Absence of Mind

by H. C. H. Ritz

  A few more languorous, luxurious kisses, and then she parts her lips, and I part mine, too, and the sweet tip of her tongue enters my mouth, making me draw a quick breath before I bring my tongue to taste hers.

  Hungry for more, I raise one thigh to that hollow between her legs and press it against her, finding it astonishingly hot there. A like heat has blossomed within me. She moans softly as I press against her.

  I caress her shoulders, her back, the perfect curve of her waist, that luscious place where the hips begin, and she does the same to me.

  Suddenly, the fire flares up, and we roll over between the sheets, our bodies pressed together, breathing hard, kissing hard, as if with enough passion, we could blot out every bad thing that has happened in the past few weeks.

  Moments pass with delicious kisses and her sweet, small tongue and our bodies intertwined, as much of us touching as possible at each moment, gasping with pleasure.

  Then she pulls away, and I see a tear running down her cheek. My heart stops. “What’s wrong?” I ask in a whisper.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing… what this is,” Mila says, her voice choked with tears.

  “Shhh… shhh.” I relax and lay down with her, holding her. “It’s okay. I don’t know what this is either.” I feel my own stab of panic. “I don’t know either.”

  She buries her head against my chest, and I stroke her hair. Suddenly, I’m terrified that this has been all wrong. “You don’t… You don’t like it? Us… kissing?” If she says no, I’ll be crushed.

  “I like it,” she whispers. “But I don’t understand it.”

  My heart soars. I like it, she said.

  “I don’t understand it, either,” I whisper back to her. But when I dip my face down to hers, she kisses me again, this time tasting of salt. Then she pulls away again.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispers.

  Hearing those two words—so out of character for this remarkable woman—suddenly all I want is to protect her, to earn her trust, to be worthy of her. “I won’t hurt you, Mila. I’ll never hurt you.” I mean it with all my heart, although I also have this sense that I’m stepping off a bridge into some dark chasm and I don’t know what’s there—but whatever it is, I won’t let it hurt her. I won’t.

  She seems to think on this for a while, and then she nestles against me again and kisses me again. The passion has calmed now, and we cuddle and kiss with exquisite pleasure but without urgency. A sense of peace—of rightness—takes over me. I never, ever want to let her go.

  Finally, she whispers, “We should sleep.”

  I nod and kiss her cheek affectionately, which draws a smile. I stroke her hair until her eyes close and her breath evens out and her body relaxes.

  Eventually, a series of sleep twitches run through her body, and her breath deepens. And at some point, sleep takes me, too.

  As dawn creeps through the windows, Mila lifts her laptop over Phoebe’s sleeping body, opens it, and types, “What happens to Phoebe if I agree to this plan?”

  Slava Knyazev:

  We know you value Phoebe. Consequently, we need her as collateral—a way to ensure that you will uphold your end of the bargain. Let us take her—without harming her, of course—and when you‘ve completed your end of the deal, we‘ll release her. Again, unharmed. You will note that even the idiots you dealt with previously did not harm your mother, and I can guarantee you no less.

  You already hold a great deal of evidence that could implicate us. We will hold Phoebe. In this way, we will be able to trust one another.

  I also have an extra incentive for you.

  I know that not being able to have a Navi has significantly hampered your programming career. Well, ENI has some promising experimental technology that is allowing previously non-Navable people to get Navis. It‘s been kept under wraps because they‘ve wanted to ensure they were first to market, and they‘re still a long way from marketing it. But because of my connections there, I can get you into the top-secret pilot program. I confirmed it less than twenty minutes ago.

  If you help us, you can get a Navi—one that I personally guarantee will be free of our little enhancement. Within a few weeks, you can have a Navi. I promise it.

  When I wake up, I’m alone in the bed. I think of Mila’s soft lips and touch, and I’m struck with certainty that she’ll be upset that we did that and now… now… I’m not sure what, but something bad.

  I get up and shower while I worry.

  As I do, I note that it’s been several days since I’ve been able to check my messages. I’ve lost the intense cravings and the itch to see what I’ve been missing, and now I just worry that there’s something important I need to know about. I’m painfully out of touch. The good news is that everyone who’s truly important to me is right here with me, in this house.

  Suddenly, my heart rate doubles.

  Everything I care about is right here in this house.

  We’re all sitting ducks here. All they have to do is come here and shoot us all. My people are pacifists, for God’s sake. How are they supposed to protect themselves, let alone us?

  I’m too alert now, and I go from window to window looking for any suspicious strangers. I don’t see anything amiss, but I have to sit on the bed and try to talk myself back down. It doesn’t work. It’s clear to me that we have to leave right away. Today.

  I get dressed and go down to the kitchen with butterflies in my stomach for at least two different reasons.

  Mila is alone in the kitchen, buttering toast, somehow captivating even in a print dress and cap. I stop at the doorway to the kitchen, too anxious to approach.

  She glances up at me, and her sober expression doesn’t change. I’m tongue-tied. She finishes that piece of toast and starts on another, methodical, still silent. It’s hardly a warm welcome, yet she isn’t yelling at me, either.

  She puts down the last piece of toast and lays down the butter knife, looking down at the counter, and some expression flickers across her face that I don’t consciously recognize but suddenly understand. She’s afraid of how I might react to what happened between us last night.

  I hurry over to her, and she turns to me and puts her head on my shoulder as I take her in my arms. We hold each other in silence, swaying slightly.

  I luxuriate in the sensation of holding her. It feels as if all my anxiety and tension are drained right out of me, leaving comfort in their place—comfort and an intense awareness of her presence.

  I try to remember the last time I held another person. I’ve had a few short-term boyfriends, but those relationships were via Navi. One of them was interested exclusively in Navi sex. I guess it’s been over a year since I’ve even hugged another person. Did it always feel this amazing, or is it only this amazing with Mila? I can’t remember.

  “Someone will come in soon,” Mila whispers, and we release each other reluctantly. Just in time, too. We hear footsteps, and we break eye contact and quickly move to opposite sides of the kitchen as my mother comes in to cook breakfast.

  While I remain behind to take care of Jamie and Mila opens up her laptop, everyone else goes to church. Unlike the Old Order Amish, our community has separate buildings for church, albeit simple wooden structures to prevent idolatry. They sing hymns and listen to a sermon by the local bishop. For them, the afternoon and evening will be taken up with quiet Bible study, as there can be no work on Sundays.

  Mila says that she’s still trying to find “command and control” servers for the malware—the servers that tell it what to do, but she’s having no luck.

  “They’ve rewritten the code to point back to me, and it’s all me, everywhere I look. All the logs point to me. All the command and control software is now on a server that supposedly only I have access to, that I used some months ago on a subcontract. I can’t find the original code anywhere, and that means I can’t prove what the code used to be, or find the companies who did it.”

  She looks at me, but I have nothing to offer. All I
can do is shake my head. “Keep trying,” I say pointlessly. “We need you.”

  For my part, I spend the afternoon over at Sister Friesen’s house, trying to get some sort of response out of Jamie. I sit him up, give him water and more chicken and dumplings, and try stimulating his hands, feet, and face. He wrinkles his face and tries to swipe at my hands, which is something, at least. But his eyes refuse to focus, he doesn’t even try to speak, and I can’t get him to hold a cup or a book.

  He seems so far away, locked so deep inside. To imagine that he might stay this way forever, that maybe he’s not locked away but truly gone… It turns my stomach. And with Mila having no luck with the code… I can’t bear to think about it, so I lay him back down and tuck him in to rest, and I go outside to take a walk and clear my mind.

  That’s the only reason I see them coming.

  I’m passing behind our garden, about halfway back to my parents’ house, and there they are: the two SUVs that are slowing down as they approach my parents’ driveway. I know that they’re here for us.

  I run as fast as my suddenly weak legs will carry me. Precious seconds go by before I’m throwing open my back door and screaming to Mila.

  Thank God, she’s working downstairs in the living room. She snaps her laptop shut and then we’re both dashing out of the back door, to the corner of the house, then we stop and peek around the corner.

  The SUVs are parking and men are stepping out with serious expressions and guns strapped to their hips. A couple of them are wearing vests that say “US Marshal” on the back. I close my eyes in a moment of relief. The authorities won’t kill everyone they run across. They’re after Mila and me. They can gain nothing from hurting my parents. Nor Mrs. Bremer. There’s no reason to hurt them.

  They aren’t looking this way yet, so I grab Mila’s hand and we run behind the cover of tall tomato plants in the garden to the barn a few dozen yards away. We stop at the corner and look back, gasping.

  Two of the men are going to my parents’ front door. Three are spreading out around the house, looking up at it and also scanning the surrounding land.

  We run through pasture with tall grass waiting to be cut to hay to Sister Friesen’s house. I throw open the back door, and we stumble in. I shut the door and lock it. I peek out through the curtained window in the back door. No one yet.

  As we run to the basement door, Mrs. Friesen’s two youngest boys come running to see what the commotion is. “Lock the front door!” I scream-whisper.

  They look at me blankly for a moment. In this community, crime is unheard-of. But kids are obedient, too, so they recover quickly and run to the front door to lock it.

  As we open the basement door, Brother Friesen comes down the stairs to see what’s happening.

  Knowing that every second is critical, I say, “Don’t open the door to them! No matter what!” I half-drag Mila down into the basement and shut the door without another word.

  We both lean against the door facing each other, listening intently and trying to catch our breath. I think I’m panting from terror at least as much as from running. I look down the stairs at Jamie on his cot below. He only stirs slightly.

  “They’ve looked through your house by now,” she says quietly. “They’ll be fanning out, looking through your property, looking for any signs of us.”

  “Thank God my people are so tidy,” I whisper. “All our clothes and toiletries are put away, our beds are made… there should be no sign of us. And thank God I hid the car.”

  She looks at her laptop as if to be certain it’s with her, and she nods.

  A terrible thought occurs to me, and I grab her arm in a panic.

  “What about your mother?” I ask. “They’ll know we’re here because she’s here.”

  Mila shakes her head. “She doesn’t know who I am, remember? She’ll tell them Mila isn’t here. She doesn’t have a Navi to ID her with, either, and she may not even know her own name, depending.”

  I nod slowly. Turns out senility can be handy sometimes.

  The knock at the front door makes both of us jump. “Don’t answer don’t answer don’t answer don’t answer,” I whisper. “Please, God, don’t let them answer.”

  I hear no sounds from upstairs. Then, more knocking. A male voice from outside. “US Marshals. Open up! We need to ask you some questions.”

  We are sitting ducks down here, I realize. If they open that door and let them in, we will be caught, and we will be leaving here in handcuffs.

  The knocking comes a third time—louder and more insistent.

  The sound of the door opening comes to our ears. I think I squeak in terror, and Mila clutches my arm to quiet me. We stare at each other, barely breathing.

  “Whatever it is you want, you’ll find no help here,” Brother Friesen says. “You’d best move along.”

  “We’re US marshals. We’re looking for these women. Have you seen them?”

  “I said you’ll find no help here.”

  “Does that mean you’ve seen them?” The tone is distinctly irritated now. I can imagine the man with his marshal’s vest, his guns strapped to his waist, his badge on a lanyard, and his authority disregarded.

  “Move along. You’ll get no help here.”

  A female voice interrupts. She sounds African American. “Have you two little boys seen either of these women?” she coos.

  The older boy answers. “Matthew 25:41: ‘And he shall say to them on the left hand, depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire.’”

  I have to press my hand to my mouth to keep back the laughter.

  “Oh really?” the woman asks. Oh, she sounds mad. “Oh, is that what you think? That we’re damned? Because you—”

  Her partner interrupts her, his tone clipped. “Mind if we take a look inside?”

  “You’ll need a warrant to enter my home.” Brother Friesen’s tone remains level.

  Mila and I clutch each other. This is it. If they have a warrant…

  “If you hear anything about these women, you’ll need to let us know,” the other man says, his tone furious.

  No response.

  Then the door closes again, and Mila and I embrace each other, both of us gasping in relief. We wait as long as we can stand it, and then we crack the door open. Brother Friesen and his two youngest sons stand by the window, looking outside. Staying low, we creep out to join them. We can’t help but watch.

  “They’ve knocked on three more doors,” Brother Friesen observes quietly. “Two people have answered but have not let them in.” He sounds satisfied.

  As we watch, the marshals approach a large family walking from one house to another. Keeping pace with the family, the marshals speak to them and flash the pictures of us. As far as I can tell, the Plain people don’t even respond. Man, woman, and children, they just look at the authorities with sober gazes and keep walking.

  The body language of the marshals is agitated as they stalk back to their car.

  Mila and I squeeze hands.

  “Thank you,” I say to the Friesens.

  Brother Friesen nods, and I think I detect amusement in his expression. He walks tall as he escorts his sons back to the “quiet room,” where they spend their Sundays in prayer.

  “We should go back into the basement,” Mila says. “And then we need to be careful about moving around in the open. They’re going to assume that we might still come here—if they don’t think we’re here already—so they’ll set up a perimeter and keep watch.”

  I nod.

  And this suddenly seems like an excellent time to clutch Mila’s body against mine and kiss her.

  Mila to Slava Knyazev:

  So the offer is the carrot. And the marshals—and making us your fall guys—are the stick. But what happens to your plan if they actually catch us?

  Slava:

  You’re smart. You won’t get caught.

  Time is up, Ms. Bremer. I’ve been very patient with you and provided a lot of answers. I need an answer from
you now. Right now.

  Something in Mila’s posture catches my attention, and I look up from my book. Her expression is bleak.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She lets out a breath as she makes a couple of clicks. “’Trail of Fugitive Cyberterrorists Lost,’” she reads, her tone subdued. “’US Deputy Marshal Tom Lyons, who is heading up the manhunt, told ABC News this morning that he suspects that the fugitives never headed south. ‘We have reason to believe that the supposed sightings from earlier were digitally created…’” Her voice trails off.

  “We knew it could only last so long,” I say, hoping to comfort her. “You said you didn’t have time to make it stand up to scrutiny.”

  She keeps reading. “‘Mr. Lyons states, “We’re following all possible leads to determine their whereabouts. If you think you may have sighted either of the suspects or the brother in any part of the country, email wanted@usdoj.gov immediately. We will act promptly on all tips.”’ They don’t know where we are. If they had any idea, they’d say so.”

  I nod. “What else is going on out there in the world?” I hate to ask. I don’t really want to know.

  “There are all these do-it-yourself videos coming online for how to remove Navis at home using everything from electromagnets to thin wires. Dozens of people have killed themselves or given themselves brain damage by accident. Naturally, officials are telling people not to attempt to remove their Navis themselves, but everyone knows there aren’t enough technicians to go around.”

  She shrugs bitterly. “And a number of patients who went from second-wave to third-wave, like Jamie, have been released back to hospitals from the detention centers. Many of them are in bad shape after as long as seven days there. Dehydration, hunger, diabetic comas, stuff like that.”