Interzone 244 Jan - Feb 2013 Read online

  “I am un-noded,” he said again. Shrugged. “It is – ”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, I would like to come in. For…tea.” She stepped closer to him. He could not read the look in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, in her soft voice, that strange accent. “For…you know.”

  “Yes.” He grinned, suddenly, feeling bold, almost invincible. “It’s nothing.”

  “Not…nothing.” Her hand touched his shoulder, briefly, a light touch. Then she had gone past him and disappeared through the half-open door.

  * *

  The shelves inside were arranged by genre.

  Romance.

  Mystery.

  Detection.

  Adventure.

  And so on.

  * *

  Life wasn’t like that neat classification system, Achimwene had come to realise. Life was half-completed plots abandoned, heroes dying half-way along their quests, loves requited and un-, some fading inexplicably, some burning short and bright. There was a story of a man who fell in love with a vampire…

  * *

  Carmel was fascinated by him, but increasingly distant. She did not understand him. He had no taste to him, nothing she could sink her teeth into. Her fangs. She was a predator, she needed feed, and Achimwene could not provide it to her.

  That first time, when she had come into his shop, had run her fingers along the spines of ancient books, fascinated, shy: “We had books, on the asteroid,” she admitted, embarrassed, it seemed, by the confession of a shared history. “On Nungai Merurun, we had a library of physical books, they had come in one of the ships, once, a great-uncle traded something for them–” leaving Achimwene with dreams of going into space, of visiting this Ng. Merurun, discovering a priceless treasure hidden away.

  Lamely, he had offered her tea. He brewed it on the small primus stove, in a dented saucepan, with fresh mint leaves in the water. Stirred sugar into the glasses. She had looked at the tea in incomprehension, concentrating. It was only later he realised she was trying to communicate with him again.

  She frowned, shook her head. She was shaking a little, he realised. “Please,” he said. “Drink.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “You’re not.” She gave up.

  Achimwene often wondered what the Conversation was like. He knew that, wherever he passed, nearly anything he saw or touched was noded. Humans, yes, but also plants, robots, appliances, walls, solar panels – nearly everything was connected, in an ever-expanding, organically growing Aristocratic Small World network, that spread out, across Central Station, across Tel Aviv and Jaffa, across the interwoven entity that was Palestine/Israel, across that region called the Middle East, across Earth, across trans-solar space and beyond, where the lone Spiders sang to each other as they built more nodes and hubs, expanded farther and farther their intricate web. He knew a human was surrounded, every living moment, by the constant hum of other humans, other minds, an endless conversation going on in ways Achimwene could not conceive of. His own life was silent. He was a node of one. He moved his lips. Voice came. That was all. He said, “You are strigoi.”

  “Yes.” Her lips twisted in that half-smile. “I am a monster.”

  “Don’t say that.” His heart beat fast. He said, “You’re beautiful.”

  Her smile disappeared. She came closer to him, the tea forgotten. She leaned into him. Put her lips against his skin, against his neck, he felt her breath, the lightness of her lips on his hot skin. Sudden pain bit into him. She had fastened her lips over the wound, her teeth piercing his skin. He sighed. “Nothing!” she said. She pulled away from him abruptly. “It is like… I don’t know!” She shook. He realised she was frightened. He touched the wound on his neck. He had felt nothing. “Always, to buy love, to buy obedience, to buy worship, I must feed,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I drain them of their precious data, bleed them for it, and pay them in dopamine, in ecstasy. But you have no storage, no broadcast, no firewall…there is nothing there. You are like a simulacra,” she said. The word pleased her. “A simulacra,” she repeated, softly. “You have the appearance of a man but there is nothing behind your eyes. You do not broadcast.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Achimwene said, anger flaring, suddenly. “I speak. You can hear me. I have a mind. I can express my – ”

  But she was only shaking her head, and shivering. “I’m hungry,” she said. “I need to feed.”

  * *

  There were willing victims in Central Station. The bite of a strigoi gave pleasure. More – it conferred status on the victim, bragging rights. There had never been strigoi on Earth. It made Achimwene nervous.

  He found himself living in one of his old books. He was the one to arrange Carmel’s feeding, select her victims, who paid for the privilege. Achimwene, to his horror, discovered he had become a middleman. The bag man.

  There was something repulsive about it all, as well as a strange, shameful excitement. There was no sex: sex was not a part of it, although it could be. Carmel leeched knowledge – memories – stored sensations – anything – pure uncut data from her victims, her fangs fastening on their neck, injecting dopamine into their blood as her node broke their inadequate protections, smashed their firewalls and their security, and bled them dry.

  “Where do you come from?” he once asked her, as they lay on his narrow bed, the window open and the heat making them sweat, and she told him of Ng. Merurun, the tiny asteroid where she grew up, and how she ran away, on board the Emaciated Messiah, where a Shambleau attacked her, and passed on the virus, or the sickness, whatever it was.

  “And how did you come to be here?” he said, and sensed, almost before he spoke, her unease, her reluctance to answer. Jealousy flared in him then, and he could not say why.

  * *

  His sister came to visit him. She walked into the bookshop as he sat behind the desk, typing. He was writing less and less, now; his new life seemed to him a kind of novel.

  “Achimwene,” she said.

  He raised his head. “Miriam,” he said, heavily.

  They did not get along.

  “The girl, Carmel. She is with you?”

  “I let her stay,” he said, carefully.

  “Oh, Achimwene, you are a fool!” she said.

  Her boy – their sister’s boy – Kranki – was with her. Achimwene regarded him uneasily. The boy was vat-grown – had come from the birthing clinics – his eyes were Armani-trademark blue. “Hey, Kranki,” Achimwene said.

  “Anggkel,” the boy said – uncle, in the pidgin of the asteroids. “Yu olsem wanem?”

  “I gud,” Achimwene said.

  How are you? I am well.

  “Fren blong mi Ismail I stap aotside,” Kranki said. “I stret hemi kam insaed?”

  My friend Ismail is outside. Is it OK if he comes in?

  “I stret,” Achimwene said.

  Miriam blinked. “Ismail,” she said. “Where did you come from?”

  Kranki had turned, appeared, to all intents and purposes, to play with an invisible playmate. Achimwene said, carefully, “There is no one there.”

  “Of course there is,” his sister snapped. “It’s Ismail, the Jaffa boy.”

  Achimwene shook his head.

  “Listen, Achimwene. The girl. Do you know why she came here?”

  “No.”

  “She followed Boris.”

  “Boris,” Achimwene said. “Your Boris?”

  “My Boris,” she said.

  “She knew him before?”

  “She knew him on Mars. In Tong Yun City.”

  “I…see.”

  “You see nothing, Achi. You are blind like a worm.” Old words, still with the power to hurt him. They had never been close, somehow. He said, “What do you want, Miriam?”

  Her face softened. “I do not want… I do not want her to hurt you.”

  “I am a grown-up,” he said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Achi, like you ever
could!”

  Could that be affection, in her voice? It sounded like frustration. Miriam said, “Is she here?”

  “Kranki,” Achimwene said, “who are you playing with?”

  “Ismail,” Kranki said, pausing in the middle of telling a story to someone only he could see.

  “He’s not here,” Achimwene said.

  “Sure he is. He’s right here.”

  Achimwene formed his lips into an O of understanding. “Is he virtual?” he said.

  Kranki shrugged. “I guess,” he said. He clearly felt uncomfortable with – or didn’t understand – the question. Achimwene let it go.

  His sister said, “I like the girl, Achi.”

  It took him by surprise. “You’ve met her?”

  “She has a sickness. She needs help.”

  “I am helping her!”

  But his sister only shook her head.

  “Go away, Miriam,” he said, feeling suddenly tired, depressed. His sister said, “Is she here?”

  “She is resting.”

  Above his shop there was a tiny flat, accessible by narrow, twisting stairs. It wasn’t much but it was home. “Carmel?” his sister called. “Carmel!”

  There was a sound above, as of someone moving. Then a lack of sound. Achimwene watched his sister standing impassively. Realised she was talking, in the way of other people, with Carmel. Communicating in a way that was barred to him. Then normal sound again, feet on the stairs, and Carmel came into the room.

  “Hi,” she said, awkwardly. She came and stood closer to Achimwene, then took his hand in hers. The feel of her small, cold fingers in between his hands startled him and made a feeling of pleasure spread throughout his body, like warmth in the blood. Nothing more was said. The physical action itself was an act of speaking.

  Miriam nodded.

  Then Kranki startled them all.

  * *

  Carmel had spent the previous night in the company of a woman. Achimwene had known there was sex involved, not just feeding. He had told himself he didn’t mind. When Carmel came back she had smelled of sweat and sex and blood. She moved lethargically, and he knew she was drunk on data. She had tried to describe it to him once, but he didn’t really understand it, what it was like.

  He had lain there on the narrow bed with her and watched the moon outside, and the floating lanterns with their rudimentary intelligence. He had his arm around the sleeping Carmel, and he had never felt happier.

  * *

  Kranki turned and regarded Carmel. He whispered something to the air – to the place Ismail was standing, Achimwene guessed. He giggled at the reply and turned to Carmel.

  “Are you a vampire?” he said.

  “Kranki!”

  At the horrified look on Miriam’s face, Achimwene wanted to laugh. Carmel said, “No, it’s all right – ” in asteroid pidgin. I stret nomo.

  But she was watching the boy intently. “Who is your friend?” she said, softly.

  “It’s Ismail. He lives in Jaffa on the hill.”

  “And what is he?” Carmel said. “What are you?”

  The boy didn’t seem to understand the question. “He is him. I am me. We are…” He hesitated.

  “Nakaimas…” Carmel whispered. The sound of her voice made Achimwene shiver. That same cold run of ice down his spine, like in the old books, like when Ringo the Gunslinger met a horror from beyond the grave on the lonesome prairies.

  He knew the word, though never understood the way people used it. It meant black magic, but also, he knew, it meant to somehow, impossibly, transcend the networks, that thing they called the Conversation.

  “Kranki…” The warning tone in Miriam’s voice was unmistakable. But neither Kranki nor Carmel paid her any heed. “I could show you,” the boy said. His clear, blue eyes seemed curious, guileless. He stepped forward and stood directly in front of Carmel and reached out his hand, pointing finger extended. Carmel, momentarily, hesitated. Then she, too, reached forward and, finger extended, touched its tip to the boy’s own.

  * *

  It is, perhaps, the prerogative of every man or woman to imagine, and thus force a shape, a meaning, onto that wild and meandering narrative of their lives, by choosing genre. A princess is rescued by a prince; a vampire stalks a victim in the dark; a student becomes the master. A circle is completed. And so on.

  It was the next morning that Achimwene’s story changed, for him. It had been a Romance, perhaps, of sorts. But now it became a Mystery.

  Perhaps they chose it, by tacit agreement, as a way to bind them, to make this curious relationship, this joining of two ill-fitted individuals somehow work. Or perhaps it was curiosity that motivated them after all, that earliest of motives, the most human and the most suspect, the one that had led Adam to the Tree, in the dawn of story.

  The next morning Carmel came down the stairs. Achimwene had slept in the bookshop that night, curled up in a thin blanket on top of a mattress he had kept by the wall and which was normally laden with books. The books, pushed aside, formed an untidy wall around him as he slept, an alcove within an alcove.

  Carmel came down. Her hair moved sluggishly around her skull. She wore a thin cotton shift; he could see how thin she was.

  Achimwene said, “Tell me what happened yesterday.”

  Carmel shrugged. “Is there any coffee?”

  “You know where it is.”

  He sat up, feeling self-conscious and angry. Pulling the blanket over his legs. Carmel went to the primus stove, filled the pot with water from the tap, added spoons of black coffee carelessly. Set it to cook.

  “The boy is…a sort of strigoi,” she said. “Maybe. Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He gave me something. He took something away. A memory. Mine or someone else’s. It’s no longer there.”

  “What did he give you?”

  “Knowledge. That he exists.”

  “Nakaimas.”

  “Yes.” She laughed, a sound as bitter as the coffee. “Black magic. Like me. Not like me.”

  “You were a weapon,” he said. She turned, sharply. There were two coffee cups on the table. Glass on varnished wood. “What?”

  “I read about it.”

  “Always your books.”

  He couldn’t tell by her tone how she meant it. He said, “There are silences in your Conversation. Holes.” Could not quite picture it, to him there was only a silence. Said, “The books have answers.”

  She poured coffee, stirred sugar into the glasses. Came over and sat beside him, her side pressing into his. Passed him a cup. “Tell me,” she said.

  He took a sip. The coffee burned his tongue. Sweet. He began to talk quickly. “I read up on the condition. Strigoi. Shambleau. There are references from the era of the Shangri-La Virus, contemporary accounts. The Kunming Labs were working on genetic weapons, but the war ended before the strain could be deployed – they sold it off-world, it went loose, it spread. It never worked right. There are hints – I need access to a bigger library. Rumours. Cryptic footnotes.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Suggesting a deeper purpose. Or that strigoi was but a side-effect of something else. A secret purpose…”

  Perhaps they wanted to believe. Everyone needs a mystery.

  She stirred beside him. Turned to face him. Smiled. It was perhaps the first time she ever truly smiled at him. Her teeth were long, and sharp.

  “We could find out,” she said.

  “Together,” he said. He drank his coffee, to hide his excitement. But he knew she could tell.

  “We could be detectives.”

  “Like Judge Dee,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Some detective.”

  “Book detective,” she said, dismissively.

  “Like Bill Glimmung, then,” he said. Her face lit up. For a moment she looked very young. “I love those stories,” she said.

  Even Achimwene had seen Glimmung features. They had been made in 2D, 3D,
full-immersion, as scent narratives, as touch-tapestry – Martian Hardboiled, they called the genre, the Phobos Studios cranked out hundreds of them over decades if not centuries, Elvis Mandela had made the character his own.

  “Like Bill Glimmung, then,” she said solemnly, and he laughed.

  “Like Glimmung,” he said.

  And so the lovers, by complicit agreement, became detectives.

  * *

  MARTIAN HARDBOILED, genre of. Flourished in the CENTURY OF DRAGON. Most prominent character: Bill GLIMMUNG, played most memorably by Elvis MANDELA (for which see separate entry). The genre is well-known, indeed notorious, for the liberal use of sex and violence, transplanted from old EARTH (also see MANHOME; HUMANITY PRIME) hardboiled into a Martian setting, sometimes realistically-portrayed, often with implicit or explicit elements of FANTASY.

  While early stories stuck faithfully to the mean streets of TONG YUN CITY, with its triads, hafmek pushers and Israeli, Red Chinese and Red Soviet agents, later narratives took in off-world adventures, including in the BELT, the VENUSIAN NO-GO ZONE and the OUTER PLANETS. Elements of SOAP OPERA intruded as the narratives became ever more complex and on-going (see entry for long-running Martian soap CHAINS OF ASSEMBLY for separate discussion).

  * *

  “There was something else,” Carmel said.

  Achimwene said, “What?”

  They were walking the streets of old Central Station. The space port rose above them, immense and inscrutable. Carmel said, “When I came in. Came down.” She shook her head in frustration and a solitary dreadlock snaked around her mouth, making her blow on it to move it away. “When I came to Earth.”

  Those few words evoked in Achimwene a nameless longing. So much to infer, so much suggested, to a man who had never left his home town. Carmel said, “I bought a new identity in Tong Yun, before I came. The best you could. From a Conch – ”

  Looking at him to see if he understood. Achimwene did. A Conch was a human who had been ensconced, welded into a permanent pod-cum-exoskeleton. He was only part human, had become part digital by extension. It was not unsimilar, in some ways, to the eunuchs of old Earth. Achimwene said, “I see?” Carmel said, “It worked. When I passed through Central Station security I was allowed through, with no problems. The…the digitals did not pick up on my…nature. The fake ident was accepted.”