Allen steele short sto.., p.1
Allen Steele - Short Stories, Volume 1 (retail) (pdf), page 1
Allen Steele: Short Stories, Volume 1
by Allen Steele
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Copyright ©information:
• "The Good Rat" First published in Analog, Mid-December 1995. Copyright © 1995 by Allen M.
Steele.
• "Kronos" First published in science fiction Age, ed. Scott Edelman, January 1996. Copyright ©
1996 by Allen Steele.
• "Stealing Alabama" First published in Asimov's, January 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Allen Steele.
• "Zwarte Piet's Tale" First published in Analog, December 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Allen M.
Steele.
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Allen Steele: Short Stories, Volume 1
by Allen Steele
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Allen Steele: Short Stories, Volume 1
by Allen Steele
CONTENTS
Introduction
The Good Rat
Kronos
Stealing Alabama
Zwarte Piet's Tale
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Allen Steele: Short Stories, Volume 1
by Allen Steele
Introduction
Allen Steele became a full-time science fiction writer in 1988, following publication of his first short story, “Live From The Mars Hotel” (Asimov's, mid-Dec. ‘88). Since then he has become a prolific author of novels, short stories, and essays, with his work appearing in England, France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Brazil, Russia, the Czech Republic, Poland, and Japan.
Volume 1 of Allen Steele: Short Stories contains Hugo Award Nominees “The Good Rat” and “Zwarte Piet's Tale” and more excellent short science fiction.
[Back to Table of Contents]
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Allen Steele: Short Stories, Volume 1
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The Good Rat
Get home from spending two weeks in Thailand and Nepal.
Nice tan from lying on the beach at Koh Samui, duffle bag full of stuff picked up cheap on the street in Kathmandu. Good vacation, but broke now. Money from mortgaging kidneys almost gone, mailbox full of bills and disconnect notices. Time to find work again.
Call agent, leave a message on her machine. She calls back that afternoon. We talk about the trip a little bit; tell her that I'm sending her a wooden mask. Likes that, but says she's busy trying to broker another couple of rats for experiments at Procter & Gamble. Asks why I'm calling.
Tell her I'm busted. Need work soon. Got bills to pay. She says, I'll work on it, get back to you soon, ciao, then hangs up on me. Figure I'll send her the ugliest mask in my bag.
Jet-lagged from spending last twenty-four hours on airplanes. Sleep a lot next two days, watch a lot of TV in between. Mom calls on Tuesday, asks me where I've been for last month. Says she's been trying to find me. Don't tell her about Koh Samui and Kathmandu. Tell her I'm in night school at local college. Remedial English and basic computer programming. Learning how to do stuff with computers and how to read. She likes that. Asks if I got a job yet. About to lie some more when phone clicks. Got another call coming in, I say. Gotta go, bye. Just as well. Hate lying to Mom.
Agent on the phone. Asks if my legs are in good shape.
Hell yeah, I say. Just spent ten days hiking through the 6
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Annapurna region, you bet my legs are in good shape. What's the scoop?
She say, private test facility in Boston needs a rat for Phase One experiments. Some company developing over-the-counter ointment for foot blisters. Need someone in good physical condition to do treadmill stuff. Two week gig. Thank you can handle it?
Dunno, I say. Got a few bruises on thighs from falling down on rocks a lot. How much they pay? A hundred bucks a day, she says, minus her 15 percent commission. Not bad.
Not great, but not bad either. Ask if they're buying the airplane ticket. She say, yeah, tourist class on Continental. I say, gee, I dunno, those bruises really hurt. First class on TWA would make them feel better. Says she'll get back to me, ciao, and hangs up.
Turn on TV, channel surf until I find some toons. Dumb coyote just fell off cliff again when agent calls back. She say, business class on TWA okay? Think about trying to score box-seat ticket for a Red Sox game, but decide not to push my luck. Bruises feel much better, I say. When do they want me?
She say two days, I say okay. Tickets coming by American Express tomorrow, she says, but don't tell them about bruises, all right? Got no bruises, I say. Just wanted to get decent seat on the plane.
Calls me a name and hangs up again. Doesn't even say ciao this time. Decide not to send her a mask at all. Let her go to Kathmandu and buy one herself.
* * *
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Two days later. Get off plane at airport in Beantown. Been here before two years ago, when some other lab hired me to drink pink stuff for three days so scientists could look at what I pissed and puked. Like Boston. Nice city. Never figured out why they call it Beantown, though.
Skinny college kid at gate, holding cardboard sign with some word on it and my name below it. Walk up to him, ask if he's looking for me. Gives me funny look. He say, is this your name on the sign? I say, no, I'm Elmer Fudd, is he from the test facility?
Gets pissed. Asks for I.D. Show him my Sam's Club card.
Got my picture on it, but he's still being a turd about it. Asks if I got a driver's license. Drop my duffel bag on his shoes, tell him I'm a busy man, let's go.
Takes me to garage where his Volvo is parked. No limo service this time. Must be cheap lab. Got limo service last time I did a job in Boston. Kid looks mad, though, so don't make Supreme Court case out of it.
Get stuck in tunnel traffic after leaving airport. Want to grab a nap in back seat, but the kid decides to make small talk. Asks me how it feels to be a rat.
Know what he's getting at. Heard it before. Say hey, dude, they pay me to get stuck with needles fifteen times a day, walk on treadmills, eat this, drink that, crap in a kidney tray and whizz in a bottle. It's a living, y'know?
Smiles. Thinks he's superior. Got a college degree that says so. He say, y'know, they used to do the same thing to dogs, monkeys, and rabbits before it got outlawed. How does it feel to be treated like an animal?
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No problem, I say. You gotta a dog at home you really like? Maybe a cat? Then bring him over to your lab, make him do the stuff I do, and half as well. Then you tell me.
Then he goes and starts telling me about Nazi
concentration camp experiments. Heard that before too, usually from guys who march and wave signs in front of labs.
Same guys who got upset about dogs, monkeys and rabbits being used in experiments are now angry that people are being used instead. Sort of makes me wonder why he's working for a company that does human experiments if he thinks they're wrong. Maybe a college education isn't such a great thing after all, if you have to do something you don't believe in.
Hey, the Nazis didn't ask for volunteers, I say, and they didn't pay them either. There's a difference. Just got back from spending two weeks in Nepal, hiking the lower Himalayas. Where'd you spend your last vacation?
Gets bent out of shape over that. Tells me how much he makes each year, before taxes. Tell him how much I make each year, after taxes. Free medical care and all the vacation time I want, too.
That shuts him up. Make the rest of the trip in peace.
* * *
Kid drives me to big old brick building overlooking the Charles River. Looks like it might have once been a factory.
Usual bunch of demonstrators hanging out in the parking lot.
Raining now, so they look cold and wet. Courts say they have to stay fifty feet away from the entrance. Can't read their signs. Wouldn't mean diddly to me even if I could. That's my 9
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job they're protesting, so if they catch the flu, they better not come crying to me, because I'm probably the guy who tested the medicine they'll have to take.
Stop at front desk to present I.D., get name badge. Leave my bags with security guard. Ride up elevator to sixth floor.
Place looks better on the inside. Plaster walls, tile floors, glass doors, everything painted white and grey. Offices have carpets, new furniture, hanging plants, computers on every desk.
First stop is the clinic. Woman doctor tests my reflexes, looks in my ears, checks my eyes, takes a blood sample, gives me a little bottle and points to the bathroom. Give her a full bottle a few minutes later, smile, ask what she's doing two weeks from now. Doesn't smile back. Thanks me for my urine.
Kid takes me down the hall to another office. Chief scientist waiting for me. Skinny guy with glasses, bald head and long bushy beard. Stands up and sticks out his hand, tells me his name. Can't remember it five minutes later. Think of him as Dr. Bighead. Just another guy in a white coat. Doesn't matter what his name is, so long as he writes it at the bottom of my paycheck.
Dr. Bighead offers me coffee. Ask for water instead. Kid goes to get me a glass of water, and Dr. Bighead starts telling me about the experiment.
Don't understand half the shit he says. It's scientific. Goes right over my head. Listen politely and nod my head at the right times, like a good rat.
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Comes down to this. Some drug company hired his lab to do Phase One tests for its new product. It's a lotion to relieve foot blisters. No brand-name for it yet. Experiment calls for me to walk a treadmill for eight hours the first day with a one-hour break for lunch, or at least until I collect a nice bunch of blisters on the soles of my feet. Then they'll apply an ointment to my aching doggies, let me rest for twelve hours, but put me on the treadmill again the next day. This will be repeated every other day for the next two weeks.
Do I get paid for the days I'm not on the treadmill?
Of course, he says, but you have to stay here at the test facility. Got a private room in the dorm for you upstairs.
Private cafeteria and rec room, too.
Does it have a pool table?
Got really nice pool table, he says. Also a VCR and a library. Computer, too, but no fax or modem. Company has strict policy against test participants being permitted open contact with outside world. Phone calls allowed, but they're monitored by security operators. Can receive forwarded mail, but all outgoing mail has to be read by a staff member first.
Nod. Been through this before. Most test facilities work this way. Sounds reasonable, I say.
When you're not on the treadmill, he says, you have to be in bed or in a wheelchair. No standing or walking, except when you're in the shower or going to the bathroom.
Shrug. Not a big deal. Once lay in bed for three days, doing nothing but watch old Flintstones cartoons on closed-circuit TV. Some kind of psychiatric experiment for UCLA.
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Ready to shout yabba-dabba-do and hump Betty Rubble by the time it was over. After that, there's nothing I can't do.
Dr. Bighead stops smiling now. Folds hands together on desk. Time for the serious stuff now.
The ointment we put on your feet may not be the final product, he says. May have to try different variations on the same formula. Side-effects may include persistent itching, reddening or flaking of the skin, minor swelling. Computer simulations of the product have produced none of these results, but this is the first time the product has undergone Phase One testing.
Nod. Been there, done that.
Goes on. Tells me that there's another three other volunteers doing the same experiment. Three of us will be the test subjects, the other one the control subject who receives a placebo. We won't know in advance who gets the product and who gets the placebo. Do I understand?
Test subjects, control subjects, placebos, and my feet may rot and fall off before this is all over. Got it, doc. Sounds cool.
Dr. Bighead goes on. If any of this bothers me, I can leave now, and his company will pay me a hundred dollars for one day of my time and supply me with airfare back home.
However, if I chicken out during the test period, or if I'm caught trying to wash off the ointment, they'll throw me out of the experiment and I won't be paid anything.
Yeah, uh-huh. He has to tell me this because of the way the laws are written. Never chickened out before, I say.
Sounds great to me. When do we get started?
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Dr. Bighead grins. Likes a nice, cooperative rat. Tomorrow morning, he says. Eight o'clock sharp.
Ask if I can go catch a little night-life tonight. Frowns. Tells me I may have to submit another urine sample if I do so. Nod my head. No problem. He shrugs. Sure, so long as you're back by midnight. After that, you're in here until we're through with the experiment.
No problem.
Spend another hour with contracts and release forms. Dr.
Bighead not surprised that I don't read very well. Must have seen the file my agent faxed his company. Make him read everything aloud, while I get it all on the little CD recorder I brought with me. Agent taught me to do that. Means we can sue his company if it pulls any funny stuff. Maybe this rat can't read, but he's still got rights.
Everything sounds cool. Sign all the legal stuff. Dr.
Bighead gives me plastic wristband and watches me put it around my left wrist, then lets me go. Notice that he doesn't shake hands again. Maybe afraid he'll catch functional illiteracy.
Same kid waiting outside. Takes me up to dorm on the seventh floor.
Looks like a hospital ward. No windows. Six private rooms surrounding a rec area. Small cafeteria off to one side. Couple of tables, some chairs and sofas. Bookshelf full of old paperbacks and magazines. Fifty-two inch flatscreen TV, loads of videos on the rack above it. Pay phone in the corner. Pool table, though it looks like a cheap one. Look up, spot fish-eye camera lens hidden in the ceiling.
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Same as usual. Could be better, could be worse.
Room is small. Single bed, desk, closet. No windows here either, but at least it's got a private bathroom. Count my blessings. No roommate this time. Last one snored, and the one before that went nuts six days into the experiment and was punted.
My bag is on the bed. Notice zipper is partly open. Been searched to make sure I didn't bring in any booze, dope, butts, or cellular phones.
Kid tells me he's got to go. Reminds me not to leave without my badge. See you tomorrow, I say.
Unpack bag, leave room. Want to get a bite to eat and check out the night life.
Two people sitting in the rec room now, watching TV news.
A guy and a woman. Guy looks like he's about thirty. Thin, long-haired, sparse beard. Paperback book spread open on his lap. Barely glances my way.
The woman is different. Another rat, but the most beautiful rat I've seen in a while. Long brown hair. Slender but got some muscles. Good-looking. My type.
Catch her eye as I walk past. Give her a nod. She nods back, smiles a little. Doesn't say anything. Just a nod and smile.
Think about that nod and smile all the way to the elevator.
* * *
Found a good hangout last time I was in Boston, over in Dorchester. Catch a rickshaw over there now.
Sign above the door says No * Allowed. First time I was here, someone had to read the name to me, then explain that 14
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the symbol in the middle is an asterisk. What part of your body looks like an asterisk? Still don't get it, I say. Laughs and says, bend over, stick your head between your legs and look harder. Get it now, I say.
Can smoke a butt inside wherever you want, if you can find a butt to smoke these days. Fifty-six brands of beer. Not served only in the basement, but at your table if you want.
Hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken-fried steak and onion rings on the menu. No tofu pizza or lentil soup. Framed nude photos of Madonna, Keith Moon, Cindy Crawford, and Sylvester Stallone on the walls. Antique Wurlitzer jukebox loaded with stuff that can't be sold without a parental warning sticker on the cover.
No screaming kids, either.
Cops would shut down this place if most people knew it existed. Or maybe not. Several guys hanging out at the bar look like off-duty cops. Cops need a place to have a smoke and drink, too, y'know.
