Sky Cell (Abrami's Sister pt. 2)

"We’ve got a new one arriving this morning. Prisoner 108. Dahl’s started a pool on how long this one will last."

"Who is he?"

"He’s a she. That’s all my people will say. This time they’re citing regs."

"They always cite regs."

"This time they’re serious. But there’s only one ‘she’ that makes sense."

"Abrami’s sister? No way, Boyd. The guys back home are screwing with you. They haven’t even backed up her conviction records yet. Besides, conspiracy can’t land you here."

"Conspiracy to commit genocide can. I hear they amended the charges again, right after her conviction."

"The tribunal went for that? Good. It’s about time they used section 37 the way it was intended."

"So how long do you think she’ll last?"

"Up here versus ratting out her own brother? I give her five weeks, but only if it’s her."

"Five weeks? Are you nuts, Shay? Prisoner 106 didn’t make ten days. By the end of that, he was mess. From what I hear, it took the psych-techs weeks to put him back together."

"You haven’t been up here long enough, Boyd. Prisoner 106 was a wannabee. I remember when Prisoner 12 went eighty-four days. And he was only Abrami’s pilot, not a blood relative. Real Greens are tough."

"Guess that’s why we still have a job."


The grav-car circled the plateau lazily once the reinforced window-shields slid back, giving prisoner 108, as she’d come to think of herself, a panoramic view of her destination. In the time since her conviction, her captors had stripped away almost everything, her clothing, her possessions, her makeup, her freedom, her name. But not her identity, nor her desire to resist.

Below, amid the low outcroppings and sandy gray-brown hills strewn with rocks and boulders, a spire rose above the desert, as smooth and black as obsidian, which it both was and wasn’t. Technically, it was a synthetic with a similar composition to volcanic glass, but with a much higher tensile strength from a tighter molecular matrix though it still lacked an overall crystalline structure. Technically, it was also grown rather than extruded from the earth as quick-cooling lava.

Prisoner 108 didn’t know those details. She only knew that it was tall and impressive, even from far above. She wasn’t sure how tall, there was nothing below to give it scale. It was the dominating feature on a desolate plain. The sides were polished and vertical. There was a slightly rounded platform on top, like a nesting box sitting atop a pole.

The grav-car hovered then slowly descended. The top of the platform was flat and enameled a blue nearly identical to the cloudless sky near the horizon, nearly identical to the color of her jumpsuit. Perhaps not enameled but grown with a surface layer of the desired color. There were discontinuities on its surface, items grown in the same color that she thought might be a bed and some kind of seat.

The pre-departure briefing told her a great deal about her impending incarceration. She had received a number of modifications to ensure her safety. The first was a series of medical nanite injections to boost her immune system, both to detect and clear out any internal overgrowths and to deny access to any external vectors. That meant no colds, no flu, no pneumonia, no Candida outbreaks. She had also been injected with a series of highly tailored impulse-control modifiers to ensure she ate and drank when such necessities were provided. There would be no hunger strikes. LOW OrbIT had learned from its early failures.

Her jumpsuit was proactive, embedded with genetically engineered organisms that thrived on dirt and sweat and dead skin for built-in self-cleaning, thus circumventing any hygiene concerns. The organisms had been designed for deep-space, military EVA’s. They could even live on her excrement in extreme conditions should she choose not to use the minimal facilities provided. If she chose to live in her own filth, it would only last a little while and provide her no legal, humanitarian respite.

Her skin had been modified to provide it with an inherent resistance to UV radiation, the equivalent of a near-complete UV block to prevent any complications from long-term exposure. Even her corneas had been modified to prevent damage or blindness in case she took to staring overlong at the sun, as many prisoners did. Her mouth had been colonized with bacteria that ate plaque and her teeth coated to prevent decay. Her head had been shaved and her scalp treated with a hair growth inhibitor.

Her brain had been infected by other colonies of nanites responsible for maintaining proper brain chemistry, keeping her endorphins balanced, ensuring she didn’t slip over the edge into depression or full-blown psychosis. The people watching her wanted her to experience the mind-numbing nature of her surroundings completely, but to remain relatively sane. Near the lymph node cluster of her left arm, they had lodged a medical suite the size of a small analgesic capsule that monitored and broadcast all her vitals, from heartbeat to hydration to brain and blood chemistry.

What she hadn’t been told is that the area of her brain responsible for auditory interpretation had been colonized by another set of nanites that responded to a narrow range of overlaid, sub-audible frequencies which would at first make her increasingly anxious and tired, then quickly put her to sleep if the sounds persisted or increased in volume above a certain threshold. In practice, it meant she could approach but never reach the edge of the platform, so she could never see the planetary surface below and not end her confinement through a creative use of gravity.

This modification also meant her watchers could put her to sleep on demand, using the same sub-audible tones. This way, they could drop her, pick her up, examine her if something unexpected happened, all without her knowing or having to interact with anyone. It also meant they could resupply her provisions occasionally while she slept.

Provision replenishments came at random intervals to prevent her from gaining any sense of time or routine. The nutrition packets in each drop were identically packaged, but varied in caloric content and time release so that a set of three meals would sate the average person between nine and seventy-two hours, depending on how they were tailored. Only water provided any sense of routine, though even that requirement varied slightly with the moisture content of each nutrition pack. Everything, including the water, was dispensed from the waste disposal unit which was fashioned to look like a standard recycler, though only the water was recycled and that only partially. A variant on the jumpsuit flora inhabited the recycler, reducing everything but the recycled water to a fine, powdery dust that only needed removal once a year.

Rumor had it that the planet itself had been selected very carefully. It was tidally locked so it had no day-night cycle. It was just the right distance from its star to maintain a temperature between 15 and 25 degrees C, varying very slowly over the course of its elliptical wanderings. No hypothermia, no heat-stroke. Not even any real weather, discounting the occasional low dust storms that lapped at the base of the spire. The planet was barren of all indigenous life. It seemed to replenish its own oxygen, though without life the initial survey team was baffled as to how. No scientist had been given an opportunity to examine this unique phenomenon. The planet was the exclusive domain of the military now, housing up to 144 prisoners at a time spaced in identical sky cells distributed so that none was within visual range of another even on approach.

At first LOW OrbIT had denied the existence of the sky cells and refused to release any information about them. But over time, they found that giving briefings about certain conditions and rumors about others was more effective than a complete information blackout, as it gave the minds of potential inmates something to chew on before they landed. The strategy was so effective that fully one third of the people sentenced to the sky cells never made it beyond the isolation of the interstellar trip to the planet. Another twenty percent started talking soon after they hit the platform.

In the sky cells law and ethics collided with society’s need for information and intelligence to protect itself. LOW OrbIT had tried various mechanisms for ripping what it wanted from people’s minds, everything from truth serums to vocal impulse inhibitors to nanite memory stimulators. All either had devastating, sometimes irreversible side effects or had been shown to be less than completely effective. The only acknowledged side effect from a sky cell was a mild to severe case of agoraphobia, a condition deemed neither cruel nor unusual in a society so heavily populating closed and artificial environments. The medical nanites and other modifications to the prisoner would be washed out immediately upon her release, so that she suffered no lasting alterations.

Everything was provided for the safety of the prisoner. Nothing was provided for her comfort. To end her isolation, all she had to do was tell them what they wanted to know. Or convince them that she didn’t know anything, which could take some time as military personnel with clearances high enough to have access to the sky cells tended to be a rather cynical group as a rule.

All this meant that once prisoner 108 was dropped, she would be completely isolated and alone, with no human contact. Every moment would be observed and recorded from an orbital platform. Every utterance would be analyzed. There was no escaping the anonymous watchers, though she would never see them. The opportunity for personal interaction was gone, a right stripped away by her lack of cooperation. Her only companions would be her own thoughts and the unchanging, unending sky.

Even the grav-car was fly-by-wire and unoccupied except for the prisoner, both to prevent any interaction between passenger and crew as well as a security precaution to ensure there was no way to hijack the vehicle from on-site.

As the grav-car hovered, prisoner 108 felt a slight throb below and behind her ears that resulted in a feeling of pressure on her sinuses. She would come to recognize that sensation as the sub-audible stimulation that slowly turned off her senses and put her into a conditioned sleep. She barely saw the grav-car begin its descent before gravity called her eyelids shut and a dreamless darkness claimed her.


When she awoke, she was lying on a thin, foam mattress encased in a synthetic cloth that felt like vinyl, but wasn’t. The casing was probably some carbon nanotube construct that was stronger than steel and bonded to the obsidian base of the bunk on a molecular level. Even if she could damage it, she had already been informed that the punishment for that destruction of LOW OrbIT property would be to do without even that minor comfort for the duration of her incarceration.

Beside the sleeping platform was a cube with a lid and a slot on one side with a blue plastic spigot beside it. The lid lifted to reveal a commode, a standard, waterless recycler rife throughout the cells she’d inhabited already. Fortunately, she’d already gotten over any shyness about her body functions no longer being private, but she still felt an odd sense of vulnerability about doing those things completely exposed to the sky.

When she examined the side slot, she found a pre-packaged ration bar. As soon as she saw it, she realized she was hungry, very hungry. The nutrition bar filled that need as water from the spigot slaked her resulting thirst, but neither provided any real sensation to distract her mind. The food bar was odorless and the color and consistency of the skin that formed on oatmeal left uncovered too long. It was wrapped in a rice paper like skin that she had peeled away and set aside. The bar had about as much taste as she figured the wrapper might. It was nearly flavorless, like a chewy granola bar without the chocolate or raisins, or a slightly soggy, salt-free rice cake bound together with flexible silicon caulk. But she devoured it quickly, her impulse to eat making her ravenous to the point where she couldn’t resist wolfing it down. Later, she would wish she could savor its disgusting texture in her mouth.

Even as she thought the wrapper might at least provide something to occupy her time, she noticed it melted into a pool that rapidly disintegrated until it was nothing more than dust that slowly drifted away. As she experimented over the next few meals, she found the process began quickly after the seal was broken. More nanites or tailored bacteria. She also discovered the wrapper was edible, and provided a contrasting, papery texture to the nutrition bar but no real flavor. She stopped receiving even that distraction after she crafted a wrapper into a paper glider that disintegrated as it sailed beyond the edge of her platform, much to her delight.

She got her fill of water after every meal, sometimes between if she was thirsty, but never if she just felt bored. To operate the water dispenser, she had to sit on the bed and bend her head beneath the spigot before she flipped up the tab opening the tap. No bottles to watch melt from towers into molten flows of dust. At least the water tasted clean and clear, not tainted with any metallic or plastic tang as were most of the recyclers she’d used before. After a few meals, she longed for a break from the monotony of that flavorlessness, even with the implications of where that tang might come from.

Sated, she investigated her open cell. She had access to an area about the size of a standard tennis court. The bunk and recycler stood at the very center of the platform. While from above, she could clearly see the platform against the landscape below, here the blue blended seamlessly into the sky. There was no distinction, no horizon, nothing to focus her attention. She suspected the platform edges were equipped with camouflage transmitters to blend it with the sky.

The last human voice she’d heard before she’d been dropped had told her the exact information they wanted from her. It told her resistance would only prolong her isolation. Other prisoners had advised her to try not thinking about what they wanted, but she thought they had been planted by the people holding her. She knew that would only make things worse. Trying to resist thinking about something just seeded thoughts of it within her brain. Just like by telling a toddler to ignore a cookie jar just within reach while you were out of the room, you ensured it would become the object of her every obsession.

At first, she enjoyed the freedom of the sky, the openness after so many weeks confined in cramped conditions under artificial lights. She lay on her bunk for hours soaking up the warmth of the distant, pinpointed sun that was not her own. Soon she found it lulled her into a twilight between thought and dreams. If she closed her eyes, she sank into the cushion of the bunk and could feel the platform sway slightly beneath her. It seemed to move just enough to reinforce the sensation that she was floating in the sky. Almost like a monochromatic version of sensory depravation, only she had just enough markers to anchor her to reality, the sun, the bunk, her hands and feet, the recycler. Her mind refused to drift into hallucination, however much she wished it might just to break the crushing boredom between each sleep, the unchanging sameness of this moment and this moment and this moment.

She lived for any stir of breeze, anything to distract her from the thoughts circling in her brain, reminding her in someone else’s voice that she held the keys to end her captivity, and that her punishment fit her crime. By turning her back on the security needs of her society, she had forfeited her right to human interaction.

Her feet made no sound upon surface of the platform when she walked. She had no blanket to rustle, no pillow to fluff. When she screamed occasionally to remind herself she was still alive, the sky absorbed her protest like a formless void, leaving no echo, no ripples, no telltale indication her voice had existed at all once it faded from her ears.

She paced off each day, each hour, each minute of her indeterminate sentence until even her steps lost their meaning. She tried approaching the edge of the platform, but could never get close enough to see even a hint of the ground below. Each time she tried, anxiety gave way to pressure, then grogginess then sleep before she came within a dozen paces. Each time she woke up back on her bunk, drifting in the blue. She tried running toward the edge, but found she could never build enough momentum to make it before she collapsed. Once, she tried repeatedly, as a demonstration of her resolve to her watchers. Each time she awoke on her bunk, she jumped to her feet and sprinted outward again. The last time, the tickling behind her ears changed. Her muscles still went to jelly, but she didn’t lose consciousness. She just became trapped as within a nightmare, floating, falling, anxious and terrified, yet unable to move. After enduring that limbo for what could have been minutes or days, she managed to summon the strength and resolve to crawl back to safety. She didn’t test those boundaries again.

She played with shadows in her bunk like a child, inventing games and characters within her mind. In her desperation for human contact, she took to reciting monologues about her childhood, all the stories, all the moments, every incident she could remember however trivial. Everything she’d told them before. She didn’t always stick to her half-brother, but constructed a random, broken, schizophrenic family history, like pieces of a puzzle they might fit together into a complete picture where she had failed. Or a mirror they might reconstruct from the shards she clutched in her bleeding hands. No new memories or insights emerged. Nothing she uttered ended her isolation.

After that, she began to forget how to speak, how to communicate, how to form even fundamental words. After what might have been weeks passed, she became an automaton. She ate, she drank, she urinated, she defecated. The rhythms of her body became her only markers of time, her clock and calendar until she forgot to wind them and they, too, became unreliable. Finally she drifted, spending hours just staring at the sun. She floated in the endless blue before slowly sinking beneath its surface, drowning in the sky.

She knew she was near the breaking point. She knew she couldn’t hold on to her sanity much longer. The childhood memories she had recounted were still too sharp, too fresh, almost new in their ability to bleed her and beat her and bring her pain again.

A change in her surroundings brought her back to consciousness gasping for air. At first she thought the static in her mind had taken over her hearing until she realized that the sound came from outside her head. A wind had risen, a real wind strong enough to ruffle and snap and tear at the cuffs of her jumpsuit. When she sat up, she felt it along her scalp and the stubble of her hair. Wind, glorious wind, strong enough to raise billows of gray-dun dust to define the edges of the platform, thick enough to darken the sky and anchor her back to this life, this reality, this torment her captors put her through. She was here, really here, in a prison of someone else’s construction not trapped within the sky and a past that had passed her by. As the sun faded to a tiny, dull orb, she became giddy in her excitement. She jumped up and danced and laughed and screamed her joy, until her savior became a dark and angry god.

Lightning slashed across the sky, blinding her with its fury. Nearly simultaneous thunder rolled through her in waves of sound that made her heart stutter in its regular, rhythmic beats. She spread her arms wide, throwing back her head, daring the storm to take her, as she had once dared her mother before a particularly vicious incident. As she did, an epiphany overtook her, a memory that flashed like a slide or a single frame of video across her mind. The exact information her watchers wanted. A name she had heard only once and only for an instant, when she was four and recovering from one of her mother’s worst ministrations, one that left her with a swollen head and blackouts and memories that came in jumpy visuals like stuttering scenes from several silent movies randomly spliced together to make a disjointed film. Souleymane had whispered the name of a friend who wanted to hide her once she recovered, the only time he had mentioned him. He was ten and had said this was the only person he would ever trust, a person she remembered, one who had kept in touch and watched her if only from a distance.

Tears streamed down her face, dried instantly by the wind, leaving her cheeks streaked with smudges of dust. She knew she now held the key to her release. Before she could stop herself, she remembered speech and shouted toward the sky the words she’d longed to say to Souleymane all those years ago but had been too afraid to utter. The wind tore her voice away before it even reached her own ears.

When she came back to her senses, she covered her mouth with both hands. She fell like a stone unto her bunk as the nanites in her brain were overloaded by the sudden release of the chemical imbalance that caused depression as she realized her mistake. She curled up tightly and wept, thinking she had lost her only advantage, thinking she was once again at the mercy of the unseen eyes in the sky.

No one heard her confession. At that moment the technicians were scrambling to boost the signal of the audio emitters surrounding the underside of the sky cell to overcome the noise floor raised by the gale force winds. The unprecedented dust storm had obscured their satellite visuals. The lightning was chewing huge holes in their monitoring systems, briefly taking them offline, overloaded by the wild swings in electromagnetic flux. The systems would survive. They were speced for the military so they would reset, but some data might be lost. They needed her sleeping to minimize that risk. After several unrecorded minutes, the technicians finally cut through the noise and sent prisoner 108 into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She awoke uncertain whether she’d imagined the storm. There was no evidence on the platform to suggest it had been any more than a dream, not even a sensation of grit inside her jumpsuit. But even if was a dream, it had restored her sanity to where she now knew her way out. They hadn’t taken her, so perhaps they hadn’t heard what she’d said. But what to do with the information? They had nearly driven her mad and she hated them for it. They had no regard for her life or her sanity. She did not feel inclined to sacrifice someone who had helped her to people who had actively tried to harm her. So, she chose to continue her resistance.

Even though she was afraid they already had what they wanted, new words escaped her lips, words she reshaped subtly to suit her purpose by simply adding one "s." She said something new, a sentence of four words with one variation, words they’d never heard before. Words her watchers at first couldn’t make sense of but then came to recognize one by one, breeding excitement that prisoner 108 had finally broken, eliminating another threat, scoring another victory in their endless twilight war.

Their celebration lasted until they understood the meaning of the sentence she repeated over and over again, if only to hear a voice in her ears as she stared at the empty sky. Linguists parsed the words to make certain they had them right, that there were no alternatives they had missed. Analysts consulted and cross-referenced their databases to correlate the name. When the results came back, their jubilation faded and they became increasingly convinced they had suffered a major setback if not an outright defeat.

The sky cell would no longer work on prisoner 108 because someone, a rival on a different team playing a different game by a different set of rules, had turned her to his own purpose. He had embedded hope somewhere deep within her, an alternative to cooperation which she had latched onto like a lifeline in a critical moment, a lifeline that kept her from crossing into the controlled insanity they desired. They had seen this behavior before and it was always terminal. In their experience, hope could not be vanquished, only extinguished through careful, patient means. But this individual had sabotaged that effort for his own selfish ends to preserve his own selfish theories on how best to approach not only these interrogations but the very foundations of how intelligence should be stockpiled and shared and used. He would have them throw out the results of years of well-documented experiments, honed to a precise, psychological edge as sharp as any surgeon’s scalpel in favor of the blunt instrument of his own intuition, brilliant as that sometimes might be. One day, they swore to demonstrate their methods to him personally, but only after his powerful allies had passed the way of dust. Until then, they could only hope he was right, at least this once.

The psychological risk analysis revealed it was unlikely they could push her back to this breaking point without making her completely useless in the process. After a series of animated briefings and discussions, the psych-techs finally convinced their superiors to terminate the eighty-seven day, silent interrogation and remove prisoner 108 from her cell. Until the grav-car arrived and the watchers forced her brain into a deep catatonia, Josephine Sorin repeated that phrase with the one variation over and over in tones ranging from whispers to screams to sobbing mumbles until it became a mantra even in her sleep.

"Tell him I’ll go, tell him I’ll go. Tell Michaels I’ll go."


Next Vengeance (Abrami's Sister, pt. 3)

© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Convictions (Abrami's Sister pt. 1)

"Under the articles of section 37, we find the defendant, Josephine Sorin, guilty."

Guilty? The last word rang in Jo’s ears. Guilty?

She stared at the jurors, who would not return her gaze. Guilty? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Her attorney had promised, promised, no jury would ever convict her. Even the prosecutor had as much as admitted it was a pro forma prosecution. Guilty?

Her mind was in a haze. She didn’t hear the lead judge of the tribunal thank the jury for their service, didn’t hear him hold her over for quick sentencing. She never heard that the charges had been amended after the jury was sequestered. She never heard the secret evidence against her.

She only heard that one word crashing down on her existence: Guilty.

By the time she thought to look at her attorney, the woman had already turned to confront the prosecutor. Strong hands latched onto Jo’s upper arms and guided her toward a door midway between the defense table and the judges’ bench. It was off-white with a small, mirrored window cross-hatched by wire reinforcements or sensors. A sturdy door with clean, almost sterile lines. This wasn’t the door she was supposed to exit through. She was supposed to leave by the main doors leading into the hall then down onto the courthouse steps where the press would be waiting. Instead she was led through a door into the unknown.

Beyond was a dimly lit, short hall, almost a small room, ending with a blackout curtain. Her guards held her there until the door clicked shut behind them, then swept the curtain aside and guided her into a vestibule with two holding cells, both empty, behind a wall of clear glas-steel on one side, and what appeared to be an elevator on the other. There was another blackout curtain opposite her that looked very much like the one she had just come through, probably leading to another courtroom.

One of her guards, a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, went to a computer pad and keyed open one of the cell doors with biometrics and his badge. The other, a sturdy woman about Jo’s height, guided her inside.

"Hands on the glass barrier, please," the woman ordered, then spread Jo’s feet apart as far as her skirt allowed and pulled them back to where she was leaning off-balance against the transparent wall.

Her male partner initiated a security scan on equipment that whirred down from the ceiling in front of the glas-steel Jo leaned against. As he watched the results roll up on the display, the guard reviewed orders on his comm, all while keeping an eye on his partner and his ward. "Something suspicious in her bra. And it looks like she has a visitor already."

"Do we take her back to the attorney’s conference room?" the woman asked as she had Jo turn around so they could scan her back.

"No, down below," her partner responded. "We’re supposed to drop her in Interrogation 2."

"Probably a new lawyer for her appeal." The woman managed to sound neutral. It annoyed Jo that both guards spoke as if she wasn’t there unless they wanted her to do something. "Turn and put your hands back on the barrier. Now, take off your shoes, please. No, keep your hands on the barrier," the woman interrupted when Jo started to reach down. "Just kick them off one at a time. Ok, I want you to lean your head against the barrier and undo your belt." Once Jo did, the woman had her remove and drop it, keeping herself in a position where she was both protected and could react if Jo made any sudden moves, as though that were likely. The floor felt cold and hard through Jo’s sheer stockings as the guard had her remove her jewelry and drop it on the bunk.

Everything inside the holding cell and out was an off-white, not quite cream color. Nothing modern, more an annoyingly institutional surplus color that no one else would buy because it just looked off somehow. The walls, except where they were clear, were all that same color. The bunk and the commode, both seamlessly molded into the floor, were also the same, as was the synthetic blanket covering the foam mattress. Even the tear-away fiber bag on the blanket had only a slight variation in tone, not quite sterile, but not quite dirty either. Dingy, without being unclean. The guards’ dark uniforms and the blackout curtains, along with the scanner display were the only points of contrast in the room, and even the menus of the scanner had similar tones. The color picked up whatever other hue it was exposed to, so that the floor beneath her feet had taken on a sickly green cast from her skirt.

"Do we have a jumpsuit?" the female guard asked her partner. Jo suddenly wondered what would become of her clothing now. She had agonized for hours on what to wear today. Red would show up nicely in the holos but might remind people too much of Blood. Blue would make her seem too cold. She briefly considered a conservative gray, but opted instead for a green and gold combination. Dusky green to show off her color and make her look vibrant. Gold for a touch of nobility. She had wanted to make just the right impression for the cameras when she was vindicated.

"They’ll take care of that over at central processing after her meeting. But search her anyway."

The woman’s hands were quick, efficient and asexual yet still managed to make Jo feel mildly violated as they left no portion of her body untouched. "She’s clean, except the underwire," the woman announced.

"Put it in with the rest."

"Ok, ma’am, I need you to remove your bra." Jo just stared at her then her male partner, neither of whom gave any indication of turning away. Nor did they look as though they were anticipating her next actions. They just maintained the bored expressions of their jobs. After dropping her jacket on the bunk, she unlatched her bra and began to wriggle it out of her sleeve all without removing her shirt. She felt as though she was in an advanced yoga class trying to pull that trick off with her feet still spread wide. While she contorted, the female guard stood where she controlled both Jo’s position and the cell’s exit.

After a momentary struggle, Jo let her bra dangle from one hand, smiling slightly at her minor victory. Neither guard seemed at all impressed, which left her feeling even more exposed. She reminded herself that no matter how humiliating this experience became, she had been through worse. Much worse. At least here there seemed to be some rules.

"Turn around with your arms straight out and drop it on the bunk. Now pick up your shoes in one hand and put them in the bag. Good. Now the belt. The bra. And the jewelry. Fold the bag over once and set it back on the bunk. You can put your jacket back on." The woman turned to call to her partner, "We’re ready in here."

When Jo looked through the glas-steel barrier into the vestibule, the other guard held a set of plasti-steel, electromagnetic restraints.

"Four point?" the woman asked. "Can’t we get by with two’s? It’s not like she’s going anywhere in bare feet and a skirt."

"She’s section 37; she has to be fully restrained."

"What’s section 37?" Jo asked. Neither guard answered.

"What about my stockings?" she tried instead. "They’ll run."

"Sorry," was the woman’s only response, not sounding particularly sympathetic.

Quickly and expertly, the two guards shackled her hands and feet then had her clutch the tear-away fiber bag containing her shoes, belt and bra against her abdomen. The restraint lines didn’t allow her to raise her hands much higher or wider.

The female guard locked her in the holding cell as the male guard keyed the elevator and they waited. The holding cell smelled faintly of stale sweat covered by disinfectant. The scent of a public locker room, or of years of desperation.

When the elevator arrived and both guards had verified it was empty, they led her from the cell into the back of the car. She could only take short, one-foot steps and was afraid the restraint cables would snag her skirt even though they had a protective polymer coating. Her arches ached and felt as though they would cramp against the cold, hard surface beneath them. Her left foot clung momentarily to the elevator threshold before tearing free. She felt the run extend halfway up her leg. Great.

The guards latched her restraint lines to an eyebolt in the prisoner’s area. Once she was safely locked in, the guards scissored a plasti-steel barrier at the rear of the car into place and keyed the lift down. Security cameras monitored both her and the guards from two different angles. Her hair, so finely coifed this morning, had begun to spill into her eyes. She couldn’t lift her hands to brush it away. Blowing it only lifted it briefly before it settled to tickle her face again.

Slowly, they descended from the courtroom to the basement. The elevator was old and needed maintenance, so Jo could feel the pull of gravity in the pit of her stomach as it creaked along. It smelled of machine oil with a hint of ozone, like an elevator in a public housing block.

When the doors opened, Jo was looking out onto a wide, starkly lit hallway running to a near perspective point in the distance, perhaps a quarter mile away. Once she was unhooked from the wall and led out, she saw there was a waiting area lined by hard, foam covered benches with latch hooks beneath them where prisoners could be secured while they waited for their day in court. There were a series of adjoining security doors with observation ports, exact replicas of the door from the courtroom to the holding cells. Everything was the same institutional off-white as the holding area upstairs. From the recessed, overhead lights the walls took on an eerie, mildly pinkish tone like a few drops of blood from a shaving knick tinting an ivory bathtub full of water.

The male guard peered through one of the windows and nodded to his partner before opening the door, again with his badge and a biometric scan.

"Through here ma’am," the female guard said, motioning her through the open door. Jo wished she would stop calling her that. She had a name.

Inside was a small room of the same monochromatic color with several plasti-steel chairs and a conference table extruded from the plasti-steel floor. The guards had her set her bag on the table then sat her down and latched her restraints to an eyebolt beneath the seat between her legs before retreating to stand by the door. She wondered when she would be fed, or allowed to go to the bathroom. There were probably procedures for all of that judging from how things had gone thus far. She wondered how long it had been since her conviction.

Within a minute, the door sighed open and a man entered. She looked up at him with expectation and relief. Now something would finally get done, this whole incident would be revealed as a misunderstanding. He had the appearance of the type of man she wouldn’t remark on or even remember if she met him in a bar. He was a little shorter than average, and perhaps a little round. Not exactly chubby, he just didn’t fill out his suit in an attractive way. He had a well-practiced smile plastered on his face. His hair could have been brown or blonde, perhaps even auburn depending on the light. His eyes, too, seemed changeable, brown, black or green depending on which way he faced. When he turned to face her, she saw they were also neither warm and open, nor cold and calculating. They were dead, betraying no human emotion. Any hope of him helping her died when his eyes met hers.

"I am here to take possession of the prisoner," he said, holding out a comm pad with his credentials. The guards exchanged surprised looks.

"We were told this was a meeting, not a transfer," the male guard said, puffing out his chest defensively which might have intimidated any other man.

The smaller man seemed unfazed, not even straightening his posture. "She’s section 37, which means she falls under my purview at any time, as you can see. And I’ll need her restraints re-keyed to my biometrics."

He waited patiently, his smile never fading, while the guard pressed the button to page through the comm pad’s display. The stranger signed and thumbprinted the guard’s comm completing the transfer after flashing over the appropriate documents.

"You two can wait outside while I talk to her. Actually, bring us some coffee. Not that sludge from the bailiffs’ break room, either. Go up to the third floor lounge. Prosecutors know good coffee. Oh, and bring a Danish. Make that two."

"What do we look like," the female guard asked indignantly.

"You, Bailiff Carsley," the man said after scrutinizing her badge, "look like an individual who doesn’t want to antagonize someone who can take possession of a section 37 prisoner on signature authority. Now run along." His smile never dimmed.

The guards left sowing disgusted glares over their shoulders. The man just smiled until the door closed behind them. Then he strolled over to the seat next to hers and pulled the tear-away fiber bag toward him.

"Let’s see, what do we have in here." He unfolded the bag and exposed each item without removing it as he named it. "Shoes...belt...watch...jewelry...bra... They only take these things from dangerous prisoners." He folded the top of the bag back over and looked up at her. "Are you a dangerous prisoner?"

"No," Jo answered cautiously.

He leaned in and casually rested the palm of his hand on the seat between her legs, never breaking eye contact, his predatory smile never wavering. She shivered as his other hand lightly touched her left wrist, then jumped when she heard the electromagnetic bolts in the shackles clack open. She felt slightly faint as he pulled away, the restraints dangling from the hand that had unlatched them from beneath her seat. "Then we won’t need these, will we?" he said cheerily.

He set the restraints on the table, then moved around to seat himself across from her.

"Who are you?" Jo asked once she felt her voice wouldn’t betray her.

"Nick Michaels," was his only answer, other than his unrestrained smile.

"Where’s my lawyer?" she demanded.

"You’re a prisoner now, not on trial. Lawyers only complicate things at this point." Michaels still smiled a smile that died at his eyes. Though for a moment, they almost sparkled. Almost.

Jo’s emotions hovered between anger and fear. "Then what’s this about?"

"You’re Souleymane Abrami’s sister. That’s Sub-Commander Z’s real name, isn’t it?"

Jo closed her eyes and almost passed out from the weight of dread that settled over her. So that was what this was about. "Half sister, and I wouldn’t know. Like I’ve told two dozen agents before you, I haven’t seen him since I was seven. We never really kept in touch. I know that you think he’s dangerous, but I don’t know where he is."

Nick Michaels set his comm on the table and started fiddling with it, as though he were distracted or bored. "You probably know more than you think, even if you don’t remember it consciously. There are some very interested parties right now who are counting on that and are working to exploit it as we speak. But I’m not one of them."

"What do you want?" Jo asked warily.

Michaels looked up, almost startled. "To help you get a better sentence, of course. I can get you time served if you help me. Or help me to help you, as the case may be."

"I turned down a better deal than that before," Jo responded.

"That was before you fell under section 37," Michaels replied smoothly.

"What is section 37?" she asked with some exasperation.

"The articles of the League of Worlds general charter that governs acts of terrorism."

"I’m no terrorist," she protested. "I was convicted of tax fraud."

"Oh, but you are," Michaels replied casually, then slid his comm unit across the table to her. "This is a report that was recorded just after you left the courtroom. In four hours it will have been broadcast planet-wide."

Jo watched the clip of a female reporter on the courthouse steps, exactly where she had imagined she would be talking to the press. The reporter explained in an overly-dramatic style how Josephine Sorin, sister of Souleymane Abrami, who was widely suspected of being Sub-Commander Z, had been convicted of conspiracy to commit terrorism and other charges related to the Green Revolution. A jury had been empanelled by a secret tribunal after an initial charge of tax fraud had uncovered financial irregularities that led to several terrorist organizations. Now Jo understood exactly what was at stake. Now she was afraid.

"There was never any discussion of these charges at my trial," she said.

"Precisely why they were secret." Michaels continued to sound as though at any minute he might laugh at some private joke.

"I never had a chance to defend myself," she protested.

"You were defended vigorously and more than adequately, I can assure you," he replied, unfazed. Making a point of glancing at her rumpled suit jacket, he added, "Though looking back, you probably should have gone with another color. People will think you were making a political statement and support the Revolution, even if your suit is the wrong shade of green."

Jo hadn’t thought about that this morning. "My lawyer will have this thrown out within a week," she said with as much arrogance as she could muster.

"Your lawyer might not be able to find you in a week," he replied.

"I don’t like being manipulated, Mr. Michaels." She tried to set steel into her eyes.

Her glare rolled off him. "It’s a lot like paying taxes, Ms. Sorin; no one expects you to like it, just to tolerate it and cooperate. Besides, I didn’t do this. There are other parties willing to exert a lot more pressure than I am. I’m actually here to help you. And you don’t have a lot of time. Those bailiffs will be back once they verify my credentials and figure out I’ve exceeded my authority. If I don’t have your cooperation by then, the next people who talk to you will have even less of your best interests at heart. They are waiting down the hall, and probably getting impatient."

"But I don’t know anything," she cried in frustration.

"For what I want you to do, you don’t have to. I just need you to make contact with someone. Someone somewhere remote. If everything goes well, that person will lead me to your brother."

"Half-brother," she corrected, trying to hold back the tears that would likely ruin her makeup, "And why would he do that?"

"Our profile indicates Sub-Commander Z has always shown a tendency to take care of the people he feels responsible for. We have it on good authority that your brother, half-brother," he corrected when she glared, "felt responsible for your mother taking you away. He feels he could have prevented some of what happened."

"That was a long time ago," Jo whispered, looking down, ashamed.

"Not to him. Our profile suggests he has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, so things like that remain fresh in his mind as though they had just happened. He would have been, what, thirteen then? Believe me, what happened to you makes an impression on a thirteen year-old boy."

"Why didn’t you ask me to do this up front, before all these bogus charges?"

"If we’d asked you to go to Terminal, would you have volunteered?"

"Terminal?" Her head snapped up in alarm. "No!"

"Now you know why I didn’t ask." His smile brightened.

"You’d send someone to that genetic hell-hole of a prison on arranged charges?" Jo stared at him in disbelief.

"I didn’t arrange these charges. Another interested party did that. But, you should really be more careful who you bank with. Besides, you admitted your brother was dangerous."

She didn’t correct him this time. "You don’t have to remind me how dangerous he is. I lived with him."

"Then you know he’s dangerous on an interplanetary scale now, Josephine. People take what he did on Darwin very seriously. Blood, Grant, The Farm, Down 2, those were gains the Green Revolution made under fractured and incompetent leadership, gains LOW OrbIT has yet to recoup. Imagine with your brother in charge. They are still out there, and our intelligence indicates they are planning another offensive. Soon."

"But Terminal?" she pleaded. "I thought that was the prison of no return for those socio-genetic Darwinists."

"After the Green Revolution, LOW OrbIT had to open it up. They had nowhere else to put the people who were too dangerous to risk any possible escape. There is more than the Green Revolution in play now. We can’t drop our guard."

"That’s a death sentence," Jo said. "Souleymane never did anything to me. He protected me when no one else would."

"We can protect you and extract you. I’m trying to save you from worse, believe it or not."

"But I don’t know anyone who knows him. I never have. I’ve been over that a dozen times. I thought all that was behind me. What makes you think I can lead you to him now?"

"Because you may be the last chance we have." For the first time, Nick Michaels sounded completely sincere.

But he was talking her in circles and it was giving her a headache. She leaned her elbows on the table and massaged her temples with her fingers.

"Headache?" Michaels asked. "It’s probably the lighting in here. Most people don’t know that pink is one of the few colors that changes the emotional response it evokes the longer you’re exposed to it. For the first half an hour or so, it’s calming, almost soothing. After that, it becomes increasingly annoying and agitating. That’s why they use it where they want you cooperative at first, but don’t want you hanging around."

She looked up at him wearily.

"You look surprised. There are any number of psychological tricks used in places like this. Take the coffee I sent the guards out for. I was using it as a stall for time. But normally, an interrogator offers you something to drink, especially coffee, to put you at ease and build a bond of trust. Plus, in about half an hour, you have to pee. Full bladders make people more likely to cooperate quickly. It’s a well-documented technique. Old, but quite effective."

"Like releasing a prisoner’s restraints," she asked sharply, glaring at them on the table. "Or telling her a few tricks someone else might use to make her trust you?"

"Exactly." Michaels actually sounded pleased. Was he being honest or was this just another psychological trick? Or both? She had been through the good cop, bad cop routine before. But Nick Michaels was like a whole, insane cop posse.

Her head sank down into her hands again, likely smudging the rest of her make-up. A second later, the door to the interrogation room rattled but did not open. Nick Michaels’ comm buzzed a warning tone.

"It looks like the bailiffs are back, Ms. Sorin. I reprogrammed the door lock, but it will only take them a moment to circumvent that. Once they do, they will not be in a tolerant mood. I need your answer now." He held out his comm, waiting to record whatever she said.

Before she could decide whether to trust him, the two guards burst in, this time with biometrically-keyed stun batons. Slowly, Nick Michaels rose from his seat and put his hands up in front of his shoulders, palms out, his left still holding his comm pad.

"Back away, Michaels," the male guard ordered, pointing his stun baton at him in full, flexed intimidation mode. "Carsley, secure the prisoner."

"Please, Ms. Sorin," Nick asked, "where do your convictions lie, with yourself and your own past or with the millions of people who will suffer when your brother leads the Greens back again?"

"Shut up, Michaels," the male guard snapped. "If you interfere with so much as a harsh word, I will take great pleasure in subduing you, I don’t care who you work for."

Josephine didn’t struggle as the female guard quickly re-shackled her. With a gentle prod from the stun baton that tingled but did not really shock her, she was hustled toward the door.

Slowly, cautiously, careful not to provoke either guard, Nick Michaels followed into the corridor, his hands still clearly in front of him.

The male guard turned and sneered at him, pointing again with his baton. "You move beyond that red line on the floor, mister, and you will have officially exceeded your mandate."

Michaels continued walking as though he hadn’t heard until his toes nearly brushed the line, then he stopped short. "You continue down that corridor, Josephine, and there’s no turning back. I won’t be able to help you on the other side. But say the word and we have a deal, no matter what anyone else tells you."

"Don’t listen to him," the woman whispered to her, pulling her forward. "He’s already in a lot of trouble."

"Let’s go," her counterpart ordered.

Josephine wasn’t sure what to do. She wasn’t sure if she believed Nick Michaels or anything he’d told her. She wasn’t sure her half-brother was alive never mind Sub-Commander Z, though she knew in her heart he was capable of what that man had done. What were the rules here? Were there any? How could she be certain of anything with the way her own government was treating her after failing to protect her when she was young? Was Nick Michaels a guardian like Souleymane or was he like her mother, who would say anything to get what she wanted? How could she ever know which was right? She knew she was being manipulated. Michaels was asking her to pit a thousand "ifs" and the lives of people she’d never met against working to betray the one person who had protected her from the monster who had helped create him, no matter how psychotic he might be.

The guards gave her no opportunity to pause, sort things out or decide. Midway down the hall, she glanced back over her shoulder to see Nick Michaels still toeing the line, his comm held out before him ready to catch any word she might utter before she crossed beyond his reach.


Next Sky Cell (Abrami's Sister, pt. 2)

© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Rob of York County

Rob cruised the mall parking lot in the Lincoln Town Car for the third time. The day before Christmas and it was still crowded. Perhaps this was the promise that he had seen at the beginning of the season but so far had fallen short. He could make maybe one more circuit before he needed to head out and meet the guys.

He hoped he had what he needed in the trunk, though he still had to sort through the last batch of bags at some point to see who might get what. There were a few things he knew he still wanted and hadn't found. A Wii would be nice, but those were almost impossible to come by. His niece and nephew might have to settle for an X-box 360 but that was so last year. He didn't have much hope of finding one this late. Though experience from previous years said not to give up. Miracles still did sometimes happen.

He slammed on the brakes as the onyx land ark cut right in front of him from the access road and sped away through the parking lot. What the hell was that thing, an Armada? A Lexus LX? No, an Infiniti QX, the largest SUV on the market. And a woman driving. This had potential.

He didn't blow the horn like he wanted to, or give her a one-fingered salute as he would have almost any other day. It was Christmas. Instead he kept an eye on her and followed from a discreet distance. He made bets in his mind on where she was headed. Macy's? Nordstrom's? The Hamlet specialty shops? It didn't really matter. The only thing it might tell him is how long he would have.

He flicked the switch that rolled down all the Lincoln's windows and adjusted the mirrors so he had a better view all the way around. It was cool outside, in the forties, not what he thought of as cold. God, how he loved the Town Car. Power windows, power mirrors, power seats, power everything. And the heat was fantastic. Even had a seat warmer. The only thing his father had been able to leave him, even if it had killed the old man to do it. It was his prize now, one he kept polished and shined, a sparkling forest green. And it made all the difference this time of year. It was nothing like his old Charger in the driveway which was all primer, dents and rust. When the people in Nottington saw him get out of that, they were automatically distrustful and watched him like he was white trash. The Town Car put the people over here at ease, as did the dress slacks and the button down shirt, even if they weren't his style. The leather bomber jacket he'd picked up last year helped, too. But the shoes really did the trick, real leather dress shoes the guys had no end of fun ribbing him about. But they were comfortable, even if they were Italian. A lucky find in a 10 1/2, still in the box. With those, no one really paid much attention to him at all, just another office worker out doing his Christmas shopping at NottingTown Center.

He watched to see which row the Infiniti would turn down to look for the closest parking spot. He knew her type, in such a hurry that she wouldn't walk an extra 50 feet even though it would have been faster to park out in the boondocks and hike than fight for a closer space. But that gave him time to hunt, too. He shadowed her one aisle over and slightly behind as she trolled the lot for a space. Four rows later, she finally had some luck.

As she pulled in, he slowed down as though he was scoping out someone just coming out of the mall to see where they would go. What he was really doing was getting into position to listen as she got out of her car. What surprised him was when the car just in front of her spot pulled out without looking. And before he could even think about taking the empty space, she drove straight through and slammed the Infiniti into park, blocking him out. She didn't even notice, not a wave or shrug or anything, just jumped out of her car and rushed toward an obscure side entrance to the mall, clutching her rabbit fur jacket tightly around her. The receding click, click, click of her heels on the pavement left him stunned. He hoped the wind blew straight up her tailored skirt and gave her a chill, the witch. It'd probably just warm her up. Then he saw the Norman Industries parking decal on her window. That meant she was fair game.

He also had heard what he had wanted to, or rather he had not heard. He hadn't heard the distinctive beep-beep of an alarm being set. So he dropped the Town Car into reverse and raced backwards to the head of the row. If he hurried, he might steal the spot behind her while the line of cars on the row were stopped dead waiting for the another SUV, a white Expedition, that really had followed someone out from the door and was now blocking the row, oblivious to the open space twenty feet away. He shot straight back like an arrow singing the song that had been stuck in his head all day, "You better watch out, you better not cry..."

That was the other thing he loved about the Town Car, it had great pickup even in reverse. The seats were the perfect height to rest his arm while he looked over his shoulder and steered. He whipped out into the lane where the row ended, braked and slid the lever into drive with barely a pause, then accelerated down the next row, turning every once in a while to keep an eye on his target and make sure she hadn't forgotten something.

Miracle of miracles, the space she had pulled through was still open. The lazy SOB down the way was just easing into his spot to a chorus of horns behind him. Rob slid past the opening he wanted and backed in. That would make getting out easier. This place was a zoo. He turned back to track his target. She was just disappearing through the glass doors. That should give him a few minutes at least.
He waited a minute to let the angry traffic disperse behind him, waving two cars on when they spotted him in his car. He didn't really want people hanging around.

Normally, he would have put the Town Car in the next set of rows out after noting where the Infiniti had parked. Then, as he walked down the row toward the mall, he would have stumbled, bumping the SUV as he passed. If no alarm went off, he was in business. Still, he would have kept going until he was just about to cross to the mall itself, then snap his fingers and turn around, like he had forgotten something. Instead of going back to his own car, he would stop at his target and test the door. Open and he was in business. Locked, and he would look puzzled, then start looking around for his car, like he had mistaken it, then head back to the Town Car to try again.

Being right behind her made things easier. He could just bump her car as he walked beside it. No alarm and he was right there to test the door. The good thing was the Infiniti was high enough that it would shield him from anyone coming out of the mall. The risk was she came back out and he didn't see her. Then he was screwed. He just hoped the mall was as busy as it had been when he had been in there less than an hour ago.

After a quick glance at the entrance to make sure she wasn't on her way back, Rob scanned the parking lot to see who might be watching. Looked clear. So he got out and headed between the cars. He stumbled, steadying himself on the back corner of the Infiniti. No alarm sounded. So far, so good. The windows were dark, drug dealer dark, so he couldn't see in. He took another couple steps until he was between the Infiniti and the iridescent blue Acura next to it, then bent down as though to tie his shoe and lifted the handle of the rear passenger side door. He felt the distinctive click as it unlatched. She really had been in a hurry.

He eased the door open and peered inside. Bags everywhere. They filled the back seat, spilling onto the floor-boards. He thought he'd hit the jackpot until he noticed they were all the same tan plastic. That's when he noticed Whole Foods stamped across the side. What the hell? Who went grocery shopping before they went to the mall? That was just stupid. Or was it? Who would steal groceries? Well, he would for one. He took a quick glance into the storage space behind the back seat. Then his eyes really did widen. This time there were boxes and bags of all different sizes and colors filling where the third row of seats would be. A quick glance into the passenger seat showed more of the same in the foot well. This woman must be on a one day Christmas shopping marathon. Amazing.

This required a re-think in plans. Normally, he would pick a promising bag or two. He'd climb in, open the opposite door and drop them on the ground. Then he'd get out, pull the same head for the entrance and forget something trick after a few cars, turn back and pick up the bags by their handles on stride between cars. Simple. No one saw him getting out of a car with bags, which was suspicious, he just appeared with them as he emerged between rows. No one noticed anything.

This was too much stuff for that. Then he remembered something he'd seen earlier that day and hadn't really thought much about. It was a perfect way to get all this into the Lincoln without anyone thinking a thing. He slipped out of the Infiniti and walked back to the Town Car. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, one he'd gotten a few years ago but no longer had the money to keep active. Didn't matter. He opened it up, pretended to dial a number and put it to his ear while opened his trunk.

"Hey, honey. Yeah, I found it. Took me a while, but I'm right behind you." He opened the hatch the SUV. "Ok, I'll take this load home with me and start wrapping." He held the phone as he casually grabbed the first set of bags and transferred them into his trunk. "No, you keep shopping. Did you remember something for Timmy? Uh, huh. What about Aunt Martha? Oh, she'll like that."Quickly, he was down the big boxes. And he still had a ton of room in his trunk. He pressed the phone between his shoulder and ear to free up both hands. "What time are the Fletchers coming tonight? 8 o'clock. I'll start the oven when I get home. 350. Right." Having emptied the cargo compartment, he closed the hatch and moved to the rear door, sparing a glance toward the entrance. Still all clear. "Oh, tell Jim I'll do Santa again this year. No, it's not a problem. I really do look forward to it." He was transferring bags of groceries into his back seat now three at a time now. It was going quickly. "I figure we can do that after the kids go to bed. Yeah, I know, but I have my tools this time. It shouldn't take too long to put together. Really, it will be fine." He went around and began emptying the other side. "Don't forget my mother comes tomorrow at noon. I know. I told her not to bring it this year. I know. I know." The back done, he moved to the front passenger door for the finale. Before he grabbed up all the bags, he checked the ashtray for money, and found twenties stashed like the ones he kept for tolls on the turnpike. He quickly stuffed them into his pants pocket. "She said she can take the kids for a few day before New Years, so we can head up to the lake. Yes, I remember. The black one. You definitely have to pack that." He shut the Infiniti's door and looked up. No rabbit fur coat, no mall security, no one paying any attention to him. He wandered back toward the Lincoln, wrapping up his imaginary conversation. "Ok. Love you too. See you soon. Bye." He clicked the phone shut, closed his trunk and got into the Town Car, now stuffed with gifts and groceries.

He started humming merrily, then singing as the tune once again caught in his head, "...better not pout, I'm telling you why..."

It took him near thirty minutes just to get to the highway through all the mall traffic. The worst was trying to get by the Starbucks with all the cars waiting in the drive-thru. Once he hit the county line, the number of cars dropped off to nearly nothing. Even the Super Wal-Mart was only half full, and they were having a sale. Not many people from York County were out shopping, not since they closed the Angled-Iron factory. It was still unbelievable to him that Norman Industries had shuttered the doors and laid off the last thousand workers on the day before Thanksgiving but had given everyone bonuses at the new company headquarters one county over. Norman had crossed into York county a couple years ago and in a hostile takeover bought up Angled-Iron, which was thriving, only to scale it back, then close it down and write it off. The corporate clones could still afford to fill their SUV's with gifts. His people could barely fill their pickups with gas. Their jobs had been sent to Norman's holdings overseas. Just didn't seem right.

He set the cruise control to just at the speed limit. The last thing he wanted was the sheriff pulling him over with a car full of expensive loot. He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. 3:30. Tucker and John should be there by now. Even with the time it would take them to do some trades and divvy up the gifts, he would have enough time to head over to Kirkley to get rid of the last stuff before he headed home. A long day. But Maryanne would be waiting. He just hoped he had something in the trunk she would like.

From the highway, he took the exit onto Business 47 into Locks. That was a cruel joke from the past. Not many businesses left on the main drag now. When the mall in Nottington opened a few years ago, the mom and pops that hadn't folded when Wal-Mart had moved in once again felt the squeeze. Then came the Home Depot, the Best Buy, the Target, the Borders, the chain restaurants and the Bed, Bath and Beyond. That pretty much folded up the last of the local businesses. Now all the money went to Nottington, a planned community the signs all said, while York County struggled to come up with money for its schools, its cops, and its future. Unemployment was running almost thirty percent. That went to more like seventy percent when you talked about underemployment.

Rob drove past all the empty lots and peeling "for lease" signs in front of boarded up businesses and warehouses in what had once been the business district of Locks. The U-Haul, the Touchless car wash, the People's Gas and the 7-Eleven were the only going concerns he passed in the two miles from the highway, if you didn't count the VFW and the Kentucky Fried. He pulled into the parking lot of the long-bankrupt Scotty's. There were weeds sprouting from the cracks in the asphalt. He pulled around to where the lumberyard used to be on the side of the building, half hidden by the rows of tan cinderblock storage units with orange roll-up doors of the U-Store-It that had bought out the front parcel. He spotted John's beat up Bronco and Tucker's old Ranger parked under the fading yellow and black Sure-Wood Lumber sign near the back of the deserted building. He eased the Town Car toward them, then pivoted it in a lineless parking space and backed it up the rest of the way.

Both men were standing in front of a blackened fifty-gallon drum, warming their hands over the low fire inside. John was in bright, Coca-Cola red pants with fluffy white trim and a camouflage jacket over a white T-shirt, his gut protruding so much now that the jacket hung over the pants like an army tent. He'd already raided the cooler in the Ranger for a beer. Tucker was in his brown work pants and boots with the plain brown sweatshirt he always wore with the hood up and his hands stuffed in the pockets. That man was always cold.

Rob flicked the switch that powered down his window. "Hey boys, how's it going?"

John strode up to the car, Coors in hand. Leaning his elbow on the top of the door, he peered into the back seat. "Jesus, Rob, are those groceries? What'd you do, stick up the Piggly Wiggly?"

"Very funny. And watch the paint. Wait till you see what's in back." He hit the switch that popped the trunk, and got out. Tucker moved up to the corner of the building to keep a lookout. John ambled around to the back.

"Whoa, Tucker, come take look at this," John called from behind the Town Car. "I thought you said to be careful, Rob. How many of their cars did you hit?"

"Three," Rob answered. "Most of this stuff is from the last one, including the groceries."

Tucker came around the open trunk. "Whoa, sweet. You keeping that laptop? My oldest, Deb, could really use one for school."

"Share and share alike. Maryanne sees me come home with that, she'll know something's up. I don't suppose either of you picked up a Wii though."

John and Tucker exchanged a smile. "This dog picked up four of them," John said.

"I'll trade you one of those for the Dell." Rob said.

"No problem, Rob," Tucker replied. "John's got the rest of my list." He moved off to the corner of the building to keep watch on the main road while John and Rob started the transfer.

"I thought these were impossible to find. How'd he get so many?" Rob asked once Tucker was out of earshot.

"He ran some return scam with Best Buy. Since they put in that Bed, Bath and Beyond next to it, he said it was easy this year."

"Best Buy has a ton of people in their lot. He shouldn't be hitting the same store more than once."

"Don't worry, he's not. He waits for something big that someone stashes while they run to Bed, Bath, a computer or something. He looks like a UPS guy anyway. So, he grabs it, throws it in the Ranger and drives over to the store in Springfield."
"That's like fifty miles," Rob said.

"Yeah, but no one knows him there. He's being cautious like you said. Anyway, he takes it back, no receipt, which is exchange only. Then he convinces the girl to issue him gift cards as his refund, you know, the $100 ones still attached to the cardboard, instead of putting it all on one like they usually do. Says he'll give them out to the family instead. So now he's got like 20 of these things. He heads back to Nottington, and waits until he sees someone walking into the store with something he wants, something impossible to get like a Wii. He approaches them in the parking lot and asks if anything's wrong with it. No, the wife sent this guy out for an X-box or something else. The guy grabbed the wrong thing, probably what he wanted for himself. So Tucker offers him a deal, three of the gift cards for it when it's worth maybe two and a half."

"And people go for that?"

"Once he tells them how long the lines are inside. Sometimes he has to go up to four"

"Why doesn't he just wait and buy it himself after it's returned."

"They've got a waiting list for this stuff, even the returns. Man, you definitely don't have kids. He does the Toys-R-Us, too, using the same Best Buy cards, anywhere that has something hot and hard to come by."

"So how do they know he's not ripping them off, that he didn't just steal the unactivated card himself?" Rob asked.

"He offers to go in with them and have the cards scanned. Only about one in three take him up on it, though." John laughed at Rob's raised eyebrow. "Man, this is Tucker. He's got that whole trust thing going. The man marries people on Sundays."

Rob stopped what he was doing and stared at John.

"You didn't know?" John laughed. "He's ordained, Church of Divine Mercy or some such outfit. All legit through the mail. He'll do you and Maryanne if you ever make an honest woman out of her."

Rob just shook his head and smiled. "You two never cease to amaze me. I take it you're still doing the Santa thing."

"I'm telling you no one looks twice at Santa walking out to a car and filling up his big, red bag with stuff. You should try it."

"You need the right build for it," Rob replied, patting his nearly absent belly. "Hey, you still got that stash of Wal-Mart bags?"

"Yeah, let me pop the back."

They spent the next several minutes sorting through the groceries, each man taking the items he needed and putting them into a bag, occasionally holding something up for Tucker to check out. Anything none of them wanted, they put into separate bags and loaded onto one side of Rob's trunk.

"Why the hell do people buy this stuff," John asked. "Imported French mustard, organic ketchup, vegan chicken broth, free-trade Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, whatever that is."

"You should try that," Rob said. "It's pretty good."

"It's also like $34 bucks a bag. Thanks, I'll stick with Maxwell House. But I will take that Italian hot cocoa, and those fancy dog treats for Buddy."

"Guess someone else gets a treat this year," Rob said as he looked at the coffee. "You mind if I take the ham. Maryanne asked for a turkey, but I'll tell her it was on sale."

"Tell her you won a raffle at work," John suggested. "Might be more believable. You done with those Whole Food bags? I'll start burning them."

Rob passed the empty bags to John, who dropped them in the barrel one by one. The smoke became thick, black and acrid. Next they went through the other bags, burning the receipts as they went and combining things into fewer bags and burning the empties. Nothing to tie things back to their original owners.

"I don't get some of the things these people give as gifts," John said as he sorted through the last items in the Bronco. "I mean, this year I got a bag with a dozen nail clipper sets in it and another dozen things of perfume, all exactly the same. Forty bucks a pop, if you can believe it. That's like a thousand dollars in crap gifts."

"Must be some manager shopping for his staff. What perfume?"

"Uh, Covet," John said, turning his head to read the box, "by Sarah Jessica Parker. It's not even in a bottle."

"My sister-in-law might like that," Rob said, setting one aside. "I know where to get rid of the rest. Put that bag over here."

"Oow, looky here, Victoria's Secret," John said, dangling the pink bag from a finger. "Maybe you've found just the right thing to make your holiday special. Can't you just see Maryanne in this?" He reached in and held a see-through, red lace negligee up to his shoulders and pretended to model. "I know I can."

"Thanks for that visual, John," Rob said, punching his arm. "Not really what I was thinking for her this year. What about Kelly?"

"She wouldn't fit into two of these, not since she was 19. Hey, Tucker," John called across the parking lot, holding it higher. "You want for Beth?" Tucker considered, then nodded and went back to watching the road.

"Looks like someone's Christmas will be merry and bright," John said as dropped the garment back into the bag and stashed it in one of the cargo boxes in the Ranger's bed. "Looks like that's about it. Oh, I almost forgot." He dug back into the bottom of the big, red sack sitting in the back of the Bronco and came out with a small, black jewelry box. "I saw this and thought of you."

Rob pulled the box open. Inside was a pair of marquis cut sapphire earrings with a matching pendant circled with diamonds. Simple but stunningly elegant. "I can't take these, John. What about Kelly?"

"I give her these, she'll wonder which of her girlfriends I'm sleeping with. No, they're for you. I've already talked to Tucker. Share and share alike, right?"

Rob closed the box and tucked it in his jacket pocket. "Thanks, John, she'll love these."

"Tell her they're fake or she'll never wear them." He looked down at the paper in his hand. "I think that covers me and Tucker. You got everyone on your list?"

Rob nodded. "It's all in the back seat. Thanks for loading up the Wii. The niece and nephew will love that."

"Looks like all the kids get one this year," John said as he closed the Tucker's cargo box then the back to the Bronco. "It'll be nice not to see them disappointed for once."

"You ever wonder about the kids of the people who bought this stuff?" Rob asked.

"Not really. I mean, charity starts at home, right? Their parents just report it stolen and charge up more on the gold card. Hell, their insurance probably covers it. Besides, these kids all have everything they ever wanted, Razr cell phones, video iPods, wireless laptops, Halo 3. They can use a dose of disappointment in their lives. Just means their parents will have a longer night tonight figuring out what to do, like we always used to have to."

Rob smiled. The big man always had logic, even if it was twisted. "Anything else to go in the trunk? I'll drop the rest of this in Kirkley. I'm stopping by that live broadcast that Rock 101 has setup. You want one of their new bumper stickers or something?"

"Sure, grab me one of those hats with the concert logo if they have one. The boy might like that in his stocking. If not that, anything else will work. I'll drop by sometime tonight." John craned his head over Rob's shoulder. "Uh, oh."

Rob turned to see Tucker headed back toward them pumping his fist in the air.

"Sheriff's coming," John cried. "Quick, Rob, crack a beer."

While Rob closed the trunk, which automatically latched and slowly set in place, John raced over to the cooler in the Ranger's bed and tossed a can to Rob, who caught it deftly. Rob had never seen the big man move so fast. Before Rob popped the top, John tossed another to Tucker who was jogging up. Then they circled the barrel.

A minute later, the cruiser pulled around the side of the building then right up beside them as they were sipping their beers and warming their hands over the fire. The window rolled down. "What are you boys up to?"

"Hiding out from our wives and getting a little R&R before the family circus starts," John answered, raising his beer.

"Rob." The deputy nodded in acknowledgement. "I see you're still driving Earl's beautiful green Town Car."

"Taking her out for her a cruise, just like I promised the old man," Rob replied. "Got to keep her in shape."

"I could always take her off your hands if you're having trouble with that," the deputy said. "I hear you need the money. What do you say to ten thousand, cash?"

"Same as last time, Andy, no thanks. I'm not selling my birthright. Besides I hear you're transferring over to Nottington in January. What's that, a signing bonus?"

"You know how things are, Rob." Andy answered somewhat sheepishly.

"No," Rob shook his head, "I don't."

"So what drags you out into the cold tonight, Andy?" John asked sarcastically, taking Rob's cue to get rid of him. "On a donut run for the station?"

Andy scowled. "Can it, John. You know, I could run you in. You boys aren't supposed to be out here."

"On Christmas Eve?" John laughed. "You must be joking. You striking for a quick promotion? Or you angling to be a rent-a-cop supervisor over at Norman?"

The deputy's scowl deepened. "You're just lucky it's Christmas, little man. Consider yourselves warned. I come back around here in fifteen minutes and I want that fire out and you three gone. Got it?"

None of them moved. The cruiser did a quick three-point turn and sped away.

"To run us in, that guy would have to get his fat butt out of the car and do some real work. That just might wind him." John laughed, rubbing his hands over the fire. Now it was getting cold. Might even snow by the look of the sky.

"We need to wrap it up anyway." Rob said. "I've still got drop-offs to make. Either of you need money?"

"I'm good," John said.

"Could you spot me ten for gas?" Tucker asked.

Rob peeled off a twenty from the wad in his pocket. "Keep it."

"Cool." Tucker nodded. "Thanks."

"Last thing," Rob said. "Our story."

"Yeah, we know," John said. "Same as last year."

"We've got to get this right," Rob reminded him. "Our women talk."

"Don't sweat it, Rob" Tucker replied. "We've got it down." He poured the remains of his largely untouched beer into the barrel, then climbed into his Ranger. Rob and John followed suit with their beers and cars. The barrel hissed and steamed, smelling like a bad night at the Boar's Head.

"See you in a bit," Rob called to John just before he pulled away.

John called back, "Give the boys my regards if you see them."

As he pulled the Town Car back out of the parking lot, Rob started singing again, "...he's making a list, checking twice..."

When he'd first met John and Tucker, they'd been working the Super Wal-Mart, picking the easiest cars to hit, the ones farthest out, the older ones, the Jeeps and ragtops, the ones with frazzled mothers running in just for a minute, the ones with stuff in the foot wells covered with towels. Back then, they'd worked mostly after dark. He'd caught John red-handed in the Charger one night before Christmas a couple years back, right after the first layoffs at Angled-Iron. Once he'd figured out what John and Tucker were up to, it didn't take him long to convince them that they were targeting the wrong people. Most of the people they were hitting were in the same position they were with little or no money, just wanting to make their kids happy for Christmas even if they never knew the cost. He changed all that.

Back on the highway, Rob headed toward Kirkley, about 20 minutes farther up the road. It was bigger than Locks and the county seat. There was enough agriculture in that part of York county to keep its businesses going. They even had lights up on Elm Street that were just coming on as he drove into town. Rob didn't get up there often, so not many people knew him.

First, he headed for the Rock 101 broadcast van in front of the Applebee's by the Family Dollar. They would closing up soon. He really wanted to see about one of those hats for John. When he pulled up they were playing Springsteen's version of the song in his head, "...gonna find out whose naughty and nice..."

He popped the trunk to the Town Car, grabbed two bags of toys at random and closed it. The on-air personalities looked pretty tired. They'd been broadcasting around the county for five straight days trying to meet their goal for toys for the underprivileged kids. Seemed like there were a lot more of them this year, kids not toys.

He walked up to the donation table and set the bags down. "Here you go, hope it helps."

The busty blonde in the tight T-shirt with the station logo looked into the bags and her eyes went wide. "Wow, you sure you want to donate all this. When Rob nodded, she called over to one of the DJ's, "Harris, come check this stuff out."

"Just doing my part," Rob mumbled sheepishly. "Sounded like you were a bit behind."

The DJ wandered over with a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming coffee that looked like it hadn't quite done the job for him in a couple days. He riffled through the bags. "Oh, wow, this is great. The kids will love this stuff. This might just put us over, man. Hey, can you stick around until the next song is over. I'd like to do a spot on-air with you."

"Wish I could, but I've got to get home." Rob pulled his thumb back toward the highway.

The DJ nodded as though he understood. "Hey, before you take off, you want anything? We've got a few CDs left."

"You have any of those concert hats you're always talking about on your morning show, you know the one from the fall?"

"Oh, man, we ran out of those Thursday. Wait. I think I know where there's one in the broadcast truck. Hang on." He took off at a jog to the van, disappeared inside for a minute and then emerged with a stylish, black ball cap with a slick red and orange logo. "Last one. Had to cash in a favor with our sound engineer. Actually, he doesn't know it yet, so enjoy."

"It's not for me," Rob responded, "but I know someone this will make very happy. Thanks."

"You bet. Hey, can I at least get your name?"

Rob pretended to think for a second, "You know, I'd rather not. Just say it came from an someone down in Locks who still cares about the people in this county."

"You got it, man. Have a Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too." Rob headed back to his car.

He made the rounds through Kirkley, dropping off single bags of toys and some of the miscellaneous other items at Goodwill and a few local charities that were collecting for people in need. Each time he declined to give his name or accept a receipt, just dropped things off and said, "Merry Christmas." At the Salvation Army, he added one other thing, dropping the bills from the Infiniti into the collection bucket. The gray-haired bell-wringer smiled broadly when he saw the roll with a $20 outside, probably not realizing it was all $20's. He got a hearty "Thank you, and God Bless" for that one.

After that he dropped the perfume, manicure sets and other clothing at the York Women's shelter, along with the final two bags of toys and the extra Wii with a large selection of games. He knew too well that there would be a lot of women showing up there with their kids between now and New Years. The woman at the front desk smiled gratefully for the donations and gave him a wink.

Finally, he hit the food bank with the groceries. By then he was in a bit of a hurry. He still needed to get to the Piggly Wiggly in Locks before they closed at 6. That left him an hour. At the last minute, he snagged the coffee out of one of the bags and stuck it with a toy he'd set aside earlier, then dropped the other food with the high school teens manning the donation table as part of their volunteer work. They seemed excited by the quality of stuff he was dropping off, not the standard cans of green beans and creamed corn that people didn't want and cleaned out of their cupboards this time of year. They began chattering about just whose boxes to put which things into before he even left.

He made his way back to the highway, humming and singing, "...he sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake..." He was almost done for the night.

By the time he pulled into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot back in Locks, the first flurries had started to fall. Under a white canvas tent open in the front where they had been selling Christmas trees a week ago was a long fold-up table with several cardboard barrels behind it. Also back there were two Marines in dress blues trying not to look cold, and mostly succeeding, though Rob knew better. There was a "Toys for Tots" banner hanging from the table.

Rob retrieved the last toy from the trunk along with the coffee and ambled up to the table. It wasn't the most expensive toy from the haul but the one he thought a child enjoy for a long time, a Lego Ultimate Super-Set. He peered past the two Marines into the barrels, which were maybe a third full. He recognized the Marines from around, but couldn't remember their names. He could tell they recognized him.

"Evening, gentlemen," Rob said. "Thought I'd drop this by before you folded up shop. I hope you know someone who can use this." He offered the Legos.

"Thank you, sir," the younger one replied, accepting it. "Nancy will know just who to give that to."

"When you see her, tell her I'll try to sneak out later and help her wrap stuff for an hour or two. She set up at the Baptist Church again this year?"

"That's right, sir. We're supposed to take this stuff over there in about fifteen minutes. We may see you there, depending on how late it is."

"Well, here's something for you, too, just a little thank you." He held out the Jamaican coffee.

"You shouldn't have, sir." Both Marines smiled. They were still young enough to enjoy presents themselves, but old enough to know good coffee when they saw it.

"My pleasure," Rob said. "By the way, if you talk to the guys over in the 1/3, tell them the people here haven't forgotten about them and still want them home."

"That's King's Regiment isn't it?" the second,slightly older Marine asked. Rob nodded.

"We may see them sooner than you think," the soldier continued. "They cut our orders yesterday, we head back after New Years."

Rob nodded knowingly. "Oh, yeah," he said, before he turned to go. "John said to say 'hello.'"

"How is Sgt. Little?" the second Marine asked.

"Doing ok. Glad to be home with Kelly and the kids. I think he misses things sometimes, though."

"He ever needs work, we'd be glad to have him back," the first man said.

"I'll pass that on, but I'm not sure he misses things that much," Rob laughed. "You boys take care and stay warm. Save some of that coffee for Nancy."

"Will do, sir," they replied.

As he pulled back out onto Business 47, Rob saw the snow had begun to fall in earnest, accumulating on the grass but mostly melting on the road. He'd better watch out for ice. Happy to be going home, he started singing again, "...he knows if you've been bad or good..."

When he pulled into the driveway, Maryanne's car was already parked behind the Charger. He grabbed up the three bags of groceries. He would come out after dinner for the gifts. But just to be sure, he locked the Town Car and thumbed the alarm. He'd move it back into the garage later.

Inside the door, he spotted Maryanne's uniform hanging by the front hall closet. The TV wasn't on and it smelled like she'd started a fire which meant she was crashed, waiting for him after a hard day. She was not likely to be a Merry Maid tonight. He dropped the groceries in the kitchen doorway and crept up behind her in the living room. "Hey, lady," he said over the back of the recliner.

"Hey, Rob. How was work?" She sounded tired, but had a steaming mug set on the table beside her that smelled like she'd broken out the mulling spices. A fire crackled in the fireplace.

"You know, same ole, same ole. And you?"

"Mrs. Dane decided I was 'the cleaning woman' again. Like she doesn't remember my name after 2 years, at least in front of her friends. Didn't even give me a tip this year. And she wants me back first thing the day after Christmas for some special service that includes the windows."

"Hey," he said, trying to brighten her mood, "I won the raffle at work. One of those spiral-cut honey hams you like so much. We'll have leftovers for a week even after the family leaves. So I didn't get the turkey."

"Did you get everything else?" Maryanne asked.

"Everything but the eggs. Place was cleaned out. But I can run out later if you want."

"Mmm," was her only answer.

"Oh, and they let us out early, so I did the all Christmas shopping like I said I would. I got something for everybody. Found that perfume your sister's been on about since Thanksgiving. Everything is out in the car. Even got a hold of a Wii with some games for the kids. That's the one they've been wanting, right?"

"Yes, it is." Maryanne sat up and looked at him. "Rob, we can't afford all that."

"Don't worry, my paycheck covered everything. Plus King Distributing gives us a discount on all the stuff that come through their warehouse, so it's like paying wholesale. And they supply everybody. I just wanted everyone to be happy this year. We can wrap it after dinner if you want."

"That would be ok." She collapsed back into the chair. "Any word on whether they're going to pick you up this year?"

"Today was the last day, unless they get flooded with returns. Still not enough business to justify more full-time help. They said they might have more work next year, though."

"What about John and Tucker?"

"No luck there either." He saw how crestfallen she was, so he rubbed her shoulders. "Don't worry, baby, it's going to be all right."

"It's just nobody's got work this year," she said, fighting back the tears. "I thought it would be different once you were home, with all the training."

"Hey, honey." Rob sat on the arm of the recliner, cupped her chin in his hands and looked her in the eye. "They have it out for anyone who worked at Angled-Iron. Me, John, Tucker. After the protests, half the county got blacklisted by Norman Industries and anyone they have influence over, which is everyone in Nottington."

"I'm just afraid you'll join up again and go back." She was crying now.

"Shh." He held her head against his chest and stroked her hair. "No one's going anywhere, honey. My place is here now. When Dick King gets back in country, all this is going change."

She looked up at him, tears filling her eyes and threatening to spill over again. "Promise?"

"Promise," he reassured her. "Richard King is a power man. When he gets home, he'll set things right in this county and at Norman Industries. Right now, we should be happy. We have food and a roof and nice presents for everyone tomorrow. No one can take that away from us."

Maryanne sniffed back more tears and wiped her cheek. "Guess we all knew this was just a temporary, Christmas thing, anyway," she said trying not to sound disappointed.

Rob reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the jewelry box. "I was going to wait until tomorrow to give this to you, but..." He handed her the box.

She opened it slowly. "Oh, Rob, they're beautiful," she exclaimed. "How could you afford them?"

"I got a bonus and they were close-out," he said. "But they're the genuine article. Now you have some nice jewelry to wear when we get married, like you deserve."

"How did you know that sapphires were my favorite?" She was looking up at him with those beautiful doe eyes, on the verge of crying again for a different reason. She hugged him across the chair, almost toppling them both.

"Lucky guess," he said as he extracted himself and headed back to the kitchen. From the doorway he called over his shoulder, "How about I fix you up some of that soup you always like."

After he put away the groceries and got the soup started, he stared out the kitchen window and watched the beginnings of a genuine white Christmas. As he watched the snow drift down and cover the yard, he thought about John and Tucker, about Norman Industries and Dick King coming home. Until he did, Rob figured he might as well keep singing. The song stuck in his head had taken on the feel of an anthem. "Oh, you better watch out...."

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Faeth

As he turned off the shower, he heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen. That didn't bother him; he'd set the water to boil before starting the rest of his morning ritual.

What alarmed him was the whistle trailing off as he wrapped himself in a towel and padded across the cool, bathroom tile. He paused from momentary disorientation as the implications went though his temple like an ice pick, nearly going down on one knee before he steadied himself with a hand on the counter. He stood for a moment, feeling lightheaded and confused, his heart frozen then pounding erratically. Someone else was in the house. Thinking it better to confront the situation than hide from it, he balled a fist and proceeded cautiously through the bedroom, surveying the living room, then the dining room as he inched toward the corner and into the kitchen. Perhaps his wife had returned having forgotten something, though he doubted it.

He heard the intruder before he saw her, humming a tune he knew he should recognize but he didn't, pouring water from the kettle into the French press he had set up earlier when his head was buzzing with ideas like a beehive in spring. Now his mind was empty, nearly dead, only his hindbrain active and focused on fear, struggling with the choice between combat and flight.

She was facing the stove, her right side toward him, just settling the dark green cozy his wife had crocheted over the carafe as he did nearly every morning while the coffee brewed. She was young, maybe in her twenties, dressed in a nicely tailored, pearl gray skirt and matching jacket, a white silk blouse peeking out at her wrist. She wasn't tall for a woman, but wasn't short either, maybe half a head shorter than he was. Her build was slight and athletic, reminding him of the paintings of Valkyries he had found so captivating on his first visit to the National Gallery several years ago. Where had that memory come from? He needed to focus.

She wore no jewelry that he could see, no rings, no earrings. Her sleeves hid whether she wore a bracelet or a watch, but he didn't think that she did. A sparkle from a small, gold cross dangling in the hollow of her neck on a fine gold chain caught his eye and, for a moment, he felt safe, though he knew that he shouldn't. Then he spotted the angular bulge beneath her jacket.

He had just opened his mouth to speak when she turned toward him. He was struck silent by her beauty: unblemished porcelain skin, a perfect nose and cheekbones, lips stained the pinkish-red of slightly under-ripe strawberries, a ponytail of blond hair bordering on the pale gold he only remembered seeing in children younger than five. When she met his gaze, he saw her eyes were a pale blue that flashed pictures through his mind of icebergs being calved from Alaskan glaciers. Or that hotel constructed entirely from blocks carved out a frozen lake somewhere in Sweden each winter.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his fists still balled by his sides as if they would be of any use or even intimidating against the dusky purple bath towel wrapped about his waist. Water from his hair dripped into his eyes and ran down his face like tears. Quickly, he scanned the counter for something that might serve as a weapon, a knife, a rolling pin, a pot, anything. But everything was as it should be, neat and put away.

She smiled warmly, genuinely, as she leaned back against the counter. "Good morning, my friend. The coffee should be ready in a few moments. It smells wonderful by the way. French roast?"

He shook is head to clear it. Had he heard her right? Something in her voice compelled an answer. "Italian."

"I thought I smelled a hint of chocolate, but I could not be certain. It has been so long since I was sent to someone with good coffee. Most have something from a plastic jug or overwhelmed by the flavor of artificial vanilla. I always tell people, splurge on the best you can afford. If you are going to drink it every day, you may as well enjoy it. Simple pleasures, they are what this life is about. They never listen, though, until it is too late." Her voice had a gentle lilt and a slight accent that he couldn't quite place. Nothing European, of that he was certain.

His mind began to clear and form questions. "Sent? By who? Homeland Security? I can explain the letter."

She smiled again and slowly shook her head. "No need to explain to me. It is too late for that, anyway, unless it will make you feel better. I always listen, but it never changes the outcome."

His eyes darted to her jacket. She cocked her head, following his gaze with a glance. "The men always notice that. Women rarely see it, but men almost never overlook it. Even confronted by a complete stranger in their home, they cannot help but sneak a peek at a woman's chest. Why is that?"

"You're here to kill me," he said.

She continued as though she hadn't heard. "It must be instinct with you men. But seeing as you are curious." She undid the two buttons of her jacket, letting it fall open. He could plainly see the grip of a large handgun nestled in the shoulder holster beneath her right arm. Left-handed, he noted.

"Authentic Israeli .50 caliber Desert Eagle," she said, "one of the largest handguns in the world. Advertised as a man-stopper. One round will knock you backwards nearly a meter and you will not get up again. Though it kicks like an indignant mule. Do you know how many times I have heard men say, 'seems like a mighty big gun for a little lady like you?' Like they think that will endear them to me." She shook her head.

"But I will tell a small secret," she continued, smiling coyly. "The pistol is only for show. It keeps certain individuals from trying anything heroic. Once I show it to them, they cannot take their eyes off of it and notice little else. But here is the real danger." She hooked her left thumb around the bottom of her jacket and pulled it back, revealing the dark handle of a curved knife in a simple but finely crafted leather sheath that looked both old and well-oiled with care.

She slipped the knife out with the whisper of steel against leather. When he saw the blade, his fear left him, replaced by something closer to resignation tinged with more than a hint of awe.

The hilt was black bone or antler that had been polished to an obsidian finish, fastened to the tang by brass pins set perfectly flush. There was no guard. The blade flowed like a French curve, arcing into a wicked point that hooked out from the tip as though someone had pinched the end of it sideways. Outlines of ripples colored its surface where different metals had been beaten one into the other. The boundaries between layers were scalloped like an irregular shoreline as seen from high above the ground. Yet the surface was mirror smooth. Both edges glinted with the fine, silver traceries of a well-honed razor.

"It's beautiful," he said, unable to take his eyes off it.

"It is Damascus steel, the finest in the world," she explained with pride, twisting the knife so its blade better reflected the early morning light. "It is a Persian threshing knife, one of the oldest such tools in existence from the post-Bronze era. With proper care, it will hold an edge for many years. If you were to run your finger along it, you would feel the blood drip before you felt the cut. It is that sharp."

She eased the knife back into its sheath and buttoned her jacket, concealing both weapons. "The coffee is ready. Do you mind if I use this cup?" Casually, she picked up the hand-thrown pottery mug usually used by his wife for tea.

"Uh, sure." he answered, as if it mattered. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My apologies." She set down the mug and extended a hand. "My name is Faeth d'Angelo."

For some reason he accepted her outstretched hand. He expected it to be warm and soft. Instead it was cool, and, unlike so many women's, her grip was firm. He could sense the underlying strength in her arm as they clasped hands, not muscle toned in a gym but gained from everyday use in the fields.

Focus, he told himself as she released his hand. "d'Angelo? Forgive me, but you don't sound Italian."

She smiled again, "My father came from what is now Israel. My brother was born in the West Bank."

"You’re a terrorist then," he said before he could stop himself.

An angry scowl would have marred her face were it capable of being disfigured. Instead the expression just made her beautiful in a different way, like clouds filled with thunder before an approaching storm. Then it broke into disappointment.

"Americans are all the same these days," she sighed. "You hear a Middle Eastern accent and automatically think 'terrorist.' The Middle East is a place of culture. Its people gave humanity agriculture, the roots of law, mathematics. Cities and states. Civilization as you know it. Even your American staples of beer and coffee originated there. Three of the world's great religions were founded within a few hundred miles, yet all you can think of is the eleventh of September. It is a shame, really."

"I'm sorry," he said. He wasn't just saying it, for some reason he really did regret upsetting her, though he didn't know why.

"It is what it is," she said offhandedly as she began pouring the coffee. "It is a part of your culture now. I should not let it upset me. Still, it is sad. Sugar for you, yes?"

"Uhm, yes. Do you need cream?" Why did he ask that? What was it about this woman that made him want to please her?

"No, black is fine." She took a sip. "Mmm, dark and strong, the way coffee is supposed to be. I compliment your taste. You should have some before it goes cold." She nodded to the steaming mug beside her.

"Can I at least get dressed first?" he asked.

She leaned against the counter again, crossing an arm under her chest. "I am afraid not."

"So humiliation is part of the arrangement?"

A laugh bubbled up from her like a spring-fed stream tumbling over rocks. "You came to greet me wearing nothing more than a towel while trying to appear like an American action hero. I was content to wait until you were ready. But now that we have begun, we cannot go back. One of the rules, I am afraid." She shrugged.

"Rules? What rules?" he demanded, his fists bunching by his sides again.

"Why don't we sit like civilized people and talk about this while we enjoy our coffee." Faeth looked at him expectantly. He didn't move. "Please do not tell me you are going to be one of those macho cinema types you Americans love so much. It will end badly for you, my friend, and I do not want that."

He scowled at her and swept an arm toward the living room.

"I was thinking your breakfast area might be more comfortable. It has such a lovely view of the front garden. A simple pleasure you should take the time to enjoy."

"Fine." He motioned her in that direction instead.

"A gentleman," she said. "Always a welcome change in this country. But I must insist you show me the way."

He felt awkward leading, but it was only a few feet around the counter and into the nook marked by the transition from tile to carpet. He pulled out the chair tucked under the table for her before pulling one up from the wall for himself. He tried to sit without his towel falling open, mostly successfully. He wasn't sure how his wife ever managed to sit gracefully in a skirt. Thankfully, Faeth didn't seem to notice as she settled into the other chair, crossing her legs with practiced ease. They both faced the window across the small, round table. The carpet felt lush beneath his bare toes.

Faeth sipped her coffee and gazed out into the garden. He tasted his. Today was a day when everything was just right, the right amount of water for the right amount of grounds, the right amount of time steeping in the press. The right amount of sugar that enhanced the flavor but didn't overpower it. Just the right temperature even, barely steaming. A perfect cup of coffee.

He savored it and lost himself staring out the window. He felt as though he were a child again, ready to fall asleep rather than face an unpleasant situation. Sleep, the denial of the very young. Outside, a squirrel jumped into the crook of a distant oak holding something in its paws, a mushroom that it started turning and noshing around the edge of the cap as though it were corn on the cob. Strange the things he noticed when there was something he really wanted to avoid.

"You have questions." Faeth's voice brought him back inside. She was watching him now.

"Why?" he asked. "What did I do that you want to kill me?"

"I do not want to kill you," she responded, sounding mildly surprised.

"Well, someone wants me dead," he retorted angrily.

She shrugged. "Everyone dies. It is nothing personal."

He licked his lips. "Perhaps there is a way around it. I mean, you don't have to kill me. I could disappear, take on a new name, a new identity. I wouldn't tell anyone."

She smiled tolerantly. "I am afraid that is not an option."

"Well, why now? And don't tell me it's my time. Is this just some random act for you?"

"Something like that." She turned her chair to face him, cocking her head slightly. "But have you not been feeling tired recently, as though you were weighted down?"

As he thought about it, a wave of fatigue swept over him. His job, his wife, his lack of success, being stuck in the same rut, facing the same unresolved problems with family and friends year after year. He was over forty and still didn't know what to do with his life. On top of that, it had been a particularly difficult year, his wife's condition, his mother's deteriorating health, his own ailments. And the past, the inescapable past that still haunted him, one he could never change no matter how hard his mind struggled each night to come up with alternate outcomes to situations over which he'd had no control. Many nights during the past year, he had just wanted to lie down and sleep, never to wake again, just as he had wanted so often as a child. He rested his elbow on the table, leaning his forehead onto the palm of his hand. Now that he felt the full weight of living, he could no longer lift it. He closed his eyes.

"It will be all right, my friend," Faeth said, lightly touching his shoulder before he completely faded into inner darkness.

Wearily, he raised his head. "Will it?"

"I promise you it will," she answered, taking his hands into her own. Now her hands were more like he had expected, warm and soft, gentle, almost enveloping.

He looked into her eyes, which had changed to the color of the horizon in a clear, winter sky. "Am I going to die now?" he asked in a voice as small as a child’s.

She smiled indulgently. "We still have a little time if there is anything you wish to tell me."

Before he thought about it, memories came pouring out of him as torrents of words. Some he hadn't thought about in years while others he wasn't sure he had remembered since the day they had been formed. At first, most were the tragic moments, memories filled with frustration and anger, shame and fear. And tears, plenty of tears, even if at the time they had gone unshed. Slowly, brighter moments surfaced, the few joyful times he remembered and many he had not. From there came moments of individual beauty, most of which he had seen but hadn't noticed, which brought a deep sense of regret at not having experienced them fully when he’d had the chance. He remembered all the time he'd purposefully wasted by watching mindless television, playing meaningless games or surfing the net, as well as the energy he had consumed by struggling with things he could not change. He remembered the dreams he'd left unlived, the stories he'd left untold. And he cried, first in pain, then in joy, and finally, in release.

By the time his eyes had drained, his head rested on Faeth's shoulder while she stroked his hair with her right hand. A final memory surfaced, one from college during his second round of being born again, a conversion that also hadn't taken. A young woman from the campus ministry holding his hands as he released the bevy of his perceived sins to her care. At first she reassured him that he would be forgiven. Later, when she ceased to understand the words but still picked up on the emotion, she had held him and told him that he would be okay, that everything would be okay. An act of kindness from a stranger.

His memories exhausted, he felt himself leaning more heavily on Faeth, breathing in the clean scent of her hair. Before sleep claimed him, as he knew it would, he heard the sigh of the Persian threshing knife being slipped from its sheath as she shushed him like a mother would her infant. He felt a single tug, then the warmth flowed out of him. His head slumped from Faeth's shoulder briefly onto her chest then slid to her lap where he rested it awhile, comforted by her presence. Before she left him she eased him to the cold, hard tile of bathroom floor. She reflected a moment on his expression before returning the knife to its place at her hip, smiling and turning to go.

...

When his wife came home that evening, she knew something was wrong as soon as she entered the kitchen. She could smell the water long since boiled away now mixed with the scent of baking enamel from a kettle never intended to sit for hours atop a red hot burner. She turned off the stove and frantically called for her husband from room to room. Absently, she noticed the two mugs on the table in the breakfast nook, the dregs of coffee still staining their bottoms. Had she forgotten to put them away after dinner last night?

After searching the house, she finally found him curled on the bathroom floor as though eased there by some unseen hand, a towel wrapped around his waist. As soon as she saw him, she knew he was dead. Her hand covered her mouth as though guarding it against invasion by some unseen spirit. Her eyes washed themselves clean with tears as she gasped for breath. Even so, she was grateful for the peaceful expression upon his face, as she was again days later when the medical examiner informed her that he had died nearly instantaneously and without pain from the aneurysm that had burst within his brain.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III