The Path That Few Have Trod

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short story, Sweeney Todd

We’re taking a between-chapter break in the Kudzu story this week. Instead, I’d like to share a different tale. An earlier version of this story appeared in 2010 in Trail of Indiscretion magazine.

by Bernie Mojzes

My name is Sweeney Todd. Horatio Sweeney Todd, my birth certificate reads; my parents, aficionados of ancient musical productions, thought the name choice funny. They called it Intellectual Humor.

I call it Irony.

For the Sweeney Todd of legend and I have very little in common. I have never been to prison. Nor have I been to Australia. I am not haunted by the apparent death of my wife (I’ve never even had a wife, nor much use for one), nor am I consumed with a need for revenge. Really, I’m quite jovial, if a bit arrogant. I do, perhaps, eat a bit too enthusiastically, and some have said that I exercise far too rarely. However, I have no patience for such things, and wear my prodigious belly with pride. Also, I do not pull teeth. Messy business, that, and best left to others.

Apart from the name, I have only one thing in common with the Sweeney Todd of legend: I am a barber.

Until last week, of course. Hence the Irony.

I should like it to be known that none of this was my idea. I feel that it is important to stress this point. It was Jennifer Cappaccio (who no doubt is at this very moment crafting a similar exposition) that began the process of making the suggestion, late on a Wednesday night, well into our third bottle of wine, a 2012 De Loach Pinot Noir, if I remember correctly.

“He’s going to provoke a war,” she told me.

He was Harvey Smith, as anyone who is bothering to read this sordid little tale already knows.

Harvey is an astounding man. Quiet and unassuming, but with an infectious grin and a persistent good humor, he has won the admiration and even friendship of both his political allies and enemies, of the American people as a whole, and even of a-political elitists — such as myself — who typically look down with contempt at those who seek their fortunes in the political arena. Unlike those with the audacity to call themselves his colleagues, he is an artistic master of the soft science of politics, and a master scientist of the art of politics. With a few statements here, a few demonstrations of intent there, Harvey Smith could manipulate the politicians into manipulating the masses into approving just about anything he wanted. It was quite elegant, really, a beautifully choreographed ballet danced upon the political landscape.

All this, and he’s just a heck of a nice guy, too.

Regardless, politics bores me. Talk to me rather of an exquisite wine, or of the fabulous new chef at Bistro Bis, or, well, just about anything else. Politics is a sure-fire cure for insomnia. Subtle as a brick, nay, as a cinder block, these political hackeries and devices. I have no patience for such clumsiness, and yet even I begrudgingly concede Harvey’s talents.

This does not mean I have any interest in discussing them.

For example, America was shocked last year when President Teller abruptly fired his closest advisor — this being the aforementioned Harvey Smith — on a trumped up ethics charge. Shocked!

Yawn.

I only mention this because it bears directly upon this tale: barely a week before his ignoble sacking, a Time Magazine poll showed that Americans would have voted Harvey into office that very evening if there had been a handy election. President Teller’s unwarranted jealousy came as a surprise to everyone, even Harvey, who, when interviewed about the results of the poll, said, “I’m not the sort of person who would do well as President. I’ll leave that to the people who want it, and just stick to doing what I do best.”

Eight months later Teller’s presidency was in ruins and, tail between his legs, Teller was begging Harvey Smith back from Tennessee to try to salvage what could be salvaged. I say all this in demonstration of the theory that one can, in fact, learn whilst asleep and/or extremely drunk, which is invariably my state when Jennifer begins these dialogues, in which I am forced to act as Interlocutor to her Socrates.

“He’s a politician,” I responded, waving my arm magnanimously. “They all start wars. That’s what they do.” Jennifer started to say something, but I spoke over her. “Find some pathetic strip of land and save it from some pathetic little dictator that we were perfectly fine with last month. That’s the way it works. It’s a rather effective and time-proven solution, I believe. There’s even a phrase about it. Something about wagging one’s dog.”

“Not start. Provoke.”

“Attack? Us? What pathetic little country would dare attack us? And if they did, would we even notice?” I refilled her glass and mine, then lifted it in toast. “To the Duchy of Grand Fenwick.”

She just stared at her wine. “No,” she said softly. “Not Grand Fenwick. China.”

“That’s absurd,” I declared. “You must have misheard.”

But I knew she hadn’t. Jennifer Cappaccio is the proprietor of the fine eatery that sits adjacent to my humble shop. She also caters gala events, and whenever politicians are involved, she makes it a point to put on a uniform and get out there to serve the guests herself. She’s not above getting her hands dirty when the situation calls for it. “People talk when they feel no one is around,” she says, “and catering staff don’t exist.”

The lovely Ms. Cappaccio shook her head. “This presidency is so damaged that there’s no way to salvage it. It’s so damaged that the whole party is losing. They already lost the House. In the next election, they’ll lose the White House and the Senate both. It’s accepted wisdom that we don’t come out too well in a war with China. So the plan is to goad China into an attack, to manipulate things to time the attack after the next election, and leave the opposition to fail in the face of the Chinese assault. Then, when all looks lost, they retake the government overwhelmingly with a promise of a successful resolution to the conflict.”

Please note that I am paraphrasing with wild abandon in the name of brevity, and because three bottles of exquisite wine do little to promote conversations of a succinct or scintillating nature.

“What is the point of promises that have no hope of fulfillment?” I asked.

“Ah, see, that’s the thing. They believe they can win.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “How do they propose to achieve this magnificent feat?”

“Nukes.” She drained her glass. I believe I blinked at her, then waved off her attempt to continue.

“Absurd,” I declared. “Absolute hogwash. I love you dearly, but you have gone completely off your rocker. No, I’ll not listen to another word.” And with that, I kissed her hand and bid her adieu.

~

The elections went as Jennifer predicted.

The following day, President Teller, in a televised speech, gave the first of his insults to the Chinese people. It was clever and subtle, designed to be highly insulting to Chinese culture, but appear innocuous to those who scarcely had enough culture to know how to spell the word. I recognized Harvey’s hand in it immediately, but chose to ignore it.

The next insult came three days later, and when the Chinese demanded an apology, President Teller instead ordered some manner of boat or ship to the area, ostensibly to provide support for people trying to do research on the Giant Sea Ferret, or some sort of creature that surely belongs more properly on a coat or lining my mittens. Whatever the excuse, it apparently irritated the Chinese government, who claimed that this put both Hong Kong and Shanghai within short-range missile range.

That evening, Jennifer invited me to dinner.

~

I fear I would be a terrible bore if I spent this time speaking merely of politics and intrigue. Instead, I should like to speak of something infinitely more interesting: art, and economics.

We are a dying breed, we hair stylists and barbers, we artisans of the blade. Who needs a barber when a coating of Fizz-Z will keep your face smooth all day? Who needs an artist’s sure hand when Do-Bots have become a household appliance? Simply enter your favorite celebrity’s image, and the Do-Bot emulates their hair on your head, with mathematical precision. Regardless of the consequences.

I fear and loathe award ceremonies.

Last year, over seventy percent of women in this country wore Nita LaCour’s hair the day after the Golden Globes. I was, of course, honored. Honored and appalled.

But I digress.

We artists have no use-value in society at large, and thus our services have become invaluable. We are a luxury. A means by which the rich and powerful express their wealth and power, and through that expression, reinforce their position.

My clients seek me out not because they need a haircut and a shave.

They seek me out because they need my haircut and shave.

 This is a responsibility I take with utmost seriousness, and bring to each client the very best I can offer, with the finest tools available. Unlike much of my competition, I do not use computer-enhanced razors or other hair-styling tools. My tools are simple: a comb, a sharp pair of scissors, a well-honed straight-razor, and a steady hand.

These tools have never failed me.

~

“I’m bringing the wine tonight,” I informed Jennifer.

The wine was, first, an exquisite Montello e Colli Asolani Rosso, followed by a rather delightful Clos du Chêne Vert. I also brought a bottle of Château de Jacques and a Chianti that I can’t remember, but we didn’t drink those. Jennifer’s contribution was a number of hors d’oeuvres, most spectacularly a dish of Kobe beef, sparingly seared, then thinly sliced and wrapped around a bit of asparagus.

I waited until we’d successfully consumed the Rosso and the food before I got down to business. It is never good to allow business to interfere with the consumption of great food.

“So,” I said, “how do they plan on winning a war with China?”

“Harvey is friends with the president of a company that has developed a prototype anti-missile device. The plan — which is already underway — is to deploy them in secret. Not by the government, but by friends of Harvey’s. The government wouldn’t even know.”

“If the government doesn’t know, how are they to use them?”

“That’s the point — they wouldn’t, not until Teller is reinstalled as president. Then the command would go out to all the devices to neutralize the enemy’s nuclear arsenal.”

“I see.” I refilled her glass. Mine sat, half-full. I refilled it as well, then reached for the next bottle, the fantastic Clos du Chêne Vert, which I opened and set aside to breathe.

“So,” she continued, “as soon as the Chinese nukes were useless, we’d launch ours. Of course, the devices would be easily captured and reverse engineered. So our attack would have to be devastating. It would need to leave no opportunity for reprisal.”

“So they’re talking about destroying all of China?”

Jennifer nodded. “Two billion dead, in East Asia alone. But that’s not all of it.” Her glass was empty again. I filled it for her, and she tasted it. “Very nice,” she approved. “Since this is a trick that can only be used once, they plan on hitting all the nuclear powers at the same time. Russia, Pakistan, India, Iran, North Korea. I’m not sure whether they’re planning on including France and Britain. There was some debate. Teller has never been fond of the French.”

“That is… inelegant.”

I looked at the bottle of wine, whose grapes are grown exclusively in Loire Valley of western France. I wondered whether the wine would taste the same if it glowed. I highly doubted it.

“So what do we do?” I asked.

Jennifer’s face darkened. “I don’t know what you’re planning on doing, but I’m going to host a dinner honoring Mr. Harvey Smith. I’ve already begun lining up guests and speakers. I’m hoping that you’d be willing to help make the Guest of Honor presentable for the occasion.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“A haircut,” she said, with a bitter smile. “And a shave.”

~

I cannot praise Jennifer Cappaccio’s efforts more highly. She spared no expense. Every course was exquisite, and she served only the very best wines from her cellar. “Tonight,” she told me, “will be nothing but the very best. No point in saving it for later, after all.” I thought she seemed a bit pale.

There were speeches, of course, even in the absence of the Guest of Honor, who had left a message that he was running late, but would be joining us in time for the main course. Speeches and entertainment. A string quartet played Shubert during the meal, and between courses a bluegrass band flown in from Tennessee fingerpicked their way through some of the more abominable music I’ve had to sit through since I last had a Gilbert and Sullivan show inflicted on me.

There was a fish course, served with a respectable white wine of a vintage that I must admit, to my shame, I do not remember. I really am not a fan of white wines, you see. President Teller himself gave a speech, praising the man that not so long ago he’d banished from the kingdom. The President spoke in grandiose terms, and the reporters dutifully recorded it all, cameras flashing. I believe that the speech was broadcast live.

Busboys cleared our dishes and the emptied glasses of white wine, set out new wine glasses. The wine waiter brought out carafes of a deep red wine, poured a bit for our Hostess, who tasted and approved, and then the wine was poured for all.

Our esteemed Hostess raised her glass as the main course was served.

“To Harvey Smith,” she said, “who has served our country well. It is our hope that we may serve him with the respect he deserves.”

The Guest of Honor was well received. My complements to the chef.

Kudzu, Chapter 39

Kudzu, a Novel

Chapter 39

It was early afternoon, and Calin was cleaning up after the last of the lunch crowd had wandered away. He looked up from washing dishes as Sir Reginald and his entourage walked into the dimly lit pub.

“Reggie,” he said, by way of greeting, wiping his hands on a towel before reaching for Sir Reginald’s favored whiskey. “Kevyn. Murphy. And, Ho! Albert, is that you hiding behind fair Kevyn’s legs? I didn’t think I’d be seeing much of you ’round here.”

“I didn’t think so either. Wasn’t my choice.”

“You know him?” Sir Reginald asked.

“You know me?” Murphy said. “What kind of sick…” She trailed off, pressed her thumbs against her mouth.

Calin sighed. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep track of when one of you I’m talking to?”

“Which one,” Kevyn corrected.

Calin shook his head.

“There’s a change of clothes for you in the back, Murph,” he said. “Bottom left desk drawer. And a note.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Come on.” Kevyn put an arm around Murphy’s shoulders. “It’s back this way. So are the bathrooms.”

Albert hovered by the door, foot tapping nervously. He looked ready to bolt.

Calin came around the bar and crouched to something closer to raccoon height.

“Albie, lad, it was a war. People take gambles, and there’s no guarantees. I don’t blame you for what happened. Whatever I said at the time, it wasn’t your fault.”

Albert opened his mouth; Sir Reginald interrupted.

“Okay,” Sir Reginald said, “now I’m confused. You were in the war?”

Calin narrowed his eyes. He rapped his knuckles against his shin. It sounded like hard plastic. “How’d you think I got this?”

Sir Reginald looked away, and muttered something under his breath that Calin couldn’t hear. That worried him.

And Calin rarely worried.

“C’mon, Albert,” he said. “You still a Hendricks man? A nice, dry martini’s just what you need.”

Calin dragged a BeastBench™ barstool out of a storage closet and pulled it up to the bar. Albert climbed onto it and manipulated the controls to raise the seat to bar level.

“You keep them locked away,” Albert said.

“I keep them,” Calin said. He poured Albert’s drink and set it in front of the grizzled raccoon. He tapped his own glass of whiskey against Albert’s martini. “To old friends.”

Albert wiped a tear from his eye. “To old friends.”

Calin set out appropriate drinks for Kevyn and Murphy — beer and white wine, respectively — then brought Sir Reginald his customary rye whiskey.

“What’s the problem, Reg,” he asked, keeping his voice low so Albert wouldn’t be able to hear over the jukebox.

Sir Reginald hesitated. “That leg of yours,” he said. “When I last saw you, what, three days ago? Four? Whenever it was, you had both your own legs.”

Calin raised his eyebrows. “Twelve years now I’ve had this. Twelve normal years. It’s not something I hid from you. You should know me well enough to know that.”

“I know, Calin. But I don’t remember it. Something’s gone weird. Or weirder. It worries me.”

~

“This is what you call information gathering?” Kevyn asked.

Sir Reginald raised his glass to the old flatscreen mounted on the wall. “To the six o’clock news, the font of all knowledge.” He was slurring his speech.

A commercial for… Kevyn wasn’t sure what. It was one of those weirdly nonsensical ads, the one with the hypochondriac penguin. The ad played out silently on the screen; Calin had turned down the sound.

“For a species that’s afraid of talking animals,” Albert grumbled, “you all sure do like to pretend you’re not afraid of us.”

Albert was well into his third martini, and his grumble carried more loudly than he’d wanted. Kevyn saw him tense, anticipating backlash.

There had been some second glances at Albert as the bar started to fill, but nobody had made an issue of his raccoonness. Didn’t mean he could rub it in their faces, right?But Calin’s Pub had always been a mixed bar, in every way, with a very regular clientele. Just because the war made it impractical for non-human people to patronize didn’t mean people forgot who they were, and subsequently the next generations of patrons — people like Kevyn — were those who shared that sentiment.

Still, it was enough to attract attention. One man gestured with his beer mug.

“Hey,” he said. Kevyn tried to call his name up from memory, and failed.

“Hey, raccoon. What the fuck’s your name?”

Albert turned his BeastBench to face the man, and rose up to his full height. His lips curled, not quite a snarl. Not yet. “Albert,” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Albert, you a man who speaks the fucking truth.” He raised his mug, and his voice. “To Albert, who speaks the fucking truth!”

The cheer reverberated through the pub, and Calin was so busy refilling glasses that he almost failed to turn up the sound when the commercials ended.

~

“Welcome back to UBC News, with Kathleen Nin and Roberto Manning. Now, as you probably know, after a daring burglary attempt on an abandoned Gastenbourg University building revealed a functional telescope, UBC News has been working with University officials to arrange for exclusive access. In just a few minutes, we will be bringing you the first live feed of images from space in fifteen years.”

“As you know, Bob, the only high-resolution images we have had from space for the past fifteen years have been those released by the government. In the chaotic months after the Kudzupocalypse, the government assumed possession of all known surviving observatories. Exactly how the Gastenbourg observatory escaped notice is still under investigation, but University lawyers have rejected claims that the McAdams-Caine Emergency Protocols extend beyond the emergency.”

“Only makes sense, Kathy. So what should we expect to see?”

“Well, Bob, right now scientists have confirmed government reports that the mystery spacecraft has disappeared.”

“Now how does something that big just up and disappear, Kathy?”

“It’s not magic, at least according to the scientists. Dr. Michelle Smith will be with us later tonight to talk about the spacecraft, and where it is. Right now she’s working with our film crew to get the live feed going, which seems to have run into some snags.”

“While we wait for the feed, let’s give our viewers a sneak preview of what to expect.”

“Well, it’s very exciting. After five years of radio silence from the Greenmoon, the kudzu ball orbiting the Earth, our reporters have confirmed the presence of at least two new residents. We’ll be trying to get a good look at them, while they are still visible.”

“And we have our feed, Kathy. Let’s see what’s going on.”

~

The bar quieted as the image of the Greenmoon filled the screen. In the center of the image was the old ORBISTAT station, still visible on the fringe of the kudzu. ORBISTAT was notable for its excessively large observation sphere — an unnecessary luxury, apparently, for all but the French.

As they watched, the screen shifted, jagged movements, triangulating on the sphere, and when the image settled, it was larger, but out of focus.

“I could do a better job of driving that thing,” Kevyn said.

“Indubitably,” said Sir Reginald.

Something could be seen in the middle. Possibly people. The focus improved. A little.

From the speakers: “Let’s see if we can get a closer look, Bob.”

The screen went black, and then ORBISTAT’s glass sphere filled the screen.

Definitely people. There were two of them. And…

“Now that’s not something you see on network T.V. every day, Kathy.”

The bar broke out into a cheer.

~

When the broadcast resumed, there were bars of brown cardboard, ragged and hastily cut, being held over parts of the image. There was no mistaking what was going on. A naked woman with short/shorn hair was lying face down, pressed against the glass. She wore the scars of some serious burns on the left side of her body. A man with dreadlocks moved on top of her. One piece of cardboard blocked the view of the woman’s breasts. The other covered the thatch of her pubic hair, and the long rod that thrust between her splayed legs.

There were boos from the bar.

“Fuck censorship!” someone shouted.

The woman was saying something. It was unclear whether the man was replying; his face was buried in the curve of her neck, obscured from view.

“Welcome back to UBC news, and thanks to Jill Uberth, whose quick thinking got us back on the air. Well, Bob, so much for the idea that this broadcast would answer all our questions. It seems like it’s only creating new ones.”

“Like, ‘What do you think she’s saying, Kathy?'”

There was a hitch in Kathy Nin’s voice, as if she was distracted, and hadn’t immediately heard the question. She recovered well.

“Probably something that’s never been said to you, Bob. But we don’t have to guess. Jimea Gonzalez is here to help us out. Jimea close captions our regular broadcasts, and she’ll be giving us a transcript of what’s being said.”

~

Michael.

Michael, look at it. Isn’t it beautiful?

There are still people down there. Lights. Civilization. We really did it. We made it home.

~

“Our research team just sent a note that the Beagle, the spacecraft seen near the Greenmoon this week, disappeared sixty-five years ago. Looks like they made it back alive.”

“That… That’s heartbreaking, Bob. To come so far, for so long, only to end up on a satellite that’s going crash to the Earth in less than a year. Wait. She’s saying something else.”

~

Michael. Michael, don’t cum inside me.

~

Kathy Nin’s voice laughed nervously from the television’s speakers, before turning to alarm.

“Jesus Fuck!”

The image on the screen shook violently and disappeared, replaced by a twisting roil of kudzu. In the instant before they were thrust out of view, the bodies of the two Beagle survivors were visible being tossed around the room.

The image began zooming out.

“Someone tell us what happened. Someone fucking get Gastenbourg on the line—”

“We’ve got Dr. Michelle Smith of Gastenbourg University on the phone. Can you hear us, Dr. Smith? Can you tell us what happened?”

“Yes, yes I’m here.” The scientist’s voice sounded ragged. “It appears that something has struck the kudzu satellite, the Greenmoon. Something with significant mass.”

“Can you tell us what it was, Doctor?”

“Of course not,” the voice snapped. “You’ve seen everything we saw.” A little calmer: “We can’t say anything for sure at this time, but my first guess would be the ship, the OPEV Beagle. Which is bad news for everybody trapped up there.”

“Why is that, doctor?”

The exhalation coming across the phone line made it clear what Dr. Smith thought of anyone who needed to ask that question.

“The Greenmoon is crashing into the Earth. Anything that pushes it, even slightly, further into Earth’s gravity well accelerates the timeframe dramatically.”

“How dramatically?”

“I don’t think we’ll know for a week or two, but… well, it could be six months, or as little as one. Either way, it’s not long enough to mobilize a rescue. All these people are as good as dead.”

End of Book V

Kudzu, Chapter 38

Kudzu, a Novel

Chapter 38

“Pretend,” Sir Reginald F. Grump XXIII said, gesturing at the old raccoon with his pipe, “just for a moment, of course — pretend that the wholly unjustified and entirely false rumors of my temporal wanderings are true. Not that they are, but it’s certainly a more pleasant thought than the alternate reality in which my memory has become so addled that I have entirely forgotten my old chum.”

The raccoon glanced at him, and then down at Murphy, upon whom he still stood. She regarded him with some concern, and with confusion. She wiped a hand across her face.

“Is this the part of the story where I’m supposed to wake up and realize that my alarm didn’t go off this morning?” she asked.

“Alas, no,” said Sir Reginald.

“Oh, heck!” The raccoon jumped off Murphy’s chest. “I’ve gotten mud all over your shirt. I’m so sorry, I was just so glad…”

He looked back and forth between Sir Reginald and Murphy.

“Do you really mean…?”

“I’m Kevyn,” Kevyn said, crouching by the old raccoon and extending a hand. The raccoon wiped his paw on his fur and shook her hand.

“Albert,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. So how do you know…?” she gestured at Sir Reginald.

The raccoon grinned. He took off his spectacles, brushed them on his fur. Put them back on. “Ah, now there’s a story. Comrades in arms, we were, back in the war. Daring daytime raids! Disappearing into the kudzu like ghosts!”

Albert settled back on his haunches.

“There were seven of us, like samurai, or cowboys. Us three. Kelly and Fenrir. Milo. And Mileva.”

The last name was spoken softly, with an ancient sadness.

“What do you mean?” Kevyn said. “There hasn’t been a war since, I dunno, since before the kudzu came.”

Albert’s eyes narrowed. “There was a war.”

“You’re too young to remember,” Sir Reginald said. “Humans never acknowledged it as a war, and have yet to acknowledge their crimes. I’m quite pleased to discover that I was active in the conflict, and on the right side.”

“She really doesn’t know?”

“Humans are particularly good at avoiding inconvenient truths.”

“I don’t understand,” Kevyn said.

“Henry McAdams,” Albert said, spitting.

“Senate Sub-committee of Genetic Integrity,” Sir Reginald said. “He’s the one who laid the groundwork for the so-called ‘shelter’ system.”

Both Kevyn and Murphy looked confused now.

“About six months after the kudzu hit, McAdams decided that none of us could be trusted. Raccoons, dogs, parrots. The Modifieds. Started sending us to ‘shelters’ for processing.”

“You won’t ever see anyone talking about it,” Sir Reginald said. “Not in the human world. But look up the Genetics Research Deauthorization Act of 2256 sometime, and the Genetic Biohazard Disposal Act. There’s a reason why people like Albert don’t mingle with humans.”

“McAdams called us terrorists.”

“Until he and the entire sub-committee were found dead in one of their own gas chambers.”

“Gas chambers? Oh, God,” Kevyn said. “That’s horrible! I can’t believe…” She trailed off.

Albert tilted his head, slightly. “That humans would do something like that?”

“No,” Kevyn said. She shook her head. “Nothing humans do surprises me anymore. I’m just surprised that the assholes aren’t still boasting about it.”

~

“I don’t like this idea,” Albert said, looking over his shoulder at the humans who followed behind. They crawled single-file through a narrow tunnel that wound through the dense foliage. A ‘coon-hole,’ Albert had called it. Sir Reginald didn’t need to tell him how speciesist that was: apparently they had a long history of fighting injustice together.

Or would have. Time is a long river, flowing from the past into the future. Except when it’s a geyser, spraying bits of itself into the past. Or an ocean, mixing everything together in its briny depths. Metaphors only go so far before they become silly.

“We need information,” Sir Reginald said. He ducked under a drooping coil of kudzu and crawled after the others.

They had been crawling like this for half an hour. Half an hour where his view consisted primarily of Murphy’s buttocks under the thin cotton of the orange prison uniform, lit by the soft bioluminesence of the kudzu lamp-leaves. They would appear in a story, Murphy’s buttocks. He just wasn’t sure yet which one, but he was certain he’d enjoy thinking about them until their story came clear.

“We have avenues for gathering information,” Albert said. “We have our own networks.”

“Stop for a minute, Albert,” Sir Reginald said. He pressed his face against the side of the coon-hole, until he could see Albert’s battle-scarred face around Murphy’s curves. “What we’re talking about is the potential end of human civilization on Earth. Human civilization. The non-human people learned how to live in the kudzu — out of necessity, yes, but they know how to survive.”

“You keep talking about this threat,” Murphy said. “But you won’t tell us what it is. Why should we be crawling around through the fucking jungle on your say so? Do you have any idea how crazy this is?”

“Yes,” Sir Reginald said. “Nevertheless. Albert, these avenues you speak of, these networks–how many people involved in them would cry if humans disappeared? Can you guarantee that none of them would actually work to ensure that our efforts fail?”

“That would be genocide,” Albert said. “That would go against every principle we fought for.”

“How many people went into McAdams’ death camps, Albert? How many came out? How many people lost brothers, sisters, parents, children? How many lost lovers and spouses?”

Albert was silent.

“Ms. Murphy, I know you have no reason to believe me, but I trust my information, what little of it I have, for the same reason I trust Albert. I trust my source implicitly.”

“This is the same source that didn’t bother telling you to kidnap me until it was too late to turn back?”

Sir Reginald bit his lip. That had been underhanded of him, and he still wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’d have balked, ignoring his future self’s advice? Perhaps he’d told her early on, while she still had a chance to escape, or betrayed himself subconsciously. Perhaps…

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

It didn’t do to start second-guessing oneself. Especially one’s future self. That way lay madness.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

“Actually,” Kevyn said, “he’s celibate. Or impotent. Or something.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Murphy said. “If we’re going somewhere, let’s go already. I’m going to go fucking crazy if I can’t stand up soon.”

“I forget sometimes how big you humans are,” Albert said. “And how claustrophobic this must feel. Come on, it’s only a little further, and it opens into a wider passage. The pub’s not far after that.”

“Hear, hear,” Kevyn said.

“Jesus,” Murphy said. “Just shut up and crawl.”

Kudzu, Chapter 37

Tags

book 5, kudzu, novel

Kudzu, a Novel

Chapter 37

 

Michael fretted. He paced. What if Colleen wasn’t coming? What if he’d blown it? What if…?

He tried raising her on the radio, but there was only silence.

Maybe he should go back and look for her.

Or maybe he should just continue on.

Static crackled in his ear.

“Colleen?” he said, too quickly. “Colleen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I …”

The voice that replied wasn’t Colleen’s. It was higher pitched than hers, gruff and familiar, and not human.

“Michael! Fuck me, it’s good to hear your voice. I was worried I’d be trapped here with just fucking Ash to keep me company.”

“Slim?”

“In the fur. Damn. Ash and I tried to raise you guys for days. I was worried you might have… Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re alive, we’re alive, it’s like a fuckin’ reunion.”

“Wait,” Michael said. “What about the rest of the crew?”

Slim laughed. “Nice and comfy on the Beagle, I guess. I never made it there. Got lost in space and sucked back into the kudzu. Tried calling the ship, but that was a bust. Something about the electromagnetic fields inside the kudzu leaves. Faraday cage, she calls it. Says it’s a design flaw. Ash says that makes sense. He started talking equations and I tuned him out.”

Michael took a breath, trying to make sense of what Slim was saying.

“Ash was on the ship. If you never got to the ship, how are you with Ash?”

“Oh, yeah, remember how I was lost in space? Ash tried to rescue me.” Slim laughed. “We’re both here, so you can guess how well that worked out.”

“I… What? Ash? Rescued you?” Michael waved his hands pointlessly. The idea was patently absurd.

“Yeah, risked his life for a fucking raccoon. Don’t tell his parents or they’ll disown him. Probably would, too, if they were still alive.” Slim sneezed his contempt: a purely raccoon gesture. “We’ve been talking a lot, me and Ash. Anyway, where are you, so we can come find you?”

“Um. Lost in the middle of a giant kudzu ball? Near a spaceship or station or something. Does that help?”

“Yeah, not really. We’ve only been here a couple days, and haven’t had a lot of chance to go exploring. Maybe it’d be easier if you come to us. I could meet you at the ossuary—”

“How’m I supposed to find a, a what? Ossuary? I don’t even know what an ossuary is, much less how to find it.”

“Maybe if you can tell me a little more about where you are, I can get you directions. Is there anything about the spaceship that seems unique?”

Michael looked at the portal into the station. “I don’t know, I haven’t gone in. I was waiting for Colleen so we could go in together.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.”

“Fuck you. I’ll look now.”

Michael squeezed through the narrow opening where the kudzu had cracked the shell of the station. It was pretty standard mid-21st century construction — too much crammed too close, a thousand compartments protruding from oppressively thick walls into a cramped, narrow space. The station was too small to have managed any reasonable artificial gravity, so it wasn’t designed with a floor. Which meant Michael had to pick his way over an uneven surface.

Michael relayed this to Slim, but didn’t hold out much hope. There were dozens of space stations like this that had been abandoned, and it was a good guess that many of them had been nudged into the satellite graveyard.

He worked his way to one of the bulky hatches. The wheel turned much more easily than he’d expected, and the door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges.

Inside was another world.

It had been an observation room, a large, glass sphere about ten meters across. Michael stepped through the hatch and let himself slide down to the bottom of the sphere. Other than some scattered handholds built into the glass, the view was unobstructed.

And what a view!

Michael looked up and saw the kudzu vines and tunnels twisting over him, merging with other spacecraft, eventually converging on a thick, central hub from which all things emanated. In the middle of that was a large spaceship.

That, Michael was sure, was where the kudzu originated, and that’s what supplied the initial spin that allowed them to experience gravity, and kept the fish from flying off into the air.

Below his feet: the Earth in all its blue and green glory.

“Wow,” he said.

“What?” Slim said into his ear.

“There’s a giant glass observatory. That’s where we are.”

“That sounds pretty unique. The cat lady’ll know where that is, for sure. Be back soon.”

The connection dropped.

“Slim? Hello?”

Cat lady?

~

Colleen stopped running as soon as she saw the top of Michael’s head, as he climbed out of a crevice in the kudzu wall, and she pressed herself into the soft leaves, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t want to seem too panicked. Too desperate.

Had he seen her? It didn’t seem so.

Her heart hammered longer than it should. What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t want to feel relief in seeing him, and she didn’t want him to know what she felt. She took deep breaths, when what she probably needed was a psychiatrist. Or at least the drugs.

When she felt she could move without risking passing out, she stepped away from the wall.

Michael was sitting next to the gap he’d crawled out of, leaning back against the wall. He hadn’t seen her.

Colleen approached, trying to keep her gait casual.

“So you decided to wait, after all,” she said. It wasn’t what she’d meant to say.

Michael looked up, a pained expression on his face.

God, I’m such an asshole.

“I talked to Slim,” Michael said, climbing to his feet. “He’s alive, and he’s somewhere inside the plant.”

A wave of relief washed through Colleen. “Good, I’m glad he’s safe.”

“Yeah, he and Ash are here. They’re going to try to get us directions. So we can meet up.”

Ash. It couldn’t have been Susan or Amelia. Or even Tharp.

“And the others?”

Michael shrugged. Feigning nonchalance, Colleen thought.

“Don’t know. On the Beagle, I guess. Anyway, there’s something I wanted to show you.” He glanced at the opening in the wall. “In here.”

He stood aside and let her crawl through, then followed. The inside was a cramped horror of an early model space station. In the old days, people actually lived in these things for months, even years. Colleen shuddered.

“Good thing I’m not claustrophobic,” she said. Though she was, a little.

“Keep going. There’s a hatch up ahead.”

“An airlock?”

Even with her back to him, Colleen could feel Michael’s jaw clench.

“Just joking,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m not good at this.” Whatever this was. Colleen wasn’t sure that even she knew what she meant.

Michael didn’t reply. She got to the hatch. The wheel turned in her hands, and the door came open.

Colleen crawled through…

…into space.

The observation sphere made up for any claustrophobia she had felt. Above her, the kudzu curled and twisted off into space. Below her… Earth, glowing softly in the moonlight.

It was so beautiful, so alive! Even with whatever had happened, even if humanity had been wiped out, after the desolation of Triton and the emptiness of space, the sight of it warmed her.

She slid down the curved glass until the Earth was under her feet. Michael scrabbled down behind her.

“Thank you,” Colleen said. “Thank you for this.”

Still looking out at the gentle curve of the Earth, she reached out, touched his fingers.

He flinched away from her, and she let her hand drop. Her chin quivered, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t look at him.

Then his fingers found hers.

Kudzu, Chapter 36

Tags

book 5, kudzu, novel

Kudzu, a Novel

Chapter 36

 

“Michael?”

Colleen was in the right place. She was sure of it. But Michael was gone, and his gear with him. All that was left was Colleen’s pack and water skins.

“Michael!” She called his name more loudly. Then she screamed it.

The kudzu sucked up the sound.

She hadn’t noticed just how different the acoustics of kudzu tunnels were from the Beagle’s hard metal and plastic corridors. Not until she needed her voice to carry.

She screamed louder.

There was no response.

She dropped the fish and ran.

~

Colleen’s pack was propped up against the wall. Michael had left some junk on top of it: a jumble of wires. He’d written something on side of the pack, big, messy letters smeared in purple berry-juice.

CALL ME SOME TIME

The wires… Colleen examined them more closely. It was, as far as she could tell, about three quarters of a communications set. It was ugly, haphazard work: one earphone rather than two, a microphone spliced to a bit of wire running to a small box. Two more wires ran from the box to the wall. They were jammed into a stem. It should work, she thought, though wiring was really not her strong suit. Now Susan, she’d have the radio working and preparing tea and crumpets at the same time. Still, Michael had taken something she’d noticed and done something with it, and she missed him with a sudden desperation.

The stem glowed softly, the same glow as the stems that fed the lamp-leaves. There were three holes: positive, negative, and ground, Colleen thought.

The thought that had gone into designing this plant had been prodigious. Unimaginable complexity, far in advance of anything they could have accomplished when the Beagle left Earth. It would have taken a genius, because a committee would never have been imaginative enough to come up with something like this. Colleen had been on enough committees to know.

She repressed a sudden stab of envy, and fit the ad hoc radio to her ear.

Static.

“Hello? Michael?”

More static.

“Michael? Are you there?”

“Yeah.” His voice was gruff in her ear.

Colleen let loose the breath she’d been holding. “I thought I’d lost you,” she said.

There was a long pause, like he was considering his response. Colleen bit her lip and waited.

“I went on ahead,” he said. “Took a left at the last fork we

doubled back to, and then left markers from there.”

“Okay. I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon, and—”

—and I caught some fish for lunch, she was going to say, but…

“Do whatever you want,” he said.

Colleen yanked the wires out of the wall, and if there was anything else he was going to say, she didn’t hear it. She didn’t want — was not going to let — him hear her cry.

Half the fish were still flopping and gasping feebly when she retrieved her shirt. She dumped those into one of her waterskins. The others, she knew, wouldn’t keep.

She didn’t have anything to cut and clean the fish. She tried rubbing one of them on the wall, but that just made a mess, and attracted cats. Eventually she just bit into it, tearing through the tough, clammy skin with teeth. Her mouth filled with broken scales and foul juices. Something stringy slithered across her tongue: the fish’s intestines, or worse. Could there be anything worse?

She spit it out, retching.

The cats feasted.

~

The problem was that Michael knew he was being irrational and unfair. Colleen was not Adam, and she’d hit him in fear and panic, not anger, or malice, or to show just how complete her control of him really was.

That was a long time ago, and Adam was long dead. Michael had buried that memory, had buried it all where he’d never have to see it again.

But when Colleen’s fist slammed into his face, all the heart-stopping, paralyzing fear had come back like it had never left, like it had been coiled within him, waiting for a trigger to set it free. And with it, the shame…

Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t really her fault, that she hadn’t meant it. But he could never forgive her.

At least, not now.

He waited for her in the kudzu tunnel that lead into an old space station, or space ship — he wasn’t sure which. The kudzu had torn through the metal skin to create a hatchway down into the vehicle, and even extended viney tendrils that looked suspiciously ladder-like down to the floor.

Michael had poked his head through, but though it looked safe enough, he didn’t want to go on alone.

So he waited, and wondered if Colleen would follow after his stupid, angry outburst.

~

For all his well-justified anger, Michael had left a clear and unambiguous path. As Colleen followed, she gathered up the bits of his gear that he’d left to mark the road.

The kudzu tunnels leveled out as she moved further into it. Now the floors were a flat carpet of leaves. When she lifted them to see what lay beneath, she found a thick thatch of small vines, so tightly bound together as to make a solid surface. The resulting surface would have been a little rough to skate on, but a bicycle, or really anything with reasonably sized wheels, would have no problems.

The tunnel itself had become more regular in general — the walls and ceiling formed a roughly rectangular shape, though the edges were a bit rounded, and the lamp-leaves were evenly spaced.

Increasingly, there were iris doors on either side of the corridor, and Colleen couldn’t resist exploring. She touched the surface of one, and it slid open for her.

As she stepped through the doorway, the lamp-lights within brightened. It was a room, large by space-station standards. Roughly square — again, with rounded edges — with a raised platform against one of the walls. The platform was bed-shaped, and when she pressed on it with her hands, it gave softly and firmly like a mattress.

She sat on it, and bounced. And laughed.

She lay back on the bed, and sank into it, just slightly. Leaves curled against her body.

She wished Michael was there.

Sitting up abruptly, she left the room behind, and followed Michael’s bread-crumb trail, wherever it might lead.