The Apex Book of World SF

by Mahvesh Murad

  I approached Akko and touched his shoulder. His small body was rigid. His head moved, turned, like it was revolving on the spine. His eyes were opaque, and the skin bloodless, the face without expression. The smile, it had nothing to do with the facial muscles. It terrified me. He didn’t say anything.

  I retreated, stupid me, to the first door in my sight. The storage room.

  It’s terrible. But the panic I felt before, when I walked around the institute, weakened. I’ve already dreamed this scene. I’ve seen it to its last detail, and I know the blows on the door are coming next.

  In spite of Akko’s warnings, I connected ARRGGG the laptop to the lab’s intranet. So my GRRRR time is short. The ruined computers here start to hum*%*$#_)++

  I’m thinking hard—Rose of Judea, the revelation of Ben-Zoma, the retrieval of the knowledge in Rabbi Shlomo Benbenishi’s era, in the 16th century. I’ve always been bad at pattern&$&$*%( recognition. There must be something ARGGRRR you can tell, some detail you observed, in the story GRRRRG that escaped me.

  &what is in our investigation that raise the dead&

  &and how to put them back to the dust&

  &even the digital ones&

  He###########lp me, Do***************ron.

  Don’t leave me ARRGGG alone again, in half-light, as you did ARGGGRRR years ago.

  Please, DoARRGGG GRRR ARRRRG ARRRG

  GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

  28

  [Clear sky, in which huge stars are buried. The moon is like a Chinese brush stroke. Dark trees. A wind is passing through them. Light rustle, like a buzz. Sultana is running out of a hut. She’s terrified. She stops. A Man comes out from the shadow of trees.]

  Sultana: Halt, you stranger, tell me who you are.

  A Man: I am who I am. Though not whom you assume.

  Sultana: And yet, someone you are, whoever that be.

  Tell me who.

  A Man: The shape, the speech

  Are nothing but skin.

  Sultana: Now I know, now

  Sevenfold my fear grows. You are deceased.

  A Man: I told you, body, looks, are but a skin

  Which entities would wear to come here.

  Sultana: Here. Where is here?

  A Man: The Humilitas.

  Sultana: My beloved’s flesh you wear, and he is not you.

  Who you are, you stranger, tell me.

  A Man: Centuries will pass before I’m born and for millennia

  I’ve lived, I walked this world, the Humilitas.

  Its paths of time are clear to me, I am at home

  But this is not my home. The chains of human voices

  Of human cries, I left behind, and even then

  I’m forced to cloak myself with them

  If my will is to find my kind’s place within the Worlds.

  Sultana: Your kind? Who are they? Who are you? The man

  Who spoke from shadows in this house? What

  Was the faith of the dead infant?

  Why was my boy snatched from me, and you show

  Yourself in semblance of his dead dad?

  A Man: Faith, Conspiracy, simple and transparent, but

  as for you—

  Sultana: It’s wrapped in mystery. I do not wish to hear.

  What do you strive for, devil?

  A Man (laughs): Devil I’m not.

  Sultana (aside): Nor man he is. Oh Lord

  Who tortures us, who draws a line

  Between the living and the dead which we

  Crave to transgress.

  A Man: Hush. Soon you’ll see.

  Sultana: But Hosea, my son, and the unnamed child

  You control them, the boy whose organs

  You assembled and your will drives.

  For what end?

  A Man: I roamed Humilitas

  In the third millennium I wore the body of

  A Jewish sage, Rabba bar bar Hanna, I

  Spoke through his lips, I fought warlocks

  And magicians, I weaved my nets in silence

  Now comes an hour I put to test

  Will he transfer the knowledge destined

  To give us life, if we chose wisely –

  A child who was prevented from

  The realms of death and a child dead

  From womb.

  Sultana: Not a child was he

  But demon.

  A Man: There are no demons. Just folktales

  Claiming them to be. No plan is fertile

  Without misguiding and mischiefs, tricks

  As old as humanity.

  Sultana: Nonsense. Insanity.

  A Man: My part I’ve done, woman, and so did you

  It is my time to go back to my shelter in the shadows.

  [Man exits. Sultana falls to her knees with a howl.]

  29

  Sultana’s face is streaked with dust when she looks up. Shlomo is coming toward her. His face bears an expression of elation. His arms are stretched and the sleeves of his galabia are torn. The arms are covered in bite marks, small circles, tiny imprints of teeth, and shiny beads of blood. His hands are cupped, as if he is carrying a precious gem, but to Sultana the hands look empty. He gazes from the invisible content of his hands to Sultana and back. His features are washed with glamour. He says, Rose of Judea. He repeats the enigmatic phrase, Rose of Judea, Rose of Judea, till Sultana is back on her feet and puts her hand on his mouth.

  30

  I would have helped you, Tiberia. I would have left everything and rushed to you. But Miriam is filling my dreams, and my mother walks the house. I’m sure she put a tap on my heart beats.

  But what it is I wish to say and can’t convey any other way, is that the words in Hebrew, they had been through fire and water, they were killed by the sword and by strangulation. And we salvaged them from their grave.

  They carry knowledge from beyond death, Tiberia, maybe the knowledge we need to retrieve Ben-Zoma’s method. But in what form they are coming back and what they ask of the living, this we will have to find out the hard way.

  Single Entry

  Celeste Rita Baker

  Celeste Rita Baker is a Virgin Islander who lives in New York and has moved between the two places for the last fifty years. Her short stories have appeared in The Caribbean Writer, Calabash, Scarab, Moko, and elsewhere. Her short story collection, Back, Belly, and Side was published in 2015.

  CARNIVAL TIME COME, and I a single entry. I not in any troup or nothing. I just parading in me costume, all by meself. Everybody asking me what song dat is and where me music coming from. I tell dem I write de song, which is true and it coming from an iPod and dese little speakers ringing me North and South Poles, which not true. I projecting de song from me core, but dey ain’t need to know dat.

  De sun hot, just like I like it and no clouds dressing de sky. De crowds of people is like from before, when people didn’t used ta be fraid of crowds. All de children dem being told ta keep still, but dey can’t, from de excitement in de air. Grown folks drinking all kinda rum and eating with dey fingers. Water and ice giving way for free ta keep people from passing out in de heat. De music blasting, bumping, blaring so as ta make de ground shake. Heart and hips can’t help but keep de beat, de groove growing to encompass all a dem like wet cover water.

  It start ta happen when I finish in Post Office Square. Dat’s de big demonstration place. You balance you high wid you sober and do you best dance dere. Try ta remember you routine if you have one. Impress de judges and give people a good show. Make de camera dem like you so de people at home could feel like dey dere bamboushaying wid you.

  Before Post Office Square is de start of Main Street where it have de old warehouses which make inta expensive stores lining both sides of de narrow street. It hard for some of de bands and costumes to pass through cause it so narrow. But I like it cause it intensifies de sounds and all de colors feel like hot pepper in you eye, so bright. But den when you pass out inta de Square de vibes change, because it so big, like
swimming from a river inta de clean blue sea. I blow up me presence ta fill de whole Square.

  Single entry me ‘rass. I was everybody and everything. I was de whole friggin’ planet. De globe I telling you, de world dancing on two feet. Course you couldn’t self see me feet. And I no touch de ground.

  On Main Street de people push back, push back ta make me pass. Everyone grinding pon one anodda. Is smiles, cheers, and waves. De children hush quiet wid awe, de grown folks rushing me, trying ta touch, ta see if me water wet. Try find de string between de sun and me. De moon and me. Try see how a cloud what seem ta be above Cruz could have de frangipani trees dem dripping in old Tutu. How I bright where de sun reach and dark when I turn ‘round. You like it, eh?

  When I reach de Square is blow I blow up. Before I was round twenty five feet at my equator, but I was fifty by de time I reach de Judges Stand. Ole Lady Stinking Toe petals drippin from me steada sweat. Jasmine petals drifting in me breeze scenting the whole Square. I have volcanos erupting on de bass and trade winds blowing loud like horns. Earthquakes trembling de drums. Is de earth song, you see. I’s de earth. And dey loving me.

  De crowd gone wild. Dey never see nothing so. De ocean sloshing and Rock City really rocking. Cameramen zooming in, capturing a single live guana sunning on Coral Bay. Let ‘em look dey look. We all here, Everytreerockstoneandflea.

  I could dance, too, you know. And not only spin, neida, though me bounce ain’t so high and does take quite a while. Every now and again I does let off some sparks in de air. Stars burning bright.

  Dey loving me and I loving dem, too. Feeling all de little souls tickling me, tickling me and I glad.

  When time ta move on I shrink down ta fit again. Less people here and dey more watching each odda dan me. I feeling little pains, like a drilling and a cutting and a breaking up. Shrinking faster dan I want and I can’t stop atall. Time I pass Joe’s Bar I hardly de size of a big car. By Senior Citizen’s Viewing Stand I coulda fit inta a black plastic garbage bag. On de way ta de Field de people dem clap and smile but I could tell dey seen too much ta pay special mind ta me. Is de crowd energy dat let me blow up so. Make all me beautiful intricacies flow just so. Now only a few people studying me and I dripping and losing form. Mud sliding and whales beaching. I turnoff and head back ta de parking lot ta go have a drink in de Village.

  Wellsir, I can’t self see de counter. I smaller dan a greedyman’s dream and can’t make no arms again neida.

  People tripping over me, cussing, and is smaller and smaller I getting. Little boy try ta pick me up like I was a toy throw way in a gutter. I make thunder, he ain’t hear. De most I could do is get up some lightening and he drop me. I roll under a table and hunch up next to a leg.

  Parade done. Sun gone down. People streaming inta de Village for Last Lap. Last drink, last dance, last chance ta have big fun. Everybody in a frenzy ta get and ta have. Nobody ain’t see me. I hear dem talking bout me, dat single entry. So pretty. So magical. So sure ta win. And I deydey, kick under de bar. Huddling in de dark, rum and hot grease dripping down through me mountains.

  The Good Matter

  Nene Ormes

  Translated by the author and Lisa J Isaksson

  Nene Ormes has a past as an archaeologist and as a tour guide in Egypt and now lives in Malmö, Sweden. Her debut novel, Udda verklighet (Touched), is the first in a series of urban fantasies set in her home town. The second novel, Särskild (Dreamer) won her a culture award. “The Good Matter” takes place in the same world as the novels.

  “YOU SEE,” GUSTAV said to the woman in the armchair, “relics are hard to come by these days, so many turn out to be forgeries or distortions rather than the real thing. And it’s not as if there are that many new saints to collect from.” He poured the tea for himself and his guest, the thin bone china making discreet tinkling noises as he set each cup and saucer down on the table. “You might say that goodness has fallen out of fashion.”

  They sat in armchairs angled toward each other with a small table filling the space between them. The room was illuminated by candles on side tables and the soft backlight from the wall mounted glass display cases containing his prized possessions.

  The woman in the other armchair - she had only given her first name, Eve - reached for her cup with a gloved hand and sipped her tea. “I wouldn’t say that goodness has ever been in fashion,” she said, “but that does make it even more unique when it appears, wouldn’t you say?”

  She briefly looked Gustav straight in the eye before turning her attention to the room itself.

  It was a room worthy of study, if he said so himself, hidden at the back of the antique store and filled with things of great variation, but at this moment the one feature of the room that interested him was his guest and what she’d brought.

  Eve was impeccably dressed, her shoes beautifully uncomfortable and the stockings opaque. She had let him take her coat but had kept her gloves and scarf on and they complimented her suit nicely. A single strand of pearls lay on her collarbone and moved when she swallowed. It was a serious mode of dress, for a serious transaction.

  Keeping her gloves and scarf on could be a display of her ability, or it could be a courtesy, to keep him from accidentally touching her.

  No matter her attire or the intriguing question of her abilities, Gustav felt his eyes return to the briefcase at her feet and he trembled. The mere thought of the contents of that case and the possibility inside made his mouth dry and sucked at his attention.

  But this moment had to be savoured. The possible end of a quest, the treasure-hunter’s excitement before opening the vault and catching the first glitter of treasure.

  Or of dust.

  There really was no telling which it would be until he had his ungloved hands on it.

  Her legs, next to the case, uncrossed, stretched, and crossed again, the movement pulling him out of his reverie. With effort he lifted his eyes to hers again. She was watching him, one well-painted eyebrow cocked.

  Eve did not tremble. A smile formed on her lips, the first since entering the antique shop, and he was sure she had watched him as he gazed at the case.

  He couldn’t help but blush and hope against hope that she hadn’t noticed. Like a young, eager lover, he thought, amused and embarrassed at himself.

  “You could have a closer look at my collection if you want to.” Gustav nodded toward the glass displays set into the walls. “I think I may have a couple of artefacts that could be of interest to you, or your client, even if most of them are of a more personal value.”

  She rose in one fluid movement, her poise pure elegance, like a ballet dancer. Her bearing made Gustav straighten in his chair.

  She made a circuit of the room. Each case got a fair glance, and some made her tilt her head a bit, but she didn’t ask about any of them. Not about the broken fan, open to show its fractured ribs, not the child-sized dinner set in pale blue, not the bell on its stand even though that case was open. No, it was obvious after a moment that she gravitated toward the last glass case, her face turned so that she missed seeing the glass orb and the verdigrised bronze belt buckle. She stopped in front of the obsidian dagger.

  “I assume it’s authentic.” It wasn’t a question, but Gustav nodded anyway, not that she looked at him. “May I open it?” she asked.

  He murmured a consent and held his breath when she moved the door to one side. The knife was displayed on a pink silk cushion and the greenish-black glass had an inviting shine, in stark contrast to the jagged saw teeth punched into the blade.

  The hair on his arms stood on end. Gustav had only touched the thing once, to verify its age and value, and would never do so again.

  She placed her gloved hand on the blade, exhaled, and withdrew it. With languid movements she took off her glove, one finger at a time. Very slowly, she touched the edge of the blade with her index finger.

  From the armchair, Gustav could see waves of shivers run through her body, her cheeks flushed, and her back arched s
lightly. She pulled away, reluctantly, he thought, and turned her back to him. A few moments passed. Gustav tried not to show any reaction to her heavy breathing and the struggle to regain control over it, and pretended not to notice how she twisted the glove between her hands, over and over again. He knew something of how it felt and would’ve liked privacy himself.

  “I dare say that you have at least one item that my client might be interested in.” Eve’s voice, less calm than before, reminded him of a smoky whisky, rough but still warm.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you like some more tea?”

  “Please. Or if you have something stronger.”

  Gustav opened a bottle of cognac and poured the amber liquid into two perfect nineteenth century crystal glasses. He handed her one of them.

  “Now, I can’t promise that this is the very cognac that they drank at court in the day, but it is possible. The glasses come from the very table of Emperor Napoleon. They came to Sweden by way of his steward and ended up with me as part of a gambling debt. Together, they make for the most delightful experience.”

  He watched her expectantly. Would he be right? Was she like him? Would she feel the passing of the decades back to the engraver who had patiently and proudly worked each glass by hand? Or would she feel something else?

  After what seemed like an eternity she reached toward the glass and grabbed it by its foot. She held it in three fingertips, her hand unsteady as she lifted the glass to her lips.

  Gustav felt a knot in his gut and could not take his eyes off her. The cognac passed the rim of the glass and she swallowed, looking beyond the confines of his room.

  If he had been less focused on her, he would never have noticed her body going limp, her arm losing strength and almost dropping the glass. He quickly stretched over the table, grabbed her by the elbow and placed his other hand under the glass. Without touching her skin.