Ronin

by Tony Bertauski

  When the herd gathers in a scrum, there’s no space for the little one. Once he slips between Comet’s back legs only to catch a hoof between the eyes. He rolls like a snowball, head over hooves, shakes off and tries again. While the others sport juvenile antlers, his are nubs. Still, he lowers his head.

  Blixem tosses him aside.

  A group of elven watches from the other side of the reindeer game. Gallivanter wonders if they’ve ever determined an official word for that. Would it be a web of elven? A meld? A collective mind hive?

  There’s a synergy that develops when elven gather. Gallivanter has experienced it many times, but being one of the elders bestows a certain predilection toward independence. He likes solitude more than the rest.

  Gallivanter the Wanderer.

  Each time the little one is thrown, Gallivanter feels the glances slide his way. They grunt and stew in judging silence. Gallivanter kicks the water. Even when Prancer romps over the runt, eliciting a yelp, he doesn’t react. The little one never stops when they play, even when his lips bleed or his hide is torn.

  He goes harder.

  Gallivanter pretends not to notice one of the elven split from the others. Belle slides on one foot with her hands laced on her belly. Long blond braids drag the snow behind her. She drops on the ice shelf next to him and dips her toes.

  “This is a mistake,” Belle says. “He’s not developing, Gallivanter. They’re not accepting him.”

  It’s Gallivanter’s turn to grunt.

  “Your intentions are good, but we need to consider reverting him back to nature. It’s not too late to reintroduce him to a herd.”

  Reverting him.

  He’d been questioned when he brought the runt back to the colony. He had intervened with the course of nature. When he suggested genetically modifying him to fold him into the herd, there was almost a revolt.

  Creating the herd had sent a ripple of controversy through the colony. If they were to remain neutral in nature, modifying their DNA seemed to oppose that oath. But the world had changed, some argued. The herd would give them the advantage of flight. It wouldn’t be long before humans learned to fly. The invention of flight wasn’t far away, and these reindeer had been rejected or abandoned by their herds.

  There were only supposed to be eight.

  Gallivanter’s long-standing status allowed the unusual request of adding a ninth reindeer on a trial basis. Perhaps his emotions were getting the best of him. After all, Belle is right.

  The runt isn’t keeping up.

  She returns to the group of handlers and their evaluating glares, leaning together to pass along their judgments. But they don’t see what he sees. It’s not that the herd knocks the little one about until he’s bloody and bruised, or that he can’t quite leap or his antlers are still so small. None of that is what makes him special.

  It’s that he keeps getting up.

  The bedroom was different.

  Blinding stripes of light fell over Ryder’s face. It was morning. And the sun was up. It was the longest he’d slept. And something else. The room was silent.

  Soup and Arf were gone.

  Their beds were made. A note was on the floor. It was torn from a spiral-bound notebook. He looked around and quickly snatched it up but not before Bradley Cooper fell off the ceiling. There was no use hiding it.

  Get your beauty sleep.

  Soup’s handwriting. They were already off for chores. Ryder’s name must not be on the board or they would’ve woken him. Or maybe they tried. His head was a concrete block. He dropped back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Something spoiled and ugly was sitting in his stomach.

  That memory.

  It was so far away. They’d tricked him into remembering it. He was even doubting it, but Aunt Fran was real. So was David. How did I forget that?

  But there was more. It was the way John and Jane were acting. Like they’d pried open his head and peeked inside. No, it was what she said. You have a purpose. A purpose. What did that mean?

  He took a shower to wash off the feelings. He didn’t sit down when he was done, kept moving to keep ahead of the thoughts. He went outside and walked until he was in the trees. Bradley Cooper was joined by a drone patrolling the woods.

  Ryder kept moving.

  He stayed out of sight, stayed boring. There was no reason this would be on the feed. He focused on the dream, occupying his mind with the vivid details that were so clear and familiar. He dreamed of elven, knew their names.

  And reindeer.

  Dreams were strange, but this played like a movie. Not a movie. A memory. Everyone knew the reindeer and the games they played. But the dream kept getting wrestled out of the spotlight by what had happened in introspection—the dark trees, the sound of David’s bones, the smell damp and furry. Because that wasn’t a dream.

  That was a memory.

  ***

  “Where you been?” Bits of sugar cookie shot from Soup’s lips. “Arf’s worried.”

  It was a big room with a high ceiling. A flock of drones floated through an elaborate chandelier. Skylights were illuminated on the domed ceiling, but that wasn’t sunlight filling the room. Ryder had taken the elevator down three stories.

  A fireplace warmed the room. The naughties were sitting on the floor or lying on sofas with cups of soda and cookies. The nicies were on the other side of the room, wearing matching uniforms—the boys in ties and girls in skirts—with the Kringletown logo on the front. They sat on chairs and divans with little plates of cookies.

  “Your bestie saved you a seat.” Soup waved at Kraig. He didn’t wave back. “I think he wants to eat you.”

  “You okay?” Arf asked.

  Ryder rubbed his temples. They were sensitive, like he was scratching his brain with a wool pad. Ryder scanned the crowd. Cherry was tucked in the corner, sitting behind a lamp. She was cross-legged on the floor.

  “This thing isn’t going to start for a while,” Soup said. “I got to whiz.”

  The hall was cool and humid, the kind of cold that bypassed a sweatshirt and sank directly into bone. Their drones tagged along. They didn’t drift inside the bathroom, the only place they were guaranteed not to make the stream. It doesn’t mean they aren’t listening.

  “Sorry,” Soup said, “I got a number two.”

  He locked himself in a stall. His belt hit the floor. The drones would hear the noises outside the door. Ryder splashed his face with water and examined the sides of his head. He felt different. There were no visible marks, no proof Jane had put those disks on him.

  But she did.

  “It feels weird,” Arf said, “doesn’t it?”

  “She put them on you?” Ryder said. “I told her not to...”

  “Ha-ha-ha!” Soup barked. “You really thought because you asked them not to do something they wouldn’t do it. You’re funny.”

  Ryder paced the length of the bathroom. He was infected with restlessness and anxiety. Arf had just looked gutted when he got back. Ryder wanted to rip something off the wall.

  “What do they do?” Ryder said. “The disks.”

  The toilet flushed. Soup pulled the door open and looked at Ryder’s reflection. “They suck out your thoughts. They’re making copies of all the things you forgot. That’s why you remember.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Open your eyes, man. This is Kringletown. Billy goes big or goes home. He’s got things in the hizzy no one in the world has seen. You don’t think he can pull a few thoughts out of your head? Please. That’s not even a secret. You can see him do that on the stream, how he networks brain waves with a computer. He already did it when he worked at the one place. Right, Arf? How do you think he affords this crazy town?”

  Arf nodded along, mouth open. Eyes liquid.

  “He patented the brain-to-computer interface. Yeah, wrap your noodle around that. Your brain, your computer.” He laced his fingers. “Linked. The new age is here, and Big Billy is leading the charge. You’re standing
in the middle of it. Awesome, right?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I won’t let them.” He got quiet and scrubbed his hands. “You watch what happens when they put my name on introspection. Sweet Jane and Jocko Johnny will have to rope me like a steer.”

  There were things in his past he didn’t want to remember. Things that had to do with his name. Your name is Campbell.

  “No, I mean why are they doing it?”

  “Who knows why he does anything. Seriously.” Soup shot a wadded paper towel at the trash and missed. “All I know is that introspection turns you nice. That’s how all them got over there; they went to intro and came out moonbeaming. Not us, though. Naughty for life.”

  Arf and Soup slapped hands. It was complicated and ended with weeeeeee.

  “Good girls and boys do what I tell them,” Ryder muttered.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” Soup raised his hand. Ryder left him hanging. “That’s all the Big Game wants is a bunch of robot yes-boys and girls who do what he tells them. That’s what he calls nice, bo. That’s what he calls ‘good.’” He added air quotes.

  “That’s what Cherry said,” Ryder said. “Good girls and boys do what I tell them.”

  “Well, she should know—wait, you talked to her?”

  “No, she just, uh, I heard her say it.”

  Soup and Arf wanted more details.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Ryder said.

  “Her not talking to you?” Soup said. “Makes total sense.”

  “No, why the stream? I mean, if he’s up to something, why so public, you know? He’s putting everything out there. Everyone’s going to see it. Doesn’t make sense, you know?”

  “Because he’s a genius. I am not a genius, so I don’t know why he does any of this. He’s also crazy. He believes in Santa Claus, you know that, right? Enough said, but there’s more. He thinks they’re related.”

  Ryder stopped pacing.

  “For reals,” Soup said. “Billy Sinterklaas? It’s Belgian or something, supposed to be where Santa Claus is from. He thinks he’s a great-great-uncle or something. Get that. And he wants the whole world to believe it.”

  Something started beeping outside the door followed by tapping. The drones were banging on it. They were being called.

  “Tell him not to worry his pretty little head, Arf.”

  The big guy started for the door without a response.

  “None of this makes sense,” Soup continued. “That stupid football game, you think that’s normal? The wookie screaming in the woods and the way all the nicies wet their pants on four-wheelers? The way Billy looks at you?”

  Ryder frowned. “You saw that?”

  “The way he looked at you? Bo, I told you. He loves you. You’re some kind of golden child. He almost giggles when he looks at you. Serious, it’s weird, bo. Like Kringletown weird.”

  What does this have to do with me?

  Arf waited with his hand on the door. Soup took one more shot at the trash can and pretended like he made it.

  “And wait till you hear what’s next,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “The chat? Oh, right. You don’t watch. Let me tell you a secret: it’s for the stream.” Soup threw his arm over Ryder’s shoulders and whispered, “It’s all for the stream.”

  Arf opened the door and Soup screamed he wasn’t decent. The drones stared with unblinking green eyes as he pretended to cover up. The beeping grew louder. Producers were calling.

  “He really believes in Santa?” Ryder said.

  Another shot and another miss. “What do you think?”

  ***

  Jane and John were at the fireplace with three producers fussing over a rocking chair. A polar bear was spread on the floor, including claws and a snarling head. Ryder hid behind Arf while Soup pillaged the cookie trays.

  “Put these in your pockets.”

  Ryder ignored him. He wasn’t hungry. More importantly, no one had noticed him.

  “Here’s the deal.” Soup leaned in with a mouthful of crumbs. “Once big daddy gets the crazy train going, don’t laugh or roll your eyes. It won’t make the stream if you do, but I guarantee we’ll end up shoveling the stalls for a month. Maybe not you, the golden child. But me, the deaf runt. Def.”

  “Ho-ho!” BG raised his arms. “Merry Christmas, children!”

  “All aboard.” Soup immediately rolled his eyes.

  Everyone else cheered as he made his way around the room, hugging and shaking hands and high-fiving, stopping to ask someone how homework was going or how a toothache was feeling. He seemed to know specifics, too. With the reddish beard and bold stature, he looked plenty jolly.

  Maybe he is related.

  Cherry was sitting on the floor. She had moved behind a lamp so that most of the room couldn’t see her. Her ink-spotted drone hovered over her like a rain cloud.

  “Hey, speedy.” He rubbed Ryder’s head. “Who knew he was a football star, huh? Who knew?”

  Soup raised his hand.

  The producers moved the rocking chair as BG neared, moving it a little farther from the fire. Thirty-one stockings hung from the mantel, each with a name written with sparkly letters. They were all the same size, same color.

  “Where you going?” Soup said.

  Ryder was moving across the back of the room, stepping over people and squeezing between chairs until he made it to the corner. All the attention was on BG plopping into the rocking chair as Ryder sat on the floor. Cherry pulled her legs into a pretzel.

  She looked annoyed.

  Jane presented BG with a gift bag. “Look at that!” He raised a plastic pipe. “How’d you know?”

  Everyone clapped. He leaned back in the rocker and planted the pipe between his lips, pretending to blow rings toward circling drones. Jane and John stood at his sides like helpers.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Ryder whispered.

  Cherry shot him a look. He didn’t know what she was doing, but she had a phone, and her drone wasn’t always awake. And she had gone through the locked door on the barn that morning when everyone else was asleep.

  He knew enough.

  Soup had conspiracy theories—robots and mind-reading computers. He knew there were secrets, but they all knew that. Cherry was the longest naughty on the wing.

  She knows something.

  “You’re sending me notes,” he whispered.

  Her annoyance momentarily passed. She turned inquisitively. Her lips parted then promptly closed.

  “Well, well,” BG said, rocking thoughtfully, “another year has passed. We’re another year older, another year wiser. And our family has grown. Would our new brothers and sisters stand up?”

  He looked to the naughty side of the room.

  “Come on now,” he said. “Bashful was a dwarf, not a naughty.”

  A funny one for the stream.

  Jennifer with braids waved her hand but wouldn’t stand. She hid her face when he pointed at her. It was easy to forget the drones were the eyes of the world, but when everyone in the room was looking, it was a hot reminder.

  “Johnny Football? Where’d you go?”

  Ryder stood up before it got worse and sat down so hard that a jolt shot up his back. BG led the room in laughter. It was awkward and painful, but it got the job done.

  “We’re more than family,” he said. “We have purpose.”

  A tingle ran across Ryder. A purpose. Jane had said that to him, that he had a purpose. Viewers would think he was talking about a higher calling. Ryder thought it sounded like training.

  “I’m very proud of how hard all of you have worked to find your own truth. Even Campbell.”

  Soup’s expression didn’t change. He was caught with a cookie in one hand and crumbs on his lips. Kraig’s laughter erupted from the nicy side of the room, but BG laughed the loudest, a very distinct and very weird ho-ho-ho.

  Weird because he meant it.

  “We a
re the lucky ones,” he continued. “There is so much work to do because there are still so many in need. I’m proud to call each and every one of you my children.” He popped the plastic pipe between his lips and rocked back. “That’s all I got.”

  The protests started from the nicies. They wanted more. It was like a band walking offstage before the final encore, the expectant cheers to bring them back. It was all part of the show.

  “Story! Story! Story!”

  Fists pumping, fingers pointing, teacups spilling and cookies crumbling, everyone was on their feet. Even the naughties got up because until they did, BG was just going to rock that chair. The stream would show everyone standing up and wanting more.

  BG raised his eyebrows. His ho-ho-ho was drowned out by excitement. He lifted his hands and smiled with a sparkle. In a couple of seconds, the chaos went from celebration to silence and caught Cherry by surprise as she turned to Ryder.

  “Leave me—”

  Heads turned and smiles turned up. She flushed the color of her name. BG aimed the pipe. “Do we need to separate you two?”

  “Get a room!” Soup shouted.

  “That’s enough.” An edge sharpened his words. He was glaring at Soup, but he wasn’t the only one fuming. Cherry’s head was smoking.

  “Yes, a story, then,” BG said. “Every year I tell a story, a true story, make no mistake. A story about a fat man who lives in one of the coldest places on earth. A place where there’s no soil. He’s not alone.”

  BG stood with a groan and stepped over the polar bear.

  “The elven were on this planet long before humans existed. They were the very first to establish colonies, and thrived during the Ice Age. Their bodies short and fat with blubber to withstand the cold. Their feet long and wide to walk upon the snow. But sliding is their style.”

  He pretended to ice skate, doing a pirouette to giggles and smiles.

  “Their soles are scaly, lying down to slide forward but pointing toward their heels to grab the ice. They shove forward as graceful as a figure skater, as quick as a hockey player. Playful and joyful, they live thousands of years. But don’t mistake their youthful demeanor as immature. Their long lives have brought them wisdom and technological genius... yes, technological.”