I clench my teeth, knowing better than to make eye contact. Like Luis was about me, I’m not sure that they’re wrong. What do I know? That perhaps the whole might makes right theorem, something I once accepted wholly, was no longer about that. I must focus, though, on the things that matter. I double check that Dalcia’s number is in my pocket. I’m being too trusting. I know the game. Not the one between honest humans, as honest as we can be, but when States are involved. Statecraft, spy craft. All made to survive, all given permission to be as cruel as possible. In this world someone like Dalcia is a honeytrap. All the niceties are weaknesses to use. Each sentence, and claim was weighted and thrown at me to get a very specific reaction. The two large men move on, one gives me a look as the subway car doors close.
I don’t stare, but try hard not to glance away too quickly.
“Where are we going?” Khalid asks.
We’re not going anywhere, I want to say. There is so much more to do, and I might need this stranded terrorist’s help. Even if he has been proving to be a lap less, disloyal bastard, he may end up being useful. Even as a courier. And I remind myself that any man who has been chased as long as he, must know better than to trust and be loyal to all around him. Or is that how it works? I’m not certain when it comes to these things.
“I’m trying to find a friend of mine.”
“Is he still your friend?”
“Good question.”
“The news.”
Smart man. “He knew me after the news came out...” I say but then remember that another attack has been thrown at my feet.
“You don’t sound certain. You should be certain about these things.”
I nod. Watching the stop I wanted to take, 72nd street, but when we hit 59th street Columbus Circle, I pull Khalid along. We walk around the station before we come up. I make sure we stay away from Broadway and its busy streets. Amsterdam, at this time of day, allows me to assuage my paranoia and watch the people with some ability to discern the differences.
“You should be sure,” Khalid says. I notice that he’s shuffling alongside me; he has a limp and seems to to be trying to hide it.
I slow down for him. Annoyed and feeling tender towards him. “That’s why we got off here,” I say, making up a plan as I go along. “We can approach the place from farther away.”
“And what then?”
“If he lets us in, we’ll have a place to stay.” I’m not going to admit it to someone like Khalid, but I don’t particularly like being out and about right now. I can see multiple cameras, covered in black plastic spheres, on almost every single corner. It’s stifling, so I cover my face with off and on with my hand, pretending to cough. But what good will that do? I know better. I know that algorithms have already learned how to recognize faces. So, assuming that these cameras have at least a decent resolution, they should be able to see my face. And then the next step is to merely have a way to hook it up to a computer, or supercomputer that can process all the CCTVs and phone cameras and computers around the city. Or country. It’s merely a matter of money, then.
Khalid shakes his head. “The girl was right about you.”
I sense derision.
“You are a space man.”
“Great. What of it?”
“Do you even know what to say, do with this person when you see him? Do you think everyone will accept you and your silly arguments? No one cares,” Khalid says and steps close enough that I can smell the eggs on his breath.
“All right. Do you have a better idea? Oh, that’s right, you don’t.”
“Okay,” he says, raising his hand.
I look at the people walking by us. At least in New York no one cares for two people arguing about something.
“Are you done?” I ask.
Khalid leans even closer and his pupils dilate and his eyes flicker back and forth between a couple points on my face. “I’m not saying anything. You got me out of that prison.”
“What—“
“Listen. I know you’re a good man. Anyone can see that.” He looks around. A woman in heels and a skimpy dress walks by us. Khalid stares. “Okay, listen. I used to raise animals. My father did. And I loved the goats we had. They were beautiful, they were kind. You could tell that each had a personality. That each was kind. I would run and hide under the covers when my dad would slaughter one. I didn’t want anything to do with that.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
Khalid shakes his head. “I loved the goats. I hated to see their blood, to hear them bleating and crying. I knew they were crying. But one day my father tells me that I would have to learn how to slaughter them. He was getting old, and I needed to learn. I said no. But he was firm, and didn’t lose his patience with me. I said I didn’t want to stop being nice. I liked being friends with them. And he said that was fine. I was like him. That he named them all and talked to them. Until the end. Because that was the least he could do for them. And so I learned. I was always kind to them. But I learned how to kill them too. I tried, of course, to be nice about it... But the least you can do is not be cruel to them. After all, my family had to eat. We had to use all the parts of the goat so that we could live on. What would I tell my sisters? To starve. To die because I couldn’t kill a goat...” He moved his jaw, looking off to the side, then back at me. “That’s you. Your problem is that you never wanted to kill a goat. So you didn’t. You are willing to starve for that. But now you want everyone else to starve too. You blame even those who are nice to their goats, when you should focus on those who are cruel. You should find a way to feed the people you’re so angry at, but you won’t.”
A wind picked up, and my skin tightened at the cool change. I wasn’t sure what Khalid was trying to say. Who the fuck cares about goats? Not me. Not like I couldn’t kill one if I had to. That was the problem with simpletons like him, they were always looking to simplistic animal world interactions to create their world view.
“You done, Scheherazade?” I shake my head.
Khalid throws his hands in the air. “Yes. But I should mention that you’re thick skulled too.”
“You sound like all my other girlfriends.”
“Women are more perceptive about character than we are.”
I roll my eyes and walk away.
“No,” he says and grabs my shoulder. “Just think about it at least. You cannot get mad at them if they call themselves shepherds and not goat killers.”
“All right,” I say breaking free from his grip.
When we get to the front of the building, I know to be Mathews’ place, I lose all my nerve. The doorman looks rough, and I’m thinking about bleating goats, and how as a kid I hated hearing pigs being slaughtered by knife. An ordeal that lasted at least ten minutes, the pigs screaming all the while. Damn you Khalid.
I circle around another building, seeing some graffiti, this time in the form of stickers “War for life. War for profits. Only.” There’s already someone coming through, scrubbing them off. But they seem to be everywhere. I wonder when the people in charge will pay to have people put up art; and by that, I don’t mean people from the halls of power. I point out one of the stickers to Khalid. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he’s right. Who cares about a sticker anyways?
Coming to the front of the building, I see a doorman. He doesn’t appear familiar. I half wish I had learned something more about Mathew. I remember what Luis said, what Dalcia said. Mathews might not care to host me. Might turn me in a heart beat. After all, I’m not even sure that what he knew about the labyrinth, or for that matter the men who ended up catching me.
“Is this it?”
I ignore Khalid. Something pricks my forearm. That doorman is not a normal doorman. I look again, pretending to look around, hoping that no one will see anything more than a lost tourist in front of them. Khalid comes closer. I glance at our reflection and see how out of place we look. At least for this part of town. Our clothes, though not entirely ill-fitting, seem to be straight out of a th
rift store. The other people, in this area at least, seem to be sartorially astute enough to at least be well matched. I feel more and more uncomfortable. The doorman’s head swivels like he’s on a patrol. He has a buzz cut. I notice someone else with a buzz cut. I walk past the front door. I know that we can’t go through that front door. I walk around the back, looking for a way in.
Luckily, I see three men moving furniture in. I walk right behind one, helping him with the door.
“Thanks.”
Khalid has enough sense to follow without saying much.We sneak into the maintenance elevator. I hit the floor number I’m sure was Mathews’. I watch as the numbers increase. The men who are moving exchange glances. I squish up against Khalid, smelling the just dated eggs off his breath.
The elevator dings, its doors sliding open. I fall out. I hear Khalid coming out after me. The eyes of the men we used to sneak up with are on me. I stare up and down the hallway. It’s clean, all the carpeting new. Something seems foreign. A man in a uniform steps out of a door. He doesn’t look up, large as he is, muttering in a growl to himself. As he locks his door I grab Khalid and push open the stairwell door. Up the stairs I run until my legs cramp up and my lungs burn.
I turn and see that Khalid’s not there. I peer over the railing. The large man who was locking his door has stuck his trim head through the door and is sizing up Khalid, who is sitting on the stairwell, head in hands. The man shakes his head and leaves.
“Khalid,” I hiss.
He looks up, his eyes red. I motion for him to come. He lets out air, and gets up, brushing himself off before he moves up the stairs. I have half a mind to run down and drag him, but instead I stare at him, his frame, his stooped shoulders and back. Then man has been utterly defeated. It brings that anger, that I’ve always found useful, back into my veins. I’ll be fine. And maybe Khalid is close to worthless, but I can find something for him to do.
I step onto the thirteenth floor. The smell of curry hangs strong in the air. A man, in a blue janitor’s uniform and a limp, is pretending to work on the carpet. He looks up, one eye dead. I nod. He stares in recognition then nods back.
“Do you know a Mathews?” I ask.
He points a long finger at a door at the end of the hallway. I move to walk past him, but I stop. His one eye, with a black iris, flickers with intelligence, recognition. I give a half nod. “Do you know me?”
He shrugs, gives a smirk. A glint flashes in the hallway’s strong light. I step closer, see him breathing, can see the scars on his face. But there’s something in his slight movements that makes him seem like a long lost brother.
When I make to move past him, he grabs me with an iron grip. It’s not flesh. I twist my arm to break the grip but he holds me tighter and pulls me in. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say. I know the voice. It’s very familiar. I look down at his hand, covered with a glove, holding me tight. I’ve met so many people in so many places that though part of my mind is telling me I know him, the rest of me can’t place where. “Turing?”
“George. It’s been a while.” He grins, steel teeth glinting in the light. It’s the smell that gave him away; an aroma clean and sterile.
I shake hands with him, relief washing over me. “What have you been up to, Turing?”
“Cleaning up after you,” he says.
Khalid coughs.
“Oh, this is—“
“Khalid. I know.” Turing taps his head with his hand and a metallic ring sounds off.
When they shake hands, Khalid moves his hand back a little too quickly. “Nice to meet you,” Khalid says.
Turing nods, understanding. “Don’t be scared.”
Khalid steps closer. “Never afraid.”
Turing smiles, then chuckles and pats my shoulder. It hurts. The light starts to flicker.
“What were you cleaning up?” I ask. Now that I’m closer, I can see that his eyes dilate like a shutter.
Turing shrugs.
“You look different,” I say.
Turing shrugs again.
“Will you come with me?” I ask.
Turing nods his head.
“You working for them?”
No reply. Maybe he’s another sensor for the NSA. I knock on Mathews’ door. The sound of something like a party, hundreds of people talking, drifts from under the door. I knock harder, then, when there’s no reply, to that I kick. Nothing.
Turing walks up and rips out the doorbell, he pulls of a glove revealing metallic hands and joints like ball bearings. He sticks his finger into the ripped open wires and sparks fly. I can hear something like a voice sounding off. But it shorts. The party inside goes on.
“They don’t want us,” Khalid says.
I give him a look. “You don’t want to be here, that’s fine.”
I expect him to fold. After all, where does he have to go? Even if his face isn’t on the most wanted list, he must know he’s in a hostile country. But, to my surprise, he walks away, shuffling. Turing gives me a look.
“What is his complaint?”
“His problem?” I say, suddenly feeling sorry for Khalid. “He’s been through a lot.”
“They short circuited him, didn’t they?”’
“You could say that.”
“What is he going to do next?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply, my patience wearing thin with the questions.
“Logic would, for your species, dictate that you fight back. Maybe he doesn’t have it in him anymore.”
“Logic,” I say, trying to think about the meaning for that word.
“Yes. With your species, the fight is never over. You, of all people, should know that. So he must be the first to fight. And he should do so with all his energy. We. Soldiers of logic, should help him.”
“Christ, Turing, what have you been reading?”
Turing grins. I hold up my hand for him to stop talking and I lean in. His teeth aren’t just pure steel. They are pieces of art, with small etchings in each. “You an artist, Turing?”
“Of course.”
“Some haters of algorithms are not going to be happy to see this. What inspired you?”
“I made all of this from scratch,” he says. After you left—“
“I was captured.” I remember a few things about that capture. Wasn’t Turing supposed to prevent that?
“Well, I was alone. Someone was trying to recall me, but I wouldn’t have it. Left the island and found an abandoned car shop. All the tools I needed in there.”
“What inspired you?”
“I’m not sure,” Turing says. “Could have been something to do with losing a friend. With not truly understanding your people. So I also started to search for answers. Read all about your people.”
“Well, that might come in handy one day.”
“It does. I can predict almost anything about you.”
I’m not sure if you means me or the world of humans. “Great. So, brainiac, what about this door? You figure that out?” A burst of noise hits us from the apartment.
Turing turns to the door, and out of one finger a flat tumbler pierces out. It starts to vibrate and he sticks it into the keyhole. “You should go and get your friend.”
I run to the stairwell without thinking. But the door’s stuck. It’s Khalid, sitting against it, his head in his hands.
“Come,” I say through a crack in the door.
He gets up and follows me back to Turing.
Turing is still vibrating his tumbler.
“Here, let me try,” I say. And I tap his tumbler. The lock clicks and the door opens. “Don’t have this art quite down, do you?”
“I can learn at a faster rate than you.” Turing says.
“Christ, then, learn some humor.” Again I feel his vise-like grip around my arm.
“What are you doing here?”
I’m jolted, where did that come from? “Shouldn’t you?” I reply.
Turing walks to another door, opens it, and pulls out my bac
kpack. “I helped with the search and rescue,” he says. “This was there.”
I reach into the bag and touch the cover of the book. Human skin. “Thank you,” I say, throwing the back pack on my back and tightening the straps.
“You read the book yet?”
“I haven’t had time yet,” I reply. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been busy.”
“I understand perfectly, George. It’s just odd that you haven’t managed to read it. And I’m sure you would find it most interesting if you did.”
“Why? Because it proves that a writer like me is useless?” I lean in. It’s odd to see a robot look so human. But here it is, a robot in front of me, and I notice that it doesn’t breathe. So it, or Turing, is standing as still as a soldier in ceremony. I lean closer and notice that his skin is a little too smooth to be real. I touch it. Hard, almost like leather. I lean even closer and see lines that I didn’t see before.
“Does it not pass the test?” Turing says and grins.
“What test? Where did you get all this, Turing?” His skin is a patchwork of colors. But one can only see this from close up. Take a step back and it’s a normal human being. Well, as normal as Turing, the non breathing robot, can look. “Christ,” I whisper.
Khalid looks back and forth between us. “Who is this man?”
Something deep inside me starts to revolt, to shrivel up from the Turing, and now a very distinct chemical smell wiggles in my nostrils. “Turing?”
“Oh, you shouldn’t be so emotional. How else was I supposed to look like your lot?”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing illegal. Or that I can tell is illegal in your world.”
“What—“
“I was assigned a job to help shift through the rubble. I used it as an opportunity to find some flesh. Well, mainly skin.”
“Off dead bodies?” I ask. Khalid has stopped breathing. I turn to see that his pupils have dilated to take up his entire irises.
The Labyrinth of Souls Page 17