Saul opened his eyes. The last drops trickled from his fingers and loins. The calluses on his hands had eroded over the last four months and his palms were like wet and dry sandpaper against the orbitals. A smog rose from his shoulders as he stepped up to the basin. He set the razor to a short trim and brought his face up to the mirror.
His complexion had shed some of its former roughness and gloom, and the scars faded into the paling flesh. His hair had lengthened and snarled into an unruly mane which fell past his shoulders. The yellow stains on his fingertips, the dark circles under his eyes and the thin blood-swollen lines in the whites of the eyes had ebbed. He put the razor down, stroked his chin, took a deep breath and fogged the mirror with the exhale.
A tray full of cigarette butts sat on the desktop by the computer monitor, a steady line of smoke rising. The main page of Nexus Database flashed over the screen: a complete record of every single martial in the UMC – anybody who was still alive, at least. Without successors or dependents, there was little reason to keep records of the dead. Access to the database was accorded to high-caste martials for the purpose of sourcing viable recruits for war guilds. He had become obsessed with the pursuit of a shadow, the name of the man who “no longer exists” (The words gnawed at his thoughts). But, that name…
He picked up the pack of cigarettes lying on the desk and opened it. Empty. Again. He compressed the cigarette pack in a fist and threw it aside.
The sound of the big screen obscured his footsteps down the dark corridor. When he turned the corner, a shortened curtain of strawberry blond hair parted over a pair of bright, smiling eyes.
Naomi was kneeling over the low table, more than a dozen sheets of unfinished sketches littering the floors about her, loose crayons and acrylics strewn all over the table-top. A pair of oversized dungarees hung over her little frame so that one of the straps kept slipping off her shoulder. Her hair had been cut to just under neck length. When she drew, she leaned all the way forward so that her little head rested on her drawing arm and the large, bright eyes rose vertically when he came beside her.
“Look,” she said, and leaned back, removing her hands from the table. “You like it…? Lions are my favourite.” The little head tilted back again, surveying the mess of hair around his head with a wide grin and she twittered, pawing the tangled locks.
He put his large hand over the little crown and the wide grin suddenly became an impish giggle. He stared silently into the wide, elated eyes until her laughter quelled.
He sighed, and looked away. “Hungry?”
The little head bobbled up and down.
Naomi scampered over to the kitchen and climbed up onto her chair.
He opened the door of the freight chute and took out the day’s provisions and the light went red when the door closed. There was a pan full of rice on the stove which had been over-boiled to a pile of stodge mixed with fava beans and chicken stock. He thought to add a new dimension to her diet aside from the usual pre-packaged and dehydrated meals.
He scooped up a measure and swilled it onto a plate in a runny gelatinous lump and, rather awkwardly, set the plate down on the table. Naomi stood upon her seat to surmount the table-top, holding a spoon in her small fist. She scooped the stodge into her mouth, and smiled at him as she chewed open-mouthed.
“Is it…?”
“Good.” The little head nodded.
It could just as well have been inedible.
There was a pack of cigarettes on the table. He saw her eyes follow his hand nervously as he reached out and opened the pack.
Empty.
When he peered up, Naomi quickly looked away.
“I know you have been taking them,” he said, as he peeled the cellophane off a fresh pack.
The girl swallowed her food with a nervous gulp, pursed her lips and started to poke away ashamedly at her plate.
“I hope you have not been trying to…”
The little head rose, startled. “N-no!” she swore.
He put a cigarette between his lips, took the lighter off the table. A jet of blue flame lit the cherry and the smoke seeped out the sides of his mouth.
Naomi quietly looked down and poked the spoon around in her plate.
“…Daddy used to do it too,” she said, suddenly
He stopped when he saw the little expression droop to dejection. He gazed at her, the cigarette smouldering between his fingers.
“He used to do it a lot,” she continued, quietly. “But, one day, he didn’t do it anymore. Mommy says it’s bad for me … says it makes me sick.”
The small voice and look of dejection that accompanied her words bled his heart. He was about to speak when a pulsing blue glow caught his attention from the corner of his eye. His cell started to ring. A quick look at the chronometer on the wall, and the four-digit number was 2030.
He pulled the tray up between himself and the girl, put the cigarette out and pushed the tray aside again. He then rose from his chair and laid a gentle hand on her head as he sauntered over to the kitchen counter and picked up the cell.
The words “New Mail” flashed along the middle of the cell display. It was a commission memo. His finger swiped the “Open” key on the screen.
The memo read:
Martial Saul Vartanian
ID: 000-717-166-45-45-11-150888
Case Reference: 15-675-46
UMC Martial Court Notice
Neural Program – Mandatory Appointment
Dr. Augustus Pope: Room 245-01, Milidome, West Wing, Durkheim.
D-7 H-0930
Failure to report to your neutralist for evaluation at the appointed time and place will result in full screening, possible caste reduction and a fine of up to Di.100,000, as per terms of settlement (please refer to case reference above).