ASIM issue 55 Page 5

  Cobalt Blue paused for a moment to reflect off the lenses of the CCTV cams (she was genuinely terrified, but also up for re-election in six years’ time) then nodded. “You’ve got it,” she said. “They’re going to invade us.”

  (continued in Part Three)

  International Guest of Honour

  Nalo Hopkinson

  International Editor Guest of Honour

  Marc Gascoine

  Fan Guest of Honour

  Rose Mitchell

  Australian Guest of Honour

  Karen Miller

  Special Guest

  Kaaron Warren

  Rydges Capital Hill, Barton ACT, April 25-28, 2013

  www.conflux.org.au

  Bobby, You’re My Boy

  …Richard O’Brien

  I was sitting on my back porch

  bent on firing up a doobie

  and altering my present state of mind

  when I saw a flaming torch

  and some old dude came walking to me—

  like to stick it where the sun don’t ever shine.

  I said, “Howdy there, torch bearer

  on this blossomed sweet sierra

  have you come in peace or ready to destroy?”

  He said—

  “I’ve come from hell to heaven

  if your name is Bobby Devlin.”

  I said, “It is.”

  And he said, “Bobby, you’re my boy.”

  Now there’s a verbal num-chuck

  to leave one horror bully dumb-struck—

  I thought my daddy died inside a jail.

  Now I’m not big on sorrow

  but here was my tomorrow—

  some old hippie, in his sixties

  skipping bail.

  He said, “I know I hurt your mother

  when I cut and run for cover

  but the time had come for me to redeploy.

  Now I’ve heard that you’re a cruiser—

  a user and a loser.”

  I said, “I am.”

  And he said, “Bobby, you’re my boy.”

  This was my Road to Damascus moment—

  I stood and said, I think you’re right

  tears flowed from years of inner torment

  then I left him standing in the purple night.

  All my life I’d been a phoney—

  my own damned one and only

  I couldn’t see the selfish me in selfless eyes

  betraying all who’d known me

  saying, you will never own me

  weaving then believing my own lies.

  Now I’m standing on the front porch

  of the two that I hold dearest

  and together we have found the road to joy

  and I say to little Bobby,

  “Bobby, do you love your mommy?”

  He says, “I do.”

  And I say, “Bobby, you’re my boy.”

  The New House

  …Kate Rowe

  It was a clear light, a beautiful autumn day. Murray walked back and forth along the highway, waiting for the real estate lady. His boots and stick made sharp crunching sounds, as rocks were crushed to sand under his weight. He took in the wide dust fields across the road from the property. The plunging valley. The dark rising mountain beyond. It looked like a volcano.

  The wind blew and raised a cloud of dust. Murray shielded his eyes with both skinny forearms. He climbed the driveway, and took shelter on the balcony of the house.

  He had not been so close to a live house in a year. It looked pretty from the outside. It had square windows with green sills. A balcony woven tightly of vines, fronds and bamboo. In front, several tall trees sheltered the house from too much sun. It took little breaths, slow ones, almost imperceptible. It was still very young. A lovely little live house. Murray smiled at it, even as he felt his heart ache.

  The real estate lady’s car appeared, a shining pinprick on the vast horizon. Murray brushed the dust from his checked shirt and ran a hand through his hair. His reflection in the smooth window was humorous. A young scarecrow, out for a stroll on a windy day. He was still too skinny, but at least he was looking healthier, he thought.

  The car arrived, and proceeded slowly up the driveway with a cracking of rocks. The real estate lady waved and cut the ignition. Dust rose from beneath the tyres.

  “You must be Murray,” she said, disentangling herself from the seatbelt and stepping out. She was much older than he, shiny and well-groomed. “Welcome to Dorrigen, dear.”

  “Thanks,” said Murray.

  “Beautiful country, isn’t it?” she said, climbing the stairs and shaking his hand. “So wild.”

  “Yes,” said Murray. “Stark.”

  “This is the only oasis, at least for the next four hundred Ks. We’ve had the house under observation for several years, as I told you on the phone,” said the lady, fumbling in her handbag. “Three years old, and still growing. Very bright at night.”

  She pressed a keychain to open the door. “Here we are. Bedrooms one and two. Here’s the loving room—that’s what you call it, right?”

  Murray nodded.

  “My Dad was a marshal too, bless his heart,” said the lady. “He would have loved this little place. Now, out the back here is the third bedroom, or perhaps a study, not sure what it’s planning. Bathroom through here. Sweet little kitchen. I’ll leave you to look around, shall I? I need to make a few calls anyway, so I’ll be on the balcony if you need me.”

  “Thank you,” said Murray, and she smiled and left him.

  He took his time. There was not a lot of sunlight—that would be the trees out the front—but on the other hand it was cool. It was sheltered, and completely isolated, yet the town was only an hour’s walk away.

  The bathroom ceiling was a very pale membrane, just enough to keep in the heat while letting in light. It was a calm green room, rather like the inside of a giant leaf. The natural waterfall had been directed through a spout. Murray tried the taps and was pleased with the flow. A good surgeon had been at work here. The kitchen fittings were also discreet, working with the house’s natural growth. Both the kitchen and loving room were warm and pleasant.

  He strolled through the bedrooms. The floors were taut and smooth, with a colour that spoke of deep roots. The walls were well-formed and soft to the touch, rather like the skin of a paperbark drum. In the labs the live houses were bred pale, white or cream. But these walls were brindle, a motley combination of enthusiastic curves, stripes and sweeps. White, fawn, dusky pink and deep brown. This was a thriving house. He rested his palm on the soft wall. After a minute he laid his cheek alongside it. He closed his eyes. The young house fluttered a little and was still. Soon it was matching his breathing and busily pulling away some of his sadness. After a minute or so, a little lamp above his head on the wall switched itself on.

  Murray smiled, but it was a sad smile, still.

  He opened his eyes to find that the real estate lady had returned, and was regarding him sympathetically. He felt briefly very young, but breathed in slowly and calmly and met her gaze.

  “Converting already,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s a friendly little place,” she said. “Eager to please, and a hard worker I’d say. You haven’t worked with a self-seeder before?”

  “No,” he replied. “The last house I … was lab-made. Do you …? Did you …?”

  “Yes, the Constabulary did mention it. When they told me you were coming, you know,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Murray. Rough, for a young man like you.”

  Murray looked down. “I had considered leaving the trade,” he said. “But I’m told I’ll get over it, in time.”

  The calmness of his voice amazed him. The lady nodded.

  “The Constabulary are keen to have you,” she said. “And I’d say this little one’ll see you right. A real faithful friend. And I think it likes you.”

  “That’d be nice,” said Murray. Another lamp blinked on. Murray and the lady laug
hed.

  “Can I see the bones?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, and took him to the third bedroom, where a section of the skin was pulled taut and buttoned against the wall. It was good work, Murray thought. They had obviously taken good care of the place as it grew.

  “Who’s been keeping it?” he asked.

  “That’s Veronica Matthews,” she said. “At the nursery. She’s real handy, and she knows a little about self-seeders. But of course we got a proper surgeon in to do all the health checks, and to have all the bits put in. Perhaps another six months before it’s big enough to be plugged into the town grid.”

  “Yes, I’d say so,” Murray agreed.

  The real estate lady unfastened the buttons on the wall with some difficulty, and gently peeled back the skin to reveal the skeletal structure, protected by a clear glass observation surface.

  “There we are,” she said. “Nice and strong.”

  The bones glowed green in the dim daylight. Murray thought they would give a nice light when he was up working late, even without the lamps.

  “And the garden,” said the lady, and slid open the back door. Rattle of wood, then trickling water. The garden was green and very quiet. It seemed to be holding its breath. A small cat slid through the bamboo stalks and vanished through a hole in the fence. You’d never know the vast plains were there, sprawling away to nothing in the distance.

  Murray liked the whole place. It felt traitorous to think so, but he did.

  He was reluctant to leave the house so soon, but he followed the lady outside and watched her shut the door, then walked down the dusty driveway with her.

  “So, you’ve got my card,” she said. “Take your time and let me know what you think.”

  Murray nodded.

  “And Murray … It’s not my place to tell you what to do. But I know you marshals. It’s better if you work. Better for you, and better for us. You haven’t worked much since …?”

  “Since my old house died. No.” He paused. It didn’t hurt too much. He breathed out. “And no, I don’t feel too good about it. I shut my receptors down. I tried some office work at my old Constabulary. It was okay. Sort of. But of course something’s always missing. And, I mean, I’m still recovering. But …”

  “You’ve been through a lot. But I think you’ll be happy here, dear. Seems like a good match. And we could really use a marshal in Dorrigen. Not just for the electricity but, you know, the state of things. Besides, we can’t let this little one here run wild.”

  Murray nodded.

  “Can I give you a lift into town?” she asked.

  “No thanks,” said Murray. “I need to walk every day, quite a lot, so …”

  “Of course,” said the lady, “just like my Dad,” and let him be. The shining car pulled away and grew smaller and smaller ahead of him.

  The wind had died down now. A few clouds in the blue sky. Murray passed quiet, empty fields, lone trees, and nothing else for kilometres. An occasional raven landed nearby to caw, but that was all. His strength was returning. Soon he wouldn’t need the stick at all.

  The sun began to sink behind the volcano mountain, just as he was stepping onto the first paved road. Dusk. The first houses, at the outskirts of town. A lamplight flickered a couple of times and then shone warmly. Murray’s bones began to glow green through his skin, as if in sympathy. His mouth tightened, and he frowned. His contact with the house had started up his emotosynthesis again, whether he thought he was ready or not. He let it run, but he kept it carefully contained.

  The long, quiet walk was worth it, not just for the exercise, and the time to think, but also for the chance to prepare gradually for the town. The buildings, smokestacks and traffic increased in size and volume as he approached, and so did the feelings. The main street was a riot of colours, smells and emotions. Hookers leaned against doorways and chatted. Bright, brass cars jostled for places. Steam and occasional outbreaks of language burst from the streetside restaurants. One old woman struggled home with her shopping in bright canvas bags. People stared at Murray as he walked by, but instantly forgot him and looked away. He was like an invisible breeze, and where he passed there was a ripple of shoulders relaxing just a little and mouths turning up very gently at the corners.

  Two men in leather jackets shoved each other while a crowd looked on. As Murray moved by, the crowd seemed to lose interest in the fight, and began thinking about their dinners. The two men glowered at each other, but they let their grips loosen, and turned in opposite directions and walked away.

  Murray chose a Thai restaurant with a glowing neon sign. The waitress was young and slim, and reassuringly beautiful. She seemed to have no particular worries on her mind, to his relief. He ordered green chicken curry and a Chinese beer.

  He ate and drank slowly, watching the parade outside on Main Street. It wasn’t until it got really dark that he noticed a woman, a customer, staring at him in the reflection of the window.

  After a time she approached.

  “May I sit down?” she asked. “It’s lonely to smoke alone.”

  Murray took the cigarette she offered and she sat next to him.

  He looked sideways at her, carefully. She was older than forty. Blonde, wavy hair, with a good figure, but something he couldn’t pick yet. Drink, maybe. Pain.

  “I’m Elise,” she said. “I work at the mines.”

  “Murray,” he said. After a time he added, “I might be moving to Dorrigen.”

  “Where you living, baby?”

  “You a hooker?”

  “Sometimes,” said Elise. “Not tonight though.”

  “’Cause I’m not buying,” said Murray. “Just so you know.” She shrugged, looking him over as he finished the beer and ordered another.

  “What’s your game, Murray?” she asked. “You’re not a cop?”

  Murray thought. “I’ve been looking at the young place out back,” he said. “The live house.”

  “The live house? You’re a marshal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I never met a marshal before,” she said. She looked at his bare arms speculatively, looked up at the fluorescent light, looked back at his arms. Smoke curled from her mouth and nose as she studied him. He looked straight ahead at the dark street. A lady in a vibrant red jacket and fuchsia leggings was yelling at a police officer. A small crowd was gathering.

  “Is it true …?” began the blonde lady, but did not finish. They smoked awhile in silence. When she had finished the cigarette she stubbed it out, politely said good night and left the restaurant, looking peaceful. Some of the lines around her eyes seemed smoother. Murray was glad. He had begun to feel tired.

  He considered intervening in the struggle outside, but the police officer seemed to have it all in hand now. The red and fuchsia lady was still yelling, but less stridently now.

  He didn’t live here yet.

  Murray took out the papers the Constabulary had sent him and spread them out on the table. He was free to choose, in one way. But in another way, the choice had been made for him. That the house had appeared at all meant that the town needed a marshal. The house was now of an age to prove troublesome without proper guidance, so there was a moral duty. And as Murray’s own house was deceased, he was in need of grounding. They would pay him a Level 4 wage with upgrades every year. Murray thought he could channel the new house alright. And perhaps between them they could settle things down. Ease a few hearts, including his own. Take the edge off. And supply a little power in exchange, maybe.

  This might be a pretty place, he thought.

  He rang his family from a payphone on the street, later on.

  “How was it, Murray?” asked his mother. “We’ve been dying to know.”

  “It was good,” said Murray. “I think I might stay.”

  “Good, darling!” she said. “We were hoping so. Time to move on. Poor you.”

  Murray felt strangely moved and irritated all at the same time.

  “I gu
ess so,” he said.

  “Oh, darl. It won’t happen again. I promise you, sweetheart. Look, I was there, I saw how you were. I could have killed that house of yours—Oh, sorry. But, you know. And the lab.”

  “They didn’t know, Mum,” said Murray. “They know, now.”

  “Too greedy, that’s all,” she said. “Playing God. But you, darl, that’s not your problem now. You’ve got to work, got to get back on your horse.”

  Murray rolled his eyes, grinned, and asked about his sister. He heard the colourful family news of the week, his little sister’s achievements at university, his grandmother’s violin lessons, the remarkable new things said and done by the family parrot. He hung up the phone fairly happy, and stood there a minute, thinking, looking like a green skeleton in his checked shirt, bones glowing steadily in the dim streetlight. Sleeves flapping in the night breeze.

  Later in his hotel room—drab curtains, clean sheets—Murray touched the memory of the emoto-load his old house had dumped on him. He touched it gingerly. He no longer blamed himself for the death. The house simply could not handle large-scale human emotion, no matter what the lab said. And as times got tougher, and the population grew, processing only became more difficult for it. His own house had betrayed him, and it had hurt a lot. Although he had copped most of it, the town—his town, his responsibility—had also been rocked with unprocessed sadness. He felt he had been failed—by the house, by the lab. And in turn he had failed in his duty. He couldn’t save his house, couldn’t do anything but helplessly watch it wither.

  But there was no malice behind any of it. Only ignorance.

  Nature knew best, Murray thought. Live houses appeared when and where they were needed, and perhaps that was that. The electricity was a bonus, but no one would ever rely on it again. More houses did not mean better emotional drainage, and happier lives. It just meant more trouble when things went wrong. When a house became overloaded—Murray shied back from the thought this time, and instead ran the water into the kettle and made himself a cup of tea.