Everything looked undisturbed in the Bay. But she worked her way to the Dex, which she knew very well how to activate. It was done as if by mistake, after which, fiddling as if puzzled by trying to turn it off, she could watch. She had only done this once before, to pick something up for SL. There had been no official come-back.
They used animals, the Laboratory, that went without saying. This had always disgusted her, annoyed her, but no more, obviously, than humanity’s careless use and ill-treatment of its own species. In the movie the young dog was dead, lying there while they finished two or three swift tests to make sure it was.
And then one of the men in spotless white took up a plastic vial and tipped out of it a colorless, viscous liquid. Leaning over the dog he smoothed the fluid into its mouth, and stood back.
Ilka knew the dog was dead on the film. She had seen enough, not only at B—G, but out in the world. Its death being a definite, when the dog quivered, snorted, rolled over, stood up and shook itself, stared, panted, then wagged its tail and barked, Ilka needed a moment to reprocess her mental reaction. The lab guys by then were cheering, cheering and hugging the dog, giving it little wholesome treats, (unlike the poison they must have fed it previously) and that was when the movie flickered to an end.
“Whine — whine — it works — it does — I saw the damn thing at eleven — playing — food—
—Robby—”
Robby? who was that? Not that it mattered. The main theme was evident.
Perhaps after all that was the instant she became the Hunter, the Warrior — that one, rather than those months on, when she left the lab and SL to conclude the Chase and her personal war.
Having switched off the Dex with a non-comprehending and exasperated sigh — for the camera, Ilka completed the superficial cleaning she was giving Third Bay. During which, locating the storage port, she used her eye-pass to unlock it. She had cleaned the port before legitimately, but never when it was full, as now it was. At least thirty sealed vials were in there. Even staff at her level knew not to touch anything like that. Ilka tutted and dropped her brush and cloth. Bending to retrieve them, she whisked out the single already part-emptied vial. PFN had seemingly decanted it into something. Maybe he had authority to do that, or not. Or he had fooled the camera in some way, as she was now doing. No alarm responded to her theft, as it had not to his. It occurred to her, he might have deactivated the alarm, but, in the state he was, then forget to retrieve it.
And later, it transpired, the abducted vial was blamed solely on PFN.
She found out later who Robby was too, when she heard SL telling someone that PF was having time off with his husband. Robby was the husband of PFN. Robby had been very ill. Robby had been near death — dying. PFN was at his bedside in the hospital. And then — a miraculous remission. Not only total recovery, but a full cure. PFN himself did not come back to the lab. He and Robby vanished, no doubt over the border. No doubt a secret inquiry was conducted into this. She heard SL again, talking one night on his cell-phone (some dubious contact) with the special scramble-light on, but careless of her, apparently asleep in the bedroom. “Oh sure, it may not last, that cure, that life. Who knows? But it works so far. I told you about the dog? The dog seems set to last another twenty years. And I guess nobody’ll go after PF. The powers here want to keep the whole thing quiet, you bet, too early to leak anything on this one. It’s way too big. So I reckon the old queer will get away with it.”
“It’s named LAZ A.O.,” Ilka said to Death. “I should have worked out immediately what that meant, but sometimes, in another language … certain letters together, I don’t always follow. It’s Lazarus, though. Like in the bible. The man Jesus Christ brought back to life from the dead. Odd they chose a religious name. If you go by religion, what they’re doing — what they’ve done — is blasphemous. Lazarus: Alpha to Omega — the beginning and the end. But that’s God. Or life itself. Or you, maybe. Maybe you.”
They were in another park. Night was down and only a moon on a diet, thin as a cat’s shed claw-case, thinner. A glaze of light powdered in over the walls, giving the trees a sketched shape, and him, showing him. This time she had brought them both a throw-away cup of water from the No-Pay fountain.
He raised the cup. But only, again, to sniff at the drink.
“I don’t know,” she said, rather dreamily now since she was growing suddenly tired, “whether you don’t trust me, or whether you just never drink anything. But you’ve stayed with me, or let me stay with you. I always knew I’d find you. I always knew you were able to be found. Can’t explain that. Faith, perhaps. Can I guess this has happened before, at least once, somehow — I wonder how, then? But the other way around, of course — I mean, you weren’t Death then. You were mortal. Like me. And you too — you just hunted Death.”
In the darklight he stood gazing away with his eyes like pale iron. Death had no expression.
“I think,” she said, “you don’t feel anything anymore. You don’t know anything anymore. Is that it? You were and became and are, and by doing that you’ve stopped being or becoming. You exist, but you’re not conscious of it. If I did ask you why you do what you do — why you kill — why you let or cause killing to happen — bullets, bombs, disease, old age — you couldn’t tell me, could you? No, I think you couldn’t. You just only do it. Are it. And you must be here, and all places. It’s the law of balance. Oh, sure, B-stroke G -stroke have found a kind of cure, LAZ A.O. But in the end it’ll be kept for the very very few. Or else it won’t rally work. Or — I don’t know. It — I mean LAZ itself — will decay. Only it’s young now. Just at the start of its life. So then, this will work, I think. If Death kills life — then Life can kill death. And if the effect only lasts a little while — well then, a dog’s life of twenty years would make a man or woman’s life — of about one hundred. So there’ll be that long before the dog dies, or Robby, or LAZ itself dies. Or before you come back to life.”
Ilka moved up close to him.
She looked up into his handsome thoughtless face.
Both Cold-and-Hot mind stayed silent, letting her speak as she must. A unique vote of confidence. And he — he never moved.
“I’ve put a little in all your drinks. I’ve then had to dispose of it, pour it away — hopefully where no one will get it. I don’t know what it might do to someone healthy. Maybe nothing at all. I mean LAZ, of course. That’s what I mean. But to you, even if not to anyone else, inevitably — well. Let’s see.”
She stood on tiptoe and lifted her left hand, over which she had poured the dregs of LAZ A.O. Only this ultimate dose now remained. He made no resistance to her gentle fingers as they moved across his lower lip into his mouth. The mouth felt entirely ordinary; clean, good teeth, firm gums and smooth tongue. A mouth to kiss.
When she withdrew her fingers she knew she had done exactly the equivalent of what the man had done with the resuscitated dog. But now there would be one more thing she must do, unlike anything required during the experiment.
She had observed that Death breathed, slowly and evenly, only an illusion, perhaps, passing for human, or for that other reason she suspected — Death, once, had been human. Before him, there had been other Deaths, also conceivably human prior to their epiphany into Deathness. She would not, if successful, be the first. Even if previous murder weapons stayed obscure. She speculated, in some different form, LAZ A.O. had always existed. If it was all a balance, how not?
He leaned forward. His eyes were closing.
Ilka, strong and young and mad and wise and a fool, caught him in her arms like a lover. She held him, all his manlike weight, as strength and coordination ebbed from him. She covered his kissable mouth with hers, uncaring of the wonder-drug, which anyway she believed he must have absorbed totally. And into her mouth, her throat, her lungs, her bloodstream, scentless, and cool-cold as any mental cunning, his very last breath gu
shed, whirling and sinking, like a sea-wave of melted snow.
When that was over, she let go of him. Death fell at her feet, lay like a long-bladed shadow then, as a shadow would at sunrise, faded into nothingness.
Alone, as always she was but for the facets of her self, Ilka stood and pushed back from her face her coils of night-silvered golden hair.
Was she growing taller? Was she altering in any way? She had killed Death. Which meant she would become Death. Just as he must have done, and become, centuries ago. And soon, soon, if it were truly true, she would know without asking Why and for What. And after that she would not care. And then she could be free. Free forever as uncaringly she patrolled the world, not in scarlet or ebony, not riding on a pale horse, but unspeaking and unthinking, and grey as the dust of burning towns, or the dusk that comes between light and night, and is both of them, and neither.
* * * * *
Tanith Lee was born in London, England in 1947 and started writing at age nine. By her early 20’s she had had children’s books published, and also wrote three SF/Fantasy novels including The Birthgrave. In 1975 these were published by DAW Books of America. She hasn’t stopped since, publishing almost 100 novels and collections, over 300 short stories, and also writing for BBC TV and Radio. She lives in Sussex with her husband, artist/writer John Kaiine, and two tuxedo cats. This story came from nowhere — they often do. The idea of Death can (strangely?) be very inspiring!
Symeon
By Bill Zaget
The El Condor was heavy with scent of the cheap and not-so-cheap. Aftershave and perfume — decadent, but not half as alluring as the heady smell of decay.
Symeon smiled and slid to the perimeter of the dance floor. His dark eyes — those deep unblinking wishing wells that drew all the turistas, homeboys, woo-girls, and divorcées into his shadow realm — focused on the writhing crowd. A range of social dance, from random galumphing to whatever street-style was au courant.
So-you-think-you-can-dance. Ha. A hollow laugh, Symeon noted. He sighed deeply, and despite the deafening music, a large portion of the revelers paused to slowly turn in his direction for a moment … and then continued to boogey on.
Symeon much preferred the 70s. He looked back fondly on its line-dancing. He had even occasionally joined in; reminded him of centuries before, leading the aged and the infirm — from the peasantry, gentry, and clergy (even royalty) in a line…
A flat line, hah. Nope, still hollow. And no longer packing a scythe. Or was he conflating memory with artists’ handiwork?
A few of the revelers — of various genders — caught his eye. If they only knew.
Symeon ambled to the bar to fuel his lust. He narrowed his gaze to the banks of video screens at one end. One was mutely broadcasting the news. A read-out appeared across the bottom of the screen: “…yet another inexplicable fire — the eighth in as many weeks. Presumed dead is its lone occupant, an Hispanic woman…”
The bartender, stubbled and shirtless, leaned towards him and mouthed the usual something. Symeon shook his head and backed away, still watching the monitor. No longer sexed-up.
Fuck. What a way to kill a mood. Way to kill. Ha. Whatever.
Her name had been … Chiquita — at least that’s what he filed her as in the deep recesses of his ancient noggin. A Latina who could do such things with my banana — insert a chorus of hollow laughter here. He had sidled up beside her and instantly sensed what she was looking for. He appeared ape-like in a white T-shirt, hirsute and stocky with a slashing smile.
“Ohhh, papi,” she had said. It was all that needed saying.
Sizzle-hot passion ended with the conflagration. He had slipped out before the sirens started blaring.
Symeon left the El Condor and dragged on a Sobranie en route to what he called his El Hovel.
Reflections of himself puffed away to various shitholes around the world. Here on the outskirts of Reno, and on the way to a cortiço in Rio, a sixth floor walk-up in Brooklyn, a garret in Prague, a mud hut in Darfur…
Shithole, he mused. Reminds me … and here he twisted his gaze upward for effect.
Shit-For Brains, Head-Honcho — God, how You do me in. I’ve been the good little soldier. Ad nauseum. To what end? Endless. And don’t give me that old caveat about being careful what you ask for. And making my bed and now must lie in it, for fuck’s sake. Lying — You must be as good at it by now as that no-goodnik ex-angel of Yours.
Symeon kicked a beer can out of the way. It clattered into the street.
Little did I know.
I had fantasized, as one does, when I was merely mortal. I prayed for a long life. Okay, for immortality. Eternal youth and all that jazz. There was I, on bended knees in my rough woolen leggings — or was it a toga, or … screw it; can’t remember anymore. And You — a veritable God of Irony, it seems — granted my fervent wish. But with a twist, of course. Life ever-lasting, yes, but grimly so: Your servant here on Earth, not spreading any good word or giving hope to those in need, but as The Big D. And so I slew those whose time had come, with a tender touch, or swinging a metaphysical blade as a warrior does, or snuffing coldly as one does an insignificant candle wick. But no more!
Where’s my celestial pink slip? Down-size The Firm; I’m more than ready. Gold pocket-watch me into Oblivion.
Symeon’s rant was met with the usual silence. Not simply the absence of a response, but a silence that was palpable, with an indescribable density and texture that pressed against him and calmed him for a moment’s grace. Symeon stubbed the Sobranie out in his palm. The stench of burning flesh was exhilarating. Of course, the skin healed over within seconds, but for those few seconds he felt almost human again. Half-memories peeked out, winked… Is that a face? And then were gone. Buried once again. Shite.
I need a vacation — like that’s going to happen. Too bad the job isn’t unionized.
The only union Symeon was able to effect these days was coitus. Things could’ve been worse. They are.
It came to him the year before, during one of those precious moments of half-humanness. He had just done his reaper-thing with victims of a tsunami. Some mangled flotsam had surged towards him, and he allowed the debris to lacerate his body. In that moment of ecstatic pain, he felt something ancient — a fleeting remnant of, of … being loved.
Was I? Did I?
Symeon then decided only the pursuit of love — or a reasonable facsimile — would be his salvation and act as a counterweight to the grimmer aspects of his job description. But where to pursue? Eschewing the more obvious and tawdry hunting grounds, he had settled on a visit to an art museum — the Tate in London. As it happened, the gallery had opened a new exhibit — The Mortal Image: Memento Mori in the Northern Renaissance. How fitting. Not one of the major exhibits, it took up a couple of smaller rooms in the building. A guard was quietly snoozing on a chair, just inside the entrance to the first room. Symeon browsed the numerous woodcuts and panels by Albrecht Dürer and members of his atelier. It amused him — those images of Death as a skull, as a skeleton. On those rare occasions that Symeon viewed himself in a mirror, all that was reflected was a smudgy swirl, a slow-motion spiraling of shadow, twisting outwards, so that countless incarnations of himself took corporeal form across the globe and carried out his ghastly duties. That’s me — a smudge, a scourge. Symeon caught himself sighing and snapped out of such gloomy thoughts.
The gallery emptied out of onlookers, but in the far corner of the second room, a lone figure stood in front of a smallish painting. Mere inches from it, a woman seemed to be mumbling something. A quick look-around: the guard was still napping by the entrance. The woman wasn’t wearing a Bluetooth device, so her comments must have been either a product of schizophrenia or … or what?
Symeon delved deep— Nope, not schizoid. Good. And yet…
“Must be so lonely,” she whispered.
Perplexing. She seemed to be muttering to one of the subjects in the picture.
“Mr. Bones.”
Taken aback, Symeon wondered if she was addressing him. After all, this painting, by Baldung, depicted Eve, the Serpent, and Death. There, the gloriously naked First Woman grasped an apple in one hand and, with the other, lightly fondled the phallic tail of you-know-who. And Adam was here transformed into a figure of Death, reaching from behind a tree to tightly clutch her arm. This First Man, Once-Human, now… I hear ya, pal.
Symeon advanced and took on the appearance of someone to the woman’s liking: ascetic, monkish even, but with an edge — lanky, with a goatee and ear piercings, and with crystalline blue eyes that belied the somewhat melancholic look.
“Are you speaking to me?”
She turned with a jerk of her head. “What?”
“Were you speaking to me?” He watched her take his new image in.
“Uh … no. To my Mr. Bones here.”
“Still — my name is … Osman. And the origin of Os is—”
“Bone, from the Latin — how bizarre. And wonderful.”
She’s no stupe. Promising. “There are more skeletal Misters hereabouts than that one.”
“True. Baldung here gives us a slightly more fleshy version. Sensual, even.”
Symeon’s baby-blues met her greens. A fecund pause, accompanied by subtle smiles.
Bingo.
“Well, Mr. Os-man, I’m Sharon.”
“The origin of which is…?”
“Umm… Share and share alike?”
Another pause, pierced by this Sharon with an unlikely guffaw. Symeon was delighted by the woman’s smarts, coupled with a certain earthiness. His eyes swept across and down the curves of her body, the auburn curls framing her face, the ample peek-a-boo of her cleavage, the smooth leggyness below the hem of her linen skirt.
It wasn’t long before he had convinced her to join him for coffee. A safe and un-sleazy start. How normal. Wonderful. Human.
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper Page 27
