Air (or Have Not Have)

by Geoff Ryman

  Mae turned and looked up. 'Kwan? Will that be okay? Can we wipe the site, if this works?'

  Kwan hauled in a thick breath through thin nostrils. 'Okay,' she whispered, nodding. 'Okay.'

  The sun rose.

  Mae tried to sleep, despite sunshine blazing through the windows.

  Kwan's warm wine had been a mistake. It burned her stomach. The acids churned like the fear of the soldiers, fear for Kwan. fear of Mrs Tung, fear of everything. Her stomach was as panicked as her soul.

  And she began to gag. She felt something tear.

  My baby. My strangely nested, new-as-Air, born-from-Air child.

  I'm trying to kill it.

  Her stomach rose up like a fist. She could feel something heavy but alive bunch up and cram against the top of her belly.

  No, no, I don't need this now!

  Mae saw Mr Ken's handsome face. It will be such a beautiful child, she thought. She struggled to pull in a breath. The flesh pushed harder against her oesophagus; she felt something gulp open inside her.

  As if Kwan's wine were fire, a blast of juices burned her throat and seared tender nasal tissues.

  Her child slammed up against her again. Her breath was knocked away.

  No!

  Mae's face twisted like a rag. She wrenched herself and also something else deep in the world. She twisted and dragged and wrung it. The world felt like silk, ripping in ragged line.

  From all around her came the sound of tiny bells. Was that blood in her ears?

  Mae remembered the fence, the fence she had torn when she escaped Mr Tunch. The fence had sung when she tore it.

  Sing! she told the air. It did. The air around her crinkled like tin foil.

  And light seemed to come from the singing. Light wavered in patterns on the walls, as if reflecting from water. The light was confused with the thin tinkling sound from nowhere.

  Mae thought of all of them – Tunch, Old Mrs Tung, Fatimah, the village women. No! You will not take my child from me. Soldiers, armies, people who will not learn, people who hate the future, no you will not get him, my last late Unexpected Flower. He is going to live.

  Mae swallowed, and swallowed again. The room went dark. Mae's fingers went numb. Mrs Tung was coming, drawn by the fear.

  Mae felt her arrive. Mrs Tung seemed to come into the room and sit on the bed next to her.

  The old woman was charmed by the homeliness of babies and indigestion. Old Mrs Tung offered advice.

  Yogurt is always good for an upset tummy.

  The voice was as kindly and as sweet as pear drops.

  Mrs Tung had always been kind. Mae remembered her sweet, blind face.

  Yogurt it is, thought Mae, and remembered the tang of it. Yogurt she thought, remembering its creamy sting, and the yogurt sheds with their smell of wood smoke.

  Suddenly the light and the singing smelled of yogurt. The whole room smelled like those old sheds. Mae swallowed again.

  And was soothed. Like a storm at sea when the wind suddenly dropped, the acids in her stomach seemed to calm. They burned no longer.

  Like a barque, clumsy on the waves, the separate flesh inside her settled calmly down into the waters of her stomach. Mae could even feel the foam of the waves.

  Mrs Tung was smug. The old remedies are always the best. Now I think we should all just get some sleep, don't you? She seemed to toddle off to bed.

  Everything went still.

  Suddenly Kwan's attic was just a room, quiet and full of sunshine, a room full of peace, even joy. Mae cradled her stomach. I will build you a safe harbour, little boat. I will fence you in with docks and sea walls. They won't frighten you out of me. If I have to call on all of Air, you will stay.

  Mae felt her face stretch with a relieved smile. She slept.

  The army did not come. That day.

  Mae still had to find a place to work.

  She and Sunni had made amends, but Mae would hardly be welcome working on Sunni's machine day and night as she needed to. And it would be better if the Circle did not operate out of Kwan's premises. So where, how?

  ____________________

  audio file from: Mrs Chung Mae

  14 December

  Dear Mr Oz-sir

  It is plain that my business has reached the point at which it is necessary to run it from our own machine. The grant has been more than generous, especially as regards our beautiful knitting machine. Would money be available for me to operate a service centre of my own?

  ____________________

  audio file from: Mr Oz Oz

  14 December

  Dear Mrs Chung-ma'am

  It is possible. Form for grant is attached, partially filled in for you, but do not submit it until I can take soundings here. Your course of action is wise.

  Mae scanned the message and pondered its every word for any sign that Mr Oz had sent the two encrypted mails.

  She decided that he had. The soundings he spoke of were to find out how the government viewed Mae's controversial connection with the Wings. Mae felt like a traitor to Kwan. 'Your course of action is wise,' meant simply that she had done as she was warned, and moved her site.

  Mae stared at the form, filled in completely by Mr Oz, except for a white box which read: 'Reason for Expense/Benefits for Community.'

  She could say that she was running a service centre for the whole valley, so more commercial sites could be implanted. She could say that she was offering her own expertise in building sites, and publicizing them.

  In fact, that was not just an excuse. In fact that was a very good idea indeed.

  Mae sat pondering it, seeing it clearly. Mounting sites for Mr Ah's car repair, setting up an electronic voting station, providing a link for Mrs Mack to her Christian church. She saw specifically, Sunni's Valley Fashion Service. She saw again, the Swallow School, now on the Web itself, giving advice, explaining terms, trading Info with other Net traders.

  She sat staring into another new branch of the future, happy.

  The machine made a noise like a rooster. 'You have follow-up message,' said the screen.

  'Mae,' said Mr Oz in video mode. 'My friend, the most amazing thing has happened. Open a second window, and I will transmit.'

  She did so. The window was full of writing in the Roman alphabet and a photograph of the Circle: Kwan, Mae, Sezen, Suloi, Mrs Doh, Hatijah.

  We look so happy, Mae thought. We look like the kindest people in the world, and the happiest.

  Mr Genuinely Sincere kept talking: 'Mae. It is an article that has appeared in the New York Times, both online and in disk. It is called "Mae's Story," and it is by one of your customers – you know her, an editor of a New York magpie. Mae, it is all about your life and how you fight for info, and how Mrs Tung was copied into your mind by overhasty Formats. It quotes your friend Mr Tunch. It quotes you saying you hate the UN Format. But Mae! It is a perfect reflection of the government line! How the West must not take us for granted, but must consult on Info. It could not be better. Everyone here is so pleased! They are calling it a diplomatic coup for Karzistan!'

  Mae looked at the photograph of Kwan's beautiful face. Have I managed, accidentally, to save my friend?

  'Does this mean I get my own machine?' Mae asked.

  Mr Oz laughed. 'I expect so.'

  And suddenly Mae was sure: Oz was not the one who had warned her. He would never be so cunning or so quick. She was relieved she had been so discreet in her mail to him.

  It was Tunch, she realized, Tunch who had intervened.

  'Let me complete the form and send it to you.'

  And that meant the encryption equations came from Tunch as well.

  That means Tunch watches me, in Air. Guardian angel indeed.

  Oz jerked with pleasure like a colt. Mae thought: Being robbed and thrown in jail by his bosses has not made him older. He will always be a boy.

  He asked her. 'You okay on what to say on the form?'

  'I know exactly what I want to do with it, but you a
dvise me, okay?'

  'Okay. You want to save the article? Your machine can read it.'

  Mae paused and reflected. 'No,' she said quietly. 'I would rather not.'

  He looked a bit perplexed. Then the windows closed. Mae completed her application and sent it to him.

  Then she asked the television to write a proper letter to Sunni.

  My old friend,

  How strange is life. I keep saying that these days, especially thinking over the last few months. Now, here comes something just as strange as everything else that has happened.

  Can I rent my old house from you? Consider: The real value of what you have purchased resides in the land, and there are plenty of farmers hereabouts to whom you can rent the land. That is very good business for you, especially as you do not need to give accommodation as part of the deal. It is pure land rental. So what do you do with the house? Rent it to Mr Ken for his hens? How much is he going to pay you for a barn?

  Ah, but, Sunni, a workshop for my Circle, now that is a business premise, and you can charge far more for that. And I will have the money to pay, once my machinery arrives.

  I make a proposition to you. I offer 10 riels a month rental. That is in place of given-away accommodation on which you make nothing, or 5 riels a year for a ham - 120 riels a year.

  Do we need to talk further?

  And, Sunni, for me the old days are dead, forgotten. Forgiven. My hope now is that you can forgive me the wrongs I did to you. Your friend Mae

  Mae sat back and looked at the letter. So, she thought, my battle for the future begins again. I'm doing it for my baby. New song new life.

  CHAPTER 17

  Mae looked out of her attic window and saw snow was falling.

  Winter is here, she thought with excitement. Winter was dark, enfolding, and safe. She saw her new winter very clearly: long happy hours alone in her old house, with her own glowing screen.

  In the grey morning, snow blew like feathers. It nestled along the top of the stone wall, and on the roof tiles. This was good heavy snow that fell with a gentle hissing sound and mounted up quickly, as if the town were being padded with thick white pillows.

  It had been so long since Mae had been outside. In winter, everyone stayed inside; no one would see her. The snow would be a veil.

  Mae threw a scarf over her head, and wrapped round one of Kwan's Eloi sheepskins. It sat slightly askew around her shoulders, bulky and still smelling of lanolin.

  Outside on the landing, she snapped on a light. The staircase stayed dark. Kwan called up through the darkness. 'There's a power failure!'

  Mae felt her way down the staircase. The main room had its front door open to let in grey light.

  'I'm going out in the snow!' Mae announced. 'Come along!'

  Kwan's answering chuckle was both affectionate and edgy. There had been no sign of the army, but Kwan was still cautious. 'I'll stay here,' said Kwan.

  Mae eased herself down Kwan's slippery stone steps. The snow was already sealing over the dungheap next to the barn. Mae's own breath was a sheltering scarf of fog.

  All sounds were muted. On the chilly stones of the courtyard the snow looked like lace, its delicate patterns refrigerated from underneath. Mae pushed the courtyard gate, and for the first time in weeks stepped back out into her village.

  Everything was being tucked into a bed of snow, as if by a mother. The houses and terraces were all outlined in white. From the high hillside came the tuneless clanking of twenty or thirty sheep bells. Someone had left his flock out to pasture too long. Mae smiled. The same happened every year. Was it Old Mr Pin? Lazy Mr Mack? Who would sit in a corner of the Teahouse, smoking a hubbly-bubbly and grinning with embarrassment?

  Mae walked up and over the bridge. The invulnerable ducks still paddled in snow-rimmed water. Mae passed the door of Mrs Doh and her fearsome dog. Mae heard its breath, and the scratching of its giant claws against the other side of the doorway. She caught a gasp of food odours from Mrs Doh's kitchen window: garlic, bean sauce, rice.

  The next door opened just as Mae was beside it.

  Out came Sunni's friend, Mrs Ali. 'Oh!' she said startled. Then she saw it was Mae. Her face faltered and then recovered.

  'Hello,' she said. 'It snows.'

  This was awkward. Village manners would not allow them to part without talking. Mrs Ali slammed her door twice with her customary thoroughness. She was bundled up against the chill, tall, skinny, regal and slightly absurd, like a walking telephone pole.

  'It is very beautiful,' said Mae. 'It makes me feel like I have come home.'

  Then the old rake did not know what to say, for Mae plainly had lost her home several times over. She was discomfited, but not hostile.

  'Well, we all have fond memories of snow.' Mrs Ali paused. 'I hear your business does well.'

  They both started to walk down the hill together.

  'Yes. We have orders from America for five hundred collars. I don't know how we will do all the work!'

  That was so far beyond Mrs Ali's imagination that she could not be sure she had heard correctly.

  'Successful indeed!' she said, and her smile froze. 'That brings in money?'

  'It is a special deal. We have a good relationship with a New York fashion magpie. So we said, join our Circle and wear our collar for only ten dollars each.'

  Yes, thought Mae, that does make five thousand dollars. 'So amidst all the terrible things that have happened, there has been some good. The ladies of the Circle share the money. Sunni and I are friends again.' Mae shrugged with her eyebrows, a kind of peace offering. Don't forget that I have been hurt too.

  They were at the Okans', the last house on Upper Street. Mrs Ali paused.

  'I have noticed,' said Mrs Ali, 'that your friends tend to benefit.' She looked back at Mae, and there was something completely unexpected: a rueful humour, as if Mae were one of life's bitter jokes.

  'Good day,' said Mrs Ali. 'I have no lard, and winter is upon us, and I go to beg some from Sunni.' She turned and began to trudge uphill towards Sunni's big house.

  There was a rumble, as if from the sky. Mae scowled. Something shifted gears and roared and suddenly, a truck came round the hill and up Upper Street, straight towards her.

  A big green truck with huge devouring tyres.

  Army! Mae thought, and it was a though a fist had seized hold of her heart and stopped it pumping. She ducked to the side of the Okans' house.

  Army, army, army, army, struggled her heart as if to breathe.

  The truck roared past, green canvas over camouflaged sides, lashed down, bolted, huge. Army, army, army roaring up the hill, slowing to shoulder their way over the bridge.

  Towards Kwan's house.

  Mae ran without thinking. Her feet slipped on the snowy cobbles; the cold reached down like deep roots into her lungs. Please! Please! It was a prayer.

  She had to be there to tell her story, to explain. I am New York Times! I am New York Times! Mae ran out of breath and had to lean forward onto her knees. Fire from her pregnancy shot up her gorge into her mouth. She swallowed, pushed herself upright and struggled on up the hill. Kwan's gates gaped defencelessly. The courtyard already full of truck. Mae stumbled into the yard.

  There was a bloodcurdling yell, and the green door of the cab swung open. A bull of a man burst out of it in piebald camouflage. Before Mae could think, he was running towards her, full pelt. male. huge, fast, young, and strong. She managed to skid to a halt, and was about to turn and run.

  He grabbed hold of her.

  And then swung her round and round and round. Her string shoes with their slippery leather soles left the ground. She flew. Kwan's courtyard became a merry-go-round, spinning around her, and the man was laughing. Mae wanted to be sick.

  He kissed her.

  'Surprise!' he called, as if out of a nightmare. Mae's feet were helpless as flippers as she fought to find footing.

  She looked up at him. She saw his teeth grinning. 'It's me!' he said.


  The world shifted gears like a truck. Her breath left her, she clutched at her chest, all was confusion.

  'Lung?' she asked. 'Lung!' For one further terrible moment she thought her own son had come to arrest her best friend.

  He laughed. 'Not expecting me were you?'

  'No,' she said weakly. 'What are you doing here?'

  He laughed again. 'We are bringing you your knitting machine!' As big as a tree branch, his arm was flung towards the cargo under the canvas.

  'Oh!' she called out, clutching herself in relief. 'Oh! Oh!'

  'Your Mr Oz told me the machine was going, and said, it would be a good chance for me to see you again. Also we have the new TV for you! Did no one tell you?'

  Relief spilled over, sloppily, loosely into other emotions. 'Oh Lung!' she said again, and hugged him, held onto him as if he were a new village tree to root things in place. Suddenly it was joyful to see him. Out of confusion, relief, and love her eyes were suddenly full of tears. He chuckled and patted her back. 'Meet my colleagues,' he said.

  Two more soldiers lurched out of the cab. One was small and wiry with bad teeth in a cheerful grin. The other looked uncomfortable smiling. He was slim in the hips but fat in the face. Fat and brutal was how he would swell into the future. Both bowed slightly in politeness.

  'This is Private Ozer, and Sergeant Alkanuh,' said Lung. 'This is my mother, Mrs Chung Mae.'

  Mae was shivering with cold and nerves but managed to bow to each of them. She looked back at her son. The cold was bringing a beautiful pink to her cheeks. The two soldiers were chuckling, the tears and emotion were what they expected from a homecoming. Mae saw Kwan, pale, grey at a window.