Where The Stars Rise: Asian Science Fiction and Fantasy

by Law, Lucas K.

  “It’s not your father, Anish,” Janet said. “Don’t you realize that calling him such is why people are getting worried?”

  “People get worried over lots of things. This is just a case of people suffering uncanny valley.”

  “Uncanny what now?”

  “Uncanny valley. It’s an uncomfortable sensation people get when a machine tries to appear lifelike and fails horribly so that it’s creepy.”

  “Hmm.” Janet pursed her lips. “Even so. This looks crazy. You look crazy talking to him like that.”

  “I know it’s not him.” Anish felt solemn again. “But since— it’s how I’m dealing with Appa’s sudden death. What happened wasn’t fair. We didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

  “But that’s how accidents are,” Janet said, her voice sounding hollow. “They happen randomly, and you never know when or where.”

  “You’ve seen the petitions. People want to pay the Lords of the Underworld fucking flowers to bring him back. That’s not how any afterlife works, even if you account for cultural differences. And you’re calling me the crazy one?”

  Janet had no response. Anish swallowed and led her to another room.

  There’s no such thing as bad publicity, Anish thought, except when it scares people away.

  He sipped his late morning coffee. The taste of idlis and coconut chutney lingered in his mouth.

  Other people were waking up; he could hear the sound of teeth crunching toasted white bread, and his cook Mina boiling more coffee. Janet typed in her room, on that cheap laptop; the clacking echoed downstairs.

  Anish finished his coffee and went inside. He offered his cup to Mina. She was making Ovaltine, a brown sugary substance, for the children.

  “The phone rang,” she said. “It’s the priest that you called.”

  Anish went to the old-fashioned white receiver. He twirled the cord around his fingers and dialed the number that was written in script.

  “Hello?”

  “Guru Drishti, it’s me, Anish Matam.” Anish spoke in Tamil.

  “Mr. Matam.” The man on the other side took a deep breath. “You realize you’re getting into a lot of trouble.”

  “I thought you didn’t read the newspaper.”

  “I do when it concerns a client. You want genuine water from the Ganges?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why can’t you get it yourself? You can afford to make the trip.”

  “I don’t want to leave the house. Not for my safety, but the safety of everyone else. The court order is keeping the protesters from storming the house, but it feels like we’re only buying time. You know about mobs.”

  “If you want my opinion, you should get rid of the robot, Anish. That’s the safest route.”

  “Thank you for the opinion, but I really need your help.”

  “Why Ganges water?”

  “It was important to my father. Please. I’ll forward you the fee in advance.”

  There was a pause. Anish could hear the coins clinking within the priest’s thoughts.

  “Very well. For your sake I will make the trip. But please be careful. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

  “You won’t,” Anish promised. Not my death, at least.

  “Bullshit.” Janet’s editor was chewing as he spoke. “It’s all bullshit.”

  “He’s grieving for his father,” Janet said, keeping her defensive voice low. “It’s his coping mechanism.”

  The temporary phone felt like a plastic Etch-A-Sketch between her ear and shoulder. She cocked her head to hold the phone in place, typing rapidly.

  “There’s grieving and then there’s making a duplicate of his father. He needs a therapist, and he can surely afford it.”

  “That’s beside the point,” Janet replied. “I’m not sure how to put this in my book. It doesn’t fit.”

  “Tough luck, Janet. Just write it, and we’ll worry about the fit later. Just don’t buy into the bullshit. Your deadline’s in two weeks, so no pressure. Yet.”

  He gave a wild laugh. Janet forced herself to laugh with him.

  “Yeah. No pressure.”

  She hung up and leaned back on the bed, her laptop leaning to the side. Her throat was dry, and her legs were stiff from sitting and talking.

  Janet closed her laptop, set it back in its case, and got up. Water. She needed water, and the kitchen was downstairs.

  Voices filled the corridor; children played and brandished pieces of paper at each other. The door to the study was ajar, and as she passed, someone called to her.

  “Janet.”

  Her insides went cold. She turned. The robot was standing at the door and looking at her, confusedly. Seeing its eyes, a shard of memory struck her: the memory of interviewing Tony the first time and cuddling one of his tabby cats.

  “Janet Oversight. You.”

  She pressed a finger to her chest, as if to ask, “Who, me?”

  The robot nodded at her in recognition. Then it stood still and waited, its fiberglass fingernails stained with ink. The ends of its dressing gown trailed on the floor.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  The robot didn’t respond. It took a deep breath—simulated breathing, Janet thought, it doesn’t need to breathe. It smelled like a new car.

  “Janet, what are you doing here?” it asked. “Your book. You wrote it years ago.”

  Janet took a deep breath. “I wrote most of it.”

  The synthetic eyebrows raised in question. Its glasses were smudgy, but through the fogged lenses, she could see the doubt.

  He has dialogue programmed into him, Janet thought. But I never recorded my interviews with him on audio or video, and Anish would have told me if he had programmed it in. How does he recognize me then?

  “Janet, why am I it?” it asked. “What accident happened?”

  Her mouth went dry. Janet shifted from one sneaker to the other.

  “You can’t be asking that,” she said.

  “Why not?” The robot sounded so calm. If not for the smell, and for how the movements lacked grace, she might have believed it was the real Tony.

  “Anish said you couldn’t carry a conversation,” she whispered. “I have to go.”

  She turned abruptly and walked toward the stairs. The robot walked behind her.

  “Janet, why are you afraid of me?”

  “Because you died,” she said under her breath. “You died and your son built this expensive copy of you. Because your son is crazy but he also needs you.”

  The footsteps stopped behind her. Janet turned her head. The robot had cocked its head, and its glass eyes had gone wild. Its breathing became rapid and panicked.

  Oh fuck, she thought, hurrying downstairs.

  The glass vial arrived by messenger, deposited in the square mailbox just outside the front door. Anish had picked it up and noted the grey sediments with distaste.

  “Mina, all right if I use the stove for this?” he asked. She pursed her lips but stood aside. Her purple sari cast a shadow on the tile floor.

  “It’s your house, sir.”

  Anish found a pair of rubber gloves and a bottle of oil he used for the robot. He added oil and a few drops of the Ganges water to a battered saucepan. Mina watched with interest as he set the gas stove to boil. The water and oil bubbled but did not mix. When it was done, he added blocks of ice from the freezer. Then Anish poured the hot mixture to an old tea mug with chipped edges and took it upstairs, along with the vial of Ganges water.

  He passed Janet on the stairs. She looked spooked. He continued on the creaking steps and found his father praying in the study. Anish set the holy water on the desk and stood over his father.

  “Appa?” he called. “I got river water from the Ganges like you asked. Let me sprinkle it on you.”

  The oily drops flicked from his fingers as the robot knelt. His father didn’t respond. He remained kneeling.

  “So I am just an object then?” Appa asked. “I cannot even sip
this holy water?”

  The next moment, in a gesture so fast he had never expected a robot to do it, Appa reached with his fingers and grabbed the tea mug. The oil and water poured down his throat, and he gave a great smile. Sparks flew out of his throat.

  “Thank you, Anish-ram. I love you.” Then the robot collapsed, its voice coming out garbled and mangled. The tea mug hit the floor.

  “Appa? Appa?” Anish’s voice came out scared and worried as he shook the robot. He heard sparks and smelled burnt metal. Appa’s head lolled. An electric charge burned Anish’s fingers.

  The Ganges water, Anish thought. Goddammit. Why didn’t I seal his throat with paraffin?

  He propped up the robot on a chair and ran to the kitchen. He nearly slipped on a small rug as he grabbed the rubber gloves which were still damp from the boiling.

  Anish didn’t register the tears running down his face as he tried to dismantle the robot, or Janet’s sneakers thudding behind him. She gave a low, almost inaudible gasp.

  “Oh Anish, I’m so sorry,” she said as he tore apart the silicone with his hands. Static from the robot clashed against Anish’s sobs.

  The protesters had left; the news had spread quickly after they had heard Anish’s cries from the house. Many had satisfied expressions, though a few looked sorrowfully at the house before leaving.

  Anish staggered out of the lodge, struggling with a large plastic carton. It rattled and rang with parts. He had changed into a clean black shirt with short sleeves, and wore beige pants. Tiny burns and cuts covered his arms, but he did not hide them.

  The carton contained his father in bits and pieces. He had dismantled the robot so that it would ship better, and he would not have to strap it into the back seat of his jeep with a safety belt. Anish had considered putting his father in a boxlike coffin, but that would have been too Western. Cremation would have been a waste, especially for a pile of metal.

  It was near the end of the day. The Kerala river water reflected the setting sun. The mosquitoes would come out again and bite any man or dog brave enough to remain outside. They’d even bite the sheep and goats drained of blood for halal meat. At night, Anish would hear their aggrieved bleating that faded as the sun rose. But for now, he would deliver his father to the university in pieces. Then he would sit in his father’s study and listen for a heartbeat he would never hear.

  The Observer Effect

  E.C. Myers

  When you read the first Tweets about a hostage situation at Oceanside High School, you glance over at David Dae’s workstation.

  He’s still sitting there, staring at the updates scrolling down his screen. Like everyone else in the office.

  Your heart beats faster as David rises from his seat, shoulders hunched like he carries the world on his shoulders. If not the world, then perhaps one high school with more than 700 students and 50 teachers.

  This is it, you think. Finally.

  He steps away from his desk, but he only gets a few feet away before he stops, turns—and looks at you. You flick your eyes to your monitor and hope he doesn’t realize you were watching him.

  Heavy footsteps. A chair creaking under a lot of weight. David has returned to his desk.

  Not today then. You sigh. Maybe you’re wrong about him, because how could anyone sit through something like this? You consider going over to him. You want to slap him and say, “What’s wrong with you? Get out there, champ!”

  But you stay in your seat too, keeping an eye on both David and social media as the story unfolds.

  By the end of the day, seven people at the high school are dead (unconfirmed), including the gunman. Gunwoman. Gunperson.

  No, now it’s just “killer,” because even though she had an assault rifle, not a single shot was fired. She’s dead, along with four teens, one teacher, and a security guard. Eyewitnesses say the victims each simply collapsed and never moved again. They fell in the same moment, even though they were in different areas of the building.

  She must have been an Enhanced®.

  That security guard never stood a chance. Only another enhanced human could have defused that situation. Social media explodes with the common refrain: “Where’s our HeroSM?”

  You pick up your forearm crutches and walk over to David’s desk. He blinks at you, his eyes red.

  “Drinks?” you ask.

  You’ve been asking him to join you for lunch, drinks, ballgames, cookouts—anything that wouldn’t seem too weird—since you arrived in Oceanside and began working at Wave Function two months ago. He always turns you down. As far as you can tell, David doesn’t have any work friends, at least not the kind he’d spend time with outside the office. But then, neither do you.

  The “no, thank you”—he’s always polite—is already on his lips, but before he can say it, you blurt out, “Laurie Sands.”

  David is taken aback, as if you had slapped him. You push on. “Oslo Worthington. Nerys Hughes. Remy Mann.”

  David whispers, “Alphonse Winters. Meredith Tuttle.” The biology teacher and the school guard.

  He stands. Even slouching, he towers above you. “I don’t usually drink, but tonight I’ll make an exception. Let’s go.”

  The Haunted Head Saloon is hosting a costume party. The bar’s pirate-themed, but people often dress as their favourite superheroes. That used to mean Breakpoint. Now there are more champions from other bigger cities: Red Robin, Magnesia, the Chemist, even STEM Girl and Science Lad.

  David’s open collar allows a glimpse of the iconic purple spandex. It’s sloppy and dangerous, but no one at work imagines he could be Breakpoint. Instead, David is the office joke: an ordinary man pretending to be extraordinary. Sad. Pathetic.

  A waitress dressed as Killer Sloth brings over a pitcher of beer and two thick glasses. You and David reach for the pitcher at the same time, but you grab it first. He watches as you start to pour. You intentionally wobble your hand and land the pitcher on the table with a thud and a splash.

  “It’s heavy,” you say.

  He smiles and pours beer for you, then himself. You raise your glass.

  “For Laurie, Oslo, Nerys, Meredith, Alphonse, and Remy,” you say.

  “For Annie Null,” he says.

  “Who?” you ask.

  “The girl with the gun. Her name was Annie Null.”

  You checked the news just before you left the office, but the girl’s name hadn’t been released yet. David hasn’t checked his phone since, so how could he have this information? But Breakpoint might know more, with his enhanced awareness of people and how they’re connected . . .

  You lean forward and whisper. “I knew it! You are him.”

  He raises an eyebrow and then points his chin at something behind you. You turn and see the muted TV on the wall is tuned to the local news station. The scrolling banner on the bottom reads, “High school shooter identified as Annie Null, 16, of the Wharf District.”

  Onscreen, Annie enters a bathroom and minutes later steps out again holding an assault rifle. The halls are empty. She turns her head to the left, then right. Then she looks straight up at the camera, at you, and she winks. The picture freezes.

  She seems perfectly ordinary. Long dark hair falling into her eyes, a black hoodie over a plain white T-shirt and jeans. She’s wearing flip-flops. But for the gun, no one would ever look twice at her.

  Maybe that’s why she had it.

  You turn back to the table and pout. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t Breakpoint.”

  David folds his hands and lowers his eyes. “Annie was a mem-ber of several clubs but never attended more than one meeting of any of them. She kept to herself, read books and blogged about them under a pseudonym. She babysat for spending cash. She wanted to be a playwright.”

  “You aren’t getting all that from the news,” you say.

  You switch on your phone and check the latest updates on the developing story. Brief profiles of the victims are already online, but none of them features the emotional
insights David offered about Annie.

  Laurie Sands was 17, president of the Oceanside High senior class, a straight-A student and head cheerleader. A picture shows her hugging a giant, purple, plush octopus at the aquarium in Carlsbad. She planned to be a marine biologist.

  You think about their stories and the ones that will never be told about them. The astronaut. The president. The physicist. Dreams that died with their dreamers.

  David drains his glass in one mighty gulp. He pours another.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” David says.

  “You’re Breakpoint.”

  He shakes his head.

  You’ve had enough. You reach both hands across the table and tear his shirt open, sending buttons flying. You expose the purple spandex with the green P superimposed over the black B.

  He’s surprised. Angry. He looks away for a moment, and for a moment you think he’s going to get up and walk away. But he stays.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” he says.

  “You’re supposed to be the strong one.” You jab a finger into his chest, dead centre of the logo. His chair screeches against the floor as it slides backward an inch from the force of your push. His eyes widen.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “What you see is what you get. I’m just me. Linda Sun. A nobody.”

  He looks down at his chest. “Sure. And this is just a Halloween costume.”

  “If you aren’t him, why do you wear it everyday under your street clothes? Tell me I’m wrong and it’s some kind of fetish.”

  He laughs. “Some habits are hard to give up. I could have come to work in my costume and no one would have seriously thought I could be Breakpoint.” His expression softens. “Except you.”

  “You were trying to be noticed.” You tip your head back. “You wanted us to figure out who you are. Why?”

  “Don’t we all want to be seen?” David asks.

  “Do you even get the point of a secret identity? I’ve heard of hiding in plain sight, but—”