Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  Something is wrong.

  He’s not supposed to have hair.

  “You needa shave, man,” the light-skinned warmblood says.

  Jack looks back and forth between the two warmbloods. With no sudden movements, he lifts the cover and, “OH, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SNOWY AND COLD!”

  The same hair is on his chest, his legs. His enormous feet. And he’s naked as a polar bear.

  “This place going downhill, man,” the dark-skinned warmblood says. “They letting green people in now. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Who are you?” Jack clears his throat, summoning an authoritative tone. “Where am I? How’d you get in here? Why am I naked? Did you touch me? Who plastered hair on me? Why am I cold? What—”

  “Shut up.” The light-skinned warmblood kicks the bed. “You jabber just as bad when you sleep. Don’t need to hear that awake. Giving me a headache.”

  “Look, man.” The other warmblood looks over his shoulder and leans closer. “I sell you a razor to shave, but it’ll cost you a little green.”

  Jack pulls the blanket up to his nose. “Green?”

  “Money, man.” The light-skinned warmblood snaps his fingers. “We don’t give razors for free. We got to see the green.”

  They both look around and then back to Jack. Dark-skinned warmblood looks back once more and reaches for the blanket. Jack slaps his hand.

  Jack makes his move.

  “Get your hands off me, man.” The warmblood yanks his arm back. “I didn’t say touch me. You think I want your disease?”

  Jack thought something might happen to him if he touched him. He remembers people get cold when he does, like super cold.

  “You better wash that hand,” the light-skinned warmblood says. “It’ll turn green. Like gangrene. That’s probably what he got.”

  “All right, that’s enough. Sheldon, you don’t even know what gangrene is.” Another warmblood approaches, this one fatter and darker with black hair that hangs like ropes from his head. He grabs the dark-skinned warmblood’s arm and says, “Pickett, leave the man alone. Take Sheldon and get your skinny butts away from the bed. You’re supposed to be on the street.”

  “You doing favors for the greens now, Willie?” Pickett says.

  “Yeah,” Willie says. “And you ain’t green, so get going. I ain’t joking.”

  Sheldon and Pickett take their time walking away. They stop at the door and Willie shouts at them to keep going. Pickett makes a face and swings his arm at Willie. Sheldon follows him out.

  They walk funny.

  “You all right, Jack?” Willie pulls up a chair.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You told me.”

  “I did?”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  Once again, Jack looks around the giant room with rows and rows of empty bunk beds. The wood floor looks like real wood. And he’s never smelled that smell before. It’s dirty and clean, all at the same time. There’s also the smell of food, but it’s gross. Reminds him of the time Pawn made boiled cabbage for lunch.

  Pawn. Where’s my friend Pawn?

  Jack suddenly remembers a fat, little person that was his buddy. He’s nowhere to be seen.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember anything.” Willie leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Someone found you wandering along the Cooper River last night and they thought it’d be a good idea to drop you off at the shelter. Now I’ll be honest, if I find a three-foot-tall man with greenish hair muttering nonsense about the North Pole, I’m calling the zoo or the newspaper or something. But some good soul thought it fit to bring you here for a warm bed and a hot meal, seeing that you were shivering like a cold fish. I guess you’re lucky it’s Christmas time; everyone is getting on Santa’s good list.”

  “Santa?” Jack sits up. “You’re talking about Nicholas Santa?”

  Again, another familiar name. He’s heard it before but can’t connect the dots.

  “Look, man. This ain’t the North Pole, Jack. It’s a homeless shelter. And you, like everyone else, have to get out by 8:00. And right now”—he looks at his wrist—“it’s 8:05 and you’re still in bed. I hate to be the bad guy, but you need to find someplace else to go. You got somewhere to go?”

  Jack slips his arms beneath the covers so only his eyes and the top of his head are showing. “It’d be cool if I could hang here for a bit.”

  “You remember anything?” Willie asks.

  Jack nods because he has the feeling if he says no, Willie will call the zoo or the newspaper.

  Willie stands up and shoves the chair against the wall. “It’s a little nippy out, but I think we can find some clothes so you don’t freeze. Although I don’t think we got anything to fit those feet.”

  Willie squeezes the lumps beneath the covers. Jack feels it in his toes and someone laughs. Pickett is back in the doorway. Willie scowls but doesn’t shout. He takes a moment, bowing his head.

  “Look,” Willie says, “I ain’t got anything against hairy people even if you do look seasick, but if you can’t remember anything, I think we need to see if there are any missing person reports—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jack scoots to the edge of the bed, careful not to let the blanket fall. “Bring me some clothes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Clothes. You said you would give me clothes. I want them now.”

  Willie pauses, processing what he heard.

  “I said now,” Jack adds.

  “You want to change your tone?”

  “No. I want you to get me clothes.”

  “Mmm. Mmm-mmm.” Willie wanders off, shaking his head. He stops at the doorway across the room and turns around, his eyes squinting and hard. “You definitely ain’t from the South, my man.”

  Jack stares at the stack of clothes.

  Willie had dropped them on the floor and gave him five minutes to pick something out and “get stepping.” Jack doesn’t know what that means, but that was fifteen minutes ago. Must not be that important.

  “I’m coming to dress you,” Willie shouts from another room.

  “I’m coming. Geesh.”

  Jack’s cold and nervous. Actually, he’s freezing. His whole body is shaking. He doesn’t know what’s outside of this room, but it’s not the North Pole. How’d I get in a room full of warmbloods?

  The floor is hard and tacky. The scales on his soles latch onto the wood and he shoves in the direction of the clothes—

  WHAP.

  Jack is kissing the floor.

  He rolls over, moaning. Nose, throbbing.

  Warmbloods don’t slide. They walk.

  Jack sits up and stands. He sees someone to the left and falls down. It’s someone about his height with lots of hair.

  Wait. That’s me.

  He walks over to the mirror and touches the surface. He hardly recognizes the reflection. Only his crystal-blue eyes seem familiar.

  I’m not supposed to look like this.

  He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to look like, just not that.

  One foot in front of the other, he walks to the clothes. He pulls on a couple of shirts and steps into baggy pants; he has to cuff the bottoms from stepping on them. There’s a pair of boots, but they don’t come close to fitting. But the coat fits and so does the gray stocking cap.

  He’s still shivering. In fact, it’s getting worse.

  Jack goes to the doorway, where Willie is waiting, arms folded. The cabbage smell is stronger out there. Jack waddles towards Willie, the floor gritty. It takes, like, forever to get there.

  Walking is stupid.

  Willie points at the front door. Jack turns toward it and keeps going, already exhausted from the excruciatingly slow trek.

  “You’re welcome,” Willie calls.

  Jack raises his hand. He just wants out of this leafy-smelling warmblood nest. He leans into the glass door and uses all his momentum to leverage it open. The air is choked with exhaust fumes; the g
round is covered in litter. Several warmbloods huddle near the curb.

  Definitely not the North Pole.

  Jack stands in the doorway, rubbing his arms and shivering. He can’t go out there. They look like they want to eat him. And it looks cold out there and stinky. Maybe that missing person report Willie was talking about will be in a warm room. He could make something up about losing his mother and how he just needs a friend.

  Willie taps the glass and points towards the curb. He mouths a word, Go.

  Jack sticks out his lip and bows his head. He shuffles out of the shadow. The hairs on his face tingle when the sunlight hits him. Warmth gyrates through the follicles and penetrates his cheeks, reaching deep into the cold bones beneath his eyes. Warmth oozes around his scalp like a hot rag. He closes his eyes and raises his face like a sunflower that’s absorbing the sunlight.

  Jack unzips his coat. His chest hair celebrates the sun’s kiss.

  He may not remember much, but at least he’s warm.

  -------------------------

  Sir. Freeda’s voice rings inside Mr. Frost’s head. Sir, May has breakfast ready. Everyone is waiting.

  Mr. Frost opens his eyes and doesn’t recognize the room at first. It’s been quite a few years since he slept in the incubation lab. Even when he did, it was never because he’d been up the night before cleaning it.

  Sir?

  Start without me.

  Would you like something sent down for you?

  I would like you to stop talking. He rolls on his back and sighs. His head is throbbing.

  For as long as he was down there, he hadn’t made much progress. The floor is littered with tiny boots, coats, hats, and tools. Tables are turned over, equipment destroyed. Shards of glass are on the bench. Luckily, none of the incubator tanks were damaged.

  He slides to the sink, splashes water on his cheeks, and hides his face in the towel. His eyes are red and tired. He’s much too young for an elven to feel like this. He drapes the towel over the sink and surveys the damage surrounding the large, metal table in the center, hooded lamps hanging over it. Mr. Frost slides past rows of glass tanks, tracing the cold, metal edge of the table with his pudgy fingers.

  He woke up and went mad. I can’t blame him.

  But he never should’ve awakened. Jack was supposed to remain in stasis until he shed the coat of photosynthetic hair. Mr. Frost’s toes get tangled in a wire-framed helmet, half of it mangled. And his memories? Jack probably tore the learning gear from his head and stomped on it when he leaped off the table and ransacked the lab.

  You are stressed, Freeda says. Would you like me to assume command of your bodily comfort while you think?

  I’d like you to explain how Jack escaped. He throws the learning gear on the floor.

  A mild sedative is released from the miniscule capsule imbedded near the base of Mr. Frost’s cranium. The root, he calls it. Two hundred years ago, the root released the firestorm that drove Mr. Frost out of the North Pole, sent him fleeing south until the agony subsided, made him hide in exile while he built this fortress for one purpose.

  And now that purpose has escaped.

  The root, though, has different uses now.

  Freeda speaks through it; she watches his thoughts with it and, to some extent, controls his actions. She senses his agitation so, against his will, she’s released a mild sedative to soothe the aches and pains, chemically smoothing the wrinkles in life.

  How much of Jack’s memories were uploaded? Mr. Frost asks.

  The upload was only ten percent complete, sir.

  Ten percent? He’s only learned a fraction of this new world. He doesn’t know who he is. Or what he is. How did this happen?

  The lab was empty, sir. The garden was being attended—

  I don’t mean that, Freeda. I mean, how did he wake up? There were safeguards in place; there’s no way this should’ve happened.

  It’s unclear.

  Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?

  Sir, do not blame this on me. The likelihood of his awakening and escaping were very small. I was using the majority of my processing capacity to flesh out the next incarnation when—

  You were already planning the next incarnation?

  She doesn’t answer. Her disapproval of the photosynthetic stabilization is not a secret.

  Mr. Frost kicks the crumpled learning gear. He exits the incubation lab and slides into the empty anteroom where Jack made his escape. The double doors on the north end are sealed now.

  It’s not really Freeda’s fault.

  He lets her see that thought. There’s never been a need for security inside the lab. There’s never been anyone he couldn’t trust. The doors were only locked from the outside. There had never been a premature awakening. But then again, they’ve never been this close to success.

  A search of the plantation is nearly complete, sir.

  Mr. Frost doesn’t need to ask for the results. No news is bad news.

  Would you like to suit up to explore the garden, sir?

  Sura would be arriving soon. She doesn’t need to see him wandering the grounds in his coolsuit, like some alien from another planet. She saw plenty yesterday. She needs to see a little bit of truth at a time, not all at once. Too much and she’ll reject her reality.

  He’s seen that happen. Not pretty.

  Mr. Frost picks up a leather boot. The tiny thing fits in his palm. He slides past the wide door on the west side of the anteroom and tosses the boot through it. There’s muttering from inside, where the toy factory is in full swing, but no one comes out.

  Mr. Frost continues around the elevator cylinder and past the enormous console built into the southern end of the anteroom. Freeda is a ghostly voice inside his head, but if he ever wants to see her body, he just has to look at the southern wall: she’s a computer that sees and hears everything.

  Except Jack.

  Mr. Frost slides around the anteroom, hands laced over his belly. He makes several laps, contemplating what to do. He layers his thoughts to minimize Freeda’s prying eye. She’ll still see what he’s thinking.

  He stops at the eastern door and looks inside the trashed incubation lab. It’s a long room. The low, bluish light illuminates the silver table and the rows of frosty glass tanks, each taller and wider than Mr. Frost. The walls are loaded with similar tanks, but these are much shorter than the others, each the size of an infant.

  The tanks are opaque with condensation on the inside. Occasionally, the moisture will streak and he spies the developments growing inside. But more often than not, he lets Freeda alert him when a chamber has matured.

  Mr. Frost eases up to the tank nearest him. He presses his eye to the glass, careful not to fog it with his breath. Green fuzz has already begun.

  Shut Jack’s line down.

  Sir?

  You heard me, Freeda. Shut his line down. No more until he’s found.

  But, sir, that could cause delays to—

  Shut it down! He balls his fist against the glass. I don’t want to rush things, not again. Put all the tanks in stasis until the search is complete and we can analyze what happened. We don’t need half-aware incarnations of Jack out there suffering.

  Freeda doesn’t answer. Mr. Frost doesn’t give orders, but sometimes she yields to his intellect. There are limitations to being artificial, even she recognizes that. And he’s right. If she didn’t have anything to do with his premature awakening, then they better find out how it happened.

  And if she did have something to do with it, well, then he’d get to the bottom of it.

  J A C K

  December 1

  Monday

  Sura rolls down her window.

  Templeton is waiting, gloved hands clasped near his waist. “You are late, Sura.”

  “I had school. I thought I told you.”

  He looks at his pocket watch. “Three minutes past the hour.”

  “I left as soon as my last class.”

  “Perhaps, nex
t time, you don’t chat with friends in the parking lot.”

  How does he know that?

  Templeton bends at the waist, his back ramrod straight, like there’s a hinge in the small of his back, to hand her a sweetgrass basket. Sura wonders what he looks like when he goes to the bathroom. He’s human, after all. And that thought makes her like him a little better. Not much, but a little.

  “Take the basket to the garden. Mr. Jonah is collecting firethorn berries for decorations.”

  A new display of grapevine and holly hangs over the front doors, little lights twinkling on twining strands. Christmas decorating never seems to end.

  “The garden?” Sura asks.

  “Be attentive, Sura.” He starts up the steps, one at a time. “It’s time to grow up.”

  Sura is never sure when he’s insulting or helping her. It feels like both.

  There are two trucks around back this time. Sura parks at the corner of the barn where the creeping fig vine is thick and green. December has been warm, but not today. Mist drifts down from the gray sky like cold flecks of spittle, coating everything with a glittering sheen.

  The land behind the house is open and rolling, the grass brown and dormant. Vineyard trellises are posted at the bottom of the slope, like burial markers for the barren grapevines that sprout from the wires. A small patch of corn, perhaps an acre, is to the right of that, the stalks wilted and crispy, blackbirds picking at their corpses.

  She finds an old sweatshirt in the trunk, still damp and muddy from the last time she wore it. Now, to find the garden.

  Sura walks back down the road by the side of the house. Templeton made it sound like it was right in front of her, not like she needed to go search for it. Seems like he could’ve just told her.

  There it is.

  There’s an arbor swallowed in the thick hedges across the road, east of the house. She didn’t see it last time because, well, because she was looking at the house. This time, the long, cool shadow of the tower is falling across the road.

  She steps through the arbor, careful to avoid the thorny climbing rose twining through the lattice. Knee-high boxwood hedges are sheared into a geometric maze that circles downwards to a fountain in the center. It’s a sculpture of a woman that’s very short and fat, with water bubbling from her outstretched hand.