Asimov's SF, June 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Thinking will kill you,” said the swordsman Corredo. He was a lean, dry man, all sinew and leather, and he meant what he said.

  "There, you see? Here, take this in your hand.” Ruy presented Santiago with the hilt of a rapier. Santiago took it in his burn-scarred hand, felt the grip find its place against his palm. The sword was absurdly light after the iron weight of the glassmaker's tongs; it took no more than a touch of his fingers to hold it steady.

  "Ah, you've done this before,” Ruy said. He sounded suspicious, as if he thought Santiago had lied.

  "No, never.” Santiago was tempted to laugh. He loved it, this place, this sword in his hand.

  "A natural, eh? Most of us started out clutching it like—"

  "Like their pizzles in the moment of joy,” Master Corredo said. He took Santiago's strong wrist between his fingers and thumb and shook it so the sword softly held in Santiago's palm waved in the air. After a moment Santiago firmed the muscles in his arm and the sword was still, despite the swordsman's pressure.

  "Well,” said Corredo. He let Santiago go. “You stand like a lump of stone. Here, beside me. Place your feet so—not so wide—the knees a little bent...."

  Ruy wandered off, limbered up with a series of long lunges. After a while the soft kiss and whine of steel filled the air.

  By noon they were disposed under the awning in Corredo's courtyard, drinking beer and playing cards. Santiago, with a working man's sense of time, was hungry, but no one else seemed to be thinking about food. Also, the stakes were getting higher. Santiago dropped a good hand on the discard pile and excused himself. He would save his money and find a tavern that would sell him a bushel of flautas along with a few bottles of beer. Not that he could afford to feed them any more than he could afford to gamble with them, but he had heard them talk about spongers. He would rather be welcomed when they did see him, even if he could not see them often.

  And then again, the holiday atmosphere of the streets made it easy to spend money if you had it to spend. In the masculine quiet of Corredo's atelier he had actually forgotten for a little while what day it was. The vote, the vote. Red and green handbills not yet faded by the angry sun fluttered from every doorjamb and drifted like lazy pigeons from underfoot. Radios squawked and rattled, noise becoming music only when Santiago passed a window or a door, and people were still abroad in the heat. One did not often see a crowd by daylight and it was strange how the sun seemed to mask faces just as effectively as evening shadows did, shuttering the eyes, gilding brown skin with sweat and dust. Santiago walked farther than he had meant to, sharing the excitement, yet feeling separate from the crowd, as if he were excited about a different thing, or as if he had been marked out by Sandoval, set aside for something other than this. Life, he thought: Sandoval's creed. But wasn't this life out here in the streets, in these conversations between strangers, in this shared fear for the future, for the world? Didn't blood beat through these hearts too?

  The heat finally brought Santiago to rest by the shaded window of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Standing with his elbows on the outside counter, waiting for his order, he ate a skewer of spicy pork that made him sweat, and then cooled his mouth with a beer. The restaurant's owner seemed to have filled the long, narrow room with his closest friends. Santiago, peering through the hatch at the interior darkness, heard the same argument that ran everywhere today, a turbulent stream like the flash flood from a sudden rain. Life's no good here anymore, but will it be any better in the crowded hills, by the poisoned sea, down in the south where the mud and rain was all there was?

  "But life is good.” No one heard, though Santiago spoke aloud. Perhaps they chose not to hear. His order came in a paper box already half-transparent with oil stains and he carried it carefully in his arms. The smell was so good it made him cheerful. All the same, when he returned to the atelier he found that as impatient as he had been with the worriers outside, he was almost as irritated by the abstainers within. They seemed so much like stubborn children sitting in a corner with folded arms. Like children, however, they greeted the food with extravagant delight, and Santiago found himself laughing at the accolades they heaped on his head, as if he had performed some mighty deed. It was better to eat, he thought, and enjoy the food as long as it was there.

  Like normal people, they dozed through the siesta hours, stupefied by heat and food. Santiago slept deeply and woke to the dusky velvet of the evening shadows. With the sun resting on the far hills the bleached sky regained its color, a blue as deep and calm as a song of the past, a blue that seemed to have been drawn out of Santiago's dreams. They went out together, yawning and still pleasantly numb with sleep, into the streets where a hundred radios stamped out the rhythm of an old salsa band. It was impossible not to sway a little as they walked, to bump their shoulders in thoughtless camaraderie, to spin out lines of poetry at the sight of a pretty face. “Oh, rose of the shadows, flower in bud, bloom for me...” It was evening and the long, long shadows promised cool even as the city's plaster and stone radiated the last heat of the day. It was evening, the day's delight.

  "So who is going to ask first?” Orlando muttered to Ruy. Ruy glanced over his shoulder at Santiago, his eyebrows raised. Santiago smiled and shook his head.

  "We won't need to ask,” Ruy said. “We'll hear, whether we want to or not."

  But who in all the city would have thought they needed to be told? Holiday had given way to carnival, as the radios gave way to guitars in the plazas, singers on the balconies, dancers in the streets. It was a strange sort of carnival where no one needed to drink to be drunk. The people had innocent faces, Santiago thought, washed clean by shock, as if the world had not died so much as vanished, leaving them to stand on air. But was it the shock of being told to abandon their homes? Or was it the shock of being told to abandon themselves to the city's slow death? Santiago listened to an old man singing on a flat roof high above the street, he listened to a woman sobbing by a window, and he wondered. But no, he didn't ask.

  They wound down to Asuada's esplanade where the dead trees were hung with lanterns that shone candy colors out into the dark. The sun was gone, the hills a black frieze, the sky a violet vault freckled with stars. The lakebed held onto the light, paler than the city and the sky, and it breathed a breath so hot and dry the lake's dust might have been the fine white ash covering a barbecue's coals. There were guitars down here too, and a trumpet that sang out into the darkness. Sandoval took off his sword and began to dance. Sweat drew his black hair across his face as he stamped and whirled and clapped with hollow hands. Ruy began to dance, and Orlando and the rest, their swords slung down by Santiago's feet. He ached to watch them, wished he with his clumsy feet dared to join them, and was glad he had not when Luz spotted him through the crowd. She came and leaned against his side, muscular and soft, never quite still as the guitars thrummed out their rhythms. Santiago knew she was watching Sandoval, but he did not care. This was his. A paper lantern caught fire, and when no one leapt forward to douse it the whole tree burned, one branch at a time, the pretty lanterns swallowed up by the crueler light of naked flame. It was beautiful, the bare black branches clothed in feathers of molten glass, molten gold. The dance spread, a chain of men stamping and whirling down the lakeshore. In the shuffle of feet and the rustle of flames, in the brush of Luz's hair against his sleeve, in the rush of air into his lungs, Santiago once again heard that phantom rain. It fell around him, bright as sparks in the light of the fire, it rang like music into the memory of the lake. It was sweet, sweet. Luz stirred against his arm.

  "Are you going, Santiago? When they stop the pumps, are you going to go?"

  He leaned back against the railing, and smiled into the empty sky, and shook his head, no.

  Copyright © 2007 Holly Phillips

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  STUDIES IN THE FIELD by R. Neube

  R. Neube tells us “I knew I was a writer the night a dog used my calf as a chew toy. As I sat bleeding on the side
walk, I started scribbling the sensations into my notebook. It proves the comment of a philosopher I once met—he fell off the bar stool before I caught his name—'Writers ain't right in the head.'” And neither, perhaps, is the scientist engaged in extraterrestrial...

  The ice shattered the instant I stepped off the boulder. I leapt to safety as the ice beneath me plunged. Boots dripping, fear trembled me. I sat on the rock until my pulse dipped below a hundred.

  The dusk moon rose. In the east, the sun flamed the clouds on the horizon. In the distance came the victory bray of a duck.

  "Four years into the mission, old man. You really need to come up with a decent name for the ducks."

  And the seals. And a dozen other alien animals and plants that my laziness still equated to terrestrial counterparts.

  A second, then a third bray erupted. During the spring rutting season, male ducks spent every night fighting for status. I checked my watch. Much to my relief, I still had two hours before nightfall for the hour-long hike back to my ship.

  Yet another duck bellowed its challenge.

  Their beaks and webbed feet were the only duck-like features of the alien creature. The stubby wings of the flightless creatures were studded with claws. They occupied the polar bear niche as predator supreme on this continent—although a polar bear had a kitten's disposition compared to a duck. I had been trying to bridge the gap of years and rank when I named them ursus duckus to show my grad students I possessed a sense of humor.

  I could still envision that fresh-faced trio of students chortling down the trail, shoving and shouting at each other, trying to win the race back to our ship. Loser made supper.

  Although I was only a few minutes behind them, when I made the turn in the ravine, only scattered bits and a few limbs remained of my students. Fearless, the duck was hunkered down on its absurdly long legs, leaning against a boulder, preparing to sleep off its unexpected feast. My nightmares still starred its beady little eyes, but the killer had been too full for dessert.

  "Of course,” I muttered to myself, grateful to hear a human voice, “our DNA probably food-poisoned the damned animal."

  I slid off the other side of the boulder, slipping gingerly onto the ice. It held. More shuffling than walking, I swerved clear of the cracks and continued on my way home.

  * * * *

  The nice thing about being a professor of xenopology on a field trip was being able to stretch atop my landing craft, bask in the anemic rays of the spring sun, watch the natives, and be able to claim it was research.

  Doughboys were hilarious to watch. Though only a meter and a half tall and ninety kilos average, the aliens insulated themselves with air pockets beneath their skin and outer layer of blubber. Each movement caused their hairless, grey flesh to quiver like a meter-wide serving of Jell-O. Their lump of a head lacked eyes and ears, those functions being served by the “Zorro mask"—a black, bumpy tissue alive with sensory cells.

  Home was what the nomadic aliens called their camp. Home could also be defined as their continent, or their individual hide tent. I loved the simplicity of their language that was astonishingly complex considering it consisted of a mere one thousand and six words.

  The harsh arctic environment kept the nomadic doughboys in groups no larger than an extended clan. In this case, the magic number was thirty-eight. Too many.

  Last winter, the clan would have lost a dozen to starvation if I hadn't intervened. I had flown out to sea and bombarded the ocean with my craft's pulse cannon. The dead fish I'd skimmed off the surface afterwards sufficed to ward off the famine.

  Had my grad students survived their first year of field study, I would not have dared break the rules like that. My academic peers would have made me walk the career plank when I returned to the University of Deimos.

  Then again, maybe I would have done it anyway, damn the consequences. I hoped I would have. Professional ethics were one thing, but I was born and bred a Martian. We prided ourselves for being not merely humans, but real people. And real people didn't let their guinea pigs starve to death.

  "To hell with the rules,” I muttered.

  "Talking to yourself again, furball?” asked Grandfather Swim.

  Literally, he said, Talk again, furball. The remainder of the sentence being a series of motions by its four-thumbed hand.

  Grandfather was his rank as clan leader. Real grandfathers were simply called parent, as were mothers and fathers and grandmothers. For no reason I could glean, doughboy names were always verbs.

  "I'm a little snow crazy, I guess."

  "That happens in winter, not spring."

  "Furballs are not doughboys. We can go crazy any time we want."

  "Care to join our hunt? I leave tomorrow morning with Throw and Sleep and the children.” He pointed at a band of kids playing dodge dung.

  "Aren't they too young to hunt?"

  My stomach tightened. One of the ways the doughboys kept their population in check was the occasional slaughter of their children.

  The rise of Grandfather's narrow shoulders told me that he knew what I was thinking. His thumbs slapped against his meaty palms—their way of laughing.

  "Run will become a grandfather this summer at the festival. He and his brothers will take the children."

  That would remove a dozen mouths from the equation, enough for Swim's clan to survive next winter intact. Run was their best hunter, a good provider.

  "Will he remain a Walker?” I asked. “Or will he lead them to the ocean? Run once spent a summer with the Sea clans, didn't he?"

  "Run will do what Run will do."

  Only then did I realize how stupid my question was. The clan wouldn't split until the festival marking the beginning of summer. The Sea Doughboys would have sailed north months before in their hide and bone canoes.

  I made a mental note to ask Run what his future plans were. Walker clans seldom became Sea clans, the learning curve was too steep. Though Run might have made sufficient friends to help his new clan's transition.

  Following Run's clan's transformation would make a great chapter.

  It amazed me how canoes made from bone and hides could survive the hostile ocean long enough to deliver them to a chain of lush islands nine hundred klicks from the continent. There, the Sea clans would plant a few crops and feast upon the myriad birds roosting on the islands. At the end of summer, they would return with the seasonal change of currents, following the seals back to the continent in time to join with the Walkers for the autumn festival. The lumber, tubers, and salted fowl they brought with them would be traded at the festival.

  After the summer festival, the Walkers journeyed hundreds of klicks into the interior of the frozen continent seeking trade goods—opals, gold nuggets, and iron meteorites—while living on moss and beetles.

  The third branch of the doughboy culture inhabited “The Fingers"—four peninsulas halfway across the continent. The Cave Doughboys permanently resided in tunnels they had carved into thick layers of ancient pumice. Scattered up and down the hilly peninsulas, the Cavers mined coal, worked metal, and provided their nomadic kin with tools and jewelry.

  This unique division of labor would generate volumes once I returned to the University of Deimos. My stomach churned at the thought that my last tome about the doughboy culture would probably be prefaced by a eulogy noting their extinction. It was simply a matter of time.

  "What will you be hunting, Grandfather?"

  "Taa,” he answered.

  Taa were rodentesque creatures the size of dogs. Thanks to their six legs, they looked like nothing I'd ever seen, so I had to think of them with doughboy terms. Prepared as jerky, their meat wasn't half bad.

  "I will join you, Grandfather."

  He tried to smile, imitating me, but lacked the proper muscles. It was my turn to know what he was thinking. With my pistol and binoculars, it would be a successful hunt. Just what the clan needed after a long, hungry winter.

  * * * *

  A pregnant alien w
aited beside the airlock of my lander. She had suffered a bad dream and wanted to rub the top of my head for good luck.

  "I don't believe in luck,” I grumbled.

  Whereas, the aliens had built their culture on luck. If a harness strap snapped while they towed a sled, if they saw a peculiar-looking cloud, if someone broke a leg—the elders would immediately huddle and discuss the meaning of the bad luck.

  "Good nutrition is better than luck,” I said, reaching into the cooler inside my airlock and removing a fish wrapped in seaweed.

  She didn't thank me for the food. That would be bad luck. Thankfully, she didn't offer sex either, the traditional quid pro quo.

  I contemplated how I was going to explain the doughboys’ sex life. Doughboys were normally male, but at the height of winter, a few of them would suddenly become female. During the months of endless dusk, a female doughboy was a walking orgy. After giving birth a few weeks before the summer festival, she would change back into a male.

  There appeared to be no rhyme nor reason to who would change. Before Tamara Keel became a duck dinner, my grad student had captured some abnormal pheromone molecules, but they were no more than a hint of the biological process.

  The sad thing was their sex life would have to be the star of my first papers and book when I returned to the University of Deimos. That kind of juice would get me on the lecture circuit.

  Pity, it was their most boring aspect.

  * * * *

  A dozen doughboys walked a skirmish line, three meters between them. Each carried a pair of throwing clubs, laboriously carved from duck ribs.

  I scanned the broad plain with my binoculars. Some of the rocks still held snow in their lees. Patches of purple moss huddled in sunny spots. The glorified rats were herbivores with a fondness for spring moss after their long hibernation.

  A taa scampered across the plain. A couple of the kids threw their clubs, missing. I drew and fired as if I was fifteen again and imitating western gunslingers in the old movies. The taa dropped.