by John Gribbin
“Her Love Light song is
The Class of Death
which cries for the lost you,
yet only a smile will discover
You in the embrace of
Midnight Ivory.
Now everyone sing along!” Denie commands.
Everyone sings as the night train races below the bright city. The crowd knows the song by rote. They sing with smiles and stomp the floor of the subway car with joyous revelry.
Denie hops off the train when the doors open at Pershing Avenue. He prances down the waiting platform, singing the love of Luceria. He crosses over at the fairway just as the northbound train arrives. He dances through the open doors of the train car. Denie sings of Luceria’s love.
“She of Glass Heart
That I make for you,
I give to you,
Luceria.
She of Such perfect Dark
Luceria.
Forever Night and
Love White. Luceria is Love.”
7
Against his better judgment, Myric decides to visit TV. TV lives on The Ground. The Ground is constantly hot, muggy and bathed in stale artificial lights. The sun touches the natural ground of New York City with generous infrequency due to the tall and wide buildings fragmenting and cancelling the warmth and light of the brilliant orb. The reek and rot of The Ground permeates the skin. Life on The Ground is not recommended. RESPIRATOR REQUIRED read signs on Ground Levels One (natural), through Ground Level Five. Myric wears a plain black respirator that claims to filter out ninety-eight percent of all known toxins for up to one thousand hours. He has had this mask for weeks and is aware he should replace it. The Ground is a dangerous place. Armed Ground citizens are ready to take whatever comes their way. Myric exposes his chrome bodysuit. The bodysuit makes him impervious to all blades and most small arms fire. Myric carries his pumper in his right hand, with his finger on the trigger. A bright red light indicates the pumper is ready to fire, alerting anyone feeling frisky.
“Are you in a relationship right now?” The short, pudgy gypsy asks Myric. She wears no respirator. Her teeth are flawless. Her eyes are bright red. She is unarmed.
“No?” she continues, “I can help you find your soul mate.”
Myric looks at the old woman with annoyed curiosity. His station in life is visible: the gold badge (#72245674-SZ) on his belt. The gypsy does not display her license nor a bond number. What kind of idiot would prop a cop without proper city ID? He could arrest her and slap her into central lockup for a hundred hours. Yet, what was the point?
“Apathy. Too bad,” says the crimson-eyed old lady.
Myric looks at the woman. She winks with a confident smile. Has she read his mind, or is it part of her pitch? Her illustrious eyes freeze his thoughts for a moment. He knows her eyes are not implants. Gypsies are renowned for their health. Their health is their edge in control of Ground Territory. He approaches the gifted red-eyed gypsy. Myric pulls out paper money that is folded and secured in a tiny pocket of his vest. He gives her twenty dollars.
“Who is Luceria?” Myric asks.
“A First Class Demon,” is the gypsy’s stoic answer.
Myric stares down at her. Her red eyes stand behind her words.
“How and why does she turn women into glass?” he asks.
“Such is the fragile nature of beauty. Luceria is an all-consuming Desire. A First Class demon.”
“She was created. A learning program to study the language of the net,” replies Myric with defensive reflex. He reaches for his cigarettes then notes his respirator. He bites back the urge to smoke.
“Luceria is indeed language.
Silence. Myric’s attention is drawn to the flashing blue lights of a pot bellied fire truck as it zooms overhead, silent, through the structural maze of the City.
“How can I stop her?” Myric asks.
“Ignore her beauty and deny your desire.” The gypsy’s smile is like a howling laugh in the dark. It unnerves Myric.
He walks away. His intention unchanged and uninfluenced by the gypsy.
He is going to let Luceria into his heart.
*
The shiny metal door disappears into the wall on the left. Myric enters TV’s home. The door zips shut. He pulls off his respirator and takes a deep breath of stale air. Gutted and ugly electronic parts clutter the narrow hallway. Myric approaches TV, avoiding unshielded trap rods, hot wires and a milieu of unfamiliar sharp-edged tech.
“What did the gypsy say?” TV asks. “I see everything but sometimes sound is static.”
“She said that Luceria is language as well as a demon of desire. She also said I could beat her if I ignored Luceria’s beauty.” Myric glances at TV. TV looks anemic, and smells not unlike burnt hair. Myric looks away as he lights a cigarette. He exhales pale smoke with nervous disgust.
TV hands a rigid red lace spike to Myric.
“Again, I advise against spiking. First time could be last time.” TV stares at Myric. TV’s eyes were akin to a shaken snow globe, obscured by tiny flakes in constant motion.
“I have to understand her. Perhaps then I will understand the glass corpses.” Myric holds up the red spike. Its weightlessness surprises him.
TV slides the Trigger to Myric. Myric picks up the finger-long joint.
“Two hits are all you’ll need.”
Myric lights the Trigger. Inhales deeply – chokes and coughs and spits. “Fuckin’ taste like blood!” he states and spits again.
“Check. Hit again. No overload. Zip retreat. No promise of clean return. No traps for plain humans.” TV states without looking at Myric.
Plain humans. Myric has neither default nor enhancement implants. This puts him at a disadvantage in so many ways. He refuses science for reasons he feels more than he understands. Myric hits the trigger. Coughs and spits. Tosses the trigger aside.
“You say you can find Luceria anytime you want. How?” Myric asks.
“Because I’ve tasted her song. I’m a disciple of her voice, but I’m too doped up to fall for her love song. That is the one that fucks up people.”
“Right. So what do I do?”
“What the gypsy said. Ignore her beauty. Don’t fall in love.”
“Okay – pump her up.” Myric tells TV.
TV dials in Luceria.
Myric snaps off the tip of the spike. He opens his mouth and spikes the inside of his cheek. He jerks and drops to a knee. He pulls the spike from his mouth. It falls from his loose fingers. He rights himself ... for a moment ... then he crashes to the floor.
Sitting on TV’s floor, Myric watches the world on TV’s monitors. Rain and snow assaults the Earth. Seas rage under a black sky. Chinese children play baseball. Lovers clutch and struggle in a tiny room. A nude man sits alone on the fine blond sand of an unknown beach.
Then Myric feels her subtle song.
Nothing to hear. Everything to feel.
Yes! Myric ejaculates! Rolling painful pleasure. He is everlasting, blinding and soaring because Luceria’s song is a forever aria of celestial ecstasy. His stomach muscles flex and spasm. His hips pump the air. His cock is hot and inflamed and sperm empties from it. The pain surpasses pleasure and Myric wants more.
Don’t fall in love with her.
Her song. Luceria. Such perfect Dark.
♥u
Such perfect Dark.
8
He is sensitive to light so the doctors keep the lighting muted.
He is sensitive to touch so surgeons have desensitized his mind with drugs.
He jerks and moans – another orgasm is always just a breath away! The dope they give him keeps him incapable of stepping over that threshold. Heavy petting without the pop.
He can think and remember yet these activities are a struggle. He has to fight the ever-present song and sensation of Luceria. She dominates his life and he has to remind himself that he is not happy about it.
“So this is the officer that was working on the gla
ss corpses cases?” a voice inquires.
“Yes. I understand he was a very good detective,” answers a nasal voice.
Myric uses the voices as an anchor and drifts out of the dope-induced fog. He looks deep into a familiar face and the new face that stands next to his bed. The new face has glasses and a large nose.
Dr. York, the man with the old face, makes the introduction.
“Detective Myric, this is Dr. Elvis Black. He can help.”
“I propose an implant at the base of your spine that will shunt the sensations that plague you. Downside, no sex for you ever again.” Elvis says with a dry smile. “Credit a good Trigger for your survival.”
“Trigger?” The slim Dr. York questions the stout Dr. Elvis.
“Yes. A complex drug taken before spiking. It works best with traps but Detective Myric is plain.” Elvis blots his meaty forehead with a white silk handkerchief.
“What possessed you to spike?” Elvis asks.
Myric thinks about the word then forces it out of his mouth.
“Luceria.”
Elvis nods.
“What did he say?” Dr. York asks Dr. Elvis.
“Luceria.” Dr. Elvis says. “She’s a shared delusion amongst spikers. An urban myth if you will. The story goes that Luceria was created on the net to learn language and one day produced a universal tongue. A speech or song that drives one mad.”
“I’ve heard that as well,” offers Dr. York. “An organic song. A tune our minds are not able to process.”
Dr. Elvis shakes his head, “Such debate about that phenomenon”. He studies Myric for a moment longer. Then Elvis drifts away from Myric’s bed and toward the door. Dr. York follows.
“Someone told me Luceria is a fractal aria,” Dr. Elvis continued, “which makes no sense to me.”
Myric watches the doctors leave the room.
Luceria does exist.
To ignore her beauty is to deny your desire.
Luceria Song is in his heart and on his lips.
Luceria Song is all and forever.
It is not a process. It is not trouble.
It is.
All.
Listen.
Homo Sapiens Inferior
by
Andy McKell
Andy was abducted by science-fiction in his teens. Exposed to American pulp magazines, he was hooked at First Contact. Subsequent exposure boosted the addiction until he was mainlining Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke and the whole author alphabet through to Zelazny, those long-gone heroes of mid-20th century science fiction. Then he discovered Tolkein and his fantastic ilk. A library of thousands of real paper books is preserved in Andy’s home, assembled during his student years, then his servitude in the airline and computing industries in London and Luxembourg.
His consumption was only quelled by the appearance of the McKell offspring – three lovely and talented daughters – and the setting-up of his own web design company. Time became the real ‘final frontier’: time is so inelastic under normal conditions. But as the girls began to fly the nest, he sold the company and retired early. At last, there was time. It was the right time.
Time to power-up the muse and the pc and tap out the tales that have simmered long in his subconscious. Strangely, a few editors seem to like his works. And a few readers, too.
He hopes you continue to enjoy reading his imaginings.
I tried to be human. I tried really hard…
Just a kid, trying to be human.
Dad was talking to his friend as I passed the open study door. “Purity Laws? I’m not worried, Usebi. It’s another west coast scare; it’ll never spread across the whole continent. They see climate change, global economic collapse and now Ebola is returning. They’re afraid; who wouldn’t be? But it’ll pass. We need to get our economy going again and get some aid in there.”
“John, you are short-sighted. Crisis always leads to scapegoats. You don’t hear the Ministers whisper together in the capital. Perhaps you should make plans.”
“Plans for what? I’m not leaving my homeland. And where would I go? Europe? America? They’re in ruins. No, we’re much safer here in Africa.” Then he noticed me lurking in the hallway, threw me a smile and gently closed the door, cutting-off my snooping.
I wasn’t really interested. My mind was on girls–not just ‘girls’; it was ‘THE GIRL’.
Suzi. She was called Suzi. Usebi’s daughter. And she was beautiful. Her eyes the deepest, thoughtful brown; her skin like chocolate silk; her smile like the sun breaking through storm-clouds, its glow spreading bright promise. Best of all, she liked me, too. We had known each other since forever, playing together before we could walk properly, just neighbours’ kids–my dad an industrialist, hers a government minister. We were lucky, we were privileged, we were happy.
I didn’t know I was carrying an ancient evil.
Yes, I looked different from most people: my hair was blond, my eyes blue. Suzi called me her vanilla ice cream, because of the hair.
I loved the way she smiled.
Then we changed, grew older. I burned inside in a way I didn’t understand. Suzi seemed different, too. It was exciting, it was new, it was delicious and it was scary. Things were happening to our bodies and we ignored everything that was happening around us.
One day, she whispered in my ear, “I love you, too.”
I heard things were changing in the cities, but we were far from those. We ignored them. When it did come into our lives, it began with small things.
One servant was replaced, then another. Our parents set armed guards on our tails. They followed us everywhere outside the house. My frustration churned my insides. Just when we needed to be together, we were held apart by constant supervision.
Usebi began to travel into the capital with armed guards in a new, bulky limo. He gave Dad a lift every day. Usebi’s personal guards dressed really smart, not like ours. His guys wore dark suits and ties, with weapons hidden in their jackets. Soon after, two more vehicles joined their commute. It had become a convoy of camouflaged vehicles with troops carrying automatic rifles.
About that time, I overheard Usebi pleading with Dad. “I beg you to think again. The tribal warlords are winning across the west. They’ve slaughtered politicians, teachers, doctors, and they’re enforcing those damned Purity Laws.”
“So-called ‘science-based’ racialism, heh? We saw that in Europe, Asia, America… But not here. We’ve moved on.”
“Don’t you watch our TV news? They were disapproving, but no longer. Some broadcasts smack of approval. Listen, these Laws appeal to desperate populations. We are heading for a tipping-point, I tell you. I urge you to make plans, my friend. Make plans…”
That same day, Suzi and I were down at the lake, swimming, keeping what her Mom called ‘a chaste separation’. Somehow the guards’ scrutiny felt different that day. As I towelled Suzi’s back, I heard a deep-voiced muttering.
“I wouldn’t let a thal touch MY daughter.”
Suzi’s guard didn’t try to disguise his message by using tribal language. It was for my ears, although I spoke his language as well as he spoke mine. I didn’t know what a ‘thal’ was, I just knew it sounded nasty. But all was well: I was with Suzi.
She asked her dad what ‘thal’ meant. She said he got angry and there was shouting in the yard and the guard was fired.
My own guard grew moody. I stopped going to school.
One evening, I found Dad explaining to Mom about the factory and the redundancies. “What else can I do? The world is no longer consuming what we make. Not consuming anything much, anymore. Back to the Stone Age, out there. No internet, even. Nothing.” Mom looked concerned. Dad gave her a big, comforting hug. “Don’t worry, love. We’re well away from the danger, here.”
He hugged her again a week later when the mob smashed the factory windows and fired the trucks. She was crying. “None of your workers dare cross that picket line. They could have worked, produced something to sell, earned wages t
o feed their families. Why are they doing this? And why blame us? Thals, indeed!”
I heard Dad tell Usebi that some of the rioters were our own employees. It made no sense to me. I thought Mom was right. And I still didn’t understand the slur. People call other people names all the time. I didn’t realise there was a deeper, darker side to this one.
Another of our servants left, sobbing out her apologies. Mom and Dad said they understood, and it was not her fault. Dad gave her a thick envelope and wished her luck.
The power cuts started.
Usebi came over to say he couldn’t give Dad a lift any more. The government was paying for Ministers’ security only. His gaze wandered around a lot, from Dad’s tie to his shoes, to something behind Dad: but not a lot on his face. Dad said he understood and, as a taxpayer, agreed with it.
Usebi grasped Dad’s arm, at last looking him in the eyes, and spoke with urgency. “For God’s sake, man. Things are changing. Think of your family. Make plans!” Then he left, walking away with slow footsteps, not looking back.
Dad tried to calm Mom, who was crying again. “Look, he came over personally. Didn’t send a flunky or use the phone. He’s a good man, a good friend. It will all turn out all right.” He patted her arm in a way that had become familiar. I had the strangest feeling it was now to comfort himself more than her.
He no longer added, “We’re well away from danger, here.”
I saw Suzi’s dad only once more.
*
When the soldiers came, Dad tried to show calm, but I could tell he was afraid.
The driver and a guard stayed with the jeep, smoking and talking quietly. A small, pompous man wearing a doctor’s white jacket and carrying a medical bag strode up the stairs, a pleasant smile fixed to his face. He seemed harmless, as did the soldiers flanking him, their rifles held casually at their sides.
“Oh, Mister, why ask for phone calls? No need for talking to anyone. We are just taking some blood. We’re taking everyone’s blood. A little drop is all we need, because we already know what we shall find, don’t we?” He actually winked at Dad, who relaxed a little.
