by P. K. Tyler
Back in the cold room, Jermaine’s eyes rolled back in his head. He jerked and regained consciousness, his field of vision widening for a brief moment to take in the multitude of needles around him, track marks intertwined with the scars from his father’s belt on his arm.
“I’ll miss you,” came a hint of a whisper in his ear. The hair on his thick neck stood on edge before the nothingness swallowed him, accompanied by a sea of chattering blue-black beetles.
* * *
Lana hurried home. At the corner of Chester Road and Bertram Street, merrymakers spilled onto the street from a drinking establishment, beer teetering in pint glasses. London on a Friday night. A pang of pain hit her that she would never experience this: not the drinking with friends, or the pleasure of earning her own money, or having a career and a family of her own. What she would not give to be normal. But Firenze was right. If she could not be normal, she would be extraordinary. She would live life on her own terms, not at the mercy of her crumbling body. She would invent a new reality, one in which she could be centre stage, unconfined, capable of an unknown trajectory.
Still, despite the logic of her decision, Lana lingered for a moment to watch the revelry, her jealous heart pounding in her chest. In a nearby alley, a woman lent against a leering man, her leg high around his, a fag end glowing in her hand. She toyed with him, her pointed chest a challenge to his virility. Lana began to walk on, slowing to turn at the sense the watcher was being watched. Her eyes met the woman’s. The woman nodded and though she didn’t look the same—her red hair had faded to blonde, her face plump—Lana knew that this was the woman she had just left behind in the crypt, a woman who could jump time and space, and assume any mantle she wanted.
She broke the magnetic field connecting them and picked up her pace towards her house and her sleeping parents, eager to have it done. Houses shook as she passed them, mirroring the spasms gathering strength on the left side of her body. When she reached her street, a solitary sign swung on its post, at odds with the direction of the wind. Across the road from her house, the speaking statue slumped. Not for the first time, Lana questioned whether Marlon’s moods were reflected in the weather. Or perhaps her imagination had gone into overdrive. Either way, he was not happy.
“She told you you’re lucky? What the fuck is she on?”
“Easy, Marlon.” Lana’s creeping exhaustion could no longer be held at bay. Sleep beckoned with the arms of a loving parent, like the call of a lighthouse to a ship.
“Listen, I’ve been here for centuries too. Trust me. She doesn’t know what she’s on about. Sometimes shit just happens.”
“You know her?”
“No. She sounds like the dog’s dinner if you ask me. Just saying, in my experience, you might want to give it some thought before agreeing to anything.”
Lana didn’t want to disappoint Marlon. He had been a friend to her when no one would listen, so instead she hid the truth from him. “You wouldn’t understand, Marlon, even if I could explain. It’s like she’d read every thought.”
“Well maybe that’s because she was in your head.” He sighed, letting out his belly. His paunch spilled over the top of his breeches, the stone swelling until Lana was sure he would do himself permanent damage.
“It’s not everyday the council agrees to fund renovations. You should be careful, you know,” she said. If this was to be their last meeting, and it was, Lana wanted it to end kindly.
“Do you know how uncomfortable it is wearing the same gear year in, year out, regardless of the season?” said Marlon, huffing.
Lana smiled. “You’re sure to tell me.”
“You’re lucky I like you so much or else -”
“Or else, what?”
“Well missus, I could zip this you know.” He pointed to his mouth. “I only do it for the crazies anyway.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, eh?”
Marlon showed her his middle finger.
* * *
There was no doubt that Firenze had done her work. Lana’s body might still be decaying but her mind had gained strength. She knew now she could stay in the dream world if she wished. She could conjure up her tigress self at will. She only wished she could show her parents the mind could soar without its carcass, but Firenze had said no to goodbyes. Lana could not explain what they would not understand. She had changed in ways her parents could not perceive. Perhaps they would be relieved. Daytime ghouls could be worse than nightmares. The little girl in her wondered whether her parents would mourn her; the tigress sensed freedom and rejoiced, her senses already heightening in readiness.
There was one more person she would miss. She looked out from her window for him, past the eaves and the grey asphalt baking in the morning sun. There, next to the centuries-old oak tree, where Marlon had stood for as long as she remembered, was a traffic cone. The tree had seemingly drooped in grief. Lana blinked, rubbing her eyes, checked again. Sure enough, no speaking statue, just a traffic cone in luminous orange and a flashing light atop, as if he had played one last joke on her. And despite herself, Lana laughed out loud.
She let the curtain fall, and walked around her room one last time, dizzy with nerves or disrupted brain impulses that were the gift of her disease. A tight hug sat in her chest, rendering her breathing shaky. The house creaked as if in protest but she knew, in reality, it was just adjusting itself against the blistering sun and shower London weather. Her fingers trailed on the items that marked her childhood, lining the walls of her room: a doll’s house; a bean bag she had spent happy hours reading in; her trusty bookshelf; and the stuffed goose she still slept with. The memory of each imprinted itself on the pads of her fingers, a shortcut to her heart. Finally, she regarded her reflection in the mirror by the doorway. Funny, she looked calm, as if this is how it always should have been. The freckles on her face seemed to her to be the map to a new galaxy.
Her limbs were heavy when she climbed into bed, her shoes still on. Sleep claimed her in seconds, just as Firenze had said it would. As she descended into its mists, she wondered whether anyone would ever wake her. That became her last human thought.
She whooshed into her new self, and her joy was profound. Her new form did not tremble, or disobey her. Its cells did not deteriorate. Her power surged. She was no longer entombed in her own body. Her choices were her own. She raced past ornate temples, black oceans and magnificent sand-filled bays. She caught sight of her own tail and realized she was beautiful, with emerald eyes the color of the Amazon, perhaps the most powerful, sacred of her kind.
Though beautiful, the new landscape was devoid of man and beasts. The tigress searched atop mountains and in valleys for signs of life and found only vibrant fields, empty desert, and agricultural splendor. When she came to rest in a bay, the tigress that had been Lana grew mournful for lack of company, for she was all alone. But there, on the horizon, she spotted him, the tombstone man. Deep inside her tiger self, memories of her old life still echoed and it pleased her to see a familiar form in this new world. She thought perhaps they could be friends and find purpose together, a fresh start. Her lifeblood surged through her as she rushed towards him, paws padding in time with her heart.
About the Author
Nillu Nasser Stelter is a writer of literary fiction. She blogs, writes short fiction and poetry, and has just completed her first novel, a story of sexual politics and second chances in Mumbai. Her short story ‘Painted Truths and Prayer Beads’ was published in Mosaics 2: A Collection of Independent Women in May 2016.
Nillu has a BA in English and German Literature and an MA in European Politics. After graduating she worked in national and regional politics, but eventually reverted to her first love. She is happiest barefoot with a book in hand. They are the first thing she unpacks when she is somewhere new. She lives in London with her husband, two children, one angelic and one demonic cat. If you fly into Gatwick and look hard enough, you will see her furiously scribbling in her garden office, where she is working on
her next story.
To find out more about Nillu visit her at
@nzstelter
NilluNasserStelter
www.nillunasserstelter.com
In the Periphery
by Erica Ruhe
Summary: Jayati Dawar is an advanced generation clone and part of a large-scale, deep-space mission to save humankind. But the violent death of her clone sister and surrogate mother, Samidha, raises disturbing questions about The Halcyon mission's true objective. With no one to trust and nowhere to hide, Jaya must rely on her own intuition and the cryptic dreams of her original Source Mother…a woman who died hundreds of years ago.
April 2332 A.D.
“Let me see her body!”
Faint and drunk with shock, I staggered down the wide, bright hallway, shoving past the Chief Guide towards the double steel doors of the ship’s infirmary.
“Jayati, stop.” Horace caught my upper arm, a grunt escaping my throat as he jerked me backwards. My shoulder pitched down under the force of his grip, swinging me away from the entrance in a violent lash of momentum. I could not feel my legs. My bare feet dragged and plodded over the cold ceramic floor, landing with flat, heavy slaps as he steered my body back toward Dock Three’s Core Hall.
“I want to see her.” I struggled to pull my arm away. “Let me see my sister!”
My quivering lungs squeezed and expanded, pulling in shallow pools of air like a cold, frenzied riptide. I wasn’t ready to see what was left of Samidha. I wasn’t ready to have the image of a bloodied tangle of broken limbs that was my living, breathing sister not two hours ago branded into my brain. There wasn’t a nerve in my body that didn’t scream for the bliss of denial and reprieve but, holy life, Horace would not be the one to keep me from her.
“In time,” he promised. “Right now you need to come with me—”
“No,” I shook my head, my voice fluttering in the base of my esophagus like a trapped moth in a lantern. “No, you’ll send her to the reclamation chamber. You’ll make sure I never see her body!”
“Jaya, listen to me,” Horace grabbed my other arm and steadied me. The oxygen collar around his neck cast a stark, violet glow under his chin, heightening the shadows of his eye sockets. “It’s very important that you share with us what Samidha told you.”
“Is that why you killed her?”
“Her death was an accident.” He lowered his brow, insistent. “Nothing more.”
“You killed her!” I beat my fists against his chest. “You killed her!”
“Jaya, calm yourself.” Horace’s grip tightened.
The anger boiling in the pit of my stomach roiled up through my aching chest and locked my jaw closed. Emotion flooded and dammed up behind clenched teeth, waiting for me to open my mouth and release the words my matriarchs could never say. Words smelted by grief. Words purified to a searing truth hammered and hardened with hate. I clutched the lapels of Horace’s pale gray tunic so tight that the skin over my knuckles threatened to crack and split right over the bones. I gave Horace an emphatic yank.
“Why are so many of us are dying, Horace?” The words slid off my pale lips like rancid oil.
He did not reply. Horace’s oxygen collar was close enough for me to feel the effects of the gas, compounding my light-headedness.
“Why?”
“Enough!” Horace swept my cold, brittle wrists into his large hands and wrenched his tunic free of my clawed fingers.
“She was insane, Jaya!” Horace’s dark blue eyes iced over, lips pulled thin. He spun me back to the exit.
“No,” I shook my head. Emotion seized me again, fresh tears threatening to spill. “She wasn’t—”
“Samidha was insane. Hearing voices, suffering hallucinations, getting messages from Amari. Your Source Mother! A woman who’s been dead for over three hundred years, Jaya!”
“She wasn’t insane! I know—” My tongue was heavy in my dry mouth. I didn’t dare admit my own waning touch with reality. The memories of Amari’s life that surfaced in the dark, reflective pool of my subconscious revealed more to me than I wanted to know. At the end of the long hall, two more Guides rounded the corner, approaching with a controlled haste. Gray robes ruffled and flapped in a mad flurry around their ankles.
“The Collective should have let your gene line to die a long time ago.”
I swallowed but there was no saliva. Burning throat muscles only squeezed hollow emptiness down my esophagus. The Guides were moments away.
“Fletcher and Suri will escort you back to your quarters.”
“Let go. Let go of me!” His bruising grip constricted tighter. My anger surged ahead of my grief. “Mujhe jaane do!”
My mind slipped into a blind, vacant rage. I pinwheeled my left arm up and back, breaking his hold. Grabbing his oxygen collar, I pivoted, taking a wide, quick step to angle myself in front of him, and pulled his neck down with a violent tug. The heel of my right palm smashed straight up his nose, the blow knocking him off balance.
With a yelp, he stumbled sideways, my fingers sliding the collar over his head as he fell away. Blood flecked bright red across the shiny white tiles.
Horace landed hard on his side. I hurled the collar against the wall, flinching as the breathing apparatus shattered into pieces. They sprang off the walls and glittered in the air all around me, finally showering and scattering over Horace. The Guides shouted. A viscous cough wrenched Horace’s starving lungs as he knelt on the floor, blood pouring from his broken nose. I rushed the infirmary doors.
There she was. Laid out on the examination table like disjointed puzzle pieces assembled in the shape of what used to be my sister, Samidha. Jagged, broken bone jutted from brown and purple blossomed skin. Her head was so badly damaged it had to be collected into a bowl. Matted and bloody, her once long, glossy black hair sat piled into a frayed nest atop the remains of her face.
I screeched. It was only when my knees hit the ground that I realized my legs had given out. A fresh set of hands took my arms from behind and secured my wrists with magnetic manacles. Another clamped around my cold ankles. The grief overtook my body and I melted to the floor with a guttural wail. It was a pain from a place I wanted to forget. A strong, invisible hand pulled the cry deep from my stomach, up through my chest and out of my throat. My sweet sister was gone and I was now what I had utterly feared my whole life of becoming: alone.
“You killed her!” I sobbed, unable to catch my breath. “You killed her!”
The Guides held me to the ground. Horace wavered above me, an infirmary oxygen mask held over his bloody nose. His eyes were level, hard, unconcerned.
“She killed herself, Jaya.”
* * *
“I am not Amari Dawar.”
I had to speak those words aloud, every day. Like a morning mantra or a nightly prayer. Saying it out loud meant it was real. I lay in bed after another fitful night of sleep. Amari’s dreams came with more frequency since Samidha’s reclamation two months ago. To my disdain, very little of what my Source Mother showed me was ever a pleasant experience.
Clock numbers stared black and blue across the room. 5:57 a.m. I sighed and sat forward, rubbing my dry, tired eyes. Recessed lighting faded into a gentle twilight around the edges of my chamber at the motion. I swung my slender legs over the side of the bed and the twilight faded in a bit more. A soft voice cooed to me from above.
“Rising for the day, Lady Jayati?”
I sucked in a breath and slowly rose to my feet.
“Yes, MAGS,” I exhaled and stood. My head hurt.
“Might I suggest another hour of sleep, my lady?”
“No.”
The Multi-Agent Guidance System was a self-directed, bioinformatics, holistic calculator. It could have been a man’s voice or a woman’s. I could never tell. The way MAGS tried to persuade and suggest and chide us for unwise decisions, I deduced she had to be female. She followed a religious control theory every day. She prayed and meditated on the functions of reason and o
rder that governed our world: measure, compare, compute, correct. Every particle of carbon dioxide, every hormone, every drop of sweat exuded by a living being aboard The Halcyon was analyzed, digested and regurgitated for more analysis. Our physical anomalies and chemical imbalances were basic textbook practice for her. We were variable agents in a controlled experiment and must be closely watched for our own good. Or so we were told.
“The Chimes will not ring until seven and I sense you are atrophied and distressed,” MAGS persisted. “Hormone levels are low—”
“Privacy, MAGS,” I groaned, running my hands down my cheeks. A quiet whoom hummed short and crisp in my ears. MAGS turning to silent mode always struck me like the huff of an indignant child. I padded to the lavatory and closed the pocket door behind me. Soft white lights faded up. I lifted my tired eyes to the reflection in front of me. Amari’s green, almond-shaped eyes looked back.
I was the fourteenth generation mutated clone, born from my surrogate clone sister. For hundreds of years, we had taken our turns being the surrogate mother for our younger sister, each of us branched from our Source Mother’s DNA. My eldest sister, Amari Thana, carried and birthed Amari Samidha, who carried and birthed me, Amari Jayati Dawar. The cycle of life. We all began as tissue samples taken from a young, English Hindu geneticist and theologian, Amari Priya Dawar.
Biology that belonged to Amari was present in my DNA, but I was not her. I had her long legs and straight shoulders. I had her black hair and olive complexion. Her wide smile was mine, complete with the slightly crooked bottom tooth.