by Katherine Sparrow

The inexorable pull to move south grows. The sun hums to me all day long that it’s time to go, go, go. The night sky is even more persistent–every constellation in the big Montana sky makes arrows pointing south. My appetite increases and I develop a layer of fat on my belly. My senses grow more intricate–smells carry layers of meaning, gnats and mosquitoes become visible everywhere I look, and the normal sounds of human civilization hurt my ears with all their chaos.

And now my eyes have changed. The cornea and pupil widen so that the white is barely visible. A mercy that the genetic modifications left me normal eyes for summer and winter, but when it changes, it is unsettling for everyone. My vision increases three-fold. It is the last sign that it is time.

“Your eyes look funny,” Marion says. My wife drops her fork onto her plate and starts to cry.

This is another sign, as real and inevitable as all the others.

“Josiah, don’t go this time. Stay here. Stay safe. We’ll manage, somehow.” She cries harder. Marion is beautiful when she cries. She breaks my heart every time. “Why won’t they ever leave you alone?”

We’ve been avoiding this for the last month as though time was not passing–as though summer was not heading toward fall. I don’t know what to say to her. I never know what to say.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.” I reach out for her hand, but she pulls away from me. She doesn’t want to touch me, to be any more vulnerable than I have already made her. Later there will be an intensity burning in her as she takes me into our room and undresses me, touches every part of my body as though there will be a test later and she must memorize it all. This too is another one of the signs.

Marion drives our old griesel out to a lonely stretch of road in Glacier National Park. She doesn’t say goodbye to me, but holds me tight and then lets me go. Despite her words, she and I both know what I will do, if I have to. There are three other men waiting on the road.

“Good summer?” Scotty asks.

“Yep,” I say. “Hot enough for you?”

“Yep.”

There’s Keith who’s twenty-eight, the youngest and darkest skinned of us–he’s mixed; Scotty, gay, thirty-seven, and a beast of a rider; and Hector, forty-four, Mexican but from the US. He doesn’t speak Spanish but his wife and kids do. We’re a strange migrating flock, not much in common, nothing like the huge numbers of wild birds who used to travel across the US and wore a monotony of feathers on their bodies. But once you see us dance, then you know we belong together.

“How you been, Josiah?” Hector asks. I feel his eyes looking me over, wondering about me now that I’m the oldest: now that Siv’s dead.

“Ready to ride.” Christ, I’m only fifty-six.

“Any one seen the new guy yet?” Keith asks.

Silence. It had been a good seven years without any casualties. Fourteen migrations without any big accidents: a stretch so long I think we all forgot what could happen. No one noticed Siv getting older. He didn’t show any weakness, not up until the very end. And now we had a new guy coming on.

Our Sponsor arrives in a long black four door car spewing enough exhaust to make my eyes water. He steps out wearing sunglasses and skin stretched so tight over his face that he looks like he might pop. All the immortals look like that. Even though they have enough money to buy life, they have that look to them like it’s been a long time since they’ve lived at all. We smile at him, each of us thinking, I reckon, about the last time we saw him.

He was yelling and calling us murderers as we all stood around the broken body of Siv. He threatened us with life in prison, even though we all knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Now he’s showing off his white-as-paint teeth and looking at us like we are racing horses: profitable flesh. He frowns as he looks at me. Other doors on his car open and men that look like him, but with cheaper clothing, get out. You can’t get them to talk to you, I’ve tried.

The new rider comes out of the car and blinks like he’s just waking up. It takes a while to get used to the eyes. He’s too skinny–someone should have told him to fatten up–but otherwise he looks tough enough. He has thick black hair, olive skin, and a five o’clock shadow even though it’s only noon. He looks us over. He smiles at Keith, who must be the leader, I can see him thinking, because he’s the youngest and strongest. Keith smiles back enigmatically.

“This is Theo Anders, boys, and he’s going to make me proud!” The Sponsor tries to act like one of the good old boys, but there’s a billion dollars and ownership issues between us.

A trailer pulls up with our bicycles, and Scotty runs over to them. He’s our resident gearhound. Our Sponsor chats him up about all the new components on his bike.

“No way! Awesome!” he says.

The new guy stands near us nervously. For him it’s the most important day of his life so far. The first day of the migration. For the rest of us, it’s not so special.

“Hey Theo, I’m Josiah,” I say. “Welcome to the migration.” I introduce him to Keith and Hector. “A man’s first migration is the most dangerous,” I say. “Just like with real birds. You won’t know the route, the dances, or how to pace yourself. All kinds of changes will be coming on inside of you all the while you’re expected to keep pedaling. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“I had the operation three months ago. I’ve adjusted to the changes. The Sponsor told me everything I need to know,” he says.

“That’s what he’ll have told you,” I point my thumb at our owner, “but it’s not true. It takes awhile for it all to settle in. They never know when they’ll need a new rider, so there’s never enough time to change.”

“He said–”

Hector steps toward the fledgling and says quiet enough that only we can hear, “He only cares about getting you migrating as soon as possible. He doesn’t care about you.” Hector shakes his head and gives Keith and me a look like can you believe this kid? Nevermind that he was just as ignorant when he came on.

Theo’s face turns a dirty pink. “You saying something bad about our Sponsor? That’s against contract clause twelve B.” His voice is too loud.

“Calm down,” I tell him. “We’re all friends here.” But his words make me uneasy. Our owner has tried to get a man on the inside for years. Someone who will tell the truth of what actually happens on our migration. Maybe he’s finally found one.

Theo eyes me again, and I can see he thinks I’m worthless. America never had any use for the old. I could tell him I’m going to be more useful to him than he can know, but I don’t. Let him learn.

We grab our bikes with fat panniers loaded up with MRE’s, protein bars, and watergel. The first day of our ride we’re not riding hard: we’re just getting onto our bikes, checking out the upgrades, and learning to ride again. It’s a relief to get on the road and get moving. Tonight will be the first time in a week any of us will be able to sleep. When the change comes there’s nothing for it but to start moving. That’s what birds always did, and with how they modified us, we’re no different. The bikes are custom made for each of us, and we get a new bike every migration.

Hector takes the lead and we ride slipstream on both sides of him on the two lane road. We look like a flock of geese flying in V formation. People say part of our augmentation is to copy the geese, but that’s crap. We ride like them for the same reason they do: it’s the best way to cut the wind. And with two thousand miles and twenty-two performances to hit in the next month, we’ll need it. No matter how slick our bikes are, when it comes down to it they are still one-hundred-percent powered by our legs and nothing else. So we’ll do anything we can to make it easier. We’re lazy like that.

The Going-to-the-Sun-Road is smooth and lined with trees turning pretty colors in front of deep blue mountains that look like the ocean in rock form.

Keith races ahead then slams on his regenerative brakes. He races forward again, brakes, then pops the hover gear and his bike floats up three inches off the ground for about five feet. Bless the mechanics who figured that one out twenty-one migrations ago. It makes our ride almost manageable through the lower states. We won’t need to hover in Montana where roads are still all right–cowboys will never give up the dream of driving, even if no one can afford the gas.

Scotty pops wheelies and bounces up and down on his bike. He’s got all kinds of boing-boing with twice the shocks and gearing of any of us. He carries the extra weight and drag of them. He likes the challenge.

I bike elbows to the grooves of my handlebars, laying my forearms against the warm metal. The curve of my back likes being here with my neck craned toward the horizon. My helmet feels like something I’ve been missing, a part of my head returned. It feels easy, like I could sit here all day and pedal, which is good, because that’s what I’ll be doing. I straighten up and warm my hands under my armpits, reminding myself of all the ways to ride, all the muscle sets I can use.

Something big skitters across the upper edge of my vision and I turn my head, excited. But it must have been a bug, because there’s nothing there. There aren’t many wild birds left, but sometimes, out in the middle of nowhere, a little miracle will fly through the sky. I like to imagine them living out here and surviving, despite everything.

We reach our first campsite–an old RV campground with a sign up to welcome us. Hector twists around to confer with me, then takes us another ten miles so we can stretch our legs a little bit more.

“Aren’t we supposed to stop there?” Theo asks.

I turn my head around and see he looks peeved.

None of the others answer him, so I say, “It’s good to not be predictable. You never know when the Sponsor might try to show up with his cameras and get into our business.”

“What do you have against him? That’s his right. It’s part of the contract,” Theo says. “And what’s our route? The Sponsor says we could add in a couple more dances if we rode faster.”

Theo can’t help talking stupid. He’s like a baby eagle who’s half pin feathers, half fluff. Even so, the other guys glare at him.

“Missoula to Stevensville, then Darby, then over to Wisdom,” I say. “As soon as you’ve ridden it once, it’ll imprint into you. Easy as riding a bike.”

“What happens if our bikes break and we’re not at the right spot?”

“Never happens.”

“Never?” he asks.

“All the components are internalized. The wheels are braided tungsten-rubber. The frames are torture tested carbon-fiber. We’ll break before these bikes do.”

That gives him a moment’s pause, then he asks, “You like being a migrator? You ever get tired of it and think of retiring?” There’s something sly and mean to his words.

I don’t answer him. There’s no way to express the combination of love, rage, fear, hate, joy, and sorrow I feel about migrating. Most humans never have to know about that feeling.

“Back when I started,” I say, and then grin at my grandpa words, “there used to be trackers on our bikes. They were real useful to our owner for planning our performances and getting the crowds ready. Except they always fell off or got broken somehow. That’s what happens when he tries to spy on our migration: things get broken.” I give him a knowing look.

He pauses for a moment, but then he starts in on me again. “He’s made you all rich. You talk like it wasn’t your choice, like he made you migrate.”

The young are always under the illusion that they are free. “He owns enough of us as is. Two migrations every year. When a bird migrates his flock follow the same route every year, but where they stop and rest–every year is a little different.”

“You study birds?” Theo asks.

“I’ve read some books, thought I should, since I am part bird.”

Theo nods his head. “What else do you know about them?”

“They’re quiet when they fly.”

The sun is a cold sliver on the horizon by the time we stop. We set up camp–five orange tents staked down in one corner of a fallow field. Scotty lets into the fledgling about uniforms.

“The more flow to our costumes the better, but you have to be careful about tripping. What do you think, Theo?”

The fledgling doesn’t know what to think, but Scotty doesn’t mind. All he needs is a sounding post. We all have our tricks for getting through the migration–Scotty’s is uniforms and gadgets. Hector’s is his tattoos, one for every migration. Maybe mine is thinking about birds. Theo stays up late talking with him, getting in a couple of ‘uh-huhs’ and ‘I guess sos’ in between Scotty’s monologue.

I zip into my tent and open up the sky window. It’s a big sky in Montana, everyone knows that, but the way it makes me feel lonely is all my own. I miss Marion and our two girls, all grown up now. In a day or so I won’t think much about them–everything will get focused down to the tunnel vision of migrating. I’m a man who lives dual lives with little overlap. But for the moment, I like to think about my family. I’d do just about anything for my wife and girls, like turn myself part way into a bird and migrate across the continent.

Three hundred and fifty miles later, give or take a dozen miles on my sore ass, we reach Yellowstone.

A huge banner stretches over the park’s north entrance reading, “See the Dance of the Sandhill Crane!” We sit back on our bikes as we coast into the park. Keith has been singing an old camp song to himself, over and over.

“I like bananas, coconuts, and grapes–that’s why they call me Tarzan of the apes! I like bananas…”

No one would blame me if I strangled him. Too bad I like Keith.

Theo is full of all kinds of talk again, playing the role of the good little stooge. He’s riding behind Hector, who treats him like a mosquito just out of slapping range.

“What can we do to make the dance more exciting and draw in more people? It’s great how the Sponsor is meeting us with more provisions, isn’t it? He really takes care of us.”

I bike steadily and let my leg muscles do the work. My left Achilles aches, but the rest of me feels strong. Yellowstone has crap roads that twist and turn on themselves like they were drunk when they laid the concrete. I pop and coast into hover a couple of times. Until the day I’m dead, I’ll always love hovering.

There are whiffs of sulfur and foul minerals on the air. Yellowstone is nature’s fartlands, but it’s the most popular American park. Go figure. Cars pull over and line the roads, waving and honking at us as we pass.

Hector increases our pace and we turn down a long stretch of road that’s less crowded. Even though it’s not the first stop in the park, we go to Old Faithful first. It puts an extra fifty miles on our ride, but that’s what the contract orders. We bike along the Madison River then down to the Upper Geyser Basin. The road loops back and around to where we start our performance, so we won’t be seen ahead of time. We dismount just out of sight of the Anemone, Beehive, and Plume geysers.

Our Sponsor is there with the costumes and body paint that Scotty radioed to him after talking us all to death about what we should wear. It’s not so different from last time. There’s cloth sewn along the arms and attached to our shoulder blades with a long skeletal frame to approximate the sandhill crane wingspan. The rest is sleek gray material so tight it shows off every line and muscle of our bodies, save for the modesty crotch-cups. This is a family event, after all.

“And now, what you’ve all been waiting for….” A tinny sounding drum roll pounds through the park. “Once thought to be extinct, the sandhill cranes have been resurrected for one day only! The oldest birds known to man! Closest in kin to dinosaurs! The sandhill cranes’ mysterious movements might be how the dinosaurs danced! Please welcome the Western Migrators!”

The applause of five thousand people is a little unnerving. Theo takes a step backwards. We’ve painted our skin gray, except for our eyes, which are blackened, and our foreheads, which are a shocking red like the actual birds. Scotty leads the way forward, and we follow him, picking our legs along the ground carefully, straining our necks upward and moving them from side to side. Three of us move in unison for a couple steps then fall out of it, as though any uniformity were random. My legs are sore and my neck’s stiff, but never mind that, a crane doesn’t know about that. A thousand cameras click and follow our motions. As many people as they can fit into the bleachers lean forward and stare at us. A screen twenty feet above us projects our dance to everyone else. A kid starts crying.

We walk toward them slowly, until we are centered just right in front of the bleachers. Theo walks behind us, mimicking, not yet on the inside of what we are doing, not yet trusting the instincts within him. A force builds in my throat, and I raise my head to let out a loud, ugly “Augaroo-a-a-a‚ au!” The other birds… men sway away from me. Keith raises his arms and with it the long stretch of wings unfold behind him. He hops once, twice, up into the air. I cry out again.

Scotty echoes my cry, and Hector hops up into the air and moves his neck from side to side. He lands. A vent of steam hisses up from the ground, and we crouch down and spread our wings, except for Theo who’s a beat off. He crouches down as quick as he can.

Don’t think, be. Let it come, I’d tell him, but the bird within me takes hold. Grafted DNA and bird memory pulses through my muscles and limbs. My neck moves from side to side, tasting the air, feeling the wind against my cheek and the warm air blowing at us from beehive geyser. Anemone geyser starts gurgling and filling up with water, building pressure at the same time pressure builds in me. Everything is syncopated and my wings move with the rotation of the planet and sun.

Two birds start hopping up and down with their wings beating. Jumping toward each other, then popping back, testing their strength and virility. I crouch lower to the ground and sweep forward with my wings outstretched. Two hop over my wings. Another screams “Augaroo-a-a-a, garoo-a-a-a‚ au–a challenge and a promise. The cry passes to me, and I rise up tall and proud. I crouch down and jump up, my wings spread high above me as I twist upwards and fall back to the earth in a spiral. Beating my wings aggressively, I turn and face Theo–stare him in the eyes and lunge toward him twice, my body hinging at the waist. Still uncertain, he mimics my motions. I back away, feeling the heat of his movement, even if he can’t feel it yet.

“Garoo-a-a-a!” he yells at me, moving closer to the bird inside of him. I step away and bend toward him. Keith joins our circle and spreads his wings, his gray and red face blank as a bird’s. In unison, we run toward Plume geyser and, one by one, we jump across. The pit in the earth gurgles with boiling water below us. A dare, a challenge to the mother, and she lets us pass by, unburned. We turn and dance mirroring each other, facing the crowd of ragged Americans chewing on soya-dogs and deep-fried kelp bars.

Keith jumps up and does a somersault in the air. Theo does the same and I bend toward them, challenging, receding, moving. With a gurgle and suck, Plume geyser spews up and we run around it, our dance becoming more urgent as the hot mist hits us and stings.

People scream and clap their hands. Keith uses Theo’s shoulders to launch himself up higher. Theo watches him, then does the same with me, his weight pushing off me as he twists into the air. We are birds and we are magnificent. We get lost in the movement that goes on and on, ebbs and flows, reinvents itself and repeats. Garoo-a-a-a. We end by sweeping our wings along the ground.

People clap and kids jump up and down on the flimsy metal seating. I smile up at them. There’s few enough things the people of this country look forward to anymore, and I’m glad to be one of them. Young women with a hungry look to them check us out, as do a few men. Not that it will do them any good–none of us can be sexual on the migration. Just like birds, we have other fixations. Still, no one minds the appreciative stares.

We turn and walk away from them, back to the fake log cabins they put us up at.

Theo walks beside me, deciding, I guess, that I’m not so useless. You learn things about a man when you dance with him.

“That was… tell me about those birds.”

“Sandhill cranes danced for courtship, hierarchy, territories, and maybe, sometimes just because they wanted to. At least that’s what I think. They went extinct in May of 2012. Word went out that there was one surviving flock, and everyone shot at them, wanting to be the one to cause the extinction. We’ve got some of them in us. We’ve got every bird that we dance in us. They tell you that?”

Theo nods. “I didn’t all the way believe it. But then, the dance… it was magical.”

“Yep.”

“What’s your favorite bird dance?”

“California Condor. Huge, ugly, awkward vultures. We dance it in the Narrows of Zion. There’s something about that bird. Some say it’s the little sister to the Thunderbird.”

“What’s that?”

“A big old vengeful bird that stirred up storms with the beat of his wings. A birds that carries lightning bolts in his beak, at least that’s what the Lakota Indians say.” I pat Theo on the back. He’s okay. Sometimes you dance with a man, and you know you don’t like him, plain and simple. But Theo’s all right.

Yellowstone has fixed us up a huge dinner set up at one of their picnic tables, and we eat like starving men. Like birds a long time between meals. There are platters of fat burgers with all the condiments; three kinds of slaws–red, white and green; potato salad with plenty of hard boiled eggs; and my favorite, this kind of chocolate cake that is gooey in the middle like they put the frosting on the inside.

We eat and eat and there is a light that shines out from each of us. They’ve genmodded us into gods, and here at American Valhalla, they feed us well.

Our Sponsor pops up out of nowhere, and his men follow behind him like a long dark shadow. He yanks everything good out of the day as he looks us over proudly. He plunks down different products on the table–sparkle ketchup, muscle-grow lotion, and bird-men model kits. One of his men sets up lights over the table and starts taking pictures. I look over at Theo in the washed out light and it hurts. I see all his pride turning into shame. For the first time he’s realizing how the bird parts embedded into him exists to make money. Tie-ins, tell-alls, television, action figures, and that’s not to mention all the tax write-offs our owner gets for having us dance at national parks. I lose my appetite as the Sponsor sits down at our table.

“How’s the ride, boys? Any problems?” His men check our bikes and start resupplying them with provisions. “I brought you a surprise.” The way he says it, I just know it’s gonna be nasty.

One of his men brings old Ray to the table. Cruel. Being here and seeing us reminds Ray of all the things he’s lost. It’s been ten years since he last rode with us, and the years have not been kind. His red face is weather-burned and even though he wears a big smile, I can see it’s all uneasy sleep and hardship underneath. All ache inside to migrate, even though his body can’t make it anymore.

“Hi boys.” His southern drawl reminds me of all the good rides and dances we had. It makes me uneasy. I liked Ray. Hell, we all did.

“Hi Ray, have a seat. Have some food. Plenty of it,” I say.

He sits down next to me. I glare at the Sponsor until he leaves our table. He stays within earshot, of course.

“How you been?” I ask.

Bleak eyes with a migrator’s wide pupils meet mine, then dart away. Behind us I hear one of the geysers–probably Old Faithful–explode upwards as people clap and yell.

Ray takes a burger and studies it like maybe the answer is written on it. He sighs and says, “Couldn’t be better. Best thing I ever did was quit the ride.”

“Yeah, you look happy. You heard about Siv? That’s why you’re here, right?” I ask.

“Shame, that. Should have stopped while he could.”

Everyone’s looking at me and stuffing food into their mouths so they won’t have to talk. Thanks, boys.

“He died well,” I say, easy as I can. “I visited Jenny and his three kids. They’re doing just fine, set up in Texas on an old sheep ranch.”

“It’s not worth it to die for the pension,” Ray says loudly. Behind him the Sponsor looks smug. “A man should get to live after all that providing. He shouldn’t have to die just to get his family taken care of. Hell, they give me plenty of money to live on.”

“You call what you’re doing living, Ray?” I say real quiet, just between him and me.

“The operation worked fine. They were able to reverse all the changes. I live like a normal man, Josiah. You should try it.”

As clear as the bird eyes on his face, I know he’s lying. I forgive him, because it’s probably one of the things the Sponsor wants him to say.

“You want to give it all away? You want to die just so your wife can have nice things?” Ray asks.

It’s a good thing he’s old and ragged. I remember that he never got on so well with his wife. The woman was always angry at him for migrating, and could never forgive him for it during the months in between.

“That’s why you’re being paid to talk to us, Ray, because you don’t need money? Where’re you living?”

He looks down at his old man hands with dirt in the creases. “Here and there.”

“You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, Ray, but don’t come around here questioning any migrator’s decision, and don’t ever talk bad about Siv again. He was a great rider.”

“He was a fool.”

“Leave. Now.”

The Sponsor follows Ray, then calls back to us, “See you in Utah, boys.”

That night, sitting around a good smelling cedar campfire, we talk about Siv. Theo sits next to me and does a good job of listening, for once. Maybe too good, like he’s trying to memorize it to tell the Sponsor.

“Remember when Siv talked us into a detour up into the Rockies where he heard some raptors were nesting?” Scotty asks.

Chuckles all around.

“Four migrations back. We lost four days chasing those imagined birds,” Hector explains for Theo’s sake. “Everyday uphill on crap roads, too. Siv was crazy for nature.”

“One time he talked us all into doing peyote so we could really know what it felt like to fly,” I say. “Three of us almost jumped off a cliff.”

“Josiah got so paranoid he tried to set our bikes on fire. And we all saw these huge birds, big as cars, circling over us in the sky, black as midnight, spookiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Hector adds.

“Two days of headaches and diarrhea after that, and Siv wanted us to trip again, this time with mushrooms.” Scotty laughs.

“He was a good man to have on the ride,” I say.

“The best.”

We get all quiet, maybe remembering the last time we were with him and what we had to do.

“What was Ray like?” Theo asks.

“Good enough.” Damn fine, truth be told, but hell if any of us were going to reminisce about him.

“He doesn’t look good,” Scotty says. “I bet he regrets his decision.”

“What decision?” Theo asks.

Silence all around.

It falls on me to talk to him, although he probably knows damn well what we are hinting at. Hector and Scotty make a fire and everyone is real quiet as I talk.

“Why’d you join us, Theo?”

“I’ve always wanted to dance. No money for dance anywhere else.”

“No, not the reason you told the Sponsor. The real reason. You’ve got a big family, lots of siblings, probably, and maybe a girlfriend who wants to get married and have kids soon. That about right?”

He nods.

“All of us do, and the contract states that we’ll get our fat paychecks so long as we migrate. Hell, in this economy, it’s impossible to turn it down. But when we quit, our pension is set at five percent, nothing more. Maybe one man can live on that, but not well.”

He nods again vaguely. He’s young and will stay that way forever right?

“So long as we ride everyone is happy and you get to be the man that brings them security. You quit and your bird parts are telling you to go, only your body’s crap and you’re too poor to own a decent bike. What do they give you? Five percent of your wage, for the rest of your life. But under Federal law, if you are genetically modified and die on the job, they have to pay a lump sum of ten year’s wages. Simple as that.”

“Are you saying Siv killed himself and made it look like an accident?” Theo asks softly.

“I’m saying there are four men on this migration who will swear to every police investigator that it was an accident. I’m also saying that the Sponsor would pay a man, let’s say a new migrator, good money to prove dancers don’t die on accident. Then he wouldn’t have to pay out one red cent when we died. Wouldn’t you agree, Theo?”

The fledgling had the decency to blush.

We make a loop in Yellowstone and double back to Mammoth, then Tower Falls, and Yellowstone lake. We dance as Tundra Swans, American Kestrels, and Black Terns before we leave the park and cut through Wyoming into Idaho and the City of Rocks. The crowd there is small and some elderly hippie chicks try to join in our dance. Scotty comes close to breaking a leg. We haul ass the rest of the way through Idaho. Pretty country full of bright yellows and pink rock-face sticking out underneath rolling green hills. I’m feeling my body more than I would like, more than I have in the past.

Just before we hit the Utah border, black clouds hover all morning on the edge of the sky and grow as we bike toward them. We feel the electricity in that storm–migrating birds have metal in their heads to follow the magnetic poles, and so do we. It makes me feel buzzed. The temperature drops ten degrees and a mean wind kicks up. Bless the makers of our smart cloth that knows when to keep us warm.

We ride down a busted up highway that smells like grass and petrochemicals. There’s no sign of anything human in sight. There’s less and less on this stretch of highway every year. They bulldoze the old barns and farmhouses because the dirt is contaminated and they don’t want anyone coming here to squat and then suing later for cancer.

Something big and dark flits across the sky. I look up, but there is nothing. A wall of rain rushes toward. When we hit it, there’s so much rain it’s three inches deep on the road.

Hector lets out a ululating cry and raises both of his hands in the air as he raises his head toward the sky. We all do the same. As I stare up at the whirling flecks of rain coming down, everything stops and is made eternal. Then we hunch over our bikes and peddle on.

My belly starts to feel shaky and two protein bars don’t do anything to help it. It grows darker and colder. My arms feel rubbery and numb. Scotty sets a good pace to keep us warm, but not so fast that we keel over. He looks back at me, worried. I grin at him. Mind yourself, Scotty, I’ll keep up. There have been other migrations where we’ve ridden all night just to stay warm, and we’ll do that, if we have to.

Then a sway-backed barn as beautiful as a mansion comes into view, and Hector lets out another loud bird cry.

It’s not that dry inside, and the moldy hay makes my nose itch, but it’ll do. We climb up into the loft where it’s drier and settle in to sleep, except for Theo. He sits in a corner near an open window and stares outside. I’m exhausted and need sleep more than the rest of them, but I go sit next to him anyway.

“Big storm,” I say.

He nods.

“What’re you thinking?”

A lightning strike illuminates his face. He looks worried. “I’m changing… more than I thought I would. More than he said I would,” he says, not looking up from the hay his hands play with.

I wait for him to explain.

He holds out his arm. “Touch it.”

I do. It feels smooth one way, prickly the other.

“Feathers,” he says. “Real small ones.”

I try not to, but it’s been a long day. I laugh.

“It’s not funny,” he says.

“Yes it is. We all have weird side effects. Hell, that one might even be intentional. They don’t exactly know what they are doing with our augmentations.” I hold up one of my hands. The tan polish on one of my nails had chipped off to show the black. “I’ve got talons on my fingers and toes. Have to keep them trimmed real close or else they cut my wife. Keith, though he hates to admit it, loves to eat worms. Ask him about it. And don’t ask Hector and Scotty about their tail feathers.”

Theo laughs.

“You’re doing fine, Theo. You’re riding well and dancing well. That’s what this life’s about.”

“It’s just… I can’t go back, can I?”

“Nope.”

“There’s something… he offered me five years pay for every migrator I ratted on,” Theo whispers.

“That’s a mighty fine offer.” And half of what the bastard would pay out otherwise, I think. “A man could get rich real quick, but there’s a price for all that money.”

There’s an awkwardness between us. “Do you want to die, Josiah? Don’t you want to keep living?”

“Did the Sponsor tell you migrators don’t live as long as normal people, even without accidents?”

Silence.

“Course he didn’t. It’s true though. It’s a heavy strain on the body.”

“But don’t you want to live?”

“Of course. No one wants to die, but we all do, don’t we? You set your mind on getting through this migration. Leave the macabre thoughts to old men like me.” I put my hand on his shoulder and let it rest there.

Lightning pulses outside, and I see what looks like a huge bird flying up in the middle of the storm.

When the morning sun wakes us up the world has been washed clean and pretty. We ride on and pop into hover over huge gashes in the road. We discover a diner that serves up pieces of peanut-butter chocolate pie that we eat as townspeople gawk at us.

In Colorado we run into some angry types. They catch up to us on a gut-busting climb out of Steamboat Springs up to Rabbit Ears Pass. They chug passed us spewing griesel fumes that smell like burnt french fries. The environmentalists have joined up with the local dance troupe and picked up some anti-genmod types by the looks of their bumper stickers. They stop their van about a quarter mile away from us. Ten of them all pile out to make a human line across the road. There’s forest on both sides of us that we could run into, but we’d have to leave the bikes. We could ride back down the hill, but hell if we’re going to.

“What should we do, Josiah?” Hector asks quietly.

One reason birds have died out, beyond all the toxins, is that they just couldn’t find hospitable places to live.

“Let’s just talk to them,” I say.

We grind on up the hill and stop ten feet away. I’m bonked enough by the ride to be glad for the unscheduled stop, come what may, and squeeze some watergel into my mouth. I keep an eye on them and on my migrators. Usually protesters show up at performances and try to mess us up, but there’s nothing but us and them out here.

“Morning,” I call out.

Hatred thick as cream on each of their faces.

“Hacks,” one of them says. She’s a dancer, by the thin, ropy look to her. “You’re not dancers. You’re monkeys!”

“Freaks,” a man says.

A bird streaks across the air above me, but when I look up, nothing’s there.

Keith takes a step forward. I put a hand on his shoulder and he stays put. Ten to five ratio is not good odds, and we’ve got a dance to make by nightfall.

“Your owner destroys all the wildlife, and then gets tax breaks for sending you out to the parks and make people forget all the animals are gone,” a hungry looking man says.

Anger grows among us. A tensing of bodies. A shifting of feet and stances. Like a dance. I feel my hands curl into fists and the desire to hit something grows in me. “We’re just getting by, same as everyone,” I say, calmly as I can. “Your beef’s with our Sponsor. Go harass him.” But they won’t. He’s too heavily guarded. “We’re just men doing our jobs.”

A woman spits on the ground, and I can see the time to talk is over. When they run at us, we do the same and start beating at each other in the middle of the road. Only it’s not a fair fight. They pull out the kind of cheap sticky-tasers you can buy at any 7-11. They aim and fire and we wriggle on the ground and gasp for breath as they put collars around our necks and spray paint the panniers of our bike. They drive off.

“Fuck!” Scotty yells. He’s the first one to get his legs back and stand up. He’s wearing an inch thick collar that says “Bird Killer.”

We sit up and look at each other. Keith is “Genefreak,” Hector is “Corporate Slave,” Theo is “Dance Whore, and mine says, “Earth Raper.”

“Well, boys,” I say, “looks like we got ourselves some new nicknames.” We bike all the way to Echo Park with our new logos, too proud, I guess, to call our Sponsor for help. We bike through small one road towns and get laughed at by shiny clean Mormon kids lining the street to watch us. The collars rub our necks raw until we meet up with the Sponsor who hires a welder to cut them off.

From Echo Park we change out our tires for heavier treads and bike into the middle of Utah down old cattle roads along the Green river. We swim in the hot water every day and try to avoid the dead fish floating around. The only people out here are long-bearded men living in little blow away shacks. They glare at us even though they see us twice a year, every year. We stay up late and watch bats catch mosquitoes. We tell stories. I tell more than anyone else, which is unusual for me, but somehow I want to tell all of them about me and make sure they remember. When I talk it feels to me like the other riders no longer with us are listening in too.

When a goose dies on a migration, the other geese leave a spot for him in their slipstream, an empty space of air where he used to be. I wish we had something like that.

The migration drags on through Arches, Canyonlands, Rainbow Bridge, and Bryce Canyon. Everyone is still riding well and dancing well. I’m the only one who’s feeling it, but I hide my aches and pains. Every night I’m so exhausted I don’t ever want to move again. Every day brings us closer to the end: I remind myself of that daily.

“Josiah, we can ride slower,” Keith says.

I glare at him. “You tired, Genefreak?”

I see birds all morning on the ride. They keep playing around the edge of my vision, then disappearing. They got a fancy word for that–heat-induced-hallucinations–but I could just swear they were real.

I bike alongside Theo. He keeps getting stuck in the sand drifts that cover the road into Zion. I show him how to peddle into them with just enough momentum to coast through. I lean over to point to Theo where he needs to stop pedaling, which is why I don’t see the hole in the road that sends me end-o off my bike.

End-over-end-over-end, and then I hit the hard-rock ground with my legs, and something in my left leg snaps. Like a painful rubber band ricocheting up my calf and thigh, then biting into my ass. The pain’s like getting a tooth pulled out, awful for a moment, then a kind of relief. Until I try to stand up, that is. I scream so loud tears pop out of my eyes.

“Don’t move, Josiah,” Scotty says.

I try to get up again, then I curl up on the ground and yell some more.

A torn Achilles takes six months to heal, and it’s never very strong after that. Every migrators knows about leg injuries, and which ones are recoverable. This one isn’t.

It gets real quiet between us all. There’s a question that they don’t want to ask, and I don’t want to answer. I’d made my decision years ago, but it’s different being here, having finally arrived where I always knew I’d end up. Finally, I say, “This’ll be my last dance. As long as that’s okay with you, Theo?”

We all look at him, but he won’t look back at any of us. I can see the struggle going on inside of him, deciding what kind of man he is going to be. Finally, he nods his head and says, “I’m a migrator, aren’t I?”

I ride tied up behind Theo and he uses up all his hover on me, riding gentle over all the rough spots. Scotty rides with my bike strapped onto his back. We take a trail through desert back-country so no one will catch sight of us. We’re only thirty miles out from Zion, but it’s the longest ride of my life. Funny how time stretches out at the least convenient times.

“Hey Theo,” I say, just as the ridge of the Narrows comes into sight.

He looks sick. I remember the first time I was part of something like this on a migration. I tell him the same thing I was told. “This is nothing. Don’t let it worry you. Okay?”

Theo hits a bump, and I hold back a groan. As soon as we get to the top of the canyon where the ropes are all set out, Hector radios in that we are starting the dance in four minutes. I hear the Sponsor start to complain and ask why, real anxious like, but Hector cuts him off.

They make a circle around me, and dress and harness me as gently and quickly as they can. The Sponsor will be on his way up the old canyon road. If he makes it here….

Hector radios in again and says they better cue the music because we’re starting right now. Scotty and Keith cut both the ropes that will hold me up. Not all the way through, but enough so they will snap. Later on the police will examine the ropes and suspect foul play, but there’ll be four men swearing nothing happened. We walk to the edge of the canyon. Theo and Hector hold me up, and, as one, we all jump out into the Narrows Canyon, arcing and spinning around in the air, holding up our arms that are the wings of the California Condor.

The ropes are tethered to both sides of the canyon, and one rope pulls taut as I hit one side of the canyon, then kick out from it with my good leg. The harness pushes on the bulge of my snapped muscles. I hiss and grunt with the effort: the California condor has no vocal cords. Around me others hiss and flap. I spread my midnight wings out to their full length and look down at the canyon, at all the people looking up at me. I flow towards Keith, who grabs my hands, midair, and spins me around. I hit the other side of the canyon and swoop out from it. The other dancers fly around me. Their wings and hands touch me, saying goodbye. I see them with a clarity I don’t think I’ve ever had before. I see the birds in them, and the men. I wish I could tell them this–that it is something more, not less–but there are only hisses and pain.

One of my ropes snaps and I fall hard, hitting one side of the canyon. Hard rock smashes across my head, back, and legs. People scream, though of course this is one of the reasons so many come to see us perform. The other rope holds me above the Narrows, above the silvery Virgin river that wants me to come home, and I kick out into the canyon. A sixth bird joins us, and I know that I don’t want to die, am not ready to die yet. It is huge with twice the wingspan of any of us, and I feel the uplift from its wings as it flies beneath me. I recognize it is the bird I’ve been seeing the whole ride. I reach out to touch it. Its feathers are hot as fire. A Thunderbird. It fills my vision and there is nothing else. My body slams against the side of the canyon again, and the other rope snaps. My body falls, and it is all feathers and flight.

_____
Copyright 2011 Katherine Sparrow

Katherine Sparrow lives in a commune in Seattle with a bunch of strange and lovely birds. She likes to bike and has the calf muscles to prove it. She’s currently working on a book about monsters and the teenagers who love them. She blogs at ktsparrow.livejournal.com and has a website at katherinesparrow.net.

By Ben Burgis

The Tsar abdicates in February. The Provisional Government gets around to letting Fyodor out of prison in March. In April, he meets his Uncle Grigor at a Petrograd cafe. They talk about magic, death and revolution.

“I don’t care, Fyodka. Romans or Visagoths, Christians or Mohammedans, Tsars or…” The old man waves his hand, making a show of remembering the word. “…Bolsheviks… They’re all just different acts in the same circus.”

Fyodor and Grigor sit at a table by the window. They drink their tea in the Ukranian style, with apple slices.

Most of Grigor’s little sermon is familiar from the letters they exchanged while Fyodor was in prison, but one line rankles. “Politics change. What we do doesn’t. You should remember that.”

Fyodor wants very badly to correct that ‘we,’ to tell his uncle that there’s a reason he hasn’t so much as looked at his magic books since he was fourteen years of age. Instead, he blows on his tea and watches the steam rise up and disappear. When he does speak, his voice is subdued.

“In ancient Rome, who did the work?”

(more…)

by Angela Ambroz

What were we doing here? Traveling hundreds or thousands of light-years, to break our hearts? -Gateway, Frederick Pohl

All spacers are incurably sentimental. -The Centauri Device, M. John Harrison

I. GHADA AND ASAD

“Oh, Ghada, Ghada, Ghada.”

“If you say my name one more time, I swear to Jesus, I will kill you.”

Asadullah Khan scowled. Ghada Nabulaale rolled her eyes.

Was this going to be their new relationship? Had time dilation really turned her former lover into someone with gnarled joints and arthritis? She examined Asadullah’s hair, what had once been a source of such comfort and delight for her. Back in London, she had loved to run her fingers through the thick, dark curls, to tease him for his Muslimfro. Now it was all thinning and white, less virile youth, more aging Gene Wilder. Ghada sighed.

Of course, things were better than she had imagined them, back so many years ago. When she had signed her name crookedly along the dotted line, signing her life away to Big Drop adventures, she had imagined that time dilation would mean an end to all of her Earthly relationships. She had said tearful goodbyes to family and friends, she had gotten drunk in Soho and spent days in the pre-Drop group therapy sessions. Asadullah Khan, her lover, her friend, had already gone three months before. And what was London without Asad?

“Ghada my child!” Mum exclaimed in her Londonized Swahili. Rare city sunlight streamed in through the kitchen windows. “Mwanangu, what kichaa crazy are you going after? Your Asadullah had to go, and now you want to follow him?”

Ghada tucked her knees under her chin and cried.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Mum said. “There was nothing either of you could do.”

“I just don’t want to stay here, Mum. I can’t!” Every lane, every bend and arch in the skyline was full of memories. “Jesus, I hate the Empire!”

“Doesn’t everybody? But it is the way it is, angel. Just be happy they didn’t draft you, too!”

Her family didn’t want her to leave, she didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t stay. It would have felt like a betrayal to Asad. How could she keep living in comfort on Earth when he would be hurtling across the night sky? The draft letter had said he would be working on civilian colonization, Drop site maintenance, non-military stuff. But didn’t they also say no colony was safe in a time of war?

On the day of her departure, she pressed her face against the tram windows and watched the glowing city pass her: the steam from the Thames, the glistening, oily smoke from the Eye, the crowds of happy people with their feet on the ground.

Who would have thought that only five years later, Ghada would be sitting with Asad again, on a new space ship (the Rahu Ketu), in a new galaxy (unknown), lost to the Drop network and heading back to Earth. And who would have thought that Asadullah would be (1) so much older, (2) an alcoholic, and (3) keen.

But he was. He was all Allah has given me a precious gift this and When you smile, I swear I can hear the Afrigo Band that, and he dared to squeeze her hand between his arthritic fingers. Ghada had, at first, been disgusted and appalled. But then, as the weeks passed aboard the Rahu Ketu, she had grown used to him, even fond of him in a weird, grandfatherly way. It was a time dilation soap opera, a Hindi film of improbabilities and space.

Anyway, her ex-teetotaler ex-boyfriend was a wonderful drinking buddy.

How had the Big Drop changed Ghada? Prolonged youth, shortened patience, a dependence on therapy (curer of all ills! benefactor of the universe!) and crude language. She had left Earth at the age of twenty and now she was twenty-five.

“Ayurvedic, cognitive behavioral, acupuncture, old school Tibetan, Freudian, anti-Freudian, rational energy focus…” Ghada counted on her fingers. “If we just fucking dragged the Imperial leaders to therapy once in a while–any kind!–we would never have had this stupid war.”

How had all those smaller Drops changed Asadullah? Alcoholism, age, cynicism, chronic anxiety, poor short term memory. He had left Earth at twenty and now he was sixty-something.

“Chinese baijiu, vodka, whiskey, Italian grappa is nice…” Asadullah trailed off. “I started drinking after my first Drop, nearly forty years ago. So long ago.”

Asadullah of London had been one of those semi-devout Muslims–no alcohol, no pork, sneaking snacks during Ramadan but then feeling guilty during Eid al-Fitr. Asadullah of the Rahu Ketu had morphed into someone less strict, more Sufi. Asadullah of the Rahu Ketu had lived through the forced transcendence of Drops–again and again, almost two per year. He was well-acquainted with the disorienting Droplag, the preliminary fear, the sickening relief afterwards. He had started developing poetic and forgiving attitudes towards God, because it was his only way of coping.

The first Droplag crept in, as expected, a few months before the Rahu Ketu was to hit the Drop. It was a decent Drop, with an optimistic survival probability of eighty percent. Ghada was floating through a zero-gravity corridor, arms behind her head and thinking about when her next therapy session was supposed to happen. How was she supposed to learn and grow as a human being if Doctor Rai kept falling asleep during their meetings? It was Asad’s fault for overworking him.

Ghada’s head had just bumped gently against someone’s forgotten sandal. They were playing an old Hindi film song on the speakers: Love, love, love, oh, what does the world kno-o-ow? And then Ghada started feeling that mixed-up sensation in her stomach, that feeling that Buckingham Palace was taking shape over the view of upside-down Krishna posters.

“Come on, come on!”

London, rain, a thousand years ago.

She and Asadullah were protesting the Hindustani Empire and the Chinese Empire and the stupid awful narrow-minded skirmishes that happened between them in far-off galaxies. Ghada dragged Asadullah out of the Tube station, through the rain (pausing only to get some tea and samosas from the chaiwallah stand), and then they were outside of Big Ben, placards in hand. BUILD SCHOOLS NOT DROPS! TERRAFORM THE GHETTO FIRST! BRITISH FIRST HINDUSTANI SECOND!

When Prime Minister Indira Allison Desai or any of the other colonial governors came walking out of Big Ben’s parking lot, Ghada, Asadullah and a hundred other protesters erupted in jeers, shrill heckles, and a shower of eggs.

Afterwards, Ghada and Asad retreated to the pub down the road–The Head and Elbow–and had a curry before crashing the National Gallery. Ghada loved to jump through the holograms when the museum guides weren’t looking. Once she was caught and banned from the National Gallery “for nine hundred ninety-nine years.” The museum guides had scanned Ghada’s DNA and logged her into the main desk computer. Asadullah had found it all very funny. The ban had probably expired by now.

Ghada drifted back to the reality of the Rahu Ketu. She immediately decided: Droplag. Post-traumatic flashbacks were quick, violent things, like a punch to the stomach. Droplags felt more like a massage on the shoulders from someone creepy and unattractive.

She looked around: some of the other floaters had confused expressions on their faces. Yes, definitely a Droplag.

II. GHADA AND LUCREZIA

One year out of the Big Drop, and Ghada decided that she was a pacifist, but this time, she meant it. Who the hell cared if the Chinese Empire dropped a million atomic bombs on some planet in the middle of nowhere? Ghada would have no more to do with it. She was Londonese, Ugandan, part-Kenyan–she was about as Hindustani as the Hindustanis had been British thousands of years ago. And if the Hindustani Empire needed someone to go stop the Chinese missiles, or needed someone to unload a retaliation strike against some poor old planet before it was even named, they would have to find someone else.

Ghada, in the meanwhile, would be a pirate.

Modeling herself on the mythical heroes of her youth–Lady Fading Parekh, Ian Lonely–and combining their action-adventure spirit with the money-making schemes of the Shreemati Lakshmi Bachchan-Tata-Rockfellji, Moon-Buyer, Ghada fell out of the Big Drop and became a pirate. She wasn’t going to play the Imperial games anymore, she was going to jump through holographic Mona Lisas and sell drugs and do whatever she could to avoid the Empire and the Big Drop.

She fell back into civilization in the system of New Andhra Pradesh. She found a junky space ship called Hanuman’s Mace and used her military pension to buy it. Its corridors were narrow like a submarine’s, with exposed piping and rusty doors. Someone had tried to renovate the cockpit and given up halfway, so that outdated dials and screens huddled next to modern Dropware. The controls were sticky. The door frame to the cockpit was decorated with hundreds of pink heart stickers.

Now, Ghada needed to pick up her partner from the post-Big Drop therapy groups.

Her partner was the pretty, funny, demented Lucrezia. Lucrezia had been in Ghada’s matriculation class. They had taken the Big Drop together and they knew what it felt like to have your temporal reality detach like a tooth gone moldy.

Ghada loved Lu. Lu was short and plump, with wavy brown hair and sharp Sicilian features. No one knew historical minutiae about the Florentine Renaissance like Lu did. She could tell you for how many minutes Savonarola the crazy monk burned, and how much a kilo of Parmesan cheese cost in 1492. It was a weird fetish, but very useful for pub quizzes. Apart from knowing all the details of fifteenth century Florentine history, Lu was good with mock alfresco painting and artificial intelligence.

One day, Lu built a semi-organic butler-bot for the two of them: he turned out to be four feet tall, with a stiff smile and a lurching gait. They called him Vinci.

“Aoh, Vinci! Cazzo, what are you doing?” Lu demanded, stepping from behind an energy interface. Her face had streaks of grease on it from where she had rubbed her eyes with her fists. “Make yourself useful and cook us something!”

“Ew, Lu, you made his skin too squishy,” Ghada said, squeezing his small bicep in her hand.

Lu was terrible with money, so Ghada took over finances and navigation. Lu instead managed Vinci (“Aoh! Ah-move, bello!”) and managed all face-to-face deals. They never mentioned it aloud, but Lu was their walking fairness cream advertisement.

As thick-skinned as she considered herself to be, it still hurt Ghada that the colonial bumpkins had taken old Earthly racism with them, painting the universe with it. Over a thousand years since the caste system had been officially thrown out and products like Fair and Handsome had been banned from Earthly supermarkets, the far-off colonies had regressed into pre-modern conservative societies. Or, as Ghada called them, Bumpkinia.

When Lu was negotiating, deals went through and money was made. When Ghada negotiated, the colonists usually said things like, Can I touch your hair? Is that Earth hair?

“Don’t worry so much about it,” Lu said one evening, styling Vinci’s hair into a fauxhawk. “These space people, eh? They don’t know cazzo.”

“Easy for you to say! You’ve never had to live it like I have.”

“True. But I know a little, eh–back on Earth, yes, I was in Chinese Fiji when Italy was ormai Hindustani. That was a bad time. Oh, the looks I was getting there! People yelled things: ‘Hey, albino! Hey, white Moghul!’ So embarrassing, you know?”

“Bad time,” Vinci repeated mechanically. “Bad looks.” His hair stood up, stiff with wax.

Ghada rolled her eyes, but silently thanked Lu for trying. Another thing about Lu: she cared, but wasn’t very good at transmitting sympathy. Like Ghada, the Big Drop had kept Lu young but given accent to her faults.

“I don’t know, Lu. You’re talking colonial politics, I’m talking ethnic heritage. It’s a bit more fucking complicated.” Ghada sighed. “I have so much to work on in therapy.”

Lu laughed. “You mental health junkie!”

It was a tourist barge, floating out of the New Uttar Pradesh Drop. Its license tag read Georgetown Chennai X. Ghada and Lu watched it from the Mace’s cockpit, miles away, with three monitors tracking its progress in green and pink smears. The barge’s path was adjusting itself so that it pointed to the Super Taj. Everything was right on schedule.

A note about the Super Taj: Back in the day, the pioneers had gone crazy with all the space, and so–fueled partly by homesickness and partly by architectural orgasms at the sight of such a big canvas–they built enormous copies of Earth’s cheesiest tourist attractions. Bigger, they cried, bigger! And now the Hindustani Empire was populated with Red Forts the size of small countries, with Gates of India sitting atop planetary poles, and with many, many Taj Mahals. The New UP moon had one such Taj Mahal, a man-made structure so big it had to stretch around the moon’s surface, bending with the curve. When they held functions at the Super Taj (as Ghada called it), it glowed fierce and bright in the night sky. It was very fancy and impressive and, yes, worth a visit. But not that many people would take a Drop just to see a tourist attraction. Dropping was too scary.

“Big whale ahead,” Vinci said. His voice had that eerie, artificial cadence: Big whale ahead.

“Sure enough, son,” Ghada whispered.

“That is big–eh,” Lu said. “Big like Moby Dick.”

Ghada picked up the navigation booklet–For the Eternal Glory of the Empire (Hindustan zindabad!): Official Key, Hindustani Drops (Green)–and threw it, spine-first, at Lu. Lu dodged it with a squawk.

“Aoh!”

“Bad luck, idiot!”

“Moby–” Vinci began.

“Hush!” Ghada leapt back and cuffed him on the head. He staggered forward with an, “Oh!”

“Sorry, Vinci,” Ghada steadied him. “But shut the fuck up. That’s an order.”

A whole new system of superstitions had started with the Drop network. It was so easy to die in one–the force of Dropping, if you hit it at the wrong angle, could spaghettify the strongest materials–and even though the pioneers had long ago provided accurate survival probabilities to each Drop, the human mind didn’t cope well with probabilistic survival. So apart from obsessive checking of Drop probs–fifty percent, eighty percent, ten percent–a number of arbitrary magical thinking rules had sprung up as well: Three prostrations before entering any Drop, for good luck. Never, ever mention Hawking Paradoxes, or you will die. When whaling, never refer to your mark as “Moby Dick” or the police will get you.

Three hours later, Ghada, Lu and Vinci stood on board the not-Moby Dick, guns in hand. The barge’s systems had still been scrambled with post-Drop residue, and it had been easy to dismantle their entire security system, block transmissions and lock all the doors. Then the Mace had swooped in, docked against the barge’s enormous side, and they had boarded.

A few passengers had been caught in the corridors when all the doors had slid shut. Sometimes this could be a problem, as Ghada and Lu were not in the business of hostages. So Vinci had blasted the kneecaps off one old man, and that had convinced everyone else to just sit quietly on the ground, avoiding the nozzle of Vinci’s gun.

Ghada found Lu in the barge’s command deck, downloading Imperial credits to her jump drive.

“That Vinci is a violent little bastard, what the hell did you do to his programming?” Ghada asked.

“Aoh, I know,” Lu said, tired. “I will change it when we are back home. The kneecap thing–what a bad figura, eh! Big mistake. Is the old guy okay?”

“He’s fine now,” Ghada said. “But I had to load him with half our meds. Shit, Lu, I think he was a priest.”

Lu shrieked. “Catholic?!”

“Hindu.”

“Porca puttana, cazzo,” Lu swore. “That Vinci–he becomes a microwave tomorrow!”

“Amen.”

“And after this, eh, we go to Delhi? I’m tired of Bumpkinia.”

“One hundred percent, Lu.” Ghada tucked her gun into her jeans. “How much did we make?”

Lu smiled devilishly. “Enough to buy our own celeb clone, ha ha.”

Welcome to Delhi dystopia, center of the human universe!

So the businesspeople said, clucking into their million-dollar hookah pipes and plotting new Drops and colonies. The advertisements that flickered over the floating Super Gate of India, miles above orbit, instead read, “Welcome to His and Her Imperial Majesties’ Home, the Kohinoor Diamond of the Universe, DELHI PRIME. Hindustan zindabad! Hindustan zindabad! Hindustan zindabad!”

The military headquarters were here, the commercial center was here, the palaces, mahals, super-temples, super-mosques, monuments and vast tracts of beehive residential homes and everything were here. It was the center of the Hindustani Empire–the big fat black heart that pumped people to the new planets. It was called the Jewel Near Mimosa and Star City. No one mentioned the equally brilliant Beijing 3, located just a thousand light-years away in the direction of the Horsehead Nebula. And no one except the yogis mentioned Mother Earth, the real center of everything. Earth was shared sacred space between Hindustani and Chinese alike, and it would not do to remind the brilliant Empire of its humble human origins.

Delhi Prime was a ball of pure, pulsing city. Its orbit was cluttered with satellites, docking ports and yacht moorings. Streams of incoming ships floated out into space like prayer flags cut loose in low gravity. Zero-gee slums had sprung up around the ports and any abandoned vessels. Coming through the holographic image of His and Her Imperial Majesties’ smiling faces and namaste-ing hands, Ghada and Lucrezia could see only black glitter and metal from the cockpit window.

The chatter from several docking port workers streamed through their audio, along with rousing choral renditions of the Imperial anthem.

“Reading two passengers aboard ship registration key…”

“…requesting DNA certificates, transmission channel five-five-beta-Lakshmi…”

“Check, check. Accha, right.”

Sa-are jahan se ach-cha!” Vinci started singing and pumping his fist into the air, eyes glazed over with remote control patriotism, “Hindusta-an hamara!

Better than everywhere, our Hindustan!

“Oh Jesus, turn him off,” Ghada groaned.

“And make a bad figura?” Lucrezia said. She waved her hands towards the nearest docking port. “They see everything! Every-thing! Leave the little man to sing.”

She stuffed a pair of false DNA IDs into the communication link. A blip appeared on one of the monitors: the outline of Ganesh, and four small swastikas–the old symbol of profit and good luck–in each corner. The swastikas started spinning like windmills while the Ganesh faded from red to green as the information uploaded. Once the image was fully green, everything dissolved into, WELCOME TO DELHI, SHREE AND SHREEMATI CHANDRA! Super-saturated ads flooded all the monitors, targeted to the tastes of the the old, deceased Mister and Missus Chandra. Lu busily clicked OFF on each ad, while Ghada glided the Mace into the nearest docking port.

One ad burst through, filling the entire cockpit window with holographic rainbows. A little girl sat in a field, playing mournfully. Woe, she announced, I am so alone. If only I had some brothers and sisters! A stern-looking mother appeared and wagged her finger, I need a career first. A distracted father entered from the other side of the window frame: And we should wait until we’ve bought a home.

But, no! The ad’s voice over cried, tinny. Why wait? Children are (insert appropriate deity)’s gift, and a big family is a happy family. Remember, kids, tell your parents! A big family is a happy family! For the eternal glory of the Empire, Hindustan zindabad!

They were sitting in Tamarind’s Chutney House, owned by Tamarind, self-described God of Chutney. Freshly finished with their saag paneer curry and sweet coconut naans, Ghada and Lucrezia leaned back. Lucrezia nursed a red cider in a tall steel mug, while Ghada puffed pensively on a green tea beedi. Tamarind’s Chutney House was located right on the edge of the Parsee district, where it merged into the riotous blend of Old Pioneer Town. Arching into the foggy, orange-black sky was one of the earliest monuments to space pioneering history: the oversized replica of Earthly Delhi’s Jama Masjid. The mosque’s minarets reached up past the traffic, disappearing into smog.

Amid the roar and whine of air rickshaws and taxis, Ghada could hear someone tapping a microphone. Then, the call to prayer began–a roaring, vibrant adhan that rattled the steel platters and chairs of the Chutney House. It was so loud, Ghada could feel the decibels stressing her eardrums, the rattling bass in her teeth. She was reminded of something one of the Imperial officers had said about the stress of Dropping: “It’s like forced transcendence, Ghada. You can’t push people into the sublime before they’re ready.” The muezzin in his minaret continued, bellowing.

When it was finished, Lucrezia made a show of cleaning her ears and said, “I dated a taqwacore punk once. He was very funny, good with–cazzo, how do you say?–imitations.”

“You mean impressions.”

“Yes, yes. His name was Mustafa. Singer in a Sufi band, too, very sexy.”

“My last boyfriend on Earth loved Sufi stuff,” Ghada smiled, remembering.

“What was his name?”

“Asadullah. Asad.”

“Oh yes! You have mentioned him.”

Ghada nodded. “Asad and I owned every Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan album every released.”

“Eh, Nusrat? He was so-so.”

“If Asad heard you say that, he would probably faint.”

“Cazzo, my music opinions are always unpopular.”

They laughed at a shared memory–pre-Big Drop training school, silly parties, arguments over bad hair bands.

“Arrey! What’s this?” A man’s voice.

From the crowds of Old Pioneer Town’s main road, a large man emerged. He was bearded and wearing the Sikh dastaar turban, but he looked too light to be pure Hindustani. And his sword was samurai style.

“Is that a green tea beedi, my friend?” the man asked, addressing Ghada.

“Ji, it is,” she said. “Want one?”

“Oh, no, please, my body is a gurdwara. I was just surprised to find such a familiar smell in a Parsee neighborhood. Sat Sri Akal, my name is Toshiro Singh.” He put his palms together and bowed.

“Sat Sri Akal,” Ghada and Lu returned the greeting.

“So where are you two from? And what brings you to this little hill station of the universe?”

“Well, she’s from Italy,” Ghada said. “And I’m from London, by way of Kampala.”

“Italy… London…” Toshiro Singh murmured. “Surely you don’t mean the Earthly ones?”

“Sure do, bhai, Earth-born one hundred percent.”

“Well! Well, well!” Toshiro Singh boomed. “That’s very impressive! And I thought I was impressive–mother was second-generation Kyoto, father third-generation Amritsar. Eh, a little impressive, na? Accha, maybe not. Come, let me buy you some real green tea and we can reminisce over the motherland. I’ve never met real Earth people before!”

They let themselves be cajoled–it was something to do, anyway–by this strange, friendly Japanese-Sikh man. He took them to the Green Tea Bonanza stall (green tea ice cream, green tea tofu, green tea toothpaste) down the road and ordered the fanciest tea for all three, the tea that came with a sparkler in it and twirled the Hindustani anthem. Toshiro had a quirky Punjabi accent, interspersed with the odd Japanese word, and he was bulky in an appealing way, making Ghada think of the green tea condoms hanging above the register.

Over the tea, Ghada and Lucrezia relaxed in his company and chatted easily, exploring each other’s histories as the hours went on. They lied about the Big Drop to him, and painted themselves as fresh-faced Imperial minions currently employed in the shipping division of Food Corps, New Faridabad. Toshiro admitted that they didn’t look very colonist-ish–Not like the yokels out there, eh? he said, waving his hand towards the sky–and this pleased Ghada.

At one point, Toshiro leaned forward and asked, “So tell me, Lucrezia-chan, you sometimes make civilian deliveries on your food travels, eh?”

“We’re not running a postal service,” Lu said. She had a jasmine chai mustache. “But if we like you, we can deliver some stuff, sure.”

“Ah. Because, you see, I have a small business on the side…skyrock, jump, you know what I mean? Only top quality,” Toshiro continued. “All my stock guarantees an ad-free trip, seven hours minimum.”

“Well, I’m not interested,” Lu said. “My body is a gurdwara too, bhaiyya. But maybe Ghada?”

“No way,” Ghada said. “Beedis are it for me.” They had probably given themselves away as post-Big Drop right there. Drop vets hated hallucinogenic drugs, the lag memories were enough.

“No, I don’t mean to sell, I need only some mules,” Toshiro whispered. “My business is small down on New Faridabad, I don’t make enough trips to keep up with demand. You wouldn’t have to sell it. I have a contact there to handle sales.”

“Wait, you want us to run drugs for you?” Ghada asked.

Toshiro just smiled.

Well, it was money. Well, it was a sexy employer. Well, it was sticking it to the Empire.

“Well…” Lu said.

“Well…” Ghada said.

0. DROPLAG

What was funny about Drops is that they killed religion. Not all religion, just the old ones that preached free will. Because Droplag showed pretty definitely that free will was an illusion, and once you were on a course, you would probably end up finishing it. The rule of karma prevailed, suddenly cause and effect were taken much more seriously–it was an iron-clad rule, not a bendy philosophy. (It was a good time to be a Buddhist.)

To everything there was a cause, and to every cause, an effect. Choices you had made years ago fermented over time and came to fruition, exploding like over-ripe mangoes. One minute, you were having a green tea beedi at Tamarind’s Chutney House, the next, you were falling down an unexpected Drop in a single-person escape pod. In hindsight, it all made perfect sense and the chain of reactions seemed clear. But living it, who knew! Ghada would never have predicted that she would end up smuggling skyrock for a Japanese-Sikh man named Toshiro Singh. For his part, Toshiro was probably just as surprised. But that was because neither of them had ever stopped to consider the eternally long chain of events that had led to this point. Neither of them realized that they had written their own destinies a very long time ago.

But back to the Droplag. As soon you set your coordinates for a Drop–whether it was a week or a year before taking it–the Droplag started. The strange thing about Droplag was that it only worked in reverse, as you came up to a Drop, never as you left it. Droplag could best be described as flashbacks and flashforwards, memories of time. It was like seeing a film trailer of your own life, smudged, saturated and incomplete. Going insane with Droplag was not uncommon. Some people tried to avoid the nasty things they had seen and turned into modern-day Oedipa (without the incest, usually). Many people claimed that what they had seen never came true, that the Droplag lied, but who could believe them? Everyone was living in their own private paradox. And everyone experienced the same reality: Droplag never lies.

Ghada, for her part, had taken the Big Drop, renowned as having the worst lag. Strange things happened in the Big one. Going through it meant having everything scrambled, every strand snapped loose. It even had its own psychiatric disorder: the Big Drop shakes. And all for the eternal glory of the Empire (Hindustan zindabad!), all for the eternal search for new sites, new resources, new colonies.

Smart people knew how to play Droplag. If they started feeling the tentacles of time crawling towards them, they welcomed them, studied them. Pre-Drop anxiety was a related issue. There were pre-Drop meditation sessions, pre-Drop drinking sessions. There were tarot card readers who claimed to interpret Droplag. There were sacred cows and holy parrots who could decipher the mystical images for you. I saw myself with a girl, but I like men.

Oh-oh, the parrot would squawk. Great change coming. Time to adapt. Invest in the creative!

Buddhism wasn’t the only religion to benefit from Droplag, suddenly all the dharmic religions flourished – Hinduism, Sikhism, Jainism. Because Droplag signified cosmic predetermination which signified humanity’s helplessness, and all this signified dharma. And dharma meant duty, it meant purpose, it meant roles. Dharma meant castes, hence the village empire of Bumpkinia.

Ghada was no parrot, but she knew enough to recognize Droplag when she saw it.

“Lu.”

Lucrezia looked up from where she was organizing their shipment of skyrock. The rainbow crystals glowed dimly in their boxes. The interiors of the Mace were dark. They were waiting for Toshiro-san to come deliver their pay. He had said to wait near the edge of the New Faridabad system, far from the system’s lonely colony, drifting in the nothing-zone. He had said to wait with the lights off.

“Eh? What?” Lucrezia’s palms were glittering from skyrock residue, like she had the galaxy in her hand.

“Lu, I think I just had Droplag.”

“What? Eh? Impossible. We’re not moving from here for months, and we’re taking the slow lane.”

“It was definitely lag. I saw… pink.”

Lucrezia sniffed her hands. “Probably this stuff, eh? Sometimes I see blue.”

But Ghada was right, her destiny had suddenly been altered and the Droplag was trying to give her advance warning.

Six hours later, Toshiro Singh’s cruiser had crashed into the Hanuman’s Mace. His hologram flickered on the screen, and they could see that his Hokusai-embroidered robes were drenched in blood. Imperial police were coming up fast on the radar. The emergency alarms were screaming, Vinci the butler was reported as having been sucked out into the vacuum of space. Without speaking, Ghada and Lucrezia ran to the escape pods, climbed in and launched.

The universe was full of unmarked, illegal Drops. Dangerous stuff. When Ghada felt her face begin to stretch, she suddenly understood why Toshiro-san had told them to wait in that particular spot. A perfect getaway. In retrospect, it all made sense.

III. GHADA

There had been times when Ghada found herself on the bottom bunk of a three-bunk bed, stuffed into the engine room of an overcrowded ship, times when she would walk into a bathroom Lucrezia had quickly evacuated, warning, Don’t go in there, times when she was jostled by idiot colonists while waiting in line for something. Those were the times that Ghada dreamed of being alone. She wanted her Me time, her cave against reality. Those were the times she would have given anything to be floating in the middle of nothing, with no people, no talk, no interruptions or stupid ideas.

Now that Ghada found herself in that idyll of loneliness–the escape pod–she despaired.

Or she would have despaired, if the pod juices let her feel anything other than detached, intellectual contentment.

Pods were built to last, and to keep whatever was inside happy and alive. For that reasons, much like a womb, they held lone passengers in their gooey pod placenta, stuffing the person with nutrients and mood stabilizers. It was said a healthy human being could live out their entire natural lifespan in a well-functioning escape pod.

The last time Ghada had checked, this was a well-functioning escape pod.

So here she was, facing the possibility of another fifty, sixty years of contented, lonely nothingness. A fetus that would never be born. When she had fallen down the unmarked Drop, she had left the maps forever and entered into uncharted regions of space. The chance of her ever being rescued had now dwindled from Unlikely to Never Ever. The probabilities were so spectacular, they scraped the limits of a Hindi film’s suspension of disbelief.

Ah, but life was a Hindi film sometimes. Except in a good masala potboiler, Ghada would probably go crashing into Earth to be rescued by her mother. Who knew? She was probably in the home star system right now.

Actually, if we were talking real, pure Puranic masala filmi goodness, Ghada’s mother would have been rendered blind from the grief of losing her daughter, and there would follow three hours of impossible irony and extravagant naach-gaana music before the blindness revealed itself to be temporary and all were reunited, happy and healthy and well-informed.

Come on, laugh, Ghada’s intellect insisted. That was a good one! Remember how you loved those things? Remember how you watched them huddled under your blankets, embarrassed to be caught with them? Come on, feel something!

But Ghada’s gut sent no signal. The mood stabilizers were working.

Oh, dammit, Ghada subvocalized.

The pod’s monitor picked up the movement in her throat and repeated, OH DAMMIT

You’re going to die here, away from everyone, alone, abandoned. Lucrezia is probably dead. Toshiro-san is almost definitely dead. Mom and Dad are dead. A genocide of loved ones. All gone! Come on. Come on! Fee-eel!

Nothing.

Her non-emoting emotions replied pragmatically: ITS NOT SO BAD OTHER PEOPLE EXIST

MAKE NEW FRIENDS

Damn synthetic serotonin!

You know, this didn’t make sense on a purely evolutionary level, Ghada’s intellect reasoned. If pod passengers didn’t despair at their condition, how would they ever make any effort to get out of it? What if the entire human race took separate escape pods? How would they survive?

PODS WIRED TO TRAVEL TO NEAREST KNOWN DESTINATION SAFE SPOT

NO NEED FOR DRAMA QUEENS AT CONTROLS

JUST TAKE IT EASY YOU

Ghada’s intellect railed at Ghada’s gut. It thrashed, it gnawed, it tried to get a response: Those arguments only worked if you took a pod in a known system. What if you lost the Drop network altogether?

PEOPLE THAT STUPID NO GOOD FOR HUMAN RACE ANYWAY

GOOD RIDDANCE

Okay, now she was insulting herself. And she was having two-sided arguments with her vocal chords, which was a diagnostic criterion for Crazy.

A new tactic: the mundane, the moral, the epicurean. Wasn’t it sad that she would be doomed to a lifetime of pills and pink goo instead of a nice tamarind-papaya curry once in a while? Surely that was not only tragic, it was unnatural.

UNNATURAL RELATIVE TERM

VERY RELATIVE

TIMES THEY ARE ACHANGIN

ALL THE TIME

Ghada cursed her intellect, cursed all those times she had ever mused on something philosophical or listened to folk music.

But the pod just chugged along its merry way, loading her down with pleasant feelings and keeping her healthy and clean, even when every part of her intellect screamed that this could not be so. She deserved to feel at least a little horrible about what had happened.

The pod said it was time to sleep, so Ghada slept.

She was awoken by a rush of ALARM hormones, almost a headache of them. When she opened her eyes, she saw a pink light above one of the monitors. Her health read-outs were a Himalayan range of emotional turmoil. Something must have gone wrong, very wrong. Had she had nightmares? Why was the pink light blinking?

She sub-vocalized, REPORT LAST TWELVE HOURS

The natural up-down cycle of hormones, synaptic charges, breathing patterns and heartbeats unfolded in an undulating curve on the main screen. At hour nine, all of Ghada’s physiological reactions had spiked into an Everest of anxiety, and then the serotonin transporters had been stuffed with happy chemicals. Now all was calm again, excepting that pink light.

LIGHT DEFINE YOURSELF

A woman’s voice filled the placenta. Ghada noted with alarm that it matched, tone for tone, her mother’s voice. Speaking her mother’s Swahili-English, it sang, “Ghada mwanangu, life detected. Escape pod preparing to dock.”

“Holy shit!” Ghada said, out loud. “Life, here?”

“Language, my child.”

“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! All walls: fall away! Space view, now!”

The escape pod obliged and all its walls disappeared so that Ghada had a three-hundred-sixty view of space surrounding her. It was like swimming in a black sea. For one awful moment, vertigo overwhelmed her and she nearly panicked. But the pod quickly loaded her down with its artificial Zen, and Ghada was able to muse, detachedly, on the looming barge above her. It didn’t look like some exotic alien spaceship (her initial reaction). It looked drab and old and anticlimactic, like every other whale Ghada had ever boarded.

FRIEND OR FOE

“Not known, angel,” the fake Mum voice purred. “Hindustani signature, but wrong time zone.”

That was to be expected: the Drops screwed everything up, especially time.

“Detecting human life… and counting, sweets.”

Ghada watched the numbers tally ever higher – breaching five hundred, seven hundred, one thousand – but then the pod was already bumping up against the barge’s side and a docking bay was coming into view. All systems started switching off, leaving the total number of barge passengers mysterious, and the gel began to warm, preparing Ghada for her reentry in the low-pressure atmosphere of a bay.

“Goodbye, and I hope you enjoyed the journey, my child. Much love from Mum.”

I. GHADA AND ASAD

When he said who he was, she didn’t believe him.

He kept it up for an hour, and finally the realization that maybe he really was who he said he was began to creep into Ghada’s reality. Things swam away from her, panic flared alive, and she puked pod juice onto the Med Ward bed.

My name is Captain Asadullah Khan. We knew each other in London, Ghada.

More like, we loved each other in London.

Ghada tried to recognize him, but failed. Had his nose gotten larger? They said those things never stopped growing: nose, ears, hair. They said fingernails kept growing after death, even.

Asadullah’s fingernails were bitten down to the cuticle, a lifetime of nervous chewing. Check. He had a scar on his shoulder from where his sister had stabbed him with a stray wire when they were five and seven. Check. He knew the names of Ghada’s brothers, and he told her about the first time he had met her parents, in Lemington Spa. Check, check.

My name is Asadullah. Really, really. You used to call me Asad.

“Asad.”

It was like speaking to a memory. For a long time, Ghada thought she had really snapped in the escape pod, that she had really lost her grip on reality. All those inner dialogs about Hindi film coincidences, and now she was living one.

“Arrey,” Asadullah dragged out each syllable, the slow Asadullahy way of talking. “It’s not so improbable. Space is not so large yet, dear. There are not many ways to get lost out here.”

So they had been made for each other after all. Only soul mates could be the first two people in the history of humanity to accidentally fall out of the official Drop network. Soul mates in idiocy.

“But please to worry not, eh,” Asad said. “Our Chinese guests know the way back to Eden, and off we go. Only one short Drop away.”

“Explain to me again why you have prisoners of war on your ship.”

“Did I say that? I said they’re our guests. After so many Drops, there are no wars. How can we be at war when we don’t even know where or when we are? For all we know, the war probably ended a thousand light-years ago.”

So Asadullah had become a real pacifist too.

Several months later, and Ghada was thinking: Maybe this new Asad wasn’t so bad. The music was throbbing through the big room’s audio system. People had gathered for boozy socializing; it was an edgy, pre-Drop party aboard the Rahu Ketu. Asadullah Khan, her gentle, elderly ex-boyfriend, was drunk and singing along to the female vocals, dancing with Rani, the Navigator, and Nurse Patel from Med Ward, making them laugh with his antics. Ghada smiled. In three weeks, they would be Dropping. Ghada was having the usual lags: these days, she saw green.

Asadullah had let his fear show one morning. He had asked her if she saw him anywhere in her lags.

“I can’t see anything anymore,” he mumbled, touching a bottle of Chinese liquor. “Not after all this.”

Honestly, Ghada hadn’t seen Asadullah in her saturated glimpses of the future. But no one deserved to live in fear, especially one of her former loved ones, so she shrugged and said, “Sure, I see green and I see my idiot ex, Asadullah Khan.”

Asadullah had exhaled shakily, “Masha’Allah.” And he had kissed her on the cheek.

The absence of Asadullah in Ghada’s Droplags, however, started to weigh. One night she twitched in the bed sheets and came awake, screaming, “Lu!” And then she thought of Asad’s tired good-humor and easy laughter and she breathed panic and grief. Come on, Droplag! Show me what I want to see! Help me help him! But when the lag came, it was all hasty blurs of London’s National Gallery and the Horsehead Nebula and then green, forever green. She started wishing they had a parrot or horoscope cow on this overcrowded ship.

When Asadullah appeared at her door, the morning after the pre-Drop party, he stumbled and slurred. He knocked incessantly, bellowing, “Ghada! Ghada! Hello? Ghada!”

Ghada was in her room, shaking off a nightmare. She saw him on the monitor and called through the wall, “What the fuck? Go away, you!”

“Oh, there you are, Ghada!” Asadullah sang. “Oh, Ghada, Ghada, Ghada.”

“If you say my name one more time,” she shouted, “I swear to Jesus, I will kill you.”

But instead she opened the door and he came tumbling in. He reeked of baijiu liquor and seemed intent on giving Ghada a hug. She disentangled herself and forced him to sit at the desk, away from her.

She wanted to say: Look, don’t think just because back in the day, we used to, you know…

She wanted to say: We can talk but we are definitely not going to “share.” Emotional space needed to be maintained, reviving the past was impossible in an age of Drops.

She didn’t want to say: Please don’t die or disappear or go crazy in the Drop. I love you, you’re great. You’ve always been great.

What was the point of finding him again if it was all going to end a second time? Ghada pretended not to care, and she scowled at him. But then Asadullah joined her, sitting beside her on the bed, leaning against the wall and definitely entering her bubble of personal space. It was a clash of present and past: the familiar presence beside her, the unfamiliar face with unfamiliar habits. Ghada was sure that her self-help manuals didn’t allow this sort of behavior. Not that they covered this exact situation, either.

Asadullah sighed, a long, theatrical exhalation. “Ghada, my jaan, you are perfect. It’s true what they say about the Big Drop. You are preserved, young and healthy. I am so… envious of your good health.”

“Asad,” she interrupted him.

He looked at her, waiting. He had always been a good listener, he had always known her moods.

“I–just–look, speaking of health,” she stammered, “how are you? How’s the old heart and liver and…things?”

He understood immediately. “I’m not in your lags, am I?”

Ghada tried to sound nonchalant. “It’s just green. All green, all the time. Nothing else. I mean, I’m not there either.”

“Not much green in space. Or on board.” Asad chewed his lip. “That’s a good sign. Green sounds,” he wiggled his fingers, “Earthy.”

“How long have you been trying to get back?”

Another elaborate sigh. “Oh, years and years. Ten years. More!”

Ghada said nothing. For her, it had been five years since her first day in Big Drop training. Five years ago, she had been living with the Asad of the past in London, and their life together had been planned and perfect. Five years ago, present Asad had been on this same ship, worrying about the same things, drinking the same baijiu liquor. The paradox made her head hurt.

The frustration turned to anger. “What the fuck is the point? What is the point of us meeting again, if you’re just going to–”

“Arrey!” Asad exclaimed, shrill. “Don’t say it!”

“And why aren’t you in my lag?” She felt like crying. “Why don’t you have any?”

“Oh-ho, please to worry not, my little bird.” Asad retrieved a hip flask from his jacket and unscrewed. “Breathe in, breathe out. It will all be as Allah wishes.”

“How can you say that?” Ghada asked. He had never been so flamboyantly contradictory.

But Asad just passed her the flask. Reluctantly, she drank. It tasted metallic, old. Time passed, no Droplag materialized, there were noises in the corridor as the rest of the ship started waking up.

They had finished the flask when Ghada spoke again. “I’m sorry. Are you scared?”

“Of course I am,” Asad said. He sounded desperate, and tired. Without thinking, Ghada reached over and ruffled his hair. A familiar motion, a physical memory. She caught herself and then quickly crossed her arms.

It was the day of the Drop. Most of the other people on board had that self-involved glaze of intense Droplag; some looked disgusted. There was nothing a person could do to make Dropping comfortable. No emergency sitting position, no belts. Some people were hanging around in the corridors by the windows. The sight of a Drop–whirling, sucking space, distant stars melting like wet ink–was a terrible beauty. Most people were hiding from the view, though. The cafeteria was full. The bars, baijiuwallah stand, temples and mosque were full.

Ghada went up to the command deck where Asadullah and his other officers were waiting.

Five years ago, Ghada would have taken his hand and squeezed it. Today she just nudged him with her shoulder and forced a smile.

“Drop approaching,” Rani the Navigator was announcing, “Countdown to Drop at ten seconds.”

Asadullah was unscrewing his hip flask.

“Arrey, don’t do that, Captain sahib, you’ll get it everywhere in the Drop,” Uday, the second in command, chided. His voice sounded strange: trembling, thin.

“Seven.”

Ghada could hear the people in the corridor: talking, mumbling, worrying aloud. Someone was chanting a prayer: “Om shanti, shanti, shanti…”

“Six.”

The Drop could be seen now with the naked eye. From the command deck’s windows, it yawned like an open mouth, impossibly large. Stars streamed into it. The sensation of cold and compression along the spine–they were already stretching towards it. Ghada stared, thought of Nietzsche’s warning against looking into abysses, and closed her eyes. She saw green.

“Five seconds.”

“You know,” Asad muttered, “after this Drop, we’ll be in the home star system. We’ll be there.”

Ghada squeezed her eyes tightly. Marine green–tree green.

“Three.”

The feeling of compression spread everywhere: intestines, lungs, bladder. Ghada heard someone behind her inhale sharply with pain. Dropping hurt. She had to pee.

“Two.”

She thought she heard Asad swallow. The Droplag was intense now. Green of the jungle–green of the fungus–and then a flash of familiar faces: Lucrezia in police custody, Toshiro-san with a cup of tea, Asadullah spilling liquor all over the command deck controls. A green and vibrant future, something wild and entangled. What did the Droplag mean? She wasn’t sure, but she knew that she had seen his face and that was enough. She inhaled–did she have time to say it?

“One–”

“Asad, wait, I think I just saw–”

“I totally saw that coming.”

Asadullah Khan scuffs his shoes against the pavement, staring downwards, hands in pockets. Ghada Nabulaale throws her arm around his shoulders. They still carry the pubby smells on their clothes and in their hair: fried food, cigarettes, yeast. Ghada’s ears ring; those are the ear cells dying.

“And that’s what you get for playing against me.” She smiles. Her voice sounds muted. Asadullah shimmers in the night.

“I don’t know why you are so delighted to win at these things.”

“Because it proves I’m better than you.”

Asad snorts. He pulls Ghada around to face him, kisses her once. “You hardly need proof for that.”

“Oh, you.” She kisses him back, someone bumps into them on the busy sidewalk.

She thinks: I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you so, so much. I love you. I’ll never stop saying it. I’ll say it forever, for a million years, everywhere in the universe. I love you.

A thrill passes through her, she jerks with an involuntary shiver. Laughing, she pulls at his jacket lapels. “Getting old, getting slow!”

“Hey. Age is a relative term. And anyway, aren’t you two months older than me?”

“I can’t remember. Maybe you’re right. A pair of geezers! Oh God, can you imagine us at sixty?”

“Well, I’ll probably resemble a dashing Shashi Kapoor…”

“So you’ll get a nose job? And didn’t he gain all that weight?”

“…And you will, no doubt, look identical, thanks to Botox.”

“Yes!”

“And then the universe will contract, and time will reverse, and we’ll just be back here again, youthful and brilliant.”

“Repeating my victory over you? Sounds good.”

“Not a bad cycle to be in,” Asad agrees. He smiles–and there’s a flash, when Ghada sees him old, dilapidated, white ear hair and fragile teeth. The Buddha’s last words were, All is subject to decay. “Even if I do lose.”

____
Copyright 2011 Angela Ambroz

Angela Ambroz has lived in Italy, Fiji, India, the UK and, most recently, Boston. Other stories in the Dropverse series can be found in Strange Horizons, Expanded Horizons and Reflection’s Edge. When not writing, she works on international development and reviews movies at The Post-Punk Cinema Club.

by Patricia Russo

The elders claim life is better now.

Since the ascension of the young dukes, the landholders no longer carry swords, and we are no longer obliged to kneel in their presence. Taxes have been lowered; we can keep more of our grain, our olives, our limes. Obligatory civic work days have been decreased to five per month. Smile, the elders say. Raise up your heads. The sun has emerged after long, long years of rain.

Raise up your heads. That is the way they speak, on warm nights when work is over, and dinner has been plentiful, and a wineskin is moving from hand to hand. They laugh, and boast, so proud of themselves for having survived to old age. But let a landholder walk through the square, or ride to the fields to inspect the crops, or make an appearance at a wedding or a festival, jovial and swordless, and the elders duck their heads and mumble, the same as the rest of us.

You see? the Younger Son-in-Law says. They themselves do not believe that all is well.

The Younger Son-in-Law knows I do not like him. He has a hairy face, and he has been the Middle Daughter’s husband for more than three years, and still there is no child. Plus I never did get along with his mother. But who else will offer him a bit of comfort when he wakes from a nightmare, sweating and shaking? Not the Middle Daughter, with her sharp tongue and sour heart. So some nights he and I sit together in the cookshed. I spin, and he tends the tiny fire, so we each have a reason not to look at the other, as he tells me his bad dreams.
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by S. Hutson Blount

We know this much: Death is an evil. We have the Gods’ word on it; they too would die if death were a good thing. – Sappho

Even grayed by the morning haze, Vesuvius still dominated the horizon of Naples’ harbor, dwarfing the merely human activity below. The city still drowsed in the dawn, for the most part, with only the harbor showing signs of industry. A small, mobile forest of masts passed westward as the fishing fleet chased the retreating gloom and schools of anchovy. They’d swarmed around bigger ships riding at anchor, merchantmen of every description awaiting their turn at pierside or on the change of tides to depart. They’d given wide berth to the unfamiliar white-hulled warship that had appeared there.

Corney could appreciate the poetry of the scene even through the billows of coal dust the ship gave off while fueling. Everything would be dirty for a while.

Corney watched a bewildered figure in dress blues searched the dust-blackened deck. The little round officer with the little round face had clambered aboard the wrong ladder, apparently arriving with the morning’s coal. He saluted his way aboard and began asking questions of everyone nearby. Corney eventually took pity on him and spoke up.

“You’re Reed? Welcome aboard Atlanta,” he said. “I’m Horace Corney, Captain Whelan’s second. You’d be our new Olympian Affairs man, then.”
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by Vylar Kaftan

Keloc nuzzled his mate’s throat, licking the sweet oil mixed with her sweat.  Underneath the honey masking-scent, she tasted like fear.  Duv whimpered, her black fur rough beneath his tongue.  She lay across the bedding, on her spine, bent slightly backwards to expose the weak place where her pelvic and ventral bone plates met.  She wore a red-orange cloth tied around her right top-leg–a new decoration she’d made just for tonight with tanyan-root dye.  On the wall above her head she had scratched a spiral–a fertility symbol, for good luck.

Neither of them had done this before.  Keloc was just as frightened as she was, but he hid it.  He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.  In his mind he saw Duv bleeding to death, clutching her belly as her lifeblood streamed out between her paws.  The image had haunted him all day.  His eyes flew open and he glanced next to the bedding.  The clay medicine pot sat there, in easy reach, next to Duv’s dye-pots and weaving projects.  Keloc ran his tongue against the back of his fangs and looked at Duv.

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

Below him, his mate nuzzled his top-leg and stretched her mouth.  She spoke no words, but he sensed that she was willing.

He exposed his drill from its sheath.  The organ was gray-white bone, extending from his right top-leg about the length of three paws.  Its narrow tip widened gradually to the base against his skin.  The Sacred Spiral’s groove circled its length.  His blood rushed through his body and warmed him.  Blood-chemicals, Griz had told him, although he had forgotten the exact word the older male had used.  Keloc had seen his organ during adolescence, but had never used it to inspire life in a female.  At the sight of it, Duv’s eyelids flared, but she said nothing.
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I just discovered there was a problem with the epub version of Cat Rambo’s “Karaluvian Fale.” It’s fixed now, and you can download it here.

by Cat Rambo

“Allow me to pay for your drink, Lady Kara,” Leksander Oash drawled. “I know Fale has trouble at time with the bills.” Coins rang on the dust-gritted tavern table as the young nobleman stood with an unpleasant smile, staring at the woman a few tables away.

Behind him, his half-brother Alge guffawed, and one of the courtesans with the men tittered, a sound as brittle and false as the gilt bangles adorning her olive-skinned limbs. Her nails were tinted to match the bracelets and her dark eyes were kohl-shaded to give her the appearance of a midnight rendezvous even now at midday. The other courtesan held her fingers over her mouth, making it unclear whether she was amused, shocked, or sympathetic.

Karaluvian Fale knew she’d think of a thousand witty things to say as soon as Leksander and Alge exited through the hanging bead curtain of the inn’s entrance. She stared at her friend and servant Ionna’s sympathetic but speechless face across the table and finally, desperately, erected the public persona that stood her in good stead on these occasions.

“Dear Lord Oash,” she trilled, half-turning, pitching her voice to an annoyingly high pitch and letting her lavender bangs fall over guileless eyes. It was her “thinking of kittens” expression. “How kind of you! It’s so rare to see an Oash paying a bill. Shall I direct my house to take this as a declaration of interest?”
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by Jeremiah Tolbert

Topeka’s city lights make the low-hanging autumn rain clouds glow phosphorus orange. Against the clouds, I can see bats no wider than my hand. Not birds or moths. Bats. They make hairpin turns no bird could ever manage, snapping up the mosquitoes that have been so thick this summer. It’s a big happy bug hunt all taking place in the quiet dark.

I have never seen the bats before, even though I go for a walk (doctor’s orders on account of my blood pressure) every night along the same trail. It helps me calm down, and to stop thinking about the trouble I’ve gotten myself into.

It’s kind of freaky how something as simple as weather can reveal hidden truth. It’s not the bats themselves that get to me. I like them and their tricks, and without them, we would all be dying of malaria or something. What bothers me is that all this time, the bats have been flying only inches above my hat, and I just never knew. I didn’t know to look up.

It was the same with the mole men. I didn’t know to look down.
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by Yoon Ha Lee

When General Minkhir returned through the Winged City’s gates, her clay servant Chukash saw the emblem of conquest in her hand. This time it was a bronze crescent, drenched in blood as always. Chukash fell in beside her, holding a basin to catch the blood. The trees to either side of them straightened, the gray-brown limbs flushing to a green-tinged hue, but the street was as dry as it had been before the general’s departure weeks earlier. It was an inauspicious sign when the city’s need for water was still dire.

Chukash kept his head lowered all the way to the temple called the White Bowl. He counted the drops of blood, the red splashes before the basin absorbed all traces of death, or life, or anything human. He liked to think that the blood-beat was his pulse, and that it made him more human.

One time he had stumbled, spilling a drop of blood. It had left a mark on the road like a toeprint. Sometimes the toe on his left foot ached. The general had never reprimanded him for it, but he knew. And the city with its thousand eyes knew.
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