Passing back through the park, I come across Bobby, who is journaling in his usual spot on the bench by the stream.
He smiles when he sees me. “We meet again.”
“Mind if I join you?” I ask.
“Not in the least.”
“I was kind of hoping I’d find you here. I can’t get our visit last night out of my mind.”
He nods. “An exceedingly common side effect of exposure to the city.”
“The thing is, I want to go back. Tonight.”
I brace for the rejection, for the reasoning that to return to the city so soon is foolish and risky. Instead, Bobby asks, “Do you plan to partake of the ritualistic and wholly unnecessary caloric intake at a socially appointed hour?”
“Uh, you mean dinner? Hadn’t really thought about it. Are you?”
“No. However, the end of the accepted parameters of said dinner hour, as it falls within the confines of our appointed free time and affords us the ability to slip away undetected, would be the ideal time for our journey to begin.”
I stand to leave. “I guess I’ll see you at the tower cafeteria at seven, then.”
“Tonight will be far more interesting. I guarantee it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hannah, still a strange combination of angry and worried, takes off after Active Body, Active Soul without a word as to where she’s going.
Even the rigorous yoga session isn’t enough to get me back in the swing of things or make me feel in any way part of the floor ninety-five group, so I opt for a little solitude in our room. My nerves jangle as I take in the skyline of Atman City from my perch on the picture window bench.
Seven o’clock can’t get here fast enough.
There’s a soft knock. I pull myself from the gorgeous view and thoughts of what’s to come, returned to the reality of the here and now. I answer the door, fully expecting Franklin and another lecture.
“Hey, you,” Charlie says, his blue eyes piercing through my ever-changing mood.
A big smile spreads across my face. My shoulders drop, the tension dissipating. “You’re not Franklin.”
“I’m glad you noticed.” He looks over my shoulder. “Is it okay if I come in for a minute?”
“Sure. I might even give you five minutes.” I step back and usher him in.
I join him on the couch, concerned by the troubled look in his eyes. He sits slouched, with deep creases in his brow. It’s as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, stealing the electric charge between us and leaving a void in its place.
“Sorry about getting into it with Herc during Sharing Circle,” I say, not entirely sure I mean it, but trying to clear the heaviness hanging in the air. I pull my feet up on the couch and sit cross-legged. “What’s wrong?”
His gaze is distant as he speaks. “When I first got here, those stupid stunts I pulled really set me up for failure.”
“But that was before. You’re not that guy anymore. Except when you try and impress the new girls, anyway.” I nudge his arm with my hand and smile.
He doesn’t even look at me. “I could be well on my way to getting my ticket by now if I hadn’t been so out of control. The worst thing was, it set me up to be that guy, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
His voice grows hollow as he disappears into a memory. “I was the guy everyone counted on to act like an idiot, and it became almost a job to me. That’s what they all expected, so that’s who I was. Everyone else was doing the work, participating, following the schedule. The more I acted out, the farther away from the group I drifted. It was all I could do to work my way back to the starting line. Problem was, the race had been going on without me the whole time.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for Herc—”
“I’m not here to talk about him.” Charlie’s eyes are deep pools of worry. “Hannah told me about last night.”
“Oh, did she, now?” I slide down the couch until my back is against the arm. “So mother hen sends you in here to—what? Make me feel guilty? Change my mind?”
“We’re worried about you, Dez. I know what it’s like to be new, and how easy it is to reject this place and all the rules. I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I did.”
I stand to pace in front of the couch. “Last night, when everybody else was having their lives picked apart in DSR, Bobby and I were at a diner eating greasy burgers and drinking milkshakes like something out of a cheesy old movie, but you know what? It was the first time since I got here that I felt sustained happiness. Every second in this place is like some bad dream, like a huge weight pressing down on me, and if the only thing that’s going to give me some relief is to sneak off in the middle of the night and break the rules … ” I drop back down onto the couch. “Then screw the rules.”
“So I’m a bad dream? An albatross around your neck, is that it?” He runs a quick hand through his hair. His jaw is set. “Fine, go have fun with Bobby.” He stands and strides to the door.
“That’s not what I meant,” I call after him.
A slamming door is his reply.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The cafeteria crowd is thinning as the dinner rush comes to an end. I sit at a table in the back, pushing Charlie from my mind as I skim through a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. I stop to watch the comings and goings, observing the pulse and flow of this place and its inhabitants. Neither time nor eating has any importance, yet we still cling to the ceremonies and habits of life. Here we are, stranded between life and afterlife, still clutching with a firm grip on to what’s gone. We are the limbo losers, learning little by little to let go.
Bobby’s mop of curls comes into view before I can see his face. He walks into the cafeteria close behind a girl just tall enough to block him, but I’d recognize that hair anywhere. The girl breaks toward the drink machines, clearing Bobby’s path. He scans the room, a look of concern on his face. His hands fret nervously against the strap to the messenger bag lying against his hip.
I stand and wave to catch his attention. His hands fall to his side when he spots me; the worry on his face dissolves. He nods the tiniest bit, smiling, and motions to me to join him.
“And how are you this fine evening?” he asks.
I’m suddenly aware of the weight of the book in my hands. It’s a hefty hardcover copy, and I realize I’ll be stuck carrying it with me wherever it is we’re headed. I regret bringing it.
Sensing my predicament, Bobby unzips a pocket on his bag and holds out his hand. “Would you like to stow Mr. Vonnegut for the evening?”
“Thanks.”
Bobby glances at the cover. “Unstuck in time is a possibility I have not given a great deal of credence. It is an unlikely explanation for my predicament.”
“I was just reading. It’s always been a favorite. It isn’t a suggestion or anything, Bobby.”
“I see.”
“I really have my work cut out for me, huh?”
“Convincing me of the supposed reality of this place is most definitely an uphill battle, inherently difficult and rife with pitfalls. I fear your chances of success are infinitesimal.”
“You let me worry about that,” I say. “You worry about tonight’s agenda.”
“Quite right. Are you prepared for departure?”
“My seatback is in the upright and locked position, and in the unlikely event of a loss of cabin pressure, an oxygen mask will deploy, so I’m all set.”
“Pardon?”
“Just a joke, Bobby.”
“So what happens when Franklin notices we’re gone?” I ask Bobby as we cross over the commuter rail tracks and into the city.
“My movements garner little attention, and you are new. They will most likely presume you are seeking solitude in a quiet hideaway.”
“Seeking solitude didn’t go over so well with Crosby the other night.”
“There may well be consequences for our absence, but they will wait for our return to dispense
them.”
“So we’re both covered?
“It is most likely so.”
“But I’ll be the only one getting in trouble. They don’t even bother telling you what to do anymore, do they?”
“I am but a lost cause, trapped in a dream-state of my own creation, in a machine-enabled existence between life and death. My imagination has long since grown weary of dictating my every move, leaving me more or less free to explore unhindered.”
“So I’m just a creation of your bored brain?”
“It is the only logical conclusion.”
“I’m not sure logic has much to do with this place, Bobby.” I stop to adjust the sleeves of my sweatshirt while he stashes his lantern in his bag. “So where are we heading tonight?”
“I am glad you asked.” He leads me up the street toward Club Bromios; its crowd once again spills out into the street. Just before we reach the inn adjacent to the club, Bobby makes an abrupt turn down a narrow, dark alley.
“Guess you put away your lantern too soon.” I try to sound lighthearted, but feel the full brunt of the heebie-jeebies.
“I am exceptionally familiar with the route. There is no need for alarm.”
“If you say so.”
We walk for several minutes; the alley jogs first to the left and then back to the right before we finally arrive at Bobby’s chosen destination. We stand before a squat building with a low, flat roof and a plain wooden door. A streetlight burns overhead, casting an eerie, artificial glow.
We hear voices speaking in urgent whispers approaching from the other side of the building. Bobby pulls me back into the shadows. The index finger of his free hand rests over his lips.
Two figures, obscured by shadow, stop at the nearest corner of the building.
“I can’t keep doing this,” the first figure whines, nearly inaudible.
“It’s none of your concern,” the other says in a gruff voice. “You worry about the here and now, you get me?” His voice is deadly even, with absolute authority.
“Okay, fine.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I mean, yes, sir.”
“That’s better. Now get out of here before someone sees us. I’ll come find you in a couple of days.”
They go their separate ways, and the larger of the two ducks back behind the building.
“I believe it’s clear,” Bobby says.
A sign above the building reads “Nero’s Fiddle.” Bobby knocks on the door and an iron bar above his hand slides open. A pair of eyes peers out, and, without a word exchanged, the bar slides back shut with a click. The door opens, and a balding, portly man stands before us. A grin takes up half of his mouth, while the other half curls down, resulting in a disturbing grimace. “How’s it hanging, Bobby?” he asks in a slurred greeting.
“Good evening, Nero. As usual, your colloquialisms are not without a unique charm.”
Nero looks me up and down, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who’s your little friend?”
“This is Dez. Have no fear, Nero; she is quite trustworthy.”
Nero shrugs as he ushers us in. “Good enough, then.”
Bobby gestures for me to follow the strange, greasy man. He whispers, “While certainly a unique character, Nero is most assuredly a straightforward fellow. No concern is necessary.”
We enter an old tavern. Rickety barstools sit in a crooked row. A wizened man with scraggly white hair stands behind the bar, doing his best to ignore the single customer sitting before him, who nurses a pint glass of something I can’t identify. Three marred tables line the wall near a single, grimy window.
“You kids have fun,” Nero says before disappearing through a door behind the bar.
“This is where you bring me?” I ask, my voice low but sharp.
“It has a certain charm, don’t you think?”
“No. No, I do not. Of all the places you could go, why would you choose to be a regular here?”
“All will be made clear. Follow me.”
“That wasn’t the Nero, was it?”
“Heavens, no. The real Nero would know the fiddle wasn’t available to play while Rome burned, as it hadn’t been invented yet.”
“Good point.”
Bobby leads me through the same door Nero used and down a dusty, narrow hallway. We pass a small room on the left, and I notice a cobweb hanging directly above the doorway. A bug is trapped at the web’s center.
“Getting eaten in the afterlife. That’s got to suck,” I muse as we pass.
At the end of the hall is another door, which Bobby opens without knocking. He pivots, blocking my view of what’s inside. “I must inform you, Dez, what you are about to witness, and in which you may well choose to participate, is an activity that is vigorously and strictly forbidden. I cannot stress enough how serious a breach of Atman policies and procedures it is to even entertain thoughts of entering this room. You will find this in no manual, pamphlet, or guide, but it is a grievous infraction, nonetheless. If you wish to leave, I am amenable to escorting you back to the dormitory without, in the common slang, ‘hard feelings.’”
His words, rather than chastening me, fill me with an overwhelming desire to see what’s in the room. Forget consequences and self-preservation. I’m dead. What’s to preserve?
“Sounds serious.” I stand on my tiptoes, trying to peer over his shoulder.
“I fear you are not considering my words with the gravity I must insist they deserve.”
“If this is all your imagination, what does it matter? Besides, we’re already breaking the rules, so what’s one more?”
“Fair enough.” Bobby steps inside and welcomes me in. “We appear to be alone. That is unfortunate. It is far more interesting when one has the opportunity for observation.”
The walls and floor have a polished metal finish, and the black ceiling is covered in familiar constellations. The room is well lit, but with no noticeable light source. I count a dozen onyx pods spaced evenly along the walls. Each pod has a door large enough to crawl into.
Bobby puts a hand on my arm to stop me as I move to get a closer look. “Are you certain you wish to proceed?”
Lost in fascination, I barely register his words. “Watch me,” I mumble, slipping free. I don’t know what these pods are, but I feel a sudden and powerful pull, as though they’re calling out to me. Bobby follows close on my heels as I approach the nearest one.
I run my hand across the pod’s outer shell, captivated. “What is this?”
“What stands before us is very special, indeed. I believe—and I am most likely alone in this—we are at the nerve center of my unconscious mind, which, as you can imagine, opens up near limitless opportunities for observation and research. However, it’s generally accepted as …” He shakes his head. “I shudder to call it ‘fact.’ These pods are a means of communication.”
“Have you tried it?”
“No. I come here for the sole purpose of observation.”
“Then how do you know what they do?”
“Years of observation in combination with interviewing participants for first-hand accounts. I have over five hundred pages of data.” He talks about his research like it’s a child or a favorite pet.
“Anything ever go wrong?” I ask. My fingers trace the frame of the pod’s small door. A shiver runs up my spine.
“I can only speak to the consequences on this side of the communication link, of course, but I have seen no ill effects. However, I have never witnessed the use of a pod by a tower resident.”
“So what’s the big deal, then?” He’s been here thousands of times and has seen no real reason to stay away, but he’s never tried it? Not even once? Amazing.
“The big deal, as you call it, is with whom you may communicate.”
My hand drops to my side. “What, I can call up Crosby on his headset and blow the whole thing?”
“Oh, no,” he says. “The power found within these pods is far greater, and thus strictly f
orbidden. I would strongly discourage any such contact with Crosby. He would be most displeased to learn of your presence here.”
“If it’s forbidden, what are the pods doing here? Why would they let the less-than-savory people in the city have access to them?”
Bobby frowns. “Of that, I am not certain. If rumors are to be believed, there have been multiple attempts to shut this facility down, but such threats created an uproar—one great enough that the Atman authorities have chosen to look the other way, so to speak.”
“Have you ever been in one?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the big draw?”
“Scientists are observers by nature, and I can find nothing more worthy of observation than this very place and the communicative power so many believe these pods contain.”
I roll my eyes, growing tired of dancing around the issue. “You going to tell me the big secret, or what?”
“The living, Dez. You may contact any living being you wish.”
“What?” I whisper. “Are you serious? I mean, how? How is that even possible?”
“Simply step inside.”
“That’s it?” With a shaking hand, I open the pod’s hatch.
Bobby puts his hand on my shoulder. “If you wish to proceed, please bear in mind this critical guideline: Simply listen to whomever you choose to contact. Under no circumstance should you speak to them.”
“But why not? I want to tell my parents I’m okay. I want them to hear me.”
“That would lead to potentially catastrophic consequences, and could easily set off a series of disastrous events like so many dominoes.”
“Why should I believe in consequences for something you don’t even believe is real?”
I climb in and shut the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A light-blue glow illuminates the cramped space. My harsh, shuddering breaths reverberate in an eerie cacophony as my unsteady hands run across the smooth confines. My fingers seek out a button, touchscreen, dial, or whatever it is that will enable my contact with the living world. I need to hear my mom’s voice. I need to tell her I’m okay, to make sure she and Dad take care of each other, and to let them know we’ll be together again someday. They’ve never been big believers in an afterlife, but here I am. It might make them feel better to know. There’s so much I want to say, so much I didn’t get the chance to.
Life, A.D. Page 15
