Nebula Awards Showcase 2004

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  “Fruit with cledif, please,” I said, and presently she brought me a plate of delicious-looking fruits and a large bowl of pale yellow gruel, smooth, about as thick as very heavy cream, luke warm. It sounds ghastly, but it was delicious—mild but subtle, lightly filling and slightly stimulating, like café au lait. She waited to see if I liked it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask you if you were a carnivore,” she said. “Carnivores have raw cullis for breakfast, or cledif with offal.”

  “This is fine,” I said.

  Nobody else was in the place, and she had taken a shine to me, as I had to her. “May I ask where you come from?” she asked, and so we got to talking. Her name was Ai Li A Le. I soon realized she was not only an intelligent person but a highly educated one. She had a degree in plant pathology—but was lucky, she said, to have a job as a waitress. “Since the Ban,” she said, shrugging. And when she saw that I didn’t know what the Ban was, she was about to tell me; but several customers were sitting down now, a great bull of a man at one table, two mousy girls at another, and she had to go wait on them.

  “I wish we could go on talking,” I said, and she said, with her kind smile, “Well, if you come back at sixteen, I can sit and talk with you.”

  “I will,” I said, and I did. After wandering around the park and the city I went back to the hotel for lunch and a nap, then took the monorail back downtown. I never saw such a variety of people as were in that car—all shapes, sizes, colors, degrees of hairiness, furriness, featheriness (the street sweeper’s tail had indeed been a tail), and, I thought, looking at one long, greenish youth, even leafiness. Surely those were fronds over his ears? He was whispering to himself as the warm wind swept through the car from the open windows.

  The only thing the Islai seemed to have in common, unfortunately, was poverty. The city certainly had been prosperous once, not very long ago. The monorail was a snazzy bit of engineering, but it was showing wear and tear. The surviving old buildings—which were on a scale I found familiar—were grand but run-down, and crowded by the more recent giant’s houses and doll’s houses and buildings like stables or mews or rabbit hutches—a terrible hodgepodge, all of it cheaply built, rickety-looking, shabby. And the Islai themselves were shabby, when they weren’t downright ragged. Some of the furrier and featherier ones were clothed only by their fur and feathers. The green boy wore a modesty apron, but his rough trunk and limbs were bare. This was a country in deep, hard economic trouble.

  Ai Li A Le was sitting at one of the outside tables at the café (the cledifac) next door to the one where she waited tables. She smiled and beckoned to me and I sat down with her. She had a small bowl of chilled cledif with sweet spices, and I ordered the same. “Please tell me about the Ban,” I asked her.

  “We used to look like you,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “Well,” she said, and hesitated. “We like science. We like engineering. We are good engineers. But perhaps we are not very good scientists.”

  To summarize her story: the Islai had been strong on practical physics, agriculture, architecture, urban development, practical invention, but weak in the life sciences, history, and theory. They had their Edisons and Fords but no Darwin, no Mendel. When their airports got to be just like ours, if not worse, they began to travel betweeen planes;and on some plane, about a hundred years ago, one of their scientists discovered applied genetics. He brought it home. It fascinated them. They promptly mastered its principles. Or perhaps they had not quite mastered them before they started applying them to every life-form within reach.

  “First,” she said, “to plants. Altering food plants to be more fruitful, or to resist bacteria and viruses, or to kill insects, and so on.”

  I nodded. “We’re doing a good deal of that too,” I said.

  “Really? Are you . . .” She seemed not to know how to ask the question she wanted to ask. “I’m corn, myself,” she said at last, shyly.

  I checked the translatomat: Uslu: corn, maize. I checked the dictionary, and it said that uslu on Islac and maize on my plane are the same plant.

  I knew that the odd thing about corn is that it has no wild form, only a distant wild ancestor that you’d never recognize as corn. It’s entirely a construct of long-term breeding by ancient gatherers and farmers. An early genetic miracle. But what did it have to do with Ai Li A Le?

  Ai Li A Le with her wonderful, thick, gold-colored, corn-colored hair cascading in braids from a topknot . . .

  “Only four percent of my genome,” she said. “There’s about half a percent of parrot, too, but it’s recessive. Thank God.”

  I was still trying to absorb what she had told me. I think she felt her question had been answered by my astonished silence.

  “They were utterly irresponsible,” she said severely. “With all their programs and policies and making everything better, they were fools. They let all kinds of things get loose and interbreed. Wiped out rice in one decade. The improved breeds went sterile. The famines were terrible . . . Butterflies, we used to have butterflies, do you have them?”

  “Some, still,” I said.

  “And deletu?” A kind of singing firefly, now extinct, said my translatomat. I shook my head wistfully.

  She shook her head wistfully.

  “I never saw a butterfly or a deletu. Only pictures . . . The insecticidal clones got them. . . . But the scientists learned nothing—nothing! They set about improving the animals. Improving us! Dogs that could talk, cats that could play chess! Human beings who were going to be all geniuses and never get sick and live five hundred years! They did all that, oh yes, they did all that. There are talking dogs all over the place, unbelievably boring they are, on and on and on about sex and shit and smells, and smells and shit and sex, and do you love me, do you love me, do you love me. I can’t stand talking dogs. My big poodle Rover, he never says a word, the dear good soul. And then the humans! We’ll never, ever get rid of the Premier. He’s a Healthy, a bloody GAPA. He’s ninety now and looks thirty and he’ll go on looking thirty and being premier for four more centuries. He’s a pious hypocrite and a greedy, petty, stupid, mean-minded crook. Just the kind of man who ought to be siring children for five centuries . . . The Ban doesn’t apply to him . . . But still, I’m not saying the Ban was wrong. They had to do something. Things were really awful, fifty years ago. When they realized that genetic hackers had infiltrated all the laboratories, and half the techs were Bioist fanatics, and the Godsone Church had all those secret factories in the eastern hemisphere deliberately turning out genetic melds . . . Of course most of those products weren’t viable. But a lot of them were. . . . The hackers were so good at it. The chicken people, you’ve seen them?”

  As soon as she asked, I realized that I had: short, squat people who ran around in intersections squawking, so that all the traffic grid-locked in an effort not to run them over. “They just make me want to cry,” Ai Li A Le said, looking as if she wanted to cry.

  “So the Ban forbade further experimentation?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. Actually, they blew up the laboratories. And sent the Bioists for reeducation in the Gubi. And jailed all the God-sone Fathers. And most of the Mothers too, I guess. And shot the geneticists. And destroyed all the experiments in progress. And the products, if they were”—she shrugged—“ ‘too far from the norm.’ The norm!” She scowled, though her sunny face was not made for scowling. “We don’t have a norm anymore. We don’t have species anymore. We’re a genetic porridge. When we plant maize, it comes up weevil-repellent clover that smells like chlorine. When we plant an oak, it comes up poison oak fifty feet high with a ten-foot-thick trunk. And when we make love we don’t know if we’re going to have a baby, or a foal, or a cygnet, or a sapling. My daughter—” and she paused. Her face worked and she had to compress her lips before she could go on. “My daughter lives in the North Sea. On raw fish. She’s very beautiful. Dark and silky and beautiful. But—I had to take her to the seacoast when she was two y
ears old. I had to put her in that cold water, those big waves. I had to let her swim away, let her go be what she is. But she is human too! She is, she is human too!”

  She was crying, and so was I.

  After a while, Ai Li A Le went on to tell me how the Genome Collapse had led to profound economic depression, only worsened by the Purity Clauses of the Ban, which restricted jobs in the professions and government to those who tested 99.44% human—with exceptions for Healthies, Righteous Ones, and other GAPAs (Genetically Altered Products Approved by the Emergency Government). This was why she was working as a waitress. She was four percent maize.

  “Maize was once the holy plant of many people, where I come from,” I said, hardly knowing what I said. “It is such a beautiful plant. I love everything made out of corn—polenta, hoecake, cornbread, tortillas, canned corn, creamed corn, hominy, grits, corn whiskey, corn chowder, on the cob, tamales—it’s all good. All good, all kind, all sacred. I hope you don’t mind if I talk about eating it!”

  “Heavens no,” said Ai Li A Le, smiling. “What did you think cledif was made from?”

  After a while I asked her about teddy bears. That phrase of course meant nothing to her, but when I described the creature in my bookcase she nodded—“Oh yes! Bookbears. Early on, when the genetic designers were making everything better, you know, they dwarfed bears way down for children’s pets. Like toys, stuffed animals, only they were alive. Programmed to be passive and affectionate. But some of the genes they used for dwarfing came from insects—springtails and earwigs. And the bears began to eat the children’s books. At night, while they were supposed to be cuddling in bed with the children, they’d go eat their books. They like paper and glue. And when they bred, the offspring had long tails, like wires, and a sort of insect jaw, so they weren’t much good for the children anymore. But by then they’d escaped into the woodwork, between the walls . . . Some people call them bearwigs.”

  I have been back to Islac several times to see Ai Li A Le. It is not a happy plane, or a reassuring one, but I would go to worse places than Islac to see so kind a smile, such a topknot of gold, and to drink maize with the woman who is maize.

  JACK MCDEVITT SAYS . . .

  I wonder how often people are present at, and even participate in, a truly historical event without having a clue what’s going on. One thinks of the executioner who mixed a brew for Socrates, of the guys who assembled the cross, of the Chinese chemist who noticed that certain elements could be made to go bang, of the chambermaids trying to pick up after a gang of politicians in a few Philadelphia inns in 1776. In “Nothing Ever Happens in Rock City,” a man who owns a liquor store helps along, but does not comprehend, a celebration schoolkids will be reading about down the ages.

  Jack’s Web site is at http://www.sfwa.org/members/mcdevitt/.

  NOTHING EVER HAPPENS IN ROCK CITY

  JACK MCDEVITT

  Sorry I’m late tonight, Peg. Had to make a trip up to the observatory at closing time. They’re having some kind of party up there and they needed a quick delivery. Ordinarily I would of sent Harry but Virginia hasn’t been feeling good so I told him to go home and I went up myself.

  No, not much was happening. They all seemed pretty loud, but other than that it wasn’t very much. Nothing much ever happens in Rock City.

  Oh, yeah, Jamie’s home. Got his degree but no job. Bill tells me he’s decided to be a lawyer. He wants to send him to one of those eastern schools but he’s not really convinced that Jamie’s serious. You know how that’s been going. Me, I think it’d be just as well. We got enough lawyers around here as it is.

  What else? I heard today that Doris is expecting again. Now there’s a woman doesn’t know when to quit. Frank said he’s been trying to talk her into getting her tubes tied. But she’s kind of skittish. Women are like that, I guess.

  No offense.

  Oh yeah, it was a pretty good day. We moved a lot of the malt. That new stuff I thought we’d never get rid of. There was a family get-together over at Clyde’s. You know how they are. Must be sixty, seventy people over there for the weekend. All Germans. Putting it down by the barrel.

  Jake was in today. They’re getting complaints about underage kids again. I told him it ain’t happening in our place. And it ain’t. We’re careful about that. Don’t allow it. Not only because it ain’t legal, either. I told him, it’s not right for kids to be drinking and they can count on us to do what we can.

  We had people in and out all day today. We sold as much stuff off the whiskey aisle as we did all week. We won’t have any trouble making the mortgage this month.

  What else? Nothing I can think of. This is a quiet town. Janet was in. Ticketed somebody doing ninety on the state road. Took his license, she said. Guy’s wife had to drive him home. I’d’ve liked to of been there.

  She told me there was a murder over in Castle County. I’m not sure about the details. Another one of those things where somebody’s boyfriend got tired of a crying kid. That ought to be death penalty. Automatic.

  What’s that? What was going on at the observatory?

  I don’t know. They had some VIP’s visiting. We sold a couple bottles of rum to one of them this morning. Old guy, gray hair, stooped, kind of slow. Looked like he was always thinking about something else. Talked funny too. You know, foreign. Maybe Brit. Aussie. Something like that.

  They’re doing some kind of convention up there. Some of them are staying over at the hotel, according to Hap. Anyhow, we get this call about a quarter to nine, you know, just before we lock the doors. It’s Harvey. They want eight bottles of our best champagne. Cold. Can we deliver?

  Harvey told me once they always keep a bottle in the refrigerator up there. But with all these people in town I guess one bottle wasn’t enough.

  Well, to start with, we don’t have eight bottles of our best champagne on ice. Or off. I mean how much of that stuff do we sell? But sure, I tell him. I’ll bring it up as soon as we close.

  I mean, you know Harvey. He won’t know the difference. And I can hear all this noise in the background. The paper said they were supposed to be doing some kind of business meeting but all I can hear is screaming and laughing. And I swear somebody was shooting off a noisemaker.

  Oh, by the way, did I tell you Ag was by today? She wants to get together for a little pinochle next week. I figure Sunday works pretty good. When you get a chance, give her a call, okay?

  And Morrie’s moping around. He won’t talk about it but I guess Mary’s ditched him again. You think he’d get tired taking all that from that crazy woman. Don’t know what he wants. Ain’t happy when he’s with her and miserable when he isn’t.

  Oh, here’s something you’ll be interested in. Axel dropped a bottle of Chianti today. I mean it went off in the back of the store like a bomb. I felt sorry for him except that it made a hell of a mess. He’s getting more wobbly every day. I’m not sure we should be selling him anything now. At his age. But I don’t have the heart to stop him. I’ve thought about talking to Janet. But that only puts it on her. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. Eventually I guess I’ll have to do something.

  What about the observatory? Oh yeah. Well, there’s really nothing to tell. I took some Hebert’s and some Coela Valley. Four of each. Packed ’em in ice and put ’em in the cooler.

  So when I get there all these lights are on inside and people are yelling and carrying on. I never saw anything like it. It was like they’d already been into something. I mean Harvey and his friends are not people who know how to have a good time. But this other crew—

  Anyway Harvey said thanks and I wiped his card and he said do I want to stay a while? I mean they were into the bubbly before I could set it down.

  So I say no thanks I have to drive back down the mountain and the last thing I need is a couple drinks. But I ask what’s all the fuss and he takes me over to a computer screen which has graphics, big spikes and cones and God knows what else, all over it, but you can’t begin to tell wh
at it is, and he says Look at that.

  I look and I don’t see nothing except spikes and cones. So then he shows me how one pattern repeats itself. He says how it’s one-point-something seconds long and it shows up three or four different places on the screen. Then he brings up another series and we do the same thing again. None of it means anything, as far as I can see.

  So Harvey sees I’m not very impressed and he tells me we’ve got neighbors. He mentions someplace I never heard of. Al-Car or Al-Chop or something like that. He says it like it’s a big deal. And then it dawns on me what he’s talking about, that they’ve found the signal they’re always looking for.

  “How far away are they?” I ask.

  He laughs again and says, “A long way.”

  So I say, “How far’s that?”

  “Mack,” he tells me, “you wouldn’t want to walk it.”

  For a minute I wonder if the people on the other end are going to come this way but he says no that could never happen. Don’t worry. Ha ha ha.

  Well, I say, tell them hello for me. Ha ha. And he offers me a three buck tip, which was kind of cheap considering how late it was and that I had to drive up and down that goofy road. I mean, I’m not going to take his money anyway. But three bucks?

  But that’s why I was late.

  Ran into Clay outside town, by the way. He was over at Howie’s getting his speed trap set up. Says he picks off a few every Friday. Says he had to go over to Ham’s place earlier because Ham was screaming at Dora again. I used to think she would pack up and leave one of these days but I guess not.

  Yeah.

  Anyway, that’s why I was late. I’m sorry it upset you. I’ll call next time, if you want. But you don’t need to worry. I mean, nothing ever happens in Rock City.

  MEGAN LINDHOLM SAYS . . .