by www. clarkesworldmagazine. com; Jim C. Hines; John A. McDermott; Gord Sellar
And then something tickled his hand. Jesse clamped down, feeling the familiar line tug his fingers. The end was frayed from Sam’s knife, leaving only a few hundred feet. It would have to be enough.
The Rokkaku darted out of the way as Jesse flew the Hata into position, sweeping the red and blue diamond in a wide figure eight.
The Buka streaked toward the hospital, as if it had been waiting for this moment. Jesse ran along the roof, pulling his kite down to intercept. His shorter line was an advantage here, giving him speed. The Hata ducked beneath the bigger kite, then flew upward. The Buka pulled back, barely escaping Jesse’s cutting line.
How long would the line last in the rain? he wondered. At least he hadn’t used the traditional mix of rice paste and broken glass. Wood glue might be too modern for Kentaro, but it should endure the water better.
Jesse moved to intercept another attack, sweeping his kite like an enormous saber. Each time the Buka approached, Jesse was there, using every trick he could think of to drive it back.
His arms began to ache. He pulled in a bit of slack, hoping to lure the black kite closer. If he could just get his cutting line within range, he could try to cut the other kite down. Even though he couldn’t see the Buka’s line, he knew in his blood where it had to be. But the Buka moved impossibly fast, and every one of Jesse’s attacks came up short.
“Jesse! How the hell did you get up here?”
The line dug into his fingers as he turned to see Sam and a security guard stepping on to the roof. Someone must have seen Jesse on the roof.
The Buka took advantage of Jesse’s distraction, swooping down at a sharp angle. Jesse ran to block, but the Buka veered, dragging its invisible line toward Jesse’s own kite. The Buka’s line brushed the edge of Jesse’s Hata. Terrible cold burned Jesse’s hands, and then it was all he could do to keep the Hata aloft.
“Kid, watch out for the edge,” the guard yelled.
It gave Jesse an idea. He hurried toward the corner of the roof and hopped onto the ledge, a low, foot-wide wall of concrete. The cars in the street looked like plastic models. Jesse wavered slightly, yanking his kite to correct his balance.
“Jesse, no! Get down now!”
There was real fear in Sam’s voice. “Stay back,” Jesse yelled. His little Rokkaku buzzed anxiously around his head. He could hear Sam and the guard talking, but at least they weren’t coming any closer. They wouldn’t risk him falling. The next time he spared a glance, the roof was empty.
Jesse pulled the Hata in, trying to assess the damage. The bamboo spar had cracked near the left corner, causing it to flap back and forth.
The Buka attacked again, moving to block Jesse’s wind, then streaking down as the Hata fell. Jesse dragged his kite closer, until he was pulling the cutting line itself. The glass scraped skin from his palms, but he kept pulling, avoiding the Buka’s attack.
He loosed his hands suddenly, allowing the Hata to leap higher. It swung in a broad, flat arc, seeking to decapitate the other kite. The Buka circled away.
Attack and parry, feint and counter. The sparrow and the starling. Every move put more strain on Jesse’s damaged kite. He had waterproofed and layered the kite, but there was only so much it could take.
“Jesse, come down this instant, dammit!”
Sam had returned. Jesse ignored him, but he couldn’t ignore the second voice. Weak and hoarse, Kentaro yelled, “Listen to your father, Jesse.”
Jesse glanced back. Kentaro stood supported by Sam on one side and the guard on the other. A trailing tube connected him to an I.V. stand. The rain-damp hospital gown emphasized the boniness of his shoulders. His bare arms were little more than sticks. Panic clenched Jesse’s chest. The Buka was so close, and now Kentaro stood exposed.
“Get out of here,” Jesse yelled. “Kentaro, please!”
Kentaro reached out. “If you won’t obey your father, obey me. Come down.”
“I’m trying to save you!”
“I know.” Kentaro smiled. “But not like this.”
Sudden fear made Jesse turn. The Buka had already begun its attack. Jesse jerked the line with all his strength, but it was too late. The Buka’s invisible line cut the Hata a second time. Jesse had kept the Buka from cutting his line, but it made little difference.
“No….” The Hata began to fall, little more than a crumple of silk and sticks. He heard footsteps behind him.
“No,” he said again, more firmly this time. His little Rokkaku shot backward, and he heard Sam cry out in surprise.
Jesse tightened his grip, forcing his broken kite higher while the Rokkaku kept Sam back. Jesse battled the wind and the kite’s own weight with for every inch.
“What’s he doing?” Sam demanded.
“Trying to save my life,” Kentaro said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” Kentaro said. “But that is what he’s doing.”
Jesse relaxed his fingers, feeling blood pound through the cramped muscles. His kite bucked harder as the wind tossed it about.
“We are family, Jesse,” Kentaro said. “Nothing can change that. Not the court, not even death. Your little Rokkaku showed me the strength of that bond. You don’t have to do this.”
“He’s not your son,” Sam snapped. “I swear, if you weren’t dying-”
“He’s not going to die,” Jesse said, newfound determination in his voice. The Rokkaku shot past his ear and disappeared into the rain. Jesse didn’t need to see it. He could sense it spinning through the air.
The Rokkaku collided with the black Buka, punching a hole in the blackness.
The black kite bucked, but Jesse had already brought the Rokkaku around, tearing a second hole, then a third. The slender spars of his Rokkaku splintered with each blow, but Jesse forced it to attack again and again until it disintegrated.
Only then did he allow his Hata to fall. His line intersected the Buka’s, and he pulled so hard he fell onto his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. The last thing he saw was the black kite dropping out of sight, followed by his own ruined Hata.
Sam’s fingers dug into Jesse’s arm, hauling him upright. Fear, confusion, and fury all battled across Sam’s features. Jesse wondered which would win.
The guard yelled, forestalling the argument. “Hey, you can’t come up here.”
A young girl stood in the doorway leading down into the hospital. The guard shook his head. “When did we get a revolving door on the rooftop?”
The girl wore a black leather jacket and torn jeans. Her black shoes gleamed wetly, even though the rain seemed not to touch her. In her hands, she held a small black Buka kite. She touched the guard with the corner of the kite. “Leave.”
Blank-faced, the guard retreated back into the hospital. Jesse started to shiver, sensing the power in that kite.
“You know the traditions?” she asked, her eyes never leaving Jesse’s.
Slowly, Jesse nodded. He clasped his bleeding hands together to stop them from trembling.
“What traditions?” Sam snapped.
“When fliers battle,” Kentaro said, “one who cuts down another’s kite often claims and flies that kite as his own.”
“No more kites,” Sam said. “If I catch you with another one of those damn-”
“You won’t catch him,” the girl said, grinning.
Jesse pulled free of Sam’s grasp and walked toward her. “You killed my mother.” He couldn’t feel anything at all. Kentaro’s hand came to rest on Jesse’s shoulder.
“A chemical reaction killed your mother,” she said. “I helped her spirit on the next stage of her journey. It’s what I do.” She frowned. “What you do, now.” She held out the Buka.
Jesse put his hand on Kentaro’s. “What about my father?”
“His body is failing. If it’s any comfort, you’ll be with him at the end. You’ll be the one to ease him on his way.”
“No,” Jesse said. “You can’t make me-”
“I don’
t understand,” Sam said, coming around to Jesse’s other side. “It’s just a kite.” He reached toward the girl.
From the center of the kite, a black line snapped out to hit Sam in the chest. He fell back, gasping.
“Stop,” Jesse said. At once the kite obeyed, and the line vanished. “Sam, are you okay?”
Sam nodded, though his face was pale.
“You will have power and responsibility both,” the girl said. “Most importantly, you will have freedom.”
Kentaro started to speak, but a coughing fit took him.
“Leave them alone!” Jesse took a step toward the girl, but she shook her head. This wasn’t her doing. Jesse caught Kentaro and held him until the fit passed.
Jesse’s eyes watered. “I won’t kill Kentaro.”
“I’ll return for him if you don’t,” she said. “Which would bring him greater peace?”
Slowly, Jesse reached for the kite. It was surprisingly light. The black paper was dark as night, with no sign of damage, but he recognized the Buka he had fought. The bamboo spars were yellow with age, and the bridle was simple hemp. A sparkling of light trailed from the bridle to his hands, hands which no longer bled or hurt.
“Jesse, what are you doing?” Sam asked.
Before anyone could react, Jesse pressed the kite into Kentaro’s hands. The girl started to protest, but Jesse cut her off. “It’s my kite now. I choose to give it to him.” Already he saw new strength in Kentaro’s fragile frame. “Give it to me when I’m older, if you want. But at least this way…this way you could still visit sometimes? We could fly kites again.” He glanced at Sam, daring him to argue.
But Sam said nothing. More than anything, he looked lost.
Kentaro gave Jesse a quick hug, and Jesse marveled at the strength in those arms, even as the contact sent frigid chills through his body.
“Are you sure, Jesse?”
He nodded.
“I almost forgot.” The girl reached into her jacket and pulled out a small scrap of blue and red. “You’ll want this, I think.” She took Kentaro’s hand, leading him away.
Seconds later, Sam and Jesse stood alone in the rain.
Jesse cleared his throat. “Thank you. For telling me about Kentaro.”
Sam stared for a long time, until Jesse began to fidget. “That was…that was pretty impressive,” he said finally. “The way you handled that kite.”
“Thanks.”
“Kentaro-” Sam hesitated. “He did a good job with you, didn’t he?”
Jesse flexed his hands, studying the newly healed pink skin. “He’s family. I had to save him.”
“Yeah.” Sam squeezed Jesse’s shoulder. “You did a good job, son.”
As he followed Sam inside, Jesse stopped to look into the sky, where the black Buka saluted with a broad ‘J’ before disappearing into the clouds.
About the Author
Jim C. Hines has sold six novels, forty short stories, and one bumper sticker at the time this bio was written. His short work has appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Sword & Sorceress, and Turn the Other Chick, among others. His story “Blade of the Bunny” earned him a great big trophy from Writers of the Future back in ‘99. Hines is a known goblin sympathizer, author of the humorous goblin trilogy from DAW Books. His next novel, The Stepsister Scheme, will be out in January of 2009, and is best described as a mash-up of fairy tale princesses and Charlie’s Angels. He lives in Michigan with his wife and two children.
“Passwords”
by John A. McDermott
Every four months a security program sent Max an e-mail to his work account reminding him to change his password. The first reminder came two weeks before he had to make the shift or lose access to his incoming messages. The second reminder came ten days before the change was necessary. The third note — a little shorter, even curt — came with a week left before he was locked out. Max ignored them all. It had been seventeen days since the initial message — Dearest Max, A Gentle Missive to Stir You — and three since the last — Attention: You Will Be Denied Access — and still, Max could log on safely, read, respond, ignore, even delete, his mail. The deadline passed and nothing changed.
Max reluctantly read the latest contact this morning, the first in a line of four messages, the yellow envelope pulsing from his mailbox icon, the red flag flipped up. Change Now, is all it said. No, he muttered and shook his head (though no one was there to hear or see him. His cubicle had high beige walls and most of his co-workers had yet to arrive, coffee and umbrellas in hand). He’d deliberately resisted the password change. He was sick of new codes. He’d worked for Bender Incorporated for seven years. A new password every four months (that’s three a year, folks) and the total tally, so far: twenty. The one he refused would have made twenty-one. 21: the year of independence, the year of maturation, the password to full citizenship.
What were the twenty previous passwords? A sampling: his childhood street address; his mother’s nickname; his wife’s first dog; his wife’s last dog before marriage (an ancient lab who’d hated him, who’d crapped in his running shoes, but whom Max had beaten by default — cancer clocked him before Jenny had to make a choice); the last name of his little brother’s favorite hockey player; his father’s profession; the last name of the first girl he’d had sex with; the first name of the last girl he wanted to have sex with; his favorite brand of cookie. And the list continued.
Max was spent. Emotionally, creatively, typographically. Spent.
He didn’t really want his mail, anyway. It all amounted to client complaints, boss nagging, and Jenny asking him when he was going to be home, what did he want for dinner, was he sick of Chinese? Chinese. He’d never invented a password in Chinese. He didn’t know any Chinese. He didn’t know any Chinese people. He remembered the actor’s name from Kung Fu. Carradine. He’d have to mix it up. CareAd9. That might work.
That was stupid. It was the actor’s last name with a nasty cold.
He wished he could karate chop his monitor, a swift open hand right down the center. The glass would blow out, the gray casing would crack, open like a shotgun wound, the wires and boards tumble out like so many high-tech intestines.
The second note this morning was from a supplier in Asia. Things will be delayed. A dockworker’s strike somewhere. (He only skimmed the note — Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong? He didn’t remember.) He was already debating how to break the news to his boss that the goods — a load of children’s raincoats dotted with the latest cartoon craze — wouldn’t arrive by the end of the week. It hadn’t stopped raining in eleven days and for each of the eleven days his boss had asked, “Where are the Pickle coats, Max? Where are the Pickle coats? There are wet kids out there. Wet kids with concerned parents who are ready to give us money, Max. Where are the coats?” The cartoon was a talking Pickle. Max had seen the show regularly; it was a favorite of his niece’s. Charity loved the talking Pickle. Pete? Paul? Pat? Pablo? He couldn’t remember the pickle’s name. It was alliterative, he knew that.
But the Pickle coats wouldn’t be here in time to serve the needs of the wet children of the northwestern United States.
“A strike,” he imagined saying to his boss. “Beyond our control. A strike. Who’d a guessed?”
The third note was from his wife. She was ovulating. They were trying to conceive. They were failing. Had failed for eighteen months now. Every month a strike out. The moment she said she felt PMS coming on, Max felt like a fool. Worthless. He’d never had problems with his masculine identity before. Now he felt…hollow. Not castrated or emasculated. Just empty.
Her time was right. He needed to come home for lunch.
“No,” he said again. It was a forty minute commute. He had an hour for lunch. The math didn’t add up. Why didn’t Jenny know that? Desperation was clouding her brain. Every time they visited his sister and saw Charity, now a bubbly three-year-old, Jenny would come home and cry for an hour. Max couldn’t console her. He didn’t know the right words. Everything he sai
d made her shoulders lurch and shudder and her breath catch again. It used to be he could joke Jenny into a smile. He couldn’t anymore.
Max heard the elevator ding and footsteps in the hall behind him. Lydia called hello and he said hello back without turning around. Lydia was a systems analyst, almost always the other early morning arrival, unless one of the many dachshunds she raised decided to get sick or run away or commit some other doggy delinquency. Then she’d roll in with a dachshund story. Most days she called hello and went right to her cubicle.
Max read the fourth message. Change Now, it said. Or Else.
“Screw you,” Max said and tapped the delete key with a forceful finger.
The message disappeared.
Over the course of the morning, as Max silently composed a speech for his boss — ”A dockworker’s strike is like lightning, sir. Now one can tell where it’ll hit. No one saw it coming,” he’d say, though the supplier in Asia had been hinting at the possibility for weeks. Or: “It’s going to be over in a jiffy, boss. The union’ll cave. No doubt about it,” though he’d read no such thing. Max’s knowledge of Asian dockworkers’ unions was sketchy, at best. He knew they worked on docks. He knew they were Asian. He tried to imagine an Asian Terry Malloy, an Asian Rod Steiger.
His own experience with docks was limited to a girl he dated in high school whose father owned a sailboat and where she had led him one Friday night, to her father’s boat moored in a private slip, and where they’d made out, drinking her father’s booze and getting mildly queasy from the swaying and the alcohol and his frustrated teen-age lust. He hadn’t used her name as a password yet (Bridget) or the name of the boat. He remembered it clearly, Well Past Time. Well past time for what, he wondered now, but not then. Well past time for a ship? For a trip? Well past time to let that memory go, Max considered. He’d brought a rubber with him that night, though he hadn’t used it. He didn’t know he was shooting blanks then. Think of all the money he could have saved over the years on contraception. Perhaps thousands of dollars and countless embarrassing trips to drugstores and supermarkets. He didn’t really know if he was shooting blanks. Jenny suggested a trip to a fertility specialist, but he balked at the expected images: a lobby of strangers, a nurse handing him a cup, a cramped bathroom, a pile of well-thumbed porno mags. It wasn’t appealing, but Jenny wanted to pinpoint their problem.