Lightspeed Magazine Issue 37

by L. Timmel Duchamp

  7According to Julia Guthke, “James I had a habit of jailing the authors and producers of plays he considered disrespectful of his dignity. Ben Jonson, for instance, was jailed at least twice for writing such plays. (The Countess of Bedford’s influence secured his release in both cases.) The Queen apparently enjoyed such plays and supported their production, including a series of political satires performed publicly at Blackfriars by her own Children of the Queen’s Revels.”

  8I doubt the Parliament that his son Charles (“the High and Mighty Prince” as he was known in 1609) tangled with would have agreed. They did, after all, cut off his head.

  9Aemilia Lanyer is interesting because: (a) Tillyard and others have (probably erroneously) identified her as Shakespeare’s “Dark Lady”; (b) she was an accomplished poet who was one of the first Englishwomen to see her work in print; and (c) though she married the court musician Alfonso Lanyer in 1592 apparently “for collour” to cover a pregnancy, she was the stylishly-maintained mistress of Henry Cary, Elizabeth I’s Lord Chamberlain (forty-five years her senior and a notable patron of the arts, particularly of Shakespeare’s company).

  10By this time theatrical companies had begun buying their costumes from nobles. (Previously the crown had had a monopoly on such sales.) Tudor and Stuart theatrical productions typically used very little scenery, but spent enormous amounts of money on acquiring authentic costumes. The crown made a bundle after the Reformation selling not only monastic property, but also the rich, centuries-old vestments of prelates—to theatrical companies.

  11Though literary historians routinely speculate on performance practices and audience behavior, especially with respect to Shakespeare, their notions of distracting audience behavior usually don’t refer to such privileges of royalty. (Though who, knowing anything about James, would find the Fool’s account of it incredible? Even if this particular instance is invented, surely the author of the tale witnessed such doings on other occasions, if not with such serendipitous timing.)

  12According to Julia Guthke, “Newes” was a game of wit played in Anne of Denmark’s court. A selected “round” of it was published as Sir Thomas Overbury, His Wife, including, in its second edition, a rebuttal to its misogyny by “A.S.” The game was played in Cecily Bulstrode’s rooms at court with varying collections of players, sometimes for half the night. The queen herself sometimes played, as well as the better known Ben Jonson and John Donne.

  13According to Julia Guthke, “Overbury was Robert Carr’s ‘handler.’ Because the Favorite had the important political responsibility of distributing an enormous amount of patronage, which was apparently beyond Carr’s ability to manage, Overbury, a friend of Carr’s, had the close-to-official position of dictating most of his advice to the king.”

  14According to Louise Ducange, “The ‘Mother’ was the uterus. A ‘fit of the Mother’ was an attack of hysteria, explained variously as the womb wandering the body in search of relief, or afflicted with humoral imbalance. A plentiful diet of orgasm or hard physical labor were supposed to prevent it.”

  15According to Julia Guthke, “‘Edictes’ was another game played in Cecily Bulstrode’s rooms, a put-down game explicity pitting a group of men against a group of women.”

  16Julia Guthke glosses this: “I believe this is a reference to Overbury’s attempt to seduce the Countess of Rutland by (after other methods failed) sending Ben Jonson, whom she favored, to read to her Sir Thomas Overbury His Wife, much as Orsino sent Cesario/Viola to read Orsino’s love letter to Olivia.”

  17Julia Guthke: “Lady Mary Wroth was the author of, among other things, The Countesse of Montgomerie’s Urania, an obvious roman à clef, which when it was published in 1621, caused a scandal.”

  18Julia Guthke: “I’m virtually certain this is from Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptamaron, though I haven’t gotten around to running it down yet.”

  19Julia Guthke: “‘Rina’ was the name Anne of Denmark’s intimates used familiarly with her. It was a shortened form of ‘Regina,’ allowing the combination of affection and a Latinate honorific in a single form.”

  Abaddon’s Gate

  James S. A. Corey

  Chapter Three: Melba

  When she walked into the gambling house, Melba felt eyes on her. The room was lit by the displays on the game decks, pink and blue and gold. Most of them were themed around sex or violence, or both. Press a button, spend your money, and watch the girls put foreign and offensive objects inside themselves while you waited to see whether you’d won. Slot machines, poker, real-time lotteries. The men who played them exuded an atmosphere of stupidity, desperation, and an almost tangible hatred of women.

  “Darling,” an immensely fat man said from behind the counter. “Don’t know where you think you come to, but you come in the wrong place. Maybe best you walk back out.”

  “I have an appointment,” she said. “Travin.”

  The fat man’s eyes widened under their thick lids. Someone in the gloom called out a vulgarity meant to unease her. It did, but she didn’t let it show.

  “Travin in the back, you want him, darling,” the fat man said, nodding. At the far end of the room, through the gauntlet of leers and threat, a red metal door.

  All of her instincts came from before, when she was Clarissa, and so they were all wrong now. From the time she’d been old enough to walk, she’d been trained in self-defense, but it had all been anti-kidnapping. How to attract the attention of the authorities, how to deescalate situations with her captors. There had been other work, of course. Physical training had been part of it, but the goal had always been to break away. To run. To find help.

  Now that there was no one to help her, nothing quite applied. But it was what she had, so it was what she used. Melba—not Clarissa, Melba—nodded to the fat man and walked through the close-packed, dim room. The full gravity of Earth pulled on her like an illness. On one of the gambling decks, a cartoon woman was being sexually assaulted by three small gray aliens while a flying saucer floated above them. Someone had won a minor jackpot. Melba looked away. Behind her, an unseen man laughed, and she felt the skin at the back of her neck tighten.

  Of all her siblings, she had most enjoyed the physical training. When it ended, she began studying tai chi with the self-defense instructor. Then, when she was fourteen, her father had made a joke about it at a family gathering. How learning to fight might make sense—he could respect that—but dancing while pretending to fight looked stupid and wasted time. She’d never trained again. That was ten years ago.

  She opened the red door and walked through it. The office seemed almost bright. A small desk with a built-in display tuned to a cheap accounting system. White frosted glass that let in the sunlight but hid the streets of Baltimore. A formed plastic couch upholstered with the corporate logo of a cheap brand of beer that even people on basic could afford. Two hulking men sat on the couch. One had implanted sunglasses that made him look like an insect. The other wore a T-shirt that strained at his steroidal shoulders. She’d seen them before.

  Travin was at the desk, leaning his thigh against it. His hair was cut close to the scalp, a dusting of white at the temples. His beard was hardly longer. He wore what passed for a good suit in his circles. Father wouldn’t have worn it as a costume.

  “Ah, look, the inimitable Melba.”

  “You knew I was here,” she said. There were no chairs. No place to sit that wasn’t already occupied. She stood.

  “’Course I did,” Travin said. “Soon as you came off the street.”

  “Are we doing business?” she asked. Her voice cut the air. Travin grinned. His teeth were uncorrected and gray at the gums. It was an affectation of wealth, a statement that he was so powerful mere cosmesis was beneath him. She felt a hot rush of scorn. He was like an old cargo cultist; imitating the empty displays of power and no idea what they really meant. She was reduced to dealing with him, but at least she had the grace to be embarrassed by it.

  “It’s all done, miss,”
Travin said. “Melba Alzbeta Koh. Born on Luna to Alscie, Becca, and Sergio Koh, all deceased. No siblings. No taxation indenture. Licensed electrochemical technician. Your new self awaits, ah?”

  “And the contract?”

  “The Cerisier ships out, civilian support for the grand mission to the Ring. Our Miss Koh, she’s on it. Senior class, even. Little staff to oversee, don’t have to get your hands dirty.”

  Travin pulled a white plastic envelope from his pocket. The shadow of a cheap hand terminal showed through the tissue.

  “All here, all ready,” he said. “You take it and walk through the door a new woman, ah?”

  Melba took her own hand terminal out of her pocket. It was smaller than the one in Travin’s hand, and better made. She’d miss it. She thumbed in her code, authorized the transfer, and slid it back in her pocket.

  “All right,” she said. “The money’s yours. I’ll take delivery.”

  “Ah, there is still one problem,” Travin said.

  “We have an agreement,” Melba said. “I did my part.”

  “And it speaks well of you,” Travin said. “But doing business with you? I enjoy it, I think. Exciting discoveries to be made. Creating this new you, we have to put the DNA in the tables. We have to scrub out doubled records. I think you haven’t been entirely honest with me.”

  She swallowed, trying to loosen the knot in her throat. The insect-eyed man on the couch shifted, his weight making the couch squeak.

  “My money spends,” she said.

  “As it should, as it should,” Travin said. “Clarissa Melpomene Mao, daughter to Jules-Pierre Mao of Mao-Kwikowski Mercantile. Very interesting name.”

  “Mao-Kwikowski was nationalized when my father went to jail,” Melba said. “It doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “Corporate death sentence,” Travin said as he put the envelope on the desk display. “Very sad. But not for you, ah? Rich men know money. They find ways to put it where little eyes can’t find. Get it to their wives, maybe. Their daughters.”

  She crossed her arms, scowling. On the couch, the bodybuilder stifled a yawn. It might even have been genuine. She let the silence stretch not because she wanted to pressure Travin to speak next, but because she didn’t know what to say. He was right, of course. Daddy had taken care of all of them as best he could. He always had. Even the persecution of the United Nations couldn’t reach everything. Clarissa had had enough money to live a quiet, retiring life on Luna or Mars and die of old age before the capital ran out. But she wasn’t Clarissa anymore, and Melba’s situation was different.

  “I can give you another ten thousand,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  Travin smiled his gray smile.

  “All that pretty money flown away, ah? And what takes you out into the darkness, eh? I wondered. So I looked. You are very, very good. Even knowing to squint, I didn’t see more than shadows. Didn’t hear more than echoes. But—” He put the envelope on the desk before him, keeping one finger on it the way her brother Petyr did when he was almost sure of a chess move but hadn’t brought himself to commit. It was a gesture of ownership. “I have something no one else does. I know to look at the Ring.”

  “Ten thousand is all I have. Honestly. I’ve spent the rest.”

  “Would you need more, then?” Travin asked. “Investment capital, call it? Our little Melba can have ten thousand, if you want it. Fifty thousand if you need it. But I will want more back. Much more.”

  She felt her throat tighten. When she tilted her head, the movement felt too fast, too tight. Birdlike. Scared.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, willing her voice to sound solid. Formless threat hung in the air like bad cologne: masculine and cheap. When he spoke again, false friendliness curved all of his vowels.

  “Partners. You are doing something big. Something with the Ring and the flotilla, ah? All these people heading out in the dark to face the monsters. And you are going with them. It seems to me that such a risk means you expect a very great return. The sort one expects from a Mao. You tell me what is your plan, I help you how I can help you, and what comes your way from this, we divide.”

  “No deal.” The words were like a reflex. They came from her spine, the decision too obvious to require her brain.

  Travin pulled back the envelope, the plastic hissing against the table. The soft tutting sound of tongue against teeth was as sympathetic as it was false.

  “You have moved heaven and earth,” he said. “You have bribed. You have bought. You have arranged. And when you say that you have held nothing in reserve, I believe you. So now you come to my table and tell me no deal? No deal is no deal.”

  “I paid you.”

  “I don’t care. We are partners. Full partners. Whatever you are getting from this, I am getting too. Or else there are other people, I think, who would be very interested to hear about what the infamous Mao have been so quietly doing.”

  The two men on the couch were paying attention to her now. Their gazes were on her. She turned to look over her shoulder. The door to the gamblers’ den was metal, and it was locked. The window was wide. The security wire in it was the sort that retracted if you wanted the glass to open and let the filthy breeze of the city in to soil the air. The insect-eyed one stood up.

  Her implants were triggered by rubbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Two circles, counterclockwise. It was a private movement, invisible. Internal. Oddly sensual. It was almost as easy as just thinking. The suite of manufactured glands tucked in her throat and head and abdomen squeezed their little bladders empty, pouring complex chemistry into her blood. She shuddered. It felt like orgasm without the pleasure. She could feel conscience and inhibition sliding away like bad dreams. She was fully awake and alive.

  All the sounds in the room—the roar of street traffic, the muffled cacophony of the gambling decks, Travin’s nasty voice—went quieter, as if the cocktail flowing into her had stuffed foam in her ears. Her muscles grew tense and tight. The taste of copper filled her mouth. Time slowed.

  What to do? What to do?

  The thugs by the couch were the first threat. She moved over to them, gravity’s oppressive grip forgotten. She kicked the bodybuilder in the kneecap as he rose, the little beer coaster of bone ripping free of its tendons and sliding up his thigh. His face was a cartoon of surprise and alarm. As he began to crumple, she lifted her other knee, driving it up into his descending larynx. She’d been aiming for his face. Throat just as good, she thought as the cartilage collapsed against her knee.

  The insect-eyed one lunged for her. He moved quickly, his own body modified somehow. Fused muscular neurons, probably. Something to streamline the long, slow gap when the neurotransmitters floated across the synapses. Something to give him an edge when he was fighting some other thug. His hand fastened on her shoulder, wide, hard fingers grabbing at her. She turned in toward him, dropping to pull him down. Palm strike to the inside of the elbow to break his power, then both her hands around his wrist, bending it. None of her attacks were conscious or intentional. The movements came flowing out of a hindbrain that had been freed of restraint and given the time to plan its mayhem. It was no more a martial art than a crocodile taking down a water buffalo was; just speed, strength, and a couple billion years of survival instinct unleashed. Her tai chi instructor would have looked away in embarrassment.

  The bodybuilder sloped down to the floor, blood pouring from his mouth. The insect-eyed man pulled away from her, which was the wrong thing to do. She hugged his locked joints close to her body and swung from her hips. He was bigger than she was, had lived in the gravity well all his life. He buffed up with steroids and his own cheap augmentations. She didn’t need to be stronger than him, though. Just stronger than the little bones in his wrist and elbow. He broke, dropping to his knee.

  Melba—not Clarissa—swung around him, sliding her right arm around his neck, then locking it with the left, protecting her own head from the thrashing that was about
to come. She didn’t need to be stronger than him, just stronger than the soft arteries that carried blood to his brain.

  Travin’s gun fired, gouging a hole in the couch. The little puff of foam was like a sponge exploding. No time. She shrieked, pulling the power of the scream into her arms, her shoulders. She felt the insect-eyed man’s neck snap. Travin fired again. If he hit her, she’d die. She felt no fear, though. It had been locked away where she couldn’t experience it. That would come soon. Very soon. It had to be done quickly.

  He should have tried for a third bullet. It was the smart thing. The wise one. He was neither smart nor wise. He did what his body told him to and tried to get away. He was a monkey, and millions of years of evolution told him to flee from the predator. He didn’t have time for another mistake. She felt another scream growing in her throat.

  Time skipped. Her fingers were wrapped around Travin’s neck. She’d been driving his skull into the corner of his desk. There was blood and scalp adhering to it. She pushed again, but he was heavy. There was no force behind her blow. She dropped him, and he fell to the floor moaning.

  Moaning.

  Alive, she thought. The fear was back now, and the first presentiment of nausea. He was still alive. He couldn’t still be alive when the crash came. He’d had a gun. She had to find what had happened to it. With fingers quickly growing numb, she pulled the little pistol from under him.

  “Partners,” she said, and fired two rounds into his head. Even over the gambling decks, they had to have heard it. She forced herself to the metal door and checked the lock. It was bolted. Unless someone had a key or cut through it, she was all right. She could rest. They wouldn’t call the police. She hoped they wouldn’t call the police.

  She slid to the floor. Sweat poured down her face and she began shaking. It seemed unfair that she’d lose time during the glorious and redemptive violence and have to fight to stay conscious through the physiological crash that followed, but she couldn’t afford to sleep. Not here. She hugged her knees to her chest, sobbing not because she felt sorrow or fear, but because it was what her flesh did when she was coming down. Someone was knocking at the door, but the sound was uncertain. Tentative. Just a few minutes, and she’d be … not all right. Not that. But good enough. Just a few minutes.