Kzine Issue 20

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  “And here, Kate, even I’m tired of this, all this exposition, and I’m going to get it over with.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Laurie told me not to talk to her father or to you. She said she had a better idea.”

  He paused, and I said, “What was that?”

  Frank turned and looked me full in the face. From that moment on he didn’t take his eyes off mine. It was as if he wanted to hypnotize me, the way a snake does a mouse.

  “She said if Cliff had stolen fifty thousand we could blackmail him for half. I said no. She said yes. And she screamed and threw things at my head. She called me spineless and worthless, and a shitty husband and a lousy father.

  “And I gave in. Not just because I knew she’d keep riding me if I didn’t, but because after a while I decided her idea really was better. It was such a good idea.”

  Staring into those anaconda eyes, I finally found my voice. “Frank, have you lost it?”

  “It? You mean everything? No, Kate. I haven’t lost everything, not yet. I’m afraid it’s slipping away from me, but I haven’t lost it all yet. I gave in and Laurie laid out her plan: she would get Cliff alone and tell him I had the goods on him, and then she’d make her demands. I gave her Cliff’s number and she called him. I heard her talking: they should let bygones be bygones and forgiveness is chief of the Christian virtues and a cousin’s almost a brother and they should never have gone so long not talking. And isn’t it great that Frank is out finding evidence against Doug Block? And she invited him over for breakfast. He said yes.

  “And, it’s funny, Kate, but after they made their date I slept remarkably well until six this morning.

  I’m sure I was agitated when I said, “Frank, when is she going to meet him? Tell me. And where? Where are they going to meet?”

  “They’re meeting here.”

  “When?”

  We were playing out a script, Frank and I. It may be a good script or a bad, and there may or may not be too much exposition in it. But I swear it was written by God or the devil. And either way, whoever it was knows how to create a big moment. Understands the importance of timing.

  I heard the first shot just before Frank’s taut face relaxed and his body slumped and he said “Now.”

  I was baffled. For a moment I thought Frank had shot himself. But no, his hands were in sight and empty. He had wilted in his seat because his hard morning’s work was finished.

  Still, it took me another moment to understand where the shooting had come from.

  I reached into my coat and unholstered my .38. I heard a second shot, inside Frank’s house. I yelled at Frank to get out and kneel beside the wheel well. Cliff Morton came out the side door stuffing a gun into his pants. I stood up from the car and took aim. He saw me and went for the Glock. Realized there wasn’t time, that if he went on drawing he was dead. I shouted at him to lie down and keep his hands showing. When he was flat on the driveway, I advanced on him. Frank came out from behind my car and walked beside me. I couldn’t take my eyes off Cliff, but I had to say it to Frank, I had to.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  * * *

  Captain Skyler discussed whether we should make a case against Frank. He saw I wasn’t enthused. I told enough that he knew how I’d handled myself. How I’d not kept track of time, how I hadn’t pushed Frank to get to the point till it was too late. I didn’t say, but Skyler must’ve figured out, how I’d felt so warm in that car my mind melted. He no more wanted Frank prosecuted than I did, but he never completely trusted me again. So a few years later, after I gave up on being the next Joseph Wambaugh, I left the force. I thrived at the PI game. There wasn’t much work in a burg like Coneyville, but I kept one office there and set up a few in towns nearby. I hired smart girls with two years of junior college and trained them. I ended up with offices stretching from Erie to Buffalo and now I’m damn near rich. My reputation is good: they say if your spouse is a louse, Kate McFarland is relentless. Some have noticed this is especially true if the rotten spouse is a woman.

  Frank got a job offer in San Diego. The Mortons faced it that with Laurie gone they couldn’t keep Brianna in Coneyville. Frank arranged for them to see her once a year. So, after she turned seven she was flown east for two weeks every summer, withstood the boredom. She got to know all the cops, including me. I always made sure I was in Coneyville when she visited.

  The summer she was thirteen she walked into my office and said her dad asked her to give me a hug if I wanted. I wanted, but holding her burned in my marrow, burned in my belly.

  The internet happened, then Facebook. This winter Brianna sent me a friend request and I accepted.

  So it was that last month I saw a picture of her at Pomona College. There she stands in her cap and gown, between her stepmother and her dad. They’re all glowing. Seeing that picture I now know for sure what I half-knew every time I thought of Frank over the past eighteen years.

  That he didn’t fit in Coneyville not just because he read books but because he hadn’t a drop of malice in him. That he would have laid down his life for his daughter. That in fact he did.

  That he should have been the father of the child I should have had.

  That I shouldn’t have let him get away.

  CRITICAL NEED

  by Mike Adamson

  I knew it would be a shit day when my supervisor told me the automatic landing system had gone down and the robot was U/S.

  That means unserviceable. It happens—as an old navy man I’m the first to understand. I saw it too often as a Landing Signal Officer on the old Gerald Ford-class carriers, in the days of piloted aircraft. They called it a job as obsolete as the battleship and retired me when the service robotized.

  So here I was, working on the airside parking complex of the Mercury Hotel in downtown Chicago… running down the clock to reju. It’s a living.

  Jill Henshaw was my boss: hard, directing traffic control around the kilometre-high tower, which I respect. I looked over scrambled computer feeds in the control room and watched a screen, where service guys sent a drone up the scaffolds to the transponder towers which guide traffic around the Mercury’s swank landing pad and Reception.

  With the humanoid robot designed for LSO duties on its back in the workshop, I agreed—not readily, but…agreed. I was promised a nice bonus, which sweetened it. The problem was the weather. Squalls off the lakes whipped the grey-brown overcast to a fury, making air travel risky; but nowadays computers never let us down and cars keep right on flying.

  I was getting into my weather gear in the service bay when the union rep, Castor, put his fair head in and challenged me.

  “Don, this is out of line—you know it.”

  “It’s hairy,” I agreed. “But even backups have failed. Henshaw’s demonstrated critical need.” Smiling, I closing the Velcro of a signal-orange suit. “Besides, I’ve done it before.”

  “Twenty years ago,” Castor cautioned, his gaunt face very serious. “What about your critical need—to life and limb?”

  I rose and slapped him on the back. “I know what I’m doing. It’s a job for a man, watch me do it.”

  I regretted the flippancy the moment I stepped out the service hatch under the broad landing apron, which thrust out from the fiftieth floor like the fantail of a carrier. The wind slugged me sideways into the protective netting before I had my balance. The technician accompanying me grabbed the safety rail with both hands. We crept along the steel-caged walk to the edge of the platform, then up a caged ladder over dizzying heights into the LSO crow’s-nest.

  The tech stayed on his knees as he extruded the spring-loaded tethers and clipped them to my belt. I locked the illuminated paddles into the Velcro of my gloves, tapped my ear to activate the feed. I heard the traffic talkback and the faceplate filled with data for vehicles on approach.

  The tech slapped my shoulder and I nodded him away. He wanted only to get back inside, but to me—ah, this was a perverse kind of heaven. It took me back to heavy weather at sea, bri
nging aboard planes that should never have been up.

  The weather was so thick I couldn’t see Lake Michigan, though I know it lapped a thousand yards from the Mercury. All around rose the candy-lights of the city, burning harshly even in daylight under this stormfront sweeping the Great Lakes. The sky was blacks, greys, yellows, browns. I seemed to stand in the storm itself, and the tugging, buffeting wind was an old friend. Rain plastered my visor—I felt the tingling rage of the squalls as I waited for the next approach.

  Mercury Traffic Control announced the bay was open once more and a minute later I had trade. A long, metallic blue Cadillac drifted in on whisper-perfect quad rotors. The onboard computer handled the crosswind, but the pilot needed an extra steer. My paddles gave him attitude and heigh—he did a good job, and thirty seconds later was in the foyer, gullwings up and valet droids jumping for the luggage.

  Thunder exploded around me, so loud I was paralysed for moments, realizing the lightning had run up the conductors above the pad. I laughed, an insane flash of humour, remembering storms at sea—wind in your teeth and fighting it with everything you had.

  This was the pattern: wave pilots in, get them in the parking bay, stand broad-legged, leaning against the wind until I couldn’t feel my extremities. Only Velcro stopped the paddles being ripped away a dozen times. An intense gust lifted me, strained me on the tethers like a kite. If a car had been on approach just then it would’ve been a disaster. I yelled at Control and got ten minutes’ respite—crouched low and watched the lightening spiderweb among the towers of Chicago in the luminous gloom. My heart was racing but this was life as I hadn’t lived it in far too long. I might never do it again, so why would I object?

  When the storm began to lighten they vectored more traffic and soon I was cranking cars into the bay against the wind and rain. Conditions alleviated little by little. I’d been an hour on the pad, out among the antennas, safety nets and marker beacons, when Control reported the auto landing system back online. I could come in.

  I barely felt my legs under me as a tech appeared from the crawl-hole. The tethers released and he helped me down the ladder one perilous rung at a time. The caged walk was an exercise in pain through freezing limbs, and when the hatch closed at last it seemed my ears rang in the quiet. I knew I was probably crazy, but pride was involved too: when robots fail, flesh and blood can still come through, and it matters. Well, it matters to me.

  I peeled out of the soaked gear and collapsed in Control’s standby lounge. A moment later a mug of whisky-laced coffee was thrust upon me. The heat seared circulation back to life in my white fingers, and I breathed the steam, revelling in the peace. I’d done something insane, and it’d be worth many a round at the next service reunion.

  In the office, Jill Henshaw was talking animatedly with one of the senior hotel managers. It wasn’t necessarily my business, but I slipped the earpiece back in, thumbed my comp and picked up the surveillance mics. We all did it. In a society where constant observation is deemed a public good, there’s no such thing as real privacy.

  “—glad we got through this without incident,” the manager was saying. “Your man did a damn fine job. You can make that bonus as generous as you like. Send him upstairs for a week on the spa level, anything.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Henshaw replied. “Pity about the robot, but.…”

  “Policy,” the suit replied with a shrug. “Can’t be helped. They’re just too damned valuable to risk in crap conditions. One static discharge, it’s fried. No, better let a man do a man’s job.”

  “If you say so,” Henshaw sighed.

  “I do. Now, I’d better get back to the customers.”

  When he emerged from the office the first thing he saw was me, jack in my ear, union card in my hand, and a look in my eyes like murder.

  His face turned white.

  OUT INTO A SEA OF FIRE

  by Russell Hemmell

  Fog is my friend. I can’t see Canna and Rum in the morning, and yes, at night it veils my stars. But it also protects me from their eyes. I won’t fear the fog. I will welcome it.

  She shuddered but kept walking down the slope leading to the castle, a dark presence looming in the distance. It was closer than it would appear from their village but on the other side of the hill, and the lack of any footpath made the walk dangerous and time-consuming. And even more challenging was to gain access to its decrepit structure, especially in conditions of reduced visibility, as was often the case. There was no longer a drawbridge and she had to use a raft to cross the dark moat. On a different day, she would stroll around the external walls to reach the portcullis, half broken and dangerously rusty, and slide in being careful not to scratch her legs. The doors were missing, so she could walk up to the bailey, where the keep was still standing. She would then hoist herself up to what remained of its tower and look at the sea in front of her, admiring the landscape. The silhouettes of the nearest Hebrides were sometimes visible from that location. She would take the time of studying them with attention, making notes about tides and weather.

  Yes, but not now. Today she was only to walk by the castle, and readying herself for a full night of work; that’s why she had to risk going out earlier, where she could have been spotted by the others, and got herself in trouble. And yet, that was a danger that had to be taken. Walking in the fog hid obstacles on her path, but reduced odds of detection. She kept going.

  She reached the beach when the moon had just begun rising in the darkening sky. As was always the case, Tanaka-San was already there, his old hands working on the hook of the fishing rod.

  “Hello, sensei.”

  “Hello, Geri.”

  She went nearby and assembled his fisherman’s tools that were lying on the sand. He put the line into the sea, and waited for her to finish. Then he took two wooden bokken out of his rucksack.

  “Tonight we are going to work on your defending skills,” he said. “Your guard is too low, and you’re speed is far from optimal.”

  She nodded. “When are we going to practice again with the sword?”

  “You won’t need a blade to be a warrior,” he replied. “The sword is to defend yourself on the mainland. But if you know how to use your bokken, you will know how to use your blade.” He bowed to her, and stood with the wooden sword aimed at her. “On your guard.”

  They practiced for a while before Tanaka-San deemed himself satisfied. He cooked the fish and they ate in silence, watching the moon shining from behind the clouds.

  “Sensei. The other day Michael made fun of me. He said there weren’t any girl warriors in old Japan.”

  “This is not true.” He kept eating his fish. “You, for example - you would have been a kunoichi-no-jutsu.”

  “What is that?”

  “It is a female ninja.”

  “It’s what I am going to be, on the mainland.”

  “Yes. You will.” Another silence, only filled by the noise of breaking waves. “Time to work on the yacht’s repairs, Geri. The time has almost come.” He stood up. “Are you tired?”

  “No, sensei.” She put her bokken back in to his sack. “We can’t rest until sunrise.”

  A blow after another after another. Their hammers worked steadily, and the yacht’s disjointed planks started getting back into place.

  “Will wood be resistant enough to make the journey?” Geri said.

  “It has been.” He replied. “It will be again.”

  “But you were at the helm, sensei.”

  “You will be as good.” He said. “Watch your stars. Keep your headsail at the required length. And go with the flow.”

  They sat, admiring the moon fading and the first rays of sunrise pouring red into the dark sea.

  “You see, Tanaka-San? Moon is declining. In a hour, the whole sea will be set on fire.”

  “That’s Amaterasu, the Goddess of Sun, coming to say goodbye to Princess Kaguya. She has been going around the whole night, spreading silver to the shores an
d white glimmer on the waves, and now she’s tired. She needs to go and rest, waiting for Amaterasu to carry out her noble daily task.”

  “Until night comes again.”

  “Until night comes again.”

  * * *

  She bowed and wished Tanaka-San a safe hike to his hut, and walked back to her village. They had profited by a full moon, and this was the reason why she had remained there so long, at risk of being caught. She couldn’t waste that kind of light, not when Fall was coming, and weather conditions were getting worse by the day.

  She approached the wooden gate, ready to sneak inside, when somebody grabbed her arm.

  “You’ve been again to the castle, Geraldine?“

  She cursed in silence, recognising Michael’s voice. It was the worst thing that could happen to her, short of Lindsay’s tears.

  “It is dangerous. And you know the rules,” he said. “Geraldine, answer me.”

  She looked down, observing her dusted shoes and avoiding his eyes.

  “Rules say that we can’t go more than five miles in the vicinity of Tobermory.”

  “Jigoku with the rules.”

  “Always ready to show off, ain’t you? But you can insult me as much as you like. You’re still going to abide by them.”

  It wasn’t an insult to you. But the hell with your rules anyway.

  “And you’re going to fast until tomorrow. Let’s see if this teaches you a lesson, Geraldine.”

  O-namae wa Geri desu. She walked back in silence to her hut. My name is Geri. And I will sleep my noon away. She lay down and closed her eyes. But she couldn’t sleep. Rules. That was all Michael and the older boys worried about, scared from a world that had once been and that was now gone forever. She had lost the count of the times she heard them—stories, details, memories—too many, and never accurate enough. Of that catastrophe—thirty or maybe fifty years before—whose records had all been lost, to the point nobody knew which year they were living at that moment. Out of nuclear holocaust, mysterious plagues or evil aliens destroying human civilisation in its unspeakable viciousness.