They escaped then, the tears that had threatened to overflow since his kiss had left her cheek. She stood and leaned over the table, threw her arms around him. “Of course, of course, of course!” she managed to blurt out and then more kisses and for once, all was well. When she finally opened her eyes, blinking back the tears, she saw the silent gaze of the doorway woman and her companion. Those eyes…
Maggie turned back to the author whose book sat before them on the table, dimples activated by smile. She looked into his eyes, noticed for the first time their absolute lack of definable color, that almost-silver, and the deep lines carved into his young face by his old soul.
“They’re getting married.”
“Yeah.”
“They’ll do okay.”
“How do you know?”
The young couple walked by, the girl’s new ring prominently displayed, a humble ring placed on a small hand that
glinted with the affliction. Maggie saw the black leather glove that would have hidden the silver from the judgmental gaze of the coffee shop patrons now held by the ringless hand. They opened the door, let another assault of wind and rain into the shop, and walked into the torrent, arms around each other.
“Maggie? How do you know?”
She shrugged her shoulders, took a sip of coffee, set the cup back down. She gently touched the cover of the book on the table.
It was a time of rain.
Hunter mumbled in his sleep, and Helen snapped awake, heart echoing in the small room. She had fallen asleep while watching him doze off in the faint light coming from the window, slithering through the blinds, Venetian blinds, named after a city that had been wiped from the map decades or centuries ago. Hunter turned over in bed, and Helen got to her feet, old bones that were not even old creaking and aching.
Into the living room, navigating by memory and that little something extra that set her apart from most of the remaining populace, she stood at the window, pulled back the heavy drapes. A dim sun was straining to crawl over the eastern horizon, which placed her side of the building and her entire view in half-hearted gray. She looked to the west and was startled to see the orbital defense weapon lifting from within the earth, great waves of ocean trembling down its surface as it groaned into the sky, barrel canted to the west.
Helen ran back into Hunter’s room, threw his sheets back, lifted his confused and protesting form from the cocoon of sleep. She could hear the weapon’s firing cycle begin, could feel the rumble beneath her feet, the resonance sparking a headache to life behind her eyes.
“Mommy?”
“Have to go outside, baby. Have to get out of here.”
“Why?”
“The gun, baby.”
The morning air was not quite frigid, but close enough. Helen held her son close as he shivered against her. She ran down the front steps, outside into the dirty old parking lot where her bare feet flew over the shifting field of sharp gravel shards. She could feel the small incisions on her naked flesh, blood resonating out through feet, teeth shaking out of her gums, gooseflesh yearning through silver underpinnings and she knew then that she was screaming, had been screaming. She could feel it, could see Hunter’s own mouth open as wide as it could be, tears streaming down his face, and she fell. The roar of the weapon built into the earth encompassed all that she knew, all that she could know.
Time bent, the sky fell, the weapon fired, a mother shielded her son from a wave of fire as buildings shook from their foundations and the dreams of an unfortunate dawn populace were shattered apart.
The weapon fired. Again. Again. Helen closed her eyes, but could still see the blasts rising into the sky, out of the atmosphere, traveling somewhere out there where her husband would die, somewhere out where the war was being fought, where the jihad was burning planets, where her son would soon go.
Helen screamed and couldn’t stop.
The weapon kept firing.
Again.
“He likes it outside. Just sits there and stares at the river all day.”
“Okay. Would you mind if I went down there?”
“No, of course not, Mr. Reynald.”
“Windham.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Windham.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were his—”
“No, not his son. Just an old friend.”
Windham smiled at the young nurse, whose face was rouged with embarrassment. He noticed her not-so- subtle glance at the silver band he now wore prominently on his left ring finger. He was in civilian clothing today. If he had worn his military uniform, she would not have been so casual with him. These days, civilians were seldom casual, seldom comfortable around the military.
“We served together in the war.”
Again, emotion revealed through subtle shifts in eye placement. Lids ever-so-slightly widen, a short, almost inaudible inhalation.
“I’m sorry, sir. Please, feel free to go see him outside, if you would like, sir.”
“Thank you.” Quiet and friendly, and as he passed by the nurse, he reassuringly touched her arm. He felt a brush of her mind, just a little tugging
The corridor was long, dark, doors on either side that he felt guilty passing, for each and every room held a man just like Reynald, and he knew that more than likely, Reynald was the only man in this place that was allowed visitors. He did not look to the side, but stared straight ahead, where a door, flanked by armed officers on each side, permit entrance to the back lawn. He saluted to the officers, who opened the doors for him.
Gray day. They were always gray days now. Crisp wind blowing leaves over the steps, that scratching sound they made on their journey jarring something loose in Windham’s mind, a glimpse of some future contained behind tall iron bars and a force shield.
The lawn stretched out, sloped off, descended to the riverbank eventually, but a stone and force wall protected the patients from the outside and the outside from the patients. From the bottom of the slope, the river was invisible. Windham found his old friend sitting in his wheelchair at the place on the lawn just before it dropped away, still permitting view of the river, but also providing some distance between the compound and those wishing to escape it for a while.
Windham approached from the side, at a diagonal. He did not want to sneak up on Reynald, even though he knew that the old man had known he was there even before Windham had made the decision to visit him that morning.
“Jean?”
The man turned to him, gentle smile on his lips, eyes engulfed in purest silver. The wind stopped for a moment, and the day was silence.
“It’s starting, son.”
“Sir?”
“The invasion. The war. It’s so close…”
“Jean, I—”
“Perpetual autumn. It’s—
Windham spun around in the liquidspace bridge enclosure of the destroyer. His breath was ragged, sucking in
