* * * *
The street-lights went out as Jed's bus pulled to a halt at his stop. He cursed along with the other commuters. Power-blackouts occurred with greater frequency every week as demand placed an enormous toll on ageing turbines that the government couldn't afford to replace. Faced with further cuts into an already overburdened wage packet, the public had agreed to grit its teeth and bear the situation until better times returned.
Jed shrugged philosophically and walked the rest of the way home. While it was nice to have a few extra dollars every week, that was no help when stranded on an empty street without a light for kilometres. It was hard to know who, exactly, to blame.
As one of his fellow-commuters had said earlier: ‘It's like cause and effect when causality works outside of time. This causes that, which itself causes this—round and round, forever, trapped in a perpetually downward spiral. Someone told me that just this morning. It's weird when you stop to think about it.'
The stickiness to his step when he walked up the hallway of the house alerted him to the fact that something was amiss. Then he tripped over the first of the bodies. Whoever it was had bled to death across the kitchen floor. Fumbling about in the darkness, he found a second body not far from the first. Spread-eagled and cold, definitely female. Next to it was a gun.
When he tried to call the police, the lines were down.
Suddenly Tate spoke out of the darkness:
'If the Universal Particle is confined to regions near an attractor, the net motion of the universe may be negligible. The strain builds up, nears breaking-point. Sometimes it needs help to break the cycle.'
Jed clutched for the source of the voice, but could feel nothing. ‘Where are you, Tate?’ His voice had a panicky edge to it. ‘Who are you? Why are you telling me these things?'
'Don't you see it yet? If every person is, at the most basic level, the same as every one else, then there's no longer any such thing as murder. There's only suicide, at one remove.'
'Tate!’ screamed Jed, clutching the gun to his chest. ‘Tate—help me!'
But his friend was gone.
Over a dark and angry horizon, fires started to burn.
* * *
NIKEI LOVE
Marianne de Pierres
Style Image is just a glorified tattooists and Sharin-A is a tough piece of work. But she's got a reputation as the best.
I watch the green fish on her wallpaper expel bubbles from their gills while she works.
'I had a run of your family in here,’ she remarks, sweating over her tools. ‘Last month it was ORRITO'S, this week NIKEI blends.'
I act deaf, but she keeps pushing it.
'You look like a ‘ridgie', though. How come you want a blend brand?'
I get cold all over. This nosy tattooist has got me picked even before I set flipper on the pavement.
I'm NIKEI family, but that doesn't mean much. NIKEI is a world family; one of the biggest. Them and IMT. What Sharin-A's picked, though, is that I'm an original, a silver spooner, not one of the millions of blends. Original, blood, compound-raised NIKEI means money, connections, power. Christ, it means fucking immortality!
Originals—'ridgies—don't hang around divey tattoo parlours scoring blend brands.
So where does that leave me?
Too damn obvious, that's where!
I notice her shoes. ‘Nice leather,’ I remark, trying to throw her off balance. Leather only comes in illegally, on off-world ore traders. ‘You know some off-worlders?'
Sharin-A flinches, flicking her laser like a throwing knife; darting me a scowl.
I smile.
That shuts her up for a while, and the pulse of her sculpting scalpel almost has me out to it in the chair. That and lack of sleep.
I've been looking over my shoulder ever since word got around the Nikei Swim team that we were in for the cut. That's why I was here, slumming it on the Corpus strip.
Sharin-A proves as good as her reputation and soon I have a common blend tattoo—a basketball that spins out the faces of the legends. An extra hundred bucks for the tiny audio implant and you can even hear them trash talk.
I pass on that, though. I've got enough voices in my head. Pure breds are like that, they say.
Out on the boardwalk the air sticks to my face, sending rivulets streaming down my back. The orange neon outside Style Image splutters like a dirty cough.
I disguise my shape under the stifling weight of a driza-bone coat. I've deliberately worn it thin in places, so I don't smell like money.
Despite what they say, ‘ridgies’ aren't all brawn. We're just super athletes. I mean you can't help your genetics, can you? Qualify that! Of course you can help genetics—but if you were born a ‘ridgie’ would you change things?
Only if you were in my position.
I'm a swimmer, born and bred. Tall yeah! Most ‘ridgies’ are. But my body's smooth as velvet, no drag in the water. My fingers and toes are webbed like big paddles. Genetics. I got eight gold Solar Olympic butterflies and three Pan-Jovian backstrokes. The coach tells me it's not enough. Not economically vi-able. He wants to dump me in a vat and re-mix my tissue. See if he can come up with something better.
I hike a couple of blocks in my heavy coat and try not to worry about dehydrating or who's watching me. Wiggers hair specialists is on the same side as Style Image, but set back into an alcove. In the dark I accidentally brush against a man leaving.
'Watch the hair,’ he snarls.
Wiggers was built in the same era as the tattooists, but the girl sitting behind the desk is no Sharin-A. Violet-black hair streams past her knees. Her face is a perfect, white oval. As I get closer I notice her eyes are framed by tangled, red eyelashes. The girls that I'm used to don't have hair, only determination.
She stares dully at the vid screen. The sound crackles and glubs like an underwater disco. On impulse I reach behind and tug the input cable. It's loose and I jam it back in place.
'Thanks.’ She breaks eye contact with the screen in surprise and motions to the specials. ‘What number?'
I scan the board. ‘Umm ... twenty-five, please.'
She stares harder.
I curse myself. Nobody says ‘please’ down on Corpus.
'Twenty-five. Body re-foliation? Fill this out.’ She leans across the desk and I notice the skin under her armpit is the same white as her face. No pigment mismatch. Maybe even authentic.
'Press the colour shade you want. Don't forget to nominate length and ethnic preference.'
When I finish with the form she leads me to a cubicle that smells of shampoo. She passes me a robe.
'Put this on. Rules say I have to wait ‘til you do.'
I turn my back on her to climb into it. Modesty, partly.
She seems surprised again, eyes my hairless body curiously.
I know I'm oiled all over from sweat.
'Lie down,’ she says.
My feet hang over the end.
She busies herself folding my coat. ‘You been radiated or something?'
'Yeah.’ It sounds as good as any answer.
'Tough.’ She shrugs. ‘The Doc'll be here in a minute.'
The hair re-foliation takes about an hour and a half. I lay there wondering if my hep boosters are activated.
The Doc finishes up, his masked face covered in a layer of fine, loose body hair.
I don't ask him where it comes from.
He sneezes, then slips off the mask. ‘Your scalp and pubic hair will take twenty-four hours to thicken. Don't rub them until the roots have had time to burrow. Pay on your way out.'
The girl is watching a news bulletin.
Universal Sports Incorporated has announced a halt on all swimming competitions while the economic viability of the sport is examined. Nikei and Uncle Tostie's swimmers have been confined to the Inc. body's home offices during this evaluation period. Rumours leaked to UBC reporters suggest that the athletes may be subjected to physical ‘re-constitution'. UNINC deny such claim
s.
In other news...
We stare at each other. I hold my breath and wonder if she'll call the sports militia. There'd be a reward. Rogue Nikei's like me bring thousands. The family hates it when ‘ridgies desert and the gene pool is diluted. There is more than enough trash on the streets.
Her red lashes flutter closed for a moment, like she's communing. When she opens them the corners stay tangled together.
I want to smooth them.
'That'll be three thousand kinos.’ She takes my money and counts it carefully. Then she looks at me straight. ‘You look like a ball player?'
I let my breath out, unsteadily, and finger Sharin-A's fresh tattoo. ‘Yeah, ‘ball. Nothing special though. Just a regular blend. HiiBak and Converse family.'
'I'm Revlon. But my mum was an Estee,’ she says, sort of shy. ‘I'm gonna be in make up one day.'
'Maybe I could see you sometime?'
'Yeah. I'd like that.'
I slip on my ‘driza’ and step out into the street night. The Pigmentors sign is a steady pink beam of lettering a half a block away on the other side. It'll take a coupla days for the hair to grow and the new skin colour to take, and then I'll come back.
Hope she recognises me.
* * *
THE TEMPTATION OF MAEL
Chris McMahon
Mael knew the day would come. His Magi powers had kept death at bay for more than two thousand years, but they would not protect him this time.
He was in his vestry, a small study set just off from the church itself, where he had his desk and sacred garments. The room was filled with an odd assortment of old wooden furniture, shelves and tabletops, all crammed with books and mementoes. An ancient black and white television sat in one corner, covered with dust. An old, black cradle telephone with a silver dialling wheel sat on his desk. In the centre of the room was a low table set with a stone chess board and ornately carved figurines. Chess was one of the few diversions he allowed himself ... well, that and the occasional bottle of ale, which he brewed himself in the ancient tradition.
Mael opened a wardrobe. The familiar smell of old wood and cloth greeted him as he swung open the dark wooden door. Some of his robes were centuries old, their faded cloth as familiar as his well-worn Latin prayers.
Memories, too many memories, boiling under the surface of his mind like hot tar ready to burn.
Mael's mind swept back across the years. He wore boiled leather armour, studded with iron disks. His son, Kivric Longarm, was at his side. Of all his many sons and daughters, Kivric alone, born from one of Mael's Irish slaves, had inherited the Magi talent. Like Mael, Kivric was tall and lean; yet where Mael's eyes were a cool green, his son's were as dark as coal. A score of handpicked warriors were drawn up behind them in the woods. They were disciplined and well equipped. Men with the strength and ferocity of the Vikings and yet trained in the best military arts of the Old Empire. Nothing could stop him. His destiny—to rule an Immortal Empire—was before him.
With studied ease, Mael returned his mind to the present.
He pushed aside the garments, reached to the back of the wardrobe and lifted the cobblestones one by one until he found what he sought—an ancient longsword wrapped in oiled rags. Mael unwrapped the weapon with a reverence usually reserved for the sacraments. The steel was darkened with age and dried oil, but the edge was still razor sharp. Its bronze hilt was set with dark gems and red enamel. Across the blade were the long winding marks of the Viking smith.
How long had it been since he had wielded a weapon in anger?
He felt the tide of memory rise once more—a flood of light, sound, taste and smell—ready to engulf him, but he pushed it aside. He would find no answers there.
Mael reached for the hilt. He felt his strength flow into the weapon like an electric charge, surrounding it in an unseen nimbus of power. Now it would be an extension of his will. With it he could pierce the shielding energies of another Magi. With it he could kill his son.
'Why, Kivric? Why force me to this?'
He raised the weapon, ready to fight, but a voice spoke in his mind.
No!
Mael's eyes widened and the sword lowered to his side. He had not heard her voice in centuries. A voice, a power, that had changed him.
The vestry was silent
The longsword's hilt felt cold and dead and he laid it down on the stone cobbles. Mael grasped the cross at his neck and kissed it, pressing it into his brow.
'Help me find the strength,’ prayed Mael. ‘Is it so wrong to fight for my life?’ Mael seized up the sword once more. ‘The decision is mine!'
Silence answered.
Mael could smell the sea. Around him the dark shadows of the cloister disappeared giving way to a bright, grassy sward and the sounds of war...
* * * *
A gentle slope ran down from the forested hill where they were assembled toward the sea. Just below was a royal pavilion, lightly guarded and, in the distance, the plain of Clontarf upon which the forces of the Irish High King Brian Boru and his ally Tadhg Mor O'Kelly fought the forces of Sitric Silkbeard—and were winning. Damn Sitric! Could that idiot do nothing right? It had taken Mael years to sway Sitric, to convince him the time was right to take Ireland with his Viking forces, and now he was losing. It was time to sway the conflict. Mael's mind swept out across the field. If you seek to kill the snake, cut off the head. Or in this case, the heads. Good. Tadhg and his son have already fallen. At length he found what his was seeking. Prince Murrough, Brian's son and leader of the High King's forces, had taken a break from battle, his arm wounded. Through his mind's eye, Mael could see Murrough as he bent to wash himself at a nearby stream.
Mael turned to one of his warriors.
'Anrud. Take five men and run to the stream behind the rise,’ said Mael pointing. ‘There you will find prince Murrough. Kill him and bring me his head.'
Anrud grinned as he loped across the grass, his Viking warriors close behind him.
Mael returned his gaze to the pavilion in the clearing below him. Inside the royal tent the High King knelt in prayer. Mael laughed.
'Your God cannot help you now, Brian. You sanctimonious old bastard.'
'Brodar!'
A lean, battle-hardened warrior ran to Mael's side.
'Yes, Master.'
'I have a special treat for you. Take five men and run to the tent below. Kill the High King and his advisers. Then bring his head to me. His head and Murrough's will make powerful standards for our forces to take into battle.'
Brodar grinned, hefting his single-handed battle-axe with familiar grace. He began to move away but froze as Kivric spoke.
'Master. We have been discovered!’ growled Kivric. A single figure approached them, appearing suddenly from the forest. She was walking up the slope from the direction of the High King's pavilion.
Silence descended.
Mael was suddenly alarmed. Only a skilled Magi could have evaded the questing tendrils of his mind.
Kivric turned to wave their men forward, but Mael caught his arm.
'No, wait.'
Mael focused his powers, concentrating them on the approaching woman. The sounds of battle, the turbulent emotions of his men, the blood lust of Kivric—all faded away. Time slowed down as each Magi's magic met and meshed at the boundaries of their power. He felt Kivric's power join with his own. Around Mael, his men and the warriors on the field of war slowed their movements then, finally, stood like statues, frozen in the moment. The smell of the grass and the forest around him grew to an overpowering pungency. The silence grew deeper, the air thick like crystal.
Mael tested the other Magi's guard, and met a solid wall of resistance. Such strength! This was something he had not counted on, another Magi working behind the High King. It explained a lot. King Brian's luck had been too good.
The woman was dressed in a simple, white robe, reminiscent of the ancient garb of the Ingheau Anndagha, the nine Daughters of the Flame who tended the fi
res of Bridget. The once pure white robe had rotted around her, as though wrapped around a statue exposed to the elements. She was barely five feet tall and finely featured, with long, unwashed light brown hair. Her skin was as white as a corpse, rough as bark, and heavily lined. Her lips were cracked and broken. On a crude leather strap around her neck hung a teardrop-shaped amulet the size of a fist. It appeared to be carved from bone. As he looked closer, the designs on the pendant began to swirl before his mind's eye. A Si artefact!
Slowly the laws of Time reasserted themselves, and the Magi drew nearer. On the plain below the battle continued.
'She looks like a beggar!’ snapped Kivric.
But she was a Magi, blessed with strength and immortality, and power over the minds of men.
Kivric's steel longsword slid from its scabbard. The carefully honed blade glistened in the sun. Mael could sense the field of power that surrounded the weapon and stepped back instinctively.
'No, Kivric. She is too powerful. I will face her alone.'
Mael walked down the hill to meet the strange challenger. The woman was ancient. Her knowledge of immortality must have come late in life, hence her shrivelled form. But a master Magi could defend herself without weapons. She was not one of the Si, despite the amulet—he would have sensed their alien power immediately—besides they rarely stirred from their places of power.
Mael halted ten paces from the Magi and drew his longsword. He channelled his power into the weapon, preparing for combat.
'I am the Magi, Mael! Identify yourself,’ he said in heavily accented Irish. He tried channelling a tendril of power into the old Magi's mind, but it was casually brushed aside. ‘Who are you, old woman? Are you the best warrior that High King Brian can offer against my host?’ It was a weak jibe; Mael felt his confidence slip.
'I am Aibheel. As for swords, I have none, for I have not come to you in the guise of war.’ The woman spoke softly, calmly and without the slightest hint of fear. Mael studied her more carefully, superstitious fear growing in his heart. Aibheel, a Celtic goddess of fire and radiance.
Journeys of the Mind Page 14