Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online Page B
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and parrot onto Franklin's shoulder, and inscribed
PIRATE PARTY 2016
along the top of the bill, as though it were part of the engraving.
Taylor looked at the defaced bill, frowned, and then shrugged. "Fuck it. It'll still spend just fine."
Outside we stood awkwardly at the mouth of the alley. It really
did
feel like a date, but not a first date; it felt like one of those dates that's after the last date, when you get coffee with someone you used to date and you both silently affirm that you're never going to split a cocoa or sneak into a movie or make love again. The date where you realize you're both okay with that, but that you're both still somehow linked forever, because you once did those things without knowing there was a last date coming.
There was a crackling, staticky sound by the dumpster in the alley.
"That's my ride," Taylor said.
"What would you do?" I asked. "What would you do if you hadn't already done all the things you'd done? If you hadn't mucked up everything so badly? If you hadn't already spent so many years trying to kill yourself?"
He smiled uncertainly. "What? Here? Now?"
"Yeah!" I smiled. "What would you do if you were just some guy with a portal, some guy hanging out in 1995?"
And then he shook his head pityingly. "Suze, sweetie, I think you've missed the point: Me doing things is what got us into trouble to begin with."
I nodded, because it didn't really seem like there was anything for me to say. He looked away, rubbing his palms into his eyes while taking a deep breath.
"Okay," he said, shaking it out. "Okay. Time to go." He turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, "I'll see you around." Then he stopped and turned back. "I mean, I won't. Never. But..." he waved his hand. "I just meant 'good bye' in a casual way." He started back down the alley.
"Hey Taylor," I called. "I'll take care of you, like you asked."
He looked me over and saw I was legit, and his face blossomed into that big, honest smile, the one that came so easily to Young Taylor but hadn't peeked out of Old Taylor yet.
"Thanks!" he shouted. "You're a life saver!"
I made a point of looking away from the alley, so that I wouldn't have to see the dappled, watery light of the portal wedging itself into reality amid the buzzing yellow flicker of the alley's security lights and the rosy dawn breaking across the clear, cold horizon. It was too much light being too weird, like drinking OJ right after brushing your teeth.
The streets were empty. It was that little sliver of morning that's crammed between the last drunks stumbling home and the overly motivated people starting their morning runs. As I walked I thought about Young Taylor and Old Taylor and what Old Taylor'd said: Whatever we tried to do with the portal wasn't going to make the world better, just awful in a new way. Maybe that was true—it certainly
felt
true in the darkest chambers of my heart—and there was no denying that if anyone should know, it would be Old Taylor, condemned to endlessly wander the portals hunting himself down.
But more than anything, I wondered why folks were always so eager to hop into the portal with guns and bombs and dry-cleaning bags, why we were so eager to get blood under our nails. Suddenly Taylor didn't seem that different from Buffalo Bill, with his zip-gun in his boot and his smudgy Xeroxed bomb instructions. But I wasn't any better than either of them, and neither was this Deke, or the FBI, or the president with his daily bombing runs over Bosnia—none of us were. Why the Hell did we insist blowing shit up was such a great business model?
I'd thought I'd collapse into bed when I got to my place, which was just a crummy little room in a grungy co-op. The communal drama and penny-ante "Who ate my Ramen?" bullshit had seemed like the whole world when I'd left for classes and work yesterday afternoon; now it just looked like what it was: A shitty rooming house in an overpriced college town. Instead, I packed some clothes and my
PIRATE PARTY 2016
along the top of the bill, as though it were part of the engraving.
Taylor looked at the defaced bill, frowned, and then shrugged. "Fuck it. It'll still spend just fine."
Outside we stood awkwardly at the mouth of the alley. It really
did
feel like a date, but not a first date; it felt like one of those dates that's after the last date, when you get coffee with someone you used to date and you both silently affirm that you're never going to split a cocoa or sneak into a movie or make love again. The date where you realize you're both okay with that, but that you're both still somehow linked forever, because you once did those things without knowing there was a last date coming.
There was a crackling, staticky sound by the dumpster in the alley.
"That's my ride," Taylor said.
"What would you do?" I asked. "What would you do if you hadn't already done all the things you'd done? If you hadn't mucked up everything so badly? If you hadn't already spent so many years trying to kill yourself?"
He smiled uncertainly. "What? Here? Now?"
"Yeah!" I smiled. "What would you do if you were just some guy with a portal, some guy hanging out in 1995?"
And then he shook his head pityingly. "Suze, sweetie, I think you've missed the point: Me doing things is what got us into trouble to begin with."
I nodded, because it didn't really seem like there was anything for me to say. He looked away, rubbing his palms into his eyes while taking a deep breath.
"Okay," he said, shaking it out. "Okay. Time to go." He turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, "I'll see you around." Then he stopped and turned back. "I mean, I won't. Never. But..." he waved his hand. "I just meant 'good bye' in a casual way." He started back down the alley.
"Hey Taylor," I called. "I'll take care of you, like you asked."
He looked me over and saw I was legit, and his face blossomed into that big, honest smile, the one that came so easily to Young Taylor but hadn't peeked out of Old Taylor yet.
"Thanks!" he shouted. "You're a life saver!"
I made a point of looking away from the alley, so that I wouldn't have to see the dappled, watery light of the portal wedging itself into reality amid the buzzing yellow flicker of the alley's security lights and the rosy dawn breaking across the clear, cold horizon. It was too much light being too weird, like drinking OJ right after brushing your teeth.
The streets were empty. It was that little sliver of morning that's crammed between the last drunks stumbling home and the overly motivated people starting their morning runs. As I walked I thought about Young Taylor and Old Taylor and what Old Taylor'd said: Whatever we tried to do with the portal wasn't going to make the world better, just awful in a new way. Maybe that was true—it certainly
felt
true in the darkest chambers of my heart—and there was no denying that if anyone should know, it would be Old Taylor, condemned to endlessly wander the portals hunting himself down.
But more than anything, I wondered why folks were always so eager to hop into the portal with guns and bombs and dry-cleaning bags, why we were so eager to get blood under our nails. Suddenly Taylor didn't seem that different from Buffalo Bill, with his zip-gun in his boot and his smudgy Xeroxed bomb instructions. But I wasn't any better than either of them, and neither was this Deke, or the FBI, or the president with his daily bombing runs over Bosnia—none of us were. Why the Hell did we insist blowing shit up was such a great business model?
I'd thought I'd collapse into bed when I got to my place, which was just a crummy little room in a grungy co-op. The communal drama and penny-ante "Who ate my Ramen?" bullshit had seemed like the whole world when I'd left for classes and work yesterday afternoon; now it just looked like what it was: A shitty rooming house in an overpriced college town. Instead, I packed some clothes and my
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