by Neil Clarke
We must splice sym genes with the living beings. An experiment was conducted on Valmarka, which changed lehr’s reproductive material. Beginning with lehr’s offspring, through careful breeding and an occasional boost of sym genetics, we can create a new sym. It will take time. I will not live to experience that day.
Silq’uy 1-3 has granted my request.
I will take the orb that has maintained what is left of M’m’shamir, mere scraps without enough intelligence to bud. I will ingest lehr. Then we will go outside and dissolve to become part of this strange, solid place. Our genetic material will merge with the small creatures I have always loved: bacteria, molds, yeasts, and so in some little way we will help alter this world. I am glad. Holy be the Primes.
About the Author
Elizabeth Bourne has previously published short fiction in Fantasy & Science Fiction, Interzone, and Clarkesworld. She’s currently working on a second world fantasy novel and a mystery set in prohibition age San Francisco. Bourne grew up in Lovecraft country and assures you that his work wasn't fiction. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is advised on her writing by her dog, Kai, who eats the bad pages.
The Occidental Bride
Benjanun Sriduangkaew
New Year: the train eels along a landscape of red snow and shadow-dust, on carbonate tracks haloed in anemic light. Heilui keeps half the window opaque to block out the field of endless machine-dead, the sight of satellites pressed against the skyline like bruised mouths on a gash. The other half she fills with a news feed: disasters in montage, kaleidoscope of calamities—cities gone dark and still, streets turned to web-cracks and sidewalks impact-raised into briars, balconies smeared in blackened lymph and rust-red blots.
She has watched it many times; has been made to, during the interrogation. The footage never fails to pull at her heart like the moon exerting its gravity on the acid tides. Pulling at her like the questions from back then, the faces and names lined up and Did you associate with this woman? This man? This woman? This man, this man, this man.
Heilui’s hands are clammy with the sweat of remembered terror, the memory of teetering on the edge of freefall. She wipes them dry. Her lap is heavy with gifts prepared by relatives: engagement boxes of jade bangles and figurines, silk slippers threaded in gold, a bag of crystallized fruits. A kintsugi bowl: black pottery broken and mended in silver, the seams radiant with age. Foreign antique, contributed by a wealthy adventurer aunt.
The train notifies her that another passenger will be joining her, transferred after one of the carriages have detached for another station. She sweeps up the gifts and blanks out the news feed.
The compartment opens in a murmur of dry, rustling leaves. A young man takes the seat opposite, giving her a respectful distance. They exchange small talk: he is heading southwest for a research lab, armed with a postgraduate grant from the University of Rajamongkol.
“And you, older sister?”
She cups her palm over the antique bowl, fingering its chimera texture, rough earth striated with the velvet smoothness of precious metal. “I’m on my way,” Heilui whispers, “to meet my bride.”
The Institute, the halfway house, sits ensconced in the hothouse hill: mantled in rough foliage, insulated from the machine ruins and their radiative hunger. This close, ignoring the wasteland of charred clay and half-alive intelligences is impossible, though Heilui tries to focus elsewhere, lash her attention to the interior of the car and the imminent appointment. Some of the interference nevertheless slips through, crooning ancient lullabies of wars eons gone, status dispatches from combat centuries ended. Some are foreign, some are in Putongwa and Fukginwa. Others are in Dakman with a smattering of Yingman recounting casualties. Strange-sounding names crowd in a white-noise fog, synthetic and toneless.
Within the Institute’s walls the wasteland sky is blocked out by a seashell husk, bred into immensity to shield the entire compound. She is received at the gate by a guidance routine taking the form of a red-beaked crane. It gives her directions in a perky tourmaline voice and instructs her to avoid contact with candidates other than her own. Heilui is glad to comply, though she does steal glances at the manicured topiary and moss-ridden trellises, the small gazebos and polished benches. Young women and younger men, ghost-pale and exotic, in muted cosmetics and pastel dresses. They drift eyes downward or sit prim and quiet. She can’t spot any of them in conversation with one another; they arrange themselves as though hyper-conscious of an audience.
The crane guides her to a private vestibule, where a low table waits with tea and covered wicker baskets. Heilui lifts the lids to find radish pastries and steamed red-pork buns. She doesn’t sample either; no point leaving crumbs all over herself and marring that first impression. Instead she stacks up the gifts. Briefly she wonders if she should have brought a bouquet—the culture of her bride’s birth values flowers as a courtship sign, though she imagines their bouquets must be as translucent as their people, frosted leaves and ivory petals, flora gone extinct when that continent heaved and broke.
It is then that the crane starts speaking in her interrogator’s voice. Heilui nearly leaps out of her seat.
“Relax, Doctor Lan,” says the interrogator, that same mild contralto she remembers. “We chose you for the case because we believe you better equipped than most to manage her. The subject has been neutralized entirely and you needn’t fear that she will be a danger.”
“I’ll do my best.” Heilui licks parched lips.
“This isn’t a test, though when the operation concludes successfully your profile will be cleaned up. No longer a person of interest, no more record of your unfortunate—but entirely innocuous of course, as you’ve proven—association with occidental terrorists. Good luck.”
The line cuts. The vestibule’s partition folds aside and Heilui’s bride enters.
Kerttu is tall and large-boned, as her people often are, bred in a land of giant-myths and arctic blaze. In echo of this image her hair is pale as snowdrift. Eyelashes mascara-gilded, eyelids faintly dusted copper, cheekbones accentuated to skeletal sharpness as though to compensate for the unreality of her pallor. The only spot of color above her neck is the fuchsia on her lips, applied to hone the corners of her mouth to crisp edges. Her bodice is closely fitted, the sleeves gradating from peach to oxblood cuffs, the skirt narrow and long: the colors are some of Heilui’s favorites, the style close to what she might herself wear. The Institute has been attentive.
So ordinary, Heilui thinks, and tries to visualize Kerttu as she once was—in a lab coat, imperious over her empire of living matrices, her gleaming hives of bioweapons. But she can’t quite picture it, this woman as the engineer of genocides.
Kerttu gives an antique bow, one fist cupped inside her palm. “Happy new year, Doctor Lan.”
“Heilui will do, please. Sit. Have you eaten?” She nods at the dishes, wondering if Kerttu can use chopsticks. “Your Gwongdungwa is excellent.” An odd, piquant accent but she’s hardly going to criticize.
“You honor me. I’ve had fine teachers.”
A conversational dead-end. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
One long, slow blink. The occidental woman’s pupils are unnervingly black, emphasized as they are by irises the hue of jellyfishes. “Why did you pick me, Doctor?”
Heilui turns the teacups upright. Pours. A distinct scent of plum rises. “Perhaps I spotted you in the Institute database and recognized destiny at first sight.” She pushes a cup over. “In Jatbun, they say that a red thread joins fated partners and you only need to pursue it to the other end. When you find yours, at once you will know it—the tug in your blood through your thumb as your fortune draws taut as pipa strings.”
Kerttu curls her fingers around the teacup without flinching from the heat. “I don’t think it was my looks. There are others here younger than I am, more aesthetically pleasing. Is it the novelty of having a former mafia researcher and tamed war criminal for a wife?”
“You
are a person, not a novelty object,” she says. “The Institute recommended you, I thought it a fine suggestion, and I’m under some pressure to wed.”
“Many factors affect the making of a purchase. Desirable attributes go on one side of the scale, the price tag on the other. This is perhaps the most honest form of marriage.” Kerttu sips gingerly, her expression pinching at the sourness, the unfamiliar. “Is that why you opted for the Institute instead of selecting from your peers? Though I think the latter might have been cheaper.”
“I wanted my options from a different pool, and I chose you. Is that not enough? You can say no.”
“I won’t.” This is said quickly, breathless like a gunshot.
Heilui holds out her hand. “Shall we try to make this work?”
Kerttu takes it, and with those painted lips kisses Heilui’s fingertips one by one.
They marry on the train, the world’s ruin rushing past in silent witness. Kerttu hands over a fistful of gold earrings as though they burn her and, with detached grace, accepts the small mountain of dowry. She puts on the one bangle large enough for her wrist as the portable altar officiates: simulated incense and ancestors, two-dimensional gods rotating to give them blessings—mercy, prosperity, fertility. Kerttu’s identity rearranges itself to Lan Kerttu, alphabet to calligraphy.
“There’s usually much more ceremony,” Heilui says, apologetic, “and nine courses of food. And your family would see you off . . . ”
“This is fine.” Her wife cradles the kintsugi bowl, thumb running laps around its rim. “The last wedding I attended was a conflagration of opulence with a twenty-course banquet—one could die of abundance, asphyxiate on splendor. But it also involved people getting shot in the head and a couple of poisonings, though at least both grooms were unscathed. I also haven’t had a family since I was six.”
That factoid Heilui knows, though she can’t conceive of being kinless. There should have been relatives to raise her, a small herd of uncles and aunts and in-laws. “How did you like the Institute?”
“All of us hid our old lives; we never discussed our history and if we recognized each other from before, we pretended ignorance. Many of us wear scars.” Kerttu holds up her wrists, showing them unmarred and smooth, and points at her throat: just as clean, all the access points to arteries without scars. “Not me, though. I’ve never been able to stand the sight of my own blood, the weight of my own pain. What we discussed all the time, where the cameras didn’t reach, was our prospective clients. Who they might be, what sort of services we might be required to provide. Until a week ago, Doctor, I had no inkling of who you were.”
“I’d have liked an introduction sooner, but their protocols are so strict. They did treat you well?” A needless question; the Institute keeps its charges in the greatest comfort.
“I never wanted for anything.” Kerttu sets the bowl aside. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”
The subject has been neutralized entirely. “Why would I need to be afraid of my bride?”
In good time they arrive home, a complex of four tapered serpent-buildings wound loosely around a central hall. Redwood columns clad in bismuth crystal, flat roofs topped in gunmetal tiles, a modest lake: from what she knows Kerttu lived in more sumptuous arrangements, a spider citadel of phantasmagoria matrices and psychedelic weave, but her wife nevertheless widens her eyes as they disembark. “How many live here?” Kerttu asks softly. “I thought you only lived with your family.”
“I do. Extended family. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?” Heilui pulls up a layout of the estate, cupping the display in her palm like an egg of enameled rime. “The southwest hall belongs to my grandparents and some great-grandparents, the southeast one—oh, Aunt Daruwan lives there but she’s not in. Probably off unearthing crash sites or mapping crisis regions, you’d like her. Here, we’re in the northeastern one, the Tangerine.”
By luck it is dinner hour, most of the family is assembled in the communal hall. No one is there to crowd in and overwhelm them when they enter the Tangerine’s sunset corridors. Kerttu’s luggage trails behind them, as silent as its owner. Even her suitcases are Institute-mandated for refinement, matte-black leather and copper filigree. Heilui suspects that when they unpack, Kerttu’s wardrobe will precisely match Heilui’s tastes. That is something she will need to remedy—a trip to the city, a stop at a tailor’s boutique. The Institute is exacting and thorough in how it molds its charges, but that level of micromanagement bothers her despite the brittleness of all this, the fraught weight of Kerttu’s presence.
Heilui’s segment of the house spans three units, study, bedroom, and a simulator box where she does most of her work. “I’ll get you your own bed.” She gestures at a modular divan. “Until then, I hope you won’t mind that?”
“You don’t wish me to share yours?” Kerttu absently pets her luggage, but her attention is on Heilui. A smile grows on her lips, like weeds, like thorns. “I would, sincerely, find it no chore.”
Talons of heat sizzle on the back of Heilui’s ears. “Please make yourself comfortable. The bath is down the corridor.”
“Thank you.” Kerttu twists apart the sleeves of her dress as though about to disrobe on the spot, casting off the fabric the way a snake molts. “May I ask a question?”
“By all means.”
“What did I cost you?” She is loosening the collars. A glimpse of clavicles, nearly paper-white, veins shining through. “I know that no money changed hands; the Institute takes currencies much more nebulous. But there is an essential truth that governs existence, greater and stronger than any force, and it is that on every object there is a price. What was mine?”
Heilui laughs, faltering. The dress recedes and a shoulder comes bare, rounded and marked with a tattoo that declares Kerttu’s former allegiance. Butterflies congregating on a corpse, proboscises sipping sweat: the crest of a cartel, the symbol of ownership. “It’s more complicated than that. We could discuss it one day. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to my family.”
At breakfast, everyone convenes to see the foreign bride.
She sits like a mannequin of frost and plaster, consuming porridge and condiments as solemnly as a funeral meal. The Lan children gawk at her openly; one of Heilui’s youngest nieces whispers—audibly—speculating whether Kerttu’s pallor might leave white smudges on the utensils and tea-bowls; whether it might rub off on the furniture like icing. Their parents shush them, but adult scrutiny is hardly more discreet. Heilui’s mothers regard Kerttu with pointed appraisal, no doubt already cataloguing many faults and improprieties.
On her part Kerttu behaves as though she is by herself, facing an empty room, the round ivory-and-teak table all her own rather than occupied by fifteen. Occasionally, as though she is remembering from etiquette training, she puts food on Heilui’s plate—a knot of pork floss, a slice of yaujagwai. This is done stiffly and gingerly. Kerttu, Heilui recalls, wouldn’t be used to sharing food this way; where she came from each person keeps to their own dish, even among family and intimate friends.
Heilui makes desultory conversation and asks after Aunt Daruwan. She knows that once her family can corner her alone she’ll be barraged with questions; she has told none of them of Kerttu’s background, allowing them to believe that her choice of spouse is conventional and untied to any state interest. Already an uncle and two cousins are bombarding her with messages. She mutes the notifications and, at the first polite opportunity, excuses herself. Kerttu makes her obeisance, courtly, to family elders and follows Heilui’s suit.
They find a spot by one of the garden gates, behind an enclosure of hybrid bamboos and ceramic partitions. Kerttu arranges her skirts—fuller today, loosely made; another style Heilui herself likes—and folds herself like a paper puppet. “Am I making things difficult?”
“They’ll come around, everyone just needs time to adjust.” Heilui silences another message, unread, and extends her palm. “Here’s a prototype I’ve been working on. Very unfinished, more
a framework than anything.”
“It appears to be an anthropological modeling program.” Kerttu tilts her head. “Not my field, Doctor. I was a biochemist.”
“It’s a sim of the shattered continent. I’ve been ambitious with the scope and detail, so I would like—” She gives a laugh, makes a helpless gesture. “An authenticity check, maybe? I’ll get you your own shell, it’s last-generation and I haven’t upgraded it for a while, but . . . ”
“It was a research subject that you required then, not a spouse.”
“Not at all!” Heilui says quickly. “Why don’t we go into the city? You can pick out your own clothes.”
“You’re treating me extravagantly for a person you purchased.” The biochemist turns the shell this way and that, her painted nails a shock of aqua against her phantom skin. “I’m not saying that to be judgmental or bitter—I’m neither; I’ve been owned since I was young, treated as investment, my intelligence bought and traded for. I understand my position perfectly. There’s no need to woo me. Ask and I will serve.”
A frisson sings through Heilui, chased by a wash of nausea: for a moment she could understand the sick supremacy of commanding utter, total power over another human being. “Come on. Let’s get you to a tailor.”
She loads her spare shell with the modeling client and turns that over to Kerttu, who engages the program with the rapt concentration of a sniper on her target. When they reach the commerce arcade, Kerttu looks up blinking as though jolted from a trance. She folds the shell away and surveys the velvet web of shops, the walkways weaving through them like ribbons. Tension pinches her expression as they join the crowd’s flow, families in New Year finery, children and young couples out to spend their red envelope money.