Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 99

by Kali Wallace

  Of course, such a plan had its risks: privacy and security, misuse of telepresence by criminals, malfunctions and accidents, just for starters. But since technological change was already here, it was best to face the consequences and guide them to desirable ends.

  There were also developments that no one had anticipated.

  Uncle Wang showed Tongtong lots of web videos: Ah Fus were shown doing all kinds of interesting things: cooking, taking care of children, fixing the plumbing and electric systems around the house, gardening, driving, playing tennis, even teaching children the arts of go and calligraphy and seal carving and erhu playing . . .

  All of these Ah Fus were operated by elders who needed caretakers themselves, too. Some of them could no longer move about easily, but still had sharp eyes and ears and minds; some could no longer remember things easily, but they could still replicate the skills they had perfected in their youth; and most of them really had few physical problems, but were depressed and lonely. But now, with Ah Fu, everyone was out and about, doing things.

  No one had imagined that Ah Fu could be put to all these uses. No one had thought that men and women in their seventies and eighties could still be so creative and imaginative.

  Tongtong was especially impressed by a traditional folk music orchestra made up of more than a dozen Ah Fus. They congregated around a pond in a park and played enthusiastically and loudly. According to Uncle Wang, this orchestra had become famous on the web. The operators behind the Ah Fus were men and women who had lost their eyesight, and so they called themselves “The Old Blinds.”

  “Tongtong,” Uncle Wang said, “your grandfather has brought about a revolution.”

  Tongtong remembered that Mom had often mentioned that Grandpa was an old revolutionary. “He’s been working for the revolution all his life; it’s time for him to take a break.” But wasn’t Grandpa a doctor? When did he participate in a “revolution”? And just what kind of work was “working for the revolution” anyway? And why did he have to do it all his life?

  Tongtong couldn’t figure it out, but she thought “revolution” was a splendid thing. Grandpa now once again seemed like the Grandpa she had known.

  Every day, Grandpa was full of energy and spirit. Whenever he had a few moments to himself, he preferred to sing a few lines of traditional folk opera:

  Outside the camp, they’ve fired off the thundering cannon thrice,

  And out of Tianbo House walks the woman who will protect her homeland.

  The golden helmet sits securely over her silver-white hair,

  The old iron-scaled war robe once again hangs on her shoulders.

  Look at her battle banner, displaying proudly her name:

  Mu Guiying, at fifty-three, you are going to war again!

  Tongtong laughed. “But Grandpa, you’re eighty-three!”

  Grandpa chuckled. He stood and posed as if he were an ancient general holding a sword as he sat on his warhorse. His face glowed red with joy.

  In another few days, Grandpa would be eighty-four.

  Tongtong played by herself at home.

  There were dishes of cooked food in the fridge. In the evening, Tongtong took them out, heated them up, and ate by herself. The evening air was heavy and humid, and the cicadas cried without cease.

  The weather report said there would be thunderstorms.

  A blue light flashed three times in a corner of the room. A figure moved out of the corner noiselessly: Ah Fu.

  “Mom and Dad took Grandpa to the hospital. They haven’t returned yet.”

  Ah Fu nodded. “Your mother sent me to remind you: don’t forget to close the windows before it rains.”

  Together, the robot and the girl closed all the windows in the house. When the thunderstorm arrived, the raindrops struck against the windowpanes like drumbeats. The dark clouds were torn into pieces by the white and purple flashes of lightning, and then a bone-rattling thunder rolled overhead, making Tongtong’s ears ring.

  “You’re not afraid of thunder?” asked Ah Fu.

  “No. You?”

  “I was afraid when I was little, but not now.”

  An important question came to Tongtong’s mind: “Ah Fu, do you think everyone has to grow up?”

  “I think so.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then you grow old.”

  “And then?”

  Ah Fu didn’t respond.

  They turned on the video wall to watch cartoons. It was Tongtong’s favorite show: “Rainbow Bear Village.” No matter how heavy it rained outside, the little bears of the village always lived together happily. Maybe everything else in the world was fake; maybe only the world of the little bears was real.

  Gradually, Tongtong’s eyelids grew heavy. The sound of rain had a hypnotic effect. She leaned against Ah Fu. Ah Fu picked her up in its arms, carried her into the bedroom, set her down gently in bed, covered her with a blanket, and pulled the curtains shut. Its hands were just like real hands, warm and soft.

  Tongtong murmured, “Why isn’t Grandpa back yet?”

  “Sleep. When you wake up, Grandpa will be back.”

  Grandpa did not come back.

  Mom and Dad returned. Both looked sad and tired.

  But they got even busier. Every day, they had to leave the house and go somewhere. Tongtong stayed home by herself. She played games sometimes, and watched cartoons at other times. Ah Fu sometimes came over to cook for her.

  A few days later, Mom called for Tongtong. “I have to talk to you.”

  Grandpa had a tumor in his head. The last time he fell was because the tumor pressed against a nerve. The doctor suggested surgery immediately.

  Given Grandpa’s age, surgery was very dangerous. But not operating would be even more dangerous. Mom and Dad and Grandpa had gone to several hospitals and gotten several other opinions, and after talking with each other over several nights, they decided that they had to operate.

  The operation took a full day. The tumor was the size of an egg.

  Grandpa remained in a coma after the operation.

  Mom hugged Tongtong and sobbed. Her body trembled like a fish.

  Tongtong hugged Mom back tightly. She looked and saw the white hairs mixed in with the black on her head. Everything seemed so unreal.

  Tongtong went to the hospital with Mom.

  It was so hot, and the sun so bright. Tongtong and Mom shared a parasol. In Mom’s other hand was a thermos of bright red fruit juice taken from the fridge.

  There were few pedestrians on the road. The cicadas continued their endless singing. The summer was almost over.

  Inside the hospital, the air conditioning was turned up high. They waited in the hallway for a bit before a nurse came to tell them that Grandpa was awake. Mom told Tongtong to go in first.

  Grandpa looked like a stranger. His hair had been shaved off, and his face was swollen. One eye was covered by a gauze bandage, and the other eye was closed. Tongtong held Grandpa’s hand, and she was scared. She remembered Grandma. Like before, there were tubes and beeping machines all around.

  The nurse said Grandpa’s name. “Your granddaughter is here to see you.”

  Grandpa opened his eye and gazed at Tongtong. Tongtong moved, and the eye moved to follow her. But he couldn’t speak or move.

  The nurse whispered, “You can talk to your grandfather. He can hear you.”

  Tongtong didn’t know what to say. She squeezed Grandpa’s hand, and she could feel Grandpa squeezing back.

  Grandpa! She called out in her mind. Can you recognize me?

  His eyes followed Tongtong.

  She finally found her voice. “Grandpa!”

  Tears fell on the white sheets. The nurse tried to comfort her. “Don’t cry! Your grandfather would feel so sad to see you cry.”

  Tongtong was taken out of the room, and she cried—tears streaming down her face like a little kid, but she didn’t care who saw—in the hallway for a long time.

  Ah Fu was leaving. Dad pack
ed it up to mail it back to Guokr Technologies.

  Uncle Wang explained that he had wanted to come in person to say goodbye to Tongtong and her family. But the city he lived in was very far away. At least it was easy to communicate over long distances now, and they could chat by video or phone in the future.

  Tongtong was in her room, drawing. Ah Fu came over noiselessly. Tongtong had drawn many little bears on the paper, and colored them all different shades with crayons. Ah Fu looked at the pictures. One of the biggest bears was colored all the shades of the rainbow, and he wore a black eye patch so that only one eye showed.

  “Who is this?” Ah Fu asked.

  Tongtong didn’t answer. She went on coloring, her heart set on giving every color in the world to the bear.

  Ah Fu hugged Tongtong from behind. Its body trembled. Tongtong knew that Ah Fu was crying.

  Uncle Wang sent a video message to Tongtong.

  Tongtong, did you receive the package I sent you?

  Inside the package was a fuzzy teddy bear. It was colored like the rainbow, with a black eye patch, leaving only one eye. It was just like the one Tongtong drew.

  The bear is equipped with a telepresence kit and connected to the instruments at the hospital: his heartbeat, breath, pulse, body temperature. If the bear’s eye is closed, that means your grandfather is asleep. If your grandfather is awake, the bear will open its eye.

  Everything the bear sees and hears is projected onto the ceiling of the room at the hospital. You can talk to it, tell it stories, sing to it, and your grandfather will see and hear.

  He can definitely hear and see. Even though he can’t move his body, he’s awake inside. So you must talk to the bear, play with it, and let it hear your laughter. Then your grandfather won’t be alone.

  Tongtong put her ear to the bear’s chest: thump-thump. The heartbeat was slow and faint. The bear’s chest was warm, rising and falling slowly with each breath. It was sleeping deeply.

  Tongtong wanted to sleep, too. She put the bear in bed with her and covered it with a blanket. When Grandpa is awake tomorrow, she thought, I’ll bring him out to get some sun, to climb trees, to go to the park and listen to those grandpas and grandmas sing folk opera. The summer isn’t over yet. There are so many fun things to do.

  “Grandpa, don’t worry, eh!” she whispered. When you wake up, everything will be all right.

  * * *

  Author’s Note: I’d like to dedicate this story to my grandfather. August is when I composed this story, and it’s also the anniversary of his passing. I will treasure the time I got to spend with him forever.

  This story is also dedicated to all the grandmas and grandpas who, each morning, can be seen in the parks practicing taichi, twirling swords, singing opera, dancing, showing off their songbirds, painting, doing calligraphy, playing the accordion. You made me understand that living with an awareness of the closeness of death is nothing to be afraid of.

  First published in Upgraded,

  edited by Neil Clarke.

  About the Author

  As an undergraduate, Xia Jia majored in Atmospheric Sciences at Peking University. She then entered the Film Studies Program at the Communication University of China, where she completed her Master’s thesis: “A Study on Female Figures in Science Fiction Films.” Recently, she obtained a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and World Literature at Peking University, with “Chinese Science Fiction and Its Cultural Politics Since 1990″ as the topic of her dissertation. She now teaches at Xi’an Jiaotong University.

  She has been publishing fiction since college in a variety of venues, including Science Fiction World and Jiuzhou Fantasy. Several of her stories have won the Galaxy Award, China’s most prestigious science fiction award. In English translation, she has been published in Clarkesworld and Upgraded.

  China Dreams:

  Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction

  Ken Liu

  China has a vibrant science fiction culture whose sheer size can sometimes surprise Western readers unfamiliar with it. For example, China’s largest science fiction magazine, Science Fiction World, has a current monthly circulation figure of around 160,000 (this is down from a peak of around 300,000, but copies are often read by multiple people as many high school students purchase them at newsstands and share with friends).

  In contrast, the latest overall circulation figures for the big American SF print magazines are 27,248 for Analog, 23,192 for Asimov’s, and 10,678 for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.1 Besides genre-specific magazines, some Chinese literary magazines, such as ZUI Found, are also open to SFnal work, and through these markets, the much larger “mainstream” readership is also exposed to science fiction, both translated and native.

  The new online publication SF Comet, which hosts a monthly flash fiction contest for invited Chinese and Western science fiction writers (Nancy Kress and Mike Resnick are two recent participants), distributes contest entries to readers via WeChat (a mobile messaging application/platform) and Sina Weibo (a Twitter work-alike).

  Although the contest is barely a few months old, it already has thousands of subscribers because readers enjoy the challenge of matching the anonymized entries to the names of the participating authors and voting for their favorite story via WeChat. (I tried guessing the authors during the last couple of contests, and though I failed miserably, I really enjoyed this way of experiencing flash fiction.)

  Western fandom is starting to pay attention to Chinese science fiction. Beijing’s bid to host Worldcon, though it lost to Kansas City, nonetheless made waves at LonCon 3. However, until recently, few Chinese SF works are translated into English, making it hard for non-Chinese readers to appreciate them.

  This situation is now being remedied to some degree. In recent years, Anglophone science fiction markets such as Apex, Clarkesworld, F&SF, Interzone, Lightspeed, and others have all published works translated from Chinese. In addition, academic journals such as Renditions and China-based English literary journals like Pathlight have also been publishing some excellent genre translations, though my impression is that few genre readers in the West are aware of them or have sought them out.2

  Starting in November of 2014, Tor Books will publish English translations of Liu Cixin’s Three-Body trilogy, which is China’s best-selling hard scifi series. And Clarkesworld has recently announced a partnership with Storycom International Culture Communication Co., Ltd. to publish more Chinese SF stories in translation. In short, it is now at least possible for the interested Anglophone reader to read some of these works without knowing Chinese.

  Thus, if you’re curious about Chinese science fiction, instead of listening to me, a very valid choice is to simply skip to the end of this essay and read up on the works cited in the bibliography.

  Whenever the topic of Chinese science fiction comes up, I often hear Anglophone readers ask: “How is Chinese science fiction different from science fiction written in English?”

  I usually disappoint them by replying that the question is ill defined and there isn’t a neat sound bite for an answer. Any broad literary classification tied to a culture—especially a culture as in flux and contested as China’s—encompasses all the complexities and contradictions in that culture. Attempts to provide neat answers will only result in broad generalizations that are of little value or stereotypes that reaffirm existing prejudices.

  Thus, I limit myself here to providing context and describing specific authors and works. The title of this essay is a play on President Xi Jingping’s promotion of the “Chinese Dream” as a slogan for China’s development. Science fiction is the literature of dreams, and dreams always say something about the dreamer, the dream interpreter, as well as the audience. When reading Chinese science fiction through translation, the reader must constantly keep in mind the multiple layers of interpretation that are at play.

  To start with, I don’t believe that “science fiction written in English” is a useful category for comparison (the fiction written in S
ingapore, the United Kingdom, and the United States, for example, are all quite different, and there are further divisions within and across such geographical boundaries).

  Moreover, imagine asking a hundred different American authors and critics to characterize “American science fiction”—you’d hear a hundred different answers. The same is true of Chinese authors and critics, and Chinese science fiction.

  Chinese science fiction has also undergone tremendous change over time. Over about a hundred years, it has moved from the late Qing Dynasty tales of technological optimism to the socialist utopias of the early years of the People’s Republic, to being suppressed as “spiritual pollution” in the 1980s, to a revival in the last two decades that has blossomed into a self-contained, rich literary tradition.3

  Conclusions and generalizations that might have once been true about Chinese science fiction are no longer true. And thus I limit myself to discussing only works from the last decade or so (and with a particular focus on works that have been translated so that the reader may seek out the works themselves instead of blindly trusting my summary).

  China is also going through a massive social, cultural, and technological transformation involving more than a billion people of different ethnicities, cultures, classes, and ideological sympathies, and it is impossible for anyone, even people who are living through these upheavals, to claim to know the entire picture.

  If one’s knowledge of China is limited to Western media reports or the experience of being a tourist or expat, claiming to “understand” China is akin to a man who has caught a glimpse of a fuzzy spot through a drinking straw claiming to know what a leopard is. The fiction produced in China reflects the complexity of the environment.

  This is all a rather long-winded way to say that I think anyone who confidently asserts a definitive characterization of “Chinese science fiction” is either a) an outsider who doesn’t know what they’re talking about; or b) someone who does know something, but is deliberately ignoring the contested nature of the subject and presenting their opinion as fact.