Hannu Rajaniemi - The New Voices of Science Fiction

Why was I so worried?

“I must warn you,” Allocator says heavily, “of the risks. Even with all possible precautions, I still calculate a one-in-five chance that, for whatever reason, you will never return. It may mean your death.”

Oh that’s why I was worried!

Wait but how did I know that—

“I understand,” says Charles. “But someone’s got to do it, right? For humanity? And apparently I’m the best there is.” He grins.

“I require affirmative consent.”

“WAIT!” I shout. Everything is happening faster than my ability to track and that’s pretty unusual! And also, something super critical just made sense to me!

“Wait!” I say. “Charlie, don’t you get it? You’re the best there is, because you’re not from here and have a mind that works the way that Allocator needs!”

“Yeah?”

“And it’s manipulating you! It’s way way way smarter than us! It knows what I’m going to do ten years in advance! So when it pulled you out of cryo….” I blink. “It probably pulled you out of cryo for this ! And pushed me to push you into Bird Simulator so you would want the dumb stupid Lord of the Stupid U, so you would get bored and want this!”

Charlie blinks a few times, and looks at Allocator.

“Yes, that’s all true,” says Allocator evenly.

Charlie looks from me to Allocator for a few long seconds. His face is wistful and a little sad.

“I consent.”

I screamcry and leap to my feet. The walls that had opened to show us the stars are now closing around Charlie. Allocator’s doing.

“Kit,” says Charlie, gently. I’m gripping his hands as his back is being slowly absorbed into the wall. “It’s fine. This is what I want.”

“Well sure, you think that now !”

“Kit.” Charlie is smiling at me, sad and kind. “I want to thank you—”

“Oh, nuh-uh you don’t!” I protest. “ Nuh-uh to this tender moment. Do you… do you want to go be birds again?”

“Thank you,” says Charlie. “You were the best guide I could have asked for.”

And Charlie is swallowed up. Except for his hands.

“Kit,” begins Allocator, after a moment.

“Not feelin’ this scene,” I say, tightening my grip. My voice is thick. “Would love it if I could safeword out.”

“I acknowledge your feelings on the matter.”

I look at Charlie’s hands in my hands.

“This is the superbrain plan,” apologizes Allocator.

And I see it. I really do.

Allocator has to make the people he needs. And for this, he made me.

“Will Charles be happy?” I ask, in a small voice.

Allocator nods, eyes closed. “This will make him happier than either of us ever could.”

Charlie’s hands slip out of my grip, and I watch them sink away, until nothing remains but the sterile white wall.

And he’s gone.

I stand there for a few seconds, looking at a room that contains only me and the giant floaty head. I exhale, and a tear rolls down my cheek. Which is weird. I didn’t know I could do that, here.

“Here,” says Allocator. “Let me show you something.”

The wall turns transparent.

Attached to this room is another, open to space. Inside, nested on the walls, are cylindrical, spindly objects. Allocator’s probes. There are only a few left.

As I watch, one probe’s engines light with a tiny, fuel-efficient blue glow, and it jets away from us, accelerating.

It doesn’t do anything but shoot away all stately and somber into the great unknown, but yeah.

It was him.

I watch as Charlie leaves, as he shoots out past the sun and that stupid terra firma with no elephants. I watch until he’s only a twinkle in that great big black starry night and then I can’t see him at all.

I look over the hangar bay.

It’s almost entirely empty.

…oh.

The other shoe drops.

It’s this really heavy sensation that most U’s will sort of mute for you. The moment when you realize something big. Out here, I feel it full force.

I should have realized. But there was no way for me to realize, because if that was possible, Allocator would have done something different. I wipe at my eyes.

“You dick,” I say, not for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” says Allocator. “I know this may seem unlikely to you, but I do experience regret. And I’m sorry.”

“So,” I ask, “are you going to seal off my memories of this?”

Again , I don’t say.

“If you wish it,” says Allocator.

“Not really,” I say. I’m sick of memory games. “But it’s important, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Allocator, simply.

It doesn’t say anything more, which suggests that I’m going to talk myself into this.

Why do we do this? Some alarmingly large number of my past selves have sat in this exact place, then decided to keep the cycle going—

“Oh,” I sigh, surprising myself. “I want to give them the stars.”

Allocator just smiles.

“I understand.” I take a deep breath. “And I consent.”

S. Qiouyi Lu writes, translates, and interprets between two coasts of the Pacific. Their fiction and poetry have appeared in Asimov’s , F&SF , and Uncanny , and their translations have appeared in Clarkesworld . They edit the flash fiction and poetry magazine Arsenika .

“Mother Tongues” is a painful portrait of the parental sacrifices made by first-generation immigrants and of how identity and relationships are tied up with language.

“THANK YOU VERY MUCH,” you say, concluding the oral portion of the exam. You gather your things and exit back into the brightly lit hallway. Photos line the walls: the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, Machu Picchu. The sum shines on each destination the images brimming with wonder. You pause before the Golden Gate Bridge.

“右拐就到了,” the attendant says. You look up. His blond hair is as standardized as his Mandarin, as impeccable as his crisp shirt and tie. You’ve just proven your aptitude in English, but hearing Mandarin still puts you at ease in the way only a mother tongue does. You smile at the attendant, murmuring a brief thanks as you make your way down the hall.

You turn right and enter a consultation room. The room is small but welcoming, potted plants adding a dash of green to the otherwise plain creams and browns of the furniture and walls. A literature rack stands to one side, brochures in all kinds of languages tucked into its pockets, creating a mosaic of sights and symbols. The section just on English boasts multiple flags, names of different varieties overlaid on the designs: U.S. English–Standard. U.K. English–Received Pronunciation. Singaporean English–Standard. Nigerian English–Standard… Emblazoned on every brochure is the logo of the Linguistic Grading Society of America, a round seal with a side view of a head showing the vocal tract.

You pick up a Standard U.S. English brochure and take a seat in one of the middle chairs opposite the mahogany desk that sits before the window. The brochure provides a brief overview of the grading system; your eyes linger on the A-grade description: Speaker engages on a wide variety of topics with ease. (Phonology?) is standard; speaker has a broad vocabulary… You take a quick peek at the dictionary on your phone. Phonology —linguistic sound systems. You file the word away to remember later.

The door opens. A woman wearing a blazer and pencil skirt walks in, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor, her curled hair bouncing with every step. You stand to greet her and catch a breath of her perfume.