Brother Termite

by Patricia Anthony

  From Tali’s throat came a snarl of rage. He seized a vase from an end table and, before the Sleep Master could stop him, hurled it at Thural’s chest. The thin porcelain shattered with a bang. Amazement on his face, Thural staggered into a loveseat.

  The Cousin in the secretary’s office came rushing in to stare aghast at the shards of china that littered the floor.

  “Are you all right?” the Sleep Master asked in a horrified voice.

  Shakily, Thural grabbed the arm of the sofa and pulled himself upright. “Yes. I think so.”

  “It is best that you rest now,” the Sleep Master suggested.

  Thural gave a weak nod.

  “When your rest is over, the world will look better.”

  Thural’s expression suggested strongly that he doubted that. Tali’s secretary backed cautiously from the room. After a pause to gather his composure, Thural left, too.

  When they were gone, Tali said, “Thural goes too far.”

  “Silence,” the Sleep Master said. “And watch yourself, Tali-ja. I back you because you know the law, but I begin to see that for you the law is a surface thing. Perhaps Thural is right. Perhaps there was something wrong with the eggs in your batch. I warn you now: Break the law again, and you will find yourself a ghost like your Brother.”

  Tali looked thoughtfully at the Sleep Master as the old Cousin stalked out. From the anteroom Reen heard the tap-tap of clumsy Cousin hands on a keyboard, the quiet murmur of voices.

  “Have you ever stuck a stick into an ant bed, Cousin Brother?” Reen asked quietly.

  Tali walked over to the French doors and pulled back the sheers.

  “That is what you have done,” Reen told his Brother’s back.

  Somewhere in a neighboring office a phone rang, and Reen heard the high, clear, enchanting sound of a human laugh.

  “You are stirring the stick, Cousin Brother. Ants, when disturbed, will sting. I have a piece of advice for you: Learn to love chaos, for you will be surrounded by it now.”

  When Reen left a few minutes later, Tali was still staring wordlessly out at the Rose Garden.

  REEN WANDERED the West Wing until he wearied of being ignored, then went down to the main building for lunch.

  The pantry was a cozy, utilitarian room with an old kitchen table in the center and cabinets all around. As Reen walked in, he found the butler and Jeremy Holt having brunch. The burly black chief of the serving staff popped the last of his omelette into his mouth, swallowed, and asked Reen, “Lunch, sir?”

  “Yes,” Reen said, looking at the new President, who was toying with his coffee cup.

  “Where do you want me to serve you, sir?”

  The President spoke. From the broad Bostonian a’s Reen could hear that he was dealing with Kennedy and not the medium. “Serve him in here, ah, Kevin, if you will. It’s always good to have a little company with lunch.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, it sure is.” The butler wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose, taking his empty plate with him to the kitchen.

  In the ensuing and prickly silence, Reen sat.

  Kennedy said, “Your, ah, Brother seems to have moved into the Oval Office. I take that as a sign you’re out of favor. Am I right?”

  “As I recall, that was one of your most annoying habits–always being right.”

  “There were a few glaring exceptions.” Kennedy sliced the remains of his Denver omelette into fussy strips. “Anyway, I notice your Brother has taken over with a dexterity that must have come from careful planning. Always be cautious of people who are prepared, Reen,” Kennedy lectured, one eyebrow cocked. “Beware of Boy Scouts.”

  “I thought you’d never want to talk to me again,” Reen said.

  Somehow Jeremy’s mousy features arranged themselves into Kennedy’s brilliant smile. “Oh, I learned a few things on the other side.”

  “Like forgiveness?”

  Kennedy threw his head back and laughed. “No, no. I mean, I found out who to blame.”

  Fascinated, Reen asked, “Who? My Brother?”

  A tired shake of his head. “No. J. Edgar. He suckered you, Reen. Hoover told you I tried to have you assassinated, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s why–”

  “Don’t apologize,” Kennedy said curtly. “When I was President, you didn’t understand humans very well. Or politics. I’m not angry with you for murdering me. Hoover was a master manipulator. But I wish you hadn’t murdered my brother.”

  Brothers again, Reen thought as he watched Kennedy refill his cup from the silver pot. In the world of Brothers it was perfectly understandable that Jack would forgive Reen for killing him yet still resent his murdering Robert. In the world of Brothers, Oomal would protect Reen because he hated Tali more.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t plan to assassinate me,” Reen said.

  “I don’t know why you were so gullible as to think I’d try.”

  Gullible. Odd, Reen thought, how he believed in his own keen insight, and others thought him naive. “You plotted against Castro. Hoover told us that, and he had proof. He said you wanted to control everything: Cuba and Russia and the Cousins. He told us you wanted to get rid of Khrushchev and me, too. You were dangerous. At least that’s how Hoover explained it. Personally, I had no interest in killing your brother, but Hoover insisted on a trade.”

  It struck Reen that he knew where Tali had learned some of his trickery. Not from Hopkins. And not all from Hoover. Some of it came from Reen himself.

  Kennedy seemed amused. “I told you Hoover played you for a sucker. Think about it. It made sense to assassinate Castro. Castro was a one-man band. Khrushchev, on the other hand, was an orchestra. Kill Khrushchev, and I’d have the whole politburo to deal with. And what sense would it have made to assassinate you? I’d stop the woodwinds, maybe, but the strings would only play louder. Action in politics has to make sense.”

  The butler came out of the kitchen with a plate of finger sandwiches and fresh fruit.

  Reen speared a slice of melon, then put it down, uneaten.

  “The Senate is up in arms,” Kennedy said.

  Reen gave him a questioning look.

  “Womack had two more years to his term. That even makes the Democrats uncomfortable. In spite of my assurances, the Senate feels the country is adrift. Partially your fault, you know, for urging the passage of the unlimited term amendment. Fifty-one years of Womack. Fifty-one years. The people can’t imagine another president. Ah, well. If you’ll excuse me, I have a state funeral to arrange.”

  When Kennedy left, Reen took a couple of finger sandwiches and ate them as he made his way upstairs.

  The maids had been in the oval study. The surface of Womack’s scarred table was agleam with lemon oil. Fresh flowers had been set out: chrysanthemums and hothouse roses. Reen went into the next room.

  The bed was rumpled, the floor cluttered. His uniform still lay on the bathroom floor. As he bent to pick it up, his claw clicked on something in the pocket.

  Marian’s tape.

  He took the cassette out, went to the oval study again, and closed the door to the hall. In the cabinet of the bar he found a tape recorder, the one Womack had been using to dictate the eighteenth volume of his autobiography. Popping the cassette out with his claw, Reen replaced Jeff’s tape with Marian’s.

  He turned on the recorder. From the speaker came the squeak of a chair, the empty hiss of white noise. Then, “Do you know why the President has called the press conference?”

  The words were distorted, but Reen recognized the voice. It was Tali.

  A tap-tap-tap. Someone rapping out a rhythm on wood. A pen against a desktop?

  “No idea.”

  Superstitious horror made Reen nearly drop the recorder: Hopkins’s voice was so clear. The man must have been sitting much closer to the mike. “The Speaker says there
’s gossip that Womack will spring some surprise on Congress tomorrow. Doesn’t know what it is yet, but he says not to worry. Platt’s dense but malleable. I’ve told him to take care of it. He will. We hit Womack, anyway. You bring the Helpers in and put them on Security Chief Landis. It can’t be one of my men. I want Landis to pull the trigger, you understand?”

  “We do not need the Loving Helpers. It is dangerous to bring them into the building. I am afraid one of the other Cousins might see. Besides, the suggestion has already been implanted, and the man is under my control. I will say the word, and he will do anything I ask.”

  “Bring the Helpers,” Hopkins said.

  A sigh.

  “So. It’s all decided. And the kidnapping’s set up. A few minutes from now my men will snatch Reen, take him out to Camp David, and bury him with Jonis.” A pause. Then Hopkins said slyly, “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Tali made a small throaty sound. “It is not what I wish. It is simply what must happen. Reen-ja is wrong about many things. And he lacks the morality to lead. But this decision about Womack is different. It is a human one. I have done as you requested. I have put Landis under control. I do not wish to know what you do with my Brother. And I do not wish to watch what happens to the President. These violent matters are disturbing to me. I will give the order, I promise you, but other than that ...”

  Hopkins’s laugh was rich and careless and vibrant, nothing like the laugh of a dead man. “No. I want you to do it. I want you to bring the Helpers in, and I want you there when Landis blows Womack’s brains out. Otherwise I’ll see the Community gets all the evidence I have. They’d be shocked, don’t you think, to learn how you traded Womack’s assassination for the murder of your Brother?”

  The angry squeal of a chair, a thump.

  “Sit down. You’re not going anywhere,” Hopkins said calmly. “I have copies of that evidence salted all over Washington. And an interrogation session with the Helpers isn’t going to help, so don’t even think about it. Sit down. Sit down!”

  The chair squeaked again. Tali’s voice was plaintive, hurt. He hardly sounded like himself. “You told me J. Edgar Hoover was your hero. That’s why I had Reen appoint you. That’s why I trusted you enough not to use an implant. Hoover would never do such a thing to me.”

  “Tough shit.” Then in a conversational tone Hopkins said, “Tomorrow.”

  “All right.” Tali’s voice seethed. It sounded like Tali again. “Tomorrow.”

  Reen started, hearing footsteps in the hall. Quickly he turned off the recorder and slipped it into his pocket. The footsteps continued down the hall to the elevator. Just the Secret Service. Or one of the staff.

  Taking out the recorder, Reen held it in his hand. Marian was right. This was all the proof he needed. He would go to the Oval Office and confront Tali and the Sleep Master. The Sleep Master wouldn’t listen to Reen, but he couldn’t ignore the tape.

  He hurried out of the oval study, ran down the steps and through the colonnade. He passed a Cousin typing in the reception area and threw open the Oval Office doors.

  The room was empty.

  Reen whirled to the Cousin secretary, set the recorder on his desk. “Listen. I know you are not allowed to hear me, but listen.” Reen punched the REWIND button, fumbled for the PLAY. From the speaker the squeak of a chair, a thump, Hopkins saying, “Sit down. You’re not going anywhere ...” And Tali’s injured response.

  The Cousin never paused in his typing.

  “Listen to it!” Reen shouted.

  REWIND. PLAY. Tali: “... put Landis under control. I do not wish to know what you do ...”

  Picking up a pile of papers, the Cousin walked from the office. He never looked back.

  Reen sat on the edge of the desk, looked at the recorder, tapped a defeated, listless finger on the buttons, REWIND. PLAY. “... snatch Reen, take him out to Camp David ...”

  STOP.

  Sighing, he looked through the open doors and saw that in the Oval Office the portrait of Millard Fillmore was crooked.

  A quick three-step throb of his heart. Stuffing the recorder into his pocket, he walked into the office, pulled a chair up next to the fireplace, and checked behind the painting.

  The manila envelope was still there. Reen, in his haste, had left the portrait awry.

  As he pried the envelope from its hiding place, a slip of paper dropped from the open end. He picked it up: that nine-digit number.

  What could it be? It was about the right length for a bank account but one number too short for Social Security. 7039713991.

  703. The first three digits leaped from the page, and the picture fell into place. There were no dashes to indicate area code and exchange, but it was obviously a phone number. A phone number in Fairfax County, Virginia.

  Reen walked to the telephone and dialed. There was a pause as the circuits clicked through, then a shadowy, faraway ring.

  For some nonsensical reason he thought of the Old Ones. Oomal had said Jeff was setting up an AT&T long-distance line with the Old Ones. For an instant Reen had the absurd thought that the Old Ones had rented a house in Fairfax County, and Jeff had found out about it.

  Ring.

  A nice house. The Old Ones would rent a nice house. A traditional Fairfax County place with red brick and white trim and a pretty garden.

  Another ring.

  They’d have flowers, a few trees, and maybe a springer spaniel. Heritage would demand it.

  Click. The sound of the receiver being picked up. “National Wildlife Federation,” a female voice chirped.

  Reen hung up. The National Wildlife Federation?

  He left the Oval Office and went to the East Wing to find Oomal.

  OOMAL WAS in an office barking into a phone. He looked and sounded more like a leader than Reen or Tali ever had.

  “Goddamn it!” his Brother was shouting. “I don’t give a flying fuck how the bugs got into the macaroni! We have a warehouse full of weevils, and we’re not feeding them to one-year-olds! You come-no, no, you come and take that macaroni out of our warehouse. You—I’m not finished. No, Cousins don’t have some magic wand that makes weevils–no. Hey, but I have a team of lawyers with twelve-inch dicks. What? Watch me. I said watch me!”

  Oomal slammed the phone down so hard that it gave a broken-piano complaint. “What do you want?” he snapped at Reen, who was standing, a penitent, in front of his desk, Womack’s envelope in one hand and the recorder in the other.

  The phone rang again.

  “What?” Oomal screamed into the receiver. Abruptly his face and his tone softened. “Yeah, Jerry. Sorry, I ... Right, uh huh. Burn the production records. Trust me. Just trust me on this... . No, nothing’s going on. Just tell the reporters you don’t have any comment other than what I said at the press conference. What? No, no. Of course I wasn’t making it up. The birthrate’s just going into a little dip. It’s nothing to worry about... . Come on, Jer. Have I ever lied to you? No... . No need to apologize. Just– Yeah. I appreciate this.”

  He hung up, this time softly, and sat staring into space.

  The official photo of Jeff Womack, taken during his first term, smiled down impishly from its perch on the wall. Hurriedly, Reen slipped the recorder back into his pocket, hoping Oomal hadn’t seen. He had been wrong to play the tape for Tali’s secretary. The truth was a responsibility he now wished he didn’t have.

  Tali’s treachery was merely his way of following in his big Brother’s steps. Reen and Hoover taught him how to use assassination and deceit.

  Oomal wiped his hands down his cheeks. “Well. Have you seen the front page of the Post?” He shoved the paper across the desk.

  Reen glanced at the top half of the front page. More about Womack’s suicide. A piece on the birthrate. He flipped the paper over and looked below the fold.

  INDICTMENT SOUGHT IN K
ENNEDY

  ASSASSINATION

  WASHINGTON, D.C.–The Justice Department is looking into allegations that the White House chief of staff may be implicated in the November 22, 1963, death of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

  “We have talked to the President, and he is disinclined to pursue the matter,” Ted Rice, Justice Department Special Prosecutor, said in an interview with the Post today. “But this is not a civil case, and there is no statute of limitations on murder. The Justice Department feels that there is cause to bring charges of criminal conspiracy before a grand jury.”

  President Kennedy/Holt could not be reached for comment.

  “Murder?” Reen said in a weak voice. “I’m going to be accused of murder?”

  “Not that story. Forget about that story. I’m talking about the one that’s not there. The Hopkins piece. He had a maid. Why didn’t the maid report the body?”

  Because that’s where Tali went last night. He went to get Hopkins’s evidence, didn’t find it, and then hid Hopkins’s body to buy himself more time.

  Hopkins had been a good teacher.

  Oomal sat back and linked his hands across his belly. “What’s that you’re carrying around?”

  Reen stiffened, then realized his Brother wasn’t asking about the recorder. “Oh. Jeff’s envelope? I found the National Wildlife Federation’s phone number in it.”

  Oomal sat forward. “Let me see,” he said, taking the envelope from Reen. He thumbed through the pages, pausing momentarily to wince at the autopsy photo. Then: “This one? This 703 number?”

  “Yes.”

  “I keep getting the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop. And I keep wondering why the humans who know about the sterilization haven’t talked. Maybe this will give us a clue.” Oomal pressed a button on his intercom. “Zoomer? Come see me.” His face pensive, he asked Reen, “Where’s Marian Cole gone off to, Brother?”