Lights in the Deep (17 page)

Not bad, for a brand new kid (adjectives for seniority being relative in the written arts; a “kid” in the field stands a good chance of being somewhere close to middle age.)

Maybe it was the fact that Mike was arbitrarily assigned to be the Writers of the Future judge who handed me my trophy on the stage? Maybe it was because Mike is a compulsive collaborator who greatly enjoys “paying forward” by helping new and up-and-coming writers any way he can? Maybe it was (as Mike has often told me) because I was wearing my U.S. Army dress blues the night of the big awards ceremony, so that when Mike was later asked to write a military story for a war-themed science fiction anthology, he remembered me, and thought I might be able to bring my military experience to the mix—if we collaborated?

Of course, Mike doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He likes to work with beginners, but he prefers to work with beginners who are also
winners.
And by the time Mike and I got around to completing our first story together—picture Rocky Balboa and Mickey Goldmill, sweating it out—I’d already sold several more stories to
Analog
magazine, and had picked up an
Analog
Analytical Laboratory readers’ choice award for my first
Analog
publication. A rarity, given the fact that when my story “Outbound” was published, nobody knew who I was, and the story had to win the readership on its own merits. Something I am still proud of to this day.

Mike respects the science fiction digests. Thus I think he trusted my progress. I believe he looked at what I was doing, and he decided that I was the kind of guy who would be worth his effort.

That Mike and I would go on to build a genuine friendship was purely a matter of serendipity.

Not everyone in the genre—or the business—has the kind of personality that meshes with everyone else’s. In fact, there are times when it seems like the genre is filled to overflowing with personalities bound and determined
not
to mesh.

Mike was never like that.

So while I had managed to brush up against a few professionals who treated me like I’d crawled out from under a rock (you have to love people who pat themselves on the back for being “open minded” and then stick their noses in the air at the first sign of actual difference) Mike was one of the first noteworthy pros in the field to take a look at me, and reach out his hand. As if to say, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid, we’re glad to have you.”

And that’s been precisely Mike’s attitude with me ever since.

I can’t ever hope to repay him for how much he’s helped me. In big and small ways. By opening doors, passing along advice, teaching me craft, giving me caveats and fair warnings about the business, as well as nudging me into professional circles where I might not have had the temerity (or permission) to tread on my own.

I said before that Mike’s a compulsive collaborator who loves to help new people just coming into the field.

I learned that there’s a phrase for such people: Mike’s Writer Children.

Not bound by flesh or blood, we are Mike’s progeny just the same.

Because he has
invested
in us.

Time. Wisdom. Opportunities.

And a whole lot more.

Mike Resnick has literally welcomed me into his home, where he and his lovely wife Carol have treated me like a son.

I’ve sat in Mike’s basement office with him at four in the morning, watching old recordings of World Science Fiction Convention speeches by some of the lates and the greats in the genre.

I’ve sat on panels with Mike—as both a student and a collaborator.

I’ve walked across the “name bridge” that’s formed when I mention to other professionals—in passing—that Mike knows and has worked with me.

Thus the foundation of my career is one Mike Resnick has largely helped me to construct. And for no apparent reason other than the fact that Mike just likes to
help.
Because Mike loves science fiction the way a sculptor loves clay or marble. The way a horse racing aficionado adores the track and follows the Triple Crown. The way an outdoorsman loves fly fishing or the autumn hunt.

Mike very much cherishes the field, and is concerned with ensuring that the field continues to be peopled with competent, capable, talented writers who can all keep growing the genre and making it wonderful. Even long after Mike’s gone.

So, in a sense, we are Mike’s legacy. As much as his own works and publications.

And for this reason I am proud to be counted among his kids.

Mike’s selected other Writer Children since he selected me.

I’ve met and become friends with several. They are, without fail, quality people. Like Mike himself.

If the genre tends to be a bit cliquish, I think the circle of Mike Resnick’s Writer Children is just about the best kind of club one could hope to belong to. For the simple fact that being Mike’s Writer Son demands that I keep up my game! Mike’s spent time on me. I want to make sure that Mike never has to regret it. That he never has to look at what I am accomplishing in the field and shake his head, thinking,
if only that boy would work harder, make better decisions, maybe take better care of his opportunities….

So far, so good.

Thanks, Mike, for everything.

It’s an honor and a pleasure to have you as my Writer Dad.

Footprints

Martha’s little pink boots fought for purchase as she walked slowly across the chilled driveway. Soft motes of white fluff fell silently across the yard, partially obscuring snow-laden trees down by the old two-lane road that linked Martha’s small home with the rest of Eastern Washington. The storm had piled up five inches since dawn, and it looked like there would be many more inches to come before the day was through.

Martha’s mother stood at the open garage, steam pluming from her nostrils and an old snow shovel in her gloved hands. Sweat had beaded on Martha’s mother’s forehead during the half an hour it had taken her to clear a path down the driveway to the blacktop, and strands of hair were stuck to her flushed face.

“Watch your step, Mar. You’ll crack your head open if your feet come out from under you.”

Martha turned back, young brown eyes peering out from under the drawn hood of her pink plastic Powerpuff Girls overcoat. She remembered the previous winter when Dad had stood in the garage, with the same sweat on his forehead and the same shovel in his hand, a smile on his face. This year there was only Mom, and Dad wouldn’t be driving them to the grocery and hardware stores in town like he used to. It had only been three months since Dad had left for Boston on business, and never returned.

“It’s okay Mom,” Martha’s six-year old voice peeped from under her hood, “Dad will catch me if I fall. Dad’s always around us. Grandma told me so.”

An evolution of expressions passed quickly over Martha’s mother’s face: sadness, anger, rage, all of which rapidly drained to be replaced by a soft smile of adoration.

“I’m sure he is, Mar,” Mom said with water brimming on her lower eyelids.

Martha smiled back at her mother, then turned and continued the slow trek across the driveway towards the heaps of whiteness that Mom had recently built at the edges of the cement. Heaped snow was more fun than any sand pile, much softer and more magical. You could even eat it when you got thirsty, its icy coolness rivaling that of any slushee from the gas station in town.

“Let’s hurry up and get going,” Mom said, running a gloved hand across her face to wipe away both sweat and tears. “I’ve got half a mind to get us a snow blower when we’re in town today. We might need it just to get back up to the garage when we get home.”

Martha stayed where she was.

“You can play in the snow when we get back,” Mom said reassuringly in response to Martha’s pouting expression.

Martha considered for a moment, then she took two more quick steps to the edge of the concrete, and planted a foot solidly into the white. She pulled away and admired the imprint of her sole in the soft snow—a relief pattern of ridges.

Her mark of ownership having been properly placed on this front yard of virgin delight, Martha pivoted on a tiny heal and slowly walked back across the driveway and into the garage, silently promising herself she would return to that untouched white world and play her tiny butt off.

Mom reached an arm over Martha’s head towards the 1997 Ford and popped the handle on the door, pulling it open. Martha scrambled in….

• • •

…and Mom closed the door behind her. Martha sat quietly in the old Ford, having long since outgrown the various car seats that Mom had purchased over the years. The vinyl dashboard was cracked in several places, the air conditioning was shot, and the heater was stuck on permanent defrost. The truck’s paint was chipped and streaks of rust shown through at the seams in the metal paneling. Hardly a dream car for a teenager, but Martha relished the fact that in a few more months Mom would be buying a new car, and the Ford would belong to Martha.

Snow fell quietly beyond the open mouth of the garage. Water dripped from the blades of the gas-driven plow that had served them faithfully for so many years, and now rested in its customary place after yet another successful clearing of the driveway.

It had been Martha’s job to clear the walk and the driveway, ever since she had grown tall enough to handle the blower. She wondered what it would be like in a few months to be behind the wheel of the old Ford, a newly minted driver’s license in her pocket and the road stretching before her. It would beat the hell out of taking the bus or, on days like these, having Mom drive her all the way in to school.

“You’re ready for that state exam?” Mom asked as she opened her own door to the truck cab, climbed in, and then inserted the keys into the ignition. Mom’s hair was now streaked with strands of gray, and lines were drawn all across her face.

“Yup,” Martha replied. “Studied for two hours after school all last week, and three hours a day over this weekend. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I hope so,” Mom commented as the engine coughed to life, and they slowly rolled out of the garage and into the gray-white dawn. “Those math scores will get you into the Jump Start program more than anything else will. Instead of your junior year in highschool, you could be a freshman in college next fall.”

Martha nodded eagerly. That was another reason why she was anxious to get her hands on the Ford. She’d need some wheels if she wanted to go away to a big school with a good science program. But first things first. The state exam waited.

As the battered family car rolled through the blanketed landscape, past trees and fence posts and other farm houses, all draped in perfect white solitude, Martha worked to clear her mind of doubts. Dad had once told her that the only obstacles in life were the ones people made for themselves, and she quietly prayed that the spirit of her father, gone a decade now since September, would be by her side in that classroom.

The highway was fairly clear, in spite of the snow. Just about everyone in these parts drove all-wheel drive cars and trucks.

Alas, there were always exceptions.

Two miles outside town, Martha and her mother spotted a car that had fishtailed off the side of the highway and into a drift. The trapped car was one of the new Korean hybrids, and its electric-driven motors whined piteously as it tried to free itself. Martha grabbed the cell phone in the door pocket at her calf, and started dialing for assistance as her mother slowed the Ford down….

• • •

…A man’s voice answered on the other end, “Highway Assistance, this is Doug.”

Martha breathed a sigh of relief as the male voice spoke out of the speakers on either side of her headrest. Snow was piling silently on the hood of her car, while gentle warm air blew through the cab.

“Hey Doug,” Martha said with relief, “I hate to do this to you guys on Christmas Eve, but I’m stuck.”

“No problem, ma’am. What model are you driving?”

“Nissan Everglide.”

“What year?”

“Sixteen.”

“Super. Just touch the orange button on the emergency panel and we’ll download your position. How much juice do you have left on your fuel cells?”

“Four hours,” Martha said as she touched the variable display padscreen on her dashboard.

“Fine…Okay, I’ve got a truck about twenty minutes from you. Just stay put and keep your emergency blinkers on. We’re having some interesting weather out there this holiday, but we’ll get to you.”

“Thanks Doug.”

The car’s internal phone hung up, leaving Martha alone in her vehicle once more. The hydrogen fuel cells would provide power to keep her warm and comfy until the tow arrived. She was seriously tempted to make a call to Mom, let her know about the successful NASA interview in Florida. It might not pay much right out of graduate school, but…the kind of
things
Martha would be doing! They needed good engineers for the new space stations being built. If Martha worked
really
hard, maybe she’d eventually get posted to flight status?

No. No phone call. This news was big. Mom deserved to hear it from Martha’s own lips. Mom had worked so hard and sacrificed so much after Dad had been taken from them.

Martha smiled to herself as she watched snow falling. In some ways she still hoped that Dad was out there, watching. So much of him was just a faded memory now, a composite of images and sounds and smells. She hoped he was proud of her, wherever he was. If he was anywhere at all.

Mom was re-married now, had been since Martha’s second year in college. It had taken Martha some time to get over that, but now that she was getting involved with men herself, she thought she could understand. How lonely it must have been for Mom to raise Martha, alone. It was good that Mom had someone again. Frank was a decent fellow, who got along with his stepdaughter okay. Mostly he adored Mom, which was all really that mattered.

The tow truck appeared from around the bend in the road, and it came to a halt near the bumper of Martha’s snowbound Everglide. A husky-looking woman piled out of the truck cab in a cold-weather parka and boots, and headed towards the driver’s door of the Everglide. Martha waved at the approaching servicewoman, opened her own door….