by James Maxey
“Can we . . . can we talk about this at an emergency room?” she asked. “Not that I don’t trust you.”
“Let me buzz the Bee-Wing.” The Blue Bee rose, walking away a dozen yards, leaning over the rail as he let out a whistle and raised his hand.
He stood there, silently, hand outstretched for several long seconds. He cleared his throat and said, “It wasn’t my fault.”
“What?” Honey asked.
“Leaving Stinger in prison. It was . . . I mean . . . ,” he lowered his hand, wiping the blood from his chin. “I was married, back then. After the Mr. Mental fiasco, my wife . . . she had me committed. I had electroshock therapy. A lot of what went on . . . my old life . . . it’s lost forever.”
“I’m sorry,” Honey said.
“Robert!”
It was Stinger’s shout, barely audible above the horrid, rising whirr of bees. Suddenly, Stinger was lifted above the edge of the deck, standing atop a dense column of gold and black insects.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Robert!” Stinger yelled. “Forty years of hate I owe you! Forty years of degradation and abuse and betrayal! Forty years!”
Stinger motioned, waving his hands forward, and twin fists of bees slammed into the Blue Bee’s midsection. The old man fell to his knees. In seconds, the swarms coalesced around the old man’s head, hiding his face. The bees began to shoot in from the sky like tiny, angry bullets, until his head was encased in a living globe the size of a pumpkin, and the Blue Bee toppled over. His muffled screams could barely be heard over the buzzing.
“I know you’re immune to the stings,” said Stinger. “So I’m simply going to drown you. I’m going to fill your lungs and throat and mouth and nose. It’s going to be slow. It’s going to be painful. Just like those forty years!”
Honey looked down at the bottle of pheromone, still half full. It must work, since the bees weren’t coming anywhere near her. Despite the jagged pain in her ribs, she pulled herself up against the iron rails. She unscrewed the bottle cap as she staggered toward the Blue Bee. But her plan to pour the stuff over him proved unnecessary. As she approached, the bees engulfing him seemed pushed away by an invisible hand. By the time she reached him, his face was hairy with black stingers, but, save for the bees that struggled to escape his lips, the last bees had fled.
“I should have dropped you,” Stinger said.
“Yeah,” said Honey. “Probably.”
She hurled the bottle with a strength that shocked her, striking Stinger dead center of the appliqué bee on his torso.
The bees beneath his feet boiled away. Stinger fell from the sky like a stone. He shouted something, perhaps some curse, or defiant quip, or an urgent final message to the man who’d shaped his life—but the howl of the swarm covered his words.
“Are you all right?” Honey asked, her strength ebbing as she lowered herself beside the Blue Bee.
“Not this time,” Blue Bee said, gasping for breath, bees still crawling from his lips. He spat, then spat again, bloody bees flying. “Venom won’t get me. But they’ve stung me from inside. Lungs feel full of needles. Not the sort of injury this old body’s going to shake off. What a way to go.”
Honey was dizzy, fighting to stay conscious. She couldn’t tell if those last words were a curse, or an exultation.
Darkness ate away the edges of her vision as the doors to the roof opened and the NYPD’s finest poured onto the scene.
* * *
Honey woke in the hospital three days later, feeling stronger than she’d ever felt in her life. Her parents were at her bedside—they told her she’d been in a coma, and that it was a miracle, simply a miracle that she was alive.
And perhaps it was. Something about the events of that night had transformed her. The person she had once been—the lost, desperate girl with no money and no hopes, had passed away. She felt born again. The air felt fresher, the world looked brighter, her arms and legs felt full of iron springs, as if she could leap across rooftops. She could feel the rumble of machinery far away in the hidden depths of the hospital, could hear the electricity humming in the wires of her room. And when the nurse brought in flowers, she could smell them in the hall, long before they reached her room, and knew they were daisies.
Studying the daisies at her bedside, she laughed with delight at all the colors and patterns in the once white petals.
Empire Of Dreams And Miracles
I WOKE FROM A DREAM about technopaganneuro sex, unable to remember going to bed or what had happened to my clothes. I kicked aside the red silk sheets and sat up. On the silver table by my bed sat an antique toy, a black plastic ball with the number eight painted on its top. I couldn’t remember where I had acquired it, but I vaguely recalled Rayn having described one to me once. Some sort of pre-technological oracle. Curious, I flipped it over. “HELL YEAH!” displayed in the milky window. The day was going to be a good one.
Energized, I jumped to the window and flung open the curtains. Warm sunlight and a salty breeze flooded the room. A young boy strolled by on the street below.
“You there!” I called out. “Young man! What day is this?”
“Put some clothes on,” he yelled, and hurried along his way. He seemed very convincing, his stride, his expression. Perhaps he really was a boy. An original, I mean.
But original or copy, the oracle was already proving true. How Utopian to begin the day with a total stranger’s kind advice.
Advice I promptly disregarded. I leapt from the balcony onto the brick pathway and ran toward the ocean. My body quickly warmed beneath the bright sun. I reached the beach and planted my toes in the hot white sand, stretching luxuriously as I cried to the smooth blue sky, “Good morning!”
And it was. I’ve never met a morning in Atlantis that wasn’t simply brilliant.
I walked to my favorite ocean-side café and took a seat on the patio. The wait-thing brought me golden nectar and a black seaweed quiche. The wait-thing’s transparent skin revealed internal clockwork, ceaselessly whirring.
A shadow fell across my breakfast. A deep, musical voice greeted me. “Good afternoon, Dobay.”
It was Makan. You may know him. Big fellow, heavily muscled. Ebony skin, hair sculpted into a seahorse, florescent yellow lipstick and a single red feather through his Adam’s apple. Not the sort of person who would stand out in a crowded room, but once you get past the mundane exterior you find a true creative genius. Makan’s a deathpoet, one of the best.
“How’s dying these days?” I asked.
“Same as ever.” He shrugged, then took a seat. “You don’t have any clothes on.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. It’s just you’re normally so meticulous about your wardrobe.”
“It’s important to look good in public,” I said.
“Well, you do.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I had a dream last night that will interest you. I was making love to a witchmachine, in a field of daisies . . . ”
“Witchmachine?” he asked.
“A machine,” I said, perturbed by the interruption, “that’s also a witch. Anyway, the thing slit my throat. It was a marvelous sensation. I grew lightheaded, my vision blurred. I could hear the rumble of blood as it left me, and felt every last bead of sweat that rolled across me.”
“Yes,” Makan said, toying with his throatfeather. “That matches my own experience with exsanguination. Borderline sexual, but difficult to climax.”
“Rayn and Glantililly were talking about your drowning last week,” I said. “I’m surprised you’re back.”
“Blame it on popularity,” he said, shrugging. “When no one wanted to see me die, I had to stay gone years to build up buzz. Now, I get nine, ten requests a month. The price of fame.”
“I think I killed someone last night,” I said, then sipped my nectar. “Might have been messy.”
“Oh?”
“Tough to know for certain. The absence of clothes is a good sign. Blood-soaked
garments irritate me.”
He nodded knowingly. “You seem calm about it.”
“Can’t get too worked up. It might throw me off.”
“If you pulled off a murder, you’re only one behind Faz Jaxxon.”
“Drop it,” I said. “Thinking about your score is a sure jinx.”
“I’d best fly,” said Makan. “I’ve got some prelim work to do with a shark. Most of them hate human blood.”
“Then swap it,” I said. “Seal blood, maybe.”
“You know I’m a traditionalist,” he said. He stood and leaned across the table. We kissed. His tongue was slimy and hard and tasted like ginger.
“Good luck with your killing,” he said, as he floated skyward.
I wiped my mouth and looked at the glowing yellow smear on my hand. I’m glad he left. Talking about the game is bad luck. And I’m so primed to jabber.
* * *
Back home, I sank into the womb and drifted awhile. There was never any doubt as to my destination, but I like to pretend I’m unconcerned. I slipped into a documentary about a place called America. Big place, chaotic, dangerous. Hard to imagine the lack of control, the total absence of safety. You could die by eating the wrong thing, by walking on the wrong street, or, worst of all, by having your body just give out, betray you by becoming weaker and slower. When you died, that was it. No resurrection, just recycling. Worm food. Amazing we ever made it out alive.
Having spent enough time in the documentary, I slid over to the Game Show. Oh, yes. I did kill someone after all. I relived it, along with millions of others. There was a woman at my feet and I felt my shoulders burning, felt the smooth, wet knife in my hand, felt the rush of power that I get when I’m at the top of my game. But then I noticed her face, and all I could feel was shame. I knew this woman! The victim turned out to be Rayn, Glantililly’s lover. What made me go for such an easy target? I knew she had registered as a victim; she’d talked about it for years. It’s no sport to kill the ones who beg for it. Faz Jaxxon must have laughed himself wet.
I’d slipped in at the culmination, the most popular viewing time. My fellow citizens usually skip the hours of hunting and plunge right into the moment. I surfed backwards, past the break-in, past the stalking, until, ah . . . Glantililly. I could see her by my side as we strolled along the beach last evening near sunset. The fading light brought out the peacock iridescence of her hair, and the evening breeze played with the mist garment she wore, allowing enticing glimpses of the smooth violet curves of her body. We each carried a glass of Clear White Dreams (which explained my missing memory). We were talking about Rayn.
“It’s her shield,” said Glantililly. “By talking about her status, she knows hunters won’t go for her. She registered for the thrill, but she’s really afraid to die. She’s a virgin.”
“Incredible,” I said. “I didn’t know there were any left.”
“It happens,” Glantililly said. “She just never gave in to the curiosity when she was younger. Now she’s all wrapped up in a tangle of fear and inhibition.”
“Does she fear the pain?”
“It’s more complex than that. I think she’s afraid the reality of the moment will let her down, after all these years of imagining.”
“Poor kid,” I said. “Some people invest too much emotion in their first death.”
“If only someone would help her get past this. Someone . . . experienced. Good at it.”
I felt a glimmer of hope. Unable to wait any longer, I went straight to the scoreboard. My heart sank, then leapt. I scored only twelve points for the total kill, well below average, but half of it was in motivation, a six. It’s difficult to get higher than a three in motivation anymore. There’s so much competition, so much pressure to get another kill on the board to stay in the game, that there just isn’t time to work up a real justification for murder. A six showed style.
Speaking of pressure, Faz Jaxxon had to be feeling it. I’d moved within three points. I was tempted to switch to his life to find out how far away he was from his next kill. Then I reminded myself I’m not in this for the score. I played the game because it sharpens my mind, strengthens my body, and enlarges my spirit. But, damn, three points!
* * *
I took to the streets as shadows blanketed Atlantis. A magic breeze, salty and electric, danced through the streets to the beat of joyous music pouring from open doorways. Perhaps you know of such moments, such moods, when you realize you live in the Golden Age, that there is no better time or place to be alive than now, here, in the Empire of Dreams and Miracles.
I wore my finest white robes, scented with patchouli, my body freshly shaven and glowing with subdermal luminescence, a side effect of the hot pinks I’d popped before leaving my quarters. I carried my best knife in a sheath hidden in my left sleeve. It’s a seven-inch blade, black ceramic, capable of cutting a hair lengthwise. I’m not superstitious. The knife isn’t good luck. But fingering its bone hilt, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of certainty. I would kill someone soon. A beautiful kill. Much better than a twelve.
Then I saw her. High above me, on the crystal bridge that crosses Garden Africa, she leaned against the rail, watching the sunset. She was dressed in black with long, flowing tresses. She had the air of one who might jump, should there be any point. World weary. Worn. Perfect. I hurried through the maze of stairs to reach her, hoping she would still be there by the time I reached the top.
She was. I placed myself beside her and looked out over the tan parklands. Zebras grazed by the lake, oblivious to the lions in the long shade of the baobab tree. She gave no reaction to my presence.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“I know who you are,” she said, her gaze still focused to the west.
“Oh?”
“Dobay the Gold. I’ve slipped into your life from time to time. Quite a show . . . for some.”
“Thank you. I think. What’s your name?”
“You try for something extra with your work.”
“If a thing is worth doing . . . ”
“Is anything worth doing?” she asked.
“Precisely anything,” I said, intrigued by the turn in the conversation. I had been prepared for mindless banter about giraffes and such. “Anything at all, if you do it well.”
“This is what eternity has reduced us to,” she said.
For the first time, she turned her face toward me. Her eyes and lips were as black as her gown, in contrast with her pale porcelain skin. She smelled very alive, a musky odor that mixed well with the air from the park, very animal, very human.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.
“You get more points if I’m not a stranger,” she said as she turned her gaze once more to the menagerie.
“I don’t kill everyone I speak to,” I said, feeling wounded. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know how it works,” she said, with a dismissive roll of her eyes.
“Then you know you shouldn’t assume things. People sometime prejudge me, imagine I size everyone up as a potential victim. But really, don’t you think I just occasionally like to talk?”
“You could talk to, let’s see, what’s her name . . . Rayn?”
Suddenly, I understood. She was obviously a fan, disappointed that I had stooped to killing such an easy target.
“Rayn was an exception,” I said, hoping to explain. “I don’t kill inside my circle as a rule.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Things can be awkward afterward. Life’s too long to have everyone be suspicious of you.”
She turned back to me and smiled, an expression that didn’t seem to fit her. Her lipstick changed color, becoming blood red.
“You’re a philosopher,” she said.
I am, but somehow it felt wrong to admit it.
“And a liar,” she continued. “You did approach me with murder in mind.”
“Believe what you want,” I said.
“I’ve hurt your fe
elings,” she said, with amusement. “Will you kill me for that?”
“Dream on.” I snorted, and turned away. I had no time for her games. And you score no points at all if they ask for it.
* * *
That night I climbed the Bethlehem Spire and hung myself by the heels. Swaying for hours in the salt-tanged breeze, Atlantis was my bright heaven, while beneath me spun the endless black night. I thought of Alandra.
The girl on the bridge had awakened her memory. It’s true. Sometimes, after you kill someone, things change. Alandra was never the same. She drew away, closed herself in a womb, and was gone. So many years ago. I still ache for her. We were so young and serious. Everything had meaning.
But meaning was as fleeting as the shooting stars beneath my feet. I don’t dwell upon the past. I realized long ago that even if a thousand stars fall each night for a thousand years, the sky will still twinkle with the promise of the infinite. In a world of infinite promise, how can I help but hold her again?
* * *
I met my father for lunch. These days he’s a she, just through puberty, blonde, pretty and completely unknowable. He calls himself Kandii.
“Have you spoken to your mother lately?” she asked.
“You know I haven’t,” I said. “You?”
She shook her head, then pushed her hair back from her eyes. Sometimes, I think I see him in her, in the faint ghost of one of his gestures. But he’s fading. He’s becoming his skin. I’ve seen him with boys, flirting, flaunting. It’s hard to remember he’s nine centuries old, old enough to have had a profession. He used to be a lawyer, but the world no longer needs laws. Maybe that’s part of his identity crisis. Or maybe there’s no crisis at all. Maybe it’s just me who feels strange about this.
“I know you dislike confrontations,” she said. “But I think we need to discuss your discomfort with what I’ve done.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I said. “It’s your life.”
“It is,” she said gleefully. “And I’ve decided not to resist it any longer. I’m doing this to embrace every possibility. I’ll be a man, a woman, old, young, a rainbow of colors. Any life we can imagine, we can have. A century from now, it will seem old-fashioned to wake up in a body you’ve already worn.”
