V. H. King's Ink

This short story is dedicated to Melodie, a dear friend of mine.

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The sun sizzles every molecule between the sand and the rose-gold sky.  In less than two hours, that same sky will be black.  Silver streaks likes scars, or seams, will ripple and waiver.  The New Constellations—spider-silk, they’re called—are mostly just lines.  Toothpicks that got caught in the atmosphere, one might say.  Nothing like the abstract geometry from before the world burnt itself over. 

Brennan hasn’t yet learned that silence is a form of prayer, but zei are praying Titus gets back soon.  There is no such thing as safe travels in the desert.  Best to hope they will be swift.  If you’re fast enough to avoid exposure, you just might arrive at your destination with your body and belongings in-tact.  The radioactive sand glows indigo at night, luminescent with dead cells.  Skin, hair, reptilian scales—anything that shed, the sand feasted on it. 

Adjusting zeir goggles, Brennan tapped the wrench against the piston.  The vibrations travelling their radial bone didn’t hum right.  Zei squinted, tilting zeir head the other way.  Something wasn’t lining up right.  Zei sighed and went back to work.  At least tinkering kept zem from thinking about Titus, but it didn’t keep zem from thinking.

Three and a half centuries and societies had figured out how to refine the radioactive components for medical purposes.  Topical ointments to targeted exposure, the uses were endless. A better medicine than anything previously encountered—because even with just one’s bones, they could still go on living.  The mortality rate for bone births decreased, life expectancy for birthers and infants increased; a happy ending, save for the part where it was nearly impossible to navigate society with any sense of normalcy.  Always, the questions of what you would have been, or were supposed to be, as if it wasn’t enough to be who you are. 

Brennan tightened one last bolt.  This time when zei tapped the wrench, the vibrations resonated in harmony.  Like tuning a piano, zei thought.  Zei had always loved the delicious tickle of high octaves, the deep resonance of lower ones in zeir stomach, the mid-ranges dancing along zeir sternum and shoulder blades.  Every part of zeir body sang along, and zei never felt so alive. 

But this wasn’t a piano.

Behind the wheel of the hot rod, zei held zeir breath and turned the key. 

Two ticks like the tock of a clock, and then—

The key vibrates, a green glow around the ignition.  Brennan adjusted zeir goggles, careful not to remove them from zeir face.  Displayed on the pale blue lenses, zei could see the engine’s indicator lights.  A circle in the bottom right of their field of vision slowly chased its tail. White, which meant nothing was critically wrong.  Ten seconds of spinning felt like an eternity, but then the letters spelled out across the goggle’s display.

The ignition buzzed twice, its green hue dimming to a cool blue.  All systems go. 

Brennan closed zeir eyes and listened.  This was another form of prayer, and zei didn’t know it, but that didn’t mean it went unheard.  The engine thrummed, steadily cycling through its rotations.  An alternator was an easy fix, but zei had wanted to tighten a few other thins too.  An engine stall could happen just when you didn’t want one. 

Another thirty seconds of listening, just to be sure.

Pop-tock,

pop-pop

TOCK!

Ah-chug-

guh-guh-

CHOO…

Yes, the timing was good. The spark plugs were better than before.  Firing on all cylinders, the syncopated rhythm was its own kind of percussive dance.  Not a piano, but still pleasing. 

Brennan turned the key back over and the engine hissed quiet.  A three-second buzz and then two short bursts. Brennan pulled the key out of the ignition, the indicator light going dark as the hot rod shut down.  The display on zeir goggles blipped out until the next time zei would need to doctor-up what little machinery they had around here.   The elements weren’t always kind to the instruments. 

With a sigh, zei closed zeir eyes.  For just a moment.  Imagining the delicate tinkle of tiny arpeggios.  Whispers of air around zeir little fingers.  Invisible butterflies just at zeir chin.  It wouldn’t come back.  Zei knew it wouldn’t, but memory was the only form of prayer zei knew. 

“Absolute magic, you are.”

The voice crackles from the speaker attached to zeir hip.  Brennan rouses zemself from the driver’s seat and gets out.  Over the still-open hood of the hot rod—which Titus had insisted on naming Daisy—zei don’t see a lanky frame or a long shadow approaching.  False hope, then.  At least Titus was in close enough range for radio. 

“How long until you’re back?”

“Gotta turn around.”

“Trouble?”

Brennan scanned the horizon.  As a rule, zei stayed away from windows when Titus was out, doing zeir best to keep from watching the road.  Too much like waiting for a pot to boil.  But when zei looked now, there weren’t any wisps on the horizon.  The sand itself liked to burn, combusting into scarlet and navy vapors that could strip not only to the bone, but straight through it.  No one had found any efficient or effective use for burnt sand yet—but that didn’t keep corporations from spending billions on research.  A precious research that gave more than they’d ever had, and still…

“Not yet.”  Titus’ voice crackles from the speaker again, bringing Brennan back to the present.  “Maybe?  We’ll see.”

“I don’t know if I like that answer.”

“You don’t have to.”

This last comes not from the speaker-box at Brennan’s hip, but from the transmitter at zeir ear.  Brennan clicks zeir teeth together, hands on hips.  When zei turn around, Titus is grinning—because why wouldn’t they be?

“Bastard.”  Brennan shakes zeir head.  “I love you.”

The bandana snug over zeir face hides the smile—or maybe it’s the pattern of vines that does it.  Titus bares their own teeth, foregoing caution as usual, with their bandanna slack under their chin.  Reckless and wonderful, that one.  Brennan’s eyes settle on the duffle bag at Titus’ side.  It’s not bulging, dripping, ticking, or moving.  There are no strong odors or fumes permeating the air either.  That was a start, at least. 

“So am I in trouble?” Titus asked.

“We’ll see.”

Zei closed the hood of the hot rod and attached the keys to zeir hip—on a clip opposite the speaker-box the two of them used when communicating long distance.  Sometimes zei forgot, but Titus quickly reminded zem how hard it was to make words out between the constant jingle-jangle of metal. 

“How many is this?”  Brennan asked.  “Five?”

“Seven.”

Titus lead the way into the laundry room just inside the back door.  True enough, there were six other bags lined up against the far wall.

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t go looking for them.  I just find them.  And if I notice one—“

“You just take it?”

“Depends.”

Titus’ shoulders stiffen as they put the duffel on the counter.  They rarely give any details about the duffels.  No matter how or when Brennan asks, the answers are evasive. 

“Want to do the honors?” Titus asked.

Brennan paused, tips of zeir gloves at zeir mask.  On second thought, it might be better to leave it up for the time being.  Titus should have been more excited, zei thought, until noticing the slant to their shoulders.  Titus hadn’t given up hope, but something about this duffel-bag hunt had worn them down.  Hope could be hard to sustain, in the desert. 

The first duffel had only had strips of fabric in strange cuts and pastel colors.  The second had the same number of cloth strips, but cut in opposite ways.  Not much that Titus or Brennan had been able to do with those, other than fashion some colorful belts, masks, and other accents to their usual black and brown attire.

The third had been so heavy Titus had barely been able to drag it inside—hence the busted alternator.  Daisy wasn’t made for racing across sand dunes and hardpan, but she’d been repurposed to handle the terrain.  She had not, however, have the forte to withstand a driver like Titus.  But not even that had stopped Titus from bringing the duffel bags home.  First once a month, and then one every two weeks.  The two of them always opened the bags together, and although Brennan didn’t know what it was Titus was looking for, zei had a sense that Titus wanted to share this with zem. 

“You sure?”

Titus nodded and stepped back, crossing their arms over their middle.  It wasn’t a petulant posture, Brennan had learned.  Titus was anxious, steeling themselves against potential disappointment.  Afraid of what they would feel underneath that disappointment, but more afraid of what might come when—if?—their hope was rewarded. 

Most of the other duffels had been a similar color as everything else made drab but durable by the desert’s elements.  This one was bright purple—almost the same color as the glow of radioactive sand.  The straps and zippers were a bright teal.  Something about the color combination felt promising.  Brennan knew if zei had caught on to that, Titus must have sensed it from miles away.  Zei had a knack for tuning engines, but they could tune in to the ethereal.  Brennan unzipped the duffel slowly, carefully, and looked inside. 

“Huh.”

Zeir eyes were still adjusting to the dim light inside—zei would have taken zeir goggles off, if not for this grand opening.  The fifth duffel had burst open with a stomach-turning squelch; Brennan still didn’t know what that sticky substance had been, but zei had made Titus clean it up.  Zei couldn’t be completely sure, but it looked like there was just the one object inside.  Hard to tell though, with the shadows.

“What is it?”

“Not sure yet.”

Titus fidgeted behind zem but didn’t come closer.  Patience was another virtue that was hard to maintain in the heat.  Brennan reached inside, realizing after zei was elbow-deep into the duffel’s main compartment that it was a good thing zei still had on zeir gloves.  Zeir fingers closed around sand instead of shadows. 

“What?” Titus asked when Brennan frowned.  “What is it?  What’s wrong?”

The bag hadn’t looked heavy.  Radioactive sand was curiously light—not nearly as dense as scientists and geologists and other experts expected.  Brennan didn’t know if Titus would be disappointed.  Zei didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if zei had taken of zeir gloves.  Zei could withstand the desert heat, its frigid nights and wild wind-cries.  Even the sand would not hurt zem, being as zei were mostly made of bone.  But there was still a fear, because Titus had far more to lose than zei did. 

“This one has flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Burnt sand too.  Get your gloves.”

Titus whips them out, pulling them on in a heartbeat.  Brennan steps back, letting Titus investigate the rest.  The image of the pale pink flowers lingers in zeir mind—floating in black space, like a mirage.  Maybe it was just a bag of burnt sand, after all. 

Titus pulls out a black hoodie, like any of the dozen found in Brenna’s wardrobe.  But this one had flowers on it.  And had come from a duffle bag found by the side of the road, or wherever Titus had gotten it from.  A duffle bag full of burnt sand that no one really knew what to do with. 

 “Put it on!” Titus says, pushing it towards zem.

“What?  Why?”

“You have to.”

Brennan wanted to argue that zei didn’t have to do anything, but bit zeir tongue at the earnest look on Titus’ face.  Besides, zei were already reaching for the long sleeves, almost despite zemself.  Shaking out the garment, holding it this way and that, looking at it in the light.  A single peony on the front, with a few leaves.  On the back, a bouquet of the same with sprays of baby’s breath. 

It shouldn’t move Brennan so deeply, yet somehow it does.  It feels like magic, and zei haven’t even tried it on yet. 

“Titus…”

Brennan’s voice cracks.  Zei could blame working out in the heat and the dust, but it’s not that.  Titus stands by zeir shoulder. 

“Only if you want to.”

Nevermind the hoodie zei already wore—it was thin, anyway, and this one would easily fit over it. 

“What if I never want to take it off?”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

Of course Titus would be an optimist about it.  It makes Brennan want to laugh, but tears are closer to the surface.  Zei swallow.  Imagine clothing oneself in some curious, coveted material.  The boldness of that; the brashness and—the pride?

“It was made from the sand,” Brennan said.  “I know it, it had to be.”

Zei turned to Titus, clutching the hoodie to zeir chest.  Lowering zeir voice, even though it was just the two of them here.

“Does anyone know?  Do they know this can be done?”

Zei can’t read Titus’ face.  There’s no smirk or mischievous glint in their eye. All they say is,

“Try it on.”

Brennan looks at the hoodie for a long moment before setting it down.  Zei peel off zeir gloves, zeir hoodie, the long sleeves, the padding that protects zeir ribs.  Zei wouldn’t wear it like this, of course.  But for this first time, zei wanted to feel it the magic of it in zeir bones. 

Bare to zeir hips, zei old zeir breath. 

A tingling closeness, like a whisper at zeir neck.

A prickling warmth on the back of zeir skull. 

A rush and an ache.

 Relief. 

When zei manage to look at Titus, Titus’ eyes are shining bright. 

“It’s you.”  Titus grins.  “Eighty times, a hundred times over—it’s perfectly you.”

“You think so?”

Brennan feels this shy embarrassment, but there’s something else to it.  Because Titus is telling zem what zei already knew.  This hoodie, by whatever magic in the sand from which it had been made, fit zem as if zei had always been meant to wear it.  As if it was the way zei were supposed to walk through the world—confident and calm, free and at ease. 

“But there was only one,” Brennan said.

“There’s only one of you.”

“No, I meant—there should be more.  Something for people like us.”

“You think we’d get away with smuggling that much burnt sand?”

Titus leaned against the counter, arms crossed.  Relaxed this time, and their conspiratorial grin spreading wide on their face. 

“Only from the lightning strikes,” Brennan said, more forceful than zei expected.  “None of the arson shit.  Nothing that harms.  And if you can steal twenty duffle bags—“

“That was only the eighth!”

“That I know about.  Anyway—could you imagine?  Someone loans a friend a hoodie, and the friend discovers there is something else in them, something worth exploring?”

“A little more true, a little more you.”

“Coming up with slogans already.”  Brennan rolled zeir eyes, but grinned.  “What about a brand name?”

“You should decide that.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Brennan thought for a while, taking off the hoodie only long enough to put back on zeir layers.  Zipping up zeir new hoodie again, fingering the material of zeir sleeves, ze wondered what word could capture the euphoria zei felt. 

“Jubilee Clothing.”

Titus’ fingers curled around zeir own, squeezing gently.

“Because being you should be something to shout about.”