"How is he?"
"The bites are superficial. I think losing his prize hurt him more."
‘’I don’t blame you," Ziyi said. "Sergey knew he was valuable, knew I would not give him up, knew that he would be in trouble if he tried to take it. So he told you. For the reward."
"Well, it’s gone now. Whatever it was."
"It was a man," Ziyi said.
She had her cache of treasures, buried in the forest. She could buy lawyers. She could probably buy Sergey, if it came to it. She could leave, move back to the capital and live out her life in comfort, or buy passage to another of the worlds gifted by the Jackaroo, or even return to Earth.
But she knew that she would not leave. She would stay here and wait through the days and years until the factory returned her friend to her.
(2012)
THE BIRDS OF ISLA MUJERES
Steven Popkes
Steven Popkes was born in Santa Monica, California in 1952. He sold his first story in 1982. His first novel, Caliban Landing, appeared five years later. Slow Lightning followed in 1991: both novels deal with the complexities of alien contact. In 1994 Popkes was part of the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop project to produce science fiction scenarios about the future of Boston, Massachusetts. When not writing he works for a company that builds avionics for planes and rockets, and is learning to be a pilot.
Afterward, it was never the people she remembered, never faces or bodies or voices—even Alfredo’s. It was always the wind, blowing from the west side of the island, and the frigate birds, balanced on their wingtips against the sky. They flew high above her, so black and stark they seemed made of leather or scales, too finely drawn to be feathered.
It was March, the beginning of the rainy season, and she had come to Isla Mujeres to leave her husband. That she had done this some half a dozen times before did not escape her and she had a kind of despairing fatalism about it. Probably this time, too, she would return. Her name was Jean Summat. Her husband, Marc, lived the professor’s life in Boston. She, it was supposed, was to live the role of professor’s wife. This was something she had never quite accepted.
Isla Mujeres. Island of Women.
She sat in a small pier cafe that jutted out into the water, waiting for her first meal on the island. In a few minutes it came. A whole fish stared glassily up at her from the plate. Delicately, she began to carve small pieces from it, and ate. She glanced up and a Mexican man in a Panama hat smiled at her. She looked back to her food, embarrassed.
Boston was cold right now and covered with a wet snow as raw as butcher’s blood. But here in Mexico, it was warm. More importantly, it was cheap and people’s lives here were still enmeshed in basics, not intricately curved in academic diplomacy.
She left the restaurant and stood on the pier watching the birds, feeling the warm heavy wind, sour with the hot smell of the sea. The late afternoon sun was masked with low clouds and in the distance was a dark blue rain. She had a room, money, and time.
The Avenida Ruda was clotted with vendors selling Mayan trinkets, blankets, pots, T-shirts, and ice cream. Several vendors tried to attract her attention with an "Amiga!" but she ignored them. A Mexican dressed in a crisp suit and Panama hat sat in an outdoor cafe and sipped his drink as he watched her. Just watched her.
Lots of Mexicans wear such hats, she told herself. Still, he made her nervous and she left the street to return to her room. On the balcony she watched the frigate birds and the people on the beach.
Jean swam in the warm water of Playa de Cocoa. When she came from the water she saw the man watching her from one of the cabanas as he sipped a Coke. She walked up to him.
"Why are you following me?"
The man sipped his Coke and looked back at her. "No entiende."
She looked at him carefully. "That’s a lie."
There was a long moment of tension. He threw back his head and laughed. "Es verdad."
"Why—what the hell are you doing?"
"You are very beautiful, Señora."
"Jesus!"
"You need a man."
"I have a man" Or half a man. Or maybe more than a man. Do I still have him Do I want him? Did I ever?
"With specifications?"
She stared at him.
Hector led her through the rubble at the end of the Avenida Hidalgo to a small concrete house nearly identical to all the other concrete houses on the island. It was surrounded by a wall. Set into the top of the wall were the jagged spikes of broken soda bottles. She looked down the street. The other houses were built the same. There was a burnt-out car leaning against one wall, and a thin dog stared at her, his eyes both hungry and protective.
Inside, it smelled damp. It was dark for a moment, then he turned on a blue fluorescent light that lit the room like a chained lightning bolt. Leaning against the wall was a tall, long-haired and heavily built man with Mayan features. He did not move.
What am I doing here?
"This is Alfredo." Hector was looking at her with a considering expression.
She shook her head. The air in the room seemed thick, lifeless, cut off from the world. "Alfredo?"
"Alfredo. I show you." Hector opened a suitcase and took out a box with a complex control panel. He flipped two switches and turned a dial and the box hummed. Alfredo pushed himself away from the wall and looked around.
"Good God." She stared at him. Alfredo was beautiful, with a high forehead and strong lips. His body was wide and taut, the muscles rippling as he moved. Hector touched a button and he became absolutely still.
"You like him?"
She turned to Hector startled. She’d forgotten he was there. "What is this?"
"Ah! An explanation." He spoke in a deep conspiratorial whisper. "Deep in the mountains north of Mexico City is a great research laboratory. They have built many of these—andros? Syntheticos?"
"Androids."
"Of course. They are stronger and more beautiful than mortal men. But the church discovered it and forced them to close it down. The church is important here—"
"That’s a lie."
Hector shrugged. "The Señora is correct. Alfredo was a prisoner in the Yucatan. Condemned to die for despicable crimes. They did not kill him, however. Instead, they removed his mind and inlaid his body with electrical circuits. He is now more than a man—"
"That’s another lie."
"The Señora sees most clearly." He paused a moment. "You have heard of the Haitian zombie? The Mayans had a similar process. My country has only recently perfected it, coupling it with the most advanced of scientific—"
Jean only stared at him.
He stopped, then shrugged. "What does it matter, Señora? He is empty. His mind does not exist. He will—imprint? Is that the correct word?—on anyone I choose."
"This is a trick."
"You are so difficult to convince. Let me show you his abilities." Hector manipulated the controls and Alfredo leaped forward and caught himself on one hand, holding himself high in the air with the strength of one arm. He flipped forward onto his feet. Alfredo picked up a branch from a pile of kindling and twisted it in both hands. There was no expression on his face but the muscles in his forearms twisted like snakes, the tendons like dark wires. The branch broke with a sudden gunshot report.
Hector stopped Alfredo at attention before them. "You see? He is more than man."