Geoff Ryman - Air (or Have Not Have)

'Thank you, gentlemen,' said Mr Oz.

Naked but brave. A harlot funded by the government to make herself richer than the men. That's what they will call me. I will have to have a face of stone, now. I will have to be as enduring as the mountain. Mountains hold up air.

Oblivious as always, the Central Man bustled back in with paper. Kwan emerged, concerned, curious, wiping her hands. The paper had printed out all the terms and conditions.

'Right,' he explained. 'The funding is in the form of bank credits. Do you know what those are?'

Mae shook her head. 'Believability Card?'

'Better than that. But I need to go with you to ratify them. That will set up a business account in the bank. We then need to set up a Question Mark account, so that you can use it on the Net. Then… you are in business.'

'That means going to Green Valley City,' said Mae. Her heart leapt. The City! She had not seen it since spring.

'Mmm-hmm,' Mr Oz said, oblivious again to what that meant for her. 'And that is good, too, because there is a big seminar there this week. For people in the Taking Wing Initiative. It will be good. The Wings have also been invited.'

'Can we take Sunni with us?' asked Mae.

Sunni ran out of her house to the government van.

She was immaculate in city-woman oatmeal, with a beige scarf on her head. She darted down the hill to the bridge, quickly so that no one would see her. She squashed into the backseat next to Mae, and greeted Mae, Mr Oz, and Mr Wing. Plainly, she wanted to be away.

'Hello, Mrs Sunni-ma'am.' Sezen beamed at her. Pleased to see me? Sezen's eyes were spiked with merriment like a dog's collar against wolves. Mae gave Sezen a little warning with her eyes.

'Good morning, Sezen,' Sunni managed. She flinched at Sezen's graduation dress, mounds of shiny lemon-yellow. Sunni put on her sunglasses as if against the glare.

'Mrs Haseem-ma'am,' Mr Wing replied with dignity from the front seat. Mr Oz nodded and backed the van back into Upper Street.

Sunni turned to Mae, and her smile was from the old days. 'It was very kind of you to ask me,' she said to Mae.

Mae said, 'I felt it would be good for old friends in the party of progress to go together to see what they are doing in the City.'

'And it is such a beautiful morning!' said Sezen, reaching around Mae to touch Sunni on the shoulder. 'We can stop and wave to all your friends, working in the fields.'

'If those who are friends of progress are not friends of each other, then disaster awaits,' said Mae, and glared.

'Indeed,' murmured Sunni. 'Those are my feelings.' Protected by sunglasses, Sunni looked fragile in defeat, uncertain and frightened by the need for trust.

Impulsively, Mae took her hand. 'It is good to be with friends.'

'Where is the Lady An?' chirped Sezen.

Sunni found enough heart to reply. 'An is studying for a qualification in fashion studies. She does this through the Net on my TV. She is enjoying it. Perhaps you should talk to her, Sezen, and see if the course interests you. You could study together.'

'I would love to do that!' enthused Sezen, so brightly that it was plain she could think of nothing worse. 'She would teach me how to improve my pronunciation.'

And improve your manners, thought Mae. She gave Sunni's hand a little squeeze. To her surprise, Sunni squeezed back.

Sunni persisted. 'Such a terrible thing that people do not understand the uses of the TV. To think! There are people who want it turned off!'

'People who try to destroy others,' said Sezen, her voice now simple, hard and dark.

'Indeed,' said Sunni, simply. Mae twisted around and her eyes said to Sezen: Enough.

Sezen's smile was one of contentment. She gave Mae a little salute and looked away, honour satisfied.

Already their little village was gone. Just alongside Mr Oz's window, there was a brutal falling-away of stone. 'Music?' Mr Wing asked, and turned on the radio.

Full of echo and sounds of machinery was something like a song for Sezen's generation. She was drawn, silenced by what to her was a mating call, a cry to be joined with the modern. The old folk fell silent.

Fluttering past like insubstantial scarves went rice fields, misty terraces, fat men riding donkeys, women in broad straw hats considering harvest.

They went down into the Desiccated Village. Mae was shocked to see grey dishes and wires on most of the houses.

'They've had those since summer,' said Sunni, turning. 'Perhaps we are not so advanced in Kizuldah.'

'Installing sat ho lih tuh,' said Mr Oz, shaking his head, as if they all shared his amusement. 'Still, it's reliable old technology.'

Mae felt unable to ask: What is a satellite?

'Look,' said Sunni, suddenly pointing. 'They are already threshing!'

Going down the hill was like plunging into their future. On the burnished-yellow threshing ground were big rented machines and wagons loaded with chickpeas. The men were pitchforking them raw into the threshers. The jets of straw, the waiting reed baskets to collect the peas, the women and boys bearing them off to plastic matting, the little girls herding the geese away from the mats – it was all as it always had been.

The vision was withdrawn behind a flurry of fencing and gates. A good harvest.

'Ah!' sighed Sunni, as if the relief were her own. 'They will have a good party, then.'

'High feasting,' agreed Mae. 'It is useful that they are so dry compared to us. We grow rice, they grow chickpeas.'

'Mmm, we can just exchange,' Sunni agreed. It was what they always said.

Suddenly the road stopped complaining under them. Suddenly it was smooth, humming like a song. The clouds of white dust died away in trails behind them, like the silver tracks of aircraft.

Sunni and Mae looked at each other in wonder: Paved? Our road is paved?

Then they both broke out in laughter.

Sunni held her plump belly. 'Who… Who thought it was worthwhile paving a city road here?'

'Make it easier for the donkey!' chuckled Mae.

They thought of all the fat old farmers, their bewildered wives, the barefoot children, the brown-toothed brigands with ancient rifles. Oh, indeed, how they needed a highway.

'You need it for motorcycles,' said Sezen, sharply. The radio played another Balshang song. 'We will all have motorcycles.'

Mae placated her. 'I know, Sezen, but it just seems strange.'

'Remember when grass grew between the wheel tracks?' Sunni said.

'Yes! I'd forgotten that.'

'And the first time down each year, there was no track at all.'

'Yes, yes, the wheels spun on the spring grass, and you were always frightened the tractor would slide off the road!'

'My father always made us get out and walk. He would cast lye behind him to kill the grass.'

Mae turned to tell Sezen. 'You went to the town, oh, only if your father was buying a horse…'

'… or parts for the tractor…'

'And we would pile all of us, oh, six or seven children, in the trailer behind. It would take all day to get down. We would sleep in the trailer overnight.'

'You remember the fires?'

'Everyone set up camp in the market square.'

'You would cook soup over the fires.'

'And the lutes…'

'The lutes came out, particularly the Horsemen, and they would sing. Remember the Cossacks! So handsome with their moustaches, they would sing…'

The truck seemed to lurch and sway as if on green grass. Mae turned to warn Mr Oz about his driving, but as she leaned forward, everything lurched, swayed, and suddenly she smelled smoke…

… and saw the fires.

The Cossacks wore spotless white shirts, with high collars.

They smelled of smoke. It clung to their huge moustaches. Like thieves, they had wicked faces but they were lit up with kindly smiles, and the little girl was sitting on the knee of one of them. His face was lit up with love, tender love.