Climatic Climacteric Omnibus

by L. B. Carter

  “Grab some blankets from upstairs, and we’ll soak them to protect the girls,” he urged, and Mama went.

  Daddy came back, crouching down, getting his knees wet. “Okay, I need you to keep a tight grip on me and don’t let go, okay? I’m going to cover you up, but it’s probably going to be hot. Just don’t let go.” His brown eyes were going back and forth between Henley’s as if they were a tennis ball. Marlowe liked to chase those when Mama and her friend played at the park, back and forth. “Do you understand, Henley?”

  He called her Henley again. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

  “Here.” Mama threw Henley’s comforter at Daddy, who caught it and dropped it into the water. Mama was shoving hers in the water and ringing it out.

  “Ready? It’ll be like a superhero cape. Just a little more wet.”

  “Like a towel.” She smiled.

  Daddy nodded, no smile, and wrapped her and Doggy and Minnie and Mickey and the book all up as if they all just got out of the bath together. It was very cold. Then he picked Henley up again.

  Mama was a backward turtle with her blanket over her front. She looked like Henley’s sister was inside her belly again. She smiled at Henley and said, “Hold on to Daddy, okay, Hen?”

  It all went dark as Daddy pulled the damp blanket over her head and placed a big hand around her back. Then he was running, and she was bouncing up and down, and the clock was slipping, and Henley clenched her arms tighter and huddled closer to Daddy. It wasn’t cold anymore; it was getting hot on her back and on the top of her head. Daddy shouted something to Mama, and they were running up the hill. Henley squeezed her eyes tight shut.

  Then there was an explosion, and Daddy stumbled back, and the blanket fell off Henley’s head and arm, and all she could see was red. Red like the clock used to be. The clock that was falling as Daddy started running again. She could hear Mama yelling. Daddy tripped, slamming them both into a tree, except it was on fire! That’s why Daddy cried out. The whole woods was on fire!

  “Take her!” Daddy was saying to someone.

  There was another explosion. Daddy fell down, and Henley tumbled with an oomph to the ground. The clock slipped and rolled partway down the scorched grass. No!

  She darted toward where it lay, Mickey and Minnie invisible behind the reflected flames from the tree tops.

  “Henley,” Daddy shouted, crawling after her.

  She reached out to grab the clock, and a big pop exploded hot all over her arm. She was screaming and crying, and she couldn’t see. Then she was picked up.

  “Take her and go!” Daddy yelled. “Keep her safe!” He never yelled.

  Then she was bouncing again, looking back over his shoulder to try to find Mickey and Minnie to tell them sorry that she left them.

  But… there was Daddy, back there, on the ground, using the blanket he’d wrapped her in to pat out the fire that was licking at his leg like Marlowe sometimes did.

  “Daddy! No! Wait.” Henley screamed; she wriggled. “Down. I want down. Daddy! I’m sorry about your clock! I’ll help you get it.”

  Crack.

  It was louder than when he kicked the door, louder than the explosion that hurt Henley’s arm.

  Mama screamed.

  Another heavy blanket covered Henley’s head again. An engine started. And the bouncing stopped as the man sat down with her on his lap, no matter how much she protested and tried to escape. He hugged her close, like Minnie with Mickey. “Go,” the man who wasn’t Daddy said.

  ◆◆◆

  Henley snapped awake, sweating, overheating. The phantom pain in her arm caused her to grab onto the cool metal in its place as tears coursed down her face, just as they had seventeen years ago.

  She let go to brush the moisture away and puffed out a cheek-full of air. She hadn’t had those nightmares in a while. The distant sound of waves was a little too similar to the crackle of a forest fire.

  Finally blinking clear her blurred vision, a startled shriek was almost sucked from her throat that would have been as loud as Mama’s echoing in her ears. Her pulse shot back up, and she scrambled awkwardly back from the android next to the bed, falling over as the ‘mattress’ undulated beneath her. Her good hand came into contact with something solid—the fork.

  With the tool at hand, literally, Henley stabbed wildly into the bed. First, the liquid sprayed all over her like a shower until, with enough effort, a stream aimed at what had discovered her.

  It froze, sending a nice little firework of sparks that, although mesmerizing, inspired Henley to slide backward on the rapidly deflating mattress until her head hit the wall.

  Letting out another breath, Henley willed her heart to calm. Her eyes shot a few imaginary sparks of their own at the enemy, which, until a few hours previously, had been the sole joy in her life.

  That dedication was how she knew that this device was much more advanced than the full anatomical models at Faneuil, even though it looked like a simple arm attached to a basic stand on wheels, which had been neatly folded and tucked away in an alcove in the wall and thus unnoticed when she snuggled in. The anatomical models were not yet autonomous. This one more closely resembled the little device she’d been using to test out her upgrades… or like the prosthetic she wore every day. It could respond to external stimuli, too… like intruders.

  Besides the fact that theirs cost them quite a lot whereas hers was handmade out of scraps, the difference between her hand and the one belonging to the boat owner was its weakness: water. It seemed stationing herself close to the harbor was redundant, thanks to the strange bed selection. Henley had been able to use another, closer source for her ultimate weapon against electronics.

  Henley carefully slid closer, partly because she was still wary and partly because navigating the now concave bed proved to be a challenge. As suspected, she found what she dreaded: a camera, mounted at the top of the stand where the arm connected so that it could navigate the narrow cabin.

  She reassured herself that BSTU didn’t have viewing rights to privately owned items. They’d need a warrant, and by then, they wouldn’t be able to get there fast enough. She tossed out the hypothesis that they might have hacked the device because they wouldn’t do anything that immoral if possible. Anything to avoid being inspected. She’d thought that was due to scientific integrity to make sure their work didn’t get scooped. After Buster’s revelation, it was clear how much more sinister the reasoning was.

  When her more detailed, but equally soaked, robotic fingers, which even appeared human beneath her leather glove, were able to agilely snag the thin paper from the dead android’s fingers, Henley let loose a proud grin that helped flush away the remainder of her fear from the dream and the wake-up surprise. The memo slid easily from its slackened grip.

  The few typed words were, of course, smudged and blurry due to the dousing, but she was able to make out some of them, indicating that it was a note about a meet-up. Money laundering was easily hidden for someone this rich. Drugs were also a luxury the rich could afford. In either case, Henley didn’t feel so bad about destroying the cabin.

  In reality, she shouldn’t judge. Those sentiments were mightier-than-thou thoughts; Henley was a criminal now, multiple times over—she was starting to lose count. Well, the boat was already damaged and beached before she boarded.

  Sitting on the slowly deflating bed, watching the little fountains spittle out and leak onto the floor, the dream seeped back in like the damp into her clothes. She’d been a criminal for a lot longer if she was honest with herself. She stared down at the black-coated hand in her lap. That tech, and all her failed prototypes at BSTU, weren’t the only things she’d destroyed.

  Unintentionally, Mama would clarify, automatically, without inflection as if it was necessary, like it was a required response—part of her job as a mom. She never said it wasn’t Henley’s fault. That would just be lying. Something Mama and Daddy never did.

  Well, Henley could still save her sister. Maybe.
r />   She dropped back onto the bed, and it gave a pitiful flop beneath her, cradling her as she sank into it. The patter of water hitting various surfaces in the cabin slowly petered out, and in that time, she allowed herself to take stock of her situation and wallow.

  One - she was on the run, two - she was lacking any transportation, three - she didn’t know if her pursuers had followed her via the street performer footage, four - she had inadvertently soaked the popcorn, meaning she’d failed her one task of acquiring food, and five - she had lost her accomplices—technically ditched them.

  Oh, and three and a half - her pursuers were actually her boss and colleagues, and they wanted her dead. She just had to carry on alone. Fine. That was easier.

  Henley hadn’t really had many friends at BSTU. She wasn’t as bad as the Bus, so nicknamed by the loud guy in the cafeteria—she never learned his name—because he just plowed blindly toward his destination, which was usually work.

  Henley didn’t alienate everyone. But she’d been so focused on achieving her goal. Part of that motivation was her own will and the rest, simultaneously and more importantly, had been due to the encouragement of her boss and mentor. The pressure to appease him was strong, particularly given that she’d been awarded funding to be there.

  To be honest, everyone else had been research-centric, too. Relationships weren’t a priority in any capacity.

  In fact, BSTU didn’t approve of much collaboration.

  Sure, she’d had her share of sleepless nights listening to moans and bumps against the wall from the next room and even made out with some guy at the new student orientation party when she first arrived. No one really got involved, though. No personal questions; no intimacy. It just wasn’t relevant, which Henley was grateful for because it meant no one knew about her handicap—her ex-handicap.

  Her ability to hide it was owing to her dedication in high school to making a prosthetic as life-like as possible in both looks and function. It was the project that had impressed BSTU, one of only a couple universities left in the country after the Advanced-Degree Crash resulted from oversaturation and low funding. It impressed them enough to take her on with the full fellowship. Was that irony? She never could use that word right.

  No longer knowing if it was tears or bed leakage covering her face, she pushed herself up and hoisted her soaked body over the now sunken edge, knocking over the expensive electronic statue with no resentment.

  As soon as she peered out of the door, blinking in the morning sunrise, she started, then laughed aloud.

  It was just her flying friend back for more popcorn.

  “Thanks for the laugh, buddy. I needed that. Sorry, the popcorn got a little soggy.” She sighed when her stomach growled. “And I have no idea if I can steal any more food. They might see me.”

  The gull turned to the side so one eye could peer at her then gave a little hop, hovered, dove down at the water and swooped back up.

  “I guess you do eat wet food all the time, huh? Easier when you don’t have teeth. Like my old babysitter, Mrs. Paulson. She was our neighbor. She ate a heck of a lot of porridge near the end. Stay there,” she instructed, like the bird was a dog, then shut the door and grabbed the dripping bag of cooked corn kernels from off the floor next to tens-of-thousands of dollars in dead technology. She snorted at the… what she was pretty sure was irony, anyway.

  Henley darted back out and pulled up short. Her friend had a friend. “Well, I’m not eating it anyway.”

  The sun was warm as it rose over the ocean, lifting up the fog with it. As she tossed single kernels at the ravenous animals so they didn’t choke, she pulled off her shirt and pants and laid them on the deck beside her to dry. The underwear and bra were kind of like a swimsuit. Then, with a moment of hesitation, she did the same with her gloves. Her waterproofing had worked so far, but prolonged exposure she hadn’t tested.

  Laying down on the warming wood, she closed her eyes against the Sun’s glare, trusting the sharp eyes of the gulls to catch her haphazard tosses.

  She hadn’t worn a bathing suit since Mama took her to the beach right before the fire. She’d always loved water—pool parties, playing in the rain. Mama hadn’t wanted to go to the beach after that day—hadn’t really wanted to do much of anything. Not that Henley wanted to be that naked in front of anyone anyway.

  That wasn’t a concern here. After the huge storm, people were wary of the waterfront, especially the rich, who probably had some fancy condo on an eighty-ninth floor, far from any floodwaters. A boat would be an easy thing for them to call a loss and abandon, keeping far from her current bathing spot.

  Allowing her clothes to dry gave Henley time to think about what she was going to do now. She had her resolve back after her short little pity party, but the feasibility was a whole different question.

  An idea with some merit threaded through all the other possibilities, arising from her previous musing. If Henley stole a boat, the owner would just think it was washed away in the storm surge. They clearly hadn’t been by to check on it yet.

  “I’m already a criminal; it seems fitting to commandeer a ship, right?” she asked the gulls, tossing a whole fist-full of crumbs from the bottom of the bag in celebration though her tone remained resigned. “The world is my oyster. It’s a pirate’s life for me. No wooden leg, but I do have this arrrrm.” Irony again? The gulls laughed at least.

  Something blocked the light, turning the orange glow behind Henley’s eyelids to black.

  “And we’ll start with another storm, it seems. Swept out to sea.” That was one way to shift the boat off its perch.

  “This is an ocean not a sea.”

  Henley lurched up at the male voice, squinting at the silhouette in the bright sun. The boat owner? BSTU? Henley reached around for a weapon with her good hand. The fork was still inside on the empty bed. The gulls sent up a chorus of alarm, mostly because she’d flung the bag in surprise and they were fighting for the remnants.

  “You didn’t show up. I sent you a note,” the figure observed and took a step back, non-threatening, just as her searching hand ran into her pants.

  Right. No clothes. No gloves. Immediately, Henley pulled cloth over her arm, dismayed to discover when she looked down that it was her wet jeans, not gloves.

  “Buster?” His voice was uniquely deep, identifiable in its bass timber. Henley relaxed fractionally, while at the same time, her urgency to cover up rose. “That note was from you? How?”

  He didn’t answer. “We need to get moving,” was all he said. Then he stood as still as the ballerina, as still as the broken tech inside, while she fumbled with her clothes.

  She was sure it was him now, because for one, he’d turned around when he’d stepped back—it was his massive back she was unnecessarily hiding from—and secondly, she didn’t know anyone else who’d be wandering around in a lab coat at dawn. Had he not taken it off once they got in the truck like she had? And how the heck had he not been spotted even faster than Henley in that attire?

  Once dressed—and gloved—in soggy garments she stood and cleared her throat, relieved and, honestly, a little weirded out and a lot embarrassed. “I thought you would have already left.”

  Buster continued to observe the horizon where two gulls, one on either end of the plastic bag, were multi-tasking by having a game of tug-of-war and fighting off a new hoard of arrivals. Henley wasn’t sure he even saw it. If she was a pirate, he was an astronaut.

  “How did you find me?” A more important question since it was obvious they hadn’t left.

  “Tracked you.”

  “Tracked me?”

  “Yes.” He finally turned at the horror coating her voice, blinking in confusion like her reaction was an interesting puzzle to solve, but he couldn’t discern where to begin.

  “How did you track me?” Henley clarified, shrinking toward the boat cabin and glancing around. If he could, anyone could. How? She had no electronics on her, except—

  Did he know? He hadn
’t reacted just now. She had presumed, perhaps incorrectly, he hadn’t noticed it in her rapid scramble to cover up. He never looked at her, not even that day. He’d just passed the note—the first one at BSTU.

  Henley’s arm was behind her back, pressed between her and the cabin’s outer wall. If it was that through which she could be tracked, she’d have to get rid of it and give up her mobility and the first thing she’d ever invented.

  “I saw what they saw.”

  “You saw… Fanieul?” Henley realized.

  He looked relieved that she seemed relieved, though he clearly didn’t know why, and gave a sharp nod. “I monitor all their surveillance.”

  Henley balked. “All?” Sure, the Bus was supposedly the best programmer at BSTU—possibly ever—but BSTU had eyes everywhere. It was one way they got their feedback for improvements. Heck, there was a whole team in charge of just observing the footage.

  She knew because there’d been a stand-off in the cafeteria with a first-year who’d started during her third. They’d claimed he’d done drugs in the bathroom before going back to lab. He’d claimed they didn’t have proof. They did. They’d shown the entire room …as a warning probably. They had cameras everywhere, constantly recording. In retrospect, that should have been the first sign that BSTU wasn’t the most loyal and caring place. The bathroom? In fact, it seemed like they were more pissed at him for the being-high-while-working problem than the disobedience-and-lying issue. They demanded quality in the products their people produced.

  “We need to get moving,” he repeated, not answering her question. “I can only block their signals for so long.”

  Ah. Well, that answered a different question, raising more along the way.

  He was already swinging a leg over the ladder and dropping with a thud back onto the sidewalk, so Henley hurried after him. He’d gotten her out of BSTU. Even if he refused to divulge his secrets on the hows, he was clearly her best bet. Joining back up with him removed most of her list of obstacles.

  “Where are the others?” she asked as she jogged to catch up with his trademark stride.