Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #3

by Iulian Ionescu

  I was the last person to see him alive. Now I'm the one who sees him still—through me his evil lives on.

  But I can't let him win. Not this time.

  I charge again at the crib and drive it against the wall, then scoop the bawling infant into a bundle of baby-blue blankets. Books and toys strike my back as I sprint to the window and lower the bundle into Peter's outstretched arms.

  I stand, gloved hands straddling the window, staring into the chilly abyss, and consider my fate.

  I can leave this house behind, but I cannot leave him. Every waking moment, every nightmare, every child and fire that I face, he will always be there, growing stronger, more dangerous. And I will be his prisoner, his vessel, his weapon, as he seeks to destroy the very life I am sworn to protect.

  Beyond the window, slivers of snow have begun to fall in the velvet moon sky, swooping and swirling and finally melting within the tentacles of smoke engulfing the house. And like wildfire spreading from a single spark, I begin to see clearly what I must do.

  I turn around. I go back inside. There is only one way to end this, one way to stop him.

  "No more children," I say to the boy, the empty room. "No more."

  The crib spins past me and smashes into pieces against the wall, as though he already knows my intent. But I don't stop. I keep going, like I always do, following my instincts and my heart.

  Courage to face and conquer my fears… silently I pledge the firefighter's oath, as I work in a trance-like state to remove my headgear and air-pack, and loosen my uniform. Then I storm downstairs. I throw myself into the seething heart of the fire, blistering, boiling, screaming, "Burn in Hell!"

  The boy rages in my face, a screeching mask of fury and disbelief, red eyes stretched wide, his mouth a vulgar chasm as empty as his soul. Yet beyond the fear, the searing pain—the pulling and the tightness and the numbing of my flesh—a feeling of calm rises within, cool and clean as a crystalline lake on a summer's day. And the boy is taken, like a snowflake in the smoke, swooping and swirling and finally melting. Consumed by the fiery beast; returned to Hell.

  I close my eyes, and pray that he doesn't take me with him…

  © 2014 by Carrie Martin

  * * *

  Carrie Martin is a graduate of the Institute of Children's Literature, and a writer of quirky and dark from children to adults. British and Canadian bred, she now lives near London, Ontario with her husband, daughter and two wee pets. She is a graphic designer by trade, now a full-time mom following a childhood story-writer dream. She is often seen drinking red wine, contemplating words, fiddling with her website, or watching cartoons and horror movies.

  The Memory-Setter's Apprentice

  Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

  Those who survive combat with the Sarakul return home with holes in their memories. As memory-setters, it's our job to delve inside their skulls and repair the damage.

  When I say "our job" I'm stretching the truth, since I'm not yet a memory-setter. During my last three years of apprenticeship under Master Agoza I've assisted with many restorations. Even completed a few solo. But technically I'm still an apprentice.

  Tomorrow that will change.

  First thing in the morning, Master Agoza will test me. If I pass the test I'll become a Master, able to practice independently.

  And if I fail… well, I guess then I'll be looking for a different way of supporting the war effort.

  I'm lying in bed, unable to sleep, when my sister Cora opens the door to the small room we share in this Solace Home, one of many in the Kapali province. Cora believes that the government calls these places Solace Homes because an honest name—like orphan centers—would make people too uncomfortable. It's one of the rare times we agree.

  I occupy our bunk bed's upper mattress. With the door open, light spilling in from the corridor reveals my open eyes to her.

  "Beyo." She sounds concerned rather than relieved. She closes the door and turns on the light. "I expected you'd be getting rest for your big day tomorrow."

  "I wish," I mutter, and sigh heavily. Maybe it was a mistake to tell her about my "big day". Though I doubt it was her intention, her comment has piled onto my anxiety. I climb down from the bunk bed and stand beside the open window. I part the thin curtain and look out into the moonless night, my back to Cora. She understands this is her cue to change into her night-clothes, and does so. There's not much privacy in such cramped quarters; our system of signals, much needed for a brother and sister sharing a room, evolved quickly after arriving here six years ago.

  "How was your shift?" I ask without much interest.

  "You know how it goes," she says, similarly unenthusiastic. For the last year, Cora, in addition to apprenticing to become a doctor, has been volunteering her time to help new arrivals. Sometimes I think she does it just to make me feel lazy by comparison. "Truth be told, I'm exhausted," she goes on. "Can I turn off the light?"

  "Sure."

  She gets into bed. I continue standing where I am. Even with the window open, the air inside our room is stuffy, as it tends to get during Kapali's scorching, humid summers. I run my hand through my sweat-slicked hair and sigh again.

  "What's wrong?" Cora asks, turning in bed.

  "Nothing."

  "If that were true you'd be sleeping. Master Agoza?" I don't answer. She asks, "What happened this time?"

  "Nothing happened," I snap. "He's just being his usual tight-lipped self."

  "About the test?"

  "About everything."

  "Maybe if you didn't take so much after him, things would be easier. Tell me more about the test and I might be able to help."

  I can't believe Cora thinks I'm similar to the Master in any way. I couldn't be more different from the man! And there's that word she always uses, help. It irritates me so much. Ever since Cora became my guardian all she's wanted to do is help. If she's so good at helping maybe she should have helped Dad stay home, instead of getting himself killed at the hands of the Sarakul; or maybe she should have helped our mom overcome her grief and stopped her from committing suicide shortly after. But no. She was helpless then, just like me. And now she wants to make everything better.

  Some things just can't be fixed.

  In the silence that stretches on uncomfortably, I realize maybe I'm being too harsh. I hear myself, using the same mind-listening talent that made me apprentice as memory-setter, and I have to admit I sound like kind of a jerk.

  I relent. "I don't know what the test will consist of."

  "What do you mean?" Cora asks, puzzled.

  "When I asked Master Agoza about it he just said, 'You'll either be ready or you won't.'"

  "Maybe he thinks you'll do well no matter what."

  I cross my arms. "Maybe he doesn't care whether I pass or not."

  "But he's invested so much time in you."

  "Because he enjoys making me suffer."

  "Beyo, stop. If you think that—"

  "Look, it doesn't matter what either of us thinks," I say, cutting her off. I can't stomach a lecture right now. "I'm going to get some fresh air."

  "At this hour?"

  Wordlessly, I put on the fresh clothes I had prepared for the morning, step out into the corridor and let the door behind me click shut.

  Outside, I breathe deeply in the damp night. The stars are cold pinpricks of light in a black sky. Faraway, someone is hollering, or perhaps singing drunkenly.

  Now that I'm out here I admit to myself that Cora's concern was justified. Vagabonds and addicts tend to hang around Solace Homes, looking for food, access codes to the center, medicines, drugs, whatever.

  I scan my surroundings.

  I'm alone.

  The feeling is familiar to me. It's been with me for the last six years. I know Cora means well, but she can be so overbearing.

  I begin walking, at first not aware of my destination, but as I glance at street names I figure it out. With increasing briskness I'm heading down East Laza Street, towards Farlu distri
ct, also known as the Healer's district.

  I'm making my way to Master Agoza's memory-setting clinic.

  How absurd. The place will be closed. Master Agoza will be sleeping soundly at home. Yet I keep going. Something inside me is unwilling to listen to reason. Tonight, my mind says, you should be unreasonable. As my pace increases small beads of sweat slide down my neck and a chill of uneasiness snakes down my nape.

  When I arrive I see lights on inside.

  Thieves , I think, my heart pounding. Someone has broken in. I should call Master Agoza—

  Then I stop. Would criminals really turn on the lights? I look inside through the entrance room window and see a familiar shape shuffling toward the front door. I would recognize that stooped figure's gait anywhere: Master Agoza.

  He lets me in, as rude and aloof as ever. Inside the back room where we hold our lessons, it seems odd to sit at my usual place, so I stand a few feet from the central workbench instead. Master Agoza, eyes as lifeless as always, ignores me, busy changing settings on the equipment we use for memory-setting.

  "I couldn't sleep," I volunteer. I hate to be the first to speak, but I prefer hearing my own voice to not hearing any voice at all. "Can I help with whatever you're working on?"

  He doesn't respond, but continues tapping quick commands on the computer's display. Then he begins connecting cables to the main unit.

  Anger flushes my cheeks. I'm about to make a smart remark about Master Agoza's lack of social skills. He may be the greatest memory-setter in all of Kapali, but he's surely a fool in regard to just about everything else that matters in life. He has no friends, lives only for his work. Again Cora's earlier comparison stings me. But I keep my mouth shut. All this could be part of my evaluation. The test was supposed to start in the morning—but what if that's changed? What if the test begins whenever the apprentice shows up?

  I study his movements. He's configured the system for a one-on-one connection. One setter and one patient; no secondary setter to assist with the procedure.

  Ah, I think. Tension in my neck and shoulders eases. That's the test, then: a solo memory-setting.

  But as I study Master Agoza further, I analyze how he has set up the ports and connectors, and I see something I missed before. The interface sensitivity setting, which regulates the strength of the link between the two joined minds, has been left blank. The higher this setting, the deeper the connection between two minds. Usually this parameter is set to "auto": it's fixed by the computer when the session begins, optimized for the maximum mental connection that will heal the patient without over-exposing the memory-setter to the patient's thoughts.

  Master Agoza turns to me at last, and, in his gravelly voice says, "Select a patient. Here are some possible choices from the wait list." Eight war veterans, with a few key statistics about each one's degree of memory damage, are displayed on the screen. "After you've made your choice," Master Agoza continues, "you'll adjust the sensitivity setting, and in a few hours, when the sun is up, I'll call the patient. Once he or she arrives you will perform a restoration."

  I frown. It seems obvious that I should select the patient with the least amount of damage so I can be sure of success. But the obvious answer is often the wrong one—especially where Master Agoza is concerned. Perhaps he would take this to mean that I'm not ready for more challenging cases. On the other hand, if I select the patient with the most damage—a soldier whose mind, according to the file, is riddled with massive memory cavities, and who would be challenging for even the most veteran memory-setter—am I not taking an unnecessary risk?

  I see then what he's doing: he's evaluating my ability to judge my own skills.

  The best way to proceed, then, is to pick someone towards the upper end of the difficulty range, but someone whom I'm still confident I can help. Yes, that's it.

  I open my mouth to speak the name of the sixth patient—

  And then stop.

  Too easy .

  "When I am a Master," I say, "I won't be able to choose which patient arrives at my clinic. Doesn't selecting a patient now give me an unfair advantage?"

  "You aren't yet a Master, and at this rate you won't become one," Master Agoza says coolly. "Choose a patient, or be dismissed."

  I stare into the Master's useless, milky-white eyes. I find them repellent. For the first time, I realize that on some level, strange as it sounds, I resent him for his blindness. As though he somehow chose to be this way so that he could avoid eye contact with other human beings. Calm down, I think. After all, Master Agoza himself is a war veteran. Doesn't he deserve the same empathy as any other veteran who walks through the clinic's front door?

  Still staring at Master Agoza, I consider that I've never asked him about his war experiences, though I've been tempted many times. I've always held myself back, out of respect for his privacy. No one knows exactly what happened to him in the war; apparently, as his previous apprentice told me in a hushed voice the day he ended his apprenticeship and I began mine, Master Agoza was captured by the Sarakul but somehow managed to escape. I thought that was an unlikely story when I first heard it, and it seems an unlikely story now. The Sarakul don't take prisoners. Even their disruption of our long-term memories isn't deliberate, the experts say, but a byproduct of their combat pulse technology (something about the frequency of their beams weakening the neuronal connections that enable memory retrieval). Why should the Sarakul, then, have captured Master Agoza and kept him alive? As I ask myself this question, I feel emboldened by my anger. The earlier instinctual thought returns: Tonight you must be unreasonable. And I replay in my mind the words that Master Agoza uttered as he pulled up the patient profiles: Here are some possible choices from the wait list.

  Possible choices.

  Which is to say, not necessarily all of my choices.

  I've never known Master Agoza not to choose his words carefully.

  "I've made my selection," I say in what I hope will be a neutral tone. The less emotion I display—good or bad—the less he'll have to use against me. "I choose you, Master Agoza."

  He sits very straight. A thin smile spreads across his gaunt, unshaven face. Not joy; more like a self-satisfied smirk.

  "As you wish," he says. "Since you've chosen me, there's no need to wait. Let's begin."

  Entering into the role of memory-setter I guide Master Agoza to the ports, but he links in to the system on his own. I sit down at the station that he usually occupies during our lessons, our places reversed, and hook myself up.

  I glance at the sensitivity setting and decide to go for a high level. Given this rare chance to explore Master Agoza's mind, I want to find out as much as possible.

  I input the startup commands and let him know that I'm about to ask a standard set of pre-connection questions to which I'll be recording his responses.

  "Have you ever had your memories set before?" I begin.

  "No."

  "To the best of your knowledge and the knowledge of the physician who last examined you, are your memory gaps the result of Sarakul technology?"

  "Yes."

  "How extensive is the damage? Please rate your memory loss on a scale of zero to ten."

  "Who knows," he says. "Some days it feels like zero. Others like ten."

  "I will set you down as a five. Have you suffered other injuries in the war?"

  "Who hasn't?"

  "Please be more specific."

  "In my case I think it's obvious," he says, and waves a hand in front of his unblinking eyes. "Unless you happen to be blind."

  "For the record, visual impairment. Anything else?"

  "Yes."

  "I repeat, please be more specific."

  "It's none of your goddamn business."

  I swallow. "Are you being treated for your other difficulties?"

  "No treatment is available at the present time."

  "What is your occupation?"

  "I help war veterans. And in my free time I turn young pissants into men."

>   I pause. "You're an instructor."

  "I am a Master Memory-setter," he corrects.

  "Before that, what did you do?"

  "Killed Sarakul."

  "Do you have an emergency contact?"

  "No."

  "Next of kin?"

  "All deceased. Can we get on with it?"

  "In the case of any memory-setting there's a small but non-zero chance of cognitive collapse. In such a situation, to whom do you wish to bequeath your possessions?"

  "What do I care?" he asks. "You can keep my things, for all they're worth."

  "Very well. Thank you for answering these questions. The next part of the process—"

  "Maybe you weren't listening, but I told you I'm a Master Memory-setter, so I know what the next part of the process is."

  My pulse quickens. I force myself to engage in make-believe, to pretend that I don't know this man. He is a stranger, a patient I've never seen before. I am a Master Memory-setter. I will help him. I will help him. That is all.

  Using the computer, I prepare my mind with the usual array of cognitive analogs—a vast dictionary of images, sounds, smells, tastes, even tactile sensations—that will help me through the process. Finally I say, "I'm activating the link now."