Marcus steps closer, Anna at his side.
“So says the law, Sergeant.”
“I don’t agree with the law.”
“You serve it.”
“A part of them is still human.”
“How many more of these scenes do you want to see?” Marcus raises his voice, looks at all the men and women in uniform. “This could be your sons and daughters next time. Are you willing to accept that? Because I am not!”
His voice rings off the walls.
“You object to exposing these imitations of God’s children? They are no more sacred than objects carved of wood. They succumbed to temptation, gave themselves to earthly desires, and reveled in lies. Open your eyes, all of you. Smell what is all around! That is not the stench of decayed flesh but the degradation of the soul.”
Marcus inhales, deeply.
“Breathe it in, remember it! Because if we do nothing about this today, it will become the smell of tomorrow. Earth will become a mausoleum of the human soul. I, for one, cannot accept that.”
His footsteps click, back and forth.
“I am your only hope. Take your men outside, Sergeant, and do not question me again.”
Anna opens the door and moves the screen for the crowd to see inside. Shouts and curses find their way inside.
Marcus folds his hands behind his back, stands as straight as his hunched back will allow. “Give the world your gravest apologies but no more. I will call if I need you.”
The men and women begin their exodus, stiffly. Paul remains staring down at Marcus. He is the last to finally move. He stops at the white screen.
“There’s a girl,” he says. “She’s the only survivor. I’d like to take her to her mother.”
“Certainly,” Marcus says. “I have a few questions for her, that’s all.”
Paul disappears behind the screen without being forced to do so. The door hammers shut in the metal frame, the closure echoing with a sense of finality. The crowd’s anger is muffled. Marcus closes his eyes, allows the stillness of the moment to settle before muttering a command.
The bricks begin undressing the corpses once again. The only sounds are the shuffle of their soles. Once a body is completely nude, the agent stands over it to visually capture it—head to toe. It is turned over and repeated.
“Your estimate?” Marcus asks.
“We can fabricate all these bodies in two days,” Anna says.
“Good. Three days, then, will be all we need.”
“Correct. Do you want to interrogate the survivor?”
“Perhaps later. I’d like to explore what’s in the back.” Marcus starts down the first aisle of bodies. “Oh, Anna.”
Marcus half turns, his neck feeling stiff.
“Leak my speech to the bloggers out there. I’d like the world to hear it, too.”
He continues his uneven pace toward the back of the warehouse. Sometimes he surprises himself with such spontaneous wisdom. The world needs to know he is not the bad guy.
He is quite the opposite.
5
Cali Richards fumbles with the tack room doorknob. The latch is stuck. She has to put the metal pails on the floor and turn it with both hands. She kicks the bottom of the old door, swears she’ll get that fixed.
She’s been swearing that for ten years.
The former nanobiometric engineer turns on the faucet, lets the water run over her wrinkled and spotted hand. Her arthritic knuckles are knobby. She shoots some soap in the stream and lets the bubbles rise over the pails.
An old song comes on the radio, reminds her of days before biomites were invented, when life was simpler. Is that what old people say? Only dusted memories make things seem easier. Still, she turns it up before reaching into the soapy water, reaching blindly for brush and pail.
She yanks her hand out like a water snake was hiding on the bottom. A long red slash oozes along her index finger. She resists the childish urge to suck the blood. She wraps a paper towel around the wound, squeezing it. The dull pain recedes. She could will the nervous response away but prefers to feel the sting. It’s too easy not to feel it.
Two horses trot across the frozen paddock. Cali watches them play follow-the-leader, their hooves rumbling past the tack room window. There were more horses when she bought the ranch. The previous family had died in an automobile accident. It seemed only fitting that Cali live here, seeing that an automobile accident changed the path of her life.
Perhaps every path in the world.
Haze settles near the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but the sun hasn’t breached. A red truck emerges from behind a stand of black gum trees. Two dogs run alongside it.
Cali keeps pressure on her finger while the reflection of a leathery old face looks back, her gray hair pulled tightly back with kinky sprigs around her ears. Wrinkles line her upper lip. She’s only fifty-two years old.
No one would recognize her. They’re not supposed to.
The grass between the two-story house and the barn, once thick and green, is now frosted and tan. The dogs trot past her, waiting in the worn turnabout for the Ford pickup to make a wide turn. Meg puts it in park with one hand, a phone pressed to her ear with the other. She waves before abruptly ending her conversation.
Country folks used phones. They didn’t pretend to have a conversation while chatting through biomite seeds.
“Hi, Ms. Stacy.” Megan hops out of the truck, tying her blonde hair into a ponytail. “Hey there, Baxter and Kooper.”
She scratches the dogs’ ears and squats down for kisses.
Cali answers to her assumed name, Stacy. She changed her face, changed her name—if she could just get a new life.
“I was expecting your brother,” Cali says.
“Carson had some chores to finish. He’ll drop off hay this afternoon. I thought I’d run your groceries out in case you needed them.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“You cut yourself?”
“Nothing but a scratch.”
“I got essential oil salve for that. It’ll stop the bleeding, keep out infection. I can send it with Carson.”
Cali opens the passenger door. Her weekly order of produce and dairy is on the seat. Megan gets around the truck in time to grab the box. There’s nothing she can do but smile.
Cali shuffles to keep ahead of the girl so she can climb the old wooden steps first. The screen is torn on the corner of the door. Cali holds it open.
The kitchen counters are cluttered with appliances, books and cans. It’s blessed with an ever-present smell of herbs. Cali pats the table for Megan to set down the goodies. The hickory table is gouged from years of use, where the previous family ate their meals. Megan pulls out a quart of milk.
“Let me get you some money.”
Her footsteps land heavy on the wooden floor. She passes the old chalkboard running the length of the hallway and goes to the room in back to put a Band-Aid on her finger. Megan is watching something on her phone when she returns. People are protesting behind a blogger’s commentary. Cali slides the bills between Megan’s fingers.
“Thanks, Ms. Stacy.” She puts the money in her front pocket.
“What were you watching?”
“There was a big thing in Seattle the other day. A bunch of people overdosed on biomites and now they think they’re all dead.”
Cali busies herself with the groceries.
“All the bloggers are going off about the government shutting the doors and not letting the families see them. I feel bad for them.”
“Very sad.” Cali puts the cheese in the refrigerator. “Pray for them.”
Megan holds out her hand. Cali takes it, bows her head.
“Dear Lord,” Megan says, “watch over Your sheep that are lost in darkness and guide them to Your Almighty wisdom, that they may walk the pure and untainted path that leads to Heaven. Amen.”
“Amen.”
They remain still. The words resonate in Cali, attach to her like angels
of hope that they will find her brother and take root, that he’ll join her on the farm, where he’ll be safe.
Because she knows he’s in Seattle.
Megan leaves with a quick goodbye. Cali stands at the sink watching the young lady texting on her way to the truck. Cali peels the Band-Aid off, throws it in the trash. The finger is healed.
6
The duffel bag feels like a sack of rocks.
Nix lets it fall on the hotel carpet. He avoids the king-sized bed. If he lies down, he won’t get up. There’ll be time for sleeping later.
He grinds his eyes with the heels of his palms. Death still lingers in his nostrils. He pulls the sliding door open, lets the winter wind into the room. Gulls cry somewhere above the patio. The moon hangs just above the bay. He opens his mind to nearby chatter, eavesdropping on newsfeeds. The tranquility is broken with a thousand voices.
Marcus Anderson has taken control of the warehouse.
The government is raping our civil liberties.
Marcus Anderson should crawl back into the hole where he’s been hiding or be arrested for treason.
M0ther is an enemy of the state.
Nothing will change and Marcus and his bricks will do what they want in the warehouse, digesting the evidence like ants cleaning a corpse. There’ll be nothing left.
And no one can stop them.
That’s why Nix can’t sleep. Not yet.
There’s information in there, Nix knows it. He can feel it. Years ago, it was so easy to network with other halfskins. But M0ther has systematically cut them up, severed ties, and traced down the outlaws. Nix is alone.
He goes to the bathroom, splashes water on his face. He dabs his cheeks with a towel. An old man with dark eyes rimmed red looks back. His nose is thick, his lips thin and wrinkled. The bushy eyebrows are speckled white. He doesn’t just look like an old man. Today, he feels like one.
He hates the way his body feels. It feels like someone else, like staring at the world through eyeholes. But he never changes it. Not even standing in a hotel bathroom all alone. He’s committed to being William Nelson until he finds a fabricator. If Nix Richards’s original face were ever caught by facial recognition, he wouldn’t last long.
He cups another handful of cold water to his face, pushes his fingers through thinning hair and retreats to the bed. He lays back but never feels the mattress. It’s like he falls through it, his body dropping through the floor, building speed as it plummets downward, the solidity of his body falling away a particle at a time.
A green breeze brushes his cheeks, a trace of smoke on the wind.
Dreamland.
Verdant hills slope to a clear lake confined by the peaks of distant mountains. Fishing boats have already shoved across the glassy surface from the village along the shores where a market is vibrant with fruit and vegetables, cured meats and smoked fish.
He lifts his hands and studies the skin of a thirty-nine year old. Only in Dreamland does he look like his true self, the real Nix Richards.
Raine sits at the far end of the slanted porch. Her baggy pants are rolled to her knees with a white tank top exposing her dark brown shoulders. She cradles a mug on her lap, green eyes gazing over the bannister.
“I think you’re foolish,” she says.
“I know.”
“You’re not invincible.”
Nix steps off the porch where the ground is worn to dust. Further out, the grass sways near his knees, clumps shifting in the wind. Scrubby trees dot the landscape. He looks back at the prairie home, the old porch wrapping around both sides.
Dreamland started as a mental construct, thoughts that he visualized and connected. When he was a kid, he discovered his ability to build inner worlds by accident. It started when he looked at a picture. His biomites took the information and recreated this inner world. Nix thought it was normal.
He was a freak.
His thoughts took on a life of their own. They calcified and interlocked. They existed without his effort. He and Raine had outgrown the tropical lagoon of their youth. They wanted a home and imagined this cabin on the hill, the nearby sea and the ragged mountains. They would go down to the village where people haggled over prices and arguments broke out and children laughed in the streets. He saw and heard things he couldn’t possibly have imagined, the details rich and endless.
It was no different than the physical world. But still, a world he created. Will it exist without me?
He could never be sure.
A German shepherd lopes through the grass. Nix buries his fingers in the dog’s fur.
“Shep,” Nix mutters. “Where’s your stick?”
Shep looks around as if he’s thinking, then darts around the house. Nix picks a seed stalk from the grass, nibbling on the broken end, the juice tart.
“Do you think I’m real?” Raine asks.
Nix used to answer that question. Sometimes, he tried to lie. He didn’t control her, couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do. He’d always assumed she had risen from his subconscious, taken the detail of her physical appearance from someone he’d seen but forgotten, that his mind had this barrier in place so he’d feel the separateness between them.
So when she asked that question—Do you think I’m real?—he didn’t know how to answer.
“If I die,” he says, “this will all vanish.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s a safe bet.”
“Can the mind die?” she asks.
The koan. The unanswerable question. The body can be killed but is the mind the product of the brain? They argued that point many times.
“I can’t take the chance,” Nix answers, as he always does.
Raine lazily drags her hands over the swaying swards of grass. She nears a leaning white oak. They planted that tree. The hills and water, the clouds and soil all sprang from his mind but they built the house and planted that tree.
It’s grown older, just like them.
Raine picks something up. Nix is still squatting when she takes his hand. Opening his fingers, she places an acorn in it.
“You were the seed,” she says. “You are not the tree.”
She closes his fingers around it, holds his fist in her delicate hands.
“This Dreamland is more than you. Perhaps it’s more real than the world you live in.”
“I don’t care about Dreamland. Only you.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
Nix always told his sister that Dreamland was a new reality, not just his imagination. But when asked to fully commit to that, it was too much of a risk. If he dies, it dies.
She dies.
“If I can fabricate you a physical body,” he says, “you won’t need me.”
“The physical world isn’t the gold standard of reality. There are other realms.”
“The physical is all I got.”
“Are you an old man in the real world?”
“That’s just how my body looks. It’s not me.”
“Then if you’re not your body, who are you?”
Another koan.
She knows why he wants to fabricate a physical body. He doesn’t want to possess her, doesn’t want her existence to be limited to Dreamland. He wants to give her a life, her own life. He wants to have children in the real the world. They discuss this often; they already have names. Joshua, if it’s a boy. Pearl, if it’s a girl. That was the plan.
Raine didn’t want to wait; she wanted to start the family in Dreamland. But Nix didn’t want to raise children in a fantasy, he wanted them in the flesh where he could rock them to sleep and kiss their boo-boos and watch them grow. He didn’t want them to disappear if something happened to him.
Shep returns with a stick. Nix hurls it deep into the meadow.
“There’s a girl in the warehouse,” he says. “I think I can use her to look around. There must be some clue to the underground network, something that can give me some direction of where to find a fabricato
r. I’ll need to get closer, though.”
“They’ll sense you.”
“I’ll use a proxy, cover my trail. I just need her eyes and ears, see what’s in the back room.”
Shep is already returning, stick in mouth, black lips flapping. Nix stands to look at the valley. One of the boats is returning.
Raine drapes her arms around his neck, leans her head on his shoulder. The morning chill is already lifting, but a fire in the hearth would be nice. And he could use the rest. In the morning, he’ll get a fresh start.
But he wonders, as he often does, how he could ever leave this place.
7
The sun is locked behind a gray sky.
Nix walks down the middle of a long street—the warehouses on his right, the water to his left. Raine’s image walks silently beside him. The white sedans are parked far from the shrinking crowd. Only hardcore bloggers and a few reporters are up this soon.
He doesn’t want to mingle but there’s no other way to get close. Bricks were behind the warehouse on the loading docks. He’s made slight adjustments to his facial features—altered his cheekbones, thickened his nose—and changed his biomite identity. If anyone checks, he’s a blogger. No one will recognize him from yesterday.
There’s not much activity. Most are chatting or eating fast food, a few are streaming reports or video. Several bloggers are curled up in sleeping bags near the pier, stocking caps peeking out.
Nix’s biomite identity pings as onlookers watch him approach, scanning his identity, curious if he’s someone with information. The activity dies down. He spots two men, early twenties, on a short guard rail digging breakfast from a white bag. Facial recognition identifies them: Bryon is African American; Henry, Korean American.
Nix drops his bag on the grass. “Any word?”
“None,” Byron says. “They’re slammed tight. Rumor floating that the bricks will make an announcement today, but they said that yesterday. Police don’t know any more than we do, just standing guard.”
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