One of the things I like about science fiction is that it really can (and does) make a positive contribution to society. But not only does the genre itself do that; so do its fans and participants. Fan organisations (such as Multiverse in Australia), personalities (such as Chase Masterton) and events (such as any fan-run convention) are regular and enthusiastic contributors to deserving charities. To the extent that SF itself contributes to the well-being of society, there is even a charity (the Science Fiction Foundation) for the promotion of the genre. I think it's a worthy cause!
This issue's contents include the conclusion of Mila Burton's serial Anti-Up and the continuation of D K Smith's Grave Singer, along with the welcome return of Keith Allen Daniels who contributes poetry to issue 51. The illustrations in this issue come from Alan Oshita, a freelance commercial artist whose gallery is linked from each image. Amongst the work he performs is the enviable task of working on computer games, creating 3D designs and models.
I trust you will enjoy issue 51. Remember that your contributions to the magazine, in any form, are always warmly received.
Serial: Anti-Up, part 2 by Mila
Burton
I called the guy from school the next day. I hadn't looked at the card until then and that's when everything fell into place. John Johnson. The name didn't mean anything to me, but the title and company did. That and the card itself - good paper, nice print. I'll bet Mr. Johnson moves millions of dollars a day, and that's a slow day.
The chauffeur picked me up from the coffee shop near the school. There was a bag in the back with clothes - a uniform - and about my size. He talked during the whole trip, telling me how to serve a drink, where everything was, what I was supposed to say to people, when I wasn't supposed to talk. I changed in the back and he didn't look back at me once. That's class.
We got to John Johnson's big house out in the suburbs just as the sun was going down. Through the security gate and past the guards to a door at the back where he let me out. There was an older woman there in a uniform like mine. She welcomed me into what I guess was the kitchen. I guess; it was bigger than any kitchen I've ever seen.
I makes a lot of sense he was a big business man. I bet he used to do really well until the talents started showing up. He was a good card player and anyone who can play at bluff can play at business. It's my understanding they're basically the same thing.
The older woman was giving me instructions the whole time. "You'll be the only server in the room at the time. Anything you need you can request through the console and we'll send it up via dumb-waiter."
I explained I knew how a console worked. I had been a waitress at the cafe near the school for three months before I realized I could make better money at the casino.
The playing room was huge. One table, and five chairs with ash-trays. Big windows with plush velvet curtains, lots of dead things on the walls. Yeah, this guy was in business. You could smell it. I made it to the bar just as Mr. Johnson and his friends walked in.
"Ah, Jesse. A scotch and soda, please. And you, Branwell, what will you have?"
The black-haired guy who belonged to that name waved his hand. "No no. Not me. It affects my game."
Yeah, right. It affected his talent. He was one. I let my field down so he could do his first few sweeps. That's the guy Johnson had hired me to block.
I mixed up the drinks, but I might have made it too strong because Johnson hardly touched it the rest of the night. One guy, and old gray-haired man named Ellis had a whisky on the rocks, which wasn't hard at all, but Grosset ordered a rusty-nail. I had to ask the console what that was and I still made it wrong. Johnson covered for me nicely though. "She's new. I gave Maurice the night off. His aunt died this week."
So, there was Ellis the old, Grosset the rusty-nail, Johnson,
Branwell the talent, and a blonde named Simak.
Simak dealt the first hand.
"Ante-up, gentlemen. Ante-up."
And I started fielding right there. Johnson picked up from there and wiped the walls with them. Branwell was getting nervous and kept giving me nervous looks. Finally, he quit the game.
"I just can't concentrate with all your stuffed heads staring at me."
They stopped playing and made idle chit-chat about business. After an hour of Grosset's drinking, I learned how to make a rusty-nail right. Ellis the old had to go home to bed at nine-thirty. Grosset and Branwell left soon after.
So, it was Simak, Johnson and me.
Simak put his feet on the playing table and puffed on his cigar.
"So, this is her. This is the one you were talking about."
Johnson starting dancing around the room. "Yes, isn't she wonderful. I don't think anyone knows about her kind yet. Her mother's an empath, her father's a precog, and her brother is kinetic. It's quite a find, you'll admit. I imagine she's not the only one."
Simak was eyeing me up and down. It made me uncomfortable; I felt naked enough as was working without my wig.
"You won't be disappointed," Johnson chirped. "I think tonight's little demonstration was enough."
"I think Branwell and Grosset are just lousy poker players." Simak made a weird motion with his hand and the door to the playing room opened. I started fielding just as the little guy entered the room. He looked at Simak, then at me, then asked, "You needed me, sir?"
Simak pointed at me, frustrated. I guessed right, then. Simak had his own talent he was calling in.
The little guy stared long and hard at me, breathing heavy. I could feel him trying, but a jack of all trades is a master of none. The guy exhausted himself fighting me.
Simak ordered him out of the room.
"My little brother's better at it than him," I said. "And he's ten. Next time get a body guard who can throw a punch." Then I remembered what Johnson had said. "Or is that your job?"
Johnson crossed his arms. "I used to box. I don't now."
"How about you just pay me so I can go home."
Johnson started to laugh, but stopped once he noticed Simak wasn't. Simak was chewing on his cigar and brooding.
"She's absolutely right. I've been depending too much on talents."
Johnson sat back down at the playing table. "Then you'll agree to her terms? You could use her more than me at the upcoming conference."
So, Johnson wasn't offering to sell me, because that's what it had looked like to begin with. He had said 'agree to her terms'.
Simak was staring long and hard.
"Just what are your terms anyway?"
Johnson broke in before I could take a breath. "Residence in her name and a ten year contract at twice what you pay your talents."
Simak chewed his cigar.
"Girl, you're shrewd. I like you. You don't have to serve me drinks at the conference; you can be my secretary. The others will accept that. How old are you?"
"I'll be eighteen in three weeks."
"Would you be willing to sign a contract and do a move-in on your birthday?"
"I could sign a contract now and you can post-date it to my birthday. That's still legally binding."
Johnson nodded. "She's right."
"But you can't do a move-in until you're of age; I need you before then."
"You can pay me cash for this job and I'll do the move in later. Does that work?"
The blonde nodded. "That works. We can do that. How much is your fee?"
"Ten percent for first time players. Twenty-five for repeat customers, forty on contracts."
Simak looked confused. "Percent of what?"
Now I was stammering. "Of winnings, of course. What did you think I was talking about?"
"She works at a casino," Johnson intervened. "She protects people from the dealers. That's where I met her. She has no idea what she's worth." Then he grinned at me. "I think we can come up with a reasonable amount for reimbursement, though."
A week before my eighteenth birthday, Mr. Simak and I left for Los Angeles. He had paid for a new wardrobe and got my hair done. I had fought the dye job at first, but red did look pretty good on me. Simak had even gone to the effort of picking the dress I would wear to the conference. Like my old dress, it curved in the right places. I assumed there would be a lot of old, easily distracted guys to deal with.
The conference room was the kind you see in movies. I felt a little nervous at first, but Simak guided me to my seat - at his left - and showed me where the bathroom was.
I left my field down while their talent did a sweep. The
whole time I doodled in my note-book what I thought looked like shorthand and thought as
loudly as I could, "I should get my nails done. Am I getting fat? This dress looks
wrong on me..." and other secretary thoughts. Their man was good. He had a good,
strong read and he could stay focused.
The talent nodded to his superior and the old, head-of-the-company type guy cleared his throat.
"Okay, let's get these negotiations out of the way."
Ante-up, gentlemen. Ante-up.
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I heard a tapping sound, strange and unfamiliar. "Cut it out, Joey," I mumbled.
The tapping continued.
I slowly opened my eyes. I was not sure how, but suddenly I knew Joey was not causing the sound. With my foot I turned my chair in Joey's direction.
He was not there. The tank was empty. "Joey?" I called.
My voice sounded strange and hollow. I slowly rose from my seat, and looked everywhere inside that cramped interior, wondering where the hell could Joey have gone.
I touched the intercom. "George?"
Nothing.
The tapping started again. I focused on it, let it lead me. The control boards were sparking and smoking, and the floor was tilted. Some bulkheads were sagging, but I ducked under them and a moment later I stood below the Red Tank's hatch. I stared up at the hard, unyielding metal, listening while the tap echoed - the metal felt cold and hard as I grasped and twisted the wheel, round and round, and then opened the hatch.
I climbed up the ladder and stood on the roof of my red weapon of war. Mars stretched like a florid ocean all around me, I felt a dizzying rapport with the salmon sky and the cold, floating dust - and the bloody dirt, which was everywhere. It was all a river of blood. I stumbled down the tank, saw it was smoking. Something had hit it, something big. "Joey?" I called again. How was it that I could hear my voice? I looked down at myself. I was naked.
Then how could I be alive on the surface of Mars? Was this a dream?
"Help me!" someone cried. I looked up, began moving round the tank. "Help me!"
I found him.
George was lying under a pile of heavy rubble. I could see only his torso; I had a sickening certainty about the rest. He was lying there, crying as I moved round the sharp shreds of rent metal. His blue eyes were all I saw in that red sea. "Help me, Frankie," he kept saying. I was trying to reach him, I kept trying but he was surrounded by all this hard, sharp metal, "Help me, Frankie, c'mon man, you gotta do this for me. You gotta get me out of here, Frankie. C'mon..."
"Look, you just hang in there, okay? I'm - I'm - gonna get help." Right, just freaking right, naked and dreaming and I was going to get him some freaking help...
"...man don't you leave me Frankie man don't ya, don't - DON'T ya leave me Frankie don't..."
"I gotta get some help, George. Now you just wait here."
"Get me my Mom I need my Mom I -"
"Shut up, George!" I shouted. "Just shut up! Your Mom ain't here, so just -" I grabbed my forehead, oh God, what was I saying - "George - I'm - I'm sorry, just conserve your strength, okay? George?
"George?
Silence
"All right, George, c'mon. C'mon, just say something, anything. C'mon, um - please? Please?"
Quiet.
"You're sleeping, right? You're sleeping again. That's a good idea, Georgie, real good idea..." I reached for him, cutting my arm on the serrated metal - "George? George..."
"He's dead, son."
I looked behind me.
I saw the old man. His banjo was slung over his shoulder. "Hey," I said, slowly, "I recognize you..."
"Many do," he replied amicably.
He was tall, thin and wiry and his white beard fluttered in a thin wind. "Are you a soldier?" he asked.
"What do you think?"
"I think it's too bad."
"You think it's too bad I'm a soldier? Whaddya talking about?"
With apparent ease he climbed to where I stood and looked at George, his body mauled and torn by the metal. The old man sighed. "Look at that," he said. "Eaten by his own tank. Hmph."
Without further ado, the man hoisted his banjo and began to sing. I could not remember
the song, but I listened. I listened for a good long time. It was a melody so different
from all that hard rock they pumped through the dome music stations, so different from the
weapons and the red and the metal. I didn't get it. I couldn't figure what that music was
trying to say, I was too used to the rhythm to understand melody, it was something so
unlike anything I'd heard but too natural to be alien... 
When finally the song ended the man smiled sadly at the body, slung his banjo over his shoulder, and started down the debris. He paused by me, and put his hand on my shoulder.
"It wasn't me," I said, voice wavering. "I didn't kill him, it was them, it was... them." I couldn't believe I was about to cry - "I did everything I could, I tried to lead them, but I wasn't good enough, I couldn't save 'em - oh DAMN all those games it's no game is it, it's not a game they lied to me they lied to me -"
"Be careful of what you teach," he said. "Or your weapons will learn from you."
Then he was gone.
"'Be careful of what I teach?'" I repeated. The tapping noise began again, but I could not find it. "Be careful what I - what is that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to help me?" I looked round, and then realized I was sinking. "What the -" I was sinking into the red Martian blood, or was it rising? Whichever it was, it kept coming, up my legs, up my chest and in my mouth, I started choking and vaguely in the distance I saw a huge sleek Red Tank surging evilly through the dunes under the Martian sky -
I screamed and woke up. It was too real.
They pulled me out alive, somehow.
The Chinese had hit my tank once; their shot had been off, thus explaining why I was alive. Usually after a direct hit there was literally nothing left. So I got lucky, and so did Joey, who also survived. George, however, was dead. Like in my dream, they found him buried under an avalanche of metal. He never had a chance.
The Chinese claimed we opened fire first, which was crap. And the Chinese said we were firing at them, which was also a load of crap. We were firing on the Phantoms, not on the Chinese, so why the hell had they fired at us? And of course, the Phantoms were nowhere to be found.
I was subjected to hours of "debriefing" which seemed more like interrogation. When they finally had their fill of me, they gave me three days leave.
Something about seeing the faces of my family again scared the living crap out of me. So at the tube station I aimlessly loitered about, looking out the massive windows to the other nearby domes, the red of U.S.A. colonies, the blue of the French, the green of the Chinese. I wondered what was going to happen if those damned Phantoms made us all declare war on each other. There can only be so many friendly fire incidents before things turn really ugly.
I tried to imagine that war, but all I could think up was a computer game. I imagined that all those different colony colors were just like the colors of different computer opponents in the games. But it wouldn't be anything like that, right? It couldn't be like that even though the tanks were run by VR helmets and we saw the targets in virtual reality. It was nothing like that, nothing. Blood was real.
Reaching into my pocket I removed a torn, burnt picture. Billy's silly, nine-year-old grin was still visible after all the smudges and wrinkles. So I got in the damned tram. Five minutes later, I was home.
The apartment door looked the same as it always had when I touched the buzzer. It opened almost as soon as my hand dropped. "Frankie!" my mother cried.
Every soldier's dream, I thought, as my corpulent mother thrust herself into my arms. "Hi, Mom," I said.
"Is that Frank?" I heard my Dad ask.
"Yes, yes, it's Frankie, who do you think it is?" My mother pulled me inside and shut the door, in the process revealing my father. A smile upturned the wrinkles on his face. "We heard you were coming home," he said softly.
"Pop." I opened my arms and we embraced. "Where's Billy? Where's Grandma?"
"Grandma'll be home soon, Billy's busy - oh, Frankie!" In tears, my mother could not resist the urge to hug me again. I suffered through it.
When she was done, "Would you like a seat, son?" said my Dad.
"Oh. Sure." I sat near the coffee table, while my mother hovered. The living room walls had images frozen in place. As Dad settled into a seat across from me he gestured, and the images were replaced by calming scenes of idyllic Earth. I could even smell the scent of pine trees and feel the breezes as they flickered past. "Like this one?" my Dad asked. "It was programmed by a friend of mine at work. I just love the subtlety, huh?"
"Um... yeah," I said, remembering the smell of steel. "It's great."
"If you don't like it, we can try another one," Dad said.
"No, I like this one fine."
"Okay."
"Fine."
Silence. "Would anyone like something to drink?" my Mother asked eagerly.
"Certainly!" Dad exclaimed.
Mother briefly tousled my hair, I caught the warm feeling of motherhood as she passed. My Dad kept smiling, like I had just come home from soccer practice or something. "So how is it, on the front?" he asked. "You know, I've been hearing that the military is planning to render all those Red Tanks obsolete soon. Tanks are relatively simple machines, real easy to use in the Martian environment and all. But they're saying they're gonna replace those tanks with ones run by computer or by remote control, with no humans involved. If they make 'em obsolete, maybe you can come home."
Like there really could be a war with no humans involved. "Where's Billy?" I asked.
"Billy?" Dad leaned forward. He seemed hesitant. "Well..."
My throat constricted. "Is-s he okay?" I asked loudly. "Nothing -"
"No, no, it's nothing like that," Dad said. "You and he were really close, and, and - I think your leaving has taken its toll on him. He's... been sicker lately, I keep taking him to the Doctor. They say we should get him away from that damned virtual reality chamber we got set up in your room, he's been playing too many damned war games lately. Your mother wants me to just shut the whole chamber down, but I think... he keeps playing tank games, Frank. He really likes that Red Tank simulator we got him a while back, but... well, he's just not himself."
"I didn't want to leave," I said helplessly. "I was drafted, I was freaking drafted. Why can't he understand? You think I don't want to sit on my ass and smell pine trees? I mean, they just grabbed me out of home and school -"
"Calm down, son, calm down," Dad said. "Look, any day now they'll figure out what the Phantoms are, and we can get back to building domes and farms -"
"Oh, c'mon, the Phantoms aren't something alien, everyone knows the Earthers are doing it."
"That's nonsense," Dad said impatiently. "Earth has no reason to do this to us. Just use your head, son -"
"Yeah, sure. We have three different nationalities here, all vying for territory, and you think the Phantoms are some scientific anomaly? Get real - it don't matter, Pop. We humans take our baggage everywhere, including our killing, that's us. 'To boldly kill where no one has killed before -'"
My mother re-entered the living room with a tray. She approached the table with a beaming smile and set the cups down. Then she sat beside me on the couch, and for some reason, burst into tears.
Instantly my father was beside her, and then they were beside me, and then I started crying, too, to my complete surprise - for the first time in a long time crying like some damned little boy. But I simply couldn't help it, and they both hugged me and I wished so strongly that I had never been drafted, had never been a Martian boy, I wished George was still alive I wish I wished I was wishing - and then all I knew was that I was there, with them, sobbing and sobbing like a soaked sponge...
My Dad held us both, his face taunt and expressionless, he didn't cry, he was a man, he held us until the tears stopped. For a brief moment I actually did feel better. It was like the old times again - the old reality. Before things had all changed.
"I know!" my Mother exclaimed, trying to make her voice cheerful while she roughly wiped the tears from her face, "I'll give you your welcome home present!"
"My welcome what?"
"Your present!" she squealed. My Dad raised his arm, said, "Not now dear," but she was all enthusiastic, and she ran across the room to a cabinet and brought a small audio CD to me. "See? I thought you might get tired to listening to all that rock music," she said.
I took it. Written in tiny print on the CD was "Pete
Seeger - 'We Shall Overcome.'"
"It's a compilation of anti-war songs, sung by an old man on old Earth," my Dad said. "We know it might seem sort of ironic to give it to you now, but... we didn't want you to think we'd forgotten you, or what you were fighting for. Because you know, you're really fighting for peace, son."
"Peace?" I asked. "You never mentioned anything about peace before."
"Well..." my Dad hesitated, "We've. . always been at peace, on Mars. Didn't really seem like there was much point telling you about war."
"Besides, you were always playing all those games," Mom said. "You're lucky - war's always just been some fantasy to you. We never wanted to tell you about the real thing."
"Gee," I said, "Thanks." I put the CD in my pocket.
"You have to talk to Billy," said Mom. "All he does is dream that he's with you, now."
So I rose. They looked at me from their seats as if I were a cherished stranger, some young, clean-cut uniformed Martian boy here on a passing layover. I almost saluted them. Then I left, to find my little brother. I heard them talking in whispered voices as I rapped on his door.
No answer.
I opened the door.
Billy's room was covered with posters: soldiers, tanks, planes, ships, guns. Propped on his desk was a crisp, smiling picture of me in my brand-new uniform, waving and grinning like some Martian jackass. He was in his VR center, hidden in his helmet.
I approached his frail body. Bottles of medicine were littered on the night stand, Billy had never been healthy. A plate of uneaten food was on the desk. The VR chamber was an updated model since the last I'd seen it. The motto written on its side was, "We Create Reality."
I picked up the spare VR helmet strapped beside the control panel. The panel readout said "Red Tank Troopers Version 1.07." Billy's fingers twitched occasionally, and every now and then he said "Fire," or "Charge All Ordinance," just like a little me.
After a moment's hesitation, I put on the helmet.
A static wave washed away the small room and then I was beside Billy... in a Red Tank.
He looked up in the virtual world. "Frankie!" he shouted.
"Billy!" We grabbed each other in a bear hug, I squeezed him so hard -
"Frankie, stop, you're hurting me!"
"Huh?" I stepped back. Even in the VR world, he seemed thin and gaunt. "Jesus, Billy, when's the last time you ate?"
"I can't eat," he said, "I have to fight with you!"
"What?"
"See -" He waved at the simulated world around us. God, it looked just like the real thing, everything, I couldn't even tell a difference. "It's supposed to be the most realistic simulator ever," he told me proudly. "Just like yours!"
I didn't know why, but my heart was beginning to pound, like a hammer. "See, we're still together," he told me, grabbing my hand, "C'mon, let's fight!"
"Billy," I said, grabbing him as he turned to the console. "Let's just forget this, huh? I'm here, I'm home, we don't need to fight right now."
"Don't be silly. I'll order up an engagement."
"No," I said, "No, let's talk, let's - c'mon let's quit this -"
"Shut up," he said.
"What? Billy, it's me. You don't talk to me that way -"
"Just fight!" he shouted at me.
I grabbed my helmet, wrenched it off my head. I was reaching for his when I saw the readout on the VR chamber's console changing. It was flashing, "Program Model FRANK Version 2.45 initiating... MERGING..."
Merging? The chamber was merging two programs together. I put the helmet back on, looked up and saw -
Myself.
"Hey, Billy," said my doppelganger, "Wanna fight some Phantoms?"
"Yeah!"
"What - Billy..." I said.
He glanced at me, then at my look-a-like. "Aw damn, another bug!" The other me faded without so much as a look of surprise, and I heard the quick dialing notes of a modem. Little Sammy, Billy's closest thing to a friend his own age, appeared in the virtual tank's cockpit beside us. "What now, Billy?" he asked with a bored tone.
"That stupid Frank program of yours is malfunctioning again. Just a moment of ago there were two of them in here!"
"There's only one now."
"Yeah, but that one won't do what I say."
"Sammy?" I said.
"Shut up, Frank," said Sammy. "Look, I can't keep coming over here every time there's a bug in that dumb program I designed for you. Why do you care so much about your brother, anyway? Just wait until he comes home. You don't need some dumb VR program that emulates him."
"I can't play without Frank!" Billy shouted.
"Quiet, both of you!" I said. "Look, I'm Frank, the real Frank!"
"Shut up!" they both said. Sammy said, "Look, maybe I can fix him over the weekend, but you better give me all the rest of Frankie's baseball cards. You said you found some more in his room."
"I can't give you anymore!" Billy wailed.
"Ah stop whining, or I'll beat you up again. It's the cards or -"
"SHUT UP!"
They both flinched. "It's me!" I shouted. "It's me, I'm -" I wrenched off the helmet, then grabbed Billy and wrenched his off too, threw it across the room where it shattered against the wall. He started yelling and shrieking in utter horror as I dragged him from the Chamber to his bed, and held him there, screaming, "I'm here!" into his face.
"How could you!" I shouted. "How could you make a replica of me! How could you! You can't love what's not real, Billy, you can't feel what's not real! You wanna know what war's really like? You want to know where I've been? Here!" I slapped him, hard, really hard, "It's blood, Billy, it's not some freaking fantasy, it's not a freaking game. You wanna know where I've been it's pain pain pain -"
My Dad grabbed me away, threw me bodily into the hallway. My mother flew into Billy's room, from where I heard his sobbing become abruptly muffled when she held him to her breast. "What the hell do you think you're doing!" my father shouted. "Why are you telling him what war is? He's just a kid, he doesn't know any different -"
"How's he supposed to know any different when they look just the same!" I screamed. Billy's forlorn sobbing floated from his room. "How could you let him try to make a software copy of me?" I asked my Dad, "How could you let him?"
"It's just a game," my Dad said, his voice shaky, "It's supposed to be fun. What could be the harm? It's just a game. It's just a war simulator, it's not real, so what does it matter? Look, you can't shout at him like that, Frank... he's not healthy, and besides us you're all he's got." I got to my feet and turned away from him, "Don't you leave!" he shouted.
I stopped. My head was pounding, the walls were pounding, and the taste of my teeth was all wrong, something was gonna go wrong, it was all going wrong...
My Dad took a step toward me. "Frank," he said, calmly, earnestly. "I know you've been under a lot of stress. You've... been in a situation I can't even imagine, it must be like you're stuck in some sort of fantasy that's turned real. I know that no one ever explained war to you, I know, but... how can you just leave Billy? How could you treat him like that? You have to talk to him, son, you have to, you can't just run away..."
He put a hand on my shoulder, I let him lead me into that room again. Billy was still in our Mother's arms.
He looked at me like I was a ghost.
"Billy," I said, my voice sounding colder than I meant it too, "Billy, I'm back."
"You're not Frankie," he said.
"What do you mean?" I heard rage in my tone, Dad's fingers tightened around my shoulder, I forced myself to become calmer. "What do you mean? It's me." I shrugged away my Dad's grip and approached him, and watched him pale as I neared. Slowly, I reached to him, I touched his face, cupped his cheek. "It's me, Billy, it's me... I'm right here, little Bro..."
He stared right into my eyes, like he was reading my mind. Emotions made the light on his pupils change in subtle ways, like shadows of thoughts I almost understood. "Frank?" he said slowly, "Frank... it's you?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Are you... back?"
"Yeah."
"Are you gonna stay?"
Silence.
"Are you gonna stay?" he asked again.
"No," I said finally. "It's just a three day leave, I have to go back..."
"Then you aren't Frank."
"No, Billy, that's not right -"
"You aren't FRANK!" he screamed at me. He shoved his Mother away even as she tried to comfort him, pushed me away with all his frail force and ran to the VR chamber. He grabbed the remaining helmet from the ground, and holding it, he stared at me, his eyes wild and panicked, and then his eyes and face and being disappeared behind that implacable black visor.
"He doesn't understand," my Mother sobbed, "He doesn't understand..."
The hand which had cupped Billy's face was trembling. "I've lost him," I realized.
"Charge all ordinance," Billy said.
"No," said my Dad, "No, I'll turn off the VR chamber, I'll take it away, I should have before, I'll -"
I turned and shoved past him, left the room. As I walked quickly through the hallway I heard him calling after me, but I left that too, I left the apartment.
I left everything.
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She traveled back in time to meet the greats
of science and the arts, true prodigies
whose brilliance made them sadly out-of-date.
She'd wine and dine them, put them at their ease
with jokes and badinage, and then she'd bait
them with a glimpse of her technologies.
They'd call their wives and tell them they'd be late,
unmindful of the risk of STDs.
Betwixt her legs a switch would activate
a sequence of events, her android charms
no genius could resist would stimulate
a passion rarely felt in human arms.
Absconding with their precious DNAs,
she'd vanish to another time and place.