She felt a new surge of anger, but forced it down. “You're right. I suppose the least we can do is be civil to one another.” She moved to the couch and slipped Gun back into its holster. Roger nodded and walked toward her. He smelled of cinnamon and musk now.
The odor wasn't strong, but Leslie was flooded with an immediate, visceral recognition beyond conscious memory. It made her sick to her stomach. She gasped. And then the familiar internal sense of motion that meant the head mem was overwriting her reaction filled her. It settled her nerves and her stomach, clouded her recognition to a vague perception of déja vu. Still, she remained shaken.
"What's that smell?” she asked.
"The coffee?” He looked confused. He stuck a thumb in the direction of the bathroom behind him. “Oh. You just saw me go clean up.... You mean the aftershave that was in there? You don't like it?"
"No. You stink."
He wound his arms across his chest. “Well, thank you very much. Very civil of you,” he said. “You know what? Just forget it. Come on. I'll finish getting breakfast ready.” Leslie watched his back as he walked into the kitchen.
She closed her eyes and slowly rubbed her temples. That smell was like a familiar word on the tip of her tongue. But as hard as she tried now to place it, she couldn't reach beyond the moving inner tentacles of the head mem. Finally she gave up and followed Roger.
The kitchen was a bright room with red cabinets and a tile floor. Already, eggs and strips of bacon waited on the table. And they looked real.
Once they were seated, Roger said, “Go back to them, if you want."
"To Security? It won't work just like that. I've crossed a very well-defined line.” Even if they forced me to. She remembered Tom's voice through Calvin's door: Don't worry about him. He'll get a fair trial. Her eyes stung. Now she was responsible for Roger.
Roger swallowed half a fried egg. “So you can't go back ‘just like that'. So what are you going to do?” He paused, his expression turning to something like humor, though the lines around his eyes remained creased in concentration.
"What?” He didn't answer at first, only looked down at her abdomen. “What?” she repeated.
"You're rubbing your belly."
She realized he was right, and stopped.
"Do you still think you want to have a baby? Because you could still get the abortion—"
"Where would I have it done? Security would find me."
"Does that relieve you? To think they'll find you?"
Leslie looked away, letting her gaze lose focus against the auto-kitchen unit in the counter.
"Holy Desert Justice, Leslie, I'm not going to condemn you for wanting something you can't have. I do that all the time. But I can't help you if I don't know your mind."
Her eyes refocused on his gaunt face. “Why is it you want to help me all of a sudden?"
"Yeah, that's a good question."
Leslie turned to her breakfast. Chewing reminded her cheek it was sore.
"It seems pretty clear to me what has to happen. If you aren't going back to them, your head mem has to be taken out. You must realize what they can do to you with that thing in your skull. I mean, I don't know much about it, but the way it was explained to me, they could access your voluntary nervous system through it if they wanted to. And given time, they're going to find you through the scrambler. The head mem has to go and you know it.” One hand knuckled the table; he pushed himself to his feet. “When I talked to the Sons of Man alone we discussed all this. He said if you want to leave the country you have their support. All I have to do is get to a communication point and set it up. We can go to the Atheist cell in Vermont, and they'll provide a surgeon.” He speared his last bite of egg. Then, still chewing, he raised his coffee. “Just say so, Leslie, and I'm gone to set it up. We can be out of Boston Museum before the morning is over."
Leslie watched him swing his empty mug to the table. The thought of not having the head mem inside her was terrifying. She'd come to rely on its help. The blur of motion in her inner world grew familiar, and when she felt it, she knew the head mem would help her through any situation. But the fear wasn't just at the loss of that reassurance. She knew the head mem was a dam in her head. It held back the lake of her past, and only let the smallest stream through. If that damn broke, she'd be lost in a flood. All the half memories and sensations that already plagued her would wash over her freely, there would be no escape any more.
At the same time, she saw Tom in her dream from last night. He was over her and she felt her desperate gasps, her gravid, constricting body. The Tom she'd pictured gently helping her, she knew, didn't exist. This knowledge sank through her whole body, and her throat ached.
"You're right,” she said. “There's nothing else to do."
* * * *
Roger was proud of himself today.
June, if you could see me now. Right now I'm everything I've always pretended to be for you.
He hurried down the hall and got into the elevator. He had met Leslie and kept himself together through the whole experience. Had, in fact, shown a strength that frankly surprised him. Since narrowly escaping his apartment, he had taken control. He'd contacted the Sons of Man two more times, and gotten the scrambler for Leslie. He had gotten them to Boston and the safe house. He'd made a stand, he'd been tough, he hadn't buckled under the pressure. He was balancing on a rope over all his old fear, walking across it. He could feel it there, underneath his feet, ready to engulf him if he lost his balance, so he just kept moving forward. And so far, that was working. He hadn't given himself time to think about the complete destruction of his life. He supposed if he really stopped to let it sink in, he might freeze. But what he felt mostly right now was excitement, and overwhelming freedom. He was an outlaw now. No more literary translation, no more cowering to his boss, no more biting his lip while people treated him like he was stupid, incompetent, an unsophisticated joke in these sophisticated times. He could say what he pleased. It was like Leslie said: A line had been crossed. Now he was his own man.
He was giddy with the new sensibility. Of course, he'd made some pretty big mistakes. It had been stupid to strike Leslie—anything could have happened. He wasn't even sure what made him do it. But it happened, and he was still alive. He decided to forget about it. Keep moving.
The elevator stopped and the door slid open. The building foyer was empty, as the Sons of Man contact had told him it would be. Since Boston had been closed a year ago, budget constraints left it all but abandoned while museum management concentrated on repairing the Paul Revere Ride and the multi-sensory Boston Tea Party. Roger crossed the room and pushed through the revolving door to the quiet street beyond.
It seemed sunny upstairs, but the sky was beginning to darken with thick gray clouds. Roger looked left down the street. It was cool in the shade of tall buildings. He started walking.
Yeah, Leslie had changed his life in an instant. He knew he should feel more resentment, even hatred for this woman. Somehow, he just couldn't. It was lost in his exhilaration. And he did want to help her. Because she had changed him. He felt more pride now than his last ten years had been able to muster. June would be proud.
Turning at the corner of the block, he continued down the sidewalk. It was quiet. He watched for the next alley where he was supposed to turn again. His bald SOM contact had given him specific directions to follow. Get Saint Leslie to commit to defecting from the United States first. Then leave the safe house and go to the designated vision stall to contact SOM again and set up the escape route. Watch for Security forces. Return for Leslie and then get the hell out of Boston. Roger found continued confidence in the step-by-step following of his instructions. That was what he was committed to doing now. Walk this way. Turn on to this street. Cross the intersection here. Step by step. Keep moving forward. Don't panic. Don't look up. Just keep moving forward.
* * * *
On Channel 32 a Ku Klux Klan spokesman denies charges his organization was responsib
le for the ‘Cali monkey killings'.
"However,” he says, glowering, “we stand in protest of the IEPA's program to ease rare primates into the community in these trainer-assisted group homes. Shame on you, California, shame on you humanity!"
The bored talk show host yawns as Policy Etymologist Dr. Bankley explains the difference between true American rebellion and the false rebellion of anti-American agitators. “Don't forget,” he says, shaking a fist, “the past seventy or eighty years have shown sweeping distortions of the truth. Our enemies want you to believe we are responsible for more terrorist acts in modern history than all known terrorist organizations combined. They claim American culpability in genocide in East Timor, brutal killing in Guatemala, Nicaragua, Chile, Vietnam, Sudan, death squads in El Salvador—just to name a very few. How could we have done so much? We were too busy spreading freedom and democracy!
"You see, this foolishness started when the false intellectual elite began the now infamous Exodus of the Academics. They railed about constraints on their rights and their freedom of speech and the exacerbation of fear, while they immigrated en masse to European countries. Of course everyone knows that a true patriot by definition need not fear constraints on free speech or personal freedom, which renders the intellectual argument meaningless. Still, enough citizens defected to force Europe to prohibit further immigration. And the White House, logically, inhibited important people—entertainers, scientists, engineers—from leaving the country as well. As any schoolboy knows, this was the beginning of the disintegration of the Union, as states fell away in protest at what these misguided ‘rebels’ called the tyranny of Washington.
"Now we know the truth. There was an international War going on, and sinister terrorists could be found at any turn. These critics based their uprising on faulty information and dubious sources, unfiltered by the lens of capitalism and the free market, making them false rebels, unworthy of any respect. We know the truth because our official sources in Washington work closely with vision at all times, to ensure the American public stays informed."
More images of protestors appear as the anchorman reports on a committee of California academics appointed to review the first literature produced by the experimental new plot-generating program. “Californians are outraged,” he says, “at their government's funding of a project described as another example of liberal attitudes and wastefulness in modern academia."
Due to the lack of live footage from the mechanical eyes, the news runs a dramatization of the great Saint Leslie's kidnapping. “She is reportedly a hostage of Atheists,” says a reporter soberly. “However, White House sources will not comment on the rumor this is all just part of a secret mission to ferret out Atheist cells and bring them to justice."
The scene cuts to Father Washington, smiling, as he blesses the Congressional Body for its recent Pentecostal filibuster. “This is clearly the work of God in our government, for which we should all give thanks,” He says.
* * * *
Leslie inspected Gun as the afternoon movie started on the vision wall. It took her a few minutes to realize what was missing on the screen—there were no advertisements droning in the corner. It was hard to imagine watching vision with only the interruption of the periodic main-screen commercial breaks, the way people used to watch vision decades ago. Gun was on local power now. Security had turned off tight feed energy transfer. From now on she had to conserve.
The movie was an old Hollywood classic dramatizing the Immaculate Conception. Mary would be raped by a god, solaced by an angel, and Father Washington would rise to the oval office. Leslie was shocked to find herself putting it so cynically. Had new programming complicated her, or was she just getting bitter? She lifted her feet to the couch and was settling her shoulders into the cushions when the whole vision wall snapped to a star of light, then blanked completely.
Sitting up, she reached for the remote on the plastic end table. The screen flashed again before she lifted it. Tom Russell's face, larger than life, was there, going blank, the way it always did when he considered showing concern. She turned the vision off.
Tom just blinked and said, “Leslie? I know you're there.” She set Gun down and squeezed the remote again and again. The screens stayed on. She cracked the remote against the table. It bounced and thumped on the carpet. “So just listen, all right? I'm really worried about you. Do you realize how badly you're ruining your life? Come back now, no questions asked, and we'll forget the whole ugly incident. You can still be Saint Leslie, you can still pull your life together. They've let me run this operation because of our relationship, Leslie. They want to avoid any ... complications. They're letting me take my time with this, letting you get your head back on straight. But you have to understand this can only go so far. They will not let you embarrass Washington. Bringing you back is inevitable—the question is how will it be? Please. Just come back to me. For me. Please.” The image flickered, froze, then moved again. Tom blinked. “Leslie? I know you're there. So just listen..."
She went to the window and rested an open palm against the glass. The sky had darkened and the first drops of rain streaked the outer pane. The brick buildings stood like rotting teeth in the city's maw, and the worn cobblestones below mottled and deepened under the moisture.
’ ... your life? Come back now, no questions asked.... ‘
Think. How can he know where I am? And if he does, why aren't they breaking down the doors already?
It was probably some kind of blanket transmission throughout the Boston area. Security almost certainly had narrowed down their location that far by now. But why transmit a message to her at all? Tom was obviously hesitant to force a confrontation—there was no other possible explanation for the ease of her first escape, or for this vision message. He was trying to give her time. But why? Was he hunting her, or helping her?
One thing seemed certain. This message, no matter how it was accomplished or what its motive, was warning enough Security was close. The scrambler was keeping them from finding her specific location, but the message they were narrowing their search was clear. What kind of game was Tom playing? He had to know Security wouldn't allow him to fail. If they believed he was procrastinating, or giving her even the smallest chance to escape them, he could lose everything. He could get himself put in prison—maybe worse. Leslie reached for Gun and clamped it in her fist. Her teeth ground in frustration; through them she cursed Russell.
Don't do me any favors. She hooked Gun's holster from the couch, shrugged it on, put on the scrambler belt, found her summer jacket. Whatever his game was, she'd have to figure it out later. Right now they had to get out of here.
* * * *
Outside on the pavement rain fell steadily now, splashed cold on the cobblestones. The narrow streets were as empty as the apartment building. From the apartment window she'd watched Roger walk to the left. Now she hurried along, and turned at the end of the block where she'd watched him disappear. She walked fifty yards, listening to the spattering rain. She stopped at the first alley and wondered if she should call his name. For an instant, panic stretched her stomach like taffy.
She decided to step into the alley. At least it was better than being on the street, and she could watch behind her in case he appeared. She approached the mouth of another alley squeezed between two of the old brick apartment buildings. Her pace slowed. She wasn't sure how to find him. There had to be a vision stall nearby. She decided to retrace her steps and headed for the main street. The rain fell harder now.
"Leslie! What are you doing out here?” a voice hissed from behind her. Rain stung her face as she turned. She squinted against it. Roger jogged toward her from the second alley, his hair plastered in wet swirls on his forehead. “You were supposed to wait while I checked if it was clear—"
"They know I'm here. We've got to leave."
He stopped, and his hollow face went slack—Leslie watched as fear unraveled over it. His long fingers jerked up, fingers splayed. “I can't take
this."
"Are we all set? Did you make your connection?"
"Yeah,” he snapped, and steadied a hand on her shoulder. “Shit, I'm going to be sick."
Leslie struck his hand away. “Roger, we don't need this right now. If you made your connection and everything's ready, we can get out of here."
"Yeah,” he repeated. “We've got a lift car. It's ready. We'll be okay. We're all right. Let's go.” He swung his head toward the alley Leslie almost entered. Then he ran toward it. Leslie followed. When they rounded the corner, Roger nearly lunged headlong into a Security Guard.
Lurching to the side, Roger slipped on the wet stones and staggered to his knee and a fist. The guard jumped back only a step, his gun already out and pointing at Leslie.
He was young, stocky, mustard-haired. Leslie didn't recognize him. “Hello Saint Leslie,” he said. “Didn't you know this sector of the Boston Fun Park and Museum is closed for remodeling?"
"Do you think you're being cute?” she replied.
The guard smiled. “Just enjoying my job.” He glanced at Roger, then tilted his head to speak into his soaked lapel. “Rhodes, here. I've got Leslie and her boyfriend right h—"
Roger leapt up, screaming. Momentum bore him into the guard's side. The guard caught himself against the brick wall with the web of one hand and tried to swing his gun around in the other. Leslie yanked Gun out, but Roger already had the guard's hair in his fists, was pulling the man's head back ... He hammered the guard's face into the wall. When he pulled back again, Leslie saw the gash across the man's forehead, heard the guard groan and try to say something that only stuttered out as breath through his broken nose. Then Roger slammed his face into the bricks a second time. After the guard's head thrust forward a third time to kiss the wall, it came away crimson. Roger swung a fourth time, a fifth. The guard's body went limp and Roger straddled it, still clutching at the slack head with one fist.
The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security Page 10
