Grimdark Magazine Issue #4 ePub Read online

  'So beautiful, so delicate, so fragile,' is forever his panting refrain.

  I lie, naked, the glass slippers upon my feet, and he kisses my lips and devours my soul.

  'I love you,' he says, and the words stretch and become bars for the walls of my cage. 'I love you. You are beautiful. I love you. You are mine.'

  I understand love now. Love is possession. I want to be free.

  12.

  It is summer and the heat of the fire joins the heat of the air. I dress in my finest ball gown, and pile curls high upon my head. I polish my slippers until the glass shines like the purest mountain stream. I open the window to let in the night.

  I watch from a distance as I kneel upon the hearth. The smoke stings my eyes, and I blink away unwanted tears. The coals are marbled with amber light. I breathe and I breathe and I allow myself to fall.

  The pain is unbearable. My skin melts and embers singe the curls of my perfect hair. Hot ash burns the swell of my perfect lips and my perfect nose becomes molten flesh between the curves of my perfect cheeks. I am screaming but I am laughing. No one comes.

  The air is sweet with the scent of human meat.

  13.

  My husband does not look at me as he presses the gold into my scarred and knotted hands. I smile as best my mouth can manage and hide my fortune deep within the charred layers of my skirts. He does not speak of love.

  I peel back the bars of my prison and the air is sweet as it kisses the charred ruins of my face. The castle gates close behind me. The sky is blue and bright.

  I bend and tug the glass slippers from my feet. The path is warm and solid beneath my toes. I turn to face the castle one final time. The shoes reflect the sunlight as they spin through the air and shatter into a thousand splinters against the stone of the castle walls.

  The path stretches into the distance. Barefoot, I begin to walk.

  14.

  Once upon a time.[GdM]

  Tara Calaby is a British-Australian writer and editor, currently living in Melbourne, Australia. She holds a Master of Arts in ancient history and is studying towards a Master of Letters in creative writing. Her writing has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Aurealis and Suddenly Lost in Words, and she is an Assistant Editor for Luna Station Quarterly. When not writing or editing, she can be found researching her family tree or attempting to learn Welsh.

  Her website can be found at http://www.taracalaby.com

  Redemption Waits

  Mike Brooks

  'What the shit is that?'

  It was a fair enough question, Ichabod Drift reflected. The galaxy was full of wondrous things, and some of them really were quite odd-looking. Such was the case with the edifice hoving into view through the viewshield of the Keiko, the somewhat battered Kenya-class freighter of which he was captain and proprietor.

  'What does it look like?' he asked. Amir McGillicutty screwed up his face, as though considering the question caused him physical pain.

  'Looks a bit like some bastard built a giant flying church.'

  'Some bastard did,' Drift confirmed, 'but in space, bad things can happen to good people. Or bad people. Just to people in general, I guess.'

  'Basically, it's not a church anymore,' Tamara Rourke said. Short where Drift was tall, curt where he was loquacious and with her black hair cropped close to the skull while his hung in violet-dyed lengths to his shoulders, Drift's business partner didn't like anyone wasting words. She looked up from the terminal screen she was studying on the other side of the cockpit. 'We've got clearance for Bay 23, Jia.'

  'Gotcha,' their pilot acknowledged, adjusting the thruster settings.

  'So if it's not a church now, what is it?' Amir persisted. He was younger than anyone else on the crew except Jia, and despite Amir’s collection of useful skills, Drift was already starting to find him slightly wearing.

  'Best to let them explain,' Drift said, tapping a flashing icon. The holodesk sputtered into life and two white male figures appeared on the dash, about one-eighth of real size, in the pre-recorded welcome message which had been hailing them. One was tall and stocky, with long dark hair tied back, a beard extending an inch beyond his face, and antiquated clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place on Old Earth, including a ridiculous tall hat with a brim. The other was shorter, slighter, and clad in a bodysuit of some modern poly-u fabric, with one side of his head shaved, the hair on the other side left combed over, and a mechanical eye not dissimilar to the one that occupied Drift's right socket.

  'Greetings, and welcome to the House of the Redeemer,' they chorused in unison.

  'I'm Captain John,' the taller one continued.

  'And I'm Captain Jack,' his smaller companion added. 'At a mighty three miles long, this is the largest pleasurehouse in the galaxy...'

  '...and since it is conveniently positioned in international space, it's not subject to any laws except our own. And we have just one law: Have Fun.'

  'Remember,' Captain Jack concluded, giving a thumbs-up, 'you can't be redeemed unless you've sinned!'

  The transmission winked out, leaving Amir frowning at the holodesk. 'Is this for real?'

  'You bet your life,' Drift told him. 'Which you can, in there, although I wouldn't recommend it.' He activated his comm. ‘A, you ready to roll?’

  Yes bro, I’ll be right up.+

  ‘Roger that.’ Drift stood, shifting his shoulders in an attempt to loosen them a little, while the crenelated majesty of the former house of worship passed lazily beneath the Keiko. He looked at Amir again. ’You know what your job is?'

  'Yeah, yeah,' Amir muttered. 'I walk in with you, I keep an eye out for anyone sneaking up or scoping us while you're talking to the mark.'

  'Don't take it lightly,' Rourke said. 'A void station like this is effectively lawless. If you want to walk out, you'll keep your wits about you.'

  'Feel free not to walk out,' Jia added from the pilot's chair, without looking around. Drift frowned at Amir in silent warning not to rise to the bait. Jia normally only verbally sparred with her brother Kuai, their mechanic, but she and Amir had apparently gotten off on the wrong foot.

  If it came down to it, Drift knew which one he'd be booting. Amir was useful, but Jia was gifted. Egotistical and almost completely uncontrollable, perhaps, but certainly gifted.

  He hustled the kid out of the cockpit and into the boarding hall with no further exchanges of venom. Jia expertly brought them alongside one of the long docking tubes and Drift used the slight delay to give final instructions to his crew.

  'The contact's supposed to be on the third gambling floor, standing at Roulette Table 5,' he reminded them, checking his hip holsters. 'We won't have long to get this done before that Brazilian cabron turns up for what he thinks is his job, so we'll have to move fast and slick. I make the approach, Amir watches our back. Big A lurks, and makes an entrance if needed.'

  Apirana Wahawaha, the crew's enormous Maori bruiser, nodded his heavily-tattooed head. 'You got it, bro.'

  'Tamara is backup in case something unexpected happens,' Drift finished. 'If it all goes south, disperse and meet back here. Clear?'

  There were assorted nods and mutters of assent.

  'Very well then,' Drift beamed, popping the airlock behind him open to the pressurised tunnel beyond. 'Let's do something illegal.'

  * * *

  The docking tunnels always led to areas of the House that catered to fairly tame pursuits, so as not to scare away first-time punters. Drift and Amir walked through brightly-lit malls and passed eateries, bars dispensing alcohol and soft narcotics, and flashing lights advertising rooms of coin-operated gambling machines. Soon enough they reached a bank of elevators, the doors of which hissed softly as human traffic passed in and out.

  'What does that mean?' Amir asked, gesturing at a large sign on the wall. An arrow pointed upwards with the word “CHANCE” next to it in a variety of languages. Below it an arrow pointed downwards next to variations on
the word “CERTAINTY”.

  'Directions,' Drift told him, heading for one of the cars, which had just arrived. 'Upwards is gambling. Downwards is... well, see for yourself.'

  The doors slid aside and a small group of people staggered out. They were in various stages of undress, and the one in the lead – a pale-skinned, thickly-bearded man with a turban – was bleeding from several neat lines on his bare torso.

  ‘Oh,’ Amir said weakly.

  'Pleasures for the body and the mind,' Drift said, slipping into the empty car with Amir on his heels. 'Word of advice, though: don't go too far down. Some people don't come out again.'

  'You don't say,' Amir replied, eyes still fixed on the unsteady revellers until the doors closed and obscured them from view.

  'And if you go right to the top, you can end up betting on what happens right at the bottom,' Drift added, shunting an unpleasant memory aside. He'd never gone back to that particular contact a second time, and not because they'd paid badly. He wasn't too proud to admit that some things turned his stomach. 'They've got cameras. We're only going a little way up though. Good, honest games of chance.'

  The third gaming floor had a more subdued lighting scheme than the malls they'd passed through below, and a colour scheme of rich burgundy (including velveted walls, which had always struck Drift as an old choice of décor). He led Amir in a casual wander between the tables, trying to look as though he was searching for his game of choice. In fact he was scanning the roulette tables, looking for the mark.

  There – blonde tresses done up in an intricate style and held in place with a pair of black hairsticks. Drift closed his natural left eye for a second so as not to get the unpleasant blurring sensation that reminded him of the wrong end of being drunk, and kicked up the zoom on his right. The girl expanded in his vision: late twenties perhaps, barring surgical or chemical age treatments, in a tight black dress and bicep-length matching gloves. Just as their information had said.

  'You got her?' Amir muttered from beside him.

  'Si.' Drift pulled the zoom back to a natural level and began walking again, lifting a glass from a robotic dumbwaiter's tray as he did so. 'Any eyes on us?'

  'None I can see.'

  'Keep watching. You see A?'

  'Hard not to spot him,' Amir snorted. 'He's circling round to our right, about thirty yards away. Isn't he kind of conspicuous?'

  'Sure,' Drift admitted, 'but that only matters if anyone who happens to be watching us thinks he's with us. Which they shouldn't, given we entered separately.'

  They were approaching the roulette table. Now Drift was closer he could tell she wasn't there for the gambling: she wasn't paying close attention to the table or the wheel, or even chatting with the other players. Instead, she was sipping her drink in the too-small doses of someone who wanted to fit in but didn't want to get drunk, and was trying to look all ways at once. She saw them approach, of course, but didn't look twice until they were on top of her. Drift was almost hurt: he felt he normally warranted a second look.

  'Olá, senhorita,' he greeted her amiably in Portuguese. 'Amanda, I believe?' Her dress wasn't actually black, as he'd thought from a distance. Instead it had a faint, rainbow-touched sheen to it which was probably supposed to be captivating but actually reminded him of an oil spill. She wore no jewellery except a pair of square, overlarge silver-edged sapphire studs on her ears. All in all, she didn't look as much like the image of a sophisticated, high-class gambler as she probably hoped.

  Unsurprising, given that so far as he was aware she worked in a weapons lab.

  She turned completely away from the table to face him. Appearance aside, her blank expression would have done a professional poker player proud. 'Do I know you, sir?'

  Her accent was precise, cut-glass British, and another act so far as Drift could tell. 'Just looking to conduct a little business, ma'am.'

  Her eyes narrowed and she began to turn away from him. 'You're on the wrong floor. The prostitutes are further down.’

  Damn. He caught her arm, but she squirmed free and backed off a couple of feet, glaring daggers at him. One or two other players glanced up at them, but only for a second: other people's squabbles weren't any of their concerns.

  'You're drawing attention to us,' Drift murmured, trying not to look around. That was Amir's job, he just needed to stay focused. 'My name is Ricardo Moutinho-'

  'No it's not,' she replied, her eyes furious. 'I've seen a picture, and you're not who I'm supposed to meet.'

  Double damn. 'My money's just as good,' he said, essaying a winning smile, but he hadn't counted on her nerves. This wasn't an experienced go-between, this was a nervous lab tech out of her depth and too scared to see the advantages of compromise.

  'I'm not alone here.'

  He snorted. ’Bullshit.' Her eyes widened slightly, and he knew he'd guessed correctly. He took a step closer, trying to exude an air of confidentiality and common purpose instead of intimidation, despite his height. 'You can't risk anyone else knowing about this deal, so you have no backup. Please, this will work out better for us both if you-'

  'Keep away,' she snapped. 'You'd better know, I can handle a man twice my size if I need to.'

  Drift sighed. Sometimes you just had to play hardball. 'It's not your lucky day then, because I brought one three times your size.'

  'Kia ora,' Apirana rumbled from behind her. At closer to seven feet than six and well over three hundred pounds, the sheer sight of Big A had defused many a potential fight before it started. He'd wandered closer as the conversation progressed, and bless him, he'd ended up exactly where he was needed and right on cue. Almost-certainly-not Amanda actually squeaked in alarm at the sudden appearance of a wall of Maori but then did the one thing Drift simply hadn't counted on.

  She bolted directly away, swerving between the gaming tables and making for the nearest exit.

  'Shit!' Drift recovered himself in an instant and scrambled after her, ignoring the cries of protest from around him. She really was painfully amateur at this, he thought as he nearly clattered into a tray of drinks held by another robot. The first rule of dealing contraband, whatever it might be, was to avoid attention. Even in a place like the House of the Redeemer, where the law held no sway, you'd still want to keep your activities on the down-low lest someone else decided you had something valuable and muscled in.

  Which was exactly what he was trying to do, he supposed, but at least he had a bit of class. He'd been perfectly willing to pay for the goods if she’d had the sense to negotiate.

  Amanda was fast, he'd give her that. She made it to the exit before he could gain much ground on her, then darted left out of sight down the corridor. It took him a couple more breathless seconds to reach the doorway, just in time to see her back disappearing around another corner.

  The comm crackled in his ear. +Jesus, Ichabod, what did you do?+

  'I overestimated her,' he told Rourke curtly, without slowing down.

  You overestimated her?+

  'I thought she was smarter,' he replied. 'Got any suggestions?'

  Stay on her. I'll cut her off from the elevators: we'll get her one way or the other.+

  He rounded the next corner, and was startled to find Amir pulling level with him. He'd never expected Apirana to join the chase – the big man could build up a reasonable head of steam in a straight line but wasn't what you'd call nimble – but he hadn't expected the kid to think quickly enough to keep up with him.

  'Just shoot her!' Amir shouted as they pounded through startled punters and staff, leaving a trail of spilled drinks, scattered hors d'oeuvre, and sulphurous swearing in their wake.

  'No!' Drift was a little surprised at the vehemence of his own objection, but damn it if he'd resort to murder and theft. That was just... uncivilised. Besides, despite the Captains' welcoming speech, the House had its own enforcers to make sure all 'fun' stayed where it was meant to. If you started causing trouble outside of the lower levels...r />
  Well, then you might run into the likes of the two men in gold-trimmed, navy blue uniforms around the next corner, who were turning in the direction of Drift and Amir at the frantic urging of Amanda. Drift caught a brief glimpse of the triumphant smile spreading over his quarry's face before his attention was caught by a pair of gun muzzles being raised with bad intentions.

  Drift dived instinctively, using his momentum to throw himself into a roll across the plush carpet. The crack of gunfire assaulted his ears, and he came up by the far wall with a pistol in each hand. His first left-handed shot went wide but the second one caught one of the guards in the shoulder, while his first right-handed shot lucked out and hit a knee. The right-hand enforcer screamed and fell, his gun dropping as both hands clutched instinctively at the shattered joint; the one on the left staggered and swung his weapon in Drift's direction, but Drift's next shots stitched a line across the man's chest and put him down.

  His response had been automatic, and it was only once he'd fired that he realised how unusual it was for House security to shoot first and ask questions later. However, when he looked around to check on Amir, an explanation presented itself: the kid's gun was in his hand and the kid himself was on the floor. The young idiot must have already had his weapon out, and that would have been all the reason security needed to drop him.

  'Damn it!' Drift scrambled to Amir's side, but there were two holes in the kid's chest leaking dark stains over his flight suit. That was it: the Keiko didn't have the sort of equipment or personnel to save someone from even one bad chest wound, let alone two. It was a shame, but Drift hadn't made a living off the galaxy for as long as he had by being overly sentimental. If the kid had only been winged, he'd have dropped his pursuit and trusted Rourke to get the deal done, but Amir had just transitioned himself from asset to deadweight and the Keiko had no room for deadweight.