MV sat in the quadrangle chuckling at the latest from LaughTube. He watched Rada coming from the garden with radishes in her hands. She smiled warmly at him as usual, but then her face darkened. MV turned to follow her gaze.
He saw shadowy figures creeping around the edge of the main school building, carrying what looked like cans. The unfamiliar smell of petrol hit his nostrils.
“Stop right there!” commanded Rada.
One of the figures jumped up. He approached her carrying a gun.
MV, who was hidden behind an apple tree, quickly pipped Jeezbob.
Hey we’re being attacked.
Yeah, pipped back Jeezbob. I can see it all.
Really? A picture of the garden flashed onto his screen. MV looked up. He understood. Wingnut, abandoning Gorko, had quietly climbed up a tree behind the Tech block, with his Zi-Lens. He shivered as he recorded the scene below. This was the best reality TV people could watch—but it was dangerous for the recorders. Most of them got shot. Wingnut hoped against hope he wouldn’t be noticed. This would be such a scoop for SchoolTube.
MV watched breathlessly as the men moved into the quadrangle. He was now in full view. One ran up to MV shouting at him to take off his ZiSleeve.
MV felt like he was divesting a weapon as he ripped it off. He didn’t dare look up at Wingnut, hoping all was being relayed to Jeezbob. Knowing Jeezbob was in the frame, so to speak, comforted him. They both knew how to get out of tight spots.
He was led at gunpoint further into the quadrangle.
Rada was calmly standing in front of the ringleader.
“Hello Dangovich. Before you burn us down again, why don’t you let me show you around. Tell you about what we do. You can invite your boss.”
Dangovich felt her gaze uncomfortably warm on his face.
“Stop staring you wi-itch or I put bullet between zose green eyes.”
MV thought Rada was wasting her Trisuron ray of love on such a dickhead. But what could he do? He so wanted to protect her—to be worthy of her.
“Leave her alone, dude,” he dared. The honcho span round.
“Ah, stupi-id Americanyitz.” He spat at his feet. MV sprang back in terror, feeling as rattled and useless as Guidolon the giant Space Chicken.
“This proves you are cult,” Dangovich spat at Rada. “Mi-ixing wi’zis cheap scum.”
Dangovich grabbed MV by the neck, and put the gun to his face.
He had strict orders. To burn the place down. It was assumed it was empty for the summer. But if any cult members were around, they must not be harmed. That would only make martyrs of them. But the boss hadn’t said anything about filthy Americanyitzi.
God, thought MV, this is like that game I played with Jeezbob where we were attacked by a Triad gang. How did we get out of that?
The reality was so different. He was terrified. Dangovich reeked of garlic and sweat. That plus the cold metal against his cheek was vomit inducing. Nausea and terror had never been part of zyber-games.
He caught Rada’s gaze—it was so beautiful, reassuring, calming. Trisuron looking at Guidolon. He managed to take a breath.
“Let him go,” Rada said. “He is a visitor.”
What an inane thing to say, thought MV.
“Vi-isitor hey? Bringing stupi-id ideas to zis country!”
“Hello, Comrade!” said MV, feebly.
Dangovich gave him a look so icy that the Pole caps would not dare melt another centimetre, his breath so pungent that MV’s nose nearly dropped off in protest.
In NewYork, Jeezob was staring open-mouthed. His finger throbbed. He wished there was something he could click to wipe this asshole out. “Siege,” he pipped.
“Siege! Siege! Siege!” was pipped all over the world. ZiFlickr relayed the images to SiegeTube. Web addicts everywhere glued themselves to their screens.
Wingut trembled as the scene unfolded. It was all he could do to stay up in the tree and not fall out.
Rada calmly thought through her options—just as long as MV and Wingnut didn’t do anything unexpected. She sent a look at MV with the intent, Everything is fine—no heroics.
MV misread the look and thought. She looks naively calm—I’ll have to save her.
Rada knew this was a big test for her. Of everything she had learnt. Could she keep love in her heart in the face of adversity? Could she do what many others had done before her? Mandela had lasted 28 years; Aung San Suu Kyi, 26 years; the Dalai Llama, 55 years. She, Rada, was 18 years old. She didn’t think she could last 5 minutes. She recalled tears of joy when the Dalai Llama triumphantly re-entered Lhasa. She quelled her trembling knees by remembering what Suu Kyi said. “You must never let your fear take over—if you do they have won.”
She must focus on a positive outcome for this situation. She took a deep breath. Like Trisuron she must send out a ray of love.
“Dangovich, put the gun down.”
Dangovich, studiously avoiding her green eyes, prodded MV. He hadn’t had so much fun in years; not since he’d been bodyguard to Alexey, the Patriarch.
“Americanyitz! You knaow Russian Roulette?” Dangovich pointed the gun to the ground and pulled the trigger. There was an ominous click. “The next cli-ick could put a hoawl in your stupi-id head.” He shoved the gun back into MV’s face.
“Clusterfuck scumbag!” shouted Jeezbob, scaring his cat.
MV thought he would faint. He could see Rada’s eyes. Was that light coming from them?
“Dangovich, please let the American go,” she said in her melodious voice.
Dangovich caught the way she looked at MV.
“Ah so you like zis boy hey? Well we make him dance for you before we shoot his brains out.”
With that he pointed at MV’s feet. This was too much for MV. “Do you know everyone’s watching you, asshole?” he yelled, pointing up at Wingnut. “You’re on screens all over the world!”
Oh no, thought Rada.
Dangovich swung around, saw Wingnut, and fired. Wingnut came tumbling down. Birds in the trees scattered in fright.
Screens across the world went blank.
Jeezbob froze in horror, frantically pushing different keys; trying to find news channels, anything.
Two of the thugs shoved a trembling Wingnut into the quadrangle. MV was hugely relieved to see him alive.
“You okay, Wingnut?” Rada asked anxiously.
“Everyone knows what you’re up to. What a scumbag you are,” shouted MV, wishing he didn’t sound like a strangled chicken. “Pictures have already gone out all over the world.”
Dangovich turned menacingly towards him but was startled mid-turn by a loud ringing from within his jacket. He pulled out an old ZiPhone.
If phones could swear and appear irate, this one did. If it were in a cartoon, angry faces, sparks and bubbles of Slavic expletives would be exploding from it.
Dangovich blanched a sickly parsnip colour. He held the spitting gadget at arm’s length and gestured his men towards their car.
“You lu-ucky zis time, you wi-itch. I have orders to gao immediately.”
With that Dangovich and his thugs all piled into their vehicle and drove off, tipping over petrol barrels as they went.
Rada ran over to the barrels and righted them. “Don’t want the fumes to hurt the bees,” she said, looking up at the eaves.
“Hey, how about me? I nearly got shot. You care more about those damn bees than me.”
She walked back. “You were never in any danger, Miroslav.”
MV felt like he was in a Guidolon episode where the guys were stupid and ineffectual, and the heroines sassy and victorious. He looked around to see if Wingnut was listening, but he was busy tapping on his ZiSleeve and reconnecting to the world.
“What do you mean, I was in no danger? Dangovich was playing Russian Roulette with me.” MV fervently wished his voice would come down out of chicken register.
Just then the Solaritza swooped in and Colleen, white as snow, leapt out. “Are you okay? Rachel
saw it all on her Zi and we returned as fast as we could.”
Shchetinin hurried across the courtyard and hugged Rada.
“You just missed Dangovich. Apparently the boss was not happy about his boys being splattered all over SiegeTube. Ordered him to abort plans and get out. It was wonderful that Wingnut recorded it. He is a hero.”
Tania ran over to Wingnut, hugged him, and started searching his body for bruises. Wingnut ripped off his Zi and let himself snuggle into Tania’s warm body. This felt so much nicer than anything Gorko got up to.
MV felt terrible.
He followed Rada who had gone back to the garden.
“I so wanted to be a hero, but I was useless,” he said. What he really wanted to say was, “Oh Rada, I so want to be worthy of you.”
“Not at all,” said Rada, looking up from picking sweetcorn. “You saved the day by alerting Dangovich to the fact that the world was watching what a thug he is. He hated that. Not what he had in mind for the image of the Russian Orthodox Church.”
That night there was a feast. Enrita helped grill perch and carp in the summer kitchen. MV and Wingnut, the heroes, were feted and toasted with berry wine.
“To MV and Wingnut,” toasted Shchetinin, Tania translating. “Thanks to them, the SiegeTube video has already had a million hits on YouTube.”
“Yeah!” Wingnut punched the air.
“Yes, and what is excellent news is that the new Russian Orthodox Patriarch saw the video. He was so impressed with how Rada handled the situation and how the place looked, that he wants to come and visit—to start a dialogue with Shchetinin.” Whoops of joy filled the quadrangle.
“Another toast!” proffered Rada. “Here’s to building up trust and contact, and using the Web to facilitate that. If it wasn’t for our American guests the event would not have been recorded. Three cheers for Live-Stream!”
As the cheers died down, Shchetinin took up the accordion and played a lively tune. Vassily leapt up, grabbing Rachel for a dance. She did not resist.
Rada approached MV. “Oh Miroslav,” she whispered. “You still look so miserable.”
“Just like Guidolon, I was chicken shit.”
“But what else could you have done?”
“If I was stronger or knew karate, I could have flattened the bastard.” MV felt tears springing from his eyes. “I’m sorry, my Trisuron.” The ‘my’ slipped out unbidden. Rada caught it with a tiny flutter of her eyelashes.
“Well my Guido, I had another plan, but yours was much better.”
“What was your plan?”
“Ah for me to tell you that, you will have to get to know me more,” she said coquettishly.
“Oh Rada I want to know you so much more.” He took a deep breath. “I want so much to be worthy of you.” Finally he had said it. “But I will be leaving soon.” He looked dejected again.
Rada leaned up to him and ever so gently put the tip of her tongue into his mouth. The scent of berry wine and mead was intoxicating. The delicate lick produced waves of liquid pleasure, far more delicious than anything MV had experienced in his whole life. His loins felt on fire.
She darted away.
“Well Miroslav. You will be back.” Her eyes sparkled green fire. “We have now officially mixed juices.”
Thoughts like gladiators
in the arena of time,
Fight to create the new paradigm.
Thumbs down it will suck,
Thumbs up it will SHINE.
—Eva Maria Chapman—
Castoff World
Kay Kenyon
WHEN, AT THE Calgary WFC, I told Kay that I would be doing an anthology of near-future, optimistic SF, she was literally the first one to send me a story. Which is a blessing in disguise: while it’s fantastic to already have a great story, your evil editor doesn’t want to accept too much too soon in fear of having the turn down great stories that come in under the wire.
Thankfully Kay was very patient with me.
As the ghosts of Hector Malot’s Sans Famille(‘Nobody’s Boy,’ although I prefer the Dutch translation’t title ‘Alone in the World’ better) and Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe haunt the interstices, “Castoff World” is 100% Kay Kenyon: highly inventive world-building (even if the particular ‘world’ is claustrophobically small), topical & contemporary, and inhabited by characters you root for, every inch of the way (even when one of the characters isn’t human).
By its chosen theme, all stories in Shine end on a high note. But it’s only with a couple where the finish is really exuberant. That most of those—like “Castoff World”—are in the back of this anthology is no coincidence...
CHILD KNELT AT the edge of the ocean and carefully spread the bird bones on the water, putting them out to sea. She waited for them to burst into feathers and rise from the ocean, flapping in circles, corkscrewing into the wind.
Not this time, though.
Child always hoped to see the leftover bones from meals reform in their proper shapes: seagull, turtle, swordfish. When she was little, she used to think Grappa was saying they had to put meal leftovers out to sleep, not out to sea. So even though she knew better now—being almost seven—she still thought of the bones as sleeping. And it was their little fun thing that they said, her and Grappa: out to sleep.
She checked the fishing lines on this side of the island for any catches—none—and scanned the horizon for pirates. The blue-green sea stretched in gentle swells to the edge of the world. No pirates today. If you saw pirates you had to crawl to the trap door to meet Grappa who would have a rat for protection. They’d practiced many times, always quiet and serious, but Child would have liked a glimpse of pirates. The book had a picture of one, but Grappa said, no, that was like in the movies, and not a real pirate. Movies was a before word. The book didn’t have a picture of movies. But it had other before things, like fire hydrant, bicycle, and nano assembler.
“You dropped a bone, Child.”
Grappa stood, his beard fluttering in the wind, and pointed to the tiny bone.
“Can I watch Nora kick it off?”
He nodded, and they crouched beside the bone, watching as the nanobots slowly moved the fragment toward the water’s edge. You couldn’t see the nanobots because of being too small, but they were there, working hard, passing the bone to the nanobots next to them. It would take all afternoon for Nora to put the bone out to sleep. Child would come back later to check on the progress.
“Nora doesn’t like our garbage,” Child pronounced.
“Not her kind.” Grappa stood and looked out over their floating home. It was made entirely from garbage, an island of toxic trash, collected over years of swirling round the ocean gyre. The more garbage collected, the bigger Nora got. Here and there you could see plastic bottles, sty-ro-foam cups, white and yellow bags, and crunched up cans. Over there, a collection of tiny stirrers and straws, lined up like a miniature forest. (Forest: many trees clumped together. Tree: tall growing thingy.) Nora was going to break all these things down and make them into good stuff so that bad stuff wouldn’t leak into the water.
Grappa said Nora wasn’t alive. But they called her her, because he said you could call ships her, and what they were on was like a ship or maybe a raft.
Grappa held up a bulky sack, his eyes sparkling. “A new rat.”
They tramped over to the rat collection, carefully hung up on little poles so Nora wouldn’t try to eject them. Nora couldn’t take any extra weight, or the whole ship might go down. Things like a dead rat could go into the ocean, because it was good stuff that could rot. Nora just collected bad stuff like pee-cee-bee, pee-vee-cee, dee-dee-tee, and nurdles so she could turn them into derm. The trawlers were supposed to pick up the Noras once a year, but there weren’t trawlers any more, so their Nora was starting to have a weight problem and threw overboard anything that wouldn’t hurt the ocean.
It was Grappa’s idea to hang the dead rats up on wooden poles. Sooner or later Nora would take apart the woode
n poles and flush them away, but until then they had good stashes of rats in case of pirates. When the oldest rats got too slimy, out to sleep they must go. But neither did you want a nice-looking dead rat. Best was a just-right dead rat, one rotted just so, and that’s how come so many rats all lined up.
Using scraps of fishing net twine, Grappa secured the body onto a pole. Then Child followed him, past the privy hole, past the hot spot, to his big net where they finished pulling the catch from the webbing. Her hat slipped off while she worked.
She caught Grappa’s eye. Quickly, she stuck the broad brimmed hat back on her head so as not to get skin sores.
But he kept looking at her. “Where’s your belt, Child?”
“I don’t need it. I’ve got these.” She pointed to the little nuggets that went down her shirt. They slipped into holes on the other side, keeping her shirt closed against the sun.
Grappa came over to her, fingering the nuggets. “Buttons. Where...”
“Nora made them.” They’d started as little nubs and then grew in about a week to be the right size for the holes.
He gazed at her in silence.
“Maybe she told her nanobots to help my shirt stay closed.”
“Nora’s nothing but a Nanobotic Oceanic Refuse Accumulator.”
They faced off on the old argument. If she talked back, he’d frown and mutter, Just like your mother. Magical thinking. Mom died soon after she was born. Grappa said that when they put her out to sleep, a tern hovered over her, circling like a guard-yan angel.
Grappa went back to sorting the catch, looking up at her now and then, and squinting his eyes at the buttons. In the end his catch was—not including the rat—three medium-sized fish, two tiny crabs, and a piece of sty-ro-foam.
HOLDING THE FLAKEY blue piece of garbage, Child asked, “What was it?”
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