Fictions

by Nancy Kress

  “I just thought I’d give you a big ol’ sloppy kiss for luck,” Marissa said. “Ugh, your breath reeks of liquor.”

  Marissa, unusual for a showgirl, didn’t drink. She ate only organic, carefully nourishing that spectacular body. She wasn’t that great of a dancer, but for her erotic act at After Hours Vegas, she didn’t have to be. Not with the way she looked.

  Jerry, radiating fearful worry, made a face at Zack. But if Zack didn’t drink, the non-voices got distracting. It was a fine line: enough Scotch to tamp them down but not so much he got muddled. The hell with Jerry.

  “Gotta go, honey.”

  “Break a leg!”

  He could never get her to stop the stupid show-business clichés.

  When Zack walked onto the runway, the crowd noise rose to a crescendo. Focus, focus. There was no room for distraction, or error. Not here.

  He focused. There was nothing but the cage door, not even Karoly as he unlocked it. Karoly and his brothers resented Zack tremendously. All three of them had spent their lives at this, raising and training and working with the animals, and then Zack waltzed into Las Vegas and did what none of them could do, for bigger audiences and a lot more money.

  Not exactly. Not Karoly, Anton, or Henryk Bajek—not even Jerry—knew anything of the year in Florida, before Zack had returned to Jerry’s stable. Zack had started with the rinky-dink, semi-illegal carnivals that spring up in the South like mushrooms after rain. Those were the only places that had what he looked for, and were willing to let him be killed facing it. The Bajek brothers knew nothing of Zack’s struggles to banish the fear that ruined his phrasing, to learn what phrasing even was, to achieve the right state of mind from which his Gift could do this. The first time Henryk had seen the scar down Zack’s left arm, without a thick covering of makeup, Henryk’s eyes had widened.

  “From an alligator,” Zack lied. He had never tried alligators, not since reading that one sentence in the wolf book.

  “Of the Felidae, only lions exhibit, and to an astonishing degree considering the morphological and evolutionary differences, many of the same social needs and pack behaviors as Canis lupus.”

  He stepped into the cage and faced the big cats.

  Four lions: three females and a young male. They were a pack, the females all related to each other. Thin bars of unbreakable steel separated the audience from the cats, the lingering legacy of an onstage tiger mauling twenty years ago. Entirely different, as far as Zack was concerned. Roy Horn had not had Zack’s Gift. But the crowd remembered, and at least half of them hoped Zack wouldn’t emerge alive. Cell phones stood ready to record the gore. A robo-cam, somehow smuggled through Security, hovered overhead. The Arena’s drone captured it silently and flew off with it.

  Goldie, the young male lion, got to his feet. For a few weeks now, he’d been getting ready to challenge Zack. Probably the announcer was putting that into his excited spiel, along with the facts that the lions had been given no tranquilizers, Zack was unarmed, some ancient pharaoh had taken a lion into battle with him as a mascot. This last was the reason Zack was wearing an elaborately wrapped white loincloth, gladiator sandals, and a towering fake-gold headdress.

  He didn’t listen to the announcer’s garbage. He took a step toward Goldie.

  Goldie, Fluffy, Fuzzball, Lulu. The Bajek brothers hated the cutesy names Zack had given the lions and called them by more “dignified” names. But Zack had chosen these to minimize the beasts’ power in his own mind. It wasn’t like the lions responded to their names. They weren’t dogs.

  Fluffy, who’d given birth a few months ago and didn’t like having her cub left behind backstage, opened her cavernous mouth and roared.

  Zack held no chair, no clicking spoons, none of the other gizmos that lion tamers used to distract the animals and break up their concentration. Except that the MGM Grand insisted, Zack wouldn’t even have allowed Anton or Henryk to stand behind the barred shield, a cage within a cage, with canisters of CO2 to blast any lion that attacked. No lion was going to attack. Nor did Zack carry a whip. He carried himself.

  His legs were straight under his torso, shoulders squared, gait leisurely, facial muscles relaxed and breathing calm and regular. Everything about his phrasing, the critical combination of posture and gesture, said I am powerful and in charge. You cannot hurt me. The lions must believe this. Even a quarter of an inch off in the angle of Zack’s head, the set of his body, the position of his fingers, would have sent a different message, but Zack didn’t have to think about any of that; the sensory signals that Zack sent were fully integrated with those he received. Had lions’ intense social needs resembled those of tigers or cheetahs or house cats, instead of wolves, what Zack did would have been impossible. Lions were the only big cats with dog-like pack behavior.

  But they were still lions. Goldie had just turned two years old. The pride, run by the females, was getting ready to drive Goldie out, since he was no longer a cub and the pride now had Zack as leader. The females might still mate with Goldie, but soon they wouldn’t share food with him or let him into their “territory.” From deep instinct, Goldie knew this. He didn’t want it. The only way to stay in the pack was to kill Zack and take over.

  Goldie, well fed, was big for his age, with a black mane designed to intimidate other males from a distance. He snarled and flashed his claws at Zack. Goldie had omitted the stilted walk that would signal to another cub that this was a mock fight. Goldie was serious.

  Zack took another step forward.

  Fluffy got to her feet. Her tail lashed back and forth.

  Goldie took a step forward.

  Zack stopped, but without altering his posture or expression. He had reached what the Bajeks called “the office,” that invisible line the animal must not be allowed to cross or it would believe it held the power. But Zack could cross it, and did.

  Goldie roared a challenge.

  Every atom of Zack’s being concentrated on the lions. There was no crowd, no Arena, no steel bars. Only the lions, and they were faster, stronger, bloodier than he would ever be. But his integrated consciousness, receiving and processing and sending out sensory information as no human ever had before, knew what each of them would do, would feel. He almost was the lions, controlling them from inside. Almost, but not quite. Goldie responded to his own inner signal to challenge or be ousted from the pack that was his life.

  Zack moved to Fluffy, the new mother, and laid a hand on her head.

  Fuzzball and Lulu got to their feet.

  Zack knew the second before Goldie would attack. He dodged behind Fluffy, moving fluidly, with no jerks or other indications of stress. Female lions ordinarily didn’t interfere with challenge fights between males, but Fluffy’s cub was not Goldie’s and changes in pack males were traumatic for any pride because the new male typically killed all cubs to make way for his own. Also, the cage, although not cramped, was a far more restricted environment than the savannah, or even the animals’ off-stage habitat, and Fluffy felt the tension of limited space for two leaders. She launched herself at Goldie.

  Zack walked calmly to Lulu, the most placid of the lionesses, and put his hand on her head. Henryk and Karoly rushed forward with blasts of CO2 to break up Goldie and Fluffy, a fight that didn’t need breaking up because Fluffy had backed off, gashed, and Goldie had again turned his attention to Zack. Zack put his other hand on Fuzzball, the aging but far-from-toothless matriarch, who snarled at Goldie.

  With Zack gazing at him from between two lionesses, a hand on each one’s head, Goldie backed away.

  Zack stared at him steadily, a clear challenge: Fight or submit.

  Goldie roared, feebly. Then he lay on his belly and put his head on the ground.

  And Zack played with Lulu and Fuzzball while Fluffy, not badly hurt, licked her bloody side. He played ball with them. He had Lulu jump through the traditional hoop. He played peek-a-boo with Fuzzball and a chain-mail blanket. Finally he walked to the cage door with the two lionesses, patting
them both on their heads as if they’d been kittens. Leisurely he unlocked the cage door, stepped outside, and smiled at Anton, who did not smile back. Only then did Zack look at the sixteen thousand people on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse. Only then did he become aware again of the non-voices, stronger than ever, tugging at the inside of his head.

  In the newly refurbished Skyline Terrace Suite of the MGM Grand, Anne, Gail, and Marissa sat on the veranda, twenty-six stories in the air and almost as big as the suite itself. The terrace was furnished with a sofa, a dining table, and a huge TV. The TV played the Torres-Lucito boxing match at The Wynn, on mute. Below and around the terrace, the Strip glittered and twinkled and shone. From the roller coaster on top of New York-New York came screams of delight.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Marissa said, stirring her club soda with a celery stick.

  “Something,” Anne said. Zack knew that his sister hated Vegas. She’d come to see him, and he’d tried to show her a good time. They’d taken a plane tour to the Grand Canyon, gone to see Cirque du Soleil, eaten lunch at places where the slot machines stayed in discreet alcoves. Gail, meanwhile, had spent all her time in the casinos. She radiated the quiet, non-dazed satisfaction of someone who’d won but not really big.

  Anne was going to say something Zack didn’t want to hear.

  “I went to your show tonight.”

  He drained his drink. “I asked you not to.”

  “Why ever not!” Marissa cried. “It was wonderful! He’s so brave, the way he just goes in there with all those big ol’ cats!”

  Gail’s lean, quick body said: So your girlfriend doesn’t know about you. Still the same old Zack.

  “I know you asked me not to go,” Anne said, “but I needed to see it. It was . . . impressive.”

  “Thanks.” She disapproved, and there was no way she could hide it, even though she was trying. As if she knew what he was thinking, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  Marissa said, puzzled, “What for?”

  No one answered her. Instead, Anne finished her drink, some awful vodka thing loaded with fruit, and blurted, “There’s so much else you could have put your. . . talent to. Aiding law enforcement. Some kind of business office, interpreting people. Even playing poker!”

  Marissa looked at Zack. “I didn’t know you like poker, honey.”

  “I don’t,” Zack said. “Anne, I have a suspended-sentence conviction, remember? No law enforcement. And I’d hate any office job. I’d hate any office. I need to move, get physical.”

  Gail said dryly, “Well, lions are certainly physical. Zack, you’ve got something on your mind. Why don’t you just spit it out?”

  Zack looked at her in surprise. It always startled him when someone else, someone normal, knew what he intended. He said, “Marissa, will you leave us alone for a few minutes? Family stuff.”

  Marissa stuck out her bottom lip. Before she could protest, Gail stood. “Show me the rest of this place, Marissa, will you? It’s so big I think I’d get lost by myself.”

  Marissa looked mutinous, but eagerness to play hostess won out. “Well, the master suite is this way . . .”

  On the TV screen, Jose Torres hit Wayne Luciter a wicked uppercut to the chin.

  Zack said, “You remember that doctor who wanted to give me an MRI way back when I was in your hospital, three and a half years ago? Nor-something? Well, I want it now.”

  Anne said quietly, “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing. Something. It’s like I . . . I’m not sure. But I think there’s more of that integration stuff going on.”

  “Why do you think that? Because you can control those lions so well?”

  “I’m not controlling them. They’re . . . well, okay, maybe I am. Indirectly. But it’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  Zack grimaced. Anne was prepared to wait all night for a good answer, but Zack didn’t have all night. Marissa and Gail passed by the open doorway to the terrace, Marissa saying condescendingly, “And of course we have a whirlpool and—”

  All at once Zack was sick of Marissa. She had a nasty temper, she was interested mainly in his money, and he could only fuck her if he was drunk. Before he knew he was going to, he blurted out, “How is Jazzy?”

  Anne looked startled. Even before she spoke, he knew what she was going to say, and how. “She’s married, Zack. A year after you . . . nearly two years ago. Last I heard, she was expecting a child.”

  And then, in response to what must have been on his face, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it’s fine,” he rasped. “I don’t care, I was just curious, is all.”

  “She—”

  “It doesn’t matter!” He didn’t need Jazzy, he didn’t need anybody. There was a little silence.

  Anne said gently, “You wanted to tell me about the ‘more integration stuff’ going on.”

  All at once, he didn’t want to. And yet this was why he’d paid to bring Anne and Gail out here, wasn’t it? “Nah. Changed my mind.”

  “I don’t think so,” Anne said, but Marissa and Gail had finished their tour and sat back down. Anne—submissive Anne!—said firmly, “Marissa, it was lovely meeting you, but Zack and I need to talk some more. Gail will get you a cab.”

  “Hey!” Marissa said. “Who the hell do you think you are to—”

  “Go, Marissa,” Zack said.

  “Listen, sweetheart, don’t think you can order me around like some—”

  Gail took her elbow, lifted her from her chair, and dragged her off the terrace. Marissa began to shout protests and then obscenities. Gail paid no attention whatsoever, tossing Marissa over her shoulder, “’Night, Annie. See you much later.”

  “Wow,” Zack said, caught somewhere between admiration and resentment. But if he’d tried to manhandle Marissa, it would have had an entirely different meaning. All of a sudden you would have had domestic abuse.

  Anne said, “Talk to me, Zack.”

  Even in the sudden calm, it was harder than he’d anticipated. His throat seemed to close up, and for a second he was afraid of strangling.

  Anne’s body and face said: Trust me.

  When was the last time Zack had trusted someone to hear his fears? He’d never trusted anyone like that, not even Anne. Not even Jazzy. But Anne was the only person who’d been there for him his whole life. She’d been the big sister set above him, the brainy bar he could never reach, the sparring partner he could never touch—but she’d been there.

  “I hear voices,” he said, and after that, it was easier. Anne shifted suddenly and Zack added, “No, not like that, not crazy stuff. I mean, it is crazy, but they aren’t voices telling me to kill myself or anything. Actually, they aren’t voices at all. They’re a sort of . . . Christ, this is going to sound so stupid . . . they’re like something big. Inside my mind.”

  The alarm rising off her like an odor didn’t let up. “What kind of something big?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I just know it’s there, and it’s getting stronger, and I don’t like it! Maybe an MRI can tell what it is and the doctors can get rid of the damn thing.”

  “Is it . . . does it feel like a religious presence?”

  “Religious? You mean, like God or spirits or demons? No.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  “I told you. Something really big. Oh, Christ, Anne, forget it. I don’t need an MRI. I’m doing fine. I mean, look at all this!” He waved his hand vaguely at the terrace, the vaulted ceilings of the suite beyond, Las Vegas. “I’m making more money than you would believe!”

  But she wasn’t impressed, he could tell. Damn it, he’d wanted her to be impressed! That was, he realized, the true reason why he’d brought her out here. To finally impress Anne.

  “I can arrange for an MRI, Zack, and I will. For as soon as possible.” She smiled painfully and put her hand over his. She really cared. So why was what he heard in his brain Anne’s voice from over two years ago, saying, �
�It’s a long way to fall, Zack.” Why?

  He looked over the terrace railing at the Strip, twenty-six stories below. Down there on a huge marquee his name flashed in gaudy lights. On the TV, Luciter had Torres on the mat, and Torres didn’t get up.

  For the MRI, he had to fly home. Norwood had arranged for time on some sort of super-scanner that, Zack figured, was probably like arranging sparring time at an elite gym. This super scanner, some under-doctor-type told him, paired “functional MRI with connectome imaging, through high-angular diffusion and diffusion spectrum imaging combined with neurocognitive tests.” Show-off prick. Norwood just said they were going to take pictures of how and when different parts of his brain worked, including how it was wired to other parts.

  Zack couldn’t be drunk, he couldn’t be on any junk, he couldn’t be anything but himself and whatever else was inhabiting his head. Zack clenched his fists as the exam table slid into the machine like a slab into a drawer in the morgue.

  “Try to relax,” a tech said from somewhere outside. Yeah, right. Stupid bastard.

  His head was held immobile by a brace. The brace wasn’t painful but he hated it anyway, just for the way it cut his freedom. He wore goggles that could project images in front of his eyes.

  “Ready, Zack?” the tech said. “Please tap your right thumb against each of the fingers on your right hand.”

  Zack did, followed by a lot of other dumb little tasks. Each time, the coils in the machine thumped softly. His head felt slightly warm. Eventually an image flashed on the screen.

  “What do you see, Zack?”

  “A kid’s ball. Red.”

  “Fine. Now what?”

  A house, a campfire, an ice-cream cone, a dog, a car. Zack felt like he was back in kindergarten: C is for car, D is for dog. Zack had brought Browne with him to Anne’s place. A computer, a church, a tree, a table, the seashore. When he’d been eleven, Zack, who couldn’t swim, had nearly drowned in rough surf. A rocket ship, a rose, a book, a refrigerator.

  A boxing ring.

  Now they’re getting to it.