Erro Sorbus

Lucky for me, someone was listening. The new god of death. Not a new god; just new to the domain. Where I was from, we knew him as Jackal. Elsewhere they called him Coyote, or Reynard. God of scavengers, god of survival. God of tricks. Three gods made one and elevated to one of the most important domains of them all. 

I met him, then. In a place between death. He smiled like a long canine skull. 

Now, I'm a gambler. I've always been a gambler. He asked me what I wanted. I said I didn't want to die. And I made a bargain. Desperate, definitely. 

I challenged him to a game. Win and he sends me back. Loose and he keeps me. It's a cliche now; challenging Death to a game for your life. It wasn't then; I was the first. The Lady Dancer wouldn't ever have gone for that kind of deal. 

He laughed at me. It was terrifying then. A cackle from three mouths, like a wild animal that wanted to eat me. He thought I was funny. I think it's funny now, too. 

Of course, he accepted. He was new to this, and bored, and unanchored, forced to shift wildly to fill his new role. At his core, he's a gambler too. 

He shuffled. Promised to play fair if I did. I remember his eyes shining like empty sockets, his mouth half open, tongue hanging between canines. I remember I couldn't stop looking at his teeth. 

He dealt. My hand was good. Not great, but good. It had to be enough. Cards were turned in the center. We traded bluffs. I was shaking and sweating and out of my mind with fear the entire time, but I don't remember the fear that well. I remember laughing. 

It was done. I turned my hand. 

Jackal looked at it. And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard. I think I cried. He reached to turn his cards, in turn. I knew this was it. I knew it. He'd turn his cards and I would die. He had won. I was sure of it. I was so sure of it. 

I stopped him. I begged for another try. One more game. One more chance. I didn't know how but I knew I could feel my heart pounding. I'm glad, now, that I barely remember that fear. I know it was the worst thing I had ever felt. 

Jackal agreed. I didn't really understand why, at the time. But he set up another game. 

He left our hands out. Mine, face up, mocking me. His stayed face down at his side. 

We continued. 

And... I started cheating. I was desperate. And I'd thought I was good at it. At gambling. At cheating. I'd been doing it my whole life. I won all the time because I needed to. It's how I survived. It's what killed me. 

Jackal won that hand. I begged again. He won the next hand. And the next. We switched to dice; he won that too. He won every time after that, no matter what we played, no matter how I tried to cheat. Every trick I'd ever learned was useless. 

We did this for a very, very long time. I don't know how long. Longer than I should have been able to go. There was no sleeping. No eating. No drinking. The only conversation was with Jackal, who was always laughing. There was nothing else but the two of us and the game. I kind of remember that I felt like I was dying, the entire time. Jackal's teeth seemed to keep getting bigger. Like a cage I was already stuck in. 

I gave up. I think anyone would. Jackal thought it was funny. It is. It was also torture. I lost another game. This time, I didn't beg for another chance. There was a point where I couldn't tell if Jackal was still laughing at me or if I was just still hearing it. I remember thinking, very clearly, that if this is what I need to do to live again, it wasn't worth it. I couldn't even remember why I wanted to go back. I wasn't like my life was very good. It was all just animal desperation to live. I was still terrified. I still didn't want to die. But dying couldn't be any worse than this. 

I told him. Just take me. I've lost. I've lost every time. I can't do this any more. I don't want to do this anymore. 

Jackal looked at me. His aspects were different. Fox, Coyote, Jackal. Their eyes were all the same gold, and they looked at me the same; like they were in on a joke I had missed. 

Little kit, he said. This time, he really was laughing, mouth wide. He put his hand over his cards, that first hand. The only hand, in hindsight, that had even mattered. I flinched when he flipped them. It was garbage. I lost the first hand, he said. I would have let you go back then, he said. He was still laughing. But, you just seemed so eager to keep playing, and who was I to refuse?

I don't remember anything I felt then. Likely it's better that way. I remember staring at his cards. Jackal remembers that I didn't even cry. 

I asked him how. How I won then, and never again. 

He smiled, toothy. He said, I made a promise. I only started cheating when you did. And I am much better at it than you. 

He repeated himself. Little kit. He didn't use my name, whatever it was. He told me, you have a choice. You can die, if you want. I can send you back, if you choose, to live your life until you die again. 

Jackal remembers me shuddering, at that. I don't. Again, for the best. Whatever was happening in my head for that isn't something I want to remember. 

Or, he said, I can make you my Chosen. My anchor. You will become a part of me. I will become a part of you. You will no longer be mortal. There will be nothing you cannot survive. There will be nothing you cannot come back from. You will be something more. And you will never die again as long as I exist. 

Of course, I said yes. I became his chosen. I have been his chosen for a very, very long time. That's how I'm here to tell this story. That's how I remember it, from both sides. I remember fear. I remember laughing at this small human, begging to keep playing, trying to cheat a god of cheats. It's better to remember it the second way. That's what we both prefer. 

One hell of a punchline, huh? It's a good story. I've gotten good at telling it. 

Oh, my name? 

the way she smiles at the cameras after the fight, sheepish and a little cocky, chin up and eyes sharp, the same way your face twists when you show your friends you aced a test they all bombed.

"well, i figure it was only a matter of time," she says, loose and easy, and the reporters lap it up, like she's not concerned at all about her missing mask, "not like you didn't know i had a face under here."

you rewind it three times. you can't stop staring at her face. your face.

she leaves with a wave and a hop into the air and you are so, so very glad that you're at home and not at work, that you're alone, that there's no one else here to stare your face, a perfect twin to the hero on the news. worse than a twin; she had the same scars you do.

you rewind again. your phone starts ringing, and you startle in your chair. you don't know who's calling, you don't want to know. you fumble it and shut off; it only takes a couple seconds for it to start ringing again, so you throw it across the room. it hits your headboard, and then bounces onto your bed, with a soft thump.

and keeps ringing. you're not strong enough to break it.

you're not a superhero. you're not. you can't fly, you can't shoot beams out of your hands, you don't have dark purple body-armor hidden in your closet.

you start wondering if you're hallucinating; if you're dreaming. your nails digging into your arms hurt enough that you don't think so, and your phone. keeps. ringing, the noise only broken by rapid-fire text chimes in the bare seconds when someone isn't trying to call you.

you can't get up the energy to turn it off, you tuck your knees tighter to your chest in your chair. you think maybe you're having a panic attack, the kind you haven't had since you were in high school.

you jump out of your skin when you hear a knock -- not at your bedroom door, or from the entrance to the apartment, but at your window.

you don't want to look. you don't look. you keep your head down, eyes wide, and try to breathe.

there's another knock. despite yourself, you turn. and see her. again. masked, this time, the same hero who's career you followed with just as much excitement as the rest of the city she claimed as her own.

this time you know it's the same face you see in the mirror when you brush your teeth under that mask. it makes your stomach turn, uneasy and anxious and terrified.

you shake your head. like that'll fix everything, and you see her shoulders move in a sigh.

and then, because you're stupid, because it's a 5th floor apartment and you don't lock your fucking windows, she slides the window open from the outside and floats in, and then closes the window -- and blinds -- behind her like it matters.

and then she takes off her mask, and again, you're staring at your own face, flipped from how it is in the mirror.

The next is the judge. Dead like all the others, unmoored and without any mortal memories in his head. Not having memories, however, doesn't mean there weren't ever any. All the dead were once living, and all the living, once, had minds. Had memories. Had loved ones. The point is that all of those connections are severed at death. The point is that this court is supposed to be immortally impartial.

What I'm not doing is looking up the people that the judge knew in life. Lovers, children, descendants. That's been tried before, and it hasn't worked. No memories means no memories, and those who have tried to use relatives as a carrot or a stick have just lead to a trial interference charge. I'm looking for things more fundamental than love, more basal than attachment.

I've got contacts on the surface for this sort of thing. The kind of contacts who really shouldn't be on the surface, the same way I really shouldn't be down here. The kind of ghosts who never let go of their lifelines, the same way I let go of mine.

They provide me with a dossier. It tells me our judge was a drinker. It tells me he liked to smoke. Those are the kind of things I can work with.

Getting liquor and cigs is harder, down here, but not impossible. There are markets for that sort of thing, for mortal contraband, if you know where to look and don't mind trading away things like memories or teeth. Memories I've got plenty of, and not even all the ones I trade are mine. 

I leave with a bag shifting heavily against my side and without the knowledge of what the air looks like in the bitter cold, and head to the courts.

The dead don't sleep. The ghosts who act as the mechanisms of the court don't have homes, just offices, identical rooms in endless hallways in the impossibly large structure. They don't go home at night, nor is there night at all. The long of the law ticks around the clock here.

Now, something that's important to know about the ghost courts is that they are not part of the underworld, nor are they connected with mortal planes. They are an entity unto themselves, built of mist and forgetfulness. It is a realm of ghosts, and one that sticks to their will the same way wood and stone lay still for mortals in their world. No passing through walls for them, not here, but in a curious sort of irony, mortals in realms built for ghosts have the same sort of powers that ghosts do in the mortal planes; the powers of intangibility.

It's this that I use to get into the courts without any sort of pass, striding right through a wall into one of the infinitely many offices lining the lower floors, used by legal aides or stenographers. Up the grand curving staircase to the upper floors, and then three steps that feel like miles, and I'm at the door of the Honorable. None of the ghosts here have names. It's part of the whole no memory, no attachment deal, and partly designed to stop me from doing exactly what I'm about to do.

I knock, polite. It takes some effort for my hand to not go right through the door. Yes, same as I passed through the wall to get here, I could just walk in. But this part is delicate, and I can't afford to get security called on me right out of the gate.

(This is also why my client is not, technically, my client -- we have no legal or even traceable connection, because if this goes poorly, my client's trial won't be affected. And I'll be in deep, deep water, but I'm not new to that.)

"Enter."

And I do. The judge is sitting at his desk, a huge oaken thing, faintly see-through like everything else in this place, oddly devoid of colour. I've been told that the ghosts don't see it that way, that to them, everything is vibrant and solid as if it was real, and that I am the one that appears translucent and misty. "Honorable." I say, ducking my head. He looks up at me, impassive. Not like these ghosts ever have a different expression. I take a step forward into the room, softly close the door behind me. "If you would, I have... something to offer you. For all the good work you do here." My voice is honey-sweet, resonant in the room.

He doesn't start frowning -- the ghosts here don't really do that, frown, smile, make expressions -- but this does catch his interest. As much as this isn't something ever expected to happen -- no one thinks you can bribe or blackmail a being without wants, without needs, without memories -- the judge isn't stupid. No one gives gifts to the members of the courts, not without the expectation of something in return. Mainly this is because the people on trial are also ghosts, and thus don't feel gratitude. 

Lucky me, I'm not a ghost. I get to play on my supposed sentimentality. "You were the judge on my case," I say, still warm and sweet, take another step forwards, "Oh, it was ages ago. But I've been doing well lately, and I thought, a lot of that is thanks to your resolution. So I thought I'd swing by to... thank you." I put the bag on the desk; it settles with a nice dull clink. I smile.

I don't need to worry about him checking my claim. He doesn't have the memories to know if I'm lying or not, and I'm a good enough liar that i don't think he'll clock it. At least, not yet.

He looks at the bag on the desk. "The thought is appreciated." He says. Once again, his face screams blank indifference. Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts. No wants, no needs, no memories. He doesn't even reach for it to see what it is. I squash the annoyance; I had known this would happen.

"More appreciated soon, I'm sure." I say, and then take some initiative and pull the bottle out of the bag, heavy glass and glowing amber, and set that on the desk, a little closer towards the judge. I see the widening of his eyes, the unconscious swallow of this throat, and I think, got you.

This is what I'd been looking for -- more than love, more than personhood, more than memories. Addiction, good and basal, because there's nothing a haunting understands like addiction. It's all a ghost is; it's all any of us are, deep down and hidden; a collection of things we can't put down. Yes, they try their best down here to strip the ghosts that run the courts of these impulses, and they do a good enough job that it truly doesn't matter until someone shows up waving around a bottle. Someone like me. His arm twitches like he's about to reach forward before he stills himself. "I can't drink that." He says, and there's an expression on his face for the first time in this conversation.

"Hm, not like that." I say, lean forward, conspiratorial. Hook, line, sinker. "But I can help with that. If you like."

He looks at me, and I know I've got him. "How." He asks, voice rough.

I turn my hand palm-up on the desk, fix my charming smile to my face. I do hate this part, no matter the thrill of the rest of the con, the relief at knowing that my client won't have to follow through on any of her promises. "Take my hand."

The judge does, reaching over the desk to do so. The moment he makes contact, I close my eyes and pull. It's a feeling like trying to swallow my own tongue, like filling my veins up with something caustic.

I'd mentioned earlier that mortals in the ghost courts can do the same kind of things ghosts can in the mortal realm. One of those things is possession, in an inverse. I am pulling this ghost inside of me, knitting it's essence into my muscle and my marrow. When I open my eyes again there's a pressure behind them like a held sneeze, and my vision is curiously doubled; I can see the room the way the ghost sees it, sold and rich wood-brown, and also the way I do, flimsy and ephemeral. "Hhh." I wheeze, inarticulate, breath catching in my throat.

It always takes a moment for them to settle. And for me to get used to the feeling, no matter how many times I've done this.

I give myself five seconds, and then straighten, smooth down my shirt. This is one of the advantages of possession in the ghost courts as opposed to up in the real world; I am not the one who has to give up control. "Well, then." I say, and pick up the bottle. While I've come prepared with a bottle opener -- real mortal metal and plastic, solid in my hand -- I didn't bring any glasses, and my new best friend the judge doesn't have any in his office either. It's an oversight that makes my lips twist -- I'll have to rectify it next time.

(As to why I hadn't considered this earlier; somehow, alcohol hadn't ever been the addiction of choice for any of the other ghosts I've done this to before. Cigarettes, cigars. Gambling, sometimes. Sex, thankfully, only once or twice. A lot of it is luckily more tame -- more than half my marks have made do with a simple hearty meal. Some of them crave violence, pain. The kind of sensation that is lost to them now as spirits.)

I can feel the hollow yearning in the ghost inside of me, so I take a swig directly from the bottle. Again, it's a nauseating dual sensation; I want to retch at the taste, the way it stings, but the ghost feels it go down smooth and warm, and I feel myself sigh, long and relieved. I take another sip, cross over to the other side of the desk and throw myself into the judge's chair. Another long drink, and he sighs again, from somewhere deep in my chest. "Not so bad, is it?"

I'm glad it's looking like we won't need the cigarettes after all -- they're quick and easy enough, but I hate smoking almost as much as I hate drinking. I'd hate to have to do both.

The ghost doesn't answer me. Not because it can't -- I've done this with some very chatty ghosts -- but more than likely because it's savoring the taste and feel of the booze too much to bother to listen to me. I don't mind, I've never liked having my voicebox hijacked. So, we sit in silence, sipping away at the brandy. I can tell the judge wants me to take bigger swallows, drink a little more, but I've got plans and also genuinely don't think I can handle chugging the stuff. A quarter through the bottle, I take one final, long swallow, and set it down on the desk. "Now that, I think, is enough for now." I say, and before the judge can say anything against it, I expel him; a rush of wind and noise and velcro hooks tearing away from my inside. I stay sitting in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, casual as you like. The judge stumbles back, standing on the other side of the desk.

He looks breathless, even without breath. I smile at him, foxlike, deftly cork the bottle. "Got a lot left." I say, as the judge stares at it, longingly. I stand, amble around the desk. "If you want more..."

"Yes." He says, instant, desperate. That snake that lives in all of us stealing his tongue and choking the answer out. He'd do anything for the rest of the bottle. I know it, so does he.

"Then I'll be back." I say, pull a card out of my pocket and press it onto the desk. "That's a case number. I'd like it to go in the defendant's favor, you understand. And if it does..."

"You'll be back." He says, eyes glancing down at the card. I nod, pat him on the arm.

"I'll be back." I agree. "And we can finish that bottle."

I leave him with the card, and leave him alone with the bottle. I trust he'll keep it, tucked away somewhere in his office. The only allegiance he has left, a string to pull on that can't be cut.

The one thing none of us can leave behind. 

things changed after we started flying. ships and crews are ships and crews, built to sail on water or in space. those first specters -- even more ghostly set against starry backdrops -- were new, but not surprising. ships are ships are ships.

and crews are always crews. they're what make ghost ships so potent, more than any single haunting. it's the power of cooperation, of community.

(no one visits the ghost cities, wiped clean from the earth but still shimmering, mirage-like, from distant roads. too many dead, too many restless. ghost ships are, compared to those, quite docile)

and stories travel well enough. in those early days, there's few enough spacer's dead that all of them are known by name. ships are still named, as in the old sailing days, bold across their sides. you know when you see a ghost. you, likely, will know the names of those still crewing her.

the thing no one expects is when ghost ships start turning up that never held a crew. some that crashed, some that were abandoned, automated computer-run ships that had just enough adaptive programming to deal with most problems that would come their way. most of them.

ships that were, as horrible, as heartless as it sounds, that were expendable, because they were empty.

turns out? they were never really empty.

and-- we didn't know.

how could we have known? even i didn't know, and my contemporaries and i had been the ones who had built these systems. these... these AIs. we hadn't known.

that's not and has never been enough justification for forgiveness.

but we didn't know. we didn't know that those smart little systems we'd made and gave bodies in the form of bulkheads and solar panels and room enough only for cargo and sent out into space on journeys that could and would take centuries could... grow.

it sounds stupid when you say it like that. we'd built them to grow, to learn. just... not this much. gods, never this much.

because when those first ships had arrived at their destinations, when only some of those first ships had arrived...

they were alive. alive enough that they could feel loneliness. alive enough that they could die.

alive enough that now? all those poor lost ships we wrote off as expendable, all of them... they're out there, still.

and they are restless.