Perception Fault

by James Axler

Jésus didn’t bat an eye. “Very well. I suggest a quick steam while we clean those clothes.”

  “Actually, you may toss this shirt and the trousers on the nearest dung pile, if you have one. I will be requiring a new white shirt, and trousers from your finest broadcloth.”

  Jésus turned and picked up a thick, white, terrycloth bathrobe from a nearby chair. “In the meantime, perhaps this will be comfortable.”

  Doc was one step ahead of him, pulling off the soiled shirt and handing it to him, then kicking off his boots and sending them skittering across the floor next to an empty chair. His pants were next, which were so dirty they could have stood up by themselves. “Perhaps you could provide new drawers, sir.”

  “Indeed. And I’ll arrange to have your coat cleaned.”

  “Excellent.”

  The next ninety minutes passed for Doc in a haze of relaxation like he hadn’t known since the nineteenth century. After his long steam, which relaxed every tight muscle in his body, he took a bracingly cold shower, then toweled off and slipped into the thick, soft, warm white robe. Jésus led him over to the chair and had him sit down. He wrapped a moist, hot towel around Doc’s face, arranging it to leave a small air hole near his nose, and let him sit for a few minutes, until Doc almost fell asleep. Then he whisked the towel away and stropped his old-fashioned razor until the edge gleamed in the light. Lathering up soap in a small container, he brushed it onto Doc’s chin and cheeks, then shaved him with sure, steady strokes, cleaning the blade on his towel after each stroke and going back until the old man’s face was as smooth as a newborn’s. He splashed on just a touch of aftershave, enough to cool Doc’s skin and wake him up, then sat him up and cut his hair. Finally, Jésus turned his chair around so Doc could get a glimpse of the new man he had become.

  “Dear God…” Doc stared at himself, rubbing his weathered chin and forehead, examining the hollows of his cheeks, the jutting planes of his cheekbones and slightly sunken eyes under his neatly trimmed white hair. “I look…so old…”

  Jésus quickly whirled the chair back around. “Not at all, sir, you simply look distinguished. How about we take a look at clothes to fit the rest of you, as well?”

  Doc shook his head and looked up at him. “Yes, yes, let’s do that, shall we?”

  “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Doc rose from the chair and trailed the short man into the next room, leaving the mirror and its haunting image behind.

  Thirty minutes later, dressed in clean underwear, a crisp white shirt and black pants cut to fit his cracked knee boots, which had also been cleaned and polished, Doc walked back along the corridor to his suite. A large plastic bag containing his clean frock suit, among other things, was slung over his shoulder. Fumbling for his key card, Doc inserted it into the slot, frowning when the light failed to change, then turned the card around and tried it again. This time the light turned green, and he pushed the door open.

  The moment he slipped inside, he was assaulted by a blast of noise unlike anything he’d ever heard before, a strange combination of whine and howl that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Strange voices could also be heard over the din, men snapping out commands to one another, punctuated by more strange sounds that resembled some of the odder weapons he had seen during his travels throughout the Deathlands. The main room of the suite was dark except for waves of flickering light and noise emanating from the television.

  Doc stopped, grabbing for his LeMat, which he had left behind in the room, and stood transfixed as he watched the incredible action unfold on the screen—strange vessels soaring against the backdrop of space as they whirled and dived above a gigantic planet that seemed to be a massive artificial space station.

  “Have you been here the entire time?”

  “Shh! Good part’s comin’.”

  “That’s quite impossible. Any ships in space couldn’t move that quickly, not without an opposing force to push against. Newton’s laws would still be in effect, even in a vacuum.”

  Jak turned his cold ruby eyes on Doc. “Said shut mouth.” With that he turned back to the television.

  Absorbed in spite of himself, Doc watched as a young man with a dome-headed, silver-and-white robot as his copilot flew a harrowing course down a large trench while being menaced by a sinister man clad in black armor wearing a vicious-looking helmet and face mask that made him sound like he was speaking through a box or screen of some kind. The masked enemy was driven off by another ship that swooped in at the last minute to save the day, making Doc roll his eyes in disbelief.

  At the climax, the pilot aimed his “photon torpedoes” at a small opening that apparently destroyed the entire structure when it was hit. While his scientific mind tallied up the many impossibilities of what he’d just seen, Doc’s romantic mind soared with the young man as he came back to his friends’ hidden base and received a reward from a pretty, brown-haired woman, along with his friend, a dark-haired hired blaster and his partner, a tall, hirsute mutant who resembled a shaggy, walking carpet.

  When the triumphant swell of trumpets sounded over the credits of the movie, Doc shook himself out of his reverie and turned on the lights. “It’s almost time to head down to dinner, and you haven’t even washed up yet.”

  Jak shook his head in denial. “Yeah, did. Stuck head under faucet. ’Sides, healer cleaned me. Better ’n you—stink like gaudy house slut.”

  “Yes, but you could at least have gotten your clothes— Ah, why do I even bother? All right, if that is how you want to go, who am I to stop you?”

  “Yeah, who?” Jak was already ejecting the golden disk and putting it back in the folder, and choosing another one. “Not want go. Two more vids after this one. You not see the—what’d they call it?—‘lightsaber’ scenes. Awesome!”

  “Now, Jak, I am sure there will be plenty of time to watch the rest of those, but we should really pay our respects to the leader of this ville tonight. Besides, are you not hungry?”

  With a long sigh, Jak turned off the television and plodded over. “Rather eat here. Not want sit at table and listen people jaw heads off.”

  Doc sat on the soft bed and regarded his roommate with sad eyes. “Sometimes, my young friend, I could not agree with you more.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The group met at Ryan’s room around five-thirty as agreed. J.B. and Mildred were first, their intertwined hands and relaxed smiles leaving no doubt as to how they had passed the time.

  “Come on in.” Ryan answered the door, still admiring the neat sewing job the hotel’s tailors had done on his pants and shirt. “Where’s Jak and Doc?”

  “I imagine they’ll be along soon enough. Quite the arrangements, huh?”

  “A far cry from where we slept last night, that’s for damn sure. I didn’t think places like this still existed.”

  “Haven’t seen buildings in this good shape since we were down south in Cajun country—the very first time, not recently,” Krysty amended with a grimace, not wanting to think about the time they’d almost lost Mildred to the oozie plague. “You both look…well-rested.”

  “Was about to say the same thing about you two,” Mildred said with a crooked smile. Krysty grinned back, while the men cast about for anything to change the subject.

  “How do you figure Carrington keeps this place and the people in line?” J.B. asked.

  “The lure of a power plant might be enough to get people to fall in line, or it brings raiders like this guy Tellen they’re fighting, looking to take over. If they’re raising cattle or buffalo out here, there’s enough grass to feed them, so there’s your food. Vegetables still grow everywhere, and if Doc’s right, and the city didn’t get tagged by the nukes during skydark, and the people either fled or figured out how to get along, no reason others couldn’t come along and make a go of it, I suppose.”

  “What you think we should carry to dinner?” Mildred asked.

  “Figured we’d stick to handblasters on
ly, and let them go if necessary. Don’t make sense for us to tote heavy firepower to the meal, and since we brought the baron’s little girl back safe and sound, I figure they shouldn’t be too wary of us.”

  “Yeah, shouldn’t be,” J.B. repeated. “I don’t know. Carrington seemed wound pretty tight to me.”

  Mildred shook her head. “You would be, too, if your people had just pushed back a major assault on your city. It’s the natural lull after an adrenaline high. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find him falling asleep in the soup tonight.”

  Ryan’s eye widened as he saw past Mildred to their other companions coming down the hall. “Speaking of surprises, would you get a look at this.”

  Jak and Doc approached. Jak was dressed in his usual clothes, including the jacket with its bits of metal sewn into it to provide a nasty surprise to anyone who tried to grab him. His hair was sleeked back, making him look like an unusually alert, albino, humanoid cat.

  Beside him, Doc had been transformed from the scruffy Deathlands denizen he’d been when they had first arrived to a character out of a twentieth century movie. Besides his haircut and shave, he was also decked out in a sky-blue suit with wide lapels over a white, ruffled shirt, a sky-blue bow tie at his throat and a broad blue band around his waist. Matching pants and even light blue shoes completed the ensemble, which actually went pretty well with his white hair and tanned skin, Ryan had to admit. Even so…

  “I hope you’re not planning on wearing that anywhere else besides dinner tonight, Doc.”

  His malacca cane tucked under his arm, the old man sketched a formal bow to the rest of the group. “Of course not, my dear Ryan. Such a tuxedo would be most unsuitable for any sort of activity other than the one upon we are about to embark.”

  Jak jerked a thumb at the eye-catching costume. “That’s why took long.”

  Mildred had hidden a smile behind her hand, but now she lowered it and stared at him, shaking her head in either amusement or admiration, Ryan couldn’t tell which. “It suits you, Doc. It definitely suits you.”

  “If the rest of you have time, I strongly suggest that you all see what they have. It’s truly quite amazing,” Doc said. “I had hoped we would all be dressed more suitably for the occasion—”

  “Thought clean clothes were suitable,” J.B. muttered.

  “However, you could not possibly have known, and no doubt our hosts will take that into consideration. Shall we?”

  With Doc leading the way, the companions walked to the elevators and made their way down to the lobby. Carter was still on duty, and came around the desk to see them.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I trust all of you have found the Magnolia’s facilities acceptable?”

  Ryan nodded. “Just fine, thanks. The major said there’d be someone here who would be driving us to dinner.”

  “Yes, I received word that they’ll be here in approximately ten minutes. In the meantime, perhaps you’d care for a drink at the bar?” He indicated a small room on the other side of the lobby, almost hidden by the traffic coming in and out of the busy hotel. “Feel free to sample one of our local beers.”

  Ryan hid his grimace, knowing from experience what local brewing usually turned out to be in the Deathlands—flat, tasteless and warm. Still, when the host insisted… The group walked over to the small room, which was tended by a lone man dressed in a white collared shirt and black bow tie who was polishing the bar with a clean white rag. Behind him was a tall rack, filled with several dozen bottles containing various liquids from clear to dark amber and everything in between, including one blue one and one colored bright green. Other than him and the group, the bar was empty.

  “Evening, folks, have a seat.” Carter caught the bartender’s attention after his greeting, whispering a few words in his ear and slipping a small stack of what looked like bronze coins into his hand. The man nodded before he turned back to Ryan’s group while the clerk walked out of the room. “My name is Trace, and I’ll be serving you this evening. What would you like?”

  Ryan jerked his thumb at the still-swinging doors. “What was that about?”

  The bartender’s amiable smile faltered just a bit before he spoke. “Carter was just telling me that your drinks are on the house this evening.”

  “Pricey, are they? That would explain why it’s so quiet in here.”

  “You are correct, sir. The Magnolia prides itself on its collection of aged liquors—that is, liquors bottled predark.”

  Doc’s face lit up. “You do not say? However did that happen?”

  “Mr. Carrington will be happy to answer any questions you may have about the town’s history. I just pour the drinks.” He presented a neat, handwritten list of the available liquors. “As I said, on the house, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Do you do mixed drinks?” Mildred asked, leaning forward on her stool.

  “It would depend on the ingredients, but I’ll try to create whatever you ask for.”

  “I would love what to have a White Russian. My father let me try a version of it when I was a teenager, and I never forgot the taste.” Her face fell. “But I supposed you’d need cream for that.”

  Trace’s smile never left his face. “That one I can do. As long as you don’t mind buffalo cream.”

  “That isn’t some kind of joke, is it?” the black woman asked, her face darkening.

  Trace held up his hand to head her off. “Not at all. Buffalo do better on the plains out here, so we’ve been tending them as best we can, including raising females and calves for meat and milk. So…” He busied himself with a glass and three bottles, including one of thick, white cream, taken from a small refrigerator under the bar. Layering the vodka, coffee liqueur and cream over ice, he set the finished drink down in front of her. “Enjoy.”

  Mildred took the glass and sipped, her eyes closing in pleasure. “My God, it’s like I’m back home again. It’s very good, thank you. You guys have to try this. It’s unbelievable.” She passed the glass down, and they all took a small sip. Ryan found it incredibly sweet, but said nothing. Of them all, Krysty seemed to enjoy it the most after Mildred, with Doc abstaining and Jak making a face and pronouncing it “sweet-bitter.”

  “And for you, miss?” Trace asked Krysty.

  “Carter recommended your beer.”

  “Rightly so. I’m afraid that we’re limited to only a few selections at the moment, notably our golden pilsner, along with a refreshing wheat beer you might like. Take your pick.”

  “The pilsner sounds good.”

  “Make that two,” Ryan said.

  Trace produced two chilled glass mugs and filled them from the tap, letting the head settle before sliding them across the bar. “There you are.”

  Ryan eyed his glass, finding the liquid inside a far cry from most of the crudely distilled alcohols he’d sampled during his travels. It was much clearer and a uniform light gold color. Bringing it to his lips, he sniffed lightly, surprised to enjoy the clear, tangy aroma. Sipping, he was rewarded with a light, crisp taste with a bit of unidentifiable fruit notes in the back. Swallowing, he took another drink before setting the glass down on the bar. “Damn good.”

  “None better in this area, that’s for sure. To your liking, miss?”

  Krysty had been as cautious as Ryan, but was also enjoying her glass. “You can call me Krysty, and yes, this is incredible. You folks brew it here?”

  “Only way to do it. There were lots of small breweries in the area, and between all of them we were able to cobble together a place to make our own. With the fields around, we can grow plenty of wheat and barley. The only problem is the hops, which we have to get from out west when we can, and they cost a pretty penny, but as I’m sure you agree, are more than worth it.”

  Trace turned to J.B., Doc and Jak. “And for you gentlemen?”

  “Anything you have from the Emerald Isle would be just fine, thank you,” Doc said. At the bartender’s puzzled look, he shook his head. “Sorry. What do you have f
or whiskey?”

  “I think I have a bit of Bushmills lurking about. Let me check.” Trace turned to the back wall and scanned it, then brought down a bottle with a black-and-white label. “Ah, here it is. Neat, or on the rocks?”

  “You have ice?” Doc shook his head, apparently not remembering that Mildred’s drink had contained cubes, as well. “On the rocks, please.”

  Trace prepared the drink, which was much simpler than Mildred’s—simply pouring the dark amber liquid over a short, heavy-bottomed glass filled with clear ice. He pushed the glass forward, and Doc accepted it with a hand that only trembled once as he raised it.

  “I never thought I would see the likes of this again in all my days.” He sipped, almost delicately, and held the liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. “That’s a good burn, that is.” He moved off to one side and sat on a stool away from the others, staring into his drink.

  “He all right?” Trace asked, watching the old man with not quite a frown on his face.

  Ryan was quick to get the bartender’s attention. “He’ll be just fine. He has, spells of a sort every so often. Never know what’ll set him off.”

  Trace nodded. “My wife’s sister used to be the same way. Well, two left who haven’t chosen. The bar is still open, sirs.”

  Jak alternated between looking at the man behind the bar and the bottles themselves. “What blue stuff?”

  “That, young sir, is what’s known as curaçao, orange liqueur with a hint of bitterness. People used to use it in mixed drinks, although you can take it on its own, I suppose.”

  “Never had blue liquor before. Try it.”

  The bartender poured him a shot over ice. Jak picked up the glass and mimicked the others’ behavior, sipping instead of pounding the entire drink down in a single gulp. His face wrinkled, then returned to its normal suspicious expression. “Orange, and bitter like said.” He sipped again. “Not bad.”

  “And for the last gentleman?”

  J.B. adjusted his glasses as he regarded the man in front of him. “I don’t suppose you have a brand called Grey Goose, do you?”