For the One I Love

by K. H. Koehler

  When all the lights started coming on and I realized it was getting dark, which never really happens here, I knew I was in trouble. I needed to sleep. But more than that, I needed to eat. I hadn’t eaten in at least a day. Everything was surreal, and I wanted to cry, but I was afraid to because I thought for sure they would know I wasn’t from this place, and then they would come for me. They would smell my fear and make me pay.

  The ambient scents of a distant restaurant attracted me. It was like carrion to vultures, and I thought about that sometime later while I dug through a bin at the back. There was a lot of really good food being thrown out! I was stuffing my pockets for later when the owner threw open a heavy door marked with a Private sign and started yelling at me. “Get away from there, you little shit! What do you think you’re doing?”

  She was a large, solid woman. She should have been pretty, but her face was all hard planes full of so much anger that I thought I should see cracks around her mouth and eyes. She was dressed smartly, and diamonds crackled at her throat and on her fingers. I was surprised when she came at me. I didn’t understand why she should be so mad at me. I wasn’t disturbing her establishment. I wasn’t making a sound.

  She grabbed my hair unexpectedly and spun me around. “You pieces of shit never learn, do you?” She said it like this had been going on a long time. I thought maybe I could reason with her. I had seen girls on the run on TV do that. They were given storerooms to sleep in and slowly made their way up the ranks of the city. They became someone. I hoped to be that girl. But she shook me, then ripped at my hoodie. All my food fell out. Then she slapped me smartly across the face.

  I let her do it. I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t think she would do those things. I never thought Daddy would until he did them.

  When she pushed me backward, I stumbled and fell down. I was usually very balanced on my feet. Light as a bird. I used to dance ballet when I was little. But I was also tired and hungry and my body felt like bags of concrete sewn together. I fell hard with a yelp. She raised her fist above her head like she would smash me. I scrambled up, turned, and hit the Dumpster crouched behind me. I hit hard and a flower of pain bloomed across my nose and cheeks.

  The woman laughed at that. She laughed at how badly I had hurt myself. How much she had frightened me.

  I knew, then, that I wasn’t one of those TV girls. They weren’t real. Only this was real, this despair swallowing my stomach with snake-like accuracy. This cold, blue humiliation in the February streets.

  I picked myself up a little more carefully. There was blood peppering my hands and hair. I was so dizzy I wanted to heave, but I managed to run away, too surprised by everything to even feel the pain surging through my face. That came later, after I found a place to sleep under a bridge down by the river where a lot of the street people gathered about their burn-barrels and bonfires.

  “Doctor…” I said now, putting a hand on his arm.

  “Yes, Poppet,” he answered. His hand hovered in the air in front of his face as if to staunch the flow of his unseen agony.

  I felt ashamed of my reaction. He had obviously invested much in this evening. His time, his art, and his suffering. Though I was certain I must have recounted my story about the alley, perhaps he had forgotten it or misinterpreted it in some way. Or perhaps this was a test of some kind. I would not fail him. I would swallow my insides coming out. I would be the proper lady he knew me to be.

  I said, “I…thank you for this evening.”

  “It’s hardly over,” he said, lowering his hand and placing it upon mine. His fingers were cold like artificial skin stretched over bones of cleverly constructed steel. His enormous strength seemed to enter me through his touch.

  He walked me inside, a place I had never been before. I immediately recognized the maitre d’ as one of the Doctor’s most trusted agents. That confused me until I spotted one of the wait staff. I recognized her, as well.

  I stopped in the middle of the floor. We were starkly alone in the arctic whiteness of an enormously posh dining room. It might have seemed vast, were the lights on, but it was dark except for a table at the center of the floor where a bowl of floating candles threw forth a mask of sallow yellow light. Despite the carefully constructed elegance, I found the place sad and rather ugly.

  “You have been wonderfully patient about your gift, Poppet,” the Doctor said. He led me toward the table set with a white linen tablecloth and a centerpiece of white and yellow calla lilies, their tongues lolling toward the ribbed ceiling. The table was set with fine crystal dinnerware and gold-plated cutlery, but, curiously enough, there were three places set for dinner.

  The Doctor seated me first, then himself. One of his agents stepped up beside him and the Doctor turned his head and nodded to him. “Please.”

  I waited, my heart thudding up around my throat. As Timeless, our meals are decorative rather than functional, but that doesn’t mean we enjoy them any less. Eating itself had become our art, something we shared and improved upon.

  More agents emerged from the kitchen. They were ushering forth the woman from the alley, the one who had laughed at me. She moved languidly, with almost clockwork precision, her eyes unfocused on her environment. From experience, I knew she was heavily sedated.

  “Doctor,” I said. My voice was surprisingly distressed. I touched my face where a ghostly flare of pain seemed to dwell.

  “Sit down,” he told me. “Be still, Poppet.”

  It took me a moment to realize I was on my feet. He stood and touched the back of my chair. “Sit,” he said once more, using the gravity of his voice to bind me.

  Sitting there, his guest and prisoner, I lowered my head. There was a card on my plate that had gone unnoticed by me until now.

  For the One I Love.

  I looked up. Our agents were lowering the woman into the third seat. She lolled drunkenly, but when her gaze drifted toward me, I could see something. Through the haze of medication, something had clicked in her mind. Some familiarity. My face was different. Timeless. Yet she recognized me. She bared her teeth like a mad horse. “…ittle shhhhit!” she spat at me. She shoved at the table defiantly, dislodging her plate and silverware.

  “Vile woman,” the Doctor said. His voice was calm and persuasive. “You will learn your manners.”

  She slurred a series of curses at the Doctor. She called him the devil, and I the devil’s whore.

  “Be silent,” he said, and, much to my surprise, she did as he bade her, though she weaved dangerously in her seat.

  He turned to me. “Do you approve of my new formula?”

  How curious. “What does it do, Doctor?”

  “Whatever you want.” He paused thoughtfully. “Whatever you command, Poppet.”

  My gift. Oh, the Doctor was much too good to me! No paper valentines or bitter candy hearts. No black skies or blue moons. The Doctor, more than anyone, knew that Valentine’s Day was hot and red and full of insouciant life. More than anyone, he knows how well it bleeds and squirms, like the endless screaming of dogged, stubborn life.

  He, more than anyone, understands me. The one I love.

  I considered all the possibilities before giving the woman her first command.

  “No,” she begged, and begged again. Her anger had left her. Perhaps the snake in her stomach had eaten it all up. But the Doctor’s potions were strong. There was no escaping his wizardry.

  She had some difficulty working the cutlery through the tough muscle of her upper thigh. The femoral muscles are some of the most widely used in the human body. “Fuck you,” she hissed, sweating through the pain as she transferred the first quivering pieces of red meat to her plate. Her hands were under my control, but her mind wandered aimlessly while I commanded her to cut her dinner into small pieces. We had a long night ahead of us, and I didn’t want her to choke.

  * * *

  About the Author

  K.H. Koehler is the author of various novels and novellas in the genres of horror, SF, da
rk fantasy, steampunk and young and new adult. She is the owner of KH Koehler Books and KH Koehler Design, which specializes in graphic design and professional copy-editing. Her books are widely available at all major online distributors and her covers have appeared on numerous books in many different genres. Her short work has appeared in various anthologies, and her novel series include The Kaiju Hunter, The Mrs. McGillicuddy Mysteries, Anti-Heroes, Planet of Dinosaurs, the Nick Englebrecht Mysteries, and The Archaeologists. Visit her personal website at https://khkoehlerbooks.wordpress.com and her business website at https://khkoehler.net.

  * * *

  Excerpts

  Read on for an excerpt from Ghost in the Machine, from Apokrupha Publishing (Apokrupha.com):

  PROLOGUE

  Now

  The President of the United States was a neat, middle-aged woman close to Xara’s age. She wore a pinstriped suit and a dour expression as she stood at the pulpit before the Presidential Seal saying, “My fellow Americans, we are facing one of the direst moments in the history of this great country. In fact, what we are facing will affect not just our nation, but also the world. We are standing toe-to-toe with a monumental challenge this night, but I say to you that I have faith. I have faith that we will not simply lie down and accept this is the end.

  “We, and the nations that stand with us, will fight these invaders down to the last man, if need be. Free people did not simply accept the invasion of Napoleon or Hitler. They did not put their weapons down when foreign forces marched into their nations. They fought back. This situation is no different, and we will tackle this challenge head on as we have always done.”

  Sitting on her stool in her lab, Xara watched the Presidential Address on her computer. She rubbed her bandaged hand, rubbed it again. Then she smiled.

  She liked this woman. She liked the way she commanded her followers to rise up against adversity, challenge…certain annihilation. In many ways, she reminded Xara of her favorite science professor at university, the way the woman had commanded a room. The way she had inspired Xara to do her best—to do better than her best.

  In many ways, they were similar. They were sisters. Though they had never met, and surely never would.

  Xara’s mind was a melee of hope and horror and preparation for the things to come, but despite all this—despite the monumental task set before her—her heart was strangely calm, and she found that odd. She felt as if nothing could touch her in these last moments. She was protected. Destined.

  She had been born for this. And she would die for it.

  While the American people rallied around their leader, crying, praying and screaming for deliverance, the President did her best to assure them of imminent victory. She said they would overcome. Because, really, what other choice did they have?

  None. As I have none. Xara stood up, slipped off her lab coat, and walked with grace and determination to the door of the lab. The door irised open and she stepped through it, determined to meet her destiny head on.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Then

  The cybeast was arachnid in appearance, the original creature having eight legs and a hard, nearly impenetrable carapace. However, Xara and her assistant Odiah had upgraded and improved on its design in a number of different ways. For instance, Xara had attached a pair of grasping pedipalps, as well as a long tail with a spike at the end of it, turning its spider-like appearance into something that more resembled a gigantic scorpion. A bio-engineer by trade, she had also improved the shell by using compressed space titanium and had outfitted the creature with multiple rotating missiles and maser cannons, as well as the usual armament of sonic and subatomic auto-guns.

  The result was a magnificent beast worthy of a war.

  Xara pointed all these upgrades out to her commanding officer Mal and his retinue while the group stood together on the launch platform of Xara’s vast laboratory. The cybeast, dubbed Serket (after a Scorpion goddess myth from ancient Egypt), crouched upon the platform, looking like an oversized armored tank.

  Mal said very little. Once in a while, his mouth would wriggle this way or that, or he would rub his chin, but that was all the reaction Xara would get out of him. Xara tried not to let it erode her confidence in her work too badly.

  Mal was notorious for his taciturn assessments. A high-ranking military officer, he was not subjected to the same protocols as the Bioengineering Team. He seldom attended public functions, and he seemed to have no interests outside of the military. He was a big man who seemed naturally sewn into his dark uniform. His dark, mechanical eyes were calculating, yet strangely empty, and regardless of the situation, he never raised his voice above a loud whisper. Yet, despite his seeming everyday calm, she had seen his subordinates tremble before him. As head of military operations, and a veteran of multiple wars, he held some in awe and terrified the rest.

  Once upon a time, Xara had been one of those who lived in awe of the man. These days, however, she was more inclined to avoid him. He was her handler, her boss, the one person upon whom her entire future depended. If Mal didn’t like her design, if he didn’t approve it and refused her an opportunity to revise it, she might be retired and a new, younger bioengineer brought in to replace her.

  Finally, after about ten straight minutes of explaining, Xara simply stopped speaking and clutched her tablet to her lab coat as she waited to see what happened to her design and her career. Mal had said maybe three words since stepping into the lab. At this point, she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

  Mal turned and looked the creature over from top to bottom, taking his time. His eyes never missed a trick.

  When he turned his attention back on Xara, she felt her stomach bottom out. He looked strangely angry or that was all she was seeing in his face. It was hard to tell. “It isn’t the design I requested,” he said, which was true. She had taken certain liberties where his request was concerned. Then the unhappy line of his mouth evened out. “But, as it turns out, this is the design that we need. Excellent job, Xara. We launch at sixteen-hundred.”

  Xara let out her breath, almost dizzy with relief. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it for so long. “T-thank you, Mal,” she wound up saying to his retreating back. He was already crossing the lab and heading for the door. “Will I be seeing the next commission?” she called, her heart thudding nervously against her strangely achy ribcage, but Mal never looked back. It would be nice to know because, without work, her rations would likely be drastically cut—but, at the same time, she didn’t want to push her luck.

  Mal was almost to the door when Odiah suddenly came to life. He’d been perched on what the two of them had dubbed the crow’s nest, a tall tower where Odiah, a talented bioengineer and AI expert, often did adjustments on the cybeasts, particularly when there were compatibility issues with the AI ghosts they installed. A tall, rangy boy with sharp features and large, expressive eyes, he stood up and cleared his throat for attention.

  He’d been up there to help keep the cybeast calm while Mal inspected it, but now he spoke. “Xara asked you a question.”

  That stopped Mal in his tracks and made him turn with soldiery precision. “What did you say?”

  Xara felt her heart thud once, hard, inside her, in response. Odiah stepped up on a small, floating platform he’d brought with him and rode it to the lab floor. His eyes, usually so kind and compassionate, were keen and narrow, and Xara suddenly had a sinking feeling about this.

  She started forward, but Odiah on his floater reached Mal and his men before Xara could take even one step forward. “Xara asked you a question…sir,” Odiah repeated, adding the address only at the last minute. Odiah had no love for Mal. When they were alone together, Odiah refused to use his name, always referring to him by vague pronouns.

  Mal, standing almost perfectly motionless, turned his full attention on the young man. His expression changed not at all, and his eyes, as always, were black mirrors with nothing in them. A few of his
men started forward, intent on retraining the young scientist who had solicited Mal’s attention without his permission to approach, but Mal finger-waved them back. “Explain yourself.”

  Odiah, hovering an inch above the floor, held Mal’s keen attention without flinching. He was so very young—only seventeen—and had yet to see Mal in action. He’d heard the rumors, of course, but Xara didn’t think that Odiah really believed any of them, as the young often did not. “Xara,” Odiah snorted. “She asked if we would be getting the next commission. It would be nice to know if we’re going to eat.”

  Something passed across Mal’s face, something very nearly like a smirk. “Young man, I suggest you return to your post…”

  “Answer Xara’s question.”

  Xara had finally reached them. She put a hand on Odiah’s shoulder and started to say something, but the boy shrugged it off. His agitation was clearly transferring to the cybeast through the neurolink he shared with all of the subjects that came through Xara’s lab. As they stood there in its shadow, arguing, it suddenly came to clickety-clackety life. It didn’t making any overt motions toward them, nothing so bold or threatening, but it did rock its enormous weight from leg to leg, and its pedipalps, which were as sharp and dangerous as gigantic garden shears, snapped menacingly at the air.

  Mal’s men suddenly looked concerned, but Mal himself never so much as flinched in response. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Odiah casually by the throat. His enormous hand completely encompassed the young man’s neck. It was rumored—but never confirmed—that, much like the cybeasts, not every part of Mal’s anatomy was real. He had been through too many war campaigns to have remained so untouched. Mal pinched the boy’s throat closed with almost no effort at all, and Odiah began to choke.

  Xara’s heart thudded hard, faster—so fast she feared the others could hear it, and she felt sick to her stomach. She started begging Mal to let the boy go, but Mal interrupted by turning to her and saying, “Learn to control this child before he comes to a bad end, eh?” Before Xara could respond, he turned his icy attention back on Odiah. “And you. Control that ghost. Now.”