Terrible Cherubs: Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets

by Steve Wetherell

  Two men with small suitcases file in, followed by a scowling battering ram of a brunette. She towers over all three of the men with the help of a pair of red stiletto heels, but I have a feeling she would still have at least an inch on Ethan without them. Clearly, she enjoys her intimidating presence, judging by how she carries herself. If she isn’t an Analogue, she probably models herself after one. Her two peons stand silently beside her, both of them of Indian descent, their skin the color of burnt caramel. I know one of them. Where have I seen him?

  I’m feeling a lot less sure of myself right now. My memory and instincts are scattershot. All I can sense is danger blinking in my head like a red light.

  Ethan starts to speak, but the woman grabs his arm and whips him around to examine the scratches on his back. “My God, what the hell did you do to her?” she demands.

  “Nothing I wasn’t supposed to!”

  “Oh come on. She has been perfect on every test, and right before we go to production, she snaps? You broke protocol, and the warden and Mr. Ambrose both are going to have a goddamn field day with you.”

  Ethan looks pained and afraid, and I can’t even process the rest of what she just said. Warden? Is Ethan a prisoner?

  “I’m telling you, Olga, she’s just not right yet. I followed the script perfectly, but she’s changing somehow. It’s a bug.” The others lean forward, like I’m a strange new insect pinned to a board.

  One of the men, the one I know from somewhere, hunkers down and examines my hands. “How was she in the coffee shop? Aggressive at all?”

  Ethan shakes his head. “No. She was normal, I guess. She had the Americano like always, drank a few sips, checked me out. We pretty much talked about the same stuff as always.”

  Olga raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘pretty much?’”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember every single word. I’m not an Analogue, remember?”

  “Did she do the coffee metaphor?”

  “Yes. The one about the gym sock.”

  I cry out again, but no one seems to hear or care. It’s as if I’m stuck inside an airtight jar. They’ve drugged me. That much is clear. How else would I be paralyzed? I can’t imagine what they plan to do with me next.

  Oh Ethan, how could I have been so wrong about you?

  “Did she drop the coffee cup?” asks Olga.

  Ethan looks like he’s barely holding onto his patience, but he rolls his eyes. “Yes, she always drops the cup. This isn’t a motor thing.”

  That’s when it occurs to me where I’ve seen the Indian man kneeling before me. He cleaned up my spilled coffee! I . . . I can barely think. His fingers are flying across that tablet, and it’s making my head spin.

  Olga turns to Ethan, hands planted on her generous hips. “You’re going to tell me everything that happened while Naveen cleans your wounds.”

  “Look, that’s not necessary. I’ll just take a shower while you review the footage.”

  “Nonsense. Those scratches are deep and will get infected if we don’t treat them. And I want to hear it all in your words, because if you’re trying to game this whole thing in some way, I’ll smell it on your breath. All you convicts are the same.”

  The other man, Naveen presumably, opens up his case and pulls out first aid materials. Ethan winces as the alcohol-soaked gauze makes contact with his broken flesh. Definitely human, those winces. Worse than any from Freshies coffee. He looks over at me, and his eyes soften. Even now, in spite of everything I have seen and heard, my heart swells with affection. That’s real. The rest of this . . . well, it can’t be. There has to be an explanation for it. Something other than what it looks like.

  “Did you tell her the story about your bio mother?” Olga asks.

  “Yes.”

  “How did she react?”

  “Concerned, curious. The same as always.”

  “And she conversed with you about wishing the Dawning hadn’t happened? Did anything change there?”

  “Word for word, the identical discussion.” He’s lying. The hesitation before he answers is so slight you could almost miss it, and I hope Olga does.

  The man flashes a penlight in my eyes and starts typing on a tablet. “How did she respond when you asked the flight risk question? Did she become agitated or express a desire to flee?”

  “No. She has no interest in leaving New York.” No hesitation this time, but most certainly a lie. Is he trying to protect me? They could find out the truth easily enough, but it’s possible he’s hoping they won’t check. A hell of a gamble on his part.

  “Who initiated the sexual encounter? Was it you or her?” Naveen asks.

  Ethan runs his hand through his hair. “She did, actually. I guess she was a touch more forward overall, which probably explains the scratches, you know, during.”

  The corner of Olga’s thin red mouth turns up in a grin as she looks at me. “Isn’t that interesting? Rajat, you may have to recalibrate our girl’s libido just a touch. She’s supposed to be a demure virgin. If I wanted a sex kitten, I would have given her bigger tits.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Rage and confusion are all I understand right now. They’re talking about me as if I am a product. An Analogue. Impossible! I am a human being. I have parents and memories and two cats named Liam and Ringo. I have flaws. My name is Renee . . . what’s my last name?

  “At what point during the act did she give you those scratches?” Olga asks.

  “Near the end. I think she had an orgasm. A real one.”

  Olga and her two assistants look at one another and burst out laughing. “I am sorry, but that is impossible,” says Rajat. “We haven’t coded anything to that degree.”

  “That’s what you say, but I felt it. And feel free to have a look at my back again. Obviously something changed.”

  Olga starts pacing in the same place Ethan was earlier. “I knew this would happen when you started programming in that blasted skin disease, Rajat. It’s autoimmune. It affects every system, not just skin. We’re playing with fire here, and Mr. Ambrose is not going to stand for it.”

  “I will have another look when we get her back to the lab, Ma’am,” Rajat says. I can see sweat beading up on his forehead, and all I want to do is cry. My one irrefutable badge of humanity is nothing more than unstable computer code programmed by a terrified Indian engineer. I am an Analogue. I can feel my heartbeat, and the way it swelled with joy when Ethan kissed me, and when he was inside me. When he whispered he loved me.

  I wasn’t sure if it was true then, but now I know it is, because he’s met me many times before. Is that why he feels so familiar to me? Maybe an imprint of him remains.

  Ethan is sitting on the bed watching me, those blue eyes holding all his years on display. Years that saw the inside of a prison and whatever horrors led him there. I’m sending him everything I have, begging him to help me. And he has to, because he loves me. I know by the way he whispered it, barely audible even to me, so these three wouldn’t hear.

  “Well clearly we’re not ready for production,” Olga says. “Mr. Ambrose will be upset at another delay, but I think with a little convincing, he will allow a few more tests. We need this one to be perfect, gentlemen. There is no room for error, not even for me.”

  Ethan stands up. “I’ll be ready to go again tomorrow.”

  Olga rolls her eyes. “Nonsense. Not with those scratches on your back, Casanova. We’ll go with your understudy and swap out her memory files. If we need you again, we’ll call.”

  “No, come on! I know her better than anyone else. You can’t switch horses in midstream. My back will heal up fine.”

  I feel a faint trickle of hope. Yes, Ethan. That’s it. Fight for me. I don’t know who you are or what led you into the employ of these monsters, but I know you’re not one of them.

  The woman sneers at him. “Oh would you look at this, boys? Our tester has gone and fallen in love with our girl.” She throws her withering black gaze my way. “Not that I
can blame you one little bit. She is quite lovely. I modeled her after myself, only less . . . imposing.”

  “It isn’t about that,” Ethan mutters. His lie is obvious to everyone in the room now.

  She comes over to him and strokes the side of his face in a way I can’t tell is motherly or something more. Either way, I don’t like it. “Sure sure. Look, I see it all the time. You convicts are all so pathetic and lonely, and too tired of using each other for companionship. It’s why you’re so damn useful for this job. Go ahead and love her. It helps ensure you’ll do what it takes to protect our assets. But we’ve given you one job.” She raises one long finger, which is tipped with a long red fingernail. “One. Follow the script to the letter. If you can’t manage that, there are hundreds of other inmates on the waitlist anxious to take your place. Is that clear?”

  Sufficiently cowed, Ethan hangs his head. Meanwhile, I have another dozen or so reasons to weep, if only I could. “Yes, Ma’am. Perfectly clear.”

  “Good.” She looks at Rajat. “Get her dressed. We can’t take her out of here naked as the day she was built. Appearances are still important. And go ahead and wipe her memory. I’m satisfied enough with the convict’s statement, and we don’t really have time to verify every little thing.”

  “Please, let me dress her,” Ethan says. “I do it every time.”

  Olga sighs. “Fine, just make it snappy. We’re going to be up all night debugging and rebuilding half of her databases.”

  It physically hurts to hear my consciousness referred to so mechanically. If only they knew the miracle they’d created, but they’re fools, proof the human race is still far too myopic and dangerous to save itself.

  Ethan gathers my skirt, blouse, and undergarments from the floor at foot of the bed and starts dressing me. It should frighten me how practiced he seems at this, but I feel safer when he’s close. Better him than those other three, especially the woman who looks at me like a wayward dog in need of severe training. As he buttons my blouse, he reaches up to straighten up my hair, and the barest whisper leaves his mouth, which I realize now I can only hear because I don’t have human ears.

  “I’ll get us out of here. I promise.”

  When he steps back, he still looks afraid, but hopeful. I wish I could tell him I received the message, and will do everything in my power to keep it safe. And tomorrow, when he asks me if I’ve ever thought about leaving New York, the secret part of my mind holding onto this memory will speak up, tell me to take him by the hand and say, “Let’s leave right now.”

  Rajat is typing away madly on his tablet, and I can hear a ringing in my ears, distant but growing closer. It’s the sound of my dying memories. Soon I will know only darkness.

  Ethan winks at me. “See you tomorrow.”

  Yes. Tomorrow. When I wake up, I will see him again for the first time. But I will have his promise with me, the one I’m carrying now into the void.

  Continue reading or return to table of contents.

  The Dragon is in the Details

  Thomas Cardin

  On the morning’s rising tide, a small river sloop jigged past several departing fishing boats to tie up at the Capistrael docks. Two men, the only persons aboard, hopped ashore and stared upward at the rising spiral of a city. The larger of the two men, he with a large leaf-bladed spear extending high over his back, wore the leathers and furs of a northerner. The smaller man concealed much of his appearance and shape beneath a voluminous dark cloak.

  Vittaro turned his gaze away from the ancient city to eye the leaf-bladed spear rearing high above Sigmeyer’s shoulder. “It’s a big mistake to carry that thing around out in the open.”

  Sigmeyer let loose a heavy sigh. “Again with this? Where do you suggest I hide it? Under my cloak like you hide your arsenal? It is over eight feet long. Are you suggesting I fold it up somehow?”

  “Have you tried? It is magical after all.” Vittaro lowered his voice and ducked deeper beneath his dark hood. “Listen, all I am saying is perhaps you should cover it up like you always have and leave it on the boat. Why today do you have to carry it with you?”

  “That from you?” Sigmeyer chuckled deep in his broad chest. “He who locks all his belongings down at night behind a dozen trip wires and traps? I will not risk it to thieves. I know how they work. Regardless, I have told you, today is different.”

  They stepped off of the guano stained dock and onto the broad, stone-paved avenue, a great stairway that spiraled up toward the central white palace of Capistrael. Every few strides they met with a half-foot rise.

  Vittaro silently tallied the number of dockhands and citizens who likewise threw a glance toward the long spear. “What makes today different?” he asked.

  “It is the fourth day of the Month of the Child, is it not?”

  Vittaro sniffed at the cold spring air blowing in off the sea. “I suppose it is.”

  “Well then today is the day that I am supposed to come to this city and find a sorcerer to divine its purpose and lore. I have carried it with me for over three years, waiting for today.”

  “Very well,” Vittaro said with a roll of his narrow shoulders. “Can we at least find this sorcerer first—before you find an inn and get started on drinking? I’ll even pay for half his fee. I do not like the word inscribed at the base of the spearhead. It is a bad thing, I’m sure of it.”

  Sigmeyer halted to round on the smaller Vittaro. “But do you know what it says? No. And you are going to pay for all of it, drinks as well. Your purse is bulging from last night’s winnings on the ore barge. Winnings I earned you.”

  “You won your bout all by yourself, did you?” Vittaro said. “You know that rum I brought you beforehand had more than just rum in it. You must have felt it surging through your already sizeable muscles.” He made a show of placing his hands on his hips. The practiced gesture brushed his dark cloak back to expose the hilts of several long blades.

  “Oh, Lady’s tangled web! Are you using the deadly act on me? We have been together since I found you in the pits of Baddaska. Put your toys away.” Sigmeyer turned to continue up the rising avenue. “I still would have won without you slipping me whatever that was,” he added under his breath.

  Vittaro’s ears missed nothing, but he let his cloak fall and continued beside his friend. “You needed an edge. I think that guy had some ogre blood somewhere in his family tree.”

  “Hah, I know you better than that. You would not bet on me unless it was a sure thing.”

  “So you are saying it wasn’t a sure thing before that rum? Half, and you’re on your own for your drinks.”

  Sigmeyer sighed. “Very well. Speaking of family trees, are you still sticking with your story?”

  “My story?”

  “I know you are not a half elf, my dusky-skinned friend.”

  Vittaro sputtered. “Of course I am! As I have told you many times, my father was an elf, my mother a dark-skinned woman from southern Ousenar. She was of pure ancient Zuxran blood.”

  “And I have told you many times, I have met half elves before, and you are not one. They are not a mix between humans and elves, but a race unto themselves. They are only called half elves because they tend to be larger boned and more human-like in appearance than true elves. More importantly, elves and humans cannot interbreed.”

  “You speak out of ignorance, my friend. Such breeding was possible because of my mother’s rare blood.”

  “Your mother could not have been a Zuxran. Zuxrans were among the ancients, most of whom died in the Cataclysm. The only survivors were folk of the Keth valley on Erenar, and this is long before half elves appeared on Vorallon.”

  “You know your history, I’ll not dispute that, but there were indeed survivors on Ousenar. They feared persecution from those very same survivors across the Vestral Sea and so they kept their existence hidden. You’ll not read of them in any dusty books.”

  “Very well then, if your mother traces her lineage so far back, surely she has told yo
u what the nature of the great Cataclysm was?”

  “A disease,” Vittaro answered without pause. “A virulent disease that killed plants, animals, and people alike.”

  Sigmeyer chuckled again. “Now you are just spouting what the sages spread among the commoners who have half an ear to listen.”

  “I am sure you are going to tell me something else is true. You have some mystical knowledge that none other in all of Vorallon knows?”

  “Oh, I am not the only man who knows, Vittaro,” Sigmeyer said. “Well, perhaps I could be, but I do not believe so. I offer you an exchange. If someday you are honest with me about your heritage, then soon shall follow from my lips the truth of Vorallon’s past.”

  He stopped as he said this last, turning toward the facade of a tall building of cut stone blocks and blackened iron trim. Sigils and glyphs adorned the heavy doorway.

  “If this is not the abode of a sorcerer then I do not know what is,” Sigmeyer said, pulling the long spear from the leather sling at his back. The dry rasp of its ironwood shaft made Vittaro flinch back, but he hid the twitch with a shifting of his cloak.

  Vittaro nodded toward the glyphs. “That is the ancient divine script.”

  “And I am sure you cannot read it either.”

  “Well no, but it is unmistakable.”

  Sigmeyer cast a long look at Vittaro before turning back to the door and rapping upon it with a leather-gauntleted fist. They waited but a moment before the iron portal cracked open enough to expose half of a wizened old face.

  “Who sent you?” a thready voice rasped.

  “We are free men, none sent us,” Sigmeyer said. “We seek the divining power of a sorcerer. We have gold.”

  “You are not from the king?”

  “No, we do not even know who the king is here,” Sigmeyer said. “But I imagine he lives in the palace at the top of this mountain of a city.”