Read FSF, January-February 2010 Online
Authors: Spilogale Authors
Unfastening my holster, I lift my pistol from my hip and turn and shoot Rake in the back of his skull. He has no warning. He dies and slumps forward, and the boat attacks the next large wave too brazenly, our little boat starting to turn in response, threatening to come around and collide with the towed skiff. It is all that I can manage to throw the body aside and grab the wheel, and then with the hand that holds my weapon, I shove the throttle up until the big engines are idling.
We have existed inside a war of sudden and vast violence, yet neither officer can react to something this close, this sudden. Hawthorne tries to rise to his feet, and in doing so drops the cup of cold soup into the Emperor's lap. He looks down, offering some quick apology. Then he looks up again as I shoot him in the forehead, sending him off into the cold, bottomless water.
"Son?” Zann exclaims. “What is this—?"
I shoot him last. I shoot him twice. That second shot is revealing. I have never liked the field marshal as an officer: too talented for armies that deserve less brilliance at the helm, too much genius stubbornly achieving wonders when what is required is to change the nature of this endless conflagration.
Zann's body crumbles into a uniformed heap.
I go to the Emperor, kneel, and say, “Sire. I didn't know what to do. And then I realized you weren't sure which man was your enemy...."
The handsome, badly weathered face stares at me carefully.
"To save you and your office, I killed each one of them."
"Yes, I see,” he whispers. Then a little louder, “Your weapon, Castor. Give it here, please."
I place it in His hand.
He says, “Yes, I thought you might take this wise course. Which is why I like you, son. Why I trust your good sense and your rational soul. You adore the nation that you serve, enough even to do this awful deed."
"Thank you, Sire.” I bend low, I kiss His soggy, water-bleached feet. “Thank you."
"But here is the crux of the matter,” the Emperor continues. “I have fallen out of love for this collection of worshipping and foolish people. My feelings, in fact, are nothing but bitter anymore. And how can I serve such a throng when I know another being is more suited?"
My eyes lift.
He smiles at me. “You misunderstood what I told you, yes. Which is entirely reasonable, yes."
"Sire—"
"None of the dead were the assassin,” he claims.
And in another moment, He gives me the most terrible proof.
The mist lifts in time to reveal a flat, wet island of no possible significance. Even from offshore, Marvel betrays the comfortable poverty common among places that barely belong on any map. My first inclination is to continue on my way, shepherding my fuel until I reach more fruitful destinations. But the boat's engines hesitate again, and one simply refuses to start up again. I sit at the wheel, aiming for what looks to be a small city. Locals gather on the wharf, watching the approaching fishing boat. But nobody seems particularly interested in this stranger. I am just another refugee: a curiosity and a small distraction from their little days.
Suddenly my last engine chokes on the nefarious water. I drift nearer, and one last time, I spin the dials on both radios, learning nothing except that our enemies have improved their jamming techniques.
When I can make out each face, I stand.
The gasp is audible, prolonged but full of doubt. Could it be? Is such a thing remotely possible? Each man and woman asks the same inescapable question, but it is the boy standing in front who thinks to yell at me, demanding answers.
"Where are you from? Who are you? And why do you wear the Emperor's uniform and crown?"
I say nothing. When it serves my interest, I will answer. What matters most is to study those who study me, employing that calm parental glare that I have seen used every day in the Emperor's court. Then to the boy, I call out, “Swim to me. Grab my line and tow me in."
To his credit, the boy hesitates.
Then some older fellow says, “Do it,” and the boy launches himself, covering the cold water with a few strong strokes, grabbing the soggy rope and fixing it in his teeth, turning and grunting as he serves my bidding.
Others join in, although not always the best swimmers. Legs kick and hands fight for their hold, and the effect of so much confusion and wasted energy gets me to the wharf no earlier than I would have on my own. Yet by the end, a portion of my audience is saving the Emperor. I am He, the heart of our nation. Despite my own pounding heart and a mouth parched as a hot stone, I have the authority to thank all of my helpers and watch others drag their cold, suffering bodies into the air.
Kneeling is easier than swimming; most of my audience pays respect to my jeweled crown, if not to me.
Each wants to know where I have been.
"Between Jicktown and Illig,” I say, motioning toward the mainland. “The rest of the court is following me in other boats."
My conviction meets doubt and some pain.
Then a young woman steps forward, kissing the back of her hand because mine has not been offered. “But Sire...that shoreline was taken this morning. One of the enemy's lightning brigades struck while your generals were on the beach, still loading their boats—"
"How do you know this?” I roar.
"A fisherman friend of ours was watching. He was offshore, and he saw it all."
"We thought you were dead,” another woman admits.
Everybody stares at me, and in particular at the stains left behind on my one-of-a-kind uniform, blood and shredded brains refusing to surrender to soap and determined scrubbing.
"How do you know what this fisherman saw?” I inquire.
"He came straight back here,” she says. “He arrived almost one bell ago. But he didn't see you out on the water."
The mist must have hidden me. And I wasted moments drifting, disposing of bodies and changing my clothing while piecing together what still feels like a ludicrous plan.
Yet it is a plan, and what does an Emperor do better than make ready?
With a firm voice, I claim, “There is good in this awful thing. My court is dead, yes, but perhaps our enemies believe I am dead too."
Confusion twists their faces.
"We have been given extra time,” I point out. “There are no boats to be had on the mainland, and it will take the invaders days to bring new boats overland. They won't realize I am here, with you, until I have left for safer ground. With my new court beside me, of course."
This city of modest fishermen and bakers and machinists and smart, soggy children is beginning to crowd near me, each one of them wondering how it would be to belong to my chosen few.
"First,” I say, “I need food and a bath."
They nod willingly.
"Next, a number of trustworthy boats."
A small fleet floats in this little harbor.
"And I want those boxes and my other luggage unloaded and guarded. And while I rest, you will begin to build a militia, arming your men and women however you can over these next few days."
With a few words and barely enough breath to fill a child's balloon, the Emperor has changed the character of everyone's life.
Noble delight bubbles forth, and that first boy asks, “So how soon will we attack the bastards, Sire?"
"Very soon,” I promise. Then, pointing to the north, I add, “There is a valley waiting for us, son. Between high mountains, and it is the only important place in the world. But you and I will go there together and bring down those mountains, closing it off and winning the war for All Time...!"
Relentless
, by Dean Koontz, Bantam, 2009, $27.
A Big Little Life
, by Dean Koontz, Hyperion, 2009, $24.99,
Relentless
is the new Dean Koontz, a fast-paced thriller about what happens when a writer lets a bad review get to him. It has great characters and writing, mixes humor with drama, and goes at a rollercoaster pace in places. But we've talked a lot about Koontz's novels in this column and I don't know that we need to discuss another at this time except to say that if you enjoy his style of thriller,
Relentless
won't disappoint you.
At the moment I'm more interested in talking about
A Big Little Life
, a nonfiction love letter to the memory of his golden retriever Trixie. Trixie was an assistance dog, trained by Canine Companions for Independence in California, who was retired after three years due to an injury. She went on to live with Koontz and his wife Gerda for another nine years before succumbing to cancer.
Any dog lover is going to appreciate Dean's memories of Trixie, though how many readers of this magazine will do so purely on the basis of its subject matter is up for conjecture since most people in the f/sf field appear to prefer cats. Perhaps it's because cats are completely content to spend long periods of time sleeping while you read or watch a movie—so long as you absently scratch it behind the ear, or let it sprawl out beside or on top of you while you're doing so. Dogs require a larger commitment of time.
I'm generalizing, of course. I grew up in a rural setting where we always had cats and dogs, and we have one of each as I write this. My cat's content to spend hours sleeping on her bed on one of the bookcases in my office while I work. The dog would rather go for a walk or play, and gives me mournful looks when I can't do either.
But I'm drifting away from the real reasons I want to talk about
A Big Little Life
in this column.
For one thing, it's a wonderfully positive book, without being saccharine—something that's a bit of a rarity in this cynical age in which we find ourselves. And if you catch yourself groaning as you read that, well, point made (if not necessarily taken).
But the reason
A Big Little Life
should be of particular interest is for the insight it gives into the mind and heart of one of the major writers of the f/sf field.
Wait a minute, you might say. Isn't Koontz a horror writer?
Well, he's written books that might be considered such, but he started in this field by writing sf, and most of his novels fit under the somewhat larger umbrella of speculative fiction. The stories take a simple scientific principle, something we might see in the newspaper, or it was given a passing reference on the evening news, which Koontz then spins out in the best tradition of “what if?"
Even referring to his books as thrillers is somewhat of a misnomer since they tend to contain a lot of humor without sacrificing “the ticking clock” that a thriller requires.
I like the mix, but having followed Koontz's work for a long time now, one of the things that's intrigued me in reading his more recent books is the spirituality that has come to underlie many of the stories in the past six or seven years. It has its basis in Christianity but bears little relation to the more strident elements that are usually presented to us by way of radio shows, TV evangelists, and the news whenever some particularly provocative quote can make a headline.
The truth is that the followers of most religions go about the practice of their faith in a much less confrontational manner. It's the militant element that gets the press because they make better headlines. Unfortunately that leaves those of us on the outside with a distorted view of what it's actually about. And probably embarrasses the believers who follow their religion's actual tenets, rather than distortions pulled out of context from their holy texts.
The spirituality that has begun to work its way into Koontz's books is of the quieter sort, embracing rather than judgmental. Koontz tells us in
A Big Little Life
that he had drifted away from the Church, but all it took was a single dog—which both science and the Church have decided doesn't have a soul—to remind him that there's more to the world than what can be seen and measured and catalogued.
The whole trick to writing something that will be meaningful to your readers is to write about what's meaningful to you. Koontz has always done this, but much of what he's chosen to write about has been on the outside. Now he's looking inside—a parting gift from the remarkable dog who came into his life one fateful day in 1998—and his books are the richer and more resonant for doing so.
I'm not saying
A Big Little Life
is a religious tract. First and foremost, it's a wonderful story about an extraordinary dog. The insight it gives into Koontz's novels is simply a bonus.
Here After
, by Sean Costello, Your Scrivener Press, 2008, Cdn$20.
Sean Costello made a bit of a splash in the late eighties/early nineties with books such as
Eden's Eyes
and
The Cartoonist
. He penned one more horror novel and a couple of thrillers before he kind of faded from the public eye. This tends to happen in the publishing field for any number of reasons, so when it did, I did what most readers do: I found other things to read.
But I remembered liking those books, so when
Here After
showed up in my P.O. box, I was happy to give it a try.
Peter Croft is an anesthesiologist. At the beginning of the book he's just lost his ten-year-old son, David. Grief makes it hard for him to let go and he spirals into an understandable depression that makes him unable to do his job properly. Instead, he sits in his empty house, just marking time. But then he starts to get what seem to be messages from David with clues to children who have gone missing.
Suddenly, Croft has a purpose again.
It doesn't matter that people think he's crazy—he thinks he might be a little crazy—but it gives him a chance to connect to his boy once more and maybe help others from having to go through what he did.
Costello hasn't lost his touch over the years. The prose is still sharp, the characters well drawn. That said, I found this a hard book to read—particularly the first third—and I imagine it would be even more difficult for anyone who has lost a child. Croft's grief is so deep, and it's so realistically portrayed, that it leaves one feeling emotionally drained.