Friday Flash Fiction 23

THE RED KING'S NURSERY
By Gareth L Powell

When the ship located him, the man was sitting in an elegant drawing room on the southern wing of the Winter Palace. The desk before him was littered with annotated maps and reports and he was methodically loading a crude but deadly-looking revolver. Sounds of fighting drifted up from the city below, muffled slightly by the blizzard.

The ship watched him for a moment through the snow piling against the balcony windows, then projected a remote unit into the room. The man looked up at it floating beneath the chandelier with no obvious surprise. The remote unit shook melting snowflakes from its triangular casing and settled slowly onto the broad mantelpiece.

“Good evening, Lawrence. How goes your little revolution?”

The man finished loading the revolver and pushed the barrel into the top of his fur-lined boot.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

An explosion near the palace gates shook the chandelier, jangling its glass beads. Shouts came from the courtyard as the guards took up defensive positions along the outer wall. Lawrence rose and walked toward the door.

“It’s nearly time,” the remote said from its perch.

“Not interested.” The man extracted a cutlass from the umbrella stand and ran an experimental thumb along the blade. He seemed satisfied with the sharpness and carefully pushed it through his belt. Machine gun fire clattered somewhere nearby.

“What do you mean you’re not interested?” The remote rose into the air. “It’s your turn.”

The lights dimmed as further explosions rattled the windows. Lawrence pulled an enormous and filthy greatcoat from the hat stand and slipped it around his shoulders. “I’m happy enough here,” he said.

The remote tilted toward him. “How can you be happy here?” it asked. “You’re hopelessly outnumbered, outgunned and surrounded.”

“I’ll do better next time.”

“Rubbish.”

A biplane clattered overhead in the darkness. The remote moved forward until it was only centimetres from the man’s face. “It’s your turn,” it said. “You have absolutely no hope of survival here. The game is over. It’s time to grow up.”

Without warning, bullets shattered the window, spraying flying splinters of glass and wood into the room. Lawrence crouched on one knee behind the table and drew his revolver.

“We should be going,” the remote said.

Outside, the snow stopped falling and the noise of the approaching battle faded. The grandfather clock by the fireplace stopped ticking.

Lawrence stood up. “Hey, I wasn’t finished.”

He threw his revolver onto the table, let his shoulders slump. “It’s not fair,” he said.

The remote settled onto the table.

“It’s time to go. The voyage is over. Your parents are waiting for you, in the hospital.”

Lawrence looked up. “My parents?”

“Yes, nice people. You’ll like them.”

The walls of the room were fading now, breaking apart pixel by pixel.

“Okay,” Lawrence said. “What happens now?”

“Just close your eyes and relax. Oh, and Lawrence?”

“Yes?”

“Happy Birthday.”