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Copyright 2001 by Jay Fisher
Not to be reproduced or copied.
For a short time, therefore, allow your thought to leave this world in order to come to see a wholly new one, which I shall cause to be born in the presence of your thought in Imaginary Spaces.
--A treatise on Light, Rene' Descartes (d. 1650)
SPEED
He hadn't always been fearless.
"Oh no, oh no, NO!" He could see through the safety net the letters on the tires spinning an illegible blur, churning right for him. There wasn't an instant to react; he clenched his teeth.
WHAM!
His chassis shuddered from the kiss of number 11, knocking a couple of fillings loose.
"Hold onto it! Gaaawd Damn!" Charlie's lips were pulled into a pair of tight fan belts across his face. "You bitch!"
His hand and arm automatically downshifted, right foot ramming thirty more horses down the throat of the gasping carb.
"Yeee Haaaa! Smoke em, baby, smoke em!" Spit splattered the inside of his face shield. He worked a gloved finger under his visor, snapped it loose, ripped it free and threw it to the floorboard. In the quivering rearview, the yellow pieces of number eleven were littering the track like leaves in an autumn windstorm. Smoke was pouring from the mass of twisted metal, dark and oily flames licking from below the wreckage like a snake trapped under a rock.
What was that? Did he feel a shudder? If this bitch is gonna fall apart, let it happen. Can't stop now, no way! His heart was keeping time with the seams in the concrete track, thumping a 250 mile an hour cadence.
Poor old number eleven, he thought, but old Charlie just couldn't let him get by. All's fair, in love and war, and all that. He didn't have time to give a shit, no time to remember how many competitors he trashed since the race started. Worry later, Buck. The turn was coming.
He came into the bank weaving a little too carelessly and he tapped on the brakes. Thin white asbestos smoke rolled under the chassis and plumed in the wash behind his lucky number 13. Charlie licked back the saliva creeping out the crack between his lips, 'cause the turn must have been, hell, at least three Gs.
It was time. Straighten the track and floor this red-assed bitch. Steaming! Rip over the asphalt, pull the wheel, rake, shove another gear, and 71 is history, its air intakes looking like two shocked, hollow eyes saying: "What the hell was that?"
"Only two more, Sills, you damn fool! I'm going to blow this engine into a mushroom cloud of fire!" It must have been those little scarlet pills he swallowed before the race; Charlie's eyes were tearing and red, his hands pounded the wheel, his temples echoed the wild rock anthem of the engine. The inside of his skin was on fire, he was trembling lightning, and bitter saw blades of anger poked his raw nerves. Yep, must have been the pills.
"Get the hell outta my way!"
If his lucky number 13 crapped out, he'd get out and carry this sonofabitch over the finish line. And kick anybody's ass that gets in my way!
Charlie's tongue shot out and made the round over his taught lips, he blinked his eyes one at a time, not chancing both of them off the track for even a fraction of a second. The roar of the V12 was deafening; unseen brilliant explosions of gasoline, alcohol, and nitromethane slammed the glowing ceramic pistons, straining to pulverize the bearings between the rod ends and the crank. Fire was flaring out the organ pipes: a row of bright blue dragon belches tipped with the spit of yellow high octane feathers.
Charlie pulled firmly on the shuddering wheel, easing his chariot between number 87 and 43 in the lead. He knew he could take them, if he could just squeeze the room. Everyone was watching. Charlie needed this win.
"After all, I'm a goddamn star!" His eyes ratcheted to the left and back, photographing the image of the pissed-off gladiator through the crash bars in number 87 as Charlie pushed ahead to the inside turn. He bit into his lip and pressed the throttle hard, foot to the firewall, and 800 anvil-flattening horses ripped the mushy treads from the melting asphalt for an instant, then bit hard into the liquid goo, pressing his ass to the seat back and easing him in front of 43. Blood trickled from his lip down the front of his fire suit. He didn't even notice the wild acrobatics of the checkered flag.
The receiver barking in his ear broke the spell. "Ok, Charlie, that's it, you got em!"
"That's it? That's all?" Charlie was still speeding, his brain trailing down the lanes like a line of alcohol fire trying to catch up to reality.
He noticed his coolant temp pushing up over 285 F, so he eased off and started braking, downshifting into the pit. The heat rolled under the chassis and into the cage, a blast furnace of hot oil, glycol, and exhaust. The cross harness held his torso back, his helmet heaved with the music of the cracks in the tarmac and the bennies bopping his neurons.
Ripping back the snaps on the net, he leapt out of the cockpit and yanked off his helmet. He spit to the ground, shot his arms to the sky; Charlie Sills had done it again. It was his name they were screaming, his badass driving that took it home.
Charlie couldn't stop shaking, wild-eyed and tense like a bug in a microwave. He tasted the hot rubber, smoke, and champagne through his teeth-clenching grin in the glory of the winner’s circle. Two bouncing baby dolls in bikinis wiped the sweat from his face and planted their plush red lips all over his cheeks.
"Damn it's hot!" He took some deep breaths and tried to slow the spinning; he was close to losing his lunch in front of 150,000 people and twirling around like an epileptic spraying maniac.
His crew admirably looked on, giving him thumbs up, fists of victory, nods of kick-ass-and-take-names recognition. The screaming engines and the squeals from the pit were drowned out by the voices of fans singing adoration. He was a living legend.
It was too good to be true.
He caught a face in the crowd behind the gate, a face of calm in the bobbing ocean of spectators. The man pushed forward to congratulate him, the crowd parted, and the stranger reached out his hand. "Good job, Mr. Sills."
Charlie shivered at the cool grip. It was pretty damn convincing.
The man took a step back. Charlie wondered: agent, owner, ad man? Why would he be carrying a bucket?
"What--" The background whine that was Charlie's brain on bennies tried to shift into higher gear. But the bennies had peaked, and his brain locked up like a seized piston. The bucket started lifting.
Charlie grinned: time to get wet. The baby dolls moved away from him; they knew. Charlie was a chump for a good joke. Ever since the guys at work told him he couldn't drive, he'd been proving them wrong, winning, tearing it up, only they never knew just how.
The liquid started to drape from the heaved pail; it was clear and golden in the blazing sunlight of his triumph.
He would show them now. The videotape of the win would play and play again in the break room. They would swear, cheer, and concede that he was one of the best racers who ever lived.
The golden brew hung in the air and through it he saw a kaleidoscope of colorful shirts of the crowd. Charlie bowed and closed his eyes, graciously and nobly accepting the christening of accomplishment.
It stung. He choked on the fumes. Gasoline.
Is this supposed to be funny? The only one smiling was the man with the empty bucket. Charlie didn't know whether to kick his ass, drop to the tarmac and roll in pain, or run. This can't be happening, not in here. I won, for God's sake! It's just a game. Some flaw . . . some glitch in the program-OUT!
"Exit 8714! Exit 8714!"
The stranger’s polished steel eyes looked down on him as Charlie Sills dropped blind, to his knees, raw fuel stinging his skin. The voice was pitiless. "Time to roll on down the road, Charlie."
The crowd fell silent and gawked as Charlie heard the sputtering ignition of one single match. There was applause . . .
A large gray fiberglass closet stood in Charlie Sills’ apartment, softly whirring a mournful mechanical lullaby. On the front, a screen flashed the words: PROGRAM COMPLETE, SHOWER? Magnetic latches released, the door eased open about an inch.
A small puff of black smoke flowered out of the opening and spread across the ceiling.
THE CACHE
There was something about the little shaman, something in his posture that made the workers obey him, even though he could be overpowered. Toquaxtl barked the commands and the obedient pushed the tzompantii into place, skulls rattling on their wooden mounts. Rows of dead eyes, honored offerings to the gods, now sitting in silence, protected from the elements in the vault. Sweat caked the grit on the laborers, alien to the dry heat. Dust billowed in rolling waves and made visible the dagger-rays of light cutting into the vault from the cave outside.
Toquaxtl, high priest, looked sadly upon the carved gems and glimmering gold statuary inlaid with creamy green jade, stone colored like his jungle, far away. The agony he felt seemed more like anger to the laborers, for they couldn't understand. Not many would; not many were chosen, and who better than he to preserve the iconic power of the emperor?
Toquaxtl's life was one of gold: essences of the master God, a soul of pure light, and within him was the love of his earth beyond any other. At 12, he saw the bow of the moon, when others knelt in awe he sang to the sky proudly. At 14, the sky split and there were two suns hiding behind the clouds. He sang again, unafraid. So the masters of knowledge took him in and gave him the secret words. He grew to feel the moods of the gods, understood why they held back the rains, spit the hot brew of mountains, and hid the sun from the fields. And knowing their jealousies, still he loved them. But why had they abandoned his family of man?
He motioned with his hand and the slave peeked from behind the polished gold mirror he held and leaned it to aim its reflecting rays on the skull rack altar. The peon shivered with a feeling of both humility and dread, realizing the last of the ornaments had been positioned in the makeshift treasury.
Toquaxtl's path had led him to a wall. All he was, everything he knew was in ruins. He prayed he would be strong enough to reach the other side of the world: the place where the gods sit among glinting waters, where he should never know hunger, or pain, or fear.
He lit the golden lamp of fire, bubbling fat and oil spat against the darkness. The cave shadows flapped among immense crystal pillars, restless spirits of the shrine hooked arms and wailed around him, dancing, melting specters yanking on their chains of gold. He squinted his sad brown eyes and nodded, knowing the big crystal columns would stop the azure treasure eaters and snap and bite any mortal foolish enough to enter this new holy place.
The workers left Toquaxtl in the dark of the hollow room, his chanting praises to the gods echoing off the sandstone walls. The notes were always with him, and from deep in his heart he cried for his people. The words were sacred, unknown even to the emperor, unfelt by any other soul.
Just outside the ragged opening, the last of the slaves and laborers waited in the long tunnel-cave and dropped their heads, covered their ears, stared fearfully at the ground. They knew that Toquaxtl's power was great, for he had pushed the minds of the bearded whites away from their caravan, dried the waters of the great river for their crossing, and caused the winds of this infernal desert to calm with his prayers. He was here because the gods willed it, and now he summoned Coyolxauhqui to complete the task.
Toquaxtl tugged the chain of gold and lifted it over his head, crying a long dismal wail; a lonely moan he sang as if death itself had abandoned him in eternal suffering. The air sizzled with electricity inside the cave. One of the slaves glanced into the room and saw the form of Toquaxtl leaning over the altar of skulls. Hollow eyes winked in the electric flame, grinning teeth gnashed in the sparkling lightning. Toquaxtl raised his hands and the slave thought he saw Coyolxauhqui herself: angry, spitting, reckoning for blood price. The slave choked on a scream and fell to his knees, gulping back his tears and trembling.
Toquaxtl led the last of the labors and slaves to the alcove entrance. He sang a soft prayer as they lined up at the ledge overlooking the deep, dry, barren canyon-of-voices. It was a low, loving melody, carried on the wings of the swallows, easing the men. He gently stroked their trek-hardened bodies, cleansing them with fragrant oils for the jaguar Tezcatlipoca who would carry them back to earth. Toquaxtl helped them down to their knees, steadying them as the whirl of sweet oil dizzied their sanity, softly melting their consciousness. The men began to see their own personal gods, beckoning to them from the other side of the canyon, pleading for their love. One slave turned his dizzy attention to Toquaxtl and told him to hurry, for his long dead wife summoned. The priest nodded, telling him to be at peace, to enter the earth like a drop of rain. It was understood.
Toquaxtl unwrapped a long obsidian blade hafted into a wood handle from a thin pink skin. He poured an essence over the cutting edge that would free the blood, then sang out over the canyon.
It was a strange, bitter land to start their journey to beyond, but most had nothing to loose after their last battle at Tenochtitlan. Toquaxtl wondered. Why had the gods allowed this travesty? Senseless, but to him a master plan must be, must reach across time and beyond his soul-- if he only knew for certain . . .
Toquaxtl moved behind them one at a time, and with practiced efficiency snapped the blade across their throats, pushing them gently into the sky, ignoring the flight of their flailing, bleeding bodies that slammed into the ground far below.
When he was finished, his singing stopped. He was alone. He returned to the vault entrance deep in the cave and mortared the last stone in place. More prayers to the sun, to the brilliant orange power that was crawling beneath the earth and leaving him to darkness. The drink of painlessness dribbled out of a skin bag into his dry throat. He leaned his back against the mortared door and raised his knife in tears.
This was everything he was meant to be.
The blade, a living talon of the gods, struck his chest in an instant circular motion, decisive and complete. With a flood of thick red blood, his heart dropped to the dusty floor.
THE SOLDIER
The shell screamed over them like an invisible, merciless raptor of death.
"Get down, dammit! Get down!" Robert yelled and dived, face down, into a depression in the weeds.
The mortar round exploded at his right, showering him with stinging debris.
"Ouch!"
A twisted branch slammed into the middle of his broad back. For a second, the thought he was hit. He kept his head low, looking around for the rest of the squad. "Moore!"
"Yo!" The young black man held the floppy hat against his curly hair and crawled frantically toward him. When he was almost there, he stopped and picked up a severed hand, blown clear in the falling debris. "Shit, no!"
The big man shook his head. "Who?"
"Wes, I think." "Sergeant, we've got to get out of here, now!"
Sergeant David Moore slithered over to the giant young buck. "Goddamn intelligence. Bad."
Another shell wailed, they hunkered down, and it slammed into the ground, spitting fire and rattling their teeth.
"We're cut off!" The staccato bursts from a chorus of AK-47s were getting louder. They watched leaves being severed from the jungle by an invisible scatter of flying lead.
"We've got to go through. Now. Otherwise, we'll be buried in this hole."
The black Sergeant slapped the big man on the back. "I know. Cavendish, I know. "
A man came running, stumbling from behind them. They raised their weapons, then pulled away as he threw himself down on top of them. They held him still while he screamed.
"Jesus Christ! There must be a thousand dinks in the village! And they're all over the rise! How are we gonna get outta here?"
Sergeant Moore looked around, ignoring his question. "Gabe, what about the others? Lewis and Bobby?"
Gabe shook his head. "Lewis musta took twenty rounds when we first got close to the village. And Bobby . . . a mortar."
"Shit, we're it. I don't like this boys, but we might have to just charge through. "
"Charge through? A fucking wall of gooks?"
A mortar hissed and whined and they pulled together. It exploded six feet from them and they were knocked senseless. When Sergeant Moore gathered the dim strands of his sanity, the war was still banging and thumping away. The big Cavendish was holding Gabe's limp body. Gabe was still breathing.
Sergeant Moore didn't have to say a word; Bob Cavendish stood and pulled Gabe over his huge shoulders like a wet rag, jumped up and ran through the weeds. Moore followed, darting back and forth, dodging invisible bullets.
They had made it almost 200 yards when they hit the other line, the line of NVA that had cut them off.
Moore swore under his breath. How did they know? A setup.
Cavendish charged through like a giant mad bear, somehow missing the meeting with the shower of lead, sweeping his M14 in front of him like he was hosing a sidewalk. He grunted Gabe on his back, never missing a step through the jungle litter and over the wet rocks. Sergeant Moore was right beside him, cleaning off the right flank, like he had planned his chance hits. All three of them were close enough to hear the commands of the enemy, and knew that more mortars would be brought to meet them.
They just kept running.
Cavendish felt the blast and heat as the explosion knocked them to the ground. Stunned and staggering, he turned to pick up Gabe and saw Sergeant David Moore ablaze in white phosphorus, writhing on the ground like a lizard in burning gasoline. Cavendish raced to him and wrestled the black man down, pulling out his rusty Ka-bar and slicing the straps on the pack of Willie Pete that clung to Moore in burning fury. The chemical splattered and spat great globs of fiery boiling goo all over both of them and Cavendish screamed raw pain. He whipped most of it off Sergeant Moore with his Ka-bar, the stuff getting really angry when it hit the metal knife and burned through the blade.
A quick assessment by the giant Cavendish: Moore was unconscious, but alive.
Cavendish knew the couldn't leave both his injured buddies, no, couldn't leave even one of them if there was a chance in hell that they could recover. The insignia they wore was the flesh-eating skull of MACV-SOG, and the NVA would take special care to assure a slow and horrifying death to any of them captured. So he pulled David Moore up over his charred shoulders and onto his back roaring in pain. He grabbed Gabe in his arms like a baby and hobbled toward the pick-up point. His M14 was still in his hands, and the clip dug into Gabe's gut, but he was too unconscious to mind. Cavendish carried on.
About 100 feet from the clearing, he could see the blades of the chopper through the net of jungle green. Thankfully, Wes had got the call off before he bought it.
"Thanks, Wes." Maybe we'll make it.
Then, maybe not. A blast erupted in front of him and Gabe's body slammed Cavendish, knocking them back twenty feet into a tree. He screamed in agony as his burned back hit the ragged bark. Sergeant Moore tumbled into the brush.
Cavendish grabbed his groin and screamed in pain. Not there! He couldn't bear to think of the damage, it was a mass of bloody tissue. No, not even that would stop him, not this damn close. He grabbed Moore and slung him over his shoulders like a big bag of flour and looked for Gabe. He found him in several pieces, bits laying among the blood-stained leaves on the ground. "Gabe--"
The hit Gabe took saved the giant soldier's life.
Cavendish turned for the chopper, sprinting through the drifting smoke from the mortar blast. Cavendish pitched Moore's body into the bird and scrambled up.
"Go! Go!"
The gunner stared. "What about--" "No! They're gone. All gone! Let's go!"
In the air, he started to become stupid, drunk, sick from the pain of his burns and exhaustion, but he still fawned over Sergeant Moore. David Moore opened his eyes.
"That you. Cavendish?"
"Yeah, right here."
David coughed. "You know, you big brute, what the squad called you behind your back?"
"No, what?"
"B.C. Like a cave man." He choked. "B.C." The sergeant slipped away-
Imaginary Spaces Copyright 1999 by Jay Fisher
Not to be reproduced or copied.
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