I try to decide whether or not I can use the hole in the roof to climb out of.
After the color starts to fade, there is a hole in time between night and day. Oskar speaks quietly. “I answered you. Will you answer me?”
So that’s what he has been waiting for. I guess when you are sixty you have a lot of patience. “We live in a bubble.”
He laughs and pokes the plastic, which he can just barely reach from up here. It answers him by rippling, as if it were upside-down water.
I frown. “We do!” I wave my hand at all the roads and people we can’t see from here. “In the real world out there, people are travelling and learning and meeting each other. They’re struggling. They’re taking back the world. This time…” I haven’t really told anyone about this trip yet—I mean, no one had asked. Should I? “I walked the interstate and talked to people on it. Like always. I have my escape routes. They work.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me but doesn’t say anything.
“Eugene’s coming back. There’s five thousand people there now—they dug a well deep enough for water and they think they can irrigate. I met two families who were on their way there.”
He clears his throat. “A year ago, you told me it had all gone to desert. Not even any grass.”
“That’s what I heard. But this time I heard different.” I paused. “I don’t know anything. How could I?”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I just keep talking. “A band of singing priests went through last night. They saw five jet airplanes in a day over Portland.”
He can’t say anything to that. We saw a plane fly over the gardens a few weeks ago, and everybody came out and watched. We hadn’t been able to hear its engines, and Kelley had told me it was shaped different than the old jets. What Oskar does say is, “They don’t have the right plants. That’s what I’m saving for your generation. The bamboo and the bearberry, the astilbe and the peony.” He says the names of plants like a prayer, and I imagine him naming the others in his head. “The wisteria and the wild fuscia, the fiddlehead and the mountain fern….”
“I know what you’re saving. You keep telling me about it.” It’s an old story, how we’re saving the genome of the native plants in case the weather ever goes native again. “It’s good. I’m glad you’re saving it. But that’s your dream.”
He pretends not to notice my tone of voice. “What your travelers see is the Mediterranean weeds that killed the right plants in California when Father Serra brought them on his donkey. Now that it’s warm enough, dry enough, they come here and invade Oregon like they invaded California a long time ago.” His face wears a stubborn look that makes him more handsome, wiping some of the wrinkles away with anger. He starts down the rock face as all of the colors of the garden began to fade, and I hear him tell me, “It is your duty to the planet to help.”
I sit on the stone until stars swim above the plastic roof, diffused by the beads of water that start gathering there as the evening cools. After my eyes adjust enough to the dark, I come carefully to ground and Oskar and I share cinnamon fern fiddleheads and cattail roots and some jerky from a thin bobcat that had the good grace to jump into our garden before it died of starvation and fed us.
That night, I lie in my bed, separated from Oskar by waxy paper and bamboo, and listen to the roof crinkle in the wind. I’m too young to save the lives of doomed plants for a people that might be doomed, too. The world has changed, and we’ll all die if we try to stand still in its current. We have to adapt to the new climate and the new ways, or die here in Oskar’s Japanese stroll garden, walking the stone paths until there’s not enough water left for the wisteria.
They’ve taught me the things I need to know to help them survive, and now they want to keep me in a box. But I don’t hate them. Oskar’s breathing gets even and deep, and it’s a comfort.
But not enough. I toss and turn. I can’t sleep. I pack up everything I brought and wrap it in a blanket so I can swing it over my shoulder. I write Oskar and Kelley a note. I tell them I love them and I’m going to go save the world, and I’m sorry they won’t ever let me back in.
I find Kelley waiting by the door, a thin stick of a shadow that only moves when I open the door, like she’s been waiting for that one moment. I’m caught.
Oskar comes up behind me.
He leans forward and gives me a hug and he whispers in my ear. “Good luck,” he says.
I blink at them both, stupid with surprise.
He says, “Kelley and I both knew you’d go. It’s time. The Board told us to keep you, because we need young backs and young eyes. But you don’t need us. Go find out what they fly those planes with and where they go.”
I feel thick in the throat and watery. I say, “I’ll come back someday.”
Kelley says, “If you take long enough, we’ll even let you back in.”
I go before we all cry and wake the Board up. The stars look clearer out beyond the wall, and the moat of grass muffles my footsteps.
Blocked
GEOFF RYMAN
Geoff Ryman is a Canadian writer living in London, England. He began publishing SF stories in the mid-1970s, and wrote some SF plays, none published but most performed, including a powerful adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1982 novel, The Transmigration of Timothy Archer. Ryman’s second novel, The Child Garden (1988), won the Arthur C. Clarke Award and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and confirmed him as a major figure in contemporary SF. He published a hypertext novel, 253/ (1998; www.ryman-novel.com/) and a science fiction novel, Air (2005), about the future of the internet. Although much of his work in the last decade or more is not genre, including a novel about Cambodia, he has continued to publish excellent genre short fiction. And he became a spokesperson for the unfortunately named “mundane SF” movement in recent years, dedicated to using real science and technology and Earth or nearby settings in the genre. His 2009 anthology, When It Changed, is a collection of mundane science fiction stories, each written by a science fiction author with advice from a scientist, and with an endnote by that scientist explaining the plausibility of the story.
“Blocked” was published in F & SF. It is a story about a man in near-future Cambodia who owns a casino, and who is married to a Danish woman with four kids, who doesn’t love him. Aliens are invading.
I dreamed this in Sihanoukville, a town of new casinos, narrow beaches, hot bushes with flowers that look like daffodils, and even now after nine years of peace, stark ruined walls with gates that go nowhere.
In the dream, I get myself a wife. She’s beautiful, blonde, careworn. She is not used to having a serious man with good intentions present himself to her on a beach. Her name is Agnete and she speaks with a Danish accent. She has four Asian children.
Their father had been studying permanently in Europe, married Agnete, and then “left,” which in this world can mean several things. Agnete was an orphan herself and the only family she had was that of her Cambodian husband. So she came to Phnom Penh only to find that her in-laws did not want some strange woman they did not know and all those extra mouths to feed.
I meet the children. The youngest is Gerda, who cannot speak a word of Khmer. She’s tiny, as small as an infant though three years old, in a splotched pink dress and too much toy jewelery. She just stares, while her brothers play. She’s been picked up from everything she knows and thrown down into this hot, strange world in which people speak nonsense and the food burns your mouth.
I kneel down and try to say hello to her, first in German, and then in English. Hello, Gertie, hello, little girl. Hello. She blanks all language and sits like she’s sedated.
I feel so sad, I pick her up and hold her, and suddenly she buries her head in my shoulder. She falls asleep on me as I swing in a hammock and quietly explain myself to her mother. I am not married, I tell Agnete. I run the local casino.
Real men are not hard, just unafraid. If you are a man you say what is true, and if someone acts like a monkey, then maybe you p
unish them. To be a crook, you have to be straight. I sold guns for my boss and bought policemen, so he trusted me, so I ran security for him for years. He was one of the first to Go, and he sold his shares in the casino to me. Now it’s me who sits around the black lacquered table with the generals and Thai partners. I have a Lexus and a good income. I have ascended and become a man in every way but one. Now I need a family.
Across from Sihanoukville, all about the bay are tiny islands. On those islands, safe from thieves, glow the roofs where the Big Men live in Soriya-chic amid minarets, windmills, and solar panels. Between the islands hang white suspension footbridges. Distant people on bicycles move across them.
Somehow it’s now after the wedding. The children are now mine. We loll shaded in palm-leaf panel huts. Two of the boys play on a heap of old rubber inner tubes. Tharum with his goofy smile and sticky-out ears is long legged enough to run among them, plonking his feet down into the donut holes. Not to be outdone, his brother Sampul clambers over the things. Rith, the oldest, looks cool in a hammock, away with his earphones, pretending not to know us.
Gerda tugs at my hand until I let her go. Freed from the world of language and adults, she climbs up and over the swollen black tubes, sliding down sideways. She looks intent and does not laugh.
Her mother in a straw hat and sunglasses makes a thin, watery sunset smile.
Gerda and I go wading. All those islands shelter the bay, so the waves roll onto the shore child-sized, as warm and gentle as caresses. Gerda holds onto my hand and looks down at them, scowling in silence.
Alongside the beach is a grounded airliner, its wings cut away and neatly laid beside it. I take the kids there, and the boys run around inside it, screaming. Outside, Gerda and I look at the aircraft’s spirit house. Someone witty has given the shrine tiny white wings.
The surrounding hills still have their forests; cumulonimbus clouds towering over them like clenched fists.
In the evening, thunder comes.
I look out from our high window and see flashes of light in the darkness. We live in one whole floor of my casino hotel. Each of the boys has his own suite. The end rooms have balconies, three of them, that run all across the front of the building with room enough for sofas and dining tables. We hang tubes full of pink sugar water for hummingbirds. In the mornings, the potted plants buzz with bees, and balls of seed lure the sarika bird that comes to sing its sweetest song.
In these last days, the gambling action is frenetic: Chinese, Thai, Korean, and Malays, they play baccarat mostly, but some prefer the one-armed bandits.
At the tables of my casino, elegant young women, handsome young men, and a couple of other genders besides, sit upright ready to deal, looking as alert and frightened as rabbits, especially if their table is empty. They are paid a percentage of the take. Some of them sleep with customers too, but they’re good kids; they always send the money home. Do good, get good, we in Cambodia used to say. Now we say, twee akrow meen lay: Do bad, have money.
My casino is straight. My wheels turn true. No guns, says my sign. No animals, no children. Innocence must be protected. No cigarettes or powders. Those last two are marked by a skull-and-crossbones.
We have security but the powders don’t show up on any scan, so some of my customers come here to die. Most weekends, we find one, a body slumped over the table.
I guess some of them think it’s good to go out on a high. The Chinese are particularly susceptible. They love the theater of gambling, the tough-guy stance, the dance of the cigarette, the nudge of the eyebrow. You get dealt a good hand, you smile, you take one last sip of Courvoisier, then one sniff. You Go Down for good.
It’s another way for the winner to take all. For me, they are just a mess to clear up, another reason to keep the kids away.
Upstairs, we’ve finished eating and we can hear the shushing of the sea.
“Daddy,” Sampul asks me and the word thrums across my heart. “Why are we all leaving?”
“We’re being invaded.”
So far, this has been a strange and beautiful dream, full of Buddhist monks in orange robes lined up at the one-armed bandits. But now it goes like a stupid kids’ TV show, except that in my dream, I’m living it, it’s real. As I speak, I can feel my own sad, damp breath.
“Aliens are coming,” I say and kiss him. “They are bringing many, many ships. We can see them now, at the edge of the solar system. They’ll be here in less than two years.”
He sighs and looks perturbed.
In this disrupted country two-thirds of everything is a delight, two-thirds of everything iron nastiness. The numbers don’t add up, but it’s true.
“How do we know they’re bad?” he asks, his face puffy.
“Because the government says so and the government wouldn’t lie.”
His breath goes icy. “This government would.”
“Not all governments, not all of them all together.”
“So. Are we going to leave?”
He means leave again. They left Denmark to come here, and they are all of them sick of leaving.
“Yes, but we’ll all Go together, okay?”
Rith glowers at me from the sofa. “It’s all the fault of people like you.”
“I made the aliens?” I think smiling at him will make him see he is being silly.
He rolls his eyes. “There’s the comet?” he asks like I’ve forgotten something and shakes his head.
“Oh, the comet, yes, I forgot about the comet, there’s a comet coming too. And global warming and big new diseases.”
He tuts. “The aliens sent the comet. If we’d had a space program we could meet them halfway and fight there. We could of had people living in Mars, to survive.”
“Why wouldn’t the aliens invade Mars too?”
His voice goes smaller, he hunches even tighter over his game. “If we’d gone into space, we would of been immortal.”
My father was a drunk who left us; my mother died; I took care of my sisters. The regime made us move out of our shacks by the river to the countryside where there was no water, so that the generals could build their big hotels. We survived. I never saw a movie about aliens, I never had this dream of getting away to outer space. My dream was to become a man.
I look out over the Cambodian night, and fire and light dance about the sky like dragons at play. There’s a hissing sound. Wealth tumbles down in the form of rain.
Sampul is the youngest son and is a tough little guy. He thumps Rith, who’s fifteen years old, and both of them gang up on gangly Tharum. But tough-guy Sampul suddenly curls up next to me on the sofa as if he’s returning to the egg.
The thunder’s grief looks like rage. I sit and listen to the rain. Rith plays on, his headphones churning with the sound of stereophonic war.
Everything dies, even suns; even the universe dies and comes back. We already are immortal.
Without us, the country people will finally have Cambodia back. The walled gardens will turn to vines. The water buffalo will wallow; the rustics will still keep the fields green with rice, as steam engines chortle past, puffing out gasps of cloud. Sampul once asked me if the trains made rain.
And if there are aliens, maybe they will treasure it, the Earth.
I may want to stay, but Agnete is determined to Go. She has already lost one husband to this nonsense. She will not lose anything else, certainly not her children. Anyway, it was all part of the deal.
I slip into bed next to her. “You’re very good with them,” she says and kisses my shoulder. “I knew you would be. Your people are so kind to children.”
“You don’t tell me that you love me,” I say.
“Give it time,” she says, finally.
That night lightning strikes the spirit house that shelters our neak ta. The house’s tiny golden spire is charred.
Gerda and I come down in the morning to give the spirit his bananas, and when she sees the ruin, her eyes boggle and she starts to scream and howl.
Agnete c
omes downstairs, and hugs and pets her, and says in English, “Oh, the pretty little house is broken.”
Agnete cannot possibly understand how catastrophic this is, or how baffling. The neak ta is the spirit of the hotel who protects us or rejects us. What does it mean when the sky itself strikes it? Does it mean the neak ta is angry and has deserted us? Does it mean the gods want us gone and have destroyed our protector?
Gerda stares in terror, and I am sure then that though she is wordless, Gerda has a Khmer soul.
Agnete looks at me over Gerda’s shoulder, and I’m wondering why she is being so disconnected when she says, “The papers have come through.”
That means we will sail to Singapore within the week.
I’ve already sold the casino. There is no one I trust. I go downstairs and hand over the keys to all my guns to Sreang, who I know will stay on as security at least for a while.
That night after the children are asleep, Agnete and I have the most terrifying argument. She throws things; she hits me; she thinks I’m saying that I want to desert them; I cannot make her listen or understand.
“Neak ta? Neak ta, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I think we should go by road.”
“We don’t have time! There’s the date, there’s the booking! What are you trying to do?” She is panicked, desperate; her mouth ringed with thin strings of muscle, her neck straining.
I have to go and find a monk. I give him a huge sum of money to earn merit, and I ask him to chant for us. I ask him to bless our luggage and at a distance bless the boat that we will sail in. I swallow fear like thin, sour spit. I order ahead, food for Pchum Ben, so that he can eat it, and act as mediary so that I can feed my dead. I look at him. He smiles. He is a man without guns without modernity without family to help him. For just a moment I envy him.
Year’s Best SF 15 Page 35
