The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  Meyer groaned, “Ohh ... shit..."

  He touched his lapel and talked hoarsely into it. “It's Meyer. Does anybody else see what's going on here? Jefferson? We need to neutralize all media and mechanical eyes around the vicinity of Father Washington and his ... brother. Yeah, his fucking brother. This is a Red Priority. This scenario is not public. Neutralize all mechanical eyes!” He glared at Leslie. “You stupid little bitch. How do you think this is going to help you?” He shoved her again; she grinned at him until she slammed against the back vision wall, where a derelict clown in triplicate, hustling on a street corner, strummed a ukulele and sang about the War on Poverty: It's no laughing matter; let's clean up New York's streets....

  "You think I'm beneath contempt, you always have,” Everett was saying. “Don't deny you would just as soon kill me yourself as let me go. Of course the only thing keeping you from that, maybe, is how it would wash in the polls—"

  "Don't be ridiculous. I've barely given you a thought over all these years. I have people to do that for me."

  A laser blast flared just outside the vision stall. There was screaming, then the sharp odor of burning skin. Meyer thrust the door wide, left arm angled against the plastic panel, the other still thrusting his gun at Leslie. From under his bent arm sunlight pricked at Leslie's eyes, accustomed now to the dim glow of the stall. The street was a hysterical mass of bodies as some trampled each other to escape the area and others crouched, planting their heads to the pavement. Twenty yards from the stall a mechanical eye twisted along the curb, one hand raking cement. One temple and the cheek below it were gone—an emerald eye flickered. It seemed bigger now, exposed in the red puddle of the face, a delicate wisp of gray smoke rising from a snarl of sparks. Meyer yelled into his lapel. “Straight ahead on the opposite curb. Do you see him? And up on the balcony. Do you see him?"

  Leslie straightened, flexing her knuckles. She followed the line of Meyer's arm to his thick shoulders, the tight, greasy curls just touching his collar. And fear welled in her, a quivering bubble catching in her throat, her chest, making her arms ache. It was the pivot of hysteria; she knew panic caressed her face. But it was a familiar place to her, webbed with anger. She wanted to yawn, or scream. Or weep. Staring at Meyer's back, Leslie felt the suffocating weight of all her losses. Meyer was suddenly the loss of her old life, the mem, her fetus. He was Russell's control, he was her father and Washington; he was Security. And her eyes stung again, this time with the beginnings of tears.

  You are alone. The words came out in her breath, almost spoken. No one's going to help you out of this. No Russell, no head mem, no Gun. You are completely alone.

  She repeated it as if it were a charm or a prayer. The idea had always frightened her, and this fear had defined her. Now, she felt a cool calm settle, and the bubble softened until it was gone. Knowing she was alone somehow collected her, clarified her the way it had at the Atheist cell. She held still as Meyer continued to spit out hoarse orders. When his gun wavered down—just an inch—she reached around his wrist and locked him up in an arm bar.

  His arm wrenched against his arching back. The gun skittered on the floor. Before he could react, her forearm slammed his nape and he went down across the doorway. Leslie arched forward, scooping up his gun. As she lurched through the door her elbow swung into the jamb and sent a shuddering spike of pain up her arm and through her neck. She whirled then, and launched a heel into the back of his head; Meyer's cheek grated concrete.

  Another laser shot pierced the scene, then another. From a balcony on the third floor of the Tower Hotel a mechanical eye was a bloody rag, twisting slowly down into the chaos of the street below. In front of the cafe, Tom had sprawled across Father Washington, their chairs overturned. He was scanning the street, his gun gripped in his hand.

  Everett cowered behind the table. Leslie watched his face shift as he realized he was unharmed, and then shift again as it dawned on him he was not Security's immediate target. Leslie balanced Meyer's gun over her shoulder and strode toward him as his body uncoiled. Tom and Everett breathed her name at the same time.

  "—Leslie."

  "Terry—"

  Her father smiled. “I suppose you do remember me after all, don't you?"

  "Pretty well,” she said.

  Every muscle in her face went taut. She carefully trained the gun on her father, watched his face turn crimson. The noise around them disappeared as he alone filled her vision. Her panic was a metal plate edged through her chest.

  "What are you going to do with that thing? You've got a lot of nerve pointing that toy at me. Do you think you've ever felt pain before, little girl? Make sure you kill me, because there'll be no end to the pain I'll make you feel. Terry, Leslie, whoever, whatever you think you are."

  Leslie felt herself tensing, cringing, a motion in the shoulders like a child's collapse within herself when she knows she's going to be hit. “I'm sorry,” she said.

  "You'd better be. Put that fucking gun down or you're going to be dealing with the wrath of God Almighty. You would never pray with me, do you remember that? Not really. And look what you've become—a wretched little whore who doesn't know what to do unless her father orders her around. Your weakness makes me sick. I pity you. You miss Daddy's big iron cock? Hmm? His authority? You knew what to do back then, you little bitch. The authority of Jesus Christ, and my fist. And that's all you need—"

  Leslie pulled the trigger.

  Everett flinched. Then he leered at her. And moved forward.

  Meyer has his damn thumb lock activated on the thing. She lowered the gun and looked at Tom.

  "Still looking to someone else to solve your problems?” Everett sneered.

  Muscle banded up her arms as Leslie clenched her empty fist. Anger marbled through the part of her that still cringed in front of him. She was still the little girl who stuck her arms down across her ass to protect herself. He had that look. She wanted to beg him to stop. She slid a finger to the base of Meyer's gun and the short stiletto snapped out.

  Tom squinted in pain as he steadied his stump against Father Washington's squirming shoulder blade. “Please stay down, Mr. President,” he said. Then to Everett's back: “This gun still works."

  Everett closed his eyes, tilted his head back, half-turned.

  "Put your hands on your head and get on your knees.” Tom climbed to his feet, the weapon trained on Everett. “Mr. President, please stay down!"

  Washington rose to one knee, hand on the chair's edge, and pushed Himself up. “No more, Russell. Flat on my face for everyone to see—it's a disgrace.” He shook Himself off arrogantly.

  Leslie heard another laser blast behind her. Someone screeched. Her stare remained steady, strong on her father, who slowly bent down as if in genuflection, as if offering a prayer before the Saint of Security. She hoped there were still mechanical eyes to capture it.

  Tom rushed forward. “Just give me one excuse to do what I should have done so many years ago” he said. Still grasping his gun, he stuck his hand against the back of Everett's head and thrust him the rest of the way to the sidewalk. He dug a knee into Everett's back.

  "You take it easy, Russell,” Father Washington said. “He's my brother, you know, in a way.” The President glanced at Leslie, looked around the front of the café. “What the Red Hell is going on?"

  "Leslie set us up, Mr. President,” Tom said. “In front of national vision. Don't worry, Security is cleaning up the mess."

  "I don't know if this classifies as ‘clean',” Father Washington said softly, looking at the street.

  Leslie moved to Tom. His gun still bored into Everett's neck. “Hello again, Tommy."

  "Hello, Les.” He didn't look at her.

  She leaned into him from the side and rested Meyer's gun on his shoulder so that its tiny blade touched the collar of his shirt. “You've got one hand left, and it seems pretty full. I could kill you right now, you know. I have nothing to lose."

  He stared down at Everett.r />
  "I'm thinking about letting you live,” she said, “but I haven't made up my mind."

  Everett started to say something, but Tom ground his knee into his spine and forced his face back down to the cement. “I don't know how to express to you how sorry I am, Leslie,” Tom said. He still wouldn't look at her. Father Washington was calling to her, but she ignored Him.

  "Me too,” she said sarcastically. She pushed the blade harder against his neck and took a moment to look around. Meyer was stirring in front of the vision stall. She spotted at least two more bodies near the first mechanical eye and the man who fell from the balcony. About a hundred feet from her, standing like a wax statue, was Roger. He stared at Leslie, cradling the cooler against his chest with both cable-thin arms. He looked like a cartoon of himself; the mouse, facing the cat. She turned again to Tom. “Your life for his."

  He finally twisted to look up at her, then his gaze flitted in Roger's direction. “The Atheist?” he said. “He's nothing. Why are you so concerned with—” Leslie watched him try to pull off the old trick with his face, making it go blank. But it didn't fool her anymore; she saw the currents of jealous suspicion that lapped and pooled there.

  "An Atheist and an unborn.” She smiled at his torn mask.

  "Your taste has gone to Hell,” Tom said.

  "Make sure he gets away and you can stay alive—and you can have the credit of bringing me back to Washington."

  They stared at each other for the space of four deep breaths. Then Tom turned to Washington. “Mr. President?"

  For the first time, Father Washington acted truly angry. “I don't give a damn about that little man. If that's what Leslie wants, let her have it."

  Tom nudged his lapel with his chin and whispered orders across the security channel. When he finished he looked at Roger again. “What's wrong with him?” he said. “Why isn't h—"

  "Roger!” Leslie yelled. It shook him out of his daze. His arms had begun to shake; the whole Styrofoam cooler was quivering. “Roger, you need to get out of here. It's safe for you to go. But you need to leave now, right away, before they change their mind or some Guard screws up.” She pushed harder with the blade. “You know somebody always does."

  Roger shook tangles out of his right eye. “I'm not leaving without you, Leslie."

  "Yes you are, Roger. It's the only way. You have the most important thing to me in your hands, and you know what I need you to do. Please. I'll be back. I'll find you.” Even from a distance she saw the depth of his frown.

  "I thought that we ... that we were...."

  "We are, Roger. You've been much more than a good friend. But I need you to do this for me. I'm begging you."

  His eyes dulled focus and turned away from Leslie's gaze. Then he nodded, looking to her as if a horrible weight had spread across his shoulders. “I'll take care of it for you, Leslie. Don't even worry for a second.” He turned slowly, but once he started walking he disappeared almost immediately in the crowd.

  Meyer and two other security guards were on her before she'd turned back to Tom. She saw blood caking in the rough line of Meyer's goatee, fine pieces of stone crushed into the red of his grated cheek, then her vision whirled as they flung her down beside her father. She didn't struggle. She was prone in a forest of arms and knees. She raised her head enough to watch the street, where crowds still swarmed, bolder now the shooting had stopped. There were guards pushing hippies and Revolutionary soldiers back, shaking their guns in the air. Leslie searched the edges of the crowd.

  Someone cuffed her roughly—the edges cut into her wrists. She heard Tom roar at the other guards with hoarse indignation. “This is Saint Leslie of fucking Security, you assholes! What the Red Hell do you think you're doing? Come on, have some respect.” Leslie had to quell another surge of sympathy for him.

  Lying there, she did her best to search through the crowds around them. When she found him she bit her lip to keep from breathing out something like laughter. He'd escaped the slaughter. And he was grinning at her once more, his boyish face a white saucer full of pennies and two bright, self-lubricating emerald cameras.

  Leslie grinned too.

  They dragged her to her feet and she looked around at the angry and excited faces surrounding her. Meyer was closest, still covered in blood and dirt. Sweat dripped from his forehead and started to mix with everything else smeared on his face. Jefferson was among them too—she could smell the decay of his breath. She couldn't see Tom. When she looked back toward the crowd, the red-headed mechanical eye was gone.

  "You look like a Desert Storm, Meyer,” she said. Someone jerked her wrists in the cuffs, sending a razor through her nerves.

  "Don't worry about me,” he said. “I'm fine."

  She would have shrugged if it wouldn't have chewed at her bound wrists. She realized she was still grinning. “Good thing Guard Russell was able to finally find me, huh?"

  Meyer's eyes tensed to trembling slits. “Let's go, Leslie. We're taking you back to Washington."

  "It doesn't matter where you take me.” She noticed that the sun was shining. She looked up, squinting. “One heck of a parade this year, wasn't it?” Meyer didn't answer her.

  After they had pushed their way a few steps through the crowd, he said, “By the way. What was in the cooler?"

  Leslie's grin widened.

  * * * *

  On Channel 64 the latest raid by DC police into one of the scrap towns is shown, mechanical eyes jostling at the charging officers’ backs. Fourteen homeless are arrested, then a grinning cop lets out a whoop. “We're right there. We're right on the edge of winning the War on Poverty, baby!” Officials appear to assure the public there are no known links to terror associated with these arrests, but that investigation would continue.

  Alert Status is lowered to an Irritated Indignation.

  Mechanical eye footage mysteriously obtained during the Rebel Day Celebration in New York City is shown for the thirtieth time: As the eye reveals Washington talking with His twin, then the confusing violence that follows, commentators parse the events. “It's a mind-blowing revelation, Fred, there's just no other word to describe it. We can clearly see here Father Washington facing the Antichrist outside a Manhattan cafe, who looks like His twin—"

  "His clone, Walter, His clone. We find this Father Washington, whom we've trusted for so long, is negotiating with a terrorist, and then we find the terrorist just happens to be His secret illegal clone. It's just unbelievable."

  "And here comes the laser fire. We see what appears to be a major fire fight between Security and what we could only imagine must be Atheists...."

  "Another stunning revelation occurs when we see that Saint Leslie of Security is indeed still alive. In this dramatic shootout Saint Leslie assists in apprehending the terrorist leader and exposing the circle of corruption in Washington. And then bang, there it is, her own organization have thrown her to the ground!"

  "It's unbelievable, just unbelievable."

  "Official sources have said there was only minimal collateral damage from friendly fire, but it was all the confusion of the moment that caused guards to take Saint Leslie briefly into custody. The arresting security guards have been suspended and are under investigation."

  "We should note, Walter, recent advertising campaigns centered around Rebel Day encouraging citizens to be heroes and assist local authorities in the War On Terror actually paid off with dozens of arrests this year."

  "That's true, Fred, but this Roger Calvin character, that SOM assassin's brother, hasn't been found yet."

  "Don't worry, it will happen soon. Officials reported that an unemployed hairdresser named June Khrest, who dated Calvin before she learned about his affiliations, has provided leads for his capture."

  "She's kind of cute, too, really nice breasts. Let's run that tape, where she explains why she contacted the police."

  June stares into the camera, eyes red, her hair dull and tangled. “When he showed up again the other day,” she says. “I
knew I had to. I mean, he'd always acted so strange and, well, sometimes you just have to do the right thing, I guess."

  "She'll get a good check from the city in gratitude for her selfless act, Fred."

  "I'm sure she will. And we're waiting for confirmation on the rumor she sold the rights to her story to Channel 13-39."

  * * * *

  Late Morning with Serena Pee follows the news update. Serena, America's happiest host, beams as vision zooms in on her flashing teeth, her glistening crimson lips. “Please welcome our very special guest,” she gushes. “Saint Leslie of Security!"

  Applause shakes the studio as Leslie walks across the set. She wears a black skirt and a stylish sleeveless blouse. Her hair is cropped short. Serena stands and clasps Leslie's hand, then they sit and wait for the swelling ovation to subside. “You're looking good, girl! Isn't she looking good?” More applause, interspersed with lascivious whistling. “You simply must tell me who is doing your hair!"

  "Thank you, thank you.” Leslie smiles.

  "And you've been through so much. I don't know how you do it. I mean, you really look great!” Serena pauses, and then lets her expression become serious. “Now I want to start with some of these strange rumors we've been hearing. What do you have to say about the story that you have some kind of miracle child—” She turns to her audience, holding up her hands, then gushes on. “What are they saying, what are they saying? Some kind of immaculate birth, or unborn birth, or rebirth, or something?"

  "Well I can't be held responsible for the stories people come up with."

  "Aren't they saying the baby is destined to reunite Vermont and America?"

  Leslie shrugs.

  Serena Pee bobs her head up and down and smiles. “Yes, yes, and bring all the nations of the continent back together and restore the age-old majesty of the United States, and—"

  "That would be nice, wouldn't it?” Leslie says. Scattered laughter rises from the spectators.

  "Oh certainly, certainly. But enough about that. What is Saint Leslie up to now? I'm hearing good things about you, girl. You've moved to a better neighborhood, gotten your first check from the Congregation of Saints...."