Asimov's SF, August 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  None was forthcoming. After several minutes—both of us standing motionless—she turned and jumped down, out of sight. I eventually followed, intent on explaining my interaction with Slaf'Salakem. As far as I knew, she was not aware of his existence, and I worried what conclusion she might have drawn from our meeting.

  That night, I walked the streets of Hammo, looking for her. The alleyways and avenues were quiet, utterly deserted. I circled the city by walking on the enclosing wall, but saw no sign of Louca. Near morning, however, as the horizon began to glow and the citizens started clacking their claws, I thought I heard one of her piercing cries, far out to sea.

  A guilty conscience, surely. My job is to watch Louca for signs of instability, and I had been lax. Her madness had always run along predictable paths, but if this changed she would be in danger. Slaf'Salakem would not hesitate to replace her.

  When Louca and I met at the shuttle the following morning, I said nothing, hoping she would tell me what it was she had seen, or what it was she had hoped to see staring out at the ocean. She did not. The feathers on her head were dark and stiff, stuck together in spikes. I suffered a moment of doubt and wondered—if I could pluck one of her feathers and taste it, would it taste like the sea?

  We walked in silence along Louca's corridors. Before stepping into my ship, she finally spoke:

  "For a second yesterday, I thought you were hunting.” She angled her head down and turned so that I stared directly into one dark eye. “For a second, I thought you were a hawk, too. I guess I was wrong. I'm disappointed in you, Ari. No, don't say anything—it's okay, I forgive you because you're not as strong as me."

  She started to reach forward, but stopped centimeters from my chest. “I . . . Oh, Ari. I forget what you are sometimes. But don't fret. I'm going to do something for you. Do you want me to do something for you, Ari?"

  Before I could answer, she turned and left.

  I wonder: What would I have said if she had not walked away?

  * * * *

  Tava. Smoltwar. Klin-Klin. Abas. Berun. I remember the names, but not much of the places or people. Louca was twice forced to fashion modified bodies to handle the atmosphere. Once, she inhabited the body of a great clanking robot, and refused to speak. She beeped and flashed lights at me. Fortunately, we need not communicate to do our job, though I wonder if she interpreted my lack of comprehension as rudeness.

  On one planet we saw nothing but the inside of a bare room. For the first time, the customer came to us, and we were not allowed our shore leave. Louca, wearing the body of an immense bat, scratched gouges in the metal walls in her rage. I worried that it might become a regular thing. Maybe we would never see the surface of another planet. I knew I could do nothing for Louca in that event. Fortunately, it seemed to be an isolated occurrence.

  My relationship with Louca returned to normal. We never talked of Gratte or Jejuno.

  The space between stars was silent, as always. I had a lot of time to think, lives to squander. I stopped meditating. Gradually, the dancing woman left me alone. She disappeared and for a time I convinced myself that I had forgiven myself.

  Gradually, I gave up my plan for revenge.

  * * * *

  This is not true—not entirely. I would not tell this story, otherwise. Slaf'Salakem is, after all, dead, but I am not the one most responsible. Louca has a passion for death I did not then comprehend. She is also more watchful than I knew, though I doubt she understands what she sees. She is all reaction, no forethought or reflection.

  The oceans of Xhef were nothing like the shallow, friendly sea of Gratte. Deeper and colder than Earth's waters, Xhef's oceans had given birth to an astounding variety of marine life.

  After our deliveries in the port city of Erois were completed and Louca disappeared, I watched the fishing boats unload at the docks. For several hours, the massive, six-limbed sailors of Xhef pulled no two of the same creature from their cargo holds. Toothy fish and finned reptiles of all sizes and shapes.

  I was not surprised when a small boat arrived bearing a messenger. Silent, the sailor presented a slip of paper to me. On it was written, Go with him. He will take you to me.

  I watched black seabirds fly as we hugged the jagged shoreline. The sky was overcast but bright, the kind of fluorescent white it hurts the eyes to stare into. Spires of dark gray rock, jagged and bare, rose like teeth to eat the landscape behind us. The trip to the small bay lasted less than an hour, but we lost sight of the city within minutes.

  In the center of the bay was a hole. Glimpsed now and then as grey waves rose and fell, the sailor gave it a wide berth. It looked very much like a whirlpool, but did not seem to affect the currents. The hole had to be artificial. Suddenly, waves of nausea passed through me—just as they had the last time I'd met Slaf'Salakem.

  The sailor pointed to the dark hole, and rumbled alien words.

  I needed no translation. I dispersed into a cloud and floated off the deck.

  Forty feet deep and ten wide, the walls of the well were black, smooth as glass. Slaf'Salakem stood on dry sand at the bottom, waiting for me. He wore an unusual garment on his torso, a harness or armored vest with two smooth silver compartments positioned over chest and upper back. His eyes followed me down. I imagine he wanted to show that he could see me, though I had not formed my body yet.

  "Hello, Slaf'Salakem,” I said, organizing my particles.

  He looked away, now dismissive. “Arihant. What do you think of my aquarium? Outside this temporary wall swim over five thousand species of carnivore, some no bigger than my palm and some well over fifty feet in length."

  "Are you hunting?” I asked.

  He smiled an open, honest smile. He only displayed this expression when the hunting was particularly good. “Yes, I am hunting today, Arihant. Do you want to see the creature I am hunting? Good. Watch."

  Torchlight bloomed in the bay. Beyond the wall Slaf'Salakem had erected, mobile lights were moving, illuminating three long, sinuous shapes. I stared, gradually forming a picture of the creature Slaf'Salakem was to hunt. Measuring fifteen to twenty feet, it was shaped somewhat like an eel though fatter, flattened horizontally rather than vertically. Its wide mouth could not close due to the length of its teeth. It had no eyes, though I doubted it suffered much for their lack. Though it moved slowly, I knew it could move quickly if the situation demanded it.

  It was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen.

  The lights went out.

  "They are quite intelligent,” Slaf'Salakem said. “I have observed them for days. These three females control this bay, protecting their eggs from other creatures and males of their own species with an enviably violent and cunning zeal. Alas, unprotected I am no match for even one individual creature, nor for many of her cousin species. I must protect myself with this wall, though I keep it very close to my body while hunting."

  "You have no weapon,” I observed.

  He smiled again, clearly enjoying the subject. “In addition to protecting me, I can form atom-thin knives and spears from the force-field substance. Still, it is a challenging hunt. They do not die easily.” He stretched, grimacing. “And the generator packs restrict my movement. What one does for sport, eh, Arihant?"

  I said nothing. I remember thinking how often Slaf'Salakem mirrored my anxieties, how often he seemed to read my soul. A knife or a spear.

  "You will watch,” Slaf'Salakem said, “after I remind you of the terms of your employment. Louca has been watching me, as I am sure you are aware. I only became aware after our last meeting. She followed me, Arihant—she swam after me, chased me—and I want to know why. Beyond this, I want to know if she can be relied upon to do her job. If not, I will find someone else; perhaps I will even consider replacing you. It will not be easy to train your replacements, but I will not hesitate."

  The nausea increased. I began to feel shaky, disparate, on the verge of shuddering apart. An image of Slaf'Salakem standing over the dancing woman's broken body
flashed in my mind. I observed it as I would the real thing—from a distance, unable to move.

  I knew then that if I did not act I would fail her.

  "I do not know,” I said. The particles of my being halted, as if waiting for me to direct them. “I know nothing about this."

  Slaf'Salakem stared at me for a long moment before turning away. The irrational fear that he knew my thoughts returned. “Should I believe you?” he asked. He exhaled quickly, loudly. I realized that he was laughing.

  He continued. “I think I should. I trust you, Arihant. I trust you because you know your chief value. You know that I will see any change in you. You have neither the personality or cunning to betray me. You are a reliable old dog. Louca, on the other hand—I have decided that she will be replaced. She is becoming a liability, and . . ."

  I stopped listening. I now see that it is immaterial, whether or not Slaf'Salakem had been able to read my mind. It does not matter if he understood that I was gathering the courage to kill him. He had made a judgment: I was harmless.

  Every molecule of my being hummed with hate. I had finally decided that death was preferable to continued slavery. No, I thought nothing of my people, the thousands of souls I had helped sell into another form of slavery. I felt hate, pure and clean. I felt free.

  I condensed myself into a knife, a sharp shape, and aimed for Slaf'Salakem's throat.

  I hesitated. A second. Two seconds.

  In that moment, the sky above went dark, and something entered the well. Something huge fell, screaming, wings folded to its side yet still brushing the wall. A shrill scream filled the bottom of the well, compressing my body tighter with its pressure.

  Slaf'Salakem looked up and I darted forward, burying myself in the soft tissue of his throat just before Louca slammed into the ground, crushing his body beneath her.

  * * * *

  She died, of course, along with Slaf'Salakem. If the fall was not enough to kill her, the water caving in probably was. If that also did not kill her, the creatures of the bay surely did.

  Thus, Louca does not remember killing Slaf'Salakem. Her body was never recovered and her memories died on the planet Xhef. Louca-the-hawk never uploaded to Louca-the-ship. Whatever urge that had compelled her to kill our employer died with her.

  Or it did not. Sometimes I think she is waiting for an opportunity, still. Sometimes I catch her looking at me while we walk behind the cart on our errand. When she is in the body of a human, I almost read the look as wistful—possibly even loving. During these moments I remember my mother, my wife, my children, and I feel warmth suffuse my body, and I think about the type of being I have become. I wonder. I wonder and maybe I remember what it feels like to be a true man. Altogether, it is not a bad thing to feel.

  But I cannot return Louca's look. She is a crazy person. She needs me and in my way I need her, but it is best not to read too deeply into our relationship. It is best not to dream of being closer to her—of finding a way to travel inside her instead of so far behind. We would undoubtedly grow tired of one another, being cooped up together for such long periods.

  My employer's replacement, Slaf'Samas, arrived three weeks after Slaf'Salakem's death. He recovered the generator packs from the bay, but no body was found. I stuck to my story. Slaf'Salakem and I had talked for a time, and then he had dismissed me.

  "He died while hunting, then?” Slaf'Samas rumbled in a thick voice I struggled to understand. “He was hunting something dangerous?"

  I described to him the animals that Slaf'Salakem had shown me.

  "Then he was also being hunted?” Slaf'Samas asked. He wondered if this was a fair assumption.

  "I think it is a fair assumption,” I answered.

  It is perhaps that simple, the deception of my new employer. It is my understanding that he came into Slaf'Salakem's position unprepared and uninformed. Certainly, he knew nothing of his predecessor's plan to restrict the sale of human souls to pairs.

  And so, I dutifully informed him of the conversation Slaf'Salakem and I had before his death. With my help, Slaf'Samas grew to understand the economic benefits. He is, if anything, more unpredictable than my former employer—quicker to anger, quicker to threats. His loathsomeness, however, is manageable. He does not hunt, nor does he draw me into conversation. He is not stupid, but he is not a sophisticated mind, either.

  It is possible that I can deceive him again, win more concessions, but I do not suffer any delusions. Whatever my contribution, it will be small. Men are still slaves. Louca and I are no more than couriers.

  I record these words for a posterity that will not exist.

  Copyright © 2011 Zachary Jernigan

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  Department: NEXT ISSUE

  * * * *

  * * * *

  SEPTEMBER ISSUE

  Espionage and skulduggery are afoot in our September issue. At “The Observation Post,” a new novelette by the always popular and multiple Hugo-Award-winning author Allen M. Steele, dangerous secrets of the Cuban Missle Crisis are unwittingly uncovered. The disruptive consequences of these secrets will continue to play out in our own precarious era. Additional perils can be found in distinguished author Alan Walls's novelette about British and American agents who must race against time to determine who's “Burning Bibles."

  ALSO IN SEPTEMBER

  Intrigue can also be found in new writer Erick Melton's novelette about a plot to control a new form of space travel that is only available to those who can hear the “Shadow Angel.” Terror must be confronted if a resourceful victim is to survive Robert Reed's “Stalker,” while Neal Barrett Jr.'s dastardly “D.O.C.S.” wreak havoc on a boy and his family. When dealing with a devastating plague on a distant planet, R. Neube shows us that those who live to tell the tale will be the ones who listen to what “Grandma Says” and Carol Emshwiller follows two homeless old women who set out on a poignant mission to find “Danilo."

  OUR EXCITING FEATURES

  Robert Silverberg's “Reflections” column shines some light on “The Reign of the Retired Emperor"; Paul Di Filippo contributes “On Books"; plus we'll have an array of poetry and other features you're sure to enjoy. Look for our September issue on sale at newsstands on July 26, 2011. Or you can subscribe to Asimov's—in paper format or in downloadable varieties—by visiting us online at www.asimovs.com. We're also available individually or by subscription on Amazon.com's Kindle, Barnes andNoble.com's Nook, and ebookstore.sony.com's eReader!

  COMING SOON

  new stories by Nancy Kress, Eleanor Arnason, Ken Liu, Kit Reed, Kij Johnson, David Ira Cleary, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Eugene Mirabelli, Pamela Sargent, Jack Skillingstead, Carol Emshwiller, R. Neube, C.W. Johnson, Bruce McAllister and Barry Malzberg, and many others!

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  Novelette: PARADISE IS A WALLED GARDEN by Lisa Goldstein

  Lisa Goldstein manages to cram Elizabethan spies, Arab scholars, and a Japanese homunculus into an alternate history tale of engineering and derring-do. Lisa's latest book, The Uncertain Places, is just out from Tachyon Publications.

  The copper arrow on the dial swung into the red, and Tip grabbed a bucket and ran to the water pump. She filled her bucket, hurried back to the homunculi in danger of overheating, and poured the water down the hole in their bench. Steam shot out of the hole and she jumped back. When the air had cooled enough, she bent to read the dial, watching as the arrow wavered and then settled at a lower temperature.

  She stood and looked around the vast manufactory. Homunculi sat at their work tables, stamping out hot iron with their hands and then pushing the newly formed metal off into the baskets below. Their copper and brass torsos were fused to the benches beneath them, and hoses snaked down from the benches into the basement. Troughs moved above them along overhead tracks and poured the metal into molds on the tables, and other scrap boys scurried around the room, carrying off baskets, checking valves and gauges, pumping water, darting out of the way of escaping
steam.

  One of the homunculi had filled its basket with iron parts. Tip took the basket and set a new one in its place, then carried the heavy filled basket off to the side of the manufactory. The beat of the homunculi as they worked in concert sounded from every part of the room; she could even feel it pounding through the floor.

  She stopped suddenly. Now that was odd. One of the homunculi had made a move that was slightly off, a beat before or after its fellows. She hurried toward it and bent to look at the dial on its bench.

  What she saw made her turn cold suddenly, even in the heat of the manufactory. The arrow was swinging back and forth across the dial, from the low numbers to high ones and back again, something she had never seen before.

  She looked back up at the bench. The homunculus she had noticed earlier was reaching up for one of the troughs overhead.

  She gripped the hose going to the basement and pulled as hard as she could, but it was clamped too tight for her to move it. She tugged again. “Help me!” she called out.

  "You there!” a muffled voice said. She looked around. It was the foreman, up in his office overlooking the manufactory floor, calling down on his speaking tube. “What are you doing? Get away from that hose!"

  The hose came free finally and the homunculus stopped, its arms still lifted over its head. She looked around frantically. Other homunculi were reaching for troughs now and pulling them down, then rearing back to fling molten iron across the floor. One of them threw a trough at a scrap boy; it hit him in the stomach and spilled hot metal down his legs, and he screamed in pain.

  She couldn't possibly pull out all the copper hoses in time. The other scrap boys were running for the door, and she hurried after them.

  Outside they all milled around nervously. Tip looked through the door and saw the foreman still talking through the speaking tube; she hoped he was calling the men in the basement, telling them to shut down the engines.

  Slowly, very slowly, the homunculi came to a halt. They sat frozen, one with its arm raised over its head, another holding a trough awkwardly with hands that had been made for stamping metal. As Tip watched the trough slipped from its hands and landed with a crash on the floor.