Merged

by Jim Kroepfl

  How can Jules live with herself? I grab my journal and jot down, Jules = spy!

  “Traitor.” Alex shakes his head in disgust, dislodging the plastic tube from his left nostril.

  “I told them I was worried about Marty,” Jules insists.

  “Was that before or after … Marty’s Mentor seized his body?” I hate that I can never remember his name.

  “I didn’t know about that part, honest.” Jules wipes her eye, even though there isn’t a glint of tears.

  What would have happened if I’d confided in Jules about Sophie’s confusion?

  Stryker says to Jules, “What I’m questioning is why they’d lie to you.”

  “Sarah never lied to me about Marty,” she answers, defiantly.

  “I thought Sarah is your Mentor,” Orfyn says.

  Jules’s eyes widen, and she looks like she wants to be anywhere but here.

  “How would your Mentor know anything about Marty?” Alex presses.

  “You haven’t merged with her yet,” Stryker states matter-of-factly.

  Of course. It’s the only logical answer.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Alex says.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Stryker asks.

  “I’m a little behind the rest of you,” Jules answers, avoiding our eyes. “But I’m starting the first phase soon.”

  Orfyn’s forehead furrows. “After what we’ve learned about Marty, you’re still going through with it?”

  “My aunt isn’t like Angus Doyle.”

  That’s his Mentor’s name. I jot it down in my journal.

  “Sarah is your aunt?” Anna asks.

  “Yes, but—”

  “She’s been using us as her personal guinea pigs,” Alex accuses.

  A question squeezes its way into the argument, and I document it before forgetting it.

  “Sarah is very ill, but she’s waited to merge to protect me.” Jules looks at each of us imploringly. “She’s only going through the procedure to give me the chance to do great things.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Anna snaps.

  “You do realize Sarah intentionally hid Marty’s condition from you,” Stryker says.

  “You’re all wrong about her!” Jules cries out before sprinting back to The Flem, leaving her glasses on the ground. Was even her studious look a charade?

  “She’s delusional,” Anna says angrily.

  “I think Jules believes she was helping,” Orfyn says.

  “Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions,” Stryker says as if it’s a Universal Truth.

  I give him a questioning look.

  “T.S. Eliot,” he answers, as if it explains his perspective on humanity.

  “Do you think they would’ve told us the truth about Marty?” Alex asks, adjusting the tube in his nose.

  “No,” Anna answers. “They wouldn’t want us to question if the same thing will happen to us.”

  “Bat would never try to take over my body,” Orfyn says.

  Would Sophie? I never thought I’d be consoled because she doesn’t realize she has the ability to try. What about the other Mentors? No one is jumping to their defense.

  “I told Bjorn what’s been happening to some of us.” Stryker’s eyes fall on me.

  I grip my journal tighter.

  His eyes move on to Alex. “Bjorn revealed that the Darwinians have been working on a way to extract the second consciousness as a failsafe.”

  “Are you saying they can unmerge us?” Alex asks.

  “In theory.”

  Could this be what Cecil was going to recommend in his notes?

  “Just because they can doesn’t mean they will,” Stryker says.

  Anna’s fury explodes, and not because of phlogiston. “Why the hell not?”

  Stryker flings a rock toward The Flem. “They’re not going to let Angus Doyle die, and they may not want to risk implanting him into another Candidate’s body because he could take over that person, too. Their best option is to allow Angus to remain where he is and see what happens.”

  “But there’s the possibility Marty won’t be the one canceling … I mean, controlling his own body,” I say.

  “Think about it,” Stryker says. “Angus is one of the most influential writers of our time, and Marty is a sixteen-year-old nobody. Do you think they’d see it as a failure if Angus had Marty’s body to use for another lifetime?”

  “Crap!” Alex rasps.

  Anna stands and towers over us. “We have to confront them and demand they remove him from Marty’s brain.”

  “That’s the last thing we want to do,” Stryker says, calmly. “One problem is manageable. Five problems would cause them to evaluate whether they should start over again with more compliant Candidates.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Anna says, two decibels lower.

  “Think about Marie Curie,” Stryker says. “She died of radiation poisoning, but millions of people have been saved because of her discoveries. Most would agree the benefits outweigh the cost of one life.” Stryker holds Anna’s eyes. “Do you want to risk our lives in order to see which of us is right?”

  Emotions battle across her face until she shakes her head in resignation.

  “Jules is going to tell them we know about Marty,” Alex says.

  “Of course she will,” Stryker says. “And that’s why we’re going to act like we believe they’ll figure out how to save him.”

  “For how long?” Anna asks.

  “Until we have a better solution.”

  “What if there were somewhere else Angus could live?” Orfyn asks.

  “Tell us where you’re going with this, Art,” Stryker says.

  “Before getting anyone’s hopes up, I need to talk to Bat.”

  “Then it’s nap time for you.” Stryker stands and brushes off the back of his khakis. “Everybody, continue with your normal routine. And act like you have faith they’ll do the right thing.”

  It didn’t used to be an act.

  I notice my note to myself. I run to catch up to Alex, which isn’t difficult since he’s towing an oxygen tank. “You visited Mexico before you came here, didn’t you?”

  “No, not since I was a little kid. Why?”

  I hesitate, but he needs to know that Marty might not be the only one in danger. As I tell Alex about Jules’s lie, his breathing gets more and more labored.

  Orfyn

  These days, Bat prefers to live in the masterpieces. I’m glad he’s found a way to escape his basement prison, but now we need to help someone else who’s being imprisoned.

  Today, Bat is in a painting of Monet’s studio in France, filled with paints, brushes, and canvases. I’d love to know what it feels like to hold Monet’s tools.

  “I think it’s too dim in here,” Bat says. “What if we lighten it up?”

  “Sure.” Could my idea actually work?

  Bat strolls around Monet’s room, slurping a grape soda. “Giverny didn’t have electricity until 1909. What do you think, pre-electricity or post?”

  “Bat, how is all this happening?” I gesture to the screen where he’s now scratching his butt.

  “It’s what we do.”

  “I’m not doing anything. You are.”

  “It’s your brain.”

  Bat shuffles over to an easel and grabs a brush. I cringe as he stabs out a lopsided daisy on one of Monet’s blank canvases, in Monet’s studio, using Monet’s brush and paints. If he can do that …

  “Can you help me write your gaming program in my world?”

  “Depends on why you need it.”

  I tell him about what’s been going on. “The thing is, we doubt the Darwinians will agree to unmerge Angus if there’s no place to put his consciousness. If your program were real, then Angus could keep working, and Marty could get his life back.”

  Bat scratches his unshaved cheek. “My model predicted thi
s might happen. You can’t take the most curious minds, contain their experiences, and then expect them to be satisfied.” Bat rotates the canvas ninety degrees and studies it.

  “But the Mentors were all dying. This is better than being dead.”

  Bat paints a yellow sun with a smiley face. “Is this what you were told it would be like?”

  “I’ve gotta admit, when I figured out you weren’t an artist—I mean a Master painter—I was pissed. But now, I’m glad you’re the one sharing my brain.”

  He beams at me. “Me, too. But it’s not going to work out like this for everyone.”

  “Do you think the other Mentors will try to take over their Nobels?”

  He shrugs. “Depends on the kind of person they were before.”

  “If the Darwinians can unmerge Angus, is it possible to put him into your program so he can keep living?”

  Bat sets down his brush and rubs his stubbly chins. “Software is nothing more than a map for electrical impulses, which isn’t that different from how a brain functions. My program is modeled on brain synapses rather than the traditional binary 1’s and 0’s, and I’ve developed a matrix of different inputs controlling the amount of electricity that’s distributed in each burst …” Bat continues mumbling techno-geek stuff until finally saying, “It could work.”

  I’ve never written software, but if we can do this, Bat and I could save Marty’s life. That’s a seriously big purpose. And if the same thing starts happening to the others, we’ll have a way to save them, too.

  As long as the Darwinians agree to it. And the unmerging procedure works. And if their plan all along wasn’t to have the Mentors take over our bodies. I recite to myself one of Sister Mo’s favorite Bible verses: Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself.

  “What do I need to do to create your program in my awake-life?” I ask.

  “Why don’t you use the one at my house?”

  “Where is it?” I jump up from the recliner.

  “Not this house. The other one.”

  Bat couldn’t remember where his real house is. I get on a computer to search for his address, then realize I don’t know his last name. Or his first, since I doubt his mother would’ve named him Bat.

  He lives in my head. How could I not know his name?

  I type what little I know into the search engine. Bat video game developer. Pages and pages of results appear. He was seriously famous!

  I hover the cursor over the first entry. Do I want to learn about the old Bat? Will it change how I think of him? But I have to find his house.

  I click on a story about how multi-billionaire Bartholomew Wakowski died after a long struggle with ALS. I don’t know much about that disease, but I know it destroys the body. The story then lists all the video games Bat has written. I’m not a gamer, but even I’ve heard of most of them. Bat—the slob who paints flowers that would embarrass a five-year-old—created worlds that entertain millions. What the story doesn’t cover is how Bat couldn’t leave his house, or how he had no friends or family. I’m glad. I want people to remember the good parts of his other life.

  It only takes a few more clicks to find his address. Now the question is: how am I going to get to New Jersey?

  Orfyn

  I knock on the one Nobel door I didn’t paint a hometown on. I tried to find out where Stryker comes from, but his response was, “The past is not the future.” He’s as elusive as Bigfoot. I’ve asked, but nobody knows his history. Not where he lived, not which school he went to, and not what made him the perfect Candidate to become the Nobel for Peace.

  I half-expect a tuxedoed butler to greet me, but it’s only Stryker. I look past him and catch a glimpse of his place. Calling it plain is generous. A nun’s room in a convent looks like a Vegas casino in comparison. Why does Stryker choose to live like this? They give us anything we ask for.

  “Interested in a game of H-O-R-S-E?” I flick my eyes to the ceiling. Stryker and I aren’t friends, but when you need help with an escape plan and want to make sure you’re prepared for everything that could go wrong, he’s the guy.

  “I’ll grab my ball.”

  I hope the person listening doesn’t stop to think that Stryker is almost a foot taller than me, and no sane person would ever initiate the trouncing I’m about to face. We head to the basketball court. It’s covered in cracks, but at least Stryker got them to install a net. I stand underneath it as he confidently volleys perfect shot after perfect shot.

  I don’t want Stryker thinking I’ve got some schmo living in my head. I repeatedly return the ball while explaining—bragging—who Bat was in his other life. Stryker is clearly impressed.

  We switch positions, and I half-heartedly throw balls at the basket, telling him about what Bat has been working on. I don’t take credit; he knows I’m no computer genius. But I might have let it slip that it was my idea to insert Angus into Bat’s program.

  “Incredible,” Stryker acknowledges, which is the first time he’s ever made me feel like I’m not a total waste of space. “We need to get our hands on that program.”

  My chest swells with pride. None of the other Mentors created a solution that might save Marty. “Then you’ll help?”

  “I’m not letting you get all the credit.” Then he smirks and flicks his chin at me.

  I wasn’t going to beg, but I’d been hoping he’d offer. I don’t know the best way to approach the Darwinians, but Stryker will.

  “If something should happen to Bat’s program, we’ve lost our leverage,” Stryker says. “We need to be the ones to go and get it.”

  “It’s in Jersey,” I say. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nobody in the City drives. Where did you say you grew up?”

  “I didn’t.”

  We hold each other’s eyes until I break the ice. “Okay. No hometown. Back to the plan. We need to convince the Darwinians to let us leave, and they need to lend us a car.”

  “Meet me here at eleven tonight. And bring a tube of paint.” Stryker has a gleam in his eyes.

  “I take it we’re not asking permission.”

  It’s late, so I’m hoping everyone is busy with their Mentors. I shut my door as quietly as possible and tiptoe to Stryker’s to pick him up. When I turn the corner, Anna is leaning against her doorway, filing her black nails. I get this feeling she’s been waiting for me. Damn.

  “Is there a reason you’re dressed like a ninja?” she asks.

  I thought it would be good camouflage, but I look like a black hole in this bright hallway. “Borrowing fashion tips from you.” Then I notice, for the first time, she’s wearing something non-vampirish. And her eyes aren’t smeared with black make-up.

  Anna crosses her arms. “Spill it. What are you up to?”

  Right. Since she’s been such a great friend, I’ll confide that Stryker and I are breaking out, and I’m pretty sure we’re stealing a car to do it. “Getting something to eat.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  Crap. “Sure, if you want.”

  We pass Stryker’s door, but I’m not quick enough to think of a stealthy way to let him know I’ll now be running late. The thorny silence between Anna and me makes it seem like the dining hall is a mile away. I get a grilled cheese sandwich I don’t want, and she grabs a chocolate milk.

  “That’s all you’re having?”

  “I’m not that hungry after all.”

  I hold in my eye-roll as I scarf down the sandwich in less than a minute. “That hit the spot.” I get up to go. “See ya later.” I’m not too far behind schedule, and since Stryker doesn’t know where Bat lives, he can’t leave without me.

  “Have you ever been to the greenhouse on the roof?” Anna asks, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Once.” It sits within a Gothic arch. Tall sheets of glass between thin iron bones. It’s not easy to get to, since you have to use a rickety fire escap
e. But I was looking for a new wall that needed an attitude adjustment and dared the climb. When I got there, it was empty, and I didn’t end up painting on those walls. Some places are perfect the way they are. “Why?”

  “Did you happen to notice that it overlooks the basketball court?” She leans in closer. “Sound can travel far in the wind.”

  I sit back down and mouth, “Don’t.” I can’t let her sabotage our only chance to save Marty.

  “It’s time for me to collect,” she says, like she’s had negotiation lessons from the mob—or worse, Stryker.

  “I told you. I don’t own anything.”

  She takes a long, slow sip of chocolate milk. “I want to watch you paint.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen Lake do it.”

  Yeah, but I don’t avoid her. “Why would you want to? It’s boring.”

  Her multi-pierced eyebrow meets the one that looks like a delicate black feather. “Are you telling me I can’t?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you haven’t said I could, either.”

  “Anna, why do you want to spend time with me? We’re not even friends.”

  She turns her head toward the wall of water lilies, and after more than a few beats she says, “You’re right. Dumb idea.”

  Oh my God! I think Anna likes me. Is that why she looks so nice tonight? Double crap! I might have hurt her feelings. Now she’s going to retaliate. “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” She keeps not looking at me.

  “Anna, you’ve been gearing up to blackmail me from the second we met.”

  Her eyes look left of my nose. “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.”

  That confession took a lot of guts, and I have a feeling she doesn’t let down her guard very often. “I’ll make you a deal. If you stop threatening me, we can work on becoming friends.”

  “Is that all we can ever be?” Her eyes dart around the room.

  This is the conversation she’s been wanting to have. It feels more surreal than my time with Bat. “I have to be honest. I like someone else.”