She was trying not to dwell on the slow death of her relationship; her mother had told her not to, but it was harder than it looked. It began a little before graduation, on a beautiful spring post-lunch walk in a park, and Jason had been blithely talking about moving to the Midwest. There was a little Muslim community there, and he would be close enough to work in case of an in-person emergency.
“First of all,” she had said, “your work you can do anywhere in the world. Why does it have to be in America?”
He’d blinked at her owlishly—she’d decided that’s how owls looked, anyway—and replied in his most reasonable tone, “Because this is where the most jobs are,” and it took her a long time before she realized he’d heard only the second sentence.
“Okay, but what makes you think there won’t be jobs in Asia? Remote jobs, even? You’re a programmer; everywhere also can find this work,” she’d continued.
“Don’t tell me you want to go back all the way to Malaysia,” he’d replied. “This is where the best jobs are.”
“That’s not true…”
He’d smiled at her. “And what do you know about my field and America?”
What did she know, indeed? Only that after years of economic recession, America was finally on the upswing, catching up with the rest of the world. She’d come here because it was cheaper to study here than in her home country, where she hadn’t been chosen for a scholarship and schools were so competitive; it was more expensive to qualify to study there than it was to simply shell out money for a desperate American university.
And she’d liked America. She’d liked most of Turtle Island, generally. She liked its old cities, and the suburban towns quite reminded her of home. The country was so big its airship industry was thriving, lumbering across the skies like scintillating pregnant whales. That didn’t mean she wanted to stay forever, though. “He’s not going to get it,” her best friend had warned her, months earlier.
But she was loathe to leave Jason: calm-tempered, cheerful, always willing to pull his weight around the house. He wasn’t particularly funny or outstanding in any way, and sometimes he was a little passive-aggressive, not really much of a person to just outright state what he wanted. Since she was the same way, she had never minded, because they often anticipated each other’s needs.
But it had been this need they had not anticipated: the need to go home. Of course they had thought about going home, and had talked about being home together, making a home together. The problem was that their ideas of where home would be, physically, had been very, very different, which they had not discussed, having taken for granted that of course the other would follow.
The walls of the surau were illuminated with a hologram of the Kaaba, as if trying to take people in prayer as close to Mecca as possible. Alina thought the Arabization was a little ostentatious. It was enough to know the direction to Mecca; not everyone had to pretend they were on hajj every time they prayed.
As she murmured her prayers, she forced thoughts of Jason out of her mind: she refused those blue eyes and gold hair, refused the pale cheekbones and easy smile. She focused instead on her family’s paddy fields and towering angsana trees, vines of bright blue morning glories and ruby red jasmines. And the crocodiles, too. Jason had never been able to get over the fact that her family owned a crocodile farm.
The cafeteria was full by the time she was hungry enough to go. She got a small rice bowl with curry fish to go, picked up a newspaper, and went to the top floor.
As she expected, there was an aquaponics setup. Fish swam cheerfully past her, chasing each other between the hairy roots of the plants they fertilized. There was a person in the corner who seemed to draw their especial attention, possibly because of the bag on the utility belt. Alina watched, as did the other visitors, as the fish trailed after this magic food-giving gardener who pottered about, pruning. The sun streamed down through the solar-glass roof, its energy-collecting veins scattering rainbow prisms across the leaves and floor.
She sat down on a bench and got comfortable with the newspaper. NEW TOMB FOUND, its front-page headline announced.
Slow news day, she chuckled to herself. If the recovery of some Old Rich was the biggest news of the day, it was a sign that the science labs were taking their time releasing their findings to the public. She read the article anyway, to see where it had been found.
The “apocalypse” that the 21st century had predicted, with nuclear wars or zombie invasions or food scarcity or outright violence, had not happened. That didn’t stop paranoid people from building bunkers and food stores in preparation for the end of the world. As the American and European economies had seesawed, sending out their armies to stabilize their hold on the world and reap other nations’ natural resources, the refugee crisis had come to a head with outright racist violence all over the world. This prompted the doomsday preppers to duck into their bunkers. By the 22nd century there had been an entire network of wealthy elites living underground in their specially-made homes.
Rumor had it that insurrectionists took the opportunity to sabotage these bunkers and bury their inhabitants alive. Some others suggested that unfortunate bunker placement led to them never coming out; after all, these were oil barons who knew that consistent pumping led to geological instability but didn’t care, and this short-sightedness had led them to choose unsafe sites for their bunkers. Because history was filled with much more interesting events of social and engineering accomplishments, the Old Rich became nothing more than a footnote of morality.
This site was in Old Megajaya. Nurul Alina sighed. That meant work waiting for her when she got home.
She perused the rest of the newspaper, mostly the science and sports sections. She glanced through the racing pages, and barely paid attention to the socio-philosophical pages. Those she saved for bedtime, when she could properly mull over them in comfort and process their implications in her dreams.
She called several friends over the afternoon, sometimes to cry about her breakup, and sometimes to pretend she was okay, depending on the friend.
“I told you so,” sighed a cousin. “Omputeh do not understand these things. A lot of them still can’t really imagine a world outside America.”
Alina dabbed at her cheeks. “But Azwa, he did four study abroads! He has a passport and everything!”
“A’lahai, just because he got passport doesn’t mean he wants to live elsewhere. That’s like saying you want to live in America just because you study there.”
“True…”
“And anyway it’s not like you can’t find a boyfriend at home. I’m sure there must be someone who—”
“There isn’t,” Alina bit in, her voice flat. “What makes you think I haven’t tried? Ibu tried three different matchmakers.”
“Four.” She could hear Azwa pressing her lips together, nonplussed. “Difficult to find someone who wants to be in your family’s business.”
“Like I don’t know,” Alina groused.
“So… how is the new Sunship?”
Alina was glad for the change in topic. She stretched her feet under the blanket and wiggled her toes, trying to imagine being in a cramped seat, as she described the innovations in the new 389 Airship Class. They were really grander than she had expected.
After the fossil fuel crisis, and the so-called apocalypse, profiting off energy became unacceptable, morally. It was slow-going, lobbying the government to increase solar power sources, because governments all over the world had militarized. Airplanes, with their awful “economy class” seating, had fallen out of favor when airships made a comeback, this time with solar power. The memory of the Hindenburg no longer haunted the 22nd century. A new generation of entrepreneurs poured into the airship industry, competing with each other with improvements to mechanical efficiency, meteorological instruments, and internal architecture.
When she finally called her family’s home, saving the best for last, she frowned at how long it to
ok for her mother to pick up.
“Aina!” her mother finally replied, sounding breathless.
“Ibu!” Alina’s mind jumped to the worst conclusion. “Is everything okay? Or did the deal with Megajaya not happen?”
“What? Oh, no, that’s not a problem at all. We’ll be taking that contract, of course. But Aina, best news, we may have found you a partner after all!”
“A part—”
“Business only lah, of course, but who knows! Quite good looking.”
“Ibu!” Alina rolled her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “You know I just broke up with my boyfriend.”
“Yah, best timing my girl. Now you can focus on this one.”
She hadn’t missed the fact that her mother was speaking in Malay, and most pronouns were gender-neutral. Her mother knew she was bisexual, of course, which should have made matchmaking easier, but apparently not. “So, uh, laki ke perempuan?” she inquired.
Safia Shamsia paused for a moment, then laughed. “I’ll let you wait and see!”
“Ibu! You can’t do this to me!”
“Yes, I can. So, tell me your itinerary. I know you send me but I accidentally delete the e-mail.”
“It’s okay, Ibu, I also sent it to Bala, so he should be able to come get me.”
“Cannot lah, Aina, Bala’s wife is pregnant and due any moment now. If I come get you then we can also plan a dinner so you can meet the new partner.”
Alina took a deep breath. She half-wished her mother was less of a tropical storm, but that would make Safia Shamsia binti Khairunissa Jamaluddin less than her best. Her mother wasn’t the best at gauging men, judging by the divorces she’d been through, but she was also just not very well suited to marriage in general. At some point in Alina’s teens, her mother had given up on marriage completely and taken on a string of lovers, becoming the family scandal.
But where her mother lacked in romantic commitment, she more than compensated with business sense. None of her business partnerships ever failed, so much so Alina remained friendly with three of her former stepfathers, who had all chipped in to help send Alina to school overseas.
“All right. I’ll trust in you.”
“Good! Now, tell me what you think—” and her mother launched into a comparison between two big-box book vendors.
Looking back, she had known that her relationship to Jason was doomed, and not from any fault of her mother’s. Not when Safia Shamsia had stepped off the airship platform to greet Jason effusively and then insist on treating them to dinner. Not when Alina watched Jason speak to Safia Shamsia about his career plans, to be a software engineer. Her mother had queried him his thoughts on the new models of calculating machines that would help replace several computer functions, moving away from the use of rare minerals into more sustainable hardware. Not even when he had floundered a little, nervously joking that such a development would render his job obsolete. Safia had laughed, pointed out to him, rather gently, that his field was dependent on planned obsolescence. Then he had asked about the family business, more from courtesy than actual curiosity, and it was all over.
How had Alina found his basic decency charming, when he was so, so conservative otherwise? How had she let him get away with speaking about a future together as if he were indulging her, rather than collaborating with her on something they both wanted?
It would not do to dwell. Only thing to do was move forward. And Nurul Alina did look forward, to returning home and taking on the paddy fields. It was time to rejuvenate the hills bordering the land again. The village nearby would welcome the revitalization of terraced rice-farming, even if they’d lost whole generations to urban vertical farms.
Still, it took only two days before she called her cousin again. “Azwa, what do you know about my mother’s new business partnerships?”
***
She had missed the air. Despite her mother’s wealth, it had not been enough to finance much beyond schooling, so Alina had not seen her home since leaving for university. What little money she had earned on her own, her mother had encouraged her to use for traveling elsewhere. When would she return to Turtle Island next?
Her childhood home had undergone many renovations over the decades. When it had first been built, a few generations ago, it had been a colonial mansion, with high ceilings and stately pillars. There were remnants of that old house still, its courtyards with still ponds, and walls with paint that reached only as high as soldiers could reach. But otherwise the floors were now high off the ground, on stilts, adapted from older traditional styles. Gently-sloping walkways joined the various wings and rooms of the house, protected from the elements with elegant sunroofs upon which vines crept. Here and there, colorful painted solarglass windows depicted various folktales.
Touches of the contemporary were clear: a hint of chrome marking a concession elderly inhabitants made, to allow for easy wheelchair transport when they became too infirm to walk. While most of Alina’s elderly relatives were hale and hearty, growing old gracefully also meant accepting when assistive devices were convenient. The front door was new, too—a double-door with the latest in glass technology, double-reinforced, frosted, and brightly-colored. Geroda on one side, Jentayu on the other, and Cenderawasih on the large fanlight above, wings spread as if to hug the other two legendary birds across the doorframe. It took a moment for Alina to see that lights were actually installed within the thick glass itself, making the mythical creatures light up with an unearthly glow, even in broad daylight.
Her mother was definitely living it up. Alina wondered what she would have to do to match that level of classy eccentricity. Solar panels made to resemble old nipah roofs, maybe.
There were already people in the reception wakaf beyond the front door. Alina sighed inwardly—she had hoped for some quiet time to get used to being home. She recognized several of the guests: some relatives, two stepfathers and their families, a few of her mother’s business partners. They greeted her enthusiastically, congratulating her on her graduation from university. Her stepfathers had already done so, taking the opportunity to tour Turtle Island when they had visited for her ceremony, but they repeated their felicitations.
Finally she was introduced to the strangers, especially to one Fairuz Mohamed Jafri, and it was clear this was the new proposed partner.
Over the course of lunch, it was also clear that Fairuz—Alina wasn’t sure how Fairuz identified, and she couldn’t tell—was very new acquaintances with Alina’s family. An entrepreneur in mineral engineering, with connections to the Old Rich without being an Old Rich. Also recently finished a course of study, but in Ireland. Spoke Gaelic haltingly, Semai flawlessly.
Alina found herself quickly feeling out-classed, and balked at the idea of being set up with this perfect stranger who was, well, perfect.
After lunch, most of the visitors went home, although a few stayed to nap in guestrooms. Alina and her mother took the new partners on a tour of the estate.
Most of the fields were bordered by walkways, with pondok at particular junctions for the workers to rest in. Alina caught up with many of her mother’s staff that way. As they approached the side of the land that wasn’t farmland, the side that was swamp instead, she found herself nervous.
This was the family business that led so many people to be leery of associating with her family. The crocodile farm had been some great-grandfather’s idea, after a plague had infected local cattle. It was in the lowest part of the land that was difficult to drain and, even before the crocodile farm had been established, had been fetid marshland. Safia cheerily handed out masks to the guests before they arrived at the edge of the place where it would begin to stink.
It was a local joke that this part of the estate was called “Lembah Maut,” Death Valley. Tomorrow, Alina would be in the processing plant at the mouth of the valley, cutting up carcasses. They would throw it into the marsh for the crocodiles to devour. Some of the crocodiles would be ready for harvestin
g as a delicacy overseas.
They took carcasses from everywhere. Veterinarians did their best to mitigate sickness in animals, but they would never be able to stop nature from taking its toll. And there was also always the odd human body to be disposed of. Lembah Maut served as regional body disposal whenever tombs like Megajaya were discovered. They took contracts from across the Nusantara region, sometimes as far north as Viet Nam. People across all the local faiths couldn’t condone it, but looked the other way, in embarrassment that the morality of their religion couldn’t have stopped the greed of the Old Rich. Sometimes, Alina’s family was even paid for their silence by governments wanting to wipe their Old Rich from historical record.
What would Fairuz, with Old Rich connections, think of it?
Jason had balked. He had had no Old Rich connections, but he still thought what Alina’s family did was heinous.
“Have you no respect for the dead?” he had demanded, when Alina finally told him.
Alina had thought about this question before, and was ready with an answer. “No. They didn’t have respect for us when they were alive, so why should we respect them now that they’re dead? And anyway, they’re usually long dead by the time they get to us.”
He had gagged. They hadn’t spoken for weeks.
The Megajaya corpses had already been brought in, lying in glass coolers. Some of them had been mummified to some degree. Others just looked disgusting, covered in slime, failing to decompose because they hadn’t been exposed to the proper elements.
It was one thing to feed cattle carcasses to crocodiles, quite another to use human ones. Sometimes, however, one just took one’s food wherever possible. Who would mourn the Old Rich? What had they done to deserve lament?
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