by Ben Langdon
Seraphima wore a young body to the meeting, sheathed in a black dress and impossible heels. He hadn’t seen her in a very long time, but the Russian recognized her glas myortvy, the deadness in her eyes. She watched him approach, a smile curving across her lips.
“Sima,” he said, taking one of her hands in his and kissing it lightly. “To have come all this way honors me,” he continued in Russian.
“You don’t seem so mad to me, mal’chik,” she said in English. “I had come to witness your demise, but it seems you are not nearly as gone to the dogs as I was led to believe.”
She smiled across at Grim. The Russian followed her gaze, straightened himself up, and then folded his hands behind his back. He wasn’t sure how much she played with him, toying with their shared history, teasing him with her very mixed up chronology.
“Yes, this time concerns my family. Each of you earned my love, my trust, and now payment is due.”
“Straight to business, then,” Sima said.
Grim shuffled from the divan and clumsily kissed Sima’s hand after she moved from the Russian. She tilted her chin at Grandfather Time and Pearl, but completely ignored Luke who stood behind his aunt. With hands on her hips she surveyed the group and from her expression it was clear she was amused by what she saw. The Russian understood her perspective. Seraphima was able to shed her skin at will, always living her life physically as a young woman if she chose to do so. The Russian, also, was accustomed to looking at the world in long drawn-out canvasses of time. When he was a younger man, the world was a very different place.
“You have been gone a long time, old friend,” Sima said as she sat on the divan next to Grim. “Some of us thought you were finally dead.”
“You make me blush,” the Russian said.
“Where have you been?” Grim asked, coughing at the end of his words and scrambling to regain control of his lungs.
“Other places,” the Russian said, waving his hand to dismiss the talk. “No need for this in our current discussion. Returned I have, and need for you to assist me with my … matters of succession.”
“But it has been five years,” Grim said, refusing to give up the conversation. “You were gone. No trace of you.”
“I am here now, good friend,” the Russian said. “Come, come…”
He gestured to the door, but Grim coughed again and waved his hand. Pearl’s lips twitched.
“We searched the world,” Pearl said softly. “From above and from below, from the sides too. You were not here, Galkin. We wish to know where it was you went.”
“Some things will be revealed tonight,” he said. “And others shall remain my business, Pearl. Grant me this audience, dear lady, and I can promise you that you will not be so worried about my absence. Other things I have planned for us. Come, come…”
He led them out of the library and into a corridor, lined with metal and nothing like the comfortable and warm room they had left. It was a shielded passage, well beyond detection and strong enough to withstand uberhuman assaults. It led further down into the earth and as they passed through a thick vault-like gate Galkin felt like the old times had, at least partially, returned.
“A safe room?” Grandfather Time noted as he bent his balding head to enter. When he straightened his body he returned his top hat to its rightful place and looked with rheumy eyes around the state of the art room. Surveillance was the name of the game, Galkin knew, and from the secret room he was able to monitor everything and everyone.
“Is that my house?” Grim asked, squinting at one screen.
“I would keep you all safe,” Galkin said.
Grim itched at his beard but said nothing more.
“And is that your charming grandson, Russian?” Sima asked.
She was always the one to bring them back into focus, to cut through the human ties, the useless prattle. Galkin allowed himself to enjoy simply watching her, her dark eyes, giving away nothing but the hint of humor.
Behind her enigmatic face was a grainy picture of a hotel room. A boy was sleeping face down, his leg hanging off the side of the bed, his hair tussled and unruly.
“Da,” he said.
“And this is the successor?” Sima continued, eyebrows arched. “You would have us assist you in crowning this boy the next Mad Russian? Surely you jest, old man. He is nothing but a shchenok.”
Galkin pressed a finger to his lips, a smile breaking around each side. Sima held his gaze while the others in the room waited silently. He could tell they were all doubtful, that in his absence they had forgotten just what kind of power it was that he wielded.
“He is blood of my blood,” he said softly, nodding. “After many years apart we come together again now. And you here tonight, my friends, my people. I ask you to play your part.”
“You know we will, Galkin,” Grim said. “We all have debts.”
“Ah, the locksmith speaks, and without the attendant cough,” Sima said, moving away from the main monitor. “I see your handiwork has already entered the picture.”
Grim blushed but it was difficult to tell because of his ruddy complexion. As a tinkerer there was no equal in his time, but with the advances of technology and the millions of pathways innovation had taken in the past decade, it would only be a matter of time before Grim and his skills were rendered redundant.
“Grim has crafted a device,” Galkin said, pleased.
“A leash, perhaps?” Sima added. “Something to control the child until coronation? Yes, I recognize the wolf’s handiwork there on the screen. But how, dear, old friend, did you deliver it to him?”
“There is a man,” Grim said.
“Always, there is a man,” she teased.
“And a well placed man,” Pearl added, although her sunken eyes remained on the screen rather than the people in the room. “An Englishman on your payroll, Isangrim, and one beyond even my influence.”
Grim shrugged but wouldn’t face Pearl or her nephew.
“I thought your inheritance had all gone to the bottle, old friend,” Sima said.
“I have done as you requested,” Grim said to Galkin, bowing his head.
“Even though you doubted me?” Galkin asked. “No matter, you have shown your hand, Grim. And it pleases me.”
Galkin reached towards the screen and touched it gently. A flicker of static heralded a change in picture, the hotel room replaced instantly with an image of the Melbourne skyline.
“And Pearl has given me eyes across the city,” Galkin said, smiling. “Electronic eyes, and the living ones.”
“The seed is sown within the girl’s entourage,” Pearl said, and for a second she allowed her arrogance to filter through her usually impassive face.
“But what of the heroes?” Galkin asked the roof, hands spreading in question. “What of the Celestial Knights?” He turned back to the group with a look of mock horror on his face.
“Distracted,” Grandfather Time said, ignoring Galkin’s melodramatic pose. “And the local derivatives scattered to the winds, at least in a temporary capacity. Certainly long enough for this move you hope to make. But tell me, Russian. Why the American girl?”
Miranda Brody’s face appeared on the central screen and the Russian smiled, impressed with his own ability to manipulate the images through the smallest thought. Silent video clips of her concerts flashed across other screens, but the central one remained static, her young face half-smiling for the camera. She was a little older than Danya, but a good match, he thought.
“Why this girl?” he echoed the question. “This girl is the big thing, my friend, the sensation. All the world has eyes for her and soon for my grandson. Once this thing is done, once he has come back to me, there will be no return to … to the flipping burgers, to the shame he brings me. The world will watch and the world will be fearful.”
“It makes no difference to me,” Sima said. “You could have your boy kill a politician or a business CEO, it doesn’t matter. You’ll get him back, one way or anothe
r.”
She touched his shoulder and he smiled at her, bowing his head in gratitude.
“Which leaves us with but one more element,” Galkin said, turning to look back at the others. “No protection, no hope of escape, but there needs to be the match. Fire to bring about change.”
Sima smiled.
“And that’s where I come in, isn’t it?” she asked. “After all this time, all you needed was an assassin. A part of me is insulted.”
“Never,” Galkin mocked.
“It’s possible. Although you do know me better than most. I’ll do this thing for you, for all the times we’ve had together in the past. But there must be a line.”
Galkin nodded. There was always a line but most of the time no one acknowledged it. The storm outside, threatening but not breaking: it was the warning that things would never be the same again.
An age was coming to pass.
“After tomorrow, you will not hear from me again,” Sima said. “None of you.”
She looked at Grim, his head down, cheeks twitching. Pearl was shadowed by old age and death too. It was so clear to them all.
“Our time has passed,” she continued. “There is a new world here and if you won’t embrace it you will be crushed by it.”
“We have not been blind Seraphima,” Pearl said. “Contingency plans have been put in place, for years.”
“And yet the old man has been gone for years. Perhaps he missed the memo.”
“It matters not,” Galkin said. “You each have empires to run or ruin, and I have my grandson. For that I thank you, but now you leave.”
He stood in the center of the room, flanked by the constant hum of monitors surveying the city above him. Pearl and her nephew left first, without farewell; followed by the shambling Grim. Grandfather Time simply vanished, disappearing in between the blinks of an eye.
Sima alone remained.
“You have pretty speech,” Galkin said, half in question.
“A warning, perhaps.”
“Go on,” he said.
She closed the door to the secret room, cutting herself off from those who left before. Galkin could ‘see’ her in ripples of electricity. She always burned brighter than regular humans, perhaps due to her symbiotic nature, her essence held in place with borrowed skins.
“It is about the wolf.”
“Ah,” Galkin said, and there was sadness there.
Chapter 11
Miranda
The island resort was awash with light, pushing out towards the ocean which shimmered and then fell to black. Waves rolled up the white beach as Miranda stepped off the boat. Her bare toes sank into the cool sand and she marveled at the warm water around her ankles.
“Just a few friends?” she asked Sully, as he stepped down beside her. Ahead of them, Miranda saw about twenty people. There was a pool and a white-walled hotel surrounded by trees and soft-white spotlights.
“You are entitled to some time away from the fans,” Sully said. He lifted her luggage from the boat and allowed her to walk ahead. A part of her was worried about who she would meet on the beach. Her real friends had been shunted to the side over the past year or so, and all she had now were these people.
It didn’t take long for the paradise to shift.
“Good to see you, luv.”
Robbie Rogers looked gorgeous and drunk. He had KL with him, the faux-rapper he’d been partying with in Miami while dating Miranda in Los Angeles. She returned his smile but didn’t let him close enough for the kiss.
“Thanks for the flowers,” Miranda said.
Robbie looked confused. He had no idea what she was talking about, no idea that a bunch of flowers had arrived after the Jakarta concert, a bunch with his name on it. It must have been her manager’s idea, or maybe Robbie’s manager.
Miranda had been swept from the stage by security. She remembered being physically lifted away, the burning boy dropping out of reach, and all she could see were lights from the roof and the swirl of colors and smells.
And then in her room all she had was silence.
She sat there for an hour, at least, while the world outside her door plunged into chaos. She called her father and cried into the phone, no words coming from her, just the rack of sobs.
Sully was suddenly there.
And then the plane.
A night evacuation.
Evie sat across from her with the flowers as they flew into Australia. She read the card from Robbie in her lilting voice, her wide eyes watching Miranda the whole time, like she was going to burst into flames as well.
And maybe she was.
She felt a pressure inside her. It stopped her from talking, from thinking, from even moving. But the pressure wasn’t just from Jakarta, from the falling, dying boy. It had begun with the competition, with becoming a national identity. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. She had been remade, over and over, even in the first few weeks.
Miranda Brody was out of control.
The protests had struck her hard. People shouting hatred. Freak Chic was a hit, but it was also a striking match. Uberhumans had been a part of the world for decades, but no one ever really confronted them – they were a part of the world, but also apart from it.
Miranda’s music exploited the freaks, and she knew it. It was all part of the image Thurston Klein and the others had constructed for her. The undulating tentacle girls and the muscled cat men strutting their bodies across the stage while the girl-next-door sang about all the fun that could be had in this new world.
Light music. Empty lyrics.
She hated it.
But that was celebrity, and Miranda wanted to sing to thousands of people. She wanted their eyes on her, their screams for her. It was her stupid dream and she had made it real. Even Robbie Rogers was part of the dream: a member of a British boy band, equally manufactured and equally beautiful.
When Evie left for a moment, Miranda found herself looking at the flowers, the whites and pinks, and she reached across for the card. She remembered how much she’d loved being with Robbie. She remembered how much it had felt like everything fitted together.
And she cried at his words.
Miranda moved through the guests quickly, kissing cheeks and smiling widely at the stories from back home in the States. The gossip, intrigue and industry news washed over her. At last, Sully touched her arm and led her to the hotel. She looked back at Robbie one last time before the doors closed, but then she re-focused herself.
“This isn’t fun,” she said, frowning.
“Was that Mister Rogers?” Sully asked.
“Yeah, not fun, Sully.”
They walked to the second level and Sully led her to a balcony overlooking the beach. She couldn’t see anything out there except the stars above, but the rolling waves soothed her.
“Can we go home?” she asked.
“Soon,” he said. “But you must be ready, Miss Brody. The dangers are not left back in Indonesia, they circle even now.”
“More protests?”
“Perhaps.”
“You think it might be worse?” she asked.
Sully drew in a deep breath.
“I have changed the times for your plane tomorrow, just as a precaution. I do not trust Mister Christie at this moment. He is reckless with your safety.”
“He’s just an industry man.”
“He wants to capitalize on you, and that puts you in danger.”
Miranda turned around and leaned against the balustrade. She looked up at Sully and frowned. He rubbed at his beard.
“There is more,” he said slowly. “I do not know what plans are afoot, but something terrible will happen and I will not allow you to be involved.”
“What are you talking about?”
He turned away but she grabbed his arm and held him there. She’d never seen him so tense, not even after the Jakarta concert.
“Sully, you can’t just tell me my life is in danger and walk away. What is it?”
&nb
sp; “I promised your father that I would keep you safe on this tour, and Suleyman never breaks his word.”
“Have you talked with the police?”
“No,” he said. “This danger comes from within. At the end of this tour we shall speak with your manager and renegotiate a balance. This is no life for one such as you.”
She let his arm go and he walked away. Down below, the party continued, but Miranda didn’t know those people. She was a musician, yes, but she wasn’t a celebrity.
Things would change.
The real Miranda would come back. Somehow.
Chapter 12
Dan
It was the smell of coffee that finally woke him, and he followed it upwards from the fading dream like a swimmer kicking for the surface of the sea. The dream he was leaving behind tasted of the sea, too; of salt and sunshine. And he was leaving someone behind down there in the dream, someone he needed to talk to, someone he didn’t want to leave behind, not again.
But the coffee’s aroma infiltrated his senses and snared his dream self, wrenching it upward, shattering the feelings of abandonment and regret into myriad shards that blinked in the light from the lopsided venetian blinds.
Dan sat up and jammed the balls of his hands into his eyes to clear away whatever it was he had been dreaming. There was a weight on his left wrist and he realized he was attached to a briefcase. He shifted in the bed and looked at the girl perched on a chair beside him, her legs crossed and her hands cradling a plastic cup. He didn’t know where he was, or who she was, or why there was a briefcase attached to his wrist. He shifted again and realized he was naked, and out of all the revelations that last one unsettled him the most.
“Where’re ma clothes?” he mumbled, turning away from the girl and sliding out to put his feet down on the floor. It wasn’t his floor. “And what time is it?”