Triax

By James Gunn, Keith Roberts and Jack Vance

Three original short science fiction novels by legends in the genre: Jack Vance, James Gunn, and Keith Roberts.
_Freitzke's Turn_ by Jack Vance: A classic Vance tale with beautifully imagined worlds, tracing the exploits of a future detective's inter-galactic search for evil. Miro Hetzel is an Effectuator -- a high end private investigator --hired to find one of his ex-classmates, Faurence Dacre, known for his dangerous temper and wanted for having done monstrous things on many worlds.
_If I Forget Thee_ by James Gunn: A beautiful and haunting tale of a man seeking love and forgiveness. Jeri, a world-class surgeon, has lost his nerve -- and his memory. He keeps having dreams where he is tortured. But by whom, and why? And are they dreams?
_Molly Zero_ by Keith Roberts: The harrowing story of two young lovers coming of age in a sinister, totalitarian, Orwellian, cyberpunk-esque future. Molly Zero feels different than the others, and tries to navigate her way in a bleak, rigid life: to conform and be safe, or to escape, to unknown danger?

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463980422

James Gunn

James Gunn (1923–2020) was an award-winning science fiction author of more than twenty books, including The Listeners and Transformation. He was also the author of dozens of short stories such as "The Immortals" and editor of ten anthologies. 

Book preview

TRIAX

by

ROBERT SILVERBERG, JAMES GUNN, KEITH ROBERTS, JACK VANCE

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by Robert Silverberg, James Gunn, Keith Roberts, Jack Vance:

The Gate of Worlds

Conquerors from the Darkness

Time of the Great Freeze

Enter a Soldier. Later: Another

The Longest Way Home

The Alien Years

Tower of Glass

Hot Sky at Midnight

The New Springtime

Shadrach in the Furnace

The Stochastic Man

Thorns

Kingdoms of the Wall

Challenge for a Throne

Scientists and Scoundrels

1066

The Crusades

The Pueblo Revolt

The New Atlantis

The Day the Sun Stood Still

Three for Tomorrow

Three Trips in Time and Space

© 2020, 1977 by Robert Silverberg (compilation); individual stories by Jack Vance, Keith Roberts, and James E. Gunn. All rights reserved.

https://ReAnimus.com/store?author=Robert+Silverberg%7cJames+Gunn%7cKeith+Roberts%7cJack+Vance

Cover by Clay Hagebusch

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

MOLLY ZERO

IF I FORGET THEE

FREITZKE'S TURN

ABOUT THE EDITOR

INTRODUCTION

The novella—the story of twenty to thirty thousand words, that is, longer than a short story but shorter than a novel—is a troublesome being in the world of publishing. Magazines are rarely willing to devote half the space of one issue to a single story; book publishers are seldom enthusiastic about issuing books that run only eighty or ninety pages. So the novella has become something of a literary stepchild, finding its way into print with difficulty, meeting obstacles all the way.

But it happens that the novella is a form richly satisfying to readers. It allows the leisurely development of an idea, the careful and elaborate exploration of the consequences of a fictional situation, while at the same time not requiring the intricate plot-and-counterplot scaffolding of a true novel. Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, Melville’s Billy Budd, James Joyce’s The Dead, Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, all testify to the vitality of the novella form.

In science fiction, where the development of ideas is perhaps the centred purpose, the novella has been a particularly rewarding length. H.G. Well’s The Time Machine was the first of the great science-fiction novellas, but its many successors demonstrate how valuable the intermediate length has been in the creation of new worlds of the imagination—Robert Heinlein’s Universe, John W. Campbell’s Who Goes There?, Wyman Guin’s Beyond Bedlam, Lester del Rey’s Nerves, Theodore Sturgeon’s Baby is Three, and many more.

It is because the novella is so well suited to science fiction and because its path to print is ordinarily so complicated that this series of anthologies has been created—books in which well-known science fiction writers are invited to contribute brand new stories fifty to eighty pages long. Here, then, are three novellas never before published anywhere, by three writers whose names have been synonymous with fine science fiction for decades. The stories they offer—longer and more detailed than short stories, shorter and simpler than novels—display, I think, the special merits and advantages of the novella of science fiction to excellent effect.

—Robert Silverberg

MOLLY ZERO

Keith Roberts

Keith Roberts is that splendid British writer whose novel of an alternate world, Pavane, has established itself as a science-fiction classic, and whose passionate and ingenious short stories and novelettes have won him acclaim from readers for the past decade. He was an artist before he was a writer, and he writes with an artist’s eye for visual detail—even in so stark and bleak a story as this account of tomorrow’s totalitarianism.

~~~

Children of the Camp are we,

Serving each is his degree;

Children of the rope and goad,

Pack and harness, pad and load.

    —Rudyard Kipling

You’re shivering inside your coat. It’s a nice coat, brand new, a fawn-belted mac, military style, but it can’t stop the shakes. You drive your fists deeper in the pockets and hunch your shoulders but it doesn’t do any good. You tell yourself there’s nothing to be scared of, it’s only Decentralization, it comes to everybody. But that doesn’t help much either. You’re Molly Zero, and you’re scared to death.

The noise in the big station seems to hang and ring under the vaulted roof; the bellowing of diesels, voices that shout orders each against the next. Over it all a thin high shrilling, a susurrus; the noise of all the hundreds on hundreds of children. You can’t see them, see the crocodiles winding down the many platforms; because your head’s down, you’re watching the tarmac by your feet. It’s wet and tire-marked, little drifts of dirt gathered here and there; cigarette cartons, paper cups, sweet wrappers trodden into slush. Your mouth’s dry; but when the drinks trolley came by, coffee or hot chocolate, you shook your head. You don’t know why.

The big diesel beside you bellows suddenly, jets a cone of bright blue smoke. You jump, and habit makes you grab at the strap of your shoulder bag. It’s not smart to get the jumps like that, there’s no need. After all you’ve done your Acclimatization, all six traps, fifty kids at a time jammed into a coach to see what stations are like. Though somebody did flip, a little while back. There were Staffmembers round her at once of course, you didn’t see what happened to her. You never see what happens. You’re not going to flip like that, you know that. But it doesn’t make you feel any better.

You look up, sort of under your lashes. At the big curved girders, dull colored, the hanging platform numbers, and the white-faced clock. The diesel fumes make a fine haze under the great span; it somehow makes the place look even bigger than it is. You swallow; you wish now you’d asked for chocolate because the smell’s got into your throat, you can nearly taste it. But the trolley has gone. In your world, there aren’t any second chances. You lift your head a bit more. The end of the station is like a vast surprised half-open eye. The glaring light defines the wet roofs of coaches. Beyond, across the maze of sidings, lies a thin bright powdering of snow. There are more locomotives out there. They look strange; high cheekboned, and each with its face streak of yellow paint. Like Zulus or something, masked for war.

A space has opened up in front of you. Your heart thumps, and you hurry to catch up. The file is moving, at last; and doors opening, slamming back along the train. By each stands a Militiaman, grey-uniformed. You hear the shouts, Block Twenty Five, Blocks Twenty Six to Twenty Eight, Block Thirty. You know the drill; pass in your left hand, loop of your dogtag twisted through your fingers. The file slows again. It’s lighter near the end of the platform. A locomotive backs in. The coaches jostle and bump as the couplings engage. Then you’re on board and it’s follow the signs, the cubicles are numbered, Dorm Twelve, Dorm Thirteen, Dorm Fourteen Beds One through Twelve. You’re there. Outside on the platform you hear the soldiers shouting, hurrying the lines. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

The bunks are built in tiers of three. They’re numbered, and each bunk side has a name tag. Well organized really. But you’re used to good organization. It’s all you’ve ever known. You finger the tag. MOLLY ZERO. It makes sense. It would all make sense, if only your head didn’t spin so.

You’ve drawn a top bunk. You sling your shoulder bag onto it, stand gripping the edge and staring at your fingers. Silly sort of thing to do. You haven’t got time to daydream.

There’s not much room in the cubicle. But there is a locker at the end. You pull at your belt buckle, empty your coat pockets, hang the coat on a wire hanger. Then you go back to the bunk. The compartment’s filling now, but you don’t know any of these girls. They changed the Dorm numbers round, a week before Decentralization. Somebody whispered that they always do. You know their names, Janet Nineteen, Mary Thirty Four, Elizabeth Six; but that’s all. Though you termed with Liz once, in Lower School. She’s tall and blond, a hockey player. You smile at her but she doesn’t speak. Nobody speaks.

Staff Denniston comes through. She says, Are you all right, Molly? and you say Yes, Madam. You give the little automatic bob, almost a genuflection, with which you greet a Staffmember. Strange how the instinctive reaction makes you feel better. Habit is good. So hang on to it. It’s all you’ve got now.

Staff Denniston says, I thought you were looking pale. She looks harassed herself; her hair is drawn back as usual but it’s not so neat, some of it’s come out of the clips. You wonder if Decentralization is as bad for Staffmembers. You say, I’m quite all right Madam, really, and she smiles and squeezes your arm. Then she passes on. You don’t know why the gesture makes you want to cry. But it does.

There are sheets and blankets on the bunk, stacked in a neat cube. You shake them out and spread them. The train’s just one big Dorm, really. You can hear the pounding feet, the voices. There’s a final flurry of banging doors, and a whistle blows. So they really do use whistles to start trains. It’s just like some of the films you’ve seen. Your carriage is near the front of the train, you hear the noise as the locomotive revs its motors. Then a little jerk, and a sort of rumbling and creaking. You’re moving. Somebody somewhere does start to cry.

You realize the compartment lights are on. Strange how you hadn’t noticed before. There are windows, narrow ones. There’s one beside your bunk, but the blinds are drawn. Your mind registers having seen a loo. You edge your way to the door. The corridor blinds are drawn as well. You walk slowly, because the swaying of the floor is unfamiliar. There’s a woman Militia Sergeant at the end of the corridor. You say Toilet automatically, but she isn’t very interested.

There’s a little window in the loo with a blind not drawn. They must have forgotten it. You crane to see out. Grey roofs sliding past, and the snow. The sky’s still full of it. There’s a sort of raw brilliance to it, like freshly cut lead. More roofs pass, and a big building with rows of lighted windows. You grip the edge of the washbasin. To your surprise, you’re sick.

You go back to the Dorm cubicle. Nowhere to sit really, except on the bunks. You swing up to yours, lie back hearing the noise of the wheels, feeling the carriage sway and rock. The train’s moving faster now.

You wonder if it’s the strange clothes you’re wearing that are making you feel odd. It’s queer not to be in uniform. The first time in your life. You chose the clothes a week ago, sitting at the big console in Block Thirty Senior Common. The display showed a girl who modeled for you, twirling and spinning. Blouses, two; skirts, knee-length, three; dresses, button-through, three; slacks, pairs, two. You did well. Some of the Dorm had less choice than you. Some didn’t get a choice at all.

The issue came yesterday. First time you’d ever handled shoes with heels. Sandals, pairs, one; woollies, two; vests three, pants three. The pants only just came up to your navel. Very grown-up.

There’s a jangling and tinkling in the corridor. Packed suppers are handed round; and there’s a tea urn on the trolley. The tea is sweet and hot. You drink, almost greedily, and open the pack. Two rounds of sandwiches, chicken and corned beef; a bright-colored trifle in an individual carton, a plastic spoon, an apple. You eat the corned beef and the apple but the chicken meat is dark and gristly, you don’t want the rest. There’s a disposal bin; you dump the plastic hamper, get back on the bunk. You think about the loo again. But you don’t really need it. You stay where you are. You’ve brought paperbacks with you, you were allowed two for the journey; you open your bag, but you don’t want to read. You listen to the train wheels instead, the long hissing over welded rails. Something in the cubicle is creaking, a little steady monotonous sound just by your head; and a window is buzzing slightly. The wheels cross points. The hissing is resumed.

You must have been dozing then, because the tannoy announcement made you start again. It’s almost laughably familiar. Dorms in thirty minutes, Lights Out forty five. So it’s much later than you’d realized.

You’re disoriented for a moment, thinking you’re back in Block Thirty. Then things straighten out and you swing your legs off the bunk, start hunting round for sponge bag and hand towel. Round you the others are doing the same. You join a queue for the nearest washroom. It takes nearly the whole half hour, because you’re last. Some of the girls know each other at least. There’s some giggling and larking about, but the Militia Sergeant puts a stop to that. You brush your teeth, rinse; then you’re hurrying for the Dorm compartment, and a passing Staffmember snaps at you to hurry up. Leastways you think she’s a Staffmember, she’s wearing Upper School armbands. It isn’t Staff Denniston. You wonder if she came on the train. You wonder if you’ll ever see her again.

The lights go out as you finish changing. You fumble for the bunk ladder. The sheets feel good; cool and clean, carbolic smelling. There are bunk curtains too. You draw them, in the dark. You’ve never really known this much privacy before. You realize subconsciously you’ve been waiting all day for it. You sigh, and stretch; and lights flick past outside, send a little fan of reflections across the carriage roof.

You move your fingers, in the dark. The blind corner is held by a press stud. You frown, and pull at your lip with your teeth. Nobody has told you to leave the blind down. As ever, it’s your decision. You’re conscious, vaguely, that you’ve been making decisions of a sort all your life; and that those decisions, petty in themselves, have nonetheless shaped a course that as yet you barely understand. There’ll be other decisions to make soon. Maybe big ones. Maybe that’s what Decentralization is all about.

You pull at the press stud. It comes undone. The blind isn’t bugged; no lights come on, no bells ring. You roll over, press closer to the glass. The train rocks, taking a curve; the sound of the locomotive gets momentarily louder, fades again.

The night is dark, pitch dark. No stars, no moon. Lights are moving a long way off on the horizon; closer there are white, hurrying shadows that are the snowy land. Nothing shows clear.

You drop the blind corner and buckle it shut. You roll on your back again, let your eyes close. You’re still thinking about decisions. There was a big motto on the wall in Block Eight Main Assembly. Your Kindergarten Block. It said, "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU SHOULD DO?" You couldn’t understand it, at the time. You can’t understand it now.

You start thinking about Block Eight. You learned about Jesus there for the first time, in the big hall. There was a painting on the wall, a horrible painting, that showed him hanging there like a great piece of meat. You hated him at first, because of the blood. Ugghh, said your Best Friend, Jane Thirty Eight—how many years since you saw her, you wonder. Ugghh, look... You didn’t want to, but you had to. The nails made you want to clench your own hands. Like you’re clenching them now.

The girl is still sniveling. It’s a silly sound, senseless and repetitive. Somebody told her to shut up a few minutes ago, but she didn’t take any notice. Jane Thirty Eight cried like that, the night she failed her Computer Test and knew Father Christmas wouldn’t come and see her after all. They moved her just after that, you didn’t see her again.

You frown at a thought. You’re remembering your own test, the first one. The first really big decision you had to make. You remember the big hall already decorated for Christmas, a great tree in the corner and the bright, flimsy loops of paperchains. Jesus was being born; while you sat in front of the console, the grey panel alive with little colored lights, and worried. GREEN IS GOOD, the display said, RED IS BAD. And underneath, the choice. RED IS GOOD, GREEN IS BAD. And there were just two buttons, green and red.

How old were you? Five, six? You squatted cross-legged as you’d been taught, and puzzled out the words. But slowly, oh, so slowly. The problem was monstrous; and there was no help to be had anywhere. Just the Hall with its high plain walls, the dais, the tree, the bright, silly decorations; the grey, gently humming panel, the two buttons. Red is good, green is good. Which? Which?

You tried to let your mind go blank, tried to let the colors flow into it, silently. Green, green, green of grass, of hay; soft green, sweet smelling. Red, red of... what? Flames? A warm fire, crackling?

Your eyes popped open, suddenly. You had remembered the Play Area, and Jane Thirty Eight falling; the piece of glass, the blood, bright like the Jesus-blood in the picture. And her mouth open screaming, round as an O. The O was red too. You pressed the green button, nearly without thinking. Red was bad.

Nothing happened really. The lights changed a bit, and some funny little wheels stopped spinning and started going back slower the other way. You got up and walked to the Monitor, made your wish as high and clear as you could to the dark glass lens. Was it awake? Was he there? Father Christmas? Could he really hear you? What do you think you should do? The answer, you supposed, was that you should do your best. But it was very hard.

Later though, on Christmas morning, there were the furry rabbit and the picture books, just