by Ike Hamill
“He is?” I ask. It’s not a well-formed question, but Bud gets the context.
“The first, I believe.”
♣ ♢ ♡ ♠
I wake up in the tent alone. Through the flap, I see the bones of the fire. Bud and his pack are gone. I was supposed to go with him and figure out the plan when we met the creative types. Why did he change his mind?
I strike the tent and stow it in my bulging pack. The tent always went with Bud. I barely have room for it. I hunt around, but I can’t determine which direction we arrived from, or where Bud might have gone next. The forest floor gives me no clues. On top of the rocks, near where we camped, I find a bunch of Bud’s stuff. Clothes, and his sleeping bag, are stacked neatly. I put down my own pack and decide to wait.
“I thought you would have the fire going by now,” Bud says.
I turn to see him standing at our campsite, digging through his pack. He pulls out some plucked birds.
“I didn’t know where you went,” I say.
“Sorry. Didn’t want to wake you.”
Bud begins to rebuild the fire so I move to help him. I could challenge him, but I’m not sure what advantage I could gain. He clearly didn’t need to sneak off with his pack just to hunt a couple of small birds. He wanted me to panic—to believe that he’d left me here, lost in the woods—but why? To reinforce that I’m dependent on him to survive? To make me elated at the sight of his return? I think it’s time for me to turn the tables and take control of our relationship.
I wait for him to spit the birds and set them over the fire.
“If we had more time, I would show you how I used to smoke these birds.”
“I’ve been considering the people we are going to see,” I say. “They will attempt to kill you immediately.”
“Oh?” He keeps looking at the fire, but his hands stop moving. They start again, massaging his knuckles, but I know I have his attention.
“Yes,” I say. I wait. It’s important for him to ask. That will put me in the position of having desired knowledge, instead of offering a notion for consideration.
He clears his throat and looks at me. Keeping his power, he’s prompting me to continue.
I smile and wait. It’s important for him to ask specifically.
Bud reaches forward to turn one of the birds and he singes his hand.
“Ow!” he says. He touches his finger to his earlobe.
It’s interesting—if you’re from the U.S., and you burn your finger, I bet you put your finger in your mouth. Perhaps it’s instinct, or perhaps learned behavior. I’ve met some people from the eastern Europe or the Middle East who will grab their earlobe instead. Try it sometime. It’s as if the earlobe acts as a heat-sink for the burn. It’s just as effective as your mouth for immediately cooling a burn, and if your fingers are dirty, it’s a lot more sanitary. That’s what Bud does—he touches his burned finger to his earlobe.
He’s acting like he’s forgotten my statement, but I know it’s all he’s thinking about. Mention someone’s imminent death and you’ll grab their attention ninety-nine percent of the time. I need to give him an opportunity to reset the conversation, so I excuse myself to empty my bladder.
When I return and sit down, Bud is pushing the fire around with a stick.
He looks up.
“Why do you think they will try to kill me?” he asks.
Good—he’s invested me with authority. Bad—he uses the word “think.”
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Why will they try to kill me?” he asks.
Perfect! He has dropped the “think” and stated my assertion as fact.
“The logical types, the ones in the center of town, want you to give your spirit to them so they can tip the balance of power in their favor,” I say. “Those logical types understand tipping a balance by addition. They have this mathematic approach to the problem. The creative types deal with positive as well as negative space. Even though subtracting, you would be subtracting from both sides of the equation. They’re still going to believe that it will help.”
“Why?”
“In part, just because the logicals believe that it won’t. They will have no interest in discussion or coercion. As soon as you appear, they’re going to come after you.”
“So what do I do?”
“You want to get them going, right? Your goal is to get these two sides fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Then find their camp and I’ll go in there alone. I’ll offer them information about you. You’ll go back to the logicals and offer to give them what they want. We’ll get the two sides together.”
“The logicals will not leave their stronghold in the center of town,” he says.
“You find a location that’s somewhere between the logicals and creatives, and tell them that’s the only place you’ll give up your spirit.”
“And if they won’t come?”
“They don’t have a choice,” I say.
“Of course they have a choice. They’ve chosen to barricade themselves for decades, haven’t they? How can I force them to come?”
“Because you have something that they think they need. They’re desperate. You call it a stronghold, but they think of it as a prison. They believe that you have to give up your spirit willingly, and they don’t have a single thing to use as leverage. You don’t have friends or family, and you’re incredibly wealthy. As you said before, they have brilliant strategists on their side, and they’ve come up with no means to coerce you. The best they could do was to send goons to chase you from your home. So, you have the upper hand. You’ll use that to get them to the place. Now, where’s that place going to be.”
“The cedar grove, near the Skomin farm, if the family still lives there,” he says.
“Good, they trust Skomin. At least the logicals were on his side at one point.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get the creatives to bring their assault there in two days. Make sure the logicals come prepared for danger.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he says.
“Good. Now help me find the creatives.”
61 CREATIVES
FOR SELF-IDENTIFIED CREATIVE types, they’re certainly organized. Bud gets me to within a couple-hundred paces of where he’s sure they’re camped and sends me on my way. I’m not expecting to be stealthy, but I would like to get a glimpse of their numbers and hierarchy before I’m whisked away for questioning. Any intelligence will help.
Turns out, I get very little.
I’m walking in roughly a straight line, trying to stay out of the areas with tall ferns so I can see my feet. I wouldn’t want to walk into a tripwire or anything.
Turns out, they’re much more sophisticated than that.
I see red lights high up on trees on either side of me and then men are running through the woods to my location. They have some sort of security system that has detected my motion and I’m guessing the lights show the men exactly where to find me. I put my hands in the air and drop to my knees. They tackle me anyway. My pack is pulled from my back, a bag is shoved over my head, and I’m lifted by armpits and feet. The men march for a few paces and then with a “Hup!” from someone up front, they break into a quick shuffle. My comfort is the least of their concerns and I’m bounced and jostled, sometimes taking the brunt of a bush or sapling with my face.
After what feels like an eternity of bouncing, I’m dropped on my stomach onto a floor that feels like nylon over hard tree roots. My armpits are chaffed like you read about. I won’t be stroking on any deodorant anytime soon without remembering this day.
“Who are you?”
“An independent contractor,” I say. I still have the bag over my head as I push my way up to my knees. I’m trying to figure out a way to get it off, but it’s gathered around my neck and I can’t find a knot. It’s not so tight that it chokes me, but it’s too tight to pull off.
“Working for whom?”
The voi
ce has a strange tone, as if it’s coming from speakers.
“Can you get this thing off my head?” I ask.
I hear a beeping noise from down near my neck and the bag is suddenly loose. I’m able to pull it off easily.
“Thank you,” I say.
There’s a man a couple feet in front of me sitting in a canvas chair. Rather, I should say that there appears to be a man in front of me. It’s some sort of projection because he’s semi-transparent. Through his form, I can see the wall of the tent. The tent around me is square. It’s about the size of a small bedroom, and the walls are some sort of camouflage pattern. The image is of a man smoking a cigar. The line of smoke curls upward to about the height of his head, and then disappears.
I exhale and my breath doesn’t disturb the cigar smoke.
“For whom?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. Although he’s a projection, he looks me directly in the eyes.
“Independent,” I say. “I work for myself.”
He sighs. “Surely someone is paying your bills.”
“At the moment, I’m off the clock. About a month ago, I was being paid by Constantine, the unacknowledged son of your former Constable. But, after we went on the run, I suppose I stopped drawing a salary. I don’t know. I haven’t been home to pick up my mail recently. Perhaps there are a couple of paychecks waiting for me.”
“And your name?”
“And yours?” I ask.
“I have orders to execute you immediately if we deem that you’re not a valuable asset. If you’re not answering my questions, then you’re not valuable.”
“I have orders too,” I say.
“And they are?”
“To bring you to a location where Constantine will show you how to win this war.”
“That’s nonsense. Constantine has no reason to help us.”
“Then you should execute me now. I have failed my orders.”
The image in front of me freezes. I suppose they put the projection on pause or something. I stand up and marvel at their technology. It’s not just a flat projection—the image of the seated man is three dimensional. I can walk around behind it and see its back. It’s eerie to see him just staring forward, like he’s uninhabited now.
In the tent, I can see no seams or openings. I wonder how they even got me inside. There’s not even a speck of dirt tracked in across the floor.
My pack and my knife are gone. If I have to get out of this tent, I’m not sure I have anything sharp enough to pierce the fabric.
The image of the man jumps as he’s un-paused. The cigar is gone. His head jerks and he’s looking at me again.
“What’s the location?”
“The farm of Alexander Skomin. It’s the place where Constantine made his suits with the snakeskin—do you know the place I’m talking about?”
“Yes. It’s on the Hyff Lane.”
“Exactly,” I say. I may not know the local geography, but my memory for names is good.
He pauses again.
I reach out and pass my hand into the man’s projection. It offers me no resistance. Where my hand passes through his shoulder, a line of light appears across my skin. The projection is like a shell of light. I wonder—if I stuck my head inside the shell, would I see him inside out?
When he reanimates, his head snaps around to track me.
“We’ll send out a small contingent to meet with Constantine. When is he expecting us?” the man asks.
“I’ll go with your contingent, or Constantine will not meet with you at all. And the contingent had better not be small. The area will be dangerous if the others catch wind of the meeting.”
“How would they know of the meeting unless you or Constantine betray us?”
“You’ve got a mole—a spy. There’s someone in your organization working for the other side. It must be obvious to you by now.”
The image pauses for a long time. I find it easier to manipulate a logical person. It’s easier to find a weak spot in their reasoning and then turn their thinking with a clear argument. These creative types are innately more difficult for me. I have a general plan—inspire paranoia and drive them emotionally—but they have me so isolated here that I don’t know if it’s working.
This whole terrible plan of mine would be much easier to execute if I’d coordinated more with Bud. But, of course, he didn’t have very much faith in me the last time we talked.
“When is the meeting?”
I cannot tell you that piece of information until certain conditions have been met.
“We haven’t agreed to any conditions.”
“That’s good,” I say, “because I haven’t described them yet.” Boy, these people really take their hatred of logic all the way.
I wait while they process.
“What are your conditions?” he asks.
“First, I have to tell you precise time of the meeting in person. Then, I have to wait for a signal from Constantine to alert me to the exact time. Finally, I’m very hungry. I need to eat.” I’m making all of this up, except for the last part. Bud has been a good provider on the trail, but I miss real food. I want to sit down to an actual meal. I really should have done it before we left the logicals, but then it seemed important to get out as quickly as possible. I’m hoping these artistic types bring art to cooking.
The projection doesn’t answer. After a few moments, it disappears. I sit down on the floor while I wait. I get a hunch and walk over to the wall of the tent. Perhaps the tent is just a projection that happens to look more solid. It would make more sense than a tent with no poles and no seams.
Nope. The wall is solid. When I poke my finger into the tent it’s firm and taut. I suppose the poles must be on the outside. I still don’t understand how I got inside if it has no seams.
My question is answered when the wall to my right shimmers and then disappears. A man is standing in the forest.
He waves me over.
“Come here and hold still,” he says. He has a device in each hand. One he points at me. I’m guessing it’s a weapon. The other he sweeps in my direction. Some kind of scanner? Looking for listening devices, or explosives, or something? Who knows. Whatever it was, I’m apparently clean because he beckons me to follow him into the woods.
I look back at the tent and after a dozen paces, I can’t see it anymore. The camouflage is good, but there’s something else too. The tent somehow blends in, like it’s a painting of exactly what’s behind it.
It’s the same with the tent he takes me to. I don’t see anything at all until he stops. Then, for a fraction of a second, the illusion is broken. I see the flat plane of the tent wall in front of us and then it vanishes, revealing the inside of the tent. A group of men and women—three of each—stand at the opposite end of the long tent near a table. The table has a white tablecloth and holds a number of empty, upside-down glasses. The circle of people opens up as we approach. A tall man holds out his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. He reaches forward to shake my hand, but doesn’t offer a name.
I look to the man who led me here for an introduction, but he’s taken his two devices and exited the tent.
I shake the tall man’s hand and I’m passed to a few more incomplete introductions. Some members of the group hold back and I don’t get to shake their hands.
“My name is Malcolm,” I say to the tall man, who first shook my hand. He smiles.
“What’s the name your mother called you?” he asks. What’s with these people?
“I’m not sure,” I say. The old blind man was right—I never knew my mother.
“That’s a shame,” the tall man says. “You mentioned you wanted something to eat? What would you have?”
“I would love a grilled cheese sandwich,” I say. I’ve chosen the correct words, but somehow the combination doesn’t make sense in this language. I guess it’s a colloquialism that doesn’t translate.
“Pardon?” the tall man asks.
“It’s a sandwich
, with just cheese in the center. Then you butter the outside and fry it briefly until it’s toasted.”
“Certainly,” he says. He waves towards a squat man who stands at the opposite side of the group. The man slips through the tent wall. I can’t see very well from where I’m standing, but it doesn’t seem like he went through a flap or anything. Perhaps there’s a permeable spot there.
“And to drink?” the tall man asks.
“Anything is fine. Water? Diet Coke?” I suggest.
The tall man flips one of the glasses and sets it down hard on the table. As soon as he lets go, the glass begins to fill from the bottom with foamy brown soda. It stops filling just as a the head of foam rises to the top of the glass. The tall man gestures and I raise the glass to my lips. It’s Diet Coke. Neat trick.
The squat man reappears as I finish my sip. He holds a plate with two perfect grilled cheese sandwiches.
“They seemed small so I brought two,” he says, as he sets the plate down on the table.
“Your technology is impressive,” I say. The squat man couldn’t have been gone more than thirty seconds and he brought me my requested sandwich even though they’d never heard of it before. Incredible.
“Unfortunately, it seems that anything we can create, the others can copy. We don’t keep any advantage for very long. That’s why we’re so curious about your mole. Who did you say was the mole?” he asks.
“I deduce that you have a mole, but I don’t know the mole’s identity.”
“Oh,” the tall man says. “Shall we sit?”
Chairs swing down from the underside of the table and assemble themselves on the floor. The people gravitate towards the chairs and I pull out the one closest to me. It feels like wood, but it doesn’t seem like a wood chair could materialize like this one just did. It supports me.
The tall man sits to my left. The man on my right is one of the people who refused to shake my hand. I wish I had a name for at least one of them.
I have a thought. “What’s the name your mother called you?” I ask the tall man.
He frowns. “I wouldn’t answer that,” he says. Given a lifetime, I’m not sure I could puzzle out what’s going on with these people and mothers and names. “Please, don’t wait for us,” he says, gesturing towards my sandwiches.
