Tangled Intersections

  Nidi Station

  Habitation Zone E5

  Grison awoke to the intercom blaring right above his head.

  Attention all Nidi Station habitants. There has been a transporter accident at Corridor C Section 511, Intersection 12.

  A video opened, showing the grisly scene. It was quite clear what had happened, and Grison shuddered despite his heart rate hovering near overload.

  This area is closed until further notice. You will be notified when access is restored. As a reminder, please obey the station’s safety protocols. Watch for and avoid flashing red lines on the pedestrian walkways. Failure to do may result in personal injury, or even death.

  The closing slogan for the station’s newscast sounded, then the whole thing repeated in language choice two. Grison reached up, clicked off the monitor, and flopped back on the bed. Sweat dotted his brow and pooled under his clothes. Enough adrenaline pounded through his veins he felt like he’d just been for a three hour jog. The image of the man partially beamed into the surrounding architecture with just his feet and shins sticking out stayed with him like a bad smell, reminding him of the dangers inherent in such an old model station. It wasn’t yet his normal rise time, but, too jittery to sit still, he got out of bed and strode to the mirror.

  In the reflection, his eyes were wild, his hair mussed and his clothes rumpled. He looked like a crazy person. “I need to calm down, that’s all.” He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The hum of the station’s power cells and the environmental system sounded rhythmic and even. Craaawk. Vroooom. Craaawk. Vroooom. Almost like a man’s voice. If he listened hard enough, he might be able to hear what it was saying. See if it was talking to him.

  Startled by the thought, he opened his eyes and jerked, letting out a small fearful wail. Immediately he scowled, disgusted by his antics. “Get a hold of yourself Grison. Remember, you’re not the crazy one!”

  Walking calmly away from the mirror, he studied his quarters. Apparently on Nidi Station, luxury accommodations meant your own miniscule bathroom, a tiny kitchen unit with an in-wall fusion cooker and a port window. All done up in a tedious light gray, the rooms hardly screamed fashionable, but they’d do for his needs. He wasn’t expecting company. Still, a change of clothes would be nice. Stopping by the console, he sent a message to C35374. Then, he got in the shower.

  Emerging half-damp, he was surprised to see a parcel sitting where one hadn’t been before. A long, brownish colored duffle, it sat lumpily on the coffee table. He studied it suspiciously, not entirely convinced it was his and unsure how to approach it if it wasn’t. Looking around, he searched the area for any sign of an intruder and then, slowly let his guard down. He approached the bag and read the name tag. Dr. Maynard Grison.

  So it was his after all. At least it claimed to be. “How silly of me.” His fingers trembled ever so slightly as they unzipped the top. But of course one never knew what they’d find inside such a contraption after it had been out of one’s own hands for any length of time. “Wild dogs,” he muttered. “Man-eating Prana Snakes.” When the bag was fully open, its contents exposed and bleeding like an open cadaver, he felt both relieved and disappointed at the sight. He gingerly reached in and picked up one of the items using only the tips of his fingers, drawing it out for inspection. A white, safari-style hat.

  Frowning, he tossed it aside. What good is such a hat here?

  The next object was a tan-colored shirt with a collar. Then a pair of black trousers in a silky space-age material. Next were various pens and styluses and four pairs of sunglasses. “Hmpf.” Those were flung aside, one after another, with no concern for where they landed. This stuff isn’t useful to me. I don’t need any of this.

  He tore through the rest of the bag furiously, ending with shaking it upside down so that it spilled its remaining contents at his feet. Thump, went a watch, calendar and shaving kit. He glared at them angrily. “For hell’s sake! Isn’t there anything worthwhile in here?”

  But every item he’d inspected either didn’t matter to him or hadn’t registered as belonging to him. They should have felt like his, but they didn’t. The imposter bag was full of foreign objects that sat on the floor defying him, taunting him with their uselessness. Beside himself, he punched the button on the comm. panel and re-dialed C35374.

  “Where are my things?” he screeched. “These aren’t my things!” Shaking, he sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. More sweat poured off him, and he’d just had a shower. His stomach churned with the sensation he was small, like a speck in space. Alone. Adrift. Vulnerable. He hated that feeling more than anything. Made him feel sick, like he hadn’t eaten in days.

  A soft ping sounded above him. The intercom again.

  “Dr. Grison. Incoming call. Source, Nidi Station Security, block 5.”

  He lifted his head and raised his eyebrows. Here? For me? They had Rister in custody, so they certainly had no reason to contact him. What more could they possibly want? “Uh, hello?” When there was no response and the unit pinged again, he tersely barked, “Answer!”

  The call came through.

  “Dr. Grison, this is first medical psychiatric nurse Ballantine. Can you make time to stop by security in about an hour Earth measurement? We’d like to get your recommendation on Rister.”

  “Regarding what?”

  “His treatment plan.”

  He sat up straight, back muscles tense as stone. Treatment plan? Nobody had ever said anything about a treatment plan. In the best case scenario, the on Grison had pinned all his hopes on, Rister was to be executed. His lips fumbled over words before he managed to spit out, “I-of course-I’ll…. Be there.”

  “Perfect, doctor. See you then. Ballantine out.”

  One soft tone ended the call. The line dead, the room was awash once more in silence. Grison stood and stoically picked a few items off the floor. A tan shirt two sizes too big. A pair of plain brown slacks that only came to his ankles. Biting his lips, he headed into the small bedroom and dressed. When he was done he looked at his reflection in the mirror and frowned. This won’t do. This just won’t do.

  Four floors and two hallways later, he arrived at the security deck. The station, one of the originals built during the enthusiastically and often fatally naive initial we’ll-all-live-in-space-harmoniously phase of humanity, harbored, by today’s standards, serious operational flaws. Environmentals weren’t shielded, nor far enough away from the power core to satisfy modern safety regulations. There was a total lack of system redundancy as well. Back-up generators were tethered to the outer ring as an afterthought, exposed and vulnerable to any kind of attack. And, security was situated far too close to weapons storage for most people’s tastes. An escaped prisoner could literally walk across the hall, breach access to the storage locker, and go on a shooting rampage within two point five Earth minute’s time. Grison’s stomach was still queasy, and he steadfastly turned his back on the weapons area as he waited for entry.

  The door slid open and he sighed in relief. Before him was a desk and, in a semi-circle, a series of holding cells. All were empty, except for one. Rister, devoid of his restraints, stood from the bed and walked casually to the security screen. For a second, Grison thought he’d walk right through it. Anxiety tightened his gut again, working its way up his throat. By the time Ballantine turned around from her station, he’d forgotten how to speak.

  “Hello, doctor.”

  He glanced nervously from Rister to Ballantine, his throat still thick with shock. “I, uh…” He cleared it and straightened his spine in an effort to appear at ease.

  Ballantine stood, stuck out her hand, and he shook it. She then grabbed her data board and proceeded to the cage. “He’s a lively one, Rister. Been up all night. Talkative, too. He’s been chattering on like a Callus Six monkey.”

  Grison’s nerves pitched. At that same exact moment, Rister snagged his gaze, looking him right in the eyes. His look was part defiance, part… He swallowed convulsivel
y. “Uh, miss…” he’d already forgotten her name and her back was to him, so no chance of reading her name tag, but that wasn’t the pertinent issue. “Why is … his mouth guard off?”

  She tossed her head, smiling over her right shoulder. “We don’t keep them gagged here, doctor. As you know, that would be considered uncivilized treatment for all but the most violent offenders.”

  “But he’s … he’s a killer. A cold blooded killer.”

  “Well he’s no trouble to us now, is he? Security has him well in hand. Not to worry. But if you wish, there are panic suits available in the lockers over there. If it would make you feel better, put one on. I’ll wait until you’re ready to get started.”

  From inside his cell, Rister shot daggers from his beady eyes but he said nothing. He was studying him, waiting for Grison to make a wrong move.

  The look unsettled him further, made him want to jump into the cage and rip his heart out with his hands. But instead he had to stand there like an idiot, wearing the wrong clothes, keeping the peace. The effort of being civil left his palms sweaty and his mouth dry. “No. That’s fine. I… I’m fine.”

  “Great. Then, let’s review his file.” She swept a hand in front of her and a screen appeared, listing out Rister’s most recent eval. “Your own diagnosis of the patient is paranoid schizophrenic, with psychotic episodes.”

  He snorted, amused at the dry clinical terminology that made Rister’s behavior sound perfectly plausible or that he was just a little quirky. Oh, it doesn’t even come close. Rister wasn’t just another patient. He was the devil himself.

  Rister’s eyes shown darkly, full of malice and Grison took a step back, retreating from the palpable blows landing on his body.

  “Is that correct, doctor?” Ballantine inquired.

  Beads of sweat dampened Grison’s forehead, but still he nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s my diagnosis.”

  She studied the notes again, digging a little deeper into the file. “He also suffers from dissociative episodes, in which he assumes the identity of another, usually his intended victim.”

  Victim. The word hung in the air around them and refused to leave. How he hated the term’s simplicity. Again, such a cozy little affectation of speech that revealed nothing of the extensive damage Rister’s victims usually faced.

  Ballantine frowned when she read the next chapter. “It says here Mr. Rister prefers to use knives on his victims. His murder rate exceeds ten for sure, but we know there could be more.” She spun around abruptly, catching Grison by surprise. “How many more do you think, doctor?”

  “Yes, how many do you suppose?” At this, the first utterance from Rister since they’d been in his presence, Grison nearly jumped out of his skin. The sneering tone of the question didn’t seem to bother Ballantine, who still stared at him expectantly, her face upturned. But Grison heard and felt the challenge like a punch in the jaw.

  “Um, we, uh… twenty or so, I think.”

  Rister raised an eyebrow. Another direct challenge. The danger he presented to them, even while caged, grew second by second. Grison could sense it reaching out from Rister’s gaze, seeping through the security wall and grabbing for his neck. Ballantine, however, seemed wholly unaware of the danger.

  “Twenty?” Her eyes widened and she flashed a devilish grin. “Well, he’s been a busy boy then, hasn’t he?” She turned around once more and studied Rister’s file. “I suppose Fremerling Intergalactic is on it? Working the case, I mean.”

  “Yes, but… don’t assume…”

  “So while they confirm his crimes, we need to decide on a course of action for his treatment. What do you suggest, doctor?”

  Kill him. Kill him! The words screamed through his brain, driven down a one-way road on a thick air current of fear. Blind, terrorizing fear. And every second he fought the urge to say them, Rister stared him down, watching his struggle with something bordering more on obsession than interest. The bastard. He needed to make a stand and show him who was boss. “Lobotomy,” he blurted out.

  Rister didn’t even flinch.

  Ballantine swiveled her pretty little head his way. “Doctor? Are you certain?” She checked her data pad. “According to the Freeborn Interstellar diagnostic manual for the human species, medication is usually the first resort. Then, neurosurgery. Only if that doesn’t work is permanent brain structural reorganization suggested. Except in rare cases.”

  Oh, he’s a rare case all right. “Miss Ballantine, I…” His voice trailed off as he found himself ensnared by Rister’s studiously mocking gaze.

  “Go ahead,” Rister murmured. “Tell her. You know what the guidelines say.” He raised a brow. “Don’t you, doctor?”

  “Of course I do! I helped write them, after all.” He pried his focus away from the criminal and back to the nurse. “It’s just that, in this case, I don’t see where medication will be effective. I believe we’ve tried several…”

  “Let me check the notes, doctor.” Her fingers swept over the ghostly electronic images of the file so fast he couldn’t follow. “Um, yes. Right here. A list of the medications and the dates. Perfect.” She nodded and scribbled something on her pad.

  He narrowly avoided sending a triumphant smirk to Rister. “I believe you’ll find they tried neurosurgery, too.”

  “But it didn’t work, did it?” Rister hissed his icy accusation through a menacing frown.

  Grison crossed his arms and tried to warm his suddenly chilled frame with his hands. “No. It most certainly did not.”

  “Then I’m afraid that only death will do. Isn’t that right, doctor? Death is after all, the best solution to every problem.”

  He stumbled back a step, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. No amount of warmth could belay the sub-zero tremor running down him from head to toe.

  “Death always puts things in the proper perspective, does it not?” Rister’s eyes shone goadingly.

  Ballantine, who up until now had been studying her screen, snapped her head up. “What? Death? Nobody said anything about termination.” She furiously stroked her pad, whizzing through rules and regulations.

  “But it’s the final course of treatment for your most stubborn patients, isn’t it?” Rister goaded from behind the security force field.

  Ballantine spun around to face him. “Doctor, I don’t think the FIDM specifies… Doctor—Doctor, are you all right?”

  Head reeling, he backed out of the room, slipped through the sliding doors and out into the hallway. Still shaking, unable to talk, he lurched away with his feet dragging under him. He had to get out of there. Get away from Rister and his menacing glare. Every bone in his body told him Rister wanted to kill him. That was so wrong. Wrong! He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be allowed to change the rules. Not this far into the game. “I won’t stand for it,” Grison muttered. “I won’t let him do it. He can’t get to me that way.”

  He’d traveled the length of two hallways before his breathing slowed. Wheezing, he leaned on the wall for support and prayed the shivers would cease. He needed to be able to think clearly, dispassionately about Rister’s demise. No matter what the insane man threw at him. He’d let Rister get to him today and he shouldn’t have. “Got to remain strong.”

  Sucking in musty recycled air, he made for the travelift. As he neared the intersection, the red lights in the floor plating flashed. Loudspeakers blared an announcement in three languages simultaneously.

  “Warning. Transport in progress. Warning. Stay clear of marked path. Failure to do so can result in injury or death.”

  He stopped in time, gaze glued to the transport lane. As he watched, the shields formed along the narrow pathway. Then, seconds later, a whooshing sounded as a blur passed by.

  He stepped forward automatically, not wishing to be delayed any longer and stopped short as another whoosh, and another blur, followed by third whizzed by him. Then a fourth and one more. By his count, five bodies had passed in front of his eyes, all blown to bits, to be
reassembled in close to their original form in some unknown destination. The sheer poetry of it struck him. Each person, reduced to their elemental particles, traveling near the speed of light. How did they feel when scattered apart? Did each little cell feel its own demise or even more alive now that it had been freed from its restrictive form? He wondered and stood there blinking for several seconds after the red light had changed back to blue and the crowd around him had started moving. As the unit shut down and went through it cooling process, he found the sound soothing, mesmerizing. Almost like a song – a lullaby - made up of whispered screams.

  The soft cooing noise tamped down his nerves, allowed him to think clearly once more. Taking a deep breath, relieved of his earlier emotional turmoil, he walked casually back to his luxury accommodations, humming softly to himself the unfamiliar tune. When he arrived at his quarters, he found a note recorded from C35374, stating the only other belongings from the shuttle had been delivered for his inspection. He walked inside, saw the blue duffle bag resting on the coffee table and circled it cautiously, deciding in the end it was better left alone.

  He simply couldn’t afford another shock that day.

  It would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Nidi Station

  Habitation Zone E5

  After rummaging around in the pile of clothes heaped on the floor he managed to change into something that fit marginally better, then headed to the main observation deck. Here the restaurants, merchants and professional offices were gathered in a central place. A mish-mash of cultures, vendors and scents, heavily mixed with stale air and boredom. Perhaps it was a feature of all stations that boredom eventually set in for its long-term inhabitants. For Grison, ennui was exactly what he desired.

  Entering the bar, he parked himself on a stool and ordered an ale. He wasn’t sure what to expect but it sure as hell wasn’t the tumbler of frothing fluorescent green liquid the bartender plopped down by his left elbow. His stomach lurched as he eyed it, reticent to give up even one credit for such a foul looking concoction. But a quick examination of the bar’s occupants showed them chugging it down heartily, and none of them had fallen over. Yet.

  With a sigh he picked up the glass and sniffed. It smelled like a combination of Earth grass and overcooked ham. He swore his brain contracted on impact, scuttling toward the back of his skull to cower. But he dutifully took a sip – a small one – and swallowed. When severe convulsions did not immediately commence, he licked his lips and tasted it again. On the second try, the flavor changed to minty-sweet, a bit strong for his taste and it certainly wouldn’t pass for ale in most parts of the galaxy but here, on this half derelict outpost it seemed to fit right in. Sucking in a deep breath, he slapped his credits on the table. The bartender eyed him cautiously as if checking to see if he’d change his mind. When Grison did not, he picked up the card and ran it through the processor.

  “Open an account?” the server asked in Universal.

  “Sure. Might as well.” He lifted his glass in salute, brought it to his lips and drank some more. With every swig it went down cooler, easier, slipping down his throat like candy. Within minutes he ordered another. Why not? I don’t have anywhere else to be.

  Not interested in socializing, he took round number two and wandered through the bar alone, stopping to gaze out the portals. Nidi Station, with all its old-fashioned technology, was one of the first to reside next to a remnant. Grison had watched the informational video on the white dwarf, Mira Tri Lucius, before leaving but it didn’t quite do the former five solar mass star justice. At only a fraction of its former luminosity, it still kicked out plenty of residual light and enough heat to keep the thermal exchangers busy. Grison stared at it, fascinated by the infinitesimally slow death taking place before him. What would it be like to take six billion years to die?

  A loud laugh shook him from his daydream. Two Umganian station mechanics were holding a loud pissing contest to his left. Frowning into his sudsy beer, he grit his teeth and waited for them to shut their traps.

  “I saw it. With my own eyes.”

  “You weren’t even on C that morning, you scandakerous dog. Even if you were, your eyes were still green from the night before.” The larger Umganian raised his ale pointedly.

  “But I saw him. I did.” The smaller one leaned closer. “He is small, about a metric high,” he held his hands out, one above the other, separated by an Earth foot or so. “His skin as green as this ale.”

  The other drained his ale, slammed the empty glass on the table and scoffed. “Nah. You dinna see him then. He’s not green. He’s black.”

  “He’s green!”

  “His clothes are green.”

  “No, they’re red.”

  Grison scrubbed his face, wishing like hell they’d burst a blood vessel. But as the bartender brought them both refills, he doubted that would happen soon.

  “And, he was on the other side of the conduit, standing right behind the force field when those people came tumbling through.”

  He made a derisive sound and motioned with a big meaty hand, pointing toward the plate metal grating. “Standing, eh? How’d you see him, if he’s only so high?”

  “He was floating. Yeah, that’s how it was.” The smaller of the two nodded, affirming his explanation. “Then, after the accident, after that guy just walked into the transport line, he was gone. Poof.” He made a fist and then exploded his fingers outward. “Vanished.”

  The other man shook his head. His voice was gruff, laced with liquor. “Ale dreams, that’s all.”

  “Tell that to the guy sticking halfway out the wall.”

  A trickle of interest skittered down Grison’s vertebrae. He turned and addressed the Umganians. “You’re talking about the man who died in the transporter?”

  “Yeah.” The larger one took another pull and then put down his beer. “What’s it to you? Did you know the guy?”

  With both of them looking at him, his throat constricted, making it difficult to get words out. “No, I, uh…was just curious.”

  “Well, it’s nothing you ever want to see,” the smaller one said. “Ending up with the top half of your body buried in the station looks quite painful.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” the other one argued. “You’d be dead instantly.”

  Grison shuddered. “No way to bring you back, then? Can’t they just … re-transport you again?”

  The bigger one rocked when he snorted. “Hell no. In this old station? By the time they sent you through the coils again, you’d be nothing but Bay-Jiy burger when you came out the other end.”

  The smaller one laughed, sloshing his beer on the table. “So true. God, that’s funny.”

  “Then why the hell do people use it?”

  That got him a shrug. “Folks miss their flights, or just want to jump start to the nearest ship to the station.” He blinked. “We don’t always get light speed vessels here. Sometimes people are stuck a while.”

  “They start to go a little crazy.” The smaller one nodded. He drained his glass and held it out for another.

  “And then they start seeing things.” The larger Umganian’s voice had lowered several octaves and the darkeners in the room created shadows on his cheeks and jowl, carving a menacing luminous visage. As if he was going to tell the dirtiest, most evil secret the universe ever knew.

  Despite the quiver of fear carving a path down his spine, Grison leaned closer.

  “Yeah. Like that one guy did.” His buddy said.

  “You said you saw it. Are you changing your mind now?”

  “No. I only meant that the guy in the wall had seen ‘em.”

  Grison frowned, his eyebrows lowered in consternation. If these two performed their mechanic duties as well as they conversed, it was no damn wonder the station had so many accidents. “Seen who?”

  There was a moment of silence in which neither Umganian said a word. In fact, the entire room seemed to have gone silent. The hairs on Grison’s neck stood u
p and his forehead broke out a sweat. He glanced toward the exit, his urge to run intensifying with each passing second.

  Finally, the smaller one leaned closer to the middle of the table and murmured, “Marvin the Martian.”

  Grison’s head snapped back and his jaw dropped. “Marvin the Martian? Come on. That’s – that’s a cartoon. An old Earth cartoon. It’s not even real.”

  “It is here.” The larger one’s bulk swelled in direct proportion to his chilling tone. He too, drained his glass and set it back on the table. Fingering the cup, he raised his eyes to Grison. “In fact here, it’s an omen.”

  The other nodded.

  He canted closer to Grison and hissed, “He’s the last thing you see before you die.” He shouted the last word in full gravelly tone.

  Grison jumped at the sound and both Umganians burst into uproarious laughter. Around him, the rest of the bar had joined in and the sound rang off the room’s metallic rafters. It startled him so badly that bile sloshed in his stomach and the hand holding the remainder of his second ale trembled. About half the green liquid spilled onto the floor and he stared at it, horrified. Green ale. Little green men. Omens of death. He snapped his head up and looked at the two smart asses in front him, seething, afraid, confused.

  Behind them in the light of the slow-dying star an image floated by. A small, hazy object about a metric foot tall. It moved quickly, and vanished before Grison could turn his head and follow it. But the vision had hit a nerve and left it raw. The glass slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor, the sound lost in the din of the bar patron’s chatter. His stomach heaved, wanting to empty, the threat of the action sending sweat pouring profusely down his cheek. He stumbled to the restroom with his eyes half-closed, swallowing down disgust and vomit. When he reached the toilet, he let loose.

  The green ale had formed some kind of sticky gel. It coated his hands and his throat, slamming it shut so he could hardly breathe. Desperate to get air, he rose, clutching his guts and hustled to the main hallway. His vision blurry, he could make out few details with any accuracy. He swore a Parnatheon Flesh Eater passed by him, followed by two pair of Mourning Doves. To his right the letters on the hallway signs seemed twisted. The ones on the left he couldn’t even see. Swallowing down more green bile, he made his way to the one bearing the medic sign in the Universal language. At least he hoped that’s what it was, because if he traveled any further, he might collapse and die.

  “Help me,” he garbled out. The goo had gathered in his airway, too much sludge to dislodge, making his speech a scratchy mess.

  The B’tok O’hr physician that appeared didn’t seem fazed by his appearance at all. “Ah. What is it today? Ingested a bit too much of the green ale?”

  Just the mention of it stoked his ire. “What the hell is that stuff?”

  “Leftover chemical burn-off from the wastewater system, I’ve heard.”

  What remained in his stomach flew up his windpipe, followed shortly by the contents of his upper intestines. The wrenching contractions ripped through his guts like tiny machetes, leaving only pain and emptiness in their wake.

  “Now, tell me your name, sir. I’ll just look you up in our system and get your details.”

  He eyed the doctor sitting patiently behind his desk, sending him an angry stare. Didn’t the man see he was dying? “Grison. Maynard.” His stomach flexed once more, and black spots danced in front of his vision. At this rate the damn stuff would poison him before the jerk off of a doctor left his seat.

  After some light tapping on the keypad, the B’tok O’hr smiled. “Mr. Grison. Very good. I believe I have everything I need here to help you out. Now, if you’ll just affix your thumb print here…”

  Grison lurched toward it, miscalculated, and landed flat on his face. He didn’t possess the strength to rise.

  Unperturbed, the doctor grabbed his goo-drenched hand, extended his right thumb and pressed it to the interface. “Perfect. Now that the payment is arranged, let’s get started on that stomach pump.”

  The blackness closed around him and he did not argue. He went proudly into the night, diffusing his last rays of energy and then going limp.

  Against his cheek the floor boards said, Cah cahh nuh. Cah cahh nuh, and the faraway lights twinkled oh so bright.