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Anthology selection copyright © 2018, 2019 Gordon Van Gelder.
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paperback ISBN 978-1-949017-06-9 • ebook ISBN 978-1-949017-07-6
Individual copyright credits:
“Sneakers” © 2018 Michael Libling. “re: Your Wedding” © 2018 Ruth Nestvold. “Everything Is Fixed Now” © 2018 K. G. Anderson. “His Sweat Like Stars on the Rio Grande” © 2018 Janis Ian. “Agnosia” © 2018 J. M. Sidorova. “The Adventure of You” © 2018 Paul La Farge. “” © 2018 N. Lee Wood. “Birds” © 2017 Deepak Unnikrishnan. Excerpted from Temporary People, by Deepak Unnikrishnan, reprinted with permission from Restless Books. “The Only Constant” © 2018 Leslie Howle. “The Terrific Leader” © 2018 Harry Turtledove. “Two Explicit and Three Oblique Apologies to My Oldest Daughter One Month Before Her Eighteenth Birthday” © 2018 Heather Lindsley. “The Levellers” copyright © 2018 Deji Bryce Olukotun. “No Point Talking” © 2016 Geoff Ryman. First aired on BBC Radio 4 Extra on January 29, 2016. “Glow” © 2018 J.S. Breukelaar. “Precaution at Penn Station” © 2018 Michael Kandel. “Newsletter” © 2018 Jennifer Marie Brissett. “Statues of Limitations” © 2018 Jay Russell. “Suffocation” © 2018 Robert Reed. “Application for Asylum” © 2018 Eileen Gunn. “Welcome to Triumph Band” copyright © 2018 Yoon Ha Lee. “Loser” © 2016 Matthew Hughes. First published in slightly different form at www.matthewhughes.org. “We All Have Hearts of Gold®” © 2018 Leo Vladimirsky. “Notes on Retrieving a Fallen Banner” © 2018 Marguerite Reed. “Ticket to Ride” © 2018 Eric James Fullilove. “Burning Down the House” © 2018 Ted White. “Dangerous” © 2018 Lisa Mason. “Class Assignment” © 2018 by Thomas Kaufsek. “Walls” © 2018 Paul Witcover. “The Passion According to Mike” © 2018 Scott Bradfield. “Bright Sarasota Where the Circus Lies Dying” © 2018 James Sallis. “The Name Unspoken” © 2018 Richard Bowes. “The Elites” © 2018 Stephanie Feldman. “January 2018” © 2018 Barry N. Malzberg. “Farewell” © 2018 Mary Anne Mohanraj. “The Amazing Transformation of the White House Dog” © 2018 Ron Goulart. “Handmaid’s Other Tale” © 2018 Jane Yolen. “Sanctuary” © 2018 Brian Francis Slattery. “One Fell Swoop” © 2018 James Morrow. “BK Girls” © 2018 TS Vale. “Isn’t Life Great?” © 2018 Don D’Ammassa. “The Men Will Be Hungry Afterwards” © 2018 Ray Vukcevich. “The Road South” © 2018 Madeleine E. Robins and Becca Caccavo. “Skippy’s Visit East” © 2018 Michael Kandel. “Designed for Your Safety” © 2018 Elizabeth Bourne. “Extreme Bedding” © 2018 David Marusek.
This book is for Russell—mine own big brother—and for Harlan and Octavia, both so good at envisioning things so bad.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Sneakers
Michael Libling
re: Your Wedding
Ruth Nestvold
Everything Is Fixed Now
K. G. Anderson
His Sweat Like Stars on the Rio Grande
Janis Ian
Agnosia
J. M. Sidorova
The Adventure of You
Paul La Farge
N. Lee Wood
Birds
Deepak Unnikrishnan
The Only Constant
Leslie Howle
The Terrific Leader
Harry Turtledove
Two Explicit and Three Oblique Apologies to My Oldest Daughter One Month Before Her Eighteenth Birthday
Heather Lindsley
The Levellers
Deji Bryce Olukotun
No Point Talking
Geoff Ryman
Glow
J.S. Breukelaar
Precaution at Penn Station
Michael Kandel
Newsletter
Jennifer Marie Brissett
Statues of Limitations
Jay Russell
Robert Reed
Application for Asylum
Eileen Gunn
Welcome to Triumph Band
Yoon Ha Lee
Loser
Matthew Hughes
We All Have Hearts of Gold®
Leo Vladimirsky
Notes on Retrieving a Fallen Banner
Marguerite Reed
Ticket to Ride
Eric James Fullilove
Burning Down the House
Ted White
Dangerous
Lisa Mason
Class Assignment
Thomas Kaufsek
Walls
Paul Witcover
The Passion According to Mike
Scott Bradfield
Bright Sarasota Where the Circus Lies Dying
James Sallis
The Name Unspoken
Richard Bowes
The Elites
Stephanie Feldman
January 2018
Barry N. Malzberg
Farewell
Mary Anne Mohanraj
The Amazing Transformation of the White House Dog
Ron Goulart
Handmaid’s Other Tale
Jane Yolen
Sanctuary
Brian Francis Slattery
One Fell Swoop
James Morrow
BK Girls
TS Vale
Isn’t Life Great?
Don D’Ammassa
The Men Will Be Hungry Afterwards
Ray Vukcevich
The Road South
Madeleine E. Robins and Becca Caccavo
Skippy’s Visit East
Michael Kandel
Designed for Your Safety
Elizabeth Bourne
Extreme Bedding
David Marusek
About the Contributors
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks go to John Oakes, Colin Robinson, Paul Di Filippo, Scott Bryan Wilson, Shuja Haider, and Nathan Rostron. Also, a tip of the hat to Connie Willis for inspiration.
INTRODUCTION
“People ask me to predict the future, when all I want to do is prevent it.”
—Ray Bradbury
After seventeen years of editing a science fiction magazine, I’m awfully familiar with stories that offer dire predictions of the future. The post office box abounded in them—they’re one of the four or five most consistent themes I saw in story submissions.
In fact, when my friend John Joseph Adams assembled an excellent anthology of dystopian stories, Brave New Words, I was bemused to notice that twenty percent of the stories in it were tales I had published. (No wonder I consider the book to be excellent, right?) I guess I have a taste for such tales.
So, when I had lunch with John Oakes on Inauguration Day, 2017, it was not shocking that the concept for this book should arise. Perhaps the bigger surprise was that I hadn’t thought of it sooner. The atmosphere had been thick with dire predictions.
In forming this book, I deliberately sought a lot of sh
ort pieces, rather than a handful of longer ones (as in my anthology of climate change stories). There are so many alarming trends at play right now that I reckoned three dozen short considerations of them would make for a better book than ten to twelve longer ones.
When you get to reading this book, I think you’ll agree this approach was fruitful.
As you would expect from the title, the stories assembled here do not include many escapist fantasies. Happy endings are scarce in these pages. The stories gathered here are angry, bold, snarky, defiant, nervous, and satiric. They reflect a lot of anxiety. They cover a lot of the themes you’d expect and perhaps a few you might not.
I like to think that readers of any political stripe will find this book interesting, but fans of our forty-fifth president will definitely be put out by some of these stories. A lot of these stories, actually. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
In the United States, the political divide between members of the two major parties has, in my estimation, grown wider and deeper over the last three or four decades. This book will not narrow that gap or heal that divide—at least, not in the short term. It’s more a work of resistance. As Ursula Le Guin noted, “Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art—the art of words.”
In the long term, I hope this resistance will give way to understanding. I hope that it will encourage some cooperation to take root and grow.
Mostly, though, I think this book will make for a lot of thoughtful and valuable reading. I hope you’ll agree.
—Gordon Van Gelder
November 2017
SNEAKERS
Michael Libling
I won’t claim Ottawa never warned us. There was no missing the travel advisories. Match a profile, and you had damn well better know Title 19 by heart, especially the search authority part. To US Customs and Border Protection, it is the gift that keeps on giving, ever adaptable to changing times and minds:
We rely upon the judgment of our individual CBP officers to use their discretion as to the extent of examination necessary.
Jordy and I failed to grasp the obvious, of course, how the definition of discretion also fell to the individual officer’s discretion, and American vocabulary skills were shit to begin with.
What did we know? We’d been cocooned by the burbs, Montreal’s West Island, raised vanilla to respect and trust authority. People got what they deserved. It wasn’t in our genes to think twice.
Anyhow, I’ve put it down like you asked, while it’s all still fresh. I am cooperating. You see that. Hiding nothing. God’s honest truth. No matter how it sounds.
Monday morning, Jordy shows up at my door early. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says, ignores the fact he’s dragged me out of bed, and launches into this big song and dance. Tells me how Min’s morning sickness carries through to the afternoons most days. Wants to know if I’ll drive him to Plattsburgh. “Min’s afraid she’ll puke in the car.”
I’m available. The “tweaking” of NAFTA has not been kind to me. Still, I give him an earful: “For Christ’s sake, you’re almost thirty. Learn to drive, already. You’re going to have a kid. Your wife and me, we’re not your goddamned chauffeurs.”
He laughs me off, as usual, twirls the split ends of that God-awful scraggly ugly beard of his. “You know your problem?”
“Yeah, yeah. The big picture. I never see the big picture.”
“You have any idea the endorsement deals waiting for me when I’m done with this? Min and me, we’ll be rolling in it, man. I’ll make you my manager. We’ll be like the guys on Entourage.”
Jordy is focused, I tell you. He’s training for that World Marathon Challenge thing. Seven marathons on seven continents in seven days. Nuts, I know, but dreams are dreams and if anyone can pull it off, Jordy can. He’s tanned and leathery and in the best shape of his life. Not a smidge of fat. I’ve known the guy since grade school and have yet to meet anyone more driven, his elusive driver’s permit notwithstanding. Once, half-joking, I asked what was chasing him. You’d have thought I’d just pissed on his grandma’s grave. “I’ll let you know when it catches up,” he said. “If it doesn’t kill me first.”
The red steel roof of the new Refugee Processing Centre at Hemmingford cuts above the treetops as we enter the final stretch of Quebec 15 south to US 87. “A shame they had to build it, eh?”
“Yeah,” Jordy says, but I can he see doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about.
“After the refugees started flooding in? When the Safe Third Party Agreement fell apart?”
God, he’s clueless. Like where’s his brain? I school him best I can. Explain how there’s a bunch across the country, now. How the red roofs are famous world over. A symbol of hope or whatever. How everybody loves Canada. Except Red Roof Inns, who are suing for trademark infringement.
He says, “Min and I stayed at a Red Roof Inn when we went to Niagara Falls.”
“Yeah. Great.” Two exits before customs. We can turn around easy. And I can salvage what’s left of my day. “You ever check out the cost of your shoes online?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he says.
Also, I admit, the closer we get to the border, the edgier I get. Too much Politico, NPR, and Michael Moore will do that to a person. “You’ve done the math, right? I mean, factoring in the gas, the exchange rate—how much are you saving? Really?”
“Like five hundred bucks for three pairs.”
“Damn. That much, eh?”
“And don’t forget the fit, man. Fit is critical.”
The lines at the Champlain border crossing into New York State have been shrinking since 2017. It’s the wait times that have gone up. Way up.
“Murphy’s Law,” Jordy says. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Newton’s,” I tell him. “It’s Newton’s Third Law.” Half-right is Jordy’s forte.
“Either way, we wait.”
Banks. Supermarkets. Public urinals. Strategic queuing is a skill I have yet to acquire. I gamble on Lane 4. Three cars, a Winnebago, and a pickup ahead of us.
Jordy is impressed. “Good thinking. Probably old farts in the camper. They’ll whisk ’em right through.”
But they do not whisk anybody through, least of all the presumed snowbirds. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” I say, as the Winnebago is directed to the side.
“Talk about red flags,” Jordy says. “You see their bumper sticker? The COEXIST thing. The moon and star and peace and cross crap? C’mon, eh? Use your brain. They were asking for it.”
“This is taking forever. God, I hate lines.”
“Relax, man. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“At the rate we’re moving, you’ll be buying me dinner.”
“We could change lanes, if you want. Could be our guy’s a hardass.”
“Yeah. Brilliant, Jord. Wouldn’t look the least bit suspicious.”
“Jesus, man, get a grip. How many times we gone to Plattsburgh, eh? When have we ever had a problem? Trust me, man, we are not who they are looking for.”
Our CBP officer is pink and pudgy-faced, his chest a platform for his double-wide chin. He reminds me of that recently dead comedian—you know, used to be on SNL, back when they were getting away with the political stuff. He smiles and I relax as we hand over our passports. “How are you boys doing today?” he says, and segues to the next question. “And the purpose of your visit?”
“Shopping,” I say.
“Sneakers,” Jordy clarifies, and lifts a foot for the show and tell—the stylized yellow and black lightning bolts of his Trexis 880s. “Best ones out there. Worth every penny.”
“That’s some beard you got there,” the officer says.
“Thanks,” Jordy laughs.
“What’s the problem—no sneakers in Canada?”
“More bang for your buck in the States. Especially now, the crazy tariffs and all…”
“Crazy? What do you mean by ‘crazy’?”
“Well, you know…”
“No, I don’t. Who are you calling crazy?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Run a lot, do you?”
“Does he ever!” My enthusiasm is over the top. I’m trying to compensate for something, though unclear on what. “He’s been training for the World Marathon—”
“I’m not talking to you,” the guy barks, “I’m talking to him.” I squeak to silence as my larynx drops to the vicinity of my butt.
Jordy keeps it cool. “Marathons, mostly.”
“Fast, are you?”
“I’m more into the endurance end.”
“Uh-huh. Endurance. Big word. Big word.” He holds our passports aloft, one per hand, compares photos and faces. “Jordan, huh?” he says, with this snotty smirk. “An Arab name, isn’t it?”
Again, Jordy laughs.
“Something funny?”
“No, sir. Sorry. I just—”
“Egypt. Syria. Jordan.” He is daring Jordy to dispute the assertion. “No?”
“I’m Canadian,” Jordy says.
“Muslim Canadian.”
“Canadian Canadian.”
“So what’s with the beard, then?”
“My wife likes men with hairy—”
“Your passport picture. Is this even you? Not a hair on your face here. And how is it you’re white in the photo and brown in the flesh?”
“It was taken before I—”
“Pull over for secondary inspection, please.” He points to where the Winnebago is parked.
“But I can expla—”
“Pull over for secondary inspection, please.” He waves a hand, and two soldiers in camouflage chic materialize in the roadway ahead. They do not raise their guns all the way, only enough of the way.
They confiscate our watches and phones, request our passwords. We do not argue.
They herd us into a room with a horde of others in a similar fix.
The walls are white. The lighting is weird, feels like a strip search, somehow. Rows of attached chairs dominate the space. Blue plastic seats all facing front—toward this broad glass partition with offices behind, uniforms flitting back and forth.
“Product idea!” Jordy quips at my ear. “An antiperspirant for desperation.” I step to distance myself from him. The hopelessness of the place is palpable. And it’s standing room only.