Ruined Cities

by James Tallett (ed)

  He saw Renay’s ashen face and then Dale’s. Renay. Dale. Renay. Dale.

  Jake imagined himself back to when he had cajoled life from moon rock, had created Dale. He closed his eyes, saw himself again as a boy in a warm crater, shaping mana.

  “Take care of me,” he had said then but now he whispered softer words, an apology, to the unfortunate creature he clung to. He had sought then to shape a servant but instead had created a friend.

  Jake continued murmuring and felt a tingle ripple through his body, the beast calming. The bond between master and robot worked two ways but Jake had never tried to understand what Dale had wanted. Now he tried. With this beast.

  He laughed as he read the beast’s thoughts and then he spurred the Unwanted on, galloping across the valley. Wind pulled at his hair as they raced and he imagined himself riding into the city and using this beast to claw out a place in the towers, to become a master again, trampling all who stood in his way. It would have been easy.

  ***

  “But you didn’t,” Dale said.

  “I wanted to,” Jake repeated. The unfortunate beast was unmade now, its mana used to restore Dale. The robot’s color was strong and vibrant beneath the light of the Cocoon, though with his splotchy paint Dale looked like a patchwork construct. Yet he was whole.

  Maybe one day Jake would be. He understood that if he had claimed a second robot he would have demanded a third, a fourth. Never satisfied.

  Now he and Dale sat outside, leaning against the starship’s hull, Dale watching Renay sleep the sleep of the injured. She would survive.

  “I’ve never understood you and your women.”

  Dale chuckled, his blue eyes gleaming under the moonlight.

  “No, seriously, it’s not as if you… well, you know.”

  The robot scowled.

  “Well,” Jake said, holding out his hands, apologetically, a gesture that would have been alien to him a day before, “I did make you. And I never gave thought to give you a…”

  “You fool,” Dale said, “the women were never for me.”

  Jake almost asked a very stupid question then but clamped his mouth shut instead.

  “You have potential, Jake. That is why I stayed. I am a reflection of the man a boy once dreamed of being. You could still become that man. I saw the truth of that today.”

  The way Dale smiled, proud, almost brought tears; Jake had to look away.

  “So you’re giving me Renay, then?” Teasing, to chase away the sentimental. A thump answered from inside the longsleeper, Renay glaring as she stepped into the moonlight.

  “Giving me away?” she asked, her eyes glowing and defiant. “To him?”

  “I… uh…” Dale sputtered.

  Jake laughed at Dale’s panicked expression. How often had Dale been there for Jake? It was impossible Dale loved this woman, impossible this woman loved a robot.

  Any more impossible than Dale believing in Jake? Beneath the silvered blue of a Cocoon-wrapped moon, perhaps all possibilities were within the grasp of man or woman or robot.

  OUR LADY OF PAIN

  by

  ROBIN WYATT DUNN

  The Travel Agent

  Have you been to Our Lady of Pain? We dwell hard here, hard in our not-quite-desert city. We steal our water: it is our right, there are more of us than there are of you. We sing. Sometimes we dance, though not often. We are your slaves, and you are ours. It wasn’t always this way. But sometimes things happen like that. It may yet be your sword that will fit the right bits in some goddamn legend and we’ll recognize it should you come tromping into Our Lady wanting to play freedom fighter. But let me tell you a secret: there’s many another man had that idea before you. The smart ones tossed their swords at the border and changed their name. We like that here. You can always be someone new!

  I run a travel business; you would call it shipping. An egg, colored red and sighing of disgusting things we don’t want to know about, a young girl, ingénue, ingénue, ingénue, this one has the right lips and I smoked her, like vellum smokes, have you ever lit it afire? She’s all right, never fear. It sold really well, north, north by northeast, and east. Sent over the Fire-Line.

  Oh, there’s many things I could tell you. I have become a betrayer, you see. Only louder now, just a degree louder, than I used to be. Because who knows who you are. You might even come from Free Town and its exurbs, our rival who we beat at cards, 150 years gone now.

  Some say, though I say these sort are atheists, that Our Lady of Pain is a battery. Like a Mallory, copper and black, a battery to ease the gout and the goiter of the gods.

  Let me show you:

  “Allison, come here!”

  She stumbles into my office, still in the light blue dress I smoked her in.

  “They want a demonstration, Allison!”

  It’s what you asked for, isn’t it?

  She is trembling and I give her some milk.

  “Drink up, honey. It’s good for you. Good. Now sing.”

  You can call it a gramophone, that’s fine. I just need to hold it up to her face, right here… there.

  “Sing a ballad, dear!” I can hear the electricity in the air above start to crackle. I select the east as the destination. They love ingénues there. They always love them so hard.

  And she sings:

  Fair a morning,

  Come to you,

  My heart is due you, lord of lord of lords of lords,

  And where else could I be,

  But with you?

  Fair a morning,

  Wear away,

  Call a day

  A music cue,

  And so are you…

  Call a day

  A move and rue,

  And lift it to,

  The barren grue who knew you too,

  Old flute,

  Goodbye…

  “That’s enough.” I shut it off and I see the blue electricity outside my office dissipate. I stick my head out the window to confirm: I can see the trail sketching east through the sky, her voice a little extra padding to this month’s contract.

  “Thank you, Allison. You may go.” She is crying. Ingénues always cry. For a while.

  ***

  Our Lady of Pain is a jealous city. We’re so jealous. Jealous of you, sir, and you, madam, far away and happy. Though I might keep a picture of your face for the dart board. Part of the food chain, yes. It’s the best way to think about it.

  Some would say I’m unusual: that I work close up, in the old way, just me and talent in my room. I don’t go in for the warehouse style with a lot of tinkering and lazy employees. I like raw art. It is art, isn’t it? Tell me it’s art! Tell me!

  Walk with me.

  Here outside my building are the garlands, the garlands of eras now past: the Jet Age is here, and the Information Age. You see the child’s face sketched into the asphalt right under the bougainvillea? I did that one. He’ll talk to you if you let him. He has the most beautiful grey eyes…

  Pardon me while I bow.

  (And this is the part I mustn’t speak of and you mustn’t either, please. Don’t look up. Even visitors are not immune, you’re part of the battery. Kneel, damn you! Bow and so we are saved. Submission is wisdom.)

  There, let me help you up. Slightly Islamic, no? Ha ha ha! Everywhere is a temple, the kingdom of God is all around you, and all that shite. Ha ha ha! Are you hungry? Oh, let me tell you, we’ve the finest Bison Diner near here, real buffalo, they keep them in back, you can pet them, they’re quite tame… oh, lighter fare, of course, yes. Can be dangerous, but no matter. I know just the place. Essence of Red Lace and mango chutney braised on ice cauliflower branches with a kind of cinnamon paprika dressing… to die for. Some have! No, not in this decade. Ha ha ha!

  This way. What was that? You’re after… secrets? I feel as I haven’t felt for many years, hearing that. Can you know what it is like? You’re an artist, you understand the first part of this pain, I know: every moment of your life material. E
ven love just a building block for art. Horrible stuff, but so necessary, isn’t it. You don’t get the next part though. We drift together here…

  “Ah, Mrs. Anderson! Meet my guest!”

  “What’s up?” the old woman says.

  “Ha ha ha! Mrs. Anderson, how is your garden? Growing well?”

  “Shut up about my garden,” she says, smiling. “Who’s your guest?”

  “Says he’s from Free Town. Oh, do you know the way to Free Town? Ha ha ha!”

  “Well, here you are then. And what do you think?”

  “I can’t have him revealing all his secrets to you, you old witch!”

  “Bye then,” she says, turning back into her two-story observation post with its gardens on the roof.

  I’m getting hungry myself. My execution may be closer than I think. I paid well for beheading, as though I were a nobleman. Maybe I am a nobleman. Though we have no titles here. We’re a democratic city, you know that! You need not fear. Mrs. Anderson will sponsor you for the remainder of your visit. She’s good that way, always welcomes a lost soul…

  Here, on Sunrise Avenue. Let’s just stand a while and talk. Beautiful, isn’t it? Light like no other. I see you’ve an eye for the women. Don’t we all.

  Things are changing here, have changed already. We’re apolitical, yes, we serve the gods, and so it is, but still: I don’t know, I think it’s ours and not the gods’ fault. How much Pain can we take? How much can you take, sailor from the north? How much can you take?

  Yes, I’ve read my history. I don’t think it’s the images themselves. These bright images we send over the Fire Line, like Allison’s voice. No, not in and of themselves; it’s not that. Let us say it’s the ocean. You can hear it, even here. It’s grown angrier, you see. Yes, the love affair with gasoline, I know, no, this is something entirely different. The sea is angry. Like it’s angry at Hibernia. Hibernia who forgot her pain, and we who have grown too fond of it.

  Do you understand me? We’ve gone too far. I don’t know what is to happen. Oh, they overheard us, you’d better be able to digest that cauliflower.

  “Hello, gentlemen!”

  “This way, sirs,” says the taller one, top hat on his pointy head.

  Remember what I told you! Just mention Mrs. Anderson’s name!

  “I don’t believe I’ll be dining, but my guest will.”

  “No, you won’t be dining,” says the short one.

  This restaurant was always my favorite, however dangerous. You see this light? The blue glass dangling on strings from the ceiling? The Indian yellow blankets, the cool mist kept in the air? It’s so Western, isn’t it? Doesn’t it make you feel like you’re part of the Earth? A happy sheltered mammal? You see the red, pink and white drawing there, there on the south wall? Study it after your meal, it will guide you home. We beat you at cards, sailor. I know you find the blood battles and necrophilia shows offensive, so do I. But these gods aren’t going away. Take this wafer, for me. It’s silicon. Put it in your pocket, there you are…

  “Well, I’ve business in the basement, sir! Enjoy your lunch! I will remember you.”

  We are all each other’s dancers. I must catch you when you fall, O Acrobat. Never mind the pain. Artists always end in basements, don’t they?

  “Watch your head,” he says, guiding me down the narrow stairwell.

  “You choose your visitors well,” says the tall one. “I think he’ll stay.”

  “No, he won’t stay. He won’t stay. Business back up north!”

  And so you have seen our palace of dreams! A dream of palaces! I want to tear out my own eyes.

  ***

  The Visitor

  What have we come to. The Revolution is so long dead now I’m not sure why we remember it. And we all remember it. That is our duty, to remember and remember, over and over and over. Our Summer of Young Blood. Free Town has changed, you know. We’re still free, yes, of course. We’re free.

  I was a young man when I came to Free Town. Now that I am middle aged, I was permitted to travel, south to our great and obnoxious rival, Our Lady of Pain. City of dreams. I was better prepared than most, or perhaps that was only my age, the wisdom of our ancestors, the prohibition about the kabbalah, safe only after 30.

  Free Town, I still love it. Even now I love it despite our generations-long diminishment. Isn’t that what age is? A sloughing off of the corners? A wearing down into acceptance of the good and eternal verities of our genes.

  “I’m told your cauliflower is very good,” I tell the head waiter.

  “He’s come for the cauliflower!” shouts the waiter.

  “The cauliflower!” shouts a waitress, running to my table and smiling. “Have you really?”

  “Yes.”

  And she whirls about like a Sufi and other patrons obligingly flash their pocket cameras at her.

  “The Cauliflower!”

  The maitre d’ brings it out on a plate and I think I can hear a scream in the wind but it’s drowned out by the hubbub of the approaching dish. A tambourine appears, and a beautiful boy with a flute. The boy has mischievous eyes, evil. I wonder if they drug him.

  The maitre d’ passes the dish to the waitress who passes it to the head waiter who lays it down in front of me with great flourish. It is beautifully presented, the orange fading into the viridian, the pale greenish-white celery carvings setting off the edge of the triangular blood-colored plate.

  “Enjoy!” shouts the head waiter, smiling, and leaves me to my food. The other guests look on appreciatively for a moment and then return to their own luncheon.

  Luncheon in Our Lady of Pain. I am suddenly afraid to eat. They warned me about the restaurants, but nothing can prepare you for these degrees of subtlety. After the third degree, the fourth, and the fifth. In Free Town we’ve plenty of gossip and rumor and the propertied class love the whispers between lunch tables as much as the next city, but here was another order of treachery. I take a bite. It is delicious, the sweet fruit mixed with the paprika.

  Then they put his head down on the table and everyone applauds, and the cinematographers show up. I’m crying, without quite realizing it, and I run into the Avenue, the sun bright red, a sun that’s like no color I’ve ever seen the sun be. I thought I was made of sterner stuff.

  “Wait, sir, your bill!” cries the head waiter. He hands me a paper and runs back into the restaurant, bowing for the cameras.

  Don’t let the sun set on you in this town, the note says.

  ***

  Mrs. Anderson

  It’s a widow’s walk, silly. Yes, I was married once. Don’t talk to me about old-fashioned, I know more than you. I tend my garden on my widow’s walk. No, it isn’t a roof, it’s a widow’s walk. Be quiet and let me tell my story.

  I was born here in Our Lady. Before the revolution, if you can believe that. I may not look it, but it’s true. The vanity of old women, yes. I’m no exception, maybe not, but I know one thing: I know the Fire Line is a lie. There’s no one out there, you see?

  Oh, they’re going to make me do it now.

  Ugh. I don’t want to talk about religion. All religions are cults, you ask me. It’s the desert? No, it ain’t the desert either. Just people. People gone crazy, what else is new.

  What I want to know is: why didn’t the Lilliputians worship Gulliver? What made them so smart? Even Free Town gave up calling it an invasion. Where did they invade from, people said. Always been here, our gods, haven’t they, they of the deepest eternal fire blue, hovering above, warm with love.

  There’s only one thing I want from you, really. Let the traveler go. You know what guest friendship is? We’re gone without it. Finally gone. You let him alone. As far as you’re concerned there’s no one sleeping in my basement tonight but an old dog I took in from the street. And if I have my way with that dog, well that’s the prerogative of an old woman, isn’t it? Something for him to remember our city by.

  Go, or stay, it’s fine by me. But careful what you say in this tow
n, dear heart, we have good ears, and long memories.

  IN THE CITY OF NO GOD

  by

  J.S. BANGS

  Hamast found the exiled god in the heart of the slums. Ahaud’s old crest was scratched in the temple’s plaster. A rough curtain stood for the door, and bleached bone charms hung in a line from the top of the frame. She wrung her velvet gloves and glanced back at the City. Then she drew her breath, lifted the hem of her skirts above the mud, and pushed the curtain aside.

  The foul stench of cheap incense, candle-wax and blood washed over her. Feeble light crept through the sheet over the doorway, and a guttering oil lamp burned on a table against the far wall. Bone charms hung dense as flies from the rafters, brushing the top of her head. At the table, cast in gray and yellow illumination, sat a young man. The light seemed to fall upon him queerly, until Hamast realized that he gave a pale glow of his own. He looked at her with keen, cat-like interest. She swallowed her nervousness and shame and said, “You are Ahaud?”

  “Hamast. How interesting.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You come looking for a god, and you’re surprised he knows your name?”

  He addressed her like a house servant. But she had gone through humiliations worse than this to get here. She shuffled forward and slid onto the bench across from him, dusting the planks before she sat in futile effort not to soil her silks. She shoved her purse across the table. “An offering.”

  Ahaud spilled the coins onto the tabletop. “Money,” he said. “Is this the sort of thing you think I want?”

  She looked away and felt her cheeks growing hot. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know…”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “I thought I had to bring a sacrifice.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing here. I’m surprised that you found this place without being mugged. So tell me what drew you outside your high, safe City, and I’ll tell you what kind of sacrifice I demand.”

  Hamast dared another, longer glance at the god. If she had seen him in the City, she would have taken him for a half-breed. He had the long, narrow eyes and high nose of the City folk, but with the broad lips and kinky hair of the rabble from Sulsara and Memet. He glared at her with cold scorn.