“I don’t understand.” I look around. I need the mists to return. I need my suit’s darkness to protect me from this batty world.
“This a mist dream?” I ask.
“No. You talked with Estelle at the Plaza, right? She told you what the mists are, and what happened when we left the Days-We-Knew?”
“We’re somewhere without the passing of time and the mists are people torn apart by that change. Every moment of their lives somehow came alive.”
“Mostly correct. The people who became the mists gained immense power even as they were torn apart. With those powers they stabilized and created a world for the rest of us to live in. And yes, each little part of the mist is one unique moment in someone’s life. But it’s also much more.”
Seeing that I don’t understand, Momma taps the necklace she’s wearing. The same necklace I wear. She runs her fingers over the dozens of tiny globes, stirring up the curls of mists inside them. “Imagine each of the globes in my necklace is a different time in someone’s life,” she says. “When they’re looped around my neck, it’s impossible to know which is the first or the last.”
Momma reaches around her neck and unclasps the necklace. She dangles it from one end, creating a straight line of globes. “The people you grew up with believe time’s a straight line, like when I take off this necklace. Suddenly we have a beginning and an ending. But there’s a downside to such beliefs. . . .”
Momma grabs the bottom globe and yanks, causing all of the globes to slide off the golden wire and smash into the cement, where the wisps of mist dissipate and vanish.
I grab my own necklace, not wanting Momma to break it. But a moment later the world around us blinks. People who had been walking past are a few steps back from where they’d been. Cars and buses have jumped backward. And Momma again holds an unbroken necklace.
She reaches around her neck and clasps the necklace together so it’s again an unbroken whole without a beginning or an end.
I look around, tricking myself into believing I understand. “Is this a different time from where I lived in Empire?”
“What we’re experiencing is the intersection of the individual times and moments within the mists. You can only come to places like this when the mists merge with your life.”
I look again at the hot dog man and at the people passing me on the street.
“The mists are tricking me,” I say. “This isn’t real.”
“It’s as real as your life on Empire. When the mists take someone, that person becomes every moment of their life. All the time they’ve lived. Each moment of your life coming alive but still held together. Like the molecules of your body joining together to create something larger than themselves. Or these glass globes creating a never-ending necklace.”
I nod. I can feel this, now that the mists have taken me. I feel all the moments of my life. It’s not like remembering my life—not like memories at all—but instead as if I could open up any moment from my past and relive it. Could enter that moment’s separate and unique time and again snuggle with Momma in our slug. Could again feel excitement and fear as I walked that scary girder on Empire and became a mist scout. I can even taste future times I’ve yet to live.
Momma smiles. “You feel the potential, don’t you? But most of the people back in Empire and the other buildings are still limited by their linear view of time. They’re afraid to embrace what the mists could give them.”
I remember Momma pulling the last globe off her necklace and all the other globes smashing to the sidewalk. I imagine the countless different moments in the lives of Bugdon and everyone in Empire doing the same when our building finally collapses.
I look at the people passing us in this city. I look at the hot dog man. Each is their own mist-cloud of time. They’re the same as me. I look across the street and see Rockefeller University. As I reach out with my senses I can feel Estelle inside. She’s about to open her hoped-for portal in time.
Suddenly I’m puzzled. How can I sense Estelle here when she’s also sitting in a wheeled chair in the Plaza? Then I feel her cloud of time. A tiny part of Estelle is in the university right now, but there are also countless parts of her life leading from here to the Plaza Hotel in the times I knew, along with strings of her life in every other conceivable time and place.
I hear Estelle laughing in joy at my understanding.
“Yes,” Momma says, watching the university with me as we wait for everything to happen. “Estelle’s been working hard to fix all this.”
There’s a sudden burst of light as Estelle’s portal opens—or more accurately, a sudden burst of mists, as the timestream of the DaysWe-Knew falls apart. The hot dog man screams in pain as he loses his grip on time and becomes mist. Passersby in the street do the same. Time falls apart.
The city blinks again, going back to a sunny day where everyone is happy. The hot dog man, acting as if he hasn’t just turned to mists, again walks from his wheeled cooking stand and tells Momma she’s doing a good thing by helping me.
“I brought us back a few minutes in time,” Momma says. “You know the rest of what happened. The people who became mists stabilized the world and kept everyone else from changing. They did it out of mercy, not wanting others to feel the pain and fear they’d experienced. But that decision created a worse existence than they ever imagined.”
Momma’s right. In my times my city is dying, and people are hurting far more than the pain brought on by a brief moment of change. I survived the pain of becoming mist. Others could easily do the same.
I eat another bite of hot dog. Is this real? A mist dream? A new timestream created as my life broke into countless individual moments of me?
Maybe it doesn’t matter which account is true. It only matters what I do with the times now open to me.
“You want me to convince people to join the mists,” I say. “You want people to join them before all the buildings fall.”
My mother nods.
I laugh. There’s never been a topper prophet. But if there’s got to be one, might as well be me.
I strip off my suit and helmet, strip off my dirty clothes underneath, even though the hot dog man and others stare at me in shock. Momma kicks a fire hydrant with more strength than she should have and it shatters, revealing a rising rain of water. I scrub and clean myself. Momma joins me and we hold hands and dance around the geyser of water.
I then tell her I’m ready. I shatter the moments of my life and rearrange the infinite times I’m created of until I again stand in the mists back in my city.
Except the mists have cleared from around me. And walking toward me is myself. A myself sealed in an air suit with the blinder hiding her from what the mists reveal.
That’s when I know this is truth. I look at the mists that swirl by my body. Each drop of mist is a moment of my life. The drops shimmer and spin and squeal in happiness at what I am.
I laugh. I giggle and yell. I run my hands through the mists, feeling my lives and the lives of everyone I’ve ever known—and the countless people I never got to know—swirl through my consciousness.
I must share the news. I must tell everyone.
But first I run at myself and knock the other me down. As her gloved hands touch my bare face, I remember her fear. I step back and reach out to the mists around me, find the living moment of that fear. Experience it again. I am fortunate this fear didn’t define all of who I am.
I watch my suited self stand back up and walk onward. So funny to think a mere suit kept out the mists. So silly to think closing my eyes kept out the truth.
When I return to Empire, I sneak in and find Bugdon. He stares at my naked body and asks what happened.
I tell him.
“I can’t accept this,” he stammers.
“It’s your choice, but if you give yourself up to the mists, they’ll reveal more of yourself than you’d ever believe. Empire won’t last. But if we can convince people to join the mists. . . .”
“It
’s impossible. It’s simply impossible.”
I grin as I take off my necklace and hand it to him. “The other part of me will return in a few days. Then you’ll know. I’ll be back to tell you what we must do to save everyone.”
Bugdon looks at me like I’ve gone bat-bat, but before he can call the guards to catch me, I run back into the mists.
I can already taste Bugdon’s future understanding. It dances before me like a drop of mist in the air.
We be toppers. Toppers we be.
Because in the end, what else could we become?
TENDER LOVING PLASTICS
AMMAN SABET
Amman Sabet has led digital design projects for such companies as BMW, Adobe, Comcast, Wizards of the Coast, and Intel. He is a graduate of the 2017 Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing Workshop.
“Tender Loving Plastics” examines the consequences of a foster-care system that attempts to mimic the nuclear family using artificial intelligence. It is his second published story.
1. THE DEWEY HOME FOR FOSTER CHILDREN
ISSA LIVES IN a small prefabricated efficiency, tucked within the mouth of a concrete alley between two buildings. The kitchen in front connects to a hallway, leading past a bathroom and two bedrooms, to a storage unit in back. It’s cramped by adult standards but scaled for children by design.
All of the surfaces are institutional. The kitchen’s scratch-proof ceramics have tinted beige from a regimen of spraying and wiping spills and sneaker scuffs. The hallway carpet smells like burning plastic when it’s vacuumed. Mold regroups along the bathroom cabinet in little black stipples, never fully defeated. Chintzy towels embroidered with cartoon characters hang limp from crooked wall pegs. It’s a wonder that these objects deserve such refurbishment.
Issa’s bedroom is at the end of the hall. Trevor, her foster brother, has the bedroom closest to the kitchen. Both have an aluminum loft bed over a desk and a pressed-plastic chair. Pushed into the corners are particleboard dressers, mirrors, trundles. At night, the moon shines in through clerestory windows, dappling a mobile that hangs over Issa’s crib as she sleeps.
Mom pulls her chair down from the kitchen wall to sit and recharge her battery. Her face is flat and glossy and animates a loop of sheep jumping a fence. Over time, they fade into her nothing face, but she listens for Issa’s and Trevor’s voices in the dark. They’ve never seen her sleep and never will.
2. ISSA’S EARLIEST MEMORY
Baby Issa can stand. With the help of Teacup Bunny, she climbs upright. Holding the crib’s safety bar for balance, she coos to Mom and Trevor.
Trevor is still Good Trevor. His toys are spilled out across the brown jute rug. There are red cars, green cars, black and white. Mom makes her concentration face: a dash mouth, pink tongue sticking up from the corner. White pupil dots follow her hands as they fill Issa’s bottle and a sweat drop blinks near her temple as she spins the nipple cap tight.
“Mom, look. It’s a traffic jam. Mom.”
Mom turns and makes her smile face at Trevor. “That’s wonderful, Trev! How did it happen?”
Trevor points to the school bus in front. “Driver did it. He went pop and then went haywire.” Trevor bobbles his head, eyes crossed, and falls over buzzing, shaking his sneakers in the air.
Mom’s mouth makes a little doughnut. “Did someone call the repairman?”
Trevor points to a van behind a cement mixer. “He got stuck.”
“Where is Fast Oscar? Can he help?”
Trevor pulls him from the front of his overalls, a sports car with headlight eyes and a big yellow lightning bolt. He pushes Fast Oscar through the traffic jam toward the bus, knocking the other cars aside.
Issa squeaks. She reaches over the safety bar for Mom and bounces, ruffling her diaper.
“Ooh! Who is this? Does someone need to be picked up?” Mom puts the bottle down and lifts Issa from her crib.
Issa’s world spins. Mom cradles her against her padded chest and thumps a heartbeat for her. Bump-bump. She bounces gently, warms. Issa drools against her plastic shoulder and coos, satisfied.
Then she cries, pushes away, and Mom puts her back in her crib. Soon, she will reach for Mom again, and Mom will pick her up. This repeats. Mom will never know why and will never be frustrated.
3. REGULAR UPKEEP
Every four months, Uncle Georg visits. He doesn’t have a flat, blinky face like Mom. His face sticks out like Trevor’s, with a beard that moves like a scratchy blanket when he talks. His gray work shirt has tools like pens peeking out of the chest pocket. Sometimes he brings a brown satchel with presents when he plays Santa for Christmas, but he usually just stuffs things into the cabinets and the storage unit in the back (which stays locked).
When Trevor is still at school, Georg gives Mom a checkup. Issa lies in Mom’s lap, mouth red with a rash, hands wet from sucking her thumb. Mom strokes Issa’s hair and neck and Georg uses his pen things on Mom’s back.
“Momma’s going to be really still for five seconds. Can you stay still, too?”
Issa nods.
Mom’s hand falls flat against Issa’s back for a moment. Then her chest makes a musical sound.
“Momma and I are going to play a game. Want to play, too?”
Issa nods again.
Uncle Georg’s game is strange. It’s not like Mom’s games with music and lights. They only play once. Mom and Issa stand on one foot, then the other. Move around. Say weird words and then look at one of the pens. Stick another pen in Issa’s ear and she coughs.
Uncle Georg asks Mom questions that don’t make sense, but somehow Mom knows the answers. When it’s Issa’s turn, she knows the answers to the questions because they are about her. Do you have any new friends? What’s the grossest thing you ate? What’s the scariest thing around?
4. THE MAY BEES
When Issa is four and Trevor is ten, Mom prints meatloaf with green beans and it’s better than usual.
“Five stars!” Issa rates dinner, and Trevor agrees. They know something special is planned.
When they’ve cleared their plates, Mom brings them strawberry freezies and says that the May Bees are going to visit. “They’re different May Bees than the last time,” Mom explains. “They’ll knock on the door like Halloween, but we can bring them inside. So, no stories tonight. It’s quiet time until they arrive.”
Shortly after Issa and Trevor go to their rooms, there comes the knock. A squat caseworker from Dewey with a badge on her shirt has brought the May Bees with her: a thin man with a mustache and a lady wearing a fancy yellow coat. The caseworker asks if the kids are inside. She waits in the kitchen, drinking from a thermos, as Mom brings the May Bees back to their rooms.
Trevor is bouncing up and down at his desk.
“Trev, may we come in?” Mom asks. “Our guests want to meet you.”
Trevor stands and nods vigorously with a toothy smile, hopping from one foot to the other.
The May Bee man with the mustache watches from the hallway as the lady with the yellow coat steps around Mom. She squats down at eye level and holds her hand out to shake.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Trevor.”
Trevor hugs her around her neck. Embarrassed, she gently pulls away and asks what subjects he likes at school. Trevor dances around his room, joking and showing off his possessions. He talks louder, faster, as if he always has been shouting to be heard. The man waves from the hallway and Trevor runs and clutches around his leg.
When it’s time to visit Issa, she is playing quietly with Teacup Bunny in her room. The May Bees ask her who her friend is. Does Bunny like having parties? The questions sound like tricks, because the lady’s face moves like Uncle Georg’s face. Not blinky like Mom’s.
Trevor skips around their line of sight, interrupting with inane questions, not really listening for answers. Issa won’t lift her gaze from Teacup Bunny to make eye contact. When nobody is looking, Trevor reaches behind his back and pinches Issa.
On
ce it’s time for the May Bees to leave, the lady notices that Issa looks shaken. She asks, “Is something wrong? What happened?” and Issa begins to cry.
Bad Trevor.
5. BAD TREVOR
When Issa turns six and Trevor is twelve, he’s sent home from school again for hitting. Mom makes her mad face: downward chevron between her eyes, upturned frown line for a mouth.
“You’re in big trouble, mister. Straight to your room until dinner.”
Sullen, Trevor drops his book bag and leans his street hockey stick against the refrigerator.
Later, as Issa helps set the table, Mom pins a watercolor that Issa made in class to the refrigerator door. In the picture, there is Mom and Uncle Georg and Issa. Trevor is standing at a distance, painted scrawly in red. They are all under the roof of a house, with more people holding balloons.
“Is this your birthday?” Mom regards the picture through framing hands. “That’s definitely five stars! We’ve got another artist in the house.”
Trevor wanders past Issa and Mom and opens the fridge to grab a drink, blocking their view.
“Excuse me, Trevor. You’re being rude. Nobody called you for dinner yet.”
“I wanted a glass of water.” Trevor closes the refrigerator door and looks at Issa’s drawing. “Who’d want to have a party here anyway? This is a loser house.”
“Trevor!”
As he takes a sip of water, Trevor casually swats the drawing off the refrigerator.
Mom makes the mad face. “Trevor, that’s not your drawing.”
“It’s a stupid drawing anyway.”
“Put it back and apologize to your sister.”
“No!”
“Okay, that’s a timeout. Go to your room, mister.”
Trevor makes like he’s about to leave, but then picks up his hockey stick and gives Mom a whack on her leg. Mom is not allowed to retaliate. She reaches to grab the hockey stick with her plastic fingers, but Trevor wrenches it free and the chairs screech out of the way.
“Let go, it’s mine! I hate you!”
The New Voices of Science Fiction Page 20