by Aaron Starr
“Amma!”
“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered around hot bites, sucking cool air. Uzzal wolfed his.
Stepping out to the deck, she closed her eyes, listening. Some said that starship pilots were psychic. She sniffed. If she’d been psychic twenty years ago, she would have known that the starship she’d hired on to fly was too new and required its pilot to use addictive, creativity-suppression drugs. She’d been willing to try, but she’d nearly killed them all and a passenger had broken into the cockpit, raped and tortured her while she was drugged. Then the ship’s mechanic, Bill had rescued her. They’d reneged on their contracts and fled by freighter to Enstad’s Planet.
She shuddered. Faster-than-light travel had always nauseated her, but the C-S drug altered brain chemistry. To her, star flight became an uncontrollable, plunging chaos. A decade of trying to forget left her destitute and still afraid of starships.
She was not psychic, but she thought that the harvester was near before she heard the low rumble of its oil engine and the rhythmic slap of paddles. “It’s here!” she cried and stepped back into the house, colliding with Uzzal. She caught him as he fell, clutched him to her breast and kissed him on the cheek.
“Amma! Stop…”
“It’s here, Bachchale!” She cleaned up, ran to their bedroom and clambered over the swinging hammock to the wardrobe. Touching the fingerprint lock, it opened with a dry puff of air. She lifted her best dress from the hanger, skinned out of the thin, green nylon work dress and pulled on the teal blue cotton shift Bill liked best.
Out again to the deck, she stared into the distance, squinting against the glare. The nearest tree village of frogfolk grew from the flatness of Ganges Nuton River delta, a cylinder of branches aligned like the pleats of a starship’s air filter, the largest supported by roots growing straight down like pillars. A warm puff of wind rattled marshland reed stalks, but she saw most clearly a stain of smoke and cried out, “They’re here!”
All along Little Big Cypress and Big Chittagong, the cry rang out. The quiet piers and boats swarmed quickly with old men, women and children, Ekrasimen—businessmen whose life was the Company—and Big Chittagongers in lungi and old women hanging laundry. Buckets of clean water appeared and splashed over grimy piers. Banners saved for Harvest Celebration snapped suddenly free. Somewhere further in, from High Baru Ekrasi—where the rich lived in stilt houses and walled compounds on solid land—sprang the sound of a steel pan band.
Sweet scents perfumed sultry air. At the center of Baru Ekrasi, warehouses, plastic factories and storage tanks clustered near the starship launch pad, opened in anticipation of the harvest, releasing the stink of revving oil pumps.
Celianne called to Uzzal, “Are you coming with me or running with your…”
“Bye, Amma!” he shouted, dashing through the houseboat, vaulting the weak spot and through the door, swinging like a monkey and bolting for the pier. A pack of boys raced away, flashing a rainbow of nylon shorts and bare bodies and feet, caroling, school-free children.
She smiled a bit. Two smiles, two pleasures. One more waited: she would sleep with Bill tonight, passion satisfied as many times as they could, with windows open to the soft, cool greenness of night blossoms. Straightening the towels, chairs, rugs and curtains, she hurried out.
She met neighbors on the plastic pier and nodded as they greeted her. Men, women and children raced by in bright, loose pants of Christians. Hurrying with them, were pale cream Muslim robes hanging head to toe, eyes the only evidence that a person lived beneath. A dozen frogfolk sent punts slipping in every direction. Young men and women in scant shorts, loose A-shirts and clinging shifts busied themselves on the piers. Children, sometimes in shorts, the youngest in nothing but sun-darkened skin, raced and called in English, French, Inuit and Bengali or a singsong creolé of all four. Celianne called and waved, but hurried to the harvester slip. Casting a peek over her shoulder, the smudge had turned to a billowing thunderhead. She could see the high pipes of the distillation tanks.
She stopped to stare. There were only four pipes where there should have been eight. There was too much smoke. The flagpole was not flying the red, blue and green of Baru Ekrasi. In fact, there was no flagpole at all. Her breath thickened like grease in her lungs; light feet abruptly leaden. The band had not stopped and welcome cries and songs drifted over the water. A warning died stillborn on her lips.
Her hopes for Bill’s pay being enough to leave Enstad’s Planet this time expired. Her hands hung limp at her sides.
The barge hove into view and soon the scale of the disaster was obvious. The hull was black along the starboard bow. After the immense organics grinder, one of four flash vessels was gone. The paddle had gaps. Laid out on the foredeck were four bundles of burlap tied neatly with hemp cords at neck, chest, waist and ankle. Two men and two women stood guard, grim faces dark with soot. The music of the steel band of Highest Baru Ekrasi staggered to silence, the only sound now the wheeze of an oil engine missing on one of its cylinders.
Celianne ran to join the crowd as the barge pulled into the slip, guided by tugboats. Banners drooped as dockmen tied multiple ropes. The gangplank slid from the hull to the pier.
First across was Captain Reza Dhaka. His face was clean-shaven, but over one eye an arc of glued skin showed angry red. The crowded piers hushed on his first word. He said, “Four…are dead.” Celianne caught her breath and barely noticed Uzzal wrap his arms around her thigh. “Victoire Jolliet. Israt Purganj. Joel Simons. Taal Boi.”
Screaming families stumbled forward to cross the bridge, and claim the bodies.
Captain Dhaka continued, “Injuries. The most serious have been taken to the Corporation Hospital.”
“So far away?” someone near Celianne muttered.
Another sighed, “So expensive.” For a blank instant, no one could hear as a starship oozed down from the sky to land on the pad. There it would stay a day, take up complex condensed oils from the last harvest and leave to ply larger markets on nearby worlds like Kandiyohi and La Portada.
When the noise faded, the Captain called, “These families come see me.” He rattled off names but all Celianne heard was a roar. She scanned faces for Bill.
Fingers dug into her thigh. Uzzal breathed, “Amma?”
“What is it? I’m trying to find Baba,” she said, annoyed that Bill didn’t at least look in her direction or make some move that might attract her attention.
“Amma, he called Baba’s name. Is Baba hurt? What’s a ‘Corporate Hospital’? Can we see Baba?”
She grabbed Uzzal so hard he cried out. “He said Baba’s name? I didn’t hear it. Are you sure?” Uzzal nodded. Suddenly, she felt dizzy. “They called Baba’s name?”
“Amma! You’re hurting me! The Captain said Baba’s name,” Uzzal cried.
She led Uzzal over the ramp, people stepping away. She scowled fiercely and eyes turned down. She stood aside with others, apart from the safety of the crowd as the last body was carried by its mourners from the barge.
The Captain called each family to him, leaned forward and spoke quietly. Some fainted dead away, others screamed and beat their fists on their loved ones.
The Captain said, “Celianne and Uzzal Christofferson.” They stepped forward. He leaned to her ear, wary of Uzzal.
She whispered, “What you have to say to me, say to Uzzal. He’s a big boy now.”
Captain Dhaka nodded, then said, “Bill lost his entire right arm and his right leg from the knee down.” He paused, looked around to make sure no one heard. “He’ll never work the harvest again, but at least he’s alive.” He stepped back, nodded to them and said the next name.
Celianne held Uzzal’s hand, staring at the Captain.
“What?” she asked politely. “What happened?”
He said harshly, “Take it up with Baru Ekrasi-Kalligstadtzin Organics,” and turned his back on her. There was movement in the ranks as two scowling sailors stepped to the ramp, glaring at her. One had an arm in
a sling the other wore a bloody T-shirt, threatening.
She stalked away, the crowd parting to let her pass. As she broke from them, a Baru Ekrasi-Kalligstadtzin Organics Corporation businessman from the main island fell in alongside them. He wore orange formal pants and a white shirt, but his oiled, blond hair was pulled back into a long, thin braid and over one shoulder, a black feathered boa wrap hung. While a ‘krasiman by day, he was vodoun priest by night. He said, “How will you be paying for the treatments, Christofferson begom?”
“Treatments?”
He snorted, “Surely you don’t think EKOC fixed your husband for free?”
“The pay from harvest…”
“You can see that the harvester was badly damaged. We’ll assess then charge the crew for repairs. Whatever’s left will of course be distributed to the crew. EKOC has saved his life at great cost. There are rescue and transport fees, triage fees, medication costs, surgical and professional consultation fees. Room and board for his stay in the hospital will cost you as well. The longer he stays, the higher the fees, so we will encourage him to be healed as quickly as possible.”
“What are you saying?”
“Christofferson begom, I am only trying to tell you gently that William has become charity. Now, if you’d like to take his place as a boiler tech on the harvester until he can get back on his foot again, I’d be happy to oblige you.” He flashed a thin smile. “Given that you have a child, your travel will be as limited as possible, and you should only expect to be gone from Baru Ekrasi for six to eighteen weeks.” He reached into his suit and took out a wordreader. Holding it to her, he said, “All you have to do is thumb the…”
“I can’t do that!” Recoiling, Celianne exclaimed, pulling Uzzal close, “Who would take care of Uzzal?”
“If that won’t work, perhaps we can make another sort of deal,” he said. The smile was predatory as a marsh shark’s and no longer businesslike. The pier was abruptly empty and her spirit shivered as if a cloud had covered the sun.
Celianne said, “I’m a good Protestant woman. I have no dealings with Satan.”
“A starship pilot as well,” his voice was smooth. Ignoring the rebuke, he did not deny the accusation.
“I have no need for sacrifices or help from the demon world.”
“You have no one else, Celianne. If you refuse to deal with the Company—and remember, child, the Baru Ekrasi-Kalligstadtzin Organics Corporation owns Enstad’s Planet—only the spirit world can help you now. Many speak for the Company, but only I speak with the spirits. You need me,” he said, walking closer. “I can save you.”
She stopped abruptly.
“What do you want, demon talker?”
He hummed and stepped back, smiling faintly. “You recognize my skill.”
“I came to Enstad’s Planet a devout, educated woman to raise a family. I believe that you are a demon’s mouthpiece.”
His smiled sharpened. “Did you come to this world to lose your husband and live cheek to jowl with poverty?”
Celianne snorted. “You’re the diviner. Did I?”
He scowled and said, “No one knows why you came here. Even Company records are extremely vague.” He tried to smile, “I think we can help each other.”
“What do I have that you would want?”
“Contacts,” he said simply.
She paused, eyes narrowing to slits. “What kind of contacts?”
“You know starship pilots and I am in no hurry. I need to obtain certain…objects from off-planet for the rituals.”
“Satan’s rituals,” she said, heart hammering. “Hire a pilot like everyone else.” She started walking again.
“I only deal with Lucifer when it suits me,” he said softly.
“Satan’s an all or nothing master, ‘krasiman. Besides, there are vodoun women who could coerce pilots easily enough.”
“But none of them are starship pilots,” he said. He twined the boa through his fingers. “You have the mark.”
Celianne touched the pilot’s tattoo on her temple and passed their houseboat. Uzzal tried walking to the boat’s ramp. Celianne yanked him along, kept going. She didn’t want the vodoun priest in her house. She strode to the end of the pier, looked down and started. An intricately carved punt floated on the thick water. In it, one of the frogfolk stared up at her with fist-sized eyes.
She gestured to it. “I think this frogfolk will help me.”
The priest’s eyes flashed and he motioned with his hand. Celianne smiled and said, “I’m a Christian, vodoun. Your curses don’t work on me.” She swung Uzzal around and lowered him into the punt, then dropped to her belly, slid over the edge of the pier and into the native’s boat.
The priest stepped up to the edge and snapped, “Curses may not, but I can guarantee indentured servitude would!”
¤
The frogfolk didn’t hesitate, but poled them away from the pier. The vodoun priest watched for a while, then stamped his foot and stormed away.
The local stopped poling and looked at her.
She looked at it and said, “Hello.”
The frogfolk were humanoid: bulging, dark thick-lidded eyes spaced widely, almost on the sides of its head; vertical nose slits; no neck; its mouth a twelve-centimeter inverted U. Spindly arms ended in three pairs of opposable fingers—the outer two with wide pads, the inner narrowing to a hard point. Its legs were as long as its arms and both were bare and webbed. From the wrist to the upper part of the leg, a tough, translucent membrane stretched when the frogfolk lifted an arm. Hearing was by vertical tympani on the chest. That chest might swell to twice its size with a flexible ribcage to protect the lungs when frogfolk sang or called for mates. In this form, it should have been fresh from the hatchery. Instead, deeply lined and dry skin made this one looked old.
The voice that came from the mouth was unexpected—alto like a breeder and sweet. The alien didn’t speak with its entire mouth. Only the lips between the eyes moved as it said, “Hello.”
“You speak English?”
“And Bengali as well, though with more difficulty. Seven other languages if it interests you.”
She stared at the creature. “You’re one of the ones that don’t change.”
“fairka*.” It said the word followed by a whistle from the lower corner of its mouth. “My name is Fump, and no, I have not metamorphosed. I hope to in the future. I think I’d enjoy breeding.”
A flock of frog flyers swooped past and she saw them again: all skin, bones, and sex organs, flight membranes like kite-paper stretched thin. Small eyes, small heads, because when frogfolk changed, the brain that let them speak to humans was sacrificed for reproductive tissue.
“You won’t enjoy anything. You’ll just do it,” she said.
Fump croaked, shoved the pole into the muck and said, “Is there somewhere you want to go?”
“Home.” She gestured back to the pier. “Slip ten.”
It worked silently, heavy muscles straining, pushing them past a meter-wide floating island of razorgrass. Slimy orbs of nearby frogfolk eggs twitched as nearly mature young prepared to hatch. Once free of the rubbery sack, the hand-sized, voracious, marsh sharks scavenged and hunted the waters, mostly eating each other and dying flyers whose life was spent fertilizing or laying new eggs. In time the marsh sharks metamorphosed into bipedal, human-shaped amphiboids who could speak, pick up information like sponges, and carried racial and parental memories in a cranioid capsule. Humans had thought the marsh sharks, frogfolk, and fliers to be separate species when Enstad’s Planet was first colonized. Eventually they learned that the newborn sharks protected the breeders and eggs, and the middle-stage frogfolk journeyed over the marshes to mix the species’ DNA. A ‘mud season’ brought on by the increased radiation of the star’s variable output introduced humans to something new: swarming fanged salamanders and the disappearance of the frogfolk. The salamanders crawled from drying ooze, devouring marsh sharks, frog fliers, and all other life including men, wom
en, and children; the frogfolk got away clean as humans learned another hard lesson about their new world.
The frogfolk built and maintained the towering villages kilometers from humans, but near enough to watch. They tended watergrain paddies and learned as much as they could. Once they found a new home, frogfolk waited eagerly for sexual metamorphosis to occur.
A tiny number never changed and went on learning until death from old age. Every village had at least one fairka*, the unchanged ones who were thinkers, inventors, teachers and historians.
Celianne said, “Why did you rescue me?”
Fump’s neck swelled and it made a deep thump of laughter. “Right place at the right time. You looked like you needed rescuing.”
Fump pulled up to their houseboat. Others tied every eight meters bespoke their owners. The few belonging to Muslims who owned businesses were painted brash colors. Latex was cheap and color made them stand out, with a few sporting minarets or golden domes. Each had a wide fishing deck where the owner might pray five times a day out of doors. Different smells curled on humid air around them, reminiscent of Earth’s Middle East.
The majority poor Christians kept house plainly, houseboats grey or blue, sometimes Company issue rust red.
Teeming life of the marsh surged beneath them: besides marsh sharks, fish, crustaceans and creatures both at once; amphibians, reptiles and mammals and bizarre mixes of all three; mostly small and sometimes large, rarely dangerous. Things slapped and crawled and hummed and croaked and slithered all around them.
Fump said, “I have heard of you.”
“Me?”
“‘The mudwoman who was a star,’” it said.
Celianne laughed. “That’s me.”
“Why Keragh?” The frogfolk name for Enstad’s Planet sounded kinder than the Human name. “Why trample this world?”
She sighed, not hearing the deeper question. No one had asked for years. She said softly, “I am terrified to fly again but it’s the only way to escape this place. I have to go back.” She shuddered, felt nauseated.
