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A Walk in
the Park

Anne Marie Talbott

Anne Marie Talbott lives in central Tennessee, has a master of arts in clinical psychology as well as an MBA; she also has an impish sense of humor, and several cats. I knew when I saw their pictures that this must be a writer. This story confirmed my intuition. It's her first professional sale, but not, I think, her last.

Many totalitarian movements of our century have used a "superman" ideology to inspire their followers. As a German joke used to go, the true Aryan superman would be as blond as Hitler, as tall as Goebbels, and as slim as Göring . . .

But past totalitarians didn't have genetic engineering. The Draka, eventually, do, and they literalize the metaphor of racial superiority. In doing so they lock themselves biologically into their self-chosen cultural role of predators-on-humans.

In Drakon, I imagined one of these engineered superbeings, designed to conquer and to personally dominate humans—through everything from strength to pheromones—loose in our world. Or at least something very like our timeline; one without an S.M. Stirling, who imagined the Draka.

Of course, once you've allowed travel from timeline to timeline, an interesting question arise: What if the travellers from the alternate history stumble across the reality of the writer who "sensed" them?

I amble along the riverwalk, binoculars ready for any bird that'll sit still long enough for me to get a bead on it. It's a bright, sunny day in early summer; the humidity hasn't reached mythical proportions yet, so it's not quite like being in a Tennessee Williams' play. There are various couples, the ever-present roller bladers, and some children bounding about. The familiar smell of the river—slightly fishy, but not bad; the scent of wildflowers threatens to overwhelm me. The daffodils and other late spring, early summer show-offs dance in the gentle breeze. It feels good: I'm wearing new shorts and a rugby shirt, and my favorite running shoes. I feel loose and relaxed; it's a feeling I enjoy thoroughly as I proceed down the park path.

As I walk past one viewing area, I notice people turning to look at a couple who are resting against the railing. I look, too, and am stunned by their beauty. It's hard edged, athletic, and somehow fierce looking. Both the man and the woman are something to look at, and I immediately understand why people are making an effort not to stare. I'm doing the same thing. A small group is milling nearby, uncertain of their destination, but wanting somehow to be near these unusual folks. I feel drawn to them myself and wonder why. That puts me on the defensive; old habits die hard . . .

Finding a good spot to perch, I climb up onto a large limestone boulder on the side of the path, about twenty-five yards from the couple and the small crowd. I scan the trees listlessly now for birds, when what I really want to do is point the glasses at the couple and stare. I manage a few looks across them, and notice that they seem amused at something. The man, tall, lithe and muscular in slacks and a cotton short sleeved black shirt, deeply tanned, with bright red hair, leans over to his female companion and whispers briefly. She laughs, a husky sound that carries across the distance easily. It makes me shiver.

I notice that she's as tall and muscular as he is, and has dark mahogany red hair. It's cut short on the sides and top but has a long braid in the back; she's wearing khaki shorts and a white shirt that shimmers like silk from this distance. The crowd of people, not really formed enough to be called that—more of a collection of people who have been captivated by the couple's indefinable presence—hangs around, quietly. Children who've been wildly running down the paved pathways are entranced, apparently, by the two people. The kids become quiet, meek; they yell less than they had been.

Interesting, I think. They look like people I've seen somewhere before, but I can't place them. Are they famous or something? They certainly have a charismatic effect on folks, that's for sure. And that's odd, too. I wonder how . . . The peeping of a family of cardinals distracts me; I find the nest and watch the parent birds interacting for a moment or two. With my peripheral vision, I notice that the crowd is suddenly thinning out. People're taking their children and walking away, rather rapidly. That jerks my attention back to the couple by the cedar railing. They're not lounging anymore; standing more erect, they watch the people leave with a glint, seemingly, in their eyes. Of what, I'm uncertain, until I hear the man speak.

"Glad to cleyah them out afta 'while, Gwen! Didn' realize they'd be so easy . . ." His accent is deep South, with a hint of something . . . maybe a Germanic overlay. I've never heard anything like it in my entire life. His voice itself is as beautiful as he is handsome. Maybe he's a singer or something, I wonder to myself. He's sure not from around here . . .  

"Yaz, they're quite . . . susceptible . . . to the pheromones, Dietrich," the woman answers, and leans back against the railing, chuckling. "Very susceptible, indeed. It can be amusing."

What? I say to myself. What in the— 

The woman's head swivels toward me, and she fixes me with a level, green-eyed stare. Hel-lo, I wonder, did I say that out loud? Who are these people? She grins, then, showing even white teeth in a deeply tanned face. I feel like an antelope being stared at by a lioness, and it doesn't feel good. I decide that perhaps it's time to look for birds elsewhere. Climbing quickly down from the boulder, I walk farther down the trail. From the crowded condition it was in, it's now eerily empty, which doesn't reassure me any. I feel—what do I feel? A sense of growing concern; a muted fear begins to grow in my chest. The pace I set is fairly rapid, but not a scurry or a jog. I look back, a quick glance over one shoulder, and see the couple is following me.

Oh, great, wonderful. The woman says something quietly to the man. They split, each taking a side of the walkway.

Where . . . where have I seen or heard of . . . no. The idea hits me like a cold rag in the face; am I really going nuts? I must be—they can't be what I think they are. What I think they are doesn't really exist.

A tiny, chill voice in the back of my mind asks, "Don't they, now?" Hell, I think, one too many term papers to grade for this professor. I must be ready for a sabbatical. Maybe they're not really following me. 

To prove this to myself, I take the next turn-off in the trail, up to the Civil War memorial. Surely they won't follow me here. They'll just go on down the trail, and jump in their car, and drive happily away . . . damn. They've turned in, too. Now what? 

My heart is beginning to race, and my palms are wet. Haven't felt like this since rappelling. Time seems to slow, become gelid, and things take on an unnatural brilliance and clarity. My stomach feels like a bucket of ice cubes has been dumped into it, and the chill spreads throughout my body. In a primal reaction to fear, my hair begins to bristle and stand up; I'm sure my heart is going to jump out of my rib cage at any moment. The binoculars seem to weigh more and more, and I wish I hadn't brought them. I hear a soft chuckle behind me, and a hand touches my shoulder. Startled, and really frightened now, I leap into the air a couple of feet, and turn. Or try to. The hand, hard as steel, holds me facing away from the person.

The logical, mild-mannered part of my brain is starting to become overwhelmed, and the more basic fight or flight reflexes are howling to take over. Come on, I say severely to myself, there's no such thing as Draka. God! They're just characters . . . not real. Get over it, and tell whoever's holding your shoulder to let the hell go! 

I open my mouth to say just that, and nothing comes out. I'm spun around faster than I could possibly move myself, and find myself facing the redheaded woman. I look up into her aquiline, tanned face, and can't read what's in her eyes.

"Did she jus' subvocalize what I think . . ." says the red-haired man, coming up to us.

"Yaz, she most certainly did. An' I wondah how she knows . . ."replies the woman, and then says something in a language I don't understand.

Subvocalize . . . how could they possibly have heard . . . they can't be . . . yammers the logical portion of my mind, to a growing rush of fear hysteria. Run, run, run, says the rest of my mind, and I try to pull away. I might as well have tried to pull my shoulder out of a hydraulic press for all the good it does me.

"Hey, now, come on, lady—let me go! Please!" I manage to stutter. Her leaf-green eyes return to me, and I feel a sensation like heat flitting across my face. I blush, then blanch, as her grip tightens slightly.

"No, little 'un, you're not goin' anywhere raight now. Not until I know how and why you think we are Draka. That's not what I'd call public knowledge . . ."

The man's taken position behind me, and I desperately want to be able to see both of them, know what they're doing. I try once again to twist out of the woman's steel grip, and she shakes me. Just once, but enough to snap my teeth together and lift my feet off the ground.

"Answer me, wench. How do you know about the Draka?"

The man asks something in the guttural, slurred speech they've been using to each other, gesturing at me, then the river. She shakes her head, no.

"Not unless we have to, Dietrich. It could be messy—too many ferals about," she answers.

Ferals? my mind gibbers.

With her other hand, she cups my chin, raising my face to meet her eyes. Level, I come up to the middle of her upper arm; now with my head held in an immobilizing grip, I'm forced to maintain eye contact with her.

"One last time, while I'm not annoyed, girl. How do you know about the Draka?" Her tone of voice is hardening, as is her grip. She's incredibly strong, and I'm reminded of the strength mental patients often display when going berserk.

Oh, shit, I wonder, what have I gotten myself into? 

"Ma'am, I . . . I . . . don't know—what do you mean—please, stop, that hurts. I don't know!" I burst out, fighting back the tears now, tears of fear and anger and pain.

"No one knows we're here, and you just randomly come up with the name Draka for us? I don't think so. Dietrich, let's take her to the car. This calls for further investigation, an' I don' want ferals comin' up on us while we do it."

She releases my chin, and looks over my head at the man. He says something in their language, a joke perhaps, and she laughs. The laugh itself is like a peal of a bronze bell; I could listen to that for days. But the fear and the weirdness of the situation overwhelm me, and all I can think about is getting away.

Once again, I try to break away from the grip holding me immobile, twisting and turning my shoulder to get loose. I plant my feet and yank backwards as hard as I can, and nothing happens. I'm not a waif; years of military and Tae Kwon Do training have left me fairly stocky and muscular. But trying to get away from this woman is obviously going to be difficult . . . if possible, even . . .

She snarls, slightly. The sound stops me dead in my tracks, and I look up at her, wide-eyed. I've never heard a human make a noise like that, not even in jest or while imitating a wild animal. Her wide eyes slash down into mine, and I can taste the harsh metallic taste of fear in my mouth. Still holding on to my shoulder with only one hand, she slowly lifts me off my feet.

"I can snap yoh neck and toss you in this river faster than shit, girl. Don't annoy me, if you want to survive. Understan'?" At the last word, she shakes me. I'm a couple of feet off the ground, and feel like a rag doll being shaken by an angry child. I nod, wordless.

At that, she drops me to the ground again. "Walk with us, an' don' try to do anythin' silly. Come on," she says, and I nod again.

Numbness is spreading though me; I feel trapped. Dietrich gives me a slight push, and the woman—he calls her Gwen, I remember—maintains her hold on my shoulder.

Dietrich takes the binoculars from my other hand, where they've hung, unnoticed, for the past few minutes. "Interestin'," he comments, looking first at them and then through them. "Archaic." His cool blue glance takes me in, and I feel an unaccustomed sense of being "sized up". Been a long time since someone stared that way at me.

Gwen chuckles, softly, and runs her free hand through my hair. Been a long time since someone did that, too, and a damn long time since my knees felt this weak. I stumble as I walk between them, and glance up at Gwen's face. She looks down, an appraising, evaluating look, and loosens her hand on my shoulder just a bit.

We walk down the trail, three abreast, until we reach the next turn-off for parking. Dietrich walks ahead of us, now, after briefly saying something to Gwen in their language.

"Hey, ma'am, really, I mean, I was just joking, I mean, you remind me of characters I read about, a long time ago . . . it was just science fiction. I . . . I don't know anything you need to know—please, just let me go. Okay?" I plead, as he walks away from us.

Gwen shakes her head no and propels me up the incline to the parking lot. I know if I don't get away soon, I won't be getting away at all. I steel myself, hating to hurt her, but the fear that's taken up residence in my gut won't let me just "do nothing." I'm a survivor, damn it, I say to myself, and launch myself at her.

It may have taken her by surprise, briefly—a nanosecond or so—but after that, the fight is rather one-sided. My front kicks, side kicks, and fists just don't hit much, and what they do hit feels like steel. I begin to scream, opening my mouth only to end up gasping silently for breath as her fist sinks deep into my midsection. Can't breathe, can't breathe blasts through my mind, and I crouch, fighting for air. She sees some people coming down the slope toward us, their eyes alive with concern.

"Don't worry, folks, it's all right; she's just having a seizure. I can take care of everything, and the car's right up here. Thanks, thanks . . ." she says, brightly, a woman obviously in charge of an unfortunate situation. Her accent, deep Southern, aristocratic sounding, is flawless now. She picks me up in her arms, which feel like steel cables wrapped around me, and I'm held, immobile, gasping for breath.

She easily carries me up the hill, and the car's waiting, Dietrich at a side door. I notice a man in the front, a driver, as she slides me into the back seat.

"Oh, thank you—everything will be fine, I think," says Dietrich, to a man who's come up to see what's wrong. Gwen climbs in beside me, pushing me against the car's side.

"Not a word, wench, if you value your life—silly girl," she whispers, and then, in the bright, in-charge voice assures the concerned man. "Just a mild seizure—she's had them all her life. She'll be just fine. We'll get her home and put her to bed for a bit, I think. Thank you for your concern."

Dietrich climbs in next to her, and the car moves smoothly through the normal Saturday traffic, heading for the interstate. I'm trapped. Oh, my God, I'm trapped . . .  

"May as well have some fun before we get to the House, eh, Dietrich?" Gwen murmurs, as she slides her hands down my chest, caressing, tugging off my rugby shirt . . .

He laughs, and says, "You can go first; I don't mind." Gwen's eyes seem to fill mine. My shorts rip like tissue paper under her hands. Oh my God! The last conscious thought running through my mind: Draka? They can't be! Draka? They're not re— 

 

 

 

 

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