Writers of the Future, Volume 28 (54 page)

T
he meeting chamber on Crab’s boat was partly filled. The “Others,” as the non-Chinese had begun to be known, sat despondently on the floor and were guarded by the Shen, under Lu Ping, with guns drawn. One by one the members of the Kumas tong entered the room with their prizes, first Adam, disheveled and with a swelling, black eye, then Crab, carried by two of the Chinese. They propped him up where he stood, mostly on one leg, the other bleeding from the thigh.

“Now, Crab,” Madam Woo said. “I’ll have the chips.”’

“No,” he said.

One of his guards raised a hand to strike him, but Madam Woo stopped him with a gesture.

“I do not know what games you play with your little experiments, but are they worth your life
?
”

“If you kill me you will never find the key to that door, and, believe me, you won’t open it without the key or a bomb.”

“On the contrary, I’ll open it with a single bullet or, perhaps, three or four. Is it worth it, Crab, to see all your friends die, one at a time
?
I will bring each one before you and explain to them that you could save them, merely by producing a small key. Then I’ll put a bullet in their head and bring the next one before you—until you produce the key and the chips.”

“For God’s sake, give her what she wants,” said one of the Indonesians. “What can be so important that we all die
?
”

“You see, your friends understand the wisdom of my position.”

“No, they don’t,” said Crab.

“Oh, I think they understand all they need to. They will die because of your stubbornness.”

“The chips are not his to hand over,” a loud, ragged voice said from the doorway.

“Liyang!” cried Adam.

All eyes turned to her. She held her revolver extended in front of her with both hands, which were skinned and bleeding. Her hood was missing, and her hair was wild. Her P-suit was torn. She panted for breath.

“Move out of the way, Crab,” said Liyang.

“I’ll kill him,” said Madam Woo, pressing her pistol against the back of Crab’s head.

“I am an expert marksman,” said Liyang, her voice trembling with emotion. “I am so angry, I could kill you no matter what happens in this room. You left me to die like a rat in that pipe.”

“But look around you. All our guns, against yours.”

One of the Kumas turned his gun on her, but Liyang’s shot rang so quickly that it seemed her gun never left Madam Woo.

The man fell, a bullet in his head, and everyone seemed to hold their breath.

“Shen tong! Guns on the Kumas!” It was Lu Ping, and almost half the Chinese turned their guns on the members of the Kuma tong. The Kumas wavered, not seeming to know where to point their guns.

“It seems the Shen want to play, too.” Liyang’s voice was stronger than she felt. “Back off. Take your men with you.”

“You should have been on my side, Liyang. I saw you were strong from the beginning.”

Crab finally spoke. “None of that matters now. It is abundantly clear that both Madam Woo and I will die if there is an exchange of gunfire—along with some of you. Perhaps we should all simply back away.”

“No.” Madam Woo’s jowls quivered as she raised her chin. “You have something I want. I have something you want.” She shoved her gun again against Crab’s head. “We make exchange, then back away.”

“You monster!” Liyang was nearly screaming. “There is no exchange for what you did to me. I could kill you right now.”

“There are too many of us,” said Madam Woo hurriedly. Her voice took on an edge of fear. “If we all fire, there will still be Chinese left who will take your chips.”

“I don’t bluff,” said Liyang, “and it doesn’t matter how many are left. You won’t be among them.”

Liyang’s mind tumbled. She both sensed that she was out of control, but at the same time calculated that her wild looks and near hysteria might be enough to frighten Woo.

“Do it,” said a subdued Woo.

Liyang turned so that she could see everyone in the room. “All right, both tongs start backing off. Madam Woo will be last.”

Madam Woo nodded.

Lu Ping nodded.

Slowly, and with extreme caution, the Chinese began backing toward the door. Those on the far side of the room carefully stepped over the body of the Kuma member Liyang had shot. In the silence, it seemed as if the least noise might set off a deadly chain reaction. Long minutes ticked away as one by one the Chinese reached the stairs and began their ascent.

Then Lu Ping reached the door.

“I go, now, too,” Madam Woo said. She released Crab, lowered her gun, and defiantly turned her back on Crab and the others as she walked away.

“Lu Ping,” said Liyang, making eye contact with him. She nodded slightly.

Madam Woo looked up, realizing her peril too late. Lu Ping shot three times in rapid succession. Madam Woo jerked with the first shot, clutched her chest and then fell forward to the floor.

Lu Ping didn’t move, his gun still pointed at Madam Woo. “Thank you, Liyang,” he said and looked up. “Crab, there is much to settle. You have been good to us. I grant you one boon of the tong.”

“I don’t know . . .” stammered Crab.

“If I may,” said Adam.

Crab looked at him.

“We should divide the island. Neither of us will cross the central ridge without the consent of the other.”

“Agreed. I’ll send men for the two bodies.” And with that he turned and disappeared up the stairwell.

“Liyang,” Adam said. “I thought it was you who shot her until I saw his gun recoil.”

“No, it is how the tongs work. He had to kill her. It was the only way.”

D
ec. 10, 2109. OSLO, Norway—“Your Majesties, Your Royal Highness, Distinguished Members of the Norwegian Nobel Committee, citizens of the world:

“Before I present the award, I am pleased to announce that at 2:00 AM this morning, Norwegian time, the final anchor was set for Crab’s Island. It now resides north of the Bering Strait in international waters where it joins with real icebergs but, itself, remains inert. In two years, Adam’s Island will be berthed off the shore of northeast Greenland, and two years after that, by international agreement, Liyang’s Island will be berthed in Ross Sea, Antarctica. It is estimated that sixty to seventy percent of the oceans’ plastic will be contained in these three masses.

“Seldom can a few people, without the help of governments and huge subventions, make a dramatic difference in the world. The pollution by plastic of the oceans, considered at one time to be unsolvable, has been largely reversed by the dogged persistence of these three individuals. Braving threats to their persons, dangers of nature, chemical hazards and years of extreme isolation, they persisted in the dream first laid out by Dr. Param Rajkrab, and realized by his followers, Dr. Adam Thompson and his wife, Liyang Thompson.”

After the applause, Liyang stepped haltingly to the podium. Her shoulders were bent, her white hair pulled back in a bun. Her eyes were alert, although her voice trembled.

“I am so sorry that Adam and Crab did not live long enough to see this day. They are the ones who deserve to receive this prize and not posthumously. I was the least of them. As a young woman, I started out a member of a Chinese drug cartel, and forty-five years later my journey has brought me here. No one is more amazed than I.”

Insect Sculptor

written by

Scott T. Barnes

illustrated by

JOHN W. HAVERTY JR.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in San Diego, California, Scott T. Barnes spent most of his early life working on the family farm in the mountain town of Julian, raising apples, cut flowers (lilacs and lily of the valley) and beef cattle. Most of these products he sold from his family’s roadside produce stand.

Scott wanted to be a writer from an early age and wrote his first 60-page “novel” about skeleton warriors and a flaming sword at age 11 on an old manual typewriter. He has photos of evening typing sessions in his pajamas to prove it, though the original manuscript has been lost.

On her thrice-yearly shopping trips to San Diego, Scott’s mom would leave him at the mall bookstore for hours, knowing she could later find him in the science fiction section reading everything he could reach. Scott spent his twenties and thirties getting a BA in journalism and Spanish and an MBA and working in such disparate places as Mexico City, Mexico and Paris, France. He spent far too much time studying flamenco guitar and kenjitsu rather than writing.

Now settled in Orange County, California, Scott finally developed the discipline to write every week come rain, shine or children. His first goal was to be accepted into Odyssey, the Fantasy Writing Workshop, which he accomplished in 2008. That program helped develop his writing to the point where he could accomplish his second goal, win the Writers of the Future Contest.

Today Scott is a stay-at-home dad with his children Elizabeth, 3, and Kaylynn, 1. He edits the online magazine
NewMyths.com
and recently completed the fourth-grade illustrated reader
Rancho San Felipe
with award-winning illustrator Sarah Duque, to be published by the Wieghorst Western Heritage Center in September 2012.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

John W. Haverty Jr. was born October 2, 1986, in Boston, Massachusetts, and grew up in Marion, a small town on the state’s south shore. He studied and earned his BFA at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

Before reaching his twenty-third birthday, he managed to visit and experience thirty-four countries spread throughout five continents. These experiences abroad helped shape and influence the diverse body of work that he currently illustrates and paints. Since receiving his degree, Haverty has lived and worked on painting in Martha’s Vineyard and Memphis, Tennessee. Lately, his larger-than-life illustrated works are being exhibited in a number of galleries throughout the United States. Haverty now resides in the historical city of Savannah, Georgia, where he is earning his MFA in painting at the Savannah College of Art and Design.

Insect Sculptor

I
arrived at the Hive cabaret in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire an hour before my audition. My only luggage, a day bag, leaned against the silver valise-insectarium marked Adam Clements. The sidewalk whirred with native people, legitimate businessmen, pickpockets, whoonga pushers barking in French and tourists of all stripes. Music blared from a divertissquirt shop. The chaos reflected perfectly my mood.

Anxiety.

I had been rehearsing the interview ever since I left Vancouver, B.C.—twenty-nine hours with layovers. I worried through another hour in an old 2038 BMW taxi that coughed at every intersection.

What would the Great Gajah-mada, the greatest insect sculptor in the world, want with me
?
More importantly, how could I hide the fear-wall that denied my progress
?

A charming outdoor café sat opposite the performers’ entrance. Further down rue Gagous the Hive’s curved-glass front bordered a fine plaza where two-meter-long bronze scorpions shot water from their claws into shallow pools. Children played in the water. Mothers in bright sarongs gossiped.

I finished my gin and tonic and ordered another, courage in a glass. My father’s voice sounded in my head. “The Clements have always been engineers. Just get the degree.”

No, I would not be shackled by a nine-to-five. I would return home triumphant, free from my father, free from mediocrity.

A grifter in a white shirt rolled up at the elbows picked up his coffee and sat down next to me. His arms were chocolate, his face tanned to black coffee. “You are waiting for her
?
And so handsome. I know I have no chance. And yet I wait.”

At five-foot-nine with mousy hair and features characterized by my sister as “knobs and bumps,” I rarely thought of myself as handsome. At one time, perhaps, I imagined my gray eyes resembled Humphrey Bogart’s. But at twenty-six, I had lost many illusions.

Three Vespas whined by. The grifter slurped on his coffee. “I cannot afford to see her inside the club. A month’s salary for one show!”

His words began to intrigue me. Who had he fallen in love with
?
A waitress, I decided. They would be gorgeous and willing to indulge this gray-haired slouch for a generous tip. Poor soul. I signaled the waitress and bought him a coffee. “I am a sculptor. I seek an apprenticeship for the winter season.”

“Show me something. It will help pass the time until she comes.”

“You have seen the Great Gajah-mada
?
”

He looked surprised. “No one sees the Great Gajah-mada. But I have seen his best work. Many times.”

I did not know how to take this. But I hoped the demonstration would divert me from my inner turmoil. I put the diadem-like control circlet upon my head, plugging the computer-amplifier into the socket behind my ear. My termites immediately took note, lining up at the insectarium’s door.

I linked.

My mind loosened from its moorings, the neo-cortex’s logical prison, and became a blue mist above collections of insect will. My subconscious imagery portrayed these collections as vibrating, sea-green gel caps. If I descended a little further, if I wrapped myself around those gel caps I could lose myself. Indeed, rapture is the biggest danger of insect sculpture—to fall so deeply into the insect consciousness that you have no desire to leave. You become a worker, a soldier, a queen. Pheromones become gods.

I approached the gel caps. A rumble filled my ears, a wall of mental noise between gel caps and mist. My deepest consciousness—deeper than the cerebral peduncle that interfaced with the bugs—feared rapture beyond all things. That was my weakness, my fear-wall. Unlike the best performers, I could not smell through the termites’ antennae. I had never experienced multifaceted vision.

The other patrons shuffled their chairs into a semicircle. I snapped open the insectarium’s insulated door and my termites crawled onto the table to seek the configuration I held in my mind.

An elephant.

The brown winged termites crawled over each other like Keystone Cops, building, climbing, falling and building again until the sculpture rose eight inches. They settled. They smoothed their wings. The men around me stopped talking.

I had the elephant turn its head and wiggle its ears, and balls of insects threw themselves out of the trunk like balls spit from a clown’s mouth. I did not try to make the elephant walk. That was beyond my skill.

“It would be fine work anywhere else,” the brown-armed man said, as the termites returned to their home. “But here in Abidjan . . .” He placed a consoling hand on my shoulder. “If Isabella teaches you, you could be great. Oh, look.”

The woman paused at the doorway: long legs, green-and-white sun skirt swishing against them, a white blouse, a stylish straw hat with yellow ribbon shadowing her face, her braided hair spilling out the back. She paused with one hand over the door’s reader, turned and crossed the pavement with a confident stride. She looked every inch a model . . . or a Maasai warrior.

Her eyes, topaz and delicate like lacewings, flirted with mine. “Mister Adam Clements, I recognize you from your brochures. You took an early flight.”

My companion held his breath, but those lacewing eyes did not even flicker in his direction.

She took my hand in a firm, dry handshake. The bumps on her face (measles
?
chicken pox
?
) did little to diminish her allure. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Isabella Mada, the Hive’s director. Come with me.”

I followed Isabella across the street, rolling the insectarium, wondering how I had gotten my day bag in my hands. I could have easily left it behind, so intoxicating did I find her. I glanced at the man who had shared my table and he looked back sorrowfully, scooted his chair and shuffled down the street.
In the open door, I looked back again. Every table was deserted, half a dozen men disbursed, fading into the asphalt. A minor play finished. They, too, had been waiting for Isabella.

T
he nondescript side door led directly into the black box, a sound stage with black walls roughly 150 feet long by 75 wide—the same dimensions as the theater’s main stage.

We passed through double doors into an empty corridor, then into the stage shop where half-repainted props, cans of paint and a pile of lumber attested to preparation for the coming show. One of many doors led to Isabella’s office. She held it open.

Her warmth radiated through her thin cotton blouse as I squeezed past. An expansive walnut desk with a glass top dominated the room. Monitors above the door showed the empty main stage and dining area of the cabaret with its red décor and circular tables.

A black leather and wood armchair beckoned. I sat with my back to the door.

Seeing the plaque on her desk I read, “
Theater Director.
But what of the Great Gajah-mada
?
”

“He is the chief attraction, but I am the director.”

“Won’t I see him
?
” I shuffled my feet.

“We are here to see what you can do, Mister Clements. Afterwards your questions.”

I swallowed my disappointment. He had been my hero since I was a boy, and now I might not even get to see him.

We discussed my background and my work for the British Columbia Repertory Theater. But of course, the demonstration counted for all. On the glass-topped walnut desk, I created several works, including the elephant. Each time I began, Isabella’s beautiful brown eyes grew wide, hopeful and then narrowed as I failed to deliver. My chest sagged as the minutes toiled by.

Finally, she put both hands palm up on the desk in invitation. “Adam, stop holding back. Art is about releasing your inner self.”

She sees through me. She knows I am afraid.

I clenched my jaw until my teeth hurt, using the pain to get centered. I dropped my palms into hers, feeling a roughness that told of a life not always in the arts. Her bones settled into place, her grip firmed up and then within my circlet I felt a warm, lilac presence.

But not a woman’s presence. A multiple of intrusions, as if Isabella herself were compartmentalized. The termite minds quickened, became more eager.

“Your best work, Adam. Breathe deeply.”

I created a “green man” image, bearded wise man with billowing robe, leaves in his hair and snarled roots for feet.

My ears buzzed softly as the fear-wall tried to assert itself.

“Adam, do you believe insects subservient to their handler
?
”

It was difficult to hold the image and talk. Had she so mastered the insect psyche as to be indistinguishable from it
?
I managed, “Yes. Yes, I suppose. They do what I tell them.”

“Each with its role, like cells in a body.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

I could feel her probing the gel caps, the clusters of insect consciousnesses manifesting in the circlet. Everything felt . . . paired. We descended closer and closer, beyond my normal limits.

My fear grew to a rumble. The more I tried to banish it, the more assertive it became. My concentration wobbled. Isabella tightened her grip.

“You tell them exactly where to go
?
How to link their legs with their neighbors’ legs and flutter their wings so that the hair seems alive
?
”

The termites began to move their wings until it appeared that wind whipped across the green man. Wave followed wave. The hair and beard danced. I had never before seen such unity of purpose.

I looked from the startling image to Isabella. “Yes, yes.”

The fluttering became fierce and chaotic. A gale. It roared through the room.

No, not through the room. Through my head. My fear-wall battered the mist of my concentration.

Isabella’s temples tightened. “This is incorrect. You must understand that insects follow because they
want
to follow. They thrill to touch the sculptor’s mind, which must be as great to them as God’s mind is to our own. The
master
forces his insects to work.” She withdrew her hands. The fluttering stopped. “The
performer
rejoices in them.”

Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. I wanted to retort, to stomp out, to hide my face . . .

I kept my expression neutral and sent the termites back to the insectarium.
If Isabella can do this, what can the Great Gajah-mada do
?

She watched the emotions flicker behind my irises. “You have come a long way, Adam. I’m sorry it won’t work out.”

I stuttered. My father reared up in my mind’s eye, waving a diploma. “I—I came to apprentice to the Great Gajah-mada. I will apprentice to him or not at all.”

You can’t destroy my dreams like this!

Her left index finger tapped the glass desktop. I heard props being moved in the scene shop, low voices speaking.

Slowly, deliberately, she took an envelope from the top drawer and passed it to me. “I’m afraid that is impossible. Come to the show tonight as my guest.” The door opened behind me and a silent workman took me by the arm. “You have talent, Adam. But we seek greatness. I’m sorry.”

The worker led me through the black box and outside. In the sunlight on rue Gagous, I opened the envelope to find a ticket to the night’s performance.

Folded around it a typed note read:

Thank you for your interest in this position. After careful consideration, we have determined that your qualifications do not match our needs.

—The Great Gajah-mada.

T
he room recalled an old-fashioned cabaret: deep red curtains, elaborate wooden chairs around tables with red velvet tablecloths, a wall of expensive bottles backlit in soft light behind a polished mahogany bar. The waitresses wore silver-lined flapper dresses cut unevenly to the knee, suggestive (incorrectly) that there might be paid ladies waiting upstairs.

This was not a theater but rather a cabaret where audience participation was encouraged. Fried calamari and skewered beef were served. For a thousand francs, giant aphids would solicit patrons to lick a honey-like paste from their posteriors.

I had hoped for a room full of morose applicants. Instead, the patrons squealed when someone tried the aphids, or a fried scorpion or any of a dozen bug-themed delicacies. They giggled with anticipation.

It can’t be that good.

Most wore the silk shirts and European-cut dresses de rigueur for the nouveau riche. The tourists, dressed in wrinkled casual dress, pointed and gossiped in eager bunches. Two or three white-haired ladies flirted shamelessly. Most were native African.

Only one person appeared out of place, a chocolate-skinned lout at the bar carefully enunciating compliments at each waitress who passed. He spoke far too loudly.

I raised my hand for another gin and tonic.

Isabella, now in a topaz sheath dress, appeared from the wings. She sparkled. I couldn’t decide if I were angry or infatuated with her. Her rejection was nothing personal, of course—my failing. The fear-wall defeated me.