by Unknown
She wasn’t even vaguely interested. It was all him, and he knew it.
But I can’t help myself. He closed his eyes, drinking in her image, his thoughts enveloped in the faint essence of her being. I feel as though I could breathe in hope instead of air, hope that she would touch my naked skin and laugh at my clumsy words. If I could have but a few minutes of time to hold her in my arms.
He stood at the observation glass, and absently watched as his fellow conspirators fired at the targets whizzing past, destroying them with ease.
We never admit it to ourselves, he thought, but this world is just waiting for us to die. It wants to purge itself of the old, so the genetically refined chosen can stomp on our graves and press on, inheriting creation itself.
Suddenly someone nudged him in his back, and he whirled around, ready for a fight.
“Hey – hey, Eldis!” cried Droux, one of his closest friends, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m just wondering what you’re thinkin’ on.”
“Sorry,” managed Eldis, a little unwilling to banish Oveio’s figment from his mind. “I’m thinking on a few things.”
“I’ve been doin’ that,” Droux said, leaning back against one of the walls, cracking his knuckles – an old habit that always annoyed Eldis. Droux was younger and had a strength about him that helped keep their small cadre coalesced and focused. “I mean, I feel like we finally got this world purged of all that crap from before, all the fightin’, all the war, and here we go doin’ it again! I mean—”
Eldis interrupted, not in the mood for politics or sociology. “Have you ever fallen in love with one of them?”
A wave of realization spread over Droux’s face. “That’s what all this is about. You’re in love with a freak. Which one?” Droux worked in the same building as Eldis, and knew most of his coworkers. “Daria? Iril?”
“Oveio.”
Droux let out a long, approving whistle. “She has to be the queen of the freaks!” They all called them freaks – it was the only term they could use to put down a race of near-perfect people. “There’s been a couple of times I’ve almost let my guard down with one of ‘em. I mean, they’re perfect, after all! Their lips, their hair, their soft, supple skin, the tone of their legs . . .” Droux took a long sigh, smiling to himself. “Can’t say I haven’t been where you are.”
“I’d almost rather die, than know I could never see her again.”
Droux grabbed Eldis and pinned him hard against the wall.
“Don’t you do it!” he shouted, slamming him back and forth. “Don’t you let them do that to you! They want us to die, but don’t give it to them like that!”
“It’s just . . . it’s over, for all of us!” pleaded Eldis, feeling suddenly old and weak. “Just last week, Racha—”
“Yeah, I know ‘bout Racha, and Holt and Dichon and all the rest! That’s why we have to leave. Those freaks are like drugs to us! They just want to keep us mollified until we all die off. You’ve got to hold it together for two more days.” He grabbed and twisted Eldis’ shoulders, as he punctuated every word he said. “We . . . won’t . . . let . . . them . . . win! Right?”
Eldis nodded, but Droux didn’t take that as an answer.
“Right?!”
“Yeah, yeah, just back off!” Eldis shoved him back, and Droux pushed back, but with a wide grin on his face.
“Now, get home, and do that wife of yours – real good. She’s a sweet little thing, and if you stopped fightin’ with her all the time, you just might start to appreciate what you got.”
The Redemption sat before them, a magnificent old ship, bathed in the brilliance of a hundred spotlights. It was a sacred ship – a hero of the Ascension war. It drew pilgrims from around the globe to see it, touch it, and wonder at all it had done.
As Eldis, Droux and the others watched, they saw only two souls guarding it, and they looked asleep.
Eldis steadied his nerves as they slipped cautiously into the hangar bay. Droux’s eyes flashed like those of a hunter in the glade, ready to make the kill. The others followed, echoing his grim determination to vent their pent-up frustration and escape the planet.
Suddenly, emdec fire punctuated the icy calm of day. Thankfully for all involved, it was brief, as neither of the two stewards of the complex anticipated anyone would want to steal the ship. They fell easily and quickly, stunned by two quick bursts from Droux’s emdec. He raised his gun to the cheers of the fifty people gathered around him.
“At last, freedom! Adea and Wo-li get the ship’s main power up and running. Everyone else, load the supplies!”
They moved quickly, scurrying back and forth between the five parked trucks outside and the ship. After a few minutes, the Redemption breathed once more, with great jets of whitish gas venting from its drive bays, and the whir of the engines filling the complex with a deafening roar. For a moment Droux paused, with Eldis next to him, and beamed with satisfaction.
“Almost there! Just a couple of more minutes of loading, and we’ll be able . . . do you smell that?”
Eldis nodded, as a very strong odor of electricity and wet animal suddenly filled their throats.
“It’s the damned NnuG barrier!” cried Droux. “Get away from the ship!”
An energy field crackled to life around the ship like faint bluish lightning, coming down like a steel curtain in a tight radius around the vessel. Several were caught in its event horizon, and Eldis watched with horror as their bodies were sliced in two, falling dead without a sound.
“Damn!” yelled Droux, as he rallied those still outside the ship around him. “How many got in?”
“Only ten,” answered Eldis, doing a quick head count. “And we have no contact with them.”
“What do you think happened?” asked Eldis.
“Automatic defenses. They must have installed some new—”
A stern voice blared from an intercom. “Attention! This is CRODAM. The base is surrounded. Lay down your weapons at once.”
“Not a chance!” screamed Droux defiantly. “We’re not gonna be pacified like the others!”
Droux kept shouting to the cheers of those around him as Eldis found a corner and sat down on the cold ground. He was tired. He held his emdec close, absently gazing on the mighty ship sitting impotent before him.
Is this how it will end? He thought back on his childhood, which seemed to only exist during the year of the Ascension war. I lost my mother and father in that terrible war, only to end up like this? The main door to the hangar was open, and he could see the open night sky through it. The galaxy hung low, its mighty arms beckoning all to discover its secrets. But we’ve suffered through so much! How many died—billions? Numbers I can’t even imagine. And here we are, still fighting.
In the distance, he could hear them firing their emdecs, screaming profanity, while others moaned as the CRODAM officers mowed them down, stunning them into submission. Eldis folded into himself, dearly wishing he could be free of all before him.
He saw an officer approach him, his silver boots gleaming in the spotlight.
Eldis raised his emdec, and the officer stopped, saying something, trying to convince him to surrender. There must be more than this. If I dream it, it will be . . . He put the emdec to his throat, and pulled the trigger.
It was the shattering of the surface of a lake covered in fallen leaves. They scattered from the impact, shocked from their repose, but were drawn back as the surface tension reformed.
So it was with Eldis’ very essence, his tangible will. It shattered after the blast, as a large piece of his body was blown away.
In his mind, wraiths swirled, taunting him, ripping at him, seeking to tear the fabric of his being apart. He could feel something limitless and eternal yawn before him, seducing him to follow. It called for him to flee from all that was wrong and painful and foul. But the surface of his will remained unbroken, and as the emdec lay at his side, as the blood pooled around him, his will tightened and solidified, his inner m
ight tried to extinguish the eternal flame he knew was calling.
And yet, his body was broken beyond repair. No matter how much he wanted to get up and go away, somewhere, anywhere, nothing would obey his commands. He laid his head back as the CRODAM fools mouthed something he could no longer hear.
An image formed in his mind, full of warmth and sweetness, compassion and commiseration. To him, it was Oveio, her scent tasting like the nectar of limitless flowers. She begged him to follow, to let his will break into a thousand pearls to be scattered on the cosmic wind, and become one with the arms of all creation. She was as a star against the blackness of reality, and he knew he had seen it all somewhere before.
Target Audience
Mark Lewis
Cheryline’s invitation to dinner popped into Lance’s mind, and he smiled. It opened in the image of a flower unfolding its petals. He read it in his consciousness as it overlaid his view of the rain-drenched streets of Paris. The message gave him the location in Montmartre, tonight’s special menu, a map and a message: “Congratulations on the new job, dinner’s on me xxx”. Lance sent an affectionate message in response, direct via Psimail. Lance filed away the messages, then brought up a map to the nearest entrance to the Metro. He was soaked through, his hair flattened, but as he walked into the crowded, hot station his spirits were high with new-found hope.
The train was bustling; Lance leaned up against the fold-up seats. He was looking forward to seeing Cheryline; the new job would be a first step on the road to financial recovery, and hopefully the repair of their life together. The poverty, due to his redundancy had held their hopes back for things that many took for granted, a warm home together, and children. They had argued when he had let his Spamblock lapse, but he had no real choice; it was the only saving he had not already made. He was confident that he had the mental discipline to block out or at least disregard any direct mental advertising without the Spamblock barrier. There had been rumours of people without Spamblocks suffering mental breakdowns, but Lance reasoned that these were just rumours, the regulators would never allow dangerous thoughts to be beamed into people’s heads by the advertisers.
Wedged into the carriage, Lance heard saxophone music: must be a busker. The playing was skilled, but slightly corny, the sort of music sexy women manifested to in movies. He saw a woman, pushing confidently through the crowd. Her sea-blue eyes locked on him. She wore a yellow mini-skirt and pink vest, her skin was tanned, her dark brown hair loose and luxuriant, a mane. She was not entirely to Lance’s taste, but conventionally stunning. The siren pushed the last passenger out of the way and grasped Lance by his collar, pulling him towards her. She kissed him, long and deep. She drew away, leaving him wanting more. Then, she moved in towards him, this time her face close to his neck, and drew in a deep breath through her nose. A seductive smile grew on her face, and she whispered in his ear.
“Wildman anti-perspirant makes a beast of every woman.” At that, she turned around, then slinked away back in to the crowd. Lance stood, stunned. Embarrassed, he looked around at the other passengers, but they stood as if nothing unusual had happened. Perhaps it was an advert. If Spamblock kept out such events, then they could keep it. He beamed, despite himself.
Lance’s pleasant recollections were interrupted by the realisation that his arm was being held by a rough hand. He turned, to face his neighbour. The man’s pupils were absinthe-green, his gaze piercing. The pale man’s face was angular, his nose hooked.
“I know what you are doing,” he said, his breath reeking of onions. “I know about you and her.”
“What?” Lance protested. Too late, the green-eyed man had let go and was pushing into the crowd, after her. Shaken, Lance got off at the next stop. An advert? Was this some strange affair he had got inadvertently involved in? The taste of her kiss, then the reek of the man’s breath and those eyes had surely been too vivid to be adverts.
On guard, Lance followed the map in his mind to the bistro in Montmartre without further incident. The earlier rain of the evening had blossomed into a cool dusk. There was a reassuring smell of good food, and Cheryline was more beautiful than ever, her face lit up with happiness. Lance thought they could fall in love all over again. Cheryline’s skin was a healthy shade of pale, her chestnut-coloured hair swept back in a rough ponytail. She wore the silver crescent moon pendant he had given her on their first anniversary. Cheryline was lovely in all her familiarity compared to the Barbie-doll who had forcibly kissed him on the train. Harsh work reality and lack of money to enable them to enjoy their present or seriously plan for their hopes had wounded their love. It was recovering, though faltering, like a foal getting to its unsteady hooves.
There was no need to tell her about the encounters on the Metro, as they drank champagne, ate a selection of succulent meats with raclette cheese. Despite the romance of the evening and the enthusiastic conversation, Lance could not quite block out the vision at the window. The green eyes were locked on him. Lance’s consciousness of the eyes watching him, that no one else seemed to see, wore away his nerves until his enjoyment of Cheryline’s company declined into an act.
“I love you Cheryline, as much as I ever did, I hope you know.” He looked worried, as he spoke. “I know it’s been difficult.”
Her slender hand reached for his. It was warm and soft.
“It’s getting better,” she said. She grew a gentle smile. “That’s what matters. Now, what’s wrong?”
He shifted in his seat.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said. It was meant to be reassuring. He stood awkwardly and rushed to the door.
The street was cold. The green-eyed man had turned and was walking away, his long coat billowing in the wind. He stopped at the corner of the street and looked back, with a smirk. A challenge. Lance followed him, down the bistro-lined street, then down an alleyway, then another, onwards until the man was out of sight. Lance realised he had gone too far, lost track of time, in the eagerness of pursuit. He fired off an apologetic Psimail to her, but there was no read message, no response. Understandable, she would be upset at his strange behaviour. Cheryline would be worried, and upset. He sprinted back to the bistro, retracing his steps. Arriving out of breath, heart pounding, he looked around, frantic, for Cheryline. He staggered up to the counter, and asked the waiter where the lady was that he had been dining with.
“Gone,” he said, “some time after you left, with a man.”
Lance’s heart pounded.
“Another gentleman? Green eyes?”
“I didn’t get that close, the lady settled the bill,” he said with a smile.
This waiter should not have been able to see the green-eyed man, thought Lance. Unless the waiter was in on it too.
“Which way did they go?” Lance said.
The waiter pointed: the way Lance had gone, earlier.
“Have a good evening sir,” the waiter said, turning away to another customer. Lance ran out of the door.
He retraced his steps then stopped at the entrance to the Metro. The streets were unusually empty for this time of night. The green art deco lampposts held red lights that glowered like Martian eyes. From one, hung Cheryline’s crescent moon pendant. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Lance made his way down the steps. At the bottom, despite the darkness, he saw that a maintenance door was open. It was held open by a brown leather boot; just like Cheryline’s. Horrified, Lance swept the door open and charged in. The body lay twisted, discarded on the floor, like an unwanted doll that bled. Pinned to her bloodied blouse was a funeral card, inscribed with the words, which Lance recognised from Oscar Wilde:
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Next to the body lay a bloodied dagger. Lance brushed damp hair away from her face; it was not
Cheryline. The nose was straighter, the staring blue eyes larger, and her skin was tanned. It was the woman from the Metro, wearing Cheryline’s clothes. Lance turned the card over; the words ‘Green-eyed Monster’ were inscribed. The alert buzzed in his mind, a Psimail from Cheryline.
‘Help me,’ it said.
‘Where are you?’ He fired the Psimail reply out.
‘Dark. Our special place. Don’t know how he knows. Come quick.’ Lance dropped the funeral card to the floor, picked up the dagger, putting it into his jacket pocket then ran.
The tunnel of love, they had called it, in reality a sheltered alleyway where they had hidden from the rain, and the public, and found each other, where they had first hungrily kissed, two souls intertwining, new to each other, but as if they had known each other in different lives, different worlds. Unbidden, the image of that day flooded into his mind; the smell of rain, the warmth of her face pressed against his.
The vault was not far, Lance ran in, and then paused, bent over to catch his breath. The alleyway was as dark as the nickname suggested. He closed his mind to Psi intrusion, just in case the green-eyed man was playing games. Lance heard breathing; he heard footsteps tapping towards him. He saw an outline in bulky clothes. It rushed towards Lance. Lance pulled out the dagger. It was warm, the hilt still slick with the girl’s blood. He struck out at the body as it passed him, but missed. It rushed at him again, caught hold of his shoulders roughly, desperately. The hands shifted to Lance’s neck and grasped. Just in time, he pushed the knife under the bulky coat, through to the skin, and in, beneath the ribs.
Too late he saw the beautiful, familiar face, under the bulky hat. Saw, just as the light faded from her flickering eyes.
Lance recalled the words on the funeral card, and collapsed to the floor. Lance broke down, his hands shaking, as he felt the weight of the bloodied dagger. Holding its obscene weight in his hands, he saw his reflection, and the green eyes staring back at him.