by J L Aarne
Instead, he has a scar from a sickle knife on the back of his hand and is compelled to do nothing. Out of his own curiosity, he stands and watches them help the man up and half carry him back to the sidewalk. He’s sobbing and shaking, not fighting them. Soon the traffic picks up again and the curious motorists move on.
“Wow,” the girl says. She’s taken her earphones out and they dangle over her shoulders. “You must be crazy. I can’t believe it. Are you okay?”
The man giggles and shakes his head. “We’re all crazy,” he mutters. “You should have let me go.”
“Well, we can’t, can we?” the old woman asks. She looks pale and deeply disturbed. “It don’t work that way no more. You know better.”
The young man shrugs them off. Then he stands there like a child in a dream. “I shouldn’t be here,” he says. He looks up and meets Aarom’s eyes. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
Because Aarom is not heartless, he nods and reaches into the pocket of his coat for a card. It’s small like a business card, made from smartpaper and programmed with instructions for summoning a prophet. It’s a pale horse on a black field until you need it to be something else. When he presses it into the man’s hand and closes his fingers around it, his eyes clear and he really sees Aarom.
“When you’re ready,” Aarom tells him, speaking softly though the women have already started to walk away. “Until then, don’t look at it. Don’t think about it. They’re watching.”
The man puts the card into his own pocket without looking at it. He’s relieved and calm again. The distress is gone from his eyes.
“I’ll be seeing you,” Aarom says. It might be another prophet, but Aarom reaps in this part of the city and the nearby neighborhoods and he rarely crosses paths in the course of duties with other prophets. “You should go now before they send police.”
The police won’t arrest him for walking into the street, but they can still lock him away until a counselor says they can let him go. Sometimes people disappear that way.
“Thank you,” the man says. He looks both ways down the street, then turns and walks back the way he came as fast as he can.
Aarom continues on to Jonathan’s house.
He sometimes wonders about the scientist who invented the machine, Howard Vaughn. Like the creators of the first atom bomb, had he known what he had really done? The doors he had opened? Aarom doesn’t think so. He thinks the poor man meant well and never anticipated the true outcome of his brainchild. He had created the world’s most sophisticated AI and charged it with one supreme task: Save the world. The machine had realized something that had been beyond a man even as brilliant as Dr. Vaughn; that saving the world was something that had to be done every single day. Thankfully, the man had not lived to see the corrupt dark side of his invention. It seems like a thing that would break a man’s heart; learning that the only way to save the world is to utterly destroy it in every way that makes it worth saving.
Jonathan is home when Aarom arrives, but he is not waiting for him or expecting him. Aarom has to knock twice before he answers the door. Jonathan stands there in comfortable lounging pants and bare feet, a paperback book open in one hand, and a smile flashes into existence on his face at the sight of him that warms Aarom down deep in his belly.
“You shouldn’t answer the door like that,” Aarom says, stepping inside so that Jonathan will back up into the house.
“What? Shirtless?” Jonathan asks.
“No, holding that,” Aarom says and points at the book.
“Oh,” Jonathan says, “Right.”
He closes the door and locks it and there’s an awkward moment where they just stand there regarding each other almost like strangers. Then Jonathan steps away from the door and goes to mark his place and put the book away.
“Isn’t this kind of a strange time of day for you?” he asks Aarom. “I mean, you guys are kind of pretty exclusively night people I thought.”
“But you’re not and you wanted me to visit,” Aarom says.
“So you changed your schedule?” Jonathan says. “You don’t have to do that. I’m up late sometimes and I’m off tomorrow, too, so I’d be up.”
“Do you want me to leave and come back later?” Aarom asks.
“What? No. That’s not what I meant. I’m just… making conversation.”
“Okay.”
Jonathan sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “Let me go put on a shirt. Have you had lunch yet?”
Aarom hasn’t eaten anything at all since the previous night before he went to bed. “No,” he says. “Lunch sounds nice.”
“All right. Give me a minute.”
Jonathan disappears down the hallway and Aarom stands in his living room looking around. There’s a family portrait on the wall from when Jonathan was just a toddler and his parents were still together. There’s a little shelf of the books Aarom has given him over the years off to the right of the entertainment center. A small framed photograph of them when they were teenagers sits on a table beside one of the living room chairs. In it, they are both wet from playing in the river and one of Jonathan’s dogs is with them. There’s a painting on another wall and a few other pieces of art, but there aren’t any other photographs. Aarom doesn’t know exactly why this pleases him.
Jonathan emerges from the back of the house wearing clothes that do not look like he slept in them and lazed around the house in them half the day. “So, how does soup and sandwiches sound?”
“It sounds good,” Aarom says.
“Okay,” Jonathan says.
He walks ahead of Aarom into the kitchen and Aarom stands there wondering if he should help. He has known Jonathan almost his entire life, but they have inevitably drifted apart over the years. Especially the last ten. It’s made them both a little self-conscious and Aarom doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.
“Coffee?” Jonathan asks.
Aarom blinks at him and it takes him a second. “Oh. Yes, please.”
“You want to sit?”
“Actually, maybe I can help?”
Jonathan gives him the cup of coffee and gestures to the refrigerator. “Sure. You want to make the sandwiches?”
Aarom gets the stuff to make turkey sandwiches out of the fridge while Jonathan mixes the soup ingredients in a pot and sets it to boil. They fall into a quiet, contemplative silence as they work. Aarom finishes the sandwiches first and leans back against the counter to watch Jonathan stirring the soup. It’s cream of mushroom; instant ready to heat from a zip pack, nothing fancy, but it smells nice.
“I miss you,” Jonathan says abruptly.
It startles him and Aarom doesn’t know what to say.
“I think maybe one day, probably soon, you’ll stop coming around completely,” Jonathan says. “Isn’t that what you do?”
It is what most prophets do, yes. Most of them do it a lot sooner.
“I’m not going to do that,” Aarom says.
Jonathan’s smile is sad and pensive. “Yeah, you will. I think sometimes maybe that would be better. I could stop wondering if I’ll see you.”
Aarom’s heart jumps with alarm and he catches his breath. “Is that what you want?”
Jonathan shrugs. “No.”
The sick clenching in Aarom’s stomach releases and he lets out a breath, almost a sigh. “Then I’m not going to.”
“You know Chief Flowers is on a campaign to lock you all up,” Jonathan says.
“I’ll call you from prison if I’m arrested. If you want me to.”
“Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I am careful.”
“Be more careful than that.” Aarom smiles. Jonathan sees it and smiles back. “I’m serious,” he says.
“I know you are,” Aarom says.
“Maybe we can go do something this week.” Jonathan says it casually, but he’s watching Aarom out the corner of his eye for his reaction.
Aarom notes his expression, knows that he
expects him to refuse and he wants to surprise him and agree, but he can’t. “It’s too dangerous,” he says. “If you’re seen with me or caught with me, it’ll ruin you.”
Jonathan sighs and turns off the stovetop burner. “You ever think maybe I don’t care about that?”
Aarom shakes his head.
“Well, I don’t,” Jonathan says. “Will you hand me a couple of bowls from that cupboard?”
Aarom takes down two bowls from the cupboard near him and Jonathan pours their soup into them. The sandwiches go on saucers and they each take a spoon and carry their food to the table by the window that looks out on the strip of grass in front of Jonathan’s house and the cars zooming by on the street beyond. The soup is good, a little spicy and full of bits of ink cap mushrooms. Outside, a robin lands in the strip of grass, pecks at the sod and flies away.
“Why didn’t we ever go out?” Aarom asks. He instantly wants to take back the question the moment it’s spoken, but it is too late and he sits there perfectly still and waits.
Jonathan puts his spoon down and says nothing for a minute. He doesn’t laugh or even appear amused by the question. A frown line appears between his brows. “You mean like date? You and me?”
Aarom clears his throat uncomfortably. He nods.
“You never asked me, Aarom,” Jonathan says.
His answer surprises Aarom. He says it like it’s so simple. Like there couldn’t be another answer: If only Aarom had asked him.
“Neither did you,” Aarom points out.
“I know,” Jonathan says. He picks up his spoon and continues eating his soup. “Guess it’s too late now.”
“Yeah,” Aarom says.
But he’s thinking about it still because Jonathan makes it seem like it could have happened if Aarom hadn’t been so caught up in other things or so shy or worried Jonathan would reject him and that actually means it’s possible. That’s what he’s saying in what he’s not saying. It also goes both ways though. Jonathan could have asked and he never did and there’s a reason. Maybe a reason Aarom doesn’t want to know about.
To hell with that. “Why didn’t you?” Aarom asks.
Jonathan sighs in an exasperated way. “Really?” he says. “Fine. I don’t know, okay? Why didn’t you?”
“I think… a lot of things got in the way,” Aarom says. “And I’m not very good at that sort of thing anyway.”
“You’re shy,” Jonathan agrees. He smiles and it’s a genuine, amused one. “I know.”
They finish their soup and sandwiches then talk about books for a while. Jonathan was reading Fahrenheit 451 when he opened the door, so he hasn’t finished it, but he tells Aarom about it and they laugh because it was written nearly a hundred years ago, but there is a creepy similarity between the story and the outlawing of certain books that has happened in the last twenty years. The police don’t burn people or their houses though. The machine would never allow it.
“Have you seen your mom?” Jonathan asks him later.
“I saw her after I visited you,” Aarom says. “She seems okay.”
“She is,” Jonathan says. His mother and Aarom’s still keep in touch. “She’s got a boyfriend, that’s what my mom tells me. A nice guy. I think she said his name’s Alfred something-or-other.”
“Good for her,” Aarom says, and he means it. His mother has lost so much, she should have something like an Alfred something-or-other for herself.
“So, are we going to hang out later and go somewhere or not?” Jonathan asks. “We can go somewhere crowded, maybe see a film at a show house where they don’t scan.”
“I don’t think so,” Aarom says.
It tears him up inside to refuse him, but he has to. He can’t let what he is hurt the people he loves or next thing he knows, he’ll be taking Sonja’s advice and walking away from them all completely. He’s scared of what that could do to him. He doesn’t ever want to be like Sonja or many of the other prophets. They turn themselves into heartless, soulless things, creatures that would not be out of place in fireside stories and monster movies. It kills something inside them when they do that and remove themselves in every way that really counts. They become almost inhuman, almost psychopathic, their duties reaping the lives of supplicants become their whole purpose and it’s a dark purpose no matter how you cut it. He doesn’t want to become like that, so he keeps Jonathan and he holds on just a little to his mother and he holds tight to his best memories and sometimes does a good deed for a desperate man.
But Jonathan can’t be seen in public with him. Jonathan would lose everything if he was seen with Aarom and Aarom was recognized as a prophet. Then Aarom, no matter if he was arrested or not, would lose even secret visits and private lunches and the smiles and conversations that keep him together.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t,” Aarom says.
Jonathan nods. It’s exactly what he expected. “I’m sure you’re right. Sorry I asked.”
He reaches over the table and Aarom realizes what he means to do a moment before Jonathan’s hand would have touched his and moves his hand out of his reach.
“Fuck, Aarom,” he says. He takes his hand back, pushes his chair out and stands. Taking their dishes to the sink is an excuse to pace away from him. He’s tense and angry and Aarom doesn’t blame him for it. “I’m not trying to come on to you, you know. I’m just… Hell, never mind.”
“I know,” Aarom says. “But I can’t.”
He can control it. Everyone who touches him does not die. It’s not an open door or a slide that anyone who brushes against him will just fall down, but he doesn’t trust it. If he loses control of it for even a moment, the door swings wide and Jonathan sees his unlived life flash before his eyes and dies at Aarom’s feet. The possibility is unimaginably horrifying so Aarom can’t, no matter how much he wants to.
“Right,” Jonathan says. He clearly doesn’t believe him. “It’s fine. I’m sorry I tried to—”
“Stop,” Aarom says tiredly. “Just stop it. I’m sorry. I am. I don’t want to kill you.”
Jonathan turns around at the counter and stands there. He stares at him and doesn’t say anything and Aarom finally gets up from the table himself. This visit has been tense and awkward most of the time, but he doesn’t regret coming. He’s just damn sorry things can’t be different, that they are perpetually missing any chance they might have once had.
Jonathan still doesn’t speak and Aarom can take a hint.
“I guess I’ll go,” he says. “Thank you for lunch.”
“Any time,” Jonathan says.
For the first time ever Aarom isn’t sure he really means it. He’s still mad and they aren’t going to fix this, not now. Aarom is going to leave feeling bad about how the visit ends and Jonathan is going to let him and stay angry. Aarom would apologize again for hurting his feelings if he thought it was something Jonathan wanted to hear or would accept with any kind of grace, but he doubts it so he doesn’t.
He leaves and walks down the sidewalk a bit more than a mile before he sees a taxi and waves it to a stop. He gets in and slips his hand inside the chip scanner. He’s greeted warmly by a mechanical woman’s voice and thanked for his patronage. He wonders why all public service bots have the soft, soprano voices of women.
“Rough day?” the driver asks him.
“So far, yes,” Aarom says. “It’s been brutal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the driver says.
The car pulls away from the sidewalk and Aarom watches passing cars out the window as the driver launches expertly into a one-sided conversation about how wretched Fridays are. It’s the comedown, he says. It’s all the stress still keeping you on high and your body trying to figure out why the hell you’re still in bed at noon. It’s why Mondays are so awful, only in reverse.
5.
Later in the week, on his way home from seeing his mother, Aarom passes a dirty man in rags emerging from a small tent who spots him and tries to call him over. He pretends not to notic
e the flailing of his hands or the way his voice echoes off the walls of the underpass. Aarom’s sure the man is used to it; the man is clearly homeless, though by choice because no one is homeless, and that can mean only a couple of things. The most likely reason for his disheveled, malnourished condition is that he’s an outlaw rebel, though not a member of a group or he would still be better cared for. Aarom isn’t unsympathetic about such people; he just views them with impatience and does not want to find himself downwind of the man.
He keeps walking, neither faster nor slower than before, and passes out of the shadow of the underpass that much closer to home. He’s tired and stressed and his mind returns to Jonathan and the last time he saw him with irritating frequency like a tongue to a sore tooth.
The man in rags follows him. “You have been chosen to bear witness!” he shouts after Aarom. “The end of days is upon us! We are living in the last days! The last days! You have been called!”
Aarom knows the archaic, religious meaning behind the word “witness” that the raving man shouts at him because he has collected several copies of the Holy Bible from deceased supplicants. It makes him roll his eyes. If the man is a rebel, he’s one of the many religious rebels for whom the machine is not God enough.
“There will come witnesses among you!” the man screams. He’s no longer addressing himself to Aarom, but to the empty street. “This man has been chosen! He is a prophet of the Lord!”
Aarom’s family, before the open practice of religion was forbidden, had been Muslim and even then their faith had fallen by the wayside. He sincerely doubts that any deity is watching over them or if one were, he or she would select him to stand as its witness. The man is a lunatic.