by Richard Lee
He smiled as the young priest jumped out of the cruiser.
Father Brian said, “This may not be your cup of tea.”
He watched them move towards the house as a group and wondered what Father Brian meant by “cup of tea.” Perhaps he studied the old language as well. A lot of people did. At that moment, he saw just how strong Samantha was.
She stepped up to the front door before the priests arrived. She spoke into a camera. The priests moved around the back of the house. What they were doing, Father Michael had no idea, so he watched Samantha.
Suddenly she stumbled backwards. Her feet looked ready to give way but somehow remained on the steps when three men flew out of the house. Two of the men grabbed her by the arms, forcing her off the bottom step, and the third slammed a fist into her stomach. She doubled over and just as quickly used the men holding her as a wall, leaning back and throwing a kick into the face of the third man, who dropped to his knees clutching his face.
Father Michael jumped out of the car.
Samantha drove her heel into the left shin of man holding her right arm. He released her. She swung around and slugged the other man in the face. Swung back, driving her elbow into the other man’s neck. Grabbed his head and twisted it.
Father Michael froze. Samantha swung back and drove an uppercut punch to the man’s nose. Her hand twisted just before the contact and two men dropped lifelessly to the ground. The man on his knees rose quickly to his feet. His face was covered in blood. He was wide-eyed, either from fear or anger, and one of those emotions helped him pull a laser hand gun from the back of his pants.
Without thinking, Father Michael sprinted towards Samantha.
The gun raised and leveled at her face. She was less than a foot from the gunman. She didn’t move.
Father Michael jumped, twisting his body sideways as he did.
He saw the red silent flash from the handgun. Felt and then heard the poof as the bolt of deadly red energy entered his left shoulder. He landed on the ground hard. Samantha leapt into the air towards the gunman...
The gun rose...
Samantha’s left leg bent at the knee...
The gunman fired...
She turned in mid flight...
The bolt of red death burned a hole as it passed through the hanging side of her shirt. It hit the side of the car with a loud crash and vanished.
Samantha spun even more as she kicked the side of the gunman’s head. She landed on her feet and spun around on her back leg. Driving a kick to his chest, she grabbed his shoulders and brought a knee to his groin. As the man dropped, she expertly grabbed his head, twisted it and dropped to the ground in a sitting position. The man’s neck snapped loudly in the quiet night.
Father Michael rolled onto his back, clutching his shoulder. The heat from the energy bolt was excruciating.
“You’ll live,” Samantha said. “What are you doing out of the cruiser?”
Father Michael’s voice was strained as he answered, “Helping a woman in distress.” He smiled, but Samantha did not.
She helped him to his feet. A moment later four of the five priests exited through the front door. They stepped over the three dead men. Father Small carried a paper bag.
“You were supposed to stay in the cruiser,” he said.
“He came to help a woman not in distress,” Samantha said.
The group moved to the cruiser.
Father Michael looked at the open front door, then back at the group. “Where’s Father John? Shouldn’t we wait for him?”
“No point in waiting for a dead man,” Father Small said over his shoulder. “Hurry up, we must leave now.”
That was the only investigation Father Michael went on. He continued the meetings, occasionally met the others on social gatherings, but there wasn’t mention in his presence of another outing. He assumed Samantha hadn’t found another “slave.”
Fifteen years had passed since that day, Father Michael thought as his hand turned each page in the book.
He had found out a few months later what Father Small carried in a paper bag from the investigation. Inside the paper bag was a smaller plastic bag. In the plastic bag was the heart of the “slave”. It was the only way to convince them to change their bad ways. It was murder, but Father Michael, like the rest of the Order, thought of it as a good murder, the same as some people who get a tattoo the old way, by needle, and claim the pain to be good pain.
A tattoo. It had been so long that he had almost forgotten about it. As a member of the Order each person had a small tattoo, given by Father Small, on his or her left hand. It was a circle with a B and S on top of each other in old Roman script.
Father Michael stopped turning the pages.
He stared a long time at the only color page in the book. It was a reprint of a photograph, a real photograph not a holographic one. It was of a dagger. It had a long blade and the hilt had an intricate crisscross pattern. The handle looked like bone wrapped in leather.
Father Michael closed his eyes. It was the same dagger he saw in his dream and he had no one to tell or to help him. All the members had died in the fire five years ago. All of them. He had been to the funeral.
“Not all of them,” he whispered. “Samantha wasn’t there.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Professor Dale Cotter rummaged through his office closet. It was stacked with papers and ROM files. There were small computer parts, long since obsolete, and many odds and ends he forgot he ever had. On a hanger were a matching suit jacket and pants and a long sleeved white business shirt. He rarely needed to make an appearance wearing such nice proper clothes, but just in case the need arose, the suit would always be available. In five years, he could not remember having ever worn it and doubted if it still fit him. He gave his stomach four quick taps and said softly, “You’ve grown, boy.”
His eyes found what he was looking for while his hands moved a large box of old magazines, all of them collectibles and worth more than five years’ credit. In the box was an assortment of SF, horror and detective magazines from back in the days when paper was used. There were a few romances in there as well, although he had never read them.
Putting the box outside of the closet, he pulled out a briefcase. It was larger than the one he used now, as he carried student’s reports home on a CD-ROM. Each report equaled one ROM. He didn’t want to get reports mixed up. Now he did everything via email, it was so much easier and convenient; he could mark reports anywhere at anytime.
Removing his handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped off a thick layer of dust from the briefcase. That done, he opened the case to find several CD-ROMs remained inside. He pulled them out and before throwing them into the recycle generator, he checked the names printed on the cover case. He found he could only remember a few of the students. Seeing the last disk caused his hand to lose grip and the other CDs fell to the floor. In his hand he held only one student’s disk; that of his dear departed wife.
He felt his heart drop as he read her name. The memory of the report came back as clear as an email.
No, don’t think about it, he told himself, these memories are useless.
Quickly he gathered up the dropped CD-ROMs and carried them to the recycle generator. He pushed up the door lid and slid the CDs inside, closed the lid and pressed the START button. He heard a whirling noise and knew they were gone, back to the university’s processing shop to be wiped clean and reformatted.
Using his handkerchief, he cleaned the inside as best he could. He collected the laptop computer but not the digital video player. That could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he needed to read, and if possible finish, Peter’s journal.
He decided to take the public transport home. It had been many years since he last rode the monorail. It was dangerous, but it was also the only option. He couldn’t risk damaging the computer in a teleport and didn’t own a cruiser, plus it was cheaper than using the teleporter. The cost was only one-hundred and thirty-seven credits compa
red to two-hundred and ninety-three.
After wrapping the computer in an air-supported bag, he gently placed it in his briefcase.
He closed the door to the office behind him, and for the first time, he locked it with a password.
Walking along the hall, he felt suspicious, as if he had done something terribly wrong. He felt all the students’ eyes watching him closely. He knew it was only nerves, but the feeling was there none the less.
Students littered the hallway. Some were standing at their lockers, some were in small groups chatting with one another, but most were connected to the web, either checking email or surfing. Nearly every student had his or her visor down. There was a group of nine students near the door without visors. He knew these students. Their parents were very well-to-do and had donated wonderfully to the university’s outlook program. These students didn’t wear visors; there was no need to. They had the latest in Body-Net Connection. A small net visor was implanted in their optical sensors. They were always connected. He sometimes wondered how they switched from Net vision to standard vision.
The monorail was a short walk from the university. Most students used it when their credits were low at the end of the month.
The short walk tired the professor. Instead of using the elevator, he took the stairs. He knew he needed to get in shape, but like most things not so important, he had put it off till another day.
Perhaps today is the day I start, he thought as he climbed the steep stairs.
The wall was covered in graffiti. Most of it was written in Spanish, the universally accepted second language of the world. He held on to the rail as he climbed, rethinking his plan of using the stairs. Sweat pimpled his forehead and having reached the third level, he decided to use the elevator. Enough was enough.
The elevator was a sweet and smooth ride and it was also very quick. The professor had barely finished wiping away his sweat when the doors opened to a ticket gate.
He pressed his thumb to the screen and the blockage at the end of the gate cleared. He walked through just as a train slid into the station.
He hurried onto the platform and into the train as the doors slid shut. The carriage was packed. People were squashed on the seats and others were cramped holding onto the safety straps overhead. Above the racks, electronic billboards flashed adverts. One screen showed United President Williamson standing at a podium. The words “IMPENDING WAR” flashed at the bottom of the screen. This was replaced moments later with: “Williamson refuses to back down.”
The professor pushed his way to the door connected to the next carriage. No one complained as he shoved past and opened the door.
This carriage was almost empty and he could see why. There were a few bums sleeping on the seats, some sitting upright, some lying. And at the end of the carriage stood a group of angry young men, all wearing the same style jacket.
Paying them no heed, he took a seat near the connecting door. His trip was short but he needed the seat. Should never have taken the stairs, he thought.
The train came to a stop and another group of angry young men and women entered. Their clothes were different than the other group. Instead of having a fancy name printed on the back of their jackets, they had a dagger dripping blood.
A young girl, no more than sixteen, sat opposite him. Her shirt was cut off below the breasts. She smiled at him and opened her legs, giving a full view of flesh and hair.
Embarrassed, Professor Dale Cotter looked down at his feet.
Someone laughed. A young man said, “Ha, even the oldie don’t want that used piece of meat.”
Others in the group laughed.
The professor stole a glance up. The girl opposite him smirked in his direction and flipped the bird. She crossed her legs and said to the young man, “Ain’t no one want to go where you been.”
The outside city view flashed past the windows. The darkening sky, dirty old buildings, factories and apartments.
“What’s in the bag, old man?”
The professor looked up into the eyes of a man with studs in his neck and cheeks. A scar ran down the side of his face from his left eye to the bottom of his jaw.
“Well?” the man said. “How about I just take a look?”
“There’s nothing of value in there,” the professor blurted.
“Sounds like there is.”
The girl opposite the professor said, “Let ’im have it, Skid, baby.”
Someone tapped Skid on the shoulder. Skid turned. The group from the back of the train was slowly moving forward. The girl stood up. From the back of her skirt she pulled out a knife. The two groups moved closer to each other.
The train stopped at a station and Professor Dale quickly exited. As the doors slid shut and the train pulled away, he saw the two groups charge each other.
Professor Dale waited thirty minutes for the next train. He checked all carriages as they passed and chose the fullest one. He had learnt from his previous experience and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. Trains were dangerous.
He decided that tomorrow he would leave the computer at home and take the chance of teleporting with the digital video recorder. He did not wish to experience such worry again. Worry? The professor thought about that word. It wasn’t worry that made him run from the train, it was plain fear. He was scared and not afraid to admit it to himself either.
This train ride was nicer, although he had to stand for five stations before a seat came available, and even then, he opted not to take it. The train was only two stops away from his station.
It was almost dark by the time he made it home. He set the briefcase down in the living room and went to the kitchen.
“Coffee, hot and black,” he said. A small circle panel opened in the counter and a hot cup of coffee rose from the hole. He picked it up, took a sip and headed back to the living room. He wasn’t hungry. He was excited to continue reading Peter’s journal.
Placing his cup a safe distance from where he planned to use the computer, he opened his briefcase and removed it from its airbag. He tried to plug the power cord into the back of the machine. When he suddenly remembered...
Oh no.
He searched the briefcase for the splitter, but it wasn’t there. He checked the side pockets, knowing he hadn’t put it in there. He dropped to a sitting position on the floor and leaned back against the sofa. He stared at the laptop on his coffee table in front of the wall television with dumb amusement. He took a great personal risk to get it here only to leave the bloody splitter in his desk drawer at the office.
I have to go back and get it. At least I can use the transporter this time.
In frustration, he took off his jacket and threw it onto the sofa.
Drink your coffee and calm down, he told himself. There’s plenty of time to go back and get the splitter, and while you’re at it, bring back the digital video camera.
The professor nodded. Yes, that was the best thing to do. He remained leaning against the sofa, picked up his coffee and slowly sipped the contents.
But the machine seemed to call to him. It said, Hurry up, I have something for you to read. Come on, don’t you want to know Peter’s secrets? Don’t you want to find the answers you’ve been searching for all these years? Don’t you want to know why Peter killed her?
“Oh, yes. I want to know,” the professor answered out loud. “I want to know everything about that sick bastard.”
He took the half-full coffee cup to the kitchen counter and said, “Clean.” In an instant the cup was gone from sight.
He opened the front door to his house, intending to head to the public transporter, when he realized he needed his retina eye card. He cursed and went back to the living room to get his jacket. The card was in the top pocket. Scooping up his jacket he noticed something fall to the floor.
At first he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t remember placing it in his jacket. He didn’t, did he? The professor couldn’t remember one way or another. So much had happened t
oday. Yet, there it was resting on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa.
The splitter.
Dropping his coat, the professor picked it up and inserted the small circular connector into the back of the laptop. He fed an extension cord from the wall’s main frame and inserted the second jack into the television line unit and used that to draw to the power.
He pressed the power on button and the computer beeped into life.
The professor sighed loudly and followed that with a large smile.
“Time to enter the thoughts of a mad man,” he said softly as the operating system loaded.
Journal Entry 1-2
Well, this is my second entry in this here journal. Man, it’s great to be rich. Do you know the opportunities available to a rich man? Hell, I just discovered them.
My antique shop has just merged with Hans Gurber, to become part of Riley and Hans. He kept his end of the bargain, which is great. He was surprised at my stroke of luck, winning first division three times in a row. I wasn’t. HA. Hans asked me why I still wanted to work and the only answer I could think of was, “I haven’t got anything else to do with my time.” He seemed satisfied with that answer. He told me that he would move to some small sunny island and have half-naked island girls bring him drinks for the rest of his days. I said I wanted more. And I do. What exactly is it that I want? At this point I’m not sure. And I doubt if I’ll ever know.
You remember at school, and you’re like six or seven years old and they ask you what you want to be when you grow up? Most kids say policeman or fireman or nurse, you know, some shit like that. I remember saying, “I want to be somebody.”
Naturally the teacher asked whom that somebody was, and I said me. She tried to get me to name something, saying I had to make an answer like the rest of the class. But I refused to say policeman, or fireman, or anything else. I just wanted to be me.
At recess, my classmates made a circle and started chanting, “I want to be me. I want to be me. I want to be me.” The fuckers linked hands and skipped around.
I just stood there watching them, learning hate and feeling like shit.
