Whilst I lie in restless slumber,
I can hear the distant Mumbler.
Calling for whom, I do not know.
It is for me?,
is it for you?
I hear the urgency in the voice.
Quickly I must make the choice.
Draw the dagger, don the bow,
which will save me,
I don't know.
Stealthy comes the hidden one,
seeking out its rivals spawn.
Searching for easy prey,
instead he finds,
me, prepared to slay.
Steel sinks deep,
blood begins to seep.
Mark this hour, from now on,
a child alone,
in bittersweet song.
-
Dreams can be tricky things, even when they are not nightmares. Memories can be clarified, or twisted. The subconscious weaves dreams however it wishes. Sometimes I dream about that day, the last day my family lived, and I see more details than I used to remember. I see the hitman, dressed as a caterer, walking around the large ballroom carrying a tray loaded with cheese. But things are not as they appear. He bears a plastic shell covered by a few bits of food. Within the shell lie his implements of choice, throwing daggers. He has no guarantee he'll get close enough to the targets for his usual tactics, but all that's required of him today is to disrupt the celebration.
If things went according to plan, half-way through the festivities my father was going to make some kind of announcement. As a child of 8, I had no idea what his plans were. Even my oldest sister, Rochelle, who had come home from the university for the announcement didn't know. She, my Mother, and oldest brother James were listening to a representative from the Johnson Corp. A few paces away my older brother Ferris demonstrates his skill at rifle twirling to an older gentleman and my Father. Wen, my next oldest sister was talking to the son of a wealthy resident of the Isle. I was a few more paces away, trying to decide on how to convince my Mother that it would be best if I was allowed to go to my room. Eventually I decided a grounding would be the quickest bet. I singled out the caterer heading straight for my father, and made a bee line for his feet.
In my dream, I see my mother watching me from the corner of her eye. The corner of her mouth turns down, and her jaw tightens. She's unhappy about the approach I'm taking. I trip and stumble at the caterer's feet. He trips, tumbles over me, the tray clatters to the ground, and knives spin through the air. Ferris, at the startling sound, turns about and swings his training rifle behind his back in one swift, fluid motion. When he sees the metallic glint in the air he immediately moves to cover Father. The security forces, who'd been a few paces away from every member of the family, began the tasks of relocating their designated responsibility to the "safe" room and eliminating the danger. A guard each grabs Mother, Father, Rochelle, and Wen. James joins Ferris in the security screen coving the retreat. A smoke cluster is lobbed through the air from somewhere behind me. A strong pair of arms pick me up and carry me the opposite direction of the rest of my family. Through rents in the smoke I see faces filled with fear. A familiar voice calls out.
"I have her, Sir! I will keep her safe." It my uncle Victor, Victor Bernatelli. He was my father's Intelligence Officer, and closest friend. He puts me over his shoulder, in a firefighter's carry, and runs. My view is filled with smoke, running figures, and shinning metal. Far to the left of the ballroom, is a lone figure.
Over the years I've puzzled about that figure. Who was it, and why were they just standing? Sometimes I can make out the color of the clothes, the style of hair. I'm almost certain it is a man. Once in my dream, I had a close view of the face. I remember seeing a soft double chin, plump nose, small ears, and a sweaty forehead. But his eyes were shadowed from me.
"Nica." Another familiar voice calls to me. It has a comforting quality to it, but at the moment it sounds very tense. I could feel a slight vibration near my head. The odd sensation coupled with the troubled voice stroked my instinct. I ducked, rolled, and flung out my arms, unsure what direction the danger would come at me from.
I hit the floor in a tangle of sheets, and a blast of air brought me back to reality.
"Please tell me that wasn't from an External Breather Kit?" I asked Trevor as I started to rise from the floor.
"Naw. You should know better from me." His voice quiet. "I brought one of my air compressors from my shop." He walked over and pulled the blankets away from my legs. Smiling down at me, leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek. "Bad one tonight?"
The dreams had been a part of life as far back as I could remember, but I never knew until recently that I reacted to them physically. Trevor had been the first that I'd allowed to stay in my bunk the full night, and we'd learned the hard way that it wasn't safe for him to stay nearby. "Yeah. I saw his face again, but not in full detail. Mother was mad at me." I reached for the trigger device that Trevor had made for the occasion, while he tidied up the bunk. "I don't mind water."
"You know that's wasteful, and messy."
"It get my shower started early."
"Hey, are you gonna be ok for the uplink? We got less than an hour to make rendezvous with your contact on Chimera Moon."
"I'll be fine. You worry about me too much." I leaned up.
Trevor purposely stayed clear. "I worry because we're using hack headsets and open access docks. You are merging your mind with a multi-consciousness without protection."
"But what we're doing..."
"Is important. Not just for you, or Nuevo Pluto, or other 3rd tier planets in the colonial region, but for all those who're trapped on the asteroid ships. I understand that, but you, are important to me." He kissed me fiercely.
Everything else is just something to fight for. I'm a fighter, it's what I do. But he, he is what I now want to live for.
* * *
We emerge in a cramped room in an alleyway just off the upper rim of the Atrium. This time it's just Jean-Pierre, Marla and myself. Hastily we make our way the wooden red door of The Nines. Once inside, Marla heads upstairs to check on our "package" while Jean-Pierre and I head for the bar.
"Ms. Scarlet! How delightful to see you again. I must say that I am both saddened and gladdened by the absence of your crew." Lancer cheerfully greeted.
He's been my most trusted informant for more than a decade, and has never once called me Scarlet. My body guard immediately activates his scanners. Somewhere, back with my body, Trevor starts prepping the emergency logg off software.
I respond to my old friend in kind. "Sup, Lancelot?" The slightest of winks, then a nod to the privacy booths.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet." He leans over the countertop, and quietly whispers. "Trust me on this, you will be safe, but you won't believe it. He's in number 5."
We head over, then duck into the booth, Jean-Pierre with a viral injector at hand. The mood lights in the booth are turned low.
"Lancer says I can trust you. I'd like to see you to confirm that for myself." The lights brighten, and before me sits a figure I saw in my dream, just this morning.
"Daddy?"
