Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 109 Page 2

  The shop tilts. A scent like violets and seaweed, like gunpowder, fills the air. There is no weight to Xal’s touch, yet pressure builds in Ro’s bones. A sense of fullness pushing outward, but without pain.

  Xal flickers, slow, slow, fast, slow, unfolding, folding, turning. There and not there. Ro feels it too, absent and present, within the shop and elsewhere. An elsewhere that cannot be described.

  Part of Ro reaches for something to anchor to in the here and now—long division, the names of past presidents, a list of capital cities. The larger part spins outward, spiraling from a weightless center, out through rings of stars, arms flung wide against the dark. Fragments of unknown worlds tumble past. Everything is vast and Ro is small and for a moment the sense of it is crushing.

  “No.” Ro jerks back, the word slipping out.

  ::Tone—Query/Concern: Ro. Are you hurt.::

  Xal’s shop snaps back into focus. Ro crashes back into a body too small to hold the sense of stars, and their loss is just as terrible as their presence.

  “I’m . . . ” A ragged breath. Ro places a hand over the skin Xal touched; it is solid, real. Colors ripple across Xal, the salt-scent in the room intensifying.

  ::Tone—Shame/Sincerity: Apologies. I did not mean to cause pain.::

  “No. You didn’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . ”

  Under the salt-scent, the smell of violets and gunpowder. Ro’s flesh prickles, as though swept by a cool breeze; the hairs rise. A sense of pressure, reaching, but never quite arriving, haunts the space between Ro’s bones. It isn’t desire—that’s too simple a word, too human. But there is wanting, need unfulfilled.

  “I want to try again. Please.”

  ::Tone—Statement/Confusion: You were hurt.::

  “No. It didn’t hurt. I was just scared. But I want to try again.” Ro’s pulse thumps, arms trembling as they are pressed against the counter once more. “Please?”

  Color and movement speaks doubt as it rolls across Xal’s flesh—storm clouds, and the scent of oncoming rain. Dust—Ro can almost taste it. The same doubt fills Ro, but it can’t end here. Ro reaches after something to keep the moment from slipping away, and lands on Xal’s curiosity.

  “What did you feel?”

  ::Tone—Statement/Uncertainty: Sunlight. A plank of wood. Many planks of wood. Water. Sunlight on water. The sensation of limbs in water. Smoke and charcoal.::

  Hesitation between Xal’s words, searching for concepts to capture such simple, human things. The memory comes rushing back to Ro, sitting on a dock at the lake, toes trailing in the water, a grown up grilling hot dogs in the background and the air filling with shrieks as other children dove and splashed in the water. A slice of childhood, pulled through Ro’s skin and transferred into Xal’s mind through touch.

  “You saw my memories?”

  More hesitation, then, ::Tone—Agreement/Affirmative: Yes.::

  The information makes Ro’s head swim. Could it work both ways? An alien childhood, if there is even such a thing, slipping into Ro’s skin. There’s so much Ro doesn’t know about Xal, about the Immies in general. The need to know is overwhelming.

  Ro looks to where Xal’s eyes would be on a human, trying to communicate need. The absence of Xal’s touch is a pressure as great as the touch itself. It’s only a matter of quality, of flavor—not better, or worse, just different.

  Xal reaches out again. A sigh, a musical tone so unlike the sound of pain from the night before traces the length of Ro’s spine, the curve of Ro’s jaw. Touch.

  A needle, a thread draws through Ro’s skin, stitching it with the light of the universe. The taste of bitter greens, the feel of velvet, the scent of wood smoke. Ro’s mind substituting human concepts for unimaginable things. Nebulae bloom against Ro’s closed eyes.

  “Oh.” The word escapes in a breath. Language and thought failing. Space simultaneously narrows to the point of contact between them, and expands beyond calculation.

  “Oh.” There are no other words. “Oh.”

  Again and again as the world spins away from them and Ro flies and falls.

  “Hey.”

  Ro turns toward Audra’s voice, still holding the coffee pot. The scent of it, just on the edge of burnt, fills the small courier office above the shed where their bikes are racked.

  “Careful. You’re going to spill.” Audra points, and Ro starts, realizing the coffee is perilously close to the edge of the mug.

  Even before the first sip, Ro is shaky, nerves taut and singing.

  “Sorry.” Ro replaces the coffee pot, sips scalding heat.

  “Are you okay?” Audra frowns. “You look exhausted.”

  Ro doesn’t remember returning to the apartment last night, only waking in a tangle of sheets this morning, eyelids sticky, limbs heavy. The world keeps wanting to slide away; the edges of Ro’s vision glimmer with light, like a migraine coming on, only without pain.

  “Any new jobs come in since yesterday?” Ro asks instead of answering Audra’s question.

  Even seen peripherally, Audra’s concern is clear. There are no mirrors in Ro’s apartment, but Ro imagines the shadow-bruises of sleeplessness, improperly combed hair.

  “A few.” Audra hands over the clipboard before pouring her own mug of coffee. Her knuckles are white, gripping the handle. It is a gesture of restraint; Ro has seen it before. If Audra doesn’t anchor herself to her mug, she will reach out a comforting hand to touch Ro’s arm.

  Evasion tastes as sour as a lie. Audra only wants to help, but what can Ro say? Audra might understand, but she might as easily be hurt. She might think Ro is sick, wrong for wanting this inexplicable thing, and that would be unbearable. It’s not that kind of desire, but it’s too hard to explain. There are no words for what it is, at least none that Ro knows.

  “Mind if I take the Thayer Street drop?” Ro’s voice cracks.

  The sound is covered with more sips of coffee—too quick. The heat doesn’t help the flush coming to Ro’s cheeks. The truth must be written everywhere on Ro’s skin, the evidence of Xal wrapped around and through, highlighting the translucence of bones, hollowed like glass.

  Ro is clattering down the stairs to the bike shed almost before realizing it.

  “Ro!” Audra follows, and Ro isn’t quick enough—fingers shaking and clumsy—to strap the package to the back of the bike and leave before Audra blocks the door.

  “What happened?”

  Ro doesn’t answer. Can’t. Tears sting, hot and bright, but don’t fall.

  “Ro.” Audra’s voice is soft. She weaves between the bikes, comes within a few inches of Ro, and reaches out. But at the sharp intake of breath, she stops, her fingers falling short of brushing Ro’s wrist.

  “Sorry. I forgot.” Audra looks down, then back again. The hope in her eyes is crushing.

  Ro shifts, putting the bike between them, and feels guilty doing so.

  “I went back to see Xal.” Ro swallows, gripping the bike.

  Audra’s eyes widen, drawing light from the gaps where the door of the shed doesn’t quite fit. All the darkness in them reminds Ro of falling through the stars. There is a sound that isn’t quite a sob, and it takes Ro a moment to realize its source.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Ro gives a shake of the head, slight, but easier than words.

  “What happened?”

  Ro’s lips press tight, fighting the sense of being overwhelmed without understanding its source. The loneliness of being trapped in a single body with its weight of flesh—Ro has always known it, but until feeling the alternative offered by Xal, it was bearable. Now the world is open, a wound no amount of thread can stitch closed.

  Audra’s fingers circle Ro’s wrist, insistent this time. Ro’s mouth flies open, but Audra’s grip tightens.

  “Please. I want to understand.”

  The need to touch is written clearly in Audra’s eyes, as clear as Ro’s desire to pull away. Ro lets out a shuddering breath, doesn’t move. Pulse beats between t
hem, in Audra’s fingertips, in Ro’s wrist. Maybe this is a language Audra can read; maybe Ro doesn’t need to say anything at all.

  Audra exhales, letting go, and Ro’s pulse falls back into a regular rhythm. How can Xal’s touch soothe, being so alien, while Audra’s induces only panic? Most of the world would consider it wrong, broken. But Ro knows it isn’t. There is no weight to Xal’s touch, no expectation.

  “I’m sorry,” Ro says, and at the same time, Audra says, “I’m sorry.”

  Breath and silence fills the shed. They look at each other across the bike between them. The light coming through the gap around the door shifts, leaving Audra’s face in shadow, stealing the illusion of stars from her eyes, but catching sylph-like in her dark curls.

  Ro’s chest tightens. There are no words that won’t make things worse. It’s not you, it’s me, will only give Audra the impression Ro thinks the opposite.

  If human touch could communicate the way Xal’s does, Ro would understand. And maybe, for Audra, it does. Maybe Audra experiences the world through the tips of her fingers, gives away pieces of herself with each touch, but gains just as much in return, never diminishing.

  But Ro cannot say this, cannot ask without fear of giving Audra hope. It’s not that Audra has ever pressured Ro, or implied that maybe if Ro just tried it, met the right person, then things would be different. It’s that sometimes, Ro catches Audra looking and thinks there is a glimmer, faint, but wistful—wishing things were different between them—and it makes Ro’s heart ache.

  “Tell me,” Audra says, taking a step back, putting more space between them. She crosses her arms, holding herself in, holding back.

  Audra isn’t pulling back, running away, and relief surges through Ro. Whatever else they may be, at the core, they are still friends. The realization that Audra won’t leave, won’t shun, no matter what, brings a surge of emotion. It’s almost like love, vast and complicated, but even the thought of the word comes thick with ghosts—meanings and expectations layered upon it by all the lips that have spoken it before. Ro pushes it away and, halting, tries to explain. Audra listens, never interrupting.

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Ro asks, needing to hear the words aloud, needing to taste them in order to let them go.

  “No.” Audra’s tone is firm, but she looks lost as well. Scared. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay? Promise me you’ll be careful?”

  Audra hugs herself tighter. Ro nods, pressing lips together, tasting salt even without tears. The promise means nothing; they both understand. This is unknown territory, and there is no way to travel it without gathering bone-deep scars.

  Sirens shatter Ro’s sleep. Pulse jack-rabbiting, pushing away sweat-tangled sheets and the remnants of a dream, Ro stumbles to the window. The sound is tied to the dream—one of being very far away, but very close, stretched thin, no blood or bone, no muscle, only skin and nerves pulled taut like a sheet over the world.

  On the street below, red and blue lights spin in time with Ro’s pulse. A sudden spike of pain. Ro clasps the wound, but there’s nothing there.

  Xal.

  Pain arcs again, bringing flashes of violence, memories not Ro’s own.

  Xal.

  Jacket and pants pulled over rumpled pajamas. Feet shoved into unlaced boots. Clattering down three flights of stairs. Ro’s courier bike leans outside the apartment’s outer door. Grabbing it, Ro is gone. Falling. Flying. Pedaling madly into the night, toward the flashing lights.

  The whole city is wet, smearing in Ro’s peripheral vision. Two cop cars park askew across the main entrance to the Zone. Ro stops the bike, lets it fall. A knot of people huddle, pointing. The cops struggle with a man whose hands are secured with a plastic zip tie. He thrashes, resisting as they push him toward the nearest car.

  “Fucking Immie got what it deserved, slurping and lurking around our streets. They need to fucking stay where they’re told or go the fuck home.”

  Light skips off shards of broken glass, blood red and deep blue. The man throws his head back; the cop’s nose makes a sickening crunch as bone connects with bone. Swearing, the cop lets go, but her partner is quick, sweeping the man’s legs and dropping him. The second cop gets a knee in the man’s back, holding him down against the tongue of uneven pavement extending from the mouth of the Zone. The man continues swearing, lips spit-flecked.

  “Fucking Immie. I hope it’s dead.”

  Ro breaks into a run, ignoring a muffled shout from the cop with the broken nose. The door to Xal’s shop hangs open. Ro nearly slips in slickness trailing across the floor. Xal never made it to the safety behind the counter, and instead lies knotted in front of it, limbs drawn together in the universal language of pain.

  There is no hesitation. Ro kneels, folding around and over Xal. Shockwaves of pain radiate outward, but Ro doesn’t let go. Stars spin, razor bright. The smell of matches, freshly-struck; a taste like a battery held on the tongue; the persistent thrum of rain.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Ro repeats the words, trying to stay conscious, trying to soothe. Xal’s pain is overwhelming, an assault of sensation. Lighthouse flash. The taste of apples. Green-wet stone. Stairs spiraling down.

  Desperate, Ro tries to pour sensation back into Xal—more childhood memories—introduce a new thread into the loop of feedback flowing between them. But the images keep coming, pounding Ro like fists, like stones. It’s impossible to concentrate. The rasp of wool, black crayons melting in the sun, the taste of cherries. The touch-taste-smell correlation stutters. Xal’s control slips, no longer translating sensations into human terms.

  Ro screams. A note, sheer sound, shearing bone from bone, sloughing flesh. Ro’s mind reels, trying to process what there are no words for.

  A body—Ro’s, Xal’s, both, shudders. Collapses inward. Spins outward. The rush of wind, hot and dry and wet all at once. The crushing cold between stars. Stretching impossibly thin-fast-long across a cord of silver and all of it is everything all at once. Then, nothing.

  Scraps torn from a quilt, broken fragments of a mirror, numb fingers trying to piece them back together and failing. Surfacing. Ro approaches a reflection etched on the underside of waves, surrounded by a distorted view of sky and trees and sunlight on the other side. Lips almost touch lips—reality kissing reflection—then Ro sinks again. A stream of bubbles, like pearls, like laughter, trail behind.

  Hands. A voice. Audra’s?

  Wheels hum fast through sterile corridors; too-bright lights overhead. Sharp-jabbed needles. Medicine smell. The steady pulse of machines. Then nothing again.

  Ro comes back from very far away. The simple task of cracking open an eyelid is monumental. Dry lips part.

  “Water?”

  A straw touches swollen and bruised lips. Ro sucks greedily until the straw is withdrawn.

  “Not too much too fast. The doctors said.”

  Ro turns, head even heavier than eyelids. Audra perches in a chair next to the bed, holding the water glass awkwardly in her lap. She looks as though she’s about to cry, or has just stopped.

  “I should call the nurse.”

  “Wait.” Ro tries to remember—in the haze of moments between then and now, was Audra’s name spoken in answer to the nurses asking if there was someone they should call?

  “What happened?” Ro tastes blood from cracked lips.

  Audra holds the water out again, automatic.

  “The police found you and Xal curled together on the floor. It looked like you’d been beaten to a bloody pulp. They thought you were dead.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Were you attacked?”

  “No. Xal was hurt. I . . . ”

  There is no word for it, but Ro feels one trying to take shape on a tongue not meant for such sounds.

  “You have to stop this. Promise me you’ll stay away from Xal.”

  “I can’t.” It isn’t what Ro means to say, not meaning to say anything at all. />
  For a moment, Ro is afraid Audra will storm out, but she only crosses her arms tight around her body.

  “Ro, what are you doing?”

  “I don’t know.” Ro’s voice cracks. “I really don’t.”

  Ro lies back on the pillow, closing eyes before they snap open again.

  “Is Xal okay?” It hurts, but Ro turns toward Audra.

  “Xal is fine, as far as I know.” Audra stiffens, her tone brittle and sharp.

  Hurt shines in her eyes. Her mouth opens, but she closes it again, standing.

  “I’ll go get a nurse.”

  Audra’s shoes click and silence falls in their wake. Weary and bruised in ways that have nothing to do with skin, Ro curls into a ball, trying to recreate a knot of limbs so woven over and under and through each other they become one.

  Ro toys with the hospital bracelet. It’s been three days, and Ro’s wounds have vanished as though they never existed. Still, Audra insisted on riding in the cab back to the apartment, and now perches on the arm of Ro’s battered couch, watchful.

  “What exactly did Lena say?” Ro paces to the window.

  “She just suggested you might want to take some time off, for your health.”

  “And she couldn’t be bothered to tell me in person?”

  Ro glances back as Audra shrugs, looking uncomfortable.

  “I’m sure she’s just worried. We all are.”

  The slope of Audra’s shoulders and the way she studies her feet keeps Ro silent. Don’t shoot the messenger.

  “I’m not fired?”

  Audra shrugs again. Of course word has spread. Ro declined the opportunity to talk to reporters doing follow-up stories on the attack, but it doesn’t matter. The stories are still out there, painting Ro as a misguided loner, the victim of an alien attack, a pervert. Maybe Lena is right to be wary, the other couriers right to withdraw. All except Audra.

  “Come with me,” Ro says.

  Audra looks up, alarmed. “What?”

  “Come with me to see Xal.”