Fiction Vortex - December 2014

by Fiction Vortex

  His lips find her tender places. She yields to him. She is letting go. But she knows it's only a momentary salvation.

  ~~~~~

  Betrayal is a harsh word, but it is fitting. It is an emotion that lives in the heart, which is why it is felt so strongly. We did not mean to betray The Dark Eclipse, The Cimmerian and I. But it makes no difference. Betrayal doesn’t have to be intentional to cut deep.

  ~~~~~

  The flickering light of the television is enough to raise The Nightmare from her slumbers. The silhouette of her lover is framed in the electronic glow. He is naked, and in this moment The Nightmare can see the extent of his scars, the knots in his muscles that were never there before. The Cimmerian has not fared well these years on his own.

  She sits up, drapes a crumpled sheet around her, and moves to stand beside the silent sentinel. She can see now what he is watching; the eleven o’clock news is doing a story on The Dark Eclipse. The image of the screen is reflected in his eyes. When she reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder he flinches.

  “I thought you knew I was here.”

  The Cimmerian shudders as he switches off the TV. “I taught him everything I knew. There was a time I trusted him more than anyone. What does he hope to gain by exposing us?”

  The Nightmare looks away. He still doesn’t understand, she thinks. They are so much alike, holding each other to unreachable standards, turning cold when the other fails to achieve them. Why, she thinks, is neither able to see that? She collects The Cimmerian’s clothes and hands them to him.

  “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  He looks at the pile she has amassed.

  “Come with me.” There is a pleading in his voice she has never heard before. “We can be a team again.”

  “No,” she looks out over the city, “we are on two separate paths.” She does not add that she left his road long before she left the city. He had just been too focused to notice.

  ~~~~~

  Regret, it seems to follow me now like a shadow, an umbra that falls across my mind when all other thoughts have gone quiet. There are some things I knew I must pay for as I was doing them. I bear that penance with patience. But there are other crimes, ones I did not know I was committing, but of which I am still guilty. Hindsight is no reprieve; apologies are only words. We cannot undo what has been done. We must live with the consequences.

  ~~~~~

  The Nightmare sits in the rented ballroom waiting for the moment her life will be turned upside down. She wasn’t planning on coming; she purloined a press pass at the last moment. But The Cimmerian’s visit has left her shaken, and she wonders if maybe her presence in the crowd might stir the same reaction in The Dark Eclipse. Maybe he will see her and remember there was a time they had been friends, allies.

  The room grows increasingly stuffy as the minutes pass. Her nostrils are assaulted by the odor of stale coffee on hot breath, of human sweat and cheap cologne. As the temperature in the room rises the crowd around her fidgets in their stiff-backed seats.

  The Nightmare turns her attention back to the book in her lap.

  The page is earmarked, the chapter title simply states: The End. The Nightmare reads in The Dark Eclipse’s own words about the night when everything fell apart, when The Dark Eclipse had his accident.

  She can find no fault in the sequence of events — the explosion, the fall, the terrifying moments before The Nightmare could reach him. But his description is lacking. It is like looking at the ocean from the surface instead of from its depths.

  She wonders if it was a conscious decision on the part of The Dark Eclipse, the omission of their conversation before he went on without her. Is this his way of protecting her, by not mentioning the confession about the affair with The Cimmerian?

  The descriptions of his bodily pain are so vivid, but there is no mention of the pain in his heart. Maybe he had believed her after all when she told him she hadn’t meant for any of it to happen, that it just had. When she held his hand and tried not to look at his bent body.

  There is a stirring in the seats around The Nightmare. She looks up and realizes her vision is blurred by tears. She has to blink before the figure walking across the stage comes into focus. It is the man from the book table, his t-shirt replaced by a mismatched jacket and tie. He approaches the podium and lays two heavy hands on its sides. When he speaks, it is with disappointment. The Dark Eclipse, he informs the audience, has changed his mind.

  ~~~~~

  The people of the city, they are the ones who called us heroes, they gave us our names. Perhaps that’s why it all went wrong. It was easy to forget we were still only human under all that prestige. Did they not realize the costumes we wore were just the insignias of the ideals they held us to? Fabric and leather, it was only a matter of time before they began to fray.

  ~~~~~

  Long after the room has emptied out, The Nightmare still sits in her chair unable to move. She hasn’t thought past this moment. What does she do now?

  Behind her one of the doors to the ballroom opens. The events crew, she thinks, here to clear the chairs and sweep up the debris. She begins to gather her things then stops when she realizes there is someone waiting at the end of her row.

  “Donna?”

  She looks up and is caught by a pair of soft eyes staring back at her. For a moment she is locked in their gaze as she struggles with what to say. The last time she saw The Dark Eclipse he had still been in a hospital bed. The words she had poured out then had been lost on unconscious ears.

  “Adrian!” is all she can manage.

  He begins to move and she sees for the first time the cane, the stiffness in his back where the vertebrae have been fused. She bursts forward, stumbling over her own feet to get to him before he takes another labored step.

  She wants to touch him, but can’t bring herself to do it.

  “I had a visit last night from our mutual friend. It didn’t go well.” There is a heaviness to his words and The Nightmare feels her stomach drop. She thinks about the wound in The Cimmerian’s side. But there doesn’t appear to be a scratch on The Dark Eclipse. There are only the old wounds, the traumas which would never fully heal.

  “You changed your mind?”

  The Dark Eclipse reaches out to take the book from her hand and looks at it frowning.

  “I had to get it out,” he says. “After you left I had no one left to confide in. I thought, maybe...”

  She waits for him to continue. The air between them has grown incredibly still, as if there wasn’t another soul in the entire city.

  “I knew about you and Dane before you told me. It was just hearing it aloud ... it was too much. It blinded me. I had to get away. It was my own mistake, going on ahead of you.”

  The Nightmare covers her mouth as the emotions well up inside her. “Adrian, I’m so sorry, I never meant...”

  The Dark Eclipse raises his hand to stop her before she can go on.

  “A hundred thousand words give or take,” he weighs the book in his hand, “and still I couldn’t figure out what I was feeling in that moment. But ten minutes alone with that man.” The Dark Eclipse shakes his head and lets out a wry chuckle. “We are all so vulnerable. I realize that now. It was my own fear of being left behind, of being cut out, that drove my anger. Once I understood that I knew I couldn’t go through with the press conference. There would be nothing to gain by exposing the truth. We are good enough at hurting ourselves already.”

  There is a slight grin in the corner of the Dark Eclipse’s mouth, a knowing grin that is contagious. Shared by the only two people who know what it’s like to be burdened by the Cimmerian’s confidence, who have lived in his shadow.

  “He’ll never change.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” The Dark Eclipse looks up at the vacant stage, at the banners displaying his concealed face. In profile, The Nightmare notices the wrinkles that have formed in the corners of his eyes. They are like anchors, giving his face a st
eadiness that hadn’t been there before.

  “I’ll never see a penny of the profits now, but I think I got my worth out of it.” He sighs, turning back to face her.

  “Well then,” The Nightmare takes the book back from him and lays it on an empty seat, “maybe you’ll let an old friend buy you a drink?”

  Arm in arm, The Nightmare leads the Dark Eclipse back through the convention hall. He leans against her as they pass through the sliding glass doors, leaving behind them their past and the other attendees still wearing their masks.

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  R.Y. Brockway writes short stories with the intent to entertain and thrill her readers. A lover of both the mundane and the macabre, she explores aspects of both in her writing, if not necessarily at the same time. She lives with her husband in Virginia. You can find more of her work here on Fiction Vortex, as well as in the anthology Another 100 Horrors and the upcoming Pick your Punk edition of Fictionvale.

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  An Alien Warmth

  by Karl Dandenell; published December 23, 2014

  I raised myself onto my rear footpads, then knocked loudly on the front door with a holding claw. I was so cold, I barely felt the heavy ironwood. Frigid wind gusted behind me, shaking a line of brightly colored flags. The squares of blue, white, red, green, and yellow fabric shook violently, catching the attention of my left eye. My right eye remained firmly focused on the door.

  "I’ll get it!" called a male voice from within. The door opened, releasing a much-welcome wave of warm, dry air. "Hi—" The Terran stopped as soon as he saw me framed in the doorway. His pupils widened, and a glass of beer dropped from his fingers. I caught it with an upper footpad.

  "Thank you for the offer," I said, "but carbonation is detrimental/dangerous to my hindgut." I returned the glass, watching the fear in his face. The monkeys were just so ugly. "It’s too cold for Chiff!Tikk!On here. May I enter?"

  The man looked at the glass, then took several steps backward. "Uh, Davidson? Someone’s at the door."

  Another voice: "So let him in already!"

  I squeezed through the door and pushed past the frightened Terran, keeping my antennae tucked close. The monkey backed away. I closed the door behind me, shook off some snow, and stripped off my footgloves and thermal socks, hanging them on nearby wall pegs. Then I dropped my panniers on the floor, feeling naked as a larva.

  Davidson stepped into the room. "Well!" he said. "This is a bit of surprise, Ma!Chuff." His tongue clicked on the honorific.

  "My apologies," I said, settling onto all four footpads. "I would have arrived sooner/more timely, but the storm is worse than projected." I flicked my mandibles politely. "Your pronunciation is good, for an offworlder." In fact, his pronunciation was excellent, given he wasn’t wearing a translator.

  "Wouldn’t be the first time I heard your language, Ma!Chuff." Davidson ran a hand through long black hair, tucking it behind his ears. He smelled of sawdust, cooking oil, and sweat. I found the combination jarring, like discordant music. "What are you doing in the neighborhood?" he continued.

  "Her Majesty has ordered a new art installation for the Terran embassy, so I am collecting novel sensory input for Her consideration."

  Davidson crossed his arms and leaned back on one foot. "Really! Didn’t think you folks went in for that sort of thing." He looked me up and down with open suspicion. "Well, you’re probably freezing, so you might as well have some apple cider while we figure this out." He stepped into another room, which exuded enticing odors and blessed heat. My exoskeleton was nearly creaking with the cold.

  A dozen human tourists sat in the lounge, taking advantage of the fire. Many held large mugs of mulled wine, judging by the sharp tang of cloves and cinnamon. Their conversation muted as I approached. One older woman put a hand to her mouth and whispered to her companion, wondering if I were warrior caste. I said, "I serve Her Majesty by gathering data."

  That was one reason Her Majesty had sent me to this polar wasteland. The other was a data seed found in a tourist’s luggage.

  I took three glasses of cider and found myself a patch of rug near the fireplace. The humans pushed their chairs back to give me room, as well they should. Even in my current condition, I could break their necks without straining a claw.

  The cider turned out to be quite good. Terran sugar compounds were one of the few positive things to come out of the war. As I dipped my proboscis into a second glass, the tourists whispered among themselves. One woman said I had ruined her vacation.

  I clicked my mandibles in confusion/frustration. The invaders were so irrational, we may never understand them, or let alone assimilate their species as we have so many others. Despite the fact that we had agreed to a formal surrender and a peace treaty many orbits ago, the monkeys still suspect we harbor some desire to crush their soft bodies in our mandibles and steal their females. Since most of us were neuter sisters, they were only half right.

  Davidson pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a long wooden table set with platters of food. "Dinner’s ready, folks," he said. He turned toward me. "I just got a crate of fresh oranges in my last shipment from Earth. I’m sure everyone else will give you first dibs, Ma!Chuff." The tourists agreed with nervous laughs, then moved quickly to snatch up bread and cheese, neither of which held any interest for me.

  I waited for everyone else to find a place before tucking myself next to a bookcase. What a waste of resources, I thought. Chemical information transfer was a million times more efficient than paper. How did these monkeys ever build starships?

  Davidson set a bowl of fruit and an empty plate on the floor. I was glad he didn't offer me a chair.

  Our host took up a position where everyone could hear him. "As you can see, we have an extra guest this evening. Warmth and shelter, Ma!Chuff." He tucked his elbows and gave Respectful Acknowledgement. "Apparently," Davison continued, "Ma!Chuff will be joining us for a brief time as she collects some pictures of the local flora and fauna." There were a few glances in my direction. I sliced an orange into eight perfect segments and scraped out the pulp.

  "I would have called ahead," I said with my external voicebox while my mandibles worked the orange, "but your location is outside the communications net." I tilted my head into Mild Disapproval. "You are effectively isolated here." Suspiciously so.

  "That’s the idea," Davidson said. "Nice and quiet."

  "Still, it is most unsafe." Everyone knew that the Nest was strongest in proximity to Her Majesty. That’s why the capital’s population hovered around four billion, give or take a few larvae.

  One woman raised her hand and said, "Excuse me, but what does it mean by ‘unsafe’?"

  "What she means," Davidson corrected, "is that there are some predators in the surrounding woods. I’ve learned from experience they can get nasty when spooked." He stepped over to a shelf and pulled down a booklet. "Your datapad can’t access the net out here. Here’s some hard copy if you’d like to review the tourist bulletin."

  She stepped forward and took the booklet, looking a little guilty. I tasted the fear scent in the room, the Terran equivalent of I knew I should have read the damn form before signing.

  "One more thing," Davidson said. "Some of you probably know that one of the first large engagements of the war was fought near here. Every now and then I stumble over a bit of leftover ordinance that requires disposal. In fact, one of my recent guests sent me a packet in this week’s supply drop. Inside was a very nice thank you note and a photo. Mr. Sanchez has quite an eye. I really appreciated the juxtaposition of the ice crystals and the antipersonnel mine."

  There was a little nervous laughter. "Of course," he continued, "he didn’t realize what he’d seen; he probably thought it was an interesting rock. More than likely, the mine’s deactivated, but I’m going to take care of it tomorrow when the snow lets up."

  One male looked up from his salad of greens. "Have you defused a lot of those
things successfully?"

  Davidson waggled his fingers. "Haven’t lost one yet."

  More laughter followed. It was amazing how these simians communicated with such limited modes. If I were telling the story, I would add layers of semantic pheromones to punch it up a bit.

  The rest of the meal passed without incident. Davidson fixed himself a plate of food and took it to the kitchen. I finished off several sour melons, and even exchanged a few words with a female named Masako. She was smaller than me by half a meter, her gray hair cut in a pleasing complex pattern. She told me that she had originally come to Chiff!Tikk!On to study the Ancestor Stones in the Eastern Desert.

  "The Stones are tall and treacherous," I said. "Even the most careful climber may not survive the ascent. In exchange/recompense, those who do are given first pick of the corpses below."

  "Oh, no, Ma!Chuff," she said. I smelled the sour odor of bile in her throat. "My climbing days are over, at least until I qualify for full rejuvenation treatments."

  "Ah," I said. "I have heard of your cellular reconstitution techniques. Our research drones experimented with the process, but found they placed too much emphasis on preserving the original template. Far easier to transfer the knowledge to a new host."

  "I’m rather fond of my template," she replied.

  "Everyone’s entitled to their opinion." I gripped footpads together to indicate the Completion of Communication. "Excuse me, but I wish to take advantage of the fire."

  I left as gracefully as I could. My brief trek through the snow had weakened me. After a time, I heard the humans finish their meal and head toward their sleeping chambers. Davidson entered the room, moving with near silence on the rug. In the cadence of his footsteps, I felt his training in the killing arts. If I hadn’t smelled him, he might have surprised me.

  He stopped two steps from me, just beyond my reach. "Ma!Chuff?"

  My defense ganglion was not rated for full combat, but I shifted it into standby mode nonetheless. Wouldn’t do to dismember my host before I learned what I needed. "Do you require the room, Davidson?"

  "Not at all." He stepped closer, then knelt on the floor, bringing his face to the level of my eyes. "But I’ve been thinking about what to do with you."