Asimov's Science Fiction 10-11/2001

by Dell Magazines

  Here I am, out on the farm, down on my knees and pulling up cloverweed, when someone comes up behind me. I think it's Mr. Geary checking up on me, so I look over my shoulder and ... oh, man, it's like half the colony is there. Kuniko, Dr. Levin and his wife, Mr. and Ms. Geary, Ted, Ms. Newell, Col. Reese and a couple of the blueshirts, even Capt. Lee—and of course Chris, David, Barry, and Carlos, who're laughing their butts off at all this—and they start singing “Happy Birthday” while I'm squatting there in the dirt like a dumbass.

  They meant well, they really did. But I just wanted to die.

  That evening they threw a party for me, at the firepit after dinner was over. First birthday party on Coyote, they said, although I later learned that a couple of the adults had birthdays during the last couple of months; it's not so special once you get older, I guess. They gave me a little cupcake Ms. Geary baked in the community kitchen—chocolate, which always makes me break out, and no candle on it, which can't be helped—and someone opened the next-to-last bottle of champagne, which they let me have a cup of (which I almost spewed; why do grownups make such a big deal about booze?) and Capt. Lee made a short speech, talking about how wonderful I was, how much work I'd done on the farm, etc. And it was really nice, and I had a great time. Didn't know until then that all these people really like me, that I'm not just some poor orphan girl they have to take care of.

  But no one mentioned Dad. Not even Capt. Lee. It was like everyone tried to avoid talking about him. Didn't anyone know him? Or is there something else?

  The hour got late, and things were getting quiet—Bear was coming up over the horizon, which is usually when people start heading for their tents—and I was tired and ready to crawl into my bag—when Carlos came up to me. I hadn't spoken to him in a couple of weeks, not since he tried to—no, let's forget that part—and I still didn't want to talk to him, but this time he was really sweet. He apologized for what he had done, said he still wanted to be friends, and then he gave me a present. It was wrapped in paper, which we're not supposed to be wasting. I tried not to tear it as I opened it, but when I saw what was inside....

  A pair of gloves. Handmade gloves, stitched together from swamper hide, lined with creek cat fur. I thought they were a little large, but then I tried them on and they fit beautifully, comfortable and warm. And I knew, even without asking, that he had made them himself; the stitches are a little ragged, and there's a loose thread at the base of the thumb on the left one which Kuniko had to tie off.

  I didn't know what to say, so I tugged him behind the Dreyfus tent, and when we were alone I kissed him. This time it was only a kiss—he didn't do anything with his hands—but it was a really good kiss. He said I tasted like champagne.

  I'm still not ready for a boyfriend, but if Chris Levin wants to compete with Carlos, he's going to have to give me a whole damn rug before I'll let him so much as smooch my hand!

  Colony Log

  Barbiel 05, C.Y. 01

  (Tom Shapiro, Secretary, Liberty Town Council)

  (1.) Frost on the ground this morning, which didn't melt until an hour after sunrise. Weather station recorded local overnight low of 27 degrees F, with winds from the N-NE at 10-15 MPH. Orbital photos from Alabama reveal snowstorms in latitudes above 40 degrees N, with ice forming on the banks of the Northern Equatorial River. Snow also falling in latitudes below 50 degrees S, with ice along river channels within the tundra surrounding the southern glacial region.

  (2.) Wildlife rapidly disappearing within New Florida. Swoops continue to migrate to the southeast, and daytime sightings of boids have become less frequent; tracks along the Sand Creek indicate they're heading south, following the creek toward the West River. Although creek cats are still spotted near town, swampers are rarely seen, and it's assumed that they're going into hibernation.

  (3.) Monroe suggests that the silo walls should be insulated to prevent spoilage of farm produce by extreme cold. Capt. Lee inspected the silos, decided that this is prudent advice; although the silos were formerly Alabama's cargo modules, cracks caused by entry and landing stress allows cold air to penetrate the hulls. Cloverweed mixed with sand makes good sealing material.

  (4.) Principal activity has become erecting permanent shelter. “House-raising parties” held almost every day: twenty-plus people working together to erect a cabin from blackwood logs. Takes approx. two days to build a one-room cabin with a fieldstone fireplace, three to four days to throw up a three-room family house. Eighteen cabins have been built on either side of Main Street, each with their own privies, and land has been set aside for eventual construction of a grange hall.

  (5.) Plymouth and Mayflower have been mothballed. Although onboard nuclear cells still being used to generate electrical power, propellant has been drained from fuel tanks and tents have been lashed together as tarps to protect the fuselages against the weather. Many people favor cannibalizing one of the shuttles for electronic parts and furnishings—we've received requests for passenger couches—but Capt. Lee insists that we keep both craft in flightworthy condition in the event of an emergency. Yet it's doubtful that they'll fly again any time soon.

  From the journal of Dr. James Levin

  Barbiel 23, C.Y.01

  Today, a mystery was solved. Two, in fact—we learned where the swampers have gone, and also the biological function of the ball plants.

  In all fairness, I must give credit where credit is due: it was Wendy Gunther who made the discovery, not I. She and Carlos Montero were out in the fields—they say they were gathering corn stalks for roofing material, but I suspect otherwise—when Wendy noticed a family of swampers near the vicinity of a ball plant. Since so few swampers have been sighted lately, this aroused her curiosity, so she and Carlos watched from a discreet distance as the swampers climbed on top of the ball. One at a time, they squirmed through a narrow opening within its leaves until all of them had disappeared from view.

  Wendy rushed to my house and told me what she had seen, and I followed her and Carlos back to the plant. The psuedowasps have died off, so there was no risk in approaching it, and the ball hadn't completely sealed, so I gently peeled aside one of the leaves and peered inside.

  I counted eight swampers within the plant, curled up against each other, already half-asleep. I let the plant close itself and stepped away, and made Wendy and Carlos promise not to tell anyone what we had found. I don't want anyone—the blueshirts, namely—poaching the hibernating swampers for fur. For the time being, at least, it's our secret.

  My hypothesis: this may be a form of plant-animal symbiosis. The balls provide shelter for the swampers while they hibernate during Coyote's long winter. However, since one or two of the swampers inevitably perish during hibernation—the old and the sick, most likely—their corpses remain within the balls. In spring, the swampers emerge from the ball, leaving their dead behind to provide food for the plants.

  There may be certain superficial similarities to life on Earth—the close resemblance between swampers and ferrets, for example—but that's because nature tends to select perfect (i.e., adaptive) designs and duplicate them. Yet Coyote isn't Earth; although it's earth-like, nonetheless it's a entirely different environment—younger, colder, with longer seasons, a less dense atmosphere, and lighter gravity. So there're bound to be significant differences.

  One mystery solved ... yet so many more remain.

  In time, through continued observation of this world, we may be able to prove (or disprove) the Gaia hypothesis: that planets aren't mere rocks upon which life evolves by circumstance of nature, but rather self-sustaining life-forms themselves, their ecosystems sustaining one another in an interlocked pattern of life and death. We came to Coyote in order to escape from political tyranny, but perhaps our future is something greater.

  I'm not a religious man—Sissy and I seldom went to temple, and Chris went through bar mitzvah only because his grandparents insisted (David was just shy of his thirteenth birthday when we left)—yet nonetheless I've always cons
idered myself to be a spiritual person. Sitting here within my log cabin, writing by lantern light as a fire crackles within the hearth, my wife and sons asleep within beds we've cobbled together from hab module pallets and discarded shipping containers, I have to wonder if there is a greater power in the universe, and perhaps our role is to understand the complexity of creation.

  Winter comes tonight. I can hear sleet skittering against the closed shutters of our windows, the northern wind rushing past our eaves. The hand of God falls upon us. May we be strong enough to endure his fury, and wise enough to understand his mind.

  Copyright © 2001 by Allen M. Steele.

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  Ménage by Simon Ings

  The author has written a TV movie, Gloria, four science fiction novels, Hothead, In the City of the Iron Fish, Hotwire, and Headlong, and a mainstream novel with SF undertones that is set in contemporary London. The paperback edition of Painkillers was published in England this spring. Mr. Ings’ short fiction publications include stories in The Third Alternative, Interzone, and on Scifi.com. "Ménage” is his first story for Asimov's.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A few days after the operation, Frank Wilson—our old producer, Rachel's and mine—got together with me at the studio.

  Everything was so swollen and sore and stiff; even my face was a blank, paretic mask. Which was lucky, as there was nothing I especially wanted to express.

  Frank scratched his chin, at a loss. The blinds were down over the windows. He crossed the room and started to let in the daylight.

  “God, no,” I croaked, my voice horribly aged.

  He looked around him at the leavings of the operation—the monitors, the plastic curtains, the plastic flowers—everywhere but at me. He was smiling this “better in no time!” smile. I didn't believe it and neither, I think, did he.

  * * *

  Frank's visitations became frequent and regular. God knows, at the best of times his presence was a screeching chalk. But the days when he didn't appear were worse. My eyes weren't focusing properly; I couldn't even read.

  All I could do was lie there and imagine.

  The nurses were very solicitous. A couple were even pretty.

  “You want to toast my recovery one night?” I said.

  Giggle. “Ooh, I don't suppose a little champers will hurt. There's some left over from Christmas!”

  I said, “I don't mean in here, I mean—when I get out.”

  “Ooh, I'm not sure my fiancé would like that.”

  Sigh. “Best go and get it then.”

  “What?”

  “Medicine for my broken heart. Your left-over champagne.”

  Giggle. “It's only Lambrusco.”

  * * *

  I would get better. They promised me that. They insisted upon it. “We know you're going to adjust.”

  “All right!”

  And sure enough, not long after that, I experienced what the scriptwriters on Green Lanes, my old show, call “A Sudden And Miraculous Recovery.” (The studio has its own short-hand; every noun a writer utters has a just-audible capital letter.)

  My face stopped ballooning, my eyes ceased to tear up, and my lids started blinking more or less together; my lips did not crack quite so often and my mouth lost its tell-tale crusts of spittle in the corners. Something inside me, siding with Dorothy Parker, had decided it might as well live.

  They advised me on diet, on physiotherapy. They enumerated the medical and psychiatric services to which Frank and I were entitled. Sometimes they were nurses, sometimes civilians. The counselors were the worst.

  “These episodes of depression should be expected, cherished, and encouraged.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anger is another natural response. It is part of the grieving process.”

  “Really? Grieving? For what?”

  “Well—”

  They were too far out of the loop to have been told the truth. They imagined Green Lanes had gone against my wishes when it canned my character. (You surely remember Haringay High's wolfish science teacher, Jerome Jones—if not by name, then at very least by the trademark twinkling of his eyes?)

  “You must gird yourself for recurring bouts of intense, heart-breaking despair.”

  “I'll be sure to do that. Thank you, and goodbye.”

  * * *

  It was barely five minutes after one of these tête-à-têtes that Frank Wilson appeared, unannounced.

  “What is it you want?” I shouted at him, drained of all patience.

  He was so hurt—well, I felt bad. It must have been the side-effects of the codeine. I let him stay.

  I knew what he was up to. He was working his way around to helping me, of course. He was off on another of his leave-it-to-me, I-know-a-thing-or-two routines. (The qualities that make him a good producer are the very ones that make him an asshole.)

  I knew what he had planned for me without him saying it. The last thing I wanted was to watch him play house.

  But I might as well have been talking to an empty room. “I knew you'd come around!” Frank chuckled: malevolent as the dwarf in the fairy tale.

  * * *

  That weekend, I left the studio and took a train from Liverpool Street station. Frank appeared at the other end—Audley End, in fact—to drive us home. His car was a surprise: an old Ford Escort cabriolet. Sparkling, sterile, washing-machine white, fat exhaust pipe, Cosworth decal. I was speechless.

  But he might as well have saved his money—he drove this monster of a car as though it were a Reliant. I longed for him to floor it.

  We did, at least, have the top down. The Indian-summer light was mellowing, and riding under the big sky, drinking in the smell of dust and straw, rich and hoppy as any ale, I smiled—I actually smiled, massaging expression into my face with tremulous little tugs of the zygomaticus major—to be out of London at last.

  We turned onto a dirt road bordered by hawthorn hedges, the foliage intagliated with dog-rose and fanned with Old Man's Beard. The track was arrow-straight, and went on for about a mile. There were fields either side of us—not the barren industrial sort, but still with remains of hedgerows, and a ripple to the land that broke up the monotony: root vegetables, lettuces, rapeseed.

  A tell-tale column of golden dust rose up ahead of us; another vehicle. Even at Frank's cautious speed, we soon caught up. The house was still about a half-mile off and we crawled up to it in the wake of a spluttering tractor laden with bales of straw. I wondered how Frank kept his car so clean, living out here. He must be out every day, I thought. With his squeegee and his bucket. Whistling away.

  * * *

  We came to the house. There were rhododendrons in the front garden. The lawn was new, and sickly. The house, by contrast, was old and big and hunched in on itself. There was honeysuckle over the door. Old roses, with real thorns. Next door to the cottage stood a hideous white concrete shell for a garage, with a row of pine trees meant one day for a screen. There was a lawnmower out, a pair of shears, a fork stuck in the earth with an old tweed jacket draped over it.

  I climbed out of the car. I knew that if Frank caught my eye I would have to make some gesture. The idea of congratulating him was grotesque.

  We entered the house through the back door.

  Rachel was in the kitchen, kneading dough in a large Pyrex bowl. Her arms were dusted in flour up to her elbows. She looked up. She looked at me. There was a streak of flour, like war paint, under her right eye.

  I couldn't say anything. I couldn't move.

  Rachel's the creator of Green Lanes. It was she who dreamt up Jerome Jones: sixth form pin-up, coffee-lounge lizard, extra-curricular cocksman of Haringay High. She made me what I am.

  In one sense, the reverse is also true.

  The show continues, though she has left. No one quite understands—or forgives—the precipitate way she dropped her career. Her agent spends much of his time sourly declining ever more lucrative offers on her behalf. From Bi
g Brother to Brookside, they need her magic.

  Rachel crossed to the sink and washed the gunk off her fingers. She dried her hands on a tea towel. Her hands were more delicate than I remembered them. Time had made them unfamiliar. They were dry and lined, a consequence, I suppose, of the life she led now: summer days in the garden, evenings spent painting and fitting out her new home. She tucked the towel around the rail of the Aga and spread it out to dry. She picked up a roll of Saran Wrap, tore off a square and pulled it over the bowl, sealing the dough inside. Her hair was more grey now: she had it tied roughly back in a scrunchy, and as usual wisps of it had escaped and hung tantalizingly close to her mouth. It was all I could do not to reach over and brush them back.

  “How did it go?” she said. Her face had acquired more lines, especially around her eyes. She looked older, but not yet old. She was becoming that sort of elfin woman whose skull, in the wrong light, rides too close to the skin.

  Her lips had not changed, and I wondered, ungallantly, if she had had a collagen injection, they were full and so pink. In some lights, it looked like she was already wearing lipstick. She blinked at me.

  I recovered what I could of myself and said, “I have the world's shittiest toothache. Apart from that it's all right.”

  “What's the matter with your teeth?”

  “It's this whole face,” I said. “I can't get used...” A weariness overtook me. I let my words trail away.

  I didn't want to talk to her about these things. This unfamiliar face. This flabby, unconditioned body. I didn't want an easy camaraderie between us. I wanted her hands on my face. I wanted to measure the dryness of her skin against me. I couldn't decide whether the almond smell in the air was her baking or her skin.

  But she insisted. She ironed away. She flattened everything.

  She claimed she had a new project. “I haven't done anything for this demographic before!” she said.

  It was, she said, a Third Age soap, for which they were casting real actors. (Synthespians don't do old age well.)