Midnight, Water City

by Chris Mckinney

  “After I take care of this mess, I’ll make sure you can spend every damn day with that kid for as long as you want,” I say.

  Sabrina smiles. “You already gave me that. And I traded it to get you back.”

  “I know.”

  Sabrina turns to me. She grabs both my arms. “Go do the thing you’re best at. Put an end to this.”

  “I’m worried about you two,” I say.

  Ascalon and the babysitter run past us down the hall. Sabrina and I both turn and watch. “You can’t stop this by staying here,” Sabrina says. “Nothing will happen to us.”

  I nod. I want to believe this.

  “She wasn’t everything you thought she was, huh?” Sabrina asks.

  “Akira?”

  Sabrina nods.

  “How’d you know?”

  “We’re all human,” she says. “Even if we somehow manage convince the entire world we’re a god.”

  Sabrina scoops up Ascalon, and they twirl, Sabrina in her slick black raingear and Ascalon in a quilted pink dress permanently stained at the collar with dozens of clumsy meals. Ascalon is laughing so infectiously that Sabrina follows. The twirling continues. They twirl till they’re dizzy, till Sabrina can barely stand. To me, this is art. An iconic moment forever crystallized in my history.

  The sitter goes home, and we spend the night watching Ascalon fight sleep like she does almost every night. She hasn’t got much hair for an eighteen-month-old, and dressed differently, she might pass as a boy, but those insanely long lashes give her big eyes a feminine quality. She charges to her toy area and brings us back a puzzle, an artifact my mother once saved for me. It’s a simple puzzle, one where you fit each letter of the alphabet into its correct spot among twenty-six holes. Each letter is a different color, and Ascalon’s bumbling hands are having a tough time with Q. I can’t see it, but I know it’s green. Sabrina helps Ascalon fit the letter in, and Ascalon picks up her pacifier and rubs her eye with the nub. She’s exhausted.

  I take the letter Q out of its notch, hold it up, and inspect it. “I’m colorblind,” I say.

  Sabrina looks surprised. “Let me put her down. Be right back,” she says.

  She picks up Ascalon and takes her, along with her two pacifiers, her stuffed sloth, and her stuffed bunny, to her crib. I wait, nervous. I’ve never had this talk with anyone.

  Sabrina comes back and sits next to me. We put our iEs on sleep mode, and I tell her everything. About ambergris and greens and reds and Akira Kimura and Ascalon Lee. I even tell her about the voices and the old man in the prison cafeteria, and how I might be going insane.

  Sabrina begins to tear up. She tells me I must’ve felt so alone, seeing and hearing things the way I did. Not telling anyone. Not having someone who understood. I tell her one person did, but I don’t want that running my life anymore.

  Sabrina leads me to the bedroom. And we end the night the same way we used to, although it’s been a while. Sabrina dozes off and says she wonders why we don’t end all our evenings like this.

  But life never lets you end things the way you want.

  18

  The next morning, I’m at the doctor’s office. The doc is overbooked and running late—I’ve never met a doctor who wasn’t. I spend this time distracting myself with useless information. The table in front of me is round, emitting a soft yellow light that makes patients feel like they’re outdoors. My childhood was the tip-tail end of “the age of the magazine,” when it was normal for a deck of them to be spread out on a waiting room table. Actual glossy pages, end to end, bound by glue. And when new issues arrived to replace the old, the previous ones would inevitably find their way, like all trash back then, into the ocean.

  Now, most waiting room tables are like this one, skirted with twelve tiny half-domes that make the table look like a clock. Each half-dome can project a holographic vid, which one can patch directly into his or her iE. But the selections aren’t the same as what people choose out there while they’re living. These informational holo vids cover topics ranging from science to interior design to gourmet cooking. At my age, I’ve racked up so much doc wait room time that it occurs to me that I may have accumulated more useless knowledge in these places than all of my formal education. Makes sense. I select a holo vid on precious gems. A geologist talks about how the diamond was the most valuable stone in the world until we found out there were a quadrillion tons of them under our feet. Seems like a human thing to place great value on something we think is rare, only to find out nothing is.

  I’m called up via my iE. I stand, nervous. A part of me wants to walk out on my appointment and forget this whole thing. The procedure itself isn’t scary at all. Zero risk, though doctors refuse to call anything that for legal reasons. Fifteen minutes, and I walk out a new man. I don’t wanna go in, but once I commit to something, I follow through—it’s part of my code, or whatever you want to call it. Even if I’m the only person who knows about that commitment.

  I head inside. The hum of chakra bowls fills the hall, and I think about the dream I had where I’m standing in front of the painting with the girl in the red sweater with two Akiras standing next to me. How vivid those reds and greens were, and why it took a dream to see that behind the giant banyan tree was a swamp. Considering my affliction, I’ve done research on the human eye. I know its parts: iris, pupil, cornea, retina. It has six muscles, which, like all muscles, create tension and torque. There are millions of cone cells floating around in the orbs we see through, and those cones are what show us color. Humans aren’t even the best at it. Butterflies, for example, have five times as many cones as we do, and fifteen different types to our three. This means that they can see things we don’t. I used to tell myself I was like a butterfly, and that was why I saw more than everybody else. But now I’m thinking that all this time, I was seeing less. I’m more like the bumblebee, which ignores all colors except the ones left by trails of nectar, lighting up like shuttle runways to what will satisfy their single-minded appetites.

  The last thing I know about the human eye is that it should’ve taken millions of years for it to evolve as it has, when we certainly aren’t millions of years old as a species. When it comes to sight, we were fast-tracked. Some think it’s proof we’re more recently descended from aliens. Others just shrug and figure we’ll learn why later. I personally wonder if our ability to imagine sped up the process, but that’s probably my half-assed logic and a hope that I’m not the only one who’s seeing things in this way.

  I walk into the procedure room, where I’m greeted by a doctor. He’s a happy-looking fella who talks with his hands. They flutter while he explains the procedure. He tells me he’s never tried this on someone so old before. When he says it, he gets so excited, he shifts to his tiptoes and lets out an uncomfortable squeal of laughter. I sit in the chair and tell him to strap me in before I change my mind.

  Then he gets somber and apologizes. He meant no insult with the comment about me being old. I tell him it’s fine. I am old. And on the rare occasion that I forget, my body reminds me. My hands are killing me. My ears ring with fluid, bringing the chakra hum down to a gurgle. Maybe I’m sick, or maybe it’s just nerves. I don’t know. I know I’m thinking about Sabrina and Ascalon—I hope they’re okay.

  The doc studies my worried face and looks hesitant. He asks, “You sure about this? Why after all these years?”

  I think about that. I picture my dad the day he brought home the chunk of ambergris. That first time I saw and smelled green. I think about my mom and those piano lessons. At first I ran through the basics: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” “Drops of Jupiter,” “Für Elise.” It wasn’t until I played “Somewhere over the Rainbow” that I saw it. I’d seen hundreds of rainbows by that point, both real and on vid, the top of the spectrum always a muddled yellow and the midpoint only slightly clearer, where yellowish-brown broke to blue. As I played the song, red app
eared in my head for the first time. The color shocked my eyes open, and I saw the red notes. They floated up from the keyboard and coiled gracefully around the lid prop to the strings and hammers inside.

  I stopped playing and pulled the lid up. The red let me see piano hammers for the first time. All this time playing, and I’d never even known how a piano worked. I wondered what else red would show me. I didn’t see it again until the day my dad died. And after that, I never wanted to see it again. Of course, years later, I found myself in the midst of the war and saw it every day. During my time as a rail gun sniper, my affliction helped me. Each target was a cloud of greens, and I could even spot them behind walls. Too easy. We’re all murderers in war.

  I think about the dozens of cases I’ve closed. The greens leading me from clue to clue. Terrorists, hitmen, men who regretted their affairs going after innocents, high-profile marks, mistresses, and unwanted children. All solved. Except one.

  Akira’s.

  I’m now seeing my life up till this as a sort of parabola. And Akira cuts through the middle like a laser. An axis of symmetry. There is my life before her, and my life after. Entirely separate. I can finally see that, even if I had to walk backward like my toddler to bump into it. Some would call the second half of my time more impressive than the first. When I ran with Akira, the most famous person on earth. With Idris Eshana. And was granted absolute power by the president himself. Bringing down Akira’s enemies made me a player during the biggest event in human history. Some would say it was a role in saving the world. Even if the dangers were communicating silently, people standing still like trees and warning each other through their roots, otherwise powerless, it all worked out. Though I understand why no one must know.

  Akira and her .03 percent. Her philosophy that it’s what’s to the right of the decimal that counts. I no longer agree. I’ve realized that .03 percent of a person isn’t a person. Thinking in percentages like that might make us smarter, but it also makes us worse. When it comes to human beings, it makes accepted casualties and extermination easier because all we’re getting rid of is a number.

  I look up at the doctor. “Because there’s things I gotta do. And I gotta be able to see to get them done. I need to be normal for once in my life.”

  “Well, you are,” the doctor says. “You just can’t see every color.”

  “I’ve gotta start seeing like everyone else in order to understand them.”

  The doctor nods. I don’t think he gets it.

  In fact, I wonder if anybody gets how much I need this. This thing I’ve always thought of as a gift has become a liability. An unwrapped plaything that someone out there is having fun with. The doc starts the procedure. I listen to the muddled croon of the chakra bowls and close my eyes.

  Fifteen minutes later, I open my eyes. The doc is standing over me, looking satisfied. I sit up and look at him, almost expecting to see something green or red. Maybe green eyes or a red tie. But his snug foam fit is a shimmery yellow and blue, like the scales of a damselfish. When I came in, I didn’t even notice that. It occurs to me that I’ve been looking for green and red so long that I stopped seeing the other colors in front of me.

  “Success,” he says.

  “How do you know?” I ask. “I haven’t looked at anything yet.”

  The doctor pulls a lab-grown guava out of his pocket and tosses it to me. I slap it away. The doctor laughs. “Well, what color is it?” he asks.

  I look down at the floor. It rolls to the wall. “It’s green,” I say.

  The doctor nods. He leans down and picks up the piece of fruit. He pulls a pocketknife out and slices it open. “And the inside?” he says.

  The fruit juice drips from his hand. “Red,” I say.

  The doc shrugs. “Like I said, success.” He sucks at the inside of the guava. “Want one?” he asks. “It's the latest mutation.”

  I stare at him. This guy is sucking down a mouthful of music, but I don’t see them. I don’t see anything rise. I’m waiting for them, but they do not come. In the end, all I see is a doc with bad bedside manner sucking on a piece of fruit that, to me, always had too many seeds.

  19

  Before I leave, the doc tells me I should take it easy. It might take some adjusting to my newly repaired eyes. But as much as I’d love to take his advice, I just don’t have the time. I’ve been charged with the murder of one of my dearest friends, which I’m out on bail for. And that won’t last forever. So I’m back in Sabrina’s hover, heading to Jerry’s cloudscraper island. I’ve gotta figure out who killed her. Who the hell is threatening my family and messing with my mind. And when I find out, I might get charged for murder all over again.

  Akira had so much control over me that part of me is scared I am the one who killed Jerry. That the threats are figments of my imagination. If I did do it, I deserve to fry for it.

  I ping my wife. She answers. “How’d it go?” she asks.

  “Swell.”

  “All this time, and I didn’t know.”

  “No one did,” I say.

  “She did.”

  I look down from the hover. What I see is almost blinding. The island. Green. So green. So many different shades. Then there’s the lava. Bright red. I blink hard and look again. It’s like I’m looking at a giant sea turtle strangled by ribbons of red garrote. “This is pretty jarring,” I say.

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’m heading over to Jerry’s now.”

  “You need to be careful. If anyone catches you snooping around the scene of the murder you’re accused of.”

  “Right back to Vomit Island,” I say. “I’ll be careful. Besides, it’s like you said. They’re focused on Akira’s death right now.”

  “Watch the chop. The storm moved west, but we’re still going to catch some bad weather. The hover can’t muscle through turbulence like the SEAL can.”

  “Noted. How’s Ascalon?”

  “Well, I turned my back on her for one second this morning, and she scribbled all over the walls. We might just be raising a future anarchist or vandal.”

  I elevate the hover, and the turbulence shakes me. It’s been a while since I piloted one of these. Newer, smaller, nimbler, but lacking the old-school heft of a SEAL—it glides more than charges. I stop myself from yanking on the stick. I cannot push my way through this pocket where hot and cold meet. I drift back down. “A chip off the old block,” I say. “Remember, I’m being charged with burning down private estate property too.”

  “Go get whoever killed her,” Sabrina says.

  “I will. And hey.”

  “What?” Sabrina asks.

  “I love you,” I say.

  “Sometimes that’s all I want to hear,” she says. We let the note hang there for a second. Then her tone changes. “Look under the seat. It’s no rail gun, but stay safe.”

  I reach under the seat. It’s a loaded handgun, no charge required. .45-caliber 1911. Steel—heavy, which helps with the recoil. Fifteen in the mag. Red-dot aiming, which I can actually see now. Besides the rail gun, we ain’t done much to advance the tech of personal weapons. Outside of military use, we never needed to. And since beat cops converted to nonlethal weapons even before I was born, guns like these have become rare, illegal in the hands of anyone except SWAT and high-ranking police. Making detective and getting a handgun is like earning a medal. That’s why this sucker is so shiny. And for short-range self-defense, it can’t be improved upon. “You have the other one?” I ask.

  “I do,” she says. “Sorry, but Ascalon’s gone suspiciously quiet. Keep me posted.”

  Sabrina can take care of herself, maybe better than I can, but I’m still worried. A gun’s no match against some of the things I’ve seen in this investigation. Akira, frozen and carved up. Jerry, viciously strangled. Flying orbs cloaked in invisibility. A massive underground tomb with the body of a newborn ins
ide. And my own chief and his corporal, vaporized by a toy ball. I’m still trying to figure out how that old guy somehow became a conduit to deliver that brief message, the most likely answer being my imagination. I’m nervous. But I’m also happy that I don’t feel so alone now. Sabrina. I’m not saying we’re completely fixed. But at least we’re trying instead of just pressing our fingertips white on the things that irritate us about each other. There’s enough we respect in each other for us to fight for this. Maybe we hit a point where we both realized it’s not about who’s right or wrong, but what we can live with. She put it all on the line to get me out of prison even though I’ve been an asshole for the last year. My wife is fucking down. And she deserves for me to never forget it.

  I look down. I’m crossing the ocean. A bridgeless blue gap between two islands that’s deeper than it is wide. A place where I once found myself skimming feet and matching them with their rightful owners. I think about how the dead can sometimes wield stronger voices than the living. Maybe that’s why, even now, in the twenty-second century, so many of us still believe in ghosts. The dead are apparitions that both haunt and guide us. And maybe they’ve earned it. Most times, they can teach us our own history better than any book. I’m sure Jerry left me something, one last message, in that penthouse. It’s worth the risk to find out. The towers break through clouds in the distance. I head for her building.

  Guest parking is an outdoor ring of landing lilies at the midpoint of the building, so I’m glad the rain has broken. I glance ahead through the briny, overcast air and see a rainbow. I pause to really look at it. I’m eighty, and it’s the first time I’ve seen one in full. Nearly every culture has a myth surrounding rainbows. For the Norse, it was a bridge from Asgard to Earth. For the Greeks, it was a message to humans from the gods. For the Indians, it was the bow belonging to the god of war. For Christians, it’s god’s promise that he’ll never flood the earth again. And for us, it’s just an optical illusion caused by light split into its full spectrum as it’s refracted by water in the air. For me, a test of colorblindness. I pass the test and wonder whether it will be something different in another two thousand years. I force myself to look at all the colors one last time. Then I press a few buttons for a hood to appear over my head, a mask over my mouth, and a thin trench over my shoulders, and head to Jerry’s.