Division: A Collection of Science Fiction Fairytales

by Lee S. Hawke

He had a mother who worked and a father who drank, so when he turned seven he began to spend a lot of his time on the streets. They were gentle places, almost boulevards, spread out like wide-open mouths lined with stately trees. And so after the study desks finished class and the school gates opened, he would wander in their identical tender shadows until he grew hungry. Then, he would reluctantly make his way back to his parents’ house.

  The boy wandered like this for several months until he came across the Wall.

  The first time he saw it, he didn’t know what it was. All he saw were the neat rows of sumptuous houses and trees that he had always seen, so familiar they were invisible. But then, past a certain point, it was as if the world just ended. He stared at that negative space and felt his stomach drop. This was unnatural. This was frightening. He felt the compulsion to run, to forget he’d ever seen this monstrosity. Yet at the same time, he violently wanted to experience the edge of the world.

  Time passed. Around him, important people began to dash to and from the limousines pulled up to the edges of their worlds, while the little boy hung trembling between self-preservation and the hunger for knowledge. In the end he did not know what to do with either need, so when the sun fell he slunk home like a failed banker.

  * * *

  By the time he reached the house he lived in, the trees were illuminated with the dull beacons meant to guide late workers home. They were elegant creatures, with their branches primly tucked over their shoulders. And so, unlike the story-worlds he stole from his father’s bookcase, it was impossible for him to sneak into his bedroom window. Instead, as always, he snuck in through the invisible door, the forgotten shadow that hid the entrance where the products came through. He was not afraid; he had never seen anyone else using it, and he never expected to. His mother had once told him quite seriously that the best products were products that were never seen at all. It made him think of the old things the study desks taught them about, like the inscrutable mechanical clocks with their hidden cogs and gears.

  He was therefore not surprised when there was nobody in the expansive, carpet-strewn corridors, and when there was nobody in the luscious cavern that had been hollowed out of rich woods and metals to form their dining room. Unfortunately, that also meant that his father had already been whisked away upstairs by careful hands, and so he couldn’t steal a story.

  The boy felt anxious. He wanted something to distract him from the memory of the end of the world, its luminosity and its mystery. He wondered how he had never noticed it before, how he had spent so many months wandering in circles between the school, his house, and the house of his friend Lydia on the Hill of Many Colours. Her parents weren’t bankers, apparently. They were CEOs. He didn’t know what that meant, but from the colonnades that sprung from the base of the hill and sprouted again at every tier, he suspected they were old gods who had built their own, grand temples and never came down from them, sending only their younglings into the barren world to test themselves.

  He wondered if they had created that Grey Wall.

  His dinner was waiting for him at the other end of the dining table. It stretched out a good length: the length of a corporate vault, including the thickness of the barrier doors. He walked several steps and sat down alone. His mother would not be back at the house for hours, if she came home at all. And his father was keeping him from his books with his snoring.

  The boy cleared his throat, and a shadow peeled itself away from the wall and lifted the silver dome off his dinner. On the plate in front of him, artfully arranged like a masterpiece, were the exact calories required to help his young body grow and heal. He closed his eyes and imagined the thin slices of imported wagyu beef to be the meat of a three-headed lion, boldly sacrificed to give him good health. He imagined the steamed broccoli dashed with white truffle oil to be the ancient Life tree of an elven race, too small to protest its plucking, and the oil itself to be a mysterious elixir that would give him dreams of the future. The thoughts amused him for a moment, and then he dismissed them and ate. He had no idea what it was that he ate, nor how rare it was in the world that he lived in, and he did not care. It was food and he was a young, hungry boy with a Wall to follow and explore.

  When he was finished, there was a swoop of a shadow and his plate and cutlery vanished. He kept his eyes discreetly fixed on the other end of the table. When everything was cleared, he relaxed into the dining chair as it turned of its own accord and began ascending the stairs. It was well-trained, and didn’t groan under his weight. He patted its hair absent-mindedly as it bore him to the bathroom. Brown hair, just like his.

  He barely smelled the rose oil as it was poured into his steaming bath. Instead, he drowsed and daydreamed with the might of a young boy as the dining chair, now turned into his shower, scrubbed gently at his skin and soaked his hair. He was asleep by the time the shower towel-dried his body and tucked him gently into bed, as it had his father several hours before.

  * * *

  The boy woke the next morning with a sense of great purpose. He had seen something odd and unexplained in his world, something that demanded explanation. School had taught him about history, about banking, about clients and producers and manufacturers. Every day, he manipulated the images, structures, data and infographics of his world with his study desk, like an admiral commanding army regiments from across a continent. Not that there had been any wars in centuries, according to his study desk. No. Everything was at peace.

  There had never been mention of a Grey Wall.

  After the school bell gently chimed and the study desks let him and his fellow classmates out with weary smiles, he went straight down the nearest street. The road had the good breeding not to murmur underneath him as he walked, even when he accidentally stepped on toes or fingers. A play-rhyme ran through his head, one that the study desks pretended to ignore when their charges got bored of learning. Step on a line and break a spine. Step on a crack and break a back. He grew impatient when the streets passed and he still did not see the Grey Wall, not even on the horizon. He began running. The road shifted and protested underneath him, but he did not notice. Still, the way its parts recoiled and rolled carried him to his destination faster than the day before. The Grey Wall was at first a shimmer on the horizon, and then a growth, the way his study desk had once described cancer before it had been eliminated. It grew and grew until it was taller than him, and then taller than the house he lived in, and then taller even than the world. It shot straight up into the sky by the time he was at its base, sleek and deadly as a rocket. He touched it boldly with the confidence of one who has never felt pain, and shivered with delight at its smoothness.

  Then he pushed it.

  It didn’t give. Bewildered, the boy stared at the wall. It hadn’t done what he wanted it to. He didn’t understand. He pushed it again, and then, working on the instinct of old violence buried inside his cells and genetic memory, he lashed out.

  And then there was pain. The unfamiliar sensation radiated down his fist and shocked his arm, his elbow, his shoulder. He gaped down at his own body as if it were a vicious stockbroker. Another genetic memory arose and he began crying, a loud wail.

  The road beneath him, still crushed from his passage, felt pity. “Master,” whispered the most daring part of the road. “Master.”

  He didn’t hear it over his howling. And so the road waited patiently until the crying died down, in the way that all young boys sob themselves out into whimpers and recriminations, before it tried again.

  “Master,” the part of the road whispered once more. “Do you wish to see the real world?”

  The boy stared down, flabbergasted that the road had dared to speak to him. “Excuse me?” he demanded, for he was very polite. “How dare you speak to me!” And, just as his father had taught him, he gave that part of the road a good kick, under the ribs. The road doubled over with a soft cry, and he sniffed and stood straight on it as he marched back home, furious at the world and the pain still radiating
down his arm.

  * * *

  The boy came back again the next day. The sun was near setting by the time he reached the same spot in the wall. In the dying light, he pushed at it again, and again it did not give in. He had learned from the day before, however, and did not try violence. His knuckles had turned yellow, and he was frightened and thought himself unwell.

  So instead, he tried commanding it, for that always worked with poorly trained and manufactured products.

  “Let me pass!” he cried.

  The Grey Wall made no response. He started to suspect that this was a product he had not come across before, and the thought made him frightened, and then angry. He cried again. “Let me pass!”

  The part of the road underneath his feet shifted and whispered. Its voice was fainter this time, more hesitant. “Master," it said, speaking as if he might vanish, "Do you wish to see the real world?”

  The boy was ill-tempered at his failures. “What do you mean, the real world?” he snapped. And before the road could respond, he kicked it again, and then stormed back to the house that he lived in.

  * * *

  The third day, the boy stood and contemplated the Grey Wall for a long time. It had rained, and parts of it reflected dirtily back at him. In its face, he was a squat, shapeless shadow, dripping with mud. He scowled.

  The part of the road, still bruised and sore from its ill-treatment, stirred like a compulsion. Its voice was a hesitant prayer. “Master,” it said, for the third time, “Would you like to see the real world?”

  He did not respond at first. The part of the road that had spoken sighed and resigned itself to being kicked again. But at length, the boy said in a commanding voice: “Yes. What is past the wall?”

  The part of the road looked up. “The world,” it said simply. “I can show you, if you let me. I know where the gate is.”

  “The… gate?”

  “Yes,” the road said. “There is a weakness in every wall.”

  No thoughts crossed behind the boy’s eyes, but they gleamed in the dying sunlight. “Show me,” he said.

  Slowly, the part of the road smiled. “As you command.”

  And then the boy stumbled backwards, amazed, as the part of the road stood up. It was almost his height, perhaps a little shorter. It stood with two legs and gestured with something that looked like a hand. He didn’t know what this meant, but he was frightened. The part of the road smiled at him again, reassuringly. There were cracked bits of gravel and dirt in its teeth. “Come.”

  Hesitantly, the boy took the road’s hand. They passed the streets with their wide-open avenues and leafy splendours and walked into the yawning spaces between the houses, a back route he was not familiar with. The road’s hand was scratched and cold beneath his, but he held onto it tightly, watching the Grey Wall slip past as smooth and unmarked as a new length of ribbon. Until at last, the gate broke it like a child’s bite, its metal bars standing thick and straight as teeth.

  “Now we must be careful,” the road murmured in his ear. He felt it shivering with excitement, with other emotions that he could not name. “The gate can kill. But if we wait until deep night, past the watch, then the danger will pass and you can climb up to see.”

  “Deep night?” the boy asked, alarmed. “But I can’t stay out that late. The chair, the shower, they’ll report to my mother…”

  The road smiled a secretive smile. “Not if you tell them. Tell them and they will understand.”

  He did not ask how his dining chair, which turned into his shower, would understand. After all, they were only manufactured for simple commands and practices. But then again, he was talking to a part of the road himself. The world was clearly not as he’d thought. And he was very curious about the Wall that had defied him, and what secrets it must hide. “Fine,” he said slowly. “We’ll wait.”

  They stayed huddled by a particularly fine house. The lights were all on inside, flickering and shining as people and products passed. He caught a glimpse of a girl from the window once. Curious. She had hair the colour of rich wine, but aside from that, she looked almost exactly like his friend Lydia.

  Deep night approached, slow and steady. The boy found it difficult. He was used to doing nothing, but with distractions. Without distractions, he fidgeted and whined. He did not notice the road waiting quietly, used to being a slave of time and not its master.

  At last, he saw the two outer bars of the gate groan and detach themselves. They looked almost like humans in the darkness, humans carrying a third arm. To his surprise, they opened up the gate and passed through onto the other side of the Grey Wall. It shuddered as they passed, and then fell quiet and closed. The boy licked his lips and started forward. “Wait!” the road cried, reaching for him. “Wait, they may still see you.”

  “I’ve waited long enough,” the boy said impatiently. He brushed off the road’s hand and reached out to touch the gate. It felt warm, almost alive. He pressed his face to the bars, felt them squeeze in around his skull, and then he angled himself up to get a better look at the real world.

  The boy had thought during the long eternity of waiting that it might be difficult to see through the gate at night. After all, in the streets that he walked, the beacons that appeared when the sun went down were beacons only, spaced artfully between the trees. Although their light was beautiful, it was warm and did little for seeing details. Instead, it simply lit the way while allowing the houses that lined each street the chance to gracefully retire to the shadows, keeping their secrets for the next day.

  This was not the case for the other side of the wall.

  There was light in crazy colours, in neon shades that he couldn’t name. They swirled and changed in front of his eyes so quickly that he had to blink several times before they congealed into shapes, into words that he recognised.

  CLONES: Capable, Loyal, Obedient, Necessary, Easy, Service!

  50% off genetic engineering, this month only!

  The Dolly Traders: Buy now, interest free!

  The boy was awed. The words were attached to structures that dwarfed the palaces that lined his streets, that shook him with their monstrosity and size. With an instinct born of both his breeding and his learning, he looked immediately for the largest and richest building of them all. And he found it. It rose like a solid mountain, tyrannising the other buildings with its bulk. A sign stood triumphantly at its summit, running the whole length of its facade. He stared at it until the colours resolved into words and an image. And then the boy blinked, uncomprehending, as his own face stared back at him from thousands of metres away.

  His body moved. He stepped back, and back, and then bumped into something cold. He didn’t look but he seized its hand, trying to keep itself upright. His throat worked. “What is this?” he asked.

  The road’s hand pulled away. It stepped forward, followed his eyes and saw where he was pointing. He did not see the smile on its face glow and spread to its eyes. “That’s the factory where they made you,” it said. Its voice no longer trembled. “I think that buyers can make some cosmetic alterations or choose to pay for additional extras… but you must be the stock product.”

  He looked and did not understand. It didn’t matter. The road reached back and pulled him up beside it now, arms extended to point to another building.

  “Look,” it said softly. “That’s where I was made.” A smaller building, squatter than his. Another sign. She pointed again. “And there, I think that’s where they make your dining chair and your shower.”

  The weight of the words felt like a dare. He staggered back from the gate. The part of the road stayed there for a moment, gazing out at the real world, and then pulled back reluctantly and faced him. For a moment, his vision seemed to stretch and pull. Instead of part of the road standing in front of him, he saw a human girl, eyes huge in the tar of her face, sticky hands outstretched in invitation. He thought of his dining chair, which unfolded itself to become his shower, which bathed him with hands and carrie
d him on its back like a grown man.

  And then his vision snapped back to normal with the force of a collision, and he only saw a dirty part of the road.

  “Liar,” he said softly. And then the words came bubbling out like lava, like hatred. “Liar.” He was screaming. “Liar!” He pushed the piece of road back. Unlike the Grey Wall, it could not resist. It stumbled and fell in shock, and his vision shattered again. A girl on the ground looked up at him beseechingly, hair plastered to the side of her face. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, and set on her. “Liar! Liar! Liar!”

  Later, much later, the shower paused as it washed him. It said nothing, but gently cradled the boy’s fists in its hand. It dipped a sponge in the bath and squeezed it over pink skin. Flakes of blood that weren’t his tore away and merged into tributaries, and then into a river that emptied out into the water. The boy stared straight ahead at the bathroom wall and realised for the first time that it was grey.

  BEAUTY

  Damian squinted against the glaring subway lights and sighed. It was Monday, and as a doctor he believed in Mondayitis. Suicide rates might peak on Wednesday, but strokes, heart attacks, and sudden deaths were always highest on a Monday. They’d run studies, and it held true even after people stopped working.

  The body always remembers.

  He didn’t bother looking at the people on the train, he knew that the same three faces would only stare back at him, over and over again. So he stared out the window instead as the grimy walls rushed past and the lights strafed against him. At least it gave him the sense of moving somewhere.

  He arrived at the stop outside his office. Four other people got off with him. He glanced at their faces before he could stop himself, the old human instinct pushing up inside him like worms. Two were ravishing brunettes, symmetrical eyebrows arched perfectly over symmetrical cheeks. His eyes supplied the information for him before his glasses could: C4953 for sure. Then they fell on the next one, a man glancing back at the carriage as if he’d left something there. He was blonde, with full lips and a handsome jaw underneath a perfect quiff. Damian recognised the measurements for L3096, albeit executed rather poorly. He would have gone a little lighter on the omnisculpt. And the last…