The Grand Attraction

by Enoch Enns

  “Daddy, who's that?” her hand stretched to the side. Carls followed it to a figure just fading from within the near store. It couldn't be!

  “Not now Xavier!” he yelled, not caring for sympathy at the moment. How had she seen him? But now he realized the man's intentions. His image flickered hard to the left and down another hall. Despite detesting to his desperate-cy, Carls followed.

  The shop immediately caught his attention. City News! was etched across its entrance and TVs buzzed beneath its roof next to paper-filled racks. The doors to it were hard pressed but he managed to shut them tight. The glass at least dampened the sound.

  “Daddy, I gotta use the bathroom,” Joan said, completely oblivious to the dangers outside. At least here, for the time, it was safe. And there were restrooms in the back. He leaned against the front post of the bathroom and waited. If she had been nearly trained at three, at five he hoped there to be no problem at all. Her high-pitched voice bounced off the walls as she sang to the top of her lungs. “I was right, you know,” came Xavier's deep voice from behind the counter of the shop's reception.

  “Why do you keep appearing like this?” Carls asked. “Every time I see you, even though you help, I know they're coming. So why do you?”

  “Do you really think she is safer just being with you?”

  Carls had to push aside the guilt. The man was right. Bringing her wasn't the safest thing. But as a father, he couldn't trust her in the hands of any other. “Mine will have to do,” he said. He could still hear her singing. Must have been a song the other kids had taught her because he'd definitely never heard of it before—but one phrase caught his attention. “... Watch as the petals drop and learn from their song to let not the faint fall.”

  Let not the faint fall. Those had been the same words etched onto the carpet that the boy had sang.

  “She has quite the wild imagination, it seems,” the man commented.

  Carls could feel the steam rising within him. What did this man know? What was he keeping secret? “What of her?”

  Though his form lay hidden behind the bend of the bathroom walls, Carls could tell he was smiling (who knew what all the man was actually aware of).

  “Know this,” Xavier began, “there is a difference between becoming aware and being enlightened. Remember Antoinette's words. And I must say, you are far from a full awareness, but indeed you have something of value worth fighting for. Both for my and your sake.”

  Antoinette's words-- they were coming back to him. “Your eyes are still but opening to what lies beneath. Do not overstep yourself else you be swallowed up like the rest. The illusions are powerful. Do not think you are yet free of them.” His eyes were opening. Did that mean Xavier was calling him enlightened? Was that what set him apart from the rest?

  “And she's aware...” Carls said beneath his breath as the toilet flushed behind Joanna's emerging form. “You are either a genuine friend or filthy deceiver-- and I need to know now. I can't be putting my daughter in anymore treachery and yet here you are helping me.”

  “Just take a look around, my good friend. I shall leave you for now. And do not worry, they will not be finding you hear. Not if Whiggins indeed left his mark.” Whiggins? He could almost remember the name.

  Xavier was gone.

  The City News! Shop

  Posters were all along the walls. The largest hang above the main display-- one of a lady in white cloths standing against the balcony of the Hanging Gardens. Above her, in nineties fashion, were the words “New Babylon Rises from the Rubble!” Her curled hair hang in the anonymous wind her hand was reaching above. New Babylon? The term was on every cover of the shop and the lady's picture covered the front of nearly every magazine and on the head of every newspaper. He stood next to the display and observed the many articles. They all spoke of this “New Babylon” as though a paradise city. Is that what they called this place? New Babylon. It was then he noticed the TVs no longer blurring, but they played a recording. The words hit him from every side as he watched-- his daughter too carried away with all the posters and comics to notice.

  The cartoon figures resembled the nineties as a voice narrated their story. The figure on the left had his hand on a suitcase and wore a suit and hat. “Too busy these days? Been working none-stop?” the narrator said as the figure broke into a sweat. “Need a break? No worries!” The figure then turned to the second—a man in straps and cigarette looking at ease and fame. The smoke rose above them and the narrator spoke the forming words, “Come to New Babylon!” The two met and shook hands, the second taking the man's suitcase and patting the man's back. “We have put aside all the struggle and work you've been abused with and offer a break from it all! And if you want, you can even make us your new hobby! Forget those back-bending days of coming home to barely a bowl of rice and milk... we offer you the life you've dreamed of! Fight the depression—join the sensation!” The figures raised their hands to their viewers and the screen blurred out.

  If this place was supposed to be an escape from it all, he wondered how it had ended up so wrong. “Hey, Daddy! There’s a big hole in that room and I found this! Can I have it?” his daughter jumped in waving a comic through the air. A hole? A comic? A smile lit his face. To think that amidst such abandonment and ruin his daughter could still be entertained by a simple comic. You could never shove aside such innocence. And for her, he walked up to the cashier and pretended to exchange with her, acting as the store owner and sharing the laughs and imagination. The register slid open beneath him movements, revealing what bit of currency remained within his cold chambers. It was no presidential figure that was imprinted upon them, but that of a familiar face: Bill Childs.

  His mind flashed back to that first moment—to the e-Links he would always find lying about. To that newbie who seemingly caught on to things almost too quickly. Yes, he remembered Bill. He remembered what he had said, only now the severity of how he said it was becoming all the more significant.

  He had wanted Carls to come. He had known something more than what he’d first let on. Looking back, Locke knew he should’ve known it sounded too good to be true. But was Bill to be the one to blame? The man spoke so confidently...

  And how was he now the one on the currency of such a place?

  Carls shoved the register closed again and looked to his daughter who was sitting with her legs crossed on the floor and looking through the comic for the tenth time already. Bill Childs... who was the man?

  The Maintenance Bays (Sub-City)

  “We are simple-minded, our race, and will fall for anything so long as it fits our vision.”

  -Mike Dyrdrik, In Search of Life's Mysteries

  A figure knocked upon the glass—a man in his fifties; white hair, blue eyes, and spectacles. He seemed urgent to be let in.

  Only, where had he come from? Xavier must have been wrong. If Whiggin’s mark was indeed to keep them secure, it sure wasn’t working. Just as quickly as he had noticed the man, so did he the flicker in his image. Carls' hand caught the collar of his daughter as two beasts tore through the adjacent hall and shattered the front glass to the CityNews! Shop. He must have not noticed the cart the first time through, but he was quick to flee to the back room as the gas tanks rolled across the floor—hissing. Then came the roar: the Fallen One. It was the same one he saw raging against the Shem earlier (which explained the tripper). Carls had just the time to shield his daughter as he dove for the shelter, narrowly escaping the tumbling wreckage as the entire front entrance crumbled to the explosion and rage. He'd made it into the bathroom—Joan was screaming in his arms. The hole—she'd mentioned a hole in the bathroom. Maybe it was an escape.

  Sure enough, he found a massive hole in one of the stalls. It was a clear path through the white brick and down another passage. A dark one. But at least it held better hopes of escape. With his daughter close and eyes aware, he stepped into the crevices of the small passage, eager to escape the beast raging behind. Down and just a little farther he
saw that it met up with another pass—one with lights.

  Piping lined the four corners of the tight walk-space. He guessed a system similar to this ran through the entire infrastructure. It was obvious this place had been used frequently with the metal cross-grips wearing thin. Carls hadn't yet come to ease in the inconsistency the lighting gave. His daughter was scared. He was scared. His ears still rang from the explosion.

  His footing slipped. Joan had been calling out to him but he'd been too dazed to notice. Some sludge seemed to be following them. Sludge? He looked to the walls and rail flooring. Indeed, it was not a simple factor of dis-maintenance. They were distinct. They were aware.

  He cradled her closer to him, not quite sure yet as how to respond. What are they?

  Their forms seemed unsolidified. They morphed and moved as though completely manipulated by their surroundings. He saw them change-- from sludge to an attempt at arms. The one he had stepped on seemed more agitated from the rest. It had reemerged from the depths of the railing and spread itself like a cobweb. Carls stepped back.

  The creature lashed out at him-- a single thread catching his arm and twisting about it. Not wanting any risk, Carls withdrew his stick and hacked at the strand-- tarring himself free. Spinning on his heels, he grabbed hold of Joan yet again and ran, taking more heed to his steps in the inconsistent lighting. One of the panels gave and he crashed down. “Daddy!” she daughter cried as her foot caught the vise-grip, drawing blood. He realized now that below them were the sewers-- a place he could not afford for his daughter to fall into.

  He looked intensely into her eyes, trying to calm himself as he climbed up. “Wanna play a little game, Joan?” he asked, brushing her up as more web splashed past them. “How about hide and seek? Okay, dear? You go hide and I'll find you, ok?” He set her down and she looked at him. For some reason, for some bizarre and unknown purpose, she seemed to understand, and turning, she left. Could it be? Was it the Trust Seal of Bondage that she acted upon? Was it simply trust that such a child would listen and obey amidst such odds? She was past the next junction by the time Carls felt the grip across his ankle. He twisted his body toward the slime and thrust his boot at the mass of it. “Come on!” he yelled, frustrated that his gun was not working. Why was nothing working when and where he needed it?

  He didn't have time. Kicking at one of the joints, he busted a pipe and shoved it at the-- whatever it was-- before him. Muddied water spewed everywhere and he momentarily broke free. The other creatures were beginning to get agitated as well to the commotion. Great, more is the last thing I need.

  Carls took three steps to clear the bend and see his daughter behind the desk of an opening maintenance room.

  “Look, daddy, I hid!” she said at the sight of him.

  “And you did a good job too!” he said to her, jerking the drawers open and trying to keep the conversation. But how were you supposed to convince a five-year-old that there wasn't more to the situation?

  Found it.

  “You just stay there, ok? I'm gonna find a place to hide too.”

  “Is someone else playing?” she asked, but he was already back around the desk-- some sort of maintenance gun in his hand.

  “Just stay there,” he said, and disappeared.

  They covered the lights. So they liked to crawl and mess with everything? No wonder they preferred the sub-system. Carls held the gun close to his chest, trying to cling to the walls and increase his stealth. He could hear their slurring-- or at least he thought, it was hard to differ from the dripping pipelines and short-circuits.

  He fired off to his left-- a spark of light ricocheting off the walls. He heard a shrill and dissipating liquid. What kind of gun was this? He held it up now and outstretched, feeling slightly better of himself. His breathing was heavy; his eyes were wavering. A drip touched his shoulder and he shot upward--

  Nothing. Just a jolt of electricity as it followed the water down to his skin. He tumbled backward and strained to see into the dark. He could not see anything.

  “Daddy?” his daughter peered from her cover as he reemerged, his shoulders weak but body still composed.

  “Joan, are you okay?” he asked, embracing her and caring to her cut. The bleeding had stopped, but the flesh about it was swollen. Not good for such an unclean atmosphere.

  “Did you get found?” she said.

  “Daddy was, but now the games over. Let's go.”

  He'd searched the cabinets and drawers twice over for ammunition. Whatever the actual use was for, he was thankful to God that they had such a device down here. The battery packs it took were heavy, but it was the brand name that held his attention. Brainware Power Cells. Always Brainware. Did they have some monopoly on industry? Or was the market within New Babylon geared around monopolies to begin with? Friedelock, Antoinette, Lawrence, Brainware-- all held an edge above the rest. Mx3 included.

  He came to another maintenance bay. There seemed to be a lot in such winding paths. Not that he cared-- it was a break from the close-tight passageways and hissing pipes. This one was larger. The cut on Joan's leg made it hard for her to stay focused, but she neither complained. For a five-year-old, he was astounded at her self-control. Or rather, thankful at it.

  “Daddy, did you get cut too?” she asked, pointing to his own leg. He looked down, eyes widening. Same leg, same length, same spot-- what? He pulled his pants up. How? There had been no tare in his pants?

  It now was noticeable. The pain of its depth spiked as he touched to feel if it were real.

  It was, and the only thing making sense of it was the card. He remembered sharing her pain under Friedelock and guessed it to work the same still. Which was both beneficial and risky. He took another look at his daughter's cut. So long as it helps you, he said calmly to himself, smiling at her curiosity.

  “It's fine, Joan. If you're big enough to handle yours then I guess I'll handle mine as well.”

  Such conviction in her smile. She believed in him more than he believed in himself. He brushed aside her hair and held her hand. I will die for you, Joan. Never forget that. And who wouldn't lay their life down for such innocence? It was for that that he kept moving. Her trust, her dependence, her need-- it was all that he had left to fight for. And for that, he was willing to give to others the hope she gave him. For that, he was wanting to find Trip and whatever it was TAP had been working on. These people needed a haven to go to. They needed reason to stand against the illusions that possessed them.

  He could only pray that Trip still had ties to TAP, or at least leads. I will fight for these people, he assured himself. I stand for those whom none else will.

  A single latch rested atop a rusty ladder in the far corner. He had been in the sub-system long enough. It was time to emerge once more. Lord willing, he was closer to his destination than when he'd started.

  Trip, A Man Worth Seeking

  Trip held his spot at the structure's edge. The bait was set and target approaching. Three days now had he been tracking this beast down-- this master of illusion.

  He was not the only presence, of course. Trippers and people alike walked the expanse before him. He could see them-- the people—but not separate them from tripper or real. Regardless, thouse that were real walked the fine line between naivety and awareness. He lifted his hand to his watch that fell just a couple seconds short of the new mark.

  Fifteen seconds.

  He held his breath and took a second look to the crowds. Seventeen figures, only four of which were real, or at least that he could tell. Something about the Theatra Amusement Park seemed to draw out the bridge or whatever it was that separated the aware from the aware-less. Only, instead of separation, it somehow bled between them. He checked his watch again.

  Nine seconds.

  He stepped from his cover and walked past the large tent selling over-valued merchandise. His hand caught the edge of the curtain entrance and cautiously drew it farther aside. He needed them to see.

  Four.

&nb
sp; He now stood in the center-- the seventeen in full view. Two. His right palm turned and lifted into the air-- body dropping to one knee and a handheld device smashing into the tile floor.

  One.

  A disc shot up into the air, a pulse suddenly emanating from it. The surge of energy gave him a glimpse at the trippers as their forms flickered to the wave. There were five-- five real ones.

  The sound came from his right-- and faster than he had expected, but he had the five already memorized. The massive black was unmistakable. Weight to his fingers, Trip had already propelled himself as the Shem dealt a heavy blow. The crash obliterated his last position as the creature bent its mass and momentum in the new direction. Trip had rolled next to one of the pillars. There were several that extended beneath the protruding display floor. Just what he needed.

  He drew his gun (and no ordinary one, mind you) and he leaped for cover—a shot at the pillar leaving a small attached device. Five more.

  The gun only held two shots and he'd already fired the second at an adjacent beam. It was hard enough evading the Shem as he concentrated on placements. But he had waited for this, longed for this.

  The Shem seemed aware of their presence too. It knew Trip wouldn't stand for their awakening. The creature stretched out two of its limbs as though forming a multi-headed beast. Trip dug his boots against the tile. He couldn't allow for any unwanted awakenings.

  A javelin shot from his wrist and he was flung toward the mid-aged man just in time. His body hit with the flesh of the Shem and forced it off course by an inch—just enough to avoid. But he wasn’t quick enough to stop the second limb from coming through. It tore through its victim relentlessly sending shrills through the dying air.