Tesseracts Fourteen: Strange Canadian Stories

by John Robert Colombo

  I blew a few notes on his clarinet, but they didn’t sound like music, and I put it away.

  (Three ways I never wanted to die: drowning; choking; bleeding.)

  I thought about going up the mountain and ending it in the ravine, but the Hydes strike back for that, too. You don’t just choose the means of your own death anymore. I don’t want to do that to my neighbors.

  And I don’t want to do it to Luke. Healthy and handsome, one of the last recognizably human children, he might live long enough to find out what’s going to trip the next ice age. Poor him. This morning I looked up at the sky, wondering if another meteor was spinning toward us, but only saw a string of geese.

  I stopped listening to the news. Every day is a slow news day now. Work and money still matter, but not enough to kill ourselves over; not when so many things are waiting to do it for us. There are still wars, because we haven’t quite outgrown our stupidity, but nothing major — why fight over what you won’t be here to use? And soon those of us left to fight will be too old to bother. Silencing the radio was a comfort. I didn’t miss the conjecture; I didn’t need the predictions. I knew my future: I could see the birth house from my back door.

  But I can’t see my house from here.

  Luke always told me the latest anyway. Yesterday he said the Hydes are going further up the mountains, into the thinner air. We can imagine why, but not ask. They don’t communicate with us; except for killing us, which gets their point across perfectly. Maybe they think we have nothing to say worth listening to. I reminded Luke that we couldn’t track them at first, back when we still enjoyed the illusion of security. Newborns, the ones that weren’t killed, seemed to disappear if you took your eyes off them. I picture them straggling toward the mountains, like baby turtles heading for the sea. Sightings were rare. No one wanted to go searching, and thermal scanners only work if you have an idea where to look.

  “Where could they possibly be?” I asked Cal.

  He said, “Maybe they’re Hydden.”

  I biffed a cushion at his head.

  Luke put a book in yesterday’s pillowcase, too, a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I hope the cleaners leave it for the next woman. It would be a great kindness, better than trying to make a design out of that smudge on the ceiling. To me it looks like something getting ready to fly.

  We’re not dying out. We’re growing wings.

  Cal flew.

  I should be easy for them to scrub up. My water just broke. It’s going to happen here on the steps, and already the pain is fierce.

  There’s something in the water.

  There are nine thousand species of birds on Earth. I’ve seen a hundred; I remember their voices. I hear the sharp eep! of a piping plover, an endangered species that will outlast us; and the rasp of crows, birds that are almost impossible to kill off. I hear the sweet warble of a chickadee, a bird who thrives in cold weather and doesn’t care who he sings to. He was always my favorite.

  It’s a good note to go out on.

  The Pickup

  Leah Silverman

  There’s a dead girl lying on her side in the mud.

  “I wonder if anyone tried to find her,” Mithune says, looking down. He has to shout so the rest of them can hear him over the rain. He sniffs, wipes his nose and grimaces. Water is sluicing off the peak of his cap and it’s so wet by now that there’s no point in keeping it, but Mithune always wears the full required uniform; it’s just who he is.

  “Probably not,” Bramin says. She crouches next to the dead girl, shining her flashlight beam along the cold, gray skin of her face. The girl is all curled up, mouth and blank eyes wide open like she died screaming. “Looks like she’s been here for awhile.” Bramin’s just thankful all the rain’s keeping the smell down.

  Behind Mithune, Kole giggles. Bramin swings her flashlight around in time to see Kole spit a gob of something onto the wet ground. It looks dark as the mud, which means he’s bleeding again.

  “You okay back there, Kole?” Bramin asks him. Then, “Hey, Kole, you hear me?” because he’s not answering. Kole just stares, like he can’t figure out what she’s saying.

  Mithune nudges Kole in the shoulder with the end of his rifle, jerks his chin in Bramin’s direction, scattering water. “Captain’s talking to you, Lupyi,” he says. “You need to say something.”

  “Use his name,” Bramin snaps. ‘Lupyi’ is some kind of slang for baby dogs where Mithune comes from. It was funny before but now it’s just pissing her off, though she can’t say why.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Mithune mutters. He nudges Kole again but with his hand this time. That’s a risk, so he’s probably doing it to show Bramin that he means the apology. “Come on, Ben,” he says. His voice is kind, despite having to force it over the rain. He points at Bramin. “The Captain asked you if you’re alright.”

  It’s not like Bramin even needs an answer now, but Kole tilts his head a little, then grins. “I’m great, thank you, ma’am,” he says, with the exaggerated care of someone who’s really drunk or drugged, and it might be cute if Kole were actually either of those. Then he laughs again, and a bit of blood dribbles down his chin, then gets washed away by the rain.

  Bramin turns away from him without answering. It’s not like Kole cares anymore.

  Mithune’s come up next to her and kneels beside the body. His knees sink into the mud as he lifts his flashlight, shining it over the corpse. “I don’t know if it’s the same thing,” he says, glancing back at Kole, “but there’s no way we’d be able to see blood in all this.”

  Bramin grunts in agreement. She glances at Kole as well, but he’s just standing there with his face tilted up to the onslaught of water. She wonders if he’ll let himself drown; if he’s so far gone he’d do that. The Major was probably right, and they should have shot the kid by now. Better for everyone.

  Coward, Bramin thinks, but she isn’t sure if she means the Major or herself.

  “We can still fix him,” Mithune says like he pulled the thought from her head. “He’s not even hurting yet, right? When the pickup comes—”

  “Where do you think she was running from?” Bramin asks, ignoring him. She lifts her head and looks in the direction the girl most likely came from, but all she can see is the black shape of trees and more rain.

  “There’s probably a village over there,” Mithune says. He pulls himself back to his feet with a sigh, then gives Bramin a crooked, resigned smile. His teeth are very bright against the smooth black of his skin. “Flatfoot express, right?”

  “Right.” Bramin nods and accepts Mithune’s hand. She looks at the girl again. It’d be the decent thing, to bury her, but none of them have the right equipment even if they could dig a grave in this rain. “We might be able to borrow a vehicle, at least. Move a little faster.”

  Mithune sniffs again. “They could’ve chased her out,” he says. His eyes are on Kole, who’s smiling vacantly, white as milk in the beam from Mithune’s flashlight. There’s blood coming out his nose, turning to light pink in the rain.

  “They might’ve been trying to help her,” Bramin says. “Come on.” She jerks her chin in what she hopes is the direction of the village, if there even is one. Right now she’d give just about anything for a roof over her head and something warm to drink.

  Mithune glances at Kole one more time, but he moves obediently past Bramin, gun ready. Bramin takes a breath and walks the few steps to Kole, who hasn’t moved. “Hey,” she says. She puts her hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the cold skin. She knows that’s a bad idea — people as sick as Kole is right now have been known to bite, or worse — but Kole just blinks slowly and turns his head towards her.

  “Captain?” he says. He sounds confused. “Where are we?”

  “Glencaran,” Bramin says. She moves her hand to his wrist, tugs a little. This isn’t the
first time she’s told him. “Come on. Mithune’s waiting for us.”

  “Okay,” Kole says. He starts following obediently, doesn’t try to pull his arm back. He looks around, like he might be alert for once. Bramin tries not to hope too much. “Glencaran,” he says, like he’s never heard the name before. “I’m cold.”

  “We’re all cold,” Bramin says. She starts walking a little faster. Kole keeps up with her. She can see Mithune’s light, shining steadily up ahead, cutting a slash of yellow through the rain.

  “Where’s our drop?” Kole asks, looking around like he might see it.

  “We crashed, remember?” Bramin tells him. “We’re heading to the pickup site.”

  “Oh,” Kole says. Bramin hears him spit. “I don’t feel so good.”

  Bramin stops dead, whips around. “Does your head hurt?”

  Kole shakes his head. “No.”

  “Good,” Bramin says. She lets out a slow breath, then slides her hand down Kole’s wrist until her fingers are wrapped around his palm. “You’ll be fine,” she says. She starts walking again.

  “Okay,” Kole says, like all he needs is to take her word for it. Bramin grips his hand more tightly, but he doesn’t hold hers. She moves her hand back to his wrist so he won’t slip away.

  “Where’s the Major?” Kole asks.

  Bramin grits her teeth, hard enough to make her jaw ache. “She’s dead,” she says.

  Kole doesn’t speak for awhile, and Bramin wonders if he’s trying to remember that, or if he’s just faded again. She doesn’t look at him to find out.

  “You killed her,” Kole says.

  “Yes I did.”

  “Okay,” Kole says.

  “We’re here,” Mithune calls from up ahead, and Bramin walks faster to catch up to him, dragging Kole with her. Mithune sees that she’s got her hand clamped around Kole’s wrist, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he kicks a loose stone, rolling it through the mud with his foot.

  Bramin lets go of Kole so she can hold her gun in both hands again. “Hello?” she shouts, loud as she can to be heard over the rain. “HELLO?” She tries it again in the three other languages she knows, but each time no one answers.

  “No one came after her,” Mithune says.

  Bramin looks where his light is pointing and sees the first of the bodies. A man this time, old enough to be the girl’s father. He’s in white, and it’s easy to see the blood stains on his shoulders and chest, too set in the fabric to be washed away by the rain. The heel of his hand is stuffed in his mouth, covered with bite marks. His eyes reflect their flashlight beams like glass.

  “There’re three over there, too,” Mithune says, voice so quiet it’s hard to hear him.

  Bramin nods. One of the corpses has long rents in her face from her fingernails. Some are curled up like the girl was; another has fistfuls of hair in his clenched hands. Their mouths are all gaping, eyes wide with fear and pain. One died sitting against a wall, protected from the rain by an awning. There’s blood all down the front of her dress, a thick congealed mass of it under her mouth and nose and eyes. The wall has blood on it too.

  “We’re not going to get any help here,” Mithune says, as if it needs saying.

  “No, we’re not,” Bramin says. She shifts her pack, then wipes water uselessly off her forehead. “We have to keep going.”

  Mithune doesn’t move. “Maybe we should check inside some of the buildings, get some supplies.”

  “No,” Bramin answers with a quick shake of her head. “It’s probably all contaminated. This might be the vector, for all we know.”

  Mithune looks at Kole. They’re already contaminated and they both know it, but Mithune doesn’t argue.

  Bramin checks her compass, nods to herself when the red dot is still blinking securely to the southwest. “The pickup’s this way,” she points and starts walking again. “Make sure Kole keeps up.”

  She hears laughter behind her, knows it’s not Mithune’s. She doesn’t look back.

  “Hey, you hear that?” Mithune says suddenly, startling her. Bramin had fallen into a kind of stupor made up of aching cold and the endless walking.

  “What?” she snaps, nastier than she meant to, but Mithune is grinning so widely Bramin sucks in a breath, half-expecting blood to come dripping out his mouth.

  “It’s the ship!” Mithune shouts. “Listen! It’s the ship!”

  Bramin does listen, and realizes she can hear the faint beeping from her compass. She yanks it off her protective vest and shuts off the magnet, then stares at the small screen, shaking her head to keep the rain out of her eyes.

  “Got that right,” Bramin says, grinning herself now. She uses the hand with the compass in it to point. “That way, through the clearing.”

  “Hallelujah!” Mithune throws his head back, arms out wide. Bramin laughs.

  She slaps Mithune on the shoulder, then starts walking faster, clenching her hand in Kole’s collar so he’ll stay with them. He won’t walk in a straight line anymore, not unless someone’s got their hand on him, and he’s stopped talking.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she tells him. “Not long now, almost there.” He stumbles after her, boots squelching in the wet dirt.

  Bramin’s still smiling as she drags Kole into the clearing, but there’s no ship. Nothing’s there but a rambler, sunk up to its axels in the mud. It’s off, and she thinks maybe it shorted out in the rain, but it lights up as soon as the three of them come close to it.

  “The ship is late, that’s all,” Mithune says. He’s looking at the sky like he might see it through the clouds and the night’s darkness. He turns towards Bramin. “We didn’t get our signal up right away, did we? So maybe … maybe they’re a few hours out, still.”

  Bramin doesn’t reply. The compass wouldn’t have shown the pickup if there hadn’t been a ship. The rambler has to be a drop-off, which means the pickup came and left again.

  “Keep watch on Kole,” she says, and lets go of him, walking to the rambler.

  The neck swivels as she gets nearer, so she can see the robot’s readout screen. It flickers on.

  “This is Captain Marlee, of Rescue Seven,” the face in the recording says. Bramin’s never heard of her, but there are hundreds of Rescue-class pickups in the fleet. The woman in the recording is as dark as Mithune, silver streaks in her hair. She looks really, really sorry. “We answered your call for pickup, but couldn’t do more than make landfall to leave the rambler and some supplies. Fleet orders.”

  “Fleet orders,” Mithune repeats behind her, like he doesn’t know what the words mean. “Fleet orders? What—?”

  Bramin shushes him. On the screen Captain Marlee starts talking again. “We have reason to believe this world has been contaminated, and as such have been expressly forbidden from landing personnel for any length of time. Or picking up any teams.

  “I’m sorry,” Marlee says. “God be with you.”

  And the recording shuts off, just like that. Bramin can see her reflection on the black screen, the fear in her own eyes.

  “But, they have a cure for it,” Mithune says. “They’ve had a cure for at least a year now, right? That’s what the info drops said.” He looks at Bramin, eyes begging, like whatever she could tell him would make any kind of difference. “They’re just leaving us here?”

  “Looks like it,” Bramin says, rain hissing over her voice. She doesn’t move.

  “They have a cure for it!” Mithune shouts. He snatches his cap off his head, throws it on the ground, then kicks at the rambler. “You fuckers!” he yells. “You fuckers! You said you had a cure!”

  He twists around to look at Bramin, eyes big and white in her flashlight beam. “What are we going to do now?” he asks her. “What are we going to do?” Then, “Captain!” Angry, when she doesn’t answer h
im.

  “Get the supplies,” Bramin orders. “We’ll put a tent up, get out of the damned rain, at least.”

  Mithune stares at her for a long moment. “Yes, ma’am,” he says finally.

  Bramin watches him work, sliding open the panels on the rambler, pulling the rainproof bundles out and dropping them into the mud. At least he’s calm.

  She thinks of the Major, holding the gun on Kole. And Kole, standing there shaking, tears running down his face mixing with his blood and the rain. He’d still been clear enough then to know what was going to happen.

  He’s going to die anyway. The Major had said, voice shaking like her hands. We’re all going to die anyway.

  Bramin adjusts her grip on her gun, lifts it. Kole is where Mithune left him. He’s sitting in the mud like a baby, knees drawn up. He’s rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around his head, keening in pain. Blood’s running from his nose and mouth and his staring, unseeing eyes.

  Bramin shoots him. He slumps over, dead before he hits the ground.

  Mithune’s head jerks up over top of the rambler. He stares at her.

  “It’s okay,” Bramin says. She wipes her face, her eyes, but there’s no blood on her fingers. Not yet. “Get back to work.”

  Mithune doesn’t move. “Kole?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

  “Here,” Bramin says. “I’ll help you.” And she walks around the rambler and takes a package from his unresisting hands.

  Flight of Passage

  Jon Martin Watts

  “Hello Liz… [crackle]… Jack here. I’m at the site.”

  “Copy, Jack. How does it look?”

  “I’m about a hundred meters away. I can see the broken gear and the piece of wing a few hundred meters back that we imaged from orbit. The crew compartment looks fairly intact.”

  “Okay, can you take a look inside and report?”

  “Stand by.”

  “Ah, Jack. While you’re getting over to the ship we’ve got an update on the disposition of the survivors.”