"Listen to me, Aerda. I'll be all right. I-you helped me. You showed me how I won out over my own Colleen, in my own world." She fought to keep her voice level. "You see, I don't need you any more."

Aerda stepped towards her. "Yasuko, it's so strange. I want to cry, but no tears come out!"

"That's something I couldn't fix. But maybe other Giants can help you. Galba's going to take you to them."

"I'm afraid, Yasuko."

"Don't worry. I've asked them to make sure you and Galba can be together always. And then, when you get all well, you can come back home here with your dragon, okay?"

"I will. I absolutely will come back to you, Yasuko."

Stiffly, the freckled village girl climbed onto the back of the dragon. "Yasuko-"

"Yes?"

"Next time, win for real. You understand? No more fooling yourself. No more justifications or moral victories. Win for real."

Then the dragon drove off the window sill.

For a time Yasuko could not even move.

Two months later a j.a.panimation journal ran an interview with the production manager at Dux. The visual media corporation had revised its original plans, and would be making the Daglian Saga using traditional cell animation.

Yasuko, Kondo and Yamas.h.i.ta tried to find out what had happened to their figures, but His.h.i.tomowas impenetrable. His.h.i.tomo wouldn't even confirm it had received all the figures safely.

Maybe somewhere Aerda and Galba were free, Yasuko thought. But it was impossible, of course.

Day by day, the flesh coloured footprints the figurine had left on Yasuko's desk faded away. Every night, Yasuko left her window open for a while before she went to bed.

Aerda. The freckled girl that Yasuko's soul and hands had brought to life. That little mirror that reflected the very depths of her heart. Ka Zan Ki. If she was alive-if she was free-Aerda knew that Yasuko was waiting for her by the window. Unlike Doi, unlike Galba, Aerda would understand what Yasuko was feeling as she waited there.

Yasuko watched the curtains waving in the night breeze.

Shiva

BARRY N MALZBERG.

Barry N. Malzberg was the Dark Side of the SF Force in the 1970s-the pessimist, the premier iconoclast. In seven years, he published 20 novels and over 100 stories. Then his output slowed to a trickle, for reasons recorded in rich, colorful detail and pa.s.sionate intensity in his collection of essays, The Engines of the Night: Science Fiction in the Eighties (1982). His reputation (and notoriety) was established by his novel, Beyond Apollo (1972), a skeptical commentary on the Apollo program that took a shockingly negative (for the era) att.i.tude toward s.p.a.ce flight. Excellently written, it won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, which upset many supporters of Campbellian SF at the time. The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction says, "[Malzberg's] writing is unparalleled in its intensity and in its apocalyptic sensibility....he is a master of black humor, and is one of the few writers to have used sf's vocabulary of ideas extensively as apparatus in psychological landscapes...."

Malzberg has often explored conventional SF ideas in unconventional ways. In Shiva, he cleverly turns some of the tropes of time travel (especially the "time patrol") and alternate history SF, quite logically, inside out.

"We'll try Paris," someone says. "Remember Paris." Sperber, trusted only for an apprentice a.s.signment but still determined to be hopeful, huddles in the deep s.p.a.ces of the extradimensional calculator, figuring out his further moves. Sperber has always been a thoughtful type, not impulsive, only reactive. That is one of the primary reasons for his partic.i.p.ation in the program. Know your course, pull down vanity, move deliberately toward a kind of fruition. Still he thinks: How long can I remain hopeful doing stuff like this?

Still, he has. Remained hopeful, that is. Choice gleams like knives from the enclosure; shrugging, his life a cosmic shrug he thinks, Sperber is catapulted to Paris, 1923, finds himself with no real transition in a small cafe on the fringes of the Champs-Elysees where he seems to be already engaged in profound conversation with the young Pol Pot and Charles de Gaulle, nationalists both, their expressions set intently toward a future that glows for them, even though Sperber knows better than they how problematic the situation.

"Excusez-moi," Sperber says in his miserable, poorly accented French, tugging on the sleeve of de Gaulle's brown jacket. Even at this early stage of his life, de Gaulle seems to have taken on a military righteousness. "Je can stay only a moment. I am here to give you a glimpse of your future s'il vous plait.

Comment allez vous? Would you like that portrait of your future?"

He hopes that the translator has done its wondrous work. There is no way that he can express to de Gaulle in this perilous situation without the help of that device. Still, it seems-like so much else in post-technological 2218-something of a cheat. Form has taken function all the way to the grave; the extradimensional calculator has, for instance, subsumed the causes of research or serious speculation.

De Gaulle is unresponsive to Sperber's question. Perhaps premonitory apprehensions of the FourthRepublic have overtaken him; he seems distant, affixed to some calculation of a future that Sperber himself knows all too well. Saleth Sar (Pol Pot's birth name or at least the name he employed in his student days) brandishes a teacup, looks at Sperber with a kind of loathing.

"And me?" he says, "what about me? What s'il vous plait are you undertaking to give me? My French is not perfect but I am worthy of your attention, no?"

This certainly is true. Saleth Sar is worthy of his attention. In his excitement at finally meeting de Gaulle, Sperber has almost ignored the general's old companion and rival in student debates.

"Pardon me," he says. "I meant to give no offense. I am a student, I am in this place to study and to learn. It is not possible for me to know everything."

"You do not have to know everything," Pol Pot says reprovingly, "but it is not correct to know nothing at all." He stares at de Gaulle sourly, takes the teacup from the general's hand, and places it with a thump on the table. "I think I will ask you to leave this table," he says. "You were after all not invited."

"I have to tell you that the Algerian intervention will come to a very bad end," Sperber says hastily.

"Both of you must know this, also that the decision to leave Indo-China will lead in no way toward peace. Your intervention will be supplanted by ignorant Americans, the Americans will get in deeper and deeper, eventually the Americans will ignore the borders of Kampuchea and will commit severe destruction. No good will come of this, none at all. One country will be shamed, another sacrificed. You must begin to make plans now."

"Plans?" Pol Pot says. "What kind of plans are we supposed to make? You babble of destiny, of destruction. But it is this kind of destruction which must precede the revolution itself. It is vital that the revolution prevail, that is why I have been sent to Paris. To study texts of successful revolutions, to know the Const.i.tution of the United States among other things."

Pol Pot, the admirer of democratic principles. Sperber had forgotten that.

Paris at this time was filled with future Communists who loved democracy, the United States, American music and s.e.xual habits. It was betrayal, Americans not taking to Asian desires, which had turned them into revolutionaries, anti-Bolsheviks. But Sperber had, of course, forgotten much else in his various missions; the lapse here was not uncharacteristic, lapses had carried him through all of these expeditions, making matters even more difficult.

De Gaulle shrugs much as Sperber had shrugged just subjective instants ago in the extradimensional calculator. The Frenchman's face shines with confusion, the same confusion, doubtless, that exists in Sperber's own. "There is nothing I can do about this," he says, "or about anything else for that matter."

Sperber knows then with sudden and sinking acuity that he has done all that is possible under these circ.u.mstances. There is nothing else that he can do. He has used the extradimensional calculator to detour to this crucial place, has warned the future leaders of consequence, has delivered the message as best as he can, now consequence-an extradimensional consequence, of course, one which has been imposed upon the situation rather than developed-will have to engage its own direction. It is a pity that he cannot bring doc.u.ments, wave them in front of Pol Pot and de Gaulle, but the laws of paradox are implacable and no one may test them by bringing confirmation to the past. The speaker must make his point through fervor, through credibility. There is no supporting data.

"What are we supposed to do?" Saleth Sar says. "You surely cannot think to give us such an evaluation and simply disappear. We are not fools here, we are serious people. Even he is a serious person," he says pointing to de Gaulle, "even though like all of his countrymen he is full of grand designs and stupid dreams. Serious stupid dreams, however. You must take responsibility for that as well as much else."

Well, that seems fair enough. Perhaps that is so. "Regrette," Sperber says. What else is there to say?

In just a moment he will take the extradimensional calculator out of his briefcase, calculate the dials, and make his departure. He hopes that the cafe personnel will not take the calculator for a grenade or plastique; that they will not interpret his intentions as violent. His intentions are not violent, they are simply pedagogical in all of the better senses of that word.

Next a.s.signment: this one the standard interview (in all of its hopelessness) which no one in trainingcan avoid. "Don't do it," Sperber therefore says to JFK, appearing in the President's private quarters at Hyannisport with the help of his speedy and selective instrument. "Don't go to Dallas to resolve a factional dispute, the factions are hopelessly riven, there is nothing that you can do but interfere and otherwise, if you go there, horrendous personal consequences may follow. I am not even talking about the future of the country."

Kennedy looks at him kindly, helps himself to another breadstick from the stack next to the table, seems to regard Sperber in a unique and favorable light. Jacqueline is ensconced upstairs, Dave Powers is pacing the corridors outside: This is a quiet night in the fall of 1963, quieter than most of them and therefore good for siting by the calculator. Sperber has come to Kennedy noiselessly, with no disturbance whatsoever.

"You're not the first from whom I've heard this, you know," Kennedy says. "There has been a whole group of you who have come in mysteriously with a similar plea over the past few weeks. It's a good thing I know I'm only hallucinating. Or are you really all emissaries from the future on some kind of training plan? That's what I'm beginning to believe but I can't get a straight answer out of any of you. It strikes me as the most reasonable guess, either that or you're all really extraordinary actors and Lyndon is even more demonic than I think, trying to make me crazy here. But I don't think I'm crazy; I have a rigorous, robust intelligence and know a hawk from a handsaw."

Sperber knew of course about all the others. Kennedy in the fall of 1963 was one of the most popular destinations: unlike de Gaulle and Saleth Sar in the cafe who were really unusual and almost secret. Certainly, Sperber would never make his knowledge of that site public. Still, you could not use only the most popular destinies; you had to do some original warning and reb.u.t.ting or risk falling into imitation, the inattentiveness of the a.s.sessors. Alternate history was not merely an odyssey; it was a work of art, it had to be particularly shaped.

"What can I do to convince you that I'm different from the others?" he said. "I'm a specialist, I work on historical causation, on first cause, on original motivation, it's been my field of study for years and if I didn't have this opportunity, I would be abandoning the future to mindless consequence. It's got to mean more than that."

"I can't get into arguments of this sort," Kennedy says. He rocks back in his chair, sighing a little as his weak back is momentarily shifted from axis, then recovers his purchase. "All of you are so insistent, all of you seem so convinced that you carry the real answers." He smiles at Sperber, his fetching smile, the smile that has been preserved in all of the living and dead histories through the hundreds of years between them, then pats Sperber on the hand. "It's a fated business anyway," Kennedy says. "And if I'm not mistaken, if I understand this correctly, it's all happened anyway from your perspective."

"It's happened," Sperber says, wishing that he had managed a university education so that he could put this in more sophisticated terms. The trades were not a good place to be, this work was really too delicate for someone training fundamentally as a technician and yet that was the only way it could be financed. "It's happening and happening but there's a chance, just a chance that if you avoid in the future the events which I know so well, that it can happen in a different way. I'm not doing this for recompense," Sperber says unnecessarily. "I have a genuine interest in improving the quality of our lives in the present."

"Well," Kennedy says, "well, well, there's no answer to that then, is there? There's no canceling travel and political commitments at such a late time unless there's a proven disaster lying there and we know that that's not the case. Sorry, pal," Kennedy says, patting Sperber's arm almost lovingly, "there's just no way around this. Besides, I'm getting a little tired of all these visits anyway. They're distracting and there's nothing that I can do to change the situation anyway."

"Je regrette," Sperber says in poorly stressed French, carrying over his response from an earlier interview, "Je regrette all of this, Mr. President, but it's important for you to understand the consequence-"

"There is no consequence," Kennnedy says, "there is only outcome," and Sperber in a sudden and audacious wedge of light, an extrusion that seems to come from Kennedy's very intellect, which fires and concentrates his features, bathing them in a wondrous and terrible life, understands that Kennedy is right,that Sperber has been wrong, that he has been pursuing consequence at a distance in the way that a platoon of guards with rakes might trail the line of a parade, clearing the landscape. Sperber was no more consequential to Kennedy than such a crew would be to the parade.

"Don't do it!" he says nevertheless, seizing the opportunity as best he can. "You still shouldn't do it, no matter how right you feel, you will be surrounded by enemies, taunted by a resisting crowd, then you will perish among roses. You have got to heed me," Sperber says, and jiggles the extradimensional calculator into some kind of response, already too late, but he is willing to try to get Kennedy to listen to reason even as the storm begins in his viscera and he feels himself departed through yet another wedge of history, spilled toward a ceaseless and futile present.

Sperber takes himself to be addressing Albert Einstein in a hideous cafeteria in Einstein's student days, the unformed Alfred nibbling an odorous salami, calculations and obliterated equations on the table between them. "Don't do this," Sperber says in what he takes to be a final, desperate appeal, "don't do it, don't complete the equations, don't draw the conclusions: This will lead to the uniform field theory, it will lead to one devastating anomaly after the next, it will unleash the forces of atomic destruction upon a hapless and penitential humanity surrounded by consequence. Don't you understand this? Put it away, put it away!"

Einstein, another infrequent site, stares at Sperber with a kind of terror, not for him the cool insouciance of Kennedy, the political fanaticism of Saleth Sar and de Gaulle. Einstein is as fully, as hopelessly, astonished as Sperber was when informed, five or six subjective hours ago, of his mission.

"Change history?" Sperber had said, "I can't even spell history," and similarly Einstein shudders over his equation, stares at Sperber in a fusion of shyness and loathing. "I can't shape history, I don't even know myself," Sperber, the student had shouted when informed of his mission, and the implacable sheen of their faces when they had responsively shoved the extradimensional calculator into his hands was like the sheen of the salami that Einstein held in one hopeless, hungry hand.

"I don't know of what you are speaking," Einstein said. "Physics is too difficult a subject for me to understand, I can do nothing, don't you know this? I can do nothing at all." In Einstein's despair, Sperber can glimpse the older Einstein, the saintly and raddled figure whose portrait adorns the site, a musty extrusion from the journals, who played the violin badly at Princeton and blamed everyone else for the bomb.

"Yes you can," Sperber says, and resists the impulse to spout French again: the language of diplomacy, he had been told, but that was just another cracked idea of the a.s.sessors. "You can do something, all of you could have done something, you have to take responsibility, don't you see? You must take responsibility for what you have given us."

Sperber would have a great deal more to say but the sound of the a.s.sessors is suddenly enormous in the land and Sperber finds himself, however unwillingly, ground to recombinant dust in the coils of the calculator.

He is taken back.

He ponders the landscape, the faces of the a.s.sessors, neither unsurprisingly changed at all. The program is sustained, after all, by failure. What point in resisting?

"Oppenheimer is next," someone says to him. "Are you prepared for Oppenheimer?"

Well, no, in fact he is not, but Sperber tries as ever to be hopeful. He is Shiva after all, destroyer of worlds.

The Queen of Erewhon

LUCY SUSs.e.x.

Relatively little of Lucy Suss.e.x's work has been SF, but she has been an important presence in the Australian SF community and began in the late 1990s to be recognized in SF worldwide, a process this story will certainly accelerate. She was a co-editor of Australian Science Fiction Review (SecondSeries)-arguably the most ambitious SF critical magazine of the 1980s-for its first two years (1986-87). Then in 1988 she published the t.i.tle story of her 1990 collection, My Lady Tongue and Other Stories, the book and story upon which her reputation primarily rests. She co-edited the anthology She's Fantastical (1995), the first anthology of SF and fantasy by Australian women, and published three fantasy novels in the 1990s: Deersnake, for young adults; The Scarlet Rider (1996), a ghost story for adults; Black Ice (1997), another juvenile. She has continued to write short fiction, most often fantasy or horror.

This story, from F&SF, is clearly science fiction, and has many of Suss.e.x's characteristic strengths (strong characterization, well-thought-out setting, political engagement, historical reverberations) but is in a tone more characteristic of, say, Ursula K. Le Guin-a wise, mature woman's voice. It tells of a future post-catastrophe New Zealand matriarchy.

Here is the story behind the story: "Erewhon is a place, not only the dystopia of Samuel Butler's novel, but also a sheep station [i.e., ranch] in the South Island of New Zealand, which he owned. I used to spend summer holidays there as a child.

"After I left New Zealand I kept getting reminders of the South Island's topography, as it was featured in fantasy films like The Princess Bride. I always thought any culture that developed there would be far stranger and richer than the film fantasies, or Butler's Erewhon.... I did some reading on mountain cultures, including Tibetan polyandry, and slowly the notion of the Rule coalesced."

"Hey you! Story-Eater! Devourer of lives! Leave us alone! GET OUT!"

Those are the first sounds on the tape: Idris spitting at me, refusing to be interviewed. I wind on a little, until I hear a different voice-Sadry speaking.

Sadry.... ghosts. The house at Erewhon could have been full of them for all anyone knew, for there was only our family of three and the hired hands rattling around the building. Erewhon had followed the Rule for generations, not that I knew that. I was only a child, I think three. Things hadn't got explained to me yet. I had no idea how odd my upbringing was, for the High country, with only one father.

One night I thought I heard crying, so I got out of bed, curious. I wandered along the upstairs corridor which all the sleeping rooms led off. When I got a little older, I learnt why this s.p.a.ce was called "Intrigue," in all the Rule houses. It kinks and curves, with crannies for people to hide and overhear-hence the name.

Me: A public s.p.a.ce?

Sadry: Or a private one. I followed the sound to the outside wall, to a window with a recessed ledge.

The shutters were closed and the winter curtains drawn, but between both was a s.p.a.ce where someone might sit comfortably and that was from where the sound came. Now it sounded human, and female. I heard soft words, a male voice responding. Two people were hidden there! And curious, I stood and listened. But it was bitter frost weather, and rather than give myself away by teeth-chatter, I retreated until just round the corner I found a basket. It was filled with rags, either bought from Scavengers or our old clothes (High-landers never throw anything away). So I climbed into it without making a sound, for it was an old Tech thing, of perlastic, rather than wicker. I curled up warmly in the contents and listened in comfort, not that I could understand much. Eventually I fell asleep, and woke in dawnlight to find my mother bending over me. And unthinkingly I blurted out the last words I had heard, which were: "I only want to be married to the one I love best, not all the others."

My mother said: "Where did you hear that?" and so I pointed at the ledge.

"The two lovers, there, last night."

She looked at me hard, then flung the curtain back. It wasn't me who screeched, it was her-at the sight of dust thick and undisturbed on the ledge. Then she scooped me up in her arms and went running down Intrigue, to the room she and my father shared, a small room, his younger son's room.

Idris: What did he do?Sadry: Took us both into bed, calmed us down, for now I was hysterical too, and then very gently questioned me. What did the voices sound like? Could I imitate them? When I was as dry of information as a squeezed fruit, he said: "It could have been any unhappy Queen of Erewhon."

And then he told me about living under the Rule, of his first wife, his brother, and their husband-lover.

Polyandry. The first time I heard the word I thought it a girl's name: Polly Andree. The misapprehension, though instantly corrected, stuck in my mind, so that I persistently though of the woman at the center of these group marriages as a Polly. And here I was in Polyandry Central, as anthropologists called it, the Highlands of Suff, and I still couldn't shake my personal terminology. It was a bad slip to make when trying to convince Bel Innkeeper to find me s.p.a.ce, in a town already filled to bursting for the a.s.sizes.

"We call them Queens," she said.

I'd listened to tapes of Suff accents but the actuality was something else, my comprehension of it being delayed, with embarra.s.sing pauses at the ends of sentences. When I finally understood, I replied, too hastily: "I know. Like bees."

All the while we had talked on the inn's back verandah, a steady stream of fat brown bees had zoomed to and from some nearby hive, so this comment was both dead obvious and instantly regrettable.

Bel snorted. "You Northerners. Think you know everything, with your new-Tech ways! Ever seen a hive, ever seen a Rule House? No, that's why you're here, to find all about the funny Suffeners, isn't it?"

I said, carefully: "Okay, I'm what you call a story-eater, an anthropologist. But I can understand you've had a gutful of being studied and written up. I'm not here to sensationalize you, but to observe the court case."

Bel stopped folding the inn washing and gave me her undivided attention. "Why?"

"Because it's important."

"It's brought everyone down from the mountains and into this valley! How'm I supposed to house 'em all? And you, too."