Asimov's Science Fiction - 2014-06

by Penny Publications

  Ravi gripped the ropes tight and scanned the floor for leaks in the dim green light, but saw no water coming in. He leaned his head back against the sphere wall as their craft spun and rose up and up, then down and down on what must have been enormous swells on the sea. Sea foam spat in through the open vents. Rain thundered on the top of their sphere and they could hear screams in the distance.

  "Bappi, Mammi," whined Anu, "I'm scared. I'm going to be sick!"

  "Don't be scared," said Chandni. "This craft was built by very smart people. It will save us."

  "Don't be sick," said Ravi. "Look at the duck. See how comfortable he is? He is not afraid. He knows we will be safe. Watch the duck and you will be all right."

  Indeed, the duck had hunkered down in place and other than the occasional soft "ack, ack," did not seem perturbed. Ravi himself watched the duck and found it calming, the strange vision of this odd visitor with the silly tufts of feathers bouncing on his head. Folk tales told of ancient philosophers whose souls had been reincarnated into ducks. Perhaps their visitor had been a grumpy teacher in some former life, thought Ravi. Or an old soothsayer on the temple steps, chiding passers-by to mend their ways. "Maybe you were like my grandfather, eh?" murmured Ravi. "Proclaiming the end of the world, and yet you take a chance and come ride with us. Do you chide us for our fear or for our hope?"

  Nausea and worry made a battleground of Ravi's stomach as their craft scudded and rolled and rose up and down and spun and wobbled in the wind. He tried to keep an eye on his son and wife—Anu watched the duck with determined fascination, and Chandni had her head leaned back against the sphere wall, eyes closed tight.

  The hours passed as Ravi stood, braced against the storm. He could not say how long it had been when he became aware that the roaring of the wind had stopped. The rain overhead had become only a light patter and the rocking of the sphere was gentle, like in a mother's arms. The duck had tucked its beak under its wing to sleep and Ravi thought that was a good idea.

  He was woken up by the whine of an approaching small outboard motor. "Halloo! Halloo in there!" a man called to them.

  "Hello!" Ravi called back, hoping they had not been discovered by thieves, even though they had nothing to steal.

  "Is everyone all right?"

  Ravi glanced at Anu and Chandni, who were awake and blinking their eyes. "Yes, we are alive."

  "Good. Does anyone need urgent medical care?"

  "No, we are fine!" said Ravi.

  "All right, we are going to tow you to shore. Just stay put."

  "Who are you? Where are we?" asked Chandni.

  "We are fishermen from the village of Mandarmani, near the Rupnaryan River. You are off the coast of the state of Bengal."

  "That's more than a hundred kilometers," said Ravi, marveling at the distance they had traveled, south and west. At least they had not become lost in the swamps of Sundarban. The outboard motor roared louder and he felt the sphere pulled in a purpose ful direction. Ravi could only hope the men who caught them were not pirates. The duck was awake and looking from side to side with a disgruntled "mack... mack... mack..."

  "Just a little bit further, duck," said Chandni, "and we shall all have a good lunch. Except for you. You shall be the lunch."

  "Mammi!" Anu protested. Chandni laughed. "He doesn't understand us, silly. Why should he be upset?"

  After a while, the outboard roar lowered to a tiger's purr. A man slapped the top of their sphere. "Still awake in there? We have come to shallow water. You can get out here and wade your way to shore. Is it all right if I open up?"

  "Yes, please!" said Ravi, dying to breathe air that didn't smell like wet rubber and old rope. He detached the Velcro straps from his waist. Carefully walking around the duck, Ravi pulled aside flaps and unzipped them, opening up triangles of light gray morning sky. A thin man with a short beard and weathered baseball cap smiled in at them.

  Suddenly the duck jumped into the air, deposited a sloppy, smelly poop on the center of the floor, and flew out through the opening. It slapped Ravi's face with its feathers as it ascended, squawking, into the sky.

  The astonished fisherman readjusted his cap and said, "I'm sorry. You should have said you had a loose duck in there. I would have been more careful."

  Ravi waved a hand tiredly. "That's all right. It wasn't my duck. It was just hitching a ride. Thank you for coming to our aid."

  "It is nothing," said the fisherman. "We men of the sea, we help each other, yes? Now we must go help others. Salaam alaikum."

  "And with you," said Ravi. As the little white fishing boat sped off in a cloud of oil smoke, Ravi unzipped the rest of one of the side pieces, like the rind of a section of an orange, and he slipped into the water. The warm sea was only as deep as his knees and his feet sank into soft sand. He pulled the rubber plug on a couple of tubes so that the sphere could slowly deflate. "You can unstrap now, but stay inside until we reach shore." Muscles tight and numb from the ordeal, Ravi turned toward a palm-fringed beach and began to walk, pulling the sphere behind him.

  "Oh, I am having none of this," said Chandni, and she jumped into the water beside him. "I could not stand to be in there any longer. Like riding in a soccer ball. I am sure the air is unhealthy. Anu, come out!" "In a minute, Mammi. I found something." Chandni turned. "Anu! Get your hand out of that duck poop at once! That is filthy!"

  "But Mammi, look! I found something!"

  "I will not look! You get that stinky filth off your hands at once!"

  Ravi managed a dry chuckle, for he was once a little boy too. Anu splashed into the water to his left and said, "Look, Bappi, look! The duck left us a gift." He held up a slimy palm, in the middle of which was a golden ring. On it was a sapphire bezel surrounded by tiny pearls. Ravi took it, waved it in the sea water and looked at it again. It dazzled his eyes and shook his mind with the very circumstance of its existence. "Where could it have come from?" he murmured.

  "The duck must have nibbled it with the seaweed," said Chandni. "So many things were left behind over the years, while the water rose. Old Fatima, two houses down, said her husband, on one salvage dive, found a gold bracelet. Too bad the duck flew away—I could have slit its belly and found what else it had eaten."

  "Mammi!"

  From the weight of it, Ravi was certain the sapphire was genuine. He had never held anything of such value, except... he turned to Chandni. "You know, I have never been able to give you any jewelry—"

  "Don't be foolish." Chandni closed his fingers over the ring in his palm. "We will need to get home and then to buy a new home when we get there. Keep this safe, so no one takes it."

  Ravi slipped the ring into his pants pocket, the one without the holes. The sky turned golden above him and he looked around and beheld a sight as strange and beautiful as the sapphire. The storm was passing to the north and rays of the morning sun radiated from its trailing edge like a crown. Storm spheres were scattered across the calm bay like giant coriander seeds of orange and tan. Cries of "Halloo, halloo" echoed through the quiet morning air as fishing boats slowly and carefully checked each sphere and towed them to shore, across water the color of molten silver.

  Spheres from Mars were bearing lowly Bangla fisherfolk to safety. A duck had left a prize of wondrous wealth. They had suffered through a great cyclone's immense fury, and yet his family was alive and together and right beside him. Grandfather had been wise, but he had not foreseen everything.

  * * *

  ORMONDE AND CHASE

  Ian Creasey | 5140 words

  Ian Creasey's tale "Erosion" ( October/November 2009) has recently been reprinted in 21st Century Science Fiction (Tor). The anthology showcases "the new science fiction writers of the new century." Of his latest story, Ian says, "I bought my house a decade ago, it came with a garden, and so I became a gardener by default. I gradually started to enjoy it, as I labored to grow my own fruit and flowers." Thinking about the future of gardens, and what kinds of plants might be grown, inspired him to write..
.

  As we waited for any potential customers to arrive, I stared out of the showroom window into the garden full of celebrities sprouting from the soil. This early in spring, most of the plants hadn't yet reached resemblance: the flower-buds were tiny blank faces, gradually developing features. Only the cyclamen—Harriet's self-portrait—was in full bloom. Their pink flowers smiled in the sun, looking cheerier than Harriet had done for some time. A pioneer in pomonics, she'd created all this floral art. But at the height of a recession, few people had money to spare on customized flowers. Most of our visitors came to complain about something.

  "Look at that!" said Lorraine Schuster, wheeling a large potted plant into the showroom.

  "Ah yes, your mother." I beamed heartily. "Splendid foliage."

  "Look!" she repeated. "This isn't good enough, Travis."

  I bent down to inspect the plant. As I approached the blooms, I got a strong whiff of Chanel No. 5, Mrs. Schuster's favorite perfume in life. No problem there. I peered at the flower-heads, and tried to remember Mrs. Schuster's appearance from the photographs provided last year. The match seemed close enough, within the limits of horticultural portraiture. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

  "Warts!" Lorraine exclaimed. "Can't you see them?"

  Tiny brown specks disfigured several of the papery faces. "I see them," I said. "Weren't they there originally?"

  "They certainly were not."

  I glanced at Harriet, hoping she would come and help me out, but she stared at a screen full of genetics schematics, showing no sign of having heard anyone arrive. I'd found it hard enough persuading her to even sit here during showroom hours, and now I wondered why I bothered. She showed less and less interest in the clients who financed her art.

  Troublesome customers were my domain as her business manager. As politely as I could manage, I asked Lorraine, "Have you been spraying regularly?"

  "How should I know?" she said waspishly. "My housekeeper looks after them."

  I took some Vita-Pom from the shelf. "Then tell her to spray against bugs and viruses. As you're a valued customer, I'll give you two bottles for the price of one."

  "You charged me a fortune for this plant," Lorraine said. "I refuse to pay extra for whatever fripperies you're trying to fob off on me. Your plants should be virus resistant in the first place."

  I looked at Harriet again, but even this insult to her handiwork didn't rouse her.

  "If you leave your mother with us, I'll see what we can do." I gave Lorraine my best mollifying smile, and soon found myself smiling at her ample rear as she stalked out of the showroom.

  Well, at least she hadn't demanded her money back. It would have been very difficult for us to comply.

  "Harriet, my dear?" I inquired.

  "Oh, just spray it!" she said, in an irritated tone.

  So she'd been listening, after all. I hoped her irritation was directed at the client's lack of aftercare, because I didn't like to consider the alternatives. As I sprayed the plant, Mrs. Schuster's dozen faces all gave me a warty disapproving glare.

  I'd just wheeled Mrs. Schuster aside when a man walked into the showroom. He wore black jeans, and a black T-shirt with a logo of a clenched fist. His facial hair resided somewhere in the limbo between weekend stubble and nascent beard. I didn't recognize him as an old customer, but I hoped he would become a new one.

  "Good morning," he said. "I'd like to discuss a commission."

  "Certainly," I replied. "Harriet, could you come over?"

  She grudgingly joined us on the cluster of easy chairs next to the showroom window, overlooking the gardens and the Devon countryside. I poured out three cups of coffee.

  "This is Harriet Ormonde, who does all the design work," I said. "I'm Travis Chase, her partner and business manager."

  "My name's Dean Hudson," the new arrival said, "and I'm with the Austerity Rebels."

  "The protest group?" I asked.

  He smiled, clearly mistaking my recognition for sympathy. "Yes, that's right. We've got a great project for you: it's part of our anti-austerity campaign. We want you to create the whole government in eff igy. Then on Bonf ire Night, we'll burn them! Everyone will do it, all across the country. Britain will be united in protest, and the strength of feeling will show—"

  I sensed that this peroration might continue for some time, so I interrupted to say, "The whole government is quite large, if you want all the cabinet ministers. We can give you a bulk discount, but I assume you realize this won't be cheap."

  "Unfortunately, we can't afford to pay you." Hudson spread his arms wide. "Times are hard—that's what we're protesting against," he said, as though this was an incontrovertible argument in support of demanding a freebie.

  "Times are hard indeed," I replied sternly, "which is why we can't afford to work for nothing." I stood up, dismissing him. "Good day to you."

  Hudson ignored this, and addressed himself to Harriet. "Ms. Ormonde," he said, "we're great admirers of your work. That's why I've come. We know you could do a fantastic job of lampooning these politicians. You can make them ludicrous, make them hideous, make them poisonous—anything at all, as long as they're flammable."

  "Ah, negative qualities," said Harriet. "It would be an intriguing challenge. There are lots of possibilities, apart from the obvious thorns, stings, and bad smells. To represent someone as rapacious, we can use a carnivorous plant, or a parasite—"

  As soon as she said "we," I knew that she was in danger of being persuaded. "Harriet, darling..."

  She continued as if she hadn't heard me. "Some plants are nocturnal, for those politicians who have something of the night about them. Others are weeds, or they're invasive, or they flourish in the shade—"

  Hudson gazed at her in fascination, or a flattering facsimile of it. "This is great stuff," he said. "Carry on."

  She was already carrying on. "Then we come to the payload, the part of the plant that actually bears the resemblance. If it's a root or tuber, you have someone who's sticking their head in the ground, refusing to see reality—"

  "Such as the reality that we can't afford to give away freebies," I interrupted.

  "Think of it as advertising," Hudson said. "We'd need lots of seeds to distribute across the country, so everyone can grow the government for their own bonfire. Each packet of seeds would have your logo on it, your accompanying brochure, your special offer for an introductory purchase. You'd reach so many people!"

  "And alienate half of our existing clients," I said, "who voted for the party that you want to burn."

  Hudson raised his hands placatingly. "I can see you're not convinced, but I won't press you." He looked at Harriet and said, "I'll leave you my card, in case you change your mind. There's plenty of time—Bonfire Night isn't till November. It could be a little side-project to occupy any spare moments. I understand that paid work takes priority...."

  The showroom door opened, and a woman walked in with a terrier on a long leash. The dog scurried toward us, yapping madly, jumping up onto our legs. I suppressed a smile as it left muddy pawprints on Hudson's pristine jeans.

  "Down, Sprocket," cooed the owner. "Oooh, you're so naughty. Aren't you? Aren't you naughty? Yes, you are. Get down!"

  Hudson hurried to the door, spluttering his farewells. "Welcome to Ormonde and Chase," I said to the woman, mentally sizing up her clothes and jewelry to figure out her price range.

  "I'd like to commission one of your plant portraits," she said. "Can you do dogs?"

  "Of course we can do dogs. We can do them in dogwood, if you like." I turned to Harriet. "Can't we, dear?"

  Harriet looked at the manic terrier, then back at me, her face devoid of expression. "Yes, I suppose we can."

  She put Hudson's business card into her pocket.

  When I first met Harriet, she was an administrator by day and an artist by night. She tinkered with plants and grew strange little chimeras: toothwort that looked like fingers, dandelions with smiling faces. I offered to sell a f
ew for her. I didn't expect to make any money, but I wanted an excuse to see her again. I was already charmed by her earnestness, the way she was equally serious when discussing pomonics or ice-cream flavors. She didn't have the irony gene that protects people from having to care about anything.

  In those days her signature color was turquoise: she wore bright nail polish, and her earrings had tiny dangling gemstones like captive specks of sky. Sometimes she would dye a turquoise streak into her dark hair.

  I had no sense of personal style; I just wore whatever seemed least likely to scare off customers. But Harriet took me round charity shops and showed me all the old fashions, preserved like strata, and she picked out shirts for me that actually had more than one color in them. The customers didn't seem to mind. After all, we didn't sell paper-clips—we sold botanical art. Our looks were as individual as our artworks.

  By then I'd dropped my other products to concentrate on Harriet's pomonics, and she'd gleefully abandoned her day job. We became Ormonde and Chase, partners in business and in life. As the orders rolled in, I ploughed the money into more land for gardens and greenhouses.

  In retrospect, after seeing the démodé goods in all those charity shops, I should have realized that no fashion lasts forever.

  Strolling through the grounds after a long day updating the O&C website, I encountered a forest of prickly cacti with bulbous heads just beginning to develop faces.

  I was accustomed to the way the gardens changed each week. Accelerated growth is an essential facet of pomonics, alongside grafts and splices. But I immediately knew that the cacti weren't on our slim list of current commissions.