"The Taste of Sunlight" by Jennifer DiMarco

[EJ]

*ahem* Jennifer? You' mentioned that you're working out some fan fiction by this title? *ahem* Post it, please. Very good. --EJ

*ahem* EJ? Your wish is my command. Because hey, who needs sleep, right? *ahem* --Jennifer

[Jennifer]

The Taste of Sunlight
by Jennifer DiMarco

It was another day and still the world had not come to an end. Mikiela Shanti lay very still, her green eyes closed, her black hair wild over her narrow shoulders. She breathed so slowly that the thin handmade patchwork of the quilt hid the rise and fall of her chest. After all these years -- and there had been a great many of them -- the quilt was as soft as silk and everywhere it touched her bare skin memories tingled, tugging her up out of sleep.

Keeping her eyes closed, Mikiela slipped one hand from the warm cocoon of sleep and stroked one specific patch, finding it perfectly every morning. The blue denim was worn almost to white threads in some places, worn to the palest blue of early spring skies over the midlands. If she were slow and very careful, if she nudged at the threads with just the softest of the pads of her fingers, she could still find some of the poppy pollen, some of the imported nutmeg. That morning had been more than forty years ago, the morning the table of flowers and nutmeg biscuits had overturned, crushing its contents all over the front of her coveralls and eliciting laughter so wild, so free she had spun to see what must be an angel... and had turned out to be Ariegan Belmout.

It wasn't magic, of course. There was no such thing as magic any more than there was such a thing as an easy harvest or actions without consequences. But two hundred years ago, the Russian government, then still the USSR, had stored more megatons of nuclear missiles on this very land that everyone in Kansko was... different. It just so happened that Mikiela's difference was being able to read atomic structures the way some might read characters on a page. Being able to conceive and identify anything with numbers or compounds. An arithmpsi. It certainly wasn't... her only difference. But it was the one everyone in town knew about.

Mikiela opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She breathed in then out. Ariegan wasn't in the villa. The padshelf needed to be dusted. A vacbot ion battery was dying. There was coffee and chocolate and fresh eggs to be boiled waiting by a notepad tipped against a clay bowl on the table. Mikiela walked from the bedroom, her feet soundless on the thick timbers of the floor. Ariegan's gardening gloves were not in the villa. The scent of Kansko soil did not linger with the acid musk of good childhood's spent playing in the radioactive dirt.

The second floor balcony doors stood open. The fine, cream curtains embroidered with rose buds, trailing thorns, holly leaves and rabbits. The wind stirred the cloth. It was mesmerizing really. That was magic. The way the ageless forces of the Earth interacted with the limited mass and form that was mortal existence. Mikiela waited and counted. 1... 2... the currents met her skin, washed over her like spring showers, dancing around and across her bare body, bringing her a thousand or more small stories. Mikiela smiled to herself; her generous mouth friendly and so expressive. I am thinking so much of spring today, she thought, and she turned her palms into the breeze. Perhaps something is starting--

Hydrogen. Oxygen. Sodium. Chlorine. Magnesium. Sulfur. Potassium. Calcium. Bromine.

What was this? What was this?!

Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon. Nitrogen. Fluorine. Perfectly, meticulously balanced. No errors. No conflicts. Only nature. But against all nature! Mikiela crossed the sitting room in three long-legged strides, her hamstring, quadriceps, and adductor muscles rippling with each step, jumping in sudden bow-strung tension.

Neon. Aluminum. Silicon. Phosphorus. Argon. Scandium. Titanium. Vanadium. The possible origins, the possible identifications, were flying off the list. The more compounds she discovered riding the breeze like foreign invaders, all of them tied together into one ever-growing, ever-complicating string of molecules, the more obvious it became that she was experiencing the impossible. Mikiela threw the curtains behind her and walked to the balcony rail, gripping it so tightly her sun-browned knuckles went bone white and her feet came almost entirely off the ground.

Chromium. Manganese. Ferrum. Cobalt. Nickel. Copper. Zinc. Mikiela felt herself shaking now, all threw her marrow, her blood racing, the sound of it in her ears almost like.... Kansko trundled and called and went about its morning business as always. The town itself like a living presence to her. The same sights and sounds and smells. Not quite two thousand people. Most of them related by blood or family. Most of them having never known anything but these cobble streets and technology reportedly a decade or three behind the rest of the world. The small three-eyed ponies pulling refurbished hovercarts of fresh bread and fruit. The children, some born completely without eyes but able to see all the same, chasing one another through the streets. The men and women with the peace on their faces, the acceptance and understanding that everything, every breath, every word, every acre of poisoned land left untouched and avoided by two dozen wars and twice as many warlords, every cause had an effect. And the effects were a cause unto themselves.

Mikiela held her breath entirely and then, pulling the bravery of her kinsfolk deep into her lungs, as deeply as she could draw air, she opened her mouth, parted her lips which trembled with the rest of her now, and breathed in, inhaling, drawing over her tongue, everything she needed to know.

For every morning of her life, even before she had stopped visibly aging, even before her parents had realized she would never be able to speak, born without those essential, wonderful folds in her larynx that would provide her thoughts with voice, before even she has known what she was doing, Mikiela had tasted sunlight. The ultraviolet and electromagnetic waves, the proteins that rode them, the L-ascorbic acid and prohormones that it sprinkled like rare gemstones, all of it was the taste of morning. No matter the season or the weather, no matter what Mikiela wished for or against, the one constant was that. Whether the tableau of Kansko was drenched in rain, buried in snow, or held in the grips of radiation storms, the sunlight was there, lingering, familliar, forever. It tasted of life.

And it was there this morning. It was there unchanged.

But there was something else as well.

Gallium. Germanium. Arsenic. Selenium. Krypton. Rubidium. Strontium. Yttrium. Zirconium. Niobium. Mikiela cataloged the last of the alien string, ticking off the compounds one by one in her mind. The list of probabilities had narrowed to one. It was inexplicable. More impossible than any of the impossibilities that Kansko had ever known. For here, in the middle of the motherland, utterly landlocked twenty-one hundred miles from the Okhotsk Pacific, a hundred miles from the Cuna, truly and completely in the middle of nowhere, in a place better forgotten, willingly forgotten, by the rest of the world, Mikiela Shanti could taste the sea.

[Di'Nay]

May I wish for more, then, Jennifer?

or if I *ask*, would that make it more of a suggestion than a command?

[Aidenn]

Tiveen once brought home pictures of just the area you have set your story in, Jennifer. How wonderful it is. I was just reading quick and then stopped and read slow. You have captured here a real flavor of my country where it is so rural and the people and how they might come to act and see life. I think of MG3K differently once again!

[Raelyn]

Jennifer, you are a very beautiful writer. I do not think that many people write so well about Russia. I did not know until the end that it was the sea! Mik knew right away. She loves science. It was so good a story. Write more please when you can.

May I have permission from you to create a picture for the story?

Raelyn

[Raelyn]

I forgot to say that I think it is very alot of fun that your arthimpsi is named for Mik and also the Shanti!

Raelyn

[Launa]

Jennifer, I just wanted to say that I really loved this story. It seems more and more every day new ideas are blossoming on the forum that captivate me. First the idea of Celestial religion. Now this. I spent all day talking with the woman I work for about villages like this in Russia (as she worked in Russia for quite some time in the 80s). This is a fascinating place to take MG3K. Thank you so much for sharing. Ashlen and I have both read it many times through. It made our day

[Tiveen]

A very good story Jennifer. You combined Kansk yeah? and maybe many others of the small towns not found on maps. Have you moved the location away from the Kan by 200? Or written the Kan out of the mythology? I think you write about Russian women well. I saw myself in Mikiela even if she has Mik's name. The connection to land and people and acceptance of hardship.

Tiveen

[Jennifer]

Becky, Aidenn, Raelyn, and Launa, thank you for your comments. This story evolved from two inspirations: standing in the last summer sunlight, alone beneath the blue sky here at home, and challenging myself to make up a story on-the-fly (as I was telling it aloud). The version I share here on the forum is after telling it once "live." I really like being able to add details and lyrical (hopefully! LOL) twists with the language. Researching Kansk and the much, much smaller mid-Russia (Krasnoyarsk Krai) towns has also, of course, provided incredible inspiration.

As for the Kan, Tiveen, the fate of that tributary is touched upon in Installment 2

Raelyn, I would love any pictures to be added to the story. I'm honored.

Jennifer

[Jennifer]

The way mankind had once run railroads -- which means, of course, the way the rails were laid -- steel and iron and rust, blood and tears, the making and the shattering of a thousand opportunities and ten thousand dreams with every driven spike, in much that way had the 2060s seen the running of rivers. The laying down of the waterways.

The idea had raised some resistance at first. But as Alan Moore wrote almost a hundred years ago, You cannot kill an idea. Opposition came primarily from the Origin Christians who believed women should be veiled, children should be martyrs, and every river should run its God-ordained course. Ironically, in the end, it had been their own nitrogen bombs on the thirty-five Yenisei Hydroelectric Dams that had ensured support of the relocation. As a matter of fact, the newly-formed collation of The Edinyj Krai of Rossiya had rarely been so edinyj -- so united -- about anything before. But that's what happens when a million people lose power and fifty thousand are washed onto the Arctic Ocean. It tends to bring a nation together.

But that was really just the politics, the mediastory that made the world feeds. The truth was less glamorous and lacked the grandiose speeches and kamikazes with their Dolce & Gabbana suicide vests duct taping themselves to the face of the dams. The truth? The Yenisei River was long. The fifth longest in the world. It ran north, crossing the midlands of Rossiya and being fed by loyal, powerful tributaries before emptying into the Arctic... along with the contaminates of an entire continent's industrial center. The Perfect Intelligence constructs packed into the Green Armistice mechanoids were already mobilizing and the Yenisei River was too long for the new Rossiya government to police. And so... The Edinyj Krai of Rossiya had buried it. Not themselves, not the government, of course. The river. The whole thing. And every single lessor river and singing stream had sunk with it.

No matter that all that poison had seeped into the water table, drained past bedrock cracked open by (even more) explosives to contaminate far more land and hundreds of thousands more people than a few hundred penguins being born with their beaks on their butts really warranted.

Ariegan Belmout muffled laughter in her gardening glove embordiered with poppies. There hadn't been penguins in the Arctic since the Great Auk was hunted to extinction in the 1600s. Nothing really too funny about anything being hunted to extinction, certainly, especially not for an adept like Ariegan who could hear the spectral voices of flora and fauna just as easily as she heard her fellow mortals. Truly, sometimes -- like right about this time -- Ariegan wished she could hear her fellows a little less well.

"The building, Ari, it stands empty. Empty! The Belyakova are not coming back. All their equipment, it stands there, still connected to the generators. Generators, Ari! We could easily walk in and begin. Viktor is a techmage. One day, maybe two days, and he would know everything about the machines. We could put this--" Stefan crumbled a plum-sized stone effortlessly in his strong hand. "--behind us. Cover it over with cobblestone even! Leave the heavy metals and crackle of the radiation here in the soil and grow true, clean food. Imagine that, Ari!"

Stefan was looking at her expectantly. He even had his bushy eyebrows raised in his weathered face. Ariegan could imagine his expression perfectly even without turning to face him. She had known Stefan all their lives and he had always wanted to leave the crackling soil behind. Ahron, Stefan's twin, had been a farmer, but Stefan never had the passion. And now that cancer had taken Ahron....

The voice (as it were, their voices were really more colors and sensations, closer to the multi-layered experience of love-making than to conversation) of a green, indigo banded Peacock Butterfly drifted to Ariegan as it settled for a heartbeat on the deep skin of a Black Rose Tomato. Ariegan listened, lost blissfully in that other (quieter) world for a moment, and then turned purposefully to Stefan.

"My friend," she tipped her gentle, heart-shaped face to the side, raising one kind eyebrow and pursing her lips with good humor. Dark gold curls fell over the straps of her work apron. "When you talk of the Belyakova family leaving their hydroponics lab intact, you tell yourself to not remember, to forget, that they left Kansko in disgrace. Only four generations they lived here. People were just beginning to trust them. The hydroponics, Stefan," Ariegan reached out carefully and laid a hand on his arm. "They make it seem like we should be afraid of our own land. Be ashamed of--"

Stefan looked away from her abruptly and Ariegan bit her bottom lip. She watched his large, square jaw jump with tension. He was angry, Stefan had a temper, but Ariegan wasn't afraid; Stefan had never struck anyone he loved. Ariegan had never even heard him raise his voice to Eniya or any of their sons. Ariegan felt her smile tug again. She herself had entertained the notion of whacking one of the prankster Bobrikov boys upside the head on more than one occasion. For that matter, she had smacked Ahron Bobrikov once... maybe twice.... I miss him, Ariegan mourned gently. Only he could lift his brother.

Stefan was looking back at her again. His eyes held that plea that was as familiar on Stefan as it was alien to seemingly every other resident in Kansko. Ariegan squeezed his arm. "Our family lines have worked this land, Stefan, since 1640. Long before we were 'elected' to be a missile elimination site. Long before the soil crackled. We have woken every morning to the majesty of the Sayan Mountains. We have found our place in the midland rains. Some even think, my friend, that we are the center of the world. The only sanity in the madness of the Post-prime Time age." Stefan looked down at Ariegan's hand, then covered it with his own, gloveless, torn and rough from a lifetime of this work. Ariegan continued, "Turning to hydroponics now is like sinking the Yenisei. Burying our responsibilities. And..." Ariegan motioned to the acre of herbs and vegetables around them, populated by butterflies, bees, and dragonflies. "...I do not think our smallest friends would appreciate the loss of their haven." She tipped her head again. "Or would we genetically engineer new insects to go with our soil-free food?"

Stefan's eyes slid from Ariegan's face. He looked at the pile of rocks they had pulled from the earth. Looked at the baskets of potatoes and yams and tomatoes and peppers. He lifted a woody sprig of spearmint to his nose, absently rolling it between his fingers as he looked every where but at his friend. "Ari... look around us."

When he said no more, Ariegan took a deep, slow breath and did as told. Her knees still folded beneath her, two small heads of lettuce and three bundles of herbs on her lap, she took her time and took in this place more sacred to her than all but her home with Mikiela. These plants she had cultivated with her own hands. The two ponds with the rushes. The recycling well with the white pottery roof drenched in climbing rock roses. The benches where teachers often sat and taught. The little paths walked for contemplation. The mossy mound of poppies trembling now as the breeze rose. Ariegan felt a warmth in her cheeks. She focused on the low stone wall set with colored glass; the colorful glints reminded her of the Comma Butterflies and Yellow Backed Ladybirds that frequented the garden. If there was a God, Ariegan often thought, a God who was their Father and their Maker, a God more than just the land itself, Ariegan imagined He would live in a place not unlike this. That He would, somehow... approve. "I see heaven, Stefan," she finally said softly.

"I think the Green Armistice would see radioactive ore, uranium, thorium." Stefan let out a breath. "Ever asked Mikiela what's in this soil? She could tell you." Stefan reached out and tapped one of Ariegan's gloves. "She made you your gloves, after all."

Ariegan gathered the edges of her apron and stood. The deposits in the soil were not why her lover had made her gloves. She set her jaw. This conversation was over. It was, no pun intended, soiling a good morning's work. "PI mechanoids have no interest in Kansko, Stefan, and they never will."

Stefan looked up at her and then shook his head. He pushed himself up off his hips, his arms, half a foot longer with twice the muscle mass as an average man's, lifting his body upright and bold, his palms flat against the ground were as steady as the feet he did not have. At this, Stefan's full height, he came up to her shoulder. "Perhaps, Ari," he began without looking at her. "Perhaps I just want to see one of my children born with legs."

There was nothing Ariegan could say. Even if there had been something, some exchange, some friendly touch, some sound of understanding, she had no time to express anything as Mikiela vaulted over the garden wall, tumbled over thick bushes of thyme, and collided with Ariegan so forcefully that the contents of her apron flew into the air around them.

It's coming! Ariegan! It's-- Mikiela was gripping Ariegan's shoulders and whipping about all at once, looking around wild eyed, her hair crazy, her sent words in Ariegan's mind tumbling just as her entrance into the garden had.

"Miki! Mikiela!" Ariegan raised her voice, steady and firm. She caught her partner's eyes. "Mikiela... slow down."

Mikiela nodded, still wild-eyed but obviously trying to focus.

Ariegan looked sidelong at Stefan. He managed a shrug, his eyebrows raised so far they blended into his course bangs. Ariegan allowed Mikiela to see her concern but also her resolve. "Mikiela... you know you are naked, da?"

Mikiela looked down.

Stefan faked a cough. "And you don't worry about her eating the food?"

Ariegan shot him a glare. He smirked up at her. She considered kicking his elbow.

I appears I am, Mikiela managed to send publicly with something less than surprise.

"Appears so, Miki," added Stefan.

Ariegan rolled her eyes. She touched Mikiela's cheek then slid off her apron, wrapping it around the taller but smaller woman. "You can't get so excited about dreams or ideas, Mikiela. You need to think--"

Nyet! Mikiela held up her hands between them, accidentally smacking the apron away. It isn't a dream. It wasn't a dream! Something is coming. Mikiela looked from her partner to her friend and back again. I taste it, she sent to them, touching her lips. I know it, Ariegan. Mikiela looked deep into her partner's eyes. The sea is coming to Kansko.

Ariegan heard Stefan make an exclamation, sitting his legless body down hard in shock. Ariegan stared into Mikiela's brilliant green eyes, brighter than anything this garden would ever grow. Mikiela was sending more to her, to them both, but Ariegan knew only one thing: The memory of the Peacock Butterfly, alighting on the Black Rose Tomato. The plant had been speaking in its way, the music that plants make when they are growing, changing, thriving. The butterfly had landed, calmed and soothed by the garden and the sun, but its colors had been spinning, settling only after landing. Its thoughts had been images and sensations. The invisible force of wind seen through currents of clouds rising in strength. The dense, thick rolling motion of a natural occurrence but still an unstoppable one, like storm... or sea. In her mind, as she had watched the creature, Ariegan had translated the visions and feelings without really dwelling on them. The babochka had been whispering: The tide is rising.

[Admin]

Jennifer,

I just wanted to say, once again, how truly beautiful this story is. Your words draw me right in... and though I've never been there, I see Russia all around me.

I know what your schedule is like. Thank you for taking the time to share this with us.

Brianne

[Di'Nay]

Yeah, what Brianne said!

Thank you, Jennifer.

[EJ]

Oh my gracious... Jennifer... this is so good. But I wantto say more. I want to contribute specifically... I'm just so blown away!

Okay.

*deep breath*

What I like best is the humor. And the sense of place. not just what Brianne and some of the other readers have said but the sense of the people. The way they feel about Kansko and the rich politics that you've woven into their backstory (and yet none of it was exposition -- it was all tied to the tight third person as Ariegan came back to the sinking of the river in her conversation with Stefan).

I'm going to say this: Babe, you sound more like Stross every day. Only... better. Don't modify this post! I'm not being a flatter monkey! I mean: Your work has an emotional touch that, IMO, only a person who has lived your life could have. You have a clarity but also an emotional river that is, some might argue, sunk down. But it's still there.

I *really* like the story, Jennifer.

When will we see the next installment?

EJ

[EJ]

Oh! I just went back and read comments! Raelyn! *Please* do a picture! That would be incredible!

EJ

[Guine]

I know about the part of MG3K that is the game but not a lot more. I read about it but have never seen it like this. It is very nice to have my introduction to fiction in MG3K in a story in my own country. Thank you Jennifer. The Taste of Sunlight story seems so true.

Guine