Double Take: Division By Zero 5

x/0 : 5

© 2018 MiFiWriters, All Rights Reserved

Published by MiFiWriters

Holland, Michigan

mifiwriters.org

Print ISBN: 978-1-387-44932-3

ePub ISBN: 978-1-387-45938-4

Cover Art by Digital Dreaming

If I’m not me, then who the hell am I?

        — Douglas Quaid (Total Recall)

Welcome to the fifth installment of Division By Zero! The book you hold in your hands (or peruse via some electronic device), is the culmination of much effort, time, and love. But that’s not why we think you’ll enjoy it. We think you’ll enjoy it because it features the work of talented authors―their stories, full of other-worldly imagination.

For this year’s theme, Double Take, we encouraged authors to explore concepts and themes around masks, false/mistaken identities, mirrors, clones, and the like. As always, we were eager to see how authors applied (stretched?) the general guidelines in new and wonderful ways, and we weren’t disappointed.

This is the point where some might expect me to lay out an examination of Carl Jung and his idea of persona, diving deep on how the person we present in a given circumstance (with family, or at work, or on a first date) not only obscures our true selves from those around us, but also from ourselves. I could expound on how easy it is to come to believe these masks we present to the world are our true self, or I could take the opposite position and question whether there is a substantive, functional difference.

This would similarly be a good place to bring up the mask traditions of Native American tribes, or the many traditions of Africa, or, truly, indigenous people the world over. I could contrast the roles masks play in different cultures, from the masks of a Venetian Carnival to the calavera of the celebrations surrounding Dia de los Muertos .

I could do any or all of these things, but far more knowledgeable people have written countless articles on the subject, and any of their pieces of greater erudition than I could manage in a thousand words. In fact, I can be fairly certain that were you interested in such examinations, you would be holding a book of that ilk rather than this, our devotional of the speculativerse.

But you hold this book, which tells me you are open to exploring the themes and traditions of self, of identity, and of persona in what I might argue to be the most engaging of ways: depicted in story. And what is fiction, but a mask on reality itself? With that understanding, let me spend my remaining words on an invitation.

Looking at things from one vantage, all stories, even those beyond the confines of this collection, are an exploration of identity. Stories are a metaphor, a narrative analog to our real world. As with all metaphor, there is a this-ness to the thing―the literal, abstractly-concrete identity that transcends linguistic definition―and then there is an other-ness, as well. The river is life. The boat, a haven. The road, a journey of growth. The frozen lake, a heart given over to our coldest emotions.

If we start there, then the stories you are about to read are reflective of our own lives, no matter if they take place in space, at the bottom of the ocean, in another dimension, or in a wholly different world. In identifying with a character, we take on their desires, their struggles, and their challenges. We cry with their losses and rejoice with their triumphs. To put a fine point on it, we wear their mask for a while. We see, in them, our struggles. Our desires. Our losses. Our triumphs.

And when we finish that story, when we remove that mask, we have hopefully learned something about ourselves―about our true selves―because we have tapped into that communal, shared language of symbol, universal from one person to the next. The collective unconscious, as Jung described it.

There, I managed to work old Carl in, after all.

Fantastic stories await you. Read on. Lose yourself, and, in that loss, find yourself. It may just be the cheapest therapy session you can find.

—Tim Rohr, Editor

XU LIN's EYES TRAVELED down the first list, then wandered over the second, trying to find his foe among the reeds of numbers and figures. He knew the notes and scratching that raced across the rice paper were correct. He had even gone to the extreme of having the intelligence reports run a second time.

Aside from getting two weeks longer, nothing had changed.

It didn’t make sense.

The Daimyo prepares for war, but his soldiers have no one to fight. Xu Lin’s mind wandered over the information, trying to see a pattern in the random collection of tabulated actions. No matter how many preparations he makes, he would never have the resources to attack the united might of those united under me, the Shogun. He is but one small piece―

At the crunch of gravel, Xu Lin looked up from the report.

The outlines of the two guards outside his office were clearly visible, even with the dusk’s setting light. Soon the sound of sandals on stone shifted to the creak of steps layered with the light tinkle of bells, and another form rose up between the two stolid silhouettes. Step by step, the shape grew, his own personal shadow play, until a much slimmer form graced the walkway outside his door, shorter in stature than the guards by more than a hand.

At his word, one of the soldiers slid the panel aside, showing the face and form of a woman. She was well dressed for her station, with fine embroidery running the length of the sleeves, a dull red blossom with subtle purple hues lay tucked behind one ear. It took him but a moment to take her in, every detail cataloged away. Others would have missed things, but he did not. He saw the tattered edge of the hem, the small red stain at the elbow, the slight favoring to the left as she placed the tea on the table, reaching awkwardly around a bowl of rice. She was another piece to the unseen puzzle.

She had been in his home for only a few days, a gift from the very man whose action Xu Lin had just been trying to decipher. What a strange exchange, where she had come unbidden with only a small note of introduction from her previous master, mere days after Lin had sent spies to that very region to ferret out the truth. They may even have passed on the road. But the reports were long in coming, and he would have to make do with her for the time being. His Seneschal had reported on her initial review, saying she was intelligent for a woman. Perhaps the Daimyo had mistakenly allowed her to see some small piece of his grand plan. Perhaps it was the piece he needed.

Twin tendrils of steam curled up from the cup of freshly poured black tea and bowl of chirashizushi. Minutes passed with Xu Lin completely engrossed in thought, staring at the unflinching woman, neither speaking nor allowing her dismissal. It wasn’t until he discovered an empty cup and bowl before him that he woke from his deliberation. His own plan in place, he dismissed the guards and finally spoke to the woman.

Tell me of your lord.

You are my lord, Master Xu.

A smile crept unbidden to his lips, and the room seemed to brighten at her words. No, my lady. I speak of the man who sent you to me, my new ‘Beautiful Lady.’ The woman flinched at the words, which surprised him a bit. They were not his words; they were her old feudal lord’s, written as a formal title on her letter of introduction. Apparently, it was a bit of a surprise to the woman as well. What can you tell me of Daimyo Nu. I understand that you were with him for many years. You must have an opinion of him. I would have you share it with me.

As my lord wishes. Would you care to know my humble opinion of Nu as a man, a leader, or a warrior? she asked, her voice calm and quiet.

I would have all that you know.

Eyes lowered, the woman became still. Minutes passed as she contemplated her response, or maybe debated her words, silent in her glassy countenance. Lin grew uncomfortable waiting for her, and opened his mouth to intrude when she broke the silence. It is my most humble opinion that Daimyo Shosa Nu is a man of men. He is a leader who follows all. He is a warrior alone. Xu Lin’s heart began to race. There was thought behind the words. This woman very well may be the clue he had hoped for.

Steadying himself to give no hint of his thoughts, he took a moment as if in contemplation of her words, pushing a slight grin to his lips as though indulging her before saying, Please, continue.

Shosa Nu is a man of men, she replied, her eyes still downcast. He has made a pilgrimage into the lives of those whom he has guardianship over. He has taken it upon himself to master every skill and task of those under him, gaining knowledge for the sake of knowledge. By knowing a task, he gains insight into the man who performs it. With this insight, he builds a bond with the people beyond that of all others I have seen.

The woman’s words rang true with the reports Lin had already received. The loyalty shown in Nu’s province was amazing, even by Lin’s own generous standards, although he had not known the source of such an allegiance. Even the lowest of merchants had resisted the ways of his spies, and now he had been given the first clue as to how it was done.

Nu had been foolish to let such a detail slip.

It may even be the key to his undoing.

Shosa Nu is a leader who follows all, the woman continued. He sees the value of all people, and in all life. He has told me that each encounter, each passing in the street, is a lesson. He is of the opinion that failing to learn from these is a waste of some part of life.

Lin almost rejected the woman’s words, so steeped in silly sentiment, until his keen mind caught onto the nature of the statement. The woman was speaking of her old master’s personal thoughts and beliefs. Such thinking could not possibly be admitted in the open court or in passing, or all would think Shosa Nu a fool. Had this woman had… other access to the man? A more intimate contact than a mere court attendant, one privy to Nu’s personal contemplations? Would she know more?

Shosa Nu is a warrior alone, the woman intoned, almost taking on the somber sound of prayer as she finally lifted her eyes to the Shogun. The bond he has formed with his people is not without its cost. He feels the loss of each man under his command as he would mourn the loss of a brother. He would fight an army single-handed if it meant a better life for his people. Never would he ask another to risk themselves if he himself were not willing to take such a risk. As the final sentence left her lips, the woman’s voice faltered slightly, brimming with emotion. Her eyes fluttered down to the floor again, once again fell silent before the Shogun’s gaze.

What kind of realm would this be with Nu doing everything himself? Xu Lin said, no longer able to restrain himself. That is no way to run a land, a battle, or lead the people. He is the leader! He can’t follow the suggestion and whim of every peasant he comes across. The emperor entrusted the land to him, not the common folk.

I said he listens and learns, my lord. I did not say he obeys. His plans are his own. Her voice was calm again, but there was a firmness in it that had not been there during the passionate recitation mere moments before.

Xu Lin was slightly taken aback at the tone, but then one word struck him… plan. If Nu truly saw the world as this woman described, then this was the reason for his massive preparations. He would make every effort to protect his troops and give them all the support he could muster. But, if that was true, then the visible arrangements Xu Lin had discovered would be dwarfed by the ones under the surface, those he could not find. Xu Lin cursed the tardiness of the spies. If only he had a clearer picture of Shosa Nu’s intentions.

Do you know what your previous master plans to do with his army?

I do. Her voice was quiet, but the force of the words made Xu Lin’s head swim. He reached for the teacup to slake his intense thirst, but found the cup still empty.

What are they? he blurted. He is preparing for war, but against whom?

Most of the present resources are being set aside for defense. The first task will be the closing of his borders, so most of his energy is spent stockpiling supplies, the things he needs but will not be able to get once the lines of supply are severed. In a fortnight, most of the initial chaos will have burnt itself out, and his armies will emerge from their entrenchment, rested, armed, provisioned, and equipped. They will ride through the kingdom as a scythe through wind-blown wheat.

Chaos? What chaos? What is happening in a fortnight? Xu Lin asked. What could possibly cause such an uproar that all my united feudal lords would scatter? He waved his hand firmly to the side. I would never allow such a thing to happen!

True words, my lord. It was determined that you would not. That is why you have been dealt with. Slowly, the woman raised her eyes from the floor. Dead eyes. Cold eyes. The timid spark from before was gone, replaced with the eyes of the grave. For a moment, Xu Lin could even see the image of white skulls swimming in their depths. With growing dread, he rose to his feet, words and spittle flying from his mouth.

Who would challenge me? You? A simple woman? I shall cut you down, demon. What makes you think a pitiful thing like you could ever think of defeating me?

My lord, I killed you twenty five minutes ago. Quiet words. A whisper on the evening. As though springing from the darkness, agony ripped through his abdomen and buckled his knees. The guards. Why were the guards not attacking her? The woman’s cold eyes followed the Shogun’s terrified gaze, then returned to his face. You sent them away, my lord. You did not want simple guards to overhear the secrets you were about to cleverly extract from a mere woman.

Numb hands grasped uselessly at the sword at his side. Xu Lin managed to start drawing the weapon by bracing his clenched fists under the tsuka, but another spasm of pain made the fuchi slip, glossy steel sliding smoothly through his own knuckles and bone. Blood dripped like thunder in his ears as the tips of his fingers fell to the earth.

A Beautiful Lady, my lord. Bella Donna, in the tongue of the West. The deadly Nightshade. It is not my title to which my lord was speaking, but another gift for you. The woman took the odd flower from behind her ear, letting the blossom fall to the floor. Did you enjoy your tea? Black tea is the only one I could find strong enough to mask the taste.

A final shudder brought him fully to the floor, his back throbbing in one great wave of agony, rolling him into a ball. His vision shimmered, and Xu Lin―the Shogun, the High General of the Emperor’s Great Southern Line―sat prostrate, barely able to make out the shape of sandals as they approached.

Light sensitivity, a racing heart, a sudden thirst, the voice continued. And then, pain. All these thing speak of her approaching embrace.

Summoning the last of his strength, it was all Xu Lin could do to roll his head back, the blinding light of the room shrouding the approaching form in silhouette as it stood over him. The dark form knelt beside him, a cool hand coming to rest on his burning forehead, turning his face fully into the blinding light. Then the hand lifted, and the shadow figure leaned over Xu Lin, holding, in each fist, a chopstick.

Through the eyes, I think, said the gentle voice, and then darkness came.

Nathan Bauer, when not pondering new patent possibilities or trying to engineer himself out of a paper bag, can be found hunkered over his keyboard, plotting the demise of entire civilizations.

His home off the shore of Lake Michigan is presently occupied by three mostly-behaved children, and more half-finished projects then his wife would prefer.

OVER BY THE SCHOOL ROCKERY, Morgan was busy stoving in someone’s head with a brick. That guy who worked in the pizza place was lying in a pool of his own blood, his hand bent back unnaturally, all the fingers broken and pointing at the sky. Blood was gushing in a scarlet geyser from Old Scrapyard Henry’s throat; his attacker, licking the spoon he had used to dig out the carotid, was howling at the merciless sun. Wilson, the Biology teacher, slumped on the grass, his former pupils tearing open his chest as if trying to reveal just what it was he had been banging on about all these years: And everywhere the screams of parents and children alike.

Anyway you cared to dress it up, Sports Day had gone horribly wrong.

A stench caught Gideon’s nose, brought his senses into focus with its gut-wrenching assault. He spun to see, amid the carnage, the egg lying broken on the playing field close to the finishing line: the hefty black egg he’d brought specially from the farm that morning to use in the Parents Egg N’ Spoon race. He had intended to win that race and finally get one over on Morgan; though Morgan, his head cracked open like an egg itself, was beyond caring now.

From the broken shards of shell something was crawling, something shiny and many legged, its slow progress allowing its thick platelet skin to dry in the sun as it emerged.

Madge was behind this, Gideon was sure of it; he hadn’t seen his wife in months, not until last night, and suddenly this… And, to think, the morning had started with such hope and plans for petty victory.

He was glad Madge was gone. It was her fault the Boy was so frail and sickly in the first place; as soon as she left, the Boy came on in leaps and bounds. If only Gideon had paid more attention to what was going on under his nose, but he had been so busy around the farm (the Boy, the son he’d wanted to show the ropes, had been a hindrance, at best) he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

No doctors for Madge. No, she had always been one for country cures and hedgerow mumbo-jumbo, filling the Boy with strange broths that only made him weaker; pouring old wives’ tales into his mind that only made him timid and jumpy. And when the Boy was at his lowest ebb, lying in bed like a little wax doll, Gideon had found