Out of Here

by Patty Jansen

  I gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. This shitty job was all I had, the last kernel of pride in the ruins of what used to be Ravi, successful customer service manager, Ravi, smart and witty entrepreneur with the dashingly handsome boyfriend.

  As I sat there, fighting to control my breathing, I realised: the youngsters hadn't moved. They weren't watching my passenger at all.

  To our right, a knot of people gathered around something bright orange on a platform. One person, a man, walked around it, holding up a burning stick. I remembered: this was how the old people farewelled their dead. They laid the body out on a bier on the riverbank, surrounded by flowers and coloured cloth, and set fire to it. Then they collected the ashes in an urn and submerged it in the river.

  I spotted my passenger making her way down the river bank, weaving between boulders and charred wood--more funeral pyres I presumed.

  I ran a few paces and cried out, 'Hey! Madam! Do you know that dead people are burned here?' Being used to the sterile environment of the Axis, she could easily catch any number of diseases. And cause me to lose my job.

  This time, she stopped, turned around to face me.

  Slowly, she lifted off her helmet, shaking out long and black hair. Her face was gaunt but dark; she had disease in her eyes. Her breath, rasping and belaboured, made me shiver. Sweat glistened on her brow. She didn't look like a lady from the Axis. Actually, she looked like one of the reco-town inhabitants, brown-skinned as the youngsters up there on the bank.

  Next, she peeled off the top of her suit. Her arms, too, were dark-skinned, and wrinkled as if she was ancient. She stepped out of her suit bottom and stood before me, in simple shorts from which poked thin and bony legs. Her shirt clung to her with sweat, showing saggy breasts.

  She held the dismantled suit out to me. 'You wait. I pay.'

  I gathered the rubbery material in my arms and staggered back to the car, which, to my surprise, no one had stolen.

  The man with the funeral party had lit the wood under the bier. Billows of smoke drifted low over the river. The youngsters, solemn-faced, looked on. They were people in mourning, not in the least interested in me, or my car.

  Instead, a woman stood next to it, gazing into the windows; the lady from the shrine. Her dress shimmered in the sunlight, like gauze made from spider's silk, traditional garb, layers and layers of fabric wound around her waist several times with the end flung back over her shoulder. Dress or woman, I had never seen anything more gorgeous.

  She asked, 'What is the lady doing?'

  'Actually, I have no idea.'

  Her chuckle tinkled like crystal.

  My passenger's suit was heavy so I opened the back door and manoeuvred the garment onto the back seat, where it flopped like a bone-less dead body.

  The woman's black eyes followed my every move.

  Again my curiosity was drawn by that dress. I reached out. 'May I?'

  The fabric ran through my fingers like silk. I whistled through my teeth.

  'You like it? We make it from threads . . .' She made a pulling motion. Was she saying the reco people made this from plastic fibres? I glanced at her feet, dusty but with polished nails. She wore grey slippers; they were definitely made from recycled material, although they were rather pretty as well.

  What if I took Axis tourists in here? Sure the reco town inhabitants could set up a stall or two selling whatever they made from rubbish? Real reco town souvenirs.

  My cheeks flushed with the excitement. I had an idea. Ravi the businessman, Ravi, who had been brain-dead since being cast from the Axis. I was about to speak to the young woman, when I noticed something at my feet: a datapad, a very interesting model, too, one I had never seen before. It must have fallen out of my passenger's suit.

  I was probably breaking dozens of privacy laws, but I turned it on and flipped through the screens. Up until recently, she had been getting a lot of messages from people in strange places.

  I whispered, 'New Hyderabad, New Jakarta?' As far as I knew, those cities--without the New attached--were the poorest in the world, and the Axis didn't go anywhere near them.

  The young woman nodded. 'I thought the lady would be from there. One or two of them come back here every year.'

  I frowned and met her night-black eyes. 'Them?'

  'The children who went on the ship in the sky.'

  It hit me. That's why I couldn't place my passenger: she was an off-worlder, someone from a far-flung human colony beyond the Space Terminal. We rarely heard from them, even in the Axis.

  And here was my space-passenger, standing in knee deep water, digging in the fetid mud.

  She straightened, clutching a fist to her chest and then stumbled back to the shore, a haunted look on her face. A lonely woman in a world that wasn't hers. Tears tracked down her cheeks.

  'What is wrong, Madam?' My voice came out hoarse, as if my feelings were trying to strangle it.

  She dropped something into my hand: a piece of metal no longer than my thumb and no thicker than a needle. Then she fell to her knees, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  I recognised a marking chip. I had one under my skin, and so did everyone else who had ever had any dealings with the Axis. What was this doing here? In the reco town? I considered the funeral pyres; the ashes cast in the river, the scanner in her hand. I inserted the chip in my unit. On the screen came the text,

  Chandra Singh

  Date of birth: 8 January 2108

  Place of residence: Mumbai Commons

  Partner: Deepak Patil

  Daughter: Vishaka, date of birth 29 June 2131 – accepted into the space colonisation program.

  The world blurred around me as I remembered the shameful rumours. Accepted? Axis people had gone into the poorest cities of the world buying children for their space missions. Lab rats, since they knew what long-term space travel would do to the passengers' health. But poor people from reco towns didn't matter, did they?

  One or two of them come back every year. How many of those found their dying wish in the mud of this river?

  I sat down next to her and took her in my arms. I wanted to say everything would be all right, but of course it wouldn't. I had been one of the people who had allowed it to happen. The seed of anger grew inside my chest. I was nothing but a pathetic tour guide, wallowing in problems of my own making. What should I care about my flashy previous job, about my parents, or Raneesh, if they wanted me only as long as I had money and lived in the Axis? I had enough. No more shame, no more wallowing in self-pity. I wasn't giving up on anything, or on myself, as long as there was hope, as long as there was a chance. Here, before me on the screen, was a chance. Chandra might have died, but . . .

  'Come.' I pulled Vishaka to her feet, and faced the young woman. 'Is there anyone here named Deepak Patil?'

  She nodded, bobbing her pretty head. 'Quite a few.'

  'Any old men?' He wouldn't be chipped, or his daughter would have known about it, and we might never find the right one, but I had to try.

  'Yes. One who lives down the road--'

  'Lead us there.'

  And so the three of us walked into a muddy alley, scattering chickens and laughing children, leaving the car in the square. For the first time since leaving the Axis, I felt good about what I did.

  About this story:

  Imagine a future where the way to deal with a poor and disenfranchised class is to simply ship them off-planet. Of course, things are never that simple, because once people travel, they have records, once they go into space, they have training, once they have education, they become aware of their own position.

  Raven's Call

  Originally published in Realms magazine.

  The night thrummed with noise.

  Rough voices shouted, horses screamed, steel clashed.

  An orange glare blazed in through the cottage window, bathing the rough wooden table, a hunk of bread still on the cutting board, the benches, the shelves with powders and potions in an eerie g
low.

  The girl stumbled from the bed in the corner. 'Zimelda, what is going on outside?'

  'Stay away from the window!' Orange light flickered across the old woman's face. 'The usurper king's men are here. You must flee, my child.'

  The girl's eyes widened. 'Flee, like this?' She held out her arms, thin and clad in a white nightgown ballooning across her swollen stomach. 'I can't run, Zimelda. I can barely even walk.'

  'You must, child. They can't find you here.' The old woman threw a cloak over the girl's shoulders, and shoved a pack in her hands. 'Hide in the forest. I will come as soon as I can. Quick.' She pushed the girl out the back door.

  Hidden under the fur cloak, the girl ran through the herb garden, bent over as much as the child inside her allowed. Fully grown and strong, the child protested by kicking her in the ribs as if it, too, was ready to fight. Stanufo Korghas' baby would not let itself be killed like its father and grandfather.

  At the edge of the forest, the girl stopped to look over her shoulder.

  The village burned. It had been her home for the past three moons, when she could no longer hide her condition from her family. Men in the blue livery of the House of Guorn rode through the streets, crying victory. One of them dragged a body by the hair. The village Elder. The girl's stomach did a twist. She knew the Guorn guard well. Why this carnage? Why?

  There was no safety from men who had gone insane. The girl ran into the forest. Twigs snagged on Zimelda's too-large boots, branches slapped in her face. She ran until the only sound was that of her ragged breathing. Then she sank on the carpet of pine needles. Exhausted, thirsty. A sharp pain tore through her body. She clutched her stomach, which tightened into a hard ball under her touch. 'Please,' she whispered through parched lips. 'Please, not now. Please.'

  * * *

  Princess Larissia threw her head back and laughed. 'Oh, Luso, you are priceless. The evil king and his son were killed before I was born. How could they possibly come back? Even the magicians cannot rise from the dead.'

  Her voice echoed in the gazebo and a bird that had been feeding on discarded crumbs on the grass scurried into the rosebushes.

  Lord Luso raised one eyebrow. The glare of sunlight played in his hair, rippling black and loose over his shoulders. 'Princess, I urge an element of caution.' His voice, warm and deep, filled the little study space Larissia had set up for herself, her two cousins and their tutor, away from stuffy rooms of the palace in one of the last warm days of autumn.

  Figenia, blue eyes wide, raised her head from her note-taking. 'How come, Lord Luso? I know you think my cousin often says careless things, but I am studying the histories, and I agree with her.'

  'Ah, the histories, dear Figenia Guorn. Have you ever known the histories to be correct?'

  A blush rose to Figenia's cheeks. 'Are you saying that the historians got it wrong?'

  'No, no, I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying that as royals, as the future leaders of the kingdom, you must learn to think beyond the printed word, beyond what others tell you. What they say might be correct, but wouldn't it be more interesting to know what they are not telling you?'

  Dorabella, Larissia's other cousin, lowered her book and peered over the top, her mouth in a prim line. 'Lord Luso, according to court information, Fenran Korghas died by the hand of my uncle's sword, so did Stanufo, his only child. If you have any reliable information that this is not true, you should tell the king, instead of trying to impress us with it.'

  'Dorabella, always the sensible.' Lord Luso gave a mock bow.

  Dorabella snorted and went back to reading.

  Lord Luso turned back to Figenia. 'Tell us then, my dear pupil, how the histories describe this event.'

  'I . . .' Figenia blushed.

  Larissia put a hand on her cousin's knee. 'Oh, come on, you know the histories better than I do.'

  'Sad to say, Lady Princess, but that is true,' Luso said. 'You are the crown princess, soon to be Queen, but you treat your life like a party.'

  'There is enough time to be solemn when I'm Queen and I've had five children.'

  'If you don't get on with it, there won't be five children,' Dorabella muttered into her book.

  Larissia threw an angry glance at her cousin. There would be plenty of time for children. Besides, Deblen was such a bore. He talked of nothing but his work and when she came to bed, he was always fast asleep.

  Luso leaned back on the wrought-iron bench, tossing his hair over his shoulder. 'Figenia, if you please, the history of the kingdom, since that is what we are here for. Your father won't be happy if you don't learn your lessons.' He glanced at Larissia, who quickly averted her gaze. His hair was just so gorgeous.

  It wasn't the only reason she had picked him from the long line of applications for the position of tutor. Unlike the utterly boring characters, he was outspoken and flamboyant; when he said something, people listened. More importantly, her mother, prim-and-proper Queen Loiri had expressly _forbidden_ her to appoint this man, but when Larissia outlined his impressive qualifications, her father had overruled, and her mother had drooped off like a wilted flower. Hah. She can make me marry Deblen, but she can't control who I appoint on my staff.

  In a clear voice, Figenia recited the story of how Larissia's father had defeated the evil king Fenran of the House Korgas and how the House Guorn had taken the throne and brought peace to the land.

  Supporting her chin on her hand, Larissia stared up at the royal bedroom window. She could not imagine that her father, sickly and weak now, had done any of those things.

  Luso shut the book. 'Very good. We're done for the day.'

  Figenia jumped up. 'Great. I'm going to try on my new dress. The seamstress should have finished it. Larissia, are you coming--'

  Luso silenced her with a wave of his hand, meeting Larissia's gaze. 'Now, Lady Princess, if I may, I will tell you the one thing the written histories don't recount. I will tell you why the House Korghas may come back and why you have to be vigilant.'

  Wide-eyed, Figenia sat back down.

  Dorabella snapped her book shut. 'I'm going.' She turned to Larissia. 'You don't want to listen to this, cousin. It's all bunk.' To Figenia, she said, 'I agree with the Queen. I think Father should get you a different tutor.' She shook her golden tresses and strode off down the garden, scattering birds.

  Red patches had risen to Figenia's cheeks. 'I'm awfully sorry about my sister, Lord Luso, she is--'

  '--very straightforward with her opinions, yes, I have noticed. And your sister may be right, what I tell you may be bunk, but I think it is best that you hear it. Lady Princess, a forewarned ruler is a forearmed ruler.'

  He totally ignored Figenia, his penetrating gaze meeting Larissia's.

  She squared her shoulders. Come on, tell me. Prove to me that you're worth the trouble you're causing me.

  'Alas, Lady Princess, I was not always a teacher of genteel young ladies like yourself. When I was younger and travelled the countryside, I fell in with a shady crowd. One of the party was the legendary witch Zimelda.'

  Figenia gasped, but Luso payed her no heed.

  'Oh yes, I'm not proud of it, Lady Princess, but this is the story she told me. Yes, it is true that your father the first king of the house Guorn killed Fenran Korghas and his son. What your father didn't know, and it's likely Fenran Korghas didn't know either, was that his son was a bit of a devil. So much in fact that he got the daughter of a court advisor with child.'

  Larissia frowned. 'But Stanufo Korghas was only fourteen, the same age as . . .'

  Figenia blushed. She was fourteen, and Larissia guessed she had seen not so much as her father's naked backside.

  Luso smiled; his eyes twinkled. 'He was, that is correct, but, as the saying goes, he knew where to put it. Zimelda told me that while your father and his guards were fighting their way into the throne room, the girl ran away and found a safe place with Zimelda in an isolated village in the forest. Then the king's men attacked the village before the child
was born. She says she never saw the girl again.'

  'Then you're not sure there is a Korghas heir.' Larissia fiddled with the lace on her bodice. 'The girl could have died.'

  'Yes, Lady Princess, that is true, but if there is an heir, he is likely to come back to the palace and try to wrest the throne from you.'

  'He? The baby could have been a girl.'

  Luso laughed. 'Of course. I make presumptions. But, what I want to say, Lady Princess, is that we mustn't be complacent. Once this heir is going to attack, he--or she--is likely to use the considerable skill that runs in the House Korghas. You must learn about magic.'

  'Magic?' Figenia gasped, clamping both hands over her mouth.

  'Shhh.' Larissia hissed at her cousin. Just now it was getting interesting, did she have to spoil it by being so loud? She met Luso's eyes. 'You can do magic?'

  He bowed his head. 'Not proud of it Lady Princess, but once learned, it is not a skill easily forgotten.'

  'Prove it.'

  He laughed, tossed his glossy hair back over his shoulder. It caught the light of the now-setting sun. Flames spread out from it, devouring his clothing, the bench . . .

  Larissia jumped up, and already had her cloak in her hand to smother the flames, when they vanished.

  She gaped. Magic. And then she looked up at the windows facing the courtyard. What if anyone had seen this demonstration?

  Luso laughed. 'I can only do a bit. This is just an illusionary trick. Before you ask – only you could see it. Not very impressive.'

  Not very impressive? Larissia's heart still thudded. 'Do you know you could receive the death penalty if anyone saw that?' Then she hated herself. This was Deblen speaking. Boring Deblen and his laws.

  'I know. I also believe that to properly recognise a danger, a ruler must know what the danger is.'

  Larissia gulped. 'Are you proposing to teach me magic?'

  'Not teach, Lady Princess, I would never do that, but don't you think you should at least know what magic looks like?'