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Authors: Marc Stiegler
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out.
The Playmaster seemed somehow far from my mind; I basked for a moment in knowing that I had done a good thing, that with the end of the feud between the forms, thousands of people would live better lives.
I took Glitter back into the Rift, where I had met Sharyn. As I stepped into the burned-out clearing I could smell the trees and the plants, growing fast to heal the wound. The sun sat in its low throne, frozen between the mountain ridges, staring at the Eye of Forma. I walked through the quiet rustle of the leaves.
When I returned, I heard a woman's voice singing, from inside Glitter. It was not Safire's voice.
With a burst of speed I jumped through the hatch to surprise the intruder.
She turned from her inspection of my paintings. "Have you found the Master yet?"
"No." I studied her; she didn't appear to be armed. "Get out of my ship."
She laughed; it came from inside, through many layers, as had Keara's laughter.
"Do you still seek the Master?" she asked.
"Yes."
She shook her head lightly, with a knowledge of her own power that reminded me of Sharyn. "You must stop your search," she whispered. "You will not find what you seek." She stared at me, with the harsh gaze only Rainbow could bestow.
I stood speechless.
She moved forward, flowing like water, flowing like Karmel.
"They're dead!" I cried, images of the past cascading through my head.
"They're gone," she continued so softly.
We stood locked in tableau. "You have lived many lives," I accused her.
"Yes." She closed her eyes in pain. "Even on this one planet, I have worn many bodies." She opened her eyes. "In other lives I have been an actress. And a mindshifter. Lately, I have been a teacher."
I choked. "Why did you do this?"
"I didn't want to kill anyone, yet I had to make them understand how easily they could be killed. The Sirians had completely brainwashed them by the time we investigated." She smiled. "I had started working my way through the power structures, without a real plan, when you arrived. Then, you gave me your idea for assassinations. I only wish I had trusted you more, to let you know."
"Don't apologize." Another thought struck me. "Wendy?"
The woman looked away. "I told her to let you protect yourself. I told her you could survive in ways she'd never dreamed. She didn't believe me."
"You, too, are only a mortal god."
She seemed amused. "No. I am only a mortal woman." She looked at me again, almost afraid. "I have used you."
I thought about it. Today, for the first time in a lifetime, I had a clear mind. "You gave me purpose."
"I hurt you."
"You gave me hope."
"You should hate me."
"I must love you." I took her in my arms. We stood embraced for a long moment.
"Safire," I commanded, "dim the lights." The sharp edges of the room faded.
"Safire," the woman said, "gentle music." A waltz began to play.
I softened my hold on my lady. "What is your name?" I asked.
She laughed. "I have held a thousand names. Yet I am who I am. Name me." We began to dance.
Tomorrow, four more people would live.
Too Loving A Touch
Too many cash prizes, offered by skeptics investigating psychic powers, have gone unclaimed for the rational mind to take claims of extrasensory perception too seriously.
And yet I still remember an incident from my adolescence, when I desperately needed a young woman's phone number (well, it seemed desperate at the time: if I did not get her number in the next 48 hours, I knew my life would be ruined). I remember lying in bed, feverish with my horror that my last opportunity for happiness would pass me by. I remember how loud and fast my heartbeat grew, how dry my mouth became, how totally my reasoning power left me.
So I lay there unable to think or sleep. Then suddenly I was calm. My heart stopped racing, and I was happy. For no clear or compelling reason, I was quite sure that a particular friend of mine would call, and that he would have the magic number even though he had no more access to the person or the
The Playmaster seemed somehow far from my mind; I basked for a moment in knowing that I had done a good thing, that with the end of the feud between the forms, thousands of people would live better lives.
I took Glitter back into the Rift, where I had met Sharyn. As I stepped into the burned-out clearing I could smell the trees and the plants, growing fast to heal the wound. The sun sat in its low throne, frozen between the mountain ridges, staring at the Eye of Forma. I walked through the quiet rustle of the leaves.
When I returned, I heard a woman's voice singing, from inside Glitter. It was not Safire's voice.
With a burst of speed I jumped through the hatch to surprise the intruder.
She turned from her inspection of my paintings. "Have you found the Master yet?"
"No." I studied her; she didn't appear to be armed. "Get out of my ship."
She laughed; it came from inside, through many layers, as had Keara's laughter.
"Do you still seek the Master?" she asked.
"Yes."
She shook her head lightly, with a knowledge of her own power that reminded me of Sharyn. "You must stop your search," she whispered. "You will not find what you seek." She stared at me, with the harsh gaze only Rainbow could bestow.
I stood speechless.
She moved forward, flowing like water, flowing like Karmel.
"They're dead!" I cried, images of the past cascading through my head.
"They're gone," she continued so softly.
We stood locked in tableau. "You have lived many lives," I accused her.
"Yes." She closed her eyes in pain. "Even on this one planet, I have worn many bodies." She opened her eyes. "In other lives I have been an actress. And a mindshifter. Lately, I have been a teacher."
I choked. "Why did you do this?"
"I didn't want to kill anyone, yet I had to make them understand how easily they could be killed. The Sirians had completely brainwashed them by the time we investigated." She smiled. "I had started working my way through the power structures, without a real plan, when you arrived. Then, you gave me your idea for assassinations. I only wish I had trusted you more, to let you know."
"Don't apologize." Another thought struck me. "Wendy?"
The woman looked away. "I told her to let you protect yourself. I told her you could survive in ways she'd never dreamed. She didn't believe me."
"You, too, are only a mortal god."
She seemed amused. "No. I am only a mortal woman." She looked at me again, almost afraid. "I have used you."
I thought about it. Today, for the first time in a lifetime, I had a clear mind. "You gave me purpose."
"I hurt you."
"You gave me hope."
"You should hate me."
"I must love you." I took her in my arms. We stood embraced for a long moment.
"Safire," I commanded, "dim the lights." The sharp edges of the room faded.
"Safire," the woman said, "gentle music." A waltz began to play.
I softened my hold on my lady. "What is your name?" I asked.
She laughed. "I have held a thousand names. Yet I am who I am. Name me." We began to dance.
Tomorrow, four more people would live.
Too Loving A Touch
Too many cash prizes, offered by skeptics investigating psychic powers, have gone unclaimed for the rational mind to take claims of extrasensory perception too seriously.
And yet I still remember an incident from my adolescence, when I desperately needed a young woman's phone number (well, it seemed desperate at the time: if I did not get her number in the next 48 hours, I knew my life would be ruined). I remember lying in bed, feverish with my horror that my last opportunity for happiness would pass me by. I remember how loud and fast my heartbeat grew, how dry my mouth became, how totally my reasoning power left me.
So I lay there unable to think or sleep. Then suddenly I was calm. My heart stopped racing, and I was happy. For no clear or compelling reason, I was quite sure that a particular friend of mine would call, and that he would have the magic number even though he had no more access to the person or the
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