The Xactilias Project

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The Xactilias Project Page 22

by RJ Lawrence


  "Hello, Alfred," the woman said with a soft smile. "How was your day?"

  "Oh, fine," the old man said, returning her smile. "And how is this little bird?"

  The young girl nestled her face into the woman's long coat.

  "She's just shy," the mother said.

  "Oh, I understand."

  He fished a candy from his pockets and held it up.

  "Is it ok?"

  The father nodded.

  "Of course, Alfred." He knelt. "Penny, Alfred has a piece of candy for you."

  The little thing cast a quick eye at the old man's hand and then returned to her sanctuary.

  "I'll take it," said the mother.

  Alfred passed it over, as the elevator doors opened. The four stepped inside and pressed their buttons.

  "I don't know how you keep it up, Alfred," said the man. "I'm ready to retire and I'm 30."

  Alfred smiled politely.

  "Oh, I wouldn't know what to do without my work."

  The young woman put her hand on his shoulder.

  "You're an inspiration."

  Alfred smiled.

  "Thank you."

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, and then the doors opened to allow the family off.

  "Please, let us know if you ever need anything, Alfred," said the woman.

  "Oh, I will. Thank you."

  "It's no trouble, really," she said, as the doors shut them away.

  Alfred nodded with a smile through the dwindling crease in the shutting doors. Then he celebrated his solitude with a frown.

  When the doors opened on his floor, he exited the elevator and walked the hall. He stopped before a wall. There was a painting. One he'd seen dozens of times before. The brush strokes made a man in a landscape of blues that floated atop a textured backdrop of milky nothingness that could have been the past or a budding storm or a million little mistakes or nothing in particular at all. For this old man, it was something uncertain, and he didn't feel much like figuring it out. Not on this evening.

  He turned away from the hanging and approached his front door. He looked down at the doormat and rubbed his feet against the big white welcome, which sunk deep within the brown gristle of the fibrous rug. He held his key to the doorknob and pushed it through. He went inside and closed the door.

  He made his little dinner that night. The same frozen meal he had the night before and all the long nights before that. It didn't bother him. He was beyond bother, these days. When he finished eating, he tossed the paper tray into the garbage and climbed into bed without brushing his teeth. He slept. He woke. He went to the bathroom and urinated. He stopped in the midnight. He looked into the mirrored glass and a little old man looked back.

  "You get to take what this world gives you," he told the sorry figure. "It's not always what you want. But you have to make do. You make fucking do. If you can't make do, I have no time for you. There are so many who'd make do with far less. This is all you get. You get no more. It should be enough."

  He left the reflection to consider its failures and went back to bed, his legs wrestling the covers, mind resisting the pull of sleep.

  Hours later, the morning came violently though his window shades, like a noisy child stirred by the wonder of light and day. He flipped his legs over his bedside. He stood and walked to the bathroom. He arranged his hair as best he could. He packed his lunch mechanically. He left his home.

  Outside, the people moved about in groggy droves without much regard for the others beside them. He watched from the front of his apartment building for several minutes and then finally joined the swarm with a sigh. He walked with them for a while and finally broke off in front of his office building. The security guard offered a nod, which Alfred did not return. He entered the building and rode the elevator in silence, while others chattered loudly around him. When he finally reached the right floor, he crossed by his coworkers without looking up and entered his office and shut the door behind him.

  The early hours passed slowly while he fiddled with a project. His mind wondered this way and that despite his best efforts to bridle it. After a while, he pushed the work aside and read the newspaper.

  Someone knocked the door and opened it without asking.

  "Alfred," a young woman said.

  "Yes?"

  A woman entered. The same from all the days before.

  "We're heading to lunch. Will you join us today?"

  Alfred shuffled some papers and looked up.

  "No, thank you, dear," he said. "I'm just so behind on everything."

  She gave a sad little smile.

  "Alright."

  She turned.

  "I'm going to keep asking."

  She left and shut the door behind her.

  Alfred stood and crossed the room. He approached the door and stuck his head out to look around. No one at their desks. He shut the door and returned to his desk. He opened a drawer and removed a paper sack. He removed his peanut butter sandwich and unraveled it from its cellophane coat. He took a bite and chewed thoughtlessly.

  A knock at the door.

  "Yes?" Alfred said through a mouthful of food.

  The door opened and Demetri stepped through.

  "Hello, Mr. Fernsby."

  Alfred straightened in his chair and swallowed awkwardly.

  "Please, don't get up."

  Demetri paused through the entryway. He removed a pair of black leather gloves from his hands without breaking eye contact. Alfred watched him cross the room, the old man's eyes throwing forth hate without any effort toward the otherwise.

  "Now, now," Demetri said, as he sat in a small chair across from Alfred's desk. "Let's keep this civil."

  "What do you want?" Alfred asked.

  "I just came to how see things are going." He offered a polite smile. "How are you liking it here?"

  Alfred pushed his food to the side and folded his hands.

  "It's fine."

  Demetri nodded.

  "That's nice."

  They watched each other for several moments without speaking, Demetri's face casual, as if he sat across his oldest friend.

  "You should really show more appreciation," he said. "We pulled some major strings to get you hired here. Viox Genomics is a first-rate organization. You belong here like a mule at a wedding party."

  Alfred shrugged.

  "I'm happy to resign my position."

  Demetri smiled.

  "No, no. We prefer to keep you rich and happy."

  Alfred leaned back in his chair.

  "You think that will make a difference?"

  Demetri shrugged.

  "Someone does."

  "But not you."

  "I think it's completely unnecessary."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because whether you're living or dead, she's not coming."

  Alfred narrowed his eyes.

  "I disagree."

  Demetri leaned forward and propped his forearms on his thighs.

  "Your affection for her clouds your reason." he said. "She is not coming. Not ever."

  Alfred shook his head.

  "If you really believed that, you'd have done away with me long ago. She's the only reason I'm still around."

  Demetri shrugged.

  "It's simple practicality. Everyone knows she's not coming, but even the smallest gambles can be hazardous. It's a simple decision really. What's the life of one old man? You go on living. The threat remains unprovoked, fictional as it may be in the opinions of most. Your existence balances a hypothetical equation."

  Alfred smiled coolly.

  "Perhaps," he said. "For now, anyway. But I'm a 72 year-old man. I don't have a lot of time left. Maybe ten years. Maybe five. Maybe three months. Then your little equation becomes imbalanced, and you'll have quite the reckoning. You and all your like."

  Demetri smiled.

  "I'm not here to deprive you of your fantasy," he said. "I'm here to remind you of your obligation."

  He r
eached across the desk and took up a framed picture.

  "She's quite lovely, your granddaughter." He nodded, as if to agree with himself. "Quite lovely, indeed."

  Alfred sat with a stone face.

  "I'm aware of my situation," he said. "That is where we differ."

  Demetri replaced the picture and leaned back in his chair.

  "It's sad, really. Your delusion. It evokes my pity."

  Alfred leaned forward.

  "Save the pity for yourself."

  Demetri rubbed his eye, as if weary from the argument.

  "She won't come."

  Alfred leaned forward.

  "You think she's afraid of you? What does she have to fear?"

  "Nothing," said Demetri. "Nothing to fear. Nothing to rage against. Nothing to love. Nothing for which to weep. She has nothing, because she is nothing."

  Alfred chuckled.

  "And what of the news reports?" Alfred asked. "Why go to the trouble if she's really perished as you say?"

  Demetri lowered his eyebrows.

  "Let me tell you a story."

  Alfred raised his hands.

  "No stories," he said flatly. "I'm bored of them."

  Demetri smiled.

  "As you wish."

  He sat back and folded his hands together in his lap.

  "I understand," he said. "I found her dazzling as anyone. Even before her transformation. Afterward, I was transfixed. The things she could do. Incredible." He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. "But bullets are one thing. A tactical nuclear blast, quite another."

  The old man's eyebrows narrowed.

  "Yes," Demetri said. "Ten kilotons." He slapped his hands together, one over the other. "Right on top of her."

  Demetri looked off for a moment in contemplation.

  "I believe a ground level exposure would mean temperatures exceeding 6,000 degrees. But, of course, you're the expert on such matters."

  Alfred sat quietly, while Demetri stood and withdrew the gloves from his pockets. He slipped one onto each hand and stretched his fingers against the leather.

  "I'm afraid this will be the last of our meetings."

  He turned and approached the door. He stopped and looked back.

  "It's better this way, Alfred. When the people are not enlightened enough to exercise intelligent control, you take it from them, not to command their lives, but to create a safe depository for the ultimate powers."

  He gave a nod and opened the door.

  "Someone will come," Alfred said. "If not her than someone else."

  Demetri smiled.

  "Against ignorance, God Himself is helpless."

  With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Alfred sat quietly, while the electricity ran slowly from the air. He collected his sandwich and raised it to his lips. He took a bite and chewed and chewed. He swallowed with a sickly expression and then threw the rest of the sandwich in the trash basket.

  Time passed. People came and went from his office. He did his best to accommodate them, his demeanor cordial but quiet. The day dragged and dragged and dragged, but as with all places, a day at Viox Genomics must come to an end, and at last, the clock settled in the right place.

  He shuffled his papers away and gathered his belongings. He pushed his chair from the desk and stood. He collected the picture of his granddaughter and appreciated all its givings. The silk ribbon in her hair. Her sweet radiant smile. The vivid enthusiasm behind her sunny blue eyes. Her dimples. He felt so much love and gratitude for her life, but these feelings mingled also with a deep sorrow for the world he and his like would leave for her and hers.

  He set the framed photo on his desk and left the room.

  Outside, the streets boiled with movement, young business men and women feigning aloneness despite the obvious otherwise. Alfred watched them from the steps of the building, his face lacking expression. The building's security guard noticed him.

  "Are you alright, sir?"

  Alfred looked up at the man.

  "No."

  He stepped out and let the crowd take him in its current, while the guard watched him through bewildered eyes.

  He walked two blocks and stopped before the same pub from the day before. He went inside and ordered a drink, which he drank quickly before returning to the city streets once more.

  Outside, the crowd has thinned substantially, leaving him to walk quietly and alone the rest of the way. When he arrived at his apartment, he climbed the steps and opened the door to an empty lobby. He walked inside and summoned the elevator with a single outstretched finger. He entered and the doors closed. He waited while the lift pushed upward, soft instrumental music purring gently from the speakers overhead.

  When the doors opened on his floor, he exited the elevator and walked the hall. He stopped before the painting and looked at the man amid the feathered landscape of varying blues. The painting hadn't changed, but now the man looked different, his body seeming very small before the backdrop of milky nothingness, which seemed bigger and more ominous than ever before.

  He turned away from the hanging and approached his front door. He looked down at the doormat. He rubbed his feet against the big white welcome. But this time, something caught his eye. It looked like paper, peeking so slightly from beneath the rim of the doormat. He slid the mat aside with his boot and revealed a small white envelope. He knelt to collect it and took a quick look around to make sure he was alone.

  He caressed the envelope with his hands. Something small inside. He looked around again but saw no one. He tore the envelope open and turned it over. A very old penny tumbled into his hand. He held it up and let the light dance against all its glorious imperfections. He smiled.

  THE END

  Coming soon, The Xactilias Project 2 …

 

 

 


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