Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  He brightened perceptibly. Handing Vien the wooden spoon, Tuyet let him stir the broth while she sliced the charred skin from the onion and ginger.

  “Hey, Mom? What’s this?” Vien held the spoon out with a pink shell on it.

  Tuyet leaned closer to look. It was a fingernail with a perfect French manicure. “I’m not sure, Cabbage.” She picked it up. No wonder Hélène had stopped wanting to cook for her dogs; she’d damaged her precious nails. It looked like Hélène’d torn it right out of the nail bed. But if Tuyet told Vien, he might refuse to eat the phò. “It’s probably part of the shipping package.” She flicked the nail into the trash before he could look at it again.

  She slipped the onions and ginger into the soup and kissed Vien on top of the head.

  “Mom!” He squirmed under her touch. “I’m too old for that.”

  “I know.” But she wanted to hold onto him as long as she could.

  #

  As she worked through the compartment, the dogs ran in front of her trying to hide from the vacuum. Fred, the black Lab, backed away, barking the whole time. Missy tried to hide behind the sofa, leaving a great clump of her gray fur on it. But Dotty pushed open the door to the massage room.

  The dogs were not supposed to be in there.

  Tuyet shut the vacuum off. “Dotty. Silly girl. Come here.” She snapped her fingers trying to get the Dalmatian out of the room. The crazy dog resolutely ignored her, trying to bury her bone in the corner.

  In the distance, the front door opened. Half the dogs ran off, barking in greeting. Dotty did not budge from the corner. Beyond the dog, the white mop bucket sat in prim order.

  Tuyet had to get her out of there before Cody or Hélène saw her. She darted into the room, intent on hauling Dotty out. In the living room, Cody greeted the dogs; Tuyet thanked her lucky stars that it wasn’t Hélène.

  The Dalmatian’s sleek fur offered no purchase. Missy, the keeshond, bolted into the room. Tuyet waved her hands at the fluffy gray dog. “No! Out!”

  “Tuyet?” Cody pushed the door of the massage room farther open, blocking the rest of the dogs with his body. He had clearly come from an event of some significance; his bare arms had been brushed with bronze powder, highlighting the line of each muscle. The high-waisted trousers of this season accentuated his narrow waist and firm buttocks. He smiled. “They giving you trouble?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I know they shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Happens all the time.” He waved her words away and smacked Dotty lightly on the rump. “Go on.”

  The dog looked up as if surprised that she were even in the massage room. He pointed at the door and both dogs trotted out without protest. Tuyet’s jaw dropped.

  Cody shrugged. “Hélène wanted them, but they did obedience school with me.” He reached out and then arrested his motion, his hand inches from Tuyet’s head. “Your hair is falling.”

  She reached up, suddenly warm, and grabbed the clip, which had slid down to her neck. Her hair clung to her face and skin. “Thank you.” She tried to restore order without a mirror.

  “Here. Let me.” Cody stepped behind her and gathered her hair in his hands. “I do this for my clients all the time–actually…” He dropped her hair and the weight slapped against her back like a wave. “Do you want a massage?”

  “I–” Sweat crept down her spine at the unexpected question.

  “C’mon. You came back because of my stupid scheduling. It’s the least I can do.” He took her by the hand and led her to the massage table. “Just undress to your comfort level and I’ll get out of these fancy duds.” He must have been able to see her hesitation because he smiled again. “Honestly, you’ll be doing me a favor. I hate these events but with Hélène offstation, I have to attend them. You’ll help me work off some tension.”

  “I–” Tuyet knew she should refuse, that it was inappropriate and yet…where was the harm? She could find none. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “Great.” He pulled the door shut behind him.

  Tuyet undressed down to her undergarments and slid under the sheet on the massage table. Some part of her kept pointing out that Hélène was offstation.

  Cody’s hand touched her back. Tuyet jumped. She had not heard him enter. “Sorry,” he said.

  He undid the clasp on her bra and laid the straps to the side. The hiss of spritzer made her jump again as Cody put oil on her back. Why was she so tense? So Hélène was gone; it was just a massage.

  For a moment his touch was gentle, and then he pressed down forcing the air out of her lungs. The inside of her skull lit in striations of white and red. Something in her spine cracked.

  “The interesting thing about massage is that it can sometimes release toxins in the body. Poisons that a person might not even know they were carrying around.” Cody’s hand glided down the length of her spine and then pushed upward. Her skin burned as it stretched with his movement. “What fascinates me is that you’ll feel great after the massage and then this illness will turn up later. It might seem unrelated.”

  Like her son. “Do you think Vien should stop the massages?”

  “Oh no.” Cody gripped her shoulders and pushed them into the table. “Not yet.”

  Pinned to the massage table, Tuyet could see only a circle of the floor. Another perfect fingernail lay under the table. A spot of blood stained the table leg.

  Cody put his hands on the base of her skull. She tensed.

  “Relax.” He rolled her head in easy circles. “I’m not going to hurt you. But I have an offer to make.”

  Tuyet could not stop staring at the fingernail on the floor. She tried to resist the line of cause and effect from it to the fingernail in the veal. “What offer?”

  “I’d like to give Vien a pair of lungs.”

  Tuyet tried to raise her head, but Cody held her down. He pressed her face into the headrest with one hand and stroked her long hair with the other. “You have beautiful hair, you know. You should wear it down more often.”

  “What did you mean, about the lungs?”

  He took her arm and twisted it behind her, digging his fingers into the space under her scapula. Hot and cold vibrated through her shoulder and into her pelvis. “You have money saved for the operation, right? But you’re still saving for the lungs. I’ll give them to you.”

  “Why do you–?” She turned her head to look at him and the heat shot down her left leg.

  Cody wore only a towel and a pair of latex gloves. He raised an eyebrow and shook his finger at her. “You need to relax or this will hurt. Why do I have a set of lungs? They’re Hélène’s. As was the ‘veal.’ And the blood.”

  Tuyet vomited. She couldn’t turn fast enough; her dinner spattered on the table and dripped to the floor.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to clean that up before you leave.” Cody sighed and patted her back. “Look, it’s very simple. I’ve set you up. You’re going to take the fall, but if you go along with it, then your son can have her lungs.”

  “Why would anyone think I killed your wife?”

  “Because. Her blood is under your fingernails. The package of meat I gave you is at your house. The only sticky thing is the motive, but her lungs make that easy.” Cody straightened her arm slowly and pulled on it. Her shoulder developed spaces within it that should not be there.

  “I. Don’t. Have. Her. Lungs.” Her hands felt like they were covered with blood. She pulled against him and tried to turn, but he would not let go.

  “No. But a stasis chamber rented in your name does. I hope you don’t mind me using your computer when I was massaging Vien.” Cody smiled again. “You really should wear your hair down more often.”

  “I need to go.” Under her nails she could see the tiny spots of blood she had scraped up. Tuyet pushed into a half sitting position. Her bra dropped on the table.

  “The trouble with murdering someone on a space station is that disposing of the body becomes very difficult. I’d been encouraging
Hélène to get bigger and bigger dogs. They took care of most of her, but eventually someone will start looking for the rest. If you cooperate, you can have her lungs.” He ran his hand up her arm, digging into the tendons there.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll tell the police that I suspect you and you’ll be arrested much, much faster. Believe me, I’ve planned this very well.” Cody held out his hand, keeping one on her hand. “Give me your other arm.”

  “No.” She leaned back against him.

  “You’ll be unbalanced if I only do one side.” He frowned like a petulant boy. “Come on, Tuyet. We aren’t finished yet and this might as well be pleasant.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.” She twisted in his grasp, but he held her as easily as she could hold Vien.

  “Sure you do. You just haven’t admitted it yet. You want the lungs. Think, Tuyet. If you turn me down, then the lungs sit in the stasis chamber until the police find them. Will they do anyone any good, then? No. You won’t help anyone by doing that.”

  Consider what effects, that might conceivably have practical bearings… Hélène and Vien were nearly the same size. It would be a good match.

  “What would I have to do?”

  “There’s my girl.” He squeezed her hand. “Now give me your other arm and I’ll tell you how to retrieve the lungs.”

  Trembling, Tuyet held her hand out to him.

  #

  Vien ran past her chasing a hoverball. “Mom! Watch!” He whacked it with his paddle and it sped straight into the goal.

  Tuyet set the handiwipe down and applauded. “Well done!” The wonder of watching him run again had not once left her in the three months since his operation.

  “Is that your son?” Another mother sat down on the bench next to Tuyet.

  Tuyet nodded, barely taking her eyes from Vien. She ran the handiwipe over the ends of her fingers, trying to avoid the spots where she had rubbed the skin raw.

  “Where did he get his new lungs?”

  For a moment longer, Tuyet watched her son before turning to the woman. She held out a badge, her id and rank rotating ad infinitum in the holo over it. “I’d like to ask you to come to the station with me, Dr. Phan.”

  The urge to scrub her hands again became almost overwhelming. Tuyet turned away from the detective and looked back at Vien, running. “May I tell my son where I’m going?”

  “Of course. We’d like him to come in too.”

  “Wha–why?”

  Vien laughed in response to something one of the other children said. His laughter arced clear and beautiful through the air.

  The detective stood. “Let’s go, Dr. Phan. Call your son.”

  They could do nothing to Vien. He was an innocent in all of this. Tuyet had known the effect of her actions when she had accepted the lungs. “Vien! We need to go.”

  He scowled but came without question, running all the way. Deep full breaths filled his chest. He grinned when he got to them.

  Tuyet took him by the hand; his sweat dripped onto her raw skin and burned. She clenched him tighter.

  Vien squirmed. “Mom! You don’t need to hold my hand.”

  “I know, Cabbage.” Tuyet fell into step beside the detective. She wanted to hold onto her son as long as she could. Whatever happened, the price had been worth it.

  “Where are we going?” Vien asked.

  The detective looked at him and said, “What do you know about evidence?”

  Originally appeared in the anthology Gratia Placenti edited by Jason Sizemore (Apex Publications, 2007)

  Waiting for Rain, by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz

  Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of sweet tobacco and sage in this dependable offering from India.

  The sun peeking through the grapevines felt hotter on Bharat Mundari’s neck than twenty-four degrees. Another perfect day. Bharat scowled and worked his way down the row of vines, thinning the grapes so the remaining Shiraz crop would become fuller and riper.

  Not that there was a point in having healthy vines when he couldn’t pay his weather bill. Without rain, the grapevines would weaken under the stress, and stressed grapes made poor wine. No one bought flawed wine.

  He snipped another cluster from the grapevine, dropping it on the ground where it would raisin in the persistent sunshine.

  He needed his micro-climate back.

  “Bharat!” Indra peered over the trellis. “Have you heard anything I said?”

  He stood, working the kink out of his back and blinked at his wife. “No. I’m sorry, my dear, I was thinking.”

  She tilted her head, like an inquisitive bird. “About what?”

  About how the family was destitute. About how he had no resources. About the rain. “Nothing important.”

  She arched an eyebrow and looked down the row to their youngest daughter, Rachana. “Nothing important? Do you hear your father? Here we are discussing possible grooms and he is distracted by ‘nothing important’.”

  “I’m sorry.” Bharat smoothed the anxiety from his brow. “What did you say?”

  “Rachana said she wants to date.” Indra frowned. “I told her in my youth we wouldn’t think of such things, but everyone thinks you and I married for love.”

  “True.” The dust between the rows coated his feet as if the earth itself wanted to prepare him for the poverty awaiting them.

  Indra stopped and peeled back her glove. “I thought so.” She showed him the blister on her hand from the pruning sheers. “I wish you had hired a crew to do this.”

  If she knew about the debt…Bharat snipped another cluster from the vine. “It’s important for Rachana to learn the business.”

  “Not if she marries into another family.”

  They had just married one daughter off; the thought of paying for another wedding made him shudder. “I’m in no hurry to see her married.”

  The bindi mark on Indra’s forehead seemed to glare like an accusing third eye.

  “Let her find her own husband if she wants one.” Bharat went up the row, heading back to the winery. It was starting again, the marriage broker fees, setting the dowry… And a marriage broker would look at his financial records. He ground his teeth. They had no money.

  The tap tap of Indra’s footsteps followed him, but he kept his eyes focused on the winery. He could imagine the look of reproach in Indra’s eyes.

  “Bharat?”

  She always knew when he lied, so he simply grunted.

  “What’s wrong?” Indra’s voice sounded sweet and gentle, but the question held too many demands.

  “Nothing. I have some work in the winery.” He escaped into the cool dark of the cellar. The stacked barrels of last year’s vintage soothed him with their mute round sides. They asked him no questions.

  But the current vintage had its own demands.

  Watering the vineyard would require every waking moment. That left no time for shoot positioning, leaf pulling or hedging. And what of thinning? How could he tend the wines in barrel and water the vines?

  Any one of the millions of unemployed laborers in Nashik could irrigate, but a day laborer would want his wages at the end of the day. And if he had money to pay them, then he could pay the weather bill and he would not need to irrigate.

  How had his father managed before the India Space Research Organization began weather control? Bharat had barely been in his teens when they switched to micro-climate management, but Nashik had been a wine region since the time of the Moghuls. Of course, it had rained more then. He still remembered monsoons.

  Bharat ran up the stairs to his office and sat in front of the ancient quad-core processor. He asked it, “What are forms of irrigation for vineyards?”

  It immediately responded with a list of sites; at the top, the ISRO offered micro-climate management. Bharat grimaced and scrolled through his other options.

  Rachana cleared her throat. “Hey
, Bapu?”

  He jumped. He had not heard her enter. “Are you finished with thinning, then?”

  She nodded. “Those rows. Matti wants to know when you want dinner.”

  At the thought of food, Bharat’s stomach turned. “Don’t wait for me. I’ve got work to do.”

  “‘kay.” She leaned over his shoulder. “Irrigation, huh?”

  Sweat pricked on the palms of his hands. Words came out of his mouth in a string of lies and half-truths. “Wine historically had seasonal variations but we’ve lost that. I thought I’d stop using a micro-climate so the grapes could truly express the vintage.” As Bharat spoke, his words became true. He had attended some pre-weather control vertical tastings and the vintage variations were fascinating. “We’ve gotten away from what wine is supposed to be.”

  “I thought you’d just forgotten to turn the rain back on after Deepali’s wedding.”

  She had noticed. Of course, she had; he had been programming the 1969 Hermitage weather patterns since she was a little girl. If the weather company had given him an extension on his bill, today would be overcast and twenty degrees.

  “I didn’t think it would be this long between natural rains.” Why had it been so long since it had rained? He remembered a year when his father had turned off the weather and it had not been this long between rains. Bharat turned back to the computer. “Run on. I have work to do.”

  When Rachana was gone, he opened the FAQ page of the ISRO website and clicked on, “What happens when you can’t pay your weather bill?”

  At India Space Research Organization, we don’t want anyone left in the cold. When your micro-climate is discontinued, your weather will remain 24°C and sunny.

  Each individual word made sense, but the picture they painted when strung together mocked him. 24°C and sunny.

  Your weather will remain…

  Sunny.

  He stared at the words so long that all meaning drained away from them. How could they be true? There must be thousands of people who could not pay their bills in the cities. He had been to Nashik and seen the poverty lining the streets.

  But he wasn’t on the municipal weather grid here, the city weather tax did not cover his vineyard. His land was large enough that the nanites in the atmosphere could give create a localized micro-climate.