Princess of the Void

Volume 1: Maekyon

A month from now, Grant will remember, as he feels the metal of his wife’s gun on the back of his skull, his final days on Earth. He’ll wish he’d spent more of them on the surface, in the daytime. He’ll have trouble remembering what the exact blue of the sky was, how his old home’s sunsets look. Another reason to regret his time in those underground halls—not that he’ll need more.

Today, he’s just focused on getting the job.

“This is a night shift,” the man says. His jacket zipper clatters softly against his tie pin. “11 to 7. You’re aware of that?”

Grant folds his hands in his lap. Dozens of interviews lately and he never knows what to do with his hands. “I am, sir.”

“Not everyone does well with that. You worked them before?”

“Yessir.” Grant points at an entry on his resume. “Security superintendent at the Potterfield, right there, and the overnight custodian position just below it.”

“How’d you do?”

“Just fine,” he says. “My sleep schedule’s a bit off-kilter. It was a good fit.”

“Why’d you move on?”

“That’s when I relocated to Colorado,” Grant says, because I moved on when it was time to move on won’t play, he doesn’t think.

“Why’s that?”

“Family reasons.” He leaves it there.

The man has the good grace to let it lie. “So you get on okay with boredom? Being by yourself, not much going on?”

“Sure. That’s night shifts. Honestly, it’s a perk.”

“No manager poking around, huh?”

“I self-manage well.”

“Good answer.” The man smirks. “You’d say you enjoy them, then?”

“I do,” Grant says. “I know people say that, and then they can’t hang. That’s not me. It’s nice to have space to think. And I like the sky at night.”

“We got a poet.” The man chuckles. Grant doesn’t think that what he said is very poetical at all, but he grins along anyway.

“You won’t be working outdoors, much,” the woman says. An older lady, much more of a desk type than the stocky security-looking man. The fluorescent light glints off her horn-rimmed glasses. Neither of them have given Grant their names. “But there’s some fabulous stargazing out here when you can get it. We’re very remote.”

“I saw on the drive up. I’m looking forward.”

The man’s leather boots squeak as he sits back in his folding chair. “You want to talk to us about 2019?”

“That would be the year I dropped out of college, sir,” he says. “Went to Alberta and worked on the oil sands, north of Fort McMurray.”

“Why’s that?”

“Same reason I’m here,” he says. “I needed money, and I’m not stressed about doing stressful things for it.”

The man raises his eyebrow. “You’re an honest guy, Grant.”

“To a fault, sir. That’s what I’ve been told.”

“And you never went back? Smart kid like you?”

He shakes his head. “My father needed help.”

“You stay in touch with him?” the woman asks.

Another shake. “He’s gone.”

The woman takes off her glasses and fiddles with them, folding and unfolding their arms. “We run a pretty extensive background check, Mr. Hyde,” she says. “Archer Holdings contracts with the US Government, and they insist on it. Are we going to turn up anything off the level about you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No arrests?”

“No, ma’am.”

“If we do a urine sample, will we find anything?”

“Not even a poppy seed, ma’am.”

“You drink much?” the man asks.

“Some.”

“Well, nothing illegal about that, long as you don’t do it on the clock. God Bless America.” The man smirks and Grant feels duty-bound to do the same.

The woman slides a little plastic jar across the table. “You fill that up to the line and put it in the receptacle on the right-hand side of the bathroom on your way out. And then you have a very nice evening, Mr. Hyde, and expect a call in the next 24.”

***

The man, it transpires, is named Drake. He’s there to meet Grant on his first day at Archer Holdings West. He’s in the same coverall uniform as before, same incongruous cowboy boots, with the fresh addition of a gun, in a black leather holster clipped to his belt. Grant doesn’t know guns so well. He thinks that’s a Glock, but to an enthusiast that’s probably the same as calling every rifle an AR-15. Not something he’d prefer to conversate about either way.

They move through a labyrinth of security checkpoints on the way into Archer Holdings’ drab glass-and-steel business box. Metal out of pockets, shoes off, squawky wand. The usual stuff. Drake waves to a man with a submachine gun slung across his back.

“That’s, uh, that’s firepower,” Grant says.

“It’s all show for the bigwigs,” Drake says. “No sweat. Eddie there’s a teddy bear. Eddie the teddy.”

Eddie chuckles. “Fuck off, Drake.”

They pick up a uniform for him. A gray coverall with HYDE, GRANT on a laminated ID lanyard. Drake shows him the custodial duties he needs to handle. “Daywalkers are supposed to take out the garbage at lights out,” he says. “But they usually forget. You buzz by the rec room and you see the can full, just take it to the chute on the other end of the hallway.”

“Sure,” Grant says. “Can I tell you something? Every night shift I ever had, independent of each other, we all call ‘em daywalkers.”

Drake chuckles. “That’s a reference to something, right?”

“Think so. Not sure what.”

“Makes ‘em sound like a zombie or something. Shame they run the world.”

Drake walks them down unadorned and stucco-ceilinged hallways to a silver elevator. They get in and he reaches past Grant to press B5. “Going down,” he says.

They descend. Grant isn’t sure how fast this elevator is going, but if it’s as modern as it looks, it’s a long way.

Another hallway, this one narrower and paler. Drake shows him to his office.

It’s a close and cramped place, dominated by a ceiling-scraping bank of TV screens before a large console. Before it is a broken-in suede swivel chair. The chair sits below an AC vent that blows cool air directly down, and Grant notes to himself to bring a jacket, just in case, but he doesn’t mind the cold. Reminds him of Alberta.

There’s another door on the other side of the office. This one’s labeled CHAMBER. A window set in the wall next to the screens shows the room beyond, a real-time view of the scratchy black-and-white world of the CCTVs all around.

The CHAMBER is a walkable strip of floor tile in front of a massive cylindrical cell of thickened glass. Within the cell is a jungle gym, a toilet seat set into the wall, and a large poster, taped to the opposite side, showing an evergreen forest.

It’s empty beyond that. A cell built to hold… nothing. A life sentence for the jungle gym.

“The job said this was property security,” Grant says. “Is that a cell?”

“It’s a cell with property in it.” Drake indicates the jungle gym. “You worried about the inalienable rights of the monkey bars?”

“I guess not.”

“Here’s the lion’s share of the job. It’s easy. You sit here—” Drake slaps the back of the chair. “And you monitor the feed. This dash in front of you is the camera controls. You shouldn’t have to touch any of them, but if they go askew or fuzzy, the manual’s right there next to the board. Don’t worry about that. Doesn’t happen.” He points at the bank of screens. There’s an unlit yellow diode the size of a fist set into the wall next to them. “If anything shows up or moves on those cameras, or if that light right there flashes, you record the time it happened and any additional observations in the logbook. Even if you think you might’ve imagined it, doesn’t matter. You write it down.”

“But there’s nothing in there.”

“Right. Easy job.”

Grant chews his tongue. “Anything else?”

“Yep. Got your phone right there.” Drake gestures to a handset. “There’s no wi-fi or data down here, so if you need the outside world, you hit star-nine and it gets you reception. Gotta give them a reason you’re calling out, and they’ll be listening. Star-zero is a line right to me. There’s more, but that spiel’s fine for night one. Oh, right—and if an emergency happens, you flip the plastic case and hit that button.”

Drake taps the boxy transparent cover over a predictably large and predictably red control in the middle of the camera dashboard.

“When that happens,” he says, “You’re gonna be locked in here. Metal shutters come down over all the doors and the window. Only my ID card is gonna get those doors lifted. So keep in mind, once it’s hit, you cannot leave until I retrieve you. That’s for your safety.”

“What counts as an emergency?”

Drake looks down, makes eye contact with him. “You’ll know.”

Grant gives this a tepid “Okay.”

“Any additional information will be delivered to you on a need-to-know basis. And that is 90% of the training you’ll ever receive or need. So bring something to keep you from getting too bored, as long as it doesn’t take all your attention and keeps your eyes on the monitors. I do audiobooks. You got anything like that?”

“Guitar, maybe?”

“Guitar’s not bad.” Drake leans on the doorjamb. “What do you play?”

“Acoustic. Oldies, mostly.”

“Nice. Johnny Cash, sorta thing?” Drake mimics a strum by his big silver belt buckle.

“Sure. Him and some old Gut Bucket blues type stuff, some B.B. King.”

Drake nods. “That’ll help.”

“Can I ask something?”

“Shoot.”

“Is there a reason to have a gun for this job?”

“For this job, here?” Drake chuffs an amused laugh as he shakes his head. “No, sir. I’ll stay onsite. If there’s ever reason to require armed security, I’m here. I have the gun, you have the button. You’re not uncomfortable around them, are you?”

“Buttons? Been pushing them my whole life.”

Another laugh from Drake, more sincere.

“No, guns are okay,” Grant says, feeling proud of that one. “Just curious.”

“No need for curiosity, kid.” Drake hitches up his belt. “Job’ll go smoother without it.”

“Okay.” Grant wonders whether that’s a joke, but it didn’t sound like one.

“I’ll leave you be.” Drake crosses to the door out. “Sorry you don’t have your guitar this time, but I can lend you an mp3 player. Got some books on tape.”

“Like what?”

“Military history,” Drake says. “And Atomic Habits. I know, some real divorced dad shit. But if the shoe fits.”

That gets a genuine grin from Grant. “Thanks, Drake. I’ll be all right.”

And he is, really. It’s boring, but he expected boring. It’s a room, and him, and for the first half of his night, that’s all. The yellow light turns on twice and stays lit for about ten seconds. He dutifully records the timestamps.

Tomorrow, he’ll bring his dad’s guitar and have something to do with himself. To wile away the hours, he reads the manual for the cameras. A lot of stuff about maintenance and repair. He gets to the time and focus controls, which seem relevant. Rewind, fast forward, the usual. There’s an entire section on setting up a tape loop—keeping the recording’s timestamp going while showing the same feed over and over.

Why would you need something like that?

The toilet flushes.

His head snaps up. Did he imagine that? No. The tank is refilling now. He hears the water going through the pipes.

He slides the manual over and pages through to the index. Finds the timing controls again. He rewinds. He watches the flush handle depress, seemingly by itself.

He’s chewing on the pen cap, he realizes. Bad habit of his. He checks the timestamp and writes it down.

03:32:16: Toilet flushes itself?

He reads it back. “What the fuck,” he says to himself.

“Hey, he lives!” Drake meets him by the elevator doors. “How was your first shift?”

“The, uh. The toilet flushed.”

“Ah. All right.” Drake scratches his neck. “You write it down?”

“Yessir, I did. Does it do that?”

“Now and then. Long as you record it, all good.” Drake stretches his back out. “All right, Grant. See you tomorrow.”

Grant goes back up the long elevator. He nods to the receptionist and the early-bird daywalkers clocking in. He puts some Sister Rosetta Tharpe on his beat-up Civic’s stereo and lets the Gospel Train ride alongside him through the blue dawn.

He arrives at the apartment complex around eight in the morning. His room is spare, and still only halfway unpacked. He supposes now that he has a gig, it’s time to get those shelves built.

This he does, while he listens to a food podcast his ex put him onto. They’re talking about Buc-ee’s today. Now that he’s in Colorado and doing so much driving, he ought to check one of those places out. Those famously clean bathrooms.

The toilet flushed itself. The plunger pushed down and it flushed itself.

He has to stop thinking about this. No need for curiosity, kid.

He stocks the shelves with his old yellowing mass-markets and sits on his couch with his tablet and his parlor guitar. Not playing anything with a name, really. Just fingerpicking around while he watches highlights from the Browns game. Why he puts himself through being a fan of these chucklefucks, he’ll never know. Must be addicted to losing.

He puts the guitar away. He heats up dinner. He masturbates. He goes to bed.

The toilet flushes again on night two.

On night three the jungle gym shifts, creaks a little.

Both times, Drake takes the report with the same unflappable stoicism. Grant calms the curiosity racing through his mind with the guitar. He’s learning a complicated fingerpicking arrangement of “If I had a Hammer” that eats the hours handily.

On night four, at 3:17 AM, the yellow light turns on, and he glances up, and he sees it.

The prisoner in the chamber.

For a moment he thinks it’s a child, or an animal of some kind. But when it turns, when it’s no longer obscured by the curtain of hair that falls to its calves, he sees.

He sees a woman.

She stares at him, through the glass and the window. She’s three feet tall, and her skin is a pale blue, and her eyes are bright red. But that is a woman. A small, well-built, thoroughly naked woman. Her mouth drifts open to show two rows of razor sharp teeth, and her ears are big and pointed like a bat’s, and she has a goddamn tail. Long as she is tall. That is not human. That is—

Grant’s jaw hangs open. “What are you?”

Her tail is hairless but for a tuft of downy fur on its end, like a desert mouse’s. It twitches and figure-eights as she steps with a dancer’s grace to the thick glass. She lays her palm flat against it.

She’s saying something. It’s too muffled to make out from here.

His hand is shaking violently as he opens the chamber door. He steps into the room, the concave crescent of it that stands before the glass.

Her almond-shaped eyes track him. She speaks again, in a smoky, melodic voice. “Kemanaeam.”

“What?” he asks, dumbly.

“Kemanaeam,” she repeats, and as she flattens herself against the glass, mere feet away, it becomes impossible to ignore that she’s beautiful. Huge, almond-shaped eyes, scarlet and wide. Full, teardrop breasts. Wide hips sweeping from her trimly muscled waist into thick, smooth thighs. She is as gorgeous as she is inhuman.

“Keayae’kmainaema.” A raw rim of desperation at the corners of her gibberish.

He staggers back. He stumbles through the door into the control room. She’s knocking on the glass now, shaking her head rapidly, eyes widening even larger, saying—something. Those strange syllables again. He mashes the button.

She gasps and jerks back as a steel curtain drops in front of the glass, sealing the cylindrical cell like a tin can. Solid steel shutters hiss hydraulically from the ceiling and land with an authoritative thud on the floors in front of both doors into Grant’s room. He sees, on the CCTV into the enclosure, the woman stamp her foot. She turns from the closed shutter, shoulders hunched and trembling, and for a moment her face is visible.

She’s furious. Furious and full of sorrow. Her nakedness is no longer alluring on the staticky feed. She looks deprived, subjugated. Her eyes dart up to the camera in the corner. She makes eye contact with him through the digital ether.

She melts into thin air.

Grant sits heavily in the swivel chair and attempts to get his breathing under control. His heart gallops at a colt’s pace, so strident it aches his sternum.

A loud ring and he barks out a yell of surprise before he realizes what it is. The phone’s going.

He picks it up. Drake’s on the other end. “What’s happening?”

“I saw—” Grant struggles to keep the hysteria out. “I have no goddamn idea what I just saw,”

“Tell me.”

“A, uh. A woman. A small, naked woman. With a tail. She disappeared.”

He hears brisk footsteps. The curtain over the hallway door disengages and slides upward. Drake stands in the entryway, his face as stony and neutral as an Easter Island guardian. “Come with me.”

“What’s—”

Louder and firmer, Drake repeats, “Come with me.”

Grant’s world narrows to this room, and the fluorescent hallway beyond, and the big man standing between the two with the gun on his belt.

He stands, and follows Drake out.