The Apex Book of World SF Page 5

  “It will be difficult, but I think so. Otherwise, we will all die.” Ronk almost sounded pleased.

  “Do it,” he snapped. Haulage freighters were not usually equipped with weaponry, but then again, most haulage freighters didn’t have Marley. “Sis? Tell me they left something behind.”

  “Never fear, fearless leader.” Marley’s voice was light. Chaos was her element. “They took our food, our meds, and all our spares—they even took Martha—but Jane and the rest of the family are still here.”

  Another blast rocked the ship, but they held onto the walls for support and kept their feet.

  “Can you handle a gun?” Bruno asked. Drake nodded. “Good, follow me.”

  Bruno had never liked the bio-suits—they smelled like old bananas and they made him feel claustrophobic, though he would never admit that to anyone—but they were their last hope. Bruno and Drake met Marley in the ship’s lowest cargo hold. Marley hadn’t been exaggerating about her collection, Bruno realised. Over the years, she had collected and modified dozens of high-calibre weapons, making them lighter, more accurate, and above all, more powerful. She picked out the two largest. The gun she’d been modifying was big, but it was hardly the largest in her arsenal. That honour went to the one she gave Bruno; it was the size of a small cannon.

  “I call her Bertha,” Marley said, grinning.

  There were more hideaways, pockets, and vents on the ship than Bruno could count. It had been modified and refitted dozens of times and every time they wrenched out and replaced an old system with something smaller, faster, and more efficient, those old spaces would be closed off or converted to storage. One of these retrofitted spaces was the series of tanks from when the ship still used liquid fuel. They were massive carbon-fibre drums with two outlets: one at the top to allow for manual checks, and the other at the bottom where intake nozzles fitted. Located on the ship’s underbelly, they were the perfect place to slip out unnoticed.

  The tanks normally held the ship’s extra water, but right now one of them was nearly empty. They climbed down into it and, amid an increasing barrage from Moran’s ship, put on their bio-suits. The three of them slipped out of the ship through the intake valve. Marley immediately headed for the starboard side, while Bruno and Drake headed for the port side, the tiny air jets on their suits propelling them through the zero gravity of space. Bruno tried not to look out at the vast blackness beyond the ship; it always made him dizzy.

  Soon, he could spy Moran’s ship just over the bow. The Lady’s Gift was facing the S.S. Gilgamesh directly and her front shields were taking most of the blasts. They were holding, but Bruno could see sparks form every time they took another hit. They would not last much longer. Bruno manoeuvred the large gun off his back. He snapped on the suit’s magnetic boots and they held him fast to the hull. A few feet away, still near the underside of the ship, Drake did the same. Bruno knew that on the other side, Marley was doing it, too.

  “Ready?” Bruno called to the others through the suit’s intercom.

  “Aye, aye, fearless leader,” sang Marley.

  “Ready, sir,” came Drake’s voice. The boy had taken on a military precision that Bruno knew could have only come from long years of training—likely since childhood.

  “Horns, on my signal, lower the shields. One…two…now!”

  In a flash of light, Marley fired her gun. Moran had not been expecting return fire and hadn’t bothered to raise his shields. A spot of fire bloomed on the other ship’s hull and was quickly quenched by the vacuum of space. Marley was right; Jane really could pop a hole in a military freighter. Then, Bruno and Drake fired their guns. Their aim was true. Both rounds hit the same spot on the ship that Marley’s had. Suddenly, all the lights on the S. S. Gilgamesh went out.

  Bruno smiled grimly, snapped off the boots, and jetted toward the nearest airlock.

  “Captain, I have made some adjustments,” Ronk’s voice crackled over the intercom. “We cannot go very fast or very far, but we can fly.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  The girl Bella was waiting for them when they returned. It was the first time Bruno had seen her since she arrived on the ship. Standing in the light, Bruno could see that her skin was darker than he’d first thought. She was coal-black—like something burned to a crisp—and she had no eyebrows. She was dressed in the same clothes she had worn when she boarded. But it was as if she was a different girl. Gone were the hunched shoulders and downcast eyes that had made her seem like some small, hunted, haunted thing. She stood straight, her red-gold eyes boring into him.

  “The red woman, is she gone? Truly?” Her voice was low, almost masculine, and smooth as silk slipping through the fingers.

  Bruno nodded.

  A look of sadness passed over her face. “She was broken inside,” she said quietly. “I could have fixed her, but she would not let me.”

  As Bruno took off the bio-suit’s helmet, it brushed his broken nose, sending a lance of pain searing across his face. In all the excitement, he had completely forgotten about it. He let out an involuntary grunt.

  Bella moved like silent lightening. Suddenly, she was in front of him, reaching out to touch him, ignoring Drake’s shout. It was as if time slowed down for Bruno. He was aware of Drake’s voice, of movement behind him, but somehow it did not matter. As her hand crept closer to his face, his skin began to prickle and his hair stood on end, as if he was too close to a high-voltage wire.

  Her touch was electric. A searing light burned through him—as it passed he could feel the cartilage in his nose crunch back into place, the old laser blade wound on his shoulder melt away, the pitted scars on his hands from his childhood as a dockworker knit back up, the first beginnings of arthritis in his knees loosen—and then it was gone.

  Bruno sagged to the ground; he would have fallen over had Marley not caught him in time. The girl stepped back, cradling her hand against her chest. Then she smiled and broke into a laugh. It was the most beautiful sound Bruno had ever heard.

  A few weeks later, as Bruno made his way up to the leisure deck, he passed Marley and Ronk sitting at the mess hall dining table. She was sitting on his lap.

  “I did not leave the table in anger,” Ronk was saying. “I just needed to think. So I went down to the cooling vents in the engine room.”

  “Oh yeah, I think better when it’s noisy, too. I like to go up to the main air turbine shaft. I have to be careful ’cause I could get sucked in if I stand too close.”

  Ronk laughed at that; it was deep and rich like soil. It was still strange to hear him do so, but Ronk was a man transformed. In some ways they all were.

  “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what does ‘Ronk’ mean?”

  “It’s short for Aderonke. It’s Yoruba…”

  Bruno continued on.

  Bella and Drake were in the cabin bay lounge talking heatedly in low tones.

  “Captain!” Bella called out when she saw him and bounded down the short hallway to meet him. Dressed in a mix of Marley and Horn’s hand-me-downs, she almost looked like a normal teenager. “I have the most wonderful news.” She spoke like someone who had learned to speak out of a book—an old, old book.

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Acolytes of Oshun?”

  “Aren’t they the priests who run a high-class prostitution scam?”

  “No, no! They are honoured servants of the Goddess of Love,” she said, her face animated by excitement. “They are priests and priestesses who dedicate their bodies to service; they spend years learning the intricate arts of pleasure, which they use to help bring devotees closer to the divine. Their main temple is on Mars.”

  “That’s nice, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I want to join them!” she burst out and clapped her hands to her mouth as if she’d spoken without thinking. “Please, please, please may I join them?”

  “I don’t know Bel, you sure that’s what you want?”


  “Captain, I’ve spent my whole life craving the touch of others,” she said. “The life of an Acolyte would be paradise for me.”

  “What about your…abilities?” She shrugged and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

  “I can only fix those who want to be fixed.” She glanced at Drake who folded his arms and turned away. Bruno noted Drake’s tense shoulders and obstinate scowl and resolved to talk to him later. The boy had been trained as a warrior-priest, though the warrior part had stuck long after the priest part had fled. He had spent his life keeping Bella safe from accidental contact. Would he be able to handle her new role? Bruno hoped so. The Amethyst Order was most likely still looking for them and she would need his protection.

  It would be a few weeks before they wrapped up their current job and at least a week before they reached Mars. He had some time yet.

  “If that’s what makes you happy, Bel. Let’s talk about this later, huh?”

  She beamed and nodded.

  Horns was waiting for him among the greenery of the hydroponic garden, tending a plant in the far corner of the room.

  “You said you had some information for me,” Bruno said, greeting her with a kiss.

  “I’ve finally found Drake and Bella’s files with the Order.” She pointed at a reader on a nearby counter. Bruno thumbed through the different screens.

  “Not a whole lot here,” he said.

  “I know, its deep cover stuff. Most of it is Drake and Ana, really, all I managed to get on Bella is her name.”

  “Nefertiti? Huh. What kind of name is that?”

  “Well, once you become Mehen, you’re given a ‘true’ name, something more spiritual.”

  “What was your true name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Come on, Horns, if you don’t want to talk about it…” She laid a gentle hand on his arm.

  “Honestly, Bruno, I don’t remember. I paid a guy in Qom six hundred credits to have that memory erased.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want to be reminded of my former self. I was an Enforcer—like Drake. I did some pretty awful stuff.”

  “Did you torture people?” Bruno had been tortured once. A job had gone wrong and he’d ended up owing money to the wrong people. It had been the most hellish few hours of his life. He had often wondered about the blank-faced man, who had methodically pulled out his fingernails, who he was in the life outside that room.

  “Torture doesn’t work.” Horns had gone curiously blank, as if something in her had closed off her true self. Bruno knew he was looking at the Enforcer she had once been.

  “I’d disagree.”

  “Physical torture, I mean. The threat of pain will only get you so far. Once you start inflicting it, people will say anything to make the hurting stop, and it’ll usually be lies. If you really want to find out the truth, you threaten what they love. And it doesn’t always mean going after their families. You could go after their ideals or their sense of security. If they know anything, they’ll tell you. If they don’t, they’ll be more than eager to help you find it.”

  There was a silence between them.

  “You were good, weren’t you?”

  “I was the best.”

  “So why erase the one memory?”

  “It was all I could afford. And by the time I got enough money for more treatments, I realised that I didn’t want to forget my past. My memories make me who I am. Without knowing how bad it was then, I can’t appreciate how good I have it now.”

  “You’re amazing, you know that?” Bruno said, and Horns smiled. He watched the blankness dissolve into relief and Bruno realised just how much she had risked in telling him about her past. He was filled with tenderness for her. The force of it hit him like a blow to the gut.

  “I love you,” she sighed and slipped into his arms.

  Bruno smiled and wrapped her in his arms. He began to kiss her, slowly and softly. His touch could make her promises, and this time, he was sure he could keep them.

  The Language of Knives

  Haralambi Markov

  Young Bulgarian writer Haralambi Markov is a recent Clarion graduate, and has stories published in Electric Velocipede, Tor.com, and elsewhere.

  A LONG, SILENT day awaits you and your daughter as you prepare to cut your husband’s body. You remove organs from flesh, flesh from bones, bones from tendons—all ingredients for the cake you’re making, the heavy price of admission for an afterlife you pay your gods; a proper send-off for the greatest of all warriors to walk the lands.

  The Baking Chamber feels small with two people inside, even though you’ve spent a month with your daughter as part of her apprenticeship. You feel irritated at having to share this moment, but this is a big day for your daughter. You steal a glance at her. See how imposing she looks in her ramie garments the color of a blood moon, how well the leather apron made from changeling hide sits on her.

  You work in silence, as the ritual demands, and your breath hisses as you both twist off the aquamarine top of the purification vat. Your husband floats to the top of the thick translucent waters, peaceful and tender. You hold your breath, aching to lean over and kiss him one more time—but that is forbidden. His body is now sacred, and you are not. You’ve seen him sleep, his powerful chest rising and falling, his breath a harbinger of summer storms. The purification bath makes it easy to pull him up and slide him onto the table, where the budding dawn seeping from the skylight above illuminates his transmogrification, his ascent. His skin has taken a rich pomegranate hue. His hair is a stark mountaintop white.

  You raise your head to study your daughter’s reaction at seeing her father since his wake. You study her face, suspicious of any muscle that might twitch and break the fine mask made of fermented butcher broom berries and dried water mint grown in marshes where men have drowned. It’s a paste worn out of respect and a protection from those you serve. You scrutinize her eyes for tears, her hair and eyebrows waxed slick for any sign of dishevelment.

  The purity of the body matters most. A single tear can sour the offering. A single hair can spoil the soul being presented to the gods…what a refined palate they have. But your daughter wears a stone face. Her eyes are opaque; her body is poised as if this is the easiest thing in the world to do. The ceramic knife you’ve shaped and baked yourself sits like a natural extension of her arm.

  You remember what it took you to bake your own mother into a cake. No matter how many times you performed the ritual under her guidance, nothing prepared you for the moment when you saw her body on the table. Perhaps you can teach your daughter to love your art. Perhaps she belongs by your side as a Cake Maker, even though you pride yourself on not needing any help. Perhaps she hasn’t agreed to this apprenticeship only out of grief. Perhaps, perhaps…

  Your heart prickles at seeing her this accomplished, after a single lunar cycle. A part of you, a part you take no pride in, wants her to struggle through her examination, struggle to the point where her eyes beg you to help her. You would like to forgive her for her incapability, the way you did back when she was a child. You want her to need you—the way she needed your husband for so many years.

  No. Treat him like any other. Let your skill guide you. You take your knife and shave the hair on your husband’s left arm with the softest touch.

  You remove every single hair on his body to use for kindling for the fire you will build to dry his bones, separating a small handful of the longest hairs for the decoration, then incise the tip of his little finger to separate skin from muscle.

  Your daughter mirrors your movements. She, too, is fluent in the language of knives.

  The palms and feet are the hardest to skin, as if the body fights to stay intact and keep its grip on this realm. You struggle at first but then work the knife without effort. As you lift the softly stretching tissue, you see the countless scars that punctuated his life—the numerous cuts that crisscross his hands and shoulders, from when he challenged the swor
d dancers in Aeno; the coin-shaped scars where arrowheads pierced his chest during their voyage through the Sea of Spires in the misty North; the burn marks across his left hip from the leg hairs of the fire titan, Hragurie. You have collected your own scars on your journeys through the forgotten places of this world, and those scars ache now, the pain kindled by your loss.

  After you place your husband’s skin in a special aventurine bowl, you take to the muscle—that glorious muscle you’ve seen shift and contract in great swings of his dancing axe while you sing your curses and charms alongside him in battle. Even the exposed redness of him is rich with memories, and you do everything in your power not to choke as you strip him of his strength. This was the same strength your daughter prized above all else and sought for herself many years ago, after your spells and teachings grew insufficient for her. This was the same strength she accused you of lacking when you chose your mother’s calling, retired your staff from battle, and chose to live preparing the dead for their passing.

  Weak. The word still tastes bitter with her accusation. How can you leave him? How can you leave us? You’re a selfish little man.

  You watch her as you work until there is nothing left but bones stripped clean, all the organs in their respective jars and bowls. Does she regret the words now, as she works by your side? Has she seen your burden yet? Has she understood your choice? Will she be the one to handle your body once you pass away?

  You try to guess the answer from her face, but you find no solace and no answer. Not when you extract the fat from your husband’s skin, not when you mince his flesh and muscle, not when you puree his organs and cut his intestines into tiny strips you leave to dry. Your daughter excels in this preparatory work—her blade is swift, precise, and gentle.

  How can she not? After all, she is a gift from the gods. A gift given to two lovers who thought they could never have a child on their own. A miracle. The completion you sought after in your youth; a honey-tinged bliss that filled you with warmth. But as with all good things, your bliss waxed and waned as you realized: all children have favorites.