CONTENTS INTRODUCTION by Mike Resnick 13 HUNGER by Michelle Sagara 15 MERRY CHRISTMAS, No. 30267 by Frank M. Robinson 27 THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY by Mark Aronson 39 ELEPHANTOMS by Lawrence Schimel 53 A FOREIGNER'S CHRISTMAS IN CHINA by Maureen F. McHugh 55 UPON A MIDNIGHT DREARY by Laura Resnick 67 MODERN MANSIONS by Barbara Delaplace 84 CADENZA by Terry McGarry 101 GORDIAN ANGEL by Jack Nimersheim 114 THE TIMBREL SOUND OF DARKNESS by Kathe Koja and Barry N. Malzberg 126 A PROPHET FOR CHANUKAH by Deborah J. Wunder 136 DUMB FEAST by Mercedes Lackey 152 SHADES OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS by Josepha Sherman 163 THE RIVER LETHE IS MADE OF TEARS by John Betancourt 181 ABSENT FRIENDS by Martha Soukup 188 PRESENTES by Nicholas A. DiChario 201 PETER'S GHOST by Marie A. Parsons 208 THE CASE OF THE SKINFLINT'S SPECTERS by Brian M. Thomsen 220 CHRISTMAS PRESENCE by Kate Daniel 228 THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS SCAMS by Lea Hernandez 241 WISHBOOK DAYS by Janni Lee Simner 250 HOLIDAY STATION by Judith Tan 266 STATE ROAD , by Alan Dormire and Robin J. Nakkula J 280 THE GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE by Dean Wesley Smith 288 THREE WISHES BEFORE A FIRE by Kristine Kathryn Rusch 292 THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS SIDEWAYS by David Gerrold 299 THE BEAR WHO FOUND CHRISTMAS by Alan Rodgers 307 INTRODUCTION I love science fiction writers: the smaller the box in which you attempt to imprison them, the more vigorously they fight to break free. Take this anthology, for example. The directive from publisher to editor was clear: a book of stories about the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. The invitation from editor to writers was identical; each of them was to do a story about the ghost of Christmas Past, Present, or Future ... and the farther they got from Dickens, the better. Simple, right? Except that these are science fiction writers we're dealing with. "I'll only do it if I can write 'The Ghost of Christmas Sideways,' " replied David Gerrold, who I'm sure said it just to annoy me. So I dared him to, and, of course, he did. "I don't care about the ghosts of Christmas," replied Deb Wunder, "but I'll write about the Ghost of Chanukah." Sigh. So I gave her the go-ahead. Mark Aronson's story came in. "I know you said to leave Dickens alone," he replied, "but I thought of a really interesting way of using the material, and besides I didn't believe you." So okay, we've got a Dickens story, too. Alan Rodgers heard about the book and contacted me. "I'm working on a kind of unclassifiable novelette that involves a ghost," he explained; "it wouldn't take 13 14 Introduction much rewriting to set it at Christmas." So all right, not all the stories have to be classifiable. Then Brian Thomsen checked in with one of his Mouse Chandler mysteries. I gently pointed out that the last time I read a Mouse Chandler story, it was set ten thousand years in the future and halfway across the galaxy. "So what?" asked Brian with an innocent smile. Puck Schimel handed in a 400-word vignette. I had asked for 3,000 to 6,000 words. "I know," he said, "but this was exam week at Yale, and besides, Alan told me he was coming in long." And, of course, in every case, the stories were good. I won't recite my experiences with each author, except to tell you that they're all cut from the same mold. What you hold in your hands is a collection of amazingly varied stories about what I had thought was a rather restrictive seasonal theme. Once again, my hat is off to the men and women who write imaginative literature for a living; they not only manage to please the readers, but to constantly (and pleasantly) surprise this editor. —Mike Resnick HUNGER by Michelle Sagara Fantasy novelist Michelle Sagara was a 1992 Campbell Award nominee. I used to hate Christmas more than any other time of the year. Not because of the commercialism. Hell, with my VCR and my laser disk player and my stereo sound system and car and you name it, I'm just as much a consumer as anyone else. And I didn't hate the hypocrisy of it, at least not in the later years, because I understood it. I didn't hate the religious overtones, and I'm not a religious man; I didn't hate the idiotic television specials or the hype or the gathering of the family. I hated Christmas because every Christmas after my fifth year, I saw her. Let me tell you about her, really briefly; it'll make the rest of it all make sense. Well, at least I hope it will. When I was five, I went traveling with my parents. We had three weeks at Christmas—and three weeks, at least to a five-year-old, are forever. My dad didn't like snow much, and he especially didn't like to shovel it, so when we chose a place to travel, we went south. Fifty years ago and more, South America wasn't a really civilized place; hell, hi many places it's pretty primitive now. But it had warm weather, and it had lots of people fussing over my dad, which made nun 15 16 Michelte Sagara happy; it had good food, and Christmas was still celebrated. Of course, it wasn't Christmas like here, and there wasn't any tree, and there certainly wasn't much in the way of presents—I got more than anyone else—but it was happy enough, until she came to the window of the dining room. The place we stayed, it was a big house—a friend of my dad's owned it, but I don't remember him well. It had lots of servants and lots of land, and huge rooms. I ran about in it for days; I thought I could get lost. Well, I saw her at the windows of the house while we were eating. She was thin and scrawny, with sun-darkened skin and these wide, night eyes that seemed to open up forever. Her fingers were bony; I remember that because she lifted her hand and touched the glass as if she wanted to reach through it. I called out to her, but she was gone, and I grabbed my mother's hand and dragged her from the table to the window. "It's nothing," my mother said, and drew me back. But I knew better. "She's hungry," I said. "It's Christmas." As if those two words meant something, meant anything. I didn't understand the glance that my mother gave my father, but he shook his head: No. They didn't have doorbells hi that huge, old house; they had something that you banged instead, hard. So I knew it was her at the door when I heard that grand brass gong start to hum. I slipped out from under my mother and ran toward the door. Because I knew she was hungry, you see, and it was Christmas, and of course we would feed her. The servants didn't see it that way though. Neither did our host. To them, she was just another one of the countless beggars that came at inopportune moments. And I even understand it, sometimes—you don't see me giving away all my hard-earned money to every little street urchin with a hand held out. But whether I understand it or not doesn't matter. HUNGER 17 Because I feel it with a five-year-old's shock and anger, after all these years. They drove her away. I didn't understand what she was saying, of course, because I didn't know any Spanish back then. But I know now, because I learned enough to try to speak to her later. I'm hungry. Please. I'm hungry. Like a prayer or a litany. She had a thin, raspy voice: she coughed once or twice although it wasn't cold. I could see her ribs. I could see the manservant shove her, hard, from the open door. Well, I was five and I wasn't too smart then, so I picked up the nearest thing and started hitting him with it and hollering a lot. It was an umbrella, and a five-year-old can't damage more than pride. And I just kept shouting, "It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" until my mother came to take me away. My father was furious. The host was embarrassed, and made a show of remonstrating the servants, who were only doing their job. I went back to the table like a mutinous prisoner, and I was stubborn enough that I didn't eat a thing. Not that night, anyway. My mother was angry at my father, that much I remember. Dinner kind of lost its momentum that night because of the tantrum of one half-spoiled boy. And Christmas lost its magic for that boy. Maybe it wouldn't have, had she stayed away. Maybe the toys and the food and the lights on the trees would have sucked him right back into family comfort. Maybe Santa's lap and Santa's ear would have encouraged him to feel the exact same way he always had. I'll never know. Because in the winter of my sixth year, tucked under the covers and dreaming of Santa, I heard her tapping at my windows. Back then, I had my own small room on the second story of our house, and when I heard the tapping at the window, well, I thought it was monsters or something. I gathered my blankets around me like a shield, 18 Mickcile Sagara yanked 'em off the bed, and then trundled, slowly, over to the window. And I saw her standing there, with her gaunt, darkened cheeks and her wide, wide eyes. She was rapping the glass with her thin, bony fingers and she said the same words over and over again. I think I screamed, because I could see the northern stars bunking right through her, and I knew what that meant, back then. My mother came first—she always did, moving like a quiet shadow. She asked me what was wrong, and I told her, pointing—and my mother looked at our reflection in my window and shook her head softly. You were having a nightmare, she said. Go back to sleep. But it's her, I said. It's her, can't you see her? She's dead, Mom, and she's hungry. I don't want her to eat me. She's not here, she's not dead. Hush. My mother held me in her arms as if she were a strong, old cradle. And I cried. Because over my mother's whispers, I could hear the voice of the hungry girl. It didn't stop there, of course. Sometime in my teenage years, I stopped being afraid that she would eat me. Instead, I started being afraid I was mad, so I never talked about the dead, starving peasant, and my mom and dad were just as happy to let the matter drop. But she came every Christmas midnight, and stayed for a full twelve days, lingering at the window, begging me to feed her. I even left the table once and threw open the door, but all I got was snow and a gust of wind. She didn't come into the warmth. She was there every year. Every day. She was there from the minute I went to college to the minute I graduated. She was there when I finally left home, found my wife, and settled down. It wasn't my parents she haunted although they wouldn't feed her. It was me. I even railed against the injustice of it all—/ was the only person who'd even cared about her that HUNGER 19 night—but hunger knows no reason, and she came to me. I have three children—little Joy, Alexander, David. Well, I guess they aren't that little anymore; fact is, they're old enough now that they don't mind being called little. I consider it a miracle that they survived their teenage years—I don't know why God invented teenagers. But Melissa and I, we had four children. You see that black and white photo in the corner there? That baby was my last child, my little girl. She didn't see three. It's funny, you know. They talk a lot about a mother's grief and a mother's loss, but Melissa said her good-byes maybe a year or two after Mary died, and me—well, I guess I still haven't. It's because I never saw her as a teenager. It's because I can't remember the sleepless nights and the crying and the throwing up. I just remember the way she used to come and help me work, with her big, serious eyes and her quiet, serious nod. She'd spread the newspapers from here to the kitchen, same as she saw me do with my drafting plans. I had more time with her than I had with the older kids—maybe I made more time—and I used to sit with her on weekends when Melissa did her work. Mary'd sleep in my lap. Draw imaginary faces on my cheek. I remember what she looked like in the hospital. But I'm losing the story, about Christmas. Let me get back to it. Mary died when I was thirty-five. Died in the spring, in a hospital thirty miles north of here. I couldn't believe anything could grow after she died. I hated the sight of all that green. Took it as an insult. Cosmic indifference. Come winter, everything was darker, which suited me best. We went to Mary's grave—at least I did—once a week or more. Took flowers, little things. Near Christ- 20 Michette Sagant mas, I took a wreath, because she liked to play with them. I've heard all about how people think graveyards are a waste of space and greenery, and maybe they're right. But I know that having that site, where little Mary rested in the earth, was a boon. I'd come to it weekly like a pilgrim to a shrine, making these little offerings. Talking to her like a crazy person. You don't know what it's like, to lose a child. I hope you never know it. That Christmas, when I was thirty-six, my regular little visitor came, as usual, at midnight. I wasn't in bed then; Melissa and I were wrapping our presents, late as always, both of us crying and trying not to look at the fireplace, where Mary's little stocking wasn't. Family things like this, they're hard. But sometimes you have to cry or go mad. Melissa's pretty good; she'd rather see me cry than go mad. Most of the time, anyway. She knew when I heard it, of course. I went stiff and lifted my head, swiveled to look out the window. Melissa couldn't ever see the little ghost, but after she decided I wasn't completely crazy, and that she wasn't going to leave me if the worst thing about me was that I saw ghosts on Christmas, she did her best to be understanding. The little nameless girl stared right through me, with her wide, hungry eyes. Her lips moved over the same words that she spoke every year. Not for the first time, I wondered when she'd died, and whether it was from starvation. Not for the first time, I wondered where. But for the first time ever, I wondered if any parent have ever gone to mourn her passing or her death, the way I had with my little Mary. And for the first time, the little ghost girl stopped her endless litany and smiled at me. Smiled, translucent and desperate, standing inches above the untouched snow. I knew what I had to do then. Wondered why I was so stupid I couldn't have thought of it before. HUNGER 21 Melissa and I had the worst fight of our marriage on Christmas Day. "Can't you just leave it until next year?" She'd shouted, her eyes red, but her tears held in check. "This is the first Christmas we've had to spend without—without Mary. It's the most important time for you to be with the rest of your family." " 'Lissa," I said, because I knew she was right, but I knew I was right, too. "I've got to do this. That little ghost—" She snorted, which was about as close to open criticism as she'd come. "That little girl died somewhere, and I don't think her parents ever found her. She's lost, she's hungry, and she might even be trying to reach them, if they're still alive. Think about how you'd feel. How I'd feel. I have to go." "Next year," she said, but her voice was softer. "Just wait until next year. Please." It took me two days to find a flight down south, which meant drawing money out of the savings account. Two days' notice isn't usually enough to get any kind of decent charter. I thought we'd have another blow over that one, but Melissa was silent in a mutinous way. I thought she'd refuse to take me to the airport, but in the end, she and the kids piled into a car, and I had to explain to my three living children why I was leaving them to go chasing after a ghost they couldn't see. Only Alexander remembers it now; the others were just a little too young or a little too distracted. When I got onto the plane, I heard the tapping on glass that always came for each of the twelve days of Christmas. The window was a tiny oval plastic pane, and the clouds were streaking past at hundreds of miles per hour, but the little hungry girl was there, with her wide eyes and her voiceless plea. This time 22 Michelle Sagara I nodded and watched her face against the background of columned clouds and sunlight. Welt, to make a long story a little bit shorter, I followed her. From the moment we landed, she appeared, floating on air in the arrivals lounge. Thin, scrawny and openly ravenous, she followed me with her eyes, and I followed her with my legs. I didn't bring much in the way of luggage because I thought it'd be best to travel light, so I zipped right out of the airport on her trail. She walked beside my car, tapping against the smoked glass, begging for food. It was hard to say who was leading who, because I knew where I was going, or at least I thought I did. In retrospect, it was lucky I had her with me, because everything had changed in the years between my five-year-old and thirty-six-year-old selves. The great old manor house that haunted my inner eye was still there—but it wasn't a house anymore, it was a small hotel and, at that, one that had seen better days. There was a paved road leading up to its doors which showed that the place had had money once, and I took the bend slowly, keeping an eye on my little companion. After I got out of the car, explained what I wanted to four different people in two different languages, and checked into a small room, I found the little girl waiting for me by the window hi the dining room. There were two elderly couples in the dining room, so it was quiet, almost austere. That's where I first saw you, I thought. And I stood up, pushed my chair back, and walked out through the front doors. It didn't surprise me when I found her on the porch, wringing her hands dramatically and begging for food. She didn't need to be dramatic; her arms were almost skeletal, her eyes, sunken disks in the paleness of ghostly skin. "All right," I said quietly. "Where?" She started walking, and I started to follow her. All HUNGER 23 the while she was chattering away. Food, please. Please, I'm so hungry. Please, feed me. "I'm not doing this for you," I said. "You're already dead." But I didn't realize, until the words left my mouth, how true both statements were. She stopped her chattering then; left it behind as if she didn't need it anymore. I must've looked funny, coming away from my car with a shovel and a pick-axe. If I did, no one commented, and I made a note to leave a generous tip if I wasn't interrupted or interrogated. You see, the site that she came to stand on wasn't all that far away from the grounds of the house. "Did you die here, that night?" I asked her, hi between shoveling dirt. She said, Feed me, please, I'm so hungry; feed me. So I didn't ask her any more questions. I just kept upending shovels full of dirt until my back ached with the effort. You'd probably laugh if you knew how shallow the unofficial grave was, but I didn't get as much exercise as I should back then. But I found her, and this was the only Christmas miracle I can think of: The body. It was dead, all right, and it was obviously the same little girl that had plagued my nights for twelve days each year, but it hadn't decayed at all. No smell, no worms, no rot. I thanked God—and I didn't care whose. I hadn't thought much beyond finding the body. Should've, though, because as it turns out, it was a long walk from the hotel to the place that the little ghost began to lead me to. This was the fourth day, and the day was definitely gone. There's really not that much in the way of light along the dirt roads, and the lamp I held didn't help—the body didn't weigh much, but it was really awkward to carry one-handed. I managed. Funny what runs through a mind in the dark with a small girl's corpse hugged against your chest. Mostly, I was worried that the police would appear over the horizon, see me with this young girl, and have me shot on sight. I thought I was crazy; I thought I was stupid. But I wouldn't have let go of her; this was as close a chance to peace as I was ever going to get. I kept following her and she kept leading. And then we found it. An old farm, of sorts. Not a good farm, and not one that was meant to make a lot of money either, although I'll be the first to admit that I'm no judge of farms. There was this little light nickering in the window of the small farmhouse, and as I approached it, I realized that it was candlelight. Someone was awake. You've never frozen solid in the middle of a dark night with a little girl's ghost nagging you and a little girl's corpse in your arms. I didn't know what to do. I mean, now that I'd found her and brought her home, I wanted to drop her body and run. But she kept on at me, asking for food with her pale thin lips and her wide eyes, and I knew by now that it meant she wasn't quite finished with me. So I did the stupid thing. I walked up to the closed door of the little house, and I knocked as loudly as I could. After five long minutes, someone answered. She was short, little; she seemed ancient. I thought she was going to drop the candle she was holding when she saw what I was carrying; she went that funny white-green color that people go when they're in shock. I'm sorry, I said, in my broken Spanish. / wanted to— But I didn't get a chance to mangle the sentence; the little pale ghost suddenly threw herself over the threshold of the house, chattering away—chattering in a child's high, fluting burble. Saying something other than please feed me or I'm so hungry. She pressed herself tightly against the apron of the old woman. No one in the world had ever seen the little ghost but me; she'd ruined every Christmas I'd ever had. Except this one. This one was to be the exception. HUNGER 23 The old lady looked down at the apparition, and then she did drop the candle. I caught it before it hit the floor, but she didn't seem to notice; her arms were tightly pressed into her granddaughter's shoulders. No, not her granddaughter. She began to speak in rapid Spanish, and the girl replied softly, almost soothingly. Neither of them spared a word or glance at me for the better part of an hour, and all I could do was stand and stare. I wondered if Mary'd ever come back this way for me. Shook my head, to clear it—but the thought was so fierce, I've never forgotten it. It might have been my shaking that caught their attention, either that or it was the fact that dawn seemed ready to clear away the night's ghosts. That included my little tormentor. She came to me first, and reached out softly to touch her own dead cheek. Pulled back at the last minute and shook her head. Thank you, she said, in toneless but perfect English. I'm not hungry anymore. She turned to look back at the old woman who had been her mother. Said something else in Spanish. Tears were streaming down the old woman's cheeks, and even though my Spanish was bad, I understood what she said back. Her daughter walked into the dawn and vanished like morning mist. And I stood on the porch, with my stiff arms and her daughter's body, waiting for her to say something. I buried the body on the grounds in front of the house, and made a rough cross to mark the grave. There were other such rough graves, but I didn't ask her and she didn't volunteer. Maybe if we'd spoken the same language, we might have communicated better. But maybe not; I understood what it meant for her to rest a battered old doll against the newly turned earth; I understood what it meant when she whispered to the face of the awkward cross. In the end, she said "Thank you," and I said, 26 Mickclle Sagara "You're welcome." There was a lot of pain in her face, but there was a lot of peace there, too. If I could have brought her daughter back to life, I would have. But I would have brought mine back, too. Sometimes you just have to live with your limitations, no matter how much they hurt you. I gave her all the money I had with me. I know it's tacky, but she took it. I told her to feed the children, but I didn't ask her what she was going to do with it. I didn't care. I wanted to be back home, with my own family, before the end of Christmas. On the fifth day, there was no sign of my hungry little ghost. On the sixth, there was nothing either. And on the seventh, while I sat on the plane, tapping my feet and wondering if Melissa had moved all of my things into the guest room, it was blissfully silent. She met me at the airport, Melissa did. Her face had that searching look to it, and she stared at me for a long tune before she hugged me. It was a good hug, a real welcome home. "I'm free," I told her, and I meant it. That was thirty years ago, and that was the year that Christmas became a time of peace, rather than a thing to hate or fear. I tell you about it now, because I saw her again—the little ghost girl. Only this tune, when she knocked at my window, I wasn't terrified and I wasn't angry. I know what she's trying to tell me this time, though I don't know why she'd be bothered. You'll have to take care of your mother when I'm gone. Yes, she does need taking care of—just not in the obvious ways. Let her talk at you, let her talk to you. Just like I'm doing now. I always loved all my kids, and I know that it doesn't have to stop just because one of us is dead. I love you. Merry Christmas, No. 30267 by Frank M. Robinson Frank M. Robinson is entering his fifth decade as a major science fiction writer. His nickname was "Scrooge" and even hi the eyes of his fellow prisoners, Lyle Jaffery had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He'd been on death row for 365 days and this night was to be the last night of his life. At five-thirty in the morning, the priest would hear his final confession and walk with him down the short hall to the room where they would strap nun in a chair and attach electrodes to his shaved head and legs. At five-thirty-five he would be a footnote in criminal history and there wasn't a man among the other inmates who didn't think that, at least in his case, justice would have been served. Short, belligerent, and sly—the kind who never met your eyes when he talked to you, Lyle Jaffery was not a very likable man. He had a rap sheet that would have filled an entire volume of the Encyclopedia Bri-tannica, starting when, as a youngster, he had been given a Daisy repeating BB gun for Christmas and promptly drilled out the left eye of Mrs. Krumpkin's torn cat next door. He married early, became disenchanted with marriage shortly thereafter, and on another Christmas shot his overweight, nagging wife somewhere between the turkey and the pumpkin pie. 27 28 Frank M. Robinson It took investigators only a few hours to find the insurance policy he'd taken out on his former beloved two months before. Lyle may not have been very smart, but he was very lucky and got off on a technicality. And he considered himself even luckier because he had found a profession. Ever since the gift of the Daisy, he had been overly fond of guns. As much as Lyle loved anything, he loved the smooth, operating qualities of a Beretta and the simple, functional brick form of the Uzi. He became very good at using both and there was no end to those who wanted to hire his talents. But luck, like love, doesn't last forever. Eventually he was apprehended, convicted, and sentenced to life imprisonment. In the joint, Lyle was assigned to the machine shop where he turned out as fine a one-shot pistol as the guards had ever seen. They discovered it in his cell on still another Christmas when, in a frivolous argument over a pack of cigarettes, Lyle offed the most popular prisoner there—one Steven Marley, young scion of a wealthy family, who was serving a three-year stretch for tax fraud. He had more relatives than Madonna has bras and all of them remembered him at Christmas with boxes of goodies whose contents Steven liberally distributed among the other inmates. His absence was sorely missed. It was a year later and all Lyle's appeals had failed and no "Save Lyle Jaffery" partisans bundled up in sweaters and watch caps had appeared outside the cold prison walls to wave their signs and shout for his freedom. Lyle huddled, half-asleep, on the end of his bunk reflecting bitterly on his life and feeling the first faint twinges of remorse. It was close to midnight and the cell block was deathly quiet. Then Lyle jerked completely awake. Even though it was well-lit, the corridor and the cells were filling with a chill fog that had to be coming off the nearby river and the banks through which it flowed. Somewhere in the town a few miles away a church bell MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267 29 struck twelve while far down the corridor, Lyle suddenly heard a clanking sound and a low moaning. He shouted for a guard, but the fog muffled his voice and his cries didn't carry more than a few feet. The clanking came closer and he shrank back against the concrete block wall, shivering beneath his blankets. Just outside his cell bars the wisps of fog swirled, then gradually coalesced into a roughly human figure of mist and dust that sparkled in the tight and solidified into the unmistakable features of Steven Marley, complete with pimply face, cowlick, and the usual apprehensive look in his eyes. "How's it going, Scrooge," the apparition chirped in Marley's irritating high-pitched voice. "Pretty cold inside here, guess the appropriation never came through for the new heating plant, huh?" Lyle was amazed by the resemblance to the Marley he remembered and almost embarrassed by the gaping hole in the chest right over the heart. He had been proud of it before—a clean hit—but now he had second thoughts. Marley obviously hadn't come back to thank him for it. Then he took another look. Draped around Mar-ley's neck and waist and trailing after him down the corridor was what looked tike a long iron chain tufted with spreadsheets and Rolodex cards and twined around an occasional laptop. Lyle pointed. "What the hell's that?" Marley gave the chain a slight shake. "That's my penance, Lyle. Have to lug it around for Eternity. You remember, I cooked the books for Daddy's Savings and Loan. Cost the depositors millions." He shook his head. "If only I had known, I would have fixed it so Daddy took the fall." He tried to look fearsome, then gave it up, realizing he was too baby-faced to appear as anything more than petulant. "I'm not here to talk about me, Lyle. I'm here to talk about you." He looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Past." 30 Frank M. Robinson "Wise up, stupid," Lyle growled. "Christmas is a week away." "Technicality," Marley said breezily. He rattled his chains again. "I'm here to give you a chance to repent before you fry, Lyle." "I ain't ashamed of anything," Lyle said sullenly. "You never were a quick study," Marley muttered, shaking his head. "Look, enough small talk, Lyle, take my hand and we're outta here." Marley thrust a pale hand through the bars but Lyle hesitated. "Aren't you going to open the cell?" "No need to—it'll be just like in Terminator 2. C'mon, let's go." Lyle took his hand—it was somewhat cold and dry to the touch—and oozed through the bars. The cells and the corridor and the prison itself promptly disappeared and he found himself floating with Marley in a sea of gray. "Down there," Marley said. "Look familiar?" "I can't see a thing," Lyle grunted, and then a moment later, of course he could. They were floating over Evanston, Illinois, just north of Chicago. He could make out whitecaps on Lake Michigan off the Northwestern campus and then a little farther south, the home on Seward Street, close by the elevated tracks, where he'd been born and raised. It was a big brick-and-stone house with a huge backyard and an apple tree with a swing suspended from a lower limb. Blackberry bushes almost hid the fence separating the house from Mrs. Krumpkin's small bungalow on the right and the Flohr house on the left. He used to play with the Flohr brothers, but they had the disadvantage of being bigger than he was which meant there was no way he could bully them. Instead, he'd hung out with the young van Dyke boy down the block who was usually too scared to say no to the various misadventures Lyle suggested. MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267 31 Lyle had even managed it so it was Mark van Dyke who got sent to juvenile hall instead of himself after they had burglarized a poster shop. There was a little wisp of smoke coming from the chimney of his house, almost lost in the blowing snow of an early winter. Lyle shivered, then realized in his present condition he really felt neither cold nor warmth. "We ought to look inside," Marley said. "That's the way the scenario usually goes." They drifted down toward the rooftop and Lyle closed his eyes as they sank through the asphalt shingles and plywood into the house below. When he opened them again, he was in a large living room that smelted of roast turkey and mincemeat and was fragrant with the odor of pine needles from the Christmas tree in the comer. The top of the tree nearly brushed the ceiling, while the bottom was swathed in an old sheet on which were piles of presents. The tree was decorated with shiny glass ornaments and chains of paper links made from brightly colored drawing paper. Lyle remembered with pride that the paper chains had been his work. The family was sitting around the dining table finishing the meal before trooping into the living room for the distribution of the presents. His father, heavy-set and florid, with a thick head of black hair just beginning to silver at the temples. His mother, matronly and pink cheeked, with a checkered apron wrapped around her middle. And finally, his two brothers. David, his father's favorite, at sixteen barrel chested with the build of a high school wrestler, which he was. Later, he would go to college, earn an MBA and become a VP with Bechtel. He would many and have three kids and live happily ever after, like first sons were supposed to. He would also fall out of touch with Lyle shortly after he married. In fact, Lyle reflected bitterly, David 32 Frank M. Robinson would tell him never to show his face around his house, ever. Nice bro, Lyle thought, aggrieved—what'd he ever do to him? Bob was much the same story. A degree in drama from Northwestern, and now a documentary film producer. The only contact he'd had with Lyle after leaving home was an offer to make a film of his life to be shown in high schools as a warning to students who might be headed for a life of crime. "Okay, Marley, I've seen them," Lyle grumbled. "A bunch of losers. What happens now?" "Come off it, Lyle, they were all winners. Shows you genetics has a sense of humor." Marley pointed with a bony finger. "The boy at the end of the table. Don't you know him?" Oh, yeah, the skinny little kid. A shock of red hair and freckles, a torn sweater and thin face smeared with gravy and flecks of cranberry sauce. There was something sly about his expression. Lyle watched while his younger self coated a piece of turkey with pepper and then surreptitiously held it below the table for the family dog, Barney, who would be sick for the rest of the evening. Now the younger Lyle turned his attention to brother David, talking to his father. When David took his hand off the plate holding his half-eaten pie, young Lyle deftly switched plates with his own now empty one. David glanced back down at his plate, then shot a withering glance at young Lyle, all innocence while he complimented his smiling mother on the pie. "Smart kid," Lyle said admiringly. "You're a real dummy," Marley said sharply. "That was when your older brother first started hating you." Lyle shrugged. "Where's it written that I had to love my brother?" The family had finished dinner now and were sitting in the living room. His father had knelt down by the tree and had started doling out the presents. Furry MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267 33 slippers for his mother, a cable knit sweater for David, a pair of skis for brother Bob, a pair of pants for him.... Lyle sniffed. Nothing he'd ever wanted. But Christmas had always been like that, his brothers got everything, he got the leavings.... "Jesus, Lyle, turn off the tears," Marley interrupted. "This Christmas, you got exactly what you wanted." The stack of presents dwindled and the pile of discarded wrapping paper grew to mountainous proportions. Now there was only one present left—a box that was long and thin which his father handed over to the younger Lyle with a wide smile. "Merry Christmas, son." The older Lyle watched with growing interest as his younger self tore off the paper and felt his own heart jump in unison with that of himself as a small boy. The Daisy repeating BB gun. Bright and shiny with a hand-carved stock, or at least one that looked like it was. The boy ran his hands down the barrel, then held the rifle to his eye and aimed at the star on top of the tree. "Be careful," his mother warned sharply. She'd never wanted him to have it, Lyle thought. If the old lady had had her way, he would've ended up playing with dolls.... "Okay, freeze frame," Marley said. The tableau in the living room obligingly froze with young Lyle still aiming at the star. "This is where it all began." "All what began?" the older Lyle asked suspiciously. Marley threw up his hands. "You know what I mean, Scrooge. Do I have to remind you that in five and a half hours you'll be toast?" The gun, Lyle thought. The beautiful gun that was the first of so many beautiful guns.... "I guess they shouldn't have given me the gun," he said reluctantly. Marley was exasperated. 34 Frank M. Robinso* "A little more contrition would help, Lyle." Lyle hung his head. "I wish they'd never given me the gun," he whispered, with what he hoped was the proper amount of regret. "No wishes," Marley sighed, "that's another story. But 1*11 see what I can do." The tableau in the living room suddenly went soft focus and then his father was handing the younger Lyle a different box, one that was shorter and thicker and somewhat heavier. The boy tore the paper off it and stared in wonder and pride at the A. C. Gilbert chemistry set. It was the exact present he'd been hoping for.... "Okay, that should do it," Lyle yawned. "Drop me off at my apartment, Marley." His future would be different now, he was off the hook—his love affair with guns had never happened. He could hardly wait to be out and about. A six-course meal at Gordon's, the little cocktail waitress he'd been dating— There was a blur and a brief sensation of cold. It took him one long moment to realize where he was, though the surroundings were certainly familiar enough. The concrete walls, the hard bunk, the slight noises of the other prisoners, the fog in the hallway.... "You lied to me!" Lyle shouted and grabbed for the somber Marley. His hands sh'pped easily through the mist and fog and he sank back on his bunk, swearing. "What the hell went wrong " Marley shrugged. "I said it was your last chance to repent, Lyle. Repentance is good, people tike repentance, especially Him." "I thought if I never got the gun ..." Marley shook his head. "You didn't shoot anybody, Lyle. Not this time—it's not your M.O. any more. You were right about that." "So why the hell am I back here?" Lyle snapped. MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267 35 Marley casually rearranged his sheet of fog where Lyle's hands had momentarily disturbed it. "For poisoning your late wife. Plus quite a few others along the way." He looked sympathetic. "It probably all started with the chemistry set." Damn, Lyle thought. "You have to repent," Marley repeated, trying to look helpful. "And mean it." Lyle felt surly. "What if I don't?" Marley said nothing, but the hands of the clock on the corridor wall suddenly started to spin around. There was a flash of darkness and Lyle was standing beside himself, watching along with Marley as the priest heard his Confession. "This is your last chance to confess your sins, my son. What is punished in this world may be forgiven in the next." The Lyle on the bunk snarled and the priest murmured quietly, then turned as the guard unlocked the cell door. Two more guards were waiting for Lyle in the corridor. Lyle shivered as he watched himself stumble out into the corridor. The guards held him up all the way to the small execution room, dragging him the last few feet. His other self whimpered as they strapped him hi the chair and snapped the buckles around his wrists and tightened the electrodes to his ankle and head. "You'd better close your eyes for this part," Mar-ley whispered. Lyle couldn't. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched one of the guards staring at the clock and at the precise moment the hands struck five-thirty, he pulled the switch There was arcing around the electrodes and the body in the chair struggled against the restraining straps. There was the smell of ozone and the smell of something ... else. Cooking meat, Lyle decided after a moment. More sparking and then the body went 36 Frank M. Robinson limp in the chair, its eyes as dead and opaque as poached eggs. Repentance, Lyle thought feverishly. Marley hadn't been kidding, that was the only way out. "Oh, God, I repent," Lyle murmured in a low voice. "I can't hear you," Marley said. "I REPENT!" Lyle shouted. "I REPENT, DAMN IT!" The scene faded and he was back in his cell, seated on his bunk once again while Marley picked at his nails and studied him for a moment. "You have to really mean it, Lyle, or otherwise you don't stand a chance in—if you'll pardon the expression—hell. Frankly, the odds are against you. Human nature rarely changes." Marley glanced at the corridor clock. "We're running out of time—" Lyle hung his head and whispered hoarsely, "I want another chance. Please—give me another chance. I'm ... sorry for everything I've ever done." He meant every word of it, but then Lyle always meant every word of it at the time he said it. "The least you can do is let me see what Christmas might be like if I ... changed." Marley shrugged. "You've got a point. One changed future coming up." Once again there was a brief moment of blackness and then Lyle was in a living room even larger than that in his father's house. There was a Christmas tree in the corner whose top almost touched the ceiling and a sheet wrapped around the bottom that was piled high with gifts. "Be a little more quiet, Lyie," a nasal voice said. "You'll wake the kids." He pinched himself. He could see Marley standing quietly in the corner but there was no other Lyle. Which made sense, the future hadn't happened yet. At least not for him. "Did you hear me, Lyle?" MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267 37 He was wrapping a doll and perversely crinkled the paper more than was necessary. "Sure thing, dear, I'll keep it down." He tied a ribbon around the doll's waist, then turned to see how lucky he'd been in marriage. It was hard to recognize the cute cocktail waitress with her hair in rollers and wearing a shapeless bathrobe. Unfortunately, the bathrobe couldn't quite disguise the fifty extra pounds she'd put on. And even allowing for the passage of time, she was older than he'd thought. Must've been the lights in the bar.... "I think you could've gotten Johnny something more practical than a BB gun; he could've used some shirts and a sportcoat." Her voice was petulant, whining, and a part of him realized he had been listening to that voice for at least ten years. It had the same effect on him as pulling his fingernails down a blackboard. "His birthday's hi February; I'll get him the damned clothes then." There was an added edge to the voice: "Don't forget me dear. I could use a new coat and some shoes as well." He walked over to put the doll under the tree, pausing at the mantle to glance at the photographs on it. A boy and a girl, both as homely as ditch water. The boy was chubby cheeked with eyes too close together and the girl was thin with stringy hair and a squinty expression on her face. They probably took after her. The other photo was that of an older man in his office. Expensive suit, an expensive desk, costly paintings on the wall. Her father, not his, that was for sure. He looked around the living room again. Posh house, real elegance. The waitress gig must have been for kicks; he'd married into money. And then he wondered just how much money. "Dear, the children will be up any moment—you know they always get up early on Christmas morning—and you said you'd fix the lights." 38 Frank M. Robinson Jesus Christ ... "What lights?" "The tree lights, sweetie. Can't you see where the string is out?" He had to wrestle the ladder out of the basement and by the time he got it to the living room he'd made up his mind. There were other cocktail waitresses out there, no reason why he had to be stuck with this one. He'd have to take out a policy and he might have to wait a few more months than before, but there was no way he was going to live the rest of his life saddled with her and her two brats. And just how much money? He'd completely forgotten Marley's ghost in the corner, watching with pained disapproval. He wrapped the new string of lights around the tree, then climbed up the ladder to plug it into the other string already in place. It wasn't until he was holding the plug between his fingers and pushing it into the end of the other string that he realized the plastic plug had broken and bare wires were touching his fingers. And that he was standing in his bare feet on the iron strapping that ran down the steps of the ladder to reinforce them. There was a blue arc and a sudden shock and he could sense himself toppling off the ladder, still holding on to the broken plug, his body jerking from the pulse of electricity that flowed through it. He never heard his wife scream. Nor was he aware of Marley's ghost leaning over his body and shaking his head and murmuring that nobody could change his future unless he repented of the past. And then the ghost of Steven Marley glanced at the clock on the mantle and smiled faintly. Five-thirty, it thought with satisfaction. Right on time. THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY by Mark Aronson Mark Aronson is an advertising executive who began writing and selling science fiction during the past 18 months. I hate my job. Ebenezer Scrooge is furiously scribbling away at a shabby writing desk in the corner of his threadbare sitting room. Every so often he cackles, and when he does, his breath—you can see his breath, for Scrooge wastes little gold on such luxuries as coal—his breath freezes the meager flame of the stumpy yellow candle he writes by. It shivers, beggared by the concentrated gloom and greed in the thousands of frozen Scroo-gish droplets. I hate it. Scrooge should not be scribbling in his sitting room or anywhere else. At this moment, by the schedule I have created, the schedule I have followed so many times before, Scrooge should be cowering under his bedclothes, vainly snatching at courage, vainly hoping that I am not real. In a sense, of course, I suppose that I'm not entirely real. How real is a ghost, even the Ghost of Christmas Past? Yet I'm real enough to impel people to action. I have, within the limits of my job description, free will; I can do my job as I see fit. And it's not an easy job, believe me. I can see Marley pointing at me, grinning with that hideous smile. He knows how much I dislike it when 39 40 MaAArtmam THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY 41 he removes that bandage and lets his jaw drop. Oh, sure, it's easy for him to cast stones. AU he had to do was materialize, show himself to Scrooge and mutter and moan and set the stage for us Ghosts. A lousy page of dialogue, that's all. And who do you suppose wrote it? One page, one manifestation — five minutes, tops! — and he cuts his time in purgatory by a handsome term. And now he has the gall to laugh at me. It's humiliating. But it's not my fault. I'm really terribly overworked. Anyone examining my situation objectively would have to agree. I know it isn't simply envy. I've thought about this a great deal and I'm sure of it. The other Ghosts really do have it a lot easier. Though not to hear them talk about it. But the facts are the facts. Who digs into the background of all those backsliders we try to haul back into the light on Christmas Eve? / do. Who flits from month to month and year to year to find psychologically perfect moments for malefactors to relive? And perhaps to regret? / do. Greed, lust, envy, sloth — the whole lot — that's what I get to see. It's depressing. And I do it all by myself. It's not as if I had any help. Not like the Ghost of Christmas Present, for example. He's got assistants — almost 2,000 and counting, so far. And for what? All he has to do is carry the client around the here and now and point out the obvious. For this he needs 2,000 assistants? Who softened the client up? Who put the fear of God into him? Who planted the notion, just on the horizon of his perception, that this was real and not just some disturbing dream to tell his therapist about on Thursday afternoon? And Mister Christmas- Yet-to-Come — well, give him credit for imagination. He's the closer, after all, and has to concoct all those inventively bleak and dreary what-if futures. If you ask me, he's the only one of us lH*o has any fun. But that doesn't let him off the hook •« far as I'm concerned. After all, he gets to make it ;aB up. He doesn't have to do a lick of research. The etient is handed to him, fearful and trembling— cowering, too, nine times out of ten—ready to believe, yeady to do anything to avoid whatever delightfully grisly yet not inevitable future he knows he's going to see. • He doesn't even have to say anything. Gestures suffice. More than once, I've watched clients pass out cold the moment Mr. Future extends that bony hand ,