Faller

by Will McIntosh

  “Come on,” Peter Two said now. “Let’s get your things moved to your new room so you can get some sleep.” He flagged down three Peters, all with numbers in the one-thirties and -forties, and told them to move Faller’s possessions from his old room to his new one. They sprinted away.

  The numbers weren’t just to tell the Peters apart, like the patches the Orchids wore on their world. They indicated status. Faller was now Peter One. King of the Peters. King of scum. It would be difficult to slip away, disappear over the edge without anyone noticing, if it came to that. On the other hand, maybe he could use his newfound status to his advantage. Maybe the other hundred and fifty-odd Peters would do what he said. Or maybe he could use his status to get hold of another handgun.

  By the time they crossed the quad to another redbrick building, this one divided into small, narrow dorm rooms, Faller’s room was ready. He thanked Peter Two, pulled down the shade, and slept.

  * * *

  A SHARP knock woke him. His door swung open.

  “We’re going to be late.” It was Peter Two, with others standing behind him.

  Faller hopped out of bed, pulled on his shirt, and headed for the door.

  Peter Two gave him a peculiar look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you didn’t have time to brush your teeth.”

  “Oh. Right.” Faller headed for the bathroom and closed the door. He’d never brushed his teeth before, but he knew what a toothbrush looked like, and had a vague idea what to do with it.

  Waiting outside with Peter Two were Peters Four, Seven, and Eight. Faller did his best to make it look as if he knew which way they were headed while following their lead. Walking in the center of the road, they crossed a bridge with a stream running under it, headed uphill, followed a brick sidewalk to the side entrance of a big four-story building.

  The Peters led him into a semicircular classroom filled with built-in desks and chairs, a big screen at the front. They took seats in the front row as a stooped old woman fiddled with the technology at the front of the classroom.

  Before long, the woman began to speak, or, more specifically, teach. Everyone seemed to understand what she was saying. Faller couldn’t follow a word of it.

  “The velocity is L over T, plus or minus Delta over T. What you’re doing here is measuring the velocity accurately, but you’re measuring it after…”

  Everyone was writing down the numbers. He tuned the woman out, tried to guess what was going on. Why were they teaching the Peters? Assuming these men had started out understanding as little of this as Faller, they had been learning it for some time if they were able to follow what the teacher was saying.

  “… but you can think of it simply as a vector space with an infinite number of axes…”

  Faller closed his eyes and mentally repeated this one phrase until he’d committed it to memory. Melissa might know what it was, although the plan was for Faller to hold off contacting his comrades until he was ready to rendezvous, to minimize his risk of being exposed.

  * * *

  AFTER CLASS, Peter Two suggested they go for a hike and get acquainted. It surprised Faller that they wouldn’t know each other pretty damned well by now, if they’d lived like this since Day One, but he was happy to do something that would help him get oriented, maybe help him locate the closest edge.

  They almost collided as Peter Two abruptly veered to his right. Faller adjusted his step, spotted the opening of a narrow trail through the woods.

  A dozen paces later, the road was out of sight. “The single digits are wondering if you’ll be making changes to the strategy moving forward,” Peter Two said.

  The strategy? “No. No major changes,” he mumbled.

  Number Two clasped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” They crossed a shallow stream, single file, using three flat stones. “While you were on your mission, Seventeen and his people have been lobbying hard for more aggressive action.” He looked at Faller. “They say we should negotiate from a position of strength, which in their minds means refusing to obey orders until we get concessions. That’s beyond risky. It’s suicide.”

  “Mm.” Faller tried not to react. They weren’t happy. Of course they weren’t. How could a bunch of Peters be happy being treated like shit? This was wonderful news.

  A plan took shape in Faller’s mind. Peter Seventeen and his people were chomping at the bit for decisive action? Faller would have to get to know them better. As Peter One, maybe he could fan the anger burning in his brothers.

  XXVI

  NO ONE bothered him, no one even looked at him as he walked along the hall of the twenty-first story of a luxury high-rise, kicking in doors.

  He came to another door where no lights appeared to be on inside. He knocked, then waited.

  When no one answered, he knocked harder.

  It took a dozen good kicks to break this door in, but no one came to investigate the racket. If they had, Peter would have explained who he was, and how important it was that he get his hands on a telescope.

  As it was, he went inside, called out to confirm no one was home, then spotted a telescope by the window. Sitting on a stool beside it, Peter peered into the eyepiece and scanned the endless sky until he found what he was looking for. It was up high, so all he could see was the bottom.

  Scanning lower in the sky, he spotted another. This time he could see the top. It was a neighborhood—raised ranch houses, lawns, pools, suburban streets, ending in a ragged, broken edge, as if it had been dug out of the ground by a giant excavator, or yanked like a weed.

  There was a six-pack of beer in the refrigerator, still cool if no longer cold. He pulled one, twisted off the cap and drained half of it.

  What had he done? People would die. Billions of people, because of him. He drained the rest of the beer, opened a second. As he drank it he wondered if the windows of the apartment were shatterproof, or if he could throw a chair through one and jump out after it.

  Given the laws of physics as Peter understood them, this was impossible. Chunks of the Earth’s crust couldn’t hover in the sky, and the people on those chunks couldn’t possibly be alive. The only quasi-rational explanation was that the singularity had completely re-formed their world, given it new properties. In theory, singularities could create universes, so it wasn’t impossible.

  Peter went back to the window and looked out. It was almost evening, the sky fading from blue to grey.

  Gravity was still acting on smaller objects, so it must be working on the large islands hanging in the air. If he assumed that, then some other force was holding the islands aloft. Some force pulling from space?

  This piece of Manhattan reminded him of the singularity, hanging suspended between two forces. The other possibility was just that—repulsion. Steepling his hands and pressing them to his mouth, Peter pictured a million tiny islands, locked together because each repelled the others surrounding it. On the subatomic level this was commonplace, given the Pauli exclusion principle: any two electrons with identical properties repelled each other. If those quantum properties now applied to macroscopic objects, or if these chunks of land had some type of charge that made them repel each other, the world outside Peter’s window would be possible.

  He drained the last of his beer, tossed the bottle onto the spotless ivory carpet. Numb, wondering if his friends were all right, he went to the refrigerator and got a third beer.

  What would tomorrow be like, with a million souls living on this island with no power and limited resources?

  50

  FALLER PRETENDED he was utterly engrossed in eating his lunch—and to some extent he was, because it was damned good, spaghetti and tomato sauce—while eavesdropping on a conversation at the next table.

  “Nothing’s going to change,” Peter Eleven was saying. “We’re going to stay filthy in their eyes.”

  “One? One?”

  Faller suddenly remembered that was his name. Someone had called it at least a half-dozen times. Peter Tw
enty-six was standing at a distance, as if afraid to approach. “Sorry. Hard to get used to the new name. I keep expecting people to call me One-Thirty-one.”

  Peter Twenty-six smiled a little tightly and nodded. “Defense wants to see you.”

  “Oh. All right.” Who was Defense? If he was going to play the head injury card, now was the time, but if he could avoid it he’d like to. It might raise suspicion, especially if his odd behaviors started piling up. “Seventeen?”

  Peter Seventeen looked up, fork hovering above his plate.

  “Take a walk with me to Defense?”

  “Sure.” Peter Seventeen stood eagerly.

  Faller gave him an after you gesture, and followed him out.

  “I asked you to join me because I wanted to talk to you about the strategy.”

  Peter Seventeen glanced at him. “You know I’m behind you, whatever you decide.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But I know you have your own opinions, and I want to hear them. I’m wondering if maybe we need a bolder plan.”

  Peter Seventeen laid out his thoughts for open resistance to their low status on Ugo’s world. He argued that Ugo was keeping them where they were out of hatred for Sandoval, and always would, that they were smarter and more capable than anyone on this island and shouldn’t allow themselves to be treated like scum.

  He kept talking as they walked along a brick sidewalk, speaking quickly and passionately, probably seeing it as his one chance to make his case directly to the big kahuna.

  If only he knew who he was speaking to.

  When a group of nattily dressed people appeared, heading toward them, Peter Seventeen led Faller into the street, giving them a wide berth. Faller waited until they were out of earshot, then asked Peter Seventeen if he thought it was possible to take Ugo out.

  Seventeen’s eyes got huge. “Don’t joke like that.”

  “I’ve never been more serious.”

  “They’d tear us apart and throw us off the edge a piece at a time.”

  “What if we didn’t stick around to be cut into pieces? What if we hijacked Harriers? Ugo’s the one who hates us. If he were dead, would the rest of them waste their time chasing us?”

  Peter Seventeen looked at the road. “I need some time to digest what you’re suggesting. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it makes me nervous to discuss it, even here.” He looked more than nervous—he looked terrified.

  “All right. We’ll talk more another time.”

  Looking into the sky, Faller thought of the Orchid world, turning upside down. He’d invented the thing that did that, the thing that had the power to tear the whole world apart. If he could do that to stone and sky, he could figure out a way to kill Ugo. Once Ugo was dead, he could see Storm again. They’d figure out a way to help people. He’d like to return to Daisy and the rest of his tribe in a Harrier packed with food, medicine, and power. What an entrance that would be. He grinned, imagining Daisy’s and Orchid’s expressions when he stepped out of that Harrier.

  Peter Seventeen led him down a road flanked by big, squat buildings surrounded by parking lots. It was a warm day, the sun beating on Faller’s head. They walked in silence, Peter Seventeen probably mulling what Faller had suggested.

  They passed a billboard: a giant picture of Ugo’s face, sporting a humble, almost coquettish smile. Peter Seventeen led him through a gate. A guard dressed in fatigues nodded as they passed.

  The dozens of buildings beyond the gate were a mix of old, crumbling factory-looking structures, renovated buildings that were shiny new material built on the bones of the old, and a few brand-new glass and steel structures. Peter wanted to ask Peter Seventeen who exactly Defense was, but that would be admitting too much ignorance.

  Peter Seventeen led him into the most imposing of the renovated buildings, past a checkpoint guarded by two serious-looking military types, along a hall, down stairs, past a heavy door and into a large room. The room was packed with technology of all sorts, all of it lit and operational. At the far side, a small steel chamber with a thick window stood alone.

  Dozens of people sat at stations, including two Peters, one with B on his sleeve, the other, E. They were sitting side by side wearing goggles, hard at work. Their gloved fingers tapped keys and waved at the air as if there were something there Faller couldn’t see.

  “Go on,” Peter B said without looking up. “Go look at it. You know you want to.”

  Peter Seventeen headed toward the steel chamber. “I know I do.” Faller followed, looked over Peter Seventeen’s shoulder at a ball of utter blackness. The sight made his balls shrink. The sphere was blacker than he’d known black could be—blacker than the tunnels he and Storm had stumbled through on her world, fleeing people with knives and axes.

  He knew what it was immediately.

  Defense. It meant protecting yourself, but sometimes it meant military. The place where the weapons were held.

  When they returned, Peter B glanced at the number on Peter Seventeen’s sleeve and said, “Wait outside.” Without a word, Peter Seventeen spun on his heel and left. Evidently letters trumped numbers in the Peter hierarchy.

  Peter B eyed Faller. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, since you’re the new Number One, listen up.”

  “All right.”

  Peter B eyed him suspiciously, as if there might have been a hint of sarcasm in his reply. “You need to keep your people in line. We know they’re unhappy with all the classwork. We hear the complaints. Keep them motivated. Just because we’ve recovered the singularity doesn’t mean they can relax. We could always use more of them.”

  “I see.” It made a certain sense: if you have exact copies of the man who created something, teach them what he knew, and they could create it as well.

  “A couple of your people are getting way out of hand with the complaining, and that guy”—Peter B pointed at the door—“Seventeen, is at the top of the list. If he and the others like him don’t settle down, I’m going to wipe them clean.”

  Faller nodded, trying to appear concerned about Peter Seventeen’s bad behavior.

  “I’m serious,” Peter B went on. “We’ve got all the B-Virus in the world, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” Faller said earnestly. “I’ll do everything I can to settle them down.”

  Peter B seemed satisfied. He moved on, briefing Faller on various mundane aspects of his new position. Being king of the scum wasn’t going to be terribly glamorous.

  51

  A BOTTLE peeking up in the back of the little pantry in his room caught Faller’s eye. Pushing boxes and jars aside, he drew out a tall, square bottle made of brown glass, with a black label and white lettering. Unmistakably a booze bottle. Faller had only seen a handful before, but had made a point of remembering what they looked like.

  He unscrewed the cap and sniffed, savoring the sharp, acrid scent as he silently thanked the real One-Thirty-one for his foresight. He took a swig, but just a small one. This was something to be savored. The burn in his throat brought back memories of the last time he’d had booze. While hunting for food he and Fish had found a half-bottle of clear stuff in a fiftieth- or sixtieth-floor apartment, under the bed of what had obviously been some teenaged boy’s room. Their excitement at the find had fueled enough adrenaline for them to race up the last ten stories to the roof, where they’d passed the bottle until it was empty, then whooped and howled and jumped around like idiots until they fell asleep.

  Faller took another drink—a bigger one. That night with Fish the booze had taken away his doubts and fears like nothing ever had; Faller hoped it would do the same tonight.

  The more he drank, though, the sadder and lonelier he felt. He kept seeing Snakebite’s face, his eyes vacant and unseeing, his hair snapping in the wind. Faller withdrew the slender communicator from its hiding place in his boot, turned it over. He could reach out across all those miles right now, bring Storm here to him,
although they’d agreed it was a bad idea for him to contact them until he was ready to leave.

  Faller took another drink, then slipped the photo of him and Storm out of his boot as well. In his mind it would always be Storm in the photo. He thought about what Melissa had said, that it hurt her to see them together. He wondered if he would have fallen in love with Melissa if he’d met her first. This was such a complicated situation. All he could do was follow his heart, and his heart said he loved Storm.

  Faller pressed the button in the center of the walkie-talkie then moved it to his ear.

  “Hi,” Melissa said. “What’s happened?” Funny how he could tell it was Melissa from just a few words.

  “Nothing, really. They’re teaching us physics, and I’m now the leader of the Peters.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  He lifted the bottle, studied the level of the liquid inside. “Not as drunk as I will be.”

  “Have you seen Ugo?”

  “I saw him. He’s a smarmy prick.”

  Melissa burst out laughing.

  “Can I talk to Storm?”

  Silence on the line. “That’s why you called, isn’t it? You’re drunk and mooning for your girlfriend.”

  Another pause.

  “Faller?” Storm said.

  Faller laughed with delight. It just burst out of him. Yes, he was drunk, and it felt good. “I just had to call, to tell you I love you.” He took another swig from the bottle; some of it sloshed out of the corner of his mouth, splashing on One-Thirty-one’s standard-issue brown blanket.

  He looked up to find Peter Two standing in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I have to go.” Faller lowered the walkie-talkie.

  Peter Two yanked him off the bed, dragged him down the hall and into the darkness of the quad. “How bad was that head injury? Bad enough to forget the cameras?”