Asimov's SF, March 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I went home. I couldn't bear to tell her what I'd done, so I just went home to my broken bed, to begin my long and lonely fight for survival. I understood what I'd done, not merely to my good neighbor but to my good neighbor's great crusade. I had changed history, and not for the better. I had become an unwitting defender of natural selection, an accidental enemy of intelligent design.

  * * * *

  After a while, stray alates stopped turning up on the verandah. Judith Hillinger called me to tell me that she was leaving, because Withernsea wasn't the right place to begin the Revolution. She didn't know exactly where she was going, she said, but she'd know it when she found it.

  I didn't contradict her, although I knew she never would. She didn't know what had happened to her, but it didn't really matter, because she would soon be incapable of caring even if she could still understand the explanation.

  She'd probably live for a long time yet, I told myself, and her money would ensure that her new lifestyle was as comfortable as it could possibly be. She'd be happy, but she wouldn't be attempting to correct any more of evolution's errors—because I'd corrected in her the most basic error that natural selection had ever made in its ham-fisted shaping of human nature.

  I'd cured her of the silly urge to settle down, and the exacting burdens of unfailing calculation, excessive memory, and relentless collection.

  If only, I thought, I could do as much for myself.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Brian Stableford

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  * * *

  Poetry: THE CAPACITY OF COLD

  by Roger Dutcher

  Cold

  will encompass

  all.

  —

  It is

  warmth

  that is rare

  in the vastness.

  —

  Even here

  on this island Earth

  we feel

  zero

  in our bones.

  —

  —Roger Dutcher

  Copyright (c) 2008 Roger Dutcher

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  * * *

  Short Story: KALLAKAK'S COUSINS

  by Cat Rambo

  Since her participation in Clarion West in 2005, Cat Rambo's publications include stories in Strange Horizons, Clarkesworld, and Subterranean. Her collaboration with Jeff VanderMeer, The Surgeon's Tale and Other Stories, appeared in December 2007. She is the co-editor of Fantasy Magazine and readers can learn more about her at www.kittywumpus.net. In “Kallakak's Cousins,” her first story for Asimov's, Cat choreographs the complex interactions of aliens with aliens as they try to get along (to one degree or another) on a human space station.

  Kallakak's Cousins

  The more annoyed Kallakak got, the sleepier he became. By the time he found himself in the small trapezoidal office that served the Undersecretary of Spaces as a waiting room, weariness washed over him in waves threatening to carry him away into sleep. His mid-hands, which he usually employed for fine work, were shaking with fatigue. He slapped open a pouch and took out a syringe with an upper hand to jab into the opposite arm's pit, preferring that to the soft underside of his stumpy tail's base. He grunted once as the needle pierced the thick skin, and felt the chrome-edged wake-up shock through his nervous system.

  The rustle of the space station's ventilating fans sharpened to a whine as the wake-up's second component jolted his metabolism. The only bad side-effect was his bladder's tightening, a yank on his nerves that made him wonder how far away the nearest eliminatory was. He allowed himself to feel gratitude for the lack of caff as his breathing and heartbeat slowed from the initial jolt.

  The light was set to an annoying wavelength that scraped angrily at his eyes. Somewhere down the corridor someone kept walking back and forth, a metallic echo of footsteps. Three or four rooms away, he thought, and wondered whose waiting area they had been put in.

  “Mr. Kallakak?” a woman said from the doorway, her voice officious and too loud to his tender ears. He flattened the frills atop his head, a rude gesture, but it dampened the noise's edge. She probably didn't know Ballabel etiquette anyway.

  Unfortunately, her expression said she did. She said nothing, just turned and gestured him to follow. They traversed a winding corridor up several floors and into the Undersecretary of Spaces’ office, where the Undersecretary and two other humanoids awaited him.

  “Mr. Kallakak, is it?” the Undersecretary asked, glancing at the pad on his desk for confirmation before Kallakak could reply.

  “It's a great pleasure,” Kallakak said, preparing to launch into the speech he'd prepared, but the man simply pointed him to a stool.

  The Undersecretary wore no uniform, which made Kallakak hope for a moment that he was a long-timer, someone whose position in things as far as the government was concerned remained the same, and didn't shift with every change of the government. But the official's hair was growing out of a military crew-cut, about two weeks’ worth. Kallakak resigned himself to another iteration of the negotiation for his shop's location that he had undergone, by his count, thirteen times so far.

  The room's two other occupants sat quietly. Both were burly and broad-shouldered, with the look of people who had grown up in substantial gravity. Their augmentations were utilitarian, with no pretense towards naturalness: thick metal ridges protected their eyes and laser lenses set over the eyes shifted with the light as they moved. Dark blue plating layered over their arms. Kallakak did not doubt that there were other, more dangerous additions on their forms.

  “The Jellidoos here say that they have a prior claim to the space where your shop is located,” the Undersecretary said.

  Startled by the bluntness, Kallakak looked to the pair. They stared back, expressionless. He had prided himself on his ability to understand shifts in human expression—it was of great value to him in negotiations with customers—but these two were unreadable to him. A wave of torpor washed over him, but he would not inject himself here and show them information about the angry terror their assertion had inspired.

  “I have been there three standard years,” he said. “What is the prior claim?"

  “They have been offstation and thought that their representative was occupying the space,” the Undersecretary said. “Their claim dates back four standard years."

  “They had no way of checking on their claim?” he said politely.

  “Our representative deceived us,” the woman said. “Now we have returned in person to take up our merchandising effort again."

  “It is a very small and oddly shaped space,” Kallakak said. “Surely fine beings like yourselves have access to significantly grander locations?” He looked to the Undersecretary. “Or perhaps such might be found?” He wished the Undersecretary had met him alone; it would be easier to find out how much of a bribe was needed.

  “Despite spatial difficulties, it is a premium location,” the woman said. “Just above the Midnight Stair and across from the Convention Hall."

  Kallakak nodded to assert his command of human gestures. “May I ask what type of merchandise you intend to sell?"

  “Much the same merchandise that you currently sell,” she said. She permitted a smile to cross her lips. “We would be glad to give you a good price on your current stock."

  He let his eyes slit to demonstrate annoyance while he thought frantically. Would it be best—or even possible—to take his loss and see about finding another location, build up merchandise stocks again?

  It would be laborious to clear his things out and re-establish a new shop: across from the Convention Hall was, as he and the other merchants knew full well, a location rivaled only by the entrance to the university or the booths immediately by the port, where every sailor and traveler had to pass. He did not think any other location he could afford would let him stay afloat. Sooner or later, his capital would dwindle bit by bit and destitution would come knocking at his door.

  “Will the matter be
examined before a court?” he asked, and caught the twitch that might signify the Undersecretary's hope to have avoided the formalities. But the official only said “Yes, of course.” Pulling open a window on his desk, he studied it. “The next opening is..."

  “We would prefer to have it done quickly,” the female Jellidoo said, and the official continued on as though he had not heard her, “five days from now."

  That was astonishingly quick, and Kallakak wondered if the two realized it. They stood, and Kallakak remained in his chair, hoping to speak to the Undersecretary alone. But they continued standing, looking at him until at last he resigned himself to exiting with them and rose to his feet in turn. All three bowed to the Undersecretary before leaving.

  Outside, the Jellidoos fell in step with him, one on either side, as he walked towards the lift.

  “We realize this is an inconvenience for you,” the woman said. “We are prepared to offer you compensation for the trouble it causes."

  “How much?” he said, tapping the lift call.

  “Five thousand standard credits,” she said.

  While substantial, it was not enough to make up for the space's loss, which netted him that much again every few months. He grunted noncommittally.

  “Sometimes we don't realize that what we want isn't good for us,” the man said, speaking for the first time. He stared intently at Kallakak.

  “Dominance rituals do not work well on me,” Kallakak said, roughening his voice to rudeness. “I will see you in five days in the court.” He decided not to burn his bridges too far. “I will tally up the cost of my goods by then and will have a definite figure.” Let them think him acquiescent while he tried to find another way to save his shop. He stepped into the lift, but they did not follow him, simply watched as the doors slid closed and he was carried away.

  Making his way back to his quarters, he saw three figures standing before it. He paused, wondering if the Jellidoos had decided to lean on him further. The trio turned in unison to face him, and he recognized them with a sinking heart. The cousins.

  * * * *

  Kallakak had come to TwiceFar space station ten standards earlier with his wife, Akla. Both were Balabels of good family; their births had been normal and each's twin had gone on to a respectable mate and business of their own.

  But Akla had a set of cousins who had been born not in a pair but a disreputable and unlucky triad. Moreover, they had continued to stay together long past their adolescence and therefore never matured into sexuality. Not unheard of, certainly, but unusual.

  They had not been successful in business, and Kallakak had grown used to hearing Akla's stories about their efforts. At times she had been quite witty about it but without her presence to remind him of their existence, he realized he had lost track of them. He had not seen them since he and Akla had joined together, back on Balabel, but he recognized them: they were oddly graduated in size, not the same height, and had a peculiar slump-shouldered appearance.

  The tallest—what was its name?—approached Kallakak.

  “You may not remember me, sir,” it fluted at him, its voice uncertain. “I am Tedesla, and these are my siblings, Desla and Sla. We are related to your wife, Akla."

  “She's gone,” he said roughly. The corridor lights buzzed brittlely behind his head. He could feel a continuing push at his bladder, despite the several eliminatories he'd visited on the way home.

  The cousins exchanged glances and conferred in whispers as he waited. He heard the smallest, Sla, say, “But we have nowhere else to go!” and reluctantly took pity on them.

  “Come inside,” he said.

  They followed after him, crowding the narrow room that served him as eating and sleeping quarters as well as a warehouse of sorts. Double layers of mesh crates were stacked up against one wall, and others had been assembled to create the furniture.

  A bed made from a pallet of rugs covered with film plastic sat near two metal boxes pushed together to make a table. He pulled a tab on a caff box, setting it to Heat and putting it on the table before rummaging for cups in a box of chipped mugs showing the station's logo. Glancing at the cousins, he grabbed for dried meat as well and opened it.

  Two cousins sat on the floor, interspersing rapid bites of meat with gulps of caff, while Sla did the same, cross-legged on the bed, its bones still adolescent soft and flexible. Kallakak averted his eyes and focused on Tedesla.

  “We won a prize,” Tedesla said. “A ticket for all three of us to the station."

  “A prize?"

  “For our shopping, for being the one-millionth customer at the new grocer's."

  “A prize for shopping?” Kallakak considered the idea. It would be easy enough to do something similar with his shop—if he still had it after five days, he thought sourly. He bit into a meat stick, looking at Tedesla.

  “How much money is left?” he said.

  Tedesla shrugged. “That's all it was, a ticket."

  “And one to go back on?"

  “No.” Tedesla hesitated. “It was supposed to be round trip for two, but there were three of us. So there is a trip back for one."

  “Which one?"

  They shrugged in perfect unison. As though evoked by the gesture, he felt the day come crashing down on him, sleep crawling over his skin like an insect swarm.

  “You can stay until we get things settled,” he grunted. Setting his cup down, he moved over to the bed, Sla scrambling out of his way. He laid down with his back to them and fell downwards into sleep.

  In the morning, he saw they had tidied away the food from the night before. He thought they might have gone exploring, but when he pushed the corridor door open, he found them sitting outside in the hallway. They rose to their feet.

  “I am going to the store,” he said. “Have you seen it already?” They shook their heads and followed him.

  “I named it ‘Akla's Wares,'” he told them as he walked along. “I stock the things she liked: Corrinti bubbles and other sparkles, things tourists buy."

  “She liked such things?” Sla asked.

  “She does,” he said.

  They turned the corridor and headed up the Midnight Stair, moving along handholds rather than taking the stairs, the gravity feather-light around them. Kallakak's muscular arms moved him along more rapidly than the majority of pedestrians along the hundred meter wide tunnel, its sides lined with black stairs that showed no sign of scuff or wear.

  “It wasn't smooth going at first,” Kallakak said. “Twice I got robbed during sleep periods, so I hired a mechanical to run it while I wasn't there."

  “A mechanical?” Tedesla asked.

  “A robot,” Kallakak said. “Most of them are trying to buy themselves or others free, they take on whatever labor they can manage. Alo2 is a good sort. Funny sense of humor, but a good sort."

  “We could watch over the shop,” Sla said. “With us here, you wouldn't need anyone else."

  He didn't answer, but paused in the doorway of the pharmacist. “The usual,” he snapped at Ercutio, who replied as he passed over the pack of juice bulbs, “If you wouldn't retain your fluids in your body so much, they would not cause the infection."

  He ran his card through the reader to pay. “I know, I know,” he said.

  “Who are those with you?” Ercutio nodded at the cousins, who stood backing Kallakak in a little ring.

  “Cousins,” he said. He toothed through the seal of a juice bulb and sucked down the salty-sweet fluid, mixed with antibiotics.

  “I heard there's some trouble with your space,” Ercutio said and Kallakak paused before hurrying out of the doorway. “Some,” he said. “I'll know more in a day or so, need to size things up."

  They moved along towards the shop. The name “Akla's Wares,” written in standard and red Balabel script, rode the wall above the doorway, which Kallakak had widened at his own expense in order to make it easier for customers to enter.

  Alo2 looked at them from where he sat beside the counter.


  “We are Kallakak's cousins. You will no longer be needed,” Sla told the mechanical in an officious tone.

  Kallakak hastened to say, “Don't listen to it. Visitors from home. Go look at the merchandise, you three, while I catch up."

  Alo2 registered the knowledge with a flicker of the blue lenses that served it as eyes. Its surface was matte steel, marred in places with dents from years at dock labor. “The shop took in 541 standards,” it said. “A party of six sailors bought twelve souvenir items at 2:11. Two Jellidoos came by but bought nothing."

  “Did they say anything to you?” he asked.

  “They wanted to know the sum of my wages,” Alo2 said. “I misrepresented them as considerably more than I make."

  “Good,” Kallakak said enviously. He was incapable of lying; the effort of it caused a purpling of the ear frills that was unmistakable to anyone knowing much of Balabel physiology. While a master of understatement and misdirection, he envied Alo2's ability to overtly misstate things.

  “Jellidoos are tough to deal with,” Alo2 said in a statement of absolute truth and Kallakak nodded in glum agreement.

  “They used to use a lot of mechanicals,” Alo2 said.

  “Used to?"

  “They're superstitious. We spread a rumor that mechanicals hold souls that have been displaced from bodies—ghosts. Not all of us, mind you, just a few. They're terrified of ghosts and death."

  “Too bad we can't convince them this place was once a body repository or something,” Kallakak said. He looked around at the walls, which were a dull layer of cloudy plastic over gray metal.

  It was unclear what use the station's creators had meant to put the space to centuries ago. Finding it unused except for storage, Kallakak had submitted petitions to three versions of TwiceFar's constantly changing government, achieving success on the fourth try. He touched the counter, a silvery glass slab he'd found in a cast-off sale at the university, and swore.