“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “It’s not too late. We could call both our families. Get the hell out of Dodge.”
His words held their usual bounce, but she knew it was feigned, as much illusion as the rest of this place. He truly wanted her to flee, to run away, to live.
She acknowledged his fear—and what lay beneath it. Both gave her the strength to lean forward and tip up on her toes. When had Bobby grown so tall? She gently kissed his cheek, then lowered to her heels.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “This is our city.”
He smiled, blushing high in his cheeks. “Damn right it is.”
Turning smartly on a heel, he led her away. And once again, her hand somehow found its way into his. Together, they hurried through the maze of backlots and alleyways until he halted in front of a green door marked F/X.
“Special Effects?” she asked, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Bobby finally relented. “Seems like we’ve reached that need-to-know moment.”
As he explained his plan, her eyes grew huge. “Are you insane?” she gasped and swatted him in the shoulder.
He rubbed his arm while shrugging. “If you have a better plan . . . ?”
She didn’t—and they certainly didn’t have time to come up with an alternative. She had to trust that Bobby knew what he was doing.
“Fine. Then let’s do this.”
His smile grew broader. “Who knew you were this easy?”
“Shut up.”
Bobby used his studio keycard to unlock the door and enter the special effects studio. She followed him up to a workroom on the second floor. It was full of computer equipment, giant plasma monitors, and a neighboring green-screen studio.
“Do you know how to run all this?”
Bobby gave her a how-stupid-do-I-look glare. “Who grew up on Xbox and could hand-build his own computer from the age of nine? Besides, as an intern, I spent a few weeks here slinging coffee and doughnuts for the postproduction crew. I learned everything I could. You’d be surprised what doors a double-whip mocha latte will open for you here.”
She turned in a circle. “What do I have to do?”
“First, you’ll need a new outfit.” He pointed to a row of black spandex suits hanging on a row of pegs. The bodysuits had Ping-Pong balls glued all over them. “You can change behind that curtain.”
She took a deep breath, grabbed the smallest of the suits, and retreated behind the curtain. She quickly stripped to her bra and panties and shimmied into the tight outfit. Once done, she stared down at her body. The spandex clung like a second skin. She felt naked—and stupid.
White Ping-Pong balls marked each joint and curve of her body.
“What’s taking you so long?” Bobby called to her. “I’m all set here.”
She stepped from behind the curtain and pointed to him. “Not a word!”
His mouth dropped open at the sight of her. He lifted a finger to his chin and closed his mouth, but his grin remained and spoke volumes.
He crossed to her and handed her a pair of goggles that looked like a large black scuba mask. The goggles trailed a set of black cords.
“What now?” she asked.
He pointed to the neighboring studio wrapped all in green. “The motion-capture suit works best against green screen. Put on the goggles and you’ll see everything I do on the computer.”
Bobby walked her into the empty studio and helped her put on the heavy goggles. The inside of the mask was one big digital screen. A computerized test pattern filled her vision.
“Okay,” he said. “Just stand there until I say go.”
“Then what?”
“Do what you do best. I’ll run the controls while you just paint.”
She heard him plug in the goggle’s cords, then retreat out of the studio. The door closed. She felt suddenly alone. Over the years she had developed a suspicion of technology, going back to the machines that had failed to keep her mother alive. She had turned instead to what her mother loved: the simplicity of oil on canvas, of spray paint on walls. That was magic enough for her. She had no use for the cold calculating world of computer technology.
That was Bobby’s domain.
She had to trust him—did trust him.
Bobby’s voice reached her through tiny speakers built into the goggles. “Soo, wave your arms for me. I want to make sure the computer is properly capturing your motion.”
She obeyed, feeling silly.
“That’s it! Perfect calibration. I’m activating you now.”
The test pattern in her goggles dissolved away, and she found herself staring into a new world. It appeared as if she were standing in front of an easel in the middle of a meadow brimming with wildflowers. Butterflies fluttered among the blossoms, while birds spun and twittered. She raised an arm to block out the sunlight—only it wasn’t her arm that rose in front of her, but a computer-generated facsimile.
“Is it too bright?” Bobby’s voice whispered from tiny speakers in the goggles. “It’s hard to judge from the monitor.”
“Yes . . . a little too much glare.”
“I’ll adjust.”
Soo-ling squinted into the meadow. The sun suddenly sank toward the horizon, shadows stretching.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Much better,” she said. “But what do I do now?”
“Paint your tag, Soo. That attracted the beast before. Call him into the virtual world. I’ll record from here.”
Steeling herself, she inhaled sharply and reached for the paintbrush and palette of oils. Though nothing was truly in front of her, the motion and response was so perfect that it made her feel like it was. She swore she could almost feel the brush in one hand and the palette in the other.
After a few fumbling attempts, she fell into her usual rhythm. She dabbed her brush into the oil and tentatively drew her first stroke, a slash of crimson on the white canvas. The remaining thirteen strokes completed her characteristic tag in a few breaths.
Clutching her virtual paintbrush, she waited.
Nothing happened.
“Bobby?”
“Did you paint it correctly, Soo?”
She studied her work. It was perfect.
What am I forgetting?
Then it dawned on her. She reached a finger through empty air, while in another world, a computer-generated finger rose and reached for the center of the painted glyph on the canvas. As contact was made, a familiar tingling surged up her arm. Soo-ling tensed, holding her breath. She waited for several heartbeats.
Still nothing.
She started to drop her arm when a stabbing cold seized her wrist. She wanted desperately to pull away like before—but she knew this time she must stand firm, hold fast, not disgrace the family as her ancestor had done so many centuries ago.
Foreign memories suddenly flooded into her consciousness, like dreams long forgotten slipping back into focus again. She remembered Shandong Province with the sun rising over the Yellow Sea; she remembered fishing with her brothers, cherry blossoms floating on the water; she remembered her first love, Wan Lee, turning his back on her after her shame.
“Soo?” Bobby had an uncertain edge to his voice. “What are you doing? There’s this old woman dressed in a robe on the screen where you’re supposed to be.”
Soo-ling barely heard him, floating between past and present. She began to understand as more ancestral memories filled her.
“She’s a friend,” she finally mumbled, knowing it to be true. “I don’t know quite what’s happening, but your hunch was right. It’s coming. I sense it. Like electricity before a thunderstorm.”
The cold crept up her arm, seeking her heart. Dusty laughter, old and cracked, followed and crumbled into words. “I have found you at long last, siu far, my little flower.”
Distant memories intruded. A foggy glen, surrounded by towering trees, the lowing of cattle from a distant rice paddy, and a creature of nightmares cr
ouching, its voice mocking.
Soo-ling’s lips moved, but she did not know who spoke: herself or her ancestor. “Gui sou.”
More dark laughter. “Ah, you know my name. You have hidden well over the years, siu far. But now it is time to be plucked. I shall wear you as an ornament once I am free. Free to stalk the world of man.”
A mist rose from the meadow floor and coalesced into an ancient face, yellow and wrinkled like a dried apricot. The face split into a leer, lined by fangs. The fog continued to encircle her, forming the coils of a snake—along with a reptilian claw that gripped her wrist.
Old fears arose, like smoke from an extinguished fire.
Trapped, must escape, flee!
Her head throbbed, and the world began to tilt, eyes blurring.
“Soo-ling!” Bobby’s voice jolted her to the present. “I can see that monster on the monitor. Get out of there!”
The spiked and scaled body of the beast appeared in the mist. She began to yank her arm away when a foreign thought intruded.
No. Stand firm, child. You must resist.
“Soo, I’m ending the program.”
“No, Bobby!” she yelled. Understanding dawned in her. “The circle isn’t complete. It will follow me out.”
“Let it try!” Bobby said. “I’ll take care of it.”
His words—full of bravura and love—conjured more recent memories. Running the back alleys with Bobby. Fleeing police and gang members, laughing. Planting tags throughout the city. My city! Our city!
“Just do as we planned,” she said. “Complete the circle.”
The gui sou leaned closer, suspicious, its breath stale as an open grave. “Who do you speak to, little one? Prayers, perhaps? Do not bother seeking aid from your puny gods. Prayers will not save you.”
“Who needs prayers, when you’ve got friends who love you?” And she knew it to be true. “Now, Bobby!”
“Engaging copies!”
The empty meadow suddenly filled with thirty-four other easels, exact copies of her original. They encircled the field. Disembodied arms, floating free, repeated what she had painted earlier. Thirty-four arms picked up brushes and palettes and painted identical symbols in unison. Then they all reached forward to touch the center of their glyphs.
A flash of confusion swept over the creature’s jaundiced features. Its fiery eyes darted everywhere. The claws gripping her hand faded back to mist. Snaking coils dissolved back to fog. The mocking face leaned close. “What trick is this, witch?”
She knew the answer. “A spell broken long ago is woven again.”
“Impossible. There are no other guardians. What trickery is this?”
The gui sou collected its mists, like a woman gathering her skirts, and glided across the meadow. It tried to break out of the circle but was stopped by an invisible wall of force. It flattened its mists against the barrier, probing for an opening. With a shriek, it thrashed back and forth across the meadow, flinging itself against the sides of its new prison.
After a full minute, it stopped and rushed at her. “Drop your arm, siu far, break the circle, and I will let you escape again.”
Same old trick.
“Not this century,” she sneered.
“You’ll never be able to stand there forever,” it warned, rearing up in threat and fury. “You’ll tire! Then I will devour you!”
She faced the monster with an arched eyebrow. “Really? Then let me welcome you to the new millennium! You’re nothing but a ghost of the past. And the past is where you will remain. Locked forever in memory.” She called more loudly. “Bobby, hit it!”
“Saving to disk now!”
The world within the goggles pulled away, shrinking smaller and smaller until the digital window was the size of a postage stamp. As it receded, she saw them appear, standing behind each of the other easels: different Chinese women, of varying ages, the murdered provincial guardians from the ancient past. They bowed to her, acknowledging an ancient debt paid in full.
At the last moment, a whisper reached her, full of love and pride.
Si low chai . . .
She knew that voice, those tender words. Tears welled, bursting from her swollen heart.
“. . . Mother . . .”
A warmth filled her as the tenuous connection faded.
Soo-ling struggled to hold it—but it was like grasping smoke. The connection ended, as it must. That was not her world.
Still, the warmth remained inside her.
The true ghost of her mother.
Her everlasting love.
The image of a computer desktop snapped into place inside her goggles. It held frozen the last picture: thirty-five guardians encircling a demon. Then that file dropped away into a computerized folder icon. A symbol of a combination lock overlay the folder. It clicked closed.
“We’re locked up!” Bobby called out.
Soo-ling took a long, shuddering breath, then pulled off her goggles. She stood again in the empty studio. Behind her, the door banged open and Bobby rushed inside. His expression grew concerned as he saw her face.
“Soo, are you all right?”
She wiped her tears. “Never better.”
And she meant it.
Bobby crossed to her and handed her a recordable DVD. A thin crust of frost caked its surface. “It should be trapped in there, right?”
She nodded and took the DVD. “I hope so.”
“So then we’ve won,” Bobby said, blowing out his relief.
“The battle, perhaps, but not the war.”
She knew the gui sou was only a small part of the Chaos Lord. There was still a wall in Riverside that needed her handiwork—or come dawn, Los Angeles would really rock and roll.
Bobby stood before her. “What now?”
“Time to go to work. Do you have a can of spray paint?”
He raised his eyebrows as if insulted. “Of course.”
She leaned and tipped up on her toes again. This time she kissed his lips. “Then let’s go save the world.”
Something Completely Different
I wanted to impress George R. R. Martin.
That was why I wrote this next story. I was approached to submit a piece for an anthology to be edited by Mr. Martin and the esteemed Gardner Dozois. The title of the collection was Warriors, and the conceit for this volume was for each author to write a story involving any warrior from any place in history, even the future.
I scratched my head, trying to think of what “warrior” to write about. I imagined I was approached because my Sigma novels were chock-full of soldiers who were uniquely disciplined in the sciences, in other words, “scientists with guns.” But that seemed too expected and predictable, especially to present to someone as formidable as Mr. Martin.
Now, I had been reading Mr. Martin’s books since high school, long before his success with Game of Thrones. I knew he was a bit of a chameleon. In the past, he had written across various genres, from science fiction to fantasy to horror. Knowing this, I challenged myself to do something completely different and unexpected. My warrior was not going to be a human character. Instead, I was going to draw upon my background as veterinarian and craft a story about a unique warrior: a dog in a pit-fighting ring.
I also wanted to tell this story strictly from the dog’s point of view, to put my readers into that harrowing world from the eye level of a pit fighter. To accomplish that, I went back and reviewed the work of Jack London. I interviewed people willing to talk about their experiences. I spoke to a behaviorist who specialized in rehabilitating abused dogs.
And all of that became “The Pit,” a work that I still consider to be some of my best writing.
Thanks, George!
The Pit
James Rollins
The large dog hung from the bottom of the tire swing by his teeth. His back paws swung three feet off the ground. Overhead, the sun remained a red blister in an achingly blue sky. After so long, the muscles of the dog’s jaw had cramped to a tight kn
ot. His tongue had turned to a salt-dried piece of leather, lolling out one side. Still, at the back of his throat, he tasted black oil and blood.
But he did not let go.
He knew better.
Two voices spoke behind him. The dog recognized the gravel of the yard trainer. But the second was someone new, squeaky and prone to sniffing between every other word.
“How long he be hangin’ there?” the stranger asked.
“Forty-two minutes.”
“No shit! That’s one badass motherfucker. But he’s not pure pit, is he?”
“Pit and boxer.”
“True nuff? You know, I got a Staffordshire bitch be ready for him next month. And let me tell you, she puts the mean back in bitch. Cut you in on the pups.”
“Stud fee’s a thousand.”
“Dollars? You cracked or what?”
“Fuck you. Last show he brought down twelve motherfuckin’ Gs.”
“Twelve? You’re shittin’ me. For a dogfight?”
The trainer snorted. “And that’s after paying the house. He beat that champion out of Central. Should seen that Crip monster. All muscle and scars. Had twenty-two pounds on Brutus here. Pit ref almost shut down the fight at the weigh-in. Called my dog ring bait! But the bastard showed ’em. And those odds paid off like a crazy motherfucker.”
Laughter. Raw. No warmth behind it.
The dog watched out of the corner of his eye. The trainer stood to the left, dressed in baggy jeans and a white T-shirt, showing arms decorated with ink, his head shaved to the scalp. The newcomer wore leather and carried a helmet under one arm. His eyes darted around.
“Let’s get out of the goddamn sun,” the stranger finally said. “Talk numbers. I got a kilo coming in at the end of the week.”
As they stepped away, something struck the dog’s flank. Hard. But he still didn’t let go. Not yet.
“Release!”
With the command, the dog finally unclamped his jaws and dropped to the practice yard. His hind legs were numb, heavy with blood. But he turned to face the two men. Shoulders up, he squinted against the sun. The yard trainer stood with his wooden bat. The newcomer had his fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket and took a step back. The dog smelled the stranger’s fear, a bitter dampness, like weeds soaked in old urine.
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