Rock On by Bruce Sterling, Poppy Z. Brite, Norman Spinrad, Elizabeth Hand, Lucius Shepard, Graham Joyce, Michael Swanwick, Charles De Lint, John Shirley, F. Paul Wilson, Howard Waldrop, Alastair Reynolds, Graham Masterton, Caitlin R. Kiernan, David J. Schow, Elizabeth Bear, Edward Bryan, Lawrence C. Connolly, Bradley Denton, Greg Kihn, Pat Cadigan, Marc Laidlaw, Del James, Lewis Shiner Read Free Book Online

though. I didn’t bring a dot player with me. No technological anachronisms—that’s a sure way to cause ripples in the time stream and tip your hand to the observation teams. Do that and a reclamation squad’ll be knocking on your door. Not me. I spent a whole year hunting up these ancient vinyl discs—“LPs” they call them here. Paid antique prices for them, but it was worth it. Bought myself some antique money to spend here, too.
    So here I am.
    And I’m on my way. It’s been hard, it’s been slow, but I’ve only got one chance at this so I’ve got to do it right. I picked the other band members carefully and trained them to play what I want. They need work, so they go along with me, especially since they all think I’m a genius for writing such diverse songs as “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “Summer in the City,” “Taxman,” “Bad Moon Rising,” “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number,” and so many others. People are starting to talk about me. And now Dylan has heard me. I’m hoping he’ll bring John Hammond with him sometime soon. That way I’ve got a shot at a Columbia contract. And then Dylan will send the demo of “Mr. Tambourine Man” to me instead of Jim McGuinn.
    After that, I won’t need anyone. I’ll be able to anticipate every trend in rock and I’ll be at the forefront of all the ones that matter.
    So far, everything’s going according to plan. I’ve even got a naked woman running around my apartment. I’m finally beginning to feel at home.
    “Where’d you get these?”
    It’s Sally’s voice. I open my eyes and see her standing over me. I smile, then freeze.
    She’s holding up copies of the first two Byrds albums.
    “Give me those!”
    “Hey, really. Where’d—”
    I leap out of bed. The expression on my face must be fierce because she jumps back. I snatch them from her.
    “Don’t ever touch my records!”
    “Hey, sorreeeee! I just thought I’d spin something, okay? I wasn’t going to steal your fucking records, man!”
    I force myself to cool down. Quickly. It’s my fault. I should have locked the music room. But I’ve been so wrapped up in getting the band going that I haven’t had any company, so I’ve been careless about keeping my not-yet-recorded “antiques” locked away.
    I laugh. “Sorry, Sally. It’s just that these are rarities. I get touchy about them.”
    Holding the records behind me, I pull her close and give her a kiss. She kisses me back, then pulls away and tries to get another look at the records.
    “I’ll say they are,” she says. “I never heard of these Byrds. I mean, like you’d think they were a jazz group, you know, like copping Charlie Parker or something, but the title on that blue album there is Turn, Turn, Turn, which I’ve like heard Pete Seeger sing. Are they new? I mean, they’ve gotta be new, but the album cover looks so old. And didn’t I see ‘Columbia’ on the spine?”
    “No,” I say when I can finally get a word in. “They’re imports.”
    “A new English group?”
    “No. They’re Swedish. And they’re pretty bad.”
    “But that other album looked like it had a couple of Bobby’s tunes on it.”
    “No chance,” I say, feeling my gut coil inside me. “You need to come down.”
    I quickly put the albums back in the other room and lock the door.
    “You’re a real weird cat, Troy,” she says to me.
    “Why? Because I take care of my records?”
    “They’re only records. They’re not gold.” She laughs. “And besides that, you wear underwear. You must be the only guy in the Village who wears underwear.”
    I pull Sally back to the bed. We do it again and finally she falls asleep in my arms. But I can’t sleep. I’m too shaken—even to close my eyes.
    I like her. I really like her. But that was too close. I’ve got to be real careful about who I bring back to the apartment. I can’t let anything screw up the plan, especially my own carelessness. My life is at stake.
    No ripples, that’s the key.