Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback(53)

? 168 ?

? Caitlín R. Kiernan ?

She curses and wraps her right hand around a bundle of the vines, tugging at them forcefully; the ladder groans ominously, creaks, and leans out a few more centimeters from the wall. She releases the vines and turns towards the round hatchway leading to Three and the next vegetation-clogged segment of the Blackbird. The status report she received when she awoke inside the home-away, what little there was of it, left no room for doubt that all the terraforming engines had switched on simultaneously and that every one of the containment sys banks had failed in a rapid cascade, rolling backwards, stem to stern. She steps over a log so rotten and encrusted with mushrooms and moss that it could have laid there for years, not hours. A few steps farther and she reaches the hatch’s keypad, but her hands are shaking, and it takes three tries to get the security code right; a fourth failure would have triggered lockdown. The diaphragm whirs, clicks, and the rusty steel iris spirals open in a hiss of steam. Nix mutters a thankful, silent prayer to no god she actually believes because, so far, none of the wiring permitting access to the short connecting corridors has been affected.

Nix steps through the aperture, and the hatch promptly spirals shut behind her, which means the proximity sensors are also still functional. The corridor is free of any traces of plant or animal life, and she lingers there several seconds before taking the three, four, five more steps to the next keypad and punching in the next access code. The entrance to Isotainer Three obeys the command, and forest swallows her again.

If anything, the situation in Three is worse than that in Four. Her red gloves have to rip away an intertwining wall of creepers and narrow branches, and then she must scale the massive roots of more strangler figs before she can make any forward progress whatsoever.

But soon enough she encounters yet another barrier, in the form of a small pond, maybe five meters across, stretching from one side of the hull to the other. The water is tannin stained, murky, and half obscured beneath an emerald algal scum, so there’s no telling how deep it might be. The forest floor is quite a bit higher than that of the ? 169 ?

? The Road of Needles ?

’tainer, so the pool could be deep enough she’d have to swim. And Nix Severn never learned to swim.

She’s sweating. The readout on her visor informs her that the ambient temperature has risen to 30.55?C, and she pushes back the hood. For now, there’s no rain falling in Three, so there’s only her own sweat to wipe from her eyes and forehead. She kneels and brushes a hand across the pond, sending ripples rolling towards the opposite shore.

Behind her, a twig snaps, and there’s a woman’s voice. Nix doesn’t stand, or even turn to see. Between the shock of so abruptly popping from the dream-away sleep, her subsequent exertion and fear, and the effects of whatever toxic pollen and spores might be wafting through the air, she’s been expecting delirium.

“The water is wide, and I can’t cross over,” the voice sings sweetly.

“Neither have I wings to fly.”

“That isn’t you, is it, Oma?”

“No, dear,” the voice replies, and it’s not so sweet anymore; it’s taken on a gruff edge. “It isn’t Oma. The night presses in all about us, and your grandmother is sleeping.”

There’s nothing sapient aboard but me and Oma, which means I’m hallucinating.

“Good day, Little Red Riding Hood,” says the voice, and never mind her racing heart, Nix has to laugh.

“Fuck you,” she says, only cursing her subconscious self, and stands, wiping wet fingers on her jumpsuit.

“Where are you going so early, Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Is that really the best I could come up with?” Nix asks, turning now, because how could she not look behind her, sooner or later.

She discovers that there is someone standing there; someone or something. Which word applies could be debated. Or rather, she thinks, there is my delusion of another presence here with me. It’s nothing more than that. It’s nothing that can actual y speak or snap a twig underfoot, excepting in my mind.

In my terror, I have made a monster.

? 170 ?

? Caitlín R. Kiernan ?

“I know you,” Nix whispers. The figure standing between her and the hatchway back to Four has Shiloh’s kindly hazel-brown eyes, and even though the similarity ends there, about the whole being there is a nagging familiarity.

“Do you?” it asks. It or she. “Yes, I believe that you do. I believe that you have known me a very, very long while. “Whither so early, Little Red Riding Hood?”