“This wasn’t your fault,” J-1 said. “You did what you thought was best for your people.”
Norma shook her head in protest. “My regret was that I had gotten Teague involved. He wasn’t ready to die like this. He struggled in his bindings and was beaten unconscious for it. I was taken to my residence. It was overrun with Earther sentries. They had tied up my family. They lined them up in front of me. One of the sentries said they wanted my husband and daughters to witness what happened to anyone who attempted to murder their people.”
Where was Madam Takáts? J-1 wondered. Surely she wouldn’t have allowed this to happen. He frowned. If she didn’t want it to happen, it wouldn’t have.
“I was shackled and my mouth was bound, but I looked Broderich, Rack and Roneel in the eye with a firmness in my heart that told them I was prepared to die because I believed in them and in our cause. In each of their tears—even my little Rack’s—I saw they knew. I could go to my maker peacefully.” Norma clutched her knees for several moments. She stopped and looked at J-1. “The sentry aimed his rifle at my chest, tightened the trigger and with one quick motion spun and shot Broderich in the head, Rack in the chest and Roneel above the right eye. I was in shock, but I’ll never forget that the sentry turned to me and said, ‘And that’s what happens to those who try to murder our people.’ ”
J-1 felt as if he were sinking away from himself.
“They left me alone in the house with the rotting corpses of my husband and children as an example to anyone else who would try something along the same lines.” Norma smiled tightly. “But they made a mistake. It didn’t break me. It did something else.” Her eyes darkened from bluish-purple into steely cobalt. “Something cold and harsh. Something unrelenting, merciless.”
J-1 didn’t need a labyrinth of processors to know what that something was. Revenge.
Norma stood. “So there you have it, automaton. My back-story.”
A chill wind raced through the dry shrubs. The sky rumbled. J-1 had been so entranced by Norma’s tale that he was surprised to see the clouds had turned a bruise color. A thousand questions whirled in him, but the one that pushed forward most was the one that began their conversation. “What does Mata have to do with it?”
“Perhaps another time.” Norma walked away.
J-1 hobbled behind. “At least explain why you told me all of this.”
“For the same reason I listen to Mata. My heart says if I do I’ll feel better.”
“Do you?”
“No. I never feel better.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Date: 2250
Planet Truatta
Top of Mount Kwieetus/Pocketsville
Mata swayed in her rocking chair. Like the other apartments in Pocketsville, hers was small and primitive. It was constructed of stone, dry wood and scraps of battle-salvaged Ameri-Inc. machinery. She gazed through her front window, beyond the weather protection dome covering Pocketsville to the contusion-colored sky. Fat, white lightning blades belly danced from ice cloud to ice cloud. Mata reached for the wooden tray with her right hand; the good hand. The tray rested on a table built from WarBot parts. The table’s legs and feet were the mechi-device’s arms and double-sided hands, the tabletop its hammered and flattened torso.
Mata placed the wooden tray on her lap. It held two items: GTS powder and a thin hollow reed. She picked up the reed with her good hand and used it to snort a line of the powder. She placed the tray back on the table. With the back of her bad hand—the shriveled, two-fingered one—she wiped her nose. A boom from above rattled her walls.
Mata sprang from her rocker, flung her arms toward the sky and yelled, “Doctor Frankenstein’s monster, I presume!” She cackled, spun, and was about to spin again but stopped. In a sober voice, she said, “My God, I am losing my sanity.” She resettled in the rocker, pressed her bad hand to her chest and waited for her heart to steady. Outside the dome, the initial flakes of what she knew would be a heavy snow flurry wigwagged across the sky. “Damn, damn,” she whispered. “Don’t let me lose it.”
She glanced at the tray holding the GTS and wondered if she should take another hit. “No.” She couldn’t predict the results and was afraid of going crazy right there and now. Okay, okay. Think! Go back to what makes you uncrazy. She zeroed her thoughts on the Humachine—the thing destined to save them. She closed her eyes and pictured what this technological savior looked like. Once again her only vision was a muddle of mocha-colored skin and black, silky hair. Mata grunted. “How come you tell me about this thing, but don’t have the courtesy to show me what it looks like? Son of a bitch, God! No wonder people think I’m unhinged.”
Mata snapped to her feet and cackled, “It’s enough to drive a body insane!” and just as quickly stopped laughing and sat back down. She folded her arms in her lap and studied their dry, leathery, mushroom-white skin. It was so unlike the skin in her dreams.
She stroked a strand of her sparse, ash-colored hair and wondered if God was projecting His visions in her head to make her jealous. If you are, then curse you. Maybe the images weren’t from Him after all, she thought. Maybe they were a deep-rooted longing for things she didn’t have: beautiful flesh and shiny hair, two good hands and a face that people didn’t turn from. She shook her head.
No. She didn’t work her way to this mountaintop with one eye and a withered left hand because of a profound desire to look beautiful. She did it because, “Damn me, I believe a higher power has chosen me as His messenger.” Another boom echoed throughout the compound. Mata sprang to her feet, raised her head and arms to the ceiling and shouted, “The bride of Frankenstein at your service, Lord!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Date: 2090
Opa-Locka, Florida
Opa-Locka Spaceport Executive Launch Pad
Captain George Eberhardt exited the rear of the cockpit and strolled down the aisle of Ameri-Inc.’s Long Distance Transport Cruiser. The LDTC was a small galactic ship that held two single rows of seats; fifteen on each side. A narrow aisle separated the rows. On this flight there were six passengers. The sextet was seated two-by-two in the first three rows. The captain spoke briefly with each of them. He was in his mid-thirties, muscular, with short kinky hair and a wide, friendly smile. When he approached Niyati, who was in the last seat of the right-side row, he introduced himself and added, “Suwanee Gopher, what a lovely name. You are Miccosukee, yes?”
“Seminole. The difference is a political one.” Niyati felt oddly comfortable in her old identity—albeit this time around as a bio-sanitary pathologist instead of a seamstress.
“Well, Ms. Gopher, I hope your flight is a pleasant one.” Captain Eberhardt tipped his cap at the man sitting across the aisle from her. “You too, Professor.” He stepped to the front of the rows and said to everyone, “Countdown will commence in approximately twenty minutes. It’ll take another twenty minutes to reach the exosphere. Once we do, I’ll put on the all clear sign. At that time you’re welcome to roam about. The galley will be offering drinks and meals. Your sleeping quarters will be available, should you care to rest. Please make yourselves at home.” He turned and reentered the cockpit.
The man across from Niyati stretched his arms, yawned in his fist and said to her, “Your first interplanetary flight?”
“Yes.” The man had dark wavy hair that was graying on the sides and a slender, smooth face that Niyati thought was quite charming. She guessed he was in his early fifties.
“Nervous about it?”
Niyati caught the man’s eyes glancing at her fingers, which were tapping against each other. She stopped the movement. “A little.” She couldn’t tell him it was anticipation of seeing J-1 again that had caused her adrenaline to ramp up.
“Don’t be. Think of it as a cross-country bus trip on steroids: the food’s okay; the rooms are smaller than a bathroom; the ride gets a little bumpy, but the view outside is to die for.” He smiled, “By the way, I’m Alonso Johnston,” and stuck his hand a
cross the aisle.
Niyati shook it. “The captain referred to you as Professor?”
“Mineralogist. U-Dub: University of Washington. I farm myself out occasionally to Ameri-Inc. And you?”
Niyati cranked out the story she and Buster had concocted—biohazard engineer for Panther Enterprises examining potential contamination issues regarding the chain of GTS transportation. She spruced it with enough technical jargon to lend herself credibility. She had also died her gray hair black, had a face-laser lift and bumped up her dose of GTS to make herself look decades younger. There was no way Ameri-Inc. would allow a 105-year-old to take a flight like this. On the outside she looked—and listed—her age as an acceptable fifty-six. Though it achieved its effect, the increased GTS frightened the hell out of her. She still hadn’t determined the extent of brain damage, if any, it could cause, but she was playing Dr. Jekyll with herself. If the dosage harvested a Mr. Hyde in her brain, she could end up a demented creature condemned to live for who knows how long.
Alonso diffused Niyati’s gloomy thoughts with his chattiness. He explained to her that the four other passengers were Ameri-Inc. employees. “The man and woman in the first row are a data coordinator and a building ops manager. They’re overseeing the expansion of the mining compound. The two men sitting in the row behind are security personnel.”
Niyati was curious about all four, but before she could ask any questions Captain Eberhardt’s face lit up the individual screens facing their seats. “Please fasten your body harnesses.” Minutes later the propulsion rockets roared to life. The pull caused Niyati to flatten against her seat as the LDTC shot into the atmosphere.
~~~
Though the view was stunning—prism-like images of dust and gas, and turquoise and orange star clusters drifting across a nebulous forever—Alonso had been correct about the two-week-long flight—it had been a rocky voyage at times. The craft was definitely built for function rather than luxury. On the other hand, he proved to be an engaging man. He had told her that he was married twice, divorced once. His second wife had died four years ago in the Vancouver solar train accident. He has a grown son from his first marriage who is an audiologist. Niyati was amused that he liked to gossip about the other passengers, particularly at dinner following his second glass of blackberry brandy. “I’m telling you, Suwanee, that Professor Longhair—” his nickname for Marjory Hamilton, the data coordinator “—spent the night with Captain Eberhardt.”
“You actually caught her leaving his room?”
“Not exactly, but I saw her walking down his hall this morning wearing a smile as big as Belltown.”
They both laughed at the absurdity of his evidence. Despite his penchant for rumor spreading, Niyati hadn’t enjoyed a man’s company this much since the short time she had spent with Miguel Acevedo nearly sixty years ago.
On the second night of their trip Alonso had put together an impromptu bridge game that had quickly developed into a post dinner ritual. It was he and Niyati against Marjory Hamilton and Ameri-Inc.’s building operations manager, Steve Shauer. The other two passengers—the security men—kept to themselves. Even Alonso’s good-natured persuasion couldn’t budge them to participate.
Niyati liked the bridge tournaments because everyone avoided work-related conversations. She reasoned this was because Ameri-Inc. didn’t want Marjory and Steve revealing any information, no matter how trivial, on a project as important as this one. This played neatly into Niyati’s hands. The less she discussed her faux occupation the less chance that she could get caught in a lie. Alonso, who was happy chitchatting about anything, seldom referred to his work.
By the end of the first week Niyati was stealing glances at Alonso, watching the way his hand rubbed the railing as he walked the observation deck. When he smiled at her she felt like a lioness pacing a cage. Engulfed in a whirlwind of GTS, erotic lust for Alonso and the excitement of landing on the exoplanet, that evening in her cabin Niyati let her fingers settle between her legs and ignite a sexual flame inside of her that she had long ago reduced to pleasant embers.
The following morning she took another hit of GTS and felt so restless that she decided to stroll the halls. She found Alonso speaking with the security men.
“Suwanee.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ve been discussing with Jerry and Roland, here, the chances of The Pirates making it into postseason. You follow baseball?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” Jerry said. Like Roland, he was a stoic man in his early thirties.
“I’m more of a hockey guy.” Roland motioned to Jerry that it was time to leave. “Have an awesome day,” he added as they left the deck.
“Ouch! Am I really that boring of a conversationalist?” Alonso looked at Niyati and laughed. Niyati smiled, but his eyes captured hers and she couldn’t look away. He sensed it, she knew, because his laughter quickly died. He took her in his arms and kissed her hard.
She pushed her tongue into his mouth. “Make love to me,” she whispered. He pressed his crotch to hers. She gripped his hand and led him to her cabin.
~~~
Niyati watched Alonso doze. The sheets were a mess and he had scratches on his chest and back. She had obviously enjoyed herself, but was frightened that she had underestimated the effect of the increased GTS doses. In her normal state of mind she would never have conducted herself like that. She thought of mindless Dan Panther and how he had died in a thicket of his own feces. She decided to cut her dosage down—the hell with my age showing—and get back to the Niyati she wanted to be when she would have her reunion with J-1. She quietly entered the bathroom and showered. When she emerged, Alonso was gone. In his place was a note on her pillow. Thank you. It was wonderful.
“It was also the last time.” Niyati gently folded the note and placed it in the wastebasket.
The rest of the trip went better than Niyati expected. Alonso spent more time with her, but he never spoke about their afternoon or pushed her to have another round of sex. Niyati figured he was as embarrassed by it as she was. He had a keen interest in her life. She told him what she could without revealing anything that would jeopardize her mission. On the day before landing he decided they should have a farewell party that evening. Alonso had managed to not only get Marjory and Steve to attend, but also the two security men, Jerry and Roland. Captain Eberhardt promised to make a short appearance.
At 6:00pm, there was a knock on her door. It was Alonso. She double-checked herself in the mirror. Since reducing the GTS dosage her body had maintained its younger look, but while applying makeup she now noticed lines forming at the corner of her mouth and around her eyes. The skin on her cheeks revealed hints of droopiness and her hip had begun to ache again. At least for tonight she wasn’t at the point where she’d have to restart using her cane. She went to the door to let him in, but it swung outward on its own.
“Hello!” Alonso entered, waving an uncorked bottle of champagne. “Look who I found on the way over.” It was Jerry and Roland. They tipped their heads. Alonso took her arm. “On to the main event!”
It was a jolly evening. Marjory wore a garish jade necklace and matching ring. Even Jerry and Roland cracked one-liners. Captain Eberhardt stopped in during cocktails and told them everything was on track for an 8:00am arrival and that the weather forecast looked excellent. Alonso declared it would be perfect for a fishing excursion on Lake Freeto-Lay and tried to persuade Niyati to go with him. She politely declined. Her interest was J-1.
The dinner was the best they had had on the flight—a perfect medium-rare Beef Wellington sided with roasted asparagus and baby red potatoes. When the chocolate ganache was being served, one of the waiters brought in champagne glasses while another removed from an ice bucket the bottle of champagne Alonso had brought. The waiter popped the cork and handed the bottle to him. Alonso poured champagne into everyone’s glass. “To a memorable journey.” He smiled at Niyati and bounced his eyebrows up and down twice. Niyati blushed.
“Hear, hear!” Marjory and Steve added.
They stood and clinked glasses.
“Bottoms up, everyone!” Alonso raised his glass to his mouth. Niyati drank. She smiled at how the fizz toyed with her nose. She drank two more swallows and took her seat. Alonso, Marjory, Steve, Jerry and Roland sat. They rested their glasses on the table, folded their hands in front of them and stared at her.
Niyati smiled. She waited for them to say something. Their response was to continue staring. She felt uncomfortable and didn’t know what to do, so she took another sip and said, “This is wonderful, Alonso. Where did you get it?”
Silence. There was no emotion on his, or any of the others’ faces.
Niyati’s uneasiness intensified. “What’s going on?”—no reply—Niyati eyed their champagne glasses. Had someone laced them with something? But why wouldn’t they have done the same to mine? “Please say something. You’re frightening me.” She stood, walked toward the kitchen to look for help, and stopped. A glimpse of their glasses lying on the table passed in front of her eyes: they were all full. I was the only one who drank. She looked back.
They stood and at the same time kept their eyes locked on her.
She raced toward the safety of her cabin, but staggered. Her brain felt as if it was swelling and tightening around her skull. The carpet blinked in fluorescent greens and yellows. The dining room walls chugged in and out and looked as if they were made of moldy fog. Her ears buzzed with a hummingbird-like noise that darted back-and-forth from one ear to the other. She fell and hurt her elbow. She tried to stand, stumbled and blacked out.
~~~
Niyati opened her eyes and looked around. Everything was solid again. For that, she was thankful. She was lying in her cabin bed. Alonso was standing over her, near her shoulders. Next to him, near her hips was Steve. Behind them, leaning against a bureau on the opposite wall, were Jerry and Roland, stoic as ever. Marjory was at the foot of the bed. Alonso kissed Niyati’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”
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