Shadow Life

by Jason Mather

  “What point?” she asked.

  “Sex.”

  “Are you implying we were going to?”

  “I haven’t implied anything. I don’t sleep with people I don’t know, people I can’t trust, or drunk women not in control of their faculties.”

  “You’re a regular fuckin’ gentlemen.”

  “Now you’re contradicting yourself.”

  She chucked the bottle off the porch. It landed with a dull thud on the grass. The effort pulled open the wound she’d made on her hand. Blood dripped on the floorboards.

  “How’s your hand?” he asked.

  “Hurts.”

  “You’re bleeding again.”

  “Like you care.”

  Hans huffed at her, stood and went inside. He always kept a large first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. He retrieved it, went back to the porch, and scooted his chair close to hers.

  “Give me your hand.”

  “I thought we hadn’t reached that point yet.”

  “Just give me your hand.”

  She held it out to him. Hans retrieved a small spray bottle, gripped her hand firmly. The liquid inside cleaned, disinfected, and, within seconds, formed a solid bandage over wounds. It also hurt like hell. She didn’t even bat an eye. Hans started to wrap the hand in gauze. Probably unnecessary, but his mom’s teachings stayed with him.

  “Do you trust me, Hans?” Her voice was significantly slurred.

  “It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s whatever’s controlling you.”

  “So, you do trust me?”

  “You haven’t given me any reason not to so far.” He looked up at her; she was staring at him.

  “Are we friends?”

  “Sure.” He dismissed the question, turned back to the bandaging.

  “I’m serious,” she said, her voice almost pleading.

  He couldn’t stand the self-pity he heard in it. “I’ve only known you a couple of days, and they haven’t been very pleasant. I’m not really someone you want as a friend anyway. I don’t have many.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  Hans finished the bandaging. She took her hand back, tried to stand, slipped once, then pulled herself to her feet.

  “Why did you save that girl?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was nothing to anybody. Just a nameless prostitute in a city of millions. No one cared about her. Why save her?”

  “Because I could.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know what answer you want from me, lady. I saved her because she was hurt and scared and abused. I saved her because I couldn’t stand what had been done to her. I was there; I could get her out, so I did.”

  “Her knight in shining armor?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “And what will you do with her now?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought. Tomorrow she needs to see a doctor to get her head checked. After that… I don’t know.”

  “Will you keep her, care for her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to fuck her?”

  “She’s half my age, at least.”

  “But she’s experienced and willing.”

  “Fuck you, lady.”

  “So, you haven’t thought of it at all?”

  “I don’t need any more of your drunk shit right now. I’m not going to sleep with a mentally and physically abused girl young enough to be my daughter. I may be a disagreeable bastard, but I’m not a sicko that would take advantage of a little girl.”

  Hans stood and stormed out into the yard, kicking the whiskey bottle as he passed. He stood by the treeline, fuming. He didn’t hear her until her hand touched his shoulder. He tried not to flinch, almost succeeded.

  “I’m… I’m sorry, Hans. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Didn’t mean it when you accused me of being a pedophile?”

  “No. I… I wanted to know your intentions. You saved her. That was a good thing. I wanted to know if you would continue to try to do so.”

  “I haven’t given it much thought. I’m no good at planning for the future. Much more than a day out and I’m at a loss. I just want to see if her head is ok. Maybe my mother will help. Maybe I can find her a nice place.”

  “Maybe she wants to stay with you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Would you let her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, at heart you really are rather noble.”

  “I said maybe.”

  “Right.”

  Onyx walked off, showing Hans her back. He heard her light another cigarette. She mumbled something.

  “What?” he asked.

  She turned to face him. “Do you believe that I’m human, Hans?”

  “I don’t know. You’re screwed up and neurotic, which is pretty human in my book.”

  “Your confidence is overwhelming.”

  “What do you want me to say, Yana? You seem human, but you’re lacking necessities, your eyes are the wrong color, your memory is shit. I’ve seen you die, come back. I’ve seen multiple copies of you in a crate that you can’t remember even though it happened yesterday. How can I make a conclusion based on that?”

  Her face fell, he could see it in the light of her cigarette. She turned away. He hoped she wasn’t crying. He’d never dealt well with crying women, and her tears would be like granite weeping. He groped for something to say.

  “When I asked you what you learned from your mom, what did you say?”

  “Hmmm?” She turned back. No tears, so that was good.

  “You said your mom taught you to dance, didn’t you?”

  She nodded. “Mom was a ballet dancer. She taught me ‘til I was eleven… ‘Til my father killed her.”

  “Can you still dance?”

  “Sure.”

  “Show me.”

  “What?” Onyx was perplexed.

  “Show me what your mother taught you.” Hans crossed his arms and tried to sound stern, with limited success.

  “I don’t know…”

  “You say you’re human. You say you want me to believe you. Show me that your memories are more than just implants. Show me what you learned from your mom.”

  Onyx started to form another protest, stopped herself. They had another staring contest. Hans finally won one. She turned and flicked her cigarette past the treeline. Hans thought she was going to storm off again. Instead she raised her hands above her head, arcing them gracefully.

  Hans wasn’t ready for what he saw next. She was drunk, she was tired. He’d figured she probably hadn’t danced at all since her mother died. Probably rusty, probably awkward. Maybe one of those knee dips, a little spin.

  Instead she drew up her leg and leaped. She spun, kicked, leaped again, and landed gracefully, with no sign of intoxication. She did a series of high-speed spins on one foot, leaped straight up, double kicked, landed, and twirled her way across the yard. The routine gained momentum. She was grace incarnate.

  She stopped suddenly, stumbled, nearly fell. Hans heard the unmistakable sound of vomiting. She finished, staggered up the stairs of the cabin, went inside.

  Hans had never seen ballet, could not name what she had just done. But he knew beauty when he saw it. He followed her in.

  She was bent over the sink, vomiting again. She’d taken the green tablet in some water. Sobering up. Hans stood there until she finished. She turned to face him. Her depression was temporarily gone, replaced by a beaming, haughty, almost maniacal smile. She actually laughed, the first time he’d heard it.

  “Well?” she asked him.

  He clapped his hands together. She gave him another laugh. It was a warm sound, so unlike anything else he’d seen from her.

  “That was beautiful.” She took the compliment, strode back out the porch, and lit another cigarette. He followed.

  “Do you believe me n
ow?” she asked.

  “I do. I guess that could have been implanted, but what I just saw had to be human.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  She finished her cigarette, her face glowing brighter than its ember.

  “So, what do we do?” Hans asked her. “If this isn’t you, if there’s a real you somewhere, how can we find it?”

  “We go to the source. We find my comrade.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “The sphere. If I’m controlling the fake body from somewhere, there has to be a link, a source. We find it with the sphere, and we get it back.”

  “And if there isn’t?”

  “There is.”

  Hans balked a little. She could see his niggling doubts. She approached him, drew his gaze.

  “Are we friends, Hans?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s it, just sure.” Her face lost some of its luster, returned to her more usual glower.

  “That’s what I got,” he said. She gave him a moment, then nodded.

  “You saved a poor, lost little girl’s life, Hans. Can you do it again?”

  “I didn’t save anything. I just dragged her out of there because I was the only one who could, and I’m not sure you qualify as either lost or little.”

  “What would you call it?”

  Hans wasn’t sure. She was searching for something, something from him, something from herself. A base to build on, maybe. He had no reply. No one had ever asked him for the kind of help she was requesting.

  “Hans,” she drew his attention. Her face unreadable, turned back toward the dark. “I have no one else. Maybe it’s too much to ask, but I have nothing else. My headquarters are gone, my contact has cut me off, has probably been lying to me. Even my body is gone, maybe never existed. Tomorrow I may not even remember this conversation. You’re here, you have the sphere and can use it. You’ve shown yourself to be honorable, even compassionate. And I believe that if you say you’ll help, you will.”

  “You have too much faith in me.”

  “I saw what you did for the girl. You put yourself in harm’s way for her. You’ve shared your home, even your bed, with her. Will you give up on her?”

  “No.” He was surprised to hear the answer come out of his mouth, but he knew it was true.

  “Will you give up on me?”

  “No.” Again the answer came before he thought. Onyx smiled at him, a rare occurrence. He couldn’t help but feel manipulated. She was using his weaknesses against him, presenting herself in a way that may not be accurate. But the answer was sincere.

  She turned and offered her hand, still immaculately manicured, the fingernails glossy black. He took it in his. Her grip was firm, flesh cold. They shook, the atmosphere between them warming with every movement. She took her hand back, crossed it over her chest.

  “Partners?” she asked.

  “Friends,” he responded. Her smile returned.

  — «» —

  They returned to the main house. There were lights on in the kitchen. Bacall sat on the porch, giving Hans the evil eye for leaving her behind, sniffing huffily at Bogey, who gave Hans a cowed look.

  “It’s OK, boy, no one wins when the women are upset.” Onyx sniffed at him.

  Pat was up, so was Lori. She ran to him when he came in the kitchen, hugging him around the waist. It was nice, feeling needed.

  “Lorilei woke me up looking for you. We decided to have some hot chocolate.” His mother sounded cross, sleep slurring her voice slightly

  “Sorry, Mom, we had some things to discuss.”

  Onyx mumbled an apology.

  “It’s no problem.” Pat’s voice sounded sincere, her eyes left doubt. She sipped her hot chocolate.

  Lori was nearly asleep. Hans asked her if she wanted to go back to bed. She shook her head. He sat down and she crawled on his lap. She had spoken very little since Salt Lake, reverting to a girl younger than he’d met at Brigham’s. He hoped she’d recover.

  Onyx sat.

  “I smell smoke. You smoking again, Hans?” Pat asked him, like he was sixteen again.

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “All that shit you went through, and you want to destroy it?”

  “Cigarettes don’t kill many people nowadays, Mom.”

  “Because most of ‘em are too smart to smoke.” It was an old argument between them, one carried out more from obligation than passion. The crux was more that his mom didn’t like the smell than any real health issues.

  Lori was now drooling on his neck. Hans excused himself and took her upstairs.

  “You sleeping with my boy?” Pat asked Onyx, the question delivered as soon as Hans was out of earshot.

  “No.”

  “What about her?” Pat gestured with her head toward the door, indicating Lori.

  “No.”

  “You sure? She was in his bedroom.”

  “The girl’s been traumatized, emotionally brutalized. Right now, Hans is the only safety she knows.”

  The answer didn’t satisfy Pat, and she sat waiting for more.

  “Hans was helping me acquire a certain item, there were some complications, we came across the girl, he felt we should bring her here.”

  “So I could help him with her, I presume.”

  Onyx shrugged, reached for a cigarette.

  “You won’t be smoking those in here.” It was not a question.

  “Of course not.” Onyx put the cigarette case on the table in front of her. Pat was expecting something from her. She was rusty when it came to common courtesies. What did the woman expect?

  “Mrs. Ricker…” Onyx started.

  “Miss.”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s miss, not Mrs.”

  “Miss Ricker, then. Hans was doing a job for me. It remains unfinished, and he’s still obligated. We need to stay here for a few days to figure out our next course of action. I would greatly appreciate your hospitality. I could even compensate you for your trouble…”

  Pat waved her hand. “I don’t need your money.”

  “Goods or services then?”

  “What kind of service could you offer me? You don’t look like the type that does dishes or yard work.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I doubt anything about you could surprise me.”

  Onyx smirked a little at that.

  “Mom, stop berating her.” Hans stood in the doorway. He’d gotten Lori to bed, though she’d insisted on his again. A problem for another day.

  “It’s OK,” Onyx said, “I get the feeling your mother is just going to set some house rules.”

  “Right,” Pat responded. “Number one, you do anything illegal on these grounds and I’ll shoot you and leave you for the coyotes.”

  “C’mon, Mom…”

  “Madam,” Onyx interrupted him, “I have no intention of doing anything to put me in bad stead here.”

  Pat looked disbelieving. She continued, “Number two, you don’t sleep under this roof. I have no boarders at the moment, you can pick a cabin.”

  “Fair enough.” If anything, Onyx appeared amused by the conversation.

  “Number three, you have one week to figure out your next ‘course of action’ and then you move on, with or without my son.”

  “We will be out of here long before then.”

  Pat seemed satisfied with that. She rose from the table. “I’m going to bed; old ladies don’t appreciate being woken up at one am. Don’t either of you leave any dirty dishes in my sink.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  Pat left them.

  “Your mother’s quite the charmer, I can see where you and Grit get your manners.”

  “Yeah, she’s a hoot.”

  “Good night, Hans,” Onyx rose and exited. Hans could hear her lighting a cigarette, and watched the glowing ember wander off into the dark. He wished he’d asked her for one before she left.

  CHAPTER 8

  The viewscree
n in the waiting room showed footage of the destruction in Denver and Salt Lake. The pundit did everything he could to make a connection, running through every fear gambit; terrorism, military, government conspiracy, and/or war. All completely off the mark, though they couldn’t have the knowledge she had. Still, the pictures were startling to Grit.

  Onyx’s building had melted more than crumbled, leaving a slightly glassy dome in a large crater. There was no way in or out, the material one solid mass. Numerous scans had not revealed any survivors or dead inside, confirming Grit’s suspicions that the bodies that attacked her had not been human. Neither had Onyx. Had she ever been?

  The pictures from Salt Lake were even more shocking. An area ten blocks square was reduced to powder, the casualties massive but unknown. Information was scarce, Salt Lake predictably clamping down on information. The pictures coming in were mostly from civilian surveillance satellites. Someone had managed a high-speed flyover with a camera mounted on a homemade UAV, bringing in a of couple minutes of good footage before the police shot it down.

  The dust was still settling. The buildings had been old, not built well to begin with. Devastation spread from the center, buildings around the perimeter leaning away from the blast. Salt Lake’s vast underground tunnel systems were exposed to the sunlight, floors collapsed and covered in rubble. A dirty secret opened to the scrutiny of the world. The spin doctors were already preparing their propaganda. The crazies were crawling out of the woodwork, calling for consequences, claiming responsibility, trying to find a link.

  She tired of the parade of horror and insanity, and rose to check on Gino again. He’d come around a few hours ago, but the doctors put him temporarily back under to allow the healing agents in his system to finish their work knitting bones and nerves. Grit had tried to get some sleep on a cot in one of the break rooms, to no avail. She should go home, but she couldn’t leave Gino. She was tense with the need to act. To take control, do something constructive, fight back against this thing that continued to be two steps ahead of her.

  Her comm chirped from her pocket. She inserted it in her ear.

  “This is Grit.”

  “It’s Hans.”

  “Hold on.” Grit walked down the hall, peering in rooms until she found an empty one. She entered, closed the door, and wedged a chair under the handle.

  “You still there, Hans?”