Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  “It won’t rain again.” He wanted to call the words back, as if saying it out loud had made it true.

  The vineyard would die.

  Bile surged up at the back of his throat. He stumbled away from the desk trying to reach the rubbish bin before vomiting. No rain. Cramps wrenched his back as he heaved again. Sunny. He clenched the plastic tub, gasping. Ruined. Sweat covered him with images of dirt floors, and tiny rooms; Indra, with her sari hitched up around her knees, doing laundry in the Godavari river like one of the untouchables.

  Bharat knelt on the floor until the wave of nausea had passed. Then he leaned against the cool wall and stared out the window, empty. The moonlight lay over the vineyard like a sari draped across a beautiful woman. How could he take Indra from this?

  He hung his head. Vomit had splattered his shirt. He gagged again, wanting to crawl out of his own skin to get away from the stench.

  Unclean. He ripped the shirt off and hurled it into the rubbish bin.

  One of the harvest hands had rigged a shower in the cellar, attaching the barrel washing hose to an old garden nozzle. Bharat snatched his coveralls from the peg inside the door.

  In the cellar he stripped and stood in the middle of the cavernous room, with barrels stacked five high around him. He grabbed the soap the cellar rat had left. Honeysuckle. Bharat’s stomach heaved again. Who had brought a scented soap into the winery? That could wreak havoc on his ability to distinguish odors in the developing wine.

  He meant to wash quickly, but the rhythm of the drops pounding against his skull displaced all thought. Their aquifer ran deep and water from the surrounding hills fed it. The water pelted his face, warm from the solar tank on top of the winery. He could use that to water the vineyard. That was something.

  He went outside, pulled the hose from the wall and started to water the grapevines. The earth crackled with thirst as it absorbed the cool current.

  Each row was planted at one meter spacing, 50 vines-to-row, with two meters between rows. 194,256 square meters of vines. If he soaked the ground with water for ten minutes at each vine it would take… Three hundred hours. He almost stopped in despair, but had no other answer.

  The house was dark when Bharat returned, but Indra rolled over as he slid into the bed. “What time is it?”

  Bharat glanced at the clock and winced. “Late.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Work.” He kissed her cheek. “Go to sleep.”

  Indra snuggled next to him, her body warm against his. She kissed the back of his neck and stiffened.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Then, almost as if she couldn’t help herself, Indra said. “Your hair smells different.”

  “I took a shower in the cellar. Remember the contraption the harvest hands rigged last year?”

  She pulled back. “Why didn’t you shower at home?”

  “I—” He stopped. He did not want to tell her he had been sick. He did not want to answer her questions. “I just did. Does it matter?”

  She answered with less than a whisper. “No.” Indra turned her back to him leaving a chill between them.

  #

  Château d’Yquem, Sauternes 2024

  Revisiting the perfect 1931 season, Château d’Yquem has recreated the wine considered the Holy Grail of Sauternes. Concentrated fruit and brilliant acidity marry perfectly in a wine for the ages.

  Shutting the door to the study, Bharat cradled the bottle of Sauternes under his arm. It was only one bottle out of the collection of anniversary wines Indra’s parents had given them as a wedding present. He had no reason to feel guilty about selling one bottle.

  He was doing it for her, so she would not know they were destitute. He set the golden bottle of wine next to the computer and surfed across the web to his favorite wine auction site. With the money from this sale, he could buy enough hose to put in a crude drip irrigation system.

  Opening a new auction page, he began inputting data from the wine.

  Indra opened the door of the study. The lamp in the living room backlit her, peeking through the folds of her sari. “Bharat? The holographer sent Deepali’s wedding album.”

  “I need to finish some work. I’ll be right there.”

  “You work so hard.” She crossed the room, her hair still as dark as when the matchmaker had introduced them. Leaning down, Indra kissed the back of his neck. He caught the hints of jasmine in the natural scent of her skin.

  Bharat captured her hand and kissed her palm, thanking all the gods that Indra did not know how badly in debt Deepali’s wedding had placed them. “Give me five more minutes.”

  Indra fingered the collar of his khurta with her free hand. She whispered so her voice seemed to kiss his ears, “Perhaps when you finish, we could do more than look at holos—Are you selling one of our anniversary wines?”

  “I—” He looked at the screen, half-filled with information from the wine. “Yes. I am.”

  In his hand, her fingers twitched like a mouse. “Why?”

  Shrugging, he released her and picked the bottle up. “We’ve got more than we’ll use.”

  “But it’s our anniversary wine.”

  “It’s one bottle.” He ran his thumb across the label, trying for nonchalance.

  “I see.” Reflected in the glass, a distorted Indra retreated from the room without another word.

  When the door closed, Bharat shut his eyes and cursed. He should tell her the truth. Even with solar power and well water, eventually Indra would need some money. And then what?

  The door opened again. Bharat spun in his chair, still cradling the d’Yquem.

  Rachana poked her head around the door. “Do you have time for a quick chat session?”

  “Of course.” He set the bottle down, and wiped his forehead, forcing a smile.

  She sat on the edge of the desk. “You know this whole natural weather vintage thing?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I was talking with a—” She hesitated and looked away. “A friend of mine at school who’s interning at a law office and his boss is a wine geek.”

  “His boss?”

  “Um…yeah. Anyway, he told his boss, and his boss was way excited, so I said they could come for a barrel tasting. I know I should have asked first, but…”

  “So, who is this ‘friend’?”

  Rachana ducked her head, looking like her mother in her coy moments. “A classmate.”

  Unlikely. “Does he have a name?”

  “Mukund Krishnasami. May I bring them for a tasting?”

  “Have you talked to your mother about this?”

  “You know Matti. She goes epic if I mention boys at all. And…and you said that I should find my own husband.”

  Bharat winced as his angry words from the vineyard returned to haunt him. Still, this would give him a chance to look the boy over. He nodded. “All right.”

  Rachana grinned and bounded to the door. “Hey. Matti’s got Deepali’s wedding album. Want to look at it?”

  He could finish the auction listing later. “Of course.”

  As they entered the living room, Indra looked up, wiping her eyes hastily as if she had been crying.

  Bharat stopped in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Indra smiled, but her eyes were red. “Just allergies. It’s all this dust, I suppose.” She waved at the dry landscape.

  Rachana laughed, crossing the room to plop beside Indra. “Get Bapu to turn the weather back on.”

  “You turned off the weather?” Indra looked stricken. “Why?”

  Bharat swallowed the panic rising in his throat. “I want to make wine influenced by natural weather. The whole industry makes wine that tastes the same; we’ve lost the differentiation in vintages.” These were not lies which spilled off his tongue. He did hate the sameness. He wanted to make wine expressing a time, and a region with true terrior. “I want to make something new.”

  Indra’s gaze drifted back to the
grapevines thrusting through the dry soil. “But the grapes will die without water.”

  That’s why he had stayed out every night, watering the Shiraz. “I know. I’m putting in a drip irrigation system.”

  Indra crossed her arms and leaned back on the couch. “Well, I don’t see how drip irrigation is any different than scheduling the rain.”

  “The temperature and humidity, water retention in the soil—” Bharat could not explain all the variables which made harvests different. He flung out his arms in frustration. “Will you trust me!”

  Her nostrils flared, the gold ornamental stud sparking in the light from the window. “Of course, husband. I am your true companion and life-long partner.”

  The words of their wedding vows crossed the room like a slap. Bharat’s face burned. She had no right to challenge him. He had striven to protect and care for her.

  Rachana cleared her throat. “Weren’t we looking at Deepali’s wedding holos?”

  “If your father wants to, then we will.” Indra’s smile chilled him.

  Rachana looked caught between her parents. “If this isn’t a good time…”

  “No. This is a perfect time.” Bharat sat beside Indra.

  As if nothing had happened, Indra opened the small folder to the first holo. Above the folder, a tiny Deepali danced with her new husband to faint wedding music. Even in miniature, she looked radiant with joy. Bharat leaned forward. The wedding might have beggared them, but he could not deny his little girl anything.

  Tears streamed down Indra’s face. “This was the happiest day of my life.”

  Bharat smiled at her. “You said that on our wedding day too.”

  Her tears stopped. “I was wrong.”

  Rachana stood abruptly. “I…I have some homework.”

  Reaching forward, Indra snapped the holo folder shut. “And I need to make dinner.” She pushed the holo to Bharat. “Perhaps you would like to view the rest. Their wedding vows are particularly lovely.”

  Bharat watched her rise. “I thought you had not watched it yet.”

  “I haven’t, but I remember the vows.” She paused in the doorway. “I like the part where the groom promises to cherish the bride and consult her as his partner.”

  She swept into the kitchen. Bharat winced as pots clanged together.

  He stared at the holo folder for another moment and then returned to the office to list the Sauternes.

  He should have done that earlier.

  #

  Domaine Drouhin Oregon, Pinot Noir, Lauren, 2031, 2032 and 2033

  Typically polished wines from this respected producer in the Red Hills. Uniformly clean, balanced and delicious Pinot Noir.

  In the winery lab, Bharat hunched over the spectrophotometer, running the numbers on the sugar content and acidity profile of the grape sample. With the unrelenting sunshine, the fruit was ripening faster than he had expected. As long as the vines did not shut down before the drip irrigation system arrived, he might have an early harvest.

  Indra knocked on the door of the lab, holding his E-bud. “You left this at the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  She set the earbud on the workbench beside him. “A woman called.”

  Would that be Rachana’s lawyer? “Did she leave a number?”

  “Your e-bud recorded it.” Indra crossed her arms as if she were hugging herself. “Bharat…”

  When she did not continue, Bharat looked up. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Indra shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He waited to see if she would say anything else, and then returned to his sample.

  After a silent moment, the winery door closed with a little more force than necessary. Bharat set down his sample. What had he done to make Indra angry? He had thanked her for bringing the earbud down.

  Later. He would ask her later. Bharat clipped the e-bud behind his ear and pulled up the last incoming call; the e-bud tapped his optic nerve, flashing “Kumari Tupno” across his field of vision.

  The woman who appeared superimposed in the winery had hair that seemed like an advert for a high-end designer. “Bharat! Thanks for calling me back. I’m very excited by what I hear about the new direction you’re taking your wines. Very excited.” Kumari’s voice marched through the e-bud. “When I started collecting wines, I couldn’t afford foreign wines and your father was my favorite of the local producers. No one else planted Shiraz in those days.”

  Somehow the conversation drifted to the climates for growing grapes. Bharat found himself running through the different great vintages whose weather patterns he had copied over the years.

  “So far, the best results have come from using the Hermitage 1969 patterns. But it gets dull.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Kumari laughed. “Though not as a wine-maker, of course. A friend of mine did a vertical flight from Domaine Drouhin Oregon. Dull, dull, dull.”

  “Back to back vintages?”

  “God. Yes, I don’t know what he was thinking.” Kumari sighed. “I tasted a pre-weather control vertical flight from Latour. God. The differences amazed me.”

  “What years?”

  “2000, 2001, and 2002. The 2000 blew me out of this world; still fresh with fruit and truffle, and this wonderful minerality. The 2001 was good, but 2000 was outstanding. 2002 had this earthy, gamey character. They were so different.”

  “Vintage variation.”

  Kumari said, “That’s why I think your return to natural weather is exciting.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you. I won’t be able to do a natural weather vintage after all.”

  “Why not?”

  Bharat hesitated and then explained the ISRO’s policy, which left him with weather he could not control and could not turn off.

  When he finished, Kuzahli sniffed. “They can’t force you to accept services you don’t want. So we’ll have to stop ISRO from controlling your weather.”

  While Kumari explained her hopes for the case, Indra poked her head into the lab.

  Bharat muted the e-bud’s mic. “What?”

  “Dinner is ready.”

  “I’ll be up soon.”

  She nodded and slipped out. Bharat unmuted the e-bud as Kumari finished. Even within the privacy of the lab, his next question almost stuck in his throat. “What—what are your rates?”

  Kumari cleared her throat as if she were embarrassed. “Would you consider futures on next year’s vintage? I retain an old fondness for your wines.”

  “Why next year, why not this one?” He should not even question such a generous offer.

  “Well, we won’t have a court date in time to affect this year’s harvest so it will still be produced under an artificial micro-climate. Now, when we come out for the barrel tasting, Mukund can record the current conditions and you can turn the weather control back on.” She laughed. “He and your daughter are so cute together.”

  Bharat split in two, wanting to ask about his daughter and her assistant, but caught by the phrase, “turn the weather control back on.” He grimaced, focusing on business. “Do I have to restore weather control?”

  “I understand your reluctance, but I can make it look good in court. ‘Farmer forced to use ISRO’s services or face losing crop.’”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, the press will eat it up.”

  That sounded wonderful, but too late for this harvest. Mechanically, Bharat made arrangements for a tour and barrel tasting. He finished the call and put his head on his hands. This harvest was doomed.

  Unless he turned the rain back on.

  Bharat looked at the numbers he had run on the fruit. It came so close to being ready for harvest, but the vines would not get there without water. He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to calculate if he could make it to the end of the season without weather control. The Sauternes auction had another three days to go and then he could buy the irrigation hoses.

  But even with that, Indra was right; it was little different
than using weather control. He groaned. Indra. He had forgotten dinner.

  By the time he got to the house, Indra and Rachana were already eating.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. It took longer than I thought.” He sat at his place. The table groaned under vegetable kebabs, rice, nan, dal, raita and Sag Paneer. A glass of pale straw wine—probably an Alsatian Gewurztraminer—waited for him.

  “What were you talking about?” Rachana asked.

  Bharat glanced at Indra but she was absorbed in adding more dal to her rice. He looked back at Rachana and shook his head trying to signal that he didn’t want Indra to know about the phone call. “Not much.”

  Indra put the spoon back in the bowl of dal. “You certainly spent a long time talking about not much.”

  “I was arranging a barrel tasting.” His innards twisted in knots.

  “Oh.” Rachana said, “Thanks for doing that.”

  Indra said, “Why am I the only one who doesn’t know who’s coming?”

  Rachana met Bharat’s gaze, her eyes wide. She shook her head, clearly begging him not to tell Indra about her “friend.” Bharat picked up the glass of wine to delay answering. Gewurztraminer, indeed. “Is this the Hugel?”

  Indra shook her head. “Ostertag. Who is coming?”

  “A lawyer wants to talk about futures in the next vintage.” That was true. He swirled the Gewurz in his glass and studied the legs, but his heart pounded as he tried not to look at Indra.

  She said nothing. Then Indra pushed her chair back from the table and picked up her plate. She walked to the kitchen.

  Rachana asked, “Where are you going?”

  Indra paused in the doorway. “I’d rather not eat with people who are lying to me.”

  Bharat set the wine glass down, harder than he intended. “I wasn’t lying!”

  “And you’re not telling the truth.”

  “Every word I’ve said has been true.” He had been very careful.

  “Oh. I’m sure, that’s true. But you can say only true things and still tell a world of lies.”

  Bharat stood, but his knees trembled under him. “When have I lied to you.”