Unmasked

by Kevin J. Anderson

  As I turned to leave the lobby, something else caught my eye. A new flier showed a rough picture of a butterfly knife with text scrawled below. “Missing. Please call Beau if found.” His phone and apartment number ran across the bottom of the page.

  The world was a better place with kids like him.

  As I stood dumbfounded staring at his flier, I heard Beau behind me. “Any clues yet? The one you’ve got there don’t look the right size.”

  I turned with a grin despite my growing desperation and pain. “No luck yet. I think I’ll go to the con and see if it shows up.”

  “Good luck!” He held a paperback in his left hand like he’d been interrupted from reading in a cozy lobby chair.

  “Thanks for the flier, by the way. I’ll check with you later if I don’t find it.”

  I set my hand on his shoulder and recoiled as I felt the nerve disease seeping through him, overcoming his body like a slow but inevitable tide. Really? How is that fair?

  Sometimes I don’t see the justice in it. Despite the leeway I have in what I do, it’s almost always up to nature or the action of mortals to decide when I visit. The Boss once told me fairness was a much longer-term ordeal than simple mortal lifespans could account for.

  I pushed the constraints of my job and said, “You should see a doctor, Beau. Sooner the better.”

  He offered me an accepting smile and shrugged. “Ma and Pa got jobs in the city so we could be here where the doctors are. I’m doing okay. How could you tell? Are you a doctor?”

  I gave a noncommittal tilt of the head. “I spend a lot of time in hospitals, and I’ve seen a few people with troubles like yours. They have treatments to delay the progress, but most of them can be as rough as the disease.”

  His condition made me think of my appointment with Walter.

  “I’ve got to get going, Beau. You take care of yourself.”

  Beau nodded and headed outside to a bench in the park to read.

  I got on the subway with my tinfoil scythe among a scattering of elves and a couple of superheroes.

  All I needed was to find the kid with my scythe among the tens of thousands of costumed folks at a con scattered across two hotels and a show floor the size of two football fields while my brain felt like bursting.

  The convention was huge. No matter where I looked, it was a gamble my target would be somewhere else. Then again, I knew this was something I would win, eventually.

  I saw a dark figure vanish as I looked down a row of booths. It took careful planning, but I got into position and waited.

  The flash of shadow appeared again, then turned away. It was a future version of me, and he was more careful than normal about the self-contact rule.

  I would receive a stern warning because of all the contact I’d had with myself, and I couldn’t rely on my future self for any more clues. He might be here on assignment instead of showing up to laugh at me.

  Finally, I saw it across the main hallway. A majestic Damascus steel blade, unlike anything mortals could produce, waved above the crowd by a kid with no idea how easy it would be to send someone to either the hospital or the morgue with a single slip.

  I eased up beside him and planted the foil-and-cardboard scythe in front of me. I leaned over and said, “I think you have the wrong prop there. This one’s yours. We should trade.”

  His face hid behind a mask. His gauzy robe didn’t look half bad, either. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And how did you get into my apartment?”

  Not a rocket scientist, this one. I recognized the voice. He’d been with his grandpa when the old man passed on. The name Robert floated to the surface. Robbie to his parents. He hated the nickname.

  Even though I could easily overpower him and take my scythe back, I didn’t want to make a scene, and it’s not my job to dispense justice. The Boss has others to handle justice, and I try to avoid getting on the local news. The Boss explained to me once how proof of the supernatural destroyed a mortal’s ability to have faith, but I couldn’t follow the whole chain of logic behind it. Faith is not my job, either.

  A door opened, and the crowd pushed forward. I followed my target into a roped-off area in a large conference room and said, “So, Robbie, was it you who went to the hospital, or one of your roommates? That’s low, stealing from the terminally ill.”

  He turned to look at me as we pushed forward, joining a line of infrequently showered nerd bodies. “Back off. I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave me alone.”

  “Right. With you carrying my blade? You’re lucky they didn’t take it away when you got here. Don’t they do weapon checks at the door anymore?”

  He pointed the scythe tip at me. I could sense his glare behind the mask. My tool couldn’t hurt me, but it could hurt someone around us. Someone who didn’t deserve it. We narrowed down into a single-file line, and crowd control waved us forward.

  Someone stepped up to the microphone in front as more people filed in through big doors on the other side of the room and found seats. “Welcome, everyone! Our panel of judges is ready and waiting.” The audience cheered as we walked up along the left-hand side of the room. A temporary stage sat at the front where the judges waved at everyone.

  Judges? I looked at my line. All costumes.

  My mood degraded by the moment. I said to my thief, “A costume contest? I bet you lose, even with my scythe.” What can I say? I’m fond of gambling and insults, so it was a two-for-one comment.

  He stepped back and looked me over. Jeans, polo, and cardboard scythe. “Lose to you? You’re on.” Bingo.

  I hadn’t intended to make it a personal challenge, but this gave me a chance to avoid a fight in public. The distraction of wanting to get back to Walter at the hospital put me off my game, but this was second nature to me. If I could get him to hand it over willingly, it would avoid making a scene.

  “Great. You know what I want if I beat you,” I said. “What do you want if you beat me?”

  He replied, “If I win, you tell me how to make knives stay this sharp.”

  I smiled. “Deal.” This would be an easy win. Besides, Robbie couldn’t use the information even if he won. He wouldn’t have access to the earth’s molten core or the Boss’ honing wheel anytime soon.

  We soon neared the front of the line as contestants performed for the judges. An elf had custom ears good enough to make a movie prosthetist drool. Three versions of the same superhero frowned at each other as they each tried to be the best.

  Then it was Robbie’s turn. He strode out onto the stage and struck a pose before he pulled an empty water bottle out of his robe and tossed it into the air. The scythe slashed out, and two halves fell to the stage to cheers from the audience.

  While the crowd was distracted, I ducked down at the edge of the stage and set aside my mild-mannered form, cloaking myself in tangible darkness. My black hood eased forward as I climbed the stairs, trailing wisps and tatters of blackness.

  A volunteer stood silently to the side, out of my way. The volunteer was me, the shadow I’d seen earlier.

  He had to be here on a future assignment. Things were getting interesting.

  In a profoundly deep voice that carried through the hall without a microphone, I said, “I am Mortimer Lifebane, Death incarnate.”

  Robbie stopped at the edge of the stage and turned to watch. He lifted his mask to get a better view, and his eyebrows bunched together as he saw my billowing robe. I could see the cogs turning in his defective little brain, wondering how I’d picked up a costume in the thirty seconds I was out of his sight.

  I hadn’t taken my earlier costume contest with the little girl seriously. The smell of sulfur wafted out as I strode forward, fake scythe in hand.

  The room itself reverberated as I spoke. “From across the ages I come for you, one by one. Some sooner, some later. You are born, you live your short lives, and you die. Sometimes you try to bargain with me. Some have offered the treasures of the earth. Useless rubbish. The cleverest
among you wager for an extra day, a week, maybe a year. Mere slivers of time. Even when you win a reprieve, you still lose when your time arrives. Death may pause, but I never leave until I have what I came for.”

  I banged the butt of the scythe on the stage as I raised my arms to let the robe fall back to expose my skeletal arms. The tinfoil-and-cardboard blade twisted, nearly coming loose as I lifted my head. My smoking, red eyes flashed out across the room as everyone stared. Blue and orange flecks of flame ran across my exposed bones, and the wood under my hand gave off wisps of smoke. The audience erupted in wild applause.

  To the side, I saw the thief stumble off the edge of the stage.

  I lowered my arms and bowed my head once more. Then I turned away from the audience to look behind me.

  My future self was still there, but incorporeal and decked out like me with the full cloak of darkness and burning skull sockets for eyes, an exact copy of the image I’d just projected, except with his own future instance of my scythe. I followed him over to the side of the stage and looked down. There was Robbie, face down, with my scythe poking out through his back.

  I touched the reddened tip of my scythe to reclaim my winnings as I vanished from the view of mortals, leaving Robbie’s prop scythe in its place. I felt whole again as I stood to the side of the stage.

  My other self said, “Before this, I thought it was harsh to send the Israelites into the wilderness for forty years. That’s barely enough to cover the warm-up lecture for this mess. Then there’s the medical examiner who has to explain a lethal cardboard-and-tinfoil stab wound.” He rolled his flaming eyes.

  My future ghost waved his scythe, and the thief’s spirit joined him. Robbie’s confusion deepened as he stared down at his body. “How can I be dead?” Such discussions take a long time, and their conversation was none of my business until I was the one collecting him.

  Someone in the audience screamed and pointed at Robbie, and another called for medics while the room cleared under the watchful eye of the con volunteers. It was time for me to tend to business.

  It took only a moment to reappear in Walter’s doorway, invisible to all but him. He looked up and whispered, “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting.”

  His son looked up from his chair by the window, his gaze falling on the empty doorway, and then on his father’s frail form. I held the scythe out to my side and realized I was still wearing my bones on the outside.

  “I’m sorry. There was an incident.” I transformed back to the mask he knew, but I was still hidden from his son.

  Walter’s eyes sparkled with recognition. He chuckled and said with a wheeze, “Oh, it’s you. I was glad to see my son one last time, but it’s time. Past time.” His breathing was labored, and his words were slurred.

  I sensed extreme impatience emanating from nearby, so I unlocked the path to the beyond and let his wife through. She gave me a stern look and shook her head in dismay as I looked down in shame at having delayed their reunion.

  “Daisy, is that you? You look wonderful, dear.” His voice sounded firm to me, but weakened and faded on the mortal side.

  His son stepped to the bedside and patted his hand. “Say hi to Mom for me.” A tear slid down his cheek and fell onto the sterile blanket as he stood beside his father’s bed. Daisy reached a hand toward her son and smiled, radiating love.

  I waived my scythe to separate the physical from the spiritual. Daisy took Walter’s hand and lifted him up as the medical equipment began to wail.

  She said, “I have so much to tell you, Walter. Why, I don’t even know where to begin.” They walked hand-in-hand back through the portal.

  Walter needed nothing more from me. It was time to face the Boss, who was likely to demonstrate wrath at Old Testament levels. It was worth it.

  John M. Olsen edits and writes speculative fiction across multiple genres and loves stories about ordinary people stepping up to do extraordinary things. His short stories have appeared in dozens of anthologies. He hopes to entertain and inspire others as he passes on a passion for reading to the next generation.

  He loves to create and fix things through editing and writing both short stories and novels, and also when working in his secret lair equipped with dangerous power tools. In all cases, he applies engineering principles and processes to the task at hand, often in unpredictable ways.

  He lives in Utah with his lovely wife and a variable number of mostly grown children and a constantly changing subset of extended family and pets.

  The Fog of War

  Edward J. Knight

  I wear the mask for freedom.

  Something they do not truly understand. Those men and boys dying by rifle fire. Dying by cannon. Dying by starvation despite their cries for “Freedom!” Those boys, these Americans as they call themselves now, do not truly know this freedom they cry for.

  But I do. I know what freedom is. I’ve known it since I threw off my shackles in Virginia and took to the wind. In flight—in flight I am truly free. To soar through the air and dance upon the clouds. To command the rain, to order the lightning. To bend the very elements to my will—that is freedom.

  When I first commanded the breeze, I was but a small child. Almost more baby than boy. It was a little nothing at the time. A mere whim to see the dead leaves dance. I’d made them whirl and twirl and do loops until my brother Isaac smashed them to dust.

  “Stop it!” He’d hissed. “Someone will see! You can’t let them see!”

  “Why not?” I’d innocently asked.

  “Do you want to end up like Old Jebediah?”

  I’d shuddered. Despite his grey hairs, Old Jebediah turned the mill’s heavy wheel. Every day. All day. His strength was such that no other men or horses were needed. Just strong Jebediah, always at work.

  They’d blinded him and left him chained to it overnight, just bringing him bread. He never broke free. When I went back for him, some time after my escape, I’d been saddened to learn of his death. Instead, I flew his children north to New York City. Neither showed any hint of his talents, though perhaps that is for the best. The unconfirmed rumors of others who were more than men were scant, and those stories always had unhappy ends.

  For myself—well, the years after that on the farm in upstate New York were good to me. The few neighbors left me alone, and I them. My crops always got the best sun, the right rain, and never an early frost. That this was unusual was not lost on many, but as they shared my good fortune, they were not eager to search for a cause.

  I would’ve stayed there if not for Benny. My dear, irascible neighbor Benny. Benny, who took the city newspapers. Benny, who’d read Paine and Voltaire and argued them with me. Benny, who’d tromped up the path to my house in his new blue uniform with the shiny buttons and the strange triangular hat. Benny, whose fast mind was only matched by his idealism.

  “We’re forming a militia to fight the redcoats,” he’d said. “I’m gonna be captain. I want you in it.”

  I’d chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on,” he’d said. “You’re strong. You’re brave. You’d be good in a fight.”

  “I’m Colored.”

  “So?” he’d said with a snort.

  “I need no personal reminder of how Coloreds are treated,” I’d said. “Even by so-called enlightened New Yorkers.”

  “I don’t treat you different,” he’d protested.

  “Which is why we’re friends,” I’d said. “But you are not the army. Even if you’re going to be a captain.”

  “We could sure use your help,” he’d said. “First we free ourselves from the King. Then we free the slaves in the south.”

  “Do you honestly believe that will happen?” I’d asked.

  He’d given me a toothy grin. “Only one way to find out.”

  Then he’d waited. When several minutes had passed, he’d turned and waved as he departed.

  “Think about it!” He’d called over his shoulder.

  I’d thought about
it. But I did not join him. Instead, that day planted the seed of an idea of my own.

  That seed grew over time, and then those very same newspapers proclaimed the declaration of the emerging country. Those words by Thomas Jefferson watered the seed. Even at my distant farm, the words reached me. That “all men are created equal.” I pondered the words before I called the winds to lift me up and bear me south.

  On the twenty-seventh of August, in the year of our Lord 1776, I entered New York City by night, landing softly in a small yard behind a quiet inn. I pulled my cloak tight for, as always, the flight had chilled my flesh. Then I closed my eyes and willed the air around me to warm. In mere moments, all was well.

  I listened at the common room door to the laughter and the clink of glasses. But when I entered, the room went silent. A dozen faces heads turned. A dozen faces—ruddy, bearded, clean-shaven, white—stared at me. The bartender, a burly Irishman by his look, glared at me and set his cleaning towel down.

  “Your kind aren’t welcome here,” he said. His scowl reinforced his words.

  “Your pardon,” I said. “I am a seeker of knowledge. I wish to know more about this Declaration of Independence.”

  “I said, your kind aren’t welcome here.”

  Two burly men nearby pushed back their chairs with a screech of wood on wood. They stood and glared.

  I bowed and made my retreat.

  The next two inns were not as polite. By the time I’d made it to the Colored section of the city, all I’d learned was that George Washington had the army camped cross the river in Brooklyn Heights.

  That, and the British were coming.

  I took a small room and slept until late the next morning.

  Discreet inquiries the next day yielded me little. The political leaders of this young revolution had long since left the city, leaving it to the military and the commoners. A slow panic that the city itself might fall to the British rippled through the streets. A fishmonger told me of soldiers desperate for arms and food. An apple seller asked about the prospects up state.