She’d never been much of an athlete, but she managed to close the distance between herself and Ian in half a heartbeat. She came up behind him, grabbed him under his arms, and heaved for all she was worth.
She couldn’t budge him.
Penelope tried again, and failed.
Ian had somehow managed to jam his left foot under the rail. Penelope struggled to pull it free.
There wasn’t time. She couldn’t free him.
Penny looked down at Ian. Then she looked up at the train. It didn’t appear to be slowing down.
She looked down at Ian again. He was staring blankly down the tunnel, as though his mind had taken an early flight to somewhere slightly safer than its customary address. He didn’t seem remotely frightened — as though he was hypnotized by the train.
Penelope had to make a choice.
Some acts of sacrifice don’t need similes. The choice Penelope faced was exactly like the choice faced by any wife whose husband was stuck in the path of an oncoming train. She had about six seconds to choose. She could either scrabble off the tracks and leave Ian alone to die, or she could stay with him to the end.
Had their positions been reversed she’d have wanted Ian to leave. She’d have begged him to leave, if there’d been time. She’d have killed him if he’d even considered staying behind for her.
Well, not literally. But you get the general idea.
There was no way Penny was leaving.
She pulled Ian into a bear hug and shimmied around so she could shield him from the train. She whispered something into his neck.
It was something profound. Something too private for publication.
All things considered, none of this should have mattered at all. All things considered, one hundred and thirty pounds of human shield shouldn’t have made one lick of difference. All things considered, all that Penelope’s final act should have contributed to the world was an extra streak of organic matter on the tracks.
Penelope knew this. She really did. But somewhere, somehow, in the unexplored and irrational depths of Penny’s mind, Penelope felt something else.
Whatever it took, whatever sacrifice it demanded, she would save him. Even if she had to give everything — everything she was, everything she ever could be — she was going to save Ian.
Whatever happens to me, Penny thought as the train bore down, this will not be the end of Ian.
* * *
Ian stood centre stage, entranced by the OM.
“I . . . I can’t believe this,” he said, because he couldn’t. Even with everything he’d seen in the last few weeks — immortal assassins, disembodied brains, serial Napoleons, ninja-supermodels, mediums who were also small appliance repairpersons, and reincarnated terriers — he couldn’t believe this.
“Can’t believe what?” said Norm, slotting into place beside Ian and looking down at what, for lack of a better title, we shall continue calling “the OM.”
“This was Penny’s,” he said, his voice quavering.
“Excuse me, your Holiness?” said Norm.
“Penny,” said Ian. “My wife. This was hers. The original, I mean. She was reading it when I died. She bought it at a newsstand in the station. She showed me an article in it about recharging your style or something.”
“REFRESHING YOUR STYLE TO RECHARGE YOUR SPIRIT!” chorused the Chorus.
“She scribbled notes in the margin — look here!” said Ian, showing a marked-up page to Norm. “She always did that!”
“As we said, Intercessor, we do not know how the book crossed over.”
“But . . . if her magazine is here,” said Ian, urgently, “Penny must have brought it with her. I don’t know how but . . . but . . . where is she?”
“The book arrived around twenty years ago,” said Carl, frowning. “We’ve been copying it ever since. You say your wife was with you in the beforelife last month. How could this be?”
Ian did the fidgety, fretful, frustrated little dance that people do when they feel like they might jump out of their skin.
“Forgive me, Intercessor,” said Norm. “We have no answers. Perhaps . . . perhaps if you tell us what you know of the text’s true origins, and share your knowledge of the Omega, perhaps then we can plumb the mysteries. Perhaps then we can find your wife.”
Ian grabbed onto this idea with both hands. For starters, it seemed preferable to an involuntary dip in the River Styx. For another thing, he felt as though he was finally getting somewhere. Penelope had held this magazine in her hand — or rather, she’d held on to the original — but she’d touched something that was here, in Detroit. She’d brought it with her. Ian was sure of it. Somehow this book would lead him to her. It had to.
“All right,” said Ian. “Well, for starters, the magazine isn’t called the Omega Missive, it’s just called O Magazine, because of Op—”
“Please!” cried Norm, catching Ian’s arm, “Please do not speak the Omega’s name.”
“THE OMEGA’S NAME HOLDS POWER!” chorused the Chorus.
“But she’s not some sort of god,” Ian protested. “She’s a real person.”
“SHE KEEPS IT REAL!” chorused the Chorus.
“No, I mean . . . it’s . . . she’s just . . . Penny and I watched her on television.”
“A PROPHET!” chorused the Chorus, more rapturously than ever. “THE HERALD HAS TELEVIEWED THE OMEGA!”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Ian, waving them off. “I mean TV. Proper TV. The kind they have in the beforelife.”
“Yes,” said Norm, nodding excitedly. “She resides within the beforelife; she calls to us from across the veil.”
“She’s a TV host,” Ian insisted.
“GLORY TO THE HEAVENLY HOST!”
“Dammit,” said Ian, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I mean, she isn’t anything special. Well, okay, she is special. I mean, she’s famous and everything. She puts on a good show. She does a lot of charity work, and everyone loves her.” The flock nodded and grinned as Ian rattled off her virtues.
“Okay,” Ian admitted. “Let’s just agree that she’s amazing. Really impressive. But she’s not some sort of god. She’s just an everyday woman.”
“SHE’S EVERY WOMAN!” chorused the Chorus.
The rest of the flock took up the refrain, whipping themselves into righteous frenzy.
“You don’t understand!” shouted Ian, struggling to be heard over the cheering. He was right, of course. They didn’t understand. But before he could get around to explaining precisely what it was that the flock failed to understand, all hell broke loose — in a figurative, but nevertheless alarmingly accurate manner of speaking.
It started when Llewellyn Llewellyn — still standing guard, mid-grotto — defied all expectations by splitting in half. This seemed entirely involuntary given the unhappy shriek he let loose when it happened. It was as though some extra-dimensional scalpel had chosen Llewellyn Llewellyn’s body as the site of its primary incision into Detroit.
The flock fell silent, gaping. The incision opened wider.
That’s when the shouting started.
Two halves of Llewellyn Llewellyn noisily parted company as the incision spread along his length. This was, believe it or not, only the second most remarkable thing that happened in that moment. The most remarkable thing was that, as the incision grew and widened, it revealed a blinding, retina-searing light, as though the incision through Llewellyn Llewellyn’s body revealed a portal into the sun. The light pulsed blindingly through the rift. Parishioners threw their hands in front of their faces to protect themselves from the light.
Even through his tightly closed eyelids, Ian could pick out the image of two figures striding through the rift.
The light subsided. Ian timidly opened his eyes.
“I regret the intrusion,” said the City Solicitor, courteously h
elping Isaac step over the wreckage of Llewellyn Llewellyn. And although the City Solicitor’s tone seemed perfectly genuine, the immediate context denoted more than a hint of insincerity.
Right-hand Llewellyn — the part of Llewellyn Llewellyn that, as it happens, kept the head — groaned and gurgled as teensy, wriggling bits of his innards started the painful work of regeneration. Left-hand Llewellyn didn’t, thus reaffirming one of the basic tenets of afterlife biology.
Isaac surveyed the bifurcated Llewellyn with an expression of scientific curiosity before toadying into position behind his master.
Isaac and the City Solicitor occupied a space that marked the epicentre of an expanding field of empty. Acolytes, guards and assorted hangers-on were engaged in a mass, high-speed retreat from Ground Zero. They managed this in relative silence, each person’s “run for the hills” instinct hogging all the mental resources that might have been used for expressive noises. Only those still on the stage — Ian, Norm, Oan, Carl, a handful of high-ranking acolytes, and the Chorus — stayed behind, apparently paralyzed by fear.
“Leave this place!” shouted Norm. “I command you to ummmmph!”
His last syllable had been swallowed when Norm’s lips appeared to glue themselves together. Norm clasped both hands to his mouth, clawing to pry it open. Oan fainted a second time. Carl fell to the stage and curled up into the fetal position.
Something in the fabric of the universe shifted. Everyone present suddenly knew — and had always known — the identity of the silk-suited man who stood in the grotto. This saved on the tedious business of introductions, and was also — you’ll have to admit — pretty high up on the scale that measures Nifty.
“I’ve been looking forward to this, Mr. Brown,” said the City Solicitor.
Since the feeling wasn’t mutual, Ian tried to run away, “tried” being the mot juste. He couldn’t move his legs. He seemed to be rooted to the spot.
“I wonder, Mr. Brown,” said the City Solicitor, who clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace, “whether you are an avid reader. Specifically, I wonder whether you’ve explored the popular genre known as crime novels, or mysteries — the sort where arch-villains twirl their waxed moustaches and gloat pointlessly over the hero, spending a page or two explaining the details of their various plots before getting on with whatever evil deeds they planned?”
“I . . . I suppose so,” said Ian, still straining against invisible bonds.
“This isn’t going to be like that,” said the City Solicitor. “This isn’t a book, Mr. Brown. This is real.”
He raised a pale, sinewy hand in Ian’s direction.
Something resembling a high-pitched, long-winded battle yodel, punctuated by words and phrases including “Sacrilege,” “Author,” and “What do you mean it’s not a book?!” rang out from the darkness. Rhinnick charged out of the shadows, haring toward the two intruders, a heavy book held over his head. Undoubtedly buoyed by positive reviews of his action-hero debut at the university, he ran screaming toward the centre of the grotto, heaving the book at the City Solicitor before leaping awkwardly at Isaac.
Rhinnick’s spindly arms flailed wildly as he and Isaac fell to the floor in a tangle of flesh that, from all present appearances, had made a habit of handing in doctors’ notes to avoid PE.
The book that Rhinnick had hurled at the City Solicitor turned to mist before it could strike.
Rhinnick and Isaac struggled on the ground at the City Solicitor’s feet. The struggle was a solid contender for the lamest fight in literature, having a good deal more in common with a failed game of Twister than an honest-to-goodness brawl.
The City Solicitor looked down at the pair incredulously, like someone who’d been attacked by a koala.
The tangle eventually untangled. Rhinnick stood up first, triumphant, as Isaac crawled around Llewellyn Llewellyn’s wreckage looking for something.
Rhinnick was holding Socrates’ gun.
“Ha, ha!” he exulted, brandishing the gun theatrically. “I have you now! And it seems only sporting to warn you, Mr. Solicitor, that I know precisely what this weapon is able to do. Owing to a variety of reasons, several of them possibly scientific, this gun has the power to wipe the subject’s oof.”
There really ought to have been about three seconds separating the words “the subject’s” from the oof. And those three seconds ought to have featured an audible whoosh, a loud crash, and several gasps erupting from centre stage as Rhinnick flew backward, eyes bulging, into the darkness whence he’d come, propelled by a powerful unseen force.
Debris rattled in the darkness, somewhere in the vicinity of where Rhinnick must have landed. The sound carried on for several seconds, finally grinding to a halt when a single, smouldering wagon wheel rolled out of the shadows, fell on its side, and lamely wobbled to a halt, in accordance with inescapable rules of storytelling.
“You keep unusual company, Mr. Brown,” said the Solicitor. He stretched a hand toward the shadows. Socrates’ gun sailed out of the darkness and into the City Solicitor’s hand.
Isaac scrabbled to his feet, smoothed his coat, and fell into place beside his master.
“I do feel sorry for you, Brown,” said the City Solicitor. “You’ve had no part in this. You’ve merely bumbled around Detroit, a plaything of powers wholly beyond your comprehension. Pushed by agencies you will never understand; moved along like a tiny, lonely particle that is beset by outside forces.”
Isaac, who had always taken an interest in this sort of thing, typed out a name to describe this fascinating variety of motion. What he typed was Brown, Ian.
Several members of the Chorus saw this recent pause in the action as their chance to leg it. Three of them leapt off the stage and into the Styx, letting the river’s current take them where it would, so long as it wasn’t anywhere close by. Several more of them charged down the stairs, hoping that their status as inoffensive musical backup would allow them to slip beneath the City Solicitor’s radar.
It didn’t.
The City Solicitor raised a hand. A flash of white light filled the grotto. Ian shielded his eyes. When the glare subsided, every remaining member of the congregation — Norm, Oan, Carl, both parts of Llewellyn Llewellyn, and the few remaining acolytes — every one of them had been encased in . . . well . . . something. Ian didn’t have the ability to conduct forensic analysis. But it was a translucent, solid substance looking a good deal like amber. Each victim comprised a perfectly formed statue in the centre of a private, crystalline shell.
Ian swooned and steadied himself against a railing. “How the hell did you do that?” he gasped.
“How is the wrong question, Mr. Brown,” said the City Solicitor. “A better question is why. Why I’ve come here. Why I’ve pursued you across Detroit. And why I’m planning to —”
“How about ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’” said Ian, still struggling against the unseen bonds.
“Allow me to explain,” said the City Solicitor, magisterially. “When I arrived at the university, my plan was a simple one: I merely planned to eliminate a rival. I meant to destroy you, either through my own, newfound powers or through the mindwiping effects of Socrates’ toxin. But then I encountered young Ms. Choudhury. I examined her in person. And for the first time, I perceived. I saw her connection to you. I saw the patterns, the weaving, the folds in space and time. Only then did I pierce the obscuring veil of shadow, as it were, and unmask the world of Forms, finally seeing Detroit for what it is.”
“So . . . you aren’t going to kill me, then?” said Ian, latching on to what, from his perspective, was the principal issue on the table.
“Of course I am,” said the City Solicitor.
“Oh,” said Ian, glumly.
“But now you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you died for the public good. You see, I now understand the danger that is hidden behind the
prophecies. The true danger posed by the prophesied anomaly. It is not the anomaly’s own power to change reality that will undermine Detroit. It’s the truth that the anomaly could reveal. A truth that could destroy everything.”
“The beforelife,” said Ian, perking up. “It’s the beforelife, isn’t it? You don’t want people to know it’s real. But why would you —”
“Yes, the beforelife is real,” said the City Solicitor, contemptuously. “Now that the scales have fallen from my eyes I see it clearly. I see the mechanics of it when I look at the river. But the beforelife is of no consequence — merely an infinitesimal fragment of our infinite existence. The problem, Mr. Brown, is the truth it represents.”
“What truth is that?” said Ian, despite himself. He didn’t actually care about any particular truth — not right now — but he was keen to keep the City Solicitor talking, at least until a workable escape plan presented itself or the U.S. Marines arrived. Neither contingency seemed likely, but Ian could hope. He’d grasp at any straw that might keep him from being exploded into mist, encased in amber, or shot with Socrates’ gun.
The City Solicitor, for his part, seemed to welcome the inquiry. He adopted a professorial stance and started class.
“Imagine,” he began, “what would happen if people understood that they had already lived and died; that they were now remanifested into another, post-life realm. An afterlife, if you will. What do you think they might believe?”
“I don’t know,” said Ian, who didn’t. “I suppose they’d be happy. They’d know they could meet up with anyone who they’d left behind. They’d know that they wouldn’t miss out on anything in the future. Maybe they’d have a chance to learn things that they’d always wanted to know, like who killed JFK, or where they buried Jimmy Hoffa, or what was behind the rash they had in high school.”
“You’re pursuing the wrong thread, Mr. Brown,” said the City Solicitor.
“You asked,” said Ian.
“Your body, Brown. How did it get here?”
“I dunno,” said Ian. “You’re about the fifteenth person to ask me that since I was checked into the hospice. I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. All I know is that I was in the river —”
Beforelife Page 46