"…and the seeds in the next planting are an outcross with old Terran Lilium amoenum. They should be putting up shoots any day now. The possibilities are really exciting." William trailed off as the politely blank look on Emily's face finally broke through his enthusiasm and registered as the boredom it no doubt signified. "Sorry, Em. Too much of a good thing, huh?"
"No, no. I love hearing about your work." She gave him the smile he had seen her use all too frequently on her second husband before she dropped him. It was the one that meant she had checked out of the conversation almost before it had begun. They had been friends since elementary school. Quite often they knew each other better than either liked to remember.
"It's okay. That's all there is to it, really. How're the kids?" William smothered a sigh as she leapt at the change in topic. Five years working for Survey to earn the money for college, struggling through courses his haphazard early education had left him ill-equipped to deal with, masters, doctorate in alien botany and for what? Twelve greenhouses that were his life. Countless dusty papers published on obscure botany nets. A few equally dusty awards celebrating his 'landmark' contributions to the field.
All he had was twenty years of research that made his friends and family wince whenever he mentioned any of it. When it came right down to it, nothing he had ever done made people care about the thing he had built his life around. Even Emily. She was single again. He'd been waiting for that but he just couldn't see her coming back to Tulandra with him and he couldn't stop his research now. It was the only thing he had to take pride in.
The air in William's small greenhouse workshop was moist and warm. He sat perched on the edge of his rickety old chair, humming under his breath to the robust violet lily that was in the process of blooming. The frequency it was emitting didn't change. Not that he had really expected it to. No matter what he had tried, he hadn't managed to find a sound that affected them besides their own. Even recordings didn't work. They only modified their songs for each other.
Something tickled at the back of his brain. Maybe recordings were the problem. If people could just hear them the same way he did…
He wanted people to understand, to see what he saw in the little plants he had devoted his life to. It didn't seem possible. In the entirety of the galaxy a few bits of foliage weren't likely to garner much notice.
But there was something to the idea. Funding and sponsors might take awhile to drum up but he if he could be persistent enough maybe the idea would catch hold. A concert with flowers as the star performers was surely different enough to spark interest. He got to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his back. He had some calls to make.
The phone buzzed. William flipped it over, checking the ID out of habit. There weren't that many people he cared to speak to on a warm spring evening. The little window read: Remmis Entertainment Productions. He dropped the phone and had to lunge after it. There were a few contributors waiting to see if he could get real support but not enough willing to make a go of it without a big name backer. REP was just about his last hope. Everyone else had said no.
"William Reis speaking." He could have kicked himself for the tremor in his voice.
"Hello, Dr. Reis, this is Sam Hallerman from REP. I'm calling in regards to your proposal." William's heart sank. The tone of voice was all too familiar as Sam continued. "It's an interesting idea but we don't think we can find an audience for something so… inanimate."
"It's not like that." William's pulse raced franticly. There had to be something he could say, some way to explain more clearly. He couldn't take hearing 'no' again.
"Thank you for your time, Dr. Reis. Good luck." The man's voice was dismissive and impersonal. It made William's hands clench.
"Wait." William's mind raced. "Why don't I fly some of your guys out here? Let them see what it would really be like. On my dollar. What do you think? You've got nothing to lose." It would break him financially. Intergalactic travel was expensive. Even if he picked up as many teaching gigs as he could get it wouldn't be enough. He would have to borrow money — money there was no way to pay back if this didn't pay off. He could lose everything.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line and William tried to squash the stray stab of hope running him through. Finally Sam came back with the answer. "All right then. But no promises, no contract. Most likely we'll still say no."
Relaxing into the performance, William pushed the button to put the program on automatic and stuck the remote in his jacket pocket. As more and more blossoms burst open, he picked up two pairs of pruning shears that had been lying on the table waiting for him. The sharp edges glinted in the harsh lighting.
He walked forward to the front table. His heart had finally steadied. They sounded so beautiful, better than he had imagined. The flowers in front of him were silent now. On average a note lasted 4.16 minutes with the longest he had measured at 7.83 minutes. That one had been an old plant with an extensive root system.
The pack on his back had gotten lighter over the long years he had walked these fields. Now all it carried was a carefully tuned frequency meter and a spade. He towed a hovercart of empty stasis jars behind him. Four years into his research, William had discovered that the harmony lilies emitted an inaudible hum just before the buds popped. That discovery hadn't come to much back then but it made his plan for collecting concert specimens easier.
The timing had to be flawless. For the performance to work, they had to be placed in stasis just moments before they bloomed. The spring breeze was cool against his forehead. He'd had hair to cover that once. Sitting stiffly down in the purple grass, he pulled out his tools. Transplanted lilies were his best bet. The cultivated ones just didn't have as pure a tone.
There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd as William neatly severed the first bloom. The blush pink flower dropped sideways, catching on the edge of the table and spinning like an open umbrella towards the floor. Its death note was scarcely noticeable under the vivid harmony of its brothers. The dying resonance was always softer, sighing and hollow.
The sound triggered the release of pollen in any living harmony lily that 'heard' it. Like most everything else, their unique characteristics were adapted towards furthering the species. The cascade of minute particles sparkled as they drifted slowly towards stage floor. William smiled. It looked almost like one of the fields back on Tulandra.
William walked through the storage compartment, scanning each case with his handheld. Each flower had been packed carefully in individual stasis jars, numbered and labeled. His stomach clenched each time he made his twice-daily rounds. Too many cracked jars, an unfortunate program malfunction and it would be over before it began.
The ship was ninety-three days out of Tulandra. Just five more days until they landed on Remmis. Sometimes William wondered if his heart would survive the trip. Every shift and jolt had him frantic. It had taken so very long to bring his concert together. If it didn't work, he would be left with nothing.
William gestured with his shears and the assistants waiting in the wings emerged. Each moved to a section of flowers bearing shears of her own. In carefully choreographed accord, they began trimming blossoms. Gradually the tone of the concert changed as the number of dying notes overcame those still blooming.
At long last only one jar remained unopened. It sat on a pedestal at center stage. Behind the crystalline glass, the graceful plant rested in frozen perfection. William had studied them all and picked this one specifically.
It was moderately sized, perhaps two feet in height from dirt to crown, but full and symmetrical. Each blade shaped leaf glowed with health, emerald in the center darkening to purple-black at the tips. Its single bud stood proudly on its thick stalk. As the last dying notes from the other flowers faded, William put his finger on the jar's manual release. His breath came hard. This was it. The final moment.
He pressed the button and the glass fell away. The bud hesitated for a moment, deep violet outer petals clin
ging to each other before springing triumphantly apart. As the pearl pale center caught the light, William held his breath. The translucent call sang out for an eighth of a beat before he clipped the radiant fuchsia blossom. As it fell, the dying note merged, shifted, harmonized with its own echo. For a brief second it was rapture.
Silence reigned in the theater. William stood deflated and exhausted. It hadn't worked. He would go back to his greenhouses a failure. His work would fade away when he did, ghosting around in botany texts to be poked through by other unknown specialists, showing up in Galactic Survey's guidebook — inedible, non-poisonous species. He couldn't even find Emily with the blazing lights in his face. He had wanted so badly for her to see.
Someone began clapping. The sound grew until it was a roar. William raised his head in unbelieving amazement. The cheers swelled still louder. He stumbled forward, raising his wet face to the shining spotlight. Buoyed on his dawning ecstasy, he took his bow, fallen blossoms glistening bright and fresh on the dark wood of the stage.
© 2014 by Kate O'Connor
* * *
Kate O'Connor is a sometime pilot, archeology field technician on off days, and occasional dog groomer. Her work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in InterGalactic Medicine Show, Escape Pod and Daily Science Fiction. Kate was born in Virginia, but spent most of her growing-up years in Indiana. She made her way out to Arizona for college and graduated from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University-Prescott in 2009. These days, she’s living in the New York area telling stories, digging up artifacts, and managing a kennel full of Airedales. In her spare time, she reads old folklore, rides horses, and tries to teach herself guitar. She has two dogs of her own who do their level best to make sure she doesn’t take life too seriously. Kate has been writing science fiction and fantasy since 2011.
These Are The Things Our Hands Have Made
Andrew Kozma
And then there was the day when the transmission towers came to life.
Before then, I had thought of power lines as held up only by those stripped and ratty-looking twigs that line every street in the city. Those utility poles are tall, yes, and sturdy, yes, and covered in creosote, yes, but they remind me of nothing more than Slim Jims fit for the gods. They carry power to our homes. They shine down on us with their streetlight eyes. If any manmade object were to come to life and rebel against servitude, it would be them.
But the newspapers carried pictures of the multi-legged transmission towers rampaging through small towns, marching down interstate highways, lattice steel monstrosities a hundred feet tall with fleeing people scattered like rice at their feet. Both internet and cable went down with the transmission tower rebellion. I hung out at Bill's house for the satellite TV, even though he'd stolen my girlfriend, Ruby. She was a psychiatric nurse and had been called in for the emergency, a fact for which I was thankful.
"I don't believe it," Bill said. He'd been saying the same thing every time photos of the transmission towers came up on screen. A few hours into the crisis, I began taking shots of Old Crow at every repetition. I had to stop when the networks got hold of video footage as Bill's denial became a chant, a monotone mantra he repeated to make himself feel better, though his eyes remained as wide and round as gumballs.
I started to get hungry.
"I don't believe it I don't believe it I don't believe it I don't believe it," Bill said. I fed him shots until he passed out, then rummaged through the fridge. Whole shelves were full of yogurt and pickle packs. I grabbed a few of each and sat back down on the couch. Bill had slumped to the floor, passed out in a puddle of his own drool.
The news anchor smiled through her lipstick. Across the bottom of the screen the ticker said that satellite connections might go out at any moment. The transmission towers were jealous. They were tired of being abused. They wanted us silenced.
I stared at the open containers of yogurt and pickles before me. If this was the end of the world, I didn't want this to be my last meal.
The man at Pink's Pizza was surprised to hear from me, but yes, they were still delivering. Cash only. Forty-five minutes or less.
"Or what?" I said.
"Or you don't get your pizza."
Bill lived in top-floor apartment on the outskirts of the city. Downtown cast its shadow over us as the day waned. There were no pillars of smoke. There was no sign of panic. In the sky, planes held to their approaches like circling vultures.
Through the opposite window overlooking the city, I hoped to see some evidence of the state of the world, but all I saw were the houses, trees, and roads. The streets were full of cars racing around like ants stirred up by a twig-happy kid. I imagined that kid up there above us, looking down on the world with a curiosity neither morbid nor cruel. Just curious.
The satellite cut off in the middle of a commercial for a new kind of cigarette, one that had all the flavor of tobacco, but no nicotine, no tar, nothing that could kill you, honest. The news promised a revelation after the break of what we should do to be prepared.
I was prepared. The pickles and yogurt were back in the fridge, and I'd plastic wrapped the packages I'd already opened. I'd searched the house and found a shotgun under the bed that I thought might be fake, but looked real enough. I knew nothing about guns.
The pizza guy dropped the pizza at my feet and ran off before I could pay him, which was odd until I realized I was resting the shotgun on my shoulder like a sledgehammer. The phone went dead as I called Pink's Pizza eager to give any explanation I could that they'd believe. But I knew what it meant, the phones going dead.
Pepperoni slice in hand, I went back to the window and there they were, flopping and twisting like minnows. The telephone poles struggled to snap the wires that held them tethered together. Finally, in the distance, a plume of fire. And walking through that fire, the first of the transmission towers to reach the city.
Bill started snoring.
"I forgive you, Bill," I said. "I forgive you for stealing Ruby, and I wish you both the best."
After all, if we can't communicate honestly with one another, what hope do we have?
© 2014 by Andrew Kozma
* * *
Andrew Kozma's fiction has been published in Albedo One, The Cupboard, Stupefying Stories, and The Chariton Review. His book of poems, City of Regret (Zone 3 Press, 2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award. He has been the recipient of a Jentel Residency, a Houston Arts Alliance Fellowship, a Walter E. Dakin Fellowship, and a D. H. Lawrence Fellowship.
A Trade of Tears
Tony Peak
Khallan righted his bicorne hat and trudged up the muddy slope overlooking Taliomar. Half a day he'd waited, so fewer people would spot him at this late hour. Evening fog snaked through the city as lantern-keepers on stilts lit street lamps with torches. Noble carriages scurried to their requisite abodes as red-coated Bravos patrolled the curbs. If he was successful, he'd ride in a carriage of his own soon.
The overcast sky darkened from gray to black, same as it had every day of his life. Never had Khallan seen the fabled Sun, hidden by Horizon Realm sorcery. Hurrying along, he sucked in a trembling breath.
Never had he been more driven as he approached a wheel-less coach atop the slope. It housed Aria, the most famed singer from Kingdom days. For years he'd heard her singing from afar, but hadn't dared to investigate. Until now.
Khallan gripped the hilt of his sheathed rapier and neared the coach. Rusted hinges had curled back from the door. Faded white and purple paint hung in chips from its wooden sides. Over the earthy scent of damp soil, an aroma of sharp perfume and musky linens wrinkled his nose.
"Who comes yonder?" a soft female voice called from the coach. Wind rustled filthy pink drapes on the vehicle's window. Locals claimed Aria had resided alone in the broken coach for many Solars, hiding her cursed Inborn features.
Thunder growled in the distance. A blue-white streak cut the sky, making Khallan grip the rapier tighter. Taliomar and all the cities of Calandren
had been cursed by the Horizon Kin decades ago. Lightning was theirs to command.
Straightening his black Rake coat, Khallan cleared his throat. "Khallan O' Delver's Way."
Her milk-white hand, studded with tarnished rings, brushed aside the drapes. "Oh? Aria sang there once. The sunlight lit the ivy balustrades in such wonderful tones then. Yet no sun shines now, nor does Aria sing for Kingdom brass coins or princes. What does a Rake want with delicate little Aria?"
"I need to call forth a faerie, ere the morn. Talk is you know the proper song."
Aria's tinkling laughter sounded like an ancient harpsichord. "Faeries have almost been sundered by those who hate Horizon magic. All-too beautiful reminders of when we were the Horizon Kin's allies. Before the wars. Before the Inborn. And you desire one?"
Leaning on the coach, Khallan removed his hat. His blonde ponytail dangled past his cheek as he hunkered before the coach window. "I just want its services. I've no need of a pretty trinket to trap in a lamp. Aye, I even brought this."
He held up a small glass bottle to her open window.
"Horizon glass? You came to Aria prepared. But in all ways, I wonder? Aria always requires payment. You know Aria's plight, Aria's curse. Why would a Rake risk his reputation by coming to lonely, delicate Aria for a faerie lullaby?"
Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #2 Page 5
