“A Vaucanson,” Amanda said in a bitter voice. “Not as active as Lyman’s, but surely more convincing as a human.”
Ah Jin steered the balloon away fast, but both groups of men on the Cardiff Cloud shouted and pointed. The men from the Sea Dragon turned and fled back to the dragon mouth. Within a few moments, they had departed the Cardiff Cloud, less the ones who were dead or wounded. The huge steel dragon mouth released the stern of the cargo ship after the men had returned, then clamped shut.
Kanlee watched as the big serpentine ship dropped beneath the waves.
“Are they really gone?” Amanda asked.
Kanlee waved a hand at the empty water. Some of Fan Feitou’s parts—the smaller, flat metal pieces and some shreds of clothing—drifted on the water. “Maybe they didn’t know the minister was a Vaucanson. I think they’re going back to their home port, wherever that is.”
“Not Shanghai, or Lyman would have heard,” said Amanda. “Tianjin, maybe, near Beijing. Or a port to the south.”
Ah Jin was already directing his crew to land again on the deck of the Cardiff Cloud. Within a few moments, the basket touched the deck.
Kanlee threw out the rope ladder, descended, and then helped Amanda and Meiping climb down.
Across the deck, crew members were helping the wounded and covering the dead. Several stopped to point at Kanlee and talk among themselves.
Captain Berwick came striding up to Amanda, his face distorted with righteous anger. “Miss Wellstone! Did I not warn you last night? That this ship is no place for a lady such as yourself?”
Kanlee remained silent in his role as Amanda’s bodyguard, but was alert to Berwick’s bad temper.
Amanda drew herself up, ignoring a tear in the front of her blue bodice that made it even more revealing than before. “I congratulate you, Captain Berwick. You and your crew acquitted yourselves in an excellent manner. I feel safe in your care.”
Berwick paused, apparently surprised by her compliments. “Aye, well, Miss Wellstone, the fact remains…” He stopped, apparently searching for words.
Kanlee stifled a smile at his predicament.
“I shall commend you to my brother Lyman,” said Amanda. “How long until we reach Nagasaki?”
Berwick seemed to weigh his options and let his temper go. He cleared his throat. “Ah, well, at this speed, only another half day, I should think.”
“Captain, I was awakened quite suddenly this morning. I am deeply grateful for your hospitality in offering your quarters. May I — pardon my being so forward, but may I be your guest for breakfast? I fancy tea, you see?”
Berwick frowned. “I have much to do, Miss Wellstone, with wounded and dead among my crew. I fear I must tend to my duties.”
“I should not wish to add to your burdens, Captain. Perhaps you would like me to be out of your way, in the officers’ mess?”
Berwick hesitated only a moment. “Of course, Miss Wellstone. I shall be honored to take you to the officers’ mess before I return to my duties.”
“And my bodyguard and handmaid shall join me, of course.”
“Indeed, Miss Wellstone.” Berwick offered his arm. “May I?”
“Thank you, Captain Berwick.” Amanda took his arm and walked with him.
Meiping walked behind Amanda as a dutiful handmaid, still carrying Berwick’s bottle of Talisker Scotch hidden in the crook of one arm as her looped braids swayed in the breeze.
Kanlee took a moment to watch the East China Sea behind the ship, as the wake spread out behind it. Somewhere in the deep, the Sea Dragon was still lurking.
For now, his contribution to resisting the emperor would have to do. After all, he was hungry.
As though she could hear his thoughts, Meiping turned and tossed him the Talisker.
As Kanlee caught the bottle, he saw his cousin smiling with amusement. He uncorked the bottle and took a long swig to start breakfast.
* * *
William F. Wu has had over sixty short stories published in the science fiction and fantasy fields and thirteen novels by major New York houses. He adapted his novel Hong on the Range for a three-issue, closed-end comic book from Image Comics in the 1990s.
A six-time nominee for the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy Awards, Wu is a news editor in Palmdale, California. He was born and raised in the Kansas City area, and educated at the University of Michigan. He lives in Palmdale with his wife, Fulian Wu, and their son Alan. For more information, see WilliamFWu.com.
5
Doubleplusunhate
George Donnelly
“I love you, Dad.”
Marshal turned from his portscreen and looked at the boy. Unspeak. The rigid seat back pushed the thin slice of metal into his buttock. He pulled himself up from a slouch and looked back to his portscreen.
The boy climbed onto Marshal’s lap. He knocked the portscreen from Marshal’s hands and it clattered to the bare cement floor. Anger rose within him. “Doubleplusungood!”
The boy stared up at Marshal. His smile was wide and mischievous. Marshal studied his face. The deep blue eyes, the round face, the wide smile— Liker. Like… me.
Marshal jerked his head back as the realization struck him. “Doubleplusunhate. Doubleplusunhate Jak.” He grabbed the boy and hugged him tight. Jak wrapped his thin sticks of arms around his father’s neck. A jumble of emotions stirred in Marshal’s gut but one word percolated to the top: defense.
“Jak forgetted goodpharm morewise. Ungood!” The woman smacked the back of her hand across Jak’s face. Behind them was a gray wall. A small window provided limited access to the steel city behind them. The buildings followed one another in silence, none reaching higher than the other.
Jake’s face turned red. He tilted his head to one side and swallowed. He looked at Marshal. Marshal sat against the wall at the tiny kitchen table. He faced the window but kept his eyes to his portscreen.
“Hate!” yelled Jak. “Hate! Doubleplushate! Goodpharm ungood. Kill me, inner me. No! No morewise.” He turned to his father. “Dad. Tell her.”
His mother grabbed the boy by the shoulders and twisted him until he stood with his back to her. She pushed him towards the door. “Learnplace unlater, Jak! Go!”
“Dad,” said Jak. His face fell and the beginnings of a frown formed around his mouth and eyes.
His mother glanced at Marshal. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her hands shook. She cleared her throat, grabbed Jak’s bag from the floor and jammed it into his chest. She pushed him and he fell to the ground.
“Dad, please.” Jak looked up at him from the floor. Water welled up and over his eyelids.
Marshal sighed. He put down the portscreen. The memory flashed in his mind. Jak’s eyes. Unhateful. Knowwantingful. Unfrowning. Goodpharm ungave it. Goodpharm unlived Jak’s… Marshal searched for the word. He imagined a ball of swirling, cereal-colored light inside of Jak. Soul. The Oldspeak came to him. His eyes darted from side to side and his forehead broke out in a sweat.
“Hate uncontrolled Jak! Hate Oldspeak!” yelled Jak’s mother. She looked at Marshal. Her face was taut. She raised her chin and sneered. “Marshal crimethink.” She nodded to herself. “Marshal unperson. Ownlife ungood. Oldspeak forbidded.” She arched an eyebrow and took a step towards the door.
Time stopped for Marshal. He planned this day. He didn’t want it but he expected it. He loved Johness. She once had Jak’s same smile. But he loved Jak more. Why did I have to teach Jak Oldspeak? The feeling of the archaic language in his mind shocked him but he knew the answer.
“Joycamp fixwill Jak,” said Johness. “Fixwill.” She laid her hand on the doorknob.
Marshal stood up and threw his portscreen at the wall next to Johness. He was behind her. Marshal pulled the hunk of pointed metal from his back pocket and pushed it into the side of her neck. He stepped away from her and she fell backwards to the floor. Crimson liquid pooled on the gray floor next to her wriggling body.
Marshal thought back five years ago to when he
first encountered the Oldpseak book in the domicile of a prole unperson. “Dictionary,” it said in silver letters against a navy blue cover. The sharp, dry pages of forgotten words stirred an unexpected need in him. He steeled his resolve. Doubleplushate crimethink ungood. Ownlife. An ugly word. He translated it into Oldspeak. My own life. Jak’s own life. He took in a rapid breath as the image of a tree sparked in his mind.
“We go.” He pulled the boy up from the floor.
Jak’s chest convulsed. “Mom,” he whispered. Her body was still. He leaned down and caressed her cheek. “I love you.”
A man scowled at them in the doorway. Jak startled and the man saw Johness’s body. His eyes went big and he took a step back.
Marshal kneeled down next to his wife’s dead body. He extracted the makeshift knife. He ran to the door and forced the shiny metal deep into the man’s chest. The man fell back into the corner and stared at the floor. Marshal reached for Jak’s hand.
Jak took a step back. His mouth hung open and he shook his head.
Marshal grabbed Jak’s upper arm and looked him in the eye. “Freedom, Jak. Freedom! Forest. New life. Unforget!”
“Slowful walk. Unfacecrime. Inair.” Marshal smoothed out the wrinkles in Jak’s shirt and pushed his hair to one side. “Untense.” The sidewalk was crowded.
Jak nodded and let his breath out fast. His pace accelerated.
“Slowful.” Marshal scrunched up his face then let the muscles fall. Freedom. He stared straight ahead and made for the movestop in lockstep with Jak.
At the movestop, a group gathered. People and transports streamed in all directions. Crowds gathered for the quick morning ration in a sprawling square cornerwise from him. Big Brother’s cartoonish visage streamed from building to building in a digital display of omnipresence. People dressed in white, silver, tan and sky blue laid eyes on him. Facecrime! He raged at himself for his lapse.
The white transport eased to a stop in front of them. The doors slid open. Marshal redoubled his grip on Jak’s small hand. His heart leapt with joy and he struggled to contain his ungood emotion.
“Killer!” The ragged voice came from behind him. “Unproceed killer Marshal.”
Marshal froze. Jak’s grip tightened and trembled. Marshal sneered at his own incompetence.
“Killer unproceed. Thinkpol come,” said the neighbor. The giant screens on the buildings changed. Big Brother’s face appeared larger now. His eyes raged and a giant finger pointed down at Marshal.
The crowd formed into lines and moved away from the pair. The square fell silent. Passengers filed out of the back door of the transport. The front doors closed mere centimeters from Marshal’s nose.
“Dad. I love you.”
Marshal didn’t want to look down at his boy but he steeled himself. His heart crushed. Gravity pulled hard at the boy’s eyes and mouth. I doed crimethink. I doed … did this. He imagined the boy in joycamp.
No. The thought catalyzed a chain reaction of decision within him. Marshal whipped around and shook a finger at his accuser. “Oldthinker!” he yelled. He narrowed his eyes and strode towards the older man. “Blackwhite ungoodpharm oldthinker bewill unperson!”
The man staggered back, his eyes wide. “No,” he whispered. “Doubleplusgood duckspeaker. Ingsoc bellyfeel.”
Marshal turned and ran down the block. They turned left, ran down another block and the crowds were there again. They boarded a transport and stared straight ahead. Marshal rubbed his thumb into the palm of Jak’s hand. Bewill good. Bewill good.
* * *
George Donnelly is the author of space opera, robot apocalypse and dystopian science fiction series. A rebel and unreformed idealist, he believes equally in human rights and abundant hugs before bedtime. Get a new free short story every month at GeorgeDonnelly.com.
6
Get Kidd to Bounty
Jack McDonald Burnett
Karren Considine raised her beer bottle to the shit-fucking goddamn Government. She even took a pull when the other five drank. Her boundaries were the weaker for the two beers she’d had before the present one. Still, she resisted anything more demonstrative than the camaraderie fellow drinkers could expect in a gloomy pub. She wouldn’t herself propose a toast to the shit-fucking goddamn Government, in irony. Or, for that matter, otherwise. But it was best not to dwell on her feelings about the Government that evening.
The pub was dark and sullen. There were lights over the bar itself: hot lights, after a while, she could attest. She’d repaired to a small two-person table, one of the tall ones with the tall chairs, because the lights over the bar had been so hot. It was below freezing out and winter howled at the pub door, but there was warmth enough at her table. She didn’t need to be baked at the bar.
The decor was wooden, with all the variety that suggested. Wooden tables and chair backs, wooden floor showing the grain and smelling like peanut shells and spilled beer, dura-plast outer walls made to look like the same wood as the floors. The padding on the back of the booths and the back of the chairs was a faded maroon, and not all the same shade. It was someplace to eat pub food at mealtime, and someplace to drink when you’d had a shitty day.
Karren shared the pub that night with a party of three, there specifically to bitch about the Government, and a party of two, one of whom, Karren gathered, had lost her job that day. The now-unemployed woman and her companion were lending their full-throated accompaniment to the first party’s bitching about the Government during recent rounds. The woman must have worked for the Government, or for some outfit with a Government contract — oh, hell. It could be just about anything. She might have lost her job because of over-regulation. Karren could speak with some authority about over-regulation. She could also speak with authority about other ways the Government can make your life a little bit worse. Not that she would, in public.
“I lost my job today,” the woman said to the pub. Karren suppressed a self-congratulatory smile, and waited to find out why. “Gover’ment says my company has to pay me a certain amount, an’ health insurance. They can’t afford it no more. I tol’ ‘em, I’ll work for less, an’ no insurance, but they’re not allowed. So I get nothin’.” The party of three thought this was the worst thing they’d ever heard, to go by the expletives they let fly. Another toast to the shit-fucking goddamn Government. Karren took a more discreet pull, this time.
“How about you?” one of the party of three said. Karren flushed, hoping they weren’t talking to her — but of course, they were.
“Just having a beer,” she said.
“Just having a beer,” the man said. “What do you do for a living? May I ask?”
Karren sighed, but didn’t make a show of it. “AI horses,” she said. “Repair and maintenance.”
One of the other men in the party of three said, “Robot horses! Holy shit. You must be about the only one does that.”
“Around here,” she said.
“Get a lot of Government work?”
She breathed in and out. “No, hardly any. Mostly the other side of the law from them.”
“Other side. You talking about criminals? German Trotter and his thugs?”
“’S right,” she said. Was she slurring a little?
“Why them? I mean, why they like the robot horses?”
“It’s so they can shoot,” the unemployed woman’s companion chimed in. “Can’t shoot a gun from a sled, you’ll fall off.”
“Is that why?”
Karren thought better of answering, but then did anyway. “Might be part of it. Biggest reason is AI horses ain’t gotta be chipped.”
There was intake of breath from two of the party of three. “I hadn’t thought of that! Holy shit. That’s something. They use robot — sorry, AI horses because they can’t be tracked. I would never have thought of that.”
“So, you pretty much have a Government-proof business, don’t you?” his buddy said.
“I wish,” she said.
“Why do you say that?�
�
She had vowed not to get into this. Not out loud. But here it came. “Because they passed a new law. Just found out today. I gotta install a chip on every horse I service, starting in a week and a half.”
There was silence, for several beats. Then, a general commotion, punctuated with commiserating talk.
“That might make AI horses kind of less popular,” someone observed.
Karren snorted. She raised her nearly-empty bottle high in the air. “To the Government,” she said, resigned to toasting.
The others ignored her lack of adjectives, and chorused, “to the shit-fucking goddamn Government!”
Later on, the bartender put some news on. There would be nothing there about the new law that was going to sink Karren’s business and ruin her livelihood — there was trade sanctions against the settlement on the moon, there was Justice trying to run down a fugitive, there was Patriot Day celebrations, thoroughly organized and heavily scripted. All more important than some one-off law about chipping AI horses. Karren was grateful. She didn’t want to think about it, and that meant she didn’t want to hear about it, either.
Karren left shortly after the news was done, before the man and the unemployed woman, but after the party of three. One of the three had hit on her first. She thought it was sweet, but it was also alcohol-induced. The man — boy, really — was in his early, maybe mid–20s, with barely a reason to shave every day. Karren’s mostly unattended dark hair already had some grays in it, at 33. By the time she’d been the boy’s age, she’d been a Marine corporal, and that seemed like a lifetime and a whole war ago. She could have babysat him twenty years ago. She was unwilling to do so tonight. She had some feeling sorry for herself to do, back at home. She let him down easy.
Defiant, She Advanced: Legends of Future Resistance Page 11
