“Why did you look like that?”
“My totem is Snake. Snake is a healer. When I use the magic, I take on aspects of Snake, because, well, I’m drawing on Snake for my magic. I look different because, at that moment, when using magic, I am different.” He looked embarrassed. “It’s hard to understand unless you actually do it.”
Peter began to relax. He’d never dealt with a shaman before, but Thomas seemed nice enough. The idea of them had always frightened him. Shamans seemed even stranger than mages, who at least had a semblance of scientific rigidity about them.
Scientific rigidity. Now where had that idea come from?
He remembered that shamans all had totems, and that all totems were animals. Each had different qualities. Coyote is the trickster. Dog is fiercely loyal. He remembered a question he’d often thought about, but had never gotten around to researching. “Why is Snake a healer? A lot of snakes are dangerous.”
“So they are,” said Thomas, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “And healing is dangerous as well. Today, most people think that all they have to do is take this pill or that treatment. They don’t realize that there are always risks. We don’t know everything. We’ll never know everything. But people don’t want to hear that. They want simple answers for everything.
“An obvious example. You have a cold. The doctor prescribes an antibiotic. You take it. You’re allergic to it. You get a whole new problem. Perhaps you die. Or let’s say you go to the hospital for surgery—open heart surgery. Routine today, but never, ever, completely safe. Something can always go wrong.”
Peter sat up on the bed. He liked the way Thomas spoke: somewhat disturbing, but open and direct.
“At the end of the last century things were very bad with medicine. Patients expected miracles, and doctors, in their pride, fanned those expectations.” He turned and smiled at Peter. “It was the only way to justify charging exorbitant fees. Everyone wanted everything controlled and perfect. When something went wrong, it represented a disaster for the entire medical profession, but it was simply a normal phenomenon. Normal bad. I’m not saying healers should be sloppy, mind you. But the snake bite, it’s always there.”
“Even with magic?”
Thomas looked down at the floor. “Especially with magic.” He looked to see how interested Peter actually was before continuing. “Magic, especially the shamanistic tradition—well, it’s weird. It requires that you look deep inside. Especially Snake. Snake lives in the cracks in the walls of an old building. Snake lives in small caves in the desert. Snake gets in everywhere and wants to know everything. Snake doesn’t want any secrets kept away from her. So if you’re going to follow Snake, then you’ve got to go within.” He tapped his chest. “That’s some serious healing, too, and if there’s one place where the venom is very scary, it’s when you have to learn about yourself.”
Peter thought of what made him most afraid, and then suddenly he thought of… Denise! The girl he’d met at the party. “Oh, no!” He fell back down onto the bed.
“What is it?”
“I forgot that I was supposed to call somebody. I was too busy turning into a troll.”
Thomas laughed. “Well, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“She.”
“Ah. Well, even so.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, I won’t call her.”
“Because you stood her up?”
“Because I’m a troll.”
“Hmmm.”
“You know, Peter…”
“What?” he said irritably. Suddenly he found Thomas’ simple wisdom annoying.
“Nothing. Why don’t we get to work?”
They did.
When they broke for lunch, Thomas turned on the trideo to find the local stations abuzz with the effects of the previous night’s rioting. A newscaster reported LIVE from State Street in the Loop, the heart of Chicago’s downtown district, bounded by the elevated train lines that carried the city’s commuters north, south, and west.
She recapped: Pure humans had raced through the streets, searching out metahumans, dragging them out of doorways, even breaking into homes, then pummeling them to death.
In turn, metahumans had killed pure humans. Pure humans: she used the term casually.
The city’s security forces, both private and public, had, for the most part, turned their weapons against the metahumans. City Hall had already announced an investigation into the excessive force used by the security teams.
Peter’s mouth was dry. He set his sandwich down on the table.
“Peter?”
“That could be me. I could have died.”
“No doubt about it,” said Thomas, who then calmly took another bite. He seemed to relish the taste of the roast beef, but Peter had suddenly lost his appetite.
The house rattled, slowly at first, more like a deep rumbling, and then with more force. It lasted only moments, but then they heard the screams coming from the trideo. On the screen, they could see that the camera was shaking wildly as the reporter looked around for the source of the loud explosions. Then she turned her back to the camera and looked up. her hands falling suddenly to her sides. It must have been her lapel mike picking up her strained voice: “Oh, spirits.” The camera operator swung the camera in the direction of the reporter’s gaze.
Fiery red explosions billowed through the walls of the IBM Tower, once called the Sears Tower. The skyscraper rocked and shook, then it began to disintegrate, toppling to the ground.
Its collapse was almost pure. The nine sections that made up the tower began to slide away from one another. First the eight subtowers around the central tower began to fall, slowly at first, then picking up speed as the central subtower followed. All nine fell faster and faster and faster, until the whole structure vanished behind the buildings along State Street.
A moment later flames erupted from the spot where the towers had fallen. Then explosions ripped through one building after another along State Street.
The reporter whirled toward the camera. Her face betrayed panic, but she fought to keep her voice under control. “Explosions are ripping—”
Then the camera fell to the ground, where it lay on its side, still soaking up the disaster. The sound was cut off.
“The gas lines,” Thomas said. Peter looked at him. Thomas’ flesh had become almost gray. “The gas lines will rip through the whole area.”
When Peter looked back to the trideo, he saw the Loop awash in flames. People were falling out of windows, rushing out of doors, running every which way, their clothes and flesh on fire. Then the image turned to static. Turning his head to look north through the kitchen window, Peter saw that already a thick cloud of black smoke was gathering above downtown Chicago.
“I have to go,” said Thomas.
“What?”
Thomas stood. “I have to go. I’m needed.”
“Please, Thomas, don’t leave me alone.”
“You’ll be all right. Lock the doors.” He walked out of the kitchen.
Peter stumbled as he chased after him. “You’re supposed to be here! This is your job!”
“I have a clause in my contract that allows me to leave under just such circumstances,” Thomas said grimly. “This is what I do. I make sure to build it into the laws that bind me. Stay here. Lock the doors. Stay calm. I’ll be back.”
4
Peter returned to the trideo, which had switched back to the news studio. “The anti-metahuman organizations known as the Hand of Five, the Knights of Humanity, and MetaWatch, have each claimed responsibility for the destruction of the IBM Building, citing IBM’s practice of hiring metahumans as the reason for the terrorist attack. They demand that corporations across North America lire their metahuman employees or else suffer similar acts.”
The reporter paused, placed a hand to his ear, and then said, “Humanity One, another anti-metahuman group, has claimed responsibility, as well as the Elven Support Coalition,
which claims to be protesting the lack of IBM support for metahuman hiring. We’ll have a full list by the end of the day, but now we take you live to a helicopter over the Loop, where fires rage out of control.” A fancy computer graphic swirled out from the center of the trideo: THE SECOND CHICAGO FIRE!
Peter flipped from trideo to telecom mode. Selecting voice-only he keyed in the telecom code for his father’s office at the university. When he asked for his father, the receptionist inquired whether she could take a message. Peter told her it was very important, and she told him she’d see what she could do. A minute later she came back on, saying Dr. Clarris was unavailable, but he’d call back as soon as he could. Peter briefly considered pleading with her to get his father on the line, but gave up.
Peter didn’t know what to do with himself. There was always the trid, but he didn’t want any more of that, nor did he have anyone else to call. Except maybe Dr. Landsgate.
At the thought of the man, Peter instantly relaxed. Landsgate was the only person in the sciences with whom Peter felt comfortable—and since he only knew people in the sciences…
He went up to his room, and punched in Lands-gate’s code, keeping the telecom in voice-only.
It was Laura who answered.
“Hello?”
“Um, hello, Mrs. Landsgate? This is Peter. Peter Clarris.”
She remained silent for a moment. “Hello, Peter,” she said finally. “How are you?”
He knew she knew, and he decided not to go into it. “Fine. Is Dr. Landsgate there, please?”
Another pause. “I’ll get him.”
A few minutes later Landsgate was on the line. “Hello? Peter?”
“Hello, Dr. Landsgate.”
“Peter, it’s good to hear from you.” Before Peter could respond with the appropriate pleasantry, Landsgate added, “I heard what happened. I want you to know I’m sorry your life is more difficult. But I also want you to know that I’m with you. You can count on me.”
Peter stood silent for a moment and sucked in the comfort of the words. “Thank you.”
“How are you?”
“I’tn frightened.”
“Are you in danger?”
“No, but the IBM Tower…”
“I know. It’s on the trid. Where’s your father?”
“At work.”
Peter heard Landsgate sigh.
Peter felt his chin tremble. “Dr. Landsgate. Why is my father… why does he… why doesn’t he love me?”
Landsgate’s voice dropped low. Peter guessed he didn’t want Laura to hear. “Peter, I don’t know that he doesn’t love you. I think he does, in his own way.”
“He ignores me.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I just want someone I can… I don’t know.”
“Yes, I know.”
They remained silent for some time.
“Peter, I’d like to see you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I really would. It feels like you’re hiding from me.”
“I am.”
“Well, I don’t want you to.”
Peter wanted to refuse again, then decided he had to know how someone other than his father and a hired therapist would respond. He reached out and tapped a key that switched on the screen, which flickered to life with the image of Landsgate’s face. Landsgate looked apprehensive at first, but then smiled warmly. He was young, and carried his enthusiasm around like a hobby.
“I didn’t think you’d look at all the same.”
Peter touched his hands to his face. “I don’t look the same.”
“Of course you don’t. But there’s part of you still there that I remember. You’re different, but you’re still Peter.”
“Thank you,” Peter said with relief. No one knew what to say like Dr. Landsgate.
“Is anybody with you?”
“No. I have a therapist, a physical therapist, a shaman, but he went to help with the fire.”
“A shaman! Well, never let it be said your father didn’t lavish cash on you. But the shaman left?”
“I’ll be all right.”
In the background, Peter heard Laura shout out the news that mages and shamans were casting spells to put out the fire.
“I’ll try to come out and visit you. Maybe next week.”
“Really?”
Landsgate laughed. “Yes, really.”
“All right.”
“I’ll let you go now. But it was good seeing you again.”
“Yeah. Same here.”
“I’ll call tomorrow. To check in.”
“All right.”
“But if you need anything before then, just give me a call.”
“All right.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
The screen went blank.
With a sigh, Peter selected trideo mode once more. The explosions from the gas lines and the damage from the collapse of the IBM Tower had turned the Loop into something out of a war. Some blocks burned so hot no one could get near then. Working in teams, mages had joined forces, summoning air and water elementals to help put out the fire. Meanwhile, rescue workers struggled to dig trapped office workers out of buildings.
The announcer said, “Already the death toll is expected to be in the thousands…”
Thomas did not return that night.
Peter made dinner—a frozen synth meat dish he flashed through the micro—and ate while watching the trid. The fire was out, but the rescue work would continue for days. So absorbed was he that he didn’t hear his father come in until he looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. Peter and his father looked at one another silently. Please say something, Peter thought.
“How are you?” his father said.
“Fine. Thomas went to help at the fire. In the Loop. He hasn’t come back.”
“Hmmm. Well, he’ll either come back or he won’t. We can get you someone else.”
“I like Thomas.”
“I can’t do anything about that.”
Peter slammed his hand down on the table. “I’m not asking you to do anything about it! I’m just telling you I hope nothing happened to him.”
His father remained silent. “They told me this might happen.”
“What?” asked Peter, exasperated.
“That you would have outbursts.”
“I’m upset. Why is that bad?”
“It doesn’t matter to me. You’re the one who’s upset.”
Peter slumped down in the chair. He wanted to shout at his father for turning his anger around on him. But he knew that would only make his father’s case stronger. He said nothing.
“Good night,” said his father.
“Good night.”
Peter stayed at the kitchen table, completely motionless, for another half hour. Then he rose, the meal forgotten, and went up to bed.
Three days passed and still Thomas did not return. Peter called the hospitals, but the body had not turned up either dead or alive. He also spoke to Dr. Lands-gate each day, and felt better for awhile after each conversation.
Each night Peter’s father came back from the U. of C. and greeted Peter with little more than a nod. He never asked about Thomas, and Peter volunteered nothing. Peter’s body ached, but he kept telling himself he would give Thomas one more day to come back before finding a replacement.
Meanwhile, he continued to practice his walking.
On the third night after Thomas left, Peter pulled his portable computer from the shelf. The plastic material of the case irritated his hands, so he placed it on his bed and carefully used his fingernails to start it up. The machine seemed pitifully small against his new, large body.
Returning to the shelf, he looked at the racks of optical chips. Some of the words—the short words—
he recognized, but many others he did not remember. He tried to sound out some of the longer words, but it was hard, as if his memories were hidden behind gauze curtains. “Biology,” he eventually said.
It meant nothing to him, no more than a group of sounds. He suddenly realized only too clearly what iconerate meant. If someone had said to him, “Peter, go get all the chips with the word biology on them,” he could have done so. He didn’t have to know what the word meant; he didn’t have to know the word’s implications.
And that’s what bothered him as he looked at the seven letters strung out in sequence. He recognized the word now, but behind it was a wealth of meaning to which he’d lost access. Maybe it was enough to see the letters and to grasp the image of the word, the single sound that they represented—but he knew there was more, and he longed to have access to that part of language.
He knew that it wasn’t just a matter of memory. His thought process had changed and Peter could actually feel the difference now. His thinking was slower. Whatever he had been, however smart as a pure human, as a homo sapiens sapiens, that was gone now. His own body had betrayed him.
He sensed someone watching him, and turned to see his father in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” his father asked.
“Looking at my opticals.”
“Why?”
“I want to learn them. To re-read them.”
His father pursed his lips together. He stepped into the room, as if to have a lengthy conversation, then stopped in his tracks. “Peter… why?”
Peter thought about explaining his plan to find a genetic cure, but was too embarrassed to do so. His father would put him down. “I just… I want to…”
His father’s face took on an expression of infinite sadness. “Peter, you… I’m sorry. Do as you wish.” He turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway, his shoulders impossibly tired. With his back still to his son, William Clarris gave a deep sigh before turning around once more. He rubbed his hands over his face. When he took his hands away, his flesh looked cool and corpse-white before warmth and color flowed back in. His mouth looked pinched taut and old, though he was no more than forty.
“Maybe you don’t understand what has happened to you…”
05 - Changeling Page 4