Their dates, the Moguls, smirked with joshing camaraderie, some more serious, more sneering, or more envious than others, but all completely in the game. This was their world.
It was as if a drain in my spine had become unplugged, and all my strength leaked out. I could barely stand. Sandoval felt me lean on him and took it for affection, giving me a squeeze. A scream welled up, and I forced it back, shuddering, admonishing myself to be as strong as the boys. But in my mind I screamed: We should have died! Why didn’t we all just die? I wanted to just start running, run free until someone put a dot on me and blew me to bits, but the solemn faces of the boys, weirdly savage in that Kabuki makeup, held me back. They smoldered with the harsh desire to live, and I was shamed by their hideous perseverance.
Sandoval whispered to me, “Now, Lulu, I know you’ll be extremely sensitive to these men’s feelings. They want to feel that their companions are every bit as feminine as you.”
I made an involuntary grunt of disgust.
“I understand,” he said. “It’s like a comedy, isn’t it? But unless you’d embarrass these men, you should be totally respectful. Otherwise, they might take it out on your friends.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, most of these men are not homosexual. This is a big compromise for them. If they are humiliated, who do you think is going to suffer for it?”
“Why don’t they just stop doing it, then?”
Sandoval chuckled, kissing the top of my head. “My innocent.”
I stood back demurely, wanting to retch as Sandoval was enveloped by his backslapping peers. The dolled-up boys and I regarded each other amid the swells with an all-knowing blankness, not saying a word.
More champagne came by on a cart, as well as iced caviar and oysters, and I accepted some—not only to appear calm, but because it was too good to pass up. The boys regarded me with loathing as I ate these delicacies. Apparently that was where they drew the line.
I began to notice that all the waitstaff were doctors from the research compound, including Dr. Stevens and even Rudy, who was standing off on his own next to a large pet carrier emblazoned RUFF RIDER. Their eagerness to please reminded me of teachers during Open House. In some way they were on trial tonight and were doing everything they could to make a favorable impression.
No one spoke to me, but Sandoval was congratulated again and again on his “coup”—the right to throw this party and get all these VIPs under one roof. Apparently it was an unprecedented feat of influence. The snide tone of these compliments suggested that he had forfeited a lot for the privilege . . . perhaps too much.
“You’re a romantic, James,” said an olive-skinned man with several chins erupting from his cravat. “A bloody dreamer! The extraordinary concessions you have made and the expectations you have raised—it’s shocking to a conservative man like me. It’s like the risk you take by claiming this little one.” He gestured at me as if I was a pet. “You have two women when others have none—it shows a lack of delicacy. Ah! But what can one do? You lead with your heart.”
“Not my head, eh, Ibn?”
“I hope not. It is your recklessness that is keeping the other egos in check. You are the lion tamer, James. They are afraid to cross you. But if you fail to impress them tonight, it will be every man for himself. Very bad.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“I said ‘if.’ But it sends a confusing signal when tremendous capital is expended for no apparent tactical advantage.” The fat man indicated the spectacle around us. “It smacks of desperation.”
“Then I’ve confused you.”
“Not at all! As a descendant of Shah Jahan, I admire great passion . . . as well as great folly. But either way, use plenty of raw force to back it up, yes?”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
We reached the pool. It seemed hazardous to me, that deep well in the ice, the Arctic Ocean depths right there in front of us. It was about the size of a large swimming pool, but it was bottomless. My skin crawled as I realized I could see part of the boat’s gigantic hull down there in the emerald dark.
Turning away, I asked Sandoval, “Why don’t I recognize any of these men? I’ve always been a wiz at Jeopardy, but I don’t see anybody familiar in here. Bill Gates or whoever.”
“That’s because those people were not the true arbiters of power, but only the front men. Wealth is not power—rich men are just cash cows; they generate capital, but those assets are not really theirs. It’s these men who control them, from within, just as they do political power. And can use them at will. They hold the keys to the kingdom, the secret passwords that open back doors into every significant enterprise on Earth.”
“How did they get them?”
“Birthright, for the most part. They wouldn’t be here otherwise, and they know it. That’s why publicity is not something a truly powerful man seeks, because it only reveals what an obnoxious parasite he is. But anonymity is a commodity like everything else, and he can buy all he needs. He operates through many layers of intermediaries in order to accomplish what he wants to in complete privacy and freedom. If his full range of interests was to be known, barriers would rise, so he makes sure he can attack from many different angles, using his pawns in business, government, religion—whatever—to do his bidding for him.”
“Why do they?”
“It’s their only purpose.”
“The corrupt ones.”
“‘Corrupt’ is a misleading word. It makes more sense to say ‘conservative,’ because they’re only doing what they’ve always done. Familiarity and tradition are much more effective tools of manipulation than money.”
Wilting, I asked, “Is that why the world was so messed up? With wars and everything? Because of you people?”
“Lulu, we’re not God. We can’t change human nature—all we can do is cash in on it. I’ll tell you one thing: Nothing purifies a corrupt or stagnant system better than all-out war. Total destruction can be healthy.”
“Would you say we’re healthy now?”
“Hey, at least the Arabs and Jews aren’t fighting anymore.”
Nearing the front of the crowd, Sandoval and I paused to appreciate the music. The Blackpudlians were wrapping up a blistering version of “Come Together”—they looked like they were singing for their lives up there, drenched in sweat. It was hard not to climb the flower bed and touch the sail. It was so unreal. I wanted to ask Sandoval what this evening was all about—what was the big mystery?—but the music was too loud for conversation. Some of the Moguls were weeping nostalgic tears, eyes closed in reverent appreciation.
The song ended, leaving a residue of applause like silt in a bucket after the amplified music, and the band took a bow. As they did so, a couple of them saw me and nudged the others. Their eyes seemed to say, Look out. I nodded back. Then they sardonically addressed the crowd, in character as John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
“Thanks. Thank you very much. It’s been grand—how often do you get to fiddle while Rome burns?”
“And without a fiddle, at that.”
“That’s a myth, John. The fiddle hadn’t been invented in Nero’s time. Only the lyre.”
“I hate bloody liars.”
“No, the instrument. Like what they play in ’eaven.”
“What do they play in ’ell, then?”
“Apparently, old Beatles songs.” Rim shot.
“And now we’d like to introduce a man who needs no introduction. The magnanimous magnate who has made all this possible: Mr. James Sandoval!”
I was startled, though I don’t know why I should have been. Obviously, they had all been waiting for him to arrive. As applause rose and vanished into cavernous heights, Sandoval mounted the “stage” and accepted the microphone, saying, “Weren’t they great? Gee, what a treat.” He clapped for the band as they took another bow.
Someone touched my elbow, and I turned to find Dr. Langhorne standing at my side. Her eyes were int
ent on Sandoval, but she spoke to me:
“Enjoying the party?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You should be,” she said grimly. “You’re the guest of honor.”
“I didn’t have any choice,” I pleaded. “I didn’t know. What was I supposed to do?”
“Shh. Listen.”
Without a trace of irony, Sandoval said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Mogul Research Division and I are so pleased to welcome you all to this little shindig, which would not have been possible without your generous support. I do not exaggerate when I say that you gentlemen are carrying the world on your shoulders, or that your noble efforts to keep the flame of civilization alive will someday be the stuff of legend.”
This was the speech he had asked me to punch up. He gave a subtle signal, and the Blackpudlians began softly harmonizing—an undertone at first so soft as to be almost inaudible, accompanied by mournful-sweet strains of the electric organ, but rising.
“Am I presumptuous to speak of future events?” he continued. “You may wonder who will be alive to read of these glorious endeavors. You men are realists. You don’t believe in fairy tales. Since the earliest beginnings of the Mogul Project, you have expressed again and again your skepticism about our ultimate goal, preferring to focus on the less-sensational milestones along the way. Yet what milestones! Cracking the proteome. Creating the means of designing life, and programming it to serve our interests. The Autonomous Self-Replicator. These things were not narcissistic pipe dreams. They were about AIDS and Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. They were about ending human suffering.
“Perhaps that all seems very quaint now. Naive. My colleagues in the Research Division”—he indicated Dr. Langhorne—“harbor no illusions about your opinion of them: freeloaders, charlatans, crackpots. Fools and hucksters who have left us in this quagmire with no means of escape, all the while filling our heads with schemes and nonsense. You worry it’s all been a confidence game, the scam of all time, and you the suckers who bought it. I myself have even acquired a funny little nickname—we’ve all heard it: Ponzi de Leon. But in your hearts, you’re sick. Sick at the cost of it all. The ruin. The loved ones you’ve lost. You think nothing can ever make up for it . . . and perhaps you’re right.” He stooped, slowly shaking his bowed head, letting the microphone dangle at his side.
An awful silence settled on the crowd, a gulf of dead air that grew wider and wider until the offended Moguls began filling it in with grumpy asides and throat-clearing. Some of them were gloating feverishly over Sandoval’s capitulation. They thought he was throwing himself at their mercy.
Then Sandoval lifted his head and put the mike to his lips: “But. We. Did it.”
The band erupted in a blaze of guitars and screaming—the opening of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” Dr. Langhorne left me and climbed up to join Sandoval. They embraced in the spotlight like Hollywood royalty, and he said, “Dr. Alice Langhorne, ladies and gentlemen!” It was getting crowded up there.
When the music died down to an expectant hum again, she said, “Thank you, Jim. Gosh. You know, when you sift through the hysteria about Maenad Cytosis—Agent X—what you find is that in many ways the Mogul Project was an unqualified success. We did achieve what we set out to, and if it hadn’t been for one bad apple, we would have been heralded as the saviors of the human race. Has this epidemic made us lose sight of that basic truth? It has, hasn’t it? When the emphasis is all on developing a cure, a return to the status quo, that means we have failed. All a cure means is that you are back to where you started: doomed. Succeeding at that is nothing but a death sentence. So what I have to say is this: Who needs a cure? What does a cure avail us, other than a few paltry extra years in our aging carcasses? No, I say no. Why settle for the booby prize when you can have it all?”
A heckler in the crowd yelled, “Have what?”
“What you paid for in the first place. What the faithful have been promised from time immemorial.” She descended from the sail, taking the mike with her. Sandoval followed, then the rest of us. She didn’t go far, only to a low wall of ice on the far side of the sub, where the grass ended. The crowd spread out along the barrier, looking across.
There, behind the fairwater, in the half of the dome that had been deserted and dark until then, a single spotlight shone. We could see a man standing in its harsh beam, perhaps fifty feet away. He was a Xombie, or at least had that familiar blue cast to his skin, but he was not grotesque—though at first sight of him, the crowd gasped and drew their laser pointers in alarm. He was wearing a white robe, and it gave him the bearing of a Greek god. Sea green light webbed across him from a polynya at his feet—it was all that separated us from the striking, unearthly creature. As he stared back, I had the feeling of being watched by some vast dispassionate intelligence. I couldn’t believe how different he looked from the homunculus I had seen in the tank.
In a hushed voice, Langhorne said, “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Homo perrenius.”
It was Mr. Cowper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“You have seen them die, and you have seen them rise,” said Langhorne. “But you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Gentlemen, I direct your attention to the man on the conning tower.”
Sandoval had climbed stairs up to the port sailplane, the one opposite the band, and was picking up an elaborate compound bow. It was camouflage-colored, with Day-Glo arrows attached to it, and with practiced grace, he removed one, nocked it, and cranked back the string. His posture with the bow was heroic, Olympian.
Unbelieving, I mouthed the words, “What is he . . . ?”
Without the slightest hesitation, Sandoval let fly. The arrow flitted across the water, too fast to follow, but then as if by magic was planted in Cowper’s chest, its bladed point sticking out his back as if to indicate something. The old man barely reacted except to steady himself from the impact. Easy as plucking off a piece of lint, he removed the arrow and dropped it on the ice. It came out perfectly clean.
Sandoval called out, “Anybody else want to take a turn?” He held up an armload of bows.
The Moguls were suddenly animated with surprise and delight. They had not been expecting party favors this interesting. Sandoval passed down the bows, and men lined up along the wall to try their luck.
“This is sick,” I said.
“It’s a guy thing,” Langhorne replied over her shoulder.
The row of archers, twelve in all, tested the feel of their bows, some more awkwardly than others. They were so close to Cowper they could scarcely miss, but the first two who fired did, sending their arrows skittering far across the ice. Friendly ribbing and encouragement emanated from their less-adventurous fellows: “Hey, Chauncy, got your game permit?” Then several men shot almost simultaneously, and three arrows struck Cowper’s upper body—one so deeply that its gaudy quills resembled a pink boutonniere. I flinched. He didn’t bother removing them.
Everything became very quiet as the men methodically fired and reloaded. I was reminded of the boys’ grisly revenge on the fallen Xombie in the sub, so long ago. The men’s catharsis continued until the supply of arrows was exhausted. I made myself turn away, more out of protest than horror—I knew Cowper couldn’t be hurt, though he was the picture of martyrdom with all those spines sticking out of him. When they were done he looked exactly like what he was: an archery target. There were even arrows in his face! For a long moment he stood there in the water-dappled light, literally transfixed.
After a span of awed silence, the Moguls began to applaud. The bows were tossed aside and the archers welcomed back into the crowd.
Langhorne asked, “Do we all agree he can’t be harmed?”
The spectators scoffed, “Of course!” Fun over, they were more annoyed than impressed, convinced that this had been only a cheap stunt. While they were grumbling, Sandoval gave a signal and several doctors began maneuvering a light pontoon bridge across the water. This caused pandemonium:
&
nbsp; “Are you out of your mind? Stop! He’s a killer!”
Langhorne replied, “Strictly speaking, Maenads don’t kill; they share. But I understand your anxiety. Be assured you are in no danger whatsoever.”
While Dr. Langhorne was trying to calm them, Sandoval nudged me, smiling benignly. “Go to your father,” he said.
“What?”
“Go to your father, Lulu. This is it: the reunion you’ve been waiting for. It’s why you’re here. It’s why we’re all here. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not.”
My instinct was to resist, but then I realized I wanted to go to him, no matter what happened. I really wasn’t afraid. Sandoval saw the change, the tears, and nodded in encouragement. The bastard. I slapped him and jumped over the wall onto the wobbly platform, making my way across. The crowd buzz doubled, and I could hear boys entreating me to stop.
Cowper waited for me as patiently as he had borne the arrows. Something was different, I knew, or he would have been all over me. I was almost disappointed. Red speckles danced on him, and on my back as well, I’m sure. Freezer-cold air wafted off the water—I tried not to look into the depths.
As I mounted the far ice bank, I began to get anxious, thinking of the wolfish faces of Xombies I had known, including his. But this new Cowper had the calm bearing of a guru, regarding my approach with world-weary compassion rather than animal lust. Looking out from that thicket of feathered shafts, his marble black eyes were full of pity.
I wasn’t sure he knew me, and ventured, “Mr. Cowper?”
He didn’t respond.
By then we were about ten feet apart, and as I cautiously closed the distance, he turned his face away, showing all those embedded spines in profile. They looked strangely ceremonial, shamanistic. He was looking across the ice to the dark side of the dome. Someone there was running out of the shadows toward us—someone I dreaded to see.
It was Julian. He was not placid like Cowper, but of the more-familiar Maenad type, monstrous and vulpine, with all the rapturous fury of an avenging angel. A Fury.
Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Page 30
