Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #226 (6 page)

Amber nodded. She grabbed one of the cutter's sets of block and tackle, threw a rope over the yardarm, and tied the rope in a noose around Sahr's neck. He thrashed and kicked, but he was still tied hand to foot and couldn't stop her.

Once everything was ready, she asked Sahr if he had anything else to say. He cursed at her, but he also smiled as she tightened the noose, as if pleased that Amber had finally learned what he'd been trying teach her. He continued smiling as she pulled the rope through the block and tackle, the pulleys whining to the cordage, his smile never ending even after he hung limp from the yardarm, spinning right then left as the wind howled in anger at Sahr's death not being given to the sea.

Only with Sahr's final kick did his name vanish from her body with a perverted kiss.

When Amber neared Windspur's harbor, she dropped the cutter's sails and drifted until several ships, including the
Andercoust
, approached. Miles jumped onboard and helped steer the ship into the harbor. Miles asked several times if Amber was well, glancing from Sahr's body hanging from the yardarm to the names still visible on Amber's skin. She assured him she was fine.

Amber stood on the cutter's bow until they docked, then walked through the stunned crowd on the pier. She noticed Richard Beard near the dock with his daguerreotype camera, where he'd been taking landscapes of buildings. She started to ask if he'd taken a picture of her on the ship, but stopped, already knowing the answer.

After all, two different versions of the picture were now burned into her life.

The following Sunday, Amber and Billy married. Billy was still recovering from his injuries and could barely speak, but he croaked his “I do” and kissed Amber in a long, tight-hugging embrace. All of the sailors and townsfolk cheered, tactfully ignoring the names pulsing a deep blue through Amber's white wedding dress.

Amber continued to captain the
Andercoust
. Miles and the other sailors taught her all they knew and soon she could out sail the best of them. She sailed the
Andercoust
in storms which drove lesser captains to port, but none of her crew were ever injured or killed. Sailors spoke of her uncanny knack of stopping accidents before they happened; of arriving in time to save drowning sailors from other ships. Soon she was known as the luckiest captain in the fleet and every sailor begged to join her crew.

Occasionally people who weren't from Windspur would board the
Andercoust
and ask Amber about the rumors. Of the names which still circled her body. Whether those named men were still fated to die at sea.

Amber would shake her head and say she hoped not. If the visitors persisted, Amber would point to a silver-framed daguerreotype hanging on her cabin's wall. She'd ask if they noticed anything strange about the picture. The visitors would stare at the image of Amber on the ship. Her body free of the names; Sahr hanging from the yardarm. While the missing names always puzzled visitors, if that was all they noticed Amber simply nodded and said that was indeed the truth.

But sometimes a perceptive visitor would see a picture of Amber hanging from the mast, her body still covered in the names, her neck bent at an impossibly strange angle, and Sahr alive and laughing as he piloted the cutter.

The startled visitor would ask how this was possible. Was this some trick of the sea—angry because it had been denied Sahr's death?

Amber always laughed at such questions, but if the visitor pressed for an answer she'd point seaward and say the answers lay out there. All the visitor had to do was let the sea add his or her name to Amber's skin.

"Perhaps we can seek the answers together,” she'd whisper as the visitor stared in fear at the names swirling her skin.

So far, no one has accepted her offer.

Copyright (C) 2010 Jason Sanford

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They make us wait, as usual. Beneath these flickering lights, upon a jaundiced lino floor, in the foyer of what must have been a school at one time, they make us wait. Standing for this long aggravates the pain in my shins, my joints, my spine. Like tiny slivers in my bones. To take my mind off it, I play that old kid's game: think of something else. I think of you. I think of getting caught out in that thunderstorm near Pompeii—the way you laughed and spun on the spot as rain slapped down on your sunburned face, your bare shoulders. I think of that night in Whistler, overflowing with alcohol, when you took issue for some imagined slight and tried to punch me. And I think of your studio, of the way you held your charcoal, moving it across the canvas like an orchestra conductor. Vigorous and elegant.

Time passes. The line moves forward.

At the front three weary officials stand behind a counter, dressed in the crisp grey uniforms of the new government. They question people, scan ID cards, clear us for volunteer service. Or that's the way it's supposed to go. When my turn comes, and my card gets swiped, the young man's machine makes a little beep of protest.

The man frowns, tries again. Beep.

"You've been to the zone over a dozen times already. Do you know—“

"I know."

He studies my ID, checks it against my face. Suspicious. As if I might be some kind of infiltrator trying to slip into the zone, or a Hib intent on returning home. In a way, it's not far from the truth. I doubt my outfit—baggy jeans, hoody, baseball cap—does me any favours. I wait for him to come to the inevitable conclusion.

"You'll need a referral,” he says.

"I know."

Two soldiers lead me down a corridor to the office where they question referrals, and lock me inside. I take a seat in the wooden chair, across from a small desk with a computer monitor and keyboard on it. A bare bulb dangles overhead. The windows are closed, the curtains drawn. Behind the flowery odour of air freshener the room smells stale, musty. I've been here before; the tomb-like atmosphere is almost comforting.

Five minutes later the doctor arrives—a thin woman with masculine features. Square jaw. Bony cheeks. Hair bristling up like a wire brush. Dressed in a wrinkled white smock.

"Hello there,” she says.

I smile, being careful not to show my gums, which have a tendency to bleed. “How are you, doctor?"

"I'm fine.” She checks the name on my ID card as she takes it from me. “I'm fine, Mr Kellman. Thank you."

She swipes the magnetic strip down the side of her monitor—the mechanical motion reminding me somehow of a clerk at the supermarket. I see the reflection of the screen in her glasses: columns, stats, a headshot photo. My life in digital. Then her eyes widen slightly.

"Do you fancy yourself a martyr, Mr Kellman?"

I smile again. “Just trying to do my bit, like a good colonial."

"Six scouting sessions, three clean-up, and five more salvage. You've done a lot more than your bit.” She taps her nail on the desk. It goes tick, tick, tick, like a clock or a bomb counting down. “That's four times the recommended volunteer service hours, and more than twice the limit set by health and safety regs."

"I've already signed the forms,” I say, “absolving your government of any responsibility."

"So you've satisfied them. That doesn't mean you've satisfied me.” She tilts her head, looks at me over her glasses. “How are you feeling, Mr Kellman?"

I know I can't fool her. Even in the bulky clothes and ballcap, I look frail and anaemic. A half-man. A scarecrow. “I've been better,” I admit.

"No hair loss? No weakness? No blood in your stool?"

I clasp my hands on the desk in front of me, lower my eyes.

"Even taking precautions,” she says, “an average volunteer absorbs at least a few rems per session. Continued exposure increases the risk of latent effects: cancer, sterility, genetic damage—“

"I know all this, doctor.” I pause, tell myself to keep calm. “I took a healthy dose of three hundred rems during the first wave of fallout. I've been living with the sickness for months. I figure a little more exposure isn't going to hurt me."

Pin-drop silence. A frown.

Then: “It's not going to help either."

I nod, unphased. She checks my file on her monitor.

"You didn't receive that much exposure living in Wales. Were you visiting here at the time of the blast?"

"No.” I don't want to talk about this, but I have to give her something. “I tried to get to ground zero in the days following. I've been trying ever since.” I gesture at her computer. “See for yourself. Does that thing show you where I've volunteered so far?"

She clicks her mouse once, twice. On-screen, a map of the city materializes, complete with little red dots marking my progress—all in a row like a line of harvester ants. The significance of that is not lost on her.

"You've been working your way towards..."

"This,” I say. “It's all been leading up to this. Afterwards, I'm finished."

A pause. Then her fingers begin moving over the keyboard. Even before she says anything I know she's cleared me. Not that it would have made any difference.

I would have found a way.

This changing room reminds me of gym class. The faint linger of body odour. Cracked tiles and yellowing grout. A row of battered grey lockers. Various groups, clustered together, commenting and joking with each other. Men and women change separately; each volunteer is issued with what they call ‘inner protection'. As far as I can tell, it's simply a set of long underwear. I take mine to the far end, around the corner. Here there is a little alcove, with a toilet cubicle and sink, where I can change without being stared at.

The only problem is the mirror.

You would not recognize me, now. I do not recognize myself. As I struggle out of my jeans and hoody, I find it impossible not to look at my naked reflection. I have been losing weight for months, and my skeleton seems to be pressing through my skin. Ribs and hips. Collar bones and pelvis. Not an ounce of fat on me. Not much muscle, either. I shiver as I step into my underwear, zip it up, and grin at myself. I still have my lips. You always liked my lips. But my teeth have yellowed, my gums receded. And my hair has grown thin and limp as an old man's. Apparently it will get worse before it gets better. If it gets better.

To think that I used to worry about going bald.

Footsteps, and then somebody is beside me. A tall, muscular Asian. His underwear is undone to the waist; there are letters tattooed across his chest. In Arabic, maybe? Or Farsi? He has a thick beard and an electric razor in his hand. We blink at each other, surprised. Then I step aside. I go into the toilet cubicle and sit, listening to the buzz of his shaver. When I come out, his beard has been reduced to stubble, and there is a pile of black hair in the sink. I don't know whether it's a symbolic gesture, or a practical one, and I don't really care.

"Can I borrow that?” I ask.

He offers it to me. I run it over my head once, twice. Feel the vibrations in my head, the guide firm and cool against my scalp. What remains of my hair falls lightly away, like dandelion fluff. As I give it back, the Asian holds up a hand. Wait. He takes the shaver and stands behind me. I feel it buzz across the back of my head, the nape of my neck.

"You missed some,” he explains.

The stares begin in the outer changing room.

This is where the men and women converge, where everybody gathers to get into their ‘outer protection'. On my first shift, I naively expected some kind of radiation suit, complete with headgear and visor, but the reality is much more mundane. In the centre of the room stands a rack of jumpsuits that resemble white painter's coveralls more than anything else. That, along with yellow hardhats and some flimsy dust masks, are all the protection we need. Apparently. Whether that's the truth, or just what they're telling us, is anybody's guess.

A pair of officials oversee the fittings; they measure people up, hand out clothing, offer instructions and advice. I already know the drill and select my own suit from the rack. A young man lets out a startled “Whoah” as I pass, and is quickly shushed by his girlfriend. Ignoring them, I begin to pull on my suit. Tottering for balance. Twenty-eight going on eighty-two. I can hear the pair of them whispering, arguing about something as they pretend not to stare at me. Eventually he musters up the courage to approach me.

"Hey mate,” he says, then nervously licks his lips. Up close, I see he's only a few years younger than me. Blond hair. Greenish eyes. Strong and healthy. My doppelganger of long ago. He's careful not to stand too close—as if I might be contagious. “Sorry to be rude and all. But, have you volunteered before? Is that what messed you up?"