Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 206: Clarkesworld Magazine, #206

By Neil Clarke, Thoraiya Dyer, Bo Balder and 6 more

Clarkesworld is a Hugo and World Fantasy Award-winning science fiction and fantasy magazine. Each month we bring you a mix of fiction, articles, interviews and art. Our November 2023 issue (#206) contains:

• Original fiction by Bo Balder ("Eddies are the Worst"), Hannah Yang ("Bird-Girl Builds a Machine"), James Van Pelt ("The Long Mural"), Louise Hughes ("The Parts That Make Me"), Thomas Ha ("The Mub"), Thoraiya Dyer ("Eight or Die (Part 1)"), Kemi Ashing-Giwa ("Thin Ice"), and Tia Tashiro ("To Carry You Inside You").
• Non-fiction includes an article by Priya Sridhar, interviews with David D. Levine and Cory Doctorow, and an editorial by Neil Clarke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyrm Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781642361520

Neil Clarke

Neil Clarke (neil-clarke.com) is the multi-award-winning editor of Clarkesworld Magazine and over a dozen anthologies. A eleven-time finalist and the 2022/2023 winner of the Hugo Award for Best Editor Short Form, he is also the three-time winner of the Chesley Award for Best Art Director. In 2019, Clarke received the SFWA Kate Wilhelm Solstice Award for distinguished contributions to the science fiction and fantasy community. He currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons.

Book preview

Clarkesworld Magazine

Issue 206

Table of Contents

Eddies are the Worst

by Bo Balder

Bird-Girl Builds a Machine

by Hannah Yang

The Long Mural

by James Van Pelt

The Parts That Make Me

by Louise Hughes

The Mub

by Thomas Ha

Eight or Die (Part 1)

by Thoraiya Dyer

Thin Ice

by Kemi Ashing-Giwa

To Carry You Inside You

by Tia Tashiro

Space Vineyards and Microgravity Wine

by Priya Sridhar

Everybody Loves A Rogue: A Conversation with David D. Levine

by Arley Sorg

Head-Over-Heels: A Conversation with Cory Doctorow

by Arley Sorg

Editor’s Desk: This Would Have Been Longer

by Neil Clarke

The pirates on the beach

Art by Dofresh

*

© Clarkesworld Magazine, 2023

www.clarkesworldmagazine.com

Eddies are the Worst

Bo Balder

From the instant the first Eddie shambled into the fish factory, I had misgivings about him. He never looked clean or awake, he had no skills, and he didn’t seem able to learn any. All we could let him do was clean floors and haul crates. He was neither safe nor deft with a filleting knife, he couldn’t sort whitebait from cod, he was clumsy with the pallet jacks, he left the freezer doors open.

Color me surprised when a second and a third Eddie arrived in our van, the one that picked up casual labor from the center. Sure, I’d seen duplicated workers before, but who in their right mind would duplicate this Eddie? A useless worker is still useless when you’ve got three of them.

They did seem to enjoy each other’s company though. The Eddies’ wan, sullen demeanor looked a tad brighter. Their greasy ponytails swung in time to the background music.

I told Malik not to pick up Eddies anymore. The next day he came back empty, saying that Eddies were all they had. I said to go earlier tomorrow. The next morning yielded four Eddies and two Minas, in spite of what I’d told him. Usually women are better on the filleting line, I don’t know why. I was not impressed by the Minas, but they were at least better than the Eddies. They worked the line, they were a little slow but not too bad for a first day, neatness okay. I set the Eddies to cleaning, coffee bringing, and trimming the weeds. Not that the weeds were hampering our business, but I couldn’t find anything else for them to do without me putting other people I needed to supervise the Eddies.

It cost us, but what could I do? With the enormous labor shortage, who wanted to clean fish at minimum wage? Nobody, that’s what. That’s why they sent me Eddies and Olgas, probably because they sold their gene map so cheaply that minimum wages were worth it for their printer bank. The Minas were also pretty hopeless. I wondered where the Eddies went after work. Not to some nice boardinghouse, I didn’t think. Stacked up in drawers like corpses seemed more likely.

The labor shortage, caused by the plummeting birthrate, caused by the decades-long quality (and quantity!) decline of human sperm, wouldn’t be solved anytime soon.

The scientists were trying stuff, more babies were being born, but not enough. And those babies, and the best quality clones, would go to vital professions like doctors, nurses, police, and firefighters. Not to fish filleter shortages. Maybe you could have automated it, but nobody’s investing in a tiny heritage industry like fishing.

So if I wanted to keep the family business afloat, I’d have to find a workaround for the cheap-ass Eddies and Olgas. I talked it over with my brother Kim. He does the sales side of things, but one day a week he’s in the office and we discuss problems.

He scratched his head. Eddies? Is that the slovenly ponytail dude I saw last week, weeding the lot? Geez, Mamie, that guy is useless.

Yup. They’re a waste of money. We need to find another solution.

This sucks. Can’t we ask the labor exchange to send us their best people?

Only for our best money, I said.

Yeah, but if we pay more for a good worker, they’re gonna do twice the work, or three times the work of one of the Eddies.

I know. I told Malik to ask for a Mina. But they’re in demand. We need to plan for days we only get Eddies and Olgas.

How is it possible they’re learning nothing? The fish business isn’t rocket science.

An idea struck me. What if we keep getting fresh Eddies? There’s no way to tell them apart. We need a way to identify the Eddies we’ve had before. Then we can teach them stuff.

What do you wanna do? Give them all brush cuts? We could say we had to for sanitation?

I contemplated that for a second. I wouldn’t be surprised if the labor exchange already has a way of keeping track of their clones. But would they share that with us?

No way. Too complicated, too time consuming.

A tattoo, then? We offer them free tattoos. I think Eddies look like people who’d appreciate tattoos. The original probably had full sleeves.

That only works if Malik gets to pick the ones he wants. Let’s ask him in.

Malik entered, smelling strongly of fish guts. We put our idea to him.

He looked thoughtful, and patted his fish-scale covered pockets. I quickly offered him a donut, so he wouldn’t start smoking.

I haven’t been doing that, because all the Eddies are the same anyway, but yeah I used to go over to all the people waiting for work and pick them out myself. Where are you gonna put those tattoos? Forehead would be best.

I snorted. Too noticeable. Possibly illegal. And we don’t want to give other businesses ideas. What could you do that’s not offensive or noticeable? Little tat on their inner wrist?

Malik scratched his head with his fishy gloves. I bet his wife made him shower before letting him into the house. Yeah, I could ask them to hold out their hands. Yeah, no problem. When do we start?

As soon as we can find a tattooist. We’ll let you know.

I wanted to indulge my curiosity. Do you know where the Eddies sleep at night, Malik?

Nope. Not for sure. But I think they’re keeping them in the old meat-packing plant behind the exchange.

That made me feel bad. Worse than a coffin hotel. But I didn’t see what I could do to change that. If we could train a couple of regular Eddies and Olgas to do a proper job, that would give them not just a long-term contract, but also dignity and purpose. That I could do for them. And for our business, of course.

Malik stood up, leaving fish scales behind on the vinyl chair. I kept cleaning stuff in my desk for that. How’s the baby fund going? he asked.

Kim and I exchanged glances. We were both divorced, not making that much money, so we’d decided to pool our resources. We’d be mom and dad as well as aunt and uncle in one fell swoop. Even with government subsidies, the creation of a baby was so expensive that only the rich could afford them. I’d once seen some rich guy with two kids in his car. Two! Only for billionaires, I guess.

It’s going slow, I said. What do you think, we’re making giant profits? Our parents had promised a substantial gift once we got close enough to buy a baby. Still, it hadn’t been easy so far and didn’t promise to get any easier. The world has been vegetarian for a generation while the oceans recovered. People don’t understand eating meat.

One of our competitors has been selling fish in tofu-shaped bricks. Very successful. It kind of goes against the grain destroying a fish’s beautiful, natural flesh to press it into something else, but maybe we should start doing that. To get our baby fund filled before we’re forty. Which is the cut-off date for subsidy.

They say in Europe and Africa, governments are funding all of the baby costs, which makes sense. Wouldn’t you want to have a well-populated country? But here, it’s market driven and therefore super expensive. I guess the rich figure they’ll use clones to wipe their butts and scrub their kitchen floors.

Malik shuffled off. I felt bad. At his wages, and being over forty, he was never going to scrape together enough money to buy a baby, not even with his five-marriage.

I’ll find a tattoo artist, Kim said. You better get back to the floor, check on those Eddies.

Thanksgiving. Since our divorces, we’d been celebrating it with our parents. We were never allowed to help, since it had always been a point of pride to them to put out the most ridiculously overflowing Thanksgiving table. A giant tofurkey, cranberries, mountains of creamed potato.

I like Asian best, and Kim Mexican, but we eat our way through this bland food as best we can. The trick is to have a very light dinner the day before and no breakfast. Even so, we never manage to get through it all.

I’d been concentrating so hard on clearing my plate that Kim’s nudge made me choke.

What?

What’s with Mum?

She and Dad were in the kitchen, getting ready for a gigantic, sweet dessert, which we had to pretend they’d made themselves from scratch. Mum had never been a talker, and the last years all that cooking had exhausted her to the point of silence or even nodding off during dessert. I hadn’t noticed anything strange. Or wait, Dad had done most of the serving and talking today. And the food had been worse than usual.

You think she’s sick?

I don’t know, Kim said. He looked pretty worried. She feels off. Vague and monosyllabic. Did you smell that when she hugged us?

I realized I hadn’t actually been mentally present through most of the visit. Thinking about Eddies and fishing and saving for babies. I remembered now that I had been the one to hug Mom, not the other way around. She had smelled a bit musty maybe? Like laundry left in the washer too long.

Shh. Here they come.

Dad entered first, carrying the decanted ice-cream cake. On top of it were a few askew candles and lumpy heaps of something I guessed might be attempts at decoration. Now that Kim had opened my eyes, I could see that Dad had been doing the decorating. Mom had always had a deft hand with the piping bags.

Okay, so Mom was getting senile, or maybe she was sick. And Dad was keeping it to himself.

Later, in the car going home, Kim and I talked about what we should do. I came down on the side of letting them keep their pride and not butting in unasked. Kim wanted to intervene for their own good. We decided to do nothing for now and reevaluate after Christmas, when we’d have to go through the whole dinner thing once more.

A couple of weeks before Christmas I called home to offer our help for the family meal. I didn’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving. My dad answered, which was unusual. It had always been my mom answering the phone, and calling Dad to join in if we asked for him.

Why don’t Kim and I make a course? Like, soup or dessert or the main course? We’re adults, we should take our share of the responsibility.

I could sense, even over the phone, that Dad wanted to shrug off the assistance, but common sense finally won out and he allowed us to bring the whole entrée.

I sighed with relief. Soup and dessert, even if Dad had to cook, he could open a can and pull something from the freezer.

I told Kim after and he was glad I’d done it. They’re getting old, Mamie. We might have to move in with them soon.

The horror. But retirement homes were a thing of the past, not enough care workers to look after them, even with the steady stream of people fleeing global warming around the equator. So. It would have to be us who took care of our parents.

Let’s start with keeping the apartment and doing one week on, one week off? Otherwise we’ll go nuts.

I was already going nuts with having to juggle work and the high school Christmas reunion, for which I’d also have to cook a dish. There are so many single and childless people now, the family thing makes no sense. So we gather our block, and our high school class to have some kind of cheer. In my whole class, there was only one girl made good as a software millionaire, and she had a daughter, which she’d paraded for us last year. Painful. We’d all gritted our teeth watching her flaunt what we could only dream of.

So I arrived on Christmas Eve slightly hungover, a lot frazzled, in last year’s dress with my half of the main course. Mashed potatoes and roasted root veggies. Kim would do a prime rib, since he couldn’t face the tofurkey again.

I could smell him cooking as I entered. My dishes could be heated up in the microwave if he didn’t have room for me on the stove or in the oven.

Here’s mine. When are we eating?

Kim looked up, face red, looking harassed. In half an hour. Can you go lay the table and search for soup? I think Mom and Dad have entered a state of paralysis. They’re just sitting there, nothing’s been done.

I looked in on them quickly. Mom sat staring straight ahead, mechanically poking at a tangle of grubby knitting. She didn’t seem quite herself. But then the stress of Christmas didn’t usually lead to relaxed conversation in our house. Dad was drinking whisky, and going by the empty bottle beside him and his red face, had been at it all day. Not like him at all. He’d been a two sips and a grimace kind of guy

Kim and I made the food and brought it to the table. Mom and Dad sat in their usual places, looking as festive as two sacks of potatoes. They hadn’t even changed their clothes, and they looked none too clean. My heart sank. The moving in might be happening sooner than I’d anticipated. I didn’t know how I would cope with all those fucking Eddies at work and everything.

Kim ladled out soup. Let’s start.

Dad woke up a bit. Where’s the Bible? We need to do a reading.

We hadn’t done that in years.

Dad trundled around the living room, vaguely looking for the Bible. He got really upset when he couldn’t find it. I don’t care! I want to read now! It’s part of Christmas. I’m going to get the bible.

I’ll go, Dad, I said and ran upstairs. Dad was so slow these days, it would take him at least half an hour.

The study was a mess. Papers everywhere, the books in a jumble, heaps on the floor like someone slept in there. Finally I located the Bible under an ugly vase, covered in dust.

Dad read from it in a quavery voice. He ended the reading with a prayer, thanking not just God but also technology for our bounty. Weird.

The soup was cold by the time we finished. Kim’s ribs would have turned to leather by now. Mom, who usually have kept Dad’s timing in check, just sat and knitted. At the dinner table!

We ate. There was no conversation. You’d think that would be better than awkwardness and intergenerational gap, but it wasn’t.

You have to talk to Dad, I whispered to Kim over the washing-up. Ask him what’s wrong with Mom.

Can’t you do it?

He won’t listen to me! I’m a girl, you know how he is.

We’ll do it together.

We dragged Dad to his study, leaving Mom still slow-motion knitting.

Dad. You have to talk to us. What’s going on with Mom?

Dad’s hands shook and his eyes shot from left to right continuously. Nothing. She’s fine. A bit tired maybe. Thanks for doing the cooking, she wasn’t up for it this year.

He pulled the ugly vase towards him and stroked its sides. Dad had never cared for Mom’s knickknacks and vases and throw pillows, so it was odd to see him do that.

Should we be concerned? Is she seeing a doctor?

Yes, we’ve been to doctors, and she’s fine. You know how she loves to knit.

We got nowhere. Dad, shaky and nervous as he seemed, refused to admit anything was wrong with either him or Mom. They were fine. They didn’t need help.

We gave up. Knowing that inevitably something was going to go wrong, soon. But unwilling to force the issue.

Kim couldn’t find a tattoo artist willing to work on site for a price we could afford. We kept hiring Eddies and Olgas because there were no other workers to be found. I gave all my regulars a raise and started worrying about their ages. Even the youngest was in her late forties.

The Eddies were going to be here to stay. They weren’t going to change. So we would have to.

Now that I’d resigned myself to an Eddie-filled future, I looked at my factory floor with different eyes. How could we rearrange our process so that the Eddies could be useful?

In theory the fish was pre-sorted on board, the small ones tossed back into the sea, but a second check was always necessary, considering the circumstances of fishing in the open sea.

That, our present Eddies could not be trusted to do. It was Malik’s task, with me or Kim filling in if