Wildcard (61 page)

Long minutes passed. The wind calmed some,
but was still fierce, the time attacks were almost gone. Not too
far on the cut, it must be done perfectly.

Why does he think so? Just get it done with
mother and child alive.

do it perfectly.
He folded the knife.

Reaching for the baby, he lost focus,
looked, and remembered. Hands in the belly, he found the baby,
gentle. Chaos and wind, the storm played around.

Screaming, he was attacked by time again,
pasts ripped by tried to claim his mind. He lost the space. So many
choices. Change the past. Orders, find the baby, head, further in,
legs… torso, easy, slowly, he held the mind, calm.

Why was he doing this?

Where was he?

His body was still, and he
remembered.
Karl
.
He removed the baby. Fluids spilled out, real, as it happens. His
hands were covered in sticky blood.

He was being pummeled by different pasts. He
killed the baby Karl, they were trapped in the cell forever with
this Wound. He killed the baby Karl, the box closed with a scream,
he could still make the choice. He was a boy again living with
Marta in the center, or with Hazel and the old man

The wound. He began to cry, saw the blood,
the knife, the infant’s head in his sticky hands poking from the
wound in the Poet’s belly. He was here now; he cut the choices of
the past.

Karl, I am so sorry, my
brother, my friend.
He was crying freely,
and hated himself for what he had to do. He took the baby from the
womb, opened the little scissors on the knife, cut the cord, cut
the cord inside the mother. He tied it off with a thread pulled
from the Poet’s sweater. The baby was not breathing. He popped it
on the back to start it. Poor thing, why would it want to start
breathing?

Pasts broke in, he was with Karl on the
ship, the Mechanic appeared, stepping obscenely out of Karl’s body
into the nano-ship. He threw the knife, blade opened without
conscious thought, across the ship, through the invisible lattice,
knowing where it was, 6 meters, childsplay. The knife spun and
buried itself in the Mechanic’s neck, killing him before he killed
Karl.

Wrong choice. He let Karl die on the ship,
changed nothing, watched his friend go knowing that saving him
would only make it worse somehow, and stepped back out of that
relived memory and into this room with this bloody, not breathing
infant.

Now, with the box, here, he tasted the
desperation, the fear, the horror that made the others grab at the
past choices, grab at any way to get away from the screams and the
hell of this wound. He was born for this moment, Wildcard created
him to do this one thing, and for the thousandth time since the box
opened he accepted his fate.

His body was still, mind whipping. He
stilled the mind, settled into the present, accepted the madness.
He opened to the Wound.

The baby was blue, not breathing. Finger in
mouth, he got it. Cuff on the back, the infant coughed, then
breathed. Happy skull shirt, he took it off, wiped the baby,
wrapped it, clothing, armour, any protection at all.

“Karlton,” he said, “at least you have a
name.”

He tore off and stuffed a
piece of shirt into the Poet’s wound to stop the blood. Holding the
baby with one arm, he stood, turned to the box.
Karl, No. Forgive me, Karl
. He could
step back in time, kill the baby. He could spare the child this
fate. That would only make it worse; how could it be worse?
Wildspace, anything can happen.

It could be worse.

He focused on the baby, wrapped himself
around the baby, held him tight, looked down, moved toward the box,
stepped, then ran.

“God, Karl, I am so sorry.”

He knew the hidden path, the million to zero
chance, knew the crib would not budge, could not be moved, not in a
hundred thousand years. He was in the center, with Karl, they were
children, boys, with Martha, he almost chose that past. He wanted
to, more than anything, but could not. Another Sergeant made that
choice, somehow all the choices were fulfilled, but someone must
choose the impossible thing that has to happen. Out of all the
Sergeant’s splitting out from the merging of Wildspace and the
realm of man, he has drawn the shortest straw. Bad luck.

RJ came around, saw the grown Sergeant. How?
When? He was dreaming of Martha, living in the center. He chose
peace. Why was he here?

The Sergeant leapt, impossibly high, right
leg drawn up. No one could leap that high. He cradled something in
his arms. He fell, onto the crib in the box, and foot struck, body
twisting in martial perfection, his voice sliced through the chaos,
“Kai.” He smashed the crib, shattered with foot and voice and mind.
He fell, but his body shredded millimeter by millimeter, flying
into light as it entered. RJ was horrified, could not imagine the
pain. Time went away, held the Sergeant on the point of the cruel
disintegration, legs, hips, stomach exploding, minced by
angstroms.

Still, he cradled the baby, protecting it to
the last. The Sergeant shouted in anger, but not at the agony. He
was angry because he was denied Karl’s fate, because he could not
protect it. He was angry because the baby faced the Wound alone. RJ
saw as if written on his hand the tragic prophecy of Wildcard. The
Sergeant is angry because he got it wrong.

But the Sergeant could not see the legs of
the boy Sergeant falling into the box. Or perhaps the Sergeant is
shouting, trying to find the way where he, not the boy, will carry
the infant to its fate. In agony, he sought the hidden way.

Then all three were gone.

The howling diminished. He crawled to the
box, pushed it closed. The Poet bled on a rug; LuvRay was dead;
Dartagnan was nowhere. RJ leaned against the box, sobbing. His body
slid to the floor as he fell unconscious.

Martha played with CJ, thought about RJ. She
hoped she would dream about him that night. But she was pregnant
from a recent visit and knew she would not. They had met again in
dreams, unpredictably timed, in the years since the group had come
to the center. A few months back, the last dream and maybe another
child on the way. RJ had aged gracefully. 8-ball world was his home
by temperment, the place where he thrived.

But he always said he wanted to stay with
her. That he loved her.

The first time they had only made love
without words.

The next time they spoke.

“You know you won’t be going back to Earth,
RJ. You won’t die in the human world.”

He didn’t seem bothered by it. “I think
8-ball world was invented for me. In part.”

“Hmm. I wonder if he made the center for
me.”

“If you ask me, I think so.” He slid his
hand along the curve of her hip. “Or he made it for me to come
visit you and get you pregnant.” He slapped her bareness lightly,
then said. “Tell me about our child.”

But it was a dream and she hadn’t remembered
anything about Solomon at the time. She always wondered if she
would see RJ again, each time they met. Martha had other lovers,
occasionally. People passed through the center, some needed love in
that way. And if they needed that, she found she wanted to offer
it. But none of them were RJ. None of them were meant to be her
child’s father.

Solomon, their son, would leave soon, go out
into the great depths. She could feel it, his yearning to leave. He
was seventeen, and had met only the few people who had come through
the center. He was a young man, desperate to meet the wide world.
She was heartbroken, doubted that she would see him again after he
left. And she feared for his fate, knowing what had befallen the
others.

She took Wildsong off the shelf, just a
feeling. She didn’t read it frequently anymore. But it called her
tonight, wanting to be read. Wildcard needed to speak to her.

CJ lay sprawled and open at her feet. He was
beginning to age, and roamed less and less. He stayed at the house
almost every night now, usually sleeping on the porch. He seemed
more protective now, which made her think she was pregnant. She
wondered what he could possibly be protecting her from. Maybe he
remembered the death of the old couple in some way.

She looked out the window at the falling
snow. The old couple hadn’t had snow, really. She opened the
book.

battle calm

i have learned the secret of weather

whether from their parting or your
arrival

i do not know

i am happy that you commune with me
tonight

i love each moment you can bear to look at
my true face

for none else can

i bring news

we have found the battle calm

the place within war beyond battle or within
battle beyond war

i would share it with you

but would spare you forever more the pain of
learning such hard truths

did you find it in your days of horror

?do you know the place where hell turns to
peace

i will heed you anytime

when midnight air carries sound clear from
distant leagues

i will speak to you whenever you wish

we have many faces

but there is one which cannot endure to look
away from you

our true face sleeps as you sleep

and wakes with you

shakes itself into the dawn as it holds you
in our desperate love

our better part dances with you in the cool
evening

and lives in the shade of your smile

we are your servant

bent, by your grace, to your need

you have stepped past all illusion of good
and bad

and now your heart feels good

you have dropped small notions of right and
wrong

now everything about you is right

your movement succors us in our infinity of
dark need, yearning, and sadness

your sweet savour teaches me why i am in
this world

thank you for staying

Wildcard

That night she dreamed of Karl.

-end-

Wildcard is my first of many books (I’ve
written 8 now). It’s my science fiction world. I love it - and I
loved writing these characters - the Sergeant, Martha, Karl, :3:,
D’Artagnan, and Wildcard itself. I’ve got the sequel out -
The Song of Solomon
and had
a fantastic time writing it. Imo, it’s even better than Wildcard. I
hope so - it’s my 3
^rd
book! Writers should get
better.

I’ve gotten lots of input about the various
characters and the writing. I’d love to hear from you, and so would
everyone else! If you liked Wildcard, please take a minute and give
it a good
review
. Indie authors live
and die by reviews, so please keep us alive! Your review is very
important. It’s tough as a coffin nail to get a book off the
ground, but lots of reviews really helps. Your opinion matters;
please put it out there. Click
here
to go straight
there.

If you want to tell me directly what you
think was good or what needed improvement, tap me at
[email protected]
- I’d
love to hear from you. Thanks again for reading,

yours,

Kelly Mitchell

…go…

Solomon left in the night, fearing he would
be unable if he had to say goodbye. He wrote his mother a note, and
walked out the door with CJ, the dog. He walked slow, through the
woods, playing fetch. The dog chased the sticks which he rarely did
anymore. Normally, he just looked at them and leaned against
Solomon’s legs, or laid down and slept.

He sat by the river; CJ lay down, head upon
his lap. He reached into his pack, felt a book that he had not
known was there. He had not brought a book. He pulled it out, a
leather journal. Letters were burned into the cover.

The Song of Solomon.

Inside the cover, he recognized his mother’s
perfect cursive.

Solomon, my beautiful son,

I celebrate your journey into the world;
your parting brings me sadness at the same time.
As a
mother, I must worry.
Perhaps it has no meaning, but I have
seen so much of darkness and pain in my life.
So much
loss.

Now I lose you, though I know you must
go.
You can never return, as you know already.
I must
say it, though, so that no slight evasion will mar what we
shared.

Be careful.
Outside of our
wonderful world, peace is not the rule.
Openness and our
special freedom cannot be found in the plentiful abundance to which
you are accustomed.
Being who you are, strange forces will
seek you.

A line of
wildsong
comes to
mind.

‘
Your pain in its depth is your joy in
its life.’

We will not meet again.
Watching
you grow and knowing that this day would come has been Wildcard’s
most cruel blessing.
Or perhaps it is just the way of
existence, that children must leave home.

I love you so much, and ever remain,

your mother

“I love you, too, mom.” His eyes were moist.
“I miss you already.”

An excellent pen, the case made of blue
stone with rims of silver at the joint of the cap and the body, was
clipped inside the binding, which seemed rounded for the pen
itself. He felt the fine leather and the heavy pages, smelled the
book. It smelled of the center, the home he was leaving forever. It
smelled classic, and good, and true. His mother had spoken of
cheaply made things, mass-produced was the word, which were all the
same. She had referred to them with a mild repugnance.