The Mammoth Book of SF Stories by Women

by Alex Dally MacFarlane

  As Master Johncrow flap away over the trees with he prize, Tan-Tan hear he chuckle. “Ah, Dry Bone, you dead thing, you! Trouble sweet to me like the yolk that did sustain me. Is trouble you swallow to make that belly so fat? Ripe like a watermelon. I want you to try to give me plenty, plenty trouble. I want you to make it last a long time.”

  Tan-Tan sit down in the wicker chair on the verandah and watch them flying away till she couldn’t hear Dry Bone screaming no more and Master Johncrow was only a black speck in the sky. She whisper to sheself:

  Corbeau say so, it must be so,

  Please, Johncrow, take Dry Bone and go,

  Tan-Tan say so,

  Tan-Tan beg so.

  Tan-Tan went inside and look at she little home. It wouldn’t be plenty trouble to make another window to let in more light. Nothing would be trouble after living with the trouble of Dry Bone. She go make the window tomorrow, and the day after that, she go re-cane the break-seat chair.

  Tan-Tan pick up she kerosene lamp and went outside to look in the bush for some scraper grass to polish the rust off it. That would give she something to do while she think about what Master John-crow had tell she. Maybe she would even go find this Papa Bois, oui?

  Wire bend,

  Story end.

  THE FOUR GENERATIONS OF CHANG E

  Zen Cho

  The First Generation

  In the final days of Earth as we knew it, Chang E won the moon lottery.

  For Earthlings who were neither rich nor well-connected, the lottery was the only way to get on the Lunar Habitation Programme. (This was the Earthlings’ name for it. The moon people said: “those fucking immigrants”.)

  Chang E sold everything she had: the car, the family heirloom enamel hairpin collection, her external brain. Humans were so much less intelligent than Moonites anyway. The extra brain would have made little difference.

  She was entitled to the hairpins. Her grandmother had pressed them into Chang E’s hands herself, her soft old hands folding over Chang E’s.

  “In the future it will be dangerous to be a woman,” her grandmother had said. “Maybe even more dangerous than when my grandmother was a girl. You look after yourself, OK?”

  It was not as if anyone else would. There was a row over the hairpins. Her parents had been saving them to pay for Elder Brother’s education.

  Hah! Education! Who had time for education in days like these? In these times you mated young before you died young; you plucked your roses before you came down with some hideous mutation or discovered one in your child, or else you did something crazy – like go to the moon. Like survive.

  Chang E could see the signs. Her parents’ eyes had started following her around hungrily, for all the world as if they were Bugs Bunny and she was a giant carrot. One night Chang E would wake up to find herself trussed up on the altar they had erected to Elder Brother.

  Since the change Elder Brother had spent most of his time in his room, slumbering Kraken-like in the gloomful depths of his bed. But by the pricking of their thumbs, by the lengthening of his teeth, Mother and Father trusted that he was their way out of the last war, their guard against assault and cannibalism.

  Offerings of oranges, watermelons and pink steamed rice cakes piled up around his bed. One day Chang E would join them. Everyone knew the new gods liked best the taste of the flesh of women.

  So Chang E sold her last keepsake of her grandmother and pulled on her moon boots without regret.

  On the moon Chang E floated free, untrammelled by the Earth’s ponderous gravity, untroubled by that sticky thing called family. In the curious glances of the moon people, in their condescension (“your Lunarish is very good!”) she was reinvented.

  Away from home, you could be anything. Nobody knew who you’d been. Nobody cared.

  She lived in one of the human ghettos, learnt to walk without needing the boots to tether her to the ground, married a human who chopped wood unceasingly to displace his intolerable homesickness.

  One night she woke up and saw the light lying at the foot of her bed like snow on the grass. Lifting her head, she saw the weeping blue eye of home. The thought, exultant, thrilled through her: I’m free! I’m free!

  The Second Generation

  Her mother had had a pet moon rabbit. This was before we found out they were sentient. She’d always treated it well, said Chang E. That was the irony: how well we had treated the rabbits! How little some of them deserved it!

  Though if any rabbit had ever deserved good treatment, it was her mother’s pet rabbit. When Chang E was little, it had made herbal tea for her when she was ill, and sung her nursery rhymes in its native moon rabbit tongue – little songs, simple and savage, but rather sweet. Of course Chang E wouldn’t have been able to sing them to you now. She’d forgotten.

  But she was grateful to that rabbit. It had been like a second mother to her, said Chang E.

  What Chang E didn’t like was the rabbits claiming to be intelligent. It’s one thing to cradle babies to your breast and sing them songs, stroking your silken paw across their foreheads. It’s another to want the vote, demand entrance to schools, move in to the best part of town and start building warrens.

  When Chang E went to university there was a rabbit living in her student hall. Imagine that. A rabbit sharing their kitchen, using their plates, filling the pantry with its food.

  Chang E kept her chopsticks and bowls in her bedroom, bringing them back from the kitchen every time she finished a meal. She was polite, in memory of her nanny, but it wasn’t pleasant. The entire hall smelled of rabbit food. You worried other people would smell it on you.

  Chang E was tired of smelling funny. She was tired of being ugly. She was tired of not fitting in. She’d learnt Lunarish from her immigrant mother, who’d made it sound like a song in a foreign language.

  Her first day at school Chang E had sat on the floor, one of three humans among twenty children learning to add and subtract. When her teacher had asked what one and two made, her hand shot up.

  “Tree!” she said.

  Her teacher had smiled. She’d called up a tree on the holographic display.

  “This is a tree.” She called up the image of the number three. “Now, this is three.”

  She made the high-pitched clicking sound in the throat which is so difficult for humans to reproduce.

  “Which is it, Changey?”

  “Tree,” Chang E had said stupidly. “Tree. Tree.” Like a broken down robot.

  In a month her Lunarish was perfect, accentless, and she rolled her eyes at her mother’s singsong, “Chang E, you got listen or not?”

  Chang E would have liked to be motherless, pastless, selfless. Why was her skin so yellow, her eyes so small, when she felt so green inside?

  After she turned sixteen, Chang E begged the money off her dad, who was conveniently indulgent since the divorce, and went in secret for the surgery.

  When she saw herself in the mirror for the first time after the operation she gasped.

  Long ovoid eyes, the last word in Lunar beauty, all iris, no ugly inconvenient whites or dark browns to spoil that perfect reflective surface. The eyes took up half her face. They were like black eggs, like jewels.

  Her mother screamed when she saw Chang E. Then she cried.

  It was strange. Chang E had wanted this surgery with every fibre of her being – her nose hairs swooning with longing, her liver contracting with want.

  Yet she would have cried too, seeing her mother so upset, if her new eyes had let her. But Moonite eyes didn’t have tear ducts. No eyelids to cradle tears, no eyelashes to sweep them away. She stared unblinking and felt sorry for her mother, who was still alive, but locked in an inaccessible past.

  The Third Generation

  Chang E met H’yi in the lab, on her first day at work. He was the only rabbit there and he had the wary, closed-off look so many rabbits had.

  At Chang E’s school the rabbit students had kept themselves to themselves. They had the
ir own associations – the Rabbit Moon-ball Club, the Lapin Lacemaking Society – and sat in quiet groups at their own tables in the cafeteria.

  Chang E had sat with her Moonite friends.

  “There’s only so much you can do,” they’d said. “If they’re not making any effort to integrate …”

  But Chang E had wondered secretly if the rabbits had the right idea. When she met other Earthlings, each one alone in a group of Moonites, they’d exchange brief embarrassed glances before subsiding back into invisibility. The basic wrongness of being an Earthling was intensified in the presence of other Earthlings. When you were with normal people you could almost forget.

  Around humans Chang E could feel her face become used to smiling and frowning, every emotion transmitted to her face with that flexibility of expression that was so distasteful to Moonites. As a child this had pained her, and she’d avoided it as much as possible – better the smoothness of surface that came to her when she was hidden among Moonites.

  At twenty-four, Chang E was coming to understand that this was no way to live. But it was a difficult business, this easing into being. She and H’yi did not speak to each other at first, though they were the only non-Moonites in the lab.

  The first time she brought human food to work, filling the place with strange warm smells, she kept her head down over her lunch, shrinking from the Moonites’ glances. H’yi looked over at her.

  “Smells good,” he said. “I love noodles.”

  “Have you had this before?” said Chang E. H’yi’s ears twitched. His face didn’t change, but somehow Chang E knew he was laughing.

  “I haven’t spent my entire life in a warren,” he said. “We do get out once in a while.”

  The first time Chang E slept over at his, she felt like she was coming home. The close dark warren was just big enough for her. It smelt of moon dust.

  In H’yi’s arms, her face buried in his fur, she felt as if the planet itself had caught her up in its embrace. She felt the wall vibrate: next door H’yi’s mother was humming to her new litter. It was the moon’s own lullaby.

  Chang E’s mother stopped speaking to her when she got married. It was rebellion, Ma said, but did she have to take it so far?

  “I should have known when you changed your name,” Ma wept. “After all the effort I went to, giving you a Moonite name. Having the throat operation so I could pronounce it. Sending you to all the best schools and making sure we lived in the right neighbourhoods. When will you grow up?”

  Growing up meant wanting to be Moonite. Ma had always been disappointed by how bad Chang E was at this.

  They only reconciled after Chang E had the baby. Her mother came to visit, sitting stiffly on the sofa. H’yi made himself invisible in the kitchen.

  The carpet on the floor between Chang E and her mother may as well have been a mare. But the baby stirred and yawned in Chang E’s arms – and stolen glance by jealous, stolen glance, her mother fell in love.

  One day Chang E came home from the lab and heard her mother singing to the baby. She stopped outside the nursery and listened, her heart still.

  Her mother was singing a rabbit song.

  Creaky and true, the voice of an old peasant rabbit unwound from her mouth. The accent was flawless. Her face was innocent, wiped clean of murky passions, as if she’d gone back in time to a self that had not yet discovered its capacity for cruelty.

  The Fourth Generation

  When Chang E was sixteen, her mother died. The next year Chang E left school and went to Earth, taking her mother’s ashes with her in a brown ceramic urn.

  The place her mother had chosen was on an island just above the equator, where, Ma had said, their Earthling ancestors had been buried. When Chang E came out of the environmentcontrolled port building, the air wrapped around her, sticky and close. It was like stepping into a god’s mouth and being enclosed by his warm humid breath.

  Even on Earth most people travelled by hovercraft, but on this remote outpost wheeled vehicles were still in use. The journey was bumpy – the wheels rendered them victim to every stray imperfection in the road. Chang E hugged the urn to her and stared out the window, trying to ignore her nausea.

  It was strange to see so many humans around, and only humans. In the capital city you’d see plenty of Moonites, expats and tourists, but not in a small town like this.

  Here, thought Chang E, was what her mother had dreamt of. Earthlings would not be like moon humans, always looking anxiously over their shoulder for the next way in which they would be found wanting.

  And yet her mother had not chosen to come here in life. Only in death. Where would Chang E find the answer to that riddle?

  Not in the graveyard. This was on an orange hill, studded with white and grey tombstones, the vermillion earth furred in places with scrubby grass.

  The sun bore close to the Earth here. The sunshine was almost a tangible thing, the heat a repeated hammer’s blow against the temple. The only shade was from the trees, starred with yellow-hearted white flowers. They smelled sweet when Chang E picked them up. She put one in her pocket.

  The illness had been sudden, but they’d expected the death. Chang E’s mother had arranged everything in advance, so that once Chang E arrived she did not have to do or understand anything. The nuns took over.

  Following them, listening with only half her attention on their droning chant in a language she did not know to a god she did not recognize, she looked down on the town below. The air was thick with light over the stubby low buildings, crowded close together the way human habitations tended to be.

  How godlike the Moonites must have felt when they entered these skies and saw such towns from above. To love a new world, you had to get close to the ground and listen.

  You were not allowed to watch them lower the urn into the ground and cover it with soil. Chang E looked up obediently.

  In the blue sky there was a dragon.

  She blinked. It was a flock of birds, forming a long line against the sky. A cluster of birds at one end made it look like the dragon had turned its head. The sunlight glinting off their white bodies made it seem that the dragon looked straight at her with luminous eyes.

  She stood and watched the sky, her hand shading her eyes, long after the dragon had left, until the urn was buried and her mother was back in the earth.

  What was the point of this funeral so far from home, a sky’s worth of stars lying between Chang E’s mother and everyone she had ever known? Had her mother wanted Chang E to stay? Had she hoped Chang E would fall in love with the home of her ancestors, find a human to marry, and by so doing somehow return them all to a place where they were known?

  Chang E put her hand in her pocket and found the flower. The petals were waxen, the texture oddly plastic between her fingertips. They had none of the fragility she’d been taught to associate with flowers.

  Here is a secret Chang E knew, though her mother didn’t.

  Past a certain point, you stop being able to go home. At this point, when you have got this far from where you were from, the thread snaps. The narrative breaks. And you are forced, pastless, motherless, selfless, to invent yourself anew.

  At a certain point, this stops being sad – but who knows if any human has ever reached that point?

  Chang E wiped her eyes and her streaming forehead, followed the nuns back to the temple and knelt to pray to her nameless forebears.

  She was at the exit when remembered the flower. The Lunar Border Agency got funny if you tried to bring Earth vegetation in. She left the flower on the steps to the temple.

  Then Chang E flew back to the moon.

  STAY THY FLIGHT

  Élisabeth Vonarburg

  By day, I go fast, nowhere but fast, not moving, impossible, too focused, unfurled wings, tilted head, eyes on the sun, when there is some. Now for instance, no clouds, nothing but light, rain of light, torrents, maelstroms, hurricanes of light. And me inside it, through my every pore, my skin you’d say, yes, beneat
h the hair. Naked skin: only on the face, the torso. Get some light too, but less efficient. The hair mostly, soaking up light, and my wings’ feathers, a million antennas, if you will, conduits, minuscule, avid mouths, tongues, hands, a million fingers, stretching toward the sun, all that energy, everywhere: I’m charging. Inside, metamorphosed light: food, strength, lightning strikes, from cell to cell, vortexes, in my whole body, a continuous vibration, electric sponge, I absorb life. Fast inside, my body is fast. Accelerated metabolism inside, chemical exchanges, neurons, everything, faster. I am charging, I burn, my own matter, my life, at lightning speed, behind each thought, a condensed frenzy, white hot, ablaze, crackling. Outside unmoving, almost: you don’t, see me move, doesn’t feel like, I’m moving either, but I’m revolving, with the magnet-sun, like the flowers, but no flower, I: lioness, winged woman. Statue, you say, not quite, but what else, convenient word: on a pedestal, after all, immobile, almost, by day.

  You are immobile, for me, by day, almost, less than I for you, but slow. Everything around me, becomes slow, after dawn: the sun rises, heaves itself up, slows down, crawls, an imperceptible movement, in the sky, the birds’ songs too, in the Park, draw out, lowering down, deeper and deeper, to a basso continuo, some modulations, but spaced out, wind, when there is some, leaves, music, solemn, meditating, I like. Behind me, lower still, the sound of the city. Sometimes a blending, images, sounds, leaves moving, shadows, like a music almost, clouds, when there are some, flowers, opening with the day. Sometimes I try, to seize the moment, when it changes, flowers, shadows, clouds: hard, impossible almost. Then I look elsewhere, or close my eyes, and come back later: more open, the petals, closer to the pistils, the bee, but everything caught, in invisible amber, time, all slowed down. With telescopic vision, perhaps, I could, with a millionfold, magnification, see the sap moving up, the flesh of the flower, stiffening, or in the clouds, patient, the accretion of molecules. But it’s human vision I have, that’s all, not superhuman. “Look”: not quite, either, hard to will it, by day. Simply: eyes open, I see, my eyes see, like everything else, the other senses, smell, taste, hearing, touch, everything, at a normal speed, but my brain, no, too focused on energy, on charging: registers, transmits, a drop every decade. If I want to look, to change the direction, in which I look, great effort, lasts for centuries.