Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 7, October 2014 by Manfred Gabriel Alvaro Zinos-Amaro Jeff Stehman Matthew Lyons Salena Casha William R.D. Wood Meryl Stenhouse Eric Del Carlo R. Leigh Hennig Page B
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screaming "Gramma!" bursts through the door with the bat raised, and the old woman flops back on the bed, screaming nonsense syllables of feigned anguish. Quinn is already dropping the SCED and moving toward the young man, inside the swing of the bat to minimize any possible damage.
The bat glances off his shoulder, and pain blooms there like a lotus. His hand goes inside his left coat pocket. Comes out holding the knife. A flick of the wrist, and the blade swings out and locks in place. The only thing he can think is danger danger, threat .
Acting on instinct, stress, fear complex, whatever, Quinn crossbars his forearm into the young man's throat and jams the knife through his chest, just underneath the xiphoid process and up into his heart. The young man goes stiff as wood, then stops breathing. Quinn feels a hot wetness on the back of his hand. Pulls the knife out. The boy drops. On instinct, Quinn steps away from the pooling blood on the carpet.
On the bed, swaddled in the covers once more, the old woman is laughing.
"Perfect," she says between chuckles. "Just wonderful. My lord. You're better than my surgical oncologist. Thank you for that. Dreadful boy." She sighs. "Well. That went even better than expected. You are quite good at what you do, Mister X. When they find him, and this former body of mine, they'll have to assume it was the work of some random malefactor. Well done."
He stares at her. She doesn't understand. She doesn't even notice, for a moment. When she does, though: "Are you quite all right?"
"No." He kneels. Picks up the SCED. Tries to wipe the blood off on his coat. Only half-successful. "Didn't need to happen."
"Unfortunately, it did. You see, he paid me a visit yesterday afternoon, my moron grandson. I fell asleep, and the selfish little lout took it upon himself to snoop around, looking for money or some similar such. He happened upon my copies of the extraction agreement. The papers. He knew . He would have told everyone . He asked me about it, naturally. Fortunately, I was able to convince him that my extraction wasn't scheduled for another two weeks. He was never much of a reader. Asked him to stay the night. Promised him I would explain everything in the morning, after a good night's sleep. He believed me, and went to sleep like a good boy. Perfect timing, really. I almost couldn't believe my luck.
"So, no. It couldn't be avoided. I'm sorry for deceiving you, but it was necessary to secure my future. My great escape . You must understand that. Don't you? This was always the plan, to cover my tracks like this, but a botched home invasion, especially one with so much, what's the term? Collateral damage ? It's so much more convincing than Gramma got sliced up alone or, even worse, Gramma got herself downloaded and vanished. Things are so much more permanent this way. We're really quite lucky, when you think of it like that."
He looks at her. "Sure."
She smiles again. Genuinely. Honestly. Like a grandmother would.
"I'm glad to hear it. Well. Shall we get on with our work, then?"
Quinn looks down at the dead boy on the floor. No older than seventeen. Seventeen forever.
Quinn thinks, all he wanted was to protect his gramma . He died thinking that he was doing the right thing by her. A woman who hated him on an existential, genetic level. Quinn doesn't know if the kid was good or bad, or just sort of both like almost everyone else in the world. It doesn't matter now. All those potentials reduced to a zero. All thanks to a piece of sharp metal stuck into his heart. Thanks to him. Thanks to her.
He looks up at her again.
Alma Pearsson, age 91. Great-grandmother. Client number whatever-it-doesn't-matter-anyway.
Terminal.
"Sure," he says. "Turn around." She does. "Pull your hair away from your neck." She does that, too.
He stands at the side of her bed, thumbing the sweet spot where her neck meets her head meets her brain stem. Like a surgeon, or a lover.
"You really should tell me your
The bat glances off his shoulder, and pain blooms there like a lotus. His hand goes inside his left coat pocket. Comes out holding the knife. A flick of the wrist, and the blade swings out and locks in place. The only thing he can think is danger danger, threat .
Acting on instinct, stress, fear complex, whatever, Quinn crossbars his forearm into the young man's throat and jams the knife through his chest, just underneath the xiphoid process and up into his heart. The young man goes stiff as wood, then stops breathing. Quinn feels a hot wetness on the back of his hand. Pulls the knife out. The boy drops. On instinct, Quinn steps away from the pooling blood on the carpet.
On the bed, swaddled in the covers once more, the old woman is laughing.
"Perfect," she says between chuckles. "Just wonderful. My lord. You're better than my surgical oncologist. Thank you for that. Dreadful boy." She sighs. "Well. That went even better than expected. You are quite good at what you do, Mister X. When they find him, and this former body of mine, they'll have to assume it was the work of some random malefactor. Well done."
He stares at her. She doesn't understand. She doesn't even notice, for a moment. When she does, though: "Are you quite all right?"
"No." He kneels. Picks up the SCED. Tries to wipe the blood off on his coat. Only half-successful. "Didn't need to happen."
"Unfortunately, it did. You see, he paid me a visit yesterday afternoon, my moron grandson. I fell asleep, and the selfish little lout took it upon himself to snoop around, looking for money or some similar such. He happened upon my copies of the extraction agreement. The papers. He knew . He would have told everyone . He asked me about it, naturally. Fortunately, I was able to convince him that my extraction wasn't scheduled for another two weeks. He was never much of a reader. Asked him to stay the night. Promised him I would explain everything in the morning, after a good night's sleep. He believed me, and went to sleep like a good boy. Perfect timing, really. I almost couldn't believe my luck.
"So, no. It couldn't be avoided. I'm sorry for deceiving you, but it was necessary to secure my future. My great escape . You must understand that. Don't you? This was always the plan, to cover my tracks like this, but a botched home invasion, especially one with so much, what's the term? Collateral damage ? It's so much more convincing than Gramma got sliced up alone or, even worse, Gramma got herself downloaded and vanished. Things are so much more permanent this way. We're really quite lucky, when you think of it like that."
He looks at her. "Sure."
She smiles again. Genuinely. Honestly. Like a grandmother would.
"I'm glad to hear it. Well. Shall we get on with our work, then?"
Quinn looks down at the dead boy on the floor. No older than seventeen. Seventeen forever.
Quinn thinks, all he wanted was to protect his gramma . He died thinking that he was doing the right thing by her. A woman who hated him on an existential, genetic level. Quinn doesn't know if the kid was good or bad, or just sort of both like almost everyone else in the world. It doesn't matter now. All those potentials reduced to a zero. All thanks to a piece of sharp metal stuck into his heart. Thanks to him. Thanks to her.
He looks up at her again.
Alma Pearsson, age 91. Great-grandmother. Client number whatever-it-doesn't-matter-anyway.
Terminal.
"Sure," he says. "Turn around." She does. "Pull your hair away from your neck." She does that, too.
He stands at the side of her bed, thumbing the sweet spot where her neck meets her head meets her brain stem. Like a surgeon, or a lover.
"You really should tell me your
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