Nalo Hopkinson - Midnight Robber

We try to contact your mamee when we find she nine years ago, but the nanomites growing she earbug did calibrate wrong for Nanny to talk to them across dimensions. Eight years it take Granny Nanny to figure it out, and then was too late. Tan-Tan reach maturity, the earbug harden, and Nanny couldn’t talk to she again. Another contraction sweetheart, hold on.

Antonio was a sick, needy man, but in he own way, is he provide the method for we to contact Tan-Tan. By the time she get pregnant with you, Nanny had figure out the calibration. She instruct the nanomites in your mamee blood to migrate into your growing tissue, to alter you as you grow so all of you could feel nannysong at this calibration. You could hear me because your whole body is one living connection with the Grande Anansi Nanotech Interface. Your little bodystring will sing to Nanny tune, doux-doux. You will be a weave in she web. Flesh people talk say how earbugs give them a sixth sense, but really is only a crutch, oui? Not a fully functional perception. You now; you really have that extra limb.

Whoops! It coming, it coming! That feeling is your head crowning, sweetheart—that is air on your skin of your scalp. Welcome into one of the worlds, pickney!

Tan-Tan lay back, bassourdie with fatigue, and looked at the little bit of person in her arms. His eyes wavered over her body, fought for focus when they came to her face. For a second he stared right at her. He had Antonio’s face, but they were her features too, hers. Her son was not a monster. He yawned crookedly and worked his mouth. Squeaky sounds came out.

“He singing,” laughed Melonhead. He touched the baby’s cheek.

“No,” Tan-Tan replied. “I think is only gas.”

Abitefa thrust her beak into the nest of blankets that Melonhead had brought, sniffed the baby’s skin in greeting.

“What you going to name he?” Melonhead asked. He stroked some of the tiny curls of the baby’s hair.

“Tubman.” Tan-Tan surprised herself, coming out with it so quickly. She hadn’t been thinking of what to call him. She smiled up at Melonhead.

Tubman: the human bridge from slavery to freedom. She give you a good name, doux-doux. A seer woman might have name you that. Sleep, Tubman.

Thanks are due to the Ontario Arts Council, the Canada Council and the Multiculturalism Programmes of the Department of Canadian Heritage, for financial assistance while I completed this project.

For patient, insightful critique, encouragement, invention and general correction of my wacky concepts of science and social systems, thank you to Bob Boyczuk, Laurie Channer, Debbie Donofrio, Candas Jane Dorsey, David Findlay, Peter Halasz, Brent Hayward, Dora Knez, Kelly Link, Pamela Mordecai, Peter Watts, and my agent Don Maass and editor Betsy Mitchell.

Appreciation to David Findlay for permission to quote “Stolen.” Thank you, doux-doux.

Love, respect, blessings to my mother, Freda, and brother Keïta for their boundless support and enthusiasm.