Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 12 (9 page)

On the third morning, they were back in the Courtyard.

This time, Jenson had a seat right behind Connie's lawyer, in the stalls, looking down at the broad patch of grass. The sun was high above and the sky was a beautiful blue.

Clear day,
he thought, frowning.
Means the fight goes as scheduled.

He watched the judge walk to his bench
. They all rose, and sat after the judge. He watched one of the sheriff's positions behind the coffin-like Hotbox. The sheriff tugged the door's rope taut, then yanked the panel up.

Connie came out
. She propped a hand over her eyes, wincing. Her face was cleaned of make-up, and she was in sweat pants and a t-shirt. She had Jenson's cutlass.

Simon was a foot and a half taller
. He was sweating through his red button-up shirt. "This is it for you, little girl," he called across the field, pointing Constantine's weapon at her.

The judge frowned and banged his gavel twice
. "Quiet. Fighters do not speak in the ring, Mr. French, unless spoken to. Understand?"

With a wide smile, the ex nodded, staring Connie down.

Connie cast about, searching the stalls. She found Jenson. Her eyes showed terror, but she stuck up her chin and put a forced smirk on her face.

Jenson's chest sunk.

He made himself smile at her and nod. He put his hands in his lap, so she wouldn't see them quake. When she looked away, he leaned closer to her lawyer. "What the hell good are you?  You've got to stop this!"

"If I could, Mr. Jenson.
" The lawyer shot a glance. His face was pale and his collar was dark with sweat. "She...won't listen." He turned back to the patch.

The presiding sheriff swore both parents in
. "Do you..." the judge intoned, first with Simon, and then with Connie. She set her shoulders and barked her answer, her eyes cold and fixed on her husband.

The judge's jaw went slack
. He stared, and the people in the stalls fell silent. Clouds skated noiselessly overhead. A breeze stuttered across the grass, making Connie's hair shift and Simon's tie flap.

"Ours being one of a few counties in the country that has yet to overturn this odious and obscure
law..." the judge shook his head at his podium. "...I have no choice," he rasped. Through a heavy exhalation, he muttered, "Begin."

~

They spent minutes circling along the perimeter.

Watching, Jenson clung to the rail, teeth grinding
. Usually this sort of stalling would elicit insults from spectators. No one spoke, no wagers were placed.

The husband moved in a half-crouch, the corner of his lips pulled up, tossing the blade from one hand to the other
. He opened his mouth a few times, then clamped it shut.

Connie prowled across from him, maintaining distance, the way Jenson had shown her
. He'd given her a score of tips. They repeated through his skull, each one louder than the next. He stared the words at her, hoping that by some miracle she would hear his advice.

She didn't stop with the sun behind her, or feint, or set her stance the way he'd told her
. If she heard anything, she was ignoring him. Jenson's chest strained, trapping a shout.

More minutes passed.

Simon stop-started, gave a little feint, then a flourish. He finished by straightening and raising his off-hand, pretending from across the field that he caught her by the throat. He closed his fingers with a sneer.

Don't let him shake you!
Jenson thought hard and leaned over the rail. "You have to end this!" he whispered at her lawyer.

Connie faltered across the lawn from Jenson
. Her arms lowered. The sword point scraped the ground once...twice...and again. Her steps shortened.

The husband growled
. He shifted three paces right and rushed at her side. Long steps ate the distance between them.

Connie yelped
. She raised the cutlass to his swing. He bashed down at her and she fell to one knee. Her arms trembled. Simon slammed his blade down at her again, with more savagery than skill. He shouted wordlessly with each strike.

A wail stuck in Jenson's throat
.
I failed you.

On both knees, Connie's hands nearly lost their grip
. The sword slipped from a strike, the tip dug into the ground. She tumbled sideways, out from the next swing. And dropped the cutlass.

Simon laughed
. Perspiration coated his face, his skin looked plastic.

"This isn't
fair
," Jenson pleaded into her lawyer's ear. "Think of something!" He wanted to leap over the stalls into the pit. He wanted to take her place.

Even the Shark, seated behind Simon's lawyer, with his arm bandaged up and his blond hair g
elled into a faux-hawk—his face had lost its color, and he gawped from behind clasped hands.

"Stay alive," Jenson mumbled at Connie, flexing his legs to jump.

Connie scrambled backwards like a desperate crab, banging against the judge's stand. Simon took exaggerated swings at her feet, making her dance. His eyes were lit with glee, his sneer had become a satisfied smile. Connie dove from a two-handed swing. With a yelp she was on her feet, running.

Simon chased her
. The sword caught the sunlight, each chop sent a blinding sting into Jenson's eyes.

"Leave her alone," someone called out.

"Sadistic bastard," someone else yelled.

The judge struck his gavel and called for silence.

Simon panted after her. And reached her. His off-hand snatched the fabric of her shirt. He yanked her back. She fell onto her rump.

A noise rushed through the crowd, a strange hiss of sadness and anger
. Jenson tensed. His legs tightened, eager to launch him at the ex.

Simon hoisted her up by the neck
. He pulled back his sword, readied for a cleaving blow. Lifted to her toes, Connie slapped at his wrist, pried at his fingers.

Remember!  Damn it...
Responses raced through Jenson's mind. His gut clenched.
Don't die...

As if she'd heard Jenson's thoughts, Connie lashed out at Simon's face
. Her fingers raked over his cheeks, across his eye.

Simon spun, grasping at his cheek, crying out and stumbling.

"Yes!" Jenson shouted, clapping. "That's it!"

Connie stumbled
. She spun and tottered, gasping. She fell onto all fours next to Jenson's cutlass.

"You
bitch
!" Simon screamed, gripping his weapon with both hands. He squinted one eye shut and took halting steps toward her. He held the sword like a baseball bat. "I'll end you!"

"Silence!" the judge smacked his gavel
. "Last warning, Mr. French!"

"Go to hell!" Simon shouted back, side-stepping toward the judge's bench
. When he stopped, his lanky body blocked Jenson's view of Connie. He sprinted at her, howling and swinging for the fences.

The judge hammered his gavel, cursing
. Jenson climbed past the lawyer and clambered over the rail, landing in the grass. Sheriffs moved in his periphery, guns coming out.

"Contempt!" the judge called, standing and pointing
. "Mr. Jenson!"

Jenson raced up behind Simon
. Simon had swung and his arms hung at his side, as if he admired his home run. Jenson grabbed the man's sweat soaked shoulders and pulled him back.

Simon slipped down, out of Jenson's fingers, onto his back at Jenson's feet
. The cutlass was stuck in his gut. It stood up like a flagpole. Simon's face was stiff, his good eye moved to glare at Jenson.

Connie was heaving, on her knees, hands still raised from releasing the hilt
. Her fingers were splashed with Simon's blood. She blinked through moisture dripping from her brow. "Did I do it?" Tears welled in her eyes. "Did I save my children?"

~

Connie came to visit Jenson in holding. They spoke using old telephone receivers from either side of a plexiglass screen.

"You look good in orange," Connie offered with a tight smile.

"You didn't have to visit," Jenson said, propping up an elbow and resting his eyes in his palm. "It can't be easy."

"I couldn't have done it without you
. Hey. You saved me!"

He looked up and studied her
. "I just did my job," he shrugged. "You should, um, get counseling or something. Killing a man..."

"I talked to the judge
. Afterwards." With one arm she hugged herself. "You did more than your job," she blinked at him. "He told me you didn't have to train me. That it was an option in the Article."

"You would have been fine without me."

"My children are safe, thanks to you." She spread a hand against the plexiglass. "I won't ever forget that."

"Don't you dare.
" He licked his lips and put his hand over hers. "You faced a monster and risked your life. This is your win, Connie. I was just a cheerleader. You saved your kids."

Connie's lower lip trembled
. She pulled her face into a smile, her eyes wet. "You get out in a few days, right?" She waited for Jenson to nod. "Come for dinner. We can...."

"I can't," he shook his head
. "I don't..."

"Get involved with
people
." Her smile wilted.

"You don't want a gladiator in your house
. A killer for hire."

"Bet you were an actua
l human being, once." Her eyes warmed and a smirk perked up her face.

Heat spread through Jenson's chest.

"Samuel Jenson," she banged a fist against the counter like a gavel, "you are in contempt. Your punishment is friends. You are sentenced to dinner!" She waited for him to laugh, then she laughed as well. "It's food. Don't be scared. Besides, paying for the training wasn't in our contract. Your fees are too high—it's the best I can do!"

For as long as he could remember, Jenson had been fighting
. Mouth empty of words, he struggled with the coiling in his gut.

"Meet the kids
. Get so stuffed you fall asleep on the couch!"

Jenson shook his head
. "You're in charge," he simpered. It was the best he could do. Beyond his sword, he didn't know what he could offer. But he'd follow her example. He'd stand up to what scared him. "You cook, I'll do dishes."

"Deal!" she said.

As he watched her leave, he lingered in his chair, wanting to hold onto the feeling inside him for as long as he could.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arley grew up in England, Hawaii and Colorado. He lives in Oakland, and can be found at local coffee shops. Approach with caution or a cappuccino
.
 

You Wouldn’t Download a Mom

By
Ian Rose

I have to admit, I'm a bit disappointed. I know what you're going to say: I took a cheap shortcut, and I got what I paid for. But that's such 21st century thinking. It's been illegal to own a living person for centuries, so why can some corporation sell me the genetic and cognitive codes to one? Information should be free, and we are all just information. Anyway, I had to pay for the raw materials, and that's not nothing in this economy.

First, she looks nothing like the advert. I'm not shallow. I didn't choose Alison B56 based only on her looks. But in the ad, she had soft dark hair, deep brown eyes, and an olive skin tone close to mine. She looked like she could really be my Mom. When I cooked her, she came out so white I had to check the code to make sure I didn't get the wrong model entirely. And don't tell me I mixed up the ingredients. It isn't exactly my first time doing this.

My birth mom died when I was a baby, and my dad raised me as long as he could. I think even with Mom around, I would have been too much for him. He stuck around until I was twelve and then one day he just didn't come home. I filed a report. The cops said his credit account and likeness were tagged crossing the border into Croatia. I took the skills assessment and was found to be
ready for life on my own, so the state set me up in a little welfare apartment. It took three years to scrounge enough money to buy a second hand vat and my first raws for cooking.

That first (well, second) Mom...
I take full responsibility on that one. The deformed arm, the slurred speech. No one wins a bake-off with their first soufflé. I drove her out to the lake and put her down. As little connection as I had to her, it was a hard thing. I kept telling myself she's not real she's not real, no matter what sounds she made. I want to believe that her mind was as wrong as her body, so she didn't feel much anyway. I might tell myself that just to get to sleep at night, but it works, so shut up.

On my next try, though, I hit it out of the park. She was gorgeous, sweet, loving. I paid out the nose for the blueprint (this was back before my enlightenment on the whole data freedom front) but was it ever worth it. We had three great years. That's longer than my real Mom lasted, and so when I think of a face to match the word mother, it belongs to Wendy S29. Maybe it always will.

But there's such a thing as too perfect. I wanted the Wendy to be as similar to my birth mother as possible, so I dug up every detail I could about her for the cognitive upload. Her favorite books and music, the journals she wrote before I was born, everything. I wanted a copy of a woman who had chosen to die at age 27, and I got it. As time went by, I felt a distance growing between us. She spent more and more time writing on her own, staring out the window, often forgetting to make dinner or clean up until the towers of dishes began attracting flies.

I came home one night to find a note on the sparkling kitchen counter. Everything looked immaculate. She had even dusted the corners of the ceiling with one of those long poles that look like seeding dandelions, which neither of us ever did. Her letter said that she had never asked for this, for me, and that despite her gratitude for my effort in creating her and my affection since, she could no longer pretend to be my dead mom. She had only stayed to see me past my eighteenth birthday. She told me I was strong and independent, that any woman capable of making a mother shouldn't need one. She told me she admired me and wished me only the best, but she never used the word love.

Maybe she's right. I'm nineteen now, and a hell of a lot more self-sufficient than a lot of people out there. I pay my bills growing engineered pets for a few distributor clients. They're getting rich and I never will, but I'm happy with the work. I get to pick them up and cuddle the adorable little balls of fuzz or scale before they're sent off to be some spoiled kid's birthday present. I'm their first mother. They love and need me for a few days. I can't imagine another job with a benefit like that.

I'm trying to give the Alison a chance. She's been nice enough, and it's so great to have someone else at home again. We talk at night about my work and the hobbies she's starting to discover now that she can add experience on top of her programming. I still frown when I look at her sometimes, because she'll never be my mother. My mother is dead, and I've seen what happens when you try to bring someone back from that.

But I smile at her sometimes too, because she's the first real person I've ever made. She corrects me when I say something mean. She does her half of the errands, but feels no obligation to do more. She is my friend, and I guess at this point that's what I really need.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ian Rose is a writer and web developer based in Portland, Oregon. His work has recently appeared in New Myths and Cast of Wonders, and more of his writing can be found at
 
http://ianwrites.com
.