Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  Christmas Eve, Star and I watched a candlelit procession make its way down Avenida Atlantico. The paraders carried huge papier-mâché effigies of Jesus Christ, Mary, St. Michael, St. Christopher, Exu, Lemanja, a host of other macumba spirits, and Rick. I joined the other revelers and saluted my brother’s image with a lusty cry of “Quibungo!” After the parade we danced and sang at every club in the Ipanema district.

  During the holidays, attendance at the Mundo Melhor gatherings soared. Each meeting we held ended with ecstatic high spirits. I never experienced the disorienting cacophony of that earlier meeting again, thank God, but I had a sense that my telepathic presence was helping to drive the group rituals to an ever higher, ever more passionate level.

  Each night, in bed, Star and I would attain a very different but equally satisfactory level of ecstasy. Afterward, she would call me her miracle man. I was pleased and embarrassed and happy, so very, very happy.

  By New Year’s Eve, I was convinced that I had found a worthy goal, a rightful place, and a partner for life.

  Star and I stood on the beach holding hands, both dressed in white, part of the crowd waiting for midnight. Each of us held a white rose, as did everyone else there.

  Macumba priests and priestesses cavorted across the sand as supplicants made despachos—offerings—to their favorite deities: cosmetics and other niceties for the goddess Lemanja, food and drink for the voracious Exu. But the moment of truth was yet to come.

  At midnight, a multicolored waterfall of lights cascaded down the facade of every high-rise building along Avenida Atlantico. The crowd roared with one voice and raced toward the water. The white roses were tossed high into the air, up and over the crowd, into the surf. Every person there watched anxiously to see if the gods had accepted their pleas by taking the flowers out to sea, or rejected their entreaties, returning the roses to the beach.

  I was watching as nervously as the others, almost frightened by my wish: that I might continue to help people as I was doing now, with Star always by my side.

  The waves swelled, surged forward, crashed, foaming, onto the beach, and with a sigh pulled back.

  Not a flower lay upon the glinting sand.

  Star gasped. “I’ve never seen this,” she said. “Never before were all the flowers taken, all together. Never. Oh, Julian, it’s a very powerful omen. Very strong.”

  We kissed jubilantly.

  All up and down the beach, people were screaming and laughing, hugging, kissing, dancing with joy.

  We sang and chanted for hours, first on the beach, then followed the crowd through the streets, blowing whistles and beating drums until dawn.

  At sunup, a few revelers still straggled along the sidewalks. Several had bedded down on the beach or under trees. A few were sleeping it off on traffic islands in the middle of Avenida Atlantico.

  As we made our way back to my room I combed silver confetti out of Star’s hair with my fingers.

  “It’s magic dust,” I told her, then I sprinkled it over both of us, giddy with exhaustion and happiness. Gratefully, we fell into bed and slept away most of January first in each other’s arms.

  January second, the sun hid away and the day was wet and unseasonably cool.

  Family matters called Star away and I had a solo dinner that night. I ordered my favorite Bahian shrimp dish: tiny shrimps cooked with onions in coconut milk until the entire savory mixture was stained pale orange. The olive-skinned waiter spooned a generous portion, steaming and fragrant, from a coconut-hull bowl and spread it over the rice on my plate. After two helpings of that and two caipurinhas I stumbled back to my room, warm, drowsy, and vaguely amorous, but to my disappointment Star wasn’t back yet.

  I sat on the jellcouch and looked around the place fondly. I would miss it when I moved, but the hotel rate was exorbitant. Star and I were planning to rent a little apartment in a less-than-glamorous district near Lagoa.

  For a while I was lost in pleasant domestic reveries. Then I saw the message light blinking on my portascreen.

  I checked the time and location: a call from California made half an hour ago from my parents’ exchange. My head cleared instantly. Both of my parents were approaching an age when I anticipated calls late at night, filled with bad news. Hastily, I dialed their number, forgetting, at first, to include the international phone code.

  On the fifth ring, my mother answered the screen. She wore a thick red bathrobe and her glossy dark hair was matted and looked slept upon.

  “Come home,” she said. Her voice was hoarse from sleep or emotion, perhaps both.

  “What’s happened? Is it Dad?” I could barely get the words out, so frozen was I with fear.

  “No. Your brother. Something very peculiar is going on in New Mexico, Julian. Rick has collapsed. Alanna called me earlier this evening. She’s been trying to reach you. Rick is delirious, calling for you. Won’t see anyone else.”

  Rick? Impossible. How could he be ill? “He has trained medics on his staff. Can’t they do anything for him?”

  “They tried but he won’t let them near. Even half-conscious, his powers are too strong for them. Oh, won’t you go to him, Julian? Your brother needs you!”

  What choice did I have?

  As soon as I hung up I began to pack, stuffing clothing haphazardly into a portasac. I heard a noise and turned to see Star standing by the door, still wearing her raincoat. She took in the scene at once.

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  “Back to the States. It’s an emergency.” Something warned me against telling Star that Rick was ill. I was afraid of upsetting her, and of precipitating a panic among the followers of Mundo Melhor.

  “But—”

  “I’ve got to go, Star. I can’t explain it.”

  “You don’t want me anymore?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I love you—”

  “No. If you loved me you wouldn’t leave. The work we are doing is too important. Too vital.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. I love you and I’ll be back in a week.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She stood in the doorway, arms outstretched. “I won’t let you go.”

  “Star, I’m already your prisoner.” I held my hands over my heart, pretending that they were shackled together.

  She tried to smile and almost made it. Almost. Oh, the wounded look of her, the dark eyes glistening doelike in her lovely face. Before I could stop myself I reached out, wanting to heal, to comfort, to love.

  “Star—”

  “No, Julian. No.” She gave me one last tearful look and backed away down the hall and out of sight. Out of my reach.

  I hated to leave Star, especially in that way. But my fears for Rick were too great—I could not linger. The ride to the shuttleport was a blur of neon reflecting off wet streets. If I could have teleported, I would have gone directly to New Mexico. But it took me an hour by conventional shuttle, with three stops in between. And all the while I was tormented with fears for Rick. What had happened? And what could I do?

  I refused to think about Star. I would explain it to her later, make up with her, and things would be better than ever. She would understand. Right now I had to concentrate on my brother.

  Finally, around dawn, I reached New Mexico.

  9

  a crowd of better world members in their blue and green and red jumpsuits milled around outside of the door to Rick’s private apartment. Some paced, others leaned disconsolately against the wall, a few were even sitting on the floor, heads nodding as they dozed.

  My overtired mind likened them to a scene out of a Renaissance painting: the courtiers awaiting the death of the king. I pushed my way through them, right up to the door. It was locked so I knocked gently.

  “Hey,” said a dark-haired woman in green. “You can’t go in there.”

  I knocked again. The door opened a crack and I pushed past the startled guard, coming face-to-face with Betty Smithson.

  “No one is allo
wed in here,” she said, glaring. Then her gaze softened. “Oh, God, Julian. I didn’t recognize—”

  I brushed past her, past the other acolytes, and reached for the still figure in the jellbed.

  “Rick?”

  He lay there, pale and sweaty, seemingly comatose. But my voice must have roused him and he opened his eyes halfway. When he saw me he smiled weakly and said, mumbling a bit, “I knew you’d come.”

  “Shh,” I said. “Save your strength.”

  Rick nodded and closed his eyes. I checked his pulse. It seemed a bit slow but regular.

  I looked up and noticed Alanna, for the first time, standing on the other side of the bed. For a moment we glared at each other in silence. I had the feeling that she was going to grab Rick’s other hand and begin pulling. Between us we would tear him apart like a turkey wishbone.

  “How long has he been this way?” I demanded.

  “A day and a half.”

  “And what do the doctors say?”

  “We haven’t had any doctors in. He wouldn’t let us.”

  “No doctors? Are you crazy?”

  “Julian, he doesn’t want them.”

  “What difference does it make what he wants? He collapsed, didn’t he? He’s obviously in no condition to make decisions about his well-being. He needs medical care.”

  “We have to obey his wishes.” Alanna held Rick’s hand with fierce possessiveness. “You just don’t understand.”

  I glanced at the pale figure in the bed. His forehead was coated with sweat. The sight—the result of their negligence—made me furious and I said, “Oh, I understand all right. It’s just part of your master plan, isn’t it, Alanna? Every religion needs its martyr, doesn’t it? And Better World would all be so much easier to control with the maestro out of the way.”

  “How dare you!” Alanna made a move as though to reach across the bed and hit me. Then she seemed to realize where she was and caught herself in mid-swing. “You son of a bitch, coming in here at the last minute and making terrible accusations. What right do you have?”

  “I’m not finished,” I said. “Not only do you want Rick dead, you’re probably in cahoots with Joachim Metzger. What do you intend to do? Divide up Better World between you when Rick’s safely out of the picture?”

  “Metzger? An alliance? What are you talking about?” Alanna’s horrified expression made me realize I had gone too far, much too far.

  “Oh, shit.” I sank down in the bedside wallseat and rubbed my burning eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours and I’m just getting crazy because I’m so worried about Rick.”

  “That’s no reason to insult me.”

  “No, of course not. Forgive me, Alanna. But I still insist that Rick be examined by a neurologist. An internist, too.”

  “Please,” Betty said. “Don’t fight. Not here.”

  I looked at my brother again. His color was a little bit better and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully rather than sunken into unconsciousness. I checked his pulse again and it seemed nearly normal. He was still slightly sweaty but his fever seemed to have eased.

  “I want him watched all night,” I said.

  Betty gave me an exasperated look. “What do you think we’re doing here, Julian?”

  “Maybe I’m overreacting,” I said. “But I want a med monitor attached to his pulse points. If he slows down too much, speeds up, or his fever increases, I want a doctor here, and pronto. Will you do that much for me, please? Otherwise, I’ll have him med-evacuated to St. Ignazio’s in Albuquerque right now!”

  Betty glanced at Alanna for a brief, unreadable moment and then nodded stiffly.

  “Fine. I hold you responsible, Betty.” I stood up and stretched, feeling a hundred years older. “Now will somebody please give me a bed before I fall down?”

  The next morning when I got to Rick’s room he was sitting up against the pillows, bright-eyed and alert. Alanna and Betty were stationed like guards on either side of the bed.

  “Well, you look much improved,” I said.

  “Hey, is it time for breakfast yet?” His voice sounded vibrant, even hearty.

  “Just lie there quietly.”

  “Why? I’m fine.”

  “Rick, maybe you should listen to Julian,” Alanna said.

  “Don’t baby me, Lanna. There’s nothing wrong with me that breakfast won’t cure. I just needed a good night’s sleep. That’s all.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” Walking a bit unsteadily, Rick gave us a jaunty salute and sauntered into the bathroom.

  “He’s fine,” Betty said. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. A good breakfast will fix him right up.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. I was so relieved to see my brother back on his feet that I decided I could relax for a moment and try to call Star.

  It was midday in Rio and, of course, she was not home. So I told her answermech that I loved her and needed her, and asked her to call me at Better World as soon as she could. Then I went down to breakfast.

  All during the meal Rick was charming and amusing, almost manic. He finished two helpings of everything, eating like a famished man. As I watched him wolf down his food, I told myself that he was fine, only a healthy man could eat like that.

  “After breakfast, how about a tour of the city?” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I really should get back to Rio.”

  “What’s your rush? Hey, is there something going on down there I should know about?”

  I smiled mysteriously, a bit pleased to have my own secrets for once.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why are you so certain that there’s a she involved?”

  “Why else would you be so cagey? Now out with it, little brother. Tell me all about her.”

  “Her name is Star. Star Nicolau. She’s working with a group down there that’s sort of a hybrid of Better World and their macumba religion. They call it Mundo Melhor.”

  “Wild. So you met her in Brazil?”

  “Yeah. It’s a long story.” I glanced at Betty and Alanna uneasily. “Maybe I should tell you about it during our tour.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  It was a cold morning but the chill wore off as the sun rose higher in the sky. I was amazed by the progress Rick and his helpers had made: Better City was a splendid mixture of traditional, functional, and fanciful design. Most of the buildings were domelike and round, with adobe-colored walls. But some spiraled upward for several stories, cutting through the air, twisting and turning, revealing unexpected windows and walkways.

  All around us were the sounds and sights of a community waking up and resuming its daily business. A woman stood in the doorway of a café, sweeping sand into a neat pile for the streetmechs to remove. She smiled brightly at Rick. “Want some coffee?” The scent of fresh-brewed grounds wafted toward us through the open door. “Thanks, Catarina,” Rick said. “Maybe later.”

  Nearby, a man set up the awning of his small grocery store and began setting out trays of bright red apples. “Morning, Rick,” he said. “Beautiful day.”

  People hurried past carrying building supplies, screencases, and bags filled with bread from the bakery at the end of the street. Everyone who saw Rick smiled and greeted him, and he seemed to know every one of them by name.

  The city was laid out in a neat grid spanning several miles, bisected by graceful boulevards that bore signs of fresh landscaping. Workers in yellow coveralls were busily planting rows of yuccas in front of a white-washed adobe bank building. They greeted Rick happily but then got right back to business.

  Cars and skimmers puttered up and down the street and occasionally somebody pedaled along on a bicycle. As the sun rose higher in the sky, warming the air, the music of a peaceful and prosperous community could be heard more distinctly; the sound of people laughing, music playing, insects buzzing.

  “It’s fantastic, Rick.” I shook my head in wonder. “
A dream come true.”

  He nodded proudly. “Pretty fine if I do say so myself.”

  “And nearly finished.”

  “Oh, it’ll never really be finished.” My brother gave me a cryptic smile. “But wait until you see the centerpiece.” He gestured for me to hurry and we jogged up the street, turned a corner, and then I saw it.

  A Roman amphitheater—a three-tiered coliseum—loomed like a piece of the past that had collided with and become embedded in the present. It was an incongruous sight amid the adobe-colored buildings and construction cranes—a stone donut with a bite or two taken out of it. I stared in wide-open amazement.

  “Is it for real?”

  “A replica, courtesy of the best of late twenty-first-century archaeotechnology.” He bowed with a deep flourish. “C’mon, let’s take a look inside.”

  He swung open a tall iron gate and we walked into a tall, arching entryway cast in deepest shadow. We emerged into what looked like the second tier of seats in the stadium.

  The walls had the convincing mellowed glow of old marble but Rick told me that they were actually an acrylic epoxy mixed with marble dust and artificially patinaed. An impermeable canopy, self-heating and cooling, automatically emerged from a subterranean gully and enclosed the arena when inclement weather threatened. There were pieces of scaffolding set up on the stage below us, and several rows of seats looked as though they were missing bits and pieces. A lone technician was fiddling with the internal components of one of the seats. Obviously, there was still plenty of work to be done.

  “The seats look like stone,” Rick said. “But they’re really heat-reactive ferro-ceramic. Each seat molds itself in shape to the particular anatomy of anyone seated for longer than five minutes. And once the seats are vacated they flow back to a uniform flatness.” He sat down and patted the seat next to him.

  I perched on the cold faux marble and felt it grow warm and move beneath me, adapting itself to my body’s contours. “Rick, it’s amazing.”

  He grinned. “Nice little piece of work, isn’t it? It’ll be perfect when it’s finished.”