The radio clicked back to static, and the moments turned into minutes.
“Arcadia to Ezra. We were not aware. Our visual communications have been disabled for nearly four decades now. Can you confirm… you said Earth was destroyed thirty years ago?”
She tapped the counter, feeling her breath quicken before she pushed the button once more. “Affirmative. Thirty years ago according to our visuals. Supply runs stopped not long before the event.”
“Ezra… do you have live human specimens on staff? It seems strange you wouldn’t be familiar with that protocol.”
“Negative.” Her eyes never left Ace’s. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Like you said, it’s against current protocol due to fraternization.” She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling sick to her stomach. She ignored the ChemTend patch to adjust the settings. She wasn’t even sure the damn gadget even worked anymore. Looking back, she found Ace gone. Searching the room, she instead found a wolf with bright yellow eyes and dark gray-black fur scrutinizing her quietly.
“Ace?” Jessie reached out toward it, beckoning it closer. It jumped to its feet and padded near her, giving her a soft whine as it rubbed against her leg. The depths of his eyes matched the same look Ace gave her.
“You lied to me, didn’t you? You lied to me for so many years. There were never immunes manning the quarantine stations, only androids. You didn’t tell me this because it meant I’d find out I was an android.”
The wolf hung its head down between its two front paws, looking ashamed and full of regret. It was the most emotion she’d seen from Ace in years, artificial though it may be. She couldn’t imagine the work he’d put into maintaining the illusion of her humanity.
“Arcadia to Ezra. We wish to rendezvous within the next three months. Is that possible? Our station is damaged, and without repair supplies; we can’t sustain this location much longer. We must move our cryochambers out to a more stable environment. Are you able to accept the shipment?”
She turned back toward the mic. “I’m sorry, Arcadia, can you confirm? You said a shipment of cryochambers with live specimens, correct?”
“Affirmative.”
“What about your A.C.E. staff?”
“Negative. We must remain at the station for a complete shutdown. Ezra A.C.E.s must assume care for the fourteen cryos. Concur?”
Jessie shook her head, placing a hand over her eyes. So many days had gone by in this lonely place. Ace was malfunctioning more and more frequently, but this was an opportunity to get ahold of new nanites which could fix him. It was the only way she would agree to take fourteen more cryochambers full of slumbering J.E.B. plague victims.
“Negative. This station’s A.C.E. units have been malfunctioning for decades. We need all Arcadian androids along with any spare nanites to accompany the cryo shipment. Our A.C.E. units cannot undertake such a task alone.”
A minute passed as Arcadia station contemplated her demands. If they said no, things would never change. If they said yes, she would be able to fix Ace and maybe, just maybe, be able to redeem even herself. Since discovering she wasn’t human and that Ace had been mind-wiping her over and over, she’d accepted her fate. Now other things were bothering her, things a trifle more important than wanting to be human.
She leaned forward and reached out toward the now-sleeping wolf at her feet. Running her hands through his rough, tangled fur, she gave him a tiny smile. “I understand now, Ace. I know why you’ve done what you’ve done. I forgive you, and I hope you can forgive me for putting you through it all.”
The crackling stopped, followed by the Arcadia station’s A.C.E. speaking. “Affirmative. We agree to join your units and take all supplies with us to Ezra. We will commence shut down of Arcadia immediately and join you in Ezra with all cryos.”
Jessie smiled as she continued to scratch the wolf’s head. Its throaty whine made her turn back toward her oldest and only friend. “I know I’m not human, but I want to thank you for keeping up the charade for me and doing whatever I’ve demanded from you all these years. I won’t need you to do any of that anymore. I’m happy the way I am as long as I’m here with you.”
The wolf snored softly as it slumbered, and she kept the smile spread across her face. It was what a human would do.
She pressed the button on the mic, and the static silenced as it awaited her words. “Affirmative. We’ll see you all soon.”
A Word from Alexia Purdy
I was a Ray Bradbury addict. No joke. I loved his books and his charisma for the fantastical. His stuff was like crack to a teenager who was always stuck in a book avoiding real life. What better way than to get lost in stories of other worlds, our world inverted, and other shenanigans he put into his books. I was hooked since then. I wanted to write like that.
I’m usually in the “fantasy” or “young adult” genre mode so writing a shapeshifting story about robots delved into a category I rarely get to explore yet have loved forever. Sci-Fi Fantasy. When I was asked by Samuel Peralta to join in The Shapeshifter Chronicles, you bet I jumped at the opportunity. What better way to challenge myself then to write like the master Bradbury? It was my chance to do it and I couldn’t wait.
But wait. Robots? What the heck did I know about robots? Zilch. Nada. Zero. The only experience I had with such mechanical things was made up in books. Write what you know right? Wrong. Write what you have no idea about and make it up as you go. Best advice ever and it helped me put a spin on the human/robot saga that will continually fascinate us all. Especially post Blade Runner (awesome movie by the way). Who wouldn’t want to know if robots have emotions, feel real things, or, gasp, can replace humans all together? It’s practically petrifying thinking about it.
Hence Jeb & Aces was born.
I hope you enjoy this tiny morsel of a journey through the world of Jeb & Aces and join me in my other works. I’m best known for my Dark Faerie Tale series, a magical urban fantasy faerie tale adventure that will take to the far reaches of the unknown and back in time for dinner. Otherwise, dive into a post-apocalyptic Las Vegas in my award-winning series Reign of Blood where vampires, hybrids, or worse (humans) roam.
You can find more about my works and stories on my website or sign-up for my newsletter for direct to you updates and goodies! See you there!
With Hair of Teeth and Claw
by Charity Tahmaseb
SHE CAUGHT THE THIEF with his hand wrapped around the stem of a flower, its spike of golden flocked petals sprouting from his fist. The brim of his hat shrouded his features, and the overcast night made it impossible to identify him. Even so, the witch knew a desperate husband when she encountered one.
“Let go of the lion’s tail,” she said, her words crisp as the air, with just enough bite to get her point across, but not so much that she didn’t appear neighborly. She’d always been a good neighbor.
“My wife, Mistress Witch.” The man sunk to his knees. “She is with child.”
“Yes. I know.”
In truth, the entire village knew every time the babe kicked or the woman’s back ached or her ankles swelled. Never had so many prayed for a timely birth.
“She craves all things fresh, all things green, all the things that grow in your garden. Please, Mistress. I will work, split logs, do whatever you ask, but let me take some of your bounty home to her, so our babe might grow strong.”
A first love, a first child, it was enough to make anyone a fool—or a thief. The witch spread her arms wide. “Take, neighbor, take all that your wife craves.” She grabbed hold of his hand. “Except for this.”
Beneath her grip, he unclenched his fist. The plant he held—lion’s tail, as the locals called it—dropped to the ground, stem broken, bright petals crushed.
“Leave the lion’s tail,” the witch said. “She should not eat it while with child, and I cannot be responsible for what happens if she does.”
The man bowed, his movements jerky and frantic. The witch helped him pluck the best greens and place
them in a basket. She saw him to the edge of her property, and when he hesitated, she urged him forward.
“Go,” she said, voice gentle. “Take the greens and return to your wife.”
When the man had left, the witch bent and plucked the lion’s tail from the ground. She stroked the petals and wondered if his wife had already tasted of the plant.
That could be very bad indeed.
* * *
The babe was born strong, with a lusty cry and deep blue eyes that peered out at the world around her. Within a week, the entire village predicted she’d be a beauty. Within a month, her golden hair fell to her chin, the strands thick and wild. By nearly a year, the strands fought all attempts to comb them.
It was then that cries emerged from the cottage, by day and night, until the babe’s mother ran from the house. Neighbors peered from their windows and did nothing, but the noise brought the witch from her garden.
The woman trembled, skirts in tatters, arms scratched. Blood oozed from wounds. In her hands, she clutched a pair of shears. She pointed the tip at the house and the infant inside.
“That is not my child. That cannot be my child.”
She stood like that, her arm shaking, the shears more weapon than tool.
The witch examined the woman, gave a curt nod, then proceeded inside the cottage. Scattered strands of gold littered the floorboards from hearth to door. Other than a soft whimper, the room was quiet. She crouched to approach the babe.
“Shh … there you go. You are not in danger, and I will not hurt you.” She gathered the child to her and stroked the remaining tufts of hair.
“See? I’m a friend. Let’s find your mother.”
The child cried out, fists clenched, but the witch hummed a lullaby, one with the power to sedate a charging troll. The babe blinked and then stared at the witch with curious blue eyes. The sight of them transfixed her, and the old witch’s heart caught for a moment before resuming its natural beat. They stepped into the sunlight and into the crowd that now surrounded the cottage.
“She’s the one!” the mother said, jabbing her shears toward the witch. “She poisoned me with the plants from her garden.”
“Your husband stole from my garden to satisfy your cravings.”
The woman’s hand shook, the tip of the shears bobbing. “That cannot be my child. She looks nothing like me.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. True, the woman was no beauty, and her husband no prince. The woman turned her wrath on the closest bystanders, silver shears glinting in the sunlight. The crowd eased back, catching laughter into cupped hands.
“Oh, then perhaps the child is mine?” the witch asked.
This time, no one held back their laughter.
“So you think I wasn’t a beauty in my day?” The witch scanned the crowd, the babe still secured in one arm. “Master Tailor, I believe you know different.”
The old man shuffled and stammered, a ruddy cast to his weathered cheeks. The witch turned back to the babe’s mother.
“You do not want your child?” she said to the woman.
“That is not my child.”
“Then who will care for her?” The witch held the child aloft for the village to see. “No one, then?”
She considered the quiet bundle in her arms. A beauty, it was true, but those deep blue eyes were uncanny, knowing. No wonder this simple woman trembled at the sight of her own child.
The witch cast a look toward her own cottage and the garden with its walls—ones that kept her tender plants safe from hooves and teeth. They kept the variety of weeds she cultivated from invading her neighbors’ gardens. Walls were handy but not foolproof. Her gaze met the babe’s, and once again, her heart caught.
In this case, perhaps she was the fool.
“I will care for her,” the witch declared. “Please, before I take her with me, tell me her name.”
The woman blinked as if waking from a dream. “She has no name.”
“You have not named your child?” No wonder the babe lashed out. Even now, at the sound of the woman’s voice, those short tufts of hair bristled and the child cried out again.
“Oh, my poor child,” the witch murmured, “fate has been cruel.”
No one stopped the witch from taking the child. No one uttered a word of protest. When the witch passed the mother, so she might say goodbye, the woman only turned her back on both the witch and her own child.
To the witch’s surprise, the husband followed her home, weighed down by the cradle, a wee table, and a chair.
“Please, Mistress Witch, take these things for the child.”
The witch nodded, held open the door to her cottage so the man might bring the items inside.
“Would you like to say goodbye before you leave?” she asked.
He had none of his wife’s hesitation. His hand cupped the babe’s cheek. The tufts of hair wavered as if blown by a soft breeze, and the babe’s eyes were luminous.
“Goodbye, sweet girl. Goodbye, my Rapunzel.”
“Is that the child’s name?” the witch asked.
“It is what I wanted to name her,” he said, his voice wistful.
“Then Rapunzel she’ll be.”
* * *
With Rapunzel still in the crook of her arm, the witch gazed about her cottage. Oh, it was a poor place to raise a child. Too many dried herbs that, consumed incorrectly, might injure or kill. Too many sharp objects. She inspected the child’s head. Scars from the shears crisscrossed her raw scalp. Clearly Rapunzel was no stranger to those.
She would need to find a grate for the hearth, a cow or goat for milking, soft cloth for diapers, and something other than the stained gown Rapunzel was wearing.
“It’s been many years since I’ve even held a child,” she said to the babe. “And I’ve never had any of my own.”
At the thought, her heart caught once again. Had she ever intended to raise a child? Did she regret the time spent on the pursuit of her potions and spells? No. The village was a healthier, happier place for her efforts, even when its citizens didn’t fully comprehend them.
“We can make do for now.” The witch placed Rapunzel in her cradle. “I can soften bread in weak tea and stew some apples. Does that meet with your approval?”
Rapunzel sat up in her cradle, that unnerving blue-eyed stare never leaving the witch’s face. Then the child clapped her hands together and gurgled.
“Well, I see that it does. Tomorrow we will explore the village, get you some proper things. But tonight? Let’s get to know one another.”
It was late when Rapunzel fell asleep in the witch’s arms. She eased her into the cradle only to be caught short by the babe’s cries moments later.
She knelt at the cradle’s side, cupped a hand against the child’s soft cheek. “We both must get some rest.”
The babe quieted immediately, but the moment the witch withdrew her hand, the cries started anew, stronger, more strident than before.
“Oh, very well, it has been a rough day.”
She scooped the babe up and carried her to the large bed behind a curtained wall.
“I imagine you could use the comfort.”
But when the witch extinguished the lamp and felt the babe curled at her side, tiny fingers clutching her thumb, she wondered which one of them truly needed the comfort.
* * *
It was not the sudden acquisition of a child that shocked the witch. No, she’d come to terms with that during the darkest hours of the night. It was not the surprise of a cow tethered to the cottage gate. This, she suspected, was a gift from Master Tailor.
It was the way Rapunzel’s hair had grown overnight. The strands curled and swirled. They felt like silk flowing through the witch’s fingers. Their length already to the child’s chin.
The witch pulled ancient volumes from a shelf and thumbed through them, searching for something, anything that might tell her what manner of sorcery this was. She thought back to the man in her garden all those months ago.
What had she given him?
She peered at the child who sat at her wee table. “Was it a combination of plants your mother ate?”
Rapunzel slapped the wood of the table, blue eyes stormy, hair undulating. It bristled, strands on end like that of a thistle.
“She is still your mother,” the witch said, her voice soft but no nonsense.
Another slap.
“Do you wish to be my daughter?”
Ah, the gurgle again. The hair calmed itself. Rapunzel peered at the witch, her blue eyes dark and serene.
“You shall be the daughter of my heart. Does that suit you?”
Rapunzel stood and toddled over to the witch. She clutched at her skirts with tiny fists.
“I see that it does.” The witch bent down and clutched the child close. When she had Rapunzel nestled against her chest, the witch found herself stroking strands of that hair, much like she’d done all those months ago with the petals of the lion’s tail. The locks slipped through her fingers as if they had a mind of their own.
“Inquisitive little beasts,” she murmured.
And then froze. The lion’s tail.
What manner of sorcery indeed.
“We have all been very, very foolish, I’m afraid,” she whispered into the child’s hair, “and you will be the one to pay for our folly.”
* * *
The witch took Rapunzel with her everywhere. Aside from the father, there was no one she could trust in the village to watch the child and not gossip. And gossip they would. Already rumors flew about the miraculous growth of the child’s hair.
Every morning, the witch worked to contain the strands before leaving the house. In a bonnet. Secured with bows. The strands had a life of their own, flowing through her fingers, curling into points, flicking back and forth, very much like a tail.
“Until we reach the woods, child,” the witch would say. “Contain them until we reach the woods.”
The Shapeshifter Chronicles Page 24
