IGMS Issue 48

by IGMS

  In transport, as the family puked their guts out because it had been their first exposure to high doses of radiation, his old man had called him weak even as he vomited beside Stepan. But the pay was worth it. A decade as a scrounger could earn a person more than fifty decades of working planetside.

  Stepan was now approaching his twentieth year on the station. With the savings he'd earned in lower management they could afford a comfortable tract of land on any midgrade planet. His supervisor had hinted that the company would make him an offer before the year was out, promote him yet again, but even before his son Jem had died, his mind was set to get out while he still had all his teeth and most of his hair. At least, that's what he told himself. He wouldn't know until the offer was in front of him.

  His father had lasted eight years before the old man wandered onto the deck of a curie ship without ceremony or goodbye. Sometimes Stepan wondered what the man saw before he crossed into the beyond and prayed to whatever shred of faith he had that he never had to find out.

  The girl beside him chuckled as if he were the child. "Yes, I mean faith. With it we can understand our place in the pattern, but without it voids form. The more gaps the more chaos, the more chaos the less civility. And without that we lose society. Death should be embraced if life is to have weight . . . beauty." With that, the girl turned and started away from the ship.

  For a moment, Stepan indeed felt like a child listening to an acolyte speak to the masses standing before the heavy altar. Priests never entered a temple unless they were dead. Their bodies secured in lead-lined coffins, which the altars were then constructed around so that every temple was symbolically fueled by faith. As he hurried after her, he wondered where the girl would end up, and how much devotion she might inspire.

  When they entered the long corridor of the marketplace, people screamed, diving out of the way to make a path for the curie priest. Most hid behind atomboxes even though they were just shielding themselves with more radiation. Stepan followed her at a distance, but once they were halfway through the streets she paused and turned to him.

  "I don't know where I'm going." She held out her tiny hand as if in challenge.

  Stepan stared as if the delicate fingers were molten red and ready to burn him to the bone. If he didn't take it his fear would be obvious, which would give the priest control. His father had taught him that much at least. Fear drew out the patterns of dominance.

  She smirked and nodded toward a nearby glove sitting discarded among the overturned mess of a table.

  Stepan ignored the glove and took the girl's delicate hand. It was cold and soft to the touch. People nearby gasped, and the looks of horror reserved for the priest transferred to him. Distantly, he hoped nobody from his team found out. But he shoved that fear away too, drinking in their expressions and savoring the control. If he walked up to any of them they would give him whatever he wanted at whatever price. The realization sparked his hope. If his wife could be cowed out of her insanity then a bit of exposure was worth it.

  "Your strength may be a weakness," she said, squeezing his hand. "Learn to bend and you'll travel far, I think."

  Since he had no idea how to respond to that, he grunted. And with deliberately slow steps, he guided the curie priest to his quarters. She released his hand and he opened the door. From behind, the eyes of the anti-grief counselors dug into his back. The company watched from unseen cameras set up around the apartment, for which his wife had paid large sums.

  The small residence was dominated by a single large room with a kitchen and living room shoved together. The open space was separated by a long lavender sofa. To either side lay bedrooms with cramped bathrooms attached. Since it was just the two of them, downgrading to a smaller unit would save a fortune, but they wouldn't have had room for all of Jem's stuff.

  Even though Stepan had taken a moment and thrown the toys back into his son's pointless bedroom before he went out to find the priest, they again lay scattered about the apartment. Building blocks of half-finished trees and planetside houses rested on the coffee table ready to be completed tomorrow by unseen hands, only to be torn down the next day for another mockery of a child's imagination. The anti-grief counselors were good at their work. Drawings of trees Jem had never painted, or seen, clung to the refrigerator, and even his smell, little boy sweat and candy defiled the air. More than once, Stepan wondered how the anti-griefs had manufactured his son's scent.

  Some nights, as he lay naked in the open living room of the apartment, he could imagine that his son lay sleeping in the next room. The family was whole and tragedy had never touched them. His bare body, which he would never expose out in the open if his son had been alive, brought him back to the sanity of reality. Jem was dead. It was a childless home filled with disgusting reminders.

  "What is it you wish me to accomplish?" the curie said.

  "What?" Stepan stared down at the strange creature, unsure how to answer.

  She said, "I know what I wish, and I will get it, but I find it best to be open about motives."

  For a moment, he wanted to ask what she was getting out of all this, but he shook off the desire. If the long hours spent at temple were any indication, he wouldn't understand or even care about her answer. "My wife is broken." Images of the disabled machines surrounding his mining station came to his mind. "I want you to fix her mental programing. Show her the truth."

  "And if it breaks her?"

  "She's already broken."

  "And if it breaks you?"

  Before he could answer, the door to the apartment opened. Stepan involuntarily jumped and cursed himself, disgusted at how nervous the priest made him.

  His wife Loisa staggered in, wearing a full-body radiation suit. The things cost a fortune and were worthless in the long run since no amount of protection could fully shield a person day and night. He guessed the anti-grief people were responsible in some way. No doubt they had a sale or something.

  Loisa removed the helmet and cocked her head. "You're home?" Her eyes narrowed as they took in the priest and what her presence might mean. Her voice became sharp. "What is that doing here? It's not safe for Jem!"

  Stepan held up his hand. "No . . . we're not safe. We need help and she's the one to give it." He wasn't sure about the statement, but he did his best to keep the doubt away from his words.

  Loisa stepped toward the door, fumbling with the helmet to save herself from the girl. Stepan shook his head. The girl priest might be strange, but it wasn't like she was a busted-open atombox.

  A small island stood in the center of the kitchen. On it lay a child's backpack with half completed assignments scattered about. His son's shaky handwriting dominated the script, but Jem had never so much as seen the paperwork. Underneath it all, a telephone buzzed.

  Loisa paused by the door, torn between the chirping and running. After a moment she said, "Aren't you going to answer that?"

  Stepan sighed and dug out the phone from underneath the papers, cringing as he touched the abominations of his son's legacy. The screen of the receiver, slim and shiny, read Jem. Stepan smacked it back down against the table and said, "It's your son."

  Loisa, oblivious now to the curie priest, dove toward the phone. For a moment, Stepan wanted to snatch it away and smash it to the floor. His father would have done that and then laughed. Since he wasn't his father, he gripped the edges of the counter until his fingertips turned white.

  "Hello?" Loisa said, gasping. "Jem?"

  As she listened, a serene calmness spread across her features as dopamine flooded her brain. He could mark the tide line with his fingertip. Loisa laughed, tears in her eyes, and said, "That's okay sweetie. You just be sure to call us when you leave, rent a security shuttle if you have to. Don't worry. We can afford it." She clicked off the phone and gave him a smile that didn't quite touch the rest of her face.

  Stepan wondered how the anti-grief people had captured his son's voice, and guessed that they probably had an illegal program embedded into
the station's com system, recording everyone's voice in case a death suddenly became an opportunity.

  "That was Jem," she said, her face a mix of pain and dazed happiness. "He's staying over at Dustin's until the boys finish their homework. I don't like him walking home so late, so I told him to rent a security shuttle. They're pricy, I know-"

  "Your son is dead," the curie priest said. Until that moment she had watched from a distance, studying the exchange. She licked her lips and continued, "This home is a break in the path, clear as a shattered crystal sphere. Ignoring the pain only makes it worse, invites other cracks to form."

  Beside them, on the countertop, the phone rang again. The name read Jem. Before Loisa could move, the curie priest snatched it away, slipping it into her silvery robes. "Humans weren't meant to live so close to starlight, the eyes of the gods. That's why I'm here. This is where most cracks form. This is the battleground. Allow enough cracks and everything will shatter."

  "What is she talking about?" Loisa said, pointing at the girl. "Stepan! Get me the phone! What if Jem needs something?"

  "He's dead," Stepan said, the words dull and bitter in his mouth like week-old coffee. He had said the words before, screamed them even though he knew they wouldn't do any good. But now he clung to each syllable to remind himself of the truth. Too often, it was easy to squint and see the toys and scattered bits of his son's life not as leftovers, but as his wife saw them, markers of life. Each piece of plastic and each little drawing a reassurance that Jem was alive. At times like that, Stepan missed his own father. The man would have taken him by the neck and beaten him until he saw the truth, reforming weakness into strength.

  Stepan had never laid a hand on Loisa before, but during those weak moments late at night and alone, he could imagine it. The thought shamed him until he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, grateful that he hadn't inherited his father's rough hands.

  Loisa lunged toward the phone.

  The curie priest grabbed Loisa's head with both hands.

  Loisa screamed.

  "Let her go!" Stepan said, reaching out and grabbing the girl's arm.

  "You wanted my help," the curie said, digging her nails into Loisa's scalp.

  Stepan released the girl.

  From the folds of her robe, the phone rang.

  The priest's hands trembled as she stared into Loisa's eyes, searching for something unknown to Stepan. The curie leaned in close and quickly chanted, "Suffering is the only guarantee. Suffering is life. To deny it is to deny death. Without death there can be no path. And without that, life is meaningless." The priest kissed Loisa, muffling her screams.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  The violence became too much. Something inside him broke as the weight of guilt smothered out all rational thought. Stepan yanked the priest away from his wife. The curie let go without resistance. Her face was placid, as if nothing had happened.

  "What did you do?" Stepan screamed into the priest's face, knowing that he was the image of his own father. His body shook, and he feared what he might do.

  Loisa's body shuddered as she clutched her hands to her face.

  The chirping of the phone started again, somehow desperate despite its lack of emotion.

  "When you're ready," the curie priest said, completely composed, "I'll be on my ship. You're not your father, Stepan, but that doesn't mean you won't share his fate if you remain so close to the edge of life. Find a planet, cling to the center of the path and stay away from the eyes of the gods. If they see you, they might decide to take you home."

  With that, the priest gave him a look of compassion, a strange expression that didn't belong on her severe face. She placed the phone at Stepan's feet and walked away.

  He called after her, "What did you do to my wife? Look at her! You didn't fix anything!"

  "Learn how to bend," the curie said as she moved into the corridor.

  She was gone.

  Stepan wanted to follow her and pry some simple answers out of her twisted words. He had invited her into his home to repair things, and she ended up attacking his wife? At his side, his fist clenched over and over, a reflection of the increasing rhythm of his heartbeat.

  He paused. Years ago when they had first arrived at the station, Stepan had become an expert at reading his father's hands. Open and flat were okay, even nervous tapping was fine. But when the old man clenched them or pressed one fist into the palm of the other, popping knuckles, it was time to hide.

  Learn how to bend.

  Stepan guessed his father had never bent his will until the old man took those last steps onto the deck of a curie ship. The act itself was an admission of weakness. Stepan paused. Why hadn't he ever seen it that way before? After a long breath, the reason came to him. He was holding his father up as an example of strength. As he stared down at his empty palms, the notion of idolizing such a man took his breath away.

  The phone continued its incessant chirping from the floor. With her back to the countertop, his wife's body shook with deep, convulsive sobs. Her body seemed to shrink inside the massive radiation suit until it nearly swallowed her.

  Images of clouds and sky from a childhood he had nearly forgotten came to him. It was a distant place that something deep down inside had insisted he wouldn't see again. For the first time, he wondered how many credits were in his retirement account. Would it be enough to leave the station? It would have to be. Why had he never thought to inquire before?

  He reached down, picked up the phone, and said, "Hello?"

  "Hi daddy," Jem said, happy and full of life. "Is mommy there?"

  Numbness spread throughout his mind. He couldn't leave the station without his wife, and she was tied to their son's memory. No matter how much money they had saved up, he knew she would never let go.

  He could abandon her or continue to pretend. After a moment, he realized that he didn't have a choice.

  He knelt next to her, touching her with a gentle hand. The gesture felt awkward, foreign. How long had it been since he offered her comfort instead of anger?

  Stepan pressed the phone into her hand. "It's for you." His voice cracked. "It's our son."

  A moment lingered where nothing happened. A heavy silence sat in the room. It was as if all of them had passed into the beyond. Loisa glanced at the name on the screen and rejected the call. She slid the receiver across the room.

  As the phone begged them for attention once again, they held each other, husband and wife, and shared the grief that had been ignored for so long. Finally, he had given in and taken one step toward accepting her pain. And together they would stare into the void as they clung to the path . . . to each other.

  The Price of Love

  by Dantzel Cherry

  Artwork by Shelby Nichols

  * * *

  "Take it back," I say, but my demand is weak and without conviction. Everyone knows the magic mirror would not, could not lie. Even the man in the mirror stares at me disdainfully.

  "There is no part of you I have not seen, m'lady." His voice drips with condescension.

  I blush but he goes on, the only man I allow to speak to me so - afterall, he loves me, and despite his cruel words, I trust him. "The usefulness of your treatments and your creams, your hairdressers and your dance tutors, are extended to their limits. If you think the girl with hair as black as the raven's wing, skin the color of freshly fallen snow, and lips red as the blood of a newly vanquished foe cannot supersede your failing beauty, then you will soon be competing for the title of court lackwit."

  Again I wonder why I cannot bring myself to smash this insufferable mirror. The earnest words he once whispered to me morning and night, when I was newly wedded to the king, caressed my girlish heart. I miss those stolen nights, when I was alone in my chambers and he would step out from the mirror. But over the course of the last fifteen years, as slowly and subtly as the dust settles on my vanity table, his words have twisted my heart with an expertise that alternately causes despair and admiratio
n.

  Sometimes I miss the intimacy of the king, but I know, as the mirror knows, that the king could never know me, never love me like the mirror does.

  "Snow White cannot simply disappear like the others," I tell him.

  His eyebrow arches and I begin to panic. Is he angry? Disappointed? Bored? Please let him not be bored. I cannot lose him now.

  "Truly," I rush on. "If my stepdaughter dies, the king will mount a man-hunt that will surely lead to me, no matter how well I hide the trail."

  Still the mirror says nothing.

  I venture an argument I've been saving, waiting for the right moment.

  "What good is our love," I say, "If I am hanged for treason?"

  At this the mirror laughs. "Oh my Queen, the value of our love has never weighed heavily on my heart. Honestly, why do I even stay?"

  But he must stay. How would I cope without him? I would never have remained fairest of them all - or even queen - without him to point out my rivals.

  He goes on. "Consider this: Do I not deserve the best?"

  "Of course you do. But I am the best."

  "Ah. Then prove it. How will you prove your love to me, other than to remove your rival?"

  "Maybe there is another way," I plead.

  "By all means, dazzle me with your brilliance."

  "Truly," I insist. "She needn't die. What if . . . what if she just . . . loses her beauty?"

  "A waiting game would make losers of you both."

  "No, no waiting." I hold up my knife from my breakfast tray. "I have seen many a man suffer the terrors of war, hiding his face or his savaged hand from sight. A girl would be no different. Probably worse."

  The mirror sighs. "Did you not just speak of a need for subtlety and secrecy?"

  I paste a smile on my lips. "I did. And as sure as is my love for you, a traitor in the king's midst would be rooted out and punished."