by Tony LaRocca
“I know,” Asher said. “It’s my fault, so I have to do everything I can to heal them, to make them better. See, I can’t fix everything. Some mental illnesses, like depression and addiction, it’s all just a question of chemicals. Something bad just got mixed or blocked. But like I said, I can’t change minds. I can’t change how people think. I tried to heal them, and I failed. I just made things worse.”
“Worse how?”
He ran a hand over his emaciated face. “You don’t understand. I’m really not supposed to examine any of your souls. So at first, I didn’t. I did what I was trained to do, so I didn’t see who they really were. That’s why I made sure I knew you two first. It’s not the way the Church wants it, but I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Who were they?”
“Prisoners from NorMec. Not only prisoners, but soldiers suffering from dementia, because of their blasphemous augmentations. And it affected the resurrection process. It interfered.”
Helen looked at her arms, and at Roger’s youthful, dynamic face. “How?”
“Well, the man, it caused a queer sort of schism in his shoulder. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his arm.”
Helen shrugged. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“It’s a physical expression of his schizophrenic personality,” he said. “His ego and id have become different parts of his body. He can’t tell reality from his imagined fears anymore. And his shoulder, where the two are forced to be at war with each other, it practically glows.”
“And the woman?”
Asher took a sharp breath. “She is a delusional mimic, suffering from what they call a Cluster B disorder. In short, she copies other people’s personalities. But if that manifests during a resurrection…” His voice trailed off.
“She turned into you?”
“Well, a female version of me, a sister of the faith.” He held his hands up. “You have to understand, these people aren’t evil, they’re just extremely sick. And in trying to help them, I’ve made matters worse.”
Helen’s mouth opened and closed. “But, NorMec soldiers!”
“I know,” Asher said, “it’s very hard to accept and forgive, after what they did.” He gestured to Roger. “You suffered from emphysema, unable to breathe without oxygen. And you,” he held his hand out to Helen, “you suffered addiction, while poor Tish dealt with all of her handicaps, obesity, and depression. You could have turned to their forbidden science against the sacred will of the Ophanim, but you didn’t. You followed the faith. You had to work hard to overcome your suffering, while they had the privilege of abomination.” His face flushed. “The important thing is, I have to help them, because I failed them. So please, if you see them, stay far away. Their sickness may have made them dangerous, so don’t even talk to them. Just let me know, and I’ll get them the help they need.”
“And Tish?”
He smiled, his gaunt features aglow with sympathy and compassion. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to help her. She will be balanced and healthy, and her depression will be a thing of the past. I can’t promise what the future will write, but I can give her a blank slate to write it on. The same goes for both of you.”
Helen sucked her lips into her mouth, and bit on them. There were holes beneath the slick, polished surface of his story, so many that you could use it to strain spaghetti. But did it really matter? She was no longer a walking zombie, Roger could breathe again, and Tish… All of her sins that had hurt Tish would be wiped away. But beneath this rational acceptance was a worm of a memory. It poked its burrowed head from the back of her skull. Roger’s hand, flying in rage, to whip her lips with the back of his knuckles, Tish screaming, and this boy, this resurrector, tearing them all to pieces with his wasps. But was it a memory, or was it just a vivid image of her fears?
A woman may choose her path, but the Ophanim chooses her steps.
“All right,” she said. “You help Tish. Make her whole again and give her a chance, and I’ll give you yours.”
Asher grinned as Roger pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Thank you. All I want is to give you all the paradise that you deserve.”
I’ll bet you do, Helen thought as the emaciated monk and her husband clasped each other’s shoulders in a manly display of camaraderie. I’ll bet you do.
Chapter 12
Roger raised his fist to the metal door, but stopped himself at the last moment. A month had passed since Asher had resurrected him and his family, during which over a hundred more citizens had rejoined the living. Some were neighbors, some were Tish’s classmates. Some he had even once called friends. He looked at the stolen book in his hand, and wondered why he was here, when there were so many other people that he would rather talk to.
“God save the West,” he muttered. He had woken the past few days with the phrase stuck in his head. It was probably from an old virt, or something. Some of his memories had returned, while others had faded further into the fog. Helen would definitely have something to say about that.
He sighed, and knocked.
The man who answered was young, but everyone was young these days. He cracked the door open a few inches. Dark bags underscored the single green eye that scanned Roger up and down. The man ran his fingers through his closely cropped blond hair, and shook his head.
“Please don’t tell me that he’s brought back door to door salesmen.”
Roger did not bother trying to smile. “Kurt?” he asked. “Kurt Addams?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Roger. Roger Cole.”
The one eyebrow that he could see rose in mock surprise. “You mean Mister Cole, from survey engineering?”
Roger nodded. “Can I come in?” he asked. He held up the book. “I brought a peace offering.”
Kurt opened the door a few inches more, and took the book from his hand. He thumbed through it. “This is a library book. How is it a peace offering, if you stole it from the library?”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
Kurt looked at him for a long moment, then opened the door all the way. “Come on in,” he said. He held the book up to the light. “Did you pick this one for a reason, or was it just the first graphic novel you could find?”
“It was the first comic… graphic novel I could find. It’s not Captain WesMec, or anything.”
“Praise the Ophanim,” said Kurt. He examined the cover. Its image depicted two mice cowering beneath a swastika. “At least it’s one of the best, even if this is just part one. There weren’t any copies of two?”
“Maybe someone checked it out.”
“Hmm.” Kurt walked into the kitchen. Roger closed the door, and followed. While the soft carpet seemed clean and the paint on the walls looked fresh, the apartment itself was what his father would have called a rat’s nest. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, while books and papers covered every available inch of furniture. He picked one up. It was a design sketch of a suspension bridge.
Kurt held out a glass of water. Roger noticed that like before, he had painted one of his fingernails blue. “Sorry I can’t offer you a beer, but there isn’t any. Only healthy foods are allowed, it seems. Where is he going to get more from? Are we all going to have to be gardeners now? How about pig farmers? Man needs protein, and eventually the frozen meat he’s reconstructed is going to run out.”
Roger shrugged, and put the drawing down. “The new San Domenico is definitely having some growing pains,” he said, taking the proffered glass. He drank from it. It was cool and crisp, but the man was right. He would love to have a beer.
“Is that what you’d call it?” Kurt took a swig. “I remember reading that you could make moonshine out of beets. Wish I could find the recipe. The Bible never said that paradise had to be dry.”
“Maybe some alcoholics wouldn’t be able to handle it, even if Brother Asher did fix their addictions. People are stupid. I wheezed in pain for years, and cursed myself for ever smoking in the
first place. I used to look at the ceiling, cry, and beg the Ophanim for a chance to go back in time and change things. But now that I’m better, if you put a coffin nail in front of me, I’d think, ‘Hey, my lungs are new, one won’t hurt.’”
Kurt blinked. Then he pointed at his guest, and laughed. “Listen to you,” he said. “You were the one always ranting about the Nanny State, and how no one wanted to take responsibility for themselves. Now you’re trying to justify why your benevolent savior has reinstated prohibition. That’s funny.”
Roger looked out the window. A handful of people meandered on the sidewalk. They wandered up and down the block, as if they had nowhere to go. “Is it the truth or not?” he asked.
Kurt sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You came to make peace, and I’m being a dick.” He picked the book up off the counter, and thumbed through it again. “I actually appreciate this. I made my collection all digital a few years back, and got rid of most of my books. I had scans of everything: Scandinavian Tidal Waves, Nairobi Penguin, Shitty Couplings, Hatred of the Forgotten Subway Rider, The Revenge of General Clown–Face, and this, of course. Now, my electronics don’t do shit. Upgraded, my ass.” He smiled. “I’m going to bring it back to the library when I’m done, though. Can’t deprive the younger generations. But I guess we’re all the younger generation now.”
“For what it’s worth,” Roger said, “I’m sorry I made fun of your dolls, back before I had to retire.” He winked.
“Go to Hell. They were vintage action figures, and worth a fortune.” Kurt winked back. “Okay, now that we’ve made nice, why are you here?”
Roger took another sip. “I know that Brother Asher isn’t perfect, but I believe in him.”
“Your wife doesn’t.”
Roger’s jaw tightened. “How do you know that?”
“Because there are only a few people around right now, and she talks a lot. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“Look,” said Roger, “there’s nothing wrong with being grateful. We all owe our lives and health to him.”
“I ran a mile every day, and kickboxed. Also, you have your family. My father is still on the waiting list.”
Roger put down his glass. “That’s not my fault.”
“I never said that it was. So, did you just come to preach about the will of the Ophanim?”
“I didn’t come to preach at all,” said Roger, “I’m explaining. Maybe you don’t owe your health to him, but me, my wife, and our daughter do, big time. Maybe you don’t feel gratitude, but don’t you dare call me a fool for feeling it, not after everything he’s done for me. I just… I see things everywhere that look amazing, but aren’t going to work when the city has thousands of people, not to mention millions. Inefficient drains, for example. The East Side Skyway doesn’t have enough of a curve for high speeds. There’s a long list of engineering flaws. And since you were a good architect, despite being a snotty brat, I thought maybe you’d want to help me pay him back. We owe him.”
“I don’t owe him anything.”
Roger’s face felt warm. “You owe him your life,” he said. “It’s entitled little shits like you who think everything should be…” His voice trailed off. He raised his hands in the air, and dropped them. “Forget it.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” said Kurt, “just wait. I want to show you something. Come on.” He walked to the bedroom. Roger followed.
The room also looked as if a hurricane had hit it. A computer lay in pieces on a desk in the corner. The closer Roger got, the more he could smell burnt copper and plastic. Kurt picked up a component, and handed it over. Roger examined it. Its integrated board was rippled, as if it had melted.
“This,” Kurt said, “is probably the most advanced computer in the world. I can pretty much decipher what is the processor, what’s the storage, what’s the GPU, and what’s the motherboard. Those…” He pointed to an array of tiny, clear wafers that glistened with an oily sheen. “I don’t know what those are. Maybe self–cleaning chips. The problem is, though its individual parts are light years beyond anything I’ve ever seen, none of it works together.”
Roger turned the piece over. He had no clue what he was supposed to be looking for. He handed it back. “It’s the best computer ever, but it doesn’t work? Sounds like false advertising to me.”
“There used to be a handful of tech companies, each with their own rabid, brand–loyal customers. Everything they made was proprietorial, their stuff only worked with its own kind. So let’s say that company A had the fastest processors, company B had the best graphics cards, and C had the most efficient memory. Put them all together, and you’d get this. Their individual voltage requirements are all different, and they burned each other out. You can’t pour crude oil through a kidney and expect it to squirt out gasoline, but that’s just how this thing tried to work. That’s pretty much what’s wrong with my phone and tablet as well.”
“So he still has some bugs to work out.”
Kurt shook his head. “You don’t get it. If he’s carrying out the will of the Ophanim, then either he’s not very good at it, or the Ophanim is not all–knowing. Deities are either omniscient, or they’re not. And if She’s not an all–knowing goddess, then what is She?”
“She’s an angel, not a goddess.”
“You know what I mean.” Kurt began to pace. “Let’s take this a step further. Imagine an A–list scientist back in mid–twentieth century America, one of the guys who invented the first vacuum–tube mainframes. He’s the top man in his field, the Einstein of technology. Now, put that guy on ice for thirty years, show him a black and white arcade game when he wakes up, and he’d shit himself. He’d have no clue how it worked. Put him back in the freezer for another thirty. Thaw him out, show him a first–person shooter, and he’d think it was witchcraft.”
He reached inside of the computer, and pulled out a small, black cube. He picked up a tiny screwdriver from off of his desk, and used it to pry off the top. He held it out to Roger. Inside was a cluster of what looked like crystallized, blinking eyes. Kurt waved it back and forth. Their glowing irises and pupils swiveled as it moved, holding his gaze. “This looks like witchcraft, but it’s just a science that we don’t understand. I don’t think Brother Asher’s abilities are divine, I think they’re just technological. The question is, how long have we been on ice?”
Roger closed his eyes as Kurt snapped the bizarre component back into the computer’s case. “So, you don’t trust him.”
“I don’t think that he’s doing the will of the Ophanim, that’s for sure. I don’t know if he’s aware of that or not, but he’s definitely hiding something.”
“He says that he hasn’t touched my thoughts or memories, and I believe him.”
“Let me ask you a question,” said Kurt. “You seem like a traditional kind of guy. Do you have any photos hanging in your house? A wedding picture, maybe, or school photos of your little girl? Because I don’t anymore. Sure, most of them were on my hard drive, but I did have a few prints. They’re all gone. The question is, why? What doesn’t he want us to see?”
Roger smiled thinly. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “If you’re not going to help me, then I have to go.” He headed for the door.
“God save the West.”
Roger stopped walking, but did not turn around. “Hah,” said Kurt. “You’re dreaming about it too.”
“No, I don’t remember my dreams. But that phrase… it’s been on my mind. Maybe I heard it somewhere.”
“Trust me, you’ve been dreaming it. A lot of us have recurring nightmares that we’re soldiers, back in the war. I’ll bet you do too, you just don’t remember. If he hasn’t messed with our minds, then why are so many of us dreaming the same thing, especially those of us who never served?”
Roger thought of the nights he had spent tossing and turning, and waking in a cold sweat. Tish and Helen had complained of bad dreams as well, but would not tell him what they were about.
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sp; “I have a friend who was a history professor,” Kurt continued. “He says it came from the American Civil War, the first one. It was a song, but it was ‘God Save the South.’ And why God? Why not the Ophanim? Love your Brother Asher all you want, help him all you want, but don’t tell me that what he’s doing is for us. We’re here for a purpose, but something tells me that it’s not a good one.”
Roger swallowed, but did not reply. He walked back through the living room to the front door, out through the apartment building, and into the city.
Tish was bored.
She lay on her bed, pretending to read. It was a good book, but she had read it before. It was an old one, about a boy and his dog. She was pretty sure there was a virt of it, a really old one, too. But though there were virt players everywhere, and they were all expensive, top–of–the–line models, there weren’t any virts to watch. She wished that she could go to her secret place, the one no one else knew about, but her mom had told her to stay inside. Reading was fun for mentals, or something.
Voices came from the living room. Sometimes they were shouts, sometimes harsh whispers.
Her dad had left early that morning. He came home at lunchtime, looking upset, and he and Mom had held a hushed conversation in the kitchen. Then Mom had sent her upstairs, and invited Vincent and Julia over for coffee. Tish remembered them being a nice couple whose house smelled funny. Julia — Mrs. Wakefield — was a weirdo, but she was a nice weirdo. She liked putting models together, especially old cars, and she liked to bake. Those were her two passions. She, like Tish, had also been very, very round. She always made flat cookies that looked like giant doilies with powdered sugar on top. Whenever Tish had to get away she would sneak over there, and they would pig out while Mrs. W. talked about her stupid model cars. But the cookies were yummy, so Tish would pretend to care.
She kicked her legs. It felt weird, being so skinny. The other kids, all skinny as well, still made fun of her. One or two still called her the bad name, the one that had made her mom freak out. There had been all kinds of bad names, ever since she was in kindergarten. Now she was one of the big kids, and was not fat anymore, but they still called her names.