Fulcrum

by Doug Rickaway

  “That sounds about right. Idiot slave bears. Strong backs and feeble minds,” Deacon said.

  “And it’s comments like that which keep us from communicating with one another,” Sila said.

  Deacon’s expression drooped; Letho imagined that Deacon was calculating the number of social interactivity points he had just lost.

  Sila continued. “Haven’t you ever wanted to know more about them? I mean, we have an alien race living right beneath our feet. How long did Eursans wonder if there was other life out there? How many movies and books were made about visitors from another planet?”

  “I know!” Letho exclaimed. “Have you seen the one about the little pudgy alien that gets lost on Eursus and meets up with a team of alien hunters?”

  “Of course! The Visitor, I believe it was called,” Sila said.

  “Yeah, I love that one. Kiln Almar was such a great actor,” Letho said.

  “I know,” Sila gushed. “I loved him in Assault on Starship Vita.”

  It was at that moment that Letho knew he was in love with this woman—or at least a reasonable approximation of it.

  “Last call for booze—The Grind closes in forty-five minutes,” said the loudspeakers.

  “Hey guys, this time I really have to go. Letho, I’d love to talk more about this. I’ll message you later,” Sila said.

  The grin on her face transported Letho to a place he had never known. He smiled back, feeling warmth spread across his face. Deacon looked from Letho’s face to Sila’s.

  “Hey Sila, it was great seeing you again. I’ll message you too,” Deacon said, extending his hand for a shake.

  “Uh, okay. Sounds great!” she said, after a pause.

  She accepted his hand in her own delicate one, shaking it up and down twice. She turned her eyes to Letho and smiled again.

  As Sila turned to walk away, Deacon began to stare at Letho.

  “What was that all about?” Deacon asked. “Mr. Chatty over here, all of a sudden.”

  “Hey man, what can I say, the women, they feel me. You know?” Letho said, a false-cocksure grin on his face.

  “Looks like she likes you, though I can’t imagine why, you slug.” Deacon punched Letho in the shoulder a little too hard.

  “Hey, even a blind bear stumbles upon a berry bush from time to time.”

  “Guess you’re right, Letho. Let’s get out of here. I ship out pretty early tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, me too. I have a lot of incredibly stimulating research and document-writing to do.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Letho slowed his pace as he neared the door to his domicile. Sometimes the sensors didn’t pick up the proximity indicator right away, causing one to crash nose-first into the door. To add insult to injury, the door would sometimes open just as one’s face came into contact with it, abrading the tip of the nose.

  Letho, I’d love to talk more about this. I’ll message you later.

  Sila’s voice was a clarion reverberating off the insides of Letho’s skull. He pictured her face, the way her nose scrunched up when she smiled. The way she had pursed her lips in reaction to Deacon’s unkind words regarding the slave bears. He flinched a little when his uCom implant began to vibrate. He summoned the screen, and his heart leapt when he read the identity of the caller.

  It was Sila. With eager fingers he made a flicking gesture with both hands, and the screen spun across the open air like a rec-disk, enlarging as it neared the far wall of his domicile. It came to rest on the wall across from his couch, and there he saw her face, magnified, and all the more beautiful for it. He sat down on the couch, his entire body tingling, a flood of words colliding as they clambered to be the first out of his mouth. To Letho’s relief, she was the first to speak.

  “Hi Letho, how’s it going?”

  Was there a slight tremor in her voice? Her cheeks were flushed, and robin-red blossoms adorned her supple neck, just above the intriguing shelf where her collarbones met. At that moment Letho realized that his disheveled apartment was in full view, each soiled dish, each discarded wrapper magnified on Sila’s own wall screen. It was his turn to feel warm tendrils of embarrassment spread across his face. Sila’s domicile was the antithesis of his own. No item out of place, things organized in neat stacks and tucked away in clever containers. A smart array of movie posters above her head caused Letho’s heart to stir.

  “It’s going great!”

  Too eager. Dial it back a little bit. What would Deacon do?

  Letho leaned back, draping his arm across the backrest of his couch. He tried to mold his face into Deacon’s indifferent yet charming grin.

  “Oh, okay. That’s good. I hope I’m not bothering you. I was just thinking about our conversation. What was it like?”

  “What, you mean the slave bear?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never heard of one of them speaking to one of us before. I didn’t even know that they could speak Eursan.”

  “Well, you would think they would have to, right? I mean, they work alongside the guys that help run the Fulcrum station, after all.”

  Sila’s eyes darted down, and her cheeks flushed.

  Smooth. Just like Deacon.

  “I’m sorry, Sila. That came off kind of harsh.”

  “No, it’s okay. It was a dumb question, anyways. Of course they would be able to speak Eursan. But the real question is: why did he—it, her, whatever—choose you?”

  “That’s what’s been driving me crazy. Why was this slave bear…”

  Letho’s eyes locked on Sila’s, and her smile sent a jolt through his brain that rendered him speechless. He became acutely aware that Sila was waiting with bated breath for him to continue.

  “Ah, yeah. Where was I? Why was the slave bear on the train in the first place? Like Deacon said, they keep to themselves.”

  “Maybe he was looking for you?”

  “I don’t know—maybe. Though I can’t think of any reason why a slave bear would want to talk to me…”

  White pain suddenly sliced through Letho’s mind, and his hands rose to massage his temples. He squinched his eyes shut, squeezing out thin tears. He didn’t see Sila flinch at the quickness of his hands as they shot to his head.

  He saw an image emblazoned in his consciousness as if by a lightning flash. A hulking slave bear stood over him, shoulders heaving, fur spattered with blood. Letho shook off the image, and the pain in his head receded. Yet he lingered there, trapped inside his own mind. Had he seen a vision of what would be? Or was it a memory unloosed by recent events?

  He began to hear Sila’s voice in waves: first in gentle laps, then crashing tides that assailed his unconscious ears. But his subconscious wasn’t ready to release him. Another blinding blue flash. A new vision, riding on pain like razors vivisecting gray matter. This time Letho saw a man with black hair knotted into ropey braids that swirled around a handsome yet cruel face. His skin was white like the paper that lined the waferwood coffins which served as the final vessel for departed Fulcrum citizens. The man turned his head toward Letho, and his deepset eyes glimmered red as they scanned his surroundings like an apex predator’s. They locked on Letho’s own eyes, and the two men stared at one another.

  “Deacon! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah—I just—I don’t know. Got lightheaded for a second.”

  “Maybe you should get some water or something?”

  The genuine concern in her voice triggered that feeling in his chest again. If he had ever fallen from a great height he would have known that the sensations were one and the same. The fluttering sensation in his stomach originated from a different sort of fall. What the hell are you thinking, Letho? Get it under control.

  “Sila, I’m okay. It’s probably from staring at a compuscreen all day long.”

  Sila. Her name rolled off his tongue and tickled his palate. They talked deep into the early-morning hours. The time when your body begins to shudder from the desire to sleep, and words issue from numb minds and tongues, losing their m
eaning syllable by syllable. Letho checked his uCom clock, wincing every time as the numbers marched onward and upward, ticking ever closer to the hour when he would have to depart for work. Yet he dared not be the one to end the call.

  They spoke of their childhoods. Sila was the product of a loving home. Her parents worked in the Blue Sector, also known as the media sector. They both sorted through the immense catalog of Eursan television shows, movies, and music, choosing content that would placate the masses as they continued forward on a mission whose objective was vague at best, devoid of meaning at worst. Sila offered her sympathy to Letho when he told her how his parents had died long ago. He didn’t mention to her that it had been under strange circumstances. Or so he had been told. He only remembered them in snippets, images that would dart across his mind in the moments just before waking.

  “Well, at least you have Deacon. You two seem very close. You’re funny together, you know. A good pair.”

  “Fat guy and skinny guy. It’s comedy gold.”

  “Come on, don’t be so hard on yourself. I think you’re just as good-looking ”

  Sila trailed off. Letho’s stomach lurched again, and he thought that his heart would surely burst from his chest, spattering the wall screen with red, horrifying Sila. But it didn’t. And he floated among the clouds above Eursus that he had only seen on a dim screen.

  She thinks I’m good looking.

  Sila didn’t finish the sentence, but there was no need. The beautiful damage had already been done. He wanted to amaze her with deftly chosen words, make her swoon with wordsmithing. But his head swam, betraying him. As it was, and always would be, as long as young ones continued to court one another.

  “I think you’re pretty.”

  It was all he could muster. It sounded poor even as it spilled from doltish lips, but it accomplished the desired effect. Her eyes were effervescent. Her face lit up with a smile that elicited an even bigger one from Letho.

  They both had to be at work in a number of hours that could be counted on one hand. They were both punch-drunk, and sentence structure and coherence had begun to deteriorate. They said their goodbyes, and her face disappeared from his screen. Letho sat there for quite some time after, replaying pieces of the conversation in his mind. He couldn’t wait for the next day, and the chance that he might see her in person. He staggered to his sleep capsule, a smile spread beneath puffy eyes.

  THREE – Breach

  Out of the inky darkness, a ship appeared. Sleek, glimmering like wet skin, it was all but undetectable against the white-flecked black canvas of the void. The ship’s front end was broad, blunted, and crescent-shaped. With its broad nose, aerodynamic form, and a large fin-like protrusion on its back, it resembled a prehistoric oceanic predator.

  The ship straightened out, and its captain set course for the object in the distance. He had been following it for some time, gathering information he needed to crack it and strip it of its contents. Over time, he’d learned all he needed to know from the garbage dumps they jettisoned and their internal communications, which he examined with sophisticated scanners that defied his understanding. Not that he needed to study this particular Fulcrum station, for there was very little difference from one to the next.

  The orb emitted a myriad of sounds, lights, and signals, all of which were easily followed, decrypted, and logged. The Fulcrum station was enormous, the size of a metropolis—if one were to wad up said metropolis and place it inside a giant metal egg. Bands of lights, windows through which Eursans gazed upon the stars, were readily visible when one approached, and the captain fancied that he could see a group of them now, even from this distance.

  Massive boosters propelled the Fulcrum station into the farthest depths of the galaxy, powered by some alien fount of seemingly unlimited energy.

  “Nothing is unlimited,” he whispered to himself.

  His own ship, perhaps even older than the nearby Fulcrum station, ran on a similar energy source, though his was supply was not as great. It made every maneuver precious, for each must bring him closer to his quarry: precious cargo that satisfied his immediate need for energy and sustenance.

  He sighed. It was not his place to concern himself with the inner workings of the ship, so long as he knew how to manipulate them. The Master knew, and the captain was His hand, the executor of His will. The captain muttered a soft prayer in his Master’s name.

  “Prepare for breaching procedure,” he said into the intercom.

  “Roger that,” said a feminine voice.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Thresha Goodwin pulled the zipper that ran the entire length of her suit and peeled it from her lithe body. Sinew and supple muscle flowed beneath the milk-smooth surface of her skin, like ripples in the mist that shrouded the gates of Raptura itself. Those around her were doing the same, forgoing the time-honored rituals of modesty. No one raised their eyes to drink in the heady visions of god-like statues that moved with infinite grace and uncanny smoothness, skin glowing like hewn marble under the wan light. The creatures that occupied this room had long since given up such desires.

  Thresha’s piercing green eyes glinted, catlike. They were eyes that could see more in an instant than her human eyes had seen in a quarter of a lifetime. They sparkled like burning emeralds beneath the autumn waves that crested her head and fell along the smooth contours of her face.

  Across from her, two others were also removing their coveralls. The one called Crimson Jim was already moving to don his armor set. She felt herself resenting the casual way that he seemed to move twice as fast as she.

  It’s no big deal, his tomcat smile said. I am simply superior to you in every way.

  Thresha hated that smile. She found herself lost in a fantasy of slapping that smile around to the backside of his skull, an image she had once seen in a Eursus cartoon from her childhood. She hated his smug mannerisms, the fact that he insisted on calling himself “Crimson Jim,” the fact that he had spiky, swirling, red-and-black tattoos covering his entire torso. He was a walking bloodletting machine, a whirling dervish with plasma-tipped blades, and it was his penchant for wet work that had earned him his moniker.

  Her heart sank as she watched her other companion fumbling with the zipper to his suit.

  “Mavus,” she said, walking over to him.

  With the fastidiousness of a concerned mother, she helped him remove his coveralls. Thresha attempted to meet his gaze, but his azure, crystal eyes were burning holes in the floor. She waved her hand in front of his frozen gaze; he did not react.

  Sighing, she moved to her equipment locker. She donned the thin, form-fitting black suit that was their mission garb. The suit never needed cleaning, never tore, and kept their bodies at a steady, comfortable temperature no matter the external environmental stimuli. Not that body temperature was a concern for Thresha and her teammates.

  Thresha began to remove small, blocky objects from her locker. One by one she placed the metallic plates against the ribbed, backlit material of her jumpsuit. They unfurled, encircling her chest, forearms, thighs, and calves in armor panels. The interlocking pieces bulked up her slight frame, but still allowed complete freedom of movement.

  “When’s he going to snap out of it?” Crimson Jim asked, attaching his own armor plates.

  The sweeping curls and angular strokes of his black and red tattoos stood out in stark contrast to the grave pallor of his skin. Similar designs had been inked across the harsh, thin features of his face. Legend had it that Jim killed the ink artist immediately after the art was complete, in order to avoid payment.

  “Leave it alone, Jim,” Thresha said. “Some of us are still in touch with our emotions.”

  “Ha! Emotions. Don’t miss them at all,” he replied.

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  “Just make sure that Loverboy over there doesn’t endanger the mission. Boss man ain’t puttin’ me in one of those damn walking coffins.”

  Mavus was catatonic
no longer. In a blur he was on Jim, a blade pressed to Jim’s throat.

  “Say it again, you bastard, and I’ll cleave your head clean from your shoulders!”

  “Hey, hey, take it easy, brother! I was just playing,” Crimson Jim said.

  “You play too much. If you disrespect Cantus’s memory again, I will have your head. Mark my words.”

  And then the captain appeared.

  Mavus shoved Jim, and sheathed his blade.

  “Gentlemen, is there a problem?” he said, his cold gray irises fixed with dead weight on the both of them.

  Jim rubbed a hand through the silver hair that hung in clotted tendrils from the top of his head. He began to tie it back, emphasizing the shaved back and sides of his head. A slow grin spread across his face. Mavus fixed his eyes on the captain’s, unflinching under his master’s burning gaze.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I am still mourning the loss of my brother,” Mavus said.

  The captain’s face was firm, unmoving, his expression distant, unreadable. He strode toward Mavus, and placed his hands on Mavus’s shoulders.

  “My son, it pains me to see you this way. The loss of Cantus weighs heavily on all of us. Take solace in the notion that your brother died a noble death in the service of our Master. It is a fate that all of us should wish for.”

  Even after all this time, the captain’s accent was strange, unidentifiable to Thresha’s ears. Each syllable was firm and clipped, uttered in a low timbre. The effect was soothing, but a knife’s edge danced just beneath the surface.

  “Yes, my lord. He has brought honor upon us by his great sacrifice,” Mavus said.

  Thresha watched Mavus, and noticed that the stillness in his eyes did not match the words coming from his mouth.

  “Uh, sorry boss. I didn’t mean no harm. I was only joking,” stammered Crimson Jim.

  “Jim, the jester dies not a noble death. He dies a fool, and those who attend his wake laugh at his expense. Remember that.”