Unfinished Business

Chapter Seven

The night was chilly, though the jovian Gorgon, on the horizon, did radiate a little heat and a bluish light, turning the Outback into an eerie fairy world in front of Zoë. She didn’t feel the chill, though. She had too much liquor and too much rage in her to condescend to a minor inconvenience like chill. The big man who led her through the desert seemed tireless, his long legs carrying a brisk, constant pace that forced her to take an extra step for every five he took. That didn’t bother her, per se, either. She had slogged through frozen tundra, ankle-deep mud, sand, dust, fertile ground and vitrified urban areas for days, before, often carrying a sixty pound pack, a ten pound rifle, and, occasionally, a wounded comrade. Of course, she had been a younger woman then, and in better shape – shipboard life was not easy, but it did not have the physical exertions the life of an infantry soldier forced upon you. Despite all of that, Zoë was getting tired . . . and pissed. Her first reaction to the wild man had been shock, then outrage at his temerity. She would have accused him of making a joke in the poorest of taste, had not his eyes told her how serious and sane he was about the matter. Zoë would have to be about three times as drunk as she was before she started mistrusting the instincts that had kept her alive all of these years, and her instincts told her that the odd fellow was, indeed, serious and truthful in his claim, despite its apparent absurdity. What does one do when a wild tribesman approaches you out of the gloom and tells you, first of all, that you are destined to save his brother, and then follows it up by mentioning, almost casually, that he carried a message from your dead husband? You either shot him or took him seriously. So when her weapon didn’t pop out and end him, there was but one choice remaining. When he told her to follow, she did. Admittedly, she had thought he would merely be leading her to a more private locale in which to impart the message, and not a cross country midnight hike through the wilderness, but then she hadn’t really asked him, had she? Following that impeccable logic, Zoe swallowed her complaints and dogged his heels obediently, though in truth the booze made her stumble a mite here and there. They had gone about four miles, her overly-experienced legs told her, when they came to another butte, much smaller than the Reunion platform, perhaps, but no less impressive. The big man halted wordlessly in front of it for a moment. “I think we’re like to be out of earshot, now,” she said after several minutes had passed. “You don’t approach a sacred cave in just any fashion, Zoë Washburn,” the man said, the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice. “The spirits must be properly informed . . . and appeased.” He lit a long, strong-smelling cigar of hempflower, and as it blazed into life he withdrew a flask from his pants pocket. “A cave,” Zoë said, nodding. “With spirits, no less. I can see this will end well.” “Sacred cave,” the man corrected. “And the spirits within require a gift before we may enter.” He flipped back the top of the flask and held it to his lips. “Can’t you just tell me the message before we go in? Might be easier,” she suggested. “Zoë Washburn, it is not that kind of message.” “Couldn’t wave it to me, either, I take it.” “Not as such, no,” he said, taking another drink. “Thought not. Any reason I shouldn’t just put an end to all of this foolishness and shoot you dead where you stand?” The big man turned to face her, his eyes penetrating her. There was no fear, no concern. “Three, actually.” “Care to enumerate?” “Firstly, you would not have walked all the way here if you did not intend to hear the message. Secondly, there is much more – and much better – liquor inside this sacred cave.” “And thirdly?” He smiled, for the first time, displaying perfect teeth that glowed like sapphires in the pale planetlight. “Have you not recognized me? I am already dead. Or, more precisely, I am Death.” Zoë caught herself. Despite his smile, she knew he was not joking. Not really. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she said, warily. While her hand did not stray to her weapon, it prepared itself for the trip on its own accord. “Oh, Zoë Washburn, you and Death, we are old friends.” “Not . . . usually under these circumstances.” “No, not like this. But you have sent many to the Halls of the Otherworld. Whole rivers of corpses. More than a thousand would be a conservative number. Perhaps very conservative.” “This conversation is starting to annoy me,” she said, her eyes narrowing. The big man shrugged. “You asked. If you must name me, you may call me Baron Saturday. Or Baron Samhedi. When I bother to answer, I sometimes answer to either.” “So you are Death, incarnate.” “In a manner of speaking,” the man admitted. “I have a name on my government-issued identcard, and one my mum calls me by. Another my mates use at the pub. But tonight, my name is Baron Saturday, for I am Death. And I bear you a message.” “Do we have to do all this spooky go se? The whole mysterious, mystical thing? Are you trying to scare me? Because, while I appreciate the drama of the moment, I’m fresh out of patience for that sort of thing. On another day, perhaps, but right now I am just not in the mood.” “You cannot scare someone who is beyond fear. Someone who has lost all she holds dear. No, Zoe Washburn, I am not trying to scare you, and I will endeavor to keep the mysticism to a minimum. But there are proper ways to do these things, and I must adhere to the rules . . . religiously, if you pardon the expression. I’ll consider it an extension of professional courtesy if you would respect that.” “Professional courtesy? You’re obviously some kind of Rimworld shaman – I can see that. I’m . . .” “A soldier. A killer. Sometimes even a murderer. A purveyor of death in exchange for coin. Yes, Zoë Washburn, you and Death, you have a professional relationship.” Zoë sighed. “For the sake of argument, I concede the point.” “Uncommonly good of you. We may proceed, now.” He took off at the same brisk pace to the left, around the butte. Zoe followed him, albeit reluctantly. As they rounded an outcropping, she could see in the pale glow a wide, perfectly flat face of the butte nearly seventy-feet tall and over a hundred wide had been carved or built by human hands. In the stunning, eerie natural beauty of the Outback it seemed as incongruous as the wild debauch she had just left. She sucked in her breath involuntarily as she realized that the entire surface of the artificial wall was covered with an intricate aboriginal design. Toward the bottom of it there was a large metal hatch, similar to a spaceship hatch. Baron Saturday went directly to it and punched a code into the panel set in its center. “This is a . . . sacred cave? I expected something a little more . . . natural.” “There was a cave here, actually,” the Baron explained. “When the Foundation began the terraformation process, it made a point to conceal all of the gravity generators in places where they would not disturb the natural landscape. This is one of them.” He swung the door open with a tortured squeal. “I’d say ‘ladies first’ out of courtesy, but I know you would take offense, and be put on guard. So I’ll spare you. Besides, it can be quite tricky if you don’t know where you are going.” “Lead on,” she said, casually. She didn’t mind shooting him in the back, if the occasion warranted. The Baron plunged into the darkness and in moments had lit an oil lamp to light her way. The tunnel went into the mesa about fifty feet until it opened on a spacious cavern, a place large enough to berth Serenity. “So what makes this . . . utility closet so sacred?” she asked the back of the Baron’s head. “I get paid a hundred credits a month by the Foundation Terraforming Authority to come here every two weeks to check on the physical integrity and performance of the site,” Baron Saturday explained. “It seemed a waste to leave all those lovely caverns unsanctified.” “As good a reason as any,” Zoë admitted. “Never rightly understood the spiritual mindset, as such. Seems t’me that God can be pretty much anywhere He feels like. Guess some folk do prefer an especial place.” “Spirituality goes beyond the rather limited theology of monotheism, I’m afraid,” the Baron said as he led her into a chamber that could have berthed Serenity and a few like-sized ships with little difficulty, yet was filled by a massive ceramic shell of a machine – the gravity generator – to the point where it seemed crowded. There were few extraneous conduits of bits of machinery – the machine was as solid-state and self-contained as its designers could make it. The entire chamber was eerily silent, save the faintest vibration that seemed to come from everywhere. “What do you mean?” Zoë asked as she followed the man past the simple controls and into another tunnel. “I mean that the monotheistic theologies have always failed to encompass the complexities of the human soul. Salvation and damnation, grace and charity, agape and philios – intellectually, they are stimulating. A devil on one shoulder, an angel on the other. Fine for establishing a moral compass, perhaps, or dealing with profound suffering. But they rarely touch the fundamental elements of human spirituality. The basics.” He paused at another hatch-like door, and entered another code. “And they would be?” Zoë asked, knowing that she was supposed to. “Sex and death, luv,” the Baron said, pushing the door open with a faint squeal. Instantly, a hundred candles sprung to life inside the chamber. “Sex and death.” “And you deal with those, I take it.” She wasn’t impressed. Simple technological trickery. But she did have to admit that it was a shiny effect. She followed him inside, warily. The cavern was a rough-worn space that had been smoothed at some point in its geological youth by a massive quantity of liquid moving past. The resulting texture was pleasantly course, but not rocky, per se. It had a light tan color, in the brilliant light of a hundred flames which arose from the haphazardly scattered groups of candles. It was about have the size of the lounge, almost cozy, and there were two other entrances that led, presumably, even deeper into the complex. At the near end there were several boxes stacked, a small metal cabinet cast-off from some office, and a shelf that held books, boxes, bags, and all manner of instruments. All around the room in niches that had been hacked into the stone were small dolls in garish costume. Idols, she realized with an involuntary shiver. She could even see offerings in place within the chambers. One looked very similar to her host. Others were wildly different, and she could detect the clash of different cultures between them. At the other end of the chamber were several pillows and a blanket that surrounded an iron cauldron in the center of the area. There was a smell of old hempflower smoke and incense in the air. And dust – the dust of graves, part of her subconscious pointed out. “Oh, of course. Me and others like me.” “There are others like you?” “Yes, Zoë Washburn. Sit, and I will tell you our story. And get you a drink.” Zoë sat on one of the larger pillows, making sure she could still draw at least two of her weapons at need. The Baron went to the cabinet and started rummaging around until he produced two small ceramic cups and an old bottle without a label. “When the Exodus from Earth That Was began, God and Jesus and Buddha and Allah all rode First Class, in the biggest of the ships. A whole civilization, with a whole vision of how the ‘verse should be. The big gods and the big powers had the big money, you see. They had all the answers they needed.” He handed her a cup and took a seat himself, opposite her across the cauldron. “But the older gods still existed on Earth That Was, and found their way with the tribes and the dreamers on the poorer class of ships, safely away from the pristine big gods. ‘Cultural conservation,’ the big powers called it. They deigned to let us come into their new worlds to provide spice to their own cultures. All the old marginalized tribes from the wounded Motherworld managed to get some of their folk on those ships. During the Exodus, the Great Crossing, all the old gods commingled as did their peoples.” “And then you came here and started this world.” “Essentially correct. There were a few tribes who found homes in the pockets of the first Rimworlds – the Ainu, on Amateratsu, for instance, but some vanished altogether under the cultural pressure. The rest of us came here. The Muir Foundation was started as much to provide new, fertile soil for our peoples and cultures as it was to preserve the biological diversity of Earth-That-Was. “But what do you do when your mother is Tahitian and your father an Innuit? Which gods do you follow? The old ways and the old gods became confused on the Long Passage, luv, terribly confounded. But we manage. We borrow when we need to, go to who and what calls us, and we don’t get preachy about our religion. Spirituality is a personal thing, religion is a tribal thing, ‘leave-me-the-hell-alone’ is a cultural thing. You ken?” “That wasn’t the way they taught it in Sunday School. Seems like a mite . . . untidy for a religion.” She took a cautious sip of the liquor and raised her eyebrows in surprise. Not bad for something that came out of an old soy sauce jar. “It is, it is,” agreed the Baron with a smile. “So is the human subconscious. God, the Big Fellow, Him we don’t have to contend with ‘till the Otherworld. Our minds, we tote them around dawn to dawn. Perhaps not as glorious as our Christian and Buddhist counterparts. But it is perhaps more . . . realistic. At least, my people think so.” “And your people are . . .” “My fathers are mostly of Australian aboriginal stock. The Anangu tribe, predominantly, though we intermarried with several others. My grandmother was of Jamaican descent. And that’s where the Baron comes in.” “He’s not an aboriginal god?” “No, not at all. Afro-Caribbean, to be precise. Or he was originally. I’ve taken on so many aspects of other divinities . . . absorbed many other gods. I had always believed that one of the more traditional ancestral deities would have chosen me – the Rainbow Serpent, of course, or the Monkey God, or others. But it was not to be.” “You finally getting to that story?” Zoë asked, taking another drink. “Indeed. My people mostly live in Berkley, a little village on the northern edge of the Outback, though we spent the summer months wandering with the other tribes. When I was in college at Buckminster, I was called by the gods to become a shaman. I was the eldest, I felt the call. I had a younger brother, good in sports, who thought all of it was superstition and silliness, some atavistic, meaningless tradition of the past.” “He may have had something there.” “Oh, he had a warrior’s spirit, no time for meditation and magic. And he was a patriot – political. When the war came, he joined the Independents. He left his wife and son and enlisted in the infantry. He was captured in the Black early in the war, and he . . . just disappeared. “My family was devastated. The uncertainty was unbearable. My parents were beside themselves with grief, I tell you. My sister-in-law and nephew were inconsolable – when the boy was of age, he joined the Greens and fought against the Alliance. “I am not political, but I did what I could, seeking to lay his spirit to rest should he have perished. I ranged the Dreamtime for months, seeking him, his spirit. But he wasn’t dead. I found nothing. When I finally gave up I went to my masters and they had me undergo a ritual, a ritual of becoming. I became . . . the Baron. Then, at last, I found the slightest traces of him, off in the Black. Found him . . . alive, despite everything. “Finding him in the Dreamtime is different from finding him in the ‘verse, Zoe Washburn. I know not where he is. But with the help of the spirits, I discovered your husband, who led me to you. We shall solve each other’s problems, you and I.” “That’s a mighty big supposition,” Zoe said, evenly. “And one that’s like to get you killed. I don’t hold well with folk who seek to fool me. Candles. Incense. That ridiculous make-up. I don’t know what you think you’re doing—” she began, her hand moving automatically towards her weapon. The Baron interrupted. “I told you, luv, I encountered your husband in the Dreamtime. Old mates, now, we. He led me to you. Why do you think the spacers choose the mesa next to mine to gather? Why do you think you came here?” “Coincidence,” dismissed Zoe. “Magic is the science of coincidence,” countered the Baron, showing his teeth in a wide, intense grin. His face seemed to suddenly less made up with a mask, and more a mask made up with a face. “What’s your game, Mr. Dead Man?” she said, raising her voice. “If you have a gorram message, deliver it!” “I have. Rather, You’ve started to receive it. I am the Gatekeeper to the land of the Dead, Zoë Washburn. I open the veil between the worlds. I am granting you,” he said, touching her knee with a fingertip for emphasis, “a one-time pass through that veil.” “You had better give me whatever message—” she said, drawing her weapon. “Relax, Zoë Washburn. I give you a gift beyond price. I will let Hoban Washburn tell you his message . . . himself.” “You’re going to die,” she said, raising her gun unsteadily. Something was wrong. “You can’t kill me, woman,” he laughed, jovially. “I am already dead! I am Death!” “Mind if I test that theory?” “Zoë, luv, just relax and take your journey,” he urged, visibly unmoved by the gun pointed at his head. He eyed her as he prepared to light more hempflower. He had a slightly patronizing tone that was starting to irritate her. “It will go better for you if you don’t fight it.” “What will? I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice wavered. She heard the vibration from the big gravity generator in the next chamber get louder. “Silly woman,” the skull laughed, “You have already begun. The drug, it was in your drink. You will be in the Dreamtime soon.” She realized it was true – her limbs felt tingly, and the flickering shadows and dancing flames had suddenly taken on a life of their own. Her fingertips seemed to flare. Suddenly her skin seemed slightly too big for her, and the weight of the weapon in her hand seemed to grow. “If I’m going, so are you,” she declared, trying to steady the weapon with her other hand. It was just not behaving. “You are the one on the journey, luv. Not me. And the only place you’re going,” he said, removing the stovepipe that sat on his head, “is to the bottom of . . . my . . . hat!” She couldn’t help but look . . . and in moments it was as if she was falling, falling, into the bottom of the black silk . . . and about that time, the hallucinogenic kicked into her central nervous system. And her gun had become a large cooking ladle. “You . . . poisoned . . . me!” Every word was a struggle, a supreme effort of will. “Relax, luv,” he repeated soothingly. His face became all that she could see, a parody of a human skull smiling and laughing madly – but with eyes that were all too human. “It’s an old family recipe,” he explained. “Just a little something to ease the transition. Come sunrise you’ll be right . . . as . . . rain . . .” She slid down into the soft, silken folds of the hat, and her senses began to cross. Suddenly she had a vivid appreciation for just how delicious the color blue was, and how much she enjoyed the tinny sound of irony. The candles surrounded her in a gay merry-go-round of flame and heat and suddenly she was seventy feet tall. She fought her way through a forest of hairs on the back of her hand, and her fingers became long serpents that snapped at her eyes. She could taste the cold, stale logic of rationality, and found it bland. The liquor in her stomach started churning an ethanol tempest around her spine, and every breath she took leveled houses and trees like hurricanes. The hand that held the ladle dropped dreamily into her lap, and every object in the room became surrounded by a pale green line – every object but that hat. The had swallowed her whole, and down she plunged for seconds, minutes or hours – there was no way to tell, nor real desire to know. For some portion of forever she was lost among the myriad sensations of an overly vivid universe. She counted the eternity between heartbeats, and became vaguely anxious about just how fast the galaxies were being tossed around the cosmos. Finally, she came to rest in loamy soil, sprawled as if she had been thrown. Reality righted, mostly, and gave her enough gravity to find her feet. She stood, unsteadily, and surveyed the land that had to be inside her mind. She picked a direction – one was as good as another, she supposed – and began walking. Zoë wandered through a primal landscape of trees and shrubs so lush and overgrown it couldn’t have been anyplace she’d visited recently. The closest to it was the rain forest in the Valley of Paradise on T’ien, and she’d only seen it from the air. But this place smelled lush, a thousand aromas of decaying vegetation and floral scents all mixed together on a humid breeze. And ferns. Lots of ferns. She found herself dressed as some cartoon version of a cave-woman, a single-piece fur outfit that left much of herself exposed. She also carried a crude wooden spear with a sharp stone point. While she was examining it in wonder, she heard the noise: a low growl and hiss, followed by vibrations that were too heavy to be a man. She whirled, spear in hand, and faced the direction where the noise was coming from. Her heart pounded in her chest, which was unusual – this was a drug-induced dream, she knew intellectually. This wasn’t real. Nothing could really hurt her here. Still, she clung to the weapon as if her life did, indeed, depend upon it, and she braced herself. The bushes parted revealing a large dinosaur – a Tyrannosaur, she knew from long acquaintance with its plastic analog. This one was at least thirty feet from nose to tail, and it had a hungry, vicious look in its beady little eye. It was also wearing a profoundly ugly Hawaiian shirt. The dinosaur transformed itself into a slightly lumpy man of medium height, wearing the garish Hawaiian shirt, faded cargo pants, and a flight vest that had seen better days. The sandy hair and rakish, slightly goofy grin completed the picture. It was her husband. Hoban Washburn. “Hey, baby,” he said gently, and with a great deal of warmth. Zoe could not restrain herself. She leapt into the arms of this figment of her drug-addled imagination, and embraced him with all the pent-up feelings of loss and loneliness that she had been trying so desperately to keep under control. He felt real enough, as real as anything ever did. She felt his arms embrace her in turn, just exactly as strong as they were supposed to be, and she broke down, weeping. “Oh, baby, baby, baby, baby,” she murmured into the shoulder of his vest – which smelled authentic, she realized with a start, a little leather, a little food, a little industrial lubricant, and a lot of sweat and coffee stains. “Oh, my poor sweet baby! Oh, Wash, I’ve missed you . . . so . . . gorram . . . much!” “I know, I know, prettykins,” he said, soothingly. “I’ve been watching and it’s been tearin’ me up somethin’ fierce.” “Are you okay?” she asked, wiping tears from her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” he assured her. “Oh, except the part about being dead. Apart from that, I’m dandy.” “Wash, how did . . . how do . . .” “How do I manifest in your realm, without even the pretense of chains and a sheet? Honestly, I tried to requisition them before you came, but that seemed so . . . formal. Besides, the paperwork is a bitch, let me tell you – ‘on Earth as it is in Heaven,’ man, they weren’t kidding!” “Then you’re in . . .” “Oh, the pearly gates? Not as such . . . but don’t sweat that, either. I’m not doomed to Hell for all of eternity, even after that thing we did that one time in the hotel on Beaumonde. Heh. And I thought that would get me damned for sure!” “So . . . what’s it . . . like?” she finally asked, seriously. He studied her face a moment, and his grin faded. “You aren’t . . . suffering, are you? Should I pray?” “No, sweety, it’s complicated. I’m OK. I can’t explain it. I’m not really allowed to. Even if I was, there aren’t really words. Don’t worry about it, it’s not important. The important thing right now . . . is you.” “You’re just saying that because I’m still alive,” she sniffed. “Well . . . yeah. But that doesn’t make it less true. You’ve got to pull yourself together, baby. The booze, the self-pity – I understand, really, I do. But I’m gone, in a physical sort of way. I feel pretty bad about it myself. But you have other stuff to do.” “What stuff do I have to do? And why should I bother now that the ‘verse took the only thing that mattered to me?” she accused. “Because your story isn’t over, that’s why,” he shot back. “And you do have something to do. Something that will help you work through your grief and return fully to the land of the living.” “What, I’m supposed to become some sort of nun? Change my wicked ways and repent?” “Nope,” Wash said, shaking his head. “A nun you ain’t. The ‘verse would never require you to do something so totally against your nature. In fact, it’s come up with a great way for you to work through your grief, a way you are uniquely qualified for.” “What?” “Pure, bloody vengeance.” Zoe considered. “I can do that,” she said, cautiously. Then she made a face. “Are you sure about that? From what I’ve heard, most folks with religiosity say such things are sins.” “Sin is a . . . relative thing,” admitted Wash, carefully. “You’re a soldier, you’re expected to . . . Like I said, it’s complicated. Everyone is . . . look, just listen to me, OK? It took a lot to arrange for this meeting. I had to track down the Baron – charming fella, ain’t he? – I had to convince . . . well, it was hard, take my word for it. And I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t important. So just remember, when the time comes and you have to make a decision, go ahead and indulge yourself in a little mindless vengeance. Can you? For me?” he wheedled. “I . . . this is so weird! My dead husband is telling me to go out and kill someone!” “Not just anyone. You have to kill the right people.” “And just who are the ‘right’ people?” “You’ll know, when the time comes.” Wash sighed. “Look, I know this is hard. But in the ‘verse there are some folk who are just made to right wrongs, correct imbalances, dispense justice. You’re one of those people. And there’s a situation that just cries out for a heapin’ helpin’ of ice-cold vengeance.” “How about Mal?” “He’s just an adrenaline junkie with some pathological faith issues,” dismissed the dead pilot. “Well, that’s not entirely fair . . . or true. But I’m not responsible for him, just you. So I get to haunt your dreams, lucky me, and not his.” “So all of this is just a dream?” Zoe asked, her shoulders sagging. “Well . . . yes. But that doesn’t diminish its importance. What, you want a sign?” “It might be helpful,” she nodded. “I am hallucinating, after all. And I’m normally pretty rational, despite being married to you. When I wake up I’m like as not to remember and take it serious. If you could arrange a sign, it might convince me that you’re serious.” “Um . . . that might be difficult,” he said, biting his lip. “But I’ll try.” Zoe studied his face thoughtfully. “Are you really around all the time? Watching me?” she asked, her voice wavering. “Yep. Especially when you’re naked. Just ask River. She sees me every now and then.” “What?” “Oh, she wouldn’t say anything. She doesn’t want to weird anyone out too badly. But sometimes she gets into a certain state of mind, and she knows I’m there. Like when she takes the ship up and down.” “She’s seen you?” “She doesn’t really believe it much herself. But it happens. She’s a kind of . . . an aberration, poor kid. She’s got her own issues to work out. Oh, and tell her I said ‘happy birthday’.” “Why? When’s her birthday?” “Soon. Get her something. Socks, maybe.” “I’ll make a note.” “Anyway, remember to kick some ass, dear. Let loose your inner demons on an unsuspecting world. Stir up that whole wrathful force of nature thing and channel it in a creative way. Vengeful warrior woman with two fists of righteous fury! But try to have fun with it.” “Yeah . . . you know I don’t believe any of this is real.” “You will. You just have to have faith.” “Faith?” she asked, incredulously. “Faith? That ain’t my business, Husband. That’s Shepherd Book’s. Speaking of whom, how is the old man?” “Oh, he’s dead.” “Well I knew that!” “Apart from that, he’s OK. Mr. Universe, on the other hand is just gorram annoying – moreso, now that he’s dead and doesn’t have his toys to play with. But Book . . . let’s just say he’s got issues aplenty to work out his own self. Apparently being ordained didn’t get him out of the paperwork. But I expect he still looks in on Serenity from time to time.” “Paperwork? Is it really like that in the afterlife?” Wash sighed. “I told you, there aren’t proper words. In a lot of ways, the afterlife reflects the . . . before life? Except that space and time are kinda quaint concepts that are only indulged in when needed. The ‘verse puts things in a way you can understand, and for some that means mindless bureaucracy. Worst part is running into people that predeceased you. Like my real dad. That was whole bunches of no fun. For me, well, I get to fly a lot. Real ‘leaf on the wind’ type of stuff. It’s a helluva lot of fun.” “Do you like it . . . better?” “Hell, no! I mean, how could I? You aren’t here to share it with me. But that doesn’t mean I want you here, just yet.” Zoe studied his face, knowing it to be but a memory. “You really loved me that much.” “ ‘Loved’? Try ‘Love’. Look, just because I’m dead doesn’t mean we can’t still have a meaningful relationship. Love is one of those nifty things that transcends space and time. I will – literally – love you for all time. Hey, I came back from the grave to haunt you, didn’t I? What do you want, roses and candy?” “I just figured . . . well, ‘until death do us part.’” “Yeah, well, those are really only advisory, anyway. Besides, the dating prospects here are a little . . . stale. Although I hear tell a bus full of cheerleaders from Ariel gets whacked next Thursday, so I’d say they’re looking up!” “Don’t be an ass,” Zoe said, smiling despite herself. “God, it’s good to see you, my Husband.” “And you, too, sweetness. I do so love you. I’m hating that we were parted like that. Just do this one thing for me, and I can assure you that your grief will abate somewhat. Which is good. Can’t have the mother of my children all weepy all the time.” “I said don’t be an ass!” she said, scaldingly. “Just ‘cause your dead don’t mean I won’t kick your pi gu! You know damn well we ain’t gonna have kids! I got my monthly. Late, but I got it.” “And I said to have some faith. In me, if not in . . . well, any other metaphysical entity. Things will work out. Mysterious ways, and all. You’ll get my sign. You’ll get your chance. But don’t mess it up – a lot of people are going to be counting on you. Including the kids.” “Thanks. No pressure. You’re lucky you’re a figment of my imagination, or . . .” “Oh, the worst that will happen is you’ll die and then we’ll both have to listen to Mr. U say ‘dude, it was a sword, I shit you not, he killed me with a gorram sword, who does that?’ for all of eternity.” “That’s a mighty powerful reason to stay alive,” she conceded. Wash bit his lip again, and looked at her . . . that way. “Um, how long do you expect the drugs to hold out?” “I have no idea. Why?” “I just thought . . . well, we had pre-marital sex, post-marital sex . . . wanna try post-mortem sex?” “Doesn’t our honeymoon count?” “Ouch! That’s not fair! You got me drunk!” “Oh, I guess for old time’s sake,” she said, shrugging out of her cave-woman costume. “Just this once . . .”

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Zoe awoke the next afternoon, sprawled face down in the desert. She seemed intact – even her gun was where it belonged, in its holster – but there was no cave in sight. Not even the butte she had been inside, from what she could recall. The party meas, on the other hand, was large against the sky, and from the music coming off the top and the many cooking fires, she knew just which way to go. She cursed herself for a drunk as she stumbled painfully back towards butte . . . and home. Bad craziness, that’s all it was, she insisted to herself. A momentary lapse in judgment, the kind a rookie makes. The experience had been profound, in its way, she guessed; still, she wanted a cup of coffee and some sack time before she really thought about it. The after-effects of the chemical lingered, making the sound of her boots across the rock nearly unbearable. She put it out of her mind. It wasn’t that bad, really, not too much worse than a hangover. A really, really bad hangover. But she persisted. She kept walking towards the noise of the Reunion with a determined step. Zoë Washburn had a mission. She didn’t know what it was, yet, but she had something to live for now.