Rogue Ragtime

by K Alexis

  "Death and genocide,

  Bodies and bones,

  Delightful things tearing time.

  Hauling the dead and singing the mantras,

  Not helping the 'gees when they in need,

  That's my creed."

  The woman paused. "Yeah, I better write that down." She flicked Mea's head. "Don't worry, vagette—I'll get you sorted. Ain't like you got any other port to visit."

  Thirty-two: The Melancholy

  MEA SLEPT UNEASILY. Flashes of the fight came and went; the golem's form loomed in front of her. His charcoal eyes and squashed, square face ridiculed everything she had ever believed about herself. As if her confidence was engaged in a battle with reality—the longer she slumbered, the further her dreams veered from the facts. In Mea's first few recreations of the fight, she was holding Tath and swearing vengeance as her lover's life dwindled with each passing second. Slowly her fantasy shifted and Tath, not Agra, was alive enough to whisper Meagh's full name to save her. As more time passed, Mea's wish to be the victor was granted and she stood atop the golem, her foot easily crushing his neck while Tath hugged her from behind.

  In between these havens, Mea's nightmares had also become increasingly distorted. The most vivid hallucination was one in which the group betrayed her. Agra, Steh and Tath switched sides and joined Junko during the battle. They quickly defeated Mea and, as punishment for the attempted murder of Steh, ordered four harmony administrators to pull her limbs until she ripped apart. While Mea was being torn into quarters, the rest of the group spat upon her and called her mutant slurs.

  Even when Mea roused herself up for food and ate, the world stayed in its dreamlike state. The small, dim room she resided in always seemed to be shifting and rolling as if it was on the ocean. And in the top-left corner of her lodgings, ghosts of her past flickered in and out—Tath, Agra, the administrators she had beaten to death, her mother, the fighters she had killed in Aotearoa, Lara and … Steh.

  He was the hardest to dismiss because he said nothing even though his Starfire eyes were the most visible in the low light. When she peered at his irises, billions of sentient voices screamed in her head and cursed her name. Races and species that she had never known existed cried out for a savior. If she tried to stare him down, she was transported into the final moments of the Milky Way and watched as mothers held their children before they were consumed by the core fire.

  Sometimes, she pleaded with him—unaware if she was awake or asleep—telling him that she had not meant for so much destruction. She had acted irrationally. She vowed that if she had a second chance, she would go to her death peaceably. He did not respond.

  Time transformed into a surreal collage. The gloominess of the room meant that her only way of measuring the universe's passing was with each dish of food. However, even that made little sense after a while. Sometimes they came quickly, and other times her dirty plates stayed next to her bed for what felt like an eternity. Occasionally, if she woke screaming, a person entered the lodging and watched. Mea could never make out who they were because they stood in the shadows and made notes in a large book. When they had finished, they grinned and walked out.

  Mea begged, implored and appealed to every god she had read about for the torture to stop. She would give anything, everything, to make it end. And then, unexpectedly, it did.

  She awoke to discover the room bathed in an ember light. The place was furnished simply but practically with a bed, chair, corner-stand, door—and her bag of books neatly tucked in the bottom-right corner. All of the décor was wooden and felt as if it had come from a sunken eighteenth-century vessel. She was certain she could smell the moss and seawater remaining in the planks and pieces of timber.

  The door opened and a woman walked in. She was not slim in the traditional sense, but she could not be considered overweight either. Her apple-shape stopped her singlet from falling in a straight line despite her well-defined forearms. The lack of a double-chin forced Mea to accept her visitor was not fat, but a different body shape than white people had defined as "beautiful" in the twenty-first century. If Tath had been alive, she would have called the visitor a "plus-sized model" and "attractive" despite the uninvited guest being in her forties.

  "Always with the audits," the woman said, kicking the door closed. "Audit. Audit. Audit. As if I'm not true blue and crushing their—" She stopped the moment she locked eyes with Mea.

  "Groovy, you're up. I gotta say, you've got a lot of kick and float. I heart that." She pulled the chair next to the bed so the backrest was pointing toward Mea. The woman spread her legs and sat on it, grinning. She tossed a large, black tome between her dangling hands. "The name's Vesper. We ever get out on the cosmic rolls together; you can call me Vesp. "

  Because Mea was still adjusting to the light's brightness, she had to squint to make out Vesper's features. Her visitor's eyes were copper, and her circular face looked welcoming with its button nose. Mea could not determine if Vesper's friendliness was genuine or a ruse. She decided to play it safe and find out as much information as possible before making a decision.

  Opening her mouth to ask a question, Mea found her throat was dry and tight. "How long have I been sleeping?" she forced out in a rasp.

  "Time is relative, vag-pal."

  "Have I been here a while?"

  Vesper pulled at her ear. "You got a place to be, Navigator? A sea to surf? A board to polish? A man to murder?"

  With the last line, Vesper confirmed all of Mea's fears. She went on the attack: "We all have our jobs. You said this is the Library of Oblivion; don't you have a treaty with us?"

  Vesper reached over and flicked Mea's nose. "You do remember what happened when you sloshed in here. Aren't you the sneaky swashbuckler? Well, yes, the Library did sign a crumpled bit of paper. And yes, we all have our jobs. Mine's washing the blood off the shore after you finish yours. That's what I do: scrub, scrub and scrubbity until all the souls are silent and still."

  "Do you have a problem with us keeping the universes safe?" Mea challenged.

  "Safe? If that's what you just did, then yes, I do. And when you're up and suited for the wokest, heavy-hitting thought-drops in the 'verse, come and find me half-cut at the bar. I'll give you a groovy splash of the foam you cause."

  Finding her aggression was not throwing Vesper off, Mea tried a new tactic: humility. "I'm sorry about the Milky Way. I was supposed to stop Steh before it got out of hand, but everything went wrong, somehow."

  Vesper threw the book she was carrying up in the air and caught it. "Like, that's a rad apology. I'd hoped you might be one of the chiller ones. 'Versers who ride with the natives usually are. So, you get this rockin' tome for not being a stock-standard genocidal maniac."

  As Vesper held out the book toward Mea, her skin changed color from black to bronze to white to terracotta to chestnut to rose. Her fingers shifted between an office-woman's fine digits and a laborer's thick stumps. Mea took the gift. "You're not human?" she asked.

  "You're a quick one, I can tell. I bet you can predict a flat wave too." Vesper winked at Mea.

  "I just thought …"

  "Because you're a Navigator, I'd be Navigator-y? Yeah, like, that's the norm. But someone's hankering for their lost land. And it ain't me."

  "What's this?" Mea asked to avoid discussing how she felt about destroying Earth. She tapped the book.

  "It's a little 'pep me up' before the next wave."

  "You mean my next step? What is it?"

  "Picking a new home." Vesper stood up. "And you got to do it quick cause I got an audit coming. I can't have a Navigator slammin' my credits column. Even one they don't welcome to the bonfire."

  "I'm sorry, I'm not following you," Mea said, confused by all the unknown terms and phrases.

  "Read the book, vaggie," Vesper answered, seemingly ignoring the question. "Say your goodbyes, make your peace and move on. Life begins the moment you coast on out of here."

  Vesper picked up the used food tray nea
r Mea's bed. "I'll get you something delish now you're up. Catching waves takes energy."

  Before Vesper could leave, Mea called out, "I am sorry."

  Vesper cackled. "Nah, you ain't, but give you a sec' with that thing and you'll be weeping pearls." She walked out and closed the door behind her. The lights in the room glowed a little brighter and were luminous enough Mea could read the tome's title: Telia Morehouse, 2138–2166 A.C.T., the Milky Way 36981B.

  Thirty-three: The Princess

  ONCE AGAIN, MEA lost her sense of time. She did not look up to see who brought the food or drinks in, nor did she glance at Vesper when she came to visit. All she knew about the librarian was that she sometimes rummaged around in Mea's book bag, and Tath—Telia Morehouse—was more important.

  Telia Morehouse was born in May 2138. She was the daughter of Chiamaka Morehouse and Lekan Carruthers. And she was eighty-third in line for the throne. A statement that sounded illustrious on official court documents, until one realized that her family members were the lowest ranked in the ascension order. In fact, so low were her family's odds at laying claim to the crown that they were often left out of the court intrigue and ignored by the more prestigious families.

  Chiamaka saw this as a positive. She could dote on her daughter while fulfilling her modest duties: building strong relationships with the increasing number of United Country tracts. She worked as a cultural liaison to her ancestral communities in Africa and promoted how they could best optimize their gains from a United Country treaty as Moreand had done. Through her mother, Telia saw the globe … until she turned five.

  On Telia's fifth birthday, her father took her aside and told her the world was a dangerous place. He lectured her on how Chiamaka was a fool and put their family at risk with her naivety. White supremacy, he claimed, was alive and well in the outer tracts and something they would never be rid of. He sat Telia down on the balcony of their fifty-first-floor apartment and told her that he had wanted a boy. He had wanted someone who would be strong and hardy enough to survive the upcoming racial wars. So, she would have to work twice as hard and bleed twice as much to prove herself. She was the eldest, and with her younger sister about to be born, she was going to have to push herself so she could protect their family when the time came.

  Telia understood very little of what her father had said on her birthday. However, she slowly began to grasp her life had changed and would never go back to travelling the world with her mother, making new friends in faraway tracts, baking cookies on a summer day or braiding her mother's hair as she sung in multiple languages.

  Every morning after the lecture, Telia's father escorted her out of the apartment, and she studied hand-to-hand combat, archery and counter-assassination techniques with private tutors. If one of her usual teachers were sick, Telia would often find herself in a university lecture hall and forced to listen to a professor drone on about history, philosophy or linguistics. When Telia and Lekan returned home, she was ushered to her room and instructed to review everything she had learned whilst keeping it a secret, lest Neomer spies overheard her talking about it. In the lounge, Telia could hear laughter and joy as her mother played with her younger sister.

  Despite the harshness of the routine, the results of Telia's classes were undeniable. And by the time she was eight, she knew fourteen different ways to kill an adult with an extremely sharp pencil and a makeshift catapult.

  At ten, Chiamaka had a third daughter and the middle one went to a regular school. Telia, tired of scraped knuckles and dour adults, complained to her mom about her lessons. To Telia's surprise, Chiamaka had a number of questions about her curriculum. After a long discussion, Chiamaka promised she would take care of it, and the same night, she confronted Lekan. She did it at the dinner table and in front of the whole family.

  "Telia told me what she's been studying," Chiamaka began.

  Lekan bit down on a barbequed rib and ate the entire piece. He went to pick up another one, but Chiamaka put her hand on top of his, stopping him.

  "Archery?" Chiamaka snapped. "Kung-Fu? What are you doing?"

  "You left her education up to me," Lekan answered. "I know how hard it is for us non-magic users in this world. You do not."

  "That's your excuse? You are the top scientist in Moreand. You said you would find her the best tutors. She is a princess. She needs an understanding of science, mathematics, art, philosophy, literature and Common. She doesn't need to know how to bash someone to death."

  Lekan stood up and banged the table. "War is coming for our people," he yelled. "Whenever enough white people gather, they become violent. They will erase this place like they did to Cuba. Your treaties mean nothing to them."

  Telia and her siblings had stopped eating. They watched their two parents apprehensively.

  "Relax, children," Chiamaka said. "This discussion is over. Telia, you will join your sister at school tomorrow, and your father can take his war fetish to another room."

  "Chiamaka," Lekan spat as he began to rage. "It is not your place to make that decision. I am the head of this house. You listen to me! Moreand is a nothing more than a delusion created by your grandfather to paper over our ancestors' genocide. I will do whatever it takes to prepare my family for the hatred ahead."

  Chiamaka dabbed her mouth with a napkin and stood. She glowed blue and, as she touched the table, a vine grew out of her arm and crept toward Lekan. "I am not one of your junior lab assistants. I am Princess Chiamaka. You dare lecture me on the dangers of white supremacy? You, who have never stepped outside of this land, believe you know more than those who have breathed in its vile air? Those who have been threatened and cussed out by small minds in the tracts but still fight for a better future?" She motioned with her right hand and the vine flicked like a whip, snapping the table in half. "Get out! Get out until I say you can come back home."

  Lekan only obeyed half of his wife's commands. He left and waited across the street. He waited until all the lights were out before sneaking back in and carting off his eldest daughter while she slept.

  Telia awoke on a ship travelling to a United Country port. "Your mother is wrong," Lekan said as she pulled at her wrist ties. "I have seen the technologies Grinners are developing, and we have no defense against them. Gallant America will not be routed by our mages next time. We will die unless I discover a way to counteract their power." He sighed, rubbing a picture of their family. "I am doing this for you."

  They moved into a small house in the middle of Deroi, a refurbished urban metropolis. The United Country had set up its main research facility there, and it did not take long before Lekan was working with them on a secret project. He claimed he was working undercover to steal their latest weapon research.

  Meanwhile, Telia re-commenced her studies in combat, science, archery and art with private tutors. However, reading was strictly forbidden outside of the house, and she found that she could not travel anywhere in Deroi without having an official confirmer, or friend, willing to vouch for her when the scanners noticed her wandering the streets alone. The monitoring system would then notify a local encourager patrol, who would detain Telia for acting "without a moral compass." As per United Country regulations, they would escort her back home and advise Lekan of what had happened. Sometimes he came home and yelled at Telia for her indiscretion, but most times he did not and she spent the night in an empty townhouse.

  For the next three years, Telia's life was endless fighting, drills and pain. And due to the magical protections on her N-Comm, she could find no relief by contacting her mother. Any call to a Moreand number was blocked. So, out of desperation to escape the hell she had been placed in, Telia began playing a game with the local encouragers. Every night Lekan did not finish work on time, she would sneak out and see how long she could avoid the patrols or being spotted by an overly "helpful" Neomer. Her best time was four hours and ten minutes.

  Telia's routine caught the eye of a local burglary gang. They knew Lekan was a high-ranking scientist a
t the research facility and believed he would have valuable information stored at his house. They ordered one of their newer recruits, Agra, to break in when Telia was out.

  Agra did not wait. He attempted his mission later that night even though Telia was home. She woke up when she heard him rummaging around in the study.

  "Don't make me kick your ass," Telia said, leaning on the doorway to her father's sanctuary. "There's nothing here. Dad keeps it all in his lab. He's worried I'll read it."

  Agra chuckled. "A Grinner who can read," he said. He stopped his haphazard searching and stood up. Pulling out a small blade, he pointed it at Telia's loose T-shirt and boxer shorts. "The next thing you'll tell me is that you're on the run from Mother Hen with a glass slipper."

  "A Cinderella reference?" Telia stretched. "I was hoping I'd find another reader in this shithole, but I didn't expect them to break into my house." She smiled at the burglar. "Y'know, we could be friends and start a book club. It would save you an embarrassing ass-whooping."

  Agra lunged at her, and she dodged the main thrust. But in the middle of his attack, he flicked the blade from one hand to another and continued his assault undaunted. Agra got the blade an inch from Telia's throat before her years of training kicked in and she flip-kicked his hand, smacking the knife into the ceiling. "You've got very good technique for a thief," she said, bouncing off her hands and onto her feet.

  "And here I was about to pay a similar compliment," Agra replied.

  "You don't have to hold back," Telia responded, hopeful. "I'm always up for praise."

  "Well, I would, but I don't want to win a fight because my opponent was overconfident. You're cocky enough already."

  Incensed, Telia faked a punch to the left to make Agra crouch and then used his bent knee as a step so she could jump up and grab the knife. After landing on the floor, she juggled it between her hands. "I'm actually a better archer than a fighter," she taunted. "So, I hope close-range isn't your specialty."