Six Strings to Save the World

by Michael McSherry

  Lydia’s work is done in fifteen minutes. Her music trails off on a note that leaves my arm buzzing, the pain dulled at last. My arm is still black and cracked, but it looks like it’s covered in a thick veneer of clear polish. With a palm upon the wall, Lydia orders a tube of some black liquid in what looks like a meat baster.

  “Apply it in a line on his arm,” Lydia orders Mom.

  Dripping the goop down the length of my arm, Mom returns the plunger to Lydia with a questioning look. Then Mom and I watch as the tar-like liquid spreads over my arm, encasing it from shoulder to finger-tip in a pleasant, cool shell. It stiffens slightly.

  “You need to rest,” Lydia says. “All of you should rest,” she adds, looking to the others. “We have empty quarters aboard the Carnegie. I will show you to your rooms.”

  Lydia leads us back into the corridor, pressing her palm to a number of doors as she passes along. “Scan your bios into the Carnegie once you’re inside,” she says. “Each room sleeps one.”

  I take the first room, stepping into a featureless white cube. Per Lydia’s instructions, I press my good hand to the wall. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the ceiling, walls, and floor ripple together in unison. A flat, narrow bed takes shape along one wall, a cubby opening up with an offering of a single pillow and blanket. Another wall flexes, opening up a small bathroom with a simple shower and toilet. The third wall springs to life with a display screen on low volume, paging through a series of channels. The walls cool to a light grey and the lights dim.

  “Not bad,” I say, stumbling over to the bed and sitting down. Mom hovers over me for a moment, eyes worried. “I’m just going to sleep a bit,” I say to her. “Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Lydia takes my guitar from Dex and steps into the room. “Keep in contact with your Resonator,” she says. “It will speed up your recovery.”

  I nod, sliding the guitar near the foot of my bed. As soon as I’m alone, the door slides shut, and the room dims further. I lie down, stretching one foot out to rest atop the Gibson’s body, feeling the electric buzz running through me. Despite the pulsing pain in my arm, I feel myself drifting to sleep. It comes fast and easy, pulling me down into darkness.

  * * * * *

  When I wake up my mouth feels dry. The display on the far wall is the only light in the room, buzzing with some sort of old black and white rerun. The pain in my left hand has dulled considerably. There’s a pleasant warmth in my right hand, a reassuring pressure. And the sound of soft breath being drawn slowly beside me.

  I turn to find Tori beside me, asleep in one of the Carnegie’s flowmetal seats. She’s got my right hand held in hers. The wall display casts a soft glow over half of her face. Her hair is messy, falling in tangled strands over her shoulders. She’s changed clothes since the last time I saw her. Now she’s sporting an obnoxiously yellow shirt with a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers graphic on the front.

  It’s quiet.

  She stirs slightly.

  “Where did you get that ugly shirt?” I whisper.

  She cracks one eye open and smiles. “The grey one—Mixy. He called it an antiquity.”

  Her eyes drift down to our interlocked fingers, then steals her hand away, brushing at her hair as she stands up. The lights warm slightly, leaving the room dim but not dark. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “You were having a nightmare, I think.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn. “How long have I been out?”

  “Twenty-six hours.”

  “What?”

  “Lydia said you needed to rest. How’s your arm?”

  I flex my left arm tentatively, feeling both movement and the softness of the blanket against my arm. The black shell from before is gone. As I stir, the lights in the room come up even further. I pull the blanket back and draw my arm out. The skin is entirely hairless and alarmingly pink. There’s a giant, tree-branch looking scar running from my shoulder to fingertips. I run over it with my free hand. The skin is raised up, rough, like a thick wax was poured over my skin and left to dribble down the length of my arm.

  “Yeah,” Tori shrugs. “That’s gonna be a thing now… But Lydia saved it, you know.”

  “The Synthesizers Freddy Kruegered my arm!” I yell angrily.

  “Look out, Elm Street.” Tori smiles. “Chicks dig scars, you know.”

  She means it as a joke. I know that. She knows that I know that. But I can hear her heels clicking together nervously and suddenly we’re both a lot more interested in looking at anything except one another’s eyes.

  Dex saves us. There’s a frantic knock on the door, then he comes bursting in. “You’re up!” he says delightedly. “Took you long enough. Turn on the local news, right now!”

  “I… uh… I don’t have a remote.”

  “Speak,” he barks at me like I’m a dog.

  “Chill out,” Tori says. “He hasn’t been tinkering with everything on the ship for the last day like you.”

  “Uh… local news please?” I ask no one in particular. The display on the wall flips over to the local news. The volume increases until we hear a reporter conducting an interview with a plain-looking bald man in a black suit, a government-issued badge displayed prominently on his chest.

  “So, sir, we’ve got several eyewitness reports. Can you tell me what we’re looking at here?”

  There’s a few seconds of that awkward news silence as a video screen on the backdrop cuts in with a video feed. What looks like cell-phone footage fills the display. The camera struggles to gain focus on a patch of sky revealed through the branches of a tree. It’s just a few frames, but my breath catches a little bit when I see it: an oblong yellow shape darting through the sky, pursued by a series of black teardrops.

  “Well I know how people like to talk about UFOs and aliens,” the suited man begins, smiling warmly at the camera. “And I wish it were that exciting, but unfortunately what we’re looking at here are a series of drones taking aerial photographs of the land affected by the meteorites.”

  “So you’re saying FEMA is just surveying damage?” the reporter clarifies.

  “Exactly,” the man answers. “We’re committed to helping this community recover, and so we were hoping to assess the situation. And on behalf of my agency, I’d like to apologize to those we may have alarmed with our drones.”

  The news does a quick cut to a close-up of the reporter, who smiles broadly at the camera. “Well that certainly was interesting,” she says. “Now to Jennet, who’s on-scene at the lake this afternoon to cover the story of a man and his very talented pet.” Footage of a squirrel on water skis getting pulled around behind a toy boat fills the display.

  “I can’t believe it,” I breathe.

  “I know, right? It can water-ski!”

  Tori rolls her eyes. “The Carnegie, Dex.”

  “That’s almost more hilarious,” Dex cackles, almost vibrating where he’s standing. “Solid evidence of extraterrestrials, and they spend two minutes on it! Drones!” He continues cackling.

  “Is he all right?” I ask Tori quietly, pointing to Dex, who’s now taken to flipping frantically through several dozen pages in his notepad.

  “I don’t think he’s actually slept much. Mixy keeps making more and more coffee. He and Dex have been working non-stop on something together. Math and code, looks like to me. Nerd stuff.”

  “What about at the apartment?” I ask. “People had to have seen something there.”

  “There are Synergists in the government who will bury that,” Tori speculates. “Wipe phones and cameras. Have anybody who saw anything interrogated and arrested, if need be. Think they can wipe memories?”

  She might be joking, but I’m not sure.

  “Come on,” Dex says, pushing through the chilling silence that follows. “Grab a shower and meet us on the main deck. Everybody will want to see you.”

  “I don’t have anything clean to wear,” I mumble.

  The room’s wall shifts in response
, spitting out a towel and neatly folded clothing onto the foot of my bed. I pick up the shirt, holding it up in the light. “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Dex nods his approval. “Wicked.”

  * * * * *

  The Carnegie’s porthole windows and Mixy’s pilot dome are looking out into unending blackness. Mom puts her hand on my shoulder as I gaze out one of the windows. “Are we… in space?” I ask her.

  “No,” she shakes her head. “We’re somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic, I think. The four-armed one, Mixy, said that the Synthesizers would have a harder time finding us here.” She’s quiet for a second, then laughs. “This is absolutely strange, Caleb. Aliens. Flying submarines. That guitar of yours.”

  “I know,” I shrug. “Sorry.”

  “I’m so happy you’re safe.”

  The float-tube chimes and ejects Dorian, seated in a ratty old wheelchair, onto the main deck. His arms pump the wheels forward as he calls out to everyone else on the deck, “Gather round, children!” He slides to a stop near the couch where Mom and I are sitting while the others come to take their seats.

  “That wheelchair is older than me,” Mom observes. “Don’t you have, I don’t know, some sort of levitating chair or something?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Young,” Dorian smiles. “But you can’t really do tricks on those now, can you?”

  To show off, he attempts to rock himself backward on the chair to balance on two wheels. Instead, he nearly dumps himself onto the ground. A quick hand from Lydia sets the chair back on four wheels, and with a look of disapproval she slams her heel down on the parking brakes.

  “Well,” Dorian says when everyone’s settled, “I’d like to start off by congratulating Caleb for what might be a world-record nap. Welcome back to the land of the living, kid.”

  That draws a smile from Tori and Dex, but Dorian’s face turns serious. “What you did was also dangerous. And now you’re stuck with the mark to prove it.” He indicates my scarred arm. “Using a Resonator the way you did, tapping into that kind of power without knowing how to control it… that could’ve gotten us all killed.”

  “I did this to myself?” I ask. “I thought the Synthesizers did this.”

  “You fried them. Like we said before, you and your Resonator channel Rez together. When you let loose with that much energy at once, it was too much for your body to handle.”

  “I didn’t know that I could—”

  “That’s exactly why it’s dangerous,” Lydia interrupts. “You didn’t know. If you would have kept going, you might have started a positive feedback loop. Imagine a nuclear detonation, but with Rez.”

  “Which is why you must be trained, Earth-Son,” Mixy rumbles. “We will teach you.”

  Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but doesn’t say anything. Weird.

  “Things have really started moving while you were asleep,” Dorian says. “Synthesizer chatter is spiking, and we’re getting some troubling reports from Fleet.”

  “How so?”

  “They’ve lost track of some Synthesizer ships, suggesting they’re on the move.”

  “And…?”

  “Worst-case scenario?” Lydia cuts in. “The Synthesizers might be getting ready to invade Earth with an insurmountable army, subjugate humanity, and rule your planet forever.” She says it all with a soothing, please-don’t-freak-out voice.

  I almost choke on my own spit.

  “Chill out,” Dorian urges. “She said might.”

  “Might invade!” I yell in protest. “Tell Fleet we need them to send back-up, or whatever!”

  “Fleet cannot afford to deploy ships to Earth on the basis of suspicion and speculation,” Mixy explains. “Every warship moved produces a new vulnerability. This is exactly why we must investigate the Synthesizers’ interest in Earth; if we confirm the existence of a Prima Maestri vault, Fleet will divert the appropriate resources to Earth.”

  “We’ve been busy while you were getting your beauty sleep,” Dorian presses on before I can say anything else. “Mixy and Dex have started working on decrypting the Synthesizers’ comms to see if we can get a lead.”

  “You know how to do that?” I raise an eyebrow at Dex.

  “Of course not,” Dex shakes his head. “Not yet, I mean. The Synthesizers’ communications are incredibly complex. Each Synergist has an individualized encryption. And even if you crack one code, that doesn’t translate to any other Synergist!”

  “Yeah,” Dorian waves his hand dismissively. “Numbers and stuff.”

  “We are working diligently,” Mixy bristles.

  Dorian waves his hand dismissively. “And while they’ve been busy doing that, Sai’s been busy, too.”

  Mr. Patel clears his throat. “I’ve been searching for old friends.” His face is sour. “Mostly it’s death records. Unexplained accidents. Illnesses. The work of the Synthesizers, undoubtedly. But there is one old friend of whom there is no record. It’s as if he never existed.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “A talented programmer and pianist I knew from school named Baahir. Another rebel given a Resonator to combat the Synthesizers. And if I had to guess, a man who might know something about the Synthesizers’ plans on Earth.”

  “So there are more of you. More of us!”

  “I can’t just find him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must understand,” Mr. Patel explains with a sigh. “We have lived in hiding for so long, constantly chased; we would never reveal our location openly. Wherever Baahir is now, he does not want to be easily found.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “I said easily. Before I went into hiding, we arranged a dead drop,” Mr. Patel explains. “A place to leave messages for one another. He and I were the only ones who knew about it. If there were ever a way to find him, that’s how he would have let me know.”

  “Where?”

  “Venice. Baahir was a fan of their library, the Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana. If there is any way to find him, that is where I must start. That is where I will start.”

  “Caleb,” Mom says, looking at me. “We’ve talked a lot. All of us. I’m going to go with Sai, to look for others who can help.”

  At first I think she’s joking, but the serious look on her face says otherwise.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “The situation is grave and we must act,” Mr. Patel says calmly. “Whether or not the vault exists, it is clear that the Synthesizers have plans for Earth. The will move to incorporate us, one way or another.”

  “Those things will keep looking for you, Caleb.” Mom’s voice is soft, placating. “And I’m looking for a way to help protect you from that. To protect us all.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “You’re safe here, with the rest of us!”

  “Doing what? What good am I here?”

  “You can help with… I don’t know.”

  “I know how I can help!” she sighs, exasperated. “Sitting here, sick with worry about what might happen isn’t going to help you. Finding others who can fight alongside you, that’s what I can help do.”

  “Are you okay with this?” I wheel about to face Tori.

  “We can’t do this alone. If there are others like us who can help, we should find them.” She nods to her father, who returns the gesture sadly.

  “You’re not going to be safe by yourselves out there, Mom. They’ll hunt you down and they’ll… they’ll—” I can’t finish the sentence.

  “I’m not nearly as frail as you seem to think.” Her voice has gone steely. “I know how to take care of myself. Sai and I will be looking out for one another, too.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Dorian nods to me, “the Synthesizers have bigger things to worry about. Us, to be precise. No offense—but these two are an afterthought to the Synthesizers. If Sai and Diane keep their heads down, they ought to be just fine.” Dorian’s eyes flash over the sewn sleeve of Mr. Patel’s shirt. “They’re not a high-priority threat.�
��

  “Do not forget that I have been successful in avoiding the Synthesizers for many years, Caleb,” Mr. Patel assures me. “And I suspect your mother has talents that will prove useful.”

  “Is everybody here crazy?” I ask. “We should stick together.”

  “We each must play our part.” Mixy interjects. “For you to play your part, you must trust that others will play theirs. That is harmony.”

  “It’s not your family you’re sending off on some crazy goose-chase,” I bite back.

  “My clan heard the dirge long ago,” Mixy responds quietly. “Until I join them, I will fight.”

  “Fear is natural,” Lydia spares me as I struggle to utter some sort of apology to Mixy. “We share it. It’s part of what sets us apart from the Synthesizers. But fear cannot blind us to necessity. Your mother know that.”

  “I’m glad you all had the chance to decide this while I was unconscious!” I snap, standing and looking them all over. Then I turn and walk back to the float-tube, shaking with anger.

  But it’s not anger.

  I know that, because Lydia is right.

  I’m shaking because I’m afraid.

  * * * * *

  Dex comes into my room an hour later and sits down at the edge of my bed. “For what it’s worth,” he says. “I’d be just fine having your mom around a little longer. She’s pretty keen on me, and you could really use a strong father figure in your life.”

  I snort, despite not really being in the mood to laugh. Then there’s a painfully long moment of silence. “I didn’t mean to get you involved,” I say eventually. “I’m sorry that I messed up everything. I’m sorry you can’t go home.”

  “Go back to what, Caleb? My parents don’t care about me.”

  “I know you guys don’t get along and all,” I start to say, but something in Dex’s eyes makes me stop. “Dex? Are you—Is everything okay?”

  “It’s selfish, I know, but I’m happy to be out of there! All it took was the end of the world!” He shakes slightly, coughing and looking away to keep from crying. “They’re either acting like I’m not there or yelling at me.” He furrows his brows. “And if I’m going to be anywhere, I’d rather it be with you and Tori. You two are the only people I’ve ever… well, you’re my real family.” He balls his fists tightly and coughs harshly, determined not to cry. “I’m not going back there. I hate them.” He busies himself by paging through his steno pad.