Hope she’s still smiling afterwards, he thought nervously and
struggled to focus, trying his uncle’s deep breathing again.
The VS28s waited in smooth, perfectly aligned rows, their
snub noses and three wings gleaming under the light of the twin
suns overhead. The transparent cockpit blast shields waited open
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at ninety degree angles from the cockpits below as the pilots
prepared to climb into their ships. Davi glanced over and saw
Bordox sneering at him from nearby.
Professor Jonas approached. “Rhii, switch fighters with
Bordox.”
The smug smile vanished from Bordox’s face as they both
turned toward the professor. “What? Why?”
The Professor sounded irritated. “All the fighters are the
same. What’s the issue, Cadet?”
Davi kept his eyes on Bordox’s face watching for a reaction.
He saw the truth in his eyes. You did it again, didn’t you?
Bordox ignored him, grumbling to himself.
Davi and Bordox both moved to the fighter to which the other
had been assigned.
Yao climbed the ladder to help Davi strap in. “Maybe
Professor Jonas suspects Bordox had something to do with what
happened on your practice run.”
Davi shrugged and smiled. “Doesn’t matter. As long as the
competition’s fair, I’ll leave him in the dust.”
Yao chuckled and climbed down, saluting with a wink of his
purple eyes.
Davi’s group went through their preflight checks, then
launched in pairs through the launch tubes, rendezvousing again
at the sky course starting zone. He greeted the twin suns like old
friends. The sky seemed clearer than usual. A good day for a
race.
When the signal came over their comm channel, they flew
into the course as fast as they could.
Bordox kept his fighter even with Davi’s as they dodged the
first obstacles and shot several targets, then his speed dropped
off as his ship began angling downward. Davi looked over,
watching him struggle with the controls.
He keyed the private comm channel. “You need help over
there, Bordox?” When he got no answer, he sped on through the
course. Bordox wasn’t one to ignore the offer if he really needed
it.
Five minutes later, Davi landed at the starport, riding the high
from an almost perfect run. Once he’d gotten into it, he’d
forgotten all about his competition and just done his job,
enjoying the ride. Looking around, he realized Bordox and his
fighter were nowhere in sight. Had he even completed the
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course?
Then he heard a whining overhead and turned as a VS28
arced in at an odd angle and slammed to the tarmac in a
dangerously rough landing, Bordox still at the controls. The man
had moxy, that was for sure. Davi would have ejected and let the
ship crash. The fighters were rigged for ground activated self-
distruct if their crash trajectory took them too close to any
grandstands or populated areas.
As those around him gasped and mumbled, Bordox’s hateful
eyes locked on Davi’s own from the cockpit.
*
Later, Professor Jonas announced the winners. Davi had the
highest score by far. As he and his friends walked back toward
the grandstands, Davi overheard a commotion down an alley
between buildings. As they reached the alley’s mouth, they
stopped and peered in.
Bordox forced one of his friends back against a wall. “You
were supposed to make the fighter slow, not unflyable. I could
have been killed!”
“You’re the one who didn’t want him humiliating you
again!” The friend said.
“It’s not our fault the professor switched the fighters for the
first time ever,” another friend said.
“You humiliated me in front of my father!” Bordox pounded
a fist against the wall above his frightened friend’s head.
Davi and his friends exchanged a look then hurried past
before anyone spotted them, continuing toward the grandstands.
“We’re so proud of you,” his mother, Miri, said as she
wrapped Davi in a warm embrace. Her light blue eyes radiated
warmth.
“Well done, Xander,” Xalivar said with pride, addressing
Davi by his given name, not the nickname Davi and his mother
favored. Uncle Xalivar wore his usual gold robe with a white
collar and cuffs. In the center by his neck lay the jewel known as
the Emperor’s eye. Shorter than Davi but taller than Miri, he had
a dark beard.
Davi smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Miri assured him, pride
almost bursting off her face.
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Davi tried not to frown as Lord Obed and Bordox
approached. Obed wore a ceremonial robe similar to Xalivar’s.
His skin had a light yellowish brown hue with the same intense
brown eyes as his son. He smiled and extended his hand to Davi.
“Congratulations, Prince Rhii. A great showing.”
Davi shook the proffered hand, smiling. “Thank you, sir.”
Lord Obed turned and looked at Bordox, who stood there
looking down at his feet. “You’ve embarrassed me enough
today,” Obed growled.
Bordox sighed and extended his own hand. Davi had to hide
his surprise as he shook it. “Congratulations, Rhii. You deserve
it.”
Obed led Bordox away as Yao stepped away from his parents
and stopped next to Davi. “That had to hurt.”
Davi nodded, continued to watch Bordox for a moment. He
feared things had changed forever between them. He’d never
wanted to make an enemy, but it hadn’t been his fault.
“Come on,” Farien called, waving him over, “we’ve got a
party to get to!”
Their hands met in a high five as Davi joined them, and they
hurried off for their favorite bar.
Bryan Thomas Schmidt is an author and Hugo-nominated
editor of adult and children’s speculative fiction. His debut
novel, The Worker Prince received Honorable Mention on
Barnes & Noble Book Club’s Year’s Best Science Fiction
Releases. His short stories have appeared in magazines,
anthologies and online and include entries in The X-Files and
Decipher’s WARS , amongst others. His anthologies as editor
include Shattered Shields with co-editor Jennifer Brozek ,
Mission: Tomorrow , Galactic Games , and Little Green Men—
Attack! with Robin Wayne Bailey (forthcoming) all for Baen,
Space Battles: Full Throttle Space Tales #6 , Beyond The Sun ,
and Raygun Chronicles: Space Opera For a New Age . He can be
found online at www.bryanthomasschmidt.net .
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171
16-year-old Allison wants what most girls her age want: a
normal life with school, boys, and fun. But due to her grandma�
��s
strange illness, she’s needed at home, and being away for long
poses major problems. Beth Cato has quickly become a regular
in my anthologies, with this dark fantasy you’ll see why. A 1970s
animal rights group’s sleeper curse becomes a nightmare in …
A N E C H O I N T H E S H E L L
By Beth L. Cato
Despite the bitter autumn chill, Jonah’s kiss warmed Allison’s
lips and sent unaccustomed heat swirling through her belly.
Gravity didn’t weigh her steps as she hopped up to the front
porch. He had kissed her. He had held her hand and kissed her.
Allison squealed and spun in a dizzying circle.
Feet away, the walls of her house shuddered. Something
heavy smacked against the inner window, unseen behind the
thick cover of nailed plywood. In that instant, the heat from the
kiss evaporated and reality grounded her like an anvil.
Grandma.
Allison flung open the screen and fumbled with the key to
unlock the doorknob and both deadbolts. She jumped inside.
Glass squealed and crunched beneath her flats.
“Shut the door!” screamed Mom.
Allison kicked the door shut and slammed the locks in place.
Decision Points
Grandma’s solid weight impacted against Allison’s back,
sending a gush of air from her lungs. The doorknob gouged her
gut. Grandma’s knobby fingers inched up her arms towards her
neck. The buzzing sound grew louder; the earthy, indefinable
odor more potent.
Then Mom was there. With an sharp squeal, Grandma
released her hold. Allison slipped around just in time to catch
Grandma as she slumped to the ground. Mom stood there,
panting, her hair electrocution-wild. A syringe gleamed in her
hand.
“She took an extra-long nap and was too quiet when she
woke up and then I couldn’t catch her.” Mom blew stray hair
from her lips, tears filling her eyes. “Her first Kafka rage.”
“So how long were you chasing her—oh.” As Allison heaved
Grandma onto the couch, she finally had a good look at the room.
Broken glass littered the floor. Two side-tables lay broken, one
leg embedded in the wall like a spear. Through the arched
doorway to the dining room, she saw more overturned chairs and
the light of the gaping refrigerator door. Grandma had broken
things before or tried to bust out, run towards lights outside, but
nothing like this.
The rage. The next symptoms … no.
“Oh, Grandma.” Allison stroked Grandma’s shorn scalp.
“Looks like she has some cuts and bruises. I need to take
pictures of her and the room and then I can sweep up this glass.”
“You should have called me,” Allison said.
“Like I had a chance,” Mom snapped. “But no, you had to go
on your little date. I hope you enjoyed it, because you aren’t
having another one for a long time. She always seems to respond
best to you.” Mom gnawed at her inner cheek as she stared at
Grandma.
“Mom! That’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair. You’re sixteen, Allison. You’ll have plenty
of time for boys and all that nonsense later on. Go grab the digital
camera for me.”
Glass crunched underfoot as Allison stalked towards the hall.
Like Mom had any place talking to her about boys, seeing how
Dad left, seeing how Mom hadn’t even attempted a date since
Y2K.
But maybe Mom was right, too. Maybe Grandma had missed
Allison. Maybe that was why she flipped out. Maybe this wasn’t
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“the rage” doctors talked about. Maybe it was something …
weird. A tantrum. That’s all.
She made a slight detour to shut the fridge and reset the
childproof latch. The office door was open, which meant Mom
must have been working when Grandma’s rampage started. No
surprise there. Mom tried to squeeze in freelancing whenever she
could. The monitor was darkened in screensaver mode, the green
light beneath blinking like a heartbeat. Allison grabbed the
camera from its dock.
She took pictures as she walked through the house. A new
hole in the wall. She stopped in the doorway to the living room
and took in an empty spot on a high bookshelf. That broken glass
used to be her great-great grandmother’s vase. The one that used
to be Grandma’s favorite.
It was just a vase.
There were no curtains over the board-covered windows. A
Plexiglas shield covered the TV, and that was frosted and
scratched. Any shelves were bolted to the walls, cupboards
secured with childproofing snaps and locks. Mom leaned against
an open cabinet beside the TV, set something inside, and shut the
door. A shot of whiskey, probably. As if Allison didn’t know.
Mom would probably finish off the bottle when Allison was in
bed and bury the evidence at the bottom of the recycling bin, as
usual.
Grandma sat up on the couch. Her eyelids blinked as she
stared dully into space. Her crudely-shorn hair lay flat against
her skull, dull metal grey against pasty skin. Her shadow cast
against the front door revealed the truth. Long antennae curved
from her head and arced a foot in height. Two mandibles
protruded from her face and worked at the air. From her
shoulders, diaphanous wings clung to her back and stretched the
length of her body and through the couch itself. None of that was
visible to the human eye, of course. Not yet. Light revealed the
strengthening curse, that Grandma’s body had become the husk
of a soul-stealing bug.
That was the proof that Grandma suffered from Kafka
Syndrome.
*
Grandma used to be Loretta Christiansen. Retired letter
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carrier for the United States Postal Service. Sunday school
teacher for thirty-five years. Widow of Johann Christiansen.
Mother of one. Grandmother of one. Game show junkie.
Really, when Allison thought of her grandma and who she
truly was, her game shows were the first thing that came to mind.
“Come on, you banana brain,” Grandma would yell at the
TV. “The answer’s the Mississippi River! The Amazon isn’t
even on this continent.” Grandma had declared that Alex Trebek
was dead to her after he shaved off his mustache.
Funny and old game shows were the best of all. Checkered
bell bottom pants and big hair were standard issue, along with
cheesy orange studio sets. Allison was crestfallen at age ten when
she realized no other kids knew about Match Game 75 and
Charles Nelson Reilly or the hilarity of the Whammies on Press
Your Luck.
Oh, how Grandma would laugh as she watched, light and
feminine and free, and descend into giggles and wheezes.
One day as Grandma and Allison walked the two blocks from
school, Allison saw Grandma’s shadow. The horns were mere
nubs then, the wings l
ike little fists from her shoulders.
Allison wasn’t scared. She reached for Grandma’s hand and
squeezed, and stood close enough so that the shadow couldn’t be
seen.
The curse had been on Grandma and others for decades and
the victims never even knew. Back in the early ‘70s, some group
of animal rights radicals laid a sleeper curse on laboratory
workers in five states. Their goal: make the workers become their
own test subjects. By the time the illness manifested in shadows
decades later, there was nothing magic or medical science could
do.
Grandma had delivered mail to all the labs within the
complex. For some reason, the Asian cockroach room’s curse
was the one that clung to her soul. Ate it away.
But Allison swore that sometimes a flash of clarity returned
to Grandma’s eyes. Sure, she might not be able to talk anymore,
or laugh. She ate with her fingers gathered like pincers.
Sometimes she hissed when surprised. And at dusk, she fixated
on the lights outside, especially the ones reflecting on the lake
behind the house—so they boarded up the windows. That
attraction made the Asian cockroach different from other kinds.
They hungered for light.
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They were also supposed to be really strong flyers.
Allison refused to think about that final stage. It was a long
ways off. But there were only some five thousand people under
the curse, a few hundred with the Kafka variant. No one knew
the exact timeline. Doctors said that most would die during that
final physical transition, anyway.
Until then, Allison had Grandma to love and care for, and
that was all that mattered.
*
The next morning, the house looked normal again. Spartan.
The sharp stink of fresh paint made Allison’s nose run.
With the phone to her ear, Mom paced along the bay window
in the dining room. “I know you’re still building the Kafka wing,
but this was her first big incident of the rage. Yes, I read the
report—no, we aren’t sending her to that lab. The whole point of
that curse was to force her to be some lab animal, damn it!” She
took in a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry. She signed a living will
Decision Point (ARC) Page 24
