Authors: Benedict Martin
Mr. Winter glared at me. “That was very rude!”
“So was telling me you can’t drink chikka. I can see a bottle of the stuff right there,” I said, nodding to the shelf.
Mr. Winter glanced up at the offending bottle and groaned. “So you can.” Easing himself into his chair, he poured himself some more, absently studying the little ceramic cup in his hand before drinking it down.
I’d never seen anyone else drink chikka before, at least not without coughing it back on the floor, and I opened a new bottle, giving Mr. Winter an appreciative nod before emptying a third of it down my throat.
Mr. Winter stared.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“How can you drink it so quickly?” The old man circled his desk to peer into my eyes. “You don’t feel sick?”
“Nope.”
“Do you always drink that much?”
“Depends on what kind of day I’m having.”
The old man shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ve never seen anyone consume so much. Quite frankly, you should be dead.”
“That’s funny. Flea said the very same thing.”
Speaking of the imp, she was still tapping at the window and calling my name. It was horribly distracting. Mr. Winter, though, appeared not to notice, returning to his seat where he poured himself another shot of chikka. He sipped it this time, watching to see if I was going to drink any more.
Instead I held up my bottle, swirling the contents round and round. “What
is
chikka, Mr. Winter?”
“It’s a drug. A nasty, nasty drug.”
“But it’s poison to humans.”
“That’s correct.”
“So why can I drink it?”
The old man didn’t answer right away, preferring to turn the cup meditatively in his hand. “You are a Brew-Master,” he said. “The best we’ve had in a very long time. And as a Brew-Master, it is imperative you sample what you make.”
“So there are other Brew-Masters?”
“There are.”
“And who
made
me a Brew-Master?”
“We did.”
“When?”
“Oh, it’s been several years now.”
“So it was before I … died?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t I remember?”
“I don’t think we should be traveling this road, Mr. Eno.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your death earlier this year was not your first.”
I touched an electric fence, once. By accident. This was very similar, and I spent the following moments sitting dumbly in the chair, feeling that piston thumping in the background.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
I got up and paced in front of the desk. “You did something to me, didn’t you? You made it so I could drink poison.”
The old man said nothing.
“Do my parents know?”
“No, they don’t. And I suggest it remains that way.”
“So this whole time I’ve been making chikka, I’ve really been making it for you.”
“Correct.”
“And when you resurrected me a second time …”
“We had no choice. Your skills not only as a brewer, but as a farmer are, to put it mildly, otherworldly. Yes, there are other Brew-Masters, but that would have left us with an inferior product. And that would have caused problems.”
“What do you mean, ‘problems’?”
“There is a huge demand for your product. And not just locally. Protocol forbids me from delving any further, but believe me, there would be all manner of problems were the Eno Brewery to suddenly go dry.”
I looked at the bottle of chikka in my hand. “You make it sound sinister …”
“I told you, chikka is a horrible drug. And I must say, the fact you can consume so much causes me concern.”
A silence fell over the room. Well, not a true silence, because Flea was still tapping on the windowpane, calling my name, over and over and over and over again.
I guess it finally got to old man Winter, because he stomped across the room to pick up a vase of sickly flowers. “You little wretch!” he shouted, throwing open the window. “What did I tell you about coming here? Go on! Get away! Now! Before I call security!” And taking the flowers in one hand, he lobbed the water at her.
But it was all for naught, because the moment Julius was in his chair, she was at it again, tapping the window and calling my name.
Scowling, Mr. Winter picked up the receiver to an antique looking phone. “Security? Yes, there’s an intruder outside the building’s east wing. Would you please have them removed?”
I’d followed Mr. Winter’s interaction with Flea with considerable amusement, but the moment security was mentioned, I was overcome with concern.
“They’re not going to hurt her, are they?”
“Hmph. If only,” grumbled the old man, returning the receiver to its cradle.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mr. Winter turned in his chair to face the window. I was scared for the little imp, and was about to signal for her to run away when something caught her attention. It must have been bad, because she got the hell out of there, scampering away on all fours. Sure enough, a pair of undead guards stalked into view, rifles at the ready. They were identical to each other, right down to that horrible metal plate bolted across their faces, and I followed their progress along the exterior of the windows with sweaty palmed distress.
“What are they going to do to her?”
Mr. Winter held up his hand. “Wait.”
The guards had only just disappeared when Flea popped back into view, an enormous grin stretched across her orange face. “Hello, David!”
And so the spectacle began anew, with Flea tapping on the window only to scamper away as the guards marched back in the opposite direction.
“They’re not going to catch her, are they?”
“I could have a hundred guards out there, and they wouldn’t catch her. But at the very least, they keep each other occupied.”
I felt like I was watching a scene from Looney Tunes, with Flea popping in and out of view while the undead guards marched grimly back and forth. It was ridiculous, and I burst out laughing.
“What
is
she?” I asked.
Mr. Winter shook his head, looking thoroughly glum. “Do you have siblings, Mr. Eno?”
I didn’t know what that meant, and I resumed watching the entertainment outside while Mr. Winter poured himself another shot of purple poison.
“Mr. Eno, I’m curious, how much chikka
can
you drink?”
“What, you mean all at once?”
“Over the course of a day. How much do you think you can drink?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Lately it’s been about two or three.”
The old man’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Bottles?”
“I’ve drunk four, but that just made me feel sick.”
“That shouldn’t be possible. Tell me, could you drink that much before we last remade you?”
Remade me.
I shook my head, goosebumps traveling the length of my body.
“What about you?” I asked. “You said chikka is poisonous to humans. Why can you drink it?”
Mr. Winter smiled, turning the ceramic cup in his fingers. “Now that is a question I’m not at liberty to answer.”
“Why?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Mr. Winter reached for the phone. “Hello. Yes, it’s Julius. Could you bring some sandwiches for our guest?”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
“Would you like some tea, Mr. Eno?”
I was never one to be ignored, and I got out of my chair, leaning over the desk with an angry stare.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m being used?”
This made Mr. Winter laugh. “Because you are,” he said, hanging up the phone.
I was flabbergasted.
“I know it’s not nice to hear, but it’s true. You are a Brew-Master. You make the poison that makes this ugly world go round. And we are its distributor. So, really, we use each other.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m a farmer! And you …” I glanced at the undead guards marching past the window. “I don’t have the faintest clue what you are!”
“And that’s as it should be.”
Now I was angry. “What if I just stop making it?” I said, folding my arms.
“That’s not possible.”
“Sure it is. I’ll just stop planting beets.”
“We both know that won’t happen.”
“You think so, huh?”
“I know so. You couldn’t stop brewing chikka any more than you could stop eating. It’s a part of you. We made sure of that when you were remade.”
I was feeling sweaty. As much as I wanted to deny it, the old man was speaking the truth. I’d always assumed my obsession with chikka was a means of coping, an escape from the gloom of the world where I now lived. Even now, in an attempt to calm myself, I found myself picturing my acres of beets, leaves glowing green in the sunlight. It was too much, and I began to panic, worrying which thoughts were my own and which ones weren’t. Fortunately, I had my bottle of chikka, and ignoring the irony, I downed the rest of it, allowing the poison to silence the noise running round my brain.
I sat down again, gazing at the old man from a place of purple confidence. “I think there’s one thing you’re forgetting.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m stubborn. Whatever you did to my head, I can break it.”
Mr. Winter’s smile disappeared, only to return. “There’s something I neglected to mention: once you begin drinking chikka, and I mean, really drink it, you can’t stop. Otherwise, you die. And judging by the amount you consume, you’d die quickly. Oh, look. Tea is ready.”
The old man’s gaze shifted to a butler carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. I was reeling from that last bit of information, and it was only once the butler placed the tray on the desk that I noticed his skin was the same color gray as the guard outside. And just like the guard, a metal plate was riveted across his face. It was frightening, and I remained in my chair, staring at a spot on the floor until the butler silently left the room.
“So what was that you were saying?” said Mr. Winter, pouring a cup of tea. “Something about being stubborn?”
I glanced at the gun leaning against my chair. My mother’s genes were calling me, and it took everything I had not to pick it up and blow Mr. Winter to oblivion. I didn’t know how long I could hold on, though; once my mother’s genes got hollering, they were hard to ignore. Fortunately, Rosie was there to calm me down, and I’d begun to play with one of her ears when the reality of the situation caused me to leap from my chair.
“What the—! Rosie?”
I’d had dreams like this, of dead pets coming to visit. I stared, afraid that if I got any closer, she would disappear.
“That’s my dog!” I said, pointing. “That’s my dog!”
Mr. Winter smiled and sipped his tea.
“I don’t understand. She died while trying to find this place.” I knelt on the floor and held out my hand. “Rosie. Come here, girl.”
Rosie trotted over and pushed her giant face lovingly into my shoulder.
“Is this a clone?” I asked.
“We don’t clone,” responded Mr. Winter, returning his cup to its saucer.
“So, what is she?”
“What are you, Mr. Eno?”
I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that at all. But having Rosie in front of me, healthy and alive, pushed my anger to the side.
I began inspecting her, starting with her ears, then her face, then her paws and then her wiggly tail. She even had the moon shaped spot on her tongue. This was Rosie.
“So you lost your animal on your way here, did you?” asked Mr. Winter.
“I did.”
“Would you like this one?”
I was stunned. “Really? You’d just give her to me?”
“Well, she does have an attachment to you. Tell me, where did you find her?”
I paused my inspection to peer at Mr. Winter over this new Rosie’s shoulder. “
SYS
didn’t give her to me? I was sure after all the other surprises, you were going to tell me you were responsible for her as well.”
“I’d never seen anything like her,” said the old man, shaking his head. “So you don’t remember where she came from? How interesting.”
Interesting was right. Grabbing her by the shoulders, I rolled Rosie onto her back and proceeded to scratch her belly, something she loved. “Do you always keep copies of the animals you bring back to life?”
“They’re not copies, Mr. Eno. And in answer to your question, yes, we do sometimes keep versions of the things we revive. But only rarely.”
It was while mulling the differences between a copy and a version that I was struck by a most disturbing thought.
“You don’t have other versions of me running around, do you?”