Convergence

by Michael Patrick Hicks

  I was confused and disoriented. The scene before me did not jibe with my last memories of blistering pain. I remembered Kaften, but he was nowhere to be seen. We were meeting Alice Xie, and I vaguely remembered her coming to my aid while I lay bleeding.

  I was dressed in a terry cloth robe, but was naked beneath that. An IV had been run into my left arm, and a drip bag filled with clear fluid was suspended from a tall metal rod beside the bed. No one else was around, so I pulled the robe apart. A fresh pink scar marked my right thigh with slightly puckered skin. I poked at it with a finger, but it felt fine. On my chest, another fresh scar. I found its twin on my back, barely within reach, but the skin felt smooth beneath my fingers. The tip of my index finger was still missing. The scar tissue there was a lumpy mess, a glaring disfigurement, though my other scars were not.

  There were two possibilities for how my wounds had healed so quickly. One was better than the other, but I didn’t care much for either of them. The most likely was that somebody had given me a medichine boost. I could have been in a coma, but somehow that didn’t feel right, and I rejected it as a possibility.

  My body was stiff. Not quite sore, but leaden. Guardrails were raised on each side of the bed. Using the rail for leverage, I pulled myself up and scooted toward the foot of the bed, past the guardrail. I swung my legs over the side. It took me awhile, and the exertion left me exhausted, but I hadn’t even made it out of bed yet.

  I pushed myself forward until my feet touched the hot wood below, and then I stood. My legs were weak. Small tremors jangled the aching muscles. I took small, carefully measured steps, holding onto the IV stand for support. The wind kicked at the loose robe, and I pulled it shut around me then tied it off, feeling slightly embarrassed at my nakedness even though I was alone.

  A long flight of wooden steps led down to the beach, but the trek down would have been an ordeal on even the best of days. The deck was large and roomy, although the bed I had lain in clashed with the spartan decor. A hibachi grill doubled as a long table, and metal-frame chairs with thick cushions were arranged around it. A robe similar to my own was draped over the back of one chair. Tiki torches dotted the deck railing at regular intervals.

  I walked to the railing and leaned against it. I was tired, and when I looked down, waves of vertigo rushed over me. I’d never been comfortable with heights, and the open spaces so far up put me on edge. Still, the view was beautiful, better than anything I had seen over the last few years.

  Below, Alice Xie swam. Her naked body, long and slender, flitted beneath the water’s surface. The sea was calm, and she glided easily. Her limbs and muscles seemed accustomed to the well-practiced movements. She was a strong swimmer. Watching her was calming and hypnotic, and I wished for something to draw this vista with, but my tools were still at Echo Park. The water, the way the light hit it, and the shadow of her figure beneath the surface—I committed it all to memory. She went out to a point, then dove again, her slender legs doing a brief scissor kick in the air. The ocean was clear, and her lithe figure twisted so that when she resurfaced she was facing me. She looked up and waved. She swam toward the shallow water and walked in toward the beach.

  Alice was naked and unflustered when my gaze lingered. I watched her climb up the stairs, and she smiled as she approached me. She was trim, and her muscles were delicately defined. One breast was small. The other was absent. The tight skin was a patchwork of scars making a mess of folds and dimpled flesh from where her chest had been stitched together. She went to the chair to retrieve her robe. Her black, shiny hair was a stark contrast to the white terrycloth.

  “It’s good to see you up and about,” she said.

  “How long has it been?” I asked her.

  “Three days.”

  Three days? Hours, I could believe, but not entire days. Fuck.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Tired.”

  She nodded. “Do you want to lie back down? Or sit?”

  “I’m not really sure yet,” I said.

  She took my hand in hers and wrapped her other arm around my waist as she led me to one of the chairs. We moved slowly, and the short walk took me awhile. The bed felt miles away. When she helped lower me into the seat cushion, I wasn’t sure I’d be getting up again.

  “Do you want some water?” she asked.

  I was surprised by her warm bedside manner. The degree of care and warmth coming from her was unusual given our past, brief encounters, and the stories I’d heard about her. Too many things were not matching up with my expectations lately.

  “Water would be nice,” I said.

  She passed through an opaque sliding door, leaving it open behind her. The room was as spartan as the deck, with cherrywood floors, a large black leather sofa, and a fireplace. No photographs or any other mementos. If she lived here, she lived alone and kept few reminders of her life or her experiences. I listened for voices, but heard only Alice, whose soft voice was indistinct, and the small sounds of the surf below. She was gone longer than she should have needed to get a glass of water, and brief pauses punctuated her muffled conversations, but no other voices filled the gaps. After a few moments of quiet, her voice picked up a sing-song quality.

  I closed my eyes, tilting my head back to absorb the warmth of the sun. The heat felt good against my face, scalp, and the stubble of my hair.

  Her singing grew closer, and I recognized the foreign-language lyrics of a popular Muzyakimo Aki synthpop grinder ballad. She smiled, suddenly self-conscious, as the tune died away. She carried a tray of sandwiches and large tumblers filled with ice water.

  “I didn’t know you sang,” I said.

  “I don’t,” she said. “Not really. You should eat.”

  She sat and crossed her legs. The robe parted and fell away some, revealing a long expanse of toned thigh.

  The sandwiches were simple—pita shells stuffed with slices of cucumber, spinach leaves, sprouts, carrot shavings, and thick, creamy arcs of avocado. Pickles gave it a nice bit of tartness. I was surprised by how hungry I was.

  “Who were you talking to inside?” I tried to keep my voice casual, but I needed information. I was starting to feel paranoid and trapped. I wasn’t sure how much to trust her.

  “Your doctor,” she said. “He’ll be coming over soon to check up on you. He’s glad to hear you’re awake.”

  “What happened?”

  She was weighing how much to tell me. I could see it in her eyes, her trying to judge which bits of intel were important and what I should be allowed to know. I wanted answers and honesty, and it angered me that she apparently was going to be less than forthcoming.

  “We have things to talk about,” she finally said. “I want the doctor to look you over first.”

  “I’ve been out for three days. I need to find my daughter.”

  “I understand that, but you are not in any condition to go anywhere. Not right now. Mesa is safe, and you need to get your strength back.”

  “What happened?” I asked again.

  “How much do you remember?”

  I told her about working with the reclamation crews, about Kaften’s attack on us, and his interrogation of me. I explained how they had shot me, cut off my finger, then driven me out to meet her. I told her I remembered being shot again, but that part was fuzzy, and I pointed to the scars on my chest.

  She watched me soberly. She took a long drink of water to wash down the remains of her sandwich then brushed the crumbs from her fingers.

  “That’s good,” she said. “You remember a lot. We were worried there may have been brain trauma from the blood loss. The doctor needs to run tests, and he’s going to ask you questions. I can’t tell you very much because it may interfere with his exam. I know it’s upsetting, but please be patient.”

  “Why are you doing all this for me?” I asked.

  She squeezed my hand, and her eyes went to the uneaten half of my sandwich. “Eat. We’ll talk more later.”

  She
stood and primly adjusted the robe around her, cinching it tighter at her slender waist. She took her empty plate and glass inside, closing the door behind her this time. I was left to study my reflection in the black glass, and I didn’t care much for what I saw. I looked as old as I felt. My face was weathered and lined, my eyes dark and heavy. A shadow of beard was growing. More salt than pepper, it still had a few streaks of color. My hair had grown in some, but was still short and crisp. The gash in my jaw had been reduced to a thin line. I was hungry, but my appetite was gone. I forced myself to eat anyway, knowing that I needed the energy. Halfway through, I fell asleep for a time.

  A man dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt lured me back to wakefulness by shaking my shoulder. My eyes opened easier this time. His skin was ruddy, and his nose, bulbous. He leaned in close, examining my eyes with a penlight.

  “Good, good,” he said in a thick Indian accent, then held up a long, thin finger and told me to follow it with my eyes. “Good, good,” he said again. He introduced himself as Sanjar Hashmi, and we shook hands. Although he was old and seemed frail, he had a strong grip, and his hand was warm but powder dry.

  “Do you remember your name?” he asked me.

  “Jonah Everitt.”

  “That’s right. Good.”

  The man was a broken record, and I was getting irritated. Doctors ranked right up there with heights in terms of enjoyment. He checked my pulse at my wrist, then jammed his fingers beneath my jaw, around the sides of my neck, and behind my ears. He told me to open wide and say, “Aaaaahhhhh.”

  He fished a coil of wire from his pocket then plugged one end into the port behind my ear and the other end into a palm-sized tablet reader. He tapped some buttons, watched the data scrolls carefully, then disconnected me.

  “Blood pressure is good. So is your heart rate. How do you feel?” He slipped his hands beneath the robe. His fingers dug into the bullet wounds at my chest and back, and although the skin had been knitted shut, the flesh was still sensitive and tender, and he pressed hard.

  “Sore,” I said, wincing.

  “Move your arm,” he said. “This way.” He swung his arm in a circle, up over his head and back down, as if he were swimming.

  I followed his lead, but more slowly. “It’s stiff,” I said.

  “Mmm,” he said. “It will pass in a day or two. Keep working your arm. And your leg?”

  He opened the robe, impassive to my nakedness, and pressed at the edges of scar tissue. “Extend your leg as far as you can. Rotate your foot. Good. Keep moving your limbs, you will be fine.”

  “Alice said three days have passed.”

  He met my eyes, and I got the impression, for the first time, that I was suddenly more than a specimen for him. He pulled a chair over and sat in front of me.

  “I kept you sedated, and you needed the rest. Your body had been under a tremendous amount of strain. Your vitals were very low, very weak. You had lost a lot of blood.”

  “It’s kind of odd for a couple gunshot wounds to heal in three days, don’t you think?”

  I knew what they had done to me, and I wasn’t really surprised by it. I wanted to hear him say it.

  “I injected you with medichines. If I hadn’t, you would have died.”

  “So you’re a medichine man, huh?” I laughed, and so did he. I couldn’t help but think of Kaften, though. My laughter died in my throat, and I curled my ruined hand into a fist to hide the damage.

  “I am surprised you did not have them already. Usually, for a man with modifications such as yours, tech augments are hardly a surprise. When they are missing, though… that is surprising. Especially nowadays.”

  “I like staying connected,” I admitted. “The health industry was never for me, though. I figured when it’s time for me to go, I’ll go. Didn’t really need or want the medichines.”

  “It’s interesting,” he said, “how selective some people are. You have no problem tampering with your brain and your nervous system, conjoining them with artificiality and cybernetic enhancement, perhaps to live a better life, no? Yet you are still a bit cavalier about that life, no? And besides, medichines were free, so…”

  “Nothing’s free, Doc.” I looked down at my hand.

  “Without them, you would have surely died. The amount of fluids you lost—the medichines were required simply for replication procedures, to synthesize new compatible blood cells and to close your wounds.”

  The bullet had punched through my back and chest at a high velocity. Much of the damage that had been done to my internals was the result of concussive forces and bone fragmentation. The sucking chest wound had collapsed a lung, and the bullet and its kinetic energy had shattered ribs.

  I could feel the tackiness of the adhesive patch the doctor had applied over the wound to help re-inflate the lung. Keeping me alive while they waited for the medichines to kick in had been a struggle, he said. It had taken almost a day before the nanos started working on tissue repair, and Hashmi had to rely on old-fashioned know-how to keep me stabilized.

  “You are lucky I am a good doctor,” he said, adding a warm smile to show he was being modest.

  I thanked him for his efforts, and he asked me to stand. He braced me with one arm, and we walked around the deck until I said I was getting tired and had broken a sweat from the exertion. He and Alice rolled the bed back inside, turning what I had thought was a living room into a makeshift bedroom for me.

  I was still confused by her goodwill, but I found myself lacking the energy to question her again. I wondered if the doctor’s ministrations had been an effort on her part to keep me sedate, to wear me down, and avoid confronting her motivations.

  She helped me into bed and adjusted the sheets, tucking me in with a sort of maternal affection. The doctor said good-bye, but I was already fading. When I closed my eyes again, Alice was sitting in a chair, her feet tucked beneath her, a datapad resting on her lap.

  I slept long and deep, but my dreams were troubled with nightmare images of Mesa being brutalized by Kaften. His cybernetic hand plucked off her fingers, one by one, as she screamed my name, begging me for help and cursing me. He made me watch, but I was nothing more than a torso, suspended from the ceiling by chains and hooks. My arms and legs were missing; even my teeth were gone. I could not move. I could do nothing to help my daughter. Selene stood over me, sheathed in white, but she said nothing, and her eyes were hollow black pits. I choked out guttural screams, but I wasn’t sure if the sound came from the physical me or the me inside my dreams.

  “It’s okay.”

  I needed a second for my eyes to focus. Alice was holding my hand.

  “You were dreaming.” She wiped away the sweat on my forehead. “It’s okay,” she said again.

  I relaxed, easing my head back down to the pillow. Her hand rested on my shoulder. She was tired, and her hair was mussed. She wore cotton shorts and a pink top. Dawn was breaking outside, and the opaque door was clear.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s early. You slept all day yesterday.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  She helped me up, and I trudged along beside her with the IV stand while she showed me the way. The house was as spartan as I had thought. Nothing ornamental, except for a few empty vases that stood on a recessed shelving unit in the hallway. No photographs, no artwork. The house was beautiful, but as desolate as the ruins downtown. Whatever comfort it provided was artificial.

  After I urinated, she asked me if I was ready for a shower, if I was strong enough.

  “I don’t think I need this, either,” I said, holding out my arm and the coil of tubing that led to the IV. She found some cotton balls under the sink, then tore the tape away from the crook of my elbow and withdrew the needle. She pressed the cotton against the tiny wound, and I held it in place, leaning against the counter. The small needle hole closed after only a few seconds and left hardly a drop a blood on the cotton.

  She turned on the shower an
d waited for the water to get warm. “That should be good,” she said, testing it with her fingers. Steam started to build up against the frosted glass. “There’s soap inside, and shampoo. I have clothes you can wear, as well.”

  She left me, closing the door behind her. The hot water felt good, and it helped to restore me. When I stepped out of the shower, a fresh shirt, pants, socks, and underwear awaited me on the counter, along with a pair of shoes on the floor. The shirt was a size too big, and the sleeves were too long, but everything else fit well. After dressing, I followed the scent of eggs and potatoes to the kitchen. It felt good to be walking on my own, although I was still stiff. I rotated my arm and flexed my fingers, trying to work out the kinks and the pain.

  “Do you feel better?” Alice asked. She was sitting at an island in the center of the kitchen, reading from her data pad.

  “I do, actually.” I sat, and we ate. I was starving, and I washed the food down with eager gulps of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  “Do you think you’ll be up for a trip this afternoon?”

  “To where?”

  “You asked why I am helping you. Do you remember that?”

  I nodded, unsure of where, exactly, this was going.

  “I want to show you why I am helping you.”

  “You can’t just tell me?”

  “It would be better to show you, to let you fully realize what I am about to ask of you.”

  I waited. The potatoes turned to a cool lump in my mouth, and I had to force them down.

  “I want you to kill the man who killed my family,” she said.

  I nodded, starting to understand. Her next words shook me to my core.

  “He has Mesa.”

  Chapter 9

  “What did you do before the war?” she asked me.

  We had been driving in silence, coming down from the hills, heading back into Chinatown. I felt as if I’d been away for more than a few days, and I realized I was steeling myself, as if the world had been overturned in my absence.

  The tinted windows cast Los Angeles in dark tones and deep, sinister shadows. Mesa was out there, somewhere in the ruins, and for a long moment, I struggled to pull myself away from the depressing scenery. Alice had no idea where Mesa was, although she assured me, again, that she was safe.