BOXED IN

The box made a clanking sound, rather musical, as he set it on the metal floor of the corridor. His hands now free, he extracted his hand from one of his gauntlets, spit on a blunt callused thumb, and rubbed it across the scanning pad mounted beside the door. The edges of the pad lit up, a dull blue, and he used the same digit to punch in a string of symbols on the array of buttons..

The pad considered, relented, and issued a grudging beep. A thunk, and the door slid open. He dropped the glove on top of the box, picked both of them back up, and lifted a stolid clodhopping boot over the lower lip of the doorframe. As it came back to earth on the other side, the lights in the newly-entered room flickered to life, ringing inward, and a voice spoke, mechanically cheerful, speaking from nowhere in particular.

“Welcome home, Mr. Frim. Today is -Snarkday- the -23rd- of -Flume-. You have -three- messages.”

Frim finished shouldering his way through the door. There was a stolid table and two equally-utilitarian chairs, and he put the box back down again on the former, sending up a small mushroom cloud of dust.

The lights behind him in the now-empty corridor, not bright to begin with, went dead, and the door slid shut.

Frim removed the other glove, tossed it down beside the first. He was also wearing a pair of heavy, and heavily-tinted, goggles, and had a metal-glittering scarf wrapped around the rest of his face and neck. These were both stripped off and draped over the back of one of the chairs, exposing a pair of gray eyes, flattened nose, and a broad, stubbly chin. What hair remained was bristled and gray. There was a wide belt around his waist, with a sheathed vibroblade on one hip and a heavy revolver on the other. He unclasped it, dropped it all onto the table next to the box.

He turned, lowered the bulky pack that was thoroughly strapped and buckled to his back until it too was resting on the table, and set himself free from its grasp. It too relented, and toppled free. Frim then repeated the procedure with the elaborate fittings that kept his jacket clamped firmly in place, and the jacket joined the scarf and goggles.

He clumped his way to the kitchenunit, to the sink, found the duraglass cup hanging from its hook, filled it with a carefully-dispensed shot of water, numbers spinning on the sink-counter, drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Aah. Bleh.” Every drop carefully drained, the cup went back on the hook. There was another chair, more padded and comfortable in one corner of the room, and he made his way to it, beating more dust out of the heavy weave of his pants, then off his hands. There was a well-thumbed book lying in the chair’s seat, which rather breathlessly announced itself to be a copy of The Further Adventures of Roaming Riley. He set this aside with perhaps more care than it deserved, then sat, or perhaps more accurately collapsed into position.

For a long moment, he contemplated the crossing girders of the ceiling, from which peered the various lights and sprayheads and twitching sensors.

There was the distant but ceaseless hum of machinery, and beyond that something more, perhaps the howl of an eternal wind.

“Messages, Jeeves. Compare. Anything on the critical list?”

“No, Mr. Frim.”

He nodded, and scratched at his cheek, and wandered his gaze around the room. The kitchenunit. The sloppily-made bunk mounted into the wall. The various cupboards and closets. The locked metal cabinet filling another corner, more accurately called a safe. The swiveling door to the watercloset. The other chairs. The table. The box.

He studied the box.

It was made of some indeterminate sandblasted substance, somewhere between wood and metal. At one point in its long and eventful existence, words had been stenciled on its side in red, and were still just barely visible: EASTSIDE JANX . It sported a mismatching, ill-fitting lid.

He sighed, hoisted himself out of the chair, moved the gloves aside and flipped off that lid. A faint glow spilled forth. He started to reach inside, then changed his mind, and tipped the box over, fairly carefully spilling out the contents onto the table.

A collection of crystals, various sizes and shapes and pale pastels. At the heart of each, just visible, a glowing worm.

Frim tossed the box aside, and scraped at the collection of scars on his chin. Again, he started to reach towards the crystals, and again, changed his mind.

He turned to the safe.

There was a flat metal plate bisecting the seamless crack of the two door. Frim thumped this with his fist, and lights flashed on, forming a circle. He tapped at them, eventually turning red-orange to green-blue. The lock clicked, and the doors cracked. He pushed them the rest of the way open..

..Revealing more doors, sub-doors and drawers, all carefully closed and sealed and bolted. At the bottom was the largest door, a perfect square. Yet another lock, a final and first lock. Frim dug under the collar of his patched tunic and pulled forth a chain, on which dangled a key, black and long with jagged teeth, but simply a key nevertheless. The teeth bit into the lock with an oiled click, and turned. Inside was another box. The opposite of the one that its owner had just discarded; it was new and sharp and perfectly cubical, a glittering framework of polished silver ruthlessly edging swirls of black on black, elegant and bottomless. Frim hooked his fingers on one of the slices of silver, and pulled. The box, the Box, slid forth, grinding relentlessly against the floor in the manner of a glacier. It sat in the middle of that floor and soaked up the light, soaked up the time, even as it repelled the dust. It came up to roughly his knees, but seemed much taller, wider, deeper. Frim traced the uppermost black-on-black with a forefinger, nodded, and with a grunt, heaved the Box up onto edge, tipped it over. CLUNK. He rotated it ninety degrees, tipped it up onto another edge. CLUNK. One more time. This CLUNK was even more final, more definitive. It echoed around the room and back again, and as it faded..

The black shapes truly began to swirl, twist around themselves, melt away.

And the top of the Box was open, a square of silver outlining..

A jumbled collection of body-parts, colored a sort of yellowish-brown.

The parts twitched, then began to untangle and organize themselves. The attached head poked itself up and out of the Box, and blinked it.. her.. brown slightly slanted eyes. She yawned widely, extravagantly. The rest of the parts pulled themselves out of the Box, revealing a fairly small and slender woman, with a pixie haircut and wearing a drab (but clean, well-tailored and rather flattering) one-piece garment which left her arms and legs (and hands and feet) bare. A pair of goggles was strapped across her forehead, far more delicate and tasteful than the discarded pair currently buried under the jacket. There were thing strips of glittering silver around her wrists, her ankles, her neck. She looked around with interest, and saw Frim, and grinned, showing a healthy set of teeth.

“Oh, hey hey, Master!”

He smiled as well

“Hello, Pix.”

She crawled out of the box with an easy agility, made her way across the floor, and crouched loosely at his feet, looking up at him unblinkingly. He patted her on the head and she grinned wider.

“Got another leak or blown fuse, Master?”

“No, not this time.” He pointed towards the table and its contents.

“Oooh.” Her eyes lit up (or rather lit up in a different way...), and she went to the table, up onto the table in one quick motion, still crawling, slinking. Arriving at her destination she sat cross-legged, and ceremoniously pulled down her goggles, adjusted them into place. (And they truly were adjustable, the rims turning under her dexterous fingers, lights flashing..) Satisfied, she poked at one of the crystals, which rewarded her with a small but distinct zap of power.

“Ow! Oh. OK...” She sucked at her finger, thought for a moment, glanced at the gloves beside her, and shook her head. “Nopey nope.”

He arched his graying eyebrows.

“You can’t-”

“Hushhush, Master.” She half-somersaulted half-toppled off the table, back towards the Box, looked inside, almost sticking in her entire head, then instead stuck her arm in, waggled it around, and pulled it back out. It was now ensconced in a glove, like her goggles, slender and formfitting, reaching nearly to her elbow. She repeated the procedure with the other arm, with the same result. She wiggled her fingers. Back to the table, back to the crystals. She tapped the same crystal again, and it replied in the same way. The bit of power danced around her glove and dispersed. She nodded, stuck her tongue in the corner of her mouth, and began sorting the crystals by size, small to large, lining them up in a carefully-spaced row. Power danced everywhere, between her fingers, between the crystals, off the buckles of the pack. Seeing this last result, Frim silently snagged the pack by one of its straps and dragged it out of range, setting it on the floor

Pix’s task finished, she hovered her hands for a moment, much in the manner of a concert pianist about to launch into her latest triumph.

She picked up two of the crystals from the middle of the lineup, seemingly at random, and held them against each other; they pushed apart with a distinct blip, and she nodded again, end-for-ended one of them, tried again. There was a click, and they stuck together, their colors blending. She waved a finger, took a third crystal, and tried to add it to the collection. Blip. In another spot. Blip. A third. Click.

“Ha!” She worked on, casually spinning the growing mass in her hands, attaching here and there, occasionally shaking her head and backtracking a step or two. Still, in short order, she was nearly done, with the last and smallest crystal in one hand, the rest balanced in the other, suddenly forming a coherent symmetrical shape. She started to bring them together..

And stopped. For several long moments she sat motionless.

Frim watched silently.

Very slowly, very carefully, she put her burdens both down, one on either side. She planted her sharp elbows on her knees, rested her head on her hands, and stared, tapping at her goggle-straps. Looking back and forth, back and forth.

She frowned, an expression which did not fit well on her face.

Frim stirred, started to speak, held his peace.

Then she grinned and wagged a finger.

“OOH. Oh . Very clever-cleave, Mr. or Ms. Crystal-Machine-Person. Or Critter, or whatever..”

“It’s an Al-”

“Yeahyeah, Master.” She waved dismissively. “Beforetimes deadfolks.” She slowly pushed the small crystal away with her pinkie, took the assembled mass, and began pulling it apart, placing the crystals back in the same places in the line. Back to her starting position, she this time took up the smallest crystal, and another, and held them together, forced them together, ignoring their efforts to Blip apart. Took another crystal, added it to the scrum, and another, and another. Somehow, the various pieces hung in an angry Blipping mass. And then they were all there, except the largest piece, which was still on the table, its point jutting into the air. She brought the collection up, held firmly in both hands, and..

Slammed it down. Frim jerked. There was a searing room-filling flash, and sitting on the table was a glowing, very asymmetrical mass of crystalline light, twisting in on itself, casting slow worming ribbons of itself across all the various surfaces of the room.. “HA!” Pix gave her defeated opponent a light symbolic thump of victory with her fist, pulled her goggles back up onto her forehead, did another showy spill off the table, and was at her master’s feet again, gazing up at him.

“Anything else, Master?”

“Um, no. Thank you, Pix.” He patted her again. “..What would have happened if you’d finished it the first way?”

“Boomy-boom, Master.”

“Mm.” Smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead, between the lenses. She flushed, and batted her head against his body.

“See ya see ya!” She scampered back to the Box, stuck her hands in (which stripped the gloves back off, and contorted herself back into place.

The black swirled back, and he was alone with the hum and the dust.

Frim stood at the table for a long time, looked down at the glow, then up at the ribbons, and scratched at his pantsleg.

His stomach growled.

He went back to the Box, and traced the black again.

Tipped the Box, rotated the Box.

CLUNK

CLUNK

CLUNK

The black melted away.

This woman was not a jumble, her parts were sharp-angled and methodically arranged, and she rose up in a series of smooth motions.

She was taller than Pix, more solidly built, her pale blonde hair pulled back in a severe knob at the base of her neck.. Her one-piece garment.. uniform.. was simultaneously far more respectable and far more frilly. The bands of silver were exactly the same. She stepped out of the Box, and faced him. She very much did not grin, had a face on which grins did not fit, but instead curtsied.

“Master.”

“Ilga.”

He sat down in the comfortable chair.

She went to him, knelt down before him and unlocked the elaborate buckles on his boots, her movements practiced. When finished, she pulled the boots off his feet, revealing a pair of thick, oft-mended socks. She took the boots, went to one of the closets, pushed in a short code which opened the door, placed the boots inside, carefully aligned, side-by-side. Leaving the door open, she turned to the collection centered around the table. Giving the crystal only the most brief and suspicious of glances, she gathered up the rest, except for the scarf. Jacket, belt, gloves, goggles. Filed them away in their niches in the closet. Last of all was the pack, which she hoisted with casual strength and hung on a waiting hook. The door closed. The crystal-carrying box lay where Frim had tossed it. She picked it up, tested its strength, then, satisfied, carefully positioned it in front of him, lifted up his unresisting legs and positioned them as well, creating a serviceable footstool.

She strode to the Box, reached in, and pulled out something, a duraglass handle emerging attached to a small tray, the compartments of which were each filled with a small stoppered bottle, unlabelled, squat and grayish green. She placed this on the kitchen-counter, filled the watercup from the faucet, then selected a bottle, uncorked it, and added three calibrated drops of liquid, swirled the result. She carried it to him, knelt and presented it in both hands.

“Thank you, Ilga.”

“Yes, Master.”

She watched as he took the cup and sniffed, sipped from it, swished the taste around in his mouth, swallowed, nodded.

She rose to her feet, returned to the kitchenunit, beeped open another cabinet, and produced a collection of three or four sealed foil packages splotched with garish labels. She eyed them with obvious distaste. Turned towards him.

“Master.. I could-”

“No Ilga.” He sipped again.

“Yes, Master.”

She found a slicer in a drawer, slipped the foil, which peeled back and disintegrated, leaving a collection of cubes, somewhat like the crystals, though very definitely not glowing. She gathered these, crumbled them in a pan. There was a small stove; when she touched at a control, the word SLOVO began glowing red. The pan went on the word, the cubes were stirred with the slicer. She sniffed, selected another of the bottles, dripped drops, then a third. Barely satisfied, returned the bottles to their tray, returned the tray to the Box, stirred some more. As the pan simmered, and fairly appetizing smells began to swirl along with the ribbons of light, she took up the scarf and used it to dust, starting with the tabletop (circling a path around the crystal) and working her way around the room. Wiped down the safe. When she reached the bunk, she made a few quick motions and the sheet and blanket and pillow were aligned with geometric precision. She disappeared into the watercloset, reemerged. Satisfied, she stuck the scarf in the Box, swirled it to and fro, pulled it out clean and folded, ready to be stashed in the closet with the rest.

By this time, the food was warm. Ilga took the box-lid, put the pan on it, along with a duraglass knife and spork, and carried to him, knelt, extended the now-tray, became an unmoving unblinking statue.

Frim ate silently, methodically, though he nursed the no-longer-water with many careful sips. When he was finished, he leaned back with a contented sigh.

“Thank you, Ilga.”

She reactivated.

“Yes, Master.”

She rose, returned to the kitchen, doled out just enough water to scrub the pan and various utensils, and stored everything away, including the now-tray. She faced him, stood at attention, her bits of silver aligned, asking an nonverbal question.

He considered, and nodded.

“Yeah, after today, I could use it.”

She curtsied.

“Yes, Master.”

Another cabinet in the wall, a small one, from which she produced a short pipe (duraglass, once again) and a leather(ish) pouch of crumbled powder. One careful dose of this was packed into the pipe’s bowl, and was ignited off an attachment on the Slovo. She touched a control on the wall, and a fan grumbled to life directly over his chair. She gave him the pipe, and as he puffed in contentment, being careful to blow the resulting smoke-rings towards the fan, she knelt before him and massaged his feet.

It was possible that there was a flush in her cheeks.

Time passed. The pipe’s contents burned themselves away to nothing. She left off her ministrations, put the pipe away, turned off the fan.

“Will that be all, Master?”

“Yes, Ilga. Thank you.”

She curtsied, started to go to the Box, then paused and glowered at the crystal. She reclaimed the lid, and using it as a push-shovel, slid the offending object a few centimeters so that it was properly centered on the table. Satisfied, she restowed the lid, and disappeared into the Box.

The black swirled back.

Frim sat in the chair, digesting, watching the colors twist.

Then he made a resigned noise, and got up.

Went to the Box.

CLUNK

CLUNK

Twist

CLUNK

The last woman did not emerge, one moment she was not there, the next she was, standing fully upright, her hair swirling around her in a vast shimmering cloud, her hip cocked theatrically to one side, her blood-red and gold (and silver) and black-as-midnight arms spread wide, the room darkened around her.

“Who dares to summon forth a High Priestess of KaLu, who dares to disturb.. oh.” She dropped her arms, her hair fell (more or less) into stillness, the lights (more or less) came back. “It’s you, Master.” She stepped out of the box, or at least the lower edge of her gown sparkled with more gold as it flowed smoothly over the box’s side, and spread out across the now scrupulously dust-free floor. “It’s been so long. I assumed you’d be dead by now.”

He reclaimed his chair, leaned back.

“Nope. Not yet, anyway.”

“Mm.” She took in the room, started to dismiss it, saw the crystal. She cocked a carefully-sculpted eyebrow, and drifted closer. “My my. An Algolian Flame Gem. It was my understanding that they had all been.. disassembled. And.. lost.”

“Yeah, well. I found one last one. Out in the Lantern Wastes. And Pix was able to reassemble it.”

“Mm. What a clever little monkey-monk she is.” She extended an arm again and a bit of power jumped from the Gem’s nearest spike to the tip of a shapely, well-honed claw, which just possibly gave the most subliminal twitch of pain. “I suppose you’re going to sell it. To some grubby Grizz-Sector tchotchke-peddler. Or, no. You’ll give it to a museum, to be ogled by slackjawed gongoozlers as they pick fleas off one another, never beginning to understand the glorious shadow they are witnessing, the very last fragment of the shattered Pillars and Pylons.”

“Actually..” He eyed the ceiling.. “I’m going to give it to my niece. For her birthday next week.”

She cocked the eyebrow again.

“Really. Well. In that case..” She reached out again, tapped here and there. The colors swirled, deepened, and there was now a hint of music, ethereal glass, and the smell of twining tropical blooms.

Satisfied, she turned away, turned towards him, came across the room, her gown glittering and slick. She flowed up onto him, bent over him, her hair rising up again and surrounding them both.. They were nose to nose. She grinned, the very exact opposite of Pix. At this range, it was possible to see there was more silver, razor-thin lines, around the edges of her full dark lips, around even her nostrils, and of course all the way around her deep violet, nearly black eyes. And at the very back of those eyes there was even more, thick unbreakable bands of silver, forged of feminine lust and obedience and slavery and (oh yes) rage, wrapped eternally around the helplessly squirming darkness which was her mind.

“You know, Master, there’s so much more room in that wonderful, horrible, little Box of yours. You could stuff so many more of us in there..”

He essayed a bit of eyebrow-arching himself.

“I do not stuff. I discriminatively search out and collect the.. very.. best.”

“Mmm.” She pushed her curves against him, coiled her talons around his head. “So. Which experience are we going to collect tonight, Master? A visit to the heights of ecstasy, or the very depths of agony and despair?”

Frim considered his options.

“Let’s go with the ecstasy.”

The bands tightened. The box closed tighter.

“Excellent selection, Master..”