FSF, August-September 2009

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  Spilogale, Inc.

  www.fsfmag.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Spilogale, Inc.

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  August/September * 60th Year of Publication

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  NOVELETS

  THE ART OF THE DRAGON by Sean McMullen

  A TOKEN OF A BETTER AGE by Melinda M. Snodgrass

  THE BONES OF GIANTS by Yoon Ha Lee

  THE OTHERS by Lawrence C. Connolly

  THREE LEAVES OF ALOE by Rand B. Lee

  THE PRIVATE EYE by Albert E. Cowdrey

  ESOTERIC CITY by Bruce Sterling

  SHORT STORIES

  YOU ARE SUCH A ONE by Nancy Springer

  HUNCHSTER by Matthew Hughes

  ICARUS SAVED FROM THE SKIES by Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud

  POEMS

  OBSOLETE THEORIES by Sophie M. White

  CLASSIC REPRINTS

  THE GODDAMNED TOOTH FAIRY by Tina Kuzminski

  SNOWFALL by Jessie Thompson

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  BOOKS by Elizabeth Hand

  FILMS: SWATCHMEN by Lucius Shepard

  COMING ATTRACTIONS by

  CURIOSITIES by Patricia A. Martinelli

  COVER BY CORY AND CATSKA ENCH

  GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

  BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

  ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

  KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

  HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

  JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

  CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

  JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 117, No. 1 & 2, Whole No. 684, August/September 2009. Published bimonthly by Spilogale, Inc. at $6.50 per copy. Annual subscription $39.00; $49.00 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2009 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Curtis Circulation Co., 730 River Rd. New Milford, NJ 07646

  GENERAL AND EDITORIAL OFFICE: PO BOX 3447, HOBOKEN, NJ 07030

  www.fandsf.com

  Department: EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder

  There are several items of news to note with this issue.

  First, the process of switching to a bimonthly schedule caused a glitch in our subscription system. Nobody's subscription was affected, but the mailing labels for April/May issue had the wrong expiration dates on them. I think it's fixed now, but if you're in doubt about your subscription expiration date, check the label on your March 2009 issue or contact us.

  On a related note, we've had more reports of subscribers who have been deceived by subscription offers from rogue agents. These offers come through the mail and they're often designed to look like renewal notices, but they're not authorized by us. They usually have high rates and stringent terms (like charging a fee if you want to cancel a subscription). If you receive a renewal notice, check to see that its return address is P.O. Box 3447 in Hoboken, NJ. If it's not, the renewal notice is not authorized by us.

  For ebook readers, the news here is that we'll be available for sale through Sony very soon (I think we'll be available by the time you receive this issue, but I'm not sure). Check our www.FandSF.com Website for more info. (And if you still have www.fsfmag.com as our site, please update your records. We sold that domain name to a fishing magazine earlier this year.)

  The last news item is the most exciting. I don't know why we never tried this before, but F&SF is going to begin hosting a writing workshop.

  We're fortunate to have the great Gardner Dozois running the show. I'm sure most of our readers know Gardner already, but just in case, he's the author of dozens of short stories (his most recent F&SF story is “Counterfactual,” which appeared in our June 2006 issue) and he edited Asimov's Science Fiction magazine from 1984 to 2004. He also has decades of experience with writing workshops and is widely considered one of the best story doctors in the field.

  All F&SF readers should benefit from Gardner's workshop work, because he's going to have the option of selecting stories from the workshop for publication in F&SF. We're currently planning to run Gardner Dozois selections three times a year. (Writers, fret not: I won't be reading the workshop stories myself, so you can still submit your stories to F&SF regardless of what anyone in the workshop makes of the story.)

  The workshop will be administered by Lisa Rogers, a former editor for Gollancz and Little, Brown.

  Initially, the workshop will be available online only and the site will have a private message board to go with the critiquing.

  Until the workshop is firing on all cylinders, we're limiting the membership to 100 people. You can find the membership prices and other information at www.FandSFworkshop.com.

  Frankly, I'm very excited about the prospects for this new project and I think all of our readers will benefit from it.

  Novelet: THE ART OF THE DRAGON by Sean McMullen

  Sean McMullen's most recent F&SF story was “The Spiral Briar” in our April/May 2009 issue. He says he is currently expanding that story into a novel. He is also collaborating with artist Grant Gittus on a children's fantasy book called Lost Toys. His new story concerns a man who was in the right place at the right time. Or is that the wrong place at the wrong time?

  I was there when the dragon first appeared—and ate the Eiffel Tower. I was standing on the Quai Branly, taking a video of the tower from beside one of its legs, when there was a great gust of wind and the dragon swept into the viewfinder. It began at the top, biting off sections and gulping them down. It made no attempt to attack people, but neither did it make any effort to spare them. Two hundred and ten were crushed beneath its feet and tail, and seventeen were killed by falling pieces of tower. Another ninety were never accounted for, and were presumed eaten.

  I stayed as long as I did through sheer paralysis. My camera was on a tripod, and continued to record while I stood gaping upward in disbelief as wreckage crashed down all around me. Every so often the dragon would snort clouds of dust into the air, and this settled on me like a fine, black drizzle. I do not remember deciding to run, but having done so, I recall thinking that I was doing something incredibly stupid. Surely the dragon would notice me and swat me like an insect, but it did not happen. I eventually stopped when my legs jellied from the exertion, and I fell headlong.

  Forcing myself to look back was not at all easy. Were I to see the Eiffel Tower intact, I would know I was insane. All around me I could hear shouting, however, and the word “dragon” was being used quite a lot. This made it easier to look back. The thing was eating delicately and methodically, and by now had consumed half of the tower. I looked down at my hands, then rubbed some of the black dust between my fingers. It was gritty, like a very fine abrasive. The dragon continued to munch on the tower as helicopters began to circle. One fired a pair of rockets that exploded against its head. It ignored the attack. There were more rockets and explosions, but none had any
effect.

  I cringed as the dragon reared up and looked about, but humans did not seem to interest it. As it turned, the tip of its tail swept through the air above me, yet I was crouching almost a mile from where the tower had stood. It crossed the river, followed the road—more or less—then began to eat the Louvre. I tried to stand up, but felt strangely weak. Someone grabbed me beneath my arms and began dragging me back.

  "Monsieur, vous devez aller à l'hôpital!"

  Hospital? Only now did I realize that something had gashed my left arm, and that I was losing a lot of blood. I had noticed no pain at all.

  On a television in the hospital's outpatients area I learned that the dragon had gone on to visit Notre Dame Cathedral, the Gardens of Luxembourg, and several other outstandingly beautiful places before flying away. Nobody on camera was talking about the fact that artwork was being eaten. I saw at least a minute of the dragon taken with my own camera. Gradually the picture deteriorated as dust settled on the lens, then the broadcast cut to an interview with one of the helicopter pilots. He was distraught, almost insulted, that the dragon had ignored his attempts to attack it. I asked about my camera, pointing out that a video I had shot was being shown on the television. A nurse promised to make inquiries. I tried to call my family in London to say I was all right, but the lines were jammed.

  I discharged myself after another half hour. By now people with far worse injuries than mine were being brought in, and I doubted that I was likely to receive any more treatment for many hours. My arm had been sewn up, but they also had ideas about giving me a blood transfusion. Being a confirmed hypochondriac, that prospect had me close to panic. I had to stop to rest after every block, but eventually I reached the Gare du Nord. Even though I was expecting the worst, the trains were still running. I settled into my seat and watched Paris glide past beyond the window, ignoring the other passengers who were exchanging stories about the dragon. Apart from a large number of military helicopters in the air, all seemed normal. Beyond the city, the French farmlands were untouched.

  On the British side of the Channel Tunnel everything seemed just as normal, but that did not last for long. The train stopped on the edge of Greater London, and there was an announcement that St. Pancras station had been eaten. Nobody seemed to know what to do with the passengers from my Eurostar train, which was meant to terminate there. After a dozen attempts to phone my brother, I finally got through.

  "Scott, you're alive!” he shouted into the mouthpiece.

  "Alive, yes, and I don't suppose I need to tell you about Paris?"

  "No, course not. Big hero, you are, taking those vids from right under the dragon when it ate the Eiffel Tower. It's been on the television. They even interviewed me."

  Someone must have found my name and email address etched on the underside of the camera, I realized.

  "Charles, can you get on your scooter and pick me up?"

  "You're not in Paris?"

  "No, I'm back in London, somewhere near the Orbital. There are no trains, the busses and cabs are crammed solid, and even if I could get onto something with a motor, the roads are gridlocked."

  "Why not just tell me where you are and they'll send a helicopter."

  "A helicopter? And who are they?"

  "Defense people, they're here now, in the house."

  "What do they want with me?"

  "You got the best close-up pictures of the dragon eating the Tower. That makes you an expert on it."

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  I was flown to some small, secure military base to the south of London, but was told nothing by those in the helicopter. Once on the ground I was taken straight to a briefing room. Here a team of interrogators questioned me very closely, going over the same questions again and again, each time phrasing them a little differently.

  "So you arrived in Paris yesterday morning?"

  "Yes, by train."

  "Why did you go there?"

  "I got my doctorate in art history last week. I was going to spend a weekend in Paris, looking at art for fun instead of study for a change."

  "You have a Ph.D. in art history, yet you drive a delivery truck for a living?"

  "Well, you try getting any other job with a Ph.D. in art history."

  "Why were you taking videos of the Eiffel Tower at the very moment that the dragon appeared?"

  My patience snapped.

  "Well, you know how it is. Don't get to spend much quality time with the dragon, so I thought I'd vid some of those little domestic moments, like mealtimes."

  "Mister Carr—"

  "Doctor Carr to you."

  "Your flippant attitude is not going to achieve anything."

  "Neither are your damn aggressive questions! Are you saying that I summoned a two-mile-long golden dragon with a silly grin from Dragonland, or wherever dragons come from?"

  "Er ... well, did you?"

  I was finally given a break, and was shown into a room where my brother was waiting. We were left alone, and I flopped into a chair and closed my eyes.

  "Charles, just what happened in London, apart from St. Pancras?"

  "You're kidding! You don't know?"

  "I've been told nothing."

  "Well, a lot of stuff is gone. The station, the big museums and galleries, Tower Bridge, the Boadicea statue ... oh, and it scoffed Buckingham Palace, how could I forget? The British Library got pretty well trashed too, but they think that was an accident. You know, St. Pancras was so close."

  "Where is the dragon now?"

  "Last saw it in Amsterdam on the telly, just before the spooks arrived and asked about you."

  We were being monitored, that was certain. Doubtless our conversation was a great disappointment to those listening.

  "So what happens now?” asked Charles.

  "The bad cop has had words with me, so I imagine it's the turn of the good cop."

  "What are you going to say?"

  "I'll say what the bad cop did not give me a chance to say. I hope he gets a kick in the arse and a demotion."

  "Can you tell me?"

  "Well, Charles, funny you should ask. The dragon is eating art."

  "Art? You're daft. It's just doing a Godzilla on the big cities. If it weren't real, I'd say it was just a cheap movie. Did you see its silly grin? Spoils the whole effect."

  "It's not only attacking works of art, it's choosing those of the greatest symbolic value and highest visibility. Just you watch. In every city that it visits, only the great cathedrals, palaces, galleries, and monuments will go."

  "But why?"

  "If I knew that, Charles, the spooks bugging this room would be treating me a lot more politely."

  As it happened, the treatment given to me improved anyway, and I soon realized that I had been declared someone important. The dragon was eating art, I was some sort of authority on art, and I had been closer to the dragon than any other art authority who was still alive. I was taken to an operations room, where I was given a very detailed briefing while real-time pictures of the dragon eating bits of Berlin played on large screens. In the days that followed I spent much of my time here, being briefed about the dragon's position, and watching live coverage of what it was doing. The pattern was always the same. It arrived at a city, methodically munched its way through whatever prominent artistic works took its fancy, then flew on.

  St. Petersburg suffered terribly, and there were tears on my cheeks as I watched the dragon devour the Church of the Saviour. From there it left for Moscow, and it was about halfway there and five miles above open farmland when it was struck by a missile with a one megaton warhead. The explosion had no effect whatsoever. By then I had been co-opted into a group of experts called the Dragon Advisory Committee, and within the hour we were shown coverage of the attack taken from a monitor jet that had been shadowing the dragon at a safe distance. Nobody tried to stop it after that.

  Weeks passed, and I was astounded by how very quickly humanity adjusted to the idea of a two-mile-long dragon touring the wo
rld and eating artwork. Museums and galleries were avoided by everyone with any sense and general tourism dropped off as well, but airlines continued with reduced schedules. In some cities there were mass bonfires of paintings, while the prices of designer houses plunged. Martial arts academies were renamed martial skills academies, academies of fine arts just got their signs taken down, and universities expanded other faculties into empty arts buildings. Jackhammers were applied to pavement mosaics, murals were painted over, and public sculptures were either smashed or loaded onto dredging barges to be dumped at sea.

  All the while the Dragon Advisory Committee studied the dragon, but the few facts that had been gathered together about it made little sense. All attempts to communicate, negotiate, or fight had been ignored. It was two miles long, with a wingspan of three. Measurements of the footprints put its weight at only a million tons. When the thing moved it made a metallic, booming sound. The conclusion was that it was both hollow and metal. The nature of the metal was a mystery. It looked like gold. If it were metal and hollow, then what was inside? Air, according to computer models. It was an immense shell over not very much. The dragon did not digest the debris of what it had eaten, it pulverized them, then exhaled the dust. This was determined by the way that its weight remained constant.

  My next contribution was to compare our immense visitor to the dragon ships of the Vikings. During the centuries that politically correct historians no longer call the Dark Ages, the dragon ships brought fearsome Norse warriors to Britain. They looted treasures, took slaves, burned much of what could not be carried, then sailed home.

  "So you think it's a ship?” asked the secretary of the Dragon Advisory Committee. “A spaceship, perhaps, shaped like a dragon?"

  "It could be."

  "Not a robot? Not a real dragon with metal armor?"

  "You wanted theories, I am just giving you another theory."

  "A dragon full of alien Vikings, perhaps?” asked a sociologist named Glenda.