Strontium-90 (6 page)

A soft smile tugged her lips
. “Unfortunately for you, the Ice King’s sorcerer escaped, which was an untidy loose end. Thus, you and your confederates have lingered in this snowy wasteland, even searching here in the ruins for an answer. You failed to consider, however, a primary truism about these things.”

“What truism?” Jublain asked.

She picked up the wavy-bladed dagger that lay on the open book. “You believed the Ice King to be evil, am I right?”

“Not believed,” Jublain said
. “He was evil. He unearthed and animated the dead for his armies, and he would have sacrificed me to give himself true life again.”

“The Ice King was an Aufling indeed.”

“Not quite technically true,” Jublain said. “Long ago he had been an Aufling, the last to reign. The wraith of him, which was the Ice King, was not anything but lingering evil.”

“Semantics,” she said
. “My point is that you considered the Ice King as evil. You slew the ancient wraith for undoubtedly high and noble reasons.”

“That and to stay alive,” Jublain said
. “It was my blood in particular that he needed for his spell of rebirth. Thus, it was in my self-interest that he ceased to exist.”

“Indeed, I hadn’t known that particular
.” She laid the dagger back onto the book. “My point is that this is an evil place, a haunted, eerie locale. You pulled one weed from it and now expect a garden of goodness to sprout. You champions were ever a simple-minded lot. Unfortunately, for your kind, it doesn’t work that way. Yank up one weed and you simply give room for another to grow. To bring good to a place one must do more than yank out the largest weed. You must plow the ground and then plant good seed. You must replace the evil with good if you wish to forever smother evil.”

“You may have a point.”

“I have more than that,” she said, indicating the narrowly open door. “Yonder is the beast, a new weed ready to grow. You should have fled this region while you could. Now… now you will have to deal with realities.”

“I don’t understand.”

She laid a light hand upon one of her breasts. “You cannot defeat the beast.”

“I slew the Ice King.”

“Granted, and while in top condition and with your allies providing magical assistance. Now however, you bear a wound from the fight. You’re also feverish because of the wound and surrounded by hideously huge and angry white beasts. No, you cannot defeat the leader and his pack. Otherwise, you would already have done so.”

“Therefore,” prodded Jublain.

She smiled. “Therefore you need my help to overcome them.”

“And in exchange I give you what?”

“Nothing much. Just take me with you when you leave.”

“With me?” he said, his voice rising.

“Well, in you, if you wish to be precise. Be assured that I won’t stay in you long. I’ve decided the girl would better suit me.”

“You mean Brenna?”

“That’s the one.”

Jublain’s hot eyes narrowed
. “You expect me to sell my best friend’s soul in exchange for my life?”

The woman laughed
. It was a rich, seductive sound. “Oh, Jublain, Jublain, you have such a hayseed way about your theatrics. I’ve already told you. If you leave this land as it is, in this haunted condition, other evil creatures will grow and prosper here. So if you wish to do the job right and extinguish evil in this particular locale, you must bring settlers and help them become upstanding people.”

“How can I do that if my hands are stained by treachery, if I’ve prostituted my soul?”

She sighed. “You see, this is why I tried to get you to drink the cup right off. We’re going to go around and around in philosophical circles. Yet in the end, you’re going to do what I ask because otherwise you’re a dead man. Debating theology and logic however takes such a tediously long time. And it’s all so useless, because in the end people rationalize their desires. Your lust for life, your young man’s yearning for survival shall overcome any so-called noble scruples until finally you’ll see the reality of the situation. Let me add, when you finally decide to do this you’re going to become extremely powerful. Those I help always do. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up becoming a conqueror of great note. You are an Aufling after all, the descendant of a dragon-slayer. I believe the legends say that the metamorphosis that overtakes the eater of a dragon’s heart passes on throughout the generations. No doubt, it’s why you’ve become a champion and swing that cursed sword of yours.”

“You’re the Scarlet Woman,” Jublain said slowly.

She arched those lovely eyebrows.

“You tried to give me the filth of your adulteries,” he whispered, “the cup of your abominations.”

“Power,” she said. “I was giving you power over your enemies. And on a closer and more personal note, I offered you the ability to slay the beast and his pack, those that wait to devour your feverish flesh.”

Jublain closed his eyes
. He was so tired… but he was missing something, something she had said earlier. His eyes snapped open. “Who locked you in here?”

She shrugged, looked away.

“Was it the Ice King?”

She sneered, a haughty and imperious thing.

“Look how you called me to you,” Jublain said. “Ah, and you called the leader—but not his creatures. No, you said before that you didn’t know what they were thinking, just the humanoid monster.”

“I’m bored,” she said, fanning herself.

Jublain forced his feverish mind to function. “If many people lived here again, lived in this frozen hellhole—”

“It wouldn’t be frozen if you broke the ancient enchantment.”

He nodded slowly. “If many people lived here as they once did, surely you could call any of them to you as you called me.”

She rose, fac
ing him with a sultry smile. “Do you care to dance? I can strike up music?” She waved her hand, and viols and flutes began an eerie tune from somewhere within the shadows.

“Your weed analogy is another trick, another trap,” Jublain said, massaging his forehead.

She twirled so the pleats of her scarlet dress lifted and revealed her lovely, smooth and enticing legs. The sight of them interrupted Jublain’s thoughts.

“Power and me,” she said with a seductive sigh
. “You may possess both.”

The sight of her—she was lovely… beautiful… desirable
. He wanted her. No, no, was he mad? He rubbed his forehead. What would his ancient ancestor have done? He watched her twirl, the dress float up and he saw the wonderful curvature of her thighs. He turned away, his palms moist. He must act now or fall under her beauty. He rose and drew his deadly sword. For the third time he aimed it at her.

The music stopped as she came to a halt beside the open book, a sleek hand on the dagger.

“I am an Aufling,” he said.

She smiled in mockery.

“My ancestor slew a dragon and ate its eight-valved heart.”

She laid a finger on the top half of her breast and began to trace the outline of her gown.

Jublain watched, and he licked his lips.

She smiled, and she began to dance once more, a slow and seductive sway
. Viols played softly. Shadows darkened the room. Oh, but she was beautiful. She teased him with her smile, and her eyes burned with beguiling power. He knew she tried to trap him with her eyes. He should look away. He should look away now, but she was too lovely, too enticing to look away. Her smile grew, as did the wantonness of her dance. She twirled, twined and writhed for him. He licked his lips, desire and fear pounded in his head.

She touched the sword as a lover might
. She ran her hand down its razor length and dared touch his cheek. “Jublain,” she whispered.

“No,” he said.

She danced around him, her hand on his shoulder and she touched the nape of his neck. “Jublain,” she whispered into his ear.

The sword clashed onto the floor
. He spun and grabbed her. She laughed—a low, throaty thing.

“Kiss me, Jublain, and become mine.”

He fought it with a last thought of sanity. The lust, however, was too strong. He embraced her, crushed her lips against his. The kiss lingered, and Jublain’s heart pounded. A strange, fleeting thought came.

“Were you the Ice King’s paramour?” he whispered.

“I was his queen, his controlling empress.”

“You ruled?”

“As I will now rule again—through you!”  She laughed, and pressed against him, shouting triumphantly.

His heart pounded wildly, and he knew a moment of terror as she faded into him
. He shouted, the sound like a roar, and she staggered backward, solidifying.

Lines appeared on her forehead
. “What happened? I should be in you.”

Jublain flung sweat out his eyes and he massaged his aching chest
. Then he crouched and picked up his sword.

“Quickly,” she said
. “Drink from the cup.”

“No.”

“You want me, don’t you?”

“…Yes,” he said, amazed that it was still true
. She was beauty beyond bliss, but he wouldn’t trade his soul for her.

“Prove that you want me
. Drink from the cup.”

“Never,” he said.

“I don’t understand. The Ice King couldn’t resist me. You’re but a boy compared to him.”

A weary smile touched Jublain
. It was beginning to make sense. “Milady has forgotten an ancient line of verse. ‘The Dragon doth possess thee and no other’.”

She shook her head.

“Blood is blood,” he said. “The eater of a dragon’s heart is changed forever, as is his line.”

“But the Ice King—”

“—Was but a wraith of an Aufling, milady, and was thus without a heart and without the Dragon’s curse. I am already possessed and thus it would seem that I’m safe from you.”

“Drink from the cup and you may still have me
. Its brew is stronger than your curse. Look at me, Jublain.”

Jublain’s feverish eyes burned
. Even now, he was tempted. It was uncanny. “I bid you good-bye, Red Lady. Long may you rest in this haunted hole. Long may you molder in this ruin.”

“Fool
! I can give you so much. Look at me.”

Jublain
lurched to the fireplace and reached in with his gauntleted hand, selecting the brightest-burning bone. He withdrew it and strode for the door.

“The pack will gnaw your flesh and drag your carcass within for me to
burn
.”

“You know otherwise, milady
.” Then, before he could change his mind, Jublain thrust the bone-torch through the narrowly open door. He left the Scarlet Woman to her lingering sorceries.

Quantum Metaphysics

Boss Chuikov spread his pudgy fingers across his desk. “I do not like being taken for an idiot, Paul. It displeases me.”

I bobbed my head and tried not to breathe deeply. The stench of cigars permeated everything, especially Chuikov’s suit. Pictures of white-skinned Ukrainian boxers festooned the walls. Many of the boxing photographs had black-marker signatures. Several of those signers worked for Chuikov. They helped in collections.

“Do I look like idiot to you?”

“No, Mr. Chuikov.”

“You are idiot, Paul. You are fool.” Chuikov dug into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, his blunt fingers somehow pressing the correct buttons. “It is time for Yury to drive you to Sonoma Point. You will learn that breathing is privilege, and then I will hear no more ridiculous proposals.”

Did I say that I was a chronic gambler? It must have been the reason I decided to gamble in Chuikov’s office. I had heard too many sadistic stories about Yury ‘the Ukrainian Undertaker.’

“Mr. Chuikov, I think the truth is that you
are
being a fool, maybe even an idiot.”

Boss Chuikov
fixed me with an ominous stare and then snapped his cell phone shut. A terrible smile made his entire, lumpy face move about and almost hid his dark little eyes behind rolls of pink flesh.

“Do you know that when I first came to this wonderful country I broke fingers for a living? I have not forgotten how, Paul. You do not look like strong person. You will scream like little girl as I snap each
finger. You will never hold your cards the same, I promise this.” Chuikov slapped those meaty hands onto his armrests and grunted as he pushed himself up.

“Mr. Chuikov, sir, I just spoke rhetorically. I’m sure you realize that.”

“No. I say what I mean and mean what I say.”

I bobbed my head and backed up as Mr. Chuikov waddled around his gigantic desk. “It’s a demonstration, sir. That’s all I’m asking for. So you’ll see that I’m not making this up. Can you imagine how many people will flock to get their pictures taken?” I swallowed hard, a vile, acidic taste burning the back of my throat. Unconsciously, I balled my fingers into fists, not to fight—Heaven’s no!—but to protect my poor hands. “Look at your walls, Mr. Chuikov. Look at all the pictures you have.”

He grinned, reminding me of a Rottweiler that had once broken its chain, rushed me and bitten my thigh. I well remember the brutish beast’s cold teeth, and the feral eyes—they were the same eyes as Boss Chuikov!

“Sir,” I said, bumping against the door, my hand snaking behind me. I twisted the doorknob, and then the bullfrog Mr. Chuikov showed why he had been such a good wrestler. He moved faster than I had expected, slamming me against the door. One pudgy hand grasped my throat, the other hand grabbed a wrist.

“Think of all the money,” I wheezed. “You can buy first shares. Doctor Hiram needs backers.” His iron-strong fingers squeezed my wrist so the bones painfully shifted. “Please, Mr. Chuikov. Aren’t you interested in knowing the color of your soul?”

He grunted, blowing his cigar-stained breath into my face, his Rottweiler eyes boring into mine. “Color?” he asked.

“Yes,” I wheezed. “The machine will show you the color of your soul. You have to see it to believe it, Mr. Chuikov. Isn’t it at least worth a look? You can always break my fingers later.”

The nastiness of his grin terrified me. How had I ever been such a fool as to play cards here? Where had the jovial Russian gone who had once lent me all that money?

“My mother always said I had no soul,” Chuikov told me. His evil, smoker’s laugh chilled my bones. “Yes. I would like to see machine. We will go now, right this moment.”

I would have nodded, but his horribly strong fingers dug into my jaw, immobilizing my head. Then he let go, stepped back, adjusted his tie and gave me a meaty thwack on the shoulder, as if nearly choking me to death had been a game.

***

The facility was off-campus, in an industrial park of nearby Oakland. Cal Berkley’s Philosophy Department had wanted nothing to do with such ‘esoteric nonsense.’ That hadn’t stopped my professor from gaining funding elsewhere. She paid a better stipend than official policy and thus I had been glad to help as her assistant. A chain-link fence and a bored gate guard provided security for a complex of concrete buildings. I showed the guard my ID and told him that Mr. Chuikov was here to check the wiring for tomorrow’s demonstration.

The guard waved us through and went back to playing his electronic game.

Fortunately, I had purloined a key earlier in the day, and my few visits to Doctor Hiram’s computer these past months had revealed the access code to the alarm system. Soon Boss Chuikov and I strode along the silent corridors, the Russian wheezing heavily beside me. His huge shoes clicked on the cement floor.

The doors were utilitarian, the place deserted. Chuikov put a hand on my arm, halting me, and then he patted his side, as if I didn’t already know that he had a gun. “If you have friends here, Paul, now would be a good time to end such foolishness.”

“Sir, it’s just three more doors down. I’m not a violent man, and I respect you too much to have asked any of my friends to try to fight you.”

He grunted, and I felt myself diminish further in his eyes. I tried to be philosophical about it, but I admit that being the butt of every bully’s roughhousing throughout grade and high school had left a bitter streak. Perhaps that’s why I had turned to gambling. I don’t know. Such an analysis was more psychological than philosophical, not my area of expertise.

I unlocked the door, tapped in the access code and flipped on the lights. That revealed a dentist-type chair, several tables full of exotic tools and calibrators and three portable energy units, with black cables snaking from them to the chair. Around that had been built a bank of consoles.

Chuikov glanced at me. Then he strode to the chair, eyeing it distrustfully.

As unobtrusively as possible, I switched on the power. The consoles lit up. The portable energy units thrummed and a whine began from the bulky box hanging over the dentist-like chair.

“How can this take a picture of my soul?”

“You’re familiar with x-ray machines?” I asked.

Chuikov grunted as he eyed the bulky box. “I never liked dentist, reminds me too much of KGB.”

“I don’t pretend to understand all of Doctor Hiram’s quantum metaphysics,” I said, “but the tests have been positive, believe me. Tomorrow, she plans to photograph the human soul and end all debate on the matter.”

Chuikov turned on me sharply. “You have not done it yet?”

“Tomorrow is the first test.”

“On an animal?”

“Do animals have souls?”

“I am not scientist nor am I priest.”

“We don’t know either,” I said. “No, Doctor Hiram hasn’t tested it on any animals. That’s a completely different area of study.”

“How do you know this is safe?”

I laughed to try to ease his discomfort. “Mr. Chuikov, please. Doctor Hiram plans the first test tomorrow. She wouldn’t attempt it if it were risky.”

“You have seen soul?”

“Uh…” Doctor Hiram was unusually secretive concerning that part of the project, as well as who backed her. But if I told Chuikov that
, it might mean a midnight ride for me to Sonoma Point with the Ukrainian Undertaker. I had fallen far behind on my payments. “Of course I have,” I lied, feeling perfectly justified. “I saw my soul the other day.”

Chuikov raised bushy eyebrows. “Describe it to me.”

I smiled. “Sir, I think it would be better if you saw it for yourself. It’s quite amazing.”

He eyed the machine. “Does it use radiation?”

“Sir, this is America, not the ex-Soviet Union. We don’t radiate our own people.”

He grunted. Then he laughed. “You will give me print? I want to send it to my mother.”

“Of course,” I said. I could never let Doctor Hiram learn about that.

“Yes! I will do it.”

I instructed him to sit in the chair and lean back. He did, gingerly at first, giving me a long, searching glance. I smiled and patted his arm. Then I swung the photonic box over his head, much as an x-ray technician used to do when I was a child at the dentist.

“Don’t move,” I said.

“Will it take long?”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Will I feel anything?”

I had no idea. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s painless.” I went to the control board, my insides seething. Would it work? Would a person feel anything, provided people even had souls? I couldn’t see why it should hurt. A regular photograph wasn’t painful.

“Ready?” I asked.

Boss Chuikov grunted.

I pressed the button. The photonic box whined and then Chuikov gave out the most soul-searing scream I’ve ever heard. I whirled around. He clutched the armrests. His face was rigid and his eyes bulged, making him look even more like a bullfrog. The odor of sweat permeated the room.

Horror filled me. What had I done? What if I turned it off and Chuikov yanked out his gun and shot me dead? So I waited, desperately trying to think of something. Then all at once the whine turned high-pitched and then abruptly cycled down. Chuikov collapsed. I raced to the machine, opened the slot. In it was a malleable marble with insides that were an oily mass.

I blinked in astonishment. Was that a picture of his soul?

Boss Chuikov stirred.

I waited, petrified.

He opened his eyes. They were blank. His face was wooden, as if all the vitality had been sucked out of it. He stared at me. Then he swung his legs out of the chair, unsteadily stood up and reached inside his suit. I heard the snap of a hostler, and in a smooth motion, he aimed a snub-nosed .38 at my midsection. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t frown, smile or use his face in any way. His features were like a Halloween mask.

“Mr. Chuikov,” I whispered. I picked up the malleable marble, thinking to show it to him. “Don’t shoot me.”

His gun hand swung down.

“Are you well?” I asked.

He stared at me with that blank look. It was an eerie sensation.

“Say something,” I said.

“What should I say?” he asked, with a dead voice, with no lilt or inflection.

I blinked. “Do you want to see the picture of your soul?”

A terrible longing flickered across his face.

“Here, look!” I said, thrusting my hand at him.

He looked, and a moan tore out of him.

“What’s wrong?” I looked at the malleable marble, at the swirling oily something within. “It worked. I didn’t lie. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, in a lifeless voice.

“Does that cover at least some of my debt?”

He said nothing and did nothing.

“It has to count for something!” I shouted.

He nodded.

“You agree then?”

“Yes.”

I frowned, and a horrible, dreadful thought struck me. I recalled as I stared at blank Boss Chuikov that olden natives used to hate Westerners taking photographs of them. The tribal peoples had believed that taking a picture was like stealing your soul. I looked at the swirling, oily mists within the marble. Was that Chuikov’s soul? The idea was bewildering. What would it mean if you held someone’s soul?

“Sit down, Mr. Chuikov,” I said, deciding to experiment.

The ex-Soviet wrestler dropped onto the floor, sitting on his flabby behind.

I turned away, stunned, sickened, realizing that I had control of Mr. Chuikov like some sorcerer. What was I supposed to do now?

***

The next morning, Doctor Miriam Hiram and I strode into the room. She had been chatting about today’s experiment. I hardly heard, too exhausted by last night’s rigorous work.

I had recalibrated the machine, gotten cleaning fluids from the guard—I held his soul in my pocket, as Boss Chuikov had convinced the guard to sit in the chair. Then the three of us had worked, switching videos in the security cameras, scrubbing the chair to rid it of Chuikov and the guard’s sweaty odor, and the guard under my direction had changed his log entries. I had discovered last night two valuable bits of information. One, in order to make them obey I had to hold their soul while giving explicit instructions. Two, after ordering them to resume normal expressions, I had re-taught them how to do it so they partly hid their zombie-like nature.

I realized, naturally, the Machiavellian aspect of my actions. It pained me to practice these deceptions, but I had a terrible certainty that Boss Chuikov would enact fierce revenge upon my person if he ever regained his soul, especially as black and oily as it was. The guard’s soul, incidentally, was maroon blue and motionless. Doctor Hiram might know what the colors and agitation or stillness meant. I did not.

Doctor Hiram halted, and she sniffed the air. “Do you smell anything odd?”

“No.”

She sniffed again. “It’s… a trace of ammonia.”

I laughed weakly. “Perhaps it’s a sign, Doctor. We should scrub the test.”