face.
“Mr. Pierce. Tea?”
“No thank you.” He was a middle-aged man, or at least what had once served as middle age, before she had shown them the possibilities that existed between the stars. He placed his hat on the tabletop, tried to appear relaxed as he sat back in his chair, unbuttoned his jacket.
“Cigarette?” She held her metal case out to him, but he shook his head and waved her off.
“So what brings you down?”
He looked away from her, at these blank walls carved into rock, at the generally-featureless home of this non-woman. Eventually his gaze swung back to her face, that perfect, beautiful face that he loved and feared.
“Mr. Pierce, what is it?” Her voice had taken on an edge, and he knew that if he insisted on his silence, she would further hone that voice to cut into his mind.
“It’s the child, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed as she sat forward in the chair. “What about the child?”
“She’s starting to realize—Well, she knows that she’s different.”
“Of course she’s different.”
“Yes, but... Have you been contacting her?”
She tapped her fingertips in succession across the desktop, each nail issuing a crisp rap that echoed in the cold stone expanse. “What do you mean?”
Pierce cleared his throat. “One of our angels reports that Lily says she hears voices in her head. In her dreams. She knows far too much already.”
“No. She doesn’t know nearly enough. It’s time that we introduce her to her purpose in life.” She took a thoughtful sip of tea. “It’s time I meet with her.”
Pierce swallowed nervously, sat upright in his chair.
“Bring Lily to me.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“What?” She looked as if she had been slapped at the utterance of the appellation.
Pierce immediately turned a deep shade of red. He sat up in his seat, his hands instinctively wringing together once more. “I’m sorry, it just slipped out. I—”
“What did you call me?” She knew full well what he had said, but simply wanted to hear it again.
Pierce swallowed hard, the old man folds of flesh at his neck bobbing up and down. “Mother.” His voice was a whisper.
“And what is my name?”
“Maire.”
“And what will you call me from now on, Mister Pierce?” She leaned toward him, silver swirls clouding her irises as she frowned.
“Maire.”
“Thank you, Mister Pierce. Now go.”
He grabbed his hat, awkwardly bowed, and nearly jogged out the open door, held by the Artificial. Maire signaled the machine to leave her alone, and the door shut.
It was time that she met the girl. After centuries of waiting, it was time.
The Widow Windham fumbled with the key in the lock, fumbled, fumbled, dropped the keychain, retrieved it, finally succeeded in insertion, twist, and entry into her home. She accomplished this all as her son stood at her side, carefully holding the brown paper bag that held their daily allotment of food rations. He said nothing, and made no move to help his mother open the door. Although he was only seven, he knew that he should simply stand in silence and allow her to solve the problem of shaking hands and slippery key all by herself.
Hunter followed his mother into the dark flat, dark because of the forever twilight of the dying skies and dark because of the heavy drapes that she never pulled back from the windows anymore. He lugged the bag into the kitchen and waited patiently until his mother took the meager supply of groceries from him and placed them on the tabletop. As soon as his burden was gone, he pulled back a chair and sat at the table while his mother opened cupboards, arranged new cans with old, new boxes with old, and he wondered if they would ever eat that can of lima beans or that box of instant mashed potatoes. He supposed that if the Troubles continued long enough, all they would have to eat would be lima beans and mashed potatoes.
His mother took the long, lean loaf of bread from the grocery sack and placed it on the
“Mr. Pierce. Tea?”
“No thank you.” He was a middle-aged man, or at least what had once served as middle age, before she had shown them the possibilities that existed between the stars. He placed his hat on the tabletop, tried to appear relaxed as he sat back in his chair, unbuttoned his jacket.
“Cigarette?” She held her metal case out to him, but he shook his head and waved her off.
“So what brings you down?”
He looked away from her, at these blank walls carved into rock, at the generally-featureless home of this non-woman. Eventually his gaze swung back to her face, that perfect, beautiful face that he loved and feared.
“Mr. Pierce, what is it?” Her voice had taken on an edge, and he knew that if he insisted on his silence, she would further hone that voice to cut into his mind.
“It’s the child, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed as she sat forward in the chair. “What about the child?”
“She’s starting to realize—Well, she knows that she’s different.”
“Of course she’s different.”
“Yes, but... Have you been contacting her?”
She tapped her fingertips in succession across the desktop, each nail issuing a crisp rap that echoed in the cold stone expanse. “What do you mean?”
Pierce cleared his throat. “One of our angels reports that Lily says she hears voices in her head. In her dreams. She knows far too much already.”
“No. She doesn’t know nearly enough. It’s time that we introduce her to her purpose in life.” She took a thoughtful sip of tea. “It’s time I meet with her.”
Pierce swallowed nervously, sat upright in his chair.
“Bring Lily to me.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“What?” She looked as if she had been slapped at the utterance of the appellation.
Pierce immediately turned a deep shade of red. He sat up in his seat, his hands instinctively wringing together once more. “I’m sorry, it just slipped out. I—”
“What did you call me?” She knew full well what he had said, but simply wanted to hear it again.
Pierce swallowed hard, the old man folds of flesh at his neck bobbing up and down. “Mother.” His voice was a whisper.
“And what is my name?”
“Maire.”
“And what will you call me from now on, Mister Pierce?” She leaned toward him, silver swirls clouding her irises as she frowned.
“Maire.”
“Thank you, Mister Pierce. Now go.”
He grabbed his hat, awkwardly bowed, and nearly jogged out the open door, held by the Artificial. Maire signaled the machine to leave her alone, and the door shut.
It was time that she met the girl. After centuries of waiting, it was time.
The Widow Windham fumbled with the key in the lock, fumbled, fumbled, dropped the keychain, retrieved it, finally succeeded in insertion, twist, and entry into her home. She accomplished this all as her son stood at her side, carefully holding the brown paper bag that held their daily allotment of food rations. He said nothing, and made no move to help his mother open the door. Although he was only seven, he knew that he should simply stand in silence and allow her to solve the problem of shaking hands and slippery key all by herself.
Hunter followed his mother into the dark flat, dark because of the forever twilight of the dying skies and dark because of the heavy drapes that she never pulled back from the windows anymore. He lugged the bag into the kitchen and waited patiently until his mother took the meager supply of groceries from him and placed them on the tabletop. As soon as his burden was gone, he pulled back a chair and sat at the table while his mother opened cupboards, arranged new cans with old, new boxes with old, and he wondered if they would ever eat that can of lima beans or that box of instant mashed potatoes. He supposed that if the Troubles continued long enough, all they would have to eat would be lima beans and mashed potatoes.
His mother took the long, lean loaf of bread from the grocery sack and placed it on the
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