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Authors: Vaughn Heppner
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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.”
She gave me a sharp glance, her eyes peering over the librarian’s glasses perched on her nose.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. In my inner turmoil, with the fear and guilt roiling in me, I shrugged and gave a chuckle.
“You must set aside your worries, Paul. I’m not giving you an advance, and that’s final. Now I don’t want you thinking about money on a day as important as this. My life’s work is about to be proved this very morning. You must be alert.” She took off her glasses, a frown creasing her forehead. “You look awful. Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking?”
“No, madam, I—” I almost confessed. I almost poured out my woes, but I knew that Doctor Hiram might return Chuikov his soul. Boss Chuikov—I shuddered as I thought what he would do to me afterward.
“Are you sick?” asked Doctor Hiram, concerned now.
“I had a sleepless night, madam.” I smiled, as insincere as it must have looked to her. “I’m excited about the test. I can hardly believe that we might actually achieve success.”
She nodded slowly.
“Whose soul will you photograph first?” I asked.
“Why, Paul, you agreed several days ago to let me photograph your soul.”
“I must confess, madam, I think the honor should be yours.”
“Nonsense, I must monitor the machine.”
I licked my lips. “I suddenly find myself reluctant to do this.”
Her features hardened. “Now, Paul, I’m not going to put up with any silliness today. You agreed.”
“I’m sorry, madam. I withdraw my agreement.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “If you think this will win you an advance, you’re mistaken. I will not be coerced into loaning you money.”
“I don’t want an advance,” I said. “Call my reluctance… latent superstition. I’m simply uncomfortable with the idea of having my soul photographed. What if there are complications?”
“Bah!” she said, waving her glasses in the air. “This is crass insubordination and the
“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.”
She gave me a sharp glance, her eyes peering over the librarian’s glasses perched on her nose.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. In my inner turmoil, with the fear and guilt roiling in me, I shrugged and gave a chuckle.
“You must set aside your worries, Paul. I’m not giving you an advance, and that’s final. Now I don’t want you thinking about money on a day as important as this. My life’s work is about to be proved this very morning. You must be alert.” She took off her glasses, a frown creasing her forehead. “You look awful. Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking?”
“No, madam, I—” I almost confessed. I almost poured out my woes, but I knew that Doctor Hiram might return Chuikov his soul. Boss Chuikov—I shuddered as I thought what he would do to me afterward.
“Are you sick?” asked Doctor Hiram, concerned now.
“I had a sleepless night, madam.” I smiled, as insincere as it must have looked to her. “I’m excited about the test. I can hardly believe that we might actually achieve success.”
She nodded slowly.
“Whose soul will you photograph first?” I asked.
“Why, Paul, you agreed several days ago to let me photograph your soul.”
“I must confess, madam, I think the honor should be yours.”
“Nonsense, I must monitor the machine.”
I licked my lips. “I suddenly find myself reluctant to do this.”
Her features hardened. “Now, Paul, I’m not going to put up with any silliness today. You agreed.”
“I’m sorry, madam. I withdraw my agreement.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “If you think this will win you an advance, you’re mistaken. I will not be coerced into loaning you money.”
“I don’t want an advance,” I said. “Call my reluctance… latent superstition. I’m simply uncomfortable with the idea of having my soul photographed. What if there are complications?”
“Bah!” she said, waving her glasses in the air. “This is crass insubordination and the
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