But she was. That was a truth I could believe.
After, she urged me to dress again, telling me it was time for her to return. Her people were waiting for her. I fell silent, wondering what was to become of me, unable to ask. When she took my hand before setting off between the stones, I was relieved. Maybe there was no more truth outside the shanties than in them, but I would never know unless I went looking. I followed her.
“Jonna?” I asked. She glanced back at me. “Would you sing me one of your songs?”
She smiled. It was an honest smile, a pleased smile. “Sure.”
Her voice was not perfect. It wavered sometimes and once it cracked on a high note. But there was no pretense to it, and it was beautiful to me. I did not know the song she sang. I am not even sure what it was about; love, I think. The concept of love directed at a fellow human and not toward distant god-beings was strange to me. Shanty-folk do not fall in love with each other. The fondness and communion of our rituals is a closeness no one outside our walls will ever know, and I was raised to think that it was enough. Listening to Jonna, I suspected that there was something missing from the shanty, some lack I had always felt but never named.
We walked for hours with the moon rising and then falling overhead. Sometimes she sang and sometimes we moved through the silence of night. I was growing nervous. Were Jonna's people like her? Did they know I was coming? Would they be too different from the shanty-folk? Would they welcome or reject me? At times, my hands shook and I wanted to tear loose from her grasp and run - to the shanty, into the wild woods, to the sea, I did not know. But she kept hold of my hand and she looked at me and I did not run from her.
When the man stepped out from behind a tree beside the path, I was startled. For some reason, I had expected him to be pale, like Jonna. He was not. He was dark of skin, darker even than my own deep brown, dark enough that he almost blended into the night. Jonna stopped a few feet from him, a little farther than I would have stood from him had we both been in the shanty. She smiled at him and I saw relief in her eyes.
“I brought her out, Mkembe,” she said. “You were right.”
His forbidding expression softened into a smile of his own as he looked at her. There was fondness there. “Good. Very good.” Then he turned to me. “So. Ikere. You're the one bewitched my student, eh?”
I stammered something incoherent and he chuckled. Jonna squeezed my hand. I swallowed and tried again. “I rather think she's the one who bewitched me. Or un-witched me, perhaps.”
He chuckled again. “It's good to meet you. She said you were more cogent than the other shanty-folk she's seen.” At my obvious surprise, his expression grew more serious and he nodded. “You're starting to see. We need to know the shanty, you get it? We need to know the Ecstatica and the Servants.”
His words and Jonna's met in a flash. I did see. “You intend to break the shanties,” I whispered. “You want to be rid of Those Above and Below.”
“Hit the nail on the head. You found a sharp one, girl,” he added to Jonna before turning back to me. “You've got a glimpse of the lie or you wouldn't've left. Will you help us?”
I knew, then, that this was the catch. There would be no true freedom, no idyllic life with Jonna, cavorting in moonlit glades. There was a cost. I thought about the shanty, the creche with the nurselings, Arash's lingering gaze, Isana and the child she had never seen. I thought about Jonna and how she had risked herself to tell me the truth. There was no way she could have known that I would not run back to the shanty and tell them there was a stranger in the place of the dead. I could so easily have told the wandering servant, brought it with me to lie in wait for her.
What lay behind me was a life I could never return to. What lay before me was a life I could not even imagine. I turned to Jonna. Her eyes were bright, and I remembered how the moonlight had gleamed on her pale flesh, turning her to a creature of molten silver. She said nothing. It was my choice.
“Yes,” I told Mkembe, and meant it. He reached out to draw Jonna and me both into a warm embrace.
“Then thank you. And welcome. Let's go; we've a long walk ahead.” He strode off into the night, and I followed, Jonna's hand in mine.
Dilution Solution
by Adrian Simmons
The line moved slower every time we came back. Remarkable, considering that odds were we almost always had fewer people than we left with. Only one thing to do for it.
Flipping the cover to the manual override on the side of my headphones, I punched the ‘start’ button. Even through the thick gloves it was easy to do, they had only put the one button in it.
Music, wordless for once, came streaming into my head, giving me a little bit of distraction to aid in the waiting.
After a while, they put words into the music. It played What a Lady What A Night and I wished they’d put an off button on it, too. I’d just have to endure until it shut off automatically.
At least I was close enough to see the check-in personnel behind their bullet-proof glass. Sandy, Ronald, and Johnny Tayl. The usual three, wearing mirror shades to protect themselves from each other. Plus, outside the glass, there were the ever-present red-guards: Dana and Mok today. They stood like two great wasps, their eyes covered by visors, their ears protected by thick headphones—same as me, except they could take theirs off at the end of their shift.
Patroller check-in is a slow procedure, not that we didn’t get any entertainment, mind you. Tommy Mestor went nuts after his check-in; Dana tackled him from behind (she was smart, she never stood in front of anybody) before he could bring his anti-personnel gun to bear.
Mok tazered him, which gave Dana quite a shock, too. Her mouth screamed at him, a ragged square from beneath her eye shield, her earphone antennae waving menacingly.
I used the distraction to skip up in line so I could be next.
I spun the rifle around, holding it up so they could see the clip was out, and opened the chamber to show it was empty. I dropped it into the bin, along with the three clips of ammo, grenades (only had one of those left), saber, and, of course, the socket wrench from my boot.
“Plug in, Mick,” Johnny said.
“Right, Johnny.” The plug in was right in the center of the visor, a good design feature. I plugged in and he looked at his computer screen, seeing what I saw.
“See my eyes?” he asked as he pulled off his shades.
“See ‘em? I love ‘em!” I joked, as the VR visor put a black strip over his exposed eyes. “Gimme a kiss, you brute!” I slammed my face into the glass, the visor’s screen fuzzing for a second.
“Stupid fucker!” Sandy shouted. “He’s gonna break the plug-in!”
Johnny waved her into silence, replaced his shades, and held up an object.
“What is this?”
“Salvador Dali’s uvula wrestling a tequila worm?”
Dali’s work had a huge resurgence after the Others showed up. My mom always thought that was funny.
Johnny just frowned and held the optical illusion up under my nose, just on the other side of the glass.
“Come on, Johnny,” I said. “I’ve had a long day; need a little relaxation, a little humor. Don’t ya like humor? Why don’t you sing anymore?”
“Mick, just tell me what you see.”
It was important that they checked both your equipment and your mind when you came back from a patrol. From the outside. I didn't hate them for doing their jobs, just hated the fact that their jobs might cost me mine.
“It is a dodecahedral. Didn’t know I knew that word did you? A blue one.”
Whatever it was he held was blocked out by the virtual reality gear that was mounted on my head. The VR gear masked it as a twelve sided figure in a pleasant blue hue for my sanity’s protection.
“Great, great," he said. “Sign in now.”
He slid the pad and the stylus to me under the glass. It came as a surprise.
“I thought the Council determined the SK test wasn’t really accurate
," I said.
“Tommy Mestor said the same thing.” Johnny smiled, not very friendly, “The Council’s decided to start it back up. Just sign in.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna sign in! Maybe I’ve had enough shit for one day!” A few hours ago I saw things that would turn most people's shit white. I'd gunned down naked crazies while unspeakable things hid behind the pleasing shapes the VR rig gave them. Honestly, who the hell could trust a signature after that?
I could hear Dana moving up behind me.
Maybe they had already pushed the button on me. They have buttons back there, in the check-in area, for various things. They said they have one they press when somebody goes over, a big red one like they have in bank-robbery movies. Nobody had really ever explained to me what a bank was, something from before my time, before the Others. When these banks get robbed, they push this big button to call the patrollers. If check-in people push the button on you, you’re fucked.
I took the stylus and pressed it into the pressure pad, signed once, signed twice, signed the third time.
“Happy now? Lemme in!”
Johnny looked up from the screen. “You’re last name isn’t Marttel.”
“It’s a form of silent protest.”
“It speaks pretty loud.” He turned the computer screen so I could see.
My name appeared at the top, followed by my other entries, each from after a patrol and a randomly given SK test, until they stopped having us sign in three months ago. Each signature was a little more erratic than the last. Today’s entry was barely recognizable. The computer pronounced its doom. Eighty percent degradation. I could feel them push the button.
“Give it to me again. I’m not a Mad Hatter. No jokes this time.”
Johnny shook his head.
“Come with me, please,” Mok the red-guard said. The door opened and two more came out, their tazers drawn.
They looked at me with through their bulging black goggles. I tensed up. Not one out of ten come back from rehab, and they usually can’t last past a few patrols. My legs tightened, ready to spring. I let go of my tension.
“Calm down... I’m on the way," I said.
“Smart boy.” I heard Dana say from behind me.
* * * *
It hurt a lot when they removed the VR rig. It’s all designed so that it doesn’t come off, in case a crazy hooks their filthy hands around it. They drill anchoring screws into your skull once you’ve passed all the tests.
That’s a fairly painless procedure; they make an effort for you. You are a patroller, after all. You keep the crazies and the Others out, you secure the perimeter, get supplies, that sort of thing. When the rig goes on, they dope you up and give you a good pep-talk about what a great thing you’re doing.
The doctor’s aren’t nearly so nice when you’re a Mad Hatter, I was afraid they were going to chew up the bolt-head trying to get the screws out.
At least they told me that the new models have an inserting pin that the bone can attach to and that a screw fits into that could save future Mad Hatters a lot of headaches. Hooray, progress!
The earphones weren’t a picnic either.
I shared rehab center #5 with three other Hatters: Donny Corloni, Sonny Crocker, and Angie Renaul (yes, the legendary Angie R). I felt a little sorry for Sonny. He was the only one who wasn’t a patroller, just some poor slob who got the gaze. Oh, well; it happens.
Rehab center #5 was a simple arrangement: four “rooms” that were made of chain link about a hair bigger than a dog run. I had never seen a dog, but that's what all the old people called most of the cells in the underground. The floor was an incredibly ugly blue tile, after about ten feet outside of the cells all around there was nothing, just blackness. No floor, no wall, no ceiling, nada. They said that once you’re a hatter it's real easy to fool your senses. The doctors usually appeared out of the blackness next to my cell.
* * * *
The psychologists came to see us every third day, and every other visit we got to go to the check-up room. God, I never thought I would be so happy to see white tile and medical gear. Although we got to meet a lot of new faces at the check-up room, we made little progress.
One day, the doctors didn’t show up; it was red-guards instead. Didn’t say much, just had us sign in and take the Stewart-Kravtechenko test again. They compared notes afterward, and then they took Sonny away.
“Man, this fucking sucks, it fucking sucks,” Donny said.
“Baby learn a new fucking word?” Angie asked.
“I’ll tell you what, he may not be a hatter but he won’t last a day before he’s back,” Donny spat. Then he dropped and started doing pushups.
Poor Donny. He suffered from the delusion that he was one of the great ones, up there with Angie R. Thought if you were a good enough patroller they’d take you back, no questions asked. It broke our hearts to tell him different, so we only did when there was absolutely nothing else to do.
Not that I didn’t do pushups myself. I did; heck, I wanted to be back in the patrollers just like everyone else. Angie R. did pushups with her one good arm, more than I could do. She even did some on the stump of her forearm, more than I could do. Sometimes she would even climb to the top of her cell, hold on with her toes and one hand and do some sort of weird pull-ups. It was an unnerving sight.
I didn’t try it.
* * * *
“I heard that Katya has been coming around the cells,” I said.
“Shut up... gotta concentrate!” Donny grunted.
“C'mon baby! Do it! Do it!” Angie encouraged.
I couldn’t concentrate, but I watched; my shaded eyes jumped from Donny's stroking to Angie's dancing.
This stuff did nothing for me anymore. Well, it did; group masturbation with the voyeuristic risk that the doctors and who-knew-who-else might be ten feet away. Hot! But I couldn’t concentrate at all.
Angie swayed side to side. Her stomach had three parallel scars running across it, but her breasts had come through unscathed. She was sweating just enough to shine.
Donny, on the other hand, had worked himself up into a lather. His black skin gleamed and shined. All the exercise had made a positive impact.
“Have you ever met Katya Kravtechenko?” I asked.
“Please, we’re trying to establish mood here," Angie said. Donny said something ruder and kept up his frantic pace.
They sent Katya to see you when none of the other tests or relaxation techniques or drugs did anything for you. She inspects the patrollers with the rest of Council. I’d seen her there, just looking at us, talking sometimes to a random patroller. I’d heard she had also pulled a few out of the ranks. Unfit. She could tell, you know.
Some folks said that the sensitives, like Katya, were a result of the Others. My mom said that some rare people already had powers, but somehow the Others helped make them stronger. Another faction maintains that the sensitives are evolution’s way of fighting back.
My mom said evolution didn’t work like that, and normally I agree with her, but it’s hard to think about your mother when you’re doing things in cages that animals in a zoo would be ashamed of, much less ask for.
Man, a zoo must have been an amazing thing.
Anyway, now Katya was nosing around down here. And that meant that the Council was trying to do something. Or maybe that Katya was trying to do something. Like everything else Underground, our government didn’t work that well.
“Turn around, Angie!” Danny pleaded.
She spun around, flinging her dark straight hair out. Something had got her on the ass, probably whatever took her arm off. Aside from the scars, it was a really great ass.
Donny thought so, too. In a few moments, he let out a muted cry, spraying out pleasure and frustration and hope into a crumpled tissue.
While he gasped and grunted, I spit into my palm, redoubled my pace, and jumped up ahead in line.
“Have you ever met Katya, Angie? I mean, you’ve been here for a while now..."
“You’re going to spoil it, Mick,” Angie said, turning back to us, a smirk playing beneath her eye-shields. “Agreements are agreements after all, gentlemen."
There was no arguing with that. “Ready Don?” I asked.
“Yeah... yeah, I’m ready,” he said, gasping just a little.
“A-one and a-two and a-three-”
“Love is strong," we began in gravely unison while Angie took care of herself with her one good hand.
I had seen that hand bend the chain links on the fence of her dog-run. She was talented.
Donny’s singing had gotten better, too.
* * * *
Two days later, the medics wouldn’t let me go to the rec-room with Donny and Angie. Ten minutes after they left, Katya Kravtechenko walked out of the darkness and stepped lightly over the tile. She had two red-guards with her. They opened the door to my cell. She went in alone.
I smiled as pleasantly as I could.
She just stared at me through her Class Four eye-shields.
She was very young, maybe thirteen. “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?” I said. My mom used to talk about schools, something like banks. You put money in banks and kids in schools.
She smiled shyly at me, shrugged
“I’ve never heard that one before. Tell it again," her voice had a luxurious Russian accent.
The red-guards walked in.
“So, how have you been doing?” she said.
“Oh, pretty well, I guess. I’ve learned which lever gives me the cheese and which doles out the electric shock.”
“ECT doesn’t work in most cases for people who have Reality Perception Disorder.” She looked at me thoughtfully through her mirror shades then shrugged. “Maybe more study is needed,” she motioned to a red-guard. He pulled out his tazer and shot me full in the chest. They ran so much juice through me I swear I was lactating before they turned it off.
Apotheosis: Stories of Human Survival After the Rise of the Elder Gods Page 7
