Rochester Rewritten: Rochester in the Alternative

By Nick DiChario

What would Rochester be like with a different history?

Rochester-area authors and poets take you on a journey through alternate histories, presents, and futures of our famous North Coast city. These Rochesters may not be places you recognize immediately, and you will soon see they are more unusual than you ever imagined. Welcome to Rochester in the alternative...

Foreword by Mike Resnick.

Featured stories:
“The Laws of Attraction” - Nick DiChario & Morgan Grant Buchanan
“Polaroid” - Jacob Pelow
“So Far Away” - David Pascal
“The Zauber City” - Steven Donner
“The Piper” - Margie Hillenbrand
“Harlequin Hunt” - Adele Ciccaglione
“Start Anywhere” - Rob Tyler
“Unconnected” - Don Voorhies
“High Falls” - Tom Moran
“Vixxed” - Kim A. Gillett
“Designing Rochester” - Ruhan Zhao
“Have Gavel, Will Travel” - Bo Shoemaker
“The Doctor of Chaos” - Len Messineo
“Thousand Worlds Gate” - Muxing Zhao
“Like Pharaoh Unto Joseph” - Gary A. Mitchell
“Secrets” - Flora Xia
“On the Skids” - Lynn Spitz
“A Few Acres of Snow” - Ted Wenskus
“A Man Outside” - Liam Henrie

Edited by David Henn, Jennifer Moser Jurling, Lynn Spitz, and Ted Wenskus

Cover design and photography by Alan Vincent Michaels

• Language: English
• Publisher: R-SPEC Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989962513

Nick DiChario

My short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. I have been nominated for the Hugo and a World Fantasy awards, and my first two novels, A Small and Remarkable Life (2006) and Valley of Day-Glo (2008), both received nominations for the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for Best Novel of the Year. I've held many jobs since I was just a lad, including paperboy, dishwasher at a Catholic seminary, creative writing professor, indie bookstore owner, education director for a non-profit literary center, and writer/editor of corporate communications. I am a graduate of St. John Fisher College, and I earned my master’s degree from Empire State College in New York, focusing mainly on literature, philosophy, and writing. I love to read and write, and I am a lifelong mistake-maker. I hope you are too!

Book preview

Rochester Rewritten

Rochester in the Alternative

Rochester Rewritten: Rochester in the Alternative

R-SPEC Press

Published by R-SPEC Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 R-SPEC Press.

Garbage Plate is a trademark of Nick Tahou Hots, Inc.

Maalox is a trademark of Novartis Consumer Health, Inc.

Polaroid is a trademark of PLR IP Holdings, LLC.

Cover design and photography by Alan Vincent Michaels.

Interior map by Ted Wenskus.

All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, prior, written consent of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters, apart from some well-known historical and/or public figures, are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any situations, incidents, and/or dialogues concerning otherwise real persons are entirely fictional, are not intended to depict actual events, and do not change the entirely fictional nature of the work(s). In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Any trademark, trade name, and/or business name used herein is the property of its respective owner to which neither the authors nor R-SPEC lay any claim of ownership. Usage of such marks and/or names, as well as any properties, incidents, qualities, and/or events described herein with respect thereto, is incidental and in the context of a work of fiction, is purely fictional, should in no way be interpreted as depicting actual events and/or opinions related thereto, nor as reflecting any actual opinion of the authors, members, and/or governing bodies of R-SPEC.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

ISBN 13: 978-0-9899625-1-3

First Edition

R-SPEC Press books are published by the Rochester Speculative Literature Association, Inc., a not-for-profit organization supported in part by contributions from its members.

Direct all correspondence to:

R-SPEC Press

Rochester Speculative Literature Association, Inc.

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Rochester, NY 14618

www.r-spec.org

Acknowledgments

As with our first project, this anthology was very much a team effort, even at the very beginning in deciding what the theme would be: alternative history short stories focused on the Rochester metro area.

We had a group of initial reviewers (Eric Scoles, Rob Tyler, Alicia Doty Henn, Tom Whittemore, and myself) who read all submissions, met to decide which works to include, and initially interacted with the authors. It then fell to me to put the book together, to edit the stories and the book overall, and to do all the other things that are involved with book production.

Life being what it is, other demands on my time grew so that the project languished, and I had to ask for help. Those who know me well will understand that asking for help is not an easy thing for me, but even I could see that it was necessary. Jennifer Moser Jurling, a professional copy editor and writer, fell from the sky and was a tremendous help in copy editing and generally providing impetus and enthusiasm for the work, for which I thank her very much.

Demands on my time continued to grow, and finally, with Alicia’s help, I was able to trick Ted Wenskus into taking over the project, as well as to lure Lynn Spitz, Alan Vincent Michaels, and Ruhan Zhao into helping as members of the Publishing Committee that finally produced this book. Say what you want about committees, but this group was fantastic, moving the project along, and offering all kinds of ideas. After all, Ted is a writer and editor in his own right, as well as an authority on certain exotic life forms that are prevalent in current fantasy/horror, Lynn is also a writer and editor, having recently published another anthology, Alan is a writer, poet, and designer, and Ruhan is an esteemed writer, editor, and translator of speculative fiction in China and the U.S.

We were lucky enough to have Alan volunteer to create the cover of our book, and he patiently weathered critiques of his work until we were done picking nits and settled on the cover you see.

Thank you all so much on my own behalf, on behalf of the authors of the works in this book, and on behalf of the members of R-SPEC. And, of course, I offer heartfelt thanks to the authors for their works and for their patience while waiting for the project to be completed.

David Henn

former Editor-in-Chief

R-SPEC Press

When I took over lead editorial duties for this anthology, my first step was to ascertain what exactly needed to be completed. It quickly became apparent that, while life’s demands had overtaken Dave’s bandwidth, his hard work over the previous year and a half had been meticulous on every level. His attention to detail and insight into each author’s work shows in every story, and he made the editorial transition easy and genuinely stress-free. For this and for his often-unacknowledged hard work behind the scenes, I offer my heartfelt thanks.

As Dave mentioned, completing this anthology was a true team effort. Every R-SPEC member involved in this project was invaluable, and I redouble my thanks to each one of them for their dedication and perseverance. And to our very patient authors, who have waited so long for this book to become reality, thank you for hanging in there.

Ted Wenskus

Editor-in-Chief

R-SPEC Press

Dedication

During the course of this project, Thomas N. Whittemore, one of our reader-reviewers and founding members, died. Tom had the ability to cut through to the heart of a matter, whether it be a problem with a story or a point of disagreement in a group discussion. He also was not afraid to tell people exactly what he thought, which wasn’t always pleasant, but was usually helpful. We dedicate this anthology to his memory.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword - Mike Resnick

The Laws of Attraction - Nick DiChario & Morgan Grant Buchanan

Polaroid - Jacob Pelow

So Far Away - David Pascal

The Zauber City - Steven Donner

The Piper - Margie Hillenbrand

Harlequin Hunt - Adele Ciccaglione

Start Anywhere - Rob Tyler

Unconnected - Don Voorhies

High Falls - Tom Moran

Vixxed - Kim A. Gillett

Designing Rochester - Ruhan Zhao

Have Gavel, Will Travel - Bo Shoemaker

The Doctor of Chaos - Len Messineo

Thousand Worlds Gate - Muxing Zhao

Like Pharaoh Unto Joseph - Gary A. Mitchell

Secrets - Flora Xia

On the Skids - Lynn Spitz

A Few Acres of Snow - Ted Wenskus

A Man Outside - Liam Henrie

FOREWORD

By Mike Resnick

ROCHESTER??? YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING!

Who’d ever have believed it?

An anthology of science fiction and fantasy stories about Rochester. Not New York. Not Paris. Not Hollywood. Not Rome. Not some lunar or Martian colony … but Rochester! Any rational person would have said it couldn’t be done.

You want to know something even stranger?

It’s damned good.

It’s just another example of a fact that is eventually known by just about every science fiction editor in the business: The more you handcuff science fiction writers, the more you restrict them and box them in and give them topics that you are sure will stifle creativity, the more totally unexpected ways they find to overcome those obstacles.

A couple of decades ago I was editing a series of alternate anthologies for Tor Books—Alternate Presidents, Alternate Tyrants, Alternate This, Alternate That, you know the routine … and then came the day they asked for Alternate Kennedys. I didn’t want to do it. I argued the subject matter was too restrictive. It would be almost as impossible to come up with a well-done, interesting anthology filled with twenty or more stories of Alternate Kennedys as it would to produce a fascinating, well-done anthology of, well, Rochester Rewritten stories.

And the result? (You saw this coming, right?) Four stories from the anthology made the Hugo ballot, more than from any anthology before or since. Which simply demonstrates a truism: The more you restrict what imaginative writers can do, the more they find incredibly creative ways around those restrictions—and of course that is precisely what has happened here.

And in retrospect, why should it be any more difficult to write evocative stories about Rochester than, say, an evocative story about a cornfield in Iowa where, if you build a baseball field, Shoeless Joe Jackson just might show up to play there? But until the stories manage to get themselves written, it seems a pretty daunting task, and I take my hat off to this talented group of Rochester writers who created and accepted the challenge.

There’s every likelihood that when people from other areas read this, we may find that Rochester Rewritten has started a trend.

You think not? Check out the field next door (mysteries), and what anthologies do you find? L. A. Noir, Manhattan Noir, Chicago Noir, New Orleans Noir, Paris Noir, Moscow Noir, Copenhagen Noir, Baltimore Noir, San Francisco Noir, even Wall Street Noir. So why not Sioux Falls Rewritten, Butte Rewritten, perhaps even State Street Rewritten? When they see how well Rochester Rewritten turned out (and they discover that it’s not even the first, that 2034: Writing Rochester’s Futures preceded it), you don’t even have to be a science fiction writer or an occultist to see what’s coming next.

I must confess to not knowing most of Rochester Rewritten’s contributors, whom I assume are either current or former Rochester or near-Rochester residents. But I know their writing now, and I’m properly impressed.

I do know a few of them, and can vouch for them. I bought Nick DiChario’s second story, and saw it make the Hugo and World Fantasy ballot while Nick himself was making the Campbell ballot. I bought a number of stories from him over the years, as have dozens of other editors and anthologists, and he and I actually collaborated on enough stories to eventually sell them as a collection (Magic Feathers: The Mike and Nick Show) about fifteen years ago. (I also plan to kidnap his mother—the best cook in the world—and chain her in my kitchen for the greater part of eternity, but that’s another story—and probably a non-fiction one.)

I’ve never met Morgan Grant Buchanan, but I’ve been corresponding with him for a few years, have been following his writing career with interest, and can vouch for his talent.

I don’t believe I’ve met Gary A. Mitchell in the flesh, but I’ve run into him a few times in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, where his stories never fail to impress and delight.

I met Ruhan Zhao at a science fiction convention in the Rochester area perhaps five years ago, and we became good friends and correspondents. (In fact, I’d have to say that he had even more to do with my recently selling a trio of my novels to China than I did.)

One day Ruhan showed me a story that his eleven-year-old son, Muxing, had written, and I immediately knew that, young as he was, he was only a couple of years away from being published … and I can state with pride that I bought the story for Galaxy’s Edge magazine that made him the youngest professional science fiction writer in history.

The others I know either casually or not at all … but I know this: They’re very good and wildly imaginative writers. In the coming pages you’ll read some fascinating and evocative science fiction and fantasy stories about Rochester’s waterfalls, Rochester’s tranquility, Rochester’s werewolves, Rochester’s interstate highway, Rochester’s cemetery, Rochester’s appearance (to a lizard, yet), Rochester’s robots, the monsters of Rochester’s Midtown Plaza, Rochester’s ghostly huntsmen, Rochester’s landmarks, the grim land beyond Rochester’s walls, and many other stories about the current, future, and alternate Rochester.

And you know what? None of them seems forced. Not a one. These were written by people who know their subject, who care about their subject, and who are anxious to share that knowledge and emotion with the reader. Despite the restrictions imposed by the subject matter, this is a startlingly good and imaginative anthology.

And, to repeat, it’s also a surprising anthology, in that a lifetime science fiction writer/editor (me) had no idea that anyone or any group could come up with so many fascinating stories about this pleasant little town in upstate New York that I’ve been privileged to visit a couple of times.

Kind of makes me want to visit it again. Next time I need an influx of skill and inspiration, I just may do so. It certainly worked for the writers in this book.

●

THE LAWS OF ATTRACTION

By Nick Dichario & Morgan Grant Buchanan

Morgan Grant Buchanan is an Australian writer of science fiction and fantasy. He has written for comics (Disciple, Zero Assassin), and film (Barrier), and he is currently collaborating with sci-fi actress Claudia Christian on Wolf’s Empire, a future Rome sci-fi series (coming soon from Tor). Babylon Confidential, the addiction memoir he wrote with Claudia Christian, is a bestseller on Amazon.com. Morgan is also the chief instructor at The Willow Tree School in Melbourne, Australia, where he teaches Taoism and tai chi.

Nick DiChario has published short stories in numerous magazines and anthologies in the United States and abroad. He has been nominated for the Hugo and World Fantasy awards, and his first two novels, A Small and Remarkable Life (2006) and Valley of Day-Glo (2008), both received nominations for the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for Best Novel of the Year. For many years Nick was the Director of Education at Writers & Books in Rochester. He is now living in St. Petersburg, Florida. His first novel has been recently optioned for film. You can visit Nick’s website at www.nickdichario.com.

In our first story, Rochester’s train of history has taken a very different track. Radically reimagining the New World of 1898, Nick and Morgan serve up a delectable blend of steampunk, comedy, and fantasy in The Laws of Attraction.

—

In the amazing New World many wonders are seen,

amongst the Queen’s colonies, in number, thirteen,

but the strangest of all live in Rochesterville,

which has many marvels, both man and machine.

In this town, in a house draped in vines,

lives a witch name of Alice, who is quite fond of wine.

She can sniff out a lie, and has only one eye,

and when drunk she can solve any crime.

Alice Munt, the guardian witch of Rochesterville, awoke with a blinding hangover, as she did on many a morning. She had been up a good portion of the night putting Amy and Isaac Post in touch with their dead relatives, and, as any good sister knew, the veil of the spirit world was best penetrated on a gut full of sherry.

Fitch, she cursed at no one in particular. Her mouth was bone dry, her one good eye failed to focus, and she had a headache of monumental proportions. Hangovers were an omen (often a good one), but a cripplingly bad hangover was a sure sign of a bad day.

Alice went through the ritual of preparing her morning cup of Hecate’s Ashes, a poor-quality blend that tasted like warm vinegar drunk from a dusty ashtray. Regardless, she felt the brew dampening the force of her headache, permitting her to think. If she could have afforded Greymalkin’s Potboiler, the witch’s blend of choice, then she might have obtained immediate relief from all her symptoms, but the British were not fond of Alice and her Massachusetts sisters. They had stockpiled the entire panoply of herbs and teas necessary for witches to perform their duties, releasing them in small amounts at high prices.

BOOM!

A sound like a thunderclap echoed in the distance, and Alice thought she felt her house leap up off its foundations. Her forehead throbbed ruthlessly, aggravated by the sound of a fist bang-bang-banging upon her front door.

Alice clutched at her ears in pain and croaked, Have mercy! Cease that God-awful racket!

Please, came the voice from the other side of the door. Things are falling apart out here!

Alice snatched her monocle off the nightstand, crossed the room, and swung open the door. The sign on it read:

Mistress Alice Munt

Witch of Rochesterville

Problems solved, both general and domestic

NO LOUD NOISES! PENALTIES APPLY!

Today’s curse is—

The sign had a small blackboard nailed to it, upon which was written: Head-Shrinking Curse of the Marquesas Islands.

Alice set the monocle in place and squinted. Ben, is that you?

A young man with a potbelly stood at her doorstep. His short frock coat was covered in soot, his knickerbockers were smudged with grease, and he seemed quite distressed.

Alice impatiently tapped one of her long fingernails upon the small blackboard. That’s yesterday’s curse. Before you make one more loud noise, let me tell you that today’s curse is Javanese in origin. It applies only to men but, happily, still involves the shrinking of bodily parts.

Ben, seemingly aghast and intrigued, automatically looked down at his crotch and then back up at Alice. You can do that? he whispered.

Another BOOM echoed in the distance, and the earth shook once more. The motion set off Alice’s full-fledged head-pounder again.

I’ve given you fair warning, Ben Franklin, she said, gritting her teeth.

It’s not me causing it, Alice, I swear. Look!

He pointed off to the distance, where she could see the buildings at the center of the city. Towering above them was a metal giant, spewing great jets of pressurized steam from vents as it moved. Its mighty fist shattered the crystal dome of the Hochstein Academy of Prismatic Musicology, releasing the tunes stored within it. The cacophony of musical styles leaked out into the sky, and even from such a distance Alice winced in pain.

I see, she said. So you’ve finished your electric brain, then?

Yes.

And you’ve put it inside the body of a hundred-foot high iron giant just for fun?

I was inspired by the story of the golem of Prague. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, for building bridges and laying track and such.

Ah. I see. And what happened to the golem of Prague in the end?

Young Ben frowned. My invention is not a golem exactly. It’s an iron giant.

Alice crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. What happened to the golem of Prague?

It ran amok and destroyed the city.

Bingo. I’d wager that it doesn’t seem like such a good idea now, does it?

No, I suppose it doesn’t. Although it pains me to admit you’re right.

The Kinematograph building was next; the mechano-man knocked its roof clean off. Projected light came flooding out, the giant’s metal frame became a makeshift screen, and the garbled music of the Academy provided a soundtrack to the warped images of Sir Wyatt Earp: High Sheriff of Her Majesty’s Wild, Western Colonies.

An iron giant, Ben! What were you thinking? Can’t you inventors invent things on a smaller scale? Is there a trade rule against it or something? You’ll all be the death of me. Alice pursed her lips in disapproval. In a town of mad inventors, Alice had learned that you had to suffer a hundred near-disasters before one good thing came of it. I don’t suppose there’s an off switch on that monstrosity, is there? she asked.

It didn’t seem necessary. I have a command station back at my workshop. I should have been able to control it from there without any difficulty. I don’t know what’s gone wrong.

The giant flattened City Hall with a swift kick. Clouds of dust and chunks of debris rose from the rubble. The monster paused for a moment to survey its handiwork. After a satisfied belch of steam, it began pulling lengths of steel from the ruins.

That’s where the problem began? At your workshop?

Ben nodded.

Quickly, then, let’s get there. Experience has taught me that the beginning is as good a place to start as any.

Alice threw on her cape and cowl, scooped up her fox-head staff, and dashed out to the curb with young Ben Franklin to hail a hansom cab.

Ahem, Ben said, nodding toward the street.

Alice stopped and looked over at the wheeled contraption that was parked in front of her house.

Your horseless carriage? I don’t think so.

You’ve been in it before. You know that it’s perfectly safe. We don’t have time to catch a cab, Alice. We need to get to the university as fast as we can.

Oh, fitch. All right, but I don’t want to make any attempts at flight today. We’ll stay on the ground if you please.

But—

She held up her hand, silencing him. I don’t care if it does have wings. It’s 1898, Ben, and we live in the invention capital of the world. If anyone was going to build a crash-proof flying car, they’d have done it by now.

Alice climbed up into the front seat, placed her hands in her lap, and steeled herself for the bone-shuddering ride along the cobblestone streets of Rochesterville.

Ben cranked the shaft at the front of his flying carriage. The engine coughed up a bucket of smoke and came to life with a frightful noise, which for some reason seemed to please the young man. The engine made a squeaking sound that reminded Alice of a chipmunk’s mating call.

I’ve given her a name, you know, he shouted over the din. Do you hear that noise? To my ear it sounds like ‘chit, chit, chit,’ and as I’ve modeled the wings on those of a hawk, I’ve decided to call her Chittyhawk.

I’m ecstatic for you.

The chassis trembled and rattled as if the whole thing might fall apart at the seams. Alice thought Deathsquawk might have been a more appropriate name.

Ben climbed in, and their bumpy journey began. In the distance, Alice saw the giant bending I-beams into metal horseshoes.

Did you name your giant, as well?

Why, yes, Ben shouted over the roar of the engine. I call him Vulcan’s Hammer.

Him? Alice asked.

I think of it as a giant, metal man, Ben replied, sounding a bit embarrassed.

Alice smirked for a moment, then frowned as something unpleasant occurred to her. Ben, you did say that you invented your giant for building and laying track and such, did you not?

Yes, ma’am.

Alice thought that she’d smelled the faint odor of cabbage and brimstone when she’d first opened her door to Ben, but now her nose was thick with it. A few discreet sniffs confirmed Ben as its source. It was a smell that only witches could detect: the smell of a lie.

A two-mile drive had taken them to the towers and steeples of the men’s campus of Rochesterville University. All the buildings of the college had been constructed at least one length higher than the Women’s Institute of Technological Marvelology. It was a slight to women everywhere, and therefore to witches, that Alice chose to ignore for the sake of doing business in a man’s town. But change was coming from women like Susan B. Anthony, a fellow Massachusetts girl and leader of the women’s suffrage movement. Alice was sure that women would not be held down forever.

Chittyhawk chugged into the tunnel under the tower that housed Ben’s workshop and spluttered to a stop just beyond it, out in the courtyard. From there they had a clear line of vision. They could see soldiers in bright red uniforms, Union Jacks aflutter, marching down Main Street in precise formation, on a collision course with the giant.

Fiddlesticks, Ben Franklin said. "I was hoping to have the giant under control before they got involved."

Alice cringed at the unmistakable caterwauling of rifle and cannon fire. I can’t see how you thought you could keep the military out of this. Did you think they wouldn’t notice?

As Ben shut down the engine, artillery shells battered the giant’s armored hide, and bullets ricocheted off him like popping corn in a hot pan; the giant didn’t seem to notice. He had collected all of his bent and knotted beams into a pile and was now walking back and forth, joining the pieces together in some odd formation, as if it had a purpose in mind.

Alice stared at it for a moment and exclaimed, He’s building another of his own kind—a second mechano-man. Look!

Ben swiveled in his seat to get a better view. I think you’re right, Alice. But why?

Alice was hoping Ben would know the answer to that question, but she supposed that was too much to ask for. Regardless, it seemed clear the giant was banging out a torso, legs and arms, and was beginning to twist some steel into what might pass for a noggin.

I don’t understand how this could be happening, Ben said.

Well, Alice sighed, that’s why I’m here, to see if we can figure it out.

A new sound filled the air, a rhythmic clanging noise. The mechanical giant began beating and flattening out a thin, square section of metal it had ripped off a factory on High Street.

I’ll be dipped in pig’s mud, Alice said. Is that a top hat the giant is making?

Ben grabbed Alice by the shoulders and stared intensely into her eyes. "I’ve asked for your assistance in the past, Alice, and you’ve never let me down, but now I think that I’ve solved this problem by myself. If the giant is performing actions contrary to