Part 14 (1/2)

He laughs as if this is the wittiest thing in the world, and spins around, arms and fists pumping in beat with the music.

But I am burning already. The thought of Ali is a fire in my mind and a searing pain in my flesh, an unquenchable flame, even though I know all my feelings for her are wrong. Still, I will go do my duty tomorrow, and marry rather than burn.

The next morning, I arise with the other bachelors before dawn. Many have hangovers, and some are too sick to marry this time. Their absences are noted by the priest's a.s.sistant in his white jacket as we board the bus. Those who have not made it are roundly mocked by even the sickest of those aboard. The other men are hugging, wis.h.i.+ng each other well, but I hold myself apart. There are only a dozen of us, so it is easy to take a seat away from the others.

My stomach is queasy as we head for the Temple of the Waters, and not just from last night's drinking. Our route takes us along the edge of the women's quarter and none of us are wearing veils. I slouch in my seat. Several of the men pull their robes up over their noses; others put their hands on their heads, or pretend to rub their faces. The priest's a.s.sistant, who misses nothing, points this out to them and they all laugh. But I can only think that perhaps Ali is sitting in another bus without her veil on either; and I wonder if her mouth is as round and full as her eyes, if the arch of her lips matches that of her brow, if the curve of her neck is as graceful as the bridge of her nose.

Would I even recognize her? I do not know.

The Temple of the Waters sits at the center of the Government Quarter, across from the Palace of Congress. It is an oasis of green and blue marble in a desert and steel and concrete and sandstone. The giant telescreens that surround it show images of the ocean, the surge of waves in calm weather, but they remind me of the storm-tossed gray of Ali's eyes and I breathe faster.

As we're climbing off the bus, the priest's a.s.sistant steps in front of me and grips me by the shoulder. Instantly, I know that he saw how I stayed apart, he knows that I am different from the others.

But he only says, ”Why don't you smile? this is going to be a good thing- think of the pride you'll feel!”

I force myself to smile and pull away from him to follow the others. We strip in the anteroom. A few of the men are as young as I am, but they range in age up to a solemn gray-haired old man who goes about his preparations with all the grim seriousness of a surgeon in a touchy operation. The room is as hot as a sauna and several men grow visibly excited. One man, a boy almost, younger than me, can't help himself and spills his seed there on the floor. The others chastise him until he starts to cry, but the priest enters through a second door and all falls silent.

Noticing the mess, he says ”Don't worry, I'm sure there's more where that came from. ”

Everyone laughs and the boy rubs his tears from his cheeks, and grins, and everyone is at ease again; everyone but me.

The priest asks how many of us have married before, and most of the men raise their hands.

”Yours is a sacred trust,” the priest tells us. ”there are two kinds of people in the world, those to whom society is given, and those who have the sacred duty to give to society, to perpetuate it. You have been called to that latter. It is a holy trust, a gift from our heavenly father, who spilled his seed in the primal ocean and brought forth all the manner of life. ”

This is the standard speech, words, except for the calling, that we've heard all our lives. It is meant to be calming, we were taught, but I feel a rising surge of panic.

”Earlier this morning,” the priest continues, ”the women entrusted with their half of this sacred duty came down from their quarter. They entered the main chamber of the temple a short while ago, and even now immerse themselves in the pool. In just a moment it will be your turn to enter. Look to the older men who have been here before and do what comes naturally to you. ”

Some nervous laughter follows this.

The priest looks at the boy who spilled himself, who is already excited again, and says ”Hold on to that a little longer, friend. ”

Now a madness is upon me; this fire burning within me is h.e.l.l itself. I look at the doors, seeking a way to extinguish the flame of my desire.

The priest checks the door. ”Hurry now, it is time,” he says, and the men press forward, somehow scooping me up so that I, the most reluctant of them, am at the head of the phalanx.

The doors swing open.

One group of acolytes stand there with towels as we enter, while a second set waits to collect the results of our labor. A door identical to ours, but opposite, clicks shut as the last of the women leave. A womb-shaped pool of bodywarm water fills the center of the circular room. The women have e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed their eggs into it already-however they do that, I do not know. But they float in a few tiny gellatinous clumps on the surface.

”Hurry now,” the priest in the white coat says. ”Timing is important. ”

An acolyte reaches out his white gloved hand to help me down the steps and into the pool. The other bachelors crowd the water's edge.

There are two kinds of people in the world: h.o.m.os.e.xuals and hydros.e.xuals. But I am neither.

I lunge across the room, dodging the outstretched hands and shocked eyes of the panicked acolytes. My hand falls on the latch of the door into the women's anteroom. I will run through there searching for Ali, and if I don't find her, out into the streets, and through the women's quarter until I do. Ai! Ali, my all, my everything, the eye of the only hurricane whose deluge can drown the unnamed flame of sin that burns within me.

From h.o.m.ogenous To Honey.

by Neil Gaiman & Bryan Talbot.

Neil Gaiman's most recent novel, the international bestseller The Graveyard Book, won the prestigious Newbery Medal, given to great works of children's literature. Other novels include American G.o.ds, Coraline, Neverwhere, and Anansi Boys, among many others. In addition to his novel-writing, Gaiman is also the writer of the popular Sandman comic book series. Most of Gaiman's short work has been collected in the volumes Smoke and Mirrors, Fragile Things, and M is for Magic. His latest book is a hardcover edition of his poem, Instructions, ill.u.s.trated by Charles Vess.

Bryan Talbot is a comics writer and artist. He is the creator of the comic The Adventures of Luther Arkwright, and he's worked as an artist on books such as h.e.l.lblazer, Sandman, Fables, and Batman. Other writing credits include the graphic novels Alice in Sunderland and Grandville.

Our next piece isn't just words on a page-it's a sequential art story, the short fiction love child of a comic strip and a graphic novel. It originally appeared in 1988, in the comic anthology A. A. R. G. H. , edited by Alan Moore, and was recently reprinted in the GLBT anthology, The Future is Queer edited by Richard Labonte and Lawrence Schimel. the story is a response to a piece British legislation that had a decidedly anti-h.o.m.os.e.xual flavor.

This story uses scathing sarcasm to present a future without h.o.m.os.e.xual influences. No art, no plays, no books, no cultural referents to anything gay, lesbian, transs.e.xual or remotely queer. For the story's masked narrator, it's a perfect world. But the images behind him suggest something a little darker.

The narrator of this piece speaks through a mobile white mask with very abstracted features, strikingly reminiscent of a Guy Fawkes mask. It's interesting to note that at the time, V for Vendetta, a 1980s British comics series featuring a character who wears a Guy Fawkes mask (and written by Alan Moore, the first editor of this piece) was very popular.

Different motivations, different details-but Moore's character, Gaiman's narrator, and Guy Fawkes were all men perfectly willing to destroy the world for their own black purposes.

Amaryllis.

by Carrie Vaughn.

Carrie Vaughn is the bestselling author of the Kitty Norville series, which started with Kitty and the Midnight Hour. Her latest books are Kitty Goes to War; a young adult novel, Voices of Dragons; and a stand-alone fantasy novel, Discord's Apple. Her short work has appeared many times in Realms of Fantasy and in a number of anthologies, such as By Blood We Live; The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance; Fast s.h.i.+ps, Black Sails; and Warriors. She has a story forthcoming in my anthology The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination, and this story first appeared in my online science fiction magazine, Lightspeed.

”Amaryllis” gives us a world that, compared to some dystopias, feels downright wholesome. No one is tortured; no one lives under scrutiny; no one is executed. But the characters are caught in a society that has taken away their reproductive control. For most of us, that's a pretty basic human right.

But there's a good reason to take family size out of individual control, with the world's population spinning out of control. As the author says: ”in the industrialized world at least, a financially successful family or individual can stay pretty isolated from their community, if they so choose. But if there's ever a cataclysmic loss of resources, that could change. ” And in the future Carrie Vaughn spins, a desperate community must contain its population-or die.

Our next story's debatable dystopic quotient aside, this story explores the idea that while one never sets out to create a dystopia, in order for a society to survive, sometimes it is necessary to become one.

I never knew my mother, and I never understood why she did what she did. I ought to be grateful that she was crazy enough to cut out her implant so she could get pregnant. But it also meant she was crazy enough to hide the pregnancy until termination wasn't an option, knowing the whole time that she'd never get to keep the baby. That she'd lose everything. That her household would lose everything because of her.

I never understood how she couldn't care. I wondered what her family thought when they learned what she'd done, when their committee split up the household, scattered them-broke them, because of her. Did she think I was worth it?

It was all about quotas.

”They're using cages up north, I heard. Off sh.o.r.e, anch.o.r.ed,” Nina said. ”Fifty feet across-twice as much protein grown with half the resources, and we'd never have to touch the wild population again. We could double our quota. ”

I hadn't really been listening to her. We were resting, just for a moment; she sat with me on the railing at the prow of Amaryllis and talked about her big plans.

Wind pulled the sails taut and the fibergla.s.s hull cut through waves without a sound, we sailed so smooth. Garrett and Sun hauled up the nets behind us, dragging in the catch. Amaryllis was elegant, a 30-foot sleek vessel with just enough cabin and cargo s.p.a.ce-an antique but more than seaworthy. She was a good boat, with a good crew. The best.

”Marie-” Nina said, pleading.

I sighed and woke up. ”We've been over this. We can't just double our quota. ”

”But if we got authorization-”

”Don't you think we're doing all right as it is?” We had a good crew-we were well fed and not exceeding our quotas; I thought we'd be best off not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g all that up. Not making waves, so to speak.