Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction (20 page)

Nicky noticed Tattoo Neck at the door, his index fingers permanently crooked from pulling triggers on many pre-loved AK-47s.

“So we waited. The nearby governments wouldn’t intervene, and Japan was on tsunami alert again. My story got lost.”

“Did the Badjao know who you are?” asked Nicky.

“My creations were so delicious that one American critic declared ‘It’s like an angel peeing on your tongue!’.” Yamada gestured towards imaginary awards mounted on the wall behind him, “Fame counts for nothing out at sea. No, the Badjao spared my wife and I because I made ‘magic jelly’ for them.”

Chelsea was holding her face in her hands, as if to plead, ‘Mr Yamada please don’t go there!’ But Nicky could not stop listening if he wanted to.

“On my houseboat I experimented with flavours and micro-organisms, long used for food preparation processes, like yeast cultures for production of bread, alcohol, or cheese. I discovered the wonderful uses of the bacterium Xylinum. In a solution, it turns sugar into a cellulose-fibre—paper produced by bacteria!”

Yamada produced a whisky glass from under the bar. Nicky saw a thin film that looked like beige papier-mâché clinging to the insides of the glass.

“One day at sea I was so hungry I ate my xylinum cultures without getting sick. I discovered xylinum is so pure that if placed inside the human body, it is accepted by the body. The cellulose generated binds a lot of water. When the Badjao ate my ‘magic jelly’ they never felt thirsty and rarely hungry.”

“What happened to your wife?” asked Nicky.

“A stray bullet from a faulty machine-gun hit her—here.” Yamada pressed his ring finger so hard onto the centre of Nicky’s forehead that it left an indentation.

“So, I’m not sick.” Yamada said.

“Physically—you look well.” Nicky conceded. “But you are profiteering. Are your latest ‘sponsors’ the various pirate groups you’ve befriended?”

Yamada laughed, “How could I join them? Not that I lacked offers. Imagine; ‘Yamada’s Armada’ ruling the waves! The Badjao and other sea gypsies powered by Yamada’s magic jelly. Could your agency put a better spin on it, Chelsea?”

Nicky picked up his ear stud and declared, “This interview is over.”

A shiny object flew past Chelsea with a dry whooshing sound and hit Yamada. Upon impact, Nicky saw the machete embedded in Yamada’s chest.

Nicky grabbed Chelsea and both ran into the lift as Tattoo Neck and Scarmouth went to the bar to make sure Yamada was dead. As the lift doors shut, Chelsea was too shocked to scream, and instead blurted out, “What is this shit?”

“Mutiny,” replied Nicky. “The Game has moved on; the Badjao are taking over Rig-One.”

§

Nicky and Chelsea ran down the blood-smeared corridor, hoping to escape through the travellator that led out to the connecting steel module. The staff were screaming, pursued by several more sunburnt men with bigger scars and tattoos. They were wielding machetes and machine guns under their grey boiler suits. Yamada’s murder created some confusion amongst the Badjao, and gifted Nicky and Chelsea with at least fifteen minutes to get off Rig-One. Pressing with the full force of her weight, Chelsea snapped off the wooden leg of an overturned chair to use as a club.

Nicky gave her a quizzical look, “Have you spent time in Johor Bahru?”

“Not quite. My dad left my mum and me in Woodlands, to shack up with a Mover. Who dumped him for a bigger Shaker.” Chelsea shrugged as she embedded her spiked earrings into the business end of her wooden club. Impressed, Nicky planned to ask her out for Siberian coffee if they ever got off Rig-One.

The steel module still held strong as Nicky distracted one Badjao while Chelsea clubbed him on the head. Both continued to run along the module, but Nicky felt weak.

“Don’t stop.” Chelsea said. “I’m sure you know the emergency action that happens should Rig-One get threatened.”

Nicky did not know but he gathered from a massive metallic yawn sounding from the direction they had come, the sound of metal buckling and glass shattering pane by pane. The steel module walkway had been programmed to detach from Rig-One, and contract like an accordion.

“Get to the arcades!” yelled Nicky.

“No difference!”

Nicky dragged Chelsea with him, “They won’t destroy the shops! Think of all the lawsuits!”

Chelsea dropped her makeshift club and sprinted down the walkway with Nicky as they heard a fresh series of explosions threaten to catch up with them.

“Yamada told me once,” Chelsea said to Nicky when they reached safety in the arcades, “Grenadine comes from the French word for ‘pomegranate’, and it later gave its name to the explosive device.”

Nicky nodded and accepted the fact but his memories were already saturated—not just with the sound but also the colour. But not the red of blood or wine, yet the shade was just as dark and specific. It went by the more explosive name of grenadine. As teams of armed guards ran past them, Nicky turned to Chelsea and asked her out for coffee when this whole mess has blown over.

“Sugar-free coffee, please.” said Chelsea and tossed her makeshift club onto the floor of the arcade.

About Eeleen Lee

Eeleen Lee was born in London, UK, during the year punk rock exploded and throughout the following decade. As a result, her Spotify playlists are full of two-minute protest songs and synth-pop classics. Her fiction and non-fiction has been published by Mammoth Books UK, Intellect UK, Monsoon Books Singapore, Fixi Novo, and Esquire Magazine (Malaysia). She tweets at
https://twitter.com/EeleenLee
.

Love and Statues

Jax Goss

~ New Zealand ~

It is just before dawn, and they have walked all night. The sun is coming up. Or it would be if it weren’t for the low bank of cloud sitting just above the horizon. It glows orange, for a few glorious minutes, bathing the world in warm fuzzy magic, and then goes grey again. The air is moist, and they are both wrapped in coats, bundled up, except for their hands which at some point in the walk have found each other.

They stop at the railway station.

“They say it’s the second most photographed building in the Southern Hemisphere, after the Opera House.”

She smiles. “How do you measure something like that?”

He shrugs and turns to take her other hand. The moisture is sitting on her fringe in tiny droplets, and her cheeks are red from the cold. He thinks for an instant that she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and then laughs inwardly at his own silly romance. She’s just a girl, after all. A girl who is leaving.

She sees something pass across his face, and cocks her head, smiling. “What was that?”

He shakes his head, shy, and she laughs. They start walking up Stuart St, talking quietly, laughing. Small talk, they call it. Little tiny confidences that add up to intimacy. When they get to the Octagon, she goes and stands at the feet of the Robbie Burns statue.

“Did you know,” he says, eager to enchant her with his hometown, secretly hoping she’ll stay, even though he knows she won’t, “when they built Dunedin, they built it with plans from Edinburgh? The centre of town is a replica. The names are even basically the same. They both mean Town of Edin, or something like that. That’s why the Octagon is on this ridiculous hill.”

She traces a hand along Robbie’s foot. “Is that true?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs. “But I heard it.”

She turns to him then, and there is something new in her eyes. “I’ll tell you something about this town you may not know. Something true.”

He cocks his head at that. He’s lived here his whole life. She’s been here a couple of weeks. This should be good. “What’s that?”

She moves closer like she’s telling him a secret. “The statues are alive.”

He looks up at the old familiar face of Robbie Burns, mildly uneasy, but mostly amused. “You mean, like, Doctor Who Weeping Angels alive?”

She laughs again. She laughs a lot. He likes that. “Of course not, silly. They’re not monsters. But sometimes they come alive. I know, I’ve seen them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen the statues come to life?”

She nods.

“It was late one night. I was in the Gardens. The gates were closed and I shouldn’t have been there, but I’d stayed after closing time, and had curled up in that, you know, the stage by the playground? I was out of the wind there, you see. Anyway, there are those statues of Peter Pan and Wendy and the other characters from that book? And they came alive. I saw them. They moved, and danced, all totally silent. But they looked like they were laughing. Having a good time.”

He decides to humour her. “Maybe it’s just those ones. Peter Pan is magic after all.”

She shakes her head, and places a hand on Robbie again. “He was there too. Sitting in the midst of them, residing like some kind of benevolent patriarch. I sat very still and quiet, and they never knew I was there. And I watched them dance.”

Her voice has genuine wonder in it, and for half a moment he believes her. Then he chuckles. She glances sharply at him. “You think I’m making it up?”

“Well, come on? Dancing statues?”

She looks at him for a long, long moment. Then she sighs and shakes her head. He can see her moving away from him, even though she’s not moving.

“What…? Are you serious? You seriously expect me to believe that the statues in Dunedin come alive and dance around the Gardens at night?”

She shrugs. “No. I guess not.” Her voice drips disappointment and it’s like a punch in his gut. Like he hasn’t lived up to something. He reacts with anger.

“You’re crazy.”

The look she gives him this time is one of shock and hurt. And then he sees her face change. All that warmth drains away. Her mouth sets itself in a firm line. Her voice when she speaks is cold and glittering.

“I guess maybe I am.”

And then she walks away. He is already regretting his anger, and he calls to her to stop. She turns and looks at him, arms folded.

“I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “People have called me crazy my whole life. But I know what I know. I thought you were different. Maybe I am crazy, maybe you’re right. You and everyone else. Or maybe I just see what’s in the world, instead of what I expect to see. Either way. I have a bus to catch.”

And like that, she is gone. He knows her name, and that she comes from a small town in Germany. He does not remember the name of the town. And now she’s gone.

It is less than a week after she leaves that he waits in the gardens after closing time. He knows nothing is going to happen. He knows. But he is there anyway. The night is slightly warmer. Spring is coming. Still, he is wrapped in coats and blankets in the same place she said she saw them dance.

He waits. And nothing happens.

And then he wakes from dozing off, and thinks to himself,
this is ridiculous, go home
. He stands up quickly, in irritation and looks up.

They all stand perfectly still for one moment, staring at him, and then they scatter, gone back to their pedestals. Robbie gives him a long sad look, and trundles off.

There, in the night, he stands, his belly filled with regret.

About Jax Goss

Jax Goss is a wandering South African who has settled in New Zealand. She lives in Dunedin, where she is currently employed full time as the mother of a very small human, and writes on the side. She expects this situation to stay the same for a while, but she has long ago learnt that nothing ever goes the way she expects.

She edited Solarwyrm Press’s inaugural anthology
Fae Fatales: A Fantasy Noir Anthology
which also contains her story “Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight.” She won a Highly Commended Prize in the Commonwealth Short Story Writing Competition for her short story “Icarus” in 2011. She has a book published called
The Edge of the Map
which is available on Amazon and Smashwords. She was also published in
Idol Meanderings
, also available on Amazon.

Her website is:
jaxgoss.wordpress.com
, and you can follow her on Twitter: @belgatherial.

Gone Fishing

Jo Thomas

~ Pacific Ocean ~

Grace and Maui O’Malley sat on one of Halcyon’s two docks. The oncoming sail was barely working with only a breath of wind to push the boat along.

“A pacific day,” Maui said with a grin.

Grace swung her feet slowly in the ocean’s waters. Had they actually expected to catch anything on the fishing lines they pretended to watch, she wouldn’t have moved at all. Resources were scarce and unfarmed fish were rarely this close to the sea steading.

“Research vessel,” she said quietly and Maui nodded in agreement. “Wonder what they’re following.”

It couldn’t be anything else with the old-fashioned rigging and the small, sleek shape that time and nearness would resolve into a cat or a tri. Like all such boats, it would carry a small team of scientists following marine life or something else they thought worth studying. They shouldn’t be a threat, they shouldn’t be here to steal, but they might not realise the value of anything they wanted from the Halcyon.

Maui shrugged his big shoulders. “Brought ’em a long way out from Jo’burg’s reach, anyway.”

Grace lifted the large, floppy brim of her hat so she could look over her shoulder at the people busy working on Halcyon. Only a handful of them were as fair-skinned as she was. Only one or two looked as obviously Māori as Maui. Most were somewhere in between.

“No news for us to tell,” she said, “Except for another bunch of teenagers shipped off to Jo’burg for naval service.”

Maui nodded. “Nearest place from that direction is Lotus. Might have some good news from there. A stronger alliance or a chance of trade, perhaps.”

As if there was anything available to trade: sea water, fish, people.

“I guess it’s possible,” Grace said, “But I’d’ve thought Fair Isle or Titokowaru are more likely with the current.”