7th Son, page 18
“Rochelle, listen, I’m sorry,” Dr. Mike said, wincing. Are those my balls I feel, kissing the base of my throat? Oh, yes, indeed. “But something—”
“Something? Oh, merciful Lord!”
“That’s ri—”
“Something made you screw over your publicist, screw over your book, and screw over CNN!” she bellowed. “Something? Something? What could this ‘something’ have possibly been?”
Click-click went her Bic. Click-click went Dr. Mike’s mind.
“Someone, ah, escorted me out of the building. Just before I was supposed to go to makeup.”
“Someone?” But it sounded more like sumwum; one side of her mouth was still clamped down on that cigarette. “Who?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you. And if I could, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“I already don’t believe you. Who?”
“Some of my biggest fans, apparently. I can’t say any more about it.”
“The fuck you can’t!” Rochelle roared, her rage hissing down the line. Mike elected to change tactics, go suave.
“Listen, Rochelle, you know me. Dependable. Ambitious. Manic, sure, but smart. Smart enough to know that you don’t walk out of CNN’s L.A. studios without a damned good reason. I know how important this was to you. But I think you know just how important this was to me. I wouldn’t leave that building unless I had to. That’s all I can say.”
She was silent for a moment. Mike could hear the mmmp of Rochelle taking a drag.
“Shit. You’re up to your eyeballs in it, aren’t you?”
“Of course not,” Mike said, faking a laugh. “Oh, nothing that preposterous. I’m in the hands of capable people. Very good at what they do. Very interested in me, and my work.”
Silence.
“I was calling to tell you that I’m okay. That I’m okay, and that I’m sorry something came up last night. You’re the bee’s knees, Rochelle. I can’t tell you how much I wanted to do the show. Are you getting an idea of why I couldn’t make it?”
“A vague one.”
“Listen, just get on the phone and tell my buddies at the department that I’m just fine. A lot of them knew I was going to be on last night, you know . . . they’ll probably want to know why I was a no-show.”
“Yes.” You’d have thought she had swallowed a handful of Valium, by the sound of her voice. “Is there anyone in particular you want me to call?”
Oh, that’s the question, isn’t it? Now’s the time to drop a hint about where you are, Mike . . . and that you’re going to be cruising into town tonight. Or now’s the time to do what you’ve been told and keep your mouth shut.
He heard Rochelle exhale a lungful of smoke. She was waiting.
What’s it going to be?
“Mike? You still there?”
Ride the wave. Stop trying to steer and ride the wave. See where it takes you.
“Forget it,” Dr. Mike said.
“You sure?”
Dr. Mike closed his eyes and shook his head. “Listen, Rochelle. I have to go now. I know what you did to get that interview. I’m really sorry, old girl.”
“I believe you.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll say a prayer, Mike.”
“I’m an atheist, Rochelle.”
“All the more reason,” she said, and hung up.
Kilroy2.0 sat at his desk, the telephone cord curled around his index finger. He looked up at the walls . . . into the walls . . . and waited for them to speak. The day had gone well, so far. The Conspiracy was deepening, as was his messianic role in it. The clones—the cogs, the Pedestrians—could do nothing without his assistance, it seemed. The vortex of digital information was something only Kilroy2.0 could tame.
All according to plan.
The walls had spoken the truth last night. He was the beginning and the end. The prophet. Kilroy2.0 closed his eyes and silently called to the ghosts in the walls.
The walls had many things to say, many instructions to deliver. To Kilroy, the conversation lasted hours. According to the glowing numerals on the desk clock, the conversation lasted three minutes.
Kilroy2.0 unraveled the cord from his finger and picked up the telephone receiver. He dialed the pager number from memory, pressed #, then four numbers: 4-3-5-7.
H-E-L-P.
He hung up and began to smile.
Patricia was calmer than Jay had thought she’d be—but then again, she had always been the stronger one in the marriage. He was the restless one, the worried one, the spouse who gloomed-and-doomed his way through tax forms, credit-card payments, and insurance policies. Jay had never considered just why he was the way he was—why he had such little faith in the juggernaut he called the system. The thing most everyone else called life. Often, he perceived the world in terms of equity and fairness; mostly, in how unequal and unfair the whole damned thing seemed to be. Jay suspected this cynicism had something to do with his human rights work: Go to enough developing nations and you’ll see what inequity is all about. You’ll breathe it in the air. You’ll taste it in the water.
However—in light of the revelations over the past day—Jay had found himself wondering more and more about his world-view. His newfound brothers had attitudes completely different from his own. These were the people he could’ve been, perhaps: warrior, artist, scientist, priest. These were the people he was not, for reasons that seemed to be beyond him.
It’s like those comic books I used to read in high school, he had thought earlier today, while watching the group solve John Alpha’s riddle. Those heroes were always traveling to parallel worlds, where life on Earth had evolved differently from our own . . . where history took a left instead of a right, and everything was different there. That’s what staring at my Bizarro brothers is like. Staring into the eyes of a Mirror Universe me, seeing the person I could’ve been. Or could be.
Maybe. If I weren’t so weak.
That’s why Patricia was the stronger one in the marriage. That’s why she was much calmer than he’d thought she’d be. And that’s why it was so good—so goddamned good—to hear her voice.
“I saw the chicken in the freezer,” she was saying. “I thought you’d been called in. You didn’t leave a message on the fridge.”
Jay could clearly visualize the dry-erase board on the refrigerator, the white field filled with hazy ghosts of messages they had written and erased over the years: Call Filipe—urgent . . . Don’t forget the chicken . . . Deposit freelance check . . . Order more b/w film . . . Meeting with Prada on Tues. Suddenly, Jay wanted to cry.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I didn’t have the time.”
No, I had a piece of duct tape over my mouth and a gun to my head. And when the mugger asks you for your wallet, you give it to him, and in the end isn’t that my problem?
“So, was it work?” Her voice was as soft and certain as the day they had met, all those years ago.
“Work? Yeah—but not the kind I’m used to. Government work, not UN-related. Listen to me, Patty. Listen to me well. You know I like to kid, but not this time. I’m in trouble. I think you may be, too.”
“What do you mean?” Still calm. A little hesitant, but calm.
Well, honey, I’m locked in a gulag with six men who all remember their first kiss at the freshman homecoming game with “Peppermint” Patty Ross of the pixie haircut and the purple scarf and I want to scream, baby, just scream, because that’s you that they remember kissing, that’s you in their memories. And I want to scream because it was never me who kissed you; another boy who called himself Johnny did that, a boy who’s grown up to be a very, very dangerous man. And the only thing that’s keeping me from unhinging is the fact that I was the only one of us lucky enough to find you again. By chance in Rockefeller Center, after all those years.
“I got a little information from the folks who I’m working with, baby,” Jay said. “Uh, they said my life was in danger. I can’t say more . . . but if I knew that if I was in danger, I figured you would be, too.”
Patricia was quiet. Then: “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not, Peppermint. I said I wasn’t.”
The pause must’ve lasted only a second, maybe two. To Jay, it was much longer. He wanted to say—to scream—so many things into the phone. But they were listening. They were waiting. They were everywhere . . . and had been everywhere, all these years. The UN analyst had been analyzed, for a decade and a half. And if they’d been watching all those years, who’s to say that Alpha hadn’t been watching, too?
“So what do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Catch a flight to your dad’s in Indy. Tonight.”
“I have a project that’s due, Jay,” she said, impatient. “I can’t just pick up and leave.”
“Pack the laptop.” Desperation was starting to seep into his voice, just as it was seeping into the sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose. Alpha could know where they lived. And if he knew she was alone . . .
“You’re freelance, baby. Edit the photos from the road. File from your pop’s house. Harper’s won’t know the difference.”
“They’ll call.”
“And they’ll call your cell.” He could imagine Alpha’s face now, a grinning parody of his own, opening the door to their East Village apartment, shrieking, Honey, I’m home, and grabbing Patricia in the kitchen, mashing her face against the dry-erase board on the refrigerator, its blue ink rubbing into her bruised face—
Jesus Christ. Keep it together. Oh, Jesus Christ.
“Patricia, please. Just do this.”
“Jay, what’s going on? Just where are you?”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He knew where my mother lived. Kidnapped her.
“Can’t tell you that.” The fear was becoming harder to contain. It was a school of piranha eating at his guts. “I want to, but I can’t. It’s a . . . it’s a security thing.”
“A security thing? You want me to leave, and you can’t tell me where you’re calling from?”
Another voice, a voice that sounded like his own, but not, not at all: I’m going to take her back, Jay. Take her back and break her face and break her pretty little green eyes and fuck her and HONEY I’M HOME
“Just do it!” Jay screamed. “Don’t trust anyone! Just get out! Get out before he finds you! Before Alpha—”
He heard Patricia start to ask a question . . .
. . . and the line went dead.
Jay screamed again, pounded his fist against the desk.
Goddamnit, Patty. Just go. Please go.
He had to stop that bastard. Even if it killed him.
Michael dialed his home number in Denver. Unless Gabe was at church—and since it was pushing noon mountain standard time, that was a possibility—he should be home to take the call. Michael hoped he was. He owed Gabe an explanation . . . after all, Michael was supposed to be en route to Denver right now. He had earned the break. He deserved it. They deserved it.
“Hello?” It was Gabriel’s voice, deep and dusty.
“Hey, you,” Michael said, smiling faintly. “It’s me.”
“Mike.” Michael could hear the smile through the phone. “Are you here already? You were supposed to call before the flight.”
Michael winced. If anyone had been watching him and Jack two rooms down as he spoke to his wife, they would have sworn their expressions were identical. Which, of course, they were.
“I’m sorry, Gabe. Something’s come up.”
Here it comes.
“What’s come up?” Gabriel’s voice was already cooling.
“Got nailed for TAD yesterday. It was the same old, same old. Pack your shit, head for the plane, report for duty, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“Damn it, Mike.” Michael could feel the hurt in Gabe’s voice. “I thought we had two weeks. Now how much do we have? One?”
“Probably none. This one’s big, Gabe. You know the rule; can’t tell you about it. But it’s big.”
Michael heard a sigh. “How many times has this happened? How many times have you’ve gotten orders like this? I couldn’t tell you because I’ve lost count.”
I’ve lost count, too. Too many. Far too many.
“I’m sorry, Gabe. I really am. It’s the job. I’m not a supermarket clerk who can pitch a fit when he gets called in—”
“Yeah, I know: ‘The world doesn’t revolve around my schedule, hoss, my schedule revolves around the world.’ ” Gabe’s impression of Michael’s voice was cruel, but uncanny. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that, too. You know, Michael, someday you’re going to come home from one of your little adventures, and I’m not going to be here.”
“I said I was sorry.” Gabe was right. They knew this conversation by rote. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say you’ll come home today. I’m tired of living on the back burner, Michael. I’m tired of feeling like we’re dancing on thin ice. No. I know exactly what you should say. Say you and me can live like normal people, and not like fair-weather lovers who hook up whenever it’s convenient.”
“You know that’s not how I feel.”
Gabe, bitterly: “Then prove it.”
Michael paused, searching for the words. “I’ll prove it when I come home. It’ll be soon, I hope. It’s just this thing I’m doing right now, it’s more important than I can ever say. Think big picture, Gabriel. Think as big as it gets. My country needs me for something that’s as big as it gets. I can’t say no. And even if could”—Michael’s mind flashed to the rest of the clones, who’d been brought here at gunpoint—“I don’t think it would matter. I’m locked in, Gabe. I’m sorry, but I can’t say anything else about it. And I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.”
He heard Gabriel sigh. “I’m tired of losing count, Mike.”
“You don’t understand, Gabe.”
“I’ll never understand.”
“I love you.”
Another sigh. “I love you, too,” Gabe said. “So when, then?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It might not happen. Like I said, this is as big as it gets.”
Silence. Then: “Don’t you bullshit me.”
Michael shook his head. “I never bullshit, Gabe. You know that.”
Another silence. Finally: “It doesn’t seem real.”
Michael lowered his eyes to the floor. He envisioned the rooms more than quarter mile down, the rooms with the metal beasts that had birthed him. The scientists here had made the unreal real.
“Tell me about it,” Michael said. “But it’s as real as it gets.”
“So what do we do?”
Michael shrugged. “We say we love each other more than the world. We say it like it’s the last time we’ll say it. We pray that we’ll say it again, next time face-to-face.”
“Amen to that.”
“And a fuckin’ A to boot.”
Somehow, that cracked them up. Their laughter took the edge off, and Michael was grateful for it.
“My boyfriend, the poet,” Gabriel said.
“My boyfriend, the critic.”
They smiled together in silence.
“I have to go,” Michael said. “So give me a message, Gabriel.”
“Go cast the dragon into the abyss like you always do. And be sure to find your way home.”
They laughed again and said they loved each other more than the world.
Which, of course, they did.
Father Thomas didn’t know what he’d say when the people on the other end picked up.
This particular fact didn’t seem to surprise him; Father Thomas had been, for the most part, at an utter loss for words since yesterday. The rules had changed. Heck, the rules had been tossed into the Cuisinart and frappéed. Hit escape velocity hours ago. Ground control to Major Tom and all that other happy horseshit.
Father Thomas whispered a prayer of forgiveness (he rarely swore, even to himself) . . . then clenched his teeth. Prayers were moot now, weren’t they? A praying clone. Wasn’t that like dialing 911 on a broken telephone?
Father Thomas chuckled grimly and jabbed the buttons.
Want to talk about the mystery of faith? Talk to a priest. About the existence of God? Ditto. That’s what we’re there for. Arbiters of dogma, Catechism, and goodwill. Your priest’s the shepherd. The guru in a Roman collar. The man who’s got a line to the Big Guy, Forever and Ever, Amen.
Adultery, addiction, cheating on your tax forms: now those are dilemmas, very human dilemmas, and there are moral and spiritual compasses for such matters. But to learn that you’re a walking abomination . . . that you weren’t born, but built . . . whom do you talk to about that?
Abomination. That’s how Thomas had been seeing himself for the past day. No more human than the plastic he was now pressing. Manufactured. Spawn of cellular wizardry. A thing whose past was a mirage. A thing who, as the dream Christ had uttered last night, had no Providence. No soul.
It wasn’t that Thomas had stopped believing in God. No. He had realized that God had stopped believing in him—and worse, had never believed in him. How could God believe in a thing He did not create? Thomas had not been conceived and born through holy Providence. Thomas had been spliced and grown in a bubble filled with growth accelerant. The life he lived afterward had been steered by liars.
Most damning: the life he remembered up to year fourteen was someone else’s. Even his soul had been manufactured. How could a thing God did not create have a soul?
The phone on the other end began to ring. Thomas closed his eyes. He was no shepherd. He wasn’t even a sheep. He was a breathing blasphemy, a bona fide nowhere man. A man with no soul doesn’t go to heaven when he dies, but he doesn’t go to hell, either. A man with no soul would not even be welcome in Limbo. No such place would accept a man who cannot fulfill the basic requirement for admission.
Such a man is . . . untethered, he thought.
The phone continued to ring. Thomas barely heard it.
