The Mammoth Book of SF Stories by Women (41 page)

“This is what I was telling you about,” her mother’s voice whispered through the trees.

She was in a forest now. It was the same one in which she’d played
as a little girl. Clusters of ferns rose up above her, and beyond that the fat trunks of trees and the sheltering fronds of pine and banyan.

“Mother,” she whispered.

“Understand,” Her mother said. “You must open your eyes, Hala.”

“Hala.”

Bayninan’s voice was loud in her ears, waking her once more. She blinked and rolled out of bed in a tangle of blankets and pillows.

“What?” she said.

“There’s
a man here for you,” Bayninan said. “He says his name is Ay-wan.”

She stared up at Bayninan. Her eyes saw her mother still and her ears rang with her mother’s last admonition.

“Who?” She said.

“A man,” Bayninan said. “He said his name is Ay-wan. He says you called for him.”

Was it her imagination or did Bayninan put more emphasis on the word “man”?

“I know him,” Hala said quickly. “Send him
in.”

Of course, there is the business of death and the dying But before that comes the litany of grief

—Rituals of the Once-tribe, compiled records—

“It’s the augmentations,” Ay-wan said.

He had spent the good part of an hour testing her reflexes. He sat opposite her now, his connector plugged into the slot at the back of her neck.

She tried to gauge his thoughts, but ever since his change
it was as if there was a curtain pulled over his emotions.

“What’s wrong with them?” Hala asked.

Ay-wan sighed and disconnected himself.

“You’re breaking down,” he said. “It’s not unexpected but still …”

Hala pushed her hair back into place and breathed out in a huff.

“So impatient,” Ay-wan murmured. “Your augmentations are deteriorating faster than they should. They’re meant to last longer
than human years, but the way yours are going they’ll be corrupted in less than a year.”

“What does that mean?” Hala demanded. “Speak in words that I can understand.”

“You’re dying,” Ay-wan said. “And you’ll be dead before year’s end unless we take out your augmentations.”

“Dying …” Hala’s voice trailed off. She stared at Ay-wan willing him to change his diagnosis.

“We can always remove them,”
Ay-wan said. “They’re not connected to your life support systems.”

“But—” she couldn’t finish.

Without the augmentations she wouldn’t be the Artifact anymore. She wouldn’t be able to access the knowledge that she needed to access. She would lose her ability to chant and to sing and to speak the old language. Would she even remember the steps of the dance once they were taken from her? A chilling
thought came to her. Who would she be if she lost the ability to function as the Artifact?

“It’s not an easy choice,” Ay-wan said.

His fingers rubbed at the edges of his face. The skin there was pulled tight like skin over the surface of a drum.

“When you had your change,” Hala asked. “Was it easy or difficult?”

Ay-wan turned towards her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She met his gaze,
and she flinched at the pain and the loneliness in his eyes.

“I am the last of my people,” Ay-wan said. “This is the suffering I undertake in memory of what once was.”

There have been some side-effects noted. Hallucinations and hysteria are common to those given augmentations. The stronger the blood that runs in the Artifact, the stronger the reaction.

—Augmentations and their Side-Effects,
Medical Journal Suguran Foundation—

“One more appearance this week,” Hala said.

Twice this week, she’d hibernated inside the regeneration egg. Twice, she’d given Bayninan a lie.

“It’s what I always do before and after an appearance,” she’d said.

She didn’t know if Bayninan believed her, but she saw the sadness in her friend’s eyes.

“Where are we going?” Bayninan asked.

“You don’t have to
go,” Hala said.

Bayninan’s lips formed a grim line.

“Didn’t I make myself clear already?” Bayninan said.

Hala avoided Bayninan’s eyes.

“I’m not a child,” she said. “Not an invalid. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Foolish,” Bayninan said. “Who told you that I look at you as a child or an invalid?”

Hala turned away from Bayninan.

“Do what you want,” she said.

Her vision blurred and she caught
herself before she stumbled. Behind her, she heard Bayninan mutter a curse. Then Bayninan’s arms were around her, steadying her and helping her over the threshold.

“Why won’t you share with me?” Bayninan said. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone anymore.”

For a moment, she was tempted to tell Bayninan. How easy it would be to let this warrior be her strength. She flinched and pulled away from
Bayninan’s hands.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just a temporary glitch. Nothing that can’t be resolved.”

She faced herself in the mirror, willing herself to be calm. For tonight, she’d chosen to put on the clothing she’d received on the day of her birth. The skirt had been woven by one of the
foremothers – the patterns more intricate than the patterns on the skirt she normally wore to such gatherings.
There were no enhancements in the cloth, but it wasn’t as if she needed enhancements in her clothing when her entire body hummed and bristled with the arrays installed by the Once-rule.

She brushed her hand over the horsehair that encircled her waist. She could feel the patterns woven into it – subtle figures embossed with skill in the same dark color as the band. Ivory buttons yellowed by age
ran along the length of the belt and dangled down to where the edges of her skirt met and folded over each other.

It was the mark of her class. Out of deference to the Compassionate, she’d donned a vest, but over that, she wore a heavy necklace of bamboo beads and precious bloodstone. She had never worn it before and perhaps it was a sign of her augmentation’s breakdown because when she’d picked
up the necklace, it had burned. An image came into her mind, very sharp and very clear, of her mother wearing the same necklace, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in prayer. Then it faded away. The feeling was like touching the edge of a memory that belonged with the piece. There was a message waiting there, she thought.

“The pod is here.” Bayninan’s voice broke into her thoughts.

She
unclenched her hands and pulled herself away from the haze that beckoned.

“I’m ready,” she said.

She met Bayninan’s gaze. Was it only a few days ago that she’d been filled with such joy at their reunion? Why couldn’t she dredge up even the slightest bit of that emotion now?

“I suppose you don’t want me to be your warrior tonight,” Bayninan said.

There was regret in Bayninan’s smile.

Hala
shook her head, her fingers reaching up to touch the deep red of the blood stones.

“Not tonight,” she said.

Ay-wan’s words haunted her while she shook hands and greeted political dignitaries from Silhouette’s neighbor worlds. There were the ambassadors, clustered together in a circle, their wives dressed in sparkly costumes made up of tiny particles drenched in silver shine or platinum flair.

“This suffering I undertake,”
Ay-wan’s words ghosted around her, overlaid with sorrow. As if the man who had spoken them wanted to say that given a choice, given descendants, he would have chosen something else.

She smiled and shook hands with the Consul from the Once-place named Siargao. An independent island, Siargao had been given the ultimatum to ally themselves with the Empire or risk destruction.
There were tales of a hidden power in Siargao, but they had put up no struggle and signed the treaty.

“Ah,” the Consul said. “So, you are the much spoken of Artifact. One of those rescued from the Chaos that plagued the Once-country, so the Compassionate attaché says. You will honor us with a dance perhaps. Maybe a telling or a showing of what it was like in your country before the Chaos took
it?”

Hala smiled and murmured something noncommittal. It would not be good to offend one of the Empire’s political allies. How she acted here would influence whatever privileges the Once-tribe had wrestled from the Compassionate.

“Never let it be said that we are not kind.” Hala turned at the sound of the Compassionate attaché’s voice.

The smile on his face was hard as glass. All his teeth
showed, chills shot down her spine.

“Artifact Hala,” the attaché said. “You’ve laid a good basis for our work here.”

She couldn’t bring herself to make a civil reply. She tried to speak polite words.

“You will give us a good performance tonight, won’t you?” the attaché continued.

She opened her mouth, her mind flailing about for words.

“I—” she said.

“Yes?” There was a curious look on the
attaché’s face.

“I do this for the Once-tribe,” she said. “In memory of the
Munhawe
and the Mama-oh who are lost to us.”

In memory …

The words wrapped themselves around her like an embrace. The air around her seemed to coagulate into a hazy curtain through which she could see colors and hear snatches of words, music, and laughter.

And then, the gongs were pounding in her ears …

“Artifact,”
a voice pierced through the haze and she blinked and looked up into the face of the blue-haired representative from a place whose name she couldn’t remember.

What he thought when she simply looked at him, she didn’t know. Perhaps he thought she had gone into a trance induced by her boosters. She felt his hand at her elbow, knew he was moving her to where she was more visible.

On display again.

She shook her head at the whisper and tried to focus. Who had said those words? Vicious anger rose up inside her. If this was the Once-country, if this were the Once-tribe, she would demand satisfaction.

Artifact. Relic of a dead tribe.

Her head was pounding again and images superimposed themselves on the present. She could hear the gongs, she could smell the wood smoke. Was this what happened
when one passed through the veils and communed with the spirits?

She lifted her eyes and looked at the expectant faces. Of course, she thought. To see the Artifact, to hear her speak, it was a thing to be spoken of among friends, wasn’t it?

Those patterns are so unique. And her voice, and the chants – of course they all have their own charm. What a unique experience
.

She closed her eyes and
thought of the warm dear faces of her clansisters and her clanbrothers. The gongs were beating and the warriors were dancing down the path of the mountainside. They had come in from the kill, and they bore the heads of the invaders.

Look, sister, they said. We have hunted well, this eve. See this head? How fragrant the locks of his hair are, and how shining and long. But he will look glorious
standing guard at the doorposts of my home. Don’t you think so, sister?

The warrior grinned and passed before her, and the others passed as well, like waves washing over her, dancing down the mountainside bearing sheaves of rice from the harvest. Their feet sure on the steep slopes, the gongs beat a wild rhythm that made her want to dance and chant out loud of victory and challenge and the hunger
to be free.

“Enough!” The roar tore apart her vision.

Around her, the veils shimmered and fell apart. The
Compassionate attaché stood before her, his blue eyes blazing with fury, his body quivering.

“You show us an outrage,” he said.

As if from a very great distance, she heard her reply.

“I show what the spirits say I must show. I speak in remembrance of what has gone before.”

Her vision
blurred. The room whirled around her and before the darkness took her, she heard Bayninan’s voice calling her name, and thought she saw a valiant warrior leaping over the heads of the gathered entourage to gather her into his arms.

“Hala.”

When she was a child, her mother took her to the caves at Sagada. Time had wreaked its havoc on the caves and the Compassionate had taken what was left of
the mummies and the coffins and the bones and sealed them in huge airless capsules that were put on display in various realms where the Empire held sway.

There was very little left to see of what had once been except for holos and vids that played across the cave walls at intermittent intervals. Her mother had taken her deeper into the caves and shining her light on the wall, she’d shown to Hala
where generations of the Once-tribe had placed their mark in protest of the taking of what was theirs by right. There alongside her mother, she’d placed her own mark too. She’d dipped her hands in the pale white matter, a gift of the spirits her mother told her, and laid the imprint of her palms on the walls right under her mother’s own.

“By this the spirits will know you,” her mother said.

She came awake with a gasp.

She was in a room with walls the shade of lemons.

“You’re awake,” a voice said.

She turned.

Bayninan sat beside her bed, worry etched on her face.

She blinked and memory came back to her.

“Oh no,” she groaned. “I messed up. The attaché must be furious.”

“It was rather chaotic for a while,” Bayninan said. “And he was very angry, but I said you hadn’t been feeling
well and the implants were not doing their job – I told him it might be a virus.”

“And he accepted that?” Hala said.

Bayninan tilted her head to one side and smiled.

“I can be very good at persuading people when I want to,” she said. “In the end, they were all very solicitous. The Consul from Siargao insisted that you be accommodated here.”

Hala stared at Bayninan, wondering if her friend
had always been this smooth-talking person with a twinkle in her eye.

“We’re in the newest wing of the Sinuguran Foundation Center,” Bayninan said with a smile.

“Oh no,” Hala cried. “What have you done? We have to get out of here.”

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.