The tumor was discovered three months after she became an ordinary citizen.
Surgery was a possibility, but with the likelihood of significant brain damage. She refused. Radiation and various forms of chemo would be stopgaps, prolonging life by weeks at most. She considered and decided otherwise. On their own initiative, three of her original team flew to Capetown, attempting to meet with the new emperor. Their plan was to argue for a special blog, perhaps a call for a new cancer-fighting agent. The right words written in the proper order, not unlike a magical chant, might lead researchers to find a miracle hiding inside some little tropical plant. But the emperor refused to see them, much less consider their request. And hearing about the trip and the verdict, Adrianne sighed, saying, “Wisdom and kindness. They’re not the same word spelled with different letters.”
There was still money in the coffers.
Doctors and cooks and maids and more doctors arrived and then left the house again, following complicated schedules.
And the original seven disciples took up residence in the nearby houses, complete with spouses and kids and at least one mistress.
Adrianne left her doors unlocked.
Her balance wasn’t worth trusting anymore, and she hated the chore of seeing who was calling.
One day, a boy from another neighborhood invited himself inside that famous house. He was curious what brain cancer looked like. It looked like an ordinary old lady sitting before a small desk, watching a thousand solar panels opening like giant flowers on someone’s desert. It looked like a dull thing to watch, and he said so.
The woman turned slowly, looking at him and then looking back at the monitor.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Sitting,” she said. And she began to laugh, one hand touching the back of her skull. He thought she was strange and left.
She didn’t notice her solitude.
Then another boy said, “You should lock your doors.”
Adrianne turned to discover what she assumed was the first boy. Except he had grown up in the last few moments. Grown up and grown heavy too, and his hair had left him and then come back again. The new hair was paler and thicker than natural, which was common with these treatments.
Thirty years had passed in an instant.
This was a very interesting disease, she thought.
But no, that face wasn’t the same face, even with the added decades. She almost remembered the face and its name. But then with a hurt tone, the new visitor said, “I’m your son. I’ve come to see you.”
That seemed enough reason to stand.
The legs proved strong, at least for the moment.
“I heard the news,” her son said.
“There’s always news,” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“Your health,” he said.
“Is there something I don’t know?”
“Oh, Mother.” The man blinked, shrinking down a bit.
“You mean this growth.” She tapped her head and laughed again. Twice in one day. She was practically a giddy little girl. “Yes, it’s going to kill me. But probably not today.”
The conversation stopped altogether.
Casting for words, she fell into clichés. “How is your life, son?”
“Well,” he said, happy for the prodding. “I’m doing well. Sober three years, and very rich.”
“Are you?”
“Exceptionally rich, thanks to you.”
“Sober, I meant.”
But the man with the fresh hair didn’t want to dwell on old weaknesses. “It’s amazing what people give you, particularly when they learn that your mother controls the world and everyone on it.”
Honest thoughts came to Adrianne.
She worked hard, and her mouth remained closed.
The man was wearing both fine clothes and a smug smile, and he was watching her. But his thoughts were on the move. Feeling strong enough, he stopped smiling. “This is where he killed himself. Isn’t it?”
She said nothing.
He looked at the ceiling. Then he stepped past her, touching the desk. The earlier desk was gone, too big and too bloody for the room that she had wanted. Maybe he didn’t remember the original furniture. She refused to clear up these matters. What she wanted was to be left alone...
But this was her only child.
Mindless, uncaring pressure on neurons. Pressure bringing emotion. Is that where this sudden trickle of tears was coming from?
Her son didn’t notice.
Again, the smug, rich-man’s smile.
“I was sorry when you lost the job,” he confessed.
“Were you?”
“But it’s all right,” he said. “Our relationship is still valuable.”
“Is it?” she asked, wiping one wet eye.
“You often talk to our overlords,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said.
“But they don’t know that. And I’m very convincing.”
She approached the office door. Wanting something. To send him away, or flee for herself?
The awful man kept talking.
“In fact, I’ll sometimes claim that I can talk to them too. The powers in charge. Not so much that I have to prove anything. But you know, it’s crazy what smart people believe, if you give them any excuse.”
She gasped.
Her son blinked, straightening his back.
“Help me,” she said. “Would you do me one enormous favor?”
He nodded.
“Wait,” she said.
Waiting was an easy favor, easily accomplished.
She returned with the handgun and bullets, and his first reaction was to warn, “Guns are illegal now. You made it so.”
“I did,” she agreed. “Maybe somebody should arrest me.”
He watched her load one chamber.
“Now,” she said. “Kill me.”
“What?”
“That’s the favor. I’m sick. I’m going to get sicker and die horribly. But according to euthanasia laws – my wise laws – I can implore another person to end my suffering by whatever means I want.”
“Mother...!”
“And I don’t want to do the chore myself. So if you would.” She shoved the gun into his hands, aiming the barrel at her chest. Then, as if having second thoughts, she said, “No, wait. Let me sit, and we can catch the bullet and the spray with pillows. I’ll get my pillows out of the bedroom.”
“Mother, no!”
The heavy man dropped the gun and ran away.
The disturbance was finished.
Alone, Adrianne unloaded the one bullet, placing the weaponry into a closet. And exhausted, she sat at the desk, watching a live view from a probe launched last month and already halfway to Neptune.
Time passed.
And someone else came to visit.
The first boy was back, an older sister holding his hand.
“This is her,” he said with conviction. “That’s our Empress.”
Adrianne didn’t have the legs to stand. That’s why their faces were at the same level when she said, “Yes, it’s your Empress. Sitting in her glory.”
She laughed hard.
The children laughed with her, to be friendly.
Touching her head once more, she said, “The monster inside my head. It’s pushing at the best nerves.”
They stopped.
“A talent for comedy,” she said, her laugh growing dark and slow. “That’s what the gods give you, if they want to be kind, right before you die.”
THE WINTER WRAITH
Jeffrey Ford
JEFFREY FORD (www.well-builtcity.com) is the Nebula, World Fantasy, and Shirley Jackson Award winning author of the novels The Shadow Year, The Physiognomy, The Girl in the Glass and The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque. His story collections are The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant, The Empire of Ice Cream, The Drowned Life, and Crackpot Palace. His new collection, A Natural History of Hell, will be released by Small Beer Press in July of 2016.