by Various
“Edith?” said the woman.
“We are all Edith,” she replied. “Our first name, here in the dark before the pillar. Blood becomes salt, and through us becomes blood again.” Tenderly, she arranged the blanket to shield her baby’s face from the cool desert air. “Tomorrow, her father will give her another name and he will think it her only one. But she will be Edith first.” She looked at the pillar, at the salt drops beading onto the frozen form, the outline blurred and ancient looking still.
“You build well,” she said.
“Do you mean me, mean her?” said the other woman.
Edith did not answer. She had given the other woman salt, taken on in that way a maternal role towards her, younger as she was and with the sharp taste given again to her own lips. That question she had been asked was a question the other woman could look back on and work out for herself. It was better that way. Instead of answering, she stood—her legs steadier from the rest and the release, and began the long walk back to the camp. Beneath her scarf, the baby latched on to a nipple and began to suck.
PART III: MIRIAMA
When the traders brought her the salt, there was always an extra brick. Miriama would soak herself carefully in hoarded water, brought up from the springs in small jars and jealousy and decanted into the tub where the salt lay, breaking it up with her fingers until they were more wrinkled than her face. She would float in the bath, the heavy-salted water easing the ache in her hips, in her ankles, easing the grinding pain in her knees.
• • •
The door flung open, barely missing the bath in what was little more than a closet. They could not afford a lot of space, she and her daughter; who would pay them well for their efforts, the whore and her half-breed child, subsisting on the fringes of civilisation and spaceports, subsisting on the small business brought in from other worlds?
“It’s always the same,” said her daughter, too big to sit on the side of the tub and too old to hide her bitterness. “They don’t want to deal with the off-worlders, but they’ll take the salt. And they’ll look down on us while they do it.”
“Always so angry,” Miriama muttered, the water saline on her skin and softening her speech, the speech she had so often given. “Be grateful we can find a place between them. We’d be begging on the streets, else.”
“I would not beg,” said her daughter, a child of edges and merges, hands on her hips and her anger swelling against the walls, face and hands and skin all proclaiming a parent from another world than hers. He had been such a beautiful man, Miriama remembered, with his ship and his dark skin and the salt crystals scattered round him like stars. So beautiful, and such an adventurer. Never content with what he had, always wanting more. His daughter was like him in that respect, for better or worse. “Not ever would I beg,” she said now, the child of a mother who had begged, once, not to be left and had been left regardless, with her hands full of guilt-salt and her belly huge with child. “And nor should you. There’s no reason to stay here. We should have left a long time ago.”
“You always say that,” said Miriama. “Always, when the ships are in. You’ll settle again when they’re gone.” She reached out a hand that was fish-slick with salt water, tried to drag one wet finger across her daughter’s lips, but the girl turned her head away and her mother could only graze her cheek. “This is our home,” she said. “This is the place where our family is, where our family grows. I heard today, my sister’s daughter, she has given birth. Twins.” That Makareta had brought no word back from the girl, no message, was not something to dwell on and not something she would share. The news was enough, and more than she could have hoped for. Still… “I would like to see them one day,” she said, wistful.
“You know that will never happen,” said her daughter.
• • •
She had known, when she first saw the man with the battered ship, that it held something more than a miracle. The salt had blinded her, so much in a land of so little, and for the first time she had felt desire in her mouth and her legs and her belly. First it had been for the salt, and then for its seller—a man with teeth that shone as if he polished them each day with the hard crystals in the hold, a man with skin that tasted of newness and knowledge and something other than a place at the far edge of the fire and following behind.
Known, too, that when she had left her family they would not have her back, not have her with dry eyes and dry mouths when she had wanted more than they could give. She always wanted more, even if she could only get it in instalments, as she did when he came back from another world with another cargo, came back with stories and sex and an extra block of salt for her to bathe in to soothe the old breaks from when she was driven out for love of him.
And sometimes she thought that she would not go back even if she could, even though she was lonely for her family, for if she looked back it would be because she regretted what she had done, and she did not. But then there was a child, a little girl of her own, and it turned out that he already had a family, already had a child, a son who would inherit his ship and take his own family through the stars. There was no place on it for her, nor for her daughter.
But “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,” he had said to her, and the contracts were made. She was bound into a place of middles, a place between the worlds; their contract was sealed with salt. But after that he came less often, and she was the one taking care.
• • •
Her daughter was helping her out of the tub, bracing her weight to take the pressure off her knees, when one of Miriama’s feet knocked against the sprayer that she kept hidden under the bath, where no-one would look for it.
“What’s this?” said her daughter. “What is it?”
“You know what it is,” said Miriama, wrapping herself in a worn towel. “You won’t use it. Someone has to.” They both knew it couldn’t be her; half crippled with arthritis and gout she couldn’t make her way across the sands. They both knew that when the young woman went it was—it would be—with an axe in her hand, an instrument of destruction, a sharp blade and a flat one to swing and settle into sands.
“She should keep to her own business, her own world,” said her daughter. “It’s not her place to do for them!”
“Is it yours?” she said against the furious lines of her daughter, against the bitter anger that came from exile and contempt and refusal. Miriama had visited the statue only twice—once for her birth, and once for her daughter’s. Yet that same daughter had hunted it out in the desert and gone for it with axes and anger, shearing off portions to bring home for profit.
• • •
We have to eat, said her daughter, when she came in the early morning, came back out of the night with blisters on her feet from the sand and blisters on her hands from the handle, from the rubbing of salt against the sores of the axe, against the salt-infused sacks that brought home the pieces and chunks that kept them afloat. The worn, brief outline of shoulder blades beneath a cloak, the slow gentle curves of thighs and flanks, the hints of hair and hands that could be ground down into thin powder and sold in small packets for oil and flour and fruit.
• • •
“It is the way of our people,” said Miriama, who had broken from those ways and never regretted it.
“They’re not our people,” said her daughter, who had been taken to the statue as an infant for salt but who had never seen her mother’s people. “They would not have you back, and neither would I go to them.”
“They are our people nonetheless,” said Miriama. “Their ways are our ways. Your first meal was salt. You do not remember, but I gave you that much of us.”
“And look how much it’s helped,” said her daughter. “We live on scraps. We don’t belong anywhere, or to any people.”
“We survive,” said Miriama, dry now and seated on her pallet, using the towel to dry the spray nozzle. “Did you think I would just let you destroy her?”
“I’ve destroyed nothing,” said
her daughter, watching her mother polish as she herself polished, careful to keep her axe blade free of corrosion, careful to keep it bright and sharp. It was too large for her purpose, too large to shear off the small pieces necessary to keep them afloat, too large to promise anything but annihilation. Nothing yet. “And even if I did, who’s to say that destruction wouldn’t serve a purpose? If you truly want to see your sister’s child, you’ll have to make them accept you. Lose one source of salt, and they’ll come looking for another.”
“I took you there when you were a baby,” said Miriama. “In secret, as it should be. I still dream about it.”
“I dream about it too,” said her daughter, although her dreams were not of birth and recollection and duty, but of breaking and grinding to dust, of rolling in salt and sand until it was ground into her skin in silver lines, until she was tattooed with it and shining. Salt reminded her of freedom and banishment and choice, and she could love it if it didn’t put food on the table, didn’t give just enough to keep her chained to a history that was only partly hers.
She could love it more if her mother loved it less.
Jennifer Campbell-Hicks became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “30 Pounds of Human Tissue” in Daily Science Fiction (Aug. 2012), edited by Michele-Lee Barasso and Jonathan Laden.
Visit her website at jennifercampbellhicks.blogspot.com.
* * *
Flash: “30 Pounds of Human Tissue”
Short Story: “Catch a Fallen Star” ••••
30 POUNDS OF HUMAN TISSUE
by Jennifer Campbell-Hicks
First published in Daily Science Fiction (Aug. 2012), edited by Michele-Lee Barasso and Jonathan Laden
• • • •
THE BOT scanned the pod’s contents 1.3 seconds after station launch: one spent nuclear rod; one cooling container for the rod; five gallons of liquid chemical waste; one small item of synthetic cotton; 30 pounds of human tissue.
It searched its database of acceptable items. Neither the synthetic cotton nor the human tissue qualified for earthside disposal. Both should have been incinerated aboard the station. The bot flagged them as unacceptable and redirected its top levels to piloting the pod.
“Where’s Mommy?”
The voice came from the human tissue. Improbability factor of 0.9132. The bot redirected its top three levels to a rescan, which showed muscle movement, blood circulation and oxygen use. It was alive. It was also young, based on its weight and voice frequency. Name: girl. Pronouns: she, her.
The bot had transported the station’s hazardous wastes to Earth for disposal 67 times. On none of those flights had its pod contained human tissue, alive or dead.
“I want my mommy.” The girl held the synthetic cotton to her chest. It was shaped like an Earth creature. Species: Ursus Maritimus, polar bear.
The bot considered several possible responses. It said, “You must vacate this pod immediately. Danger. Limited oxygen. Insufficient temperature controls.”
Water leaked from the girl’s visual scanners.
“Repeat. You must vacate this pod immediately. Danger.”
The girl did not move to comply. The bot concluded that was because she lacked appropriate equipment for evacuation into the vacuum of space.
Nasal discharge dripped over her upper lip. She wiped her face on the synthetic polar bear. “Mommy! Mommy!”
The bot searched its database.
Mommy: A child’s name for his or her mother. See also: Mama.
Mother: A female parent, one who gives birth to a child after a nine-month gestation in the uterus, or womb.
“Your mother is not here,” the bot said.
The girl’s rate of leakage increased.
The Priority 1 directive of all bots was to protect human life, but the pod itself would not sustain the girl for the 12 hours required to reach Earth. Appropriate action: Return to the station. Negative. The bot was programmed for Earth landing only, after which a shuttlecraft returned it to the station.
Alternative action: Continue to Earth.
The pod’s oxygen supply would last 12.5 hours at the girl’s current rate of use. Asphyxiation risk factor of 0.2278. The bot ranked temperature as a higher priority. Since leaving the station, the interior had dropped 20.1 degrees Celsius. The girl could not regulate her internal temperature. She would freeze to death. Probability factor of 0.9826.
The girl stopped leaking. She dropped the synthetic cotton bear and examined the nuclear rod’s cooling chamber. She leaned toward it with her mouth muscle extended. The bot ran a risk assessment of her current course of action.
“Stop,” it said. “No, stop.”
She stopped. Her visual scanners widened.
If she had touched her mouth muscle to the canister, the metal’s high thermal conductivity would have frozen her saliva faster than her body could warm it. She would have been stuck.
The bot simulated scenarios on the nuclear rod within the container. Could it be used to modulate the pod’s temperature? Negative. The rod’s unpredictability factor was too high. Also, the girl would not survive the radiation exposure.
What about the liquid chemical waste? Negative.
The only object with temperature control was the bot.
“I’m cold.” The girl sat, hugged the bear and wiped her nasal discharge. “I want my mommy.”
The bot formulated a plan.
It redirected five top levels to its pincers and opened its front panel. It removed parts. Wires, sensors, controllers, belts. The bot’s topmost level alerted it to internal damage. Shutdown factor of 0.3644.
The bot worked. Its movements became slower and less precise. Two mid-levels suffered catastrophic failure. It unhooked its power core and placed the box on the floor.
“Get in.”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Get in. Warm. Womb.”
The girl toddled over. “Warm?”
“Yes.”
She climbed in with the bear and curled her knees to her chest.
The bot closed the front panel. It could operate on emergency power reserves for 11 hours. It shut down visual, audio and tactile sensors to stretch the reserves farther. Success factor of 0.5109.
Inside, 30 pounds of human tissue settled down, hiccuped twice and fell asleep.
CATCH A FALLEN STAR
by Jennifer Campbell-Hicks
First published in Fireside (Nov. 2013), edited by Brian White
• • • •
THE KID was quick, darting ahead of Valentin around chunks of concrete and metal scraps that lay in the street like a giant child’s playthings. Valentin’s lungs burned. He was four strides behind but pumped his legs harder to close the gap.
Two strides now. Almost close enough to grab a fistful of hair and give a good, hard tug. The boy looked back, yelped, and surged.
The gap widened. Four strides. Six.
Valentin could not match the faster pace. He also could not let a curfew-breaker escape. He trained his gun on the boy for the 1.5 seconds it took to scan in a lock.
“I’ll shoot.”
The boy slowed and stopped.
Gratefully, Valentin stopped, too. He hadn’t wanted to fire on a kid. His knees and sides hurt. Not for the first time, he felt all of his 51 years and then some.
He touched his earpiece. “Shannen?”
“You got one?” she said through the static. Reception was hit-or-miss on the city’s outskirts.
“Yeah. I’m sending the coordinates.” He did so with another touch and looked back to his captive. “Turn around.”
The boy did, framed against an abandoned warehouse tagged with graffiti. He didn’t look like much: dirty, frayed clothes, bare feet. But in three decades on Coelus’ force, Valentin had learned appearances could deceive. Not only had this boy snuck above ground during a Pass—an accomplishment in itself—he’d also had the balls to run.
&nb
sp; It had almost worked. He’d almost escaped.
Valentin lowered his gun but kept it in hand to remind the boy not to bolt. “What’s your name, kid?”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Give me something else to call you.”
He hesitated. “Greger.”
“Why are you breaking curfew, Greger?”
“Needed some fresh air.”
Cocky bastard. “If a meteor hits, you could be dead before you realize its coming. You’re not authorized to be above ground during a Pass. So let’s try again. Why are you here?”
Greger shrugged.
Fine. The hard way it was.
Valentin switched his gun to scanner mode. It linked with the chip in Greger’s neck and displayed his profile on a screen on the gun’s grip. For a registered citizen, a profile included name, employer, birthplace, criminal record, immigration status, and so on. For Greger, the gun showed the basics of a physical scan: male, age 16, height 1.6 meters, weight 54.55 kilos.
Unregistered. Probably from the slums. High society had a name for a kid like that: slum rat. They had a name for officers like Valentin, too: rat catcher.
Shannen Naegel jogged up and made a face. “Sheesh. The first thing we do at the lockup is hose him down. And that smell.” She gagged.
Greger stiffened. Valentin pitied the kid. The stench, the castoff clothes, the empty stomach, he had grown up with those things, too. Only he had escaped them.
“Keep him in your sights,” he told Shannen. He holstered his gun, unhooked his cuffs from his belt, and yelled, “Turn to the wall. Hands behind your back.”
Greger obeyed, and Valentin opened the cuffs. Before he could snap them into place, there came a sound: a whiz and a crack like a gunshot. Light streaked across the sky. Buildings rumbled. Bricks dropped to the pavement.