The Blue Void is everywhere.
The Blue Void is everything.
The Blue Void is all there is, and all there ever will be.
Until the Voice.
"The charge is as follows: the unprovoked slaying of 271 sentients."
The words, cold and dispassionate as they are, flow through the prisoner like warm honey, their existence reassuring him that he, too, must exist to hear them. The Void has limits.
The Voice continues. "The prisoner is to remain in null stasis confinement until such time as a trial may be arranged. As per contractual agreement with the Client, confinement, trial, and (as necessary) execution of sentence are to be carried out by Arrow of Justice, Inc."
"Who... -are- you?" The sound of his own voice, with its hint of defiance, feeds his emaciated sense of Self.
"I am the Magistrate."
"No... your -name-."
"I am the Magistrate."
"-Where- are you?" The disembodied voice of the Magistrate floats out of the Void like a wraith.
"Confinement Zone 37B."
"I... they... the ones I killed. They weren't themselves anymore..."
"As Magistrate, it is my duty to advise the prisoner against premature admissions of guilt."
"-No-, dammit! They'd been -changed-. -Twisted-. You don't understand...!"
"Maximum Cop Forensics Division reports no abnormalities in the alleged victims of the prisoner."
"That's a goddamn LIE!! I KNOW what they were!!" His fists reassert their existence by clenching at his sides.
"This session is at an end. Further interaction risks tainting the purity of Justice."
"GodDAMMIT! FUCK justice!! LISTEN to me, you son of a bitch-!"
But the Voice is already gone.
And the Blue Void is all.
Jeela cautiously entered the Great Hall, scanning the room for the guardian that remained. The room was dark except for a faint light emanating from the shimmering, amber-colored portal at the end of the hall. Eerie shadows glided along the walls, masking the true contents of the room.
She called out with a commanding voice, "Fakel!"
A brilliantly glowing ball appeared beside her head, banishing the shadows from its presence. Except for one. A vaguely man-shaped shadow remained, blocking the path to the portal. She approached, guiding the light closer to the shadow, but it stood its ground.
"You cannot stop me, Geist. I have been through too much to turn back now."
As she neared the apparition, Jeela could feel its magic begin to grip her heart. Her muscles became heavy with fatigue. Despair seeped into her thoughts. Her ambition started to fade. With each step, doubts flooded her mind. She grew unsure of her quest. Unsure of her motivation. Unsure of herself.
But deep in her mind’s eye, burning like a tiny red-hot coal, was the part of her that would not be dissuaded. She focused on that small spark of truth and pressed on. In her thoughts, that spark grew to a flame, then to a bonfire. Her doubts burned in the fire, as did her despair. The shade’s magic wavered, then dissolved.
She looked up to see the shadow backing away from her. She grimaced and softly spoke, "Auftren." She heard a high-pitched wailing in her thoughts as the shadow unraveled like a tapestry with a loose thread.
When her spell had finished, she stood alone in the hall. Exhausted but triumphant, she walked through the portal.
Jeela wasn’t sure what she had expected. Perhaps the elation of flying, or the pins-and-needles effect of a Strelan spell. But she hadn’t expected…nothing. Stepping through the portal was exactly like stepping through any other doorway, except this one led to another world.
And it was definitely another world. All of the buildings surrounding her were made of uniform, carved stones, and they reached so high that she could only make out a sliver of the sky. The ground was also made of some sort of shaped rock. There were no plants or animals, nothing natural. She suddenly wished that she hadn’t stepped through the portal. Certainly, no man was meant to live in a place like this. But she was here, and there was no point in wasting any time. The sooner she completed her task, the sooner she could return home.
She searched her pockets and retrieved the small parchment her master had given her. She could read the words, even if she couldn’t understand what they all meant:
She turned the card over, as her master had instructed. There were more words on the back. But these words occasionally changed before her eyes:
Jeela watched the numbers slowly count down. When the nine minutes had elapsed, the words changed:
She looked around suspiciously, wondering what kind of magic was being used. She shook her head in frustration. Her master had warned her that she would find many things that didn’t make sense in this world. So she performed the ritual that he had taught her. She placed two fingers in her mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Then she shouted, "Taxi!" The letters on the card instantly transformed, reading:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Max glanced in the rear view mirror and straightened his wool cap as he approached his next fare. He could tell that woman was definitely not a local. She wore heavy furs that must have been sweltering in the summer Nexus heat. As he pulled the taxi next to the woman, he saw that her hand dropped to a strange-looking wooden stick that she wore on her belt.
He rolled down the passenger-side window, leaned over and asked, "You got money, miss?"
She looked flustered by the question. She leaned into the window cautiously and peered around the cab’s interior. "You will take me where I need to go?" she asked.
"Sure thing. As long as you can afford it."
Her hand dropped to a small bag hidden in her furs. She drew out two small silver coins and showed them to him. "Will these do?"
Max took one of the coins and gave it a solid bite. It was real silver. His face broke into a wide, friendly smile. "They’ll do nicely. Got any bags?"
"No. No bags."
The woman stood by the cab for a few more moments before Max realized she was waiting. He killed the engine, opened the door, and gently swung his legs around. He climbed out of the car with a muffled groan as pain shot through his hips and back. The woman appeared impatient, but Max could only move so quickly. His aches were much worse in the winter, but nowadays, they never went away completely.
When Max reached the other side of the taxi, he opened the passenger door for the woman. Although it was obvious that she had never ridden in a car before, she slid into the seat gracefully. Max shut the door and returned to the driver’s seat. Once he was settled in front of the steering wheel, he started the cab and pulled into the street. Over his shoulder he asked, "Where to?"
"I am not sure. I am new to this place."
Max smiled, "No kidding?" He grabbed a "Welcome to Nexus, the Infinite City!" brochure out a large stack of ads and leaflets in the glove compartment. He waved it behind him. "How about a tour of the sights?"
The corners of the woman’s mouth dropped slightly. She ignored the brochure and stated, "I am not here for a tour. I am looking for something."
Max’s smile disappeared. "Very well. I’ll take you where you need to go." He made a right turn on 11,219th street. "I suppose you want me to take the short cut?"
She asked suspiciously, "What do you know of my task?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
"Then how do you know where to take me?"
Max sighed and answered, "I don’t know how. And before you ask, I don’t know who, what, why, or how much. I only know where."
Her eyes blazed ferociously and she commanded, "You speak in riddles, old man. Tell me what you know of my task."
He switched lanes and merged on to a blacktop highway that was no longer in the city, but in wide-open farmland. "I already have. I don’t know what you’re looking for. I don’t know who can help you. I don’t know how you can complete your task or when you should complete it. But I do know where to take you to get started."
"How?"
"It’s my job, miss. I take people to where they need to go. Now, should I take the short-cut or would you prefer the scenic route?"
She looked annoyed. "The short-cut. The sooner I can leave this place, the better."
Max reached over and fastened his seatbelt and said with a grin, "Your wish is my demand. You might want to hold on to something."
With a hard turn of the steering wheel, Max’s cab jumped off of the highway. A few hard bumps later, it was careening through a field of wheat, and picking up speed. Max glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that the woman was gripping the front seat with both of her white-knuckled hands. She was trying very hard to look stoic. And failing.
The cab shot out of the wheat field, and with another hard turn, was speeding down a twisting dirt road. The tires occasionally lost traction on the soft dirt, and it was all Max could do to keep the cab on the road.
The woman finally spoke again, "Slow down! Please?"
"Sorry, miss. We’ve got less than fifteen seconds to catch the next dimensional shift or we’ll have to take the long way around." He pressed down on the accelerator when he saw the glimmering barrier. It looked like a heat mirage hovering a foot off of the ground. When the cab flew into it, their surroundings instantly changed. The dirt road changed into a busy street, and Max had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a car stopped in front of them.
"Dammit. The Hawking tunnel must be closed again." He looked back over his shoulder. "Don’t you worry. I know another short cut," he said with a wink. He made a wide U-turn, driving over several flowery bushes growing on a median. He drove for a few minutes and brought the car to a stop in a long, empty alley. He slid the gearshift into park and stretched.
The woman breathed a heavy sigh of relief, "Is this where you were taking me?"
"No," he answered matter-of-factly.
She waited for an explanation, but he gave none. She leaned forward and peered into the alley. But there was nothing there. As they waited, she began to grow impatient again. She asked, a little more politely this time, "Old man, what are we waiting for?"
Max tutted at her, "I told you, I don’t know what. Just where. And sometimes when. And I know that where we need to wait is here."
"But there is nothing here."
Max answered, "Yep." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel patiently. The woman sat back heavily, crossing her arms in front of her.
After several minutes, Max sensed that it was time to start moving again. With practiced ease, he threw the gearshift back into drive and pressed the accelerator down. The cab began to roll towards the wall, some hundred yards away.
"Old man, there is a wall in front of us," the woman said helpfully.
Max squinted and replied, "Sure enough." The car sped up.
She asked nervously, "Do you see the wall?"
"Yep. Heard you the first time." The cab was approaching the wall at a frightening speed.
Her voice began to waver as she nervously suggested, "Maybe we should take the scenic route?"
"Too late for that now. We’re almost there."
The wall was now only a few seconds away. The woman gripped the seat, clenched her eyes shut, and braced for the impact.
The car shook for a brief moment, but there was no impact. When she opened her eyes, she instantly regretted it. The landscape was fiery and horrible, the sky full of red smoke. Along the roadside, she could see twisting, tortured forms that looked all-too human.
Max warned her, "I wouldn’t pay much attention to what’s outside if I were you. Just focus on something inside the car." She took his advice, and concentrated on the back of the seat in front of her. But she could still hear the cries and screams outside. Max spoke again, trying to sound chipper, "On the up-side, you can tell your friends that the road isn’t paved with good intentions, but good old-fashioned concrete."
A few agonizing moments later, she sensed that they were somewhere else. Her head swam and it was difficult to track the passage of time. It felt like they were floating on a cloud, like a dream. It then occurred to her that they had stopped. The cab was parked in front of an iron gate. Beyond the gate, she could see a huge, elegant manor. She looked around, trying to determine what had happened. Her car door opened, and Max was standing outside.
"We’re here, miss." He extended a hand to help her out. She took it and climbed out of the car. Max stood in front of her, looking expectantly. When he noticed her confused expression, he said, "My fare? Two of those silver coins you showed me?"
She removed two coins from her purse with a shaky hand and passed them to him.
As he got back into the taxi, he told her, "Enjoy your stay in Nexus. And if you ever need another ride, you know how to find me."
The woman gazed wide-eyed at cab driver as he sped off to his next fare.
Cars screech to a halt as the street light turns from green to red deep in the innards of Angel City. Rickshaws dodge around the cars as they, too slow down, but there are few rickshaws in this part of Nexus. A little old lady with white-gray hair done up in a very, very tight bun waits at the corner for the walk sign to turn green.
It does, and she steps forward off the curb. She is immediately pushed from behind to fall unceremoniously in the muddy street. Her purse is snatched from her arm and some dark form races across the street.
Mrs. Miranda Pickett is not a little old lady to pick on.
She gets up, dusts herself off, and begins to run after the thief, screaming for help and wielding a dangerous-looking can of some sort of spray. A couple of Saurian scouts, obviously hoping to get merits for their badges, jump onto the sidewalk and chase the man down as Mrs. Pickett watches from the side of the street.
The two large Saurian boys manage to catch him and bring him back, one of them clutching her purse away from the crook.
Mrs. Pickett subjects the man to a very, very long lecture, highlighted with sprays of tear gas from the can in her hand. Finally, she has the boys let him go. After all, the only place they could take him in this part of the city is a Maximum Cop agency, and she's had about enough of them as it is.
She then pays the boys three silver coins each, redeemable in most sections of Angel City. The boys look very excited and run off, chattering about what they would spend the money on.
Mrs. Pickett checks her purse, glares after the thief's retreating back, and turns back to continue on her way to Church.
Some say that dragons are the minions of Satan. Some say they're a force for good.
In the Nexus, both are possible simultaneously.
***
"Pardon my intrusion, Sir, but I would like to ask a question, if I may." The child, barely old enough to show signs of impending adulthood, stands before the golden beast, shivering in fear.
After several minutes of receiving no acknowledgement, she speaks again. "Sir? If you wish to be left in peace you need only ask."
"No" is the gravelly reply a minute later, the being's eyes slowly opening. "Before you ask, though," he continues, the voice that of a rock slide put to words, "I have a question or two to ask of you. Who are you, and what is it you seek?" The dragon's eyes fix upon the elven child before him, her shivering becoming even more intense, visible even through the thick furs defending against the cold of the cave.
"M-my name is Kalie, Sir. What I seek is the answer to a question, if you don't mind my asking you."
His golden eyes, pupils slit like a cat's, examine the young girl, nostrils flaring as he scents the air, his head lifting from its resting place atop his forepaws to draw closer to the visitor, studying her for a few minutes. "You do not have hatred in your heart for my kind," he notes, the tip of his tail flicking casually about. "This is good, in that you may yet listen where others would not."
"Hatred clouds the mind," she softly replies, her fear slowly fading as she approaches territory more familiar to her. "It hides what is behind what is not, blinding one to Truth."
"'Truth'?" A deep bellowing laugh echoes through the barren rock walls of the small cave, the only illumination that from the sun filtering through the entrance. "My dear, Absolute Truth is a fiction spun from the dream-clouded minds of fools. What is true in one land may not be in another."
"What is it you seek, wayward traveler? What knowledge do you wish to gain from one thousand years of life?"
"Well, Sir..."
"I am no 'Sir,' Kalie. For lack of a name pronounceable in your tongue, to you my name is Gralano."
"Yes, Gralano. The question I quest for an answer to is this: What is a dragon?"
The dragon peers intently at the inquisitor, his slit pupils narrowing slightly. She takes a step back, only to be stopped by Gralano's golden tail, nearly half of his 15 foot length. "Do not be afraid, for that clouds minds as much as hatred. It also can be just as deadly."
She nods, swallowing down the fear threatening to snuff rational thought.
"In any case, that is a good question, young traveler. What makes a dragon? It is not claws, nor scales, nor wings, nor a tail spade, nor any other physical trait, some of which I have, while others I do not. What makes a dragon is here," pointing to his chest. "It is in their heart that 'dragon' is defined. The body is just a storage facility; nothing more, and nothing less. You can't listen to an explanation, and _know_ what is a dragon; you must feel it in your heart. The physical attributes are merely artifacts of convenience." He cocks his head curiously, moving a bit closer, till his muzzle is almost pressed against her body. "Dragon is also in you, little one."
"M-me?" she asks incredulously. "B-b-but I'm an elf!" she stammers out.
"Physically, yes. Your soul, though, is that of a dragon. Whatever diety or dieties you believe in has pulled a fast one, I suspect," he concludes with a rumbling chuckle. "Close your eyes, and open your mind, Kalie. Look within, for there is where you will find the goal of your quest." After carefully taking the girls wrists in his forepaws, he touches her palms to his temples. ~~Look deep, little dragon. I shall be your guide.~~
She blinks at the strange voice in her head, fear welling up within once more, only to flow by, a sense of inner calm caressing her mind like a soft spring breeze.
***
Several hours later, the girl lies asleep next to the dragon, her arms about his neck in a slumbering embrace.
A sparrow glides silently into the cave, alighting gently on the tip of the dragon's snout, announcing its arrival with a soft chirping noise.
"Yes?" the dragon asks in a quiet whisper, somewhat cross-eyed as he looks at the intruder. After several minutes of 'speech,' the dragon nods slightly, throwing the avian off balance for a brief moment. "Yes, I shall be there at the appointed time. You are dismissed," he adds, encouraging the bird to continue on its rounds.
*****
James Atkinson, Jim to all his friends, was tired. He'd exhausted himself demonstrating elemental manipulation to his beginner's class, and now all he wanted was a soft couch and a drink of gin. He fished his keys out of his pocket, watching the custodian push a cleaning cart down the hallway, and unlocked his apartment. Jim dropped his briefcase on the entry hall table and hung his coat in the closet, gave a quick jab at the playback button on his answering machine, and staggered into the kitchen to open a decent bottle of liquor.
There weren't any messages of any immediate importance; Jim hadn't been expecting any. It was a long weekend in Riverwall, and the professor of magic planned on relaxing, marking a few papers, and then relaxing some more. He listened to his mother's weekly "why-don't-you-come-over-more" message as he filled a glass with ice, and decided to simply leave the answering machine off the next time. Gin went in the glass, and Jim trundled over to the beige couch in front of the TV to lie down for a drink and a nap. He didn't get very far in that direction.
After drinking a bit of gin, Jim decided he wanted a bit of tonic to go with it, so he trundled back towards the kitchen. As he did so, he passed the entry hall and noticed that someone had slipped an envelope under the door. Still intent on having that tonic, he grabbed the envelope and peered at it.
"To Professor Atkinson", the envelope read. It was inscribed in pink ink in a flowing, decidedly feminine hand. A student of his, Jim thought. He opened the door to see if the girl who and left the letter was hanging around, but he saw no-one, and headed back into the kitchen.
Once tonic had been mixed with the gin, Jim carefully unsealed the envelope and took a look at the letter within.
"Dear Professor Atkinson,
"You may not know who I am from my hand-writing, but I sit in the fourth row in your beginner's magic class. I wasn't sure when my parents sent me here whether I would like it, but after being in your class for a while, I realized how much this school has to offer.
Jim took a gulp of G&T to steady his nerves. This would not look good. If Sheila even got wind of this... well, it wouldn't be pleasant. Not that he would even consider meeting with this girl, but... Jesus, Troilus and Cressida! Jim left his drink on the kitchen counter and walked into the bathroom to stare in the mirror.
The face that greeted him was the same one that he always saw, every morning that he woke up. He knew Sheila liked it, but he always thought of their relationship as a sort-of Bond/Moneypenny one. He rubbed his face, shaven that morning, and decided that he just might be attractive to young girls. Jim, James to women he intended to impress, wondered which one of those fourth row chatterboxes might be his mystery admirer, and smiled. He then frowned, trying to dismiss thoughts of taking this girl up on her offer, feeling the nagging monkey of good judgement sitting on his back. He smiled again, ignoring his better sense, and studied his profile carefully. This happened about three or four more times before his conscience gave up and he succumbed to temptation.
Five minutes later, James Edward Atkinson had written three different e-mails (trashed two and sent one), and had finished off two gins with tonic. His only hope, and this only an insignificant consideration, was that the girl was older than 18, and he wouldn't feel bad later. The weekend had only begun, and already James was itching to get back in his classroom.
*****
Milly Cameron had three fine sons, each three years older than the next. The eldest, Jacob, had a beard as fair and thick as the wheat fields he worked in. Joseph was the middle son, dark and solemn. The youngest son was James, who was also fair, and as blithe as the summer sky.
Their father had long ago died with a fever on his head and a whisper on his lips. Milly did the best she could with her boys. They loved her with a fierce loyalty which, if ever acted upon violently, was the only thing that drew her to box their ears. She would never admit to the scuffles she had been in, in her youth. She had the strength of a grindstone, and she loved her boys more than life.
And then the War came.
It was James who convinced his brothers. Not for the glory of it, not for the thrill of it, but to keep Milly safe. To keep the War from Milly, by going to meet it. They agreed, but Jacob looked over his fields and wept.
*
It was, Joseph reflected, peerless idiocy. He thought this where he crouched, huddled against a corner. He was not sure where he was, only that it was in the dark, and the screams had stopped, but the crashing had not.
Air crept into his hideaway, and he let his lips part to taste it. He spat on the floor. It tasted like rusty iron... and like vinegar... and it - burned -...
Light broke through in front of him, and he vainly shaded his eyes. There were men before him - but were they men? Their faces were disfigured and larger than life. Their long noses didn't seem to catch the swirling eddies of... something... in the air. He tried to cry out a warning, or a prayer. They were upon him before his words choked free of his throat.
*
He awoke, but he could see nothing. He could feel one leg, while the rest of his limbs were a mystery. He could distantly hear his own breath. It rang and rattled as though through an empty corridor.
Someone said: "You're lucky to be alive."
Joseph tried to cry, but he could not.
*
There were no parades, after the War. There was no pride. Joseph did not march, nor could he had he wanted to. Instead, he tried to return home. 'Home' being now a fond memory, as he was informed that Milly had died, in popular opinion, of grief. Joseph felt it was more likely she had tried to continue everything as it had been with three sons, leaving her body too exhausted for health.
Joseph left that place, and went to one after another, until he found someone who would fulfill his request. He had come to one conclusion, one wish.
*
His eyes have been burned white into blindness, and his hair has long since cracked and fallen away from his skull. Arms and legs are replacements for originals - metal and prosthetic, jointed and smooth. The one leg that outlasted the others failed, too, in time, the bone splintering at the first impression of weight. His chest is transparent, revealing the working mechanisms inside, only a third of them organic. He has no tongue, but the 'doctors' offered him a device to alleviate this. Some sort of computer that allows a sedate and even voice to pretend to be his own. At least the digital tones cannot crack with emotion as he tells the story, as he divines the moral.
No one calls him Joseph anymore. No one can quite remember his name, anymore.... As far as they are concerned, he is the Monument.
*****
/Focus. Hear the sounds in your head. Hear the melody. This is what it's going to sound like. Take a deep breath, relax, hit record. Give it a second, then press the button on the sequencer to start the bassline. The bass fades in, slow, plodding. Restrained. Sync up the drum machine. Start. Drums pick up the rhythm started by the bass. Add in a few hits on the off-beat. Start lightly with the guitar. Caress the strings, don't ruin the ambience. Build up slowly. This time it might work. Move a little higher on the strings Get ready. Almost time to kick it into gear. Wait - and... now!/ Suddenly the notes are coming out completely wrong. /It was so clear in my head!/
Joshua stops the tape. /Another take ruined./ The drums and bass keep going like a chicken that doesn't realize its head is missing. /Just like mine,/ thinks Joshua. /Where is my head? Why can't I do this any more? Am I destined to be just another one-hit wonder?/ Cringing at the thought, he gets up and leaves the studio. Passing the framed original album cover on the wall, he stops and stares at it for a moment. The cover is a picture of Joshua's face, half in darkness so it looks almost like a crescent moon, with the words BEAT AUTOPSY and TEN MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT at the bottom. /Is that all you've got in you? Can't bring the ideas out any more?/ "Maybe I need a vacation," he says with a bitter chuckle.
Joshua steps across the living room and into the kitchen.
"Maybe," he says to himself, "I need to loosen up. A Scotch should help. It's never too early for Scotch." He holds the glass up to the window for a moment, watching the ice settle into the drink and condensation form and drip down the side. Shaking his head, he walks back into the living room and sits on the couch. The pile of junk mail is getting bigger. Picking up the top envelope, he realizes that this one doesn't look like junk mail. /How long has that been sitting there? He slides his finger under the flap. A jury duty notice? For tomorrow...?/
*****
"The trouble with Saurians," continued Anthony Midori as he climbed back into the truck, "is that they just don't understand baseball."
Slamming the door, he continued as the truck rumbled into motion. "Oh, they try. They learn the game, they run the bases. But they don't _feel_ the same way we do. They don't understand the tradition of it."
"Oh bullshit," interuptted his partner, Joseph Paxter. "They're people just like us. Speck," he mentioned the nickname of the lead Saurian player in the Lost Angels team, "is one of the best players in the game! Last week he hit three out of the park."
"So he hit a ball. Anyone can hit a ball. Some machines, they can hit a ball. What of that? Does he love the game? Or is it just something he does?"
Joe shook his head as they drew up to another cluster of garbage cans, applying the brake. Anthony jumped out and started emptying the cans into the hungry maw of the truck. The trash was crushed, compressed, and then compressed some more, to eventually be turned into fusion fuel, and thus to energy.
Being a garbageman in the Nexus is as important job as any other, and Anthony would be glad to tell you so. Except, of course, for baseball players.
He looked through the mail quickly. Several bills, those went into a slot by the door to wait for next payday. Several leaflets he let fall into the nearly overflowing trash can set next to the door to receive them. And then there was an odd one. He slid an ivory letter-opener with a chip in the handle along the side, and pulled out the contents.
A trial? Work to be suspended while he was there? What a nice
surprise.
Ah, but that was the future. Anthony picked up the box in his left arm, and held the roses in his other, hearing the sound of his wife typing in her office.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARIA!" He cried out loud as he left the living room and entered her workspace.
"Anthy! You almost made me spill this! What are you doing home early? Are those real??"
*****
[This character continued from A Face in the Crowd]
Silas is greeted with about the same sight he left with the last time he visited the 'Boar. Looking around, he notes the hap-hazard collection of objects ornamenting the walls: Concert posters, medicine bottles, broken swords, stuffed animals, flags, bumper stickers, bumpers, and a conglomeration of new things, most of which Silas had trouble identifying.
Checking the tables, Silas gives a nod towards a couple of the 'Boar's "regulars": Lefty and The Real Thing. The Apes seemed to be out.
Seeing Callan, the 'Boar's owner wiping down a section of the bar, Silas walks over towards him. Now that bar kinda creeped Silas out a bit. Really a big chunk of rock, with the top polished and grooved at the edges, it was once a sacrificial alter. To whom, Silas didn't want to know.
Stepping up, he reaches in his pocket, pulling out a small statuette carved in the likeness of a wolf. "L.C.," he says to Callan, "picked this up a couple of months ago in Choopamenanga. Decided to take me a vacation, you know. Been a while since I did that."
Callan looked the statue over, picking it up and giving it a fairly close examination. Setting it back down, he gave Silas one of those long looks like he does, and then said "Yeah, I guess it had been. You want a drink, son?"
"Well, I suppose that'd be damn good. Just got through taking out one of them damn -Ricktans-. Getting to be too damn many of them around lately. Too hard to kill, if you ask me. Thanks," Silas says, hefting the drink that had been set down in front of him. "Still a good bounty on them though, and it's getting higher by the day. The MC's seem to be all but ignoring them so far, and them fellas in the Ivory Towers are paying a pretty penny to keep them out." Taking a long drink, Silas sighs and sits back. "So, L.C., how's things been around here lately?"
Wiping down a glass, Callan takes his time replying, using it to gather his thoughts. "Well, really not much, I reckon. Some young bullyboys busted in here, demandin' to know where the Boy's Upstairs were" he says, glancing up, "but two of 'em, the Bullet Brothers Catboy says, left real quick like, knowin' not to mess around in my place. Had to use the cleanin' service on the last one, though. Damn shame, too. Gave him a Last Chance, an' he didn't take it." Shaking his head, he wipes out another glass. Almost as an afterthought, he added "Damn strange you stoppin' bye here though. Somebody dropped this off fer ya about two days ago, askin' me ta' give it to ya should I see ya. So, here it is." he says, holding out a plain manilla envelope.
Grunting, Silas takes the envelope, slips it open with a finger, and pulls out the paper inside.
*****
*Black fades into the image of a door, solid oak with frosted glass paneling faceted like a gem. The brass handle gleams as the early morning sun streams golden onto the oriental rug before the door, covering the marble tile.*
*Suddenly*
*_Whine_*
Scratch, scratch...
A female voice interrupts. "Honey, let the dog in."
"Yes, dear."
*Theme music starts as the door swings open by means of a tall man*
"Laddie!" calls the little boy who races towards the door.
"Here Laddie!"
*Image: a beautiful red gold collie leaps though the door and into the boy's waiting arms. The dog gives TOMMY a few swipes across the cheek with his tongue before looking directly at camera with award winning doggie smile*
"Oh, Laddie!" the boy laughs.
*Dog winks at camera, grinning open mouthed*
*Roll intro credits*
----
Rex inserts the key into the lock of his third story apartment in a run down area of Nexus. With a quick twist, he gains entrance and pads into the tiny, dimly lit entryway. With a grunt, he tosses the keys onto the table standing as the battered sentinel of the hallway. Rex takes a few steps into the living room, looking around at the decor of photos, autographs, advertisements... He ponders momentarily before heaving a long, tired sigh.
It's Good to be King, the Royale Inc. posters read while displaying an image of him in his glory days of youth, bright, and shiny. Rex sits and absently scratches an ear, remembering the movies, the shows, and the commercials...
The world never knew he was just a rapscallion they pulled off the street's shelter, groomed and trained and polished for the screens. He was just another cute kid they could watch bounce around the television screen, saving lives, pulling people from wells... All for the sake of amusement.
And not even even his own, for he acutely remembers the cold stone floor that made a bed, the red bowl of food for which a competition was waged with ants for the morsels, the heavy hand of the master which swung with painful accuracy...
And the world never even guessed its prodigal son was really its daughter. Not that the producers cared, either. A buck is, after all, a buck.
_She_ stretches as sunlight tainted by dirt and grime on the windows reflects off golden red hair, lackluster and tinged with the vaguest hints of gray. The microwave beeps in reassurance as she programs the time, then licks her lips.
With nails clicking on the wood floor, Rex makes her way back to the door to pick up the pile of mail just inside. She picks it up delicately with her teeth and sets it on the coffee table in the living room beside a pair of spectacles which she adeptly scrapes onto her nose with a paw. A wince crosses her features as she sees the red OVERDUE notices on three of the five and moves them to one side, shifting her attention to the envelope addressed from her agent.
"Hmm." Rex picks up the letter opener between her teeth an carefully opens the letter, settling down to read. "Dear Ms. Rex... blah blah blah...rejected for... hmm.. hope to contact you in the future... as roles become available..."
Her teeth bare and she grips the formal white paper between her canines, head thrashing to and fro as she "politely" discards the letter. Brown eyes then focus on the next envelope in line. Rex blinks once as her ears perk. "I'll be damned." She double checks the address, then tears open the letter. Sure enough, the summons lay before her in black and white. Rolling her eyes, Rex trots out towards the kitchen, where her dinner beeps insistently to be removed and eaten.
"As if they couldn't add more insult to injury... JURY duty! It's enough to make a dog toss her kibble."
*****
"Boss? Is that our guy?"
"Yup, that's him."
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Who's the rookie here? You doubt me?"
"Well, no, but ..."
"Don't end your sentences with a dangling preposition, kid."
" ... but I thought that type went more for the art of war than the art of ... war. He's an artist?"
"Yup. You really are new here, aintcha?"
"I thought he'd be taller."
"I once saw a pixie cyclops, but that could've been 'Tania's idea of a joke."
"..."
"They're not all big hulking colossi, kid. Don't let your stereotypes blind you. There's lots of folks what won't fit 'em."
"But --"
"The is Nexus! City of (im)Possibilities! There are vampires on West 64th Street East that aren't even phased by garlic. Hamhock's chili, on the other hand ..."
"But --"
"What'd I tell you about those prepositions, kid?"
"Not to end a sentence with them. Aren't we going to stop him?"
"Stop him? Where's that in the job description?"
"Aren't we supposed to?"
"No, kid, we're just here to deliver a message. You DID bring the envelope, didn't you?"
"Oh. Uh ... sure, boss. Got it right here. Um -- boss?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"What's that?"
"What's --? Ah. That. That's what the types over in R&D like to call a 'somnioplasmic emanation.' Almost as silly as calling a janitor a 'sanitary engineer,' if you ask me. And they call us postal ... "
"-- Boss?"
"Don't worry, kid. It's a figment of his imagination. Easier to paint the beasties if you see 'em, and not nearly as worrisome as finding a reality with the real thing. Or so I'd guess."
"Oh."
"The envelope?"
"Oh. On the table, boss. He should find it when he stops to eat."
"That's good, kid. I knew you had it in you."
"Thanks, boss."
"S'okay, kid."
******
It is business as usual at the Starbridge Wellness Centre. The reception area is full of patients of divers origins lounging in comfortable easy chairs while waiting for admittance. Soft sitar music plays in the background. In the center of this calm, welcoming space a low table bears a teapot service; fragrant steam floats from the teapot. A candle heats a clay dish of water mixed with purifying tea tree and bergamot oil.
Across from the comfy chairs full of patients the door to the examination room opens and several figures walk through to stop at the reception desk. A ragged woman with dark circles under her eyes holds a little boy in her arms. She looks exhausted and worn out, but the relief she feels is plain on her face. The child, however, is a picture of pathos: sniffling, he wipes his red, puffy nose on his sleeve, coughs a couple times, and, whimpering, buries his face in his mother's skirt.
The other figure is quite obviously the doctor of the Centre. Dressed in the familiar white coat, she stands close to her clients, comforting them with her words:
"Mrs. Peters, your son will be just fine. All he really needs is rest, plenty of fluids, and some medicine". The doctor sits down at the reception desk and opens a drawer. She pulls out three small pouches and says: "Take 1 teaspoon of each of these and make an infusion- that is, make tea with these herbs. Have Joram drink a cup of this tea twice a day. Add a teaspoon of honey to the tea- it will help it go down more easily. The willowbark will break his fever and help with the pain, the licorice will soothe his coughing, and the purple coneflower root will help speed his recovery."
Pressing the pouches into the mother's hands, the doctor pulls out a different pouch from her pocket. She takes out a few shiny coins and hands these to the woman. "Please, take this and buy your son some fresh oranges, and a new raincoat. We wouldn't want him to get soaked and catch cold again, now, would we?" She smiles kindly at the bedraggled pair. "I know how things are out there. You and your husband work hard to take care of your children. Don't forget that I too used to scrimp and save just to put food on the table. Now, be well, and please come and bring Joram to see me in a week".
As the doctor escorts them to the door, a commotion erupts in the street outside. Looking around, she sees the wolfen blacksmith from across the street and his apprentices rushing towards the clinic, carrying a body.
"Reaphane! Dr. Reaphane! Please, help!" She runs to meet them in the middle of the street, ignoring the busy traffic all around her. Reaching to help carry the limp figure, she is overwhelmed by the stench of burnt flesh emanating from the body. What appears to be a humanoid figure is covered in 2nd and 3rd degree burns.
As the frantic group gets to the sidewalk, Reaphane instructs the men to put the body down on the ground. By now a sizable crowd has gathered, all curious about the commotion. Traffic slows as rubber-neckers watch what will happen next.
"Give me room!" Reaphane yells. "Stand back and be quiet! I need to concentrate!" The doctor falls to her knees, bending over her patient. She stretches out her hands over the body, pushing her sleeves up past her elbows. Her hands are cupped together close to the charred skin and clothing of the man on the ground. Reaphane closes her eyes. The rest of the world is tuned out, as she concentrates only on the sound of the failing man's breath rattle and burble in his lungs. She lays her hands on his chest, and starts to match his beleaguered breathing.
A blue glow begins to emanate from beneath Reaphane's hands. Slowly, agonizingly, the light creeps up the doctor's arms and also across the patient's chest. Soon both Reaphane's and the man's bodies are enveloped in the soft, blue glow. Minutes pass, and after a while the stench of burned flesh starts to fade. The black char that covered most of the man's body begins to flake away, and soon only pink, healing skin remains in its place, and the blue glow fades.
Reaphane opens her eyes, and looks down at the unconscious form, then up at all the onlookers. In a voice that holds the weariness of many sleepless nights, she croaks out: "Please, bring him inside. He needs a soft bed, and so do I."
*****
Steam drifted out from the bathroom as Sandra opened the stall door. A towel neatly placed atop her head bound together her red hair--though after going through the shower, it's more the dark red of glowing embers than its true colour, the orange of the setting sun.
She struggled into a pair of old khakis, and, after tossing the damp towel aside, slipped on a sweater with the phrase, "Angel City or Bust!" scrawled in orange on it. Her hair dangled limply about her face, and she pushed the wet mass into a ponytail.
Tiger tried to claw his way up her pantleg, but she pushed him back down. The cat--no longer a kitten, but now a sleek orange and white specimen of his species--mewed unhappily, but satisfied himself with following her out into the kitchen, where his dinner waited for him in its aluminium prison.
Sandra flicked on the radio on her way by, and had to pause to find a station. She played with the tuner for a bit until she found a blues channel. Every day it was a new channel . . . that was part and parcel of living in the ever-changing City. Stations flickered in and out of phase just like everything else.
Imagine Sandra's surprise when she had opened her door one day to find that her apartment was, in fact, not part of the old, run-down building that she thought she inhabited. Not at all.
She had been told by her neighbours--a rather nice avian couple who were quite taken with little Tiger, even though the cat had a tendency to snatch at their crest feathers--that her apartment had come in phase with the rest of the Nexus. The Endless Building had chosen another tenant, it seemed, and there was nothing she could do about it.
It wasn't so bad. She didn't have a lot of friends back home, and her parents hardly ever saw her, except when they had needed money. The neighbours were nice, and she had even become close with the handsome Trali next door. He wasn't human, but he was cute.
There was no publisher, though, Sandra had discovered. Her phone still worked, but when she dialed her editor, she got the answering machine of some club on the other side of the Nexus. After listening to the rather detailed descriptions of what some of the ladies could do there . . . well, she hadn't bothered to call again.
There were books in the Nexus, however, just like there were in Texas. It had taken a little rummaging around in the papers and phone book, but she had managed to convince a publisher that her manuscripts were worth being made into books. They liked mystery novels here, in Nexus, and the pay was pretty good.
Sandra was turning to put down Tiger's dish when a rattle at the door made her pause. She moved over to it, curious, and peeked through the spyhole.
"I can smell you in there," grinned the wolfen on the other side. "Though the smell of that cat food is rather overpowering."
She grinned and opened the door, letting the furred humanoid sweep into the room and nuzzle her cheek affectionately. In her hands, he pressed a package of letters. "Mailbot dropped your letters in my slot by accident. I thought you might like me to deliver them."
"I'll have to ask it to drop them in your apartment more often," Sandra replied coyly. She was about to toss them onto the desk when the one on top caught her eye. It had a little logo in the corner, with a circle inside a triangle, with a white arrow pointing straight up in the middle. It was addressed to her, from "Arrow of Justice, Inc."
Rewyn moved behind her to read the letter as she opened it. At the first sight of the words, "jury duty," they both sighed in resignation.
There are some things that are inescapable, even in Nexus.
*****
"Mr. Spalding? Mr. Spalding!"
Reginald R. Spalding turned to see a forty-ish year-old man flying down the corridor toward him, careering into law clerks and causing several others to pull back out of his path with following profanities. By the time he had gotten close enough to examine, Spalding realized he was more likely thirty-ish. But his hairline had not been kind, and sprigs of gray already bloomed in what was left of his dark hair. His body, however, would have done an athlete proud.
"You are Reginald Spalding, aren't you?" asked the other man, suddenly uncertain.
Spalding looked the interrogator up and down with his most imperious frown. "I am," he declared, challenging anyone to disagree. "And you would be Mr. Porter."
Porter grinned, obviously pleased to be recognized. "Yup, that's me. Gerald Porter, at your service!" He extended an empty hand, having transferred the file he carried to his other. "I just heard you and I are going to be working together on the Josiah Black case."
Spalding reluctantly authenticated him with a single shake of his hand. Then he turned back to his own files, moving sedately down the pastel plaster-and-crystal hallway.
"I've been following your career, sir," Porter went on, apparently unperturbed by Spalding's dearth of awe at his revelations. "You're something of a role model for me. I'm thrilled to be working with you!"
Spalding issued something like a grunt, never breaking stride. He turned in at one of the Cubicles closest the courtroom. His working cubicle. Its proximity spoke eloquently of his place in the legal pecking-order, and he guarded it jealously. There was only one chair here beside the one behind his desk, and that was currently occupied by a dour-looking male legal assistant. Porter, should he dare to beard this lion in his den, would simply have to stand.
Spalding glanced in the mirror behind his desk before he took his seat. Tall, Patrician, with a sharp hook nose and thin lips made thinner by constant compression against unconsidered words, he knew himself to be intimidating. He made the most of what Nature had given him. Many a case had been won on first sight, simply because the opponents had quailed at a nod from his silver-haired head.
At sixty-one, Spalding was at the height of his power and potency. He was Favored. He had a gift for winning his cases. And Arrow of Justice rewarded winners. His 20,000 square foot manse on four acres in the Brentwood Sector of Angel City proved that, if nothing else. Not to mention his docket filled with high-profile cases. He was riding high. This case would be the Jewel in the crown. And he wasn't going to let some snot-nosed rookie screw it up.
"I've been looking over the prelims," Porter said, looking slightly off-balance, shifting from one foot to another as he looked vainly for a chair. "Looks like an open-and-shut case."
Spalding didn't reply. In his experience, there was no such thing. However, he did privately agree that things looked very grave for one Josiah Black, Serial Killer. Witnesses could put him at the time and place. He'd been ID'd several times, without even a line-up. And the sheer enormity of the crime was enough to sway any jury. 271 counts of cold-blooded, premeditated murder? The media was already making a circus of it. But that only meant he wouldn't have to spend so much time drilling home the facts.
"I understand there will be a third on our team," Porter went on. "Do we know who it is yet?"
Spalding reached to his right without looking and retrieved a thin file-folder, handing it to Porter wordlessly.
Porter opened it and whistled. "Aruna Dharma, huh?" he said, looking over the few sheets of paper that comprised Spalding's dossier on the woman and included a recent photo. "She's quite a looker!"
Again, Spalding grunted. He never wasted actual words when he could grunt his contempt. "She's also a very fine attorney," he countered. "You'll be well-advised to pay attention." He looked up at Porter. "You might actually learn something." If his tone was a bit dubious, it was no more than Porter deserved.
Porter looked over his desk. "You have one of these on me?" he guessed, flashing a grin.
Again, Spalding retrieved the file-folder, and handed it over. He was rewarded by a slight frown from his new colleague. The assessment within was fair, but not flattering. Porter was not a bad lawyer, but he had a lot to learn about judicial dignity. And it showed in the listing of his exploits, the number of times he had been reprimanded by the judge and the many warnings he had received. Porter was a Show-Boat. Spalding did not like Show-Boats.
Porter set the two files back in their former place without comment. "So, who's on the Defense?"
"I only know of two names, so far," Spalding replied. "One is Armand Vincent. The other is Marianna Dellacorte. I've never worked with either of them, and I don't know what to expect of either."
Porter nodded. It was early days yet. Time to discover this when it got down to brass tacks. "You know anything about this Magistrate?"
At this, Spalding looked up. Porter was asking good questions, but he suspected for less-than-sterling reasons. "I've worked with the Magistrate before," he said, deliberately non-committal.
Porter hmmed. He began to pace the floor, since there was nowhere for him to sit. "So...what are we dealing with? A pussy? A bad-ass? What?"
Spalding shrugged, turning back to his papers. "I've always found him fair. If...unpredictable."
"Oh, great," opined Porter. "Just what we need. An unpredictable judge."
Spalding looked up at him with the coolness he felt. "Mr. Porter, I expect to win this case on the merit of the charges and the evidence brought forth against the defendant. I have always stood by the righteousness of my cases, and never resorted to cheap manipulation. I do not intend to change my methods now. Josiah Black is guilty as charged. When I have finished, all of Nexus will know this. And he will be dealt with accordingly. If you have a problem with that, speak up now, and I shall have you excused."
Porter thought about this for a minute. Then he nodded his head in obeisance and smiled. "I am your willing pupil, sir," he replied.
Spalding nodded. "Very well. You may start with this list of witnesses. I want them located and deposed before the start of the first hearing. I want to know what we're dealing with." He held out a fairly thick manila folder of papers.
"Righty-ho," said Porter, cheerfully. "I'll get right on it."
Do not copy or quote the above material without the expressed consent of the owner of this page.
"I really like you as a teacher, James (can I call you that?). I love that you really want us to learn as much as we can, and you make it so easy. I also like you as... well, I just like you, that's all. Would you mind too much if we had lunch or coffee together sometime? You don't have to tell me in class, or anything. Just e-mail me at
"Yours, a student admirer."
Later in the day, he returned home, balancing a bouquet of roses on a pile of mail and an oblong box, wrapped in paper printed with balloons and confetti. He took a moment to press the packages against the frame of his apartment as he fished the keys from his pocket, using them with a practiced twist of his wrist to unlock and open the door. He stepped in and set down the pile softly on a leather recliner that had seen quite a few patches, kicking the door shut.
Scratch. Scratchscratch. Scrabblescrabblescratch.
Scratchscrabblescratchscrabblescratchscrabblescrabblescratchscritch.