A Cage in a Pit in Another Universe

by Luc Reid

“What you in for?” said the skeletal guy from his rusty, spherical cage a few yards away.

“I paid for smokes with money from another universe,” said Andy from his own cage. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, which was impossible. The cage was too short to stand up in, too curved to sit in, and lying down made the bars cut into him. Squatting was bearable for short periods. He tried that again. Belatedly, he remembered his manners. “What about you?”

“I ate an Eyeball of Power.”

“Gross.”

“Yah za, it wasn’t bad,” said the skeletal guy. “Kinda savory. You know, ma slacka, you sound brainburnt to me.”

Andy looked out across the wide, dank pit, crisscrossed by girders from which dozens of cages like his hung by tangles of thick chain. “If that means crazy, then yeah, probably. You know how long we’re supposed to be here?”

The skeletal guy smiled, revealing a mouth almost devoid of teeth. “What you mean? How long before we die?”
“They have to let us out sometime, right?”

“How come?”

Andy didn’t have a good answer to that. His legs were beginning to ache, so he tried sitting again, but the cage forced him into a slump, then into lying down against the rough bars.

“You want a cigarette?” Andy said.

The skeletal guy laughed mirthlessly. “Yah za, what we gonna do with those?”

Andy shrugged, took out a cigarette, and cupped his hand around the end while he flicked his lighter.

“Yah my long-suffering mama!” said the skeletal guy. “You got fire?”

Andy flicked sparks from his lighter in the guy’s direction as he took a deep drag on his Millboro, which tasted awful. “Yeah,” he said. “So?”

“I told you,” said the skeletal guy. “I ate an Eyeball of Power! We just gotta swing these cages closer, ma slacka, and we’ll be flying outta here in no time!”

Andy had no idea what eating an eyeball had to do with his lighter, but he damned sure didn’t have anything better to do. Clamping his cigarette firmly in one side of his mouth and squinting, he stood up as much as he could, his back pressed against the bars, and leaned first one way, then the other. The skeletal guy began to do the same.

Hell, even if the guy turned out to be crazy, at least Andy’d made a friend.

Ghost Dancing the Cemetery Mile

by Rudi Dornemann

It was your idea, your concept that started it all. I saw your face as you watched the historical footage. I saw the moment the plan came to you. I didn’t know what it was until you drove us out there, beyond all the walls and shields, the abandoned strip malls and the checkpoints.

You tapped the pad you’d glued to the dash and the old-time music started, so loud and so low our ribs throbbed with the beat and we couldn’t hear the screeching of the harpies. You’d slipped the restraints and slid out the window before we could stop you.

There, under the light of the hololoops of the dearly departed, you danced. And the hover, controlled by that patch pad on the dash, moving in time to the math you’d programmed, danced with you. You leapt and slid and spun, ran or slow-walked, while the hover surged and stopped, fishtailed, hopped up and drifted down. You spun on the roof; you tumbled through the underside jets and came up again, road dust unfolding spookily around you in the holo-light. The mausoleum blocks echoed with laughter and voices singing along to century-old slang.

“Ghost dancing,” you said.

The next week, we cruised the tombs again, and we all took a turn. Under the flickering gaze of beloved husband of, cherished daughter, much-missed brother, we danced. The hover, danced with us; you’d taught us the method of your math, and we’d each programmed our own choreography.

Your math was always the best; your choreography the most perfect. That was why things went wrong — your movements were too true to the beat. The harpies knew exactly when to swoop. They had you off the ground by the time we reached you. You were still twitching to the bass; they knew how to move to hold you tight in their claws.

Now you stay locked indoors, won’t talk to any of us who still go out into the night and the music.

We dance to new tunes, stochastic syncopation that bewilders the harpies, too many rhythms shifting too quickly. We dance for you, much-missed brother, and hope that you’ll join us again, to leap and twist by the light of the dead.