Nica of Los Angeles

by Sue Perry

  We went out to the truck and we didn't have to discuss where we were going. We were in Watts by midnight. Miles looked worse than he had in the news, missing more of his topmost struts and girders. Bottle pieces had fallen and shattered, leaving bald spots in the cement near his base. But we saw nothing fall while we watched, so maybe the damage rate had slowed.

  There was still activity outside the Towers enclosure, as emergency repair folks delivered, then secured, equipment to be used come morning. A security guard watched us as we circled the fence. On our third circuit, he began to follow us.

  There was nothing we could do, anyway, except go home.

  Call it intuition, call it a hangover, I woke up with a bad feeling about Miles, our petition, life as we know it. The internet had no updates about conditions at the Watts Towers. I had missed the morning news, so there was no point going to the coffeehouse that had television.

  Hernandez was at my door soon after I came to. He had his custodian cart with him. "Is something else wrong?" I greeted him. "You've never been here so early before."

  "I'm working extra hours to make up for some of my time off lately. On my drive here, the radio repeated last night's stories. Any new news on Miles?"

  I shook my head.

  "Take 'em out today, Nica. The Cysts need to go away and you're the one to send them."

  "Thanks," I said for his effort to lighten my mood. "Next time take the bottle away after my second glass."

  He pulled me in for a hug, sheer comfort and brotherly love, precisely what I needed.

  "Text me as soon as you're done," he replied, and trundled his cart down the hall.

  My head had a malfunctioning drum machine in it today. I sat down gently and nursed my coffee like I had no refill. Which was the case.

  When Anya and Anwyl arrived, they swept inside with all their usual conviction. I greeted them with one word. "Miles."

  "His location is not known," Anwyl said.

  "What about his condition?"

  "Nor that."

  "You don't sound at all concerned! I guess you haven't seen him! I have!"

  "We must set aside our love and concern and give our energy to the task at hand," Anya said gently.

  "Miles has his fate, as do we all," Anwyl added. It was hard to hear catechism from someone who preferred to burn down churches.

  "Could he be dead?"

  "Yes. As he may live." That was as close to optimism as I was going to get today. I took it.

  35. He Shouldn't Look Smug

  I was born to Travel the Frames. I became convinced of this when I learned that the Connector to the Framekeep Council meeting led through another of my favorite locations.

  The Griffith Observatory is a Deco masterpiece perched on a hill in the midst of a wilderness park. When I stand where the rebel without a cause had his knife fight, I can see the Hollywood sign over one shoulder and over the other, the highrises that surround the Henrietta. These are two ends of a vista that spans from ocean south to ocean west to mountains north to mountains east, with millions of people in the flatlands between. I often come here to watch that teeming vista and feel connected to those millions.

  I experienced none of this today - keeping pace with Anya and Anwyl's all-terrain strides had me moving too fast to notice anything. They led me up the exterior stairs that flanked the Observatory and took us around back.

  An arched walkway traverses the back side of the Observatory and over the years I've studied its view from all available angles. Today, I learned the walkway is also a Connector and leads to one of thirteen Framekeep Council chambers. There are thirteen Framekeeps and they take turns hosting the Council.

  We walked through the Connector and in the Frame on the other end, the Observatory looked about the same. Anya led us around front to the lawn and there stood Monk, tall and stiff yet droopy. Around Monk, the air throbbed with sorrow. I wanted to stop for word of Miles, but Anya was in a hurry and expected me to keep pace. Beyond Monk was a wheeled platform, shaded by potted trees that lined the edges. The trees arched to create a bower; from the branches hung a woven chair and in the chair lounged Zasu, slumped yet restless. She had been there a long time. The platform so resembled a Rose Parade Float that I expected her to greet us with a swivel-wrist parade wave.

  Surrounding the float was no marching band, however. Instead, there were muscular bipods that had to be guards. Some were humanoid, most were not. Each wore a knee-length saffron tunic and boots that looked made out of tar. The emblems on their chests depicted a colorful faceted geometry like an exploded, wire mesh Rubik's Cube. Above the guards and surrounding them hovered books with saffron covers and glistening black pages. Perched on the spine of each book was a squat fleshy creature in saffron swaddling clothes. The creatures' bodies and attire suggested babies or cupids, but their watchfulness implied SWAT team. Their heads swiveled so their eyes could observe every inch of air and land.

  Zasu jumped up with a teenage shriek, "Nica!"

  I stepped toward her but slammed my face against an icy invisible barrier. A cold voice filled my head and made my teeth ache. "Do not approach the witness." I stepped back, blew Zasu a kiss, and jogged to catch up with my leaders.

  As Anya headed into the building, I lagged behind again to gawk. It was shaped like my Observatory, but taller, and carved from a single block of brilliant white marble that gave an evanescent glow and glittered with veins of red garnets. Each door was a hundred feet high, a single slab of translucent marble which moved without hinges or hardware. The doors slid up and out, over my head, as I approached.

  Inside was a space not at all like my Observatory's. There were neither exhibits nor planetarium. Instead, there was an enormous echoing chamber. Lining the sides were small open rooms where workers scurried about unknown tasks.

  On a dais was a table made from a lattice of woven glass. It defined an arc and held thirteen chairs, tall, wide, and plush, upholstered in saffron cloth. Engraved in the marble walls were phrases in numerous languages, none of which I recognized. Above these flickered holographic screens with unfamiliar scenes.

  Power. Authority. Knowledge. Wisdom. I get the messages, Framekeeps.

  The ceiling was remote, which was a shame, because I wanted to study its revolving version of the 4D Connector map I had seen near the killing field.

  One of the screens dissolved to the summit of Shastina, where Dizzy sunned herself on a rock. How did the cat get back there so quickly? That explained why I hadn't seen her around the Henrietta! And to think that I had been concerned about stranding her when Anwyl wanted to ditch her at that rest stop.

  Facing the woven glass table were two sections of low, less plush chairs, arrayed in curved rows to flank a central aisle. Anya led us to chairs in the front row of the left section. Although the chairs were otherwise empty, guards lined the center aisle as Zasu's platform rolled in. She stepped down from the platform into a roomy but enclosed cubicle with three walls and ceiling made of the latticed glass. As soon as she entered, the edges of the open side glowed an icy blue. Protected or imprisoned; maybe both. She was smaller than she had been outside and I suspected that shrinking herself was a stress reaction.

  Another platform rolled in, delivering to a second glass cubicle the librarian hawk who had recruited books for the Gumby genocide at the behest of the Cysts. He made our case so much stronger; I was thrilled to see him.

  The lights shifted, darkening the perimeter of the room and accenting a smaller table parallel to the big one. The small table had three chairs, with glass and metal equipment at each. Three officials shuffled into these seats and did stuff with the equipment.

  The lights shifted to the aisle between the spectator seats. I looked around and discovered that the room had filled up. Monk stood at the wall behind Anya. Beside him was Ruby. Behind me were mostly beings that appeared human, interspersed with creatures I had never before imagined. I wanted to sit in back so I could ogle them.

  Across the aisl
e, the seats remained empty except for the front row, where sat the three Cysts. No Entourage today, huh? One Cyst was dressed like a dude ranch cowboy, complete with ten-gallon hat; one wore tennis whites; one sported a spandex bodysuit. They looked stupid and absurd, which gave me a chill. Had I never met them, I might think them incapable of criminally masterminding anything. Surely the Framekeeps could see through such a transparent ruse.

  The lights shifted to accent the woven glass table and its thirteen chairs. The three officials rose and in unison shouted something that I didn't understand; immediately in my head I heard translation in a golf tournament whisper, "All rise for the Keepers of the Frames."

  It was like seeing the Supreme Court on acid. Note that I haven't specified which side took the acid.

  There were thirteen of them, six of those humanoid. One of the humanoids was a female version of the Cobra; she had long red hair that waved continuously, hypnotically, and against gravity, like kelp in surf. Another of the non-humanoids looked like the small winged creatures on the flanks of Shastina. One was a dolphin, suspended in a wheeled water tank pushed by two attending gorillas. One was rotund and hairless and covered with rubbery skin protuberances, stubby cylindrical pyramids like miniature versions of Lara Croft's boobs. One was multi-legged and sleekly furred, a cross between a panther and a garden spider. One resembled a ten-foot-high construction crane and sporadically emitted yellow smoke. One appeared to be a cactus, abloom with fragrant orange flowers. The last, I couldn't make out: it flickered and wavered and periodically erupted into form and color which then receded to gray flickering - like a 3D TV with a bad connection.

  Ten of them wore magenta robes, and the three in the center wore cobalt, pearl gray, cobalt. The flowering cactus wore the pearl gray robe, which had special flaps and suspension to prevent its thorns from impaling the fabric. Each Framekeep had an electronic tablet and the cactus read from his in a language full of pops and hisses, akin to butter in a hot skillet. Inside my head, the whispered translation was instantaneous.

  "Friends and adversaries, be seated. The Framekeeps convene out of cycle as urgency requires. We hold this special meeting at the request of two claimants and Travelers, Anwyl, son of Rayn, a framewalker, and Anya, daughter of Niav of the first lands, an exalted seer of the true Frames. Our purpose here today is to listen to all sides, identify truth, and rule accordingly. We will hear first from the claimants and then from the accused, Warty Sebaceous Cysts, children of Skim Milk born in the free Frame Consternation, as yet unsettled after release from Southernmost prison. Anya, begin."

  "Keepers of the Frames, I thank you for permission to make this petition and for your commitment and dedication, which so often come at grave cost to your lives, families, and health. All the free Frames look to you to regulate safety and justice in matters which extend through more than one Frame, or may affect more than one Frame. This we all learn as schoolchildren, then remember too seldom, thenceforth.

  "Today we seek justice for the Gumby people, a modest and peaceable race of crafts folk, artists, and farmers, renowned for woodwork and sculpture that extoll the untainted beauty of their Frame, Halcyon, situated in the western quadrant of the free Frames. The Gumby people were tricked into leaving their Frame and were annihilated when they did so. Scant few survived and these few, because they were witnesses, were hunted down and murdered. Only one remains."

  "But why?" The Framekeeps had followed along with their tablets, comparing Anya's words with a written statement. One of the humanoids slapped her tablet to the table in frustration. "What could be the motive for this genocide? Your account of the slaughter compels, and yet remains implausible because you provide mere hints of motivation."

  I winced. That sounded like a vote for the Cysts. As Anya spoke, I futilely studied the thirteen faces for clues to their incoming mindsets. Note to self: never play poker with Framekeeps.

  "I share your frustration," Anya said. "The destruction of this people defies reasonable thought. I have suspicions and fears about the motive, but little evidence. Our petition includes only those claims for which clear evidence exists. Foremost among that evidence is the witness born by Pent-Up Angst, a librarian of the free Frame Wherewithal. He recruited the unallied books who participated in the Gumby genocide, and when Warty Sebaceous Cysts hired him for this recruitment, their words hint chillingly at possible motivation."

  Some of the Framekeeps frowned at their tablets and one of the humanoids interjected, "You do not mention Pent-Up Angst in your prepared statement."

  "We have only just learned that this librarian has important insight into this affair. As you know, by clause seven nine Q dash 23 of the Charter, we are permitted witnesses not listed in our statement, provided we substantiate the lateness of our contact, and that we have done in the addendum, which follows your appendices." The Framekeeps scrolled their tablets; the humanoid questioner grunted.

  Middle Cyst stood and carped, "We protest. Of course we cannot defend ourselves against tricks and phantoms."

  The cactus recited the entire clause 79Q-23, which took several minutes. "Framekeeps, you have read the addendum. What say ye, does this exception apply?" The Framekeeps used their tablets to vote. The cactus read the results. "Thirteen ayes. The new witness may testify. Proceed, Anya."

  I enjoyed a second of smugness, then I caught Middle Cyst's expression as he sat down. He looked smug. He shouldn't look smug. The instant I thought this, Left Cyst turned to wink at me. I squeezed my eyes shut and let Anya's voice flood my consciousness.

  "...and for this we will gather the memories of four eyewitnesses, Monk of Next Vast, Zasu of Halcyon, Anwyl, son of Rayn, a framewalker, and Nica of Los Angeles, a Neutral." This last caused murmurs around the room. "Your petition lists required biographical information about each and Appendix B contains copies of their permissions to transmit and display their memories."

  Anwyl said with contempt, "However, Warty Sebaceous Cysts refuse to allow their memories gathered." This provoked murmurs through the audience, but the Framekeeps remained impassive.

  "We did not refuse, we declined," Middle Cyst corrected him.

  Anya quickly overrode Anwyl's response. "We do not, of course, offer refusal as indication of guilt. Each of us has the right to refuse a memory gather, and that in itself must never be taken as a sign of misdeeds."

  She was so good. They both were. Like everyone else in the room, I was convinced that Anwyl had blurted and she had corrected his reaction. Rather, I would have been convinced, if I had not witnessed them practice this spontaneous moment.

  At a gesture from the cactus, four tiny women in saffron jumpsuits approached from behind the Framekeeps. One came to me and held my hand, rested fingers on my temple, then closed her eyes. I felt a cool tingling in my forehead. She released me and walked back behind the Framekeeps, at the same time that the other three did so.

  Anya waved her hand across the screen at her podium and all around the room, screens flickered to life, showing the same scene from four perspectives. Four times, we saw books rain death on the fleeing Gumby people.

  "Nica of Los Angeles remembers the genocide thusly," Anya said, and my memory played. I was amazed at how disjointed it seemed. What I envision as a continuous scene, a continuous awareness, was here a series of brutal snapshots. Books, text, carnage. After I saw anything especially horrible, my view would hold on Monk and Hernandez. During my memory, the world had a misty softness and I could smell the ocean.

  "Anwyl, son of Rayn, remembers thusly." Anwyl's point of view was a warrior's laser beam, illuminating each worst atrocity, cognizant of the books' attack patterns. He would look to the next group of victims before they became victims. Anwyl saw or at least remembered the world in colors so saturated they took on the contrast of black and white. As his memory played, I could smell the blood.

  "Zasu of Halcyon remembers thusly," Anya said. Zasu's memory missed most of what happened. It replayed the deaths of certain Gumbys who shared h
er long thin nose and auburn hair - family members? We saw, again and again, every detail of the severed limbs, flayed skin, hopeless cries. The scene displayed the rich pastels of a winter sunset, and I could smell the fear.

  "Monk of Next Vast remembers thusly." Monk saw intent and emotion, and viewed with a kind of x-ray vision. People's bones shone faintly through their skin and clothing; each skeleton radiated an aura of unique color. Miles' was a pulsating orange. Mine was the brightest cheeriest yellow I'd ever seen. Anwyl's was a green so dark it looked black. Zasu's was a shimmering lime. Most of the Gumbys were pastels that surged explosively during attacks, wavered as they tried to hide, dimmed when they stopped running and turned to meet their attackers. The books' spines flared red with each attack, muted to brown as they cruised between victims.

  The screens went dark and the room went silent, except for muttering from Monk. The Framekeeps made notes on their tablets.

  "If I may have a word," Middle Cyst requested.

  "Do you have a directly pertinent question?" the cactus sounded skeptical.

  "We do. We have a question about the memories."

  "Proceed."

  As polite as an Eagle Scout, Middle Cyst turned to Monk and Anwyl. "Your memories omit a participant. If we may hold on second seventeen of Nica's memory." The screen showed Hernandez clinging to Monk, pointing to something while speaking to Anwyl. Middle Cyst used a laser pointer to circle the head of Hernandez in my memories. "Why is this one omitted from all other memories?"

  "He was not in my scope of view," Monk called out.

  "My memories show no one in my party," Anwyl pointed out.

  "Well said, well said, we thought you omitted him so as not to emphasize that you Traveled with a second Neutral." This generated whispered discussion among some pairs of Framekeeps.