Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 168

by Neil Clarke

  White Streak opens their mouth but Orange Hair looms larger in Alshea’s vision, leaning over the girl, closer to the holocomm so that the mother can see them.

  “But she’s his daughter!”

  White Streak releases a dimmed hiss from between their teeth; I suspect Orange Hair will face the brunt later.

  The mother simply smiles.

  “My husband said his goodbye three months ago. This whole ordeal has utterly devastated him, and he has better things now with the promo—” she pauses and turns her head to something off camera. There’s a slight shuffle and an exchange of muffled voices. Presently a new face appears: framed eyes, a sharp beard. Their face is unfamiliar to me. But the moment they speak, acute recognition ghosts through me.

  “Apologies, I regret I cannot tune in to the life completion; duty trumps personal affiliation. However, let it not be said that the Commander does not care for his daughter. You would be happy to hear I have named our new private ship after her.” The voice is gritty, authoritative. Nightfall. Nightfall.

  Within me, something snaps. Alshea’s father is Nightfall. It is as though a single stone on a mountain shifts, and the result is an avalanche. The world swirls and every sound is a muted echo against Alshea’s eardrums. I pay no heed to any of his further words, I pay no heed to the mother reappearing on the comm, the other voices, our movement toward the door, our being wheeled into the hallway.

  There was one evening—lifetimes ago it seems now—during which Tedna burst through the back door, screaming for help, covered in blue sludge carrying a half conscious Alshea. She violently projectile vomited blue bile. Norai and I rushed over, soothing her with water, urging her body to release whatever toxins it had consumed, urging her to stay awake, and to not sink into unconsciousness. Many long minutes later, when the worst had passed, Alshea revealed in a broken voice that shadows forced her to eat the wild blueberries at the edge of our grounds. It was her first encounter with Nightfall. There were no fireflies that evening.

  Was it any wonder that this little girl’s brain needed to create such a powerful protective barrier against the outside world?

  Profound emptiness hits me, my lack of eyes to weep, my lack of arms to protect Alshea, my lack of breath to hold. I spin in slow, idle circles, just inside the ocular windows, grappling with the horrific reality of what had been Alshea’s life outside.

  Perhaps CLP is a blessing.

  I open myself back up to Alshea’s senses and sounds flood in of the wheels against the metal floors, the sliding bulkheads we pass through, White Streak reassuring the mother on the holocomm that yes they are going as fast as they can, yes they understand that she has her ship to catch.

  I watch the movement of the white panel of ceiling lights directly above Alshea’s eyes, and the neon strips framing it—colored markings to lead people to different parts of the station. I watch Orange Hair nod at those we pass—blobs in the periphery of my vision, edging aside to make way for the gurney and pausing in respect—they know where we are headed.

  We enter a familiar room. A low buzz of static electricity rides the circulated air. I can almost smell the metal through Alshea’s nose, the cold cylinder suspended from the ceiling that Alshea was always so afraid of.

  Gentle hands transfer her into the sarcophagus; she’s small and light enough to be carried alone by Orange Hair. As Green Eyes connects the wires to Alshea’s extremities, Orange Hair chokes back a sob and smoothens the girl’s hair.

  “So say I: may the Giant welcome you to her Hall,” they whisper and kiss Alshea’s forehead. “Watch us when you’re up there, little one. I’ll light an orb for you.”

  For a moment I am touched, and then the grating sound of the mother yet again urging haste reaches Alshea’s ears, and I am consumed with hatred for Alshea’s progenitors as rich and sharp as the love I have for the girl herself.

  Her parents need to disappear. Fragments of an idea begin to form, and as the electrodes are fastened and I feel my reestablished connection to the outside, I ping the Mainframe.

  I say: I sense an issue with the sarcophagus connections. Request a diagnostic.

  I wonder if the Mainframe will see through the lie. I wait.

  /acknowledged. queuing a diagnostic./

  Green Eyes checks the interface outside the sarcophagus and curses.

  “Watch your mouth, intern. What was that for?” White Streak says.

  “Sorry, doc. Looks like the Mainframe has initiated a diagnostic on the sarcophagus for some reason. It’ll take fifteen more minutes after the all-clear for the machine to boot up again.”

  On the holocomm the mother swears worse than Green Eyes and claims she has no time for this. And, thank Alshea, she disconnects.

  Orange Hair is made Primary Witness, and Green Eyes Secondary. This is my last gift to Alshea: to be free of her parents in her final moments.

  Orange Hair and Green Eyes will watch through cameras in the sarcophagus, and next to them will be White Streak, the doctor to sign the death certificate. Once Alshea is declared, her body will be incinerated, and her ashes released into space by the next outward cargo ship.

  They say when the ashes scatter in the sea of space, the Giant will collect each particle and transform the deceased into a four-dimensional being who can watch the three-dimensional mortal world from her Great Hall.

  The euthanization itself is painless, despite the strength of the electromagnetic fields being ten times greater than they are when they are simply used to stimulate cellular healing. The fields generated by the sarcophagus are crisscrossed, like thousands of tiny Xs where the field lines intersect. When the machine is used to complete a life, the state of each cell in the body is trapped by an X, effectively halting the cell in time, ceasing its functionality.

  As Orange Hair pulls the sarcophagus closed, I settle behind Alshea’s eyes and stare into the camera lenses, knowing that they watch on the screen outside, even though they do not know I am here. The diagnostic is clear, of course, and the sarcophagus whirs as it warms up, softly at first then increasingly louder.

  I think of Alshea, wonder where she is at the moment. Is she playing with the cats and her stuffed unicorn? Is she painting? Is she enjoying fika in the garden with Tedna and Norai? Watching the star set and the fireflies emerge from . . .

  The fireflies.

  The fireflies.

  What is a firefly but a singular point of light? An individual photon, trapped inside the belly of a bug? Trapped the way Alshea’s cells will be by each X made by the fields. Could a photon be trapped there at the center of each X, suspended in air?

  Green Eyes experienced an electrical shock when I pushed hard against my interface just a day prior; if I recreated that push, could I shock the sarcophagus into generating and then trapping photons? Could I create electromagnetic fireflies?

  The hums grow louder, and the electrodes fastened to Alshea’s fingers and toes begin to warm. The end draws close, and while I am nearly resolved to accept Alshea’s fate, I need to try one last time. I think of her parents, boarding their private ship, leaving their tepid moon life behind for one of frivolity and acclaim. I think of Orange Hair fighting to suppress solicitude and remain professional, watching through the cameras. I think of Norai and Tedna and the cats and everyone else who lives in the wondrous, unusual inner world.

  As a medical AI, I know life is valued above all else. If there is another choice, it will be taken. Orange Hair, even White Streak, will see to it.

  I brace myself as the electromagnetic fields begin to form, and push hard signals against the electrodes, willing my pulses to travel, to shock the system, to manifest as points of light where the lines of each X meet.

  Little jolts ripple over Alshea’s skin, and I can feel but not see singular infrared points begin to form in the air around her.

  Come on. Come on. I push harder, urging the photons to increase their frequencies and enter the visible spectrum; they need to be seen. Time is of the essen
ce; there is not much buffer for the humans to abort the procedure.

  I strain to the point of breaking when, through Alshea’s eyes, I see faint signatures of light beginning to emerge, little points in the air above her, like fireflies emerging at dusk. They grow in intensity and if I could sob now I would sob with relief.

  It works; oh it works.

  Above Alshea’s eyes, and in direct view of the cameras, my message is suspended, clear as day:

  Alshea is alive.

  Alshea is safe.

  About the Author

  R. P. Sand is a theoretical physicist turned scientific adviser for literature and film, science communicator, and writer of speculative fiction. Cats, coffee, cosplay, and colorful socks are a few of her favorite things.

  Every Plumage, Every Beak

  Nin Harris

  In a secret-saturated forest that nestled between worlds, Saengdao’s people were the tamest of the monsters that terrorized the long nights. It was not just the garuda army that frightened the young Khinnaree. The watching trees were populated with tree-demons and vengeful fanged owl-women who loved the sweet flavor of Khinnaree blood.

  Saengdao’s clawed avian feet scrambled the undergrowth of selasih, pegaga, and daun kesum. Sound assaulted her as much as fear—the croak of a toad nearly rendered her to tears. She wanted more than anything to be home in her family’s thatched hut that was built where the herbs grew sweet in crumbly soil rich with minerals and worms. Saengdao reached the half circle of wooden houses on stilts set up right before the ruins with a sob of relief. The front doors of the houses were accessed through wooden ladders that only agile human feet could climb.

  An apsara perched on the edge of one of those doorways, her naked feet firmly braced upon the wooden steps. She was busy at work repairing a winnowing machine. The apsara looked up eagerly at Saengdao’s approach. “Saengdao? What news?”

  Saengdao said, “The forest is busy tonight, Timah. You know what happened to us last night. The kayangan troops were mobilizing not just the one garuda. It was a troop of garudas, all fierce and proud. Their plumage was in brilliant hues, so brilliant!”

  Saengdao looked down, eyeing her own subdued feathers with a critical eye.

  “Nevermind that,” Timah said with some impatience, “How many of them were there?”

  “Sixty of them. The owl-women were there with their feathers newly preened and their eyes hungry for blood. I saw one of the bunian lieutenants talking to them. I think one of the garuda saw me, but I did not stay to be sure,” Saengdao answered.

  Timah got to her feet. Using the butt end of her rifle to steady herself, she climbed down from the house. She favored her sore ankle that was twisted from their misadventure of the previous night.

  “They will be dancing again tonight,” Timah’s eyes were alight with avaricious excitement, “Perhaps we should have another look. The change we noticed in their dance last night may have something to do with the increase of garudas. Perhaps it is a new war-dance!”

  “If it’s a war-dance, we should not be going, Timah,” Saengdao said. She hated that she automatically took on the tone of a nursemaid, but the truth was that she had been one for many years. Saengdao kept to this promise even when she would rather not. It was how she honored the memory of her mother.

  “You’re such a fuss-pot, Saengdao. It’ll be fine! Here, take this. I’ve repaired our goggles,” Timah said as she reached into the pocket-belt she always wore over her sarong and brought out a slender pair of aquamarine goggles.

  Saengdao took the goggles from Timah’s hand and positioned them above her bangs as usual. “They will not like it if they catch us at it again. It was bad enough last night, Timah. They sounded so angry. I’ve never heard music that angry before.”

  “I will bring my rifle,” Timah said now, but she sounded unsure.

  “We should not shoot at them. It would be disrespectful,” Saengdao said in her soft, anxious voice. She tucked a lock of her thick, jet-black hair behind her right ear before continuing, “Besides, I do not think that shooting will work, not with them. They own this forest. What are we to them but worms to be stepped upon?”

  Timah frowned, barely paying attention to what Saengdao was saying. “Wait here,” she said.

  When Timah used that tone of voice, Saengdao was too afraid to disagree. She hated that fear. She often hated how subservient she was, but it was never something she voiced. Timah had been her charge, and now her friend. She cared for Timah. That emotion did nothing to dilute her slow-bubbling resentment. Saengdao paced the ground before Timah’s hut, remembering the moment when she was sure the garuda had looked straight at her. She shivered at the thought of what might have happened to her, alone out there in the forest. She had felt her life in mortal peril like never before that night, and that caused the slow simmer of resentment against Timah’s continuous demands to escalate to dangerous, bubbling-hot liquid anger.

  She felt it, and she breathed in her rage, terrified at the emotions that filled her. They were alien to her, but then, she had never been in mortal peril before. Saengdao wondered if this was how Timah’s mother had convinced her mother to take part in the border skirmish with the humans before they had died in battle. Anger, thick and exhilarating, filled her with a new determination, caused her thoughts to race in the moments when she was left alone.

  Across the clearing in the moonlight, three young girls were playing with stones and squares drawn in the sand. They hopped from square to square on one leg, often shrieking in laughter when one of them stumbled and fell down on the red earth of the clearing, then recovering with the agility of the young. Another apsara was repairing a scooter, also stolen from humans, and augmented with parts scavenged from the Buried Kingdom.

  The night-wind was cold. It was another sign that the bunian were close. She could almost feel the music that they made, still lacing her bloodstream and sending a chill piercing through her bones. Saengdao and Timah had both been transfixed by that music last night. So alien, so much more precise than the elegant, precise measure of the melodies usually played by the court musicians of the bunian princesses. Soon, the wooden vehicles would arrive. The communal clearing would be empty long before the bunian princesses performed their pre-landing ritual of aerial dances. It was not a sight that they were supposed to see.

  Saengdao cocked her head to one side as a woman called out from inside the lighted house close to the three girls. The clearing between Timah’s village and Saengdao’s colony grew deserted. Doors and windows would be locked up and barred. Saengdao should be with her family too.

  Timah approached with a rifle in one hand and a silver spear in another.

  “Where did you get that?” Saengdao asked.

  “Kenanga gave it to me. It’s one of theirs.”

  “They will accuse us of stealing!”

  “They won’t know. This thing will make us invisible to them. But we must be joined.”

  Saengdao’s anger was beginning to show on her face. She narrowed her eyes at Timah and spoke in very slow, measure tones.

  “We are not children anymore, Timah. I’m sorry but you’re not light anymore.”

  “I wasn’t going to mount you, Saengdao,” Timah said airily, oblivious to Saengdao’s rage. Timah beckoned at Saengdao to follow her. The hibiscus bushes grew thick next to the clothesline Timah had constructed between two mango trees. Timah pulled out a brass vehicle from behind the bushes. Saengdao was engulfed by a nausea so intense that she had to look away in order to contain her gag reflex. The slit-eyed glance that she threw Timah would have been terrifying for its utter lack of warmth, had the apsara not been blithely unaware.

  “It’s a chariot?” Saengdao asked.

  Timah nodded, glee written on her face.

  “It’s a chariot?” Saengdao asked again.

  Timah’s eyes twinkled with unrepressed glee, “Isn’t it glorious? Here’s how it will work. I’ll attach this to you, and then you pull us into the forest. I
t’s a one-person war-chariot, made for your people.”

  Timah was blithely unaware of what Saengdao was going through, nor the extent to which she had overreached, but she was not long unadvised of her friend’s emotional state.

  “I pull you into the forest, Timah. Isn’t that what you mean? I am not your beast of burden!” Saengdao’s usual, soft-spoken voice grew harsh. Her soft and feminine features were convulsed with rage.

  Timah gaped at her, confused and finally frightened, “I’m sorry, I meant no harm, Saengdao!”

  “You never do, Timah. Do you even know the history of that torture machine that you plan to attach to me? Did you even bother to ask?” Saengdao looked at her best friend with eyes that had changed.

  Timah shivered, now no longer oblivious to Saengdao’s rage, made more terrifying because her words came slow, soft, and clipped. “I’m sorry, Saengdao. I should have asked you first, but I thought it would be—”

  “I don’t care what you thought. You never think these things through, Timah.”

  Saengdao looked away, saying, “I’m done. You’ll have to go on without me.”

  The Khinnaree returned to her family’s colony, her back straight, and her clawed feet almost attacking the ground she trod upon. She had managed to bank down the impulse to go berserk, but she knew it would one day transform her. She had seen it happen in her mother and in her aunts.

  Timah stumbled into the woods, still in shock from Saengdao’s anger.

  Timah had found the chariot in the shed where they stored all of the artifacts from the Buried Kingdom. Timah should have thought about it, about what it had done to the Khinnaree, and how it would have felt to be treated like a beast of burden. But she wanted them both to be invisible and they could only be invisible if they were connected to each other somehow. Timah now understood that for Saengdao, the chariot represented the subjugation and torture of her kind, a fettering of who they were, an exploitation of their powers.

  The people of the Buried Kingdom had similarly ensnared the apsaras, harnessing their powers to create a kingdom that nestled half in the world of men, half in the world of apsaras, hidden from danger from both worlds, until one of the Kings dared too far, and dared to attempt a capture of a princess from Kayangan. Timah should have remembered the extent to which both of their people had been enslaved. She was severely disappointed in herself.