at it. Hello body. I'm coming home. They are well above the snowline now. Italy has vanished into blue mist. A milepost passes. Three kilometers. Another switchback, and the col opens around them. Two granite peaks frame a glittering saddle of snow, slashed the road to the border. The sky is deep blue without clouds. The high mountain wind smells of Switzerland. Margot steps on the brakes. The gray Mercedes blocks the road. A tall man in a trenchcoat is leaning against it, waiting. The sun glares silver on something in his hand. His hat is over his eyes. The women get out of the convertible. "Go away," says Margaret. "Go away. We are rehearsing." The man may have nodded. It is hard to tell in the glare of the snow. Margot is walking toward him. "Careful, Margot. I'm not sure he understands." Margot touches the man's sleeve and they embrace. As he turns in the kiss Margaret can see his profile. "Constantin Falcon!" she exclaims. "You're in the wrong novel!" They turn to her together, their arms still touching, the gesture of old lovers. (Our gesture!) He raises his gun. This has gone too far. I must wake up! Margaret flees across the snow that lies smooth and clean in all directions. It glitters and blinds in the sun. Red specks lie scattered over it like drops of blood. Butterflies, dead on the snow. She struggles to rise through sleep. But it is so cold. Her body lies passive before the flickering lights. She can't seem to focus on awakening. She stumbles, falls heavily in the snow. They are standing over her. "Go away! You're just part of my depression! I shouldn't have been working today. I was upset about Paul. I just need some rest. You aren't real. You can't kill me." "Why not?" asks the Falcon. "We already killed Paul." Margot brushes back a strand of hair. She smiles, revealing small, perfect teeth. Like the teeth of a skull. The Falcon laughs. "Shall I shoot her now, Margot?" "No, dear, she doesn't own a gun." Margaret crawls away. She must wake up. She must escape. If I can only reach the peak. It's the snow that's killing me. I have to reach the rocks. But the rocks are so far away. I can hardly see them through the glare. Far and away on all sides the snow lies smooth as a bedsheet. The red disks lie scattered like stars, thicker now, more insistent. Behind her, she hears Margot's voice. "Stand up, dear. Walk to the bathroom." She feels her distant body rise, unplug the cords, walk slowly across the floor. I must wake up! She struggles through the layers of sleep, but they lie heavy on her like water. Far away, in a world not attached to her, she sees her hand open the medicine chest, remove the bottle of sleeping pills. Margot's voice floats directionless over the snow. "Pour a glass of water. Swallow them all. All the pills." She sees it all happening, tiny and clear, as if through an icy lens which sits in the back of her head and focuses her thoughts. This is not real. I can control this. I am just in my mind. And in the brainlike computer. No, that is ridiculous. They are not something outside. They are not robots, or monsters. They are part of me. But that is the worst of it. I must wake up. She stretches her arm toward the distant rocks, forces her mind upwards toward waking. The peak wavers and shrinks. Her hand almost merges with that other hand, which holds the bottle. They brush, almost catch each other. Then the lens melts. She sags into the snow. It warm under her body. Far away, the other body sets down the empty bottle, walks slowly to the bedroom. There are clean sheets on the bed. The other Margaret crawls into bed, turns over, hugs the pillow. So this is what it is like. I read somewhere that death by freezing was like sleep, and warm. Like the sleep after love. Lying here in the snow she can see that the red disks have become scattered rose petals. She touches one. It lies in a little hollow in the snow, melted by sunlight. Where did I get roses? she thought. I had meant them to be butterflies. --------------------------------------------------- Barbara Weitbrecht is a marine biologist by training, a computer specialist by profession, and an artist and writer by avocation. She is currently living in Washington D.C., and working at the Smithsonian Institution, where she is trying to persuade Smithsonian employees to communicate with each other using PROFS. She would much rather be back in San Francisco. --------------------------------------------------- QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu r746da1n@cmuccvma.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over three hundred subscribers to date from nine different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. 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