Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #3

by Iulian Ionescu

  My mind is hit hard.

  I've never experienced a tidal wave in real life, but I have to believe this is what it would feel like. A pent-up reservoir of shapeless, inscrutable thoughts crashes into me, testing the limits of my identity. The surge tries to drown out every thought that helps to make me me.

  My hand bolts forward toward the sensitivity setting, but before my fingers make contact with the screen I see that Master Agoza is grinning. That's when I realize: he's doing this on purpose, marshaling his thoughts, rallying his mind, trying to invade me with it. Lowering the sensitivity setting would be a sign of weakness, of losing control during the session. I must hold my ground.

  I lower my hand back down.

  Just as I feel that I've restored a measure of control, he says, with unmistakable smugness, "Are you sure the connection is working? I can't feel anything."

  I grunt. Another attack. Attempting to verbalize a response right now would distract me from the task at hand, which is to learn the contours of his mind. I close my eyes and complete a focus-strengthening exercise we have practiced often. Little by little I feel my mental resolve returning. The writhing sea of foreign thoughts pushing up against me begins to settle down. I can afford to speak again. "Sometimes the connection takes a few instants. You should sense it shortly."

  I have shaped my consciousness into a barrier that fends off the ocean of his otherness—a wide, sturdy, dam-like wall. I imagine myself on top of this wall now, studying the scene. Now I must take the next step. I have to become familiar enough with the sub-structure of his mind to identify which places have been altered by the Sarakul, so that I can restore them.

  Plunge into the sea.

  In the real world, traces of spittle line the edges of Master Agoza's lips. Maybe, I dare to think, this is not easy for him. And then: Stay on track. What's important is how I'm doing. I'm coping. Good. Good. Time to go deeper.

  I leap in. I'm instantly chilled by his thoughts, amazed that anything this icy can move around, let alone be liquid. My real body, sitting by the computer, shivers. In the mindscape, hungry undercurrents tug at me but I make myself too heavy for them, too burdened by purpose. Mustering all my focus I plummet down until I hit the seafloor of Master Agoza's mind. At last, with the equivalent of a dull, water-muffled thud, I feel myself on firm ground.

  At these depths it's utterly dark. I broadcast the message as loudly and clearly as I can that I'm here to help him, but the darkness smothers me. It becomes so oppressive that I forget how to breathe-both here and out in the real world.

  I'm paralyzed.

  Help me, I think, uselessly. Please.

  A few moments later a familiar voice replies: I'm here.

  I feel a gentle nudge and my body slips out of panic's death-hold. Air flows through my real lungs, in and out, in and out, a delicious, intoxicating rush that translates into the ability to move around in the mindscape once more.

  Good , the voice says, pleased. Together we'll get through this.

  Cora?

  Yes .

  But how is that possible? I ask. How can you be inside my mind?

  I'm not inside your mind, I'm a part of your mind, the voice explains. A fragment of your own consciousness that represents resourcefulness, hope, whatever qualities you admire in the real Cora. If you think of me as her, it will make everything easier.

  Master Agoza once told me that this could happen. A talented memory-setter, he explained, might encounter a patient so damaged that the effort of helping him or her would trigger a mental avatar of someone known to the setter. I remember thinking it sounded like fantasy. But this is real-as real as anything that exists inside the mind.

  I try to move forward but feel myself pinned down. The pressure all around me is rising.

  What do I do?

  Relax , Cora instructs. Think of something pleasant. Like the time I taught you to identify the basic night sky constellations.

  I summon the memory. A gorgeous winter night, several months after we found out our mom had killed herself. It seems crazy to give in to this particular memory so deep in Master Agoza's mind, but Cora's voice is impossible to distrust. I allow myself to re-experience that evening. I relive the numbness of my shocked emotions. But then I remember something I had completely forgotten until now: the joy of learning how to read the sky, the exuberance of discovering order and beauty in the heavens. And a curious thing happens—as I allow the memory to overtake me, something loosens inside. A radiant energy is released, seeping out of me, into the darkness.

  Very good , she says. Use the glow to illuminate the landscape.

  It takes time, but the more terrain I study, the stronger the glow emanating from me becomes. I make note of bizarre ridges, areas of seabed erosion, outcroppings of younger rocks at impossible angles wavering in and out of existence. These features represent different parts of Master Agoza's mind: unpleasant memories of things that were done to him, experiences he has repressed, severed from neighboring memories, and so on. The more I see, the more convinced I am that parts of Master Agoza's mind have been reshaped from the outside. If I were to guess, I'd say these weird structures are the Sarakul's doing, some kind of enhancements.

  As I explore more of the seabed, I see a sharp descent into a trench. With cautious steps I advance and pause on the edge. The drop is huge. The light stemming from me is not nearly strong enough to penetrate it.

  You know what this is , Cora says, and you know what you must do about it.

  Yes. Yes. The trench represents one of the chasms into which Master Agoza's memories have been cast. I have to restore the seabed's normal gradation.

  I glance back into the fissure.

  It's too deep , I say to Cora. Whatever Master Agoza is hiding down there, he really doesn't want it to surface.

  Just looks that way, brother.

  I believe her. Which is to say, I believe myself.

  I give it everything I've got. There's no point, after all, in trying to save my strength; if I can't restore this set of memories, I will have failed. As I concentrate on raising up the trench floor I think of the real Cora. I feel an unexpectedly poignant upsurge of gratitude. Where would I be without her?

  A rumbling underfoot pulls me out of the experience. The water around me begins roiling.

  It's working. The ground must be rising. All I need to do is continue applying pressure—

  Something's wrong, Cora warns. Look around you.

  The water has become murky, a cloud of something black is spreading through it like ink. I lose all my hard-won visibility. Within seconds the stuff is everywhere, coating my body.

  Ash. Volcanic ash. The fissure must be the opening to some sort of metaphoric hydrothermal vent—a feature I've never encountered in anyone's mind before—and it is erupting with vicious force. The seabed shakes, and the pressure front generated by the spewing black material sends me reeling, tumbling away.

  Spinning wildly, I lose all sense of direction. The real me in the chair hyperventilates.

  Follow the sound of my voice , Cora says. It will lead you back to the surface.

  But before I can do that I hit something hard, some sort of underwater barrier. At least it ends my mad careening. After a few moments I feel my body breathing more regularly again, shallow, short gasps, but getting steadier.

  I wave my arms in the water to try and clear some of the ash, and I see that I'm standing next to a wall, unnaturally smooth and rising straight up parallel to me.

  Up here , Cora is saying, from what feels like an enormous distance away.

  Something distracts me from her voice. A source of light coming from within the wall.

  I push my face closer and realize the wall isn't made of rock, but glass. It becomes transparent. And on the other side of this divide is Master Agoza, sitting in the chair that I am presently occupying in the real world; he is connected to the computer just as I am connected to the computer; and in the chair opposite him in this room within his min
d—the chair in which he is sitting in real life—another patient is connected to the computer. I've never seen this man before. He looks haggard, with sunken eyes and sallow cheeks, as though he hasn't slept in a lifetime. Both of them have their eyes closed. They are in the middle of a restoration.

  Up here! Cora says again, more forcefully.

  I think the thoughts that enable me to start floating up from the bottom. I'm aware that ten feet from me the vent is continuing to jet out its noxious substances, that I have to ascend to a higher level before it's too late.

  Cora urges me on: Yes, good! Keep going!

  As I gain buoyancy, I'm again captivated by what I see through the glass. Eight feet or so above the seafloor, and continuing to drift up toward the surface, there's an identical room on top of the one I just witnessed. Another Master Agoza and another patient, again connected to the computer, again undergoing a restoration. And as I continue to float up I see a whole succession of these rooms, all of them containing Master Agozas and other patients, each room atop another, five, eight, fifteen, twenty, until I stop counting.

  At last I see the telltale refractions of the world beyond the surface rushing towards me. I look away from the bizarre building and burst into the air.

  My eyes take a moment to adjust to the radiance of the clear sky as I hover in place. I return to the dam-like barrier from which I originally descended. Perched safely on this structure, I gather my thoughts.

  Thank you, I say. You saved my life.

  You saved your own life , Cora says, but now her voice is different, more like my own, and it echoes in my mind until its last repetition sounds entirely like me, is me, and I know Cora is gone for now.

  The water below is murky. Black and grey plumes begin to shoot out from the surface, darkening the air with poisonous gases. There's no way I can go back in and survive, so I will myself back into full consciousness. With quick, deliberate movements I sever our connection and disengage myself from the equipment.

  It takes Master Agoza a few moments to join me, an unusually slow return by his standards.

  He massages his temples.

  "You failed the test, apprentice Beyo," he says, in an odd throaty voice, as though he were underwater.

  Using techniques he has taught me, I process the images still reeling behind my eyelids. I confirm my earlier impressions—the Sarakul did things to him, changed him inside.

  But there's more.

  "Yes, I failed the test," I say. "Because you don't want your memories restored. You've made it impossible for anyone to help you."

  Master Agoza's features change, twisting into what on any other day I would label contempt. But today I realize it's merely a mask. He leans forward. "You understand nothing."

  "The Sarakul didn't only scramble your memories, they rewired you. They amplified your ability to remain dispassionate. They unleashed something within you." Master Agoza doesn't tell me I'm wrong, so I continue. "And you did horrible things. I don't know how, exactly, but that volcano deep inside your mind… That must be how you escaped."

  "I hadn't learned how to control it yet," Master Agoza whispers. Is that remorse in his voice?

  "I also saw how many vets you've helped since returning home. That's your penance, isn't it?"

  "Not nearly enough," he replies, slowly shaking his head.

  And then I understand what he's been hiding from me, the truth he has kept from me during our joined restorations. "That's the way it is for all memory-setters, isn't it, Master Agoza? Deadening oneself to the emotions inside others' minds is the only way to get the job done. The better your skills, the colder you become… until you're no longer quite human."

  "The price we pay," he says. His voice is far away.

  I think about my mom and dad.

  I think about Cora.

  "No."

  I get up and walk over to Master Agoza.

  Still seated, he turns toward me, as if in slow motion. At this distance I see deep black lines under his eyes. He is very pale.

  "You would throw away three years of apprenticeship?" he asks in a barely audible voice.

  A solitary tear falls from his right cheek; one can be blind, it seems, and still cry.

  I place my arms around him. I hold him.

  My voice doesn't sound like my own. "Thank you."

  And then I leave.

  I go for a long walk. Eventually I arrive back at the Solace Home.

  Our room, normally familiar and reassuring to me, feels foreign, as though I'm seeing it for the first time. When I step inside Cora is snoring mildly, but as I approach the bed she wakes up. I sit by her side on the floor. "I'm sorry, Cora," I say. "I've been an ass."

  "Beyo?" Concern creases her forehead. "The test…" She rubs her sleep-addled eyes.

  I nod. "It's all over. I got through it—thanks to you."

  She props herself up on her elbows, frown deepening. "Me?"

  I nod again. The time for detailed explanations will come later.

  "You passed, then?"

  "I failed," I say. "But it's for the best."

  Outside, the sun is rising. Its rays pass easily through the thin curtains, dappling the wall opposite our bunk bed in golden hues. I hear the patter of feet in the corridor as others wake up and head down to the meal area in search of breakfast, a sloppy, volunteer-served breakfast, but breakfast nonetheless.

  A new day is beginning.

  I smile at my sister. It takes a few heartbeats for her to smile back, quizzically at first, then reassured by the warmth and depth of my expression, and we find each other in the moment.

  © 2014 by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

  * * *

  Alvaro Zinos-Amaro is co-author, with Robert Silverberg, of When the Blue Shift Comes, which received a starred review from Library Journal. Alvaro's short fiction, reviews and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Analog, Nature, Galaxy's Edge, Strange Horizons, the Los Angeles Review of Books and other venues. He also edits the blog for Locus magazine. Alvaro and his co-conspirator and sometimes editor (read, girlfriend) currently reside in sunny Irvine, California. Read more about him on his website Waiting for My Aineko (myaineko.blogspot.com).

  Hither and Yon

  Anatoly Belilovsky

  "So how'd you guys get together?" Katie asked.

  We stopped at the top of the rise, leaned against a pink wall in the shade of an awning: Janie and I, and the couple we met at dinner, first night of the cruise. It was an effort to remember their names: Katie and Kevin. I kept thinking of them as Lucy and Ralph. As in, Ricardo and Kramden.

  "George and I met at a Cancellation Day party," said Janie.

  For a moment I flashed on Janie as I saw that day, gift-wrapped in black tights and a golden tunic.

  "A whoosie-whatsit day party?" said Kevin.

  "June 3, 2009." I said. "40 years to the day since 'Turnabout Intruder' aired. The final episode. Janie came dressed as Kirk."

  I looked at Janie, and she at me, and once again my breath caught. Our eyes had met that day through the dry ice fog that poured from a punch bowl; hers were set to stun. A smile pulled my cheeks like a tipsy great-aunt at a wedding rehearsal.

  "And you went on a cruise for your second anniversary," said Kate. "How romantic! I bet he never forgets your anniversary, like you do, half the time, right, Kevin?"

  "I thought Kirk was a man," Kevin said.

  "He was," Janie answered. "Except in that episode, he gets body-swapped. I borrowed a command tunic." She squared her shoulders.

  "You musta looked hot," said Kevin.

  "Don't go changing the subject," said Kate. "We were talking about how thoughtless you are."

  "Once," Kevin muttered. "I forgot it once."

  "Right," said Kate. "I can count. You forgot our second anniversary, that's one out of two. Half the time."

  Kevin took a breath to say something, thought better of it, and deflated in silence. Janie did the eyebrow shrug, Vulcan style. I looked around, anywhere bu
t at Kate and Kevin.

  We turned and walked toward the Hamilton wharf under a long awning shared by a dozen tiny storefronts. The air grew cooler as an onshore breeze swirled dust and fallen leaves in pirouettes and loops; a cloud drew across the sun, tempering its glare with the mercy of shade.

  "Oooh, look at these!" said Kate, her all-penetrating voice now coming from the other side of the street. "Janie, come over here!"

  "What time is it?" said Janie. "I think it's getting late…" The last word sounded Dopplered-down.

  I turned to look. Kate had a hold on Janie's hand and one foot in the doorway of a shoe store on the other side of the street.

  "Hurry up, Kate!" yelled Kevin from behind me. "We got a ship to catch!"

  Janie flashed me a come-hither look: come-hither and save me, that is.

  "—I'll protect you, fair maiden!" I shouted.

  "—Sorry, neither!" she shouted back.

  "Huh?" Katie said, hear head tilted.

  "The Naked Time," Janie said.

  Janie loved being rescued. She'd never actually needed to be saved, until now. I turned to follow, but with one last yank Kate pulled Janie through the doorway, and the door slammed shut.

  Kevin grinned, not unsympathetically. He straightened his back and began to whistle a familiar tune. The words came to me as if he spoke them:

  "Hello, silence, my old friend,

  I've come to talk to you again…"

  A flash of lightning answered him.

  In seconds, the sky darkened and began to churn; thunder rolled over us as air tingled with ozone. I started across the street. It wasn't that wide; a few drops of rain weren't going to stop me.

  I would have made it, too, most places. Not in Bermuda.

  Halfway across, lightning and thunder hit me in a single body blow, and rain roared in my face like a rabid fire hose. Next thing I knew, Kevin was pulling me up and back under the awning, both of us soaking wet.

  "Jeez," said Kevin. I barely heard him, between the downpour and the ringing in my ears. "Thought you was a goner there for a second. Close call!"