The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine Page 10

  “Oh, dear,” Yvette said.

  “Burns,” Delauchen said.

  “I know. Get your arms up,” Yvette said, reaching for him. “No, no, Delauchen, up over your head. You can be such a child, sometimes. Come on, I’ve got you.”

  The pain passed once the sweater came off. He sat there, numb for a moment before cracking open a cider for himself and taking a long pull.

  “I got you something else.” Yvette reached over and pulled a new rice paper sketchpad out of her knapsack along with some charcoals. “Why don’t you sketch something for me?”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, something beautiful. There is plenty here to work with.”

  He took the offered pad, opened it and ran his hands across the blank, creamy smooth sheets of paper.

  “But….” he swallowed and tried to settle his feelings. “I didn’t bring you anything.”

  She looked up from her pile of knitting tools and yarn.

  “Delauchen, you’re so dense sometimes. Just seeing you is good enough. Okay?”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  A couple of bottles of cider later, Delauchen noticed the fading light of the Eastern Sunset casting long shadows through the Orchard. He sat back against the apple tree, stretched the kinks out and considered his sketch in progress.

  Like his previous efforts, many of Yvette’s best features were crafted with loving care, curls, dimples, smile and so forth. He used to spend hours in the trenches sketching her, usually on the day when it was her turn to clean the weapons. She always seemed angry, distant for some reason he could never quite fathom.

  He started to work on her eyes.

  This afternoon it had been different. Yvette knitted away on the sweater, a faint smile that grew when she’d catch him snatching glances at her. She didn’t seem angry now, and he couldn’t remember her ever knitting before.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” he said.

  She looked up, “I’m just enjoying the moment.”

  “It’s nice this evening,” he said. He used his charcoal to draw a faint orb into the space where her left eye would go. “Clear skies. Warm.”

  “Dry.” Yvette chuckled. “I like the fact that it is dry here.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Dry is definitely good. I’ve seen enough mud to last me a lifetime.”

  Happy as he was, he still couldn’t sort it out. Either Yvette was dead or she wasn’t. And where was Thalia? How had Yvette found them and managed to get furlough at the same time? He felt like he had been handed an algebra problem. If only he’d done better, he’d have been in the Brigades Artillery instead of another stupid Frontist in the trenches.

  “It was cold the morning we went over the top,” Yvette said, her focus back on her knitting. “The blizzard, you couldn’t see your hand before your face.”

  “I remember,” he said. The ill-fated Winter Offensive had happened a couple of months after they’d separated. Yvette had been moved to another part of their brigade and Delauchen was alone when the storm blew down out of the Northern Reaches. Suprema Strategic Velaysia felt it would mask their attack from the orbiting Invader, enabling them to take the entrenched enemy, supposedly hibernating, by surprise.

  Not one of their better plans, he thought.

  “My feet hurt so much from the cold, I wanted to cry,” he said.

  “Some guys were pissing on their feet to warm them up,” Yvette said. “Only made it worse. A lot of them were inducted into the Brigades Invalid. Frost bite. I think some of them did it on purpose. I think I might have done it if I could.”

  She fell silent and continued to knit.

  “How….” He was afraid to spoil it, the moment. “How, rather, what happened? You didn’t come back.”

  “You noticed?” Her knitting needles continued to clickety-click away with their one-two-one-two beat.

  “Of course I noticed,” he snapped, angry more with himself than anything.

  “But that is why you ended it, isn’t it? Afraid to let anyone get to close.” She met his eyes. “As if you are the only one that has suffered.”

  Damn it, keep your head up, Delauchen, he chided himself. Yvette wasn’t his mother. She wouldn’t smack him for looking at her.

  “I never said that,” Delauchen replied. That much was true.

  “You didn’t have to.” She returned to her knitting. “I’m not stupid.”

  “But you’re alive. Why didn’t you find me? Did you end up in another Brigade?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “When I saw the Knitter with your locket this morning...” the answer kept slipping back into his muddy mind “...I knew you were still alive.”

  Yvette nodded; her knitting needles continued clicking along.

  “I figured you threw the locket away,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  “I didn’t throw it away.”

  Delauchen was confused. “But...the Knitter had it. I saw it.”

  Yvette reached under her blouse and produced a locket, the same heliotype locket he had given her years ago. The same locket the Knitter had worn. “Delauchen, listen very carefully.”

  He looked up.

  “I—Still—Have—It,” she said. “Do you understand?”

  He shook his head. “No, Yvette, I don’t. Nothing makes any sense.”

  The only way it would make sense is if Yvette Mobori and the Knitter he’d seen that morning were the same person.

  And that just wasn’t possible.

  “May I see it?” She nodded at his sketchpad. “You seem more interested in your sketch than me anyway.”

  “What?” He looked down, embarrassed with himself. “Yeah, sure.”

  Yvette set her knitting aside and took the offered sketchpad. She was silent for a long time, her fingers tracing the charcoal features of her face on the pad. Delauchen imagined he could hear the skin of her fingertips sighing across the paper.

  A tear fell onto the pad. She sniffed and looked up, her shoulders rising and falling with each tortured breath.

  She sniffed a second time. “I’ve done it again.”

  The realization started to sink in. Delauchen waited for her to stop crying before opening his mouth.

  “We’re not at Kalentine Orchards, are we?” he asked, easing the tear-stained sketch pad out of her hands.

  “Depends on your perspective and philosophy about such things, but physically there right now?” she shook her head, her curls swaying back and forth across her face. “No, Delauchen. We’re not at Kalentine. In fact, we’re not too far away from the Southern Front, in physical terms.”

  “So, you’re the Limb Knitter?” he asked, feeling incredibly stupid. He still didn’t want to buy it. “Two meters tall and smells like a month-old corpse? Forgive me, Yvette, but you don’t look like any Knitter I’ve ever seen. You certainly don’t smell like it.”

  “She,” Yvette corrected, “is not an it and she is sitting here in front of you. What is the last thing you remember?”

  “Thalia and I were talking about...” He shook his head. “She said something about me making the Knitter cry.”

  “Do you remember getting hit?” Yvette asked. “I do because I was there. It was a downward fragmentation air burst. You lost both arms, had shrapnel in most of your body. You also took a pretty good chunk of dirt in the face which busted your retinas. Those are going to be the hardest to fix.”

  “A nightmare,” Delauchen said. “I think it was a nightmare.”

  “About?”

  “Something bit me, wound me up in some sticky goo.” He looked at the spider, now consuming her apple mite on the web. “Spiders. I think it was about spiders.”

  She held up the sweater, exasperated or disappointed, Delauchen wasn’t sure. “Here, may as well try it on now.”

  Delauchen wasn’t quite so sure after the last painful attempt. He looked it over. “Is this going to hurt?”

  “Not if I got the sleeves right,”
Yvette said. “Arms are pretty tricky, especially the hands. Your brain remembers how long they were, even if they aren’t there any more.”

  He took hold of the sheer, warm red sweater, rubbing it between his fingers.

  “What happens if this fits?” he asked.

  This time Yvette looked away.

  “Well?”

  She picked at a bit of cheese, avoiding him. “You’ll go back to the Front.”

  “And what about you?”

  She shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “Do you have someone?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked.

  She never liked being alone, he remembered. “It must be difficult.”

  “It hurts, plain and simple, Delauchen. Try on the sweater, will you.”

  “What if I stay?”

  She looked up, “What about Thalia? You going to abandon her for me, are you?”

  Shit, he thought, angry with himself for forgetting about Thalia. “Is she okay?”

  “Try it on and I’ll tell you.”

  Delauchen took a deep breath, clenched his teeth and pulled the sweater on. His hands eased through the sleeves. He paused to gather his courage at the edge of the cuffs before he shoved his fingers through.

  He stretched and flexed. A perfect fit. Yvette looked satisfied with herself.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Yvette looked off down the road of apple trees. “I saw a Harvester come for her.”

  What the hell am I going to do now? “A Harvester? Why didn’t you save her?”

  “Because you were there, asshole! You were bleeding to death. I had to kick the rats off of you and drag your ass out of one superbitch of an artillery barrage,” Yvette said. “What else was I supposed to do? For some reason I can’t fathom, I still love you.”

  “So, the Brigades Invalid have her,” he said.

  “Did another two years in the trenches make you deaf? Yes, probably. Damn, you are so bloody dense,” she said, exasperated with him. “You never change.”

  “How will I ever get back to her?”

  Yvette grabbed Delauchen, pulled him to her and kissed him hard. He fought it for a moment but she turned out to be surprisingly strong, more so than he remembered. Delauchen found he didn’t really want to pull away in any case.

  When they finally parted, he felt his knees buckle.

  “I’ll finish up now,” she said quietly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You won’t remember a thing.”

  “Yvette, don’t.”

  “It’ll be better this way. You can find someone else,” she said, disappointment etched on her face.

  She’s not my mother, he told himself. She won’t hurt me.

  “Yvette.” Delauchen steadied himself, took a deep breath and met her gaze. Yvette’s wet and heavy eyes grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. He held himself there with the woman who had come back for him. She shook her head and looked away when the moment lasted longer than she had anticipated.

  “I love you,” he said. “Is there a way?”

  The horizon was dark now with the first of three moons climbing into the sky. Her face was carved out of reality with soft blue light. She faced him.

  “Yes, there is.”

  After a moment of pondering, he made up his mind. “Anything. Whatever it takes.”

  Yvette let out her breath and nodded. “All right.”

  Yvette disentangled herself from Delauchen’s egg and laid him down in the warm mud near her chamber. She took her time covering the egg, slathering the mud around the brown, leathery surface before easing him down into the bubbling depths. Once she was done, she stood under a warm stream of mineral water and cleaned the aftermath from her heavily modified form. Only then did she dress and go for something to eat.

  In the next chamber, the buzz saws had come to a stop. Mud and blood splattered, the lone Invalid Harvester rinsed its blades free of chunked flesh and muscle, chipped bone and clotted blood. It was silent except for the sound of running water ringing off the silver blades to dribble on the stone floor. Six black drums, harvest pods, each with the molting snake sigil of the Brigades Invalid, filled the corner of the chamber. Four more drums, those of Invalid Inductees, were already strapped to its back.

  Yvette nodded to the silent cyborg.

  “There should be enough scrap to hold you and your Initiate for the next couple of days,” the Harvester said, its voice a mash of metallic echoes and vibrations. “The current engagement continues unabated, thus, there will be more tomorrow.”

  “And the one I mentioned? Were you able to induct her?”

  The Harvester reached into a drum and pulled an albino-skinned right arm from the collection of limbs and flesh. The trunk, brain, and vitals were in the Inductee drums on its back. New guts for the Brigades Invalid. The Knitter never got those, not that she wanted them.

  “Sometimes it is best to take them with minor wounds, but she did not have any at all,” the Harvester said. It gave the limb to Yvette for her inspection. “No matter. She will be of more use to us.”

  With a snap, a finger came off and Yvette chewed on it thoughtfully.

  “Does this arrangement meet your satisfaction?” the Harvester asked.

  She spat the finger bones out, noting the odd aftertaste that Knitter crafted meat had in contrast to regular human meat. She had long since gotten over her issues with how the Limb Knitters fed themselves.

  “Yes,” Yvette said, satisfied that her lonely days were at an end. “I believe it does.”

  I KNOW AN OLD LADY

  Nathan Rosen

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a fly. Perhaps she thought the compound eyes were desirable. Her true motives can never be known, as the replacement of her mouth with a proboscis rendered her completely incapable of speech. The total extent of the damage done is indeterminable. Her demise may occur soon.

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a spider. She is now capable of casting a fibrous web from her abdomen. She spends most of her time in a corner by the ceiling, waiting for prey. It is, frankly, amazing that she still survives, especially considering the previous damage done by the fly incident. Her demise may occur soon.

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a bird. Two of her limbs have become feathered wings. Despite already being part spider and part fly, she still survives. Such a thing is unheard of in the history of teleportation science. Her demise may occur soon.

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a cat. She now possesses fur and retractable claws. Her ears swivel to pick up even the slightest sound. Nobody can comprehend why she is still alive, yet she survives as a being in roughly equal proportions: cat, bird, spider, fly and human. Her demise will surely occur soon.

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a dog. Her sense of smell must be unparalleled. She appears to be happy, if the wagging of her tail is any indication. Dog, cat, bird, spider and fly. We’re starting to take bets on how far this can go. Her demise will surely occur soon.

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a goat. She has horns now. This is getting ridiculous. Goat, dog, cat, bird, spider, fly! Her demise will surely occur soon.

  I know an old lady who misused a teleportation chamber to merge her genetic structure with that of a horse.

  She’s dead, of course.

  Blakenjel

  Lavie Tidhar

  1. A Stenchtown Tale

  Blakenjel bilong mi is black like unlit coal. His open wings are like smokers’ lungs. His skin is taut and fine like expensive vellum that was blackened in flames. There are many blakenjels, but only one bilong mi. I follow him in the darkness.

  “
Smell this!”

  “Sniff my hair!”

  “Taste my breath; it’s fresh; it’s fresh!”

  “Remember ice cream? Oranges? Soap? Authentically guaranteed, the smell like you remember!”

  But there is not much call for that.

  “Sniff my armpits! Real human sweat!”

  “Toes! Toes! Inhale the smell!”

  And further down the road of Stenchtown, away from the fake smells of oranges and soap, where the great unwashed line the road and put the merchandise on display. At the far end, one white boy almost naked but for a thong. Angelic-looking, almost hairless, fine blond hairs that lie like newborn wheat along the pale contours of his body.

  The sniffer comes close to the boy. He wears a dark coat, too hot for this city, this place. His eyes are hooded. The boy smiles. “Smell my crotch?” he offers. The sniffer looks and doesn’t speak. The boy shifts in place and tries again. “Armpits? Hair?” the usual routine. The sniffer doesn’t speak, and the boy’s smile suddenly grows wider. “Sniff my ass?” he whispers, and there is something unspeakably lewd about the way he stands. “Stick your nose deep inside my asshole, let the nostrils touch the brown ring?”

  The sniffer twitches in place, and the boy smiles like a predator. “I just had a shit half-an-hour ago,” he confides. “Not wiped, either. Soon as I saw you I could tell you were a connoisseur.”

  The sniffer comes closer. His voice is like rusted blades being scraped. “How much?” he says.

  “Thirty.”

  “Ten...”

  “Twenty-five and you can stick your tongue in there, too.”

  “Fifteen—” The sniffer doesn’t quite finish the sentiment. His body twitches and his face, which was sheathed in the darkness of the street, becomes visible. The boy steps back, but there is only the wall behind him. He says, softly, “Shit,” and for once it isn’t sales-talk.

  It’s fear.

  The sniffer smiles. His face is a horrid, writhing mass of unquiet flesh. His eyes are large and round and inhuman, clear and strangely innocent in that ravaged face. He has no nose, but two slits for nostrils gape out of the moving, worm-like scars. “Smell...good...” the sniffer says. His mouth is a jagged line filled with small sharp teeth like a predator-fish.