Midnight, Water City

by Chris Mckinney

  Me, I’m just watching a funeral where people are putting on a show for the cameras that they know are there. Some start chanting, “Show us the body! Show us the body!”

  Military guards push back the chanters who are rushing the casket.

  Commentators chime in. There are reports of groups who doubt how she died, even though it was made clear that she froze in her cryobath. They ask, was she poisoned, murdered by the government, or did she commit suicide? Some cultish groups are claiming that she’s not really dead. Others are saying she’s crossed over to another reality to save the world again. And must do so over and over into infinity. Others claim that she’s just in a state of cryosleep and will rise again one day. A third theory is that she left on a spaceship of her own creation and is flying along the path of Ascalon’s Scar. She will follow it to the very end, where she has already discovered an inhabitable planet on which to start a new colony. And both our worlds will be forever linked by the scar streaking millions of light-years through space-time. The scar will serve as a bridge between both our worlds when we are ready to be united.

  “Show us the body! Show us the body!”

  All this from a group of people who probably can’t tell you why a ball rolls or where the seven new stars are on a Milky Way map. By the time the feed announces the construction of a water statue of Akira Kimura, the biggest in the world, that will spout from the tallest mountain in the world, I want to start a prison riot and bust out of here. In fifteen minutes, the vid is over. Now the prisoners, stirred by the chant, are screaming, “Show us the body!” too. I remember that, back in the day, fifteen minutes was the average lifespan of a plastic bag.

  The old guy sitting next to me leans over. “A spaceship,” he says. “It makes perfect sense.” Then he yells, “Show us the body!”

  Fuck me, I think. I’m starting to figure out the worst part of being in prison real quick. All anyone really wants is a break from their shitty existence. Whether it’s Jerry with her art or Akeem with his family or me working a case and popping astronaut pills, we all seek it, that state of flow. We’re all that aviophobe who does sudoku puzzles during shuttle liftoff, pressing stylus to screen so hard we might put a hole through synth glass. All the cons in the cafeteria are evading their own miserable existences right now with their “Show us the body!” chants.

  But there ain’t no flow in prison unless you can make it. Only violence. The nervous sweat, the high of fear, the bulge of lungs, pupils, and muscles. And I realize a disturbing truth about myself after being on this earth for eighty years: violence is when I’m the most in tune with my flow.

  I think about Sabrina and Ascalon and how I’ll never get to hold them again, the incisors of prison gum deep in my ankles. The old man stops chanting and turns to me. His eyes begin to swirl with a vivid green. “She killed me,” he says. “But I am still here.”

  I take my thumb and jab it into the old man’s eye. The guy on the other side of me grabs my shoulder. I slam my elbow into his face. I turn back to the first guy, but he’s gone. No green or red trail, no nothing. After that, I’m in the thick of it. I get blindsided by “fuck the law” tattoo guy. Two more bodies pile on top of me. I’m fighting for my life. Fighting anyone who’s on me, anyone who steps in front of me. I was taught a long time ago that when you punch, you’re not supposed to try to just hit something, you’re supposed to try to punch through it, like Ascalon the Savior did. So I’m at it. Trying to punch right through every face that appears, like I’m in some sick VR game. I’ll show every one of these motherfuckers. I punch and howl for Sabrina and Ascalon. I try to punch myself back to sanity.

  When the guards finally get to me, I knock the first one out. The second is smarter. He pulls out his taser, and high voltage rips through my body. I’m writhing on the floor, thinking about what happened after Akira saved the world. When it was confirmed that Sessho-seki was split in half by Ascalon and was now two asteroids heading in opposite directions on an x-axis instead of a y, I’m remembering how that very night, the president pinged my iE and revoked the powers that he’d granted me under martial law. Just like that. Like it was on his top ten list of things to do once the world survived. At the time, I was upset. How could my reward for being Akira’s sentinel be getting demoted to regular cop again? There was no severance. No “thank you for your service.” But then I calmed down, went home, and found I couldn’t sleep. The next morning while the rest of the world was still celebrating, I went back to the station and found it empty. So I plugged into the system to see what kind of cases were open. Not much except a collection of suicide feet that needed to be matched with names and faces. I started working on it. This became my flow. My escape from space-time. I barely even noticed the weeks of celebration around me.

  The guard who zapped me cuffs me and drags me to my feet. “Listen, you idiot,” he says. “We were gonna come get you right after you finished lunch.”

  I try to respond with thanks, but I can only babble. Right now, my toddler can probably speak more eloquently than me. But the guard senses that whatever nonsense I’m expressing ends with a question mark. “You made bail,” he says.

  Goddamn Akeem. What a beautiful human being. The two guards pull me along, my feet dragging behind me across the grated floor. Now I know I won’t stop. I think of those tiny bones left in the coffin in Akira’s tomb. I think of Jerry, who was a good person. Why her? I think back to that painting again. Akira’s daughter in the red sweater. I know in my core that Akira wanted me to put that girl in the coffin next to her disfigured sister. I think of Kathy and John. I will never let that happen again. I will protect Sabrina and Ascalon. Something is supercharging in my body. My new mitochondria, high-powered electric.

  I remember one last thing Akira told me. There’s more dark matter out there than light. Some people believe dark matter is made up of all the dead souls in the history of the universe. That supposed twenty-one grams lost in death, a 250-year-old myth attempting to link science to the mystic. Akira laughed at the notion. Not me, though. I imagined the pound of dark matter I’d put out there and could never take back. Now I’m considering adding to it. The first step that I must take will be the hardest one I’ve taken in my life.

  But it’s the only way to see.

  17

  When I was a kid, my mom took me to this magic show. The performer, just a kid my age, did a bunch of miraculous things with a deck of old-school cards and his seven-fingered hands. He made cards levitate. He changed the five random cards I was holding into a royal flush. It’s not so much the specific tricks I remember, but being so thoroughly deceived. I could not, and to this day cannot guess at how this twelve-year-old did these things. It wasn’t that cheap magic that was all the rage back then. Not like the wizards pairing smoke and mirrors with money and tech to split rivers, turns staves into snakes, and make pack of locusts appear. “Bible magic shows” was what they called them. This kid, his tricks weren’t theater. They were simple. All he needed was a deck of fifty-two and hands so fast that I couldn’t see them. On my way out of the show, he called out to me. Told me to check my back pocket. I stuck my hand inside and pulled out an ace of spades. He winked at me and told me to keep it. He cut his deck in half and showed me another ace of spades. Said he had a spare.

  There’s a magician just like him hoodwinking me now. That, or I’m losing my mind.

  As I’m waiting to be processed, looking down at my swollen hands, a guard walks over and hands me my iE. I boot it up and see the first automated message. Conditions of my bail. I’m informed that my SEAL and rail gun have been confiscated. That I now face new charges, which include assault and battery and the arson of private trust property—Akira’s tomb. The island leader from Carson City ratted me out on that one, no doubt. I’m also notified that even though my resignation hasn’t been officially processed yet, I no longer hold any law enforcement privileges. And finally, that I cannot leave the stat
e under any circumstances. I check “Agree” on my iE, and the guard removes my magnetic cuffs. I’m free to go.

  When I step outside, it’s pouring rain. My iE tells me a tropical storm is coming, one that might grow into a hurricane. I walk along the gimbal and head for the docks, squinting through all the splash, looking for Akeem. I don’t even want to know what the computer set my bail at. I doubt even my old age mitigating the danger or flight risk shrank the financial hit. I definitely owe Akeem the rest of my life for this one.

  It’s a slow day at the docks because of the weather. Not many heli-taxis out to visit inmates in general, and they definitely don’t do it in weather like this. I look up at the spin axis, a two-hundred-foot lighted structure and the only still thing on the prison’s rotating gyro frame. I’m half hoping one of the turrets up there will open fire on me. I’m feeling beat down, my hands are killing me, and worse, I’m gonna owe big-time for this. But I forge on. There are important things to do and people to protect, sore hands or no.

  When I get close to public docking, I see only one transport and I recognize it immediately, even through the storm. It’s Sabrina’s hover. I stop for a second, and she steps out. She’s wearing sleek black rain gear, and her dark hair whips across her face. A swell comes, and the pitch of Vomit Island almost pushes me forward. I walk to my wife.

  We are face-to-face now, and her youth makes me self-conscious about my age. I’m such a sad cliché—an old man who chases women too young for him. Or worse yet, an old man out of farmed organs who will one day need round-the-clock care so that he doesn’t accidentally burn the house down or manage to fall and break a titanium hip.

  “You were expecting Akeem, I assume?” she practically yells. I can’t tell if it’s because of the wind or because she thinks I’m deaf. I just nod.

  “Disappointed?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “Relieved. Did he pay the whole thing?” I ask.

  “I did,” she says.

  And with that, I’m furious. I know how she got the money. “I told you to sell that gem for you and Ascalon!”

  She comes at me with the same high volume. “I did. I used it to get my husband out of jail.”

  The wind howls. The sun is setting. My hands shiver. I glance at the glowing axis again. Sabrina brushes my elbow. “Get inside,” she says.

  I mop my face with my sleeve, and we both step into the hover. Sabrina, who has always been a good pilot, lifts off easily in the chop. We sit quietly side by side. As we get closer to shore, we glide over the underwater city below. The seascrapers, with their lights, rings, and tubes, look like endless rows of bright plastic toys under all this chop. I look over at Sabrina. In contrast to all the vibrancy below us, she’s got the look of a seahorse tugging at a dirty Q-tip. “If it makes you feel any better, Akeem did help,” she says.

  “How?”

  “He gave me ten percent above market value for the gem.”

  I nod. “That’s a real pal.”

  Sabrina turns to me. “You really thought he was going to save the day?”

  “If I asked him to,” I say.

  “Did you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well there you go,” she says.

  I look at her, and I can see it. All the compromises she thinks she’s made. All the other choices she’s rejected to be with me. Everything she thinks she’s sacrificed; I can see it in that one look. I know that look well. Maybe because it’s the same look I’m shooting back at her in this very moment. I’ve been through this four times now.

  It’s the look of marriage.

  I turn to face forward. “Thank you,” I say.

  She turns forward as well. “You’re welcome,” she says.

  The lighted float burbs bounce near the horizon. “How’s Ascalon?” I ask.

  “She’s out of control. Just like you.”

  Sabrina brings us down to the docks, masterfully in the dark and all this bad weather. Without making a single splash, she brings us back home. We get out of the hover and run through the rain to our unit. The docks are clear of people because of the weather, and it’s an easy run because the teetering isn’t nearly as bad as it was on Vomit Island. The moors in the float burbs hold strong and steady compared to there. I see our place. New 3D-printed dome already grafted and fitted with insta-insurance. A crime scene, sanitized in one day. We clean up too fast nowadays—maybe that’s why we forget so easily. The chief and corporal were probably replaced as quickly as the dome.

  When we get inside, I notice some of the overpriced furniture is gone, probably damaged from the blast, and I like the place better already. The babysitter, an undyed teen who’s just gotten some natural sun, is hopping up and down for Ascalon, who thinks it’s hilarious. Ascalon tries to hop, too, but can’t manage to get both feet off the floor at the same time. But she doesn’t care. And her joy is pure. “Hop!” she says. “Hop, hop, hop!” The babysitter obeys, and bunny hops to the elevator, which is also already fixed. I think this hopping game is something I should’ve been doing with Ascalon months ago, that and a few other things that bring her pure joy. I never did those things with my other children either. I’m a shit father. The proof is that Ascalon doesn’t even notice that I’m home. She screams in delight and follows the babysitter. They go downstairs.

  “Who’s the sitter?” I ask Sabrina.

  “The Esperito kid from three units over,” she says. “We’ve only been their neighbors for three years now.”

  I nod. “Sorry, I never noticed.”

  “Yeah, you’ve always been good at ignoring kids,” she says.

  I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to fight. Plus, she’s probably right. Kids are like harmless aliens I have no interest in understanding. Can’t fend for themselves, cry when their basic needs aren’t fulfilled. And as they get older, the talking, the boundless energy. As teens, there are the skin dyes, hairstyles, and trick-or-treat fashion, plus those fleeting moments of pure elation or disdain in between chasms of boredom. Trying to pretend they’re cool or smart when they’re not. Always faking it. But the young ones like Ascalon, they aren’t even irritating yet. I should take joy when it comes to her. I should have done that with the ones before. But she’s just so nonstop. Once, I watched her for three hours straight, and it zapped me so badly I slept for twelve hours afterward.

  I wonder if it’s because I was so young when my dad died that I never learned what a father was supposed to be. My own adolescent and teenage years were marked by tons of fights, shotgunning a wedding, going off to war, coming back to nothing, and trying to bed anything in sight as some sort of ridiculous revenge against women. Sure, I had to figure out on my own what a man was supposed to be. But that’s a bullshit excuse after this many decades. I’ve gotta start trying. Gotta put in the work. And when it comes to Sabrina, the woman who just gambled her own and her daughter’s financial future on me, I’ve gotta close the book on this so I can start grinding on something new. Akira Kimura killed one of her daughters and gave up the other. It disgusts me, but the worst part is, I can’t even spend more than three hours alone with my own kid. When it comes to parenthood, I’m barely better than Akira.

  I start thinking about the explosion, the voice I heard coming from the elevator, and I feel nervous about Ascalon not being within view, so Sabrina and I head downstairs. We go down the hall and step into her bedroom. The babysitter is pretending to look for her. “Hmm, are you in the closet?” the babysitter says slowly. “Are you in the drawer?”

  No, Ascalon is standing behind the curtain, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Her tiny feet are sticking out from the bottom of the drapes, and she has no idea we can all see them. Her toes are curled. The whole thing is so fucking cute, it makes me want to cry.

  Sabrina steps beside me and holds in a laugh. This little girl who resembles us both fills our hearts in this moment. Sabrina tak
es my hand. I wince. “Are you okay?” she asks, inspecting it.

  “Yeah, I’m just thinking about who planted the bomb. Who was in our home?”

  “I checked everything myself. I even scanned through hours of security footage of the entire complex. Whoever it was left no evidence.”

  I nod. “I’ll go see the doc tomorrow,” I say.

  “Take the hover.”

  I turn to Sabrina. “Someone’s after me.”

  “Us,” she says.

  I nod. “And here I thought you were taking your old job back and trying to keep me on Vomit Island.”

  “After the interrogation, I turned it down,” she says.

  “Conflict of interest?”

  “No,” she says. She nods at the tiny figure behind the curtain. The babysitter yanks it back. “There you are!” she says.

  Ascalon squeals, then runs out of the room right between us. The babysitter gives chase. “I’m selfish,” Sabrina says. “I don’t want to spend a day without her.”

  In this moment, I know that Sabrina was right. I loved Akira Kimura. Not only did I worship her along with most of the world, but I killed for her without hesitation. And much of that is earned. She saved the goddamn world, after all. And I was grateful that she trusted me to be a part of it. That gratitude blinded me, the man who thought he could see everything.

  But the woman who saved the world didn’t trust me to make my own choices. And despite my wounded pride, I don’t blame her. She might never have finished Ascalon if I’d turned her down, and the stakes were global extinction. But now it’s time to set right what I’ve done. I will find Akira’s other daughter and discover who killed Jerry. Maybe this is just Akira playing me like a puppet again, but I’m gonna have a little more faith than that. Because right now, I see for the first time that in more than one way, Akira Kimura ain’t half the woman my wife is.