Qiu took a heavy breath, and sighed. He looked up, shielding his eyes against the bright sun. “Out to orbit and back, eh? I didn't want it this way, I can tell you that."
"Few of us live the life we'd have chosen for ourselves,” Yusuf said, laying a hand on the commander's shoulder. “Wisdom lies in making the most of what we're given.” .
* * * *
Yusuf was outside the main offices, looking through a remote-viewing mirror at the Taikong Two rocket. It had been assembled and was already out on the launch pad, the better part of a kilometer away. It was a slender spire, painted in shades of scarlet and gold, with the emblems of the eight banners picked out along the side. The crew module, for the moment visible until the fairings were craned into place, had a dragon motif, imperial yellow in honor of the emperor, with the fixtures and fittings plated in gold.
In two days time, just before sunrise, the three taikonauts, Commander Qiu in the lead, would climb into the crew module, the protective fairings would be bolted into place, and the final countdown would begin.
"Master Foreman,” came a shouted voice to him, carried on the wind. Yusuf turned to see Jaiveer running up to him. “There are men waiting in your office."
"Who?” Yusuf shouted back, rising to his feet. “Are they dignitaries come early for the launch?"
Jaiveer skidded to a stop in front of Yusuf, and bent double, his hands on his knees. Panting, he said, “They would not identify themselves, but they were obviously high ranking figures, by their dress, and by the fact that they were able to get by the military guards at the gates unmolested."
Yusuf handed Jaiveer the remote-viewing mirror, and took off for his office at a jog, leaving his assistant to catch his breath.
At his office, Yusuf found two men waiting for him. One was a complete stranger to him, but the other he knew very well indeed, if only by reputation.
In his childhood in Tangier, Yusuf had read and reread the popular accounts of the aces of the Imperial Navy of the Air, primarily their activities in the War Against the Mexica, which had ended when he'd been just a few years old. He had thrilled to stories about ace squadrons like the Flying Immortals and the Spirits of the Upper Air, but none commanded his attention like the Golden Dragons. The aces of the Imperial Navy of the Air, these brave aeronauts piloted their craft in dogfights against the slow, lumbering, but still-deadly airships of the Mexic Dominion's elite Eagle Knights.
Yusuf had grown up in that brief span in which the Dragon Throne ruled the whole world. At the close of the War Against the Mexica, the forces of the Middle Kingdom were triumphant, and all of the lands of the world were brought beneath the banner of the Dragon Throne. It was not to last. Just as Yusuf was nearing thirty years of age, insurgent forces in the Mexic peninsula rose up, ousted the forces and representatives of the Middle Kingdom from their land in a bloody revolt, and established the Mexic Dominion. In the ten years since, there had been a strange, lingering hostility, a war that remained somehow cold, as the two forces chafed against one another at their borders, each trying to extend its sphere of influence. A war of tiny cuts, bombing raids and strategic hits, without all-out conflict. A conflict which had little room for warriors like the one who now sat in Yusuf's office.
Sitting in the plain, straight-backed chair facing Yusuf's desk, resplendent in his surcoat emblazoned with the golden pheasant of a civil official of the second rank, was Admiral Zhuge, formerly of the Imperial Navy of the Air, now the civilian head of the Ministry of Celestial Excursion, awarded the Most Precious Order of the Imperial Throne and presented with the Peacock Feather by the emperor himself. More significantly to Yusuf, who felt a frisson of the thrill he'd forgotten since childhood, Zhuge had been an ace during the War Against the Mexica, and had led the storied Golden Dragons.
Beside him sat a man of unremarkable features, dressed in the plain gray robes of a civilian of meager means.
"Admiral Zhuge, your excellency,” Yusuf said, bowing low.
Zhuge waved his hand, dismissively.
Yusuf remained partially bowed, his eyes flicking to the admiral's plainly-clothed companion, not sure whether he merited a deeper bow or a more shallow bob of the head.
"Master Ounaminou, Zhuge said,” following Yusuf's gaze, “allow me to present Agent An of the Eastern Depot."
Yusuf's eyes widened, and his mouth hung open momentarily as his thoughts raced. The Eastern Depot? he thought. So this An was a member of the Embroidered Guard, the emperor's own secret police. What had Yusuf done wrong to merit their attention?
Yusuf's thoughts raced, but finally he realized that he was still frozen in position. Unsure what sort of courtesy a secret policeman's position demanded, he bowed as deeply as he had for the admiral, to be on the safe side.
"Enough kowtowing, Master Ounaminou. We've little time for polite observations."
Agent An spoke, his voice sounding restrained but deadly, like a tiger on a leash. “I'll come right to the point, Master Ounaminou.” He pulled a waxed-paper envelope from within the folds of his robes, and unwrapped it, revealing a stack of grainy, grayscale photographs.
"These were brought back from the Mexic Dominion by a Middle Kingdom Bannerman stationed in Fusang, who at the instruction of my office had snuck across the border into Mexica-held territory on a reconnaissance mission."
Yusuf looked at the photographs spread before him, which depicted a squat, wide-bodied rocket ship, standing next to scaffolding. This rocket was easily three times bigger around at its base than the Taikong rocket out on the platform, though its sides climbed at a steeper angle, so that at its nose it was even slimmer than the Taikong crew module.
"Can you tell us what this is?” An asked.
"It's a rocket?” Yusuf answered.
"Of course we know it's a rocket, man,” Admiral Zhuge said. “What we need to know is, will it work?"
"When were these photos taken?"
"Just last week,” An said.
Yusuf studied the photos closely. The design seemed familiar, though he could not recall where he'd seen it before. “I suppose it would theoretically work. This massive first stage—” he pointed to the wide base of the rocket “—contains, what? A dozen thrusters? That would push the rocket to escape velocity only shortly after liftoff. The later stages would add only marginally to the acceleration, and so would require much less fuel onboard. It's a terrifically inefficient design, though. In fact, in the early days of the Huixing project..."
Yusuf broke off, and his eyes widened, fractionally.
"What about the Huixing project?” Admiral Zhuge asked, leaning forward.
Yusuf looked at the photos again. He shook his head. “Oh,” he said, swallowing hard. “Well, I'd briefly considered such an approach for the Huixing rocket in the early stages, but rejected it in the concept phases as inefficient. I never even brought the initial sketches and calculations to the rest of the design team."
Agent An nodded. “So, though the design is not as effective as our own, in your expert opinion this is still a launch-worthy vehicle?"
"It's hard to say without looking at their thrust-to-mass values, but from the basic architecture, it would appear to be sound."
Agent An nodded again, a short motion without any wasted energy, and carefully stacked the photos into a neat pile and wrapped them back in the waxed-paper envelope. He turned to Admiral Zhuge. “I've got everything I need."
Admiral Zhuge blinked slowly, thoughtfully, and looked at Yusuf. “Are we on track for the launch of Taikong Two, Master Ounaminou? Will we be able to get our men into orbit and back, before this week is out?"
Yusuf paused for a brief moment, his thoughts elsewhere and racing, and finally nodded. “Yes, excellency, I believe that we will."
"Your beliefs are irrelevant in this instance, Master Ounaminou, only the facts are pertinent."
"Yes,” Yusuf said, more forcefully. “We will succeed in our mission."
"Good,” Admiral Zhuge said, pushing to his f
eet.
"The reports from Fusang are that our man is back in Mexica with a radio transmitter,” Agent An said, “so we'll know in short order if they make a launch. So long as we can get this rocket of yours into the air before they launch theirs, honor and the emperor will both be satisfied."
"And if it appears they may beat us to the finish line,” Admiral Zhuge said, straightening his surcoat, “perhaps your man is in a position to, shall we say, delay the Mexica's efforts?"
Agent An smiled, which made Yusuf's blood run cold.
"Our man is resourceful,” Agent An said, “as are all who serve the Eastern Depot."
"Thank you for your assistance, Master Ounaminou,” Admiral Zhuge said, making for the door.
Yusuf bowed.
"I shall look for you at the launch the day after tomorrow,” Zhuge went on. “A glorious day for the empire and for all who serve the Dragon Throne.” Then he was through the corridor, and out of sight.
"Master Ounaminou,” Agent An said, sparing a brief glance at Yusuf, and then followed the admiral out into the corridor, leaving Yusuf alone with his thoughts.
* * * *
Yusuf did not go home that night, sending word to his wife that his responsibilities demand he remain at the shipyard. He stayed all night in the shadow of the scaffolding at the launch pad, hidden from view.
It will be tonight, he thought. Tomorrow night the crew will already be loading into the crew module, and the launch technicians and engineers of the ground crew will be swarming everywhere. Tonight there is only a skeletal crew on hand, making final adjustments and repairs, while everyone else is at home, getting some much needed rest before the most important day of all their lives. It will be tonight.
When the muezzin called the faithful to the evening prayers, several of the technicians on hand left their posts to pray. Yusuf had to resist the temptation to go to prayer himself. He hoped the almighty would forgive him.
There were, by now, only a handful of engineers and technicians still on hand, and those few scattered far and wide around the launch site.
Yusuf waited, his hand resting on the heavy object stuck deep in the folds of his robe.
He arrived just as the evening prayer began, precisely as Yusuf had suspected he would, when there were no other workers in view. Dressed in the uniform of a shipyard worker, in the dim light and at a distance no one would have challenged him. But Yusuf could recognize his distinctive gait at any distance.
Yusuf stepped out of the shadows, and trained Foreman Liu's pistol on the approaching figure. The pistol was older than Yusuf, but he trusted it would still fire. “Adbul-asiz,” he said. “I had hoped, in the final moments, that I was wrong."
"My friend,” Abdul-asiz said, his tone one of shocked surprise. “What is this about?"
Abdul-asiz stepped closer, and Yusuf tightened his grip on the pistol.
"Stay where you are!” Yusuf shouted. “And get your hands up."
Adbul-asiz smiled, slightly, but took a step backwards and raised his hands above his head.
"I showed those designs to no one but you, Abdul-asiz.” Yusuf gestured with the pistol, punctuating his speech with its barrel. “Not even to Lin Shui. And if the Mexic designers hadn't followed my plans so closely, even I might not have noticed. But they copied my designs to the smallest specifications. That is my rocket."
Abdul-asiz shrugged.
"And it was you who disabled the fuel lines in the Taikong One, wasn't it?” Yusuf's lip curled, remembering the smell of roasted bodies which had lingered in the shipyard air for days. “What was your purpose? To delay the launch long enough that your masters in the Mexic Dominion could finish their own rocket and beat the Dragon Throne into orbit?"
"Something like that,” Abdul-asiz said.
"I thought you were my friend."
"But I am your friend,” Adbul-asiz objected. “Certainly, at the beginning, you were just an assignment. I'd been placed in the Imperial House of Calculation to track the development of military technology, and when the Ministry of Celestial Excursion was formed I was ordered to befriend any highly placed individuals in the development chain. But in the years in which we've known one another, I've truly come to look upon you as a friend."
"Friends do not betray one another, Abdul-asiz. Of course, that probably isn't even your name, is it?"
"What does it matter?” Abdul-asiz said, dismissively. “Do not turn me in, my old friend. It will go badly for you, if you do. If I am to be convicted of stealing state secrets, how can you yourself escape recrimination, who confided them to me?"
Yusuf bit his lip, and his aim wavered slightly.
"The Mexica have need of minds like yours, Yusuf. If you come back to Mexica with me, I can arrange for you to be part of the Dominion's space program. You can go into orbit, Yusuf. Up among the stars, like you've always dreamed."
"What about my family?"
"I can only bring you with me now. Perhaps they might follow us at some later date, but I cannot guarantee it."
"You ask me to choose between my family and my dreams of flight?"
Adbul-asiz nodded, smiling. “I can make all your childhood dreams a reality, my friend."
"Masalama, my old friend,” Yusuf said, shaking his head, and then pulled the trigger.
* * * *
Yusuf went home, after returning the pistol to the case in his office, and read to his son from the seventh voyage of Sindbad the Sailor. In the passage from which he read, the luckless sailor found himself carried into the upper reaches of the atmosphere by winged demons in the shapes of men, carried so high that he could hear the angels glorifying God in the vault of heaven.
In the story, Sindbad, who mistakes his demonic companions for angels themselves, prays out loud, saying, “Glory be to God, and His is the praise.” When fire issues from heaven and almost consumes the flying demons, punishment for such debased creatures speaking the name of the almighty, Sindbad is dropped down to earth, left alone, never to mount to the heavens again.
Yusuf put his son to bed, and then went outside to his patio. He lit his hookah, and looked towards the shipyards. Abdul-asiz's body, hidden beneath the main thrusters on the launch pad, would not be found by the ground crew, and when the rockets fired, early the next morning, the body would be burned to ash by the intense heat, no trace of it to be found. And from those ashes would rise a new star, to climb briefly to the heavens, before being dragged back down to Earth.
Copyright © 2007 Chris Roberson
[Back to Table of Contents]
MOLLY AND THE RED HAT—Benjamin Rosenbaum
* * * *
Benjamin lives near Basel, Switzerland, with his wife Esther and their alarmingly clever children, Aviva and Noah. Aviva really does sometimes sing ‘There Once Was a Union Maid’ to calm Noah down. Benjamin's stories have appeared in Nature, Harper's, F&SF, Asimov's, McSweeney's and Strange Horizons. His first collection, The Ant King and Other Stories, will be published next summer by Small Beer Press. More at benjaminrosenbaum.com
* * * *
Molly loved her red hat. It was full and round and bright. It was glorious and unadorned. That hat knew more than it was saying. It could have been a ladybug, it could have been a tomato, or a red red lipstick-red dragon of fire. But it held still and was just a hat, and Molly loved it for that.
Then one day Molly's mama bought her a little blue hat. It was sly and superficial and it didn't know any secrets at all. Molly smiled politely and said thank you. She didn't want her mama or the blue hat to be insulted. She put her red hat on the peg and wore the blue hat that day. But before she went out she pressed her mouth into the red hat and whispered, “I love you and I'll always want you."
When her little brother Billy came out into the garden, Molly realized that her mama had bought him a blue hat just like her new blue hat. Molly was polite and didn't say what she thought about that.
But as Molly's mama bustled out of the house in a jingle of keys, Billy burst ou
t crying. “Mama come with!” he said.
"Have you been teasing your brother, young lady?” Molly's mama said sharply, opening her car door.
Molly felt like a playground swing had gotten its chains tangled up and kicked her off onto the ground, wham, dirt up your nose and no air left for breathing. She grabbed the blue hat with both hands and tugged it over her ears, to keep from saying anything mean.
She hadn't teased Billy, not even once, since her Daddy moved away.
"I'm already late,” said Molly's mama to Billy, kissing him on the head and removing his hands from her coat. “Molly will walk you, honey. Aren't your hats darling?” She shut the car door and drove off, vroom, without saying goodbye to Molly.
* * * *
At kindergarten Molly put away the blue hat in her cubby and went bareheaded. Mrs Telliveller raised her eyebrows in surprise. Mrs Telliveller was the youngest in a line of powerful kindergarten teachers stretching back to the days of Morgan le Fay, and she was no fool. Molly blinked twice to let Mrs Telliveller know that The Hat Would Be Back.
Molly was considerably less powerful without her hat, and the other kids knew it. Devilish Denise drew with purple crayon all over Molly's drawing of an octopus and Molly let her. Craven Cristoph and Unpleasant Umberto took all the green blocks and wouldn't let her have any, and Enervating Emily and Spurious Sue cut in line in front of Molly at lunch. None of them would have dared, if Molly weren't hatless.
So understandably Molly rushed back home, dragging little Billy by the hand so quickly that he fell down twice and started to cry. Molly apologized and sang him ‘I've Been Working on the Railroad’ and dragged him home a little slower.
But when Molly got to the peg, the Red Hat was gone.
"Where's my hat?” she said to her mama.
"Your old hat? Honey, it's too small for you. Don't you like your new hat?"
"Where—is—it?” Molly said.
Her mama said, “I threw it out."
Then Molly raged:
IN-SUPPORT-ABLE!
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #213 Page 5