Phoenix in the Fog: Part 1 the Fog

By Seiji Yamashita

Grace lives in a simple world in which things that cannot be explained simply cannot exist. Cybernetics, electronics, and advanced particle physics are the norm for this one brilliant teenager until the family secret spills out and a dreaded and feared word seeps around her comfortable existence: magic. Now Grace not only has to deal with what it means for her and her life, but there are men who have already decided that there is no room for such nonsense in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seiji Yamashita
• Release date: Jul 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465994790

Seiji Yamashita

I've traveled all over the place and tried to learn a lot, but the only thing of which I am certain, is that I am the pen, the instrument, and not the author.

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Phoenix in the Fog Part I:

The Fog

by Seiji Yamashita

Copyright 2011 Seiji Yamashita

Smashwords Edition

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The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. It’s like it isn’t even there.

- Eugene O’Niel

Chapter 1, March 16

The girl with the long red hair and long limbs was all alone. It was dark. There wasn’t a breath of air or the slightest sound to disturb the stillness and the emptiness that surrounded her.

Hello again, the girl said to no one. She knew this place. Had been here many times before. Did you have a nice weekend?

There was no reply. There never was.

My weekend was - and she stopped. Someone was here. Someone had disturbed the emptiness. She had heard...or had she?

Movement. Over there. No...no, a trick of the light.

Gooooood morning State of Columbia! The clock radio blared, The time is now officially 8:00 AM on this fine Monday morning. That means it’s time to get going if you haven’t already. Grace Guyyson rolled over and slammed her fist against the godforsaken piece of machinery.

Blissful silence filled the room. Grace stared up at the scene she had painted on the ceiling. Nothing special, just a blossoming apple tree next to a fountain. She had had the dream again. She had been all alone, then suddenly she was looking for something or someone that wasn’t there. For months she had been having the dream, but this was three days in a row. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Maybe she should lay off the late night snacks

She didn’t feel alone. She wasn’t alone. Maybe she was just missing Sean. It never seemed like they got enough time together.

-from their latest album, Rock the Shore. You’re listening to Danny at Daybreak, the time is now ten past eight on Monday March 16th, welcome to the future.

Oh yes. That was why Grace was feeling slow this morning: it was her birthday. She didn’t punch the snooze button again even though she only wanted to crawl back to sleep. She didn’t close her eyes and ignore the world around her in hopes that tomorrow would be better. She didn’t do any of the things that she had done too often in the past year. Instead, Grace sat up on the edge of her bed and rested her arms on her knees. Her long braid fell over her shoulder onto the floor as the radio announcer went on about some new trade agreement with the Republic.

One year ago exactly, Grace had gotten out of bed with enthusiasm. She had showered and diligently dried and brushed her hair before putting on makeup and spending another hour getting dressed. It was the long ritual she had repeated every day for much of her life. A year ago, she had put on the silver bracelet for the first time. It had been an early birthday gift from her dad that she had refused to wear until the morning of the 16th. She had been happy then. She had been just another teenager, worrying about boys, and going to the prom, or what to wear when she went shopping with her girlfriends.

Now she was sixteen and a lifetime had passed.

Now she was legally allowed to live on her own. She could own property, be drafted, arrested, and executed, but she could not sign legal documents without an adult, vote or do anything that really meant she was independent. She was only, a late teen, a term dreamt up by some bureaucrat that made it difficult for students to hold protests or be politically active.

Morons, Grace said to no one. They’re all morons.

The girl who had once been concerned about finding the right prom dress just in case an upper-classman asked her was now too busy getting from one day to the next.

Grace got up from the bed and walked across her tiny studio apartment to the shower. Grace did not have many luxuries but, thanks to Lily, she did have a shower with real water and not the sonic shower that most people used. There was just something about hot water that made a difference. It was relaxing. Therapeutic. Hot showers always helped on those kinds of days She undid her hair and began to wash it. The silver bracelet with its abstract design shimmered in the water.

Seems like a line of freak storms have suddenly developed off the Atlantic and will be moving in later today, the radio said. Not to worry folks, the worst of the storms will be held off by Weather Control.

Yeah, Grace commented, Because rain is such a troublesome thing. Some days she missed the weather. Weather Control was a great idea in theory. Rain fall could be carefully monitored and drought could be avoided. No one in the State had died or been hospitalized for heatstroke or hypothermia in as long as Grace could remember. Most people didn’t think beyond that. That was the good news, and to be fair there were no measurable, negative side effects. But there was something to be said about an uncontrolled thunderstorm, or a blizzard that blankets the city in white. There was something to be said about the majesty of unbridled nature. Grace could recall only a handful of times seeing a thunderstorm or a blizzard. Both had been when she was so young that now they were distant memories. Images that would appear in her dreams.

Eventually Grace decided that unless she wanted to look like a raisin, she had better get out of the shower. She turned on the dryer and, while it collected the excess water for recycling, began the long process of brushing and drying her hair. For almost a year she had considered cutting it, but every time she got close, she remembered how much her mom had liked it long. So Grace had kept her red hair flowing down past her hips.

The dryer was done and Grace got dressed. She opened the window and looked out at the State of Columbia from her room on the 102nd floor. The view was one to die for. She could see the river and the park, as well as the classic State skyline. It was probably the best view in the city and it was all hers. Well, technically Lily owned the apartment but she never used it and had pretty much given it to Grace last year. Continuing her morning routine, Grace asked the smart waiter for coffee.

Lily was an old family friend that had been there for as long as Grace could remember. That Grace had survived the past year was thanks mostly to Lily. Lily had set up the apartment, made sure that all of Grace’s things got moved in, and that Grace could use the smart waiter. Not that it was hard to cook with one of those, they pretty much did all the work. Yet another great innovation of the age.

She deliberately ignored her reflection in the mirror as she walked past it. While some might have called her athletic or lithe, Grace saw only a gangly little girl trying to grow into her body. She wasn’t ashamed of her body, she wore clothes to emphasize those things that she thought were worth emphasizing, but for the most part she didn’t like how she looked. She didn’t like seeing her parents in the mirror.

Grace stared out the open window considering her options. This was the most modern of modern cities; she could do anything she wanted to commemorate her birthday from the best clubs, art galleries, and sporting events to the park or the beach... and she just wanted to go back to bed. Just perhaps she could sleep through the day, and when she woke up tomorrow the worst would be over; she would be able to face the world again. Grace, however, had proven that to be a lie too many times in the past year. So she stood at the window gazing out, absently drinking coffee, wondering about her life.

Good morning, Grace, said an annoying male voice, cutting off the radio, You have a phone call. The electronic-porter (standard with any phone line) waited for a response. Grace sighed to herself. The electronic-porter (EP to most people) was another modern convenience, that everyone seemed to love. It was a combination of voice-recognition software, caller ID, and holographic projector/recorder that could do pretty much anything you asked it to. The more upscale houses came standard with EPs that could monitor the kids or sleeping patterns, or even serve as a hospice caretaker. The whole thing made Grace shudder. Why was it, she wondered once again, that she was so uncomfortable with the technology she grew up with?

Audio only. Grace replied as she turned away from the window and went to the kitchen looking for breakfast

Gracie, you there? This male voice had a slight Irish brogue and seemed to come out of nowhere. Grace had never really figured out where the cameras, projectors, speakers, and microphones for her phone system were.

Sean, it’s not even 9 yet, and it’s Monday morning. This had better be good. Grace said as she began to look around her pantry for food.

Good morning to you too Sunshine. Come on now. Lily paid the extra money for the teleprojector, you might as well use it.

No.

Oh please, Gracie I hate not seeing you when I’m trying to talk to you.

Tough, she said taking another sip of her coffee.

I bet you’re still using the old smart waiter too aren’t you? Didn’t Matt give you a new one?

The old one makes better coffee, and don’t tell me I just need to program it. Now why are you calling me so early? Grace demanded as she started looking through the freezer. Maybe those bacon strips could thaw in time if she waited to finish her coffee before making anything else.

Promise you won’t be cross with me?

Cross, Sean? It’s barely 9:00 AM on a Monday morning, Matt wants that essay on Hamlet tomorrow, I still have to do my crazy Philosophy homework for Boshi, and I have a math test on Wednesday. I woke up cross, now I’m about ready to hang up on you. The bacon was stuck. Grace put her coffee mug down as she pulled at the package.

All right, fine. I got you present, a real present and not a gag gift. Something you might actually like.

Sean -

I know, I know, you don’t want anything, you don’t want to celebrate at all, but come on Gracie, it’s your birthday. If you like, I’ll give it to you tomorrow and we can call it something else.

Remind me why I put up with you? Grace asked playfully while she put the bacon in the smart waiter and looked in the refrigerator for more food.

I should think the reason obvious -

Stop. Don’t say anything else.

Gracie -

I don’t know who’s listening in. That’s all.

Like I care if anyone’s eavesdropping.

I care, Sean, now shush.

Silence. Grace stopped digging around in her fridge for food. Her coffee was forgotten in the freezer.

All right, fine. Tell me when I’m seeing you. Sean said.

Not tonight. Lily is having me over at her place tonight.

Are the other two going to be there?

Boshi and Matt, yeah.

So when are you going to tell the old farts about us?

The old-? They’re not that old, and Lily already knows.

But the other two-

We’ve been over this.

Fine, I’ll pick you up in half an hour. We’ll get some breakfast. Bye-bye, Gorgeous Gracie, he teased.

Don’t call me that! she yelled, but he had already hung up. Grace began re-braiding her hair and thought about the reasons she put up with smart, witty, hunky, dazzling, stunning, caring, gentle, 21-year-old Sean. A content sigh escaped her lips. Although, for a man five years older than her, he sometimes acted like one of the boys on the soccer team from school.

Grace turned and looked in the mirror. She studied her long, gangly limbs, and all the extra baggage that had left her an emotional train wreck and couldn’t help but wonder why Sean was still hanging around her after everything.

The EP sounded again, There is a gentleman at the door. Shall I let him in?

Sean! Grace shouted half laughing, You call that half an hour?

Thirty minutes, thirty seconds, whatever. He replied. Grace opened the door, felt him sweep her up in his arms and kiss her full on the lips.

Happy birthday, Gracie. Shall we go then? I’m starved.

Breakfast was at the Corner Stop, a coffee place with breakfast pastries, espresso drinks, and enough bandwidth and security for everyone to plug in and log on. Of the four walls in the Corner Stop, two were floor to ceiling windows, and the other two were lined with booths, but unlike the booths in most restaurants, these were User Chairs: a special reclining chair with a pull down visor, gloves to simulate tactile sensations, and another half dozen wires and jacks. It was the perfect piece of equipment for someone to log on to the Net. Every chair was filled, and most of the people sitting at other tables had portable helmets or visors and gloves on that allowed, or forced, them to remain partly in the real world. The result was that the cafe was eerily quiet interrupted only by the occasional shifting of someone in a Chair.

Sean stood out in a world of cybernetic modifications and men who spent all their off hours at the gym. He was tall and scrawny according to most of the others, but he moved with a preternatural grace, and a quiet, subtle strength that Grace had difficulty describing. He was like a length of whipcord instead of an iron bar. Then there was his electric blue hair. He always said that a freak accident had permanently dyed it but Grace was sure he kept a bottle of hair dye somewhere.

Looking around for a seat, Grace shuddered at the empty, glazed eyes of people plugged in. They freak me out, she said to Sean.

Sean shrugged, I don’t think it’s anymore unnatural than some of the new cybermods coming out. Have you seen the Plasma Super-conductors?

Grace nodded as she thought about all the cybernetic modifications, or cybermods, she had seen lately, including the metal skull-cap and face plate with blue streams of plasma running across it. Supposedly it made you smarter, sharper, and increased your reaction time. Grace agreed with Sean, it just looked like something from a nightmare. In the past ten years cybermods had become fashionable. Where once girls would have sought out breast implants or liposuction they now had cybernetic hair that could be styled with a thought, or silicone nails that never broke and never needed trimming. Some people got implants to deliberately change the color of their skin or eyes. Once they might have been tools to advance a career or save a life, but now they were an empty headed fad.

Most cybermods though, Grace said, don’t stand out that much.

Sean shook his head, The really good ones, the ones that are designed to actually do something? There’s no way to hide them.

Cybermods were first intended for special army operations, Grace argued. The best, the top of the line are indistinguishable from the real thing. And the newer cosmetic ones too. Have you heard of self-supporting breasts?

Sean shook his head. Can’t say that I have. Can’t say as I’d want to see them either.

You know Donna Sheringzer?

She’s a pop icon. Everyone knows her.

She has them.

No way. Sean said. There’s no way she could hide a cybermod with the way she dresses.

She has to have them the way she dresses. And from what I hear she’s got at least two other cybermods if not more.

Grace and Sean grabbed their drinks and sat down at a table by one of the windows.

I left my coffee in the freezer. Grace said absently.

At least it’ll be fresh when you get back. The Irishman replied.

So what are we doing today?

Oh I have a couple of ideas. Sean said. But it’s your birthday, what do you want?

You always have a plan.

I was thinking about the park after breakfast. I love the park.

I know you do. You love it so much you body tackled a guy who dropped a cigarette.

Littering is a big deal, Sean came back, and in case you’ve forgotten it had been hot and dry with weather control down for almost a month. It could have started a fire.

Whatever you say Sean. I’m still surprised you managed to talk out of assault charges.

Cops are corrupt. They might as well be in the church.

Grace checked her watch. Well that’s a new record. We managed to hit the environment, religion and politics in less than two mintues.

Sean smiled. Couldn’t have done it without you.

They spent most of the morning at the Corner Stop. Every so often Sean would turn to politics, religion, or worse, the environment. Not that Grace didn’t enjoy talking about those subjects and she had no problem expressing her opinion. Sean just had very...unique views and Grace was more than willing to steer the conversation towards something else...anything else really. Luckily, the government watchdogs weren’t around and they were able to continue their morning without a confrontation. Eventually Sean and Grace settled on art and the merits of millennial neo-classicism (advocated by Grace) versus pre-millenial modernism (advocated by Sean).

Picasso was a hack, Grace said defiantly.

Sean sat dumbfounded, probably for the first time in his life. My dear, he finally said, the gauntlet is thrown. He stood up and dragged her out of the Corner Stop. Grace made a hurried grab for her purse and tried to figure out why it was important someone had thrown a glove. And who had thrown it at whom anyways? Sean grabbed a cab and off they went to the art gallery on F Street.

Europeans have such a weird way of talking. Grace said, Who actually uses the word ‘gauntlet’ anyways?

Sean then had the pleasure of explaining dueling practices and law in Feudal Europe and the legacy they have in his homeland to a very captive audience...despite Grace’s continual pleas for silence.

The Art Gallery on F Street wasn’t just Pre-Millennial art; it was also connected by underground tunnels to the newer galleries across the street. They began the afternoon there. Millenial neo-classicism, more commonly known as Holographic Art was one of the fastest growing industries, mostly because of the new interactive features being pioneered by the galleries. In the latest displays a person could actually smell the flowers, and feel the grass as they sat down. They spent a few hours in some of the displays. Mostly they were landscapes or seascapes. Beautiful, computer generated renderings of natural wonders.

I’m in a meadow, Sean said looking around at the three-dimensional, interactive hologram. And it isn’t very big, he noted tapping on a wall of the room that looked like thick air.

But it’s beautiful isn’t it? Grace asked. Come on Sean it’s called ‘willing suspension of disbelief.’ If you want to believe and enjoy it, then you will. If you don’t, you won’t.

First of all, willing suspension of disbelief belongs in Theatre, not visual art, second of all Gracie, there’s no depth.

Grace looked at Sean confused. It’s 3d Sean. That’s kind of the nature of a hologram you know.

Sean shook his head. Let me show you something with real depth.

I don’t see how squiggles any two year old could do convey depth.

They left the Holo-art galleries and went back to the Pre-Millennial displays. Sean walked through the halls, dragging Grace at times, to find a specific painting. Grace paid no attention to the various hallways and doors they passed and ignored most of what was on display around her. When Sean found the mural painting he had been looking for, the couple stopped. He stood looking at the painting for a few minutes.

I could do that.

But you haven’t.

But I could.

What makes you so sure?

Look at it. Grace said. It’s a mess. The faces are all flat, there’s no color. It’s like he just threw up all over the canvas.

That would be Jackson Pollack.

Who?

Never mind, Sean said, just consider this for a minute.

I consider it a waste of time.

That’s because you’re just looking. Don’t just look at it Grace, see it. The old masters were not driven to paint for their own amusement but because something in them demanded it. They speak to us across the centuries with their images.

They could have just written something. Grace said.

Come on Gracie, we see with our eyes and hear with our ears, but we understand with our hearts. Try to understand it.

Grace stood in front of the giant mural canvas, and considered the black and white painting. The images were stilted, with oddly proportioned limbs and disfigured faces. They were grotesque and flat like a child’s attempts at beauty. For Sean’s sake, she stepped forward in an attempt to get closer to whatever it was that Sean saw or felt. She adjusted the purse on her shoulder.

For a moment all she saw was a lack of talent, and an unsteady hand. This looked like nothing she could readily identify. Grace took another small step closer.

Pain. Suffering. Grief.

It washed over her like being caught in the rip tide. So much pain. Such a sad story.

There were survivors, she said. It was a massacre. The defenders didn’t have a chance. It must have been like taking a stick against a tornado or earthquake. The people died.

It was so sad. So painful. But something inserted itself on the fringes. A distant, unseen source of hope. A different kind of grief.

He mourned the attackers, for their souls, as much as he mourned the dead.

What makes you say that Gracie? Sean asked.

She opened her mouth but no sound came out, the words stuck in her throat. She had no explanation. I don’t know, but despite the attack, scattered corpses and destroyed buildings, there is hope. There’s forgiveness and grief.

All of that in squiggles.

Life was put into this, Grace breathed. How could it be?She stared at the mural unable to look away or understand how she had been able to say and feel what she had. Sean pulled her away a bit and sat her down on a padded bench facing the mural.

Some part of Grace’s brain marveled that the benches had this purpose. She had originally thought that it was for old people who needed a break from walking.

Eventually they left Guernica to see what other mysteries the old masters had hidden away. They worked their way through other 20th century artists like Dali and Max. Then they found the older portrait masters. They found Vermeer, and a girl with a single pearl earring.

Who was she? Grace asked.

Does it matter?

Yes.

Then tell me.

A girl, Grace said, A young girl. A maid or a maid’s older daughter. She was alone. Someone took her in and cared for her, but eventually she was sent away. She had to leave.

She had to leave?

The earring, Grace said, It’s a goodbye gift.

For my part, Sean said, I think the earring is a last effort to keep her. She is looking back at him and what he offers, not saying goodbye. Sean reached into his pocket and produced a small black box. He opened it to reveal a pair of real pearl earrings. For my part, they are a lover’s token, not a parting gift.

Grace smiled and took the earrings.

Thank you Sean.

Happy birthday Gracie.

Real estate was very hard to come by. Most buildings were a couple hundred stories tall in an effort to accommodate the growing population, and despite the extensive land reclamation projects into the Atlantic there was only just enough room. One result of the land shortage was that the State offered cremation services to all of its citizens free of charge. Those who were rich enough, bought land out in the Wastelands and buried their dead there, but ordinary folk paid the fee to place the ashes into an urn and kept it in a place of honor or else scattered them. Grace couldn’t bear the constant reminder a pair of ceramic urns would provide, and so she had walked to the beach with Matt her first day out of the hospital and scattered her parents’ ashes into the ocean.

The Sand Sweepers were small robotic trash collectors that cleaned up the beaches, kept the shores clean and even sorted out chemical and radioactive pollutants. Of course the whole point was to make it difficult to leave things behind and increase the revenue for the boardwalk shops. Grace was not the only one to scatter ashes into the ocean and every day the Sand Sweepers picked up sticks of incense, flowers, candles or any one of a million other things that people left for the departed. Grace once saw an Afro-Caribbean man leave a shot of rum and a cigar on the beach.

The old woman, he said with a heavy accent, she liked the rum and cigars. That had been several months ago.

When Grace went back to the beach on the one-year anniversary of her parent’s death, the same man was there, this time selling candles on the boardwalk. He had a little cart that had all of his candles and crafting tools. The wares were laid out on the ground around him. Some were in the shape of people or animals. One was in the form of a bear and the wick erupted from the open, upturned maw. Other candles had prayers written on them. A very few had strange symbols she didn’t recognize.

What do these mean? Grace asked the man holding a candle.

That one, the man said in his heavy accent, Is for healing soul sickness.

Heart sickness? Like an aneurism?

I don’t know this word, the man said shaking his head. There is sickness of body, sickness of mind, and sickness of soul.

Like what? Sean asked.

When the old man died, the old woman was very sad. She had soul sickness. It almost killed her. But I make a candle and save her. You need one?

Do I need one? Grace asked. For soul sickness? I don’t think so.

Body does not always know what it need. Mind does not always know what it need. The soul always know. It say you need this candle.

Grace looked at him puzzled. It doesn’t really work though right? It’s psychosomatic more than anything else I bet. You think something’s wrong you pick up a candle and light it and abra cadabra you’re better. I mean, what is a soul anyways?

The merchant looked at Grace confused. You say things I not understand.

Grace, Sean said, Don’t worry about it. Take the candle.

Grace turned back to the candle-maker, Thank you. Did the old woman teach you to make these? She asked.

Yes she did. Do you need one for the beach?

Oh no, this one-

No. That one for you. Not for the beach. He turned and grabbed a thick candle from his collection that was carved into a woman praying. Her hands were held above her head and held the wick. She wore a simple robe painted blue. This one for the beach, he said handing it to her. This is the Magdalene, very good candle.

Grace smile and reached into her purse, How much do I owe you?

He counted up the total cost, which came to much less than Grace would have expected. She placed both candles in her purse and turned to leave.

Gracias Cura, Sean said in flawless Spanish, pero mejor tener cuidado. Los Cazadores estan cercos.

The black man looked at Sean with wide eyes before quickly packing up his wares and running away.

What did you say to him? Grace asked

Immigration has been out lately. I let him know.

You think he’s illegal?

It’s not what I think that matters Grace.

Grace was uncomfortable with where the conversation was leading and changed the subject. Do you know what he meant when he said this was the Magdalene? Grace asked referring to the candle, and when did you learn French?

Spanish, Sean corrected, and I learned in school. I also learned French, Latin, Gaelic, and Greek, not that it matters. They walked off the boardwalk onto the beach.

What do you think about the candles? she asked.

Oh they’re nice enough. Sean said. I’m glad he didn’t try to overcharge you.

Do you think he was right? About my soul I mean?

How should I know? Grace I’ll be the first to admit that there are things I don’t know or understand.

But there’s no such thing as a soul. Science would have found it by now if it was real.

Sean shook his head. Science cannot answer everything. Science cannot tell you how you suddenly understood the depth of Guernica after so many years of ignoring it.

You sound like the Jehova’s witnesses.

You aren’t listening Gracie. All I’m saying is we have to accept that we may not always have an answer.

Grace knelt down by the high tide line and planted the candle in the sand, making sure that the simpler version with only the symbol carvings was still in her purse. When she had it lit, it looked like the woman kneeling in the sand was holding a flame at her fingertips.

She began thinking about her parents. At first she had gone down to the beach every day just to sit and be there...to try and be with her parents. She imagined that when she was there, her mom and dad had simply gone for a walk and would be back. She liked to imagine that perhaps she might be able to get a glimpse of them in the water.

Later, when Boshi and the others had begun tutoring her again, Grace limited her visits to once a week. Life went on and so did she. She got work done in order to graduate early. Partly thanks to that, partly thanks to the sudden absence of her former friends, she was just about ready to sit final exams. It would have been much harder if Sean hadn’t come into her life six months ago. That’s when her visits to the beach dropped to once a month. She was able to focus on life and school, and Sean always seemed to know when to push her to take a break, and when to push her to get back to work. He had brought her life into some semblance of balance. It was the kind of thing you want your parents to see.

Thank you for brining me out here. Sean said.

I figured ...well. You know.

Sean put a hand on her knee. Yeah. he said. I do.

They sat in the sand next to the candle looking out to sea. In the distance they could see the line of thunderclouds fighting the sickly green electron barrier set up by weather control. The storm railed against it striking time and again in brilliant flashes of light. The barrier however remained firm, and not even the sound of thunder rolled past it.

Grace could almost hear her parents talk to her in the sigh of the wind and the crashing of the waves. She could almost feel her father looking at her across the darkening night sky. She could almost feel her mother’s hands run idly through her hair.

Almost.

Instead she leaned into Sean’s shoulder and he put his arm around her. They sat in silence until the sky was more purple than blue, and the light from the electron barrier colored the sand that odd green color.

It’s getting dark. Grace said.

You noticed.

"I