by Chris Ramos
Working his way up to the desk, he closed his hands around a peculiar rectangular object. Thinking it was an outdated digiscreen, Cole brought it out and into the light of the living room.
Mary reached under the sink and slid a false back aside, revealing another few inches of cupboard space behind the piping. She reached into the darkness and pulled forth a bundle, wrapped in an old t-shirt. Slowly, with it held close to her bosom, she settled back onto her knees and began to unwrap this mystery bundle.
Cole was looking down at a book. He didn’t even know anyone had books anymore. His mother often told him of a time before digiscreens. The museums had a few books in their collections on display as old relics from a more laborious past, when people used to write things by hand. Yet, here it was, a book. The Queen of Hamel. The weight of it settled into his lap as he sank down into the couch. He opened the front cover and saw a handwritten script note on the first page, written at an angle.
Dearest Mary, Hopefully this will reveal the answers to you during this new movement in your life. You will know when it is time. Lovingly yours, Alexander.
Cole’s brow furrowed in thought. Who was Alexander? More importantly, why would he give his mother a book?
Mary opened her eyes, now bloodshot, her vision blurred with tears waiting to be released. She looked down at the opened box, containing a jagged shard of plasteel, sharpened along one edge, with the handle wrapped in linen and bound with rope.
Cole cautiously looked up the staircase, and then began flipping through the book. It was filled with large color illustrations and a few poetic verses under each image. The story looked to be centered around a serving woman who fell in love with the King of Hamel. Cole began to read the pages.
She knew they were destined to be together forever, and the king felt the same bond. He dismissed his other mistresses and told the serving girl he would break tradition and spend his life with someone his heart chose, not the nobles. They married, bringing prosperity to the kingdom. The common folk loved them because the queen was one of them.
Mary sat on the bathtub edge, now thinking about Jon. He had worked so hard to make her happy. He could have been with any woman but he chose her. “Love at first sight,” he always told her. He would do anything for her, no matter what the odds or consequences. Everyone thought he was lacking his own willpower, because he usually let Mary make all the decisions, but Mary knew he just wanted to make her happy. She felt like she was the only one who truly understood him.
Unfortunately, the neighboring provinces were ruled by very jealous men who craved power over everything else. They believed themselves far above the normal populace, and berated the king and queen of Hamel for their relaxed grip. In secret, the four kings of the adjacent lands met and staged an uprising, determined to destroy the land of Hamel and distribute the bounty between themselves.
Mary’s eyes began to swell with the thought of LifeSpan controlling everything she held dear. Was this the price to pay for living a secure life? Did we all trade our free will for a pocket watch and punctual deaths? LifeSpan did more than manage a utopia; they manipulated the opinions of the population, slowly imposing their hold. Why would nobody listen to her? LifeSpan has taken us hostage and we don’t even realize it.
The new queen jolted awake to a clap of thunder. The rain was ferociously falling outside and beginning to blow in through the open windows around the room. She found her king was gone, possibly out for a walk before he tackled the many daily duties of a ruler. The queen hoped he wasn’t too far away; he’d be soaked and likely to catch a chill. She rolled back the covers, rising from bed, and ran to the window to scout for her husband. She saw the mountainside pouring with men, some on horseback, screaming and killing anyone in their paths, and they were headed to her castle . . .
Mary stood and began to unfasten her pants, kicking off her slippers. She solemnly unbuttoned her shirt, slipped her arms out, folded the blouse and placed it on top of the pants. Finally collecting her slippers and setting them on top of the clothes pile, she looked into the mirror.
She saw her king defending himself in the courtyard. He was furiously swinging his brilliant sword, fending off three men in white robes. He rolled under and dived to the side of their thrusts. He took a moment to glance up at the queen on her balcony, and in that brief second, their eyes met as he was fatally stabbed through the heart by one of the invaders. He reached for the queen, and fell. She screamed. The men looked up at her and their eyes widened with bloodlust. They charged for the stairs at the base of the tower, the last man pausing to wipe his bloodied blade on the fallen king’s robe. The stairwell was filled with the sound of their clanking armor and their howls.
Mary paused for a moment at her reflection. The woman staring back at her was hardly recognizable as the hopeful Mary of old. Her skin and features were as vibrant as ever, a product of the efficient nanos coursing through her body, keeping an outer shell of falsehood for all to see. However, the eyes did not lie. Her eyes were sad, defeated. They lacked all glimmer, her mouth hung in a continual frown, and her shoulders slumped. Mary turned in the mirror, observing her naked body, trying to connect her psyche with this sham. She was beautiful, but it was false, only skin deep. Unable to bear her counterfeit image any longer, Mary reached for her robe hanging on the wall hook, tying the purple sash tightly around her waist. She sat back on the tub edge, staring down at the plasteel shard in her lap.
The queen ran into her quarter, diving across the bed, and reached under the king’s pillow, grasping at his hidden safeguard. She spun just as her door was reduced to splinters, the frame falling inward. The three white-robed men stepped over the debris, lewd expressions painted on their ugly faces. Upon seeing the queen conveniently kneeling in bed, they smiled in unison.
Mary turned to the tub, held her arm over the interior, and rolled up her sleeve.
As the men cried out and rushed the queen, she raised her husband’s jeweled dagger and struck it across her wrist.
Mary took a deep breath, raised the weapon and quickly slashed her left wrist, spraying the wall and tub bright crimson. She had never seen her blood before, and was quite surprised.
The queen fell forward, dead before the first scoundrel reached her.
CYAN CLOUD
The lone watering hole for miles in any direction was especially busy today. Zebras, alligators, gazelles, waterbucks and a vast selection of smaller scuttling birds were united for a brief moment to bask in the refreshing waters so rare on the barren continent.
High above, a low humming filled the air, incredibly faint but nevertheless detectable to sensitive animal ears. They raised their heads from the water’s edge, on alert, and slowly dug in their feet for a hasty retreat. As the humming increased intensity, they peered from side to side, realizing the noise was coming closer to them instead of retreating. The animals decided the risk was too great to linger in face of this unknown threat. Starting with the nervous gazelle, the animals scattered, each of the species forming into their own protective herd, trying to distance themselves.
If they had looked skyward, they would have noticed a pale blue cloud. This was a familiar sight to the world population. For the cyan cloud was the trademark sign of the enormous LifeSpan carrier. Floating high above the land and encircling the Earth in a seemingly constant journey, the carrier was a symbol of the power from LifeSpan.
The carrier was beyond the scope of any flying machine in existence. Much more than a public transport, many likened it to a floating city in the clouds. The carrier spanned such a large amount of sky, the very engines that kept it afloat were enormous cold fusion devices, burning a silvery blue as the condensed matter threw off massive amounts of atmospheric steam, thus trapping the turbulence under the carrier. From the ground, it was a slow-moving cloud, independent from any other formation, fading and appearing with each alteration in the sky’s color.
It was from this carrier that Nimbus stared down at the animals running
across the plains. He was sitting cross-legged, arms gracefully resting on his thighs. He spent a great deal of time on his carrier lately; meditation among the clouds stilled his mind. More importantly, it stilled the other mind absorbed into his subconscious.
Nimbus looked down and replayed the last ten years since he and his Doctors had drained that man’s entire rambling nonsense of a life into his head. He had lain in a coma for over two weeks. Every hour, he was swimming in the subconscious mess the merge left in him. He was reliving that fool Jon’s pathetic life. Lately, it had become harder to suppress the thoughts overlapping Nimbus’s own memories.
The Absorption did not solve the plateau that stalled his improvement, and as much as the Doctors had tried, they could not extract Jon’s thoughts without damaging Nimbus. Just as they tried to explain to Nimbus, the dual subconscious was even farther beyond their reach. It was locked away, far from access unless they drained his entire mind, which, of course, was not plausible.
Therefore, he had lived a decade while slowly losing control of his formerly focused mind. Now this Jon was always on the edge of his thoughts, interjecting some rambling nonsense about the beauty of the changing seasons or wondering about any number of possible outcomes with any project imaginable. A daydreamer indeed.
Meanwhile, the search for Alexander had been inconclusive. Despite the immense resources available to the LifeSpan company, it seemed global influence had been for naught.
In his mind, Nimbus replayed Jon’s memories again and again. Watching the Jenkins family had amounted to nothing. Following the fool woman Mary revealed a life of boredom, and Nimbus could not stand more than a few hours of updates on nothing. From Jon’s point of view, Mary was always involved with their boy, and ran a seemingly perfect home. Then how did Jon mastermind anything without Mary suspecting?
Nimbus knew Jon was connected somehow. He had to be the catalyst. Hidden from everyone, even his wife Mary. Jon must have led quite the double life.
“Sire. It is Dr. Powell,” an emergency transmission interrupted.
“Continue.” Nimbus granted permission to finish the report, only half listening to the insufferable Doctor.
“There has been a . . . disconnect,” Powell paused. “On Moling Way. The Jenkins residence, sire.”
Now they had his full attention.
I had to do this. Yes, this is the only way. Mary shook her head repeatedly from side to side, her knuckles white, still holding the shard of plasteel. The men in white robes will not take me away, not like everyone else.
She continued to hold her arm over the tub to drain out her life, thinking it should be hurting more than it actually was. Mary slowly looked down at her hand, and turned her wrist to glance at the wound.
Incredibly, there wasn’t a mark on her skin. She had the blood running into small pools of her cupped hand, but it was the original strike’s aftermath. The bottom of the tub had only a few small drops.
Frantic, Mary took the shard up in her hand and again slashed her wrist . . . only to immediately watch the cut open wide, run off some blood and begin to close again. She could not hurt herself! Every time she tried to cut her arm, it repaired instantly. Her mind raced, and she stood up quickly. Desperate, she realized there was not much time, and they would be coming.
“What have I done? Oh, Cole, I am so sorry.” Mary dropped the makeshift knife, gathered up her clothes, hastily throwing on her pants and shirt and dashed for the door.
Throwing wide the bedroom door, she fell into the hallway and looked to the front foyer.
They’re not here yet, but there’s not much time. I must get to Cole, Mary told herself as she stumbled down the stairs. Cole jumped up from the sofa, book held behind his back. Upon seeing his mother’s state, he dropped the book and rushed over to her. She was breathing heavily and mumbling about going into hiding.
“They were right. I should have taken you to them . . . into hiding. We could have made it. Away from this madness. Now what have I doomed us to become? Who can live anymore? Is there no release from our suffering? Never in control—”
“What happened? Why are your arms stained?” Cole stepped back, eyes widening as he took in this desperate figure of his mother, red stains covering the arms of her shirt and smeared across her pants. Cole could not conclude this was blood. Who would have so much blood on themselves? How could that be?
“Cole, listen to me. We have to leave. They are coming. I tried to free myself . . . We haven’t . . . Oh, Cole, I have failed you. I’ve failed us all—”
Mary was interrupted by an electric chime, announcing guests at the front door. Cole jumped to his feet and started for the foyer.
“Don’t answer that!” Mary shrieked. It was a desperate call from someone who suddenly realized that all of her options had disappeared. Mary looked around, wide eyed, trying to focus on the room, seeking exits, strategies, possibilities of escape. As each option played out in her mind, it was just as suddenly dismissed as an impossibility.
Cole took her head in both his hands and roughly pulled her face within inches of his own, forcing her to focus on him.
“What is going on? What happened to you?” Cole spaced the words clearly, with emphasis on the last question.
She heard nothing but the alarm in her mind. I’m found. It’s over. I have to find Cole; I have to give it to him. He has a right. He’s not ready. It’s his to have . . . Mary ran off to the kitchen, screaming, “I know it’s not my time to expire! They shouldn’t be here. We are leaving, we are getting away. Don’t you see this is wrong?”
The door chimed again. Cole shook his head and turned, bounding for the door, trying to stop the chaos, trying to sort out what exactly his role should be. The door was the obvious choice. Whoever has been waiting must be here to help, or invited by his mother at the very least.
“Do not open the door!” Mary’s voice was drowned by the deafening sound of smashing glass, as if the entire kitchen was coming down around her. “I have something to retrieve, just need some more time. More time . . . That’s the spot. Time.”
Cole placed his hand on the scan plate. The door swished open. Cole was facing three Collectors. He had opened his home to them, without an expiration scheduled. This was highly irregular. So were their expressions. Cole could see a hint of . . . irritation?
The Collector closest to Cole put his hand on his shoulder. “Hello. We are here for subject Mary Jenkins. Tell me now: where is she?” His teeth were too large for his mouth to contain their bulk. Stretching the lips into a skeletal grin, this Collector was intimidating.
However, Cole wasn’t frightened in the least, just more confused. He trusted the Collectors, but why would Collectors be looking for his mom?
“I think you are mistaken. We still have time. We are—”
“We have urgent questions for the subject. I only ask this final time. Where is Mary Jenkins?” The Collector removed his hand from Cole’s shoulder and stared at him.
“She’s breaking the kitchen.” Cole lowered his head and pointed behind him. The two Collectors broke their stance on the porch and stepped into the house, brushing past Cole and headed towards the ruckus.
Cole thought back to his schooling. The daily admirations of LifeSpan, the ever vigilant, the everlasting. Here was a Collector, out of place, still staring at him. Staring through him, coaxing his secrets. Coaxing his mother’s secrets.
“I have to show you something. Something of my mother’s. Something secret,” Cole confided, and led the Collector to her spot under the stairs.
Shortly after, Mary was roughly dragged out by the other two Collectors, kicking her legs to no effect on the Collectors. She was screaming to see Cole one last time, to hug him.
Unable to ignore her pleas, Cole rushed to her side.
“They are going to help you. I’ll take care of myself now,” Cole tried to calm her.
When Cole came in close for a hug, Mary quickly whispered in his ear, “Wind the clock, from the
inside.” Mary desperately exhaled in a frantic breath. “Do you understand? Wind your grandmother’s clock from the inside.”
With that, she was pulled away again. Cole stood and stared.
“What is your name, boy?” the last Collector to leave his house asked him.
“Cole, and I’m not a boy. I’m nineteen, and I work at LifeSpan.” He looked around to see his mother loaded into a long white van, just like the one his father expired in.
“Is that right? Well, you should be given a promotion,” the Collector congratulated Cole. “Your assistance was very helpful in apprehending this subject.”
“She’s not just a subject. That was my mother.” Cole knew he shouldn’t contradict a Collector.
“She was a liability. Goodbye, boy.”
After a short time standing on the lawn, Cole watched the van drive away. Another vehicle pulled up, this one bearing the LifeSpan logo on its side. A shapely woman stepped out and handed Cole a digiscreen notification.
His mother’s sister had chosen to have Cole relocated to her house.
“I can take you there right now if you would like to leave all this behind,” the LifeSpan worker offered. “Is there anything you need inside the house?”
Wind the clock, from the inside, Cole mulled.
“Yeah. Just one thing. Then this place can implode, for all I care,” he said.
Cole returned to the house, passing the hidden room under the stairs. He could see the Collectors had already torn it apart. His mother’s belongings were thrown out and around the room. He ran on to the clock. His mother would never let him touch this old clock in the past. Why would it be so important now?
