Asimov's SF, August 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Zama is shaking. The parts of her body don't all shake at once, so it's like ripples on a screen.

  "Shut up,” Todd tells her. “Shut up shut up."

  "We're not their kids, dummy,” Sonya says to him. “They're not our parents. We're People and they're ugly Axans. Daddy and Mommy were our parents. We don't get any more—"

  Yoolie comes over to her. “Sonya,” he says almost right, he'll never get it right, “brigl diaymeni—” and Sonya screams at him, “I'm not your child!” while he's saying very softly, “I know you're scared."

  Everybody's quiet except Todd's crying and the Axan relatives are talking in other parts of the house and HI has started nice music playing and the mice bots are buzzing.

  That social worker says, “I think Sonya and I need to talk privately."

  Sonya says no but it doesn't matter what she says.

  Yoolie and Zama take Todd out of the room. She watches them go. He's really little and People. They're really tall and Alayayxan. Axan.

  That social worker comes and sits close to Sonya and asks her in a creepy quiet voice, “What is it, Sonya? Did something happen?"

  Duh. Lots happened. Lots always happens. Sonya doesn't have anything to say to that stupid Axan social worker.

  "Sonya?” You couldn't even tell it's her name if you didn't know. “Is somebody hurting you here? Do you feel unsafe?” Not like that, so she shakes her head. If she has to she'll say somebody's hurting her. That social worker gets closer and Sonya backs up against the wall. “Is Zama right, Sonya? Did you really think you were going to—"

  "No!” Sonya runs to her room and tells the door to open but it doesn't so she runs out into the big room where lots of Axan relatives not her relatives not hers are doing stuff on lots of screens and talking to each other and doing their weird dances to the weird music. They look like gray grass. They come over and put their disgusting flippers on her and say welcome to the family. Todd's there, too, playing with gray kids with flippers and practically no hair, dancing. That social worker's gone.

  Then it's dinner time. Sonya and the stupid Axan girl not her cousin have to sit at different ends of the big long table. HI turns on pretty music and pretty light. There's all kinds of People food and all kinds of Alayayxan—Axan food and Sonya's really hungry but she won't eat. Everybody else eats. Except Ib. Chchch just sits there not looking at Sonya.

  Sonya climbs up on the table. Ib starts over to her and she has to hurry. She squeezes her eyes shut and puts her two hands around her mouth with the tongue in it and all the ten fingers spread out and yells, “Ugly Axans!” Ib stops.

  It gets really really quiet except for Zama says her name wrong.

  "I hate you!” She doesn't know how to say that in their stupid language. She knows how to say, “Axan Axan Axan Axan” like a wail.

  Todd is crying really loud. One of the Axans cuddles him, shushes him. Zama reaches for Sonya with a zillion disgusting flipper things but she jumps away Axan Axan Axan and knocks food off the table and the mice bots whir around and Yoolie gets her.

  Then it starts to sound like a big big storm with lightning and thunder and scary voices and thick dirty air and ice. Sonya can't breathe.

  Yoolie jerks her off the table and carries her to her room. It used to be nice when Yoolie carried her. It's not nice now. The door opens when he tells it to. Now he's making some noise Sonya's never heard before, kind of whistling, kind of rattling, not from his ugly slanty mouth but from all over his ugly gray body sort of, like he's going to burn up like when something Sonya can't remember something a long long time ago blew up boom! She wouldn't talk to him even if he wanted her to. He doesn't even try. He just rattles and hisses and roars boom! He just sets her down and leaves her room. The room. It's not hers. She doesn't live here. Yoolie just leaves.

  Voices sound all mad, but they're butthead flip voices so how can you tell? GoPHER brings her dinner. She doesn't want to eat it but she's hungry and it tastes good and she throws the rest of it even the mixl on the floor and she stomps on it. Boo's broken but she holds him anyway when she falls asleep. She wakes up and she's wet the bed and she's all alone and she goes back to sleep. GoPHER brings her breakfast and cleans up the food on the floor and puts on clean sheets and takes the smelly wet ones away. Sonya squats on the bed until some pee comes out again and some poop. It's disgusting. GoPHER comes in and puts on clean sheets and takes the smelly wet dirty ones away. Sonya yells “Axan” but GoPHER's just a bot and it doesn't care what she calls it.

  Sonya sleeps.

  Sonya wakes up. It looks like morning.

  Four days.

  Sonya's sorry.

  They aren't ugly or stupid they're not Axans they're Alayayxans and she's People and she's their child. Brigl diomoni brigl diaymeni brigl.

  GoPHER brings her breakfast. Her tummy hurts but she doesn't knock anything off. “Go get Yoolie,” Sonya tells it. “Go get Yoolie, please."

  GoPHER goes. She waits. Her tummy hurts.

  Yoolie doesn't come. “House,” says Sonya. “Music, please.” Nothing happens.

  Three and a half days. Sonya wants Zama to brush her hair. Sonya wants Yoolie. Sonya wants Ib. Sonya wants Todd.

  Zama and Ib and Yoolie come in. Sonya's so glad. She says, “I'm sorry."

  Zama curls down onto the bed. “Sonya, we have to talk."

  No no “Will you brush my hair?"

  "Listen to me,” says Yoolie.

  "Will you brush my hair for Adoption Day in three and a half days?” Zama doesn't say anything.

  Ib says, “We can't—-"

  Yoolie says, “We aren't the right—"

  Zama says, “We thought you wanted—"

  Yoolie says, “—tried everything."

  Ib says, “—best for everybody."

  "Where's Todd? Where's my brother?"

  That social worker comes and takes Sonya not Todd, Todd's going to be adopted in two days. Zama and Yoolie hug her and they're crying and rattling. Ib's not here. She wants chchch.

  Where's her pen? Where's her smart pen? She's lost her pen. The house is quiet and there's no wailing and she can't find her pen.

  Out of the house and down down down in the elevator and out into the big hot city with just one moon. Her tongue finds a bloody hole where her little white tooth used to be. It hurts.

  That social worker says new school, new house, new friends. “Amalie?” Sonya whispers. “Puy?"

  No answer. Maybe that social worker doesn't know that's their names. Maybe Sonya's saying their names wrong.

  The new family's People. They can say “Sonya” right.

  Where's Boo? Where's broken blue Boo?

  Copyright © 2011 Melanie Tem

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Short Story: WATCH BEES by Philip Brewer

  Philip Brewer's stories often involve genetic engineering and money—perhaps not surprising, as his parents are biologists and he has a degree in economics. Even before the current recession, his tales often touched on hard economic times. Philip's work has appeared in Futurismic, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, and Redstone Science Fiction. He speaks Esperanto and uses it for international communication. “Watch Bees” is his first story for Asimov's.

  Picking his way through morning glory vines, over rolling chunks of old pavement, David made his way to the edge of the ditch. Kneeling down, he got close enough to the dandelions and clover to see that the bees visiting them were striped the distinctive orange-and-black of watch bees.

  Looking up, David took in the farm as a whole. The paint on the farmhouse and barn wasn't fresh, but it wasn't peeling. The garden was big. The fields grew food, not just biofuel crops. He was six or seven miles from town, having rejected each of the farms he'd passed, but this one looked promising.

  After four years, he still marveled over how much better things had held up in Illinois. A stranger would never have been able to walk from town to his family's orchard in Michigan. If bandits didn't get him, he'd be sto
pped at the checkpoints set up to stop the bandits. If he were lucky he'd be taxed whatever cash he was carrying and then turned back. A little less lucky and he'd be taxed a bit more heavily and have his body tossed in someone's methane digester.

  David was just two steps up the driveway when one of the bees noticed him. It moved close enough to brush his skin, then changed the pitch of its wingbeats to show it knew he was a stranger. As he continued up the drive, every bee he passed repeated the process. David shuddered each time.

  Near the barn, two men worried over an old sprayer. They wore caps advertising hybrid seeds and hybrid tractors, and had the look of father and son—no surprise, given the watch bees.

  The father glanced up at David's approach, then back down at the sprayer. “I think it's just this one O-ring, not a bad batch. The others look fine."

  The younger man nodded. “I'll put in a different one."

  "Good that you stopped, though. One bad seal can waste a lot of ammonia."

  "Thanks, Pa."

  The older man wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped around the sprayer toward David. “Whatcha selling, son?"

  "Looking for work,” David said.

  "Can't use you,” the farmer said, “On account of the bees. Raiders give us trouble, take you out along with them."

  "There hasn't been as much problem with raiders lately,” David said. “Not like it was three, four years ago when I got to the university. And I don't need a job long-term. I'd be willing to risk it."

  "You're a student?"

  "I just graduated."

  "Degree?"

  "Agriculture,” David said, which was true enough.

  "Why're you looking to hire on as a hand?"

  David launched into the story he'd prepared. “My folks have a peach orchard up in Michigan. Got hit by a resistant twig borer and had to pay up for some fancy new insecticide.” That was all true enough as well, except as an answer to the farmer's question.

  "And you're looking to earn enough to buy a train ticket to Michigan? Because I can't afford—"

  "Oh, no sir,” David said. “Just looking to make a little over room and board. And the extra wouldn't have to be in cash. Maybe an old bicycle I could refurbish. It's less than 250 miles to home. With a bike, I could save my parents having to come up with the cash."

  "Do have an old bike,” the farmer admitted, not mentioning what a dangerous ride David was proposing. He put out a hand. “Name's Ezekiel Ware. Be willing to take you on, you sure you want to risk it with the bees."

  David smiled. “I'm sure."

  * * * *

  David didn't realize Ezekiel had a daughter until Mrs. Ware called the menfolk in for dinner.

  He had spent the afternoon helping Zachariah move the cattle to fresh pasture, and then move the chickens to where the cows had been three days before. The cows seemed indifferent to the move, but the chickens were very excited to kick into the ripening cow patties, looking for grubs.

  Her name was Naomi. She wore a pioneer dress, but left her head uncovered, her brown hair falling in loose curls past her shoulders. It was nothing like the way women dressed at the university, but also charmingly unconventional for rural Illinois.

  A smudge of flour on her cheekbone suggested that she'd been working in the kitchen, but the first thing she said when her father came in was, “Pa, I spotted an odd divergence in ethanol futures prices between dollars and euros. I didn't know what it meant, so I reduced our exposure in both currencies."

  "Kept enough to hedge our expected production?"

  "'Course, Pa.” She glanced at her brother and rolled her eyes.

  David wanted very much to hear more—about the ethanol market, about the farm's hedging strategies, about Naomi—but everyone was moving toward the dining table.

  "Don't aim to produce much ethanol,” Ezekiel said to David as they sat down. “Just what we need for here on the farm. But hate to come up short and have to buy on the market. Overshooting's better than undershooting."

  Ezekiel bowed his head and launched into a long prayer, but David heard nothing of it, his attention fixed on the smudge of flour on Naomi's face. He just managed to look down in time to say “Amen” and look up with everyone else.

  "Got to dust off the solar panels every day, Dave."

  "Sorry, Zachariah,” David said, moving to clean the panel that powered the pump that circulated water from the fishpond through the herbs.

  Zachariah waved the apology away. “Pa especially praised that you went and checked the nitrogen levels in the water. Said it showed what a Ag degree was good for, that you did it on your own."

  "I'm glad he was pleased."

  "Finding that the system can support half again as many plants? You bet he's pleased. Now, come on—I want to fence off a few trees where the pigs have been getting into the roots."

  "I was hoping,” David said after they'd walked for a minute, “that you could show me a little about working with the bees."

  "Sure, if you want. Pa figured you might want to keep away from them."

  "No,” David said, holding still while a bee brushed past his face, shivering as the shifting drone of its wings swelled in his ear. After the bee flew off he added, “I'd be pleased to learn."

  "David,” Naomi said, “do you know anything about anaerobic bacteria?"

  The division of labor between the menfolk and the women meant that David scarcely saw Naomi except at the dinner table, so he was delighted that she'd come out to where he and Zachariah were splitting wood from a fallen tree.

  "You mean like botulism and gangrene?” David asked, glad for a chance to talk to her, but wishing for a more pleasant topic.

  Naomi grinned. “For methane production."

  "Oh,” David said. He shrugged, sorry she wasn't asking about something he had more expertise in. “Just the basics, I guess. We had a digester on our farm."

  Naomi's face fell. “I'd hoped maybe you'd studied them. The production rate in our digester dropped by half, and I'm trying to figure out why."

  "Half, but not to zero?” David pondered for a moment. “Do you use engineered methanogens?” At Naomi's nod he went on. “Maybe they died off and you're operating on natural anaerobic bacteria. That'd cut your production rate."

  "How could we tell?” Naomi asked. “How could we fix it?"

  "Fixing it would be easy. Just run your digester over-hot for a while to bring down the population of competing bacteria, then re-seed it with the engineered bacteria. But that's an expensive fix if it isn't your problem. I bet the manufacturer has a test."

  Zachariah looked from his sister to David and back, then said, “Sounds like you've got some ideas. Pa wanted me to check the perimeter intrusion sensors, so I'll get to that."

  Naomi dismissed him with a nod, then turned back to David, gesturing that they should head to the digester. “So, what else could it be?"

  "Bad feedstock?” David suggested. “A leak in the digester, letting oxygen in?"

  * * * *

  "Thank you Lord,” Ezekiel began, “for the bountiful land and for all that grows on it."

  David, his hands folded and head bowed, glanced past where Ezekiel sat to the framed picture overlooking the dining table. It was poster-sized, printed in vivid colors, and showed a light-skinned Jesus with two fingers raised and a glowing heart-shaped ruby on his chest.

  "Thank you for your guidance in all things. We didn't buy a thermal depolymerization unit three years back, and that has saved us from a lot of the troubles the Powells are having. Bless Mr. Perkins for giving us his wise advice on the subject. Bless the men in Zachariah's unit serving in the Persian theater, and all their families. The gears on the red tractor are about shot, but if it is your will, they'll see us through harvest. Thank you for bringing us Dave, whose hard work this week has been a big help. Thank you that we are all together and healthy. Thank you for this food. Amen."

  Everyone around the table echoed the last word, then began passing platters of
biscuits and potatoes and beans and ham and kale and spinach both ways around the table.

  Once everyone's plate was filled, Ezekiel said, “Zachariah tells me that you want to learn about beekeeping, Dave."

  "Yes sir, I would."

  "Why is that?"

  "Bees are important on an orchard."

  "That's right. Your family grows peaches, don't they?"

  "Yes sir."

  "So you must already have bees."

  "The honey bees have never come back. We keep a lot of our land in non-crop flowering plants to support a year-round native bee population."

  Naomi turned toward David. “I read that you have to mow the flowers at just the right time to encourage the bees to switch to peach blossoms."

  Having her full attention on him made it hard to swallow. “That's right,” he managed. “But you can't mow all the acres. You have to mow the right amount. And the right ones, or the bees pollinate more of your neighbor's crops than of yours."

  "If it's so complicated to work with the native bees, why not get orange-and-blacks?"

  David chose his words carefully. “In Illinois, hives were made available through the University Extension. In Michigan, they got marketed through companies that would only sell hives with non-propagating queens. They pollinate fine and they make honey, but you have to buy a new hive every few years when the queen dies. Nobody we know could afford it.” He sat back in his chair, pleased with how he'd kept the focus on pollination and honey, and refrained from mentioning protection from raiders—protection that the commercially marketed hives didn't offer.

  "Enough to make a man bitter,” Ezekiel said.

  David managed to dredge up a smile, putting aside memories of too many funerals for too many of his friends’ fathers and uncles and brothers. “I don't hold it against Illinois. Or the university,” he said. “Or I wouldn't have been able to spend four years here."

  * * * *

  "If you were going to have European red mites,” David said, looking along a branch covered with apple blossoms, “they'd be out already."

  David had been trying to avoid the Wares’ small orchard, but Ezekiel had specifically asked him to help Naomi check for pests.