by Pat Hauldren
I turn on the race radio, which the finish-line announcer patched into the system-wide holovid feed, along with Welchy's mic, and Sylvia's news-channel uplink.
I look up into her eyes and her helmet cam, billions watching and listening, and I ask, "Sylvia, will you marry me?"
"Well of course I will . . . you always knew I would."
Believe it or not, at that moment, I don't really know or care if I won.
***
Fearadhach MecRaudri, aka Bryan Reynolds, is an avid reader and writer of Science Fiction and Fantasy. He enjoys the mental play in the realm of ideas, the endless game of ‘what if’ that is at the core of the genre. His days are spent in one of the stereo-typical jobs expected of geeks, but his evenings are spent playing in the realm of ideas and his weekends seeking adventure. As a member of a regular writing critique group, he is always working to further his craft, and help others hone theirs. When not writing, he enjoys reading, gaming, sword fighting, skydiving, skiing, and a host of other adrenalin-pumping activities. Read some of his stories in Altered Realities Magazine.
TO WATCH AND LISTEN
by Bryan Reynolds
Tessa listened to the staccato rhythm of the Prince’s sword practice while she sat at her embroidery. A brief glance at the other Ladies of the castle, all clustered around the Esmeralda, the daughter of the Duke, brought an unbidden secret smile. Esmeralda, her only rival for the affections of the prince, was–as usual--prattling on about how the contest had all but ended and how she, Tessa–being the daughter of a Count, should give up now and bow out gracefully.
Esmeralda leaned forward to her friends and spoke in a false whisper meant to carry across the room, “After all, if she would give it up, then she could come over here and join the rest of us, instead of skulking by herself in the corner with none but her handmaiden for company. His Majesty may have declared that the Prince could have his choice between us, but does anyone really think he would ally himself that closely with a Count when he could be allied with a Duke?”
Someone asked a question Tessa couldn’t catch, and Esmeralda responded in the same faux-whisper as before, “Well, yes. I am, after all, not a petty or unkind woman. If she were to leave off now, I might just forgive her insolence at courting my prince once I am queen. I may even forgive the horrendously disrespectful way she has treated me lately. Oh, look at that, her head turns away in shame. She knows she is beat, one just wishes she’d be grow-up enough to admit it.”
Tessa had tilted her head down to hide the flush of anger on her face. She could hear most of the other girls’ titter in amusement at her rival’s jabs. Most, but not all. It had taken only six words: “Who would you rather have as queen?” The two who heard that had become very valuable. They let her know when the Prince was in the Library, one of the few places he could go without Esmeralda clutching his arm like a leach on a horse.
The other girls, though… they had begun curtsying and scraping to the wretched girl as if she wore the crown already. They were careful to do this when no one was around, of course; it would cause a scandal otherwise. Still, all Esmeralda had to do was mention being thirsty and one of the Ladies would be off like shot from a cannon to fetch a drink.
Let them believe that she sat apart out of intimidation. Every time Esmeralda underestimated her, it only made things easier. A private smile crossed her lips at the real reason for her separation; so that she could keep track of the rhythm of the practice over the incessant prattling of her rival. That voice which, now, droned on and on about her wedding preparations to the point that even her admirers looked bored. Not that she noticed. Tessa almost felt sorry for her, the girl who could only talk, who could not observe.
Tessa, however, observed. She’d seen the look on the Prince’s face at Table, as Esmeralda sat prattling on and on about her own virtues, opinions, jewelry, and gossip. Seen how the Prince’s eyes followed every movement she made at Table when he thought she wasn’t looking, even as Esmeralda’s voice droned on in his ear. Saw how the Prince’s face lit up when she ‘happened’ to catch him in the library, and asked to be allowed to listen to what he had to say about books and poetry. How the Prince’s smile widened as she admitted to having read the books he spoke of with such animation, and at the fact that she could actually form an opinion on them. She did see, oh yes, and she heard as well.
She stopped working on the embroidery for a few moments to listen more intently to the rhythm of the practice outside, then nodded to her handmaidens. The rhythm had changed, begun to slow. The time had come. She set the embroidery aside, and smiled politely at the Duchess’s rolled eyes and unkind comments. They both knew where she planned to go, but the Duchess thought such things beneath her station.
Her handmaidens gathered up the trays with water and cooled juices on it. She quietly, demurely, stole into the practice yard and began handing out the items from the trays. She took care to keep from interrupting the men at their sparring, stealing in whenever a pairing had stopped to breathe. She named the type of juice being handed to each man, apple juice for some and white grape juice to others. Each man was eloquent in his thanks; many wondering aloud how she knew which he preferred. She accepted their thanks with silent grace, but answered their questions with only a mysterious smile.
She carefully made sure to arrive at the Prince last, doing the best she could to pretend not to notice the astonishment with which he followed the course she wove through his men. She finally made it to him, gave him a glass of water, and another glass of his favorite juice: red grape. She saw the tiny reactions he tried to keep hidden as he realized that this was the only glass of the red grape in the courtyard. He accepted the offerings with graceful dignity and gratitude, but also with silence and schooled features. Almost schooled features. Appreciation shone in his eyes, and the ghost of a smile brushed the corners of his lips.
With the task done, she curtsied, perfectly, before the royal presence, and withdrew. She allowed herself a most unbecoming grin, just between herself and her handmaidens as she felt his eyes study her departure.
She quietly walked back to the day room where the other girls, and the acrimonious young Duchess, waited. She could hear the comments of the Prince’s men following her down the corridors, how she seemed to have a sixth sense to know just when to arrive, how she knew each man’s needs and desires, how she would be able to run a household, of any size, better than any other maid in the kingdom. The word ‘Queen’ remained absent from their praise, but that was all the better. She knew, and they knew, that the Prince was very particular about making up his own mind, so they extolled her virtues, pointed out to him how good a choice she would be, and let him put the word 'Queen' in himself.
She did not need to see his face to know that he was wearing that beautiful, thoughtful look she saw so often in the library, the one the Duchess chided him for as being too soft…the one she cherished so. She returned to the room and picked up the embroidery she’d left, acting as if returning from a trip to the lavatory, and studiously ignored the comments about ‘acting below one’s station’ made by the supposed rival for the Prince’s heart. She made no reply to the other young woman as she listened to the sword practice resume, and resume at the rhythm it had held before she went out among the men. She would not reply to the Duchess, for now was the time for listening: the time for speaking would come later, in the library. For now, she would listen, and quietly smile
The Duchess believed the Prince was hers because of her power to speak. But, she knew she held the greater power: the power to see… and to listen.
***
In the fourth grade, Russ Linton wrote down the vague goal of becoming a “writer and an artist” when he grew up. After a journey that led him from philosopher to graphic designer to stay at home parent and even a stint as an Investigative Specialist with the FBI, he finally got around to that “writing” part which he now pursues full time. Russ dabbles in both science fiction and fantasy. He writes for adults
who are young at heart and youngsters who are old souls. For more information and free books, visit his website www.russlinton.com
ALTER EGO
by Russ Linton
Jackie asked to dye her hair orange during the summer of seventh grade. Her father stared, mouth half-open, eyes seeing through her for what seemed like a long time. But he finally agreed with a silent nod.
She reached up and wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Frozen in whatever mental fog gripped him, there were too many heartbeats before she felt him caress the back of her head. He'd probably never expected her to ask for something so, well, crazy, but he had to know she'd at least considered it.
A few years ago, her father had decided to give her an allowance. Even then, at ten years old, she'd grown tired of living in a weed-choked laundry basket of a house slated for a dust-bunny breeding program. After long hours at work, her father was exhausted. Most often, he'd drop down on the sofa with a beer and tune out everything but the television.
She understood.
So, she started cleaning--learned how, after a few dozen shrunken t-shirts and pink socks, to do the laundry. The dishes. She even conquered her fear of the vacuum cleaner. Sure, she'd screamed the entire time, racing around the house as if she held a live animal, but she'd gotten the job done. After that, she took on the lawnmower, an even scarier monster. But she was brave. Brave, because that's what Ember would be.
Once she'd saved enough money and gotten up the nerve to let her dad in on her secret desire, she raced triumphantly to her room and launched into the air. She always clung to the moment when her feet left the ground, pretending she could control the thermals, change their density to let her tiny frame float. She never could, of course, but she landed on her bed, giddy with excitement about her coming change.
Above her, the ceiling was papered with news clippings and magazine pages. There, in those spaces, Jackie did fly. One of the pictures in particular always held her attention.
Ember, the flame wielding Augment, soaring through the skies of Chicago on a pillar of fire.
Her costume was made of thick, shimmery material which could withstand the intense heat. A heat that could set the air on fire, burn through the outer shell of a battle tank, and melt guns into puddles.
If Jackie could have any power, it would be Ember's.
But the fireproof costume didn't explain the hair. Ember's mask covered her entire face. A sleek visor, sort of like a medieval knight, but no holes for her eyes. Behind that, a brilliant orange mane flowed in a stripe down her head. Her powers kept her from frying her head, Jackie thought. Precise control of the heat. Too bad Dad hadn't also agreed to the mohawk.
"Are you ready?" Her dad stood in the doorway of her bedroom, keys in hand. He was trying to smile, but his eyes were worried. He always looked like that.
"Yep, yep!" She leapt to her feet on the bed and bounded toward him.
Excitement coursed through her and she knew her face was plastered in the world's goofiest grin, but she didn't care. And exactly like she hoped, he snatched her off the ground as she got to the door, his distant expression transformed by her joy.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
She smacked his shoulder. "Of course, I want to do this." He laughed and lowered her to the ground. "Besides," she added, "this is your fault."
The distant look returned. "Why do you say that?"
"You're the one that watches Ember all the time."
"Do not." He forced a smile.
"Do, too! Every time she's on the news you can't look away." She poked a finger in his chest. "Somebody has a crush."
"Come on, now." He started down the hall, fidgeting with the keys.
"Admit it! You do!"
"Stop. Let's go before I change my mind."
They hopped in the truck and made their way into town. They stopped at the grocery store first. Jackie complained, but Dad was right, they actually did have things like hair coloring kits. But the shelf held only an autumn sort of red, nothing like Ember orange. She even asked a bald, sullen looking employee if they had the color, exactly like that, "Ember orange". He shook his head and went back to pushing a ragged mop across the floor.
They tried several stores and were about to give up when Jackie spotted a salon. She'd never been in one. Her and her dad both went to the Clip Shack, which she didn't mind. The stylists were always excited to see her. She felt a bit like Ember, those days--a touch of the famous Augment's celebrity. She swelled with pride as they fawned over her, the only other girl in the place. The excitement always waned when she asked for something "easy".
"A phase," they'd say sympathetically. "She'll grow out of it."
"Aren't there any boys you like?"
Gross. Ember didn't like boys. At least, Jackie didn't think so.
The salon looked fancy. With cursive letters on the windows, she couldn't even read the name. The posters with models pointing their chins at the sky made her cringe. Their hair was all silky and smooth and perfectly colored.
"There!" Jackie pointed, before they'd driven past.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded.
When Jackie and her father walked in, they weren't staring down a row of barber's chairs facing little TVs looping Sportscenter. She didn't even see any chairs. A reception desk decorated with smooth, turquoise stones all down the front and a blank, brown wall behind the desk, displaying the same cursive lettering as the windows. A girl with perfect hair, like the posters, and razor-sharp lips and eyebrows pulled herself away from a cell phone.
"Welcome to Sante. Do you have an appointment?"
"Nope." Jackie said before her dad could speak. "I want my hair colored. Maybe you have a kit?"
"We don't sell 'kits'," the girl's sky-pointed chin dipped to her collarbone when she said the word. "But we might have a stylist available." She rose and disappeared around the wall. Jackie walked toward the partition, swinging her shoulders like the receptionist.
"Jackie." Her dad sounded stern, but maybe partly amused.
"What?"
The receptionist rounded the corner with another girl behind her. She was young, and her hair was silky too, but a broad swath of it was deep purple on one side and shaved tight to her scalp on the other. Somehow, Jackie thought, the snooty receptionist had found the right person.
"Hello." The girl extended a hand and Jackie took hold. She wasn't much taller than Jackie, but the tight lines of her jeans made her legs appear endless. Her white sleeveless t-shirt hung like a shredded rag and black lace peeked through the holes alongside bare skin.
Jackie realized she'd been staring when the girl raised her eyebrows. "I'm Becca. You are?"
Becca didn't paint on her eyebrows or her lips. The natural lines suggested perfection enough. That and her smile made Jackie's cheeks flush.
"This is Jackie." She felt her father's hand on her shoulder. "She wants to color her hair."
"That so." Becca eyed Jackie and tapped her lip with her finger. "I can probably help you out. What were you thinking?"
It was the finger on her lip. Jackie couldn't erase the image.
"Well?"
"Ember orange," said her father. Becca's face twisted in confusion and he stuttered out an explanation. "Like the Augment, Ember."
"Ah, so this is like an 'I'm not fucking around' orange?"
Jackie nodded.
Her father choked out a reply. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Got it. Come with me."
Jackie followed, her father close behind. At the corner, Becca wheeled and brandished a finger in his direction. "Girls only," she said with a wink.
Her father raised his hands in surrender and half-smiled. "All right. But no mohawks."
Becca ran a hand through Jackie's hair and pursed her lips. The touch made her scalp tingle and she swore she could feel it all the way down to her toes. "Yeah, no problem."
They entered an open room with stylist's stations peppering the space, e
ach made up of a floating wall with mirror and fancy wood cabinets facing a barber's chair. Everything matched the earthy tones of the reception area. At each station, stylists hovered around their customers, silver blades flickering between their fingers. This was not the humming assembly line of electric clippers like the Clip Shack. Here, women spoke and laughed. A few sat alone reading magazines, oblivious to strange bubbles mounted to the chairs and floating over their heads. Jackie almost asked what they were, but she hoped she wouldn't have to speak. Normally, according to her teachers at school, she didn't have a problem with speaking, but Becca had left Jackie tongue-tied.
Becca motioned to a chair, and Jackie sat.
"Sure you don't want a mohawk?"
"No." Jackie wished Becca would stop smiling, but at the same time, she knew she'd miss it. "My dad."
"Yeah, I know." Becca pouted and whipped an apron around Jackie's neck. "You'd look kickass with one."
Jackie felt her cheeks flush and she checked the mirror in time to watch them blossom. A hand lightly touched her chin and kept her from hiding her face. Those unadorned eyes were examining her again and Jackie looked up at the ceiling to avoid contact.
"Orange, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. Let's get started."
From that moment, Jackie was lost in a world of odd sensations. The warm water from the faucet as Becca washed her hair was exhilarating, but not nearly as much as the pull of slender fingers along her scalp. All the while, Becca hovered over her, her loose shirt dangling open. Things stirred inside Jackie--things that made her drive her stubby nails into the arm of the chair.
Next, they returned to the station, and Becca brushed on globs of dye that looked nothing like orange, but Jackie didn't protest. Becca worked while wrapping strands of hair in foil slips, like leftover pizza. Her playful side tucked away, Becca took to her job with a laser-guided stare. So focused, Jackie finally started to relax. All the staring and examining had been part of the process, she told herself. Checking her hair out, not her.