Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Somehow, Sally hadn't been surprised when Germaine Templar said that she needed a ride into town. Sally wondered where the other woman had stashed the robes she used during the pitch. She felt vaguely ashamed that Germaine could see the rumpled sleeping bag and smell the dirty clothes in the back seat of her battered Toyota.

  Somewhere around Mendoza, a town consisting only of a tractor-repair shop next to an abandoned general store, Germaine stopped staring out at the cows and the cotton. “I once met a guy whose Skill was basically cruise control."

  Sally laughed in spite of herself. “One thing you get to do in the world special and he picked cruise control?"

  Germaine shrugged. “Skill's like the rest of life. You try to make choices that fit. Mike, he came to it late, already had steady work as a long-haul trucker. It made sense to him. Now he sleeps on the road while his Skill drives. He stays rested, has time to read, write, do whatever. He's had two novels published in the last three years. His book jackets claim he's an astronomy Ph.D."

  Sally wondered what her choices fit. Not much, not lately. Not ever.

  "I'd like to meet the teacher who Brought him to his Skill,” Germaine continued in a quiet voice. “She must have been real smart about life choices."

  Sally felt a twinge of guilt and pain, those Siamese twins of the soul. She hadn't spoken to Wei-Lin since that terrible night in California. Been afraid to at first, the wounds of Mallory's death, then Ben's, too raw. Later, she'd been too ashamed.

  They crossed the overpass above Texas 21, heading into Mustang Ridge, speed trap extraordinaire. It was a town in name only, living off revenue from anyone driving their highway foolish enough not to be a local. Sally dropped the old gold Toyota Corolla to just under fifty-five as they swept past a junkyard.

  People didn't talk about Skill unless they were very good friends, or maybe family, or worked together with Skill. Sally didn't have anybody like that in her life, hadn't for years—no friends, no family, no Skilled. She didn't want to know Germaine well enough to discuss Skill or anything else with her. But despite herself, Sally couldn't help liking the woman's direct approach. Sally hadn't been met with openness in a long time.

  And Germaine was ... interesting.

  Germaine contemplated their brief view of Survival Haus Liquor and Ammunition. “Only in Texas. Only here.” She turned from the window to face Sally across the weathered tan interior of the car. “I'm from New York, originally, but Maman was Haitian."

  "Yeah.” Sally hid within her most neutral tones. This was worse than talking about Skill.

  Germaine's voice tightened as she spoke. “A lot of Skill comes out of Haiti, but it gets used in some odd ways. Stereotyped, like in a bad zombi movie."

  Necromancy had never interested Sally in the slightest. She had been told that dead people were boring, fixated on old grudges and lost loves. A lot like live people, come to think of it.

  Germaine continued. “Thing about talking to dead people is, after a while, you don't listen to the living any more."

  Sally's hand strayed toward the radio. She wanted to shut the conversation off, smother it in NPR chatter, but felt trapped, a fly struggling through the honey of the other woman's memories. The Toyota rolled down the slope toward the creek at the bottom of the valley among the cotton fields. Top of the hill, and she could drop Germaine at the Exxon station. Let those oil-soaked bastards do something for her.

  Germaine had lost all the smile in her voice. “That's what happened to Maman. Too many dead people.” Her tone veered into a mocking sneer, briefly picking up a Caribbean accent. “'Where did Aunt Trudy hide the silver?’ ‘Who was it that really killed you, Tranh?’ ‘Cici, we love you.'” Germaine sighed. “After a while, Maman didn't have any words left for me."

  "Why would anyone think they needed to tell the dead they loved them?” The Exxon was coming up, but Sally's foot stayed on the accelerator, keeping the Toyota at a steady fifty-three miles per hour. Sally realized that she was committed to the conversation. She had broken cover and re-engaged.

  "There are some things the living need to say to the dead.” Germaine's voice had dropped to a miserable, quiet whisper. “Sometimes, there are things the dead need to say to the living."

  "Like what?"

  "Did you know that there are Skilled among the dead?” Germaine asked abruptly.

  "Everybody dies, sooner or later.” Except, thought Sally, those lucky few rumored to have found a truly life-extending Skill. Always a subject of speculation, that, when speaking freely of Skill. At least back when she'd been speaking freely.

  "No, I mean there are dead who practice Skills. Vivimancy, for example—speaking to the living.” Germaine started to cry, small tears jumping from clenched eyes as her breath shuddered. “Control of the living. Maman calls to me from the Other Side, talks to me, and I can't shut her out and I can't help her and I can't do anything and, oh, mon Dieu, I need help...."

  Sally watched Maha Creek go by her cracked windshield as Germaine sobbed. The tears were pouring now, the woman had lost almost all control. They were out of Mustang Ridge, she could speed up. She could drop Germaine off at the Texaco in Pilot Knob. Easy enough to call a cab from there, then Sally could just drive away and leave this strange black woman crying her sorrow by the side of the road. Sally had been taught by the best that there was no loyalty among the Skilled. Damn Ben and Mallory, for wrecking her love life and the fate of her Bringing Five. Being dead was no excuse. They'd shown her that there was no brotherhood of the Skilled.

  Or in Germaine's case, sisterhood.

  Sally listened to herself in horrified fascination as she spoke the words she dreaded. “What is it you want me to do?"

  * * * *

  They sat in the dimly lit dining room of El Azteca, a run-down Mexican joint on Seventh Street, deep in East Austin. Their little aluminum table with its naugahyde chairs was surrounded by brightly colored doilies on every flat surface, soft-porn wall calendars, and endless shelves of Mexicano bric-a-brac. The smell of oil and red beans was embedded in the fabric of the restaurant.

  The food was authentic, the place was usually quiet, and nobody ever bothered Sally there. She had at first been reluctant to share her little East Austin sanctuary with Germaine, but the peaceful restaurant seemed a good place for the woman to calm herself. And Sally wanted to show Germaine something nice about her own life, nicer than the fact that she lived in her car.

  They sat at a small table in the back of the dining room, an untouched basket of chips with guacamole between them. Sally had ordered Cerveza Pacifico, Germaine drank ice water. Little puddles of condensation from the cold drinks made random rounded shapes on the table.

  "So what can you tell me now?” Sally asked. They both kept their voices low, a reflex in any Skilled discussion in a public place.

  "Maman comes to me in dreams.” Germaine's voice, even when quiet, was clear and strong again, the Skilled speaker Sally had first heard in that church in Lockhart. “I know the dreams are true, because I can see the Colors."

  Almost all of Sally's dreams were in Color. In her experience, that didn't necessarily mean they were true, but it at least signified a strong correspondence with reality. In her waking life, Sally avoided Color with the routine apprehension of a dedicated paranoid.

  "Maman, she speaks to me.” Germaine's smile was crooked. “Her English was never so good on This Side."

  Sally felt a gentle flutter in her heart, responding to the other woman's sadness. “What does she want?"

  Germaine's lip quivered as her face shook. “She has some great work of Skill she pursues, over there. Maman wants me to send Skilled to her, to the Other Side."

  "Send her Skilled? How would you do that?"

  Germaine drew her breath through clenched teeth. “Literally. Maman does not say it in such words, but she wants me to kill Skilled."

  Sally stared at the other woman. Sally didn't doubt for a second that Germaine could and would act as she must to
preserve herself and her Skill. The weak of character and purpose were not Brought to their Skill. It couldn't be done to a weak vessel. Such people tended to shatter, or die as Mallory had.

  Except, thought Sally, in her own case. She was the exception that proved the rule. “I suppose Maman doesn't want me dead, huh?” Sally tried to make it sound funny.

  Germaine smiled again. “Maman is, shall we say, quite specific."

  Sally considered that. She had only ever known one Necromancer, Gavin in her Bringing Five, and she hadn't even stayed around long enough to see him Brought to Skill. “I've been told the dead are dull,” she ventured.

  "Vengeance, jealousy, that's what keeps the dead here. That much of my pitch was true, about the two paths. Love is what allows one to pass on through the Other Side to greater things. It is hate that keeps one hanging on. Only the obsessed stay."

  "Just like life,” Sally said. “Love sets you free. Hate lasts forever."

  Germaine laughed. “And sometimes Skill can illuminate the difference."

  Sally liked the way Germaine's brown eyes gleamed with her laughter. The two of them were the same height, which could be nice in romantic situations. She smiled back at Germaine. She couldn't remember the last time a smile had felt so natural. It had been so long since Sally had allowed herself to be close to anyone. “If the dead are so dull, what makes your Maman a live wire?"

  Germaine didn't quite lose her smile this time, but the pain flickered back across her face. “Her great work. On the Other Side."

  "What great work? What is she doing over there?"

  "I don't know.” Germaine tugged at her fingers. “She does not listen when I ask her questions. She only tells me what she wants me to do. As I said, she is quite specific."

  Sally tried another tack. “Specific, how?"

  "Which Skilled she needs from me,” Germaine said.

  Had Sally misheard? “You mean which Skills, right?"

  "No.” Germaine shook her head, stared sadly at her hands. Sally noticed the broad, blunt fingers, nails worn with work. “Which Skilled. By name."

  It came to Sally then, what bothered her. “Killing people by name, that's not need, that's vengeance."

  "Not Maman!” Germaine looked shocked. “She was ever too gentle. She is not that way."

  Sally shook her head. Germaine's story didn't hang together. Maman's ambitions had been misstated somehow. “I can't explain it, not yet, but I know something's wrong here."

  "You know through Skill?” asked Germaine.

  "No...” Sally laughed, her voice suddenly bare as winter trees. “That's not how it works for me."

  Germaine took Sally's slim, pale fingers in her large hands. The warm pressure of Germaine's grip caused Sally to gasp, made her want to weep. She was so touch-hungry, she could have drowned in the rough calluses. She almost didn't hear Germaine say, “Maman can wait. The dead are patient. Girl, tell me, you wear pain in your Colors like a bloodshot eye. What has happened to you?"

  * * * *

  In four years, Sally had never once told the story of her Bringing Five—Mallory's cerebral hemorrhage at the Bringing, Ben's dying in the van wreck as they fled, Wei-Lin Bringing Sally to Skill while they both stood knee-deep in a culvert, Sally's panicked desertion of her friends and teacher—but once she began to talk, it tumbled out. As she spoke, Germaine sat with silent patience, hands upon Sally's wrists, as if to draw her from the drowning pool of her memories.

  "I was Brought to Skill as a Finder, because I wanted to help people,” Sally finally said through her memories of scrambling through Sonoma Valley vineyards in the dark.

  "Oh, girl,” Germaine whispered. The other woman's slower breathing was exactly half the tempo of hers, matching every other breath. The musky scent of Germaine's sweat mingled with the mellow guacamole and the salty oil tang of the chips. Plates rattled in the kitchen as distant voices murmured in Spanish.

  Sally wept into the intimate space between them. “Some Finder. I can't find my car keys. Some days I can't even find my car."

  "I thought you'd hotwired that little Toyota.” Germaine spoke softly, laving gentle humor on Sally's raw heart. She kissed one of Sally's hands.

  "It's the only way I can drive without my keys.” Sally sniffled, wishing Germaine would kiss her hand again. “If Mallory failed hard, then I'm the softest kind of failure. I ran away from the dead and the living. I didn't ever want to hear about Skill again.” She sobbed outright. “And to hell with Skill. Germaine, I've never even read Colors since."

  * * * *

  Sally woke to the sharp smell of eggs and onions. A bitter tang of coffee wafted through the sunlit room. She rolled over, hugging a pillow. It was faintly oily, a hair scent, overlaying the aroma of another person's sleep. Sally smiled. She was in Germaine's bedroom, on her futon, looking out into the spring pecan trees and the warm sunlight of an April morning in Austin.

  Clinking plates echoed gently from the kitchen. Sally sat up and looked for her socks. They hadn't made love, they hadn't even kissed, but Germaine had held Sally while she cried, then rocked her to sleep.

  Sally hadn't been touched on purpose by another human being since Wei-Lin had pressed her forehead with blood and ditchwater, to seal the Skill. She had come to believe she would never be touched again.

  "I can hear you breathing,” called Germaine from the kitchen.

  "Yeah, I'm awake.” Sally immediately yawned. “Where's the john?"

  "To the right, next to the closet. Mind the litter box."

  Sally shuffled into the bathroom, wondering what Germaine's late Maman had to say about last night.

  * * * *

  The eggs were firm, with runny yolks staring up like the eyes of surprised clowns. The onions were lightly grilled, just enough to ease the sting, and Germaine had yesterday's sourdough from Texas French Bread, still chewy and full of body. Sally turned down the threatened soysage, preferring to hold out for greasy meat later in the day somewhere else.

  "Vengeance, hmm?” Germaine sipped on a mug of Central Market roasted blend as Sally buttered her bread.

  Sally had been deciphering the coffee mug's animal shelter logo, and was caught off guard. “What?"

  "You said vengeance, not need. Talking about Maman. Yesterday evening at El Azteca."

  "Oh, yeah.” Sally cut around the yolks with the side of her fork, shoving the peppered white slivers through a little pile of salsa. “Here's how I see it,” she said, recapturing last night's train of thought. “If your Maman needed Skills for her, uh, great work, she would ask you for Skills. Why ask for individuals? She should be saying, ‘Germaine, I need a Finder,’ not ‘Germaine, I need Sally Prescott.’”

  "I don't know,” Germaine said. “It seemed logical to me. It's not like the Skilled have a directory or something. You can only get so much from reading Colors. I mean, look at you. I knew you were Skilled, I knew you were deeply upset, and I knew you were very sharp. That's why I followed you into that crummy little restaurant in Lockhart."

  Cold stole into Sally's heart. “So you just wanted something from me, that was it, huh?"

  Germaine seemed much less frightened and angry in the morning sun of her little apartment. “Because I thought you could help me discover whether Maman is lying."

  * * * *

  Dishes cleared, they sat across the kitchen table from one another holding hands. Germaine cleared her throat, then launched into the formal introduction of the Skilled. “My Five was Brought by Aristides, a Skilled from Haiti. He was Brought by Marie-Paul, who was Brought by Carlito, and so on back to Izangoma Mbele, Master at the head of our Bringing. Ours is a slave line, Brought generation to generation in the dark of night in fire and blood."

  Sally bowed her head in respect. Skills from slave lines often had great power, but it was power bought with a multiplicity of pain.

  "I was first of my Five,” Germaine went on, “Brought to Skill as a Seeker. Pallas was second, Brought to Skill as a Healer. Michel-Mi
chel was third, Brought to Skill as a Venator—a huntsman. Joseph was fourth, Brought to Skill as an Advocate. Lisette was fifth, Brought to Skill as a Temptress."

  Germaine stopped talking. She sat quietly, looking into Sally's eyes with a formal expectancy.

  "My Five—” Sally stopped for a moment. Even as she'd told Germaine the story last night, she'd never laid it out in the simple formalisms. “I ... was Brought by Wei-Lin, a Skilled from San Francisco. She had been Brought by Cassidy, who was Brought by Hiroshige, and so on back to Hildegarde, Mistress at the head of our Bringing."

  "Thank you,” said Germaine.

  "Thank you.” Sally stared at her hands clasped within Germaine's for a moment, then spoke again. “Aristides must have liked powerful Skills. No Butchers or Bakers or Candlestick Makers in your Five."

  Germaine made a face, holding in a laugh. “In none of his Fives, most likely."

  "That's not how Wei-Lin taught our Five to think about Skill."

  "Hmm?” Germaine invited without demand.

  Sally sighed, stared out the window at the mockingbirds in the pecan trees as she remembered brocaded chairs and the maroon fall of tapestries in opulent rooms above the Mission District. Five of them, with their Bringer, sipping a tawny port while they eagerly discussed the ways they each wanted to work in the world.

  She thought of Wei-Lin's words. “My Bringer taught us that Skill is, well, it's a way to get things done,” she told Germaine. “In our Five Mallory wanted to be a Projective. She saw that as a path to power in business and politics. Petra just wanted to sculpt.” Sally paused. “Wei-Lin said everyone has Skill, even though most people never display more than a little bit of talent. She said that's why there are Wild Skills, people that were never Brought. We're all born with it. But however we come to our power, we only get to choose once."