Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #212

by TTA Press Authors

  Or death.

  The time approaches. She senses others drawing closer, their questions drumming against her mind like heavy rain. She imagines a thick fog, concentrates, and the thoughts fade to murmurs. Certain of the answer already, she probes at Tolethion's mind, gathering her information.

  Yes, he speaks with his old clan. Time passes, how much she cannot tell; following these threads of conversation requires all her focus. She is probably sweating with the effort. At last the moment arrives. One of Tolethion's kinsmen steps forward, thoughts swirling with uncertainty. He is willing, though, so she reaches out. Touches his mind.

  His instincts take hold and he fights against the truth she brings, denies the suffering he causes her species. But in the end he listens. Understands.

  Weeps.

  Others come to experience ... and keep coming. Through her link with Tolethion, she is shocked to learn of a line. By the time she finishes her thoughts are slower than mud.

  The following morning they leave behind a peaceable chaos, as the clan discusses how to proceed. The next day Tolethion takes them to another Sighter clan he has had dealings with. The results prove much the same.

  Time passes.

  More tribes are visited, usually Sighters but sometimes other breeds. A legend grows. A name is bestowed: Truth-Bringer. Some heed the message. But even those who don't let them leave in peace. It is progress, a beginning. Several times they visit human villages, but always they are chased off. It must be done through the Aberrates.

  More time passes.

  Olethia pursues them with bloodhound determination, and so far they have managed to stay ahead of her. But flight has drawn to its end. Despite the onset of True Thought, the body was never meant to live without its nature-given five. The constant stress of True Thought is shutting her systems down. She can sense it. So Tolethion has carried her to this cave, and now she waits for the final unknown...

  Blem releases his grip. Weyna slumps but Tolethion catches her before she falls. “Now do you understand?” he asks.

  "Yes,” says Weyna. She would look into his eyes if she could. “I understand more than I ever imagined possible."

  "And do you understand why Blem contacted you after he sensed your thoughts?"

  Weyna takes an extra moment, working everything out. “I do. And I'll help.” She knows now what she'll do with her life. “What about Tarrik?"

  Tolethion hesitates. “He's a bounty hunter. We doubt he's interested."

  "He spoke to Tarrik once."

  "Only to rescue you. Beyond this we doubt he'd work with us, unless you could convince him to join forces against Olethia."

  Olethia. Outside, the moon has changed position. She stands up. “I need to get back to Tarrik."

  "Graaaghh."

  Tolethion cocks his head, listening. Weyna dares to observe his profile. “What does he say?"

  Tolethion's mouth compresses into a hard line. “Your friend is asleep on the mountainside."

  "Asleep? You must be mistaken.” His silence is her answer. But Tarrik has killed for her, kept her safe and alive. Now he needs her and there is nothing she can do. She bites hard on the inside of her lip. She feels the flowing warmth but fails to taste it. “We need to help him! If Olethia should find him he's dead."

  "Grrraaghhh."

  Tolethion's breath catches. “You're certain?"

  Blem nods.

  "What does he say?” Weyna asks.

  "He's going to wake your friend,” Tolethion says softly. “But it will cost him the last of his strength."

  Before Weyna can say something, or even think it, Blem closes his white-filmed eyes. A peaceful sigh escapes his lips and his body relaxes. It all happens in seconds. Without asking, Weyna knows that Blem is dead. “Did it ... work?"

  Tolethion starts toward the exit. “We'll find out.” His voice is wracked, like one who has lost his family. Weyna knows this feeling well. “Come,” he says. “You'll tell me what I need to know along the way."

  * * * *

  Tarrik bolted awake. A voice—the voice—had screamed in his thoughts. No words, just a keening that ripped through the veil of sleep. His gaze shot to the sky. He had been dozing less than an hour. The candlelight still burned in the farmhouse, and a quick inspection of the grounds revealed no sign of Olethia.

  He was a fool for dozing. He had no idea why the voice had contacted him, but he owed it a debt twice over. Once this business was finished, he would find whoever this was and help in whatever way he could.

  Shifting into a more uncomfortable position, Tarrik settled back to wait.

  * * * *

  Dawn peeked over the mountains. A breeze wafted over the stones, stirring up dust. A woman strode through this newly made veil. She had blonde hair and a checkered skirt that accentuated her lean body. Pale skin helped emphasize her veins; the blue lines flowed everywhere, threading her like tattoos. Fingernails extended from her left hand, curving like claws, and sunlight glittered on their silver polish.

  Carefully, she picked her way down the mountain, towards the farmhouse. As she drew closer, her clawless hand unsheathed the sword strapped between her shoulders. Once she stepped onto the valley floor, Tarrik stepped from behind his hiding place and fired his gun.

  The air cracked and Olethia reacted, twisting so fast that the bullet lodged beneath her shoulder instead of through a lung. She grunted and whirled, the veins in her face writhing like serpents. Tarrik busied himself with reloading.

  "Tarrik, my precious dearest,” came her voice as he lifted the gun. His gaze traveled down the mountainside before settling back on Olethia. She stared back with a smile that matched her predatory posture. “It seems you kissed me first today."

  Then she ran at him, feet pounding up the trail. Tarrik took aim, but she timed his attack perfectly, leaping to the side as he fired again. The bullet missed, and Olethia kept running, closing the distance fast. Tarrik hurled his knives. Without breaking stride, the Feeler's arm blurred. Metallic clangs filled the air as she batted the blades aside.

  By the time he unsheathed his sword Olethia had reached him. He brought the blade down with enough force to cleave her in twain. But she darted aside with the speed of a hummingbird, and once more her blade blurred, opening a dozen nicks on Tarrik's body. She made no attempt at the death stroke, as quick endings left little room for pain and suffering. So even now, with murder gleaming in her eyes, Tarrik knew she would string things out. It would be her doom.

  "Death draws near,” he said, missing with a thrust towards her heart. “Are you ready?"

  Olethia laughed, her veins wriggling with pleasure. “Ask yourself.” Her sword licked out and sliced into his thigh.

  Blood spurted and Tarrik's leg crumpled. He hit the ground back first, and as he tumbled over earth and stones a grim smile spread over his lips. When he reached the valley floor he rolled to his knees at once. Laughter bubbled up his throat. Oh, how long he had been waiting for this. He climbed to his feet as Olethia approached, and with the blood running down his leg in twining rivers, he saluted her with his blade. “I'm going to skin your dead carcass.” He said this happily. Conversationally. “Are you frightened? You should be."

  Uncertainty spread over Olethia's face like a stain, and the veins in her face paused. Then she snarled as though upset with herself. She started circling him. “Your lover was one of my favorite takes. So much feeling. Kept me going a whole day. I wonder if this latest version has reservoirs so deep."

  "Shut up."

  His sword arced towards her neck. Olethia ducked with a casual motion and opened the calf of his other leg. Tarrik wobbled but kept his balance, hobbling as he turned in circles to keep her in sight.

  "You can't win,” she said. “Humans can't win. Not against Feelers. We're stronger.” She nicked his shoulder with the tip of her sword. “Faster.” His other shoulder. “Better. And when I'm finished with you, I'll hunt down the only human I need. Then I'll use him to see your race penned u
p like so much swine.” This time she lashed out with her silver nails, opening a rip in Tarrik's shirt. Blood welled, and his nipple fell to the earth. “You're nothing but amusement to us, a wine for the tasting."

  She expected him to show pain. Wanted it. She was so predictable. “You talk too much."

  Olethia's veins writhed as if to burst from her skin. “That hat hides your beauty scratch.” Her calm voice was at odds with her expression. “Let's give you something more visible, hmm?"

  Her clawed hand streaked, blurred, and silver nails punctured his cheek. Tarrik bit down before she could withdraw her fingers, and their bloods mixed, a warm sea filling his mouth. Olethia screamed as she leapt back, yanking her hand free. She tried flexing her mutilated fingers, which curled about an inch before she hissed.

  "You'll pay for that."

  Tarrik spit out a pair of silver fingernails. “I'm waiting."

  But instead of charging Olethia suddenly backed off and averted her gaze. Over his panting, Tarrik heard running footsteps. He whirled and the wide blue eyes of a Sighter barreled down on him. Immediately he shifted his gaze to the creature's chin and lashed out with his sword.

  He caught the Sighter through its side and two screams cut the air. One belonged to the Sighter. The other was impossible.

  "Tarrik!” Down the mountainside Weyna came running, arms outstretched. “No! He's on our side. He's ... behind you!"

  He dropped to his knees and the sword whiffed over his head. He tried to rise but his legs failed him and he crumpled to the earth. Olethia raised her sword to finish him, but then she reeled back, her sword dancing with another. And all Tarrik could do was sit dumbfounded while his world crumbled, as Sighter fought Feeler, one Aberrate protecting him from the other.

  "Tarrik.” Weyna knelt beside him while the creatures fought. Olethia had the advantage of speed, but the Sighter's gaze evened things out. “You're hurt,” she said.

  "Impossible,” he mumbled. A Feeler had killed his lover. Sighters had killed his parents. They were not supposed to fight each other. They fought humans. Humans fought them. It was the order of things. There could be no peace. Ever.

  "Impossible,” he said again.

  "Tarrik!” Dully he looked back to Weyna, too stunned to wonder any more about her presence outside. “The Sighter is on our side,” she said. “He's the one from my dreams. He's our friend."

  "Friend,” he repeated. His gaze shifted back to the Aberrates. Around and around they danced, hurling epithets with every thrust of their blades. These creatures were parasites, interested in their own sick pleasures. They had killed everyone he had ever loved. No Aberrate would ever be his friend.

  Suddenly his injured legs were standing. Then they were running, and he raised his sword to strike whichever of the combatants he reached first. Weyna shouted something, but the blood pounding through his skull dulled away the words.

  With her maimed hand, Olethia lashed out. Two of her remaining nails punctured the Sighter's eyes. Blood squirted, and the creature fell to the ground screaming. Tarrik closed on Olethia—

  Lightning fast she whirled, leaving blurred doubles in the air, and her steel ran him clean through the stomach. A thousand recollections flooded Tarrik's consciousness, most of them of childhood, when his parents had still been alive, and there had been more to life than the hunt. He had not hated Aberrates then. It had been so long ago he had almost forgotten.

  Olethia grabbed the back of his head, jerking him close. She whispered in his ear. “You were always my favorite."

  She twisted the steel and Tarrik clamped his hand over her wrist. “We're not finished,” he whispered back.

  Olethia's features widened with shock. “How—"

  Tarrik rammed his sword through her stomach, choking off her words. Blood traced the contours of her lips before spilling down her chin. Together they dropped to their knees. Olethia brought her clawed hand to his mutilated cheek. “How?” she asked again.

  "I can't feel,” he said. Her mouth dropped. Blood gushed in a fresh waterfall. “I let a Feeler take my touch,” he continued, “so I could kill you ... seems it worked."

  Olethia laughed, and a blood bubble exploded in Tarrik's face. “Clever.” She wrapped her good hand around his throat. “But you die first."

  "Wrong,” said a voice behind her. A hand grabbed Olethia's hair, jerking her head backwards. The knife slid across her throat, opening a deep red smile, and the Feeler slumped to the earth.

  Weyna rolled the corpse aside and dropped beside Tarrik. Weakly he turned his head. The Sighter lay unmoving. So did Olethia, her features locked in disbelief. Good. The hunt was done. At last he could rest.

  "Now you know,” he said. “Touching people ... talking about it ... brought back ... memories ... painful...” He fell into a fit of coughing.

  Weyna cradled his head. “Rest."

  "I will,” he answered. “Her hide..."

  "I grew up on a pig farm and know how to butcher. It will be done."

  And with that the music of death sang through his thoughts, tempting him more than any Listener could. Tarrik wondered if his soul would see his parents, if it would see Zaleen. He wondered if his soul would feel. Maybe the senses were prisons to living things, enslaving them to their desires. Perhaps death brought freedom. Perhaps he was delirious. The truth was coming. He tried to say farewell but found himself unable.

  "Hush,” Weyna told him.

  Then she cupped his face and kissed him. The flavor of her moist tongue saturated his mouth, and Tarrik savored it down to his last ember of dimming life. Whatever waited in the hereafter, at least of one thing he could be certain: there was no sweeter taste.

  * * * *

  Tolethion is as foolish as he is stubborn. Despite Weyna's pleas for him to rest, he insists on helping dig Tarrik's grave. Eventually she relents, and with blood-soaked bandages binding his ribs and wrapped over his eyes, he helps open and afterwards fill the earth.

  Weyna can feel fresh blisters forming on her fingers as she digs her fourth grave in less than a day. She has decided to bury Tarrik beside Adrew. Her brother would like that—he had admired bounty hunters. As she and Tolethion drop mounds of dirt on Tarrik's peaceful expression, she thinks of all that has happened since she met this man. Again and again she comes back to what he told her: There are ways if one is willing.

  Weyna is willing. She and Tolethion will find a way. She will have to take care of him, but this somehow feels right. And now they can approach humans. They will start with the village where Papa bought the grapes. The people know her. They will hear what she has to say.

  Tolethion is panting. Fresh blood stains his bandages. “Enough,” she says. “We're finished."

  "Are we?” He pokes at the half-filled hole with his shovel. “There is work yet to do."

  Weyna takes the shovel from his hands. “We'll finish later. Both of us need to rest."

  Tolethion appears ready to argue. Instead his shoulders slump and he nods. “Later.” Blood leaks down his cheeks.

  Weyna leaves the shovels and takes Tolethion's arm. As she guides him towards the farmhouse, she mentally ticks off what must be done before she sleeps. Change Tolethion's bandages and see him to bed. Wait for him to sleep. Finish burying Tarrik. Skin Olethia and leave the rest to the crows, which is better than she deserves.

  Then she can sleep. Afterwards she will be nurse Tolethion as best as she can, for as long as it takes. When he is recovered their work will begin.

  "Weyna?"

  "Yes, Tolethion?"

  His Adam's apple bobs several times. “My eyes are hurting very badly."

  Weyna pats his hand. “I'll change your bandages. Then I'll give you some wine."

  "Wine, eh?” He sounds skeptical. “I'm picky about vintages. Will I like it?"

  "Probably.” A wistful smile spreads over her face. “Probably."

  Copyright © 2007 Douglas Elliott Cohen

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ACK-ACK MACAQUE—Gareth Lyn Powell

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  Illustrated by SMS

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  This is Gareth's second story in Interzone. ‘The Last Reef’ appeared in issue 202 and is now available to read on our website at ttapress.com. A collection of Gareth's short fiction will be published by Elastic Press in 2008. Further details can be found at garethlynpowell.blogspot.com

  * * * *

  I spent the first three months of last year living with a half-Japanese girl called Tori in a split-level flat above a butcher's shop on Gloucester Road. It was more my flat than hers. There wasn't much furniture. We slept on a mattress in the attic, beneath four skylights. There were movie posters on the walls, spider plants and glass jars of dried pasta by the kitchen window. I kept a portable typewriter on the table and there were takeaway menus and yellowing taxi cards pinned to a corkboard by the front door. On a still night, there was music from the Internet café across the street.

  Tori had her laptop set up by the front window. She wrote and drew a web-based anime about a radioactive short-tailed monkey called Ack-Ack Macaque. He had an anti-aircraft gun and a patch over one eye. He had a cult online following. She spent hours hunched over each frame, fingers tapping on the mouse pad.

  I used to sit there, watching her. I kept the kettle hot, kept the sweet tea coming. She used to wear my brushed cotton shirts and mutter under her breath.

  We had sex all the time. One night, after we rolled apart, I told her I loved her. She just kind of shrugged; she was restless, eager to get back to her animation. “Thanks,” she said.

  She had shiny brown eyes and a thick black ponytail. She was shorter than me and wore combat trousers and skater T-shirts. Her left arm bore the twisted pink scar of a teenage motor scooter accident.

  We used to laugh. We shared a sense of humour. I thought that we got each other, on so many levels. We were both into red wine and tapas. We liked the same films, listened to the same music. We stayed up late into the night, talking and drinking.