The Future Is Short (15 page)
“You know, Mike,” said one, “I really didn’t want it to come to this.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “We didn’t have any choice, Joe.”
“I know,” Joe said. He thought for a moment. “What was it that you called it?”
“Gimme a sec.” The one called Mike wiped his visor of the wind-blown soot that dusted the landscape to the horizon. “Oh, yes.”
He scanned a column of black smoke, its pall turning the sun a hellish red.
“An eye for an eye.”
Allen Quintana is a California native. He doesn’t need a “feminine side” since he’s sided from all points of the compass by five daughters and his lovely wife of 24 years and counting, which inspires his muse with plenty of drama and humor and then some.
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3
3.
D C Mills
I attend the trial in disguise. Of course, I do just about everything in disguise these days, except maybe shower.
For today, I have chosen a vaguely military or Guard-style look: black bodyglove, high boots,
crimson leather tunic. An embossed scabbard holding a short, pointed sword on my left hip, and a shoulder holster with two snub-nosed laspistols. Over it all, a long, black cloak with the hood drawn up to shadow my face. Probably an unnecessary precaution these days, but old habits die hard. The overall effect is intended to keep people from looking at me too hard, to avoid risking a violent response to their curiosity.
The trial results, predictably, in a guilty verdict, and the convicted girl is brought straight to the scaffold in the courtyard outside. The crowd pours through the wide doors, now flung open, to take advantage of the full entertainment package. Everybody loves a good burning.
I haven’t seen who I came here to find, so I make my way upstairs to the private chambers of the higher officials. I go to the door with the right name on it, knock, and enter immediately, as if I really were an officer, taking access to any room for granted.
He is standing by the window behind his desk, reading from a data slab while making notes. I have, of course, been watching him for a while, but being in the same room elicits a response from long unused neural pathways. Old emotions awaken.
He looks up, surprised, annoyed at being disturbed, but quickly feigning politeness at the sight of my uniform.
‘What can I do for you, officer?’ He puts down the data slab to show cooperation.
Sensible, even for a man of his rank. I wonder, briefly, if I can still trust him.
I pull down the hood of my cloak, releasing the holographic visor.
‘It’s me.’ I say. ‘I’m back.’
He stares at me, as if unsure whether I am real. I can’t say I blame him.
‘I have been mourning you for over a century,’ he says at last. ‘You were said to have died in the fire.’
The fire, indeed.
The huge conflagration that destroyed not only our native city, but the surrounding countryside and neighbouring towns: most of the continent, actually, causing the ecosystem of the planet to tilt and slide over the edge.
‘I’m sorry. It was safer to stay in hiding.’
‘Safer? For whom?’
‘For everybody.
You, too.’ I hesitate and then plunge in. It’s what I’m here for, after all.
‘I have been able to investigate, do undercover work. I believe I have found the cause for the destruction of Naxos, as well as the organisation behind it.’
‘What do you mean, ‘organisation’? It was the Enemy who destroyed our planet.’
‘It would seem that way,’ I say carefully. ‘It was supposed to seem that way. The evidence was compiled and manufactured to point everyone at the Enemy—or rather, to confirm everybody’s inherent suspicion that the Enemy was behind the attack.’
I hand him my data slab containing the details: times, dates, connections, code names. Plans and reasons, maps and lists. The insane rationality behind the planned destruction of a whole series of planets, an entire subsector of the galaxy.
‘This is unbelievable,’ he says. His eyes narrow. ‘How can I be sure that you are you?’
I have been waiting for this question; I had expected it sooner. Is he growing old? Or feeling too secure in his position of power, maybe.
‘Ask me anything,’ I say. ‘Or
…’
He looks at me shrewdly.
‘A mind-meld? You know I wouldn’t risk that without knowing it really was you.’
Long ago, when our world was still green, we knew each other intimately and believed it would be so forever. We shared everything. Some secrets are hidden so deep that even identity theft or torture cannot bring them out: only someone who already knows the answer can ask the right question.
I think I know what his will be.
I shrug, outwardly unconcerned. ‘Ask, then.’
I brace myself for the coming wave of unleashed memories. Will my laboriously upheld balance of mind withstand the emotional assault?
He asks the question that will at the same time confirm my identity and be my undoing.
D C Mills (a.k.a. Dorthe Møller Christensen) is a scholar and teacher of classics; knitting designer, runner, reader, and writer of short stories. She lives in a small house in the middle of Denmark with three tall sons and a spoilt cat.
[email protected]
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3
4.
S.M. Kraftchak
Peering into the busy passageway, Creela practiced a respiration, tugged her uniform into place, and stepped forward. She walked slowly at first, her eyes darting to each humanoid that passed, smiling when they smiled, and returning nods.
“Lieutenant Creela, a word, if you don’t mind?”
Creela paused. Looking around to be sure no one heard her hydra pulse quicken, she turned to face the tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes. She hoped she wasn’t being rude enough to blush. “Major Hanson, what can I do for you?” He stopped close enough that she could sense his musky smell, and found it strangely alluring.
“I was going over your thesis on alien incursion and found your premise quite interesting. I wondered if you might be available after-shift to discuss it over drinks.”
Creela spotted the corners of his smile quivering, as his pupils widened, and was relieved to know that humanoids couldn’t hear her hydra race as she could hear his heart. She felt her mouth drop open as her mind scrambled to find the correct response. Think quick, Creela, think. What would a humanoid do?
“Um, um, do you think the environmental controls are malfunctioning? It feels awfully cool in here,” she said.
Hanson’s face creased above his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned downward.
Creela hadn’t yet mastered the complex language of humanoid faces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Perhaps I should—”
“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ve been alone in deep space for so long that my interpersonal skills
….”
Creela smiled and held out her hand. “I’d love to discuss my thesis over drinks.”
Her own eyes widened and she forgot to respire as Hanson lifted her hand to his lips and pressed their warm softness to her palm.
“Until later, then.”
His voice was a deep low purr.
As Hanson walked away, Creela tipped her head to the side to overcome a rush of vertigo. Her mouth formed a perfect O as she admired the man’s sculpted form. “Well, let’s hope our species have more than that in common,” she thought. She was mildly aware when another humanoid stopped close behind her.
“You lucky girl,” Yeoman Tate whispered in Creela’s ear. “Every red-blooded female on the station has been yearning after that one. You don’t even try and you lure him right in. If only he’d wear his uniforms a little tighter. . . .”
“It’s just a meeting to discuss—” Creela looked at Tate.
Tate snickered and fluttered her eyebrows. “You keep telling yourself that.”
***
Looking both ways first, Creela pressed Hanson’s door chime. The door opened almost immediately. Hot moist air surged from behind the man, who nearly filled the doorway.
“Lieutenant Creela, so glad you could make it.”
Creela trembled involuntarily in the warm humidity.
“Come in, please.”
She nodded and stepped in. The room was lit by a small, dancing holo-fire. She tipped her head as the man stepped in front of her and removed his flowing shirt to reveal his glistening chest. She never suspected that humanoid mating rituals were so close to her own. Creela felt her tiny spiracles nearly suck her loose clothing to her skin. She struggled for composure and held a hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling—”
“No deception necessary, Alecre.”
Creela stepped back and stared into Hanson’s face. “How do you know that name?”
Hanson eased forward, gazing into her eyes. “You are so focused on your deceptive form that you don’t recognize me, do you? I’d know you across the galaxy by your essence.”
Mesmerized, Creela allowed Hanson to lift her flowing shirt over her head. As it slipped from her arms, her spiracles flared. “Shanno?”
A moment later, their spiracle-covered skin flushed lavender and their bodies pressed together, allowing their essences to entwine in sensual embrace.
S. M. Kraftchak notes: As a writer who spends most of her time in other worlds with dragons, elves, and the occasional alien, S.M. still enjoys sunrise on the beach, sunset in the mountains, and portraying Elizabeth Tudor. She has two dogs, who think they are footrests, a cat who thinks she’s a blanket, and three awesome daughters. Her husband is her best friend, her harshest critic, and her most fervent supporter. Writing is S.M.’s passion.
