Shadow Conspiracy

by Phyllis Irene

“If the possibilities are never resolved,” he panted, “what happens then?”

  I wound up the spider and set it on the table, pretending nonchalance but unable to keep the enormous grin from creeping across my own face. “It means we’ll have to have faith that a man as good and fine as you has a soul, and to hell with any machine.”

  Nathan strode toward me, and I opened my arms, aching for his touch. But he halted a scant foot away. He raised his hand, pressing the palm to an imaginary pane of glass. Without thinking, I matched the movement. Nathan raised his other hand. Mystified, I did the same. Then a sudden light sparkled in his eyes and he yanked me into his arms, bringing my space into his.

  “Ha!” he growled in my ear. “Broke it!”

  Beside us, the little spider skittered to the edge of the table, paused, and turned right.

  Steven Piziks, also known as Steven Harper, lives in Michigan with his wife, three sons, and a career teaching high school English. His students think he’s hysterical, which isn’t the same as thinking he’s funny.

  “The Soul Jar” is a sequel to his story “Thin Man,” which first appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine and is now available for free at Book View Café’s web site. His highly-acclaimed Silent Empire novels—Dreamer, Nightmare, Trickster, and Offspring —can be found for the Kindle by clicking on the titles. These books are available in several other e-formats at his Book View Café novel page. Steven keeps a regular blog at http://spiziks.livejournal.com.

  Zombi

  … by Pati Nagle

  From Dr. Eustace Trent, Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  To Lady Ada Byron King, Countess Lovelace

  My Lady:

  I was most gratified to receive your inquiries. I confess, however, knowing full well your prodigious interest in all things mathematical and mechanical, as well as the success you have had in applying these faculties to the betterment of mankind, I am puzzled to find you inquiring into matters of such a primitive and superstitious nature.

  It is true that there exists among the natives of these islands the belief that certain among them, sorcerers known in the local dialect as hougon have the power to compel a spirit from the aether and imprison it in some appropriate receptacle, such as a box, or possibly in some animal, which then becomes attached to the witch-doctor and is said to then be able to advise and assist him (or her) in their rites, much in the way our grandmothers spoke of our English crones keeping a cat or toad or some other such dumb beast.

  More rare, and much more feared is the possibility that a hougon may become offended and seek revenge upon an individual in a most dread fashion. Through a combination of magics and poisons, they remove the soul from the body, without killing that body. The body then still walks in the world, a mindless slave to the magician.

  Both of these cases are known as zombie...

  Marie walked down Decatur Street, searching for the house to which she had been summoned. She would not use the front door, no; but she wished to see it. A door could tell a lot about those who lived behind it.

  The doors along this street—one of the more fashionable in the Vieux Carré—were clean and ornate, breathing money. Marie had several clients living here, rich matrons who appreciated her deft skill at dressing hair, and whose gossip she mined for the pearls of information that gave her power in the city. It was not one of these wealthy patronesses who had sent for her today. She had been called—urgently called—by one of her own people.

  A case of possession, an odd one. The details had not been complete in the message, but it appeared that a nursery maid was somehow in the grip of another spirit.

  Marie put a hand to the basket where her python, Zombi, rested in the warm shadow of a heavy shawl beneath the other things she had brought, things she would need if she were to banish evil spirits. But perhaps not. Perhaps there would be an easier cure. Only if she needed the snake would she wake her.

  She paused, waiting for a carriage to pass before crossing the street. The horses were restive, and she saw why. Their driver was an automaton.

  They were still uncommon in New Orleans, these expensive machines that mimicked humans, but more and more of them were appearing, taking the menial jobs that before had been filled by slaves. Marie’s people called them zombis—an inaccuracy that annoyed her. A true zombi was created from a human by the arts of voudon. But the word was far easier to say than “automaton” and had caught on to such an extent that she no longer bothered to correct it.

  She watched the driver’s face, eyes that stared dully straight ahead, never blinking. In the market and in the churches, arguments were raging over these machines.

  Marie was as yet undecided, but she tended to think the coming of the machines was good. A slave removed from a menial task might rise to a more important position in his master’s service. He might be less strong, less efficient, less accurate than a machine, but he had one thing no automaton could match: the ability to think.

  She found the number she sought above a door across the street. A white door, fresh—painted, with a forest green lintel and urns of phlox to either side. Marie paused, gazing at it, noting the tension in the heavy air.

  Lent was not far off; the city grew more hectic day to day. Three masked balls had filled the Vieux Carré with wanton revelry just in the last week. Now, in the half-brightness of the winter day, a taut silence lay along the cobbled streets. Souls who did not dare behave with abandon beneath the sun waited for night to fall.

  She stilled her mind and opened her senses, calling up the light of protection and letting her heart breathe the unseen forces in the air, seeking any hint of darkness emanating from that door. If evil spirits waited within, she would smell them out before ever entering the house. She sensed no ill intent, though there was a strangeness....

  Shaking her head to clear it, she crossed the street and went along to the corner, down half a block to the alley and thence to the servant’s entrance. A coloured housemaid opened the door to her knock. Her eyes widened as she saw Marie.

  “Madame LaVeau!”

  She curtseyed deeply, which Marie acknowledged with a nod. “Mrs. Carter requested my assistance.”

  “Yes, Madame. Please come in, and I will fetch her.”

  Before stepping across the threshold, Marie paused to inhale the house’s breath, once more seeking any sign of evil. She tasted none, so she followed the maid down a hallway. Pale light shone through a tall panel of white lace at the far end, but they turned into a small room that was nearly filled by a desk and two straight-backed, wooden chairs.

  “If you would kindly wait here, Madame.”

  Marie nodded and set her basket on a chair, then removed her gloves. The maid hurried away, leaving her at leisure to examine the room. This did not take long; plainly it was the housekeeper’s office, and the neat desk attested to its owner’s efficiency. A small stack of papers, with a day’s menu atop, was the only sign that the desk was used and not merely ornamental.

  A single picture adorned the walls, a view of a plantation. Marie’s eyes narrowed as she looked closer. In the field behind the house stood a wall of tall stalks—like corn but growing more densely, long lazy leaves drooping. Sugar.

  A brisk footstep drew her attention to the door, where a slender woman in a plain black dress appeared. Her cheeks were high, her clear skin a creamy café au lait. Features more refined than beautiful, but had she been younger, Marie could easily have arranged plaçage for her.

  “Madame LaVeau, thank you for coming so quickly.”

  Marie accepted a formal pair of kisses. “Adele. How may I help you, sister?”

  Adele frowned in worry. “The son of the house has been ill for some weeks, since Christmas. He was in the care of a new nursemaid, but two days since he fell into a sleep from which he will not rouse.”

  Marie raised an eyebrow. “I thought from the message that I was summoned for the maid, not the child.”

  “You are. The child is under the care o
f his mother’s doctor. The maid has been acting strangely and has been ordered away from the boy.”

  “How strangely?”

  The housekeeper pursed her lips. “You will see.”

  With a gesture she led Marie from the room. Marie picked up her basket and followed Adele up the back stairs, up and up to the highest floor.

  A narrow hall ran along the house’s spine, with doors to either side. Adele opened one of these and invited Marie into a small bedroom with a faded curtain tacked to its slanted ceiling, caught back to reveal a tidy, unoccupied bed.

  Expecting to find the sufferer in bed, Marie instead saw someone sitting by the dormer window, looking out at the street—the maid, by her dress and apron—but there was something odd about the line of her shoulders and the way she sat perfectly still. Marie watched for a moment, noting again the sensation of strangeness she had felt earlier, stronger now.

  “Mignon, you have a visitor,” said Adele.

  “I told you before, I am not Mignon.”

  The clipped sound of the voice brought Marie’s suspicions together. This maid was an automaton.

  And then it turned, and she saw the light of soulfire in its eyes. Dread gripped her heart.

  “I am Anthony. Why won’t you believe me?” The head turned with a sharp click, and the eyes focused on Marie. “Who is that?”

  “This is Madame LaVeau. She is here to help you.”

  The maid did not move. “Can you help me?”

  Marie took a deep breath. “We shall see.”

  She set her basket on the bed and touched each of the small things wrapped in the folds of the shawl beneath which Zombi slept: herbs, candles, lucifers. She did so more to give herself time to be calm than because she feared anything had been lost.

  Never had she heard of an automaton with a soul, but that was plainly what Mignon—or Anthony—was. Possession, the message summoning her had said, and she saw now why Adele had been reluctant to explain.

  How the soul came to inhabit the automaton troubled her heart less than the fact that it was there. If automatons could have souls, then the question of whether they should replace slaves became much more complicated.

  When she looked up, the maid had not moved. Still staring at her. The head shifted slightly as Marie came closer.

  “Who is Mignon?” Marie asked.

  Adele opened her mouth to speak but Marie stayed her with a gesture. She kept her gaze on the maid.

  “Mignon is a state of the art automaton from Babbage and Lovelace,” the maid answered in its strange, clipped voice. “My father paid twenty thousand dollars to have her shipped from England.”

  Marie turned to address Adele. “And who is Anthony?”

  “He is the son of my employers. Anthony Ramsey.”

  “The second,” added the maid.

  Marie looked back at the automaton. “I understand that boy is very ill.”

  “I was. I couldn’t get up for days. Now I can move again, so I must be better, but I am still not well. I feel strange.”

  “Do you know why Mrs. Carter calls you ‘Mignon’?”

  The maid’s brows pinched together, and a look of fear came into the dark eyes. “No. It makes no sense.”

  “Do you have a guess, perhaps?”

  For a long moment the maid was still. “No.”

  Marie gave a nod. The first step was to make the child understand where he was. She thought he knew, but was resisting the awareness. She moved closer.

  “Give me your hands.”

  The maid hesitated. A tingle of fear danced along Marie’s arms; an automaton was immensely strong, and if it behaved unpredictably, it could be dangerous.

  Finally the maid lifted its arms and placed its hands in Marie’s. She was shocked at the absence of life, even though the hands were warm. It was steam, not blood, coursing through channels beneath the artificial skin; she had heard descriptions. Earlier automatons were far less successful at mimicking humans.

  Still, the skin itself felt wrong, leathery. There was no life in it, no pulse. Deep below, though, a whisper of the soul resided.

  Marie knew how to banish evil spirits, but how should a lost soul be guided back to its home? And would that be best for Anthony, if his true body was failing?

  She released the maid’s hands and turned to Adele. “May I have a hand mirror?”

  The housekeeper cast a wary glance at the automaton. “Is that wise?”

  “I think it is best, if we are to move on.”

  The woman pressed her lips together, but nodded as she left the room. Marie looked for another chair. There was none, but a small crate stood beside the bed to serve as a table. She pulled that toward the maid and sat upon it.

  “Tell me, Anthony, do you remember waking up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In my room. And there was someone in my bed.”

  “Who?”

  “A little boy.”

  “A boy your age?”

  “No, younger. He was smaller than me.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Then Adele came in and started telling me to take care of the boy, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to know why they had put him in my bed. I asked, and Adele said it was not my bed.”

  “Were your parents there?”

  “No. I haven’t seen them. I keep asking.”

  Marie pursed her lips, thinking. She must see the boy’s body, deduce whether he would live.

  “Are my parents all right?”

  Despite its metallic tone, the voice sounded worried. Marie’s heart went out to the child.

  “I do not know, but I think so. I have not heard otherwise.”

  Adele returned with a small, oval mirror in her hands. Keeping its back to the maid, she handed it to Marie, who thanked her and laid it face down in her lap.

  “Anthony, did you know that when you dream you leave your body?”

  The maid looked confused. “I’ve dreamed of flying sometimes.”

  “Yes. And your soul was flying, then. Your soul was free, not weighed down by your body.” Marie made her voice as soft and gentle as she could, speaking in a soothing rhythm like a lullaby. “Your poor body has been sick, Anthony, so sick you could not move or speak. That is true, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet your soul longed to be well again. Your soul yearned to be free. And in dreams, it broke free of the sickness and pain, and could fly. Your soul sought a new home, Anthony. A body that was not ill, like yours. A body that could move and speak.”

  She lifted the mirror, holding it to face the maid. The automaton’s eyes shifted to it. For a moment it was still.

  “No.” The eyes clicked to Marie’s face. “No!”

  Marie stood and took a step back, muttering a prayer for protection, leaving the crate between them as the maid also stood.

  “Witch woman! You did this?”

  Marie shook her head. “I did not do this.”

  The maid’s eyes burned with rage, then confusion. It took a step and halted, seeming to fight within itself. Marie backed away, aware of Adele standing in the doorway poised to flee.

  With a cry of anguish, the maid dropped to its knees, bringing both fists down on the wooden crate, shattering it. Splinters and shards of wood scattered across the floor and thumped into Marie’s heavy skirts. Adele gave a small shriek.

  The maid remained on the floor, tilted forward at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. A small choking sound came from it, over and over. Trying to weep, Marie realized. She glanced toward her basket, and seeing it unharmed, drew a breath.

  “Adele, I wish to see the boy’s body. You can arrange this?”

  “I will try, madame.”

  The housekeeper left, no doubt glad of the excuse to get away. Marie put the mirror on the bed and moved toward the maid. Brushing aside chips of wood, she knelt.

  “Anthony.”

  The maid ceased its odd, tearless crying
and raised its head, meeting her gaze. Marie opened her hands.

  “I am not a witch, but I think the blessings of voudon can help you. If you wish for help.”

  “You can put me back in my body?”

  “First we must see if your body can support you. If it is as ill as I was told...”

  “Am I dying?”

  Marie pressed her lips together. “Consider this. Would you rather live on in this form, or die in your own body?”

  “Neither.”

  “There may be no other choice.”

  The maid’s head dropped. Marie felt great pity for the child—a young boy, if she recalled correctly—too young to face such a decision.

  While they waited in silence, she thought about what this development could mean. That a soul could trade its flesh for the less fragile body of an automaton seemed in one way a blessing, but it was impractical. The machines were expensive, and required maintenance. They were new enough that Marie did not know how long they would last. Possibly much longer than a human body, possibly not as long.

  And what must it be like to inhabit such a body? Anthony did not seem to enjoy it. An automaton could not feel, or smell, or taste. It would be like living in a dead cage.

  A zombi.

  Shaking her head to free herself from these thoughts, Marie rose and went to the bed. She sat and placed the basket on her lap, feeling the deep, slow soul of her snake, vaguely unquiet.

  A step in the hallway made her turn her head. Adele stood in the doorway, looking frightened.

  “My mistress has taken to her bed. Her doctor is in attendance upon her. You could see the boy, if you come now.”

  Marie stood, slipping the basket’s handle over her arm. The maid also rose to its feet, splintered wood clattering to the floor.

  “Take me with you.”

  “No!” said Adele.

  Marie saw the flash of anger in the maid’s eyes and held up a hand. “Wait!”

  The maid turned its head, then turned to face Marie, eyes still malevolent. A prickle of fear reminded Marie of the machine’s strength.

  “If you come, you must pretend to be Mignon.”