SFReader Discussion Forums : 2007 Winners

SFReader Discussion Forums : 2007 Winners http://forum.sfreader.com/ Copyright (c) 2006-2013 Web Wiz Forums - All Rights Reserved. Wed, 08 Apr 2026 13:59:40 +0000 Thu, 05 Mar 2015 17:33:58 +0000 http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Web Wiz Forums 11.03 30 forum.sfreader.com/RSS_topic_feed.asp?FID=19 <![CDATA[SFReader Discussion Forums]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_images/web_wiz_forums.png http://forum.sfreader.com/ <![CDATA[2007 Winners : 1st - Harmonic Convergence, by Daniel Cubias]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=80&PID=79&title=1st-harmonic-convergence-by-daniel-cubias#79 Author: SFReader
Subject: 1st - Harmonic Convergence, by Daniel Cubias
Posted: Mar-05-2015 at 5:33pm

In essence, the story 'Harmonic Convergence' was the result of my wife and I getting picked on. Various friends and family members throughout the years have accused us of being co-dependent because we spend so much time together. So I decided to write a story about a truly co-dependent couple. Alicia and Ben are, to say the least, much more fitting of the title than we are.

Harmonic Convergence
by Daniel Cubias
copyright 2007, Daniel Cubias

Nothing on Earth could stop her.

Once Alicia started losing weight, her body toned so quickly that complete strangers were soon stopping her on the street and begging to stroke her ab muscles. It was all the more surprising because she had been such a shapeless lump previously, all sagging flesh and jiggly nuance.

But Ben liked her that way. He wasn't in such great shape himself, and he didn't see why either of them had to change. He thrilled to their midnight feasts and sunken afternoons on the couch and slippery, belly-flopping sex in the morning. He loved every minute of it.

Ben told Alicia that everything was perfect as it stood. He said they were so finely attuned to each other that they must be doing something right, and he reiterated his request that she knock off the low-carb, high-impact, low-calorie, high-aerobic lifestyle that she had recently adopted. However, Alicia denied him. She met his every request for downtime with a set of pull-ups or victory lap around the house, and his pleas for relaxation were subsumed in a flurry of shadowboxing high kicks or grunting stomach crunches. Whenever he broke out the chocolate-covered cherries or baked a gooey lasagna, she sneered before biting into a carrot and washing it down with a liter of Gatorade.

She was soon in flawless shape, but Ben had rightly worried about the cost of her self-improvement. His weight continued to increase, past the point of chubby toward actively fat, and then on into morbidly obese and huge, mongo-enormous man-freak. Alicia still loved him of course, but Ben was resentful.

He came right out and said what they both knew was true: her lost weight had annexed itself to him. Every pound she lost drifted to his body. Every muscle she ripped meant another fold of flesh on him. It was, as he pointed out, because they were so very much in love. They were in such harmony that any imbalance sorted itself immediately, and their combined weight never varied.

They proved it scientifically by clambering onto scales and noting the difference. When she was 1.2 pounds lighter, he was 1.2 pounds heavier. When 6.3 ounces fled Alicia, they grafted themselves to Ben. Even a barely measurable change in her size caused an incremental flutter upward on the scale when Ben stepped onto the device. It was clear. Their ying-yang was

tight.

So Alicia agreed to take back some of her weight. She halved her cardio routine and phased cheesecake back into her diet. Within days, her arms lost some of their iron tone and her shoulders softened. At the same time, Ben saw his fourth chin disappear and a semblance of normal respiration return. By the time a layer of sponginess formed around Alicia's hips, Ben could see his feet again and was no longer sweating whenever he tied his shoes.

"See?" Ben asked. "Was that so hard?"

But Alicia was frustrated with her sacrifice. She had looked fantabulous, damn it, and now she was inching toward her former pear-shaped ignominy. Confrontation remained her least favorite activity in the world, so Alicia didn't tell Ben about her nagging regrets.

Instead, she simply lengthened her workouts and horded fresh vegetables in the crisper drawer. She shunned the elevator at work and ran the stairs. She even feigned headaches and sent Ben off by himself to the movies while she bench-pressed the nightstand.

Ben was no fool, however, and he noticed that his girth did an uptick that was unrelated to his own consumption. He came home early one day just to verify his deepest fears. To his horror, but not surprise, he caught Alicia in the act. There she was, stuffing her mouth with rice cakes while dozens of perfectly good Snickers melted in the garbage.

They had a fight, of course, one of their worst ever. After the shrieked condemnations and heated accusations had subsided, Ben snapped that two could play at Alicia's game, and he stormed out of the house while mumbling promises of retribution. The next day, he joined a health club.

Their power struggle started in earnest after that. Both hit the gym daily and sweated until agony was a dear friend. Despite their constant workouts and lean diets, however, neither lost much weight. Once again, whatever pounds Alicia lost shifted to Ben, and whatever gain Ben banished simply returned to Alicia. They were pulling and pushing and huffing and straining with all their power, yet their fellow exercise buffs only laughed at the incremental improvements on display.

Alicia was the first to falter. She couldn't take it anymore, so she took a day off, which turned into a week off, which turned into a series of half-assed efforts at the gym. Her fat intensified, exacerbated by Ben's fanatical efforts to get fit. He claimed victory when she ballooned past her original weight, but Alicia only smiled at her muscular conqueror.

"Fine," she said. "You go right on working out."

Then she altered tactics with a cunning stealth that would have boggled the most brilliant military tactician. Instead of combating Ben head to head with squat thrusts and arm curls, she gorged herself on Krispy Kremes and potato chips. Alicia avoided all but the most rudimentary physical activities, and she patted her huge girth whenever Ben asked how she was feeling.

The effects were long in coming but devastating upon their arrival. Ben did not know that something was wrong until a colleague remarked upon his pale countenance.

"I must be coming down with something," Ben said. "A bug."

He still thought that when he struggled through his barbell routine. And he foolishly clung to the theory of an innocuous virus even when he had to call off his wind sprints because of exhaustion. But as he grew weaker and less coordinated, he suspected the truth.

Alicia was bulking up, and in response Ben had gone past healthful trimness into solid anorexia. His formerly corpulent physique was now gaunt and fragile. And with each Ho-Ho that Alicia put away, Ben felt his ribs protrude a little more. He stopped working out, of course, and he told Alicia that he knew what she was up to. She didn't deny the flab-hording, but she refused a truce until he apologized for his boorish behavior. Ben would have no such thing, of course, and they continued on their stubborn ways until he was a beanpole shadow with bags under his eyes.

They shouldn't have been surprised when Ben fainted. But it was indeed a shock to them both. Alicia, in particular, was unprepared for Ben's medical emergency, and her awkward efforts at heroism were more comical than inspiring. It's true that she had the best of intentions --- to carry him to the car and drive him to the hospital. But her soft muscles and labored breathing made it impossible for her to drag him more than a few feet at a time. When she finally plopped him into the car, she almost passed out herself in sheer respiratory failure.

Somehow, however, she got him to a doctor, who diagnosed severe malnutrition and dehydration. He also identified a case of chronic eczema, but everyone agreed that this was a bonus diagnosis.

From his hospital bed, Ben patted Alicia's hand as she cried big bubbly torrents of apology. He said he was sorry as well, and they made up on the spot, complete with a vow never to mess with their combined weight again. So as soon as Ben was discharged, they went out and bought a dog.

It was a big floppy-eared mutt that they showered with affection and praise. They loved the animal so much that before long, he was their proxy for weight loss or gain. Whatever pounds they added or melted affixed themselves to the dog. And he never complained. They were all so happy.

Like every panacea, however, this was short-lived. Alicia soon felt the nagging itch of self-doubt and insecurity. She recalled her brief run as ripped goddess of physical perfection, and she wanted to regain that sensation. At the very least, she wanted Ben to find her as attractive as possible. So she refocused her efforts to achieve a better her.

Naturally, the imperceptible delicateness of this latest transformation was unnoticeable during its initial stages. Even Alicia did not see that first wrinkle fade or the jowl tighten. Certainly, she was oblivious to her increased bone density or multiplying brain cells. And her increased energy was so slight that she attributed it to a random burst of adrenaline.

But it was happening. Her attempt to harness her energies was working. Alicia was willing herself to be younger.

In her previous quests to capture youth, Alicia had meditated, abstained, Botoxed, cut, and stretched. Nothing stopped the assault of free radicals and everyday stresses. Her days morphed into months, which swirled into years. Now it was different, however, because she would no longer try to look younger. Instead, she would simply be younger.

The disappearance of her crow's feet was proof that her methods were sound. So she accelerated her plan. Before long, her knees stopped that annoying cracking and her skin tightened in all the right places.

Ben noticed the change, of course, and he complimented her on her renewed vitality and effervescence. He didn't feel right telling her that his back had started acting up and that liver spots had recently appeared on his hands. Ben wanted to be supportive, especially after all that they had been through with the whole weight thing.

So he cheered her on and told her that she looked great, which Alicia was thrilled to hear. She took her enthusiasm out on him, as her sex drive crescendoed toward levels it had not approached in years. Ben struggled to keep up with her limber athleticism, but he required pharmaceutical assistance just to fulfill her minimum needs.

The first time Alicia was carded for beer, they both laughed. But the novelty soon became routine, and even the later requests for id when Alicia tried to get into R-rated movies failed to elicit more than a smirk from her. In truth, she was becoming more petulant, and she rebelled against Ben's request for her to dress more conservatively and to stop snorting approval at idiotic television shows.

"You don't want to have any fun," Alicia snapped at him. "I'm bored."

"Maybe if you didn't spend all day talking to your friends on your cell phone, you'd develop more interests," Ben said

"Whatever," Alicia said.

It was shortly after a teenage boy asked Alicia to attend his kegger that she told Ben they had to talk about their relationship. She had declined the kid's offer, but she wanted to know why Ben never wanted to go out and party. She also asked him if he had noticed that his thinning hair had blotchy streaks of gray in it.

Ben said that he was too tired most nights to do anything other than eat and sleep, and he added that he didn't think it was a good idea for them to have sex anymore. Alicia was taken aback, and she looked at the aging man with a mixture of subtle confusion and abrupt realization at what was happening. She banished her whiny tone to utter a sarcastic-free sentence.

"You don't have to do this for me," Alicia said.

"I want you to be happy," Ben answered.

Her plummeting maturity kept her from arguing too altruistically. So Alicia went on getting younger, and she was soon a little girl in pigtails who held on to Ben's gnarled hand as they went from place to place. She loved nothing so much as jumping rope and splashing in puddles, and Ben shuffled along behind her to keep her out of mischief.

Ben's spine curved, and the lines in his face set into hardened crevices that seemed to be the only things holding up his withered skin. He consumed fistfuls of pills each day to keep his dry organs pumping, and he began forgetting people's names and the quickest routes around town and where the hell his damn glasses had gone off to.

While sitting in their living room one evening, he launched into yet more reminiscing about their years together, an action that had recently morphed into his chief hobby and only passion. But this night, he became flustered over gaps in the chronology and blurry images from the past. He asked Alicia to clarify the details, but she just kept drawing outside the lines of her coloring book and singing la-la-la songs of impish delight. He smiled at her and forgot what he was talking about.

Before long, Alicia was a wailing infant who required all of Ben's attention. Because he no longer trusted his memory, Ben plastered their house in post-its that listed feeding times, diagramed how to change a diaper, and offered helpful tips on baby care. However, because his eyesight was fading as well, the post-its were of limited help. So he mostly just shuffled around the house on his cane, peering at the notes left in haphazard places while Alicia cried in shrieking urgency.

The din did not subside until Alicia became a fetus. At that point, Ben bundled her into a warm blanket and took her for slow walks around the neighborhood. He wondered if the fresh air were beneficial or harmful for her retro-development, but because he could not find any information on the proper care of a fetus, he relied on instinct and the frayed thinking of an advanced senior citizen. He soon became a neighborhood fixture --- the old man taking tiny steps around the block while clutching a fetus in a blanket. He peaked at Alicia every now and then to admire her curled position and translucent head. He was afraid that his increasing forgetfulness would cause him to misplace her, so he made sure that she was never far from him.

Alicia as an embryo was even more adorable. Ben told her how proud he was of her for accomplishing her goal of looking younger, and he babbled on until his one-sided conversation referenced everything from how they met to the rudeness of kids today to the price of eggs when he was a boy.

His bones were practically dust and his mind was full of holes by the time Alicia turned into a zygote. He wanted to take a walk with her, however, so he bundled up to fight off the brutal summer cold and headed for the park where he and Alicia used to spend quiet Sunday afternoons. Ben wheezed the entire way there, and it took great effort just to reach the nearest bench. But he made it and caught his breath while protecting the zygote in his hand. Alicia was rapidly regressing into oogenesis, and Ben had to concentrate just to perceive the sensations whirling around him.

The enfeebled old man sat there on the bench. His obese dog snored at his side. The elderly gentleman rested one hand on his cane while he raised a set of arthritic fingers to his face. The hand wobbled as he squinted into his heavily creased palm. He stared at the pinprick-size bundle of cells in his palm.

He smiled. And then she was gone.

=============================

Daniel Cubias is a writer living in Minneapolis. His stories have appeared in Word.com, The Harpweaver, and Eclectica. He had the top short story in the 2000 New Century Writing Contest, and he is finishing up his first novel.
]]> Thu, 05 Mar 2015 17:33:58 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=80&PID=79&title=1st-harmonic-convergence-by-daniel-cubias#79 <![CDATA[2007 Winners : 2nd - How Pappy Got Five Acres Back]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=79&PID=78&title=2nd-how-pappy-got-five-acres-back#78 Author: SFReader
Subject: 2nd - How Pappy Got Five Acres Back
Posted: Mar-05-2015 at 5:32pm

How do I say this? I was raised by the crazy half of the family. So as I grew up, I realized the map of the world I'd been given was folded just a little bit sideways. The really cool thing about kids, though, is that they can grow up in the weirdest situations and think everything is perfectly normal. It's when they get older that they notice, 'Hey, wait a minute! Those Brady kids need some money? Why don't they just steal something? Deal some drugs, kite a couple of checks? C'mon, man, isn't that what everybody does?' That's an extreme example, but you get the idea. Take it a step further and you have the inspiration for 'How Pappy Got His Five Acres Back and Calvin Stayed on the Farm.

How Pappy Got Five Acres Back and Calvin Stayed on the Farm
by B. C. Bell
copyright B. C. Bell

The boy cursed the sun, the soil, and whatever the hell else it was that made cotton grow. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and put his hat back on so his brains wouldn't scramble in the heat. He decided, then and there, the farm was a living death.

The War Between the States was over, so he'd probably never get the chance to use that as an excuse to get away. His oldest brother had. Robert Earl Anson had ridden out a dirt farmer and come back a war hero. Of course, that was before they found out he was a horse thief, and murderer of women and children.

Calvin wasn't sure if he'd go so far as to horse thieving to get off the farm. As far as murdering women and children? Well, that would probably be too much work. The only women and kids he'd ever seen had been family, and they was just too tough to die. He'd seen his Aunt Trudy take three blows to the head with a shovel one time, and she hardly looked up. A man would have to be just plain mean—or crazy maybe—to murder somebody.

Calvin figured picking cotton might eventually drive him to it.

That's probably what happened to his brother.

Just last night, Robert Earl had ridden back in with three bullet holes in his chest and one big one in his back. Somehow, he'd managed to crawl off his horse and into the storm cellar during the night. He still had his Confederate Cavalry trousers on when they found him. There'd been a wanted poster with his picture on it in his saddlebags. It was a good likeness. The paper said General Quantrill's army had been declared war criminals. "Quantrill's Guerilla Raider's."

"You boys get the hell outta here, and get back to work," Pappy had told them. "I'll tend to Robert Earl, just like I done for your Mamaw. Just like I do for everybody." Pappy kept cussing under his breath.

The rest of the family went back to work. The women in the house. The men in the fields.

Running from the pasture to the crops Calvin caught up with his only other brother. "Albert, you think Robert's gonna be okay? I mean, it looked like he had a hole clean through him."

"He'll be fit to fiddle Dixie soon as ol' Pap tends to him," Albert said. "Remember Mamaw? She looked all grayer and pastier than you do now." Calvin's brother punched him on the arm, the way brothers do, and ran off before Calvin could punch him back. Pappy had just given him five acres of land in the north pasture to marry on, and Albert was eager to farm it.

Calvin smiled and remembered last fall. He had been sure Mamaw wasn't going to make it. That was when Pappy told him for the first time, "Nobody that's family's going to die, if I can help it." Mamaw suffered some. Pappy said it was always harder for women. They had to go through some changes come Mamaw's age. Next day she was walking around the kitchen, loading wood into the stove. Good thing for them Pappy was there.

Pap Anson had learned doctoring from every race of man between here and Mexico—Black, White, and Red. If a man's bones were in one piece, Pappy could fix him up. Calvin's cousin told him once that Mamaw and Pappy had at least two hundred years between the two of them, and Calvin knew it for a fact. Pappy could remember back before Missouri was even settled. Ol' Pap had been studying medicine all his life. Thanks to him, nobody on the farm ever ailed more than a day or two.

Calvin stopped smiling when he went back to work, trying to hoe an endless row of cotton.

High cotton in dead dirt.

He had never been able to figure it out. The soil that wasn't brown and dry was gray and dead. Dust so thick he wondered if it added extra weight at market time. The Anson family had been planting and yanking cotton out of the same field every year of his life. Thirteen years. Even he knew you were supposed to transplant sorghum, or something, every couple years just to keep the dirt alive. But somehow Pappy always got it to work. Old man could probably grow orchids at the North Pole.

Calvin swung his hoe down as hard as he could and hit a chunk of dirt he would've been lucky to crack with a pickaxe. That's when he decided he couldn't stay on the farm.

He wanted to see the world, live a life of adventure, before he wound up having to go through his changes. Hell, the only time he'd ever been off the farm was to go hunting. It wasn't that he minded all the old folks there, it was just that he and his brothers and Pappy were the only ones that even bothered to talk. Calvin wanted to see magical cities—buildings, and circuses, and fairs, and shows. Robert Earl had told him about a saloon one time. Calvin wanted to try drinking and gambling at least once before he got too old. And once, just once, he wanted to see a naked woman.

He was still picturing naked women in his head when the August sun faded from the inside of his eyelids. He opened his eyes and noticed Albert over in the north pasture, talking to a stranger on the back of a Paint Horse. The stranger wasn't dressed the way the people from town did—at least not the ones Calvin had seen. This man was wearing all black on the hottest day of the year, and it wasn't even Sunday.

The man leaned over the saddle horn, looking down on Albert with a little grin on his face like they were just talking. This in itself made Calvin curious. People never visited the Anson farm. Pappy didn't take to strangers.

Calvin wiped his forehead again and put his hat back on. The shade cleared his eyes just in time for him to see the stranger grab his brother by the collar with one hand, and pull a sawed-off shotgun out of the scabbard with the other. The man lifted Albert up in the air with one hand, pointed the gun at his head, and then dropped him back on his feet again.

The visitor and the gun, both at once, were too much for Calvin to handle. He stood there frozen, trying to catch his breath so he could yell for help.

That's when the man in black lowered the shotgun, and Calvin saw Albert's head explode.

Calvin heard himself hollering before he was even aware he was the one doing it. The shotgun's echo didn't reach him until after he'd started screaming; that's how far away he was. But even at that distance, when the man's eyes met his, he felt a chill.

A man would have to be mean, or crazy...

With his voice still ringing, Calvin started to run, but his feet were glued to the ground, like in a bad dream where your legs don't work right. Calvin saw himself hit the dirt between the rows of cotton and started crawling as fast as he could toward the house. But the cotton was poor cover, and what he first thought was his pulse racing in his ears turned out to be the hoof beats of the stranger on the Paint.

If he stood up and ran the crazy man would shoot him in the back. If he started screaming for help it would just get more family killed. All he could hear was the hooves tromping on the dirt. The sound was deafening. Hot, damp, scared, and shaking, he curled up into a ball around one of the cotton stalks and closed his eyes.

The horse stomped on one of his fingers. He jumped up and yelled in time to see a hoof just miss his head when the horse stopped. The man in the black jacket was laughing.

"Boy! Get the hell up," the stranger said, cocking the sawed-off and pressing the barrel against Calvin's forehead.

Calvin wiped the tear from his jaw like he was wiping off sweat. He'd stopped crying when the horse stomped him. It took his fear away. The man in black made him angry. Not just about his brother's death, but his own eventual outcome. Not only did he very much mind the idea of dying, but he had also been hoping that he wouldn't be forced to see it coming. He had never seen death before.

Even if Calvin were lucky enough to live through this, he'd probably get his ass kicked for not getting a full day's work done. The fear of his grandfather replaced his fear of the crazy man. He spat on the ground, and stared right back at him.

"Do you know who I am, Boy?" the stranger said. Calvin just kept staring. "Yeah, well neither did your friend over there. So I showed him. He didn't seem to want to learn too fast, though. What about you, Boy? You a quick learner? Or you as dumb as you look all curled 'round that cotton like a boll weevil?" The man slapped the saddle horn, smiling at his own joke. He looked down, demeaning Calvin, like the kid was too stupid to get it.

"I ain't dumb!" Calvin yelled at the man. He grabbed the gun barrel and pushed it out of his face. The stranger swung the barrel back down on his head, and Calvin suffered the sting. He felt his scalp go numb then split with a swelling throb. His eyes went black, and he dropped to his knees.

"Yeah, you are, grub. You're as dumb as a stump if I say you are. And I say you are." He pulled Calvin upright with the barrel of the gun pressed between his eyes. "You got that, boy?"

Calvin just nodded, waiting for the pain in his head to subside. He tried to stand up still but couldn't help stumbling around.

"You ever hear of Killer Jim Curtis, boy?" Before Calvin could figure out whether or not to nod, the man had answered his own question. "Probably not. You know why, boy?" He pulled the gun back so Calvin had to look down both barrels. "'Cause most of the people that have heard of me end up like your friend over there. You understand me, boy?"

Calvin nodded.

"Now I'm not going to take the time with you that I would wipin' my ass, you dumb Southern bastard, on account of I already left you a message over in that field. You understand?"

Calvin nodded again, wishing the crazy man would stop asking questions and get to the point.

"Yesterday, I trailed a man name of Robert Earl Anson to over this side of the river," the stranger said. "He was too dumb to know I'd shot him full of holes, but I trailed him right here to this farm.

"So here's the deal, boy. I'll be returning first thing tomorrow morning. Only nobody's going to know exactly where I'm hiding." He spoke softly, not gently. "But if Mr. Robert Earl Anson—or his body—ain't here, on this very spot, by noon tomorrow, I'm going to shoot you and whoever else lives on this turdpile deader 'n hell. You got that?"

Calvin nodded, as much to clear his head as to just get rid of the crazy man. The barrel slapped the side of Calvin's head, and Killer Jim was riding away. Calvin fell on one knee, and held his skull together with his hands.

Pappy was gonna be angry.

***
Close to a half-hour later, Pappy was.

"Gawddam! That son of a bitch! He blew his head off!" Pappy said, spreading his hands in the air. They had pulled what was left of Albert's body onto the back porch and were standing over him. Pappy clenched and unclenched his fists. "We's gonna have to have a closed coffin funeral. Damnit! You know how long it's been since we had a funeral in this family? Been since your Maw died, Cal." Pap was crying and gritting his teeth. Every bone in his body was taut, shaking.

Calvin had never seen Pappy give up on healing anybody. Never. This was bad.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do," Pappy's voice cracked. "You just can't treat a wound like that. We's gonna have to bury him."

Mamaw moaned from behind Pappy, and Aunt Trudy moaned in the kitchen. Cousins, brothers and mothers, sisters and children and friends all joined. A keening moan, a low wail emanating from the land itself.

Pappy looked at Mamaw with a tear in his eye, and then looked over at Albert's body. "Calvin, I'm gonna need you to build him a coffin tonight. You can use the wood stored by the barn. Least that way he'll get a real pine box. First though, I want you to come with me. I want you to tell me everything happened. Then I'm gonna show you something."

***
The only time Calvin had ever even seen a visitor before was back when the war started. Somebody from town had seen some Yankees working in one of the fields, and the local militia had ridden out to see which side Pap was on. Even back then, Pappy didn't want to talk to strangers. He sent Mamaw out to scare the hell out of 'em. '

Pappy had finally calmed the militiamen down and told 'em, "Anybody tries to take any Anson property, they're gonna end up just like those Yankees—working the fields."'
Nobody from town ever visited after that.'

***
So Calvin told Pappy all about Killer Jim Curtis on the way to the barn. Pappy listened, chewed tobacco, and spit nails. When Calvin had finished, Pappy looked meaner than a red hog. Then he smiled.

"Killin' Jim Curtis, it is now, isn't it?" Pappy said, slipping back into his old brogue. "Man's got to be stupid to go around calling himself a killer. I think we got us some teachin' to do.

"Calvin," Pappy went on. "I owe you an apology. There are some things I think you need to know. About life. About family.

"See, I been around a long time... a long time. And I plan to be around even longer. I always thought Robert Earl was going to be my successor here on the farm, and I figured you and Albert could pursue farming, or whatever else appealed to you. Problem was, I taught Robert Earl a little too much, too early. He was too smart for his own good. Then another war started, and he ran off. I'm guessin' he used some of what I taught him. Well, you see how he wound up.

"Then I started watching you boys' temperament. No offense son, but you got some of Robert Earl in you."

"None taken, sir."

"Well, fact is, I always kind of figured you was going to run off just like Robert Earl. Not to say you're exactly the same, Cal. Robert Earl, he was just wild. But you, sometimes I can't figure out what's going on in that head of yours at all. And that's my fault, for not spendin' enough time with you. Hell, Calvin, with everybody else in the family the way they is, I just kind of stopped talking unless it had to do with work. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Pappy. I appreciate it," Calvin said. "Now let me get to working on that pine box for Albert."

"No, no, now listen to me." Pappy said. "I kept a lot of things about the family—and the world—from you, because I always thought you was going to run off. I knew you'd do well, make me proud. I just figured when you got out in the world, you'd figure it out for yourself. And you'd be okay. Fact is, I should've been teaching you all along. Now what I got to teach you may take some time. But we'll take the time, soon as we get rid of Killin' Jim Whatshismname.

"What I want you to know right now though, is that everything I done, I done because I love you.

"The other thing you need to know, son, is that in most families people die all the time. Not like Albert did today. But people do die." Pappy's eye gleamed, and he looked up at the sky as if for guidance. "'Cept us, son. Us, well, we're blessed..."

***
About a year-and-a-half-ago, Cousin John-John had come to visit. John-John said that when Pappy come back from being a prisoner in the Creek War, his head hadn't been exactly right. Said Pappy had gone too far with some of his doctoring. Said he'd been learning too much from Injuns and Niggers, and it made him crazy.'

Cousin John-John said Pappy had sealed himself in on the farm and was living a life "contrary to God." Calvin had had a mule once that Albert had called "contrary." Calvin thought John-John meant Pappy was just being stubborn. Hell, if Pap wasn't stubborn, nothing on the farm would have gotten done.

The only other people besides his brothers and Pappy that Calvin had ever met were Cousin John-John and the family back home—the cousins, brothers and mothers, sisters, children and friends.

Cousin John-John left the same day he had arrived and never came back.

***
Pappy had stayed up all night doctoring Robert Earl, drawing funny shapes and letters on the floor and walls of the barn. Green and yellow lights flew out of the fire while they drank the "black drink" that Pap had shared with Tecumseh. Locked up in the barn, doctoring Robert Earl, Pappy began to show Calvin a world he had never dreamed existed. Pappy wanted Calvin to be a doctor.

They stayed up all night, treating Robert Earl and doing the dance. They finished at about two in the morning.

"We'll have to wait till daylight to see if it worked," Pappy said. "But between you and me, son, I think he'll get along. You got strong medicine for such a young man."

It was the first time Pap had ever called him a man.

"You mind if I stay up and work on Albert's coffin?" Calvin asked. "I don't think I could sleep anyway."

"You have at it, son. And make sure to wake me up by daylight. We're gonna have some fun."

***
At dawn Pappy came out with coffee and cornbread for breakfast. Calvin showed him the pine box that he'd made for Albert's coffin. It wasn't until years later that Calvin realized the reason Pap had choked on his coffee was because he was trying not to laugh.

"You never seen a coffin before, have you Calvin?" Pap said, wiping the coffee off his chin.

"No sir, but you said we had to make him a pine box. I figured this one would fit him just fine."

Pappy paused and looked at it. He bit his lip and smiled. Having never seen a coffin, Calvin had made a pine box that was simply that—a pine box. Which was fine, but Albert had been almost six-feet tall, and Calvin had measured the box out at a little less than five—just big enough to hold Albert's body, without his head.

"And a fine coffin it is, Calvin." Pappy said. "Just fine. C'mon, let's get Robert Earl ready."

***
They started Albert's funeral at about half-past eleven. Everybody in the family had their best clothes on except Pappy. He was dressed in a tartan-green kilt, but with buckskin breeches beneath it, like the natives wore. He had on bracelets and boots with the wolf fur still on them, and a Scottish tam, decorated with feathers, sat military style on his head. Hanging loose on his chest was a fearsome looking mask made of some strange wood Calvin had never seen before.

Pappy stood tall holding a ceremonial staff with some of the odd shapes that he'd drawn in the barn carved on it. Calvin held a lantern from some place he'd never heard of. It reminded him of a teapot, and hung on ropes like a puppet. He was supposed to let it wave back and forth and lead the procession.

Aunt Trudy had dug the grave. Ever since that incident with the shovel, she hadn't trusted nobody else.

Pappy had almost finished with the Christian part of the ceremony when Calvin spotted the black figure coming over the hill in the distance.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and Pappy started to dance.

Calvin ignored the oncoming figure and lit the fire. The rest of the family stepped back, wary of the blossoming flames. Calvin began to circle the gathering, waving his lamp, shrouding them in smoke and scent.

The black figure in the distance became Killer Jim Curtis. He was galloping, full speed, firing his shotgun in the air and hollering. "Boy! I come for Robert Earl! Where is he? Don't make me angr-"

A hundred feet away, the Paint stopped, reared, and turned to the side. Jim stopped yelling, but you could hear him cussing the horse. He struggled to control the reins and the gun at the same time. When he got the shotgun back in the scabbard the horse calmed down some. But when he shook the reins again it just turned back and forth. It wouldn't come any closer.

Jim stepped down on the edge of the cotton field. The horse continued to back away, skittish. The killer pulled his revolver and headed toward the ceremony. "If you're burying Robert Earl, don't bother. I got business with him. Dead or alive," and Killer Jim smiled that same demeaning smile.

"He ain't here," Pappy said.

"He damn well better be." Jim cocked the revolver. "Or every ignoramus on this farm is dead. And that's all you halfwits."

"Watch your language, Gawdammit," Pappy said. "We're having a funeral."

"You'll be having more before I'm through!" Jim yelled, and fired his six-gun at Pappy's feet.

Pappy just stood there. Jim cocked the pistol.

"Calvin, give Mamaw the lantern, and go get Robert Earl," Pappy said.

Calvin handed the lantern to Mamaw. She didn't even raise her head. Nobody in the family did except for Pap.

"You must be crazy as you look, old man. You expect me to believe Robert Anson's still alive," Jim said, "much less able to walk?"

"He'll be dancing on your grave," Pap said. "Whatever your name is."

That must've riled Jim, because he fired another shot towards Pappy's feet. Pappy began to dance.

"Damn, you hillbillies crack me up," Jim said. "You're so damn mushbrained, you think I'm stupid as ya'll are. Guess I'm s'posed to be all impressed with your bible beatin', or the fact you ain't run away yet. And then if that don't work, I'm s'posed to take pity on the pathetic geezer, and his suffering little family, all quiet and humble.

"What you don't get, old man, is I don't care. I know Robert Earl is dead. I just want the body to collect my reward. It ain't like you're losing anything."

The hinge on the backdoor creaked long and loud, and Robert Earl stepped out. He was shirtless, but he had his gun belt on.

Pappy almost cracked a smile and Calvin giggled in the window. Calvin was watching through the hole in his brother's gut—and while normally that would've disturbed him—somehow it just made the blank expression on Jim's face that much funnier.

Jim's gun started to shake and he rotated slowly toward Pappy. He moved like the bird in Mamaw's cuckoo clock—like he was driven by gears, waiting for the spring to unwind before he could peep.

Robert Earl cocked his pistol. Killer Jim Curtis stood stone still, his revolver hanging in his hands in front of him. His mouth was open and his eyes stared blank.

Calvin could almost smell Jim's alcohol sweat over the incense. The killer's eyes jerked all around him, looking for some kind of way out, but he couldn't move. He was frozen.

And in that black coat, on the second hottest day of the summer.

"Ah... I-" His voice cracked. "Now I know what you... you... You backwater sodbusters are trying to... You, you set me up. Some Missouri Bootheel, hillbilly trick. I warned you. I'll kill ev..." Something impossible happened then. Jim's face got even blanker.

His gun hand dropped and his expression went from blank to completely devoid of hope. His eyes looked up then folded. His lips pursed like he was drinking sour piss. He was about to cry when he looked down at his feet.

And his eyes went all buggy again.

Even if he hadn't been frozen with fear, he still wouldn't have been able to run. Two pairs of hands had come out of the earth, holding his feet in place, pulling down on top of his boots.

It was Pappy's Yankee field hands, trying to pull themselves out of the dirt. Calvin had been wondering where they'd gone to. One of them managed to get his face out, a little cotton boll stuck in his eye.

"You... You people are crazy!" Jim said. "I'll kill all o' ya'll... I'll... I'll..." Jim's voice trailed off to a whimper.

He'd looked up at the family to point his gun and threaten them. But the family stopped bowing and looked back. The shadows fell from their faces. Beneath the brims of bonnets and old straw hats, Jim saw the faces of the family he'd been threatening.

A scream bounced off the mountain—a holler so loud it built one more fence around the Anson place. Calvin never forgot it and it was the last time Killer Jim ever uttered a sound.

***
At harvest time, Pappy gave Albert's old land to Calvin. It was more of a gift than an enticement to keep him around. Calvin was learning doctoring now, and he had a gift for it. Strong medicine.

The following summer there was an extra farmhand working the fields. He was dressed all in black, on the hottest day of the year.

=======================

B. C. Bell was the writer/ artist/ publisher of the legendary but short-lived mini-comic, Dismental Tales, back in the nineties. A seventh generation Texan, he moved out when everybody else moved in, and adopted Chicago as his hometown. He now lives in Atlanta, and his wife says he can adopt that—if he hangs out fliers in the neighborhood and the original owner doesn't call in the next two weeks. He has recently finished his first novel and is just beginning to shop for an agent. Visit him on the web.

]]> Thu, 05 Mar 2015 17:32:10 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=79&PID=78&title=2nd-how-pappy-got-five-acres-back#78 <![CDATA[2007 Winners : 3rd - In the Hungry Dark, by Susan Brassfield Coga]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=78&PID=77&title=3rd-in-the-hungry-dark-by-susan-brassfield-coga#77 Author: SFReader
Subject: 3rd - In the Hungry Dark, by Susan Brassfield Coga
Posted: Mar-05-2015 at 5:29pm

The Alyrian Pearl came to me first when I sat down to write this story. I knew what was trapped inside, I just had to figure out why. The Dark Man has been inside me for a while looking for a story. He won't tell Q-Jett his name and, darn it, he won't tell me either. He and Q-Jett will definitely be back, they both have a lot of stories they want to tell.

In the Hungry Dark
by Susan Brassfield Cogan
copyright Susan Brassfield Cogan

Once a man who asked me the wrong price for the food he gave me, insisted I pay horizontally. I refused. He insisted more forcefully. I'm strong for a woman and big and I nearly killed him. I deliberately left him alive so whispers about what I had done would spread across the city. A woman like me usually pays for protection on her back. I trade honest labor for food or money chips when I can and I don't need a protector.

I knew the man I thrashed wouldn't dare complain to the Morality Police because they would ask me why I beat him. He knew I would tell them and then we would go to the Pit together. The story did spread and I heard it was even told among the Atharians in the alien section. Because of my peculiar fastidiousness and my method of enforcement, I picked up the nickname Queen Jetti, which got shortened to Q-Jet almost immediately. That name has become a warning and a protection, so I have embraced it.

One night, in the hungry dark, I found a much more worthy opponent.

I walked along the river to meet someone who I was told would pay for a bit of work. I assumed it wasn't honest work, but my empty belly didn't care. I'd rather work for a meal than hunt for something to steal.

The bright lights of a pleasure craft on the river cast sharp, empty shadows that I could duck into and watch the happy, wealthy Atharian offworlders float by in a flash of color and light.

I bumped into a dark form who recoiled away from me.

"'Scuse me," I muttered, manners from the depths of a lost childhood.

"It's nothing," the shadow man grunted. He was tall, more than a head taller than I am and wrapped in a big ragged black cloak against the bitter night.

We seemed to be going in the same direction. There was something different about him. I followed at a respectable distance to study him. It took me a while to figure out why he caught my attention. Then, of course, it was obvious. He walked like a king, like the streets, the stars, the heart of the cold city belonged to him. He was out of place here by the river. He wasn't lurking or keeping to the shadows to avoid hungry people like me who haunt the riverfront.

A beggar accosted the kingly dark man. I couldn't hear what the whimpering, cowering bundle of rags said to him, but the man pressed something into his bony outstretched hand.

I used that chance to get ahead of him. For fun, I mimicked his stride and his air of high and bleeding mighty. It felt good. Better than I thought it would.

A scream tore at the night and I forgot the lordly man. I ran. A lot of women need protection from their protectors. I can't stand that; I interfere where I can.

I turned a corner and saw only a street with a few late night creatures like myself. Distantly, deep growling followed a woman's shaky voice pleading. It was too soft and diffuse to get a direction. Scream again, girl. Scream again. Another shriek split the darkness. Good girl.

I turned another corner and found a well-dressed woman struggling for her life, her attacker's face contorted with fury. I recognized that face. It was Bron the Procurer. For the right number of money chips he'd get you anything you wanted. Everyone knew he had ties to the Atharians, he even bragged he'd been off world once.

I grabbed his wrist, which felt as hard as a tree limb, and aimed a kick at his knee. I missed and harmlessly bruised his thigh, but he was startled and turned the woman loose. He balled up his fist and threw a punch at me. I dodged and felt a menacing breeze brush past my cheek. I'm a strong woman but I am not as strong as most men. I don't fight with my fists. I jumped and aimed a kick in his mid-section. It connected solidly and he staggered back but didn't go down. He ran at me like a freight train.

The woman screamed again, making me jump. It broke my concentration and Bron was a step away. His fists were hammerheads; his arms were pistons.

Another step and he would slaughter me, but a dark form fluttered past and caught his arm before the fist could connect. I launched another kick to his midsection and followed with a kick to his face that connected with his chin.

Now he fell and lay still. I ran to him and prepared to crush his larynx, the killing blow.

"Stop!"

I stopped more out of curiosity than submission. "Why? When he wakes up he'll find us all and kill us."

"I'll take care of him," said the dark man.

"No! Kill him!" said the woman. Her passion surprised me. I hated killing and never did except to save a life. If I had to kill Bron later, I would, but I was happy to put off the chore.

"You want him dead?" said the dark man with a hint of contempt in his voice.

"He tried to steal the--. He tried to steal from me. I thought he was going to kill me. That woman thinks he'll try again."

"I said I would take care of it," said the dark man. "You need to hire a body guard if you're going to come into the wrong part of the city."

"He was my body guard," she said, looking at Bron like he was a pile of garbage. "One of the best agencies in the city sent him to me." I looked at her in astonishment. I simply didn't believe her. Any guarding agency would know Bron the Procurer and call the Morality Police if he stepped foot in their door.

But she was a rich Atharian and they would believe anything. She'd pulled a mirror from her heavy cloak and pushed back tendrils of hair loosed from her perfect coif. She had a smear of something on her chin. It was difficult to say what in the dim blue of a distant street light. I should have left then, but for some reason I was reluctant to walk away from them.

"You aren't safe here," I said. "Either of you. The Morality Police--"

"They wouldn't dare touch me. I'm Chai En-Lao." She had finished with her hair and was carefully examining her beautifully delicate features. I was obviously supposed to have heard of her. I hadn't. I shrugged mentally; she'd been warned.

"My lady!" said the dark man and bowed his head an inch or two. "It is an honor to meet you."

"You're in just as much danger as she is," I said to him. "You're Atharian too, aren't you?"

"Who are you?" said Chai, bluntly to the man. She didn't seem the least curious who I was.

"No one of importance," he said. He turned to me. "Judging from your fighting style you must be Jetti."

So stories about me had reached the Atharians. It was a little chilling. Atharian attention was never good. "How do you know of me?" I had a sudden urge to run. Considering how my life changed that night it wasn't a bad impulse, but my legs didn't move. Something held me there.

"There are whispered stories about Queen Jetti."

Chai stopped repairing her face and looked me up and down contemptuously. "What could you be queen of?"

"Nothing," I said. "I am Q-Jet, queen of nothing." I turned and walked away. I needed to find the man I was supposed to meet. I couldn't afford to miss a chance to work.

"Wait," Chai commanded. I took another step and then waited. The urge to run was still wrestling with the urge to stay with these people.

"No, you can go," said the dark man to me. The simple words bore all the power of his lordliness. No one of importance, my aching ass. He turned back to Chai. "I'll walk you back to the spaceport. You don't belong here."

"No you won't," she said petulantly. "I want her to come with me." She looked me up and down again. It made me want to smash the bones in her face. "I'll pay you well," she added.

"My lady," said the dark man. "You don't know this woman. I'll—"

"No," she said. She tried to sound imperious but she wasn't quite carrying it off. "You will work for me." It wasn't a question. It was a command.

I looked her up and down just to get a little bit even. "Yes." Of course, I thought to myself. I was hungry and I would have cheerfully worked for a two-headed water scorpion.

"Good." She looked at the dark man of no importance. "Clean that up for me, won't you?" She flicked her fingers at Bron, who still lay on the ground breathing but not moving. The dark man bowed again, this time mockingly.

"Come," she said to me. I followed her but I looked back at the dark man who crouched beside Bron's body. He'd never told us his name.

Chai was no two-headed water scorpion, but she was dangerous. She was an addict. A user. She led me to a party in an underground warehouse on the edge of the alien compound, which surrounded the spaceport. She gave the Atharian at the door her name and he let us both in with a smile and without any payment.

The cavernous room was filled with people, sweating, staggering, hysterically cheerful. Music throbbed so loud I thought my ears would bleed.

The place reeked of alcohol. It is death in the Pit for anyone making and selling alcohol and a year in the Pit if you are caught in possession--which is the same thing as a death sentence. I've only tasted alcohol twice. It's foul. The second time was an accident.

Chai was greeted with a warm and sloppy welcome. A waiter with a tray of glasses offered her a drink. She snatched one and downed it in three gulps. Another waiter drifted by with a tray of little dishes containing something I assumed was not candy. Chai ate a selected handful of them, washed down with another glass of alcohol.

I watched her, a ghost in the crowd. No waiters offered me anything. They knew I was working like they were.

People crowded around her adoringly as if she were their queen or their goddess. They darted little glances at each other in excited anticipation as if something important was about to happen.

Chai walked over to the elevated platform where the music machine stood. A man all in black, painfully thin and gaunt, climbed up with her and turned the music down to barely audible. I felt the relief like a release of pressure.

"Attend all ye revelers!" he intoned like a priest. It was wasted words. All eyes were focused on Chai except mine. I watched the crowd. Any threat to my client would come from there. I saw with surprise that the dark man was in the back holding a liquor glass, untouched, as if he could blend in to this crowd of brightly colored and dissipated thrill sluts.

When he saw I noticed him he raised his glass in a kind of salute.

A collective gasp from the crowd followed by a worshipful moan drew my attention back to Chai.

She held cupped in her two hands a globe about the size of my fist. It shimmered and pulsed in iridescent white and yet not white. It swirled with all colors and pulsed with life and light. Chai lifted it high so everyone could see it. Then she lowered it and bowed, pressing it to her forehead.

I felt my heart lift as I looked at it. It was like all the joy and peace in a sad and weary world were concentrated there in Chai's graceful fingers. Her face was luminous with youth and health. I hadn't noticed what a perfect beauty she was. She glowed with perfection.

At first I thought she had begun a slow dance in perfect time with the barely audible music. But after a moment I saw she was just walking to the steps and coming down from the stage, a queen among her devoted subjects. They pressed forward, but I felt she was in no danger. They approached her and touched their foreheads to the globe, imbibing its light. I ached to do the same, but held back by strength of will alone.

Chai slowly progressed through the crowd spreading light, beauty, and sighs of happiness. I longed to do as they did and bow to such perfect bliss. Finally I couldn't stand it and moved toward her.

A hand grabbed my arm. Reflexively I shook it off. The dark man grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. His breath on my face was hot.

"Remember who you are," he whispered in my ear. I didn't want to fight him. I should have killed him for touching me like that, but I didn't want to. I forgave him. The spell was broken. He released me.

I am Q-Jet and I'm not a dope slut.

Chai was still glowing and lovely and I still felt the pull of peace and beauty, but it was at arm's length. I looked around and the dark man was gone.

As morning rose, Chai took me to her apartment and showed me where I could sleep. She gave me a stack of credit chips larger than I had ever owned in my life and told me to tell her when that was used up. I decided it was a week's pay as I stuffed them in my pocket.

I didn't make it an entire week.

I learned that the orb was called an Alyrian Pearl and that it was almost worth the price of a planet.

"How do you know I won't steal it?" I asked.

"You were willing to walk away from it," she answered. Before I could ask what in five hells that could mean, she stretched out on a rumpled bed and fell asleep with the Pearl pressed to her heart.

When I woke in the late afternoon I found her setting the Pearl in a little vault built into the wall. While I watched she shut the door and brushed it tenderly with her fingertips. It sealed perfectly. If I had not watched her doing it, I would never have known that a vault was there.

When darkness fell we went out. To my surprise she didn't take the Pearl with her. She told me she'd been well paid to exhibit the Pearl that night in the club. It was far too risky to carry it with her all the time. Over the next few days I learned she always slept with it. She would stagger home drawn, haggard, sick, and dissipated and tumble into bed with the Pearl tight in her hands. Gradually her face would relax into sleep and she would become serene and childlike with a faint smile warming her face.

It happened on the fifth day—well, the fifth morning. I was supporting her as she staggered home. Two nights before, I'd carried her home across my shoulders but she'd puked down my back, so we wouldn't be doing that any more.

I felt something sting my arm and found a small dart sticking out of my shoulder. My left arm went rapidly numb. I looked around wildly for the source of the attack and saw an empty street. I had a knife in my boot, but it was the right boot and I'd have to drop Chai to get it. Then a net covered us both.

To all the hells with Chai. I dropped her and groped for the knife. But the numbness spread rapidly to my throat, my chest and up to my head. My knees hurt and I had a vague perception I'd fallen to them. I must have fallen further, but I don't know.

A brief eternity later, I was lying in a warm, dimly lit room.

"She's awake," I heard someone say in the watery distance.

Bron was standing over me, a dark purple bruise on his chin. I should have been frightened but I couldn't raise the energy. I closed my eyes to shut out the sight of him. When I opened them again Bron had been replaced with the dark man.

"Can you speak?"

I licked my dry lips and said "Yes," experimentally. It was a dry croak. The dark man had a beautiful little silver tube in his hand. He pressed it against my shoulder and I felt a sudden sting.

The fog in my head began to lift. Bron appeared at the dark man's shoulder. I must have reacted because the dark man said, "Relax, you are in no danger." His authority, his command, made it impossible not to believe him.

"Why did you do this?"

The dark man smiled down at me, his face weathered with years. He had enormous eyes and a hawk-beak nose. He still wore the tattered black cloak but he'd pushed the hood back to reveal black hair, short cropped around his face.

"The Pearl, of course. Alyrian Pearls are beyond price and they are also beyond ownership. It does not belong to Chai. It belongs to itself."

"So what?" I said. My voice was mine again. I thought I could sit up, but decided to stay paralyzed a little longer. I couldn't tell if the knife was still in my boot.

"You are going to help me get it."

"No, I'm not." What else could I say?

"Sit up and look over there."

Obviously my ruse was no longer a ruse, so I sat up and looked where he indicated. Chai lay on a narrow bed tied spread eagled hand and foot. Her mouth was covered by silver tape. Her moist eyes looked at me, filled with pleading.

"You will do what I ask or Bron will do anything with Chai that he pleases, and then he will do the same to you. He is allowed free reign as long as the final result is that both of you are dead."

His words were chilling and he seemed quite sincere but his threat excited my curiosity more than fear.

"Screw yourself."

Now the dark man's eyes glittered with anger. "Bron," he said softly.

Bron pulled out a knife and cut a shallow line on Chai's shoulder without any hesitation. She writhed and screamed through the tape on her mouth. I knew him. I knew he'd dismember Chai like a chicken, with all the emotion of a housewife making dinner. Bron moved around Chai and prepared to slice the other arm.

"Stop," I said. Bron had Chai's arm in one hand and the knife in the other. He stopped like he was posing. "It's sealed in a vault. There's no way I can get it for you."

"A vault?" the dark man turned to Chai with such loathing that she closed her eyes and seemed to diminish. "Describe the vault to me."

"Why don't you just ask her?" I said nodding at Chai.

"She's an addict. She would never give it up voluntarily. She'll kill to protect it and die rather than voluntarily release it. Describe the vault to me."

I did as he asked while part of my mind puzzled over the look he'd given Chai.

"It's possibly a DNA key," said the dark man thoughtfully. "What hand did she use to seal the fault?"

I closed my eyes and visualized the scene. "The left," I said.

"And yet she's right handed." He went over to Chai and removed the glittering bracelet from her left wrist. He dipped it in the thin stream of blood beginning to coagulate on her arm. Then he handed me the bloody bauble.

"Bring me the Pearl," he said. "If this fails, return here and we'll try another tack."

"If this fails," I said. "You'll never see me again."

The dark man smiled pleasantly. "Yes we will. Otherwise Bron will cut her head off and we will take a wrecking ball to her apartment."

I tried to decide if he was telling the truth. This man was not a killer, and not an addict. Something else drove him.

I stood and left without another word. Chai struggled and growled through her gag. I ignored her.

"Q-Jet."

I turned at the door. "Yes?"

"Don't touch it with your bare skin. Use gloves or wrap it in something."

I nodded and left. Many flights of steps took me to the night above. When I got to the surface, I realized I was inside the space port. I found the back entrance to Chai's apartment building. There were no guards or doormen on this side. No need for them. Guards were only to keep people like me out.

I made it safely up to the apartment and keyed the security code.

Someday I want an apartment like Chai's. Her apartment was clean, well-lit and warm. It had five comfortable rooms. All of that was nice but negligible. What I most admired was the sense of safety and security. The cold, hostile, world was outside. Warmth and safety were inside. I'd never slept so soundly as I had in Chai's tiny servants' quarters.

I made straight for her bedroom and the vault. I waved the bloody bracelet in front of the door and ran my fingers along the edge to trigger what I assumed was the latch. Nothing happened. I did the entire ritual again. Nothing.

I put on the bracelet, flecking my hand with powdered dried blood. I stroked the door as I'd seen her do. Nothing. The door stayed shut. I rested my palm flat on the area of the wall where I knew the door had to be. Even through the inches-thick plasteel, I could feel the Pearl. I closed my eyes and imagined Chai's movements. Stroking, almost caressing. I saw her pulling it out and pressing it against her forehead. A deep longing to hold the Pearl in my own hands overcame me. I stroked the door as I'd seen Chai do and it popped open. It was like my deepest heart's desire had been given to me.

The Pearl lay inside the vault on a velvet cloth. It glowed golden yellow with flecks of brown. Trembling I reached for it.

I stopped.

"Remember who you are," the dark man had said. "Don't touch it," he'd warned. Suddenly, I knew if I touched it I would lose myself -- and I am all I have. Trembling, I pulled the velvet cloth up around it and then pushed the bundle into a pocket. Even protected from it by the cloth, I still felt filled with warmth, with daylight. While I had been inside Chai's apartment, the sun had risen and its soft, clean light filled the decaying, dirty streets. Port workers, street vendors, housewives in their shawls and long skirts, market baskets over their arms were all bathed with shimmering, healing light.

I returned to the deep basement where the dark man and Bron held Chai. It was one of the most difficult journeys of my life because at the end of it I knew I would give the Pearl away.

I didn't believe the dark man would behead Chai, but I knew Bron would do it eagerly if a few credit chips were involved. Chai sat up on the little bed with her cloak pulled tight around her. The silver tape was gone from her mouth. It left a red patch when it had been ripped off. Her wrists were bound and her face was puffy from crying. She looked exhausted, more tired and drawn than I had ever seen her. I was surprised that the dark man wasn't there, but he entered the door only a few seconds after me.

"You followed me," I said.

"Of course," he said as if it were understood. "Do you have it?"

"Of course," I said and pulled it out of my pocket. I tossed the velvet bundle to him. It was like throwing away my heart.

"Noooo!" Chai wailed as if her last child were being murdered in front of her. "No, you can't--" she tried to stand up, but Bron took care of that.

"Thank you," said the dark man. "We will all go up into the sunlight." He headed for the door without the slightest doubt we'd follow him. I certainly did. Bron made sure that Chai did too.

The compound was still empty. I could see in the distance the spaceport workers were arriving for their morning shift. Three ships hovered in the distance, their antigravs glowing brilliant blue in the early morning light.

The dark man threw back his cloak, and held the Pearl in one hand, slowly unwrapping it with the other. He, too, was careful not to touch it with his bare skin. He stood for a moment as the Pearl changed from brownish gold to glowing white.

"Alyrian Pearls must be nourished by light," he said. "You can't kill it, but darkness starves and tortures it. Shutting it away in a box is utter cruelty."

I glanced at Chai. She was weeping hysterically again, limp in Bron's arms. I felt I could never shut such a beautiful thing away, but then I am not a dope slut.

At least I thought I wasn't. The dark man tilted his hand and dropped the Pearl onto the tarmac where it smashed in a thousand pieces.

A scream tore out of me, joined by wet, hysterical screams and insane thrashing from Chai. She clawed at Bron with superhuman strength and in a moment his face bled from several scratches. She slipped out of his hands like an eel and dove at the shards of the Pearl, cutting her hands and knees and face on the shattered remains. I just stood there stunned, too numb with grief to move.

Then I saw something I didn't believe. A woman coalesced out of thin air above the spattered bits of glass. She was iridescent and shining, her skin shone like it was made up out of the same stuff as the Pearl itself.

"Good morning, Lady," said the dark man to the shining woman. "Can you heal her?" He gestured to Chai's sobbing form.

"In part," said the woman. She reached down and touched Chai on the top of the head and Chai drew a deep shuddering breath. She didn't look up or even act like she noticed the touch. She was bleeding from several small cuts and still focused on what was rapidly becoming just little bits of glass.

I couldn't take my eyes off the shining woman. I stared at her hopelessly as if all the cold streets of the city ran through my heart. When she was gone, and I knew she would go, I would be alone in the hungry dark. She saw me and I flinched from her gaze. When she moved toward me I wanted to flee but I hopelessly stood my ground. I expected her touch to be cold, but it was more like being brushed with a feather. The darkness inside me lifted a little.

"Lady," said the dark man. "Go to liner CAP5206-HG and present yourself to the steward. A passage has been booked for you back to Alyra. They will have the facilities to make you comfortable during your voyage."

"Thank you," said the shining woman. "I owe you a great debt." She brushed his cheek and he smiled at her, years dropping away from his lined and leathery face.

"Be free, great lady, that is payment enough." She smiled again and then she spread out and streamed away as if a wind was blowing her toward the distant space ships.

Chai still sat on the tarmac watching the shining woman go, tears streaming down her bloodied face. In this light she looked much older and deeply exhausted.

"Bron, take care of that, will you?" said the dark man flicking his fingers at Chai. Bron hauled the woman to her feet and set off in the direction of her apartment building.

"The whole thing was a set up from the beginning," I said to the dark man.

"Yes. Thank you for your part in it."

"You aren't welcome." I felt like I should have been angry. He'd used me from the first moment. But I wasn't angry. I had enough chips left over to keep me for a month if I was careful. That wasn't bad.

"You and I are a lot alike, Queen Jetti," said the dark man.

"No," I said icily. "We are not. Who was the woman inside the Pearl?"

"She's not a woman. Her kind have no gender. That was the form of an actress I admire. She plucked it out of my mind." He studied me for a moment with dark, alien eyes. I wanted to walk away from them. Fast. "Work for me," he said finally. "The work suits your temperament and pays well. Would you like a steady job?"

Of course I would. This man was a big improvement over a two-headed water scorpion.

"I will work for you if you tell me your name."

He laughed.

====================

Susan Brassfield Cogan is the author of JUBILEE, A NOVEL (2003) and MURDER ON THE WATERFRONT, A Lady Chesterleigh Mystery (2004), and THE POCKET DARWIN. Recently, her novel THE MAN WHO NEEDED KILLING was chosen as a finalist in Amazon.com's Breakthrough Novel contest. She writes short stories and essays on a broad range of topics and has been been published in AlienSkin, Hardluck Tales, Mysterical-E, Orchard Press Mysteries, Anotherealm (2-time winner of flash fiction contest), Burst, MoonDance and Deep Magic. She blogs at The Speakeasy.]]> Thu, 05 Mar 2015 17:29:46 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=78&PID=77&title=3rd-in-the-hungry-dark-by-susan-brassfield-coga#77