by Rich Horton
“Who?” said Eliza.
Moon looked around for Ivana, but she had slipped between the eddies of people as easily as if they had been wind-currents, and was already on the dock. “I have to catch her,” he said to Eliza.
He swung across the gap to the dock, but his path was harder. He dodged a Poorfortune policeman, was nearly collared by a hungry-looking man with a notebook and shining eyes and only caught up with Ivana at the first turn of the stairs. Her shabby coat was only slung over her injured shoulder, and came away in Moon’s hand. He said the first thing to come into his head.
“Where’s the jacket?”
“I left it on the storeroom door,” she answered.
“Don’t you want it?”
“You think I want a souvenir? What’s left of it is yours—you bought that fairly, at least.”
Moon drew breath. The game of squares had been even, he intended to say, and just because it was chance doesn’t mean it wasn’t fair. “I don’t know your name,” he said.
She didn’t answer him. Above, the police were engaged with Fuille, the ship and the cargo. Eliza had drawn the attention of the journalists away from Moon and Ivana where they stood hidden from the higher platform. Half a minute might pass before they must be recognised, or vanish into the streets below.
“That needs to be seen to by a doctor,” said Moon, nodding at her shoulder, clumsily but effectively bandaged.
“It already has been,” said Ivana with a wan smile, and touched the sleeve of her shirt. If that was meant as any sort of compliment, it struck Moon as half-hearted. His work had been brief and ugly, and throughout the short operation in the heart of the storm he had been of the impression that Ivana was careful to give her instructions in very small words.
She turned with her hand on the railing and Moon said, “Wait. I’ve got a bit laid by, and there’s always a game in this town. We—we flew well together, you and I. Fly with me again?” He remembered that the Hyssop, unmasked as The Ravens, was as good as lost. “I’m sure to have a ship again, soon. My luck will come back, it always does. Like the wind.”
“You have to catch luck!” said Ivana, then shook her head and laughed weakly. “You have to hold on to it, Moon.”
“You can’t hold on to the wind,” said Moon. “But who knows? We survived that storm—maybe you are my luck. Come, Ivana! I’m sure Eliza will put you up until I find a ship and more of a crew. She knows how to keep secrets.”
Ivana looked up to where the torn sailcloth and trailing lines of the Hyssop were visible, sagging in the breeze below the platform. “I’m going home. By sea. I’d rather mend people who’ve been foolish than hurt myself through folly.”
Moon, standing still, felt that he was ducking and weaving again, in pursuit of Ivana vanishing, only this time he could not see his way. “I’ll get you a real weatherfinder tattoo, if you want one. I don’t want to fly blind again, Ivana.”
But something he had said was wrong, or not enough. Ivana was descending again, faster than he could follow.
“Please!” he called down. “I’ll pay you better than your doctor!”
She looked up. Her face was still too pale, drawn out long like that of the lost figurehead, and Moon felt a pain of double loss.
“You couldn’t pay me enough,” she said, disappeared around the next turning of the stairs and was lost in the human rivers of Poorfortune.
A ship, Moon told himself. First find a ship, then a weatherfinder.
“You haven’t any caution,” said Eliza merrily, arriving beside him with the expression of a well-fed cat. “Thank you,” she said, releasing Alban who shouldered his own duffel bag and hurried away, head down. Eliza tucked her arm through Moon’s. “Poor lad, anyone can see he’s not meant for a breezy. Well, there’s sufficient variety of employment here. Now, come with me. I have a deadline and therefore am expected to be in a hurry. You must tell me everything. And then buy dinner, for I did beat you to Poorfortune.”
As he helped her up into a high-sprung cab she said, “Did your Ivana get away, then?”
“Yes,” said Moon.
“Was she pretty?”
Moon looked up at his sister. Her face was sympathetic, amused but unsurprised.
“No,” he said, suddenly. “Damn it, Eliza, don’t look at me like that. I’ll tell you everything later. I have to go.”
“I’m a journalist, Moon!” said Eliza, but he had stepped back and waved the cab-driver on. She had to lean out and call the last words back. “Later isn’t good enough!”
“And congratulations!” he shouted, but he did not wait to see if Eliza heard. He was already longing for clear sky, and pressing through the brown and crowded streets which led down to the old harbour, and the sea.
Someday
James Patrick Kelly
Daya had been in no hurry to become a mother. In the two years since she’d reached childbearing age, she’d built a modular from parts she’d fabbed herself, thrown her boots into the volcano, and served as blood judge. The village elders all said she was one of the quickest girls they had ever seen—except when it came to choosing fathers for her firstborn. Maybe that was because she was too quick for a sleepy village like Third Landing. When her mother, Tajana, had come of age, she’d left for the blue city to find fathers for her baby. Everyone expected Tajana would stay in Halfway, but she had surprised them and returned home to raise Daya. So once Daya had grown up, everyone assumed that someday she would leave for the city like her mother, especially after Tajana had been killed in the avalanche last winter. What did Third Landing have to hold such a fierce and able woman? Daya could easily build a glittering new life in Halfway. Do great things for the colony.
But everything had changed after the scientists from space had landed on the old site across the river, and Daya had changed most of all. She kept her own counsel and was often hard to find. That spring she had told the elders that she didn’t need to travel to gather the right semen. Her village was happy and prosperous. The scientists had chosen it to study and they had attracted tourists from all over the colony. There were plenty of beautiful and convenient local fathers to take to bed. Daya had sampled the ones she considered best, but never opened herself to blend their sperm. Now she would, here in the place where she had been born.
She chose just three fathers for her baby. She wanted Ganth because he was her brother and because he loved her above all others. Latif because he was a leader and would say what was true when everyone else was afraid. And Bakti because he was a master of stories and because she wanted him to tell hers someday.
She informed each of her intentions to make a love feast, although she kept the identities of the other fathers a secret, as was her right. Ganth demanded to know, of course, but she refused him. She was not asking for a favor. It would be her baby, her responsibility. The three fathers, in turn, kept her request to themselves, as was custom, in case she changed her mind about any or all of them. A real possibility—when she contemplated what she was about to do, she felt separated from herself.
That morning she climbed into the pen and spoke a kindness to her pig Bobo. The glint of the knife made him grunt with pleasure and he rolled onto his back, exposing the tumors on his belly. She hadn’t harvested him in almost a week and so carved two fist-sized maroon swellings into the meat pail. She pressed strips of sponge root onto the wounds to stanch the bleeding and when it was done, she threw them into the pail as well. When she scratched under his jowls to dismiss him, Bobo squealed approval, rolled over and trotted off for a mud bath.
She sliced the tumors thin, dipped the pieces in egg and dragged them through a mix of powdered opium, pepper, flour, and bread crumbs, then sautéed them until they were crisp. She arranged them on top of a casserole of snuro, parsnips and sweet flag, layered with garlic and three cheeses. She harvested some of the purple blooms from the petri dish on the windowsill and flicked them on top of her love feast. The aphrodisiacs produced by the bacteria would give an
erection to a corpse. She slid the casserole into the oven to bake for an hour while she bathed and dressed for babymaking.
Daya had considered the order in which she would have sex with the fathers. Last was most important, followed by first. The genes of the middle father—or fathers, since some mothers made babies with six or seven for political reasons—were less reliably expressed. She thought starting with Ganth for his sunny nature and finishing with Latif for his looks and good judgment made sense. Even though Bakti was clever, he had bad posture.
Ganth sat in front of a fuzzy black and white screen with his back to her when she nudged the door to his house open with her hip. “It’s me. With a present.”
He did not glance away from his show—the colony’s daily news and gossip program about the scientists—but raised his forefinger in acknowledgment.
She carried the warming dish with oven mitts to the huge round table that served as his desk, kitchen counter and sometime closet. She pushed aside some books, a belt, an empty bottle of blueberry kefir, and a Fill Jumphigher action figure to set her love feast down. Like her own house, Ganth’s was a single room, but his was larger, shabbier, and built of some knotty softwood.
Her brother took a deep breath, his face pale in the light of the screen. “Smells delicious.” He pressed the off button; the screen winked and went dark.
“What’s the occasion?” He turned to her, smiling. “Oh.” His eyes went wide when he saw how she was dressed. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.” She grinned.
Trying to cover his surprise, he pulled out the pocket watch he’d had from their mother and then shook it as if it were broken. “Why, look at the time. I totally forgot that we were grown up.”
“You like?” She weaved her arms and her ribbon robe fluttered.
“I was wondering when you’d come. What if I had been out?”
She nodded at the screen in front of him. “You never miss that show.”
“Has anyone else seen you?” He sneaked to the window and peered out. A knot of gawkers had gathered in the street. “What, did you parade across Founders’ Square dressed like that? You’ll give every father in town a hard on.” He pulled the blinds and came back to her. He surprised her by going down on one knee. “So which am I?”
“What do you think?” She lifted the cover from the casserole to show that it was steaming and uncut.
“I’m honored.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Who else?” he said. “And you have to tell. Tomorrow everyone will know.”
“Bakti. Latif last.”
“Three is all a baby really needs.” He rubbed his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “Our mother would approve.”
Of course, Ganth had no idea of what their mother had really thought of him.
Tajana had once warned Daya that if she insisted on choosing Ganth to father her baby, she should dilute his semen with that of the best men in the village. A sweet manner is fine, she’d said, but babies need brains and a spine.
“So, dear sister, it’s a sacrifice . . . ” he said, standing. “ . . . but I’m prepared to do my duty.” He caught her in his arms.
Daya squawked in mock outrage.
“You’re not surprising the others are you?” He nuzzled her neck.
“No, they expect me.”
“Then we’d better hurry. I hear that Eldest Latif goes to bed early.” His whisper filled her ear. “Carrying the weight of the world on his back tires him out.
“I’ll give him reason to wake up.”
He slid a hand through the layers of ribbons until he found her skin. “Bakti, on the other hand, stays up late, since his stories weigh nothing at all.” The flat of his hand against her belly made her shiver. “I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”
She tugged at the hair on the back of Ganth’s head to get his attention. “Feasting first,” she said, her voice husky. Daya hadn’t expected to be this emotional. She opened her pack, removed the bottle of chardonnay and poured two glasses. They saluted each other and drank, then she used the spatula she had brought—since she knew her brother wouldn’t have one—to cut a square of her love feast. He watched her scoop it onto a plate like a man uncertain of his luck. She forked a bite into her mouth. The cheese was still melty—maybe a bit too much sweet flag. She chewed once, twice and then leaned forward to kiss him. His lips parted and she let the contents of her mouth fall into his. He groaned and swallowed. “Again.” His voice was thick. “Again and again and again.”
Afterward they lay entangled on his mattress on the floor. “I’m glad you’re not leaving us, Daya.” He blew on the ribbons at her breast and they trembled. “I’ll stay home to watch your baby,” he said. “Whenever you need me. Make life so easy, you’ll never want to go.”
It was the worst thing he could have said; until that moment she had been able to keep from thinking that she might never see him again. He was her only family, except for the fathers her mother had kept from her. Had Tajana wanted to make it easy for her to leave Third Landing? “What if I get restless here?” Daya’s voice could have fit into a thimble. “You know me.”
“Okay, maybe someday you can leave.” He waved the idea away. “Someday.”
She glanced down his lean body at the hole in his sock and dust strings dangling from his bookshelf. He was a sweet boy and her brother, but he played harder than he worked. Ganth was content to let the future happen to him; Daya needed to make choices, no matter how hard. “It’s getting late.” She pressed her cheek to his. “Do me a favor and check on Bobo in the morning? Who knows when I’ll get home.”
By the time she kissed Ganth goodbye, it was evening. An entourage of at least twenty would-be spectators trailed her to Old Town; word had spread that the very eligible Daya was bringing a love feast to some lucky fathers. There were even a scatter of tourists, delighted to witness Third Landing’s quaint mating ritual. The locals told jokes, made ribald suggestions and called out names of potential fathers. She tried to ignore them; some people in this village were so nosy.
Bakti lived in one of the barn-like stone dormitories that the settlers had built two centuries ago across the river from their landing spot. Most of these buildings were now divided into shops and apartments. When Daya finally revealed her choice by stopping at Bakti’s door, the crowd buzzed. Winners of bets chirped, losers groaned. Bakti was slow to answer her knock, but when he saw the spectators, he seized her arm and drew her inside.
Ganth had been right: she and Bakti weren’t particularly close. She had never been to his house, although he had visited her mother on occasion when she was growing up. She could see that he was no better a housekeeper than her brother, but at least his mess was all of a kind. The bones of his apartment had not much changed from the time the founders had used it as a dormitory; Bakti had preserved the two walls of wide shelves that they had used as bunks. Now, however, instead of sleeping refugees from Genome Crusades, they were filled with books, row upon extravagant row. This was Bakti’s vice; not only did he buy cheap paper from the village stalls; he had purchased hundreds of hardcovers on his frequent trips to the blue city. They said he even owned a few print books that the founders had brought across space. There were books everywhere, open on chairs, chests, the couch, stacked in leaning towers on the floor.
“So you’ve come to rumple my bed?” He rearranged his worktable to make room for her love feast. “I must admit, I was surprised by your note. Have we been intimate before, Daya?”
“Just once.” She set the dish down. “Don’t pretend that you don’t remember.” When she unslung the pack from her back, the remaining bottles of wine clinked together.
“Don’t pretend?” He spread his hands. “I tell stories. That’s all I do.”
“Glasses?” She extracted the zinfandel from her pack.
He brought two that were works of art; crystal stems twisted like vines to flutes as delicate as a skim of ice. “I recall a girl with a pansy tattooed on her back,�
� he said.
“You’re thinking of Pandi.” Daya poured the wine.
“Do you sing to your lovers?”
She sniffed the bouquet. “Never.”
They saluted each other and drank.
“Don’t rush me now,” he said. “I’m enjoying this little game.” He lifted the lid of the dish and breathed in. “Your feast pleases the nose as much as you please the eye. But I see that I am not your first stop. Who else have you seen this night?”
“Ganth.”
“You chose a grasshopper to be a father of your child?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Aha!” He snapped his fingers. “Now I have it. The garden at Tajana’s place? I recall a very pleasant evening.”
She had forgotten how big Bakti’s nose was. “As do I.” And his slouch was worse than ever. Probably from carrying too many books.
“I don’t mind being the middle, you know.” He took another drink of wine. “Prefer it actually—less responsibility that way. I will do my duty as a father, but I must tell you right now that I have no interest whatsoever in bringing up your baby. And her next father is?”
“Latif. Next and last.”
“A man who takes fathering seriously. Good, he’ll balance out poor Ganth. I will tell her stories, though. Your baby girl. That’s what you hope for, am I right? A girl?”
“Yes.” She hadn’t realized it until he said it. A girl would make things much easier.
He paused, as if he had just remembered something. “But you’re supposed to leave us, aren’t you? This village is too tight a fit for someone of your abilities. You’ll split seams, pop a button.”
Why did everyone keep saying these things to her? “You didn’t leave.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t as big as I thought I was. Besides, the books keep me here. Do you know how much they weigh?”
“It’s an amazing collection.” She bent to the nearest shelf and ran a finger along the spines of the outermost row. “I’ve heard you have some from Earth.”