"At least something went right,” she told Cocotte as she settled in the wide leather seat. Cocotte curled up on her lap, and she stroked the little dog's silky ears.
"Good evening, ma'am,” Tony said.
"Will you drop the ma'am, please? You know my name.” Andrea caught his gaze in the rearview mirror.
"Sorry, Andrea. It's late, isn't it? I was surprised when I got your address."
"It's very late. It's been a terrible day and I haven't even had time to eat dinner.” She realized she sounded peevish and frowned.
After a minute Tony said, “I know a nice place by the river."
There was another silence. “Is that an invitation?"
"It sounds like one to me."
Tony looked at her. His eyes were very green. Andrea didn't drop her gaze. “All right,” she said slowly. “Let's go to the river."
* * * *
After dinner, Tony and Andrea strolled down the riverside. The breeze lifted Andrea's hair and when she reached to smooth it down, her hand encountered Tony's. They stopped and leaned towards each other like swimmers in the deep, moving slowly and in silence. Tony drew Andrea to him and kissed her, while Cocotte nosed through the tall grass and the night birds called to one another.
* * * *
Once in the airplane, Mitch thought he'd be able to talk to the woman who had accompanied him all the way from the Virtual Tours office building. She'd been polite, if distant, and they'd spoken a bit in the shuttle cab on the way to the airport. He'd learned her name was Ms. Andrews and that she was the head of the Net Representatives. He was looking forward to finding out more from her.
He was mistaken. When he asked for a briefing, Ms. Andrews had stared at him with her pale eyes and said, “Get this straight. You're a tour guide, not a tour operator. Your job is to go into the tour and see if anything seems out of place while the Net's virus scanner does its job. There won't be any tourists this trip, so your work won't be taxing. Just go to the places you usually go to and keep your eyes open.” Then Ms. Andrews sat down, took a small white pill, and slept for the entire three hours of the voyage.
Annoyed by the Net Rep's dismissal, Mitch waited until she was asleep, opened the overhead luggage compartment and took down her briefcase. The double electronic lock consisted of both a combination lock and a fingerprint ID. The combination lock was no problem. With a tiny, portable computer he had in his back pocket, Mitch ran all the possible combination of numbers through the machine. Next was the fingerprint ID. The woman remained sound asleep while Mitch carefully pressed her index against the small, iridescent square just under the handle. He held his breath as he heard a small click, zzzz, click.
"Well, well, well.” Mitch lifted a thick sheaf of papers out and shuffled through them. He scanned a couple pages, then came to a paragraph that caught his attention. He read it, then read it again. It took a while for the information to sink in. When it did, he shuddered and took a deep breath.
"Mutants,” he whispered, then pursed his lips and looked askance at the woman next to him, now snoring sonorously. “So they exist after all. I always suspected as much. What I'd like to know is why the FBI and the CIA felt the need to keep this program secret all these years. It doesn't make sense. The mutants are harmless, from what it says here."
The papers were in triplicate, faxed, and of a poor quality that made reading them a chore. Mitch browsed through them, a thoughtful look on his face. When the flight attendants came to offer drinks, he shook his head.
Mitch became absorbed in the contents of the papers. He read for the better part of two hours. Then he packed the documents back into the briefcase. He searched the case carefully, to see if he missed anything, but there was nothing except a black plastic beeper with a tiny red light blinking regularly on one side of it. He turned it over in his hands a few times, looking for an outlet or a button, but there was no seam in the plastic. Finally, he snapped the briefcase shut and put it back in the overhead luggage compartment.
He thought about mutants for the rest of the flight.
* * * *
Laurel and Carlos ate dinner together in minus three. Their hands kept colliding, the salt shaker kept tipping, their cups wouldn't stand straight, and their feet, beneath the table, found each other and started a caress. Laurel's skin was mother-of-pearl under the bright cafeteria lights, and her cheeks glowed pink coral as their feet entwined. The table before them was an immense stretch of beige sandstone; they were alone in the room. The walls were sea-foam green, and the floor was made of shiny, indigo tiles. Against the ocean colored background, Carlos thought Laurel looked like a mermaid's exotic child, fetched from beneath the waves and deposited on a white beach.
They didn't use sign language, and Carlos didn't speak to her, although he knew she read lips perfectly. He ate, or pretended to eat, for his stomach was tight as a balled fist. Then their feet touched, their eyes met, and Carlos couldn't look away from her.
After dinner, Carlos led Laurel to an elevator that took them up, up, up to the surface where a full moon cast silver light over the empty desert.
Laurel had been to the surface many times, but never at night, and never with Carlos. They held hands as they walked, which put a serious crimp in their conversation. Carlos felt no need to communicate. He knew their thoughts ran along the same path.
Carlos was familiar with the desert. He took Laurel to the edge of a secret canyon, and they sat beneath the vast sky on a smooth, flat rock that still held the heat of the sun. The moon was so bright that the cactus and the aloe cast shadows on the sand. Lizards, thinking it was still daytime, basked in the moonlight, scales shining like tiny beads. A hungry coyote trotted across the wash, yellow eyes intent. A deer stepped out of the night to drink briefly from the narrow silver thread that was the stream. Drops of water fell like diamonds from its muzzle. Without a sound, it faded back into the darkness.
An owl's shadow floated soundlessly across the ground, and Carlos knew what Laurel felt, encased in the stillness of the night. Here, they were equals. Here, under the huge, sparkling vault of the sky, Carlos reached through the wall of silence and pulled Laurel to him.
* * * *
Sally went home alone, her heart heavy. Her fingers drummed nervously against her thighs. She opened her mailbox and found a letter from her mother written with silver ink on purple paper. By holding it up to the light, she managed to read most of the writing. It was like deciphering shiny snail trails.
Dear Twinkle Sally Star, I hope you are well and in nirvana. Today the sun is so bright it reminds me of your smile. Sweet Twinkle, my first baby, I miss you so much. I have met the strange ghost who lives in the farthest corners of my mind. He says his name is Deer and tells me that I could have been an opera singer. Don't you think that's wonderful? I sing all the time. Time, what a marvelous invention. If someone would invent a time machine, where would you go? I would go back to when you were five years old and kiss your precious chubby cheeks all over again. I miss the feel of a child's hug. I feel quite happy today. It stopped raining and I will take a walk to see the flowers blooming. I speak to Deer about you. So far, he has only told me that you were fine, and he said you chewed your fingernails. Please don't do that, Twinkle; he says it looks dreadful. I hope you are fine. Nirvana to you, sweet baby, your mother who loves you.
Sally tilted her head to one side and considered the letter. It was the most sensible letter she'd ever received from her mother, an ex-hippy who still lived in a commune. And except for the strange, shiny-transparent ink, it looked almost normal. Whoever or whatever the strange ghost named Deer was, he seemed to be a good influence. She made herself a microwave dinner and ate alone. The night was deep, but she wasn't tired. She was waiting for Mitch to call her and tell her everything was all right. Then she would be fine. She put her fingers in her mouth for comfort, but for once, she didn't chew her nails.
Chapter Six
This hour I tell things in confidence,
; I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
~Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
* * * *
M-6—Mahler
Somewhere in the farthest corner of my world, there is a crystal tree. I created it with thoughts of moonbeams and ice and with the feel of glass and blue silk. It grew like a crystal, branching intricately the way frost does on a winter morning windowpane. Because it is so beautiful and fragile, I surrounded it with mist, sparkling with millions of diamond-bright raindrops. The result is so ethereal and resplendent that I must stay away from it. Otherwise, I can become lost in contemplation, forgetting everything else. I forget to eat, to drink, to breathe, even, staring hour after hour, day after day, at the marvel. The sun rises and sets, light flowing up and down the branches. At night, each star picks out a branch and confers its lambency to the tree. The moon is in love with its silvery splendor and covers it with kisses made of light.
The tree is not alive and responds not in the least to all this adoration. I call it the Mother Tree.
Today a strange rumor echoed in our worlds that one of us is gone, and shivers of horror iced our limbs. The last time we started to disappear, none of the missing ever returned. Where did they go? All we knew was that there was no answer when we tried to make contact. Their secret worlds were gone as well, vanished in an emptiness that was terrifying after the gorgeous splendor of their existence.
M-18 is gone, the one they call Monkey. His absence leaves an ache behind him, an empty space. Although we have never actually spoken, we have communicated many times. We feel each other's presence keenly for we are all related, taken from the same human woman's eggs and multiplied.
How do I know all this? You seem to forget. We have access to all records kept on the Net. We are the Net's bastard children, unacknowledged and anonymous. The Net is our father, and our mother abandoned her eggs to science and never attended our birth. Hard parents, indeed. I know. I have studied psychology on the Net, been to chat forums, and participated in grief sessions where all my angst of not having a normal family was partially abated. The rest is poured into the roots of my Mother Tree and it flourishes, nourished by my pain and love, a blindingly beautiful monument to my inhumanity.
I consider myself the eldest male of the remaining mutants. My code is M-6; the name on my glass case is Mahler, perhaps given by a scientist with a bitter sense of humor. I looked up Mahler on the Net, and his sixth symphony is called ‘Tragic.’ Perhaps I'm simply being too sensitive. The first five M's, one through five, are all females. They are a closely-knit group, rarely participating in our discussions, except to be bossy and to give orders. Are all older sisters like that? I believe so. The rest of us are fairly independent. The scientists like to work with the five sisters-they do most of the mathematical work-and right now, they are busy scanning the universe for signs of radioactivity.
I am more attuned to the others than any of my siblings are. The scientists often use me to find out what is wrong with one or another of our group. A moment ago, they asked me to contact everyone and reassure them, to tell them that M-18 has just gone for a small trip.
To tell you the truth, I don't know if this reassures me or calls attention to the fact that so many others disappeared and were never spoken of again. I will meditate on the command.
The Mother Tree is below me. I open my arms and swoop from the sky, gliding through the cool mist, to land on the smooth rocks. The tree is on a cliff. Beneath it, the sea crashes against huge boulders, sending glittering spray into the air. I tip my face to the sky and feel the water droplets on my skin. How akin to tears they are. Monkey, Monkey, can you hear me? Take care of yourself. Don't get lost out there; the real world is a terrifying place for mutants.
* * * *
Monkey was lost. He'd taken the hallway leading to the restroom, found the correct icon, and used the facilities with only a slight mishap. He had yet to become accustomed to zippers; his boxer shorts were caught and the metal teeth wouldn't let go. Monkey urinated the best he could, pulling his penis out of the small hole the zipper left. He shook the remaining drops off the end, as Professor Toutbon had showed him. Then he washed his hands. Washing his hands was fun; he could stare into the mirror and see his face and body, something none of the mutants could ever do. He had no idea if he was handsome or not, and it didn't matter. He enjoyed the way his mouth moved, the way his eyebrows went up and down, and how he could wink one eye, then the other. He had an expressive face, and it amused him to feign fear, surprise, joy, and sadness in quick succession. His own face fascinated him. After he washed his hands, he dried them by pushing a button on a machine that created gusts of hot air.
He left the bathroom and stood uncertainly in the hall. He had no idea if he'd come from the left or the right. The man accompanying him, Frank Dinde, had gone to some place known as the cigarettemachine. He tilted his head, considering his options. Left or right? He opted for left and walked down the hallway. Once he fell down, too occupied with looking up at the lights, but he put his hands out and caught himself.
* * * *
Mitch was strolling down the hallway, looking for the men's room. He was impressed by the headquarters, still amazed by the luxurious entranceway, which looked more like a five-star Venetian hotel than the headquarters for the Net Government. Italian tiles in muted terra cotta and pale blue covered the floor. The walls were stained brick red and the windows were all copies from an Italian palace in Venice. Very nice, indeed. Copies of Renaissance paintings hung on the walls, and overhead hung small, crystal chandeliers.
Coming down the hallway in front of him was a man walking with his nose in the air. He seemed to be examining the lights, stopping now and then to gape. He was very young, or seemed so, with a smooth, pale face and candid eyes. His hair was a riot of red curls, as bright as polished copper, and his fly was open. His underwear poked out like a handkerchief, and so did his penis. The young man wasn't walking as much as he was swiveling. His legs seemed to be unsure exactly where they wanted to go. Once he pitched forward, his torso advancing before his feet, but he gave a funny leap and caught himself, then stood grinning, pleased with his effort.
He caught sight of Mitch and his grin widened. “Hello,” he said, in a warm, joyful voice. “Can I help you?"
Mitch was caught off guard. “I was just going to ask the same of you,” he admitted. He cocked his head. “Did you know your fly was open?"
The man looked puzzled. “Which one is my fly?” He opened and closed his eyes, his mouth, and his fists. “Is it closed now?"
Mitch pointed. “No, your fly's still open. It's there. And unless you want to get arrested, I'd put your pal back inside."
"Oh. My pal? What a funny name for a penis. Hold on now, everything seems to be stuck.” He tugged and tugged, oblivious to the danger a suddenly unstuck zipper posed to a tender penis.
Mitch jumped forward. “Wait! First tuck him back inside. If you get him stuck in the zipper it's straight to the emergency ward."
"Is that supposed to happen?"
"Supposed to?” Mitch frowned. “No. Take this end and hold that side down, steady now, I'll pull here and you yank up.” There was a ripping sound and the underwear was free.
"There, good as new. You're presentable again.” Mitch stuck out his hand. “I'm Mitch. What's your name?"
"Monkey. Pleased to meet you."
"Um, you usually let go of a person's hand after the first minute or so.” Mitch removed his hand from Monkey's grasp.
"I like holding your hand.” He said it simply, like a child.
"Do you?” Mitch blinked, then his face cleared. “You're one of the mutants, aren't you?"
"I am, yes.” Monkey blushed and put his hands behind his back, then in front of him, then held them stiffly at his sides. “Professor Toutbon didn't have time to teach me everything. I've been relying on the experiences I encountered in virtual worlds on the web. So far, I haven't seen any dragons. I would like to see a real one; do
you know where they sleep? First, I'd better find a light saber. Have you any idea where the magic swords could be hidden? I've been looking very carefully for secret spaces, but so far, everything has been as it appears."
Mitch smiled. He shook his head. “I'm afraid dragons only exist in virtual worlds. We're all out of magic swords at the moment, and secret spaces are usually hidden behind mirrors. We're frightfully ordinary in all aspects, otherwise. Will you come with me? I have to go to the men's room, but then we can go get something to eat. I have a feeling the cafeteria here has excellent Italian food."
"I would like that very much.” An enormous smile lit his face. “I'm so happy to meet you.” They walked together down the hall, Monkey hanging tightly to Mitch's hand.
As they passed, the eyes in one of the paintings followed them.
* * * *
M-6—Mahler
There are secret worlds everywhere. Some are hidden behind mirrors, some are in spaces created by computer programmers, and some are invented by the mind. Some simply exist and no one knows how they came into being.
In my travels, I have seen the worlds created by men in the virtual programs. There are worlds of magic, sorcery, dragons and demons, worlds of splendor and fear. There are worlds made to entertain, with parachuting, deep sea diving, and roller coasters galore. The most interesting worlds are the museums, developed for educative and cultural purposes, with hands-on demonstrations and scientific explanations. Of course, that is just a personal opinion. Chat forums are very popular with mutants. We like to communicate with humans; the interaction is vital for our well-being. Speaking to the scientists through our consoles isn't enough.
Virtual Murder Page 7
