Spark: A Novel

by John Twelve Hawks

  I heard shouting and followed the crowd. Three employees at a boutique on the Champs-Élysées had realized that there was going to be trouble and quickly closed their store. Now they were trying to get away, but the Luddites had stopped a man wearing G-MID glasses. A few of them squealed like pigs and shouted, “Traître! Traître!”

  When the cornered man started to protest, a daughter of Ned ripped off his glasses and stomped them on the sidewalk. Everyone cheered, and the Luddites let the employees flee down the avenue.

  There was a gap in the traffic and I sprinted across the roundabout to the arch. Two soldiers were there, guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier—a rectangle of gold bricks surrounding a flickering eternal flame.

  I wandered around the area, searching for my supplier, but couldn’t find anyone carrying a red umbrella. A crowd of Chinese tourists carrying identical travel bags took pictures of the arch with their phones while a French tour guide pointed at a stone angel waving a sword.

  At the northwest edge of the plaza, the authorities had installed a new monument that had nothing to do with Napoleon and his battles. It was a large bronze sculpture inspired by the Day of Rage—a woman stepping forward with a dead child in her arms.

  “Excuse me, monsieur.” I turned and saw a short, saggy-faced man carrying a canvas shopping bag in one hand and a red umbrella in the other. “Are you Monsieur Underwood?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I am nobody—Monsieur Zéro.” The man led me over to the arch and we sat down on a stone bench.

  “Your new equipment is in the shopping bag. Do not pick up the bag until I go.”

  “I’m not going to accept your equipment if it doesn’t suit my needs.”

  “I sell you a first-class product. You get a German nine-millimeter with twelve rounds and a laser sight. Also … no charge … a second loaded magazine.”

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “The safety is on the left. Rack the first round and fire.”

  Some growlers emerged from a passageway that went under the road. They laughed and talked loudly as if they were taking possession of the monument.

  “I like your employers. They always pay. No problems.” Zéro glanced up at the Arc de Triomphe and shook his head. “But I do not like a rendezvous beneath this monument to slaughter.”

  “I thought you picked this place.”

  “No. Your employer wanted a central location.”

  “What are the words carved on the arch?”

  “They are the names of Napoleon’s battles. And there … right there … are the names of his generals. The men who died in war have a line beneath their name.”

  I leaned forward. “Just the generals?”

  “Bien sûr! Walk around this monstruosité a thousand times. You will not find the names of the soldiers who died for nothing. Instead, they gave the dead men an eternal flame that stopped burning when a football hooligan pissed on it during a World Cup celebration. The tourists come and take photographs of this tombstone, and they don’t see its absurdité. Just look … over there … see the angel? There are angels everywhere on the arch … riding horses, waving swords. Real angels would not do this. All they do is look down from heaven and deliver messages from God. Angels do not worry about us. They are pure minds … unattached to our world.”

  “I’d like to have wings so I could float above everything.”

  Zéro stared at me. “Are you a crazy man? No matter. You’ve come to the right place.” He jerked his head toward the crowd. “You see those young people over there—the fantômes?”

  “We call them ‘growlers’ in America.”

  “Something bad will happen. Leave this place now.”

  Monsieur Zéro stood up and disappeared behind one of the arches. I picked up the canvas shopping bag and peeked inside. A black cardboard box was at the bottom of the bag, covered by a bag of oranges and a pineapple.

  Instead of dodging the traffic that circled the axis, I went downstairs to the pedestrian underpass. A Metro train had just arrived in the station and more ghosts streamed out of the cars. Everyone wore shabby clothes along with black bandanas or sashes; knapsacks and canvas bags were slung over their shoulders. They shouted to each other and their voices bounced off the tile walls.

  Monsieur Zéro was right. There was going to be some kind of organized protest or maybe just a bash mob that would break windows before the police arrived. Another train pulled into the station. More fantômes got off, but I didn’t step into the empty car. I don’t care about politics or the nubots, but the young people in the Metro station radiated energy that seemed to glow with a luminous power. I wanted to follow them and experience the brief sensation of being angry and alive.

  I followed the new arrivals upstairs to the Champs-Élysées. The crowd had grown while I was receiving my weapon from Monsieur Zéro. Shouting slogans, a mob of people surged back and forth across the avenue. The New Luddites stood together near the Metro exit while a young woman with a witch’s broom raised it high and waved it back and forth like a summoning flag.

  Four policemen stood near the traffic circle. Three of them clutched riot clubs while a fourth officer shouted at his radio.

  “Nous ne faisons pas!” chanted the Luddites.

  “Nous ne faisons pas partie de la machine!” answered the crowd while I held up my phone and activated the translator. English words appeared on the LCD screen.

  We are not part of the machine!

  The chant continued growing louder and louder, as if the sound itself could shatter the Arc de Triomphe. And then—pop! Someone shot a fireworks rocket off into the air. The rocket rose upward into the night sky, leaving a trail of crackling sparks and then exploding like a bright red flower.

  Luddites ran toward the axis with their duffel bags and stopped at the curb. With practiced moves, one person held the bottom of each bag while another Luddite pulled out a thick mat with homemade spikes hammered through the rubber.

  Carrying the heavy mats, the Luddites stepped into the traffic circle and laid these obstacles down on the pavement. The first car to run over a mat shredded its front tires. The wounded car skidded to the right and smashed into a delivery truck. Within minutes, other accidents occurred and the Luddites attacked the stalled machines with steel-tipped clubs. The terrified drivers fled down the avenues and now the city’s axis was blocked. Any van carrying riot police would be trapped in a massive traffic jam.

  Ghosts began reaching into their backpacks, pulling out bricks and chunks of cobblestone. They flung them at the policemen and the four officers ran for their lives, dashing into the stalled traffic and disappearing into the night.

  Police sirens made a pulsating scream in the distance, but the riot police couldn’t reach the arch. A helicopter glided above us and I saw the tiny red lights of a surveillance drone. The rioters didn’t care about the drone’s infrared camera. Black bandanas and white ghost masks covered their faces. Now hammers appeared along with a homemade battering ram for breaking down doors. The mob kept chanting, “Nous ne faisons pas! Nous ne faisons pas!” as they marched down the Champs-Élysées, ripping up benches and smashing them through windows.

  And my Shell was pulled downstream by the flood-swollen river, spun around and splashed, but never drowned—floating on the surface of the angry water.

  I hid the gun in my suitcase and spent the next few days figuring out a plan to neutralize my targets. At night, I drank a bottle of my dwindling supply of ComPlete, then walked over to the Boulevard Saint-Michel and stared at the pleasure bots in the store display. Either a store employee or the machines themselves had changed their lingerie, but their actions were always the same. After combing her long hair, the blond bot would glance over her shoulder and wink. The wink showed an awareness of awareness; the bot knew she was a machine.

  I assumed that there would be surveillance cameras in the courtyard of Jafar’s building and other cameras might be concealed on Rue de Tournon. Old-fashi
oned CCTV cameras used visible light, but there had been a gradual shift toward using infrared cameras because they could capture images at night. I would have to prepare for both possibilities.

  I went to a Right Bank department store and bought an overcoat, a scarf, and a gray Tyrolean hat with a leather hatband and a pheasant feather on the side. Then I went to an electrical supply store and purchased wire, a nine-volt battery pack, and eight high-intensity infrared light-emitting diodes. Using nail scissors, I carefully cut holes in the hatband, inserted the LEDs, and attached them to the battery. When I clicked the switch, I would be projecting waves of infrared light that were invisible to the human eye.

  That afternoon I stuffed a cardboard box with newspapers and had it shipped to my hotel. When the package arrived, I changed the address label to: Jafar Desai. 15 Rue de Tournon. Paris. Although Jafar and his family weren’t listed on the doorbell panel, I assumed they were using the same first names.

  The next day, I left my hotel wearing the hat, the scarf, and my new coat over my leather jacket. First I left the package for Jafar directly below the brass doorbell panel, then took my seat at the café and ordered a bottle of mineral water. At 9:07, the young bodyguard arrived in the car. He got out, approached the entrance to the courtyard, and immediately saw the package. He hesitated a few seconds, then picked up the package and shook it slightly. The lightness of the object seemed to reassure him that it wasn’t a bomb.

  “A equals B,” I whispered. The young man thought that he was making a free choice, but his decision range was limited. Time was frozen at this moment. The street, the city, the rest of the world became a background to this one decision.

  Carrying the package, the bodyguard passed through the open gateway that led to the palace courtyard. I switched on the infrared LEDs in the hatband, left some money on the café table, and hurried down the sidewalk. As I approached the surveillance camera at the entrance, I put on sunglasses and covered my mouth with the scarf. By the time I reached the palace, the young man had crossed the cobblestone courtyard and was disappearing through an open archway. Follow him.

  I hurried across the courtyard, passed through the archway, and headed up a white stone staircase. A door opened and closed on the next landing, but I kept moving. I felt light, almost weightless, as I floated up the steps.

  A few seconds later, I stood on the landing. I knocked on the door, then pulled a manila envelope out of my coat pocket and held it with my left hand. Breathe in. Breathe out. And then the young man opened the door.

  “Que voulez-vous?” he asked.

  Instead of answering him, I drew the automatic and shot him in the face. The bullet exploded out the back of his skull and his empty Shell collapsed onto the floor.

  I entered the apartment as Jafar jumped up from a chair and ran through an open doorway. A pool of blood—so bright and shrill that it was painful—appeared beneath the bodyguard’s head. I avoided the mess and followed Jafar through the dining room, down a hallway, and into a bedroom.

  Wearing a pink bathrobe, Nalini stood beside an unmade bed. She screamed her husband’s name as he dashed into the bathroom and locked the door. First I tried the doorknob, and then I realized that Nalini was trying to get away. My arm went up like I was shaking hands and I squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit Nalini’s leg and she collapsed onto the rug.

  I spun around and kicked the bathroom door open. Jafar was inside the empty tub, curled up in a ball with his arms covering his face. For a moment I felt annoyed that he had picked such an awkward way to die. Leaning over the tub, I shot my target in the head. Bits of blood and bone splattered against the porcelain as the gunshot sound bounced off the tile walls.

  Silence. Then a warning bell began to ring—loud and insistent. When I returned to the bedroom, I saw that Nalini had crawled over to the night table and pushed some kind of panic button. I circled the bed and aimed the laser beam at her noisy mouth. She stared at me, ready for death, and then her eyes moved to the left. Quickly, I pivoted on my heel and saw that little Sanjay was standing in the bedroom doorway.

  Nalini began screaming “No!” as I approached the child. The boy didn’t speak or run away. His dark brown eyes stared at me as I raised the gun and pointed the laser beam at the center of his forehead.

  “No! No!” The woman’s voice wouldn’t stop.

  I stared at the boy.

  And the boy stared at me.

  Waves of energy radiated from his small body. They were warm colors—red, brown, gold. And the waves touched my Shell and were absorbed by my skin.

  The red laser dot trembled, wavered, and then moved away. I couldn’t kill the child. He was too full of life.

  Once again, I was aware of the warning bell and its loud urgency. I pivoted again and pointed the gun at Nalini. For the first time since my Transformation, I knew what a human being was feeling. Nalini looked grateful that I was about to kill her, and not her son.

  The laser dot bounced around like a firefly, but I didn’t squeeze the trigger. I took a deep breath and pointed my weapon down at the floor. “Give the money back to your father. Do you understand?”

  She nodded slowly while the warning bell kept ringing. It took me only a few seconds to pass through the rooms to the front door, and then I was out of the apartment and on the landing. I heard footsteps and saw an older man with a submachine gun climbing up the stairs. Apparently other people in the building had bodyguards and they had agreed to protect each other.

  Step forward. Pause. Aim. The older man saw me and began to raise the submachine gun. I squeezed the trigger and a bullet cut through the man’s throat. Blood splattered onto the wall and then the bodyguard tumbled back down the stairs.

  I stepped around the empty Shell, hurried down a short corridor, and reentered the courtyard. Someone shouted in French and I saw that a man with a handgun was half hidden behind the hood of a parked car.

  I raised my weapon and began firing. My Shell carried me toward this new threat while bullets shattered glass and cut through steel.

  Pull the trigger. Nothing. I reloaded with the spare ammunition magazine and resumed firing as the man behind the car panicked and tried to run away. Aim. Focus. I fired a single shot and the man fell forward as if Death had touched his body.

  Out through the gateway. Down the sidewalk. I moved briskly, like a man who was late for a business appointment. The gun was back in my coat pocket and I felt an illogical desire to shoot at everyone on the street.

  The towers of Saint-Sulpice guided me forward and I entered the church about five minutes later. Candle flames trembled while I walked in front of the altar, and then I found refuge in an empty confessional. I closed a curtain, sat on a wooden bench, and removed the overcoat, scarf, and hat. Look up. A brass crucifix of a twisted Jesus was screwed to the wall.

  “Hello,” I whispered in English. “Hello …” Leaning forward, I peered through a wooden grille. The other side of the booth was filled with shadows.

  I was sitting in the Air France airport lounge when a news story about my activities appeared on the television screen mounted behind the bar. The one-minute segment included a surveillance video from the CCTV cameras in the cobblestone courtyard. The sunglasses and scarf concealing my face turned out to be unnecessary precautions. The infrared cameras in the courtyard had been blocked by the invisible energy emitted by my crown of LEDs. An assassin with a ball of light for a head strolled across the courtyard, firing his gun. After finishing his job, this pure Spark passed through the gateway and glowed his way down the street.

  The headline on the television news story was QUATRE HOMMES ASSASSINÉS À PARIS. That meant Nalini had survived her leg wound. I felt no guilt or regret about killing Jafar and the three bodyguards. They were simply tiny gears inside a machine. But it bothered me that I hadn’t followed my plan. This was the first time I had ever failed to complete an assignment for Miss Holquist.

  My only desire was to return to New York City and the clean, empt
y space in my loft. I had five cases of ComPlete stored in the kitchen cupboard and wouldn’t have to leave the room for several weeks. I opened Power-I and made a new list:

  But I couldn’t think of anything that should happen after I locked the door. An hour before departure, I rented a business traveler cubicle and made a phone call to California.

  A woman answered the phone. “Hello. Ettinger Clinic.”

  “This …” I paused for a few seconds and then used my previous name. “This is Jacob Davis. I used to be a patient at your clinic.”

  “Yes, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I need to talk to Dr. Noland. I—I have a problem.”

  “Would you repeat your name, sir?”

  “Jacob Davis.”

  A long pause while I clutched the phone handset. My Shell was so light at that moment that I could have floated away.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “But Dr. Noland is busy with patients right now. He suggested that you send him an e-mail.”

  If a supercomputer was provided with the laws of physics and a description of every occurrence in the world’s history, then it could predict what I was doing right now and what I had done in the past. My decision to become a patient at the Ettinger Clinic was simply a consequence of a series of prior actions.

  Accident → B → C → D … Ettinger Clinic

  After I quit my job at InterFace, I retreated to my apartment, locked the door, and remained. In the daytime, I stayed in the living room and watched television. At night, particles of dark yellow light emerged from the ceiling, and then floated downward through the shadows until they were absorbed by the spongy floor.

  No one was cutting my hair and I stopped washing myself and shaving. One of my credit cards was still active, and I used it to home-deliver bottles of clear fruit juice and spring water. The bills kept arriving, but I stacked the envelopes, unopened, on my kitchen table.