by Patty Jansen
'Get out, before I set the guards on you.'
The stranger chuckled. 'You may own the universe, Hermon Feyst, but you do not own life.' With this, he turned and made for the door.
As he sploshed away in the rain-soaked mud, a great cry went up in the hall behind him. His heart thudding, Hermon turned.
A knot of people had assembled in the middle of the hall. Hermon pushed his way between them, and they parted to let him through. Slumped on the floor, the pink hat askew on head, lay his lovely Esmeralda.
* * *
Hermon buried Esmeralda on Oberon.
As the party guests stood around the grave and the desert sand whipped around their ankles, the orchestra played solemn music, and sadly, they'd had a fair bit of practice doing that recently, too.
Hermon looked upon the gathered crowd. All those young and new faces he had chosen to replace the old ones. Bright and beautiful people, who would rule the universe if it wasn't for being dragged along on the quest for the eternal birthday party.
Teddy put a meaty arm on his father's shoulder. 'We will go on, Dad.'
'I know,' Hermon said, and at that moment wasn't sure if he should be happy or sad about that. 'I will always have you, Teddy.'
'I love you, Dad.'
Father and son held each other for a long time and only went back to the party hall when the sun was about to go down.
* * *
And so Hermon carried on. Lavish parties by day, travel by night.
He was often tired. Without Esmeralda by his side, he didn't sleep well. He tried some other women, but they were never quite as nice, or as funny, or as caring, or . . . The point was, they weren't Esmeralda. More and more, he relied on Teddy to do the talking, and to keep his vast business empire running.
And somehow, that felt natural. Business passing from father to son.
* * *
Of course it was only a matter of time before the stranger turned up again.
Hermon and his entourage had descended on the planet of Orkos, a gem which the keen new astronomer had discovered recently.
Teddy had done all the work for the party, and had hired a large barn at the edge of a sleepy farming town. Surrounded by whispering grass of the prairie, empty all the way to the horizon, Hermon felt at peace.
He sat on the veranda, staring at the waving grass, while the guests partied inside. It started to drizzle, but that didn't drive him inside. Teddy came and sat with him for a while, and they discussed business. Occasionally, a waiter would come to fill his glass or bring him some food.
He was eating an exquisite local dish of pickled grasshoppers when the tall grass at the bottom of the stairs swished aside and a thin figure emerged.
The stranger wore a robe of rich red. As he stepped out of the rain, he flicked back his hood, something he had never done, and for the first time, Hermon saw his face.
Twinkling grey eyes, short grey hair, a neatly-cropped beard.
Hermon stammered, 'You . . . I thought you would look like . . .'
'Like death?'
'Yes. All horrible, like a ghost, with pale skin and blood-stained eyes.'
'Death has many different faces.' The stranger stared out over the prairie and didn't say anything for a long time.
Not that it bothered Hermon; he quite enjoyed the silence. Eventually, he spoke. 'You took my wife.'
'Your wife had a happy and healthy life. All lives must end, once.'
'You had no right to take her. She . . . she was younger than me; she shouldn't die. It is not natural. The man usually dies first.'
'Should I remind you that it's you who is not natural? True, I cannot touch you because of the prophecy, but everyone around you lives normal lives. If you wish to go on celebrating your birthday for another thousand years, that is your decision, but don't ever moan to me about people's deaths not being natural.'
And with that, he descended the steps and slunk into the rain-soaked prairie. It didn't take long for the grass to swallow him.
Hermon called after him, 'I'm sorry!'
There was no reply. He heaved himself from his chair and yelled at the waving grass, 'Come back! Tell me who dies.'
The rain pattered, and the grass swished in the breeze.
Trembling, Hermon turned back to the partying crowd. Strangers, most of whom just stared at him. Not a familiar face in sight.
Hermon called out, his voice like the meow of an abandoned kitten, 'Teddy?'
* * *
Some people said that after the loss of his son, Hermon Feyst became silent and withdrawn. He still had his parties, but would sit at the table and just stare. Often, he complained. The food never tasted as good; the music wasn't as heavenly and all these people who travelled with him, he hardly knew them.
And so there came an evening that he called his pilots to him.
They had come to Lokana again and its three suns hung low in the orange sky.
'Our next destination is Ameran,' said the young and keen astronomer.
'I know,' Hermon said. He gave a weary smile and added, 'I have been this way before, you know.' Eighty-six times in fact.
The first pilot blushed. 'Oh--I'm sorry--I forgot.'
Hermon waved his hand. 'No, young man, you are not to blame.'
Another short silence.
'Do you want me to prepare the ship?' the first pilot asked.
'No, young man, I don't want you to prepare the ship. I am tired. I think I shall stay here tonight.'
'But that means . . .' The pilot's eyes grew wide.
'I know what it means.'
There was a prolonged silence.
'But we like you, Hermon,' the first pilot said.
'Pah. What am I to you apart from an idiot who has far too much money and too many wrinkles?'
The pilot went red and stammered a few unintelligible words.
'See, there you go. Go home to your families and tell them you love them.'
When at last everyone had gone, the courtyard seemed terribly empty. The pink butterflies danced in the last of the sunlight. Hermon sat at the table where Esmeralda had sat all those years ago, and waited. Roars of engines over the city meant that his ships were departing.
Finally, there was a knock on the door.
The stranger wore a white cloak, contrasting sharply with his tanned face. His gold-rimmed hood lay back on his shoulders. He smiled.
Hermon smiled back, uneasy at first, then more happy. Out of all the people in his life, he at least knew this man. He gestured at the empty courtyard. 'Come in.'
About this story:
The idea for this story came to me when wondering if you lived on Mars, you'd have a birthday every two years, or if you lived on Mercury, you'd have a birthday every fifty-eight days. Theoretically, given a particular birth date and year, you could travel to a planet where, according to local reckoning, it would be your birthday. If you have very young children, it may be inadvisable to share this secret with them
Out of Here
Originally published in MBrane SF December 2009
My customer walked out of the door of the Mumbai Axis terminal dressed in a protective suit, gloves and a complete face mask. When she moved her head, her visor glinted, large and reflective, making her look like the praying mantises that crawled into my bedroom at night.
I pulled my shirt straight and approached her, holding out both hands in a standard Axis greeting. Against her white suit, my skin stood out impossibly wrinkled and brown. 'Good day. My name is Ravi. I'm your guide from Mumbai Tourism. Madam, I hope you've had a pleasant trip--'
'You have car?' Her voice sounded tinny through the suit's voice box. I looked up into her face, seeing two reflections of myself.
Now I am of course a very handsome fellow, even if I say so myself, but man, isn't it polite to take off one's helmet?
'Actually yes, I have a car. You were asking for a guide with a car, so Mumbai Tourism is sending a guide with a car. We are simply giving best custome
r service, Madam. Do you want me to drive you to the Axis main shopping centre?'
She shook her head.
'Ah, I see. Can I offer you a tour of the city? Old city, new city, two for the price of one.'
She shook her head again.
'All right then, Madam.' I did my best not to sound annoyed. 'Let me take your luggage to the car. Mumbai Accommodation has arranged a room for you in the Grand Central.'
She said nothing.
My reflected self was starting to get on my nerves, so I glanced past her for her luggage. The pavement was empty.
'Please? Your bags, Madam? Suitcase? Pack? Computer?'
The words fluttered past her like almond blossom leaves on the wind.
For crying out loud! I knew her Indasian was poor, probably the same level as my Universal Standard, but did that really justify the frigidity?
'Madam, please, tell me where you want to go.'
She shoved a location unit under my nose. The screen displayed a set of coordinates, and a lot of text in Universal Standard I couldn't read, at least not that quickly. Lost for anything to say, I punched the coordinates in the car's unit and started driving, like I was a glorified taxi driver.
Some days!
* * *
Soon, the Axis glowed behind us like a weird silver snake. It stood on long impossibly thin legs that lifted it high over the brown haze, and it reached out of sight in both directions. In my time at the Axis, those silver walls had windows from which one could look down on the world below and the people that crawled around there like ants in my landlady's kitchen. I hadn't been close enough for a long time to see if those windows were still there, didn't know what the people inside would still want to see. The Axis was a world of its own, a world away from the world, a world that was no longer mine.
The weather was typically Mumbai, and the air shivered with heat. Here in the Old City the reminders of past technology stood like silent sentinels along the few roads Mumbai Tourism bothered to maintain. Dusty and no-longer active neon signs lined the way. Side streets led into tangles of feral bushes. Goats were everywhere, leaping through broken but once-magnificent gates into disused car parks. Some buildings still had their glass windows.
I rattled off my usual spiel, and showed her the ruins of the great companies of the old world, pointing out the logos that once had meant money and power.
She fiddled with her unit without looking at me. When I was out of history to recount, the sound of my voice lingered in the car, and was replaced by . . . nothing.
Into this uneasy silence, she said, 'You drive. I pay.'
'All right then.' So much for being a tour guide.
My customers were always Axis folk. Long-limbed, white-skinned, in search of a tan, or, as it were--a burn--and a taste of the exotic. Sometimes, they were frightened. Mostly, they were mesmerised that things still worked in ways they had done for hundreds, thousands of years. Fires were for cooking; if you turned the pedals on a bike, the whole thing went forward. There were buildings that dated back to the British occupation and buildings older than that. Out here, humanity lived, and died, and stank in all its glory. Axis folk loved history, as long as they didn't have to live it.
I'd lived in the Axis, and I knew what it was like. Work, work, work. Tokyo, New York, Hong Kong, the Space Terminal, it didn't matter where the business was, you did it. Any time of day. You spoke any language, served any customer.
When the Berlin terminal of the Axis was opened, Mumbai no longer offered the cheapest labour; things got tight. I was the oldest in the company and not married. I was the first to go.
I'd handed back my language chips; I'd accepted a job with Mumbai Axis Tourism based on language knowledge I no longer had. Life slowed. I drove cars. I'd forgotten about the sleeplessness. I'd forgotten about my ideals, my family's scornful looks. Sometimes, I even forgot about Raneesh.
I glanced at the woman next to me. Would she know Raneesh? Could she perhaps pass him a message?
I'd had this thought every time an Axis customer sat in my passenger seat, and I had never acted on it. At first it had been purely shame. Then, there was something else, something that worried me more: I had no idea what to say.
See you soon when I could never get back? I am well when I was not?
I was broke, I had no idea what my future would hold and I didn't even think I was a good guide.
Speaking of which . . . I activated the recording, a tinny voice issued from the speaker on the dash, Mumbai City is divided. The elevated section that is part of the Axis is also known as technology park. From here, the axis links to Delhi and other parts of the powerful Indasian arm, Seoul, Beijing and Tokyo. In Old Mumbai City, you can find the remains of the technology boom, quaint buildings with quainter names. Mumbai Tourism recommends you hire a guide and marvel at the buildings of an era past . . .
She listened, although I doubted she understood much of it. When the recording was finished she gestured for me to play it again, and again, even though the silver snake of the Axis had long faded in the heat haze. Afternoon light fell sideways through her helmet. Her lips moved. Mumbai. Mumbai, she seemed to be saying.
'Yes, this is Mumbai. Have you been here before?'
She said nothing.
I left her in her bubble of self-reflection while I wallowed in mine.
* * *
I brought the car to a halt at the turnoff. The electric engine idled almost without a sound. Ahead, the three lines reached into the distance, never touching each other. They'd go on like that all the way to the border, but I'd never been far enough to check. To the left, a pot-holed road led to a reco town on the banks of the river. The houses, if they could be called that, leaned together in a jumble of plastic, mostly grey. Billows of smoke rose from between them.
That was the direction she pointed.
'In there?'
She nodded.
'You are sure, Madam?' Axis people stayed away from anything that remotely smelled of humanity and its excesses. Goodness knew what was in that billowing smoke. Reco people didn't much care for that sort of thing. They lived, they made lots of babies, they died. Many babies didn't make it, but the ones that did made more babies. And they made things--doormats, slippers--out of the rubbish of ages past.
She shoved the unit under my nose again. A gloved hand pointed vigorously at the screen. 'You go.'
Still the same coordinates. In the reco town.
'Madam, I don't like going in there, and you shouldn't, either. This is not a picnic. These people, they are so poor, you have no idea how badly they want . . . just about everything.' Her suit--worth a fortune, her unit--the same. And I didn't even want to think about the car and all the money I still owed on it.
'I pay.' Those were the only two words in Indasian she seemed to know, her answer to every argument.
'Better pay a lot.' I sighed and turned the car into the road. Slowly, because of the potholes.
The shacks of the reco town grew bigger and more colourful. First we passed a rubbish tip. Boys, some barely waist-high, sorted through piles of junk, chucking wires with wires, circuitboards with circuitboards, and piling cases on top of each other. Another man then smashed these to bits, while a woman stirred a pot over a fire. It was from this pot that the acrid smoke rose, black and sooty. The smell of burnt plastic reached even inside our air-conditioned bubble.
We hit trouble soon after.
Three men on the road, and they didn't look like they were going to move aside. One gestured for me to wind down the window. I did and a disgusting waft of burnt plastic surged into the car.
'What are you doing here?' the man asked.
'My passenger insists.'
'I pay,' the woman said.
The man grinned, showing brown teeth.
When we drove off, he clung to the side of the car. The going was slow here, the thoroughfare between the shacks narrow and twisty, even without my swerving to avoid donkeys, chickens and goats. At least twenty
children ran after us. More people to pay, I guessed. My concentration slipped and the car bounced through a deep, mud-filled pothole, sending sprays of filth into a roadside stall. The vendor jumped out and ran after us. At this rate, we'd have the entire village demanding money, and I still had no idea what my passenger wanted.
'Madam, please tell me where we're going. If you keep giving money away like this, half the reco town will be on us like ants on syrup.'
I hoped she'd say something about having plenty of money, or maybe I didn't want her to say that. Plenty of money would attract an ever bigger crowd.
She didn't say anything, but only pointed.
We had come to a communal square, with some sort of shrine consisting of three pillars made from empty computer casings. On an altar-like elevation stood a bowl in which bloomed bright orange marigolds. A young woman knelt on the floor beside it, lighting candles. The breeze stirred her dress which shimmered like silk. As the car roared past, my eyes met hers, clear and black, in a bronze-skinned face. Wisps of hair had escaped from the plait that hung over her shoulder. I had never seen a woman who looked more like a goddess.
'Look . . . Stop here!'
I gasped at the sudden blast from my passenger's voice box and stomped on the brakes.
The car screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and filth.
Ahead, the river churned in lazy eddies, layers of rubbish lined up on the banks. I exhaled a long breath, gathering my nerves. 'Madam, if you wanted to get a boat, we should have done that in the city. Mumbai Tourism has any number of fully air-conditioned boats for hire.'
She pointed at the water. 'I see.'
To my horror, she opened the door. 'Hey! Where are you--'
But she was already out of the car. She slammed the door and set out for the river, holding the unit, which emitted small flashes of light.
A group of youngsters sat on a crumbling wall, watching her every movement. Any minute, they'd jump on her, strip off her suit. I half-opened the door, stuck like a monkey trapped between the bananas and the angry banana grower. I should go with her, but I couldn't leave the car. If I did that, those kids would take off with it and then we'd be in real trouble.