IGMS Issue 28 Page 6

  The next morning, he returned to The End. The ticket-gate attendant recognized him. Or recognized his hand stamp, anyway. "Season Pass is only thirty-five dollars," said the man.

  "That's okay," Jared replied. "This is the last day." Then he remembered the twenty-four hour wait for delivery on the hang glider. "Well, I'll be back tomorrow, but that's it."

  The ticket-taker shrugged and stamped his other hand. Yesterday, the stamp had been of a little green frog. Today, it was a kite. It seemed a good omen.

  Once again, Jared arrived before the kite seller. He walked out to the mist-shrouded drop. He stepped over the safety rope and took a seat on the ledge, letting his feet dangle. A Led Zeppelin song echoed up from the deep. Jared didn't know the title, but he'd heard it many times. When it finished, a Japanese pop song replaced it. At least, he thought it might be Japanese. He didn't actually speak Japanese, so he couldn't be sure. He also heard many conversations, though of course he couldn't make out any of the words. When the kite seller arrived. Jared went to see him.

  "Do you have any hang gliders today?" he asked.

  "Sure!" replied the old man. He tapped his sign into the ground with a rubber mallet. "Already spoken for, though. You'll have pay me today and come back tomorrow to get your own."

  "Right," said Jared.

  He had the money in his pocket, twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills and a stack of tens and ones, because he wasn't sure if there'd be sales tax. Instead of handing it over, he helped the old man pin down his beautiful kites, and when that was done, he walked around the field, watching the people who came to picnic and play and those who came to walk along The End, those who threw paper airplanes and released balloons and bought the old man's kites and flew them. In the afternoon, a young man came, and the kite seller disappeared, then returned a few minutes later rolling a colorful bundle on a two-wheeled cart. Together, the young man and the old man assembled a hang glider, and when they'd finished, they wheeled it out toward The End. The old man unfastened a knot where the safety rope boundary was tied to one of its posts, and opened a space for the hang glider to launch. The two shook hands.

  By this point a crowd had gathered all around the make-shift launch pad. No one spoke to the young man or tried to talk him out of going. The old man helped him clip himself into his harness. A couple of bystanders helped him get up to speed, helped him launch, and then he was in the air. Not quite flying, not quite falling, but making an unsteady arc into the fog. Then he was gone. By the time Jared lost sight of him, the old man had already retied the boundary rope.

  The bystanders shook their heads. They dispersed like people waking from a collective dream. Jared heard some of them expressing regret at the loss of such a healthy young man. It was a shame, really, they said. A shame for people to throw their lives away like that. From the deep, a family chorus sang "Happy Birthday" to some unseen celebrant.

  Jared left. He went back to his hotel and ordered room service again. Broccoli and Cheddar soup and a glass of water. They also brought him packets of oyster crackers, but he didn't eat them. He went to bed. He didn't call anyone or write any letters.

  "A season pass is only thirty-five dollars," said the ticket taker, the next morning. His stamp was shaped like a banana, but in red ink.

  "I know," said Jared. "I should have bought one the first day, but now it just seems silly. I'll be back tomorrow, but that's the last day."

  The ticket-taker nodded, as if he'd heard this before.

  This time, the kite seller was already pinning down his kites when Jared arrived. Again Jared helped.

  "Still haven't made up your mind?" asked the old man. "Of course, it's a big decision. Nothing wrong with taking your time about it."

  "No, I've made up my mind," Jared replied, and yet, he didn't hand over the cash. The old man nodded, as if this was routine, and didn't press him.

  Jared spent the day helping with the kites. It was easier for the old man if someone could show the children how to fasten their string and how to launch their kites, while the old man took their parents' money. In the afternoon, another young man came, and Jared kept an eye on all the kites while the old man fetched another hang glider. Yesterday's hang glider had been orange. Today's was blue. The old man put it together unaided. His customer was busy talking on a cell phone and repacking a satchel he intended to take with him. He had a head-mounted camera and a radio transponder and a variety of other devices with which he hoped to communicate with his partner, on the phone. The old man warned him that such devices never worked in The End, but he was not put off. He disappeared with a more confident arc than his predecessor, and when Jared mentioned the difference, the old man said, "Well, he's been taking hang-gliding lessons for several years, preparing for this day. Everyone who goes goes a little differently. You stick around, you'll see that."

  Jared stayed until the end of the day. He helped the man pack up his kites, and as they were about to say their goodbyes, a breathless young woman ran up, waving a wad of hundred dollar bills. "I thought I was going to miss you," she said. "I thought I wasn't going to make it."

  "Well," said the old man, "The End isn't going anywhere. There's still time."

  "I want to go tomorrow," she said. "I'm ready. I have to know what's out there."

  He took her money and promised to bring her a hang glider the next day.

  Jared stopped at an ATM on the way to his hotel and withdrew another two hundred dollars. It made him feel a little guilty to draw down his resources beyond the level he'd intended, but he had to stay at least two more nights at the hotel, and he didn't want to eat into the money he'd budgeted to give the old man. That evening, he ordered room service again. He ate a steak and a baked potato, asparagus, a dinner roll, and an ice cream sundae for desert.

  He still didn't call anyone or write any letters.

  The next day, the girl didn't show up to claim her hang glider. Jared offered to buy it when the old man had begun packing up his kites, but the old man refused.

  "That happens sometimes. I'll hold onto it, for now. She might show up tomorrow. I'll honor our agreement as long as she shows up this week. Would you like to buy a hang glider for tomorrow? I could bring two, tomorrow. It's two thousand dollars. But you know that."

  Jared nodded, but he kept his money.

  That night he decided to eat out and went to a local Mexican restaurant that he'd passed every day going to and from the hotel. He had Texas-style fajitas and chips and salsa and a small margarita, which he drank too quickly because it was cold and refreshing and tasted very good. When the waiter asked if he'd like another, he said no. It seemed like a bad idea to get intoxicated on the night before making a big decision. He went back to his hotel. He tried to write a letter, but midway through it, he realized he wasn't sure who he was writing to. He threw it away. He wrote another. Changed his mind. Threw it away too. Finally, he went to bed.

  He had every intention of going to the old man and buying his hang glider the next day, but somehow he ended up at the hospital, where he'd been abandoned. No one remembered him or his parents; the staff had all retired or quit or been replaced. The receptionist suggested he go to The End and look for the kite seller.

  "He could probably tell you a little something about everybody who's ever gone over," she said. "He's been selling his kites and hang gliders for just about as long as I can remember. Ask him."

  Jared already knew this, but had been afraid. He thought the old man would remember his parents as the couple who'd stolen his hot air balloon. He returned to his hotel room instead. He wrote a letter. Threw it away. Wrote another. Threw it away too. He tried to take a nap, but couldn't sleep. Finally, he called his gran, back in Minnesota.

  "Hello," he said.

  "I've been worried about you!" she replied.

  "I know," he said, then they talked, for a long time. When he hung up, he finally wrote a letter. He folded it carefully, put it in his pocket, then went out to his car to go to The End as he'd o
riginally planned.

  Once there, he took the box containing all the letters he'd written to his parents out of his trunk and carried it with him into the park. The ticket taker at the turnstile was a woman. She didn't recognize him. She stamped his hand with a black umbrella. She didn't offer him a season pass.

  The old man greeted him with a nod, but was helping a young girl to tie a string to her kite, so Jared was forced to set his box on the ground and wait his turn. When it came, he said, "I think my parents rented a hot air balloon from you. I think they cut the line and took it into The End."

  The old man frowned.

  "I was only a baby. I don't remember."

  "So now you're growed up and you'd like to buy a hang glider. Try to go and find 'em?"

  Jared nodded at first, then shook his head.

  "I did. I mean, I wanted to buy a balloon. I didn't know they were so expensive. But I've got people. I mean, I've got someone I don't want to leave behind, and they're not ready to come with me."

  The old man didn't say anything. Jared dug in his pocket, and gave the man two thousand dollars.

  "Here," he said. "It's not enough. But it's all I can afford. I was going to give it to you anyway, and I still want you to have it. They shouldn't have taken your balloon. They shouldn't have gone."

  The man accepted his money. "You don't want me to bring you a hang glider tomorrow? You don't want to know what's out there anymore?"

  "No," replied Jared. "I'm staying. At least for now." He retrieved his box. "You should sell pens and stationary."

  The man laughed and nodded. "I used to," he said, "but the paper kept blowing away."

  The old man walked with him to The End and untied the boundary rope for him. Jared sat on the ledge, with the box beside him, and folded one of his letters into a paper airplane. Show tunes echoed up from the deep, along with the voices of two people who were having a conversation. When he was finished, he threw the letter. It fluttered more than flew, but that was fine. Jared had plenty more with which to practice his technique.

  The old man said, "When you're finished, tie this rope back, all right? Won't stop those who've made up their minds, but we wouldn't want anyone falling over the edge by accident."

  Jared said he would. He folded another paper airplane and threw it. The old man walked away.

  Maybe Jared was not as daring as his parents. Maybe he was not as brave. Maybe by not going he was losing out on the opportunity to ever know them. Maybe they'd been waiting, all his life, for him to grow up and follow in their footsteps.

  Maybe they were dead. Maybe the sounds echoing up from the deep were some kind of atmospheric effect that nobody understood. He threw another paper airplane. He threw three more.

  They shouldn't have gone. Gran loved them. Jared loved them even though he couldn't remember them. It had been selfish of them to go. He threw another paper airplane. Another. He threw them all afternoon. When he finished, he threw the box over too, then retied the barrier rope. There was nothing to do after that. He stood and looked at the void for a while, then put his hands in his pockets and walked away.

  In his pocket, his fingers brushed the folded shape of his most recent letter, which he'd almost forgotten about. He withdrew it, smiled, and strode purposefully toward the exit.

  He was going to deliver it personally, to his Gran, who loved him.

  Master Madrigal's Mechanical Man

  by Scott C. Mikula

  Artwork by Jin Han

  * * *

  I tried to shut out the crowd's roar, but the thunder of a thousand feet pounding above us in the arena stands rose until I could feel the breastplate of the mechanical swordsman vibrate beneath my touch. Master Madrigal gestured with his palsied hand for me to replace the automaton's helmet, but I hesitated long enough to examine the delicate inner workings. Just one small adjustment -

  A cuff to the back of my head arrested my motion. "We have spoken of this, Cetta," said Madrigal. "There is no problem with the balance." He crossed his arms, tucking his useless right hand out of sight beneath his sleeve.

  I was twelve years old when I persuaded my mother to send me to her uncle Madrigal, after his illness. It was supposed to be temporary, but his palsy only worsened in the intervening years. The word apprentice was never used. Girls did not apprentice to craftsmen like Madrigal, and I don't think he would have taken an apprentice in any case. He referred to me as his hands. My deft fingers did the work his no longer could.

  "Yes, Master Madrigal." I set the helmet as he had indicated, covering switches and levers and the gyroscope I believed flawed, but my belly roiled with indignation. Madrigal thought me no more intelligent than the automaton, as though my head, too, were full of switches and levers contrived to direct me to his bidding. But I held my tongue. Contesting Madrigal's opinion would only make him sour and stubborn.

  The applause gave way to a muted anticipation as Lybron, the opposing swordsman, made his way to his corner of the combat yard. He was handsome, with a mane of golden-yellow hair that flowed loose behind him. He stood with an easy grace, exuding pride like a strong perfume.

  The crowd cheered when our mechanical swordsman entered the arena, but it was punctuated by hushed mutters and sideways glances. The duke, in his box at the head of the arena, clapped politely. I took the crowd's agitation as a good sign; in previous contests, our fighter of steel and false-sinew had earned nothing but laughter and sneers. Today the crowd had seen it dispatch four lesser swordsmen, and if it defeated Lybron it would take the victor's laurels and the duke's purse.

  "Cetta! Come." I hopped at Madrigal's words, realizing I had been watching Lybron. If the swordsman was worried about the fight, he did not show it. As we stepped back to the stands, he met my eyes and gave me a ready smile. I stared ice shards back at him; I am no simpering court lady, to be charmed by a warm look.

  The official directed the contestants forward. Lybron bowed towards the automaton, an expansive, mocking gesture that brought a laugh from the crowd. The automaton mimicked the motion exactly, to an echo of nervous laughter. A crease of uncertainty appeared on Lybron's brow, quickly replaced by calm readiness. Lybron and the automaton drew their swords, and at the official's signal the fight began.

  Beside me, Madrigal leaned forward, gaze level and unblinking. The crowd's murmur fell to a hush as the combatants circled each other. Thick hide leather padded the soles of the automaton's feet and made whispers of its steps on the sandy arena floor. And then, as a mountain cat falls on its prey, Lybron attacked.

  He assaulted the mechanical swordsman in a flurry of blows, as though to overwhelm it with sheer aggression. Yellow hair leaped wildly, like flames dancing, but his face was cool and confident. For a moment it looked like he would succeed as the automaton fell back with each blow.

  Such an attack would have intimidated any human opponent, perhaps caused him to be more tentative, more defensive. But our mechanical man knows nothing of fear or worry. It fended off Lybron's blows, gave no more ground than necessary, and when it found opportunity it pressed its own attack. Its arms seemed too limber to be made of steel, but they wielded their heavy broadsword with deadly precision.

  "He sees now I've offered him no straw man to hack at as if in the practice yard," Madrigal said. The frenzied exchange between the combatants had given way to a lull. They regarded each other, circling like dogs preparing to fight over a haunch of meat. "No, this time he faces a skill akin to his own."

  "Its stance is still uneven when at high guard."

  "Hardly." Madrigal didn't look away from the bout, where the automaton readily countered Lybron's probing strikes. "Its defenses have proved firm so far, and I find it unlikely Lybron will have greater success than any of the others."

  "Because the automaton is faster, not because it is better." I wondered whether Madrigal truly could not see the defects in our work, or if he willfully chose to overlook them. In the workshop we measure perfection in angles and momentum and fractions
of seconds, but there is no way to calculate the sum of those things until it is tested in the field of combat. There its flaws should be obvious to any eye. "With Lybron, every movement he makes flows into the next, and he keeps his poise under the fiercest attacks."

  "And next you will wax eloquent about how graceful he is, how his every motion is like the stroke of a painter's brush or the notes of a minstrel's lyre. Gods, girl, he smiles at you once and you're like to lose all reason. These things are nothing more than ostentation and showmanship. You would have my automaton swagger and parade before the crowd like every other entrant. It is a machine, Cetta. It needs no empty pride, nor must it know how to be graceful before it can perform its function."

  I clenched my teeth. Was that all Madrigal thought of me? It was not as if I believed the automaton harbored some hidden aesthetic beneath its metal chassis, or that Hespa, the muse of battle, could guide its sword-strokes the way Lybron claimed she did his. "I'm saying that since we can observe the automaton's faults, we must be able to correct them. It can be flawless."

  "On the combat grounds, the only qualities that matter are victory and defeat." Madrigal spoke with a finality that said he would hear nothing more from me. I smoldered like a banked ember. How could he be so uninspired, to settle for something less than what was possible?

  The pace of the fight had increased, the automaton becoming more aggressive as it adapted to its opponent's fighting style. Lybron wore a lionish grin and met the automaton blow for blow. They were well matched, but where our automaton got by on its speed and strength and consistency, Lybron fought like a flower petal on the wind, responding without thought to every turn and eddy of the battle. Beside him the mechanical swordsman looked cumbrous and awkward. Nothing so dramatic as a lurch or a misstep, but where a parry should have flowed effortlessly into a counterattack there was a hitch, like a scuff on polished leather. When Lybron pressed close, their swords locked together, I could see the slight waver before the automaton thrust him away. Tiny things, but each a vulnerability, if only for the span of a heartbeat.