The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  Alone. Having trusted a machine, I am now a man alone.

  “Hi there.”

  I look into the eyes of a sparkling smile. “Hi,” I say, trying my hardest to see exactly who it is, because I know I know her, but I’m not sure how or where.

  “You look out of it George. Everything all right?” she asks it as if she knows very well everything isn’t all right and that, in fact, at some dinner somewhere, she had predicted this fate for me.

  “I’m not too bad. Been a crazy day.”

  “Oh? I imagine.”

  Does she know? She seems to have knowing eyes. And I watch her reaction and see that there’s nothing but an anger inside her. And it’s directed at me.

  “Mary,” I say. I remember now. It was so long ago. When I was with Behemoth. When I didn’t know who Behemoth was, and I was running, and she was there, like an apparition, and she was looking at me then with disgust, and she was treating me then with such contempt... like a dog. That was it. She wanted me to act like a dog. Was that a dream, or was it something more? Memory, especially in times of distress, can be an unreliable thing. Or it could be me growing old. Or.

  “Ah, you remember me, don’t you?”

  “How have you been, what have you been up to? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Oh, it hasn’t been that long,” she says, shaking her head. She is truly furious about something right now. The anger exudes off her, and I, feeling tired, weak, lost, shake from this powerful emotion of hers. What did we have before that makes me so responsive to her?

  “I don’t know if I remember,” I say.

  “What have you been doing, George?”

  A slight snarl on her face now. “I’m just lounging about.”

  “You homeless now?”

  There, she expected this. “Yes, I guess I’ve been homeless for a while.”

  She looks around like she’s hoping that there might be a patrol coming around to sweep up the garbage like me off the streets. Then her face softens and she reaches out her hand. “Come.”

  I pause. What else is there? And I won’t lie that a place to stay, that someone to talk to, would help me immensely right now.

  Getting up strikes out at my joints. My muscles are stretched and tired. “Where do you live?” I ask, feeling my parched mouth and tongue and taking too much effort to swallow.

  She walks faster.

  I hobble to keep up. My eyes on the sidewalk in front of me because it’s better than eyes of people, all staring at me in disgust. Finally, we make it past a doorman who sneers at me. The lobby here, clean, austere in a very rich and modern way, is a relief to my senses after all those dirty streets and rubble and the screams from the opening to my paradise below the city. The elevator is the same. I lean up against the side to make sure I don’t collapse. My stomach tightens, and the lack of sugar forces my head to swoon.

  “You look rough,” she says. This time, it’s like she’s noting the time, like my pain is nothing.

  She makes no move to help me. Though I wouldn’t want her to. And as the thought of her coming to my aid filters through, as potential embarrassment and pity I wouldn’t want, I straighten myself out, feeling defensive.

  “You do remember the last time I helped you, don’t you?”

  I stare at her. Not sure if it’s hubris or straight hatred that makes her talk like this. Of course I remember. I remember as clear as day now and I’m trying my hardest to forget it all. Is she going to try and be the same person? Treat me like a dog. Act surprised when I don’t listen to every word? Am I so at her mercy that I can’t do anything else? “What of it?”

  She pauses, like I’ve hit her with these words. “Uh oh. So you either don’t remember or don’t want to learn.” She leaves those words there in the air, lets them hang as she opens her door, and stares forward as if there’s something of a ghost in front of her. “Well. Come in.” Then she enters.

  I pause, wondering if there’s an ambush. I enter a typically rich apartment—with art that is either realistic or eclectic, and the smells of polish and furniture rarely used, as well as expensive cone and bark collections made for such rooms—I now remember her being a lawyer, though I think she was one who would help the poor. She’s at the kitchen, pulling out a knife and then a pizza from the fridge. She stares at the pizza, then switches on the oven. She looks at me for a second—it really pains her to look at me, doesn’t it?—and half shakes her head, then half opens her mouth, then her eyes dart to the living room and she nods at it. “You can sit down.”

  It’s a sentence that borders on an order rather than a welcoming gesture. I want to stew in silence. Well, let me say that I want silence, but I don’t think I should. There has been no real invitation offered here, and I’m of the thought that there might not be one ever. Yet, if I’m trying to forget the last time we met up, with all her friends, and all that disgust, it seems her attitude hasn’t changed, and nor will I forget. I might as well try to reach out and find her. Perhaps even torment her.

  “So what did happen last time?” I say, tapping my head. “I’m trying to piece it all together again, but I can’t seem to do it. Been rough, you know.”

  Her eyes light up. At what, I’m not sure. I do remember her being intelligent. Perhaps more so than I.

  “Well, you simply were being difficult.” She throws the pizza into the oven. “And I don’t think that, globally, given you actions, given who you choose to... associate with. That it shows a pattern.”

  “And.”

  She stares at me for a few seconds. “Never mind.”

  We never had a deep relationship, only ever were friends. Why is she acting like this? “All right,” I say, and go to her window, and look out south towards the taller buildings of the rest of the island. I’m under the impression that we’re in Gramercery. “Nice view.”

  “Used to be better.”

  “But?” I can’t see anything that would block her view.

  “I don’t know. Fires. Bombs. Even drones are coming around, like vultures in the sky.”

  “Oh... These are tumultuous times.”

  She slams a tray on the counter. I jump at the noise.

  “Tumultuous? That’s a word for it.”

  Silence. She throws out a couple plates. My very presence is causing her too much consternation. I want to feel bad, really I do, but survival mode kicks in. After all, I’m being hunted by the government as well as a group that’s willing to use bombs. And in times like this, as people see institutions teeter, they tend to be the sharpest, even with old friends, let alone friends of unknown quality, such as myself. So if there’s this much consternation, she must certainly be willing to turn me in.

  I look off at a distant road. A few cars crawl along its back. Fewer people are out an about. Far above, a large drone swoops by. It’s a show of presence, meant to intimidate. The drones, the government ones at least, are best used when silent and out of sight. I wonder if Behemoth is behind this.

  I turn, when the silence has gone on for too long. She’s staring at the empty plates in front of her. Her curly hair, the gold kind, seems to be especially messy. While everything else about her looks healthy, if she doesn’t at the very least reach a very sterile perfection.

  “How’s work going?”

  She lets out all the air inside her. “What do you think?”

  A few more heart beats. I should leave. But I’m too tired. Maybe if I rest a bit. “I’m sorry, I don’t actually know.” I crack a smile, as an offer of detente. “That’s why I asked.”

  She pierces me with a stare. I raise my hand to offer an apology.

  “What ever it is that you started. It’s not going away anytime soon. We’re flooded. But not because people want to use our services. Most of them can’t. Not with the system changing the way it is. Now they just come looking for justice. And they and we know we can’t provide it. So what do you expect them to do? That’s why there’re so many people on the streets. That’s...” s
he stops, her hand half outstretched to the window, her voice just short of a yell. “Why everything is falling apart.”

  I’m being blamed for this again? “You’re talking about the computer judges.”

  The oven starts ringing just then. And it’s probably for the best as she’s thrown her hands in the air in despair. “Among other things. George. Do you ever just think? I mean.” She switches off the timer. “Do you just allow yourself to be pushed forward by others... By that... machine.”

  “Turing? Are you talking about Turing?”

  Another look of pity, like I’m the only one not getting the whole picture. Like I’m some imbecile at the subway station screaming about the world ending at any time now.

  “Who else? All these laws. They’re the most invasive ones of their kind, did you know that?” Her eyes don’t waver, they stay on me, cutting, slicing. “Or do you only think you know?” The sine cycle of disgust and anger is now eroding away the little sense of pride I had.

  “You mean the judges?”

  She pauses to think. “Well, that’s only part of it. They’re streamlining the process.”

  “So you like it?”

  “There needs to be more oversight.”

  “All right. But it’s a good thing, is what I’m getting, right? Or at least when it’s being used for other people.”

  A sharp stare, and she shakes her head, as if at the limit of her patience. She pulls out the pizza, which is smoking at the edges. “Stupid oven...” She grabs a pair of scissors.

  “I haven’t seen something like that since Spain.”

  Her face softens. But as soon as she looks up, sort of realizes what I am, or what I represent to her at least, her face darkens. “The point is, Turing’s laws.” She points at me. “These laws, they’re the most stifling of their kind. Never in the history of mankind as a government been so shackled. Did you know if we are attacked by another nation the laws that be tie us up enough that we cannot send troops?”

  “I didn’t realize that...” I pause, thinking if perhaps this is fake. A lifetime spent on the internet and hearing all sorts of world views and conspiracies, and I’m reluctant to just believe something out of the blue. “But—“

  “Come get your food,” she says, laying a slice on a plate, folding the slice, and taking a bite.

  I come over, see that it’s a goat cheese and pesto pizza, and take a slice too. There’s no plate, so I take a napkin and eat, shifting the weight of the slice as its heat diffuses easily through the napkin and burns the ends of my fingers. “Thanks,” I say, though Mary’s look again freezes me from being too nice, and so I don’t say it tastes good, nor am I brave enough to ask for water, because I’m not sure what the guest etiquette is, here in the city, in the midst of so tumultuous a time, when the hostess hates you.

  She finishes her slice and pours a cup of water, then looks at me, and pushes the bottle at me. I raise my eyebrows. She huffs and pulls out a cup for me.

  “All out of glasses?” I tease, though I could care less from what vessel I drink the water.

  “Don’t.”

  Christ, there I go again. I may very well end up sleeping on the streets again. Luckily, the conversation doesn’t pick back up just then. She goes off, and gets ready for work—something she reminds me that I don’t do much of. She has a shower, her bedroom door locked, and I try to remember why we were even friends. Because even the time before whatever we had was acidic. But she cares enough to let me stay. And I’m also aware of what tumultuous times do to the attachments people hold to each other and the things and ideas they accumulate through out their lives. I make a point to be nicer.

  She steps out of her bedroom, dressed as if she picked everything that would make sure that none of her body shape would show. The sweater, even though it’s warm here, is especially funny. I make sure not to laugh. But, anger picks back up and I’m sure I don’t need to be polite.

  “You know what I saw before I bumped into you?”

  “A man with metallic limbs?”

  She pauses. “No. Why... No. I saw a man begging on the subway, but he wasn’t really begging.”

  “Street performer?”

  “No. He was a former military man and saying that he needed money for his family.” She props up her legs beneath her and sits on the couch. “Then said that he had skills. Anyone needed to finish off someone, needed someone else to be talked to, he could arrange it.”

  I chuckle at the thought. Not that it had never crossed my mind to sell my “violence of action” for something. Well, that was before I met Turing.

  “You find it funny? The disintegration of our society?”

  “Me? This is my fault? We set up programs to help out people like this.”

  “You,” she says, lips pursed, finger shooting out at me. “You made people disappear. All those men gone. We had so many families coming in to ask about them.”

  I haven’t been in charge of that section of operations in some time. “That’s not entirely true. We helped them.”

  “Helped them? You were making them extremists.”

  “Wait,” I say. Because I sense that a barrage of ills are coming my way, and I will be blamed for each one. “You think the man who was selling his mercenary skills was coming from us?”

  “No,” she says and shifts in her seat. “He is different. He’s an example of what happens when you weaken the power of the state to commit violence. It sounds horrible, but it’s needed. The state doesn’t do it, and the everyday person sees that. You weakened the state”

  Spoken like someone, a lawyer no less, who spent all her life coming through the most elite of schools in our nation, and always had the higher vantage point of the nation. “How the hell are you blaming us for him? We never said end the police. The police are who control the country. We were stopping needless wars.”

  “Needless? How come we’re still being attacked? How come you were tied up with the bomb—“

  “That bomb wasn’t me,” I shout, blood pumping fast now, me hating that I’m a criminal in most everyone’s eyes. “Wasn’t me.”

  “It was everywhere.”

  “You can’t believe everything you see on TV, or the internet,” I say calmly.

  “Conspiracy theories? On what basis?” she says; now her tone sounds only condescending. An improvement, I suppose. “You’re in denial about yourself. How can you even start to talk about the world?”

  “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. I’ve been to war. They always lie back here. That’s what we stopped,” I say, flailing, now, falling for the old veteran trope, but only because I don’t have anything better to say about the matter.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forget you’re a broken soldier.” She rolls her eyes and looks down on her foot, shaking off the slippers she’s wearing.

  “So, what have you against Turing? You’re blaming him... us, for all the attacks?”

  “Who else?”

  “Why Turing? Because he’s with me? We’re two separate entities.”

  Her eyes cutting through me, she forces a smile. “You really know nothing about the origins of Turing? What he was meant to do?”

  “Who has any claim on his origins? I know the person who created him, and he trusts him.”

  “Trusts? That’s a machine you’re talking about.”

  “True. So why are you so worried?”

  “Because an out of control machine is still that. And it must be stopped.”

  “What have you read about Turing?”

  “He’s a defense department program gone awry.”

  “Skynet?” I say, making sure my tone is dry as can be.

  “No. That’s not it. It’s about what he’s doing.”

  “If there’s evidence that he’s behind any of this, show me.”

  “Don’t worry, Mary, I’ll get it from here.”

  The voice, icy, heavy, hits the back of my head. I jump, shielding my face, then seeing Behemoth, decide to look a little more impo
sing and stick out my chest and clench my hands.

  “Oh oh.” Behemoth laughs. “This is mighty cute.” He looks over at Mary who’s also smiling, as if a child of hers has just done something embarrassing, but oh so expected.

  “I think I can handle it, thanks though,” Mary says, and twirls her hair.

  “Working with more people, Behemoth?”

  “See? So sensitive,” Behemoth says, then raises his hands as if to claim his innocence. “I only work with those who care for this republic. Those true patriots, George. You know this.”

  Mary nods her head. “And same with me.” She makes an effort to look at Behemoth and points at me. “Back in college I was sure he was a patriot.”

  “Oh, but we broke him, and we’re sorry for that,” Behemoth says, now resting one elbow in another hand and his chin in the other hand.

  “I am a patriot. And don’t you dare cover your actions with the flag,” I say, louder than is necessary.

  “Uh huh. Well, since Mary says she has this, I’ll leave you two at it. Just remember my offer,” Behemoth says, and walks by Mary, handing her a tablet.

  Mary taps the screen and starts to scroll through something, her eyebrows slowly raising. Behemoth hops on the counter in the kitchen and pulls out a flask from his jacket. Mary doesn’t so much as look at me, intent as she is on reading whatever it is she’s reading.

  “Where are your pitbulls?”

  “You mean your comrades in arms?” Behemoth yells, pointing a wagging finger at me. “You cut a sad figure, George. You could have been one of them... No, sadly those two are doing some other work right now, as busy as we are with your friend.”

  “Come,” Mary says, and she stands up and heads over to her glass dining table. “You need to see this.”