The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  “What not now?” I say, growling.

  Kurt again leans towards him, his hand rising. Again Dalcia’s hand stills him.

  “What?” I say, holding back the sharp words I want to speak and the almost guaranteed reaction from Kurt, stay in my head.

  “You know, I didn’t say anything about what you were doing with your friend out there. That you were bringing more drugs and pain into this city.”

  She has me there. I nod.

  “But do you know what your friend here is up to?”

  “He’s—“

  “I know, I know,” she says, her Bronx accent rising to the top, and her anger making her look damn good. “You think he’s good.” She looks at Kurt. For what? Support? “And maybe you really believe this, but you saw that news conference the other day. Do you really know what he’s up to?”

  “There’s peace on the streets,” I say, knowing that even pointing out something so inconsequential is against my line of thinking. “That’s what we got. Our soldiers are no longer overseas dying.” I look over to Kurt, hoping for some support here. “Our friends aren’t over there fighting some stupid unneeded war. You know that’s good.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  That’s fine. I’m on fire now. “How you can think peace is bad, is beyond me. And okay. Yeah, the drugs are bad. But we have no other choice. You know how many homeless people we’ve helped to remove from the street? Do you understand that there’s nothing out there that will help us?”

  “Tell him.” Dalcia again taps Kurt. It shouldn’t anger me, but the base of my brain, the animal within, it really does not like how she’s touching him.

  “I went to the VA hospital today. Empty.” Kurt pauses, looks at me as if he expects me to fill in the silence.

  “So? It can be empty a lot.”

  “No. I mean there were a few doctors, but most of the admins were gone.”

  “Skipping work?” I say, not knowing where this is going, and thus not liking it.

  “No. They’ve all been replaced. Fired. Now there are a handful of doctors and only screens to talk into.”

  “Okay,” I say. “That’s efficient. What’s the issue?”

  “It’s everywhere. All admins are being replaced,” Dalcia says. “A couple of friends of mine, they work with the DMV and the post office. They’re all fired. They have nothing else.”

  “And it’s your friend’s company. We looked it up. Turing’s company that got them all fired.” Kurt sticks his surprisingly big finger in my face.

  I huff through my mouth and nose. “I’m not sure what this is. People have been getting replaced for a long time now. You’re blaming us for that? If it wasn’t us, it would have been someone else.” My voice starts to rise. “I mean I know it sucks. Hell, I lost my life’s passion.” Dalcia looks at me with a great pity when I say this. “And that’s just the way it is. Something better has come along. Figure out something else to do.” When I stop I realize that the whole room is quiet, there’s no music playing—if there was music playing—and everyone is listening to me.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” Dalcia says.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Kurt says. “It’s about humans. About being human. Are we replacing ourselves for what?”

  Another hand placed on his arm. He falls silent.

  “It’s not us. It’s even you. You stopped writing because of this? You should never have done that. You should always write. I... We think you should write. And the person. The thing that thinks you shouldn’t write. This is the one you back no matter what?”

  Whatever she is, she is intelligent. She knows exactly where my weak spots are. “Okay,” I say, my voice softer now, my rage subsided. After all, I’m glad that they’re focusing on this rather than Khalid or the most recent bombing. “I see your point. But that’s still something out of our control. It’s not even Turing. All this automation. It’s meant to be. You know how the world works. It moves on,” I say, trying to bring them back in. “And I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t leave too many humans behind. This is the way economies progress.” Do I really believe this? It looks like at least she’s buying it. Kurt’s face, for whatever reasons, still remains stiff, angry.

  A few seconds pass. The conversation between the artists picks back up. I think they were discussing the most recent hack who was selling millions. I look over Dalcia who, though softened, doesn’t seem to be entirely okay.

  “You don’t believe me?” I take a step back, more exhausted from this exchange than I expected to be, and lean against the wall.

  They exchange another glance. “Okay, fine.” Dalcia says as Kurt rolls his eyes before lowering them to parse me again. “But Turing is not on our side,” she says. “I can sense it.”

  “Why?”

  “Tell him,” Kurt says, his arms folded, almost flexing them.

  “My friend went to court recently. It’s a computer now. The judge is.”

  “Really?” I say, taking a few seconds to suppress my automatic rejection of such an idea: to have a computer completely in charge of a human’s fate. Not that it hasn’t happened before, but rather it has never been so obvious. “How exactly?”

  “It’s a screen. It allows only so much information to be put in for evidence.”

  “Well...” Surely this was done for a reason? “That’s fine. For most matters there isn’t much needed but an algorithm.”

  “You really believe that?” Kurt asks, frowning.

  Dalcia gives him a soft look and he nods and looks over my shoulder at something, his foot tapping. Angry. Pulling anger out of me, even; and I want nothing more than to lay a sucker punch right between his chin and ear.

  “Listen. It’s only been implemented in the Bronx so far. Here in the city,” Dalcia says, her voice raising a pitch. “It’s being done elsewhere, but only in the poor areas. It’s a way to control us. Don’t you get that?” She really wants me on her side. And I want nothing more than to be on her side, but I just don’t agree with her. And even though I feel the splash of her—and all of the waves of others who think in opposition to me—influence pushing me to her view, I grow hard, old age?, and shake my head.

  “Do you understand? There was a waiting list that was five years long in the Bronx. I’m sure with this it’s quicker.”

  “Maybe,” Dalcia says. “But what about the justice? Now it’s gone.”

  She’s growing exasperated, and I’m enjoying it. “Wait, there was justice before.”

  “Maybe not as much as we wanted, but there was something.”

  There falls another silence, with Dalcia’s pleading face filling it, making me wonder if perhaps I do need to go and find out what Turing is up to. Judges? How would that work? It could be a great inception that removes human prejudices from that horrendous decision. Or it could mark more iniquity as those who can afford to, learn to take advantage of whatever weakness is in that algorithm...

  The lull is a perfect moment for me to leave, but I decide not to, if only because I now feel sadistic and want to see them squirm. Then the conversation between the artists turns to the bombing. Immediately the air in the room is charged, like a mob is about. My heart beats fast, and I feel eyes on me.

  “What do you have to say about that?” Kurt says, tilting his head, his face, everything about him looking like a wolf, like this was what was really on his mind. “About this peace?”

  “L—“

  “Because,” Kurt continues, sticking out his chest. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Peace.”

  Dalcia looks at him, then looks at me. She believes this, doesn’t she? And in Kurt’s eyes I see mistrust. I see something like what I knew was always there: that no amount of what I’ve done or fought for in this country, any country really, would be enough if I step out of line. If I don’t think with the masses.

  “You put us in this position. With those protests. You were being hunted and they let you breathe for a moment and now look at what you’ve done t
o our country,” Kurt says, spittle now flying out of his mouth.

  “It’s my country to—“

  “No fuck that. It isn’t. It wasn’t when they started to go after you. Because you violated so many laws, you don’t get to call this your country anymore, you fucking traitor.” And he stops only because Dalcia places another hand on him.

  “Oh? Better listen to her little doggy.”

  He brushes Dalcia aside and steps right up to me, inches away from my face. Surprisingly he hasn’t a hint of alcohol in his breath. This is anger, pure and true.

  “So you and your robot friend think they can attack where ever they like? Harm the people here?”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. We haven’t harmed anyone.” Do I even know this for certain? But what else is one to say to that ultimate derogatory remark, “Terrorist”?

  “Bullshit!”

  I catch some spittle in my face, and get the hint of old pizza, but I still don’t back down: not when he’s challenging me like this.

  “I know you were with Khalid. I know that. You said he was fine too. But look.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read, you child.” It’s really all that I have. There’s nothing else I can think of. My heart rate is jacked, but I’ve set my mind not to throw the first punch.

  “Kurt,” Dalcia says from behind. Her hand brings him away from me. She stands between us. So serious. So beautiful.

  “You’re lucky she’s here,” Kurt says again, pointing his finger at me. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  The hatred is so real, is leaking out of every pore of his body, that I only feel a sense of being admonished and jump back to being angry. That he would blame me only goes to prove the essential weakness of the friendship, but also the camaraderie that was our time in war: that I, because I wasn’t born in the States, because I wasn’t white, was always suspect in his and others’ eyes. That was the truth of the matter, and I might have known it, but it was only coming up to the surface now and was still a slap in the face.

  For some reason one of the artists has come up to us, on the other side of the counter, and with a tablet is showing us news clips of the bombing. Also some breaking news about snipers hitting a billionaire’s dinner in the Hamptons. That last part looks odd, but I’m focused on the looks of the artist. Some extremely angry faces, like they think this is all my fault. It takes a lot of patience not to punch or throw something at them.

  “Angry about the bombing, are you?” I say, looking directly into the eyes of the artist. He seems to be somewhat cowed, but when he looks at Kurt he gains some confidence. What have they been feeding everyone with? “Well?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be angry? And now we’re under attack. For what?”

  And I bite my tongue because I know better than to ever mention how it is that they’re being children, that whomever did this attack, probably had worse come their way before.

  “Fuck this. I’m not going to explain myself to some children who don’t understand the world.” I look at Kurt, who hasn’t stepped up. If he does, it’s over. I’m going right for him, no hesitation. I open the door. “And just remember, children.” I’m trying to stay calm, but I cannot think of anything has my heart is pounding past my ears. “You reap what you sow.”

  Kurt’s face turns dark. “You really think you’re better than everyone, don’t you?”

  Even if I expected a confrontation, I couldn’t have expected him to turn into a completely different person. “Better?”

  “Yeah. You think you see things others don’t. Don’t you? Like you have an underground lair that only you can visit?”

  That hurts. I feel the words tumbling through my chest. “Yeah?” I manage to say, though not too properly.

  Kurt, emboldened, gives a nasty laugh. “Yeah. All that thinking. Or what you think is thinking, and you’re no smarter than anyone else. You’re just fucking nuts. And a traitor—“ Dalcia squeezes his arm.

  “The hell I am. I’m the only one here who cares about this damn place,” I say and, growing sufficiently angry, pound the table. “And you know that.”

  “The fuck I do. I know that I’ve read your books. I’ve read it all...” Dalcia seems unsure, but she still looks at Kurt with an affection I cannot place. “And I know where you stand. You think that history is written by the evil, like that’s a new kind of whine for people like you.”

  He has read my writing. “Yeah? Well, it’s the truth.” The words come out and sound as hollow as they feel.

  Kurt laughs. “No it isn’t. Material history isn’t the right way to look at the past, makes us judge ourselves in an incorrect way...” He smirks. “Do I have that right? Yeah, I do. That’s how the world works. Whoever controls the material in the best way wins. From the first caveman who decided to use a sling to hit his enemy or kill a bison without having to come close enough to be harmed... That’s what has worked. And you’re just being a sore loser about it all.” He looks at me, his face softening up just a tad. “Look, we served with each other, and dammit all if you didn’t do it well. But you walked off the reservation, man. This metaphysical crap you’re into, since you got out. It’s bullshit, man. So I’m telling you. You’ve gotta come to the right side. You’ve gotta want to help us. Helping Turing won’t get that done. Going on this crusade of yours... Man, this is wrong. You’re going at windmills, and these windmills will hurt.” He lets out a sigh as Dalcia strokes his forearm. “I’d be with you if you were even right. But you’re not. You’ve got to come to the right side.”

  Since has Kurt learned to recruit? That was one hell of a way to break down and build up. “Fuck you,” I say, despite my every fiber, except the one with pride, wishing to make a detente with him. Besides, what of Turing? Isn’t he the perfect utilization of one’s materials? And since when did Kurt like the status quo so much. “There’s a problem out there. And if you go around helping those... those materialists, then you’re no better than them.”

  Kurt shakes his head. “Right. Traitor. I’m giving you a minute, then I’m calling the cops, the FBI. Everyone. So run, you rat. Run.”

  My skin burns with fury. What to say to that? He’s calling for my extinction. For my end. For my elimination. But staying here will only result in a fight. Physical, that is. I take another look at Dalcia, lapping up her perfect form with my eyes, not even trying to hide it now, I do the same to Kurt, though I try to lace that look with judgement, turn and leave.

  I walk, faster than I mean to. When I reach outside the adrenaline has not worn off, my hands tremble, and I weigh running to the main office. Of finding a place to hide. Would they come after me? They could very well pin this all on me. Whatever they wanted to do, really. It’s colder than I was prepared for, and after a couple blocks I have calmed down and am cold. My skin tightens as the wind picks up. I turn down an empty street to avoid the wind, looking down at the trash strewn all over and empty office buildings.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  I glance up and see Behemoth, with two armed men to either side of him. They have AR-15s, and both look ex-military. They’re also bionic. One has a metallic arm and leg, while the other has a half-face of metal and a prosthetic foot. Their glistening (though somehow, at the same time with a flat-color-paint look to them) prosthetics are perfect, and they seem it too.

  “Where is—“

  “They got her.” Behemoth points a finger to his temple. “Right there. Good woman, that one. She knew this world better than I.”

  “So why was she with you?”

  “Oh, still pissy about your friends. Sorry. Ex-friends. He’s not entirely wrong. There’s a reason why history is... how do you say it? Materially biased. Only a fool would dwell on that.”

  “How...” I know the answer before I finish. He must have listened through the cell-phones. Or the tablet. Anything connected to the internet. My face turns warm from the embarrassment of feeling that I have been wrong about something�
��something that drove me to action—for a very long time. Why though?

  “And who are they?” I don’t want to dwell on knowing that I’ll never see Dalcia again. That she and her family had helped me out when I needed it the most, and I couldn’t even refrain from an argument.

  “They’re here to protect me. Spec-ops. Except,” Behemoth says and jerks his head at me. “Unlike you, they know where they are. They know who they are.”

  “Maybe.”

  Behemoth looks at me for a few moments. “Being catty, are we? But you know what I’m talking about: they certainly do, at any rate.” He nods at them, and two eyes cut into me. I’ve had enough of that, of being parsed with eyes and judgement, and I squirm.

  “No dog like a loyal dog,” one of them, the one with the one fake eye growls.

  Behemoth claps his hand. “Yes. That one. That line is precious. But be careful. He’s broken, gentlemen.” Behemoth looks at me, giggling. I’m not sure if I noticed this before, but his accent drifts in and out of several kinds of English. “He doesn’t want to know his place.”

  “Well,” says the other one, his voice cracking in a very digital way. “This dog is well fed at least, and doesn’t scurry to and fro in the darkness of tunnels.” He grips his gun tighter.

  Behemoth giggles, covering his mouth when I glance at him. “Oh, you are being coy, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” I manage to meet the eyes of my accuser.

  Behemoth smiles. “Or just trying not to get pinned down?” He smiles. His face is softer than before. The woman? Did he care for her? No. Not her. He had tortured her. Surely she was just a pawn?

  “You miss her?” It comes out like I care.

  Behemoth looks at me, then back at the two of them. Behemoth’s face is softer than before. What is this? “That’s none of your business.”

  This time I grin. “Being coy, are we?”

  Behemoth flashes me a smile. “What are you implying?”