by Neil Clarke
Clarkesworld Magazine
Issue 109
Table of Contents
And If the Body Were Not the Soul
by A.C. Wise
Ice
by Rich Larson
The Father
by Kola Heyward-Rotimi
Egg Island
by Karen Heuler
Summer at Grandma’s House
by Hao Jingfang
War, Ice, Egg, Universe
by G. David Nordley
The Peacock Cloak
by Chris Beckett
Sunless Worlds
by Tomas Petrasek
Radiant Metafiction: A Conversation with Catherynne M. Valente
by Chris Urie
Another Word: Love Song for a Saturday Morning
by Alethea Kontis
Editor’s Desk: The Sad Truth About Short Fiction Magazines
by Neil Clarke
A-boushi-ya
Art by shichigoro-shingo
© Clarkesworld Magazine, 2015
www.clarkesworldmagazine.com
And If the Body Were Not the Soul
A.C. Wise
Ro shoulders the courier bag, leaving the bike chained at the entrance to the Zone. Even here, at the edge, dampness permeates—the air green like a receding tide. The pavement is patchwork. Brick and stone shows through tears in the asphalt, wounds no one bothered to heal once the aliens moved in, once it was clear humans would never move back into the neighborhood and it became the Zone.
Weeds grow in the gaps, flourishing in the damp. Ro places each boot carefully, avoiding the puddles reflecting sodium streetlights. On either side of the street, buildings stand with their doors shuttered against the gathering twilight. Some are ragged against the emerging stars, top layers blown away, evidence of the violence that emptied the neighborhood, made it unfit for human habitation, and eventually turned it into the Zone. But close to the ground, the world is still whole. If Ro doesn’t look up, it’s as though nothing has changed.
Except the Zone is haunted by waiting. The sense of impermanence is palpable—like the refugee camps and shanty towns of the early century, the ones the government planned to empty after the last great flood, or hurricane, but never did. The Zone was meant to be a way station, a temporary solution until the Immies (the word tastes dirty even in Ro’s mind, hateful, ugly, but there isn’t a better one because the aliens have never given the humans their true name) could be fully integrated into life on Earth. And yet . . .
Ro shrugs against the weight of emptiness and broken promises. At least Xal’s light is still on, welcoming. A bell over the door jangles; stepping inside, Ro can’t help smiling at this incongruously human touch. It’s like the shelves behind the glass counters, crammed floor to ceiling with human knick-knacks and oddities no Immie could possibly want, and no human would come here to buy. Charming, but sad in a way, too. Lonely.
It takes Ro a moment to pick out Xal’s form against the crowded shelves. Today, Xal’s flesh is the color of sand. It reminds Ro of the fish that disguise themselves from predators by lying flat against the ocean floor. There are variations, tiny glints of light. It is brown only in the way pigeons are simply gray, full of tones unseen until it is pointed out they were there all along.
“Hi.” Ro sets the courier bag on the counter—this time full of gamboling ceramic kittens—and places the delivery slip on top.
Xal doesn’t respond, which isn’t unusual for an Immie, only for Xal. Ro hesitates. Payment is stacked neatly on the counter, as always. Perhaps Xal simply doesn’t want to talk. Ro turns, hiding disappointment.
::Tone—Plea/Imperative: Ro. Wait.::
Xal’s voice is changeless, only the tone-statement betraying the edge of panic. There are no human or even human-like features to convey pain. But now that Ro looks closer, it is written in the restless knotting of limbs hanging beneath the bulk of Xal’s body.
Ro steps forward. Xal shifts, flickering in and out. Barely visible one moment, then sharply outlined the next. Sinuous lines gleam damp, twisting through a host of colors Ro can’t begin to name. Ro’s breath catches. There, an extra wetness, almost hidden by the tangled lines, a gash leaking fluid, smelling of salt.
“What happened?”
::Tone—Statement/Fear: An accident.:: Ro hears hesitation in Xal’s tone; in a human, it might sound like a lie. ::Tone—Statement/Honesty: An attack. In the human district, not far over the line. Just looking.::
Colors roll; Xal fades in and out again.
“You were attacked?”
::Tone—Affirmative/Sorrow: Yes.::
“What can I do to help? Is there someone I can call?”
::Tone—Alarm/Negative: No.::
“Okay.” Ro holds up his hands, palms out, hoping Xal will understand the human gesture and feeling helpless.
Xal’s body clenches, shuddering, furling tight around the wound. A sound like keening, like an in-drawn breath, like music, traces Ro’s jaw and spine. Then the sound stops and Xal unfolds, becoming more solid.
The wound already looks less, but still, a tremor ripples out from Ro’s center. Disgust. Ro clenches teeth against the reaction, a reflexive hatred for the uselessness of all flesh. It isn’t fair; Xal is wounded, Xal needs help, and this isn’t the time. And yet the bone-achingly physical reaction remains, rooted in the very thing causing the revulsion. Flesh. Ro shudders, stepping closer to the counter as if to step away from skin, from muscle, leaving disgust behind.
::Tone—Statement/Sincere: The pain is less. Ro. Thank you for staying.::
A limb uncurls, a jerky, reflexive motion as though Xal is not entirely in control yet. It brushes Ro’s hand, braced against the countertop. A new sound, a new quality of pain, laced with surprise. Xal draws back, but not before the touch sparks—a snap like an electric shock and a taste like lemons.
A scream locks in Ro’s throat. A sensation of dislocation without motion. A space of falling or flying, existing between the moment of contact and Xal’s touch withdrawn. Ro blinks away patches of violet light until the shop comes back into focus, bracing for a horror that never comes.
The lightness of Xal’s touch, unlike anything human. Ro lets out a breath, coming back to center.
Xal’s limbs are knotted in a new pattern now, anxious.
::Tone—Statement/Fear: Ro. Apology. Pain was not intended.::
“No. I . . . ” Ro’s breath—ragged—calms, but not fast enough. “It didn’t hurt. I don’t . . . ”
Flying. Falling. Ro struggles to process the sensation of Xal’s limb, solid yet ephemeral. The memory of the touch remains, like a lost tooth wanting to be probed. It is a moment of slipping out from under the weight of skin and bones, of being somewhere else, yet wholly here.
Ro tries to draw back from the sensation, but there is nothing to withdraw from.
::Tone—Query/Fear: Not hurt.:: Xal’s voice again. Ro’s mind thrums to an absence, reaching again for revulsion where there is none.
“No. I should just . . . I’m sorry.”
Ro turns, bell jangling. The green scent of the streets is an assault, the slickness underfoot designed to trip un-careful steps. Even the shorter buildings lean in, edges all jagged. They outline an empty space, something that cannot be defined.
On the edge of hyperventilation, Ro bursts out of the Zone. Leaving the bike behind, leaving everything. Not questioning the source of the fear, just running. Then stopping, leaning against a building, a stitch lacing between two ribs.
“Ro?”
Ro looks up, blinking, human buildings and a single figure resolving. Audra slows her bike, dropping one foot to the pavement. The courier satchel at Audra’s hip is empty; Ro
remembers the bag left with the delivery in Xal’s shop, the bike chained to a post at the entrance of the Zone.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I . . . ” Ro falters, tries again. “Something happened.”
“What?”
There are no words. Only lemons and the snap of electricity. Ro rubs the spot Xal touched, chasing ghosts.
“Come on.” Audra swings her leg over the courier bike, twin to the one Ro left behind. A tilt of her chin indicates the café across the street, glowing warm in the twilight. “We’re getting some tea into you. My treat.”
Audra keeps a space and silence between them. Ro is grateful. But Audra’s gaze still slides in Ro’s direction, questioning. Inside the café, Audra pushes a cup of tea across the table.
“What happened?”
“I was making a delivery to Xal.” Ro hesitates, seeing an expression of distaste Audra is not quick enough to hide. “Xal was attacked, outside the Zone.”
The muscles between Ro’s shoulder blades tense, waiting for Audra to ask what an Immie was doing outside the Zone. But the question doesn’t come, and Ro swallows guilt at putting venom in Audra’s mouth before continuing.
“Xal was hurt and . . . accidentally touched me.”
Audra’s eyes widen. Small fingers of panic tap at Ro’s ribs from the inside. Xal’s tone-statements make things so much simpler. With Audra, Ro is lost. Is she jealous? Angry?
At last year’s office holiday party, Audra drunkenly tried to kiss Ro. They had only known each other a short time, and so it was Ro who mumbled apologies and made the effort to explain.
It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not . . . I don’t really date. I don’t like . . . And there, the explanation faltered. Because what could Ro say that Audra would understand? Audra was wholly comfortable in her skin, more so than anyone Ro had ever met. She dated men and women in equal numbers; affection—casual and intimate—came to her as naturally as breath. She drank the world in through her fingertips and remained thirsty for more.
So how could Ro explain a hatred of touch, of flesh? The discomfort of even having a body, let alone one identifying with a single, narrow gender and responding to others sexually?
How could Ro explain it then? How can Ro explain it now? How that night, Ro hadn’t fled, but had remained horrified. How this night, Ro had fled, but wasn’t disgusted.
Audra shakes her head. Amazement? Ro still can’t tell. Xal’s touch was accidental; would emphasizing that help? Audra has been kind, understanding; Ro doesn’t want to see Audra hurt, but the gulf between them is so vast.
Audra wraps her hands around her mug. Steam rises between them. She does not look at Ro.
“So what happened?”
“It tasted like lemons. And it was like being somewhere else.”
“Xal tasted like lemons?”
“No. I mean. I don’t know. Haven’t you ever smelled something and had the taste hit you at the same time? I’m explaining it badly.”
“No.” Audra draws the word out. She looks at her hands, her expression guarded, like she wants to say more, but silence stretches between them.
Ro feels a pang of guilt, threaded with a flutter of panic, imagining Audra wants to put her hand over Ro’s. A comforting gesture; it’s what Audra would do if she was sitting with anyone else. Ro has seen it, the way Audra leans into their other co-workers—a nudge from her hip to emphasize a joke, a sympathetic hand on an arm, a head, comfortably resting on a shoulder. Even when it isn’t sexual, Audra is so casual with her body; Ro can’t begin to understand it.
“I have to go back for my messenger bag,” Ro says, abrupt, standing.
“But . . . ” Hurt flickers in Audra’s eyes, this time unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” Ro says.
It feels like fleeing again. The phantom of Xal’s touch lingers, but it doesn’t have half the weight of Audra’s gaze. Still, Ro rubs the spot again, pushing out the door. A light drizzle mists the air. Hairs rise on Ro’s arm, catching the moisture. Ro rubs harder, half expecting to see translucence and hollow bones like glass—flesh both there and not there in the aftermath of Xal’s touch.
Instead of going back to the Zone, Ro goes home, climbing three flights to a small apartment, boots heavy on each step. Guilt prickles, and with it, something else. Curiosity.
Ro crosses to the window, touching the glass. It’s cool, and condensation forms a halo in the shape of a hand. Drawing away, there is a space left—defined by the imprint of four fingers, a palm, a thumb. And in the place of flesh, droplets of water cling to the window, heavy with the light and shimmering like stars.
Nerves flutter in Ro’s stomach. The memory of rain glistens on the bike, still chained at the Zone’s entrance. Ro brushes fingertips over the metal frame in passing. Never has the walk to Xal’s shop seemed longer. Never has the jigsaw of uneven pavement, brick, and stone seemed such an impediment.
Ro tries to think of anything written or said about physical contact between humans and Immies, but comes up empty. If it’s done, it’s a private thing. Does everyone taste lemons, feel the snap of electricity? The Immie community is so small. Maybe Ro is the first, the only one.
But who is there to ask? The other couriers don’t travel into the Zone. Scarcely any humans do. Ro has never seen another human walking the shattered streets. Which makes the kitschy human ornaments crowding the walls in Xal’s shop even sadder.
Ro pauses, wondering if Xal has ever made a sale, if the shipments Ro regularly delivers ever leave the shop again, or only sit there gathering dust.
Why, Ro wonders. Aliens came to their world. Shouldn’t people be excited, curious? But they don’t seem to be. It’s not fear exactly, but more a way of not seeing, Ro supposes. Turning a blind eye to what is inconvenient, uncomfortable. Like the government pretending the Zone is only temporary. Like the refugee camps that never empty. Like racial tension, poverty, homophobia. If the problem is ignored long enough, perhaps it will simply go away.
Ro pauses before pushing open Xal’s door; the bell jangles. The courier bag, now empty, waits on the counter. And Xal waits behind it, limbs no longer bunched in pain, but held inward careful, betraying tension. Ro’s throat is dry; it takes a moment to get the words out.
“How are you feeling?”
There’s no sign of the wound. Ro can’t tell whether it’s healed completely, or whether Xal is simply hiding it. Limbs fold and unfold, a rippling effect unsettling the first time Ro saw it. Now it’s almost comforting.
Today, Xal is gray-green, but with shades of violet. Ro thinks of sea anemones, rocks grown over with lichen, algae stirred by gentle waves.
::Tone—Relief/Query: Unhurt, now. Are you well.::
Ro nods.
“I’m sorry for running out yesterday. It’s just . . . ” Trying to explain things to Audra was awkward enough. They share common language, context.
“I forgot my bag.” Ro points; it is a cowardly change of subject, but safer ground.
Ro touches the bag, but makes no move toward the door. Xal seems watchful, even without visible eyes. But what else? Hurt? Confused? Ro is suddenly aware of standing stiff, one arm crossed to hold the opposite elbow, lips parted as if to speak. Flesh again—bodies speaking a language Ro can’t understand. It’s all so useless. So . . .
“I want you to touch me again.” The words come in a rush too quick for regret. Heat suffuses cheeks, another betrayal, and Ro almost flees.
But the shop bell stays silent. Ro’s boots remain planted on the floor.
“I mean if . . . it didn’t hurt you? If . . . if it’s okay.”
Pulse beats under jawline, at wrists and elbows. Xal furls and unfurls, the there and not there-ness coming across as deliberation, physically rolling and weighing the request.
::Tone—Hesitation/Query: It does not hurt. Why do you want this.::
“I don’t know.”
It’s the most honest answer Ro can give. A
paradox blooms, a strange, fractal bruise centered at the site of Xal’s last touch. It spreads outward, re-writing Ro’s hardwired code. Ro wants this. No, Ro needs this.
“What was it like for you?” Ro’s eyes slide closed; it’s easier to speak this way, even if it means having to ignore the extra weight of tears just starting to frost lashes. “I don’t want to impose, is what I mean. I don’t normally like . . . But this was different. I tasted lemons.”
The ache is physical—a desire to step off the edge, precisely because it is unsafe, unknown. There are blank spaces defined by broken buildings, by the ghost of a handprint. They are defined by lack—not by something missing precisely, simply by something not there. They are possibility, made manifest.
In that brief moment, Ro had the sense of Xal’s touch being like the ideal of falling into the night sky, being weightless and rushing so fast between stars their light draws blood. That paradox bruising Ro’s skin—the contradiction of making the unknown known and erasing the infinite possibility—is too attractive.
“I can’t explain.” Ro’s throat aches around the inadequacy of words.
A heartbeat. A space of silence. Eyes open. Ro consciously remembers to breathe. Xal is watchful, even without eyes. There is the same sense of consideration in the roiling movements, colors flickering, limbs furling and unfurling.
::Tone—Statement/Uncertainty: It is curious. No other humans come here. To touch would be to know more.::
Ro lets out a rush of breath.
“You’re sure?”
::Tone—Anticipation/Fear: The store is closed.::
At first, Ro doesn’t understand. Then Xal touches a switch and the lights dim, leaving only the faint glow of emergency lighting. Understanding crashes in: This is agreement, consent. Xal is giving them privacy.
::Tone—Anticipation/Fear: Ro. Put your arm on the counter.::
Ro hesitates only a moment, breathes out, then rests both arms, wrist up, on the glass. In the dimness, Xal is both easier and harder to see. Red light from the emergency exit sign traces contours and makes flesh the color of water over gray-green stone glow.
Ro tries not to flinch, pressing arms against the countertop to keep from shaking. Xal’s . . . arm? Leg? Is there a human word for it? Extends slowly, waits the space of a heartbeat, then surrounds Ro’s flesh, passing through and into it.
