Duchess Julia of Yachy’s story, as told to B. Harper of the Nine Moons Court during her time in captivity. The Duchess would later give up her position of privilege after the revolution of 2318. All records of her have disappeared and her final resting place is not known.
In times of silence I can feel the edges of who I might be if things had been different.
(more…)
One last story, eh? Well then. Let me think.
In strength born, in weakness die.
That’s how the old saying goes among your people, doesn’t it? But I was created strong and kept getting stronger. My people—well, my makers—didn’t know what to do with me after a while. Not that they were fragile, not by any means, but they simply weren’t a match for me.
(more…)
If she would have said something encouraging, he would have been vindicated. All of the countless hours spent bent over the computer, the calculator, and the microscope; all of the figuring and hypothesizing; all of his frustration—he would have been victorious, affirmed.
It didn’t have to be words, really. He would have been happy if she’d even given him a slight smile or nod.
“Your hypothesis is wrong.”
“What?”
“You obviously didn’t read the study I gave you last week. Your hypothesis is based on the old Geraut theory, which is faulty information; therefore, your results are not legitimate. You need to start over from scratch. Tomorrow I want to see a proposal—a detailed proposal—for this next experiment. We can’t afford to waste lab supplies.”
A gentle whoosh of air; emptiness where she’d been.
If only she would have at least acknowledged his efforts.
Speaking into a cup is a defeatist purpose, Tom said. It is like scraping the last bit of milk out of a bowl after you have finished your cereal. Better just to pour it into your glass, even with the leftover pulp from the orange juice, and drink it that way.
That is where you’re wrong, Jack said. You just give up and throw it out.
That’s not a good idea, Tom said, unless you double-bag your garbage.
Who double-bags garbage, Jack asked.
You are both crazy, Heidi said. Everyone knows that you just drink the leftover milk from the bowl.
Like animals, Tom said. I suppose soon you won’t even set the table with spoons and forks, but have us bury our faces in our bowls. Well, even then there will be a little milk left over, because you are such a messy drinker that you won’t be able to get it all. And then what will you do.
I am not a messy drinker. She was adamant about that point. And you’re changing the subject.
Emerson had said nothing throughout dinner. Now he roused himself. The subject is not what you do with the leftover milk, he said. The point is that you were talking about speaking into a cup. Who on Earth would do such a thing.
They all stared.
Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you, Emerson, said Tom. You say the oddest things.
She has been waiting for a very long time.
“This won’t make it right,” he says, almost begging, his voice trying to hold her like a hand around her arm. He’s only known her for two days, she thinks. Where does he get off preaching at her?
“I know,” she says instead. “But no one else will do anything. So it’s up to me.”
“What about justice? What about innocent until proven guilty?” His eyes are large, blue, almost too pale. Too pretty. She’s never liked pretty men, much less idealistic men.
“Please.” That’s all he says. His body is interposed between her and the other man.
She shrugs and flicks the safety anyway, pulling the gun up with a steady hand. “There are only two sides these days,” she says evenly. “There’s no such thing as innocent.”
“If you kill him, you’ll have to kill me too.”
She considers that. She pulls the trigger.
Neither of them had truly mattered to her. Not even the man in the back. When all you have is a symbol, sometimes all you have is a symbol. But even killing a symbol is a catharsis of sorts. And killing someone who truly believes in such a thing—well, that is better yet.
