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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Dinner with Destiny"  "Plante!" you scream down the hallway. "Warm up the machine! We're ready!" You back away as White advances with Kali Valentine draped limply in his arms. But even unconscious she radiates a kind of grace, like she's been cast into an enchanted slumber, and is being gently borne from a scene of catastrophe. Stop being so goddamned dramatic about it, you chide yourself as you back into the bathroom to let White pass. Daniel and Gabriel are loitering in the hallway entrance, watching anxiously, when you emerge. You feel a flash of contempt for their rubbernecking. "Whoa, hang on, what are you doing?" Plante says from down the hall. "Bringing you a biff," White retorts. He's standing in the guest bedroom, still holding Kali, with Plante blocking him, when you catch up. It's a large bedroom; it would have to be, to hold the minimalist decor—king-size bed, narrow dresser, armchair and end table—along with the portable "SoulSwapper 2000" that your team brought along. Plante looks around White's burly frame at you. "What's the plan here?" he asks. "What do you mean, 'What's the plan?' Plan is to swap me out with the biff. Or were you that unclear on things?" He makes a face. "I mean," he says, "who goes under the extractor first? Because if the biff goes in first, you then gotta move her so you can go under; and then we gotta move you and her again—" His scowl deepens. "Or, you know, we can just extract you first then move her in after, and no one has to lug more than one body around." White, Kali Valentine still in his arms, looks over his shoulder at you. "Oh fuck, what difference does it make to me?" you snarl. "Put her on the bed," you direct White, "and make sure she stays out. You need me undressed?" you ask Plante. "In your birthday suit, yes." Plante glances over at the doorway, where Daniel and Gabriel are leaning in with an almost panting interest. "If you gentlemen will excuse us." "Why, what's the fucking deal?" Daniel retorts. "We've seen Knotts in her birthday suit plenty of times." "And besides—" Gabriel grins as he puts his arms around his husband and pulls him close. "It's not like you're going to give us wood." He smacks Daniel wetly on the cheek. "Will you fuckers just give us some privacy? You too, White." "Yes'm," he says. But in the doorway he lingers to look back at Kali, and then to give you a parting glance, before pulling the door closed after him. "You don't have to remove your clothes," Plante tells you in a low voice. "Just—" He points to his face. "I'm not wearing one. This is a tat. I figured— Well, I thought it would simplify things." "Oh." He looks momentarily discomfited. "Well, it does. And, er, you do understand that—" He trails off. "Understand what?" He presses his lips together until they whiten. "You signed a release, right? At least, I was told that you—" "Yes, I signed a release. What's it matter to you?" "It doesn't mean anything to me," he says with a shrug. "Only I was told—" "What were you told?" You feel your hackles rise. He gives you a worried look. Then he sighs. "That this"—he points to your chest—"isn't going to be yours anymore. Not after what we do tonight. The company— Well, I was told that you wouldn't be going back to it, that even if—" "Yes, I know all that," you sigh. "I signed away my—" You are suddenly chilly, and you hunch your shoulders and rub an arm to warm it. Your eyes shift toward the machine. It looks shabby, mean, jerry-rigged. And you are now very frightened of it. The "Field Prototype Disassembly Table." That's what Plante and the rest of the lab elves call it. It was White who baptized it the "SoulSwapper 2000," a name which doesn't resonate with you but which you use in preference to "the FPDT" because you're not a cunt. There's not much to it, at least to look at: just a thinly padded workout bench with something like a drill press attached at the head. Easy to use, too, if you're on the business end: Just lay yourself on it face up—the way Cox and Muniz laid themselves on it back in London—and close your eyes so you don't see the diamond-tipped finger drop to pierce your forehead so it can suck your "P3" out. And now it's your turn to lay down on it. When you get up again, you will be Kali Valentine. And after that, you will never be "Will Prescott" again. It was the worst moment for you back in London, the moment you almost told Hyde-White to go fuck himself: the moment that the professor shoved a piece of paper under your hand and asked you to sign it. After you read it you demanded to know what the hell and why the hell. But dear boy, he said, of what use will your original body be after this procedure? Given where you are going—and the kind of place you will be going—why would you wish to return? And when was the last time you used it properly? You live under the mask of another, or in another form anyway. And what use will it be to you? you retorted. None particularly that we anticipate. But it represents an investment of ours—a considerable investment—in those tattoos if nothing else. Oh, don't worry, we are not going to dispose of it in any unseemly manner. We will store it away. This transfer of ownership, in point of fact, is merely a technicality, so there is no confusion about its disposal during your outside it. And should you desire at some distant date to return to your P3 to its original, erm, habitation, I foresee no reason we should not oblige. Though I'll be damned if I could understand why you would want to. Still, you felt an almost superstitious dread of signing ownership of your body over to Fane, and in so doing become only a disembodied "P3" to be shuttled between husks, none of which would truly be your own. But you could frame no reason to be so reluctant, and so you crumbled at under the professor's cold impatience and signed the document. And now has come the moment. And just as quickly it flutters into the past. "Let's get this over with," you mutter at Plante, and lay yourself onto the bench. * * * * * You dream of the Moon. Or is it the Moon dreaming of you? In its presence, you feel no more substantial than a smudge upon the air. It looms before you, vast and luminous in an inky sky, too distant to comprehend, but close enough (you feel) to touch. If you were brave enough to stretch your hand for it. Between you and it, but still so far that you could walk for a thousand years without closing the distance, sails a smaller moon. As it rotates it shows a cracked surface, and through those cracks there pulses a deep, crimson light. A great longing comes over you to grasp and embrace them. But hardly has the thought occurred, and hardly has your mind unwound the intention to stretch for them, when they vanish abruptly. With a gasp you put out your hand— * * * * * Did someone call my name? That is the thought you wake to, and it makes your heart pound. Because if they were calling your name, what name were they calling? There is a blank ceiling above you, but it takes only a moment to recollect where you are. The thin pad of the bench does not much soften the metal beneath your back. A pale face with a patchy red beard looms over you. You lock eyes with the man. He squints back. Finally he says, "Would you please sit up for me?" You swing your legs off the bench and let the shift in weight draw you upright. The silk of your suit and jacket rustle softly, and your hair tumbles and settles about your shoulders. "I just need to check the seating," Plante says as he takes a pencil light from the pocket of his shirt. He leans forward, and you hold your head and eyes steady as he shines it for many long seconds first in one eye, then in the other. "How do you feel?" he asks. "Well enough," you reply, and surprise yourself with the low, melodic thrum of your voice. "Considering." You feel on the tip of your tongue the faintest trill on the "r." "The mounting looks good," Plante says. "Perfect, in fact." "Then why, may I ask, must you keep shining that infernal device in my eyes?" He drops the light and straightens up with a grimace. "I just want to be sure. We both do." "I quite assure you, doctor," you say as you stand, "that I know exactly who I am. For all senses of the copula and all references of the pronoun." You resettle the duster on your shoulders, and shake it out so it settles more comfortably about you. "Is there anything else, or are we quite done here?" Plante's expression tightens, and he glances meaningfully over. You follow his gaze to the bed. A body bag rests upon it. It's not an empty body bag either. Your heart goes into your throat. Still, you step over, seize the zipper, and pull it open. But only far enough to expose the face of the young man contained within. Poor child, you think with a sudden stab of sorrow. His expression is twisted up into a look of regret. Maybe even one of bereavement. Sulva. Your throat constricts at the memory of your dream. And Kenandandra, I deem. Were those the last things you saw when you were in own body? When they vanished: Was that at the moment the machine drew you from it? And is that why the look on the boy's face expresses the horror of loss you feel in your own breast? Next: "The Threshold" |
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