by Jim Kroepfl
“If it works, Angus Doyle can keep working in Bat’s prototype for, well, forever,” I say, hoping Lake understands that her Mentor won’t have to die if Lake chooses to unmerge.
“This is brilliant, Orfyn,” Stryker says.
“Bat and I make a good team,” I say, trying to hide how much his compliment means to me.
“Thank you,” Virtual Bat says.
“Will you give us the prototype?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says, swiping a piece of bread from Jesus’s plate.
Stryker’s jaw practically hits the floor.
“Where is it?” I ask, loving that he and Lake get to experience what my Mentor created.
“You must say the magic words, Orfyn,” Virtual Bat says.
“Please,” I automatically reply.
“That’s not it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Consider it an extra security measure. Or, perhaps it is just that we enjoy games.”
This is so Real Bat. I scrape through my memory, searching for what he’d use as a password.
“Vivaldi,” I try.
My painting fades, and in its place materializes Munch’s The Scream. Virtual Bat sets his cup on the bridge’s railing and takes an appreciative look around. “One of my favorites. But, alas, wrong.”
“Beethoven,” I say.
The scene shifts. A girl is outstretched on the ground, looking yearningly back at an unpainted house in a sea of prairie grass. Christina’s World. Virtual Bat shakes his head. He reaches for his cup, but it disappeared along with the bridge’s railing from the last painting. He frowns, as if he couldn’t create another one.
“Bach,” I blurt out.
The scene changes to a group of well-dressed people sitting around a table filled with wine bottles and crystal glasses. Boats float on the river in the background. Bat swipes a half-filled glass with a smile.
“Mozart,” I say with clenched teeth, and the scene returns to Take This Cup.
“Can you give me a hint?” I can hear the frustration in my voice. Virtual Bat has all the time in the world, but Marty doesn’t.
“That would not be playing fair,” he says.
“Will you do it for me?” Lake asks.
He takes so long to answer, I’m worried she’s thrown him into an endless loop. He finally blinks. Then he whirls around, and when he faces us again, he’s wearing a football jersey. “Does this help?”
I smile, thinking back to the first time I saw Bat in the dreamspace. He’s as big a fan as me—as big a fan as Sister Mo. “The New York Rangers.”
The overhead lights dim, and one of the paintings slides to the side, revealing a hidden compartment. Tiny LEDs turn on and highlight a platinum-colored cube the size of a mini-microwave. It’s strangely gorgeous. The shimmering metal. The shape. The sense of power—twenty brains’ worth. In a room lined with masterpieces, this is the most amazing thing here.
I carefully remove the cube from the compartment. It’s lighter than I expect—and it’s giving off a low hum. “Is this thing dangerous?”
“Not as long as you do not drop it,” Virtual Bat answers.
“Seriously?”
“The power source is somewhat unique.”
“We need to show this to Alex. It might help him with his renewable energy project.” Stryker flicks his chin at me, which I guess in rich-person speak means well done.
“I could kiss you, Bat,” Lake says.
Virtual Bat’s glass slips from his hand, shattering on the floor and splashing wine all over him and the white tablecloth. He grabs for the cup, tripping on his own feet, bumping into the table, and sending a plate crashing to the floor. Christ doesn’t flinch, which I’ve got to admit is a huge relief. I couldn’t handle the Son of God coming to life and losing his cool.
Virtual Bat wipes his hands down his robe. “Is anyone else in your class exhibiting signs of distress?”
I make a point of not looking at Lake. “Alex is having problems breathing.”
“How about any of you?” he asks.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Stryker says, with a little too much emphasis.
“I’m good, too,” I say. Because I am.
“I’m fine.” Lake’s eyes are glued to the embroidery on the white tablecloth.
Virtual Bat glances at me, and I give a tiny head shake.
He watches Lake pretend nothing is wrong, and sighs deeply. “Orfyn, from what appears to be happening, I must insist that you unmerge from Bat.”
Leave Bat? I’ve never considered it. Not for a second. I’ve come to love spending my dreams with him. He’s not only my Mentor, he’s like an older brother. Why would I live without him? Nothing’s wrong with me.
“No way.”
“The scenario you are describing is one we considered might happen, and the projected solution was to immediately unmerge, if such a procedure were validated.” Virtual Bat stares at me.
“Nothing is wrong with me. I’m not throwing him out like a botched painting.”
“I fear that could be a fatal mistake.”
Orfyn
I’m in the backseat of the Flem Van with my arms straightjacketed around the humming cube, mentally sending the Traveling Protection Prayer to Archangel Michael so Stryker’s driving doesn’t send it flying.
“Now that we have Bat’s prototype, do you think the Darwinians will unmerge Angus?” I ask.
“I’ve been … questioning that, too,” Lake says.
“For good reason,” Stryker says, not exactly upping my faith in them.
“We can all refuse to tell them what’s happening in our dreams unless they do it,” I suggest.
“Then we’re five loose ends who can easily be made to disappear,” Stryker says. “There has to be a different solution.”
“I wish there was a way to get a message to Marty,” I say.
“And tell him what?” Lake asks.
“What do you think happens if a Mentor gets killed in their dreamspace?”
They both reel around to look at me.
“We are not using violence to get our way,” Stryker states in a tone that ends all discussion.
After miles of uncomfortable silence and the metallic smell of Lake’s gum, I have to ask. “Stryker, how do you know how to hotwire a car?”
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
I could’ve done that, too—if I’d thought about it, which I didn’t.
“Why does your dad need a palm reader for his office?” Lake asks, saving me from doing it.
Stryker drums his fingers on the steering wheel for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer. “He didn’t want me to have access to a computer without supervision.” His voice has none of its usual confidence.
“Will you tell us why?” Lake asks.
Stryker’s eyes stay glued to the road.
“How about we play an honest game of One True Thing?” I say. “If you tell us about you, Stryker, I’ll tell you both the truth about me.”
I’m done beating myself up for who I was before The Flem. If I hadn’t been a street artist, Bat would never have known about me, and I wouldn’t be driving back with the solution to unmerging. So what if I didn’t go to art school? Like Bat says, no one can teach you how to have natural talent. And just because they can’t put a score on artistic intellect doesn’t mean I’m not as smart as the others. If being a Nobel has taught me anything, it’s that everyone is smart in their own way.
“You go first, then I’ll think about it,” Stryker says.
That’s his idea of fair? I’m sure Stryker’s life before The Flem was filled with stories that’ll impress Lake. But it’s time to come clean.
I lean in closer to Lake. “I was a street artist.”
She cocks her head. “You weren’t joking about that?”
I make myself look into her eyes. “No.”
Stryker say
s, “He’s actually pretty famous.”
“You know about me?” I ask.
He nods. “Anna told me after the party.”
“But you never told Lake.”
“It’s your secret. And just so you know, I threatened to divulge her secret if she told anyone else.”
“Thanks for that.” Every time I write Stryker off, he does something to change my mind. But what is Anna hiding? And how does Stryker know about it?
I consider ending it there, but I want Lake to know everything. “They wanted to make an example of me, so I was only days away from getting arrested. If it weren’t for Bat, I’d be in jail. For creating art.”
I’ve built up my secret so big in my head, I no longer know how to feel about it. I watch Lake’s face. She doesn’t look shocked or turned off, or even disappointed.
“Why didn’t you want me to know?” she asks.
“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” I admit, feeling my cheeks flame.
“Why would I do that?”
Her reaction helps me reveal the truth. “When I first got here, it felt like everything was stacked against me. Everyone is working on really important things, and you’re all so smart. Then you guys talked about how graffiti is disrespectful and—”
“And I said it takes away a city’s beauty,” Lake adds in a voice so soft I can barely hear her.
That memory still stings. “I wanted a chance to fit in.”
“I’m sorry,” Lake says, “I … I judged something I didn’t know anything about, which wasn’t fair to you.”
It feels like a flock of pigeons flies out of my chest, releasing the shame I’ve been carrying. How did I let their opinions change what I thought about myself? Before I got here, I was never ashamed of who I am—Sister Mo made sure of it. I’m never letting that happen again.
“Why did you choose the name Orfyn?” Lake asks.
“Instead of being something people can hold against me, I turned the fact that no one wanted me into a name I can be proud of.”
“I get that,” Stryker says.
He does?
Lake says, “My mom always told me that from the moment she first looked into my eyes, she knew what to call me.” She gasps.
“What?” I ask.
“People who have Alzheimer’s can perfectly roast … I mean, recall their memories from the past. It’s the most recent ones I’m forgetting.”
Does she realize what she’s admitting?
“You’re too young to get Alzheimer’s,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about.
“What about Sophie?” Lake says to Stryker. “That could explain a lot.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Stryker answers for her. “Sophie doesn’t realize she’s been merged. She believes Lake is a grad student she can fire.”
Holy crap! Lake never let on. Stryker obviously knew about it. Why didn’t she think she could tell me?
“You know how much I trust the Darwinians,” Stryker says. “But even I don’t believe they’d insert someone with brain damage into your mind.”
“Thanks. I needed to hear that.” Lake reaches over and touches his arm.
My stomach knots up when he gives her a reassuring smile.
“Your turn, Stryker,” I say. “What’s your One True Thing?” Please don’t say it’s that you and Lake are secretly together.
“If I tell you, my story stays here,” he says.
“Deal,” I say.
“You don’t want to cross me on this one, Art.”
“You didn’t spread around my secret, and I won’t share yours.”
He holds my eyes in the rearview mirror and finally nods. “Okay. Last year, I started this blog as an experiment to see if I could get people interested in doing something about our dysfunctional government. It took off after I started managing an online forum where the merits of different ideas were debated. Some pretty important people started to follow it, and at times they even added their opinions.”
He slowly exhales. “Then I got the idea to coordinate flash-rallies at the state capitals. I’d select an idea from the forum and tell my followers where to meet up. We got the influencers to start listening, and it seemed like real change was starting to happen.”
Stryker stops talking, and just as I’m thinking his One True Thing is more about boasting, he says, “At one of the flash-rallies, this guy showed up with an assault rifle. He killed three people and wounded twelve others.” His head drops.
“Oh my God!” Lake’s hand flies to her mouth.
I stare at Stryker, trying to match what I just learned with the image of him I’ve been carrying.
Stryker continues, “I was arrested for inciting violence, but before my identity went public, the Darwinians cut a deal with government officials who didn’t want it getting out that they’d unknowingly been following a teenager’s direction.”
“That’s why you want to end gun violence,” I say, finally understanding. This is not the conversation I thought we’d be having.
“I chose the name Stryker to remind me that no matter how well-meaning your intentions, there are people out there who will take offense and strike back, so you’d better be ready for the fallout.”
“Stryker is your alias,” Lake says. “I forgot about that.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I promise.
Lake adds, “Me, too. And I’m sorry you had to experience something so heinous.”
“There’s not a single day I don’t regret what I did.” He hits the gas, pressing us into our seats. He stares into the miles of road ahead, every so often wiping away a tear.
Lake eventually falls asleep, and I spend the rest of the drive thinking about what I just learned. I thought the others had it so easy, but I’m starting to realize everyone has things from their past they keep hidden. Good or bad, we wouldn’t be who we are today without them.
When we creep up the gravel driveway to the old garage, the building is blazing with lights. I really want to believe Anna didn’t rat us out, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve been caught.
Lake
Orfyn, Stryker, and I are lined up across from three Darwinians. The polished conference table reflects their angry expressions. A man in a strange-colored suit is seated against the wall. He looks familiar.
After Orfyn explains why we had to borrow the van, and about Bat’s prototype, the woman—who looks deathly ill—speaks first. “You’re asking us to take one of the most influential people in modern times and insert him into a machine?”
“Calling it a machine is like saying fire is an inconsequential discovery,” Stryker says.
“I’m interested in hearing more,” says the older man with a beard.
“It creates a dynamic environment that can be manipulated to feel like you’re actually there,” Orfyn explains. “Angus Doyle will be able to work wherever he wants—an 1800s French café, the New York Public Library, a replica of his home. And unlike living in a Nobel’s mind, he can write day and night. Best of all, you’ll be able to talk with him directly instead of having to rely on Marty as the go-between.”
The Darwinians’ faces remain impassive. Why aren’t they more interested?
“The subject could wake up tomorrow,” says the Darwinian with greasy, dark hair.
I finally remember where I’ve seen him. He’s the one who insisted Orfyn’s demon painting be covered over.
“Or our friend and classmate, Marty, might never wake up and become nothing more than a vessel for someone else’s consciousness.” Stryker’s voice is harder than boron.
“Martin is not in imminent danger,” the woman says. “I fail to see the need to risk both lives unnecessarily.”
“Your mission is to … to extend life,” I say. “Existing unconscious on … life support isn’t living.” Did my fumbling lessen the importance of my point? And did the Darwinians notice?
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“As we are all quite aware, my dear, there are several forms of living,” she says in a condescending tone that grates on my nerves.
“Marty deserves the chance to become the writer he was meant to be,” Orfyn says. “He’s amazing. Have any of you read his work?”
“I understand he was making great progress,” says the greasy-haired man.
Something about what he said sounds off, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“That’s not quite accurate,” Stryker says. “Angus wouldn’t let Marty get beyond the first paragraph until it was perfect.”
I knew that. It’s getting harder to keep up and act like I know what’s happening.
“There’s no such thing as perfection in art,” Orfyn adds.
“If Angus did that before he took control, what do you think he’s doing to Marty’s sanity now?” Stryker asks.
“The Mentors were guaranteed a certain future,” the woman says. “One that did not include existing in a box.”
“I agree,” says the Darwinian who seems like he could learn something from Orfyn’s demon painting. “We must maintain the integrity …”
I never did ask Orfyn why he painted it. I will next time we’re alone. What else have I forgotten? I suddenly realize I’m not paying attention.
“… top of that, a machine doesn’t have the capacity to come up with creative solutions that have never been explored before. The core of this experiment has always been to see what our greatest thinkers can accomplish with the benefit of a second human consciousness to expand what is considered possible.”
“And the added benefit of another lifetime, thanks to us,” Stryker says.
“Of course,” the older man agrees a little too heartily. “Our underlying premise has always been that life compounded will exponentially increase the leaps in human evolution.”
“Exactly,” says the woman. “Which is why we shouldn’t be considering this ridiculous idea.”
The older man waits until the woman stops coughing. “I want to discuss this in private with Richard and Sarah.”
“Sarah? You’re Jules’s aunt,” Orfyn says, making it sound like an accusation.