Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 (16 page)

"Oh, I am having none of this," said Chandni, and she jumped into the water beside him. "I could not stand to be in there any longer. Like riding in a soccer ball. I am sure the air is unhealthy. Anu, come out!" "In a minute, Mammi. I found something." Chandni turned. "Anu! Get your hand out of that duck poop at once! That is filthy!"

"But Mammi, look! I found something!"

"I will not look! You get that stinky filth off your hands at once!"

Ravi managed a dry chuckle, for he was once a little boy too. Anu splashed into the water to his left and said, "Look, Bappi, look! The duck left us a gift." He held up a slimy palm, in the middle of which was a golden ring. On it was a sapphire bezel surrounded by tiny pearls. Ravi took it, waved it in the sea water and looked at it again. It dazzled his eyes and shook his mind with the very circumstance of its existence. "Where could it have come from?" he murmured.

"The duck must have nibbled it with the seaweed," said Chandni. "So many things were left behind over the years, while the water rose. Old Fatima, two houses down, said her husband, on one salvage dive, found a gold bracelet. Too bad the duck flew away—I could have slit its belly and found what else it had eaten."

"Mammi!"

From the weight of it, Ravi was certain the sapphire was genuine. He had never held anything of such value, except... he turned to Chandni. "You know, I have never been able to give you any jewelry—"

"Don't be foolish." Chandni closed his fingers over the ring in his palm. "We will need to get home and then to buy a new home when we get there. Keep this safe, so no one takes it."

Ravi slipped the ring into his pants pocket, the one without the holes. The sky turned golden above him and he looked around and beheld a sight as strange and beautiful as the sapphire. The storm was passing to the north and rays of the morning sun radiated from its trailing edge like a crown. Storm spheres were scattered across the calm bay like giant coriander seeds of orange and tan. Cries of "Halloo, halloo" echoed through the quiet morning air as fishing boats slowly and carefully checked each sphere and towed them to shore, across water the color of molten silver.

Spheres from Mars were bearing lowly Bangla fisherfolk to safety. A duck had left a prize of wondrous wealth. They had suffered through a great cyclone's immense fury, and yet his family was alive and together and right beside him. Grandfather had been wise, but he had not foreseen everything.

Ian Creasey's tale "Erosion" ( October/November 2009) has recently been reprinted in
21st Century Science Fiction
(Tor). The anthology showcases "the new science fiction writers of the new century." Of his latest story, Ian says, "I bought my house a decade ago, it came with a garden, and so I became a gardener by default. I gradually started to enjoy it, as I labored to grow my own fruit and flowers." Thinking about the future of gardens, and what kinds of plants might be grown, inspired him to write...

As we waited for any potential customers to arrive, I stared out of the showroom window into the garden full of celebrities sprouting from the soil. This early in spring, most of the plants hadn't yet reached resemblance: the flower-buds were tiny blank faces, gradually developing features. Only the cyclamen—Harriet's self-portrait—was in full bloom. Their pink flowers smiled in the sun, looking cheerier than Harriet had done for some time. A pioneer in pomonics, she'd created all this floral art. But at the height of a recession, few people had money to spare on customized flowers. Most of our visitors came to complain about something.

"Look at that!" said Lorraine Schuster, wheeling a large potted plant into the showroom.

"Ah yes, your mother." I beamed heartily. "Splendid foliage."

"Look!" she repeated. "This isn't good enough, Travis."

I bent down to inspect the plant. As I approached the blooms, I got a strong whiff of Chanel No. 5, Mrs. Schuster's favorite perfume in life. No problem there. I peered at the flower-heads, and tried to remember Mrs. Schuster's appearance from the photographs provided last year. The match seemed close enough, within the limits of horticultural portraiture. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

"Warts!" Lorraine exclaimed. "Can't you see them?"

Tiny brown specks disfigured several of the papery faces. "I see them," I said. "Weren't they there originally?"

"They certainly were not."

I glanced at Harriet, hoping she would come and help me out, but she stared at a screen full of genetics schematics, showing no sign of having heard anyone arrive. I'd found it hard enough persuading her to even sit here during showroom hours, and now I wondered why I bothered. She showed less and less interest in the clients who financed her art.

Troublesome customers were my domain as her business manager. As politely as I could manage, I asked Lorraine, "Have you been spraying regularly?"

"How should I know?" she said waspishly. "My housekeeper looks after them."

I took some Vita-Pom from the shelf. "Then tell her to spray against bugs and viruses. As you're a valued customer, I'll give you two bottles for the price of one."

"You charged me a fortune for this plant," Lorraine said. "I refuse to pay extra for whatever fripperies you're trying to fob off on me. Your plants should be virus resistant in the first place."

I looked at Harriet again, but even this insult to her handiwork didn't rouse her.

"If you leave your mother with us, I'll see what we can do." I gave Lorraine my best mollifying smile, and soon found myself smiling at her ample rear as she stalked out of the showroom.

Well, at least she hadn't demanded her money back. It would have been very difficult for us to comply.

"Harriet, my dear?" I inquired.

"Oh, just spray it!" she said, in an irritated tone.

So she'd been listening, after all. I hoped her irritation was directed at the client's lack of aftercare, because I didn't like to consider the alternatives. As I sprayed the plant, Mrs. Schuster's dozen faces all gave me a warty disapproving glare.

I'd just wheeled Mrs. Schuster aside when a man walked into the showroom. He wore black jeans, and a black T-shirt with a logo of a clenched fist. His facial hair resided somewhere in the limbo between weekend stubble and nascent beard. I didn't recognize him as an old customer, but I hoped he would become a new one.

"Good morning," he said. "I'd like to discuss a commission."

"Certainly," I replied. "Harriet, could you come over?"

She grudgingly joined us on the cluster of easy chairs next to the showroom window, overlooking the gardens and the Devon countryside. I poured out three cups of coffee.

"This is Harriet Ormonde, who does all the design work," I said. "I'm Travis Chase, her partner and business manager."

"My name's Dean Hudson," the new arrival said, "and I'm with the Austerity Rebels."

"The protest group?" I asked.

He smiled, clearly mistaking my recognition for sympathy. "Yes, that's right. We've got a great project for you: it's part of our anti-austerity campaign. We want you to create the whole government in eff igy. Then on Bonf ire Night, we'll burn them! Everyone will do it, all across the country. Britain will be united in protest, and the strength of feeling will show—"

I sensed that this peroration might continue for some time, so I interrupted to say, "The whole government is quite large, if you want all the cabinet ministers. We can give you a bulk discount, but I assume you realize this won't be cheap."

"Unfortunately, we can't afford to pay you." Hudson spread his arms wide. "Times are hard—that's what we're protesting against," he said, as though this was an incontrovertible argument in support of demanding a freebie.

"Times are hard indeed," I replied sternly, "which is why we can't afford to work for nothing." I stood up, dismissing him. "Good day to you."

Hudson ignored this, and addressed himself to Harriet. "Ms. Ormonde," he said, "we're great admirers of your work. That's why I've come. We know you could do a fantastic job of lampooning these politicians. You can make them ludicrous, make them hideous, make them poisonous—anything at all, as long as they're flammable."

"Ah, negative qualities," said Harriet. "It would be an intriguing challenge. There are lots of possibilities, apart from the obvious thorns, stings, and bad smells. To represent someone as rapacious, we can use a carnivorous plant, or a parasite—"

As soon as she said "we," I knew that she was in danger of being persuaded. "Harriet, darling..."

She continued as if she hadn't heard me. "Some plants are nocturnal, for those politicians who have something of the night about them. Others are weeds, or they're invasive, or they flourish in the shade—"

Hudson gazed at her in fascination, or a flattering facsimile of it. "This is great stuff," he said. "Carry on."

She was already carrying on. "Then we come to the payload, the part of the plant that actually bears the resemblance. If it's a root or tuber, you have someone who's sticking their head in the ground, refusing to see reality—"

"Such as the reality that we can't afford to give away freebies," I interrupted.

"Think of it as advertising," Hudson said. "We'd need lots of seeds to distribute across the country, so everyone can grow the government for their own bonfire. Each packet of seeds would have your logo on it, your accompanying brochure, your special offer for an introductory purchase. You'd reach so many people!"

"And alienate half of our existing clients," I said, "who voted for the party that you want to burn."

Hudson raised his hands placatingly. "I can see you're not convinced, but I won't press you." He looked at Harriet and said, "I'll leave you my card, in case you change your mind. There's plenty of time—Bonfire Night isn't till November. It could be a little side-project to occupy any spare moments. I understand that paid work takes priority...."

The showroom door opened, and a woman walked in with a terrier on a long leash. The dog scurried toward us, yapping madly, jumping up onto our legs. I suppressed a smile as it left muddy pawprints on Hudson's pristine jeans.

"Down, Sprocket," cooed the owner. "Oooh, you're so naughty. Aren't you? Aren't you naughty? Yes, you are. Get down!"

Hudson hurried to the door, spluttering his farewells. "Welcome to Ormonde and Chase," I said to the woman, mentally sizing up her clothes and jewelry to figure out her price range.

"I'd like to commission one of your plant portraits," she said. "Can you do dogs?"

"Of course we can do dogs. We can do them in dogwood, if you like." I turned to Harriet. "Can't we, dear?"

Harriet looked at the manic terrier, then back at me, her face devoid of expression. "Yes, I suppose we can."

She put Hudson's business card into her pocket.

When I first met Harriet, she was an administrator by day and an artist by night. She tinkered with plants and grew strange little chimeras: toothwort that looked like fingers, dandelions with smiling faces. I offered to sell a few for her. I didn't expect to make any money, but I wanted an excuse to see her again. I was already charmed by her earnestness, the way she was equally serious when discussing pomonics or ice-cream flavors. She didn't have the irony gene that protects people from having to care about anything.

In those days her signature color was turquoise: she wore bright nail polish, and her earrings had tiny dangling gemstones like captive specks of sky. Sometimes she would dye a turquoise streak into her dark hair.

I had no sense of personal style; I just wore whatever seemed least likely to scare off customers. But Harriet took me round charity shops and showed me all the old fashions, preserved like strata, and she picked out shirts for me that actually had more than one color in them. The customers didn't seem to mind. After all, we didn't sell paper-clips—we sold botanical art. Our looks were as individual as our artworks.

By then I'd dropped my other products to concentrate on Harriet's pomonics, and she'd gleefully abandoned her day job. We became Ormonde and Chase, partners in business and in life. As the orders rolled in, I ploughed the money into more land for gardens and greenhouses.

In retrospect, after seeing the démodé goods in all those charity shops, I should have realized that no fashion lasts forever.

Strolling through the grounds after a long day updating the O&C website, I encountered a forest of prickly cacti with bulbous heads just beginning to develop faces.

I was accustomed to the way the gardens changed each week. Accelerated growth is an essential facet of pomonics, alongside grafts and splices. But I immediately knew that the cacti weren't on our slim list of current commissions.

And our recent orders were conspicuous by their absence. Where was the dog, Samson Rex Sprocket? Where was Mr. Schuster, the companion to Mrs. Schuster that I'd finally persuaded Lorraine to buy?

I searched the nurseries until I found Harriet in one of the greenhouses, smiling as she peered at a batch of seedlings and compared them to the projections on her laptop screen.

I glanced at the seedlings, which were too young to show distinctive features. "What are these?" I asked, trying to make it sound like a neutral question.

"Hi, Travis. These are the prime minister. I've been fine-tuning him for a while, but I think this is the final version. He destroys everything he touches!"

Before I could reply, I suddenly felt queasy and clutched my stomach.

"I've given the plants a subtle odor that creates a sense of disgust," Harriet said. "Whenever people look at him, they want to vomit."

She looked delighted, more enthused than I'd seen her for a long time. I wanted to congratulate her, and leave her to get on with it. Yet I'd seen the latest P&L figures. They were scary—and if we didn't deliver the orders we'd taken, they would become even scarier.

"Harriet, I hate nagging you. But we're running a business here. We need to concentrate on our paying clients."

She sighed. "Believe me, I hate being nagged even more than you hate nagging me. So why don't we just stop doing it?"