Smoke and Mirrors

It is summer somewhere. Technically, it is summer on the Isle of Blackreef, too, and you can see the proof of it in the sun that is barely touching the waters these days. It won’t last long, of course, and it’s not particularly warm, whatever the sunshine hours. The once small fishing colony is now growing, turning into something bigger, a fully livable place for a bunch of rich weirdos. The stabilizer’s outer circle outline is already towering over the low hills, yet unlocked in the middle, like a ribcage of a dead whale – the workers had to remove a dozen of those artefacts from the beach in the very beginning for the sake of sanitary safety mostly. There is no particular deadline for construction and launching the stabilizer, but the anticipation is there for all the Visionaries. One day, the arch will lock, the core will come alive, and they all will start their first day of forever. Frank takes a slow and thoughtful sip of his brandy and squints at his drinking buddy like a giant and very content cat. The sun is at its lowest, and astronomically it is evening, the right time for friendly drinks at his newly built place at Fristad Rock. Sometimes, he invites everyone, sometimes, he is picky, and most times, it’s just Colt. But today, it’s Harriet Morse. Harriet is a great company, as he managed to learn – not only does she like to talk and has something to say, but when she is drunk, she also likes to share. And sharing is caring. If they are about to be stuck in this place forever, they might as well start coming to like each other now. “So… Have you figured it out yet?” he asks, pretty likeable himself. The “it” is a slab, a silky black piece of… something, a gift from the Anomaly, and from Wenjie, of course. It looks like a piece of obsidian with flickers of dead stars in its depths, smooth and secretive. When Harriet unclasps her palm, the slab is there, fitting perfectly into its width, and Frank muses that he can’t quite remember Harriet not wearing her gloves these days. Her hands are always covered, like those of a professional assassin, in an attempt to avoid leaving fingerprints – black leather over pale wrists. “What if I told you that the best way to put it is - it has figured ME out instead,” Harriet replies and then helps herself to another beer. She feels at ease with Frank. She feels they can understand each other, and they actually do. Even on those occasions when they get drunk as hell and start exchanging more pauses than words in the way of their conversations. Frank has his fans, Harriet – the followers of the Great Beyond, her followers. They are both shepherds of their respective flocks, and it shows. “Well, basically, you’d rephrase then exactly what Wenjie was hinting at,” Frank says. “No-no-no, don’t you ‘exactly what wenjie’ me, Spicer. Wenjie’s instructions were basic. Like, carry it, think of it, charge it, put it under your pillow and sleep on it, for fuck’s sake! No, Frank, this is different. I didn’t do anything to it. It made me… ah well, look.” Under her clouded gaze, the obsidian surface breaks into dozens of shards, sharp mirrors. You would almost expect to hear the sound of it, but the two Visionaries are shrouded in eerie silence. Harriet feels her heartbeat starting to race and tries to keep it steady, control it with her breathing. In and out. Inhale. Exhale. And again. She is seldom not in control. The mirrors tremble, shine, and reflect light with myriads of faces, but the Visionaries’ faces are not reflecting as if the slab and the people exist in two different realms. And it wouldn’t surprise anyone if they did. They are still learning about the Anomaly, but something they know about it for sure. The Anomaly likes to play tricks. Harriet’s slab pulses over her palm, and they are both simply staring at it. There is only this much you can get used to in this life. That little piece of supernatural wonder is definitely not on the list. Not yet. It is beautiful. And almost impossible to grasp. Like the Great Beyond. “I’ve killed someone.” Harriet is the first to break their silence. She sounds young, and vulnerable, and eager to share. “Happens to the best of us, Miss Morse.” “It was a sacrifice. A barter. A believer for... this.” Frank doesn’t utter a word, intent on letting her go on. Was it supposed to shock him? In his heart of hearts, he hopes Harriet knows better than that. It’s not about shocking – it’s about sharing. Sharing is what they do when the booze is abundant and the duties are scarce. Harriet closes her hand over the sharp edges of the slab, and Frank almost winces, anticipating to see the soft leather of her gloves giving way to their pointy ends. Nothing happens. Next thing he knows, the woman is back to her beer, and he doesn’t deny himself a brandy refill, too. “I wish I could just sleep on it, you know? Like Wenjie said,” she remarks and shrugs offhandedly, but Frank can’t help but notice that the woman is focused on her breathing. She’s all about control: mind, body and soul. “Don’t we all… don’t we all…” Frank calls his slab Fugue. And he can’t quite recall having to sacrifice anything or kill anyone to figure it out. Which still doesn’t make him a good guy. Apparently, good guys don’t last long on Blackreef. He knows. He’s an HR specialist, after all. He’ll cross the missing man from their so-called payroll tomorrow.