by Various
“I do too,” she answered quickly, and he could tell she meant it. She had touched his hand, a hand whose raw skin would have frightened many. Should he ask her to come to his house after school? She lived only a few blocks from the military base, from the beach were he spent so much of his life, the one that was always empty because even the sailors never used it, and that always displayed on its sands the seashells of the bay, the Chiones and Tellinas and Turitellas. His father could get her a pass so she could visit, so the guards at the gate would let her through; but he didn’t know what she would think of his seashells, or the Kingdom, or whether she had a place in it, or even wanted one.
That night, as he lay in bed, a voice said: Be careful, my soldier. Remember, you are in my service. In her beauty this Volute of yours may be a subterfuge. The King Helmet will, I am certain—and this haunts my sleep—never relinquish his plans of empire.
Two nights later, however, as he began to fall sleep, the same voice spoke, with a sigh: I advised you poorly, Soldier. An innocent and a commoner, she may not be a spy…. I believe this, too, Your Majesty, the boy answered, but is she the one? Is she the one that I, simple servant that I am in your service, have been waiting for all these years, stationed with the other Fighting Conchs on Your Majesty’s northernmost Barrier Reef, here to repulse what may threaten you, our bodies wounded and yet prevailing for your sake? Is she, pretty and pale as she is, the one I will fight and perhaps die for if I do not die for you—for love is worth nothing, is it not, unless the lover is willing to risk everything for love?
The boy waited, very awake. He would go to the Kingdom this night, as he did every night, and fight for his Queen. He would go as soon as she ordered. But the voice did not speak, and its silence made him shake. The next morning he still did not have his answer. Not knowing what else to do, he wrote about the girl in his diary. In his story, where the boys and girls he knew were all seashells, each with a role in the story of the Ancient Sea, she was indeed a young, impulsive Juno’s Volute, pale, with beauty marks, though she might as well have been the Black Cowry, Cypraea nocturnis, in its enigmatic, starry beauty. He could not make up his mind, and he could not be certain of her role. He wrote about her five mornings in a row, posing again and again to himself and to his silent Queen the questions of who this girl might be in the great tale the Kingdom was and would always be, and whether his body would ever be truly his; but on the sixth morning he stopped, put down his pen, and stared at the page, which no longer made sense. She—Carey—her name was Carey—was a girl. Was there anything more important than this?
At school that day, near his locker on the bottom floor of the main building, he asked her if she would like to come over sometime, after school or on a Saturday, to do homework together, if she wanted, and also, if she wanted, to see his seashells.
She cocked her head. Then she laughed, though not unkindly, touched his hand again, making it tingle and burn as any touch did; and, with the light dancing in her eyes again, said, “Sure!” As she did, he saw suddenly that all was well at last in the Kingdom, that a peace not easily ruined—one that might prevail for years—had at last been achieved by the most willing of hearts; and that, because it had, his Queen might no longer need him and might soon (if he listened carefully enough for her voice) let him go. Only then would he stop bleeding from the battles he engaged each night in another body, returning with countless small wounds to his own. Only then would he stop having to clean spots of blood from his sheets after his parents left for work in the morning; stop worrying about the venomous bites of the Cones and Augers (which made his body burn); stop hiding his wounds with every trick he knew; and let his body heal at last, his once more.
She was looking at him still, and she had, he could tell from her eyes, which were darker than any sea, no intention of looking away.
Copyright © 2010 by Bruce McAllister
Books by Bruce McAllister
Dream Baby
Humanity Prime
SHORT STORY COLLECTION
The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories
ANTHOLOGIES
There Won’t Be War (ed., with Harry Harrison)
Their Immortal Hearts (ed.)
SF Directions (ed.)
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Contents
Begin Reading
The warehouse air burned along my skin after the crisp snap of the outside weather. The new warmth didn’t make me loosen my jacket. Warm or not, I wasn’t going to get too comfortable. I kept walking, scanning the milling group, searching for the sign-in spot, knowing that I’d stop feeling the chill in a minute. Sometimes the arenas aren’t heated, or air-conditioned, but apparently this one had enough income to tend to these things. Of course, the combatants fight better if they’re warm, so I suppose the heat is in the management’s own self-interest.
A skinny reed of a man with a whiteboard sat at a table in the middle of the room, pointedly ignoring everyone. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He kept writing for a moment, and then, without looking up, said, “Name?”
“Lena,” I said.
He grabbed a list to his left and scanned. Finally, he made eye contact.
“You with Phantom?”
I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets. I had to do my best not to laugh. I was supposed to be a cold-hearted handler, which means no giggling. But seriously, “Phantom”? Only in Steve’s dreams.
The man frowned at his sheet. “And Phantom is a Unicornis, correct?”
Again, I nodded.
“Are you sure he’s going to fight?” He looked skeptical.
I kept my gaze on him, solid and heavy. With some people, you don’t even have to glare.
“Because sometimes, they refuse,” he continued.
“Phantom will fight.” He always does.
“Good. You won’t get paid if he doesn’t.” He checked something off on the form and put it away. “Go around to the side entrance. Phantom will be in prep stall B. Please follow the instructions there, or he won’t be allowed to fight. Keep him away from the other combatants. If there’s any trouble, he won’t fight. The judge will check you”—he glanced at the sports watch on his wrist—“in about half an hour. Your fighter ain’t ready, he don’t fight. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” What I wanted to say was “Maybe you should repeat it one more time in case I didn’t quite get it, genius.” Steve would be so proud of me for holding my tongue.
The man glared at me, I think searching for sarcasm in the “sir.” Then he jerked his head toward the door. “Go.”
My boot made a loud squeak as I turned on my heel and went back to the trailer for “Phantom.”
Phantom is a stage name. The name Steve isn’t intimidating, nor does it sound like the kind of name a unicorn should have. Or at least the kind of name that people think a unicorn should have. Unicorns pick their own names, and I’d love to see someone go up to Steve and tell him he chose poorly. I, for one, would think twice about it.
The trailer we travel in is banged up on the outside, and I can barely see anything through the exterior slats. It desperately needs some paint. A nice new trailer would stick out at the fights, so we keep it looking dingy. The inside, however, is plush, and I took out the divider between us so that we could listen to audio books and music together on long drives. We fight over radio stations a lot.
Steve prefers to be covered for transport. A thin blanket
keeps him warm and blocks out everything but his eyes, nose, horn, and the lower half of his legs. What can be seen, I’ve blackened with shoe polish. His coloring will cause a stir, and I like to leave the upset until the last minute.
On our way from the trailer, we passed a yowie manacled to the back of a truck. Its stench was instantly recognizable. If you left the most fetid, nasty gym clothes to fester in a closed, hot locker for a summer with a dead swamp rat, you might get close to the smell of a yowie. They’re sort of like a rabid, vicious, no-neck cousin to Bigfoot, except they’re completely brainless. Not too surprisingly, everyone was giving it a wide berth.
Steve and I were met at the back entrance by two bored-looking thugs acting as guards. The cops were paid to look the other way, but that didn’t mean guards weren’t needed in case undesirables showed up. Taking a good look at them, I decided that the thugs probably judged desirability by wallet size alone. Steve snorted in agreement. He didn’t think much of the hired muscle, either. I felt Steve’s mental presence in my head—it’s warm and bright like sunshine and for a second, I could smell springtime and flowers.
The first time Steve spoke in my mind, I thought I had a tumor. It’s like a full body hallucination—you smell and feel things that aren’t really there. This time Steve was informing me that the guards, like most humans, have minds like open cesspools. He doesn’t think much of people. Can’t say I blame him. Unicorns are champions of nature and man spends his time destroying it, so yeah, we’re not exactly in Steve’s top five favorite things. I’m pretty sure we’re right behind fungus on his list. The sunshine in my head told me I was exaggerating, and I rested a hand on Steve’s shoulder, letting him know I appreciated him, too.
Once I got Steve into his stall, I removed his leg warmers. The action was robotic, habit. My eyes wandered as I went through the motions. There were a few dozen stalls in the kennels, most of them full. Steel and reinforced concrete on all sides. There were heavy doors on them, each with a lock. I didn’t use my lock. Evenly spaced drains marked the floors, as did dents and scorch marks—evidence of creatures that got out of control. All the concrete on the walls was painted white, everything built in an easy-to-wash kind of way. I patted Steve on the flank. The gentle slap sounded odd in the stall.
I leaned in and breathed his scent, my hands scratching along the bottom of his jaw. I pushed my mind into his, wondering not for the first time if my presence was unpleasant to him. Steve may be sunshine and springtime, fresh grass and butterflies, but I’m the sound of creaking leather, the smell of sweat and blood. I’m battle cries, death rattles, and the light touch of a swan’s feather. Steve nudged me back into reality. We don’t have to do this, I reminded him. We can simply break the locks, free the creatures, and walk away.
Only we couldn’t. It’s too easy to just buy a new lock.
So I got on with it.
The stall we were in was long, rectangular, each side covered with posters, flyers, and a large red-and-white instructional sign. I didn’t need to read it to know that it said no weapons, no interfering, and no poison. That was why I pulled off Steve’s blanket. Each animal got a thorough bath before the fights began. The judge would come and check his coat for poison, his hooves for weapons, sharpening, and any illegal advantages. The shower seemed ridiculous to me. Poison wouldn’t last on Steve’s coat. Unicorns and poisons just don’t mix.
I yanked off his hood and heard a small gasp. Steve flicked his muzzle, motioning me to turn around. A scrawny teenager with a broom stood in front of the stall, goggling.
“I’ve…wow.” He paused to swallow and flushed a little when he caught my look. “Sorry, it’s just that we don’t get many like him, and never white ones.”
Of course not. White means purity. And there wasn’t much purity in this building. I couldn’t help a small smile. “You wanna touch him?”
The kid’s eyes went wide and he started to reach out, but pulled his hand back. I noticed a thin, puckered scar snaking up his arm. He followed my eyes and tugged his sleeve a little, self-conscious. “Nemean lion,” he said.
The kid was lucky he still had an arm, and a body to go with it. The thought must have registered on my face because he got a little defensive.
“It was a just a baby,” he said, “and it was so cute. How was I supposed to know—?”
“That he was a sweet little fuzzball of death?” I asked. “Look around.” I gestured to the stables, the scorch marks, and the hydra three stalls down that was trying to chew through his chains. Even with seven heads, he couldn’t manage it. “Assume everything can tear off your face, and you’ll be okay.” I handed him a currycomb and waved toward Steve. “But this one won’t bite you.” I grabbed another brush and started on the opposite side. Cute baby Nemean lions. Geez, who was this kid? Steve snorted and leaned into me. I knew what he meant. It’s always surprising where innocence hides. You can even find it in a place like this.
The kid paused in his brushing to trace a couple of the raised scars down Steve’s side. “He’s fought before?”
“A few times,” I said. More times than I could count.
“I thought they were hard to damage?” he said.
“They are.” I went back to brushing.
Most people won’t use unicorns to fight. Too unpredictable. Too independent. You don’t rule a unicorn—you’re a partner at best. And the people who do use them to fight don’t have white ones. They train them like you train dogs for a cage match. Get them young, young as you can. Starve them. Beat them. Slip blood into their milk. Give them a taste for it. Keep them hungry and angry all the time. Pervert them until they don’t know which way is up anymore. That’s how you make a unicorn, a natural pacifist, a fighter. Of course the taint shows up in their coats. The few I have seen fight have been black, red, brown, gray—anything but white.
But there is another way. Find one that thinks the way that you do. That sometimes fighting is right. Necessary. That bloodshed is the only possible method to make people learn the hard lessons. Meld with them until you don’t know if you’re getting them on your side or if they’re getting you onto theirs. A strange, violent harmony. Sunshine glinting off a slashing blade. The creak of leather armor in springtime.
Steve nudged into my thoughts to let me know that I would make a terrible poet.
The kid reluctantly handed me the currycomb. “I better get back to work,” he said.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Jonah,” he said.
“Jonah, how long you been working here?”
“A couple of months,” he said.
He said it nonchalantly, like he couldn’t be bothered to know how long exactly, but I had a feeling that in the back of his brain, Jonah had been tallying the exact minutes. Six months, probably. Six months and I bet he’d still try to pet a Nemean lion. That long in the muck and Jonah continued to believe in good. I could see it in his eyes, even if Steve hadn’t let me know. The kid looked like cannon fodder to me. Steve snorted again—his version of a laugh.
“Why here?” I asked.
“Dad’s dead. Mom has to stay home a lot with my little sister.”
He looked about fourteen, maybe fifteen. Too young to get more than a few hours at a crap job that underpaid him. Too young to get a job to pay the rent and put food on the table.
“Pay that good?” I asked.
He gave me a shy smile, ducking his head back down to look at his broom. “Beats mowing lawns,” he said, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes.
Yeah, I wanted to say, but the lawn never tries to eat you. I couldn’t handle it. I grabbed my wallet and took out all the cash I had, which was just shy of three hundred dollars. “Do me a favor, Jonah?”
The scrawny kid looked up from his sweeping. “Sure,” he said.
He didn’t even ask what the favor might be. Definitely cannon fodder. I shoved the money into his hand a little harder than I meant to. “Take the rest of the day off, kid. Please.”
His eyes bugged a little at the money. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” I said.
“My boss…”
Should be beaten for hiring a kid, but I kept that to myself. Most of these places hired kids. I never got used to it, though. I fingered one of the long scars down Steve’s withers. “Just tell them your mom’s sick or something, okay?”
Jonah nodded and shoved the money into his pocket. He shuffled nervously on his feet for a minute, seeming unsure as to which way to go. Finally, he leaned his broom against the wall, nodded, and walked out the door.
Steve turned his head toward me and shoved my chin with his muzzle. I leaned my face against the soft velvet for a minute, and then went back to brushing him.
By the time the judge came around, Steve had been brushed, washed, and was ready to go. When he’s clean like that he damn near glows. Unicorns have been regarded as symbols of purity, innocence, and good for so long that it’s hard to shake it from your mind. As I pulled Steve in front of the judge, those were the words that came to mind. Steve is eighteen hands of purity, just not the kind they’re thinking of. Justice can be pure, too.
People also associate purity with words like feminine and dainty, but Steve is about as dainty as a tank. If you put a saddle and armor on him, he could be a war horse. A hoof came down gently on my foot. I hadn’t been paying attention and I’d missed what the judge said.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a beaut,” the judge repeated. The judge was pale and a little sweaty despite the weather outside. He smelled sour, like he had an aversion to water except for the ice in his highball. He didn’t offer me a name, and I wasn’t surprised. The judge continued to run his hands over and through Steve’s mane, coat, and hooves. He found nothing but scars. I could tell he was surprised that Steve had fought before, though he tried to hide it. He took one solid look at my unicorn. Finally, he nodded at me. “Never thought I’d see the day. A white unicorn.” He rested a gentle hand on my partner, and for a split second I could see behind the judge’s mask. Regret nestled there. Longing. A yearning for something he thought was long gone or not possible. Then the moment was gone and the mask came back.
