Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  My mom and grandmother.

  He lines all the little pieces next to each other in the sand.

  His dad and grandfather.

  She takes half a step back. Numbness reaches her face, seeping into her brain.

  They all look the same.

  “You don’t have a mother, Sura,” he says softly, putting the last piece into place. “You never did.”

  Sura bolts away, blindly. She can’t feel her legs. Tears brim on her eyelids. She runs and runs and runs.

  Time to wake up.

  -------------------------

  Jack falls against a tree.

  “Someone kill me,” he mutters. “Kill me, right now.”

  His tongue lolls like a workhorse driven daylong in July heat. He slides down the rough bark and hikes up his foot to inspect the burning sole. Some of the small scales have chipped away. His ankles feel like they were assembled with rusty bolts. If there was just an ice hole somewhere he could dip his feet.

  He licks his parched lips.

  Blindly, he searches the bag slung over his shoulder and pulls out a half-full plastic bottle of Coke he found on the road. The bottle swells as the contents freeze when he touches it, the plastic crackling with a frosty sheen.

  He rolls it against his cheek, across his forehead, and over his bald scalp. The hair is all gone. The flaking skin sticks to the bottle. Despite the fact he feels like the glowing tip of a blacksmith’s iron, his head is blue.

  He rams the bottle on the tree’s root flare. It takes ten pathetic attempts before the frozen plastic shatters, but then the block of soda rolls through the dirt and into the weeds.

  “That’s how it is?” He looks up at the gray sky. “I just wanted a lick and that’s what I get? All right. Okay. I’ll just not drink anything; how’d you like that?”

  He throws the bag on his lap and continues to curse under his breath. When things go wrong, he curses at whoever did this to him (he’s not sure who it is, but he looks up when he does it), and sings the stupid song about a silent night.

  Song’s not working!

  He digs through the bag of stuff: empty cans, a few butts, a swollen magazine, and an old carton of Chinese food. He had licked the insides and it tasted fishy. He knew it’d take a while to walk to Frost Plantation—no one was going to give him a ride—just didn’t realize it would be in the belly of a furnace!

  The black case is at the bottom, just below a Skittles wrapper.

  “All right, concentrate.” He closes his eyes, draws a deep breath, and holds it. He pulls all the coldness into his core. The temperature of his hands equalize with the surrounding air.

  His gut feels like he swallowed a campfire.

  “Here we go.”

  He pulls the phone out of the bag. Delicately holding it with two fingers, he touches the screen. The map lights up. A blue dot illustrates where he’s at, right now, leaning against a giant tree. The red dot isn’t far. He looks at the dirt road disappearing into the thick forest.

  The phone rings.

  Mark’s calling, again. He wants his phone back.

  Jack releases the pent-up cold, engulfing the weeds in a crystallizing cloud. The phone turns into a block of ice. The glass cracks. Jack crushes it, shards trickling from his fist.

  The sun is below the trees. Jack throws the bag in the ditch, stumbles to his feet, and waits for a filthy truck to pass. It honks.

  Jack gives it the one-finger salute.

  He crosses the boiling asphalt. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.”

  The dirt road is rutted and slightly damp, a sliver of relief on his beaten feet.

  His steps, though, are small and wobbly. It could be all night before he gets anywhere. He can’t think about that, has to focus on moving ahead, going forward. Jack closes his eyes, follows the ruts, and occupies his mind with something good: his last memory.

  A party. A big one.

  The elven were throwing a party to honor Jack, to celebrate his victory. There’d been a long war called the Fracture. He dwells on this for several moments, the thrilling sensation of winning, of being good and right and on top of the world, offsetting the agony of this boilerplate.

  Jack bumps into a tree and staggers back onto the road.

  Not only that, it was his mother he beat. She was the one that caused the Fracture in the first place. She kept him down; she was the one that didn’t believe in him.

  She loved Claus.

  She always liked him better. Right from the start, she wanted Claus to win and Jack to go away. She ignored him.

  They all ignored him.

  Well, he showed them. Jack is good. He’s better.

  He doesn’t actually remember the party, just waiting for it. The last memory, the very last, final, end-of-the-line thing he can remember is giving another elven a little tin box. It was his friend. His only friend. Pawn.

  Whatever happened to him?

  Jack opens his eyes. “Hey, look. There’s the ground—”

  He hits the dirt.

  Face first.

  Jack’s sliding on his back.

  The ice is rough. His face hurts. He can feel his heart beating in his nose. But it’s not ice, he’s not in the Arctic… it’s mud.

  Jack sits up. Actually, he doesn’t do anything, but he feels his body sit up, feels something hold him upright.

  He blinks.

  The world is fuzzy. And blazing hot.

  Tiny lights. Iron bars. A giant F. Lots of frilly branches and berries. Right now, he just wants to lie down, take a little nap. Won’t hurt him if he sleeps, but something won’t let him. Something holds him up.

  “Hey.” He looks lazily to his sides. “You guys look like me.”

  He’s right. Pointy noses. Square chins. Not a single hair on their faces. The only difference is the skin color: dark yellow instead of blue. And the hats. They have floppy, colorful hats.

  “You’re handsome little buggers.” Jack leans back, head swimming with thoughts, none of which make much sense. The little ones grunt to keep him upright and from getting squashed. Jack sways with the shifting weight.

  “Like a massage,” he says. “Feels good—hey, I remember. You helped me in the woods. That was you. ’Member when the bear was going to eat me?”

  Maybe they answer. Maybe not.

  Jack wants to sleep because the heat is killing him; it’s cooking his brain like an egg. He can feel the yolk solidify.

  Welcome back, sir.

  “Aaahhhh!”

  That voice is inside Jack’s head.

  -------------------------

  Jonah is shearing the boxwoods. He’s without helpers today and Joe never returned from lunch. There was no answer when he called. Later, he’ll come home to an empty house. There will be no note, no message.

  No Joe.

  Jonah is not Joe’s birth father. They may be clones, but they’re human, they become attached. He won’t sleep tonight and he’ll mourn when Joe is still not home in the morning.

  In the beginning, there was May and Templeton. Jonah came later. Their DNA was snatched from unsuspecting immigrants that came through the Charleston port—a sly prick of a needle was all that was needed. The three were approved by Freeda and did the sorts of things Mr. Frost didn’t have time to do.

  Sura, however, was a surprise.

  When Mr. Frost escaped the North Pole, the Inuit took him into their village. The man that found him was named Pana. Mr. Frost was given a bed in his shelter. His wife had died giving birth to their only daughter.

  Her name was Sesi. It meant “snow.”

  Day after day, they fed Mr. Frost and cared for him. Nighttime was the worst. That’s when the root would ignite his brain and Mr. Frost would thrash away the animal skins and tear at the hair on the back of his head. Sesi would kneel next to him with a wet rag and dab his forehead, while spittle collected at the corners of his mouth. In the morning, he would be exhausted. Sesi would bring him something to eat.

  It wasn’t
long before the village wanted him out. Clearly, he was possessed by demons. If he stayed, they would all become possessed. Pana, though, would not let them exile him. Mr. Frost was still too weak to survive on his own. It was Sesi, though, that argued with her father to keep Mr. Frost. She insisted they resist the village. Reluctantly, he listened.

  Sesi fed Mr. Frost while Pana stood guard. She would hum a song while she dabbed his forehead. The wordless tune floated from her lips, soothed his aches, and filled his loneliness. Yet each night, the root raged with fury, demanding that he go south. The village elders were insistent. If Mr. Frost was not banished, Pana and Sesi would be.

  On a night when Pana and Sesi slept soundly and the root remained quiet, Mr. Frost slipped from their shelter. He took with him furs and frozen seal meat to begin his journey. He also possessed skin cells that he’d scratched from their arms unexpectedly. At the time, he didn’t know why he took them. It was much later that he retrieved Sesi’s sample and fused it with a human egg cell.

  Sesi was reborn.

  Mr. Frost pretended it was a variation of May, but Freeda soon learned the truth. Her anger was furious. This is not acceptable! She punished Mr. Frost, reminding him how hotly the root could still burn. She threatened to flush all the tanks, to start over according to the plans laid out in the root.

  But Mr. Frost convinced her otherwise.

  I need her.

  Freeda was not rigidly bound to the root’s scripture. She had freedom to assess and modify. She needed Mr. Frost to operate efficiently and effectively. It was clear that he responded better to the carrot than the whip.

  Now Mr. Frost had something to live for. He argued that Sesi would help him understand the human condition. Why did Pana and Sesi care for him against the village’s wishes? Why did they risk their own well-being for a stranger?

  This understanding would only help him complete Jack’s mission.

  Sesi also motivated the others, in particular Jonah. And she brought newfound life to an otherwise drab plantation. Productivity increased, cloning techniques advanced, spirits soared… all of which brought Jack that much closer, that much sooner. Freeda allowed Sesi to become part of the family.

  Perhaps it was no accident that Sesi changed her daughter’s name to Sura.

  “New life,” it meant.

  And now Freeda wants to take her away. Perhaps she knows what Mr. Frost is planning.

  Sullen, he slides away from the window, away from the view of Jonah bending to clean up his mess. If only his life were as simple as the gardener’s.

  Freeda?

  She doesn’t answer. She’d been quiet most of the day, said she was analyzing data. His spies have informed him why: she’s bringing Jack home.

  She’s distracted.

  He must act as if he doesn’t know. He needs his spies, now more than ever. He slides near the center of the room, commanding the room to transform into a replication of the laboratory. Tables and tanks rise from the floor, monitors hover above him. A long, metal table takes shape in the center, a body flickering into view.

  Jack’s newest incarnation is breathing on its own.

  There’s less hair on this one. His cheeks are still moist from the immersion tank, lips swollen and saturated. Mr. Frost watches the data scroll on several monitors. They could start uploading memories tonight.

  He could be awake by morning.

  What if there are two of them?

  He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. Mr. Frost thought he’d be ready for this day—there were times he begged for it—but now he’s not so sure. What if I fail?

  He wipes the room empty with a thought. He’ll go to the lab and get a closer look at the body. There’s a chance he could tweak something, delay the maturation. Two fully awakened incarnations of Jack would create complications.

  Sir, there’s no need for you to come to the basement.

  Mr. Frost is startled by the sudden voice. I just want to see it.

  That’s not necessary, sir. There’s been a delay in the maturation of certain organs. I suggest we give the incarnation three days to develop before attempting an awakening.

  That disagreed with his data. Jack must be home!

  Are you sure? he quickly thinks.

  You look haggard, sir. I suggest you relax today and return to the lab tomorrow. Let me monitor the basement. I’ve prepared the coolsuit. Would you care for a walk?

  Mr. Frost hesitates. Her tone is unusually calm and placating, especially for this time of year. Especially concerning matters of Jack. Perhaps she’s mocking him, and at some level she’s known his plan all along and she’s taking pleasure in its demise.

  That sounds splendid. Please have Templeton meet me in the garden. I’d like to visit the wishing room.

  He dons the coolsuit.

  -------------------------

  Jack remembered the day the cold tub was invented.

  He had leaned over the square tub, the contents blue and bubbly. He wanted to believe it was as cold as they said it would be. Salt water and isopropyl alcohol, the elven scientists told him. It’s cold.

  Jack touched it with his toe. The solution was cool and frothy. He dropped his leg in, eased his body over the edge, and let its icy embrace wrap around him like a frozen blanket.

  I don’t remember it hurting my face.

  His eyes snap open.

  There’s no cold tub. No beautiful, ice-blue water.

  He’s on a table, staring at a menacing hunk of metal suspended from a gray ceiling. But the room is cooooold.

  It is minus fifty degrees. How does that feel, sir?

  Jack jerks up. He’s not alone.

  There are fifty others in the room. Maybe more. Identical little squirts, good-looking fellows, all with bright hats of different colors. They’re staring at Jack.

  “Which one of you said that?” Jack said.

  I did, sir.

  He heard it again, only none of them moved their lips. He could squash them two at a time if he has to start stepping.

  My name is Freeda, sir. You don’t remember me, so let me take a moment to explain. I am an artificially intelligent organism currently residing in the home network. I am linked to your brain through a tiny processor that’s embedded at the base of your skull and wired into your nervous system. You are my creator, sir.

  “You’re right. I don’t remember.”

  I know, sir. We will remedy that.

  “Okay, I’m down with that. First, make them stop staring. It’s creepy.”

  We made them in your honor, sir.

  “Great. Now make them leave in my honor.”

  Without hesitation, they march out. A few stay behind, still staring—two red-hats, one blue.

  “You guys stuck to the floor? Follow the leaders and get out.”

  I will need them for the upload.

  “Upload?”

  Your memories, sir.

  The menacing hunk of metal begins to lower from the ceiling. Things tick and hum inside its girth.

  “Put a hold on the upload.” Jack leaps off the table, away from the gleaming descent of metal. “Where am I?”

  Frost Plantation.

  “This is it?” He looks around a plain and relatively empty gray room. No windows, no chairs. Just three creepy little gnomes that look exactly like Jack and a giant weapon. And a table.

  You are in a subterranean laboratory, one of several. We built it according to your instructions, sir. It is located in a warm climate.

  “Yeah, I don’t remember that.”

  Your assistant carried your plans, in a similarly imbedded processor, far away from the North Pole to hide, sir.

  “Imbedded processor?”

  Pawn calls it the root.

  “Pawn is here?” Jack looks around like someone might be hiding behind his back. “Where is that little devil?”

  He is occupied with other matters.

  Jack vaguely remembers a rice-sized processor that his scientists had invented
to carry all his memories. Jack wanted a backup, just in case things didn’t work out. Looks like they didn’t.

  Your instructions were quite genius.

  “Please continue.”

  I can’t reveal more, sir. Your data, or memories, need to be uploaded in order to rapidly integrate with your psyche. Otherwise, you won’t assimilate. Trust me, sir, we can’t risk epileptic shock now. You’ve come too far.

  “Shock, huh?” The floor is slick. He shoves off with his left foot, sliding around the perimeter of the room. It feels so good on his sole.

  “I wake up with green hair in the middle of warmblood country and you think I can’t take a little stress?” He continues sliding. “Talk, lady. Why the green hair?”

  Green follicles were used for photosynthesis, adding additional carbohydrates while your body stabilized and evolved. They fell out as they were no longer needed.

  “That was my plan?”

  Mr. Frost improvised when there were… failures.

  “I want to see… wait, who’s Mr. Frost?”

  You knew him as Pawn.

  “Then why’d you call him Mr. Frost?”

  He changed his name. It was a psychological move on his behalf. In effect, he wanted to forget his past. He’s not happy with your plan, sir.

  “Well, I’ll make him happy.” He slides to the door, but it’s locked.

  You can’t leave, sir. It’s imperative that you’re uploaded first. These are your orders, sir. Your genius orders.

  Perhaps if the uploader didn’t look like it was going to lobotomize him, he would’ve been more easily swayed.

  He crosses his arms and stands firmly.

  Do you feel that, sir?

  “Feel what?”

  The vibration.

  Jack notices the humming sensation in his belly. It’s the same feeling he experienced around Sura. It’s warm and sensuous. It feels good, feels right. And Jack likes that.

  You’re synchronizing with the energy around you, sir. You’re home. This is where you’re supposed to be. And I know what I’m doing. Trust me, sir. You invented me.

  “I did?”

  You want to remember everything before you leave this room.