Beginnings

by J. S. Frankel

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Indecision and anger ruled Paul’s universe and at this moment in time he was so pissed he could hardly think straight. “Angela was doing her job. Now the cops think we’re guilty?”

  The lump of sand shifted into a variety of patterns, but finally threw up a series of words, spelling things out clearly. We were created to help. We should help…but only within the law.

  Since the law decided to do something else, Sandstorm’s argument seemed pretty pointless. In fact, it pissed Paul off even more. “Yeah, you’re telling me all this, but what have you done? Every time we went out, you decided to wait here. You’ve got superpowers. What’s the problem, because I’m not seeing it?”

  ‘I’m afraid.’ Sandstorm shifted back and forth in a shapeless mass. ‘I’m afraid. I know I shouldn’t be, but I was created to observe and report, not to interfere. That’s the way my maker made me.’

  If there was ever a time for a WTH response, this was it. However, Paul bit his tongue and simply said, “You’ve got powers to help. Sitting here and working on your shapes isn’t helping. I’m a weak loser and I know it, but I want to do the right thing.”

  More words of rage, mainly of the four-letter variety, filled his head, but instead of responding, he walked out and went to his room. There didn’t seem to be any point in talking to anyone—not now. He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time in the darkness, not feeling the cold, not feeling anything except a sense of impending loss.

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, Paul got up and went to Angela’s room. The door was unlocked and she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor. When he walked in, she turned to look at him, eyes puffy. “What do you want?” she asked in a voice that wavered between anger and hopelessness.

  Confounded as to what to say, he sat beside her. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Get a good look because I probably won’t be here much longer.”

  Her words sent a shaft of fear down his spine, but he fought it off and held her hand. She leaned against him, her voice trembling as she spoke. “I don’t know what it’s like to be like you. I think about things, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. All I know is I’m scared.”

  Bolson had downloaded emotions and feelings into her. If there was ever a time for saying something to soothe her ravaged psyche, this was it, but he didn’t know how to phrase things.

  Fumbling for the right response, Angela repeated her question from the other night. “What is being human?”

  Her question gave him the answer and he cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier on. Putting his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “Caring.”

  Angela’s eyes grew round and she asked, “Is that all there is?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and his thoughts came thick and fast. “I mean, we’re all going to die one day. It doesn’t matter if it happens in a week or a year or more. But if we care about each other, to me that makes a big difference. We care and…” He stopped as another thought occurred to him. “We stay together, like a team…and like a family. That’s what it’s all about.”

  A brief smile flitted over her face. “And you care about me?”

  With a sense of certainty knowing what the outcome of their relationship would be, he nodded, anyway. “Yeah, I do.”

  Angela hung her head. “Before, I didn’t know what it was like to care for someone. I just know, now I mean”—she bit her lip—“that I like being around you and the others.”

  “Then you’re sort of stuck with me, er, us…me.”

  A wan smile came from her. “That’s not such a bad thing.” In a burst of emotion, she hugged him tightly and whispered, “And I want to be around you and stay around you.”

  Throat clearing sounds interrupted their embrace. CF stood in the doorway. He blinked a few times then nodded, as if remembering what to say. “Ooze wants to speak to you guys.”

  Down in the laboratory, four members—one human and three synthetic—gathered around the computer. The sound of the vacuum cleaner reverberated through the wood from the upstairs. Once everyone was ready, Ooze pointed at the screen with a stubby finger. “Take a look at this.”

  A grainy video clip of Bolson flickered on the screen. The time on the tape showed it had been filmed around six months ago. The scientist’s face was a sickly yellow, his features drawn and gaunt and his eyes hollow from lack of sleep combined with illness. His voice, shaky and weak, cut in and out, but Paul caught most of the words.

  “To my children, if you see this video, then it means I am no longer here to see your birth and your entrance into the world of mankind. My name is Doctor Morton Bolson, and I am a scientist, a genetic researcher. More importantly, I am your father and I would like you to think of me as such. I have been engaged in this work for many years and now, I am pleased that you will be among the living.”

  He stopped to wipe his mouth and took a glass of water from off-camera to drink. Finishing it, a look of pain crossed his face. After swallowing repeatedly, he took a number of deep breaths before continuing.

  “You may wonder why I created you. I did so to prove that different forms of life could exist among that which we know. I did it as I never married and never had children of my own. And I did it because I felt I owed the scientific community the chance to see life in a different manner. I am just sorry I will not be here long enough to personally usher you into this world.”

  Paul snuck at peak at Angela. Her body was shaking and hesitantly, he put out his hand. She took it and held it tightly as if to draw strength from him. Right now, if he could have given her all of his strength, he would have.

  “For your birth, I take full responsibility,” said Bolson as the tape continued. “You were all created from a single stem cell—from me. I did my research under the aegis of Rallan Incorporated, and it is to my eternal damnation that I agreed to work for them. Rallan is owned by a very evil man, someone named Andres Peterson.

  “Like me, he is a scientist. He was the one who initially recruited me and funded my research. He wished to take what I knew and turn it into something vile and cruel. His subordinate, Thurmond Simpson is just as twisted and just as evil. They both wished to pervert my work and use my creations as living weapons in order to bring chaos to the world then to impose their own brand of stability.

  “I could not allow such a thing to happen, so I reprogrammed you from gestation, unbeknownst to them. I gave you all a new purpose, that being to help those who could not help themselves. With the science that I knew and the technology made available, I endowed you all with certain genetic gifts.

  “Angela, you will have the power of flight, strength above norm and speed. Sandstorm and Ooze, you will be able to control the elements.

  “CF—” He paused to shake his head ever so slightly. “You will have the strength to endure. I am sorry some of you will not live long enough, but if there is any consolation, your basic cells can be…”

  The tape cut off at the point and the screen went dark. No one said anything for a time. Only Angela’s body moved in a series of small tremors, her shoulders shaking as she wept. Her father—their father—had died, yet from the way he spoke and the words he used, it was very clear that he loved them all.

  Angela clung to Paul and he felt her warm tears splash upon his shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “He loved us,” she whispered. “He made us and loved us.”

  Upon hearing those words, he realized that she meant more to him than anyone or anything else. Something else, though, filled him besides an emotional attachment. He now felt a sense of purpose.

  A tap on his leg made him look around. Sandstorm whipped up a series of words. I’m not human and I know it, but I can think. I can move and I can help out.

  “You want to help?” Paul asked.

  Now I do.

  Angela pushed away from Paul long enough to view the message and a brief smile flickered across her face. “It was a
good message. We may not be human, but we’re alive. I can…” Her voice caught, but only for a moment. “I can live with that.”

  In a quick motion, she spun on her heel and exited the room with sure and confident strides. Paul followed her out and up into the living room. There, she sat on the couch watching television, her eyes blinking rapidly as she flicked through channel after channel. “What are you doing?” he asked after taking a seat next to her.

  “Learning,” she said. “I don’t know how much time I’ve got, but I might as well learn something outside of what I already know.”

  The channel-surfing continued, but a few minutes later, she got up and went to the cabinet. Pulling open a drawer, she took out a thick telephone book and tossed it at Paul. “What’s this for?” he asked as he caught it.

  “I have a family,” she said with a hopeful note in her voice. Her eyes were bright and she added, “I just found out who my father is. It’s time you found yours.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Family Reunion

  The telephone book, yellow and heavy, stared Paul in the face. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already thought of calling the address he’d memorized years back. He had…but now it was time for a gut check. The only question that remained was whether he wanted to go through with it or not.

  He flipped open the book, went to the appropriate section then ran his finger down the list to find the name he remembered calling before. The number was the same, but there was also no guarantee his father would be living at that address. For all he knew, the same European dude owned the house and his father could be residing in Hong Kong or Monaco.

  He shut the book and went over to the couch where Angela sat watching some blow-‘em-up flick. After telling his housemates what he intended to do, Paul saw Ooze’s reaction was less than positive. His watery eyebrows arched so high they almost receded to the middle of his liquid head.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked and his sarcasm started in. “Not that I’m going to nix the deal or anything. I mean, from what I know, your father dumped you, right?”

  “We know who our father is,” Angela chimed in. “I may not be around too much longer, but at least I know who made me—”

  “And I have to know who made me,” interrupted Paul, aching at the possibility of losing someone he cared for. However, there wasn’t a trace of pity in Angela’s voice. She simply wanted to do the right thing for everyone.

  Apparently, someone had parted the drapes a few inches, as a friendly stream of light poured in along with the sun. Spring was still a long way off, but if this semi-warm spell continued, then the cold days wouldn’t be so hard to bear.

  Angela took his hand in his and held it. Her touch gave him a sense of solidity, something he’d been lacking as of late. “If you’re sure about this,” she said, “then I can drive you over. I’ll go with you, to see him. I mean, if you want.”

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” Paul said. Maybe he would, he reflected, but not knowing for sure had been eating at his soul for a long time. Whatever truth he found out, it would have to be enough.

  Ooze still didn’t seem to be convinced. He shifted his position on the sofa, his body flowing from side to side as he did so. Peevishness entered his voice. “What’s all this supposed to do? What’s it going to prove? That you got dumped? That you got abandoned? Same thing happened to us, you know—”

  “We didn’t get abandoned,” Angela cut in with a touch of anger. “You saw the tape. You know the truth. Our maker died. It was his time. That’s all. Paul’s problem is different.”

  Ooze shrugged. The movement sent his inner water flowing around his transparent body. His attitude didn’t change, though. “So his problem’s different. My question stands. What good will it do?” he asked in a biting tone. “You got dumped. You weren’t accepted…just like us. So what’s the point of finding out you’re not wanted?”

  The words stung, but Paul felt a streak of pride surface. He had to know, one way or the other. “I need to find out, is all I’m saying. It’s not that I don’t like you guys, but this is for me, okay? I’m not going to tell anyone about you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  A clumping sound made everyone turn their heads. CF stood at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m hungry,” he said, breaking the tension. “I need to eat.”

  “You know where the food is.” Ooze pointed with a long, slender arm in the general direction of the kitchen. “Why can’t you get it for yourself once in a while?”

  “I’m hungry. I’m not very smart, but I know you’re supposed to feed me when I get hungry,” CF replied in the tone of a more than slightly spoiled child. “You promised.”

  Ooze sighed and it was the sound of someone who found the vagaries of life more than a little vexing. His pseudo-hands quivered and right now he seemed on the verge of erupting. “Just because we have a download doesn’t mean you can’t think for yourself. Get a clue, CF. Think for yourself.”

  The sharply delivered speech caused a sad look to creep into CF’s eyes which contrasted sharply with the rotting, yellowish-green skin. It made him appear almost human. A mossy smell clung to him and yet managed to diffuse itself through the air, and his skin began to sag around his forehead. It seemed the only thing keeping him alive was a constant intake of edibles. “You promised,” he whined in the manner of a child wanting its favorite toy. “You promised.”

  With a furious motion, Ooze rubbed the area that would have been his nose had he been a person. “Yeah.” He nodded and his voice switched from sarcastic to resigned, “Yeah, I promised. Hang on and I’ll get you something from the fridge.”

  He slid down the sofa and made for the kitchen. Angela caressed Paul’s face. “You do what you have to do,” she said in her soft voice. “I’ll be there for you.”

  With a warning note in her voice, she cautioned the trio not to get into trouble. “We’re not going to be gone very long, but you guys stay here. Eat something. Watch television. But don’t you dare go outside.”

  Sandstorm flowed upstairs after saying he wanted to practice some more. Ooze formed an okay sign with pseudo-thumb and forefinger. CF tried to do the same, but the movement proved to be too complex for his mind to make the necessary synaptic connections, so he stuck his thumb up instead. Angela sighed. “Let’s go,” she said, motioning to the door.

  Outside the city limits, Angela pulled over to a phone booth, and Paul called the number. The same man he’d spoken to years ago answered the phone.

  “Mr. Wiseman doesn’t live here now,” the man said. “He is in a nursing home, I hear. He sell me house about a year ago. Sorry, I cannot help.”

  Nursing homes…that could wait for a moment. Paul hung up, and returning to the van, said, “I need to see the house.”

  “Is there a reason why?”

  “I want to see where I first grew up.”

  Wordlessly, she motioned to the car and they motored off. Neither of them said a word during the trip, but finally they pulled up outside a small, old but well-kept two-story house on the outskirts of Manhattan. A residential neighborhood, cars lined the streets, but only a few people were walking around in the bitter cold and no one bothered glancing in their direction.

  Gazing at the front yard, Paul tried to recall what kind of tree sat there. It was withered and sere, and stood in the center of the snow-covered grass. Bushes covered in white lined the front wall. A large, twelve-paned window stood out.

  Blinking rapidly, in a flash of total recall, the memories poured in. He sat in the window playing with his toys and waiting for his father to drive up after a hard day on the job. The house had smelled of cinnamon. His room had had yellow wallpaper, stuffed toys in the corners…he’d had a bed to sleep in and not a cot.

  At that age, he didn’t recall what his father did, but he’d known that he usually came home at night. All those thoughts ran through his mind at light speed…but try as he might, no memories of his mother surfaced.

/>   After sliding out of the car, Paul took a step toward the house, but then shied back. He remained rooted to his spot until he felt Angela’s presence beside him. The proximity to her made him feel more reassured. “I’m here,” she said. “Are you going to go over and talk to the owner?”

  He didn’t answer. Blinking, he recalled the tree in the front yard. It had been a cherry tree once. Now it was dead. Its branches sagged and its trunk had been eaten away by insects.

  Glancing up at the second floor, another flash of memory intruded. He sat spread-legged on the floor looking at picture books, the brightly colored drawings making him laugh with delight at the antics of bears and cats and other animals. He remembered his father’s laugh, a high-pitched sound, the hiss of the radiator and the sound of the television playing…

  “Paul?”

  Angela’s voice startled him. “What is it?”

  She gestured toward the house. “We can go over and say hello if you want.”

  A short and stocky man came out of the front door wearing a pair of long johns and boots, cursing the cold. He kicked some snow off his walk and went back inside, slamming the door behind him. “No,” Paul said, suddenly feeling this trip was a waste of his time as well as hers. “Let’s get going.”

  They drove off and stopped at a nearby service station. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said.

  Inside the booth, he went through the list of nursing homes and began to make the calls. Thirty minutes later, he found what he thought he was looking for. Angela, who’d been waiting patiently outside the booth and feeding him quarters every so often, kept her head down to avoid the stares of the passersby.

  After the tenth call, Paul hung up and slipped out of the booth. “Can you drive me over to a place on Lexington Avenue?” he asked.