Unmasked

by Kevin J. Anderson

  A flash of cold went through Fanny, momentarily muting the waves of hot pain. “Not London. Paris.” The woman would be waiting, they had to go to Paris.

  He shook his head. “We first go to London. Our friends insist upon it.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I had so longed to see Paris once again.”

  Henri took her hand. “And we will. Now, rest.”

  He left her. Fanny tossed upon her pillow, writhing against the pain that taunted her efforts to prevent another loss. Hopelessness threatened to consume her. It would all be for naught if she could not retrieve the mask.

  Moonlight silvered the short span between the cottage and Longwood. The crescent moon illuminated just enough to give the world a gray, ghostly color. Fanny had pressed Henri for wine—for the pain—and ensured he drank more than she. Now her senses were numbed, and he was deeply asleep. She’d slipped from her sheets and crept outside. Longwood sat shrouded in shadow and gloom. The night breezes carried hints of the summer blooms of sunflowers and the redwood blossoms.

  Marchand stepped forward from the porch. “Madame Bertrand, it’s late. After your ordeal today, you should be resting.”

  Was the man waiting for her? “Arthur left a toy in the Emperor’s chambers and won’t sleep without it. I’m just going to retrieve it, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’ll get it for you.” He smiled, wan in the moonlight. “What is it?”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble.” She brushed past him, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  He followed her into the house. Fanny’s mind raced. The Emperor’s body had been returned to his chambers. A parade of the curious and dignified would march through Longwood to glimpse the Emperor.

  Fanny hesitated at the doorway of the billiard room. “I can’t remember where he was playing. A toy horse. Will you look in the Emperor’s chambers? His body …”

  Marchand’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

  Fanny turned away. “I shall look in the kitchen.”

  She forced her legs to carry her through the house. The mask sat in a wooden crate, nestled in straw. Fanny reached in to draw it out. Her hands trembled. The mask caught on the edge of the crate. The plaster shattered—and her heart with it.

  No!

  The face fell into the straw, leaving her holding the plaster frame with Napoleon’s ears pressing against her thumbs. Napoleon’s sleeping face, such a familiar sight to Fanny, stared up at her in the hollows of the cast. His strong nose, his thoughtfully compressed lips, and those eyes. She was glad they were closed, though in her weariness and fear she imagined them snapping open, staring at her in accusation.

  This is not what I wanted, the mask seemed to whisper. And now she’d gone and broken it.

  She pulled Napoleon’s face from the crate, hoping it would be enough. She left the ears and tucked the mask under her top skirt.

  “I’ve found it, Marchand, thank you,” she called as she slipped out of the side door of Longwood. Her vision in the night scattered black spots across the lawn, and she could scarcely bear the pain. Once she reached her chambers, she once again locked the magic in her trunk, wrapped carefully in layers upon layers of blankets and broken dreams. Then she slipped into bed next to Henri and tried to sleep.

  “Someone stole it! I will discover who!” Antommarchi was mad, enraged beyond reason by the destruction of the mask. Marchand stood impassively to one side while the doctor raged.

  “Calm down, doctor.” Doctor Arnott’s words dripped with British superiority. “I have a wax mold. And it’s not like Bonaparte is going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you have a mask. I am left with Napoleon’s ears!” Antommarchi paced the kitchen of Longwood House, his cheeks red and his eyes burning.

  Fanny stood to one side, trying to look concerned and innocent at the same time. She could not risk being accused, not now. Fanny turned to leave.

  “Madame Bertrand?”

  She turned back, smiling at Doctor Arnott. “Yes?”

  “I am told you entered Longwood last night.”

  Antommarchi’s face snapped to Fanny, his eyes narrowing.

  Fanny shrugged. “Yes, Arthur had left a toy in the Emperor’s chambers.”

  “I see.” Arnott tilted his head, watching her. “Your husband served with Bonaparte for his whole career, no? Compte Bertrand is exiled as well. It must be a devastating loss for your family.”

  Fanny’s temper flared. “What we lost was lost in 1815, monsieur. We’re grateful to have been at the Emperor’s side at the end.” Henri’s sentiments, not her own, but the sneer on the British doctor’s face, and the fear of discovery, was more than she could bear. “The British took him from us long before now.”

  Then she turned and stormed out, as though affronted. In fact, she trembled with fear. Antommarchi would come looking for the mask.

  Antommarchi slammed through the front door of the cottage before Fanny had removed her cloak. “Where is it!”

  She whirled back to him. “What?”

  He strode across the front parlor to her, his hands balled tight. “It had to be you. The British have their own mask and are smug to have the first. I was first!” Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted into her face.

  Fanny backed against the armoire, her breath catching in her throat. “No, why would I?”

  His eyes were wild, his own breathing fast and shallow. “Marchand saw you in the house, you kept insisting on helping with the mask. Where have you hidden it?”

  He shoved her and she stumbled, falling to her knees. The shock of pain sparked up her legs, joining with the pain in her loins.

  Antommarchi ripped open the door of the armoire, pulling cloaks and scarves out and tossing them upon her. Hortense came into the room, eyes wide.

  “Run, Hortense,” Fanny gasped. “Get help.”

  The doctor whirled and followed Hortense down the hall.

  “No!” Fanny forced her way up, leaning on the walls of the hall for support as she followed the doctor. “Leave my children alone!”

  Antommarchi turned into the nursery and began kicking at toys and ripping chests open. Clothing, books, blocks, and children’s drawings went flying into the air like a hurricane.

  Fanny panted, leaning against the doorframe. “Doctor, please, you are not well.”

  He ignored her, pushing past her and entering her own bedroom. Fanny stepped forward, pulling at his arm. “Doctor, please—”

  “You have taken it from me!”

  Distantly, a door slammed and Fanny sighed. At least the children had escaped. There was no telling what this madman would do. Antommarchi turned to the chest at the foot of the bed. He tore open the lid with a thunk and began throwing her precious blankets on the floor.

  Fanny leapt on his back, clawing at his cheeks with her fingernails. “Get out of my house!” She screamed, forcing breath she could not spare into her lungs, hoping someone—anyone—would hear and save her, save her unborn baby from a bloody death and a life unlived.

  “Antommarchi!” Marchand stomped into the room. “Control yourself.”

  Fanny fell off the doctor’s back, hitting the floor with a groan of pain and relief. Marchand pulled the doctor from the room. Antommarchi’s eyes gleamed with hatred as he looked back at Fanny. His shouting faded, and the door slammed once again.

  Alone, Fanny turned back to the chest. Sobbing, she pulled away the layers of blankets to reveal the mask, undisturbed. Hot pain radiated from her pelvis, her breath coming in gasps. Napoleon’s face pulled her in, daring her to put her face into the mask, to see with his eyes. She was leaning into the chest when, too late, she heard footsteps.

  “So,” said Marchand from the doorway. “I thought so.”

  Fanny gasped and slammed the trunk shut.

  As she looked down, she saw blood soaking through her skirts, so much blood, too much blood. A cramp threatened to rip her apart. She had lost. She was too late. Tears sprang to her eyes as a series of funerals fo
r tiny coffins tormented her memories.

  She would throw herself into the sea this time. There was no more point in hoping. Henri could not stop her.

  “Madame Bertrand, you’re bleeding. I’ll get the doctor.”

  Fanny pushed herself to her knees, gripping Marchand’s arm. “No, wait. You cannot tell them I have it. Please.” Fanny begged, pouring all her lost hope into her voice. She could not fail another baby.

  “Why?” Marchand sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Fanny. He did not look angry, or even suspicious. Just curious.

  Fanny settled onto the floor, fighting a wave of hysteria pushed toward her throat from the pain deep within and threatening to come out in a scream. She stared up at Marchand. He had loved Napoleon, she knew. Served him with devotion as much as Henri, tried to keep him confident and secure in his exile.

  Perhaps, with that kind of love, he could understand. Perhaps there was still room for hope.

  “I made a promise,” she began, “in exchange for something I need. Something important.”

  “Tell me.”

  So Fanny explained, looking down at the floor where a cream-colored woolen baby blanket, tossed aside by Antommarchi, kept her voice from wavering. “I couldn’t refuse. I had to hope. The Emperor was young, but my babies were younger.” Her skirt was damp with blood.

  Marchand turned his head toward the window, tears in his eyes. “If you can bring him back,” he said in a thick voice, “the world would be better for it. He did not fear death, but he had so much more to do. He lived too short a time. He could accomplish so much.” He went to the door. “I’ll bring Doctor Arnott.”

  Fanny nodded. She didn’t care about Napoleon, of course, not the way Henri or Marchand cared. But she cared about defeating death.

  In that, she and Marchand agreed completely.

  The last trunk, slung on ropes and hauled by sailors, creaked aboard the ship. Within that trunk were all of Fanny’s hopes for her future, and perhaps the world’s as well.

  Blankets, and a broken piece of plaster.

  She stood, holding Arthur’s hand, and waited for Henri. He looked handsome, tall in his traveling clothes of blue-dyed wool and cotton. He had been a good match for her, better than Napoleon could have guessed all those years ago. She wanted to give him one more son.

  Fanny’s heart pounded in her throat like the war drums of the Grand Armée. She had to reach the woman by spring.

  Fanny was pregnant again.

  Just a few weeks, perhaps a little more. There had been nothing to bury, and with the mask secure, Fanny could truly rest. Marchand was true to his word, and though there had been a fuss over the missing mask, the Bertrands were safe. Fanny had been able to recover. When the news came that Henri had been pardoned and they could return to France, he’d wanted to celebrate.

  June, perhaps, or July.

  But only if she reached the woman in time.

  Henri said his farewells. He and Marchand embraced, and over Henri’s shoulder, Marchand held Fanny’s gaze. His eyes were full of hope.

  She boarded the ship, to sail north to England and then to France. Hortense was eager for new dresses, the boys dreamed of glory, and Fanny, too, had hope. Hope for the little life growing within her, hope for Europe, hope for herself.

  Death may not yet be defeated, but she would defy its claim to the last. As the ship weighed anchor, Fanny left Saint Helena and her grief behind.

  Rebecca E. Treasure grew up reading science fiction and fantasy in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. She received a BA in history from the University of Arkansas and a Masters from the University of Denver. After grad school, she began writing fiction. Rebecca has lived many places, including the Gulf Coast of Mississippi and Tokyo, Japan. Her writing has been published by WordFire Press, Flame Tree Publishing, Air & Nothingness Press, and others. She currently resides in Texas Hill Country with her husband, where she juggles two children, two corgis, a violin studio, and writing. She only drops the children occasionally.

  To read more, visit rebeccaetreasure.com.

  Qualia

  Russell Davis

  “The real problem is not whether machines

  think but whether men do.”

  —B. F. Skinner

  The rain was halfway to becoming sleet when Detective Marsh Hallowell brought his unmarked police cruiser to a stop outside the gates of the long-abandoned junk yard. On the other side of the fence, row upon row of vehicles, rusted out and damaged beyond repair, stood in silent and forgotten memorial to a time in history when the transportation system of America was mainly composed of gasoline engines and sheet metal.

  Marsh stepped out of the cruiser and walked over to the gates of the junk yard, pulling the collar of his coat up to try and keep the sleet from leaking down his neck and into his shirt. Not that it mattered. In a few minutes, he’d be soaked to the skin.

  The gates were locked with an old chain and padlock, but they were covered in rust. It seemed likely that no one had touched them in years. Vehicles these days were recycled rather than scrapped, with very little waste for the process. Marsh reached into his coat and pulled out his stun baton—a lightweight carbon-fiber tool that he could use to subdue a suspect without causing serious damage. He pushed one end of it through the loop in the chain, between the gap in the gates, and twisted several times. The chain tightened briefly, then snapped, the years of rust doing most of the work for him.

  Marsh pushed open the gates and returned to his cruiser, pulling it inside the yard. Then he stepped back out and shut the gates behind him. He wasn’t committing a crime, not really, not exactly, but he preferred not to be seen. His actions would be difficult to explain. There were questions he did not want to answer. He got back to the cruiser and climbed in, realizing that his earlier feeling was right—the sleet was running in cold strips on the inside of his shirt. Like the fingertips of an icy skeleton.

  Ignoring the sensation, he drove the cruiser deeper into the yard, weaving between the rusted relics of a different age. Most of them were smashed flat, stacked atop one another, like the toy blocks of a giant. Several rows in, Marsh stopped once more. This was as good a place as any—the lowest vehicle in the stack in front of him hadn’t been crushed completely, and the interior was accessible.

  It was a good place to hide the body.

  The Butterfly House of Sensual Delights was a brothel in the rehabilitated section of old downtown Chicago, what used to be called the Loop. The area had been decimated in the water riots of 2034, but once the new City Centre was built, nostalgia called and the area was designated an Entertainment Zone.

  Sometimes, before he went inside, Marsh would sit in his parked cruiser across the street and watch as the neon lights in the windows carved intricate patterns into the dark glass. The patterns were strangely sensual, curving hints of half-seen forms entwined in familiar positions that faded away before the image was clear. He would think about the woman on the other side. Amaya.

  She would be in the lounge waiting for him. He had a standing appointment two nights a week. Expensive, but a man had needs, and he wasn’t too old to want them fulfilled. He wasn’t a big man, nor particularly handsome. Marsh was plain, to the point of being invisible, while Amaya was pale skin and black hair and bright green eyes, but more than those things, she was … safe. Reliable.

  After his wife had died ten years ago, Marsh didn’t want a relationship, didn’t need one. But he still enjoyed sex, and the short time after, when he would lay in the narrow, sterilized bedsheets with Amaya and talk about his week, or a case he was working on. Even more than psychiatrists, companions were entirely confidential. He could tell her he planned to go on a killing spree and she would keep utterly silent on the matter.

  Sometimes, he would think about how it used to be, back when his father had died and before the advent of NearC programming. In most cities, prostitutes would work on street corners, under the watchful gaze of their pimp. Many were strung out on drugs o
f one kind or another. Some carried diseases. Quite a few were there against their will, taken when they’d run away from home as teenagers or bought and sold like slaves.

  Prostitution was illegal, then, in all but a handful of places. The women were regularly arrested, charged, and then sent back out on the streets to earn the money to pay the fine the court assessed against them for their crimes. Some women were more discerning, calling themselves escorts and charging a premium for their time and services. The title didn’t matter—call them whores or tramps or one of the other hundred names for the trade they worked in: the world’s oldest profession.

  And after his father was gone, and the little bit of money they had ran out, so did his mother. It was that or lose their little apartment and live on the streets. In those days, before NearC and the changeover that came with the Minimum Quality of Life Act, there were no other alternatives. NearC meant androids that could perform numerous functions previously completed by humans. And the MQLA ensured that everyone in the United States had the basic minimums: a place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear, an education, and health care. If that had been in place when he was young, his mother wouldn’t have had to do it.

  She was an attractive woman, but not as young as many of her peers. Still, for several long, dark, years she made enough money for them to get by—taking clients during the day while Marsh was in school, then leaving him at night for the discomfort of a cheap hotel that rented rooms by the hour.

  He was ten years old the first time she didn’t come home. Worried, he got himself up and walked to the bus stop. He went to school, and by the time he got home, she was there: sporting a black eye and a split lip, and the puffy eyes of sleeplessness and tears. She wouldn’t tell him what happened. Marsh later learned that a pimp had roughed her up because she didn’t want to be one of his girls and give him half the money she made on her back.