He had left the pantry as it was, the pattern was good there, it had been made whole when he had left, though it was not complete in and of itself. He had arranged the couch just right. The coffee table he had left as it was, but he had used his fist to dent it further until his fist was bloody, and then had stared at his distorted, gray reflection in its surface. There, he thought, the shadow man, and waited for him to come out.
Only he didn’t come out. If it was the shadow man—he could not be sure if it was or was not, not yet, not until he came out. Maybe he was too gray and was another man entirely. Or maybe it was nothing at all. And so, sitting on the couch, he had waited for hours, sometimes bringing his face down close to the metal surface but still unable to coax the shadow man forth.
But after a time he had felt the pattern pushing at him. The pattern was right, but he was the one who was out of place. No, he had to be elsewhere for the pattern to do its work.
So he had stood and stepped his way across the room and into the room that his brother and he had once occupied.
There, in the bare room, he waited. When it came, it would come now to find him. He stared at the door, patient, ready for whatever would come.
* * *
How long he waited, how many hours or days, he couldn’t say. But in the end there came sounds outside and he knew the moment had arrived. He stood and pressed his ear to the door. And then when he heard footsteps approached, he yanked the door open and grabbed what was on the other side and pulled it in.
But no, it was not what he was hoping for, not what he expected. It was not something from the other world, but something from this world, an invader, an intruder, someone who had come to disrupt the pattern and to keep him from succeeding. Who had sent him? There were forces, he knew, out to disrupt him, forces that meant to keep him from finding what he was meant to find and fulfilling his purpose. They had been there at all moments, disturbing him. He shook this one, letting him know what he thought of him. To get him to tell him who was after him, who was trying to ruin him, he kept shaking, kept shaking. Yes, he told himself, he would get somewhere, he was getting somewhere.
And then something struck him hard on the head, dazing him. The invader beneath him wriggled out from under him and away and there were, he saw, at least two invaders now in the room. He scrambled up and away to face them, trying at the same time not to see them too closely, not to lose sight of the pattern, for if he lost sight of the pattern then they would win.
But there at last was the shadow man, curling there in the air, splaying from the feet of one of the intruders, the one who had struck him. The way to him was through the body of the intruder, he knew. He shook his head and then struck out and the intruder was beneath him and the shadow man was beneath both of them, being held by the intruder, but if he tried to dig his way through him then maybe he could get to him. The intruder was trying to speak, but no, he could hear a voice within his head telling him not to listen. And the other intruder was behind him now, striking him, but he was ready for that this time, he could keep his balance. It had happened, he had seen what he wanted, what he needed, and there would be no stopping him now.
3
There were nine of them gathered at the table. Some of them were clearly scientists, others military, others bureaucrats, still others it was hard to say exactly what they were. Most, but not all, of them were Unitologists, and here, among friends, they all wore their amulets exposed and hanging around their necks, publicly professing their creed.
“So we’re in agreement,” said one of them. He was a military man and seemingly the leader, of an impressive mien and bearing, named Blackwell. Of very high rank, his uniform studded with insignia and commendations.
“I still think it’s too dangerous,” said another, a wiry little man, a scientist named Kurzweil. “Despite all precautions, the Black Marker experiments went quickly out of control. We lost the majority of our team. We’re very lucky that there wasn’t an outbreak, that we were able to stop it within the walls of the compound.” He gestured to the scientist next to him. “Hayes can attest to that.”
“And yet, I’m for it,” said Hayes. “As is everyone here but you, Kurzweil. In any experiment there is risk, and the potential gains that we have from unlocking the power of the Black Marker far outweigh the risks. We are the vanguard meant to lead humanity to Convergence. Now that we’ve recovered the data, we should have the means to build a new Marker.”
Some of the others nodded in agreement.
“Fine,” said Blackwell. He turned to the first scientist. “You’re outvoted, Kurzweil, as you knew already.”
Kurzweil shrugged. “Can we at least agree not to build the new facility on Earth? We need to be somewhere where, if there is an outbreak, it’ll do a minimal amount of damage.”
“So where do we go now?” asked Blackwell.
“To the moon?” suggested one of the men.
Kurzweil shook his head. “Too close, not private enough.”
“We need to go somewhere where we can allow things to develop and see how they go, get as much data as possible, and then nuke the planet if need be,” said one of the men whose profession wasn’t identifiable. His hair was cut short and he had cruel eyes. His skin had a dullness to it, was almost gray. “Somewhere off the beaten track.”
Blackwell nodded. “I’ll send a ship out,” he said. “I know just the man for the job. We’ll see what he can find.”
They stood and prepared to go, but the two men without identifiable profession or affiliation beckoned to Blackwell to stay behind. He did, remaining silent with his arms folded, waiting until the three of them were alone in the room. But even once everyone else was gone, the men didn’t say anything.
“That went quite well, I think,” Blackwell finally said.
“Who do you have for the job?” asked the larger of the two, ignoring Blackwell’s comment.
“Who? Commander Grottor. We’ve used him often in the past. He has impeccable credentials and is very discreet, as is his crew.”
The other man nodded. “We’ll want to meet him,” he said.
“You’ve never asked to meet them before,” said Blackwell.
“This is much more important than anything we’ve done before.”
“Don’t you trust me?” asked Blackwell.
The two men just stared at him, as if he hadn’t asked a question.
“We’ll want to meet him,” the man repeated.
Blackwell nodded. “Of course,” he said.
4
Istvan seemed to be growing tired, the blows coming slower as he struggled not only to keep hitting Jensi but to keep pushing Henry away. Jensi waited, still trying to protect his face, and then, when Henry fell again on his brother’s back, he lashed out, punched Istvan as hard as he could in the throat.
Istvan started to gasp but remained solidly straddling him. Henry kept trying to pull him off. Not knowing what else to do, Jensi sat up as far as he could and wrapped his arms around his brother, drew him as close as possible.
Up close, Istvan smelled of stale sweat and something else, something gone rotten. He began struggling the moment he felt Jensi’s arms close around him, but Jensi locked his hands behind his back and held on. He pressed his face against Istvan’s neck.
“Ssshhh,” he said, as calmly as he could. “It’s okay now, Istvan. It’s okay. It’s just me.”
Istvan kept struggling. Behind him, Jensi caught a glimpse of Henry, looking puzzled now, arresting for a moment his attempts to tear Istvan off him.
“It’s me,” Jensi said, his voice a soothing whisper now. “It’s me, Jensi. It’s your brother. I’m here now, Istvan. I’m here for you.”
He kept it up, holding on as Istvan continued to try to break free. Henry had taken a few steps back, confused. Half of him seemed to want to wait. The other half seemed poised to flee. Jensi kept whispering, trying to soothe his brother, until the latter started striking the side of his face with his forehead.
He held on as long as he could, his head aching, feeling like something inside his skull was in danger of giving way. Something was wet and at first he thought he was sweating, but when Istvan’s head reared back, he saw that his brow was flecked with blood. My blood, thought Jensi. And then Istvan brought his head down again and Jensi’s hands slipped free and he felt himself pass out.
* * *
Disconnected thoughts, a strange fleeting round of faces, as if all of his past has been condensed into a particular moment, a single space. They swayed all around him and began, slowly, to spin, flitting close and then fleeing away, more like grotesque swollen birds than human faces. And then they became birds, fluttering across the sky but strangely stretching too, as if they were leaving parts of themselves behind even as they progressed forward, so that they were more like snakes than birds, only not that either. And then, as suddenly as they had come, they had faded and were gone.
In their place came a strange repeated noise, a noise which it took him a long time to realize was the sound of a man sobbing. He felt something, too. Someone shaking him.
When he opened his eyes, it was to find his brother still on top of him, but something had changed. His eyes looked different, as if there was someone else inside of the body now: human, alive. Istvan. He had a hand on either side of Jensi’s head and was caressing his face. His forehead was still smeared with blood. Henry was far behind him, huddled near the back wall, still tense, still ready to flee.
When he saw Jensi open his eyes, Istvan’s tears changed suddenly to a weird, flat smile.
“You’re alive,” he said.
Jensi struggled to sit up, managed to lift himself to his elbows. “Of course I’m alive,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I thought I killed you,” Istvan said.
“No such luck,” said Jensi. He straightened further and winced.
“What?” asked Henry, incredulously from near the door. “You’re friends now? Basically he just tried to kill you. We should get out of here.”
“We’re not friends,” said Jensi. “Henry, this is my brother.”
“I don’t care who he is,” said Henry. “He tried to kill you.”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Istvan.
“He didn’t mean to,” said Jensi. “He just got confused.”
“Who’s to say he won’t get confused again?” asked Henry. “Look at him. What’s wrong with him?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Istvan claimed again. “You just got in the way.”
“It doesn’t matter if you meant to or not,” said Henry. “Jensi, let’s get out of here.”
Jensi slowly shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “He’s my brother.”
“He’s dangerous,” claimed Henry, but the steam seemed to be running out of him. He was no longer poised to run, seemed even to want to be convinced.
“He just needs to be cleaned up a little,” said Jensi. “He’s been on his own a while and he’s gotten confused. He needs someone to take care of him.”
“But why should that someone be you?” asked Henry.
“Who else is there for him?” asked Jensi. “There is only me. If I don’t help him, nobody will.”
Henry just shook his head. “It’s not supposed to work that way,” he said.
“No,” said Jensi, “but that’s the way it is.”
* * *
Quickly, he found himself feeling even more responsible for Istvan than he had before. He got Istvan to take a bath, scrubbed him down, then left him shivering and naked while he went out and found him an old but clean pair of clothes from a local church basement. But it didn’t stop there. Soon, he was scrounging up food for him, then finding scissors and trimming Istvan’s hair and beard, then stealing an old blanket or two from his foster family so that Istvan would be able to stay warm. Not knowing what else to do with Istvan, he left him there in their old apartment, hoping that the complex was unappealing enough that the apartment would remain unoccupied until he could figure out what to do with his brother.
At first, Henry would have no part of it. He followed Jensi around, trying to talk him out of helping his brother, telling him that he had a good new life and it’d be a shame to ruin it.
Jensi stopped him. “I’m not going to ruin it,” he said. “I’m not planning to leave my foster family. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help my real brother out a little.”
When he started walking, Henry continued following. “But it’s not as easy as that,” he said. “It won’t stop there.”
* * *
At first it was easy. He stole a little food for his brother, not enough to be noticed, at least not at first. But then he saw that his foster mother was buying less, and keeping a closer eye on what was in the pantry, so he told Istvan he’d have to find his own food.
“But how do I do that?” asked Istvan.
“How were you doing it before?” asked Jensi, and Istvan pointed to the cabinets in the old apartment. Istvan had simply gone through them one after another, as it turned out, eating everything, including the sauces, before carefully returning each bottle to what he felt was its proper place.
So what could Jensi do but keep sneaking food out, even if now he did it less than before? After a while, though, his brother kept insisting he was hungry, still hungry, and so Jensi started saving half of his own food and hiding it, smuggling it out whenever he could. He was hungry all the time. But he was helping his brother.
Henry kept his distance for a while, then started hanging around him again. When he realized Jensi was eating less so as to smuggle food to his brother, he started passing food along himself. “Not for your brother,” he said at first. “For you.” But even when he must have realized Jensi was giving most of the food away, he still kept bringing it.
* * *
A few weeks later, Henry even started going along with Jensi to see Istvan. The first few times he was nervous, ready to bolt if Istvan did anything odd. But when the first incident wasn’t repeated he started to calm down, began to get used to the idea of Istvan. He helped Jensi, became his collaborator in the support of his brother.
The three of them might have gone on together like that for a long time. True, it hurt Jensi’s schoolwork to spend so much time looking after Istvan, but Henry was willing to help there, too, slipping him the answers during a quiz or writing all or most of his papers for him. No, they could have gone on like that forever if it hadn’t been for Istvan. One day, sitting on the couch, staring in front of him, he said:
“I want to come live with you.”
“You do?” asked Jensi.
Istvan nodded. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.” He traced a figure in the air. “See?” he said.
Suddenly he stood up and left the room.
Henry and Jensi exchanged glances. “What was that about?” asked Henry. “He can’t come live with you.”
“Maybe he should.”
“Even if he wanted to, they would never allow it. They never put two siblings together in foster care. Particularly if one of them is troubled.”
Jensi opened his mouth to retort and then realized that Henry was right. He closed his mouth again.
“You have to tell him no,” said Henry.
Jensi shook his head. “He’ll probably just forget about it. He probably already has. He didn’t even wait for a response—he just left.”
But when he came back into the room, he had filled a small box with his few possessions. His blankets were over his shoulders, and he was wearing both pairs of his pants and all three shirts all at once, looking like a child that had tried, and failed, to dress himself.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The two boys just stared. Henry looked at Jensi expectantly a moment and then, when Jensi had still said nothing, shook his head and left the apartment.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Istvan.
“Istvan…” said Jensi, and sighed. “You can’t go.�
��
“Why not?”
“They won’t let you,” said Jensi.
Istvan furrowed his brow. He traced another figure with his finger, stared at the empty air. “Then you come live here instead,” he said, somewhat reluctantly.
Jensi shook his head. “I have another life now,” he said. “I can’t give it up.”
He watched Istvan’s face cloud. “Don’t you love me? I’m your brother.”
“You are my brother,” said Jensi. “And I do love you. I’ll help you in all the ways I can. But I have a life, too.”
Istvan’s mouth twisted in pain, as if he’d been struck. And then he turned around and went back into the bedroom, slammed the door.
Jensi tried the handle, found it locked. “Istvan,” he said. “Don’t be like this. Let me in.”
He waited, but there was no response. He knocked again, still no response. Parts of his mind were imagining what might be going on behind the door, imagined Istvan huddled in a corner, crying or trying with a rusty nail to slit his throat or hanging himself. He shook his head to clear it, but the thoughts kept crowding in.
“Istvan,” he said, louder this time. “Open up!”
But Istvan wouldn’t open. Indeed, even after minutes of knocking, he remained resolutely silent. How long Jensi had been knocking exactly he wasn’t sure. He only knew that suddenly Henry was there beside him, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the door, trying to lead him away.
“But he might be hurt,” said Jensi. “Or he might be planning to hurt himself.”
“He’s not hurt,” said Henry. “He’s sulking. Come on, Jensi. We should leave before he gets mad.”
* * *
They made their way back through the streets, passing through the valves and into the neighborhood beyond, Jensi letting Henry lead him along. He couldn’t stop thinking about his brother. He wondered if he should have handled the situation differently. But what could he have done with Istvan? It wasn’t like he could take him home, like a pet or something. Wasn’t he already doing all he could realistically do?
Dead Space: Catalyst Page 3