by Paula Guran
The schedule is meant to be secret and followed precisely. The Secretary of Carbon rides her private subway car to the UN, but instead of remaining indoors and safe, she has to come into the sunshine, standing with ministers and potentates who have gathered for this very important conference. Reporters are sitting in rows and cameras will be watching from every vantage point, and both groups are full of those who don’t particularly like the Secretary. Part of her job is being despised, and fuck them. That’s what she thinks whenever she attends these big public dances. Journalists are livestock, and this is a show put on for the meat. Yet even as the scorn builds, she shows a smile that looks warm and caring, and she carries a strong speech that will last for three minutes, provided she gives it. Her words are meant to reassure the world that full recovery is at hand. She will tell everyone that the hands of her government are wise and what the United States wants is happiness for every living breathing wonderful life on this great world—a world that with God’s help will live for another five billion years.
For the camera, for the world, the Secretary of Carbon and her various associates invest a few moments in handshakes and important nods of the head.
Watching from a distance, without knowing anything, it would be easy to recognize that the smiling woman in brown was the one in charge.
The UN president shakes her hand last and then steps up to the podium. He was installed last year after an exhaustive search. Handsome and personable, and half as bright as he is ambitious, the President greets the press and then breaks from the script, shouting a bland “Hello” to the protesters standing outside the blast screens.
Five thousand people are standing in the public plaza, holding up signs and generated holos that have one clear message:
“END THE WARS NOW.”
The Secretary knows the time and the schedule, and she feels a rare ache of nervousness, of doubt.
When they hear themselves mentioned, the self-absorbed protesters join together in one rehearsed shout that carries across the screens. A few reporters look at the throng behind them. The cameras and the real professionals focus on the human subjects. This is routine work. Reflexes are numb, minds lethargic. The Secretary picks out a few familiar faces, and then her assistant pipes a warning into her sparkle-eyes. One of the Keystones has been set on fire.
In reflex, the woman takes one step backward, her hands starting to lift to cover her head.
A mistake.
But she recovers soon enough, turning to her counterpart from Russia, telling him, “And congratulations on that new daughter of yours.”
He is flustered and flattered. With a giddy nod, he says, “Girls are so much better than boys these days. Don’t you think?”
The Secretary has no chance to respond.
A hypersonic round slams through the atmosphere, heated to a point where any impact will make it explode. Then it drops into an environment full of clutter and one valid target that must be acquired and reached before the fabulous energies shake loose from their bridle.
There is no warning sound.
The explosion lifts bodies and pieces of bodies, and while the debris rises, three more rounds plunge into the panicked crowd.
Every person in the area drops flat, hands over their heads.
Cameras turn, recording the violence and loss—more than three hundred dead and maimed in a horrific attack.
The Secretary and new father lie together on the temporary stage.
Is it her imagination, or is the man trying to cop a feel?
She rolls away from him, but she doesn’t stand yet. The attack is finished, but she shouldn’t know that. It’s best to remain down and act scared, looking at the plaza, the air filled with smoke and pulverized concrete while the stubborn holos continue to beg for some impossible gift called Peace.
My grandmother is sharp. She is. Look at her once in the wrong way, and she knows something is wrong. Do it twice and she’ll probably piece together what makes a girl turn quiet and strange.
But not today, she doesn’t.
“What happened at school?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
“What are you watching, Ophelia?”
Nothing. My eyes have been blank for half a minute now.
“Something went wrong at school, didn’t it?”
Nothing is ever a hundred percent right at school, which is why it’s easy to harvest a story that might be believed. Most people would believe it, at least. But after listening to my noise about snippy friends and broken trusts, she says, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, honey. But that isn’t it.”
I nod, letting my voice die away.
She leaves my little room without closing the door. I sit and do nothing for about three seconds, and then the sparkle eyes take me back to the mess outside the UN. I can’t count the times I’ve watched the impacts, the carnage. Hundreds of cameras were working, government cameras and media cameras and those carried by the protesters. Following at the digitals’ heels are people talking about the tragedy and death tolls and who is responsible and how the war has moved to a new awful level.
“Where did the insurgents get a top-drawer railgun?” faces ask.
But I’ve carried Prophet for a couple years and fired him plenty of times. Just not into a public target like this, and with so many casualties, and all of the dead on my side of the fight.
That’s the difference here: The world suddenly knows about me.
In the middle of the slaughter, one robot camera stays focused on my real targets, including the Secretary of Fuel and Bullshit. It’s halfway nice, watching her hunker down in terror. Except she should have been in pieces, and there shouldn’t be a face staring in my direction, and how Prophet missed our target by more than fifty meters is one big awful mystery that needs solving.
I assume a malfunction.
I’m wondering where I can take him to get his guidance systems recalibrated and ready for retribution.
Unless of course the enemy has figured out how to make railgun rounds fall just a little wide of their goals, maybe even killing some troublemakers in the process.
Whatever is wrong here, at least I know that it isn’t my fault.
Then some little thing taps at my window.
From the next room, my grandmother asks, “What are you doing, Ophelia?”
I’m looking at the bird on my windowsill. The enemy uses rats, and we use robins and house sparrows. But this is a red-headed woodpecker, which implies rank and special circumstances.
The bird gives a squawk, which is a coded message that my eyes have to play with for a little while. Then the messenger flies away.
“Ophelia?”
“I’m just thinking about a friend,” I shout.
She comes back into my room, watching my expression all over again.
“A friend, you say?”
“He’s in trouble,” I say.
“Is that what’s wrong?” she asks.
“Isn’t that enough?”
Two rats in this alley don’t convince me. I’m watching them from my new haven, measuring the dangers and possible responses. Then someone approaches the three of us, and in the best tradition of ratdom, my companions scurry into the darkness under a pile of rotting boards.
I am a plastic sack filled with broken machine parts.
I am motionless and harmless, but in my secret reaches, inside my very busy mind, I’m astonished to see my Ridiculous back again so soon, walking toward the rat-rich woodpile.
Five meters behind her walks an unfamiliar man.
To him, I take an immediate dislike.
He looks prosperous, and he looks exceptionally angry, wearing a fine suit made stiff with nano-armor and good leather shoes and a platoon of jamming equipment as well as two guns riding in his pockets, one that shoots poisoned ice as well as the gun that he trusts—a kinetic beast riding close to his dominant hand.
Ridiculous stops at the rot pile.
The man ask
s, “Is it there?”
“I don’t know,” she says, eyes down.
My girl has blue sparkle eyes, much like her original eyes—the ones left behind in the doctor’s garbage bin.
“It looks like boards now?” he asks.
“He did,” she lies.
“Not he,” the man says, sounding like a google-head. “The machine is an It.”
“Right,” she says, kicking at the planks, pretending to look hard. “It’s just a big gun. I keep forgetting.”
The man is good at being angry. He has a tall frightful face and neck muscles that can’t stop being busy. His right hand thinks about the gun in his pocket. The fingers keep flexing, wanting to grab it.
His gun is an It.
I am not.
“I put it here,” she says.
She put me where I am now, which tells me even more.
“Something scared it,” she says. “And now it’s moved to another hiding place.”
The man says, “Shit.”
Slowly, carefully, he turns in a circle, looking at the rubble and the trash and the occasional normal object that might still work or might be me. Then with a tight slow voice, he says, “Call for it.”
“Prophet,” she says.
I say nothing.
“How far could it move?” he asks.
“Not very,” she says. “The firing drained it down to nothing, nearly. And it hasn’t had time to feed itself, even if it’s found food.”
“Bullshit,” he says, coming my way.
Ridiculous watches me and him, the tattooed Scripture above her blue eyes dripping with sweat. Then the man kneels beside me, and she says, “I put the right guidance codes into him.”
“You said that already.” Then he looks back at her, saying, “You’re not in trouble here. I told you that already.”
His voice says a lot.
I have no power. But when his hands reach into my sack, what resembles an old capacitor cuts two of his fingers, which is worth some cursing and some secret celebration.
Ridiculous’ face is twisted with worry, up until he looks back at her again. Then her expression turns innocent, pure and pretty and easy to believe.
Good girl, I think.
The man rises and pulls out the kinetic gun and shoots Ridiculous in the chest. If not for the wood piled up behind her, she would fly for a long distance. But instead of flying, she crashes and pulls down the wood around her, and one of those very untrustworthy rats comes out running, squeaking as it flees.
Ridiculous sobs and rolls and tries saying something.
He shoots her in the back, twice, and then says, “We never should have left it with you. All that luck dropping into our hands, which was crazy. Why should we have trusted the gun for a minute?”
She isn’t dead, but her ribs are broken. And by the sound of it, the girl is fighting to get one good breath.
“Sure, it killed some bad guys,” he says. “That’s what a good spy does. He sacrifices a few on his side to make him look golden in the enemy’s eyes.”
I have no strength.
“You can’t have gone far,” he tells the alley. “We’ll drop ordinance in here, take you out with the rats.”
I cannot fight.
“Or you can show yourself to me,” he says, the angry face smiling now. “Reveal yourself and we can talk.”
Ridiculous sobs.
What is very easy is remembering the moment when she picked up me out of the bricks and dust and bloodied bits of human meat.
He gives my sack another good kick, seeing something.
And for the first time in my life, I pray. Just like that, as easy as anything, the right words come out of me, and the man bending over me hears nothing coming and senses nothing, his hands playing with my pieces when a fleck of laser light falls out of the sky and turns the angriest parts of his brain into vapor, into a sharp little pop.
I’m still not breathing normally. I’m still a long way from being able to think straight about anything. Gasping and stupid, I’m kneeling in a basement fifty meters from where I nearly died, and Prophet is suckling on an unsecured outlet, endangering both of us. But he needs power and ammunition, and I like the damp dark in here, waiting for my body to come back to me.
“You are blameless,” he says.
I don’t know what that means.
He says, “You fed the proper codes into me. But there were other factors, other hands, and that’s where the blame lies.”
“So you are a trap,” I say.
“Somebody’s trap,” he says.
“The enemy wanted those civilians killed,” I say, and then I break into the worst-hurting set of coughs that I have ever known.
He waits.
“I trusted you,” I say.
“But Ridiculous,” he says.
“Shut up,” I say.
“Ophelia,” he says.
I hold my sides, sipping my breaths.
“You assume that this war has two sides,” he says. “But there could be a third player at large, don’t you see?”
“What should I see?”
“Giving a gun to their enemies is a huge risk. If the Americans wanted to kill their political enemies, it would be ten times easier to pull something out of their armory and set it up in the insurgency’s heart.”
“Somebody else planned all of this, you’re saying.”
“I seem to be proposing that, yes.”
“But that man who came with me today, the one you killed . . . he said the Secretary showed us a lot with her body language. She knew the attack was coming. She knew when it would happen. Which meant that she was part of the planning, which was a hundred percent American.”
“Except whom does the enemy rely on to make their plans?”
“Tell me,” I say.
Talking quietly, making the words even more important, he says, “The Almighty.”
“What are we talking about?” I ask.
He says nothing, starting to change his shape again.
“The Internet?” I ask. “What, you mean it’s conscious now? And it’s working its own side in this war?”
“The possibility is there for the taking,” he says.
But all I can think about are the dead people and those that are hurt and those that right now are sitting at their dinner table, thinking that some fucking Canadian bitch has made their lives miserable for no goddamn reason.
“You want honesty,” Prophet says.
“When don’t I?”
He says, “This story about a third side . . . it could be a contingency buried inside my tainted software. Or it is the absolute truth, and the Almighty is working with both of us, aiming toward some grand, glorious plan.”
I am sort of listening, and sort of not.
Prophet is turning shiny, which happens when his body is in the middle of changing shapes. I can see little bits of myself reflected in the liquid metals and the diamonds floating on top. I see a thousand little-girl faces staring at me, and what occurs to me now—what matters more than anything else today—is the idea that there can be more than two sides in any war.
I don’t know why, but that's the biggest revelation of all.
When there are more than two sides, that means that there can be too many sides to count, and one of those sides, standing alone, just happens to be a girl named Ophelia Hanna Hanks.
— Part Three —
Somewhere Between
Myth & Possibility
Theodora Goss’ narrator-warrior was only a child when the Empress came. Like many women, her mother enlists in the northern queen’s army and soon the Empress rules England by might and magic, eternal winter and fearsome wolves. Her promises of security, equality, and peace are fulfilled and her frigid empire spreads . . . but at what cost?
England Under the White Witch
Theodora Goss
It is always winter now.
When she came, I was only a child—in ankle socks, my hair tied back w
ith a silk ribbon. My mother was a seamstress working for the House of Alexandre. She spent the days on her knees, saying Yes, madame has lost weight, what has madame been doing? When madame had been doing nothing of the sort. My father was a photograph of a man I had never seen in a naval uniform. A medal was pinned to the velvet frame.
My mother used to take me to Kensington Gardens, where I looked for fairies under the lilac bushes or in the tulip cups.
In school, we studied the kings and queens of England, its principal imports and exports, and home economics. Even so young, we knew that we were living in the waning days of our empire. That after the war, which had taken my father and toppled parts of London, the sun was finally setting. We were a diminished version of ourselves.
At home, my mother told me fairy tales about Red Riding Hood (never talk to wolves), Sleeping Beauty (your prince will come), Cinderella (choose the right shoes). We had tea with bread and potted meat, and on my birthday there was cake made with butter and sugar that our landlady, Mrs. Stokes, had bought as a present with her ration card.
Harold doesn’t hold with this new Empress, as she calls herself, Mrs. Stokes would tell my mother. Coming out of the north, saying she will restore us to greatness. She’s established herself in Edinburgh, and they do say she will march on London. He says the King got us through the war, and that’s good enough for us. And who believes a woman’s promises anyway?
But what I say is, England has always done best under a queen. Remember Elizabeth and Victoria. Here we are, half the young men dead in the war, no one for the young women to marry so they work as typists instead of having homes of their own. And trouble every day in India, it seems. Why not give an Empress a try?
One day Monsieur Alexandre told my mother that Lady Whortlesham had called her impertinent and therefore she had to go. That night, she sat for a long time at the kitchen table in our bedsit, with her face in her hands. When I asked her the date of the signing of the Magna Carta, she hastily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and said, As though I could remember such a thing! Then she said, Can you take care of yourself for a moment, Ann of my heart? I need to go talk to Mrs. Stokes.