Stories

  Stories

  Ekaterina Sedia

  Ekaterina Sedia resides in the Pinelands of New Jersey. Her new novel, The Secret History of Moscow, was published by Prime Books in November 2007. Her next one, The Alchemy of Stone, will be published in June 2008. Her short stories have sold to Analog, Baen's Universe, Fantasy Magazine, and Dark Wisdom, as well as the Japanese Dreams (Prime Books) and Magic in the Mirrorstone (Mirrorstone Books) anthologies. Visit her at www.ekaterinasedia.com.

  Ekaterina Sedia

  Stories

  Ekaterina Sedia resides in the Pinelands of New Jersey. Her new novel, The Secret History of Moscow, was published by Prime Books in November 2007. Her next one, The Alchemy of Stone, will be published in June 2008. Her short stories have sold to Analog, Baen's Universe, Fantasy Magazine, and Dark Wisdom, as well as the Japanese Dreams (Prime Books) and Magic in the Mirrorstone (Mirrorstone Books) anthologies. Visit her at www.ekaterinasedia.com.

  Ekaterina Sedia resides in the Pinelands of New Jersey. Her new novel, The Secret History of Moscow, was published by Prime Books in November 2007. Her next one, The Alchemy of Stone, will be published in June 2008. Her short stories have sold to Analog, Baen's Universe, Fantasy Magazine, and Dark Wisdom, as well as the Japanese Dreams (Prime Books) and Magic in the Mirrorstone (Mirrorstone Books) anthologies. Visit her at www.ekaterinasedia.com.

  Biolog: Ekaterina Sedia By Richard A. Lovett

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Ekaterina Sedia likes lichens. “They’re like little trees,” she says. That’s because she’s a biologist who did her Ph.D. studying them in New Jersey ’s Pine Barrens.

  To date, however, there haven’t been any lichens in her Analog stories. Instead, they’ve been about genetic engineering, including the popular “Alphabet Angels,” which (coauthored with David Bartell) not only won an AnLab Award, but was her first-ever fiction sale.

  That story appeared in 2005. Since then, she’s only appeared a handful of times in these pages, but she’s published two novels and racked up nearly two dozen short story sales to other publications.

  And she’s not even doing this in her native language. Sedia was born in Russia and didn’t move to the U.S. until 1991. Nor did she grow up reading science fiction. She began with literary mainstream, then shifted when she got older, “because there’s just so much realism you can take.”

  She found that science fiction and fantasy are still basically about the human condition. “But you can put those humans into more interesting situations.”

  One advantage of coming to the field late was that she’d developed a literary taste that she could import into her fiction. “Words matter,” she says. “Style isn’t something separate from a story.”

  As a biologist, she’s struck by the paucity of stories featuring good, plausible biology. “Genetic engineering is generally used like magic,” she says. “It’s the same with nanotechnology. Most people don’t see the limitations.”

  She also likes history. An upcoming novel, The Secret History of Moscow, (due in November) deals with the things every culture sweeps under the carpet. “Basically, it’s history written by the losers,” she says.

  As a Russian, she’s sometimes drawn to darker-than-average stories. “It’s a stereotype,” she says, “but accurate.” Nor is she a fan of technological fixes. Many problems, she believes, are unintended consequences of prior technologies.

  She avoids the pretense of thinking she writes only to entertain. Entertainment is important to her, but it can’t be the only thing. “I recently saw magazine guidelines that said, ‘No agenda stories,’” she says. “All stories are agenda stories. You might not necessarily notice the agenda, but it’s there. Either it’s maintaining the status quo, or challenging it, or approving it, or ignoring it. For me, it’s about acknowledging and questioning the status quo.”

  Copyright (c) 2007 Richard A. Lovett

  Just Chutney

  * * * *

  * * * *

  The story of Cain and Abel has always struck me as odd. It seemed deeper than mere sibling rivalry, grander than a simple murder. Moreover, Cain seemed to be the real victim. What happened to Cain after his marking and exile to the land of Nod? What had become of his sacrifices? And, most importantly, can one fit six recipes for chutneys into a short story?

  * * * *

  EVERY TIME I THINK about my brother I make chutneys, mango or cranberry, mint or date; it doesn’t matter as long as the recipe calls for onions. An old man crying would look too pathetic otherwise. Tears flow down my cheeks, but that’s onions for you.

  Cranberries, fresh and sour, spill around an eviscerated orange like drops of blood. One medium onion and one knob of fresh ginger look on, unmoved for now. They are next. I chop and grate, and drown their misery in vinegar, brown sugar and bourbon. Something tart, something sweet, something bitter. But that’s just chutney for you.

  I let them simmer and bubble, seeping clear liquefied torment; they shrivel as I watch. Heat and time shrivel all, but still we bleed, forever paying for a single sin. The pungent smell of ginger fills my nostrils, erasing the memories of other smells-blood and lamb, metal heated by the sun. I read somewhere that the part of the brain that knows smells is the oldest of them all. I suppose this is why I make chutneys, to flood out every memory I have.

  I cut strips of mangoes, mince garlic, chop apples and onions, my eyes watering all over again. I smell coriander and cardamom, I gut the tamarind and mash its pulp, red as flesh. I measure out the cayenne pepper and taste it. It is hot enough to set my mouth aflame, reminding me of sacrificial fires.

  Why was I the one to be punished? He cut flesh open every day, and the heavy greasy smoke of his sacrifice rose in great sooty puffs heavenward. God found this stench pleasing, but not I. I retched at a hint of it, and collected mint and mustard seeds to smell, to erase the foul taste of burned flesh from my throat. How was I supposed to know that human flesh would not please God? It smelled the same to me.

  I put the bowl with mangoes, apples, vinegar, sugar, onion, garlic, salt, pepper, cinnamon, ginger, raisins, allspice, carrots and cloves into the fridge, to let it all sit, and soak and mingle and swell with misery.

  I put dates in a saucepan and cover them with water, letting them soak. I could speed it up by boiling them, but why hurry? I’m an old man with a birthmark on his face and all the time in the world. I had to learn how to pour my regret and despair into chutney, just to keep my sanity. The trouble with immortality is that you still get old, it just lasts forever.

  I stone the plums, twisting their halves apart. The dark skin rips and gives way to underlying flesh, bright yellow of human fat. I feel nauseous, and only a whiff of ginger and allspice keeps me on my feet. I wish I did not have to remember the sound of my brother’s skin ripping, and my surprise at the yellow grains right under it. I bruise the mustard seeds, releasing their aroma. I simmer the plums in vinegar, sugar, cinnamon and ginger. I need another pan.

  And another onion. I chop it, blinking away hot, pungent tears. I did not want to kill my brother. Even though I remember little, I am certain that I loved him. It was God’s appetite for flesh that made me a murderer. I gave God what I treasured most-and he punished me for the generosity of my sacrifice. He wanted neither my grain nor my brother. I suspect that no sacrifice of mine is going to satisfy him.

  I quarter peaches and apricots, and squeeze lemon juice. It burns through a fresh cut on my palm, and for a moment I forget about everything else, immersed in the present pain. It passes. Cloves, ginger and cinnamon. Sugar and allspice. Nothing nice about it, but that’s chutney for you.

  I grind turmeric and mix it with pitted apricots and chopped onions, with cayenne pepper and grated orange peel. I add coriander and crack w
alnuts. They split, their rough furrowed meat showing between fractured shells. I temper their bitter iodine with vinegar and brown sugar. Poison and acerbity and sweetness. Only salt is missing, and I cry harder. Peaches and apricots bubble, exhaling the aroma of innocence and sun. I smudge my tears and start on coriander chutney.

  Green and red chili peppers are so festive, they remind me of winter, when all is quiet, and I am almost able to believe in a different, nicer God, younger than me. But the smell of coriander and coconuts returns me to a hot, unforgiving place; I can almost see the sun-parched hills. The scents are so primal that I can almost smell the greasy burnt lamb; I imagine my brother’s voice, rising over the din of his herd. I don’t think I will be making mint chutney today.

  Instead, I blend lentils-channa dal and urad dal-with mustard seeds that pop like tiny fireworks. I mince coriander with chili peppers and grated coconut, and add water. Coriander chutney is easy to make, and its bouquet is more complex and bitter than others. It becomes me-I am a bitter old man, my hopes and kindness bled from me over the past eternity. I pay and I pay and I pay for my only crime. That’s justice for you.

  The smells of allspice and ginger and coriander and turmeric and apples and mangoes and raisins and lemons and peaches and cranberries and apricots and onions mingle together in an orgy of fragrance, and leave my apartment through the window, reaching for the sky. I used to sacrifice the fruits of my labor; then I gave the flesh that was most dear to me. Now I sacrifice chutneys, I sacrifice spices and fruit and fragrance and onions and tears. What else can I give? I have no brother anymore. I walk over to the window and look up expectantly, like I do every day, looking for a sign that my sacrifice has finally been accepted. I stand by the window and wait for forgiveness.

  Virus Changes Skin

  * * * *

  The question “Who’s in charge here?” may apply on very large scales…

  Willow Robertson smoothed the skirt over her thighs and perched on the examination table. Her hands gripped the edge, and she spent some time studying them-pale, with the slightest yellow tinge. Like nicotine. Jaundice. Old T-shirt.

  She chased the thought away and instead rehearsed her words for Dr. Margulis. She arranged them carefully in her mind, fearful that the moment she started talking they would scatter like pearls, the string of resolve that tied them together broken.

  She looked out of the window at what used to be tundra just a few decades back and now became the pale scrub of pines and oaks. The sun beat down on the tarmac roads and the haggard town of hastily erected houses, shops, hangars, but people stayed indoors. Not safe. Even the farmers had to work in full protective gear.

  Dr. Margulis entered the examination room, and as she walked she flipped through Willow ’s chart, skimming every childhood hurt (appendectomy at six, a leg broken on the monkey bars at ten), every adolescent embarrassment (laser removal of acne scars at fifteen, corrective eye surgery at seventeen), and every adult self-denial (tubal ligation at twenty-four, breast reduction at twenty-eight).

  “What can I do for you?” Dr. Margulis said.

  Willow gripped the edge of the table harder, watching the half moons on her nails pale into white. “My mother died last week.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” Dr. Margulis’s face folded along the well-worn lines into a habitual grimace of sympathy. Every doctor Willow had ever seen had that prefab expression, and these days their faces assumed it almost automatically. Too much cancer. Too much sun.

  “It’s all right,” Willow said. “I mean, she was in her eighties.” And answered the unspoken question, “I was a late child. Anyway, since my parents are gone now, I would like my alterations reversed.”

  “Your skin?” The doctor did not hide her surprise.

  “Yes. And hair. I understand why my parents did it to me, they wanted me to have a better shot at getting ahead, but now I can do what I want. Right?”

  “Of course. It’s just… what are your coworkers going to say?”

  Willow shrugged. She did not have an answer to that. People’s opinions mattered less to her with each passing year.

  “Don’t you like being the way you are?”

  “I don’t hate it,” Willow said. “But my parents did not ask me about it. They just had it done. And when I was little, I could not understand why I was a different color than they, and why they wouldn’t come to my school plays. And I was angry that they didn’t ask me. And they said that they didn’t want me to change color when I was grown up-people would wonder, they said. You’d never pass then; someone will always remember that you used to be black.”

  Dr. Margulis raised her eyebrows and gave a sigh of resignation. I’m not going to argue with that, her demeanor said, I have better things to worry about. “Fine. The receptionist will schedule you for some time next week. I’ll prepare your inoculation.”

  “Oral?”

  The doctor nodded. “A very simple one. A single gene that will release the suppressors on your melanin genes.”

  “And hair,” Willow reminded softly.

  “And hair. You’ll have to shave your head, of course, and your new hair will grow with your original keratin structure. Anything else?”

  “How long will it take?”

  “For hair, a few weeks. For skin-it will be gradual. As your old cells slough off, the new ones will have a heavy pigmentation. The virus will target the skin cells only.” The doctor spoke with obvious pride in her ability to communicate complex information in simple terms.

  “Thanks,” Willow said. As she was leaving the examination room, she heard Dr. Margulis say, “What are you trying to achieve?”

  “I don’t know,” Willow said and closed the door behind her.

  It was true, she didn’t. Color did not equal culture, and that was one thing that she had lost and could never reclaim. She still would be a white person, even if her skin turned the deepest shade of sienna. But she owed it to her mother to at least look like her.

  * * * *

  Willow was growing impatient-two weeks after she took the viral pill, her skin tone deepened only a little. Still, people noticed. She saw heads turn as she walked from her apartment complex-a new ugly building made even uglier by the massive solar panels on the roof-to work.

  “You really shouldn’t be out in the sun,” Andre, her coworker at the Corn Institute, said. “Skin cancer is no joke.”

  Willow rolled her eyes. “If you’re done stating the obvious, do you mind looking over these data with me?” She spread the sequencer printout on the lab bench and rifled through the reference library of plant genomes. “Does this look right to you?”

  Andre tugged on his upper lip. “Nope,” he said. “Which strain is it from?”

  “IC5. The dwarf.”

  Andre’s face lit up. “I love that strain. They’re so cute.”

  Willow smiled too. Everyone at the Institute anthropomorphized corn; Willow used to find it ridiculous when she first started here, but now it seemed natural. And this corn was cute-tiny plants, no taller than wheat, with a spray of succulent leaves and thick robust stems, burdened by ears bigger than the rest of the plant.

  “Anyway,” Andre continued. “They’re not stable yet, so shit like this is to be expected. Did you find this mutation in the library?”

  “Uh huh, only it’s not from corn. It’s a cauliflower gene.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “See for yourself.” Willow moved the sheaf of papers toward Andre. “See? This is all corn, but this little bugger is cauliflower. Except for this G and that A.”

  Andre nodded. “Don’t tell me. We used the cauliflower mosaic virus as a vector for this one.”

  Willow did not comment on stating the obvious. Instead, she thought of the viruses-always multiplying, always mutating-especially in Alaska, so close to the polar ozone hole. The rest of the country was even worse off, with its scorched land and tepid oceans, with its heat and dust storms, but here… Willow shook her head. Not
even glass and cement of the Institute could keep them contained.

  “What?” Andre said.

  “Do you ever think that viruses made us bring them here?”

  He stared at her, unsure whether she was joking. “Made us bring them here how?”

  “By making us smart. Too smart for our own good, so we messed up everything, and the viruses are our only hope, and we put them into every living thing, we give them new genes to carry around from organism to organism, we make UV radiation so high that they mutate like there’s no tomorrow.” She bit her tongue.

  “Viruses made us smart?”

  “Why not? We use them to make things better, to shuffle genes about. They could’ve done it on their own. The unseen force of evolution.”