Tortured Echoes

by Cody Sisco

  Circe appeared to consider this, her head cocking as if listening to something—music? her gut, maybe? voices?—then she shook her head. “I disagree. There’s still a chance Victor can help divert their attention.” She looked pointedly at Karine. “We should never have brought Samuel here. That was a poor choice.”

  There was a moment when Victor thought Karine’s head might explode; then her mouth opened and closed like pressure releasing from a valve. She appeared to regain her composure and folded her arms across her chest, a wry smile on her lips. She said, “Who could have predicted he would become someone’s messiah?”

  “They do seem taken with him. And with Victor,” Alia added. She’d been silent, observing. How much of the tense blame-shifting relationship between Circe and Karine was obvious to her? “Torsten said Victor swayed them more than once during the negotiations.”

  “Indeed,” Circe said, her expression inscrutable.

  “If we could be done talking about me…” Victor said.

  Alia continued, “A few of them are less rigid about the prohibitions against medicine. Especially when someone falls ill. I hear a lot of them struggling to reconcile their faith with their conscience. From what I understand, a lot of them simply want things to settle down. It seems that it really is the question of what to do with Samuel Miller that is tearing this town apart.”

  “That’s power,” Circe mused. Karine and Alia exchanged alarmed looks. Circe didn’t seem to notice. “Everyone is so concerned about him, and here we are grappling with what to do…”

  “Can we send him back to SeCa?” Victor asked. A lump formed in his throat, remembering how his family had often discussed what to do with Victor after he was diagnosed, as if he were a burden they’d be happy to pass on.

  “I’m afraid there’s no appetite for that in the governor-general’s office. Besides, it would make us all look like fools,” Karine said.

  “What about the O.W.S.?” Victor suggested. “Make a deal with the King.”

  Circe looked at Victor, eyes narrowed, but when she spoke, there were hints of admiration in her voice. “That’s not a bad suggestion.”

  Karine examined her fingernails. “I can’t imagine what would be done with him.”

  “It’s not our concern,” Victor said. “Alia, what do you think?”

  “It’s wrong,” she said immediately, forcefully. “The King has been responsible for hundreds of disappearances over the last thirty years. No one even really knows what he looks like. But it might be our only option.”

  “Let’s explore that option,” Circe said. It wasn’t a suggestion, Victor could tell; it was a command. “In the meantime, let’s set up this meeting with Samuel the Lifers are asking for. The facts are on our side in this case. Let’s use them to our advantage.”

  Mía knocked on the open door. Her neck was flushed. “Good news,” she said, holding up a sheaf of papers. “The prime councilor of the Louisiana Territories agreed to the two-speed Classification rules.”

  “What are those?” Victor asked.

  Karine rolled her eyes and said, “Excuse me, this company won’t run itself.” She breezed past Mía, saying, “Nice work.”

  “We went back to the drawing board,” Circe said, “on how we would identify potential patients. Mía can explain. If you don’t mind?” She raised her eyebrows, and it was clear to Victor she meant, Mía can explain elsewhere; I’ve got work to do.

  Alia returned to her rounds, and Victor was left standing with Mía in the hallway. “How about some fresh air?” she said.

  They left the administration building and walked to Little Lock, where the Petit Canal emptied into the Passage. A group of paddleboats and kayaks waited as the water drained. The lock gates swung open, and they headed into the open water.

  “Two-speed Classification rules?” Victor prompted.

  Mía said, “A new set of amendments. We never really came to grips with what the stim epidemic meant for the Classification System in SeCa. We’re working on that now, and your aunt is trying to start out on a better foot in the LTs. First, there aren’t going to be multiple classes. People are either Classified or not. Those with the mirror resonance syndrome genetic marker may receive therapy and medication, voluntarily. They will only be Classified—i.e., be admitted to the clinic—if they pose a reasonable danger to themselves or others, that is, if they show severe symptoms. Once they’re Classified, they’ll be our patients until they’re deemed fit to leave. The other way someone will be classified is if they test positive for stims. They’ll be enrolled in the substance abuse program and released when they’re done. So that’s it, two speeds for two distinct, though related, problems.”

  Two again, Victor thought, the number that returns with the regularity of a metronome, tick tock, one two.

  “Huh,” Victor said, trying to sort through the implications of a two-speed system in his own mind. “The way you describe it, Classification sounds temporary, like—”

  “Like any other medical malady requiring treatment. Yes, I know. It’s a huge improvement. The Lifers should be happy.”

  A red-hot flash coursed through Victor’s body, heating his cheeks. “I don’t think the Lifers will see this as much of an improvement, but I don’t care. Shock them. It’s a better approach. Thank you.”

  Mía’s eyes fluttered and moistened. She nodded. “It means a lot to hear you say that. I wanted to make sure… You know how I feel about what happened in SeCa.”

  “I know,” he said. “We’re trying to do better here.” He took her hand and held it, while they watched the lock cycle, water filling up, water draining, not as majestic or as instantly gratifying as ocean waves rolling ashore, but good enough, all things considered.

  “The Act will pass soon,” Mía said. “But the facilities here won’t be completed for eighteen months. We need to keep the Lifers on board—we need their land and their silence, or, at least, their compliance. You have to stop them from focusing on Samuel Miller. If you have any pull with them left, now is the time to use it.”

  36

  The Mesh’s strength is redundancy, multiple possible paths for transmitting information. Unlike a network, which is only as secure as its weakest link, knocking out a Mesh node has little effect.

  To control a mesh you have to have a pervasive, invisible architecture of surveillance that controls content and dynamically determines user access privileges. Why do you think most people don’t buy MeshBits with cameras? The limiting factor isn’t technology. It’s fear of surveillance.

  —Osirus Smythe’s “Data Isn’t Free,” an unpublished term paper

  15 June 1991

  New Venice, The Louisiana Territories

  Victor was called to the administration building by an urgent message on his Handy 1000. A mix of people outside were holding signs and chanting. The group in front wore white Lifer robes. They were followed by townies in normal working clothes, complaining loudly about Lifers straying from their designated protest area in Pond Park. Stragglers were visible crossing the bridge over the Petit Canal.

  Victor quickly spotted Wonda at the front and went over to her. He said, “This was supposed to be a meeting, not a rally.”

  “I know!” she said. Her eyes were round as she surveyed the crowd. “We decided to walk through town, in case—I don’t know. We thought there might be a few people interested in participating. I wasn’t expecting this!”

  “You brought signs,” Victor said. “It looks like a protest.”

  A voice called out from nearby: “Exactly! They agreed to stop the protests!”

  “Free Samuel Miller!”

  “Shock Samuel Miller!”

  The crowd traded jeers.

  “Please!” Wonda shouted, climbing onto a bench. “We’re here to speak with BioScan and to find a resolution. We need everyone to remain calm and be patient. Thank you!” She smiled her big, excited, naive smile, and it actually seemed to work. The crowd quieted. Then the clinic doors opened
, and the crowd’s chanting immediately resumed. “Human Life!” was the current refrain.

  Alia emerged from the administration building and stood at the top of the steps. “We would like to speak with you, but please lower your voices. This is a clinic, and there are patients in treatment here. Please.”

  The chanting continued and seemed ready to continue into the afternoon when another voice leapt from the crowd: “Let her speak.”

  “Let’s hear what she has to say,” Wonda said, still smiling.

  A tall, blond woman with a piercing voice yelled, “Let’s hear her response to our demands.”

  “What demands?”

  Confusion broke out among the crowd. Many members seemed to be unsure what the demands were and which negotiating tactics they were meant to be supporting.

  Alia shouted, “While I want to move our conversation forward, we must respect the needs of patients who rely on the clinic for their health. Is there anyone who needs to proceed inside?”

  Two hands went up in the back as a young couple began to move forward. Their immediate neighbors in the crowd shrank back and made way. A middle-aged woman standing toward the side also raised her hand and moved toward Alia, who beckoned her to come.

  An old woman said, “First time I’ve ever had to wait to be seen.” The crowd made way. Victor recognized his great-grandmother Florence Eastmore being supported by her caretaker, Charlene. “Surprised I haven’t keeled over dead just listening to all this prattle. Can someone save my life, or do I have to do it myself?”

  One of the nurses, aided by Charlene, led Florence inside. She seemed to be concentrating on each step and didn’t see Victor when she passed him.

  Alia continued in a more pleasant tone, “Now, we have scheduled an open house for this Saturday, and you are all welcome to attend. We will be happy to discuss our research projects and any concerns related to them or to our health services. You are free to stay here and continue demonstrating, as long as you don’t harass any patients or staff, but please know this: I hear you. I do. I understand. I’ve worked at this clinic for the past five years, and I know everyone who works here shares the same respect and passion for helping people. Thank you.”

  There were a few claps of appreciation as she hopped down from the bench and approached Victor. “The Lifers can bring twelve people to the meeting. We’ll escort them through the clinic when they’re ready.” She went inside.

  Several BioScan staff members came outside and passed out flyers and pamphlets, enthusiastically inviting members of the crowd, including those with robes, to come to the community meeting. The Human Life die-hards had regrouped and lined up on either side of the steps, not protesting but making their presence known. They began singing. Victor caught snippets of lyrics about nature and souls. They seemed determined to push their luck, and he wondered when Circe and the townies would stop making concessions.

  Victor told Wonda, “Choose eleven people to come with you and meet me at the entrance.” He started toward the building.

  Tosh rushed over and blocked his way. “I’m coming,” he said.

  Victor shrugged. “You two and ten others. We talk to Samuel Miller, and everyone gets what they want, okay?” he said, not believing a word of it.

  37

  Look at the lilies,

  how water buoys them, or

  how the lilies feast on the pond.

  Belief is a weapon that vanquishes truth.

  —Ming Pearl’s Now Blossom (1973)

  15 June 1991

  New Venice, The Louisiana Territories

  The drug hut was stuffed with BioScan staff and Lifers. Karine, Alia, Marilyn, Blair, and Mía, in their executive-cut clothes, looked like mannequins in a shop for drab people compared to the white-robed uniforms of the Lifers, who resembled the hospice workers who’d sometimes showed up at Oak Knoll to whisk away the most hopeless patients.

  Velasquez and Perry were stationed in front of the door to Samuel’s bedroom. Another guard stood on the balcony. Two more guards were outside the front door. Karine was afraid the remaining Lifers were going to mob the drug hut to try to free Samuel. Victor worried that the building’s stilts would crack and send them all tumbling down the hill.

  The bodies in the room created a greenhouse-like heat. Tosh had gone around opening all the windows, muttering something about midday sweats, to little effect.

  Velasquez and Perry brought Samuel into the room and cleared a space for him to sit on the couch. He appeared unwell, his gaze jumping from person to person, manic and at the end of his tether.

  Circe wedged a fingernail between her teeth and stared at the floor.

  Karine asked her, “Do you want to say something?”

  Circe shook her head. “Let this play out,” she said in a low voice.

  “Well, I guess we’re all here,” Victor said, his voice booming in the small room. He was nearing the end of his own tether. He had half a mind to walk out the door, flee New Venice, and find his way to an island somewhere that hadn’t yet discovered religion.

  “Let’s get started,” Victor said to Wonda. “You’re leading this séance for the dead—Oops! I meant, the crossed-over.”

  “Victor, hush!” Circe snapped. “Wonda, why don’t you ask Samuel what you came here to ask him.”

  Wonda went down on her knees in front of the couch. Samuel looked at her the way one might regard a serpent that found its way into the house.

  “Samuel, I’m Wonda. I’m here with other members of the Human Life movement. We believe in the purity of the human soul and that it’s possible to seek truth on earth through clean living and the pursuit of justice.”

  “You’re a ghost,” Samuel said flatly. “You won’t find what you’re looking for in this world.”

  Wonda caught her breath, looked at Victor with concern. He shrugged. Did she expect Samuel to say everything she wanted to hear? She would be lucky if he didn’t try to help her cross over in front of all these people. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat. He went over to Velasquez, who had remained by Samuel’s bedroom door.

  “Get closer,” Victor told him. “If he tries anything, it’s up to you to stop him.” Velasquez pushed his way to one end of the couch and gestured for Perry to move to the other side, which the man did. They looked like bookends. Tosh moved to stand directly behind the couch.

  “We’re here to ask you if you want to be here,” Wonda said. “We want to help you if you want to leave.”

  Samuel looked at her with suspicion. “You want to help me cross over?”

  Wonda gasped. “No! Oh, laws, that’s not what I meant. I meant here at BioScan. They’re medicating you. Is that what you want?”

  “Are you thick? Are you stupid? Of course I don’t want to be here. I want to cross over. You’re all ghosts!” he shouted at everyone. “Your bodies are without souls. Your primals cry out in the other world to be reunited. You think this is real life? This is purgatory!”

  He began to rock forward and back, moaning.

  Mía’s face ran wet with tears, and an ugly sneer curled her lips.

  Victor looked for Karine, caught her eye at the back of the room, and mouthed, “Fumewort.” Turning back to the couch, he said, “Samuel, do you want a tincture? It might help.”

  “You promised to help me,” he said, with a stare that hollowed Victor’s chest.

  Karine handed Victor a vial. It was glass, fragile. If broken, it would be dangerous.

  “This will help a little. Tilt your head back,” he said.

  Samuel clasped his hands between his knees, and leaned back, his head against the sofa, his eyes locked on Victor. A shiver ran down Victor’s spine. Grip the vial; hold it tight; if he leaps, don’t let go.

  Victor poured the tincture, and Samuel gulped it down.

  “Fire,” Samuel said. “Burning.”

  Victor tucked the empty vial in his pocket. On second thought, he took it out and gave it to Velasquez, who took it, nodded grimly, a
nd stowed it in one of his many pockets.

  Turning to Samuel, Victor said, “Okay, good. Be calm, okay? Remember, calm? ‘Calm’ is the word today.”

  “I remember your voice.”

  Victor said, “Wonda, can we get through this? The direct route, please.”

  She reached out as if she were going to grasp Samuel’s hands, seemed to think better of it, and clasped her own instead. “Samuel, do you want to stop taking Personil?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I want clarity. I want purity. I want to find the truth. I’m a seeker too. Can you take me away from here?”

  “A seeker?” Wonda brightened, smiling. “Yes, of course, we’ll help you. You won’t have to take Personil anymore.”

  Karine said, “This is unbelievable. Give him a knife, and he would cut out your heart. You can’t take him with you.”

  Circe tapped Karine on the shoulder, whispered something in her ear, and pointed out a few of the Lifers in the room. Victor looked at them. They appeared concerned, anxious, and uncomfortable. Maybe Wonda didn’t speak for them.

  “What do you think?” Victor asked a middle-aged potentiate with jowls and flushed cheeks. “Want to take him back to the camp? Want to sleep in the same trailer with him?”

  The man looked at Samuel with wide eyes and shook his head.

  “How about you?” Victor asked a young woman who might have been fresh out of school.

  She looked around uncertainly, saying, “Maybe… If Wonda thinks it will be okay.”

  “It will. We’ll take every precaution,” Wonda said, standing. “This is a tremendous responsibility, one we don’t accept lightly.”

  “You’re in awe of your own power,” Victor said, scoffing.

  Wonda’s mouth opened in surprise. That was her talent, Victor thought, to be perpetually delighted, taken aback, shocked, and unexpectedly bemused. To her, the world held infinite surprises, and just because something was expected in advance didn’t mean anything was lost when it finally did occur. Every moment was a multitude of emotion, and she reveled in it. She was the exact opposite of Victor.