Asimov's SF, March 2010 by Issue 03 # March

Author:Issue 03 # March
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-07-10T14:00:58+00:00

Short Story: TICKET INSPECTOR GLIDEN BECOMES THE FIRST MARTYR OF THE GLORIOUS HUMAN UPRISING by Derek Zumsteg

Derek Zumsteg tells us that his “favorite weird thing about Berlin is how strange the pizza is, which is like what aliens would put together if they were working from the vaguest description (there’s bread, you put food on it and bake the whole thing… .)” In his third story for Asimov’s, we have an opportunity to witness just how bizarre interactions in Berlin might get when …

Behind them, in the U-6 train they hoped to ride for free, Phillip Gliden hid his smile behind a newspaper. The kids had seen and dismissed him: ticket inspectors wore comfortable warm clothes, sneakers, and a badge on a chain around their necks. He’d worn his nice suit, badge tucked into the breast pocket, and decent, well-shined shoes. And where inspectors stepped out at stations to change cars, allowing cheaters to spot them, Gliden waited patiently.

The rest of the car cooperated, not looking at the inspector or the aliens, offering no clues in their blank expressions. Gliden folded his paper to the takeover negotiation coverage but didn’t read. He knew. He found their kids everywhere, even way out on the surface trains, bright new clothes among the commuters wearing rad counters, and Berlin’s downtown stations were rich all day long with the parent generation.

The two youngsters made their move, heavy-hooded eyes followed by a full-body scamper to just beat the closing doors. Gliden stood as the alien kids warbled at each other, doing a passable imitation of smug human satisfaction, slapping hands to hands. Gliden put the badge around his neck, straightened, and smiled politely.

The car of Berlin commuters glanced over, noticing the badge, and returned to ignoring each other.

The urchins smelled like grilled lamb. Gliden’s stomach growled, and he blushed. This happened to him every time he had to deal with aliens, and it was embarrassing.

“Excuse me,” Gliden said, “may I see your tickets please?”

“What?” they both asked, heads swiveling over the immaculate shoulders of their sweatshirts. Their little localization implants, tiny metal pendants around their heads, had picked up his address and pushed them to German in response. Gliden wished he’d tried starting in Swahili, or Finnish.

“Your tickets, please.” They stared at him, one black eye of the four blinking shut slowly. “I’m a ticket inspector,” he added.

“You are?” one asked.

Gliden knew this reaction too well. Even his boss chastised him for taking the job too seriously when he dressed up. No other ticket inspector bothered. But playing at other people distracted Gliden from the job of near-constant motion, artificial light, being stacked in with his fellow passengers smelling of wet clothes, walking through the faint urine sting of stations beyond the S41/42 ring while the rad counter ticked angrily at him.

Gliden loved the suit. It was heavy wool, warm, comfortable, and it made him look like a detective. Being handsome helped his confidence, and a confident, handsome Gliden could sometimes turn asking a bored woman for her ticket into an initially charming three or four date relationship.

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