Diverse Energies

by Joe Monti Tobias S. Buckell

  He cocked his arm to throw. Winding it back to launch the Dalai Lama in his silicon cell out into the empty air. To arc and fall, faster and faster, until he shattered against the distant ground and was released, to begin again his cycle of rebirth. He held his arm cocked, then whipped it forward in a trajectory of launch. When his arm had completed its swing, the datacube and the Dalai Lama still sat safe in his palm. Smooth and blue and undamaged.

  He considered it. Stroking it, feeling its contours in his hand. Then he slid it back into his pocket and swung himself out, once again onto the skin of Huojianzhu. He smiled as he climbed, digging his fingers into the living flesh of the building. He wondered how long this infinity of climbing would last, and if he would reach the streets whole or as a bloody pulp. Chengdu seemed a long way below.

  The datacube rested in his pocket. If he fell, it would shatter and the Dalai Lama would be released. If he survived? For now he would keep it. Later, perhaps, he would destroy it. The Dalai Lama was asleep in the cube, and would not overly mind the longer wait. And, Wang Jun thought, who in all the world of important people could say, as he could say, that he had the Dalai Lama in his pocket?

  Blue Skies

  by Cindy Pon

  yao: to want; pronounced “yow.” • you: to have; pronounced “yo.”

  I watched the two you girls from the corner of my eye as the crowds surged around me. Eleven o’clock on a balmy summer evening, and the Shi Lin night market in Taipei was spilling over with yao shoppers looking for a way to cool themselves. Stores lined both sides of the narrow street, and music blared in Mandarin, Taiwanese and English. The road was closed to traffic, overtaken by vendors with carts selling noodles and oyster omelets, cold juices and shakes. Others spread their merchandise on the ground over a blanket, hawking cheap toys and knick-knacks.

  I slouched lower on the plastic table, faded black boots planted on a stool beneath, taking in the stench of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and sweat. I flipped my silver butterfly knife rhythmically between my fingers without thought, enjoying the feel of cold steel and the sound of blade and handles snapping in my hand.

  Men glanced at me warily, touching the places where they hid their own weapons. Girls clustered closer as they edged past, chattering. One yao girl, barely fifteen, raised her kohl-smudged eyes from her heap of chua bing smothered in red beans and smiled at me, neon-purple bangs brushing against her lashes. Her friend elbowed her and loudly uttered something about delinquent yao boys, casting a pointed glare in my direction. They sashayed past, legs bare beneath short, ruffled skirts, the friend with her nose in the air. Smiling girl’s pink mouth was now pursed in a pout.

  “Hey,” I called.

  She half turned, careful not to spill her iced dessert. Her black brows were raised, widening her dark eyes. I winked at her, spinning my knife, then tossed it up in the air before catching it in one swift motion. She blushed, and her giggle carried to me even as her friend tugged her away, disappearing into the throngs.

  Despite the distraction, I never lost sight of the two you girls bent over a round tub, trying to toss plastic balls into floating dishes. The prize was a koi — genetically engineered never to grow beyond two inches — in iridescent oranges, reds, and greens. Hell, they probably glowed in the dark. The girls were flanked by three bodyguards, beefy yao boys with muscular arms crossed against their bulging chests.

  A you boy strutted toward the girls, his features obscured by his glass helmet from this distance. We called them Bowl Heads in derision, as their helmets looked like fishbowls. His sleek suit was black, with an indigo dragon breathing orange flames woven down one long sleeve. The suit ensured that he got the best oxygen available, that his temperature was regulated, that he was always plugged into the you communication system. The taller girl in the white and silver suit ignored him, intent on winning a koi in a jar, but her petite friend nodded to the bodyguards, and the you boy swaggered through.

  I snorted under my breath.

  They chatted, probably pulling up info on their com sys, assessing weight, height, and genetic makeup even as they exchanged first names. This was what it meant to be you, to have. To be genetically cultivated as a perfect human specimen before birth — vaccinated and fortified, calibrated and optimized. To have an endless database of information instantly retrievable within a second of thinking the query and displayed in helmet. To have the best air, food, and water, ensuring the longest possible life spans as the world went to rot around them.

  Me, I’m like the other ninety percent of the yaos in this world. We want and are left wanting. I’d be lucky if I lived to thirty. I’m more than halfway there.

  The you boy fiddled with his collar, then lifted off his helmet, handing it to one of the bodyguards with studied nonchalance. He coughed for a long time into his sleeve, attempting to adjust to the filth we breathed every day. What a rebel. He was really trying to impress. Without his helmet, I got a better look at him. His blond hair was chin length, streaked in red, his features Afro Asian. He looked about seventeen.

  He pulled a cigarette from a sleeve pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply, tilting his head to blow out the smoke. He leaned toward the petite you girl, his expression flirtatious. I watched as the taller girl threw them a glance, then turned back toward the tub. She was broad shouldered yet slender, her suit decorated in pink neon lines with a jeweled Hello Kitty stitched above her heart. Real gem stones, no doubt. The way she tensed her shoulders told me she wasn’t pleased by the you boy’s intrusion.

  I tucked the knife away and retrieved two small items from a leather pouch strapped to my side. I wore a sleeveless black tee and black jeans to match. Not only did I blend in, but it allowed me to move with ease. I jumped off the table and stretched my arms overhead, flexing my shoulders.

  Now or never.

  I cut a quick path through the crowds, moving diagonally, thumping into others as they scurried out of my way. Steam rose from the chou dofu vendor stirring her spicy broth, and my eyes watered from the scent. I was behind the bodyguards within a minute. Their massive backs blocked me from my target. I tapped the middle one on his shoulder. He twisted, fists clenched.

  “Move,” I said.

  “What?”

  I cocked my elbow and punched him hard in the nose, breaking it. The oaf roared, covering his face as blood spurted. I barreled past him and slammed into the you boy, who was gaping, bug-eyed. The other two bodyguards swiped at me with clumsy hands, but I leaped out of the way, smashing the vial I held to the ground. Noxious smoke billowed around us. The bodyguards and the boy dropped to the ground like sacks of rice within ten seconds. Bet that you boy would regret taking off his helmet tomorrow morning. The petite girl screamed shrilly beside me as passersby shouted in alarm, but no help came as everyone steered clear of the fumes.

  I lunged for the tall girl, pulling her tightly to my chest, and plunged the sleep spell into her hand, the only exposed part of her body. The needle hissed as it dispensed the drug. She sank against me and I hefted her into my arms, dashing into the dark alley behind us, finally allowing myself to take a breath when I cleared the smoke. She wasn’t heavy, but all cumbersome limbs.

  “Hey, you!” A man shouted, his running footsteps echoing behind me.

  I cursed and spun around the corner into a black alley, pressing against the wall. My pursuer followed immediately. I stuck out my foot, and he tripped over it, thumping hard onto the uneven pavement.

  I ran without looking back, weaving between the streets, the layout etched in my mind. The distant din of the night market reached me, accompanied by the shriek of police sirens as they inched their way through the crowds. No one followed. I burst onto the main street, at the far end of the market hailing a taxi. It screeched to a stop, spewing foul exhaust. I yanked open the door. “Take me to the end of the bus line,” I said.

  The driver nodded, raising an eyebrow as I gently laid my hostage on the backseat. “She drank too much,” I muttered. “I tried to w
arn her.”

  He flicked a cigarette butt out the window before merging back into traffic. “Those you girls have everything, but they always want more.”

  I stared out the open window as the driver zipped through the streets with expertise, honking at pedestrians, hoverpeds, and motorcycles alike. “You her bodyguard?” he asked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

  I shook my head.

  “Ah, her boy toy then.” He grinned. “Whatever pays the bills, right?”

  Right. But I wanted more than just to pay the bills, to survive. I wanted to change the world.

  Neon signs flickered in a kaleidoscope of colors, washing my vision in reds and blues, oranges and greens. I kept a hand on the you girl’s arm so she wouldn’t tumble over with the taxi driver’s sudden braking. Her glass helmet reflected the lights around us, and I couldn’t make out her features. I swallowed, suddenly afraid. There’s no going back now. I jerked my face from her, loosening my grip when I realized I was squeezing her arm.

  She was unresponsive, her chest barely rising with each breath. She’d be out until tomorrow morning at least.

  The taxi slammed to a stop, and I threw my arms around the girl to keep her from falling onto the floor. “Here we are, end of the line,” the driver said.

  I handed him my cashcard, tied to a fake identity and bank account. “Thanks,” I said. “Add ten for tip.”

  He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing with deep lines, and saluted me. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  I got out and lifted the girl from the seat, kicking the door shut with my foot. The driver blared his horn twice before tearing off. It was almost midnight, and I needed to be within Yang Ming Shan as soon as possible. The end of the bus line was near the mountain’s base. I shifted the girl so her head rested against my shoulder, her helmet smooth and cold against my cheek, and started my long climb home.

  The half-moon was wane, obscured by clouds and pollution. My watch face provided scant light, but I navigated the muddied roads without trouble, stopping twice to catch my breath. Each time I laid down my captive, setting her head on my thigh, not knowing how else to place her. She seemed inhuman encased in her glass helmet. Alien. The pink neon lines of her suit glowed in the dark, and her exposed, soft hands lay limp at her sides. How had we drifted so far from what it meant to be human? I could remove her helmet, but it seemed too much of a violation. I had to smile at the irony.

  I rose once more, throwing the girl over my shoulder. She no longer felt light — it was like hauling an elephant, and my arms were dead weights. Finally, I spotted the outcropping of jagged stones marking where I should turn off the path. Darkness enveloped me as I picked my way between thick brush and massive trees. Twelve years ago, mud slides after a bad typhoon season were followed immediately by a massive earthquake that swallowed teahouses, roads, and homes alike. Half of Yang Ming Shan went up in flames. Survivors fled, and due to the economic depression and rumors of the mountain being cursed, no investors ever bothered to rebuild.

  Now the once-scenic getaway was deserted, lush and wild, its only occupants the dead in overturned graves. And me. If anyone else lived on Yang Ming Shan, our paths never crossed.

  I counted my steps, legs trembling with the effort. Near my four hundredth, I spotted the first garden light glowing like a flower spirit. I had planted them for the last fifty steps leading home. Each light was solar powered. Sweat stung my eyes, but I was too close to stop. The heavy wooden door to the laboratory clicked open by my voice command, and I stumbled inside, laying the girl on the cot in the small office that served as my bedroom.

  I slumped to the floor, arms draped over raised knees, and sat there until I caught my breath.

  Leaving her, I stripped and washed myself in the makeshift shower, wishing I had cold water instead of the lukewarm spray that pattered over me. Every muscle shook as I soaped myself before drying off and pulling on some shorts. The front door could be activated by my voice alone, but I took no chances and rummaged through a metal desk, finding the key that I needed. I locked us in, then slipped the key on a string and tied it around my neck.

  I didn’t even look in on the you girl again before crashing onto the worn sofa in the main room, falling immediately into an exhausted sleep.

  Something prickled my consciousness awake; it wasn’t the brightness of day. My eyes snapped open to find the you girl peering at me, her bowl head not an inch away from my nose. I glimpsed her face for the first time. She’d had little work done that I could see: eyes halfway between almond shaped and slender, a rounded nose and rosebud mouth. Her eyes were a light brown, like the watered-down coffee I’d buy with fake cream. Her fingers were extended tentatively above my throat. The back of her hand was bruised where I had jabbed her with the needle. She jumped back when she saw that I had woken. I looked down and remembered the key, then cursed for not putting on any clothes the previous night.

  “It was only a precaution,” I said, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat and sat up. “You wouldn’t have been able to get out even if you got it.”

  She stood over me, appearing even leaner in the daylight, all long lines and sharp angles.

  “The back door’s blocked,” she said in perfect, educated Mandarin.

  Her voice surprised me. Rich, like dark chocolate — more womanly than she looked.

  “Mud slide,” I said.

  She nodded and drew her other hand from behind her back, revealing a pair of dull scissors I kept in the desk. “I could have killed you in your sleep.”

  “You would have had to try hard.” I rose, reaching for a clean shirt draped over the back of a wooden chair. It was black, like most of my clothes. “Those scissors are from another century.” I pulled on the shirt, then some blue jeans, and scrubbed a hand through my short hair, suddenly self-conscious.

  Now what?

  We stared at each other for a long moment. If she were a feline, her tail would be thrashing.

  “How much do you want?” she asked.

  I reached for the scissors, and she relinquished them without protest. “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head.

  “I know you must be thirsty. The sleep spell will do that to you.” I crossed the spare chamber to the corner kitchen and pulled the refrigerator door open, grabbing a bottle of fancy you water, purified and enriched with gods knew what. A case of it cost more than most yao folks’ weekly salary. “Here.” I offered it to her.

  She sat down in the wooden chair, turning the bottle in her hand, examining it.

  “It’s not tainted,” I said. “The seal’s unbroken.”

  She lifted her eyes. “How do I drink it?”

  Ah.

  “Haven’t you ever taken —”

  “No. Never in unregulated space.”

  “The air isn’t as polluted up here,” I lied.

  “I can’t call anyone in helmet.”

  “No.” I knew the first thing she’d try upon waking was to call for help. “I’ve jammed the signals.”

  She blinked several times, and her nostrils flared.

  I glanced away, tamping down my sympathy.

  The girl fidgeted with her suit collar, finally lifting her helmet. It came off with a low hiss. Her ponytail sprang free, black and uncolored. The scent of strawberries filled the air, and I took a step back, caught off guard. I had expected you girls to be scentless at best or to smell clinical at worst, like some specimen kept too long in a jar.

  Not like fresh, sweet strawberries.

  Her eyes truly watered now as she breathed our polluted air for the first time in her life. She doubled over, coughing spastically. I grabbed the bottle from her hand and twisted it open. “Drink.”

  She did so, sucking down the water as if it would save her life. Finally, she wiped her mouth with a handkerchief that had been tucked in her sleeve, then pressed it against her eyes. “How do you live breathing this every day?” she as
ked in a weak voice.

  “We don’t have to live for very long,” I replied.

  She dropped her handkerchief and stared at me with red-rimmed eyes. “That’s not funny,” she said.

  I smiled. “I wasn’t trying to be.” I sat back down on the old sofa, so there was some distance between us.

  She was pretty in a way I wasn’t used to. Not engineered like most you girls bowing to the latest ethnic trends, narrowing their noses and rounding their eyes to look more European, then reshaping their lips fuller and plumping their breasts, hips, and rear when the exotic South American fad was in. The yao girls, lacking the funds for such drastic changes, resorted to painting their young faces in bright colors, using semipermanent tattoos, dying their hair or wearing wigs.