"But it's terrible, too,” said Vicky, as the two of them absent-mindedly slid back into the flower cup. Vicky had a definite feeling that she'd just now forgotten something important—but for the moment she couldn't say what.
"Terrible,” echoed Bix. “At least I've been figuring out about the hen while I've been talking to her. I know how to give her some new tasks. She'll help me, now that I gave her what she was after."
"Mama!” called Stoke again—and Vicky remembered what she'd forgotten.
Stoke's presence was like a beacon. Guiding themselves toward his bright vibrations, Vicky and Bix found their way out of the fnoor jungle within the hen.
Vicky hurried across the attic floor to hug her son. And when the hen tried to come after them, Bix made some fancy gestures with his hands, smoothing out the fnoor hen, molding her down to the size and shape of a—
"Tweety bird!” said Stoke over Vicky's shoulder, admiring his father's craft. The fnoor hen had even taken on an iridescent yellow sheen.
"Our friend now,” said Bix, cradling the reshaped fnoor hen.
Smoke was drifting up from downstairs. “Hey, Maricel!” yelled Vicky, peering down through the trapdoor.
"Oh, uh, just a minute,” said Maricel, wandering into view. She was having another cigarette. She glanced up at Vicky. “All set now? I've got Cardo on the phone slug. He's coming right over. Oh—I'm sorry, did little Stoke climb up there?"
"Maricel, you get your scheming ass out of here,” yelled Vicky, coming down the ladder with Stoke right behind her.
"We're not done,” said Maricel. “Not till Cardo gets his morphon muncher user's guide."
"You'll get it all right,” said Bix, descending the ladder with the yellow little fnoor hen perched on his shoulder. He walked outside and set the odd little form on a perch inside the henhouse that was attached to their house's outer wall. The four regular chickens crowded in there too, wanting to check out the fnoor hen. Bix shut the little door, closing them in together.
Cardo arrived then, bopping down the sidewalk in a cloud of pepster music.
"Where's my bird?” he asked Bix.
"She's roosting in my henhouse for a minute,” said Bix. “She told me she'd tidy it up."
"We're all cool?” said Cardo. “You gave her the user's guide?"
"Yeah,” said Bix. “And then she asked me what she should do next. I gave her two more tasks. You want to hear about the task that applies to you?"
"Don't go threatening me,” said Cardo, slicking back his hair. “I carry a gun. And, look, you gotta hand over your squidskin computer, too. Aunt Perla doesn't want you working with Gloze at all anymore."
"I have it here,” called Maricel, coming out of the house with the iridescent tablet in her grip.
"Fine,” said Bix. “I don't need it anymore. I know the code by heart. And now it's time for you guys to leave."
"Look!” yelled Stoke.
The henhouse door had opened halfway and the fnoor hen was fluttering out with her wings a tiny Tweety-bird blur. She changed shape as she moved, growing bigger again—a lot bigger. She caught Maricel and Cardo in fleshy claws made of a zillion tiny biogadgets bunched together.
"Put us down,” yelled Cardo.
Stoke ran to Vicky and climbed into her arms.
"Relax,” Bix told Cardo over the beating of the great fnoor hen's wings. “The bird's taking you two home to the Philippines. Just like you've been wanting all along."
"Let's go for it, Cardo,” cried Maricel.
"Oh, why not,” said Cardo, breaking into a grin. “What the hell."
"We'll need a place to live there,” Maricel yelled to Bix. “Can the fnoor hen bring our house?"
"Sure,” said Bix. “I guess. Do it, fnoor hen."
Growing to the size of a dragon, the fnoor hen buzzed up the block, dropping a couple of feathers the size of palm fronds. Quickly the feathers dissolved into swarms of gnat-like biogadgets that flew up the street then rejoined the mother hen.
With delicate motions of her huge claws, the fnoor hen set Cardo and Maricel on the porch of their cracker-box house. And then she yanked the house loose from its moorings. They rose into the sky—a winged cabin with Cardo and Maricel waving from the porch.
"Wow,” said Vicky. “And what was the other task?"
"More room for our family,” said Bix.
He marched over to the henhouse and swung its door wide open. The henhouse ceiling bulged up like the custad in a Dairy Queen cone, swirling upward toward a central point. The four chickens were fluttering around in the vasty interior, flustered and lost.
"Oh my god,” said Vicky, peering over Bix's shoulder. “It's gone bulbous. Like the inside of a Moscow onion dome! The henhouse is as big as our real house!"
"The fnoor hen warped the space for us,” said Bix. “This way we won't have to move! I'll take off a couple of weeks and work on the place. Put in some flooring, maybe. Wires and pipes. Build a door to connect the dome room to our living-room. And I'll make a new henhouse for you chickens, okay?"
The chickens flapped out to perch again on the tree. They really did look smarter than before.
"You need a rest from the programming,” said Vicky. “You were going too far."
"I need a month or two with you,” agreed Bix. “And then—the meta morphon muncher."
"And the fashion tsunami,” said Vicky, kissing her husband's stubbled cheek.
Copyright © 2011 Rudy Rucker
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Short Story: SMOKE CITY by Christopher Barzak
Christopher Barzak is the author of One for Sorrow, a Crawford Award winner, and The Love We Share Without Knowing, a Nebula nominee for best novel. Christopher wrote the surreal “Smoke City” when he studied the history of Pittsburgh from its geological formations to its acquiring of human residents, and through the ages when humans of various places fought over it. “I was struck by the period of time in which the city was industrialized, a period that is very Steampunk, rickety-click, and how the lives of the majority of the people were rather desperate due to the normalization of exploitation, something that is not unfamiliar today."
One night, I woke to the sound of my mother's voice, as I did when I was a child. The words were familiar to my ear, they matched the voice that formed them, but it was not until I had opened my eyes to the dark of my room and my husband's snoring that I remembered the words were calling me away from my warm bed and the steady breathing of my children, both asleep in their own rooms across the hall. “Because I could not stop for death,” my mother used to tell me, “he kindly stopped for me.” They were Dickinson's words, of course, not my mother's, but she said them as if they were hers, and because of that, they were hers, and because of that, they are now mine, passed down with every other object my mother gave me before I left for what I hoped would be a better world. “Here, take this candy dish.” Her hands pushing the red knobbed glass into my hands. “Here, take this sweater.” Her hands folding it, a made thing, pulled together by her hands, so that I could lift it and lay it on the seat as my car pulled me away. Her hand lifted into the air above her cloud of white hair behind me. The smoke of that other city enveloping her, putting it behind me, trying to put it behind me, until I had the words in my mouth again, like a bit, and then the way opened up beneath me, a fissure through which I slipped, down through the bed sheets, no matter how I grasped at them, down through the mattress, down through the floorboards, down, down, down, through the mud and earth and gravel, leaving my snoring husband and my steadily breathing children above, in that better place, until I was floating, once more, along the swiftly flowing current of the Fourth River.
When I rose up, gasping for air, and blinked the water from my eyes, I saw the familiar cavern lit by lanterns that lined the walls, orange fires burning behind smoked glass. And, not far downstream, his shadow stood along the water's edge, a lantern held out over the slug and tow of the current, waiting, as he was always waiting for
me, there, in that place beneath the three rivers, there in the Fourth River's tunnel that leads to Smoke City.
It was time again, I understood, to attend to my obligations.
* * * *
History always exacts a price from those who have climbed out to live in the world above. There is never a way to fully outrun our beginnings. And here was mine, and he was mine here. I smiled, happy to see him again, the sharp bones of his face gold-leafed by the light of his lantern.
He put out his hand to fish me from the river, and pulled me up to stand beside him. “It is good to see you again, wife,” he said, and I wrapped my arms around him.
"It is good to smell you again, husband,” I said, my face pressed against his thick chest. They are large down here, the men of Smoke City. Their labor makes them into giants.
We walked along the Fourth River's edge, our hands linked between us, until we came to the mouth of the tunnel, where the city tipped into sight below, cupped as it is within the hands of a valley, strung together by the many bridges crossing the rivers that wind round its perimeter. The smoke obscured all but the dark mirrored glass of city towers, which gleamed by the light of the mill-fired skies down in the financial district, where the captains sit around long, polished tables throughout the hours and commit their business.
It did not take the fumes long to find me, the scent of the mills and the sweaty, grease-faced laborers, so that when my husband pulled me toward the carriage at the top of the Incline Passage, a moment passed in which my heart flickered like the flame climbing the wick of his lantern. I inhaled sharply, trying to catch my breath. Already what nostalgia for home I possessed had begun to evaporate as I began to remember, to piece together what I had worked so hard to obscure.
I hesitated at the door of the Incline carriage, looking back at the cavern opening, where the Fourth River spilled over the edge, down into the valley, but my husband placed two fingers on my chin and turned my face back up to his. “We must go now,” he said, and I nodded at his eyes like chips of coal, his mustached upper lip, the sweat on his brow, as if he were working, even now, as in the mill, among the glowing rolls of steel.
The Incline rattled into gear, and soon we were creaking down the valley wall, rickety-click, the chains lowering us to the bottom, slowly, slowly. I watched out the window as the city grew close and the smoke began to thicken, holding a hand over my mouth and nose. An Incline car on the track opposite passed us, taking a man and a woman up to the Fourth River overlook. She, like me, peered out her window, a hand covering her mouth and nose as they ascended the tracks. We stared at each other, but it was she who first broke our gaze to look up at the opening to the cavern with great expectations, almost a panicked smile on her face, teeth gritted, willing herself upward. She was on her return journey, I could tell. I had worn that face myself. She had spent a long year here, and was glad to be leaving.
They are long here, the years in Smoke City, even though they are finished within the passing of a night.
At the bottom, my husband handed me down from the Incline car, then up again into our carriage, which was waiting by the curb, the horses nickering and snorting in the dark. Then off he sent us, jostling down the cobbled lane, with one flick of his wrist and a strong word.
Down many wide and narrow streets we rode, some mud, some brick, some stone, passing through the long rows of narrow workers’ houses, all lined up and lean like soldiers, until we arrived at our own, in the Lost Neighborhood, down in Junction Hollow, where Eliza, the furnace, blocks the view of the river with her black bulk and her belching smoke. They are all female, always. They have unassuming names like Jeanette, Edith, Carrie. All night long, every night, they fill the sky with their fires.
Outside, on the front stoop of our narrow house, my children from the last time were waiting, arms folded over their skinny chests or hanging limply at their sides. When I stepped down from the carriage onto the street, they ran down the stairs, their arms thrown wide, the word “Mother!” spilling from their eager mouths.
They had grown since I'd last seen them. They had grown so much that none of them had retained the names I'd given them at birth. Shauna, the youngest, had become Anis. Alexander was Shoeshine. Paul, the oldest, said to simply call him Ayu. “Quite lovely,” I said to Anis. “Very good then,” I told Shoeshine. And to Ayu, I said nothing, only nodded, showing the respect due an imagination that had turned so particularly into itself during my absence. He had a glint in his eyes. He reminded me of myself a little, willing to cast off anything we'd been told.
When we went through the door, the scent of boiled cabbage and potatoes filled the front room. They had cooked dinner for me, and quite proudly Anis and Shoeshine took hold of either elbow and led me to the scratched and corner-worn table, where we sat and shared their offering, not saying anything when our eyes met one another's. It was not from shame, our silence, but from an understanding that to express too much joy at my homecoming would be absurd. We knew that soon they would have no names at all, and I would never again see them.
We sipped our potato soup and finely chewed our noodles and cabbage.
Later, after the children had gone to bed, my husband led me up the creaking stairs to our own room, where we made love, fitting into one another on the gritty, soot-stained sheets. Old friends, always. Afterward, his arms wrapped around my sweaty stomach, holding me to him from behind, he said, “I die a little more each time you are away."
I did not reply immediately, but stared out the grimy window at the rooftops across the street. A crow had perched on the sill of the window opposite, casting about for the glint of something, anything, in the dark streets below. It cawed at me, as if it had noticed me staring, and ruffled its feathers. Finally, without turning to my husband, I said, “We all die,” and closed my eyes to the night.
* * * *
The days in the city of my birth are differentiated from the nights by small degrees of shade and color. The streetlamps continue burning during the day, since the sun cannot reach beyond the smoke that moves through the valley like a storm that will never abate. So it always appears to be night, and you can only tell it is day by the sound of shift whistles and church bells ringing the hours, announcing when it is time to return to work or to kneel and pray.
No growing things grew in Smoke City, due to the lack of sunlight. On no stoops or windowsills did a fern or a flower add their shapes and colors to the square and rectangular stone backdrops of the workers’ houses. Only fine dusty coatings of soot, in which children drew pictures with the tips of their fingers, and upon which adults would occasionally scrawl strange messages:
Do Not Believe Anything They Tell You.
Your Rewards Await You In Heaven.
It Is Better That Others Possess What I Need But Do Not Understand.
I walked my children down the road, past these cryptic depictions of stick men and women on the sides of houses and words whose meanings I could not fathom, until we came to the gates of the furnace Eliza, whose stacks sent thick plumes of smoke into the air. There, holding the hands of my two youngest, I knelt down in the street to meet their faces. “You must do what you are told,” I instructed them, my heart squeezing even as I said the words. “You must work very hard, and never be of trouble to anyone, understand?"
The little ones, Anis and Shoeshine, nodded. They had all been prepared for this day over the short years of their lives. But Ayu, my oldest, narrowed his eyes to a squint and folded his arms over his chest, as if he understood more than I was saying. Those eyes were mine looking back at me, calling me a liar. “Do you understand, Ayu?” I asked him directly, to stop him from making that look. When he refused to answer, I asked, “Paul, do you understand me?” and he looked down at his feet, the head of a flower wilting.
I stood again, took up their small hands again, and led them to Eliza's gates, the top of which was decorated with a flourish of coiled barbed wire. A small, square window in the door opened as we stood wai
ting, and a man's eye looked out at us. “Are they ready?” he said.
I nodded.
The window snapped shut, then the gate doors began to separate, widening as they opened. Inside, we could see many people working, sparks flying, carts of coal going back and forth, the rumble of the mill distorting the voices of the workers. The man who had opened the gate window came from around the corner to greet us. He was small, stocky, with oily skin and a round face. He smiled, but I could not manage to be anything but straight-faced and stoic. He held his hands out to the little ones, who went to him, giving him their hands as they'd been instructed, and my heart filled my mouth, suffocating me, so that I fell to my knees and buried my face in my hands.
"Stupid cow,” the gateman said, and as soon as I took my hands away to look up, I saw Ayu running away, his feet kicking up dust behind him. “See what you've done?” Do not look back, I told Ayu with my mind, hoping he could somehow hear me. Do not look back or you will be detained here forever.
Then the gates shut with a metallic bang, and my small ones were gone from me, gone to Eliza.
* * * *
The first month of my year in the city of my birth passed slowly, painfully, like the after-effects of a night of drunkenness. For a while I had wondered if Ayu would return to the house at some point, to gather what few possessions he had made or acquired over his short lifetime, but he stayed away, smartly. My husband would have only taken him back to Eliza if he found him. That is the way, what is proper, and my husband here was nothing if not proper.
We made love every night, after he returned from the mill, his arms heavy around my waist, around my shoulders. But something had occurred on the day I'd given up the last ones: my womb had withered, and now refused to take our love and make something from its materials.
Still, we tried. Or I should say, my husband tried. Perhaps that was the reason for my body's reluctance. Whenever his breath fell against my neck, or his mouth on my breasts, I would look out the window and see Eliza's fires scouring the sky across the mountaintops, and what children we may have made, the idea of them, would burn to cinders.
Asimov's SF, April/May 2011 Page 19
