When Saw slapped down his last card we knew that things were going to change. There was something in the air, smothering our voices like hanging bones. It didn’t help that we were playing out in Janice’s backyard, which was still decorated with the plastic ghosts and tombstones of last Halloween.

I tried not to act too surprised. We are all defined by our decks, and this was surely a facet of Saw’s personality. He was a dark fucker, that was for certain. We just never knew how deep that darkness dug. The others- they didn’t take it so well. Janice looked like she was going to cry, and Carl looked like somebody had shit on his head.

On the card: a black door. A girl with a dress made from her own blood. Symbols. A shadow. The art murder card. We all had heard of this card–but none of us had ever played in a game when it came up. Janice consulted the rulebook, seeing if there was some way we could banish it, some way we could make that jackass pick his card up and shuffle it back into his graveyard.

She shook her head. Nothing.

“Why the fuck,” she said, “did you slap that down, Saw? What are you trying to prove?”

Saw shrugged, his black hair falling over his face. “It’s all part of the game. I got that card when I bought a booster pack last week. You guys knew it was going to come up eventually. Hell, it’s why some people play this deck in the first damn place.”

I leaned back and lit a smoke, trying to stay cool. One of us would have to die. That was the rule. I looked down at my hand. The three-headed dog. The hanged god. The burning soldier. Nothing. No way out of this hand. I was going to have to play one of them or be killed.

Carl coughed and rubbed the round of his stomach. He looked at Janice, and you could tell he had something up his sleeve. Carl was always trying to impress her. I could tell he had a thing for her–even if she was Saw’s wife. Some part of me thought Janice had a thing for Carl too.

Saw grinned. “Well, come on chicken shits, let’s keep the game going. We can’t call it quits now–we are all defined by our cards in play. So smack that shit down and let’s get going.”

Saw got off on the whole thing, that much I could tell. He probably had a thick inch of wood under the table. He was in love with power, with making people do what he wanted. And now he wanted one of us to die. I guess that’s just how it goes.

Carl smacked down a psychopomp card. This one was the lighter aspects of death–a sleeping figure with a black notebook and a scythe. He smiled, knowing that this put Saw into a corner. Only one person could play the psychopomp. Now Saw was in the line of fire as well.

Saw seemed completely unfazed. “Now,” he said, “That’s what I’m talking about. Let’s keep this going until all of our aspects are created. You guys know the rules.”

Janice shuffled her hand. I decided to play my hanged god card. What the hell–it could only help me. Janice saw my card and laid down a card that shocked each of us. The card had a man lying on the ground with a dart in his eye. Baldur, sweet Baldur. The card of sacrifice.

Saw grinned.

Janice wiped her eyes and then moved some of her wine-colored hair behind her ear. “Well, jackass, are you going to pony up or what?”

Saw peered over each card, milking the dramatic moment to its fullest. He laid down a psychopomp card. A figure in white, drenched in blood with a death’s mask. “Well, I can’t play that card,” he said with an overblown flair.

He laid down another card. A victim card. “And I guess I can’t play that one either. Looks like all I can use is this.”

He laid it face down, and then slowly peeled it back to reveal a picture of Chronus eating his children. The demiurge card. Carl laughed while rubbing his stomach. This was too much. “The demiurge. Just what the fuck did you have planned for this evening?”

I lifted the card up to the light. Detailed, full of ink and blood. I wondered if the artist had bled into the card before sending it out to be shrink wrapped and displayed in stores. “Definitely not pizza and wings,” I said.

Saw shrugged. “We can still eat afterwards.”

Janice held her head with her hands, framing her face. Her lips moved in the shape of a scream, but no sound came out. She gnawed on her palm, drawing blood across her lifeline. “I don’t think I’m going to be hungry,” I said.

Carl nodded with me.

Saw lit up a smoke.

“Suit yourself.”

We pulled a card out of the major arcana deck to my left. This was the last stage of this hand–the four cards that would determine everything that came next. Saw smirked, the tips of his lips fuming with smoke, and I wondered if he had stacked the deck somehow when no one was looking.

Above, I heard a crow cawing at the setting sun as the plastic ghouls shook in the spring wind. I looked over and saw Janice rocking back and forth, the sun crowning her head with a halo of red. I wanted to reach across the table and hold her, but knew I could not.

Soon the cards I played would define me. Our cards would define all of us. An hour worth of slapped plastic against that white poker table recreating our personalities and burning our souls with the architecture of myth.

I held my breath as the four major arcana formed a cross of cards in front of us. The gorgon’s lair. Medea’s nursery. The unsung knife. The burning arm. The scene was set. The characters drawn. Now it was time for the game to really pick up.

#

Some say Sesun was created in the Far East by a man who had gained enlightenment and wanted to destroy the world. Some say Aleister Crowley created it as a replacement for his Thoth tarot deck. Others say that nobody created it, that it had always existed and will always be with us.There are an untold number of cards, a city of rules and expansion decks built on plastic and the images painted within them. The starter decks are simple enough that with a few small booster packs you can recreate yourself in any image.That is the art to it, creating a deck that remakes you. A deck that changes you into who you want to be. The rules are simple and complex. Each card changes everything. Each card changes you. Your deck changes with each game, moving cards, swapping them, dancing with them in your hands.For this reason no game is ever the same. At first you feel as though things are random, that the game has no purpose and you will never pry into the meanings beyond the cards. Then the game moves out like a fractal; slowly the seeming chaos of the game becomes order, and then enlightenment follows.The only rule in Sesun is that everything changes and nothing is ever real. If you forget that–if you start to believe the unreality–you will be lost in a sea of images, floating against the waves of the symbolic.- Excerpt from an online review of the Sesun game

#

Dark. Night. The stars spun over our heads, the only light that of the red and orange pumpkin globes strung from tree to tree. The globes spun back and forth, violently sending light like knives dragged across the skin of the darkness. A game doesn’t stop until the last card is drawn and the final act is played out.

A knife in the center of the table glinted with light stolen from the moon. I saw Janice’s face reflected in it, her eyes scared, blind. She wanted to run but couldn’t. Carl belched, then drew some new cards.

I threw down a smiling sun. Simple card, but it mixed things up a bit by making me and Saw trade hands. Kept things a little more fair this way; even if he did stack his deck and the major arcana deck, he couldn’t fiddle with ours. Not without the proper card.

Saw shrugged. I tossed the remainder of my smoke into an empty beer can. The soft red of the butt disappeared in an audible hiss as Saw handed over his cards and I gave him mine. Not a bad hand he had there–you could tell he had spent a long time building up his deck to match his personality.

Dark cards. Reversed cards. The bone grinder. The witch’s tit. The mouthless demon. I guessed these were part of me now, his personality absorbing into mine as his cards entered my hands. Shadows passed over my memories. The hanged god inside of me twitched and paced in my mind. He didn’t like these cards. They might take us someplace he didn’t want to go.

Carl slapped down the drinking whore card. His face took on a sly and simple smile as his hand moved over and under the table, clutching Janice’s bare leg under her skirt with his sweaty palms. She yelped a moment, her mind still racing with rabbit thoughts.

Saw looked on, his gaze one of interest and not jealousy. It was as if he expected Carl to play this card. I knew I should be uncomfortable in this moment, but I was too worried about what was going to happen to let something as small as infidelity bother me. Murder outweighed all other crimes committed tonight.

One of us would be extinguished. Sure, you’re thinking that Janice is the one, but the game isn’t over yet. The rules always change, things always transgress and then come ’round in a different direction. The people change, their relationships change. It’s all symbols being rearranged into meaningful patterns. A lot like how life is.

Take, for example, last week’s game. Last week I was married to Janice, and Carl was drunk and suicidal. Saw was homophobic and an anti-Semite, this week he’s married, bisexual, and Jewish. It’s all about the way the game plays out, how the cards rearrange who we are.

A classic power display. A Foucault’s Pendulum of personalities, relationships, and emotions, all dictated by a card game.

Kind of crazy, isn’t it?

We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Saw slapped down the haunted library card, which brought the burning arm into play. He poured gasoline on Carl’s skin, the smell of it clinging to the air. Carl looked shocked at first, but knew what needed to happen. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t scream. You can’t ignore what you could be anymore than you can ignore who you are now. Denying such possibilities is a crime against your soul.

He blinked back tears of pain as his arm went up in orange and red flames. He kept his other arm steady on Janice’s leg, moving it up higher on her thigh as the fire burned into his flesh like a tattoo. He would have to play like that for the rest of the game. We knew the game probably wouldn’t last too much longer. Once the unsung knife came into play, it would be done and one of us would be dead.

#

When we first heard about the art murder card, I was like, y’know, cool! We’ve got to find that one and give it a whirl. When I woke up and my mom was dead, I didn’t think it was so hot anymore. But the game changed me after that, and I was too far into it. You can’t get out once you go in.I know, I tried. They just redefine you until you don’t care anymore–bringing cards into play that wipe that guilt right from your mind. And then the game is over and you are different and nothing is the same.I just wish I could remember who I was before I started. I see all these old photographs of myself from before and it’s like looking at a stranger. Was I ever really like that? I don’t even have the same name as that girl in the pictures.I want to be able to define myself, but every time I put a card into play, someone slaps something else down and I am changed again and again and again, until at the end of the day my friends have recreated me in their own image. And all I want to do is be myself. But who was I before Sesun? That’s like asking what your name was before you were conceived. A whisper, a candle blowing out. That was my name, that was who I was. An extinguished light, an exhale and the smell of wax. That’s who I will be until another game, when another card is laid down and I cease to be this incarnation of me and become someone else, someone different.

-Interview with a Sesun player for the article Sesun: The Cult of Death.

#

Because of Saw’s last few cards in play, I shrugged off the identity of hanged god and instead became the lion who ate the sun. I’d grown green fur and I got these big teeth with ripped bits of a red dress stuck in them. I looked over at Carl and he was almost consumed by his flames. His good hand rubbed in circles against Janice’s clit. We saw that grin on her face and her body getting tenser as she got closer and closer to cumming.

I wondered if she had stopped being a victim, and maybe she’d traded places with Carl. Like the death was transferred between them in the moment of orgasm and sticky fingers. So many cards in play now–it was hard to keep track of who was who, and who was supposed to die.

Was the art murder card even still in play?

I leaned over and lit a smoke off of Carl’s flames as Janice came violently next to him in screams of passion. Saw looked on, smiling still. He watched me, and I saw in his eyes that he wanted to touch me. But I bit and I could eat and that unsung knife card was moments from being in play.

Soon, soon. Soon the murder would happen. I could feel it running across my fur, dancing in the air in waves of shadow. Closer and closer it came. I looked up at the moon and I was hungry. I wanted to eat the moon, to take it away from the sky. I was so jealous of those stars and clouds being hung in that same void of space as the moon. I wanted to leap up and growl and suck it into my stomach. Maybe then my stomach would light up, and everyone would come to me for the warmth of the moon inside of me.

Saw flipped up the lovers card and laid it down reversed. A mad situation. Medea’s nursery came into play and we all switched decks, leaving a dozen cards to die in the plastic graveyard around us. I left the last of me behind when I picked up Janice’s cards.

Was I the victim now? Was Carl? Was Saw? Saw looked too cool, too calm to be someone who was about ready to die. Carl was on fire, and very rarely did someone on fire die in one of these hands.

“You guys hungry?” Janice asked, her eyes slit.

Carl smiled. “No,” he said, “I’m good.”

We all nodded.

“Let’s keep this fucker burning. Keep this game going. We’re getting close, I can feel it,” Saw said, bumming a smoke from me.

I tossed him one.

Carl put a card into play. The dancing ruins. I didn’t see that one coming, not in a million years. He picked up a skull mask and placed it over his face. I could see his eyes peeking out from that rotten plastic and I just got the creeps. Was Carl dead now? Was the game over?

He picked up the psychopomp card. It was closer now, almost time. He had assumed his essence of death. All we needed was the unsung knife to come into play, and then it would all be over. Janice leaned over and kissed the back of my neck and put her hand in my lap.

With her other hand, she slapped down the witch hammer card. She climbed on top of me, unbuckling my jeans. Saw cheered on and Carl just watched. I could feel Carl’s jealous eyes on me, spiking my soul with his new personality. I didn’t want this–not now, not like this. Someone was going to die soon, and I sure as hell did not want it to be me.

It was said in folk tales that the world came to be when Ame-no fell sick from a pomegranate offered to him by the Monkey-god. Greedy for its sweetness, Ame-no ate the fruit in a single gulp, only to discover the Monkey-god had filled it with poison. He sweated and groaned and heaved up the mountains. He sweated and groaned and spewed forth the oceans. When the sickness at last faded from his belly, Ame-no spat upon the ocean to show his contempt for the Monkey-god’s evil tricks.

And from every drop of spittle there appeared an island.

Three dark smudges broke the endless green horizon, just below the faint white discs of the twin moons. Yan Dei leaned over the ship’s rail and squinted through the warm ocean spray. The sun was just slanting behind the expedition ships, and the waters ran red and silver from the liquid sunset. Between the mist and the approaching twilight, it was hard to make out if those were storm clouds rising above the waves, or if at last they had reached–

“Land!” a crew member called out. “Land, ho!”

Almost immediately, a clamor broke out behind Yan–shouts and laughter and delighted cries. Half the crew, those not strictly on duty, and all the scientists crowded the decks, everyone chattering excitedly. Yan squeezed his way from their midst and took refuge behind the ladder to the upper decks. Here the ship’s metal skin hummed as the electric engines shifted into a lower gear. A hot tinny smell rolled up from below decks, making his stomach heave.

Hari Dun strolled over to Yan. “Not interested?”

“Hard to breathe in that mob,” Yan said shortly.

His friend smiled. “Understandable.” He glanced toward the ship’s bow, which was hardly visible through the hordes. “And I can’t blame them. It’s been a long voyage. Give them another few minutes, and Doctor Mar will have them back at their posts. Then we can get a glimpse ourselves.”

A ripple of movement passed through the crowds, and those nearest Yan and Hari pressed back as Bej Saihan, the expedition’s lead tracker, made his way toward the bow. He paused, standing head and shoulders above everyone else, and scanned all points of the horizon, seemingly unaware of the small clearing that formed around him. As Bej swiveled his massive head around, Yan caught a glimpse of the man’s blunt features.

Not quite a man, or so the rumors claimed.

Bej’s massive jaw and squashed nose looked crude, unfinished, as though someone had haphazardly shaped his features from a muddy lump of clay. It was said in whispers that Bej counted the pemburu among his ancestors. That Kun Mar had rescued the man from prison, and had given him jobs that used his uncanny hunting skills. The pemburu were the hunters–half-cousins to humans–and looking at Bej’s face, Yan could easily imagine him in a jungle, or in the ruined coastal cities, where a few pockets of pemburu survived.

Now Kun Mar, the senior biologist and expedition leader, strode into view. “Back to your posts,” he shouted. “We’ll see land soon enough. Team leaders, I’d like to see all of you in the main boardroom. Now.”

The crowds quickly scattered. Yan expected Hari to go immediately–he was the senior biochemist for the expedition–but Hari went forward to the rails and lingered a few moments, gazing southward. “The pearls of the southeast,” he murmured. “So the poets called them. I like the old legends better, myself.”

“Spittle from the heavens,” Yan said, wrinkling his nose. “I know the tales.”

Hari grinned. “Do not despise them, my friend. Spittle and vomit are the working tools of the scientist. And from these we will make pearls.” The grin faded, and his eyes narrowed to a speculative look as he studied the horizon. “Six months of paradise,” he said quietly. “Six months of discovery and exploration, masquerading as hard work. Hmmmmm. I think I smell land. Can you?”

Yan took a tentative sniff, then a deeper one. Yes, just beneath the heavy salt tang, he detected a sharp biting scent that reminded him of crushed leaves. “Trees and bark and mud and swamp.”

“Shit and musk and old rotting things.”

“Hah. You can’t smell all that.”

Hari laughed quietly. “No. Only Bej Saihan could claim that ability. But soon–tomorrow at the latest–you and I both will. And like the lucky seventh son in the folk tales, let us hope we can turn all the shit we find into gold.” He pushed off from the rails. “Well, I best go before Kun starts bellowing. Take care, Yan.”

Yan nodded. He had not missed Hari’s subtle hints. Work hard. Be a good member of the team. Even that comment about shit and gold meant something, for that was the point of this expedition, a joint venture between XiangGen Pharmaceuticals and the Tai Jing Federal Council on Scientific Research. If their research led to even one medical breakthrough, it meant acclaim for every member of this expedition.

Or even just a second chance, Yan thought. With his department head at the University. With Mei.

He smacked both palms against the railing. Not my fault. Not–

Yan clamped his lips shut and glanced around. Slowly he let his breath trickle out. Good. No one had seen that tiny outburst. It would not do to make the wrong impression. Not here where every interaction found its way into the official reports. Best to forget Mei. His future lay just ahead, within those islands.

He turned his attention back to the horizon. In just the past few moments, the bumps and smudges had turned into distinct masses, like a handful of mismatched pearls, scattered by the gods over the far seas. He could even make out a jagged peak that might be a volcano. Above them, the twin moons stood out sharper against the evening sky, and a spray of pale stars emerged. A creaking sound vibrated through the air, as the ship’s solar sails folded for the night.

Yan flexed his hands and breathed in deep lungfuls of the ocean air. The smell of crushed leaves was stronger now, mixed with the unmistakable scent of rotting fish. A strange paradise, indeed.

The tightness in his gut eased. This time I will not stumble.

The expedition’s three ships navigated cautiously past the rocks and shoals that ringed the island chain. Their first destination was a shallow harbor belonging to the island designated as XTI-19S137W-1A.

Using maps from the earlier survey teams, Kun Mar and his advisors chose a level site beside a wide swift-running stream, half a klick inland. For the next five days, the crews cleared away the brush, dug trenches, and transported crates of equipment from the ships. By the sixth morning, a miniature settlement existed where before only scrub trees grew. Various technicians still worked to set up the laboratory equipment, but the main work was complete. The other ships withdrew their crews and began preparations for their departure.

Yan spent most of the day transferring the last of his belongings from the ship and setting up his sleeping tent. Late that afternoon, he joined the rest of the microbiology team at their lab site, which occupied the southern quadrant of the camp.

“You will work in pairs,” Doctor Au told them. “Each senior member will be assigned a junior partner. A teaching partnership, if you will. We are here to find practical applications, but Doctor Mar tells me there is no rule against expanding our knowledge–as long as we do our work.”

Smiles on several faces. A few laughed dutifully.

“We start work tomorrow,” Au went on. “You’ve read the materials and reports, and you know my ideas for how to approach our task. So. For the rest of today, I suggest you familiarize yourself with our immediate surroundings. You will not have the leisure for that later. At least I hope not.”

More laughter and some obvious delight at being released, if only for the afternoon. Doctor Au handed out slips of paper with the partner assignments. Yan read the name Lian Luo. One of the graduate students from the State University, he remembered. He had come across her once or twice aboard the ship, always in the company of other students. He glanced around and found her sitting with a few friends, all students and technicians, discussing their assignments. Easy enough to read her thoughts, though she greeted him politely when he approached her.

“You are stuck with me,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

Lian offered him a tentative smile. “Don’t be. I hope to learn a lot from you, Doctor Dei.”

She was a pretty girl. Long wispy dark hair, barely contained by her hair clips. Narrow eyes canted above delicate cheekbones. He smiled back, in what he hoped was a pleasant manner. “We can learn from each other.”

An awkward pause followed. Lian gave him another quick smile. “Well. I must go and see about my tent. If you will excuse me.”

The rest of the team went their separate ways. Yan returned to his sleeping quarters. He unpacked a few items, then stowed his trunk out of sight. A dozen books and several photographs of his parents and two brothers made his small bookshelf look less empty. He wished he still had photos of Mei, but she had removed them all from their apartment.

My apartment, he corrected himself automatically.

Once theirs together.

Yan closed his eyes. The air pulsed against his skin, making his head throb. Steady, he told himself. It was the heat, the tent’s closeness, the excitement of landing. That was all. Nothing to worry about.

He escaped his tent and took himself to Hari’s new headquarters, where he found a dozen technicians checking rows of vials against their printed labels. Hari and his senior assistant, Che Lok were bent over one of the worktables, reviewing stacks of reports.

Hari glanced up. “Yan!” he exclaimed. “Excellent. Please rescue me from my too-vigilant assistant, Doctor Lok. You do know each other, no?”

Che was a tall angular young woman. Afraid of looking pretty, Yan thought, taking in her severe, tight braid and lack of makeup. He already knew about her from Hari’s frequent references. Che had just earned her doctoral degree, and Hari had hand-picked her for this expedition.

Che met Yan’s gaze briefly. A slight crease appeared between her brows. “We’ve met.”

“We did?” Yan said. “Was that on board ship?”

Che glanced at Hari and shrugged. “Where else?”

Yan had no answer to that. He turned to Hari. “I’m hardly making a rescue. Are you busy, or would you like to take an early dinner?”

“Hmmm. Not too busy. A walk first, old friend. Or perhaps walk and dinner at the same time. After all, Doctor Lok has our lab well under control.”

At the second mention of her new degree, Che’s smile became genuine. “You are too kind.”

“Never,” Hari cried. “Doctor Mar emphasized that we are to be hard, cruel taskmasters. To that end, would you please check over the reagents? And have the technicians unpack the larger beakers and pipes. We shall want to run some preliminary tests tomorrow morning.”

“I won’t keep him too long,” Yan said to Che.

Che gave him a cryptic look, but did not reply. Yan hesitated, thinking he should say something more, but Hari was already propelling him out the tent.

At the kitchen compound, they selected a handful of self-heating food packs and headed down the beach. Several groups made picnics by the stream’s mouth, but further along, they found themselves alone, treading a curving, looping path between the seas and vegetation. Quiet settled around them, broken only by the hush, hush, hush of the waves. Ahead, the shore stretched, an untouched expanse of pale green sands made of tiny particles of semi-precious stones that glittered in the fading sunlight. A short distance out, their ship stood out against the violet skies, its solar sails folded like awkward wings. Lights from the portholes winked on and off. A faint hum from the electric motors rippled over the water.

“I love this time of the day,” Hari said softly. “It’s as though we are walking through borders. Sunlight and moonlight. One day and the next. The rules are different at twilight, the old folk tales say. A magical hour when we might accomplish anything.”

“Are you talking about miracles?” Yan asked.

“Practical ones,” Hari answered. “A drug to cure senility. A fuel more powerful than coal or sunlight, and more plentiful than oil. Even an engine that lets us fly to the stars. You might laugh, Yan, but someday we will.”

“Someday,” Yan said, though he wondered at Hari’s sudden pensive mood.

A massive man-like shadow erupted from the sands, not ten meters ahead. Yan started, then recognized Bej Saihan. He glanced toward Hari. Hari touched Yan’s arm with a light hand, but he had not shifted his gaze from Bej. Interesting. So Yan was not the only person unsettled by the tracker.

Bej seemed not to notice them, or he didn’t care. He tilted his head back and breathed audibly, as though tasting the air. Yan could not restrain a shudder. It was said the pemburu were Ame-no’s dogs, shaped before he made humans. They were the god’s hunters, sent to exact justice where necessary. Folk tales, Yan told himself, but it was easy to picture Bej as something primordial, mythical, a creature larger than life.

Bej snorted and trotted off into the darkness. Hari laughed softly, as though amused by something, possibly his own reaction to Bej Saihan. The thought did little to comfort Yan. He finished chewing the meat paste and took a swallow from his water bottle. “Hari, why does Che dislike me?”

Hari shook his head. “She doesn’t. She’s just…cautious.”

“Well, it’s clear she likes you.”

“We get along.” A slight pause, then, “Are things going well with you so far?”

Yan kept his voice as neutral as Hari’s. “Better than before.”

Better now that he and Mei were several thousand kilometers apart. The thought of Mei immediately brought Hari’s assistant to mind. In truth Che looked nothing like Mei. She was much taller and skinnier, and her lips thin dark lines, where Mei’s mouth curved full against her honey-brown skin. Nevertheless she and Mei both had the same quick frown, the same wary expression. It was uncanny.

He shrugged away the thought. “So what tests are you running tomorrow, Doctor Dun?”

“Dull stuff,” Hari said dryly. “We’re running several standard analysis sequences with our equipment to check the calibration. Ah, but then things get interesting. I was thinking, and Kun agrees with me, that we should do a thorough breakdown of the various trees. It would be lovely if we came across another biological treasure like the ones Anwar Enterprises discovered. What about you?”

“Water samples first,” Yan said. “Then soil samples, etc. But what really interests me are the tests Au wants to run to check for antiviral compounds…”

The conversation swung back and forth, much like their path as it skirted the tidal edge. As the sun sank behind the horizon, the breeze shifted, blowing in from the opens seas. Yan felt the day’s accumulated sweat evaporate, and he breathed more easily.

The Tau’ini Po’a Islands. Nicknamed A Thousand Pearls. Located 19º52S, 137º 56W. Includes hundreds of islands ranging from tiny footprints to sizeable land masses stretching thirty or forty kilometers in length. Even the smallest shelter pockets of sea grass, while the largest ones support dense forests of shrubs and low trees.

Over the next month, Yan settled into a routine. Throughout the morning, he and Lian Luo worked in the laboratory, running tests on their samples. In the afternoon, they wrote up their results and attended meetings with the other team members to discuss the next day’s experiments. Evenings he spent in Hari’s company or alone, reading. Che remained aloof from him, but he gradually formed tentative friendships with other team members. Once or twice, Lian joined him for lunch. Six months of paradise, he thought more than once. Perhaps Hari was right.

The first morning of the second month, the rhythm broke.

“Yan, come see,” Lian Luo said, poking her head into the laboratory tent. “Something new.”

She vanished before Yan could ask anything. He hurried after, but immediately found himself engulfed in a stream of scientists and technicians and support crew. From a distance, he heard Kun Mar bawling out orders for people to keep back, dammit. Yan ducked into the forest and circled around through the forest until he came to the front of the crowd.

Kun Mar stood in the clearing next to Bej Saihan. Bej gripped the leg of a small, skinny monkey, which cowered between them.

Not a monkey. A child.

A child that was all bones and brown skin, its legs mottled with scars, its face hidden behind a snarled mass of thick black hair. Young. Maybe eight or nine, though it was hard to tell. He could just make out its eyes and mouth, stretched wide in terror. It was filthy.

“What’s going on?” Hari whispered, coming up behind Yan.

“I don’t know,” Yan whispered back.

The child cried out and launched itself away from Bej. Bej swiftly captured the child’s other arm and subdued his captive. Again, the child made a grunting, howling sound.

“It can’t talk,” Che said softly. She had appeared from nowhere, and now stood next to Hari. Yan glanced down and saw their fingertips brush each other. Ah. When had that begun?

“Back to work,” Mar said brusquely. “Come on, people. Five months isn’t forever. We are on a schedule.”

The remainder of that day was not a productive one. Distracted, Yan had to run several tests twice over, and from the Lian’s grumbling, she had the same difficulties. Finally, by mid-day, Yan gave up and sought out Hari.

He found Che and Hari in the otherwise deserted biochemistry labs, talking in low undertones.

“I sent them away,” Hari said, obviously weary. “No use working today.”

He meant the child, of course.

“Where did Bej find it?” Yan asked.

Che glanced at Hari, who sighed and told Yan what he knew. Bej Saihan and his trackers decided to make a sweep of the island’s northern tip, trying to flush out any small reptiles. The trackers had just crossed over the stony ridge that divided the island, when Bej heard a noise.

“He thought it might be a snake,” Hari said, “hiding in a patch of brush near the ridge. But then the child burst from its cover. Old Bej thought he’d flushed a monkey until he caught it. Fast little thing.”

“It fell,” Che said abruptly. “It stumbled over a root, or slipped on the loose rocks. Whatever. It sprained its ankle. Now Kun is trying to decide what to do with it.”

“But what about its parents?” Yan said. “Surely–”

“Dead,” Hari said softly. “Bej found their bones.”

In spite of the heat, Yan’s skin prickled with a sudden chill. He had read about such practices among the native island tribes, who sometimes abandoned a criminal on desolate islands. Often, the children of those criminals were exiled along with their parents.

“The gods only know how the child stayed alive,” Hari went on. “There’s plenty to eat, of course. Shellfish. Roots. Those chewy tubers in the marsh–”

“They cut out its tongue,” Che said. “They mutilated a child and left it here to die. And you both talk about the poor thing as though it were a specimen.”

She pushed back her chair and stalked from the tent.

Yan made an abortive move to follow. He glanced back at Hari, who signaled for him to stay put. “Let her go. She’s upset. More than I would have thought.” He blew out a breath. “So am I, come to think of it. So am I.”

So were many others in the expedition, though the tension revealed itself in odd ways. Hari and Che quarreled about procedures. Doctor Mar and Doctor Au broke off their late night card games. Lian made excuses when Yan asked about lunch, and several technicians requested changes in sleeping quarters. The fresh-cooked food tasted off, as though spoiled by heat and the cook’s inattention.

After a second rebuff from Lian, Yan kept to himself. Once or twice he glimpsed Che in passing. Each time, her gaze flicked away from his, then a cool remote expression settled over her thin face. But she said nothing to him, only hurried on her way.

The third time their paths crossed, twilight was darkening toward night. The twin moons floated above the dark blue ocean, leeching all the color from the emerald green sands. A warm close evening, when the salt tang overpowered the scent of crushed leaves.

Che stopped and changed directions. Yan hurried forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. He felt her shudder through her thin shirt.

“What do you want?” she said.

“To say I’m sorry.”

She shifted her gaze to his hand, which had not left her shoulder. “For what?”

Yan licked his lips. “For speaking the way I did about the child Bej found.”

No answer. Just that cool remote expression. As though he himself were a vial of chemicals to analyze. Then, “I knew Mei.”

That startled him. “You did? Then you know–”

Her lips thinned. “I know how you bullied her. Oh, you did nothing wrong. Nothing outright. But I know your type. You better watch yourself, Doctor Dei. Even if Doctor Hari Dun is your friend.”

With a suddenness that took him by surprise, Che knocked away Yan’s hand and pushed him aside. Yan fell against a tree trunk. It took him only a moment to recover his footing, but Che was already far beyond him, hurrying, almost running, toward the camp’s brightly-lit center.

Just like Mei, running to a waiting taxi.

“Dammit!”

Yan smacked the tree trunk with his open palm. Damn Mei. Damn Che. What did she mean, Watch yourself? As if he had ever stopped watching every word and gesture he made. Damn the damnable stupid heat that pushed and pushed against his patience. Tenure or not, he could not last another five months in this swamp.

He slumped against the tree trunk, breathing hard. His hand throbbed. The palm stung fiercely, scraped raw by the tree trunk. He brushed away the dirt and bits of bark from his hand. It bled slightly, but it would keep until he could talk calmly with the camp physician.

Walk it out, he told himself. That always works.

He circled the camp and headed toward the beach, only to hear the sounds of laughter and cheers. Evidently, a group of the younger technicians had made a bonfire. A few were singing off-key, and Yan caught a whiff of roasted meat and wood-smoke.

With a muttered curse, he veered onto another path that led along the eastern edge of camp. Here the tents and wooden shelters were deserted, lit only by a few cool-lamp bulbs. He flicked on his pocket lantern. The soft trill of insects made a blanket of soothing noise, punctuated by the high-pitched chirp of the small frogs in the marshes.

And a soft persistent whimpering.

He paused and located the source of that whimpering–it came from one of the supply tents.

The child.

He had not seen it since that first day. After protracted arguments between Kun Mar and Bej Saihan, Mar had at last agreed to arrange for its care. “We’ve no damned anthropologists,” he’d muttered, according to Hari. “And no damned nannies.”

But that was enough for Saihan, who had cleared one of the supply tents for the child’s sleeping quarters. Away from the main laboratory tents, close enough for casual supervision.

Yan hesitated. He retraced his steps and ducked inside the supply tent, letting the flap close behind him. A sudden scrambling broke out to his left, then he heard a garbled cry. Yan lifted his lamp and shone the light over the interior.

The tent was a mess. Dirty bowls were scattered about. Three or four gray-green blankets made a nest in one corner. The whole thing smelled of sweat and filth. Then his light caught the child, who had squeezed behind a few cardboard boxes in one corner.

A girl, he thought. A little girl. He had not noticed before.

She was naked, but clean. Much cleaner than that first day, when Bej brought her into camp. Scars and bites covered her legs, her feet and hands were rough with calluses, but her eyes were like brilliant black stars. Thick glossy hair spilled over her face.

Yan crouched down. “Hello. Bej left you all alone.”

No answer. No sign she even had heard him.

“What’s the matter? Are you deaf, too?”

Odd that they left no one to supervise the child. But then, Mar didn’t want distractions, and Bej had his own duties. She was a pretty thing, Yan thought, now that they had washed her. He reached out to brush the hair away from her cheek. To his dismay, the girl flinched away from his touch.

“Hey, I’m not trying to hurt you–”

The girl launched herself away from him, but collapsed with a hoarse cry, clutching at the thick cast around her ankle. No wonder she had not run off. Yan took hold of her arm to help her up. With a quick twist of her head, the girl bit Yan’s hand. Yan gave a muffled shout and smacked her hard across the face. Again that grating cry. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Stop making so much noise.”

The little beast was weeping and snarling. Someone would surely hear. There would be questions. Yan could explain, but no one would listen. They never did. He grabbed for the girl’s arm and managed to capture one wrist, then the other. Now he had her on her back, his hand over her mouth. All the while he was muttering, “Quiet. Quiet. Quiet.”

Without warning, the girl went limp. Yan stared down at her, his chest rising in time with hers falling. His heart beating against hers. Her eyes wide and dark with terror.

Yan pushed away from the girl. “No,” he whispered. “No.”

He stumbled back to his tent, still shaking, and crawled into his cot. No one had seen. No one. Please dear gods. He had done nothing. Nothing wrong. He needed this job. Needed this second chance…

That night, he dreamed of midnight skies above still black seas.

The next morning, he woke groggy and underslept. Dreams didn’t matter, he told himself. He drank down a pot of strong tea and set to work examining a series of microbe cultures that Lian had prepared for him. When Hari dropped by for lunch, Yan waved him away. “I think I’m onto something.”

“I hope so,” Hari said cryptically.

Yan barely heard him leave. He worked through the noon hour, quitting only when the heat became unbearable. He switched off the equipment and stared through the tent’s fabric at the glaring sunlight outside. I lied, he thought. I’m not onto something. No one here is.

Progress reports from the other two research sites had arrived that morning. In spite of his absorption in his own work, Yan had heard mutterings from the other members on his team. Valuable data, said all the reports. But so far, no practical applications.

Yan rubbed the sweat from his face. Lian. Che. Hari. Mar. They had all foolishly hoped for the same success as Anwar Enterprises’s first expedition that had discovered the miraculous tikaki people and their regenerative blood. It as hope that made their disappointments even harder to bear.

He retreated to his tent and stayed there for the whole afternoon, his shirt off, with an electric fan blowing directly on his face, as he reviewed the printout of his latest tests. Odd and peculiar microbes inhabited XTI-19S137W-1A’s soil and water. He might–could–make the case that microbes here represented a separate evolutionary chain, itself a valuable discovery for the scientific world, but so far, it was all speculation. He had uncovered nothing that could turn a profit for XianGen Pharmaceuticals or its government friends. And that meant no second chance for Yan Dei.

The rest of the day vanished into a haze of frustration. That night he dreamed that enormous creatures hunted him through XTI-19S137W-1A’s scrubby forests. One in particular, a massive beast with blunt, yellow fangs, chased him along the island’s stony spine. Yan kept glancing back–he could not help himself–only to see the beast gaining on him. His foot came down on a loose rock. He slipped with a garbled cry…

…and woke covered in stinking sweat.

Yan wiped his hands over his eyes. Impossible to catch his breath in this thick air. Impossible to sleep. He got up from his cot and pulled on a pair of loose trousers. A swig of water cleared the sour taste from his mouth. He splashed more water over his face and rubbed himself all over with a wet cloth. Hot. The air as thick as mud. His heart beat erratically, as though he had run for his life.

A walk. He needed a walk.

Yan picked up his pocket lamp, shoved his feet into his shoes, and headed out the tent. Just a walk, he told himself. He’d go upstream and sit on the rocks. Listen to the water rill past until he got sleepy again.

His path took him past the supply compound. All was dark and silent, around the tent where they housed the girl.
Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand between the thumb and palm, where the girl had bitten him. Stupid girl. Hardly any difference between her and Mei, come to think of it. Both squalled if you looked at them the wrong way.

Yan paused, breathing heavily.

Don’t do it. Don’t think about it. Don’t–

He lifted the flap and ducked inside. The girl did not stir. Only when his hand covered her mouth did she start awake. There was a brief struggle, but Yan was stronger and bigger. “Quiet, quiet, quiet,” he murmured, though he knew she could not understand. “Be good. Be quiet.”

She went limp, and did not move as Yan unbuckled his trousers. No response as he insinuated his tongue into that emptiness that was her mouth. Only when he pushed her legs apart and forced himself inside did she fight back. The stump of flesh, all that was left of her tongue, worked against his, as though she were trying to speak.

That night Yan dreamed of the scent of crushed leaves. The rich ripe sweat on his body. His mouth on hers. Her eyes, her wide dark eyes, just a few inches from his.

“They’ve named her Ah-ne,” Hari mentioned a few days later.

He and Yan sat together on the beach, eating their mid-day meal. Yan could see the remains of the bonfire–burnt logs, discarded cups, and the blackened empty shell from an enormous sea turtle. A few clouds smudged the southern horizon, suggesting that they might have rain showers later.

“Why Ah-ne?” Yan asked.

“From the sounds she makes. It’s strange. She was a wild little creature when they caught her–and I can’t blame the poor child–but now she’s as quiet and calm as anyone would like. Just makes that grunting sound when someone comes into the tent. Ah-ne. Like that.”

Yan nodded, only half listening. He raked his hair back from his face. His skin felt sticky, even though he had just bathed, and there was a heavy cloying scent on his skin that reminded him of Ah-ne.

He had avoided the supply tent and the girl these past few days, and immersed himself in work. It was work he needed. Work to block unhappy thoughts about Mei or Lian or Che. Work to numb the temptation. To his relief, the dreams had gradually faded. That same morning, Doctor Au had spoken with Yan privately. He was impressed with Yan’s meticulous attention to detail. He was especially pleased with Yan’s dedication in the face of growing rumors about the expedition.

“We have all contributed valuable knowledge,” he said. “Especially you, Doctor Dei. If you care to join the research division at XiangGen, I would be happy to recommend your name.”

With a start, he realized that Hari had stopped talking. “Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about next week’s experiments. Another month and I might have something to make Doctor Mar happy.”

Hari shot him a strange look. “Didn’t you hear? Kun is talking about moving our site to another island. Next week we might all be packing our equipment.”

Yan suppressed a start. “Next week? What about–”

“Your experiments? If Au agrees, take samples with you. Or start fresh with the new island. I heard Kun mention XTI-19S142W-8C. If that’s the one, he’s gambling on its isolation.”

Hari rambled on about the characteristics of their possible destination, which was unique among the Tau’ini Po’a islands. Isolated from the others, with higher, older forests according to the survey teams. Most likely, Kun would order the other ships to new islands as well.

It was for the best, Yan thought, as Hari continued to talk. Mar would release the girl back into the wild. She would return to the life she knew. He thought again of her eyes, her wide dark eyes that took in everything Yan did, and his pulse gave an uncomfortable jump. How much would she remember? Would she even recognize him again?

Within another day, Doctor Mar announced the long-expected departure to another island. Two weeks, he told the senior scientists, who reported the news to their teams. Two weeks to wrap up their experiments and pack their equipment.

Yan remembered little of those two weeks. He spent long hours cataloging their existing microbe cultures, making duplicates of his reports and Lian’s, discussing possible changes in procedure with Doctor Au. By evening, his bones had turned to water, and he dropped into his cot, exhausted. If he dreamed, he did not remember.

“Good news,” Hari said to Yan during one of their rare visits together. “Kun has undergone a heart transplant and shows signs of actual humanity. Let us hope it doesn’t ruin his abilities to manage the expedition.”

“What are you talking about?” Yan said. In spite of the long hours, and hard work, his mood was hopeful. Lian’s earlier remoteness had faded, and she had agreed to have dinner with him.

“I’m talking about Ah-ne,” Hari said. “Kun is sending her back to the mainland on the next supply ship. He thinks they might do something to restore her voice. Probably there’s a grant involved, but it’s not like him.”

Cold washed over Yan’s skin, in spite of the heat. “No, it’s not. I thought–” He broke off and managed a weak smile. “I rather thought he’d leave her behind.”

“Hmmm. He’s a practical man, not a brute. But yes, I’m surprised, too, at how much he’s willing to do for the poor thing. Perhaps Doctor Mar thinks to impress the anthropologists after all. Think what the girl could tell use about her early life.”

“Yes. Just think,” Yan said softly. Dimly he listened to Hari’s talk about major breakthroughs with voice box technology, pioneered by that same Anwar Enterprises whose success had inspired this expedition.

Ah-ne. Ah-ne talking. Not just with her eyes, but with her mouth, that soft empty mouth that now could grunt and sigh, but never shape the words for her thoughts.

Yan stood up abruptly. “Sorry, Hari. Got to lie down. Headache.”

He stumbled away, not waiting for Hari’s reply.

In his tent, he fumbled through his supply of medicines. He was not lying, he thought as he opened the bottle of aspirin with shaking hands. His head ached. His eyes throbbed in time with his pulse. Another moment and his stomach would heave up his lunch.

He swallowed the aspirin and then a double-dose of sleeping tablets, ones he had not used since Mei first left him. Two pills, not any more. He was upset, not ready to die. The sleeping pills almost stuck in his throat. He gagged and forced them down, then drank water until his stomach hurt. He lay down and closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion.

…moonlight flickering between the branches of swaying palm trees. A pack of dogs chased after him, their tongues licking the air, as though tasting his scent. All of them were huge–Ame-no-’s hunting dogs, the pemburu. He recognized them from old paintings, from carvings on temple walls, from his nightmares of two weeks past…

He woke to full night. A hum from the insects drifted through the air. Yan stood, shaky from hunger. More water helped to revive him, but his stomach still felt pinched, and his skin itched. Images from his nightmare flickered through his brain, and merged with yesterday’s memories.

Ah-ne. Ah-ne talking. Ah-ne speaking her memories.

He was halfway to the supply tent without even knowing what he intended to do. Talk to her. Try to persuade her. She had to understand how he had not meant to hurt her. Not that way. He found himself muttering, hush, hush, hush, as he crawled inside and fastened the flap shut so that no one could see. Ah-ne lay curled into a tight ball, hands laid together beneath her cheek.

Yan touched the girl’s shoulder. “Ah-ne.”

She woke with a start and scrabbled away from him, making panicked grunting sounds. Yan caught her by the arm. “No, Ah-no. That’s not why I came here. I came…”

How to explain?

“I came,” he started over, “to ask you something.”

Ah-ne struggled against his grip. She was breathing hard, making that soft grunting sound. Ah. Eh. Ah. Eh. No sign that she understood. How could she? Had she ever learned to speak before her people cut out her tongue? Maybe–

No, he could not depend on that.

“I can’t talk here,” he muttered. “Come with me.”

He bundled her from the tent and hauled her to her feet. Her ankle had healed enough that she could stand, though she limped slightly as Yan dragged her away from the campsite. She tried to bite his hands. He gave her a hard shake and a slap. “Be quiet.”

She went limp a moment. Thereafter, she stumbled after him, silent except for her labored breathing.

A short distance from the camp’s edge, Yan plunged into the forest and aimed for the marshes. No one kept any watch, but couples sometimes prowled about, looking for privacy. He wanted no unexpected encounters with other members of the expedition.

For a while, the going was difficult. Once he passed the criss-crossing paths made by the expedition, he had to fight his way through the thorn bushes. The air was unusually close, here among the trees, filled with a musky scent from the leaves. Moonlight flickered through the branches, reminding him uncomfortably of his dreams, but he pressed on.

Gradually the trees thinned to an open patch of rough grass by the edge of the marshes. Yan stopped and knelt before Ah-ne. The girl’s face was wet with tears, he realized with a start.

“Ah-ne,” he said softly.

She stared at him, lips pushed out. Watching. He could feel her watching. Feel the tension in her skinny arms.

He tried again. “Ah-ne. They will take you away. Make you talk. They might… they might ask you questions.”

He closed his eyes. Who was he fooling? He could not make her understand. Could not until she learned their language and for that she needed her tongue. And if she had her tongue–

Without warning, Ah-ne wrenched away. Taken by suprise, Yan almost lost his grip on her. He yanked her back around. She spat in his face.

A wave of red swept over his vision. He pushed Ah-ne to the ground and fell atop her. Ah-ne tried to twist away, but Yan captured her fists and crushed his mouth against hers to silence her grunts. Still thrashing, the girl whipped her head around and caught Yan hard on his temple. Stunned, he collapsed to one side. The next moment, Ah-ne had wriggled free and was on her feet, running.

“Ah-ne.” Yan lurched upright and immediately stumbled over a root. Damn, damn, damn. She would run to camp. Kun Mar would find out. He’d dismiss Yan from the expedition. Au would withdraw his offer and notify the University.

Then, above the pounding of his heart, Yan heard a splashing sound, then a soft thudding as Ah-ne gained firm ground. She was heading for the ridge, where Bej Saihan had discovered her.

He ran a few steps. Stopped.

A girl. A savage beast-girl like that. She could disappear into the wild. She had lived there her entire life after all. And this time, she might know to avoid the trackers. Even trackers like Bej Saihan, whatever his background.

With a last glance toward the ridge, Yan started back to his tent.

“No sign of her?” Yan said.

A weary Bej Saihan stumped back into the campsite. “None.” He took off his hat and wiped his face, looking entirely human, and not at all like a creature of the gods. “We checked the valley. We checked all the ravines in the area. We even dredged the marshes, just in case. Nothing.”

More search teams returned throughout the morning, but already the expedition members had turned their attention from Ah-ne’s disappearance to the final preparations for departure. Stacks of crates awaited transport to the ship. A crew dismantled the remaining tents. The settlement had vanished, leaving a bare clearing and scattered trash heaps. Yan had packed up the last of his own belongings, and now oversaw the transfer of the lab equipment onto the ship.

Only when he was about to board the ship did Hari return with Che at his side.

You could tell he was more disappointed than Bej himself, Yan thought, taking in the man’s stained shirt, his mud-caked boots, and the dark bruises beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry,” Yan said softly.

Hari shook his head. “We tried. She wanted to go.”

Che took Hari’s hand. “Come,” she said softly. “We all have work to do.”

Hari smiled at her wearily. “That we do.”

Yan watched as the two walked through the empty site toward the ship. Briefly he wondered when things had changed between them. Then he turned to his own chores. Che was right. They all had work to do. And Lian would need help with storing and labeling the last of their samples.

Within the hour, the last crates were aboard, the last transport skiffs hauled up. The ship’s motors chugged to life, the solar sails expanded to catch the sun, and the ship slowly backed away from the shallow bay. Yan leaned against the rail, watching the island shrink slowly to a small point on the horizon.

In five or six days, they would arrive at the new island. More work lay ahead–it would almost be like starting over–but Yan didn’t mind. A new island meant a new chance. Who knows, perhaps it was best that Mei had left him. He should forget about her entirely and concentrate on someone new. Someone like Lian, who seemed to appreciate him better.

The winds shifted and blew hard against his face. He drew a deep lungful of the cool salt-laden air. Already he could breathe more easily.

END

“A Handful of Pearls” first appeared in the September 07 issue of Interzone.

AUTHOR BIO:

Beth Bernobich writes about monsters and lovers, gargoyles and geeks. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s, Interzone, and Sex in the System, among other places. She also has a chapbook, “Ars Memoriae,” forthcoming from PS Publishing, and her first novel is coming out from Tor Books in late 2009. You can read more about her and her writing at http://www.sff.net/people/beth-bernobich.

This is our future.

Though their bodies were naked, their minds empty, the fearful, half-mad faces that followed Marie from behind the bars were humanity’s hope.

Marie hurried her step. Despite almost twenty years on the project, the depraved gazes never ceased to bother her.

A familiar voice entered her head, unbidden. It will be over soon, Marie.

Marie shuddered, her eyes drawn to the blue-eyed experiment in the corner cell. His drip bag had run out again and he was awake. Fear clotted her blood as she watched him. She knew, more than anyone, that Twelve-A could kill them all, should it ever cross his mind.

The experiment said nothing more, merely watched her.

Marie hurried through the heavy doors and entered the lab. “Twelve-A needs another dose. He’s awake again.” Marie hoped her fear didn’t show.

“Colonel Codgson wants him awake,” the tech, a young blonde Army lieutenant, said. The woman gave the holding area a nervous glance. “Codgson’s got techs monitoring him, making sure his patterns stay level–he’s scheduled another demonstration for this afternoon.”

Despite herself, Marie cursed. Codgson was a fool. Ever since he had discovered their prodigy’s unique talents, Codgson had made every attempt to show him off to the board. Twelve-A had been pitted against everything the other labs could throw at him–and had lived.

“Do you think Twelve-A will survive this one?” Lieutenant Carter asked, peering at the experiment through a camera installed in his cell, face etched with worry.

Marie knew the lieutenant was partial to the handsome, blue-eyed young man in the last cage on the right. She didn’t think of him as a killer.

“He’s survived all the others.” Still, Marie felt dread creeping into her soul. Twelve-A hated the Dark Room. What if this time, he decided not to cooperate? Just the tiniest slip by the technicians monitoring him and he could wreak destruction on the whole lab. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“I know,” Lieutenant Carter said, eyes fixed on the glass windows of the experiment wing. “That’s what bothers me. He doesn’t like it… it hurts him. What if he doesn’t–”

A male voice behind her interrupted them. “We have his DNA. We can always make another, if he fails to cooperate.”

Marie stiffened and turned. The Colonel stood in the hall, his perfectly crisp blue uniform accenting a bored demeanor, as if they were talking about cloning rats.

You don’t have a clue, you stupid fool, Marie thought, watching him.

The Colonel caught her gaze and smiled, a wormlike twisting that chilled her core. “The first rule of this project is not to become attached to the subjects, Doctor.”

Marie’s anger spiked, as it always did around the Colonel. “You shouldn’t leave him awake and unguarded like that. Twelve-A could kill us all right now if he wanted to. He could empty our minds, make us all stop breathing just like he does in your Dark Room.”

The Colonel snorted. “I doubt that. My techs–”

“–would die too,” Marie interrupted coldly. “You’re playing with fire, Colonel.”

The Colonel laughed and rapped sharply on the thick metal door leading to the containment area. The sound diffused with the sheer density of the metal. The Colonel gave her a smug look. “He doesn’t even know we’re here.”

Marie glared, but said nothing.

“If he did,” the Colonel said. “He would have killed us a long time ago.”

“You don’t know that,” Marie said. “Maybe he doesn’t like to kill.”

The Colonel’s gaze sharpened, as if he was a hound breeder and she had suggested his dogs didn’t like to hunt. He turned to Lieutenant Carter abruptly. “Collect the experiment and take him to the Dark Room. Our visitors are waiting in the observation booth.”

As the tech went to get the necessary equipment, Marie asked, “What’s he going to fight this time?”

“An experiment from another lab.”

Marie’s lips tightened. “Twelve-A represents thirty-five years of work. If you want a friendly competition for the generals’ viewing pleasure, go get one of the Eleven-series to be your gladiator. He shouldn’t be risked.”

The Colonel gave her a humorless smile. “There is nothing friendly about it. The lab that fails today loses its funding. If we lose our funding, every experiment will be killed and our data destroyed. We need to win. That’s why I chose him.”

Marie watched him and saw the sincerity there. Softly, she whispered, “They would kill them all?”

The Colonel inclined his head. “Now you see why it must be Twelve-A.”

“Why?” she whispered.

The Colonel gave her a long look before he said, “Congress discovered our intent. The board hopes we can stall them for a few years, and the fewer active labs we have, the better our chances will be.”

“Can’t we combine the labs? Throw them all into one building?”

The Colonel shook his head. “The genetic lines wouldn’t fight each other if they were kept in the same building.”

Still hopeful, Marie charged ahead. “Then maybe we could use some other means to determine the success of the experiments. Something that does not endanger their lives. There is evidence that latent brain activity is a clear indicator of–”

“We’re constructing a war,” the Colonel interrupted. “The alien Congress will bathe in its own blood before it realizes it can no longer hold us. Twelve-A and his kind represent Earth’s hope for independence, and it will take many of their deaths to see it happen.”

Doggedly, Marie said, “You’ve used Twelve-A three times in the last month. Why not Ten-F?”

“You want to place all of their lives on her?”

Marie licked her lips. Ten-F, though potent, was insane. She had fingernail scars down her face from where she’d tried to take out her own eyes after her final visit to the Dark Room.

“Colonel, you don’t see them after their experiences in the Dark Room. It’s obviously very traumatic for the mentals, and you’ve already used Twelve-A many more times than regulations allow. I want you to retire him. He’s too valuable to the project for any more games.”

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a game.” Marie started to retort, but he cut her off. “Go find out what’s taking Lieutenant Carter so long. I told them noon sharp.” The Colonel’s mouth twisted in irritation when he glanced at his big wristwatch. “We’re two minutes behind already.” He strode off in the direction of the Dark Room, hard black heels reverberating on the white tile as he departed.

Marie went looking for Carter.

Ten minutes later, she found the lieutenant slumped on the floor of the containment corridor outside Twelve-A’s cage, the behavioral adaptor still clasped in her hand.

“You killed her?!” Marie cried, jogging up to kneel beside her.

Dr. Carter had a pulse. Relieved, Marie turned on the experiment.

Cold blue eyes met her stare, unwavering. Twelve-A was only two feet away, squatting naked in front of the bars, watching her. He was angry.
M
I’m not fighting.

Marie stumbled away from him. She began to reach for the behavioral adaptor, and then froze when she saw him following her motions with his eyes. Twelve-A knew what she was thinking. He’d never let her use it.

Tentatively, Marie retracted her hand. “You need to fight. If our lab fails this match, they’ll all die.” Eyes still fixed on him she motioned to the other experiments.

Twelve-A’s eyes flickered toward the others, and then back at her. They’re miserable. You treat them like animals. They’re better off dead.

In that moment, she realized that Twelve-A could not only kill Marie and her comrades, but he could also kill his own kind.

“No!” After twenty years of living her work, the experiments were Marie’s children. At the thought of losing them, she almost forgot the history of the man in front of her. She reached through the bars to touch his knee. “Things will get better, Twelve-A.”

He recoiled, drawing deeper into his cell before she could reach him. You can’t lie to me.

“I’m not.” Marie held his eyes. “Just once more. I’ll make sure you won’t have to do it again.”

Twelve-A glanced to the side, away from her, pain etched in his young face. For long moments, he said nothing. Then, ,i>Take me to the Dark Room.

Marie glanced down at the unconscious lieutenant, then at the experiment. She left the behavioral adapter on the floor.

“Watch closely,” Colonel Codgson said, addressing the visitors. “See how he paces? Our experiments show an innate aggression… a drive to fight. He’s anticipating the kill.”

Marie watched with her back to the Colonel, recognizing Twelve-A’s pacing for what it was–anger.

“Is the experiment contained?” one of the visitors demanded. A nasal, gray-haired woman pointed at the large behavioral modifier in the corner, indicating the two technicians monitoring it. “Are they all that stand between us and that monster?”

In the Dark Room, Twelve-A stopped and gave the observation booth a small frown before continuing to pace. The others did not notice, but Marie’s heart clenched.

He knows we’re here, she thought, horrified. And he’s listening.

“We’re in no danger,” Colonel Codgson replied. “The walls are a foot and a half of lead-ceramic composite. Even the windows are leaded. His abilities cannot penetrate.”

“Has this been proven?”

“Beyond a doubt,” Colonel Codgson replied.

On the other side of the glass, the Dark Room doors opened and a second experiment, a naked redheaded woman, was thrust inside.

The fight ended as swiftly and without drama as they always did with Twelve-A. He simply walked up to the other experiment, gently took her chin into his hands, nodded, and his opponent collapsed.

“Amazing,” the nasal woman said, though she did not sound very amazed. “That’s it? Why didn’t they fight?”

“No one can fight Twelve-A,” Colonel Codgson said, pride seeping through his voice. “He is our finest creation.”

Again, Marie thought she saw Twelve-A glance in their direction, but an embarrassed-looking Lieutenant Carter was already leading the experiment from the room, her fist wrapped tightly around her portable behavioral adaptor. The moment Twelve-A looked at her she twisted the dial and made him scream.

As Marie watched the other technicians rush in to help Carter carry the experiment from the room, she felt indefinable sadness. The Lieutenant’s good will had officially ended.

She and I were his only two friends in this place.

Afterwards, Colonel Codgson hosted a celebration to commemorate their continued research, but Marie could not stay. She left the restaurant and drove back to the lab, thinking about the look of anguish she’d seen on Twelve-A’s face as Carter and the others had prodded him back to his cell and re-attached the driplines.

Even though she got chills thinking of it, Marie wanted to see him. Console him.

When she got there, the lab was cold and dark. Marie flicked on the lights and moved to the holding area, swiping her card and pushed one of the thick leaden doors open. Inside, a sixth of the lights remained permanently on, more for the technicians’ comfort than the experiments’–no one wanted to be alone in the dark with the monsters they had created.

Somewhere, near the back of the room, Marie heard crying.

Though she carried no restraining devices, had followed none of the pre-entry monitoring protocol, Marie stepped inside the corridor.

“Hello?” she whispered.

Though she knew her words had not been loud enough to carry beyond her own ears, the sobbing cut off instantly.

Cold prickles crawled across Marie’s arms and back. It was Twelve-A. He hadn’t been drugged. She had seen him get drugged.

Had Lieutenant Carter forgotten to refill the bag? Or had Twelve-A made her forget?

The idea was terrifying. Marie knew right then she should scurry back behind the protective leaden walls and wait for assistance.

And yet, she found herself rooted to the place, unable to leave. Guilt welled in her gut like a moldy sack, weighing on her soul.

They don’t deserve this, she thought, eying the other experiments in their beds. All slept, either naturally or by drugs, splayed out in naked disregard like animals.

The crying had not begun again, and Marie got the eerie impression that Twelve-A waited for her in the darkness. Realizing how blithely she’d stepped into his trap, Marie’s pulse began to race. Fear paralyzed her. Like a farmer standing feet from a tiger hidden in the undergrowth, she had entered his realm, and her continued existence was solely his decision. Running was no longer an option, as much as her panicked thoughts screamed at her to do so.

She made herself move deeper into the corridor of cages.

Twelve-A was tucked into a fetal position on his bed, knees to his chest, back against the corner where two walls joined. As soon as he saw her, he stopped rocking.

I know their fear before I kill them.

Self-loathing emanated off of Twelve-A in a thick mental wave that made her stumble against his cell. Panting, Marie struggled to keep from bursting into tears at the emotional barrage. Knowing that this was how he felt, that this was him, Marie had to act. Before she could talk herself out of it, she opened the gate to his cell and went to sit down on the thin mattress beside him.

“It’s okay,” she said, touching his knee. “You’ll never have to do that again.”

The touch made Twelve-A jerk, and for the first time, she realized that he had never been allowed to touch another human being before, other than those he meant to kill. Before Marie could correct her mistake, he unfolded and threw himself into her arms like a frightened child.

There, the lab’s most dangerous creation cried into her shoulder.

Marie froze, terrified of his presence, terrified of what she’d done. She felt Twelve-A’s body tremble against her, wracked by an emotional torment whose very residues still left her weak and nauseous. Despite her fears, she felt tears coming to her own eyes and softly began stroking Twelve-A’s shaven head.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

He shook his head against her chest and sobbed. Pent-up breaths exploded from him in tortured spasms. His grip on her back began to hurt. Marie said nothing more and wrapped her arms around him.

Biologically, Twelve-A was a healthy eighteen-year-old boy. Mentally, however, he was as vulnerable as a small child. They had kept outside stimulation to the barest necessary for survival, sedating him with drugs for most of his life, never speaking within hearing range, never giving him a chance to think.

The reason was simple; undrugged and unhindered–like he was now–he could execute his keepers with a thought. Unrestrained, his cell open, he could cast Marie aside and simply leave the lab. He could walk through the open containment area doors, all the way to the reception area, where it would be a small thing to get past the guard and escape, never to be seen again. Like with Carter and the drip-bag, he could probably even make them all forget he had even existed.

Marie considered all these things as she sat there, holding him, but found she did not care. He needed her, and that was all that mattered.

Thank you, came his mental whisper in her mind. Twelve-A’s body had calmed somewhat, leaving only an underlying shuddering, like someone who’d spent too much time in the cold.

“I’m going to help you,” Marie said, before she realized it was true. “I’m going to help you escape this place.”

Twelve-A looked her in the eyes and said, I could escape any time I want.

“Then why don’t you?” Marie whispered back.

The others, he replied. If I took them with me, they’d all be caught and brought back here.

She watched him closely. “But you wouldn’t.”

He shook his head once, and it gave Marie chills. She wondered just how powerful their experiment was, just how much he’d been hiding from them.

Tentatively, she said, “You know what’s outside the complex, don’t you? Can you actually feel beyond the walls?”

Twelve-A looked away. His silence was answer enough. All of their precautions, all of their procedures, all their efforts to keep him ignorant of his humanity… all had been for naught. Twelve-A had been in contact with the real world since the moment he’d been born.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Marie said. “I promise.”

That night, she drafted an anonymous letter to the funding committee, to three separate civil rights groups, to eight government officials, to six leading scientists, and to three different news agencies. She knew it would end her career. She knew she and her colleagues would spend the rest of their lives in prison. But, after everything she’d done, it seemed a fitting demise.

To Marie’s surprise, her letter was not published the next day. Nor the next. Not even a whisper of it came in the weeks that followed. Her only indication that something had happened was the Colonel’s increasingly terse attitude, his shortening temper.

“Get Twelve-A,” he snapped upon entering on the final morning. “He has another demonstration to make.”

“No!” Marie cried, stepping between the iron-faced Lieutenant Carter and the holding area. “You promised, Colonel.”

Codgson’s eyes were chipped obsidian as he said, “Someone betrayed us to Congress. Confirmed their suspicions. Their ships are coming. The committee is here to decide which specimens to use in the fight against the Dhasha commander. They want to see Twelve-A in the Dark Room, to see just how much they can do with him.”

“Let me do it,” Marie said, desperate, now. “Let me retrieve him.”

The Colonel glanced back to frown at her. “Why?”

“He is like a son to me.”

“He is an animal, Doctor.”

It took all of Marie’s willpower to say, “It’s not a crime to be fond of one’s dog, Colonel.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Make sure he’s in the Dark Room in six minutes.”

Marie was shaking as she walked down the corridor. Congress was coming, and Earth would feel its wrath for ages to come. She, and every other scientist who worked on the experiments would be killed. The experiments themselves would be murdered, the labs destroyed. Their only hope of avoiding the coming apocalypse was if the experiments could do what they were created to do.

Defend them.

Marie felt helpless as she approached Twelve-A’s cell. She’d tried to help, but she’d brought the aliens to their doorstep, instead.

It wasn’t you, Twelve-A told her. I never let you send that letter.

Marie clearly remembered sending it. She remembered checking twice, just to make sure.

Then Marie gasped at what he was trying to tell her. She had been in her own home, twenty miles from the lab. His influence couldn’t possibly reach that far. But if it had… Fearful, she began backing away. Twelve-A watched her through the bars.

He was huddled in one corner, his lanky knees tucked under his chin. Once more, she felt like she was caught in the tiger’s stare, but this time the tiger was debating.

After a moment, Twelve-A looked away.

Marie sank down to her knees in front of him, relief washing over her. Softly, she said, “I can help you get out of here. I can help you start new lives on the surface.”

Twelve-A’s blue eyes flickered toward her. We can’t go now. The aliens will kill us.

Marie felt like she’d been struck. “You know about the aliens?”

They’re destroying the other labs. This is the only one they haven’t found.

Marie blinked at him, once again shocked by how much he had managed to hide from them.

“We need you to fight,” she whispered. “We need you to stop the-”

I’m not killing the aliens.

“But you’ve got to help us defend the-”

No, Twelve-A thought. I don’t.

Coldness settled in the pit of Marie’s stomach. “You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?”

I’m killing everyone who knows about this place. It’s the only way the People are going to survive.

Marie met the deep blue of his gaze and sweat slid like ice down her back as she began to bargain for her life. “Once we’re dead, then what? Where will you go? What will you do? I can help you create new lives for yourselves. I can help you adapt.”

He didn’t answer her. Looking drained, he got to his feet. Come with me to the Dark Room. I want you to watch something.

Reluctantly, Marie did. Once they stood outside the small green door, Twelve-A gave her a gentle nudge down the hall, toward the observation booth. Confused, she went.

Inside, the occupants were milling in obvious agitation. Every face she had ever seen inside the lab was there, checking their watches, grimacing at the blond experiment pacing in the Dark Room. As more staff filtered into the observation booth, Marie anxiously glanced from Twelve-A to the group of observers and back, wondering what he planned for them. Her entire body trembled with fear and adrenaline. She’d heard the mental’s death was painless, like falling asleep. She was terrified she was about to find out.

“So what are we waiting for, Colonel?” one of the generals finally demanded. The group had become more and more aggravated as nothing happened in the room before them.

“We’re waiting for your test subjects,” the colonel replied briskly.

The general’s face went slack. “What test subjects? We’re here because you told us your famous Twelve-A could do something that would save millions of lives.”

At the Colonel’s frown, a man in a black suit bitterly snapped, “Do not tell us you brought us all together to waste our time, Colonel.”

The Colonel stared back at them in complete confusion. “I never sent for you.”

A thin woman with short-cropped brown hair snorted. “Then who did?”

In the center of the Dark Room, Twelve-A stopped pacing. He turned, his ice-blue eyes cold beyond the leaded glass.

Me.
It was like a mental thunderclap. Several members of the committee screamed and staggered toward the door. Only Colonel Codgson remained where he stood, staring at Twelve-A through the glass with a queer little smile.

Twelve-A nodded at them.

As one, the two dozen uniformed men and women occupying the room collapsed in a falling wave of flesh.

Except for Marie. She kept breathing, waiting for it to happen, but it never did. Minutes after her companions’ wide eyes began to glaze, she was stunned to find herself still standing amidst the corpses. Alive.

She looked at Twelve-A. Beyond the glass in the center of the Dark Room, his body had slumped to the floor with his victims. Heart thundering, Marie went to see if he lived.

Put me back in my cell, Twelve-A told her, when she entered the room and knelt beside him.

Marie recoiled. “Your cell? Why?”

I want to die.

“No!”

Do it.

It allowed no argument. In a daze, Marie drew him to his feet and helped him back into the containment area. As she settled him onto his bed, Twelve-A said, Please kill me.

The mental whimper was infused with so much emotional agony that it left Marie’s chest afire. Still, her eyes flickered toward the IV rack they used to keep the experiments sedate. “I’ll go get the drugs. They’ll make you feel better.”

Twelve-A caught her hand as she turned to go, his blue gaze intense. You should kill me, Marie.

“No,” she said, finding strength in the words, “I shouldn’t. I should get you and all your friends out of here.” She patted his hand and he released his hold. She went to the labs, got the drugs, and hooked them to the rack. As she was connecting his IV line to the bag, however, he stopped her. His cerulean eyes were angry.

If you’re not going to kill me, leave.

She winced at the force of his thought. “What about your friends?”

Don’t worry about us. Leave. Lock the doors and never come back.

Marie met his deep blue stare, saw the danger there, then hurried from his cell. She heard the gate to Twelve-A’s cage slam behind her as she went to the containment doors and wrenched them shut. She used her card to lock them, then rushed through the facility, gaining speed as she realized she was the only one left alive. The only one who knew about the experiments. The only one who could help them create new lives on the surface.

The only one who could keep them alive.

She could rehabilitate them. Find them jobs. Find them friends.

The guard was not at his booth. Buoyed by her new mission, Marie hurried past, pushed through the bullet-proof glass doors, and locked them behind her with another swipe of her card. She followed the corridor, climbed the stairs, and exited through the single door at the top. Facing it, the entrance looked like the door to a decrepit coffee shop, with the Coffee House Express sign hanging askew and the paint peeling.

Under the façade, however, the door was tank-proof, the walls behind it bomb-proof. It would take nukes to get inside.

Marie locked the entrance with her card, sliding it through an inconspicuous crack in the wooden trim.

Thank you, Twelve-A told her. That should keep them out.

“Yes,” Marie said, hurrying toward her car. “But don’t worry–you won’t be in there long. I’ll find somewhere to keep you. The war will make it harder, but once I’ve got living quarters and food, I’ll come back for you.”

You don’t understand, Marie.

She stuck her key into her Ford. “Don’t understand what?”

Once it’s safe, we’re going to get ourselves out.

“But I can-” Terror infused Marie’s soul as she realized why Twelve-A had left her alive. Babbling, Marie said, “Please, Twelve-A. I can help you. I won’t tell anyone. Please-you don’t need to kill me.”

Twelve-A gave a mental shudder, buoyed on a wave of self-loathing. It’s always so hard.

Even as she opened her mouth to scream, a wave of calmness overpowered her. Her eyes drifted shut and she slid to the concrete beside her car, the keys tumbling from her hands to clatter on the cement. Trapped in the darkness of her own body, Marie felt her heart stop.

Somewhere, deep underground, Twelve-A replaced the IV line and closed his eyes. His shoulders began to shake as he waited for oblivion to take him.

END

Sara King is a 24-year-old Alaskan sci-fi writer who wrote her first full-length novel at the age of 12. She’s written 10 novels and 26 short stories since, and her story “The Moldy Dead” appeared in issue 11 of Apex Digest (her first sale!). It takes place in the same world as the sci-fi series Donald Maass is representing for her in NY. Sara King has sold stories to Cemetery Dance, Blood, Blade, and Thruster Magazine and Aberrant Dreams. Check out her website at www.kingfiction.com.

Daddy was home.

Screaming away and pounding on his desk, he could be heard across the little two bedroom ranch home. Two children, one six, the other eight, pushed the remnants of their Thanksgiving dinners around their plates, flinching at every noise. They were nervous, they new Daddy would be into eat soon.

It could be said that Daddy–Gerald Malcolm Linden-gave them plenty to be nervous about. Gerald had been drafted in the year 2046, the third year of the American-Asian war, at the height of the Pacific conflict. His first assignment was a cozy spot as a logistics officer, hidden safely behind the lines and helping the real men, the generals, map out important battles. The job treated him well, that is, until he messed up. Four thousand marines dead in six hours, recognized as the worst slaughter of American lives in the history of the country. The generals thought him a spy, tortured him for information. When none was forthcoming, they placed him in the frontlines of the battlefields, in the jungles of Vietnam, fighting a resilient enemy the Americans had lost to seventy-years before. Let the Vietnamese get rid of a problem they didn’t want to deal with.

The youngest child, tiny Michelle Renee, balanced a shriveled pea on her thumb and sent it flying across the table with her index finger. Michelle was proud of her pea sharp-shooting skills, and her talent didn’t let her down this time. The pea found its target, plinking harmlessly, but effectively, against her brother’s forehead.

“Ouch!” shrieked Mark, as he laughed, scooping up a portion of mashed potatoes with his hand, readying a counter-attack. Mark felt it was time for a full-fledged food fight, especially before Daddy came to the table.

“Don’t you dare, Mark Gerald Linden!”

Mark wanted to argue, but one look into his mother’s authoritative cloudy blue eyes emptied his mouth of rebellion. In the background, Mark heard his father screaming at the video-phone in his office. The screaming was punctuated by the sound of crashing furniture and plenty of swearing.

Another pea bounced off Mark’s forehead.

“Hey!” he said to Michelle. “I’ll get you for that.” Mark jumped from his chair. He made monster noises as he rounded the table and grabbed his sister in a bear hug, tickling her. Michelle squealed with laughter. The pair wrestled, giggling and wrestling, prompting their mother to join in the fun.

The office door opened, and Daddy sulked into the dining room.

“Goddamn it!”

A man in his forties, crew cut, sharp blue eyes, that wore a patented military man bulldog sneer stormed into the dining room. Mark narrowly avoided running into his father, as he scampered for his place at the table. Nobody dared say a word. They knew Daddy was angry.

“What’s wrong, Gerald?”

“We’re fucked, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Gerald, the kids…”

“It doesn’t fucking matter. They should hear this.”

“Hear what?” asked Lydia.

Michelle began to wail, as she often did when Daddy was mad.

“The psychologist refuses to sign off on my papers. Says I have to find real work, not draw a pension. Six goddamn years in the jungle and not one fucking penny.” Gerald pounded the table with his fist. One eye tended to drift during his mad spells. Right now it stared at Mark while the other looked to the ceiling in exasperation.

Mark cleared his throat. “Daddy?” The eye glared at him, broadcasting a threat of physical violence for his insolence that interrupted his father’s thoughts.

In a flash, Gerald swept his arm across the dining table, sending bowls, plates, and glasses smashing against the dining room wall behind Mark. Mark ducked the shards of shattering glass and crockery. He didn’t know what to think. He’d only seen his dad three times in the past few months. Daddy stayed at the bars till late at night, and often went to the doctors during the day. This man was not Daddy, but a scary stranger.

“There’s only one thing left to do.”

“Gerald, you’re scaring the kids and you’re scaring me,” Lydia said. She reached her hand out to Gerald’s now bleeding wrist, using her most consoling voice.

“They always think they’ve got me,” Gerald mumbled, this time smacking the tabletop with his open right palm. “But they’re wrong. So very wrong.”

“Gerald?”

Outside, a freak November thunderstorm brewed over the marine base. Mark could hear the wind picking up, pelting their house with sand and grit.

Gerald hunched over the table and placed his head in his hands. Mark knew Daddy had a temper, but this was different. An ill-defined danger surrounded his father.

“Who are you, little girl?” Gerald asked.

“Mommy?” Michelle asked. “What’s wrong with Daddy?”

The family sat quietly around the dinner table.

“Mommy?”

“Nothing Michelle. Daddy’s just tired, that’s all.”

Gerald smiled at his daughter. He stood up and hugged her tightly where she sat.

“You know Daddy loves you, right?”

“Yes. I love you, Daddy.”

Gerald walked over to Mark, who leaned away from the man, Daddy, suspicious.

“Mark, you know your daddy would always do what’s best for you?”

Mark peered over to his mother. She nodded “Yes”.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Outside, a brilliant flash of lightning crackled nearby. For a brief moment, the power flickered off. Without anyone at the table noticing, Gerald had disappeared.

Lydia jumped to her feet and gathered her children in her arms. She pushed them in the direction of their bedroom. “Go on, get in your room. Mommy needs to find out what’s wrong with Daddy.”

“Mommy,” cried Michelle. “I’m scared.”

“It’s ok, sweetie. Daddy is a little upset and Mommy is going to find out what is wrong. And besides, Mark will protect you, right Mark?”

Although on the verge of tears, Mark nodded silently and put his arm around his little sister.

Mark recognized the sound of his father’s shotgun being loaded with shells from within the office. Quickly, he herded Michelle into their bedroom and locked the door. They huddled together in the corner next to a giant plush Winnie-the-Pooh that had been an early Christmas present from their aunt and uncle in Orlando.

“Mark, what’s going on?” Michelle asked. Her tears rolled down her face onto Mark’s arm. They tickled as they made their way to his fingertips.

“Daddy has a bad headache, ok? The army doctors told Mommy it’s because he’s been away from his family for so long.” He felt Michelle nod in his arms. “Mommy wants us to play ‘hide and go seek’ until he’s not mad anymore.”

Through the thin plaster walls of the house, Mark heard an argument raging over the sounds of the building storm.

“They think they got me, but they don’t; the sons of bitches.”

“Gerald, put that away.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m a goddamn corporal.”

“Put the gun away, Gerald. Let me call Dr. Fiesler.”

“Dr. Fiesler? He told me all the sick shit I’ve done; it’s in my head. In my head, Lydia.”

“I don’t think Dr. Fiesler understands,” Lydia said, her voice calm and modulated.

“I think you’re trying to confuse me.”

Silence ensued, followed by some muffled pleas.

“On your knees.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me shoot you in the face.”

“Gerald, no! The kids.”

“On your goddamn knees!”

“Fuck you.”

A second later, a gunshot blast rocked the house. Then another. Then nothing, absolutely nothin. The only sound Mark could hear was the pattering of rain on the rooftop. Michelle sobbed silently in his embrace.

Footsteps.

Mark’s eyes narrowed. They were attentive to every movement inside the bedroom and around the doorframe. Quietly, he placed his hand around Michelle’s mouth and placed a finger to his lips, indicating for her to remain quiet. Then he walked her over to the closet, slid the door open and shoved her gently inside. Once again, he motioned ‘quiet’ and shut the closet door.

Outside the room, in the hallway, he heard the shotgun reload.

Mark slid underneath Michelle’s bed, one of the two twin sized beds the siblings shared. Kissing his face was Michelle’s favorite baby doll. It stared at him an inch away with those faraway, empty black eyes.

The doorknob rattled.

“Open this door, Mark.”

Silence.

“Your father orders you to open this door.”

A few seconds passed, then a shot rang out. The middle of the door and part of the frame disintegrated.

“I promise not to hurt you.”

Horrorstricken, Mark watched his father’s boots stomp through the door. Gerald knocked the debris aside and entered the room.

“Your mother is hurt, real bad,” Gerald said. “She needs you to help her.”

Mark eyed the closet, praying that Michelle wouldn’t fall for this obvious bit of trickery. Enraged, his father upended the mattress and frame of Mark’s bed. Bedding and pillows fell all about the room. The boots moved into the bathroom and yanked the shower curtain off the rod. Cursing, Gerald ripped the linen door off its hinges.

“She’s bleeding from her eyes,” Gerald yelled. “Like those goddamn Viet-Cong when I tortured them. Their eyes bled, too.

The boots marched to the bed that hid Mark. They paused. The barrel of the family’s Winchester made black smudges against the white carpet floor. Mark could smell the fresh cordite. The doll’s plastic face became warm and alive, transforming to the face of his mother. “I love you,” it whispered, before exploding in a spray of blood and brains. Mark stifled a cry, blinking away the tears and the horrible image. When he looked again, the doll’s head was normal, with the black eyes and plastic body.

Without warning, the boots rushed toward the closet. Acting on instinct, Mark sprang out from under the bed and threw his body into the back of his father’s knees, sending him tumbling to the floor. For now, the closet door remained closed.

“Son of a bitch!”

Gerald grabbed Mark by the ankle and tried to pull him closer. With his other hand, the man reached for the shotgun. Mark twisted onto his back and sent the ball of his right foot into his father’s shin. Gerald howled in pain, grasping for his left leg, allowing Mark the split second he needed to slip free. He jumped up and found himself in the hallway.

His father grabbed the shotgun and stood. Behind his dad, he saw Michelle peek out of the closet. Her sad, round eyes were filled with tears. Mark’s only thought was to get his father out of the room before he found Michelle and killed her, too. Picking up a vase from the hallway end-table, he threw it, and it shattered across his father’s ducking broad shoulders.

“You stupid motherfucker,” Mark said. The swear words felt funny coming out of his mouth. Had Mark ever swore before? And even now, he felt a ridiculous instinct to respect his father, this crazy man he called ‘Daddy.’

“What did you say to me, boy?”

“Fuck you. You ain’t killing me, you crazy fuck-tard.”

Gerald rushed the doorway and Mark darted left, toward the living room. He sprinted to the foyer and rushed out the front door.

Lightning crashed, momentarily highlighting the ancient oak in the front yard. Mark splashed through the slippery desert mud and took cover behind the tree. The rain blew in from all directions, as the storm grew angrier and louder.

Gerald followed, splashing loudly through the puddles of rain that now flooded the grassless front yard. The halogen flood lamp at the end of their driveway flashed on.

“Run all you like, but I’m not going to let you live. Not a single one of you mother fuckers ever got away from me? They thought they had me, but I was on to their ass.”

Gerald stalked across the yard holding the shotgun ready in front of him.

“Bet you ain’t ever been shot, have you son? The pain, oh Christ, it will make you puke your guts out.”

A moment of nothing but the rain falling.

“I’ll shoot you in the head, you’ll never feel the pain, I promise.”

A whistling sound passed overhead, above the clouds. For nearly a minute, the father and son listened. Mark knew the sound to be a military jet making a landing at the base airfield a mile away.

“You hear that, boy? That’s the first of the bombs. That’s the Asian Alliance. I told the generals they were coming. We’re all fucked.”

Mark strained to listen through the rain, the jet landing, his father’s ranting, trying to ascertain from which side of the tree Dad approached. He crouched and placed both feet against an exposed portion of tree root for better footing.

“Come on. Hiding behind a tree? You want to hide, your ass had better be dug down into the mud, under the water. You can do better than that.”

When the nose of the shotgun appeared, Mark grabbed it with both hands and pulled backwards as hard as he could. He made sure to keep the barrel pointed away from his body. Knowing he wouldn’t have the strength to pull the gun from his father’s military-trained and well-muscled body, he only tried to create enough leverage to cause Gerald to topple face-first in the slick mud.

Gerald did topple. Mark managed to escape by leaping over Gerald’s flailing arms. Miraculously, his feet ran true through mud, so he made a dash for the back of the house. He crashed through the back door, and ran straight to the bedroom closet where he had left Michelle.

“Where’s Dad…”

Mark put his hand over her mouth and once again made the motion for silence.

He pulled her out of hiding and tugged off his muddy wet shoes and socks and stashed them in the closet. Grabbing her hand, he crept to his father’s office. The place was in a shambles. The desks were flipped on their sides. Office supplies and computer equipment littered the floor. Everything had been torn off the wall in Gerald’s last fit of rage. Everything except for a trophy 9-iron his father had won years ago at a Camp Pendleton Base golf tournament.

Mark heard his father kick the front door open. The man walked straight into the children’s bedroom, following the wet, muddy tracks Mark had left behind. Gerald slid open the closet door only to find a pair of wet tennis shoes and socks.

“Son of a bitch,” Gerald said.

Mark raised the club overhead and brought it down with all his might, connecting squarely with the back of his father’s head. Gerald grunted and stumbled against the wall. Again, Mark swung the 9-iron. This time, Gerald slumped to his knees. He dropped the shotgun across his lap and rubbed a spot on the back of his head. He brought his hand back to his face, the hand covered in blood. Rage emanated from the soldier.

A whistling sound, like the first one, but much louder and closer, shrilled overhead. Lighting erupted. A few seconds later, the thunder shook hard enough to rattle the house.

Mark grabbed the shotgun.

“No…” Gerald gasped. “The bombing has started.”

For a moment, he lifted it and thought about pulling the trigger, wanting to pull the trigger. But he walked away. Back into the office. Mark kneeled before his little sister and took her in his arms.

“It’s ok, Michelle.”

Mark propped the shotgun on the edge of the desk, aiming it at the doorway. He put two of his small fingers lightly around the trigger.

And together they waited for Daddy to enter the room.

END

Jason Sizemore is the managing editor of Apex Publications. His short fiction has appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including Surreal Magazine, Aberrant Dreams, and Murky Depths. He lives in Lexington, KY.

Interview with Jeremy C. Shipp
interviewed by Jodi Lee

Author Jeremy C. Shipp has been published in ChiZine, The Harrow, Flesh and Blood, and many other publications. While preparing for the forthcoming collapse of civilization, he enjoys living in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse in Southern California. His first novel, Vacation, was recently added to the Stoker Preliminary Nomination list and was ranked third before voting closed in the Preditors & Editors Reader’s Choice Poll. Results for both awards are forthcoming.

I recently had the opportunity to ask Jeremy some questions. I’m quite sure it was Jeremy, and not the gnome, who answered. He is definitely one of the funniest new writers I’ve had the pleasure to speak with.

Jodi Lee: For a first published novel, how has the success of Vacation affected your views of the publishing world?

Jeremy C. Shipp: Back when I was a schoolboy-wearing sailor suits and eating giant lollipops-I thought the publishing world was a magical place, where writers, readers, publishers, editors, and all the rest danced together in the Mystical Forest of Literary Ecstasy. Eventually, this romanticized ideal shattered, as romanticized ideals tend to do.

So before my novel was published, I feared that there wasn’t room for a book like mine in the world. I wasn’t sure it would ever get published. And if it was, I wasn’t sure if anyone would connect with it.

Thankfully, that fear-based reality wasn’t the one that engulfed me. Instead, I learned about the Bizarro literary movement. And I’ve received much support and feedback from readers, reviewers, writers who I’ve respected for years, and many other slinkster cool folks. What this all boils down to, I suppose, is that I discovered it’s OK to be myself after all. Sorry if that’s too after school specialesque…

JL: In 9 years of speaking with authors, interviewing authors and reading promotional materials, I have to say you are one of the most approachable - if not *the* most approachable I’ve spoken to. How do you think this has helped with Vacation? Has it hindered the success at all - i.e.: has anyone given you grief over promotional tactics?

JCS: Before my book was published, I dreaded the idea of promoting my work. Then I realized I could have fun with it. So I spend a few hours every day having (usually strange) conversations with people, coming up with silly contests, writing weird interviews with insane grocery bags, etc.

And most people seem to really enjoy the weirdness and the fun. The only problem I’ve had is that some people just don’t get my brand of strangeness. But I’m OK with that.

JL: I enjoyed Vacation immensely, although I was warned it was sometimes a bit hard to follow. I was one of ‘those’ teenagers though, so the acid flashback-weirdness was relatively easy to navigate; what influenced you to write such a bizarre, yet oddly believable novel?

JCS: You know, it’s interesting how