by Liz Williams
ESCAPE FROM EARTH
Settle yourself within.
“Wait a minute,” Jaya said.
There is no more time. They are looking for you, the ones from the temple—the ship tells me this. You have no choice, Ir Yth said, and there was something like a hot clutch inside Jay as mind. Her vision swam momentarily red. She felt herself tottering forward to step over the lip of the raft. Still moved by a force that she could not repel, she sat down, wondering if this was going to be the last thin she ever did. She glanced frantically up at Rakh’s dismayed face, but then the webbing folded itself around her. Jaya tried very hard not to think of spiders. Grimly she shut her eyes. The webbing seeped over her mouth, forcing it apart. Surrender did not come easily to Jay a. There was a numbness. It was putting her to sleep. Jay a’s reptile brain woke up then, and she started to struggle. It was, of course, much too late.
The raft sealed with a sound like someone splitting a watermelon, and Jaya fell into the depths of the night.
Also by Liz Williams
THE GHOST SISTER
With thanks…
… Especially to Ashok and Bithika Banker and family, for welcoming us to Mumbai and being so generous with both time and information (and for getting us to Varanasi)
… as ever, to Anne Groell and Shawna McCarthy for all their hard work, encouragement and help
… to everyone in the Montpellier Writing Group and Neville Barnes
… to David Pringle, for accepting the original story for Interzone
… to my parents and to Charles
… to everyone at the Shanti Guesthouse in Varanasi
… and lastly to Sappho the cat, whose continual interruptions have saved me from RSI
Open your eyes again and look at Shiva up there on the altar. Look closely. In his upper right hand … he holds the drum that calls the world into existence, and in his upper left hand he carries the destroying fire. Life and Death, order and disintegration, impartially. But now look at Shiva’s other pair of hands… It signifies: ‘Don’t be afraid; it’s All Right.’ But how can anyone in his senses fail to be afraid? How can anyone pretend that evil and suffering are all right, when it’s so obvious that they’re all wrong?
From Aldous Huxley’s Island (1962)
PROLOGUE
Khaikurriyë, Rasasatran system
“They’re all starting to die,” IrEthiverris whispered, wringing long, jointed hands.
“Who’s dying? What are you talking about?” Sirrubennin EsMoyshekhal asked wearily. Why did emergencies always seem to happen in the middle of the night? He frowned at the wavering image of his friend, gleaming behind a veil of communication mesh. IrEthiverris’ fingers wove together in agitation. His mouth moved but no words came forth. Sirru raised his voice, hoping he wouldn’t wake the whole house.
“Verris, I can barely hear you. I think your transmission is breaking up. Now who is dying?”
“All of them!” IrEthiverris cried. His quills prickled up from his scalp, rattling like spine-leaves in a breeze. He looked wildly about him; Sirru wondered what his friend might be seeing, there on distant Arakrahali. There was a shimmer of alien sunlight behind IrEthiverris’ image. “The natives!”
“Well, there are bound to be a few problems at first, aren’t there?” Sirru said, his heart sinking. “Not every planet is easy to colonize—it’s usual for there to be some resistance, until people realize that we’ve got their best interests at heart. Things will settle down. Are the locals rioting, or what?”
“No! I think it’s the communications network. It’s killing them.”
“I don’t understand. You’ve got a khaith administrator, haven’t you? Isn’t she any help?”
The transmission wobbled, sending tremors through IrEthiverris’ already shaky image. Fragments of words came through.
“… khaith administrator is doing her utmost to… none of my messages even reaching Rasasatra—using an illegal channel… Can you please find out what’s going on?”
“I’ll do my best,” Sirru said. “Listen, I’ll need some way of contacting you. Can you—” But IrEthiverris’ image crackled, and was gone. Sirru gave the communication matrix a shake, then turned it off and on again, but even that did not work. IrEthiverris’ transmission had been swallowed by the immensity between the worlds.
Sirru walked out onto the balcony and stood staring out across the city of Khaikurriyë. The vast multiple curves of the caste-domes stretched as far as the horizon, gleaming in the soft red moonlight. Rising behind them were the peaks of the mountain-parks. The air was summer-warm and fragrant with pollen, but clouds were massing over the coast. There was a snap of lightning as the weather systems harnessed the monsoon; there would be rain before morning. Sirru was suddenly glad that he was here at home and not on some primitive alien world, surrounded by unforeseen horrors. His quills rose and shivered, despite the warmth of the night.
But what could be going so badly wrong on Arakrahali? Worlds were colonized all the time by the various castes under whose aegis they fell. That was the whole purpose of írRas society, the drive which impelled them as a people. From ancient times they had seeded worlds; kept a distant but kindly eye upon them as they evolved, then stepped in when the time was right to shape the inhabitants to proper specifications and bring them into the fold of the írRas’ huge biological empire. Granted, Sirru thought, this was not always a simple matter. Colonies occasionally had to be terminated if their populations had degenerated past a certain point, but that was part of the natural order, just as gardens needed to be pruned and weeded before the plants within them could reach fruition. Did not the oldest texts describe the galaxy itself as just another garden? And were not the írRas the only intelligent form of life in all that sea of stars? As such, they surely had a responsibility to generate new phenotypes, and to bring all people beneath their benevolent rule.
Moreover, Arakrahali had seemed such a quiet little world, with an industrious population that had bypassed the excesses indulged in by some cultures. The planet had not had a war for generations and the system of land ownership entailed that no one was starving. Arakrahali, IrEthiverris had confidently declared at the beginning of his colonial appointment, would be like a stroll in the park.
Yet now it was all going wrong. Sirru shivered. Verris had been a friend all his life—they’d practically come out of the same tank together—and Sirru knew how competent and conscientious the man was. He’d never seen IrEthiverris panicking. In the morning, he would try and find out what was going on. Nothing could be done about it now, but Sirru was too worried to sleep. He made his way down into the gardens, pushing his way through the dense and fragrant growth of pillar-vine and inchin, until he reached the irrigation pools. There he sat, in the quiet summer darkness, waiting for the storm to break.
THE CONJUROR’S DAUGHTER
1.
Varanasi, India, 2030
I used to be a goddess. Not that that’s much use to me right now, Jaya thought as she stood angrily in the hospital corridor. Catching a glimpse of herself in a laminated display cabinet, she had to stifle a smile at the notion of deity. They’d issued her with a shapeless nylon gown; she looked small and bent and old, somehow out of place in this gleaming new ward. She gripped the edge of the cabinet to steady herself.
“Mrs. Nihalani,” Erica Fraser said, with barely concealed impatience. “This is the fourth time this week! Whatever are we going to do with you?”
“I want to leave.” Jaya tried to sound calm, but her gnarled hand shook as it clasped the edges of the cabinet. She could feel her body trembling. “I’m not a prisoner here.” That was true enough; this was nothing like jail in Delhi, nothing like Tihar.
“Well, I’m afraid you can�
��t. You’re in no condition to go wandering off. And where would you go? When we found you, you were living on a waste dump. You’re crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. Mrs. Nihalani, we’re only trying to help.”
“I know that,” Jaya said, through clenched teeth. “And I’m grateful, but—” It was a lie. She knew she should have felt a little more thankful, but Fraser was so patronizing. Every day, Jaya was reminded in one way or another of how fortunate she had been that the UN medical team had chanced across her crumpled body and brought her here to this shining new hospital wing. She was safe now, the doctor told her. Here, she would be cared for, perhaps even healed. Inside a little bubble of the West, sealed off from the unspeakable chaos of her country, which Jaya called Bharat, and the doctor called India. She was very lucky, Fraser told her each morning. It was starting to sound like a threat.
“And what about other people?” Fraser demanded now. “This part of the world’s seen a dozen new diseases in the last ten years alone, and I’m damned if I’m going to release another one into an overpopulated area.”
There was nothing she could say to that, Jaya thought. How could she tell the doctor that she knew her illness wasn’t contagious, presented no threat to anyone but herself? And how do you know that? Fraser would ask. Jaya would have to reply: Why, because the voice in my head tells me so. But if she said that, any chance she’d have of getting out of here would be gone. She felt her hands clench into fists, the joints stiffened and painful.
“I don’t understand why you want to leave,” Fraser said plaintively. Jaya could almost hear the unspoken thought: Why are these people so ungrateful? “You told me that you’ve spent the last few years scavenging for medical waste on the dumps, ever since you were widowed. What kind of a life is that?”
The life of a jackal, hunting the edge of sickness, where life wears thin. The voice echoed in her head, a little wonderingly, as though the notion was new to it. For the thousandth time, Jaya asked the voice: What are you? But there was no reply.
“Mrs. Nihalani!” Fraser said, sharply. “You’re looking very tired. I think we’d better get you back to bed, hadn’t we?” She took Jaya firmly by the arm. For a crazy moment, Jaya wondered what the reaction would be if she turned to the doctor and told her: Sorry, can’t stay. I’ve got a voice in my head and a revolution to run.
Well, that would really put the cat among the pigeons, to use Fraser’s favorite phrase. The truth was one luxury Jaya couldn’t afford. How could she tell the doctor who she really was? There had been a time, after all, when a photo of her face adorned every wall from Mumbai to Calcutta. It was a miracle that she hadn’t been recognized already; she supposed she had the unwelcome transformations of the illness to thank for that. If Fraser realized that she was harboring a terrorist, Jaya’s life would be over. The government wouldn’t imprison her this time. They would send the butcher-prince after her. She would rather the sickness took her.
But then she felt her knees beginning to tremble, a reaction she always had if she stood still for too long. Scowling with frustration, she let the doctor lead her back to bed.
“Tranquilizers,” Fraser said, holding out the little capsules. The look on her face brooked no argument. “I think we’ve had quite enough excitement for one day, don’t you?”
She stood over Jaya, watching like a hawk. Jaya mumbled her thanks and reached shakily toward the water jug. The doctor’s gaze flickered for an instant, and that was all the time Jaya needed to palm the pills and slip them under the pillow. She swallowed, and Fraser looked pleased.
“There. Now, no more nonsense. I’ll be back later, to run a few more tests. You have a nice sleep.”
Jaya’s hand curled around the tranquilizers, and she closed her eyes with relief at the small victory. She had almost ten pills now, carefully collected in a fold of the mattress. The doctor might think that Westerners knew it all, but Fraser was no match for a conjuror’s daughter. She looked down at her withered hand. The knuckles had swollen, but at least it kept the old ring on her finger: a band of cheap bronze, with a garnet set crookedly in it—the last and only legacy of her mother. Her hands were those of an old woman, a grandmother. When she looked at them, it was hard to believe she was only twenty-eight years old.
Jaya lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. She would wait until she felt a little stronger, and then she’d make another bid for freedom. Until then, there was nothing she could do but lie still, and remember.
JAYA, seven years old, crouched in the dust, watching as magical ash poured from her father’s fingertips. Faces jostled above her head, blotting out the bleached heat of the sky. The air smelled of incense and the fragrant bitterness of the ash as it drifted down into the bowls held out by the eager villagers. Jaya glanced up, noting how many of the faces were filled with wonder at this latest miracle, and how many were not. There were a few skeptical expressions toward the back of the crowd, mainly young men, grinning with knowing disbelief. She heard a whisper: “It’s up his sleeve. You can see it, look” Jaya held her breath, but the villagers glanced round angrily at the whisperer.
An elderly woman said sharply, “Hold your tongue, Indri Shamal. More respect for the gods might make you less stupid.”
The villagers nudged one another with sly grins, and Jaya saw the young man’s face grow sour. His friends laughed. Jaya breathed out, slowly so as not to disturb the flow of ash, and prayed to whatever god might be listening: Don’t be angry. Please don’t be angry with us.
“See,” Jaya’s father murmured as the villagers pressed forward to collect the sacred ash. His voice was sweet as candy, with no trace of its usual bitterness. “Vibhuti, the manifestation of divinity. The gods are kind; the gods are wise.” He brushed the ash on the forehead of a woman who knelt before him, making a powdery smear between her eyes that covered the red mark of her marriage. She bowed her head in gratitude.
First the ash, then the bowl-and-bean trick, then the disappearing wooden duck in a bucket of water. And then it was time for the real conjuring: the ultimate show, the illusion of death.
“You see my daughter?” her father demanded. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she? But the gods don’t care how pretty you are; they’ll take you if they want to, snatch you into death and bring you back to life again…” He glanced up with sharp abruptness. “I’ll show you what it’s like, when the gods decide to take a child. It’s a terrible thing. Don’t watch if you’re faint of heart. But for those who are brave enough to look, take careful note of this ring.” He held up a little band of bronze with a garnet set in it. “This is a magical ring, and it can save you from anything.”
“Even the new sicknesses? What about Selenge?” asked a skeptical voice.
Jaya’s father was earnest as he replied, “Anything. As long as you have faith, and have no doubts. The ring will only protect my little girl if she loses her faith in me. But first, she must be silenced, in case she cries out and offends the gods.”
Slipping the too-large ring onto her finger, he gestured to Jaya, and obediently she knelt before him on the dusty earth.
“Your tongue, child.”
A stillness fell over the crowd, as though time had stopped. Jaya slipped the goat’s tongue from her cheek so that it protruded between her lips. At first the trick had revolted her, but now she was used to it. Deftly, brandishing the knife, her father pretended to sever the tongue. Jaya made a convincing grunt of anguish and the crowd flinched. Jaya rolled her eyes in mute horror.
“Now. Lie down.” Jaya’s father covered her with a grimy cloth, blew into the fire so that the smoke swirled upward, and swept the blade of the long knife across her throat. She saw the blade come up, red and dripping. The crowd gave a great gasp, but Jaya lay still. Once, the smoke had made her eyes water; she had long since learned to keep them closed. She held her breath. The thick goat’s blood seeped in a pool beneath her neck; she could feel the punctured bladder nestling softly against her ear. Her father was speaking, coverin
g her deftly with the cloth, and she knew that he was drawing the attention of the crowd, the conjuror’s sleight of hand and slip of voice that makes everyone believe that nothing has happened at all. A few seconds: enough for Jaya to worm her hand up to her throat and wipe away all trace of the blood from her neck. The cloth was snatched away; she sprang up, smiling.
“I’m alive!” she cried. The crowd, pleased to be so deceived, burst into applause.
After the show, Jaya’s father sat and smiled beatifically, staring into the hot pale sky as if his gaze were fixed on Heaven. He did not ask for money, but soon the bag that Jaya held was full of notes. Jaya closed the bag, and her father took her by the wrist and hauled her up from the ground. The villagers were reluctantly dispersing.
“Well?” Jaya’s father said sharply, into her ear. “That showed them, eh?” There was always this same sour triumph after a successful performance. “Your dad might be just a poor untouchable, but he can still fool his betters, isn’t that so?” His face twisted, and Jaya held her breath, waiting for the familiar litany. “Untouchable, indeed! I had a good job, once—I worked in a laboratory. I was paid decent wages, and then they brought in this caste restoration program—The old ways are the best ways, they said. The country needs stability, they said. We all have to knuckle down. Who has to? Us, that’s who, the lowest of all, nothing but cheap labor and now even less than that…”
It was a familiar complaint, and the slightest thing would set it off. Jaya just nodded dutifully and followed her father as he limped through the village, his head held high with a pride he could barely afford.
Later, beneath the shadows of the neem trees which lay beyond the village, her father said, “Show me again.” He watched closely as Jaya held her small hands out before her, ghostly in the light of the fire. A coin tumbled from her fingers.
“Again.”
She palmed the coin, twisting her hands over and over again to show that there was nothing concealed, the coin resting between the backs of her fingers.
