by Naim Kabir
“Shinsuke? We have been missing you at our meetings. What are you doing in that vehicle?” He puffed up in a show of indignant confusion, with his hands on his hips.
“Never mind that, Doctor. There has been a crisis to your people, and I’ve managed to resolve it.” Otani made one of his classic thinking faces, with his fingers rubbing at his chin and a single eyebrow raised higher than should physiologically be possible. “Your machines no longer seem to be an effective tool for your protection and defense. I have a proposition for you. For all of you.”
The old mech stood at full height in the middle of the Nation town. It had been draped with red flags and its metal shell was painted white with war stripes.
In six months Shinsuke had taken the Nation from a cluster of huts in Midori to a pre-fabricated town named Haruaiko, with running water, electricity, and an academy for training the new generation of nonpathic protectors.
His people had risen to control every war-machine produced by Tokyo’s factories, and they were growing larger. They sent for nonpaths from other cities, and the Nation’s glory finally matched its name. In a few years, towns like this were expected to pair with every major city in Japan. Strategic positions.
A gas giant, a yellow rock, a blue-green marble swinging wildly around a star. Mountains like shards, nacreous clouds, spheres teased open in space and time; bent light and bridged minds—an infinity of minds that wove webs a galaxy in span. All connected. All united.
It would take generations for this planet to be readied for Shinsuke’s faraway family: for enough conductive minds to be nurtured and enough defective ones to be culled. And it would take decades for the first arrivals to ever make landfall.
Patience.
Stars born over long centuries, systems resolving from spinning discs, planets coalescing from cosmic beads of molten rock.
Slowly does Greatness come from Meanness.
Comets splashing down in melting balls of carbonated snow, bilayered bubbles emerging from the morass, lightning striking cyanide and aminated soup.
Slowly grows the Large from the Small, the Significant from the Worthless.
Fire turning night to day on the eve of a rocket launch, accelerating strobes of dazzling light from inside a superluminal bubble, the great awe of touching the face of an other for the first time.
Slowly.
About the Author
Naim Kabir is a novice who was lucky enough to get noticed: by Beneath Ceaseless Skies, the Journal of Unlikely Stories, and The Dark Magazine. When he’s not busy with University life he’s working on his debut novel, and hey–maybe you’ll see more from him soon.
Cassandra
Ken Liu
πόλλ’ οἶδ’ ἀλώπηξ, ἀλλ’ ἐχῖνος ἓν μέγα
The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.
—Archilochus
“Just doing my job.” He mugs for the cameras, that magnificent smile, that ridiculous cape and costume, that stupid quirk of the brow. Behind him is the unharmed research center building. Overhead the brilliant fireworks of the bomb he had heaved into the sky light up the scene, the sparks drifting down over his shoulders like confetti.
He could have tossed the bomb into the river, of course, but this makes for better TV. This is why I’ve taken to calling him Showboat, which happens to also work well with the soaring “S” on his chest.
“What do you have to say to her?” some reporter shouts.
“Villainy doesn’t pay,” he says, like some baseball player with a repertoire of a dozen clichés that will play well for any purpose. Don’t be evil. Surrender and face a fair trial. The American people will not tolerate terrorism. Open your heart to the goodness around you.
I flick off the TV. He had probably figured out my plans with the city’s help. With thousands of surveillance cameras everywhere these days, it’s almost inevitable that my image was captured by some of them. Computers and his super-vision would have done the rest. He does believe in at least one form of anticipatory knowledge then, the kind that concerns me.
I’ll keep on trying, though I’ll need a better disguise.
The apartment is well appointed, comfortable. The man who owns this place won’t be back until tomorrow morning; I’ll be safe here. I fall asleep almost immediately after a long day of crawling through ventilation ducts and utility crawlspaces carrying explosives.
I dream about the building I failed to blow up, about the humming servers and cluttered labs I saw, about the knowledge that is stored within, about automated drones sweeping across the sky, over a busy market, over a remote hamlet, raining death upon the people below implacably. I feel the terror of the man through whose eyes I see these things, and the knowledge that it is wrong, all wrong, and yet also necessary, because war has its own logic, the perennial excuse of cowards trying to evade responsibility.
But I am the villain. Right?
You want to hear some dark, twisted origin story, some formative experience that explains how I’ve come to be me. That’s what Showboat wants, too. “I feel sorry for her,” he tells the cameras. “No one is born evil.” I want to throw the remote at the TV every time he says that.
The real story is pretty mundane. It started with a search for cool air.
It’s summer and there’s no air conditioning in my apartment. Buying a window unit and installing it and figuring out how to pay for the extra electricity—the very thoughts exhaust me. Planning has never been my strong suit. I like to take things one step at a time. It’s why I’m still in the city with no job after college, trying to put off making that phone call to my parents about possibly moving back home. You’re right, Dad; it looks like that degree in literature and history really isn’t so useful.
So I go out for ice cream, for cold smoothies, for the cool air in discount stores where they sell everything you desire and nothing you need.
There’s a family near the TVs with their color saturation turned up so high that the skin on the white actors look orange. The woman stands next to one of the 72-inch beasts, looking skeptical.
“I think it might be a bit too big,” she says.
The man looks at her, and I see his face go through this weird transformation. It was a handsome face, but now it’s not. It’s like she has just insulted him in some unforgivable manner.
“I said I like this one,” he says. I don’t think I’m imagining that thing in his tone, the thing that makes the skin on the back of my neck cold, makes me want to cringe.
She must be hearing it, too. She tenses, straightens up. One of her hands goes to the TV, leaning on it for support; the other hand reaches down and grabs the hand of her little boy, who’s maybe four and tries to shake her off but she refuses to let him go.
“Sorry,” she says.
“You think our place is too small, is that it?” he asks.
“No,” she says.
“You make ten dollars an hour and complain about not getting enough hours, but you think we should be in a bigger place.”
“No,” she says. Her voice gets smaller. The boy has stopped struggling and lets her hold his hand.
“I guess it must be my fault. I should be working more. That must be what you mean.”
“No. Look, I’m sorry—”
“I tell you I like this TV and you start this again.”
“I like the TV.”
The man glares at her, and I can see his face grow redder and redder as if he’s still figuring out all the ways she’s insulted him. I realize what a big man he is, how this rage magnifies him, gives him that aura of power. Abruptly, he turns around and heads for the exit.
The woman lets out a held breath, as do I.
She takes her hand off the TV and starts to follow the man, the boy obediently trailing her. Our eyes meet for a moment and her face flushes, embarrassed.
I want to say something but don’t. What am I supposed to say? He’s got a temper, doesn’t he? You going to be okay? Is he hitting you?
What do I know about the lives of strangers? What do I know about the right thing to do?
So I watch as they leave the store, the fog from the air conditioning over the automatic doors enveloping her for a moment as she steps through.
I go up to the TV they had been looking at, and for some reason that I can’t even explain, put my hand on the TV, put my hand where she put hers earlier. It’s like I’m seeking the lingering trace of the warmth of her hand, some assuring sign that she’ll be all right.
And it feels electric, feels like the moon opens up and the stars are singing to me.
An apartment a few tiny rooms the bed the table the kitchen the carpet a mess Damn you’re lazy I’m sorry I was late Teddy was sick had to take him Damn you’re lazy
A toy piano is like a window a handle on a polished shoe grinding mezzo soprano Daddy is angry He is he is my darling Let’s be quiet
The link is with us woman with woman. Your eyes your face It’s nothing Why do you not leave Because So Because
Why did you look at him?
I wasn’t I wasn’t I wasn’t
Lets dance So tender sometimes I’m sorry I was angry forgive me but sometimes you push me
He can be so sweet
A girl is a woman because a woman is an omen Oh man a whole man a hole in a woman a wholesome woman.
An awl is a drill some sharply polished nail
Broken dish a wailing a crying a tantrum Get him to stop! I’m trying I’m trying Damn you’re lazy I’m tired Talking back I told you not to push me Don’t don’t you’re scaring him get away from me
A burst of crimson of red ink iron sweet
Screaming and screaming and screaming he’s not stopping Call the police call
My first vision leaves me breathless and ill.
I ask myself questions in an attempt at persuasion: What have I seen? What am I supposed to do with these images? What is their epistemological status? What is the rational reaction?
So I plead ignorance and do nothing.
Then there she is in the news: on TV, on the web, in the stacks of papers they still put in the convenience stores.
She was getting ready to leave him. Already found an apartment.
He came at her with that awl while their son watched. I couldn’t stop him, and I tried. I tried.
I show up to the funeral, where lots of strangers have gathered outside the chapel to lay flowers around a fountain. I watch the bubbling water and imagine the blood gushing out of her. Guilt gnaws at my insides like an iron file, but the rest of me feels numb. I catch sight of the boy once, and his stoic eyes stab at me like a pair of awls.
And then he swoops in like some butterfly, dressed in his flowing cape and skintight costume. With his hair slicked back, his square jaw steeled, and his arms akimbo—arms that could bend beams of titanium and hold up a falling airplane—he poses. The cameras flash. Despite my cynical nature, I feel my heart lift up. We all need a hero, especially a superhero.
He gives a speech in that familiar baritone. He declares war on domestic violence; he promises to keep his super eye out for signs of trouble; he asks neighbors and friends to see something and say something. “Women shouldn’t have to fear the men in their lives.”
He doesn’t explain how he’s going to accomplish this. Is he going to examine every family in the city? Ferret out the poison from the root of our fucked up culture? Maybe he thinks it’s enough for him to pay attention to the problem, to muscle his way to victory the way he grabbed that burning plane out of the sky, set it down by the shore, and peeled it open like a banana so everyone inside tumbled out and said oh thank you thank you.
But really, what right do I have to mock him and his platitudes? I should have done something. I saw what was going to happen.
His eyes sweep over the crowd, and our gazes meet for a moment. His eyes linger on my face just a second too long, and I wonder what he sees.
The next time it happens I’m about to enter the convenience store.
The man comes barging out the door with his head down and eyes on the ground. He doesn’t hold the door open for me and I have to duck out of the way before he runs me over. He gives me a quick glance as he passes by and I see something in his face that makes my heart stop—intense anger at the world, anger at everybody and everything, anger at me.
I pull the door open, unsettled; an old lady is trying to come out with a bag of bananas and crackers; I put my palm on the inside of the door to hold it open, put it on the spot where the man had slammed his hand a moment earlier.
A winter a splinter I’m a nice guy ice guy my life is not nice Why don’t you why
You owe me you owe me you all owe me
The girl who said no the boy who laughed why does he He doesn’t deserve it nobody does and they say I’m the weird one
A gun
Look at me look at me look at me you can’t hear me screaming you don’t know how much the silence and an island and a new land and it’s the same the same nothing ever changes
Two guns
I can see you I see all of you cowering terrified shivering shaking trembling leaves that you are should I let you live Why
I’m a nice guy ice thrice bang bang bang yes oh yes now you wish you were nice
Three guns
You’re supposed to get in touch with him by calling 911. He monitors that. If it’s the kind of emergency that can use his help, he’ll come.
This is an emergency, but the police will mock me if I call and maybe charge me for wasting their time. Sure, officer, happy to repeat my story. I followed a man home and got his address because I saw a vision that he was going to go on a mass shooting.
So I write to him at his fan club email. I try to keep it vague but promise him IMPORTANT URGENT INFORMATION. I try not to use any capital letters in the rest of the email. To get to the superhero I have to defeat the spam filter first.
It’s afternoon and there’s a thundershower. He hovers outside the window and taps the glass lightly. I rush over to open it.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, as though it’s perfectly normal to have a superhero step through my window. “You must be really busy.”
He shrugs and gives me a smile that shows off his perfect teeth. “When it rains really hard, the crime rate goes down.”
It has never occurred to me that villains, super or otherwise, might have plans derailed by the weather. I suppose it makes sense. Even henchmen don’t like to get wet.
“I have a crime to report.”
He listens to my story, nodding encouragingly from time to time. I tell him about my newfound power and dead Annie, whose funeral he attended, and angry Bobby, who’s going to kill.
He looks at me with those eyes that exude practiced kindness. “I’ll take care of it.”
And he opens the window and leaps out, as smooth as a fish leaping back into the ocean. I run to the window, my heart so full of happiness that I’m half expecting to see a rainbow. I watch his figure shrink over the rooftops, a blue-and-red angel of justice, truth, and all that is good and worthy.
I pace around my apartment, unable to remain still for even a minute.
He comes back an hour later, tapping on my window. The rain hasn’t let up, and he shakes himself off like a wet dog before alighting gently in my living room.
“Did you see him?” I ask.
He nods but says nothing. I scrutinize his face, and something in me wilts, dies.
“He’s a perfectly nice young man,” he says. “Away from home, living on his own for the first time. He’s a bit shy, is all.”
“But the guns!”
“He doesn’t have any guns.”
“Maybe they’re just really well hidden.”
“I have X-ray vision.”
“Maybe he’s going to get them.” I realize that I don’t know anything about the timing of my vision. Maybe Bobby will buy the gun tomorrow, maybe not until twenty years from now.
I think of Annie’s picture and ho
w she looked embarrassed the only time we looked at each other. I knew something. And I did nothing.
“You have to believe me. I saw Annie die.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Nobody knows the future.”
“They used to think nobody could fly. Or dodge bullets. Or see through walls. Or pluck a burning airplane out of the sky before it crashed.”
He looks at me, his face hardening. “Then tell me how I’m going to die.”
I look at him, my mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Finally, I say, “I don’t know. It doesn’t work like that.”
He nods. “Nobody knows the future.”
I become obsessed with Bobby. I stalk him from a distance, watch his comings and goings, try to piece together his life. I buy directional microphones and long-range zoom lenses. I download manuals written by private detectives and read them late at night.
I find out just how good my tradecraft is one day on the subway. I follow him onto the platform and get into the same car, at the other end. The train starts to move. He turns, looks me straight in the eyes, and walks over.
“You’ve been following me around.”
I try to deny it, but I don’t even have a story ready.
“Why?”
His eyes are confused, but his tone is polite.
I mumble something about living in the same neighborhood and having the same schedule. He asks for my name. He seems ill at ease but not in a way that appears dangerous—though to be honest, how is he supposed to act when he thinks he’s confronting a stalker? We shake hands and tell each other it’s nice to meet you.
His hand is warm, damp. I don’t get any visions.
I ask him to dinner.
Bobby doesn’t know anything about guns. He’s never gotten into a fight. He’s lonely but likes to read and play video games. He’s thinking about becoming vegan. This is the extent of what I find out about him by the end of dinner.
He’s awkward but polite. Our conversation doesn’t flow smoothly because he seems to try out everything he says in his head ten times before he says it. Not my type. But dangerous? I can’t see it.
We walk back together from the restaurant and stop in front of my building.
