Tides From the New Worlds

by Tobias S. Buckell

  Mia made her way into the living room to take a nap on the couch.

  • • •

  “Mia,” Aiden woke her up. “It is time for lunch. Would you like me to cook?”

  “No thanks child. I can still do it.” Mia ratcheted the couch up and stood up. Aiden seemed to struggle with something, then spoke up.

  “You sleep a great deal.”

  Mia laughed.

  “Yes I do. Getting old. Getting tired. I don’t have a fraction the energy you do.”

  She made cold turkey sandwiches for lunch. Over the small table in the nook she started conversation.

  “Do you remember your parents, Aiden?”

  “My parents gave me to training when I was born. I have no recollection of them.”

  “Do you ever wonder about them?”

  “No.” Aiden said it without any inflection.

  “I’m here to replace your parents,” Mia explained. “Just for one week. It isn’t much of a childhood to experience, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Aiden’s expression never changed; a hard controlled stare.

  “I’ll wash the dishes,” he said, getting up.

  “No, I’ll get them. You take the sword in the garden and enjoy yourself.”

  • • •

  Only an hour later Mia heard a yelp. She set the dishes down and rushed outside to see Aiden pulling himself up from the rock-path, the sword by his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Mia,” he said. “I misjudged.”

  Mia brushed the small twig oozing sap off the side of the sword.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I saw birds… they don’t have any on the base. I forgot my balance.”

  Mia gathered him up in a hug. Aiden neither pushed her away nor resisted. He waited until she finished, then stepped back.

  “I’ll go and clean my cuts.”

  Mia watched his small form walk into the house.

  Despite all the physical training they gave him, that wasn’t what he would use in battle. The kid’s greatest asset lay in his creativity, reflexes, and obedience. Simulations and computers ran war. The advanced warriors needed the quick hand-eye coordination, the kind only the young could provide.

  And the small bodies allowed better fuel ratios. Mia sighed. The small bodies lay littered across the vacuum of inky battlefields.

  Aiden might be able to run a starship through a dogfight, but he was still unused to his own body.

  • • •

  The next morning she corralled him into helping around the garden. Watering plants, digging ground for new ones, resetting the rocks around the waterfall. Aiden had a precision to his grace. Each stone sat cornered into the next when he finished, each placed with his accurate but strong hands.

  “I like the smell of the garden,” he noted.

  “So do I.”

  “I like the way it sits. The waterfall covers the view of the porch, forcing a flanking motion to anyone who comes in. The trees and bush give cover, but keep them in the path, where they are wanted, and directed.”

  “It isn’t exactly how I think of it,” Mia replied, although the truth was, she had heard the analysis many times before.

  Aiden had something else on his mind. He scrunched up his face. “Where are the other children here?” He finally asked.

  Mia stood up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Colonel noted there was a beach here. I know I am different, and that there are other children there. Can I see them?” Mia smiled inwardly.

  “Of course you can. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

  • • •

  Mia set out with Aiden early, taking him up to the far end of the beach, where they could sit and still see the slow curving sand. Distant screams of joy wafted across the salt to them.

  “But you won’t let me go out and play with them?” Aiden asked.

  “No,” Mia replied.

  Aiden sat quietly and watched the kids run into curling waves and surf back onto the beach. Relaxed parents sat under umbrellas, occasionally looking up from a book.

  “I have to protect them,” Aiden said. “They are the reason I will go up and fight.”

  “Yes.”

  Aiden looked up at the sky, pointing out the long white smoke trail of a launch.

  “I will pilot one, that is my training. Long insertions through rapid hyper-skip mother-cruisers allow almost instantaneous attack. Surprise is always the best method,” he started in with a mantra that fell easy to his lips. “Make your enemy think that there are far more of you than there really are, hit and kill in the confusion, then skip away.” He twitched his hands in unconscious movements, giving commands followed out only in his imagination. But without the sensing equipment, nothing happened. No megaton explosions obliterated their surroundings. Seagulls still swirled and argued in the air.

  Aiden blinked his eyes and let his hands fall to the warm rock.

  “Mia?”

  “Yes.”

  “All those kids down there have parents. Are you my parent?”

  “In a manner of speaking. For a week.”

  “I’m glad you’re my parent, Mia. Can I play in the water, just around here, by myself?”

  Mia gave in with a pretense of reluctance, but her heart skipped to see him diving into the waves, just like all the other children up and down the beach.

  • • •

  Aiden spent the week learning to be a child. They snuggled by the fireplace and watched cartoons. They baked cookies. And sometimes, when he relaxed, he laughed.

  The seventh day came with the sound of turbo-fans, and Mia made her way into the garden to meet Colonel Hodges again. Aiden stood by the waterfall with his duffel bag, patiently waiting to be picked up.

  Before he could leave Mia gave Aiden a strong hug.

  “Thank you for being here,” she said, trying not to let her eyes shine over.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “Thank you for being my mother.” He looked up at the sky. “I will always remember this. When I am out there, there will always be somewhere else, no matter how bad it gets.” He kissed her on the cheek, an accurate delicate touch of the lips, carefully calculated, yet as free as he could ever become with himself.

  The small soldier pulled out of the hug and made his way out of the garden and into the drop-ship.

  Colonel Hodges handed Mia a small card. Payment for her job as sitter.

  “The trainers would like me to thank you for a job well done. The psychologists have always been impressed with your results.”

  Mia thought only of the little human machines that she was creating humans out of. She didn’t give them results; she gave them something else that was needed far more than the bottom line.

  “I love them, Colonel.”

  Colonel Hodges looked around the garden.

  “I remember my mother,” he said thoughtfully. “She died ten years ago.”

  Mia smiled and caressed his cheek softly.

  “I could always use help with my garden, child, if you are ever off-duty.”

  The colonel stood still for long seconds, impassive. Then something crept through his iron features.

  “If I may ma’am. If I may.”

  Colonel Hodges saluted and made his way back around the waterfall.

  Mia listened to the turbo-fans rev, and then watched the small drop-ship lift into the sky and speed away. No matter how many times she watched it happen, it still hurt to let go of her children. It still hurt to lose them to that world.

  The Duel

  One of the most interesting periods of early American history is this point at which the future of the nation is not guaranteed. And Aaron Burr’s attempt to create another nation just west of the early US nation is fascinating. An early patriot, and then a traitor, and then a desperate man trying to almost undo some of the very things he had created, what a bizarre and sad trajectory. It reminds us that these founding men were complex, and the founding of the US was quite a c
omplicated combination of many different interests combining in one lucky confluence of nation birthing.

  It is a chilly February morning in 1807 in the room they are all looking into. Outside of 1807, the glass reflects the eager faces of schoolchildren, chaperones silently taking headcounts and ‘shushing’ the troublemakers. Toad watches the group. One pigtailed young specimen presses his nose against the one-way window and looks down.

  “Hey look!” The boy with pigtails says. “I can see something.”

  Three soldiers with muskets slung to their sides trudge through the muddy road. Behind them the hamlet of Wakefield is slowly appearing through an artificial mist. The soldiers have captured a furtive figure that has been trying to dart off the road. Now he walks between them, shoulders slumped.

  Toad adjusts the white powdered wig over his dreadlocks and taps the microphone hidden behind the silk scarf draped around his double-breasted lapel.

  “Welcome to the Living History Exhibit,” Toad says. He can see his deep and melodious voice grabbing their attention. It is a good choice, using someone whose very voice adds an air of the exotic to the exhibit. The people who created the Living History Museum are smart. “Where we make history real,” he continues. “Below us, in this room, we have the capture of Aaron Burr by soldiers from Fort Stoddard, Louisiana. Burr is to stand trial for treason.”

  The former vice-president is dressed in rags, a worn beaver hat slipping from his dirty hair. He hasn’t shaved in days, and his eyes are reddened from the lack of sleep.

  “During the last few months, Burr has been plotting with generals and senators from all over the newly founded country. He had hoped that he could raise an army and get Louisiana to secede, with British support. Can you imagine how history would have been changed? Remember, the United States of America is brand new, only twenty years old...” Toad has the entire speech memorized. The words drip from his tongue as he smiles. Empire in the West under Burr and so forth. Earlier attempts to become New York governor, maybe another plot of secession. Occasionally Toad adjusts the itchy wig, or holds onto his finely tailored lapels as everyone imagines a person from that historical era should.

  Eventually his spot is done. The children move on. The next batch wanders in. The room resets, the figures automatically moving back to their start positions. Toad begins again. Only, at the end of this speech, he has a reminder.

  “Don’t forget, today the Museum is sponsoring a lunch with this featured Historical Figure, Aaron Burr. He will entertain questions, talk about the period, and toast the guests.”

  As they file out, Toad turns off the mike in his lapel. His replacement comes in still straightening his wig.

  “Toad,” he tips his head. Toad nods back.

  “Jace.”

  Toad leaves for lunch break.

  Another little-known fact he has forgotten to throw out: the venerable Aaron Burr, former vice-president of the United States of America, served part of the revolutionary war in Benedict Arnold’s staff.

  History, and the world, it seems, is full of little connections like that.

  • • •

  Toad eats in 1804, because Aaron Burr is much younger in that room. It is only a few years, but for Burr, the difference between 1804 and 7 is huge. More than most people’s lifetimes. Plus, the Museum has this display moved out while it works on some of the problems. The windows looking on in the earlier period were bulletproof, but some of the Museum’s patrons had felt nervous about Hamilton’s missed shot, and where exactly that stray bullet fired. Particularly when it rattled off the windows.

  Toad has the room to himself. With the exception of all the Historical Figures, that is. He eats in the section with Aaron Burr and his daughter, Theodosia. Theodosia serves him tea, and Toad thanks her. She curtseys slightly, and leaves.

  Toad eats with the Burrs because he prefers their company. Aaron treats him to confectionaries and coffee. Sometimes he orders music, and is always careful to make sure his guest is comfortable. At Hamilton’s, Toad would be grilled and questioned. Burr is relaxed, and intelligent. Hamilton is a freaking genius. He invented America. And he makes Toad nervous.

  Every once in a while, Burr takes Toad out into the forest to hunt with him. And carrying a musket, walking in between the trees and watching for spore, Toad feels like life is indeed worth living. Then they’ll come back to Burr’s mansion, sit in the green backyard, and enjoy iced tea.

  Toad enjoys all this because the Duel Exhibit is temporarily shelved. He can sneak in and use it, and not be seen. He has for the last week. He can do this and return, be recognized by the Historical Characters, because the museum isn’t looping the exhibit over and over again for the crowds passing through. Everything in this room is just carrying on its own, slowly working towards that climactic event.

  Today Burr is dashing off a letter. Something to the effect of: Sir, I send for your perusal a letter signed by Charles. D. Cooper. You must perceive, Sir, the necessity of a prompt and unqualified acknowledgement or denial of the use of any expressions... and so on and so on. Toad realizes Burr is getting ready to bait Hamilton into a duel. This is where, Toad has been told, that noble idea of justice proved through combat turns towards an excuse for revenge.

  In sixty years gunslingers would stand at high noon on main street in the Wild West, hands twitching for the draw. But those were other rooms, another section of the Museum.

  Honor. Toad watches Burr bite his lip and look down at the document. What must the man be thinking? Maybe he can win back his political swing, because over the past few months, the vice-president has lost all political influence. A tied vote between vice-president and president led to a vote by the house that deadlocked, though Burr had no intention of running for the big seat.

  When Jefferson finally got in, he wasn’t too happy with Burr.

  Poor, desperate Burr.

  Not really. Burr leads a good life, thanks to politics. Toad laughs to himself and finishes his tea and tuna sandwich he brought in his lunchbox with him. Lana has cut the sandwich into diagonals. She knows he preferred his sandwiches cut in regular halves. She is always looking for small ways to do things like that to him. Ever since... Toad pushes that thought clear.

  Theodosia comes back.

  “More... tea?” She asks, with a smile. Toad smiles back.

  “Yes, please.”

  Burr has sealed his letter, and now he stands up and looks around.

  “My goodness,” he says. “I apologize for paying you so little attention. I have been preoccupied of late.”

  Toad stands up with a freshly refilled delicate china cup.

  “But of course not, I am always made welcome here,” he says. He darts a sidelong glance at Theodosia.

  Burr nods, but it is clear that his mind is absent, and his thoughts are still elsewhere. No doubt, now that he holds the actual beginnings of a challenge in his very hand, he is starting to wonder if maybe this is the right course of action.

  But no. He shakes his head, Toad notices, then walks out of the room with the rolled up piece of paper in his hand.

  Toad is left alone in the room with Theodosia.

  She sits on a chair across from him.

  “You have such a delightful-sounding accent,” she says. “You are from the Caribbean islands, just like Mr. Hamilton?”

  Toad sits back down, careful not to spill the tea. The chairs in Burr’s mansion are ornate, but comfortable.

  “I am not from Nevis, like Alexander Hamilton, no,” he says. “But one of the other islands.”

  “But such sounds you make with your vowels,” she says.

  He smiles. It isn’t just the sounds of the words that make a patois, but the arrangement. Toad long since dropped really speaking patois. He really speaks American with an accent. He feels guilty about losing the true essence of ‘talking Caribbean,’ but he’s been accommodating everyone for a long while now.

  Toad sneaks a glance at the V-cut of her breasts, pushed up by an el
aborate corset beneath, no doubt. Maybe it is time to stop accommodating.

  He pushes the thought from his mind. His watch beeps. It is time to get back; his break is over.

  • • •

  The door to the apartment is open. Toad walks in, and he can hear Lana in the bathroom. The taps are running and she is singing like she’s in some opera, only her voice keeps breaking.

  Dovert sits on the couch. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead, and his clothes are rumpled. Dovert is a thin man, with dark hair cut short to his scalp. He doesn’t even have any facial hair. Toad isn’t sure if it doesn’t grow, or if he chooses to shave twice a day. Toad ignores Dovert and walks past him into the kitchen. He grabs a bowl of leftover Chinese food and walks down the small hallway to his office.

  Dovert stands up.

  “Toad, we haven’t talked for awhile...” Dovert starts to say. Toad holds up a hand as he keeps walking away.

  Lana stops singing. He hears the bathroom curtain dramatically swish open, and her wet feet slap across the tile. She pokes her head through the door.

  “Hi Toad.”

  He ignores her and opens his office. He goes in and locks the door behind him. He starts eating the rice with his fingers. He’s forgotten a fork, and he doesn’t want to go back outside. He stares straight ahead, rice stuck to the bottoms of his fingers, looking at a picture of his dad. The frame around the picture is silver. It is lined with grooves.

  Dad, he thinks. What would you have done?

  No answer. Just old man Leonard staring off into the long distance, a faint Mona Lisa-like smile on his lips.

  Toad thumps his head onto the desk and blinks his eyes. They’re suddenly slightly wet, but he doesn’t want anything more than that. Toad is a man, he doesn’t cry. That was what his dad taught him years and years ago. Never cry. He bites his lip until it passes. He imagines what it would be like to kill Dovert. In his head, he plays fantasies of some punk robbing their house, shooting Dovert, and Toad rescuing Lana by killing the intruder.

  It isn’t much comfort, but it gives him something to focus on.

  • • •