The Long List Anthology Volume 3

by Aliette de Bodard

  She paid for their bus fare with a swipe of her cuff. The orange-colored account balance glared from the screen. The extra cost to rescue her brother was unexpected, but she had enough money to buy her ticket to Fresno, barely.

  “Can walk,” Jeffy slurred when they were a few blocks from home.

  Fine, let him arrive on his own two feet. He wouldn’t be fooling anybody. Marmeg’s cuff said it was slightly past ten o’clock, so the boys would be sleeping. That was a small mercy.

  They walked in with Jeffy leaning heavily on her shoulder. She hardly felt his weight, but their mother’s gaze landed like a sack of stones.

  “Again?” Amihan Guinto looked worn out and disappointed as only a parent could. She grunted and stood up from the concave sofa. “Put him here. I’ll take a look.”

  “How was your shift?” Marmeg asked as she helped Jeffy lie down. The metal frame creaked under his bulk.

  “Miss Stevens missed the bedpan again so I guess it was a normal day,” Amihan said. She rummaged through a kitchen cabinet. “Take that unnatural junk off, Mary Margaret.”

  Marmeg was tempted to refuse, but she needed to do a once-over on her gear anyway. She dropped the parts in a heap. Amihan walked by, carrying the odor of warmed-up chicken adobo and rice with her. Marmeg hadn’t eaten since the afternoon, before her shift at the club. Her stomach rumbled as she helped herself to some leftovers while her mother patched up Jeffy’s wounds.

  Amihan hadn’t objected when Marmeg learned to program. She’d expressed cautious optimism when Marmeg began winning contest money, but she had never approved of embeds or moots or any modern trend. Elective surgery goes against God and the Pope. Marmeg had heard the words often enough that they were tattooed on her brain.

  Her mother had kicked her out after her first chip implant, but Marmeg could easily match her mother for stubbornness. She’d lived on the streets, spending the nights in homeless shelters when she couldn’t crash with her friend T’shawn. Luck had landed her some workable exoskeleton discards and then the club security job. The money was enough to split rent with her mother, which let Amihan relent while saving face.

  Marmeg washed her plate and then sat with her equipment. Her embedded control chips were legit, but the surgery to put them in wasn’t, and her exoskeletal gear was filched from trash bins in rich neighborhoods. The pieces tended to break. She had backup parts to rube a fix during the race, but she’d rather catch a loose bolt or hairline crack now than in the mountains.

  “Have you registered for the certificate program yet?” Amihan asked.

  “Yes,” Marmeg replied, staying focused on the pieces of gear scattered about. She’d filed the forms, not the payment.

  “Did you get a spot in the elder care program?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She had requested a spot, but she was stalling the registrar at UCLA with promises of tuition. As long as she placed in the top five in tomorrow’s race, she’d have the money to start a four-year embed degree program. Real degrees led to real money, and that’s what she needed to live on her terms, not her mother’s.

  “I know you’re disappointed, mahal, but four-year colleges won’t qualify a postnatal for financial aid. Working in the nursing home isn’t that bad.”

  “No? Our life is so good?”

  “There’s food on the table,” Amihan said sharply. “My children are healthy, except for this idiot.” She nudged Jeffy.

  “And all of us born unlicensed.”

  “So, we don’t get free education and health care. You can’t have everything handed to you on a gold plate. Let’s be grateful for what God has given us.”

  “I am, Ma, but I want more. Six-digit ratings. Big money and benefits jobs. Make some rules, even with no vote. Run the world. Not be run down by it.”

  “Are you calling me run-down?”

  Marmeg pressed her lips together. She had no safe answer to that question.

  “Look at me! Four kids, and my body still looks great. My tits aren’t saggy. My ass is nice. When I’m out after my shift, men buy me drinks.”

  “That explains the four kids,” Marmeg muttered.

  A slap against the back of her head knocked the multi-tool out of her hand.

  “Hey! That’s—”

  “Don’t disrespect your mother. My body only bears children when God wants, and I’ve been married every time.”

  “So, He doesn’t give a shit if your kids are unhealthy, uneducated, under—”

  This time, the blow landed hard across Marmeg’s cheek, making her face burn and her eyes sting.

  “Take that vile metal filth and get out! Go back to your club! Surround yourself with those people who deny God’s gifts. Go! Ugly, ungrateful child.”

  Marmeg clamped down on the surge of answering violence. Even without the exoskeletal enhancements, her body was bigger and stronger than her mother’s. Self-defense or not, if she hurt Amihan, she’d be the one feeling lower than a worm.

  “Ma?” said a sleepy voice from the hallway. Then, “Marmeg!”

  A small body clad in faded cupcake pajamas hurtled into Marmeg. She wrapped her little brother in her arms and glared over his shoulder at their mother. Your yelling woke them up!

  “It’s late, Felix. Go back to bed,” Marmeg said.

  The six-year-old was wide awake now, and he spotted Jeffy on the sofa.

  “Again?” He almost sounded like their mother.

  “He’ll be fine,” Marmeg and Amihan said simultaneously.

  “Go to sleep, Felix, or you’ll be feeling it on your backside.”

  Marmeg kissed the soft brown cheek and then stood, picking her little brother up in a smooth motion. “I’ll tuck you in.”

  Lee was fast asleep on the upper bunk as Marmeg laid the baby of the family in the lower.

  “Tell me a story?” Felix wheedled.

  “Not tonight. It’s late.”

  “You say that every time,” he grumbled.

  He had a point. Marmeg left anyway, knowing that Felix would draw her further into the argument if she stuck around. She glanced balefully at their mother. That was your fault, she wanted to say, but she kept the peace for the sake of her brothers.

  “I’m tired,” Amihan said, some of the shrillness gone from her voice. She walked toward the bedroom. “I’m going to bed too.”

  “Fine,” Marmeg said.

  She finished tuning up the exos and then pulled a large nylon backpack from the hall closet. She loaded it with spare parts and repair tools. A shabby plastic poncho went in too, in case the slight chance of rain materialized. The bag was old, with multiple patches of duct tape, but it held. She was about to put it on when Jeffy groaned from the sofa.

  “Marm,” he said, motioning her over.

  She walked back and knelt by the sofa.

  “You goin’? Tonight?”

  “Yeah. Midnight bus to Fresno. Six o’clock to Oakhurst. Run or hitch from there. You be okay to watch the littles tomorrow?”

  “Don’t worry ’bout me. You focus on this race. You got ’nough money?”

  As if her brother had any to spare. “Be okay, long as I place.”

  “An’ if you don’t?”

  “But I will.”

  “That’s my girl. You take care. An’ kick some ass, eh?”

  Marmeg smiled lopsidedly. “Hooah.”

  She tried to find a clean inch on her brother’s face to kiss and settled for the top of his head. He was snoring by the time she reached the front door. A glance at her cuff told her that she couldn’t catch the bus in time on foot.

  She sent T’shawn a message: NEED A RIDE FROM HOME TO BUS CENTRAL. YOU FREE?

  The response came a minute later. BE RIGHT THERE.

  Ten minutes later, T’shawn pulled up in an old two-seater that he’d inherited from his uncle. The young man himself was tall, skinny, and garbed in his typical outfit of baggy jeans and a loose, long-sleeved shirt. His goggles—a relic from age twelve—were wrapped around his head.
They were his first project. He’d fit the lenses from his regular glasses into old blue swim goggles that he’d found in the trash near school. When he showed up to classes wearing them, Marmeg was terrified for his safety, but he was so casual and confident that derision fell off him like paint flakes from his car. He did get beaten up later that day, but, as he’d pointed out to Marmeg when she patched him up, the goggles had saved him from yet another pair of broken glasses.

  These days, T’shawn had such high black-market ratings that no one with a working brain would harass him. He still wore the goggles.

  Marmeg smiled at him as they clasped arms, each one’s hand to the other’s elbow.

  “What got you late?” he said.

  The car’s electric motor whined to life, and they pulled away from the curb.

  “Jeffy had a 404.”

  “Gonna get himself killed one day. Can’t be rescuing him always, Marm. You almost missed the bus.”

  “Know it, but he’s my brother. Had my back all these years. Gotta look out.”

  T’shawn nodded, then shrugged. “Be growing up, getting yourself out. You win Sierra, he’ll be on his own. Oh, yeah, got some treats for you.”

  He took a small case from the car’s center console and handed it to her. Four tiny capsules nestled in gray industrial foam. They gleamed with gold and green.

  “New chips?”

  T’shawn grinned. His teeth reflected white in the lights of opposing traffic, his face a dark shadow. “Payback for your latest code. Done my clients real good; said they did parkour times a hundred. Clean getaway last night.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Black market pays.”

  “Sure, but don’t gotta like it. Want a better way.”

  “That’s why you racing tomorrow. Don’t be grumpy, Marm.”

  She smiled. Even if she didn’t like his clients, she couldn’t hold a grudge against T’shawn. Legit sales channels demanded certifications she couldn’t afford. Yet. She closed the case and slipped it into her gear bag. The capsules were identical to the ones Marmeg had in her body. Those had also been rewards from T’shawn and his friends in dark places.

  They arrived at the bus station ten minutes before midnight. Marmeg grabbed her bag and stepped out into a cloud of diesel fumes. She coughed and thanked her friend for the ride.

  “Good luck,” T’shawn said.

  “Owe you for this, brud.”

  “It’s nada. You go win.”

  The car behind them honked. T’shawn rolled his eyes, gave her a salute, and pulled away.

  Marmeg walked into the squat concrete bus station. Security guards in bulky exos watched her motions as they did with anyone wearing gear. She found her bus and boarded it. The dozen other passengers were mostly migrant farm workers from Mexico and Southeast Asia. Half of them had already dozed off, and the others were staring at their screens.

  Marmeg had a row to herself. Her pack sat next to her, bulky and comforting. She wrapped her arms around it and tried to sleep, to forget the flash of red after she’d paid for the one-way ticket to Oakhurst. Her account was zeroed.

  • • • •

  The bus from Fresno to Oakhurst arrived late. Marmeg had intended to foot it from the small town to the starting line, but no way would she make it on time. She stood outside the station, staring at the distant peaks in despair. A woman emerged from the building and walked to her.

  “I’m headed that way myself,” the woman said. She was obviously middle-aged and a nat, reminiscent of Marmeg’s mother. “Want a lift?”

  Thank God for the kindness of strangers.

  Marmeg felt the first twinges of motion sickness as the pickup truck bounced and swayed through the curves of Sky Ranch Road. The woman—Lauren was her name—kept her eyes on the uneven dirt road, but she must have sensed Marmeg’s discomfort.

  “You want to turn back? It’s not too late. You can still catch the bus to Fresno.”

  Marmeg explained, “Carsickness, not nerves.” Then she shrugged. “Can’t go back. Account’s full busted. Gotta race. Gotta place.”

  “How old are you, sweetie? Does your mom or dad know you’re up here doing this?”

  “Twenty,” Marmeg lied. “Mom knows.”

  They bounced through a particularly vicious dip. Marmeg’s head smacked into the truck’s ceiling on the rebound.

  “Sorry,” Lauren said.

  Marmeg stared through the pockmarked but clean windshield. Trees towered above them on both sides. They mostly looked like elongated Christmas trees. Some had rusty red bark with a feathery texture. She was tempted to look them up on her cuff, but the thought of trying to read while her stomach lurched put her off. Every few minutes, she caught a glimpse of rounded granite mounds: the peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

  “Here we are,” Lauren said as she turned right into a large dirt clearing.

  Dust rose around the truck as they pulled up next to the tree line. Sleek but rugged vehicles were parked nearby. The whole area swarmed with people.

  Marmeg flicked her wrist to activate her cuff. The time read 8:35. She would not have made the nine o’clock cutoff on foot, not with all the enhancements in the world.

  “Thanks,” Marmeg said. “Owe you big. Credit you some grid time? Call it quits?”

  Lauren raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  Marmeg spoke in slower, fuller sentences. “Can’t pay you back for the ride, but I got grid time to spare. Trade for your help. If you want.”

  “This was a favor, kid. You don’t owe me anything. Just promise me that you’ll make it through and back to your mom in one piece, okay? I’ve got a son not much younger than you. You remind me of him.”

  Marmeg ducked her head shyly.

  “Deal. You look out tomorrow. See my name.”

  Marmeg ignored the bemused look Lauren gave her and hauled her bag out of the back. She waved once as Lauren drove away. Dust stirred in the wake of the tires, making her sneeze. Its scent reminded her of the housekeeper who lived downstairs and always smelled of pine, though that was harsher than the natural version. Even the air smelled different from home—sharper, simpler.

  Marmeg walked across the crowded dirt lot to the race booth. Journos surrounded former winners and high-rated contestants. Marmeg’s heart beat faster. She was nobody today, but she knew that a few people had placed bets on her. Her odds were long—this was her first race—but they wouldn’t be on her next one, not if she finished Minerva in the top five.

  Contestants and their support teams clustered in small groups. Most had their screens out for last-minute tune-ups and optimized settings. A few were warming up. Flashing their feathers, Marmeg thought. She felt more than saw their curious glances as she walked by. Somebody snickered. Marmeg was glad of her brown skin. It hid the flush.

  The registration booth was a modest structure made of canvas and plastic. A giant electronic panel across its top looked out of place as it displayed vid clips from previous Minerva Challenges. The corporate logo—a clockwork owl—hung on a banner to the left with the words EQUIPPING THE ATHLETES OF THE FUTURE printed below.

  Two people sat behind the booth table. The one who faced outward was an attractive moot with short, floppy blond hair and a toothy smile. The other had zir back to Marmeg.

  She dropped her gear bag on the dirt and waved her cuff over the screen on the table. It came to life and filled with upside-down text next to her picture.

  “Mary Margaret Guinto?” the blond read.

  Marmeg nodded.

  Zie frowned. “Where’s your support team? They need to check in too.”

  “My, uh, team?” Marmeg struggled to recall the race application and requirements. “They’re late. Be here soon.”

  The other person behind the table turned around, and Marmeg startled at seeing zir—his—beard. She had assumed everyone here would be a moot.

  “They need to meet you on the far side,” he said, also frowning. He bent over the screen and fli
cked through Marmeg’s registration. “You didn’t put their names in the application. We’ll need their information and your emergency contact’s as well.”

  Marmeg scribbled three names with her index finger into the blank fields: Jefferson Marcos, Lee Inciong, Felix Inciong. Her brothers were the first people Marmeg could think of who didn’t have a criminal record. Not that it would matter if the Minerva reps bothered to look them up—two of them were underage. She listed Amihan as her emergency contact.

  Beard-guy rotated the display to face Marmeg. Tiny, dense text filled the page.

  “Fingerprint at the bottom,” he instructed.

  Marmeg glanced over the section headers as she scrolled through pages of rules, regulations, waivers, and exclusions. She knew the rules well enough. The rest didn’t matter. She pressed her thumb against the sensor. The blond grabbed Marmeg’s other wrist, injected a subdermal chip, and slapped a Band-Aid over it.

  “Race ID,” zie explained. “Good luck, and see you on the other side.”

  Start time was in an hour. Marmeg found an unoccupied space near the trees to do a final gear check of her own. She examined the pins on the leg ports, making sure their alignment was good and the screws were tight. The torso shell came next. It made her feel like a turtle, but it was the best she had found in the castoff bin behind the used gear shop.

  “What is zie wearing? Second generation exos?” said someone nearby.

  “I think you mean she.”

  “Why are you picking on her, Zika?” asked a third, more melodious voice. “Worried about the competition? She’s brave to even go out in that kit.”

  Marmeg kept her body relaxed and ignored them. Doing security at the club had given her a fairly thick skin. She pulled muscle-enhancing sleeves over her arms and stuffed the skeletal-looking braces in the bag, hoping she wouldn’t need to climb any overhangs. The braces only half-worked on the best of days. A quick systems check on her screen showed everything powered up and responding correctly.