by Holly Heisey -
Hoepi ladled a slap of green algae slosh on another cracked plastic tray and watched another miner’s nose wrinkle in disgust. If the powers that be could afford to hold a hundred and twenty-nine miners in a station tethered to the coolest spot on one half of Sheba…well. They could afford to give those miners decent meals. And hire a cook, for once. She was stuck with cafeteria duty.
A rumble of voices at the door made her look up, not because they were loud or male but because she recognized the first and her hand faltered just a beat on the ladle.
“Hey!” One-armed Micki, her latest victim in the slop line, jumped back to avoid getting green slosh on his coveralls.
Hoepi turned back to the slop line and stared to blush, then thought better of it. “You just watch yourself, Micki.” Which made no sense, so she turned her back and stirred the steaming pot of proto-meatballs with a vigor.
“Hey.”
She whirled. Tennant. She met his eyes for the briefest flicker.
“Hey, Hoepi.”
He knew her name.
She shook her head. Yeah, idiot, of course he knows your name. You only mine with him every second five-day.
She brushed dark hair from her eyes. “Yeah, what do you want?”
Tennant held up his tray and gave her a weary, flashing grin. “Some puke-my-guts special with a side of almost-ham.” He patted his flat stomach. “Worked hard today.”
Hoepi flustered and dumped green slosh and proto-meatballs in a mess on his tray. He turned to the tables…then stopped.
“Hey Hoepi. Was gonna play handball later in the tank. Want to?”
She opened her mouth. He turned more fully, an impish smile on his cracked lips. “Say yes.”
She nodded.
“Good enough!” He flopped down at a table and promptly fell into terse conversation with another knot of miners.
Hoepi stepped back from the slop line. A grin stretched her mouth from ear to ear.
“Hey, Hoepi!”
She turned to the next in line and scowled at him. “What?”
Showing posts with label holly heisey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holly heisey. Show all posts
Friday, August 26, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Wizards’ War
by Holly Heisey -
Iri looked up from where she crouched feeding days-old mush to a rib-thin orphan boy. Shouts were coming down the corridor, educated voices. She stood to yell for the dozen or so orphans to disperse—
But the shouting men reached the corridor junction. One, gray-haired and flabby, stabbed a finger directly at her.
“You’re exploiting them—children!—in your mad ploys to get ahead of us!”
The second man she knew: Drake, the good wizard. “And your experiments with the Happy Bin are ethical? We don’t learn of an encounter until you’ve already spun the report your way.”
“Spin my reports?” The older man must also be a wizard, though Iri hadn’t seen this one around. “You’re training a bloody army to your own perverted way of thought. Sick! Sick!”
Iri—Whales protect her—could not help stepping out. “Drake saves us.” The two men stared at her. She licked her lips and forged on. “He gives us meals for learning that will get us out of here.” She stepped closer, next to Drake.
Something hit Iri hard on the cheek and she spun before she could right her balance.
“Fool girl,” Drake hissed. “Stay out of our wars if you know your own good.”
Iri stared at the wizard, tears stinging her eyes. She had hoped…someone cared for them…
“You hit her!” The older wizard lunged for Drake—Drake whipped out a silvery tool and touched it to the older man’s chest. The older wizard collapsed, spasming.
Iri covered a yelp.
“I help you, yes,” Drake said, “but only those who can be helped.” He spun and strode off, his coattails swirling.
Iri crouched beside the older wizard.
“That man…is a poison,” he said.
Iri didn’t have anything to say to that. She needed to think. She needed to think long and hard about what—if anything—to do next.
“Help me up.”
Iri helped the older wizard to his feet and he swayed a moment before brushing off his rich brocade coat. “I’m Wizard Encimanion Coriander Peronnel,” he said. “You contact me if Drake ever tries to take one of you again.”
Iri didn’t have anything to say to that, either, but she nodded, and it satisfied the wizard enough for him to walk away. He didn’t give a second look at the orphans he almost crushed underfoot.
Iri looked up from where she crouched feeding days-old mush to a rib-thin orphan boy. Shouts were coming down the corridor, educated voices. She stood to yell for the dozen or so orphans to disperse—
But the shouting men reached the corridor junction. One, gray-haired and flabby, stabbed a finger directly at her.
“You’re exploiting them—children!—in your mad ploys to get ahead of us!”
The second man she knew: Drake, the good wizard. “And your experiments with the Happy Bin are ethical? We don’t learn of an encounter until you’ve already spun the report your way.”
“Spin my reports?” The older man must also be a wizard, though Iri hadn’t seen this one around. “You’re training a bloody army to your own perverted way of thought. Sick! Sick!”
Iri—Whales protect her—could not help stepping out. “Drake saves us.” The two men stared at her. She licked her lips and forged on. “He gives us meals for learning that will get us out of here.” She stepped closer, next to Drake.
Something hit Iri hard on the cheek and she spun before she could right her balance.
“Fool girl,” Drake hissed. “Stay out of our wars if you know your own good.”
Iri stared at the wizard, tears stinging her eyes. She had hoped…someone cared for them…
“You hit her!” The older wizard lunged for Drake—Drake whipped out a silvery tool and touched it to the older man’s chest. The older wizard collapsed, spasming.
Iri covered a yelp.
“I help you, yes,” Drake said, “but only those who can be helped.” He spun and strode off, his coattails swirling.
Iri crouched beside the older wizard.
“That man…is a poison,” he said.
Iri didn’t have anything to say to that. She needed to think. She needed to think long and hard about what—if anything—to do next.
“Help me up.”
Iri helped the older wizard to his feet and he swayed a moment before brushing off his rich brocade coat. “I’m Wizard Encimanion Coriander Peronnel,” he said. “You contact me if Drake ever tries to take one of you again.”
Iri didn’t have anything to say to that, either, but she nodded, and it satisfied the wizard enough for him to walk away. He didn’t give a second look at the orphans he almost crushed underfoot.
Monday, May 2, 2011
A Very Important Question
by Holly Heisey -
Three fingers tap on five in mnemonic blue light of the fazing screen. Tap tap tap. Once five, now three; Kerin Rhi left the ground, the water, and the world and its dangers for higher sights. He is smart, so he is here. Here is a ten by ten meter cabin on Avenir, walls slightly wedged, where he sits on his white couch and watches the Peacekeepers like a god. And this disturbs him.
Kerin has decided to ask an angel what angels undersea think of the Peace Council. He has decided this is smart, but to be safe, he has of course triple locked and bypassed the security protocols of even his Council line. Maybe he is a god and doesn’t know it; but it would not be good for others to think he thinks of that at all.
The screen fazes on an orange-red infrared signature, a blob among blue-green swirls from the waters below. He doesn’t know if a god-link can be made this far, but it is near Approaching, and he must try. He sits forward on his couch and squints at the screen. He is not a wizard. None in his family were wizards, how can he possibly presume to talk to an angel?
How can you presume not to?
He jumps so high he almost hits his head on the bulkhead rail and floats carefully down in this less than normal gravity.
How can he presume not to? “How can I presume not to what?”
To talk to me, stupid.
Kerin blinks at the screen, wets his lips and says feebly, “Stupid?” Stupid is one thing he knows he is not. Of course, this is not an angel; it must then be a demon. Which is almost as good. He sits forward again.
“Are we gods? Are Peace Council members gods? It often feels like so, yea, it does.”
The demon snorts and the blob of red ripples in the water. Gods. What is a god? What makes a god a god but the people who worship it? Are you worshipped?
Kerin thinks about this, his thoughts waving with the slow churning on the screen. “I am…perhaps.”
Perhaps. You mean you do not know?
“I…” He thinks some more. “The Peacekeepers look up to me, and I look down on them.”
Well?
“But I don’t know if they worship me.”
So ask them.
“What?”
Ask. Them. It can’t be so hard, especially if you are a god. And if you are, they’ll want to know.
Kerin blinks. He hasn’t thought of this. It is so simple, of course. He opens his mouth…then closes it again. He leans forward to divulge his great secret. “I can’t speak to them. I am a member of the Peace Council; they can’t know who I am.”
Secrets are good. Secrets are somewhat godlike.
Kerin sits back, satisfied.
Ten decks below him on the station, the wizard Encimanion Coriander Peronnel wonders at the spike of neural activity between Avenir and a plot on Eclectia he’s long suspected to be haunted by demons. His hands track the signal in a rush--to Room Eight in Ward Two of the Rich Men’s Happy Bin. He sighs and makes a mark in his log beside “Kerin Rhi, marginally psychotic”—fifth time this month. He’ll speak to Kerin later, but now, as the signal’s already gone, he sends his scanners onward.
Three fingers tap on five in mnemonic blue light of the fazing screen. Tap tap tap. Once five, now three; Kerin Rhi left the ground, the water, and the world and its dangers for higher sights. He is smart, so he is here. Here is a ten by ten meter cabin on Avenir, walls slightly wedged, where he sits on his white couch and watches the Peacekeepers like a god. And this disturbs him.
Kerin has decided to ask an angel what angels undersea think of the Peace Council. He has decided this is smart, but to be safe, he has of course triple locked and bypassed the security protocols of even his Council line. Maybe he is a god and doesn’t know it; but it would not be good for others to think he thinks of that at all.
The screen fazes on an orange-red infrared signature, a blob among blue-green swirls from the waters below. He doesn’t know if a god-link can be made this far, but it is near Approaching, and he must try. He sits forward on his couch and squints at the screen. He is not a wizard. None in his family were wizards, how can he possibly presume to talk to an angel?
How can you presume not to?
He jumps so high he almost hits his head on the bulkhead rail and floats carefully down in this less than normal gravity.
How can he presume not to? “How can I presume not to what?”
To talk to me, stupid.
Kerin blinks at the screen, wets his lips and says feebly, “Stupid?” Stupid is one thing he knows he is not. Of course, this is not an angel; it must then be a demon. Which is almost as good. He sits forward again.
“Are we gods? Are Peace Council members gods? It often feels like so, yea, it does.”
The demon snorts and the blob of red ripples in the water. Gods. What is a god? What makes a god a god but the people who worship it? Are you worshipped?
Kerin thinks about this, his thoughts waving with the slow churning on the screen. “I am…perhaps.”
Perhaps. You mean you do not know?
“I…” He thinks some more. “The Peacekeepers look up to me, and I look down on them.”
Well?
“But I don’t know if they worship me.”
So ask them.
“What?”
Ask. Them. It can’t be so hard, especially if you are a god. And if you are, they’ll want to know.
Kerin blinks. He hasn’t thought of this. It is so simple, of course. He opens his mouth…then closes it again. He leans forward to divulge his great secret. “I can’t speak to them. I am a member of the Peace Council; they can’t know who I am.”
Secrets are good. Secrets are somewhat godlike.
Kerin sits back, satisfied.
Ten decks below him on the station, the wizard Encimanion Coriander Peronnel wonders at the spike of neural activity between Avenir and a plot on Eclectia he’s long suspected to be haunted by demons. His hands track the signal in a rush--to Room Eight in Ward Two of the Rich Men’s Happy Bin. He sighs and makes a mark in his log beside “Kerin Rhi, marginally psychotic”—fifth time this month. He’ll speak to Kerin later, but now, as the signal’s already gone, he sends his scanners onward.
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