Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 (16 page)

The man clutched a pistol. Energy crackled within a glass sphere where the cylinder should be. The technology was reminiscent of the colonel's dynamos.

"I thought I'd bring a pistol to the knife fight this time." "Who is this
fool-fool raasclaat?
" Country demanded.

"I'm guessing a Kabbalist agent. He was after the colonel's... method of production. We don't have anything you need here."

"I need young squire, Lij. We have big plans, the least of which being to depriving the colonel of him. Our men watched the colonel's palace and the Cobenas'. I've been trailing you ever since you absconded with the lad. Since you've already done half of my job, I'll just relieve you of him. Give me no trouble, you'll have my thanks and your lives."

"I am honor bound to the lad. I shall not see him harmed."

"You do me an injustice, sir. I've no wish to harm children."

"Can your employers make the same claim?" Desmond asked.

"You two chat too much," Country said. "Darkness never overcome light yet and the wicked never sow no good seed what ripe yet."

Country charged the man. The Kabbalist drew careful aim and fired into Country's path. The energy discharge erupted the earth at his feet. Country dove into the bushes for cover. Desmond and the boy skittered deeper into the depot.

The area of the depot had long been abandoned. The Maroon loved their monuments and the abandoned fort was a massive one. Its ground was hallowed to the point that most avoided even its shadow. Its shape was that of a large, squat turret, stones cast into place of the cylinder structure. The mortar cracked and broke, freeing the occasional stone. Ruins exploded around them as they ran. Energy blasts shattered stone and board alike. Chains rattled along the wall, testimony of a bygone age. Desmond pushed Lij into an open stall. The iron door's hinges were rusted and would likely creak. He didn't want to chance closing it.

"I'll be right back," Desmond said.

"You promise?"

"I... yes. I promise." He hoped that he hadn't exposed Lij to too much life this day and that there was room for fancy and hope. Desmond squeezed the child's hand and scrambled away before the agent neared enough to spy them.

"Come out, come out wherever you are. Don't you tire of these childish games?"

"Your first plan failed. Getting samples of the colonel's work?" Desmond hoped to wrong foot this
obroni,
letting him track the sound of his voice away from Lij.

"If we couldn't have the product, perhaps we could... reverse engineer the process."

Reverse engineering had a fatal ring to it. In the end, all of them—the colonel, the Niyabingi, the Kabbalists, Albion—wanted the same things: money and power, fueled by greed.

The agent fired again, wildly into the dark. The perpetual knot of Desmond's belly sprang from the fear that the man might accidentally wound the boy. Desmond ducked behind a ruined stack of wall, occasionally revealing just enough of himself to keep the assassin's attention.

Glancing over, he spied Country. He pointed to himself and made a circling motion. Country looked confused. Desmond raised ten fingers and hoped Country understood that he'd need a distraction in ten seconds. Desmond crept around, counting to himself. At "ten," Country leapt into the clearing.

"You unbaptized
bomboclaat,
" Country yelled.

The Kabbalist drew a bead on Country, this time not aiming at his feet. Desmond leapt out of the shadows and landed about the shoulders of the agent. They wrestled; the agent attempted to shrug him off. Desmond held on, his limbs flailing while the man wrenched about. Desmond gripped the man's cloak, losing purchase as it tore from him. The cloak slid to the ground, revealing the twisted body of a clockwork assassin. His right arm and both legs gleamed grey in the wan light. The fine gears of his lower torso rotated with precision. Without the muffling of the cloak, the hiss of oiled pistons and clanking gears filled Desmond's ears. Part automaton, definitely Albion in construction, Desmond had heard tell of them. But he thought the reports of them and the mechanical men whose brains floated in glass jars the stuff of children's fancy.

Country grabbed a board and slammed it into the mechanical Kabbalist. The board splintered like so much rotted driftwood. Country struck again, but the agent's mechanical arm battered him into the next stall.

Desmond thrust his cane into the clocklike workings of the man's torso, the gears grinding to a halt. The mechanical man cursed the air blue, firing wildly with his good hand. A blast seared Desmond's side. He fell onto his wounded side with a thud. The agent rolled atop him, clamping his hands around Desmond's throat. Desmond's eyes bulged, his breath escaping in a wet rasp. His hands scrabbled about in desperation. He found a loose stone from the depot wall and slammed it into the side of the Kabbalist's skull. The man slumped on top of him.

Desmond untangled himself from the man's limbs, then dusted himself off. Strolling over to Country, he lowered his hand to help him up.

"You mad?"

"You live until you die," Country said. "And dead's dead."

Desmond and Lij slipped through the dirigible dock's back entrance, mixing into the milling crowd without any fuss. Airship rope crews prepped the great machines for departure, scurrying about wrangling the floating craft like an errant bull. Their officers greeted their passengers.

"Boarding pass?"

"For two." Desmond pressed a wad of nannies into the man's hand.

"Watch your step," the officer said.

Thrumming engines soon filled his ears. Desmond leaned against the steel grey seat. As the ship rose, he stared out his window. The mountain tops of his island home seemed so small now. The truth of Lij would open his people's eyes and shake the foundations of who they were. He watched the boy sleep, his small hand still slid into Desmond's. In America, they would be far from the reach of Malcolm and the Rastafarians; the Niyabingi and the obeahists; and the Kabbalists would not think to look for them from within their belly. Lij would not be another innocent to be used and discarded without a say in the matter. For now, Desmond prayed for the opportunity to live their own lives for a moment.

Whatever may come, he thought, he would comfort his people wherever he found them.

Maggie Shen King's first book
Fortune's Fools
—an account of the ethical dilemmas, larger-than-life personalities, and political intrigue encountered by a Taiwanese manufacturer in China— was a semi-finalist and Second Prize winner in the 2012 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. The author's stories have appeared in
ZYZZYVA
and
Fourteen Hills.
When she is not writing, Maggie likes to work on her golf game and her roses. She welcomes your comments at
[email protected].
Maggie's first story for us is set in the same milieu as her next novel. Sixty years after China instituted the one-child policy, the population of eligible men outnumbers women by fifty million. As he interviews with a potential wife, a forty-yearold man and his matchmaker are forced to do the math....

My gaze is drawn again and again to the delicious swell of Wu May-ling's breasts. For a slender little thing, she is incongruously buxom. And not in an over-cooked or matronly sort of way either. A thrilling high-wire act, hers demand—no, command— a man's attention, his loyalty. Someone clears his throat, and I jerk up to see both my dads glaring at me.

Dad—Mom's second husband and my Biological—says, "Our Wei-guo has impeccable health habits. He weight trains three times a week and swims and runs as well."

He bestows a fatherly smile upon May-ling, our matchmaking lunch's guest of honor and my potential bride. "He can bench a hundred kilos. You should see his biceps."

Sitting on my other side, Big Dad stiffens. "You're embarrassing our guests," he says to Dad with forced levity. With both hands, he offers up the ribbon-and lace-adorned tin of individually wrapped cookies Dad spent hours choosing.

We have honored MaMa's dying wish, remaining under one roof as a family. These days, she seems to speak through Dad. My two fathers sound more and more like man and wife. They've taken to wearing the same shirts, both pouncing upon whatever happens to be clean. Even their increasingly paunched and stooped silhouettes look alike.

May-ling beams at the gift, the twinkle in her eyes one of boisterous good humor.

"I have a very sweet tooth. Thank you very much." Her smoky eyes and translucent silk dress could not be a more enticing blend of intrigue and class. Despite having birthed a child, her manners and air are girlish, a primed canvas awaiting defining strokes of paint.

Her second husband, the security designer, takes the tin from her and, scrunching his nose, tosses it on the floor. If I did not know from his wrinkled shirt and uncombed grey hair that he is not in favor of Family Advancement, I do now. Ironic that a man with such disregard for social niceties should possess so cherubic a face.

Dad continues, "Wei-guo has won three triathlons, the five-and ten-thousand-meter races more times than we can remember. He'll be thrilled to give all three of you a free assessment. Put you on a diet—" I squeeze his knee. He doesn't know when to stop.

Sitting half a head taller than everyone at the table, May-ling's first husband, a corporate accountant, doesn't react even though he is in obvious need of a weight gain plan. With a body mass index the low side of normal, he could be easily felled by illness. He seems to be the Alpha, the way he sits there with his arms crossed in judgment, waiting to be buttered up. Too important, even, to eat. I've yet to see a better-fitted suit on a man. A linen hanky in his jacket pocket, a watch fob hanging from his vest, and his silvery hair slicked back, he seems from another more genteel era.

Hero, our matchmaker flicks his wrist at May-ling, three chunky rings glittering on his restless hand. "Lee Wei-guo was voted a top master personal trainer in Beijing the last five years in a row by
The Worldly Bachelor.
" Except for the fact that this same website ranked our matchmaker highest in client placement, we would not have hired him. The volume and frizz of his shoulder-length hair bring to mind disorder, unlikeliness, and bad judgment. We pray his name is a good description of his abilities and remind ourselves that this is a profession dominated by the Willfully Sterile.

Our matchmaker is trying to help, but mention of
The Worldly Bachelor
only reminds everyone that I'm in my forties and entering matchmaking talks for the first time. Not only that, but my living relies on excess, unmarriageable men. The government has even awarded us official status, investing in a public campaign to make the phrase "leftover men" unpatriotic and backward. For "The Bounty," fitness programs are state-funded and mandated. The distraction and physical exhaustion of a thoughtful exercise plan are as non-negotiable for us as sleep, food, and drink.

Husband Two seems oblivious to the conversation, above it even, focusing solely on shoveling down all the soupy dumplings on the table. He must think his fat ass is a status symbol.

"I don't like to brag," Dad says, "but Wei-guo really is the best in his field."

I didn't expect Wu May-ling to catch my eye and smile. Before anyone else notices, she returns to sipping the coveted shark's fin soup. Paying into the Nature Preservation Fund so that endangered species can be brought to the table signals serious interest. Now that it has become customary for the bride's side to propose matchmaking talks and marriage, my dads dare not spare any expense.

May-ling's first husband finally deigns to open his mouth, "Comrade Lee."

"Please call him Wei-guo," Dad says.

Husband One starts over with my given name. He asks how long I've been a master trainer, what direction I hope to take my career.

"Our son earned his certif ication more than twenty years ago. Before he'd even graduated high school. He broke the program's record, too, completing it in just under ten days."

Big Dad frowns at Dad. "Please let our boy talk."

Wu May-ling makes eye contact again and smiles in commiseration. I like her. It can't be much fun married to these two grandpas. I wonder whose idea it was to Advance their family, to go the max.

I look only at her when I speak. "I cut my teeth on our city's elite at The Body Essential." Everyone who is anyone knows The Body Essential—the owner's father (and financial backer) is a ranking member of the Politburo—but Husband One shows no sign of recognition. "Those same clients followed me to my own studio eight years ago. My hourly rate rivals that of actuaries." At this, he raises an eyebrow.

I continue, "For my clients' convenience, I work early mornings and evenings, but my schedule is at my own discretion." Wu May-ling's eyes twinkle, and I imagine us with the daylight hours all to ourselves. Strolling the streets together. Eating in bed.

Rollicking.

Husband One asks again about my career ambitions.

"I like where I am right now. I've worked very hard to get here." I stare deep into Wu May-ling's eyes. "I want a very special woman. A true love. A soul mate. A play pal." I infuse extra meaning into the word play.

Big Dad shifts in his chair. "Wei-guo continually updates his program, his equipment, his facility. He's always innovating so as to maintain competitive advantage."

Husband One crosses his arms. "I hope you don't mind me asking. Why not go to Cambodia, Burma, or on some marriage cruise, and bring back a spouse? Why share?"

Big Dad answers again, "Wei-guo understands Advanced families. That's how he grew up. That's what he knows. Like his father and me, he values literacy, shared culture and beliefs, and the preservation of our people." In private, Big Dad liked to contend that it took, at the very least, two husbands in friendly competition to keep up with MaMa and her chatter.

"Yes," Dad says, "we are staunch supporters of China First."

Husband One looks to me for confirmation, but I don't react. I'll worry about the dilution of our blood or the increasing complexity of our society after our society solves my problem. In truth, I've grown weary of my weekly ten-minute hygiene session with my assigned comfort lady, but not weary enough yet to trudge overseas and cast my lot with a sign-language wife.