Eden & Echo - A Gritty Cyberpunk Noir Thriller

I have a recurring dream where I find myself standing beside an alpine lake high in the mountains. There are wooden houses scattered around it with their back porches facing the water. Usually I'm alone and I wander through the empty buildings until I wake up.

There was the familiar turpentine scent of pine in the crisp air. But there was also a new scent on the breeze. Someone was smoking a cigar. I looked over to see a slender Döbian wearing an ill fitting white sweater waving to me from one of the porches. In his hand was a long thin cigar with a curl of smoke coming off it.

"Welcome back Eden!" Gershwin called out, a wide smile on his face. "I hear you have been asking questions about me."

I approached the smiling mass murderer waving to me from his back porch. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. But what was he doing in my dreams?

"Speak of the devil…." I said in Döbian as I looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs that led up onto the porch.

"And I may appear!" Gershwin replied with an enthusiastic laugh as he peered down at me. "Yes! That is exactly what happened. You called and now here we are."

"I didn't call for you." I said as I walked up the stairs. "I would never call for you, not even in a dream."

He reclaimed his seat in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and waved for me to join him. "Come come. It is a wonderful day and I am a horrible monster. Won't you share it with me?"

I leaned against the weathered wooden railing. "What do you want, you old liar?" I asked.

"I only wanted to be helpful and answer your questions. You seem so confused, so lost." He said sympathetically. "It pains me to see a member of my family in such a state."

I felt my breath freeze in my lungs. I let it out slowly. "We aren't family."

"Aren't we?" He asked, his amber eyes burning into me. "I made Simon and gave him a name. Isn't that enough to make him my son? And are you not his daughter? You can't have it both ways, you know."

I gritted my teeth. "You died. You were executed for your crimes. This is all just a nightmare and soon I'll wake up."

Gershwin laughed and pointed to the hand painted wooden sign over the sliding glass patio door. "Welcome to our home!" It said in red letters on a green background.

"Are you so sure that you are asleep?" He asked. "What makes you think this is a dream?"

"It has to be." I replied, trying to convince myself. "You've been dead for decades."

"Ah, but is it not said that as long as your name is spoken you never truly die? Doesn't one of your precious human authors have something to say about that?" He asked evilly.

"Don't you dare compare yourself to him." I growled, feeling anger flare up inside me. "Don't you fucking dare."

"Oh. Did I strike a nerve? There are so many in the human body." He took a puff from his cigar and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth.

"Did you know he used to get letters from terminally ill patients?" Gershwin asked. "They hoped when Death came for them it would be like the one he had written. He used to just stare at the wall for a while after he got one of those. I too used to wonder what it would be like if Death was a someone, instead of a something."

The way he said that last part made my eyes narrow. "What do you mean 'used to wonder'. What did you do? What were you really up to in those camps?"

"Clever girl. My son said you were special. Not Simon, the other one." He clarified. "I haven't talked with Simon since the war. When you see him next be sure to pass along my love. Tell him I wish we could share warm linzer cookies and swap stories again. Tell him I am proud of my sharp little rasierhund."

I ignored the distraction. He was only bringing up Simon to throw me off. "Kerner Braverhund died in a training accident decades before I was born. How could he know anything about me?"

"Oh. He died long before that." Gershwin said dismissively. "Kerner is always dying. You could say he has gotten very good at it. Practice makes perfect, you know. The first time was actually here in this house when he was a child."

"Did you kill him?" I asked.

"No, that sin falls on another. I have enough crimes of my own without having to steal from my neighbors. It was an accident, if you must know."

He let out a low rueful chuckle. "But it is funny how an accident in a lake house in the middle of nowhere can start a chain of events that changes the world. If a butterfly beating its wings can cause a hurricane, imagine what damage a child's heart can do when it stops."

"You never answered my question. What were you really up to in the camps?" I pressed. These personal details were all distractions.

"After my children died I decided that I was dissatisfied with death. It was cold, impersonal, wasteful. So I decided to take things into my own hands."

The wind picked up, driving a chill through me. "Go on." I said.

"I thought to myself, what is life when you get right down to it? What does it mean to be alive? All something needs to be alive is a body, powered by a motive force, with memories and beliefs to guide it."

"I think you're missing a soul." I said.

"Am I?" He patted down the front of his pants as if he were looking for his keys or wallet. "Oh well. I guess I will have to make due without. But to make a counterpoint, I have taken apart countless beings and found many things inside of them but not once did I see any sign of a soul."

"You need a soul to be alive." I said firmly.

"Well perhaps you are right. But you would be surprised how many people seem to get along just fine without them. Those two police officers, for example. Who is to say that they have souls? And if they do, what good is it doing them?"

"My grandfather said that the soul is what is left when body and mind are gone. It is essence. An intangible energy that cannot be destroyed, only temporarily tarnished." I quoted from the notebook full of sermons he had left me.

Gershwin’s face soured. "Well, he may have a point there. I'm happy to see that the time we spent reading our holy books at the dinner table was not completely wasted."

The penny finally dropped. The way they both spoke, that low chuckle. It was like hearing an echo of my grandfather whenever Gershwin talked.

"Oh." Gershwin said. "I know that look. You've finally stopped lying to yourself and you don't like what you see." He sat back in his chair. "I'm honestly surprised it took you this long. It was fairly obvious that he's my son."

"How is that possible?" I asked. "Your son died during the war."

"Oh yes, but he got better." Gershwin smiled. The wind was picking up and waves were starting to form on the surface of the lake.

"There is a storm coming and I have things to take care of. It was nice of you to visit me here, Eden Braverhund-King of the humans, but now it is time for you to go."

Suddenly, everything went black.