Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 176 by Neil Clarke

Author:Neil Clarke [Clarke, Neil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: clarkesworld, fantasy, Fantasy - Short Stories, Hugo Nominee, magazine, science fiction, Science Fiction - Short Stories, Science Fiction And Fantasy, science fiction magazine, short fiction
Publisher: Wyrm Publishing
Published: 2021-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

6. Parallax

Pavement, says Davka. How long has there been pavement here? And what’s that, what am I seeing? Shops?

Just the one boutique, says Arjuna. And the café, thank God. The cliffs themselves are protected. Rare birds, I think.

The girl corners dizzyingly into the parking lot, a huge shimmering slab where there were sheep and rabbits once. Davka winces. All this asphalt.

Are there so many visitors, then?

Oh sure, says Arjuna. Hundreds, on the weekends. I never come weekends. They should widen the road.

She slaps a button, releases the wheel. Checks her makeup as the car parks itself, bleating and blinking and chattering with mindless cheer. You’re still in motion. Please wait for the green light on the dash. Outdoor air quality is acceptable and visibility is good. Davka, less passenger than cargo, feels an idiotic anger, this damned automation, perhaps in a few years they’ll dispense with passengers, only the cars will congregate here, rubbing shoulders, admiring the view.

Davka struggles with the seat belt latch, smiles her dopey septuagenarian smile as Arjuna leans in to help. Then the greater struggle to stand: Infuriating, comical. She’s still clawing at the doorframe when Arjuna rounds the car and takes her elbow.

You’re so strong.

Arjuna pulls her to standing. You’re the one with the iron grip, Gramma.

Davka smiles. Yes, they said that about her once. Strong grip, rugged forearms. The murals, of course. Whole days on ladders in the sun.

They set out across the parking lot. The wind is fierce—that at least has not changed. She anchors herself on this athletic granddaughter, Chaz’s youngest, this alien creature she loves.

They’ll turn on the fog lamp any minute, says Arjuna. Could you see it, Gramma? I mean from Eriath, from exile?

Sometimes, says Davka. On a dark bit of beach. I thought about the light more than I saw it—the light, and the pretty round stone. Where is it, anyway? The memorial for the drowned.

That thing? says Arjuna. Gone for years. I thought you knew.

I’m just a week back in the country, says Davka. I don’t know a bloody thing.

For some reason, the girl whips out her phone. Flicks it with impatient fingers. Reads.

“The descendants of the pleasure boat disaster included opponents of the New Order regime. The vindictive generals smashed the memorial and flung the pieces in the sea.”

The generals smashed quite a lot to pieces, Davka says.

You want coffee, Gramma?

No, no.

Maybe a sandwich? Or some sugar? They have these great macaroons.

Nothing, love. Let’s just go to the cliffs.

Arjuna is scrolling, hypnotized, effectively elsewhere.

And you, creature: do you love me back? With a flash of spite, Davka thinks that Arjuna’s only true love is for the little screens in her life. If Gramma fell and shattered her hip, if she pulled a gun and stormed the café demanding great macaroons, if she sprouted wings and flew home across the ocean in search of a lost pile of cinders, this girl would carry on fondling that phone.

Of course it’s not as bad as that. We age, we stiffen,

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