A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  All of this was standard post-breakup procedure, I know. No matter how far we humans have evolved, creeping in our starships throughout the cosmos, civilization branching, disseminating, flowering—some things never change.

  Losing love, for instance. And misery loving company.

  “Fuck it!” I cried, tossing my steel shard on the ground. I patted the whale’s eyelid. “You’ll be dead soon anyway. I’ll get to work then.”

  The cloud whale remained motionless, except for its barely discernible breathing. Under these circumstances—dehydration and blood loss—I doubted it would live through tomorrow morning. At which time I could excavate the urn.

  But what about afterward? This wilderness seemed uninhabited, and I had no communications. How would I get back to civilization? I shook my head, dismissing these worries, and reclined on the cloud whale’s back.

  Toward evening the four suns sank toward the horizon. The wilderness was bathed in a strange and marvelous red light, like an emerging fog. The air was hot and dry, distant clouds thin and rarefied. It seemed a wisp of red ink had been gently brushed across the sky. Several moons and satellites became vaguely discernible, part of a ring of asteroids gently orbiting Goliath.

  I admired the view. No wonder Frond had been able to discard the comforts of Earth for this wild place.

  The suns set one after another, their light draining from the world. I put my hands behind my head for a pillow, my right leg lying flat, the left raised and bent. I watched the four suns vanish, the elegant scene gradually lost to darkness.

  “We really are two of a kind,” I said, patting the cloud whale’s back. “Brothers in hardship. Both trapped here.” The beast remained taciturn as ever. I thought it had stopped breathing, but then it exhaled, disturbing the dust near its nasal cavity.

  A dying person, and a dying whale. An alien dusk, descending night.

  Along with night fell torrential rains.

  The rain poured from the darkness, at first a mild drizzle, but quickly turning violent. The large drops pelting my skin were painful. I sat up. The rain showed no sign of abating. I climbed down from the cloud whale’s back and took shelter under its lower jaw.

  Black clouds rolled in and piled up, thunder boomed and lightning flashed. The rain grew heavier still. Water accumulated in the basin, washing down from all directions. Within a Goliath hour I would be inundated.

  I had determined to leave this place when lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating a dark figure: the triadacine.

  It stood at the edge of the slope, beaten and lashed by the rain, its three eyes a brighter blue than before, glaring with the arrogance of occupying the high ground.

  After the cloud whale scared it off, this three-eyed predator had not given up. It had taken advantage of the dark to return. It was biding its time, watching and waiting, not daring to descend, probably due to a lingering fear of the cloud whale.

  I crouched beneath the jaw, but the water was getting deeper, now up to my waist. I had no choice but to stand up, and prepare to crawl onto the cloud whale’s back.

  The triadacine’s penetrating howl split the night: I heard it, and felt it throughout my whole body. It made my teeth ache.

  As I’d feared, this cry summoned more of the beasts. They emerged from the night to surround the basin, faint blue eyes watching me from every direction, double-rings of sharp teeth blue-lit to nightmarish effect. Shaking, I began to count the beasts, but when I reached twenty I stopped.

  During a brief spell of lucidity, I reached into the water nearby and retrieved my steel weapon.

  The triadacines’ goal was perhaps not just me, but the cloud whale. It was a kiloton of meat, after all. I supported myself by holding on to one of the tumor-like growths. I was so scared I could barely stand.

  The first triadacine cautiously descended into the basin, waded through the water, and circled the cloud whale. Its blue eye-light oscillated, perhaps with excitement, and suddenly it charged, and bit into the cloud whale’s side, then leaped away. The whale’s golden blood flowed.

  The triadacine raised its head, devouring the whale meat with its two rings of teeth. When it had finished, the whale was still motionless. The triadacine let fly another howl. Its companions advanced into the basin.

  It seemed I was done for. If I’d known I was bound for a predator’s stomach, I might have chosen to die in the ship.

  I felt something strange in my hand: the tumor-like growth on the cloud whale’s lower jaw began to inflate. I watched in surprise. Sure enough, these tumors that had been the size of my head were now quickly getting four to five times bigger. At the same time, the water level in the basin began to drop. It was soon back down to my knees.

  The cloud whale was absorbing water.

  The triadacines halted their advance. The dark night’s cloud ceiling roiled, and a series of thunderclaps rocked the world. The cloud whale opened its mouth and issued a defiant roar that drowned out the thunder. The basin dried up as the last water was absorbed.

  I dove into the cloud whale’s mouth, wormed my way toward its lower right jaw. I withstood the whale’s quaking roar and the wind of its breath. Despite the pain in my fractured leg, I used it to brace myself against the inner wall of the whale’s oral cavern, exerted myself, and at last pulled the urn out.

  The cloud whale shut its mouth. Pitch blackness swallowed me. I was sliding toward the esophagus, ice-cold water swirling around me. I couldn’t think clearly. I just had instinct, and the tightly-clutched urn. The water spun and tossed me. Suddenly I was ascending, rushing out of the cloud whale’s mouth. Like a fish in fountain, I shot into the night sky.

  I landed on the cloud whale’s back. I felt a rocking, swaying motion. This time the movement came from the whale’s body, not the thunderstruck ground. After expelling sufficient water tonnage, the massive creature lifted off the ground. It hadn’t risen more than a meter before it crashed back down, causing the ground to quake.

  Weeping, I crawled down between its eyes and slapped its head with all my strength. “Fly! Fly! Rise!”

  The cloud whale opened its eyes, gasped for gale-force breaths.

  “You’re a cloud whale! You die in the sea or in the sky! You’re not meant to be eaten by these foul beasts! Fly!”

  It exhaled a long, windy lungful, mingled with a ringing whale-song note, and once more its whole body shook. Under the torrents of rain, the cloud whale floated upward, higher this time, and then it was accelerating, angled upward, climbing. The triadacines were rooted where they stood, huddled together in the pooling water, whimpering timidly.

  “That’s right!” I wept. I lay face down on the whale’s back, tightly gripping a fold of skin next to its eye. I burst into laughter. “Higher! Higher!”

  It charged into a low cloud bank. We flew through the thick vapor, among branching lightning. The cloud whale pumped its massive tail, accelerating, climbing, and then, as though breaching from the surface of an ocean, we broke free of the clouds.

  The scene took my breath away. The weather—torrential rain, thunder, lightning—was beneath us. The surface of the cloud sea was tranquil. The six moons were lined up, as though strung together and hung over the horizon. We rushed toward their bright light.

  “Frond,” I said, raising the urn. “Can you see this? Are we flying to heaven? I’m not afraid anymore. I’m flying. Can you see?”

  Frond had always been infatuated with flying.

  Although she had a lovely pair of legs, she considered them the most useless part of her body. She detested walking.

  “I admit that legs were an important part of human evolution, back when we crawled out of the sea. Fins became legs. This was indeed a marvel of nature. But why did evolution stop at that point?” She slapped her legs as she expressed her indignance. “We’ve already left the ground for the sky, but we still rely on our legs!”

  What could I say in response? I loved every part of her, including her legs: long, slender, smooth
, and fair, seemingly carved of ancient jade.

  “Azuki Bean,” she said, using her pet name for me, “we should be like the cloud whales and just fly away. No more plodding on muddy earth. Azuki Bean, you can’t know how much pain my legs give me.”

  Hearing this, I felt especially glum. I’d just spent a month’s salary on a pair of high-heel shoes for her. These luxury items were now stored deep in her wardrobe: top-notch designer craftsmanship, inlaid with diamonds, lavish and high-profile. Her face had lit up when she pulled them from the box. But I didn’t know if this was due to excitement, or merely light reflecting off the diamonds.

  “My lovely fool,” Frond had said, putting the shoes down. “When will I wear such things?”

  But in very short order, the shoes did indeed come in handy.

  Frond was working at the Exobiology Research Institute, her focus cloud whale physiology. Most of the funds came from Frontier Development Company sponsors. That autumn, FDC held a celebratory banquet. As one of the few pure researchers in a world of engineers, Frond would naturally attend.

  Donning a splendid dress, and the heels, she went out, having repeatedly instructed me to come fetch her at eleven o’clock.

  But she called me at nine. It was raining hard that night, and it wasn’t easy getting to the FDC tower. I saw Frond standing under a public transport sign, looking dispirited, water soaking her dress. Barefoot, she stepped through puddles of muddy water, surrounded by rushing vehicles and pedestrians under black umbrellas.

  Later I learned of the faintly golden beverage served at the banquet. Frond had sipped one. The taste had been refreshing. A smiling FDC mid-level exec approached her.

  “Such a beautiful girl,” he said, swirling the golden liquid in his glass, until it seemed to float and glow. “Hard to imagine you in a research institute all day.”

  Frond casually replied, “Lab work is fascinating.”

  “Quite right. We should all be grateful for your work. Research on alien species often bears fruit. Fruit with immediate commercial value.” The man, impeccably attired western style, grinned and raised his wine glass. “This liquor for instance. Know what it’s mixed with?”

  Frond saw the cruelty in his smile, and did not reply.

  “Cloud whale blood. Your team’s research revealed the trace amounts of F937 in the blood. Turned out to be perfect for mixing with alcohol. Not only does it taste amazing, but it’s an extraordinary tonic and restorative. Of course, it can’t be put to widespread use, but at an upscale reception like this, we can prepare this sort of special drink, to entertain respected . . .”

  Frond had stopped listening. She felt nauseous. She resisted vomiting with great difficulty, and hurried to the restroom. But when she retched, nothing came up. That was when she called me, and in a daze made her way to the ground floor, breaking one of her heels on the way and spraining an ankle.

  I didn’t know what had happened, there in the rain. I just went to her and hugged her. She shivered in my embrace, crying softly.

  A meter away from us, beside the street, sewage flowed. The discarded shoes were being covered in filth.

  The cloud whale flew on, at times lording it over the clouds, at others diving into vaporous depths.

  I extended my hand into passing vapor, opening a wound in the cloud’s surface that instantly healed, leaving only a ripple. The six moons hung low in the sky, big and round, seemingly close enough to reach on whale-back. Clouds scattered moonlight, like ocean waves in the sun.

  Perhaps clouds were another kind of sea for these whales.

  Immersed in the shock of this beautiful scenery, it took me some time to recover my wits. “Where are you going?” I said to the whale. “How about finding a place to drop me off?”

  Of course, the creature didn’t answer. It hated humans, and certainly wouldn’t land near human settlements. I had always lived in cities. I couldn’t survive in the countryside, let alone the danger-packed Goliath wilderness.

  But I realized there was no reason to worry. My fate was out of my hands, for the moment. I had to take what came, and be ready to adapt.

  The cloud whale closed its eyes and slept, floating steadily above the clouds. I too couldn’t resist the pull. After a big yawn, I reclined on the whale’s back and slept.

  I awoke the next day to find the rain clouds dispersing. We floated through a bright, clear sky. The wilderness below us had transitioned into forests. Goliath’s plant-life was more luxurious than Earth’s—even the colors were more splendid. The cloud whale had been flying all night, and seemingly weary, began to descend. Its massive body swept over forest groves, breaking off branches and startling animals. At last we landed beside a river.

  This river was too narrow for the whale’s body. The massive creature couldn’t submerge itself, but used its tumor-like sacks to absorb water, meanwhile issuing a mournful wail.

  Its voice was brimming with pain. I stood and patrolled the creature’s back, examining the festering wounds. The maggot-like larvae had multiplied. If it weren’t for my breather mask, I would certainly have smelled the vomit-inducing rot.

  I used my steel weapon to dig the maggots out of the wounds, and to cut away rotten flesh. This was nauseating work. The worms were flesh-colored and fat, eyeless but many-legged—like a fat mix of tapeworm and centipede. Normally I would have avoided such vile creatures, but now, on this strange world, in this hopeless situation, the cloud whale was my only chance.

  After I’d cleaned its wounds, the animal stopped moaning, but continued to whimper and puff and blow. I was exhausted and covered in sweat, and starving. I had no ration packs left, and I couldn’t drink the river water. Utterly spent, I laid down and tried to catch my breath.

  The cloud whale took flight again, this time with far less spirit. Fly on, I thought dazedly. Fly me back to Earth. Bring Frond home.

  As we flew through the day and into the night, I lay unmoving, lost in a stupor. At times my eyes were open. I watched the bright sky darken, then brighten again. Dehydration and hunger were taking their toll on me. I was used up, resigned to fate.

  If it hadn’t been for a peal of whale-song, I fear I might never have come to my senses.

  I reluctantly opened my eyes, pushed myself up, saw a dozen or more small cloud whales flying alongside mine. I had no idea when they’d arrived. They flocked around and beneath my whale, chirping and hooting, not at all mournful-sounding, but vigorous and resounding, their calls spreading far between heaven and earth.

  Judging by their size, they seemed to be juveniles. They’d probably followed their mother along the Golden Shipping Belt, traveling amid the brilliance of stars and moons. But after reaching the Golden Sea, they had not yet matured, and their mother was harvested. All they could do was cry out as they cruised the sea of clouds. This was dangerous. If they had encountered a whaling ship, the only possible outcome would have been death.

  Luckily, they’d come across us instead.

  My cloud whale’s spirits seemed to lift: it gave a sort of whinny in response to the calves. During my two days with this massive creature, this was the first vocalization I’d heard that seemed to express a warm feeling.

  The calves erupted with whale-song, one after another, darting about excitedly. I noticed that no matter how they flew and gamboled, they never went higher than my position on the adult whale’s back.

  “Hey, Big Grey, I can’t tell.” I tapped on my whale’s head, and fancied I saw a smile in its eyes. “Were you once as spirited as these little ones?”

  After that came out of my mouth I sat there, stupefied. Had I just given this creature a name?

  The first time we met, I named her Frond in my heart. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the lakeside willow leaves swaying around us. Perhaps I foresaw that someday, far away, she would fall like an autumn leaf toward her doom.

  But it turned out she didn’t appreciate being so casually named. Naming was an important task to entrust to someone, she explained. It
meant identifying the unique attribute that defined someone. It was a big responsibility.

  Later, when she lived with me, she gave names to all my plants, appliances, and furniture. My computer became Square Squared, the bookcase Professor Verbose, the washing machine Roll On, the bedroom door Little Shady, the toilet Mr. Imperfect, the sofa Longfoot. After naming everything, she turned to me and said, “Your name is Azuki Bean, because you can’t get enough of them. Now that I’ve named everything here, it’s all mine. Relax, I take responsibility for all of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

  But later, when the cloud whale research program on Goliath was recruiting, she signed up without a second thought. She left hastily, not even saying goodbye to her Square Squared, Professor Verbose, Roll On, Mr. Imperfect, and Longfoot.

  I put the urn to my ear, heard a faint echo of blowing wind. I returned to observing the whale calves.

  Cloud whales were white, like the clouds they were named for, but upon careful examination one might discover variations. With nothing else to do, I began to name the whales around me. One had long pectoral fins, so I named it Wild Goose. A particularly fast one became Flicker. The one with the short flukes became Little Nubs.

  A wretched hoot interrupted my reveries.

  Little Nubs had been struck by an artillery shell, but the shell hadn’t detonated. Instead, it had disgorged dozens of electrodes, which fastened all over the calf’s back. A wire trailed from the back of the shell into a cloud bank.

  The clouds parted to reveal a Castle airship, Gale Force Three grade.

  An immense drumming sound came from the vessel, the voice of a high voltage transfusion. Little Nubs shivered from head to flukes, ceased its miserable keening. Rendered unconscious by the current, it floated aimlessly through the sky. Two Ghost-Four ships sallied forth from the Castle, bristling with hypodermic harpoons. Two of these launched, and stabbed into Little Nubs’ limp body. High-pressure pumps issued a gurgling sound. Cloud whale blood began to flow, through the tubing attached to the harpoons and into the ships.

  The pumps would only need half an hour to drain Little Nubs dry. In the scheme of things, a single cloud whale didn’t have much F938-rich blood. And draining a whale also meant removing it from the sky. While draining the life from these creatures, humanity was also taking away their spirit, that which made them essentially what they were: their ability to fly.