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This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons. 2 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION January/February * 61st Year of Publication * * * * NOVELLAS GHOSTS DOING THE ORANGE DANCE by Paul Park NOVELETS THE LONG RETREAT by Robert Reed WRITERS OF THE FUTURE by Charles Oberndorf NANOSFERATU by Dean Whitlock CITY OF THE DOG by John Langan SHORT STORIES BAIT by Robin Aurelian SONGWOOD by Marc Laidlaw THE SECRET LIVES OF FAIRY TALES by Steven Popkes THE LATE NIGHT TRAIN by Kate Wilhelm DEPARTMENTS 3 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint BOOKS by Chris Moriarty FILMS: A PAIR OF NINES by Lucius Shepard COMING ATTRACTIONS CURIOSITIES by John Eggeling Cartoon: Arthur Masear COVER BY KRISTIN KEST FOR "GHOSTS DOING THE ORANGE DANCE" GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 118, No. 1 & 2, Whole No. 687, January/February 2010. Published bimonthly by Spilogale, Inc. at $6.50 per copy. Annual subscription $39.00; $49.00 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, 4 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2009 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved. Distributed by Curtis Circulation Co., 730 River Rd. New Milford, NJ 07646 GENERAL AND EDITORIAL OFFICE: PO BOX 3447, HOBOKEN, NJ 07030 www.fandsf.com 5 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc Novelet: THE LONG RETREAT by Robert Reed Robert Reed jokes that "I adore good thought problems. When my daughter wakes me from a perfectly good sleep, I'll say, 'Leave me alone, honey. Daddy's working on a thought problem.' Then I'll ask myself important questions, like: What if every sofa in the world grew six inches longer? What if cats made agreeable pillows, instead of people being disagreeable pillows for cats? And what if there was a world so large that you never needed to stop running away from your problems?" Perhaps this new story grew out of that last thought problem. But probably not. The beach is made of white sand and fine black mud, but the blood is what catches the eye—red and clotted, the largest splotches connected to severed limbs and the soggy, deflated remains of other men's vitals. Immune to the carnage, our Emperor walks slowly down to the water and half-falls, half-sits, and then slumps forward, fighting to catch His breath. Moments such as these are rare and ruled by exhaustion. Soldiers wearing our colors died at this place, yet no one asks about the units involved or the names of lost officers. All that matters is this delicious opportunity to do very little. If the great man rests, His court is free to do the 6 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc same. Even the busiest of us sit while accomplishing our work, conferring quietly, using yesterday's maps and each other's friable memories to determine what our next step should be, assuming that we ever possess enough energy to move again. Only the best ideas are presented to the Emperor. Or rather, to His long-serving assistant. I am that man, officious and loyal Lieutenant Castor. In sober, fearful voices, staff officers inform me that fleeing east along the lakeshore is impossible. Last night our enemies surrounded Jicktown, and even though reports claim that the redoubts are holding, we know better. Trapped men always lie, hoping for salvation. Our scarce, badly equipped reinforcements have been dispatched to places less doomed. Most pushed west, marshaling for a weak counterattack. But great fires are now burning in the west, columns of dense black smoke rising high up in the morning air. When the breeze allows, we can smell the new ash and hear the soft cough of enemy howitzers. Yet despite such bleak evidence, several officers insist that following our doomed legions is the only viable route. These are generals and high colonels, and I am nothing compared to them. Yet they speak in imploring tones, hoping I will listen, praying that this lowly lieutenant will agree with their assessments. Because no decision has value if the Emperor decides otherwise, and that is why my superiors treat me as special, hoping my voice will find a skillful way to offer up these urgent, critical opinions for His judgment. Better than anyone, I understand the great man. 7 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc Perhaps better than He knows Himself, say the whispers and long, openly envious looks. I finally stand and go to Him, saying, "Sire," while bending low. "Perhaps we should strike out toward Illig." The Emperor will always be handsome, but little sleep and a miserable diet have degraded His chiseled features. Like all of us, He needs hot water and soap. But His situation is worse than simple filth. I smell urine. I smell feces. Not for the first time, I wonder about His health. He has been demanding privacy and a toilet, which is odd considering how little there is to eat. It occurs to me that our leader must have soiled Himself: a small problem with obvious solutions. I could approach any officer, demanding clothes for our master. To the man, they would fight for the privilege of serving Him. Yet I decide to ignore the stink. The Emperor is also a creature of supreme dignity, and what leader, no matter how dire the circumstances, accepts spare underwear from His people? These are my thoughts when He looks up suddenly, as if hearing my thoughts. We are a miserable lot. But despite every deprivation, the great man is aware enough to ask, "What about the Owl Division?" "Our Owls or theirs, Sire?" Both armies like to name their crack formations after admirable predators. But we lost our Owls, as he reminds me. "They were broken last week," He says, leaning near enough that I can see every white whisker as well as the artful scar inflicted in an adolescent knife fight. "Right now, their Owls are just past that foul smoke, pushing between Gothemburg 8 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc and Illig. But if we hurry, we might just slide past unnoticed. If we leave right now." How does He know this? I haven't seen any trustworthy intelligence to support that claim. But as I remind myself, no one else has access to every dispatch, including those too terrible to share. "If we leave now?" I ask doubtfully. A soft, sorry laugh leaks out of Him. "No, now is too late. Our moment just slipped past, unnoticed. Sorry." As the war worsens, His humor sharpens. On my own initiative, I say, "Perhaps we should steer north again. Slip past the slower troops and back into the Dale Grand?" He dismisses that idea with a single deep grunt. My knees ache. I sit directly on the beach, glancing at the nearest officers. Then one of them—a girlish young fellow with yellow-white hair, chimes in, "We could strike out across the lake, maybe." The idea isn't new. Each of us has considered the possibility, and for endless fine reasons dismissed it out of hand. But the great man straightens His back, smiling now. "Yes," He announces. "Exactly." Because the question must be asked, I blurt out, "But how do we do this? We'll need quite a few boats and enough fuel, if everyone is to come." How many boats? How many drums of diesel? Even as I deny the possibility, my methodical nature spells out the enormous, probably insolvable difficulties with this kind of 9 FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale, Inc undertaking. We have been traveling for months now with trucks and lighter vehicles, and our feet still enjoy clomping about in worthy boots. To become a navy here, on a whim, seems like the wildest dream. Then the girlish man says, "I know a little bay, very close." Only our Emperor considers this unexpected source of hope. No one else is desperate enough. "A bay, you say?" "Yes, Your Highness." The man kneels and bends forward, kissing blood and mud. "I grew up not far from here. That bay has a big village, and the village has always made its living fishing these waters. These are thrifty people, and pragmatic. Exactly the sort to hide away fuel in tight times and keep their strong little boats in good repair." "How little are the boats?" I ask. The fellow blinks and says, "Pardon?" Our leader has a deep, irresistible voice known across the world. "Suppose we acquire everything that floats. How many boats, and how many of us will be able to slide off across that water today?" The officer calculates, or at least pretends to.