Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 3, June 2014

by R. Leigh Hennig

The letter was so much papier mache, of blue ink and yellow paper, that the horror of this awful reality sent a wave of coldness up the small of my back. I heard the monotonous thumping of the turbines as though pounding in my brain.

  I balled up the mushy paper that was once something more and threw it down, and in so doing, I noticed the envelope in Hanson’s right fist. Urgently, I pried open the stiff fingers and pulled the envelope from the death-grip.

  My hands trembled as I held the envelope up to my face to read the address.

  My friend's handwriting was at once easily recognisable, but something was amiss. The envelope was not addressed to me, but marked "Dear Hanson Fuller, Good Friend..."

  #

  The far off flash, and the spill of snow, signals the mail bullet's arrival. I stand behind the glass, gloomily, looking out at the vast snowy desert. Without the android’s unique ability to track and home in on the bullet, it will remain where it falls, lost, stricken. Snow will bury it. The letters inside will remain unread, and like the truth in a buried man's heart, forever a mystery.

  I drop from my fingers my latest composition, nestled in its little plastic envelope.

  I wrote the following words, aware they would never be read, yet compelled to write them anyway:

  "If only you had told me first in a letter. If only you had told me, dear friend, that my mention of Hanson's loneliness had touched you, made you pity him enough to write him a letter of his own. Then I would have known and understood. Now I am lost. Friend, without your words, I will not survive."

  ###

  Kurt Bachard lives in South London, UK, where he was raised by stray dogs. A Pushcart Prize Nominee, his fiction and non-fiction have appeared in numerous publications, including the Black Quill Nominated Shroud Magazine, Underground Voices, Suddenly Lost In Words, and Ryga: A Journal of Provocations. He's currently looking for an agent/publisher for his first novel, with seven others in the pipeline. He can be reached at bachard.wordpress.com

  Past Imperfect

  Dominic Dulley

  Huritt Guerra took the past life test on a Tuesday morning. When the techs were done with him he went back to work, the taste of the syrupy root still coating his mouth. It was unpleasantly sweet, like overripe melon.

  There was fresh graffiti on the rust-streaked walls of the Indigene Center when he arrived. At first the anti-Indi slogans angered Huritt, but after working there for a few months he was coming to understand the prejudice. The Indis were just so...limp. He wanted to slap them, scream ‘do something!’ Anything would be better than their apathetic indifference, the mute acceptance of their fate. He stared gloomily at the shelter, wondering why he was still working there. He was as bad as they were.

  Except he wasn’t, not really. He’d actually done something about it. When the Assembly had announced the trials, he’d been intrigued by the idea of a past life test. The nagging feeling had always been there, that something was wrong with his life, that he wasn’t fulfilling his potential. Maybe finding out who he’d been in previous incarnations would point him in a new direction, open up new possibilities. If he’d been successful at something in a previous life, perhaps he could be again in this one. At least it might get me out of the damned shelter. He opened the door and went inside.

  There were only a few of them in today, their bodies stretched across the couches as they watched a kids’ show on the central holo unit. Huritt had never been to Earth, but his parents had lived on a reservation in Nevada. They always showed him nature documentaries when he was a child. The first time he’d seen an otter he was struck by the similarity to the Indis. Aside from longer limbs and a shorter tail it was really just their size that set them apart. In Brychon’s low gravity most of them stood more than seven feet tall on their hind legs.

  Huritt spotted Jane gutting a calarey in the kitchen area and walked over, crinkling his nose. The spiny fish smelt like garbage left out in the sun too long, but the Indis were particularly fond of them.

  “How’d it go?” she asked, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and leaving a smear of blood. She was a mousey woman, her face pinched with the stress of keeping the shelter running on a shoestring.

  “Fine,” he said. “They mushed up some kind of root and made me drink it, then scanned me.”

  “Palau root?”

  He nodded, remembering the thick purple liquid.

  “I wondered if that had anything to do with it. The Indis use it in their rituals.”

  “They have rituals?” Huritt was genuinely surprised.

  Jane frowned. “Maybe if you paid more attention to their customs you’d connect with them more. They have a holy caste who can sense the past lives of anyone who chews the root. I guess we’ve finally built a machine that can do the same thing.” She looked at him. “You don’t seem very excited, Huritt. Most people would feel like they’d won the lottery if they were selected for the first round of trials. Why did you apply, anyway?”

  “Just curious, I guess,” Huritt lied. “Who wouldn’t want to know about their previous incarnations?”

  “Me, for one,” said Jane. “It’s who I am now that’s important.” Huritt rolled his eyes. “When will you find out?”

  “Later today,” he said. “They’re running my results through a database of medical records.”

  “Records from Brychon?”

  “And Earth, and the other colonies.”

  “So, who do you hope you were? Gandhi? Bill Gates? Shen Wei?”

  Huritt wondered why the question made him feel so anxious. It was a relief when Jane became distracted by the holo. She frowned and he followed her gaze to see the kids’ show had given way to the midday news. Governor DeSilva was speaking to a forest of multi-colored microphones.

  “What’s that bastard up to now?” she muttered.

  Huritt smiled. He didn’t share Jane’s disgust with the governor’s policies, though he’d never admit it. Sometimes, DeSilva made a good point.

  “Aonyr,” said Huritt, addressing the nearest Indi. “Could you turn this up, please?”

  Her long body was sprawled across an entire sofa, silky brown fur streaked with white hairs. She turned her streamlined head toward him and her black eyes blinked slowly.

  “Yes, Mister Huritt,” she said, lisping like all the Indis did when they spoke English. She picked up the holo remote, holding it deftly in her prehensile claws, and increased the volume.

  “No, no, no,” said DeSilva, a disarming smile on his even features. He wore a pinstriped suit with matching tie and pocket handkerchief, the graying hair at his temples lending him a distinguished air. “The notion that these facilities are internment camps couldn’t be further from the truth. Let’s be honest here, it may not be politically correct to say it, but allowing the Indigenes to remain in our cities is not helping them. On the contrary, it’s denuding what remains of their cultural identity. It’s been over fifty years since the founding of this colony, and it’s time we found a solution to the Indigene problem once and for all. My facilities provide that solution, one which will help both them and us.”

  Jane slammed her knife down. “I can’t listen to this. I’ll be in the office if you need me.” She stormed away.

  On the holo, one of the assembled journalists thrust her microphone forward. “Verity Blunt, Brychon Intelligencer. Governor DeSilva, what is your response to the parallels being drawn between your facilities and the extermination camps set up by the Butcher of Brychon during the Indigene War?”

  DeSilva frowned. “Ms. Blunt, I find comments of that nature deeply offensive and I won’t dignify it with an answer. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m due at an Assembly meeting.”

  Huritt walked over to the holo and muted it. Aonyr’s eyes followed him. It was difficult to read her expression, but something seemed to be bothering her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She blinked in the lazy way the Indis had. “Will we have t
o leave the shelter, Mister Huritt?”

  Huritt sighed. “I hope not, Aonyr. Some people want to close us down. They think that you and the other Indis should go and live together, away from us.”

  “In camps.”

  “No…well, kind of. But it’s not going to happen. We’re going to stop them.”

  “I was in a camp once,” said Aonyr. “I won’t go back.”

  She cocked her head to one side, eyes narrowing as she searched his face.

  The shelter’s door opened, and Huritt turned to see a policeman standing there.

  The officer spotted him and walked over. His badge read ‘Collins.’

  “Huritt Guerra?”

  Huritt nodded, more curious than concerned.

  “Will you come with me, please, Mr. Guerra?”

  “What’s this about, officer?”

  Collins’s face gave nothing away. “Don’t make this difficult, sir.”

  A thread of doubt wormed its way into Huritt’s chest. “I’m not making anything difficult. I just want to know what’s going on. Are you arresting me?”

  “I can if you want me to, sir.”

  “On what charge?”

  Collins looked uncomfortable. “Past life crimes.”

  Huritt blinked. “What?”

  “I need you to come with me, sir. I’m sure we can sort everything out at the station.”

  “Past life crimes?” said Huritt. “What the hell is that?”

  Collins’s hand hovered near the baton hanging from his belt. “When the results of your test came back, the lab contacted the Assembly immediately.”

  “Why?” demanded Huritt. “Who was I?”

  Collins glanced around the shelter. A handful of Indis, including Aonyr, were watching the exchange. He lowered his voice. “I really think it would be better to do this at the station.”

  “No,” said Huritt. “Why are you arresting me? What am I supposed to have done? Who was I?”

  Collins’s hand closed on the handle of his baton. When he spoke his eyes were fixed on the Indis. “Your most recent incarnation was Major Feodor Karcher.”

  Huritt almost laughed, but the look on Collins’s face stopped him. “You’re kidding, right? This has to be a mistake.”

  A murmur ran through the Indis. He glanced nervously at them.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he told Collins. “Let’s sort this out at the station.”

  The policeman looked relieved. They hurried to the door.

  “Mister Huritt?”

  Huritt turned to see Aonyr towering over him.

  “You have taken the root.” Her black eyes pierced him, gazing deep into his soul. “It’s true,” she breathed. “You are Major Karcher.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s a mistake. I’m not him, I could never—”

  “The root does not lie.” Aonyr’s voice was strained. “You are the Butcher.”

  Huritt backed away. He’d never heard an Indi speak in that tone before.

  Collins stepped between them, baton in hand.

  “No,” said Huritt, trying to keep his voice calm. “Aonyr, you know me. You must believe I’m not...wasn’t him.”

  Aonyr growled. It was a primal sound. Her lips drew back over her teeth, transforming her usually placid face into a feral snarl.

  Collins raised his baton. “Stand back!”

  Huritt edged towards the door.

  Aonyr lunged forward, claws extended. Collins swung his baton, then screamed as she raked his face. The baton clattered to the ground and he fell back, clutching his shredded cheek.

  On the holo behind them, Huritt saw his own face appear. It was a bad photo. The caption beneath it read ‘The Butcher Reborn?’ His chest tightened. This was unbelievable, the world had gone mad.

  Aonyr took a step towards him, and he fled.

  He burst out of the shelter, blinking in the sunlight. It was a beautiful day on Brychon, the pale blue sphere of the gas giant Pertinax dominating the sky. A HoloV barge was moored on the canal out front, a petite woman talking to an engineer rigging an antenna array on its upper deck. She whirled round as Huritt appeared and he recognized her face from the news report.

  She hurried over, fumbling with a microphone. “Mr. Guerra? Verity Blunt, Brychon Intelligencer. How do you feel about being accused of past life crimes?”

  He pushed past her onto the narrow canal path, cursing whoever had leaked this to the press. Aonyr emerged from the shelter and spotted him immediately. Huritt took off along the path in long, loping strides, glancing back to see the Indi dive gracefully beneath the water’s oily surface. Huritt stumbled, recovered and redoubled his pace. The water was the Indis’ natural habitat, and he knew how rapidly they could cut through it.

  Ahead, the canal merged with the Westwater, one of the city’s major thoroughfares. Huritt’s boots rang on a metal footbridge as he crossed onto a wider path. He scanned the water from the bridge but there was no sign of Aonyr.

  There was more water traffic here, twin decked commuter boats and sleek convertibles, sedans and long barges laden with grain. A battered hydrofoil roared past in the opposite direction then slowed quickly, sinking into its bow-wave as the driver reversed his thrusters and began to turn.

  Huritt ran on, heart pounding as he entered the commercial district. He weaved through office workers on their lunch breaks and slowed to catch his breath, checking the busy waterway behind him. A dark shadow broke the surface and Huritt looked around desperately for help.

  The hydrofoil surged past again and cut its engines, coasting into the side of the canal on a wave that sent office workers scurrying back from the bank. One gull-wing door hissed open to reveal the driver, a squat, solid-looking man, sunlight gleaming from his bald head.

  “Get in!” he yelled, gunning the vessel’s engines.

  Aonyr erupted from the water and landed on the bank, water streaming from her glossy fur. Office workers screamed and backed away as she advanced on Huritt.

  “For fuck’s sake!” shouted the hydrofoil’s driver, craning his thick neck to look at Aonyr. “Get in here!”

  Huritt jumped onto the boat and squeezed past the driver into the passenger seat. With a last look behind him, the bald man revved the engines and roared away. Water slopped into the cabin as the door swung closed. He thrust a hand at Huritt, skillfully conning the hydrofoil with the other. His arm was covered in thick black hair, a heavy gold chain around his wrist.

  “I’m Lynch,” he said, grinning. “Pleased ta meetcha.”

  Huritt shook his hand and winced. Lynch had a grip like a hydraulic vise. He looked out of the rear window, still panting. “Thanks for stopping.”

  “Hell, son, it’s the least I could do.”

  “Well, not everyone would have helped.”

  Lynch barked a humorless laugh. “You got that right. This colony is going to hell in a handbasket if you ask me.” He slipped the hydrofoil through a narrow gap between two barges, raising his middle finger to one of the skippers as he went. “You know I haven’t worked in two years? Wife upped and left me. Bitch. Said I wasn’t trying hard enough.” He snorted. “I says to her, I says, ‘there ain’t no jobs anymore, not since they started hiring those goddamn sleeks.’ Fuckin’ Indis work for half the money and don’t have no union. What do they need money for anyways? They wus living in the sea before we came here. You had the right idea with them camps of yours.”

  A chill crept up Huritt’s spine. “Excuse me?”

  “The camps,” said Lynch, glancing at him. “Where you gassed them fuckers.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Lynch insisted. “You’re all over the news, man. You’re the Butcher of Brychon.”

  “Look,” said Huritt, struggling to keep the fear from his voice, “I don’t know what you’ve seen on the news, but I’m not...I mean I was, but—” He stopped, not sure who he was anymore. He needed time to think,
to figure all this out.

  “Hey, don’t sweat it.” Lynch swung the powerful craft into a quieter canal lined with warehouses and slowed a little. “You’re safe with us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah. There ain’t too many of us right now, but once the people find out you’re back they’ll come flocking to the banner.”

  “Wait, I’m not ‘back,’” said Huritt, then paused. “What banner?”

  “The Butcher’s banner. Those sleeks’ll shit ’emselves when they get a load of you. And this time we’ll do things properly, finish the job once and for all. Wipe the fuckers out.”

  Huritt looked away to hide his terror. He had to get out of the boat before Lynch took him to meet his lunatic friends. Surely they’d left Aonyr behind by now? If he could just get out of the hydrofoil he would find the nearest policeman and hand himself in. At least he’d be safe in custody while they sorted everything out. He couldn’t be held accountable for what he’d done in a previous life. Could he?

  “Slow down,” he told Lynch.

  The bows settled into the water as Lynch eased back on the throttles. He smiled knowingly. “I gotcha. You want it to catch us, don’t you?” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a blocky little handgun. “Here, use this.”

  “No!” protested Huritt, horrified.

  “Go on, take it. I have plenty more.”

  “No. Just stop the boat.”

  Lynch frowned. “What, here?”

  “Yes. Look, this is all happening too fast. I need to think.”

  The rumble of the engines died away as Lynch closed the throttles. He watched Huritt expectantly.

  A loud thud came from the bows and the boat rocked violently. The windshield shattered, showering Huritt with broken glass. He saw Aonyr crouching on the deck outside, hissing at him. Lynch yelped with fear and raised his gun. Huritt flinched, the shot deafening in the cramped cabin, and when he opened his eyes Aonyr was gone. Lynch thrust the gun out through the broken windshield, searching for her. He looked terrified.