Jon Grimwood - Stamping Butterflies

"Look this way..."

"Over here!"

"Hey, Jake..."

Prisoner Zero could hear the demands of the press over the beat of his own heart and he could taste nightfall in the air and smell dog shit, diesel, a distant fire and the stink of sweat that rose from his body. A scrawled echo of the only day that had really mattered in his life.

All the things he'd hoped to develop from Jake's notes remained unfinished. He didn't understand the shape of time, not really . All he had was a matrix of multi-dimensional intimations filtered through a three-dimensional brain, a flicker book masquerading as film.

He was no closer to finding the missing name of God.

"The missing name of what?"

The question came from a man standing in front of him. Gene Newman, President of the United States, the man who refused to sign a space accord with Beijing and the person Prisoner Zero had been instructed to kill.

"You have to take America into deep space," Prisoner Zero said. "You can't let China go it alone."

"That's what this is all about?"

"I think so."

"But you don't know?"

Prisoner Zero shook his head.

"I can't sign the accord," said the President. "Not the way things are in China at the moment. You know how many people Beijing has in prison camps?" He was on firmer ground here. Gene Newman was always on firm ground when it came to statistics.

The man looked at him.

Gene Newman sighed. "That's different," he said.

Around them people were looking anxious. Well, Colonel Borgenicht, the First Lady and Petra Mayer were looking anxious and they counted as people.

Cameras were flashing, voices shouting. But all the President's attention was on one emaciated figure in front of him. Prisoner Zero didn't look a threat to anyone. He looked like someone trapped in a life where genius was not enough.

"You can change history," said Prisoner Zero. As he moved closer to the President than he was meant to get Colonel Borgenicht began to glance between his Commander in Chief and the bell tower.

The Colonel was anxiety made flesh.

"We should put that man out of his misery," said the President. "We'll talk about the other stuff later. Let's do the shake." He spoke as if Prisoner Zero regularly did camera calls. As if the world's gaze came naturally to them both.

"You okay?" he added, watching Prisoner Zero sway. The last thing President Newman needed was for the man to collapse in front of the cameras. He could see the papers now. TORTURED PRISONER COLLAPSES AT FEET OF PRESIDENT. That would be one of the politer headlines.

"Sure," said Prisoner Zero.

"Then let's get this over with."

The President reached for a shake, cameras whirring, before Prisoner Zero even had time to take the hand offered. "We faked your signature," said the President, trapping Prisoner Zero's hand between both of his. "And backdated the appeal. Petra has explained that to you, hasn't she?"

"You...?"

"Look into the lenses," President Newman told Prisoner Zero, "shake my hand and smile." And the prisoner did just that. He shook the offered hand, turned to the press and gazed into a bank of cameras, overtaken by a firestorm of flash.

Mulberry bushes, a stream almost wide enough to be called a river and, over it, a tiny bridge formed from a perfect quarter circle, painted red, green and gold.

A boy running.

Prisoner Zero wasn't too sure where that was happening until he heard Colonel Borgenicht's voice bark in his ear. The order was for everyone, President Newman was to be protected.

The boy slid to a halt in front of the President, dropping to one knee and pointing his Leica at the man. He had a badge around his neck which read "Presse" and his grin was wide, his eyes dark. He reminded Prisoner Zero of someone and Prisoner Zero was still wondering if that someone was him when Gene Newman held up his hand.

"It's okay," he said, to no one in particular. "Give the kid some room... Where are you from?"

The boy thought about it. "Xingjian," he said.

Gene Newman laughed. "I meant which paper?"

"El View."

"Not one I know." He shrugged. "Sorry."

The boy looked about twelve. No, the President caught himself. Eighteen, twenty... Half his own staff looked like children these days.

"You want us to shake again?"

The boy nodded.

"Okay," Gene said. He thrust out his hand to Prisoner Zero. "Let's give the kid what he needs."

Light, such as Prisoner Zero had never seen.

A click of the camera, a flash and then somewhere very distant a grown man screamed; but the sound of Colonel Borgenicht's outrage was already fading and Prisoner Zero was not its cause anyway.

"You're too late."

The girl shuffled off a stolen cloak, discarding it onto the gravel behind her like a shadow. Her feet were bare and bleeding and she wore little more than the rags of a blue padded jacket and torn silk trousers. Around her narrow hips was a length of twine. It was through this that a child's sword was stuck.

"Too late for what?" she said. Pulling the blade from her makeshift belt, Tris crossed the elegant half-moon bridge in a handful of steps and halted a few paces from where Zaq sat on his rock.

A very elegant rock, carved from jade.

The Emperor was crying and when Tris took a closer look she saw that his face was screwed up like that of an anguished child. Scrolls littered the ground around his feet.

"Something wrong?" Tris said.

This was meant to be ironic. Tris was holding her blade and she could see in his eyes that the Emperor knew why she was there. All the same, he took her question seriously.

"He thought he was dreaming me," Zaq said. "He thought I was the darkness."

"Really?" said Tris. "And should I know what you're talking about?" Tris had less than no idea what the man's words signified.

"You came to stop me. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"I came to kill you," said Tris. "Stopping you isn't enough." She looked from the rock to her blade and then back again. "You need to stand up," she said.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" Tris said crossly.

Zaq shrugged, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't know."

"Because I can't kill you if you're sitting down."

"Is that in the rules?"

"Well," said Tris, somewhat reluctantly. "It's in mine."

"Then I'm going to stay right here," said Zaq. "I mean, what would you do?"

Tris frowned. "You can't sit there forever," she protested.

"Maybe," said Zaq. "Maybe not."

In Tris's opinion the Emperor wasn't giving her the attention she deserved. She had a firm idea of how this should go and the Chuang Tzu begging for his life, expressing disbelief or at the very least demanding her reasons came high on that list.

"You know," Zaq muttered after a while, "I probably could... I mean, I don't really eat and sleep scares me." He was ticking the points off on his fingers as he went. "My muscles retain their tone whether or not I exercise. I don't know if I can actually control my waste functions but it seems possible. After all, I can control everything else.

"You should try dangling your feet in the stream," he added, when Tris just stared at him. "It might help the blisters."

"What's with the butterflies?" Tris asked eventually. Once curiosity finally overcame her irritation, it seemed an obvious enough question.

Zaq looked up from his scroll. There was ink on his fingers and his brush had splayed at the bristles where he'd been pressing too hard. His ink stone was broken in three and he'd taken to grinding one of the broken ends directly into a saucer of water. Tris was sure that wasn't how it was meant to be done, but then what did she know?