A Cure For Malice

Ash. Soot. Crumbling stone walls held an air of something grand clinging to a shred of existence. A house once stood here; one large enough to house Pinnacle’s security division. In this era of cramped charging hubs and Lilliputian living spaces, long removed from when such places were more than rubble, Malice couldn’t imagine another purpose for such a large space.

Her metal detector bleeps balefully. She briefly stops by the marble staircase dangling from the balcony to pick through the debris. She plunks several of the smoother pieces into Beacon’s receptacle, the discontinued android easily keeping pace as she moves on again.

Her years of salvaging experience predicts the value of both the metal flask she discovers in a dilapidated side table and the stockpile of aluminum pans, but discards the watch and tarnished jewelry.

One thing to be glad for is the lack of dead bodies and body parts; the competition (such a nice word for war, isn’t it?) between Pinnacle Pharmaceuticals and CyyberCure Industries made sure of it. They never seemed to have enough cadavers to satisfy their science departments.

The silence of the metal detector assures her there’s no further scrounging opportunities, and she turns back the way she came. However the thing beeps wildly just before the entrance. She pinpoints the location, and grudgingly digs around in the rubble. Her fingers find the unmistakable feel of metal. She tugs. Whatever it is is attached to a chain, which the detector also identifies as true metal. She scrapes more rubble away, seeking the spot where the chain is caught. Finding it, she frees it, and rubs what soot and rust she can off with her fingers.

In all her years of scavenging Malice has not found such an oddity as this. From the weight she would guess gold, heart shaped, with a sizeable ruby in the center and ornate filigree scrolling outwards from it. It dangled from a fine gold chain, surprisingly in tact and untangled. They might not have to worry about eating for some days with the price this would fetch from the Harbor.

In the distance one of the recordings of church bells rings, followed by a cacophony of other recordings joining it. One hour till sundown.

Malice slips down the collapsed wall laying across the entrance stairs, Beacon following her. She heads home. Or, well, as close as it gets, anyway.

The city feels odd. A place that hasn’t decided whether it’s remaining. Some of the buildings seemed to hang in the air. Gaping holes in the pavement or some of the buildings still miraculously standing descended into darkness, where living spaces had been burrowed. Plants grow everywhere, from baskets hanging on market stalls and lamp posts, to dandelions in the cracked cement, to vegetables anywhere some dirt could be contained. Thanks to CyyberCure’s commitment to ending air pollution there was almost no smell at all. The city’s sewers were kept in pristine condition.

Stopping at the city’s trade center, housed in the former train station that now had no roof, Malice makes the usual rounds. Jag would have the flask; the renewed desperation of his patrons would catch her a pretty price today. Next Essence, the hippie with a half a cybernetic body from when a wall had fallen and crushed her in her scavenging days. Malice sold her the marble, with the expectation she’d be one of the first to see the jewelry Essence made from it. Her work is in high demand among those with high levels of income. Malice pauses, holding the strange necklace in her hand, feeling an odd sort of comfort from its weight in her palm. How much would she get for it? Essence quotes the price. That kind of money would take another week of sales to get again. But for some reason, Malice can’t part with it, and, ignoring Essence’s quizzical look, moves on, depositing the still sooty necklace into the pack at her waist. Aluminum pans? Dre will pay high for those. He’s always droning on about the battered and scratched pans in his restaurant’s kitchen.

Done with her sales for the day, Malice purchases a scone and a scoop of quinoa from the market stall before ascending the stairs. Once a certain level above the street the noise stops. The silence is weird, and Malice has never been able to get used to it. She focuses on the tramping of Beacon’s feet on the metal stairs as she ascends ever further.

Thirty people are at the far end of the 18th corridor. Malice and Beacon wait in line, paying the overpriced $80 an appendage for each charging station. They queue up, trying to ignore the stares of the impatient consumers still in line behind them.

Malice slips through the hidden doorway, making sure Beacon is cleverly concealed in the nook beside it before doing so. Stealth is key to survival. If looters or burglars, or worse, the HINGE Traders, couldn’t find an in, it would be more of a deterrent, and they would hopefully move on to easier prey. Malice feels sick at the thought.

Her metal detector and pack go in the large gun safe standing by the door. She hesitates before placing the locket in her inner shirt pocket after locking the door. She discards her shoes in the quarantine box.

Their living space is modest. Most would consider them lucky to have a whole room, when its so difficult to find space larger than a closet. Three adults and two children make it a cramped space, but they make do.

Malice finds Mayhem standing at the gas stove, a pot of stew simmering in front of her. She gives her sister a quick hug, making sure Mayhem is aware she has entered the room before reaching for her. Mayhem has been known to knock out a person if caught unawares; partial blindness in both eyes can be disorienting, especially in a society where you rarely know whether someone is friend or foe. It wouldn’t be the first time Mayhem fought off a burglar, mostly blind though she is. She’s notorious in the frying pan fight rings, and a strong contender in the local underground kitchen knife throwing contests.

Dirk scrambles out of the perma-fort they’d built him and his twin to throw his arms around Malice’s waist.

“Did you bring me anything auntie?” his voice is shrill as only an eight year old’s is. It makes Malice smile.

“Well, let me see here…” Malice sticks her hands in both her pockets and turns them inside out. The look of disappointment on her nephew’s face is the same as it always is.

“Not even a fight stub?” he asks, Malice glancing at the collage he proudly displays on their rusting refrigerator door.

“Hmm…” Malice scratches her head, barely keeping the grin off her face as her nephew watches her in elated suspense. “Oh. Well, what’s this?” She pulls a bent coin out of her dreds, holding it up to the light so he could see.

“A coin?” he asks, his eyes huge. “You’d give me that?”

“Of course! What am I going to do with a coin? No, coins are much better for boys that go to school and need to eat than for someone who scavenges most of the day and could lose it easily. Here.” She hands it to him, finally releasing the grin she’d been holding back at his joyful jumps. He hugs her again and then runs back into his fort, where she can hear him and Ira giggling over something as he shows her his new treasure.

Carnal, their other sister, finally returns home, reeking of alcohol, but no surprise there, as the bar she works at is well known for its brawls and bawdy entertainment. She carries fresh baked bread in her arms. Mayhem serves the stew, Malice scoops a little quinoa in each bowl, and they dig in.

The sun has set. Ira helps her brother with the dishes while Carnal gets all the beds ready. Malice kisses her niece, nephew, and both sisters goodnight before heading to the alcove she sleeps in. She hoists herself up, pulling the heavy curtain closed, and closes her eyes with a heavy sigh.

She wakes a few hours later, feeling something almost hot against her chest. She remembers the necklace and removes it, puzzled at why it had grown hot to the touch. She sets it on the brick by her pillow and slips into slumber again.

It felt like her slumber never ended. She could feel the sun’s rays spilling through the cracks of the alcove’s outer wall, but could not awake. Until she heard the voice.

She sits up, gasping, ready to fight.

But her eyes fly closed again at the blinding light flooding the alcove. Squinting, she searches for the light’s source.

The locket is bathed in ethereal light. It seeps from the hinges of the pendant, looking as if it would burst. Malice picks the locket up, violently chucking it at the nearest wall as it burns her hand.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Malice looks up from the blister in her hand, feeling for the knife under her pillow.

“Well that would be a first.” Snorts the woman who’s appeared sitting beside her on the bed. “Unnecessary though.”

Malice holds the knife close to her chest, eying the woman suspiciously. She’s known to have vivid dreams at times. Mayhem and Carnal have had to wake her before, she’s been told the stories. But the same sense of comfort Malice felt from the locket lying in the palm of her hand in the market exudes from the being sharing the space, and Malice feels her curiosity peaking.

“I’m dreaming.” She says matter of factly, as if stating it would wake her and banish the glowing apparition.

“I wish.” the other says dryly. “No, you’re not dreaming. Considering the state of the world that’s hardly a surprising reaction, however.”

Malice says nothing. Still, waiting for the dream to end or Mayhem and Carnal to wake her. Nothing happens. Minutes go by. Still longer. Malice huffs. Apparently she wasn’t going to be woken from this dream. Might as well see what’s in store.

The stranger sits in silence, waiting for Malice to say something. “You’re, what, then? I don’t believe in angels.”

She guffaws loudly, “Angels! That’s a new one. I am a Djinn.”

The word doesn’t register in Malice’s memory.

The stranger rolls her eyes, “A genie?”

It’s Malice’s turn to guffaw now.

“Now I know I’m dreaming.” She chortles. Her dreams had been becoming increasingly pessimist as of late. It’s a nice change, strange though it may be.

Her dreamed up bedfellow laughs a strangely ethereal laugh, amused.

“Well you can go back to sleep if you like. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“Right.” Malice considers. “You know, I would. But I tend to have a hard time sleeping when there’s like. Light to the point I can still see it when I close my eyes.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.” The light dims. It’s almost as if the stranger pulls the light inside of her. “Better?”

Malice nods.

“Call me Alaia. Just in case I’m still here when you wake up again.”

Malice mumbles, settling back in to sleep. She falls into slumber quickly.

In the morning she’s woken by a chorus of gasps. She sits up, rubbing the grogginess from her eyes, to find her entire family standing at the entrance to the alcove, staring.

“Who is that?”

Malice follows their gazes with her own, settling on the young woman from her dream last night.

“Alaia.” Malice remembers the name, and the odd encounter. “Apparently she’s here to stay.”

“Oh, don’t sound so excited.” Alaia retorts, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Now, down to brass tasks. You have wishing to get to.