Green follicles were used for photosynthesis, adding additional carbohydrates while your body stabilized and evolved. They fell out as they were no longer needed.
“That was my plan?”
Mr. Frost improvised when there were… failures.
“I want to see… wait, who’s Mr. Frost?”
You knew him as Pawn.
“Then why’d you call him Mr. Frost?”
He changed his name. It was a psychological move on his behalf. In effect, he wanted to forget his past. He’s not happy with your plan, sir.
“Well, I’ll make him happy.” He slides to the door, but it’s locked.
You can’t leave, sir. It’s imperative that you’re uploaded first. These are your orders, sir. Your genius orders.
Perhaps if the uploader didn’t look like it was going to lobotomize him, he would’ve been more easily swayed.
He crosses his arms and stands firmly.
Do you feel that, sir?
“Feel what?”
The vibration.
Jack notices the humming sensation in his belly. It’s the same feeling he experienced around Sura. It’s warm and sensuous. It feels good, feels right. And Jack likes that.
You’re synchronizing with the energy around you, sir. You’re home. This is where you’re supposed to be. And I know what I’m doing. Trust me, sir. You invented me.
“I did?”
You want to remember everything before you leave this room.
Jack sighs. It can’t be a coincidence that all the little guys look like him. He climbs onto the table. The little ones help him. A beam of light ignites from the bottom of the uploader. Crosshairs appear on his face. A little one with a red hat adjusts his head until the crosshairs line up between his eyes. The one wearing a blue hat holds up a rubber mouthpiece and taps it on Jack’s lips.
“What’s that?”
Precautions, sir.
“This better not hurt.”
Blue-hat shakes his head. Taps again. Jack opens wide and the plastic fills his mouth. Perhaps the alarms in his head would be ringing louder if the vibrations in his belly didn’t feel so good, convincing him this was the right thing to do.
A red-hat climbs next to the table.
“W’as ’at?” Jack jerks his eyes at the cord in his hand.
Fiber optics, sir.
“W’as it do?”
Connecting you to the uploader. You might feel a little pressure.
Pressure?
Before he can leap from the table and swat away the metal demon and its handsome little henchmen, the cable rams into the back of his head.
-------------------------
Mr. Frost slides around the circle of ice, the surface smooth and clear. Snow is piled around it. The sun hangs like a dull orb.
Elven like to have the sky over them during times of stress. They like to see the flatness of the polar ice caps and undisturbed snow that’s white, pristine, and perfect, glittering in daylight.
They also like to keep moving.
Does she know my plans? Has she already planned a counterstrike?
Mr. Frost never thought Freeda would be so secretive if she discovered his elaborate plan. He’d always assumed she would strike as she always did when he broke the rules: swiftly and painfully.
A golden string suddenly dangles in midair just outside the circle of ice. A hand emerges from the center and parts the air. Templeton steps through the wishing room entrance, pocket watch in hand. He lets the opening close behind him and the golden string vanishes.
The snow is up to his knees. “If it’s not asking too much…”
Mr. Frost waves his hand. The snow melts around Templeton to reveal a Persian carpet. A leather chair emerges from it along with a freestanding fireplace, logs already blazing.
Templeton sits without a word, crossing his legs and folding his hands.
“Jack has returned to the plantation.” Mr. Frost continues his meditative slide, hands folded on his belly.
“Are you positive?” Templeton asks.
“The yellow-hats confirmed it.”
Templeton’s composure is stiffer than usual. “This meeting is risky.”
“She’s distracted. This will be the only time to speak with you.” He makes one complete circle. “The end is near.”
Templeton nods thoughtfully. “You appear agitated. I assumed the end would bring relief.”
“Freeda is behaving unexpectedly. She did not inform me that Jack had been located. In fact, she lied. I’m afraid she’s up to something, Templeton. If she knows what I’m planning, this could end very differently.”
“What do you think she’s doing?”
“I don’t know. There’s another incarnation of Jack in the incubation lab that’s close to awakening. Maybe she’s going to use both of them.”
Templeton drums his fingers across his knee, watching Mr. Frost go around and around. When he’s near, Templeton says, “Perhaps we should kill them both.”
Mr. Frost looks up. “That won’t solve anything. The root will bring him back, bring Freeda back… even I can be reincarnated to continue the work. Death is only temporary. Transformation is the only solution, Templeton.”
“Then let’s destroy Freeda and Jack. It will buy us some time before you are forced to bring the operation back online.”
Mr. Frost imagines the agony the root will put him through for such a transgression, forcing him to reinvest in another facility to bring back Freeda and start all over. He’s too tired for that. Besides, Freeda will know what he did. She will adjust for it. Now is the best chance.
It must be now.
Mr. Frost stops. “Joe and Sura are safe. The helpers were directed to sequester them. I have reason to believe Freeda was planning to end them. Thankfully, the yellow-hats were there to inform Joe where to go.”
“I see. And then what will they do?”
“Joe knows.”
“They’ll come back to the plantation?”
“When it’s time.”
“It’s too risky,” Templeton says. “You created them, but you don’t have the right to put them in danger. They are human; they have a right to choose their fate.”
“And they will. I cannot force them to return.”
“But they will, you know it.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Templeton slowly walks to the fire. “Sura won’t have the same effect on Jack as she does you. The human experience takes time to assimilate.” He looks sternly at Mr. Frost and whispers, “He’ll hurt her.”
“No, he won’t. He has synchronized with her energy, Templeton. He feels bonded to her, even Joe. If he’s near them again with all his memories, I believe he will transform at that moment. He’ll change.”
Templeton remains quiet. Mr. Frost digs through his whiskers to scratch his chin, sliding in circles. It’s risky, of course. All he needs to do is get them together, and he’s certain Jack will change. It’s what Mr. Frost has been counting on.
He turns his back on Templeton, sliding across the patch of ice. Four incubation tanks are now embedded in the once-pristine snow. The glass is frosted. Mr. Frost stops in front of them and looks up with his hands on his belly. If Jack doesn’t change, well then, Mr. Frost has other plans.
Because nothing is certain.
“I want you to wait for Joe and Sura,” he says, “and make sure they find me. Afterwards, take May and Jonah to the south end of the plantation until this is over.”
Mr. Frost drags his fingers over one of the tanks, leaving trails on the glass. A vague form looks back from inside.
“You could hide with us, you know.”
Mr. Frost touches the back of his head. “Jack must transform, but the root, Templeton, must be destroyed.”
Templeton stands at the edge of the rug, hands at his sides. His chin is tipped up, his shoulders back. “Then I shall see you when this is over.”
Mr. Frost looks up at Templeton. “Be safe, my frie
nd.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t make my only regret that I wasn’t able to get more tanks into the wishing room.”
“We aren’t meant to live forever.”
“If only everyone believed that.”
“Perhaps you can remind Jack when you see him.”
“I doubt he’ll be in the listening mood.”
Templeton takes the watch from his front pocket. It glows. The golden string appears. He parts the space. The dense foliage of the tunnel is visible.
Templeton turns before exiting. “It’s been a pleasure serving you, sir.”
“The pleasure has been mine.”
Templeton steps through the opening. The space of the wishing room returns to an endless vista of snow.
And Mr. Frost continues sliding.
-------------------------
Jack drinks memories from a fire hose plugged into the back of his head. He has the urge to urinate, the sensation of bursting, the horror of panic. There’s too much to make sense, data pouring inside his head, his skull cracking. Occasionally he catches a tidbit, a small snack of information, something that makes sense.
They hate me.
That’s one. He didn’t like that one, but it’s true: the elven did hate him. They don’t anymore because they don’t know where he is. And they don’t know where he is because…
I’m dead.
Jack feels like he’s falling into a very deep, very dark, and very cold hole. Even for Jack, this feels cold.
Lonely.
Dark.
And somewhere in the bottom, he begins to understand what everything means. He’s told that he died when he sank through the ice, holding his mother and brother; he died in their embrace and understood that they loved him.
He remembers planning for death.
The scientists showed him the tiny pellet, said it would hold all his memories—even the ones he forgot. It would also contain the blueprint of his DNA and the directions to escape in case he kicked the bucket.
You just need someone to carry it, they said. Someone you trust with your life.
That was easy. Jack knew exactly who would carry it. He didn’t know what it would do to Pawn, didn’t really care, just knew that if anything happened, Pawn would keep him safe and nothing would hurt him. Jack would come back.
The plan would bring him back.
It’s a complex plan, only one a mastermind could understand and, thankfully, Jack is one. It’s also one that might be construed as diabolical, dastardly, and mean-spirited. As vile, foul, and nasty.
And genius.
As the data continues filling him up, Jack settles at the bottom of this deep, dark, and cold hole. When all the memories are forced into his brain and find their rightful place, he understands.
His body is shaky and cold, bluer than blue. His heart, smaller than small, tiny as a pebble, and hard as folded steel. Cold as deep space.
He snaps open his bloodshot eyes.
He fully understands.
THE PUPPET
III
Her mother called it a marionette.
The girl didn’t think she’d like it. Compared to the laptop and the bicycle, a puppet didn’t look like that much fun. But when she got the hang of the control bar, when she learned to move the legs and arms, was able to make her puppet sit and walk, why, it was all she played with.
She made clothes for her puppet and named her. Her father made her a little bed to sleep next to her. When she did her plays, the puppet took on a life of its own.
But one day, when she wasn’t looking, her brother cut the strings.
The puppet fell in a heap. Elbows and knees were bent the wrong directions, and the head cocked to the side. Her father said he could tie the strings, make it new again.
But the girl said no.
“Why?” the father asked.
“The puppet wants to be free.”
J A C K
December 21
Sunday
Mom.
The word had changed. It had transformed into something stuck in Sura’s throat. All her memories were a lie. Bedtime stories, late-night movies, days on the horses… lies, lies, lies.
Because she’s not my mom. Never was.
All that talk of independence and truth, all that crap about enlightenment… the nights sitting at the dinner table when she’d say, “Wake up, Sura, and know yourself. You’ll be set free.”
How could her mom expect her to understand truth when it was disguised in words and fleeting meanings? Why couldn’t her mom sit down and explain it like Jonah did with Joe?
Sura runs on the beach as far as she can. She can’t feel her knees when she falls. That’s when she pulls her legs against her body and cries.
Sand sticks to her. A billion grains, each unique in color and shape.
Did her mom say that? Sura remembers walking the beach and that line coming out of the blue—her mom telling her that there were a billion grains of sand, each one special.
Was she trying to tell me something?
She can’t sit still or the surreal sense of vertigo will strangle her. She walks, suppressing the urge to run so she doesn’t have to stop. As long as she’s moving, she can tolerate the truth.
Maybe she’s always known it, deep inside. Still, there’s not enough space in the world to face it head-on. Not enough air to breathe the ugly truth.
I’m a clone.
The wind dies.
Sura’s musty sweater is around her waist. The sun bites her cheeks, but her feet are still bare, much like her heart. The beach is empty except for an occasional beachcomber. The vacation homes look and feel empty.
She hasn’t eaten since the day before, but hunger gives her something to grasp. She can’t shake the sensation of falling, of spinning out of control.
Why am I here?
What’s my purpose?
Who am I?
All those questions her mom used to ask now haunt and betray her.
Sura walks until the sand turns to swaths of seashells. She crosses mats of washed-up reeds and climbs over jetties meant to reduce erosion. She passes condominiums, abandoned sailboats, and broken surfboards. She finds a long stretch of empty beach that leads to a spit of sand, where someone stands with hands in pockets, watching the waves.
She’s too tired to turn around. Too empty to run.
Joe doesn’t turn as she nears. He doesn’t watch her flop onto the sand. Exhaustion pulls her onto her elbows. Her cheeks are reddened by sun and wind. Joe pulls a water bottle from his pocket. She chugs it while he watches the waves roll, ceaselessly.
“She loved you,” he says.
Sura dips her head, too tired to hold it up.
“That’s why she left Jonah,” he adds. “She loved you.”
“She was made to love him.” Sura notices the magnetic attraction intensify as they talk. “Just like I was made to love you.”
“Imagine how hard it was for her to deny that love,” he says. “Every day, her heart telling her one thing, but her mind something else. Every day she ignored her feelings for Jonah to do what’s right—to search for the truth. She must’ve suffered greater than him.”
Sura’s mom always looked tired, always looked like she had been pulling extra weight. Sura always figured it was depression and sometimes asked her to look into medication. They learned in school depression could be treated chemically. Feelings are chemicals, someone said. Love, too.
“None of this is real,” Sura says. “My feelings for you are just hormones interpreted by my brain. It’s programmed into my DNA. I’m just a script that’s programmed to be attracted to you for Mr. Frost’s sick little entertainment. He designed us that way, assembled us like that.”
“We’re cloned, Sura. Not assembled.”
“And the difference?”
“We’re human. We’re flesh, blood, and tissue. We’re no different than everyone else, just conceived differently.”
“
We sprang from a petri dish and that makes us human? We’re an experiment, Joe. We’re Frankensteins that fooled everyone, including ourselves.” She dips her head. “What’s worse, you’ve known all along.”
“Yeah, but I understand, Sura. It’s not how we start that matters. It’s who we are.”
“You need to wake up.”
She dips her head again. Tears swell without falling.
“It hurts me to see you this way,” he says.
She resists the temptation to run to him, to get lost in his embrace, to forget the world, to erase the truth, and just fade back into ignorance and his sweet essence that hums so strongly inside her.
“Why’d he do this?” she says.
“Do what?”
“This.” She pats her chest. “Why’d he create us?”
“Jonah said it had something to do with Jack.”
“Who’s that?”
He shrugs. “The entire plantation has to do with him.”
We’re cogs in a machine meant to build Jack, is that it? Just parts that click and clack and, in the end, out spits a clone named Jack?
“I don’t want to be a cog,” she whispers.
“We’ll find out.” He takes her hand. “The yellow-hat said we have to find Mr. Frost.”
She’s so tired, so bereft, that when he reaches for her, she falls into his arms, lets his warmth envelop her. She nuzzles into the crook of his neck.
I don’t have the strength to resist him. Not like you, Mom.
Maybe, she wonders as they walk to the truck, she’s not exactly like her mom after all.
-------------------------
Mr. Frost emerges from the live oak grove. He stops to admire the Christmas lights. Each year, they add more. It’s a reminder there is joy in this world.
He continues his late-night stroll, returning from deep in the trees where the land is mostly wet and wild, where alligators slumber for the winter and tree frogs happily sing. He’d grown accustomed to the green environment, never thinking he’d ever prefer it over the pure white Arctic.
Claus: The Trilogy Page 43