Trixie crawled over broken glass and shattered furniture, some still smoking.
She and Fox had been chased across the southwest. Hunted.
Then it clicked. Him.
“Fox! We have to get out of here! Find the sanctuary and plead for amnesty.”
Pressed against the wall, drenched in sweat, Fox’s nose had elongated into a snout. He barked out. “What? Now?”
“The Gringo!”
Damn. The serum injection had come too late and he’d already begun to change. Trixie sprinted around the room, snatching up their few possessions and tossing them into her satchel. Her hands shook.
“The Gringo?”
Trixie stopped. “I—I didn’t think he really existed. Urban legend. Vapors. Remember Denver?”
Denver had been before Flagstaff.
Clean streets. Hushed quiet during daylight hours. Domed paradise. She’d been a fool. A gullible fool.
Freedom.
Before she could explain, the front door blew off its track. The Gringo came in, grinning.
“Out! Out! Damn black spots!”
“Spots?” Fox barked as he shifted to a sizable red fox, losing all ability to speak.
“Stains on the lovely purity of this city. I will make it clean.” The Gringo grinned and rapidly threw fireballs at them.
“Run Fox!” Trixie deflected the attack with fire of her own. The Gringo moved fast and, before long, had her by the throat.
He threw her outside and she slammed into the manufactured lawn. It flickered as the hologram program crashed, revealing a section of dark gray plasma screen.
“Worthless. Designer scientists’ cheap experiments.” The Gringo revealed as he grabbed both her wrists when she tried to defend herself.
“Run Fox!” she shouted again.
Overhead, crisp blue sky and lemonade sun rested in the heavens. When she looked closely, she could see small reflections against the clear dome. Picture. Perfect. So quiet. No peace.
“You sought freedom.” He laughed.
Trixie screamed as his hands burned the flesh around her wrists. Agony wretched through her. He’d set her skin on fire. The burning flames funneling out of his palms and scurried up her arms.
“Yes! Scream out your pathetic soul. If you bastards have one.”
Trixie collapsed as he let go. Had it all come down to this? The fight? The struggle? All in vain.
She pushed back with flames of her own, fire against fire with her body the battlefield. The Gringo’s powerful flames roared, his hatred fueling.
Agony wore through her anger, leaving only emptiness. Her fire quieted as she slumped to the ground.
The Gringo’s grin was wide and cold. “Die.”
Trixie shivered as her flame retreated, worn down by the Gringo.
Then, ripping through the afternoon’s polished peace, a fox howled in the distance.
Now, it was her turn to smile. Warmth came and grew hotter. She didn’t scream as the agony of fire crackled along her flesh, her hair, her sight.
For like a phoenix, Trixie would rise.
Of Sound Mind and Body
by K. Ceres Wright
The pain. It always began behind her eyes, then crept downward in intermittent bursts. Her spine fired red, all the way down to the L5 vertebrae. Dara pushed the pain aside, and focused on her reflection in the mirror in preparation for her daily ritual. She placed her hands on the cracked porcelain sink and blocked all else from her mind.
“I am Dara Martin and I have terracotta skin, curly black hair, and brown eyes. My favorite color is gold, favorite fruit is orange, and favorite music is fusion jazz. I have one sister named Rebecca and my parents live in San Diego. I am—” an undercover agent with Homeland Intelligence on foreign assignment and will be coming in in two months—Lord willing.
She never said the last part out loud, even with her jammer on. And especially not when she wasn’t herself. Her handler, Rona, would be mortified if she knew Dara repeated that mantra every day in the mirror. Dara suspected Rona thought she was cracking around the edges, but she said nothing.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Dara hung her head and exhaled. “Coming!” She opened the door and stepped out into the suffocating presence of Jian Lee. At 5’3”, he was shorter than Dara, but he had a psyche that he could project across space and time to tell people they needed to get their shit together. Even ensconced in her bed after her alarm sounded, his voice grated in her head, telling her to haul her sorry ass out of bed and get to work.
“You have a message from Yuan Chin. Why does he call here? He’s married,” Jian said.
“It’s business,” Dara said. She pushed past him, heading for the main makeup counter. Rows of foundation liquids, powders, and gels lined the glass shelves in the small warehouse slash distribution center.
“Business my ass. I hear the way you talk, all low and flirty. ‘Yes, Yuan, I’ll be here all night. Come by any time.’”
“Yes, and thanks to him, we’ll soon be getting a prominent booth at the China Beauty Expo. Not one in the back next to the alley like we always do.”
“Hmph. We’ll see,” Jian said. “You know, in your next life, you’ll come back as a prostitute.”
Dara turned to him, hands on her hips. Actually, prostitution wasn’t that different from spying. The two oldest professions could be rolled up into one, she thought. “Good thing I don’t believe in reincarnation. And don’t you have some mascara to inventory?”
Jian sucked his teeth and made for the back room. He would stay there and sulk for a half hour until he sensed another moral failing coming through the door, whereupon he would suddenly reappear to render judgment on the hapless soul.
Dara tapped her thumb twice against her thigh, opening up a line. The versos appeared in her periphery, a listing of contacts, a calendar—lunch with Major Zhang tomorrow—newsfeed, and recently opened files.
“Call Yuan Chin,” she said. “Voice only.” He knew her as Chyou Sòng, her cover name. Sometimes it was hard to keep track.
He picked up after two rings.
“Miss Sòng. It’s good to hear your voice. But why don’t you show your face?”
His chip implant approximated his appearance and movements and projected them into her field of vision. Or at least that’s how it usually worked. He could have been bare-ass naked riding a donkey up Mount Vesuvius for all she knew. His image showed him wearing a socialist-green uniform with red and gold epaulets. Acne scars dotted his cheeks. Spiky salt-and-pepper hair rose up from a head that held small brown eyes, a forgettable nose, and thick lips.
“I like to project an air of mystery. Jian told me you called?” “Yes. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“No,” Dara said. “Client meeting. How about dinner tonight?”
Yuan smiled, displaying a set of coffee-stained teeth. “Even better. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“See you then.” Dara closed the line. She expected Jian to appear from around the corner and fix her with a disapproving glare, but he remained in the back room.
The magfield chimed as a customer walked through, a
30-something African–Chinese man wearing jeans and a sports coat. Dara’s implant captured his image and ran it through her database, and the search results scrolled up her periphery.
Name: Githinji Diallo Height: 6’2”
Weight: 168 Eyes: Brown Hair: Black
Summary: Grandfather, Dafari Diallo, immigrated to China in 2008 from Nigeria to establish a textile import/export business in Guangzhou, also known as “Little Africa” due to the high number of African immigrants. After several run-ins with Chinese authorities over expired visas, he married Huian Lin, who helped him navigate the visa process. They expanded their business to include beauty products and health foods. They had one child, Ling Diallo. He attended Shanghai University and continued the family business. He married Daiyu Okoye. They had one child, Githinji Diallo. He attended Guangdong University of Financ
e and Economics and opened his own business, Diallo Cosmetics, focused on beauty products tailored to African–Chinese women.
“May I help you?” Dara said. She always felt strange after reading people’s life histories in her database and then having to act as if she knew nothing about them.
The man sauntered up to the counter, pushing his sunglasses over wavy hair. “I’m Githinji Diallo of Diallo Cosmetics. I need 10,000 units of foundation as soon as possible. Varying shades, but geared toward African–Chinese women.”
“Let me see if we have enough in stock.” She tapped open the inventory verso and called up foundation units. They only had 3,000.
“Unfortunately, our inventory won’t satisfy your order.
However, if you wait until Friday, I’ll be able to complete it.”
He nodded slowly. “All right.” He tapped two fingers on the counter and uploaded his contact information to the server. “Close of business on Friday?”
“Close of business,” Dara said, confirming.
Githinji smiled and winked at her, then left. In her five months in China, she had never seen the man before, which was unusual, as most distributors either knew or knew of one another. Even new people in the business were brought in by someone already established. In her case, her handler arranged to buy out Gua Beauty Products, and she got Jian in the deal.
“Ji--,” she started.
“Never seen him before.” Jian appeared from around the corner.
And that might be a problem, Dara thought. She didn’t care what her database had said.
“I need a smoke,” Dara said. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
#
Cliché as hell, Dara thought as she lit a cigarette. Meeting her handler on a park bench, but that’s where she was, in People’s Park, staring at concentric rings of red, orange, yellow, and pink flowers. A few toddlers were running around the circle, watched by young mothers dressed in fashionable sportswear.
A tan woman came and sat at the opposite end of the bench. Dara knew her as Rona Huang, deputy station chief. She was tall and overweight, with cheeks that puffed out like a Southern Belle’s wedding gown, and straight black hair cut into an efficient bob. No makeup or perfume. Straight, no chaser.
“You called this meeting. Got anything?” she Rona said. She peered off in the distance from behind black sunglasses.
“New guy came in the office, Githinji Diallo. I’ve never seen or heard of him before. Jian neither,” Dara said.
“That is another operative.” Dara froze mid-inhale. “What?”
“No need to get in a huff. He’s on a different assignment, but available if you need help.”
Two young mothers walked past, pushing strollers stuffed with fat toddlers. The occupied mothers were gossiping about a third mother who was being shunned by their play group. The offender, apparently, did not live up to the expectations of the others.
Something about dressing like she stepped out of a charity shop. Dara and Rona waited until the mothers passed on.
“What’s his assignment?” Dara said. “That’s need to know.”
Dara crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t sulk. He has…different talents.”
“I’m not sulking.” “Then what?” Rona said.
Dara hesitated, mulling over how to phrase her thoughts. How did people tell their bosses they thought they were going crazy? “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”
Rona shifted in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I feel like a fucking
guinea pig,” Dara said.
“The ability to transform at the cellular level is a proven--” “Proven in the lab,” Dara said. Frustration laced her tone. “We both know I’m a field test, and I’m not exactly delivering the results you wanted. I’m tired of tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, so I’m laying it out. If I crack, this whole mission goes south.”
“News flash. It’s about to go south anyway because you haven’t found anything. You’ve been here five months, Dara. We outfit you with the latest tech, and nothing.”
“I’ve been establishing my cover and slowly getting closer to the trade minister. And as far as this latest tech?” She growled the worlds through clenched teeth. “This thing that’s ruining my life is the latest tech? I don’t see you jumping at the chance to get it.”
Pain shot up from her stomach and into her chest.
She wrapped an arm around her stomach and leaned over the arm rest, gripping the iron railing, waiting for the pain to subside.
“Are you all right?” Rona said. Dara ignored her question.
“I have a meeting with Yuan Chin tonight. He’s the Minister of Commerce’s brother. I’ll use him as a lead-in to hack into Minister Chin’s system to get the documents on the upcoming trade talks. I’ll let you know what I find.” She stood up, ground out her cigarette on the pavement, and left.
#
Dara pushed open the door to her apartment and half fell inside. She deposited the grocery bags that been pinching her finger the entire elevator ride up onto the floor and massaged the blood back into her hand.
The fridge display showed two half-eaten cartons of moo shu pork, two eggs, and a pint of expired milk. None too soon, she thought. She put away the groceries and turned her thoughts toward the evening’s attire.
She studied the three formal dresses hanging in her closet—red, white, and black—sex, no sex, and maybe sex. Dara didn’t want to broadcast her intent, but didn’t want to discourage Yuan, either, so she chose the black dress. Floor length and covered in sequins, it sported a low-cut back and a draped front. After grabbing a pair of matching shoes, she threw the dress on her bed and rolled the shoes in the same direction.
A sharp pain knifed her stomach. She fell to her knees halfway to the bathroom, gasping. Damn. The random pains were coming more often. She’d been to the agency doctor so many times, he would roll his eyes as soon as she walked in the door.
“It’s not physical,” he had said.
“I am Dara Martin and I have terracotta skin, curly black hair, and brown eyes. My favorite color is gold, favorite fruit is orange, and favorite music is fusion jazz.”
The pain finally subsided and she stumbled to the bathroom. The lights flicked on and the refresher emitted a spray of vanilla cinnamon. Dara leaned against the door and inhaled, catching her breath. It was easier to transform in fragrant surroundings. She preferred to change at least two hours before an encounter in order to settle into the character. But given recent events, she wondered if she could hold on at all.
Gripping the edges of the sink, she closed her eyes and focused inward. Dara envisioned her nervous system, recalling every branch and ganglion as laid out in virtual reality. She sent pulses along her synapses to activate specialized neurotransmitters. They fired down the nerves, delivering messages to genes in a particular order. First, the rs4752566-T allele of the FGFR2 gene to straighten the hair. A sharp pain exploded behind her optic nerve. Her scream echoed in her head, and she fell to her knees, panting. A chill rippled across her skin as sweat beaded on her forehead. A violent shiver rocked her body and she almost fell over, but managed to steady herself.
She wiped away the sweat and waited. The pain faded, and she clawed the toilet and sink to pull herself up.
Her reflection stared back in the mirror, with razor-straight hair and her same oval eyes. Dara splashed water on her face and dried it with a towel. The pain had been worse than ever. She’d been told it would get better, not worse. Lying bastards. She tightened her hold on the sink and then sent a message to the rs1426654-A allele of the SLC24A5 gene to lighten her skin. The searing pain began in her feet, slow and steady, then quickened to shooting stabs wending upward—legs, torso, arms, shoulders. Her legs shook and gave way again, sending her to the floor. The cool tile around the toilet soothed one side of her face. The other side burned, as if pressed against the underside of a h
ibachi grill. She clenched her fists and commanded her muscles to still, but they spasmed and jerked in defiance. Her breath came hard and shallow in rough-edged gasps with not enough strength to hold the scream trapped in her throat.
Then the shaking stopped, and her view faded to black.
#
The time blinked 5:30 in her periphery when she awoke, a half-hour later than when she started. Dara held up a hand. Her skin glowed porcelain in the dim light and she sighed in relief. Her agony hadn’t been in vain. Still, it’d been the first time she passed out. She would have to factor in extra time for future transformations, which would only make her job more difficult. As if I need more of a hassle in my life.
She got to her feet and beheld herself in the mirror. Her facial structure remained the same, as well as her nose and pouty lips.
Her hair hung down, mid-humerus, framing an oval bone-white face. The effect always distressed her at first. It took some time to get used to looking at herself through a different face. Hers, really, but just another color. She reached into her makeup bag and pulled out a bottle of foundation, Ivory Sands, and began to apply it.
“My name is Chyou Sòng. My favorite color is purple. My favorite food is tea-smoked duck. My favorite music is American rap.”
She followed up with eyeliner, shadow, and lipstick. Satisfied, she slipped on her dress and shoes, took one last look in the mirror, and left.
Yuan’s limousine was waiting outside. When Chyou exited her apartment building, Yuan jumped out of the car and offered to help her, beating the driver, who had begun to walk around the car to open the door. When the driver turned around to head back to the car, Chyou froze. It was Githinji Diallo, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform. Panic chilled her skin and jumpstarted her heart. Did Rona send him to check on her? What were Diallo’s ‘other talents’? Keep calm and don’t stare. Mind your breathing.
“Good evening, Chyou. You look lovely,” Yuan said.
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