You will never forget us! You will never look at a fire without remembering Caa! You will never look at emerald or silver without remembering how it all fell into dust and you will never, never take another of my sisters from me!
As blood soaks her feet, she staggers up the rocky steps.
She can’t see walls through the flames. She can’t see Tounee. She shuts her eyes and runs.
“Jiresh! Stop!”
Tounee climbs blackened steps into the streets, where the fire surrounds her like Dutash’s arms. Where is her sister? The fight is over.
The suns are getting hotter.
Tounee runs and Dutash runs and there are no sounds of life, only fragmented city-pieces and bones under their feet.
You will remember us!
Jiresh’s voice is fainter now. The suns are hurting Dutash, who stumbles. Sisters across the city fall. “Tounee!” Dutash gasps. “Tounee, where are you?” She weeps, and the fire burns away every drop. She longs for the desert and her sister and a time when—she cannot think of a time she wants. But each memory of Caa is an agony. Fire and bones and our enemies’ blood running over her hands for the first time in her life.
She wishes she hadn’t followed Jiresh. “Tounee.” Like her sisters, she falls.
A murmur from the flames: They’ll never forget us. Never.
“Never,” sisters whisper and bark across the city, as the fire blisters their skin. Some still have the energy to run. Some almost make it to the gates.
Jiresh feels her sisters in the flames and presses against them, finally afraid of her death, seeking comfort.
Never.
Tounee, who turned away from the killing to follow her reluctant sister, reaches the place where a great arch once stood, and doors of wood and bronze. Through the flames she sees a horizon. She sees Dutash, fallen on the ground, too fire-blind to see the way out. She barks in joy. Nothing. She bites.
“Tou…”
Tounee grabs onto Dutash’s elbow and begins dragging her, though the fire is burning her eyes and her body.
•
An hour after Tounee drags Dutash into one of the streams feebly running between burned, bone-covered fields, the fire dies down. Black dust remains. For months it blows through the desert, and there is no one who does not know its source.
•
Two sisters walk with the wind at their backs, blind, lost.
•
We find them. We who went to Caa to find the remains of our sisters bring them slowly back to the place where we have buried Nishir and Aree. As the wind speckles our skin with black, we wait—afraid and determined, angry and grieving.
•
Narrative Only
Kate Harrad
Today, as specified, my nose is like a gondola at twilight. Like the arch of a lover’s back. Like the angled ruin of a Roman temple. I have a flair for describing noses, and the iTem has responded magnificently: I have been admiring it for some Ame. Today’s nose chimes in perfectly with today’s body; which, since you ask, is tall, olive-skinned and black-haired. I have hips you could stop a train with. Child-bearing hips, if…
I can’t change my eyes. The technology is there, and my descriptive powers are certainly up to it, but Jani asked me not to. I’m okay with it. I don’t even wear coloured contact lenses, although the pale blue of my pupils is not in any way working with today’s complexion. Never mind. I don’t have to go anywhere today; not that anyone would comment if I did. The range of bodies out there, for those who still have bodies, is now limited only by the imagination of their owners.
I peer under my hair at my ears, just to check.
As I expected, my ears are mundane.
I never got the hang of ears, I don’t have anything interesting to say about them.
Sometimes the iTem creates tiny pointy ears for me, or large floppy ones.
Or on one memorable occasion Mickey Mouse ears, which did not assist with the femme fatale look I’d been going for that day.
Now I ask for “normal-looking ears” every morning and it obliges.
If it gets bored, it doesn’t say so.
“Nice nose,” says Jani.
“The curviness is also appreciated. Yesterday you were a bit bony, I thought.”
Why would you care, I think, but don’t say.
What I say is: “I thought you’d like the nose. I think I’m going to save the specifications for this one.”
“Save the body specs too,” she says.
“Jθ”
“Smile,” I respond, and the iTem transcribes it into a smiley face for me.
The more advanced ones add emoticons based on the tone of your voice, but we couldn’t afford that for mine.
All the money went on Jani’s equipment.
If I sound resentful, I’m not: not about the money.
I miss Jani’s body, that’s all there is to it.
I knew I would.
I don’t know if she realizes how much I miss it.
Sometimes when she’s asleep—insofar as she sleeps—I talk to my friend Rallen, who is also in what we refer to as a “mixed marriage.”
He finds it hard too.
He misses Fi’s body, he says, but more than that he misses his voice.
Fi and Jani both incorporated their voices into their NO personas, but there’s an overlay of metal there now. Not like a robot.
More like a background thrumming, the faraway noise of a train, echoing against their words. I’m not used to it yet. It’s only been six months since Jani went NO.
Maybe I’ll adjust. Oh well.
I glance at Jani. Her text says she’s getting dressed.
Pictures flicker along the screen: different coloured jeans, boots, high-heeled sandals.
“I feel butch today,” she says to herself/to me.
“Black corduroys, white tee shirt, no bra. Approve?”
“Sounds great,” I say. “Very sexy.”
The picture settles into Jani’s image of herself for the day. She’s given herself a buzzcut, I notice, to go with the outfit. Tomorrow she might have waist-length ringlets and a plunging red velvet dress: it’s one of the advantages for her, of being NO.
“But I can do that too!” I shouted at her once, during an argument soon after the translation.
“If you just want to change your body, change it! Why do you have to go narrative-only?”
But I knew the answers.
She wants to be at the cutting edge. She wants to escape the limitations of physicality.
And she wants to live forever.
Which she will, provided there’s someone around to keep her charged—me, or one of the robotboys you can hire for more—or—less eternity.
So I didn’t finish the argument. No point: it was already too late. Instead I lay awake listening to the gentle chatter of her iTem, The words scrolling down the screen in curly night font:
•
“I dream of fish, of endless schools of silver minnows in a sea of ink.
I dream of ice trapped in fire.
I dream that I have to travel across the world but I only have a canoe made of fox skin.
I dream of Lanh.”
At least I’m in her dreams.
The day, the day of my Roman gondola nose, passes quietly. We work. We have lunch together: I eat a sandwich, she produces a vivid and evocative paragraph about her smoked salmon and brie salad. That evening, while she goes to a NO e-party, I look for Rallen online. He’s there, but something has changed. He doesn’t need to tell me what it is.
“You did it.”
“Yes.”
We both fall silent for a moment.
“I had to,” he types, eventually. “Living with Fi, my body started seeming so…physical, so cumbersome. He kept going on about how free he was.”
I type quickly, overlapping with him: “But what’s it like now? Is it worth it?”
The screen is quiet for a moment, then Rallen says: “Lanh, you have to do i
t.
If you love Jani. Trust me.”
The next morning, I look in the mirror. I admire my height, my hips, my skin. I admire my nose. It will be my last nose. I’m glad it was so impressive.
“Jani,” I say.
“Lanh?”
“It’s Ame. I’m translating myself today.”
She doesn’t speak: instead she breaks out into a shower of glowing colours, a rainbow disco ball. Triumphant music plays as I programme the iTem to upgrade itself, to narrativise me. Jani and I will share our story from now on. It will be okay.
And—finally, wonderfully—we can have sequels.
•
Nine
Days
and
Seven Tears
JL Merrow
“You don’t get seals on the Isle of Wight, Briony Brain-dead. It was probably a rock. A big, fat, rock.” Col punctuated his words with wide-armed gestures, and when he’d finally shut his stupid mouth, he blew out his cheeks.
I pretended to yawn. Maybe I wasn’t a stick insect with a pair of melons for boobs, like all the girls in the porno mags he kept hidden in an old Airfix kit box under his bed, but so bloody what?
Maybe I’d skip pudding tonight, though. Well, depending on what it was. Mum did some great puddings.
“I know what I saw, all right? Anyway, they had a bloody whale in the Thames. Why can’t we get a seal blown off course ’round here or something?” I didn’t even realize I was standing there with my hands on my hips until he started mimicking me. I shoved my fists in my pockets and stomped along the sea wall away from him.
God, I hated this place. Nothing here but sand and sea, and people who remembered every daft thing you did when you were a kid.
All right. I didn’t hate the place. Maybe I even loved it, with the fresh island breezes and the smell of the sea everywhere you went. But I didn’t love the lack of opportunities and the narrow-mindedness. There’s a reason the word “insular” comes from the word “island.” I was stuck here, fresh out of uni with a degree no one wanted and no bloody job. Not likely to find one round here either, but I’d have to be mad to leave home without some money coming in, wouldn’t I?
Col didn’t care. He had it all planned out. He was going to finish at the tech college and get a job stacking shelves somewhere, and live at home so he could spend his pay out drinking with his mates every Friday night, with just enough left over to take his girlfriend out somewhere cheap on Saturday.
I hated her too. Sharp-faced little cow in skinny jeans, always offering to lend me her clothes, like she couldn’t see there were three sizes between us—and that was on one of my good days.
If she’d been here she’d have been laughing at me too. But I knew what I’d seen. I’d seen a seal. Beautiful, it was, with eyes you could dive right into. It’d looked straight at me, head cocked like it was studying me, and then it ducked back under the waves. I’d looked for ages, trying to see it again, until Col came up and asked me why I was staring out to sea like a zombie had come up and eaten my brain. Not that it would have been more than a snack, according to my bloody brother.
I didn’t hate Col. Not really. I just didn’t like him very much, that’s all.
•
I came out again after tea. I’d had two helpings of jam roly-poly just to prove Col hadn’t gotten to me, so I needed the walk. And I wanted to see if she was there again.
I’d decided the seal must have been a she. Too graceful to be male, she was. Maybe I’d only seen a sleek head and the curve of her back as she dived, but I knew she was grace itself. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to watch the sunset gild her fur while I stood on the beach like a love-starved sailor of old, seeing mermaids in the gloaming.
I’d forgotten it would be high tide by then.
The wind was whipping up the waves to crash against the sea wall, sending up clouds of spray that spattered my face and left me tasting salt on my lips. There was no beach left at all, and the gulls were circling high above me, crying at its loss. I shivered, hoping my seal had found somewhere safe to rest for the night.
I turned to walk back home—and almost bumped right into her. Not my seal, of course. A girl. Well, a woman, really; just about my age, to look at her. She’d pulled down the top half of her wetsuit to show her black swimsuit underneath, swelling with the curve of her full breasts.
“Hello,” she said, smiling at me. “I’m not quite sure where I am.”
“Sandown,” I said. “Well, Yaverland, really, this far down, but you won’t have heard of the village.” And I blushed, because there she was, a beautiful woman come out of nowhere, and there I was, getting pernickety about parish boundaries.
She cocked her head to one side, her dark, wet hair drifting in the wind like seaweed in the swell. “Yaverland? I like the name.”
Her accent was strange—reminded me of all those Scandinavian crime shows on the telly, though my swimmer would fill out a Faroe sweater much better than what’s-her-face in that Danish show.
“Where have you come from?” I blurted out.
“Oh, my boat’s out there,” she said, waving an arm vaguely out to sea. I looked, but I couldn’t see a single light. “Like I said, I think I got lost.”
“You swam in from a boat?” My heart felt cold as I looked at the waves thundering against the breakwaters, crushing driftwood to pieces. “You can’t go back in this sea!”
“It’s all right,” she said, her hand soft on my arm. “I’m a very strong swimmer.”
“Look, why don’t you come back to my mum and dad’s? They’re out—it’s ballroom dancing night. You can have a cup of coffee and—” And I can try and stop you swimming to your death.
She looked at me for a long, long moment. “You’re sure? That’s very kind of you. I’m Freyja.”
“Briony,” I said. “And, um, my brother Col’s going to be home, but just ignore him, okay?”
“Ah. I know—I have lots of brothers.” She slipped her hand into the crook of my arm and we set off back home, my skin tingling every time our hips brushed.
•
Col didn’t even look up from his Playstation when we walked in the door. I didn’t want to talk to Freyja with guns blaring in the background, so I took her in the kitchen, ducking under Dad’s freshly-ironed shirts hanging by the door. We sat at the little wooden table with the wonky chairs, breathing in the scents of fabric softener and the lasagna left over from tea.
“How long are you going to be here?” I asked, as I handed her a mug of coffee made with all hot milk to keep out the chill.
She smiled crookedly. “I can’t stay. I need to get back to Hvammstangi—I really shouldn’t be here at all. I don’t know what drew me down here.” As she spoke, she laid her hand, warm from the mug and from the heart of her, on my arm. I placed my own hand over it and twined my fingers into hers, my stomach feeling like it was full of little fishes darting joyfully in all directions. “But I’m glad I came,” she whispered.
“Me too,” I said, and I leaned over the table and dared to kiss her. She tasted of salt and fresh air and freedom, and I pulled her to me, not wanting to let her go.
Her breasts were warm and soft against mine, her skin like velvet. She clambered onto my lap, still half in her wetsuit like a butterfly coming out of its chrysalis, and we clung together, wordless, until she rested her forehead on mine. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Briony.”
I tried to stop her. “No, you can’t go.” I pulled at her wetsuit, but she looked so sad I dropped my hand. “I wish you’d stay,” I whispered, defeated.
“Remember me,” she said softly. “Remember me, and perhaps we’ll meet again.”
“When?”
“Nine days’ time, if you still remember me. Nine days’ time. I can stay that long.”
“Then why not stay with me?” I begged.
“I can’t,” she said. “But I can come to you once more.”
I walked her back to the seafront. The wind was q
uieter now, and the sea was soft and welcoming. Freyja put her hand to the zip of her wetsuit. “Don’t watch me go,” she said, so I turned and walked away, but the splash I listened for never came. For a moment I thought she’d changed her mind, but then I heard her voice on the wind, as if a gull had carried it to me.
“Nine days,” she called. “Remember that, Briony. Nine days, and seven tears!”
•
There’s a lot you can learn in nine days. You can learn all about the different types of seals, and where they live. You can learn that Freyja’s an Icelandic name, and Hvammstangi’s a small town in their north. You can learn that Iceland’s a much more tolerant place than some islands you could think of.
You can realize that if you have to spend many more months here you’ll go mad, and that while hope can inspire you, it can hurt you too.
•
It was a calm, clear night when I went back down to the sea, Mum’s apple crumble and ice cream a cold comfort in my stomach. Nine days, she’d said, and here I was. Maybe I’d already gone mad. After all, who’d seen her, apart from me? Col hadn’t even noticed her passing through.
It wasn’t hard, keeping her second condition, as I sat on the sea wall with my legs dangling over the edge, hugging myself while I let my tears drop into the water. Harder to keep to seven, they flowed so fast, but I hoped she’d forgive me.
I thought I saw my seal, but she was gone before I could blink—and then Freyja was beside me, her wetsuit half undone once more.
“You didn’t forget,” she whispered, and she was crying too.
I pulled her close to me, the soft warmth of her flesh revitalizing me. “You’re like a hot spring,” I told her. “Warmed by the spirits of the earth.”
Freyja cocked her head on one side, and smiled. “And you’re a rock for basking on, heated by the sun.”
“Come and bask with me,” I said, and we stood and walked back to my parents’ house.
I didn’t disturb them, watching telly with Col. I took Freyja straight up to my room. I peeled off her wetsuit and her swimsuit too and left them on my bedroom floor. My breathing hitched as I kissed her full breasts and the curve of her stomach, her body all softness and warmth. I traced her contours with my tongue, which tingled from the sea-salt on her body, and I kissed her lower still, where the milky white of her skin gave way to darkness and musk. I found where the heat of her was centered, and as she opened for me like a sea anemone she arched her back and hummed with pleasure. The scent and the flavor of her almost overwhelming me, I tongued that hard, crimson bud again and again, until Freyja shuddered and came, crying out softly in an ancient language I longed to understand.
Heiresses of Russ 2013 Page 26
