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Private Investigations

Previously: The Litagent and Mr. Kemp

Ethan had to wait outside on the landing while Litagent Nolan and crew went through his apartment.  They had left the front door open and he watched as they carelessly shuffled through his bookshelf, desk, and even the little magazine cozy by the couch.  At one point, he heard glass break and he approached the door angrily, but the same pair of Litagent enforcers from his office were there to bar his way. In all, he waited almost three hours, with most of that spent watching them huddle around his terminal, quietly discussing the contents of his files.

Finally, Litagent Nolan walked into the breezeway, removing the rubber gloves from his hands.  “This is the worst part of my job,” he said. “It’s the rubber, you see, it traps the heat.  You never realize how badly the skin on your hands needs to breathe until you encase it in a glove.”  He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dried his hands.  “But those are the breaks, are they not?”

Ethan’s face had settled into an indignant sneer.

“Such reproach for such a minor inconvenience,” said Nolan.  He nodded to his search team and dismissed them.  “You should be happy, Mr. Kemp.  We found nothing incriminating in your files or your terminal, aside from some questionable photos. Nothing too serious though, no need to involve the vice squad.”

“I guess I should thank you then,” said Ethan, sarcastically.

“Not necessary.” Nolan waved his hand dismissively.  “Your tax dollars are more than enough compensation for doing my job.”

“Does this mean I’m not a suspect anymore?”

Nolan smiled and winked involuntarily.  “Everyone’s a suspect, Mr. Kemp.” 

Another Litagent crony appeared on the steps and delivered a new envelope to Nolan.

“Ah,” said Nolan, examining the contents, “good, good.  Here is your copy of the story. We would very much appreciate it if you would examine it a few more times this evening.  If you recall or notice anything that might be useful in this investigation, please give me a call.”  He handed the envelope over; his business card was stapled to the front.

“And if I don’t?”

Nolan removed his hat slowly, checked the brim for any dirt, and replaced it on his head.  “Well, Mr. Kemp, it seems that for this particular task, I am indeed asking you.  I hope you realize how rare an opportunity this is.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Ethan, biting his tongue. “I think I may be a little busy tonight trying to clean up.  It’s funny, the place was clean when I left this morning.”

“Yes,” said Nolan, casting a backwards glance at the papers scattered on the coffee table.

“Can I have my apartment back now?”

Stepping aside, Nolan extended his arm towards the open door.  “We’ll be in touch.”

Ethan stopped just inside his door and muttered, “I can’t wait.”  He slammed the door loudly behind him and waited. After a few moments, he heard Nolan’s footsteps fade into the distance.

The Litagents had left nothing untouched in his apartment. Sofa cushions were out of place, video cases had been opened and thrown on the floor, and someone had even gone through his pantry, opening boxes of cereal looking for evidence.  It was too much of a mess to even begin to fix, so he stood for a long time with his hands on his hips, trying to figure out what to do.

At last, he begrudgingly navigated his discarded belongings and sat down at his chair in the office nook.  There were several folders open on his terminal, the foremost of which was a supposedly hidden directory with a small collection of photos that Ethan had found on the network.  They were mostly of younger women, dressed down in lingerie, in various seductive poses. Ethan sighed.  They could have taken him in for that.  Deep down, he wasn’t sure whether or not to be happy that they didn’t.

He glanced quickly at each folder before closing it up, making sure that they hadn’t moved any files around or worse, deleted them. They had opened up everything, folders full of tests and quizzes and final reports.  Even his browser cache had been examined; recently opened files included his query history at various reference sites.  Shaking his head, Ethan hit a combination on his keyboard and wiped his desktop clean.  He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, thinking.

His imagination fizzled at the request for possible motives and execution plans.  Where there should have been ideas and theories, there was only darkness, an empty place where nothing but advertising jingles and public awareness messages circled in an unending siege.  He had read enough propaganda to know that it was all a result of the dream suppression laws.  Without that nightly exercise, the brain lost all of its ability to improvise and imagine.  As a matter of course, writers relied on a certain level of creativity. Without that, they had nothing to go on except Listapproved plots and characters.

A line from the story came floating back to him, a strange combination of prepositional phrase tacked to the back of an interrogative fragment that seemed to purposefully swap indefinite and definite articles.  Although it was extremely non-Listapproved, it did show a certain satirical intent with the source material.  But to properly mock the standards, the author would have had to have been familiar with them.

It was very possible that the author had been a student of Ethan’s.  And if that were true, then he had samples of the author’s work on his terminal. With a quick double-tap of the control key, Ethan brought up a search window and began typing in words.  There were several hundred files that mentioned Shakespeare and even more that contained something green.  The combination of green eyes didn’t make one appearance, which made Ethan huff in disbelief.  He wondered how no one could have stumbled upon that accidentally or why he himself had failed to think of it.

After several minutes of searching, it became clear that he wouldn’t be able to discover the author’s identity just by looking for matching words.  If the Litagents had been any kind of efficient, they would have done the same instead of just clicking randomly through folders.  No, he wouldn’t be able to find any writing similar to the Shakespeare story.  It was not normal writing, but more like a bastardization of a previous style, of a Listapproved style.  The only way to discover the original would be to unmangle the words and that would take the skill of…

A professor, thought Ethan, someone who has studied the application of the standards and knew the theoretical extrapolations that would end in the unusual and illegal.

Ethan stood, excited, and retrieved the envelope from the end table near the front door.  He pulled out the story and placed it on the copy-stand next to his monitor.  With a quick keystroke, he opened a blank text editor and began transposing the story.  For each dangling participle, Ethan reversed the order of the words and removed the ambiguity.  For each sentence that ended on a prepositional phase, he added objects and changed focus.  All passive sentences were changed, sometimes requiring attribution to a random character or prop just to make sense. In the end, it wasn’t very different than grading papers for elementary students, for those still learning how to adhere to the standards.

Time passed quickly as the previously creative work was reverse engineered into something resembling acceptable writing.  Ethan typed the last period (previously an exclamation point) at half eight and then sat back with an exhausted but satisfied grin on his face.  The rewrite came in at a respectable four-thousand words, down from seven in the original.  That put it under the limit for a typical short story assignment in Ethan’s Modern Composition class.

Ethan let out a groan and lifted his arms above his head to stretch.  He stood slowly and hit the print icon on his keyboard.  As the printer began to hum, he walked to kitchen, surprised to see the light already fading beyond the windows.  Some of the cupboards were still open and he kicked at the ones that were at knee-level.  From the shelf next to the refrigerator, he selected one of the few plastic cups that the Litagents hadn’t touched.  Something in his brain told him to be wary of the ones that had fallen over.  He puzzled the question of why the Litagents would want to poison him as he filled his cup with ice and water. 

He took a long sip, unable to imagine a reason why they would want him dead.

The last page was falling into place when Ethan returned to his desk.  He discarded the original story and replaced it with his new copy.  As if reading it for the first time, he scanned the paragraphs for any unusual phrases, something unique within the standard confines.  Finally, something popped in the fourth paragraph down.

“It’s not a stage,” said Ethan, “it’s a deck.” 

He reread from the beginning again and suddenly everything began to fall into place.  The director was actually a captain and the players were actually deckhands.  The noose itself was nothing more than a loose tie for a sail that was billowing out of control above their heads.  Smirking, Ethan realized he was reading a retread of a Disney pirate story.  As one of the seventeen major themes, the pirate epic had already been done numerous times before, but the real clues were hidden deep within the words.  It only took a few minutes to realize that it was all there.

The captain wanted his sail fixed. Only one could climb the mast. Only one could bask in the glory of the captain’s favor after a job well done.  As for the others, they would be resigned to staring daggers, hatred fueled by a named feeling unused throughout the story: envy.  Three pairs of envious eyes would watch the deckhand descend the mast, three sets that in a more expressive world free of standards and persecution, would be positively green with envy.

“Incredible,” whispered Ethan. He crossed his arms triumphantly.

After the feeling had settled, he resumed his search with renewed enthusiasm. Sorting the assignments by year and semester, he was able to filter the list down to the stories most likely to match his interpretation of Shakespeare’s Noose.  Adding terms for pirates and ships and synonyms for envy further whittled the list down to eight stories.  He took another sip of his water as he began to read the first one.

By story five, exhaustion had started to take its toll on him, forcing his eyes closed or letting his mind drift on words that were read but made no sense.  It wasn’t until the sixth story that he found what he was looking for, a veiled reference to coveting that didn’t seem to fit in with anything else.  He read the story twice and by the end of the second read-through, he was convinced that he had found his man.  There was a named typed along the top of the page, Donald Pembroke, but it was unfamiliar.  No face in his memory seemed to match it.

A quick search of the student directory showed that Donald was still a student, now in his senior year.  His address and phone number were unlisted, but Ethan’s status as a professor gave him access to personal information.  He picked up his phone and dialed the numbers slowly as the adrenaline surged in his chest.

“Hello?”  The voice on the other end was young and vibrant.

“Yes, hello,” said Ethan, “this is Professor Kemp. I believe you had my Modern Composition class a few years back.”

“Um,” replied Donald, “yeah, I guess. What can I… do for you?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, but I was going through some old assignments and I rediscovered a piece you wrote. I was wondering if we could meet to discuss it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, please.” Ethan started to feel uneasy.  “I’m, I’m putting together a compendium, a ten year retrospective.  I would like to include your story.”

“Okay,” said Donald, sounding very disinterested.  “Where do you want to meet?

“How about the Belmont Cafe in west campus?”

“Yeah, I know the place.  I have a break from classes at one tomorrow.”

“That’ll do just fine, Donald.”

“It’s Don, Professor.”

“Right, Don.  See you tomorrow then?”

“Alright.” The line popped, clicked, and then went dead.

Ethan replaced the phone on the base station and watched his fingers tremble.  It was completely crazy, seeking out a wanted author.  If they found Ethan with him, there was no telling what they would do.  Guilty by association, no two ways about it.  They would hunt him down, drag him away, and ultimately, let him hang.  All for a pair of green eyes.

For once, Ethan was thankful that he couldn’t have nightmares.

13 hours ago

The Litagent and Mr. Kemp

Ethan was staring out the window when the buzzer on his desk phone sounded off. There was a stack of term papers thirty deep waiting to be graded, but he just couldn’t concentrate, not with the weather so turbulent and the future so uncertain.  The clouds had been gathering all morning, responding to the sun’s heat, billowing into columns that reached high into a drab sky. There was something about that image, like he had read about it before, in some short story or idle scrawl in the restroom.  Wherever it had come from, it felt like the setup to something bigger, some vast existential dilemma not yet defined.

“Professor Kemp?” 

He vaguely heard Mrs. Hart’s voice, thought it sounded far away enough to ignore. What sum of knowledge could one receptionist hold to rival that of the clouds? They weren’t even vying for his attention and yet he was transfixed on them. They came at that indeterminate time between Fall and Winter when no one was sure what would fall from the sky when they finally opened up. It could be anything.

No, Ethan told himself.  It couldn’t be anything.  It could only be rain or snow.

“Ethan,” said Mrs. Hart, her voice more urgent.

He turned in his chair and hit the speaker icon on his phone. “Yes, Mrs. Hart?”

“I tried to stop him, but he insisted on going up.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t catch his name, he said it very fast.  All I saw was the badge.  He’s a Litagent, Ethan.”

“What the hell would a Literary Agent want with me?” Reflexively, his eyes scavenged the room for any sign of contraband.  Anything not Listapproved would have to be hidden before it was…

Too late.

He was already standing in the doorway to Ethan’s office, his eyes lost to that same involuntary search for something out of the ordinary.  His face had a hollow tint to it, as if he had never known happiness or sadness, but rather lived in a world populated only by ambivalent emotions.  He was dressed in Litagent standard, which meant a black suit and white shirt and thin black tie.  On his head was the customary pointed fedora, which he then removed without any trace of flair to reveal perfectly manicured hair.

“Can I help you,” asked Ethan, standing slowly.

The man smiled something fierce but spoke with a subdued monotone. “You are Professor Ethan Kemp?”

“Yes.”

“The same Professor Ethan Kemp who teaches Modern Composition?”

Ethan crossed his arms and nodded.  “Yes. And who might you be?”

“That’s an interesting question, isn’t it?” He crossed the room and inspected the two chairs in front of Ethan’s desk.  Sitting down without taking his eyes off Ethan, he continued, “Does it mean who am I currently, in a philosophical sense? Or do you want to know who I am in regards to my given profession?”  He stroked his chin. “Devilish question indeed. One might say that there exists simultaneously no and infinite answers.  I might be anyone.”

“No,” said Ethan, keeping his face impassive.  He sat down in his leather chair again.  “The question is not to be taken literally. I merely wanted to know your name.”

“But then why ask the question that way? Why not just ask me directly as I did?”

There was something about the way the man asked questions that made Ethan feel like he was on trial.  Litagents were like that, always probing and prodding to see what they could wrangle out of someone before they slapped the cuffs on and dragged them off to an Education camp. It made Ethan nervous and suddenly he didn’t want to engage in pointless banter with a man that could put him away indefinitely.

“I apologize,” said the man, dipping his head slightly. “I am Litagent Nolan, Precinct Twelve.”

“And what crime have I committed Mr. Nolan?”

A tiny spark lit behind Nolan’s eyes.  “I’m not sure yet,” he admitted.  “Why don’t you tell me?”

“That would make your job a little too easy, wouldn’t it?”

“What can I say? I had to take the chance.  You would be surprised how many people are just waiting for a suitable opportunity to confess their sins.”  From the inside pocket of his jacket, he produced a letter-size manila envelope.  He placed it carefully on the edge of the desk and pushed it towards Ethan.  “To be perfectly straightforward, I am not here to investigate you.  Rather, I would like your assistance in categorizing some illicit writing we discovered in an underground circular.  Have you ever heard of the Mercer Gazette?”

Ethan shook his head and reached for the envelope.

“It has a small following here; we usually find it blowing in the street, though there have been a few on-person arrests lately.”

“Is this it,” asked Ethan, removing a nicely pressed booklet. The cover was blank except for a small line in the bottom right that said Exhibit A.

“No,” said Nolan, “this is just an excerpt of a particularly… imaginative story.” There was noticeable disdain in his voice as he said the word.  “The rest of it was your normal fare, ill-formed amalgamations of previously written works.”

“Shakespeare’s Noose,” said Ethan, reading the title of the story on the second page. He looked up for confirmation. “Sounds like a rehash to me.”

“It’s much more sinister than that. Would you please read it?”

“I couldn’t,” said Ethan, shaking his head. “It’s illegal to read illicit writing.”

“You are assisting in an investigation and I need your expertise. A one-time exception has been made and is on file with Home Office.”

“I still wouldn’t feel right,” protested Ethan.

Nolan let out something similar to a sigh, but not quite as resigned. “I was trying to be polite, but you know as well as I do that I am not asking you, I’m telling you.  If you do not read that story right now, I will hold you for obstruction of an official investigation which carries with it six months incarceration at an Education camp.”

“It wasn’t my intention to interfere,” said Ethan, putting up his plaintive hands. “Surely someone in your position can appreciate my dilemma. I could lose my job and my home.”

“You can either read the story or if you’d rather, we can have a much longer discussion about what you stand to lose.”

Ethan locked eyes with the Litagent for several seconds, but ultimately relented.  He scanned the first sentence of the story and felt himself being sucked in immediately.

As far as underground stories went, it was considerably longer than the two to three hundred words usually found scribbled in smeared ink on the walls of government buildings.  It started with a wooden stage and four players practicing a scene.  Two large trees flanked the outdoor arena and from one of them hung a hangman’s noose.  It swayed in the breeze above the players’ heads, pointing to each of them one at a time as if choosing a victim.  The director of the play sits in a posh chair just offstage and shouts orders that are never followed. Towards the end of the story, the issues of interpersonal relationships and structured storytelling are examined from inventive and obscene angles.

“You disagree with the message,” asked Nolan.  He had noticed the strange look on Ethan’s face.

“I’m not sure if there is a message, but I know these discussions are not Listapproved.  I don’t think there was anything in this story that wasn’t blatantly illegal.”

Nolan nodded in agreement.  “Certainly, the story as a whole is a terrible affront to the Agency, to the very standards to which we adhere.  We don’t typically follow up on illicit writing unless we catch the perpetrator in the act.  It is hard to prove that a specific person was responsible for a specific piece of literature.  We tend to only prosecute cases of systematic abuses of Listapproved standards. This, however, is the first that we’ve seen of this style.”

“And you want me to help you identify it?”

“Yes, Professor. I would like you to tell me as much as you can about the story. I need to know what kind of troubled author would write such things.”

Ethan furrowed his eyebrows and looked over the story again.  He traced the words with his finger, picking out the odd combination of adjective and noun.  “To start with, the story is told in two tenses at once.  When talking about the four players, the author speaks in third-person omniscient.  But the director’s paragraphs are in first-person objective, which gives it a kind of immediacy that suggests he exists in a different timeline.”

“Where would a person even read first-person objective?  That style has not been allowed in twenty years.”

“I suppose if there are underground gazettes then there are underground libraries where old stories can be found.”

“In my experience,” said Nolan, folding his hands, “people don’t just suppose anything.  You see, supposing requires thinking of possibilities and that requires imagination and imagination stems from dreams.” He narrowed his eyes slightly.  “You’re not dreaming, are you Mr. Kemp?”

The panic rose in Ethan’s chest, but he was still able to scoff believably.  “That’s a very serious accusation, even for a Litagent!”

“Apologies, again. I did not mean to offend.  These are all standard questions that need to be asked of everyone I meet.  I get very little choice in the matter.” He waited for the red to fade from Ethan’s cheeks before continuing.  “Please go on with your analysis.”

After a deep breath, Ethan flipped to the next page.  “The development of the Daisy character bothered me.  She’s much too pat for her outward demeanor.  The author says she is beautiful, yet her words don’t match up.”

Nolan quoted, “With her soft hair like tiny tubes of bottled sunshine and eyes that sparkled like emeralds.”  He dropped the sing-song.  “Like emeralds, Mr. Kemp.  Do you know what that means?”

“Her eyes are green?”

“Exactly! Now, there is more than enough evidence to suggest that the author of this story is young, perhaps even a juvenile.  So I ask you, in all seriousness, what kind of child has ever seen or heard of a person with green eyes?”

“Not only that,” said Ethan, “why would they write about them?  How do you write what you can’t see?”  There was a momentary pall while Ethan considered the implications.  He turned quickly to the Litagent.  “The author is dreaming.”

Nolan nodded encouragingly. 

“That’s why you’re so interested in this piece.  You’re looking for someone who can dream.  I never knew such a person could exist!”

“They can’t,” said Nolan, barking loudly. “This person is in violation of federal statutes!”

Something clicked in Ethan’s mind.  “But that’s punishable by death.  You’re asking me to aid in the capture and execution of another human.”

“For the last time, I’m not asking you Mr. Kemp.  What happens to the author is not truly your concern. You need not take this personally, unless…” His words faded into nothing.

“Unless what?”

A grin formed on Nolan’s lips.  “Regarding the overall composition method of this piece, what is your opinion regarding plot structure and delivery?”

“It was fine,” said Ethan, bitterly. “It is standard as far as I can tell, with the exception of the exchange towards the end.”

“And that exchange, how would you classify it?”

“Well, the two threads overlap.  One stops at a point in time and the next begins at a time previous to that to give the impression that they are happening simultaneously.  It seems to be the standard Barksdale-Higgens method.”

“Did I mention that this gazette is only found locally?”

“So?”

“So, the author must be native to our area.  To learn something as complex as the Barksdale-Higgins method, it would require at least a brief stay in university, would it not?”

“Probably. This seems too practiced to be pure instinct.”

Nolan was nodding rhythmically, gobbling up each tasty answer. “And which class, Mr. Kemp, would a young university story have to take in order to learn this method?”

Ethan’s stomach flipped over and then tightened into a painful knot.  He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“I have here the syllabi for the three composition classes offered by this university.  Of them, only one lists the Barksdale-Higgens method as part of the curriculum.”  He slid the single sheet across the desk.  “Could you tell me the name of the professor assigned to this class?”

Seeing his own name printed across the top of the paper suddenly made him realize that the Litagent wasn’t really there to ask his opinions.  As far as the Agency was concerned, Ethan Kemp was the number one suspect.

“Let’s be reasonable, Mr. Kemp. Your syllabus states you spend one class period, approximately fifty-five minutes discussing the method so well-executed in the story.  Considering the mental state of the average student, would you really have us believe that someone could learn to implement this style with so little training?”

“You think I did this, don’t you?”

“You are my primary lead, yes.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that when you came in?”

Nolan shrugged.  “I had to know for sure.”  He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be impressed.  “It was all very convincing, of course, the way you acted as if it were your first time reading it.”

Ethan remained quiet, unsure of what to say.

“Silence,” said Nolan, “the last refuge of a guilty man.”

“No.” Ethan shook his head quickly. “You don’t have enough to go on.  You said it yourself that you need more than just circumstantial evidence.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” admitted Nolan.  “That’s why we administered a urine test and searched your apartment.”

“You what?” Ethan felt the urge to stand, but he knew that any quick movement would elicit a response from the metal hanging under the Litagent’s arm.

“An Agency team has been there for the last hour.  Now that we’ve concluded our business here, I suggest we adjourn to your home and see what they’ve discovered.”

On cue, two suited men stepped into view from both sides of the door.  They stood with their hands folded in front of them and waited.

“Now,” continued Nolan, “will you come quietly or do I need to restrain you?” 

One of the men was dangling a pair of handcuffs.

“I’m not stupid,” said Ethan.  “I’ll behave.”  He collected his briefcase from beside the desk and loaded his papers and effects into it.  The chair spun around as he removed his coat and pulled it on.  Crossing the room, his eyes locked with Nolan, who seemed to be studying him.   “What,” he asked, angrily. “You afraid I’m going to sock you?”

Nolan laughed and put a hand on Ethan’s shoulder.  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Kemp.” 1 day ago

Calming Waters

Previously: The Billings Incident 

Laurel didn’t want to admit it, but there was the tiniest amount of excitement starting to build inside of her.  Even the simple job of clearing space in the basement seemed to hold that quality of unknown potential.  Every box she and Daleon moved out of the way, every bag that they tossed against the back wall, opened more room around the Gate.  It stood in the center of the basement, shrouded in a dusty white sheet.  It had been forever since she had actually seen the machine; even during their courtship, Daleon was reluctant to show it to her.  But there it was and sometime today they would turn it on and see if it still worked.

“Have I come too late?”  Obrego’s voice was deep and tinged with that sultry Spanish.

She turned slowly, letting the smile grow on her face.  He had cut his hair since the last time she saw him.  Instead of wavy black that hung below his shoulders, it was cropped close to his head and faded into manicured stubble that intensified around his mouth and chin.  Behind him, his son Caison stood with wide eyes, entranced by the impressive hulk of the Gate.  His face matched his father’s, but with an undeniable streak of youth in it.

“No sooner than expected,” replied Daleon.  He dropped a box near a support pillar and kicked it into place next to the wall.  Rubbing his hands, he approached the stairs.  “Did you bring the scanner?”

Obrego pretended to be insulted.  “What?  No greeting?  No exchange of pleasantries?  No gentle squeeze of your good woman?”

At that, Laurel stood and opened her arms wide.  Brushing past Daleon, Obrego walked into them and gave her a warm hug.  As they separated, she said, “I like your new haircut.”

“It’s my scavenger look,” he said, running his palm across one side of his head.  He turned back to Daleon.  “Remember?”

“How could I forget?”  Daleon chuckled and beckoned Caison to come down the stairs.  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “How are you, son?”

“Good, sir.”  He could only look away from the Gate momentarily.  “Is that really—”

“Of course,” said Daleon.

“Then Dad wasn’t lying.”

Obrego crossed his arms.  “I am many things, hunter, killer, scavenger, lover, but I am not a communist.”  He winked at Laurel.

“Are you boys thirsty,” asked Laurel.  “You were out in the dust for a long time.”

“I wouldn’t mind some water,” said Obrego.  “I’ll have my moonshine later.”

“Caison?”

“Yes, please,” replied the boy, nodding absently.  He moved closer to the Gate and put his hand on it.  Whatever was under the sheet was strong and smooth.

Laurel began walking up the stairs when Daleon coughed behind her.

“Nothing for me, Honey.  I’m fine.”

She turned in mid-step.  “I brought you a cup five minutes ago.  It’s right there on that old monitor.”

Daleon smiled sheepishly and turned to Obrego.  “Ready to work?”

“I didn’t come for the conversation.”

Their words faded as Laurel reached the top of the staircase and stepped through to the shop floor.  It was empty still; no customers were likely to venture out in the storm. She was about to head into the kitchen when she saw a flash of color out of the corner of her eye.  Her heart jumped but then she smiled, realizing it was only Nola.

“You scared me,” said Laurel, forcing a laugh.

The girl was standing silently in the aisle, in front of the bin of hand-carved horses again.  She looked up briefly when Laurel spoke to her, but she said nothing in reply.

“Do you want one of those?”  She moved slowly as if approaching a wild animal.  “Do you want me to help you pick one out?”  Kneeling, she put a hand in the bin and pulled out a random horse.  Its mane had been painted yellow.  “This one’s like you, isn’t it?”

Nola’s eyes were breathtaking, thought Laurel.  They looked at her and communicated everything that her mouth wouldn’t.  Cautiously, she reached out and took Nola’s hand and put the horse in it.  Her fingers came back dusty.

“You stay here for a moment while I get some water, then we’ll take you a bath. Yes, that’s what we’ll do.”  She patted Nola on the head and wondered how much nicer her hair would look when it was clean.

In the kitchen, Laurel collected two of her fancier cups and filled each to the brim with fresh water.  She paused at the cupboard to look for snacks, but there was nothing she could carry in her pocket.  As she passed through the shop floor again, she found Nola still standing there, looking down at her own hand.  Laurel made a concerned face and quickly descended the stairs into the basement.

The men had already made progress and the circle around the Gate was growing impressively.  She handed the drinks to her guests and stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs.  Across the room, Daleon waited with his hands on his hips.

“I thought I’d watch over the child,” said Laurel, answering Daleon’s unasked question.

“What child,” asked Obrego.

“The Original I told you about on the phone.  The one with the wavelength to Balise.  She’s the reason we needed the scanner.”

Obrego’s eyebrows shot up.  “She?”  He started to the stairs.  “I have to see her.”

“In time,” promised Daleon.  “You’ll be able to look her over all you want while she scans.  There’s no reason to roadblock our progress now.”

“I’d like to see her, too,” said Caison.

Daleon sighed and then grunted as he lifted a particularly heavy box.  “Will you bring Nola and Rajink down in half an hour?”

Laurel nodded.  “You think you’ll be ready by then?”

“As you can see, we’re all very eager,” he replied.

Caison took the hint and started moving boxes with renewed enthusiasm.  After a moment of watching his son with mild amusement, Obrego followed suit.  

Laurel curtsied though no one was looking at her and headed back upstairs.  Nola was still glued to the same spot in front of the horses, but she was now displaying more life as she waved the wooden creature in the air in front of her.  

“Hey, Nola.  Are you having fun?”

Nola batted her eyelashes.

“How about we go upstairs and get cleaned up for our trip?  Would you like that?”  She held out a hand, palm up, and waited.  When Nola didn’t respond, Laurel reached out and took her hand loosely.  “Come, let’s go upstairs.”

Nola allowed herself to be led and Laurel took her slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom across from the spare room.  She could hear Rajink snoring loudly behind the thin door.  

“I see why you left.”

The old pipes in the walls whined a familiar tune as the hot water rushed up from the induction heater outside.  Laurel held her hand under the faucet until it reached the right temperature and then plugged the drain at the bottom of the tub.

“If you turn around, I’ll undo your straps.”

Laurel put her hand on Nola’s arm to give her some encouragement and the girl rotated easily.  The knots were tough and looked like they hadn’t been undone in quite a while.  Either Nola slipped the dress on and off or she hadn’t bathed in forever.  By the dirt on her skin, it appeared to be the latter.  Damn Rajink, she said to herself.  A child was a big responsibility and he wasn’t even taking care of the basic necessities.  And a dress that tied was no kind of outfit for a young girl.  She needed clasps or a zipper, something that could be undone by small hands.

She was expecting worse than the single scar on Nola’s back.  Her mind had already flooded over with images of bruises and burns where Rajink had constantly abused her.  But bit by bit, the undone ribbons revealed clear skin, slightly cleaner, slightly paler.  It wasn’t until she reached the small of her back that she saw the raised tissue.  It was a horizontal cut, about four inches wide, centered between her kidneys.  Laurel ran an exploratory thumb over it and Nola shivered.

“Does it hurt?”

Nola’s hair shifted on her back; she was shaking her head.

“Good,” said Laurel, finishing with the straps.  The dress fell in a heap around Nola’s ankles.  “You get in the water and I’ll find you a fresh towel.”

The linen shelf was stacked with an assortment of towels and washcloths.  Laurel selected the girliest ones and carried them to the counter next to the sink.  She set them down and watched Nola.  There was something strangely mechanical about the way the girl moved, like her body and mind were focused on separate things.  She swapped the horse from one hand to another as she took down her underwear and didn’t even look towards the water as she tested the temperature with her toe.  Finding it satisfactory, she sat down slowly, crossing her legs beneath her.  She scooted along the bottom of the tub until she was near the faucet and put the horse under the running water.

“That’s the spirit,” said Laurel, encouraged.  Sitting on the rim of the tub, she used a small cup to collect water and pour it on Nola’s back.  “Your hair changes color when it gets wet.”

Another nod.

“That’s amazing.  I wish my hair changed color.  But it’s always brown, no matter what I do.”  Laurel put her hand on Nola’s hairline and poured a cup over her head.  It trickled down the side and into her ears.  She shivered in response.  “When was the last time you had a bath?”

Nola’s shoulders bobbed.

“A proper woman should bathe at least once every other day.  Less if they’re married.”  She dipped the washcloth into the water and then wringed it out.  The homemade soap released a pleasant fragrance as she rubbed it into the pink fabric, lathering it up.  She started with Nola’s shoulders, scrubbing away the dirt, revealing light skin underneath that was reddening with the heat.  One by one, the arms were cleared of dead skin and collected dust, showcasing now only the translucent hair on the girl’s forearm.  Nola said nothing throughout, though she did wash her own front when Laurel handed her the washcloth.

Laurel waited, watched Nola go through the motions.  It was if she didn’t care about anything immediate.  Usually when a person was like that, it meant that they were slow, that they had no handle on reality.  But one look into Nola’s blues told a different story.  She was alive in there, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

“You don’t like to talk much, do you?”

Nola shook her head and handed the washcloth back to Laurel.

“How about if I give you another present?  We have some dresses downstairs.  Do you want to go down and pick one out?”

Nola turned and smiled slightly. Her eyes were hopeful.

“Can you say yes?”

Her lips opened the tiniest bit and there was a sound that was lost to the gurgling water.  

“Good enough,” said Laurel, turning the water off.  “You finish bathing your horse and I’ll get you some of my fancy shampoo.  It will make your hair smell like strawberries.  Have you ever had a strawberry?”

Again, a faint noise, vaguely negative.

“I’ll be right back.”  She stood and unlocked the bathroom door.  In the hallway, she found Rajink standing in the doorway to the spare room, arms folded at his chest.

“Having fun?”

Laurel went on the defensive.  “I was just giving her a bath.  She was filthy.”

“She’s not your child to bathe.”

“No,” said Laurel, putting her hands on her hips, “she’s yours, but you obviously don’t care much for her well-being to even change her underwear from time to time.”

Rajink smirked.  “You find me an unfit guardian, do you?”

“That’s putting it politely.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know your type. Reckless, self-centered.  If I had my way, we wouldn’t even be dealing with you.  Your story may fool my husband, but it doesn’t fool me.”  She turned and headed towards the master bedroom.

“Then I am glad that I am working with him and not with you.  I’m just hoping that you will not let your fear get the best of you.”

She stopped at her door and turned around.  “How’s that?”

Rajink’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “You know, a strange man in your home. A perilous journey into the unknown.  Your unreasonable fear that I’ll murder your husband out of his share.”

Laurel spoke through clenched teeth.  “You may try, but even you aren’t foolish enough to tempt three against one.”

He almost laughed.  “You think Nola is on your side?  Or that I would tremble before you?”

“I didn’t mean me and Nola,” sneered Laurel.  “I meant Obrego and Caison.  They’re downstairs helping Daleon with the Gate right now.  We’re going to have some company on our little expedition.”

Rajink’s face turned serious and he growled angrily.  “Those weren’t the terms of the trade!”

It was Laurel’s turn to laugh.  “The terms have changed.” She turned quickly and entered her room, shutting the door loudly behind her.

6 days ago

The Billings Incident

Previously: Waiting for Obrego

Outskirts of Billings, Montana.  Years earlier.

The Madre de Dios cigarette was equal parts affront to God and most revered vestigial vice of the twenty-first century. Daleon only got his hands on two, maybe three a year, but when he did, it was if the entire world came to a dead stop and nothing mattered except the smoke in his lungs and the faint burn on his lips.  He was enjoying such a cigarette while watching Obrego barter for information from two old Billies.  They were peculiar-looking folk, the kind that didn’t look right under the Averaging.  Both of them had stringy white hair and wrinkled faces and mouths that probably couldn’t remember what it was like to have teeth.  They kept pointing at various knickknacks on Obrego’s belt and scratching their heads, as if the trade of such things would help them remember.

Daleon smiled and blew the precious smoke out in front of him.  Before it could billow away completely, he leaned forward and breathed in through his nose, recycling some of the flavor.  It was only proper to treat an MD with reverence.  There weren’t exactly factories turning them out by the millions anymore.  The stash that existed in North America was all that the world was ever going to see.  Sure, tobacco could be grown and crude paper was still manufactured, but nothing would ever approach the sublime perfection of an assembly-line MD.  Much like himself, there would never be anything else quite like it.

One of the old men gave Obrego a bright green apple and he took an enthusiastic bite of it as he ambled back over to Daleon.  He chewed thoughtfully while taking in the surrounding landscape, all abandoned buildings and wilting vegetation.  It was a new Death Valley as far as he was concerned, perhaps devoid of all people and prospect, but brimming with scavenging opportunities.

“What did they say,” asked Daleon.  He was sitting on an old rusted bench; half of it had already cracked and collapsed.

“Well,” said Obrego, “one says we could push northeast through town and find a chemical plant and maybe a textile factory.”  The combination of his accent and his chewing made him difficult to understand.

Daleon shook his head.  “I have no idea what a textile is.”

“But the other one, who I had to give my pinche watch to, says there was a government encampment due east at the foothills.”

“What about the locals?”

Obrego shrugged indifferently.  “Not really any to speak of around town.  You worried about the cargo?”

“We already have a good haul.  It’d be a shame if we lost it dragging the trailer through town.  Either someone’s gonna see it and want it, or the damn Combustmobile is going to explode.

“What,” he asked, frowning.  Obrego walked over to the oversized ATV and sat down in the saddle.  He petted the dials on the handlebars.  “She’s a good machine.  She got us all the way to Boulder and back, didn’t she?”

The MD was burning down to the filter and Daleon’s heart sank at the realization that he only had one more,  wrapped in protective plastic and air-sealed in an aluminum case.  He took one last drag and flicked the butt to the ground.  “I’d rather not push her,” he said at last, looking down the highway at the city rising beyond.  Large buildings loomed on both sides of the road, perfect for ambushes and eventual beheadings.  Rubbing at his neck, he continued, “I think we should head east along the perimeter.”

Obrego nodded and turned the key in the Combustmobile’s ignition.  It sputtered twice before rumbling to life.  “She agrees.”

“Then we go,” said Daleon, slapping his knees.  He stood and swung his rifle over his shoulder.  The two old men were still standing several yards away, enjoying their new trinkets and taking little notice of anything else.  “You know, we could just kill them and get your things back,” suggested Daleon.  He picked up his axe from where it was leaning against the bench and carried it with his hand near the blade.

“One day, you and I will be that old,” replied Obrego, fitting his goggles over his eyes.  “Probably still scavenging too.  How would you feel if you made a deal with two young bucks and they turned around and killed you for the trouble?”

“I don’t deal in hypotheticals.”  Daleon walked to the back of the trailer where one of the doors had been pinned back against the side.  He sat down on a makeshift chair and put his feet into the protective stirrups.  Satisfied that he wouldn’t fall out, he banged on the side of the trailer.  Combustmobile’s engine roared and the ground began to slide away from him.

He watched the landscape change with idle fascination.  On the left, he saw the rising mountains slowly come to dominate the horizon.  To the right was an ever-changing tapestry of failed civilization.  It was a strange juxtaposition of evolution, nature versus man. But where the mountains seemed unmovable and ever-present, man’s contribution was inversely weak and fleeting.  Then the road beneath him changed from asphalt to rock and finally to dirt.

The trailer came to a stop and the dust that it had been kicking up came billowing inward.  Daleon crinkled his nose and held his breath as he undid the straps on his boots and at his lap.  He kicked off quickly when he was free and walked out of the dust cloud coughing and swearing. When everything cleared up, he stood hunched over with his hands on his knees, squinting at the dilapidated building in front of him.

It was a meager two-story affair of corrugated sheet metal on top of a prefab frame.  The overall dimensions and window layout was similar to any of the hundred other prefabs in the city, a testament to either superior design or simple lack of creativity.  The door on the front was open wide and several boards were discarded with nails up around the entrance.  If it was any kind of government building, it sure wasn’t advertising it.

Obrego was chuckling behind him.  “Pinche viejos,” he said, pulling his goggles down to his neck.  He killed the engine and joined Daleon near the outer border of the building.  A few feet in front of them, he could see where the ground had been disturbed when someone pulled out the fencing.  

“I think those old coots got the best of us,” teased Daleon.  “By the time we make it back, they’ll probably be long gone.  At least they’ll be able to time their escape.”

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Dal.  You give up so easily.”  From the small toolbox on the back of the ATV, Obrego brought out two flashlights and a multi-tool of his own design that he called Penelope.  He hung her from a loop on the side of his belt.  “Lock up the trailer, would ya?”

Daleon kicked at the dirt, found a rock, and sent it flying.  After retrieving his axe from the holster by his chair, he shut the door tight and connected the tiny wire between the two handles.  It just wasn’t a good idea to leave a trailer unprotected in the middle of nowhere.  The alarm wasn’t really meant to scare away thieves, rather it was to give Daleon and Obrego a chance to shoot them dead.

“Watch these boards,” said Obrego.  He was already to the door and Daleon hustled to keep up with him.  Just inside the entrance, he swung the flashlight around in wide arcs, examining the generic garbage inside.  The place might have been a waiting room at some point.  A lone wire-frame chair sat toppled in the corner, one of its legs bent and broken, rendering it useless.

“I’ll check upstairs,” suggested Daleon.  He plucked the flashlight out of the air as Obrego tossed it at him and then moved towards the interior to find the stairs.  The inner hallway was dark and smelled like several generations of animal had lived and died there.  At the end of the hall, a staircase was marked by a single shaft of sunlight and Daleon used it as a beacon.    As he reached the first step, he looked up and saw a taped-up skylight.  There was a single hole where perhaps a rock had once crashed through.  He climbed slowly, the flashlight poised under his rifle, his finger on the trigger.

The upstairs was no different in content than the first floor; piles of garbage had built up in the corners of the hallways and the adjacent rooms.  Most of the furniture was gone, either removed when the occupants left however many years ago or stolen by other scav teams in the chaos that followed.  Only the broken remained and it had to be pretty bad if no one would even haul it away.  In one room, he found the husk of a filing cabinet that looked like it had been manufactured completely out of rust.  In the ceiling, the particle boards that remained were cracked and hanging by the restraining wires.  Above the metal grid, the duct-work and copper had already been removed.

Daleon reached the end of the hallway and came to a narrow window that looked out towards the side of the building.  One of the boards was missing and he got a good view of a courtyard that had seen better days.  His imagination built on the crumbling stone pillars where benches used to stand.  There might have been a fountain there in the center of that circular indentation in the ground where rainwater would have pooled had there been any rain.  Something turned in his stomach, some vague feeling of regret and sadness.

Happening upon a scavenged site was never a happy experience.  It wasn’t just the business part of it, having wasted time and resources to reach a tapped-out mine.  It was the human factor of it, the moments of solitude where there was only Daleon and the ghosts of those that had come before. He had grown up long after the Collapse, after all the damage had been done and the pieces picked up and a facsimile of a normal life created by people who had never felt the pain themselves.  It was one of his worst nightmares, the thought of seeing the world buckle under its own weight.  Reality went to sleep one night and when it woke the next morning, it had changed so as to be unrecognizable.  How horrible that must have been, thought Daleon.

At least with the Gates, you knew what you were getting yourself into.  They were separate dimensions with their own problems and policies.  They were destinations with the assumption that the port of origin would always be there to welcome them back with open arms and clean water and fresh fruit and all the nice things that made the world real and livable.  To watch all of that burn.  To be helpless against the Collapse.  Deep down, Daleon was glad that he had come too late, that all that remained was an innocuous gravestone devoid of all signs of struggle.  To get that, he had to venture out of the Reclamation cities and into the boneyards.  That’s where he saw the ghosts, saw the pain.

“Spying on the neighbors,” asked Obrego, from behind him.

Daleon didn’t turn around.  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.  You might get an axe in the forehead.”

“Threats later,” he replied, his voice insistent.  “You’ve gotta come down and see this.”  He turned started towards the stairs, confident that Daleon would be following him.  At ground level he turned right and entered a room two doors down.  He stopped in front of a pocked wall that looked like it had been tagged and then shot at.  

“Someone wasn’t a fan of art, huh,” asked Daleon, walking casually into the room.

“That’s not all.  What do you notice about this room?”

He looked around, but it was the same as all the others.  In the center of the floor was an area of charred linoleum, as if someone had started a fire and then thought the better of it.  Daleon put his hands up in defeat.  “What?”

“Watch,” said Obrego, moving quickly past Daleon and into the hallway.  He walked the length of the room’s outside wall, knocking every foot or so.  

Daleon traced the sound as it moved across the room, under frames that had lost their pictures and nails that had lost their frames.  As it got closer to the far wall, his eyebrows began to dip.  One knock sounded like it was right on the wall.  The next, beyond it.  Suddenly realizing what he was seeing and hearing, he stepped into the hall and found Obrego standing at the window.

“See?”  Obrego’s eyes were wide and excited.  He practically ran into the room again and slapped the far wall.  “This one is fake!  The building keeps going but the room stops here.”

“So it’s a wet wall.”

“Ten feet deep?  And no, the restrooms are in the center of the building near the stairs.”

The dings in the wall started to make sense.  “Someone else saw that too,” said Daleon, pointing.  “Looks like they couldn’t get through the concrete.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t have Penelope now did they?”  He pulled the polished metal from his side and held it up in the beam of Daleon’s flashlight.  “Screwdriver, knife, toothpick, callous buffer,” he said, rattling off its functions, “and most importantly, beam cutter.”

“Bullshit.”

Smirking, Obrego turned his attention to the wall.  “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.  You can’t find fuel  cells for it anymore so I gotta make the most of it.”

“And you’re willing to stake it on this?  For a few sewage-filled pipes?”

“I have faith in the Billies!  I think some of their ancestors smelled the fire before the smoke and sealed up something valuable to keep normal people like you and me from getting to it.”

There was a terrible whine as Penelope cut into the wall.  Daleon held both flashlights to the side of his head as he covered his ears with his palm.  It took several minutes to carve a large X into the concrete and by the time Obrego was finishing his last stroke, the cutter had already begun to smoke.  The whine finally ceased and little green cartridge popped out of Penelope and rattled on the floor.

“Mejor que nada,” said Obrego, taking a step back. He adjusted his pants and then pulled slightly at his right leg.  With a strange gracefulness, his body leaned slightly backwards as his leg came up to his chest and then shot forward, driving all his power into the sole of his boot.  It impacted the X dead center and fractured the concrete two feet in each direction.  He looked back and smiled at Daleon.

With only a few minutes of their combined kicking, they were able to break down a six by eight section of the wall.  Behind it, they found a padlocked set of flimsy sheet metal doors that Penelope in all of her mechanical wonder had no problem breaking through.  As they opened the doors, they turned their noses up at the stale air.

It was large and round and nearly touched the ceiling.  They both stared at it the for the longest time, their own breathing loud in their ears.  

“Do you know what this is,” asked Obrego, quietly.

“I’ve seen pictures.  Never in person,” admitted Daleon.

The conversation stopped dead as neither man knew what else to say in the presence of a Gate.  Even in its day, it had been regarded as a holy relic, something to be approached with solemnity and respect.  For all it had done in the world, all the glimpses of heaven and hell that it had brought to the common man.  And now they had found it, hidden away, in as good a shape as any could have hoped for.  Now it was theirs.

In the distance, a grating noise was begging for their attention.  Daleon heard it first, his brain slowly latching onto its content and significance.  He shared a looked with Obrego and at that turn of their heads, they both heard the alarm echoing in the dead building.

Diving at the floor, Obrego scooped up his shotgun and darted out of the room.  Daleon followed with his rifle at the ready, axe handle banging painfully against his leg.  The light streaming in through the front door of the building was blinding and he slowed up as Obrego rushed through.  An inkling of trepidation sparked at the back of his head, but before he could examine it, he was through the door.

Something hard and cold came out of nowhere and caught Daleon across the nose.  The crunching sound it made was sickening, but the throbbing pain that exploded in his head took away all minor annoyances.  He felt his legs keep running and then a dull impact as his body fell backwards into the dirt.  His eyes were full of tears that scattered the sunlight and blood was flowing over and into his mouth.  He sputtered, tasted the metallic red at the back of his throat.

A shadow crossed in front of the sun, dark and looming.  It reached out with sinewy arms and grabbed at Daleon’s face.  He felt pressure on his cheeks and then a sharp pain as thumbs converged on his nose.  His mind dropped the useless video feed and tried to imagine the assailant above him.  The pressure on his stomach said the man (a guess) was straddling him and pressing on the loose bones in his nose.  Then the realization came; he was trying to push them into Daleon’s brain for a quick and absolute death.

Somewhere in front of him, a shotgun blast shook the air around them.  Daleon took the opportunity to slip his hands into his belt and pull out a small screwdriver.  He drove it upwards in the man’s right armpit and was happy to feel it penetrate cloth and skin alike.  The man howled and recoiled and with a sudden jerk of his torso, Daleon managed to roll him off and stumble to his feet.  He stood on uneasy legs and tried to clear the tears from his eyes.  With the sun at his back now, he was able to see more clearly and in an instant, recognized the attacker.

Billies, he said to himself.

The old man was holding his arm close to his body, but the other was swinging a four foot section of metal pipe. His breathing was ragged but the fire in his eyes told Daleon not to underestimate him.  Without warning, he rushed and Daleon fumbled with the axe, unable to get it out of the holster.  The pipe came down hard on his left shoulder and shot up and down the nerves in prickly echoes.  Grabbing at nothing, he felt his fingers connect with the old man’s collar and he wrenched it towards the ground.  They fell to the dirt again and rolled several times.  On the last rotation, just as he was coming out on top, Daleon pushed off the ground and then came down hard with his right side, driving the axe blade into the old man’s stomach.  

Daleon propped himself up on one arm, put a hand on his axe, and pushed.  Little by little, the blade disappeared into the Billy, despite the anguish on his face or the urgency of his gasps.  Time passed slowly as he watched the man die beneath him.  When he finally remembered Obrego, he spun around wildly to find him sitting up next to the ATV.  Beside him, the other Billy was bent over unnaturally, as if Obrego had folded him in half backwards.  He had a strange, satisfied smile on his face as he wiped at the blood on his cheeks.  It looked like someone had cracked him on the side of the head.

“I don’t,” said Obrego, straining to get the words out.  He paused, collected his breath.  “I don’t deal in hypotheticals,” he said, mockingly.

Daleon laughed despite his pain.  He collapsed onto the dirt again and stared up into the sky.  There were very few clouds and it was as if someone had slipped a blue piece of cloth in front of his eyes.  

“You think they knew about the Gate,” asked Obrego.  He stood slowly and walked gingerly over to Daleon.  He put down on one knee.

“No, they knew about our trailer.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have left it open when we stopped.”

Nodding was too painful.  “It was my fault.”

“Naw,” assured Obrego, “I would have done the same thing. It’s those fucking hillbillies with their disregard for the scavenger’s code.”

“If we hadn’t talked to the tem, we never would have found the Gate.”

“True enough.” He eyed the trailer.  “I don’t think we’re going to be able to haul it with this.”

“Don’t worry,” said Daleon, patting the dirt between them.  “We’ll figure it out.  Just let me put my nose back together.”

Obrego chuckled.  “You know we won’t be able to sell it.  I don’t even think we should even tell people about it.”

Daleon lifted his head slightly and shielded his eyes from the sun.  “Then why take it?”

Looking towards the building, Obrego replied, “Because it’s ours.”

1 week ago

Waiting for Obrego

Previously: Terms of the Trade

Laurel was standing at the front of the shop, looking nervously out the window as the sandstorm intensified.  Bits of debris from the far side of town were blowing in the street, sometimes getting trapped by a post or lodged in a defunct sewer drain.  The storm itself was nothing new; she had seen and survived plenty in her day.  But more than ever before, she somehow felt trapped in the shop. Her future was now tied to a double-talking marauder and his mute slave and the resulting inability to change destiny frightened her.

Upstairs, Daleon had been cursing into the phone for a good ten minutes.  Finally, his heavy footsteps boomed on the stairs and he appeared through the curtain grumbling about friendship and trust.

“What did he say,” asked Laurel.

Daleon looked for her down the aisle and once found, joined her at the window.  “He laughed at me,” he said quietly.  “He actually laughed at me.”

Laurel let the corner of her mouth bend upwards.  That sounded like Obrego.

“I had to promise him a pint of moonshine just to get him over here,” continued Daleon. “I don’t understand how after all these years, he can be so untrusting.”  He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully.  “I mean, this is why we split the equipment in the first place.  One of us was bound to call the other one day.”

“Maybe it’s been too long,” suggested Laurel.  “He probably thought you’d never use them again.”  She shrugged.  “If I had told you yesterday that we’d meet an Original today, what would you have said?”

“I would have laughed at you.”

“See?”

“Yes, but you’re a woman.  Most everything you say is laughable.”

Laurel hit him playfully on the arm.  “You should have let me talk to Obrego.  I could have gotten him here faster.”

“Maybe, but not with the scanner.  You know he’s got it hidden away somewhere, probably buried in his basement.”

“He’s bringing it?”

Daleon shook his head minutely.  “Um, yes.  That’s what we’re doing here.  Have you been following along?  Rajink? Nola?”  He remembered his guests momentarily and looked around for them.  “Are they still eating?”

“The little one isn’t,” said Laurel, looking outside again.  “Her owner is eating like he hasn’t seen a meal in weeks.  I bet he’s trained her not to eat so that he can have most of the meal.”

“You don’t like him much, do you?”  He put a comforting hand on Laurel’s shoulder, but she shrugged it away.

“Am I being unclear somehow?”

Daleon moved into place behind her and wrapped his arms around her stomach.  He put his mouth near her ear and whispered softly to her.  “I know it’s a bad situation, but think of what we’ll be able to do with that money.  We could sell this place, move further north where it’s still green or maybe even join the Charter.”

She twisted her head to look at him.  “They would never let us join.  You have to be legacy to get anywhere near Roanoke.”

“With enough money, you can buy your way into anything.  Think about what that would mean for us.  No more sand.  No more recycled technology.  We would have hospitals and schools and we could have children without worrying about them choking to death in their sleep.”

He’d say anything, thought Laurel. 

“I’m not asking you to like this guy,” said Daleon, moving his hands over the smooth skin of Laurel’s stomach.  “I just want you to tolerate him for a little while until we get our cut.  Then we’ll never have to see him again.  If you keep picking fights with him, he’s going to fight back, and then I’m going to have to kill him.”

She looked at him again, eyes wide.

“I know, I made a vow to you and mother that I would never kill again.”  He put his fist to his lips, then his forehead, and then pointed up.  “It’s just so hard,” he said, chuckling.  “There are so many people who deserve to die.”

“You’re a maniac,” said Laurel.  Then, mocking Rajink, she spoke with unnatural bass, “There is no killer in the Westerland more famous than Daleon the Scallion.”

Daleon laughed.  “I don’t think you know what that word means.”

“Of course I do.  It means whenever you shed your outer layers, I cry.”

A long sigh escaped from Daleon’s lips.  He pulled Laurel in closer and sunk his hand beneath the border of her pants. 

“Daleon!”  She pulled his hand away quickly.  “We’re standing in front of the window!”

He snorted in reply.  “Who’s going to see?”  He put his palm flat against the glass.  “Can you see anything out there in this storm?  I could strip you naked and no one would take notice.”

“You’d have me naked with a strange man and child in our house?”

Daleon smiled wickedly.  “I’d have you naked anytime, audience be damned!”

Laurel shook her head and eased into his embrace again.  This time she held his hands and trapped them beneath her breasts. For a moment they swayed to the melody of the wind’s quiet screams.  “Do you think Obrego will make it?”

“Huh,” scoffed Daleon.  “You imagine yourself naked and the first man you think of is Obrego?”

“Why not?  He’s big and muscular and swarthy.”

“We’re all swarthy!”

Laurel nodded.  “Yes, but he’s swarthier.”

“Only because he stays out in the sun all day to make his skin darker.  I might be a pale male next to him, but I’m gonna be a cancer-free pale male well into my seventies.”

“That’s a funny word, palemale.”  She pronounced the word with four syllables.  “It sounds foreign, like something a Spaniard would say.”

“Obrego comes from Spaniard blood.”

“Really,” asked Laurel, surprised.  “He doesn’t even have an accent.”

“He used to, back in the old days when we used to scavenge in Billings.  That’s where we found the Gate, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I know the story.” She spread her hands to indicate its epic scope.  “The brave and valiant Daleon and the swarthy and daring Obrego, conquerors of the Billings suburbia, liberators of the Gate!”  Her voice returned to normal.  “You know the story changes every time you tell it.  One day I’ll get Obrego drunk enough and find out what really happened.”

Daleon shook his head.  “I doubt that.”  He paused a moment.  “But if you manage, anything he says about me wetting myself is pure fabrication.”

“Is that why he calls you Pee-Pants Daleon?”

“It would be the last thing he calls me! I would cut his throat from ear to ear, then we would see who wets whose pants!”

Again they swayed, again the wind howled outside.  Several minutes passed where Laurel heard nothing but Daleon’s breathing at her ear.  She tried to seek out the sounds from the back room, tried to listen for Rajink’s fork scraping at the plate, but they were being too quiet.  Having them back there, sitting at the same table where she ate with her husband, was too unsettling to ignore.  More than anything, she wanted it to be over, wanted them gone.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Laurel, quietly, “but I’ll be happier when Obrego gets here.  I know you’re a cold-blooded killer and all, but that Rajink seems too shifty.  He’d fight dirty.”

Daleon nodded, rubbing his chin against her cheek.

“It’s just good to have more friends along than enemies.”

“Then it will make you happy to know that he is bringing his son as well.  It will be three against one if anything goes sandy.”

Laurel let out a little laugh.  “I don’t think even Nola will be intimidated by Caison.”

“Maybe not,” conceded Daleon, “but he could run and fetch the law while Rajink murders the rest of us.”

A shiver went up Laurel’s spine.  “Somehow, that isn’t very comforting.”

Daleon moved his hand and brushed the underside of her breast.

“That’s neither comforting nor appropriate,” said Laurel, her voice far away.

“He’s coming from the far side of town with a sandstorm in his face.  We’ve got a good twenty or thirty minutes before he arrives.”

Laurel turned around in the confines of his embrace and pulled Daleon closer to the window.  She leaned back against the window sill but said nothing.

“And once he gets here, we probably won’t get another chance until we’re back from Balise.”

“If we get there,” said Laurel.

“Yes, if everything works out.  It could be a few days.”  He put a hand on the side of her head and brushed her hair over her ear.

“Even in the face of uncertain death, men always have their mind on one thing.”

“This is not true,” said Daleon, shaking his head.  “I have many layers, remember?”

Laurel raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, so all my layers enjoy sex with women, but they’re still layers.”

He kissed her, ignoring the small amount of grit on her lips.  There was sand everywhere, always. Even in the shower where the water should have been washing it away, it was actually depositing more.  Small bits of quartz made their way into the tanks and into the water, like a virus infecting the vaccine.  Daleon wondered if there were any working showers in Balise.  His mind wandered and eventually a smile crept onto his face.

“What is that look for,” asked Laurel.

He kept his mouth near hers.  “We could wait until we get through the Gate.  Find a private place.  We could be the first people to make love in Balise in who knows how long.”

“You really think it’s deserted?”

Daleon nodded emphatically.  “No doubt of it.  They didn’t find any resources before they shut the Gate down. Unless they discovered something after that, those settlers ran out of energy a long time ago.”

“I wonder how long they survived.”  Laurel put her head on Daleon’s shoulder and closed her eyes.  “All those families, all those helpless kids.”

“They chose their path,” said Daleon, coldly.  “It’s not like we abandoned them.”

Laurel looked up briefly.  “That doesn’t make it any less tragic.  People make bad decisions sometimes.  Doesn’t mean we can just wash our hands and walk away.”

“I don’t know why you’re speculating when we could be there in just a couple of hours.  We’ll let Rajink and Obrego do the scavenging.  You and I will find out what happened to those people.”

“You mean it?”

“It’s not my first choice, but I know it’s yours.  And I’m not letting you out of my sight, so I’d better just go along and help you figure it out faster.  Then we’ll start collecting our fortune.”

Laurel rubbed her nose back and forth against his chest.  “I don’t care about the money.  I don’t think I’d even want to live with Charter people. They’re all elitist snobs.”

“Yes,” said Daleon, placating, “we all hate rich people.  After we cash in on Balise, we should just give all our money to the poor and needy.”

“You’re just so dumb,” said Laurel, chuckling.

“I know,” replied Daleon.  Behind him, he heard footsteps approaching.

“Nola and I would like to rest now,” said Rajink, sucking on his teeth.

Daleon tried to separate, but Laurel pulled him back.  She spoke over his shoulder.  “There are two beds in the spare room upstairs.  First door on your left.  There’s also a shower off the hallway if you’d like.”

Rajink smirked, but bowed in appreciation.  With Nola’s hand in his, he disappeared up the stairs.

Laurel watched Nola’s face, tried to find in it any kind of sign of unhappiness or unease, but the child remained impassive.  It was as if emotion were a secondary trait for her, something not called upon except in extreme circumstances.  It could have been the Averaging, except in reverse.  Instead of whittling down the extremes of appearance, it had taken away the highs and lows of emotion and merged them all into one unfeeling feeling, like involuntary apathy.  It was a mystery, what inhuman thoughts were being birthed behind those blue eyes.

“Nola’s in danger,” said Laurel, her tone far from entreating an argument.

“I know,” replied Daleon, solemnly.

“We’re going to have to take her from him.”

Daleon gave her a reassuring squeeze.  “I know.”

1 week ago

Parlour de Paquin

Previously: Matters of Faith and Man

Parlour always looked like it was closed from the street.  The front windows were taped up from the inside and the little neon sign that hung on the door had stopped working months ago.  It was an altogether rundown kind of joint, but it was the best, if not the only, place in Umbra City to get some decent aural. It wasn’t a service that most people went looking for, unless they were members of the church, completely anti-social, or completely self-absorbed.  Every once in a while some wayward technoratti hush puppy would stumble in on accident and then throw a fit when they found out that this self-contained virtual world provided none of the human interaction of their normal social networking obsessed simulations.

Dale stepped inside Parlour with a flourish that announced to the two other people in the waiting room that someone important had chosen to grace the establishment with his presence.  He paused momentarily in the center of the room and waited to be greeted.

“Oh I see.”  The voice belonged to Davet Paquin, owner and proprieter of Parlour.  He was second generation French immigrant, which meant that his accent had become muddled and unimpressive over time.  It was only when he got really angry or really drunk that his true voice shined through.  As a longtime friend of his, Dale had had the pleasure of hearing both.

“I know, right,” said Dale, smiling.  He sauntered up to the counter and placed one hand on the smooth vinyl.  When he removed it, a twenty-dollar bill remained.

“The usual then?”

“And my room, if you’ve got it.”

“Bien sur,” said Davet, punching the ancient keys on his cash register.  He had to look under his glasses to see them, which got him close enough so that when the drawer kicked open, it hit him in the gut.  He was humming some foreign tune and somehow evolved it into speech.  “Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?”

Having taken French for two weeks in eighth grade, Dale knew what his friend was asking.  “Oh, you know, the usual.  The Feed’s down, people are freaking out, cops are patrolling the streets.  Just another beautiful day in Umbra.”

Davet nodded sympathetically as he opened his ledger.  He spoke without looking up.  “Et vous?”

“Me?”  Dale made a mock frown as he considered the question.  “I’ve got a headache, my livelihood is threatened by this outage, and some loner with a boner wants me to stalk an anti-Feed activist.”  He switched to a hysterical smile.  “But other than that, it’s all Swayze.”

“Sounds like it,” he replied, not really listening.  He beckoned Dale to follow him and they walked single file down a narrow hallway to the back of the building.  On the left, the door to room eight was open and the recumbent chair inside was waiting for an occupant.  “At your leisure.”

“Thanks,” said Dale.  He then pulled out the picture that Buddy had given him and handed it to Davet.  “Could you scan this in?”

Davet looked at the picture for a moment and then shrugged.  “Won’t do much good without the Feed.”  He turned without another word.

Dale watched him amble down the hallway and disappear into the front again.  There would be time enough for conversation later, after meditation.  One of Davet’s more appreciable habits was not engaging people in deep intercourse until after they had completed a session. It reminded Dale of a reticent interrogator who waited until his victims had soaked in all the sodium pentothal they could handle.

With the door shut behind him, Dale sank into the chair and slipped the provided headphones on, careful not to disturb his spiky hair.  He pressed a button on the armrest and the lights in the room dimmed to almost nothing.  As he relaxed, he focused his eyes on the pulsing blue light scattered behind a retaining arm in the ceiling.  It moved like a microscopic organism, reaching out to the walls in soothing, rhythmic fashion.  Dale’s breathing slowed and in just a few minutes, he had put himself to sleep.

Aural suggestion wasn’t for everyone.  For one, it required either drugs or incredible concentration to put one’s self into pre-REM sleep.  Most of Parlour’s business came during the night hours, when people were already tired enough to need no further encouragement.  During the day, the rooms were rented on a half-hour basis, which in REM terms, could mean hours and hours of lucid dreaming.   Secondly, it was basically a guided dream.  There was no interconnect with other sleepers, no interaction with processes outside the user’s brain.  It was all dependent on how the subconscious dealt with the subliminal messages being delivered via the headphones.

The world slowly took shape around Dale and he looked with smug satisfaction at the beauty of it. It was never really clear how much of it was his doing and how much had been suggested to him, but at least it was no cheap simulation, not like the VRs that he skimmed in Temper’s back room.  And since everything in his dream world was of own creation, then everything had importance.  It was the complete opposite of the Feed’s quantity over quality philosophy.  If there was a girl, light-skinned and thinly-built, then it was for a reason.  Meditation was all about focusing on the inner problems, facing them in a safe environment, and finding ways to deal with them.

Just as he had expected, the scene shifted to a nameless street in downtown San Francisco and the femme rabble-rouser from Buddy’s picture appeared beside a window. That was fine; he needed to think about it anyway.  Standing only a few feet away, he walked slowly towards her, trying to spy the lettering on her flier.  When he was right behind her, she turned quickly to face him.  But then maybe face wasn’t the right word.

“You startled me.”  Her voice was dull and sounded as if it were coming from all directions at once.  It certainly wasn’t coming from her lips, because she had none.  Instead, her face had been replaced by a flickering screen from hair line to chin.  Multi-colored bars hurdled each other as the vertical hold struggled to regain control.

“Look who’s talking,” replied Dale.  With no features on her face, it was impossible to gauge her reaction.  “What’re you doing out here?”

“Nothing.”  The girl had hastily stowed the piece of paper in her pocket.  She turned away and began walking, but Dale followed.

“Wait, I want to talk to you.”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” said the omnipresent voice.

They walked to the next block without saying anything and she turned the corner suddenly.  When Dale reached the cross-street, he nearly choked on a yelp.

Hundreds of people filled the street in front of him as if they were trapped in a pit formed by the towering buildings surrounding them.  Only a few were standing, most had collapsed onto the asphalt, but all were looking up to the sky, reaching for something.  Dale looked up and saw storm clouds brewing in the dark night.  Somewhere beyond them, a light was struggling to push through.  Something else was there too, like dangling vines swaying in the breeze.  Only when they passed in front of the light could Dale see them.  They looked like thick coax with ends that were shaved to a point.  It was clear that they were taunting the crowd, toying with them.

“Oh my God,” said the girl.  She put her hands to her static-face and turned away.

Dale looked at her briefly and saw the lines on her face bend, almost as if they were rippling, but no shape took form.  “What’s happening,” he asked, unsure if she would even answer him.

The girl collapsed to one knee and put a hand on the ground.  “Those poor people.  The Feed is killing them.”

“It doesn’t even look like they can get to it.”

“That’s the point.  They’re so dependent on it.  And now that it’s gone, they’re suffering.”

Somewhere deep inside, Dale knew that everything she was saying was just him speaking for her.  That added frustration to the conversation, since he wanted to ask questions that he knew she couldn’t answer.  “I can make it stop,” he said, softly.

She looked at him, he guessed.  “You can stop the Feed?”

Dale shook his head.  “No, but I can stop this.”  He pointed to the crowd still writhing in the street.  Closing his eyes in concentration, he imagined a well-lit afternoon in Umbra City, on a hilltop in the north end that overlooked the Umbra Terminus.

The girl shifted awkwardly on the new terrain. The new vista overwhelmed her and she sat down with her legs out to the side.

“Is that what you want,” asked Dale, “for the suffering to stop?”

She nodded.  “It’s what we fight for.”

“Who is we?”

She glanced back at him with what might have been a suspicious look.  “Me and my friends.”

Dale approached and sat next to her on the grass.  He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.  “What kind of friends make you paper the city with inspirational propaganda?”

Her voice was scornful.  “Friends that care about other people.  Not just themselves and how many followers they have.”

It was a cheap shot to take at himself, but Dale let it fester for several minutes for responding.  “What you’re doing is not as benevolent as you may think.  You put it all in a pot and boil it down and what you’re left with is the same thing that drives me.  Personal desires.  So you want to help people?  That’s fine, that’s your right in life to want something.  But I want to do whatever I want.  I want to avoid a nine to five, I want a nice car and an expensive apartment.  I became a Contributor because it pays the bills hand over fist.”

“You feed the Feed.  What feeds you?”

“That’s the beauty of it.  I do.  What I do is genuine, not reactionary.  I don’t carry a banner for some lost cause.”

“You contribute to the sickness.  That’s all.”

“Have you ever just stopped and looked around and wondered if this is the life you want to be living?  Do you want friends like yours for the sole purpose of having someone to throw dirt on your grave?  Because that’s what happens when you take on The Vine.  They don’t play games and they don’t make exceptions for little faceless girls playing French revolutionist in the streets of San Fran.  You’re a day late and a dollar short and in the wrong fucking country if you think you’re going to effect change.  You want my advice?  Find a new club to join.  I’m sure there’s a knitting group out there that isn’t running the risk of getting massacred by city police.”

“You’re such a child.”

The words were so condescending, so enveloping, that Dale felt the anger swell inside him.  He struck out quickly and pushed the girl over.  “Fuck you,” he said, as she rolled once.

She came to rest with her head in the grass and her hair strewn haphazardly over her face-screen.  It was still flickering, but the pulses had grown in intensity.  The sky and the ground and even the train coming in from Sacramento seemed to surge with renewed vibrancy.

“The Feed,” said Dale, to no one.  He knew what the shimmering meant.  The computers that generated the aural suggestions could operate by themselves and the dreams could exist based solely on the subconscious of the user.  But when the Feed was in place, when it was being used as a frame of reference, everything took on a new sheen.

His eyes returned to the fallen girl, to the face that was now obscured by long hair that seemed to have blended into a lighter brown.  Crawling on his hands and knees, he approached her slowly.  Her eyes were open and the little brown dots were looking in his direction.  There was something familiar about their shape, about the way her eyebrows dipped in apprehension.  With a shaky hand, he pulled back the curtain.

A sudden panic in his chest ejected him from the dream, but not before his brain could process the face he had seen so clearly.  His breathing was erratic and his heart was pounding, but none of that seemed to matter anymore.  There was no doubt in his mind who the girl was.

“Sylvia,” he gasped.

1 week ago

Matters of Faith and Man

Previously: The Razor’s Edge

The Umbra Central Church looked nothing like the ornate cathedrals that dotted the landscape of old-world countries.  It didn’t have the towering arches and religious symbols on display to shame the public into thinking about religion.  If anything, it took its cue from the Scientology cult and opted for a simple but professional building on the south end of the city between the tech commerce and lower residential areas.  Anyone walking by too quickly would likely not notice the simple plaque by the front door and have no idea that it was a place of worship.  And anyone mistaking the word church to be somehow connected to God would be sorely disappointed.

In Umbra more than anywhere else in the world, the Feed was almost a tangible presence.  People didn’t just passively receive it, they flowed in it.  The information that it carried was parsed out and processed and catalogued and if deemed worthy, pushed out to other Feeds belonging to their friends or family.  Within this collective of data surfers, a new breed of user emerged.  They were people that could handle the flow in its entirety and they used it to gain awareness of the world.  They practiced what would become a new religion and formed a church to celebrate the endeavour.  Self-control was the guiding tenant.  Finding a way to live side by side with the Feed was the ultimate goal.

Dale had joined the Umbra Church about two years prior.  With the help of Father Yates, he learned to control his mind and body, to fight off the negative effects of information dependency, and found a way to balance the external with the internal.  People who could do that, who could separate themselves from the Feed, were able to live in a world above the masses, outside of yet another one of Vinestead’s systems of control.  Most of the church’s followers sequestered themselves after a slow withdrawal, careful not to let the Feed dominate their lives again.  Dale, however, used his immunity for different purposes.

The front doors, though not automatic, swung open when Dale approached the church.  As he stepped inside, he nodded politely to the two teens on either side of him.  They were dressed semi-formally in black slacks and white button-ups, the unofficial uniform of an unofficial cult. There were no restrictions on dress codes, no minimum standard of education or background.  All that was required was a desire for freedom.  Since that desire was usually born in the hearts of those that were not free, the church saw its share of lost souls walk in off the street.  Had the boys not recognized Dale, they would have engaged him in conversation, given him something to drink, and arranged a short meeting with Father Yates.

He had to open the inner doors himself, but that wasn’t from downsizing the staff.  Father Yates claimed that no man had the right to show another man the steep and thorny.  He could mention that it was there, but it was a personal choice whether to tread it or not.  Besides, thought Dale, it was an impressive moment the first time someone entered the church.  The inner doors were solid oak and reached all the way to the ceiling.  Pushing them opened revealed a deceptively long amphitheater with several rows of pews and an altar of pure white marble.  On the back wall, a curtained vidscreen hung dark and dormant, though usually it displayed the church’s custom Feed, a mix of inspirational messages and null data.

The rows were mostly empty; the first service wouldn’t start until five-thirty, but there was always a small congregation of veterans and newbies alike.  They discussed issues such as any theological student would, though theirs involved advanced technology instead of dead languages.  Dale joined them sometimes, but not too often.  Theoretical discussions weren’t his cup of joe and there was also the rumor that he used his skills for evil instead of good.

“Brother Dale, how does the day greet you?” It was Mark, one of the church’s many prefects.

“A mere maid of the day hath greeted me, but for those as I who revel in the darkness, I await the greeting which comes only when night falls.”  Dale smirked.  He had always been amused at the way people in the church talked.  It was as if joining the congregation suddenly rolled everyone’s language back four hundred years.

“Sorry if my question seems humorous,” said Mark, bowing slightly, “but variation of common questions in conversation leads to a better tolerance of digital fluctuation.”

And sometimes they talked too much, thought Dale.

“Come to see Father Yates, have you?”

Nodding, Dale replied, “Indeed I have.  Be he available and willing?”

“He is with a newcomer.”  Mark motioned to the front of the amphitheater and Dale saw Father Yates sitting with a balding man in a tattered coat.  “If you would be willing to wait.”

“Have you been getting many of those today?”

“The Feed is down, praise be.  Sometimes people are unwilling to take the first step towards a better life.”  A sly smile passed over his face quickly.  “Sometimes they need to be given a little push.”

“Right,” said Dale, unconvinced.  He turned slowly, keeping his eyes on Mark until the last possible moment.

The church was quiet as he made his way towards the altar.  He passed Father Yates on his right but didn’t catch eyes with him.  Instead, he knelt at the steps in front of the vidscreen and bowed his head.  It was similar to prayer in a way, except that instead of talking, Dale listened.  He listened to the emptiness of the church, the dull whine of the vidscreen, and the conversation taking place behind him.

“Times are difficult.”  That was Father Yates.  He had a smooth voice, one that most people believed had never been raised in anger.  “A man’s lot is to find harmony with the world around him.  But that is not an easy task nor is it ever truly completed.  The world changes and we must change with it.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” said the newcomer.  “I just feel so frustrated with myself.”

“We are vain creatures, Thomas.  We like to believe that things happen only to us, but the truth is that man’s banes are ubiquitous.  The difference lies in how bad we let things get, how long before we reach out and admit that we need help.”

Thomas sniffled.  “Last night was the worst.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was sitting at my terminal, just staring at the screen.  I wasn’t doing anything, just staring.  I had my mail open and my vidchat open and my blog and stock quotes and just everything that I could think of and nothing was changing.  I sent out five e-mails and got none in return.  I posted comments on people’s blogs but no one engaged me.  That data wasn’t coming to me.”

“How was your Feed behaving?”

“Like it always does.  There was plenty of information, but about elections and olympics and sh—, stuff I don’t care about.  None of it applied to me!”

“And is that what you want?  To have the Feed revolve around you?”

“Maybe,” said Thomas, unsure.

“Were you popular in high school?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Dale heard Father Yates laugh a little.  “It is just an analogy, Thomas.  I, for example, was not very popular in high school.  Nor were most people that I knew or most people that I have met.  Something happens to a person, socially, during that time.  They yearn to be accepted by their peers.  They want to be liked and loved and want their small social world to revolve around them.  But a vast majority of them fail to gain universal appeal and as a result, become despondent and depressed.”

“I had a few friends,” said Thomas.

“As did I.  My friends and I eventually learned that we didn’t need the approval of the so-called popular kids.  Reality was not defined by what they wore or by the cars they drove.  Reality was what we made of it.  The same is true for the Feed.  It tries as hard as it can to tell you what to believe in, that attractive women will not date you, that all Arabs are terrorists, and that your government loves and cares for you.  The Feed is about you, there is no doubt of that.  But it is the you as defined by Vinestead. To them, you are nothing but a data point.  And no man is a data point, is he, Dale?”

Dale started at the mention of his name, but turned quickly to see Father Yates smiling at him.  He caught eyes with Thomas then and the man turned away, embarrassed.

“We’re all data points,” replied Dale at last.  “It’s just that some of us don’t appear on the graph where they’d like us to.”  He tried to present a friendly face, but Thomas was having none of it.

“So, my new friend,” said Father Yates, “can we work together?”  There was a moment of silence.  “It does get better.  Look at Dale here.  Two years ago he could not tie his shoelaces unless there were vidscreens on them.  Now look at him.  He almost passes for an upstanding citizen these days.”

Dale shrugged and nodded in agreement.

“I’ll join,” said Thomas, meekly.  “Thank you.”

“Great!  Do you see Mark back there?”  He pointed to the prefect by the door.  “Tell him that you are joining our congregation and he will get you registered.”  Father Yates stood and shook hands with Thomas.  “We are having our daily mass at five-thirty.  We do not take attendance, but the more often you can attend, the more progress we can make.”

“Okay, thanks.”  Thomas gave Dale a nod of acknowledgement as he passed in front of him.  He walked up the aisle with his head hung low, as if unsure what he had just gotten himself into.

“Dale.”

“Father Yates.”

Father Yates’ eyes went stern for half a second, but then he relaxed and sat back down on the pew.  “Thank God for the Reformation,” he said, arching against the backrest.  Then, remembering something, “I really wish you would refrain from calling me Father.  It gives people the wrong impression.”

Dale smiled and sat down on the soft cushion.  “Are we afraid that people may make the connection between church and God?”

“There is a significant difference between matters of faith and matters of man. Even His followers can succumb to ID.”

“Sure,” agreed Dale, “everyone’s got problems.”  He looked up at the large vidscreen and wondered why it wasn’t flickering.  “I was kind of an a-hole today.”

“You confuse me with your confessor.  It is no sin in this church to be rude.”

“Yeah, but I feel bad about it.”

“Tell me about it.”  He said it in that same monotone.

Dale narrowed his eyes and looked at Father Yates briefly.  “You don’t have to treat me like a newbie.  I’m just saying it’s like the way I acted before.”

“Are you thinking relapse?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking.” Dale cracked his fingers.  “Just didn’t like it. And now that makes me think bad thoughts about the Feed.”

“Like what?”

Dale pointed to the blank screen.  “Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing.”

Father Yates put a hand on Dale’s shoulder and squeezed lightly.  “You and I are in agreement about that.  But the timing is not right.  People are not ready to give up the Feed.  I imagine that the people behind this are not the compassionate types.”

“Would it be so wrong, though?  I mean, take down the Feed and people will hurt, but eventually they’ll get better right?  Just like Mark said.  Give ‘em a little push.”

“Who are you, Dale, that you can decide what is best for all of mankind?”

Smirking, Dale shot back, “You think it should