The Mammoth Book of SF Stories by Women (68 page)

While your puppet-self fulfills her part you wander Krungthep one last time, exerting the sinews of memory. A chedi’s curve, the green spikes of a durian at market, half of Pridi Panomyong’s face from the monument at your campus. The pieces of city their programs have rubbed out.

The launch wrenches at you, for you are everything – disease
and vector – and it almost sweeps you away, shattering you in pieces and distributing them across the grid: that will complete the infection, finalize the murder.

Traffic has always been potentially two-way. They had to leave it so to operate and manipulate you. Now you tear that path into
a wound, and what flies free is not their erasing of Krungthep, their unraveling of the dream-grid. It is
their future laid bare. A hemorrhage of classified data and logistics, maps of where they’re strong and where they’re weak – the weapons they have, the weapons they don’t have; what survives of their country and what does not. There will be no war for them to win.

They shut everything down: too late. That opening was all anyone needed, and at the other end there are waiting hands on machines
which reel in and gather the data you’ve unspooled. Data that can be used to keep Krungthep alive. Data that can be sold, for that’s the game everyone must play, now.

You imagine farang men yanking out cords, slamming down on circuit breakers with fists suddenly sweat-wet. You imagine them howling, animal panic.

The casket opens; the liquids buoying you pour out in a briny flood and the puppet
of your skin sags on knees that no longer work. They tear it out, to end your dreams of home and bring you death.

There is light, and you laugh.

CONCERNING THE UNCHECKED GROWTH OF CITIES

Angélica Gorodischer

translated by Ursula K. Le Guin

The storyteller said:They gave all kinds of names to it, they made up all kinds of origins for it, and all of them were false. The names were mere inventions of obscure, scheming little men whose sole ambition was to get one step higher on a miserable official ladder or obtain a place among the palace
lickspittles or a little extra money to satisfy some petty vanity. And the origins were laborious artifacts constructed to display some influential personage as a descendant of the hero who was supposed to have founded it in a fit of divine madness. Lighthouse of the Desert, it was called, and Jewel of the North; Star, Mother, Guide, Cradle. All those words, which you will have noticed are closely
related, were worked up into pompous, hollow descriptions. Thus, the younger brother of Ylleädil the Great, starving and half frozen, pursued by the men who had dethroned the Warrior Emperor, coming to the foot of the mountains unsheathed the imperial sword in order to take his own life, but instead of plunging the blade into his heart he thrust it into the ground and cried, “Here shall arise
the new capital of the new Empire!” – That’s one of the stories. Or it’s a helpless maiden who came to that same place, where the Spring of the Five Rivers still rises, and dug with her hands in the rainwet dirt and made a well and buried herself alive in the mud mixed with her own blood, rather than allow a lascivious emperor to dishonor her. Usually the emperor is not named, though sometimes a
name is daringly mentioned, all perfectly plausible, since
there was no lack, indeed a steady supply, of lascivious gentlemen on the imperial throne. But this particular emperor, they insist, repented – already we’re losing credibility – and raised a monument to the girl who had slipped through his fat fingers; moreover he provided housing for the people who looked after the monument. Others frown,
cough, raise their eyes to Heaven and explain how Ylleranves the Philosopher, also called the Nose, not for the organ that grows in the middle of the faces of commoners and emperors alike but for sticking his in where it didn’t belong – how Ylleranves recognized the place as the location of the Garden of Perfect Beauty told of in mystical books, and sought to build there a perfect city inhabited
by a new and perfect generation who would regain the Golden Age of mankind. Of course the Nose didn’t have time to achieve all this since he was still young when his bodyguards cut him into ribbons and gave the imperial throne to Legyi the Short, who was no worse than Ylleranves because it would have been hard to be a worse emperor than the Nose, but who was just about as bad, although he and
the Empire both had a bit of good luck when he married an energetic, intelligent, fairminded woman. Yes, gentlemen, yes: the Empress Ahia Della, who left the Empire sons, grandsons, great-grandsons as just and sensible as herself, to everybody’s great relief.

All these works of the imaginative inventions unfortunately got into chronicles, which were made into books which everybody respected and
believed, principally because they were thick, hard to hold, tedious, and old. And they got into legends, those tales that everybody says they don’t believe in because they can’t take them seriously, and that everybody believes in precisely because they can’t take them seriously. And they were sung in ballads, which are insidious because they pass so easily about town squares and the ports and
the dance halls. And none of it was true, none of it, none of the romantic origins, none of the melodious and fantastical names.

I’m the one who can tell you what really happened, because it’s the storyteller’s job to speak the truth even when the truth lacks the brilliance of invention and has only that other beauty which stupid people call mean and base.

You see the city? You see it now, as
it stands? It starts up from the plain, all of a piece, the backs of the houses turned to what was
a desert. It has no great gates, no battlements or towers or encircling walls. Enter one of the holes in it – a street – and climb. Seen from above, the city’s an irregular many-colored square peppered with dark points, bright points at night. The streets and buildings and balconies and façades are
all mixed up together, factories stand next to mansions, shops next to embassies. Very few of its inhabitants know all its streets and ways. I won’t go so far as to say it’s a labyrinth. If I had to describe it in a few words, I’d say: A colony of fear-crazed ants, escaping from a ferocious spider, build a hiding place. They climb straight up the mountain, with a desperate rashness not lacking
in vainglory. They lay their foundations on stone or sand, it doesn’t matter: the point is to go up, up as far as possible. They succeed, as you might expect. The mountains are buried under walls, balconies, terraces, parks; a square slants down, separated from a steep drop by stone arcades; the third floor of a house is the basement of another that fronts on the street above; the west wall of a government
building adjoins the ironwork around the courtyard of a school for deaf girls; the cellars of a functionary’s grand mansion become the attics of a deserted building, while a cat-flap, crowned with an architrave added 200 years later, serves as a tunnel into a coalhole, and a shelf has become the transept for a window with golden shields in the panes, and the skylight doesn’t open on the
sky but on a gallery of waterwheels made of earthenware. A street that winds now up, now down, ends abruptly in a widow’s garden; a marketplace opens into a temple, and the cry of the seller of copper pots blends with the chants of the priest; the windows of a hospital ward for the dying open onto an ex-convict’s grog shop; the druggist has to cross the library of the Association of Master Stevedores
in order to take a bath; a curly palm growing in the office of a justice of the peace reaches outside the building through a gap in the stonework. There are no vehicles because nothing wider than a man’s shoulders can get through the streets, which means that fat people and people carrying big loads have a terrible time even getting to the butcher’s to buy some nice tender lamb for next day’s
dinner.

And it wasn’t founded by the sword of a hero nor the sacrifice of a virgin, and it never was called Queen of the Dawn. Down there in the catacombs, currently painted with glow-in-the-dark
colors, where dissolute teenagers dance and people who’re going to die get drunk – down there, when the Empire was young and struggling to unite, lived outlaws, smugglers, and assassins; and from there
a mule-path led over the mountains and across the marshes to cities and towns where these gentlemen practiced their noble professions. Alas for the wretched beauty of the truth!

A bit up the hill from the mouth of the catacombs stood a palace belonging to a person you’ve all heard of though you don’t know anything about him: Drauwdo the Brawny. It wasn’t really a palace but a big, ill-shaped,
lopsided shed, wide and low-roofed, windowless, with an opening on the south side that you had to crawl into on all fours, a huge fireplace inside, and all round it a ditch filled with sharpened stakes pointing upward.

Drauwdo was stupid, cruel, ignorant, and vain, and these qualities caused his downfall. Yet in his own way he was strong and valiant, and these qualities brought him briefly and
violently to the top. He captained the outlaws and assassins; and around him, though not thanks to him, a ragged band took shape that used assault and murder to get what they wanted – clothes, food, furniture, gold – above all, gold. The chief handed out rewards, a woman, an extra handful of jewels, a piece of land. And his followers imitated the chief and built stone houses, if you can call them
houses, though most of the bunch went on huddling in the caves and tunnels.

One of the not-uncommon learned and progressive emperors one day leaned over a map of the Empire and by one banal gesture ended the ascendancy of Drauwdo the Brawny, the stupid, the vain, the cruel, the in-his-own-way valiant.

“Here,” the emperor said, and put his manicured, bejeweled finger on a spot on the coastline
of a cold and foggy sea far to the north. He looked at his engineers and geologists and the captains of his merchant marine and went on, “If we build a port here, transporting merchandise to the east will be much quicker and cheaper.”

So the engineers and geologists set to work, the ship-captains waited, and Drauwdo, though he didn’t know it, was doomed.

They laid out a road from the far-off
capital to the mountains, and Brawny’s bandits rushed happily forth from their stone houses and catacombs and killed the foremen and the workmen
and robbed them of the little they had. Drauwdo congratulated his men and divided the loot equally among them. You see now why I called him stupid.

The emperor said, “Bandits?”

And a little captain, not particularly brave but not at all stupid, having
received orders from a colonel who had received them from a general who had received them from a minister who had them from the emperor’s own lips, readied an ambush and, in three hours, without wrinkling his uniform or losing a man, disposed of Drauwdo and his assassins, his followers, his cavemen, and his smugglers – every last one of them, as he believed, and as he informed his superior officers;
which accelerated his rise in the shock troops and also considerably hastened the hour of his death.

But in fact one of Drauwdo’s men had escaped, fleeing in time to hide himself in the deepest caves. Oh, well, he wasn’t even a man; he was a kid they called Foxy, a prentice bandit, an insignificant leech, born and raised in the sewers of some city. Under Drauwdo he’d had nothing but dirty jobs
to do and got slapped around and laughed at. But when the heads of Drauwdo and the other outlaws appeared along the road under construction, stuck on pikes, rotting in the sun, crawling with green-gold flies, there was Foxy’s head still stuck on his own neck, thinking the kind of thoughts such a head has learned to think.

The road went round the mountains, crossed the plain, and cut across the
marshes, which were drained and made fertile. The port was built, ships arrived, loaded wagons rolled along the way, and Foxy sat in the mouth of a cave and waited.

By the time the illustrious emperor died and was succeeded by his even more illustrious son, the cave was empty and nobody sat waiting in its dark mouth. But just below, on the roadside, were inns, eating-houses, hostelries, and shops
that sold axles, wheels, reins, fodder, cloaks, everything a wagon-driver might need. The owner of all this was a thin, dark, close-mouthed man with a foxy face, who had begun by selling wild fruit to the road-workers and had quickly made a fortune. He was called Nilkamm, a Southern name, but a name all the same, and he sat behind the desk of the principal inn watching his guests come and go,
keeping an eye on his employees, calculating whether it would pay to build another
hotel a bit farther on, maybe on the hillside, one with a lot of rooms and a terrace on the flat, and bring in some women from the capital.

And when the young empress bore her second child, a daughter, Princess Hilfa of the unlucky name and unlucky life, Mr. Nilkamm’Dau was president of the Chamber of Commerce
of his city, married to the widow of a magistrate from the capital, living in a big house built on foundations of stones from the misshapen houses of Drauwdo the Brawny’s followers; and the bawdy houses, the gambling houses, and the dubious hostelries had, nominally, another owner.

It was now, by the way, a city: a city with wide but crooked streets that led to no port, no beach, no viewpoint,
only to other crooked streets that ended in a dilapidated wall or an empty lot strewn with rubbish. There were more starving cats than there were glossy ponies with silver-mounted harness; there were more suicides than schoolmasters, more drunks than mathematicians, more cardsharps than musicians, more travelling salesmen than storytellers, more snake-charmers than architects, more quacks than poets.
And yet, ah yet! it was a restless city, a city that was looking for something and didn’t know quite what, like all adolescents.

It found what it was looking for, of course, found it with interest, as it got it all and lost it all and got it back and was the Jewel of the North and the Mother of the Arts and the Travellers’ Lighthouse and the Cradle of Fortune; as the legends grew of the unlucky
heroes and persecuted virgins and wise visionaries and all that stuff, sublime, incredible, ridiculous, fake.