Linda Nagata - Goddesses

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Goddesses

by Linda Nagata

In the birthing room of a tiny clinic, in a town in Southern India, holding the hand of another man's wife,

Michael Fielding felt chaos rise quietly through the world. Like the gentle flood of an untamed river, it

seeped into his life, dissolving the past, laying down the mud that would grow the future.

Jaya's hand tightened on his. Her lips parted, ruby-red jewels set against her cream-coffee skin, their

color that of a tailored strain of bacteria cohabiting in her cells.

"Another's starting," she whispered. Exhaustion feathered her words. "Michael … all the old women lied

… when they promised it would be easier … the second time."

"You're almost there," he assured her. "You're doing terrific."

Sheo's voice backed him up, speaking from the beige picture frame of the open portal, sitting on the

rickety metal table at the head of the bed. It was a voice-only connection, so the portal's screen

displayed a generic sequence of abstract art. "Michael's right, my love. You are wonderful."

"Sheo?" Jaya's dark eyes opened. She turned toward Michael, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead,

her gaze fixed on the lens of his net visor that concealed his eyes like gray sunglasses. She seemed to

search the shades for some trace of her husband. Her expression was captured by tiny cameras on the

shades' frame. Processors translated her image to digital code, then shunted it to Sheo's mobile address,

across town or across the continent—Michael had lost track of how far Sheo had progressed in his

frantic journey to meet his wife.

Jaya should have been home in Bangalore, enjoying the services of the finest hospital in the country. She

did not belong in this primitive clinic, where the obstetrician was a face on a monitor, checking on her

through a stereoscopic camera that pointed between her legs.

Of course it was Michael's fault. He'd been in-country two weeks, the new district director for Global

Shear. It was an assignment he'd coveted, but with only five days' notice before his transfer from the

Hong Kong office, he had not been ready for it.

Jaya took pity on him. Claiming her maternity leave might otherwise end in terminal boredom, she took a

train to Four Villages, to help Michael find his way through barriers of language and local custom.

He and Jaya had both interned at Global Shear, members of a five-person training team so cohesive that,

ten years after the course work ended, four of them still met almost daily on a virtual terrace to exchange

the news of their private lives and their careers. When Jaya stepped off the train to embrace Michael on

the dusty platform, it was the first time they had ever met in real space … and it hadn't mattered. If they

had grown up in the same house, Michael could not have felt any closer to her.

Now the baby was coming three weeks early.

Everything happened so much faster these days.

Sheo's voice crooned through the portal speaker, calm as a holy man preaching peace and brotherhood.

"You're strong and you're beautiful, Jaya. And you've done this before. Our beautiful Gita—"

Fury heated Jaya's black eyes. "That was six years ago! Now I am old! And you're not here."

"I've got a zip," he explained quickly. "I'm leaving the airport now. I'll be there in just a few more

minutes."

"He'll be here," Michael whispered, fervently hoping it was true. With a white cotton cloth, he daubed at

the sweat gleaming on Jaya's forehead and cheeks. The clinic's air conditioning had been shut off at

midnight. It would not be restored until after dawn, when the sun rose high enough to activate the rooftop

solar tiles. Windows had been thrown open to the night. In the distance, a train murmured, base whispers

interrupted by rhythmic thumps that went on and on and on until Michael felt the train must surely run all

the way to Bangalore.

Jaya's eyes closed. The muscles in her face emerged in severe outline as the contraction climaxed.

Michael dipped the cloth in a bowl of water and wiped at her forehead, until she growled at him to leave

her alone.

Down between her legs, the midwife, who spoke excellent English, sighed happily. "Ah, he's almost here.

Gently now, lady. Push gently, so he doesn't tear you."

"Where are you, Sheo?" Jaya cried. "It's happening now."

"I'm here!" The calmness in Sheo's voice had cracked. "I'm outside."

A screech of dirty brakes and the growl of wet pavement under tires testified to the arrival of his zip. "Get

your ass in here, Sheo," Michael growled.

Jaya gasped. From the foot of the bed, the midwife cried, "Here is the head! He's here … just a little

more, a little more … there!" And Jaya's breath blew out in a long, crying exhalation. "There my lady,

now only his body to come, easy, easy."

Sheo stumbled past the curtain, struggling to pull an old set of surgical scrubs over his beige business

shirt. A nurse followed after him, her face stern as she fought to grab the gown's danglings ties.

Sheo still wore his own shades, and as he cried out Jaya's name a whistle of feedback snapped out of the

portal on the bedside table. Michael leaned over and slapped the thing off. Then the baby was there. The

midwife had the child in her hands, but as she gazed at it, her happy expression drained away. Her mouth

shrank to a pucker. Her eyes seemed to recede within a mantle of soft, aging flesh. The stern nurse saw

the change. She leaned past the midwife's shoulder to look at the child, and her eyes went wide with an

ugly surprise.

For a dreadful moment Michael was sure the baby was dead. Then he heard the tiny red thing whimper.

He saw its arm move, its little fingers clench in a fierce fist. Was it deformed then? Impossible. Jaya had

employed the best obstetric care. If there had been a problem, she would have known.

Sheo crouched at Jaya's side. He whispered to her, he kissed her face. Neither of them had noticed the

midwife and her distress, and for that Michael felt thankful. But he had to see the baby.

At his approach, the midwife looked up warily. She pulled the baby close to her breast as if to hide

whatever damning evidence she had seen.

"No," Michael said. "Let me see."

She seemed ready to resist, but then she sighed, and held the child out.

The little girl was a mess. White goop filled a sea of wrinkles. There were downy patches of dark hair on

her shoulders, and her face was flushed red. Michael grinned. A typical newborn. He turned to Jaya.

"She's beautiful. A beautiful little girl."

The doctor on the monitor agreed, and still Michael felt as if a shadow had swum sinuous through this

night, drawing all of them a little deeper into the haunted past.

· · · · ·

Michael had been warned about the strangeness of this place.

It was not quite three weeks since the wall screen in his Hong Kong office had opened on an image of

Karen Hampton, smiling slyly from behind her desk, with the Singapore skyline visible through the

window at her back.

She'd asked if he still had a taste for challenges, and he'd risen like a shark on blood scent.

Karen Hampton was in her sixties, and Michael could only think of her as classy. Her skin was fair, her

features petite, her manner of dress stiff-Gotham-uppercrust; but when she laughed, Karen Hampton

sounded like a trucker bellied up to a bar. She was laughing now. "That's my Michael! Still hungry." Then

her face grew stern. No longer the sympathetic mentor shepherding his career, she transformed into the

unflappable director of Global Shear Asia. "I want you to be the next site director at Four Villages."

He could not believe what he was hearing. "Karen! Hell yes. You know I've wanted this from the

concept stage."

Her gaze didn't soften. "I know, but nevertheless, I'm advising you to think hard about it, Michael. This is

not so much a favor as a chance to ruin your career."

Four Villages was a quiet experiment that could change the path of development in impoverished regions

throughout the world. Global Shear had won a ten-year contract as civil administrator in the district—and

not as a glorified cooperative extension service. They had been hired to overhaul a failed bureaucracy,

and to that end, many traditional government functions, from real property inventories to taxation, had

been placed in the corporation's hands.

"You aren't going to show a positive balance sheet for at least five years," Karen warned him. "Maybe

longer. We have been hired to grow an economy. Within ten years, we must develop four essential

aspects of a sustainable trade system: infrastructure, information, financing, and trust. I put trust last not

because it is the least important but because it is the most important. Only when trust is firmly established,

and our presence here welcomed by a majority of residents, will we begin to see a profit."

Global Shear's contract would be financed partly through the World Bank, but primarily through a

carefully defined flat tax, so that the corporation's income would rise with economic activity. In a region

of sixteen million people, the profit potential was enormous. So were the challenges, of course, but if the

job was easy, it would have already been done.

"We will be wrecking traditional relationships between farmers, landlords, and business people," Karen

warned. "We will be stumbling through issues of religion, caste, and gender. We will be accused of

corrupting traditional culture and it will be true. To many, we will be the enemy. But at the same time, if

we deal honestly and enthusiastically with everyone, self-interest will convince the majority that we are

performing a right and proper job. The poor are the majority here, Michael. Your goal is to change that

fact. Your biggest challenge will be your own preconceptions.

"You've worked in Sarajevo, Kurdistan, Rangoon, Hong Kong, but nothing you've experienced will

leave you feeling as displaced as you will feel after a few weeks in Four Villages. This project is not

about New Delhi. It's definitely not about Bangalore. It's not about the educated, westernized Indians

you have worked with in our offices around the world. It's different. Remember that, and you might make

it through your first month. It's also utterly human. Remember that as well, and you might outlast your

predecessor, who succumbed to culture shock in less than a year."

Karen had warned him, and after two weeks in-country, Michael knew she hadn't exaggerated. If not for

Jaya he might have been lost, but even Jaya was a foreigner here. How many evenings had they spent in

despairing laughter, trying to decode the bizarre demands of a merchant or a farmer or a local police

officer? Or the medical staff in a rural hospital?

In the clinic's dimly-lit hallway, Michael met the stern-faced nurse, pulling fresh sheets from a closet. He

approached her, driven by a need to understand. "Why did you look that way, when you saw Jaya's

baby? As if something about her frightened you?"

The nurse's face was hard, like well-aged wax. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Fielding. It's as you

said, a beautiful baby girl."

"Please." Michael moved half a step closer. At six foot one, he towered over the nurse. On some level he

knew he was using his height to bully her, but he had never had it in him to look away from a bad

situation. "You saw something. Please tell me what it was."

The moan of another woman's labor seeped from behind drawn curtains. Anger flashed in the nurse's

eyes. "I saw that she is a girl."

"Of course she's a girl, but what's wrong with her?"

"That is enough." The nurse slipped past him with her burden of sheets.

"Wait," Michael pleaded. "I don't understand."

She looked back at him. Had her expression softened? "It is nothing, sir. Just a surprise. Mostly, these

women have boys. When they have girls, it is usually a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"I am glad it's not a mistake this time."

· · · · ·

Later, Michael walked the dim corridor with Sheo, while the nurses tended to Jaya and changed her

gown. "They were shocked you had a daughter."

Sheo's lips pursed in a long sigh, while outside, rain pattered in peaceful rhythm. "The old ways are dying

out, but change doesn't happen everywhere at once. This is my second daughter, and I would not wish it

any different. But for a family living a traditional life, a daughter is not an asset. For the very poor, she can

be a financial disaster. Illiterate, subservient, she is of little use. It will cost her family to raise her, train

her, and then they will have to pay another family to take her in."

"The midwife said most ladies here have boys."

"Did she? Well. There is always talk."

"Infanticide?" The word softened, set against the rain.

"It starts much earlier, I think." Sheo shook his head. "But don't talk of these things now, Michael. Not on

my daughter's birthday. She's beautiful, isn't she? As beautiful as her mother."

One more battle nearly won.

Cody Graham leaned back in the shotgun seat of the two-person ATV, tired but psyched following an

afternoon spent roving the thriving grasslands of Project Site 270. "It feels so good to get out of the

office!"

She glanced at Ben Whitman, hunched under his Green Stomp cap as he worked the ATV up the slope.

The kid was smiling. Enough of a smile that Cody caught a flash of teeth. She congratulated herself. It

was the most expressive response she'd managed to wring out of nineteen-year-old Ben. Not that he was

unfriendly, or even shy. Just a bit reserved. Nervous, maybe, in the presence of the big-shot boss.

"You've done a great job here," she added, as the ATV ploughed a path through waist-high grasses.

"You keep saying that."

"Oh, and you do a great self-check. Nice, clean toxin smears."

"Oh, thanks. Clean pee. My speciality."

Cody laughed. For six months Ben had been Green Stomp's only full-time employee at 270. Cleanup at

the hazardous waste site was nearing completion. Staff activity had been reduced to a daily round of

detailed soil assays, with the occasional application of a spray or injection of nutrient-fortified bacteria to

areas where microbial activity had declined. The bacteria worked to break down toxic molecules into

safe and simple carbon groups—food for less exotic microbes serving as natural decomposers within the

soil. An inspection tour of 270 by the federal oversight officer was scheduled in three weeks, so Cody

had set up a tour of her own in advance of that, to look for any outstanding problems. She hadn't found

any. Green Stomp would close out 270 as a showcase project.

Ben's hands tightened on the wheel as the ATV bounced upslope to the project office: a green-gold,

wind-engineered tent anchored to an elevated platform. The graceful tent was a huge step above the ugly

mobile trailers Cody had used eleven years ago when she and her partners tackled their first

bioremediation project. Using both natural and genetically-tailored soil bacteria, along with select plants,

they had set out to clean a hazardous waste site contaminated with perchloroethylene.

PCE was a common—and carcinogenic—industrial chemical. For many years it was believed that no

microbe could break it down to harmless components. Then, in 1997, researchers unveiled a new

bacterium found in the sludge of an abandoned sewage plant that could do just that. Genetic tailoring

modified the strain to work in dry land environments, and since then thousands of polluted sites had been

restored.

"You know," Ben said, his voice strained and his knuckles showing white as he gripped the wheel, "when

270 closes down, I'm going to be out of a job."

Cody's smile broadened. "That's the second reason I came down here. I wanted to talk to you about

that."

· · · · ·

While Ben prepped his soil samples for mailing to Green Stomp's central lab, Cody laid claim to the

administrator's office. With a cup of fresh coffee in hand, she leaned back in the chair, kicking her feet up

on the empty desk top. The office looked out on the lush grassland of the project site. She could see the

trail taken by the ATV, and—hazed by distance—she could just glimpse the glittering surface of the

Missouri River through gaps in the broken levee.

Three years ago Project Site 270 had been farm country—prime farm country, at least when spring

flooding was minimal and the levees held. In the spring of '09 the levees gave way. Floodwaters

destroyed the freshly-planted crop, at the same time spreading sewage, spilled petroleum products and

the hazardous waste from illegal dumping across the fertile land. It had happened many times before, but

in '09 a new ingredient was added. Under the pressure of rust and water, several abandoned storage

tanks cracked, leaking a grim cocktail of restricted pesticides into the muddy aftermath of the flood. The

disaster went undiscovered for weeks, until wildlife started turning up dead.

Cody scowled as a doe emerged from a windbreak of poplars to the north. Animals were reservoirs of

fat-soluble pesticides; the stuff concentrated in their tissues as they ate contaminated plants. Fences had

been built to keep deer off the project site. Traps had been laid to contain smaller species that could not

be fenced out. But no containment system was perfect. "Yo, Ben!" she called. "Looks like you've got a

breach in the fence."

He appeared from the direction of the lunch room, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. "That doe again?"

"It's a doe."

He looked out the window. "I think she's getting in at the foot of the bluff by the river. I swear she hangs

out there and waits until the motion sensors are switched off."

"Can you remove her today?"

"Sure. Before I go home."

Until the land was certified clean, Green Stomp's contract called for all large wildlife to be expelled.

Cody nodded at a chair on the other side of the desk. "Have a seat, Ben. We need to talk about your

future."

"Then I've got one?"

He looked so anxious Cody had to smile. It was scary to be out of a job. Unemployment benefits didn't

last long. No one starved, of course. You could crunch government crackers until the next millennium and

never run short of nutrients thanks to the new mondo-wheats. But it wasn't fun. "Sit down," Cody urged

again, and this time Ben sat, cradling his coffee cup in his hands, staring at the steam that curled up from

its black surface.

"Your supervisor speaks highly of you," Cody said. "Six months working alone, and you haven't missed a

day or screwed up a sample."

Ben looked up. He pushed his cap back on his head. "She said to talk to you about continuing with the

company."

"Good advice. Are you willing to move?"

He frowned over that. Cody suspected he'd spent his whole life here, along the river. "Sure. I guess. Like

to where?"

Cody looked up at the ceiling. She pursed her lips. "Say … to Belize? Or Sierra Leone. Maybe even

Siberia?"

A look of despair came over Ben's face. Cody slipped her feet off the desk, immediately sorry. "I'm

joking! We're just a little company, strictly North American. The biggest adventure you could expect is

the wilds of Pennsylvania."

"I'll take it," Ben said, with painful solemnity. "I'm not the smartest guy around, but I know how to work.

I don't get bored. I don't slack."

"I don't hire grunt labor," Cody told him, "for anything more than short term. You'd have to be willing to

go back to school. If things work out, Green Stomp could eventually sponsor you for an online degree."

Again he stared at the steaming cup clenched in his white-knuckled hand. "I never did too good in

school."

"Want to try again?"

He raised his eyes to look at her. She saw fear there, and hunger. A fierce hunger.

Say yes, she urged him silently.

Ben was a smart kid. That was easy to tell after working with him only one afternoon, but it was equally

obvious someone had been carping in his ear all his life that he was basically a dumb shit who would

never amount to anything. It was hard to counter that early life influence.

"How much school?" he asked.

Cody grinned wickedly. She had spent her own formative years in a private boarding school, as a charity

case on a corporate scholarship, seeing her mother only on rare weekends. Those had been the hardest

years of her life, but receiving the scholarship to attend Prescott Academy had also been her biggest

break. She bore no sympathy for anyone out to shirk an education. "Oh, ten or fifteen years of college

should do it for you, Ben."

His lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "At entry-level wages?"

"Pay commensurate with experience. Say yes, Ben."

He nodded slowly. "Okay then. Yes."

· · · · ·

Cody had made Green Stomp's reputation by tackling the toughest, dirtiest jobs she could find. The

harder the challenge, the more she liked it. Kicking apart toxic "nonbiodegradable" molecules was a

physical thrill. In her mind, it was the same as kicking down the mental walls that fenced people in. Like

the one that said kids from bad neighborhoods couldn't make it in life. Kick. Or the one that said

technology must eventually lead to apocalypse, whether through war, engineered disease,

overpopulation, or pollution. Kick. Cody had seen a lot of tough problems, but she hadn't seen the end

of the world yet. Look hard enough, and problems could provide their own solutions. Green Stomp

already held several patents on specialized strains of bacteria recovered from heavily polluted sites.

She tapped her data glove, waking up the portal standing open on the desk. The collapsible monitor had

a display the size of an eight-by-twelve-inch piece of paper. It was a quarter inch thick, and when not in

use, it could be folded into thirds and slipped into a briefcase. Now it stood open, leaning back on a

T-shaped foot. "Hark, link to Jobsite."

The portal opened a cellular connection to Cody's server. Seconds later the screen came to life with an

image of Jobsite's bioremediation lobby.

Cody turned the portal around so Ben could see. "Green Stomp gets about a third of our projects

through Global Shear. You've heard of them? No? A multinational. We sold them a twenty percent share

of Green Stomp in exchange for expansion capital, so they like to drop business in our direction. Plus I

interned there, and several execs know and love me." She grinned.

Ben's smile was fleeting as he puzzled over the lobby architecture.

"Anyway," Cody went on, "another third of our projects represent repeat business from satisfied clients.

We're grateful for that, of course, but let me tell you a secret. The most interesting jobs come off the

public link. Go ahead. Scroll through the list. Check it out."

The portal was keyed to Cody's voice. It didn't know Ben, so instead of speaking to it, he leaned

forward, tentatively pressing the manual keys on the frame. "Do you ever get scared?" he asked, as his

gaze flicked over the listings. "Do you ever worry you'll poison yourself?"

Cody leaned back in her chair, feeling her chest pull tight. "It's something you always have to keep in

mind."

In fact, she'd already poisoned herself. Somehow, early in her career, she'd screwed up and a toxin had

gotten into her blood, into her flesh, into the growing embryo in her womb. She'd been so careful at

home: no alcohol, no coffee, no soda, no drugs. It hadn't mattered. When the pregnancy was terminated,

Cody felt a chip of her soul flushed out along with her daughter. "These things happen," the doctor had

assured her, but Cody needed to know why. She went looking for a causative event—and she found it

when a bioassay of her own liver tissue revealed PCP contamination—the prime pollutant on every job

site she'd worked the previous two years.

"Didn't you say you grew up on the west coast?" Ben asked, his pale cheeks aglow in the portal's light.

"A place called Victoria Glen?"

"Yes."

"Well, guess what? It's on the job list."

Cody turned the portal back around, and frowned.

III

When Michael left the clinic, night still drowned the street, thick and warm, like the spirit of some tropical

ocean ghosting in the rain. Inside, Jaya was teaching her newborn to nurse, while Sheo arranged their

journey home.

Michael paused on the clinic's veranda, listening to cocks crowing the unseen dawn and the musical

patter of rain.

A headlight cruised the street. It hesitated just before the clinic, then it slid into the pull-out. Diffuse light

from the clinic windows glinted on the narrow, beetle-shell chassis of a zip, painted pink and looking

hardly large enough to hold a man. Powered by hydrogen fuel cells, its engine ran silent, so that its arrival

was marked only by tire noise. Rain dashed through the beam of its dim headlight. The aerodynamic

canopy rose a few inches. A boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen years peeked out, fixing Michael with a

hopeful look.

Michael shook his head slightly. He hated to disappoint such an intrepid entrepreneur, up so early to find

the fares that would pay off the loan on his zip, but his feelings were running high and he couldn't think of

squeezing himself into the zip's stuffy little shell.

The boy shrugged, closed the canopy, and pulled away.

A cow lowed, and a rat scurried across the street. Michael hesitated, reminded that he was a stranger in

this place. Still, he was not alone. His right index finger curled, to tap a point on the palm of his data

glove. A green ready light came on in the corner of his shades. "Send voice mail to the Terrace," he

whispered. A mike on his earpiece picked up the command. "Start: Jaya and Sheo are the proud parents

of a beautiful and impatient little girl …"

He found himself smiling as he described the birth for their circle of friends. Then he touched his gloved

palm again, sending the message to the Terrace.

Warm rain enfolded him as he stepped off the veranda, soaking his hair and transforming his silk shirt into

a transparent film. The silk was artificial, spun in a local factory financed by Global Shear. Other grants

had gone out to farmers and small business owners all over the district, but could it ever be enough?

Jaya's daughter had been born into a world of nearly eight billion people. A billion of them lived in India

alone. Michael tried to imagine the scale of it, but he could not. We are a river, flooding the world.

Inevitably remaking it.

A glyph blinked on in the corner of his shades, surrounded by a pink query circle. Michael recognized the

symbol of the Terrace and smiled. "Link."

"Michael!" Etsuko's soft, clipped English laughed in his ear. "I guess you are a surrogate father now!"

"That's right, old man," Ryan chipped in, his Australian voice loud and bold. "You do have some images

for us? Flash them."

"Archived," Michael said. "Sorry. Sort it out later, okay?"

"First-timer," Ryan chided.

Etsuko asked, "Where are you now?"

"Walking home."

"Walking?" she echoed. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Ah," Ryan scoffed. "He's a company bigwig now, with his own eye in the sky following after him."

Michael groaned. "I keep forgetting about that." Global Shear had assigned him a permanent guard in the

form of a mini-drone aircraft with a wingspan the length of his arm. Powered by solar cells and a

lightweight battery system that could get it through the night, it tracked his movements, ever-poised to

raise an alarm should anything go wrong.

"We're bored in our little cubbies," Ryan said. "Give us the scene."

Bored? If Ryan got bored, it was only on weekends, before the Asian markets opened. During the rest

of the week he traded currencies under contract for a large Australian firm.

Etsuko worked in the calmer environment of a California-based multinational specializing in online

education. She staffed the East Asian shift, so her workday often began in the warm, hazy afternoons of

Santa Barbara.

Michael's day ran well behind theirs—a fact Ryan tended to forget. He tapped his glove, activating the

cameras on his shades. Pan left to right: one- and two-story stucco and plastic dwellings loomed out of

the darkness, squeezing against the rain-splattered street. A bicycle trundled past, its rider hidden

beneath an umbrella, two squawking chickens strapped to the handlebars. From a few blocks away, the

screech of wet brakes.

The video feed uploaded over cellular links. On the Terrace, Ryan would seem to be sitting at a patio

table in the shade of a pepper tree, sipping java in mild morning sunlight, fenced in by the dense foliage of

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GoddessesbyLindaNagataIInthebirthingroomofatinyclinic,inatowninSouthernIndia,holdingthehandofanotherman'swife,MichaelFieldingfeltchaosrisequietlythroughtheworld.Likethegentlefloodofanuntamedriver,itseepedintohislife,dissolvingthepast,layingdownthemudthatwouldgrowthefuture.Jaya'shandtightenedonhis.He...

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