Asimov's SF, October-November 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  As he turns to open the door, she notices his clenched buttocks. His musk is strong so she moves quickly, wrapping her tongues closer to her face to avoid his smell. Being on such intimate terms with the Masters makes her uncomfortable, but she steps into the room, fingering Dia's egg bead for luck, anxious to get it over with.

  Judging by the way Jandala's smell clings to the dry moss, Lasa guesses Mistress is more than ready. Lasa's stomach tightens as her tongues dance to the taste, and she tiptoes up to the bed and stares at the Mistress, deep in fecundity trance.

  She doesn't want to break the spell, so she hesitates for a few seconds before placing her hands on Jandala's body and caressing her skin, which shines like egg-shell in the candlelight.

  When Jandala's skin turns pink, Lasa parts her Mistress's nether lips and breaths jaja into her oviduct.

  The woman shivers with pleasure and calls out Lasa's name. Jandala's grip on her servant's hair is not the stately pat Lasa is used to. Mistress keens and the windows rattle. For a second Lasa fears that her newly wed Mistress will be one of those deviants who prefer the breath of a casteless servant to the rhythmic thrusts of her rightful husband, but then Mistress ovulates and it's over. Lasa presses her hand on Mistress's abdomen and helps the gelatinous egg lodge into the oviduct.

  Mistress sits up and arranges the quilts around her, covering her glowing skin in silk and dignity. She pats Lasa on the head and orders her to fetch her husband. She is back in control, and her jaja-servant sighs with relief.

  Master orders her to leave, but she can tell he does not want her to go. Lasa is painfully aware of the jaja breath still clinging to her. He inhales deeply, as is custom, and hesitates. She can read the contradicting impulses playing out in the knot of his shoulders and the ripple of his neck-flaps. Masters are always torn between temperamental wives and docile servants, but most of them don't feel such lowly impulses on their wedding nights. How sad for Mistress Jandala! It seems forever, but he finally waves her away and she's free to run out of the room.

  Getting down the stairs proves to be hard. The aftertaste lingers on her tongues and she trembles as each spasm brings up another wave of jaja breath, which trails behind her in a scented cloud.

  She tells herself that she's done what was required. It's not a servant's place to feel shame, but she hides under the staircase anyway, wiping her mouth until she stops convulsing and starts crying, the tears strange on her breath-scented face.

  After a while, Old Dia slips into the darkness and places a wrinkled arm around Lasa's shoulders.

  “Shh, don't cry, you've done well. The Masters will be pleased with you.”

  Lasa cries harder.

  “It's all right, it's all right. You'll get used to it. First jaja is always the hardest, but it's a great honor.”

  Lasa whimpers and sinks her face into the wrinkled crevice between the old woman's arm and first tentacle. Dia smells of jimba beans, soap and roast, and the hay filling of the servants’ beds. Lasa digs her head further into the smelly pit and feels safe surrounded by Dia's sagging flesh and the soft noises her body makes to keep her alive. She listens to the older woman's heartbeat, the rattle of her lungs and the occasional puff of her neck-flaps as they open to expel gas.

  Old Dia is the kitchen boss. She can be hard if you let her down, but she always treats Lasa like she's special. Lasa stops crying.

  “Come on into the kitchen,” Dia says, “we are going to shell pods. Purple peas make a good breakfast for newlyweds.”

  The servants gather around a tub brimming with warm water and vines. The pods move against the servants’ fingers, trying to escape, twisting and tickling until one by one, the women retrieve them, bite off the stem and release the wriggling peas back into the water. Peas die fast off the vine, but because the servants are devoted and do the shelling at night, Master Gundaro and Mistress Jandala will have live peas for breakfast in the morning.

  The women joke about the thumping noises coming from the ceiling. Lasa works at a good pace, but she doesn't talk much. Suddenly, she feels warm wet peas wriggling down the back of her dress. She squeals and turns around to catch Dia purple-handed. The old woman has a look that says the girl won't dare retaliate. As if ! Lasa grabs a handful of husks and smears them on Dia's face.

  “See what you've done! How do I explain purple face to Master tomorrow,” Dia says, exaggerating her accent because she knows it will make the women laugh and because she won't let them forget that she wasn't born to this house, that she was bought in Quei and that she was originally a free woman. Dia always wears the egg necklace her mother gave her before she was sold. Now it's missing a bead, the one Lasa carries in her pocket. The necklace is a symbol of Dia's power, and the closest thing to a sceptre any servant ever wielded in the kitchens of a house.

  “He won't notice,” Nin shouts. “I doubt he'll even leave the room.”

  A husk fight erupts. Beans fly from one corner of the room to the other. Purple stains their faces and clothes, but they're drunk on gossip and jitter. Today is for happiness and washing can wait.

  As fast as the fight started, it's over. The servants quiet down and give each other guilty looks. In the garden, the wind-organ moans. The servants heave a collective sigh and get back to work, shelling the peas to the beat of lovemaking from the first floor.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, Mistress Jandala gives Lasa the egg. It wouldn't do for a mistress to become attached to an egg that might grow up to be a servant. Lasa takes it with both hands and places it in her marsupial pouch, daring to glimpse into her Mistress's face from beneath lowered eyelashes. She wants to read something in the way her Mistress carefully wipes the egg with her handkerchief before thrusting it into Lasa's hand, but, no, she is only projecting her own lowly thoughts. Mistress feels nothing but proper disregard for her and for the hatchling.

  Lasa hopes that the egg will be High Caste when it hatches. If it turns out to be a Master or Mistress, Jandala will bring it up herself. If it's a servant, it will be Lasa's job to teach it its place in life. At least the egg has hope.

  Mistress sits down and lets Lasa comb her. Lasa makes each brush stroke linger. When Mistress leans back and closes her eyes, she steals a puff of hair that has come lose on the comb and tucks it away into a fold of her dress. Afterwards, when she's alone, she'll pull it out and bring it close to her tongues to smell, before putting it away again and glancing guiltily around her.

  * * * *

  The servants gather in the kitchen to fawn over the egg and bury Lasa in advice.

  “It's a great honor.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “You must drink crushed shells so that the egg won't break.”

  “And no more jimbisters for you, lady, it's servant food and we don't want it to hatch into a servant.”

  “Pray every day: breathe on the statue of the Name God and ask him to make it a Master or Mistress.”

  “You'll do all right, it has that tint. It'll be a Master, I'm sure,” Nin says.

  The women fall silent, and a couple of them whisper a warding. Nin should know better than to bring the egg bad luck. The egg could be anything at this point, servant, Master, Mistress, or even ... a monster. Many eggs don't even hatch. Dia breathes on the egg's surface to protect it.

  “Put it away,” Dia says. “That's enough excitement for one day.”

  That night, Dia says Lasa must sleep tied up. The egg is still so small that it's unlikely to break if Lasa turns over in her sleep, but Dia isn't taking any chances. She gives Lasa an old moss mattress, which used to belong to Jandala when she was young, and ties her hands to the sides of the bed.

  “Will the egg be all right?” Lasa asks. “I mean, after what Nin said...” She's been thinking about this all day.

  “Stupid Nin should know better! But I think the egg has a good chance. I'll light an incense stick for it tonight. Don't worry about it, there's nothing you can do.”

  The old woman busies herself
with the coverlet and cushions, kisses Lasa goodnight and heads for the door.

  “Dia! Don't leave yet.”

  The woman plods back.

  “I've been thinking ... If the egg is a servant, I'll get to keep it ... I know I shouldn't, but I want my own hatchling. Is it wrong to feel this way?”

  “Yes. You don't really want to keep it. Imagine how it will suffer if it's a servant. You must pray for it to be a Master or Mistress, hear me?”

  “Yes, I know,” Lasa sighs. “I just ... Do you think my wanting a hatchling will harm its chances? Oh Gods! What if I've already turned it into a servant by thinking this all day!”

  Dia chuckles and shakes her head.

  “Everyone feels like that at first. What matters is what you pray for.”

  Over the next three days, the egg's shell grows porous and the hatchling begins to take nourishment from Lasa. She knows because the egg is now stuck inside the pouch and she's ravenous all the time.

  * * * *

  “Lasa,” Master Gundaro grunts.

  Lasa freezes, poised on the tips of her feet, almost of a mind to pretend she hasn't heard and leave. She's had trouble sleeping, she's irritable, and she has discovered that a pregnant servant can get away with things. She sighs but obeys, taking only a couple of steps into the room where Master sits playing a game of solitary wass.

  “Your pouch is small for five months,” he says.

  Lasa nods; she secretly wonders if something is wrong with the egg.

  “They feeding you enough?”

  Lasa doesn't know what to say; Dia won't let her eat as much as she wants, claiming that it isn't good to spoil the hatchling. If they'd known it'd be High Caste, there wouldn't have been much harm in spoiling it, but just in case it's a servant, it must learn to make do with what it gets.

  “Yes, but I'm always hungry,” she says, head lowered.

  “I see. Tell Dia to let you eat. Enough eggs die as it is, I won't have servant superstitions hurting my chances. You should be glad you have Masters to take care of your lot, you people would all be dead if we left you on your own.”

  Lasa blushes with caste-guilt. She'd give anything to be free of it.

  “Do you know how to play?” Master asks.

  She nods; even servants play wass from time to time.

  “Come. Sit. You're the only one around who isn't supposed to be working, and Mistress Jandala doesn't like this game.”

  * * * *

  Master calls Lasa back to play more and more often. Mistress stops calling Lasa in the morning to comb her hair. Dia frowns at Lasa as if she's done something wrong and servants stop whispering when she approaches. Outside, the wind-organ has changed its tune to a low, disquieting moan.

  A month into their wass sessions, Master wraps a tentacle around Lasa's wrist. She wriggles lose and he smiles without lifting his eyes from the game, sending a chill down Lasa's spine. It's the smile of someone who knows that he'll get what he wants and isn't bothered by the wait.

  “Do you know what the rebels of Quei say?”

  Lasa keeps her eyes on the board.

  “They say that eggs aren't only the fruit of a Master and Mistress's love. They claim that hatchlings often resemble the servant who attended at the jaja ceremony. They believe that a hatchling is part Mistress, part Master, part servant. It's a curious idea, neh?”

  Lasa has heard the rumors, but she doesn't understand why a Master would bring this up. It's the kind of talk that Dia doesn't allow in her kitchen; filthy speculation designed to tarnish the High Caste's reputation and give servants “notions.”

  “But it must be wrong, don't you think? Imagine, Masters being one-third servant! Disgusting,” says Gundaro.

  Lasa's heart starts pounding and her breath crystallizes on her tongues. What has she done wrong? The Master is going to punish her. Why else would he speak like this? Is he trying to trap her? What does he want her to confess? She starts inventorying her small transgressions.

  “Your turn,” he says.

  She moves the angry god figurine without thinking, leaving the pig and the cat exposed for Master to take with his air and water pieces.

  He reclines in the chair, pleased with himself. The household spider, almost half a foot tall, tiptoes up to him and he pets it.

  “Yes, it's disgusting,” she ventures.

  “You're a good girl,” he whispers. His hand falls casually on her lap as he grabs Lasa's hand to keep her from leaving.

  * * * *

  Dia is waiting up for her with a scowl to tie her up before bed. When the old woman starts scolding, Lasa breaks down. Lasa's confession spills out like a flood.

  When she is finished, Dia stares at her from the corner of the bed. The old woman's cheeks are red and her tongues are dry and flustered.

  “I was free,” Dia mutters, and then louder, “I was free.”

  Lasa nods; Dia repeats this often enough.

  “It's not much, but I have something,” Dia continues. “Other jaja-servants have borne High Caste hatchlings. Some have only their cooking to be proud of, but we all need something to keep us alive. Pride in something. It can be a secret that only you know, but there has to be something.”

  The girl thinks she understands what Dia means. The old woman fingers her bead necklace, bought with the hungry days of her childhood. The necklace is there for all to see, saying here, watch, this is me. I am not a slave, or at least, not only a slave.

  “He's taken that away from me,” Lasa whispers.

  “I know.” Dia sits next to her in silence, caressing her hand. In the yard, the wind-organ grows shrill.

  “You need to get it back. You need a secret,” Dia mumbles. She gets up and leaves, forgetting to tie Lasa down this time.

  Lasa lies back. She can't smell the hay cot beneath the moss mattress and wonders what it would feel like to sleep face down again. She misses working with the servants. It's all the egg's fault. No Master ever looked at her before she got the egg.

  Lasa marvels at the freedom in her arms and legs. It's been months since she could turn in bed as she pleased. She turns, just a little, to rest on her side. She's playing with an idea, which scares and tantalizes her at the same time.

  Eggs die all the time.

  She settles comfortably on her side, rocking back and forth slightly. Lasa closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep.

  When she rolls over on her stomach, the crunch is faint. She doesn't have to put her hands inside her pouch to know that the egg has cracked. The spilling yolk is proof enough. She knows they'll make her pay for this, but she's not the first servant to have lost an egg. Content, she falls asleep.

  * * * *

  Lasa isn't the first servant to have lost an egg and Master only cuffs her, sending her reeling to the floor. Then he storms into the kitchen, demanding to know why she wasn't tied up. Like a spool of ribbon snagged on a bramble, Lasa's plan starts to unravel and she is powerless to stop it.

  They blame Dia. She is old and not worth much, so Master has her beaten.

  Lasa watches, clutching her eggless sack. The marsupial pouch will take months to regain its shape and it's unlikely it will ever be full again. High Castes have their own superstitions.

  The stick beats down in rhythm as the wind-organ keens. The beater starts to sweat, but even the most obedient servant won't bring him water and he knows better than to ask.

  How was Lasa to know? Eggs die all the time. She bites back the frost jelling on her face.

  Some part of Dia's body cracks and the hunger-beads in her necklace fly up into the air and scatter. One of them rolls beneath Lasa's foot. She picks it up, although she can't think of anyone who deserves it less, and puts it with its sibling in her pocket. Those eggs never hatched. Some eggs are never meant to hatch.

  When it's over the servants retire to the kitchen while the beater goes to bury Dia. The women leave food at the back door so that the beater won't come knocking. Lasa sits by the basin and cleans out her pouc
h, removing the crusted yolk and broken shell. She rocks back and forth and hums to herself. She even laughs a little, though she doesn't know what is so funny. Her body moves automatically, while she herself is far away. The women look at each other and start muttering that she's going mad. They expect her to grieve, but Lasa doesn't know how to begin. Guilt and pain have not caught up with her yet, but she senses them creeping up on her and she wonders how she'll be able to live with what she's done.

  In the meantime, Lasa clutches her belly. She has her secret.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Sara Genge

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Poetry: THE FIRST DANCERS

  by Michael Meyerhofer

  It horrified me in fifth grade to read

  how ancient jellyfish evolved

  into stomachs with fangs and biceps,

  mosquitoes sporting javelins for stingers,

  educated men knotting yellow stars

  to arms still soft with babyfat.

  —

  Whittle a few hundred million rings

  from the trunk of our world's history,

  then behold the iridescence

  of king-sized jellyfish fanning the deep,

  their feelers curling and uncurling

  with a grace reserved for invertebrates.

  —

  Before the Amazon fell to loggers—

  long before kindling, much less stoves—

  picture schools of these peaceful dancers

  roaming the depths, gelatin comets

  gumming plankton. Then one grows a tooth.

  It begins. It cannot be stopped.

  —Michael Meyerhofer

  Copyright (c) 2008 Michael Meyerhofer

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Novelette: DEFENDING ELYSIUM

  by Brandon Sanderson

  Brandon Sanderson grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He became an avid science fiction/fantasy reader at the age of fifteen, and later decided to try his hand at writing. Brandon has published the Mistborn trilogy with Tor, and a middle-grade fantasy series, the Alcatraz Smedry books, with Scholastic. He is currently at work on A Memory of Light, book twelve in the Wheel of Time series, which he was asked to complete after the passing of author Robert Jordan. Brandon teaches a creative writing class at Brigham Young University. He lives in Provo, Utah, with his wife Emily and son Joel. In the author's first story for Asimov's, his hero must match wits with aliens and saboteurs while...