by PJ Manney
“Whatever you do,” he said to Veronika, “don’t try to protect me. Just protect yourself, Ruth, and Talia.”
“Why?”
“Because this is a test. And I’m not sure if I’m supposed to pass or fail.”
Two red spots flared on the infrared display. Then a brightness suffused the image, originating from two windows and a chimney. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace.
Amanda was there. Maybe Peter Jr., too.
The pilot and Tom had a tense conversation with air traffic control at Dover AFB, but once the copter was on the ground in the north field, Dover’s tower seemed placated. For now.
The four trudged through the knee-high grasses and weeds toward the house. The helicopter would have tipped off anyone inside, but Tom knew that Amanda and Carter were waiting for them anyway.
Dickinson House did not feature the antebellum columns and Gone with the Wind grandeur of Carter’s construction in the Memory Palace. Built 121 years before the fictional Scarlett O’Hara swished down a curved staircase into a civil war, Dickinson House was a Northern-style, eighteenth-century federal redbrick house with two small additions. Its trim and shutters were painted a faded yellow, the door a peeling green. Old wooden sheds ringed the house.
The team crept up six back stairs and opened the back door. Inside was a foyer with a staircase and a few doors to adjoining rooms.
Next to the staircase, Veronika cried, “Oh!” and leapt back.
It was a mannequin of a black male slave or servant in eighteenth-century garb, posed to look like he was welcoming visitors.
“Shut. Up,” snarled Talia.
They proceeded toward the drawing room, where two figures’ shadows danced with flames. One was another mannequin: John Dickinson posed in his wig, dress coat, and breeches, standing to the side of his portrait above the fireplace mantel. The other was Amanda, tidying the kindling. She wore black slacks and a slim black top. She didn’t appear to be armed. For a moment, Tom was taken by her beauty. Then he remembered who and what she was.
“You’re smarter than I thought,” said Amanda.
“Maybe I know you,” said Tom.
“Maybe.” Staring up at the portrait of Dickinson, Amanda said, “You know Harriet Tubman came here, right? There’s no official record of it, but Dover was part of the Underground Railroad, and she wanted to honor Dickinson’s memory as a Founding Father and a slaveholder who freed his slaves. He tried to abolish slavery in his new state and in the US Constitution. Didn’t work. At least he tried.”
“Why the history lesson?” asked Tom.
“Because, my dear, even remarkable people do the strangest things. The purity we expect of our heroes is ridiculous. Here was a revolutionary who would not agree to revolt. A pacifist who led an army. A slaveowner who fought for abolition. Sometimes, you can exhibit contrary behaviors and still, eventually, do the right thing. We are large. We contain multitudes. We do terrible things and call it justice.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Whitman didn’t mean all this.”
“Oh, Pete,” said Amanda. “You underestimate us both. History is identity. And sometimes both are more complex than we would like.”
“And like all narcissistic psychopaths, you have a God complex. Am I Lucifer in your grand vision? Or Job?”
“We don’t know yet.” Amanda turned toward the door they had come through. “Peter? Where are you, sweetie?”
“Mama! Here!” The toddler’s little feet pattered against the wooden floor as he entered the room, holding a piece of paper and a crayon. “Look!” He handed her a picture. It was a house, a couple of swirly lines, and an attempt at a square.
“That’s lovely, Peter! Good job!” said Amanda. She scooped him up and kissed his forehead.
“It’s time,” said Amanda. She walked out of the living room with the boy on her hip. The team looked at one another in surprise, then followed her out the front door and into the yard. Dawn’s light was just appearing around the edges of the landscape, and the fire through the windows cast a tenuous light.
Nearby was a well, three feet high, three feet wide, with a two-foot mouth. The protective grating had been clipped open with wire cutters, leaving sharp, metal spikes around the edge of the hole.
Stopping next to it, Amanda lifted the child over the mouth. Her torso made a visible twitch, as though her mind had one thought and her body another. A single tear ran down from her right eye. The left eye remained clear and focused.
The group froze, stunned at the torn figure before them.
Tom knew that both Carter and Amanda were inside her body, and he struggled with speech. “I . . . thought you loved him?”
“Amanda loves him,” said Amanda. “You can see her pain. But he’s coming between you and me. It’s so much simpler if he’s not a part of the equation.”
Ruth mimed spitting three times. “A messa mashee af deer.” But how horrible the death she cursed Amanda with might be was anyone’s guess.
Tom took a small step toward Amanda. “I know what it’s like. To have part of someone inside you.”
A teardrop fell off the right side of Amanda’s chin. “No, you don’t. Not like this.”
“Carter’s tried a hostage before,” said Tom, slowly removing the laser pistol from his holster. “He knows how it ends.”
Amanda lifted the boy higher. “Do I? Do you? You’re armed. I’m not.”
Little Peter giggled, kicking his legs and waving his arms. “Up, Mama! Up!”
“Shoot!” said Veronika.
“Nein!” said Ruth. “She’ll drop the boy.”
Tom reholstered his weapon, held his hands up, and took a deep breath. Slowly he approached Amanda, stopping with a foot between them. Her body shook harder and harder, her hold on Peter even more precarious. Tom extended his hands and placed them on her cheeks. And then he kissed her.
Salty tears flowed from both her eyes, reaching their mouths.
He could feel the blow to Veronika without looking. He ignored it.
Edwin Rosero had never touched Amanda before, but her skin felt familiar. And yet not. Her smell was almost primal, reaching to a place he didn’t know existed. The taste of her mouth was a favorite flavor he had forgotten he craved. He could feel a tiny bit of her mind inside her, hanging on by threads, by instinct. The touch of her skin unleashed an onslaught of memories. His servers began running as fast as they had ever computed before. The entire life history of Amanda and Peter Bernhardt and Thomas Paine played both in fast-forward and in an overlapping mosaic of image, sound, taste, smell, touch, and movement.
Amanda and Carter were right. Their histories were their identities, and both changed when he least expected it. Her arms shook. The boy dropped by an inch. Then another.
Tom hoped she, too, was feeling their previous lives. Back at the PAC dinner when Josiah Brant had introduced Thomas Paine to the Phoenix Club for the first time, Amanda had held his hand and recognized her former husband at once, in spite of all his physical changes. But the moment he stepped away from this kiss, the spell would be broken for both of them. He needed to appeal to both her and Carter. Desperate, he held on.
Without breaking the kiss, he guided her arms away from the well. Then, with a quick movement, he grabbed the child.
“Don’t let her go!” he yelled to the team.
The women surrounded Amanda, who still appeared stunned.
For the first time, a human Tom held little Peter Jr. in his arms. The boy wiggled, uncomfortable with this man’s body. The flooding sensation of oxytocin-induced love and security was so dizzying, Tom’s knees folded. He sat down, hugging the boy closer. With more-than-human eyes sensing more-than-visual information, he could better understand the child’s similarities to Amanda and Peter Bernhardt. The boy’s vulnerability—big eyes; large head; soft skin; downy hair; and a small, unmuscular body—targeted all the instinctive nurturing impulses Rosero and Tom had. Rosero’s body didn’t need to share actual DNA with t
he child. Knowing that this was his kin, in need of his protection, was enough. Tom’s hormonal floodgates opened, and he didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or cheer.
He would protect this child forever.
Peter Jr., whose copper color was so close to his mother’s, had a smudge of dirt on his face. Licking his thumb to wipe it away, Tom saw that the child was otherwise clean and his clothing fresh. He looked hydrated and well fed. Whether as Winter or Amanda, Carter had taken his parental responsibility seriously. The boy was cared for. Or maybe all the incarnations of Tom and Carter felt the same urge to nurture the boy that Tom did? He hoped that given time with his son, he might come to understand. Someday.
Amanda said, “Charming, isn’t he?”
Ruth was right. Between Amanda and Carter, they knew each button to push. It felt like the greatest organist in the world was pulling all his stops.
Tom kissed the boy’s head and handed him to Talia, who took him, looking surprised.
“Why did you do this?” Ruth asked Amanda.
“Don’t understand yet, Ruthie?” Amanda asked.
Ruth crossed her twitching arms. “N-n-no. I do not.”
Amanda said, “You will.”
“Show me what you did to her,” said Tom.
“What could you mean, my dear?” said Amanda.
“Carter, show us what you did to Amanda,” he said.
“Sure you can handle it?” teased Amanda.
“You had to kill her to do it. Show us!” demanded Tom.
“I’m not dead yet!” yelled Amanda in Tom’s face. “And you know it!” Her body jerked and shimmied, its personalities wrestling for control.
“Amanda, if you can hear me,” said Tom, “Carter’s in control of your brain and your body. There’s not enough of you left to survive alone. I don’t care what he told you. He’s a sick liar.”
“No, you’re lying now,” said Amanda. Carter was back in the saddle. Tom doubted he’d let go of the reins again.
Carter sent them a link. Ruth and Talia stood transfixed on their GOs, Veronika on her MR glasses, and Tom on the images inside of his head. The recorded video showed Winter, standing next to a hospital bed in a small, nondescript, windowless bedroom with institutional furnishings. Propped against pillows lay Amanda, her hands tied to her sides. An IV drip needle was inserted in the vein of one forearm. A bag hung on a stand near the head of the bed. Winter opened the IV drip and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Please. Let me see Peter,” begged Amanda.
“Don’t make this harder for you,” said Winter. “Or for me.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
Winter closed her eyes and shook her head. “My dear, I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.” She opened her eyes again. “I love you.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Amanda yelled. “To me? To us?”
“You know why.” Tears formed in Amanda’s eyes. Winter placed her fingers on Amanda’s hand and stroked it. “Because it has to happen to change him. This is so much bigger than you or me. Or him. Or anyone. You know that.”
Amanda’s tears fell in earnest. “I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t.” Winter squeezed her hand. “I promise. We’ll be together in a way you can’t even imagine.” She stood and kissed Amanda’s forehead, then watched as Amanda’s eyes grew cloudy. Her eyelids sagged. Her mouth drooped.
She struggled to speak. “Don’t . . . leave . . . me.” Her eyes shut, and her breathing slowed.
“I never will.” Winter’s eyes watered for a few seconds, but she wiped them, and the moment passed. She rose and approached the camera. “And I won’t. And you could never promise her that.” Then she smiled and closed her eyes.
A surgical crash team burst into the room, unlocked the bed’s casters, and wheeled it away. When the door closed behind them, Winter’s eyes popped open. “Adiós, muchacho.” She winked, and the image cut to black.
Tom stood on his feet by the well, but in his mind, he was curled in a fetal position. He struggled to speak. “This . . . reincarnation . . . into others . . . has to stop!”
“It will never stop,” said Amanda. “Not as long as we can find a justification.”
“Did you copy anyone else? Josiah? Bruce?” How many Carters were there?
“God, you’re pedantic.” Amanda shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if I tell. You know already. Only Josiah’s any good. The rest are damaged toys, but they’ll have a use someday.” Her eyes narrowed angrily. “It was cruel of you to keep us conscious like that. No freedom, no autonomy. No lives. You, the great liberator!” She snickered. “At least I turned them off. For now.”
Amanda made a feint to run. Tom threw himself at her, and they fell hard to the ground. He didn’t care if a piece of his ex-wife was inside this monster. The creature was mostly Carter and all evil. He rolled on top of her and grabbed her shoulders, slamming them and her head on the ground. Amanda went limp below him, but the beating continued.
“Why?” Tom cried. “Why am I always asking you why?”
Amanda grimaced as her head rag-dolled back and forth. “You watched that . . . and you still don’t . . . get it? You still . . . don’t know . . . shit . . . I knew this would . . . get under your skin . . . sweetie. Bad.”
Tom dropped her as though his hands had burned. He sat back on his heels. “You’re torturing me?”
“No, my dear. You’re torturing yourself. I’m just information,” she said. “Amanda’s DNA. Carter’s brain patterns. We can copy it. Move it. Change it. This is all about your reaction to us. To events. You could have walked away. But you didn’t. So much for your pseudo nonattachment.”
Tom held his head in his hands. In each incarnation, he was starting from scratch. It felt like the molecules, hormones, and neurotransmitters in his brain were shifting in real time. “You’re changing me . . . ”
Blood from a gash on Amanda’s head throbbed out under her black hair. “We already did. You think you’re the same person who graduated Stanford with us? Who created Biogineers and Prometheus Industries? Who battled the Phoenix Club? Here I thought you were the Buddhist who couldn’t step into the same river twice.”
Her contempt felt more like Amanda’s just then. But did it matter anymore? Tom knew they were both right. In Buddhism, as in neuroscience, there was no constant self. And here, lying on the ground next to him, was the most tangible proof imaginable. Amanda, Carter, both and yet neither—and far less attached to themselves than he was.
“My family’s been saving America for four centuries,” Amanda said. “You’re not going to stop me now.”
“Whose America?” demanded Tom. “If Amanda can hear me in there, it certainly isn’t her family’s America. All those Native American, Latino, African American, and poor white immigrant ancestors were too busy surviving your people’s vision. Spare me your noble lineage.”
“But it is your America. It’s everyone’s. We will reunite this country. Or die trying.”
“The American experiment is over. We’ve driven over the cliff. Look around you. We’re not even a country anymore. It’s time to start something new again!”
“My dear,” said Amanda, shaking her head, “humans don’t understand analyses. Or history. They understand pain. And we’ve made sure you plunged them into agony. They understand a common enemy. And that’s you. It’s the only way humans have ever united. So they’ll join together to fight you with all they’ve got, to keep that little bit of their old life, even if it kills them. And we’ll lead that fight. Against Thomas Paine and everything you represent.”
“What the hell do I represent?” asked Tom.
Amanda smiled. “Doesn’t matter.”
“So ‘History is a set of lies agreed upon.’ It’s propaganda.”
“Bonaparte was a smart guy,” said Amanda. “But Winston Churchill’s better: ‘History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.’ He understood that his story could change if he willed i
t so. If only he had a blockchain, too, right?” She laughed.
“But history is the opposite of a blockchain,” said Tom. “Victors get to tell their stories. People get erased. Vilified. Beatified. Made martyrs. Villains. None of it is real.”
“And . . . ?” said Amanda.
“And what?” said Tom.
Amanda sighed. “Blockchains aren’t real, either. We proved it. With enough firepower and a large enough digital attack, they can be manipulated, just like history. The poor, sweet saps who invented them thought they couldn’t be corrupted. They were all idealists, and idealists make cool stuff, but they never accept how the world works because it affronts their personal beliefs. Just like you. Bless your little cotton socks.”
“So no one will remember what really happened?” said Tom.
Amanda’s bloody smile filled her face. “And now you get it!”
“But blockchains don’t matter, either,” said Tom. “Even if we record things, humans have short memories. Shorter-term goals. They don’t look back. Real history’s too complex. We forget our mistakes and repeat them. Every time.”
Amanda nodded in approval. “And that was the purpose of the Phoenix Club. To prevent our nation’s amnesia. To save us from ourselves. But we’re all human. We had the same fears and greed and desires as anyone. Ironically, it was men like Josiah that understood it best, although we can argue whether his solution was any good. And you, my dear, had to kill him.”
“But he wanted to brainwash the world!” said Tom.
“For everyone’s good,” said Amanda. “They’d be happy, rather than miserable and on the verge of self-destruction. And as I said back then, you and I could have undone Josiah’s plan.”
“But why you? Why me?” asked Tom.
“When will you stop asking this? You refuse to accept your experiences. As much as I made you, my dear, you made me. We’re a matched set. Scotch and soda. Sticks and stones. Matter and antimatter. And you know what happens when they come together.” Amanda winked. “As much as the world needs people like you, it needs me, too.”
“Manipulators? Autocrats?”
