by Anthology
There’s an ambulance parked in front of a convenience store two blocks down Ninth. At exactly 7:49 the driver gets out for ten seconds to help one of the EMTs load a stroke victim into the back. He leaves the engine idling. At 7:49 and three seconds, I’m jumping behind the wheel and hauling ass toward the highway.
It seems like I’ve spent ages getting nowhere. Not even lifting Salazar’s cruiser cheered me up. But tearing down the road in a stolen ambulance beats the hell out of any sex I’ve ever had. I don’t hear my own psychotic laughter over the roar of the engine until I hit the construction zone, where traffic congestion blue-balls my joyride.
Gotta get my head back in the game. The layout’s different from the cop car. Precious seconds slip by while I play around with buttons and switches on a dashboard that looks like it came from a 747. A burst of light and a shrill wail tell me when I find the right combination. I feel like Moses when the gridlock parts and I roll on through.
I’m still plodding along, thumping the wheel and cursing at cars that move aside too slow. Then before I know it, I clear the construction zone and floor it onto the open highway. I cruise past Cedar, Elm, and Oak, heading for the interstate that’ll take me out of town toward the forest preserve the lab’s in. The road narrows to an arching two-lane overpass, and I know the onramp is just a quarter mile ahead.
I’m laughing at how easy this is, when a little kid darts into my lane from the sidewalk. A lady—probably her mom—runs out to grab her. There’s no time to run, so she wraps the kid in a bear hug.
I cut the wheel hard to the left. The tires send up a cloud of acrid smoke as I swerve right into the path of—I swear this is true—another ambulance. Its siren must’ve masked mine. It slams into me head-on.
“Did you know?”
The woman on the park bench sips her coffee but keeps her eyes on me. They’re hazel. She swallows and asks, “What do you want to know what I know about?”
“I don’t have all day, so tell me straight. Did you know what would happen with that lady and her kid?”
“Did it happen after I saw you run by?”
“Yeah.”
The woman takes another swig of coffee. Her perfume has a hint of citrus. “Then how could I know about it?”
I say, “There’s no time for this,” and she flinches a little. Must’ve been how I said it. I don’t know.
In the next instant her composure’s back, and she shrugs. “We have all the time there is.”
“Look, lady,” I say, hearing my voice hitch. “I don’t know about you, but every ten minutes I fry like an egg on an engine block and wind up back in my bathroom. Don’t ask how many times it’s happened because I lost count a while ago. Now I’ve got urgent business, but I’m putting it off to ask you some simple questions. So I’d appreciate some straight answers.”
The woman cocks her head to one side and stares at me like I’ve been ranting in Swahili. Then she scoots over and pats the empty spot beside her. “Here,” she says, “sit down before you have a coronary.”
Why couldn’t she have stepped out in front of the ambulance? Wait. That was bad. I didn’t mean that. Take a deep breath and start again. “Just tell me this: who are you?”
The woman’s smile lights up her face. “I’m Ada,” she says, setting down her coffee cup. She extends her hand. “And you are?”
I keep my hands in my pockets and turn my head to look at the dead people walking by. “Russell.”
“Well Russell, I’ll be here next time if you change your mind.”
I’m about to tell her I’ve got better things to do than sit in the park playing mind games, but the light comes on and I’m burning. I think I hear a faraway scream, but I’m not sure.
It’s strange knowing that there’s someone else like me—someone who remembers. For a minute I’m worried it might throw off my game. But the ambulance is still there: idling and unattended. I still hop in and peel out.
Every other route to the interstate adds at least a minute to my time. Might as well be a million years. I’ve run the numbers, and getting to the overpass sooner is my only shot.
I hit the lights, and traffic gives way like I’m leading a funeral procession. I guess I am, in a way. But it’s too damn slow. I lean on the horn, adding its shrill demands to the siren’s wail, but the bastards still move like hamstrung tortoises. I decide to show the stragglers I mean business. At first I just nudge their bumpers. Being gentle doesn’t work, so I speed up to thirty. When an unstoppable force meets a foreign hatchback, something’s got to give; and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what.
A chorus of blaring horns plays me out of the construction zone. Cedar flies by. So does Elm; then Oak. The clock on the dash doesn’t show seconds, and it’s giving the same time as before.
I wonder if I’ve gained any time, and I find out when the bridge comes into sight. The lady’s got hold of her kid, meaning I’m actually a couple of seconds behind. The other ambulance is almost even with me.
I don’t swerve left. I don’t turn the wheel at all, and I don’t slow down. I resist the urge to close my eyes. That would be dangerous at this speed. For a split second I see the odd look on these two people’s faces: like they’re both seeing something they can’t understand but are scared of. Then they vanish under the front of my ambulance. The force of the impact surprises me, and I fight to keep the vehicle steady. There are two jolts like going over a pair of speed bumps. It’s smooth sailing after that.
I’m merging onto the interstate when my eyes fog over. Taking a hand off the wheel to rub them, I feel warm wetness on my face.
There’s not much time to think about what I’ve done, because about a mile later I hear a third siren. A police cruiser’s coming up in the rearview mirror: cherries and berries flashing. The ambulance driver must’ve reported me.
I stomp the gas pedal to the floorboards, but my lead doesn’t last long against the cop car’s lighter frame and turbocharged engine. The cruiser pulls up alongside me. I can’t resist the urge to take my eyes off the morning rush hour traffic I’ve been weaving through. Sure enough, Salazar’s at the wheel, making angry gestures toward the shoulder with his free hand.
I don’t have time for this. The little prick must know what I’ve done. If he thinks I’m gonna quit when I’m this close, he’s crazier than me.
A sign says that the forest preserve exit is a mile ahead. The cruiser’s still right there beside me. Morning commuters are pulling onto both shoulders, leaving the road clear. I look over and see Salazar shouting into his radio. I check the clock. Go ahead and call for backup, asshole. Let’s see if they can catch up in the next two minutes.
Turns out they won’t have to. I hear a sharp crack, instantly followed by the sound of metal ricocheting off metal. Checking my mirror, I see that Salazar’s fallen back to shoot at my rear tires.
I reflexively mash down on the gas, forgetting that the pedal’s already on the floor. Two more shots ring out.
Copying the crazy shit they do in movies is a dumb idea. I find that out the hard way when I try swerving back and forth between lanes to avoid Salazar’s bullets. I don’t get to find out if it works, because trying to serpentine away from police gunfire after ramming cars, doing a hundred down residential streets, and running over two people makes the left front tire blow itself out.
It’s no use trying to keep control. One second I’m taking a spin inside an industrial tumble dryer full of glass. The next, I’m back my nice stable bathroom. The reek of blood and diesel fuel lingers in my mind.
My razor is all that’s solid. Clutching it to my chest, I lie down on the grubby tiles and just listen to the water hissing out of the tap and down the drain. I listen long and hard, interrupted only by occasional pain and a light that shines through my closed eyelids. There’s no meaning in the sound.
Other noises. Far off, but getting closer. Footsteps on the stairs: the click of high heels. A door creaks on its hinges.
How lon
g has it been?
“There you are,” says Ada.
I open my eyes for the first time in what feels like years and see a pair of tan heels.
My voice comes out as a croak. “What’re you doing here?”
“I haven’t seen you in a while. Thought I’d check in.”
I sit up against the tub and notice the citrus scent invading the locker room musk. “How’d you know where I live?”
Ada smiles with her whole face. “I didn’t. Not at first. It took me a while to find you.”
I wipe a hand down my face and say, “Well mystery solved. I’m in here because I can’t do squat out there. So go back to your park and drink your coffee.”
“Only if you come with me.”
I don’t bother trying to stifle a laugh. “What does it matter where I am? The whole ball of wax is just gonna melt in ten minutes. Every ten minutes, seventeen seconds on the dot. Just get out of here and let me enjoy it.”
Ada doesn’t leave. Instead she slides down next to me. She’s still got the pink dress and green sweater on. “It may sound trite, but I know what you’re going through.”
“Lady, you have no idea—”
“The light takes me, too. I haven’t timed it, but ten minutes sounds about right.”
“Where do you end up?”
She waves a hand toward my kitchen. “In line at the bagel place around the corner.”
“Getting coffee?” I ask.
Ada nods.
“You know the world’s ending, right?”
“It stands to reason.”
“How can you be so calm about it?”
“How can you be so ungrateful?”
If I’m nuts, this chick is the queen of Crazy Town. “Why the hell should we be grateful?”
“Because we live.”
It feels like the sky lands on my head. I look at Ada. “I’ve spent a long time thinking of everyone else as dead. Guess I forgot I’m alive.”
Ada stands up and straightens her skirt. “Will you have coffee with me?”
I touch the lathered stubble on my face and remember what the razor’s for. “Go on ahead. I might be a minute.”
The morning air feels cool on my freshly shaved face. My loafers hit the sidewalk and carry me across the street. I’m not in a hurry. When I get to the park my watch says we’ve still got five minutes: all the time in the world.
Ada’s staked out our bench. She’s sipping from one cup while another one sits in the cardboard tray that’s saving my seat. I walk over, roll up the sleeves of my suede jacket, and sit down next to her. I look at her outfit and shake my head. Unlike me, she hasn’t changed.
“I hope they got it right this time,” Ada says as she offers me the second cup.
“Only one way to find out.” The warmth inside the cup moves into my hand. I raise it, take in the earthy aroma, have a sip, and grimace. “Too sweet.”
Just like her smile, Ada’s frown gets her whole face involved. “I told the girl, ‘light sugar’.”
I gulp down more coffee that tastes like boiled cotton candy and say, “There’s always tomorrow.”
Nethereal(Novel excerpt)
by Brian Niemeier
1
The room where Nakvin lay confronted her with a paradox. It held far more comforts than her chamber on Tharis, yet sleep eluded her. Perhaps living with pirates for more than a century had hardened her against luxuries like transessed sheets more durable than canvas yet smoother than satin, and light fixtures docile to their owner’s whims. Or perhaps memories of an equally lavish prison made her yearn to fly back through the vast ether to Jaren’s den. Whatever the reason, restless thoughts thwarted Nakvin’s hope of enjoying a brief nap before starting her night’s work.
Temil’s small distant moon shed more than enough light for Nakvin to see by. With the chamber’s owner asleep beside her, she began noting pertinent details. Salt-scented air tousled silk curtains in four places, marking the presence of windows. But one set of drapes never stirred.
Nakvin carefully removed herself from Shan’s slumbering embrace. She’d given the Magus a generous dose of venom; its bitter taste still lingered. But a little discretion never hurt. Nakvin’s black hair fell past her shoulders like a velvet shroud as she rose. The abstract-patterned carpet muted her footfalls. Drawing back the motionless curtain revealed a small metal door. Her eyes’ silver reflection stared back from its dark glossy surface.
Prudence was the defining quality of a Magus, as Master Kelgrun had said when he bestowed the rank on Nakvin. After all, only a fool would let a fool teach novices. Since Shan held the same degree, Nakvin knew that his safe would be Worked. Unfortunately she needed vocal melodies to fashion her own Workings, and songs were out of the question.
Limited to what she could accomplish silently, Nakvin inspected the strongbox. The door and its frame were Shipwright's grade, eliminating any question of the contents’ value. The secret that Shan exploited for personal gain lured Nakvin with the promise of aiding her captain. What the guildsman concealed for fear of his Brothers would help Jaren strike fear into the Guild.
Nakvin’s inspection revealed neither mundane traps nor hostile transessence. Holding her breath, she tried the combination that she’d teased from Shan's mind. Not until the tumblers clicked and the latch swung freely did she vent her lungs.
I still can’t believe he talked me into this, Nakvin thought, recalling Jaren’s professions of confidence in her abilities and the sure rewards of success. As happened far too often where her captain was concerned, sentiment had overcome her better judgment. Thus she found herself alone, committing multiple felonies on a world dominated by her former captors.
Nakvin opened the safe and froze in place as the lights came on. She cursed herself for overlooking such a simple alarm.
“What are you doing?” a groggy, confused voice asked from behind her. The bed creaked as Shan sat up. “Come away from there!”
Ignoring Shan, Nakvin reached into the vault and grabbed a thin crystal plaque.
“Face me when I'm speaking, harlot!” the guildsman said, rubbing the bite mark in the crook of his elbow.
Nakvin turned and met Shan’s white-hot glare. His face twisted in a shuddering scowl when he saw the tablet in her hand. “I'm taking this and going,” she said.
“Not without this,” said Shan, clutching a black silk bundle in his fist. “Not even a thief would leave her Steersman’s robe.”
Nakvin’s shock at the sight of another Magus handling her robe soon gave way to anger. She dropped the Working that hid her more exotic features, and Shan flinched when she bared her long canines. “I’m sure your Archon would love to see this,” she said, tapping the plaque with her finger. “Would one thief report another?”
Shan’s scowl returned. “There won’t be anything left to report,” he said. His focus left Nakvin and turned inward. His hands began cycling through the intricate patterns of the Steersman's Compass, and his breathing synchronized with his steady, practiced motions.
Though musical notation guided her own fashioning, Nakvin could read the Compass well enough to see the greater Working taking shape from Shan’s thoughts. The effect he planned to unleash was originally designed for building ships, but it would just as easily immolate her.
Nakvin’s gaze darted to the window. Sure enough, two sanguine points shone through the sheer curtains like a Tharisian sunset. “I’d stop now,” she said, knowing that Shan’s Working promised death, but not for her.
Blue sparks danced on Shan’s fingertips. “Why should I trust a Gen?” he spat.
“Gen?” Nakvin repeated, bitterly amused at how soon man’s memory faded. “They’re nothing like me. No one is. ”
Nakvin was drawing breath to sing a Working when a guttural growl emanated from behind the curtains. The sound, so deep that it was felt more than heard, made her forget her song. Twin red lights pierced the drapes as if two torches burned behind them. “Stop!” she said.
>
“Go back to hell, succubus!” Shan said, and lightning arced between his hands. He jabbed a finger at Nakvin, but before he loosed his Working the curtains tore aside with a hellish howl. Shan turned just as a grey-black blur of talons and jaws overtook him.
Seeing no use in fretting over matters beyond her help, Nakvin sang two Workings: one to banish the light; and one to muffle the guildsman’s dying screams.
The lady Steersman stood in the silent darkness, impassively viewing the carnage. When it was done, she was alone.
Nakvin retrieved her irreplaceable robe from the ruin of the bed. Unlike the blood-soaked sheets, its black silk bore no stain. Her work done, she left for home.
2
Teg Cross knew to use caution when traveling the Tharis ash fields, especially in Jaren’s drifter. He glanced at the rearview mirror, turned its grimy surface away from the cold brown eyes looking back at him, and saw the mountains diminishing to a dark serrated line. This far from solid rock, a single mistake could strand him on the grey forsaken plains.
Little as Teg enjoyed drifting through the wasteland, he relished the thought of walking even less. The fine volcanic ash collected into basins much like water formed seas. Near the hills it was ankle deep. Farther out it rose to one’s knees, and beyond that the dust could swallow a man whole. Even now its sulfurous odor clung to his clothes, and powdery grains mixed with spit filmed his mouth with mud.
Teg watched the bleak hills recede from view and wondered if playing swordarm to a Gen pirate was really his best career move. Not that he had anything against Gen—or even pirates. The Guild called any unlicensed ether-running piracy, and Teg couldn’t blame Jaren for cutting the Steersmen out. They’d never take his money anyway, he thought.
Still, compared to Keth—or any of the Cardinal Spheres—mercenary work on Tharis could only be called slumming. It was Jaren’s scheme to wrest the miserable ash heap from the Guild that made Teg question his own judgment. The pirates’ man inside the chapter house provided some protection, but even Jaren couldn’t expect one local official to cover up armed rebellion.