She gives me one of those pretty smiles Alladrians are famous for. “Must be hard. Never knowing who you can trust.”
I smile. “Oh I know who I can trust: nobody.”
Her eyes take on an even deeper sadness than before. Like oceans of despair. And I literally feel her concern. It’s real. Not the practiced concern of an Alladarian, but the genuine concern of real empathy. “That’s so sad. You must be so lonely.” And I can’t help but feel the irony of her words.
“That’s why,” I say, “I’m giving it to you.”
Her eyes widen and she does another double blink. Then she just sits back staring, just staring at me like she’s waiting for the other space boot to drop. Waiting for the part where I tell her she has to come home with me and get tied to a bunch of leather-clad midgets scrubbed down with oil, and roll around in a vat of vanilla pudding.
“Why me?” she asks. “Why would you give it to me? I’m the last person who—”
“That’s why. Because it will be safe with you. Because I can tell you know how to keep secrets. I can see it in your eyes. And nobody would ever believe it was in the possession of an Alladarian. Nobody. Even if word got out, it would be written off as just another bagatelle.”
She considers this. “And if I don’t want it?”
I shrug. “Then I’ll just move on and keep looking for somewhere else safe to hide it. It’s not like I expected to find you tonight. I just saw an opportunity and I’m following up on it. No harm no foul.”
“And what’s stopping me from just taking it and selling it those guys”—her eyes shift to the right, but the rest of her head doesn’t move. She’s obviously used to talking covertly—“or any of a number of other misanthropes in this place?”
Rubbing my hand over my chin, I realize I need a shave. “Absolutely nothing, I guess, but I don’t think you will. I think you understand the balance of power. I think you understand the implications. In a lot of ways, you and I are similar. Only, your power lies in the fact that nobody realizes how well you play the game—how perfectly you calculate every move.”
She raises her eyebrows and gives me a genuine smile. “Interesting. You say nobody, yet in the same breath, you claim to know all this.”
I shake my head. “No, I only guess it. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m not, but I know the safety of the Hyperbole Engine lies in it being buried under all the exaggeration and rumor. If word leaks out that it’s fallen into the possession of an Alladarian”—I shrug—“it’s just more far-fetched speculation. Nobody’s going to believe it.”
“And if I use it? What if I want to make my life, this life in this quantum state, better? What makes you think I could knowingly have that potential and not use it?”
“I don’t. I fully expect you to use it. But you’re used to having power and not letting it show. You know how to use power discreetly and not let it get out of hand. It’s how you earn your living. It’s what’s made you what you are today. Really, your species are the perfect guardians for the engine.” I hadn’t actually considered this until this moment, but as I say it, I know it’s the truth.
She sips her drink, careful to show no trace of emotion, to not reveal a single card. There’s no question this is the right decision. “Go ahead,” I say. “Take it.” I feel slightly uneasy with it sitting right there on the table, although I’ve always believed in hiding things in the obvious. When in doubt, just display that which you don’t want people to see right out in the open and they will look everywhere but straight at it.
Setting her cup on the table, she asks, “No catch?”
“No catch,” I say, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
She plucks the Hyperbole Engine from the table, holding it in her palm. The light from the bar refracts and reflects through and off the crystal. In her hand, it looks almost as magical as her eyes.
I check the time. It’s quarter past three in the morning. I really should be in bed.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, gazing into it. “But I’m not taking it.”
Across the room, a waitress drops a tray. The resulting crash makes me think she was carrying bowls of nails, which is a delicacy in some parts.
“Why won’t you take it?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker. “Because I don’t trust you. Not one bit. I don’t even know how it works.” As she speaks, she places the Hyperbole Engine in front of her and fiddles with it. Before I can stop her, she gives it a spin and says, “And, I think you’re—”
And for a second, reality sort of shifts and everything hiccups. The room fills with a blinding white flash of light that’s nearly overwhelming. It feels like I can’t catch my breath. Time seems to speed up past me, faster and faster. I feel like I will pass out. Until . . .
The Alladarian takes the Hyperbole Engine from the table and lets it roll around her fingers as she examines it. I check the time. It’s quarter past three in the morning. I really should be in bed. Part of me wishes I didn’t have to go alone.
While she stares at it, my gaze is locked onto her eyes. They are magical. Captivating. She looks up and mouths something like “It’s beautiful,” but I don’t catch the words; they are lost in the crash of a tray across the room falling from the waitress’s hand.
“Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t hear that.”
“I said it’s beautiful.”
“As are you,” I say.
She blushes. I can’t tell if it’s the rehearsed blush or if, this time, she truly appreciates the comment. It doesn’t matter.
She asks: “And what if I want you to come home with me too?”
Now it’s my turn to blush. “Do you?”
She takes a last look at the Hyperbole Engine before dumping it into her pocket. “I’ll tell you this,” she smiles, “in at least one Universe I do.” Reaching across the table, she places her hand on top of mine. “How about you buy us another round of drinks and we find out if it’s this one?”
It’s the single most intelligent thing anyone’s said to me all night.
End
About Michael Hiebert
MICHAEL HIEBERT HAS BEEN writing for as long as he’s been able to hold a pencil in his hand. His stories have been highly praised by critics and fans for their originality, surprising twists, and clear voice. Joyce Carol Oates listed his short story My Lame Summer Journal by Brandon Harris Grade 7 as one of the top fifty most distinguished mystery stories in The Best American Mystery Stories 2005. Michael is a two-time winner of the prestigious Surrey International Writers’ Conference Storyteller Award.
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Nashville Beaumont (and the Hyperbole Engine) Page 5
