by Andrew Post
Inside, the vehicle featured four rows of seats, now all empty. The driver, when there was one, would sit behind a wall of panels, holodisplays, and various feeds from exterior cameras hidden within the strange car’s carapace. The means of actually driving it, though, seemed complicated. There was no steering wheel or levers, just a floating holo that looked like a mold of a hand made up of green light.
Thadius climbed inside with some difficulty. He wasn’t as svelte as the Smocks. He offered a hand to help me inside. I put Squishy into the third row first, then climbed into the seat behind Thadius. It smelled like cleaning products inside and a faint whiff of new plastic.
“Wonder why they came out this way,” Thadius said. “They say anything to you?” He pressed a fingertip to a holographic button, and the side door slid shut.
“Just that hoarding electricity is against the law or something.”
As we drove along, crunching through parking lot weeds and chunks of broken blacktop, he pointed on one of the various monitors inside the cockpit with direct feeds from outside. The solar panels on the roof could be seen, all standing nearly straight up to catch the sun as it was setting to the west. “I need to remember to drop them things out of sight before leaving for the night. They probably picked up the signatures.”
“Signatures?”
“The Smocks got technology that allows them to see where large amounts of electricity are movin’. They keep us all on a pretty short leash about power usage. I knew this because of Mosaic Face, so I prepared before setting up my shop. They can’t see I’ve got a cauldron inside because I put up all kinds of sheeting on the walls to mask it. Same reason they probably never came out to your rig to pay you a visit. That thing pretty much works as its own mask, all that steel.”
“I thought all the satellites went offline, though,” I said, recalling a news report about it during the A, back when there were still people around to talk about such things on the radios and online. “How can they see the signatures?”
“The satellites did. Not that it matters to the Smocks. They can see over here, in this versh, from theirs back home. Don’t ask me how. Mosaic Face has a theory on it, but I don’t think even he’s quite figgered it out quite yet.” We trundled along down the side of the beige monolith of the Mega Deluxo, the Smockmobile giving a surprisingly smooth ride.
Squishy, in the seat behind me, asked, “What are we going to do with this thing, sir?”
“We’ll have to break it down, little guy,” Thadius said. “They may not know where they were when they get reassembled, but they’ll be able to track the car.”
Stealing a peek over Thadius’s shoulder, I saw through the myriad points of view of the car’s cameras as the Mega Deluxo drifted by. He brought it around back and parked it at the loading dock.
After we got out, Thadius had me operate the harvesting gun. I couldn’t hold the gun with two hands and remain standing upright at the same time, so he helped me get the harness on and held me up with one hand gripping the back. I aimed the harvester’s barrel toward the car. There were no sights to look down. Aiming from what was essentially hip level, I didn’t know if I’d harvest the Smockmobile or the corner of the building.
“Use the screen there,” he said.
There was a small, flip-up monitor attached to the barrel of the gun. I flipped it up, and a simple grid appeared. Hovering over the vehicle made a wire frame appear on-screen.
“When you can see the entire thing inside that screen, you got a clear shot. Anything outside that box won’t get harvested.”
Aiming was like trying to line up a fire hose on a target the size of a pea. It reminded me of when I first used a mouse, how I was so used to using touch pads and how it felt so removed—clicking on something over there when your hand was moving around right here.
“Take your time.”
“They saw Squishy,” I said. My aim settled. I pulled the trigger. The gun lurched in my hands, a hefty kick—and only half of the Smock vehicle vanished. “Damn it.” The heat of harvester came on fast.
The front end of the vehicle, for a moment, remained upright—as if gravity itself were confused for a blip—and then it fell over with a clatter.
Squishy, who was already a few paces behind us, took a few more back.
“And what’d they have to say about him?” asked Thadius.
“They knew right away he wasn’t . . .” I stopped, looked at Squishy.
Squishy looked at me. “I’m aware, ma’am, that I am not of this world. I don’t understand the particularities of how I got here, but rest assured, I am no dummy. Speak your mind, by all means, please.”
I aimed up again and waited for the double beep, then got the back end of the vehicle squared up on-screen. “They figured out right away that we have a cauldron here, that we were scratchers. Good thing they won’t remember anything,” I said and fired again.
The other half of the Smock car disappeared.
“Yeah, let’s just hope they don’t manage to make a patch to cure that little bug,” Thadius said, helping me take off the scythe rifle’s harness.
After I’d undone the clips along my chest, Thadius peeled the whole contraption off from behind and let it fall to the ground with a crash. The barrel steamed. The canister was nearly full of white powder.
“There,” Thadius said. “Done and done. Now, how’s about some dinner?”
Track 12
UP TO NO GOOD
As Thadius went off to the grocery side of the store to get something to take back with us, I remained behind. The idea would not shut up. I tried turning the holoprojector on to distract myself, but it was no use. I watched the miniature people on the miniature stage act out a miniature play, but . . . no. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I can get it out of them. If my cauldron can make Squishy, it can bring one of them back. I can make them tell me how to stop them.
I waited until Thadius was out of sight before I did what my hands thought, at the time, was a good idea. Squishy watched me, there was no helping that, but I just hoped he understood what I was doing wasn’t anything worth tattling to Thadius.
“Even though he saved our lives,” I told Squishy, “it doesn’t mean he knows everything.”
I clack-thumped over to where Thadius had laid the scythe rifle. Leaning my weight onto one crutch, I removed the canister and replaced it with an empty spare I found in a box next to Thadius’s workstation. I worked quick, plugging the canister into the carwash-sized cauldron, and started the analysis of its contents.
A recipe was made. A diagram appeared on-screen showing what reminded me of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, that dude that seemed to have four arms and four legs and the Jim Morrison ’do. A DNA double helix popped up, one for each of the six Smocks Thadius had snagged.
Even though I’d been told as much before, I was still surprised to see it for myself in the diagram: the fact that the Smocks were just people. They came in male and female varieties. Each had a mouth, eyes, nose—all in their expected places—ten fingers, ten toes. The cauldron also tabulated what made up the Smocks’ clothing (poly-nylon blend with some cotton and elastic). I even saw a detailing of the technology they wore, which, horrifyingly enough, was apparently imbedded directly into their bodies.
The diagram of the Smock showed what looked like tree roots going from their palms, up their arms, to a node of sorts resting in their chest cavities. I remembered what Thadius said, tapping his heart, that the thingamabob close to the heart was what would send what they harvested to home base, to their versh. It looked sort of like an inverted acorn mixed with a complicated hookah.
“Ma’am, may I inquire as to what you’re doing?” Squishy, at my elbow, said.
“Nothing. Just looking.”
“Ma’am, I thought Mr. Thumb said . . .”
“I know. I’m only looking.” I tried to give him my best reassuring smile. “It’s all right.”
He still looked uncertain but didn’t pry further.
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I copied the recipe of the Smock onto my flash drive, then removed the canister.
I set it on the table and stared at it. I had my bag in my lap, its flap open.
What would my cauldron spit out? Smocks harvested alive could be rebuilt alive, right? Mom couldn’t be rebuilt because she’d been broken down after she was already dead.
I stared at the canister through the glass slot at the white dunes.
But what if it worked? I could get a jump on things, bring my results back to Thadius, and possibly be considered not just the tagalong in the fight but a genuine, results-getting member. I’d be careful. I’d tie down their arms or something or talk to them from the other side of the rig’s cauldron room door. I’d think it out. Maybe as soon as they were whole and the cauldron popped them out, I’d find a way to stick something sharp into their palms and make their harvesters not work.
I twitched when Thadius announced, “Okay, so I got this, and I got this.” He was walking back into the work area, holding up two tin cans.
I clicked off the monitor and spun around to face him.
He held a can of creamed corn and another of baked beans. “I’d join you, but I’ve really got to get back.” He tossed me the cans. I put them in my bag in the spot for the canister of fixins.
“You don’t mind eatin’ by your lonesome, I hope. I’d join you, but I’ve got to keep up appearances.” He eyed a clock on the wall—adjusted to the WTF so the second hand spun a hair faster. “It’s been a while since I’ve pulled an all-nighter. Can you see yourself back?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“We got an after-party tomorrow—er, tonight, after the show. We can talk more after, if you like.”
“Sure.”
“You okay?”
“Mostly.”
“Best get used to this kind of thing.”
“Has this happened before?”
He motioned to the sheets of metal tacked up on the wall behind me. “That’s not just for shielding signatures. There’s a few more holes back there. Just like the ones in the back I’ll have to figure out how to cover up. If you’re feeling up to it, maybe we’ll take a swing down to the dump sometime this week and see if we can find some more sheets to . . .” He trailed off when he noticed where I was sitting, right at his cauldron’s console. He stepped over, picked up the fixins canister—didn’t remark as to why it, a full one, was now detached from the scythe rifle with a fresh one in its stead—and set it back down.
“Please don’t give me any reason not to trust you,” he said. “I have enough of that, worrying about the night’s light till and missing booze over at the Siren. I don’t need it here too.”
Whoa, guilt. I nodded, said, “Okay. Sorry.”
He nodded and put the canister back on the table.
“I’ve got something else to tell you,” he said, tone still grave. “I’d tell you now, but we’re running short on time.” He paused. “More so than usual.”
I sighed. Loudly.
“What’s that for?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t say you got something to tell me unless you’re going to say it right now. That drives me insane.”
“This is somethin’ else, though. Big. It’ll take a while to explain it. And we don’t really have the time now.” He reeled his pocket watch out by its chain and checked it against the time on the wall’s clock.
I gestured around us. “In one day, you’ve shown me that the world is getting stolen bit by bit, told me about elephant-leech things, told me people from another dimension are policing people who haven’t done anything wrong yet, and that’s not even mentioning all this business over here.” I waggled my hands at the scythe rifle and the fixins canister standing beside it. “And you’re telling me you’ve got more to share? Whatever it is, it had better be about my mom. You know something. I know you do. You’ve been dodging it every time we even get anywhere near that topic.”
Thadius laughed, somewhat uncomfortably. “It’s really something that should be shared when we have plenty of time to talk about it. Honestly. But until then, we should really—”
“Whatever,” I relented, throwing up my hands.
“So, tomorrow. The party. Not usually for anyone besides the cast and crew, but you can be my plus one if you like. I kind of need to know.”
“Uh, well . . . I don’t know.” I’d been anxious enough just sitting in the lobby bar during regular business hours. I couldn’t imagine how it’d be full of people, all drinking, carrying on, and . . . I shuddered at the thought. So many people.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Besides, it’d probably be for the best, seein’ as how they’ll be your coworkers from now on.” He turned toward the back of the store and the waiting basement tunnel.
“Wait. What?” I got my crutches set, followed.
He kept right on. “Can’t drop character, kiddo. You and I are just boss and employee. You’re a new recruit at the Siren House, whose position I have yet to determine. If we’re working together on the fight and you’ll be in the Siren House all the time, we’d best have some explanation for you. Hide you in plain sight.”
He continued strolling off. Apparently adrenaline put a skip in his step, whereas I just wanted to sleep for a week.
I called after him, “If you say so,” and let him get ahead of me a ways.
Pausing in the women’s department, I grabbed a top off the rack. I’d need something to wear, wouldn’t I? While stuffing it into my bag, I glanced back at the workstation. The canister was still on the table, standing on end like a single finger pointing up like people do when they get bright ideas and declare Eureka! It’d only take a second to rush back and snag it . . .
“You comin’ or what?”
I turned away from the canister full of possibilities, said, “Yeah, I’m coming,” and clack-thumped on.
Track 13
FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHT
To think a Siren House after-party could remotely resemble a little quiet get-together was, in hindsight, an incredible underestimation. It wasn’t just the staff. It seemed like triple the show’s audience was there. Thadius did the social butterfly thing, going from group to group. I remained seated at the bar and tried not to sputter a cough with every breath of the nicotine-laced air. Everyone was smoking, drinking, laughing, and discussing things I hadn’t the foggiest about. The last time I’d been in a room that full was at a fifth-grade dance. Everyone was in loose packs, big and small circles, or just walking around. Some people danced. More than once I got run into and was sloppily apologized at.
I missed Squishy, but there was no way he would’ve been allowed to be seen in public, not even at the Siren House. Thadius had said if I wanted to attend the after-party, Squishy would have to stay at the rig.
I wanted to be at home, doing my nightly routine of picking produce, doing inventory, watching a movie or two, taking a warm bath, doing my swimming lessons, and going to bed. Not here, in all this noise and smoke and people and—
“What’s with the long face?” Beth asked. She wasn’t working tonight, it seemed. Her puffy dress, with its plunging neckline, was fighting its way out of her wheelchair seat. In the armrest, a cup holder carried a big glass of clear liquid with a slice of lemon. Her eyes were glassy, cheeks red, smiling a lot.
It was an odd relief, seeing her. Among all these people, I knew her. Kind of. “Are the Siren House parties always like this?” I asked over the noise.
She nodded, looked around, estimated the number of people. “Yeah, just about.” Someone ran into the back of her and sent her wheelchair forward a couple of feet, nearly colliding with my dangling legs. Beth whipped around. “Watch it, asshole.”
The guy, with his blond chin tuft and a shaved head, looked down at her behind him like she was of no significance, chuckled, apologized insincerely, and turned back to his conversation. But before he turned all the way back, he gave me a look. Don’t think of me as naive. I saw plenty of R-rated movies on the rig.
I’d gotten the birds-and-bees talk from Darya, and I knew when I was getting the up-down. It was the first time I’d gotten it, and I didn’t like it. Especially how his searching, shiny eyes seemed to hesitate over my chest longer than anywhere else. Before he ended his appraisal, he made this goddamn face. This not bad face. I shot him a glare, but I think he missed it.
“One downside to the shows—some of the cast bring their stupid friends,” Beth said, setting the brake on her wheelchair. She took her glass from the cup holder and took a quick sip. “We’re in dire need a bouncer. Know anyone?”
I smiled. “No.”
She looked past me, to my place at the bar, disapprovingly. “And when anyone else is doing bartending, clearly they’re making sure everybody’s set,” she said, overly loud. The bartender tonight, the guy with the shaved head, shot her a look. Beth shook her drink at me. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself. What’re you drinking?” she said, tugging off her chair’s brake.
“It’s okay. I’m fine with water.”
“You know drinks are half off during the after-show, right?”
“I’m good.” I smiled. “Really. Thanks, though.”
“Come on. We survived the A; drinking is all but mandatory nowadays.” She gave her left wheel a shove to turn herself around. “I’ll make you something good; you won’t even taste the booze in it. Just wait right here.”
“Seriously, it’s okay.”
She turned the chair to face me squarely. She looked suspicious. “Wait. You’ve never had a drink before, have you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Pssht. What? Come on. No. I’m just not feeling it tonight and I—” I imagined this news spreading and before I knew it, I’d be volunteered for a keg stand.
