IGMS - Issue 18 Read online

  Nettie took a step back.

  "But Odin," Lenny continued, "Odin was crucified by his own javelin." He raised the knife and gave Nettie a wink. Twitch. Tic.

  She looked at the knife, looked at Lenny. Her eyes widened.

  Released, Lenny drove the knife though the air, through the napkin, and through his hand. His fork jumped, his plate clattered, and his coffee cup rattled on its saucer.

  With a flash of white, the room canted, and Lenny felt as if he were about to pass out. But with his next breath, exquisite pain rose up and washed through him. It ablated all the hard edges of the world, until at last, he floated free.

  For the first time in years, he dared hope the night might grant him an uncontested sleep. He opened his eyes. The diner glowed softly, and a golden aura hung about Nettie.

  "You need to leave," she said. Her words came from a distance.

  Lenny smiled.

  "I mean it." Her aura shifted. It thinned into cold white motes that fell from the air like clumps of flour. She held a phone, her thumb resting on the buttons.

  Lenny wondered how long he'd been in the Elsewhere. He nodded at his pinned hand. "Will you set me free?"

  Nettie glanced at the knife. "Not a chance."

  "Magicians need assistants."

  "And you need to leave. I'm not kidding."

  Take me up. Cast me away.

  Lenny sighed. He took hold of the knife, inhaled, and wrenched it free. He swallowed hard, fighting a rush of nausea. "It's okay," he said. He set the knife on the counter. "I've been blessed."

  Cursed.

  "Please," Nettie's voice trembled, "Just go."

  "But that wasn't the trick. This is." He raised his hand, snapped the napkin free, and made a tossing motion. Using the misdirection, he dropped the crumpled paper onto his lap. But to Nettie, her view blocked by the counter, the napkin had simply vanished.

  Lenny clenched his maimed hand and opened it. No blood, just a wound. He repeated the gesture. No wound, just a scar. And again. No scar, just a memory.

  Nettie blinked. "Well heck. That's pretty good."

  "I can do it again if you like." Lenny plucked the coin from the counter.

  Nettie's smile disappeared -- no misdirection. "No. I've got to get home. Your order's on the house."

  Everything has a price.

  "I pay my debts," Lenny said.

  "Really, no charge."

  "I insist."

  Nettie shrugged. She pulled a pen and pad from her apron and scribbled. She tore the slip loose and offered it to Lenny. As she stepped towards him, he reached out. His fingers grazed her ear.

  "Slow-coach," he said. He palmed his coin and pretended to pull a silver dollar from her ear. He rubbed the dollar between thumb and finger, duplicated it, clinked the two together, and set four on the counter. "I appreciate your hospitality."

  Hospitality -- an old word, an ancient charge.

  In dappled moonlight, Lenny sat on a park bench, his backpack alongside. On top lay his favorite book, Forcing Coin and other Legerdemain, by The Fabulous Farnsworth. It had warped boards and a bleached, tattered cover, but to Lenny the book was priceless. Nonetheless, he'd decided to give it to Nettie; he'd share the secret of the Coin from Ear trick without breaking the Magician's Code -- a gift of knowledge.

  After a time, the diner's lights went out. A moment later, Nettie stood in the doorway, her figure sylvan in the moonlight. Lenny held his breath. If Nettie's path home carried her away, he'd not antagonize the Fates by following.

  Instead, she turned in his direction.

  As she approached, Lenny rolled his coin back and forth along his knuckles. Sidelong, he watched her hesitate as she caught sight of him. He winced at her fear.

  "Hello again," she said, angling away, passing him by.

  "Beautiful night," he said. And suddenly, as if he'd uttered an invocation, autumn leaves, which had been scrabbling about the pavement, fell into the restfulness of the dead.

  Nettie stopped. "I was wondering -- back at the diner, that wasn't a trick, was it?"

  Lenny shrugged.

  Nettie drew closer. She rested her hand on the corner of the bench. "If I ask you how you did it, will you tell me?"

  "Ask."

  She laughed. "What if I don't?"

  "You'll wonder about it the rest of your life."

  "Did it hurt?"

  Lenny's cheek twitched. He tasted bitterness. He wanted to laugh at her question and the razor's edge it skirted. But if he started down that path, he'd not come back.

  "Have you ever felt trapped?" he asked.

  She glanced up and down the street. "I don't know. Sometimes, I guess."

  Lenny displayed his coin. "In the desert, I pried this from a dead man's grasp. He opened his eyes and thanked me." The coin grew heavy. "Would you like to understand?"

  Nettie shifted her weight. She drew her fingertip along the bench rail, tracing its path.

  In the distance, a dog barked.

  "I think I'll pass," she said.

  Pass? How could she pass? He held an adamantine coin forged from a chain that had bound Prometheus. Secrets from time eternal lay within her reach. "You don't want to know?"

  She shrugged. "Well, I do. I truly do. But like you said, who doesn't like a little mystery in their life?" She stepped backward.

  Lenny wanted to reach out and catch her by the wrist. They didn't have to talk about magic. They could talk about the weather. Exchange recipes. He could recite lost poetics or regale her with impossibly true stories. She could ask him anything, anything at all. Or they could just sit in the quiet.

  And maybe he could hold her hand.

  Silently, she turned and walked away. A block later, she glanced back. She raised her hand waist-high, and gave a small wave. Then she rounded the corner and slipped from the evening's loom.

  A cloud passed the moon. It pulled silks of light from the sleeve of night.

  Leaves swirled in the street. They swept over the curb and danced about the bench. A single leaf spun free and landed against Lenny's bare ankle. It tick, tick, tickled. Time to go. Time to go.

  "Yes," Lenny said, "Time to go."

  He stood, brushed himself off, and the leaves scattered.

  At the park bench, he shouldered his backpack. At the diner, he propped a book against the door.

  At the crossroads, he clapped his hands once and displayed his palms to the moon, the daily rent of his soul -- life itself.

  The Quanta of Art

  by Adam Colston

  Artwork by Jin Han

  The man stood on the far side of the gallery, in front of one of my favourite paintings; Gova's Sensate -- a wall-encompassing canvas of spiralling reds, blues, and yellows.

  Beside him, on the polished basalt floor, crouched a large black dog, its coat glistening like burnished ebony. Silhouetted against the painting, the man seemed like a traveller poised to step through the twisting vortex.

  I checked the time.

  "I'm sorry, sir," my voice echoed off the marble walls. "The gallery closes in five minutes -- and pets are not allowed."

  The dog -- or what I'd thought was a dog -- stirred. A long feline tail uncurled; heavy muscles flexed and bunched across lion-like shoulders as it first stretched, then rose.

  It was no dog.

  "Mr Chasin," the man said, without turning from the picture, "does not like being called a pet. Eh, Mr. Chasin?"

  "No," the beast said -- its voice deep, yet muffled -- as it swung round. "But I am forgiving."

  I stepped back, my heart thumping -- it was a panther.

  Its lower jaw had been subtlety altered, flexing oddly when it spoke. A ridge of pink tissue nosed through the black fur around the top of its enlarged skull.

  Padding silently towards me across the floor -- every inch the predator on the hunt -- its breath rumbled in and out.

  "What . . .?"

  I stumbled back -- my legs threatening to give way on me -- heading towards t
he gallery's central service desk. My thoughts split between the beast and a bolt gun I kept stashed for hanging pictures.

  "I apologise, in advance, for anything I may do," the beast growled. "I have no wish to harm you, but you must know that this man controls me completely."

  As the back of my thighs bumped against the edge of the hardwood desk, the beast stopped. It settled onto the floor and watched me.

  "It's true, Mr Whistler -- what he said. I stuck a compliance node in his head."

  I glanced at the man; he'd followed the beast over.

  He was old, Afro-Chinese, perhaps sixty-five or so, grey-haired, tired clothes, yet a sly smile under a broad, scarred nose.

  I slid sideways, round the desk, to the other side and tentatively lowered myself into the chair. "D . . . Do I know you, sir?" The bolt gun was inches away -- the urge to wrench open the drawer was strong.

  The man ignored my question. "Mr. Chasin owed me money and tried to run away." He reached out and stroked the black fur on top of the beast's head. "He was a fool. Some black-market surgery . . ." The man's finger traced the ridged of pink tissue encircling the beast's head. ". . . and now he serves me, whether he likes it or not."

  "Who are you?"

  "Hei Long." The man made a small bow. "Just a simple business man."

  "W. . .well, Mr. Long, if you call back during business hours we can discuss whatever it is --"

  I jerked backwards in my chair as the beast jumped up and put its front paws on the desk. Its stiletto-like claws scraped splintery grooves in the soft wood as it watched me with unblinking pale eyes. Large, curved teeth glinted in its half-open mouth. For an instant, I pictured them tearing out my throat.

  "We will talk now. Yes?" Hei Long said casually.

  "Okay, okay." I nodded, leaning as far from beast as the chair would allow.

  The beast dropped back to a watchful crouch on the floor.

  Hei Long walked slowly around me the way a serpent encircles a mouse before burying its fangs.

  "You have children, Mr. Whistler?"

  "Yes. I have a son, Justin, but I don't see --"

  "What's he like? He's a good son?"

  "Yes, he's a good, honest boy. Studying molecular design in Jinglang University. But, I don't see what that --"

  "You're a lucky man, Mr. Whistler. A good son is good fortune." Hei Long nodded. "So, your son, he told you he owes me money, yes? He admitted he is gambler, but not good one? He told all this to you, yes? Like a good son?"

  I froze.

  I'd not spoken to Justin for a week, and he'd certainly mentioned nothing like that. He'd asked for money, though.

  "Justin doesn't gamble, he --"

  "Oh, he gambles, Mr Whistler, and he owes eleven and a half thousand sys-dollars. I have a holo of him in my casino." He tossed a data chip onto the desk and arched an eyebrow. "You don't believe me?"

  I looked at the data chip.

  Eleven and half thousand dollars?

  I shook my head. "No. I'm not doubting you -- it's just that . . ." I trailed off. How had Justin had got himself entangled with a man like this Hei Long? I couldn't believe it. Eleven and a half thousand sys-dollars was a chunk of money -- it would hurt -- but I could pay it. It was better than this predator having his hooks in him.

  "I'll pay what he owes. Then we're done." I triggered the swiper-tech embedded in the desk; colourful icons swirled into existence just under the wood grain. "If you'll give me your account details --"

  "Keep your money for the moment, Mr. Whistler. I want a service instead."

  I looked up. "What sort of service?"

  "Easy service for you." Hei Long cocked his head to one side. "I know a man, an artist -- he owes me money, lots of money -- much, much more than your son. It is in my interest that he succeeds -- he can't repay money if he's a poor artist, yes? You understand?"

  "Yes, but I can't just make someone famous. It depends on their skill --"

  Hei Long's hand was a blur; pain exploded across my cheek and nose.

  He jutted his scarred face forward until it was only inches away -- not a flicker of emotion crossed it -- it could have been carved from stone.

  "Oh, he's skilful, but no matter; you make him famous, Mr. Whistler." His lips barely moved as he whispered. "Or I'll send your son back from Jinglang in small pieces." He pursed his lips. "We clear?"

  I just nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak. His words didn't seem real, like lines from a holo-drama. I felt the insane urge to laugh at him, but the steel in those eyes stopped me cold.

  "Here is the artist's address. He will expect you tonight -- eleven p.m. My details are on the back. You will contact me when you are done."

  Hei Long spun a small white card through the air to land precisely on the table. "Good evening, Mr Whistler."

  With a quick bow, he turned and left.

  My cable-taxi clattered along rigid struts suspended above Ratak Street's night-market while a river of humanity weaved through the countless stalls twenty feet below.

  Clutching the thin metal side of the swaying taxi with one hand, I punched the info menu on the egg-like taxi's nav-display. It bleeped shrilly, showing the artist's studio on nearby Gala Avenue, just off Ratak Street. The taxi clattered slowly onwards along the metal filament, swaying gently back and forth.

  I ejected the white card Hei Long had given me from the nav unit and turned it between my fingers.

  Violix. It was an odd name -- reminded me of violins. Already I sensed the artist had nothing to offer. If he'd had something original, I would have heard whispers. I would have remembered the name.

  Damn Hei Long. My reputation could take the battering -- I could present a six-year old child as an art prodigy and people would still buy the stuff, but it irked me.

  I reminded myself that all I had to do was see the artist's works, present a little show, and Justin and I would be out of the gangster's clutches.

  It was that simple. I hoped . . .

  Cable changers clanked overhead, guiding the taxi round the corner. After a few moments on the new cable, the taxi shuddered to a halt, hissed, then sank slowly to street level.

  A small holo of the taxi-owner swirled into life on the taxi's main display; the man bowed. "Fourteen sys-Dollars, Sah-Si."

  I keyed over the dollars with a swipe of my thumb, then stepped onto road.

  Gala Avenue was a hotchpotch of architectural design. Most buildings were built from brightly painted baulks of local sumza wood, intricately carved and shaped by laser mills into three-dimensional jigsaws that could be slotted together in a few days, but would last centuries.

  The mills boasted they could cut any design, and the residents on Gala Street had apparently tested this claim. Replica Cambodian temples jostled with medieval Japanese towers.

  Wedged between a faux-Indonesian long-house and a scaled-down Venetian palace, lay a simple grey cube of concrete, its lower windows cracked and dark. Out from fractures in the concrete façade snaked gatorweed vines. Its blood-red flowers were the only splash of colour evident on the otherwise drab, dilapidated, and decidedly unoccupied-looking building.

  The skies opened like a sluice and the nightly downpour of warm rain decided the issue for me; I sprinted into the warehouse.

  It was worse inside.

  I shook the water off my jacket and looked around.

  The place was fetid and dank. Water dripped in an almost endless stream down the lobby stairwell. I angled the card towards the dim light and checked; it was the right address. Outside, the rain drummed against the decaying door relentlessly.

  "M . . . Mr. Whistler? Is that you?" An amplified voice echoed off the bare walls.

  I glanced about for a sensor strip.

  "Yes?"

  "G . . . good, yes. I'm Violix." The voice suddenly faded, became quieter, as though the man had walked away from the microphone. "The lift w . . . works, or you can take the stairs. The fourth floor."

  I glanced at the ancient looking
lift -- a simple, latticed metal cage of some ancient design: paint peeling off in jagged curls; rust crawling across its surface.

  I grunted; nothing could entice me into that death-trap. I headed for the stairs.

  As I heaved myself up the last few flights, a wheeze developed in my throat, and I clutched at the handrail like a lifeline.

  I paused at the top to get my breath.

  The studio's door was overkill. It resembled an old-fashioned bank's safe. The foot-thick circular metal door lay ajar, supported on a massive set of hinges. Beyond the door hung a bead curtain, through which light sparkled.

  I smiled to myself. The guy must be painting on gold bars to warrant a door like that -- no living artist needed that much security.

  I stepped over the circular door's raised edge and pushed through the bead curtains.

  I sniffed. The air was different -- it was dry, cooler and conditioned. Blinking neon signs from the street market below shone up through a row of windows along the left. Pulses of blue, pink and violet danced along the edge of the ceiling like distant fireworks.

  "Mr. Violix? Are you here?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm here." His voice came from the dark shadows beyond the spotlight. "Step into the light, Mr. Whistler, so I can see you."

  A strange request, but I stepped forward, shielding my eyes with my hand. "Where are you?"

  A dark shape behind the light backed away as I advanced.

  "Yes, yes. I'm here. That's f . . . far enough, Mr. Whistler."

  The figure shifted slightly in the shadows, as though examining me. "Do you have any untreated eyesight problems, Mr. Whistler? Astigmatisms, colour bli--"

  "No." I snapped. "I could hardly do my job if I did, could I? Now, are we to play games, Mr. Violix, or will you show me your paintings? That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

  "Yes, yes. All business, eh? Very well, if you turn around, I will illuminate the first picture for you."

  As I turned, a spotlight illuminated a section of the wall behind me. A canvas hung there -- a random mess of colour splurged upon a white background.