SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

From behind her, a woman’s voice said, “Archana? Chandni sent a shuttle across. She said you needed me urgently.”

Archana looked up and burst into tears.

“There, there,” Lupita said, a while later. They were in one of the little anterooms off the function hall, where Chandni had provided soft lighting and Lily another bottle of bubbly. “Don’t cry any more, it freaks me out.”

“Sorry,” Archana said, sniffling, and then took another chug of the wine and felt better. “Sorry, sorry, I’m ridiculous.”

“Maybe you are,” Lupita said, comfortably, “but your sister is soothing all your aunts and your mom and mine are comparing outfit notes and your friends from grad school are teaching my tía Marta how to do shots and we haven’t even gotten married yet, so, you know.”

Archana laughed a little and hiccupped. “We are married,” she said. “We are in every way that matters. This is just to”—she gestured—“keep my damned family happy.”

“Is that so bad?” Lupita asked; Archana sighed.

“They want to change me,” she said. “They want me to be a good, perfect, beautiful Indian girl. Like…”

“Me?” Chandni asked. She came in and sat cross-legged on the floor, pouring herself some champagne. There hadn’t been a third glass a moment before, but that made no difference to her. “Archana-didi, I’m a ship.”

“Well, yeah”—Archana gestured—“but…”

“But nothing. I won’t get married. I won’t give Mum grandchildren.” She waved the drink around, a little unsteadily. “What, you think I’ll meet a planetoid with prospects? Yes, I’m perfect. I’m a perfect AI .”

“Well,” Lupita said conversationally, “what an interestingly complementary inferiority complex.”

“You shut up, you’re taking my didi away.” Chandni folded her arms and glowered. Lupita grinned.

“Chandni,” Archana said, meaning every word, “you’re perfect and I love you”—and that time Lupita rolled her eyes.

“Good thing you brought me over,” she said. “Clearly y’all need someone smart around.”

Archana laughed a little at that, and Chandni smiled shyly, and Archana was thinking they might talk about it again, but not now, not yet. Lupita shook her head with amused resignation, then stopped short, looking at her feet. “Chandni,” she said, after another moment, “where the shit are my shoes?”

Chandni looked expressionlessly at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve put them on a fucking asteroid, haven’t you.”

“Technically,” Chandni was saying, as Archana stood up and walked back into the function hall, “Phobos is more of a moon”—and Archana kept on going, across the floor, to where her mother was standing back from the riotous dancing.

“Better, beta?” her mother asked, and Archana considered, then nodded. Her mother smiled wryly at her. “They do love you, you know,” she added after a moment, and Archana didn’t need to ask who she meant, following her mother’s gaze to Dabbu Auntie and Manju Auntie flailing wildly and trying to persuade Lupita’s abuela to join in.

“Yeah,” Archana said, “I know.”

“Why don’t you and Lupita get ready together in the morning?” her mother said. “We can’t send the poor girl back so late and Chandni can find another room to sleep in, I’m sure.” She grinned. “She’ll complain, but it’s brides’ prerogative.”

Archana grinned back: she knew what her mother, in her own way, was trying to say. She thought that she might ask Lupita to dance with her, in a little while, and then maybe Chandni, or her dad; and after that, when Lupita’s sisters got back from carrying Tía Marta to bed, it would be time for dessert.

Originally published by Middle Planet

“Queerness as the vanguard of transformation,” the woman with the pink hair was saying, “that’s what it’s about. Whereas Deepika’s latest is more about conformity with the establishment. She’s this odd little government flunky. I’d think it were performance art if it weren’t so sad. Meg, or Megan or something.”

It was the fault of her shoes, Meg thought. Sensible ballet flats with soles that made no sound on the floor tiles. Or else the fault of the damn Victorian architect who’d built this house back in the year whatever and attached the bathroom to the kitchen, of all things, so you went off to hide from your girlfriend’s tiresomely political (if not until this moment actively loathsome) friends and found yourself listening behind the door to their unvarnished opinion of you.

“It’s just”—that was Pink Hair again; Meg shut down the uncharitable interior voice wondering what profession allowed a thirty-five-year-old woman that particular shade of neon—“I never expected it of Deepika. Picket fences and homonormativity.”

And that, Deepika , Meg thought, is your cue to leap to my defence —and perhaps it was for the best, that that was when the message came, the crystal at her throat lighting up into magnesium brilliance. Meg put her hand to it, read the information scrolling across her retinas, and after that there was no choice: she strode into the kitchen on those silent footsteps and started hunting frantically for her handbag and keys.

“Meg!” Deepika turned from the other doorway. “Meg, what is it?”

“I have to go to work,” Meg muttered, “my coat, where the hell is…”

“Here,” Deepika said, holding it out for Meg to put her arms into it. “Meg, what is it? No, just wait,” she added, as Meg started to pull away. “The last Tube has gone, I’ll call you a taxi. What happened?"

“It was a train,” Meg said, her eyes blurring. “There’s been a derailment on the east coast line near Alnwick. One of my ship’s engineers was on board.”

“Shit,” Deepika said, feelingly, and picked up the phone. “I’d like a taxi as soon as you can—just across from Belsize Park. Yes, please. Thank you.”

“Where’s Alnwick?” Pink Hair asked, looking at the whole scene with interest. She had put her wineglass down on the table laden with party nibbles and was chewing her hair. Quite irrationally, Meg wanted to strangle her. She resisted the urge and threw off her shoes, looking for proper winter boots.

“In Northumberland,” Deepika answered, while Meg peered at the data scrolling across her pad, waiting for the woman to ask, where’s Northumberland?

“Your ship?”—that was another one of Deepika’s friends, Anna or Annelise or something. “You have a ship?”

“Halley,” Meg said, lacing up her boots, thinking, odd little government flunky , then losing her temper. “The faster-than-light deep space exploration craft Halley . Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Halley,” Anna-or-Annelise said, in wonderment. “Halley. Deepika, you never said…”

I’ve told them all about you , Deepika had said. Meg touched the crystal at her throat so it returned to its dormant state, picked up her bag and went out. “The taxi will honk,” Deepika said, but Meg kept on going.

“I’d rather wait on the pavement,” she said, but Deepika grabbed her arm.

“We’ll talk later,” she promised, her eyes fierce, and then gestured. “Meg. You said, Alnwick. Does that mean…”

“Yes,” Meg said, flatly, and when she stamped down the front path the taxi was waiting. “Whitehall,” she said softly to the driver, and they set off silently. Meg clenched her hands into fists, breathed, and watched the lights of the city slip past the windows.

The security guard on duty gave Meg a sympathetic look at the door, which probably said everything she needed to know about what was going on inside. In the department, the main lights were still off—civil service energy-saving measure, clearly—so all work was being done by anglepoise lamps and LEDs. The rapidly moving shadows of her people made it look faux-spooky, like a sleepover or children’s party. Meg slammed her handbag down on her desk, and noticed for the first time she was wearing a Halley ID badge over a pink party dress and a pair of snow boots. London had turned cold in the last week, so the newspapers had made jokes about the Halley crew seeking better climes. “Right,” she said, her voice clear and carrying. “What the hell happened?"