“I’m fine with whatever it’ll take to get this ball rolling.”
“I understand. I imagine it’s been frustrating.”
“I get it. I do. People want to know what jelly jammed up the gears. I just want to get on with my sentence, you know.”
“What a positive attitude, Mr. O’Toole.” She jots a note on the holopad. “At one point a police detective hosted you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“What was that experience like for you?”
“Scary.”
“Scary in what way?”
“First of all, I didn’t think us Life Mod felons were supposed to, you know, be cops. I thought there was a rule or somethin’. So, I thought maybe should call in sick, but there’s is also a rule about that. Either way I might be breakin’ a Life Mod rule. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t want to get in trouble.” I pause for effect. Goal 3. “I decided it was better to do the job. But then there was the job! I’m not that kind of felon. I do petty scams. I’m not muscle; I don’t do hold-ups. What if somethin’ went down? I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“You carried a weapon.”
“That was part of the problem! As I said, I’m a scammer. I don’t know nuthin’ about guns. The whole day was freaky. I just tried to keep my head down and do the job. I did solve a crime, though.”
“How did that feel?”
“Pretty good. I guess it helps to be a cop if you know how criminals think.” I chuckle. Time to slide in Davey. Goal 2. “I also started this other case. We thought it was a runaway. A fifteen-year-old boy. Kind of reminded me of me. His parents had passed.”
“An orphan like you were?”
“Yeah.”
“Empathy. Pride in a job well done. You’ve made some big strides. We’ll talk more about the boy in a minute. I know he comes up again. Let’s talk about the teacher. There’s a strict rule about minors—”
“I know! It was like the cop thing. What rule do I break? Either way I could get more time in Life Mod. Either way I’m screwed.” Another pause. Poor little ward stuck in Life Mod gone mad. Let’s give him a shorter sentence, shall we? “I made the same decision. Do the job. This time I made sure I was never alone with a minor. I figured it was the best solution. What else could I do?”
“Mr. O’Toole, I believe you behaved admirably in a difficult situation.”
“Pssht. I was just trying to hang in there until Life Mod figured out what was happenin’. I’m sure someone else would’ve handled it better.”
“I am not sure there was a better or a right way in this scenario. It has never happened before.” She glances back at her holopad. “Did you enjoy teaching?”
“I ain’t gonna lie, sometimes those little twerps make you wanna snatch em up by their ears. I didn’t though. But other times when they paid attention and got it, that was cool, like, hey, they’re excited ’cause of somethin’ I said.”
“Excellent. I believe we might be able to point you to some satisfying work when your sentence is complete. Not education, mind you, but something,” She sets down the pad and focuses her eyes on mine again. “Now the boy.”
“David.”
“Right. David. According to your story and our data, he’d suffered some serious injury.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry you had to undergo such cruel and unusual punishment. You know that’s n—”
“I didn’t mind.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mind. I don’t get off on pain; don’t get me wrong. He didn’t have to feel it that day you know. Davey, he’s just a kid. He got a break for a little while. I didn’t mind.”
“This came up earlier in our conversation. You seem to have formed a connection with him.”
“Seemed like it was all about him,” I chuckle trying to play it light. I have to play it careful here. There’s a fine line between declared rehabilitated and diagnosed with Ripper Madness.
“In what way?”
“Everyone I hitched knew him somehow. The accountant on the first day helped him and the sis with taxes. It was his car that was stolen and ended me up at the cop shop where I heard David was missing in the first place.” Wait…I had to be in the cop shop… The Father wanted me in the cop shop…But I was there because the Ferrari was stolen…What if I had driven the Volvo? Would the whole plan have fallen apart? Or…did it matter what car I drove?
“Mr. O’Toole?”
“Oh, sorry. I was lost in the salt as the ol’ timers say on Galwa. Anyway, everything seemed to point to im, you know.”
“I understand. All of us from the board on down are searching for some meaning in all of this. You, especially, have been through a traumatic event.” I think she truly sympathizes, but at the same time her tone is dismissive. “You’d want to find a purpose in it. But you shouldn’t make connections that are not there.”
I can think of a connection I’d like to make with your face right now, but it would adversely affect Goals 2 and 3. “That sure makes a lot of sense. Things have been downright stressful. But still, I can help him. Do you think when they put me back in, it’s possible to aim me at Jacksonville, Florida in that same time?”
“Mr. O’Toole, I admire the leaps you have made in your treatment—empathy, connections with other people, pride in work. You have met my highest hopes for you. However, Life Modification Therapy was designed for criminal rehabilitation, not for trying to change the past. The rules and regulations are founded on copious research. Small everyday changes have little effect on future events. Like taking pebbles out of a stream doesn’t change the course of the water. But move some boulders, the stream is permanently affected. Life and Death are boulders. I did some research. He was never found.”
“But—”
“Even if we had the technology, finding him would be a boulder. We would have no idea what effect this life change would have on the course of current events. That’s why it’s just not possible. I think it’s wonderful you have such concern for him, though. That means you are benefitting from Life Modification Therapy. But one of the reasons we move candidates from country to country on a daily basis is to keep the changes to the time stream as pebble changes. The longer you are in an area, the greater the risk of boulder changes. I know it can all be very confusing. Perhaps you would benefit from more counseling before we reinsert you into the system,” she says almost to herself as she scrolls through the holopad.
Goals 2 and 3. Goals 2 and 3. Goals 2 and 3. “No ma’am. I can see what you’re sayin’. I guess I did get a little caught up ’cause he reminds me of me. But you’re right. I don’t know what helpin’ him would do to the time creek. Maybe it would dam up, and we’d have no fish.”
“I’m glad you understand. You can go back to your cell. I need to write up my recommendation, but I’m very positive about this interview. I’m going to request a sentence reduction. This experience has been very traumatic for you, and I hope the board of governors agrees with me.”
“I’d be happier than a galluden with a kwit if that happened!”
“I’ll be in touch with you soon, Mr. O’Toole.”
“Soon” in prison time equals about a day on Venus, which, for those who didn’t pass fifth-grade science, is 243 Earth days. So, more waiting. I’m pretty sure it counts as cruel and unusual punishment.
III
“You are one handsome devil, Smullian.” I wink at myself in the mirror. Ms. Anemic Heart got me a suit for my board meeting today. Three hundred years of fashion since the twenty-first, and some things don’t change. A suit is a suit is a suit. The jackets may get shorter, longer, wider, but they’re still jackets. This year designers produced narrow coats, without lapels, that fall below the hips, which compliment my wiry, athletic frame. The pants, equally slim, make me into one tall drink of water. The designers’ fabric pattern fails with some weird gray blocks on the shoulders. Geometrics dominate the scene this season. There’s not enough color to coax out the gre
en in my hazel eyes.
I wonder what Lydia would think if she saw me out in the world. Is this the kind of guy that turns her head? I may be in a suit, but I still have shaggy hair, an impish gleam in my eye, and a lopsided smile that says, “I’m trouble.”
“Who am I kidding? Every girl loves a bad boy cleaned up,” I say, shooting myself some Blue Steel in the mirror. Yarsk prison holds a beauty pageant every three years; the winning male and female inmates receive early release. Really, anyone with teeth has a fighting chance. I’d win hands down. But I digress.
“I don’t want release. I want back into the system. Ha! What inmate in his right mind has ever said that.” I chuckle. “Time to lose Smullian and find Aww Shucks Guy.”
With a shudder, I pull my hair into a ponytail. Ms. Anemic Heart thought it would make me look respectable; I’m pretty sure it makes me look neutered. I dismantle the perfect half-Windsor knot I had assembled and tie a sloppy four-in-hand, leaving the narrow end hanging lower than the wide end. I unbutton the jacket and loosen my tightly tucked-in shirt. A great grifter knows how to fit into any echelon of society; a bad one like Aww Shucks Guy has no idea how to dress like a gentleman.
Just as I finish, the guards show up. They slap a neutralizer at the base of my skull (handcuffs are so last century) and lead me to the board of governors. I’m not on trial. After three agonizing weeks and four days, I will finally know if I can see Lydia and David again. Today, they deliver the findings of their audit/investigation of the Life Modification System. While they’ve been cycling like hamsters in a wheel looking for answers to a scenario that doesn’t have a logical conclusion, I’ve been confined to my cell, thinking—a lot. Mostly about blue Gatorade.
As the guards march me toward the board of governors’ assembly, my mind flashes back to that stupid bottle, one-third full. When I came to in that forsaken pit, I clocked that blue liquid almost immediately. I drank from it on and off throughout the day. Valiantly, I rationed it and, for the most part, with success. But there were times when the need won, and I drained more than I planned. It could be the results of those hallucinations and the sickness talking, but I don’t think the level of Gatorade changed all day.
Beyond that, how could there be any left in the first place? Davey had been trapped down there three days before I hitched in. Three days of pain, infection, hunger, thirst, and Florida heat. “Sweat Lodge” describes that pit. How did a scared fifteen-year-old kid have the self-control not to drink it all? The only reason I didn’t was years of discipline honed by periodic starvation—first at home and then on the streets. I’ve done without my whole life. I’m used to a rumbly tumbly. Davey’s not. That kid has never missed a meal.
The gray man said, “I sustain him.” I’ve heard about Jesus multiplying the loaves and fishes. Pure hogwash, I’d said. But now…What about the blue Gatorade? Did the Father make that last? I wonder. The religion port better give me some answers.
We reach the assembly, an imposing room meant to look warm with wood accents on the massive furniture, but the decorators missed the mark. It all looks even more imposing. The guards push me into a seat next to my Life Modification treatment specialist. Behind a raised platform sit the nine members of the board, all human as Life Mod is an earthly justice system. I expected this to be a long, drawn-out brouhaha, but one look at their faces, er, the tops of their heads, tells me I am wrong. No one wants to make eye contact with me or each other. They studiously stare at the desk in front of them. I assume notes reside under their eyes but can’t be sure. They’re embarrassed.
“This won’t take long,” I mutter.
“What did you say, Mr. O’Toole?” asks Ms. Anemic Heart.
I fiddle with my tie. “I was just wondering how long this was going to be,” I whisper.
“It shouldn’t take long. Remember, you’ve done nothing wrong,” she reassures me.
“I feel silly in this monkey suit.” It never hurts to bring out Aww Shucks Guy.
“You look nice. Don’t worry.”
I’m not worried. The board members don’t know what went wrong. They want this buried, under wraps, finito. They want me out of their sight and back in the system. They want it over. This will be the shortest hearing in the history of government oversight.
What I assume is the chairman of the board, although too old and tubby to be confused with Frank Sinatra, calls my ward number. “SO51399, please stand.” I obey, scraping my chair on the floor with a loud screech for effect. The room is just too dang quiet and serious. I straighten my already smooth jacket. “SO51399, after thorough investigation, it is the conclusion of this board that you are without collusion in the malfunction of the Life Modification System. While you did violate Life Modification protocols during said time, said violations were deemed necessary for the protection of the Life Modification System. No penalty will be levied against inmate SO51399 for said transgressions. Furthermore, to mitigate any pain and suffering that might have resulted from said malfunction, inmate SO51399’s sentence of 1000 days of Life Modification will be reduced to 970 days, of which 780 days have been served. The remainder of SO51399’s sentence is 190 days to be served forthwith. SO51399, you are dismissed.”
With that, Ol’ Blue Eyes and the rest of the board stand and vamoose out of the room. I’d be willing to bet there are skid marks behind the podium. I was right about them wanting to get as far away from this as possible.
“Good news,” says Ms. Anemic Heart. “They reduced your sentence. I was hoping for forty-five days, but I won’t sneeze at thirty days.”
“What did he mean by ‘forthwith’? I’m just real eager to get in there and get it over. You know, get on with that new life me and you talked about.”
“I’m so glad to see the change in you, Mr. O’Toole,” she pulls out her holopad. “They’ll notify me the particulars, but my feeling is they’ll want to reinsert you in the next day or two.”
Finally, maybe I can get back to Davey and Lydia.
“And there’s no idea where I’ll be going?”
“No, although we all feel it will be best to place you as far from Florida as we can. You’ve been through a lot.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “We don’t want to make things any more difficult for you.”
There’s a reason I’m the best. I have to sell this with all I have. “I appreciate that. Don’t suppose you could put in a good word for Hawaii or one of them rich resorts?” I chuckle.
“Well, I can’t do that Mr. O’Toole, but is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Maybe I should, uh, run by that religion port before I get hooked back up.”
IV
So, the port is offline for upgrades. That fits right in with the way things have been going. I’ve been waiting, which is my least favorite thing, all this time to get the skinny on the Father and—nada. No answers for you, pal. Figure it out yourself. I wonder if that’s the way he wants it.
I think back to when I passed the neuro. Doc delivered the news himself, sitting by my bed again. “Congratulations. I feel much better about your prognosis. I don’t think there will be any lasting effects from the emergency reintegration or the system failure that made it necessary.”
I knocked on my own head. “I’m a pretty tough egg to scramble.”
“I believe that, Mr. O’Toole,” he said, getting up to leave. “I’ve also cleared you to visit the religion port any time you choose.”
“Thanks, doc. It’s my next stop.”
“Good.” He smiled, causing those jowls to wiggle. “I’m sure my friend looks forward to hearing from you.”
Only the port wasn’t my next stop. “Any candidate associated with or involved in an audit of or ongoing investigation into the proper functioning Life Modification Therapy systems and databases will be restricted from all outside communications until such time as the audit or investigation is complete.” In other words, no port for me until They were satisfied I hadn’t somehow jacked the system and enginee
red myself an all-expense paid trip to Jacksonville, Florida. If They had ever been to Jax, They wouldn’t be investigating me. It’s hot, muggy, flat, huge, and boring. Why would anyone want to go there?
I mean the only thing interesting in JaxVegas is, well, the people. I’d engineer all of this now. To help David, to see Lydia’s blue eyes again. Heck, to hang out with Chuckles one more time. But I wouldn’t have done it then. Not for a million dollars. Back then, all I wanted was to serve my time and get back to what I do best. What do I want now? I want to get back to that hot, muggy, flat, huge, boring purgatory. More than anything. And I think there’s only one person that can get me there.
“I have no idea how to do this,” I pray. “The chip in my head has a whole lot about Christianity. Some of it contradicts. I can’t even get to the port to get some straight answers. But here’s what I do know. You exist, Father to the Fatherless. You’re powerful enough to override a system as complex as Life Mod without leaving a trace. That’s impressive. Somehow you are here with me, but you are also with David. He’s three hundred years in the past. Plus, you’re walking the hospital corridor with younger me right now. Like time means nothing to you. It hurts my head to think about it. The Life Mod people aren’t interested in helping Davey—even if they could. He doesn’t matter to them, but I know he matters to you. As long as I’m shooting straight here, you’re one scary dude. I don’t know if you’re God or some guy so far in the future what you can do seems godlike. But all the people I’ve come to care about believe you’re the one and only God, so I’m going to roll with that for now. Can you please help David? When they put me back in, can you get me to him, please? I’m saying please here, and, if you know me like you say you do, you know I don’t beg. I’m begging though. Help us please.”
The lights wink out. Bedtime. I lay back on my bunk, exhausted. What now? I’ve rolled over and shown my belly to the dominant creature. My heart bangs against my rib cage as the seconds loom into eons while I wait to see if I will be eviscerated or if my trust will be rewarded. In the darkness, I hear, “This is God, whose dwelling is holy.”
Lost in the System Page 17
