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  PRAISE FOR ANNE CHARNOCK

  DREAMS BEFORE THE START OF TIME

  WINNER OF THE 2018 ARTHUR C. CLARKE AWARD

  SHORT-LISTED FOR THE 2017 BRITISH SCIENCE FICTION ASSOCIATION AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL

  “Arthur C Clarke award goes to ‘classic’ novel exploring the limits of pregnancy . . . focuses on changing reproductive science, hailed as ‘rich but unshowy.’”

  —Guardian

  “Dreams Before the Start of Time is a slow burn, but its darkness is lowkey, an undercurrent of disquiet that never overspills. The fascist dystopia creeps in on little cat feet, never announcing itself with guns and explosions. It is not even resisted; it simply wins.”

  —Vajra Chandrasekera, Strange Horizons

  “Deceptively intimate, this is big-idea SF reminiscent of the societal changes mapped across generational sagas like Foundation or the Mars trilogy.”

  —Alasdair Stuart, Locus Magazine

  “Highly enjoyable and thought-provoking . . . The willingness to experiment with viewpoint through time, as well as present a human agenda (what little science fiction these days can say that), make the novel very worthwhile. The futuristic technology depicted is extremely likely—in development as we speak—making the novel groundbreaking.”

  —Jesse Hudson, Speculiction

  “I’m delighted and inspired by Anne Charnock’s writing talent, her contemplative, forensic, insatiably curious approach to speculative fiction. The three novels she has produced to date constitute a significant literary achievement.”

  —Nina Allan, author of The Rift, winner of the 2018 Kitschies Red Tentacle Award

  “Anne Charnock’s characters are completely recognisable . . . [her] writing is calm and quiet . . . unusual and thought provoking.”

  —Gwenda Major, NB magazine

  “Charnock’s interest is always in the human aspect first: her characters are real, living, breathing individuals; lost in some ways, directive in others. Anne Charnock is now solidified as one of my favorite SF authors.”

  —From Couch to Moon

  SLEEPING EMBERS OF AN ORDINARY MIND

  INCLUDED IN THE GUARDIAN’S BEST SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY BOOKS OF 2015

  “Anne Charnock’s Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind is an expert braiding together of past, present, and future that puts a fifteenth-century Italian female artist centre stage to say penetrating things about womanhood, creativity, and history.”

  —Adam Roberts, Guardian

  “Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind is certainly one of 2015’s tip-top releases in science fiction.”

  —Jesse Hudson, Speculiction

  “This quiet, lovely, and exquisitely crafted novel is itself a masterclass in composition . . . As in her debut novel, A Calculated Life, the clarity and refined elegance of Charnock’s prose is a significant achievement.”

  —Nina Allan, author of The Rift, winner of the 2018 Kitschies Red Tentacle Award

  “The feminist elements of Sleeping Embers of the Ordinary Mind are elusively contradictory, so much like life!, making this one of those thinking books—the kind with embers smoldering until a second visit. I look forward to more from Anne Charnock.”

  —From Couch to Moon

  “The centuries-spanning story gives the mystery an epic feel.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  A CALCULATED LIFE

  SHORT-LISTED FOR THE 2013 PHILIP K. DICK AND KITSCHIES GOLDEN TENTACLE AWARDS

  “[A Calculated Life] is lovingly crafted, beautifully made in the economical, expert way a piece of Arts and Crafts furniture is made—pure lines, and perfectly suited to its intended purpose . . . Anne Charnock is clearly a gifted and sensitive author of acute intelligence, writing science fiction of a kind—quiet, intense, thoughtful—we could do with more of.”

  —Nina Allan, author of The Rift, winner of the 2018 Kitschies Red Tentacle Award

  “Charnock is a subtle worldbuilder . . . For readers who want a smart, subtle exploration of human emotion and intelligence, this is an excellent choice.”

  —Alix E. Harrow, Strange Horizons

  “A very noteworthy book . . . What [Charnock] shares with [Philip K.] Dick is the ability to write unease . . . She has fascinating, complex things to say about work, sex, family and hope.”

  —Adam Roberts, author of Jack Glass, winner of the 2012 BSFA Best Novel Award

  “This story puts us inside one of the most interesting perspectives I’ve encountered in recent fiction. Jayna’s perspective is so unique that I would happily have followed her anywhere, and, as a consequence, the cleverness of this plot almost snuck up on me. A smart, stylish, emotionally compelling book with literary richness and sci-fi smarts.”

  —Susan DeFreitas, author of Hot Season

  “Charnock [is] an astute observer herself, [and] what results is an inquiry into feminism and society that will make the reader truly pause to compare their own experiences and perceptions.”

  —Jesse Hudson, Speculiction

  ALSO BY ANNE CHARNOCK

  Dreams Before the Start of Time

  Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind

  A Calculated Life

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Anne Charnock

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542006071 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542006074 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542006088 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542006082 (paperback)

  Cover design by David Drummond

  First edition

  For my family

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CALEB

  At the rooftop sink, with the sun already burning my back, I turn on the cold tap, lean over and rinse my itchy scalp and scarecrow hair. Cold water never runs from the cold tap—not since summer started, not even in the morning after the storage tank has cooled during the night. The tank bakes all day in the sunshine, and by the evening the cold tap always runs hot.

  Just because the tap is labelled C doesn’t mean it is C.

  Ma Lexie calls out: “Caleb, over here. Now.”

  She leads me across the flat roof of our housing block, past the solar arrays, towards a wooden hut—the living quarters of Mr. Ben, the overseer. I walk as close as I can behind her because she smells like fresh oranges. She looks as light as a feather. She could float away in the breeze. Her thin, sleeveless dress is printed with wild flowers and owls. As the fabric ripples, the owls with stretched-out wings seem to fly. I’m wearing only my shorts, and I’m barefoot. My hair drips onto my shoulders and down my back, bringing a memory of being tickled.

  Ma Lexie swipes the air above her head with her right hand. Is she waving to Odette? I glance across
at the roof of the next housing block. No, she can’t be. Odette is facing away from us, reaching up with both hands. Squinting, I see she’s cutting dead flowers from a climbing rose. I worry about the thorns. Don’t prick yourself, Odette.

  Ma Lexie is swiping back and forth as though smacking a tall person across the face, first with the back of her hand and then her open palm.

  “Don’t panic, Ma Lexie,” I say. An early-rising honeybee is harassing her. But I reckon the bee is still sleepy, like me.

  We’re on the bees’ flight path from the hives, two roofs away, to the lavender farms west of the enclave. When I first arrived here five months ago, Ma Lexie told me I’d get used to the bees. They’d continue on their way if I didn’t make a fuss. She’s making a fuss herself and mutters the usual complaints: “Shouldn’t be allowed,” and then, “Affecting my business.”

  “The enclave council should ban the hives, Ma Lexie, shouldn’t they?” I’m trying to nudge her towards a better mood because I reckon I’m heading straight for trouble. In her left hand she grips the candy-striped shirt that I worked on yesterday. Mr. Ben was disgusted with how I’d sewn the shirt’s collar. He yanked my ear, hard. Called me an idiot and told me to stop work on the shirt. He shouted, said he’d shift me back to baby work—unpicking seams, sewing on buttons—if I couldn’t think of anything sensible to make. I guess he complained to the boss, Ma Lexie, about me.

  Anyway, what does he know? After the yanking, he walked off, and I watched his massive, round back as he grumped away across the roof to his hut. I snuck to the back of our work shed and pushed the shirt under my sleeping roll. I’d already unpicked the collar, and in its place I’d started sewing a strip of dark mock fur. It made the shirt look mean, dangerous. A brilliant remake, and I thought Ma Lexie would agree. I carried on with the half-finished job during our evening playtime. Zach and Mikey wanted me to join the button-flicking game that I’d invented, but I told them to practise without me.

  Ma Lexie grips my shoulder as we stand outside Mr. Ben’s hut. She shakes the shirt at me. I feel hurt; Ma Lexie had dug around in my things while I was washing at the sink.

  She says, “Mr. Ben came to see me yesterday. Not happy about your work, told me about this!”

  I jump in fast. “Mr. Ben knows shit. I’m finishing the shirt in my own time, Ma Lexie. It’s going to look brilliant when it’s nicely pressed.” I’d planned to finish sewing the fur collar and sneak it into the pile for pressing. Honest, I thought Ma Lexie would like it. I thought she’d smile.

  “Mr. Ben wants me to throw you out. Send you to work at the family premises.”

  I stare at her. We’re both wide-eyed. The family premises, as she calls it, is the centre of the family’s rubbish and recycling business. I’ve never been there. I’ve been off the roof for less than twenty minutes a week.

  She throws the hut’s door wide open and steps inside. I grab it as it swings back and keep it steady in the warm breeze.

  “This is yours now, Caleb.”

  I step inside for the first time. It stinks of Mr. Ben. Sweat and chlorine. My empty stomach tightens.

  “Where . . . ?” I look around, expecting him to leap out and clout me one.

  “I’ve decided Mr. Ben isn’t cut out for the fashion business. No imagination.”

  “But where . . . ?”

  “He’s better suited to the dirty side of the operation, don’t you think?” She frowns at me. “You won’t be seeing him anytime soon. So, clean this place out. Look after it better than he did. You’re the overseer now.”

  I look down at the shirt, and she hands it over.

  “Any of this fur left?” she asks. I nod. “Then, make as many as you can. I think they’ll sell.”

  She’s totally right. “I need better quality shirts than this, Ma Lexie. I want them to look . . . sharp. Tailored office shirts, that sort of thing. They’ll look like a uniform for a team or a gang.”

  She raises an eyebrow, hesitating. Does she think I’m being dumb?

  She says, “Finish this one today, and I’ll try it out tomorrow at the market stall. And from now on, you’ll be doing the weekend markets with me.”

  The markets. I want to hug her, but I’ve never seen anyone touch Ma Lexie. It’s like she’s too perfect, like the touch would burn. And I don’t know why we call her Ma. She only looks about thirty. I kneel down and kiss the hem of her dress.

  “Up,” she says.

  “The shirt will be amazing, Ma Lexie.”

  She digs into a pocket in her dress and holds out two keys on a greasy black ribbon, which I’ve only ever seen hanging around Mr. Ben’s neck, the keys nestled in his thick mat of chest hair. One key is for the padlock for Mr. Ben’s hut. My hut. The other is for the steel door—the roof access to the building’s internal stairs.

  “Your new job starts in five minutes,” she says. “Come down to my flat and collect the kids’ breakfasts.”

  As I reach out for the keys, she pulls back and I freeze. It’s a hoax. She’ll laugh, and Mr. Ben will leap out and whack me. She says, slowly and gently, “No second chance, Caleb. Don’t let me catch you going downstairs and wandering off. You know I’d find you. Everyone knows Ma Lexie.” I take the keys. Before she releases her grip, she says, “When everyone sees you at the market with me, they will know exactly who you are. That you’re my new boy. Everyone will memorise your face. Understand?” And with that she heads back across the roof and retreats down the stairs to her top-floor flat. Yes, I can trust her—what you see is what you get with Ma Lexie.

  I’m Ma Lexie’s new boy. I like the sound of that. Better than “the kid dumped by the road.” It’s a new start.

  I can’t do much in five minutes to clear Mr. Ben’s mess, but I drag out the mattress and prop it against the side of the hut. If the mattress soaks up the sun, it’s likely to “air out,” as my mother would say. I’ve no idea what “airing out” means. Does a smell dry out? Won’t the bedbugs thrive in the heat? Or does bright light kill them off? Anyway, until I’m rid of the stench, I’ll continue to sleep with the sky as my blanket.

  I jam Mr. Ben’s wooden chair—my wooden chair—against the door to keep it open. I step inside and place my hand against the side wall, then smell my palm. Mr. Ben’s sweating, farting, belching sticks in the timber grain. Sure of it. I wonder if Ma Lexie will give me some paint if I ask nicely; a coat of paint will seal him in for good.

  Empty bottles, old clothes, worn-down sandals. Why didn’t he throw them away? What a pig. And the stink—I hold my hand to my face, breathe through my mouth. Has something died in here? A mouse? A whole nest of dead mice? I check the hut’s roof. Will it leak when it rains? Across the far end of the hut, there’s a shelf with hooks screwed to the underside. I’ll use them to hang up my clothes. I pick up a padlock from the floor, check which key will open it. I’ll have no worries about my stuff going missing, about anyone poking around in my backpack.

  I told Ma Lexie my documents were lost, but I still have them. Mother sewed them into the straps of my backpack. She made me sleep with my pack strapped with a belt to my arm, while she slept across the tent’s entrance.

  As soon as this place is clean, I’ll unpack my winter clothes—could be too raggy to keep—my chess set, my comics. But still, I’m not sure the hut is a great idea. It’s not just the smell I’m worried about. It’s going to feel strange being on my own again, when the door’s closed. There’s no window. Should I tell Ma Lexie I don’t want it? It reminds me too much of the tent.

  In one way, I felt safe in the windowless tent. Anyone sneaking around the camp at night couldn’t see me—see that I slept alone. But then, I couldn’t see out. I spent hours wide awake—imagining people plotting on the other side of the tent’s red fabric. I lay there scared out of my head by each and every tiny noise. And that colour! Every morning, opening my eyes to a red world. Blue would have been better—the colour of the sky.

  I back out of the hut, walk across to the edge of ou
r flat roof. I grip the railing that runs the length of the knee-high parapet, and I gaze westward beyond the grey enclave, across the English border, to the distant mountains of Wales. I feel proud of myself for getting this far. My parents, wherever they are, would be especially proud of me today with my sudden promotion.

  The birds will tell them. I wipe my eyes and glance back across my shoulder—no one’s looking. My mother started all her tall tales the same way: “You know, Caleb, a sparrow came to my windowsill today, and she told me a strange tale . . .” A chiffchaff sometimes visited her windowsill, or a lark. As I grew older, I’d roll my eyes at her when she started like this. But I still played along.

  Mother had such plans for me, but I’m making my own future now—and it’s nothing like her dream. She had our lives mapped out. Every night, along our journey through the Pyrenees, through France, we lay in the tent, and she described a new home, somewhere not too hot, not too dry. As if preparing me for disappointment, she whispered that our new home might be smaller than the one we left behind in Spain. First, she said, we would “introduce ourselves” at a reception centre—a doctor would check my health and repeat the childhood inoculations I’d had against common diseases. More important, she told me I’d have another forced inoculation, a special one. Better late than never, she said. I shouldn’t complain if I felt sick for a few days because this extra inoculation, she said over and over, was the best indication that a country was worth reaching. In England, all children had this special inoculation at birth, with booster injections spread over time, a system that freed everyone from ever forming addictions—people were less violent, no compulsive gambling, no drug crime. Much safer.

  “They don’t need troublemakers, Caleb,” she’d say. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t a troublemaker, but she’d shush me. When Mother disappeared, I had to make my own decisions.

  I’ve been lucky. Skylark found me on the road in northern France, not far from the coast. She arrived pedalling an electric bicycle with a sidecar. She wore a leather jacket with a collar of long feathers—black feathers with shining glints of green. At that point, I’d joined a new group, and we were resting for a day. Skylark hung out with us all, let the children stroke her feathered collar.