Lightspeed Magazine Issue 49

by Seanan McGuire

  “And yet it did not help.”

  “I felt nothing. Not as I locked the door behind me nor when I gazed down upon her swollen corpse later.”

  I could hardly speak the words. “So you decided to try it on me.”

  The tilt of his head toward me was admiring. Sunlight caught the glint of his silver hand gesturing futility. “I thought perhaps it was because Segalen had been a stranger to me. That if I killed the one human closest to me, I would surely feel at least a pang of regret. I sent you the televoice, knowing you would come.” He had grown still, I noted. Sweat had started on me. “Tell me, Watson, how did you guess? It was the bolt in her hand I told you about, was it not? She was indeed clever. I had not foreseen that, and I was amazed when suspicion still did not fall on me.”

  “No.” I took a shuddering breath. “It was much simpler. It was when you came out of your bedroom with a lamp.” He raised an etched eyebrow. “Amalgamated do not need light, nor indeed sleep. Standing in their dark cupboards all night, ‘on the stand by’ as my wife calls it. And yet you had taken the time to light a lamp. It made me think of how the intruder had moved so infallibly inside my dark room. Reminded me of all the fleshly mannerisms you yourself have assumed to no end. I had only to follow that train of thought. That after spending so much of your calculating life on the human fallibility of murder, accosting and analyzing, you might take up the habit yourself.”

  Holmes raised his arms and pressed smooth palms to his temples, too hard, metal scraping metal. “You do not know what it is like, here within the closes of my head, Watson. This incessant … insipid buzzing of my thoughts. The ennui.”

  “I am going to shut you off now, Gearlock.”

  He had entrusted me with the code to do so years before. I had only to reach the panel on his lower back. The moment I stepped forward a cloud of bees rose thrumming from their hives and descended upon Holmes in a thick scintillating layer. Some acoustic signal, I realized, inaudible to fleshly ears, which he had learned to emanate to control them. He had been practicing it the day before. His organic armor. My every nerve sang as I continued to approach, near enough to reach out a hand, prepared to be stung or worse, then a shot rang out behind me. A bullet tore a hole in Holmes’s right arm, creating a vent of steam and scattering the bees.

  “Back away, Doctor!” cried Constable Granger. He emerged from the ivy that occluded the cottage walls, still a distance away from us but striding rapidly, holding a small pepperpot revolver aimed at Holmes. The constable had had his suspicions, then. Not quite the bumbler I had taken him for.

  “He will never allow you to shut him off,” Granger called to me. “He must be destroyed.”

  A whine of inner mechanisms such as I had never heard rose from Gearlock Holmes. For a second only, the myriad tracks and levers of his face, those amalgamated features meant to mimic fleshly expressions but which we all know fail utterly, coalesced into a countenance of such ultimate horror that it cast a shadow on my soul. Then he turned and sped on piston-driven legs into the forest, as straight and swift as the constable’s bullets that chased him and missed.

  Gearlock Holmes was never found, of course. The news, a year later, that he had thrown himself from the Reichenbach Falls, mere bits of wreckage bearing his series number recovered as proof from the waters below, was a further shock. A tragic waste, as I am certain now that a few adjustments to his programming would have allowed his continued great use to society. I miss him, reader, and on certain days I am wont to recall that last horrified expression that crossed his metal face, and to hope that my friend did in the end experience true feeling.

  © 2014 by Rhonda Eikamp.

  Rhonda Eikamp is originally from Texas and lives in Germany with her husband, two linguistically confused daughters, and a cat that is just confused. Stories of hers have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Perihelion, and The Colored Lens. Past lives include working at the UN in Vienna and picking grapes in Mainz. She currently works as a translator for a German law firm and is conducting a very slow but promising experiment in time travel.

  In the Image of Man

  Gabriella Stalker

  Thursday evening. Wendell Weston’s mother is calling and ordering a pizza because guess what, she doesn’t feel like cooking every damn night. And yes, she tells her husband, she is having it delivered. She’s been on her feet all day at the factory and excuse her if she doesn’t exactly feel like running out and picking it up either. They both know their lazy-ass son won’t be around to do it. He’ll show up just in time to eat, though, like every evening.

  So Mrs. Weston calls and orders a large pie, half pineapple and half pepperoni, delivery please. Twenty minutes later, it arrives at the door of the Westons’ apartment, carried by a boy no older than Wendell. He is pleased with his five-dollar tip and thinks maybe if he gets another, he can have his own dinner at Subway when he gets off at ten o’ clock. Ten dollars is almost enough for a six-inch sub and a medium drink.

  As if he could smell it from across the highway, Wendell slips into the apartment and spies the pizza box on the counter. It is from the Sbarro in the food court, which is two floors below the Westons’ apartment.

  It’s pizza night at Wendell Weston’s, apartment 6C at the Pepsi Texan Megamall in Houston, Texas.

  • • •

  Unlike the other teens who live at the Supercenter, August Milano will not leave her apartment on Friday morning at seven-thirty and take the elevator to the third floor and walk through the doors of Central Houston Junior-Senior High School, which are located between the entrances to Sharper Image and Staples. Instead, she will pull on an ugly plaid skirt and stupid knee socks and leave at seven-fifteen to wait outside for bus 90, as she does every morning, Monday through Friday. There aren’t really ninety buses in the area, though. More like five. Why they’re not numbered one through five is one of the great mysteries of Houston’s public transportation system.

  Dragging herself onto the bus, August spots Wendell Weston, and immediately takes the seat beside him. Just as bleary-eyed as she is, he leans over and kisses her. The 90 stops at the Megamall and then the Supercenter before it goes on to the Capital One Mall. It is within these walls that August and Wendell attend St. James High School. There is a Catholic church in the Supercenter, but no school, and August’s and Wendell’s parents want a well-rounded faith-based education for their children. They don’t know their children first made inappropriate use of the public family bathroom, the one across from Auntie Anne’s, at age fifteen. They have since matured to screwing around in August’s bedroom when her parents are gone, which is often enough.

  It sucks going to St. James—not just because of the weekday Masses and the dress code, but because of the view out the window during the commute. Ruins line the highway, old rotting shells of places run by stupid people who thought their businesses could survive outside of a mall.

  As she gets off the bus in front of Capital One with her boyfriend, August checks the time on her iPhone. They have just enough time, she believes, and she is relieved. The two go immediately to the smoking pavilion and light up their Marlboros. They aren’t too worried about some teacher seeing them—most of the teachers live in Capital One, and so do all the nuns, since the convent is on the seventh floor. And if they get caught, whatever, August always says. Maybe they can get kicked out and just go to a normal school.

  If not for the air conditioning that blasted through the malls at all hours of the day, August in Texas would be miserable. Not many people like August in Texas, and not too many like August Milano either. But Wendell likes her, and that’s enough. The two snuff their cigarettes and head to their separate homerooms.

  • • •

  Today, Wendell says goodbye to August when the bus stops at the Supercenter instead of going home with her. She pouts, but she’ll be over it tomorrow. The truth is, he really wants to do some shopping, and he knows that August wouldn’t let him. So he goe
s in the south entrance of his own home mall. Before shopping, he has a stop to make.

  Wendell stands before a machine embedded in the wall, labeled Pepsi Texan Teen Funds. He approaches it and swipes his finance card. It has been seven days since his last loan, so the machine approves his request for another of the maximum amount. After he inputs his PIN, the machine tells him that sixty dollars have been added to his funds, which is enough for a t-shirt and a half at Hot Topic. The machine also thanks him for choosing Pepsi Texan.

  In Texas, everyone between the ages of thirteen and nineteen are eligible for a loan of up to sixty dollars each week to spend however they please. The loans are optional and you do not have to take them every week. You do not have to take them ever. Wendell is glad that the malls understand that it isn’t fair that adults can work full time and buy anything they want while kids his age have to beg for money. Teen funds are beneficial all around—they stimulate the mall, they save the parents money, and they allow the teenagers to learn how to spend responsibly and enjoy life. Why slave away scrubbing toilets or delivering pizza when the teen fund machine is just around the corner?

  Across the highway at the Central Houston Supercenter, August stands hesitantly before the same kind of machine. She is tired and irritable, and she passed Guess on her way in. She has a pretty decent record as far as her borrowed money is concerned, since her parents buy her so much stuff, and she doesn’t really want to screw it up by adding more money. But it’s Guess, and they’re having a half-price thing on jeans, so she adds sixty dollars to her account.

  When Wendell enters apartment 6C and his mom sees the Game Stop bag in his hand, she gets on his case immediately.

  “You took a loan last week,” she rants. “Why did you need another one this week? For more games? You oughtta do something other than play games, kid,” she says.

  Without responding, Wendell goes to his room and just plays—forget you, he thinks. I saved my funds for months to buy my gaming system and I’ll play it if I want. Teen funds are my right and they benefit everyone.

  “You wanna be like your father?” Wendell’s mom yells at his closed door, “You wanna still be paying off your teen funds when you’re forty-five?”

  It’s Saturday and August has got a pair of brand new Guess jeans and three dollars left to her name. She waits for Wendell to take the bus across the highway to the Supercenter. As soon as she lets him into her apartment, he stares at her artistically shredded jeans.

  “How long you had those?” he asks.

  “About twenty-four hours,” she replies.

  “You sure managed to mess them up in twenty-four hours.”

  August huffs. Wendell knows nothing of fashion. Guess is upscale; they don’t expect you to have to rip up your own jeans. August asks Wendell to buy her some Marlboros, but he says he won’t have enough for dinner if he spends twelve dollars on a pack. After Wendell takes her on a cheap-ass date to Taco Bell, all he says he can afford, he suggests they go up to her apartment. The two screw around for a bit, thinking damn, is this the only fun thing that’s free anymore?

  After it’s over, August wants to talk. She doesn’t like lying there in silence.

  “My dad keeps trying to make me apply to the University of Texas branch downstairs. Screw that. UT is a really good school, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to live here another four years.”

  Wendell simply nods. With his grades, he doesn’t think he’ll go to any college. He’ll probably go to the factory, like his parents. Or maybe the Game Stop would hire him, since he’s a familiar enough face. It wouldn’t pay as much, but he could at least avoid taking the damn bus to a factory five days a week.

  August tries again for his attention. “I’m not even applying to Houston U. No way I’m going to college in the same mall as St. James. Like I wanna see all those nuns eating in the food court.”

  Wendell shrugs. He secretly hopes she does get stuck at UT at the Supercenter, because if she goes far, it’ll be too hard to see her.

  August is pissed now because she’s trying to talk about serious things and he’s not listening, so she gets mean. “You could have taken me somewhere better than Taco Bell,” she pouts. She feels entitled, because she’s lying beside him naked.

  “I can’t really afford anything else,” he says. It’s the truth. August isn’t as big as most other girls, but she can eat.

  “You could have taken out a teen fund.”

  “Got one yesterday,” he admits.

  “Then where the hell is it?”

  Wendell can’t bear to tell her that it’s in Game Stop’s virtual cash register.

  August bitches and bitches about Wendell’s carelessness with his teen funds. Her shredded Guess jeans and Charlotte Russe peasant blouse lie in a heap on the floor.

  • • •

  Sunday sucks for Wendell. He takes a bus over to the Supercenter again, but this time he goes with his parents. Between J. Crew and Brookstone there are stained glass doors that lead to the sanctuary of St. Flavius Catholic Church. They are a little late and don’t have time to grab a Cinnabon before Mass. Wendell is starving and really in the mood for it as soon as he smells it, but he knows he won’t be hungry for long.

  Mr. Weston chooses a pew near the front for his family. Wendell performs a sloppy half-assed genuflection and slides in next to his parents. The Milanos are seated in the front on the other side of the church, and August looks half-dead. She is counting the minutes until her next cigarette, he knows.

  A Eucharistic minister steps up to the microphone and her voice fills the room. “St. Flavius parish welcomes you to our celebration. Please take this time to silence all communication devices. Today’s Mass is sponsored in part by Coca-Cola and EA Games. Please join us in singing ‘How Great Is Our God,’ page sixty-two in your hymnal.”

  Sister Bernadette is wheeling her cart up from the back. From the menu attached to it, Wendell sees that he has just enough. When the old nun finally makes it to his pew, Wendell grabs a chocolate chip bagel and a Dr. Pepper. He hands the nun his finance card and she slides it through, charging him six dollars and forty cents for his breakfast.

  Father Tom has a habit of walking up and down the aisles on the sanctuary, like some sort of distrusting teacher. Wendell acts interested when he passes the Westons’ pew, and notes the small logo stitched onto the breast of his vestments—Calvin Klein. When the automated collection book comes around, Wendell watches as his parents swipe their card and indicate on the keypad that their contribution is one dollar. Mr. Weston hands it to Wendell with a hopeful look in his eye, and sighs when Wendell simply passes it behind him and continues eating his bagel. When it’s time for Communion, Wendell gets up and consumes the body and blood of Christ. The wine isn’t bad—he can see from the bottle that they’re still using Coca-Cola brand. With the sponsorship and all, he guesses they don’t really have a choice.

  • • •

  On their way back home, Mr. Weston brings up an interesting topic.

  “I don’t know why the attendance at our church is dwindling the way it is,” he says to his wife. “No one’s got any morals anymore.”

  “I don’t know if that’s it,” Mrs. Weston says. “A lot of people are trying out different churches. There’s one off the highway—some standalone church.” She chatters on about what she’s heard about this church from the other ladies at the factory. It sounds pretty awful and Mr. Weston questions why anyone would want to go there. They don’t expect that their son has been listening—he’s probably zoned out just like he’d been during Mass—but they’re wrong.

  • • •

  Monday comes and Wendell is assigned an economics project with a partner. He doesn’t like group projects much, but at least he got assigned with someone he likes. Trenton is one of the only black kids at St. James, but that means nothing to Wendell. After class, the two take the 90 to the Megamall. Mrs. Weston is not ecstatic to see the unexpected guest.

  “Who’s this?
” she asks, with a forced smile.

  “My friend Trenton,” Wendell says. “We have an econ project.”

  “Haven’t seen you around before, Trent,” she says, almost suspiciously. “Where do you live?”

  “Just down the highway at the Walmart, ma’am,” he replies.

  “Ah,” Mrs. Weston responds, as if to say, but of course you do. Wendell quickly leads Trenton to his room to avoid further interrogation.

  “So Trent,” Mrs. Weston says, following them, “do you have siblings that go to St. James?”

  “Yes ma’am. Two sisters.”

  “Three children at St. James!” Mrs. Weston exclaims. “It costs a fortune just to send Wendell. I can’t even imagine.”

  “We get by, ma’am,” Trenton says dryly.

  Inside his bedroom, Wendell apologizes to his friend. They both know what Mrs. Weston was trying to get Trenton to say—that he had a scholarship, or financial assistance from Walmart’s welfare program.

  You know why I work overtime? So we don’t have to live at the Walmart, Wendell’s mother would say. You know what they have there? Practically nothing. A preschool, a mechanic, a pharmacy, an eye doctor, a bank, a McDonald’s, a Pizza Hut, a portrait studio, a car rental, and those departments of cheap merchandise. They want anything else, they take the bus to another mall—you see them walking around here all the time.

  Mrs. Weston thinks she can identify Walmart residents by the color of their skin. She comments that she never sees them at church. They’re amoral, too.

  • • •

  “If I wanted to take a trip, would you come with me?” Wendell asks August over Tuesday morning Marlboros.

  “To where?”

  “There’s this church—I forget what it’s called. But I really want to go there.”