We See a Different Frontier: A Postcolonial Speculative Fiction Anthology Read online

  I dream of you, me, and them living here. It want it very much.

  I want you very much, Alejandro.

  With all of my love,

  Xiomara

  Next to her signature were red imprints of her lips.

  I fought to hold back the tears.

  Then one of the boys from the neighborhood stuck his head in my window and asked, “Did she write anything good?”

  I fired a shot over his head. He turned white and ran. It felt good.

  * * *

  Then I went and read the letter to Xiomara’s parents. I vowed to them that I would go to Hollywood and reunite them with her or die.

  “How will you make it to Hollywood?” asked her mother.

  “Yes,” said her father. “American troops are guarding the border.”

  “I will get help from General Villa.”

  With the letter in my breast pocket, I took off to join General Villa’s army.

  I’ve always been good with machines, and a leader. They always said I was smart. I became involved with the airship program. I rose through the ranks.

  * * *

  Now I was the leader. The only thing that could stop us was the American Air Corps, and we had just defeated their finest with our death rays. But the Americans were proud and clever. They would think of something.

  “I don’t like the way they keep sending planes up, watching us from a distance,” said Holguín.

  “They are cowards,” said Shaguin, “afraid of the death ray.”

  “Let’s keep going,” I said, “and keep an eye on them.”

  * * *

  We were getting close to the Grand Canyon when Holguín yelled: “Planes! There’s more American aeroplanes coming after us!”

  “It figures. Just when I was getting ready to get a good look at this big hole in the ground.” said Cháirez.

  I checked some gauges. “We’re losing helium, having trouble staying up.”

  “Soon we’ll be at the bottom of that hole,” said Holguín.

  “The generators still working?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then keep going. As fast as we can.”

  “At least it’s a pretty place to die.”

  I didn’t like Holguín’s lack of faith.

  “I would rather die in Hollywood with Theda to look at,” said Cháirez.

  I grabbed my binoculars and scanned the east. No sign of any planes. “Where are they?”

  “To the west,” said Cháirez.

  I turned. There were some planes at the horizon.

  “Why wouldn’t they be coming from the East, like the others?”

  “Don’t the Americans have air fields in California?”

  “A few, but—this is strange.”

  “They’re between us and Hollywood. Do you think they knew?”

  “How would they know?”

  “Maybe they have a wireless set that can read minds or something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Then we dropped. The colorful, jagged walls of the Canyon were higher than us.

  “Can’t we get any higher?”

  “Not without repairing that helium leak.”

  “Chinga!”

  “You said it.”

  Cháirez had his binoculars, and his mouth fell open. “Chinga!” he said again.

  “How could it be worse?”

  “More planes. Coming from the east.”

  “We’re boxed in!” Holguín screamed.

  “What do we do?”

  I though about Xiomara, how far we were from Hollywood, and the prospect of never seeing her again.

  “They expect us to keep running, and struggling to stay high. Let’s get sneaky. Let’s descend further into the canyon.”

  “This is absolutely insane!” said Holguín.

  “I love it!” said Cháirez.

  * * *

  “How am I supposed to shoot them with the death ray if we’re in the canyon?” Holguín was complaining rather than asking. “The ray guns are at the bottom of the Cucaracha!”

  “I’m just trying to buy us some time. If they get too close, rise and blast them.”

  “Now you are talking!” Cháirez kept looking straight ahead.

  But these planes from the west didn’t try to chase us into the canyon. Clever bastards.

  “They’re heading north!” said Holguín.

  “Are they trying to circle us?” Cháirez was showing fear. A bad sign.

  I grabbed the binoculars. They were a squadron of ten planes. There was something funny about one of them.

  “It’s towing something! It’s a sign—‘Xiomara is here. She wants to talk to Alejandro Sahagún.’”

  “It’s a trap!” Holguín looked like he was going to leap out of gondola.

  “We have the death ray. Let’s blast them!” Cháirez dared to order.

  “No!” I roared. It even hurt my ears. “We might hurt—or even kill, Xiomara.”

  “You don’t actually believe that she’s there. It’s some kind of trick,” Holguín had left the gun blister and had opened the hatch to the control pod. “You know how these Hollywood bastards are!”

  “I can’t risk losing her! We will slow down, get close to ground level and prepare to land!”

  “You’re crazy! They’ll kill us!” Holguín leaped toward Cháirez, grasping for the controls.

  I pulled out the death ray pistol, fired. Soon we were coughing up what was left of Holguín.

  “That smell!” said Cháirez. “It’s the worst thing in the world.”

  He looked at me funny. He smiled. Tried to laugh.

  I put the death ray pistol in his face. “You know what I want you to do.”

  * * *

  The Hollywood planes escorted us to a flat area just outside the Grand Canyon.

  “It looks like a military base,” said Cháirez.

  There were trucks, machine guns, artillery, and lots of armed men in uniform. Only they were funny uniforms. Not United States Army.

  There was also a mooring tower set up for us.

  “Looks like they did their homework.”

  “I don’t like this…” said Cháirez.

  I held up the death ray.

  “…but I think I can learn to live with it.”

  “Sure. Just think about when you’ll be grabbing the behinds of those actresses.”

  He grinned like an idiot.

  They tied the Cucaracha up like pros and motioned for us to come down. A lot of them had their rifles, not aimed, but ready.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should blast the hell out of something, just show them who’s in charge,” suggested Cháirez.

  Then I saw her—Xiomara, beautiful as ever, dressed in an elegant overcoat with a leather helmet and goggles, a very modern woman ready to ride in an automobile or an aeroplane.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said.

  He opened his mouth, but knew not to say anything.

  Then he smiled. Two beautiful blondes were standing next to Xiomara, waving and blowing kisses. They weren’t famous movie stars, but they were beautiful and blonde.

  Once they had the Cucaracha stabilized, we popped the hatch, and rolled down the ladder. I sent Cháirez down first, just in case.

  They didn’t shoot him. The blondes rushed up, hugged and kissed him.

  “Alejandro!”

  It was Xiomara’s voice. I hurried down, getting tangled in the ladder. She grabbed me and kept me from falling down like Buster Keaton.

  I nearly knocked us both over as I turned to embrace her, trying to look into her eyes and kiss her at the same time. Her dark eyes scorched my soul. The kiss was delicious, if a bit crooked.

  There were flashes of light. Explosions.

  I grabbed the death ray.

  “Hey! Alejandro, amigo! No need to go for that gun!” It was a voice that annoyed me.

  We were surrounded by uniformed men, some of them had rifles, others had cameras.
r />   “Newsmen?” I tried to hold Xiomara close while looking around.

  “Of course, my love. This is news.”

  There was even a movie camera.

  She winked at the cameraman and kissed my cheek. “Smile, Alejandro. You are going to be a star.”

  “Yes, Alejandro, amigo.” I looked at the irritating man. It was Raoul, the pig of a director. His Spanish was good, but he pronounced it like a gringo. “This newsreel is going to go around the world—and make history!”

  He rushed up, slapped my back, shook my hand and smiled for the camera.

  Then I got a good look at the strange uniforms that the men were wearing. They had patches that read Studio Corps.

  “Yeah,” said Raoul, “Hollywood is getting more rich and powerful. Our need for security has grown beyond what a private police force can provide, with international tensions being what they are these days. So now we have our own army.”

  “What? Is Hollywood its own country?”

  Raoul laughed. This started everyone else laughing.

  Xiomara kissed me again.

  “Not quite,” said Raoul, his teeth gleaming. “Not yet.”

  I held Xiomara close, and kept my right hand near the death ray.

  “You see, Alejandro, my friend, some of us in Hollywood see moving pictures as the greatest leap forward in the history of communications. This is going to make the invention of movable type look crude. Now we have people from all over the world following the same stories, the same stars. We can change the way they think. How they behave. What they want. Newspapers are lagging behind. Radio is still in its infancy. And when we add sound to our pictures, and with this ship, we could take over California and secede from the Union—and then after that—we could conquer the world.”

  Xiomara put her lips to my ear, and whispered, in Spanish, “We could conquer the world, my love.”

  “We have an army—and planes—but we won’t have to fire a shot. Especially with this death-spitting flying machine of yours! Once we’ve prepared the people of the world, they will want to be ruled by Hollywood. They probably won’t wait to vote us in—they’ll kick their governments out and beg us make them subjects of the Hollywood Empire.” His eyes glazed over. He was lost in his vision of the future.

  “You could be my emperor, Alejandro.” Xiomara’s breath scorched my ear.

  “So, what do you say, Alejandro, old boy?” He reached out smiling. “Why don’t you let me take a look at that interesting gadget you have there?”

  He reached out. His eyes were like a snake’s.

  Xiomara’s hand patted my ass. “You know what to do, my love!” She said it so softly, I could barely hear it.

  Of course I knew. I didn’t think—I just took the death ray and vaporized Raoul.

  When I coughed, I remembered General Villa’s words, “Without huevos—cojones!—brains are nothing.”

  Suddenly, all the Studio Corps troops had their weapons aimed at us. I gripped the death ray.

  Xiomara put her hand on mine, and winked at me. Then she smiled like a thousands suns rising. She turned around, looking at all of the men, and down the barrels of their guns.

  “Raoul was a fool.” Her voice exploded. “He was a dreamer, but he was weak. He lacked the killer instinct. He brought us this far, but now we—I—need more. I need a true warrior at my side if I am to become the Queen of Hollywood and Empress of the World!”

  She raised my hand—that was still clutching the death ray—over our heads.

  For a moment the men were an army of statues. I wasn’t sure if they were going to kill us.

  Then one of them yelled, “Hail, Xiomara! Queen of Hollywood and Empress of the World!”

  Soon they were all repeating that, roaring, cheering.

  Then turned to me. “And would you be my emperor, Alejandro, my love?”

  Before I could kiss her, she turned to the cameraman: “We’re ready for our closeup!”

  I didn’t say anything. I just kissed her with passion.

  But I did keep one eye open.

  Them Ships

  Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Leonardo says that the Americans are going to fire some rockets and free us from the tyranny of the aliens and I say: who gives a shit. Lemme tell you something: it wasn’t super-awesome around here before the aliens. At least we get three meals every day now.

  I used to live in a cardboard house with a tin roof and collected garbage for a living. They called my home a “lost city” but they should’ve called it “fucked city.”

  Leonardo talks about regaining our freedom, ’bout fighting and shit. What damn freedom? You think I had freedom in the slums? Leonardo can talk freedom out his ass because he had money before this thing started and he saw too many American movies where they kill the monsters with big guns.

  I’m not an idiot. The cops used to do their little “operations” in our neighborhood. They’d come in and arrest everyone, take everything. They weren’t Hollywood heroes out to help people. They were fucking assholes and I don’t see why they would have changed. As for American soldiers saving the day: you think they give a rat’s ass ’bout Mexico City? You think they’re going to fly here in their helicopters and save us?

  I say fuck that shit. I never had no freedom. Leonardo can go piss himself.

  * * *

  Leonardo’s been going on ’bout freedom fighters again, which means I’ve been putting on the headphones and listening to my music. The good thing is the aliens let me charge the player. Otherwise I’d kill that little shit.

  Well, he ain’t that little. Leonardo is pretty tall, probably ’cause he didn’t have to eat no garbage when he was growing up. His dad had some sort of fast food franchise and Leonardo was doing really well, studying at the Tec, fucking pretty girls and driving a fancy car ’til the aliens landed and started rounding people up in sectors. And, since the aliens don’t classify by social status, Leonardo got put in with me. I’m not sure if he was more dismayed ’bout being a prisoner or ’bout having to share a room with the likes of me. I’d say me.

  I don’t really care. Our home was a one bedroom which I shared with my three sisters and my parents. Sharing with one person is easy and it’s even easier when that person doesn’t reek of alcohol-laced coffees, like my dad did. The asshole’s probably dead and I’m fucking glad for it and I’m also glad now I only share my room with Leonardo. Got my own bed now. My own desk. I don’t write much, except for them diary entries ’cause the aliens say it’s healthy.

  Leonardo’s complaining that they’re trying to break our spirits again and I tell him to go fuck himself.

  * * *

  The first time I saw the spaceship I was walking down the ravine, picking garbage. ’Cause that’s what I did every day. Get my bags and strap them and go pick around. There’s some good shit you can find in the garbage, like my music player.

  So there I am looking for soda cans and plastic bottles I can drag to the recycling centre, or a juicy find I can sell, and it gets dark, like a cloud just passed over the sun. I don’t look up at first because I’m busy but then there’s this weird noise so I raise my head and I see it.

  It’s like a flying jellyfish, though I’ve never seen a jellyfish in real life. Just a picture in a magazine. Well, this is kinda like that, except real big. It ripples with lots of colors and I’m not even sure I know all the colors. It’s hovering there, in the sky, all shiny and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I think if they’ve come to kill us it’s alright ’cause at least they’ve given us something beautiful.

  The truth is I cry ’cause it’s so pretty.

  * * *

  Leonardo has nice hair and he fidgets in front of the small mirror. I don’t really care what I look like. I wouldn’t have even clipped my nails if he hadn’t insisted they looked gross. Gross? When we met I’d already had a shower and been disinfected. Imagine if he had met me before, when I lived in the slums.

  Of course, h
e would have never met me. That’s what pisses me off about Leonardo. He acts like we are totally partners, should totally engineer some great escape together, but he would’ve never even looked at me if we’d bumped into each other on the street. A piece of bubble gum stuck to his shoe would’ve been more appealing than me. Now we’re supposed to be friends. Now we should get along because we are both slaves.

  See, I don’t know where he gets that shit about slaves. The aliens say “specialized personnel” and I do feel like personnel. I don’t feel like a slave because they ain’t having us do hard labour. They ain’t whipping us or chaining us or starving us. Yeah, maybe it is a bit like a prison, but I get three meals a day. There’s fresh vegetables and meat. There’s the nice bed and there’s the uniform with my red jacket.

  I happen to like the uniform. It’s the first piece of clothing that fits me. I used to wear my sisters’ hand-me-downs. I was the youngest so I got the short end of the stick. Holes in my underwear and rips in my trousers. This uniform is brand new and it fits me.

  Why does he have to be such a downer?

  * * *

  Leonardo is smarter than me but sometimes he is stupid. I didn’t finish secondary school, but for all his big words and knowledge of books, sometimes he acts like he’s a little kid.

  He doesn’t like me learning the alien’s language. But the thing is, I’m good at it. I’ve never been good at anything except picking garbage, and that barely counts. But I’m good at learning what they say. I pick it up real fast. Leonardo was a linguistics student and even he can’t do as well as I can. I’m proud of that. I can do stuff.

  Leonardo sours it by saying I’m a Malinche. I didn’t finish secondary school but I know what he means. So I say “Fuck you.”

  How does he get off on saying that? And how does he know what it was like for La Malinche? They sold her off to the Spaniards and she worked for them. What was she supposed to do? Spit in their face? You get into a crappy situation and you cope. So she coped. I don’t see why we’ve got to be all insulted when a woman tries to survive.