The Algebraic Woman and Other Stories

By Matthew Sanborn Smith

Darpana is a woman made of math, enslaved to the mathematicians who created her. Any human or humans who stand too closely become her input and her personality and body change with each new encounter. When no one is around, she disappears. How would you escape if you only existed in the company of others?

In this collection, Matthew Sanborn Smith explores dark futures and fantasies of people merging bodies, the sky splitting open, and an artist’s asylum that houses deeply disturbing work.

Stories include:
The Algebraic Woman
Puppies for Sale
And the Midwives Their Faces Abloom
Maisy’s Many Souls
Red and Roxanne
The Cat in the Helmet Comes Back

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Sanborn Smith
• Release date: Oct 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463301937

Matthew Sanborn Smith

Matthew Sanborn Smith is a writer who lives in South Florida. His work has appeared at Tor.com, Nature, and Chizine, among others. His story, "Beauty Belongs to the Flowers," was given an Honorable Mention in The Year's Best Science Fiction. Besides his too infrequent contributions to the StarShipSofa podcast, he is also hardly ever seen at sfsignal.com and heard even less on the SF Signal podcast. But what tops them all is how he is almost never heard on the SFF Audio podcast. He is, however, the lord of the Beware the Hairy Mango podcast, which celebrated its fifth anniversary earlier this year. He is one head of the writing hellhound known as Cerberus, the other heads belonging to Grant Stone and Dan Rabarts. He once held a Hugo award in his sweaty hands before security asked him to give it back to its rightful owner.

Book preview

The Algebraic Woman

and Other Stories

Matthew Sanborn Smith

For Catana, Ian, and Ivory

a triumvirate of beautiful people

Copyrights

The Algebraic Woman Copyright © 2017

by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

Puppies for Sale Copyright © 2011

by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

And the Midwives Their Faces Abloom Copyright © 2017

by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

Maisy’s Many Souls Copyright © 2008 by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

First appeared in Greatest Uncommon Denominator, Kaolin Fire.

Red and Roxanne Copyright © 2016

by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

The Cat in the Helmet Comes Back Copyright © 2014

by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

Additional material Copyright © 2019

by Matthew Sanborn Smith.

Cover art Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Sanborn Smith, employing a photo by and of Della D. Sharma

Cover design by Matthew Sanborn Smith

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and extremely unlikely.

I’ve tried to recreate events contained in the afterwords (The stories behind the stories) to the best of my ability, given my memories, records, and the internet.

Table of Contents

Copyrights

The Algebraic Woman

The Story Behind The Algebraic Woman

Puppies for Sale

The Story Behind Puppies for Sale

And the Midwives Their Faces Abloom

The Story Behind And the Midwives Their Faces Abloom

Maisy’s Many Souls

The Story Behind Maisy’s Many Souls

Red and Roxanne

The Story Behind Red and Roxanne

The Cat in the Helmet Comes Back

The Story Behind The Cat in the Helmet Comes Back

Acknowledgments

Me-Books

About the Author

THE ALGEBRAIC WOMAN

When the Ghostmakers’ client appeared beyond the clearwall, Darpana noted two things before spinning to collect her clothing from the bed:

1) He stood in a cloud of eyes.

2) She wanted to tell him everything.

Shit.

Eyes? They’re sending me pornographers now? The clearwall’s pores conducted sound as well as they did the client’s personality. Darpana glanced over her shoulder as she pulled on her petticoat. He had turned his back to her. A polite pornographer?

She pulled her choli down over her breasts. The Ghostmakers, her creators—her captors—hadn’t entered clothing into her equation. The cloistered mathematicians seldom had a chance to see a nude woman in the days before they summed her. When they left the room, her clothing dropped to the floor. When they returned, Darpana had to dive for her puddled garments, wanting nothing more than to rip the lecherous smiles from their faces.

My apologies, Miss Ranapur, the man said, looking to the side. The eyes were my studio’s idea. I had no idea you weren’t ready. Your employers told me I could enter.

Those aren’t my employers. They’re slavers. They made me so that I’m never ready. They— Darpana stopped herself. She fought the personality he brought out in her. Tried to.

With one hand pressed against the rough stone wall, she slipped into her shoes, mentally calculating her current height and weight. She kept an eye on his back while draping her purple sari over herself.

Yes? he asked.

Never mind. How are you planning to degrade me tonight? She stood defiantly as she folded the fabric, wishing her current incarnation was taller.

I don’t want to degrade you in any way. He turned his head and saw she was dressed. He wore a beautifully remodeled face, as one would expect from an actor. His dress was retro: a smart, forest green, air-conditioned sherwani with matching canvas mojaris and baggy blue jeans.

Darpana called up a projection of herself, as she did with every change. To see if she could unlock the connections between human input and her own output before the Ghostmakers could. To use that information to escape. She saw her own astonished expression in the projection. In this man’s presence she looked stunning. That was only going to make this whole thing worse. She wanted to tell him—

No. Tell him nothing. At least very little. Or little of value. Or . . . No! Yes. The need to tell burned. And she might have begun, if he hadn’t spoken first.

I’m Vihaan Jain, he said. Maybe you’ve experienced some of my immersions?

I am a tool of my owners, Mr. Jain. They don‘t see fit to let their spanners enjoy the immersions, nor do they see fit to let me.

I’m sorry.

Sorry that I haven’t enjoyed your virtual company? In fact, Namrita had mentioned an immersion to her as she prepared Darpana for this meeting. Asked Darpana if she didn’t think Vihaan was a lovely looking man. When Darpana explained that she had never heard of him, much less seen him or his immersion, Namrita had said, Don’t you rem—? then caught herself and seemed distracted for the rest of their hour together. Was it possible Darpana was losing pieces of her memory along with her other selves?

That’s not what I meant at all, Vihaan said, clasping his hands. I’m sorry you’re being treated like this. I can offer you a bit of time away from it if you like.

And if I don’t like?

I certainly won’t force the issue.

How admirable seeming. Still, you have paid the masters to engage the services of the slave.

I apologize. I didn’t know the extent of . . .

Of . . . ?

It’s nothing, I’m sorry.

I’ll give you a free pass because I’m curious. This was working. Stay on the offensive, keep him yammering, and she might not tell him anything important. Personal.

He paced the small space on his side of the wall. "My first thought was to say I didn’t know the extent of your free will, but then I real—

You’re disappointed to find that I have free will? You wanted a simple fuck toy for the night? Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t have much free will.

That’s the worst free pass I’ve ever received.

She laughed. Hadn’t wanted to. There was a sincere boyishness in his drooping expression. That wasn’t part of the ego of an immersion star. Then again, he was an actor. She straightened her face, and her body as well, hoped he might read her laughter as derision.

I’ll go, he said. I apologize once again. He retreated toward the door.

I didn’t say I wouldn’t go. Another version of Darpana might have hoped she didn't sound desperate. This Darpana didn't care.

You’re still interested? he asked.

Is this for sex? she asked. If he said yes, she might still agree, but the night would be much worse.

No, no, not at all. Dinner. Conversation. Our evening will be shared with the world, live. There will be these eyes, The swarm of floating eyeballs scattered to avoid being swatted by his waving arm. But there will not be other people.

To her side, a small equation crawled out from between the stones of the northern wall. She held a finger in its path. The numbers, the letters, the symbols of its body tickled her hand as it shimmied across her skin. The compound was infested with these little ones. They were her forerunners, the first life the Ghostmakers had ever made, and they were given free rein of the place. They had no personalities, nothing that could activate Darpana in the absence of humans, but that didn’t mean they weren’t good for her. She pressed her lips to her hand and sucked the little creature into her mouth. She felt it wriggle. She swallowed.

I’ll be entertainment, she said.

Uhhhh, it, ah, it’ll be non-immersive, I assure you. Simple audiovisual. A segment to be enjoyed in one’s goggles, rather than a family night in the tank. Again, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.

Those idiot mathematicians might.

He quieted, looked downward. I’m sorry. They beat you?

Lately they've taken to denying me the pleasure of food, leaving me with only a calculator for basic sustenance.

I’m sorry, did you say, ‘a calculator?’

I did. She was telling him too much. And damn it if those eyes weren’t sending her most private thoughts out to the worlds. Every day of her life brought a new type of humiliation. But the words kept wanting to come.

They used to prevent me from using the bathroom. There’s a point when that stops working.

That’s horrible! I had no idea this was happening, Darpana. I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to put an end to this.

No one’s put an end to it so far. Tell me how you might relieve my suffering in the here and now.

I, uh, I’ll get you away from this place for a start. You’ll receive nothing but respect from me. I promise an excellent meal. No calculators. Not even the finest adding machines are worthy of your palate.

A smart, dismissive mouth. The last client was more polite, and you heard what happened to him?

I have. He touched his hands to the clearwall. The whole country has. For a day, you were more famous than I am. The numbers prove it.

Darpana held up her hand. I don’t want to hear about numbers. You’re getting fingerprints on the wall.

What? He pulled away and looked. Then laughed.

You’re not afraid of me? Darpana asked.

Vihaan looked toward the exposed beams of the ceiling. He shouted, Remove the wall, please! The clearwall became marbled like translucent fat and cloudier sections melted into streamers of agar before the remains of the wall followed them. Vihaan did not step forward, though the eyes floated closer to her. He asked, Do you want to harm me?

I’m sorry to say I don’t, Darpana said. You might have nothing to fear from me, Vihaan. But then, neither did D’Souza as long as he followed the rules.

"You think you would turn on me? Do you feel you have that little control over your own actions?

You seem to think this is some sort of self-esteem problem. I don’t have a personality of my own. I’m at the mercy of those around me. Go ask those fools who keep me here. Why am I confined to this windowless room? Why did they make it even smaller with that clearwall that protects visitors until it’s understood what they bring out in me?

You’re not that different from the rest of us. Each of us has our moods around certain people. We react to things sometimes as if we’re not in control of ourselves. Who hasn’t let anger get the best of them? Or love? In calmer moments, we feel ashamed of what we did or said. We learn. We decide. We integrate.

You have no idea what it’s like to be me.

Of course I don’t. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be me?

She stared at him. He looked back with calm eyes. A peaceful man with a charming, slight smile. He seemed wise, which she hadn’t imagined celebrities could be. Some of the nearby eyes winked at her. Or they may have blinked. As they were all individuals, it was hard to know.

I will go with you, Darpana said. She hated herself for giving those men beyond the walls what they wanted, even if she wanted it for herself. She hated more that she wanted to go with Vihaan because there was so much more to tell him.

શ્વાસ

The high road along which their palanquin carried them was a pastel kaleidoscope of melted plastics: the misshapen faces of long dead dollies, homemade handguns, mango juice jugs, instakitchens, IV tubing, cheap children’s bangles, PVC skeletons of makeshift plumbing systems, gachapon capsules, and the chop-shopped corpses of older, obsolete palanquins, among other disposables. Vihaan’s ride trotted across them all, gripping their gnarled edges with its knitting needle toes.

To reserve a stretch of High Road 53, even for half an hour, consumed resources Darpana could not imagine. More bewildering was the thought that Vihaan’s studio was certain the feed of this date would still produce a profit. Eyes bobbed within their palanquin, eyes drifted without. Mumbai writhed beneath them, a multicellular organism comprised of millions of struggling human beings. Its towers rose up to meet them, its air and spacecraft soared above. The early evening horizon went through shades of orange, brushed by purple clouds over a slate blue sea, but Darpana couldn’t be bothered. It took all of her concentration to hold the road up with her mind. Thus far she had kept them from falling to their deaths with nothing more than the power of fear.

One of the world’s most populous cities and you spend most of your time alone, Vihaan said.

I’ve never spent any time alone.

You were alone before I entered your room today.

"I wasn’t. Between the time Namrita left my room and the time you entered, I didn’t exist.

That’s being rather dramatic, don’t you think?

You have no bloody idea who I am, do you? I’m merely the next block on your schedule. What exactly do you think I am? They could drop. At any second. Fall from the sky. She considered drawing the curtains, but that might be worse. Or the simple act of moving her arm might be the shift in weight that shattered the high road.

I, urr, I think you’re a remarkable woman in circumstances—

You do know I’m not human, don’t you?

Well, certainly, he said, I simply thought you might have been sensitive about the subject. You’re an extremely advanced gynoid, who usually—

I don’t believe this!

"No?