She wasn’t absolutely sure that she could do it, but she was determined to give it a bloody good try.
And whatever happens in the end, she thought, to live will be an awfully big adventure.
WHIPTAIL
Robert Reed
Robert Reed sold his first story in 1986, and quickly established himself as a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Asimov’s Science Fiction, as well as selling many stories to Science Fiction Age, Universe, New Destinies, Tomorrow, Synergy, Starlight, and elsewhere. Reed is almost as prolific as a novelist as he is as a short story writer, having produced eight novels to date, including The Lee Shore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The Remarkables, Down the Bright Way, Beyond the Veil of Stars, An Exaltation of Larks, and Beneath the Gated Sky. His most recent book is his long-overdue first collection, The Dragons of Springplace. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he’s at work on a novel-length version of his 1997 novella, “Marrow.”
Here, in a story that was a Hugo Finalist in 1999, he shows us how the societies of a distant future world may be turned upside down forever by the revolutionary biological lessons to be learned from a humble little lizard . . .
###
“What a beautiful morning,” I was singing. “And so strange! Isn’t it? This incredible, wonderful fog, and how the frost clings everywhere. Lovely, lovely, just lovely. Is this how it always is, Chrome . . . ?”
“Always,” she joked, laughing quietly. Patiently. “All year long, practically.”
She was teasing. I knew that, and I didn’t care. A river of words just kept pouring out of me: I was talking about the scenery and the hour, and goodness, we were late and her poor mother would be waiting, and God on her throne, I was hungry. Sometimes I told my Chrome to drive faster, and she would, and then I would find myself worrying, and I’d tell her, “Slow down a little.” I’d say, “This road doesn’t look all that dry.”
Chrome smiled the whole time, not minding my prattle.
At least I hoped she didn’t.
I can’t help what I am. Dunlins, by nature, are small and electric. Nervous energy always bubbling. Particularly when they’re trying not to be nervous. Particularly when their lover is taking them to meet her family for the first time.
“Have you ever seen a more magical morning, Chrome?”
“Never,” she promised, her handsome face smiling at me.
It was the morning of the Solstice, which helped that sense of magic. But mostly it was because of the weather. A powerful cold front had fallen south from the chilly Arctic Sea, smashing into the normally warm winter air. The resulting fog was luscious thick, except in sudden little patches where it was thin enough to give us a glimpse of the pale northern sun. Wherever the fog touched a cold surface, it froze, leaving every tree limb and bush branch and tall blade of grass coated with a glittering hard frost. Whiteness lay over everything. Everything wore a delicate, perishable whiteness born of degrees. A touch colder, and there wouldn’t have been any fog. Warmed slightly, and everything white would have turned to vapor and an afternoon’s penetrating dampness.
The road had its own magic. A weathered charm, I’d call it. Old and narrow, its pavement was rutted by tires and cracked in places, and the potholes were marked with splashes of fading yellow paint. Chrome explained that it had been thirty years since the highway association had touched it. “Not enough traffic to bother with,” she said. We were climbing up a long hillside, and at the top, where the road flattened, there was a corner and a weedy graveled road that went due south.
“Our temple’s down there,” she told me.
I looked and looked, but all I saw was the little road flanked by the white farm fields, both vanishing into the thickest fog yet.
For maybe the fiftieth time, I asked, “How do I look?”
“Awful,” she joked.
Then she grabbed my knee, and with a laughing voice, Chrome said, “No, you look gorgeous, darling. Just perfect.”
I just hoped that I wasn’t too ugly. That’s all.
We started down a long hillside, passing a small weathered sign that quietly announced that we were entering Chromatella. I read the name aloud, twice. Then came the first of the empty buildings, set on both sides of the little highway. My Chrome had warned me, but it was still a sad shock. There were groceries and hardware stores and clothing stores and gas stations, and all of them were slowly collapsing into their basements, old roofs pitched this way and that. One block of buildings had been burned down. A pair of Chrome’s near-daughters had been cooking opossum in one of the abandoned kitchens. At least that was the official story. But my Chrome gave me this look, confessing, “When I was their age, I wanted to burn all of this. Every night I fought the urge. It wasn’t until I was grown up that I understood why Mother left these buildings alone.”
I didn’t understand why, I thought. But I managed not to admit it.
A big old mothering house halfway filled the next block. Its roof was in good repair, and its white walls looked like they’d been painted this year. Yet the house itself seemed dark and drab compared to the whiteness of the frost. Even with the OPEN sign flashing in the window, it looked abandoned. Forgotten. And awfully lonely.
“Finally,” my Chrome purred. “She’s run out of things to say.”
Was I that bad? I wondered.
We pulled up to the front of the house, up under the verandah, and I used the mirror, checking my little Dunlin face before climbing out.
There was an old dog and what looked like her puppies waiting for us. They had long wolfish faces and big bodies, and each of them wore a heavy collar, each collar with a different colored tag. “Red Guard!” Chrome shouted at the mother dog. Then she said, “Gold. Green. Pink. Blue. Hello, ladies. Hello!”
The animals were bouncing, and sniffing. And I stood like a statue, trying to forget how much dogs scare me.
Just then the front door crashed open, and a solid old voice was shouting, “Get away from her, you bitches! Get!”
Every dog bolted.
Thankfully.
I looked up at my savior, then gushed, “Mother Chromatella. I’m so glad to meet you, finally!”
“A sweet Dunlin,” she said. “And my first daughter, too.”
I shook the offered hand, trying to smile as much as she smiled. Then we pulled our hands apart, and I found myself staring, looking at the bent nose and the rounded face and the gray spreading through her short black hair. That nose was shattered long ago by a pony, my Chrome had told me. Otherwise the face was the same, except for its age. And for the eyes, I noticed. They were the same brown as my Chrome’s, but when I looked deep, I saw something very sad lurking in them.
Both of them shivered at the same moment, saying, “Let’s go inside.”
I said, “Fine.”
I grabbed my suitcase, even though Mother Chromatella offered to carry it. Then I followed her through the old door with its cut-glass and its brass knob and an ancient yellow sign telling me, “Welcome.”
The air inside was warm, smelling of bacon and books. There was a long bar and maybe six tables in a huge room that could have held twenty tables. Bookshelves covered two entire walls. Music was flowing from a radio, a thousand voices singing about the Solstice. I asked where I should put my things, and my Chrome said, “Here,” and wrestled the bag from me, carrying it and hers somewhere upstairs.
Mother Chrome asked if it was a comfortable trip.
“Very,” I said. “And I adore your fog!”
“My fog.” That made her laugh. She set a single plate into the sink, then ran the tap until the water was hot. “Are you hungry, Dunlin?”
I said, “A little, yes,” when I could have said, “I’m starving.”
My Chrome came downstairs again. Without looking her way, Mother Chrome said, “Daughter, we’ve got plenty of eggs here.”
My Chrome pulled down a clean skillet and spatula, then asked, “The others?”
Her sisters and near-daughters, she meant.
“They’re walking up. Now, or soon.”
To the Temple, I assumed. For their Solstice service.
“I don’t need to eat now,” I lied, not wanting to be a burden.
But Mother Chrome said, “Nonsense,” while smiling at me. “My daughter’s hungry, too. Have a bite to carry you over to the feast.”
I found myself dancing around the main room, looking at the old neon beer signs and the newly made bookshelves. Like before, I couldn’t stop talking. Jabbering. I asked every question that came to me, and sometimes I interrupted Mother Chrome’s patient answers.
“Have you ever met a Dunlin before?”
She admitted, “Never, no.”
“My Chrome says that this is the oldest mothering house in the district? Is that so?”
“As far as I know—”
“Neat old signs. I bet they’re worth something, if you’re a collector.”
“I’m not, but I believe you’re right.”
“Are these shelves walnut?”
“Yes.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said, knowing that I sounded like a brain-damaged fool. “How many books do you have here?”
“Several thousand, I imagine.”
“And you’ve read all of them?”
“Once, or more.”
“Which doesn’t surprise me,” I blurted. “Your daughter’s a huge reader, too. In fact, she makes me feel a little stupid sometimes.”
From behind the bar, over the sounds of cooking eggs, my Chrome asked, “Do I?”
“Nonsense,” said Mother Chrome. But I could hear the pride in her voice. She was standing next to me, making me feel small—in so many ways, Chromatellas are big strong people—and she started to say something else. Something else kind, probably. But her voice got cut off by the soft bing-bing-bing of the telephone.
“Excuse me,” she said, picking up the receiver.
I looked at my Chrome, then said, “It’s one of your sisters. She’s wondering what’s keeping us.”
“It’s not.” My Chrome shook her head, saying, “That’s the out-of-town ring.” And she looked from the eggs to her mother and back again, her brown eyes curious but not particularly excited.
Not then, at least.
The eggs got cooked and put on plates, and I helped pour apple juice into two clean glasses. I was setting the glasses on one of the empty tables when Mother Chrome said, “Goodbye. And thank you.” Then she set down the receiver and leaned forward, resting for a minute. And her daughter approached her, touching her on the shoulder, asking, “Who was it? Is something wrong?”
“Corvus,” she said.
I recognized that family name. Even then.
She said, “My old instructor. She was calling from the Institute . . . to warn me . . .”
“About what?” my Chrome asked. Then her face changed, as if she realized it for herself. “Is it done?” she asked. “Is it?”
“And it’s been done for a long time, apparently. In secret.” Mother Chrome looked at the phone again, as if she still didn’t believe what she had just heard. That it was a mistake, or someone’s silly joke.
I said nothing, watching them.
My Chrome asked, “When?”
“Years ago, apparently.”
Mine asked, “And they kept it a secret?”
Mother Chrome nodded and halfway smiled. Then she said, “Today,” and took a huge breath. “Dr. Corvus and her staff are going to hold a press conference at noon. She wanted me to be warned. And thank me, I guess.”
My Chrome said, “Oh, my.”
I finally asked, “What is it? What’s happening?”
They didn’t hear me.
I got the two plates from the bar and announced, “These eggs smell gorgeous.”
The Chromatellas were trading looks, saying everything with their eyes.
Just hoping to be noticed, I said, “I’m awfully hungry, really. May I start?”
With the same voice, together, they told me, “Go on.”
But I couldn’t eat alone. Not like that. So I walked up to my Chrome and put an arm up around her, saying, “Join me, darling.”
She said, “No.”
Smiling and crying at the same time, she confessed, “I’m not hungry anymore.”
###
She was the first new face in an entire week.
Even in Boreal City, with its millions from everywhere, there are only so many families and so many faces. So when I saw the doctor at the clinic, I was a little startled. And interested, of course. Dunlins are very social people. We love diversity in our friends and lovers, and everywhere in our daily lives.
“Dunlins have weak lungs,” I warned her.
She said, “Quiet,” as she listened to my breathing. Then she said, “I know about you. Your lungs are usually fine. But your immune system has a few holes in it.”
I was looking at her face. Staring, probably.
She asked if I was from the Great Delta. A substantial colony of Dunlins had built that port city in that southern district, its hot climate reminding us of our homeland back on Mother’s Land.
“But I live here now,” I volunteered. “My sisters and I have a trade shop in the new mall. Have you been there?” Then I glanced at the name on her tag, blurting out, “I’ve never heard of the Chromatella’s before.”
“That’s because there aren’t many of us,” she admitted.
“In Boreal?”
“Anywhere,” she said. Then she didn’t mention it again.
In what for me was a rare show of self-restraint, I said nothing. For as long as we were just doctor and patient, I managed to keep my little teeth firmly planted on my babbling tongue. But I made a point of researching her name, and after screwing up my courage and asking her to dinner, I confessed what I knew and told her that I was sorry. “It’s just so tragic,” I told her, as if she didn’t know. Then desperate to say anything that might help, I said, “In this day and age, you just don’t think it could ever happen anywhere.”
Which was, I learned, a mistake.
My Chrome regarded me over her sweet cream dessert, her beautiful eyes dry and her strong jaw pushed a little forward. Then she set down her spoon and calmly, quietly told me all of those dark things that doctors know, and every Chromatella feels in her blood:
Inoculations and antibiotics have put an end to the old plagues. Families don’t have to live in isolated communities, in relative quarantine, fearing any stranger because she might bring a new flu bug, or worse. People today can travel far, and if they wish, they can live and work in the new cosmopolitan cities, surrounded by an array of faces and voices and countless new ideas.
But the modern world only seems stable and healthy.
Diseases mutate. And worse, new diseases emerge every year. As the population soars, the margin for error diminishes. “Something horrible will finally get loose,” Dr. Chromatella promised me. “And when it does, it’ll move fast and it’ll go everywhere, and the carnage is going to dwarf all of the famous old epidemics. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind.”
I am such a weakling. I couldn’t help but cry into my sweet cream.
A strong hand reached across and wiped away my tears. But instead of apologizing, she said, “Vulnerability,” and smiled in a knowing way.
“What do you mean?” I sniffled.
“I want my daughters to experience it. If only through their mother’s lover.”
How could I think of love just then?
I didn’t even try.
Then with the softest voice she could muster, my Chrome told me, “But even if the worst does happen, you know what we’ll do. We’ll pick ourselves up again. We always do.”
I nodded, then whispered, “We do, don’t we?”
“And I’ll be there with you, my Dunnie.”
I smiled at her, surprising myself.
“Say that again,” I told her.
�
��I’ll be with you. If you’ll have me, of course.”
“No, that other part—”
“My Dunnie?”
I felt my smile growing and growing.
###
“Call up to the temple,” my Chrome suggested.
“Can’t,” her mother replied. “The line blew down this summer, and nobody’s felt inspired to put it up again.”
Both of them stared at the nearest clock.
I stared at my cooling eggs, waiting for someone to explain this to me.
Then Mother Chrome said, “There’s that old television in the temple basement. We have to walk there and set it up.”
“Or we could eat,” I suggested. “Then drive.”
My Chrome shook her head, saying, “I feel like walking.”
“So do I,” said her mother. And with that both of them were laughing, their faces happier than even a giddy Dunlin’s.
“Get your coat, darling,” said my Chrome.
I gave up looking at my breakfast.
Stepping out the back door, out into the chill wet air, I realized that the fog had somehow grown thicker. I saw nothing of the world but a brown yard with an old bird feeder set out on a tree stump, spilling over with grain, dozens of brown sparrows and brown-green finches eating and talking in soft cackles. From above, I could hear the ringing of the temple bells. They sounded soft and pretty, and suddenly I remembered how it felt to be a little girl walking between my big sisters, knowing that the Solstice ceremony would take forever, but afterward, if I was patient, there would come the feast and the fun of opening gifts.
Mother Chrome set the pace. She was quick for a woman of her years, her eyes flipping one way, then another. I knew that expression from my Chrome. She was obviously thinking hard about her phone call.
We were heading south, following an empty concrete road. The next house was long and built of wood, three stories tall and wearing a steeply pitched roof. People lived there. I could tell by the roof and the fresh coat of white paint, and when we were close, I saw little tractors for children to ride and old dolls dressed in farmer clothes, plus an antique dollhouse that was the same shape and color as the big house.
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