Periphery

by Lynne Jamneck

  Axis blinked and sped up. She gripped the steering wheel tightly. She could see the outline of the bridge several kilometers ahead. She had four minutes; she might just make it. In all the planning, they had never talked much about the afterwards. They’d never really expected to all get out alive. It had only mattered that they follow the plan as closely as possible and avoid capture. She imagined Drew, her scent, her smooth skin and muscled arms, the scars that kissed their way around her body. The stories they told or didn’t. Maybe Drew and Jasmin had slipped out early. Maybe they’d not waited, had left without Axis, and were leaning against the car on the other side of the bridge, laughing and sharing a smoke. She’d smack them both. Then she’d curl her arms around Drew’s neck and kiss that mouth slowly, deeply. She’d press into her, move against her, take her into the forest. Hell, she’d take her right on the side of the road.

  Axis shifted in the seat. She braked lightly. Traffic had slowed and all three lanes were trotting towards the base of the bridge. She could see a large fuel tanker up ahead. The car in front of her had three small children in the backseat. The ponytailed girl was staring right at her, smiling and waving Goodbye.

  Axis bit her bottom lip. Or maybe Drew and Jasmin had run into trouble. Maybe she should have waited longer, should have gone in after them. She could have helped. Could have finished the job or at least pulled them out in time. Two minutes.

  She could have been with Drew, to the last.

  It was pointless to turn around now. She’d never get back to the site in time. If the second wave of blasts went off, she’d be trapped inside the city limits and in the ensuing chaos she’d be fighting for basic survival like the rest of them. She’d never find Drew in that mess. Axis wiped her palms on her pants. Her belt held a series of hand grenades and a small but efficient set of explosives. If all else failed, she’d use them.

  A car honked behind her. They weren’t moving at all anymore. Axis pulled sharply onto the shoulder and turned off the engine. She stuffed her dress, wig, gun and the red lipstick into her briefcase. Then she got out of the car and started running towards the bridge.

  *

  When the rumbling shook them to the ground and the air pulled backwards, sucking the hot breath right out of them, Drew knew it was done. She heard Jasmin screaming, felt the fire tearing up her own skin, too. Everything faded except the pain and the smell of burning hair, of human flesh. It was beyond sanity, beyond coping. Then even the pain receded, and for a tiny moment all that existed was Axis. Drew dreamed her into being now, filled herself with Axis’ scent, her touch, her wide smile. This heat was from her, and this suffocating weight her body writhing on top. Drew wondered vaguely about The Firsts, wondered if they’d understand that it was their cruelty and obscene wealth that made them so hated. That there would never be a time when they weren’t hated, and that they would always be outnumbered. She wondered where Axis went, why she couldn’t smell or taste or touch her anymore. Then Drew didn’t wonder anything at all.

  *

  Axis exhaled deeply, kept running uphill, her shoes sometimes slipping on the slick metal grating. Once she got to the pedestrian sidewalk she was alright. She pounded the cement, one-two, one-two, hoisted the case in front of her and shared its weight between her two hands. When she reached the midway point right alongside the fuel tanker, she turned back and watched the city disappear. Lights dimmed or simply disappeared in huge sections of city blocks. Everything got quiet, still. She could hear a distant soft booming, saw flares eat up the night, watched as tall firewalls flickered and grew in the downtown core. Her breath was loud, ragged. Her chest heaved and sweat glistened all over her.

  In that frozen moment, that time without movement, she felt it all slice through her. Drew was gone, she was certain. Probably Jasmin, too. Axis had wiled her way to safety; she was halfway home and no longer knew why. The struggle seemed suddenly hollow, without its certain rewards. Without those pretty comforts, those precious bolts of rage and passion, there was no point, really. She gasped for air and floundered. She looked down to the utility belt, to the grenades sitting, waiting. She looked to the large truck beside her.

  The sirens started up again and the bridge burst back to life.

  *

  KD: “They Came from Next Door” is a story about passion and possibility. Set in a future world of nightmarish gay capitalism, three disease-ravaged women, former corporate-owned slaves, lead a class war pre-emptive strike. Our heroes monkey wrench the system from Next Door and from Down There, always with an eye to liberation.

  They came from next door are lyrics from Bauhaus’ song Rosegarden Funeral of Sores.

  The word “kronk” originally came from Carol Shields’ book Unless.

  Ishtartu

  By Lyda Morehouse

  The reflection in the changing room mirror looked like an effeminate man in drag, Edie decided. It didn’t help that the salesclerk, in a misguided effort to be helpful, had chosen something pink and girlish. The legal-length hemline didn’t flatter her rugby-thickened calves, and she’d yet to find a pair of high heels she’d been able to wedge her broad, square-toed feet into. This was never going to work.

  Edie waved her hand to dispel the hologram. She smoothed back the trim line of short blond hair above her ears, and adjusted her tie. Much better.

  Except.

  Except she’d interviewed with eighteen prospective religions this week and none of them—not even the Wiccans—could grant her immunity from the Leviticus law which stated “a woman shall not dress as a man,” and vice versa in public.

  The salesclerk knocked politely on the shuttered door. When Edie didn’t immediately answer, the woman cleared her throat. “You might like these.” The hand that inched the door open slightly held a number of holo-chits. “They’re not precisely street legal, but I think you’d look great in them.”

  Curious, Edie took the shy offering. The first turned out to be a black mini, which showed off the lions of Ishtar tattooed on Edie’s inner thighs. And hid little else.

  “Oh, my, my,” the clerk tsked in pure Minnesotan, clearly peeking despite the privacy screen. “You’d be arrested in a heartbeat. It’s a shame too, because it looks hot with the blazer and tie.”

  “I look like a whore,” Edie said, more angrily than she’d intended.

  “No disrespect, but isn’t that what you are?”

  The question was innocent enough. Normally, Edie had a firm but tactful explanation that the ishtartu were sacred prostitutes—that she was, in fact, a priestess, due as much respect in the eyes of the law as a Catholic Monsignor or a Muslim Imam. But, since Valentine died, she’d lost her faith.

  Valentine was Edie’s best friend. He’d been her “cover” all through high school. He was probably the only reason she wasn’t in some re-education camp right now. He’d saved her life. In fact, Valentine had been the first one to show her the queer underground comic books and magazines. Together, they’d discovered that the ishtartu had the legal right to wear whatever they pleased in service of their Goddess. She’d joined a month after he had, even though she was just barely old enough.

  Edie’s faith had been unshakeable. Any Goddess who celebrated queerness was a Goddess for Edie. Then Valentine up and died on her. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough anymore.

  Edie had offered and offered and offered herself those months Valentine was sick. Edie’d taken so many tricks, prayed so hard her knees still hurt. Despite all the sacrifices she’d made, all the shit she’d put herself though, the Goddess let him die.

  No, the Goddess killed him.

  The memorial had been like losing Valentine a second time. The high priestess tried to keep order, but Valentine’s family kept disturbing the vigil with their hateful shouts about hell and how his religion had defiled him and given him the disease. The hard part was that Edie knew it was partly true. Valentine had told her he’d taken a risk with a client because he believed that the Goddess would protect him.

 
Valentine’s faith betrayed him.

  Even knowing that, Edie had held on to her belief that the Goddess would come through—give him some kind of miraculous remission. Edie prayed the only way she knew how, and the Goddess refused answer. She woke up the day after his memorial service with a cold, twisted sense that the Goddess was just a sham. All those protesters were right; she was just fucking people for money.

  “Yeah,” Edie told the salesclerk, feeling shame well up deep inside her. “I guess that is what I am.”

  *

  Edie walked home with the receipt for the mini and two conservative skirts in her coat pocket. Five hundred credits to look like crap, she sighed.

  People parted before her like the Red Sea as she moved through the busy Minneapolis skyway. Edie noticed there were generally two sorts of people, those who kept their eyes firmly averted, and those who stared. Of those that stared, the majority made some kind of ward against evil like the sign of the cross. Some looked ready to spit or shout. A few just took her in—the buzz cut, long coat, suit and tie—without any expression other than curiosity, like you might gaze at some foreign beast in a zoo.

  Normally, Edie moved easily through the crowd, her head held high and ready to stare down anyone. Today, she hurried along, trying to avoid eye contact. She used to love the feeling of flaunting her sexuality; now she felt…exposed.

  Edie spotted a uniform headed her way. The cop would stop her in front of everyone and demand to see her green card, proof that she was ishtartu. She fished into her coat pocket. Her card had turned a sickly chartreuse. Flipping it over, she saw she had about fifteen minutes to call in before it went completely yellow and her license was considered suspended. Edie’d heard of cops who would come up with all sorts of delay tactics just to toss a working girl or boy behind bars.

  Given Edie’s crisis of faith, she could end up in legal limbo. In this day and age, when America was a theocracy, not having a legally recognized religious affiliation was a crime. She’d planned to go down to the courthouse sometime this week to apply for seeker status (a grace period for people converting to a new religion), but she’d been so busy desperately trying to find another religion that would not only accommodate her sexuality, but also her personal fashion style, she forgot.

  The card in her hand began flashing. The cop was nearly within shouting distance. Edie ducked into a public terminal and swiped her card in the reader. The terminal booth smelled faintly of stale sweat, and the floor was soggy with slush and ice. Whoever had used this place last had actually come from outside, where the snow was falling. Edie shook her head in disgust, even while she was thinking, “there but for the grace of the Goddess, go I.”

  A rap on the door startled her. The cop peered in at her through the grime-streaked windows of the accordion doors. She palmed the green card and slapped it in front of his face. The instant the terminal had connected to the Temple, it had turned a healthier shade of green.

  The cop pursed his lips and shook his head, clearly disappointed he couldn’t harass her. She smiled apologetically, which only made his eyes narrow. He mouthed, “I’ll be watching you.”

  Edie waited for him to move off, but he didn’t. The cop took up a position at the crosswalk directly opposite Edie, like he was performing some public safety duty. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, ostensibly watching the crowd for trouble, but he kept his attention on her. Great, Edie thought, so much for slipping off without finishing the transaction.

  The cop’s scrutiny felt like needles in Edie’s back as she scrolled through the potential client list. The usual suspects flicked across the screen. She hardly saw them. What was she going to do? She need time to think, but the cop started pacing back and forth like a lion waiting to pounce on a kill.

  Without even looking, Edie pressed the accept key on the worn out pad. She had to get this creep cop off her back. She’d deal with reneging on the contract later. The machine peeped out a tinny beep, and Edie felt a slight buzz at the receiver buried under her right temple as the client’s dossier was downloaded into her personal, private LINK.

  Edie’s green card flushed into a deep green. Her shoulders relaxed as she swung open the doors. From the smile on her face and the corresponding grimace on his, she sensed the cop knew he was beaten.

  *

  Edie hopped the light rail for home. The train was mostly empty, except for a couple of women in business suits at the rear of the car talking to each other in the excited gestures of ASL. Edie always found sign language captivating to watch, so she tried not to stare. Most people didn’t like too much attention from an ishtartu; it made them nervous, like someone could see into their deepest, darkest fantasies. To distract herself, Edie glanced through the dossier stored in her LINK.

  Now that she was away from the cop, Edie planned to hit the reject option—a prerogative all ishtartu had—without even really reading the offer. But, the instant the photo appeared in her mind’s eye, she paused.

  The woman was beautiful. She had dark mocha-colored skin and dreadlocks that hung past her shoulders. Large almond-shaped eyes stared mischievously at the camera, and a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know-what-I’m-thinking-about grin played on full, sensual lips. Too-large earrings glittered at her earlobes. She wore a burnt orange turtleneck, which was the only disappointment because it hid whatever curves might lie beneath.

  Edie found herself imagining full breasts…or perky, taut breasts…or…. She stopped herself. Her mental finger hovered over the reject button. Not matter how gorgeous the client, she knew it wouldn’t be right. It would just be paid sex.

  Her mental gaze lingered on those playful, teasing lips. Would that be such a bad thing? Maybe she could take this job as one last farewell.

  *

  Jamila, the client in question, lived in Saint Paul. Though it was the capital of Minnesota, Saint Paul liked to think of itself as a quaint, small town. Thus, after stopping at home for a quick shower and her overnight bag, Edie found herself standing on a corner, outside, in the freezing rain, waiting for a trolley car. It was her third transfer.

  At least she didn’t have to take a damned bus, which was good because she was packing. Edie could feel the center strap of the harness wide and firm between her legs. She ran the flat of her palm over the pronounced bulge riding on her mons. It was going to be a long trolley ride. Ah well, every moment would build the anticipation.

  Though the LINK automatically informed a supplicant that their offer to the Temple of Ishtar (tax deductible!) had been accepted, Edie liked to call ahead and get a feel for the client. So, she mentally signaled a go-ahead for the LINK to establish a connection.

  “You’re not canceling like the others, are you?” Jamila’s voice was a rich, deep alto. And Edie had been so pleased to see that she looked just as gorgeous on the LINK as she did in her profile, that it took a second for her to parse Jamila’s question.

  “Actually, I’m about five minutes from your place. That’s still good, right?”

  Jamila rewarded Edie with brilliant flash of a smile. “I’m all ready for you, girl. I even have hot cocoa waiting.”

  “With whip cream?”

  Jamila chuckled lowly. “Lots.”

  *

  It was only when she was standing on the sagging front porch of Jamila’s Victorian did Edie pause to wonder why anyone would cancel. Jamila’s dossier expressed an interest in a variety of different sexual positions and a tendency towards experimentation, none of which would normally be a turn-off to an ishtartu. Before putting her finger on the doorbell, Edie LINKed to Jamila’s offer one more time. She scanned the surface for any anomalies, but found nothing. Then, she accessed the client history. There they were: two rejections. Odd. Both happened after having accepted the call. One left her in the bedroom. Highly unusual.

  A gust of cold wind nipped at Edie’s ear. Despite her growing concern, she rang the doorbell. The door opened with a puff of warm air that smelled of pine and baking bread. “You actual
ly came.”

  Jamila wore a bulky brown sweater that matched her eyes. Since she was in her own home, she wore faded blue jeans and comfortable bunny slippers—complete with ears and a pink triangular button nose. Edie smiled at those.

  “You’re beautiful,” Edie said, completely genuinely. “How could anyone say no to a woman like you?”

  Jamila raised a thin eyebrow, even as she stepped out of the doorway so Edie could enter. “Wait until we get to the bedroom.”

  “I can’t wait,” Edie said, shrugging out of her coat. Seeing a coat tree beside the door, she hung it up. She kicked off her boots and took a look around.

  Jamila’s house was like so many in Minneapolis/St. Paul. Despite all the advances in technology, it was still a grand old place with twelve-foot ceilings, maple trim, and hardwood floors. Jamila had a fire roaring in a stone fireplace. Velvety purple couches and a matching overstuffed chair tucked comfortably around the fire. Bookcases encircled the room, filled with data-chits and crystals. What looked like original, abstract oil paintings hung on the rich cream-colored walls.

  “You want that drink, or should we just…” Jamila’s eyes indicated an open staircase.

  “It’s entirely up to you,” Edie replied.

  “Then, I’d like to get this over with. If you’re going to run screaming like that last girl, I don’t want to waste my good cocoa on you. No offense.”

  What had happened here? Edie shook her head in disbelief. “There might be screaming,” Edie insisted with a wicked smile. “But I promise I won’t run.”