Kzine Issue 4 Page 2

  I’ve had this dream myself, but I called it a nightmare. I shout at Brain-Buddy for showing it to me. I didn’t want to see it and don’t want to talk about it. Brain-Buddy says that the dream was chilling, that talking would help. I say no. Brain-Buddy tries to convince me that talking about it would help me too. I say no.

  Brain-Buddy says I’ll have to face it sometime.

  I say that I won’t.

  Brain-Buddy says that I’ll have to.

  I disagree.

  Me and Brain-Buddy never argue, but we’re arguing now.

  I go through the evening in a mood, doing all I can to ignore Brain-Buddy. Ever tried to ignore someone who’s sharing your head? It’s pretty exhausting. When the eighth hour ends, Brain-Buddy doesn’t say goodnight. Neither do I.

  Brain-Buddy leaves.

  Every evening, as I go to sleep, I get the “lonely fear”. It’s gone in seconds; I go to sleep, the place where dreams keep me company for the long night…

  …but dreams weren’t my friend last night. I blame Brain-Buddy: Brain-Buddy put the nightmare back into my head.

  I say hello, Brain-Buddy does the same. I’m still a little mad with Brain-Buddy, but I need to know that Brain-Buddy’s here.

  Numbers-Tutor starts differentiation. Brain-Buddy claims to have it, says we’ll be fine - the usual reassurance. I hear little else of what Brain-Buddy says and nothing more of what Numbers-Tutor says. All I hear is wind and screams, menacing shrieks and I see sand, unending sand everywhere I look.

  I don’t tell Brain-Buddy, but Brain-Buddy knows and pushes me to talk about it. I say no!

  Hour two is history and I help Brain-Buddy out of a hole or two, but ignore everything else that’s going on. Hour three is art. I miss it all. Brain-Buddy won’t stop asking me to talk about what’s annoying me. It’s Brain-Buddy that’s annoying me now.

  When the day ends, the “lonely-fear” comes. I go to sleep, thankful, for some reason, that Brain-Buddy’ll be back in the morning…

  …but Brain-Buddy isn’t here. I call out for Brain-Buddy, Brain-Buddy doesn’t answer. My head’s that big empty room again. It’s never been this empty; never been empty for this long. Brain-Buddy? Brain-Buddy doesn’t answer.

  Numbers-Tutor asks me a question. I don’t answer. Numbers-Tutor knows we are only half there. Numbers-Tutor sympathizes; tries to console me; attaches me to another paired mind that takes pity on me; asks me about Brain-Buddy. I tell its parts about how great Brain-Buddy is. They say they can’t imagine what I’m feeling. Of course they can’t. How could anyone imagine it?

  The pair are trying, but three’s a crowd. I don’t want to be in their heads and neither of them want to be in mine. I kick up a fuss, call them useless idiots when they’re unable to do simple arithmetical sequences. I scream and I shout. They say I frighten them. Numbers-Tutor pulls me out. I’m on my own again. Numbers-Tutor says that she can’t teach me when I’m in a mood. I’m outcast. I have time to think, and that’s not good.

  I had the nightmare again, last night. It’s a memory, really, but it’s a memory that I’m so scared to remember. I hate when it pushes into my dreams.

  I’m in the middle of a never-ending desert, in the dream. There’s a sandstorm ripping up hell and I haven’t had so much as a a drop of water for over two days - that’s about one billionth of the time that the sandstorm’s been gusting. I haven’t eaten in a week, and I’ve been walking for two.

  There’s five of us in all, all wrapped up in layer upon layer of shredded cloth, masked and hooded to protect ourselves from the sand. Three of us are together, a fourth is behind us, picking at a long-cleaned carcass. Brain-Buddy’s up ahead, looking back to make sure we’re still behind.

  One of the two who are beside me falls. Me and the other pick him up to look for signs of life. He’s dead. We drop him. The sandstorm buries him.

  Brain-Buddy waves us forward. I shout over the noise to the one who’s behind us. He’s gone. I hear a scream, so loud that it thunders above the howling wind.

  My back’s to the wind, I’m unsteady. Something hits me. I fall. Sand starts to cover me. I see the man beside me struck with a pipe. He goes down too. The attacker pulls a serrated piece of metal from under its robes and stabs the man who’s fallen. The man cries out in pain.

  I’m covered in sand. I can’t breath, but I stay where I am - hoping the sand has hidden me. I realize my walking stick is still in my hand. I push up from under the sand and swing it all about me. It hits nothing. I look around. The attacker’s gone.

  I hear another scream. This scream is different, there’s no pain in it. It’s a defiant scream. It’s Brain-Buddy’s defiant scream.

  I push against the sandstorm until I see the attacker’s outline. The attacker is standing over Brain-Buddy, its makeshift knife held at bay by the mid-sole of a boot. Brain-Buddy’s trying to find a weapon, but there’s nothing around.

  I smash my walking stick against the attacker’s back. It drops its knife from the force of the blow. My walking stick has snapped and I’m holding a foot-long remnant with a jagged edge. The attacker’s hood has fallen back and I can see its face. It’s pure white, pockmarked, wrinkled, leathery. The attacker is a Desert Rat - one of those barbaric and savage scavengers who refuse to leave the surface. I know he has attacked for water, food and medical supplies. I have no water, I have no food and I haven’t had medical supplies since leaving the crash-site, two weeks gone.

  It fingers the sand below its feet for its weapon. I know it’ll never find it. I warn it off, shouting as loud as I can. I tell it to leave or I’ll kill it. It seems to consider it for a moment, even starts to turn. Then, it launches itself back toward Brain-Buddy. I can’t let it touch Brain-Buddy, I’d rather it harmed me.

  I tackle the attacker’s legs, get it to the ground. Without thinking, I stab it with what’s left of my walking stick. It squeals and every muscle in its body tightens to snapping point. Its taut fingers find its weapon in the sand and I feel the metal pierce the side of my head. There’s no pain, but everything goes fuzzy and then the dream ends, or sometimes it repeats.

  When the day ends, there’s no single moment of “lonely-fear” because it’s been with me all day.

  I say hello, Brain-Buddy says hello back. Brain-Buddy doesn’t know it, but I smile. Brain-Buddy says sorry, says there was a connection problem. I say that it doesn’t matter, I’m just so happy to feel Brain-Buddy in my head again.

  First hour is numbers and I do very little, I just sit back and enjoy Brain-Buddy working. We’re still shifting between arithmetical sequences and differentiation. I’m still struggling, but it’s such a rush to feel Brain-Buddy work that I enjoy every minute of the hour.

  Second hour and History-Tutor’s in. History-Tutor starts to talk about the Exodus of 2644 - you know, the Non-Equatorial Launches; Bárid Adaham; Expiry of the Last Land Leases, all that stuff. I soak it up. Brain-Buddy’s flustered, but I’m there for Brain-Buddy, just like Brain-Buddy’s always there for me.

  Third hour’s art. We’re not supposed to talk over Art-Tutor, but we do it anyway. I tell Brain-Buddy about the dream; the memory. Brain-Buddy thanks me for talking about it, says it’s good to talk, for both of us.

  I tell Brain-Buddy about killing the Desert Rat, Brain-Buddy already knows - Brain-Buddy was there. I tell Brain-Buddy that I know I did the right thing, the only thing I could have, but that I don’t like the feeling. Brain-Buddy says that I did do the right thing and that’s all that matters. I’m still not so sure.

  Brain-Buddy says there’s more, says I’m missing part of the memory. I say I’m not. Brain-Buddy says I am. I trust Brain-Buddy. There’s something I need to remember.

  It’s a happy day and when it ends, the ‘lonely-fear’ comes. I know Brain-Buddy’ll be there when I wake, so it’s okay.

  I say hello, Brain-Buddy does the same. Brain-Buddy knows I’m excited, but Brain-Buddy doesn’t know why.

  First hour’s numbers and once again we
’re talking over a tutor. I realize now that the tutors don’t mind. They’re there to help me, but Brain-Buddy’s there to help me too and they know that.

  I tell Brain-Buddy that I’ve had the dream again, that it was longer this time. Brain-Buddy asks me to describe it.

  I tell Brain-Buddy that I feel warm, in the dream. I know I’m in someone’s arms and there’s a face looking down at me, smiling. I see cracked lips, heavy-set bags under eyes, skin that’s blistered and stained and hair that’s mostly sand, clumped and disheveled. I see Brain-Buddy smiling down at me, and she’s the most soothing sight I’ve ever seen.

  I see another figure hovering over me: pristine-kept white jumpsuit and face-fitted gold mask. It’s an Orbital Doctor, I’d know one anywhere. It’s a sign that someone’s finally responded to our distress call. I know we’re saved. I know Brain-Buddy’s saved.

  The doctor says that I’m bad, but that I’ll live; says I’ll need a partial brain rebuild. I’ve seen it done before, it’s a long and lonely process if you have to do it on your own. It terrifies me. I find it hard to talk, find it hard to form the words I want to say. I manage a simple, jumbled phrase. I say, “Lonely-fear.”

  Brain-Buddy flashes that intoxicating smile at me again, prominent front teeth flanked by oversized incisors, all below warm green eyes that are surprisingly full of life, given the sure exhaustion of their owner. Brain-Buddy says that I won’t be lonely, says she’ll connect every day; stay with me in the active hours. The dream ends.

  So many words are coming back, so many previously-alien phrases suddenly make sense and there’s so many things I want to say and so many ways I want to say them. I’m in danger of stumbling over my own eagerness, of interspersing frivolous words between sincere sentiments. It takes every modicum of self-control within me to keep it simple and to the point. I thank Brain-Buddy.

  I envisage her frowning as she insists that I never have to thank her. She always frowns when she’s being humble.

  I thank her again, but I’m forced to apologize too. There’s one paramount word that hasn’t retreaded its way through my brain yet: her name. I ask her what it is.

  She accuses me of always trying to cheat, insists that I’ll have to remember it on my own; assures me that I will, eventually, because she’ll be there to encourage me along. I trust Brain-Buddy; I know I’ll remember her name soon.

  SHEEP

  by Steve Jordan

  As the path took her higher and deeper into the darkness, she noticed an almost magical blue light emanating from above her. Holly remembered from a class project at school that the radiation from the miners’ digging machines left a colour and light in the air, painting the cliff passageways a brilliant sapphire. Holly was grateful for the light. The path was uneven and the walls were spiked, but the tunnels were made for those bigger than Holly, and she kept her small frame centred away from everything solid and dangerous as she moved.

  Soon, the narrow gap in the rock opened up to reveal the moonlight as she emerged into a fantastic place. A flat road circled a hulking industrial mining car, with a drill the size of her house pointing toward Titan’s rocky surface. Pistons and panelled metal shone in the blue haze, forming a complex latticework of machinery that powered the cone-shaped drill. A series of workhouses and shacks stood empty; the miners would have once lived and built their energy reactors there decades ago. The entire space was a shanty town, now lifeless and solitary in the dark. It was the galaxy’s greatest open air museum, and Holly intended to return once today’s work was done.

  The road curved right, then left, and then up the mountain further to a strip of wood that bridged two shallow peaks in the rock. The boys walked along the road in single file, eyes down. They were far enough away only to be specks, but their voices were loutishly loud and booming.

  ‘Shut up,’ Holly spat under her breath and followed them, keeping an eye on their direction. She kept herself out of sight, ninja-like, behind the rocks and water pipes.

  Holly lifted the latch of her parents’ living room window and pushed it up as far as her arms would allow. She placed her Important Discoveries slowly through the gap, taking them one by one from her wheelbarrow, before pulling herself through after them. Inside, she carefully placed her feet on the drinking cabinet, taking care to not knock over the bottled brown stuff that teetered on a stack of old papers. Turning, she leapt down to the carpet with a thud and started picking up her Important Discoveries. She could barely carry them all with two hands, but managed to fasten them between her jumper-clad belly, gloved hands and dimpled chin. After two careful steps toward the door, her balance faltered and the pith helmet on top of her head slipped in front of her eyes. She was blind in enemy territory.

  She stood still, unable to move until someone tilted the hat back further on her head. She saw the butler’s face wincing at her.

  ‘Why can’t you come through the door like a normal child?’ he said, his artificial skin creasing with concern around his red eyes.

  Holly shrugged, walked around him and went half-way up the stairs before briefly turning back to the robot.

  ‘Doors are lame,’ she said, and went upstairs to her room. Thankfully, the door was already open.

  ‘Don’t go out again Miss Holly. Not this late in the afternoon,’ she heard him say through the door, the same words he said every day. ‘Your father left specific instructions. Your Mother won’t be back until the night.’

  ‘My parents are dead, you idiot,’ she called back.

  There was a slight crack of disturbed stone overhead, and she sharply turned to squint in the direction of the noise. She inhaled sharply; the action sent a wave of pain rippling from her bruised eye-socket. A pebble and some fine dust rained from above, but she saw nothing else. She shook her throbbing head with an irritated tut. She couldn’t let a feeble susceptibility to pain distract her from the chase.

  Holly scavenged when she was bored. She was always bored.

  She sat cross-legged next to her bed and laid out her latest Important Discoveries. She readied her journal, wrote the day’s date at the top, and inspected the items one by one. She needed to keep a record.

  Doll’s head, missing ear. Half a cracked compact disc, colour blue. A piece of weird metal-y stuff, colour green. A corkscrew. One bone, animal unknown.

  ‘Not bad, Genghis 2.’

  A surprised-looking Genghis 2 blinked from inside his glass bowl, and swam around the tin-can. The single blink meant ‘affirmative’.

  Holly placed each of the items one by one in the metal army-surplus box she stored underneath her wooden work desk. It was the only part of the room she had under control. Her bed, her wardrobe and her clothes, even most of Genghis 2’s bowl, were indistinguishable from each other – they were all covered in smiley face stickers she had liberated from Mrs Tetley’s desk drawer. Holly decided that there were more important things than spelling, so awarded herself the trophies. Holly had lived in this bedroom her entire life, but still felt like she didn’t quite fit, like she was just keeping the room warm for its real owner. The stickers helped though.

  Genghis 2 watched as Holly opened the box. A self-gratified grin was planted on her face as she took off her pith helmet and observed her previous Important Discoveries - a copy of Alien that she was still several years too young to actually watch (she had seen it twice through next door’s window though), an eggcup, a ball of red string, a hole-punching device, four newspapers, and a silicone computer chip that Holly assumed was the key to some kind of thermo-nuclear device. These things were place-holders. She had to keep searching. She placed the doll’s head and the weird metal in the box.

  ‘Share the wealth.’

  She took the bone and put it in Genghis 2’s bowl and then took another look at the disc. All of a sudden she started seeing it in a new light.

  ‘Hmm.’

  She took the hole-punching device, placed the half-disc into it, so the sharpest half sat between its two clamps. She pressed th
e clamps together. Nothing happened. She placed it on the floor, jumped and pressed the clamps together with her boots. The CRACK was incredibly satisfying. She rubbed her hands together in anticipation, took the half of disc from the clamps and looked on with pride. A perfect hole had been made in the plastic next to her grinning reflection. She picked up the red string, and threaded it through the hole.

  A noise made her freeze.

  It came from outside, the same bark as before. She was almost sure this time; it was a clean, loud dog shout that made Holly smile. She climbed on top of her desk and looked hopefully out of the window. The street was normal - the mountains stayed in place behind the post office, the postman’s bike was on its side in the dark street below. The postman came into view from the other side of the street, straightened it with a quizzical frown and cycled off, then all was still again. Holly was sure she had heard her, or something very similar. Maybe her mind was playing tricks.

  Holly watched the stillness a little while longer, hoping for it to break. Then it did. The boys ran past her window, playing some stupid game no doubt. Darren was notable by his absence.

  ‘Stupid sheep,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a walk Genghis 2. I’ll be back before lights out. If Genghis 1 comes back, tell her she’s a good dog, but a… a… a bitch for making me worry!’

  She shook her head with a frown, put on her pith helmet, and climbed out the window.

  Stomping happily, she made her way through the village. The street lamps shone pale yellow, illuminating the stone roads and brick houses, and shining wickedly off of her new disc necklace. She kept a hand on it, angling it to catch the lamplight to reflect a beam of yellow through people’s windows. It told them – Holly’s around, stay out of the way!

  ‘Hol! Hol!’

  Darren, a boy a year younger than Holly and about half as smart, ran to her. His face was red and sweat was dripping from his nose. He was wearing his customary uniform of red and white chequered shirt and blue, mud-stained jeans. It made him look like a 1950s cowboy doll.