The Legend of ZERO: The Scientist, the Rat, and the Assassin

by Sara King

  “What are you doing?!” Mickey screamed, scrabbling to get behind him, effectively using Slade as a Human shield.

  Slade stayed where he was. And, as he had expected, Ten-F never even twitched. He grinned. “And without physical ears, she’s going to have a hard time making sense of sound-waves that come into her sphere from outside, if she can even do it at all. Once we cross that shiny blue line, on the other hand…” he inched his foot toward the shimmering edge of the sphere. “I’ll bet you any thoughts we have in there are going to become vivid enough to her that she actually thinks they’re real.”

  Mickey gave Ten-F a skeptical look. “Why’s she crying?”

  Slade turned and lifted a brow at his little friend. “Why were you going to kill me?”

  Mickey hesitated, flushing. “I, uh…”

  Slade waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. I forcibly introduced you to the scene of a childhood trauma, you panicked. It’s actually very common, and is what is keeping Ten-F on the other side of that wall, so I’m totally fine with it.” He turned to give Ten-F another look, considering. “I’ll bet you anything that we could walk right by her, if we were able to think of ourselves as something she would completely overlook in life, like a chair or a table.”

  “How about we just go, instead?” Mickey said. “This place is really freaking me out, Sam.”

  But Slade was too interested to be tugged away. “This is important, Mickey,” he said. “Hundreds of years of paranormal investigators have tried to figure this shit out, but they’ve never been able to see it like this.” He turned to give Mickey a solemn look. “I have to test this. You realize that, right?”

  Mickey gave him a flat look.

  “I do,” Slade insisted. “Your resident genius would not be able to live with himself afterwards if he passed this up, you know that, right?”

  “Test it how?” Mickey asked warily. Like he was asking him to bathe in Human sewage.

  “Well, that’s obvious,” Slade laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “By making her think that I’m a harmless piece of furniture.”

  Mickey squinted up at him.

  “Watch,” Slade said, now thoroughly caught up in the coolness of his latest science project. Then, as Mickey squeaked out a startled objection, he stepped solidly into Ten-F’s sphere and started thinking of himself as a door. A big, six-foot-seven, fuzzy-headed door.

  Ten-F’s head twitched towards him and an angry snarl came over her face the moment he stepped into her sphere, but as soon as Slade started thinking about how smooth and green his paint was, her fury faded and she looked elsewhere. Slade proceeded to step forward, pulling Mickey behind him, until he was standing directly in front of the crying woman. She moved slightly to look around him at the room beyond. Like she was trying to see past a door.

  Still firmly thinking of his steely nature and well-oiled hinges, Slade calmly bent down and began collecting his bottles and instruments that had been dropped on the other side of the window in the scuffle. Then, once he had all their belongings collected, Slade leaned forward and flicked Ten-F in the forehead with his index finger. As soon as his finger passed through the cool electric sizzle of her face, Ten-F grimaced and shoved him away irritatedly, then scooted to the side to get a better view of the inside of the Dark Room.

  Slade gave her a few more minutes, to prove his point, then stepped back out of her sphere and stopped thinking of himself as Door-Slade. “And that,” he said, grinning, “is why they hate me, Mickey. I think like a scientist.”

  Mickey’s jaw had fallen open. For a long time, he just stared at the dead science experiment. “You flicked her in the forehead.”

  “Yes,” Slade said, grinning. “And I got our stuff back.” He hefted the backpack over his shoulder pointedly. “See?”

  Then Mickey quietly cleared his throat. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  Slade laughed. “That’s generally recommended for evil geniuses, yes.”

  “No,” Mickey said, looking worried. “I mean really.” What was left unsaid was that, gee, five minutes ago, Mickey had been trying to kill him.

  Slade waved him off. “You’re safe. You were having an acute psychological response to deeply-embedded subconscious stimuli.” At Mickey’s blank look, he winked. “Besides. I don’t hurt my friends.” Twisting, he glanced at the exit to the Dark Room. “What do you say about us getting out of here before she gets bored with her little pity-party and decides to go wandering the halls again?”

  Mickey swallowed. “Can she follow us outside?”

  “Doubt it,” Slade said. “She’s basically a psychic Polaroid, so she’s likely going to stick to places she saw during life. Probably why she was hesitating at the edge of the parking lot. It wasn’t the light, per se. If what you said about her death was correct, she never saw the outside and she wasn’t able to process it without a brain, so it confused her. Still, I don’t want to have to spend the next thirty minutes thinking of myself as a door to get back outside, so let’s get this show on the road before she forgets why she’s crying and decides to go exploring again.”

  “Okay,” Mickey said, sounding almost…meek?

  “Keep holding my arm,” Slade told him, bending to retrieve Emerald. “I wanna be able to see anything else that comes at us.” Rolling her over, he winced at the cuts and abrasions on her chest and face from the fall. Then, pulling her over his shoulder, he led them through the darkened prep-area of the Dark Room and then stepped back while Mickey did the honors of opening the door for him.

  Immediately, they were blinded with the fluorescent lights of the hall beyond.

  As quickly as he could, Slade led them back through the labyrinth of halls toward the surface—stopping momentarily to switch off the power systems—and hesitated at the pile of bodies in the hall on the wrong side of the glass. As Mickey had told him, four more psychic residuals were huddled together in perpetual mental misery at the edge of the broken glass, shivering in continuous terror.

  “That’s sad,” Slade said softly.

  The four ghosts’ spheres were much smaller than Ten-F’s, barely covering six feet each. Slade tried to imagine what it would be like to spend an eternity trapped within six feet of awareness and he mentally added ‘Wipe the Card’ to his mental To Do list. “Let’s get out of here,” he said softly. He led Mickey through the hall of bodies, then endured the heart-wrenching way the residuals’ heads came up to give him fearful looks as he passed through their spheres. Because I think like a scientist, Slade thought, feeling awful.

  Then the glass was crunching under their boots and they were exiting the building, stepping out into the cool air of evening. Once they were again standing in the parking lot, Slade let out the breath he’d been holding. “You can let go of my arm, now, Mickey,” he said softly.

  Mickey released him almost reluctantly. The place where the little guy had been gripping his forearm was white from the tightness of his grip.

  “Well,” Slade managed, after mentally steadying himself, “that was actually a good lesson for us, kind of a ‘for future reference’ sort of thing.”

  “Future reference?” Mickey asked, turning back to eye the front door again.

  “Well,” Slade said, patting the calves of the unconscious woman slung over his shoulder, “if we succeed in finding Twelve-A and the rest of your friends, we’ll have to keep in mind they have a high chance of ending up like Ten-F. I’m not going to speculate on doomed souls or anything silly like that, but I will say that there’s pretty damned good evidence that they’re leaving something behind, and we’d like to avoid it, if we can.” When Mickey just frowned at him, Slade sighed and simplified. “We have to make sure they die happy.”

  “They are leaving something,” Mickey insisted. “I told you. It’s basically a glowing marble. Codgson’s guys were finding them in the autopsies, after they examined the bodies of some of the culls, mostly the Twelve series. For some reason, Codgson was sure that meant the Ooreiki had tamp
ered with his experiments somehow. Really pissed him off. He broke most of the marbles, which kept making Elfie scream, so he killed Elfie.”

  The regret in Mickey’s voice made Slade tear his eyes from the dead experiments to find Mickey’s face. “Elfie?” he urged.

  Mickey shrugged, but there was pain in his face. “He was in my series. We shared cells next to each other. He was like me—he could see the ghosts that were wandering the halls outside the room where they were collecting the marbles. It hurt him a lot more when Codgson started destroying them, though. Like started screaming for hours. It got on Codgson’s nerves, so he killed him. Said he was useless, anyway. Pretty sure Codgson didn’t know Elfie saw the ghosts.”

  “But it was just the two of you?” Slade asked

  Mickey shrugged again. “They tried to make others, but yeah. Elfie and I were the only ones that actually turned out right. The rest had one leg or no eyes or missing hearts or looked like lizards. Codgson gave me a tour of the thirteen-series archives when he wanted to scare me, and it was creepy.”

  “I’ll bet,” Slade said, remembering the walls of preserved fetuses, most of which didn’t even look Human.

  Mickey glanced back at the opening to the lab and, Slade suspected, to the dead experiments huddled inside. “They’re gonna be like that forever?”

  Slade winced. “Without outside interference?” He hesitated, wondering how long the ‘data’ embedded in the physical matter of the lab would last. “Possibly.” This was one self-made hypothesis that Slade actually wasn’t looking forward to proving. He glanced at the darkened cars around them, deciding to change the subject before he started feeling bad enough to question the ethics of whether or not, as a special kind of genius who could figure out how to put the dead to rest, whether he was morally obligated to do so.

  Later, he promised himself. You can think about that later. Slade cleared his throat. “We need to find a safe place to sleep, and I’m not sleeping in there with the dead people.”

  “That makes two of us,” Mickey agreed.

  Slade considered the cars around them. Though quarters would be somewhat cramped—especially for a gangly, six-foot-seven beast—a reclining, upholstered seat made as good a bed as any pile of moss and pine boughs he could scrounge together in the dark. Slowly setting Emerald down against a car tire, he said, “How do you feel about sleeping together for body-warmth, Virginia?”

  “How do you feel like a bloody nose, Fuzzy?”

  Slade laughed. So much for the little twit being leery of pissing him off. Proper minion veneration was so short-lived. He sighed and went over to the closest van and yanked the sliding door open. Checking the inside—and flicking some moldy fast-food wrappers out of the way—he said, “Fine. Help me find some blankets or coats or floor-mats or something. We’re sleeping here tonight.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss,” Mickey said. And, for once, it didn’t sound like he was being sarcastic.

  With a Rock…

  Saturday, 80 Days After Judgement

  It seemed like Slade had just fallen asleep before Rat’s frantic voice sounded on the walkie-talkie. “Sam, if you’re out there, I’ve got the biggest kreenit I’ve ever seen right on my tail. Can’t kill it. I need one of your creepy friends to do that stone trick on it, okay?”

  Hearing her voice again, Slade felt a rush of hope, then immediately stifled it. Hope was dangerous, especially when dealing with Huouyt, and he was ninety percent sure he was dealing with a Huouyt. Depressing the TALK button, he said, “The irony that you need the experiments’ help is not lost on me. Is it lost on you, Mickey?” Mickey shook his head. Slade returned his attention to the radio. “It’s not lost on him, either,” he informed her.

  “Yeah, well, the ‘irony’ is about fifty rods long and right on my ass.”

  “We’ll be sure to get out of sight.”

  “Listen to me, goddamn it,” Maybe-Rat shouted. “You’re my ka-par slave and it’s Saturday and I’m telling you to get them on board!”

  Slade frowned and counted the days that had passed on his fingers. “So it is Saturday.”

  “She’s not using the password,” Mickey noted.

  “Believe me, I noticed,” Slade replied.

  There was a long pause, then, “Pink bikini!” Rat shrieked, and Slade was pretty sure he heard the sound of something crashing in the background before the feed cut off again.

  Slade sat up fast. Heart hammering as his sleepy mental gears started to thunk into place, he glanced at Emerald’s peacefully napping form and said, “Hey, uh, sweetie, our stone munchkin’s down for the count. She’s recovering from surgery and post-poltergeist trauma. And you saw what happened the last time Mickey tried to take out a kreenit.”

  There was a long pause, then, “I’ll lead it away from you.”

  Slade frowned slightly at the sudden solemnity in the woman’s voice. She oozed ‘duty’ like a fish oozed slime. She’s planning to die, he realized, irritated. “No,” he said, “I’m saying you’re going to keep it entertained for a few more minutes while Mickey and I hash out a plan.”

  “Sam, I don’t know…” Rat said reluctantly. “I wasn’t kidding. This is the biggest kreenit I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even know they got this big.”

  “Just give us half an hour,” Slade said, glancing at the huge rocks that had been spaced across the front of the ‘café’ in a surreptitious car-bomb barricade under the guise of oooh, look at the prettypretty boulder!!

  “Half an—” she cried. Then there was another long silence, followed by, “I’ll see what I can do.” Then another pause. “But it’s gonna be tough.”

  “Do it,” Slade said. Then, after a moment, “And stay alive, okay? I miss my resident badass. Even on Saturdays.” Then Slade climbed out of the van, dragging a groggy Mickey with him. “Come on, Virginia,” he said, tugging him towards the road. “While my lady love is off valiantly distracting the beast, I’ve gotta pull another miracle outta my ass.”

  “Call me Virginia again and you’ll be pulling my fist out of your ass.”

  Oh, the opportunities! Delighted, Slade squinted back at his diminutive companion. “I’ve heard chronic virginity can be bad for mental health, but honestly, obsessing over orifices is probably a sign you need to seek help. Have you tried the five-fingered solution? I can demonstrate if you need a hand…”

  “You know what?” Mickey cried, “you’re right! I do need a hand. Bring it, Fluffy.” He stood there, gesturing to his crotch, cocking his head and waiting.

  “It would be awkward,” Slade bemoaned.

  “No one here but us,” Mickey challenged, obviously determined to call his bluff.

  “No,” Slade corrected solemnly. “I mean my hand wouldn’t fit. It would be physically awkward. I’d probably wear out the pads of my index finger and thumb in the doomed attempt.”

  “Experience talking?” Mickey asked, looking totally unfazed. “Maybe spent a bit too much time hanging around primary schools in between your time-slots at the glory holes?”

  Oooh. He liked this guy! “Is that why you haven’t had a girl? They keep mistaking you for a runaway kid?”

  “What is it like to have worms crawling out of your head? Anyone sprayed you with insecticide yet?”

  “I know what happened!” Slade cried. “They found your daddy dancing around a pot o’ gold and got him to jizz into a cup! Curious that your hair isn’t red, though…”

  “So as an official alien hybrid, do you have a vagina in your face now or what?” Mickey put a finger to his face thoughtfully and tsked. “No, wait, that was before the hybridization…”

  Slade chuckled. “Strangely,” he said, clapping him on the back, “I think we’re gonna get along.”

  Mickey squinted up at him. “You might be right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ve kinda become immune to ‘crazy’ over the last few months. You ain’t got nothing on Codgson.”

  Slade felt his brow tighten, insulted that he was being compared to
a murdering psychopath with megalomania, a superiority complex, and tendencies towards delusion. Already, he felt his 45 Intelligence stat slipping towards 0. “I’m not like him at all.”

  “Really, Sammy? Where’d you pick up the name Slade, anyway? You make it up when you were fourteen because you thought it sounded cool or something?”

  Slade’s mouth dropped open, because he had made up his alias when he was fourteen because he’d thought it was cool. “Uh…”

  “Yeah, thought so,” Mickey snorted. “We should probably go save Rat before she gets over her brief interest in entomology and finds someone more her own species.”

  Slade, who had never even taken that into consideration, suddenly found himself worrying whether or not Rat did have a problem with cross-species romance.

  “Then again, I hear Congies go for all sorts,” Mickey said, waving his hand dismissively. “She’s probably used to it by now. Though I hear an actual Huouyt can make it as big as he wants, so you’ve got a pretty high bar to meet right there.”

  Slade’s mouth was hanging open, because he’d heard that rumor, too. And Rat had made allusions to her bedding a Huouyt in pattern…

  Then Slade realized that Mickey was smirking at him. Recognizing that, for the first time in his life, he had just lost a bout of male verbal sparring, Slade was shocked to speechlessness.

  Deciding it was time to change the subject, Slade said, “You’re right, we don’t have time. Rat needs help.” He bent to pick up a dislodged rock, eyed it, then rejected it. He picked up another one and turned it over in his hand.

  “What’s that for?” Mickey asked, raising a brow like he thought Slade was going to use it on him.

  “It’s to save my lady love before she gets eaten by the universe’s biggest lizard.” Slade stuffed the rock in his pocket.

  “Oh,” Mickey said, slapping his hand to his face. “I’m sorry. I thought that had already happened. I mean, it seemed like you two were so close.”

  Squinting at his small, annoyingly mouthy companion, Slade went looking for something heroic to do.