by David Nell
Jimmy Caraway passed away the next day, never having a chance to see this article.
Somehow, I think that's how he wanted it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeffrey Veregge is an Award Winning Native American artist and writer who specializes in what people dub "Salish Geek". His geek art has won numerous awards and is in notable collections such Yale University and been featured on such websites as io9, Comicbookmovie.com, The Mary Sue and others. He dwells in the worlds of aliens, heroes, robots and monsters and speaks fluent geek and nerd. When not creating art, he is the contributing columnist for Indian Country Today media known as NDN Geek.
PORTRAIT OF A GIRL
Jennifer Courtney
The paper bird fluttered on its perch, high in the stone oak. Abbey had painted its twelve foot leafy home over the last several weeks, using a paste made of rendered fat and a few handfuls of night soil swiped from Mom's garden. The mixture was lumped on, shiny from the cooking grease, but it firmed up a bit towards the higher, older branches.
Her creation sprawled across the rough stone tunnel in impressionistic glops and whirls. Stepping back, surveying the texture, she thought it must look like bark had.
Fertile, this end product of her Mom's prized composting toilet, and redolent with an eye-watering rankness. Yet even after a sneezing fit from the vitamin and poop fumes, she couldn't resist stepping close again. To put a hand against the painting. To dream.
Smelly, but a tree. At least, it was the closest thing to a tree Abbey had ever seen.
Staring at it enrapt, bright snippets of the catechism she'd been working on during her morning lessons tickled through her mind.
Word chased word, silver moths whose young could eat a garden down to bare stalk.
Sargasso Sea...Sargasso Sea...Sargasso Sea.
A mantra, like the Ramones meditatives learned in Firsting School. A work chant. With a grin she crouched in the harvesting position, as they'd taught her when she was small. In that bright long ago, when she'd first studied proper form, back in the caves where the clothing plant-stuffs grew.
"Gabba gabba, we accept you, we accept you, one of us."
Her voice a feathery drone, she moved effortlessly into the picking exercises. The repetitious exercises worked up a sweat, and her mind dove into the liquid timelessness of meditation and movement. She was lost in the comfort of the familiar, a pattern known since toddlerhood. Precise and measured motion, created to teach the proper forms for planting and harvest.
Spontaneously, she began incorporating new movements, made-up ones. Adding in snatches of Elder Pound's catechism as she did, "Sargasso Sea...you are our Sargasso Sea." Turning smooth routine into a halting, ragged dance.
Heresy, sacrilege. Profaning the elders was a stoning offense.
She stopped, gasping and sweat glazed. The tree stretched upwards, towards a sun she'd never seen. A sun that might not even exist.
She gave a sudden skip forward and hugged the wall, nuzzling her face against cool stone and the shit based paint that decorated it. The lardy mix slimed her cheek.
Abbey swayed. The tree danced along in her head. She gazed upwards, at the tiny paper bird brought to life by the soft output of the air reclaimers. In her mind there was sunlight, a smell of green, the sticky kiss of spider's lace. There were high, high places and Elder Tennyson's fairy echoes.
Eyes narrowed, she willed away the thick stink. Squinted into existence fresh air, freedom, and Elder Frost's wooded paths. She stroked the wall, blurring whorls, griming her hand.
Her hands. The stuff was caked under her nails and such filth was a danger. Easily noticed. Getting caught stealing night soil usually meant a public beating. Yet, the tree before her was a heady thing. Freedom. Hard not to paint a forest despite the danger. She could do it, and she could people these deciduous branches with other feathered bodies, now dead a century.
Easy enough to schedule a trip to the repository, evade the librarians, and snip a dozen or so pictures from random books. If she didn't get caught, she could have a lost world. Here, in the old tunnel. Something quite her own.
The bird shivered, a bright paper semblance of life. A public beating for stealing the dirt was painful and humiliating. A harsh lesson. But books, they were irreplaceable. The authorities would kill her if they found she'd damaged one.
Abbey had been sitting on the hewn stone floor long enough for her sweat to dry. Cleaning her hands up using some lard, a dollop, purposely left separate from the paint mixture, and an old rag destined for the recycler. As she scrubbed, trying to get all the grime from underneath her nails, the little communication light on her suit begin to flash. She gave her hands one last wipe down, and then dashed towards home.
Scampering through the maze of surplus housing tunnels and into the inhabited portions of the underground town at dead run, she crashed into an Enforcer.
"Slow down, child."
He was menacing in the inherent way of well-armed authority. Dressed in brown, white, and gray, he blended with the granite and metal corridors. On his chest, eye level to Abbey, an embroidered nametape stated rank and title; Enforcer Weir.
"Enforcer, yes, enforcer."
Despite the assault, he hadn't really focused on her, not even to take in her nametag and rank. He was busy scribing something. Likely a report. Rumor was, the enforcers didn't end a shift until all their paperwork was cleared; paperwork being one of the funny holdover terms from centuries past. Apparently, he was trying complete his as he patrolled.
A little breathless from her run, Abbey waited to be dismissed. He had addressed her, and good manners dictated that she standby for his parting benediction and release.
He continued making his notations, so she snuck a glance at her com-unit. Still flashing. Looked back at him, then down at the floor.
One, two, three, four...five...
Counting calm, breathing in stillness, she willed herself not to fidget.
Finally, he began, "The day is done and darkness, falls from the wings of -"
His unusual pause stretched out, and she glanced up in confusion.
"Child, what is that on your face?" he glanced down the tunnel she'd come running from, "Where've you been?"
"Enforcer, I was in housing. The old, closed tunnels. Pulling scrap...Enforcer."
His eyes narrowed, "Oh?" he glanced at the last name embroidered on her chest, "Private Rhoades, how were you planning on bringing it back?"
"Enforcer, I must have dropped my carryall. I was rushing. My com-unit..."
He stared hard at the blinking light on her chest, then looked once more at her filthy, smeared cheek.
Just as she was starting to panic, he completed the benediction and dismissed her. She could feel his eyes, a crawly tingle on her bare scalp, as she scurried for home.
That night she sat in the kitchen unit studying, her Mom straightening up after their late-day meal.
"Mom, what's ambergris?"
"What's...? What underearth are you reading?"
"Portrait d'une Femme."
"Oh." Her Mom said, "Elder Pound, I didn't realize you'd gotten that deep into the catechisms."
She turned, putting cups into their cubby, "Ambergris is whale poop. They wore it as perfume."
"The elders wore poop as perfume?"
"Sacrilege to question, Abbey."
With a sigh Abbey grabbed her reader and escaped to the family sleeping pallet. With the stomping of someone spoiling for a fight, her mom followed. For a few minutes, a stormy silence threatened in the low ceilinged room, broken by occasional clicks as Abbey read, or by her mom's domestic shuffling as laundry was gathered, blankets straightened.
"Why can't we question? Who made the rules?"
"Are we really going to do this again, Abbey?" gathered laundry fell into a despondent heap on the floor.
"Why do we have to respect them?" Abbey said, "They put us here."
Her Mom frowned, for a long moment stood immobile. Then she spun. Her back to Abb
ey, she bustled around the room with fresh vigor. The laundry she'd gathered moments before, lay in a forlorn tumble.
Abby sat and waited for the screaming to start, but the moment stretched. Her Mom flitted here and there, back turned.
Finally, with a sigh at the dramatics, Abbey picked up the pile of lonely clothes, and carried them over.
Her mom stiffened at the sound of her approach.
"We had a visit from an enforcer today", her mom turned around, voice a whisper, mouth trembling into a grimace, "said you nearly took him off his feet."
The low ceilinged sleeping quarters seemed to grow darker. Through a blackness and hum that slowly started building in her ears, Abbey said, "How?"
"He looked us up, we're the only Rhoades family in the substation hub."
Abbey bent, put the clothes on the floor. With a deep breath, she stood back up to face her mom.
"That endless torture loop the Master's had. What's it called? The one that forced people to run? That's me. Stuck."
"A treadmill?" her mom's hands were shaking, "There's nothing outside, nothing left. If they hadn't solved the food crisis we'd all be...Abbey, this isn't a game. They'll kill you."
Kicking the laundry pile out of the way Abbey walked out of the room. Her Mom's voice trailed after.
Crossing over to the entryway of their home, flinging the privacy curtain aside, she suddenly leaped into a sprint. Her mother's last words were lost to the clamor of pounding feet. She was still running, heading towards the surplus tunnels, when a familiar voice called out.
It was Sheppard, a boy she'd shared classes with since Meditations and Harvest in their wee years. She'd seem him daily at school, since before they could talk. Sheppard was a constant, but he wasn't anymore hers than the network of tunnels that flowed through the cave system, or the communal family bed.
She just barely made out his hesitant, "Abbey...?" as she sprinted past him.
Gasping in time to her pounding feet, whooshing out, sobbing in. Through it all a broken cadence in her head, Sargasso Sea...Sargasso sea...She was through the labyrinth of surplus housing and staring at her tree before she realized Sheppard had followed.
"What is that?" he was sucking air, hair tousled. The expression on his face both vulnerable and elated. The same look he'd shared after their Sex Ed and Productivity class. The moment stretched out, a twin to the past, except now he was clothed and standing.
Then he stepped towards her, ran a finger along her jawline, "Do you need to get outside?"
The path he led her down was unfamiliar.
They stood before a door at a twisting of the ways. Unused tunnels led off into dark and forgetfulness. The long lasting cave glows used throughout the inhabited sections of the complex had expired, perhaps decades past.
The simple door was made of metal, shaped identically to those on the oldest of the housing entrances. These were the portals that had been used in home dwellings throughout the caverns, back in the earliest days.
This door was covered over in a sealant film, painted in peeling yellow and black. The only thing marking it as unique. She'd been taught since the cradle these colors marked a door that led to nowhere.
Abbey broke the seal.
"Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price, more Elder Pound,” the benediction or plea issuing from Sheppard as she opened the door.
Alarms wailed in protest at the flow of unfamiliar air and blowing grit.
There was a growing rumble, moments later resolving into footsteps. The Enforcers, a squad, closing in. Of course they would monitor this place.
Still, she hesitated, standing in the entryway, blinking into the haze.
"What if this is all that's out there?" she gestured at the whirling dust and gloom.
Shepherd tossed a jerky glance over his shoulder, eyes wide at the trample of the Enforcers. "If it is, you're dead."
He turned back to look at her, "Come with me. Come home. It's not too late."
"But what if I just let the bad stuff in? What if it hurts you or Mom?" she said.
He turned back to look at her, anger brightening his eyes, "A little late for that, Abbey. Come on, we still have time to hide."
Something in his tone made her turn away from the murk outside and look at him. The stare he returned was calculating.
"How long have you been planning to bring me here Shep?" Abbey paused, "You thought I'd be too scared. That I'd give up, go back."
Sheppard frowned, "I thought seeing it would put an end to your stupid fancies. I'm trying to help you."
"But, I lose either way..."
When Abbey turned back from the swirling dust, Sheppard was backing away from her, nearly lost to the shadows.
The wind moaned, a weird croon that set panic fluttering in some animal part of her. She peered back out, looking for the source of the noise, the dust making her scalp itch and her eyes tear up. The Enforcers were close enough now that she could feel them through her thin cloth shoes.
"Shep, I don't want to be Elder Pound's caricature, I don't want to be tragical...", but Sheppard was gone.
Abbey stood alone wreathed in dust. An entirely unique but pointless thing. A bridge spanning worlds, ending in nothingness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jennifer Courtney is the aging mother of two toddlers, and currently in her last year as an English Lit Major at the University of Maryland University College. She earned a spot as one of the six finalists in the Postcards Poems and Prose Fiction4ADay contest, available online in late November.
SOLVING HOLLY
Damien Krsteski
Descartes reads me the names of the dead.
I place my porcelain mug on a stack of old documents, a brownish ring of dried coffee over the scribbles indicates exactly where.
"Samantha Foley: blunt force trauma to the head." The projector regurgitates a round face covered by blond shoulder-length hair. Saggy eyes look right through me. The movement of my finger is followed by three successive optometric blasts. Three stills of the corpse and a 2D map of the crime scene pop up on both sides of the sullen face. My workroom briefly takes the grim form of a commemorative mural for Sam Foley while I study her case.
Nothing interesting, I say to myself. Solvable by anyone with half a brain.
I cast the projections to digital oblivion with a finger swipe. "Next."
Descartes obeys.
"Rashida Rains: apparent drug overdose," he says. I sip bitter black coffee while Rashida's dead face cuts through the room's darkness, phasing into view.
Above my head the AC hums a low-pitched tune as it sucks out stale air. I'm feeling somewhat jittery and jumpy. To remedy that I hasten to rearrange the space before me. A towering pile of books is consigned to the ground. I shove a bulky green folder with case file printouts in the desk drawer. The plastic case of microchips cracks slightly as I try to squeeze it in there too, so I give up, and throw it to the ground. A swipe of the arm over the desk and all pencils, pill bottles, scribbles and batteries rattle down to the floor.
That's better. Only my coffee mug and projection gear sit between the holographic portrait and me. I take a deep breath.
I lean forward. Blue eyes bulge out of the sad face shaped like a crescent. A pale complexion. Dark hair tied in a bun. For a brief moment I wonder how such a pretty girl ended up sad and dead but then I remember my last drug-related case and flick Rashida's photo and info out of view with a shudder. I better notify the Agency to keep me off junkies for a while. Darkness swallows me whole.
I get up, pick my mug up. "Next."
Descartes senses me leaving my desk, relays the projections over to the walls of the hallway. His voice in my head says the radiant face and mussed up hair belong to a certain Tarik Bosich, casualty of the Strasbourg protests. Doesn't sound familiar so I request further info. As I enter the tiny kitchen an anchorman's voice is buffering to be streamed to my cochlea. In the kitchen, a stainless-steel sink cradles a leaning tower of unwashed plates and an a
luminium table with rounded edges sits between two straight-backed chairs. Light falls in shafts from an overhead neon, pale and fragile, refracting off the table in random directions. I drain the mug, pour myself more coffee from the machine on the counter.
"Disaster in the Alsatian capital: a mob of five thousand protestors have gathered here before the European Court of Human Rights demanding the repeal of the controversial Universal Afterlife bill, guaranteeing any recently deceased person a free brain scan and transfer to Paradise City–" A trail of disturbing images follows me back to my workroom. One of the protestors pulls out a bomb and the police freak out. Alphanumerics inform me that in total four people have died: one from police bullets, the other three in the resulting stampede. The video from the event plays out on my unkempt walls, ochre blemishes of dead pixels in places of cracks. Cameras zoom in on the suspected terrorist who pulls a flare out of a jacket pocket. The police chief apologizes, his face crooked and bent on the wall's edge.
Back in my swivelling chair now. A bunch of images are scattered over thin air, one of which is a gaunt face with dishevelled hair. His floating head seems familiar but in a very subway advertisement way. The inscription beneath it says it belongs to Peter F. Casey, Paradise City's main engineer. Can't really say I've heard much about his work, but then again being buried in a murder case for eight fucking months with hardly any sleep will make anyone lose track of who's who in day to day politics. Besides, I've cancelled my subscriptions to NewsNet feeds years ago.
My thumb and forefinger from a circle and Descartes zooms in on the man's face which now takes half the space above my desk.
"Peter Fredericks Casey," he speaks in a pitchy vibrato, "born in Rockville, Maryland on April 5th 2008 is a computer engineer, neurophysiologist and humanitarian..." I listen to him drone on about the man's background, education and the string of successive events that have led him to his current position. I slurp more black coffee while Descartes' harmonizing voice updates me on the Paradise City situation. Last I heard it was ridiculed and described as the rich nerd's wettest dream but apparently in the last few months the project's picked up steam due to government funding in Europe. It even appears they're trying to finance post mortem migration for the poor, which critics sense could be a stepping stone to making digital immortality mandatory – a blasphemous intrusion into people's lives, they claim. I read up on it a bit, then clench my hand in a fist and all floating pixels shrivel up and die, leaving me once more bereft of light.
