Heiresses of Russ 2016: The Year's Best Lesbian Speculative Fiction

by A. M. Dellamonica

  The whale is not inside the Engine’s radius, and we have seen it alter. They are subtle changes, mostly. Thicker ribs, or thinner. An extra pair of flippers. In one universe, the whale has teeth, long and curved and yellow. Two of its ribs are broken, puckered with the circular scars of gigantic tentacles. When we looked out past the bone cage, we saw something staring back at us with wide, ice-pale eyes. We did not linger.

  VI.

  THE ENGINE IS a long cylinder of clean red metal, like a tube of lipstick, like a novelty cigarette. Black dials with white arrows march down both sides; she turns these between two fingers until the arrows make a single horizontal stripe, the dividing line on an empty highway, the streak a meteor leaves along the curving sky. On one end, there are two tall levers, black and red, go and stop, which it is my job to pull. The black lever is warm to the touch, the two hemispheres of its metal head joined by a raised, sharp ridge. The red lever is always cold as ice.

  She releases cameras in small silver spheres, sends them up through tubes in the laboratory ceiling and into the black water, where they swim on silicone fins in search of data. They trickle back over the following weeks, their spheres brimming with specimens, with leaves and stems and minerals, with insects in pressurized vials and tubes of stealthily-sampled blood. While she watches the video feeds and runs the samples through her lab, charting the results in primary colors on wall-sized sheets of chart paper, I inspect the instruments. I polish the camera lenses and unfurl their fins with metal files, checking the delicate silicone for grime or tearing.

  Sometimes, when she isn’t looking, I inspect the Engine’s radius.

  “The Engine’s radius is an anchor,” she tells me. Like Burd Janet clinging to Tam Linn in the ditch beside the fairy road. In order for the Engine to operate, it must anchor everything necessary for its existence. Like Janet holding eel and lion and hot iron, it clutches whales and levers and laboratories, buses and black flats. Everything necessary for its operation. Everything necessary for us.

  “But everything shifts,” she says. She’s laughing at me as I stare at her shoes, at their polished black toes. “Only we will never change at all. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say. I lift my hand from the black lever; its ridge has left a white trail carved into my palm.

  VII.

  IN ONE WORLD, she fell in love.

  We take turns floating Tam Linn to the surface, to the wet and tired fishing village where the Burd Janet docks and the one-eyed woman whose windows are filled with fishhooks trades us bread and dried meat for slivers of whalebone. I never remain on shore long, just a day or two to fetch coffee and thread and extra screws and bolts, waterproof glue, boxes of pencils. Her stays stretch longer; she tracks down books and rare instruments, looks up old colleagues to see who or what they’ve become. In one world, the woman who brought her rare books from a collection in London had hair as bright as copper and a voice as cold as steel. In a locket around her long, pale neck, she carried pictures of her twin daughters, both dark and thin.

  She followed the copper-haired woman to London, walked the cool aisles of the library where she was employed, met her daughters one afternoon as they waited outside after school. They talked about maths and counting games, and taught her a rhyme about blackbirds. One of the daughters loved her; but the other, and their mother, did not.

  When she returned to her laboratory at the bottom of the ocean, she sat on the floor in front of her charts and wept until her throat bleed from sobbing. I sat at my table, unfurling the gossamer fins of the swimming cameras, polishing their tiny blind eyes. The next day, she told me to pull the red lever, and we never spoke of her weeping. But afterwards, I began to catch her rewinding the video feeds from the cameras that had swum north and east; she asked me if I had seen, somewhere, the two dark daughters, their copper-haired mother. I always said no.

  I inspected the Engine’s radius. It had widened perceptibly; now, slowly, it was contracting again. Eventually, she stopped asking.

  VIII.

  WHAT MIGHT HAVE happened if her mother had lived? If her father had stepped into the kitchen that afternoon and found her, not spread across the linoleum with dead flowers and broken glass, but standing over the sink, up to her elbows in soapy citrus-scented water, or sitting on the porch with an apple in her hand, oxidation staining the marks of her teeth. Would she still have been born on a day when the rain fell like blood from a broken artery on the flat roof of the hospital? Would her father still have a white scar slicing across the thick fingers of his right hand? If none of this had happened, would she still be what she is?

  We are so many contingencies. Without the War, my father would never have been in California, and my parents would never have met. Without the War, the Engine would never have been invented. Without those black flats, scratched at the toe or not, she would never have caught the bus, never have grasped my shoulder as we lurched forward, never have caught me and dragged me down like a drowned sailor, too captivated to gasp for breath.

  The Engine does not understand this. The Engine is a memoryless machine. This is what I have learned in charting its radius, charting its contractions as though I am waiting for something to be born. The Engine does not understand what is necessary for its existence; it only knows what is necessary for its operation. The hand that pulls the black lever. The hand that belongs to me.

  I am in the Engine’s radius. I do not change. Everything else shifts.

  She does not understand this. None of her understand this.

  IX.

  I TRIED TO return home, once. I did not think I could bear to remain with her in the dark and the endless quiet; I did not think I could stay when I knew she didn’t love me. But home was unbearable, too. My mother wanted to know what I thought of the curtains, the new upholstery, which was the same as the old upholstery in another world. My sister tried to interest me in a science-fiction program. I couldn’t last in the light, the city noises; the dry summer air made me faint-headed. Two weeks later I was standing in front of a window full of fishhooks, and the one-eyed woman, a little smaller and a little more wrinkled than before, was reaching for her key.

  X.

  I am not Burd Janet. It is not my task to cling to the eel and lion that squirm in my grasp, to hot iron that burns a scar across my palm. Instead, I let go. Let go of white scratches on black shoes, let go of the wind in her curling black hair. I tell myself that we will roll, one day, ever-so-gently into place, but I am starting to wonder if it is true.

  The universes are infinite, but that does not mean that all imaginable worlds exist. There are no two-sided squares. But perhaps somewhere she loves me, or someone like her loves someone like me.

  “Do you think you could love me?” I whisper, and she closes her eyes. I reach out hesitantly, touch the soft skin between the crisp white sleeve of her lab coat and her stiff white glove. Her wrist is cold, waxlike, her pulse undetectable.

  This is what I have learned: I am necessary for the Engine, and I do not shift. She is necessary for me—necessary, that is, for me to be myself; and her dead mother is necessary for her, necessary for her to be the woman that I love. There are an infinite number of universes, and perhaps that does mean that all imaginable worlds exist, but it does not mean that I will be able to see all of them. We move down the thread, rolling ever-so-gently to one side, in one direction, always. And the past is only ever the past.

  Her hair has become gray; she cannot remember it ever having been black. I touch her wrist, and every time, her skin is a little bit colder.

  “Maybe if I were someone else,” she says. It isn’t a promise, but an apology.

  I lift my hand from hers and reach for the Engine.

  ONCE UPON A time there was a girl named Red, but since this isn’t a fairytale, that’s a stupid way to begin.

  Start here: You’re sitting with your girlfriend Ashley after dance practice and she says,

  “They won’t let me join the girls’ dance t
eam.”

  You punch the grass. The hill isn’t bothered; its grass is more dead-brown than green, anyhow. “That’s bullshit.”

  She shrugs and stares at her feet, toes digging into the ground. Her mascara is beginning to run, so you put an arm around her and pull her tight.

  “It’s bullshit,” you say again, no less angry. You’ve seen her dance. She’s good. She should be on the team.

  Dancing is how you met. It was the first party you went to in this town, because your aunt’s house was too suffocating in the quiet and you needed music blaring, a rhythmic beat in your chest. You needed to feel something. Ashley danced like a wild thing in the thumping strobe lights. You watched, entranced, and when she saw you, she beckoned. But you just shook your head. Maybe it was the longing in your eyes or your pixie cut or the party-vibe, but she swung her way over to you and asked if you wanted a drink. Watching Ashley dance was like finding an oxygen mask as the room filled with smoke.

  (You haven’t danced with anyone since your monster went away.)

  “Hey Ashton!” someone, a guy, shouts from the bottom of the hill. One of the mass of the interchangeable bullypack. He starts making lewd gestures at you both, laughing.

  Ashley presses her face harder into your shoulder. You flip the idiot the finger.

  Ashley takes deep breaths and squeezes your hand between hers. “I just have to wait ‘til I can afford surgery and–” Her voice cracks.

  You hug your girlfriend tighter. She should still be able to join the girls’ dance troupe. You have no one guilty nearby to punch out, so you hit the ground again.

  I love you, Ash, is what you want to say, for support, because it’s true–but you can’t. Words have never been your domain. They belong to him.

  You never told your mom you loved her, either. You don’t believe in happy endings anymore.

  This isn’t a fairytale.

  ONCE UPON A time, when you were a kid, you fell into an old abandoned well in the woods. You should’ve broken your arm or your neck, but you didn’t. You landed on a monster instead.

  “What are you doing here?” said a deep voice.

  You looked up–and up and up–at the monster.

  The monster was as big as your house (almost), covered in fluffy purple fur because purple was your favorite color. The monster had great big eyes and soft round ears like a teddy bear. When the monster smiled, you saw very, very big teeth.

  “I ran away,” you told the monster. It was one of the Bad Days. Daddy was shouting at Mommy. It hurt your ears.

  “Why?” asked Monster.

  “I’m scared.” You pressed your face into Monster’s poofy fur. “Don’t wanna go back.”

  Monster hugged you while you cried. You knew the shouting was your fault. You’d asked if you could take ballet lessons. Mommy said yes; Daddy said no.

  “I’ll protect you,” Monster said.

  “On Bad Days too?”

  “Always,” said Monster. “That’s what monsters are for.”

  You took Monster home and let Monster live under your bed so you wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

  This was when you thought fairytales were real. Then maybe you’d be a princess in shining armor riding a palomino horse to save your stuffed animals from the evil king.

  And besides, even when Bad Days happened, fairytales got happy endings.

  Like this:

  It was a Bad Day. Mommy was crying and saying “Stop, stop, please stop!” but Daddy kept hitting her.

  So you got really mad. You ran up and kicked Daddy in the leg. Your shoes had hard toes because Monster was teaching you how to dance after bedtime. “Leave her alone!”

  Daddy’s face went as red as your favorite hoodie. “You little bitch.”

  You ran to your room and dove under the bed. “Help, Monster!”

  Monster’s warm, furry arm wrapped around you. “You’re safe, Red.”

  Then Daddy’s face appeared all scrunched up mad. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson in respect, you little brat.”

  Monster growled.

  “Go away or Monster will bite you,” you told him.

  Daddy thrust both hands under the bed to grab you. You squirmed back into Monster’s protective fur.

  Monster’s mouth opened wide and bit off both Daddy’s hands.

  Daddy screamed and rolled around on the floor, hugging his arms to his chest.

  Monster smiled with red teeth, and you smiled back.

  But it was just a chapter ending, and the fairytale went on. (You didn’t know how dark most fairytales were, back when you were small.)

  Daddy leaned in the doorway of your bedroom later. When he stayed outside the room, his hands came back. If he came inside the room, they disappeared, because Monster had bitten them off. He stopped hitting Mommy when you told him you would let Monster eat him all up if he didn’t.

  (He didn’t, not really–he just made sure you didn’t see.)

  You sat cross-legged on the floor playing Go-Fish with your favorite plush rabbit, Mr. Bunny. Monster watched from under the bed.

  “I’m going to kill it,” Daddy said in his Normal Voice. “Your monster. I’m going kill all of them. Just you wait.”

  “Go Fish,” you said to Mr. Bunny, but your hand quivered as you picked a card.

  When Daddy walked away, you crawled under the bed and tugged Monster’s ear. “I don’t want Daddy to kill you.”

  Monster pulled you close with one arm. “He can’t harm us in this world, Red. Don’t worry.”

  You sniffed, relieved. “Can we dance, Monster?”

  Monster smiled. “Whenever you wish.”

  You bounced up and down with excitement, and pulled Monster by the hand into the ballroom. Under the bed was like a tent, full of space for your stuffed animals and toys. It even had a dance floor where Monster gave you lessons.

  Monster took your hands and began to hum, a lullaby that had become your favorite music. You hummed along with Monster, your feet tapping to the beat.

  You pulled Monster along to the music, spinning and dipping and leaping. Your feet hardly touched the ground. It was like the time Daddy took you to the amusement park and you got to ride the grown up roller-coaster, only a million billion times better. The music soared through you and you felt like you could fly.

  The dance floor blurred around you, became an open glade full of trees and a bright sunny sky. It smelled like lilacs and cotton candy. You loved when Monster made it look like outside. You danced wildly, swept away in the movement and the music.

  Letting go of Monster, you twirled faster and faster across the grass. You sprinted onto a fallen birch log and jumped into the air. Monster caught you and lifted you up, higher and higher until you thought you could peel the sky open with your fingertips.

  The dance ended.

  Monster set you down, back in the ballroom under your bed. You laughed, out of breath, and hugged Monster tight. “I love dancing!”

  “It is something no one can ever take from you, Red,” Monster said.

  (Daddy’s words were long forgotten by the time you went to bed.)

  YOU DON’T SEE Ashley after track practice on Friday. She texted you she’d meet you on the hill. You’re taking her to dinner (even if it’s just McDonald’s because you can’t afford much more) to celebrate the year you’ve been dating.

  But she’s not there. Storm clouds roll in, a cold October wind kicking the trees into a gold-brown frenzy.

  Your phone dings. Voicemail, although you don’t see any missed calls. You drop your duffle bag with your change of clothes and dial your voice mailbox to listen.

  It’s Ashley’s voice.

  “Red, it’s me–oh God, I don’t know what’s going on. There’s this–it’s huge, Red, some giant animal but it’s nothing–Jesus, let go of me!” Ashley’s screaming. “Let go! Help! It’s going for the woods–”

  And the message stops. Your voicemail asks you in a monotone if you’d like to save, repeat, or delete t
he message.

  You shove your phone in your pocket and run.

  Someone–something–has kidnapped your girlfriend, and you’ve got to get her back.

  For a moment you wish Monster was here. Monster could’ve carried you faster than you can run. You can’t swallow down the dry, crunchy fear that you won’t be able to help.

  (Monster isn’t here. Monster never will be here again.)

  Up ahead, the forest looms. It’s just the rumbling clouds, the lack of daylight. The woods aren’t some creepy, mystical landscape. You could get lost, sure. But your phone has GPS–your aunt insisted on it so you could always find your way home.

  Wind moans through the treetops, and it sounds like desperate voices. At the corner of your eye, you notice a ribbon of gray in the trees, but it’s not a cloud or a bird. It’s a hole, as if you’re staring at a movie screen and a patch of static ripples across the picture.

  It hurts your eyes to stare at the hole. You look away, shaking, and as soon as you do, the memory blurs, fuzzily distorting until you aren’t sure what you were just looking at.

  One thing’s always clear, though: Ashley.

  You wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans and step into the woods. There, not a yard inside the dark treeshadow, you see a glimmer of color. A red thread–it matches Ashley’s favorite wool sweater. It’s caught on a branch and unravels deeper into the woods.

  She came this way. You follow it as it twists and spins through trees, a wobbling path stretching into the heart of the forest.

  You’re almost running now, so you can’t stop when the ground disappears.

  It’s a long way down into the dark river below.

  YOU WERE THIRTEEN when Mom OD’d and your step-dad–fuck, why’d you ever call him Daddy?–left. At first you thought thank God he’s gone, but at night, you lay awake trying not to panic that he would come back.