Lian looks at her lap. Her hair falls forward, and I cannot see her face.
"I’m sorry," I say.
She nods. Her chest moves quickly. "Cancer," she says.
"I’m not surprised, either."
Her fists clench and unclench. For a long time, neither of us speaks. I get the grim and heavy feeling that I’ve dicked this up, but how else was I supposed to say it?
"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I mean—I thought you should know. Since you’ve … since you’re my friend." For a moment I feel small and oddly ashamed. Friends with a child? Marie, what are you even doing?
Then one of her clenching hands grabs mine. Away from sterile Quányuán, her fingers are smooth and firm. Mine must feel so revoltingly old to her—fragile and cool, the way my grandmother’s used to feel—but Lian hangs on.
"You’re my friend, too," she cries.
I feel even worse.
"This is my fault. If I hadn’t found you and asked you about going outside—"
"No no. No no no no. I would’ve kept going out. You know that. Hell, I’m worried about you, going outside so often, so young."
She wipes her eyes. "I have every right—"
"Then so do I. I knew the risks, I went outside, and here we are. That’s life."
Lian sniffles and does a terrible job of controlling herself. Sadie says, I love you, but you’re being a selfish old crab right now. About what? I demand, but Sadie only makes that little hissing noise between her teeth.
"Listen. Lian. Don’t. It’ll be fine. Look at me. I’m happy. I got to have plenty of wind and sunshine, and I’ve seen sunrises and I’ve watched the stars come out, and most people in Isla can’t say that. It’s been a good life. I’ve no regrets. Okay, I do regret that I can’t have a spectacular death outside by Sadie’s Tower, but if that’s the only thing wrong, then I can’t complain."
Lian still won’t look at me. "Can we go outside one last time?"
"Until I’m a pile of bones, my dear, we can go outside as many times as you wish."
* * *
We sit in the Graveyard, facing each other. The rock towers glow, shadowless, from the everywhere-illumination of Quányuán’s night sky. I’m reminded of sitting at the bottom of my cousins’ swimming pool, our legs crossed as we faced each other in pairs, miming sipping from teacups with our pinkies extended. Having a tea party, we called it. Try to make the other person laugh and force them to surface for air before you do.
Lian looks at her alarm. We have 272 seconds.
"I guess this is the closest thing Quányuán has to a forest," says Lian. "Or at least, the closest thing there is to a forest around here."
I smile. "Thank you."
"I mean—"
"I know."
Sadie leans over to see past my shoulder and through the little sprouts of rock, as though checking to see we weren’t followed out of the airlock. "Are you ready?" Lian asks.
"Hmm?"
She sits back. Her face is very serious, even when she puckers her lips to sip on her water tube. "If you were to die right now. Would you be ready?"
Now I’m the one looking around. "What? Here? Tonight?"
Lian looks uncomfortable. She nods.
"Well, sure," I say. "It would be as good a time as any, I suppose. Why do you ask?"
She holds out her hand. "Give me your alarm."
The request seems so banal. I remove it and hand it over, as if she’s asked to inspect a piece of costume jewelry. I’m not sure what’s happening. "What are you doing?"
"I’ll take it inside with me," she says. "I’ll spend a long time in the airlock, as if we’re standing there talking. By the time I come inside and check in with the Exodus desk …" She looks away.
I open my mouth, then close it swiftly around my drinking tube to prevent all that moisture from being sucked away. "Lian—"
"I’ve thought about it," she says stubbornly. "They won’t do anything to me. They need miners too badly, and you’re old and sick, and I think everyone would secretly be happy if they heard you got to die outside. She died doing what she loved. You know that’s what they’ll say."
I don’t want to argue. I feel like I have to. "My biomass—"
"—will get picked up later by a rescue squad, so what does it matter?"
I fall silent. I sip at my water tube.
Lian stands, surfacing for air.
I look at her, so smooth and beautiful under the fierce light, my wrist alarm in one clenched hand. Her face melts. "Thank you, Marie," she whispers.
"Thank you, Lian," I say.
"I’ll miss you."
I almost say Me, too, but in a few moments, I won’t be able to miss anything. Not even Sadie. So I just say, "It was a privilege to know you."
She nods.
Her alarm chirps. Mine chimes in. She turns and moves back to the airlock, so very slowly, weaving in and out among the knee-high towers, as if they really were stupendous trees, each trunk a new horizon.
The airlock yawns open. Gold light splashes over the wasteland. Is swallowed.
Alone in my forest, under Sadie’s tree, I remove the water pack from my back. There’s still about one third left. I hold it above my head with one hand, then I yank out the drinking tube with the other.
I tip my face up to the rain.
About the Author
KJ Kabza’s 80+ science fiction and fantasy short stories have appeared in 4 different languages in over 60 different magazines, anthologies, collections, and podcasts such as F&SF, Nature, Terraform, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and more. His first print collection, THE RAMSHEAD ALGORITHM AND OTHER STORIES, released in 2018 from Pink Narcissus Press.
Copyright © 2019 by K. J. Kabza
Art copyright © 2019 by Mary Haasdyk
As the Last I May Know
S. L. Huang
A Tom Doherty Associates Book
New York
A growing crowd of protesters trudged doggedly through the flurrying snow, bundled up into roundness against the cold until they resembled determined beetles. Back and forth they went, marching in a wobbly loop, their heads down against the wind but their voices strident as they fell into a chant:
Don’t kill children, kill the seres!
Before we all destroy ourselves!
Up in the window of the garret three stories above, Nyma watched them trundle and call. They didn’t have a very good chant, she couldn’t help thinking. “Seres” wasn’t even a hard word to rhyme—fears, years, tears …
She leaned her forehead against the window pane. The glass was cold.
She hadn’t yet felt the presence of her tutor in the doorway behind her. In truth, Tej had opened his mouth to speak out several times, only to swallow back the frigid air instead. He was, if he were to scrape away any illusions—and Tej was not a man who lied to himself, when he could avoid it—trying to best himself in a moral struggle.
He failed.
“You shouldn’t watch that,” he said to Nyma. Peace help him, but the garret was freezing. He folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe, wondering how Nyma wasn’t shivering.
Children were always so resilient. Too resilient.
“It’s my job now,” Nyma said into the window, the words fog on the pane.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Now that he’d broken, the words tumbled out of Tej like they wanted to barb into the child’s heart and keep her here. “You understand that, right? You can—you can say no.”
Nyma knew. Her tutors had taught her: she would always have a choice. But they’d also taught her why her duties were so vital, and why those duties had to be done by someone young, if not her then one of her classmates.
And she believed them. She believed in the Order and everything it stood for.
Dying scared her. A lot. The idea of it was so impossibly big and black that she couldn’t even hold it in her head. But it didn’t scare her enough to break the faith—not when her name had been t
he one drawn.
Of course, the news feeds said she shouldn’t be allowed to choose this life at all, blasting the Order for following the old ways. Ten-year-olds are too young to agree to this; they can’t make that decision for themselves; it’s inhumane! Some of those people wanted the Order disbanded. Some of them wanted only adults to follow its dictates, people who had passed the magic threshold of being able to say yes to saving the world.
Those same news feeds were markedly less certain whether butchering the Order’s traditions should also mean dismantling the nation’s stockpile of sere missiles.
“You taught me,” Nyma said to Tej. “It’s important. We’re important.”
Not as important as your life, Tej wanted to cry, wanted to fold her into him like his own daughter instead of one of his pupils, even as that betrayed every fiber of what he’d always fought for. “It doesn’t have to be you,” he managed instead. “We didn’t know it would be like—this. You can say no to it. To him.”
Nyma turned from the window, her freckles blotching dark on her pale skin, her eyes so large they took up half her face. “He’s scary,” she whispered. “Will you come with me? When I have to meet him?”
Tej had to turn away, then, because it wouldn’t do for Nyma to see one of her tutors weep.
* * *
Nobody thought Otto Han would win the election. He was the quiet outsider candidate, the one who’d kept pecking at his place in the polls until he rose up when all the others had shouted themselves out.
He wasn’t even the one who had most worried the Order, at first—that honor had gone to the demagogue candidate who fanned the flames of mounting war until her supporters screamed in violent ecstasy. She had burned out brighter and faster than the swell of rage she had dug from the populace. The tension in the Order had fallen into palpable relief when she’d plummeted in public opinion, even as she’d left behind a smear of angry demonstrators yelling, “We have seres, we should use them!”
They didn’t understand, those people. They had forgotten. The Order was built not to forget.
It wasn’t until two weeks before the election that a reporter asked Otto Han his opinion of sere missiles. “I think if it makes the most military sense for the protection of our nation, we need to use every tool at our disposal,” he’d answered. “We’re at war. Everything should be on the table.”
The reply sparked panic in the Order, but got far too little notoriety elsewhere. The Order Elders wired their contacts in the feeds, begging other newsfolk to press Han hard and ask the important questions, before it was too late:
How can you justify a weapon that will vaporize an entire city in a single instant—buildings, children, hospitals, prisoners of war, millions of innocent civilian people, everything for so many hundreds of miles—gone? How is that not a war crime?
How can you reconcile that with history, our history, as the only country in the world who has had sere weapons used against us? How can you do what we have always considered the unthinkable?
And, the most relevant one to a ten-year-old Order girl and those who knew her:
Do you truly wish to use such weapons so badly, that you would be willing to do as the law requires and murder a child of your own land with your own hands in order to gain access to them?
But there hadn’t been time. Nobody had asked Han any of those questions until after he’d already won.
* * *
The poem Nyma returned to most often had been written by Akuta Myssoutoi two hundred years ago, after he’d lost everyone in his family in the destruction of the Capital.
The snow falls over nothing.
I beg three small graves to place incense
But echos have no tombs.
The bleakness of it had been a touchstone for the beliefs she’d been raised with, a reaffirmation of the Order’s righteousness.
Now the words of that final stanza kept circling in her head, echoing dully. Behind them loomed the granite image of President Otto Han, standing above her with a knife, his hands soaked crimson with her blood.
She gripped Tej’s hand. Fear made all her senses too sharp.
It was okay to be scared, right? As long as she did her duty. Her chest ached over the scar where the surgeons had put the capsule in. It had been over a month ago now, after the election but before Han’s induction into office. In that time, the ache felt like it had become a part of her.
She and Tej walked together down the long archways of the Capital, the metal and stone gleaming into the sky around them. One tall dark man, one small pale girl, and no one could have said who was grasping whose hand more tightly.
When they reached the Tower, the new president did not keep them waiting. A series of smartly dressed staff showed them in with no delay, not even a question as to who they might be. Even if their robes had not marked them out, their faces were already known here.
Otto Han rose from behind his desk to greet them in a stiff but polite bow. Tej bowed equally stiffly in return.
He’s so much bigger in person, Nyma thought numbly. And he was hard. Like if you touched him, your hand would break.
“Elder Rokaya,” he said to Tej, in something that passed for a greeting. “And this must be my carrier.”
“Yes, sir,” said Nyma. “My name is—”
“I don’t want to know your name.” He turned back to Tej. “You Order priests are animals. This is barbaric.”
“Her name is Nyma,” Tej said quietly, but his thoughts were not so calm. Seres are what is barbaric. Whether to engage in such barbarism is your choice, not ours. The president could say, right now, that he would not use the weapons that defied all humanity and could spell the end of every life on their world. He could proclaim that Nyma would be safe and that the position would be as ceremonial as it had been in the past.
He was the one who refused.
“I’ve been briefed,” Han said. “And I said to my generals, it’s hundreds of years later, surely we have a better way of doing this. But you people have embedded yourselves right in the roots of our laws, haven’t you?”
“We think it’s the best way, sir.” It wasn’t Tej who had spoken, but Nyma, forcing the words around the dryness in her mouth. You must talk to the president. You must be a part of their mind, their life. Her tutors’ words were a drumbeat in her head.
Han wrested his attention around to her, and Nyma quailed.
“Of course you do,” he said. He turned back to Tej. “You people teach her to say this, and then if I need the codes for the weapons that could protect us all, you put them inside a child and tell me I have to slaughter her. You’re despicable.”
Tej had to force his expression to stillness. “Sir.”
“Do you know what the Baron Islands are doing to our people in the southern territories right now? Do you know what they’ve promised to do to the people of Koivu and Mikata? Koivu has sere missiles themselves. If the Islanders get a hold of that technology … trust me, they won’t force their leaders to kill little girls in order to use them. Even if they did, those leaders wouldn’t hesitate.”
Tej could have argued every one of those points for hours. He could have pointed out balances of power and morality, or expounded on the Order’s core belief, that no one should be able to push a button from the sanctuary of an office and kill so many faceless children far away if they could not see the justification to execute the one in front of them.
Without such a burden, how would any president fully understand what he did when he asked to use such weapons?
“I’m told she’s to be a bodyman to me,” Han said. “I’m told I can’t say no.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Tej answered. The carrier had to be always physically nearby in case she was, Peace forbid, needed. That part was for the president. But if she could also form an emotional closeness, it might save not only her life but the lives of millions, and that was the mission of the Order.
“All right, Elder, you’re dismissed. Nyma,
was it?” He towered over her.
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope you know. I don’t want this.”
Nyma didn’t know how to reply. Did she want this, just because she had chosen it? Did the Order want it, because they believed it was necessary? Did anybody want it?
Another verse from the same Myssoutoi poem swirled through her head.
I listened to us surrender on the wireless.
No choice, they said.
They said the same when we went to war.
Nyma sat in the corner of the president’s Tower office, biting the end of her stylus. It was a bad habit of hers, one her teachers had tried hard to break her of but had always failed. She wore Tower livery now, her thin hair braided neatly like the ushers and servants, but everyone still knew—she saw it in the way they walked in arcs around her, or whispered while not looking her way.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?”
Nyma jumped. Try as she had to engage him, Otto Han had barely spoken to her if he could avoid it. He thanked her when she brought him files or drinks or carried his things, but he’d certainly never asked her a question.
“I’m trying to think of a rhyme, sir,” she answered honestly.
“A rhyme? Whatever for?”
“I like poetry.” She closed her pad and turned so she could face where he sat at the wide presidential desk. “I know it doesn’t always have to rhyme. But I’m not a good enough poetess yet to do the unrhyming ones.”
“Poetess, eh? All right, let’s hear one.”
A warm flush crept up Nyma’s neck. Her Order tutors had encouraged her interest—it was always good for carriers to be full people, they said, children with personalities who would be missed if they were gone, and besides that, the hope was that even those chosen would always have an adult life to grow into. But Nyma had never recited one of her poems aloud before.
Some of the Best from Tor.com: 2019 Edition Page 49