Mildred felt the horror bubbling inside her like a curdled nectar of doom, but she had moved beyond despair. Diving for the cupboard, she emerged with her trusty M249 machine gun.
How many times have you saved my life, old friend?
The cool metal butt slipped into the familiar groove beneath her right armpit, like it had never been away, it’s touch a panacea to soothe an aching soul.
“Stand back!” she snapped, ignoring the locusts and looking beyond them to their foul source. The mandibled horror lurched towards her like a rabid dog that has turned in fury on it’s master.
There was no hesitation! Mildred squeezed the trigger, spraying out bullets at the drooling horror at hundreds of miles per hour. Her hernias screeched in protest, and her false teeth vibrated in her mouth like they wanted to fly out.
But.
She.
Kept.
Firing.
White slime erupted from the monster, coating her in a sticky, viscous substance. It had messed with the wrong great-grandmother.
Watching her, like a Patroclus enraptured with the magnificence of his Achilles, Archibald felt his impotence falling from him like the discarded skin of a snake. He realised then what he’d known in his heart for years: women with machine guns were HOT!!
A broad grin spread over Annie’s face; she spontaneously applauded, her grim mood of mere minutes ago forgotten.
This is great writing, she thought. The chemistry between Mildred and Archibald really springs off the page now. It’ll pack a stun-sational emotional punch when he gets decapitated during their sex scene in chapter 73.
Inspiration struck her. Why not open the book with this snippet? The first few chapters were kind of slow; having this as an opening teaser would really pep things up a bit. With a few taps and swishes on the handpad, she made the necessary edits.
Her only concern was that some of the phallic imagery might be too subtle; a beta reader was needed. The ship’s senior doctor, Wanda Little, had had a quick look through a week ago, but had been too busy whenever Annie had asked her since then.
Well, there’s plenty more potential volunteers …
As if in answer to her thought, there was a chime from the doorbell.
“Come on in.”
The door swished aside to reveal Balafama Abayomi. The Nigerian scientist was holding a small transparent box before her, complete with air holes – a specimen container from the science labs. She paused in the threshold.
“I am happy to wait if you wish to put something on…”
“Nah. Thanks for the opportunity, though.”
Bala rolled her eyes but entered without further hesitation. She had always struck Annie as a serious, sombre woman. Her use of English, near-flawless but a touch on the formal side, fit her perfectly. Annie wished that she’d lighten up a bit sometimes but was self-aware enough to realise that her own antics would always annoy some people. The two of them, it seemed, weren’t destined to be close friends.
Bala rapped the top of the box with her fingertips. “I bring company. Your room-mate returns.”
Annie’s eyes alighted on the furry form within the container. “Shelob!” She scrambled to her feet and padded over for a closer look. “How’s my favourite interplanetary explorer?”
The explorer in question was a spider. It came not from Earth, but from Mahi Mata, having evidently sneaked aboard at some point during their stay on the planet. Most likely, one of them had unknowingly brought it in during the frantic hours after the battle, when the struggle to save the lives of the injured had taken priority over the usual decontamination procedures for entering the Bona Dea. Annie had been delighted, a few days ago, to find the intruder spinning a web near her ceiling.
“Healthy. Also, non-poisonous and contagion-free. In need of a new name, however. It seems that ‘She-lob’ is actually a ‘He-lob’.”
“Male?”
“Correct.” Bala opened the lid, and Annie reached inside. The spider bore a superficial resemblance to a tarantula, but was smaller and hairier, purple bristles covering his back and legs. He scuttled up the technician’s arm and took up residence amongst her ginger tresses.
“Dr. Little and I wanted to study him further,” Bala continued, “but the captain says you can keep him – a reward for your recent exertions. There are treats in the box which meet his nutritional requirements. Just try not to tread on him.” She glanced with a touch of disdain at Annie’s floor, littered with clothing and personal effects.
“Course not! He’s an honoured guest. Just needs a name.” She stroked her lips thoughtfully, stepping over to a full-length mirror to study the arachnid. “Peter? Nah, too obvious. Something more exotic…”
“Anansi?” Bala offered.
“Hmm…?”
“A hero of African myths. Often he took on a spider’s form.”
“Anansi, eh? Anansi…” Annie rolled the unfamiliar word around in her mouth. “Yeah. Ambassador Anansi. I like that.”
“I’m glad.”
“Say, I wonder whether you’d like to be a beta reader for my book? It draws on mythology quite a lot, and…”
“I’m sorry,” said Bala smoothly. “It is an honour to be asked, but I’m very busy at the moment. In fact, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall leave the two of you to get reacquainted.” Placing the box on a relatively uncluttered section of carpet, she made for the exit.
“Wait!” Annie spoke the word impulsively.
The scientist paused at the door, a single eyebrow raised expectantly.
“I just wanted to say … back when we had to fight the Legans, you were awesome. I mean, you kicked ass, it was really something to see.”
Bala’s face hardened, her gaze seeming to turn inwards for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said, touching the door release. “But I didn’t come on this mission to ‘kick ass’ I’m afraid.”
What’s all that about? Annie wondered, watching her crewmate leave. I’d love it if I could fight like her. And brainy with it! Woman’s got everything.
A rustling at her fringe reminded her that she had a passenger. By standing on her bed, she was able to return the spider to his web. She also stuck a couple of fly-sized morsels in there for him to eat.
“Annie and Anansi: now there’s a tongue-twister. You make yourself at home, little buddy. Anything you want, just shout.”
The spider hung silently above her.
Stepping back down to the carpet, Annie’s eyes happened to fall on her solitary window. Nothing to see except blackness and stars, but resting on the sill before it was a small yellow flower. Unwithered, though it had been plucked weeks ago.
Chamonix’s gift.
Annie frowned at it, then turned and slowly proceeded to dress.
“Time for me to visit another kind of spider…”
* * *
There were two other women in the gym when Annie entered: botanist Jess Ryan, a fair-skinned, dark haired New Zealander; geologist Kiaya Ferguson, African-American, long of hair and round of face. They were married, and might usually be expected to be chatting away during their time off. Right now, though, they were riding the exercise bikes in silence.
The scientists smiled briefly when Annie greeted them, but a heavy mood persisted. A lover’s quarrel? Not likely. A more probable explanation was right above their heads.
That same mood was affecting Annie, and had been ever since she noticed Chamonix’s flower. Looking down at herself, she realised that she had subconsciously selected the most sombre clothes in her wardrobe – grey shirt and black jeans, not her usual gaudy look at all.
Annie reached the ladder and slowly ascended. She always felt a certain trepidation when she came here – what would she find today? It had been a little while, after all. Plenty of time for more changes.
The low gravity training room opened out before her as she reached the top of the ladder. About three quarters of the area looked the same as it had when they set off,
steel bars stretching from surface to surface in a disordered tangle, ideal for advanced gymnastics. But the far corner was different.
There dwelt Chamonix.
Annie swung herself up into the bars and headed in that direction. She had about thirty yards to cover, but it felt like a trip into another world. The nearer she came to the corner, the more the bars became warped and twisted, some splitting apart, others reversing direction and coiling back around themselves. They grew thicker as Annie neared the source of the changes, so that Chamonix was all but hidden from view until she was barely a yard away.
The hybrid daughter of the woman Flora Cartwright and the Anthropomorphised Carnal Machine known as Charlie hung upside down in the midst of the tangle. The bars passed through her body at various points; a particularly thick pole entered her just above one hip and exited near the other. Where the steel touched her, her skin took on metallic aspects, while the bars themselves were streaked with pallid flesh.
Her face, Annie thought, had changed a little since they’d last talked. The nose was a touch more prominent, the cheek bones a trifle lower, giving her a more masculine appearance. She seemed always to be in a state of flux. That she placed the environment around her into the same state was worrying, to say the least, on a ship surrounded on all sides by the deadly void of space, but Chamonix had assured them that no harm would come to the Bona Dea’s outer hull. So far she had kept her word, and kept what she called her ‘metamorphical excess’ confined to the inside of this room.
The hybrid had been studying her wrist but looked up at Annie’s approach.
“Good evening,” she said. Her voice, at least, never seemed to change. Cold mechanical precision. “Or is it morning, by your personal clock?”
“Oh, Lord knows. Morning, I guess, since I just woke up.” The technician hooked her legs over a horizontal bar and swung herself so that she, too, was upside down, and facing Chamonix. The surface of the bar, where she brushed it with her fingers, felt like dead skin. Or was that just her imagination at work?
She tried not to think about it.
“How ‘bout yourself? Done any sleeping?”
“No, I’ve abandoned my attempts to reach that particular state. I believe I’m capable of it, but the risks if I should lose control of my power while dreaming are unacceptably high. I must remain awake.”
“I can’t imagine that. Awake every second of every day. I’d get stressed out…”
Chamonix’s eyes, a reflective grey, regarded Annie coolly. “I’m different. I don’t have the human need for replenishment.”
“You must have got that from your father.”
“Indeed. I inherited a lot from him. Logic, composure, curiosity, patience. And the knowledge of five hundred eighty-nine distinct techniques to sexually please a woman.”
Annie’s eyes widened. “For real? I only know five hundred eighty-eight. One of these days we oughta compare notes, find out which one I’m missing.”
Chamonix laughed. It was a strange sound, a breathy wheeze, but it made her seem at once less horrific and more human. Annie felt herself relaxing. This creature was a friend, she reminded herself.
“So, what did you get from your mother?”
The hybrid tilted her head in thought. “Ah, now that’s not so easy to define. The traits I’ve acquired from her have a certain ineffable quality … human personalities, by their nature, are less clear cut than those of robots. You have a tendency towards self-contradiction, and the possession of impulses you do not fully understand.”
“Guilty as charged. We’re a mess.”
“But an intriguing mess! I’ve been trying to understand my mother better by studying her passions. Take a look at this.” She twisted her right arm into a slightly unnatural position. Annie saw that there was a screen embedded in there, just above the wrist.
“Was that a handpad?”
“Yes, I was able to incorporate it into my body. It’s a trifle awkward for the moment – the screen was wider than my arm – but I’m in the process of shrinking it. It’ll fit snugly enough in a day or two, and I can operate it using only my thoughts, like so…” The image on the screen, which had been frozen, sprang to life. A tinny voice emerged from the screen.
“Moving the black just might help Dennis. He wants the four balls…”
Annie squinted. “It looks like a pool match. No, table’s too big. Snooker?”
“Bingo. A game from our archives. Snooker was my mother’s favourite sport. She always found it relaxing to watch.”
“Uh-huh. I remember she liked it. You too?”
Chamonix shrugged. “Not so much as my mother. I don’t share her need for calm. But this particular game is something special: the 1985 world final, which came down to the final ball. I’ve watched it a few times; it’s psychologically fascinating to observe the pressure of the occasion affecting both players, and to ask myself why they’re feeling it – after all, when all’s said and done they’re merely playing a game.”
“Yeah, well if you invest enough time, energy and emotion into something, then it gets important in your head, whatever it is.”
“Indeed. And then nerves kick in, and the desired outcome becomes much harder to attain. A rather paradoxical by-product of human evolution that I hope my mechanical heritage will spare me. Yet it is admirable, is it not?” She indicated the screen, where a round-faced, bespectacled man stood transfixed, unable to decide on his next shot. His rival, pallid and ginger-haired, watched uncomfortably from his seat. “To bear such a burden, hours of training rendered irrelevant by weaknesses of mind and body, and still to fight on.”
Annie looked at the little screen thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can capture that spirit without having to leave yourself open to the bad stuff, all the nerves and fears and conflicting emotions. Get the best of both worlds. You’re pretty much a new lifeform, right? You can choose your own way.”
“I can certainly try, though the influence of my third parent, Vitana, is a wild card that may never be fully accounted for. I fear that -”
A sudden burst of cheering from the screen interrupted Chamonix. When it had died down, Annie waited for her to continue. She did not.
“So, who’s gonna win the snooker?” Annie queried after a moment. She had no idea who either player was, but it seemed a decent way to restart the conversation.
“Ah, now that I don’t know.”
“I thought you said you’d watched it a bunch of times?”
“Indeed. But I’ve chosen to forget the outcome. Another gift from my father that I’ve discovered recently – I can put a lock on my own memories. Selective amnesia. The knowledge is there in my brain, but I can hide it away from my conscious self with one hundred percent efficiency.”
“Whoa. So, for instance, you could watch the same movie a hundred times and be surprised by the twist ending over and over again? That’s pretty cool. Or you could erase painful memories forever. I wouldn’t mind being able to do that myself…”
The hybrid, whose eyes had been locked on the screen, returned her gaze to Annie. “You don’t strike me as a woman consumed by regret.”
“Not consumed, maybe, but you don’t live 26 years without screwing up a few times. More than a few, in my case. There’s one I’d certainly rather forget…” She paused, a little distracted by the screen at Chamonix’s wrist, which was still on. For a human, having this running during their conversation would constitute bad manners, but the hybrid didn’t seem to have much use for the social niceties. Flora had been completely the opposite – more evidence, she thought sadly, that her friend was truly gone.
“Namely …?” prompted Chamonix.
“Michelle Anderson. My best friend at school. From eight to fourteen, we were pretty much inseparable. Then I ruined it.” Annie frowned at the memory, her eyes wandering around the tangle of bars. She noticed that her head was starting to throb a little. Being upside down didn’t agree with her, even in low gravity.
“What
did you do?”
“Oh … I kissed her. My lesbianism came into bloom as I went through puberty. My feelings for her deepened; it seemed natural to me that she should feel the same way. She didn’t.”
“Your actions angered her?”
“Nah, she was surprised, but she took it well. It just made things awkward between us. We drifted apart after. My fault. I cringe inside every time I remember it. The look on her face, that sick lurch of realising how badly I’d screwed up. If I had the option to forget, then I’d certainly -”
She stopped abruptly.
Chamonix’s scrutinised her thoughtfully. “It seems you’re not so certain.”
Annie shook her head. “No. It just struck me … I took a lot away from that experience. I never wanted to mess up like that again, so I swore to be less idealistic, more considerate of other people. Since that day, I’ve always known when it’s the right moment to kiss someone.” She smiled. “Another weapon from your human side to add to your arsenal: turning a negative into a positive.”
“As my parents did when they made me.”
On Chamonix’s screen, the audience roared. The bespectacled snooker player raised his arms in triumph.
“Looks like we have a winner,” said Annie.
“Yes.” The screen abruptly went black. “I’ve released my memories. The victor was Dennis Taylor, born 19 January, 1949 in Coalisland, Northern Ireland. And tomorrow, I shall watch something new…”
“Hey, you don’t need to stop using your special abilities on account of what I said. It’s pretty cool, being able to control your own mind like that.”
“You’re a good friend, Annie. My only one, I suspect. The captain’s decision to bring me aboard wasn’t particularly popular, yes?”
“I wasn’t the only one who spoke out in your favour, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you’re the only one who regularly visits, apart from Hunter. And Ms. Winters, whose appetite for interviews appears insatiable.”
“Well, folks might be a little scared. I know Gypsy is, for instance.”
Chamonix smiled grimly. “My appearance is somewhat horrific, I can’t deny that. But, ‘there’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face’, nor the body … I’ll never hurt any of you.” The grey eyes narrowed slightly, and an expression Annie couldn’t quite identify stole across Chamonix’s ghostly white features. “Speaking of Gypsy, how are you getting along with her?”
Amygdala Page 2
