Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  I rented an old skimmer jeep and set out for Torrance, site of Rick’s first supposed miracle. The heater was slow to kick in and my breath made white plumes in the air before me.

  Rick, I thought. Where are you? Will I sense you before I see you? Does the old twinsense still work after so many years of idleness?

  In the badlands halfway between Torrance and White Sands, the vegetation is sparse, the wind wicked, and the population thin. Jolting along the rutted pavement in my rented jeep, I passed one unnamed town that was little more than two streets meeting in a T intersection. Ten miles beyond that I saw the first shrine. At least, that’s what I think it was.

  A primitive structure of weathered boards and scrap wood nailed and wired together, fitted out with bright metallic paint and pieces of mirror, it looked like a five-year-old child’s first creation in arts and crafts. A white, half-burned candle sat, flame extinguished, in the middle of a pile of pears, oranges, and tattered bits of paper.

  Notes? Pleas for succor? Requests for intercession?

  I killed the engine and got out of the jeep. The first note was illegible, words weathered into a creamy blue smear. But the second had been laser-printed, and although the type was faded it was still legible: “Praise God. You were the answer to our prayers. Bless you and keep you. With love and deep gratitude, the Mendez family.”

  The next was handwritten in indelible ink: “To the Desert Prophet, whoever you are, wherever you are, you saved my life and I’ll never forget you. Someday, somewhere, I will find you and somehow repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Ricardo Aroncio.”

  Appended to it was some childish scrawl: “Dear Desert Angel, please make my sister Rosa’s leg stop hurting.”

  A chill unrelated to the temperature of the air danced up my spine and down again.

  Who was the writer petitioning? Jehovah? Buddha? Shiva? And why out here in the middle of nowhere?

  I got back into the skimmer and slammed the door. A mile down the road I came across another shrine. No child’s craft, this. Someone had spent money and time on the slim cylinder. Its matte-gray surface held a holographic message that scrolled patiently and then rescrolled, rainbow letters wavering in the thin sunlight. The content was simple: “Thank you, our benefactor, whoever you are, for the gift of your goodness and your aid. Samuel is mending. Without your help he would have died. We invite others who have been touched by your grace to join us. Fax: 5050-758-1478.”

  It was a Taos exchange. Taos was five hours up the road but I decided to find these people and learn why they had spent so much money erecting a sign in the wastelands to somebody they didn’t even seem to know.

  Taos was once a small town dominated by a square plaza where locals watered their horses and later parked their automobiles. Of course, that plaza is now the centerpiece of a multilevel civic center built to accommodate the needs of the two hundred thousand people who live in the greater Taos metropolitan area. I think there’s even a brass plaque somewhere to indicate where D. H. Lawrence once used the bathroom.

  The jeep was too old to have a dashfax so I parked it and used a public kiosk. I sent a note explaining that I was researching the desert phenomenon and received a quick reply from Betty Smithson, wife of Samuel. We agreed to meet in the bar of the Taos Hotel. The original hostelry, which dated back to the nineteenth century, had been enshrined within the sparkling new 150-room inn. A state-of-the-art air system pumped the scent of old leather into the lobby and two Native Americans wearing bright woven jackets (and doubtless paid by the management to add local color) occupied tables near the door of the ultra-rustic bar. I was surprised when the red-bandannaed barmech produced a hypo cleverly disguised to look like a farm implement. I didn’t much fancy pressing what appeared to be a rusty trowel against my arm but it was better than being asked to drink from a trough. The alcohol took the chill off and perked me up considerably.

  Betty Smithson was a tall, muscular woman of around fifty with faded good looks that reminded me of an overexposed vid. Her blondish hair was almost white and her pale blue eyes were vivid in a very tan face. She wore a sturdy brown jacket, jeans, and only one silver bracelet. Her handshake was strong.

  “So you saw one of our signs?” she said. “I haven’t thought about those old things for a while.”

  “One? How many did you put up?”

  “Twenty between here and White Sands, about two years ago.”

  “Isn’t that a bit expensive?”

  She shrugged. “We’re fifth-generation ranchers. We’ve been very lucky.”

  “It was an impressive sign, no doubt about it. But why did you put it up to begin with?”

  She gave me a sharp look as though I had startled her. “But I thought you knew! Didn’t you fax me about the desert miracles?”

  “Well, yes, that’s what I’m here investigating—”

  “Oh, I misunderstood. I thought you’d had a similar experience. I’m not interested in talking to reporters.” She stood up and headed for the door.

  I hurried after her. “Wait, please, Mrs. Smithson. I’m genuinely interested. And I’m not a reporter. I’m a doctor.”

  She paused, turned. “Show me some credentials.”

  I flashed my hospital ID holo at her.

  Her eyes widened. “Akimura? Is that really your name? Well, why didn’t you say so? You must be Rick Akimura’s brother. He said he had a twin. No one else knows, of course.” She leaned closer, confidentially. “He won’t even tell anybody his last name. I’m the only one who knows. Forgive me, Dr. Akimura. I didn’t mean to be rude—I had no idea who you were. I guess I’m afraid of being treated like one of those nuts on the evening news.”

  “Please, let’s sit down and talk about it.” I gestured toward two deep leather chairs in a dim corner. After a moment’s hesitation she sat.

  “Now, about that sign,” I prompted. “Why did you say you put it up?”

  “Well, we had to, didn’t we?” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though people routinely paid small fortunes to have holosigns erected in the wastelands. “After all,” she said, “he saved Samuel when that skimmer nearly crushed him. As it was, Sam got a fractured pelvis. Even with the drugs it took him months to heal.”

  I leaned closer. “And who was it, this man who saved your husband?”

  “But I thought you knew. It was Rick. He had golden eyes, just like yours, so I knew he was a mutant. Took Sam to the hospital as quick as you could imagine. Quicker. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Despite misgivings about intruding on her privacy, I ventured a quick telepathic probe. But all I saw was a blurred dark-haired figure, indistinct, and some peculiar mental static, rare in a nonmutant.

  “He hardly said a word,” she said. “When that skimmer started to fall off its hoist he was just right there. Don’t know where he came from. But now that we’ve found him, we’ll help him all we can.”

  “We?”

  Her voice took on a steely timbre. “That’s right. We’ve formed a group. We call ourselves Better World—B.W. for short. I’ll tell you, Dr. Akimura, I didn’t ever have much use for what you might call faith. Never thought much of it. But frankly, this has changed my mind about hope. Trust. And everybody else this man has helped feels the same way. This is something good, Dr. Akimura. I don’t really know how else to explain it.” She stared at me and her eyes were bright with inner fire. “For two winters we’d been hearing stories out here of a ghost who kept helping folks with their problems. Well, I don’t think there ever was any ghost. I know it was Rick. Had to be. And all of us whom he’s helped, we wanted to thank him. So we joined with him to help him reach others.” She paused, then added, almost shyly, “He is your brother, isn’t he?”

  I forced a polite smile. “He may be, Mrs. Smithson. I don’t really know yet. That’s why I’m out here to begin with.” Inwardly, I was rattled. If a woman as sturdy as Betty Smithson could find an epiphany in the actions of this ghostly desert mutant, how many
other people might join her? Soon there would be shrines sprouting next to every chamiso bush from here to the border. And an army of true believers. Had the Mutant Council been right about Rick drawing a private army around himself for comfort and protection? “I certainly appreciate your honesty,” I said. “But perhaps you should be careful whom you confide in. For your own sake.”

  “Oh, I’m no blabber,” she said. “I agreed to meet you because I’d hoped you would join us. I see now you can’t do that. Yet. But you seem to have an open mind. I don’t think the others would have objected to my talking with you.” She glanced down at her watch. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you come along with me and see for yourself?”

  2

  we drove up route 522, past Lobo Peak and Carson National Forest, and were almost in Questa by the time I saw the holosign advertising Better World. We turned right, drove past a grove of blue-gray junipers, and into the sprawling Better World compound.

  The air was already sharp with cold and the wintry sun cast long purple shadows over a complex of buildings nestled into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Clay-colored walls intended to resemble adobe rose for three stories to a flat, tiled roof. A silver holosign on the front of the building proudly proclaimed Better World in bright, slanting letters. It had been designed to look like a huge Navajo belt buckle.

  I took another lungful of chilly air and followed Betty Smithson through the wide carved wooden doors into the main building. She removed her coat and I saw she wore a blue suit that nearly matched her eyes. A Better World logo was embroidered on the back: a golden circle drawn around the blazing New Mexican sun motif. The design reminded me uncomfortably of Mutant Unity pins I’d seen long ago: a golden circle that enclosed a staring golden eye.

  Her eyes searched mine for a moment. “We’re just in time for the evening meeting.” She made a gracious and proprietary gesture that took in the entire building. “So what do you think of our center?”

  I glanced around. The entry hall was cast in striped tiles, white and black, with red lanterns hanging from a central beam in the ceiling. The floor was a soft resilient ceramic, red and white with black accents that reminded me of old Navajo weavings. The place had the look of a brand-new hospital. But not the odor, at least. I was astounded by the scale of the place.

  “Mrs. Smithson,” I said. “Forgive me for asking, but how can you afford all this?”

  Her smile was a bit smug. “Donations. Oh, don’t look at me that way, Dr. Akimura. We don’t solicit money. Never have. But that doesn’t mean we don’t accept gifts. And people seem to want to give and give. We just bought a bankrupt business park and had a few changes made to suit us.”

  “These donations sound very … convenient.”

  Her smile dimmed, then disappeared. “I don’t see anything wrong with that. And neither does Rick.” She paused. “But you haven’t answered my question yet.”

  “Well, I think it’s really very nice,” I said, and stamped my feet to get some circulation in them. “In an antiseptic kind of way.”

  “What do you mean, antiseptic? The design incorporates elements of traditional Native American design but it’s meant to be functional.” She seemed about to say something else when a door slammed down the hall and a brief snatch of rhythmic music danced teasingly on the air.

  “They’re getting started earlier than I’d thought,” she said. She looked relieved, even grateful for the distraction, and began to walk toward the music, quickly outpacing me. “Come on, Dr. Akimura. Just leave your coat here.”

  When I hesitated she shook her head impatiently. “You don’t want to miss all the fun, do you?”

  I shed my heavy parka and hurried after her through the red door and into a huge, multitiered partial atrium whose back wall was paneled in weathered, carved wood. It was filled with people on every level dancing, singing, eating, and drinking. Champagne bubbled from a green ceramic fountain shaped like a prickly pear cactus as a mechband laid down a steady, infectious tribal beat.

  Below us on the main floor a tall redheaded woman was dancing with a dark-skinned man half her size. Next to them, a man and woman with matching high cheekbones and short bleached hair gyrated to their own private rhythms. The place was packed. Some of the dancers were Hispanic, others of Asian ancestry. All wore Better World jumpsuits in varying colors: red, blue, pink, brown. There were no mutants in the room except for me and I felt strangely conspicuous, blinking at everybody with my alien golden eyes.

  “I’m surprised that they’re not playing Beethoven,” Betty said. I noticed how her voice rose, swelling with authority. “That’s Rick’s favorite, you know.”

  By the time we had worked our way down two levels to the floor of the ballroom, the music had stopped, red inflatable chairs had appeared, and the revelers were seated in a loose semicircle several rows deep. Betty and I took two aisle seats in the back.

  Hush.

  It was a mental command that seemed to resonate throughout the timbered hall. A man had appeared at the center of the room, his face calm, eyes closed. He had a neatly trimmed beard and his dark hair was pulled back and tied at the base of his neck with a rawhide cord. Despite his amiable expression there was a look about him of wariness and mystery, as though he had been in the desert a long, long time.

  “Rick?” My voice half caught in my throat and came out as a strangled whisper. I didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want Rick to be here. And yet, my own brother, my twin—

  He was spare and tanned. His skin looked as though he had spent much time outdoors in bright sun and dry air. We were the same age, of course, but Rick now seemed to be nearly ten years older than I was. His nervous mannerisms had vanished. This was a different Rick. He was sitting quietly, almost expectantly, on the simple wooden seat at the center of the room. He seemed like a man who was accustomed to waiting.

  To my amazement joy flooded through me, sharp and bright, almost painful in its startling intensity. Tears filled my eyes. I was about to call out, to hail him, when my brother mindspoke again and the crowd stilled.

  We have gathered here for the purpose of sharing our resolve. We have been gifted and now we wish to extend our hands to others. He raised his hands. Come. Join with me now.

  I nearly gasped: Rick was giving the ritual invitation for a mutant group sharing. But there were no mutants here besides him and me. Why was he doing this?

  A pulsing wave of mental energy enfolded us in a mind-numbing blanket. I could not speak, could not think.

  You are not alone. You will never be alone again. Together we have purpose. Together we have meaning. We are a community in service to the larger community beyond these walls. Together we give. Together we are one.

  The words shimmered and echoed in every mind there. A group sharing—Rick was holding a group sharing! I couldn’t believe it. My brother was no Book Keeper. And this was not a Mutant Council. It was a blatant flouting of tradition and it scared me. What was he doing? The entire group looked eerily blissed-out: eyes closed, lips moving as they silently mouthed the words Rick mindspoke to them. The gathering had the feel of an ecstatic séance. And within the groupmind I sensed the same mental static—amplified a hundred times over—that I had encountered with Betty Smithson. Perhaps it was a residue of Rick’s effect upon nonmutants, but I was only guessing. I didn’t really know what it was.

  Rick arose and paced before us, apparently mulling over what he had to say. For at least five minutes there was complete silence. Itches prickled under my jeans and between my shoulder blades but I could not move. Beside me, Betty Smithson was calm and still, caught by Rick’s spell.

  Finally, my brother turned to face his audience again.

  I know. I know that each of us has been so alone in the prison of his own head that any company, any place, was welcome. I know what it is to ache for companionship. To yearn for comfort without any hope of finding it. I know how silence and solitude can turn the strongest of us weak with longing
and regret. I have been in the silence and with the longing. I have been alone and I know its every shade, its every mood. And all of you do, too. But here no one is alone. We share and are shared. You need not be alone ever again. Share with me. Be with me. Together we shall help others. And in so doing, we shall help ourselves.

  That’s it. No have-tos. Just be good to yourselves and each other.

  A wave of rising, pulsing pleasure rose, overwhelming me with orgasmic intensity. Rick had to be stimulating our pleasure centers—but how? I moaned and gasped with the rest of the group until, finally, Rick released us.

  For a moment there was stunned silence. Then, with thunderous applause, the meeting broke up. People hugged, laughed, and wandered off into the twilight.

  “What did you think? Wasn’t that wonderful?” Betty Smithson’s reserve and formality had melted away. She looked radiant—as though years had been peeled from her age—and she was bubbling with energy. Obviously, the sharing had reinvigorated her. If that was the way Rick ended each meeting, no wonder she was hooked. Who wouldn’t be?

  “Let’s go see your brother. Rick,” she called. “Look who’s here!”

  He turned, removed his hat and twirled it loosely in his hand, smiling a half smile. “A pleasure, Doctor. You must have gotten my note.” He didn’t seem even remotely surprised to see me.

  I froze, studying the unfamiliar yet familiar lines of his face.

  “Rick, my God, I can’t believe it! Is it really you?” I threw my arms around him, pounding his back in delight. He hesitated only a moment, then gave me an awkward bear hug. Betty Smithson stood by, beaming. Then she tactfully slipped away and we were alone, together, for the first time in six years.

  I was still reeling from the shock of seeing him and I felt his arm tighten across my shoulder to brace me. “What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you’d gone to Mars.”