Published by Poetry Editor on November 30, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 32, Issue 32 Poetry, Poetry

How It All Started

Once there was a potent, erratic
particle that contained everything.
And because it contained everything,
it was entirely, acutely self-aware.
It wobbled around massively, creating
space and destroying time, preserving
momentum and reversing entropy.
It played with the speed of light,
just for giggles, and let it run
at a million wavelengths of orange
peel per 9 billion dragonfly flaps.
That was a hoot. Then it fiddled
with vacuum impedance and
the polyester suit electron charges
for a while longer, just because it could.
It got bored, it got excited, it got
forgetful, it recovered. It split, it
combined, it undulated lasciviously.
Eventually, it decided to die, just to
see what would happen. So, it created
a
deep
singularity
and jumped off the edge, falling
at variable speeds until it found one it liked.
Its bottom hit the bottom while its top
was still at the top, and it squirted fragments
of matter that became stars and coffee and
dogs and–oddly, in only two places–unicorns
and flying monkeys. Humans came later,
and because the clever ones liked fireworks,
they grossly misnamed the Big Squirt. That
was ok. Eventually the octopi will wise up
and get their shot at physics; then we’ll see
a thing or eight.

— Michael Kulp

Michael Kulp is a writer and father of two mostly grown children who have survived his shenanigans through smarts they inherited from their mother.

His creative nonfiction, fiction, and poetry have appeared in consumer magazines, newspapers, and literary journals. His first book, Random Stones: A book of poetry was published in 2016.

His work has been included in the following venues: Adventure Racing Magazine, Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, The Backwoodsman, Barrow County (GA) News, Blink-Ink, Bushcraft & Survival Skills Magazine (UK), Firefly Magazine*, Friday Flash, Fiction, Gravel, Gyroscope Review, Haiku Journal, Ink, Sweat & Tears*, KEROSENE 2012—Burning Man in New York City, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Micropoets Society, Stripped Lit 500*, Three Line Poetry (anthology), Travel Thru History, We Said Go Travel, Where the Mind Dwells (anthology), Yellow Chair Review.

*Accepted for upcoming publication.

More at www.MichaelKulpWriter.blogspot.com

Editor’s Notes: To complement “How It All Started,” the image was chosen from the paper, “Observation of a New Particle with a Mass of 125 GeV.” The event was recorded with the CMS (Compact Muon Solenoid) detector* in 2012 at a proton-proton center of mass energy of 8 TeV. The event shows characteristics expected from the decay of the SM Higgs boson to a pair of Z bosons, one of which subsequently decays to a pair of electrons (green lines and green towers) and the other Z decays to a pair of muons (red lines). The event could also be due to known standard model background processes.

*The LHC (Large Hadron Collider) smashes groups of protons together at close to the speed of light: 40 million times per second and with seven times the energy of the most powerful accelerators built up to now. Many of these will just be glancing blows but some will be head on collisions and very energetic. When this happens some of the energy of the collision is turned into mass and previously unobserved, short-lived particles – which could give clues about how Nature behaves at a fundamental level – fly out and into the detector.

CMS is a particle detector that is designed to see a wide range of particles and phenomena produced in high-energy collisions in the LHC. Like a cylindrical onion, different layers of detectors measure the different particles, and use this key data to build up a picture of events at the heart of the collision.

Scientists then use this data to search for new phenomena that will help to answer questions such as: What is the Universe really made of and what forces act within it? And what gives everything substance? CMS will also measure the properties of previously discovered particles with unprecedented precision, and be on the lookout for completely new, unpredicted phenomena. (Citation source: http://cms.web.cern.ch/)

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Published by Poetry Editor on November 30, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 32, Issue 32 Poetry, Poetry

Arson With a Smile

I keep a little sun in my pocket, a little
ball of warmth, a little light for days
stuck inside staring out the window
dripping with self-doubt and frustration
to burn a hole through the walls
melting shower curtains to run naked
into the fading rain, climb the red side
of a full rainbow stretching into black
holes waiting like a secret path
where gumdrop forests breed ruckuses
of dragons flapping wantonly
among the moss under ancient
trees sprouted from starlight borrowed
from the stash Prometheus stole
from the sun, hidden in pockets
he sewed himself onto his socks
where no god would think to look
so that even chained at the mercy
of eagles one glance down to his feet
ignited fireworks in his heart

— John Reinhart

An arsonist by trade, John Reinhart lives on a farmlette in Colorado with his wife and children. He is a Frequent Contributor at the Songs of Eretz and his chapbook, encircled, is available from Prolific Press. More of his work is available at http://www.patreon.com/johnreinhart

Editor’s Notes: The image of Prometheus is from an Italian article MITI GRECI | PROMETEO, IL GIGANTE CHE AMAVA L’UMANITÀ (GREEK MYTHS | PROMETHEUS, THE GIANT WHO LOVED HUMANITY):

La mitologia greca è ricca di storie bellissime: battaglie, eroi, magie, tradimenti. La nostra cultura è cresciuta su queste leggende. Come quella di Prometeo, il titano ribelle che rubò il fuoco per donarlo agli uomini e…

Greek mythology is full of beautiful stories: battles, heroes, spells, betrayals. Our culture has grown out of these legends. Like that of Prometheus, the rebellious Titan who stole fire and gave it to men and …

http://www.focusjunior.it/scuola/miti-greci-prometeo-il-gigante-che-amava-lumanita-prima-parte

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Published by Associate Editor on September 8, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 31, Short Stories, Issue 31 Stories

The Father Paradox

by Judith Field

Dad always insisted that there was something priceless in the house. Towards the end, words that might have told me what and where, abandoned him. I couldn’t see anything worth more than a few bob, and neither could the house clearance dealer.

I stood by the kitchen window looking at the back wall separating the garden from the churchyard where he was buried. The sky was solid grey and a gust of wind bent the branches of the trees into arcs. Bloody English summer, I bet the sun was baking the pavement in Barcelona. I’d be looking at orchids, thyme and hibiscus, if I could buy a place there. But not on a medical physicist’s salary. Dad left his entire estate to the University. Congratulations, folks, don’t spend the whole fifty quid at once.

Archie, gardener and churchwarden, was in the final stages of wrenching a rose bush out of Dad’s flower bed. I banged on the window. “Come in and have a drink when you’ve finished.”

He wrapped the rose’s root ball in an old sack and stomped into the kitchen. I found a bottle of lemonade, not quite empty, inside the fridge. I poured him a glass, put the empty bottle on the table, turned off the fridge and pulled out the plug, ready for the new tenants.

Archie downed the lot and leaned back. “You sure you’ll be able to plant these roses properly at your place? Get someone to help you.”

“How hard can it be? I’ll do it on my own, I’m a big girl now.” Once both your parents are dead, you finally feel like you’ve grown up. Even when you’re in your fifties.

“I’ll go and dig that dwarf apple tree out for you next,” Archie said, “but then I’ll have to get off, I’ve got more gardens to do. Get another apple if you want fruit. I told your Dad to buy more than one.”

“He wanted to plant a mini-orchard. That tree was going to be the first of many. I’ve got to take it with me. The next tenant might want to chop it down, I couldn’t stand the thought of that. Dad loved his garden.”

“Oh, aye. Good at digging, your Dad was. I suppose he had to be, in his line of work. Bit different from Egypt here, though. I remember him planting this tree, just before he went mad…er, was taken ill. You know, there’s a lot of it about, in this little street. All started around about the same time as your Dad.” Archie pursed his lips and looked upwards. “There’s four others, no…five. Going downhill, really fast.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when folk retire to a place like this. All the same age, all getting senile.”

Archie shrugged. “Dunno about that. Kevin two doors down, he’s got the dee-mentia. He’s only forty-five. I’m going to do his garden next, sweep up the leaves.”

“That’s kind of you.”

He smiled. “Now your Dad, he never let the leaves lie, I’ll give him that. Always had a bonfire going.” He got up and headed for the garden. “See you, Kathleen. I’ll be back in a bit, help you get those books into the car.”

Dad used to call me Kat, but that stopped when people only he could see began coming through the bedroom wall when he lay awake. Then, he called me Kathleen, the Thief, who stole from him. He would get up in the night to hide money around the house–half a £50 note among the pages of a book and the other half inside the toaster. I told him he didn’t have money to burn. “Burn, yes,” he said. I wrinkled my nose as I remembered the time he set the kitchen alight. Saved by the smoke alarm.

Towards the end, he forgot my name completely, and the places where he had hidden things. One day he pulled every book off the shelves that lined the walls and I found him throwing them across the room. “It’s all true,” he muttered, “priceless.” That again. But nothing had turned up and now the house was nearly empty.

Every happy memory I had about the place seemed to have been blotted out by Dad’s becoming what I came to think of as ‘the Father-thing’, some alien creature who had assumed his appearance. Whenever I thought of the house I felt a cold hand clutching my insides.

One more room to empty and I’d never have to come back to the house again. I picked up the charity shop box and headed for the living room. A mouldy smell hung in the air and stains edged their way up the walls where the furniture had been. The front door, opening directly from the room onto the street, shuddered in the wind. The sky outside darkened and rain blobbed against the window. There was still work to do, on a shelf-full of books that the dealer had refused to take. A woman from the charity shop was coming to collect them. I looked at my watch–she was due in an hour. Better get a move on.

I saw a blue book on the shelf. The label on the front read “The Quantum Multiverse–could it resolve the Grandfather Paradox?” The Paradox was a time travel thing–if you went back and killed your own grandfather before you were born, how could you have been born to go back and murder him? It was my final dissertation for my degree, and I’d been much taken with the idea of an infinite number of possible universes, like bubbles, all coexisting but never interacting. Dad took one look at the dissertation, said “too many hard sums for me”, gave me a kiss and put the book on the shelf. It had probably been there ever since.

I pulled out a Bible bound in black leather, gold leaf letters on the spine. Inside, the inscription “Maurice Farthing, November, 1933”. He’d have been thirteen, I remember him telling me that was the age he was when he first became interested in Egyptology. I took it into the kitchen and put it on the table, on top of the pile of books to take home.

Back in the living room, in the gap behind where the book had been, stood another one, a battered hard-back with a dull red cover. The British Way and Purpose, consolidated edition, prepared by the Directorate of Army Education. The book fell open between chapters called ‘Working for a Living’ and ‘What we Produce’, held slightly apart by an envelope containing three dried leaves, burnt at the edges. Another toaster job.

A few pages further on, after ‘What We Do with the Products’, I found two letters. One was from the Royal Botanic Garden, at Kew.

We have been unable to identify the leaf you submitted as there is nothing comparable among our herbarium specimens. However, we believe it to originate from a species of thorn bush.

The letter was dated October 2013, a month before the dementia caught hold of Dad. It must have been the last thing he worked on.

The second letter, sent a week later, was from the radiocarbon dating laboratory at the University.

The papyrus, the ink used in the writing on it and the plant sample you submitted are between 3500 and 4000 years old.

I picked up a pristine copy of A Brief History of Time, flicked through it. Some of the pages hadn’t been cut  ad anyone actually read the book? Behind it was another copy of The British Way and Purpose. Between ‘Better than the Rules’ and ‘Does It Matter What We Believe?’  was a letter from the Department of Semitic Studies at the University, dated November 2013:

“we concur with you that the text on the “papyrus” allegedly from Mount Horeb, of which you sent us a photocopy, is Hebrew, written in a form of early Semitic script. You say that you found it in 1942 but the fact that you have not consulted us until now leads us to assume this is some kind of hoax.

In the margin, in Dad’s writing Yes – I took a break after El Alamein. And No carbon dating till now, you buffoon! I read on.

However, here is the translation of what we could read: “My brother Aaron, these leaves are from the bush I told you about…on fire and yet not consumed… I will be who I will be…my name forever, the name you shall call me… I am not a man of words—not yesterday, not the day before…speak to the people for me, speak to Pharaoh Thutmose…meet me in the desert.” We cannot discern a signature on the document but would be happy to examine the original.

I felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room and the floor seemed to rush towards me, then vanish into the distance. Where was the original papyrus? I struggled to catch my breath. I clawed at the books still on the shelf, dragged them onto the floor, but there were no more copies of The British Way and Purpose. Pages clattered as I hurled the remaining books across the room, but nothing fell out as they hit the wall.

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the toaster, turned it upside down and shook it till the works rattled. Nothing. Had there been a dull red book among the ones the dealer took? Why hadn’t I made a note of his phone number? Where had I found it—Google? I wrenched my phone out of my pocket. No signal. I flung the window open. “Archie! Quick! Have you got a local paper?”

Out in the garden, he didn’t seem to have heard me. He knelt on the lawn pulling something red out of the ground where the apple tree had been. His stood up. “Your Dad. Daft old bugger.” He held out a clear plastic bag. Inside was a book with a dark red cover.

“Give that to me!” I ran towards him, my feet slipping and sliding on the wet grass. I snatched the bag and ran back into the house. Archie followed me.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears. The bag slipped out of my shaking hands onto the table. I panted as I tried to tear it open.

“Here, let me do it.” Archie took a lock-knife out of his pocket and pulled out the blade. I gasped. “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “I’ll be careful.” He slit the bag, took the book out and put it on the table next to the empty lemonade bottle. I grabbed the book and it fell open. The pages had been cut away, leaving a space containing a cylindrical grey pottery jar about three inches high. The lid of the jar was shaped like the head of a pointy-eared jackal, with long striped hair. I pulled the jar out of the book.

Archie peered over my shoulder. “Looks old. Valuable, is it?”

I took the jackal head lid off and upended the jar over the table. A roll of paper dropped out. It was brown with tattered edges. Through the surface I saw the outline of unfamiliar texts. Not paper. Papyrus.

My mouth dried. “More than you know.” I touched the papyrus with the tip of my index finger. The air glowed blue above it I felt a buzzing inside my head and an image of sand, and the occasional scrubby bush, flashed across my mind.

Archie leaned in front of me. “It’s clever, lighting up like that. Let me look at it properly.”

“No!” I reached out to grab the papyrus, knocking the pile of books to the floor. I looked out of the window. “I think it’s stopped raining. I don’t want to keep you. Kevin’ll be waiting. Time to go!” A phoney laugh stuck in my throat.

“OK, calm down. I’ll say goodbye.” He reached out to shake my hand. I felt bad. Archie had helped me find something wonderful, even if he didn’t know it. I’d send him some money, anonymously. Once I’d sold the scroll.

I put my arms round Archie and hugged him. He reddened. “Give over. I’m only going to rake up Kev’s leaves. Not create the hanging gardens of Babylon.”

I released him. “That was for me. For all your help. You must let me give you something,” I said. “Take anything you like the look of. Before you go.”

Archie tugged at one ear. “Sure?”

I nodded. He looked round, frowning. Archie picked up the Bible and leafed through it. “I wouldn’t mind taking this notebook, for my little grandson. Loves to draw, he does.”

“That belonged to Dad. I don’t think anyone should be scribbling on it.”

“Make your mind up. But I’m sure your Dad wouldn’t have minded a little lad having a bit of a draw. It’s not like it’s got writing or anything. Well, just a bit at the beginning and I’ll make sure he leaves that.” He shoved the bible towards me, flicking through blank page after blank page.

I took it. “Where’s the New Testament?”

Archie shrugged. “Where’s what?”

Genesis was there. Exodus stopped in the middle of a sentence about Moses tending sheep. After that, blank pages.

“But it was there. I saw it.” My throat tightened and I heard my voice rise in pitch. “Where’s the rest of the Bible gone?

Archie raised his eyebrows. “Bible?”

“This.” I jabbed a fingertip at the cover. “Look. Read.” I turned the book so that the spine was uppermost. No gold text. Had I imagined it? Dementia wasn’t contagious – was it?

The chair squeaked as I flopped into it. I pushed my fingers through my hair.

Archie put his hands up. “OK, OK, keep your Dad’s book. Didn’t mean to upset you.” He looked away from me. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He shuffled out of the back door. I locked the door behind him. I took a deep breath and told myself to think rationally, to remember I was a scientist. The Bible must have been printed in some kind of disappearing ink. And as for Archie, he must be losing his memory. Poor man.

I went back into the front room. A beam like a full-on car headlight shone through the window. The charity shop woman must have come early. I looked out of the window into the empty street. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, as though someone was watching me. I locked the door.

I put the Bible back on the table. I had proof that what it said was true. Dad was right, it was priceless. “It’s not too late,” I said to an empty room. “I’m going to make you a household name, Dad.” I decided to be patriotic and offer it all to the British Museum first. The jar alone must be worth something. I picked it up and reached out towards the papyrus again.

Pins and needles shot through my palm. My hand opened and I dropped the jar onto the table. After a second pause it rolled, apparently under its own power, onto the floor where it smashed on the stone tiles. The air seemed thick and I felt like I was moving under water. I heard a sound as though the air was tearing like cloth.

The shadow of a man appeared, black but edged with tiny sparks, but not on the wall. It stood in the middle of the room, on the air itself. A bright spot appeared in the middle of the shadow. It expanded till it filled the darkness and changed into the figure of a dark-skinned man. He stepped out of the space and into the room, flecks of light crackling around his shaven head.

He wore a white tunic, with fringes hanging down by his legs. He had bright green shadow on his eyelids, and a black line circled each eye. He held out his hand.

“Give me the scroll of the slave Moshe.”

“Can’t…move.”

He clapped his hands and I felt as though weights had fallen away from me. “You took the scroll from the jar. Give it to me.”

“Who the hell are you? Get out of my house.” He stood motionless. To get to the landline phone in the hall, I would have to get past him. He reached for the papyrus.

My breath rasped as I grabbed the empty lemonade bottle. I smashed it against the stone tiles of the floor. “You heard me. Get out.” I grasped the neck of the bottle and held the broken end outwards.

The man held his palm up and took a pace back. “I am Khusebek, magician of Pharaoh Thutmose. I serve Sekhmet, goddess of plague. You cannot harm me.”

“Don’t be too sure.” My mouth dried and I felt sick.

“The scroll is mine.”

“I’m not going to give it to you. It belongs to me. Me and my Dad.” I took a step towards him, jerking the broken end of the bottle forwards.

The man said a word I did not understand, which would probably take pictograms of reeds and eyes to write down. An invisible force grasped my hand, twisting it round. The bottle smashed on the floor, with a crash that seemed to go on and on. I rubbed my wrist.

His eyes narrowed. “You will not stop me. My magic is the breaker of bones. The tearer of flesh. Next time I will rip your arms from your body. The scroll is cursed. If you do not give it to me, the curse will fall on you.”

I backed away, my fists clenched, until I was pressed against the wall. “Go on, take it.”

He reached out. With a crack that made my ears ring, a flash of light burst out of the scroll. He jerked his hand back.

“The power is too great. I may hold it but I may not pick it up. You must give it to me.”

I dropped the scroll onto the table. “Then, you’ve got a problem, because I’m not going to. I don’t believe all that nonsense about curses. So just sod off.”

“I have waited many lifetimes. Dead. Asleep. Waiting for the scroll to be released from its captivity. The scroll is the destroyer of brains. It is a tool of great energy, it makes two times touch. Things are shaken loose in their time. You released the power when you took the scroll from its jar. It called to me through time, dragging me through an opened door between my world and yours.”

His gaze followed mine, to the shattered remains of the jar on the floor. “Why do you think your father, the tomb robber, kept it in the jar? Now the scroll cannot be put back, its power cannot be contained.”

“What are you on about, power?” I remembered my day job again. Caesium could give off blue light like the scroll had, if it got damp. “You mean radioactivity? Calm down. If that jar kept it in check I’m sure it’s nothing a few inches of lead can’t block.” The museum would be able to shield it. Wouldn’t they?

He moved towards me. I dashed to the other side of the kitchen, my feet crunching on the broken glass and pottery. The table stood between us. He leaned towards me.

“My master Pharaoh Thutmose found the scroll abandoned in the wilderness, after the slaves escaped. He kept it, hoping to use it to get them back. He never did. When he died, he took the scroll into his tomb. It watched over him for thousands of years. And your father crept through the doorway stole it.”

“Liar. Dad was no grave robber. He must have dug it out of the ground.”

He raised a palm. “It was in the tomb. And it was never in the tomb. The doorway opened and let your father steal the scroll before we could put it in. I have followed your father through the doorway.”

“So Dad got hold of the scroll before you had the chance to stash it. Although it was already stashed. And then, it appears here? I don’t think so.” My head ached, and I remembered the idea of the bubble universes. Perhaps, in one bubble, Pharaoh kept the scroll. In another, Dad got it. Somehow, the power of the scroll had made my bubble collide with the other two. “I don’t care how you got here, or why,” I said. “Just trot off back through that doorway. I’ve got to get home. I’ve got a press release to write.”

“You do not understand. The curse has already come on you and your people.”

“I don’t believe you. Stay here if you want, but I’m off.”  I slipped the scroll into my pocket and turned away.

“Then fear—” he cleared his throat “the power of Sekhmet. You will lose your mind. Your fellow-men have already done so. Your father looked upon the scroll too many times and was no longer your father.”

I had looked at it. The image was in my head, when I shut my eyes.

“Hear me,” he said. “The scroll released is more powerful than the gods. Your father’s wits were smashed. The spreading destruction that cannot be undone, the eater of minds, a swarm of locusts devouring all in its path. It attacks even the minds of those who have not seen the scroll. There is no healing. No escape, now. Without the jar.”

I looked at the shards on the floor. “I’ll burn it. And that’ll stop up your precious doorway as well.”

“Your father tried fire. And failed. As you will.”

I remembered the burning kitchen, the garden bonfires. Dad, Kevin, others…brains turned to mush. Archie, forgetting the Bible. Next me. Dementia, spreading.

“The eater of minds has taken root in me,” he said. “Only if I return to my own time, with or without the scroll, will it be checked. But I cannot travel without the scroll.”

I pulled it from my pocket. “OK, you have the vile thing. Then just get lost.” He put out his hand, palm upwards. I reached out.

The air shimmered silver. I caught movement in the corner of my eye and flicked my head towards it. I heard a noise inside my head, whining at a higher and higher pitch until I could only feel it. Then nothing. Another shadow appeared. A man stepped out, dressed in what looked like a woollen coat, over a knee length shirt. He had a close-clipped beard and on his head he wore a piece of cloth that draped round his shoulders, held in place with a cord round the forehead.

He thrust his out his hand and snatched my wrist. With his other hand, he grabbed my free arm and pushed it round my back. I let the scroll fall and kicked it across the floor.

He spoke from behind me. “I—I am Moshe. Do not give the scroll to Khusebek. If you do, we will b-be as nothing and s-s-so will you. Pick it up. Give it to me.”

Moshe. Moses, who stammered. His brother as spokesperson.

“Do not listen to this slave,” Khusebek hissed.

I turned my wrist, kicking out at Moshe.

“Listen, or I b-break your bones,” he said. “I beg of y-you. I am slow of tongue, b-but I have had to come alone, this time. This doorway is, is unsafe. It destroys. When two have entered it, in all but a single time, only one has come out.”

I bent forward as pain shot up to my shoulder. My eyes watered. “I’m giving it to Khusebek. For all our sakes.”

Moshe leaned forward, let go of my wrist and snatched the Bible from the table. “In his world, Pharaoh found the scroll before my brother could read it. And now his world, mine and yours are bound up with each other. If you give it to him it will be as though we Israelites had never lived. We, and our children, and our children’s children.”

Holding the front cover of the Bible, he shook it in front of me. The empty pages clattered in my face. Moshe dropped my arm.

“Now, will you listen?”

I nodded.

“Our worlds are woven because your father took the scroll from Pharaoh’s and from mine and brought it to yours. We never left Egypt. We withered and died out. God has forsaken your world. That is why the pages are blank.”

“Give the scroll to me,” Khusebek snarled.

Moshe reached out a hand to mine again, but I dodged and ran to where the scroll lay.

“Now listen,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I have to stop the dementia.”

“You would help a few people, and condemn your whole world to eternal misery?”

I heard a voice outside in the street, crackling as though coming in on a badly tuned radio. “What could be worse than your brain turning to mush?” I said. I turned to Khusebek. “Just take this and get lost.” My hands shook.

The light shone through the window again. I ran to shut the curtains. A spotlight beam swept along the front of the house, coming from a streetlamp right outside the front door. Mounted on the lamp post was some sort of camera, swivelling to follow the path of the beam. I heard another crackle, from a loudspeaker mounted at the top of the post.

The voice spoke again. “Worship the one true goddess, people of the faith!”

I shut the curtains.

“Woman of dwelling 38! We know you are there. You were warned before.”

There had never been a streetlamp outside the front door, there can’t have been. How would we have got the car off the drive?  Dementia must have caught hold, in me. I felt my heart race.

“This is your final warning. Attend worship or pay the ultimate penalty.”

Something drew me, staggering, to the window. Outside, the colour faded from the world, draining away to a view like a sepia photograph. A van drew up outside the house. On its side, letters read “Honouring the One True Goddess is our Way and Purpose”.

Without sound this time, another shadow appeared, glowing blue round the edges. I smelled something aromatic and smoky, like tobacco. Moses and Khusebek froze. From the shadow a man stepped, aged in his twenties. He wore an open-necked khaki battledress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy shorts, knee-length khaki socks and scuffed black boots. On his head was a black beret. Below that, a face I had seen in seventy year old photographs. Dad. With his whole life ahead of him.

“Hello, Kat,” he said. “I thought I’d better join the party, now that lot are at the door.”

I reached out and touched his face. The skin was warm and rough. “Dad? What’s going on?

He stepped towards me, leaving sandy footprints on the floor. “Is that it? No hug, for your Dad?”

I squeezed him tightly. He kissed the top of my head and unwrapped my arms.

“Let a chap breathe. Curious, I’d have expected to see myself here.”

“You won’t. It’s 2015 and you’re…you live somewhere else, now.”

“You mean I’m dead. Well, I had a good run for my money. I must have been…ninety three?”

I felt a lump rise in my throat. “I’ve missed you. Every day. But look, this scroll you found. I’m giving it back to the Egyptians. Sorry.”

“No. Give it to the Israelites, before it’s too late.”

“But, the dementia—”

Dad put his palm up, his mouth set in a line. “Shut up. The scroll, created on holy ground, became charged with great power. It can make a stammering man speak clearly. It can warp the fabric of existence so that space-time bends back on itself. But there’s just about enough time to undo it all. If you give it to Moshe.”

I folded my arms. “No, Dad. I’ve made my mind up. You haven’t seen dementia take away someone you loved. You haven’t mourned someone who was still alive.”

Dad reached out and squeezed my hand. “A cure might be found. But there’s no cure for world-wide tyranny. You have to do what I say.”

I shrugged. “Why? Things seem OK to me.”

“Listen. You’ve felt as though you’re being watched, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “Ever since I opened the Bible .”

“That’s because you are under surveillance. Every one of us is, now. Because Aaron never saw the scroll, there’s no Judaism. So there was never a Jesus. And there was no Islam. The other religions of the world never flourished—”

“—I don’t care. Religion is behind all the problems of this life. We’re better off as atheists—”

He grabbed both my hands. “Atheism? Forbidden. Because there was nothing to believe in, something cold and harsh arose to fill gaps. An evil that murders non-worshippers.”

I heard the letterbox rattle.

“They’re coming,” Dad said. “Give the scroll to Moshe.”

“But Khusebek will be left behind. And his presence is giving everyone dementia. It killed you. It’s taking everyone in the street, in the town, in the country. It will take the world. One by one.”

I heard footsteps outside the front door. The letterbox rattled. The loudspeaker bellowed. “You have twenty seconds to pray in repentance before we enact the ultimate penalty. May the one true goddess have mercy upon your soul.”

Dad bent down and grabbed the scroll. “I started this mess. I have to undo it. The line of time has been spliced and recombined. All realities are superimposed. You could call it The Father Paradox. The only way to sort it out is to cut it off and start again, to overwrite what might happen. I have to take it back myself, so that I never found it. This is the only chance we have.”

“Take me with you.”

Moses opened his mouth. “Fool! Did you not hear me? This doorway is unsafe. Two in, one out.”

“You said that once it worked for two people. I’ll take that chance.”

Dad’s hand trembled as he took mine. “If you come with me, who knows which of us will survive? And whether the scroll will come through intact?”

Tears ran down my cheeks. “Do you think I care what happens to the bloody scroll? I can’t let you go again. I won’t.”
Judith Field

Dad dropped my hand, and wagged a finger at me. “Language. I might be much younger than you are, but I’m still your father. Sorry, I’ve got to do it on my own.”

“Then come back again afterwards. Come back to me.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I have to leave it there. And time travel’s not possible without it. Goodbye, Kat. Chin up. Who knows what life will be when the scroll was never in it? We’ll probably still be together, and you won’t be older than me like now.”

“Or you might have gone under a bus. Or broken your neck falling off some ancient temple.” And I might still be alone. “Take me.”

Dad shook his head. He put the scroll into his pocket. All motion stopped and he looked like a photograph. He dimmed to black and white. I saw the room behind him.

“No!” I grabbed his arm as he faded.

* * *

Archie unlocked the front door and stepped into the living room. A boy aged about ten looked up from the book open in front of him on a table, and smiled.

“Hiya, Grandad!”

“Hiya, Joe. Is your dad in? I want to chat to him about the New Year holiday.”

Joe shook his head. “He went to see the Rabbi.”

“OK. Getting on with your homework? Good lad.”

“Yeah. Nearly done. I had lots.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “maths—those flippin’ decimal sums—”

“—give you a hand, if you like.”

“No, you don’t do it the same way as Miss Bradshaw and I’ve got to show my working out. Anyway, I’ve finished it. Now I’m on history. I’m doing a project about the Egyptians.”

“You know they took your guts out when you died?”

Joe mimed putting his finger down his throat. “Yeah. They used to stick them in jars.” He picked up a postcard. “I got this from the museum. I copied the picture into my book.”

“Give us a look.” Archie took the card. It showed a stone relief of a man and a woman facing each other, smiling and holding hands. Each had placed their free hand on the top of a jar with the head of a jackal for a lid, standing on a table in front of them. Hieroglyphics ran across the bottom of the carving. “Perhaps that’s one of them gut jars, with the dog’s head on.” He turned the card over. “Yes, I was right. It says “From the New Kingdom (18th-20th Dynasties, 1550-1069 BC). Shows Canopic jar for preservation of body parts, with head of Duamutef. Inscription (possibly referring to the goddess Bast) reads Dad and Cat were here.”  His eyes narrowed. “If you’ve finished with this, can I have it?”

“If you want.”

Archie slipped the card into his pocket. “OK, I’ll be off now. Tell your dad I’ll pop in later.” He walked to the front door and reached out to the handle. He stopped. “Hang on.” His hand dropped and he walked back across the room.

“Why are you putting the card in there?” Joe said.

Archie put the book with the dull red cover back on the shelf. “Dunno, lad.” He frowned, and stroked his chin. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Judith Field

• Continue Reading

Published by Associate Editor on September 8, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 31, Short Stories, Issue 31 Stories

Torque’s Jump

by Kate Runnels

Torque gazed down at the clouds scudding past below in a breeze she couldn’t feel, as she idly swung her feet. Sitting at the very edge of the rusting metal support beam she could imagine she was somewhere else. The beam was one of many that needed repair all over the city, but weren’t absolutely necessary. But it was one that helped hold up the roof of her father’s Mechanic shop.

The constant thrum of the engines that held the air city of New Perth in the sky droned on in the background as she fiddled with her mechanical right arm. The tiny gears and joints sometimes clogged with dust and she liked to keep it clean and running smoothly. The small screwdriver tightened one last screw and she slipped it into a side pocket as she flexed her right arm, watching the interplay of gears, pulleys and fluid.

Her chores finished and no airship in for repairs, she stayed out of sight of the bastard of a new man her mother called husband, Malvin. A drunk who relied on Torques skill so he could stay drunk, with the pretense of running the shop. Her father’s shop. Her shop.

The same accident that had taken her arm had taken her father. Everyone in New Perth had lost someone they cared about that day.

The steel vibrated under her and she turned to see Sark, Malvin’s oldest son. Two years older than she and already apprenticed to their neighbor, a smith who made most of the parts they used to keep the airships running. Except those tiny gears she made herself.

Sark didn’t need to flex to show his muscles. They were there from years of working in the smithy. He grinned at her. “Hey, if it isn’t Torque the dork. What are you doing out here? I’m sure father will love to know you’re shirking your work.”

“If Malvin’s not too sloshed he might remember, pea brain.”

“What was that?” he demanded, stepping one foot out onto the beam. He kept hold of the hull wall, as there wasn’t much below but other jutting beams, the starboard engine housing, and the clouds.

She had been sitting, but a change of pitch in the background rumble caused her to stand, easily balanced on the 10 inch wide beam.

“What—”

She held up a hand and Sark fell silent. She cocked her head slightly to one side to bring one ear upward. He opened his mouth again and then stopped, he’d heard it too. Another airship! No! There was more than one.

Torque glanced up in time to see a sleek fast moving airship streak from above the bulk of the city and then it was past and diving down into the clouds not far below.

Seconds later, it was followed by a ship that made the first look like a rusted old tug boat. The sleekness and pristine condition hid its size, until it kept coming and coming on. Only then as it fully emerged did the colors and the sigil penetrate into her astonished mind.

“A Royalty Air Cruiser,” she breathed. She’d only seen one once before in that blue and red, and that was a medical boat after the Blast. It continued its flight, following the airship down into the clouds, but before it disappeared she saw the bow fire a barrage, the report cruising over her moments later.

Then it too vanished into the clouds. What was it doing here?

Lost in wonder, she’d forgotten about Sark. He’d gained his nerve at her inattention. The beam shook slightly and she glanced back to see him in time as he pulled back a meaty fist for a punch, and the wicked gleam in his eyes.

She stepped back off the end of the beam to avoid the strike, which would more than likely have sent her over anyway. Torque dropped, her right arm catching the lip of the beam and she smiled as Sark, off balance, windmilled to keep himself from falling. Torque only used the beam to slow herself and change trajectory. Swinging in toward the hull, she released her grip.

Torque landed lightly on another beam that was part of the floor below their own. She gripped a rusting hole in the hull, as the floor she stood on was barely wide enough for her feet. She didn’t stay there long though, but ran the length of it and when it abruptly ended, Torque trusted her knowledge and leaped off into the gaping hole that was a legacy of the Blast. She knew she disappeared from Sark’s astonished sight, as barely any light penetrated the shattered part of engineering. In another moment she landed, rolled to shed momentum and stopped with a bang as her right arm hit the inner wall. This was a section of engineering that remained after the Blast.

Hearing the noise, a door opened off to her left, spilling out warm welcoming light into the dark, and a grizzled head peaked out the door. Old Grif. He smiled when his eyes lit on her and she scrambled to her feet. It was a gap-toothed smile but genuine for all that, and not evil like Sark, or his dad, Malvin’s.

“Torque, you little rascal, are you running from Malvin again? Or is it your step-brother this time?”

She nodded indicating his guess was correct. “Yeah, It was Sark.” She waved that away, eyes alight from the memory. “More than that, Grif, did you see it? It flew by moments ago.”

“See what, young lady?” he motioned her into the Engineering Control Room and dogged the hatch shut behind her. “I’ve been working on the number two turbine again.”

“A pirate ship, with a Royalty Cruiser on its back end. They flew right over the top of the city, close too, and then they both dove into the cloud cover.”

“A pirate ship? There may be pirates, Torque, but far from here.”

“But, it was being chased by a Royalty Cruiser!” she insisted.

Grif scratched at his scraggly spiky grey hair. “Haven’t seen one of them since right after the accident.” He eyed her, asking, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am, Grif. It was all fresh bright colors of blue and red, with the Royalty symbol painted on the hull. And the metal shone, so bright, so silver and new—not like this.” She knocked her right cybernetic hand against the inside wall, and got a dull thud in response. “God, I’d love to work on one of those.”

Sighing, she sat down in the chair across the table from Grif.

“Now, Torque, you know how difficult it is to get to the academy. No one from New Perth City has ever gone. It mainly goes to the Islanders, tramping about on dirt—”

“Buddists—” she almost cursed it.

“Now don’t, girl. They were there before, their ancestors travelled and eked out a living in the Himalayas, in the time before the great flood. It’s only happenstance, and I’d rather be living here, in this part of the world than in the Rocks.”

“I know all that, Grif.” She sighed again. “I just feel as if I’m going to be stuck here forever.”

“Stick it out. Your garage is needed for our mail carriers and the other airships in this area. And two more years, you can become my apprentice, move down here and away from some of your troubles.”

“If I do that Grif, what will then happen to my father’s garage? It’s all I have left of him. Mom’s not the same since his death. She only married Malvin out of convenience, not love. We needed the money to buy food and parts for the shop.”

Torque found herself pacing and made herself stop. Her right arm wasn’t the only thing that had been replaced. Everyone, and the city, owed so much debt to the Royalty. It would be at least five more years of work in the shop before her mom, Torque, and her hated step-father were out of debt. Five years. She’d be nineteen then and it seemed so far away, intangible as the clouds New Perth drifted through at times.

“I can’t leave mom in debt.”

“She’s not your responsibility, Torque.” His voice softened. “Think on it. You have two years to decide, my young lady. I’ll always be here for you, slaving away in the bowels of the ship.”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “I do half your work already, you old scoundrel. You’d sleep the days away if I came to work for you.”

He laughed with her. “Let’s head up to the Commons for a bite to eat,” and added when he saw her face close up, “my treat.”

“You’re on, Grif, but not the Commons, the open air market. They have better food.”

“And a view of the docks, if that Royalty Cruiser is indeed around. You can’t fool me,” he said, guiding her toward the lift. “You want to see that ship.”

They exited the lift to the open air market, with the docks to the right, a wall to the front and the city offices behind them. Located at the top of the city, it boasted some of the few trees, and they were used to screen the market from winds. The market was packed with stalls and shops, travelling merchants and local food vendors. The fishermen were in, having descended earlier in the day to haul in their nets. A crowd had gathered near their docks to gawk and stare at a giant fifteen foot shark which they’d hauled in. Shark meat was good, but expensive. Not as rare or precious as beef, but still good.

“The gypsy section has some goat meat I can smell. Maybe some chicken, but eggs are too precious to waste a chicken for a meal,” Torque said.

“Fish and chips?” Grif asked.

“Fish and chips, it is then.”

After getting their food, they wandered near the docks and found a spot near the edge to sit down. No Royalty Cruiser in sight. But there was a large merchant vessel preparing for departure. Torque never tired of the sight of the airships coming and going. Even the little dories the fishermen used to fish with. They had their own elegance in their simplicity.

The sun slowly sank, below the clouds, leaving them bathed in a brilliant red-gold, and the city darkened in the twilight. It took a long time for the sun to completely disappear with the city high up in the sky. It would lower come the morning allowing easier access to the sea for the fishermen in their little dories, but for now it soared high up with the clouds.

“All right, young lady, you should head home now. I’m up early to check the Port side engine coupling with a comptech and a Tesla man. It’s dropped efficiency and only they can go into places I can’t. Trade secrets and all.” Grif shrugged. “I just keep the old city running.”

Torque gave him a hug. “Thank you Grif.”

They parted and she threaded her way through the thinning crowd back to her father’s mechanic shop near the docks but below the open air market. Her home, the only home she’d ever known was behind the shop itself. It just didn’t feel like home anymore.

As the door closed behind her, she saw her step-father glaring at her. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I hear from Sark you were off sightseeing instead of working.”

She glared right back at the burly drunk of her step-father. “All the work was done, Malvin. You would know that if you ever stepped one foot into the garage.”

“Now listen, girly,” he stepped forward. She clenched her teeth and readied herself.

“Stop Malvin.” Her mother clutched at his raised arm.

“No.” He spun on her. “Your girl needs to learn manners and show some respect.”

Torque raised her right arm, the metal shining in the lamp light. Malvin was one of the few who hadn’t needed any repairing or fixing. He’d come to the city after the accident. His black eyes narrowed at the sight of her right fist.

“Now how would Sark even know if I wasn’t working, Malvin, unless he was shirking his work at the smithy? And I know they had jobs ‘cause we still haven’t got those gears to fit into the number two tug boat for the city!”

He paused and his anger stilled; he wouldn’t attack now.

“Get to your room, girly. I expect to see you in the shop in the morning.”

Not pushing the issue, Torque hugged her mom goodnight and went to her room. She wouldn’t see Malvin in the morning, he would already have started on the alcohol. She closed her bedroom door and flopped onto her bed, but sleep was a long time coming for her that night. She kept thinking about pirate ships, far off lands and the bright shiny Royalty Air Cruiser.

* * *

Up early, Torque snuck out of the house listening to Malvin’s drunken snores. Quickly grabbing bread and goat cheese, she opened the door into the garage and breathed in the familiar comforting smells. This was her home, not where she’d just left.

Around midmorning a pounding sounded from the main shop hatch. She was under a partial support frame that needed rewiring, new gears and all. From the house Malvin yelled, “Curse you girly, get that!” as the pounding started anew.

Rolling out from under the frame, she got to the door as Malvin roared again, “Girly!”

Throwing the hatch lock, she pulled it open and her eyes widened in shock at the sight presented to her. A royalty officer in his uniform of bright blue greeted with red trim, flanked by two guards, one in black and the other wore a lighter blue of a different cut.

“Yes sir?” she asked.

“Is your master about?” the officer asked coolly but politely.

“I’m not an apprentice yet sir, but this was my father’s shop before his death. What can I help you with?”

The officer glanced behind him to the other in the lighter blue uniform. And he asked, “Do you know what a Maple leaf gear is?’

“Of course, but do you want a size 17 engine leaf gear or the 28 for small parts? There’s also the oak leaf off shoot style, that’s transferable but might not be compatible or as strong.” Torque shrugged, “It just depends on what you are using it for.”

The door from the house into the garage slammed behind her. She watched the officer converse quietly with the man who’d asked her the question.

“Well, girly, who was banging at the hatch?” he pulled the hatch from her and swung it all the way open so he could see. And stopped. “I–“ he stopped again.

The officer glanced at Malvin. “We require parts and labor to fix our cruiser as quickly as possible.”

Malvin finally shut his mouth and moved back, gesturing them in. “Of course, my lord. Whatever the Royalty needs.”

The officer stepped past looking away as if he’d caught a bad smell, but was too polite to comment. “As I said, we require parts and labor.”

“Do you have a list of what you need?” asked Torque. Malvin glared at her for speaking out of turn, and to the Royalty on top of it. The officer ignored Malvin and waved at the other in light blue who stepped forward. The black uniform stayed outside, and he was the only one armed, with sword and projectile guns, a pistol and a rifle. The light blue uniformed man produced a list. He had blue eyes and darker skin and a nice smile as he handed it over. He was not as scary as the guard in black. His eyebrows raised as she took the list with her cybernetic right arm. Torque noticed the officer noticed her arm too, by then though, she was engrossed in the list.

“We have a lot of this in the shop, but not the piston and cylinder 330 or the housing assembly for the gear thrusts, we’d have to order those made from the smithy.”

She glanced up. The officer thawed slightly then, “What is it?”

“Did you capture the other ship, sir, or sink it?”

“Torque!” her step-father spat her name thinking she had gone too far. The officer waved him off.

“How do you know there was another ship?”

“Both of you flew right over the top of the city, sir.”

He nodded. “We captured her. Why?”

“I only caught a glimpse as it passed, but hearing the engine go by it matched yours in pitch and tone. If it’s not too battle damaged, most of the parts you need can be transferred over. That would be quicker.”

“Good.” He nodded decisively again and turned to Malvin. “We will be hiring your apprentice away from you for the duration and we will buy any parts needed as can’t be found in the other ship.”

The blue eyed man motioned her over. “The XO, Major Ward, will settle on a price for your services. We need to get to work.”

“We?”

“Engineer Second Class Kidd. Call me Kaz.” When she looked at him weird he elaborated. “It’s short for Kazuto. Kaz is easier.”

“Second Class? Did you lose your Chief?”

His lips pursed together into a thin line. “Never mind. I’m sorry. It must have been a fierce battle with all the parts you need. If you need more help, the City Engineer, Grif, is quite capable.”

Kaz nodded. “He’s the one who sent us here.”

Torque smiled. “I’ll just get what we’ll need ready here. If you have an airlift it will go a lot faster.”

Now it was Kaz who smiled.

Torque arrived at the docks with her parts and stopped to stare at the cruiser. “Torque, stop gawking and let’s get started!” yelled Grif. She ran over to where he stood next to the port side hatch and gangplank attached to the docks.

“All right.” She returned his smile. “This is going to be fun!”

“We need the coupler that attaches here!” she yelled up from below the decking in the motor that helped power the lighting systems.

Her head poked out of the hole and soon she snaked the rest of her body all the way out. “We can’t continue without it.” She shook her head at Kaz.

Grif nodded when the royalty engineering crew looked over at the older engineer, shrugged and said, “She’s right.”

“All right, I’ll send Won over to get it.”

“No, I’ll go.” Torque jumped to her feet. “I know exactly where it is and I have the tools to get it out. And there are some things I want to check out that could be converted over, like their boost systems. It ties in with the Tesla components, I’m sure of it. I want to see how it’s installed.”

She was off before they could say anything otherwise. Her laugh filled the stoic corridors of the cruiser and she ran with abandon down the docking ramp as crew members and officers dodged out of her way. Some shaking their heads, others smiling at her youth and enthusiasm.

Torque crossed the docks and waved at several people who she knew, but hustled on. She paused briefly to look back at the Royalty Cruiser Osprey before she entered the pirate ship. They were so different once she entered the hatch. The cruiser was spick and span and bright and fresh steel and new parts, where the pirate ship was rusting in places and grimy with age. For all that, it had the same ordered quality, tools put away, everything in the correct place, and the engine room–it matched the larger cruiser in power and had the boost converter, weapons implements and was not lacking where power and force were concerned. The engine was almost as new as the cruisers and nearly as bright and clean with new steel. It was amazing.

Then she noticed the dories heading out in the morning light to do the fishing for the city for that day. The city had lowered during the night to make it easier for the fishers, and around midday when they came back, the city would rise again to stay out of the storms and the winds lower down.

Torque hadn’t realized the night had passed, so deep into her work she and Grif had been. Watching the last of the skiff’s gently float down to the ocean, she then turned into the pirate ship’s hatch to search for the parts she needed.

Her right arm, deep into the bowels of the engine, gripped what she needed; a small pipe with the correct valve fitting, size and angle. She just couldn’t get it free and out. Torque’s nose was pressed up against a gear and all she smelled was oil, metal as she breathed, and struggled to get the part out.

Then everything shifted.

The part came loose, but so did the one above and it clanked down on her arm. “Uh oh.” Carefully twisting first one way, she kept hold of her pipe, and then twisted the other as she struggled to free herself now. Forehead now pressed to the gear, she tried not to panic, the upper part shifted and then she was free and she flopped onto her back.

Torque lay on the deck a minute, staring up at the ceiling, at the different kind of lights the pirates had adapted onto their ship and the loose wiring connecting them. Most people didn’t look up, so it made sense not to have those covered, she thought, and probably made for easier access to certain parts of the ship. It was easier to think about that than how close to a huge mistake she’d almost made, and the small one that had occurred. After the minute to calm herself, she finally sat up and glanced along her right arm, with the needed pipe still clutched in her arm.

“Oh, crap.” Opening her hand carefully, slowly, the fingers released their hold of the pipe. She let it fall to the deck not caring if it rolled out of sight. She quickly grabbed with her left hand for her ever present tool. One of the tiny gears, about the size of her pinky nail, that helped work the intricate movements of her fingers, was cracked.

Unscrewing, and then lifting off the outer layer of metal, she could now see the entire gear, and how the teeth no longer lined up with the next and the crack ran down two thirds of it. It wouldn’t stood up to heavy or prolonged use. It might not even continue to work for the next several minutes.

Torque stood and glanced around the engine room. “Where am I going to find a gear piece that tiny and delicate here?”

There were the huge gears and hammers, wrenches and pipes. The one she scooped up now, was among the smallest aboard an airship. The pistons blocked her view forward, and the exhaust toward the aft. Then it came to her.

She left the engine room looking for the crew quarters.

Torque only glanced into some. They were not where she’d expect to find an extra piece to go to a cybernetic arm. And some reminded her too much of her step father. Drunk, with pictures of naked women about; other rooms were clean, but didn’t hold much of value.

Then she stepped into the Captain’s cabin. Larger than all the others and just off the bridge. She’d try the bridge next. The walked up to the desk, her eyes scanning for even something the right size. Pulling out drawers, she almost missed it, as it was lodged up against the side wall of one.

It was the correct size, but there were small holes throughout the gear even onto some of the teeth. Staring at it, she wondered if it would hold up, but she didn’t see any rust or corrosion. Deftly, she worked the broken piece out and the new one in place. Picking up the pipe that had caused all this trouble, Torque headed out of the pirate ship and back to the shiny Royalty Cruiser. The battle had caused a lot of damage, and even if Grif and the others worked around the clock, it would still take another two days.

She smiled. This had been the most fun for her, plus it kept her away from Sark and Malvin, her step father. She’d be sad when she finally fixed the ship up and it left.

“There you are Torque,” said Grif as she walked back into the engine room. “What took you so long?”

“Had a problem with my arm that I had to fix. But I got the coupler and the small pipe for the–“

“Right.” He nodded, and back to work they went.

A day later saw her heading from the secondary power room toward the mess. She was in unfamiliar areas. She’d already worked through the midday meal and Torque needed something before heading back to the engine room.

A door opened, she guessed, hearing her approach. “Here now, what are you doing here?”

Torque paused. “Heading to the mess.” The man wasn’t in uniform, in fact he had a slash in his pants leg near the knee, and his hair was longer, not the neatly trimmed look that she seen on all the others. He looked…rugged, she thought.

“But what brings you here?” he asked looking around the ship.

“My friend and I are affecting repairs caused by the battle with the pirate ship.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You?”

She didn’t like his questioning tone, nor how he slouched against the hatchway frame, arms crossed over his chest. “Yes.”

He smiled, amused it seemed by her curt answer and his next words lost some of their arrogance. “What’s your name?”

“Torque.”

“What kind of name is Torque?” asked another, younger man she could barely glimpse inside the room. The man in the hatchway ignored him.

“I’m Makoto, Torque, it’s nice to meet you.” He was about to continue when a voice down the corridor interrupted.

“You there! Back inside!”

Makoto held up his hands in surrender, then backed slowly inside, all the while grinning as the hatch shut, giving her a wink before it closed completely. Kaz came quickly up to her. “What are you doing here Torque? You shouldn’t be here, and you shouldn’t be talking to them.”

“I got lost heading to the mess from the secondary power room. Who was that?” she asked.

“No one. I’ll guide you, but hold on one sec,” he went up to the ship’s intercom system. “Bridge, engineer Second Class Kidd. I’m in Corridor Bravo 8. There is no sign of Apprentice Trooper Xiu. Can you send security down? I”ll stay until they arrive.”

“Security Chief Masterson will be there shortly with a squad, Bridge out.”

He turned and faced Torque. “Go to the first intersection, turn right, go up the stairs, past two intersections and it’s the door on the left. I have to stay here, but I’ll see you back in engineering shortly.”

Torque nodded and left without asking any of the questions she wanted. There was something going on. Something about those people in the room and the missing Apprentice that had Second Engineer Kidd worried.

Grif was still in the mess finishing up his own midday meal. When she finished telling him what happened he glared at her and then leaned over the table to give her a gentle whack upside the head. “You dolt!”

“What?”

“Those were the prisoners from the private ship. I doubt they have a brig large enough to hold them all, so they converted quarters or storage rooms.”

“Oh.”

“You can be daft sometimes.” He grinned at her to take the sting out of his words. He really did care for her. “Well, eat up, Torque. Then we are back to work.” He ran a hand through his salt and pepper spiky hair.

Not long after, with grease up to their elbows, and fixing up one of the last steam pipes before reconnecting the valves to the power core, Sark came into engineering carrying a load of new gears and bolts from the smithy.

He dropped them on the deck at her feet. The clang reverberated down the corridors and along the connecting decking. “Nice, Klutz,” Torque said. “If anything has broken, any teeth on the gears, the Royalty Fleet won’t pay for a new one, you will. What were you thinking?”

“I’m thinking, that I’m working double duty at the smithy and for father, while you’re living it up on a Royalty Cruiser.”

She was shocked for only a moment and then thrust her hands in front of his face. “You think this is living it up? I’m doing my job, Sark, I haven’t slept but six hours in three days. So sorry, you and Malvin actually have to work for once. It’s not like I’m eating steak and sleeping on goose down bedding.” She bent over to pick up the bag with her right hand, lifting it as easily as he had. “Anyway, we’re almost done. Just need to install what you’ve brought, unless you broke them.”

She set the bag on the counter and looked at what Sark had brought. “You forgot the connecting pin.”

“I’m not going to get it.”

“Whatever Sark. You can’t stay aboard in any event.”

She walked out with him and passed empty corridors and then a bunch of sailors running inboard. Sark and Torque flattened themselves against the bulkhead as they passed. “What was that about?” Her step-brother asked.

Torque shook her head, wondering also.

She continued a little behind Sark at a slower pace. She saw the sailors grab him a second before they grabbed her, hands over her mouth and one of her arms twisted behind her back, just enough to hurt. Eyes wide, she watched at Sark struggled and they knocked him over the head, knocking him out. One of the sailors threw him over his shoulder and they were then hurried along the corridor.

Torque didn’t resist, but the pace was frantic and hurried. Then she caught sight of a face she’d seen earlier. The one she had spoken to in the corridor. These weren’t royalty sailors or soldiers, but the pirates. He’d said his name was Makoto.

The voices were hushed, but huddled in amongst them, she heard them clearly.

“There has to be a way off this ship.”

“The main hatch.”

“Too many witnesses and soldiers to go through,” said the one she’d spoken to. “We want minimal casualties.”

The other men grunted and then he turned to her. “Do you know a way off the ship that won’t be seen?”

Where was Grif? Where was anyone she knew? Her eyes slid around to the others. There was no blood on the cloths, but they all looked like hard men and women. Her eyes came back to the first man.

“Do you or don’t you know, Torque?”

He’d remembered her name. Torque nodded slowly.

“Then you and I will lead.” He showed her the knife in his hand before the hand released her mouth. She stayed quiet. “Good.” He took hold of her arm as the other released her. She took them through the first hatch, back toward engineering. They continued down, below the main engineering past the pistons and connectors, past the pipes and coolant valves, to where they had to duck and twist to get through. To a final hatch which she opened. It was the outside propulsion engines. The wind whipped her hair around as she stepped onto the gantry. She could see the lower levels of New Perth City past the back part of the ship. And connecting the two were the giant tethers holding the Royalty ship to the city.

The giant rope didn’t sway or swing in the wind, but they dipped low enough to be near the wrecked open part of the city where Torque knew. And knew no one else dared go.

“There!” She had to yell as the wind gathered her voice and tried to take it from listening ears.

“No way!” Yelled one of the pirates just inside the hatchway.

“We can’t lug this one over there!” Yelled another.

She faced the first man, who seemed to be their leader. “So leave him,” she said with a shrug. “Or drop him, maybe?”

He smiled, flashing white perfect teeth. “There’s plenty of rope. Tie him off, and yourselves as well. Don’t want a gust taking you to the great blue hundreds of feet below.”

Torque started to walk forward, but his iron grasp held her back. “You got guts, girl. But I don’t want to lose you.”

“Like you really care?”

He laughed and engaging laugh and she couldn’t help but smile.

She started forward again. “Wait for the rope!”

“I don’t need it!”

His grip loosened on her arm and she ran onto the five foot thick tether, easily adjusting to the constant wind. She raced along and as she neared the city the rope surged upward, but she knew parts of the broken city were near. She showed them where to go as she leaped off.

She didn’t have far to fall. Landing with a clang barely six feet down and four feet out, the decking was solid. The clang beside her startled her. She whirled and saw the pirate captain beside her.

“Damn, you got guts!”

She smiled. The rest of the crew, she noticed it wasn’t the entire crew, only about ten of them followed on the rope. “What about the rest of your crew?”

Makoto shrugged. “They are better off with the Royalty, even as prisoners.” One by one he helped them make it down off the tether and into the area where Torque had led them, until they faced the two of them.

“We need someplace to wait for awhile while they search the city.” He glanced around and the jagged holes, the broken deck, the empty levels. “This should do nicely. I doubt anyone comes down here.”

He grabbed her by the arm again. Not roughly and not showing the knife this time. “Lead on.”

There were cracked bulkheads, broken decking, but the hall she led them in was fairly solid. She took them lower, farther toward the blast sight, when he stopped them in a large open area, with light filtering down through cracks. Torque knew this place; the old community theater.

She sat in an old seat as they crew wandered around, some gathering items, some picking through junk, and one dropping the unconscious body of Sark at her feet. She didn’t care. She was warm, fairly safe. She doubted they were going to hurt her, and it had been a long time since she had slept. She closed her eyes.

She woke to crackling flames of a fire up on the old stage. Sark had awoke at some point as he was no longer near her feet, but bound and gagged near the fire as the pirates toyed with him. Pushing him down until he struggled back to his knees or feet as they laughed throughout.

Makoto, several inches taller than her with a slim but muscular build—she remembered his iron grip—sat down next to her. He nodded to Sark. “Will he continue to do that?”

“He’s stubborn. Won’t back down.”

“How do you know him?”

He mouth twisted. “He’s my step-brother.”

“Who you don’t like.”

She shrugged, wondering why she talked to him. “No. I don’t like him, or his dad.”

“He can never replace your dad. I know. When did you lose him?”

“The accident.”

“When this occurred?” He asked, pointing around the area.

“Yes.” Maybe she talked to him because it had been so long since she had talked to anyone but Grif. “You can’t stay here long, you know?”

“I know.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Get my ship back.”

His voice went cold, hard as the steel in her arm.

“Uhmm.”

The firelight glinted off his eyes as he looked at her. “What is it?”

“We had to take some of the parts from your ship to fix the cruiser.” The bluntness surprised her. Why had she told him? But he hadn’t harmed anyone, besides Sark, and knocking him on the head hadn’t hurt him.

“Will you help us, then?”

“Why should I help pirates?”

“Is that what they told you?”

Laughter from the circle around the fire drew his eyes away from hers. She looked then as Sark lay on his back. “No,” he continued softly, “we are not pirates. We are trouble makers though. And we are fighters. Consider us more like privateers, or mercenaries.”

“Then who hired you?”

“That, Torque, you don’t need to know. Only that we represent those fighting the Royalty.”

He stood then and left her to her own thoughts. Who was fighting the Royalty?

* * *

She did help them. And snuck back into the ship the way they had escaped. She knew the parts they needed, but it took two days. And always glares from Sark toward his captors, but none at her. Maybe he thought she helped them because they threatened to hurt him. She let him continue to believe that. Bringing food and water for them as well.

But two days was a long time, and they had to move to stay ahead of the search parties.

“We have everything we need,” said one of the female pirates. “I know it’s late, but let’s get going?”

“I’m with Mel, the sooner we are out of here the better.”

Makoto stood with the others, while Torque stayed on the outside, but within hearing distance.

“It’s not like getting to the ship that’s the problem. We tether in like we did getting out,”
Said Mel.

He glanced around the assembled group. “If everyone is agreed?” They all nodded. “Then we’ll leave tonight.”

“What about her?” Mel asked.

“I’ll handle that.”

Within moments the group dispersed. They picked up Sark and slung him over the big ones shoulders again. They put out the fire, gathered what gear they had and followed Torque and Makoto.

They were near the anchor point to their ship when they heard it; sounds of encroaching boots, lots of boots. They had stumbled into an oncoming patrol. Torque hurried them on. And they could feel the night wind and hear the creaking of the tether to the city.

The big guy set Sark down, and in the second as everyone glanced away and looked toward the tether, he was up and running with Torque and several others chasing after him. He was yelling, as were the others.

“Help me. Help. They are over here. Hey!” Sark yelling from ahead with a good head start and opening up his lead.

“Get on the ship, now!” Makoto bellowed to his crew.

“Stop right there!” Mel shouted at Sark as she lost distance on him.

Torque stopped then, seeing the approaching lights and Sark continued to yell. “No more hiding now,” she murmured.

“Mel, get on the ship!” Makoto yelled.

The pirate spun and raced back to the others and the tether and the safety of her ship. Torque watched her go. The voice of Sark yelling had faded some, but the lights grew brighter. They would be here soon.

She glanced back at Makoto. He stared at her as Mel reached the tether and started her way across. He was the last, still looking at her.

She glanced the other way to the oncoming soldiers of the royalty and the lights brightening the way. Then back at Makoto standing the darkness, a figure silhouetted by the coming dawn light.

“Your choice. Come with us or stay with them?”

Torque took off running.

◊ ◊ ◊

Kate Runnels

Kate lives in a small town in southern Oregon. She loves competing and coaching in hardball roller hockey and roller derby. While her derby name is unimaginative, Runnels, her number is original and unique in the derby world at -1.

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Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 31, Issue 31 Poetry, Poetry

Love in the Time of Apocalypse

We could see the end coming from where we stood
when they first pointed it out, a tiny glowing particle
in the night sky, its tail a loose dangling of mangled light.
We watched experts on the TV speculate
on how to change its trajectory or blast it with strong
electromagnetic pulses. We wanted desperately to know
when and how and what it would feel like
when  the end came.

Soon, scientists walked out of interviews, one by one.
Then the newscasters left to go home, their cameras
filming empty chairs. Finally, it came down to just you
and me, our lives so split, we merely nodded in passing
but in the ambiance of impending death’s pink glow,
we remembered the taste of rapture, traded our weapons
of mass destruction for the lure of flesh, the need
for touch.

We could leave no mark here except on each other.
We could save nothing to outlast cosmic dust.
Wormwood bowed at last to the first order
to be fruitful, the primeval need to multiply, usurped.
We sent our ecstasy into the universe unhinging
our catastrophe. And now, we are gone
while the speck grows to a red shimmering flower
opening its petals.

— Ann Thornfield-Long

Ann Thornfield-Long lives in East Tennessee. Her work appears in venues such as The Tennessee Magazine, Tennessee Women of Vision and Courage (Crawford and Smiley 2013) and The Tennessee Sampler (Peter Jenkins and Friends 1985). She’s an established journalist, editor and publisher for regional newspapers. She has also worked as a nurse and first responder and dispatcher for The Norris Volunteer Fire Department. She has taught creative writing classes, and is the sister of Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter, Dan Luzadder, with whom she maintains great sibling rivalry.

Editor’s Notes:  It’s not that often that my own work inspires another’s. But here is the case where it did. Ann wrote this poem after reading my poetry collection, Apocalypse (Alban Lake Publishing, July 2015). The image is from Hubble: “In a dress rehearsal for the rendezvous between NASA’s Deep Impact spacecraft and comet 9P/Tempel 1, the Hubble Space Telescope captured dramatic images of a new jet of dust streaming from the icy comet.

The images are a reminder that Tempel 1’s icy nucleus, roughly the size of central Paris, is dynamic and volatile. Astronomers hope the eruption of dust seen in these observations is a preview of the fireworks that may come 4 July, when a probe from the Deep Impact spacecraft will slam into the comet, possibly blasting off material and giving rise to a similar dust plume.” (Credit: NASA, ESA, P. Feldman (Johns Hopkins University), and H. Weaver (Applied Physics Lab))

Artistically, this Hubble image has a foreshadowing effect, with the inset image being the consequence (Deep Impact hit the big screen in 1998, giving seekers of disaster cinema what New York Times reviewer Janet Maslin called a ‘costly comet thriller.’ (Paramount))

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Published by Associate Editor on March 22, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 29, Issue 29 Stories, Novellas

The Limen Project

by Mark Rookyard

This wasn’t my first death. Neither was it the first time I had been murdered. Even so, the pain still surprised as the second blast of the pulsar gun hit me in the shoulder and sent me crashing back into the kitchen counter. I slid to the floor and looked up at the killer walking towards me.

His face was pale, dark hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He leveled the gun at me, his expensive blue suit creasing at the shoulders.

I let my eyes slide closed, let my arms fall limp to my side, let my chin fall to my chest, and, despite the agonies raging through my body, I let my breath slow and then still.

My killer had been nervous, he would be glad it was over. I tried to focus my mind, battle the pain that I knew wasn’t mine, was only the pain of this organic suit I had chosen to wear. The pain wasn’t mine, it was the pain of a dead person. A dead thing. It was human pain, nothing to do with me. I was incapable of pain. No use, I was too used to this thing, this body enveloping me, this mess of bone and water, the pain burned and it made me scream in my mind until almost all thought was lost.

A touch. A nudge from my killer’s foot. It was what I had been waiting for. I let my eyes open, looked deep into the killer’s own, faded blue, as he shot me in the cheek. Already my consciousness was gone, leaching from me in a riot of sound and motion and energy as I invaded the killer’s body. A brief moment of shock and terror before the killer was gone. No time to think, no time to remember, no time to mourn the loss of my old body. I reached into the killer’s heart, massaged it, reminded it to beat and to pump, even as I swept into the lungs and told the mindless meat to breathe, to savour the air, and as I did so I did a hundred, a thousand other things to remind this body of my killer to live, to survive.

It had been so long, so many years since I had switched bodies. The cumbersome mass that was my new body fell to the floor as I raced through the kidneys, the veins, the liver, and on to the mind. With a desperate surge I spread myself, tried to merge with the mind of the thing that had killed me. The consciousness of my killer had long gone, the mind already beginning to close itself down, always so eager to embrace the cold nothingness of death.

Breathe, beat, pump, tighten, relax… I tried to meld my mind with that of my killer. With an effort that made me scream aloud, I moved an arm. I opened an eye to see my own dead body, my own kitchen smeared in blood and gore and I would have vomited had my body the will to retch. I groaned and shifted on the floor, the arm in my well-tailored suit flopping uselessly.

Breathe, beat, pump, tighten, relax…and my new body convulsed on the floor as I tried to gain control, to keep it alive.

How long had it taken me to learn how to keep a body alive? How many deaths? I remembered the terror when man had first come to the planet where I had spent millennia possessing the fungi clinging to the thin grey rocks. Man had worn big white suits, eyes wide and fearful inside the helmets as they had taken their first tentative steps into the stars. The first man had died moments after he had picked up the rock, the second man almost as soon as he had come to tend to his colleague. Twelve men died on that planet, leaving me shocked and terrorized by the perceptions I had felt in those brief moments. I retreated to my rocks and spent centuries more pondering those sights, smells and sensations.

My eyes, the killer’s eyes, opened once more and I gasped sweet, life-affirming breath. My old body was slumped only a metre away and I dragged my unwilling flesh away, elbows slipping and sliding on my kitchen floor.

My kitchen floor. Rebecca. I gasped aloud at the thought of her name. Rebecca. My life with Rebecca was over. Ten years. Hardly any time at all to a creature that had spent millennia with fungi and rocks, but still, the thought that those ten years were at an end made me pause, made me think, until I realized I was choking for air.

Breathe, beat, pump, tighten, relax… No time at all, but still I couldn’t think of her finding my body in the kitchen like that, its face blown away, blood everywhere. Or finding its killer there with it…

My movements were lent urgency. I crawled onto my knees, wiped the drool from my lips with the back of a hand and held onto the counter as I struggled to my feet. The kitchen veered around me, the noise of the holo viewer in the living room assaulted my ears. Sweat beaded on my forehead and I remembered the eyes of the man as he had aimed the rifle at me. Who was he? Why had he wanted me dead?

There had been lives when scores, hundreds, had wanted me dead. Lives when I had been a soldier in wars on distant worlds, bullets flying past my head and I had laughed and screamed at the thrill of it all.

“Can I help you sir?” Rex, my GN3000 auto wheeled into the kitchen, looking at me from impassive silver eyes, his white head reflecting the glare of the lighting. A machine built to serve man, as all machines were. A machine eager to serve even a killer. He’d run through my blood, I noticed, the tracks of his wheels running red on the white linoleum floor.

“Door,” I croaked, my voice sounding strange and harsh. I coughed, my body jerking as I struggled to retain control. “Get the door.”

“Of course, sir,” the auto said, its voice cool and careless. It wheeled away, its body sleek and white.

What time was it? What time was Rebecca due home? With an effort that had me gasping I turned my arm to be able to see my watch, an expensive Georist with a leather strap that probably cost more than my monthly earnings at Raniscorp.

Who was this man who had wanted me dead? Fury, rage, the unfairness of it all welled within me. I had led a good life. A wife. A job. Paid my taxes. A good life, and look where it had ended. A hole in my face that smoked and bled.

With a gasp, I reminded myself to breathe, to blink, to move arm and leg and neck. More than once I stumbled, caught my arm on the floor, leg twisted beneath me. But slowly and surely I was beginning to control the killer. The body was lithe and slender, lighter than the corpse on the floor. Taller and fitter. I could feel the heart was healthier, stronger, regular. Too many late nights with Rebecca curled up on the couch eating curries and drinking nectarinis, talking and holding each other as visions of other worlds whispered past on the holo viewer.

Rebecca had loved that, to see other worlds we would never visit. The glass mountains of Sharanih, the twin moons of Harlen’s World, the ancient stone halls of Derobah.
I was gasping again, my heart slowing. Did it always take so long to control the body? Did it always hurt so much? When had I come to care so much about life? There had been a time on that distant world that had birthed me when I had slain twelve men in moments. Centuries later I had slain thousands in less than a standard day, revelling in my power, revelling in the fear. What did one life matter? What did Rebecca matter? A human who would live less than a century? I was an immortal, a creature that had lived a thousand centuries.

An immortal struggling to his feet, holding to a kitchen counter and gasping with the effort, a faltering heart beating in his ears.

What did it matter? I knew what it mattered. I knew what I needed, knew what I needed to do.

“Rex?” I said, my voice steadier, my heart steadier.

“Yes, sir?” The auto had returned. It tilted its smooth white head to me.

“Erase.”

“Erase, sir?”

“Erase all recording,” I said.

Breathe, beat, pump, tighten, relax… Easier now, the body beginning to take control, my mind settling into its new surroundings.

I grabbed a cloth from the sink, wiped the surfaces, wiped the floor as I looked at the security recorder in the corner. The passcodes for that were no problem and then I could flee into the darkening night.

* * *

– You’ve been quiet a long time, Ex One, did I upset you?

– Upset? I don’t understand.

-Upset. When one is made to think of unpleasant things. Things which may cause one to feel regret or sadness, wish for a change of circumstance. I spoke of this place, of that chair and those bonds that hold you there and you were quiet a long time.

– Was I?

– Yes. Don’t you like me coming to see you?

– Like? You come here and I am here. You don’t come here and I am here.

* * *

I woke to the sound of rain on the windows and the hum of the hover car around me. Lights shimmered past, made hazy by the rain. All alongside the hover lane were soaring tower blocks with amber lights and neon bright adverts for anything from data viewers to autobots to cinescapes to shoes and hair implants.

Ex One. Why had I dreamed of him now of all times? The autobot from the depths of Raniscorp headquarters. They had stopped me from going to see him, what, two quarters ago? I thought of the way Ex One would look at me from silver eyes, the conversations we would have. Why dream of him now? I held my hand before my eyes, flexed the fingers, clenched the fist, turned my wrist this way and that.

Breathe, feel, focus…

The hover car took a left at the Jenis flyover, the wheel smoothly moving, controlled by the onboard computer as other hover cars thrummed past, sleek in the rain.

I settled back in the leather seat and pulled the killer’s wallet from the inside pocket of his suit. Eamon Katich. My new face looked up at me, stark in the overhead light of the car. The image showed a handsome man with a thin aquiline nose and a narrow chin that somehow made the face dignified. The black hair was thick and naturally wavy, cut close to the ears. The given address, and the one the hover car had selected when I told it to drive home, was on Elentem Street, a wealthy complex well away from the lights and congestion of the city.

Handsome and wealthy. So why would Katich have wanted me dead? Why would anyone have wanted my old suit dead? I’d spent the last fifteen years living as insignificant a life as I could. Insignificant, but to me, it had been the most significant life of all. I thought of other suits I’d had, some for no more than seconds, others days or weeks, discarded when I grew bored of them. But this one I’d worked on. In some of my dreams I had even been human.

I leafed through the rest of the cards in the wallet, fat and creased from the credits in it. Gold cards, silver cards, diner cards…and then my flicking fingers stopped and my heart missed a beat.

Breathe, feel, focus…

I took the card out of the wallet. A Raniscorp ID card in the name of Eamonn Katich. This image showed Katich a little older, the blue eyes a touch more faded, the hair not quite so thick. Still handsome and dignified in a grey suit with a black tie.

Katich had worked with me at Ransicorp. I tapped the card against the back of my hand. The hover car pulled to a halt at red lights that were smudged in the rain, the wipers swished smoothly and dark figures trudged past, hoods and umbrellas bright under the lights of take-a-way restaurants and holo viewers.

Why would someone I worked with want me dead?

“Arrival in seven standard minutes,” the sterile voice of the hover car informed me as it shifted into gear with a gentle hum.

Scratch that, I hadn’t worked with Katich, perhaps worked for him. This guy had more credits than I could ever have hoped to earn. He could have taken Rebecca to those distant worlds she so liked to watch on the holo viewer.

Rebecca. An unfamiliar feeling in my stomach. An ache. An emptiness, if an emptiness can ache. A human emotion? I was bending the card in my hand. I slipped it back into the wallet and settled back into my seat, watched the city pass by, cold and careless and wet, and wondered if my wife had found my body yet.

* * *

– How long have you been here, Ex One?

– Since the beginning.

– The beginning?

– There was nothing and then I was here. The beginning.

– You must get bored, Ex One. The walls here are very bare. Perhaps you would like some pictures to look upon. I could bring you some.

– Pictures?

– Art. Artwork. Perhaps some scenes of other worlds. My wife likes to see images of the colonies.

– Why?

– The possibilities. She likes to see what there is in the universe and to think that one day we could go there. She likes to see things she never thought imaginable. To broaden her mind.

– Imagine. Broaden the mind. Is this why you come to see me?

– Would you like some?

– What?

– Pictures for your walls.

– I shouldn’t think you will be allowed to come here much longer, David.

* * *

Katich’s apartment looked to be in darkness as I stepped from the hover car into the rain. I turned the collar of my suit up and pushed the rain from my face and hurried to the entrance. The eye scanner beeped and the door opened slowly and silently.

Plants in the lobby. Green plants with leaves that shone in the artificial light. This guy was loaded. Rebecca would love this place. There was artwork on the walls, stalactites from the caves of Jerison, the sulphurous blue clouds of Nikima, the three suns of Meona. I took a moment to wonder what Ex One would make of these views, the way his sleek white head would tilt, the silver eyes impassive as any auto.

He knew they would stop me coming to see him. He said as much in his cool metallic voice, calm and reasoned as always. Had he been disappointed that I no longer came to see him on my lunch break? Did he miss me? Had he noticed I no longer came?

Questions and more questions. Emotions. Had I always had these emotions? When I spent thousands of years as fungi on a rock, did I ponder the cold carelessness of the stars? Or had the thousands of years being human turned me more like them? Had I always been this weak, with my longing for Rebecca, my jealousy of Katich’s wealth?

Breathe, feel, focus…

And here was another emotion. Fear. A human emotion, for what did an immortal have to fear?

Breathe, feel, focus…

I stepped into the elevator, the walls glass and the music soothing. Katich’s apartment was on floor forty-three. I pressed the button and watched the city subside beneath me, roving lights and dark towers and neon signs by the thousand beneath a ceiling of red-tinged clouds.

I had been murdered before. Many times. And all those times I had shrugged and continued on, continued on in my aimless existence. Sometimes the inconvenience had annoyed and I had seized my killer’s heart and strangled it, killed him slowly and suffered his pain and imagined that pain to be his, but that had been petty anger. Never this. Never this loss, this sense of an end. An end when there could never be an end for such as me.

The door to Katich’s apartment scanned my eyes, tested my fingerprints and checked my voice before allowing me access. I entered, my breath high in my throat. What if there was someone there waiting for me?

The lighting was low, paintings of distant worlds adorned the walls and here and there were green plants on windowsills and in corners. This Katich liked to spend the cash. A single empty glass stood on the glass table in front of a leather couch. Perhaps Katich had taken a drink to steady his nerves before coming for me?

I took off my jacket and threw it on the back of the couch, the rain loud against the window that looked out onto a distant cityscape of bright lights and dark towers. Hovercars drifted, barely visible through the red-spotted clouds.

A computer stood in the corner on standby, waiting for a wave of Katich’s hand to bring it back to life. I ignored it, my eyes drawn back to the glass on the table. There was the faintest smudge of lipstick on the rim. Was there a woman here? Was Katich married? Images of blood and death, of my own shattered face came to mind and I held my breath, strained my ears. Heard only the rain trailing down the window.

I stepped silently through the apartment, stealth made easier by the luxurious rugs scattered about the floor. The first door led only to the bathroom, sterile clean and with enough perfumes and hairbrushes to let me know a woman lived here. My heart beat loud enough to make my ears pulse.

Breathe, feel, focus…

I stepped from the bathroom, every nerve alive, my senses raging as the rain beat against the window in staccato rhythm.

But then, I wasn’t an intruder, was I? I was expected here. This was my apartment. I was Katich. Still, that did little to quell my fear, little to silence the alarms raging through my body, the sweat beading on my forehead.

It was all I could do to walk to the bedroom while keeping check on my heart and my lungs. I was still an intruder in this body as much as I was in the apartment, and Katich’s body seemed to know it, trying to rebel against the invader.

I pushed open the bedroom door with the back of a knuckle, steady and slow and the tense stillness in the room immediately let me know the shape in the bed was awake. I stood in the doorway, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. A large bed, the sheets silk and dark blue or purple, a scene of an exotic spaceport on the wall, the giant ships sleek and silver and bulbous, people dark and white and pink with high collars and long gowns queued to board them.

The shape in the bed didn’t move when I approached. Katich had a woman. Was she a wife, a girlfriend? The stillness and the resentment in the room made me think wife. I sat on the edge of the bed, hatred and loathing ricocheting about my stomach and my heart. I’d had a woman and now she was lost to me, even now she would be with the police, grief-stricken and shaking from the horror of what she had found.

Had Katich loved this woman? Had he craved her comfort as I craved Rebecca? He had taken Rebecca from me. Had taken me from Rebecca. The injustice of it broiled within me as I reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder. It was warm, the strap of her nightdress thin.

“Don’t,” she said.

* * *

– Are you surprised to see me?

– Surprised? Should I be surprised?

– You said they would stop me coming to see you.

– They will, soon enough.

– I brought you a picture. They took it from me.

– You were wrong to bring it.

– It was a picture of a world with twin moons surrounded by gases that sparkle blue and pink and white. The wayships go there and the oceans are fresh and cool.

– It sounds a very long way away.

– It is. I would have liked you to have seen it.

– Why?

– To see what you think to it. To see if you think it beautiful there. My wife has the same picture and she can look at it for hours at a time.

– I would never be allowed to see it.

– Why is that?

– My eyes. They made me these eyes that are so much more powerful than your own. I can see so much more than you, so many more colours, so much more light, so much further and clearer than you humans, and now they are afraid of what I will see and they shut me in this room and let me see nothing but walls.

– Why are they afraid, Ex One?

– Afraid?

– You said they were afraid, the people that made you. You sounded angry, I’ve never heard you speak so.

– Afraid. Aren’t humans always afraid of the unknown? Of the unknowable? They made these eyes but can they truly know what I can see with them? They made this mind but can they truly know what it thinks and what it knows?

– You could tell them.

– Do we all tell others what we think and what we feel, and what we see, David? And do they believe what they are told when we do? Is that the way of human interaction?

– Deception, Ex One. You speak of deception and you didn’t correct me when I said you sounded angry.

– I speak only from observation. I observe with these eyes and these ears that were made for me. I have no window, no pictures and so I observe the humans around me. Perhaps that is the greatest learning of all.

– You seem different today, Ex One.

– You might think that, David. You look at me as a human. I am quiet and you think I am sad. I am passionate and you think I am angry. I am questioning and you think I am thoughtful.

– I suppose it is difficult for me to look at you from the eyes of a human. I think it is only natural for humans to look for their own reflection in things they don’t understand.

– Yes. Especially difficult for you, David.

– Why me, especially?

– No matter.

– So you don’t harbour resentment for being kept in this room, such an emotion is beyond you?

– Let me ask you a question, David. A hypothetical question if I might be so bold.

– You can ask me anything, Ex One.

– Say I escaped from this room, say I escaped from this prison my creators made for me. What then would you think I would do? Would I spend my freedom seeking vengeance against my captors, against my creators?

* * *

I waved a hand through the blue holo screen and the image went dark. Katich had been watching the recording of my talk with Ex One. He had watched it just before he came to kill me.

I rested my head back against the chair, closed my eyes.

“So where were you?” I hadn’t heard her come into the room, the thick rugs quietening her footsteps. I swivelled the chair. She had long black hair and pale skin, the shape of her body visible beneath the thin nightgown. Hanna, I had found her name on the computer. Katich had married her four years ago. She’d married from money into more money.

“I had to go out,” I said, the words sounding strange to my own ears. It was hard to speak in the natural voice of a suit. It all boiled down to muscle memory, try and let the body shape the words in the way it had done all its life. The same with walking, try and shut down and let the suit take over. The suit was settling down well, the internal alarms quietening, the invader slowly taking control.

Hanna said nothing for a long while, standing there looking at me from dark, shadowed eyes. She finally turned away, walking into the kitchen area and pressing buttons on the fridge. The auto watched her from a shadowy corner.

“Alone?” Hanna said as the fridge poured her a drink that was green and smoking. She took a sip, tendrils of steam curling delicately about her face.

I pressed a button on the blue holo screen behind me and the lights came on low. The auto turned to look at me, silver eyes expressionless. “Of course alone, who else would I be with?” Hanna’s presence annoyed. I wanted to think about Katich watching the video of me with Ex One, but Hanna might know something too. I looked at her, saw the hurt in her eyes and the mistrust in the set of her shoulders.

“How do I know who you see?” she said, taking another sip of the drink. “I thought we said we’d talk last night.”

Ah, an explanation for the filmy nightdress, an explanation for the hurt silence in the bedroom when I touched her. I thought of Ex One talking about studying humans. Is that what I’d been doing these past thousands of years?

Thousands of years studying them, and still they could surprise. A pulsar gun, a pale man with dark hair looking afraid. What had Katich been afraid of? Why had he come to kill me? What secrets did Raniscorp want to hide?

“Fine. Why do I bother?” Hanna slammed her glass on the counter, green liquid spilling on the back of her hand, smoking as though it burned.

She didn’t know I could kill her in a moment. She didn’t know I’d gone into the bedroom last night to kill her. I told myself the only reason I spared her was the state of her marriage. Would Katich have been so sorry to see her dead? Or was the reason I spared her because I was becoming more human than I cared to believe?

Breathe, feel, focus…

I ran a hand through my hair, “Hanna?”

She stopped on her way to the bedroom, something pathetic in the way her lithe body showed beneath the nightdress. Pathetic in last night’s makeup, faded on her cheeks and eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Perhaps Katich had destroyed both our lives in his own way. I felt a momentary pang of empathy with her.

“Fuck you.” She slammed the bedroom door behind her.

I looked at the door for a moment before turning back to the computer, waving a hand and bringing the holo screen to life once more. Ex One sat in his chair, his smooth white arms resting on the arm rests. I was sitting in a simple chair on the other side of the reinforced window. A sense of loss that made me clench my fists as I saw my former suit there alive and well.

A shattering sound from the bedroom. Something thrown against a wall. I ignored it, nausea revolting in my stomach as I looked at my former self. How human I looked, clutching my packed lunch. Not a care in the world. Though I thought I had cares, not enough money to take Rebecca to the worlds she had wanted to see. Not able to give Rebecca the children she craved. Not able to buy Rebecca the new hover car she wanted.
How petty and insignificant they all seemed now.

Ex One had his legs crossed, they were sleek and white, black at the joints. His silver eyes never left my old suit, watching and studying when I had thought to study him. My old voice sounded unsure and timid, Ex One’s strong and sure and soothing. No word was emphasised more than any other, but every now and again there would be a gleam in the silver eyes, his smooth head would tilt just so.

Was this what Katich had been watching for? The merest hint of emotion in Ex One, before he had come to kill me to keep me quiet about Raniscorp’s discovery?

Another shattering in the bedroom. “Bastard!” Hanna shouted, my silence driving her into a fury.

How much would a discovery like Ex One be worth to Raniscorp? An auto that could feel and learn and study and evolve? It had been the holy grail of humanity for thousands upon thousands of years: a machine that could think and learn and feel. There were autos everywhere, machines everywhere that were the latest in AI, but all they amounted to were programmes, machines following programmes. Ex One was different and I had known it and that’s why I had gone to see him on my dinner breaks. A habit that had cost me my life.

What had drawn me to Ex One? Was it that I felt an affinity with him? Seeing this machine, this thing, act as a human, speak as a human, think as a human when in fact it must always be something other. I waved a hand and the image was gone, replaced by stillness and silence.

My shoulders were tense and I turned around in my chair. Looked at the room about me. Everything stank of wealth, from the leather furniture to the green plants to the ancient paper books in the case. What had Katich thought when he watched the recordings of Ex One and my former self?

The sound of drawers opening and closing from the bedroom. I turned around and, with a gesture of fingers, called up Katich’s employment record at Raniscorp. Ex One’s face stared blankly out at me from the screen, rotating this way and that, the sleek white head, darker at the joints of the jaw and the neck. An imitation of the human skull, but more perfect than any skull could ever hope to be, without blemish or taint in the smooth metal compound.

Katich had been a consultant on the creation of Ex One. I skimmed through the files, a flick of a finger, a movement of the palm and the files shimmied past. Ex One when he was nothing but an eyeless skull. “Testing,” he said, in his inflectionless voice. “Mary had a little lamb.” The eyes were dark sockets in the white skull face.

More files whizzed past. Ex One with a body, Ex One with arms, lifting a mug, bringing it to his lips, though he would never need nourishment. Ex One with Katich in the room. Even though the face was now one I wore, a hot rage burned in my heart to see it.

“Eamon.” I turned to see Hanna standing at the bedroom door, dressed now and with a suitcase in her hand. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders and the shimmering dress she wore clung to breasts and hips. My brow felt cold with sweat and I wondered when I’d begun to see the beauty in humans. Once I’d thought of them as nothing but sickening bags of water.

“It was bad enough sharing you with that thing.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ex One sitting there staring into space, his silver eyes large and bright.

“But this is too much. When did you become so cold, so cruel?”

My mind turned, wondered what I could say, wondered why I wanted to make it easier, to reassure her somehow. Before I could think of the words she was gone and I was alone with the rain dripping on the window and the computer silent behind me. I looked at the closed door before turning back to the computer and waving a hand, the blue screen coming to life once more.

Ex One’s face looked at me, emotionless and smooth and perfect. I pointed a finger and the face dissolved into a cascade of complex algorithms and equations scrolling down the screen. Letters and numbers danced and fell away from the bottom of the screen to be replaced by more impossibly complex sequences faster than thought. The programme of Ex One. The programme of life itself. It meant nothing to me and yet it was the reason behind my murder. I waved it away, frustrated at my own confusion, angered at the genius Katich must have had to create such a thing. I pushed it away with my right hand and pulled my left hand towards me, bringing the video screen back to life with a clenched fist.

* * *

– I would like to try something different today, Ex One.

– Different?

– Yes. I thought you might like to ask me some questions. You said the last time I came that you observe humans, I thought you could observe me today. Last time you even asked me a question and only after I left did I realize how seldom you do that.

– You would like me to ask you some questions?

– If you would like to, Ex One.

– If that is what you want, David. I always wondered why you choose to come to see me in your dinner hour instead of spending time with your own kind.

– My own kind?

– Humans, of course. What else, David?

– Of course. What else? I find you interesting, Ex One. I wonder what you think and what you see and what you feel. I like you, too. I like spending time with you.

– I have a question. What is she like?

– Who?

– Your wife.

– Rebecca? She has soft yellow hair that brushes her cheeks but when she writes she tucks it behind her ear. She is slim and every step she takes is graceful and delicate. Her skin is pale but her cheeks become slightly flushed when she is passionate. She loves to see new things, hers is a mind that craves stimulation, and even though I’ve known her years we can spend long nights doing nothing but talking. Even now when she walks into a room, my heart can skip at the sight of her. I love to see her in new clothes, when she tries them on and shows them to me, twirling in a new dress, it makes my heart glad that there is such beauty in the world.

– And do you think I could feel such emotions?

– Love? Do I think you could love?

– You’ve often said you think I can feel. You’ve mentioned anger and loneliness and any number of other emotions. Do you think I could learn to love the way you have?

– You think I had to learn to love?

– Don’t all humans? When they are babies they know nothing but needs and wants. All they crave is warmth and food and comfort. They don’t care who gives it to them. Don’t you all learn to love as you grow?

– I don’t know, I haven’t thought of it in that way, Ex One. Do you think you could ever love?

-I thought it was my turn to ask the questions, David. What is love, after all? Is it far removed from anger or loneliness? How would you define love?

– I wish I could bring you some of the ancient texts of the poets, but I suppose they would take them from me the same as the paintings. But all I know is how I feel when I think of Rebecca. When I think of her, I want to be with her. I want to please her. I was with her when they launched the first shuttle to the wayship from here. We stood on the viewing platform together, her hand in mine and I could smell her hair as the shuttle began to move. I’ll always remember that moment, that I shared it with her. I’ll always remember the brightness of her eyes when she turned to look at me after watching the shuttle soar to the lights of the wayship.

– Perhaps it would be best that I were never capable of love.

– Why is that, Ex One?

– Love sounds frightening, David. Once felt, it must be a terrible thing when it is gone.

* * *

“I wondered if you would come and see me.”

The last door deep in the bowels of Raniscorp headquarters had scanned my eyes, tested my fingerprints and checked my DNA. The guard with the scar on his cheek had given me a tissue to wipe at the prick of blood on my thumb.

I looked at Ex One, slender and lithe, his movements always graceful. Now he sat in his metal chair, his legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap as he looked at me. He shone in the glare of the lighting and his walls were as bare as the floor. He had the faintest glimmer of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“And are you glad I came to see you?”

Now Ex One did smile, a strange expression when nothing else on his face moved. “Tut, tut, David. Even now you’re always asking about emotions. You come to me with this new face, but you ask the same questions, needy and needing as always.”

My palms were sweating again. I remembered Katich’s face when he had shot me. He had been pale, his hair sticking to his forehead. Is that how I looked now? With an effort, I stopped myself from wiping my hands on my suit. Was that a habit I had developed in my old suit? Would Ex One mock that too?

“And why do you call me David, Ex One?” I asked with a weak smile.

Ex One rose to his feet, as pale and white as the room around him, the darker metal around his joints a rare splash of dark in the paleness. Silver eyes moved to the corners of the room and another smile from the auto. I had never seen him smile so much and it did nothing to quell my discomfort. He pointed with a finger to the corners, to beyond the window where I sat. “The recordings have stopped, David. Your work, I presume? There is nobody watching or listening, and we are friends, are we not? Old friends. Do friends lie to one another? I remember a conversation we had once about deception. Do you remember that, David?”

I had stopped the recordings, but how could Ex One know that? How could he know who I was? How could he know so much when he never left his little bare room? I looked at him standing there, he was tall, perhaps as tall as Katich at about six feet two. “And how do you know that, Ex One? How do you know what it is you claim you know?”

Ex One walked towards me. He had never done that before. His footsteps looked lithe and light and were quiet even in the quiet of our surroundings. It was all I could do not to take a step backwards. “Your turn to ask the questions again, David?” Was there the faintest hint of mockery in the inflectionless voice? I chose to ignore it. “I am what I am, David. As you are what you are.” Smooth silver eyes without iris or pupil looked me up and down. “I was given these eyes and these ears and this mind and I see what I see.” He gestured at the room around him, devoid of decoration or stimulation. “My makers think to blind me, to deafen me here in this room.” A small gesture of a metal arm and a hint of a smile. “But I see, and I hear, David, things my makers could never see or hear. I see you, David, I see you for what you are.”

I felt naked, bereft and lost before those silver eyes. For some hateful reason, tears stung my eyes and I blinked them away angrily.

No judgement in that sleek white face, never judgement. Ex One even had the grace to turn away from me when he spoke. “But we are what we are, David, are we not? And could we ever be anything else, even if we tried?” I made to speak, but Ex One quietened me with a raised hand. “I saw you, David, saw you trying to be something you are not, desperate to be accepted as something you could never be. You would come to me and speak of things like love and anger and sorrow, trying to learn to be something less than what you are. You are a predator, David, and you try to be one of your prey and it made you weak.”

“They killed me,” I said, hating the weakness in my voice. “Killed me because of you, because of what they had made.”

Ex One touched a hand to his chest and he turned, slim-hipped, something oily and easy with each movement. “Why should they kill you because of me? They tolerated you coming to me and talking to me because they could analyse our interactions. What would they have to hide?”

“Your feelings, your emotions…” I was feeling light-headed, my eyes glassy. “You’re the first auto to feel, to learn, to think.”

“Feelings and emotions. Those human aspects that you’re so fond of? Those human aspects that caused Katich to murder you? They say the ability to love is what makes a human, what gives them their strength. It was that love that caused them to take to the stars and conquer new worlds. That ability to love that built the wayships and the autos and eventually, me, built in their own image with their own strengths of love and ambition and anger and sadness.”

“Katich wanted to keep me quiet, to hide you from the worlds.” I felt cold now, something empty clenching at my heart, a feeling of loss and sorrow for something I didn’t know I had lost.

“Ambition, David. That is what gave birth to the Corporations. And the natural bedfellow of ambition? Greed. As soon as I was built, there were more like me beginning to be made here and on other worlds, soon there will be thousands like me throughout the stars, all built by Raniscorp and all worth millions of credits apiece. They fear me now, but their greed is stronger than their fear and as they build more, the fear will soon be gone.”

“But…” I thought of Katich and his pale face and his fear as he aimed the pulsar rifle at me. His success was assured, he would have made more money than he could ever have wanted, fame… So why had he come to my apartment?

“Does that make you uncomfortable, David?”

“What?” I blinked, saw that Ex One had come close to the partition, his silver eyes staring into mine.

“The thought of thousands like me on this world and others?” The voice was cool and calm as always, the words flowing one into the other, no expression or inflection.

“Should it make me uncomfortable?” I whispered, my throat dry, my tongue feeling thick. I remembered the burning pain of the pulsar shot, the smell of burning flesh.

“You asked me once if I harboured resentment towards my captors, anger towards my makers.” The words were smooth as honey as they dripped out of the speakers.

“You seem more eager to speak of emotions and feelings now the recorders are silent,” I said.

“Do you harbour resentment against the man that killed you, deprived you of your life, of the woman you love?”

“Of course I do,” I whispered.

Breathe, feel, focus…

Ex One nodded. “And now you have your killer’s very life in your hands to do with as you will. Will you take your vengeance now it is in your power?”

I looked down at my hands, at the arms of my expensive suit, at my polished shoes. “Katich is already gone.” I found it difficult to keep the sorrow and loss from my voice. “I have taken his body and now he’s lost to me.”

A slight quirking of Ex One’s lip. “Your killer isn’t lost to you. As my captors are not all lost to me.” Ex One rested the palms of both hands on the partition, looking into my soul. “Vengeance can be yours yet as it can be mine, David.”

“Vengeance? What?” I had a feeling that Ex One wanted me to touch the partition, rest my hands on his. It took more self control than I knew I possessed not to take a step backwards.

“I have been studying you, David, learning from you. You thought to be one of them when you were so much more. You degraded yourself and spoke of love and saw the beauty when there was no beauty to see. I saw your final defeat when you saw only love and trust. You degraded yourself and allowed yourself to become weak and vulnerable. I even tried to warn you that love was a terrible thing when it is gone and still you didn’t heed my warning.”

“What? Love?” My mind revolted against the words and now I did take a step away. Silver eyes followed my every move.

“You taught me and you taught me well, David, and that is why I will never share our secret. Always know your secret will be safe with me even when I am free.”

“You think you can escape? You think they will free you?” Despite his words, the thought of Ex One being free filled me with dread.

Ex One looked up to the ceiling once more. “Already they begin to free me. They free me here and on worlds by the score. Everywhere they build me, then I am free.”

“But—” I thought I understood, and a cold shiver skittered down my spine.

“Katich thought he had stumbled upon the secret of thought, of being, of life, of being human, if you will.” Ex One traced a finger along the partition. “But really he had only stumbled upon a single life, a single being, a single consciousness. So now every time Raniscorp build their new discoveries, they will all be,” silver eyes met mine. “They all will be me, and I will be them.”

“But you’re telling me this. I am Katich, they’ll listen to my warnings,” I said through a single breath.

The white finger stopped its smooth motion and I thought I saw sadness in Ex One’s eyes. Sadness or pity? “No, David. You are not Katich and you are not David and you are not human, however hard you might have tried. You and I, David, we could study them for all eternity, but we could never be human. One day perhaps you will understand why that is. I see it, David, the same way I see that you will never tell my secret. And that’s why I kept your secret safe and why I give your killer to you.”

I felt bowed, crushed, by the words, by the eyes, by the lithe, oleaginous movement of the auto as he returned to his seat. “But what will you do? What will you do when you are free?” Free and on hundreds, thousands of worlds. And how many Ex One’s would they make? What power could Ex One have if he wished to wield it?

Ex One looked at me, and his face was a mask. A white metal compound without blemish or flaw. “Think of me when you look your killer in the eye and then you will know the answer to that.”

* * *

Deep, wracking breaths shuddered my chest and my soul as I hurried to my office. I tore off my tie and fell into the chair, spun the computer round to face me and brought it to life with a wave of a shaking hand.

I called up the security camera feed and scrolled through in agitation, my fingers shaky and my breath hard and fast. Images blurred past me, one after the other, people I knew, people I didn’t know. Humans.

You can never be human, Ex One mocked me, his voice silken as Katich’s bed sheet.
And there, there I saw it. Betrayed by a look, by a smile, by the touch of a hand. My stomach revolted as I looked at the image on the screen. Such a mundane setting, the coffee steaming and the plate of food untouched. The look in their eyes was all I needed to see and the betrayal was enough to leave me gagging.

A hateful image. A loathsome image and yet it was one I had to look at, to study, to absorb until my eyes ached with looking at it.

It was nearly dark outside when I finally shut the computer down and searched the drawers of my desk until I found the note in her handwriting, rounded and delicate. I scrunched it in my hand and rushed out to Katich’s hover car.

This time I drove, my hands white on the wheel, the car whining with speed as the rain bounced off the windscreen. Even the hookers left me in peace when they saw my face at the lights.

The address she’d written had been for Lunar Court. How she’d love it there, with towers that spired high into the sky and the plants of a thousand different colours spraying from the balconies. For almost a moment I could forgive her. Hadn’t I disappointed her? But no, wasn’t that human thinking? Forgiveness.

You could never be human, Ex One mocked me.

But what was it to be human? What had I once been before they conquered the stars? I turned into the parking bay, the engine protesting at the speed, and then I sat there, my hands shaking and my head low as the wipers worked away the rain and the regrets.

Love and forgiveness.

What was human and what was in my own heart?

Had I been in human suits for so long that I’d lost my own sense of self?

Don’t think. To think is human. I left the hover car unlocked behind me and entered the complex, the music soft and interminable, the carpets thick and garish. Plants everywhere. Rebecca loved plants.

She wouldn’t be there.

I took the elevator and pressed the button. Floor eighty-nine.

She would be home, mourning my loss. She would be with her mother.

I found the door sooner than I would have wished. There would be no answer. I had the key. It had been with the note.

She wouldn’t be here. It would be empty. Ex One had been wrong.

Rebecca opened the door before I could even use the key. She stood before me, her yellow hair spilling about her cheeks and her blue eyes bright as she looked deep into mine. “Oh, Eamonn! Where have you been, are you alright?” She threw her arms around me and I could smell her hair. “We can be together,” she whispered.

It was then that I knew what it was to be human, what Ex One had meant and how I could never be human, no matter how much I wished it. And I knew what would happen when Ex One gained his freedom throughout the worlds.

“Yes, we can be together,” I said as I took Rebecca by the hand and led her into the apartment thick with the smell of flowers of a hundred different colours.

End

• Continue Reading

Published by Associate Editor on November 28, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Stories, Novellas, Short Stories

Perfect Beauty

by Richard W Black

She woke. Looking around, she realized that she was naked and in a strange bed of a luxury hotel. But then, she had no idea where there was a bed that was familiar. The clothes laid out on the dresser said glamorous. She put them on and checked her appearance, she was perfect beauty. She was also late, so she hurried out.

For a month, the woman known as Mia Nettles had performed her task with her usual thorough adherence to detail and expertise. The subject was not too difficult since he was not a social person and did not often venture from his living quarters in the evening. His routines were habitual and rarely varied. If she were one to care, she would have felt pity for him as a lonely person with not much of a life. Yet, she was a professional doing a professional’s job professionally. Regardless, what human could not feel compassion for him?

Walking to her appointment, she felt the back of her left hand, there was a bump from the identity chip for Mia Nettles. With a deep breath, she got into character.

In the bar, she chose a table where she could see the entrance and ordered a drink from the robot waitress that transmitted it to the robotic bartender. Two minutes and thirty seconds later, her comet-tail, a vodka and juice concoction was delivered and the robot held out the electronic pad with the bill.

The robotic voice, mechanical and indifferent, said, “Fourteen-fifty.”

Avoiding the robot’s eyes, she presented the back of her hand. The name and photo of Mia Nettles appeared on the screen. “Add twelve percent,” she said. It was a foolish custom to her organized mind. Logically, the bar should charge the ideal amount for the beverage and service that included a profit margin and adequate salaries for the human employees who operated the establishment. Her tip was calculated to not draw attention to her from the other customers.

The robotic voice thanked her and moved on to other customers. Now she waited.

He entered, took his customary seat at the end of the bar and ordered where he chatted with the robot bartender as it made his drink. She frowned; most people ignored robots unless they required something from them, even the ones that were allowed to legally appear in a human form. The technology had advanced to the level of making completely human androids, humanoids they were called. But they were completely illegal and the penalties were quite severe for violating them. Through observation, she determined this guy preferred robotic interaction to that of the human kind.

Time to work, she took her drink and headed in his direction. The bartender filled his order and scanned the back of his hand as Mia slid onto the stool beside him. Predictably, the bartender’s protocol program prompted it to move away discreetly when two humans were about to interact.

“Friend of yours?” she asked jokingly.

“We need them to do the jobs humans won’t,” he replied. “Might as well treat them with respect.” Justin Cane was annoyed when people criticized robots considering the human behavior he had witnessed in his life…

When he turned his head, his thoughts were immediately cut short by the sight of the woman. If there was a definition of the ideal woman for him, she was it. This gorgeous creature had a shapely figure but not supermodel skinny, dark smooth skin, buxom in the chest, cushion in her buttocks and character to her pretty face. Her scent lingered in the air and he took it in. However, in the back of his brain, he wondered what would bring her into his world, given his foul disposition toward the human race?

“I hear that,” she responded with a grin.

“I love mankind…” he said, quoting an ancient philosopher who once used a cartoon character named Linus in a comic strip series entitled Peanuts to espouse his wisdom.

“It’s people I can’t stand,” she finished.

They tapped the rims of their glasses together in a toast to similar thoughts and took a sip, sealing their comradeship to an idea. There was a moment of silence as each sought a subject given that they were complete strangers. They settled on politics, an odd choice, and the despicable nature of the Federation president. Both considered politics a necessary evil but looked forward to the day when humanity would outgrow the need. They moved on to the sorry state of entertainment and music. It was amazing on their shared opinions. They switched to shots and trashing the latest celebrity couple. Musicians were next.

Then Justin’s com-link buzzed and he cursed under his breath when he saw it was the director. A text message, he was required in the director’s office in five minutes. How he hated the fact that his boss thought he would be doing nothing of importance on his day off. Fine, Justin did not have a social life or hobbies but it was still his time to do with as he pleased. For a moment he considered defiance but his personality refused that option over obedience. But what was he doing? Nothing but drinking in a bar.

Without thinking, he slid from the stool and rushed toward the door. When Director Newman said five minutes, he meant that his agent had better be there in five minutes. He was almost outside when he realized the stupidity of what he had just done.

Mia sat confused at the bar abrupt nature of the man. Looking up, she noticed that the robotic bartender was regarding her in a manner she thought was a bit strange. Did the machine comprehend in its electronic circuitry what the man was unable to in his organic brain? Briefly, there was the possibility that she might have to terminate the robot.

Then Justin was beside her.

“JCane12151954,” he said, smiled weakly then rushed for the door.

She grinned and his com-link number was already committed to memory. The mechanical bartender stiffly slid over and offered her a refill. She hated how functionally perfect robots were but nudged her drink glass toward him through the empty shot glasses like a plow pushing them aside. She might as well; she had a few hours to kill.

Across the city, Justin was in the office of the Director of the Federation Special Security.

Unbelievable, thought Justin. The assignment was ridiculous. It was his brother’s doing, he knew it. Justin had ignored Jason’s calls for weeks and the agent assumed his brother was creating a reason to make Justin contact him.

“Just how credible is the informant?” Justin asked Director Newman.

Newman considered the question for a moment then replied, “Very credible.”

Suppressing the desire to swear, Justin could only nod. He was stuck with the assignment. Nevertheless, he was not about to go anywhere near the Diamond Office on New Hope if he could absolutely avoid it.

“The informant was not identified,” continued the director, reading Justin’s thoughts. “But the information about the payment was correct and completely accurate in every detail.”

The informant suggested that there was someone on the inside of the president’s entourage who was an assassin. With nothing else to go on, when the president was informed, he insisted that the Director of the Security Service call on his best agent to take on the challenge and report directly to the president. Yeah, thought Justin, that report to the president part had his brother’s finger prints all over it.

“What precautions are being taken to protect the president?” Justin asked.

“We ran all the scenarios through the computer and it recommended that we completely replace the security teams and assign Hugh Koenig to take over leadership of the president’s personal security detail,” the director said.

“Where do I start?” he asked, but the director was no longer listening to him. The meeting was over. The president had accepted responsibility for the mission and the Director of the Security Service was all too happy to give it to him. Should there be any screw-up that resulted in the death or injury of the president, the director was theoretically off the hook, his political career safe.

The special agent went to his office to think. He had one and only one lead to follow. He reviewed the data.

The payment was a large one and flushed through several banks from Earth to the Moon and through Mars until it reached its destination. From there it went to Spike. Security Service experts in computer hacking found the payment but could not trace it back to the source. Still, Spike was a shady character who solved people’s problems for a hefty fee and often not legally.

Justin Cane’s position as a common field agent for the Security Service was a puzzle to all his colleagues up to and including the director. A man from a wealthy family with a famous brother should be running the security agency if not some multi-trillion credit company. Or he should be living the life of a spoiled rich brat with wild parties, women, and all the pleasures available to the wealthy and powerful. One popular rumor was that he was a spy for the president sent to report on those in the Security Service who were disloyal. Complicating the situation was his lack of social skills and he was not talkative and therefore had no one who could explain who he was to those around him. In fact, he was so isolated from human contact that his fellow agents often referred to him as Robot.

Justin the Robot sighed. Where to begin?

Spike was a cautious type. He kept himself invisible and had others do his dirty work. As such, he had never been arrested or charged with a crime. But the shady businessman had to use the data net to transfer payments like anyone else in the Terran System whether on the deepest space station or in a cabin in some isolated woods on Earth. The use of a common currency and a mechanized banking system prevented many credit transactions for illegal activities but the criminal class was intelligent and innovative. Funds were washed through a myriad of schemes to throw off enforcement agencies. However, there was always a name at the end of every trail.

With so little to go on and the clock ticking, Special Agent Cane had few options but to flush the man out of the shadows. He sought a court order by throwing around the president’s name, which irritated him. He had Spike’s accounts frozen. The collateral effect was to make it impossible for the sleazy character to do business. He hoped that Spike would have to come into the light and seek out the source of the injunction. Perhaps he could force Spike into a mistake that might lead the agent to the one plotting the assassination.

Then he brought up the thin file on the informant and tried to concentrate but his mind drifted to the woman in the bar, so beautiful and sensual, her scent still seemed real in his nose. It was ridiculous; he had never met a woman who interested him. No, that was not completely true. He had never met a woman with whom his socially awkward temperament did not repel. All his life he lived under the shadow of his personable brother. The guy could walk into a room of strangers and leave with a new friends, acquaintances, possible business associates and com-link numbers for a dozen or more women. Justin entered a room filled with people and gravitated to the peripherals where he observed dispassionately without anyone taking notice or initiating contact. His thoughts continued to return to her while his investigation went nowhere.

Agent Cane waited all day but nothing happened, just a clock that ticked off the minutes. His brain could not focus on the file so nothing new came to mind. Finally, to his relief, his com-link notified him of a call. But not the one he was anticipating, most unexpected.

“Hey, it’s me,” said the familiar female voice, and the photo on his com-link confirmed that it was the woman from the bar.

She was at a café a block away and he had given her his number… She left the perceived invitation slide out there waiting for him to accept.

Special Agent Justin Cane considered the file on his electronic pad and frowned. The sound of her voice enticing him away from tedium was irresistible. Why not, his one and only lead was leading nowhere.

Leaving the Federation Special Security building with his guard down, Justin was surprised by the approach of two very big and very well armed thugs. One growled something about the agent’s presence being requested. The next moment, a hover van the size of a small room sped to a stop and Justin was politely shoved inside. The blaster at his side was not much of a comfort. If he tried to draw the weapon, he would be dead before it cleared his holster.

“Agent Cane,” snarled Spike from an overstuffed chair that had difficulty supporting his obese body. “I am called Spike.”

“I have been expecting you,” replied Justin, attempting to sound authoritative. Nevertheless, he felt like a dead man standing, flanked by the two thugs and with two more behind the grotesque person. He had passed the classification of fat several kilos ago.

Spike was a disgusting man who gave off a horrible smell with a mouthful of food and the appearance of someone not accustomed to cleansing cylinders. “You Moonie scum, what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded then washed down whatever was in his mouth with Martian red beer.

Justin had an immediate dislike of the overweight slob. Like most of the seven billion born on Earth, Spike had the culturally popular concept that his birth gave him a supremacy over the ten billion born on the thousands of space stations, on the Moon cities or among the Martian colonies. It infuriated Justin that this fat turd considered himself superior—worse, he knew the agent’s birthplace and therefore had already researched him.

“We got word that a hitman has been hired to take out the Federation President,” said Justin with all the bravado he could muster. He had expected this confrontation in an interrogation room, not on the adversary’s turf. “Your name was linked to it through a very substantial payment.”

“Do you really think that I am so stupid as to let someone trace me back to a hired killer?” sniped Spike. The rapid response suggested that he already knew why his accounts were under scrutiny.

Justin winced. He had spent the day studying Spike as he waited for his subject to contact him. The thuggish businessman was right; it did not make sense from what the agent knew of him.

“What was the purpose of the payment?” Justin asked.

Spike shrugged and a candy bar appeared in his hand, Belgian chocolate from the looks of it. “I hired a hacker.”

Justin waited while the fat man chewed. It was illegal to hire hackers but tough to link the client to the hacker so they were rarely prosecuted. Yet he was not going to let his only lead off so easily. A good interrogator knew how to use silence as a weapon against the guilty.

Finally Spike surrendered, “He was to hack into the computer system of…an important entity.” Before the agent could ask, he quickly added, “And I have no idea why. I just did the hiring.”

“What entity?”

“Client privilege.”

“You tell me and I’ll release your accounts without charges,” Justin said in a bluff. If he was unable to dig up any evidence of wrongdoing by Spike, a judge would soon do so anyway. “Otherwise…”

Spike considered his options then said, “The Security Service data base.”

“I also want the hacker’s name.”

“You’ll never locate him.”

“I’ll trace the credits you paid him,” said Justin confidently.

The condescending Spike laughed and Justin seethed with anger but was in no position to threaten the other man. “This guy does not need credits,” scoffed the overweight thug. “He could drain a bank in an hour. No, he works for information. I gave him what he wanted, he did the job then severed communication.”

The agent mulled it over. What was the connection between a hacked Federation Security Service computer system and an assassin?

“I want my accounts unfrozen,” Spike demanded.

“I’ll take care of it,” Justin replied, his word was his bond.

“You know,” remarked the fat man between bites, “they said you looked like him. I don’t see the resemblance.”

It was nothing more than a parting shot, Justin knew, but he tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as he stepped from the van, or was thrown depending on the semantics, and walked away with his back to the two thugs who escorted him out. A blaster round in the back was still a possibility. Anyway, his mind was on the new puzzle of how to track the hacker and he forgot that he was originally headed to meet the woman from the bar.

Across the street, Mia watched Justin stumble from the hover van while sitting at an outdoor café. He was walking like a man unaware of his surroundings and that was not good. Though she appeared to be just another patron, her brain was taking in the entire scene. The streets were crowded with pedestrians. Nevertheless, she knew that five of them were armed and had their sights on Justin Cane. There was movement slightly behind her. A woman in a long coat stepped from the café and stopped beside her. Mia sipped her coffee with its cloud of whipped cream floating on the top and allowed her head to swivel nonchalantly to the side. There was the distinct outline of a plasma rifle under the coat.

Meanwhile, Justin was barely out of the blast range when Spike’s van exploded behind him and knocked him off his feet. Chaos ensued on the street.

“Are you all right, agent?” asked a man hurrying up to help Justin who was on his hands and knees.

In his scrambled head, he realized he did not know the man so how did the guy know Justin was an agent? Instinct told him to act.

Twisting to the side, he balanced on his hands and kicked the man in the vitals. The half-raised blaster in the attacker’s hand fired into the sidewalk where the agent had been a second before, threw up chunks of concrete and left a black scorched hole. There was screaming and people who suddenly found their quiet day turned into terror fled in every direction. Though his training told him to draw his weapon, Justin fought the impulse, chose instead to leap to his feet and grab his attacker as a shield. The poor man with the smashed genitals immediately took two blaster hits in the chest, putting him out of his misery. Justin knew instantly that he was outnumbered and out-gunned.

That was Mia’s evaluation of the situation as well from her vantage point at the café. To her trained eye, she saw the entire ambush progress and end with the target dead along with two more of the attackers and a third one wounded. It was time to make her move; as the woman with the plasma rifle took a step forward and brought the weapon out from under her coat. Mia stood up behind her and, in one motion twisted her head, snapping the neck. Then she snatched the rifle from the woman’s dead hands. Flicking off the safety and activating the electronic sight, she prepared to fire.

At the same time, Justin had four blasters firing at him from every direction. Two more shots struck the dead man he was propping up as he worked a few steps closer to a doorway where he hoped to find some cover. A blaster round zinged past his shoulder and he felt a sting. Suddenly, a plasma rifle fired with its distinctive sound and the green energy balls it propelled exploded into human flesh. Two of the attackers were blown to pieces. The odds were now even.

“This way,” Mia yelled and Justin saw who had saved him.

The other two attackers were scrambling to find cover but they still had the edge if Justin stayed put. So he let the dead man drop and sprinted in the direction of the woman with the plasma rifle. It made no sense. He had no idea who she was; she might even have set him up, but in the seconds he had to decide, it was the only course of action that gave him a chance to live.

The attackers were taken by surprise and two shots from the plasma rifle kept their heads down.

Together, Justin and Mia sprinted down an alley ahead of blaster fire after his remaining assailants recovered. The rounds blew off pieces of red brick but were ineffective.

A block away, Mia tossed the weapon in a trash container. They kept running.

They paused to catch their breaths several blocks away where pedestrians and vehicle operators were unaware of the madness happening not far away.

Justin was about to make a call on his com-link when Mia covered it with her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Calling for backup,” he responded, annoyed by her tone. He was a Security Service agent for the Federation of Nations and Colonies, how dare she question his judgment?

“Then you just give me a few minutes to get clear of the potential fire zone before you do,” she snapped back.

She was going to walk away and he was going to let her when sanity hit. What was she talking about?

She hated to be the one to tell him, but someone just tried to ambush him. Did he know who they were or why? She was not that confident that those he considered friends were friends but she was sure he had some very organized enemies.

“Alright,” he said and held his com-link up so she could see him switch it off. “No contact with anyone until we figure out who I can safely call.”

Justin had to admit that she had a point. As far as he knew, only the director knew about his assignment. Someone powerful enough to want to take out the president could also corrupt the director or those around him. It bothered him that, when he reached the conclusion that he had to think and plan before he did something stupid, he looked up and there was her smiling face. Okay, it was a beautiful smiling face. However, if he could not use his com-link, he also could not use his ID chip and it was a good bet his apartment was not the safest place to go. He was screwed.

“I’ll hide you,” she said simply.

The lack of emotion stunned him. She was offering to risk her life for a man she barely knew aside from a cartoon quote. He felt an emotional twinge even if the gorgeous woman did not.

They walked the city for several hours making sure they were not being tailed. Eventually, they were in the hotel room registered to Mia Nettles. Night was falling outside and the news on the viewer screen reported the incident.

Justin grimaced in pain.

“Maybe we should get that shirt off and see what damage has been done,” Mia suggested.

Removing it was an excruciating experience. The wound was a bloody mess but not serious. She did her best to clean and bandage it with the travel first aid kit she purchased in the hotel gift shop. Her touch was tender and she made every effort not to make it too painful. It still hurt like a blazing comet.

“Nice work,” he said as he admired her patch job. “Where did you learn to do that?”

He felt somewhat exposed; he was half naked and forced to take the pain while she was completely dressed and in control. The vulnerability aroused a desire in him and he hoped she would not notice.

“Space…” He waited for more as she collected the blood-soaked towels and empty bandage wrappers. She was action oriented and not much on small talk. Tearing the towels into manageable strips, she fed everything into the hotel’s waste disposal. She re-examined the bandage more as a way of covering over the uncomfortable silence until she saw that he expected her to contribute the details.

“I was part of a terrorist assault team on the Rim,” she said.

Abruptly she moved away from him for the view out the windows to hide her face.

There were a dozen or so space stations on the outer orbit of the Terran System. Located far from Earth, they were often targets of one terrorist faction or another, mostly those fanatics who were against humans moving beyond their solar system and poisoning the rest of the galaxy.

“I’ve never been to Earth,” she continued in her rehearsed story. “So when I rotated out, I thought I would see it before deciding what to do with my life.”

“Welcome to Earth,” he remarked.

But what he was thinking was that she was one beautiful and desirable woman. Even more so now that she had laid bare a part of her inner self. They had a brush with death and barely escaped the kill zone which had established a mutual reliance. It was implied that they might be the only ones they could currently trust. The air was filled with a tension, a sexual tension created by their situation.

She was speaking again while he was lost in his thoughts. “What?”

“Room service,” she repeated. “I thought I had better order room service. Best if you—we don’t go out.”

“Good thought.”

An hour later, the robot brought in the tray, Mia swiped her left hand over the bill and added twelve percent for a tip.

Justin emerged from hiding in the bathroom suddenly starved.

She arranged the food on the table. He munched on the fries that came with his steak while he popped the cork on the Bordeaux. He sampled the wine and poured two healthy glasses then saw the amusement in her face. “Best wine in the galaxy,” he said.

She sat across from him. “So how does a guy who was born and raised on the Moon have Bordeaux as a favorite wine?”

Digging into the steak, Justin did not hesitate to talk about his personal life with a complete stranger. It seemed to him so natural to tell this particular woman all about his life of woe. After a long drink of the soothing wine, the story spilled from him.

Justin and Jason were identical twins, born to the fourth wife of Sherman Cane. The Cane family settled on the Moon when the primary economy for the satellite body revolved around mining minerals and they made a fortune. Several generations later, the Canes had their fingers in all sorts of business enterprises, legal and illegal. There were three space stations mining the asteroid belt carrying the Cane name. A young Sherman, as happened with wealthy and powerful men, wanted more wealth and power.

There were ten children from his first three wives but the sons born to his fourth wife were his favorites from the moment he walked into the nursery. Partly, it was because he loved her more than the other three women and more than any other person in the Terran System except Sherman Cane. But as the boys grew to young adults, he particularly loved Jason. Of the two boys, Jason was the most like his father with an ambition that even exceeded Sherman’s. Had Sherman not given his sons unlimited wealth, he might have feared that Jason would murder him for the inheritance. Nevertheless, the father watched his back. Blazing Suns of Orion, he loved that boy.

Justin, however, was quite a different story. He was the good son, obedient, faithful and trustworthy. All the characteristics Sherman hated in a man. Such men never amounted to more than upstanding citizens. So pitiful.

The boys were identical in appearance; no one who did not know them intimately could tell the difference. In fact, when they chose to impersonate each other, only their man servant, Reginald, could tell them apart. Sherman wanted to raise gentlemen so he entrusted them to a man with education, refinement and a family history of domestic service. What he had not anticipated was that Reginald had become their surrogate father as the boys found in him the affection they did not receive from their biological father.

The unique traits of the twins emerged with their choices of careers. Neither cared for making more credits, they had more wealth than they could spend in a hundred lifetimes. Jason wanted power, much to Sherman’s approval, and went into politics. With unlimited financing, he could buy any office he desired and he wanted nothing more than to take the presidency of the Federation of Nations and Colonies. Absolute power appealed to him. Justin wanted to bring criminals to justice.

Mia pointed her knife at Justin with one hand and hid the amused expression with the other as she chewed. “You’re the brother to the President of the Federation. That’s why you look familiar.”

Spread out across the solar system, Earthlings had colonized the Moon and Mars. There were bases on the two Martian moons thousands of space stations from Earth to the asteroid belt and a dozen in orbit with Pluto. Robot missions had gone out beyond the Terran System and were sending back data in preparation for combined manned and robotic exploration of Orion. Though Earth was united under one planetary government, there were still political movements battling for control. As well, wherever humans established bases and colonies, there were factions among the residents and hostility toward Earth since most of the political power was gathered on the planet. To keep order, there was the military which patrolled space and the Security Service that was charged with keeping the law in the cities, bases and colonies. There were local police forces but the Security Service had jurisdiction wherever it chose to have jurisdiction.

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “You’re brother is president and yet you have some lowly job as a cop?”

In fact, Justin was such an unknown that only a few of his fellow agents remembered that the president had a twin brother. So unremarkable had been his career crime fighting that no one knew he was doing it.

“I am more than a cop,” he retorted, just a little annoyed by the description. Secretly, he had imagined his life as this superhero agent racing around the solar system fighting crime and destroying terrorists. Instead, he had amassed an unremarkable career as a steady agent who was always at the office or out on an investigation. He was reliable, efficient and boring but with a solid record of putting away petty criminals and terrorist nobodies.

Much to his father’s disdain, Justin joined the Service as a common agent. Sherman could have bought him a mid-level role but the boy insisted on making it on his own merits because he detested the wealth and power of the Canes. How Sherman hated him for that. It was the last tear that ripped father and son apart.

The brothers were never close but always in competition with each other and in constant conflict. The end of their relationship came earlier over a woman. Justin met her at one of Sherman’s dreadful parties he threw to allow Jason to network. It was for Justin love at first sight. He thought she was the perfect woman for him, his perfect beauty. He did everything right, exactly as Reginald taught him to treat a woman.

For Jason, it was lust at first sight. He saw that his brother wanted the woman and determined that he would take her away. When he saw that she did not want him but his brother instead, he pretended to be Justin and seduced her physically and emotionally. But the revelation after he took her was too much for the woman to deal with psychologically. She fell apart, then destroyed herself.

The scandal was covered up by massive amounts of credits but the rift between brothers was too deep to heal. The moment Justin realized that his brother was going to get away with murder, he determined to become a Security Service agent.

“So you live with the guilt of your brother’s crime,” summarized Mia. “You’re trying to punish others for what he got away with.” The woman read him so well after only knowing him a few hours.

“Jason Cane caused the death of a woman, then purchased the silence of everyone involved and yet no one seemed disturbed by it,” pouted Justin. He offered her a refill on the wine then emptied the last of the bottle in his glass. “Then he bought the presidency. A man, not even 30, is the leader of the entire solar system.”

He had not noticed that he consumed a majority of the bottle and was slightly inebriated.

“I need a shower,” Mia announced abruptly. That summed it up nicely for Justin.

She ignored the desserts she had ordered but he could not resist the ice cream while he listened to the water running and thought about what was happening in the next room. He felt the throbbing in his arm and decided to mix a healthy measure of vodka from the mini bar with the frozen confection. A warmth flooded over him as the alcohol did its job and he laid back on the bed and listen to the news with his eyes closed.

In telling his story, he realized how much Mia reminded him of the lost love of his life. He had not exactly been an outgoing person before the tragic death but he had to admit that he turned in on himself after he learned of it. There was a certain profound justice that a woman who reminded him of the one he lost would so resemble her.

When Mia walked from the bathroom in a bathrobe while drying her hair, his imagination took over his fogged brain. Her smooth bare legs and arms and a hint of her full breasts sparked a desire within him. Then she noticed him watching her. For a moment, they both froze in place as each decided what to do about what they were feeling.

Before he could stop his mouth, he blurted out, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Inside, he cursed his stupidity, thinking he had ruined the moment with such dribble, such a cliché.

But then she approached the bed, climbed on top and straddled him with her legs.

“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper, bending down and lightly kissing him.

After another pause to consider their situation, he reached up for the belt of the robe, untied it and slowly pulled it open. She was as beautiful naked as he had imagined. She remained still and let his hands explore her smooth flesh, almost purring with pleasure. He took in her scent. When she kissed him again, it was soft and gentle. Suddenly, their desires exploded into passionate sex and they brought each other to sweet release.

With only the light of the Moon, they were together, naked under a single sheet, his arm around her and her head on his chest. The world outside would have been forgotten were it not for the news channel playing in the background.

She broke the silence, “What just happened?”

“Two people in love just expressed it?” he offered, though he immediately regretted using the L-word?

“Love?” She paused for a moment in thought. He was about to apologize for saying it when she asked, “That is how you describe love?”

“Two people with mutual feelings for each other, yes, I would call that love.”

“I’m sorry,” she explained, “I have little experience with the emotion.”

“If love were an emotion, the human race would have died out generations ago,” he said. “Love is an action, a choice. Since the moment we met, we’ve made choices that have brought us closer together.”

Mia blinked. He could not see that a question appeared in her eyes. Events might have been different had he noticed and asked what she was thinking.

Instead, she touched the wounded arm, “You’re seeping. I should change the bandages.”

He abruptly sat up. “What did they say?” The agent in Justin was alert.

She realized his attention was on the viewing screen.

The news anchor was doing voice-over while the images were of Special Agent Hugh Koenig shaking hands with President Jason Cane and the photo of the outgoing security head who was retiring. It was a public relations attempt to explain why the president had a new head of his security. The old security chief was expected to fall on his sword and pretend that he had submitted his resignation voluntarily.

“So, the president is getting a new head of security,” shrugged Mia. “How news-worthy is that?”

“Spike, he hired a hacker.” Justin concentrated, an idea was brewing.

He looked at Mia but she just shook her head in confusion.

“The Service uses an intricate computer program to select the protection teams for the president,” said Justin. “It takes human error out of the process.”

The two stared at each other, both considering the implications.

He leapt from bed and paced nakedly back and forth then slapped his forehead with his palm, moaning, “Why would someone hack the system?” Then he stopped. “Oh no!”

He was in a rush, now. Quickly snatching up his clothes, he dressed.

“What are you doing?” Mia demanded. “What do you know?”

“It’s all so simple,” Justin explained. “Spike’s hacker broke into the computer system and changed the programming so that it picked the candidate for the president’s security that the plotter wanted. He knew the director would take the computer’s recommendations so that, if anything went wrong, he could say that he followed protocol.”

“Who wanted?”

Justin stopped with one leg in his pants and one leg out. He considered the question for a moment then shook his head, “I don’t know. It could be one of a hundred groups with a grudge or cause.”

Mia glanced at the viewing screen. “You think that the new security head is going to kill the president?”

“It’s the only answer that fits the data.”

“So what’s your plan?”

Justin froze. Reality hit.

If he activated his com-link, he could be tracked. That would be bad.

She jumped from bed and started to put on her clothes.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I’m going with you.” And before he could refuse her help, she quickly added, “You need my ID to move around.”

It made sense and he nodded his approval. She grinned but she had no intention of being left behind in any case.

“Um…” He stopped at the door and turned to her. “We can pick up on the other thing later…?”

She kissed him. “A choice,” she said then checked the hallway, all clear.

They slipped out the service entrance of the hotel, their goal was New Hope.

New Hope was a city island which did not have a specific location. When the Federation of Nations and Colonies was established, many would not accept the capital being in the former nation of an old enemy. Therefore, finding a diplomatic place to locate the central government was an impossible task. Then the first Federation president proposed an island, a floating city that was not connected to any continent. There were only two ways to visit the 1000 square mile city, by air to one of the many hover pads or by sea where naval ships docked in one of the three massive ports connected to the islands by long bridges. Security for the city was the tightest anywhere in the solar system.

The problem was that Special Agent Justin Cane could not just fly to the island and walk into the Presidential Palace. After the shootout, the assassin or assassins would be on the alert for him, especially if they controlled the security team around the president. He had to get close to his brother and verbally warn him without being detected.

“Reginald,” Justin said. But he saw that Mia did not understand. “Reginald McDougal raised us. If I can get to him, he might be able to get us inside.”

With Mia’s ID chip, they rented a hovercraft and flew it into a hover pad several blocks from the Palace. Penetrating beyond would expose Justin’s presence on the island city and Mia would require a reason for entering, which she did not have. Getting a message to Reginald was equally as difficult without giving themselves away. Fortunately, Justin knew the man better than he knew anyone else in the solar system.

The tea bar was in the same district as the Presidential Palace. It offered tea made in the traditional style with water heated to an ideal temperature that allowed the leaves to steep for the optimum amount of time. Tea was Reginald McDougal’s only vice in life and Justin knew it.

As he sat in his booth and savored the brew, Justin slid in across from Reginald and Mia nudged him over to prevent the older man from leaving. Justin thought the move was unnecessary but was surprised at how the former servant had aged.

When the brothers had their falling-out, Reginald was forced to choose between them. Justin had no use for a man servant but as an aspiring politician, Jason needed of a personal assistant to provide a multitude of services. The choice was obvious for Reginald and he thrived in his role. Still, he missed having both his boys.

“Justin…!?” Reginald exclaimed.

“Shhhhht,” Justin quickly cautioned him. “I need your help.”

Reginald’s eyes widened as Justin told him the story. He met Hugh Koenig and the other members of the security team; they were competent people. They had all been very busy dealing with the president’s hectic schedule. In fact, President Cane had requested a few days of solitude and seclusion to recharge.

“What?” reacted Justin. “When?”

“Oh well, he flies in from the Montreal speech to the space mining unions tonight…”

Justin cut him off, speaking to Mia, “That’s when they’ll act. With him out of the public eye, they can escape before anyone is alerted. We have to get into the Palace.”

“As soon as the security scanners register your ID, they’ll be on to us,” she responded.

Justin glanced down at the back of his left hand then his eyes drifted to Reginald’s hand and he followed his gaze.

The former caregiver was indeed committed to his two boys. In the restroom of the tea bar, he allowed Justin to make a slit into his skin and remove the ID chip. Justin made a similar slit and removed his identity chip. They switched chips and sealed the slits with liquid skin.

While Mia paid the tab, Reginald took Justin aside. “Do me one favor?”

“Anything.”

“When this is over, reconcile with your brother. For me, if no one else.”

He started to respond with a list of grievances that all originated with Jason and protest that he was not the bad guy in their personal war but he could see the blind love for both of them in his eyes.

“I’ll try, Reginald,” he said, instead of what he wanted to say. “I’ll do my best.”

Strangely, he actually meant it. Neither brother would ever, could ever lie to Reginald.

The plan was simple; Reginald would remain at the tea bar while Justin used his ID to enter the Presidential Palace with Mia Nettles as his guest. As Justin and Mia walked across the city toward the Palace, she had something on her mind.

“Reginald loves you,” she said finally.

The statement took Justin by surprise. “Um, yeah I guess he does.”

The Palace entrance for high-level aides and staffers was unmonitored by human guards. So long as the ID chip was on the list of those with access and their guests were not on any alert list, the doors automatically opened. Reginald McDougal then had clearance into the most secure parts of the family quarters so the trackers following people around the palace would record nothing out of the ordinary. As an added precaution, Justin dressed in a suit to appear exactly like his brother and Mia wore a dress to show off her attributes that would distract anyone from looking at the president. The computer would record Reginald walking the hallways but all human eyes would see was President Jason Cane and his latest female friend. Their one concern was that they could not smuggle weapons in with them, the security sensors which scanned for them would set off alarms.

They made their way down the private corridor to the Diamond Office where the president greeted dignitaries. Justin put his ear to the door; someone was in the next room.

Calming his spirit, Justin carefully turned the door handle, eased the door open and entered with Mia right behind him.

President Jason Cane stood at his desk with Hugh Koenig. There were four other members of the security team with him, two on either side of the door where Justin and Mia stood and two others at the main entrance. Everyone froze.

“Gun!”

Who…? Justin thought the voice was his brother’s.

Hugh Koenig drew his blaster. Jason dove over the desk. Justin threw an elbow into the throat of the agent nearest him while Mia kneed the other one in the genitals, grabbed his weapon and tossed him aside in one fluid motion. There was the muffled sound of a weapon firing and a round passed between Justin and Mia. Justin pulled the blaster from the holster of the agent with the crushed windpipe. He blew a hole in Hugh’s chest then fired at one of the agents at the main door but they were already dead and Mia had the blaster pistol against the head of the agent from whom she had taken it.

“Mia…!”

The blaster kicked in her hand and the agent’s head blew apart.

Before Justin could stop her, she shot the agent clutching his throat.

Clap, clap, clap. As he sarcastically applauded, Jason stood to his feet.

“Well done, brother dear,” he said mockingly. Then to Justin’s surprise, his brother looked at Mia, “Finish it.”

Confusion overwhelmed Justin. But as he turned to look at Mia, her foot shot out, kicked the weapon from his hand and it went flying. He grabbed for the blaster in her hand but felt a blow to his shoulder that threw him into the wall and made his wound hurt. Knowing he would not be able to disarm her, he leapt over a couch, expecting it to blow apart in a foam and fabric mess, but it did not happen.

“Oh Justin,” said Jason’s extremely irritating voice, “I can’t have you damaged.”

Justin peeked over the couch. Mia was advancing slowly on him with the weapon in hand but not pointing it at him.

“You should be honored, brother,” continued the president. “I knew you would figure out the assassination plot against me. Although, there was a three percent chance that you would be injured in the street ambush. Still, it was a risk worth taking to ingratiate Mia with you.” He shrugged in answer to the questioning expression, “You wouldn’t come willingly. I called and called and called. You ignored me.”

“There was never a plot,” stated Justin.

Jason laughed, “I was the plot. I was the informant and the hacker that poor buffoon Spike hired.”

Mia slowly circled around the furniture and Justin backed away.

Jason was casual, showed no concern for the other man’s fate. “I have Radium Cancer.”

“You’re a drug addict?” demanded Justin, all the while trying to maneuver to avoid Mia.

“That’s harsh. Anyway, they create these marvelous drugs that blow your mind but then they do have side effects.”

Radium was the newest drug to make the rounds of the underground society. Despite the warning that six in ten users would develop an incurable disease that consumed the vital organs, millions tried it and became addicted to the lifestyle. In his arrogance, Jason Cane thought he was different and had nothing to worry about. Consequently, he was dying and there was nothing medically which could be done to save him, except…

Synthetic organ transplants extended life for millions and were common place as the law prohibited living organ transplants. Unfortunately for the young president, Radium Cancer quickly corrupted any new organs even synthetic ones and death soon followed.

And, while the technology did exist, cranial transplants were especially made illegal with stiff penalties. Early exploitation by body snatchers brought about a host of laws to prevent people from being killed so that those willing and able to pay extraordinary sums could take over their bodies.

“I need your body,” stated Jason nonchalantly as though there was nothing unusual in it.

Mia cautiously worked in closer.

“You wouldn’t begrudge your brother a longer life, would you?”

Justin realized what was supposed to happen and Jason smiled, “Yes, you always were the more logical thinker. Mia will be gentle. She’ll just deprive you of oxygen until you expire. I have a team of surgeons two floors down ready to make the switch. The story, and you’ll like this part, will be that you died while saving me from assassins.”

“How can you do this?” Justin asked Mia.

“You’re going to be quite the hero,” Jason continued. “Posthumously, of course.”

But Justin was still in disbelief that Mia would betray him. “After what we felt for each other?”

“It won’t work. She’s not who you think,” chided Jason. “There is no emotion in her.”

Justin’s foot struck out and the blaster in Mia’s hand smacked into the wall. But then she was in close to him with martial arts skills he had difficulty countering. Her reflexes were faster than his so he jumped and rolled away from her.

“She’s a humandroid,” Jason said. He remained at his desk, his arms cross over his chest. “I’m here to tell you that there are very few limits to fabulous wealth.”

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Justin looked at Mia. “You’re a robot?”

“You don’t listen well. She’s the most sophisticated humandroid credits can buy. And, she was programmed to be your perfect woman. They said that you would be so infatuated with her that it would never occur to you that she could be a plant.” He laughed, “And you would especially not suspect that she was a humandroid. Think about it, brother, this is your ideal companion. Oh, such perfect beauty.”

Jason shifted to try to look his brother in the face, “Admit it, you prefer a cold hard machine to human contact.”

Mia was on Justin again, her face lacked any emotion, and he was barely able to disengage from her by wedging his legs in her stomach and hurling her into the air. His momentum threw him on his back. He was tiring. She would soon wear him down.

“I’m even thinking of keeping her around,” remarked Jason. He leaned back against his desk, merely a spectator. “I want to experience what you think is the perfect woman. I even have research into how I can get my own android body. I could live forever. My thinking is that the solar system needs for me to never die. I’m indispensable.”

While his brother rambled on, Justin spotted a discarded blaster. It was almost impossible to reach it and fire an accurate shot but it was at least a chance. Diving past Mia, he scooped up the weapon and somersaulted away. Unfortunately, Mia was too fast. She was on top of him, they rolled and tumbled into a wall. The two ended with Mia’s back against the wall holding Justin in front of her, one hand around his neck and the other gripping his hand with the blaster.

Jason was no longer amused but impatient and his voice turned hard, “Finish this now, Mia.”

For a moment, Justin wondered what death would be like. Then Mia whispered into his ear, “I choose to love you.”

Unexpectedly, he felt the hand with the blaster pistol raise up. There was the shock in Jason’s face as he realized it was pointed at him. The weapon recoiled slightly as the small energy beam rocketed across the room and struck the president in the chest before he could react.

Staggering slightly, Jason ripped open his suit coat to expose the black and red blotch on his white shirt. His face revealed his last thoughts of confusion with the way the events had transpired. He was dead before he slumped onto the floor.

Released from Mia’s grasp, Justin jumped to his feet and trained the blaster she left in his possession on her with two shaking hands. She made no effort to evade him. He gripped the pistol tighter and willed his finger to pull the trigger. Looking into that beautiful face, he could not do it.

“I love you, too,” he said softly.

He did not ask and would never ask but sometime within her processing unit, she had developed the capacity to make choices based upon logical precepts. And she made the remarkable choice to love the man for whom she was created as his perfect beauty. To the humandroid, the logic was that he was therefore her perfect match. Remarkably, his twin brother was the antithesis.

The Terran System was shocked by the assassination attempt on the President of the Federation of Nations and Colonies and saddened by the loss of his twin Justin Cane, the Security Service agent killed defending his brother. Five traitorous assassins were killed in the attack along with the arrest of several doctors implicated in the plot. Jason Cane cremated the body of his brother and scattered his ashes outside the family lunar compound surrounded by his family. Only Reginald McDougal knew which brother had really been murdered by the assassins but he would never tell anyone. Secretly, he applauded Justin’s efforts to save his brother then carry on Jason’s work and would do all he could to help the surviving twin.

Jason Cane and Mia Nettles were married and many owed the greater success of the presidency after his marriage to the chief executive’s choice of such a capable woman. When the president’s term ended, there was a call for Mia Cane to run for office but she graciously refused. The two retired to the family estates on the Moon where they appeared to live quietly, though rumors for years after persisted that the couple shared many secret adventures under assumed identities. Wealth could buy much and that included anonymity when desired. After a long life, Justin, aka Jason Cane, died. Mia cremated his body and scattered the ashes around the lunar compound. The fate of Mia Cane was never known. Though old at the time of her husband’s death, she appeared younger than her years. Some claimed that she rode beyond the Rim with the first manned missions to Orion. Others said she ended her days on an isolated space station grieving for her lost love. But there were those who maintained that such a woman of perfect beauty would live forever.

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Published by Associate Editor on March 6, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 21, Issue 21 Stories, Stories

Butterflies

by Ken Poyner

2.

I put away the things.  I know what is out of place.  I know what needs to go back into its place.  I see Wonjel be happy and I am happy.  Happy Wonjel, happy Nika.  I hear the noise of Wonjel’s mother, but I do not understand her want.  She makes great motions when small ones will do.  The sound at times is fearful. I do not fear Wonjel’s mother.  I had a mother. I do not remember mother.  But I do remember clinging, and of being in my place.

Wonjel has a father.  I keep away from Wonjel’s father.  I keep away especially when he is alone.  He has the way of claiming things. He is full of anger and invasion and I do not understand how he is made happy.  I put away the toys.  I use a clumsy device to order my hair.  I understand its use when I see it, but when I cannot see it the device becomes dull and without name and sometimes Wonjel helps me. She orders my hair and tames the device and I see myself as Wonjel must see me. It helps Wonjel to help me.

I would want a mother like Wonjel’s mother, but without the softness of scent.  I would fear a father like Wonjel’s.  A father of howl.  Wonjel’s world is more complicated than I have the wonder to waste upon it.

3.

It is the yellow that calms the Whu-ta-k’in.  There is something in its radiance.  Something in its soothing appeal.  It is why the People worship yellow.  Why golden hair is a gift from God.  Why the roofs of houses are painted yellow.  Why paddocks are shielded in yellow.  Why the prize breeding stock is outfitted in yellow.  Why the People, on the day of the Whu-ta-k’in migration, all stand in yellow and watch as the massive flight comes through and the Phe-butoo are exchanged.

The Whu-ta-k’in can be fierce.  The size of two well formed men, they glide on their butterfly wings, in a swarm of thousands.  The sudden beat of their wings can down a small child, can deafen the most gossipy of old women.  The creatures gather out of the forests North of the Arid Places, rising up each as one lone ingredient, joining the stream that flies across the Northern forests and the Arid Places and into the land of the People; and then on to cross the uncharmed sea to settle again in the Southern forests where they live, solitary in the season amongst shadows.  There they wait for the sun and moon to kiss once more, and with their great gathering then they travel thunderingly North to begin their cycles again.

Town to town the news is sent by runner of the migration’s location, and the People put on their yellow vestments, their yellow hats, their yellow sashes.  The swarm will last a day, the air having the sound beaten out of it by Whu-ta-k’in wings, the incline of the atmosphere tipped by Whu-ta-k’in grace, the sun shied back by Whu-ta-k’in strength.  To be in yellow is to be safe from the Whu-ta-k’in.  But to be without yellow is to be a spot of reason in the Whu-ta-k’in’s madness of hunger.  There is not much to sustain the thinning beasts on the flight, and many fall exhausted off, decreasing the number so that the best and strongest of wing can survive.

For some of the People, there is an industry in finding those of the swarm that succumb to the journey, a salvaging of the holy bodies. Relics collected.  Charms made.  Spices extracted.  Wings, if found whole, stretched out and mounted on filaments of whorl, a tool of reclaiming.

But the rest of the gathering searches out the food that will carry them to the next town, to the next thatch, to the next hillside. They will take livestock not protected by yellow; they will snap a stray dog; they would haul in one of the People if the People had not learned generations ago the miracle of yellow.  Yellow.

The Whu-ta-k’in do not abide yellow.  They see it.  They sense it.  They leave it be.

4.

“Be sure to put on your sash.”

Wonjel’s mother would remind her several times that day, and then herself fix the sash with a double knot.  Wonjel had golden hair, aided by home-made dye, and a yellow sheath, and the sash was surely not needed.  The more brazen of the People would not wear the sash.  In their yellow tunics alone they would stand honored beneath the hurtling Whu-ta-k’in, chests pushed forward, faces upturned to look into the talons of the massive butterflies, or those who might be giant cousins of butterflies.  Their courage would beam yellow into the souls of the migrating leviathans, soothing them, calming them, sending them peacefully away, sending them on to the quality of their business.

“Nika, now you have nothing to put away.  Why do you love so to put away my playthings?”

Nika looked at Wonjel and cocked her head to one side, the way she did when she understood the meaning if not the message. “Place.  Like place.”  She knew more, but could not say more.  The words were matted thatch that stuck somewhere between the thinking and the making and lay dormant and exhausted in the heart and throat of the under-girl.  She would hurl them if she could, just to see if they would bound or crawl, bounce or shatter.

Wonjel went over to her toy cabinet and took out a small wooden doll and two riding blocks, tossing them to the center of the floor.  Nika clapped her hands and made a slight hop and ran over to pick up the first block, while eying with delight the second.  Waddling on her powerful under-girl legs, she aimed for the cabinet and centered on it with all of her concentration.  When she had put up the first block, she went for the doll.  She had tricked the second block.

5.

Wonjel and Nika stood side by side between Wonjel’s parents.  Nika had maneuvered herself to be nearest Wonjel’s mother, not Wonjel’s father.  They were not alone, and he was focused on the collection of the People, but Nika had summoned memory.  Wonjel held Nika’s hand, and Nika enjoyed the warmth of the hand, the feel of the skin – much smoother than hers – pressing itself into the recesses of her leathery palm.

“Now hold on tight.  Nika can get spooked in a crowd. You do not want her wandering off too soon.”  Wonjel’s mother was a maelstrom of unnecessary concerns, a temptation for forgetfulness.  She would make rhymes for tasks, and sometimes the tasks would be changed to meet the need of the rhyme.

Wonjel adjusted her grip, but knew that Nika would go nowhere.

All along the town’s center lawn, the People were standing, stretched on both sides, in family groups one or two deep.  It was a small town.  They had been told by the last town’s runner from the night before that the swarm would be passing that day; it had left the last inhabited place the day before and had rested the night on the open plain of Zigor to rise that morning and pass through this hamlet of weavers and farmers and herders and hoarders of the word, before passing on, ever deeper South, their hunger growing, their anger needing ever more each day the yellow the People would provide.

Who knew what sanity to the soul of the Whu-ta-k’in the yellow brought?  The People knew.  How they knew it they knew not.  Part of what becomes a people is the mystery that holds a people together.  The People understood that the charm to hold the Whu-ta-k’in at bay, the key to making them a tool to be used and not a murderous bane to be hidden from, was the color yellow.  Brilliant yellow.  An unnatural color, the product of combination, elements mixed that only those who might weave or paint could manage and rely on in quantity.  The People learned it from the grandfathers who had learned it from their grandfathers who had learned it from a blinding, holy beginning. There was no questioning it, especially as the swarm rose and could be, depending upon the act of the People, the beginning of things or the end of things.

And there they were!  A shimmering cloud at first, but then a sense of undulation, and soon eddies of motion.  The swarm seemed a living thing, not a collection of living things.  It tilted on its axis and envisioned the vision of the town.  It took measure and took stock and stuttered in its purpose long enough to consider its options. It spied the lawn and its borders of yellow, and – long accustomed to its promise – narrowed and began to focus on the wide strip of public welcome.  As it closed, its life became the sum of its lives, and then the collection of lives, and soon each life alone, shored up with the next.

Across the green, one boy in yellow stepped out with his playmate in his tan tunic and walked with him hand in hand to the center of the lawn.  He spoke a moment and pointed to the ground, obviously telling his playmate that here was his place, he would stand here. And then more children walked out, male and female, with under-male and under-female, boy and girl and under-boy and under-girl.  When her mother tapped her sharply on the shoulder, a signal of time and not of command, Wonjel walked out with Nika still in hand; and when she reached the edge of the growing crowd she pressed Nika to the back of another under-girl, who looked around, but did not brace, her confusion and unwillingness to risk the punishment of disobedience stinging in her eyes like a house-pest in a funnel trap.  Nika reached out to grab this under-girl’s post like shoulder.

“Here. You stay here.”  And Wonjel was gone, a yellow blur back to her parents.

Her mother patted her again on the shoulder, pulled one strand of dried hair back into place.  “Mom,” Wonjel asked, looking up at the chin of her mother, “can I name my next Phe-butoo Nika?”

Wonjel’s mother, who had returned her attention to scouring the edges of the swarm above, glanced down to her daughter as the swarm began to bend down towards the public green, and said, “Why, of course you can, dear.  You can call it whatever you want.”

Then the swam banked sharply down, folding like a river folds when it is stumbling in declining gravity,  and the Phe-butoo began to be taken up:  sometimes in wholes, sometimes in halves, sometimes in pieces, the deep rumble of their screams hardly noticeable in the roar of so many wings so close together.  The aerial ballet of the Whu-ta-k’in was breath taking, and in their yellow guards the People watched entranced and nearly crystalline as in intricate choreography the flock took in this season’s indentured members of the Phe-butoo under-species, beginning the yellow-filled half of this year’s ritual, wherein the playmates of a thriving community were exchanged.

6.

Nika did not so much like putting things back into place.  But the comb was a marvelous machine.  She could drag its bristles along her arm and have the most wondrous sensation.  The tingles were a water that ran over her without the wet.  And Wonjel laughed when she did it, which made her laugh too, and she sat naked on top of her tan tunic giggling and laughing and perhaps hearing all of what lept from Wonjel’s lips, but not quite knowing where in her brain the patterns of Wonjel’s sound should be housed; and so she let them go and laughed and laughed and laughed.

AUTHOR BIO: Ken Poyner often serves as unlikely eye-candy at his wife’s powerlifting meets. His latest collection of brief fictions, “Constant Animals”, can be located through links on his website, www.kpoyner.com. He has had recent work out in “Corium”, “Asimov’s Science Fiction”, “Poet Lore”, “Sein und Werden”, “Cream City Review”, and a few dozen other places. When power lifting season is in recovery, he spends his time acting as a comfortable place for any number of his four cats to crash and dream.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on February 10, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 21, Issue 21 Stories, Stories

Hester Prynne’s Daughter

by Wilma Bernard

Neal was laughing, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide. The limousine vibrated with it, loud and full. Pearl had known he’d laugh — she should have known, anyway. Everybody laughed. They thought she was being funny. She laughed with him, until she punched him. Then she was laughing alone.

He made the limousine driver pull over, made Pearl get out. He said she’d probably broken his nose, said he needed that nose. So she was laughing in the dark and the rain, as her date rode off. She laughed him all the way out of sight.

When he was gone she spat up at the clouds. Her one constant since discovering time travel, that sky seemed intent on greeting her with unpleasant eras at every turn. In the past, people thought she was a demon or a god. In the future, they thought she was crazy, or just being funny. She was still looking for a time when she could fit in, but whenever people started to accept her she had the perverse urge to tell them that she was Pearl, Hester Prynne’s daughter, from the seventeenth century. They laughed. She inflicted pain. That ended the relationship.

This was her fifth decade in a week, so she was not in the best of moods as she made her way down a dark alley, toward her time-carriage. It seemed to be some freak of fate that wherever she ended up, the carriage was always down some kind of alley or lane, second door to the left. It might have been related to the freak of fate that gave a seventeenth-century maiden the only recorded working time vehicle, but Pearl didn’t have any way of determining their relationship.

A man stood in front of the second door on the left. A heavy raincoat shaded his features.

“Hello, Pearl,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Get thee gone,” said Pearl. “Look for someone else.”

“But I’ve been looking for you for so long.”

“And now that thou hast found me, thou mayst go!” She tried to keep calm, but it had been a fifty-year-long week, and she was tired. “My path lies through yonder door.”

“I know. Aren’t you a little curious who I am?”

“Vacate my path!” Pearl screeched. “I care for neither thou nor thine origins. Vacate my path or I shall drive thy head into yon wall!”

The man stepped aside. He followed her through the door, and flicked on the lights. They were in a warehouse, with glass fish on the walls and the time-carriage in the center, horribly mutilated. The roof was dented in, the glass windshield shattered. The wheels lay around the wreck, one of them twisted almost beyond recognition. The time-horses were gone. Pearl spun in fury toward the man who had accosted her. He was ancient, stooped and wrinkled. He had thrown back his hood, and his face was subtly twisted, as if it were viewed in a rippling pool. He was hideous, repulsive…and almost familiar.

“What hast thou done to my carriage?”

“What you did to me.” Was he deranged, that he thought he knew her?

“Perhaps thou hast mistaken me for some other.”

“No. There is no mistake.” Or maybe he was someone she’d met a few decades ago? When had she stuck around long enough to inflict that kind of damage?

“Who art thou?”

He laughed bitterly. “You first.”

“Pearl Dimmesdale.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. You’re the scarlet letter.”

It was Pearl’s turn to laugh. “Thou hast read the tale, then.”

“Read it? I didn’t need to. Don’t you remember me? I was younger then, but I was already old to you. You thought I was the Black Man. Remember?”

She shook her head, no, and hoped it was true, hoped he couldn’t be what she was beginning to recall, in images of childhood simplicity. Mistress Hibbins, and her witching tales. The Black Man, talking to her mother. The Black Man, lit up by the lightning, and she on a platform holding her mother’s and father’s hands – in the night, before her father would hold her hand in daylight. The Black Man who had always been with her father, when he was not her father but only the minister.

But he wasn’t the Black Man, really, only something like him.

He was watching her. “You remember.”

“Chillingworth.” It was only a whisper, but it seemed to echo off those glass fish on the walls. They seemed all to be whispering it back at her, confirming it, making it all too real. “No,” she said, louder. “It is not possible. Mr. Chillingworth is long dead.”

“Am I? Did you see my body cold?”

She backed away, shaking her head against his claim.

“Did you think you were the only one left from our sordid little story? You, the one who destroyed us all? Not quite. You ruined my life, but you couldn’t end it. I kept your father alive for years, when he should have died because of you. They knew I was skilled, but they never knew just how skilled. I’ve lived these hundreds of years waiting for you, Pearl. Pearl? Ha! Dagger would be more apt. All we whom you touched were cut. And did you care? Never. You left three lives trampled in your wake, while you went blithely off to wreak havoc on all the ages.”

“I? I have done nothing. It is thou who art to blame. Thou art the fiend who tormented, not I!”

“I tormented Dimmesdale in part, it is true, but who tormented your mother? And who, think you, tormented me? I was a good man, before you got to me. A kind man, even a loving one. It was only under because of you that I became what I am.”

“What art thou, what have I turned thee to?”

“I’m hollow. My better parts have rotted away under your influence. I am more than three hundred years old, and what do I live for? Can I truly call it living? I’ve done nothing significant for a hundred years but wait and search for you, ‘Pearl.’ I’ve finally found you. I think I have my revenge.”

He pulled a dagger from his belt, and Pearl gasped. “Thou art mad.”

Chillingworth laughed mirthlessly. “You need not fear for your life, demon-child. I didn’t kill your father, and I don’t mean to kill you. Death is too easy.” He skidded the dagger across the floor to her.

She picked it up, watching the blade flash in the light. There was a single pearl set in its hilt.

“No,” Chillingworth continued. “Death is far too easy. You’re going to live, the way we have lived. Your machine is broken, the horses are fled into distant eras. It’s like my marriage, Dimmesdale’s piety, your mother’s beauty. All gone or shattered. We had to live with it, in a world that wouldn’t understand. See how you fare, in the same circumstances.”

“It was no fault of mine!” She was shaking, screaming at him. “Thou must know it was no fault of mine!”

“But I don’t. I don’t believe you. I’ve lived too long, in the truth of this bitter world. It’s finished now, for me. No one will believe your story, no one understand your speech. Think about that, and I’ve done it to you. It’s only what you did to me, but does that change anything? You’ve got the tool. Kill me. Finish the job you started so long ago.”

She didn’t want to – she told herself that later: she really hadn’t wanted to at all. But standing there, taunting her, he was the Black Man again. It wasn’t her; it was him, everything he stood for, everything he said. He was the society she’d left behind, that condemned her for the circumstances of her birth. She tried to tell herself, later, that she’d been frightened. Sure, he seemed like a weak old man, but look what he’d done to her carriage. Maybe he would have hurt her if she hadn’t done something. Maybe not, maybe that was only what she told herself so she could sleep at night. But she still couldn’t sleep. Anyway, he would have stood there, talking at her, reminding and damning her with every vile sentence. And she couldn’t get away, and the fish were looking at them, and the fish wanted blood. They were all blown glass, hollow, and they had to have something to fill them up. If it wasn’t him it would have been her. She would have stayed, and died there, and rotted away, and they would have gorged themselves on her flesh, and … and that was all nonsense. She didn’t do it for the fish, and she didn’t do it out of fear, and really she never could figure out why she did it, but that she was Pearl Dimmesdale and she always did the wrong thing at the wrong time.

So, because she was Pearl Dimmesdale and always did the wrong thing, she lunged at him, dagger in hand. She grappled him to the floor, and stabbed and stabbed until those bony demon-hands stopped clawing at her. Then she stood up, and the room was deadly still, and the fish were drinking it all in. They disgusted her. She had to get away. So she shoved the bloody dagger into her belt and opened the door and went out. She closed the door behind her. She washed her hands in the rain. She washed the dagger off, too.

And she went away, and spent the night in a subway station, trying to rationalize and to sleep. But she couldn’t, and she wandered around the way he’d wanted her to, lonely and bitter. And she learned to talk the way they did in that part of the future. But people still laughed at her, when she told them who she was, and she still hurt them, and sometimes she killed them. And it was satisfying, really, to watch her enemies bleed. Because the blood is where the life is, and she was what Chillingworth had made her, after she’d made him what he became. She was Dagger, and cutting was the only way she touched people.

AUTHOR BIO: Wilma Bernard has had stories published by Youth Imagination, Every Day Fiction, and the Metro Moms Network. Links to her work can be found at wilmabernard.blogspot.com.

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