Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: March 2014 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #458
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take an instant dislike to each other."
"I think that's true of either sex."
He shrugged. "Mermaids only come in one flavor though."
By now it had become ritual to sit watching the mermaids in the evening, to scribble down notes, moving them from tank to tank, trying new song combinations, recording the behaviors. The Mariposa mermaids did funny little flips while blowing bubbles, which seemed unique to them so far. The Amazonias had not just natural armor but tiny tridents that seemed to be outgrowths of their hands. It gave them a wobble when swimming.
She laid her pen down. Odd to think that Leonid had given time to musing about women artists. And that he'd constructed an image like that, uncharacteristically romantic, the mermaids singing into the wind.
That wasn't how she thought of them. To her, artists overall were the canaries in the coal mine, the eyes that could see outside the structures containing everyone and voice a warning when there was something poisonous, something dangerous.
Something that needed to be exposed.
A self-important view, to be sure.
She could have gone down that rabbit hole of thought, but she wrenched herself away from it.
Both sexes—all sexes, if you wanted to be encompassing—saw how it worked. Did women artists have a vantage point that gave them some insight no one else could access? Again, overly self-important. Artists saw from every viewpoint, they splin tered their consciousness, reflected and refracted reality in their minds before they turned it into art.
Maybe they were more sensitive to those poisons, like the canaries, who warned of danger by dying.
Perhaps that was why they went crazy so easily.
An Operetta mermaid swam around the tank in long slow loops. She had to admit there was a great deal of inventive detail to the mermaids. Leonid had confided that they were the work of three comic book artists that he'd commissioned. A talented gene splicer used a three-D rendering of the artists' concepts. The gene tech was incredible. The Starbright mermaid actually twinkled. If you turned out the light it looked like a shifting constellation hanging in the dark water.
Around and around. Her thoughts did that sometimes. Often. Though the medication helped.
Around and around. Around and around.
After an hour, she pulled herself to bed.
Around and around.
Pomegranate Bistro was on a side of town she didn't usually opt for, one she thought of as just a little snobby, just a little too consciously upscale.
Saffron was fifteen minutes late. The precision of the timing made Petra wonder if it wasn't calculated, if Saffron hadn't waited in the car, expressing her disdain for Petra with the interval.
That was paranoid and unworthy of her. She fixed a smile on her face as Saffron came through the tables.
The first thing you noticed about Saffron was always her costume. Not costume perhaps, but an outfit clearly assembled for its Bohemian effect, vintage items mixed with upscale shoe designers, a necklace that proclaimed eclecticism with every mismatched link. She sat down with a jingle of bracelets, picking up a menu to study it.
"I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the restaurant," she said from behind the paper. "I know it's not your sort of place, but it's one of my favorites."
Petra felt things lurking beneath the words. "Not a bit."
"Any luck finding a new gallery?"
"I haven't really started looking. I've been working on a new piece. I figured I'd finish that up first. How is getting ready for your show going?"
"Smooth as silk." Saffron laid the menu down with a sly smile. "I'm good at arranging things."
That seemed like an ominous segue but Petra seized it nonetheless.
"I wanted to talk to you about your show."
"What about it?"
Petra floundered. "It's... well, mine got pulled and yours arranged. It just seemed odd."
"I suppose it would." Ice cubes clinked and bangles jingled as Saffron took a sip of water. She set the glass down and dabbed at her
"I think that's true of either sex."
He shrugged. "Mermaids only come in one flavor though."
By now it had become ritual to sit watching the mermaids in the evening, to scribble down notes, moving them from tank to tank, trying new song combinations, recording the behaviors. The Mariposa mermaids did funny little flips while blowing bubbles, which seemed unique to them so far. The Amazonias had not just natural armor but tiny tridents that seemed to be outgrowths of their hands. It gave them a wobble when swimming.
She laid her pen down. Odd to think that Leonid had given time to musing about women artists. And that he'd constructed an image like that, uncharacteristically romantic, the mermaids singing into the wind.
That wasn't how she thought of them. To her, artists overall were the canaries in the coal mine, the eyes that could see outside the structures containing everyone and voice a warning when there was something poisonous, something dangerous.
Something that needed to be exposed.
A self-important view, to be sure.
She could have gone down that rabbit hole of thought, but she wrenched herself away from it.
Both sexes—all sexes, if you wanted to be encompassing—saw how it worked. Did women artists have a vantage point that gave them some insight no one else could access? Again, overly self-important. Artists saw from every viewpoint, they splin tered their consciousness, reflected and refracted reality in their minds before they turned it into art.
Maybe they were more sensitive to those poisons, like the canaries, who warned of danger by dying.
Perhaps that was why they went crazy so easily.
An Operetta mermaid swam around the tank in long slow loops. She had to admit there was a great deal of inventive detail to the mermaids. Leonid had confided that they were the work of three comic book artists that he'd commissioned. A talented gene splicer used a three-D rendering of the artists' concepts. The gene tech was incredible. The Starbright mermaid actually twinkled. If you turned out the light it looked like a shifting constellation hanging in the dark water.
Around and around. Her thoughts did that sometimes. Often. Though the medication helped.
Around and around. Around and around.
After an hour, she pulled herself to bed.
Around and around.
Pomegranate Bistro was on a side of town she didn't usually opt for, one she thought of as just a little snobby, just a little too consciously upscale.
Saffron was fifteen minutes late. The precision of the timing made Petra wonder if it wasn't calculated, if Saffron hadn't waited in the car, expressing her disdain for Petra with the interval.
That was paranoid and unworthy of her. She fixed a smile on her face as Saffron came through the tables.
The first thing you noticed about Saffron was always her costume. Not costume perhaps, but an outfit clearly assembled for its Bohemian effect, vintage items mixed with upscale shoe designers, a necklace that proclaimed eclecticism with every mismatched link. She sat down with a jingle of bracelets, picking up a menu to study it.
"I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the restaurant," she said from behind the paper. "I know it's not your sort of place, but it's one of my favorites."
Petra felt things lurking beneath the words. "Not a bit."
"Any luck finding a new gallery?"
"I haven't really started looking. I've been working on a new piece. I figured I'd finish that up first. How is getting ready for your show going?"
"Smooth as silk." Saffron laid the menu down with a sly smile. "I'm good at arranging things."
That seemed like an ominous segue but Petra seized it nonetheless.
"I wanted to talk to you about your show."
"What about it?"
Petra floundered. "It's... well, mine got pulled and yours arranged. It just seemed odd."
"I suppose it would." Ice cubes clinked and bangles jingled as Saffron took a sip of water. She set the glass down and dabbed at her
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