Kzine Issue 11

by Graeme Hurry

  And of course, there was the big guy, right out front on the other side of the platform. As Carl’s feet touched down, the lobster skittered from side to side, its legs making hideous hollow sounds on the steel plates. Its mouth parts gyrated obscenely in his direction, like clutching fingers that couldn’t wait to get a hold of him.

  Carl drew the knife out of its sheath. Its blade vibrated in his shaking hand, but he figured it would be sharp and sure enough when the time came. He tried to remember what Flipper had done when fighting the other lobster. Had he rushed forward himself, or had he waited for the lobster to charge? Carl shook his head, trying to keep the platform from whirling beneath him. The taste of lobster meat was rising in the back of his throat, but he forced it down again.

  Off to the side, Carl could just pick out Bone, Flipper, and Joe standing up close to the glass of the tank, almost obscured by the glare of the lights and the clouds of smoke, but there all the same. “Go get him, kid!” he heard Flipper shout.

  With that, Carl lurched forward and to the right. The lobster made a mirror image move, lifting and slashing down with its left claw. Suddenly, a line of fire opened up along the side of Carl’s body. Stars flashed in his eyes and he stumbled forward another step. Then, remembering he needed to get inside the claws or get shredded by them, he put his head down and charged forward.

  After that, Carl was never quite sure exactly what happened. He only knew that he suddenly found himself with his feet off the ground. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was aware that he was wriggling and thrashing around, but it felt more like he was being gently and calmly raised on a sheet of the softest linen— but with an uncomfortable tightness around his waist.

  As he rose higher, he could see Bone, Flipper, and Joe staring up at him in fascination and horror. The last thing he was really sure of was that Flipper clapped Joe on the shoulder and said, “That’s a hell of a friend you got.”

  Then the tightness around his midsection grew sharply worse and then suddenly ceased. Simultaneously, everything went black and numb, and somewhere, far off in the distance, he thought he heard Flipper add: “But you might want to skip the next course.”

  LATE NIGHT DELIVERY

  by Jo McKee & Rik Hunik

  “You’ll have to sign for these, lady,” said the man in the gray coveralls as he thrust a clipboard in through the library’s back door.

  “Just what am I signing for?” Amelia asked, blocking the door with her foot so it only opened six inches. She didn’t touch the clipboard.

  “A load of books,” he said, pointing over his shoulder at a van but looking at her. She was pretty in a bookish way, with large-framed glasses, and her long brown hair tied neatly back.

  Amelia shivered and hugged herself, her polyester pantsuit offering no protection against the chill wind that blew through the open door. “There were no more deliveries scheduled for tonight and I’m behind already.”

  He shrugged, unmoved by her complaint. “So they changed the schedule. Can you hurry it up, lady? It looks like it’s going to storm.” He held the clipboard a little further out and she took it. There was no sender’s name or donor’s address but the library address was correct. With a sigh she opened the door wide and the man wheeled in a large wooden crate balanced on a dolly. “Where you want it?”

  “Oh, um, right over here.” The room was already filled with books of every description, stacked on tables, haphazardly on the shelves and even piled on the floor. She showed him a clear space on the floor in front of other unopened boxes. “I noticed that the inventory list just says crates of books, but it doesn’t say how many.”

  “Yeah, well I just deliver lady.”

  “How many did you bring?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t load.”

  “Oh, I see.” She smiled tightly. “We’ll count them as you unload them.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He pulled the dolly out from under the crate and went back for more.

  This crate alone looked like it could contain a couple of hundred books or more, depending on the size of the volumes. The crate was made of dark, fine-grained wood that felt like it was oiled. As she sniffed at the pleasant, tangy odor on her fingertips the delivery man appeared with another crate, a twin to the first one. “Do you know what kind of wood this is?”

  “No.” He glanced at it. “Purty ain’t it?” He set the second crate beside the first one.

  “How many more?” She caressed the smooth wood.

  He held up two fingers and flashed a smile as he went to get the next crate.

  As Amelia leaned forward to admire the wood grain around a knot the pendant on her necklace swung out and touched a small metal plate on the front surface of the crate and with a barely perceptible movement the lid came loose. She lifted it open on a pair of hinges to reveal dozens of worn volumes in tooled leather bindings. A tattered book with a gold-leaf pattern on the faded, red cover caught her attention and she leaned forward, following gleaming, interwoven curves with her eyes.

  The delivery man unloaded the last crate and brandished a clipboard at her. “Uh, lady, you want to sign this so I can go?”

  “Oh, certainly.” She hadn’t even noticed him drop off the third crate. She smiled as she turned to him, dug a pen out of her purse and tossed the purse on top of an unopened crate so she could take the clipboard. As she jotted her name lightning flashed in the clouds above the pyramidal skylight and thunder crashed almost immediately.

  A few minutes later she stood alone in front of the open crate, fascinated. A she reached down and grasped the golden book her bracelets slid into contact with the gold leaf on the cover and her pendant swung forward again, touching the metal plate on the crate. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed and the lights dimmed, the skylight hummed and the old paper smell from the crate grew stronger.

  Engrossed in the tooled cover, Amelia bent forward to read the title in the yellow light. “How To Butcher Dragons, by Olov Onehand.” What? She picked up another. “Pictorial Dictionary Of Faerie Anatomy.”

  “Where did these books come from?” she asked aloud. Was this some kind of joke? She didn’t have time for jokes.

  When she picked up another book someone banged on the door so she took the book with her. “Who is it?”

  “Let me in, I’m not another delivery. I’ve come to help you with the books.”

  “Oh good,” she said, sliding the bolt free and opening the door. Sliding the bolt?

  “We came to help you do what you think is best with the books.” The slick, handsome, smooth-talking man gently forced the door open, then stepped aside and waved to two assistants standing by a fancy stagecoach.

  A horse-drawn stagecoach? She looked the man up and down. Black silk? What the…?

  The two assistants hurried in, picked up a crate and hurried out.

  Amelia scurried after them. “Hey, wait a minute, you can’t do that, I signed for those books, they’re my responsibility.” She caught up to them and pushed down on the crate. They grunted under the additional weight and put the crate down. She stood, one hand still on the crate, looking around in surprise.

  The black-clad man stepped up behind her. “We’re here to share some of that responsibility,” he oozed.

  “Where am I?” She turned around in a complete circle. “Where’s the bus stop? Where’s the street?” She looked down at herself. “What in the world is happening?” She couldn’t believe her favorite pantsuit had become baggy brown pants and a jerkin, her white polyester shirt was now a coarsely woven, big-sleeved linen blouse, and her feet were encased in soft leather, knee-high boots. She liked the boots.

  The silk-clad man waved to the workers to continue their loading. “I can see you’re upset. Why don’t we…”

  “Who are you?” She pushed back her glasses as was her habit and absentmindedly hooked some long, brown hair behind an ear, then settled her hands on her hips. The wind blew the strand of hair back in front of her face.

  “I th
ink we should go back inside for a while, so you can collect yourself.” He smiled at her, took her by the arm and gently but firmly urged her back into the library. Once inside he produced an ornate parchment that stated in flowery script and florid prose that he had the permission of somebody she had never heard of to take the books. She couldn’t read the signature. As her eyes strained in the dull, yellow glow of the oil lamp the assistants hurried out with the last of the crates.

  A leather pouch (her purse transformed?) was left where the crates had been sitting. Amelia pushed the incomprehensible paper back at the slick man and went to pick up the pouch, hoping to examine it later, in private.

  “Come, I will take you to a place where you can get answers to some of your questions,” he said, smiling his charming smile at her as he led her to the four-lanterned coach. The crates had been secured on a rack at the back and on top of the coach to evenly distribute the weight.

  Why am I going with him? a small part in the back of her mind wondered even as he gently pushed her inside and sat down across from her.

  As they rode out of the strange city, somehow similar to her own, and through the unfamiliar countryside, she became mesmerized by his fancy speeches, though she could not seem to pick up on the topic. She couldn’t remember him being informative about anything that mattered. What was she trying to remember? Why didn’t this stagecoach have rubber tires and shocks, and where did she get that boring audio book she was listening to. Maybe she would sleep on it.

  The coach lurched to a stop, jerking her to consciousness. At least the droning had stopped. She yawned and stretched and rubbed her numbed butt. “Are we there yet?”

  “We couldn’t be. I’ll get out and check on things. You stay here.” The slick man flashed her one of his smiles, unhooked the lantern from its holder and climbed out of the coach, closing the door and plunging her into darkness. She fumbled for the handle, but the door was locked. She tried to open a window but it didn’t budge. Even the curtains were tacked down on all edges. What in the world was going on? Where was she?

  The coach jerked forward, throwing her to the floor on her hands and knees. “Ouch.” She bounced around in the dark for a bit before she managed to find a leather strap secured to the wall. At least she was wide awake now.

  After Amelia steadied herself she banged her fist on the front wall. “Hey!” She banged again and a panel slid open to reveal a smiling face haloed in blond hair lit by the coach lamps.

  “Steady on, Amelina. We’ve not many more leagues to travel.”

  “I can’t get out of here.”

  “I know. I shall leave this window open for air, but your exit cannot be secured until after we stop, and we can’t stop now.”

  “Who are you and why can’t we stop?”

  “I am Aaron Fleetfeet and this is my partner, Ruggid Strongjaw.” He indicated the over-sized, muscular driver. “We serve the Goddess-Priestess Veda of the Temple Of Knowledge. We can’t stop now because we are being pursued by Byram the Black and his men, agents of the Dark One.”

  “Who is Byram the Black?”

  “He’s a smooth-talking nightmare.” Through the door Amelia heard what she thought was another horse drawing up close to their coach. “Excuse me, Amelina.” Aaron disappeared from view and she heard scuffling on top of the coach. Someone cried out as they fell but it didn’t sound like Aaron, though she couldn’t be sure.

  They were traveling so fast over the rough terrain that the lurching and bucking of the coach made her nauseous. She heard more rustles and stomps overhead, between the crates, and a booted foot smashed through the ceiling. A black-booted foot.

  Amelia shrank away as it thrashed back and forth, almost kicking her, then she screwed up her courage, grabbed the foot and wrenched the ankle sideways far past the point it was meant to go. She heard a pop and was rewarded by an anguished scream from above. She tried to shoved the foot out of the hole but it withdrew on its own volition and she heard another horse slowing down and turning away from the pursuit.

  “Well that was the last of them for now,” said Aaron, his cheery face bruised on one side. “We have to go a bit further before we stop.”

  So she was still a prisoner in the coach, even though she thought she could get to like her new captors. “What’s going on here? Why am I here? And for that matter, where is here?”

  “All will be explained by more educated people than I.” His face pulled away and he said something to the driver but all she could make out was “impatient.” Both men laughed, leaving her alone to enjoy the ride.

  She managed to tear loose one side of a curtain but peering through the narrow slit she saw only darkness and some trees so she settled back and got as comfortable as she could in the bouncing coach.

  Soon the coach slowed and she heard the muffled sounds of men hailing each other, then the coach stopped and woodwind instruments started playing. Wood crunched and splintered as Ruggid removed the locked door from the side of the coach and tossed it aside.

  Amelia pushed back her hair and straightened her transformed glasses, wondering why they were stopping here, in the middle of a forest? A dirt trail led up a slight slope to a cave about a hundred feet away. Near the cave mouth stood a white-skinned woman with flowing black hair, her low-cut, black dress slit right up to her hips on both sides. The way she was making strange gestures in the air reminded Amelia of a witch or priestess in a cheap movie. Two archers stood on each side of her, arrows nocked but bows relaxed.

  “Welcome, Amelina, to the Book Repository of the Temple of Knowledge.” Aaron indicated the scene with a wide sweep of his arm, as though he was showing her a grand spectacle, then held out his hand to help her.

  As Amelia glanced down to watch her footing as she descended from the stagecoach, she noticed that the scene through her peripheral vision was not the same as what she saw through her glasses. Instead of the black-clad witch, Amelia saw that they were being approached by a lovely, light-haired girl in a white, gossamer slip, carrying a parchment in her hand, flanked by four handsome youths in white tunics, with at least a dozen other people behind them. In the background was the marble facade of the Temple Of Knowledge.

  Aaron started forward to meet the woman but Amelia stood firm. She slipped her glasses off and wiped them on her sleeve, then thrust them toward Aaron’s face. “Look through these and explain what you see.” The frames were thicker and cruder but her lenses were basically the same as her real prescription, which wasn’t very strong.

  Aaron took the glasses, held them up and looked through one lens. His face blanched and she knew he had seen what she had seen. “Darjala,” he whispered. He handed the glasses back to her and she replaced them on her nose as Aaron went to meet the messenger she saw again as the woman in the black dress.

  “Who or what is Darjala?” she whispered to Ruggid.

  Ruggid paled. “An evil sorceress.”

  Aaron smiled at the sorceress. “Perhaps you could supply us with some help unloading these crates. Where do you want them?”

  The woman smiled demurely and pointed to the cave, which everyone else saw as the door to the Temple Of Knowledge. Before she could lower her arm Aaron grabbed it, bent, turned and twisted it painfully behind her back. She shrieked and the illusion flickered.

  Aaron growled, “You may as well drop the illusion, Darjala, we’ve already seen through it.” He twisted her arm a bit higher for emphasis. “You’ll not burn any of these books, you witch.”

  Ruggid reacted as soon as the illusion faded, throwing the stagecoach door at an archer who was sneaking toward the horses, making him jump back.

  “You drive, Ruggid,” Aaron called. “Amelina, get in.”

  Amelia was already scrambling through the gaping hole in the side of the coach. Aaron propelled Darjala in right behind her and jumped in himself.

  “Yeehaw,” Ruggid yelled as he cracked the whip at the archer who had managed to get ahold of the lead horse. The man yelped and let go and Rug
gid slapped the reins furiously on the horses’ rumps. “Yeehaw.” The horses strained under the load but were soon under way, building up speed. Flaming arrows sizzled past the opening and Amelia heard some thunking into the back of the coach.

  “There’s some rope under the seat,” Aaron said. “Help me tie and gag her.” With the coach bouncing and jerking and swaying they bound Darjala as securely as they could.

  Amelia had gone much faster in automobiles but the ride had never been this rough and she had never felt so exposed to the ground rushing past just outside the empty doorway. She clung to the leather strap on the far side of the coach.

  Aaron poked his head out the side of the coach and glanced back.

  Darjala laughed, an unpleasant, grating sound.

  “Here, gag her.” Aaron tossed Amelia a piece of cloth and climbed out the open side of the coach.

  “You know, Fleetfeet and Strongjaw are the ones who mean to harm you and the books. Help me get free and…” She broke off as the stagecoach careened dangerously around a sharp corner, the inside wheels lifting right off the ground. Amelia grabbed onto her strap with both hands but Darjala, her arms still tied, shrieked as she slid off the seat, bounced once on the floor and slipped out the gaping hole. Amelia saw her rolling on the ground for a second and then she was left behind.

  “Oops, I never did gag her,” Amelia said as the coach picked up speed and Aaron climbed back in through the hole.

  “What happened?”

  Amelia shrugged. “She just slid right out the door.”

  “With any luck she broke her neck. Byram and his men didn’t even stop the help her.” As they bounced along Amelia heard shouting and the thunk of arrows again. “Stay away from the hole. Darjala’s archers can get lucky from time to time.” Aaron took a quick look out the hole and turned back worried.