by John Ridley
Eddi heard that last part but didn't take it in any particular way. Really, before Tashjian was halfway through with his spin Eddi already knew what she was going to come back at him with.
"The problem with that," she said like she was stating the obvious (to her she was), "is that you'd have to be soft for metanormals."
"Didn't you used to refer to them as freaks?"
"I think if it was to your advantage, you'd have sympathy for them. You've sold your soul so many times the devil wouldn't want it. But there's no advantage to backing them. There's nothing for you to gain, no reason for you to be on their side. So I think you're full of shit."
"Eddi…»
His being familiar with her sounded very weird to Eddi's sensibilities.
Tashjian said: "There's so much to be gained, and there is so very much to be lost. Revelation is coming… " He turned his head slightly, peeled back the bandage that covered his ear. The ear Eddi had mangled with her dentition. Gave Eddi a real good look. Tashjian put forth the slightest amount of effort-a kid making faces on the school yard-and the torn, misshapen lobe filled itself out, formed new cartilage and flesh and blossomed fresh. It held an intact shape for a moment-for just a moment-then reverted to looking as Eddi had re-created it.
"The truth," Tashjian said, "will set us free."
Tashjian took Eddi's Pom bottle, took a. drink of the stuff. The twist of his lips said he didn't particularly care for It.
Eddi kept up a stare at his ear.
To Eddi: "I will see you later. Officer Aoki."
Tashjian got up from the steps, got himself inside his house.
I'm not going to say.. I'm not going to say I'm stunned, I quit being stunned years ago. I quit having my sense blocked from me that day about three months after San Francisco when the government announced that they were going to stop trying to do any DNA testing to identify remains because there basically were no remains to get tested in the devastated part of the city. I'd lost my father, but I'd never really have any.… closure is a word I've come to hate. The psychologists always sling that around as if at some point you can shut the book on tragedy, on loss. Do this and you can break with your hurt. Do that and you can move on from the past. Anyone who talks about closure is either some unfeeling bastard or someone who s never once in their life truly suffered loss. My intimate relationship with the incredible will forevermore be unaltering.
So something getting the best of Soledad, Raddatz working with the metanormals, a human making himself over into a metanormal, Tashjian being a metanormal. Me using metanormal over the F-word…
None of that is incredible to me.
It's only daunting.
Like Raddatz'd said: Power always is. And information is power. And I had a lot more, a shitload more info than most people walking around.
What to do with it? That's the question.
You don't go into the fight asking questions. You can't. You can't hesitate, you can't think too hard. There's a call to duty, you do your duty. You trust the people who are sending you to do the fighting, the killing, have already spent a lot of nights not sleeping hut up thinking. Worrying. Considering.
Then the fight goes on a little too long. Then you start asking questions. You start thinking the people who sent you to do battle don't have one idea in hell what the battle 's about. Or maybe they know too well what they 're doing. Maybe their fight isn't really what you're fighting for. It's not about Archduke Ferdinand or the Tonkin Gulf or WMDs.
Excuses. Not reasons.
But by the time people like me start asking questions it's way too late for going back. All there is, is slogging forward in the normal as we know it.
So the struggle continues. Of course it does. Probably will beyond my lifetime. But in my lifetime how do I engage-how do I reengage-the struggle? Who am I fighting for? What am I fighting against? Even if I knew what the end objective was, I've got no idea what I've got to sacrifice to achieve it: the law or morality?
As I write this, I feel, I feel like a pugilist between rounds. Beaten about badly, trying to get bearings. Knowing no matter my hurt, when the bell sounds I've got to take center ring.
Okay.
That's okay.
Every other round I took to the fight with my fists, my balls and my father's knife. They've gotten me this far. But next time I go do battle I'll have one thing more.
I've got Soledad's gun.
About the Author
John Ridley is a triple-threat writer of novels, film, and television, plus he is a regular contributor to NPR on their "Morning Edition." Ridley gained considerable attention for his first novel. Stray Dogs, which was made into the motion picture U Turn directed by Oliver Stone. Ridley followed with the critically acclaimed, Love is a Racket, Everybody Smokes in Hell, A Conversation with the Mann, and The Drift. His science fiction titles include Those Who Walk in Darkness and its sequel What Fire Cannot Burn.
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