Asimov's Science Fiction: March 2014 by Penny Publications Read Free Book Online Page B

coiled, long tail writhing in the water. It nosed among the plastic seaweed in the tank, perched atop an arch of rocks and groomed itself, combing fingers through blonde hair. Looking closely, Petra could see that what Leonid had said was true. The flesh shifted color and texture, became the bra's structure.
    "You're sure?"
    "They're not even animals, really," he said. "Think of them as little flesh machines."
    The flesh machines floated in their tanks. Petra pulled her eyes away from them.
    "Very well," she said.
    That night she set two more seeds into their starting buds, one white, the other purple. It amused her to think that these were Suffragist colors, the same colors banner wearers of the nineteenth century had sported.
    She wondered what a suffragist mermaid would look like.
    Daisy had opted for the new French bakery, the Rendezvous, over at Bella Bottega.
    She was already ensconced at a wrought-iron table.
    "Try the brioche with Nutella," she urged.
    Petra nibbled on a sample from the basket next to the cash register as she waited for her coffee, but opted for a croissant.
    The cashier was about fifteen, wearing a nose ring, and unsmiling. In a collage, Petra would depict her with a seagull's wing.
    An arc of discarded cigarette butts.
    A puff of glitter to show the way the light coming in through the front door shone on the ring.
    What signs expressed
she reminds me, once I was young and now I regret so much?
    What signs spoke to that younger self that had been so wrenched awry by societal pressures and circumstance?
    She wrestled her mind away from the question. She shoved change in her jacket pocket, and turned back. Sitting down across from Daisy, she scattered croissant crumbs across the tiled table as she detached a flakey triangle.
    "I have to keep an eye on the time," Daisy said. "The kids are in archery camp, but they might get out early."
    Daisy's children were perpetually enrolled in lessons: gymnastics, ceramics, horseback riding, impromptu theater, all of which allowed Daisy to snatch time for her second love: poetry. Even now a Moleskine notebook protruded from the ample purse beside her.
    She looked at Petra. "You're too thin. And when are you going to tell that woman to back off?"
    "Thursday lunch. And I don't have anything overt," she added. "Or much, at any rate. But you know how sometimes you feel it in your core, that someone doesn't mean you well?"
    Daisy nodded. "Go with your gut," she said. "You learn that as a mother. You learn that silence sometimes has an ominous tinge that means someone's drawing with lipstick on the new flocked yellow wallpaper."
    "But enough of that," Petra said. "I don't want to think about it now, really."
    Daisy's gaze was intent behind wire-rimmed glasses. She always wore REI casual, lavender fleece or teal sweaters with matching socks. Her only piece of jewelry, other than her plain gold wedding ring, was a matching ring set with a topaz and a peridot, her daughters' birthstones.
    "How's Kerry dealing with the divorce?"
    "Hard to know. She seems to be enjoying this rock camp well enough. Says they named their band Harvey Hairbanger. Why? Who knows."
    Daisy's smile quirked. They'd met several years ago at a gallery fundraiser and found they lived two blocks from each other. Even so, coffee dates were rare. Daisy prized her free time fiercely, used it to hole up and write the taut little half-sonnets about overthrowing the establishment that had made her an unlikely Occupy hero.
    The phone laid beside Daisy's cup buzzed.
    "What now?" She picked it up and glared at it. "Jesus. Kaitlin has what they think is a broken arm. How do you break your arm shooting an arrow?" She gathered her things in a scramble. "I'll see you next week?"
    "Sure."
    "You'll have to tell me how it went." The crumbs on the table lifted and fell as the door closed behind Daisy. She vanished out into the parking lot's sun. Petra remained in the shadowy cafe, studying the chalkboard and black and