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| | Two wingers hovered about a column of smoke several blocks away. I blinked it in, drew my hood. The filtering fabric settled about me, the faint mechanical whine bringing me enriched air. Atmohoods, expensive. But well worth the jobs I had to pull to get it, the alleys I had to comb to find the right merchant hoodlum, and the bribe I had to pay the government cleric to look the other way.
I jumped my front steps, barely noticing the small orange fruit littered about the broken concrete. I left it all behind with two strides, a leap... the spray painted signs, the corner, the smoke... hell, life itself passed me by the way I moved. On mornings like this, when death feels normal, up in your face, you need the run.
It was a cobalt blue trim on that house on Kenneth somewhere between 15th and 22nd. There was a porch, two wicker chairs, and a rosemary bush. Fucking trimmed. A neat hedge in this city?
"Young man?" An old man spoke. The one to whom this bush presumably belonged. The rubber tip of a metal cane drag-skipped, spraying paint chips toward me. His knees looked untrustworthy, like hired mercs willing to run at the first sign of trouble.
"I mean no harm." I spread my palms and peace bowed the customary 5 degrees. An extra one, maybe. I still respect my elders. "You trimmed it."
"Its a tough plant," he said. He rubbed his eyebrows.
And then he was just silent. Looking. Like he was waiting for me to strike. Except I couldn't --no openings.
"Came with the house. Wife's name was Rosemary, you know that?"
How the fuck should I-- "I'm sorry about your wife."
"Rosemary? She's just in the house." Old man turned. "Rosemary, bring the lemo-aide, it's Jo from fourteen-sixth infantry." He grabbed my wrist. "Don't just stand there, come in!"
The filtering door slapped the door frame after our backs. He had left the black metallic security door open. I didn't like it, but I scraped my boots against the hairy mat anyway. The foyer had some modest images shifting from children to pets to battle regalia, the standard fare. Hardwood floors too, a retro touch. Probably rich, too. I instinctively did the math for what I could buy for floors like that. I decided the air in here was probably better than my atmohood. Like I suspected, the air tasted stale, but oxygen-rich, almost devoid of pollutants. Rich indeed.
"I'm Horatio," old man popped out from the far door of the hexagonal entryway. "I got some tea brewing in the kitchen, over here."
The kitchen ceiling was an asymmetrical deal, with the freeze unit, stove, sink sitting at obtuse angles. The rest was storage and prep area. Orange with plated metal accents. Odd.
Horatio poured out two full mugs of steaming liquid onto a small table with cylindrical stools. "An herbal tea grown in the commune vats. Traces its root from cannibis. Harmless, though."
"Weed tea?" I quaffed the questionable stuff, and it was sweet and bitter at the same time. "Thanks."
"Now, young man, you read any Shakespeare?"
I shook my head.
"Pity. Now then, Hamlet, what brings you to me?"
"My name is-"
Horatio shook his head. "Irrelevant. The tension in your shoulders tell me you're a confused man. I might as well call you Hamlet."
I noticed my shoulders. Some fortune teller trick, maybe. I flexed them back, tried to cull them into cooperation.
Horatio sipped his tea and laughed. "No use. In any case, no need to hide from me."
Who the hell was this old man? Ever since we entered his house, he seemed more healthy, alert.
"You said you noticed my hedges. Good eyes. What about them brought you to me?"
"They were weird."
"Trimmed, you said."
"Well yes, but more than that. Like why care about plants? It's hell out there how you have time to do something so..."
"Useless."
"Sure."
"I trim them because they remind me of my dead wife. Because it's hell out there. It preserves my sanity."
"Fine. Sanity. That's what I'm confused about. This place reminded me of... things. When things still felt sane. Maybe back when I was a kid."
Horatio had dark brown eyes.
"Your wife, what was she like?"
"Beautiful. You know when I try to capture her face in my mind I can't do it. I always remember some stupid thing, like that grin she had when she would steal my shoes when we'd take the evening walk, and then I turn around and expect her to be there."
"How'd she?"
"Killed. By kids, I think. I didn't even see them. They burned down my place. Had to flee. This was back before everything went to hell. Turns out hell is wherever we live, we breathe."
I raised my mug and drank the rest of the weed.
"Brutus," I said, then, slowly.
His lips tightened, thin white lines spreading across his face. "Brutus, you say?"
"XCD-12, Carpe-Diem, whatever you want to call it... you deal it, don't you?"
"What gave it away?"
"Temporary dementia, rich air, hardwood floors, weed tea, trimmed hedges. My dad used to say, 'add up the abnormalities and you'll find a man.'"
"The drug of a thousand faces. Yes, I have this thing." He said, then laughed. It was like a crow's song now, breaking across the cool morning.
My right hand twitched. I stretched my neck and faked a yawn.
He swung first. It was an unexpected upward arc, a kind of kiri-age. I saw the glint of metal as I jumped back. The blade was hidden under his flowy sleeve. He was quick.
For an old dude.
I kept my wrists inward, elbows down, body sideways to create a small target. I'd rather not use everything I have at once, especially with the energy costs.
Horatio growled and slashed again. This time, I let myself sway a little, show a fake opening on my left side. He committed. Excellent. Forward, left fist to the ear, sidestep, another left, then a right. I felt the snap of knuckle against flesh. My body was all movement and fire. Horatio's breath stunk. And his fingers were so thin. Ghost thin. The poor bastard.
The knife bit my flesh and I flashed away. I felt the cut on my left forearm. Shallow, and I hoped the blade was clean. I didn't feel any poison. Horatio grinned. "Why, might I ask, are you so eager to die, young friend?"
"Cancer, Horatio. We're all cancer cells, multiplying too quickly, killing each other, killing ourselves. We don't ask questions like that."
I stepped in this time, telegraphed a right hook. Instead, I drew a subtle pattern with my left against my thigh. I leapt above the table, I heard Horatio gasp. I drew my own blade, a eighter I've had since I was four. I enhanced it, and drew two kesa-giris in the air. By the time I landed, Horatio was on the ground, choking on his own blood.
Why do old people always have such watery eyes?
I searched the house for his stash, took enough for a couple months, and left. When I stepped out, I pinched a Rosemary leaf between my fingers, smelled it. Like a sweet longing, the fragrance. I threw it on the asphalt next to an empty syringe and a crushed can.
I ran.
----- | | | Posted 4/24/2008 10:17 PM - 23 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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