by Various
For people without tickets, there is much to do in the station itself. There is free food—tons of food tossed aside half-eaten by those in transit. There are shops of all kinds, selling everything from cheap sex toys to luxurious clothing and hard goods that only the very wealthy can afford. You can even live here, if you find some abandoned tunnel or unused stairwell. But space is at a premium, and anyone who finds a dry corner and makes it theirs is likely to be evicted by someone stronger or better armed. There is talk of a community of fRemades, the free Remades, many levels down who defend their domain and whose members rarely see the light of day.
The Remades themselves draw my attention, of course, and I stare at them like some country boy come to the big city for the first time, though I am not someone unlearned or unused to cities. A man with a rat’s head begs for change and pieces of cheese. A woman with a fishtail instead of legs manipulates her tank-on-wheels deftly through the crowd; in her shopping basket, a package wrapped in white butcher paper squirms. A man and a woman walk together, close but not touching. He has pins stuck into him, all over his body, their rounded heads protruding slightly, and she has pins sticking out of her, the points emerging through her skin and clothing, like a human bed of nails. I wonder what on earth they—and all the others—have done to deserve such torture. It is a sickness of this city that they use their remarkable thaumaturgic technology to punish and shame.
I have lived and worked in many great cities, though their names are unknown to those who live here. These people know little of the rest of the world, expecting it to come to them. And it does, to this crossroads of life, this station that is more than a station.
I walk on, examining this remarkable structure, its construction, its design and endless redesign, its strengths and its bruises.
Sitting in his usual booth at the Moon’s Daughters, Gedrecsechet, librarian for the renowned Palgolak Church library, watched the human stranger work his way through the pub. He had the clothing of a businessman and the demeanor of an artist, and he moved with a certain confident awareness that made Ged think he was packing a weapon of some kind. Odder still, he was greeting the various locals—a particularly diverse bunch—in their native languages, not in Ragamoll. This didn’t make them remarkably more friendly to him—but wait: he was buying a round for a small group of Workerbees. They all clinked glasses and toasted The Product, and he talked with them a bit. The atmosphere around him got…not warm, really, but distinctly less frigid.
Ged bided his time. He would do this, of an evening, just sit and watch. It was amazing how much knowledge of the world one could pick up just by hanging out in a pub and listening to other people. Though he hoped the Godmech Cogs weren’t canvassing tonight: he could do without another lecture on the evils of sentientomorphic thinking.
Eventually, sure enough, the stranger caught his eye. “Ready for another?” he asked in Vodyanoi.
Ged nodded. “Thank you kindly,” he said in Ragamoll. “Kingpin.” The name of the beer was unpronounceable in his own language. The stranger nodded and went off to the bar.
When he came back, he handed Ged his beer, and indicated the empty seat across from him. “May I inconvenience you?” he asked, still in Vodyanoi.
“Surely, honored sir, it is no inconvenience, but a pleasure,” said Ged in his own language, with a gesture of welcome.
The stranger sat down. “I am Santosh,” he said. “Santosh Philip, new to your city.” He spoke with a slight accent, but Ged could not place it.
“Gedrecsechet,” Ged said. “Ged, if you please. And what do you do, Mr. Santosh Philip?”
“I am an architect,” said Santosh. “A designer,” he corrected. “Anything from an ashtray to a city.”
“Cities? Really?” said Ged, intrigued. Only a small number of cities had known designers, and he thought he remembered all their names. “And what cities have you designed?”
“I am afraid you would not have heard of them. They are small cities, and far away.”
“Try me,” said Ged. Like other members of the Palgolak Church, he was a fount of knowledge.
“The city I am most proud of is a suburb of Maruábm called Bmapastra,” said Santosh. “A cruel high-desert climate, dry and cold, but I aligned the city to tame the winds and situated parks over its geothermal vents. It’s rather a cheerful place for such a bleak setting. Temperature never gets much above freezewater, but they have fresh fruits and vegetables year-round.”
“I have heard of Bmapastra, but was unaware it had been completed. My congratulations, sir. Certainly your name should be as well-known as the city you designed.”
“Well-known, sir? It gets no visitors, except from Maruábm, whose citizens consider it a place to escape, briefly, the grimness of their own city,” said Santosh. “I am astonished that you have heard of Bmapastra.”
“You are not familiar with the Palgolak Church?” asked the vodyanoi. He gestured at his yellow robes. “I am its librarian. You should have been astonished had I not heard of it.”
“Ah, you are the relentless seekers of knowledge?”
Ged smiled a huge saurian smile, and licked his lips with his huge tongue. “That is our joy, sir, and we are an ecstatic sect.”
“Then perhaps you can answer a question for me, if you would?” Santosh asked diffidently.
“What I know I can share,” said Ged. And that was true, technically, although what he didn’t want to share remained his own.
“Who was the architect for the magnificent station?”
“Ah, a sad story there,” said Ged. “His name is lost to history. If it could be known, I would know it, I assure you.” It frustrated Ged to have to tell a story with holes in it.
“Lost? How could that be?” Santosh scratched his head. “Surely the station was built during the Full Years, the blossoming of the city?”
“It was, and if you think that was a well-documented time, you’re quite right. But the architect—that first architect—fell in love with his own creation, and fell afoul of those who sought to control it. After seven years of fighting with the government for his beloved’s freedom, he found himself first accused of heresy, and then declared quite mad. He was locked up, and they threw away the key. And his name.”
“A mere architect?”
“He was fortunate he was not blinded. We take our architecture very seriously,” Ged said.
“I see you do. I see you do.” Santosh was clearly taken aback by this.
“But let’s not dwell on that,” said Ged expansively. “If I spent my time interrogating the things I know, I’d never have any time to learn anything new.” He laughed.
“I am honored to have met so learned a person on my first day in your city. Perhaps you could tell me what caused the recent damage to the station and environs?”
Ged’s face became serious. “Slake-moth feeding season.”
Santosh looked at him quizzically.
“They’ve been particularly bad this year,” Ged said in a noncommittal tone. He did not want to go into the details: his friend Isaac was among the many people still missing.
Santosh nodded uncertainly, as though he had never heard of slake-moths. “Any plans for cleaning it up? Good bit of work, that. I’ve never done a reconstruction on something quite so big and complicated and historic. Wouldn’t at all mind getting the contract.”
“The mayor is soliciting bids, but I told you what happened to the original architect. No one wants to take on this project.”
“Good grief, man, that was hundreds of years ago,” Santosh replied. “I’m sure we needn’t fear a repeat.”
“This city is not welcoming to the stranger, my friend. Be careful on the streets, and in the pubs. And in the mayor’s chambers.”
“I am aware of that,” said Santosh, with a friendly demeanor, “and I thank you kindly for your concern.”
He did not say he was armed, or he was ready for anything, or indicate in any way what his means of defense might be. W
hatever he’s relying on, Ged thought, he’s good enough at it that he doesn’t feel a need to bluster about, scaring people off. I will not worry about him until he has rebuilt the station.
Author’s note: This is what Santosh Philip told me about himself:
Born in Kerala, India, grew up in Madras. Speak Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, English. Am an architect in Alameda, California, and can design anything from an ashtray to a city. Like walking barefoot in the wilderness. Learnt knife fighting from Roy Harris.
Copyright 2010 by Eileen Gunn
Books by Eileen Gunn
SHORT STORY COLLECTION
Stable Strategies and Others
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Contents
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“Seeing into the future is not a straight line. You are given the choice of a hundred paths through a treacherous swamp. Some will lead you safely onwards, others drown you, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which,” my mother says.
I'm sitting at a polished wooden desk in our family library, surrounded by the dusty rustling of knowledge. My mother has been explaining these dry facts at me for the entire afternoon. I press the point of my quill into the wood, and watch the split climb up the shaft.
House Malker has always been noted for its excess of Saints, and our lives are dictated by omens and Visions. We are ruled by our reliance on the drug scriv, the gateway to our power. Scriv, more precious than any metal or jewel or life. Without it, we are nothing. There is never enough, and there is certainly never enough to waste more than a few grains on the future of a girl.
Were I a boy, my father would have overseen my education and had me tutored by the best of the university’s learned men. Instead, I am learning to tell the future from my mother.
She’s still talking, her voice as distant and meaningless as the screeching of the sea mews over the cliffs near our mansion. “For an important business or political decision, it has not been unheard of for a Saint to try for the same Vision ten or fifteen times. A Saint can also choose the manner in which they see.” She taps three pieces of colored glass on the desk, selects one. With the red glass in her hand she says, “Pay attention, Ilven.”
“I am.” This is not exactly true. Through the narrow windows I can see Felicita on the far edge of our property, waving at the house from our spinney. Our meeting place. Her House is greater than mine, and so Mother encourages this friendship, even as she catalogs all Felicita’s flaws.
“Perhaps if you looked in my direction instead?” My mother sidles toward a painting of a battle between the Lammers and our age-old enemies, the Mekekana, and holds up the red glass. “This is emotion,” she says, and the picture shows me only the brightest and most blazing things. The blood of the dead is washed away. She swaps the glass for the blue. “Political decisions.” The picture reveals now not the glory of the war, but the cold black blood that fueled it. The Mekekana’s vast beetle-ships become savage, their barbaric machines cold and iron-dark as they crawl on their immense wheels, crushing our bones beneath them.
Despite my desire to leave this room and its towers of oppressive books, I find myself interested. No one has ever explained the way Saints make decisions to me, as if somehow I was always too stupid and small to understand. They have merely taught me by rote, and expected that to be enough. “And the green?”
“We’ll call this personal power,” she says. Again the focus shifts; what appeared important before becomes subdued.
All futures are tinted by the way in which you choose to view them.
Here then is a truth only Saints understand: Knowing the future is not about knowing the future. It’s about which choice to make.
That is why you can never get a straight answer from a Saint, for they have none to give.
I am sixteen and to be married in a matter of weeks. I had no say in this future. My father chose him for me and I have never seen the man’s face nor will I until I am presented to him on my wedding day. He lives many miles upriver, on a wine estate. I’m told the wine he makes is very fine. I wonder how many paths my father bothered to look down before he made up his mind.
My mother was unhappy with the decision, measuring out scriv with a tiny silver spoon and trying for different ways to see her Vision. Eventually she gave up and tried with cards instead, and all Saints know that cards are useless for anything more than parlor games. Even this failed her, and so she has accepted my father’s choice.
I do not accept it. Not when I have something I want more.
My first kiss was at fourteen, in one of the many dark and drafty rooms of Felicita’s home. I don’t know why her brother did it, perhaps because he himself was off to be married and I seemed like a safe thing to use to still his own fears. Owen was already a man, and I think it was the only time he ever paid me the slightest attention. He was high on scriv and I could taste his futures on his tongue. I was in one of them, slight and faint.
After that he left and life carried on much the same. I see Owen only very occasionally, and always I am studiously ignored. I watch his wife for weaknesses, for ill health. She seems immune to my wishes.
I have never told Felicita about this kiss. Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I let myself remember the way he came to me, the way he tipped my head back. The same memory over and over in rhythm with the waves. The ocean becomes the salt taste of his mouth, and I wish that there were a future where my House and House Pelim tied themselves together and I had Owen. Perhaps it is not too late for me.
Who knows what course I could still take to bring about the future of my desire? I do not expect much—one man. It will not change the world, not to ask for something so small.
It is a week until my wedding. The gold silk has been fitted, the feasts have been planned, and we will travel upriver in a matter of days. My parents and brother will be the only ones returning. Mother has become waspish as the day draws closer. She has discovered herself burdened with an autumn pregnancy, a prospect I find humiliating, although my father is pleased. He expects another son.
It’s this good humor of his and the bustle of the household that allow me the opportunity to steal a thimbleful of scriv from his guarded stores. Even if he discovers my theft, my wedding is too soon for him to want to spoil my skin with bruises.
I lock my room, set out my scriv silver, and divide the dust into three fat lines. Next to it on the desk is a letter from Felicita, passed to me by my most trusted servant. Felicita wants us to run to Old Town tomorrow, for just one day, and pretend we are not tied to the rules of our Houses. We could spend the hours clinging to our illusion of freedom, and buy trinkets from market stalls run by Hobs, visit the low tea shops where the poets and artists gather. Perhaps even see one of the street operas that I have heard the servants talk of. It’s appealing—the idea of this last little burst of free will. I need to send her an answer soon.
First, and more important, I would see myself a new future. The smell of bitter citrus coils up from the scriv as I lower my little glass tube and inhale sharply. The burst of orange behind my eyes is followed by a faint acrid taste at the back of my throat. I swallow, close my eyes, and wait for my Vision to take hold.
The blackness swirls. After a few moments it grays, and I am pitched into a new body. Or rather, a familiar body weighted by time and children. It is Longest Day, our slow and lazy celebration of midsummer. My husband has brought us down to Pelimburg for the festivities,
and we are at a garden party hosted by House Canroth. Felicita stands opposite me, her thick auburn hair pulled back and tamed, her hands locked over the small swell of her stomach. She is still in that stage where pregnancy is not yet a trial of endurance.
“They're very handsome,” she says, and smiles at my two sons. “They grow so fast, every time I see them I can’t quite believe how tall they are.”
My daughter, mouse-like and clingy, hides in my skirts, unwilling to approach this woman she last met as a babe-in-arms. “And yours.” Although this is not quite true. The oldest at least has some of her features, but the moon-faced younger boy is not quite as fortunate.
“Oh, come here.” Felicita steps forward to grab at my hands. “Must you be so formal? I've missed you.” She kisses both my cheeks and curls her fingers in mine. We cling together like this, our hands hidden in the folds of our dresses. “I miss you, Ilven,” she says again, soft as the brush of rabbit-tail grass against my skin. Guilt and misery taste like bile. I want so much to miss her as much as she does me. And I almost do. There is one I miss more, the man I dream of when I am with my red-faced husband, the one my sons should have looked like.
Even as I hold Felicita, I look over her shoulder for his face. As the head of House Pelim, he might have been too busy to accept the invitation.
No. There he is: Pelim Owen, pale-skinned with his dark auburn hair. He seems to stand taller than anyone else here, and magic and power swirl around him so thickly, a cloak of air and fire. I am the only one who can see him as he truly is. He is dressed in riding black and already bored by the frivolity around him. His meek and pretty wife and daughters are nowhere to be seen, and a moment of giddy happiness rises in me. Then he turns and smiles, and holds out his hand, and his wife steps from the crowd, takes it, and smiles back.
