by IGMS
"Ready?" I asked him, once we were in position.
"Yes," he said.
"Go."
He swung his arms into the pillar of light, and the light vanished. I grabbed the box.
The plan worked so easily it felt anticlimactic. I put the box under my left arm, just in case I needed to draw my sword to fight anything on the way back down. "Let's get this back to --"
The floor trembled as the volcano rumbled.
"Congratulations, thief," said a voice that seemed to come from the wall surrounding us. "If you got this far, I must be dead. The magical pillar --"
"Run downstairs!" I yelled to Larindo. He ran, and I followed, barely keeping my feet as the tower swayed.
" -- you have destroyed was the main structural support for this castle, which will now collapse into the volcano. Enjoy your doom." The voice sighed. "Stupid thief."
Magical shields glowed green as they blocked each doorway, but they disappeared as Larindo ran through them. Half-brothers could be so useful sometimes.
By the time we crawled under the portcullis, the tower had collapsed into a widening pool of lava. We didn't stay to watch. Instead, we ran down the road to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the castle's destruction.
The illusion of the volcanic fissure blocking the road had reappeared. I was about to run through it when Larindo grabbed my arm and yelled, "Stop!"
I realized it was not an illusion. Fortunately, Larindo was big enough and strong enough to halt my momentum before I fell in.
Unfortunately, the box slipped out of my grip. As it hit the ground, its lid burst open and revealed its contents.
Resting on a bed of crimson velvet was a young woman's face.
I held my breath as the box teetered for a moment on the edge, then stabilized.
"Pretty lady's face," said Larindo. Before I could stop him, he reached out to touch it. But instead, his fingers brushed the side of the box and toppled it into the fissure.
In the pre-dawn twilight, the bride's dress stood out against the basalt. She rose to her feet as we approached.
"You're alive!" Her voice was tinged with surprise and hope.
I was too tired to be anything but blunt. "We failed."
"Don't lie to me, Jerton," she said. "I know you got the box: I tracked --"
"We got it, but then we lost it," I said.
"If it's a matter of more money, I assure you no one else will pay more than --"
"It was your face, wasn't it?" I said.
She gasped. "You opened the box?"
"It broke open, but then it fell into a fissure." No need to go into exactly how. "It's gone forever. I'm sorry."
She sank to the ground, dress billowing around her, and sobbed. From time to time she lifted a handkerchief behind her veil.
Larindo and I sat down and waited.
Finally she said, "You're still here? I suppose you want your payment." She held out her handkerchief and then released all but one corner. A dozen diamonds spilled onto her dress.
"No," I said. "We didn't earn our pay. But we'll walk you back to town."
She sniffled, then rose to her feet, ignoring the diamonds that scattered on the rocky ground. Her dress was still impeccable. "Let's go, then."
"It was my own stupidity," the bride said, after a few minutes of walking.
"What?" I asked.
"Mazi was in love with me, but I didn't love him. He was furious when I told him I was marrying someone else. But the day of the wedding, he offered an enchanted jewel box filled with jewels as a gift. I foolishly believed he wanted the best for me, so I accepted."
"And the box stole your face somehow?"
"He told me the enchantment would keep me forever as beautiful as I was on that day. That's why this dress never gets dirty." She tugged at the sleeve. "I can never take it off, though. But that wasn't the worst of it: he said the beauty of my face would be as the jewels in the box."
She stopped, and after a moment Larindo and I halted and turned toward her.
With a sweep of her hand, she raised her veil.
For a second, I thought she wore a mask -- until I saw the rubies that formed her lips move. Large emeralds looked out at me from the carved alabaster of her face.
"These are the jewels from the box," she said.
"Pretty lady," said Larindo.
I didn't try to stop him as he reached out and touched her face.
Alabaster faded to pink skin. Emeralds became wide green eyes, and rubies turned to soft lips.
Larindo withdrew his hand.
"Oh," she said. She lifted white-gloved fingers to her checks, pressing against the restored flesh. "Oh."
"I help pretty lady," said Larindo. "See?"
I sighed, thinking of all the trouble we'd gone to trying to get the box. "Ma'am, if you'd just given me all the facts to begin with . . ."
I stopped speaking because she was crying again.
As the sun broke through the ash clouds, the wetness sparkled on her cheeks, more precious to her than diamond tears from emerald eyes.
Second String
by David A. Simons
Artwork by Kevin Wasden
* * *
I watched Ribaldi's 4,200th career goal from the sidelines, from my little metal folding chair.
It was a typical Ribaldi goal. No artistry, no foresight, no teamwork. He just ran to an open space on the left flank and waved his hands in the air, calling for the ball. "Hey! Look at me! I'm the superstar! Feed me!" Our midfielder, Jackson, did like always: beat his man, then lobbed the ball Ribaldi's way. Ribaldi corralled it with his chest, dribbled past the last defender, and launched one of his curling drives on goal. The Saudi keeper should have stopped it, but of course he didn't -- it grazed off his fingertips, into the net. Two-one, Australia.
And then Ribaldi did his little dance. His damn Brazilian samba. Shuffling his feet, swinging his hips, twirling his finger in the air, while the stadium's resonators blared his mongrel music, the buzz-cams circled his head and ninety thousand taxpayers screamed their delight.
In my twenty-six years as Ribaldi's backup, I'd watched this routine hundreds -- no, thousands -- of times, all from my little metal folding chair. All the while knowing how much Ribaldi hurt our team, that his undisciplined, selfish play was the reason Australia never advanced past the third round of the Dues Cup. But I would remain passive no longer.
This goal would be Ribaldi's last.
While Ribaldi and the other first-stringers finished their celebration, I activated a hidden transponder in my shoe, setting off a buzzer in the pocket of one of the Saudi defenders. The defender, Musahan, turned to me and grinned. Idiot! I stared at my knees.
The game resumed. Ribaldi's goal had given Australia a late lead, but there were still twelve minutes remaining, plenty of time for the Saudis. They pressed an attack, searching for open space in Australia's zone. Ribaldi, of course, didn't help defend -- he stayed in the offensive end, waiting for a counter. Musahan tracked him.
Jackson gained possession, dropped the ball back to our keeper, who cleared it up field into the Saudi zone, into Ribaldi's open left flank. Ribaldi gave chase, eyes wide, nostrils flared, charging full speed, his 4,201st goal in sight.
He never saw Musahan.
The defender reached the ball just after Ribaldi did and slid into his path, swinging his thick right leg. Of course, Musahan was nominally aiming for the ball, but he connected instead with his primary target: Ribaldi's shin. The crack could be heard across the pitch.
Ribaldi dropped to the ground, clutching his leg. The referee landed his platform at the scene and tagged a flashing yellow card to Musahan's jersey. Musahan bowed and retreated.
Ribaldi did not cry out or complain -- he'd never let the cameras see that. Instead, he sat on his rear, stabilizing his broken leg with one hand and calmly motioning for our surgeon with the other. The surgeon jogged onto the field, rolling the leg mender behind her.
&nb
sp; The crowd used the short break to empty bladders and summon refills. Coaches lowered their eyeglasses, studying alignments and replays. Players milled about, some oiling muscles, others inhaling salted drinks. No one was concerned -- Ribaldi had broken bones dozens of times, and he'd never missed a minute.
I sat in my chair, feigning nonchalance, but in reality, my attention was transfixed on the leg mender, slowly making its way across the pitch.
The surgeon sat down next to Ribaldi, put her hand on his back, said something to him. He motioned impatiently for the mender. She slipped it around his broken leg, sealed it shut, and turned it on.
Ribaldi smiled at first, winking at the buzz-cams, but then, slowly, his expression changed. Furrows appeared on his smooth bald head, and his round eyes darted from the cameras to the surgeon, questioning. Then he grimaced.
And then he screamed. A toe curling, jaw popping, musical scream.
The stadium silenced. Players froze and turned; coaches flipped up their glasses; fans gaped, clutching their half-finished beers. More buzz-cams surrounded Ribaldi, hovering next to his face and leg. He pointed at the leg mender, pounded the ground with his fist, screaming, screaming.
The surgeon scrambled to stop the mender and popped it open.
Ribaldi's leg was gone. In its place was a red mush of melted flesh and bits of bone, bubbling, seeping into the grass. Ribaldi's clean white shoe rested a half-meter from his knee, the foot still enclosed. The shoe perched momentarily on its heel, then fell to the side.
Ribaldi's eyes rolled up and he slumped backward, his head thumping against the ground. The young surgeon sat next to him, her mouth open, staring at the red stain in the grass. The only sound from the pitch was Ribaldi's incessant moaning.
A single spectator behind Australia's bench screamed, and the surgeon's training kicked in. She injected a sedative, cauterized Ribaldi's leg, and summoned the stretcher. With help from two players, she loaded Ribaldi (and his shoe) onto the stretcher, climbed aboard, and jetted up, out of the stadium, a trail of buzz-cams following them like a swarm of locusts.
Slowly, I uncurled from my little folding chair. I stretched my arms, swinging them in circles, and sprayed warm-up oil on my legs. The warm tingle was delicious.
Our manager, McDermott, stood frozen on the sideline, his glasses perched crooked on his forehead. He stared blankly at the two stains on the field: the black singe from the stretcher's jet, and the red. I could see his mind slowly piecing together the consequences of what he'd just seen.
Ribaldi would not be mended on the field. He'd be taken to hospital to have his leg re-grown from scratch. It would take weeks. Months maybe.
Ribaldi would miss the Dues Cup.
McDermott groaned, pulled off his glasses and squeezed them in his hand.
"Coach?" I said. "Coach!" He turned. The bozo actually had to be reminded.
"Oh yes. Andrews. Get in there. Stay within yourself."
I jogged onto the pitch. No one cheered. Two ref-bots buzzed me, scanning my pulse and oxygen sats, testing me for illegals. They flashed green and flew away. Of course I'm clean.
I took Ribaldi's spot at left striker and the game continued.
I didn't plan to do much in the final minutes of this game. No matter what happened, the coverage would be all about Ribaldi's injury, and the game itself was just a meaningless pre-Cup friendly. I'd defend my position, "stay within myself," and let the game end.
But then, in the 88th minute, an opportunity presented itself. The Saudis pressed a reckless attack, and Musahan was caught up field, out of position. I moved into the open flank and signaled our fullback, who sent a nifty crossing pass my way. Musahan raced backward, but he was off-balance and too far forward. I cut abruptly, Musahan fell, and I broke in alone against the Saudi keeper. He dived right, expecting one of Ribaldi's curling blasts. But instead, I pulled back my leg and tapped the ball with my instep, skipping it along the ground, under the diving keeper. 3-1.
After the goal, I didn't pound my chest or dance or wink at the buzz-cams. Instead, I pointed at the fullback who passed me the ball, clapped my hands twice, and jogged back to Australia's side of the field for the kickoff.
Football, the way it was meant to be played.
After the game, our lockers were swarming with buzz-cams, and even a handful of live reporters. They clustered around McDermott, asking him about the injury, the leg mender, and what-in-the-world-he-would-do without Ribaldi in the Dues Cup. McDermott stood up straight, his hands clasped behind his back, answering questions with the usual clichés.
"We will miss Ribaldi, no doubt, but there are fifteen players on our squad, eleven on the field. The others will step up. I have full confidence in them. Andrews is a highly capable backup -- you saw his skills on display today in the 88th minute. We have the talent in this locker room to better last year's multiplier."
McDermott was right, of course (except the part about me being a "backup"), but he didn't believe his own BS. And the media didn't either -- the journalists scoffed, and the buzz-cams zoomed in on McDermott's iris, measuring his pulse and resp rate, displaying his "confidence level" for all the world to see.
McDermott's run as National Team Manager was nearly finished. Players held their spots for decades, or, in the case of media darlings like Ribaldi, indefinitely. But not managers. They wore down in ways the anti-aging treatments couldn't prevent, and the game evolved past them. After twelve years, McDermott's double-flank attacks were no longer the next new thing, and the team's performance was in steady decline. A poor showing in this year's Dues Cup and he'd be done.
I finished dressing and slipped out the locker room exit. The live journalists ignored me, but a few buzz-cams followed. Now that I was a starter, they'd follow me all the way home.
I passed up the player limos and went instead to the public subway. I picked an open seat in the middle of train and sat with my gear bag over my lap, the buzz-cams circling my head, imaging me and the subway surroundings simultaneously.
A few locals pointed, whispered. It was rare to see a National Team member on the subway, let alone a starter who'd just scored the final goal. One chubby taxpayer with thinning hair pulled away from his wife, sat across from me.
"You're Andrews, right?"
I nodded, forced a smile.
"Nice goal there, mate. Totally fooled that Arab keeper."
"Thank you."
The man licked his lips, gathering courage to say what he'd planned to say. He glanced back at his wife. She snorted and turned away.
"Think you blokes can advance without Ribaldi?" he asked quickly. "At least to third round. I mean, no disrespect to you, but Ribaldi's been our leading scorer for --"
"Forty years."
He licked his lips again, nodded. "I mean, that result last year. That multiplier. That was tough on us . . ."
Last year, Australia was eliminated in the second round of the Dues Cup, an embarrassing shutout loss to Thailand. The loss gave Australia a 1.2 multiplier, meaning every Australian's international taxes went up twenty percent. Of course, I didn't play a minute.
"Another year like that, and I'm not sure what we'll do."
Judging by the man's thinning hair and pudgy stomach, the brown spots on his face, he'd skipped a few aging treatments. His wife, though, was pristine.
"We'll do better," I said. "We'll make the fourth round. Maybe even advance to the large cap rounds. I guarantee it."
The man grinned stupidly, shook my hand, moved back to his wife, and said something to her. She scowled and lowered glasses over her face.
All of this, of course, was recorded by the buzz-cams. Maybe taking the subway wasn't such a good idea.
I got off one stop early and walked the last ten blocks to my flat, my glasses covering my face, two buzz-cams still following me. I'd had enough of the subway, and still had fifteen minutes to kill.
Several news nets were already showing my encounter with fan boy, the dull parts and the rumble o
f the train seamlessly edited out. The commentary was mostly positive, so far. Many applauded me for taking the public subway after a game, for chatting with a taxpayer. Comments on my "guarantee" were mixed, though, and worsening. Most agreed with Fan Boy's scowling wife.
One thing I already knew: I would never be as good at public relations as Ribaldi. People loved his white toothy smile, his smooth bald head, his harem of young women. No one seemed to care that he's not a real Australian, that he immigrated from Brazil back when FIFA allowed such things, so he wouldn't have to play second string for his country's team.
As for me, well, I saw how they drew me. The narrow head, the flaming red hair, the gap between my front teeth that I refused to fix. No one recognized that the team would be better off with me at left striker and Ribaldi on the bench. Not yet.
At the entrance to my building, one of the buzz-cams pinged me, requesting a live interview. A young female voice, I noted. I politely declined, telling her I had an appointment, and slipped inside the building. The buzz-cams, by law, stayed outside.
I lived in a modest square flat on the 140th floor, overlooking the Harbor. It had a bed, a worn sofa, a galley kitchen, big windows, and not much else. I spent my time on the practice field.
I pulled off my glasses and stared out the window at the Harbor Bridge. Some tourists still scurried across the top on foot, ant-like, while others flew past them on levi-surfs, taunting. They're talking about tearing the bridge down, again, to make way for more flats.
I realized I was stalling. I set down my registered glasses and pulled out the unregistered ones I kept under the sofa and slid them over my face.
I navigated through my six layers of security, my dozen false IDs, arriving at the designated room a few minutes after the appointed time. Musahan was already there.
His avatar was a rusty oil well with a football bouncing up and down off its tip. So reckless. Fortunately, I'd taken enough precautions for both of us.