Sleight of Fantasy

by Dima Zales

Just like yesterday, instead of a stock idea, I get a glimpse of my upcoming training with Nero.

  It’s a boring vision, since all I do is punch Nero’s mitts over and over, just as I’d done today.

  Exiting Headspace, I run hot water into the Jacuzzi and make myself a snack.

  Can I get better at martial arts if I witness myself practicing inside a vision the way I just did? Logic would say no—part of practice is developing muscle memory, and I suspect my body today isn’t affected by what happens to the body inside the vision.

  After all, I’ve gotten hurt and killed in visions, but snapped out of them unscathed.

  Then again, I once had a dream about practicing a card magic move, and upon awakening, I could swear I got noticeably better at the move’s execution. At the time I called it placebo, but Felix dug up some articles about athletes practicing their sport in their dreams and improving.

  Did I discount Felix’s findings too quickly?

  For that matter, was my card-move dream a vision dream?

  Any way I can speed up being able to punch Nero would be worth exploring.

  Speaking of that, training my seer powers is probably my best route to making that hundred grand. All I have to do is get so quick at entering Headspace that I can do so during the sparring.

  And why not? If Darian could do so during a verbal fight, it stands to reason I might figure out a way to do it during a physical fight.

  Which reminds me… when Darian had that vision right in front of Matilda, how come she didn’t realize it?

  Or did she realize it but not say anything?

  On a hunch, I set up my phone to record video and make myself go in and out of Headspace.

  When I play the video, I get my answer.

  Somehow, going faster into Headspace reduces or speeds up the lightning effect that hits my eyes.

  I have to play the video frame by frame to catch a glimpse of it. A regular person wouldn’t notice it was there at all.

  That’s good. It means when I master even faster Headspace access, I might be able to use my powers in front of regular people without breaking the Mandate.

  After the snack and the bath, I return to Headspace and try to summon Darian.

  No luck.

  I then try to call Rasputin with the same lack of results.

  Too bad Headspace doesn’t allow voicemail or texting.

  For the rest of my prison cell stay, I practice going in and out of Headspace and manage to further reduce my focus time by a few crucial seconds.

  “What’s the stock recommendation?” Nero demands when he unlocks the door.

  “BioTelemetry,” I say, fighting to keep the smile off my face. “They develop heartbeat monitoring technology.”

  “BEAT?” Nero narrows his eyes. “Did you use your powers for me today?”

  “I did,” I answer honestly, glad I made sure to try to locate a stock-related vision.

  “Should we go long or short?” he asks, suspicion gone.

  A flashback of the kiss flits through my mind, and I’m tempted to say “long.” And maybe hard.

  Reddening, I realize how many financial terms have sexual innuendo when you remember your boss naked. Aside from size, there’s position, straddle, spread, market penetration—

  “Well?” Nero asks, eyebrows furrowing.

  “Short,” I blurt out.

  I figure if my heartbeats are suddenly fast and short, why not have the position in BEAT match that?

  “Okay. Let’s go,” Nero says and leads me out.

  Whew. Speaking of length—how long do I have before he loses money on my stock tips?

  We get into the elevator, and he stands with his back to me.

  “Can you tell me anything about my parents?” I ask, figuring now is a better time than after he loses a bunch of money and is thus pissed at me.

  The silence in the elevator is deafening.

  Oh well, at least I can attempt to make some major cash once again.

  Without any ado, I throw a punch at the back of Nero’s head.

  His head is no longer there.

  My hand smashes into the metallic elevator panel, and my knuckles scream in pain.

  “Ouch!” I yank the hand back, giving Nero a seething glare as the elevator screeches to a halt.

  I must’ve hit the stop button.

  “Let me see that,” he demands, reaching for my wrist.

  Gingerly, I extend my arm, trying to ignore the way his touch is making me feel as he clasps my palm in his big hand.

  He examines my knuckles as carefully as a surgeon. Then again, how do I know he isn’t one? After all, he managed to know a random fighting style Bentley seemed to pull out of his panda butt.

  “You should be fine,” Nero says with finality, letting go of my wrist. “But if it hurts tomorrow, you can have a leg workout instead of the usual.”

  “Please tell me something about my parents,” I whisper, figuring I’d leverage this misery for some sympathy points.

  Nero shakes his head.

  Silly me.

  Sympathy requires empathy.

  “You can’t tell me?” I say, trying another tack.

  He nods.

  “So, you would tell me if you could?” I ask, though I’m not sure why it matters. “Because I can come up with—”

  “No.” Nero turns away and fiddles with the panel, restarting the elevator. “Even if I could, I would not. Bring it up again, and I’ll double your allotment for the following day.”

  We ride the rest of the way in angry silence. The only reason I don’t try hitting him again is the pain in my hand.

  Without saying goodbye, I stride out of the elevator and dive into the limo.

  Grabbing some ice from the bar to apply to my injury, I pull out my phone.

  I have a dozen texts from Felix.

  They start by gently reminding me about our visit to Ariel’s rehab, proceed to chastise me for not replying, and then chide me for being late. Finally, at seven p.m., Felix says he’s going without me.

  I text him my apologies but don’t hear back for the rest of the ride.

  By the time I make my way into the apartment, the throbbing in my hand has subsided and I can move my fingers without pain.

  Lucifur greets me by the door with the friendliest expression I’ve seen on her flat, furry face. “Honor befalls you, vassal,” her eyes seem to say. “You get to feed Our Majesty Fancy Feast this eve. Go wash your filthy hands and get to it.”

  As I put cat food into the bowl, Fluffster joins me in the kitchen, so I feed him too.

  “How was your day?” he asks mentally, so I tell him.

  “You must hit Nero,” Fluffster says as soon as I finish. “For that kind of money, you must do nothing but practice how to hit him. You have to—”

  I tune the rest out, wanting to belatedly slap myself for mentioning money to my frugal rodent friend.

  When Fluffster switches his attention to food, I go to Felix’s room, on the off chance he’s back.

  The sounds in the room tell me he is, so I sheepishly knock.

  “Yes?” Felix says. “Who is it?”

  “Who can it be?” I pop my head in. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your texts. My solitary confinement chamber doesn’t have reception, and Nero—”

  “It’s not a problem,” Felix says without looking up from his soldering. “You didn’t miss much. Ariel is going to be under mind control for the rest of the week. They said they may let her think on her own this Saturday.”

  He looks up and studies me intently.

  “I’m going to be there no matter what,” I say solemnly. “I don’t care if I have to—”

  “Good,” he says. “I’m sure Ariel would like to see some friendly faces.”

  “Yeah,” I say and finally examine the mess in his room.

  The computer hardware he had lying about randomly is beginning to coalesce in the middle of the room—though it’s still unclear what the final result is s
upposed to be.

  “I’m building something cool,” Felix says, following my gaze. “Check this out.”

  He thrusts his hand out, and a blob of parts he was just soldering mimics his movement.

  “It’s like a skinless metal arm,” I say, examining the mishmash of wires forming the arm’s capillaries, a hydraulic servo that mimics muscles, and the thin metal struts that serve as bones.

  “A majestic arm.” Felix gives me a thumbs-up with his real hand, and the skeletal artificial arm repeats the gesture.

  “You’ve gone full Skynet, haven’t you?” I smile. “Whose mom is this Terminator going to go back into the past to kill?”

  “If I were Skynet, I’d just have my robot spike her drinks with birth control pills, or—”

  “But seriously,” I interrupt, knowing full well Felix could play-act at being a malevolent AI for a while. “What is this thing?”

  “I shall call it Golem,” Felix says in his best imitation of Dr. Evil. In a normal voice, he adds, “It’s a robot I plan to remote control.”

  “And you need a remote-controlled robot because…?”

  “Because I don’t think I can physically join you the next time someone gets herself kidnapped,” he says, examining Golem’s metallic intestines spread out at our feet. “I’ve been having really bad nightmares.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling like the crappiest friend ever. It didn’t occur to me to ask how he’s doing after seeing all that gore—and it should’ve. He’s not a fan of blood, and there were rivers of it. “In that case, this is a great—though hopefully unnecessary—idea.”

  “Whether I need Golem or not, the work keeps my mind occupied.” He makes a fist, and the robot arm parrots it.

  “You should talk to Lucretia. Also, I’m always here for you, if you want to talk.”

  “I’ve asked my dream walker friend for help.” He relaxes his fist. “She’s confident she can make these nightmares go away—so I should be fine.”

  “Good,” I say and suppress the urge to ask him if his friend could banish the X-rated images of Nero from my dreams. I’m not about to admit to Felix that said dreams exist. “I better go to bed. I have another long day waiting for me tomorrow.” I yawn as I say the last words.

  “Good night.” Felix also yawns. Then he grins, and both he and his creation wave goodbye.

  I get myself into bed as quickly as I can and drift off to sleep in record time. However, without the aid of a dream walker, Nero invades my dreams once again.

  And it is triple-X this time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the next two days, I spar with Nero in the mornings, and it’s just as brutal of an experience as the first time. Whenever I try to hit him anywhere but the mitts, he catches my attempt with the stupid things. Eventually, he gives me lukewarm compliments on my improving form, but I still don’t manage to catch him with a hundred-thousand-dollar punch.

  The practice of my seer powers is also a mixed bag: summoning Darian and Rasputin doesn’t yield any results, but I’m able to go into Headspace much faster. In fact, by the end of Thursday, I reach Headspace as easily as I did when using a Focusall pill, but au naturel.

  On Friday morning, I decide to cheat. I take one of the remaining Focusall pills in the hopes that I will be able to reach Headspace during my sparring session with Nero—and thus have a chance to win the big cash prize.

  Half an hour into our practice, I’m confident the drug has kicked in. The improved focus makes me execute my moves so well Nero gives me his first genuine-sounding compliment.

  “Thank you,” I say, and hit his mitts with another perfect punch, then another, and another.

  Nero smiles.

  He actually smiles.

  Dispelling the uncalled-for warm fuzzies, I dance around Nero until I put the wall clock behind him. Then I attempt to reach Headspace.

  And fail.

  “I’m going to hand over your training to a professional in a few minutes,” Nero says, distracting me from attempting the Headspace entry again. “I’m flying out to Europe today and will only get back in the middle of next week.”

  I stop pummeling his mitts and raise an eyebrow. “If you’re going to be away, who will lock me up in the cell?”

  “You will use my office.” Nero lowers the mitts. “I’ll make sure Venessa makes all the arrangements.”

  I chuckle. Venessa will probably have an aneurysm when he tells her that a lowly analyst is going to camp out in the big office.

  Then it hits me.

  He’s going to hand over my training to someone in a few minutes.

  My chances of making the hundred thousand are about to fly off to Europe.

  Then again, his hands are lowered right now, and I’m not actually punching the stupid mitts.

  I stare at him, as though questioningly, but in reality, I will myself to get that Headspace focus with all my power.

  Come on, Focusall.

  Come on, tireless training.

  Something in my brain clicks into place as I reach that elusive feeling, and I finally do it.

  I jump into Headspace in the middle of fight training.

  I float in Headspace and stare at the surrounding shapes.

  Almost as a habit, I try summoning Darian and Rasputin, but I don’t let myself fret when it fails.

  I’m not here for that.

  I’m here to make the hundred thousand—only I have no idea how.

  Actually, that’s not true.

  I have a roundabout way of getting myself a vision where I fight with Nero. For whatever reason, it happened every time I tried to get Nero a stock tip.

  Well, that’s worth a shot then, but what did I actually do in those cases?

  I think about minty and green shapes, then about happy Nero, or greedy Nero, or—

  A cloud of shapes shows up in front of me. Each is a variation on something room-temperature, orange, and fishy-tasting. Each can generously be called a snowflake, and almost all have safe melodious music emanating from them.

  Great.

  These are very similar to the shape that gave me the vision of punching Nero the other day. Could it be proof of something I long suspected: that the vision content and its Headspace representation correlate?

  Not letting myself get distracted by metaphysics, I reach out with my ethereal wisp and touch one of the shapes.

  Nero and I are having a staring contest.

  It’s 7:59 on the clock behind him.

  I execute the move.

  The mitts are down. My hope is that he dodges the hit, which is why I also hit where I think he will dodge to, as that was how I almost got him the other day.

  Almost doesn’t pay a hundred thousand, however.

  Nero’s darkly handsome face is an inch away from where my second hit whooshes through the air.

  Just like the last time it happened, Nero does something with his super speed, and I tumble to the mat—

  I exit the vision before I land on the mat.

  Was that a vision from next week?

  No.

  Nero’s mitts are down, and we’re having a staring contest just as we did in the vision, plus the time on the clock is the same.

  Without thinking, I punch him as I did in my vision, but on the second hit, I adjust to account for that critical inch.

  My gloved hand barely taps Nero’s face, but he looks as stunned as if I’ve managed to knock him out.

  “I did it!” I shout, pumping my gloved fists in the air. “The money is mine.”

  He smiles again—setting some kind of record. “A deal is a deal,” he says. “You deserve a bonus for the recent stock recommendations anyway.”

  “I do?” I almost blurt out loud. Is Nero mocking me with this? There’s no way NUT, or BEAT, or the others have actually made him money.

  I suggested those stocks as a joke.

  Nero looks behind me, and his smile evaporates. Straightening his back, he says, “I knew if I gave her a proper moti
vation, she’d—”

  Someone slow-claps in response.

  I turn and face the newcomer.

  It’s a woman with a skeletal face.

  She’s looking at me with a twinkle in her brown eyes. Her aura marks her as a Cognizant, and her waif-like body can probably be found in medical texts under “anorexia.” Twiggy at her thinnest would look chubby in comparison. Did someone curse her, like in the movie Thinner? The roughly spun crop top she’s wearing is so see-through that her nipples are showing, and her bottoms remind me of what sumo wrestlers wear—though if a sumo wrestler ever got this thin, he’d probably commit hara-kiri.

  “Sasha, this is Thalia,” Nero says. “When things didn’t work out with Bentley, I asked her to take over—and here she is.”

  Right. Was Nero trying to find the polar opposite of Bentley?

  Thalia walks onto the mat rather spryly, considering how hungry she looks.

  She gestures at Nero, then at her mouth.

  “Apologies,” Nero says to her and steps away from the mat. Looking at me, he says, “Thalia is under a vow of silence.”

  “You are?” I look at the woman, and she nods, eyes still twinkling.

  “You don’t like people talking, do you?” I look at Nero. “First, the limo driver who can’t speak, now a martial arts trainer who refuses to.”

  “Kevin can speak.” Nero folds his arms across his broad chest. “I told him he has to behave like a professional around you; I guess not talking is how he interpreted it.”

  “But who takes a vow of silence?” I look at Thalia, and then it hits me. “You’re one of the nuns, aren’t you? The ones who came up with the fighting style I’ve been trying to learn?”

  Thalia nods.

  “So besides fasting, you guys don’t even talk.” I shake my head. “Remind me not to sign up.”

  Thalia chuckles, then looks at Nero and gesticulates with her hands, pointing at her eyes, then at her Mandate aura, then at her mouth.

  “I think she wants me to tell you that they wouldn’t accept you anyway,” Nero says, and Thalia gives him a thumbs up. “Only a Cognizant without powers may join the Jinto order.”

  “Oh no,” I say sarcastically. “Poor me.”