Ever Winter

by Hackshaw, Peter

  Henry had no intention of starting whatever it was that Hepburn had suggested they were going to do. It sounded odd and was certainly beyond his thinking, too otherworldly and anteek for him to comprehend.

  Henry was unsure what to say about the amnesia. He understood the robot assumed he was one of the soldiers from the unit it was assigned to. He was scared Hepburn would leave him if he knew that he wasn’t a real soldier and he’d just worn a suit found in a container. The robot studied him. Henry wondered if it could read his actual thoughts.

  The robot raised his faceplate skyward, then returned its attention back to him.

  “I have modules available on advanced psychodynamic, existential, cognitive and behavioral therapy, as well as hypnotherapy, mindfulness, humanistic person-centered counseling and various mind tools. We can start the program now if you like?”

  “Sorry, Hepburn. No.”

  “You need to do this before we can progress your combat re-training. You need to want to do this, otherwise it will have no effect upon you. This is proven.”

  Henry considered this. He needed to learn to fight properly in order to exact his revenge. He now knew the numbers of people he’d need to get through to face the king and it would take skills he didn’t yet possess.

  A star flickered across the distant sky. Henry thought it a satellite, still orbiting aimlessly above the frozen planet. He noticed it and tried to zoom his eye toward it, but it was beyond even his capability.

  “What combat have you, Hepburn?”

  “We will use a certified combat program covering the principles of Krav Maga, Taekwondo, Combat Sambo, Jukendo, Sanshou, Defendu and Okinawan Karate. We will need to condition and strengthen your body before we begin, with particular work on balance. Overall fitness needs vast improvement from what I have assessed throughout our journey so far.”

  “So, I sort my nut, then we get punching?”

  “We heal your mind, refine the body, then retrain for legal battle-fit status. I estimate this will take us six to twelve months.”

  Henry was taken aback. He remembered what the king’s witch had said about Iris; that she would be married off to Lanner in a year. Henry couldn’t imagine his sisters spending twelve months in the Favela alone. He thought of the long pig in the street and the people drinking grog from ice-hewn glasses in the Birdcage and men punching the ice for no reason other than to show strength. He hadn’t fancied a single day in the Favela. He couldn’t imagine a year.

  “Twelve months? But my sisters!”

  “Both science and history have proven that the consequences of deploying soldiers for battle that are not physically or mentally fit are dire. If you are not ready to have this conversation, we can postpone it.”

  Twelve months.

  Henry had no alternatives. His best chances of survival and revenge lay with the robot. It was the only edge he had over the populace of the Favela.

  Once more, everything fell into perspective and he committed himself to it. He would do everything he needed to do, everything the robot asked of him, in order to defeat the adults of the Favela and free his sisters. He’d promised Father he’d avenge their family and Henry had to deliver on that.

  “We can start on the mind things when we get to where we’re going.”

  “We can start in the morning. You will run the next leg of our journey and I will monitor your heart rate. Exercise releases tension and stress.”

  “The morrow?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow is better than the day after,” Hepburn replied firmly.

  Henry thought for a while, enjoying the quiet still of the night. He gave no immediate answer, but had already decided to go along with Hepburn’s request. It would ease the boredom, at least.

  “Do you know everything?” Henry asked finally, yawning.

  “I know everything that I have been programmed to know, but I also have the capability to learn new things.”

  Henry shuffled to get comfortable for the night, suspecting the robot would wake him earlier than usual.

  “Still don’t fathom half of what you spit. You’re company, at least. Good night, Hepburn.”

  “Good night, Henry.”

  The dream visited Henry again – the rainbow, the snow leopard, the container.

  Again, he struck the hinges of the door with an ax, as seals watched from a sieve of ice holes dotting the terrain.

  Once more, the hinges gave way and the doors blew open and were carried away in the wind – only this time, the army of plastic dolls which poured from the container all wore Ginger Lanner’s face.

  Henry crawled backward on the ice like a crab and the Lanner dolls nearest to him grabbed at his feet as others climbed over them to get at his legs.

  Just like last time, the Orfin seals watched helplessly from the circles cut into the ice, and just like last time, the snow leopard king mewled whilst Henry’s sisters stroked its mane and tail.

  The doors of the other containers blew off all at once and went soaring into the sky with the wild winds, not quite reaching the rainbow that over-arched the vessel MV Greyhound. Out of those containers came more and more plastic Lanners.

  Henry fell back into an ice hole and down into the waters until a metallic arm reached down with great speed and snatched him from the icy sea. Hepburn 8 cleared a circle around them with a ring of fire, sending Lanners into the abyss below them.

  Henry stood his ground, ready to fight the remaining dolls, but his sisters had got to their feet and were pointing at him with hatred and revulsion in their eyes. The icescape fell silent. The Ginger Lanners stopped in their tracks and all waited for the girls to speak. No voices came from them, but Henry knew they were pointing at his robotic eye. They were fearful of Henry and the robot that saved him. Henry felt great shame. The Lanner dolls cackled nervously, waiting for the snow leopard king to pass judgment.

  The girls lay back down next to the beast.

  “Do you dream about your parents, Henry?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Eighteen

  Some Distance to Olympian

  The robot ran beside Henry with ease, quickening the pace, never breaking stride. The perfect rhythm of Hepburn’s legs stamping the ice was a metronome; a steady drum that helped Henry onward.

  After a couple of hours, something did change. Every outward breath took some of his fear with it; his worries and anxiety. He found that he enjoyed running, but it was obvious that he was unfit and had to stop to catch his breath at regular intervals and, on a couple of occasions, to throw up. For the first time, Hepburn appeared unpleased, or disappointed, even. This annoyed Henry, but equally made him want to prove that he could do better. Their conversations lessened as they focused on the marathon, but this time, Henry found comfort in the silence.

  Finally, they reached their destination. The MV Greyhound looked as regal as it had the first time and Henry was glad to see it again, but sad that Mary was not at his side as she had been when they’d discovered it. Nothing had changed in the weeks he’d been away. Snow had fallen. Some of it had melted. More snow had fallen and the wind had blown some of that away. A little of it had melted and more snow fell. The pointless sun never, ever melted enough to change the as-is. To breach the ice that covered the seas and once green or concreted lands.

  The hole in the side of the ship still looked menacing, still a shark. Henry commented on it to Hepburn, who seemed to have no idea what he meant. The hole in the side of the ancient vessel did not look like a shark to the robot.

  Standing next to the ship, Hepburn, although painted in dull camouflage, looked like he too could last over a hundred years exposed to the elements. In a way, the ship, man-made in a yard somewhere, was like a distant relative to the machine that had saved Henry’s life. Like the MV Greyhound, Hepburn too was a testament to all that had been, and all that had been lost.

  Hepburn scanned for data and looked puzzled when no signals came. It blinked several times on his digital screen.


  “What’s the plan then, grandpa?” Henry quipped, scratching the skin around the lens in his eye.

  “We continue your rehabilitation. That is always the plan, until it is achieved.”

  “What warring you teaching me, then? Grappling? Slingshot?”

  “It has been one week,” replied the robot. “In the last few days, have you felt unhappy none of the time, some of the time, most of the time or all of the time?”

  Henry frowned at the sudden change of topic. Then realization dawned. Hepburn was the embodiment of all that was precise. One week.

  “Most of the time,” Henry replied honestly, with more than a hint of spite in his voice.

  “In the last few days, have you thought about harming others?”

  “Most of the time.” His answer was immediate and matter-of-fact, not too dissimilar in tone from an answer the robot might have given.

  “In the last few days, have you thought about ending your life?” asked the robot.

  “No.” It was truth. The deaths of his loved ones had broken him, but time itself had found a way to mute some of the pain signals in Henry’s mind. Knowing his sisters were still at the Favela kept him going and after finally accepting the darkness from losing his eye, he saw the new light offered by the digital replacement. Henry exhaled. So much change had befallen his world in such a short space of time. He wondered if it would ever settle. If he would ever find peace. If he would ever find something to resemble normality. He hoped he would and it was hope that let him wake each new day and live it.

  “Thank you, Henry. I will ask you these questions again three weeks from now.” The robot moved then and banged the side of a container, causing ice and snow to fall from its roof and reveal part of a forgotten company emblem. “As I have assessed your basic fitness, Henry, we will begin your first physical training module. I want you to open the doors of the container behind me and reveal the contents.”

  It was Henry’s turn to blink. Thick ice covered the entire area where the doors were.

  “What’s inside? Warring stuff? Weapons?”

  “We will see,” said the robot, handing Henry a tool that had been left under the ice many weeks before.

  “Aren’t you going to blast it open or something?” Henry replied. He zoomed the lens in his eye toward the container. His sight breached the container, but could make nothing of the boxed contents within.

  “No. This is going to build your strength.” Hepburn turned his back on Henry and leaped onto the roof of another container in a single movement. More snow and ice fell from the sides of the container and the robot stood in silence with a fixed digital expression upon its visor.

  “You’re jesting me, right?” asked Henry resentfully, already knowing the answer. The word jesting brought the image of the demon clown to the forefront of his mind. He pushed it back, and the blood boiled inside of him as it morphed into Lanner.

  “Come on, soldier!” yelled Hepburn in a brash military voice. “Get your whiney ass moving and get those biceps pumping. Your very presence here is depriving a village somewhere of its idiot!”

  Henry stood up straight, amazed at the change in Hepburn’s voice.

  “Are you deaf? Or are you waiting for me to take a photograph, boy?” yelled the robot, adding to Henry’s confusion.

  “No, I—”

  “Then get to it, soldier, before I stick that tool through your ears and ride you around like a shagging motorbike. Pick it up now and free that container. When you’re done, you can celebrate by running five circles of this ship.”

  Henry picked up the tool he’d last held when fog had descended upon the icescape, hindering his return to the homestead.

  “Hit that damned box, soldier!” Hepburn screamed with all the emotion of a human. Its digital face looked furious. Its eyebrows were angry triangles with frown lines added to the effect.

  The gong sound as Henry struck the container for the first time echoed off in the distance. Henry laughed at the scene he was playing in. Hepburn – factual, mild and boring to begin with – was proving far pushier than Father had ever been.

  It felt good to laugh and it felt good to strike the container as hard as he could.

  Henry had finally stopped vomiting and Hepburn seemed content with the end result. It assessed Henry’s vitals, ran a scan, then moved his attention to the contents of the container that Henry had freed before he’d started his laps of the ship.

  “What’s in them?” Henry asked. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and grabbed the box nearest to him.

  Hepburn said nothing and Henry ripped the box open with ease. Then he swore.

  Henry sat in the captain’s chair, comforted by the strange smell of leather. Everything was connected. The past, present and future. He didn’t know if he tuned in to those things; if he saw them coming. Or if everyone saw the patterns like he did. It drove him spare and made him feel exhausted. Yet the thoughts swam through his brain at speed. Unceasing. He tried to block out the noise and find something new to focus on.

  As Henry surrounded himself with all the familiar objects he’d cataloged the last time he was there, he studied one of the new things he’d obtained from the container outside. With every strike of the metal, he’d imagined what might’ve been waiting for him inside. Swords. Dynamite. A harpoon. It was none of those things. Not even half as useful. What Henry held in his hand was another doll, except this one had brown skin, like someone had played an almighty joke upon him. One container full of sinister plastic white dolls and another full of dolls with bronzed skin. Ebony and ivory. Iris dolls. Mary dolls. Hilde dolls. And now Sissel ones.

  Sissel. Henry had never been able to picture a girl before that wasn’t one of his sisters. Now Sissel haunted him, with her beauty and her strength. Sissel, who had been tough with him, but fair. Extending kindness to the limits of what she was allowed. He wished he could’ve spent more time with her. Alone. Asking her questions about where she’d come from and how she’d become the leader of the Orfins. Henry wondered what she did that she enjoyed, and if there was ever any room for enjoyment in the Favela and its slum dwellings. Had Sissel truly smiled at any point? He couldn’t remember. But when he pictured her, his mind painted a smile upon her that was meant for him.

  He hadn’t spoken to Hepburn since the first doll had fallen from the first box he’d opened. Instead, he drank whiskey as night fell around them. Hepburn had informed him that alcohol would not aid his mood, nor recovery, neither physical nor mental. But Henry continued to drink. It warmed his chest from the inside and took the edge off the churning thoughts in his mind. It numbed the thoughts of Sissel and the concerns he had for her and his sisters.

  The light of the LED torch went out. Henry wound it several times and the room was once again aglow.

  Henry placed the doll on the desk and picked up a genuine treasure he’d overlooked the last time he was aboard the MV Greyhound. It was another book. The cover held neither clown, nor butterfly. This one held the face of a man. Not a photograph, for it was not an exact image. This had been painted a long time before the book had even been printed. The man wore a dress-shirt and overcoat. He neither smiled, nor frowned in the picture, but held a look that seemed to Henry like the man knew of many things. Secrets.

  “The Count of Monte Cristo,” Henry read aloud, turning to look at the back of the book. “Injustice. Intrigue. Revenge.” Henry opened the cover, flicked to the first page and began to read. Therapy, it seemed, came in all shapes and sizes.

  Henry read until the whiskey bottle was empty. Then he slept in the captain’s chair, only to be woken far earlier than he had ever imagined. The next day of rehabilitation was upon him, and it seemed Hepburn was keen to keep to his as-yet-unannounced schedule. Henry ran circles of the ship as instructed, but the whiskey he’d drunk meant that his time was slower than the day before and he’d had to stop for longer, in order to bring up much of the alcohol he’d consumed the night before.

  Hepburn wasn’t pl
eased and punished him with more laps of the ship, then press-ups and sit-ups and pull-ups on the side of one of the containers. The next two weeks continued in much the same way, except Henry couldn’t find any of the whiskey or vodka in the ship and Hepburn wouldn’t reveal where he’d put it, citing medical concern and his obligations to get Henry battle-fit. Still, Henry took his nutrients, as he did feel better after taking them. He also found himself catching and eating more fish than ever before, as his training became more intense and rigorous, causing him to burn off calories at an ever-increasing rate.

  At night, with aching muscles, Henry read more of the book, until he reached the end of it. Then he read it once more.

  In the realm of dreams, Henry watched as a version of Sissel walked far across the plains of endless ice, to a ship that she had never seen before. Though the shark’s face had been torn into the side of it to warn her off, he saw as she regarded it, then, unfazed, made her way to the sloping deck. Henry had watched her travel from miles away, for his eye was all-seeing and he knew she was out there. She was no seal. She was no apparition. She was a girl in this dream. Made of flesh and bone.

  Though it was cold outside, Sissel was dressed as she’d been when he’d met her on the sieve of holes in the ice; a bare chest, covered by a fur cape about her shoulders. He heard the echo of the steel door as it slammed shut and her footsteps as she made her way toward the accommodation area.