The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  When he closed it, Robinne stopped. Is he coming inside? No, he headed to her left. But why? She rumbled down the stairs, opened the front door, and scuttled down one step from the pavement. There, she saw her husband’s silhouette open a passenger side door, toss his bag into the back, and get into the transport. When it pulled onto the street, Robinne recognized the municipal license plate and cursed.

  She could not get into the house fast enough. Inside, she compulsively brushed her hands through her hair and paced. I should call him. But he’s sitting next to her!

  Mind scrambling, Robinne dismissed the idea of a drink. One would smooth the edges off of her anxiety; two could put her better at ease. It had been five years. She and Damario downed shots after their graduation, and followed it with marijuana – at her suggestion. Robinne’s former reputation when it came to hallucinogenic substances preceded her. But, she kicked the habit during her first pregnancy and had not sipped alcohol since.

  She hated scotch, but Damario’s Oban represented the only alcohol in the house. Without the kids to cling to, Robinne hurried to the kitchen before she changed her mind and poured herself a glass. The brown liquor gushed into the tumbler. She sniffed it at a last attempt to deter herself, but it failed. It burned going down her throat and warmed her stomach. A distinct, pleasantly distasteful residue remained on her tongue.

  Robinne refilled her glass and drank it faster than the first. I hate you.

  She placed the glass onto the counter and swallowed a generous swig straight from the bottle itself. You made me do this.

  Tears burst from her eyes as she dropped to her knees, still drinking. The scotch sloppily dribbled down the sides of her cheeks, down her chin, and onto her sweater, staining it. They’ve been sleeping together, probably this whole time. She used the edge of her sleeves to blot her face and clean off the wetness from her face.

  Seething with anger, Robinne screamed and collapsed into a sobbing heap on the black-and-white tiled floor.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  January 29, 2050

  Micah James kept the ragged sweatshirt hood pulled low over his forehead. This way, he could be unidentifiable from all distances. If anyone broached his periphery, he balled up his fists to strike first and ask questions later. The tactic served him well against the aggressive vagrants who attacked for the sake of doing it. He lost his watch and tuxedo jacket the first night he spent sleeping on the street, but gained a sweatshirt and a trenchcoat a couple of days later.

  He hoped Harper had not given up on him. He lived. Sending word in any form – a holophone call or personal appearance – threatened that status. Micah suspected the police force worked to find him, but that the people after Doctor Chu would get to him first. Once he figured out what to do, he would move on it.

  Each morning, he walked the streets, asking for food only when his stomach rumbled. Guilt plagued him. He and Harper possessed enough money to feed every homeless person for the next three counties. But he had to stay under the radar – not just for his sake, but for those counting on him.

  At six o’ clock each morning, he patronized a rescue mission on Market Street with an antique neon Jesus Saves sign hanging outside of it. The place served breakfast without scanning identification. Micah had cased it for days, unsure whether or not he could partake of it without being recognized or questioned.

  On his first day, a cheery blonde filed past the masses and made it a point to welcome him. “Hi! My name’s Crystal, but my friends call me Cee Cee.”

  Micah paused and stuttered until she laughed and clapped her hands.

  “You don’t have to tell me your name. You looked new, and I know all the regulars. Welcome to the Market Street Mission. If you need anything, ask for me.”

  This morning, he looked for her to ask if she could protect his lone valuable. Gradually, the line moved inside and he noticed a tuft of teased yellow hair bobbing back and forth behind the service line. Crystal smiled at Micah, and when he did not return it, she removed her gloved hands, dropped her spoon in the grits, and left. Soon, a man replaced her and did not break stride serving the men, women and children. Micah accepted hominy grits from him, but they would taste different now that Crystal no longer served them.

  At the end of the line, Micah looked at his pancakes, pork link sausages, eggs, grits, and toast. He eyed a seat at his customary table and started that way until Crystal arrested him with a hand on the arm and motioned with her head that he should come with her to the back.

  Micah followed her through the kitchen, around the cooks and service workers, and out the other side into a carpeted area with offices. She laid a hand on a plate outside the one labeled, C. Cantrell.

  “Come on in,” she said. “My desk is a mess, but as long as you don’t mind eating on your lap, the seats are comfortable. You look like you could use a break.”

  Micah settled against the warm red leather and relaxed for a second before voraciously digging into his food.

  Crystal folded her hands together. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you mind if I say a blessing over your food? It’s something I like to do.”

  “Knock yourself out,” he said, with a mouth full of pancake and sausage.

  “Father, thank you for this food that he’s about to receive. Bless Mister James that he may be fruitful, multiply, fill and subdue the earth with the gifts you have given him. In Christ’s name we ask all of these things. Amen.”

  Micah choked at them mention of his last name. “You know who I am?”

  She glanced at a framed picture on the wall. In it, Doctor Chu shook hands with a man, Micah assumed, pastored the mission. They stood beside a large ribbon in celebration of the building’s opening. Crystal posed at the pastor’s left side; Micah stood to Chu’s right. “I never forget a face. I was so sorry to hear about his death.”

  “What? Doctor Chu is dead?”

  “It’s been all over the news. He was murdered.”

  His appetite quickly gave way to paralyzing fear. It started in the knot formed in his stomach and spread through his limbs. The objects in his right pants’ pocket grew more burdensome by the second. Whoever got to him might be looking for me! “This is crazy,” he managed to utter. “I don’t know who to trust, or what to do.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “I don’t see how. No prayer is going to save my life this time.”

  Crystal chuckled. “Close your eyes. You’ve trusted me this far.”

  Though it violated all his beliefs and scientific training, Micah complied. He listened to Crystal call out to God on his behalf. She called Him at least three different Arabic names, asked for Micah’s protection and salvation, that his faith would increase, and she invoked the name of Jesus at the end.

  “Amen,” she said, with finality.

  “Amen,” he repeated. Micah’s body tingled, though he had not washed his body to a large extent since Tuesday night. He shoved his right hand into his pants’ pocket and lifted his plate from Crystal’s desk. His appetite had returned to full strength. The knot in his stomach dissolved, though he refused to credit it to God or prayer.

  “Would you call yourself an atheist, Mister James, or an agnostic?”

  “Agnostic,” he replied. He finished off the pancakes and moved onto the eggs. “I have doubts just like everybody else, but the questions I have, no one can answer.”

  “Scientists usually do,” she admitted. “Doctor Chu was different. He’s the only person I ever met who believed science explained acts of God instead of refuting them. Mister James, faith is all about belief without proof you can see. Most times, the proof you want doesn’t exist. You have to believe, anyway. Sometimes, that’s all you get.”

  Up for the theological challenge, Micah puffed out his chest. “That’s supposed to be good enough, huh? Tell me – do you believe in time travel, Crystal?”

  “I never think about it. And please, call me Cee Cee.”

  He ignored her. “If it was possible, would
you go back to your past?”

  “Uh uh.” She sipped long from a cup. “The past is the past. No regrets.”

  He laughed. “You don’t regret anything you’ve ever done?”

  “I regret a lot,” Crystal said. She paused and blinked hard. “But I wouldn’t change it. Mister James, every day, people count on me to do what I’m called to do. If I went to my past and changed my life, I might not have been around to change theirs.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” Micah heard a faint beeping in the room and cocked his head. His eyes scanned the room.

  “I hear it, too,” she said, staring at his legs. “It’s coming from you.”

  Without pulling out both items, Micah palmed the golden thumb-segment sized disk that Doctor Chu gave him shortly before he left the Exodus Foundation a week ago. To his surprise, the sound stopped and a holographic map popped out. It highlighted an address on the other side of town. He thought the disk to be a business card or a storage device, not a homing beacon.

  “I have a transport outside.” Crystal gathered her belongings.

  Even half asleep, Damario recognized the plush atmosphere beneath him meant Robinne had kicked him out. Their sofa was a homey-but-hardly-comfortable hand-me-down and the queen-sized mattress in their room needed replacing. He should have purchased one and taken the lecture on frivolity. Robinne preached sacrificing luxury for necessity. He respected that, but respectfully disagreed. A game-changing amount of marks collected in their account. Shouldn’t we use it?

  He cracked his eyelid open enough to see the display on his watch. Eight o’ clock? He jerked up and checked his holophone. His wife had not called, so he dialed the house and her handheld. No answer. Damario shook his head. Not yet.

  “Good morning.” Madison trolled around in the kitchen. “Sorry, D. Nothing but coffee. You know how I do it.”

  “Yeah. That’s fine.” Sitting up, he folded the bedcovers she had given him and retrieved his uniform shirt from the armchair.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, without turning around. “She’s fine. She’ll call.”

  “It’s different this time.” He reached his arms through the sleeves and buttoned the shirt close to the top.

  “Really? How so?”

  “It’s one thing about the money. The dreams were something else.”

  He did not mention Robinne’s distaste for his and Madison’s inappropriate deportment. To Madison, it was enjoyable and safe. Damario didn’t expect sex after buying her a meal. He did not lobby sleazy pickup lines at her. Their partnership boiled with sexual tension. They did not need to have sex to alleviate it, though it sure tempted her. She slept on the bed’s right side last night just in case.

  Damario slipped on his shoes and entered the kitchen, but he stayed back from Madison and the coffeemaker. After the pot filled, she handed it over. He filled the mugs she had set aside. While he returned the glass container to its warming cradle, Madison put cream and a measured amount of sugar into one, stirred it with a spoon, and passed it to him. They stood about five feet apart and silently drank.

  Madison gathered up courage. “I have to ask you something,” she spat out.

  “Shoot.”

  “Ten years, and I’ve never known you to contaminate a scene.”

  Sooner or later, he guessed Madison would bring it up. He reached into his pocket and held the disk between his thumb and middle finger. “Look at it.”

  Curious, Madison slid over to him and carefully plucked it away. From a distance, it appeared to be a business card or a storage device. Upon closer inspection, Madison noticed a difference in size and its uncharacteristically-warm temperature.

  Damario pointed at the device. “It’s a trace, Maddie. Someone’s looking for Teanna Kirkwood and it wasn’t her killer.”

  He’s right. The shots were intentionally sloppy. “The shooter didn’t remove it. . .”

  “. . .because he didn’t know it was there,” they said in tandem.

  Madison’s brain sparked with realization. “But what if you’re wrong?”

  The doorbell rang.

  The partners looked at each other – Madison quietly back to her bedroom and Damario snuck behind the couch. She reappeared with her Ordnance. Armed with his, Damario gestured toward the door. Madison hid behind a nearby support pillar. She tapped her ear and mouthed the word beeping. Even a makeshift bomb would kill them both at this distance.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  Madison calmed herself to level the stress in her voice; the built-in safety feature would trip, if the computer sensed a threat. She trained her weapon high. Damario aimed his low. “Open front door.”

  The door retracted into the ceiling. A hooded vagabond froze at the threshold.

  “To your knees!” Damario shouted. “Hands behind your head.”

  He complied, kneeling on the hallway carpet. Madison noticed his balled up right fist. “Open your right hand,” she commanded. “Slowly.”

  The man moved his hand forward and produced a gold disk, similar to that of the one Damario had shown her.

  Madison yanked back the hood, revealing his face. “Who are you?”

  Before he could answer, Damario spoke. “Micah James.”

  Shocked, Madison stepped back. Damario helped Micah to his feet, escorted him inside the apartment, and closed the door. “I’m Detective Damario Coley and this is Detective Shenk. Mind if we ask you a few questions, Mister James?”

  “No, not at all.” Before he sat down on the white leather couch, he checked Madison’s eyes for approval. “Please, call me Micah,” he said after sitting down. Damario took to the armchair, while Madison stood in front of the HTV.

  “Micah,” said Damario. “How did you get here?”

  “My former boss, Doctor Chu, gave me this.” He scratched his growing mustache and produced the disk. “He asked me to keep it for him. I had no idea what else it could do until it started beeping this morning. It showed me this address.”

  Damario dug into his pocket and palmed the other disk. “Were you looking for Teanna Kirkwood?”

  “No, but she’s one of the seven.”

  The seven? Me, Quinne, Harper, Teanna, and Micah – that’s six. Who are the other two? “Start from the beginning.”

  Just as he did with Doctor Chu, Micah played the audio from the inauguration dinner and narrated it – from Prime Minister Adharma’s death to Kareza Noor reanimating the dead body. Micah stopped and waited for reactions. Both officers were struck dumb. Neither could articulate cogent thoughts. Following a few minutes of silence, he continued his explanation.

  “I went back to the Exodus Foundation and Doctor Chu showed me something.” Micah pulled a pair of thick-looking eyeglasses from his pocket. “When I saw it, he told me to protect myself until I could get to safety. I didn’t understand. Now, I do.”

  “What's that?” Madison managed, pointing at the glasses.

  “Doctor Chu called it a Geometric Occipital Demonstrative Symbiotic Interface.”

  Damario repeated the words to himself. “G-O-D-S-I. A God’s eye?”

  Micah dismissed the acronym. “It’s retrofit to the genetic markers of seven people. I’m one of them, so is Harper. I imagine that Teanna Kirkwood’s another.”

  “What does this God’s eye show you?” asked Damario. Is Micah one of the five too?

  “It’s hard-to-explain.” Micah muttered. He remembered what he had seen of himself and his life with Harper, or lack thereof. “Can I use your holophone, Officer Shenk? I’d like to call my wife and let her know I’m alive.”

  “Sure.” She pointed around the corner. “Go into the study for some privacy.”

  “Thank you.” He got up and disappeared around the corner. Madison waited until Micah could no longer hear them talk.

  “I thought you’d be relieved. Micah James is alive.”

  “But it doesn’t solve anything. A zombie assassin running Italy?”

  “D, listen. . .” Madison
noticed that Micah left the God’s eye and his homing device next to her on the couch’s cushion.

  “. . .masquerades as a transient and reappears with a . . . whatever it does?”

  “Here.” She placed the glasses and disk onto Damario’s lap. “On each arm, look: a circular groove. Try fitting the disks in them. That might be how it works. He needed both to make it work. Chu gave him one and Teanna got the other.”

  Damario fiddled with the objects until they slid into place and the power activated. He glanced at his partner, who gave him a nod of approval. After a small hesitation, he put the arms behind his ears and rested the device on his nose’s bridge.

  In what seemed like seconds later to Damario, a firm hand shook his right shoulder. He jolted with a start and removed the God’s eye.

  “D,” Madison said with caution. “You’re alright. You were out for 45 minutes. I was about to call the hospital, but Micah insisted that you would be fine.”

  Damario flexed his right arm before gently fingering his right eyelid. Madison looked the same, except her hair measured considerably longer than what he had just seen. His wedding ring was plain yellow gold, not diamond-studded platinum, and he was a policeman, not a budding financier. Though now, his stock success made sense. He looked over at Micah James, who wore a knowing expression.

  “No, Officer Coley, you didn’t see an alternate reality. You’re living in one.”

  When Damario returned home, he halfway expected his children to mob him, thrust themselves upon his legs, and insist that he hoist them into his arms. Christian and Gabriel’s presence calmed both him and his wife following the heat of battle, and the couple tended to more readily compromise and agree once their tempers cooled. This one was different. The children were still with their grandparents.

  “Robbie?” From the bottom of the staircase, he noticed the light from their bedroom and detected the scent of liquor. Worse than I thought. “Robbie?”

  He treasured every drop of that blended scotch, and intended it to last him at least until the end of this year. Before now, it could have happened; Robinne stopped drinking altogether in ’45. To that point, the home-schooling mom handled sobriety like a professional, and though Damario shunned drinking beer in her company, she waved it off. “I can handle it,” she’d say, and she did.