“You always knew what I was thinking.”
“Not always. Not when it mattered most.”
“It’s much too late for recriminations now.”
“And yet you’ve come to my home. To my hideaway. To my prison.”
“I need your help.”
“Ahh.” She nodded. “Money, I suppose.” She looked around at the walls. “I wonder what these paintings would have brought in Paris or London. Too late now.”
“No. Not money.”
“What else then? I have nothing to offer. Nothing you can’t get from him.” She said the word “him” with great disdain.
“You have information.”
The French doors opened and the servant woman entered, carrying a tray with an elegant silver tea service: cups, cakes, and little sandwiches. These she set up on the coffee table and then stood and looked at her mistress for further instructions. The woman told her in sign language that would be all and thanked her. The servant bowed and withdrew, closing the doors behind her.
“She came from one of the camps,” the woman explained. “They cut out her tongue. So she couldn’t scream when they took turns raping her. Fever took her hearing. They cast her out into the mud, and she crawled for weeks until she was found almost dead by the nuns.”
Huston shuddered and then felt enormous shame. “I’m sorry. It’s all barbaric.”
“Tea?” she asked, and began to pour for both of them.
“You blame me. I understand. But we still have something to do.”
She looked up at him, and what he saw was the only woman who had ever meant anything to him, the woman he’d had to give up to save her. The woman who hated him for it.
“You’re wrong, Lawrence.”
She’d said his name. His hand began to shake, and the teacup clattered in its saucer. He put it down. Before he could say anything, she spoke again.
“I understand everything that happened. You had no other choice at the time. You did save me and allowed me to save Father. But for what?”
Even in her circumscribed life, the tone of her voice, her bearing, the way she still served tea in the afternoon, it all reminded Huston of the difference that had always been between them. Even now, with all his power and influence and classes reduced to almost nothing but those in control and those controlled, she could make him feel like a poor boy from the other side of town. The wrong side. If only he’d been able to accomplish more, to make her proud of what he’d done. But such thoughts only led him to dead ends. It was all too late for that now. And, yet . . . he couldn’t keep from wondering and had to ask.
“If I could change the whole system and completely topple it and come out alive, could you . . .” He stopped. She must know what he meant.
She sipped her tea and looked over the cup to the garden outside.
“I’m like those butterflies,” she said. “I can flit from one place to another, but I can never go far.”
“And yet,” he said, “you do go far.”
She turned away from the garden to study him.
“You surprise me, Lawrence.”
“Still?”
“So you keep tabs on me?”
“I have to know everything. All the time. For instance, I know where funding for the convent came from.”
“Do you? Oh, well, that’s not so surprising.”
“I also know about late-night visits here.” He looked up at a cross hanging on one wall, at the small shelf below it, and the half-burned candles in silver holders. “I know, for instance, that you’re the only one who has no InCom and who, shall we say, is allowed certain liberties.”
“Like prayer?”
Huston nodded.
“And confession?”
He nodded again.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever confessed.”
Huston stood up and walked to where the cross hung. He put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head as he regarded the swathed figure, the mock nails, the painted blood.
“I’ve never understood the symbol or the practice. What good has religion done? I’ve read all the arguments for it. The only one that makes any sense at all is how much worse humanity would be without it. Infinius is proof of that, I suppose. But power and might will always win for a time, no matter what god is displayed. Humans are basically corrupt. And the few who aren’t maintain a tenuous balance that is always in a state of disequilibrium about to be subsumed by countervailing evil.
“If I wanted to seduce you again, I know this isn’t the way to do it. I could make a flowery speech about how I’ve come to understand the righteous path of good. But I think you would know I wasn’t being honest. And I was always, no matter what else I’ve been or done, honest with you. I loved you. I love you still. I will always love you. Perhaps that is my religion, and it is the hope I cling to when I look in the mirror and see who I really am.
“I was this man when you loved me all those years ago. I’ve not changed. I’m still the bastard I was. Everything I’ve done I would do again given the same circumstances and choices. If we had found each other in a different time and place, things would have been different for us. But we were thrust into this time.
“I could have fought him. And I would be dead now. There was no fighting that wave of hate and destruction followed by vile solutions and despicable acts. One has to live through the fever. Well, now it is almost over. And its aftermath will be brutal, too.
“I’ve come here to ask for your help, but also to help you survive what is surely to come. Will you help me? Will you let me save you, Saskia?”
Her name, softly spoken, was for him a prayer. He hadn’t allowed himself to say that name in eighteen years. It would have been too painful. Still staring at the cross, tears came to his eyes. She couldn’t see that, and he waited to turn back to her until, like his words, they had evaporated.
He didn’t hear the soft rustle of her skirt as she stood. Or the footsteps as she came to his side.
“You cannot save me,” she said, and took his hand in hers. “I died long ago. Only my body remains. That, and whatever good I have done these eighteen years.”
As he turned to her, a sob broke in his throat.
“I did what I thought was best at the time,” he mumbled. “I should have taken you and fled.”
“And where was there to flee?” she asked, and kissed the tips of his fingers. “I had to save Father. And you had to save yourself and my baby. And if you had known then . . .”
“I’ve watched him. At least I’ve done that. And protected him the best I could.”
He raised his hand, still in hers, to his own lips and kissed her palm.
“You’re still so beautiful. You make me ache for you.”
She pulled her hand away and returned to her chair as if it were a throne upon which she was obligated to remain.
“You want to know who is helping him. And how,” she said. Gone was the tender note in her voice and the look of compassion—even love—in her face.
A deep sigh escaped Huston’s chest like a great wind that had collapsed from inside his body. He walked back and sat down.
“Yes.”
What else was there to say? The moment of possibility had passed between them and flown away like one of those fluttering butterflies outside the glass.
“I have a personal guard unit, loyal only to me,” he said. “I’ll post them outside your house. They’ll protect you. The rest of the city will be in peril. If it comes to that, they’ll take you to a safe place I’ve set up. Pack whatever is most important to you and be ready. She can go with you, too, if the time comes.” He nodded toward the door where the servant woman had come and gone.
“It’s Father Ignatius,” she told him. “His base is a warehouse where he’s been training youths to prepare for the takeover. They were as surprised as everyone else by what happened at The Race. They weren’t expecting it to happen so fast.”
“Serves me right for being such a heathen.” H
uston smiled for the first time, but it didn’t last more than a few seconds. “I should have guessed it.”
“They’re leaving the convent. Probably gone already.”
“Convent? That old converted garage?”
“Yes. I supported them until the last nun died.”
“And the girl?”
“I didn’t know her.”
“Is she worthy of him?”
“I don’t know, but I gave all my father’s gold to the priests, and they stored it in the convent somewhere. The girl may know where it is. Or Father Ignatius. It’s a fortune.”
“Enough to buy a lot of ammunition,” Huston mused. “Or information.”
Gruen interrupted Fuller as Shag was in the middle of bathing him. It was quite an operation. Fuller now weighed well over four hundred pounds and was gaining week by week.
Constructed of aluminum sides and bottom from a deconstructed water tank, they had welded and bolted together a large oval tub like affair in the only bedroom. Hanging over the side was a hose for siphoning water either into or out of the tub. With nothing else in the room, there was a bit of extra space to move around it. Shag was a strong boy, so he could help Fuller get from the bed to the bath without too much trouble. Once in the bath, with a second hose, Shag siphoned warm water from pots on a makeshift electric stove using stolen power from the grid outside.
The water never covered Fuller’s entire body, so he had to slosh around to clean all his parts. Folds of fat, looking like fleshy tubes around his body, glistened in the dim light from one naked overhead bulb. Fuller was soaping his elephantine thighs when Gruen appeared in the doorway.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, coming upon this scene.
“What are you doing here?” Fuller growled, making no attempt to cover any of his body.
“I brought what you need.” Gruen took two steps into the room.
“Good. Then you can wait until I finish my toilette and then help dry me off and get me back to my bed.”
“Fuck I will,” Gruen spat back.
“Shag,” Fuller spoke sweetly to the boy. “Take Mr. Gruen here to help change my sheets while I wash my dick.”
“Funny.” Gruen smirked. “I ain’t no chambermaid. The boy can do whatever on his own.”
“You want my help? You do what I need.”
Gruen considered walking away. It was tempting. He had never liked being put in a position with no options. And Fuller was such a prick. But he’d come this far. And if he didn’t complete his task, he was liable to be ratted out. They might tell someone else about the plan. So while Fuller continued to bathe himself with a great show of mock elegance, Gruen followed the boy to the living room and the huge bed.
“Why do you put up with him?” Gruen asked the boy.
“He pays me. And doesn’t expect anything weird.”
They stripped the bed and put on clean sheets.
“Besides,” Shag said as he tucked in the last sheet, “the guy’s some kinda wizard, and he’s teaching me a lot of shit.”
“How sweet.” Fuller stood at the door, wrapped in a bed quilt, which was the only thing big enough to dry his whole body at one time. “I’m so glad you boys are bonding.”
To Shag he said, “Empty the bathwater and leave us alone.”
Fuller lowered himself onto the bed and arranged the pillows. He spread the quilt over himself and leaned back.
“So? Did you get everything?”
Gruen went to the door and picked up the roll of papers. He brought them to the bed and spread them out on the floor. They wanted to curl up at the corners, so Gruen grabbed some books and plates and whatever he could find nearby to hold them flat. The plates had bits of old food stuck to them. Meanwhile, Fuller studied the plans carefully. He seemed to be ticking off things in his head. He nodded and rocked back and forth. Finally, he swung his heavy legs over the bed so he could lean over and see the farthest papers more closely. He looked up at Gruen, squinting at him. He put a finger to his lips.
“Are you done in there, boy?” he called to Shag.
“Almost.”
“Well, finish it up later and go get my dinner now. I’m hungry.”
“Yessir.”
They heard him open the door and then heard it close.
“Do you know what you’ve got here?” Fuller asked, gazing up at Gruen with a smile. He shook his head slightly. “You’re so dumb you probably don’t.”
“Hey, I’m smart enough to get it for you, ain’t I?”
“Indeed you are, my good man. Indeed you are. Well, let’s just say, for the moment anyway, that these papers are the keys to the kingdom. What I want to know is: What is the end game? Who is going to end up on the throne? Hmmm?”
“You seen The Race?”
“Oh, of course. I wouldn’t miss one of those for the world. Young tads hurling themselves off a high-rise? Who could resist such wholesome drama? So what?”
“So it was the beginning. And those sounds you been hearing all day . . . they’re driving the Detainers and squads into the streets all over the place. They don’t know where it’s gonna hit next. And it’ll get worse and worse. It’s all gonna collapse. And then you’ll be right up there with them waiting to take over.”
“And who’s ‘them’?”
Gruen smiled. “I can’t say all of them for sure. But you’ll be right there in the inner circle. And what’s there now will be gone or dead. Or both.”
“You’re asking me to subvert the whole InCom system and send the electrical grid into a giant spasm. And you want me to believe that you alone are going to secure my position in the new order of things?”
Gruen nodded. And smiled. “I guarantee it.”
“Where’s the money? The inner circle holds little appeal to me. There are places in this world that beckon, and it takes money to get myself there.”
“First, you do your thing. Here’s something on account.” Gruen pulled out a small bag and tossed it on the bed. “And when it’s done, you’ll have enough to go anywhere for the rest of your sorry life.”
Fuller pulled the cord open and peered inside the bag. He seemed satisfied and studied the papers again. “Since my sorry life is about to make you a rich bastard, let’s cut out the insults, shall we? That is, if you can twist your brain into an operationally functional organ for just a few moments. Once I gain control of these two grids, which shouldn’t be too difficult, may I also assume there is some sort of plan in place for what to do with that control? Not that you’ve outlined such a plan. But someone has?”
Gruen thought about punching this bedridden blob in the face but held himself back. He was right. There was a great deal of money at stake. Gruen had never fallen into such a sweet pit, and he had at least enough control of his aggressive instincts not to forfeit this big chance.
“Yeah,” he said. “Now that you mention it, there is a plan. When the InCom goes out, I’ll be back with the rest of your share and instructions for what to blast out when the time comes. The InCom should go out at exactly ten tonight. And the electric grid at exactly eleven. Can you do that?”
Fuller pointed to a robe on the floor.
“Hand me that. I must dress properly for this assignment.” He laughed at his joke and waved Gruen out of the apartment as he struggled to rid himself of the quilt and slide, first one doughy arm and then the other, into a huge cherry-red chenille robe that promised to cover his bulk.
Old Merrie sang softly, pushing the ponderous cart along, trying to find the smoothest route both for herself and her cargo. She could have gone a shorter way, but with all the commotion everywhere, she stuck to the less traveled alleys and cross streets. She knew where she was at all times and even stopped when someone approached to buy a piece of fruit or a canned drink. At such times she kept up a steady patter of casual commentary, avoiding any talk of the disruption. For her it was just another day of street selling. Or so she portrayed herself. And she was good at it. After all, no one really ever wa
nted to know Old Merrie except for what she could offer them. And then they went on their way. She was a cloud on the horizon. A well-known fixture that was, at the same time, invisible, melting into nothing, which made her the perfect conduit for an escape.
Toward the end of the lunch break, a group of Detainers stopped her.
“Whatchya got today, Merrie?” asked one of them, a skinny, dark-skinned man with stripes on his sleeve indicating he was an officer. “I’m thirsty.”
“Got some cold lemonade in here.” She pointed to the top compartment, the one that kept ice cold. “Want some? I’m almost out. Been busy today what with all the people out and about.”
“Yeah. And one for the boys here, too.”
Old Merrie grinned and pulled out four cans of lemonade. “I’ll give you a discount on account of you keeping the peace and all, General.” She held up two fingers and they all laughed.
They wandered off, guns slung over their shoulders, drinking from the cans. Old Merrie pushed on. As she got farther from them, she heard a gun go off and then laughter. And the sound of cans hitting the street. She didn’t look around. Just tapped the cart’s side door to let Niko know everything was okay.
As they were coming out of The Hovels and entering The Shanty Alleys, streets devolved into rutted dirt tracks with, every so often, a patch of cracked concrete where once the roads even in the poorer sections had been maintained. Now no one paid them any mind. In fact, few people were out even though, at this hour, people usually milled about, swapping stories or looking for a bit of extra food for their hungry families. Ordinarily Old Merrie might have been wary of this part of town, especially with her cart full of food and money deep in her pockets. But she had long since determined that her fate would befall her when it was ready. So, with her hidden cargo, she forged ahead.
They came to the beginning of The Shanty Alleys, where thousands of slapped-together shelters stood precariously side by side, each supporting the other in what, if seen from high above, would look more like a cavernous community of insects than any habitation for humans. Such disarray was the perfect place to disappear. With no streets or alleys with names, and no development system, to enter anywhere was to enter everywhere. Even Old Merrie had no bearings in The Shanty Alleys. But she plodded on until, after what could have been an hour or five minutes, she came to a pipe from which water dribbled next to a shed.
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