The Live-Forever Machine

by Kenneth Oppel

  Suddenly conscious of people watching him, Coyle began walking again. He lingered for a moment in front of a fast-food restaurant, watching the people on the other side of the glass devour their plastic-foam meals.

  “Alexander wasn’t lying,” Eric said. “He’s telling the truth, Chris.”

  Chris groaned. “How do you know?”

  “Look at him. He’s acting like some kind of tourist. This is all new to him!”

  “So?”

  “Remember, Alexander said he trapped Coyle in the Louvre, and locked him up for more than a hundred years?”

  “Yeah, right,” said Chris expectantly.

  “He only got out recently—I don’t know, say a year or two ago, something like that. So imagine closing your eyes in 1900, and then opening them again to this! All this new machinery and technology! You’d be completely amazed. No wonder Coyle’s gawking at everything. Look at him!”

  He’d paused in front of a window display of televisions, stacked in a square five across and five high. He stared, riveted, at the glowing screens. Each TV was tuned to the same station, and Eric felt a little dizzy watching the twenty-five identical images move in uncanny unison. A wrecking ball was swinging, slow and heavy, into the side of an old stone building. A section of the wall crumbled and fell, was crumbling and falling, had crumbled and fallen—twenty-five times. A news reporter appeared in the foreground of the picture, talking into the camera.

  Eric could hear Coyle’s laughter rise above the sound of the traffic. He was laughing at the swirl of dust, the crumbled masonry, the power of the wrecking ball. The way of the future, Eric thought, with a hot chill running along his back.

  “I don’t know,” Chris was saying slowly. “I don’t know about this at all.” But Eric could tell he was thinking about it, wondering if it could be true.

  Coyle suddenly turned and quickened his pace, disappearing into the subway entrance.

  “Let’s keep up,” Eric said, and they dashed across the street, swerving around honking cars. Eric led the way down the subway steps, along the gleaming tiled corridor to the turnstiles, then down again on the dizzyingly steep escalators to the long platform. The heat seemed even more palpable here, with steam rising in broad swaths from the tracks and the darkened tunnel openings. People stood fanning themselves with newspapers and paperback books.

  “Where the hell is he?” Chris whispered as they made their way slowly along the platform.

  “Nowhere, nowhere,” muttered Eric on their second pass. He could feel the column of stifling air being pushed through the tunnel ahead of the oncoming train. He felt the familiar vibration through his feet, heard the growing rumble; then the subway exploded into the station. Out of habit, Eric glanced at the conductor’s window, but his father wasn’t there.

  They stood back to watch as people got on or off the train. No sign of Coyle. The doors snapped shut, the whistle sounded twice, and the train lurched on into the tunnel, leaving in its wake the smell of oil and machinery.

  “Lost him,” Chris said.

  The grit from the tracks swirled up and stung Eric’s eyes. He turned away. A drunk teetered perilously at the edge of the platform, and then staggered back. Eric suddenly thought of his mother. Had it happened here, at this very station; had she stood right at the edge of this platform, waiting, waiting? How could you make yourself do it? He watched as the train’s rear lights disappeared into the darkness.

  11

  Two Storms

  Eric watched from his window as the street filled with cruisers and fire trucks.

  Red lights swirled in the mid-morning heat. The wail of sirens had given way to the crackle of static from police radios and walkie-talkies. Police officers were cordoning off the sidewalks with thick yellow tape. They started turning back traffic, clearing away the street vendors from the museum steps. An officer was trying to dispatch the hotdog seller, gesturing with his arm. The other man just shrugged and offered him a hot dog. The officer hesitated and then took it.

  Two black trucks with C.E.S. stencilled across their sides were allowed through the barricade at the intersection. The trucks’ back doors shot up and people in leather armour jumped out.

  “City Emergency Services,” Eric muttered. What was going on?

  They began rolling out heavy equipment, electric generators and pumps, pushing them up to the manhole covers in the middle of the road.

  “Okay, let’s open ‘em up!” one of the men shouted.

  The manhole covers were levered up with crowbars and metal ladders were hooked into place. Men wearing oxygen masks climbed down, and machinery was lowered after them.

  There was a sharp knock at the front door. Eric started. It was one of the Emergency Services workers, sweat glistening on his broad face. An oxygen mask dangled around his neck, hissing faintly.

  “Are you the only person here?” he asked.

  Eric nodded. “My Dad’s at work.”

  “We’ll have to ask you to leave the premises temporarily,” the man said. “There’s a gas leak in the vicinity. It’s nothing serious. You don’t need to take anything with you.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  Eric stepped out onto the street, locking the door behind him. Across the road he could see an arrowhead of uniformed personnel moving up the museum steps against the tide of evacuating visitors and staff. The fire marshal stood at the top, speaking into a walkie-talkie.

  “Where’s the leak?” Eric asked, but the Emergency Services man was gone.

  They were evacuating the highrises on either side of Eric’s house, and the sidewalk was now teeming with men and women in business suits, people in dressing gowns with small children, listless teenagers. Eric had never seen any of them before.

  A woman with a megaphone was giving directions, but Eric hesitated, watching the museum steps, wondering if he’d catch sight of Alexander. People jostled around him impatiently.

  “It’s the heat,” he heard someone say.

  “There was one like this just yesterday,” another man said. “Gas line rupturing from the heat.”

  “I can smell it,” a woman said anxiously. “I’m sure I can smell it.”

  “I can, too,” said someone else.

  “They say it’s coming from the new mall.”

  “The whole block’s going to blow if they don’t shut it off.”

  “I can smell it now, too!”

  A ripple of hysteria went through the crowd.

  “Cover your face!” someone shouted.

  “Is it poisonous?” a worried voice wanted to know.

  “Why do you think those guys are wearing masks?”

  Eric sniffed the hot air. He couldn’t smell a thing. Behind him, a woman screamed and the crowd surged ahead in a spasm of alarm. People were starting to push, and he was swept along in the current, hemmed in on both sides, shoved up against the person in front of him.

  “Stay calm,” the woman with the megaphone said. “There is no cause for alarm.”

  “I can’t breathe!” someone shouted up ahead.

  “It’s choking me!”

  “Hurry! Run!”

  “Please continue to evacuate in an orderly fashion,” the woman instructed them.

  The crowd wasn’t listening. It suddenly occurred to Eric that someone was going to get crushed, and it was probably going to be him. Skinny Geek Snapped in Two—he could just see the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. Someone grabbed his arm. He yanked it free, an obscenity on the tip of his tongue. It was Chris.

  “A little drama, huh?” Chris said, grinning at him. “Just what was missing from our summer holidays.”

  Eric was so glad to see him.

  “This is getting ugly,” Eric said, and at the same moment, someone shoved him from behind.

  “Hey, take it easy, pal!” Chris shouted, whirling around. He towered over a very anxious-looking businessman. “Give us a little space!”

  The businessman hung back and let h
imself be swallowed up by the crowd.

  “About time the muscle showed up,” Eric said jokingly, but he meant it. “You hear anything about this leak?”

  Chris shrugged. “Everyone’s saying something different. All I heard was that one of the underground gas lines is busted. Under the mall maybe.”

  “Can you smell anything?”

  Chris shook his head. “Nah. And neither can they,” he told Eric with a wink, nodding to the people around them. “They’re flipping out.”

  A Split Second News van pulled up along the sidewalk. Its side door slid back and a woman with a camera balanced on her shoulder sprang out with cat-like agility, trailing cables behind her. Two men stepped out from the front, and Eric recognized the familiar television face of Stuart Daw.

  “First rate,” Daw said, nodding appreciatively at the mayhem around him. “Get some shots from here,” he told the camerawoman. “All the police cars and stuff, and then all these guys leaving their homes.”

  A buzz went up through the crowd as various people caught a glimpse of the reporter.

  “Look, look, look,” some were whispering, nudging their neighbours. “Look, it’s the guy from Split Second News, Stuart Daw.”

  “Where does he get those amazing clothes?” Eric heard a boy behind him whisper.

  “He’s a great reporter,” a woman said with conviction. “And he has a cute smile.”

  A few teenaged girls actually tried to touch him as they passed, and Stuart Daw smiled and waved.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thank you. Please, go on with your evacuation; thanks very much.”

  Up ahead, the camerawoman was pointing the snout of her camera into the passing crowd. Everyone was jostling to get on TV.

  “All right, people,” Stuart Daw was shouting, “we’re going live in a few seconds! Please don’t look at the camera.”

  Eric smiled cheerfully and waved into the camera as he passed.

  Chris choked back laughter. “Amazing,” he said.

  At the intersection, they passed through the police barricade. A recorded message on an endless loop was being piped over a van’s loudspeaker. “The gas leak is not a serious one,” the synthesized voice said blandly. “There is no risk of an explosion. We’re hard at work and in full control of the situation. In the meantime, please let City Emergency Services take care of everything. The gas leak is …”

  “First thing is to find someplace air-conditioned,” said Chris. “This has to be the hottest day ever.”

  Eric led the way to the twenty-four-hour doughnut store up the street, and they sat down at a mangy booth by the window. A huge, lint-clogged vent in the wall blew icy air over them. Eric tried to mop up some coffee that had coagulated on the table.

  “This is utterly gross,” said Chris. “If I’d known we were coming here, I would have gotten a tetanus shot.”

  “Good doughnuts,” Eric told him. “Dad sometimes picks up a box on his way home.”

  He leaned his head against the window and looked down the street towards the museum. There were gas leaks all the time in the city. You heard about them on the news, a house suddenly exploding, leaving nothing behind but a charred skeleton of itself.

  “You think it’s under the new mall?” he asked. “The leak?”

  “If it is, Mom’s going to freak out. Place is supposed to open in a couple of months.”

  “You two planning on ordering anything?” the cashier shouted. “ ‘Cause if you aren’t, out of here!”

  Eric fished in his pocket for change and Chris went up to the counter to buy a couple of chocolate donuts.

  Eric looked back out the window. From the moment he had gotten up that morning, he’d been nagged by guilt, as if some cartoon angel were perched on his shoulder, whispering into his ear. Alexander’s face wavered in his mind like a heat mirage, intoning, Help me. Help me. Help me.

  Why should I? he argued. What kind of craziness was that, letting the things you were supposed to be taking care of just fall apart? What was the difference between that and Coyle wrecking the soldier statue on purpose? Alexander must be going crazy, Eric thought. Wouldn’t anyone? After living for so many years, maybe you’d start to go funny in the head, start doing weird things. A sixteen-hundred-year-old case of senility.

  But why the twist of guilt in his own heart then? He watched the police barricade part to let through another C.E.S. truck.

  “Here.” Chris handed him a doughnut.

  The table shuddered as a subway train passed beneath the street. They ate in silence. Eric felt awkward, as if they were both suddenly afraid to talk to each other.

  “You still don’t believe any of it, do you?”

  Chris looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know; I can’t—it’s just not enough, what you’ve told me.”

  “So what’s your version, then?” Eric asked irritably.

  “I told you. Alexander’s just stealing this stuff, and maybe he had some deal with Coyle—maybe he owed Coyle for something, I don’t know—and he backed out. So now Coyle’s come to collect, and Alexander wants to unload it on you.”

  “And everything Alexander told me about his past?”

  “Crap.”

  Eric rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s just brilliant.”

  “Yeah, well,” Chris said defensively. “If you’re so utterly sure, why didn’t you take the scroll?”

  “That’s not—” Eric sighed. He didn’t know how to explain. It had nothing to do with whether he believed Alexander. He did. But Alexander didn’t care what happened to Eric, as long as the live-forever machine was safe. So forget it. If Alexander really loved the museum, he could save it himself by unmaking Coyle. The precious past. He was just like Dad. So go ahead, let it wreck you, let it make it impossible for you to write or talk to your son or be happy. The real answer? He didn’t take the scroll because Alexander reminded him of Dad. Try telling that to Chris.

  “Forget it,” Eric said.

  “You haven’t told your Dad any of this?”

  Eric hunched his bony shoulders.

  “Wow,” said Chris. “That bad, huh?”

  “Dad’s a mess,” Eric blurted out. “He’s distracted all the time, and we don’t talk very much. It’s just been really awkward. We can hardly wait to leave the dinner table and get away from each other.” He paused, checked the anger in his voice. “It’s because of Mom.”

  Chris watched Eric, waiting for him to go on.

  “He spends all his time thinking about her,” Eric stumbled on. “All those stories he writes—they’re about her. He has pictures of her that he never showed me, but I found them a couple of days ago in the attic. When I told him, he took me to the necropolis and showed me where she was buried. He goes there all the time without telling me. He remembers everything about her, Chris. He just thinks and thinks about her. But he never tells me any of it. Thirteen years.”

  He wanted to tell Chris the truth about his mother, to spill it out. But he couldn t. What would Chris think, that she was insane, selfish, weak? How could he explain why she was depressed? Chris would say his mother took one look at him and threw herself in front of a train. It put a sickening thought in his head. Maybe he did have something to do with her suicide. The timing certainly made it look that way, didn’t it? He’d never know. His father sure wasn’t going to tell him.

  “I don’t get why he doesn’t talk to you about it,” said Chris. “I thought you guys talked about everything. I always thought it was—” he looked awkward for a moment “—kind of cool.”

  “Well, now you know,” Eric said curtly. “It’s always been a big wrench in the works.”

  “Nothing special,” Chris said, and Eric was startled by the harshness in his voice. “I mean, my Mom and I hardly ever talk—she’s hardly ever home, and even when she is it’s always business, business, business. Call the office, drag some work up on the modem, make a few last-minute deals.” He snorted. “Always thought you guys had some kind of utterly perfect televis
ion life. Quality time and all that garbage.”

  Eric didn’t know what to say. He carefully lined his fingers up on the edge of the table. He’d never thought about Chris’s life that much, what happened in his home. He felt disgusted with himself, wallowing like a hippo in self-pity. Like father, like son.

  “You know what I do?” Chris said. His face had hardened. “It works best this way. I just stop thinking of her as a parent, and think of her as just another person. That way, it doesn’t really matter what she does. If she’s not around, or whatever.”

  “Do you miss your Dad a lot?” Eric asked.

  Chris rocked his head from side to side, as if thinking it over. “Yep,” he said. “Don’t know why sometimes, but I do. Good memories, I guess.”

  Eric nodded thoughtfully. He looked towards the museum. It held a lot of good memories—the dinosaur gallery, the Egyptian mummies, the rooms and rooms of artifacts he’d wandered through with his father over the years. Those things, at least, wouldn’t change. But all at once Alexander’s words resounded in his head.

  You will watch all this burn.

  His eyes flickered nervously over the emergency vehicles lined up in front of the museum. Gas leak. Happened all the time.

  “They said it was just a small one, right?”

  “Huh?” Chris followed Eric’s gaze out the window. “Oh, yeah. No big deal. Remember the pipes we saw in the tunnel? They were already kind of leaking. They’re utterly ancient.”

  Another train rumbled by. Eric watched his hands tremble on the shuddering table. And then it all came together in his head.

  “He’s underground.”

  “What?”

  “Coyle.” His mouth had gone dry. “Yesterday, where did he go? He disappeared. He must have gone into the subway tunnels.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “It’s Coyle,” Eric insisted. “He’s broken the gas line. He’s down there.” He could feel the short hairs on the back of his neck tingle. “You said all those tunnels were connected: subway, manhole shafts, storm drains. He’s down on the shore of the main storm drain. That’s his machinery we heard. ‘You reek of machinery.’ Alexander said that to him in the armoury. And the smell—Coyle smelled the same as that underground smoke.”