Майкл Бламлейн - Longer

She was glad to be rid of him.

The woman came out of her headstand and stood with her arms at her sides. Her face was flushed. Strands of hair had come loose from her braid, and clung to her high-boned cheeks.

She’d heard from Dash. Twice since returning. He was being unnecessarily kind and solicitous. It seemed genuine enough, but she couldn’t help being suspicious.

She’d also heard from Laura Gleem, who wanted her to continue her H82W8 work, and offered a deal anyone would be a fool to refuse, save for the part of being locked into Gleem—and Gleem’s agenda, whatever that happened to be at any given time—for the foreseeable future. She’d have a free hand, except when she didn’t. Such was the life of a researcher. Was there a better one?

The breeze shifted, and Gunjita caught a whiff of cloves. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the beach, where the woman was in motion again.

She had bent at the waist, and now extended a leg behind her. She spread her arms to the sides, like wings, as though she were embracing the air, then swept them backward, taking her upturned foot in both hands, and arching her back like a bow, face and chest thrust upward. Natarajasana, Lord of the Dance. A combination of grace and power, she seemed about to launch herself. Or levitate.

Without breaking the pose, she tilted her head to the side to see who was watching. Gunjita felt like a Peeping Tom. She smiled, then found something else to look at.

Cav was a man of principle. She had to admit she respected him for this. He stood by his beliefs.

Starry-eyed when she met him, starry-eyed to the end. Tolerant. Curious. A lover of all things.

A singular human being. An admirable person.

She stole a glance at the woman. Had an urge to say something to her, compliment her, or simply thank her for the beautiful performance. Beauty had been absent from her life. The woman had opened her eyes. Thank her for that.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a call.

It was Dash. He’d just returned from a delicate bit of surgery on a rare albino walrus, whose club-sized baculum had somehow gotten tangled in a bed of kelp. He went on at some length, then continued without pause, as though afraid that if he didn’t talk, there’d be no conversation.

He was staying outside of Reykjavik. It was raining, as it often did. He had an appointment the next day with a farmer near Vik, whose sheepdog couldn’t walk in a straight line, and kept falling down. A growth in its ear, the man had been told by a local vet, who’d referred him. Another appointment the following week with the company that manufactured Pakkiflex, looking for an endorsement for their new line of undergarments.

And more. Mr. Chatterbox.

Eventually, he ran out of steam.

“And you? How are you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m kidding. I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“You should come to Iceland.”

“Why is that?”

“Before the ice is gone, and we have to change its name.”

“Is Ruby there?”

“Yes. Most definitely. In all her glory.”

“How is she?”

“Alive. Cranky. Forgetful. Forgiving. You should visit.”

“And make her crankier?”

“You won’t.”

“Why not? Is she no longer your mother?”

“She’s old. She’s frail. She doesn’t have much left in the tank.”

It would be hello, good-bye. Another separation. How many more could she take? She, in the prime of life. The bud of youth. The time for looking ahead, not behind.

Not to mention who this was. Not many could nurse a grudge like Ruby Kincaid. No one more loyal, loving, or quicker to judge. Then again, Gunjita had given her cause.

Amazingly, the woman had yet to move from her pose, except for one arm, which now stretched forward and upward, skyward, as though in exultation. She looked lighter than air, heroic, angelic.

“I’d like to see her. Let me think about it. I’ll be in touch. Thanks for calling.”

“Wait.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“About Cav.”

She was afraid of this. “Not interested.”

“You heard?”

“I don’t want to hear. Please. I don’t want to know.”

“It’s not what you think.”

He flashed before her eyes, Cav did. True to himself. Undimmed.

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Good-bye, Dash. Be well. Take care.”

She ended the call. Moments later, the woman came out of her pose. She glanced at Gunjita, smiled, and beckoned her over.

She had coppery skin, thick black eyebrows, dancing eyes. She smelled of cloves and ginger. Her hands were calloused. She looked to be in her midtwenties, and everything about her said first time.

“Want to try?” she asked.

“Are you a cook?”

“I’m a baker. Why?”

“You smell spicy.”

The woman laughed. “So? Yes?”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

“You can do it.”

“Unlikely.”

“Just bend.” Lightly, she pressed the small of Gunjita’s back. “Now lift your leg. From here.” She placed her hand on Gunjita’s thigh, gently encouraging it upward. The touch was electric.

“Breathe,” she said.

Gunjita had stopped. “Good advice.”

“Lift your head. Imagine a state of weightlessness.”

“I can do that.”

“If you want to stretch your mind, first you stretch your body. The body leads, the mind follows.”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

“You mustn’t argue. You must behave.” Her voice was stern, except for the giggle at the end. “You’re a student now. You’re here to learn. Broaden your experience. Expand your awareness.”

“Okay.”

“Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Gunjita could only hold the pose for a few seconds. She didn’t have her Earth legs yet.

“I’ve been in space.” She felt mildly embarrassed.

The woman nodded, as if she understood perfectly. “Even better.”

Thanks to Carter Scholz, Steve Crane, Pat Murphy, Dan Marcus, Angus McDonald, Mary Barsony, and Kumar Gadamasetti. Thanks also to my editor, Ann VanderMeer, and the good folks at Tor.com.

MICHAEL BLUMLEINis the author of four novels and three story collections, including the award-winning The Brains of Rats . His latest collection, All I Ever Dreamed, containing three decades worth of fiction, “will delight readers who enjoy a wide range of genre fiction … and thinking deeply about social constructs and how they relate to science” ( Publishers Weekly ). His acclaimed essay, “Thoreau’s Microscope,” appears in the 2018 book of the same name from PM Press, as part of their celebrated Outspoken Author series.

He has twice been a finalist for the World Fantasy Award and twice for the Bram Stoker. His story “Fidelity: A Primer” was short-listed for the Tiptree. His first story collection, The Brains of Rats, was awarded Best Collection by ReaderCon. His novel X,Y was chosen for inclusion in Horror: Another 100 Best Books, edited by Stephen Jones and Kim Newman.

He has written for both stage and film, including the award-winning independent film Decodings (included in the Biennial Exhibition of the Whitney Museum of American Art, and winner of the Special Jury Award of the SF International Film Festival) . His novel X, Y was made into a feature-length movie. His story “California Burning” is currently in development in Hollywood for a movie.