by Cat Rambo
The girl was half-curled around her stomach, arms cradling it. The fetus was faintly visible beneath the stretched fabric constructed to the same shape and size as the womb that had once held it. White egret wings folded out from the girl’s protruding shoulder-blades in recurved plumage. The lavender silk dress hugged the thin form, blossoming out around her hips and melting into the glass wave that held the girl like half an eggshell.
“I know why you picked bird wings for the last project,” Yoland said quietly; “but why this one?”
“The heron was the Chinese symbol of strength and purity.”
“Oh.” Yoland wiped his eyes. “I’m just glad it’s done. Thanks.”
Lei nodded. “Let’s leave it for tonight. You can call them in the morning.” He stood and clapped Yoland’s shoulder.
“Sounds good to me.” Yoland grinned. “We whipped this one out.”
He washed off glaze spots and folded away their aprons while Lei tried to find his jacket.
Yoland called down the hall. “You leaving yet?”
“As soon as I find my coat.”
“Well, good night. Thanks again.”
Lei waited as Yoland’s footsteps retreated. Waited until the front door clicked shut. Then he walked back down the hall and entered Yoland’s dark studio. Even without the lights, he could see the pale girl holding her child.
“Good night, Adele.”
He reached out to touch the wings. The white heron stood for strength—surviving the sea it drew sustenance from. Purity in its color and form. And long life.
About the Author
A lifelong science fiction and fantasy enthusiast, Rachel Chimits received her MFA in creative writing from the University of Nevada, Reno. Before that, she lived in Fuzhou, China and taught at a foreign language school. Her short story “At the End” has appeared in the Dark Company II anthology. So far, she has driven through part of Area 51 twice without being abducted or having a brain frappé.
Editor’s Note
This story has a brutal punch to it, one that pushes some boundaries. If Harlan Ellison’s Dangerous Visions series were revived, I firmly believe this would have been an excellent fit in its willingness to explore future possibilities. What happens when bodies are easily interchanged, to the point where you can simply print a new one out—and what happens to the old one? Do you keep it, like baby teeth or a lock of hair, or is it simply discarded? Or, as in this story, do you use it to create something else?
The idea of making art from discarded flesh is a troubling one, recalling Hannibal Lecter and other aesthetically-obsessed serial killers, the sort found only in thrillers. But Yoland is an artist through and through, no matter what medium he works in. I will admit, there were parts of this story that gave me pause, and I expect it to be one of the more controversial parts of this anthology. But I also want If This Goes On to make people think hard and that’s not usually the most comfortable process in the world—one reason so few people engage in it.
Welcome to Gray
Cyd Athens
"Toke ov ayr?”
Sage ignored the urchin, only one of a gauntlet she’d pass when she left the bus station. Overhead, announcements added to the chaos of beggars, hawkers, and con artists clamoring for attention from arriving passengers.
“Welcome to Gary. Local time is 11:11 a.m. Current temperature is 57 °F. Current air quality index is 246. Indiana is a concealed carry state. Our official language is American. Today’s curfew begins at 10:00 p.m. and ends at 6:00 a.m. Unauthorized persons caught outside during curfew are subject to arrest. Enjoy your stay. God Bless America.”
The terminal itself looked like a disaster site. Garbage littered the floors. Heavy metal screens covered cracked windows. One large metal sign which had read, “Welcome to Gary, The Steel City,” had been defaced to read, “Welcome to Gray, The Steal City.” Graffiti decorated the interior walls. An exchange caught Sage’s eye. It began, “’Murika 1st.” Underneath, several writers amended it beginning with, “in rape’s per capital,” and followed by a growing list including “in moran’s,” to Sage’s mind an ironic jab at the previous entry. A few of the English-speaking literati had left their thoughts as well: “in infant mortality rates; in religious intolerance; in #climatechangedenial;” and, her favorite before she stopped reading, “in audacity.”
Sage made her way to an exit as fast as she could and presented her left hand—the one with the required, government-issued, MEputer identification implant—to a reader unit on her way out of the building. Though it was almost midday, the thick smoggy air evoked dusk. She pulled her smart goggles over her eyes and adjusted her breather before stepping into the toxic air. Her heads-up display flashed purple, confirming Very Unhealthy air quality. She adjusted her personal oxygen to compensate.
Outside, a throng of people worked the new arrivals, trying to get handouts. More than once, children, the elderly, a few pregnant women, and even a couple of mobility-challenged wheelchair users accosted Sage with pleas: “Bite of food? Wawtuh tabz? Breathuh filtuh? Pleez, suh?” She gave them nothing and kept her silence rather than explaining that one could have an ectome body type—tall, thin, and hipless—and be female.
Then there were the vendors, some holding signs offering water for anywhere from $50 to $100. Had the local water treatment facility shut down? “Wawtuh. Gitcha wawtuh heah!” one hawked. Sage avoided those fakers and their exorbitant prices. In one of the Dakotas, she thought it was, instead of water, a person had been selling poison and killing people. She couldn’t remember if the leos had caught the perp.
Private taxis would be expensive and she had no interest in a rideshare. The public bicycles racks stood empty. Sage walked. Near the boardwalk along Lake Michigan she found an indie convenience store that offered tech. When she entered, her heads-up advised that the air quality was still in the purple range. She retained her goggles and breather.
In the store, Sage saw no one but a scrawny ecto of indeterminate race or sex behind the security-glass-enclosed counter. They wore a RespiMask™ with a toothless grin drawn on it and dirty red overalls—no head covering or eye protection. Their matted dark brown hair stuck up in all directions. “3dp?” Sage asked.
“We gotta threedee printuh,” the clerk said. “Whatcha need?”
Sage gave an answer that was the same in both English and American. “Gun.”
“Prize range?” the clerk asked.
The seller wanted to know how much she had so they could exploit her. “I’m interested in a decent 9-mm.” The clerk didn’t budge so she added, “You don’t have to assemble it, and I’ll pay in water.”
That got a reaction. “Puhmit?”
Sage turned toward the exit. “Wrong store.”
“Wait,” the clerk called. They held plans for two different 9-mm handguns against the security barrier.
Sage reviewed them. One used metal, so it would cost more. The other—an Acrylonitrile-Butadiene-Styrene build—would be lighter and easier to conceal.
“Whatcha gonna use it fer?”
An emotional pang almost paralyzed Sage. She would not, could not, think about that now. Sage swallowed hard and pulled herself together. “A woman’s involved.” She pointed to the ABS build.
The clerk’s gaze darted to Sage’s hand, then back to her face. “That one’s five.”
“I’ll need a hollow point.”
“Jes one?”
“Yes.”
“Six,” the clerk said.
Sage didn’t quibble. “Done.”
Behind the clerk, vid showed one of those reality therapy programs Sage hated where celeb hosts made fun of, and sometimes bullied, disadvantaged folks, who allowed themselves to be humiliated in exchange for a modicum of maslow one.
“You want us to believe pollution is causing people to develop superpowers,” the host�
�a well-groomed, gray-haired meso wearing tan finery said to their guest, “but only poor women?” The host laughed.
“They’re removing those ladies’ MEputers and experimenting on those ‘poor women!’” the guest, a mesecto with stringy multicolored hair, a greyish beige one-piece, and breather marks around her face, insisted.
Someone in the audience jeered, “Lock up your daughters! Bigfoot is alive! The aliens are coming!”
The guest looked teary.
A chant of “Cry! Cry! Cry!” rose from the crowd.
“Yeah. Cry, baby!” the host demanded. A close-up of tears running down the woman’s face filled the screen. “We’ll be right back with more Conspiracy Theories,” the host said. The show went to ads.
“You gonna buy or didja change yer mind?” the clerk asked Sage.
That brought her back to the business at hand. “Print them.” Fifteen minutes later the threedee was ready.
Despite the run-down conditions in the rest of the store, the payment tank was state-of-the-art. It had a high-end pretank for identifying whether a liquid was what it claimed to be and a filtration system to remove any impurities. The clerk set it to accept 6.5 ounces of water.
“Six,” Sage reminded them.
The clerk made the adjustment.
Sage unzipped the right-hand hip pocket of her BauBax All-Weather jumpsuit and drew out the fitting that would connect the reclaim unit that converted her sweat and urine to drinking water to the store’s payment tank. When the financial transaction finished, the clerk slid the unassembled gun and vacuum-sealed ammo into the store’s dropslot. Sage checked that all the parts were present and proper. She nodded her satisfaction, stored the purchases in her left-hand hip pocket, and went on her way.
A few blocks from the store, two hulking endomes wearing breathers and dark baseball caps approached Sage. “You gonna give us the rest of yer water and that threedee,” one of the pair said.
Sage empathized with the woman she’d seen on the vid. A person had to do what a person had to do. The audience could laugh, but the woman was right about the pollution. Sage knew this first-hand. She looked around. In the smog, no normal person would see her or the two assailants without getting much closer. “You don’t want to do this,” Sage said to the pair. “It won’t end well for you.”
The duo lunged at her.
Sage brought her hands to her shoulders and waited. She let the attackers get close enough, then punched each in the chest. Though she used minimal force, loud cracking sounds told her that she’d broken their ribs. One aggressor dropped. The other took a swing at her. She stepped out of the incoming fist’s path. The perp’s momentum sailed them past her and that one fell too. Neither of them got up.
Sage checked to ensure they were still alive. “I gave you fair warning.” She walked away.
Sage wandered the city, revisiting places she hadn’t seen since she was adopted and moved from the state at the age of eight. The house where she was born twenty-three years ago, shortly after the oxymoronic “height of the Decline,” had been torn down, the grounds now part of a MEputer manufacturing facility. Her heads-up flashed maroon—Hazardous air quality levels—and she cringed at how much pollution the plant was releasing.
The adoption agency where her parents had entrusted her to another family’s care—allowing her the chance to grow up somewhere clean and green—was gone, leaving only broken sidewalks, potholed roads, and street lights that flickered if they worked at all. On the plus side, her heads-up indicated the air quality was back in the Very Unhealthy/purple range. As she stared at the emptiness, Sage remembered kissing the birthmark on her mother’s cheek for luck. She packed the threedee parts away so they didn’t look like a weapon.
Sage found the hospital with ease. She strolled around the building several times, planning and watching. Security guards were evident at most entrances. Evies rushed to the site, each with a patient in distress. While the exterior walls sported graffiti—near the emergency entrance, someone had tagged a spot “TenA,” referring to the tenth amendment to the Constitution—unlike the bus terminal, the hospital was busy yet clean. She made her way to the Visitor queue for a security scan.
“’Putuh,” a blue-haired, dark-skinned endo in a navy blue security leolite directed from inside their interview kiosk.
Sage lifted her left hand toward the reader.
“C’mon, Sage Dottir,” the guard motioned her forward.
Sage raised her arms overhead and walked through a body scanner. Her heads-up flashed yellow, Moderate air quality. She’d be able to turn off her breather and save oxygen.
“Whatcher bizniz?”
“Visitor,” Sage said.
“No weaponz,” the guard advised.
“What?” Sage shook her head in confusion. She’d hidden the gun parts better than that.
“DozAll, left knee pocket.” The guard pointed at the designated area.
“I need that to adjust my oxy,” Sage protested.
The guard shrugged. “Itz gotta blade. You ain comin in heah withit.”
Sage pressed her lips together in frustration and looked behind her at the growing queue. “Fine,” she muttered. Sage relinquished the multi-tool.
“Them wot triez to bring weaponz inta ma hostibal . . .” The guard tossed the DozAll into a secured disposal bin.
“Will I be able to get that back when I leave?” Sage asked.
“Nope. An ah gotma eye onya now, Sage Dottir.” The guard allowed Sage through a turnstile and moved on to the next person in line.
Sage found a single-unit fresher and locked it. A low-flow toilet and hands-free sink combo, a metal shelf which could be used as a changing table, and an automatic hand dryer were the small room’s only appliances. They were complemented by a RespiMask™ dispenser and a DisposallSM chute.
She removed her goggles, breather, and BauBax, then disconnected her hydrounit. All of these she laid out on the shelf. Sage pulled the gun parts from their various hiding places. She assembled and loaded the gun.
Someone banged on the door. “Are you dead in there?”
Sage changed her mind about wearing a dressier outfit she’d brought and left it in its BauBax pocket. “Almost done.” After checking her hydrounit, she put it back on, then dressed and donned a RespiMask™, keeping her goggles so that she could continue getting air quality updates. The gun she kept in her left-hand hip pocket. When Sage left, an automated cleaner was tending to a puddle of vomit in front of the door. She didn’t see anyone waiting for the fresher.
It was easy to lose herself in the hustle and bustle of the place. Too many people needed too few resources. Since she didn’t require anything, the staff ignored her. Unimpeded, she searched for the hospice ward.
When she found the right room, relief washed over her. The sole occupant—a frail forty-year-old mesecto female with patchy gray hair and a familiar birthmark on her right cheek—wheezed and snored. Beyond the nasal cannula, catheter, and intravenous line, medical equipment Sage could not identify gurgled, beeped, and hissed—all of it attached to the sleeper. She closed the door and approached the bed. Isopropyl alcohol fumes wafted from a medical tray and her stomach rumbled in protest. The tiny room, with its dim lights and stark walls, was tomblike. Sage took a deep breath to ward off claustrophobia.
“Thanks for coming,” rasped the room’s resident, opening her eyes. “Did you bring it?”
Sage pulled the gun from her pocket and held it in front of her like an offering. “Mom,” she said, the word weighted with too many emotions for her to name.
Her birth mother eased herself into a sitting position, took the weapon, and laid it on her lap. “It’s been a while, Kif.” She moved her intravenous tube out of the way and patted the mattress near her legs. “Call me Iris.”
Sage hesitated before sitting down.
“I ke
ep forgetting. What did your adoptive parents call you?”
“Sage.”
“Good name. Very Cascadian. Has it served you well?”
“Well enough,” Sage admitted. “But you didn’t ask me here for chit-chat. What’s up, Iris?”
“Inoperable brain tumor.” Iris tapped the side of her head.
“Fuck!” Sage pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed them hard.
“You have to go,” Iris said.
Sage swallowed hard and said nothing for a moment. “You’re sure about this?”
“No,” Iris admitted, “but I’ll be better off than I am in this casket-sized closet they call a room.”
Sage nodded. “It is small.”
“There’s a reason we call the city Gray,” Iris said. “Remember how it was when you were little? You used to get so sick. It’s only gotten worse. Your father couldn’t leave his job. We were too young to be that old, and he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did without me. Why do you think we gave you up for adoption? One of our stipulations was that whoever adopted you had to take you away from here.”
The two women held each other in silence.
“I’m proud of you, Sage.” Iris hefted the gun. “And grateful. Go find Doctor Pahvray.”
Sage kissed her mother’s birthmark. “I love you, Iris.” She left.
Half-way down the corridor, she thought, there has to be another way. Resolute, she turned around. A gunshot rang out. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Sage raced back to her birth mother’s room.
Iris’s brains splattered one wall. Her head had fallen forward, chin rested on the gun barrel, one finger still on the trigger, and her hand wrapped around the grip. Blood ran down her chest.
Sage faltered at the scene. I shouldn’t have—Stop it, she reprimanded herself.
“The time now is 10:00 p.m. Curfew is in effect,” loudspeakers announced. Immediately following, came, “Doctor Roscoe to hospice, Doctor Roscoe to hospice.”
