Interzone 244 Jan - Feb 2013 (4 page)

“
What is it like, in
space?” Excitement animated him. She shrugged. “Olsem difren,” she
said, in the pidgin of the asteroids.

The same, but different.

They stared at each other, two strangers,
her vat-grown eyes against his natural-birth ones. “My name is
Achimwene,” he said.

“
Oh.”

“
And you are?”

That same half-smile twisting her lips. He
could tell she was bewildered by him. Repelled. Something inside
him fluttered, like a caged bird dying of lack of oxygen.

“
Carmel,” she said, softly.
“My name is Carmel.”

He nodded. The bird was free, it was beating
its wings inside him. “Would you like to come in?” he said. He
gestured at his shop. The door, still standing half open.

Decisions splitting quantum universes… She
bit her lip. There was no blood. He noticed her canines, then. Long
and sharp. Unease took him again. Truth in the old stories? A
Shambleau? Here?

“
A cup of tea?” he said,
desperately.

She nodded, distractedly. She was still
trying to speak to him, he realised. She could not understand why
he wasn’t replying.

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

“
Yes,” she said.

“
Yes?”

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

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

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

* *

The shelves inside were arranged by
genre.

Romance.

Mystery.

Detection.

Adventure.

And so on.

* *

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

* *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* *

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

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

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

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

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

* *

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

“
Achimwene,” she
said.

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

They did not get along.

“
The girl, Carmel. She is
with you?”

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

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

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

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

“
I gud,” Achimwene
said.

How are you? I am well.

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

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

“
I stret,” Achimwene
said.

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

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

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

Achimwene shook his head.

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

“
No.”

“
She followed
Boris.”

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

“
My Boris,” she
said.

“
She knew him
before?”

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

“
I…see.”

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

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

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

“
Achi, like you ever
could!”

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

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

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

“
He’s not here,” Achimwene
said.

“
Sure he is. He’s right
here.”

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

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

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

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

“
She has a sickness. She
needs help.”

“
I
am
helping
her!”

But his sister only shook her head.

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

“
She is
resting.”

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

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

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

Miriam nodded.

Then Kranki startled them all.

* *

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

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

* *

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

“
Are you a
vampire
?”
he said.

“
Kranki!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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