Michelle looked through pages of followup. The gun that had shot the four men had never been found, though nearby canals were dragged. Two of the foreigners had survived the fight, though one died eight weeks later from complications of an operation. The survivor maintained his innocence and claimed that a complete stranger had opened fire on him and his friends, but the judges hadn’t believed him and sent him to prison. He lived a great many years and died in the Lightspeed War, along with most people caught in prisons during that deadly time.
One of the four men was Belorussian. Another Ukrainian. Another two Moldovan. All had served in the Soviet military in the past, in the Fourteenth Army in Transnistria. It frustrated Michelle that she couldn’t shout back in time to tell the Italians to connect these four to the murder of another ex-Soviet, seven weeks earlier, in Paris.
What the hell had Pais and Terzian been up to? Why were all these people with Transnistrian connections killing each other, and Pais?
Maybe it was Pais they’d been after all along. Her records at Santa Croce were missing, which was odd, because other personnel records from the time had survived. Perhaps someone was arranging that certain things not be known.
She tried a search on Santa Croce itself, and slogged through descriptions and mentions of a whole lot of Italian churches, including the famous one in Florence where Terzian and Pais had been seen at Machiavelli’s tomb. She refined the search to the Santa Croce relief organization, and found immediately the fact that let it all fall into place.
Santa Croce had maintained a refugee camp in Moldova during the civil war following the establishment of Transnistria. Michelle was willing to bet that Stephanie Pais had served in that camp. She wondered if any of the other players had been residents there.
She looked at the list of the other camps that Santa Croce had maintained in that period, which seemed to have been a busy one for them. One name struck her as familiar, and she had to think for a moment before she remembered why she knew it. It was at a Santa Croce camp in the Sidamo province of Ethiopia where the Green Leopard Plague had first broken out, the first transgenic epidemic.
It had been the first real attempt to modify the human body at the cellular level, to help marginal populations synthesize their own food, and it had been primitive compared to the more successful mods that came later. The ideal design for the efficient use of chlorophyll was a leaf, not the homo sapien—the designer would have been better advised to create a plague that made its victims leafy, and later designers, aiming for the same effect, did exactly that. And Green Leopard’s designer had forgotten that the epidermis already contains a solar-activated enzyme: melanin. The result on the African subjects was green skin mottled with dark splotches, like the black spots on an implausibly verdant leopard.
The Green Leopard Plague broke out in the Sidamo camp, then at other camps in the Horn of Africa. Then it leaped clean across the continent to Mozambique, where it first appeared at a Oxfam camp in the flood zone, spread rapidly across the continent, then leaped across oceans. It had been a generation before anyone found a way to disable it, and by then other transgenic modifiers had been released into the population, and there was no going back.
The world had entered Terzian’s future, the one he had proclaimed at the Conference of Classical and Modern Thought.
What, Michelle thought excitedly, if Terzian had known about Green Leopard ahead of time? His Cornucopia Theory had seemed prescient precisely because Green Leopard appeared just a few weeks after he’d delivered his paper. But if those Eastern bloc thugs had been involved somehow in the plague’s transmission, or were attempting to prevent Pais and Terzian from sneaking the modified virus to the camps ….
Yes! Michelle thought exultantly. That had to be it. No one had ever worked out where Green Leopard originated, but there had always been suspicion directed toward several semi-covert labs in the former Soviet empire. There was it. The only question was how Terzian, that American in Paris, had got involved ….
It had to be Stephanie, she thought. Stephanie, who Terzian had loved and who had loved him, and who had involved him in the desperate attempt to aid refugee populations.
For a moment, Michelle bathed in the beauty of the idea. Stephanie, dedicated and in love, had been murdered for her beliefs—realdeath!—and Terzian, broken-hearted, had carried on and brought the future—Michelle’s present—into being. A wonderful story! And no one had known it till now, no one had understood Stephanie’s sacrifice, or Terzian’s grief … not until the lonely mermaid, working in isolation on her rock, had puzzled it out.
“Hello, Michelle,” Darton said.
Michelle gave a cry of frustration and glared in fury down at her lover. He was in a yellow plastic kayak—kayaking was popular here, particularly in the Rock Islands—and had slipped his electric-powered boat along the margin of the island, moving in near-silence. He looked grimly up at her from below the pitcher plant that dangled below the overhang.
They had rebuilt him, of course, after his death. All the data was available in backup, in Delhi where he’d been taken apart, recorded, and rebuilt as an ape. He was back in a conventional male body, with the broad shoulders and white smile and short hairy bandy legs she remembered.
Michelle knew that he hadn’t made any backups during their time in Belau. He had his memories up to the point where he’d lain down on the nanobed in Delhi. That had been the moment when his love of Michelle had been burning its hottest, when he had just made the commitment to live with Michelle as an ape in the Rock Islands.
That burning love had been consuming him in the weeks since his resurrection, and Michelle was glad of it, had been rejoicing in every desperate, unanswered message that Darton sent sizzling through the ether.
“Damn it,” Michelle said, “I’m working.”
“I don’t understand,” Darton said. “We were in love. We were going to be together.”
“I’m not talking to you,” Michelle said. She tried to concentrate on her video display.
“We were still together when the accident happened,” Darton said. “I don’t understand why we can’t be together now.”
“I’m not listening, either,” said Michelle.
“I’m not leaving, Michelle!” Darton screamed. “I’m not leaving till you talk to me!”
White cockatoos shrieked in answer. Michelle quietly picked up her deck, rose to her feet, and headed inland. The voice that followed her was amplified, and she realized that Darton had brought his bullhorn.
“You can’t get away, Michelle! You’ve got to tell me what happened!”
I’ll tell you about Lisa Lee, she thought, so you can send her desperate messages, too.
Michelle had been deliriously happy for her first month in Belau, living in arboreal nests with Darton and spending the warm days describing their island’s unique biology. It was their first vacation, in Prague, that had torn Michelle’s happiness apart. It was there that they’d met Lisa Lee Baxter, the American tourist who thought apes were cute, and who wondered what these shaggy kids were doing so far from an arboreal habitat.
It wasn’t long before Michelle realized that Lisa Lee was at least two hundred years old, and that behind her diamond-blue eyes was the withered, mummified soul that had drifted into Prague from some waterless desert of the spirit, a soul that required for its continued existence the blood and vitality of the young. Despite her age and presumed experience, Lisa Lee’s ploys seemed to Michelle to be so obvious, so blatant. Darton fell for them all.
It was only because Lisa Lee had finally tired of him that Darton returned to Belau, chastened and solemn and desperate to be in love with Michelle again. But by then it was Michelle who was tired. And who had access to Darton’s medical records from the downloads in Delhi.
“You can’t get away, Michelle!”
Well, maybe not. Michelle paused with one hand on the banyan
’s trunk. She closed her deck’s display and stashed it in a mesh bag with some of her other stuff, then walked out again on the overhanging limb.
“I’m not going to talk to you like this,” she said. “And you can’t get onto the island from that side, the overhang’s too acute.”
“Fine,” Darton said. The shouting had made him hoarse. “Come down here, then.”
She rocked forward and dived off the limb. The salt water world exploded in her senses. She extended her wings and fluttered close to Darton’s kayak, rose, and shook sea water from her eyes.
“There’s a tunnel,” she said. “It starts at about two meters and exits into the lake. You can swim it easily if you hold your breath.”
“All right,” he said. “Where is it?”
“Give me your anchor.”
She took his anchor, floated to the bottom, and set it where it wouldn’t damage the live coral.
She remembered the needle she’d taken to Jellyfish Lake, the needle she’d loaded with the mango extract to which Darton was violently allergic. Once in the midst of the jellyfish swarm, it had been easy to jab the needle into Darton’s calf, then let it drop to the anoxic depths of the lake.
He probably thought she’d given him a playful pinch.
Michelle had exulted in Darton’s death, the pallor, the labored breathing, the desperate pleading in the eyes.
It wasn’t murder, after all, just a fourth-degree felony. They’d build a new Darton in a matter of days. What was the value of a human life, when it could be infinitely duplicated, and cheaply? As far as Michelle was concerned, Darton had amusement value only.
The rebuilt Darton still loved her, and Michelle enjoyed that as well, enjoyed the fact that she caused him anguish, that he would pay for ages for his betrayal of her love.
Lisa Lee Baxter could take a few lessons from the mermaid, Michelle thought.
Michelle surfaced near the tunnel and raised a hand with the fingers set at
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Michelle replied. “You go first. I’ll follow and pull you out if you get in trouble.”
He loved her, of course. That was why he panted a few times for breath, filled his lungs, and dove.
Michelle had not, of course, bothered to mention that the tunnel was fifteen meters long, quite far to go on a single breath. She followed him, very interested in how this would turn out, and when Darton got into trouble in one of the narrow places and tried to back out, she grabbed his shoes and held him right where he was.
He fought hard but none of his kicks struck her. She would remember the look in his wide eyes for a long time, the thunderstruck disbelief in the instant before his breath exploded from his lungs and he died.
She wished that she could speak again the parting words she’d whispered into Darton’s ear when he lay dying on the ridge above Jellyfish Lake. “I’ve just killed you. And I’m going to do it again.”
But even if she could have spoken the words underwater, they would have been untrue. Michelle supposed this was the last time she could kill him. Twice was dangerous, but a third time would be too clear a pattern. She could end up in jail, though, of course, you only did severe prison time for realdeath.
She supposed that she would have to discover his body at some point, but if she cast the kayak adrift, it wouldn’t have to be for a while. And then she’d be thunderstruck and grief-stricken that he’d thrown away his life on this desperate attempt to pursue her after she’d turned her back on him and gone inland, away from the sound of his voice.
Michelle looked forward to playing that part.
She pulled up the kayak’s anchor and let it coast away on the six-knot tide, then folded away her wings and returned to her nest in the banyan tree. She let the breeze dry her skin and got her deck from its bag and contemplated the data about Terzian and Stephanie Pais and the outbreak of the Green Leopard Plague.
Stephanie had died for what she believed in, killed by the agents of an obscure, murderous regime. It had been Terzian who had shot those four men in her defense, that was clear to her now. And Terzian, who lived a long time and then died in the Lightspeed War along with a few billion other people, had loved Stephanie and kept her secret till his death, a secret shared with the others who loved Stephanie and who had spread the plague among the refugee populations of the world.
It was realdeath that people suffered then, the death that couldn’t be corrected. Michelle knew that she understood that kind of death only as an intellectual abstract, not as something she would ever have to face or live with. To lose someone permanently … that was something she couldn’t grasp. Even the ancients, who faced realdeath every day, hadn’t been able to accept it, that’s why they’d invented the myth of Heaven.
Michelle thought about Stephanie’s death, the death that must have broken Terzian’s heart, and she contemplated the secret Terzian had kept all those years, and she decided that she was not inclined to reveal it.
Oh, she’d give Davout the facts, that was what he paid her for. She’d tell him what she could find out about Stephanie and the Transnistrians. But she wouldn’t mention the camps that Santa Croce had built across the starvation-scarred world, she wouldn’t point him at Sidamo and Green Leopard. If he drew those conclusions himself, then obviously the secret was destined to be revealed. But she suspected he wouldn’t—he was too old to connect those dots, not when obscure ex-Soviet entities and relief camps in the Horn of Africa were so far out of his reference.
Michelle would respect Terzian’s love, and Stephanie’s secret. She had some secrets of her own, after all.
The lonely mermaid finished her work for the day and sat on her overhanging limb to gaze down at the sea, and she wondered how long it would be before Darton called her again, and how she would torture him when he did.
— With thanks to Dr. Stephen C. Lee.
The Fluted Girl
Paolo Bacigalupi
New writer Paolo Bacigalupi made his first sale in 1998 to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, took a break from the genre for several years, and has returned to it in the new century, with new sales to F&SF and Asimov’s including the powerful story that follows, which gives a new and unsettling meaning to the phrase “performance art.”
The fluted girl huddled in the darkness clutching Stephen’s final gift in her small pale hands. Madame Belari would be looking for her. The servants would be sniffing through the castle like feral dogs, looking under beds, in closets, behind the wine racks, all their senses hungry for a whiff of her. Belari never knew the fluted girl’s hiding places. It was the servants who always found her. Belari simply wandered the halls and let the servants search her out. The servants thought they knew all her hiding places.
The fluted girl shifted her body. Her awkward position already strained her fragile skeleton. She stretched as much as the cramped space allowed, then folded herself back into compactness, imagining herself as a rabbit, like the ones Belari kept in cages in the kitchen: small and soft with wet warm eyes, they could sit and wait for hours. The fluted girl summoned patience and ignored the sore protest of her folded body.
Soon she had to show herself, or Madame Belari would get impatient and send for Burson, her head of security. Then Burson would bring his jackals and they would hunt again, crisscrossing every room, spraying pheromone additives across the floors and following her neon tracks to her hidey-hole. She had to leave before Burson came. Madame Belari punished her if the staff wasted time scrubbing out pheromones.
The fluted girl shifted her position again. Her legs were beginning to ache. She wondered if they could snap from the strain. Sometimes she was surprised at what broke her. A gentle bump against a table and she was shattered again, with Belari angry at the careless treatment of her investment.
The fluted girl sighed. In truth, it was already time to leave her hidey-hole, b
ut still she craved the silence, the moment alone. Her sister Nia never understood. Stephen though … he had understood. When the fluted girl told him of her hidey-hole, she thought he forgave because he was kind. Now she knew better. Stephen had bigger secrets than the silly fluted girl. He had secrets bigger than anyone had guessed. The fluted girl turned his tiny vial in her hands, feeling its smooth glass shape, knowing the amber drops it held within. Already, she missed him.
Beyond her hidey-hole, footsteps echoed. Metal scraped heavily across stone. The fluted girl peered out through a crack in her makeshift fortress. Below her, the castle’s pantry lay jumbled with dry goods. Mirriam was looking for her again, poking behind the refrigerated crates of champagne for Belari’s party tonight. They hissed and leaked mist as Mirriam struggled to shove them aside and look deeper into the dark recesses behind. The fluted girl had known Mirriam when they were both children in the town. Now, they were as different as life and death.
Mirriam had grown, her breasts burgeoning, her hips widening, her rosy face smiling and laughing at her fortune. When they both came to Belari, the fluted girl and Mirriam had been the same height. Now, Mirriam was a grown woman, a full two feet taller than the fluted girl, and filled out to please a man. And she was loyal. She was a good servant for Belari. Smiling, happy to serve. They’d all been that way when they came up from the town to the castle: Mirriam, the fluted girl, and her sister Nia. Then Belari decided to make them into fluted girls. Mirriam got to grow, but the fluted girls were going to be stars.
Mirriam spied a stack of cheeses and hams piled carelessly in one corner. She stalked it while the fluted girl watched and smiled at the plump girl’s suspicions. Mirriam hefted a great wheel of Danish cheese and peered into the gap behind. “Lidia? Are you there?”
The fluted girl shook her head. No, she thought. But you guessed well. A year ago, I would have been. I could have moved the cheeses, with effort. The champagne would have been too much, though. I would never have been behind the champagne.
The Year's Best SF 21 # 2003 Page 46
