by Cody Sisco
Why didn’t that bother anyone else?
As Victor stared down at the body, the mausoleum began to fill with a rippling pressure, and darkness swirled in front of his eyes like black ash. A blankout, now? They usually came on more slowly.
Victor felt a presence nearby, smothering, and then he went blank.
***
Victor bent over the coffin, hands clenching the dead man’s lapels. The corpse’s ribs flexed under the pressure, and a breath of foul air rose up, smelling of gas and smoke. Like Carmichael.
Mourners’ muttering filtered through the quiet mausoleum.
Victor had blanked out, but likely only for a few seconds. He felt none of the numbness and disorientation that accompanied a longer time away.
Blankness threatened to return. He clamped his eyes shut. Bodies moved in the blackness, reaching toward him, accusing. Murderous emanations, like subaural bass notes, rippled over his skin. The hairs on Victor’s neck rose.
Victor opened his eyes and stared into a young woman’s face. Then he recognized her.
Elena Morales, her lips painted navy and ringed by black pencil, hair tightly coiled at the back of her head, was at his side, asking, “Are you all right?”
“Someone killed him,” he whispered.
Elena’s puffy eyes widened. “Let’s get you out of here,” she said. “Fresh air. Different sensations.”
Victor leaned heavily against her as they moved toward the exit. They had to navigate past a clot of unfamiliar faces who’d queued to pay their respects. Victor’s grandparents’ little lapdogs yapped outside, masking the sounds of mourners’ quiet sobbing. Several strangers clothed in black turned to Victor and offered their condolences. They probably mistook his stony silence as a sign of deep, natural grief. Or maybe they dismissed him as someone whose mind could never be properly understood.
Shock them and shock their judgments, Victor thought, and he let Elena lead him outside.
What was she doing here? They’d started dating in high school, but then there was his horribly botched good-bye when she moved to the Republic of Texas five years ago. They hadn’t spoken since. How was she even talking to him after such a miserable breakup?
When they reached the lawn, he avoided her gaze and stared at the Oakland & Bayshore skyline peeking from the fog. The dogs continued yapping like little bug zappers, though he couldn’t see them.
He tried not to think about his granfa and the strange intuition that he had been murdered.
Victor felt better outside, away from the other mourners’ staring eyes. Grieving people wanted to make eye contact for longer than usual. Dr. Tammet’s 3-5-7 rule said to maintain eye contact for three seconds when observing strangers, five seconds when speaking to someone, and seven seconds when listening.
Elena stepped in front of him. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
Victor returned her steady gaze. Her eyes were brown, with green flecks, like emeralds casually scattered on a pile of brown sugar. He should be weighed down by their history, but he felt only relief.
He said, “I was doing well. Dr. Tammet said I was improving. A year ago, nothing like this would have happened.”
“And this time?” she asked.
“Murder.” He sighed and shook his head at the ground. “I went blank, and when I came back I was certain my granfa was murdered.”
Elena stared at him with wide eyes. “Wow, that’s something, even for you. Nobody is murdered in SeCa these days. At least not in the civilized parts,” she added.
She was right. He sounded crazy for saying it aloud. Everyone knew that Europe’s special interest in SeCa and its authoritative brand of “enlightened social engineering” meant that murder had no place here. Accidents, yes; manslaughter, sometimes yes; but premeditated and cold-blooded murder? It just didn’t happen.
He wanted to hold her, but her stiff posture told him that she would back away if he tried.
Victor massaged his temples. “This feeling . . . it’s so strong.”
“It’ll pass.”
“You won’t tell, will you?” he said.
Elena put one hand on his shoulder. “He died of heart failure.”
Victor blurted, “What about the blotches on his face? And his hair. He looks sick.”
“He was sick.”
Victor moved away. “No! The last time I saw him—it was only a few months ago, and he was perfectly healthy.” As soon as he said it, he realized it wasn’t true. Granfa Jeff had been short of breath. He’d leaned against the front entrance of the hospital and looked fatigued.
Elena scrunched her brow and frowned. “Maybe you feel guilty. You cut yourself off from people when you’re angry or hurt. It’s a pattern with you. Like your obsession with the number two.”
Victor jammed the toe of his shoe into the grass, and it came away with a small clump of foamy dirt on its tip. He said, “Two is the best. It’s the only even prime number.”
She said, “You seem different. How long have you been like this?”
He could feel her scrutinizing his face. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Horse balls,” she said. “You’re about to pop.”
Victor gulped.
Elena wrapped her arms around him.
He tensed, realizing he’d read her emotions incorrectly. She must still care for him, despite his bad behavior.
Her gauzy black blouse felt loose, like a snake skin ready to be shed. Their cheeks pressed together, and a warm comforting flush bloomed and moved down his chest, down his arms, along the length of his body to his toes.
“Thank you, Elena. You always calm me down.”
She let him go. “I’m glad to be good for something,” she said.
“Why’d you come back?” Victor asked.
“I heard about your granfa. I know how important he was to you. I thought that my being here might help. If we can be friends again, we can look after each other.” Elena pressed the fingers of one hand through his hair. “It’s not easy being alone.”
Her words were soothing, but for some reason Victor’s mouth turned sour. Why was she being so nice to him? He hadn’t returned her calls and messages since she’d moved away. She had every right to hate him.
Victor saw Granma Cynthia emerge from the mausoleum.
“Victor?” Elena said. She was watching him carefully.
“She spent the most time with him,” he replied. “I have to ask her why he looks so strange.”
Elena glanced over her shoulder and spotted the old woman. She whipped her gaze back to Victor. “No, you’re not thinking straight. Let it pass.”
“She must know something.”
“Don’t do this.”
Granma Cynthia trudged to a nearby iron rail fence. A black scarf covered her hair. A large sapphire-and-onyx brooch was affixed to her navy blue frock.
Victor brushed past Elena and trotted toward his granma.
“I’m going home now, Victor,” Granma Cynthia told him as he approached. “I’ll see you this afternoon. You’ll come by.”
It was a command, not a question. Victor nodded. “Granma, we both know it wasn’t cardiac arrest, don’t we?”
Her mouth twitched, and she gave him a harsh look. “What on earth?”
“The way his hair fell out. And those splotches . . .”
Granma Cynthia glared at him. “You haven’t seen him for months, and this is how you show concern? I won’t be drawn into one of your speculations.”
Victor took a breath, then said, “I know it sounds crazy, but I know that Granfa was murdered.”
Chapter 5
Individuals with mirror resonance syndrome cannot be identified by their facial features or by their facial expressions. This is a harmful, albeit common, misconception that contributes to the stigmatization of people with MRS in SeCa.
Yes, it’s true that the subconscious exchange of dissonant micro-expressions can provoke unsettling feelings in some people, but it takes an extraordinary sensitivi
ty to perceive them. The popular myth that anyone can spot someone with MRS is blatantly false.
—Statement by Dr. Laura Tammet, the Eastmore family’s neuroscience advisor (1998)
Semiautonomous California
23 February 1991
Granma Cynthia’s mouth dropped open, but only for a moment. “Jefferson was murdered? That’s an antiquated word and entirely inappropriate at a funeral. How can you say such a thing?”
Victor stared down at the grass. If he had a tail, it would be curling between his legs. “His face looked . . . His skin looked . . . corroded. Hair thinned.” He looked up, trying his best to shape a complete sentence. “Did he say anything before he died? Anything suspicious?”
Granma Cynthia shook her head. “We’ve done so much for you over the years, Victor. It’s such a shame when you get like this. I know it’s not your fault, it’s your condition . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “Of course, I noticed how sick he looked. He always explained it away. For heaven’s sake, he was the doctor.”
Victor said, “But—”
Granma Cynthia cut him off with a wave of her hand and stalked toward the mausoleum. Then she stopped and turned, raising her chin and drawing a long breath. “Jefferson would know how to snap you out of this delusion, but I don’t. It was a viral infection, Victor. Something he picked up on his travels.” She smiled faintly. “He made a big show of taking his medication. Three times a day. He made a joke of it.”
Granma Cynthia gazed far away, and her face softened as if she were remembering happier times. Mimicking Granfa Jeff’s tone precisely, she said, “‘We haven’t tamed all the diseases of the world, not yet,’ he said.”
She left him and disappeared around the corner of the mausoleum.
Victor felt pinned to the spot. The weight of what he’d just said sank him. He wanted to bury himself and inhale raw dirt until his lungs bled. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?
He told himself to snap out of it. Useless. It wouldn’t be a mental illness if he could control it, would it?
Clumps of mist wandered like ghosts over folds in the hills, soon to evaporate and vanish. That lunatic Samuel Miller would think the mist shifted from this world to the next.
Mason Charter, Jefferson Eastmore’s rival in business and a college-era friend, strode through the mausoleum’s doorway. He scanned the surroundings, spotted Victor, and approached.
“A fine performance,” he said.
Victor blushed. Everyone must be talking about how he’d collapsed on his granfa’s coffin.
“Not you, son. I’m talking about your grandfather.”
“What do you mean?”
Mason, a towering bulk, white as could be, and wrinkled, leaned toward Victor. “He didn’t fool me. He played the patient well. But I’ve known Jeff for decades. I always knew when he was bluffing.”
“Bluffing? You mean playing tricks?”
“I judge a man by his actions. He may have tried to put on a brave face, but he was panicked, desperate even. What would cause a man who spent his life building an empire to hack it to pieces in his final months? That’s what I want to know.”
Victor asked, “Do you think he was murd—”
Mason quieted Victor with a hand on his mouth. “Shhh. Let it go for now,” Mason whispered, nodding at the MeshNews van and crew waiting at the end of the lane. “Whatever Jefferson was hiding will come out in time.” He turned and walked toward the parking lot.
Victor felt lighter. He wasn’t the only one with suspicions. He would talk to Mason later and ask him what he—
A scream flew across the lawn. And then another, from around the corner of the mausoleum.
Victor ran, turned the corner, and found Granma Cynthia. Her terriers nipped at her legs. Their leashes tangled around her calves, trapping her. The dogs jumped, slashing their little teeth and claws at the hem of her dress and her ankles. She squawked and motioned to him for help.
Victor acted without thinking. He unhooked the leash from the smaller dog’s collar. Before the animal was aware of its freedom, Victor tucked it under his arm. The dog squirmed and tried to bite him, but it could only clamp its teeth on Victor’s jacket. Bending down, Victor grabbed the other dog’s collar and pressed down, pinning the animal at the neck. It yelped angrily and tried to twist away.
It took a few moments for his granma to recover her wits, but when she did, she unhooked the other leash and untangled the dogs. A few people had been drawn by her screams. Circe arrived first. She took the larger dog in her arms, trying to calm it with her voice, but keeping vise grips on its skull and ribs. Victor held the other and mimicked her sounds.
“Are you okay, Mother?” Circe asked. “Did you bring carriers?”
Granma Cynthia’s chest heaved. “There’s . . . two . . . in the car.”
Always two, Victor thought.
Granma Cynthia gathered and lifted the hem of her dress. A shiny bloodstain spread through her stockings. “A good pair ruined.”
The three walked across the parking lot and managed to get the animals stowed in their carriers. The door of the luxury car clicked closed. The dogs’ angry yapping was muted.
“Are you okay?” Circe asked Victor.
“I’m fine.”
“They’re going to have to be put down, you know,” Circe informed her ma. “You can’t live with them like that.”
“Jefferson loved them, so I thought they should be here. They’re not always like that. Something must have set them off.” Granma Cynthia glanced at the MeshNews van further down the drive, but the reporters were nowhere to be seen. “Christ, I hope this doesn’t go into their report.”
Victor hoped otherwise. He could see the MeshNews header: Man with MRS Saves Jefferson Eastmore’s Widow from Rabid Dogs, Calls for Repeal of Carmichael Laws.
Circe put her arm around her ma. “Father should have put them down months ago when they started behaving like this. Another sign he was losing his—”
“Quiet!” Granma Cynthia tore away from her daughter’s embrace, wheeled around, and held a single, motionless finger up in warning. “I’m tired of the speculation. I don’t need to hear it from you too. Of all the days, Circe Eliza Eastmore, please just zip it. I’ve heard enough!”
Circe held up her palms. Then she adjusted the webwork of black silk covering her dark curls. Victor thought she might be smiling, or maybe she was just embarrassed.
Circe said to Victor, “You handled that well. Calmly. We don’t give you enough credit.”
She reached into a pocket and handed each of them a black handkerchief. Victor wiped saliva off his suit. Granma Cynthia blotted her calf.
“Yes, he’s all highs and lows today,” Granma Cynthia said.
Circe crossed her arms and looked at Victor. “What’s she talking about?”
“Nothing,” Victor said. He turned to his granma. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t—just forget what I said. Please. It’s—I wasn’t myself. I’ll be fine.”
“You better be. This family cannot take another loss. If you get sent to a retreat or, God forbid, one of those facilities—”
“I won’t,” Victor said. “I can look after myself.”
Circe smiled. “That’s the Eastmore way. Isn’t it, Mother? Do you want company on the drive home?”
Granma Cynthia waved her daughter away. “I’m fine. You go see where Robbie has got to.”
Victor walked to his car. He didn’t want any help. Not Elena’s, not his family’s. He wanted to take care of himself. He wanted to pass his next Classification Commission reevaluation with his freedom intact. He wanted a calm, predictable life.
People in hell want ice water, Granfa used to say.
Mid-step, Victor stopped. Had he taken his dose this morning? Thinking back to the bustle of showering, dressing, and driving to the mausoleum, he tried to identify the precise instant when he’d taken the pill from its case, put it in his mouth, and gulped it down. He remembered doing it, didn’t he? Pill on th
e tongue. A sip of water. But he could be remembering yesterday or the day before. When you do something so often, there’s nothing to mark it in memory, and so how are you to know?
He shook his head at his stupidity. He would take his dose after dinner, maybe double it up, and try to forget the stupid M-word: murder.
Chapter 6
The tragedy of mirror resonance syndrome is the unpredictable nature of its symptoms and the disease’s degenerative progression. The anxiety of not knowing how the condition will evolve. That’s what takes its toll on sufferers and their families.
We’ve all seen the vidfeeds showing rows of hospital beds filled with catatonic people. Think of the questions patients must ask themselves. Will that be me someday? When will I lose the ability to tell fact from fiction? At what point will my family give up on me?
I didn’t focus on the disease. I focused on treatment. My goal was to give Victor hope, to make him believe that he could have a different future. If I succeeded in anything, it may have been that.
—Statement by Dr. Laura Tammet, the Eastmore family’s neuroscience advisor (1998)
Semiautonomous California
23 February 1991
The Eastmore mansion’s gate sensors registered the approach of Victor’s car and opened automatically. He parked in a garage separated from the main building by a narrow pergola covered in grape vines. Lê Quang Hieu, the house butler and Victor’s favorite by far among its staff, met him at the front door. His black hair was nearly hidden by his white puck-shaped servant’s hat.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” Hieu said, meeting Victor’s eyes. He’d been at the funeral and witnessed Victor’s difficulties. Hieu wasn’t the type to gloss over or ignore Victor’s condition. He was always asking Victor how he was feeling and looking for ways to show that his position as head of the staff was much more than a job to him—it was a duty, one he undertook with genuine devotion.
“Yes, thank you, Hieu. I’ll be glad when this day’s over.”
