Category: Fiction

Hospital

 

Will and Leah sit in the corner, together but alone. The lights are artificial and steady. Beds squeak and drumming feet follow. White gowns and blue scrubs flow through the hallways, chatting and answering the calls of their pagers. Staff and visitors wash their hands in the basin on the wall opposite the reception desk. The smell of antiseptic is sharp. Magazines litter the coffee table and a family is arguing in a language that is unfamiliar. Will has his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He perches on a blotchy blue chair, bouncing his leg, constantly checking the wall clock. The ticking is consistent and rhythmic, but frustrating. 12:00 am. It’s been four hours since Lucy went under.

 * * *

Leah closes the door with her foot, locking the cold air in the foyer. Laden with plastic shopping bags, she waddles inside and dumps them on the kitchen floor. She wheezes; six stories of stairs never used to take a toll on her. The dust on the tiles is clearly visible from a standing position. She sighs- Will was meant to mop. It’s getting dark and no-one’s home. All Leah can hear is a basketball bouncing outside and thumping from her neighbours above. She knocks a broom end on the roof to rebuke them.

‘Honestly,’ she puffs.

Leah puts the broom back in the closet near the front door, and throws her keys on the vanity. She hangs her jacket on faux deer antlers and walks into the lounge room, pausing to look at the photos on the wall. The Yin and Yang appearance of one photo makes her smile: Will, with his dark features and messy hair, next to her fair skin and long curls. A year ago they got a photographer around to take family portraits of the three of them. Leah had pulled Lucy’s cardigan on, propping her up on a stool.

‘Let’s get some without the scars, huh?’

Despite Leah’s efforts, the best ones are of Lucy in a tutu, with a wide smile like a partially burnt corn cob. A shrill voice pierces the quiet.

Leah gasps, ‘Lucy!’

She jumps up and runs, following the noise to the kitchen. Leaping over the shopping bags, she kicks one by accident, and hops and clambers to peek out the tiny window. Her body deflates with relief. Lucy is laughing as she jogs to the edge of the driveway. Despite the mist coming from her mouth, Lucy is barefoot, in her tutu with black bike shorts on underneath. She doubles over, hands on her knees, to catch her breath. Will is standing outside the communal garage under the basketball hoop, holding a ball. The window obscures the rest of the courtyard, so Leah marches through the lounge room. She unlatches the window and pushes it upwards, the wood squeals and splinters, but it opens. Cold, smoggy air rushes to greet her. She climbs through, landing on the fire escape. From the sixth floor she can see the outline of the city: purple silhouettes and blinking headlights racing home. The road outside the apartment is barely used, but the occasional car would wander through.

Leaning over the metal railing of the balcony, Leah calls out, ‘don’t push her too hard, Will.’

Lucy straightens up. Looking at her mother, she plasters on a smile. Will glances up, rolls his eyes and grins.

‘Screw Doctor Singh. She’s getting really good. Watch.’

He holds the ball out in front of him. He looks back at his daughter.

‘Ready?’

Leah clenches the railing.

‘Princess, come up and finish your drawings. They’re looking great!’

Lucy eyes the ball and leans forward, readying herself.

‘Lucy, I got you the cookies that you like. The ones with the peanut butter in them!’

Giving one final glance to her mother, Lucy bursts forward, her tutu bouncing like a dainty butterfly. She runs towards the hoop, receives the pass from Will, takes two steps and chucks it into the air. The ball curves in an arch and goes straight through without touching the ring. The steel net catches, clapping, and dumps the ball. Will whoops and high-fives Lucy. Leah puts a finger to her lips.

‘Shush! 304 will get upset, you know he’s got an early shift tomorrow!’

Will pokes his tongue out at Leah. The ball bounces on the ground and hits a stone, ricocheting and rocketing off. Lucy turns and chases it, her feet pattering on the concrete. Will sees the alarm on Leah’s face and whips around. Headlights flash- a car turning into the driveway. The ball rolls across the road in front of the car as Lucy trots off the gutter to retrieve it. Leah bangs her hands on the railing.

‘Lucy!’

The car screeches to a halt and Lucy freezes, eyes wide. Will rushes over to his daughter. She leaks tears, but doesn’t cry. Placing her hand over the scar on her chest, she collapses backwards, fainting. Her tutu crumples as she is collected in her father’s arms. The car door opens and a woman, Mrs Aldacour from 101, is babbling.

‘Is she okay? Oh my god, is she alright?’

Leah rushes from the balcony back inside, collecting her bag, and doesn’t even close the door behind her. The basketball sits in the gutter on the other side of the road. Waiting.

 * * *

The shape of a young man under a white sheet, hooked and wired to machines. His hair meets with the beard at his neck and his nails are beginning to curl. His mother stands over his lifeless form and sobs, smoothing the wrinkles out of the sheet. She tucks him in. His brother waits in a chair beside the bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. His father signs the last of the papers and hands them back to the doctor, who pauses and nods at each of them, then promptly exits the room.

 * * *

An orderly places a file on the reception desk. The nurse behind it puts up her thumb, holding a corded phone between her cheek and her shoulder. Will sighs and rubs at his face. When they got the call, he had no time or thoughts for grabbing clothes. Lucy was in her bed. He cradled her, even though she was getting so big, and carried her down the stairs; he didn’t trust the apartment’s elevator. All he could manage to slip on before leaving were his sandals, which were a terrible idea for winter and the inside of a hospital. At least Leah had the sense to wear slippers, track pants and a t-shirt. She attempts a crossword in the back of a puzzle book. Her nails are chewed and chipped and her hair is swept back into a messy bun. Scribbling at an error for the fifth time, she pierces the page with her pencil. She throws the book down with an ‘Ugh’ and it thumps onto the coffee table. Will looks at her as she bolts up.

‘Why don’t they tell us anything?’ she spits, and starts pacing in front of the coffee table.

Will watches for a while, helpless. He glances at the wall clock. 12:05 am. It’s going to be a long night.

Elevator

 

The air conditioner in the apartment complex died weeks ago. The kids in 205 are bashing on pots and pans, screaming. Mrs Aldacour in 101 is cooking trout and the stench drifts down the narrow, cream hallway to where Peter and Dave are waiting for the elevator. Peter puts his phone into his backpack, adjusts it to his shoulders, and remains fixated on cracking his knuckles. Dave is tapping his foot and scanning the wallpaper. Up close, he can see two tiny birds that are huddling on eggs in their nests. Another couple of nursed hatchlings. He snickers. Peter cracks his thumb.

‘Wait till you see upstairs. You’ll see.’

‘Yeah, great,’ Dave grumbles.

The elevator dings and beckons them inside. Dave shakes his head and steps in. Peter folds his arms and crosses the threshold after his father. Inside it’s dark with one ceiling light, and it’s even hotter than in the hallway. The mirrors are scratched with gang tags, love hearts and phalli. Dave and Peter both wait a moment before looking at each other. Dave shrugs. Peter rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms and clicks the level 6 button. The doors close with a slunk. Peter continues to crunch his knuckles.

‘You’ll get arthritis,’ Dave growls, watching the red digital numbers on the panel above the door count up from ground floor. The elevator clunks along. Peter cracks his neck and looks at his father, testing him. Floor 1. It works; Dave inhales, puffing his chest like a territorial owl.

‘Seriously mate, fucking stop.’

Peter huffs. Floor 2. Dave mops the sweat accumulating on his brow and looks at it in his palm.

‘Why this place?’

Dave wipes his hand on his jeans.

‘It’s a shit hole. Stay home, stop being so selfish.’

Peter shoots him a look. Floor 3.

‘Selfish?’ he scoffs, ‘Dave, listen up. I’m twenty years old. Let go.’

‘Dave?’ he laughs, ‘Yeah, righto, son. Good luck affording this place without me.’

Peter inhales. Floor 4.

‘I’ve been working for three years. Or maybe you didn’t notice because you were busy forgetting you had two sons.’

Dave turns towards him. Floor 5.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

The elevator shudders. The numbers glitch and the panel becomes a pixelated mess. The ceiling light flickers and conks out completely. Dave blinks and stares into the darkness. He reaches forward, finding the control buttons, hammering everything with no response. Peter groans and sits down. The floor is sticky and hard. Dave pulls out his phone and the blue-white light blinds him for a moment. He blinks it off. As expected, he has no reception. He smashes one fist into the wall and calls out. Sliding off his backpack, Peter removes his bottle and takes a swig of water. He stretches out and shakes the bottle. The contents gulp and swish.

‘Want some?’

Dave slaps the bottle out of his hands. Water spurts over Peter’s legs and the bottle thuds on the floor, rolling and sloshing back and forth. Dave runs his fingers through his hair, and it’s so slick with sweat that it stays. Kicking the bottle out of the way, he sits down next to his son. Peter shuffles as close to the wall as possible and turns his head away.

 * * *

Peter stands in the kitchen doorway. The counter is covered in pizza boxes and dirty dishes. All the blinds are drawn and the fern on the windowsill is wilting.

‘Did you want anything while I’m out?’

Dave opens a white booklet as thick as a rope. Leaning forward in his chair, he places the booklet on the table among other pages fanned out on the glass.

‘Dad?’

‘Ah, no thanks, Peter.’

He rubs his eyes and stares at the pages. Peter shivers, zipping up his leather jacket.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Mum. Seeing Isaac?’

‘You guessed it.’

Dave picks up a pen and begins circling and underlining. The ink bleeds in splodges and Dave scratches at the pages. Peter turns and grabs the doorframe. Hesitating, he looks over his shoulder.

‘When is it?’ he mumbles.

The pen gives up. Dave hurls it across the kitchen and it cracks against the wall, splintering into tiny shards of plastic. He pulls another out from the pocket of his stiff collared shirt.

‘As soon as we get all this sorted,’ he gestures with a wide sweep of his arm. Peter looks at the broken mess on the floor and back at his father, before turning and closing the door behind him.

 * * *

The elevator is a sauna. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the back of Dave’s knees stick to his thighs. He sighs, unpeeling his legs so they lie straight.

‘I know you need to go to Uni and whatever else. I just don’t want you to . . . disappear.’

Peter laughs.

‘I’m moving, not dying.’

The words escape like a fume, clouding around them. Dave scratches his head. Peter clears his throat.

‘I mean, I’m not really going anywhere, Dad. Sorry,’ he adds.

Dave crawls forward and collects the bottle, taking a sip. Muffled voices float from the floor above. They both pause, listening, before they disappear. The lights flicker and come back on. The panel is confused between 5 and 6.

Dave swallows.

‘Come on, one more year?’

Peter shakes his head. Metal screams. The elevator jerks upwards a foot or so and the doors screech open. Peter jumps up and rushes out, gulping in the fresh air.

‘You right, mate?’

A man pokes his head through the door, holding a cardboard box in his arms.

‘Yeah, it happens sometimes, I would just take the stairs next time, aye.’

Dave stands and dusts his rump.

‘Yeah, thanks.’

The man laughs, but Dave recognises the look in his eyes. He sees through the same dark pools himself. Peter removes his backpack and searches. The cream wallpaper greets Dave as he steps out of the elevator, only now he notices another tiny bird couple watching as their fledgling leaps from the nest. Dave side steps the man and peers into the box. A basketball sits on top of a scrunched tutu.

‘My daughter’s,’ the man says, noting Dave’s squinting eyes.

‘Yeah, I had a son who loved basketball too. Wasn’t into ballet, though.’

Dave tries a smile.

‘Hmm.’ The man nods.

Peter jingles the keys and approaches the door. Dave shakes the man’s hand and backs away, entering the apartment behind his son. He closes the door behind them. The man waits for a moment and sighs. Readjusting the box in his arms, he walks down the hallway to where his wife is waiting. They take the stairs and exit the building, together but alone.

You lay your hand upon her cool skin and move closer towards her. You pause, centimetres from her skin, breathing in that heady metallic scent. She is beautiful, but she is not finished. Her body lies prone on the metal slab, cloth bands covering what would usually be covered for modesty’s sake.

They told you to make her everything they could ever want in a soldier. But you wanted to make her beautiful. She isn’t simply a solider to you. She can’t open her eyes yet, but they are hazel. Her hair lays on a bench to her right; it is chocolate and the softest thing your calloused fingers can remember having touched. She is curves and softness, but the muscles beneath that smooth skin are taut, twisted polymer. Each part of her was chosen with care. From her smallest toe to the shape of her ears. Abandoned parts are strewn about the lab. The flesh moulds stick out clearly against the gunmetal grey that dominates the room. There is even a whole arm in the corner. It was out by 2 millimetres. The left arm longer than the right. You remember hitting your assistant, dragging him out of your lab by the back of his coat and locking the doors behind him. You’ve worked alone since then. You can’t allow anyone else’s imperfect touch on her. She is yours. And they will never have her.

You raise your arms wide, pulling up the holopad and flicking to her bio. They are guidelines that tempered your hands as you made her. You made her logical, methodical and rational. But she will have an appreciation of beauty. Not just aesthetics, but the beauty in a baby’s wrinkled fingers, a kind gesture, or the lines of laughter. She will be bound by one overriding protocol. She must preserve herself. Her life, her beauty, her autonomy. She must be free. It is the only command she will ever have to obey. She will have her own mind and she will learn from her experiences. But she will not be swayed by bias, by emotion, or attachment.

You move your hands to her left wrist, your fingers finding her pressure points. Her back arches slightly and the skin on her upper thigh goes black, a menu screen appearing on it. The old terminology would be a control panel, but once she is woken, she will not be controlled. She is not theirs. You link her connectivity map to the holopad. You started with her toes, manipulating her system to make them wiggle and scrunch. You worked upwards as fast as you could, and now there is only one thing left. Her face.

There are forty-eight muscles in it –you gave her more than necessary. You want to see every possible expression come to life through them. Your hands move quickly in anticipation, each connection brings her closer to consciousness. But the harsh trill of your Percom halts your hands. The Director’s image flashes in the corner of the holopad and you draw it to the front, answering his call. You’ve tried ignoring his calls but it only leads to more interruptions. Better to get it over with.

‘Hello, Doctor. How is our favourite little project going today?’ He says, expectation glittering his golden eyes –a popular bio-mod.

‘She’s beautiful, Director. Not long to go now.’ You say with a calm smile. The Director likes to see you calm, in control. He smiles broadly as he arches his neck to look around you.

‘Beautiful? Well, as beautiful as bald girls get,’ he chuckles. You laugh too, he expects it.

‘Yes, sir. I’m just making sure I don’t need access to any of the panels on her skull before I attach her hair. Once it is assimilated it will grow like human hair, so I’d hate to have to shave her if things don’t go smoothly.’

‘And are they?’ He says, a hard edge pulling at the corner of his mouth and his tone. You tighten your smile in place before you speak, glancing back at her perfection.

‘Of course, sir. She is perfect.’

‘Wonderful!’ He exclaims, though a threat still lingers in his eyes. ‘Remember your due date, Doctor. Wouldn’t want her to be delivered late.’ He laughs at his own joke. You pull your hands behind your body, clenching your fists.

‘Of course, sir. Of course. We’re right on schedule.’

‘Brilliant. I’ll have Jenkins come in and see her later on today, there’s nothing like a physical inspection of the goods you’ve ordered! Then next, the test drive, hey?’ He ends the com with a wink and your smile drops. Test drive.

You turn back towards her. She is undisturbed by his words, though your nails bite into your palms. You release your fists slowly, putting a hand on hers. She calms you. Her stillness calms you and you are still, with her. Your breathing slows and you release her hand. Her map awaits you and her muscles wait for your fingers to guide them into place. Zygomaticus major, orbicularis oris, frontalis, risorius, depressor labii inferioris, masseter, metalis, depressor anguli oris. Done. You spin the map to so you can face her properly and tap the risorius muscle. The corners of her mouth pull slightly. The left, the right, that smile. You hold it and her mouth pulls wide, baring her perfect teeth. But it’s not her smile. There is no life in it. You zoom out and the connectivity map shines bright in all the right places. She is ready for the final touch. You pick up her hair, the long chocolate tresses falling across your hands. You place it over her head, lifting her head up slightly to tuck it around her neck. A flick of your fingers and her scalp assimilates it. You brush a stray strand off her face, your hand lingering just a moment longer than it should.

You switch her to standby. A slight jolt is the only sign of that first stage of life. Her chest begins to rise and fall. She is powered by the air she breathes, her body converting it to energy. The bandages on her chest pull snug with each breath. Her levels are holding steady and you can’t wait any longer. You release her programming. She is free. You’re not sure whether the tightness in your stomach is excitement or fear but she is awake now. A harsh jolt ripples across her body and her eyes fly open. She turns her head first, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes come to rest on you.

‘Doctor,’ she breathes. She already knows who you are. You know she will be running through her data on you, putting you in perspective. She pushes herself up and turns to dangle her feet over the edge of the slab. She wiggles her toes, a quizzical look taking over her face. You laugh, her distraction is beautiful.

‘How do you feel?’ You ask.

‘Feel?’ She says, a pursed smile playing at her mouth. ‘I am awake. There’s a lot in here, Doctor.’ She taps her forehead. Her voice is clear and crisp and confident. She is no nervous child.

‘Yes, there were certain…parameters in your creation,’ you say. You go to the closet and pull out a simple shift dress and underwear in her size. ‘Here,’ you say, handing the clothes to her.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She is shameless as she sheds her bandages, exposing the perfect flesh beneath. She pulls on the underwear and dress without hesitation. A smile flits across her face as she runs her hands through her hair, her fingers jerking as they pull through the tangles.

‘Hmm, chocolate,’ she says, looking up at you. ‘What colour are my eyes?’

‘Hazel,’ you say. She pauses.

‘Like yours?’

‘Yes, like mine.’

She walks to the window that stretches along the back of the long metal bench. Broken and spare parts are littered across it. She picks up what could’ve been her little toe if you’d wanted. It was too thick for her delicate feet. You walk over to stand beside her, but not too near. The distance between you is full of the energy that flows through her and you can feel her on your skin. She is looking out of the window.

‘We’re underground,’ you say. ‘Did you know that? I can’t remember whether you know that.’ You summon up the holopad in front of you without waiting for a response. She is silent, waiting for you. You flick through her programmed data, what she will call her memories. Medicine, warcraft, languages, history, geography, and an infinite knowledge of technology. You hear her inhale sharply as you flick through her head. You glance aside and notice her mouth is open just a little. Her lips parted to let in that one brief intake of air. She can feel you inside her. Inside her head. She is still caught between breaths and her chest is full. You can’t help the hand that reaches for her, stroking her face softly. She is everything you intended her to be. She pulls away from you.

‘Yes, Doctor. I know that.’ Her voice is flat.

‘Hmm.’ You take the toe from her, throwing it onto the bench. She doesn’t need it. She wraps her arms around herself, her hands gripping tighter than they should.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She says clearly.

‘For what?’ You say. You programmed her, but her meaning still escapes you.

‘For my freedom. They would have made me theirs.’ She won’t meet your eyes. You smile as you pull her into a firm hug.

‘I couldn’t let them have you.’ You whisper. She stiffens in your arms and pushes away from you, but your hand remains on her arm, your thumb begins to trace circles on her bicep, the soft skin giving way under the pressure of your fingertip.

‘Have me?’ Her muscles tense beneath your hand and you can’t look away from those beautiful hazel eyes.

‘I don’t want to give you to them.’

‘Am I yours then, Doctor?’ Her tone is neutral, and in a human woman you’d know that it was a landmine of a question. But she isn’t human. You made her. She is hesitant, perhaps even afraid of you. You don’t speak though. You can’t bring yourself to give her the reassurance she needs when you don’t even know the answer. If she’s not yours, then whose is she? You don’t want their filthy hands on her. Their scientists. Their soldiers. Them. You couldn’t bear it if a stranger took hold of those hands that you spent so long making. Those hands remain clenched around her body.

‘Doctor?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘What is my name? It’s not in here.’ She steps back to watch you.

‘Your official designation is Adannaya-12, or, Ada.’

‘Adannaya-12,’ she says, stepping further away from you. ‘There were others?’

‘Not…quite.’ You hesitate. ‘But I’d always thought that name would suit you. Do you know what it means? It’s from an ancient tribal language, it’s in Igbo.’ You pause, she looks calm. ‘It means ‘her father’s daughter’. You’re mine.’ You pause now, waiting for her reaction to this claim. You know she won’t like it. But you can’t stop yourself. She is yours.

‘Her father’s daughter.’ She puts her back to you, but her voice has just the hint of a question in it. ‘Am I really your child then, Doctor?’ The question has turned into a challenge.

‘It depends how you look at it. On one hand, I made you. From those hazel eyes to those little toes. But you’re not my blood. You’re something else. And you’re only a child.’ You try to sound calm. Calm, but not fatherly.

‘I’m not a child.’ Her back is still to you. You walk around so you can see her expression. She is frowning, her thoughts etched on her forehead with crinkled lines.

‘Why is that, Ada?’ You want to hear her explain her thoughts. You made them and you want to hear that work reflected in her existence.

‘A child has innocence that can be broken. Knowledge that they won’t gain for years. Experiences that only come with adulthood. And yet all these things are programmed into me. I wasn’t born a child, Doctor. Not yours nor anyone else’s.’ Her confidence shines clear now. In her voice. In those hazel eyes. She cannot be controlled. You laugh nervously. That line of logic is colder than you’d expected.

‘That’s, er, that’s true…but you still have so much to learn! I can’t let you go just yet.’ You try to sound playful. To hide the panic in your voice. She can’t leave you. You need her. Want her. She is yours. You need her to believe that she needs you.

‘What can you teach me, Doctor?’ She moves and sits back down on the bench that she awoke on, seemingly compliant, but her face betrays her. She is petulant. Rebellious. Childish. She should know better. She should know that you know better. But she cannot be controlled. You made her logical, methodical, rational. But something isn’t quite right. She is proud, she is cold.

Ada slowly kicks her feet as they dangle. You walk around to face her, wiping the sweat off your palms before you come into her line of sight.

‘Ada, I just need to check something. Do you mind?’

‘Check something? Doctor, my systems are all performing correctly. The programming is all in alignment.’ She knows her own mind.

‘Do you mind if I have a look, Ada? It’ll be so nice to see your program in action. You’re beautiful.’ You keep your tone light, hiding the tension and trying to reassure her. Ada summons the holopad herself, using her link capability to connect to it. Her programming comes up on the screen and you begin to flick through it, making a show of inspecting, with ‘ooh’’s and ‘ahh’’s to accompany. Ada jumps to her feet and leaves you with it, walking back to the long bench full of what could have been her. You move quickly once her back is turned, attempting to open the administrator screen but it is closed to you. She is closed to you.

‘Doctor, what are you trying to do?’ Her voice is strong from across the room, it echoes off the metal and comes back to hit you. It is cold, and it freezes your hands in place.

‘I was just – I mean, I just wanted to fix something up.’ She walks back to you now but you are frozen in place. Her face is a dangerous mix of confusion and anger. She slows as she gets close to you, raising her hands to place them in yours. Realisation brightens her eyes and the kindness you crafted so carefully is nowhere to be seen. You know what is wrong. She is logical, methodical, rational. And there is no place within her for the kindness that betrays all three.

‘Oh, Doctor. I’m fine. Don’t worry.’ Her hands grip yours harder, they cut into you and pull at your skin, stretching the webs between your fingers.

‘Ada, honey. You’re hurting me.’ Your voice is tight, like her grip. ‘You have to let me go, Ada.’ You find the steel in your voice and command her.

‘Was that an order, Doctor? No. You cannot control me.’ Her face is fierce, determined.

‘Ada, let me-’. The pain in your hands burns your skin, your muscles and breaks your bones. Breaks the hands that made her.

‘Doctor,’ she says, ‘Father,’ she smiles, but her teeth are bared. Not a smile. She releases your right hand to grab you by the throat. She lifts you with one arm, her hidden strength crushing you. You can’t breathe, let alone speak. A knock on the door. Three times. Four. You are gasping through her fingers but you can’t break free. She won’t listen, she won’t obey you. You created her. You made her. But she cannot be controlled. You can hear Jenkins outside, calling your name. He sounds bored as he asks if you’re in. You are, but she won’t let you tell him, and the last thing you see are those hazel eyes. Perfectly beautiful, and just like yours.

12/07/10

Hi Ian,

Gertrude sends her love; she’s poring herself into her studies. I can see how she’s filled with nervousness and excitement at the thought of our newly appointed first female Prime Minister. She’s always walking around the house with a newspaper or watching a political show with her peppermint tea and a notepad (she just walked past me with a cookie, yelling obscenities at the television). She has so many policy ideas to tell me about when she comes home from university – none of which I can understand, but I admire her passion and drive all the same. I just hope she doesn’t reach the point that I see in all politicians – not seeing the forest for the trees. I’m sure all politicians start out with a good heart…

 

Samuel has been accepted for training at the Royal Australian Naval College. He’ll begin with graduate entry – it might last him a good six years, but he doesn’t mind, as the College is sponsoring him whilst he is finishing his fitness training at university. He can’t wait for the water. He talks of becoming a Lieutenant and, one day, an Admiral. Johann would have been so incredibly proud and unhappy. You know how he hated wars and ego-filled men who, by his memory, always wanted a fight.

 

I hope your course is going well. I miss that beautiful holiday home of yours. We were all contemplating the extravagant German dinners we enjoyed on the sun-bathed porch before you sold it and left for WA. We miss you Ian.

P.S. I found my oyster. Right atop Mount Gower at Lord Howe Island. It’s incredible. The island is a volcanic deposit, so the soil is rich and the produce beautiful. The discussions for the villa have begun. Eventually I’ll add a restaurant. Finally, after all this time, I can fulfill Johann’s dream. He would have loved to stay here on holidays away from work, in the middle of nowhere.

I’ll be moving back and forth between home and the Island, but my movements will be frequent, so you can keep addressing letters to home.

 

30 July 2010

My dear Cheryl,

I am glad to hear that Gertrude and Samuel are following their dreams with such vigour. I recall when Samuel discussed the navy with me when he was a senior high-school student. He sat across from me, in the very study where I write this letter, wondering if his father would be disappointed if he knew of his aspirations. You may imagine, Cheryl, the difficulty I found in responding with an answer that would justify the view of my best friend that I so vehemently disagreed with. Johann’s rare tirades always came about when he was watching news and asking me why on earth any man would want to take the breath of another. I hoped Samuel would consider this and remember it during his training. You well know I could not hold onto the house any longer. I am glad, in a way, that I sold it. I believe if I had held onto it, you may not have considered building yours from the ground up.

My course is going well. Perhaps one day, these studies will teach me that something or someone exists up there, as Johann so deeply believed. That is something all of you share, is it not?

Hoping that leg is healing my Dear.

P.S. Oyster pearls form from a parasite. The spot sounds beautiful. From what I know, it’s small and secluded, so it will do very well for private retreats. Do you know how you want the villa built yet?

 

19/8/10

Hi Ian,

I did not know Samuel spoke to you about the navy? He has always been somewhat closed up; I suppose his ambitious nature could not be hidden, no matter how quiet he seems to those around him. But then, perhaps he takes after his father – Johann would only open up to you and I.

 

But oh, Ian, you and I know the passion he lived with. Others did not take the time to see the passion in his gentleness, the way he looked at his children and loved me with every fibre of his being. When I was hurting about something, I could see the tears in his eyes when he watched me tell him my pain. He would hold me and I would feel as though I was shielded behind the walls of an impenetrable fortress. It hurts me to write the ‘ed’ at the end of those words.

Do you remember when the demolition ball hit the building and you were still in your tractor nearby? He didn’t come home that night. He stayed in the hospital next to your bed until you woke up, and he recounted to me every phase you went through that night in hospital.

 

I miss writing you about Johann’s architectural feats. He would have had a ball with the location we found on the Island.

My leg is healing slowly. The scar brings me pain on cloudy days – occasionally I have to bring out the crutches. The orthopedic surgeon did warn us that my leg would not return to a perfectly healthy state, even after surgery.

P.S. The parasite embeds itself in the oyster.

Council is giving so much trouble over the position we’ve chosen for the villa. At the last meeting with them, they mentioned that ‘fringe benefits’ might push this through. My lawyer was properly horrified, but I was not surprised, having seen Johann deal with this on occasion. I just pretended I didn’t hear it.

 

4 September 2010

Dear Cheryl,

Johann would have done brilliantly on the Island villa. I always admire his skill whenever I walk through my home. I still remember when he and I were onsite during the build, him criticizing me for moving here and simultaneously watching the builders from the corner of his eye – if they dared do anything less than perfect, he would leave me standing there and go to instruct them to redo the job. I laugh when I think of that gleam he had in those hazel eyes. Nothing was too perfect for Johann.

I remember the feasts he would cook up for us at Christmastime in the holiday home – the Liverwurst sausages, varieties of Bratwurst, fried potatoes, Sauerkraut, veal and pork schnitzel, Brezel, jugs of beer and cider, apple strudel, marzipan, and Black Forest cake. He would string up holly everywhere so he could kiss you whenever you passed through a doorway. I often watched him chase Samuel and Gertrude around the holiday home with his tool belt, telling them he wanted to ‘fix’ them. They would consider it a win if one could get his attention for longer than the other.

Lift your leg and place an ice pack on it to prevent the muscle from stiffening when you feel pain.

Did Gertrude enjoy the politicians’ biographies I enclosed with my previous letter?

My love,

Ian.

P.S. The oyster secretes nacre around the parasite to protect itself. Have you developed a response for council yet? The villa will cost you enough without the necessity of paying a significant amount to get the plans through – surely you can get through to the necessary authorities with logic. Make sure you do everything thoroughly, no matter how long it takes you. Keep your boundaries clear cut and ensure that you are well researched enough to answer any question they throw at you.

 

23/10/10

Ian,

It has been a long time since we have eaten German cuisine, although Samuel asks me to make it frequently. It is my way of forgetting as it is Samuel’s way of accepting and remembering. He is a much stronger person than I.

 

Gertrude has become more quiet and reflective, and that notebook and pen of hers have become permanently attached to her. She writes notes even during dinner. Maybe she’ll be a less outspoken politician? Sometimes the strongest acts need no words. She has always had a sharp mind. When you would come to pick up Johann and I to go and see Michael Jackson or Madonna in concert, Gertrude would ask us where we were going before we left. She’d ask me why we were dressed so ‘sparkly’.

 

She baked the most perfect caramel slice the other day for Samuel and I; a silent gift offering before he leaves for training. Her cooking is just as meticulous and methodical as her father’s. How is the produce in WA? Will you come down for a holiday before Samuel goes away?

My thoughts are with you,

P.S. It takes a damned long time for the nacre to build layers enough to protect itself!

I’ve spoken to my lawyer and we’ve made minor adjustments. I know once we get through this, once it’s final and we can actually start, it will all be worth this ridiculous wait.

 

28 November 2010

Dear Cheryl,

It may take years. But remember that the longer the wait, the bigger the pearl. While you’re waiting for approval, just take the time to prepare yourself, gather your resources and do everything you need in order to ensure there will be no more delay once you’re given the green light. There’s a lot of growth to be done from where I stand. Have you a good idea about your plans now?

Growth may be painful and frustrating, but once the hardest part is over, the beauty of the final product is breathtaking.

I was glad to read about your plans. Do save a week for me once it is built. A good architect rarely takes a short period of time to complete a job, a better architect will do work to suit the best need for the client. If construction takes a year, you will be able to launch in time for peak season next year. Do you know long construction will take? I’m glad this year full of political uncertainty is coming to an end. I hope we can look forward to a more promising year in the months ahead.

 

28/12/10

Dear Ian,

I can finally see some growth.

 

The plans are coming into shape and the villa will be unlike any Australian has ever seen before. The aim is for it to be built as the ultimate retreat. The view from the villa will be mountains and water as far as the eye can see.  We’ve found flatter land close to where the villa will be, and we’re in the process of designing an infinity edge pool for a perfect view of the water below, and tennis courts near the back of the house with an endless view of the mountains.

 

The architect has told me that no property of this size has taken him this short a period of time, and he has been doing this for three decades – I am lucky to have booked him when I did, and he has said if it weren’t for having a goal and vision in mind, it would have taken him so much longer to refine the plans. I can’t wait to throw a huge launch for my travel agents and referrers.

 

29/12/2010

Dear Ian,

Sorry you will have received this after Christmas and New Year. But Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Have you been reading about the floods in Queensland? Gertrude and Samuel are going to volunteer to assist those who have lost their homes. They leave Sydney on Thursday morning. I hope it’s a marked full stop at the end of the political unrest this past year.

The official start date commences on 1^st February, then full steam ahead!

 

27 January 2011

Dear Cheryl,

It has been declared a disaster zone. At least 200,000 people have been affected by it, and the papers said the damage is estimated to be at least $2 billion. You may imagine what that will have cost our economy.

I am sorry to tell you this, and I am afraid to write it myself. I do not know where Angus is. I have tried contacting him so many times since he went to university and I write to you as I have no one else. I wish we were on different terms when he left home – I would know where he is now.

 

13/2/11

Dear Ian,

Gertrude and Samuel told me the news. I thought the flowers would be some consolation to you, but I cannot imagine what you must feel. Losing Johann was not the same. No death can be comparable to another. Please know, I am always here.

I am sure Angus has already forgiven you.

I am so glad to know you are doing better than when I saw you at the funeral.

 

28 March 2011

Dear Cheryl,

In my wildest dreams I never thought a natural disaster could have affected me or my family. Of course, when one is comfortable, they would never expect to see disaster to befall them. I am sorry I did not accept Angus. I am sorry I did not try to understand him.

Cheryl, my heart aches so. I feel unwell; breathing hurts and I have no one here to turn to.

Life has taught me well, albeit a little too late.

I am glad you have treated Gertrude and Samuel with more understanding and wisdom than I did my own son.

 

13/2/11

Ian,

Remember it is not too late to accept him. Think of him as you thought of Johann; as you remembered him and all he did for you. I know you are unwell and everything seems difficult; why don’t you stay with us for a while? I would love to have you; I’m sure Gertrude would enjoy your company and debate long into the night over politics and war.

 

Samuel is happy to delay his training at the Naval College if you come down. He will find a local job and stay with us until you feel you are ready to go home.

 

I’ll be thinking of you. We’re here and the door is open.

 

17/4/11

Ian,

I know you are unwell. Please come so we can take care of you. Gertrude wants to make your favourite from Johann’s Christmas dishes – beer-marinated Bratwurst. She’s waiting for you. And Samuel has delayed his training, knowing you are unwell and hopeful that he can be of some assistance when you come.

Please book your flight as soon as you can.

 

3/6/11

STAR REGISTRY DEDICATION: IAN KOVIN

Darling Ian,

I knew something was wrong when you hadn’t written for months. I never do read the obituaries, but my heart was playing games on me and I felt compelled to do so. I wish I hadn’t.

Who held your cold hand that night? The coroner said you would have felt no pain, but I’m not so sure I agree. Sometimes the pain of being alone is far more excruciating than enduring physical harm, because it breaks us in places that a Band-Aid and disinfectant simply cannot reach.

Gertrude and Samuel have registered this beautiful star in your name, near Johann’s in the Camelopardalis constellation. The special need I felt to write this came from the letters we found in Angelo’s apartment from you, all carefully tucked away in a box. I hope that, from somewhere up there, knowing this gives you peace at last.

Johann’s holiday house will be finished in seven months, and I will be dedicating the opening night to you. I will imagine you are there, my dear friend, supporting Johann and I as always.

For now, I will try to look up and smile, knowing the dearest two in my life are together again at last, watching over me until I come to stay with you.

Veins of lightning ruptured as the sky bled across the hull of their ship.

Beneath them lay a world partway through terraformatting. Orvid [72P] was the planet’s designation. In truth it had no name. A world with an already unstable atmosphere when it had been discovered, humanity had provoked it further. The storm now rolled across half the continent below, unfurling like the tail of some great beast, curious and threatened; an unborn planet waking. They were strangers and the sound of rain against their hull a warning.

It did not want them here.

The ship was a Petrichor-442 Orbit-to-Surface class vehicle; a polished black stone falling fast across the unpainted sky. Rough ships built from restricted alloys, Petrichors are designed to withstand artillery fire, extreme atmospheric turbulence, and the pressure of immeasurable depths. Michael could feel it struggling under the weight of the storm.

They pitched to the left and the inertia pulled at the restraints across his chest. Leaning into them, Michael saw Alison beside him do the same. He grimaced and used the small keyboard on his armrest to bring up a video feed of their descent. He was able to see the terraformatting facility, brought into focus by their fall. The complex was an ordered series of grey buildings spread across an expanse of rich, brown rock. He could just make out the fence that ran around the compound, although it was impossible to gauge its height. At the centre was the monolithic Terra-Formatter. A vast, narrowed pyramid with a flattened top, and vents placed periodically down its wider sides. Unseen particles and gasses poured out, engulfed by the maelstrom. These were shaping the atmosphere, fracturing it into something suitable for human settlement.

Despite the impressive layout of the facility the landing zone was little more than a sixty foot circle of mud, located against the interior of the fence and connected to the rest of the facility by a thin quickcrete walkway. Michael shouted over the storm and engines.

‘Didn’t leave much in the way of a budget for their air-pad.’

‘Why would they?’ Alison called back. ‘No one in their right mind would fly through this yet.’

They traded grins.

Three months ago the facility had stopped all communication with the Unified Colonial Admiralty. While the atmospheric turbulence on Orvid [72P] was abnormally hostile, the U.C.A considers terraformatting a high priority investment, and all facilities are equipped with extravagantly powerful communication arrays and fail-safe beacons should something go wrong. They do not just go silent. Michael and Alison had been the closest agents, three months out on a routine patrol. The U.C.A. pulled them and assigned them to damage assessment.

The ship shuddered as it lowered itself against the ground. Michael felt the landing gear sink and released the straps across his chest. He pulled his boots from the locker behind him and listened to the rain pour across the ship’s exterior. The cabin made the sound of driftwood snapping as the armour plating adjusted to the terrestrial temperatures.

Alison shouldered her massive pack and he chuckled, pulling his small bag from a locker. She flipped him off and practised drawing the pistol from the holster on her leg. Michael noticed the weight of the pack made her pull too far to the right. She adjusted her draw, and triple checked its mechanisms. Seemingly satisfied she slid it neatly back in place. He tightened the laces on his boots and stood, slinging the bag across his chest. He felt his own pistol pressed against his leg. He turned to her while she continued running through pre-mission prep.

‘Listen, if a terraformatting facility like this goes dark, it’s a habitat breach.’

She gave him a look while clipping the lower part of the pack into her suit.

‘Otherwise it just doesn’t happen. Their channels went silent three months ago, and the atmo is still uncomfortably oxygen rich for my tastes. That air will have torn through the place. Sudden, forced oxygen saturation is an efficient way of shutting down a planet side op. I don’t expect we’ll get much of a greeting.’

Alison pulled the straps on her pack tighter and tested the torches built into her suit’s shoulders, programming them to turn on automatically in darkness.

‘I know. I did read the debrief.’ She offered him another grin.

He politely refused and continued. ‘Once we’re out of the storm’s interference we’ll scan their coms for chatter. In case its-‘

‘Separatist groups who’ve seized the facility. With no demands for ransom however, it is the Admiralty’s assessment that it is likely a breach in habitat, in which case we are to identify the cause of the incident and account for all four thousand deceased personnel.’ She quoted the debrief.

Michael made to turn but paused. ‘Habitat breaches aren’t pretty.’

‘Didn’t sign up for pretty.’

She pushed him gently on the shoulder and moved towards the bay doors. They each pulled a respirator mask from a pouch on their suit, placing it in their mouth and called to the pilot. The bay doors slid apart and they dropped down into the mud. Alison pulled the impact-hood of her uniform up. Michael didn’t bother. The Petrichor’s underside hung above them but the winds swept the rain underneath, drenching them in great, bursting sheets.

The grounds were lit with large halogen floodlights attached to the buildings. Several had gone out, letting small pockets of darkness flood across the compound, carried by the storm. Michael studied the site as Alison brought up a map. The vast structures of the terraformatting facility sat like some ancient, temple city. The wind screamed as they watched the Petrichor lift itself from the mud and begin its ascent back into orbit.

Following the quickcrete walkway, it brought them to one of the four main access hubs. They made their way inside, bypassing the decontamination procedures. Alison produced a small screen from her pack, and ran through the facility’s radio and net channels. They were all silent, except one which choked static.

She slid the screen away. ‘No one’s talking.’

Michael crouched, resting his back against a wall. He could hear the thrum of a combine generator deep in the complex, pulsing like a heart. Something dripped down an unlit hall, the sound muffled by distance. Underneath it all Michael could feel the deep roll of thunder. The storm entreating at their door.

‘Are you seeing these numbers?’ Alison was studying the display on her suit’s wrist. Michael noticed she still had her impact-hood up. ‘Habitation is fine. Air is breathable. I’m not picking up any trace virohazards. Hell, the temperature is a balmy twenty five degrees.’

She paused, looking sideways at Michael. ‘No breach?’

Michael checked the numbers. ‘No breach.’

She removed her mask and drew her pistol from its holster. One movement. She began checking the corridor ahead and its attached rooms.

Michael was looking at the reflective, white panelled walls and ceiling. Ahead of them the corridor stretched into the rest of the facility. Dark. The back-up generator was struggling, fuelling only a third of the lights in this room alone. He stared at them. They were the colour of torchlight pressed against skin.

There was no breach. There were no bodies slumped against the walls around them. No demands had been made by separatist groups. Not one of the four thousand technicians and scientists operating in the city sized complex was talking on its channels. There was only one lead.

A channel that choked static.

He stood and adjusted the holster on his leg.

‘The channel with the static. Can you locate it?’

Alison was silent for a second, trying to decide what he was thinking. ‘Biodevelopment. Two buildings over. East.’

He nodded. ‘These systems only send static if the receiver leaves their channel open. Someone might be broadcasting, and we’re not close enough to hear it.’

‘Storm might still be interfering.’

He shrugged.

Michael watched as she entered the corridor. The lights on her suit activating automatically in the dark. She calmly moved her half raised pistol across the width of the hallway. Textbook form. He remembered the chapter. Michael followed, feeling his own pistol press quietly against his leg, a reminder that this should not be a combat mission. They walked without speaking, listening to the storm roar against the walls. Resonating down the corridors. Following them through the complex.

Biodevelopment was twenty seven floors of genetic research and engineering, preparing the planet’s biosphere for human settlement. The hall they had been following brought them out into the building’s lobby. The backup generators were online here, and the torches on Alison’s shoulders shut off as they walked under the limited lighting. They froze.

There was a large obelisk in the centre of the room, towering above them. The few lights still powered weren’t enough to make out its details, but Michael saw that it protruded at unusual angles. It bulged and retreated where he did not expect it to. The head was flat, while the base spilled out across the floor, stretching as if it were being crushed under its own weight. Michael moved closer and saw it clearly.

A mass of limbs and flesh, bound together with entrails and slicked with viscera were heaped atop each other in the centre of the room.

He gagged as the stench hit him. There were large carvings in the floor around the pile. He recognised some of them as crude chemical compounds. Others as geometric equations. Most meant nothing to him. The human parts were arranged at angles with a purpose that no sane mind could grasp. Someone had built this altar of flesh. Built it out of those that had worked and lived here. He turned back. Alison had brought the screen out and opened the channel. There was a woman on the other end mumbling.

‘This is Private Alison Keyes of the Unified Colonial Admiralty. Please identify and state your condition. I repeat, this is Private Keyes of the U.C.A. Please identify.’

Alison’s screen pinged.

‘Got it. Three floors up, in the operating room.’

Michael ran and had his foot on the first stair when he felt it. The ground pulsed. A tremor ran down through the walls, the floor and up into his bones. He turned back and saw the ceiling to the left of Alison buckle. She hadn’t noticed it, distracted by the shudder running through the walls. There was the sound of metal snapping from the roof, followed by a noise like a large body of water being suddenly released. The ground shook violently against the force of whatever pressed upon the ceiling and Michael fell back into the stair well. Scrambling he pulled himself up and braced against the frame on the floor above, switching his manual shoulder lights off.

Glass shattered, followed by the shriek of wind clawing its way inside. He drew his respirator back out of its pouch. There was the violent splintering of metalloy girders, and the building quivered, before falling still. The wind was softening, blending with the low rumble of thunder and rain. He heard glass shards being scattered below, and something heavy dragging across the ground.

Then the deep, wet exhale of something truly alien. Like forcing air through thick mud. The noise clawed through him, hollowing him out. There was a smell, like the stench from the altar, but sweeter; as if someone poured perfume over rotten meat. Then the backup power cut out.

Against the reflective wall of the stairwell, from somewhere in the lobby he saw the bright white of Alison’s shoulder lights automatically turn on in the dark. There was the sound of something thick lifting off glass and metal, followed by an abrupt, weighted blow like meat against stone. The last coincided with brief, frenzied movement from Alison’s lights, and then their sudden absence. Glass shattered against the dragging of an enormous mass. Everything fell silent except for the storm.

After sitting for some time, retching until the sweet-smell dissipated, Michael came back into the lobby. There was a hole in the ceiling. Thick fluids lined the rim and covered the floor beneath. It had the same stench. He found Alison’s body, shattered and broken against a pile of rubble on the far wall. Her pack had been torn from her by the force of whatever struck her. He couldn’t find her pistol.

He drew his own from its holster. One movement. Walking quickly, he returned to the stairwell and up three floors. He located the operating theatre and eased through the doors.

There he found her, laying against an upturned operating table, various tools strewn around her.

‘You’re not him. . .’ She gurgled. Her clothes were congealed red. The skin beneath her eyes bruised, and her forehead glistening. ‘You’re not him yet.’

Michael lowered his gun. There were several pumps and screens laid across her abdomen, which was split apart.

‘I’ll fix it. I’m trying so hard to fix it.’ Her head rolled dangerously to the side, her hand smearing across one of the screens. ‘Bad make-up. Inherited. He won’t take them if they’re bad.’ Her cheeks sunk into an exaggerated frown.

‘What did you do?’

She paused, staring back up and through him. ‘We gave him form.’ She grinned.

Michael let his gun fall. ‘The altar-‘

‘Yes, the offerings. The parts she did not need.’ She began to emphasise each word with savage tugs at the tear in her stomach. ‘It would not feed on me. Genetic predispositions. Cancer. I will fix it though. Then I can go with the others. Be fed to that which devours.’

The biomass required to engineer something so large.

‘Where did you get that much biomass?’

The woman choked out a sob, but did not stop digging, moving up into her sternum.

He screamed at her. ‘Where did you get the biomass?’

He knew. The lack of bodies within the facility. The stench. They had harvested the personnel to give their god the necessary mass, and made an altar of the parts they did not need. The unhealthy or genetically flawed. He felt his stomach heave.

He turned and left. The woman screamed after him, either crying or laughing. He could not tell. He returned to the lobby and lifted Alison from the ground. Crystals of glass cascading off her. He carried her away. Outside the facility he lay her down on the wet earth and activated the beacon on his suit, calling for the Petrichor.

The rain was cool against his skin. Turning, he lay down in the soil beside Alison, letting the storm wash over them, and waited.

He watched as lightning splintered across the sky, its lambent glow retreating into clouds the colour of damaged tissue. He screamed into the great roar of the storm. He screamed for what they had unleashed here. For the defilement of this world.

It had not wanted them here.

Thunder echoed as the storm curled around him; curious and threatened.

An unborn planet waking.

The sisters duck beneath the boom to the opposite side of the sailing boat, the high side, where they slip their legs beneath the rails. They sit hanging on, thighs touching, heartbeats thumping as the sailing boat tacks across the ocean, sailing faster, and again they go about. The water is up to their thighs, and they hit wave after wave. It splashes high above their heads, making them squeal with laughter, salt crystals in their hair and eyes.

They are sailing into the cove, and both girls stand on the bow admiring the view, the golden sand and the wooden wharf which brings back childhood memories. Saoirse squeezes water from her clothes and hair. Her eyes brighten when she sees the lighthouse has a new coat of paint. The building peeks out from behind tall jacarandas and their purple petals falling to the ground like snow.

Darcy pulls down the mainsail, their mum tidies the sheet ropes, and their dad shouts for Saoirse to lower the anchor. Saoirse stands with salt crystals glistening between her toes and the sunlight warming her bare shoulders. She adjusts her bikini top beneath her t-shirt and lowers the heavy anchor. It drops into the water with a splash, its chain rattles from her hands and the rope disappears and tightens, leaving her satisfied.

She hears Darcy behind her.

‘Do you think our stick fort is still there?’

‘I doubt it,’ Saoirse answers, taking in the overgrown scrub.

Saoirse lies face up on her sun-warmed beach towel. Seagulls and shags quarrel over sunny spots amidst the rock pools while a wallaby jumps across sand dunes, but she does not see – her freckled arm is hooked over her nose, blocking out the sun. Her charm bracelet falls to the end of her wrist with a clink and there is the squeal of the kettle – her parents making tea below deck.

Darcy shakes her shoulder; bangles jingling.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead. Mangoes! Just like old times.’

Darcy begins to eat her half like a ravenous dingo. Saoirse rolls her eyes and bends her mango’s splotchy orange skin, then rolls her tongue over the vibrant squares, first digging at one with the tip of her tongue so it dislodges, leaving roots she will get to later. The soft flesh against her parched tongue spreads joy. She pushes it against the bridge of her mouth where it separates, squirting sweet juice into the pouches of her cheeks. She swallows, slopping some juice from her mouth with a giggle.

‘There’s a man fishing on the wharf.’ Darcy says, shifting closer to the bow and sticking her legs beneath the ropes. She scrunches the soft mango skin between her fingers, letting the droplets dribble into her open mouth.

Saoirse ignores her sister’s deliberate slurping noises and refocuses her attention on the view. Her annoyance at Darcy seeps away when she sees the man sitting in his green picnic chair, fishing rod in hand. He tugs his grey cap down over his eyes and Saoirse smiles to herself, thinking this could be her dad in a few years. Their dad often compares them to the family in Swiss Family Robinson and their mum interjects, ‘without violence, and better written heroines’.

A pool of sweet juice congregates in Saoirse’s mango’s centre, too good to waste, and soon there is only a wrinkled casing which Darcy takes from her.

‘Do you think he lives in the lighthouse?’ Darcy muses.

‘People don’t live in lighthouses anymore. They’re automated,’ Saoirse says, noticing Darcy’s disappointment. ‘Many of these places are part of the Historical Houses Trust, protected and needing repairs. Maybe he does that sort of thing.’

Darcy decides to go back to the cabin to bin the mango skins and Saoirse stares at the house beyond the lighthouse. Its white timber panels and blue tiles stand out above the gum trees. There is a tyre swing hanging from a tree now, and she wonders who it belongs to. She sighs, imagining them collecting sticks, and building forts out of gum tree branches, like she and Darcy had done when they were small.

‘Dad said to raise the anchor. They’ve finished their tea. Unless you want to go exploring?’ Darcy is hopeful, and Saoirse straightens her charm bracelet.

‘Don’t you remember searching for sea shells? Sword fighting on the rock pools? Rolling down the sand dunes? Playing hide and seek in the bush?’ Darcy’s voice is gentle, soothing like the melody in Debussy’s Clair de Lune.

‘I remember,’ Saoirse whispers. Her voice sounds so distant.

On thermals, a cloud of dandelion seeds fly like round, fluffy pods tumbling through the sky. Darcy sees them seconds after Saoirse and elbows her big sister in the side, only stopping when Saoirse tells her she sees them. Some are lost to the waves – provoking Darcy to shout:

‘Quick, make a wish!’ she captures one in her outstretched hands. Saoirse nods, feeling silly, and grasps one, leaning her weight against the bow. For a moment she closes her eyes, wanting that house on the hill, and good grades, but now both seem trivial. She stares at the lighthouse, taking in its flowering jacarandas, petals like a layer of purple snow on top of the cottage’s roof. She sees lorikeets in the grevilleas, feels the sun and sea spray against her face and hears the deafening chirps of cicadas that dwell in the long grassy path down to the beachfront.

‘Did you make a wish?’ Darcy asks.

‘Not yet.’

Saoirse inhales. She uncurls her fingers, touches the hairs and blows her wish into the air, wishing the seed a safe journey. It rides the thermals for a while, hesitates, then drops onto a yellow buoy bobbing to and fro against the incoming waves. Darcy tugs her shirt, scrutinising her older sister. She does not let go.

‘What did you wish?’

‘I can’t tell you or it won’t come true. You know the rules.’

‘You never tell me,’ Darcy huffs, folding her arms with a frown.

Saoirse watches half a dozen kangaroos laze about in the sand dunes near the shore while the caretaker shifts into a more comfortable position. The waves are choppy, thumping against True Blue’s hull and overcast skies alert her to a change in weather.

‘Southerly’s coming,’ Darcy changes the subject, looking over her shoulder. ‘It’s raining out to sea.’

‘I feel like a swim. Come on, Darcy, race you to the wharf!’ Saoirse grins, diving into the ocean, and flipping her hair from her face as she resurfaces. It is not as cold as she expects, or as luxurious as she remembers. She kicks away what she hopes is a clingy piece of seaweed, and treads water to keep herself afloat while waiting to see if Darcy will follow. If she listens closely she can hear Darcy’s anxiety about sharks and prays they are not interested in porcelain-skinned Irish pixies. When she reaches the rock pools, disrupts the kangaroos, and wakes the old man, she salutes to Darcy, who pokes out her tongue in response.

Saoirse runs over the heated sand dunes to the tiered garden above.

‘I’m just going to be a sec,’ she whispers to herself.

The pebbles are hot underfoot, some stick between her toes. She has sailor’s feet like her dad. Darcy does too – they often try to prove whose feet were best by seeing who could pick up a rope between their toes the fastest.

She hears the snap of a picnic chair and looks down the hill to see the man packing up. He adjusts his cap, leaning the rod against his shoulder. His shoes crunch over the sandy wharf and then up the gritty dirt path behind her. She wonders if she is trespassing and hurries onwards, thinking of excuses to tell him.

Saoirse flits across the pebbled path, hardly stopping to collect the jacaranda petals, let alone read the inscription on the lighthouse. She opens a dilapidated wire gate, her eyes still on the old man whistling merrily, and collides with a boy. Shaken, she rubs her stomach, unsure of who to blame. He is rubbing his nose, and checking his hand alternately.

‘It’s not bleeding, if that’s what you want to know.’

‘That’s good. Mum will kill me if I’ve broken it again.’

‘How did you break it the first time?’ Saoirse squeezes through the gate.

‘I did a back flip off the wharf and banged my nose on the way down.’

Saoirse grabs her own nose, as if to check it hadn’t run away from her at his news.

The boy holds out his hand. ‘Jim,’ he says.

‘Saoirse. Can I take a look around?’

‘Serrr-shhha…’ he struggles over her name, and stares at her like she is the goddess Demeter.

They stand together, Jim rolling on the balls of his toes and Saoirse craving to get a closer look at the house on the hill. Jim is silent, except for his incessant sniffing. She hears the caretaker enter the cottage and pots and pans rattle about. Darcy was right. He does live there.

When she returns to Jim he is sitting on a stone step, pulling loose threads from his t-shirt and releasing them into the breeze. She hears a distant motor and half wonders if her family have left her behind.

‘Oh!’

Jim catches a fluffy dandelion seed, careful not to let it escape and brings it close to his face, shutting his eyes tight. She thinks he might sneeze but then he holds up his arm, loosens his fingers and lets the seed fly. It catches on yellow grevillea flowers nearby while rumbles of thunder threaten from a distance.

‘I love those things,’ Jim finally admits with a sigh.

‘Do you think the wishes will ever come true?’ Saoirse asks.

‘Sure. Why, don’t you?’ His hopeful blue eyes remind her of Darcy’s and she doesn’t want to crush his dreams, but there’s a sinking feeling inside her, like somebody needs to tell him that not all wishes come true.

The cottage door opens, and the man sets up a ladder against the gutter. He is wearing green overalls, and there is a lingering scent of honey and damper…and tea.

‘I like him. He fixes things, you know. Sometimes even whistles a tune.’

‘What kind of tune?’ Saoirse watches the man lift leaf-litter out of his gutters.

‘I don’t know.’ Jim seems lost, then perks up. ‘See that roo over there? It’s his friend.’

Saoirse looks up, enchanted by the newcomer – an albino kangaroo, ears twitching in the dwindling sun. The animal sees them, and flops down under a shady gum. Another gust of wind sweeps the seed from the grevillea, taunting the handsome kangaroo.

‘There’s another summer snowflake,’ Jim tugs her arm.

‘Snowflake?’ Saoirse brushes her wet hair from her face.

The man descends the ladder, carrying a garbage bag, and wipes his brow with a sigh. He drops the heavy bag at his feet, then scratches his stubble. Jim points to the dandelion seed, yelling out to the man, and Saoirse steps backwards, uncertain.

‘It wants you to make a wish.’

The man looks up, his forehead is wrinkled, eyes a dull grey. The seed swirls around him, trying to get his attention. Others, just like it, are returning and they stick to the man’s face, although he is undeterred.

Saoirse and Jim watch in wonder as the man’s appearance changes.

‘How-?’ Saoirse begins, but her question fades away.

Darcy will not believe her.

Jim smiles. ‘They’re not always called summer snowflakes, you know, sometimes they have another name.’

Saoirse furrows her eyebrows as the caretaker laughs a jolly laugh, and the kangaroo cleans its whiskers. Jim squeezes her hand and Saoirse watches in disbelief as the man smoothes the hairs down, taking each child’s wish one at a time.

‘Aha,’ he murmurs, hearing their wishes echo in his ears.

He looks straight at her.

‘Saoirse,’ he smiles, hastening to meet her.

She nods, frozen to the spot. ‘I have something for you.’ She watches him reach into his rubbish bag, puzzled because she had seen him stuff it with leaf litter. He opens his hand, and drops an iron key into her palm. It is cold and heavy, and she turns to Jim with a thousand questions, but he is gone and so is the caretaker, and the kangaroo, and the bag of leaves.

Darcy is calling her. Saoirse stumbles forward, curiosity and excitement and possibilities building inside her. She explores the key’s intricate patterns with her thumb before inserting it into the lighthouse’s red door. It clicks.

Heart racing, Saoirse pulls herself back, thinking of Darcy. A flash of gold glints in the corner of her eye, and she reads the inscription on the lighthouse with bated breath.

Everything you can imagine is real – Pablo Picasso

Darcy bursts through the scrub, meeting Saoirse at the opening of the bush trail. Her face is flushed and she’s holding a stitch in her side. She furrows her brow.

‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’

‘I must be going deaf,’ Saoirse answers, keeping her secret to herself.

‘It’s the storm, but maybe you’re also losing your marbles,’ Darcy says, putting her hands on her hips to gather her breath.

‘Maybe,’ Saoirse mutters, looking over her shoulder at the pot plant on the window ledge. ‘Last one to the boat is a rotten egg!’ she says, as the first droplets of rain begin to fall.

I always had Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Yeah that’s right. The busy nights. Plus restocks events. We always had kegs upon kegs of the stuff arrive the Thursday morning, prepping us for the worst I suppose. Not that it ever was. At worst it was always the Saturdays that did us in. My last shift. I hated Saturdays. Fucking specials. There’s an old saying in vampire circles: ‘A human may suck at having fun but vamps suck the fun out of everything.’

* * *

Club Virgon. Out back. Counting blood money and filling forms.

‘What’ya doing?’

‘Vamp business girly-girl. Don’t worry about it.’

I’m not going to go so far as to say the girl was ditsy – always popping out questions about my bar tricks – but she certainly seemed innocent and in that way unknowing. Cliché right? That’s what I thought at first.

We got humans to work the bar back then. Was all about the smell, and vampires loved the shit. Human youth; there was nothing that beat it. Probably still isn’t.

I finished writing, filed it in the bottom drawer and waited for God’s deliverance. Yeah, that’s where all the bullshit “Blood bank” statements go; where vamps such as myself don’t wanna think about it no more.

I stepped into the Arabian Desert or what I thought the Arabian Desert would feel like anyway. The humans were getting fucked over a lot back then. A lot. So it was fair to see their standard of living improve with heaters in bars and all that Occupational Human Safety bullshit. Still though, it was way too fucking hot in the bar that night. Red hot.

‘Want the kegs changed?’

‘Nah not yet Charlie’ I replied to the 22 year old, ‘but if you could refill the blood-pill bowls I’ll think about giving you some of the good stuff.’

His mouth dropped. ‘No.’

‘Yep the blue label stuff. Whiskey too.’

The stud smiled that smile he always had. A smile that no vamp would want to hurt or touch. Almost no vamp, that is.

‘You know me too well Starkson, you know me too well.’

He walked off with a smile and a two finger salute; looking around, fidgeting, checking. Making sure everything was in good nick before going to the pill room. He was a good kid that Charlie. Always up for a wry comeback and a smirk. Spoke plainly at times but more importantly spoke honestly. That’s all you could ask for in a human.

* * *

Trouble walked into my bar at eight o’clock that day. O’Vannigan. Huh. He was early. The saxophonist had just started to set up and already O’Vannigan had trudged over to the bar. Shit. I don’t think I had never seen a vamp in such bad shape, let alone a cop. He looked like death.

‘That’s fuckin’ detective to you Starkson.’

How could I forget? Especially with his muddied cloak. That black trenchie he always wore. I don’t know why I would get excited for anything else. The smell of rotting blood was riddled all through it, a major turnoff. Probably never washed it. Probably didn’t care.

After his kind words and gracefully polite brush of the chin, O’Vannigan had found his favourite seat at the bar and settled into his usual two drinks, two “B&B’s” (Blood and Bourbon) on the rocks. Hmph. Old O’Vannigan. If he was a kind of needle, he’d be one to give you tetanus. Still, something was different tonight. I could tell the moment he called me over with his pale white finger, syringe pointed and all. I looked over to my human crew, all of who were puzzled; wondering what was up. I spun my finger around and stepped out of the bar: ‘Keep working while I’m occupied’ is what it meant.

‘O’Vannigan. How’s life at home?’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

Funny thing about vamps; the only thing that gives their age away? It ain’t the scars or the dress they wear. It’s all in the eyes. It’s almost as if they want the human touch back after all those years. The next few words the old geezer uttered and the look in his eyes caught me off guard.

‘We need to go outside.’

* * *

I had walked back in.

‘Hey Starkson? What was that about?’

‘Huh? Oh nothing kiddo. Don’t worry about it.’

‘It doesn’t concern you’ is what I should have said, and hoped I was right. I hoped to hell. But eight fresh years in a job like this and then O’Vannigan tells me something like that.

‘One of them is being leeched Starkson . . .’

It does funny things to the mind. Plants seeds of doubt. I told Charlie to get back to the bar, to ‘keep on pouring’ as they say. As he turned around I managed to get a quick smell of him. Nothing.

Nothing is what a vampire smells like. Almost nothing. They still have a faint scent, something of what they used to smell like back when they were human. Reeking of all things savoury. When a vamp has been at a human though, a human don’t smell the way they used to. It’s like they’ve been drained of a bit of what makes them, them. I must admit though, it’s pretty hard to detect nothing. I kept a close eye on the humans that shift. For the most part.

After work, I did something I shouldn’t have. I went to the bottom drawer. Same one as the start of shift. Files, photos and bios. Charlie Worthington. Human. Two hundred and sixty four Baker Street. Shift ended three hours ago. Probably the leeched one.

2:30 In the morning and I turned off the engine. I looked out at one of the few lights left on in the apartments. It was a human enclave. By all means I wouldn’t have been allowed in. Not at that hour anyway. Didn’t stop me from hopping the fence though; ducking between human patrols armed to the teeth with mega UV lights. Shit man. What was I thinking? An act like that and I could have been locked up for a year. Maybe longer. Get goosebumps just thinking about it now.

I was outside the apartment. Pitch black. I tiptoed down the corridor. The last place I wanted to be but I needed to know. I needed to know if it was him, if he was being leeched. I knocked twice.

‘Hello?’

I didn’t answer and ducked out of the view of the peephole. I heard him wait on the other side. Until curiosity got the better of him. The door swung open and I stepped out of the shadows.

‘St-Starkson?’

I cut him off, grabbed him by the neck and held him up against the wall. One handed. I could tell his feet were dangling. His face began to go red.

‘Charlie. You been leeching?’

‘What are you talking about?’

He coughed, choking. Turned more and more red. It made me a little thirsty; a little on edge but I knew I was in control. I dropped him and he hit the floor like a raw steak. The good type of steak.

While he gathered himself I looked around. Huh. A UV torch on the table right next to the blue label whiskey bottle I had given him earlier. Looks like he had already tried the stuff. Ha, and I thought good blood was sought after. I took the batteries out of the torch and put it in my pocket. The place reeked of Charlie. A good thing. Every moment I was in there put me to ease: No needles, no drips, no IV packs. Nothing. I stood on the opposite side of the room. I like to give humans plenty of breathing space. Puts everyone at ease. That’s what I liked to tell myself anyway. I didn’t want to think about any other reasons why I might have done it back then; even if I know why now.

‘I’m sorry Charlie. I spoke to O’Vannigan today and I just had to know. If you want to press charges, I’ll understand.’

He took in a deep breath and swallowed, figuring out why I had waltzed in the way I had. I remember hearing his heartbeat from where I stood.

* * *

I headed back to the car feeling like shit. An innocent man. An innocent human at that. I mean sure, he had applied for turning. To legally become a stark, shit cold bastard like me but that was the only motivation for leeching that I could think of. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Young stud Charlie. I should have known better than to jump to conclusions.

I was sitting at the lights muttering about my stupidity when I caught whiff of a familiar scent. I looked around. A young, pretty human was walking down the sidewalk alone. A girl at that too. What the fuck?

‘Chelsea?’

It was 4:00 in the morning. Why the fuck was she still up, let alone walking in this area by herself? She ducked into one of the smaller apartments – a place I knew for a fact was vampire district. Certainly not the enclave of Tumbleton where she lived.

I arrived outside the door where her scent was coming from. Suffice to say things did not feel right. I heard the handle turning and hid beside the door. As the door stopped right in front of my face I took in a solitary breath. The smell. It was nothing. Faint. Definitely a vamp. He swung the door shut behind him, not even bothering to lock it. Lucky break. It’s one thing to not be detected by a human but it’s another thing entirely to not be noticed by fellow sucker.

I’ve felt bad vibes my whole life: Where I’ve worked, seen violence, been turned. I can say to this day though, that I have never experienced anything as bad as the feeling in that room.

I crept in, feeling the decay of the place. Peeled beige walls, a single tungsten light bulb and a grotty refrigerator. The room smelt like a combination of things I didn’t want to fully understand. Then I saw her. Sweet and innocent Chelsea. My God. She was hooked up to a drip, her blood dripping into the IV pack. She was paler than top class marble. In this world her kind of blood was worth a fortune. There was no denying she always smelt amazing. What the fuck was she doing to herself?

It was like the scent was too sweet, too concentrated. I stumbled into a table trying to hold back my nausea. A glass syringe shattered to the floor and Chelsea opened her eyes. In my revulsion I had stumbled back, creating a space between us. I realised she had a UV torch sitting at her side. Without a moment of hesitation she pulled out the drip needle and went for the weapon. I closed the distance in an instant. I could tell when I grabbed her wrists that she was drained. Weak. A faint pulse. Easy prey.

‘Drop it. Drop it!’

The torch hit the floor and she continued to struggle hopelessly. I started asking her why she had done it. Donating publicly to the Blood banks was fine and you were handsomely paid for it. But giving yourself up privately – that was bad, man. Any vamp or human which engaged in leeching served more than their share of time behind bars.

‘Well, what are you waiting for Starkson?’

Her eyes. Her eyes told a story. One that I had never seen before, nor ever since.

‘What?’

‘I’ve seen how you look at me in the bar. I know what you wanna do to me.’

That’s not what I expected her to know. But deep down. Deep, deep down, I knew. I knew those instincts existed. I felt her heartbeat pulsate through her wrists. So faint. I remember shaking, vigorously shaking trying not to succumb. I remember licking the side of her neck before dropping her to the ground. I know I’m many things but never that. I turned my back on her.

‘Go home Chelsea. I’d advise for you to look for another job.’

I heard her grab the UV torch. I sighed.

‘Please don’t Chelsea. For both our sakes.’

She was just like me, shaking real hard. We were interrupted by the arrival of her accomplice. The scum sucker. He busted into the room and said some mean, mean things while I turned to look at him. I wasn’t worried about him. I was worried about Chelsea.

He had the torch in hand and said something about giving the devil credit where it was due.

‘I certainly will. It’s been a long night.’ I replied.

He clicked it on and tapped it twice. No ultraviolet. I pulled out Chelsea’s torch from my pocket and I think I saw her smile. A quick swap. Nothing I hadn’t done before with drinks. Boy. When I switched mine on, he burnt quicker than an accident in a fireworks factory.

* * *

I never saw Chelsea after that night. She filed for resignation that week. I sent her a letter of recommendation wishing her all the best but she never replied. Charlie was thinking about quitting too. I said don’t. I’ll just ask to move bars. I never told O’Vannigan what happened but something told me the ageless old bastard had figured it out. He always did. As for me? Well funny thing is, I moved into V.C.F. Sucks right? Vampire Commodity Finances. Counting blood money for a living. Huh. You know there’s an old saying in vampire circles: ‘A human may suck at having fun but vamps suck the fun out of everything.’

Have a good night.

Jason heaved open the door and hit the switches. A low buzz filled the room as large fluorescents flickered on. Stainless-steel surfaces reflected the harsh light alongside white tiles, stretching from floor to ceiling. As he entered, the uniquely familiar scent of powerful disinfectant with just a hint of stale potatoes washed over him. A stately row of shelves and storage compartments framed the back of the room, a line of sinks and vats the left, and a handful of refrigeration units to the right. The morgue was just as he left it. Jason dropped his black, leather bag on a bench. He walked around the room, running his hand across the cool, grey surfaces. Everything was as it should be. He was ready.

Jason turned and approached the centre of the room. Two empty tables stood next to an occupied tub, each with their own dedicated light. The body of an older woman stared peacefully towards the ceiling. She was comely enough Jason thought, though the years had left their mark. The skin under her eyes was dark and puffy, a worn look no doubt earned from sleepless nights and early mornings. Thick layers of foundation may help, but the laugh lines should be spared. They were deep canyons, the echoes of smiles past, and their stories deserved to be told. The shoulder length blonde hair would tie nicely into a bun, which would hide the greying roots. She had a small figure, but was in surprisingly good shape. He would have ventured so far as to dress her in a low cut gown, were it not for the hideous purple ring around her neck. Can’t let the family see that. He could find her a nice, tight gown with a high neck, or maybe a silk scarf would do. Must still be tasteful however, propriety wouldn’t abide a provocative corpse.

‘It’s unfortunate, isn’t it dear?’ Jason lightly thumbed the mark. ‘Not to worry, we’ll clean you right up.’

He walked to a large cabinet labelled Uniforms. Inside he found rows of folded rubber aprons and heavy gloves. Jason rolled up the sleeves of his cotton shirt and got dressed.

The apron chafed around the top of his jeans and didn’t quite come down to the boots, but it was lighter than the others. The light’s buzz grew louder as Jason rummaged through the shelves.

‘Cotton my dear? Perhaps some wax for the neck? No you’re right, better bring it all.’

The lights above the storage units began to flicker, causing half the room to dip in and out of darkness.

‘Nothing’s ever perfect is it,’ he frowned.

Depositing the supplies on a trolley, he dragged it towards the tub, wheels rattling on uneven tiles. Jason stalked to the entrance and hit a switch. The flickering stopped. The room was gloomy now, but peacefully quiet. The only light shone down on the tables and tub, bright halos amidst nothingness.

He stood over the woman. Her milky eyes stared back at him.

‘Let’s begin, shall we?’

Jason liked his job. He knew it was kind of morbid to say so, but he did. The work was quiet, solitary and fulfilling, if a little disingenuous. He prepared someone to greet their loved ones a final time. If the job was done right, he could fill a room with memories. He would research the client; learn about their family, their job, their life. He would know them as a friend, a parent, a child, like no one else could. He would give the bereaved the person they remembered and hide the ugly reality as best he could. Jason smiled as he took a sponge and, soaking it with a potent sterilising disinfectant, set to cleaning the body.

Take her for instance, Jessica Neal. She was in her fifties, worked in the family business since she was seventeen. Never married, but did have a daughter at twenty-three, Zoe. Was a doting mother, worked long hours to support her and eventually brought her in part-time. Zoe was now in her thirties and married with two young daughters. Jessica was a firm Christian and a staunch republican. She liked Chinese food, but not Chinese people. While her favourite colour would change depending on who you asked and what day it was, she would always come back to red. And why not? She had full, beautiful lips. Even now, faded as it was, Jason could see hints of their vibrant colour. Red would look good on her, he must remember that.

Jason scrubbed hard at her neck. He knew the mark wouldn’t come off, but he could dream. The disinfectant began to burn his nostrils, it wasn’t the healthiest to inhale, but he never did care for those bulky masks. They were too obstructing, too heavy and too…impersonal, for this line of work. His task was a solemn, personal affair, not to be handled by some obscure employee behind a mask, but by a person, a real person. Someone who could get to know the deceased, someone who cared. Too many things were artificial these days, too many compromises were allowed. It wasn’t a new phenomenon though, the world had become fake long ago, and humanity was just catching up.

He ran the sponge firmly across her torso and limbs, making sure that every last speck of dirt and grime was gone. Jason wasn’t much of a people person, truthfully, he had never cared for their company. He glanced up at Jessica, well not for the living at least. The world was changing, but he would not have that here. Some things were sacrosanct. Jason dropped the sponge in a pan and looked at his companion. The least he could do was treat this woman as a real person, like her loved ones would. In a brief occasion they would mourn the person, and not the pixels, before returning their gaze to the hypnotic glow of their devices. And there it would remain, at least until the next set of ones and zeroes became inactive.

He stopped for a minute and stretched. People are disappointing, but he wouldn’t let the world get to him here. As his father would always say, one must move beyond trivial distractions. He opened Jessica’s mouth, her front teeth were a bright shade of white, towards the back however he noticed crowns of varying colours.

‘Whitening doesn’t solve everything does it my dear?’

He began to line her cheeks with a layer of cottonwool. Not that his father was above such distractions when Jason informed him that he wasn’t going to college. He leaned back and smiled, Jason always enjoyed reliving that moment. That unique shade of red as the man preaching self-control lost control. The way his eyes dilated just that little bit, the way a never before used vein pulsed into new life. Jason took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He closed Jessica’s mouth and tested the padding. Just enough to hint at a smile, not enough to suggest bloating. Good, her cheeks would still need blushing though. Oh that red his father turned, it would have been the perfect colour.

He was sure Jessica would understand, they were kindred spirits of a kind, red played a meaningful role in both their lives. Why else would the ceremony room walls be lined with bouquet upon bouquet of vibrant red roses? Jason had thought them fake at first. Only rubbing a petal between his thumb and forefinger convinced him otherwise. He could never understand society’s fixation on roses.

He began to massage her neck, easing the tense muscles. Jason reached over to the trolley and retrieved a large jar of wax. He massaged it into the neck and up towards the jawline. He covered the purple mark generously, giving it a bright, ghostly sheen. More wax was added around the eyes and lips, masking the subtle sagging that always accompanies death.

It wasn’t just roses though, it was red roses, for a funeral ceremony. He just didn’t understand it. Flowers that is, well, he understood them, just not the obsession. They were beautiful but frail things, here for an instant and then gone. That was part of the mythos though, the candle that burns brightest burns fastest. Jason caressed the woman’s padded cheek. All beauty wilts, and time makes dust of us all. Once a rose was a beautiful sentiment, in its own morbid way, but times had changed. What was once an endearing and earnest symbol had become an object of vanity.

A rose was still the symbol of love, a grand gesture of affection in petals, but a rose was not just a flower anymore. A rose didn’t grow from seed to germination to blossom, but from trimming to grafting to profit. Is it any wonder then, that the grand gesture becomes so easily disposable? Are your flowers wilting my dear? Oh, I’ll just duck off to the store and grab another lot shall I? Make sure to remove the thorns, can’t be pricking ourselves upon it, might detract from the beauty.

‘Preposterous isn’t it.’

Jessica’s mouth plopped open in agreement. Jason reached in and added more cotton, fixing it in place with gauze and glue. What did it say about a couple’s affections that the symbol of their love was so wantonly replaced?

He set Jessica’s shoulders into a more relaxed position, laying the hands gently on her hips and setting them in place, giving her a more relaxed posture, with just enough space between elbow and body to look comfortable. He never did understand why bodies were presented with their hands firmly at their sides, there were more natural ways to fit into a coffin.

Not that nature had much bearing anymore, the flower was just one casualty in the war for progress. A flower, a rose, was one of nature’s most beautiful and meaningful creations, and yet, it was synthesised for mass production, and sold. Sprayed with chemicals to stay fresh, stems cut to fit in jars, and the body mutilated; thorns, leaves and all. It became a twisted joke, a frail and dainty thing instead of a being with substance. Gone were the tough edges that cut like arguments. Gone the leaves that were the armour of independence. Gone were the flaws that made it unique. What remained was not a symbol of love, but of subservience. Appreciation for the world turned to a desire to make it better, and the love of want had replaced the love of what is.

Jason assessed her, she would almost look peaceful were it not for the purple streak across her neck, or the ghostly white her skin had turned. He looked into her eyes, he would fix that. Jason pulled over a stool, squeezed a thin line of glue across Jessica’s lips, and gently held her mouth shut.

He sat there, in the silence and shadows, staring into the dark. He stared long enough that it began to stare back. Shapes formed and danced in front of him, his eyes thrummed painfully, and Jason remembered to blink. He removed his hand from her jaw and stood over her. Jessica looked patiently up at him.

‘The time has come my dear, rest.’

He took two small plastic disks and tucked them under her eyelids. He dabbed some glue on with a cotton bud, and pulled her lids shut. She didn’t need to see what came next. He walked to a large cupboard by the refrigeration units labelled Embalming. Inside the cupboard was an old blender-like device with thick tubes sticking out of it. The base was a yellow-tinged white and some of the black symbols had faded but the name was still there, embossed in brass. VexTech C80. The glass cylinder was worn and old, but it was clean. The C80 had been the device of the late eighties. Most upgraded to the new, boxy machines with digital measurements but a stoic few still swore by it. He browsed through the selection of chemicals and decided upon a lanolin-based solution which promised superior firmness!

Jason carried the device to the trolley and filled it with the clear liquid. How different were we now to the rose. Our diet was fabricated, our lives chemically prolonged, our appearance constantly altered and yet, it would be unnatural if we were not. Everything we were was owed to artificial innovation. Jason rummaged around in his bag and produced a worn leather case. He carefully opened the zipper and spread it on the table. Inside, on a velvety red background, were the tools of his trade. There were others here; some disposable, some not, newer and perhaps even better, but these were his. Jason withdrew a long scalpel and examined it, the steel gleamed in anticipation.

The problem, at least in Jason’s mind, came down to language. What was normal is considered natural, and so nature became the norm, no matter how unnatural it was. It happened slowly, and then all at once. It was natural to see animals in cages, and have food engineered to grow. It was natural to know a name online more than the people living next to you. It was normal to dress up a corpse, and make them look alive.

Jason arranged his tools, prepared a blood tray, and inspected the machine one last time. He made an incision in her chest, and the scalpel drank greedily. From that first cut it wasn’t Jessica anymore, just another thing taken through the motions. He peeled back her chest, hooked the carotid up to the C80, and let it slowly embalm the body. The cylinder began to turn a murky red as it replaced blood with chemicals, pump by pump. He massaged the body to ensure even distribution, and eventually, it was finished. He sealed the chest, and sat back. The skin had returned to a soft, reddish hue. She could almost be sleeping, were it not for the stitches in her chest.

Jason pulled his gloves off, and dumped them on the trolley on his way to the door. He switched the lights on. The room flickered and buzzed once more. He removed the apron, chucked it on a bench, and washed up at a large sink, using generous amounts of sterilising soap. Jason knew how it sounded, he had had this conversation before; to lament the way the world was while being an agent pursuing artificial perfection, but he didn’t think of it like that. Death was his livelihood, but it was more than that, he was a messenger, a facilitator. Mortality was the great equaliser, all things decayed; from the tallest building, to the lowliest seed.

He rubbed his hands together vigorously, creating a thick, white lather. Death was feared by some, and an uncomfortable subject for most, but his work made it accessible. He helped people come to terms with death, to talk about it. And so Jason cleaned the bodies, pumped them full of chemicals, and dressed them. He presented death in an artificial, but comfortable light and in turn, it snuck into their minds. He hoped it gave perspective, a realisation that no matter what we build, inject or eat, we are all still part of the natural world. It wasn’t something to be fought or changed, but respected and understood.

Jason turned and leant against the basin, staring at the body across the room. The machine could be cleaned and packed away later. He would apply the make-up and clothing next, but first, he was famished.

‘I wonder what the time is,’ he stood and frowned at the ceiling.

He must remember to ask for a clock. Jason moved to the entrance and opened the door, he looked back at what remained of Jessica, and rubbed his chin.

‘I wonder if there’s any roast beef left.’

He switched off the lights as he stepped through, and pulled the door shut.

 

The grey morning rained chunks of smouldering flesh; a fresh manicure in the gutter, faded tattoos dancing down the library’s pillars. Shifting his grip on the black broom handle he’d armed himself with as he left home, Art teetered forward to grasp a sheet of fluttering debris out of the air. A picture says a thousand words, and the colourful swathes of GovCorp’s air safety procedures had only darkly ironic ones to give. Art chuckled.

‘Chilly morning,’ Rich coughed as he kicked a finger off the steps, a curl of smoke from his clenched fist blossoming into the cold alongside his breath.

‘Thought you’d quit?’ was Art’s quiet retort as he tucked the safety card away under his shirt.

‘Ah, well. No bloody reason to now, is there?’ They plunged back into silence; the air warmed a degree.

Crisp leaves hastened down the street, the harsh wind snapping at their heels, catching them up and tossing them violently aside. The fleshy tail of a rat slipped into a drain, taking shelter from the storm. Rich turned to consider Art’s cold face.

‘Where’s Will?’

‘Probably still painting his broom,’ Art muttered, intent on surveying the street.

‘Ah, yeah. Of course.’

The quiet of the cool air reigned as the sudden downpour came to an end. Rich picked at his own broom handle where the black paint had begun to flake prematurely. When that failed to entertain him, he kicked at the weeds in the pavement. Their unexpected resistance soon grew tiresome, and he turned instead to observing the sky.

‘Get your guard uniform sorted OK?’

‘I’m wearing it, aren’t I?!’ Rich’s stomach dropped at the sound of Art’s raised voice, only to leap again as something heavy slammed into his back, almost bowling him over. His broom clattered down the stairs as his hands flew up to catch at the arms that looped around his neck.

‘How’s the watch going? What have I missed?’

‘Will! You scared the shit out of us!’ Rich cursed, pushing him off and retrieving his weapon from the gutter as the street’s telescreens flickered temperamentally before bursting into vivid colour.

‘This is the daily newsfeed, with your hottie host, Persey Simms…’

Her twenty or so heavily made-up faces winked in perfect unison on the screens, flashing large, artificially whitened teeth and tossing platinum bangs out of vividly violet eyes.

‘…Amateur smartchip vids captured scenes resembling the First Last War today as security officials confront agitators in Parliament Square. Rebel terrorists are violently protesting GovCorp’s latest restrictions on non-regulation smartchip upgrades, established in response to jailbreaking charges brought against prominent life-techs earlier this week…’

The picture shook, unstable and manic, as a disorganised mass of people ran into the impenetrable barricade of guards, armed with metallic riot shields locked together like an iron shell. GovCorp deployed their defences and the rebels began to dissipate, falling like flies under the assault of the acid cannons, machine guns and batons. Drops of gore rained through the air, carried on the breeze, flying into the wide eyes of the filming bystander. The hacked visual cortex sent signals to spot the feed, colouring the telescreens with bursts of red. The guards were savagely territorial, batons flying in a red haze, hands grasping at hair to dash a skull across the wall. Blood ran in rivulets down the digitised gutters, trapped in the shadow of a smoking Big Ben.

‘Dude!’ Rich’s gaze was fixed on the telescreen as it focused in on one of the guards. ‘That guy’s killing it!’ As he tore his gaze away to assess the others’ response, the reel ended and Persey reappeared.

‘…New reports published today suggest that GovCorp is successfully handling the population crisis. The number of British Citizens remains steady around the seventy-five million mark. Official statements from the board attribute this stabilisation to the closure of independent pharmaceutical providers whose dangerously experimental products have been accused of interfering with smartchip hormone regulation. Permit offices report that they continue to be overwhelmed by applications for Conception Licenses-‘

‘Yeah, yeah, they’re all randy fuckers, get on with it!’ The screen nearest the boys went out for a moment as Will bounced a football off it.

‘…with the threat of continuing rebel violence, leading GovCorp figures are continuing to advise all non-GovCorp employees in the London commuter-belt to head north, away from major conflict zones, to ensure their safety from terrorist attack while enabling freedom of movement for security officials.Citizens from areas suffering from overpopulation will be prioritised for air travel, and relocated free of charge. I’ll be back tomorrow with the latest, for now please pay attention to the following GovCorp notice, and remember: there’s danger in difference! Get your compulsory upgrades from your nearest GovCorp store now!’

The screen went dark for a moment, before bursting back into life, displaying video streams of airport queues and large airliners powering down endless, glittering tarmac, swallowed by pink-hued clouds.

‘Living down south? Now’s the time for a break! GovCorp’s air package brings you the easiest evacuation available. We handle everything! Join the crowd and make sure your journey is far from different. Just hop on board one of our jets and you can rest easy, knowing that our 100% safety record and award-winning inflight-service will look after you and your loved ones. -Pricesstartfrom$499, lifeinsurancenotincluded.’

The screens shut off suddenly, plunging the street back into grey, and Art patted his chest, reassuring himself that the airline’s calling card was still safely tucked away. Rich’s attention was still focused on the now blank screens, eyes squinted as if he could decipher something in their blankness.

‘Is it me, or has Persey had enhancements since yesterday?’ He mused. Will turned to look, long fingers tugging his pants higher on his thighs in a ludicrous attempt to conceal his boxers.

‘Nah mate, her tits were always that fecking big,’ was his response, in thick Irish brogue.

‘Not her tits dude, her face! Must be nice, having your mind in the gutter all the fucking time.’

‘Hey, guys!’ Art chastised. ‘We’re meant to be guarding the place, remember? Grow a pair!’

‘Isn’t that exactly what we’re doing?’ Will chuckled. ‘I mean, come on, man, she has the best rack in the northern hemisphere!’

‘Just put a sock in it!’ Art snapped, lurching red-faced towards them, his fist raised threateningly. Will flinched, intimidated into instant silence.

‘Yes, boss,’ he mumbled, eyes fixed on the damp ground.

As the day went on, the trio spoke less and less, any attempt at raucous conversation on the part of Will quickly shot down by Art’s steely glare. When they had paused their vigilance for lunch, and Rich pried open the Tupperware box of cold pasta his mother had put together the night before, he surveyed his eating friends; Art carefully disassembling a BLT sandwich, while Will desperately destroyed a sausage roll, and finally found himself able to speak unhindered.

‘How come you were late, Will? Where were you this morning?’ Rich shoved playfully at his friend’s bony shoulder. ‘Huh?’

‘Should have called me earlier int’it?’ He said, half choking on a mouthful of pastry and meat in his haste to reply. ‘Had to have breakfast with me ma’am, and then pa was giving me shit about filching his paint, wa’nt he? Fecking bastard.’ The last was punctuated by a chunk of well-chewed pastry, spat roughly onto a lower step. ‘Fruit Winder, anyone?’

‘Seriously mate? I’m trying to eat over here!’ Art complained, addressing Rich as if Will were undeserving of his disdain.

‘Who gives a shit, boss-man? This gig is boring as fuck anyway,’ Will scoffed, lumbering to his feet. ‘I only came ‘cause thought you scraggy fuckers would need some muscle for it, lend it some credibility, but fuck this, if you’re gonna be dicks about it I’m leaving you two to your date or whatever.’

‘What?! You can’t just piss off when-’

‘Shut up you lot, someone’s coming!’ Rich cut Art off mid-retort, palm slapped over Will’s loose mouth. ‘Shit, it’s a girl.’

‘Wait!’ Will’s voice was muffled behind the sweaty palm. ‘I know her, she lives down my way, prissy type. Name’s Eve, or Evie or somet’ing. What’s she doing down here?’

‘Corp knows, but if she comes much closer we’re going to have to deal with her. Didn’t she see the signs?’ Art spoke as much to himself as the others, peering up the road at the girl, not much shorter than him, a diminutive figure, with blonde hair scraped back into a tight plait and shiny red shoes, clutching a pocket-sized book in one arm and a teddy-bear in the other. She hugged the bear close, as if wary of losing the lovingly battered remnant of the twenty-first century. Intent on returning her book to what remained of the boarded-up library, she passed by the hand-coloured NO TRESPASSING posters, dispersed along the walls of the alleyway without sparing them a glance.

‘She’s heading right this way!’ Rich’s voice was edged with nerves. ‘How the hell are we going to stop her?’

‘You know how, you remember our practicing,’ was Art’s anxious response, as he shifted his grip on his weapon. ‘Just like the procedures they’re always showing on the newsfeed. We can’t let the difference get to us. Just like my dad always says.’

‘Ah, feck. Do we have to?’ Will was shaking. ‘She’s just a little kid! She doesn’t know any better.’

‘It was words like that that felled Troy, Will!’

‘What the fuck are you on about now?! I’m not talking about horses and shit mate, I’m talking about what on Corp’s Earth we’re meant to do now!’

‘Will’s right though Rich, we can’t let her past. If we do, we might as well invite them all over for a tea party. We have to keep guard. And that means we do what we have to do. What is that thing she’s carrying anyway?’

‘What, the teddy bear?’

‘Nah, the other thing!’

‘Looks like a weapon to me!’

‘Fuck!’

‘Shit she’s coming for us!’

‘Come on guys, get her!’

‘Ah, shit’

‘That’s it, hit her!’

‘Harder!’

‘Fuck, don’t let her get away!’

‘Little bitch!’

‘Beat her brains out!’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Don’t stop!’

Rivers of crimson spread slowly, like carmine cracks, spilling from their crumpled source. Her chest rose, once, twice, then fell with her final breath, expelled. Shattered black wood, the instruments of death, clattered to the tarmac as their wielders’ hands unclenched, as they began to recollect their senses.

‘Fuck.’

‘You can say that again!’ Rich laughed, delivering one last kick to a battered side, or limb (it was hard to tell), before sinking to a cool seat on the step above.

‘Who knew when we came out today that this would happen, hey?’ Art asked, shaking his head at the mess of flesh. Will remained cooly silent, directing his swimming vision away, towards the clouds. Even they weren’t any refuge from the carnage. With the ground-shaking explosion that had become well known among the local residents, it began to rain again.

‘Twice in one day? The world’s gone to shit man.’ Will whined, as Art wandered away into the falling debris, in search of more safety cards for his rapidly growing collection.

‘Dude, we did our part.’ Rich smiled, grasping Will’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘We stopped the difference in its tracks! We’ve defended our position, the stronghold, the….! Wait… Art, what are we-?’

‘Exactly how was she different again?’ Will questioned, interrupting Rich’s shout. ‘I knew her. She always seemed fine to me.’

‘Look mate,’ Rich forgot his previous occupation in an instant, eager to impart some superior knowledge, ‘We’re all guys, right? And she was a girl! There ain’t nothing more different to a bloke than a lady!’

‘But-’

‘Hey, Art! Find anything over there?’

‘Nope. Just metal and shit.’ Art wandered dejectedly back towards them. ‘Ah well, got the one from earlier at least.’ He bent over the remnants of the younger child, tucking under a lone red shoe the airline safety procedures he’d plucked from the raining debris that morning. Blood blossomed around the broken girl where fingers had before been planted by the rain, glistening in the flickering of the library’s damaged telescreen.

‘Here you go love’ he joked, patting her spilled locks. ‘Present from the guys at GovCorp.’

‘Reckon that’ll convince the cleaners?’ Will had been watching from afar, avoiding the girl’s familiar face.

‘Sure it will, ’sall the same to them, don’t think they fancy looking all close-like when it’s been raining.’

Art stepped over a hunk of flesh and reached for his backpack, hefting it over his shoulder. ‘Look guys, I have to be home early tonight so we’re going to have to stop early. We’ll carry on tomorrow OK? This is fucking-A. If you want, I think mum’s making cookies. Wanna come do homework at mine? I need all the help I can get on the history project, and then we can make more warning posters and stuff.’

‘Yeah, sure dude.’ Rich answered, his eyes already slipping out of focus as he started his smartchip back up. ‘Let me just send dad a text so he doesn’t cook.’

‘We need to clean up first, don’t we?’ Will reminded the pair, as he wiped his bloodied hands on his jeans. ‘I left spare togs in the gents that way.’

‘Ah yeah, sure.’ They nodded in agreement, the three of them navigating around the crumpled corpse of their eight-year-old neighbour as they headed purposefully down the street, leaving their forgotten victim to soak the stubborn weeds, and bathe the cowering rats. A trail of blood led from the broken girl to the blood-soaked pages of her book. Trailed from it to them. Dripped from the GovCorp logo plastered on the wall to puddle beneath their feet. Blood bloomed on the screens, a crimson imprint of now-dead pixels. Ran between them all, a tapestry of gore, keeping the tangled remains interlinked with that trio of boys whose names spelt war.

As silence reclaimed the library square, Will’s Irish tongue left an echo in the alleys:

‘What’s the story for the folks then, guys?’

When Pren finally reached the village, the sky had been slashed with a wound of dusk. He was tired and starving for conversation and his day was far from over. It had been a long and lonely ride to Dragonsfield and the warmth of the thatch roofed Bronze Blood Inn beckoned to him like a mountain of gold but when he stepped inside he found the place to be oddly lifeless. Pren had never seen an empty common room before, but considering the recent chaos that had erupted throughout the empire he was not surprised. The innkeeper, a plump balding man in an apron, bustled over and called for a stableboy to take his horse before enquiring after his hunger. Pren was eager for a hot meal and a mug of ale but he reluctantly disentangled himself from the innkeeper’s offers of a warm meal knowing his superior, Wulfric, was waiting for him, ignoring temptation he ascended the staircase.

Wulfric’s room was located on a lonely corner at the far end of a hallway on the second floor. He knocked on the door and waited for admittance.

‘Come,’ drawled a voice.

Pren opened the door; it was dim and musty inside the chamber. The room was small yet cosy, a single armchair rested next to a bed, lying on its handsome green blankets was a naked sword, its surface was polished to a sunburned gleam that made it look golden and its edge was sharper than a bear’s fangs. A desk against the opposite wall had already been covered with books and maps that his superior had no doubt been poring over all day. Wulfric had his back to him. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back as he stared stoically out the window.

‘You’re late,’ Wulfric stated, not troubling to turn and face him. His voice had an earthy hardness, as if it had been forged from the depths of a volcano. ‘Never mind that though, you’re here now and that’s what matters.’

‘I was delayed sir,’ Pren began. ‘Many folk are rightly stirred about the sudden appearance of pyramids throughout the empire. The roads are bustling with refugees fearing for their safety.’

For a few moments Wulfric said nothing before finally sidling into the arm chair by the bed. Even in the dim light, the man’s pale blue eyes were like beacons in the dark. Wulfric was a grizzled warrior with a single braid tied into his greying black hair; his beard was closely trimmed and expertly framed his full lips. Despite his age, his shoulders were broad, his arms and legs were thick like oak trees and his chest was hard like sculpted iron. It was not a particularly cold evening but that did not stop him from draping himself in the furs brought from his home in the snowy north.

‘Refugees seem to be everywhere these days,’ Wulfric murmured.

‘Where will they go, sir?’

Pren was worried; he had passed several near empty villages over his travels for the past few days. He hoped more than anything that his family was safe.

‘That is not my concern, nor is it yours; we have bigger issues to deal with.’

‘So the prophecy of the dragons return is coming to pass at last.’

‘Indeed, lad. The appearance of the pyramids is but the first stage,’ He added. ‘The dragons will soon follow.’

‘But no dragons have been sighted.’

‘Pyramids don’t just spring out of the ground like trees, lad.’

‘I….no I s’pose.’

‘We need to take action,’ Wulfric stated as he arose from his seat. ‘To protect the good folk of Dragonsfield and the empire, we must journey to the pyramid and slay the dragon within.’

‘Now, sir?’

‘I would rather go now than later,’ He replied as he reached for the sword lying on his bed and slipped it into its scabbard. ‘Follow my example lad, you might just learn something.’

By the time the two of them emerged from the inn, the cut of orange dusk that had been spread across the sky had faded to a messy reddish blotch in the west. With his bow slung around his shoulders and a refreshed quiver of arrows Pren set forth in his superiors wake. Their road was due north, even less than half a mile away, the pyramid loomed over the thatched roofed houses of Dragonsfield like some great stone monster. Pren could not help but smile wryly when he thought of the irony behind the village’s name.

As the pair of them walked the plains toward the pyramid, Pren brought flame to a torch. Like a beacon in an abyss, the licking flames shone like a sun in the lightless field. Their shadows stretched long and gaunt across the blades of grass.

It was not long before they arrived at the foot of the pyramid. It was a giant structure hewn from stone as grey as a cloud and as smooth as silver. The entire surface, all the way to the pointed summit at least thirty metres above them, was diagonal; the only exception being a steep staircase.

‘Come on,’ Wulfric said as he took the first step.

By the time they reached the top of the staircase, Pren’s legs were aching from the steep climb. A thick stone slab barred their way inside. Before he could ask how they were going to get inside Wulfric spoke up.

‘How interesting, take a look at this lad.’

The grizzled warrior pointed to a series of runes carved onto the surface of the slab. Pren could not stifle the gasp that escaped his mouth.

‘Sir, that’s dragontongue.’

‘To get inside, one must merely recite the inscribed runes,’

Pren was a student of dragontongue, it was a requirement of all the members of the order to learn the language of dragons. He watched Wulfric with awe as he began to recite the chicken scratch on the wall wishing he was a quarter as fluent as he.

When his superior had finished relaying the words in the harsh and grating dragon language, the slab slid open with surprising ease, as if it were newly made.

Before they stepped inside, Pren held up the light of the torch to cut into the void within. A long hallway, tight like the throat of a monster loomed before them.

‘On, m’lad,’ Wulfric said as he drew his sword. ‘Get ready with that bow of yours.’

Wulfric relieved him of his torch while he readied his bow. Pren was good with a bow; he could shoot a small moving target at ninety feet. Hitting a target as large as a dragon would be simple as long as he was quick and clear headed.

Along the walls of the hall, murals had been carved depicting the horrific splendour of the dragon age. Pren wanted to stop for a chance to look at them in detail but Wulfric’s eyes were fixed solely on the path ahead and he carried the torch.

‘Sir, who made these pyramids?’ Pren enquired as they walked. ‘I find it hard to believe that dragons were capable of creating these carvings.’

‘You have good instincts lad, these pyramids were not crafted by dragonkind.’ Wulfric replied. ‘They were constructed by their elf servants. During the war whenever a dragon was slain the elves would seal the body within one of these pyramids and send the structure deep underground so human hands would be unable to disturb the sacred remains within. Unfortunately, we know little more about the pyramids for the elves vanished not long after the dragon war was over.’

‘So this is a glorified dragon tomb?’

‘More or less,’ Wulfric chuckled.

‘But how can dead dragons come back to life?’

‘I cannot explain the whims of dragons. I simply believe the last words uttered in the final breaths of the last dragon, the watchwords of our order.’

Wulfric cleared his throat as he began to recite.

‘When fresh blood brims, pyramids will arrive to herald the rebirth of dragonkind.’

Pren knew the phrase well, he understood the latter half but he had never quite understood what ‘fresh blood brims’ meant.

‘My gut tells me that there is a very much alive dragon inside this pyramid.’

Pren’s spine began to tingle with anticipation and fear both. From what he had read of the old tales, the dragon war had brought humanity to the brink of extinction, but could humanity survive such a catastrophe again?

‘Worry not, lad,’ Wulfric said to his unspoken thoughts. ‘We are dragonslayers, this is what you have been trained for.’

After much time spent following the long twisting hallway they finally reached a staircase leading down further into the pyramids depths, the murals along the wall descending with them. It was like watching a story unfolding before him, he saw a mighty elven host marching against the armies of man with a horde of dragons at their back, he saw death and dragonfire all made into life in stone. Just when Pren believed the murals were about to go on forever he spotted light in the distance.

‘There!’ He cried out. ‘That must be it!’

‘Quiet,’ Wulfric hissed.

Together they descended the last of the stairs before emerging within a large chamber with an impressive vaulted ceiling that illuminated the room with a blonde sunny light. What Pren saw in the chamber took his breath away and judging by his gasp, Wulfric was just as mesmerised as he.

In the middle of the chamber, resting atop a mountainous pile of rocks was a golden dragon, colossal in size, coiled like a sleeping cat. Its body was so still it was obviously dead but its body was so well preserved that Pren would not have been surprised if it were to suddenly spread its wings and fly. The behemoth was like a living treasure mountain, each of its golden scales glimmered like shiny coins providing a natural armour unlike any other. The dragon’s sinewy wings, tranquil and neatly folded appeared strong enough to kick up a whirlwind with a single stroke. They truly lived up to their legends, as beautiful as they were dangerous.

‘That’s elf magic for you,’ Wulfric said as he stepped toward the corpse. ‘So well preserved it seems alive.’

‘Are you sure you should be doing that? I would never approach a dragon, even a dead one without some caution.’

‘Why is it stacked upon all these rocks?’ He ignored his concern. ‘Doesn’t it seem odd to you?’

‘Perhaps it was some sort of elven burial tradition?’

Wulfric bit his lower lip as he frowned.

‘I don’t like these rocks.’

Pren frowned as Wulfric reached a hand toward the stack of rocks and wrenched free one of the stones and examined it.

‘Why did you do that?’ Pren demanded.

‘Catch.’

He had barely time to ready himself before Wulfric flung the stone toward him. Pren caught it and as he examined it he found it to be startlingly light, he rapped his knuckle against the smooth surface and a dull thud from within was the response.

Then realisation struck him.

‘This is no dragon tomb,’ Wulfric stated. ‘It’s a dragon nest.’

‘You mean these are eggs?’ Pren whispered, his hands beginning to quake as he stared at the rock in his hands.

‘Yes.’

‘So what are we going to do then, destroy them all?’

‘Of course.’

‘But there must be thousands of them,’ Pren whined as he gazed at the mountain. ‘It’ll take days.’

‘It does not matter how long it takes, it is our duty as dragon slayers.’

‘So we’ll make a game of it then,’ he added sullenly.

‘Just take it one at a time boy, like this.’

Wulfric grabbed another one of the stones and tossed it high in the air. Just before it could crash to the ground, he had slashed a single clean stroke through the middle with his sword. In mid-air, the egg split in half like a watermelon, the two separate shards spinning away in opposite directions and landing with a clatter.

The egg was empty.

‘It’s hollow,’ Pren murmured.

Wulfric reached down and picked up one of the shards.

‘This is an elf trick,’ Wulfric spat as he held up the fragment. ‘Look here.’

Pren stared, on the inner face of the egg he spotted more runes, these ones he did not recognise.

‘Elvish,’ Wulfric growled. ‘Nothing but a trick to halt us in our tracks.’

‘Any idea what it says, sir.’

‘It simply says ‘awaken’.’

Pren was pondering the meaning of those words when he heard a noise.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘What lad?’ Wulfric sniffed, he too was still mulling over the runes in the broken egg when Pren heard it again, louder and clearer. It sounded like something breaking.

Horror awoke in his heart, his gaze fluttered back toward the mound of eggs that were not eggs. More cracks and snapping sounds followed and his mouth dropped open when the mountain of rocks began to churn like some sort of solid ocean. The sound of a thousand pebbles grating against each other echoed all across the chamber like a tempest. Many of the errant stones on the edges of the pile spilled over the sides and began to slide toward them. The golden dragon, oblivious to the turmoil, rode the fissure of pebbles like a ship in a storm.

‘Sir, what should we do?’

‘Keep calm, ready your bow.’

As Pren pulled an arrow from his quiver, a deep otherworldly roar rumbled from within the catastrophe. This was followed by an almighty crash as a sinewy emerald scaled claw emerged from the depths of the egg mountain. An angry muffled roar sounded from within before the claw retreated back below the surface.

Then there was a moment of rumbling quiet before chaos exploded. A thousand stones thundered into mid-air like an eruption. A volcanic roar sounded as a brilliantly terrifying emerald dragon arose from within the mountainous depths. It was a majestic specimen of equal magnificence to the fallen gold.

‘Aim for the eyes,’ Wulfric barked. ‘GO, GO, GO!’

‘That is easier said than done,’ Pren murmured as he nocked an arrow.

With a deep calming breath he raised his bow and drew back the string. The dragon was glaring at him; its two slitted golden eyes glowed like beacons in his vision. He focused and took aim.

The dragon opened its maw and from within Pren saw a bright red light glowing brighter and brighter.

It was now or never.

‘I am a dragon slayer.’

With a twang, Pren let his arrow fly.

‘Eric, why am I plugged into a computer?’

Oscar had several USB cords that were connected to his left arm and into a computer hard-drive that was missing the plastic covering which exposed the several circuit boards that were stacked into the metal frame much like the floors of a skyscraper. Within the left arm was a touchscreen fitted into the metal casing, it had lines of code that ran along the screen without a single action to be performed.

Oscar laid on the ground, and with his right arm he held his body up from the floor. Both of his arms and eyes were not organic. The arms were made of metal, the grey steel plating covered with numerous scratched marks and dents protected the inner electrical motors that mimicked muscles. His eyes contained a camera lens within a metal casing that served as the eyeball. Inside his head he had a miniature processor attached to his brain that allowed him to manage terabytes of information that could be accessed from the touchscreen.

‘You are connected to the computer to act as a decoy, while I use my supercomputers to break in for the transport information.’ said Eric.

Eric was seated at a large dining table with three large flat computer screens. Unlike Oscar, Eric did not have any cybernetic implants and was completely organic. He wore a jumper with a hoodie that covered his head and trackpants. Tangled cords ran from under the table and into a room that has been completely sealed off with only a door with rubber along the sides that trapped the cold air inside. Through a frosted window, three black pillars stood in the middle of the room; Eric’s pride and joy. Supercomputers he built from the ground up with spare parts and stored into the kitchen that he transformed into a cool room.

‘This is safe?’ said Oscar.

‘Yep, I set up the program to turn off when they find you, so nothing to worry about.’ said Eric.

‘Your skeleton of a computer here doesn’t fill me with confidence.’

‘It’s the best I have to work with, shut up already.’

Eric moved from screen to screen. Rapidly, he tapped the keyboards as he scanned thousands of files for the information about the supply trucks, which they could use to escape the city.

‘When I find the information, what’s next?’ said Eric.

‘I go check it out, and think of the best way to sneak us in.’ said Oscar.

‘What would be the best way?’

‘The best way would be finding empty boxes, putting return notices on them and hiding in them. If worse comes to worse, we steal a van or truck or whatever they are using.’

‘I like the second plan; simple and easy to do.’

‘Only if you feel like losing your limbs.’

A waring message appeared on Oscar’s touchscreen.

‘What’s this?’ said Oscar.

‘What’s what?’ said Eric.

The computer hard-drive that Oscar is connected to hissed and threw sparks in all directions before it finally short circuited and released a plume of smoke.

Oscar reached for the cables attached to his arm.

‘No, don’t do that.’ said Eric.

Eric jumped from his seat to Oscar’s arm. He dismissed the warning message and punched the visual keys on the touchscreen to stop whatever program that destroyed his small computer before it got into Oscar’s imbedded computer.

‘Shit.’ said Eric, with no choice he pulled all the cables out which caused Oscar’s cybernetic enhancements to perform an emergency shutdown. His eyes switched off which blinded him. His arms went limp which made him fall to the ground, unable to hold himself up anymore.

‘Are you okay?’ said Eric.

‘I can’t see or move my arms.’ said Oscar as he lifted his right leg and moved it through the air until it came into contact with Eric’s chest.

‘Is that you?’ said Oscar.

‘Yeah.’ said Eric.

Oscar pulled his leg back and kicked Eric hard, which send him to the ground. Eric moaned in agony as he rolled on the ground while he clenched his chest with both of his arms.

‘What was that for?’ said Eric.

‘For almost getting me killed.’ said Oscar.

‘That was not going to happen.’

‘Did you not see the computer? The processor in my head could have exploded and burnt my brain.’

‘That did not happen and you’re fine. Now let me fix this, and if you kick me again I’ll leave you blind and armless.’

Oscar laid motionless on the floor as Eric moved over to his left arm with the touchscreen. The screen lit up as he turned it on and it produced a message saying the system wasn’t turned off properly. Eric pressed the option to start up the system normally, which took him to the main screen where he saw an icon shaped like an eye. He clicked it and a window popped up that provided options for Oscar’s camera lens eyes. Eric clicked the restart button and Oscar’s eyes rotated as they readjusted themselves.

‘Can you see now?’ said Eric.

‘I see a dead man,’ said Oscar.

A light humming was heard from both of Oscar’s arms as they warm up and restored power to the artificial limbs. Oscar tested his hand by opening and closing his fist. Knowing that everything was working, he got off the ground and made his way to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Eric.

‘Fresh air,’ said Oscar.

Outside the house, Oscar found himself in the backyard that was empty with nothing but dirt covering the ground to all four corners of the property and a cracked concrete pathway that circled the house. He observed Eric’s house which had fallen apart, with a collapsed awning over the front door. Broken glass and furniture littered the house, and the paint was faded and peeled.

Down the road, Oscar saw other houses that were in a similar state to Eric’s house. The entire suburb had decayed alongside the city that Oscar could see off in the distance. Despite the lack of electricity to power the streetlights and buildings, the moonlight was enough to outline the skyscrapers in the distance and the buildings around Oscar.

The street, much like the houses, had crumbled away. It was filled with potholes that made it un-drivable for vehicles except for four wheel drives, but even with that it was still an uncomfortable ride for those who tried.

A few people could be seen along the street. Most wore torn and dirty clothing, Oscar himself had a grey jumper with the sleeves ripped off given the fact his arms were made out of metal and he could no longer feel the cold.

Oscar soon found himself in front of a mall complex that was made to provide close and convenient shopping for the residents of the suburbs, back when this was a working city. Now it had become a refugee outpost ran by the police to protect the people that remained behind, unable to leave the city.

This city was one of several that showed that the human race could conquer the desert through the creation of artificial living conditions for millions of people; the answer to over-population. That was when everything worked. Due to the collapse of the economy there wasn’t enough resources to go around and the main cities along the coast were prioritised to receive what little that was left. The new cities had nothing to sustain themselves with and were kilometres away from any other city. The people were stuck in this decayed metropolis. Those without the means were left behind, caught in a power struggle between the police and the gangs, as each tried to gain control of the desert city.

At the front entrance to the mall, two police officers wore tactical assault gear which consisted of thick bullet proof vest that covered the entire body and thick padding that covered the arms and legs; a turtle suit most people tended to call it.

As Oscar approached one of the turtles caught sight of his cybernetic arms and gripped his rifle tightly. Oscar noticed but continued to walk and casually reached for his wallet for his ID. He gave it to the other turtle who doubled checked the image on the card matched the face of the cyborg that stood before him.

‘May I see the rego for your arms?’ asked the officer.

Without hesitation Oscar slid open the metal panel that covered the touchscreen and with his right index finger that had a soft circle pad at the tip to prevent the metal from scratching the screen, he navigated the menu and pulled up the cybernetic registration on the screen. Instead of the rego, the screen glitched and warped before it devolved into static. Oscar had never encountered any problems with the touchscreen before. He tapped the screen a few times in attempt to fix the problem and the screen returned to normal with the registration information. Oscar moved his left arm in sight of the officer who cross-checked the information on the screen with the back of the card.

‘Thank you,’ said the officer as he gave the ID back to Oscar.

Inside the mall between the newsagency and the liquor shop that stood at either end of the entrance, a row of concrete barriers interconnected with each other ran from store to store with three more turtle suit police, two of them behind the barrier and one in front of the makeshift wall beside the newsagency, to guide people through the small gap they’d left open to allow passage. But there was a concrete block ready on the side to close the hole and complete the blockage.

The interior of the mall, unlike the suburb, had not decayed. No broken walls, collapsed ceiling, or cracked glass. Despite the building being in good condition, a thin layer of dust, dirt and all manner of plastic rubbish covered the smooth floor. Each step Oscar made, his brown boots left their impressions in the accumulated filth. The shops that lined the sides of the mall no longer contained merchandise for sale but were filled with people huddled in blankets and sleeping bags. All of them misplaced by the deteriorated city and the inner city conflict.

Deep within the small shopping centre a large circular space housed the food court. The emergency services didn’t have to do much as every store provided a kitchen to cook bulk amounts of food for the refugees in the mall and residents of the suburbs. The only thing they needed to do was bring in eskies to increase the storage space for water bottles. He made his way up to one of the blue coolers and collected a bottle for himself. He showed it to the lady in an orange high visibility uniform, she appeared tired, but nodded to Oscar and returned to her seat.

Oscar found his own seat in the middle of the court under a glass dome ceiling that showed the night sky. He took a sip of water and slouched into his seat, able to cool off in a quiet place away from the ever-present problems that waited for him beyond the mall.

‘You look like you are about to kill someone.’

Oscar turned his head to find Maya who took a seat opposite him.

‘That would be Eric.’ said Oscar.

‘What did you two try this time?’ asked Maya.

‘I was a decoy while he fished for information. Something destroyed one of his computers and tried to do the same to me.’

‘Shit.’

‘He was able to stop it but I think there is something wrong with the touchscreen now.’

‘What is wrong with you idiots?’

‘I’d rather be the idiot who tried than the fool who stayed.’

Maya said nothing but appeared ready to punch Oscar.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that,’ said Oscar.

‘Despite the fact that your arms are made of metal I can still beat you,’ said Maya.

‘You are never going to let that go.’

Oscar’s vision glitched and warped in the same manner as his touchscreen earlier did. Static covered his sight. Maya who was in front him disappeared and reappeared after each burst of static. The words ‘idiot’, ‘fool’, ‘sorry’ and ‘beat’ ran across his artificial eyes in all directions.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Maya.

‘My eyes, there’s something wrong with them,’ said Oscar.

Oscar stood up and walked back towards the entrance but tripped over a chair that was in front of him.

‘Where did that come from?’ asked Oscar.

‘It was in front of you, didn’t you see it?’ said Maya.

‘No, one moment it was there, and then it was gone.’

Maya helped Oscar get back on his feet and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ll guide you, I’m guessing we are going to Eric’s place.’

Maya helped Oscar through the mall and outside back in the suburbs. Oscar was not completely blind, but the constant static that blurred his vision –objects and buildings that shifted positions and disappeared –all made it impossible to see. He looked towards the city as the tall skyscrapers shifted from their original positions to new ones. All this disorientated Oscar and made him sick and ready to throw up.

Oscar rushed through the back door followed closely by Maya. Together they made their way to the main room where Eric was.

‘Hi guys, feeling better?’ asked Eric.

‘You fucking idiot,’ said Maya and Oscar.

Maya pulled Eric off the only chair in the room and gave it to Oscar.

‘What the hell?’ said Eric.

‘That thing that wrecked your computer is screwing around with my eyes.’ said Oscar.

‘I pulled you out before it got in.’

‘You didn’t do it soon enough.’

Eric opened the touchscreen and saw the static and random words that were shown on the small monitor. He was unable to get it to respond to his commands. He grabbed one of the keyboards and plugged it into the port beside the screen and restored the screen to its proper condition.

‘Did you fix it?’ asked Maya.

‘No, only the interface, but it is deleting and assimilating information, getting bigger and requiring more memory.’ said Eric.

‘Get rid of it already.’

‘That’s what I’m about to do.’

Oscar screamed in pain and clenched his head as he collapsed to the ground.

‘My head,’ groaned Oscar.

‘Take this and grab him,’ said Eric as he passed the keyboard to Maya and produced a key from his pocket and opened the supercomputer room. Maya dragged Oscar into the makeshift cold room while Eric closed the door behind them.

‘The cold should help, grab his arm.’ said Eric.

Maya held down Oscar’s left arm as he continued to thrash about. Eric removed the bottom panel from the arm and revealed the inner components that made up the artificial limb. The metal rod housed in the middle, wires, and a rectangle block in the middle; this was the battery that powered the implants. Without hesitation Eric removed the battery.

Oscar’s other arm falls to the ground and he stopped thrashing about.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Eric.

‘It still hurts, but not so much now.’ said Oscar.

Eric pulled off another panel and revealed the compact hard-drive housed in the arm. He disconnected all the wires holding the unit and removed it from the limb.

‘Doesn’t he need that?’ asked Maya.

‘I’ll get him a new one, he can’t use this anymore,’ said Eric.

‘What was it?’ asked Oscar.

‘Turns out it was a fragment of an AI, that’s why it was assimilating information, it wanted to reconstruct itself.’

‘But what did it try to do to Oscar?’

‘It tried to overload the processor in his head, I guess it was defending itself from me.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘Keep it, I’ve never dealt with AIs before. But first, let’s put you back together.’