by Forbes West
“Shouldn’t be out here by yourself. Evil runs around these roads nowadays. Would you like a ride, hmmm? Are you with Solomon’s House University?”
“N-no. And, y-yes I w-would l-like to go with you.” You call out for Slinks three more times. The old man looks confused and perhaps slightly amused at the same time.
“I can’t say no to people in need, I really can’t. Not in my bloodstream, no ma’am.” He walks over to the other side of the DeSoto and opens the door for you. You call out for Slinks one more time, finally giving up and climb in, brushing up against the cracked leather seat. The car stinks of cigarettes. “S-Sorry for ho-w- how I mu-must appear,” you whisper.
The old man climbs in and heads back the way he came, looking forward through the cracked windshield. “No need for the apologies. The Sargasso Breaks is a hard place to be in, especially if you don’t know it. I just had this urge to take a Sunday drive out here. I believe I had good fortune in finding you. There was a reason I went out my door today. Poor thing.”
Sitting next to him, watching him light up a cigarette with a Zippo lighter, he looks very, very familiar to you, but you can’t place him. “Do I know you?”
“Hmmm? Maybe. I made many motion pictures, until fairly recently, hmmm? I started at the top of Hollywood and worked my way down. Not too many people do that, hmmm? Go from leading man to just familiar face. But I did.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “Thank God I did.”
His angular, gaunt face, the way he talks, that deep voice. You’ve seen The Godfather, and he looks like the police captain but that can’t be right.
“John Hamilton,” he says. He puts out one large and liver-spotted hand and does an awkward half shake, his left hand still on the wheel with a burning cigarette stuck between two fingers. “Just a wanderer.”
You and he drive down the road for a bit, the yellow Xs lighting up as the car speeds down the highway. The evening is upon you and the clouds are now spread across the sky like ripped stretches of blackish cotton balls. It has started to rain again, a little drizzle coming down. A rainbow stretches over the eastern sky, away from The Oberon’s sun, and you feel that maybe now you can rest, regroup. Hopefully.
John Hamilton says nothing along the way and neither do you. The wind passing through your partially-opened window is the only soundtrack. You can see now that you are again following the river.
After a half hour, a small collection of warehouses appears on the riverbank, surrounded by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. The warehouses are made of sheet metal and have a parking lot full of white pickup trucks with the Solomon’s House University logo on their doors. A miniature trailer park with six different trailers is off to one side of the compound.
A bright red steel ship is anchored next to a pier at the distant end, looking like something that should be in a history book. There is what looks like a lighthouse built right into the middle of the ship.
Hamilton finally speaks. “McRoss Research Station. I’m the caretaker of the facility. The off-time overseer, if you will, for Solomon’s House University. It’s empty now, just me and the dog. Off season, you see. Will be on-season in a week, then I’ll go.”
Hamilton pulls the DeSoto up to the gate, gets out of the car slowly, and draws a key from his pocket to open the heavy duty lock. He pops it off, gets back into the car without closing the door, and pulls inside a few paces before jumping out again and locking the gate behind him.
He pulls the DeSoto up to where the pickup trucks are stationed, next to a dented yellow Karmann Ghia. Hamilton steps out of the car, and then opens up your door.
“My apartment, if such an abode deserves such a, uh, grandiose title, is the upstairs of this warehouse.” With a nod, he indicates the warehouse next to you. A simple charcoal grill stands outside, as if a silent and useless guard. The lid hangs off one of its handles. “If you would like to come in. Hmmm? There’s a shower and an extra guest bedroom if you are so inclined.” As he opens one of the warehouse’s side doors, a beat-up metal box, the size of a dinner table, with four peg legs and what seem to be cracked headlights for eyes, walks up from out of nowhere. It speaks with an electronic screech—a distorted mixture of different tones, sounding like a fax machine croaking out the tones from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
You scream and the thing leaps backwards, almost cowering to the ground. The old man turns and with one improbably quick motion, produces a revolver from his jacket. “Hmmm? Oh! Maxie, you back off now, you hear? Disturbing our guests like that. Go on!”
The box shuffles away and then skips off on all fours.
“What the hell?”
“Brain in a box, dear. The boys examined it before…it’s a dog’s brain in a robotic body. Absolute abomination, hmmm? Friendly though. Maxie—and I doubt that was his name— is a ten thousand-year-old cyborg, if we have to use such a term of fiction. There are more like him.”
You turn to look at Hamilton but say nothing, and walk inside what seems to be an office hallway. Hamilton turns on the lights and fluorescents illuminate the linoleum path. “Nothing much to see here, until the three researchers arrive back from the university at Solomon’s Bay. Nice group. They have regular day jobs with the Network. Some are at Mission Friendship.”
Little offices filled with cabinets and desks hold dust-covered paperwork and once-used coffee mugs. Slim, gray Apple computers with dull, black monitors sit idle, encaged in strange metal boxes.
“Why are these caged?” you ask. There is a staleness in the air, a sort of dusty smell.
“Faraday cages. Otherwise these computers, hmmm? They’d just blow from the
EMP we get randomly. Can’t use too many electronics in The Oberon.”
Passing through another door at the end of the hallway, you see a huge space filled with thick metal shelves; only a few boxes are stacked on them. You and he walk on the dirty concrete to where a little section has been built up. Around the side of this storage area, you walk up a set of creaking wooden stairs and into John Hamilton’s apartment space.
Ceiling fans twirl lazily from the vaulted ceiling. Lights are turned on. If the DeSoto stunk of cigarettes, this place positively reeks of it.
There is an open cabinet with a single submachine gun in the bedroom; an open box of shells next to it, the little brass cartridges gleaming. There are a couple of ori-batons, one with a blue band painted around the hilt, another with an orange band. One has a blue and white rock in it, which vaguely reminds you of the Leo zodiac sign, a snake, while the other has a blue and orange rock whose two wavy watery lines seem to form the Aquarius symbol.
“Mi casa es su casa. It isn’t much, but it allows the writer a place of reflection, a place to discuss anything with nobody.”
Besides being covered in pictures of sailing ships and the sea, there is a large map of The Oberon.
“I n-need, I nee-d, goddammit, I can’t speak.” You pull at your hair for a second. “I need to get to Mission Friendship.”
John Hamilton nods slowly. “You’ve got scratches around your neck and hands, look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days, and were wandering around a wilderness as dangerous as the Serengeti. After a day’s rest, hmm? We’ll talk more.”
* * *
You clean up and shower, and after an hour of waiting, throw on your clothes again, cleaned by the washer and dryer in the apartment. Walking through the corridor you went through earlier, you find Hamilton outside, smoking a pipe and enjoying the night air. He sits on a pool lounge chair, along with a boxy ghetto blaster. He offers to get you something to eat, but you refuse, not hungry in the slightest. You are confused as to why he is doing what he is doing, helping a complete stranger.
Moving the lounge chair forward with a scraping of asphalt, Hamilton puts the boxy radio on his lap with a groan, turns it on, and fiddles with the dials. He gestures for you to take a seat on an office chair.
He sits there listening. A female voice speaks, barely heard
over the static. “For the benefit of Mr. Kite, there will be a show tonight.”
There is a funky popping noise, then a sort of warbling of static comes in and out of the transmission. A message is read out over the frequency. “Wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts, these same thoughts people this little world...” It’s Hamilton’s voice.
The same message is repeated for at least the next minute before going into the regular “Old Man at Midnight” radio show.
“Checking on my day job, Miss Sarah. Always have to check. I produce it from an ancient transmitter sixteen miles away from here. You don’t work for the Network, do you?”
As you stand there in a full Network uniform, you have to confirm that you do indeed work for the Network.
“A serious agent, hmmm? Sort that would report an old man for an unlawful broadcast?” You shake your head. “No, no, not in the slightest.”
You hadn’t noticed when you first came in, but there are street lights, four of them, near the yellow X highway, two on each side of the road. Just now they click on with an audible hum, giving off an orange light on the other side of the chain link fence you passed through. Beyond them lie the darkening canyons of the Sargasso Breaks. When the lights come on, part of your brain clicks on as well.
“Mr. Hamilton, I worked with Guy Farson. I think I have something to sell you.” You swallow compulsively.
Hamilton turns with a smile. “Well, it’s not my usual operating hours or my usual place of business, Miss Sarah, but I think I may be able to oblige. Have to make a living somehow here in this epic wilderness we are all caught in.”
You retreat to the inside of the warehouse and bring back the gym bag you lugged miles across the Sargasso Breaks. You wonder how he knew your name but figure you must have introduced yourself.
“Did you liquidate the others?” Hamilton inquires casually.
“No, God no.”
He looks you over and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have the guts to do that either, no matter how much money was involved. Were they all killed?”
The mechanical dog comes over slowly, interested in what is happening.
“No, I don’t know about one. But the other two...” You re-tell what had happened to you in a flat, monotone voice.
He listens in silence, only agreeing and repeating parts to show that indeed he is listening and that he does care about this story.
You sit back on that office chair, sighing when you mention how you ended up here.
“I’m glad that little device came in handy, Miss, to shut off the security. Myself and Guy talked about that just a few days ago. My God.” Hamilton scratches his chin. “That was an ejection field that hit you in the end. Non-lethal security but the physics and the reality bending behind it are above and beyond our rudimentary knowledge.”
You open the gym bag, showing off the little goodies you’ve brought with you.
“I would have liked to have talked to Guy one more time. That goofy boy could always make me laugh.” Hamilton looks over the items, counting under his breath, and stands up to look further into the bag.
“Such a shame. You said you heard an Englishman’s voice giving orders? Is that what you said, Miss?” Hamilton stands there with both hands on his cane, licking his lips.
“Yes.”
“Bad news, that. That was most likely Charles Mathias of the Mathias and Petty Gang.”
A memory flickers in your head. A wanted sign is pasted onto one of the pillars of the bridge. It says: WANTED—CHARLES MATHIAS, LEADER OF MATHIAS-PETTY GANG. A hand-drawn and faded picture of a man with curly red hair has been Xeroxed onto the poster. Convicted Murderer. 25 Million Dii-Yaa Reward, Alive or Dead, from Ephors of Kadath and the Bureau of Off-World Affairs. A dragon-like symbol is stamped at the bottom of the poster.
“They’re toe-cutters—cruel criminals. A mixed race gang. They attack salvagers mostly and human farms and stations.” Hamilton glances at the chain link fence protecting McRoss Research Station.
Nothing is said for a good long time.
“I’m sorry about your friends. Well, I’ll take everything in the bag here. I’m sorry, I’ll have to pay you in Dii-Yaa.”
You don’t even really care about the money anymore. “Sure,” you garble out.
Hamilton walks over to his DeSoto and pops open the trunk. He returns with stacks of red Oberon money.
“One million four hundred thousand Dii-Yaa.” He hands you the stacks of cash. “You find this to be of a satisfactory nature, Miss?”
You feel all the cash in your hands and lick your lips. With fourteen Dii-Yaa to the dollar, it’s one hundred thousand dollars you have in your hands.
“I’m the easiest crime boss you ever worked with.” Hamilton smiles. He puffs on his pipe and returns to his lounge chair. “Smuggling is an interesting business.” He sings a little. “And so very profitable...”
* * *
You can’t sleep in the guest bedroom, you can only lie under stale sheets, stare up at the ceiling panels, and count the dots in the panels by the pale glow of the little Jiminy Cricket night light. Four white walls are your safeguard from the outside, thank God.
It feels so good to be in a real bed instead of sleeping in the open of the Breaks, though you miss Slinks terribly and worry about him. This is despite persistently ignoring the question of how Slinks even got to The Oberon in the first place or how you found your supposedly dead sister in that cave. There is real warmth under these covers, and even though every muscle cries out to relax, your brain keeps thinking, thinking, as you stare up into the nothing of those panels. Thirty-six dots you count on four panels, thirty-seven, thirty- eight now.
Something is crying outside the warehouse. You turn onto your side under the covers, your head still against the pillow, and listen. The old Mickey Mouse wind-up alarm clock reads 3:33 am. Your watch is broken, the Casio shorted out by the water.
“Help! Please!” the voice says, far away. Maxie, the brain in the box “dog” thing, cries out in horrible electronic tones, like a dial up connection with a constant slamming beep.
Your heart picks up its pace and your hands start to sweat. “J-John, John, do you hear that?” you call out to Mr. Hamilton.
From the other bedroom you hear John speak up after a rasping cough. “Yeah, I heard it.” You hear him get off his bed with a squeak of bedsprings, and his clomping across the room.
“Pleaaaaaaase!” the voice calls out, much louder now, its sound almost reverberating off the metal warehouse walls. The sound of the dog-thing Maxie is now thumping through your bedroom walls. You slip on the flight suit, zip up, and put on your shoes.
As you walk out of the bedroom you see Hamilton in a blue and mangy-looking bathrobe and rabbit slippers. He has an ori-baton in his pocket, the one with the blue band, and is taking out a small stainless steel submachine gun from his dresser. There is a pipe in his mouth as if he is Sherlock Holmes on the case. His hands you a little snub-nosed .38, already loaded.
“Let’s take a gander.” He takes the pipe out of his mouth and sets it down. He leads the way, moving in a manner that belies his years. You notice he doesn’t have his cane.
Hamilton opens the door that leads to the parking lot. A blast of cool air meets the two of you as you step outside. The four orange sodium street lights over that particular section of the yellow X highway lights up the figure of a young woman who has both hands against the chain link fence. She cries out again in a voice that is so familiar to you. It is familiar because it is your voice.
It is a copy of you, an exact copy, wearing your flight suit. On the other side of the fence, is you, ragged-looking, gaunt, with holes in your clothes and cuts across your face and body. This other you grips the chain link fence, shaking it at the same time with a metallic scraping rattle.
“Please help! I’m so hungry. I’ve been walking for days! Please, God, help me.” The voice is exact, no imitation, the exact same voice.
Hamilton stop
s in his tracks just a few yards away from the fence, though he still keeps the gun on the other you. Maxie bounces back and forth with an electronic sort of burble. His thin, metallic peg legs scrape and pound onto the pavement as he runs back and forth, intrigued by what is on the other side.
“What is this?” Hamilton whispers. The other you seems to finally notice you are hiding behind him.
“Who the hell is this? What is this? What is this?” the other you cries, shaking the fence, tears running down dirt-stained cheeks. “I need help! Please open up!”
Hamilton looks at you and swallows. “You don’t have a twin sister, do you?” he whispers. You shake your head. Turning back to the other you, in a firm and loud voice, he says, “I don’t know what this is about. Step away from the fence, slowly, and I will let you in at the gate entrance.” He motions with his gun to the gate you passed through earlier, now locked.
The other you still tightly grips the fence, staring at you with increasingly glassy-looking eyes. There is a long pause.
“Who is that thing next to you? What is that thing? What is that thing? Tell me! Tell me now!” The other you backs away from the fence as if struck.
“This is Maxie. It’s a machine,” Hamilton says.
“Not that, it! It!” The other you points at you with one bloodied finger.
Your mouth moves, but no words come out at first. “I don’t know who this is, Mr. Hamilton.”
“What is this?” the other you hisses before launching herself onto the fence.
You know you will always be haunted by what happens next—the image of yourself climbing up the fence, scurrying like a spider to reach the top, and the inhuman wail that pours out of her lungs as she does so, a scream so loud and angry and terrified all at once. That scream will always make an appearance in your nightmares.
Hamilton uses the power of the ori-baton to push her off the fence. She lands on her back with a thud.
“Whoever you are, you need to please get a hold of yourself. I will not let you in without you…” Hamilton’s voice shakes.
The other you takes less than a moment to get back onto her feet. Without another word she calmly and slowly walks forward and climbs the fence again, her face now expressionless.
